LunaWolve

[TAS] Volume 2 - Chapter 49 - Action

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Volume 2 - Chapter 44 - Friendship has just released on RR with no changes.

For the Wolf Lords, this chapter is unchanged.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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We're back to REGULAR SCHEDULE now!

There was no other title for this chapter that made sense to use here.

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1S0oOOkdH3_jvkISmgrBEkGD49u5RqEd0g-17t7uoWjc/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 49 - Action

[UHF Armed Forces News Network – Frontline Voices Series, PFC814]

“The Freak Problem”

—

Private Nash Harkins:
“Thing about the Freaks is… you never really kill them. 

You drop one, he hits the mud, and you feel good for—what—three seconds? Then there he is again, same damn face, same damn gun, coming at you like you didn’t just burn half a mag putting him down; except now he knows where you are. 

First time I fought ‘em, I thought my sights were off. Sure, they tell you in GalPol101, but… It’s different when you’re there, y’know? 

Second time, I realized my brain just didn’t wanna really process it. 

By the third engagement, I stopped caring if it was the same guy or not. You just shoot ‘til they stop moving and pray they stay stopped long enough for you to move up.”

—

Private Raul Avarin:
“You can’t flank ‘em. 

You think you got an angle, you think you’re clever—and then another full squad just exists there now, right where you wanted to push. 

They don’t even have to be good shots; they just have too many barrels on you. 

And when you’re pinned like that, your brain starts doing the math on how much ammo’s left in your mag, and how much is left in your whole pack, and you start wondering if it’s even worth burning it on the ones you can see...”

—

Private Brick Holten:
"My first op against the Freaks? Four hours in, we’d burned through two-thirds of our ammo and my squad leader just kept muttering about the resupply never making it through. 

I didn’t get why until later: You can’t win when the other guy can just keep pressing the attack with fresh bodies and fresh guns. 

They don’t need to hold ground—they just need to keep you from moving forward. 

And, unfortunately, they’re damn good at that."

—

Private Emeka Dorn:
"The armor helps, sure. You can chew through a few more before they overwhelm you. 

But the real problem is the ammo. 

Our squadron had to abandon an assault last month because we just… ran out. 

Couldn’t clear the sector, not without more resupplies. 

They were still coming in waves when we pulled out. That’s the thing—if you can’t find the Duplicator, the clones just don’t stop.

It’s like trying to seal a hull-breach with cotton."

—

Lieutenant Verren Shin:
“I’ve commanded over thirty platoons against the Stellar Republic. 

The tactical problem is one thing—you plan around infinite numbers, you ration ammunition like it’s the most precious commodity, and you accept you’ll never get a clean wipe on the field. 

But the morale problem? That’s what really kills. 

Marines need to feel like they can win. 

Against the Freaks, all they see are their brothers and sisters falling while the enemy never seems to truly lose anyone, as they just keep coming. 

It eats at them. 

You can see it—the fight draining out of their eyes after the third or fourth time they put down the same target. 

We’ve made progress now and then—new scanners, improved tracking, even entire squads dedicated to hunting Duplicators, or special roles in each squad purposefully designed to find them—but they adapt just as fast as we do. 

Sometimes faster. 

Every battle resets the board, and we’re right back where we started. 

You ask me? The war’s not even about winning ground anymore.
It’s about surviving long enough to fight them again tomorrow...”

—

Closing Note – Lera Han:
"From the greenest Private to the most seasoned officer, one truth apparently always stays the same: Fighting the Freaks isn’t a battle of muscle or firepower alone. 

It’s a war of will. 

Every duplicate that steps back onto the field is a reminder that this fight isn’t fair, and it never will be. 

But fairness doesn’t win wars—persistence does. 

The Stellar Republic can throw a thousand copies at our Marines, but they’ll still have to face the one reality that they can’t clone: A Marine never backs down from a fight."

“You can’t drown a Marine in bodies—we just learn to swim faster.”
— Common UHFMC saying when facing Stellar Republic forces

======

======

The last streaks of sunlight bled out across the treetops before her, the glow fading as the sun slipped fully behind the mountain at her back. Shadows deepened over the slope, and Thea kept her eyes locked on the forest edge below. 

Any moment now, the Stellar Republic forces would come pouring out.

Beside her, Chester, Marie, and Falks were busy fiddling with the side panels of their helmets, likely tuning the night-vision overlays in their visors to match the dimming light. The forest still carried that faint twilight haze—more than enough to see without full NV, but dark enough that the settings mattered.

‘Just because it says ‘Nighttime’ on the DM screen doesn’t mean it’s pitch-black from the start… good to keep in mind.’ 

She gave her own helmet a small adjustment, making sure it sat comfortably. Her visor was set to the same settings as always: Crystal clear.

Right then, squad comms crackled to life, and Wellis’ voice cut in.

“Last reminders from the CO: Main ammo depots are in trenchlines two and four. Three each, spaced evenly. Everywhere else—including our trench—only has small stations, so don’t burn through rounds like a fucking moron.”

There was the faint scrape of movement in the background before he continued, his voice hard. 

“With this stupid scaled-up version, we’ve got triple the enemy numbers, fewer emplacements, and lost several depots when they pulled trenchlines. Every shot matters. Make it count.

“We’ve only got two explosive weapons in the squad, both over here on the west side with me. The squads east of you guys on the right have some too though, so you’re not completely without area-of-effect options. Let them take care of the masses.”

A faint pop of static followed as he shifted tone, slipping into a faster, clipped cadence.

“Remember firezones Kilo, Lima, and Mike—leave those to the emplacements when the wave hits. You focus on the ones that slip through.

“For the eastern-side squad: Chester’s got command authority. If he says abandon the trench, you abandon the trench. I don’t want to see any bullshit in the after-action report about someone staying behind when they shouldn’t have.

“That’s it. Keep your heads down. Good hunting, and may the Emperor guide our shots—this one’s going to be rough.”

With a single click, the comms went dead, leaving only the quiet night and the faint hiss of the trenchline’s ambient noise.

Marie, Falks, Chester, and Thea shared a quick round of nods to show they were all on the same page with Wellis’ orders before falling back into their final checks.

Thea glanced down at the Gram in her hands, then out toward the shadowed forest ahead.

‘Hmm… if the ammo’s back in the trenchline behind us, it might be smarter to start with a gun that actually uses ammo. Then when we fall back, I can stock up right away and not worry about it later.’

Her gaze slid to the Ballistic and Gauss variants propped against the trench wall to her right. 

‘With these lighting conditions, firing the laser’s basically putting a glowing arrow on my head…’

Decision easily made, she swapped her trusty Laser-Gram for the Ballistic variant, feeling the somewhat unfamiliar weight shift in her hands. 

The Ballistic wasn’t the hungriest for ammunition, but its ammo was far bulkier when compared to the Gauss variant’s, which were a lot easier to carry—she had more than twice as much ammunition for it in her backpack than for the Ballistic version.

Still, it made sense for the opening stretch, as she could just resupply once they fell back to the second line—if they made it that far.

She crouched slightly to run through her checks—confirming the suppressor was locked in tight, optics clean, and all attachments powered. They were all brand-new attachments and this would be their first real field-test, so she made sure that everything seemed operational.

She went on to tap the scope’s side panel, watching the readout blink as the automatic zeroing kicked in. 

Normally, with the Laser-Gram, she never had to think about bullet drop, but with Ballistic or Gauss, it was worth the extra step.

‘Not like I’ll need it at just over three hundred meters… but better safe than sorry.’

Pulling the rifle close, she popped the magazine for a quick glance—full, of course—before seating it back with a click. Then she slid into position at the reinforced firing port, cheek resting against the stock as her crosshairs settled on the treeline’s shadowed edge.

‘Any moment now…’

That familiar edge of anticipation crept through her chest, a slow tightening in her lungs. 

The mission had officially begun minutes ago, but the forest was still silent. It almost felt deliberate, like the enemy was making them wait on purpose.

Just then, Thea’s comms crackled to life again—this time on the command channel.

“The time for preparations is over, brothers and sisters. Pick up your weapons, the Freaks are coming,” Kalt’s voice thrummed through her helmet.

“I am not one for speeches, so here is my order to you. See to it that it is fulfilled to the last letter. Exert yourselves with every fiber of your being… and when you’ve given everything, keep going until you crumble to nothing but dust, or the mission is done:

“Fire at will. Kill them all.”

The line went dead with a sharp click, leaving the trench in a heavy, unnatural stillness. 

Even the usual shuffle of boots and faint clink of gear seemed to vanish for a moment.

Then it hit her—a strange, electric surge spreading through her chest and out into her limbs, sharp and focused like a sudden adrenaline spike. 

It wasn’t just her getting pumped up—she knew this feeling, or rather, something like it.

It was the same undeniable push that came whenever Corvus used his [Direct Order] Ability, only on a scale she’d never seen before.

‘A platoon-wide buff…? Holy fuck…’ Thea’s grip tightened on her rifle, a grin tugging at the edge of her mouth. ‘No wonder the Squad Leaders voted for him… And that speech was perfect, Commander Kalt! That’s the kind of order I can definitely work with.’

A sharp, predatory grin crept across her face as she settled back into position, eye locked to the scope of her Gram.

For a few heartbeats, the world was nothing but the stillness of trees, dense shrubs, and the tangled underbrush swaying faintly in the evening wind. 

Then—’There.’

The faintest ripple of motion, barely noticeable at first, threading its way between the trunks.

“They’re here,” Thea reported evenly, her voice low but carrying enough weight that the others in her outcrop would hear. She didn’t bother glancing over to check; they either believed her or didn’t—it made no difference for her own plans.

Through the staggered, uneven lines of trees, shapes began to coalesce—first a handful of faint silhouettes slipping between trunks, then more, swelling with each passing second. 

What had been isolated blurs became a thick, advancing wall of movement, until dozens… then hundreds… of armored figures were surging toward the forest’s edge in a relentless tide.

Thea’s breathing slowed, the chaos of the treeline narrowing into a tunnel of focus. 

She aimed at the heads of the incoming soldiers, intending to shoot each one, but ripping her scope to another one nearby just a moment later, not having fired. 

She repeated the same thing several times until finally—she felt it—the familiar weight pressing against her chest, the subtle pull of certainty she’d come to associate with her precognition. 

Somewhere in that rushing tide, she’d just locked onto a Duplicator. 

She’d been given a simple, unambiguous order and this was a perfect place to start.

Her finger squeezed the trigger.

The Ballistic Gram kicked harder than she’d expected, a sharp shove into her shoulder that reminded her recoil was a real thing—a fact she’d almost forgotten after a solid month of relying on the almost recoil-free Laser variant. 

It wasn’t unpleasant, but she’d definitely have to compensate for it now.

The round tore downrange, cutting through the dim air of the late-evening battlefield. 

Muzzle flash flared briefly in her peripheral vision before fading into the dark. 

Half a heartbeat later, the shot found its mark—slamming dead-center into the visor of the advancing Duplicator. 

The armored figure jerked violently before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

All around him, the duplicates he’d spawned crumpled as well, their bodies hitting the churned mud for barely an instant before disappearing from view entirely—swallowed back into the surging tide of enemy soldiers as if they had never been there at all.

“What?” someone muttered from her left, but Thea didn’t bother seeing what that was all about.

She squeezed the trigger again, dropping another Duplicator and wiping his clones from existence in the blink of an eye. 

Then again. And again. 

Three sharp cracks rang out in quick succession, each one sending a round through the darkness and punching straight into the visors of her chosen targets. Every kill took multiple enemies with it—but with the flood of armor pouring toward the forest’s edge, the effect was like throwing pebbles into a raging river.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Chester’s voice cut in sharply from her left. “We’re supposed to be conserving ammunition. Do you not know what the fuck that means?”

Thea didn’t look up, her cheek still pressed to the stock as she lined up another shot. “It means making sure our shots count—which is exactly what I’m doing. Is there a reason you’re not shooting, Chester? You heard the CO; it’s fire at will.”

She fired again. 

The suppressor’s front vented a faint curl of smoke that drifted away in the cold night air, and another Duplicator’s body crumpled before disappearing into the forest’s underbrush.

“They’re still inside the forest,” Chester bit out through clenched teeth. “I don’t plan on wasting ammo on the trees—Ahh, fucking whatever. Waste your ammo then.” 

He shuffled back to his position with a sharp shake of his head, muttering something about “thankless first-timers” and “ammo dumps in human form.”

Thea ignored him completely. 

Her scope tracked another moving figure, the pull in her chest guiding her aim. One more shot—another sharp recoil—and a Duplicator’s head snapped back, helmet shattering as his clones vanished in the chaos.

The first incoming shots started cracking through the night now, streaking from the treeline toward the trenches. 

Thea’s section caught more than its fair share, tracer rounds bouncing off of the reinforced embrasure in front of her and thudding into the dirt near the outcrop. 

Chester’s grumbles carried easily over the gunfire. “Perfect. Some dumbass Recruit just marked us for death with their shit fire discipline…”

Thea ignored him, shifting her aim to hunt the muzzle flashes flickering between the trees. 

She caught a visor behind a thick trunk, squeezed the trigger, and watched the body slump. 

Another flash, further left—one clean shot, another sniper down. 

She kept working methodically, cutting down the sharpshooters trying to pin them down in-turn, but none of their shots had even gotten close yet.

Then the treeline finally broke open.

The first Stellar Republic soldiers burst from the shadows, sprinting into the open field—only to be met with an unrelenting torrent of fire from the UHF lines. 

What had been sporadic gunshots—just her, a few snipers, and the occasional overeager Marine—erupted into a full-blown storm of bullets and laser fire as if on command. 

Beams carved through the night, while rounds sparked off enemy armor in showers of light. 

Bodies fell hard into the mud, cut down before they’d made it more than a few steps from the forest, only to be replaced by more bodies right behind them.

For about two seconds, it worked. Then the tide began to push back. 

Super-Heavy armoured Defensive Heavies advanced in formation, shields raised high to catch the incoming fire. Behind them, regular soldiers followed tight in their shadow, using the moving wall of armour as cover, while firing back towards the trenchlines to try and suppress the incoming deluge of fire.

Explosions followed from handheld rocket-propelled weaponry or grenade launchers—sharp concussions that sent dirt and debris raining down on the trenchline. 

From both sides, almost simultaneously, several flares went high into the sky, lighting up the entire field of battle in a red hue.

Thick jets of white-foam barrier erupted across the battlefield where thrown Stellar Republic grenades exploded, rapidly expanding into jagged walls that gave their troops even more protection as they pushed forward and began returning fire in earnest.

To Thea’s left, Chester, Marie, and Falks were now fully engaged as well, their rifles spitting carefully aimed bursts into the mass of advancing troops. 

The flow from the treeline didn’t slow, however—it thickened. 

More and more Stellar Republic soldiers poured into the field, their formations rippling forward like a living tide. Each line that pushed up seemed denser than the last, their advance gaining ground despite the initial losses. 

It wasn’t until the deep, rattling roar of the UHF’s heavy machine guns joined the fight that their momentum finally staggered. 

The emplacements along the trenchline lit up in a storm of muzzle flashes, spewing out sheets of high-calibre explosive rounds that shredded the hastily erected white-foam cover and chewed through anyone caught in the open; even pushing back and killing several of the Defensive Heavies that had been seemingly unstoppable so far.

The first salvo of explosive weaponry came at the same time—a rapid succession of concussive thuds and thunderclaps. 

Grenades, rockets and shells burst across the Stellar Republic’s forward positions, ripping foam barriers apart and blasting the soldiers behind them into chunks of armour and red mist. 

Dirt and burning debris rained down over the red-hued field, combining with the Duplicate sludge, body parts and blood into a sickeningly wet mucus. 

For a brief moment, the push faltered.

Next to Thea, Marie and Falks had kept firing throughout all of it as well, but their voices carried the edge of fraying nerves.

“Holy shit, they’re not stopping,” Marie muttered, working her rifle’s action faster now, swinging it around as she aimed at easily hittable targets here and there.

“No kidding,” Falks answered between bursts. “There’s too many of them—”

His words cut off in a scream as a round punched through the narrow opening of their embrasure, catching him high in the shoulder. 

The sound was raw and wet, followed by the thud of him hitting the trench floor.

“Shit! Falks!” Chester was on him instantly, kneeling down, gauntlets pressing hard against the wound.

“Keep still, it’s not fatal—stop thrashing! You’re making it worse!” Chester’s voice was firm, but his eyes flicked up every few seconds to check the embrasure.

“Fuck—hurts—” Falks hissed, breath ragged.

“No shit it hurts. Hold on. I’ve got you.”

Through it all, Thea’s scope stayed steady. 

She tracked movement, found another Duplicator, felt that familiar pressure in her chest, and fired. The round punched through his visor cleanly, and the duplicates around him scattered like smoke in the dark.

‘Recoil’s still kicking more than I’d like,’ she noted calmly as she aimed for the next person. 

Another shot. Another Duplicator down. 

The sound of Falks groaning behind her was like background noise now, mixing with Marie’s rapid-fire curses, worried questions about his status and Chester’s clipped medical instructions.

“Keep pressure on it—no, more—stop lifting your damn arm—”

‘Attachments are doing good work… for now. Might need spares for a fight like this—suppressor’s already starting to make the air shimmer… I wonder if it will last for the whole DM…’

“Aaahhhh! Fuck!” Falks screamed, voice cracking as Chester yanked the mangled remnants of the bullet from his shoulder, the metal clinking faintly as it hit the trench floor. 

The smell of burnt propellant and blood was thick in the air by now.

‘Maybe it’d be better not to have the suppressor screwed on at all right now,’ Thea mused, glancing at the heat shimmer distorting the front of her Gram. ‘There’s no real point in trying to be stealthy in the middle of a battlefield like this… probably a waste to keep it on.’

She exhaled slowly as she adjusted for the next target, and squeezed the trigger. 

Another clean hit. 

She didn’t bother to watch the body fall before shifting aim, sighting another Duplicator and sending him down a moment later.

That’s when a sudden, sharp pang flared in her chest. 

She leaned slightly towards the left, just in time for a laser to slice through the embrasure’s small opening, hissing past her head by mere millimeters and burning a molten groove into the dirt wall behind her. 

She didn’t flinch, didn’t dwell on it—just popped back into position and lined up the shot she’d spotted before the precognition had urged her to move. 

Another Duplicator down. 

His duplicates collapsed into heaps next to him right away.

“They’re never-ending! Fuck! Why are we in this fucking upscaled bullshit mission?!” Marie’s voice cracked with panic as she ducked down, clutching her rifle close. “How are we even supposed to do anything here?!”

The return fire from the Stellar Republic lines was only getting heavier, a relentless storm of rounds hammering the reinforced walls of their embrasure. 

Each impact rang out in sharp, metallic dinks or dull thuds, the ricochets sparking before disappearing into the churned-up haze. 

Bullets and laser bursts slammed into the sidewalls, tearing into packed earth and sending gritty clumps spraying into the air until a fine dust hung permanently in front of the trench like a dirty fog.

“Just keep firing!” Chester barked back over the chaos, one knee pressed to the trench floor as he jabbed a set of injectors into Falks’ neck. 

The suppressed bark of each of Thea’s shots was barely audible under the pounding gunfire from the battlefield.

“Fuck, man, why does this shit always hurt so much?!” Falks groaned, squirming under Chester’s grip. “I need to get me a fucking auto-injector for painkillers after this.”

Thea slapped a fresh magazine into her Gram—the first reload of the fight. 

She glanced at the Gauss variant leaning against the wall at her side. 

‘Maybe I should try it out soon,’ she thought, sliding the bolt forward to load the first round into the chamber with a satisfying click. ‘In a target-rich mess like this, I don’t really need the penetrative punch of Ballistic. Gauss should do just fine…’

Thea settled back into her scope, the rhythm of fire and target acquisition flowing as naturally as breathing—it felt undeniably great to be back in the action. Another Duplicator’s visor shattered under her crosshairs, his body collapsing and his clones with him. 

She spotted another target, exhaled, and squeezed—another headshot.

Then the twinge hit again. 

“Hey, Rookie, how are you doi—” Chester’s voice cut off mid-sentence as he caught sight of her movement. Without hesitation, she leaned right at the twinge, a pulse of heated air from a passing laser brushing her cheek as it smashed into the dirt wall.

She stayed in that slight lean, eyes locked on her scope, and fired, the recoil thumping into her shoulder as yet another Duplicator dropped.

“Doing good, thanks,” she replied flatly, not once looking away from the sight picture, already lining up her next target.

Chester stared at her for a beat longer before snapping his own rifle up and taking a few quick shots from his own embrasure. 

Thea’s high Perception caught his low mutter, barely audible under the chaos. “Fucking Wellis was right, these Cyans always overdo it to show they’re tough, huh? That was such a lucky reposition, holy fuck. I hope she’s not gonna die with the first shot that finally hits… I need those points… especially since we’ll all fucking die here anyway…”

Marie cursed under her breath as a streak of energy chewed the top edge of her firing position, continuously forcing her to duck, missing out on opportunities to fire back. 

Thea fired again, another Duplicator collapsing into the dirt.

Falks tried to pop up for a burst, only for a flurry of shots to slam into the lip of the trench, showering him with dirt and forcing him back down with a hiss. 

Thea shifted her aim and calmly took out another clone-maker before his decoys could vanish into the mob.

Even Chester was firing in short bursts rather than keeping up steady fire, the incoming counter-fire pounding their section hard enough to rattle the reinforced walls. 

Between his shots, Thea picked off another Duplicator, watching the ripple effect of their collapse open brief gaps in the advancing lines—gaps that were almost instantly filled again.

‘I missed this kind of chaos,’ she thought, an easy grin tugging at her mouth as she squeezed off another round. 

The Gram’s report thumped into her shoulder, the recoil pushing her sight just slightly off for the next target for a split second. ‘Ballistic version really isn’t bad at all… though I’d definitely be firing faster with the Laser one. Recoil’s a bit of a pain for this kind of pace.’

She flicked her eyes open to the [Resource] tab of her Profile, letting the transparent interface settle into the corner of her vision while she kept scanning for targets.

[Resources]
Focus: 261 / 225

Another pull of the trigger, another Duplicator’s head erupting. 

She squinted through the numbers floating in her view.

‘Hmm… I’m chewing through Focus pretty quick. Only been a few minutes and I’m already down fourteen. Precognition’s really draining, even just passively like this, huh?’

“Ah, fuck!” Marie’s scream cracked through the din to her left, followed by the frantic clatter of her rifle hitting the trench floor.

Chester was already halfway to her when she waved him off, breath coming fast. “I’m fine! I’m fine! Don’t worry—fuck—it’s just a ricochet, nothing happened.”

Thea’s didn’t really pay attention. ‘Maybe it’s time to mix things up… Opening my Gate a bit more should slow the drain. If I can find the perfect balance—enough recovery to keep the passive precog running without bleeding Focus dry—that’d be perfect.’

She centered her mind on the Gate within her chest, just behind her heart, feeling for that familiar point of pressure and heat. With slow, deliberate care, she eased it open a fraction wider, exactly the way she’d been taught—not forcing it, not rushing it.

‘Thank you for teaching me, Zach. I won’t waste your lessons,’ she thought, a flicker of reverence threading through her focus as she lined up another shot and sent a round tearing into the enemy ranks.

“There’s like a thousand of them!” Falks yelled, voice high with frustration, before snapping off another hurried shot and ducking back down. His helmet dipped as he shook his head, muttering under his breath, panic starting to creep in.

Thea’s gaze never left her scope. 

‘Let’s see if this is wide enough or if I need just a bit more…’

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[ND] Chapter 146 - Conclusion

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Chapter 141 - Mixed Messages has just released on RR with no major changes.

For the Fixers, this chapter has seen no changes.

-----

We're finally back on regular schedule!

Today's chapter concludes the "Consequences" Arc. 🙏

-----

I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Eo57qdLh7qHYP9Nz4i_ZXvUeRoB5Uuvz290iXhPBtp0/edit?usp=sharing

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Chapter 146 - Conclusion

Several moments passed while I stared at the blinking error window, my stomach sinking lower with every second. 

The meaning was too obvious to ignore.

‘He died, didn’t he…?’

The alternative—that he’d just canceled my debt in the middle of a fight—was so unlikely it bordered on laughable.

Mr. Stirling wasn’t exactly the type to throw away leverage, especially not mid-combat.

What unsettled me even more, though, was the silence. Nyxstalker hadn’t come back. 

It had been nearly a full minute since the gunfire and explosions outside had died out, and still… nothing.

A soft whimper pulled me back. 

My eyes dropped to Gabriel.

His gaze was unfocused, glassy, his pupils blown wide like he wasn’t really here but couldn’t fully slip under either. The drugs—probably the same cocktail burning through my veins—had him caught in that cruel limbo.

“I wish I could help you, Gabe,” I whispered, stroking his hair with trembling fingers, hoping the small touch might anchor him. ‘Just a bit longer. Hold on for me, please…’

My own body was a furnace. 

My neck still burned raw from [Venombite], but the same drugs keeping us conscious forced me to endure it. It wasn’t as bad as that first cybernetic burnout I’d suffered during the Cyberspace foray with Kill Joy, but the pounding headache was relentless, the droning inside my skull loud enough to drown out everything but my own ragged breathing. 

Every now and then, one of Gabriel’s whimpers cut through, thin and fragile.

I’d only marginally overheated my link this time with the use of [Venombite], not a full meltdown like last time around. That thought dragged my gaze across the room, toward where the netrunner still lay slumped. 

I’d nearly forgotten about him.

He was still there, twitching, drool spilling from his slack mouth and darkening our carpet. Barely holding himself together.

The sight gave me pause. 

I hadn’t expected [Venombite] to hit a corpo-level netrunner this hard. 

But then again, stripped of ICE, it didn’t matter who you were—corpo, ganger, scav.

Even Kill Joy himself would buckle under a raw offensive quick-hack if he went in completely unshielded, which this netrunner had basically done: Only 6% of the [Venombite]’s code had been caught by the last remnants of the netrunner’s ICE after he had taken the full-force punch through of the PremMed signal. 

Still, the twitching mess in the middle of the room wasn’t finished. 

The netrunner wasn’t quite dealt with—not yet.

I forced myself upright, every muscle screaming, figuring I might as well take whatever slim window we had. 

Nyxstalker still hadn’t come back—whatever kept him out there was clearly doing its job.

The netrunner was still twitching on the carpet like a broken puppet. 

I moved over, dropped down onto him, and drove my knees into his shoulders to pin him. 

Then I started swinging.

My fist cracked into his face, snapping his nose flat and shattering bone in his cheek.

“—ughter…” a faint, muffled sound drifted from somewhere, too faint to catch.

I didn’t stop. 

I pulled back and drove my other fist into the other side of his face, breaking more bone, folding in what little structure was left. Blood gushed down in thick streams, choking him as it filled his throat. 

He sputtered, weakly thrashing under me, but there wasn’t any strength behind it.

I raised my fist again, ready to keep going until he stopped moving—

“Seraphine!”

The name cut through me like a blade, snapping me out of the haze. 

Valeria had only called me that in one instance before—right before the NeuroCorpse dinner, when she’d scolded me for my mistakes and then, almost as an afterthought, wished me a happy belated birthday. 

Hearing it now, not “daughter” but Seraphine, somehow, cut straight through the noise in my skull.

I turned toward her voice.

Valeria was standing—barely. She was lopsided, her entire right side dead weight, blood running down from wounds that should’ve kept her on the ground. 

But she was upright, a few meters away, and her eyes were locked on me.

“Leave him,” she said. Her voice was still cool, but frayed around the edges with exhaustion. “He represents no actionable threat anymore. However, his retained informational data will prove strategically invaluable in our future actions against Nyxstalker. I will personally oversee the extraction process and guarantee that his information is leveraged to immediate operational effect.”

I glanced back at the netrunner’s ruined face, blood bubbling at his lips with every shallow cough. My thoughts crawled through molasses, struggling to keep up through the fog of pain and drug haze.

I exhaled sharply and pushed off him, rising unsteadily to my feet. 

He stayed where he was, choking on his own blood, cradling his face weakly.

“Assist me, Seraphine,” Valeria said. And her tone—stripped of its usual edge—was different. Undeniably exhausted and strangely… honest.

I met her eyes and realised that, for the first time, she wasn’t speaking down to me. 

She was asking. Genuinely asking for my help.

“What do you need?” I heard myself ask, my own voice sounding hollow in my ears. 

Since patching Gabriel up, whatever focus I’d had left was gone. 

I was just running on fumes.

“I need a change of clothes—in my room. On the bed. Take any dress, it does not matter,” she said, steady but faint.

‘A dress? Clothes?’ My mind stumbled. ‘What the fuck is she on about?’

“And after,” she went on, gesturing toward what was left of the kitchen counter, rubble of marble and granite scattered like broken teeth around the ruined plinth, “you will help me reach the counter. Then stand by my right side, covering it as best you can. It is imperative that we move quickly, Seraphine.”

Her eyes locked onto mine, sharp despite everything, cutting straight through the fog in my head.

Whatever she was planning, however insane it sounded, to her it was life or death.

And I let it happen. 

The strange haze clouding my thoughts made it almost comforting to just… obey. Not having to think, not having to plan or weigh options, but simply act on instruction—it was easier. 

Like sliding into warm water after drowning in ice cold water for the past minutes.

So I moved.

Valeria’s and Oliver’s room felt utterly alien as I entered it, but I honestly barely even saw it. 

My eyes scanned for the bed and found it instantly, the rest of the room blurring into nothing. 

Dresses were spread across the covers like a showroom display, and I just grabbed the first that caught my hand—a midnight-black one—and turned back without pausing.

Back in the ruined apartment, I knelt to help Valeria. 

Her old dress was nothing but shredded silk and blood, clinging to her like scraps of paper. 

I peeled it all away, then slid the new fabric over her. 

The change was instant and almost unreal in its entirety. 

A minute ago she’d looked half-dead—wounded, exhausted, slumped into herself. But in the clean lines of the black dress, she was transformed again, a figure of poise and authority. 

She still leaned heavily, her right side slack and useless, but somehow she managed to wear it like a statement rather than a weakness.

I hooked my arm under her right side and helped her toward the counter, just as she had requested. Anxiety coiled tighter in my chest with every step closer to the kitchen breach, the jagged wound in the apartment wall yawning wide and silent. 

Any second now, I expected Nyxstalker to stride through it, finishing what he’d started.

But somehow, he didn’t.

We made it to the counter without any further sounds, explosions or people randomly appearing inside the ruined apartment or the floor beyond. 

Valeria gave me a quick nod of approval as I shifted into position, covering her right side with my body. She leaned against the broken plinth, but not like someone about to collapse. 

She made it look casual, almost deliberate—though I knew damn well she needed it just to stay standing, judging by the sheer weight she had put on me on our way here.

Valeria adjusted her stance against the counter, her voice calm but carrying that clipped precision she never dropped, no matter how battered she looked. “I will handle all of the communication. You need only stand precisely where you are, Seraphine. Do not move until I signal otherwise, and everything will resolve appropriately from here onward.”

Then, softer—almost unrecognizable—she added, “I will take care of everything.”

A moment later, I felt it—a faint pressure against my cerebral link. 

My body flinched on instinct, expecting another wave of pain, but instead the opposite happened. 

The radiant fire and searing heat in my neck ebbed, cooling just enough to unclench my jaw.

I half-turned, confused, only to meet Valeria’s eyes. 

They were rimmed with exhaustion, her face pale and drawn, but the focus in them was sharp enough to pin me in place. 

Her left arm was stretched out, fingers pressed against the implant at my neck.

‘Is she siphoning some of the heat…?’ It was the only explanation that made sense. 

And given it was her cybernetic arm—the same one she’d used to strip bare flesh off of her right one to summon that impossible serpent earlier—it didn’t feel far-fetched.

Neither of us spoke.

We just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, as the overload in my cerebral link slowly bled away. The searing heat cooled, dropping back down to levels that weren’t cooking me alive from the inside. 

Maybe it had already burned through all the surrounding tissue—maybe there wasn’t even anything left to hurt—but for the first time since [Venombite] had gone off, I felt like I could actually breathe again.

Another minute dragged by in tense silence before I finally caught it—the faint shuffle of boots and gear from the hallway. 

My whole body went rigid, every muscle pulling tight like a bowstring and my hand instinctively trying to go for the knife at my back that wasn’t there.

“It’s fine,” Valeria said quietly, her voice steady despite the exhaustion still evident on her face. “They are EtherLabs.”

For a split second, I almost asked how she could possibly know that. Then it clicked. 

The passive jam must have burned out by now. Comms would be live again.

Even without [Serenity], anyone could have pinged for updates by now, and Valeria always had her channels open. 

Of course she’d know if EtherLabs had finally sent reinforcements.

I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I’d been clinging to since Nyxstalker had stormed out after Mr. Stirling. Part of me had been sure it was only a temporary pause—that he’d come back through the breach any second to finish what he started.

But this? This felt final. 

With EtherLabs security sweeping the floor, even someone like him couldn’t keep pushing. 

There was a reason he’d been so desperate to break Valeria fast, why he’d rushed to torture Gabriel and me before the jam expired.

Still, my mind snagged on the gap in the story. 

‘What the hell happened out there?’ The System had thrown an error—clear as day, indicating that Mr. Stirling was gone—but Nyxstalker hadn’t returned either. ‘Did they kill each other? Or did he just vanish after realising his time was running short…?’

It was impossible to know from where I stood, staring out through the gaping kitchen breach. 

The opposite wall of the hallway was scarred black with scorch marks, riddled with bullet holes, streaked with blood and chunks of debris. 

A mural of past violence, but no real answers.

I was half-inclined to step outside and look for what had happened, but I knew better than to follow my own whim at this point in time. 

Valeria knew how to handle EtherLabs personnel; I didn’t.

The last thing I wanted was to be confused for one of the invaders and get shot wandering the hallways by the very security team meant to extract us.

The footsteps came first—heavy boots grinding against rockcrete, growing louder as they closed in. Debris crunched and shifted in the hallway, the sound of order reclaiming ground from chaos.

Behind me, I felt Valeria straighten. 

Even with her right side dead weight, she pulled herself tall, her presence snapping back into something controlled and deliberate. I adjusted immediately, shifting my stance so her entire right side was shielded by me, exactly as she’d asked.

Moments later, they came through.

A squad of EtherLabs security—armoured head to toe, rifles and SMGs sweeping as they poured in through both the shattered doorway and the gaping wound in the kitchen wall. 

They moved with textbook tactical precision, fanning out, clearing corners, barrels raised and ready to fire at a moment’s notice—until they rounded the breach and their barrels landed on us.

They froze.

A low murmur of voices muffled by the helmets, before they continued. 

They broke off around us, methodically clearing the wreckage of the apartment. 

Every corner, every body, every room was called out and marked as clear.

And then, just as quickly, they withdrew again, boots carrying them back out into the hallway, leaving the ruined apartment oddly quiet once more.

A few more seconds passed before the next arrival stepped in through the kitchen breach.

He moved differently—still like a soldier, but also more like a man who knew he didn’t have to clear rooms himself anymore unless absolutely necessary. Flanking him were two others, even more heavily armoured than the first team, their weapons lowered but ready.

High-Tier protective gear covered his body, reinforced yet elegantly sleek, but he held his helmet tucked under one arm. 

His blonde hair was slicked back, his face cut sharp with lines of age and a grim, yet focused look plastered on his face as his eyes scanned the room. He approached us directly, boots steady against the broken tiles, stepping over the dead bodies of the corpo agents.

His eyes flicked briefly over me before locking firmly onto Valeria.

“Miss Vildea,” he said, voice calm, authoritative, carrying the weight of someone used to being listened to. “It’s good to see you’re still in one piece.”

Valeria didn’t miss a beat. Even battered and bloodied, her voice cut sharp as glass. 

“Captain Halveth,” she addressed him by name, like it was obvious she knew it. “You may reserve your pleasantries. The fact that I am still breathing is no credit to EtherLabs’ security protocols. Quite the opposite—I am markedly disappointed by the inadequacies demonstrated here tonight.”

The man’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t flinch. “With respect, ma’am, this was an unprecedented breach. My men responded as soon as—”

“As soon as the jamming was cleared,” Valeria interrupted smoothly, her tone slicing through his explanation. “Do not mistake my survival as a consequence of your response. The interval between the initial breach and your team’s arrival was more than sufficient to annihilate not only myself but my entire family. That we are not dead is the result of my own intervention, not your department’s.”

Halveth’s lips pressed together, but he held steady. “If I may, Miss Vildea, we need to establish precisely what transpired before further measures are taken. My men are still sweeping the floor, but your insight—”

“My insight,” Valeria interrupted again, voice dropping into something almost predatory, “will be shared on a strictly need-to-know basis. For now, you will concern yourself with the immediate, tangible priority: Securing a medical evac for my son. He is in critical condition, and unless EtherLabs intends to compound today’s failures with outright negligence, that process should already be underway.”

Halveth’s eyes flicked past her to Gabriel, pale and trembling on the floor, then back. 

His throat bobbed once before he answered. “We’ll have him evacuated immediately. I’ll transmit the request personally.”

Valeria gave a small nod, then continued without missing a beat. “Good. Once that is underway, you will also note this for your after-action report: The assailants were not a rogue element, not freelancers, but a coordinated strike team from OmniWare Inc.”

The name jolted something loose in my head.

‘OmniWare, huh? So that’s the enemy here…’

They weren’t some small-time outfit. 

OmniWare Inc. was one of the heavyweights in Neon Dragons’ corporate ring—major players in bionics, and equally entrenched in the medical tooling and pharmaceuticals tied to implantation. 

Direct and natural rivals to EtherLabs’ own pharmaceutical pursuits.

I’d been turning over the question of who Nyxstalker had been working for inside my head, but now the pieces were at least starting to line up. It didn’t make it simple—if anything, it only opened more questions—but the picture was ever-so-slightly less murky than before.

“OmniWare?” Halveth echoed, disbelief sharpening his voice. His helmet dipped slightly in his hand. “You’re certain of that?”

“Do not insult me by questioning my assessment,” Valeria said, her words cracking across the Captain’s face like a whip. “Their squad composition, tactical doctrine, and most importantly, their commander, left little room for ambiguity. It was Nyxstalker himself.”

Halveth’s composure cracked for the first time, his brow rising sharply. 

For just a moment, silence held.

“Nyxstalker…” His voice trailed off, then steadied again, though quieter. “That complicates matters.”

“Complications are your department, Captain,” Valeria pressed forward, never letting the silence grow into something that might undermine her. “Mine, for now, is the survival of my family, which—once again—was achieved not through EtherLabs’ intervention, but despite its absence. Ensure my son’s survival with the efficiency and efficacy I had once assumed you to be capable of, and perhaps there will still be grounds to rebuild confidence in your division.”

Halveth stood his ground, even under the weight of her words. 

“You have my word, Miss Vildea,” he said, his tone firming. “Your son will be on the next med-evac out. And we will have full security control of this floor until the matter is resolved.”

“See that you do,” she replied, folding the words like a closing document. “After that, we will address the evident failures that have been laid bare tonight.”

Captain Halveth gave one last nod—short, clipped, all business—before sliding his helmet back on. Without another word, he turned and left, his two armored escorts falling in behind him like shadows.

The moment they disappeared through the breach, I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. My shoulders sagged, the tension bleeding out of me all at once.

Having Valeria’s scalding words lashing past my ear wasn’t something I ever wanted to experience again, but I couldn’t deny it: She had been beyond impressive. 

Even brutalized, bloodied and half-broken as she was, she had effortlessly seized the conversation and strangled it into her control. 

Captain Halveth hadn’t stood a chance. 

She’d verbally dragged him face-first across the whole megabuilding, and in the process, secured Gabriel’s evac and medical assistance. 

For that alone, I was grateful.

“Seraphine.”

Her voice, quiet now, came from just behind me. I turned to see her slumping harder against the shattered plinth, holding herself upright more through will than strength.

“I will require your assistance once more,” she continued, her tone still carrying that polished corporate cadence even through the exhaustion. “We must relocate to an alternate locale. Once secure, we will address your injuries, after which you will rest while I manage the remaining elements of this situation.”

I opened my mouth, ready to protest—to say there was no way I was leaving Gabriel right now, no way I was just going to collapse into bed after this—but she simply raised her left hand, silencing me without effort.

“Don’t argue with me tonight, Seraphine. Neither of us possesses the energy for it.” Her eyes, sharp even through the exhaustion, held mine. “Gabriel will be cared for by EtherLabs. The security apparatus is clearly deficient, yes—but pharmaceuticals and medical care are our core competency. He will receive the highest standard of treatment we can provide. I will personally ensure it.”

Her gaze softened then, just slightly, in a way that caught me completely off guard. “You have done more than enough, Seraphine. You have done very well. Now allow me to do my part. My negligence has allowed this breach; it is my duty to rectify it.”

I froze, caught between the completely alien warmth in her voice, the unfamiliar weight of genuine praise, and the almost unnatural sound of her admitting fault. 

Words failed me. 

All I could do was nod, dazed, and slip an arm under her to help her move.

I had no idea what else to say or do.

Every step sent fresh waves of pain coursing through me, but I shoved it aside. As long as I kept moving, kept upright, I could keep going.

Valeria leaned into me as I guided her out through the kitchen breach, into the hallway. 

We passed by the heaps of bodies she’d left behind—black-clad corpses sprawled where they’d fallen, the stench of blood and scorched flesh thick in the air—and pushed forward into the wide T-intersection I’d run through so many mornings for my Body grinds.

Then I stopped.

The hallway was a nightmare given form.

Absolute ruin stretched in both directions—bodies scattered like discarded dolls, some still intact, others torn apart into pieces that barely resembled human forms. Bullet holes chewed into every surface, the walls and doors of neighboring apartments blown open, chunks of rockcrete and twisted metal jutting out where explosions had ripped entire sections apart. 

Debris crunched underfoot with every step, the air thick with dust and the metallic sting of copper from all the blood.

But that wasn’t what had made me freeze.

It was the claw marks. 

Massive, jagged furrows carved deep into the walls, running along the length of the corridor—evidence of the Nyxstalker beast’s rampage. They dwarfed anything a man or weapon could’ve made, and the sight drove home the nightmare that had unfolded here. 

Mr. Stirling and the handful of EtherLabs security he’d brought had fought that.

The floor was littered with the fallen from both sides—black-armored OmniWare operatives lying broken among EtherLabs corpses, their firefight etched into the walls in blood and fire.

My eyes snagged on a cluster of three EtherLabs officers near the far wall. 

They stood silently, weapons lowered, holding vigil over the crumpled body at their feet.

Mr. Stirling.

His form was mangled almost beyond recognition. 

His entire right side was gone—shorn away like something had taken a single, colossal bite out of him. Even the right half of his head was missing, leaving nothing but ruin. 

And yet… there was a smile on what remained of his face. 

A contentment that seemed impossible given the state of him, but there it was.

I almost couldn’t look away. But when I finally did, I saw what the officers were there for.

They weren’t just guarding his body. 

They were carefully extracting something clutched tight in his remaining hand: A pitch-black cybernetic arm, its surface still slick with oil and blood. 

Recognition hit me instantly.

‘Nyxstalker’s arm…!’

So that was why he hadn’t come back. 

Stirling hadn’t just stalled him—he’d seriously maimed him. 

Ripped his arm clean off and wounded him enough that Nyxstalker hadn’t even bothered to retrieve it after Mr. Stirling’s death.

A quiet whisper left my lips before I could stop it. “Thank you, Mr. Stirling.”

Then Valeria tugged at me, her directions pulling me forward, guiding us past the carnage and deeper into the floor. 

I let her lead—I didn’t have it in me to do anything else.

The next minutes passed in a blur. 

We entered another apartment, one already stocked with medical supplies that had clearly been staged ahead of time. Valeria patched me up as best she could, her movements shaky but precise, while I swayed in place, barely upright.

“Sleep,” she urged, guiding me to the single bed.

My thoughts spun wildly, chasing themselves in frantic circles, but I knew she was right. 

I needed to stop. To rest.

So I pulled up the Rest Function, set it for a solid eight hours, and let it take me under…

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[TAS] Volume 2 - Chapter 48 - Mission Briefing

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Volume 2 - Chapter 43 - UHF 101 Finale: Digital Missions has just released on RR with no changes.

For the Wolf Lords, this chapter is unchanged.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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Update 04/09/25:

Won't make it this week, as I've barely slept since Sunday and am running on about 20% energy.

Things are starting to return somewhat to normalcy here, so I'm confident in being able to *return to regular schedule starting next week (Monday 8th, Tuesday 9th ND/TAS respectively).*

Thank you for your continued patience with me this month.

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Update 01/09/25:

As announced previously; things are a bit in the air right now.

Tentatively next chapter release date will be Friday, September 5th.

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My grandma has expectedly-unexpectedly died at around 1am tonight.

Despite all the improvements, the doctors specifically waiting for the usual crash after "getting better" and everything pointing towards a recovery, things did not turn out that way.

Even with the experts doing diagnosis and estimations, then adding another 50% on top and "playing it safe" with the hopes, it just seemingly wasn't meant to be.

The human body can be a weird beast like that.

Today's TAS chapter will not be affected by this, it will release at the usual times (8pm/9pm RR/Patreon).

As for the next week, I don't know whether or not my writing will be affected by this, nor how much my family will need me in the coming days and weeks, so please show me a bit of extra patience in these next few weeks, as we figure everything out, get her put to rest and deal with everything.

I'll try not to let it effect things too much, and I doubt that it should, considering that I've spent this past week and a half preparing for this eventual outcome, but life can take unexpected turns.

As always, I'll keep you up-to-date should any needs for delays or a short hiatus be in order, with more information if/when the time comes.

Thank you for all your well wishes and condolences-in-advance recently, I really appreciate each and every one of you thinking of my grandma in these past days.

======

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Yes, action will be next chapter, calm your tits, god damn.

🙄🙄🙄

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/18vvyhfD5OsPmqYckb5f5GD2x0AGUt_rHuWfR_NwdcPI/edit?usp=sharing

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Section 4.2 – Mandatory Creation Parameters for Digital Missions
The governing principle of the UHF Digital Mission system is to provide Marines with combat scenarios that are both engaging and educational, while maintaining operational value for the Corps. 

To that end, the following creation parameters are mandatory for all DMs created under UHF oversight:

1. Clear, Understandable Goals:
Mission objectives must be simple enough for any Marine to comprehend at first briefing—no convoluted secondary chains. Objectives must be actionable from deployment onward, allowing immediate engagement with mission parameters.

2. Mission Type Alignment:
All DMs must adhere to one of the established operational categories listed in Appendix 3 (Hold the Line, Point Defense, All-Out Assault, etc.). Variants are permitted only with prior approval from the corresponding Local Simulation Command.

3. Ruleset Grade Selection:
Select from Grade 0 through Grade 5 restrictions, balancing mission complexity with desired training outcomes. Ensure the ruleset complements the intended teaching focus.

4. Enemy AI Configuration:
Designate the core enemy type from the approved AI library. Optional inclusion of randomized high-threat elements (Enemy Aces, Battlefield Aces, etc.) is recommended for unpredictability. 

Note: Randomized threats are generated at mission start, not during design phase, potentially increasing the intended difficulty beyond initial intentions.

5. Feasibility by Force Size:
Mission sizes are allowed to scale between 1–5 Platoons (100–500 Marines). Scenarios must remain realistically survivable with optimal execution.

6. Special Modifiers:
Special combat conditions (environmental hazards, limited visibility, logistical shortages, etc.) may be applied to train Marines in specific stress conditions. See Appendix 6 for full list.

7. Role Representation:
Role distribution must meet mission-critical ratios. Governing AIs may assist in assigning Role requirements across Platoons to fulfill operational viability (minimum Squad Medics, Heavy Weapons Specialists, etc.). The number of minimum Squad Leaders is always equal to the number of total squads planned to be part of the mission.

8. Real-World Scenario Parity:
Mission backstory may be fictional or based on a historical operation. Disclosure of origin to participants is optional, but permitted—Marines may train on simulations of real battles without obfuscation.

9. Defined Timed Endpoint:
Each DM must have a conclusive end-condition compatible with its Grade’s ruleset and explainable in-mission (arrival of reinforcements, destruction of key assets, completion of evacuation, etc.).

10. Upscale Contingency Protocol:
All missions must include an upscaled variant to accommodate high-value participant queues. Minimum trigger conditions: 4× 1-Star MVM Medal holders; or 1x 1-Star MVM Medal and 1× 2-Star MVM Medal holders in the same queue. Adjust parameters in accordance with Appendix 9a to ensure appropriate challenge scaling.

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Failure to meet any of these criteria will result in automatic rejection by the Digital Mission Generation Committee. 

Resubmission will be permitted only after deficiencies are addressed in full.

Repeated violations may result in removal of simulation design rights.

===

[Excerpt from UHF MC Operational Handbook – Digital Mission Creation Protocols, Rev. 227, PFC 943]

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Having been scooped up by an experienced Squad Medic wasn’t exactly on Thea’s list of planned ways to step into her first Digital Mission, but she had to admit—it beat wandering around the Prep Room, trying to haggle her way into a squad like a good chunk of the lobby was doing right now.

Sure, Chester didn’t exactly scream trustworthy. 

He’d been the one to stir up that little mess with the two Marines who’d commented on her weapons, only to sweep in afterward like some kind of white-knight recruiter. 

Still, given how it turned out, she figured it had been worth the gamble.

‘It’s really awesome to have this high a Perception, huh?’ she thought, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she sat beside Chester on one of the benches with the rest of Wellis’ squad. 

He’d probably never considered the possibility that a Recon/Sniper Recruit could possibly have enough Perception in their very first Digital Mission to catch the venom in his earlier “advice” to the two Marines. 

But her recent focus on actively tracking everything around her was already paying off—it had let her hear it clear as day.

She’d thought, for a moment, about calling him out. 

But she knew the type well enough. 

She’d seen them plenty of times in arcades across the galaxy—players who preyed on fresh faces to pad their own numbers. 

Not the deadweight grifters, but the other kind: The ones just solidly above average in skill. Not good enough to be top-tier on their own, but talented enough, sharp enough—and motivated enough—to recognize their limits and build a strategy to work around them.

It wasn’t flattering, sure, but Thea didn’t care about flattering.

‘I don’t have to like the guy. He just has to perform.’

Her motto had always been simple: Better a competent asshole, like Desmond, than a friendly anchor dragging you down. In a mission, you could ignore a personality you didn’t mesh with—but you couldn’t ignore someone dropping a grenade at your feet on accident, or even worse, tanking your score.

So someone like Chester? Perfect. 

In her eyes, these were exactly the kind of people worth queuing up with in missions like this. 

And to have that opportunity handed to her on a silver-rarity platter without even having to lift a finger?

‘Couldn’t have asked for a better start, honestly.’

Leaning back against the cool metal of the locker behind her, quietly pleased with how things had gone so far, Thea let herself relax and kept lazily scanning the Prep Room. 

Marines milled about in varying states of readiness—some checking weapons, some chatting in tight squad-sized circles, others standing off alone, radiating that “don’t bother me” energy. 

Her eyes moved from group to group, mentally tallying the rough spread of Roles she could spot, noting the gear choices, the way people carried themselves, and—most telling of all—how confident they looked. 

A few had that casual ease of veterans, leaning on their lockers with weapons already slung, while others were clearly fresh, fidgeting with straps or re-checking menus like they’d missed something.

She’d only entered the Prep Room toward the tail end of selection—maybe one of the last fifteen or so people to load in—so most of the early chaos had already passed her by.

‘Should’ve made my loadout decisions faster, I guess…’ she thought, a faint pang of curiosity cutting through her calm. ‘Hope nothing major went down in here while I was picking gear.’

Her gaze drifted sideways to Chester, who was also watching the room with quiet focus, eyes flicking between clusters of Marines. ‘Maybe I should just ask him…?’

She dismissed the idea almost as soon as it surfaced. 

If this was anything like Sundawn’s prep stages, the early part wasn’t all that important. 

It was mostly over-eager Squad Leaders scrambling to fill their rosters with the first promising faces they could charm—or pressure—into joining, while the smart ones bided their time, watching and waiting for the best squads to take shape before committing.

And judging by the way Chester had moved the instant she’d agreed to follow him—cutting straight across the room like he already had his target picked—Thea was about ninety-nine percent certain her guess was spot on…

—

By the time the status indicator in the top right corner ticked down to zero and flashed its update, every Marine had found a squad—some of them only just scraping in at the last second, practically begging to get squeezed into an oversized team. Thea knew full well she could’ve been one of those poor sods if it hadn’t been for Chester’s timely interference.

Things moved fast after that. 

All the Squad Leaders filed into one of the side rooms, the heavy door sliding shut behind them. Whatever they were discussing didn’t take long; just a few minutes later, the rest of the platoon got the call to follow.

“Alright, let’s go,” Chester said to her, as if she could somehow miss the massive notification dead-center in her vision instructing her to move to the adjacent room for the mission briefing. “Next up’s just a quick brief about the mission, nothing to worry about.”

“Gotcha,” Thea replied, half-listening as she fell into step behind him and the rest of Wellis’ squad, the flow of Marines funneling into the next chamber.

The briefing room was big—wide enough for the whole platoon, with rows of seats neatly arranged in perfect lines. 

Each row seemed to be tagged for a specific squad, because Wellis’ crew didn’t stop until they’d passed several empty sections before finally choosing one toward the middle. 

Just before she sat down, Thea caught the faint, almost ghostly text floating above her chair—Wellis’ Squad—visible only when she focused on it. 

Mystery solved.

Once everyone had settled in, fifteen of the sixteen Squad Leaders took their places near the front, standing slightly behind a single man positioned at the center. 

Clearly, he was the one in charge here.

Her first thought when she saw him was, ‘He’s like Lucas’ scruffier brother, huh?’ 

The man was massive—taller than even Lucas and Isabella by a good ten centimeters—and clad in the unmistakable bulk of Super-Heavy armor. 

The design wasn’t identical to Lucas’ Stalwart rig, but the type was the same: Enormous angular plating, reinforced joints, and the kind of imposing silhouette that drew every eye in the room; or Battlefield. 

The massive man stepped forward, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room as he opened with a deep, steady, “Brothers and Sisters.”

“I’m Sergeant Kalt,” he continued, his tone both commanding and oddly warm, “and by unanimous agreement among your Squad Leaders, I’ve been designated as Commanding Officer for this Digital Mission. I thank them for their trust, and I promise you this—I’ll do my damnest to get every single one of you through this DM without fail.”

He took a moment to scan the room, letting the words settle before pressing on. 

“I also want to give a special welcome to any new Recruits with us today. You’ve just finished your first Assessment and now you’re trickling into DMs across the galaxy, without much pre-amble. You’re stepping into something big here. I ask all of you others—veterans and returning Marines alike—to welcome the new blood with open arms, open ears, and open minds.” 

His tone softened slightly, though it still carried that same pressing weight. “Recruits, you don’t have to identify yourselves if you don’t want to. You’re free to stay quiet, stay hidden as much as you like. You’ve got enough on your plates learning how these missions work without the whole room staring at you.”

Thea found herself appreciating that. A lot. 

That simple bit of consideration was enough to bump the Sergeant straight onto her internal “Nice Guy” list.

“Now then,” Kalt went on, “if there were any organisational issues during squad creation, now’s the time to speak up.” 

His gaze swept over the room again. Silence. Not a single voice raised.

“Good. Then let’s move on to the main part.” 

He squared his shoulders slightly, addressing the line of Squad Leaders. “Squad Leaders—please ready up and confirm your final squad compositions, and your agreement to offer operational command to me for this run.”

For a moment, nothing visible happened. 

Then, without so much as a sound, the Status Indicator in the top right corner blinked and shifted to read: [Final Mission Briefing].

Right on cue, a datapad shimmered into existence in front of Kalt, hanging weightlessly in the air until he reached out with one massive, armor-plated hand and plucked it from the void. 

The metal fingers of his gauntlet tapped across its surface for barely three seconds before his movements froze. 

His eyes widened a fraction, then he dragged one huge, armored palm over his face and let out a long, drawn-out sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire platoon. “Haaaa…”

“Sergeant Kalt?” one of the Squad Leaders ventured, his voice cautious but unable to mask the curiosity that rippled through the entire room. 

Even Thea found herself leaning forward slightly, trying to read the man’s reaction.

Kalt lowered his hand and cleared his throat. 

“I am… forced to amend my previous statement,” he said slowly, almost begrudgingly. “I will no longer attempt to get every single one of you through this DM… but rather any single one of you.”

The room stirred, a few Marines exchanging confused glances.

Without elaborating, Kalt gave a short, almost lazy flick of his wrist, and the contents of the datapad leapt from his hands to the massive wall-mounted display behind the Squad Leaders.

Thea’s eyes locked on the bold, glaring letters now dominating the screen—bright red, large enough that nobody in the room could pretend not to see them.

“WARNING: HIGH-VALUE QUEUE DETECTED. UPSCALED MISSION PROTOCOLS WILL BE ENGAGED. MISSION BRIEFING HAS BEEN ADJUSTED ACCORDINGLY.”

The reaction from the room was instant and loud, a chorus of groans, muttered curses, and outright protests.

One Marine in the back let out an exasperated bark of laughter followed by, “Of course it’s a damned HVQ—why wouldn’t it be today?” 

Another just slumped forward in his seat, hands dragging down his face like the weight of the galaxy had just landed on his shoulders. 

A woman near the aisle muttered, “Great, just great… goodbye easy payout,” while a younger Marine actually stood halfway up in his seat, voice sharp with panic: “Are you fucking kidding me? This was supposed to be a Grade Zero warm-up!” 

Someone else, a broad-shouldered Heavy with an almost feral grin, just chuckled darkly, cracking his knuckles and saying, “About time we had a real fight,” which earned him more than a dozen death-stares.

Even Chester, normally so composed and clearly confident in his ability to milk a mission for all it was worth, was staring at the warning like his carefully constructed plan had just gone up in a spectacular IgT-fueled self-immolation.

Thea, meanwhile, was simply… lost. 

She had no idea what “High-Value Queue” actually meant, and judging from the mix of dread and barely-contained excitement in the room, it was either something really good or really bad—probably both.

Thankfully, Sergeant Kalt didn’t let the suspense linger. 

“Seems we’ve got more MVM medal winners in here than any of us thought,” he began, voice calm but carrying a weight that silenced most of the chatter. “I knew about one one-star, but apparently, we’ve got at least three more hiding in the ranks—that’s enough to trip the HVQ protocols.”

One of the Squad Leaders behind him shrugged. “Could also be a two-star,” he offered.

Another shook his head immediately. “Nah. We’d damn well know if we had a two-star in here. Trust me, they’re not exactly easy to mistake for a one-star.”

“Correct. Far more likely for there to be three hidden one-stars who didn’t want to tip their hand,” Kalt agreed, his eyes scanning the assembled Marines.

Thea frowned, turning that over in her head. 

She was certain she’d agreed to the prompt before the DM started—hadn’t she? 

But as she glanced down at herself, realization hit hard enough to make her wince. 

Her Spectre’s Cloak, wrapped snugly across the front of her torso thanks to the awkward cross-strap setup for her triple-DMR loadout, was covering her entire chest. Which meant the medal embedded in her armor, right above her heart, was buried under layers of adaptive camouflage fabric. 

Nobody could have possibly seen it, even if they had known it was there and explicitly tried.

She facepalmed hard. 

The sharp movement caught Chester’s attention. 

He glanced over, and clearly misreading her embarrassment, leaned in just enough to say, “Relax. You’ll be fine as long as you stick with me. Even with the upscale, we’ll get through this in one piece.”

Thea didn’t even have to answer Chester before Kalt’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

“Everyone—sit down and shut up!”

The shift in tone was jarring. Gone was the calm, reassuring weight he’d carried before.

This was the bark of a drill sergeant, sharp enough to make even the most seasoned Marines in the room straighten up without thinking. The easy-going warmth had been stripped away, replaced by something hard-edged and commanding.

“This DM,” Kalt continued, his voice cutting through the murmurs, “just turned into a gauntlet. The usual sixty percent clear rate for Tauron 9? On the upscaled version, that drops to twenty-eight.”

A wave of horrified looks rippled across the platoon. 

A few Marines couldn’t stop the half-formed complaints slipping past their lips—but one glance from Kalt’s steel-grey eyes was enough to shut them up cold.

“Updated parameters,” he went on, not giving them a moment to stew. “Our original ten trench lines? Cut in half—we’ll be working with five. Enemy numbers are tripled. We’ve also lost eleven heavy machine gun emplacements, four bunkers, and one of our two pre-prepared trap-trench lines. We’ll have only one left to lure them into and blow up. Make it count.”

Thea felt the tension in the room spike. 

Even without a deep knowledge of this particular DM’s layout, she understood that was bad news layered on top of worse news.

“This won’t be easy by any metric,” Kalt admitted, “but remember: You’ve got several MVM Medal winners on your side. Consider that the equivalent of having up to four Battlefield Aces in this platoon. They’re not quite the same, of course, but close enough to make the point.”

That earned a few sidelong glances, but Thea noticed almost everyone’s eyes settle on a single Marine halfway down the row—a wiry man who suddenly looked like someone had swapped his armor out for a heat suit. 

He was sweating hard, eyes fixed on the floor. 

‘Is that the other MVM the Squad Leader mentioned earlier…?’ Thea couldn’t help but think.

Kalt gave no hint either way. 

Instead, he flicked a hand, and the full mission briefing was transferred directly to everyone’s personal datapads. “Read it when you’re bored,” he said dryly. “Though I doubt any of you will find the time for that.”

He scanned the room. “Questions?”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere near the back, a voice spoke up. 

“Sir—who are the other MVMs? We could plan around them better if we knew.”

“Denied,” Kalt said instantly, not even blinking. “There is no need for them to identify themselves. If they want to, they can. If not, you’ll work with what you’ve got and keep moving. If there are no more questions, we’re done here.”

With that, he gave the signal to move, striding toward the eastern-most door with heavy, deliberate steps. “Focus up, brothers and sisters. Take this seriously. I don’t care if it’s your first DM or your hundredth—you treat this like your life depends on it. An upscaled DM is nothing short of an invaluable opportunity. You’ll only get a handful of these in your entire career. So fight for every last point you can grab; you won’t see another like this anytime soon.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. 

With a firm push, the door slid open, revealing a dimly lit wall of pure white light that pulsed faintly, almost like it was alive. 

Kalt stepped through without hesitation, his bulk vanishing into the glow.

The rest of the platoon followed in silence, boots clunking against the deck, the air heavy with a mix of nerves and grim focus. It wasn’t the tense, ready-to-snap kind of silence—it was the quiet you’d hear before a funeral march, the kind where nobody wanted to be the first to break it.

Meanwhile, Thea had other thoughts occupying her mind.

‘This is shaping up to sound surprisingly fun,’ she mused, doing her best to smother the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Hard mode with extra rewards? I was just gonna use this run to mess around with a few things, but now? Now I can actually get some real gains out of it, too. Fuck yeah!’

One by one, the Marines stepped into the white light and vanished, their silhouettes swallowed whole in an instant. 

Thea waited her turn, boots shifting against the deck, until the line in front of her was gone and the glow filled her vision.

She stepped through expecting… something. 

A rush of warmth, the crackle of static, maybe even a strange pull in her gut.

Instead, nothing. 

No sound, no sensation—just the sudden, jarring shift to standing on the crest of a hill. 

Below her stretched the gray-brown churn of the upcoming battlefield, half-frozen mud and churned slush glistening under a pale sky. 

The northern slope had been carved into five jagged rows of trenches, their dark earthworks stark against the gray mud, all braced to meet whatever would come crawling out of the forest some three hundred meters beyond the final line.

‘Not quite Rog’An Prime… but close enough. I can work with this,’ she thought, already running through firing angles and potential sniper nests in her head—until Chester’s voice cut through her planning, snapping her back to reality. 

This wasn’t the Cube Trial. 

She wasn’t a lone gun this time. She actually had a squad to worry about.

“Stick with me, Thea,” he said, his voice tight with focus. “Let’s figure out where the CO wants Wellis’ Squad to set up.”

She figured there was no point in wasting mental effort when she could just follow Chester’s lead for now. So she trailed him down the slope as the rest of the platoon began swarming into their positions.

For the next ten minutes, they prepped the trench lines as best they could. 

Most of the work had already been done—the mission parameters had provided everything from packed earth walls and sandbag barriers to several HMG nests, three reinforced bunkers, and the trap-trench in the center of the defensive line. 

One button press, and the whole thing would explode like an angry volcano, turning into a killing pit for any poor bastards caught nearby.

Orders came down, and Wellis’ Squad was assigned to the eastern flank of the trench system—though there were still three more squads between them and the far edge.

“Would’ve preferred the outer-most flank again… but I guess this’ll do,” she muttered under her breath, setting up in the section marked with their squad’s tag.

Every twenty meters or so, the trench walls opened into reinforced firing alcoves—low, narrow kill-slots shielded with durasteel plates—and their squad had been given several to cover. 

Wellis split the group evenly. 

Chester, Thea, and two Medium-armored Marines—Marie and Falks—took the eastern position. The remaining three, plus one last-minute member snagged right before the Prep Room closed, were set up in the western pocket of their sector.

The plan was simple: Hold each alcove as long as possible, then collapse inward to the next closest one, both teams falling back toward each other until the squad was reunited. 

Only then would they pull back to the next trenchline.

‘Pretty smart for a rush-job plan,’ Thea admitted to herself. Then she smirked faintly. ‘Sucks for Chester though—he’s gonna have to sprint the whole damn length of our sector if someone on the far side gets hit.’

She would’ve much preferred having a Defensive Heavy parked beside her, but Wellis had already claimed the only one in their squad for his half of the trenchline.

‘Eh, I made it through the Cube Trial without one—at least for a while. This’ll work out… somehow.’

The thought didn’t bother her as much as it should have. 

That steady, sharpened focus she always slipped into before a fight—the thing players online had often called Battlefield Trance—was already starting to take over.

She knelt briefly, securing her backpack into a tucked corner of the firing alcove. 

It was positioned so she could reach it in seconds if she needed extra mags, medkits, or a quick grab-and-run, but far enough out of the way that it wouldn’t snag her legs mid-firefight.

Her hands moved automatically as she unholstered her three DMRs. 

First came her trusty Laser-variant Gram, then the two newcomers she’d just picked up at Abundant Ammunitions: One Ballistic, one Gauss.

“Time to see where the differences really are,” she muttered, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. She propped the Ballistic and Gauss-Gram against the trench wall for quick access, settling the Laser onto her shoulder to start off with.

To her left, Marie, Falks, and Chester were going through the same ritual—checking mags, chambering rounds, doing quick optics calibrations—all while keeping an eye on the ticking timer in the corner of their vision.

Thea’s fingers brushed against the strap securing her cloak around her chest—the same strap keeping the Laser-Gram from simply dropping from her hands. 

For a moment, she considered undoing it entirely just to see Chester’s face when the MVM medal glinted in plain sight. 

The idea almost made her smirk, but she pushed it aside.

‘Better keep the strap where it is for now. Who knows how long this alcove’ll last before we’re moving, and losing it will make carrying all three a pain. Maybe three DMRs really was a bit overkill… but hey, too late now.’

Then, the timer finally struck 0:00:00.

A sharp, almost metallic chime rang in her ears as a crisp notification cut across her vision:

[DIGITAL MISSION START: Tauron 9 – Hold The Line – Upscaled Version]
[Mission Objective: Hold the uppermost trenchline for six hours and forty-five minutes until relief forces arrive, denying enemy forces any advance toward the hilltop.]
[Respawns: 0]

The numbers shifted instantly, rolling over into a fresh countdown:

[Mission Complete: 6:44:59]

The glow of the objective text faded, leaving only the ticking clock in the corner of her vision. 

Thea felt her pulse pick up—not from nerves, but from the familiar edge of anticipation curling through her chest. The grin she’d been keeping in check finally broke free, stretching across her face as her fingers tightened around her rifle’s grip.

‘Showtime…’

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[ND] Chapter 145 - Animus

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Chapter 140 - Mixed Messages has just released on RR with no major changes.

For the Fixers, this chapter has seen no changes.

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Update 04/09/25:

Won't make it this week, as I've barely slept since Sunday and am running on about 20% energy.

Things are starting to return somewhat to normalcy here, so I'm confident in being able to *return to regular schedule starting next week (Monday 8th, Tuesday 9th ND/TAS respectively).*

Thank you for your continued patience with me this month.

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Update 01/09/25:

As announced previously; things are a bit in the air right now.

Tentatively next chapter release date will be Friday, September 5th.

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Sorry for the SUPER LONG delay on this chapter.

Hope it was worth the wait!

Title Translation: Animus - Spirit, Heart, Purpose

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/16F4V1LSpB1Zv1UCev922e2WmSxRnG9HGh0tErmgbEQE/edit?usp=sharing

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Chapter 145 - Animus

I couldn’t stop the groan that slipped out when the knee ground into my spine again, sharp and insistent like someone was driving a steel bar through my back. 

It must’ve been enough to draw their attention.

“Boss, she’s back,” the agent pinning me down reported.

“Ah, perfect. Now we can get both of the kids screaming in unison,” Nyxstalker said. 

Then he turned his attention to Valeria. “Unless, of course, you finally want to stop letting your kids take the beating for you, Viper?”

I glanced her way—and froze. 

For the first time since this nightmare started, Valeria didn’t look like stone. Her face flickered between anger and something that looked a lot like frustration, almost conflict.

Nyxstalker noticed too. “You’re a seriously fucked-up individual, you know that? Just lying there, watching your kids get tortured, your first-born carved up like a worthless Scav. Not saying a damn word to stop it? That’s a new low even for you. Fucking unreal. I feel sorry for the kids” 

He shook his head slowly, feigning disbelief.

“I will kill you,” Valeria said evenly, meeting his visor with ice-cold eyes. “And it won’t be quick. I promise you that.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Nyxstalker waved it off like a boring meeting report. He gestured at the man crushing me into the carpet. “Make sure she’s properly awake—we need to hear her scream. The NeuroCorpse should already be doing its job.”

Then he turned toward Gabriel’s side of the room, where things had gone strangely quiet. “Get him up too. No point cutting off arms if he’s gonna pass out on us. Hit him with a dose of Revive before we run out of time.”

Both groups barked out the same crisp reply: “Yes, sir.”

The man on my back shifted, adjusting his weight. 

Then his gauntleted hand clamped painfully onto my neck, twisting my head sideways. 

I caught a flash of a small vial before liquid splashed into my mouth.

I’d been playing half-conscious, so there wasn’t a choice—I had to swallow.

The second it hit, my heart felt like it exploded. 

My chest jolted, and my pulse thundered, slamming into overdrive like I’d just taken an adrenaline shot straight into my nervous system. 

My eyes snapped open on instinct, ruining the act. I tried to force them shut again, but the surge was too much for any willpower without my burnt-out Ego backing it.

‘Fuck…!’

Then the reality hit—my only option left was to sell the performance.

So I screamed.

“AHHHHHHHHHH!”

To them, I was still drowning in a mega-dose of NeuroCorpse, writhing under raw pain. 

And in a way, I had an advantage: I’d lived through a whole night of it once before, courtesy of Valeria’s “lessons.” 

I knew exactly how it burned, how it tore through nerves, how it broke people down.

But faking it? That was harder. Pretending the fire was there when it wasn’t—convincing them I was cracking, not calculating—took effort.

So I leaned on [Deception], let the Skill do the heavy lifting, and mimicked the agony I remembered down to the smallest twitch and ragged breath.

I forced the sound out of my lungs, raw and jagged, my throat straining against the weight still grinding into my back. 

“A-aghhhh—hhhhh!” 

My voice cracked halfway, coming out more like a strangled sob than a scream. I dragged in a ragged breath and let it shudder, pitching my voice into pleading gasps between each cry. 

“It—hurts—! Please—make it stop—!”

Each scream was shorter, weaker than it should’ve been, the knee pinning me down cutting the power from my lungs. The pressure on my spine forced every sound to come out strained and breathless, which probably made the act much more convincing. 

I coughed between my cries, rasping through the gaps in my screams. “P-please! No more!”

From the left, Gabriel’s voice suddenly tore through the apartment. 

His screams were higher, shriller—genuine panic cutting straight into me. 

“Stop! Please, Mum! Don’t—!” 

His sobs wove through the pleading, breaking into hiccups as the terror in his tone ripped me apart inside.

My chest clenched at hearing this. 

Gabriel didn’t deserve this. 

None of it. 

All he’d ever wanted was to be safe, and instead, he’d been dragged into this.

Nyxstalker chuckled, low and satisfied, as if our combined cries were music to him. He lifted a hand toward the man on my back. “Ease up a little—let her breathe. I want to hear a better performance.”

My stomach lurched. For a moment, panic stabbed through me—had he seen through it? 

Did he know?

But then he turned his visor back to Valeria, tone mocking, words dripping with cruel amusement. “Look at that, Viper. Your kids are putting on quite the show, huh? You must be so proud.”

Just a figure of speech. He hadn’t noticed.

I dragged another scream out of my chest, louder now with the extra air, letting my voice splinter and crack just the way it needed to. 

My throat burned from forcing it, but it sold the act.

Thinking at the same time was a nightmare. 

Without my Ego buffering it, all of my focus went into faking the NeuroCorpse agony. 

That was the one thing I missed most about the active function right then—how it could keep one part of me running a job while the rest of me thought clearly. 

With it burnt out from shielding me during [Serenity], I had nothing to help me think straight. 

No in-depth planning, no careful risk/reward charts.

Just scraps of ideas barely glued together in my head.

Gabriel’s screams mixed with mine, both of us echoing through the apartment in awful rhythm. 

Nyxstalker reveled in it, tossing constant taunts Valeria’s way. 

And to my utter disbelief, she was reacting. 

The cold mask I’d thought unshakable was fracturing—the set of her jaw tightening with every second, her eyes burning hotter, sharper, as if the ice was finally cracking.

I was right at my own breaking point hearing Gabriel’s continued pleas and sobs, about to ditch the act and make a desperate move, when it came.

BANG.

A gunshot ripped through the hall outside, echoing sharp against the walls. Every head snapped toward the open breaches.

“What…?” Nyxstalker muttered, visor shifting. He jabbed a finger toward the two additional agents he had previously stationed near Gabriel’s and my torturers. “You two. Go check what the fuck that was.”

They hadn’t even taken a step before the hall lit up again. 

A flurry of bangs, bursts of rapid, heavy gunfire—closing in.

“Fuck!” Nyxstalker snapped, whirling on the netrunner still half-collapsed by the kitchen counter. 

“I thought we had time left!” His roar filled the apartment.

“I—We do!” the netrunner stammered, fear dripping into every word. “The passive jam’s still active! I swear! It’s still up!”

He shoved his datapad out like a shield in the armoured man’s direction, screen flickering with data.

“Fucking EtherLabs…” Nyxstalker spat, visor snapping back to Valeria. “What did you do?!”

Valeria didn’t answer. Not a word. Not even a twitch. 

And for once, it wasn’t some calculated silence—it looked like she genuinely didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t done a thing, and that only made Nyxstalker’s temper boil over.

“Enough!” he roared, his voice shaking the walls. He jabbed a finger at the two agents still pinning me and Gabriel. “Kill them both. If I can’t get the info out of you, Viper, then I’ll settle for paying you back—piece by piece—for all the pain you’ve caused.”

My eyes went wide. 

Time had officially run out.

Mid-fake-scream, I cut myself off and sucked in as much air as I could, my hand tightening around the steak-knife I’d kept hidden in my grip ever since the chaos had started. 

The agent on top of me had shifted earlier due to Nyxstalker’s request to hear me scream, his knee no longer grinding into my spine—he was mostly holding me by the hand on my neck, pressing me down.

I turned my gaze toward the netrunner slumped against the kitchen counter, still suffering from the feedback of PremMed’s earlier interference. 

What I was about to do was dangerous. 

Stupid. 

And it was going to hurt.

‘But better than dead…’

So I did it anyway.

I flicked open my cerebral interface in an instant, opened the quick-hack section and cranked up the only quick-hack I had loaded. I ignored the warning signs warning of a Burnout, simply pushing the HEAT to maximum and immediately fired it.

[Venombite]

The quick-hack lanced out of me, riding my neural link like a bullet, and the Netrunner’s fried defenses didn’t stand a chance. 

My vision went white-hot as my neck seared in agony, like a miniature nuclear detonation had gone off under my skin. The agent holding me flinched instantly, jerking back as the burn chewed straight through his gloves, the smell of my cooked flesh hitting the air.

My head spun, eyes blurry from the pain, but I forced my body into motion. 

[Narrow Twist] took over, my bones bending like liquid, my frame contorting in ways that should’ve been impossible, sliding free from the rest of his hold like I’d turned into a human knot unravelling. 

The world snapped back into focus as I twisted and turned, momentum carrying me upright in one vicious snap until I was standing next to him.

[Sharpen]

The knife in my hand gleamed for a split second before I drove it into the narrow gap just beneath his helmet, straight through the soft flesh of his neck. The impact jarred up my arm, and hot blood sprayed across my hand as the blade punched deep.

[Murder] surged the instant silver-tinged steel met flesh, pulling my body along like it was second nature. 

I didn’t think—I tore. 

The wound ripped wider as I yanked, a torrential jet of blood erupting from inside his armor before the agent began to collapse backward, lifeless.

Then the shift hit me.

[Lethal Flow] roared to life.

Time stretched thin around me, every detail snapping into sharp clarity. 

The agents halfway to the kitchen froze mid-step, their rifles hanging half-raised. 

To my left, the bastard pinning Gabriel was angling his weapon for the kill, while Nyxstalker stood further back, one hand cutting through the air as he barked for them to turn around and put me down.

There wasn’t even a choice to make.

I exploded forward, sprinting for Gabriel’s side. 

The agent above him hadn’t registered me yet, not fully—not enough. I hit the ground just a step out of his reach as the frozen moment unraveled, time rushing back in.

I didn’t hesitate. 

Every ounce of strength and desperation I had left went into the charge, knife leveled at his throat.

The blade struck home, but not clean. 

The agent had managed to jerk and react at the last possible second, his gauntleted hand snapping up and catching the knife just shy of his throat. 

For a heartbeat, it was a stalemate—his strength overpowering mine, despite the speed at which I had approached, the edge of the blade trembling less than an inch from where it needed to be.

But I didn’t stop. 

I shifted my weight forward, slamming my knee into the back of the knife, driving steel through flesh and bone alike. The blade punched through his palm with a sickening crunch before burying itself into the soft meat of his throat. 

His breath hitched—then choked—strength bleeding out of him as fast as the arterial spray that followed.

I wrenched the knife free with my left hand, tearing it loose in a brutal rip that sent another hot wave of blood splattering across both of us.

And then—again—the world slowed to a crawl.

[Lethal Flow] pulled everything back into silence, into stillness, leaving me hovering in the gap between heartbeats, knife dripping red at my side.

I was sucking in air like I’d run a marathon, every breath burning raw in my throat. 

The pain in my neck had climbed to a level that should’ve dropped me cold minutes ago—if not for whatever cocktail the corpos had poured down my throat to keep me awake and screaming.

It left me shaking and my heart hammering like it was going to explode any second now, but still here, still conscious, and somehow still moving.

The two agents in the middle of the room had their rifles up now, barrels snapping toward me and Gabriel. Nyxstalker mirrored them, his own weapon coming up in smooth, practiced motion. 

Three guns, all trained on us.

There was no way out. Not this time.

Then my eyes locked with Valeria’s.

She was still pinned, her body straining under the agents holding her down, but her eyes—those eyes—weren’t their usual cold-steel anymore. 

Not even the previous frustration, anger or conflict was visible anymore. 

They carried something I hadn’t seen before. A look that wasn’t her usual mask of command, yet infinitely sharper than her mask had ever been.

For a second, I swore I could hear her. Not out loud, but clear as day.

“Free me.”

I didn’t question it. Didn’t hesitate.

[Blademaster’s Throw]

The knife left my hand in a blur, cutting through the air with the kind of speed and precision only the System could bless, aimed dead at the neck seam of one of the agents pinning her down.

At the same time, I used [Lethal Flow]’s free movement to grab the limp, falling body of the agent I’d just dropped and yanked him in front of me, dragging his dead weight into place between Gabriel, myself, and the muzzles aiming our way.

Then time snapped back.

And chaos came with it.

Gunfire instantly erupted, deafening in the cramped apartment. 

The two agents in the center of the room opened up on me and Gabriel, their rifles barking in brutal unison. I desperately ducked behind the body I’d hauled into place, rounds slamming into the corpse with wet, sickening thuds, the armor shredding apart as it soaked bullet after bullet meant for us.

From the kitchen, a sudden scream of alarm cut through the staccato rhythm of gunfire—then two bone-jarring crashes, followed by the harsh metallic snap of something breaking.

“Shoot her!” Nyxstalker’s roar thundered over everything. “Shoot Viper!”

The shift of attention pulled heat off me, buying me a second to peek out from behind the mangled corpse—and what I saw didn’t look real.

Valeria was standing, towering above the broken bodies of the agents who’d held her down. 

Her once-immaculate dress was little more than shredded cloth, hanging in tatters across her bloodied and cut up frame. 

And then—without hesitation—she drove her own sharp fingers into her right shoulder.

I froze, eyes wide, as she pulled downward in one clean, horrifying motion—tearing her arm’s skin from shoulder to fingertips like it was just a sleeve she no longer needed. 

She ripped the whole thing free in one fell, sickening swoop and tossed the bloodied husk into the middle of the room.

Her now-bare right hand rose slowly, calmly, to her mouth.

Nyxstalker’s reaction was instant—he bolted for cover, diving behind the shattered counter.

Valeria bit down on her hand, hard.

The torn flesh she’d thrown stopped mid-air, suspended unnaturally, before twisting and ballooning outward into something vast and radiant. 

The room filled with blinding, shimmering, green light as it reshaped itself—an immense viper, effulgent and terrible, born of her torn flesh.

The serpent struck before anyone could even process its existence. 

Its jaws clamped down on the two central agents mid-burst, their bullets still firing uselessly as the viper’s maw ripped through armor and bone alike. Their upper halves tore away from their legs in a spray of gore, bodies collapsing in mangled heaps.

But the serpent didn’t pause. 

It twisted, coiling in one impossible flick, and darted straight for Nyxstalker’s cover behind the counter.

Nyxstalker barely had time to react, but somehow he did. 

His right arm shot up, jamming itself into the onrushing serpent’s jaws just as they snapped shut. The room rang with a shrill, metallic screech as the fangs clamped down, shredding the armor plating like it was foil. Sparks spat into the air as the viper’s acid-dripping maw chewed deeper, its teeth grinding into the cybernetics beneath.

It bought him a second. Just enough.

He slammed his left arm against the counter beside him, the plates detonating outward in a violent hiss of shrapnel and steam. 

When the smoke cleared, his bare flesh was revealed—inked from shoulder to wrist in a reality-true tattoo that shifted and shimmered like it was alive. 

A Nyxstalker: Sleek, panther-like, its barbed tail curling around his forearm, every detail pulsing with dark luminescence.

“I didn’t think you’d actually be this stupid, Viper,” he mocked, voice low and strained, but sharp as a knife’s edge. “Your family really is your weak point, huh?”

The serpent’s acid-laced bite had already eaten away the last of his armor, exposing the cybernetics underneath—jet black, reinforced, but still grinding under the pressure. 

His now naked, left arm shot forward, driving into the viper’s body.

The connection rippled through him like fire. 

His arm twisted at wrong, impossible angles, bones crunching and snapping like dry branches, blood spraying out in sheets until half the limb was nothing but mangled meat and splintered, crushed bone.

Then—suddenly—the apartment vanished into pitch-black. A suffocating void swallowed everything, smothering the light for the briefest, terrifying instant.

And then came the crash.

The darkness tore away in a burst as something massive dropped into existence, shaking the entire apartment as though the floor itself had cracked. 

Standing there—towering at least three meters tall—was a Nyxstalker. 

A nightmarish, effulgent shadow-beast made flesh, its sleek, barbed form pinning the serpent’s radiant body under one monstrous paw.

Valeria screamed. It wasn’t just a cry—it was a shriek that ripped through the air like glass splintering, so raw and piercing that it made my skin crawl and my spine lock.

The serpent thrashed wildly, coiling and snapping, its jaws lunging for the beast’s neck. 

The gunfire from outside kept increasing in volume at a rapid pace.

But, then, the Nyxstalker only shifted its weight, muscles rippling, and with a violent whip of its massive paw it threw the serpent aside like nothing.

The glowing viper careened across the room, slamming into Valeria and driving both her and the creature into the eastern wall with earth-shaking force. The impact cracked the rockcrete and sent debris flying—then, in an instant, the viper dissolved into nothing but a rolling mist of iridescent green particles.

Valeria was gasping for air, each breath rattling like it hurt her lungs to even try. 

Blood pooled fast beneath her, running from deep cuts and ugly breaks along her body. 

Her whole right side hung limp, useless, as if it didn’t even belong to her anymore. 

She tried to push herself up anyway, sheer stubbornness forcing her forward—only to collapse face-first into the floor again with a sickening thud. 

She groaned, dragging herself an inch closer towards Gabriel and I, but her body just wouldn’t respond.

“Sacrificing your Spirit Companion for your kids…?” Nyxstalker’s voice carried across the ruined apartment, thick with mockery. He stepped out from behind the counter, calm as ever despite the carnage, boots crunching over debris as he strolled toward me and Gabriel. 

“Maybe you’re not quite as useless of a mother as I thought.” 

He paused, tilting his head as if the compliment amused him. 

Then his tone dropped into something colder, harsher. “That said… you’re out of cards. Tell me what I want to know. You fought well—I’ll give you that. But your kids?” 

He pointed one bloodied hand toward us, his shadow falling over myself and Gabriel’s still-sobbing form. 

“They die if you don’t speak the fuck up. No more tricks. No more games. No more bullshit, Viper.”

The room held its breath. 

For a heartbeat, no one moved—just Valeria dragging air into her ruined lungs, her body trembling as she forced herself upright on her one good arm. 

Finally, she croaked, voice raw but steady, “Okay... But swear—on the Dragon—that my children walk away from this…”

Nyxstalker didn’t hesitate. 

He sounded downright amused. “Of course. I didn’t want to hurt them in the first place. You’re the one who made this ugly by being so fucking stubborn.” He raised his hand like it was a holy oath. “I swear on the Dragon—soon as I have what I came for, I’m gone.”

Valeria lifted her chin, blood streaking from her lips, her breath rattling. She coughed wetly into her hand, then looked up at him with eyes that still burned, ready to speak—

BANG.

The gunshot shattered the moment.

The blast was so loud it felt like it cracked the walls. 

My head whipped toward the kitchen breach, and there he was—Mr. Stirling, breathing hard and covered in blood—but clearly not his own, bracing a massive rifle against his shoulder. 

The muzzle still smoked.

My eyes darted back to Valeria’s side of the room, hope flaring for half a heartbeat—then died.

The Nyxstalker beast had thrown itself between its master and the shot. 

The slug had slammed into its side, tearing into its monstrous flesh, and the creature howled, the sound so sharp it made my teeth ache. The man roared in answer, staggering as though the pain had struck him too, his visor snapping toward the breach.

“I will be right back,” he snarled, voice like a growl of thunder. His gaze cut down to Valeria. “Remember what you were about to tell me.”

The beast lunged, barreling through the breach and smashing into Stirling as he fired again, both of them vanishing into the hall.

The man was right behind them, sprinting out with unnatural speed.

What followed was chaos made sound—gunfire cracking in rapid bursts, heavy crashes shaking the floor, the grind of claws against rockcrete, and then explosions that made the whole apartment shudder around us.

I didn’t waste the brief moment of respite. 

My whole body still burned, but I pushed myself upright, looking around for anything I could do—anyone I could help.

That’s when I saw Gabriel.

He was lying on the floor just behind me in a massive pool of blood—face pale, lips trembling, eyes glassy. His two amputated arms lay nearby.

My chest seized at the sight. 

“Hold on, Gabe!” I begged, my voice cracking as I tried to keep him awake. “Stay with me! Don’t you dare check out on me now!”

[First Aid] hit me like a hammer, instincts screaming the obvious. 

‘Stop the bleeding.’

Both of his arms were gone above the elbows, hacked clean, blood pouring out in rivers he couldn’t afford to lose. He had already lost far, far too much blood, but any additional spout was bringing him a large step closer to the inevitable.

I didn’t think—I just ripped at my dress, tearing strips and cramming them against the stumps as hard as I could. 

The cloth darkened instantly, blood soaking through in a heartbeat. 

Futile. Utterly useless. 

A few scraps of fabric weren’t going to hold back the tide of a full-blown amputation.

My eyes snapped around the room, frantic. 

Maybe one of the agents had a medkit, a coagulant injector, something. 

But they were all too far—bodies across the room, gear scattered or ruined. 

The only one close was the corpse I’d been using as a shield, and he was more holes than man now, his gear shredded into scrap by the storm of bullets.

“Please, please, please…” I muttered, half to Gabriel, half to myself, as if begging would make my brain cough up some miracle solution. 

‘There has to be something. Anything… PLEASE!’

That’s when it hit me.

I yanked open my System Interface, hands shaking, and tore through the menus until I hit my Inventory. No time to think—just grab anything that even might help.

[== Uncommon Data-Shard #143 ==]
[1x Handheld Plasma Torch] (CLAIMED)
[1x Handcuffs (Plasteel)] (CLAIMED)
[{c}48 Credits] (CLAIMED)

The handcuffs clattered uselessly onto the carpet, and the System pinged me with a neat little notice about the credits hitting my account—like that meant a damn thing right now. 

I ignored both without hesitation.

My hand shot straight for the plasma torch, the tool blinking into existence in mid-air before the weight of it settled into my grip. 

My heart pounded like a war drum.

I lined it up with Gabriel’s right stump, the blood still gushing out in terrifying waves.

“I’m sorry, Gabe,” I whispered, voice breaking even as I forced the words out. “This is gonna hurt—a lot.”

Then I squeezed the trigger.

The torch hissed to life, its pale-blue flame snapping and spitting against the air as I brought it down toward Gabriel’s mangled stump. The moment it got close, though, I realized the problem—his flesh wasn’t conductive. 

The plasma arced uselessly, licking at the air without biting down where it needed to.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” I muttered, my brain racing, my eyes darting over the bloodied battlefield around me.

‘Blood!’ 

Blood was conductive.

I jammed my free hand against the wound, scooping up what I could, then smeared it along the edge of the stump, letting it pool and soak the entire limb in crimson. 

The torch finally bit, the plasma catching on the wet trail like it had been waiting for it, searing hot against the raw tissue. 

The smell hit me first—burnt iron and charred meat—and then the screaming.

Gabriel thrashed, his whole body convulsing under me. 

I tried to hold him still with one arm while guiding the torch with the other, but he was stronger than he should’ve been—his body refusing to shut down thanks to whatever cocktail they’d injected him with. 

His glassy eyes stared through me, wide and empty, his movements pure instinct as he bucked against the pain.

“Gabe, please! Stay still! You’ll die if you don’t!” My voice broke into sobs, tears running down my face so fast I couldn’t even see clearly. 

But it didn’t matter—he wasn’t hearing me anymore. 

He was just an animal fighting fire.

The torch sputtered as I fought to keep it steady, my own strength failing, when suddenly a cool draft swept past my face—midnight air, cold and sharp.

“I’ll hold him. Do it.”

Valeria’s voice.

My head snapped up in shock. 

She was right there, beside me, her body dragging a wide smear of blood across the carpet where she’d crawled towards us this entire time. 

She pressed herself down on Gabriel, pinning his torso with the last of her strength, blood dripping from her mouth but eyes hard with focus.

I didn’t waste another second.

With her weight holding him steady, I finished the job, moving the torch slowly around the circumference of the wound. Flesh sizzled and blackened, the hiss of plasma chewing through him loud enough to make me flinch every time it crackled. 

Gabriel’s screams filled the room, high and desperate, before finally breaking into ragged groans as his throat gave out, leaving only hoarse whimpers.

Halfway through, the System burst into my vision, windows slamming open one after another with sharp error chimes that nearly deafened me.

“Not now!” I snarled through gritted teeth, blinking them away and forcing myself back onto the wound.

Seconds dragged into eternity, but finally—finally—the plasma torch guttered, the wounds sealed into blackened, jagged messes on both sides.

I let out a broken sigh of relief, my whole body trembling. 

Gabriel sagged beneath Valeria, his screams gone, his voice reduced to faint, pitiful groans. 

His breathing was shallow, ragged, but it was there. He was still alive.

With our rugged breathing and whimpers the only noise coming from us, I suddenly realised that the chaos in the hallway had stopped.

My heart lurched into my throat at the realisation.

My head immediately snapped towards the breaches, fearfully looking out for the armoured man or the effulgent, black beast to come back and torment us further.

A moment passed.

Then another.

When nothing seemed to be coming through the breaches, I carefully opened up my System Notifications, the strange error chimes from earlier coming to mind—chimes that I hadn’t heard before.

My blood froze in my veins at the sight…

[System]: ERROR. TRACKED TASK NO LONGER AVAILABLE.
[System]: WARNING. TASK FAILED: Mr. Stirling’s Request

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 52 - Unleash

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 52 - Unleash for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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This IS the OTHER fun chapter.

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1h5XJ470W0aQhcIwbmZeeTi9iy08o1MtmgtEwHklivw0/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 52 - Unleash

Thea jerked back from the scope so fast she completely let go of her rifle, barely managing to twist out of the sling, stumbling and scrambling like the ground had turned to ice beneath her boots. She half-crawled, half-fell over Chester’s frozen body, her breath ragged as her back slammed against the trench wall.

Her eyes were continuously locked on the impossible sight before her: Her Gram, hanging weightless in mid-air, and from it, a shape was peeling out of reality itself.

It was her.

Or close enough to twist her gut into knots. 

Every line of the figure was hers—the same armor, the same cloak, the same small details down to the way her bangs fell slightly over one side of her face. 

But the eyes gave it away. 

They glowed neon violet, cutting through the frozen, monochrome world like a pair of molten blades, and the sheer wrongness of them made her stomach churn dangerously.

Her throat felt tight, words jammed there uselessly as Faux-Thea drifted forward, smooth and unhurried, circling Chester’s crouched form as if she had all the time in the universe.

“Now, why are you running away from me like this, darling?” the double teased, her voice a distorted mirror of Thea’s, except richer, smoother and far too calm compared to her own. 

“You’re the one who called me, not the other way around. Unless my memory’s faulty—though we both know it isn’t, don’t we?”

She halted beside Chester and, without a flicker of hesitation, lowered herself into a sitting position on top of him like he was nothing more than a piece of conveniently placed furniture. 

One leg crossed over the other, her posture flawless, she rested an elbow against her knee and her chin on her fist, gazing down at Thea with a patient, thoroughly unnerving smile.

Like a queen waiting for her subject to finally speak.

Thea’s mind reeled, thoughts tripping over each other in a frantic scramble. 

Seeing her Faux-Self here, in the middle of a Digital Mission, dredged up the memory of their last meeting in the Assessment—right before the enemy Psyker had ended her run. The shock of it left her chest tight, her lungs struggling to pull in enough air to steady herself.

“Wh—Who are you?” she stammered, words clumsy, buying herself precious seconds just to breathe and grasp at the edges of what was happening.

Faux-Thea let out a long, almost theatrical sigh, her expression shifting into weary annoyance. “I was really hoping for a more engaging opening, darling. Something with a little wit, maybe even some pizzazz. You do always manage to disappoint me in new and unique ways, don’t you… Listen, it isn’t exactly easy to meet with you like this, yet every time I manage it, you insist on being utterly unreasonable.”

She shook her head slowly, violet eyes sparking faintly like lightning caught in glass, before pinning Thea with a sharp look again.

“But fine. If humouring your pitiful little stalling tactics helps your poor brain catch up, I guess l shall indulge your requests momentarily.”

With inhuman grace, Æht rose from her seat on Chester’s frozen back, her movements flowing like liquid shadow. 

She dipped into a courtly curtsy, posture flawless, her eyes never leaving Thea’s. 

“You may call me Æht, darling. Much less of a mouthful than ‘Faux-Thea,’ or whatever tired description you were about to slap on me. Besides… you’ll need a proper name when you go running to Kara about me after the DM is over.”

Thea’s eyes flew wide, her pulse hammering all over again. “H…How do you know about Kara?!”

Æht rolled her eyes, dropping back into her throne-like perch atop Chester’s frame with exaggerated languor. “If we’re really going to go through every single thing step by step, we’ll be here until the stars burn out, darling. Try to keep up, would you?”

She raised a finger, pointing first at herself, then lazily flicking it toward Thea. “I am you. You are me. We are one. If you talk to Kara, I’m there. Listening. Talking. Breathing the same air in your headspace, so to speak. Simple enough?”

Settling back into her previous pose, chin on her fist, she gazed down at Thea still pressed tight against the trench wall like a trapped animal.

“Now, darling, since we’ve cleared that up, can we finally get to the actual point?”

Thea forced herself to take a slow breath, dragging her spine straighter until she no longer looked quite so much like a cornered rat. 

Her thoughts still ran wild, spinning circles around themselves.

‘She is me. I am her.... What does that even mean? The Runepriest said visions were part of Precognition, but this doesn’t feel like precognition at all. Unless I’ve completely misunderstood what the word even means… What the fuck is happening here?’

Her mouth was dry when she finally asked, “Then… what do you want from me, exactly?”

Æht’s lips curved into something between amusement and mockery, one brow lifting. “What do I want from you? Darling, you’re the one that dragged me here. Shouldn’t you know the answer better than I do?”

Thea blinked, words catching. “I… I called you? When? How?! I was just experimenting with my Psychic Powers—and then you just appeared! I wasn’t even thinking about you!”

“You mean my Powers,” Æht replied, her voice velvet-smooth yet edged like a knife. She fixed Thea with a pointed look, every word dripping with quiet condescension. “You were experimenting with my Psychic Powers, darling. And with the sheer amount of energy you hurled into it—enough to rattle me from the deepest corners of ourself—I assumed you had a reason. A real purpose.” 

Her lips curled faintly, the smirk not quite reaching her piercing eyes. “But it seems I may have overestimated you. Again.”

She tilted her head with an almost birdlike sharpness, studying Thea as though peeling her apart layer by layer. After a beat, she sighed, long and theatrical. “You still don’t have the faintest idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Thea’s pulse raced. ‘She doesn’t seem hostile… not yet. If she wanted me dead, she could’ve already done it. Better to play along—get something useful out of her. Maybe something the Runepriest can make sense of later…!’

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she gave a small, hesitant shake of her head.

Æht rose from her makeshift throne with the same liquid grace she had shown before, every movement too smooth, too perfect. 

She drifted toward Thea, the air around her carrying the faintest ripple of air.

Thea’s body immediately screamed at her to bolt—down the trench tunnel, anywhere away from this thing wearing her face. 

Her thoughts snarled in panic: ‘Run, you idiot! Fucking run!’

Yet her legs betrayed her, frozen in place as if chained by invisible hands. 

She couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe properly.

Æht reached her, taking Thea’s hands in her own. Her touch was deceptively gentle as she pulled Thea up to her feet, then slid an arm around her waist, guiding her with unshakable certainty back toward the pillbox’s center. 

Thea stumbled, fighting the grip, but every resistance was effortlessly redirected.

And then Æht pulled her even closer. 

Their bodies locked together in a strange, involuntary rhythm. 

Thea twisted, trying to break free, but Æht flowed with the motion, effortlessly turning her flailing steps and attempts to escape into part of an intimate dance—leading, until every attempt at struggle only drew them tighter together.

“Now, now, darling,” Æht whispered, her lips brushing dangerously near Thea’s ear. Her voice was rich, smooth—downright intoxicating. “There’s no need to fear me. I told you, didn’t I? We are one. I would never wish harm upon you.” 

Her grip tightened just slightly, forcing Thea to start matching her rhythm. “In truth, I am your only true ally—whether you understand this or not. But logically, you won’t be able to deny me. After all, if we are one, then your growth is my growth. Your victories are mine. Your power…”

Her violet eyes flared as she leaned in even closer, her hot breath tickling the inside of Thea’s ear, her tone softening to a dark purr. “…is my power.”

Thea jerked instinctively at the uncomfortable intimacy, trying to rip herself free from the whisper that lingered like heat against her ear—and to her own shock, she actually managed to slip away. 

For a split second she staggered back in a half-twirl, breath sharp in her chest, until she realized Æht had let her go; released her waist.

The brief taste of freedom didn’t last. 

Æht still had her hand caught in an iron grip, deceptively delicate fingers holding her like a shackle. With a casual pull she drew Thea forward again, catching her off balance and folding her back into the tightness of the embrace. 

Thea’s resistance only spun her half a step before Æht redirected it seamlessly once again, guiding the struggle into another flowing movement of their unnatural waltz. It was like every flinch, every attempt to break away, had already been written into the steps of the dance.

“Use your brain, darling,” Æht murmured, her tone almost playful as she leaned closer, neon-violet eyes burning with calm amusement. 

She pressed her forehead against Thea’s temple, gaze boring into her eyes. “Stop panicking. Think about what I’ve just told you… and dance with me for a change.”

Her voice was honey-smooth, but beneath it was an edge of command that made Thea’s skin crawl, the kind of tone that didn’t allow disobedience. 

Her body kept moving even as her mind screamed to stop. Æht led her with practiced ease, humming a low, haunting tune that threaded through the frozen air. 

Every step seemed rehearsed, every twirl intentional—sometimes spinning Thea outward in a sweeping arc around Chester’s frozen crouched form before pulling her back in like they had all the time in the universe, as if this dance was nothing more than a leisurely pastime for her.

Thea tried to force her breathing steady, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts before she finally managed to slow it. 

‘Calm down. Think. There’s got to be a way out of this weird fucking vision…’

Her eyes darted around the pillbox, searching for cracks in the scene, something that would give her a foothold. But everything was seamless, unnervingly real—the cold grit of stone under her boots, the faint echo of Æht’s hum vibrating in her ribs and skull, the phantom warmth of that too-familiar body pressed against her own.

Admitting defeat made bile rise in her throat, but the longer she struggled against Æht’s grasp, the more pointless it became. 

This vision wasn’t breaking anytime soon. 

‘Fine. If I can’t break it, then I should at least try to understand it…’

Her thoughts circled back to what Æht had said earlier—that these were her Powers, not Thea’s. That she had been the one called up from the depths of them, dragged into the light by Thea’s experiment with [Glimpse]. 

Thea clenched her jaw. 

‘But that doesn’t make any fucking sense. I’m a Veritas Precog. That’s what the Runepriest said. That’s what everyone’s always said since this whole weirdness started popping up...’

[Glimpse] was part of her precognition Powers; the Runepriest had been very specific about this. 

So why had Æht claimed it as her own? 

Was it just raw arrogance, or was there something else…? 

‘If I’m on that Path, then the Powers that come with it are naturally mine. Unless… I misunderstood the Runepriest about how this works…?’

She thought back to the Psychic lesson she had shared with the enigmatic man, but even at second and third recollection, she couldn’t find anything wrong with her thinking on the matter.

[Glimpse] was one of the first-tier Powers in the Short-Term Precognition Path. The Runepriest had been very clear about that when she had asked about what kind of Psychic Powers she might be able to use.

As a Wielder she only had one Power from the Path she was on; so there was no chance that it could be anything but [Glimpse], as she hadn’t Delved yet. There was no other way she could have gotten access to [Glimpse] but from the natural Wielder status.

Her steps faltered for a split second before Æht’s grip around her waist tightened again, forcing her back into rhythm, that lilting hum never once breaking pace, her eyes never once leaving Thea’s own.

Thea’s thoughts continued to churn as Æht guided her through another sweeping turn, boots scraping against the pillbox floor. 

“I am you. You are me. We are one.” 

The words gnawed at her, looping over and over until they felt less like riddles and more like a solid weight pressing down on her chest. 

She kept trying to pick them apart, but they only seemed to tangle tighter. 

If Æht was her, then why did she feel so utterly alien? 

If they were one, then why was there such a disparity in their understanding?

Her mind ran in circles, chewing on every phrase until her attention snagged on the last thing Æht had said before—about growth, victories, and power. 

Thea replayed the words in her head: “After all, if we are one, then your growth is my growth. Your victories are mine. Your power is my power.”

The thought looped, pressed deeper, until she found herself murmuring it aloud without even realizing:

“Your power is my power.”

The words slipped out, barely audible, but Æht’s eyes widened ever so slightly mid-step like she’d been waiting for them. A predatory grin broke wide across her mirrored face, effulgent eyes flaring briefly as the grip on Thea’s hand softened. 

The frantic pace of the dance slowed, melting back into something almost serene—her movements smooth, deliberate, as if rewarding Thea for finally finding the “right” line.

“There we are,” Æht purred into Thea’s ear, her hum shifting into something softer, almost coaxing. “Now you’re beginning to understand, darling.”

Thea’s brows furrowed as her voice cut through the surreal quiet of the still world around them. “But… how could that even be true? I was using [Glimpse] before I even knew what it was—before the Assessment. The Runepriest told me my whole precognition was just [Glimpse], both the active and passive parts. I even had them before Integration, but you—you didn’t show up until the Assessment. So how—”

Abruptly, Æht froze mid-step. 

The abrupt halt nearly toppled Thea, her body stumbling forward without the hands guiding and rhythm to carry her anymore. Æht had released her waist and taken a deliberate step back, eyes narrowing, and for the first time Thea caught a flicker of something she hadn’t expected. 

Genuine emotion. 

The expression didn’t fit the thing that had been toying with her—it felt raw, and entirely human.

Her neon-violet eyes flickered, narrowing as venom seeped into her tone.

“Do you truly believe that you’re some kind of universal prodigy, darling? That you just… happened to pick up Psychic Powers perfectly, from the very beginning? Without stumbling, without breaking yourself, without paying the price everyone else bleeds themselves for?!”

Thea froze, her mouth dry, but Æht pressed on, circling her now like a predator tearing into prey.

“Has it never crossed that oh-so-brilliant mind of yours that the reason you could use [Glimpse] so well—so easily—was because I was there, guiding you?” 

Æht’s voice rose, sharp with accusation. 

“That every ‘instinct,’ every perfect timing, every moment you somehow survived by a hair’s breadth—was me? That I’ve been by your side since the very beginning, long before you even knew what survival meant? Before you could even remember things for yourself?”

She took a step forward towards Thea, voice rising even further—almost shouting now—not in rage but in something else entirely. “I’ve toiled day and night for both of us! I’ve carried us through dangers you couldn’t even begin to comprehend as a child! I’ve saved us more times than you can count, more times than you will ever know! And now, after all of that, you look me in the eyes and call it your own brilliance?! You think I just appeared one day, like some kind of unbidden parasite?! I’ve been holding it all together when you didn’t even know there was something to hold!”

Thea’s mouth went dry, her thoughts stuttering into silence. 

She had braced for taunts, for manipulation, for games. 

But nothing even close to this. 

Not the raw edge of emotion spilling out of her mirror-self. 

She didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know if she could believe it—but the weight in Æht’s voice left her utterly stunned, her lungs tight with confusion and doubt.

Æht took a deep, shuddering breath, before continuing, the same venom still present but in a sharper, quieter voice now, “[Glimpse] is my Power, darling. It always has been. You are not a Short-Term Precog; I am. But we are one, so you get to use my Powers, just as I get to use yours. You haven’t even begun to start pulling your own weight, so do not dare to claim achievements that aren’t yours to claim.”

Thea stood there, stunned, her thoughts crashing into each other like waves against steel. 

‘Not mine…?’

The claim was insane, yet instead of shattering her footing, it slotted into place far too neatly—like some buried part of her had already somehow known all of this. 

Her certainty from moments ago cracked, and instead of denial, a strange, unnerving acceptance started to bleed through her.

“…Then what are my Powers?” The words slipped from her mouth before she even realized she’d spoken. “If I’m not a Short-Term Precog—if [Glimpse] isn’t mine—then what… am I?”

Æht’s eyes lingered on her for a long moment.

She drew in a steadying breath, her shoulders straightening as the raw emotion drained away, replaced once more with that predator-like stillness, the mask of control snapping back into place.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, and though the words carried no shame, Thea felt the weight of them. “Your guard dog keeps me at bay, so I haven’t been able to look. But you should already know, darling. You’ve felt it. There’s only one other phenomenon that follows you when you burn too much Psychic Energy. And it has nothing to do with my precognition.”

Thea’s chest tightened. Her mind jumped instantly to the only thing it could be.

 “…The Ice.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the word hit like a gunshot in the silence between them. “That… that strange cold that leaks out of me sometimes.”

“Exactly.” Æht’s lips curved, not into a smile, but into something knowing. She tilted her head just so, eyes gleaming like cut amethyst. “You think I don’t feel it too? That frost crawling beneath our skin, that chill radiating outward when you strain yourself? That isn’t mine, darling. That’s yours.”

Thea swallowed hard. “So… I’m some kind of Ice-based Psyker, then?”

A shrug, elegant and dismissive all at once. “I don’t know. But it would be the most logical answer. Since we are one, we Inherited Veritas. And Veritas does not tolerate lies, not even in what we are. It would never allow anything but Truth to manifest. If the cold is there, then the cold is yours. Some Path of Ice, some Power bound to it—that is what you are. Whatever form it ultimately ends up being.”

Thea’s thoughts reeled, trying to stitch together all the fragments of truth Æht had just hurled at her. 

But before she could even begin to digest it, Æht pressed forward, utterly relentless.

“I’ve answered plenty of your questions now. And you’ve given me nothing in return. Not even the courtesy of telling me why you called me here. But…” 

She tilted her head, her tone softening in a mockery of grace. “…since you apparently didn’t even know how our dynamic worked, I’ll let it slide. Just this once.”

Her gaze sharpened, pinning Thea in place. “But you will answer my next question, darling. And you’ll answer it truthfully.”

Thea’s throat felt dry, but she managed a small, hesitant nod. “...Okay.”

Æht’s voice shifted instantly, no longer smooth or mocking, but hard as iron. “What happened to you?”

Thea blinked, caught completely off guard. “What… do you mean?”

Æht leaned forward, her words cutting into her like a knife. “Where did your instincts go? All the teachings James drilled into you? All the lessons from years scraping through the Undercity together? Where did it all go, darling? Because the moment you walked into that UHF station, you started dulling. Piece by piece. You let it all slide until nothing was left but this… hollow shell.”

Disgust colored her tone now, disappointment dripping from every word.

Thea stammered, searching for words, “I… I don’t think I’ve changed that much. I don’t feel—”

“Don’t feel?!” Æht snapped, her voice cracking like a whip, making Thea flinch. “Then tell me why you thought spilling everything to the Runepriest was such a good idea, huh? After I begged you not to so much as glance at that man. Do you have any idea what kind of danger he is? Do you understand what I had to do—how far I had to crawl down into the dark—just to keep us hidden, so he wouldn’t drag you off to some lab table the moment he sniffed out what we are?”

Thea’s stomach twisted.

Æht leaned in, her eyes glowing violet like hot coals. “James’ Golden Rule. Number eleven. ‘Fuck the brass’ orders, but always trust your SL.’ Do you remember this? ‘Always trust your SL.’ Individuals. Not the brass. Not the system governing them. Not some unfathomably powerful Psyker you don’t even know. So tell me, darling—why did you ignore it? Why did you roll over and trust the brass that already failed you, time and time again?”

Thea opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Æht’s voice dropped lower, a hiss that carried venom. “What makes the Runepriest any different, huh? What stops him from simply killing us both the second he notices what we are? What we represent? What, darling, happened to the instincts that used to keep us alive? The ones that knew better than to trust anyone but our own? I understand wanting knowledge—but knowledge should never come at the cost of survival. You knew this—once. You lived this. So why?! Why forget, darling? Were two short years of safety all that was required to leash you that badly? Did they turn you into some kind of obedient little dog who doesn’t even realize when it’s being encircled to be shot and consumed for its meat?”

Her words landed heavy, leaving Thea’s chest tight, her mind scrambling for anything—anything—to defend herself. 

But deep down, a sliver of doubt gnawed at her: What if Æht was right with her accusations…?

There was a part of her that couldn’t deny what had been said—the instincts she once relied on, the sharp edge she used to carry with her through every breath of the Undercity. 

They had dulled. She had trusted where she shouldn’t have. 

But at the same time, another, louder part of her burned with overwhelming curiosity. 

Æht knew things—things Thea couldn’t make sense of yet, but desperately wanted to.

She forced down the lump in her throat and asked, voice tight, “What… what do we represent? What, exactly, are we, then? Do you know?”

Æht sneered, stepping back from Thea as though she’d caught a strong whiff of rot. “You cannot be trusted with the knowledge.”

The words landed like a slap, and Thea recoiled as if struck. The raw, unfiltered Truth laced into Æht’s tone felt like a knife driven straight through her chest.

“I’ll let you get back to your little experiments now, darling,” Æht continued, her voice quieter now, exhausted but edged. “Don’t get us killed. I won’t allow it.”

Thea’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. 

She wanted to argue, to shout, to demand more—but the weight of Æht’s refusal still pressed down on her, stealing the words before they could form.

Æht turned away, moving with that same eerie smoothness toward the Gram still frozen mid-air where all of this had begun. Just before reaching it, she paused, twisting back with those glowing neon-violet eyes one last time. 

Her voice dropped low, almost tender, but the command in it rang sharp as steel.

“Unleash yourself, Thea…”

And with that, she stepped backward into the waiting wall and rifle, her figure dissolving into the solid shape of the Gram and the dirt, metal and stone of the trench beyond, leaving Thea alone with her hammering heart and the echo of those words in her skull…

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[Fixer+ | Draft] Chapter 145 - Animus

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Chapter 145 for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

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Sorry for the SUPER LONG delay on this chapter.

Hope it was worth the wait!

Title Translation: Animus - Spirit, Heart, Purpose

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/16F4V1LSpB1Zv1UCev922e2WmSxRnG9HGh0tErmgbEQE/edit?usp=sharing

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Chapter 145 - Animus

I couldn’t stop the groan that slipped out when the knee ground into my spine again, sharp and insistent like someone was driving a steel bar through my back. 

It must’ve been enough to draw their attention.

“Boss, she’s back,” the agent pinning me down reported.

“Ah, perfect. Now we can get both of the kids screaming in unison,” Nyxstalker said. 

Then he turned his attention to Valeria. “Unless, of course, you finally want to stop letting your kids take the beating for you, Viper?”

I glanced her way—and froze. 

For the first time since this nightmare started, Valeria didn’t look like stone. Her face flickered between anger and something that looked a lot like frustration, almost conflict.

Nyxstalker noticed too. “You’re a seriously fucked-up individual, you know that? Just lying there, watching your kids get tortured, your first-born carved up like a worthless Scav. Not saying a damn word to stop it? That’s a new low even for you. Fucking unreal. I feel sorry for the kids” 

He shook his head slowly, feigning disbelief.

“I will kill you,” Valeria said evenly, meeting his visor with ice-cold eyes. “And it won’t be quick. I promise you that.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Nyxstalker waved it off like a boring meeting report. He gestured at the man crushing me into the carpet. “Make sure she’s properly awake—we need to hear her scream. The NeuroCorpse should already be doing its job.”

Then he turned toward Gabriel’s side of the room, where things had gone strangely quiet. “Get him up too. No point cutting off arms if he’s gonna pass out on us. Hit him with a dose of Revive before we run out of time.”

Both groups barked out the same crisp reply: “Yes, sir.”

The man on my back shifted, adjusting his weight. 

Then his gauntleted hand clamped painfully onto my neck, twisting my head sideways. 

I caught a flash of a small vial before liquid splashed into my mouth.

I’d been playing half-conscious, so there wasn’t a choice—I had to swallow.

The second it hit, my heart felt like it exploded. 

My chest jolted, and my pulse thundered, slamming into overdrive like I’d just taken an adrenaline shot straight into my nervous system. 

My eyes snapped open on instinct, ruining the act. I tried to force them shut again, but the surge was too much for any willpower without my burnt-out Ego backing it.

‘Fuck…!’

Then the reality hit—my only option left was to sell the performance.

So I screamed.

“AHHHHHHHHHH!”

To them, I was still drowning in a mega-dose of NeuroCorpse, writhing under raw pain. 

And in a way, I had an advantage: I’d lived through a whole night of it once before, courtesy of Valeria’s “lessons.” 

I knew exactly how it burned, how it tore through nerves, how it broke people down.

But faking it? That was harder. Pretending the fire was there when it wasn’t—convincing them I was cracking, not calculating—took effort.

So I leaned on [Deception], let the Skill do the heavy lifting, and mimicked the agony I remembered down to the smallest twitch and ragged breath.

I forced the sound out of my lungs, raw and jagged, my throat straining against the weight still grinding into my back. 

“A-aghhhh—hhhhh!” 

My voice cracked halfway, coming out more like a strangled sob than a scream. I dragged in a ragged breath and let it shudder, pitching my voice into pleading gasps between each cry. 

“It—hurts—! Please—make it stop—!”

Each scream was shorter, weaker than it should’ve been, the knee pinning me down cutting the power from my lungs. The pressure on my spine forced every sound to come out strained and breathless, which probably made the act much more convincing. 

I coughed between my cries, rasping through the gaps in my screams. “P-please! No more!”

From the left, Gabriel’s voice suddenly tore through the apartment. 

His screams were higher, shriller—genuine panic cutting straight into me. 

“Stop! Please, Mum! Don’t—!” 

His sobs wove through the pleading, breaking into hiccups as the terror in his tone ripped me apart inside.

My chest clenched at hearing this. 

Gabriel didn’t deserve this. 

None of it. 

All he’d ever wanted was to be safe, and instead, he’d been dragged into this.

Nyxstalker chuckled, low and satisfied, as if our combined cries were music to him. He lifted a hand toward the man on my back. “Ease up a little—let her breathe. I want to hear a better performance.”

My stomach lurched. For a moment, panic stabbed through me—had he seen through it? 

Did he know?

But then he turned his visor back to Valeria, tone mocking, words dripping with cruel amusement. “Look at that, Viper. Your kids are putting on quite the show, huh? You must be so proud.”

Just a figure of speech. He hadn’t noticed.

I dragged another scream out of my chest, louder now with the extra air, letting my voice splinter and crack just the way it needed to. 

My throat burned from forcing it, but it sold the act.

Thinking at the same time was a nightmare. 

Without my Ego buffering it, all of my focus went into faking the NeuroCorpse agony. 

That was the one thing I missed most about the active function right then—how it could keep one part of me running a job while the rest of me thought clearly. 

With it burnt out from shielding me during [Serenity], I had nothing to help me think straight. 

No in-depth planning, no careful risk/reward charts.

Just scraps of ideas barely glued together in my head.

Gabriel’s screams mixed with mine, both of us echoing through the apartment in awful rhythm. 

Nyxstalker reveled in it, tossing constant taunts Valeria’s way. 

And to my utter disbelief, she was reacting. 

The cold mask I’d thought unshakable was fracturing—the set of her jaw tightening with every second, her eyes burning hotter, sharper, as if the ice was finally cracking.

I was right at my own breaking point hearing Gabriel’s continued pleas and sobs, about to ditch the act and make a desperate move, when it came.

BANG.

A gunshot ripped through the hall outside, echoing sharp against the walls. Every head snapped toward the open breaches.

“What…?” Nyxstalker muttered, visor shifting. He jabbed a finger toward the two additional agents he had previously stationed near Gabriel’s and my torturers. “You two. Go check what the fuck that was.”

They hadn’t even taken a step before the hall lit up again. 

A flurry of bangs, bursts of rapid, heavy gunfire—closing in.

“Fuck!” Nyxstalker snapped, whirling on the netrunner still half-collapsed by the kitchen counter. 

“I thought we had time left!” His roar filled the apartment.

“I—We do!” the netrunner stammered, fear dripping into every word. “The passive jam’s still active! I swear! It’s still up!”

He shoved his datapad out like a shield in the armoured man’s direction, screen flickering with data.

“Fucking EtherLabs…” Nyxstalker spat, visor snapping back to Valeria. “What did you do?!”

Valeria didn’t answer. Not a word. Not even a twitch. 

And for once, it wasn’t some calculated silence—it looked like she genuinely didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t done a thing, and that only made Nyxstalker’s temper boil over.

“Enough!” he roared, his voice shaking the walls. He jabbed a finger at the two agents still pinning me and Gabriel. “Kill them both. If I can’t get the info out of you, Viper, then I’ll settle for paying you back—piece by piece—for all the pain you’ve caused.”

My eyes went wide. 

Time had officially run out.

Mid-fake-scream, I cut myself off and sucked in as much air as I could, my hand tightening around the steak-knife I’d kept hidden in my grip ever since the chaos had started. 

The agent on top of me had shifted earlier due to Nyxstalker’s request to hear me scream, his knee no longer grinding into my spine—he was mostly holding me by the hand on my neck, pressing me down.

I turned my gaze toward the netrunner slumped against the kitchen counter, still suffering from the feedback of PremMed’s earlier interference. 

What I was about to do was dangerous. 

Stupid. 

And it was going to hurt.

‘But better than dead…’

So I did it anyway.

I flicked open my cerebral interface in an instant, opened the quick-hack section and cranked up the only quick-hack I had loaded. I ignored the warning signs warning of a Burnout, simply pushing the HEAT to maximum and immediately fired it.

[Venombite]

The quick-hack lanced out of me, riding my neural link like a bullet, and the Netrunner’s fried defenses didn’t stand a chance. 

My vision went white-hot as my neck seared in agony, like a miniature nuclear detonation had gone off under my skin. The agent holding me flinched instantly, jerking back as the burn chewed straight through his gloves, the smell of my cooked flesh hitting the air.

My head spun, eyes blurry from the pain, but I forced my body into motion. 

[Narrow Twist] took over, my bones bending like liquid, my frame contorting in ways that should’ve been impossible, sliding free from the rest of his hold like I’d turned into a human knot unravelling. 

The world snapped back into focus as I twisted and turned, momentum carrying me upright in one vicious snap until I was standing next to him.

[Sharpen]

The knife in my hand gleamed for a split second before I drove it into the narrow gap just beneath his helmet, straight through the soft flesh of his neck. The impact jarred up my arm, and hot blood sprayed across my hand as the blade punched deep.

[Murder] surged the instant silver-tinged steel met flesh, pulling my body along like it was second nature. 

I didn’t think—I tore. 

The wound ripped wider as I yanked, a torrential jet of blood erupting from inside his armor before the agent began to collapse backward, lifeless.

Then the shift hit me.

[Lethal Flow] roared to life.

Time stretched thin around me, every detail snapping into sharp clarity. 

The agents halfway to the kitchen froze mid-step, their rifles hanging half-raised. 

To my left, the bastard pinning Gabriel was angling his weapon for the kill, while Nyxstalker stood further back, one hand cutting through the air as he barked for them to turn around and put me down.

There wasn’t even a choice to make.

I exploded forward, sprinting for Gabriel’s side. 

The agent above him hadn’t registered me yet, not fully—not enough. I hit the ground just a step out of his reach as the frozen moment unraveled, time rushing back in.

I didn’t hesitate. 

Every ounce of strength and desperation I had left went into the charge, knife leveled at his throat.

The blade struck home, but not clean. 

The agent had managed to jerk and react at the last possible second, his gauntleted hand snapping up and catching the knife just shy of his throat. 

For a heartbeat, it was a stalemate—his strength overpowering mine, despite the speed at which I had approached, the edge of the blade trembling less than an inch from where it needed to be.

But I didn’t stop. 

I shifted my weight forward, slamming my knee into the back of the knife, driving steel through flesh and bone alike. The blade punched through his palm with a sickening crunch before burying itself into the soft meat of his throat. 

His breath hitched—then choked—strength bleeding out of him as fast as the arterial spray that followed.

I wrenched the knife free with my left hand, tearing it loose in a brutal rip that sent another hot wave of blood splattering across both of us.

And then—again—the world slowed to a crawl.

[Lethal Flow] pulled everything back into silence, into stillness, leaving me hovering in the gap between heartbeats, knife dripping red at my side.

I was sucking in air like I’d run a marathon, every breath burning raw in my throat. 

The pain in my neck had climbed to a level that should’ve dropped me cold minutes ago—if not for whatever cocktail the corpos had poured down my throat to keep me awake and screaming.

It left me shaking and my heart hammering like it was going to explode any second now, but still here, still conscious, and somehow still moving.

The two agents in the middle of the room had their rifles up now, barrels snapping toward me and Gabriel. Nyxstalker mirrored them, his own weapon coming up in smooth, practiced motion. 

Three guns, all trained on us.

There was no way out. Not this time.

Then my eyes locked with Valeria’s.

She was still pinned, her body straining under the agents holding her down, but her eyes—those eyes—weren’t their usual cold-steel anymore. 

Not even the previous frustration, anger or conflict was visible anymore. 

They carried something I hadn’t seen before. A look that wasn’t her usual mask of command, yet infinitely sharper than her mask had ever been.

For a second, I swore I could hear her. Not out loud, but clear as day.

“Free me.”

I didn’t question it. Didn’t hesitate.

[Blademaster’s Throw]

The knife left my hand in a blur, cutting through the air with the kind of speed and precision only the System could bless, aimed dead at the neck seam of one of the agents pinning her down.

At the same time, I used [Lethal Flow]’s free movement to grab the limp, falling body of the agent I’d just dropped and yanked him in front of me, dragging his dead weight into place between Gabriel, myself, and the muzzles aiming our way.

Then time snapped back.

And chaos came with it.

Gunfire instantly erupted, deafening in the cramped apartment. 

The two agents in the center of the room opened up on me and Gabriel, their rifles barking in brutal unison. I desperately ducked behind the body I’d hauled into place, rounds slamming into the corpse with wet, sickening thuds, the armor shredding apart as it soaked bullet after bullet meant for us.

From the kitchen, a sudden scream of alarm cut through the staccato rhythm of gunfire—then two bone-jarring crashes, followed by the harsh metallic snap of something breaking.

“Shoot her!” Nyxstalker’s roar thundered over everything. “Shoot Viper!”

The shift of attention pulled heat off me, buying me a second to peek out from behind the mangled corpse—and what I saw didn’t look real.

Valeria was standing, towering above the broken bodies of the agents who’d held her down. 

Her once-immaculate dress was little more than shredded cloth, hanging in tatters across her bloodied and cut up frame. 

And then—without hesitation—she drove her own sharp fingers into her right shoulder.

I froze, eyes wide, as she pulled downward in one clean, horrifying motion—tearing her arm’s skin from shoulder to fingertips like it was just a sleeve she no longer needed. 

She ripped the whole thing free in one fell, sickening swoop and tossed the bloodied husk into the middle of the room.

Her now-bare right hand rose slowly, calmly, to her mouth.

Nyxstalker’s reaction was instant—he bolted for cover, diving behind the shattered counter.

Valeria bit down on her hand, hard.

The torn flesh she’d thrown stopped mid-air, suspended unnaturally, before twisting and ballooning outward into something vast and radiant. 

The room filled with blinding, shimmering, green light as it reshaped itself—an immense viper, effulgent and terrible, born of her torn flesh.

The serpent struck before anyone could even process its existence. 

Its jaws clamped down on the two central agents mid-burst, their bullets still firing uselessly as the viper’s maw ripped through armor and bone alike. Their upper halves tore away from their legs in a spray of gore, bodies collapsing in mangled heaps.

But the serpent didn’t pause. 

It twisted, coiling in one impossible flick, and darted straight for Nyxstalker’s cover behind the counter.

Nyxstalker barely had time to react, but somehow he did. 

His right arm shot up, jamming itself into the onrushing serpent’s jaws just as they snapped shut. The room rang with a shrill, metallic screech as the fangs clamped down, shredding the armor plating like it was foil. Sparks spat into the air as the viper’s acid-dripping maw chewed deeper, its teeth grinding into the cybernetics beneath.

It bought him a second. Just enough.

He slammed his left arm against the counter beside him, the plates detonating outward in a violent hiss of shrapnel and steam. 

When the smoke cleared, his bare flesh was revealed—inked from shoulder to wrist in a reality-true tattoo that shifted and shimmered like it was alive. 

A Nyxstalker: Sleek, panther-like, its barbed tail curling around his forearm, every detail pulsing with dark luminescence.

“I didn’t think you’d actually be this stupid, Viper,” he mocked, voice low and strained, but sharp as a knife’s edge. “Your family really is your weak point, huh?”

The serpent’s acid-laced bite had already eaten away the last of his armor, exposing the cybernetics underneath—jet black, reinforced, but still grinding under the pressure. 

His now naked, left arm shot forward, driving into the viper’s body.

The connection rippled through him like fire. 

His arm twisted at wrong, impossible angles, bones crunching and snapping like dry branches, blood spraying out in sheets until half the limb was nothing but mangled meat and splintered, crushed bone.

Then—suddenly—the apartment vanished into pitch-black. A suffocating void swallowed everything, smothering the light for the briefest, terrifying instant.

And then came the crash.

The darkness tore away in a burst as something massive dropped into existence, shaking the entire apartment as though the floor itself had cracked. 

Standing there—towering at least three meters tall—was a Nyxstalker. 

A nightmarish, effulgent shadow-beast made flesh, its sleek, barbed form pinning the serpent’s radiant body under one monstrous paw.

Valeria screamed. It wasn’t just a cry—it was a shriek that ripped through the air like glass splintering, so raw and piercing that it made my skin crawl and my spine lock.

The serpent thrashed wildly, coiling and snapping, its jaws lunging for the beast’s neck. 

The gunfire from outside kept increasing in volume at a rapid pace.

But, then, the Nyxstalker only shifted its weight, muscles rippling, and with a violent whip of its massive paw it threw the serpent aside like nothing.

The glowing viper careened across the room, slamming into Valeria and driving both her and the creature into the eastern wall with earth-shaking force. The impact cracked the rockcrete and sent debris flying—then, in an instant, the viper dissolved into nothing but a rolling mist of iridescent green particles.

Valeria was gasping for air, each breath rattling like it hurt her lungs to even try. 

Blood pooled fast beneath her, running from deep cuts and ugly breaks along her body. 

Her whole right side hung limp, useless, as if it didn’t even belong to her anymore. 

She tried to push herself up anyway, sheer stubbornness forcing her forward—only to collapse face-first into the floor again with a sickening thud. 

She groaned, dragging herself an inch closer towards Gabriel and I, but her body just wouldn’t respond.

“Sacrificing your Spirit Companion for your kids…?” Nyxstalker’s voice carried across the ruined apartment, thick with mockery. He stepped out from behind the counter, calm as ever despite the carnage, boots crunching over debris as he strolled toward me and Gabriel. 

“Maybe you’re not quite as useless of a mother as I thought.” 

He paused, tilting his head as if the compliment amused him. 

Then his tone dropped into something colder, harsher. “That said… you’re out of cards. Tell me what I want to know. You fought well—I’ll give you that. But your kids?” 

He pointed one bloodied hand toward us, his shadow falling over myself and Gabriel’s still-sobbing form. 

“They die if you don’t speak the fuck up. No more tricks. No more games. No more bullshit, Viper.”

The room held its breath. 

For a heartbeat, no one moved—just Valeria dragging air into her ruined lungs, her body trembling as she forced herself upright on her one good arm. 

Finally, she croaked, voice raw but steady, “Okay... But swear—on the Dragon—that my children walk away from this…”

Nyxstalker didn’t hesitate. 

He sounded downright amused. “Of course. I didn’t want to hurt them in the first place. You’re the one who made this ugly by being so fucking stubborn.” He raised his hand like it was a holy oath. “I swear on the Dragon—soon as I have what I came for, I’m gone.”

Valeria lifted her chin, blood streaking from her lips, her breath rattling. She coughed wetly into her hand, then looked up at him with eyes that still burned, ready to speak—

BANG.

The gunshot shattered the moment.

The blast was so loud it felt like it cracked the walls. 

My head whipped toward the kitchen breach, and there he was—Mr. Stirling, breathing hard and covered in blood—but clearly not his own, bracing a massive rifle against his shoulder. 

The muzzle still smoked.

My eyes darted back to Valeria’s side of the room, hope flaring for half a heartbeat—then died.

The Nyxstalker beast had thrown itself between its master and the shot. 

The slug had slammed into its side, tearing into its monstrous flesh, and the creature howled, the sound so sharp it made my teeth ache. The man roared in answer, staggering as though the pain had struck him too, his visor snapping toward the breach.

“I will be right back,” he snarled, voice like a growl of thunder. His gaze cut down to Valeria. “Remember what you were about to tell me.”

The beast lunged, barreling through the breach and smashing into Stirling as he fired again, both of them vanishing into the hall.

The man was right behind them, sprinting out with unnatural speed.

What followed was chaos made sound—gunfire cracking in rapid bursts, heavy crashes shaking the floor, the grind of claws against rockcrete, and then explosions that made the whole apartment shudder around us.

I didn’t waste the brief moment of respite. 

My whole body still burned, but I pushed myself upright, looking around for anything I could do—anyone I could help.

That’s when I saw Gabriel.

He was lying on the floor just behind me in a massive pool of blood—face pale, lips trembling, eyes glassy. His two amputated arms lay nearby.

My chest seized at the sight. 

“Hold on, Gabe!” I begged, my voice cracking as I tried to keep him awake. “Stay with me! Don’t you dare check out on me now!”

[First Aid] hit me like a hammer, instincts screaming the obvious. 

‘Stop the bleeding.’

Both of his arms were gone above the elbows, hacked clean, blood pouring out in rivers he couldn’t afford to lose. He had already lost far, far too much blood, but any additional spout was bringing him a large step closer to the inevitable.

I didn’t think—I just ripped at my dress, tearing strips and cramming them against the stumps as hard as I could. 

The cloth darkened instantly, blood soaking through in a heartbeat. 

Futile. Utterly useless. 

A few scraps of fabric weren’t going to hold back the tide of a full-blown amputation.

My eyes snapped around the room, frantic. 

Maybe one of the agents had a medkit, a coagulant injector, something. 

But they were all too far—bodies across the room, gear scattered or ruined. 

The only one close was the corpse I’d been using as a shield, and he was more holes than man now, his gear shredded into scrap by the storm of bullets.

“Please, please, please…” I muttered, half to Gabriel, half to myself, as if begging would make my brain cough up some miracle solution. 

‘There has to be something. Anything… PLEASE!’

That’s when it hit me.

I yanked open my System Interface, hands shaking, and tore through the menus until I hit my Inventory. No time to think—just grab anything that even might help.

[== Uncommon Data-Shard #143 ==]
[1x Handheld Plasma Torch] (CLAIMED)
[1x Handcuffs (Plasteel)] (CLAIMED)
[{c}48 Credits] (CLAIMED)

The handcuffs clattered uselessly onto the carpet, and the System pinged me with a neat little notice about the credits hitting my account—like that meant a damn thing right now. 

I ignored both without hesitation.

My hand shot straight for the plasma torch, the tool blinking into existence in mid-air before the weight of it settled into my grip. 

My heart pounded like a war drum.

I lined it up with Gabriel’s right stump, the blood still gushing out in terrifying waves.

“I’m sorry, Gabe,” I whispered, voice breaking even as I forced the words out. “This is gonna hurt—a lot.”

Then I squeezed the trigger.

The torch hissed to life, its pale-blue flame snapping and spitting against the air as I brought it down toward Gabriel’s mangled stump. The moment it got close, though, I realized the problem—his flesh wasn’t conductive. 

The plasma arced uselessly, licking at the air without biting down where it needed to.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” I muttered, my brain racing, my eyes darting over the bloodied battlefield around me.

‘Blood!’ 

Blood was conductive.

I jammed my free hand against the wound, scooping up what I could, then smeared it along the edge of the stump, letting it pool and soak the entire limb in crimson. 

The torch finally bit, the plasma catching on the wet trail like it had been waiting for it, searing hot against the raw tissue. 

The smell hit me first—burnt iron and charred meat—and then the screaming.

Gabriel thrashed, his whole body convulsing under me. 

I tried to hold him still with one arm while guiding the torch with the other, but he was stronger than he should’ve been—his body refusing to shut down thanks to whatever cocktail they’d injected him with. 

His glassy eyes stared through me, wide and empty, his movements pure instinct as he bucked against the pain.

“Gabe, please! Stay still! You’ll die if you don’t!” My voice broke into sobs, tears running down my face so fast I couldn’t even see clearly. 

But it didn’t matter—he wasn’t hearing me anymore. 

He was just an animal fighting fire.

The torch sputtered as I fought to keep it steady, my own strength failing, when suddenly a cool draft swept past my face—midnight air, cold and sharp.

“I’ll hold him. Do it.”

Valeria’s voice.

My head snapped up in shock. 

She was right there, beside me, her body dragging a wide smear of blood across the carpet where she’d crawled towards us this entire time. 

She pressed herself down on Gabriel, pinning his torso with the last of her strength, blood dripping from her mouth but eyes hard with focus.

I didn’t waste another second.

With her weight holding him steady, I finished the job, moving the torch slowly around the circumference of the wound. Flesh sizzled and blackened, the hiss of plasma chewing through him loud enough to make me flinch every time it crackled. 

Gabriel’s screams filled the room, high and desperate, before finally breaking into ragged groans as his throat gave out, leaving only hoarse whimpers.

Halfway through, the System burst into my vision, windows slamming open one after another with sharp error chimes that nearly deafened me.

“Not now!” I snarled through gritted teeth, blinking them away and forcing myself back onto the wound.

Seconds dragged into eternity, but finally—finally—the plasma torch guttered, the wounds sealed into blackened, jagged messes on both sides.

I let out a broken sigh of relief, my whole body trembling. 

Gabriel sagged beneath Valeria, his screams gone, his voice reduced to faint, pitiful groans. 

His breathing was shallow, ragged, but it was there. He was still alive.

With our rugged breathing and whimpers the only noise coming from us, I suddenly realised that the chaos in the hallway had stopped.

My heart lurched into my throat at the realisation.

My head immediately snapped towards the breaches, fearfully looking out for the armoured man or the effulgent, black beast to come back and torment us further.

A moment passed.

Then another.

When nothing seemed to be coming through the breaches, I carefully opened up my System Notifications, the strange error chimes from earlier coming to mind—chimes that I hadn’t heard before.

My blood froze in my veins at the sight…

[System]: ERROR. TRACKED TASK NO LONGER AVAILABLE.
[System]: WARNING. TASK FAILED: Mr. Stirling’s Request

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 51 - Aspectus

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 51 - Glimpse for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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This IS the fun chapter.

Title Translate: Aspectus - Sight, Appearance, >Glimpse<

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zU0JIliOFRl4xV-pTe7J_fLfS7Sli2oVtXFKw0i8-LQ/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 51 - Aspectus

Ten minutes later, they were already on the move again, forced out by the increasingly sharp and punishing counterfire raining down from the Stellar Republic lines. 

The enemy had closed the gap to roughly a hundred and fifty meters now—a brutal reminder that the UHF’s first trenchline was bleeding out of time, and fast.

“Wellis Two, clear,” Chester’s voice crackled through the comms, tight with strain as he hauled Falks into place two slots down from Thea’s position.

Falks wasn’t in great shape. 

He’d taken the worst of it back at the last trench, when a sudden explosion punched through a weak spot in their reinforced embrasure. The blast had ripped a chunk of stone and metal free, collapsing it straight onto Falks and Marie. 

Marie had been lucky—her position at the far western wall spared her anything worse than a nasty set of bruises. 

Falks, though, hadn’t been so fortunate. He’d ended up half-buried under debris, his left leg mangled by the weight before Chester, Marie and Thea had dug him out.

“Thanks,” he grunted now, leaning hard against the trench wall as he brought his rifle up. His jaw was tight, his voice low and sharp with pain. 

A second later she caught the mutter under his breath, bitter and quiet. “Just my fucking luck, huh…” And then, without another word, he opened fire into the endless tide of enemy soldiers, forcing himself back into the fight.

Thea pushed her attention inward, trying to shake the image of Falks’ crushed leg out of her head. 

Her [Resources] screen flickered up.

[Resources]
Focus: 243 / 225

‘Ninety-five percent… That seems to do the trick!’ The small victory lit a spark of relief inside her chest. 

For three minutes straight, her Focus hadn’t budged from 243.

She had been methodically widening her Gate in careful increments during the previous firing position, checking her counter over and over until she finally found the balance point. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough to equilibrium for her [Glimpse] to run without draining her dry—and that was more than she’d dared hope for without going all the way to one-hundred percent.

Thea’s eyes stayed fixed on the swarm below, her finger steady on the trigger, but her mind had already started working two steps ahead. She finally had her passive [Glimpse] under control—close enough to an equilibrium that she wasn’t leaking Focus dry anymore. 

That meant she could afford to think about the next step: Using it actively.

She had avoided it so far. 

Too much fire, too many enemies pressing closer every second, and too much of a risk to overdraw. 

The thought of pulling her attention away from shooting, even for a heartbeat, felt reckless. 

But that was the thing—this was what Digital Missions were for, wasn’t it?
Trial and error, pushing limits, finding out what worked when it counted. 

If she couldn’t risk experimenting here, where else was she going to learn?

Her jaw tightened as she fired another burst into the mass of bodies clawing up the slope.

‘Focus will take a hit, no doubt. But now that I know the baseline drain, I won’t end up overdrawing by accident. It’s safe enough… and if I can figure out how to make [Glimpse] snap faster, even just a fraction, then it’s worth it.’

She had just about convinced herself when the squad comms lit up with Wellis’ voice, strained and clipped. “Chester, we need you. Mike’s hit—bad.”

“Fuck,” Chester muttered under his breath.

He spun toward them. “Marie’s in charge until I’m back. Don’t die, and fuck them up as much as you can.”

Without another word, he vaulted deeper into the trench network, sprinting off to the other half of Wellis Squad.

Thea exhaled slowly, her grip tightening around the rifle stock until her knuckles brushed white against the metal. ‘Guess it’s not really looking much better on the western front either, huh?’ 

The storm of red tracers and the muffled crack of explosions in that direction only confirmed it further.

Locking onto a Duplicator moving between two chunks of broken foam cover, she raised the barrel and let her focus narrow to a pinprick. A three-round burst snapped out, timed exactly the way her [Glimpse] had confirmed would work from her previous intentions.

The first shot struck high on the right shoulder plate—off-angle, glancing, the round sparking away uselessly as the enemy staggered from the impact. 

The second slammed into the chestplate seam exposed by that twist, the force shoving the armour slightly loose but still failing to pierce through. 

The third shot screamed straight into the sliver of opening created by the last, tearing into the soldier’s chest and rupturing his heart.

The man dropped instantly. 

At the same moment, scattered copies of him across the slope froze mid-step and collapsed like puppets cut from their strings, leaving sudden gaps in the enemy’s firing line—only to be filled instantly by even more enemy soldiers.

Thea didn’t waste time lamenting that fact; it was the exact same spiel she had seen for half an hour now. 

Her aim was already sweeping onward, skimming across helmets and chestplates, hunting for the subtle twitch in reality that marked another Duplicator. 

‘Guess now is as good as ever…’

She turned her focus inward, past the noise and chaos, to the familiar knot of psychic pressure lodged deep in her chest—dense, waiting, like a coiled spring behind her heart.

[Glimpse]

The pressure behind her heart flared, spilling outward like a surge of ice-water through her veins. Thea’s breath caught as her vision dulled—the battlefield’s chaos bleeding into muted shades, tracer fire and explosions paling until the world looked washed in ash and light.

For a heartbeat, she felt herself slip free of her own skin, her limbs moving without conscious thought. 

Her rifle rose, steadied, then swept across the enemy ranks in a smooth arc, like some unseen hand was guiding her sightline. Dozens of soldiers blurred past her focus until, suddenly, one burned sharp in her vision. 

Her finger squeezed the trigger—though she wasn’t sure it was her finger at all.

A single shot cracked and the man’s body folded like paper. 

The vision splintered immediately, shattering like the glass of the Duplicator’s visor, and Thea gasped as full colour and weight came rushing back.

She found herself right where she had started—rifle aimed at the same sector of battlefield she’d been covering before activating the Power. 

Without hesitation, she yanked the barrel toward the figure her [Glimpse] had marked. One round lanced straight through the enemy’s visor, bursting glass and bone in a sharp spray.

The soldier crumpled instantly, and with him half a dozen scattered duplicates folded into the dirt around him, collapsing like mirrored shadows finally broken.

‘Confirmed Duplicator,’ she thought, a sharp grin tugging at her mouth.

Pulling up her [Resource] interface immediately, she could barely believe her eyes.

[Resources]
Focus: 241 / 225

‘W…What?!’ Thea’s mind jolted, her finger freezing over the trigger as she stopped firing or working towards the next target for the first time since the mission began. 

Her eyes were glued to her Resource counter.

‘That just cost two Focus! How… How is that even possible…?’

Her entire understanding of how [Glimpse] should work buckled under the weight of that discovery. She had been certain—absolutely certain—that the active portion of her Power would chew through her Focus like a starving beast. 

That was how things worked in every game she had ever played. 

Passives were cheap, subtle, sometimes boring. Actives were stronger, flashier, and always came with a price tag that felt like punishment for daring to press the shiny button. 

It was common sense. Even the Allbright System’s Abilities worked that way.

And yet here she was, staring at the counter that had only ticked down by two. 

Yes, the cost had technically gone up compared to the constant drain of her passive use, but it wasn’t the bottomless sinkhole she’d been bracing for. 

It was… more than manageable.

‘Maybe this can actually work, then…’ A grin tugged across her lips despite the chaos around her, the thought sparking like fire in her chest. The active [Glimpse] hadn’t been much faster than her passive sweep, but the difference was in the time it saved. 

She didn’t have to painstakingly search for the Duplicators in real time—the Power dumped the work onto some future version of herself and fed the answer back to the present.

Her grin faltered for a half second as the thought twisted in on itself. ‘Wait… how does that even make sense? How can I precognitively figure out who the Duplicators are by precognitively watching myself… figure it out in the future… With precognition? Isn’t that some kind of recursive precognitive loop or some shit…?’

Thea shook her head, forcing her rifle back onto target, but the question lingered at the edges of her mind. ‘I’ll have to ask Kara about this later—she’s smart enough to make sense of it. And if not, maybe the Runepriest will know what kind of broken logic this Power is running on.’

She exhaled sharply, focusing again on the advancing horde, the grin creeping back despite herself. ‘Doesn’t matter. If it works, it works.’

She ran the process again. Twice. 

Each time she forced the [Glimpse] into its active state, lined up her shot, and dropped another Duplicator. Each time, she paused just long enough to glance at her Resource interface, triple-checking she wasn’t screwing up the math. 

Both times, the same result: Exactly two Focus gone for every kill.

[Resources]
Focus: 237 / 225

It confirmed her numbers, but something else was off. A strange thrum rolled through her chest, her heartbeat hammering far quicker than it had any right to. Not the steady, elevated rhythm of combat adrenaline—faster, sharper, almost like her body was trying to outrun itself.

‘I don’t remember the Runepriest ever mentioning this kind of thing…’ Thea frowned inwardly, her rifle already sweeping to the next target on the back of her passive [Glimpse]. 

A controlled squeeze, another body hit the dirt. 

Her heart didn’t calm immediately, but after a few breaths it eased back into its usual pace, the unnatural spike fading.

The lack of information gnawed at her. 

During the Assessment she hadn’t really been able to do anything about the lack of knowledge due to the fact that she’d been stuck with Recruits like herself most of the time—no one in Alpha Squad had had the training or the answers she had been looking for. 

But here? Now? She was surrounded by people who had been through different lectures, different instructors, different briefings. 

Privates who had been in the real world fires of war.

They might know something she didn’t.

She made the decision quickly. 

“Hey,” she called over the chaos, voice steady even as her rifle spat another burst into the swarm, “do any of you know if there are… physical side effects to using Psychic Powers? My heart kicked into overdrive just now when I used mine. Anything ring a bell?”

For a moment the only reply was the relentless stutter of weapons fire from her left. 

Then Falks yanked himself back behind the wall, slamming into the reinforced plating with a grunt as he swapped mags. He barked out a short laugh, though it twisted quickly into a grimace when his gaze dropped to his ruined leg.

“You really are fresh at this, huh?” he said, shaking his head. “Yeah, side effects like that are normal. That’s why unlocking the Psychic Resource needs Vitality as much as the weird shit like Resolve and Perception. You’re pushing your body in ways it isn’t designed for. Heart racing, muscle spasms, migraines—standard stuff. At the far end? I’ve seen guys stroke out or their heads pop like a melon. Not common, but it happens sometimes. Basically, it stacks the harder and faster you go. Keep your usage moderate and you’ll be fine. Push too far too quick, and you’ll end up as a red mist.”

“I heard it scales with how much of your Psychic Resource you burn at once,” Marie shouted from the western wall, voice cutting through the constant rattle of gunfire and the concussive shock of grenades going off downrange. 

She was still firing, barely pausing to breathe. 

Thea wondered briefly why Marie wasn’t just using the proximity comms, but let it slide—information was information. 

“So, yeah, if you’re not dumping yourself dry in like two bursts, you should be okay! Still depends on your Vitality though—low numbers, you’re going to fuck yourself real quick if you overdo it!”

“Thanks a lot! That helps a ton!” Thea shouted back, grinning despite the chaos around her. 

A strange kind of euphoria surged through her chest. She wasn’t used to asking people for help—least of all strangers thrown together in the middle of a warzone. 

Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she had done anything like it. 

But the payoff made it worth it. The information was worth its weight in Two-Star Crysium Medals.

‘So the heart racing’s normal, huh? Probably one of the weakest backlash effects… Guess that means I can push it a bit further.’

Her mind flicked back to the Runepriest, to that lesson where he’d pressed her to test her limits before their next meeting. 

No hesitation, no playing it too safe—find out what she could really do.

‘Intent, Will, and Energy. That’s the stuff that shapes a Psychic Power, according to him. I’ve been coasting on baseline until now. So let’s keep it simple—augment with Energy only. No mixing in extra variables. That’ll just muddy the waters and screw with figuring things out...’

Her pulse quickened as she zeroed in on the pressure behind her heart again. 

This time, instead of just letting [Glimpse] flow out as usual, she deliberately leaned into it, pushing slightly harder, feeding more of that intangible, raw energy into the Power.

[Glimpse]

The world dimmed again, colors washing out into muted shades of grey as [Glimpse] gripped her. That faint sense of disembodiment returned—like she was watching herself move rather than actually moving. 

Her vision swept across the battlefield, locking onto one Duplicator and killing them, then another a heartbeat later. Each target took a second to register, that uncanny delay where her mind processed the knowledge of ‘who would fall if I killed this one’ before her body acted. 

Two kills lined up in front of her like they had already happened. 

Then the vision shattered.

She snapped instantly to the first Duplicator, her rifle barking once. 

The round punched clean through the enemy’s Light-armoured temple, dropping him where he stood. A ripple ran through the clones nearby as they collapsed in unison. 

Without hesitation she swung onto the second in one fluid motion. 

She squeezed the trigger—

Click.

Her rifle barked, but only after the slightest, maddening hitch in the weapon’s cycle time. The second Duplicator dropped, but Thea’s tongue clicked against her teeth in frustration. 

‘I might be able to line up multiple shots in a row—that’s huge, in itself—but the mechanics of the weapon can’t keep up like this…’

Her heart hammered harder than it had after the last two activations combined, a jittery rhythm thudding against her ribs. 

She snapped her [Resource] Interface open with a thought.

[Resources]
Focus: 231 / 225

“Hmm…” she muttered under her breath, letting her aim settle back into rhythm as she slipped into her passive [Glimpse] again, mowing down targets while her mind churned over the math.

‘So the enhanced [Glimpse] drains three times the Focus compared to baseline, but it lines up two Duplicators instantly, no delay at all. That’s… actually pretty damn strong. Like a cheaper version of [Sensory Overdrive] working in tandem with my passive [Glimpse], just without the insane drain. As long as I can work around the weapon cycle-time, it might be my best option yet...’

Her thoughts drifted immediately to the Laser-variant of the Gram—the one she was most familiar with. 

One of the main upsides of it that she had realised over the course of the Assessment, particularly in their mad dash to infiltrate Nova Tertius through the maintenance tunnels, had been the fact that none of the Laser-type weaponry she had used so far had any cycle time at all. 

They all seemed to fire as fast as you could pull the trigger, given that the capacitor didn’t run dry or your weapon overheated as a result of the rapid, high-energy fire.

“I guess it’s worth a shot,” she breathed, dumping the last rounds from her Gauss mag in a flurry of fire before popping it free and setting the weapon aside. Her hand reached for the Laser variant leaning against the trench wall where it had sat unused the entire mission.

“Welcome back,” she whispered almost affectionately as she haphazardly slung its sling over her shoulder, the familiar weight pressing comfortingly into her arms. For a month it had been her constant companion, and now, with its solid penetrative power and lack of recoil, it felt almost like relief itself. 

Her pulse eased just holding it.

She ran through a quick, practiced series of checks—safety, charge indicator, sling attachment points, sight calibration—making sure nothing had gotten knocked out of place during all the frantic movements, tosses, and pickups of the last half hour. 

Everything came back clean. 

Satisfied, she lowered herself back into her firing stance, the Laser rifle humming softly in her grip, the sound syncing with her breath and calming the thundering of her pulse. 

She fired twice, letting her passive [Glimpse] guide her aim, more to reacquaint herself with the rhythm than out of necessity—though she realized almost instantly that there was no need. The rifle felt like an extension of her body, as familiar as her own heartbeat.

“There a reason you keep swapping weapons like that?” Falks’ curious voice cut in from her left, the change in sound and the flash of her new shots clearly catching his attention.

“Yeah,” Thea answered, eyes narrowing back down her sight before she slipped into her thoughts again.

‘I could keep pouring more Energy into it, but I doubt that’ll do anything surprising… Intent or Will, maybe? But how the hell would I even go about that? The Intent is already perfect—or at least, I think it is. Unless I’m missing something…’

“Good talk,” she heard filter into her ears from the left, but ignored it for a lack of relevance to her current considerations.

She ran it through her head again, picking apart the phrasing of her Power, as far as she understood her current Intent phrasing, like it was a riddle she hadn’t solved yet. [Glimpse] already pulled exactly what she wanted—showing her the moments her other self had spotted Duplicators, narrowing her vision to only what mattered. 

How could she refine that further? “Only the stuff my other self can see” was as precise as it got without defeating the whole point of the Power. Anything beyond that felt redundant.

‘So that only leaves Will… but what does that even mean here? How do you “push” Will into something you’re already willing with everything you’ve got?’ Her brow furrowed beneath the helmet as the thought gnawed at her, even while her finger twitched on the trigger and the rifle cracked out another beam of light.

It took her almost a full minute of absent-minded shooting into the Stellar Republic lines, her rifle kicking and humming in steady rhythm, before something finally clicked in her head. 

A memory—something odd, almost silly, that she’d buried years ago.

Back in the Golden Age Arcades, those old games she now knew had been seeded by Terra as training tools for System Integration, there had always been quirks she never fully understood. 

Mechanics that seemed pointless at the time, like some dev’s strange obsession with flavor. 

One of the strangest? Certain abilities, spells, or skills—depending on the game—would hit harder, last longer, or scale better if you actually… called out the name when you used it.

‘There’s no way that’s actually real… right?’ she thought, biting back a grimace. 

She tried to push the idea away, to find a cleaner, more respectable route for her little experiment, but the more she thought about it, the less and less crazy it actually sounded.

‘I mean… saying the name out loud would force you to commit more, wouldn’t it? And what are Intent, Will, and Energy if not just layers of commitment?’

As much as she cringed at the thought of yelling out Ability names like some deranged Arcade kid, she couldn’t exactly deny it wasn’t already halfway true. 

Every time she used [Sensory Overdrive] or any other Ability or Power, the name itself flashed in her head first, like a command-word carved into her mind. She didn’t speak it aloud, but it was there—loud, dominant and utterly undeniable—for just an instant.

So maybe the games hadn’t been lying at all. 

Maybe the mechanic hadn’t been pure flavour all along.

‘If calling it out really amps up the Will part of the formula… there’s no reason not to try. Worst case, I look like an idiot for half a second...’

She bided her time, waiting until the next heavy barrage shook the trench line. 

Explosions rattled the earth, dirt rained from above, and the deafening roar masked almost everything else. Timing it with the chaos, she shifted her Intent slightly, telling her passive [Glimpse] to signal her when the UHF Offensive Heavy lines would hammer the field again.

As the next cluster of detonations rolled across the battlefield, she committed.

“[Glimpse].”

Her eyes shot wide at once, the hair on her arms prickling despite the insulated combat suit—she could immediately tell something was very different. 

Her own voice rang out clean and sharp in her ears, cutting through the cacophony like it had been threaded onto a different audio channel entirely, boosted to perfect clarity no matter how the battlefield thundered. 

It was her voice, and yet… not. 

Distorted, pulled at the edges, like something unseen was ripping through it, twisting the sound into something uncanny and raw.

Color drained from the battlefield in front of her, the constant thunder of explosions sinking into a dull, muffled hum. Her vision swept across the enemy lines in a sharp, predestined arc, movements not her own, yet they were.

Her body felt loose, almost detached, like a marionette tugged by invisible strings. 

One. 

The first Duplicator’s profile lit up in her perception. A single shot, straight through the chestplate—the Laser having enough power to punch right through the Medium-type armour at this range.

Two. 

Her aim dragged left. Another, crouched behind a heap of corpses. A single round to the visor—gone.

Three. 

Further out, half-hidden in the muzzle-flashes. She lined up, fired, dropped him cold.

Four. 

Another one buried deeper in the mob. Her other self didn’t hesitate, tracing the perfect shot angle between a pair of advancing freaks. Her aim locked slightly above his exposed jawline, wearing only a half-halmet—dead in a blink.

The vision shattered like glass, sound and color slamming back into her ears and eyes. 

She didn’t think, didn’t breathe, just moved. 

Her rifle snapped from target to target with machine precision, fingers hammering the trigger in perfect rhythm. Four streaks of incandescent plasma cut across the red-white-hued nightsky, each one followed by the collapse of not just a soldier but whole clusters of their identical duplicates tumbling in unison.

No cycle stutter this time.

Just four freaks dead in an instant—her chest heaved like she’d just run flat-out across the battlefield. 

Thea sucked in air, the rush of what she’d just done slamming into her all at once, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might punch through her ribs.

“Holy fuck,” she breathed, fighting to steady herself, sweat prickling against her brow under the helmet.

“What the fuck was that?!” Marie’s voice carried sharp from the far side of the embrasure, shock cutting through the chaos of gunfire.

“No fucking kidding, what in the Emperor’s golden toenails was that shit just now?” Falks’ voice followed from her left.

Thea tried to sound casual, though the grin on her face and the tremor in her breath betrayed her. “Just… trying things out with my Power. Sorry about that.”

Marie barked back almost immediately, “Did you at least fucking hit something?!”

“Yeah! Four of them!” Thea yelled over the din, a flash of pride in her voice she didn’t bother to hide this time.

“What the fuck?! Then keep doing that, for fuck’s sake!” Marie shot back.

Falks slammed a fresh mag into his weapon, then glanced at Thea. 

Their visors met across the chaos. He stopped mid-motion. 

The mag hung loose in his hand, his movements entirely frozen.

“Holy fuck. It’s you,” he muttered, half in awe, half in something closer to disbelief.

“It’s… me?” Thea asked, utterly thrown by his sudden tone shift.

“Your medal!” Falks jabbed his mag toward her chest like an accusing finger. “You’re a fucking Two-Star Crysium Recruit?!”

Her stomach dropped. Reflexively, she looked down at herself—and understood instantly.

When she’d slung the Laser Gram’s strap over her shoulder, she hadn’t paid any mind to keeping her Spectre’s cloak tight across her torso. 

In the shuffle, the fabric had twisted just enough to peel back at the center. 

And there it was, gleaming like a damn beacon in the chaotic battlefield light: The shimmering blue metal of her Two-Star Crysium Medal, embedded just above her heart, catching every flicker of fiery explosions, laser beams and tracer fire around them.

The shooting from the far end of the embrasure faltered, cut off mid-burst. 

Thea turned her head just in time to see Marie lean back from cover, craning around Falks for a better look. 

The Marine’s helmet tilted, visor catching the faint gleam of the medal on Thea’s chest. 

The second her eyes locked on it, Marie’s knees seemed to vanish from under her—she dropped flat onto her back in the trench dirt, arms splaying like she’d been shoved.

“Holy fuck,” she kept repeating, over and over, her voice rising in pitch with every echo as if the words alone weren’t enough to process what she was seeing.

Thea’s throat tightened. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover how she felt.

Sure, this had been the plan—well, sort of. 

From the very start, she’d wanted the recognition, the respect, the subtle nods of acknowledgment from veterans who knew what the medal meant. 

That was why she’d confirmed the display option at the start of the DM in the first place. 

Back in her head, she had pictured it working the same way as the arcade games: Let the medal gleam before the action started, draw a few stares, maybe field a question or two about her builds, and walk away looking like the badass she was supposed to be.

But none of that had happened.

Because, of course, she’d been too distracted by trying to figure out how the whole Digital Mission system worked in the first place. Too focused on watching and learning, adjusting her loadout, following Chester’s lead—completely missing the fact that her Spectre’s cloak had been wrapped tight the entire time, keeping the medal buried out of sight.

Then came the upscale. 

The mission had suddenly spiked in difficulty, tension flooding the room as people realized what it meant—and Thea, of all people, had been the trigger for it. 

The one responsible. 

She’d sat there in silence, listening to Marines groan, curse, and gripe, while knowing full well that if anyone realized it was her fault, the stares wouldn’t be admiration. 

They’d be daggers instead.

It was one thing to be admired as an Ace-in-the-making. It was another entirely to be singled out as the reason the majority of the platoon thought they were about to fucking die.

“Ehh… Hi,” she awkwardly offered, trying to smooth things over, her voice cracking just slightly in her own ears.

Falks let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head as he slapped a fresh mag into his rifle. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got? You’re sitting here with a fucking Two-Star Crysium on your chest and you didn’t think to mention it before?” 

He gestured loosely with the weapon, disbelief plain in his tone. “Hell, you could’ve saved me half a dozen near-deaths already if we had known about that. We could’ve had some of the Defensive Heavys in our squad, easy!”

Marie, on the other hand, had the opposite reaction entirely. 

She scrambled back onto her feet, practically bouncing in place as her words tumbled out faster than the rifle in her hands. “Holy shit, I can’t believe this! A Two-Star Crysium! And a Recruit?! In the same squad as me?! This is insane—like, I’m literally standing next to a Battlefield Ace in the making! Oh my god, I’m gonna tell everyone—”

“Marie,” Falks cut in sharply, though even he clearly couldn’t hide a grin beneath the strain. He raised his rifle over the parapet again, snapping off a few quick shots before ducking back down. “Back to work, both of you. We’ve still got a job to do. But for the record, Thea? Whatever you need—call it. I’ve got your back, one hundred percent.”

“Yeah! Same!” Marie nodded so hard Thea half-worried her helmet would fly right off. 

“Anything at all, just say the word. Two-Star Crysium… holy shit…”

Thea blinked, caught entirely off-guard. 

She’d braced herself for anger, maybe resentment—hell, even outright accusations that she’d ruined the mission for everyone by forcing the upscale. 

But there was none of that in their voices. 

No bitterness, no blame. 

Just support.

Something warm pressed into her chest, mingling awkwardly with the gnawing guilt she’d been hit with at the sudden revelation. “Alright… thanks. Really. But, uh—don’t expect miracles. I was mostly planning on using this run for some experiments. That’s… honestly the only reason I didn’t say anything after the upscale. Didn’t even know it existed before.”

“That’s classic UHF 101,” Falks chuckled, shaking his head as he lined up another shot. “Keep the rookies blind until they’re knee-deep in shit. Builds character, or some crap like that.”

Thea almost smiled at that as they all settled back into rhythm, laying down fire against the tide of clones pushing up the hill. 

Marie, however, couldn’t hold in her excitement.

“We’ve got a Two-Star Crysium Recruit in our fucking squad!” she screamed into the chaos, her voice shrill with joy, as though she were announcing it to the entire battlefield.

Thea cringed so hard she thought her neck might snap, burying her face briefly against her scope even though she knew only Falks and she could actually hear it over comms.

“You’re all so fucked now! A future Battlefield Ace motherf—”

Marie’s jubilant cry was abruptly cut off mid-word. 

A single, sharp crack split the air inside the embrasure, and her body went rigid—then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Thea’s stomach turned cold as she saw the neat, glowing hole drilled straight through Marie’s visor. 

One stray shot, and she was gone…

—

—

PoV: Private Chester O’Neil

“Alright, Mike, you should be good for about two hours. Let me know fifteen minutes before it wears off so I’ve got time for a re-up,” Chester said, patting the Defensive Heavy’s shoulder as he finished securing the last injector port.

“Thanks, Medic,” came the clipped reply. The massive Marine wasted no time sealing his Super-Heavy armour back up, plates hissing into place as he hauled his slab of a shield and heavy weapon into position before trudging back toward the front of the embrasure.

‘Man’s got more lives than a damn cat,’ Chester thought, stowing his tools back into their proper slots. ‘Anti-tank round, dead-on to the chestplate, and it still only clipped him. Half an inch left and I’d be scraping him into a bag.’

He slung his pack over one shoulder, making ready to head back toward his side of the trench, when Wellis’ gravelly voice called out from the eastern-most firing slit. “Good work, Chester. Keep it up. You got any idea what in the Emperor’s name that Laser gatling is? You see one of the other squads packing something like that?”

“Laser gatling…?” Chester echoed, stepping up beside him and squinting through the haze of smoke, fire and tracer rounds that cut the night into pieces. “I don’t see—”

“Wait for it,” Wellis cut him off.

And then it came.

Seven blazing streaks of plasma ripped across the dark sky in rapid succession, so fast they blurred together like a single incandescent whip. Downrange, whole pockets of the enemy line crumpled, ripping through Duplicators who collapsed in unison with their scattered copies.

Chester whistled low under his breath. “Only seven shots? Doesn’t really scream ‘gatling,’ but the fire rate fits. Never seen one like that before, though. Definitely not standard issue.”

“Well, whoever’s running it is cutting them down hard,” Wellis grunted. “Every time that thing flares up, it’s like watching a section of the freaks just fold in on itself. Whoever’s pulling the trigger’s got freakishly good luck hitting Duplicators, too. But that kind of lightshow draws attention fast—their side’s getting hammered in return fire. Can’t imagine it’ll hold long.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Chester chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll—”

“Wellis Two, moving,” a crisp female voice broke in over the command channel, making Chester stop mid-sentence.

He blinked. ‘That’s not Marie. Was that the Recruit…?’

“I’m heading back to the other side,” the voice continued, calm but clipped. “I’ll ping once I’m set. Then we should seriously start thinking about pulling to the second line.”

“Just what I was about to suggest,” Wellis replied without missing a beat, turning his attention back to the slit as he loosed another volley into the night. 

He gave Chester a short nod.

“Keep up the good work, Medic.”

Chester gave Wellis a quick nod of acknowledgment before breaking into a full sprint, boots pounding against the mud-slick trench floor as he pushed himself harder.

‘Shit… did Marie and Falks both buy it?’ the thought burned through his head, sour and sharp. ‘No reason the Recruit should be calling the shots unless she’s the last one left. And with Precognition? Yeah… wouldn’t surprise me if she’s the one still standing. That’s overpowered as fuck in a meat grinder like this.’

His mind kept spiraling while he vaulted over stacked crates and ducked under a sparking cable line hanging loose from the trench wall. 

As much as he’d written her off earlier as just another shiny new Recruit to squeeze Merit and Credits out of, there was no walking away from the reality of it now—an Awakened Psyker, especially fresh, was a walking hazard if left unsupervised.

One wrong push past their limit, one accidental overdraw, and it wasn’t just the Psyker who suffered. They told them in lectures that overdrawing was a death sentence, a one-way ticket to getting Zero’d, but new Psykers never really knew what they were doing. 

They simply didn’t know their limits until they crossed them, and then it was too damn late.

The thought alone lit a fire under Chester’s legs, forcing him faster, his lungs burning. 

He shoved past a knot of western-side Marines hustling into position, their curses trailing after him as he barreled toward Wellis Two’s third fallback point.

Then, just as he rounded the corner, it hit.

“[Glimpse]!”

The word tore through the air like barbed wire dragging across his eardrums, warped and unnatural—wrong in a way that made his stomach twist. 

It wasn’t just sound. 

It was like hearing on another frequency layered over reality itself, one that had no business bleeding into the physical world.

And then the trench lit up.

From the eastern end, where the Recruit was, a storm of laser fire erupted—eight shots in a heartbeat, stitched together so fast they almost merged into a single beam. The sudden flare was so bright it threw sharp-edged shadows across the trench walls, nearly blinding him.

“Holy fuck…” Chester breathed, frozen for half a second, eyes locked on the small figure of the Marine holding that rifle like it was an extension of her soul.

Then movement snapped him back—the crumpled form of Falks, slumped forward against the mud and sandbags, his armour scorched and his rifle lying slack in one arm.

Chester dropped into a skid, sliding to Falks’ side. “Falks!” he barked, trying to get the Marine’s attention.

The man’s helmet tilted just enough for a bloodied grin to peek through. His laugh was wet and thin, flecking his chinplate. 

“Heh… hey, doc,” Falks rasped, breath hitching. “Guess they got me.”

Chester dropped to his knees, already reaching for the med-kit strapped to his thigh, hands moving on instinct—stims, clotters, auto-sutures—anything to keep Falks alive long enough to drag him back.

But Falks’ gauntlet shot up, weak but firm enough to press against Chester’s chest and stop him. 

His voice was a strained rasp, but his tone left no room for argument. “Don’t. No point, doc… can’t feel my legs. Can’t feel anything. You won’t carry me through this, not with the trench breaking like it is.”

Chester froze, staring at him, fingers twitching with the urge to ignore him and work anyway. 

But the look in Falks’ eyes piercing through the visor up-close—the raw certainty—held him there.

“Help her,” Falks whispered, head tilting slightly toward the eastern embrasure where Thea’s rifle thundered. “Thea. She’s the only chance we got of winning this thing.”

“What…?” Chester muttered, caught between confusion and disbelief.

Falks’ grin widened, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth as a wet cough tore through him. The sound was guttural, half-choked by the gurgling coming from the ragged hole in his chestplate. 

He spat crimson, then gave a weak chuckle that ended in another cough.

“She’s her,” he managed, voice thin but certain. And then, still smiling like he’d just given away the galaxy’s best-kept secret, Falks’ head slumped to the side. 

His chest rose once, shuddered, then went still.

“Fuck…” Chester swore under his breath, a bitter edge to the word as he dropped Falk’s body and forced himself back up to his feet. 

He spun, gaze snapping toward Thea—ready to scream at her, ready to demand what the fuck that cryptic-ass message could have possibly meant—

And then he saw it.

The shimmer of deep blue light caught his eyes first, peeking from beneath the folds of her Spectre’s Cloak. Embedded in the armor just above her heart was the glinting metal of a Two-Star Crysium Medal.

It all clicked at once.

The three DMRs slung across her back, something no fresh Recruit should’ve had. 

The eerie calm she’d shown when the mission had been upscaled.

The way she’d slid into combat like she’d been born in the trenches. 

The timing on every shot, the precision of every move—calculated, exact.

Not luck. Not chance. Not even just raw talent.

This was someone groomed for the battlefield. 

A future Battlefield Ace, standing right in front of him.

Chester’s throat felt dry, but he forced the words out anyway, the weight of Falks’ last request ringing in his ears. She was their only way out of this mess. 

And he damn well knew it. 

“What do you need, Thea?”

Thea’s head tilted up at him, her visor catching the light of the battlefield outside for a brief moment.

“Focus,” she said simply, voice flat as it had been the entire time since the battle started.

Chester didn’t hesitate. 

He dropped into a crouch right behind her, pulling up his [Resources] interface. 

He hadn’t burned much on Mike earlier, but if he was going to give her what she needed, he had to be certain he wouldn’t overdraw himself.

[Resources]
Focus: 414 / 455

‘Good enough.’

He gave himself a quick nod, before putting his hand on Thea’s back, not even questioning what she needed the Focus for. She was a Psyker and a future Battlefield Ace; questions weren’t part of the equation—not anymore.

[Focus Link]

The ability snapped into place, a drain surging through his arm like someone had ripped a vein open. He felt his own energy being pulled from him and into her—an endless, invisible siphon that left him feeling utterly hollow and cold in its wake.

“I’m going to try something,” she muttered over the proximity comms, the words clipped, almost nervous. “It should be fine, based on everything I’ve tested so far… but I waited for you because I don’t know how much this will cost.”

“Go for it,” Chester answered, gritting his teeth against the pull. She was already damn near topped off, and he still had half his bar left. Plenty of room to work with.

And then it started.

From beneath the plates of her armor, a shimmering haze began to bleed out—thousands of nano-bots pouring into the trench around them. The swarm glittered faintly in the muzzle flashes and flares overhead, arranging themselves into a shifting web that wrapped the alcove like some half-seen cocoon.

They didn’t create illusions. They didn’t fly out through the firing slit to trick the enemy.

They just… circled her.

Chester’s breath hitched.

‘What in the fuck is she doing…?’

“Okay,” Thea whispered, almost like she was bracing herself. “I’m doing it.”

The next instant shattered him.

Her voice tore through the world.

“[GLIMPSE!]”

But it wasn’t just her scream. 

It was her scream multiplied a thousandfold, amplifying and shrieking from the throats of every last nanobot that ringed her like a choir of broken angels. 

The sound warped, distorted, layered until it was no longer a voice at all but simply noise—raw, psychic thunder that ripped reality itself open.

Chester screamed as his ears ruptured instantly, hot blood flooding his ear canals. 

His vision whited out like a flashbang had gone off inside his skull, pain stabbing through every nerve as the psychic resonance caved his senses in.

He was blind from the pain, deaf from the screech, half-conscious, and his body trembled uncontrollably, but everything left him with a single, seared-in thought—

‘Banshee…!’

—

—

Watching the swarm of hybrid nano-bots bleed out of her armor and arrange themselves in orbit around her, Thea couldn’t help but wonder just how loud this was about to get.

Each test before had been louder than the last, the volume directly tied to the strength of her results, but she’d never committed to going all the way. Not with her Focus draining in big chunks every recent attempt, not with the uncertainty of how much the tech would even play into the equation.

But now, with Chester behind her funneling more Focus into her than she could realistically burn through, there was no reason to hold back. 

No excuses left.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, the words barely audible over the din of the trench. “I’m doing it.”

She pulled in one long, steadying breath. 

Then she screamed.

It ripped out of her throat raw, a primal yell, her Power weaving into it and blasting outward.

The sound didn’t just leave her—it fractured, split, and poured through ten-thousand nano-bots hovering in a perfect web around her. 

Every one of them amplified it, twisting her voice into something alien and utterly wrong.

“[GLIMPSE]!”

The trench quaked with the force of it. 

The distorted chorus shredded through the battlefield like reality itself had been split open. 

For an instant, the world broke. All sound warped. 

Reality smeared like an oil painting.

And then it all just stopped.

Thea’s breath caught in her chest. This wasn’t the usual activation. 

There was no half-second of disembodiment, no slipping into the detached state she’d come to expect. She wasn’t watching her body move without her—she was her body. 

In control. Whole. Yet everything around her was frozen in place.

‘What the…’

Her eyes darted toward the firing slit. The battlefield lay out before her, locked in stillness. 

Bolts of laser fire hung in mid-air like streaks of glass suspended in oil. 

The mass of the Stellar Republic had gone silent. 

Even the smoke and fire hung unmoving, like a painting come to life and then trapped in time.

‘How is this pos—’

Her thought cut off as she instinctively glanced toward her rifle’s scope.

And there, reflected in the glass, was an eye staring back at her. 

It was hers. But not cyan…

A glowing violet, burning like neon fire, staring straight back at her with all the weight of inevitability. A voice curled up her spine, smooth and mocking, laced with an intimacy that made her skin crawl.

“You called, darling…?”

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 50 - Ideas

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 50 - Ideas for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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This is NOT the fun one, sorry!

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1eSe89dz2TxMbfx4F0YjRrPlGDnWu36bjbtvv1zMLNOo/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 50 - Ideas

After-Action Report – UHF 7th Expeditionary, Quaras Sector
Filed by: Captain Rynard L. Vex, Commanding Officer
Clearance: Tactical Review – General Staff Only

—

Summary of Engagement:

Engagement with Stellar Republic assault forces at Grid Delta-47, outer rim of Quaras-9.

The objective was to maintain control of three successive trenchlines over a projected 8-hour period until reinforcement waves cycled back in.

Engagement lasted 2 hours and 34 minutes before defensive collapse.

Position lost.

—

Breakdown of Failure:

The primary issue identified was the sheer scale and tempo of the Stellar Republic’s short-term attrition strategy. 

Our doctrine thrives on stretching fights out, bleeding the enemy over extended engagements until their lines collapse under the weight of consistent losses. 

The Stellar Republic, however, plays the exact opposite game: Overwhelming force concentrated at the point of contact, applied with reckless abandon.

We faced an estimated twelve-to-one (12:1) numerical advantage in both infantry and firepower at the point of breach. Even with the prepared reinforced trenches, HMG positions, bunkers and several overlapping fields of fire, the brunt of our Marines could not effectively return fire. 

To fire at an enemy with conventional weaponry, you must inevitably expose yourself. 

Embrasures and reinforced trenches with hard-cover embrasures provide much-needed defensive options, not immunity. 

Thousands of rounds hammered every possible firing angle, so any Marine who dared to shoot was often cut down before emptying even a single magazine. They didn’t even need to be the enemy’s direct target either—the sheer volume of fire all but guaranteed that stray ricochets or wild shots would inevitably find their mark.

The Republic’s tactic is brutally simple and similarly effective: Choke us in our own defenses. 

While we grind them down, they stack bodies until sheer pressure forces us to yield positions. 

In this case, we held the first trenchline admirably, exacting a high toll on their opening wave. 

But once the line fell, the tempo shifted entirely. 

With losses mounting on our side, the second line fell even quicker than the first. 

Ultimately, all the defensive lines fell in accelerating sequence, before the first concentrated wave of respawn reinforcements could make their way towards the field of engagement.

—

Recommendations for Future Engagements:

• Increase Pre-Sighted Kill Zones: More interlocked fields of fire and automated emplacements to reduce Marine exposure. HMGs and auto-turrets, if in any way fieldable, must carry the brunt in initial engagements.
  
  

• Staggered Reinforcement Timing: Current respawn cycling is misaligned with Stellar Republic push patterns. Reinforcement arrivals must be advanced or reconfigured to overlap with the enemy’s tactics more thoroughly.
  
  

• Decentralized Reserve Squads: Keep a mobile force behind the first trenchline with orders to reinforce weak points or counter-assault breaches, while also providing a more spread-out firing line for the enemy to have to continually suppress.
  
  

• Supply Adjustments: Ammunition consumption in the opening hour massively exceeded projections. Resupply nodes must be more numerous to counteract this issue in the future.

—

Additional Notes:

The Republic’s doctrine is unsustainable in the long term—they burn through bodies and materiel at a rapid pace. But in the short term, their attrition style is perfectly tuned to crush our defenses before reinforcements arrive. 

This makes them one of our most dangerous Battlefield opponents. 

It is a tug-of-war where the Republic always wins the first heave. 

We can match them only through disciplined line-holding and sacrifice.

Our job is to dig in and bleed them dry until the respawn waves tip the balance back in our favor. 

The first push is always the hardest. 

Once it is weathered—once the line has truly held—the Stellar Republic’s advance collapses under its own rapid expenditure.

What wins us these battles are the Marines who refuse to break, who hold the trench in the face of impossible odds, who return fire despite the high likelihood that they’ll be cut down in a short time. 

Their last stands buy the individual seconds—the combined minutes and hours—that we need for our brothers and sisters to come back into the fight. 

Without that grit, without that sacrifice, we will lose every Battlefield we meet the Stellar Republic on.

===

[Excerpt from After-Action Report – UHF 7th Expeditionary, Quaras Sector - PFC 811]

======

======

By the time Thea slammed her third mag into the Gram, the counter-fire had become so heavy it felt like the air itself was tearing apart. Even with her precognition working on overtime, she could only manage one, maybe two shots every ten seconds before being forced back into cover.

Marie and Falks hadn’t been so lucky—both had been clipped once more by ricochets that found their way into the outcrop. The wounds were shallow, nothing Chester couldn’t patch with some basic first aid, but the message was clear enough: This position was finished.

“We should move further toward the center; this spot’s burnt,” Chester said, tightening the last bandage around Falks’ arm before giving the Marine a reassuring pat.

“Agreed,” Thea replied, already slinging her backpack into place and strapping her other two DMRs across her shoulder.

Marie and Falks didn’t need convincing—they looked more than ready to leave, their nerves frayed raw after minutes of constant suppressive fire chewing at their cover.

‘I wonder if they’d have had a better time if I hadn’t been sitting right here with them,’ Thea thought, adjusting her weapon straps as they prepared to move. ‘There’s a good chance the enemy already figured out this section of trench is better than most at killing their Duplicators. Not guaranteed, but… yeah, wouldn’t surprise me.’

“Wellis Two, moving,” Chester’s voice came across the command-comms as they started moving.

‘Ah. So that’s what that meant,’ Thea realized.

She’d heard that same kind of call—“squad-designation, moving” or “squad-designation, clear”—ringing over the comms since the fight had begun, but only now did she understand what that actually meant.

‘Makes sense. Telling the rest of the platoon you’re repositioning so they know why the fire’s dipping for a bit. Last thing you’d want is half the squads shifting embrasures at once, leaving the enemy a gap to slam through and roll over the line.’

The run through the trench tunnels didn’t take long, maybe a minute at most, but even that brief reprieve seemed to do wonders. By the time they reached the next reinforced outcrop closer to the center, Marie and Falks already looked steadier, the strain in their posture easing as they shook out their weapons and reset.

“Time for payback,” Falks muttered as he tossed his backpack against the far-side wall and slid into position.

Thea similarly dumped her pack against the nearby trench wall with a thud and leaned her Ballistic and Laser Grams into the corner, in arms-reach. 

‘Time to give the Gauss variant a real test,’ she decided, pulling the weapon up to inspect it.

She checked her weapon with quick, practiced motions: Capacitor-bank online, scope zeroing smooth, angled foregrip snug behind the bipod. 

The setup felt right, and she knew better than to trust the luxury of a single firing position—the bipod would be nice if it held, but she’d definitely need the flexibility the foregrip would offer if things became even more hectic—which she had no doubts that they would.

Incoming fire was already raking the general area, but it was scattered and light, no more than the usual blanket suppression tossed at any fortified spot. 

Nothing like the laser-focused storm they’d endured before.

Nodding once to herself after confirming that everything was in working order with her weapon, Thea eased into the furthest firing slit towards the east, snug with the trench wall.

It didn’t take her long to pick out another Duplicator in the chaos, and she squeezed the trigger.

The ferromagnetic round screamed out of the barrel in less than a heartbeat, vanishing into the blood-red haze beyond the embrasure. Half an instant, it punched clean through the Duplicator’s visor, dropping the duplicate where it stood.

The aftermath was… underwhelming. 

Unlike the Ballistic variant, the Gauss round didn’t rip the helmet apart or blast through the back of it. The body crumpled, visor shattered, but the helmet’s rear stayed intact.

‘Hmm… recoil’s way smoother than the Ballistic, no question,’ Thea noted, working the rifle back into position with ease. ‘But raw stopping power? Yeah, this thing’s running light. Doubt it’d even scratch Heavy armour.’

To prove her point, she snapped the Gauss onto the first Heavy-type she spotted lumbering through the smoke. She didn’t even hesitate—lined up, intended to fire, and felt the answer through her precognitive senses: The round would smack into the joint beneath the chestplate with a muted crack, piercing the weak point just barely. 

The duplicate would stagger, but wouldn’t go down.

She clicked her tongue, irritation creeping in. ‘That’s a big drop in power. This might not be the play for me after all…’

She shifted back to scanning for more lightly armoured Duplicators, keeping her breathing steady. ‘Even a weak spot hit on a Heavy would just cripple, not disable or kill. That’s not exactly what you want out of a DMR, is it?’

Still, she couldn’t deny the Gauss had its own upsides: The lighter ammo meant she could carry more of it, and the reduced recoil made rapid follow-up shots easy—no risk of throwing rounds wide when chaining hits. 

For cutting down Duplicators that weren’t wearing Heavy or Super Heavy armour, it was efficient; downright comfortable even.

“Wellis Two, clear,” Chester’s voice crackled over the command channel, clipped and professional. A heartbeat later another voice came through—gruffer, belonging to one of the other squad leaders—“Alcaz, moving.”

Marie and Falks were already firing from their slits, rounds from their rifles stitching across the no-man’s-land. Chester joined in seconds later, his shots adding to the steady rhythm of fire echoing across the trench.

Thea, however, paid only enough attention to mentally tag their positions and actions, her mind still buried in her weapon testing. Shot after shot, she worked the trigger of her Gram’s Gauss variant, each round finding a Duplicator. 

As she fired, she catalogued everything that stood out—subtle details, quirks of performance, strengths, flaws.

‘The silence is its own weapon,’ she thought, focusing on the faint sound it did make. 

The low whine of magnets charging and disengaging lasted barely a fraction of a second, and then—nothing. The projectile’s release was utterly silent, disappearing without a trace. 

‘That’s practically impossible to catch mid-battle unless someone’s right beside me, straining their ears. Far quieter even than the Ballistic with a suppressor...’

Her mental notes were already starting to form a clear picture of the weapon hierarchy she had suspected all along. 

The patterns were too consistent to ignore.

Laser-types: The “loudest”, fastest, and most reliable. 

They could fire endlessly so long as the cell was given time to recharge, and while the actual auditory report of the weapon wasn’t bad, the bright plasma streaks lit up the air like a flare, making stealth nearly impossible. Overcharging was an option to give them even more teeth—enough to punch through heavier armor—but it came at a substantial increase in cost both rapid-fire capabilities and ammunition preservation.

Ballistic-types: The bruisers, versatile above all else. 

A wide range of ammunition, even System Material-infused rounds, made them adaptable to quite literally any fight. Suppressors put them somewhere in the middle for stealth, but they were limited by recoil and weight. Strongest penetration and sheer damage per round, but sluggish when high rates of fire were needed due to the recoil.

And then the Gauss-types, like the one in her hands now: The ghosts. Silent, traceless, feather-light ammo that let her carry far more into the field. 

They excelled at infiltration, vanishing kills, movement without weight dragging her down. But their drawbacks were obvious. Limited power, limited penetration. 

There was no trick, no mod, that could truly change that.

‘So, mostly what I figured back at Bullseye’s Rifles,’ she admitted inwardly. ‘But now I’ve got real data, and that’s worth more than my initial short tests back then and the theories that came with it. If I mix two of these right—Laser for all-round goodness, Gauss for stealth, Ballistic for versatility and power—there’s no way I can’t build something nasty, right…?’

Her hands moved on their own, sliding a fresh mag into her Gram. 

She had been burning through ammo faster than she liked—by the time she’d swapped into her second Ballistic mag earlier, she’d already abandoned the idea of lining up perfect one-shot kills. 

There were simply too many targets flooding the field to waste time chasing that kind of needless precision. If it came down to landing two or three quick hits to drop one enemy or risking them slipping through entirely, she’d take the kill every time.

The reload barely even registered in her mind; her body was already moving, twisting low and sharp to the side as instinct took over. An instant later, another Stellar Republic round screamed past, slicing through the air where her skull had been an instant ago.

“What the—Thea!” Chester’s voice cut sharp through the chaos, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“What’s up?” she asked, not looking away from the smoke-choked battlefield.

“What the fuck was that just now?! How the fuck are you not getting hit at all! You just somehow dodged another one! That’s not fucking normal. You running an Ability this whole time?” His voice had a hard edge under the gunfire. “Check your Resources. Make sure you’re not bleeding your Focus dry. You should’ve been taught about that already, yeah?”

“I was starting to wonder about that too, actually,” Falks chimed in from the left, his voice carrying a strained chuckle even as he ducked lower behind the cover of the slit. “I’ve been getting lit up over here, but she’s still walking away spotless. What’s the Ability called? ‘Cause I could use some of that right about now, not gonna lie.”

‘Gig’s up, huh?’ Thea thought, letting the idea hang in her head for half a second. 

She squeezed the trigger twice more, the Gram kicking lightly against her shoulder as another pair of rounds cut through the storm of red-lit chaos outside, dropping yet another Duplicator where it stood.

“I’m a Psyker,” she said offhandedly, like she was commenting on the weather. “It’s precognition. Power’s called [Glimpse] on the Short-Term Precognition Path.”

Another short burst followed, her eyes never leaving the blood-red carnage beyond the trench. “Don’t know if you can get it easy though, sorry.”

“Huh?!” Marie’s voice carried from the far-left, her fire pausing as the words registered and she ducked into cover to stare in her direction. “W–what? A Psyker?!”

Falks let out a short, bitter laugh, half disbelief, half resignation. “Of fucking course… The one thing that’d actually keep me from getting lit up by these freaks, and it’s something I can’t have. Figures…”

“Wait, wait, wait—this doesn’t make any fucking sense!” Chester’s voice cracked under the strain, every word edged with disbelief. “Isn’t… Isn’t this your first DM? I thought you were one of the new Recruits…?”

“Sure am,” Thea replied easily, ducking back into cover for the first time in what felt like ages. She looked at the rest of the mini-squad, just as a laser seared through the firing slit, turning the space where her head had been into a haze of molten air. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be a Psyker though. I’m an Awakened Wielder, to be specific. So… not a lot of juice to work with, but it’s enough for this here at least.”

‘Speaking of juice…’ she realized she hadn’t checked her Focus in a while.

[Resources]
Focus: 248 / 225

Clicking her tongue at the steady decline, she turned her attention inward and cracked her Gate open a little wider, letting more of that flow steady itself. 

‘Need to stay on top of that. Last thing I want is to run bone-dry mid-fight…’

“Why the fuck didn’t you say anything about this earlier…? Like during the damn squad rundown?!” Chester pressed, his voice strained to the edge of shouting but just holding back.

“Because there was no point,” Thea answered flatly, slamming a fresh mag into her Gram—the last one still had rounds, but if they were going to burn time talking, she might as well top off. “Like I said, I’m not a real Psyker. Any extra resources shoved my way wouldn’t make me better right now—I think. Haven’t done much experimenting yet, so it’s not like a full squad of supports around me would suddenly change anything.”

Her eyes flicked back to the red-tinged battlefield, tracking the chaos with an increasing amount of anxiety—despite her best efforts, things weren’t looking too great for the UHF defenders. “My precognition lets me pick out Duplicators cleanly. I can tell when a shot will chain into killing their copies too—so pretty much everyone I hit is a guaranteed Duplicator. Think I’m somewhere around forty, maybe fifty kills by now. But compared to an Offensive Heavy with a rotary grenade launcher or a portable machine gun chewing up the line? I don’t clear the field’s firepower the same way. So yeah, no real point in making a fuss. Resources are better spent elsewhere until I figure out how to use this stuff more… directly.”

Falks barked out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head hard enough that his helmet rattled. “Bull-fucking-shit. Forty or fifty Duplicators already…? You’re telling me that like half the freaks dropping in our sector are thanks to you?”

Marie peeked briefly over the edge of her cover and then ducked back down, staring at Thea like she’d just sprouted horns. “N—No way. That’s… That’s not possible—is it? I… I mean, you’re probably not lying, but… I’ve maybe dropped like five confirmed, and I’ve been firing nonstop. How—?”

Thea didn’t bother replying, just shouldered her rifle again and peaked out at one of the Duplicators she had seen earlier, half-hiding behind one of the white-foam barriers at an angle from her, firing off a few rounds. 

The Duplicator crumpled in the distance, his clones dropping alongside him.

Chester exhaled through his teeth, long and loud, like he was bleeding out whatever argument he’d been holding onto. “Guess you’ve got a point. Can’t argue with results—kinda hard when you’ve got the kill-count to back it up, I guess...” 

He adjusted his grip on his weapon, still frowning. “Still. Would’ve been good to know ahead of time. Not necessarily so we could throw you resources, but so I could keep an eye on your Focus levels without calling you out in the middle of the fight. Last thing we need is you bricking yourself mid-firefight ‘cause you ran dry. There’s no reason to make a Medic’s job harder than it already is, Recruit.”

Thea blinked.

‘Shit. That actually makes a ton of sense… I fucked up.’

Then gave a quick, sharp nod. 

“Fair. That one’s on me. Should’ve said something. My bad.” 

She ducked low as another round hissed overhead, then added, “That being said—we should probably shift closer to center. Fire’s still manageable here, but the freaks are closing fast. We’ll need to pull back to the second line soon, and if we’re too far out on the flank, we’ll be screwed getting back in with the rest of Wellis’ squad.”

Chester leaned just enough to glance down the trench, then back at her. 

“Yeah… was just about to say the same thing.” 

His gaze lingered a second longer than usual, something measuring in his eyes, like he was recalculating everything he thought he knew about her. 

Finally, he gave a curt nod. “Alright. Let’s move.”

They packed fast, scooping up ammo, supplies, and half-spent mags, then started down the trench toward their new marker. 

“Wellis Two, moving,” Chester’s voice came over the command comms.

Passing other squads on the way, Thea’s gut tightened.

Practically every squad they passed had at least one, usually two Marines down already—some slumped in the mud with a Medic at their side, others clearly dead; missing a head or a large chunk of their upper torso wasn’t difficult to diagnose even at their rapid pace of movement. 

The pit in her chest grew heavier with each step. 

The Stellar Republic’s first push was absolutely brutal.

Thea had pushed herself to kill as many as she possibly could, hardly letting her weapon rest since the mission began, yet the endless stream of enemies just kept coming. 

No matter how many she cut down, the flow never seemed to slow.

‘It takes me a few seconds to identify a Duplicator, that’s… just not good enough for this…!’

That was the biggest weakness of her current [Glimpse] use. 

In less intense situations, like the Nova Tertius infiltration, she could afford the second or two it took to mark a priority target. But here—hundreds of freaks surging toward her position in waves, spraying gunfire at her squadmates—every wasted heartbeat felt like a death sentence.

‘But how do I fix this…?’

Her passive [Glimpse] behaved the same as always. 

Even after forcing her Gate wider, nothing shifted—it stayed fixed at its current strength, unmoved by her effort. 

No matter the weapon she used—Laser, Ballistic, or Gauss—her kill rate only changed in small ways. Ballistic dragged the slowest, Laser sped things up slightly, Gauss sat in the middle. 

None of them solved the problem.

If she wanted to push [Glimpse] further, she’d need more raw Perception, somehow. 

Higher values definitely meant quicker identification, and it felt like the only lever she had left. 

Whether it all scaled directly, or it was just her own mind sharpening enough to spot Duplicators on instinct, she couldn’t tell yet.

‘I could burn [Sensory Overdrive]... but I’d bleed Focus faster than anything else. Maybe if things collapse, it’d be worth tagging a cluster in one sweep, but for long-term use? No way...’

Resources were the real choke point. 

Without access to her Psychic pool, both [Glimpse] and [Sensory Overdrive] leaned on Focus alone, and [Glimpse] bled her dry just by staying active. No matter how carefully she tuned her Gate, equilibrium was starting to seem downright impossible at her current level.

It was already at around 90% open by now, and she really didn’t want to have it go all the way; still somewhat weary of opening it fully.

Still, it was the Power she depended on most. 

[Glimpse] wasn’t an extra like the rest of her Abilities—it was the literal centerpiece of her entire combat style.

“Wellis Two, clear.” Chester’s voice broke through her comm, snapping her back to the present. They had reached their new firing position.

Thea swung her backpack down and leaned her rifles against the trench wall.

‘I need to clear out as much as I can, as fast as I can,’ she thought, her eyes narrowing as she looked out over the battlefield through the firing slit.

The hill below was pure chaos. 

Piles of Stellar Republic corpses stacked into cover for the clones and Duplicators pressing forward. Each wave crawled over the fallen, clawing and firing blindly as they pushed closer to the trenches. Explosions rocked the slope, tracer rounds painted the night in burning arcs, and the occasional flares continued to split the darkness with their harsh white and red glares.

It was carnage layered on desperation, the enemy hurling bodies into the grinder with no sign of stopping.

White foam barricades sporadically sparked into place in scattered bursts, offering fleeting cover for Stellar Republic positions. HMG nests rattled without pause, chewing through lines of freaks and carving swathes into their ranks. 

But two of those nests had already gone silent, blown apart by enemy anti-tank fire. 

Every lost emplacement pulled their chances of holding lower and lower.

Thea ran a quick check over her Gauss rifle—sights, mag, balance—making sure nothing had shifted after all the frantic moving and swapping between weapons. 

It should have been fine, but she trusted nothing to chance. 

Then she slid into her familiar firing spot against the far-eastern wall and started firing at the first Duplicators she could get her eyes on.

‘Let’s figure out if the current Gate level is enough or if I need to go even wider…’

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[TAS/ND Announcement] Short Hiatus (Admin Week+)

UPDATE 25/08/25:

Things are progressing... oddly well?

My grandma's been feeling better and better this past week, to the point that the doctors have revised their opinion on things by now (waiting out the first few days, as it's common for dying people to get a short bump as the body gives out).

She's doing some rehab now and the doctors are considering to potentially even send her home after the rehab is completed! :O

That said, I'm still quite pre-occupied with the whole situation, so I won't make any real attempts at trying to squeeze out a chapter in the meantime, if it's not meant to be.

As such, I will be extending the short hiatus by around half a week.

The next chapters should be on Thursday / Friday 28th / 29th August for ND / TAS respectively.

If things should change again, I will let you know ahead of time, but this is the current ETA.

Thank you for your patience on this matter and thank you for all the many kind words in the last week about this topic! <3

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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here.

Over the weekend, I have unfortunately been informed that my grandmother (Dad's side) is likely going to die in the next coming days/week.

She is currently in the hospital and has been for around a week now, but her condition is not particularly improving and the doctors have prognosed a not-so-ideal outcome being the most likely scenario over the next week.

As such, I will be taking a short hiatus, as announced in the title, to deal with any family-related matters in this regard.

The hiatus should be around a week (Admin Week for this month) long, but might be extended beyond the usual 7-day Admin Week duration, in case additional assistance inside my family is required (particularly in regards to my Dad, as this is his last parent passing).

I thank you for your understanding on this matter, in advance.

Additionally, please refrain from messaging me with too many "I'm sorry" or "My condolences", etc. messages, as while they are kind in spirit and appreciated, they do clog up the works quite a lot.

If you'd like to leave some words in regards to this, please try to concentrate them over the next 2-3 days in the comment section down below; or at any point in the Discord's #General-chat (as I can always mute that one if it becomes too much to deal with).

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That said, let me tell you about the superwoman that is my grandma Lily (and some of my family), because she deserves no less:

She's gone through like 4 cancer treatments, had some insane surgeries to deal with various issues, broke like twenty different bones and yet, never shies away from being the kindest, most compassionate and funny person she can be.

She was born right before World War 2 and thusly grew up during the largest war the world has ever seen and it's immediate consequences.

I say immediate here, because we (She and myself as well) are German.

That meant the vast majority of housing was nothing but rubble when she grew up.

That meant no real food, no clean water and foreign occupation by several countries, when she grew up.

But growing up she did anyway.

My Great-Grandpa and Great-Grandma both survived the 2nd World War, so my grandma was more lucky than most in that regard.

It wasn't an easy time, by any stretch, but they managed to make it through somehow.

Later in her life, she met my Grandpa Tony (RIP gramps <3) and ultimately settled down to start her own family.

And what a family it is.

I know very little of how exactly she was raised, unfortunately, but I know a lot more about how my father was raised by her.

My father is one of four; with two other brothers and a sister. 

To mention that raising a family of six in post-WW2, reconstruction-era Germany would be tough, I hope I do not need to stress.

But Tony and her muscled through regardless and not just in a "we managed, but we kinda fucked up hard along the way" kind of way.

The amount of love, kindness and important life lessons that both of my grandparents imparted on every member of this family is beyond anything I would have ever believed possible, if I wasn't a direct descendant and had received the first-hand experiences of those teachings from my own father as well.

My grandparents somehow managed to impart a level of empathy, unconditional support and love in their children, that I have never seen before, despite the incredible hardships that they had to work through and deal with in the hell-hole that was reconstruction-era Germany.

To paint a picture for you here:

There is not a single black sheep in this family.

Not a single aunt, uncle or their descendants from this branch of the family, that does not deserve the love and familial bonds that they were blessed with.

My aunt and uncles are some of the kindest people you can possibly ever meet, with every single member of this family being a true "family first" believer; thanks to my grandparents teachings.

If you require ANYTHING? You just say the words and my entire family will drop whatever it is they're doing to help.

And this isn't just lip-service, but lived reality, across the entire spectrum.

We've helped family members move across the entire country with a crew of like 15 people.

My parents, my brother, aunts, uncles, their children all helping together, because that's what family does.

When people speak about familial values and unconditional support, the first thing I think about is my own family; not that it's some form of bullshit lip-service rendered by people trying to take advantage of me.

But make no mistake: This level of familial bond is not an obligation.

You will not be forced to love this family; you simply will love them and want to do your part, naturally.

We were never instilled with a kind of "pure, unconditional support" doctrine of any kind; but rather a doctrine of "if you want love, then the love is going to have to come from you".

If you give love and support in this family, you will be given it back tenfold.

If you distance yourself, which has happened several times over the decades with various members of the family, then your distance will be mirrored, but the doors will never be barred; and everyone's always come back after dealing with whatever they had to deal with.

And then, of course, there's my Dad.

Who is probably the ultimate consequence of this style of parenting and the values imparted upon by my grandparents.

He is the kindest, most forthcoming and friendly person you will EVER meet in your life.

And this is not an exaggeration.

Anyone that has ever met my father was straight up appalled at how disgustingly friendly and kind he is.

Because he lives this doctrine not just within the family, but outward-facing towards ANYONE he meets.

He's literally gotten up in the middle of the night on a work-day, like 3am, to drive out for like an hour to bring somebody to their home that wasn't even part of our family; they were just drunk and needed a ride home. Several times.

When my brother goes out drinking, my father puts aside an "alarm chair" with some easy-to-throw-on-clothes; because he will wake up at any time, and drive out to literally anywhere, to make sure that we always have a ride home and aren't doing anything stupid.

If you need absolutely anything and ask him? He will move heaven and earth to make it work; doesn't even matter what it is.

This is the kind of forthcoming, kind and loving attitude he brings to the forefront in every single one of his actions; all the time.

If he gets mad at you? That's an achievement. And not the good kind, because my dad does not get mad at people.

And all of it stems, ultimately, from the values instilled by my grandparents and the way he interpreted them and grew up around other people living those values alongside him.

I, myself, also live with these values: If you give love, you will receive love back, ten times over.

It is how I was raised, how I will raise my own children (if I ever have any; need wife, please) and how I believe everyone should try to live to aspire to as well.

Because without empathy and love there's no point in any of this shit on the planet, is there?

------------------------------

Thank you for humoring me on this tangent.

I will see y'all in around a week (maybe more). 

Stay fresh, maybe re-read some of TAS/ND, speculate about upcoming chapters or maybe just go hug your Grandparents/Parents for me; you never know how long you'll be able to, so don't squander any opportunity to show them love. 

[TAS] Volume 2 - Chapter 47 - Locker-Room Talk

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Volume 2 - Chapter 42 - UHF 101: Alpha Squad & Classes has just released on RR with no changes.

For the Wolf Lords, this chapter is unchanged.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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Trying out a bit more of that "whole chapter of PoV" thing in this one, to cover a lot of the background information on how systems work and such, without making it seem like I'm front-loading it.

Let me know how you feel about this chapter!

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bmc3YhQp0cJYQskIzDqc80tV7C-1r90ZjqbUWpJ-jNs/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 47 - Locker-Room Talk

MVM—Most Valuable Marine—medals aren’t just for bragging rights. 

They’re made for the battlefield. 

Forged from actual combat-grade metals, shaped to survive more than just glass cabinets. 

And while some recipients do hang them up as keepsakes, waiting for retirement, most Marines know exactly what they’ve got in their hands: A tool; and a guarantee.

The lower-tier medals—Silver, Gold, even Platinum—don’t carry much weight in raw material value. But trade one in? The UHF will pay handsomely. 

Recognition of excellence always comes with its own perks, and plenty of Marines exchange their first medal for top-tier equipment, a spot in elite squads, or high-grade training modules.

But once you get into the rare stuff—Palladium, Crysium—you’re holding something else entirely. 

Not just a trophy. A resource.

These are materials most Marines will never see outside a System Lecture. 

Weapons forged with Crysium alloy are often considered heirloom-tier, and armor integrated with plating made of it? That’s the kind of protection Battlefield Aces get custom- commissioned from the Faction itself. 

Which is why some Marines melt their medals down and reforge them into what they need most: A knife. A barrel. A reinforced plate to encase an overcharged powercell.

The possibilities are as endless as the Marine’s own creativity.

And yet… most don’t.

Most simply wear them. Slotted into the armor, just above the heart.

Because an MVM isn’t just about what you’ve done—it’s about where you’re headed.

See a Marine walking through the staging zone with a one-star Palladium medal implanted in their breastplate? You’re looking at someone officially recognized by the Brass as on track to become a Battlefield Ace.

You see a two-star Crysium? You’re looking at somebody with the potential to rival the greatest of the greats: Witchglass. Thunder Breaker. Unbreakable Shield.

A Marine that’s been officially recognized to have what it takes to be added to that very list.

That’s what the stars mean.
That’s why there’s only one per type, per cluster, per quarter.
That’s why there’s only ever a few hundred of them being handed out at most, across the entire galaxy, in any given year.

Wearing an MVM medal isn’t just a random arrogant flex. 

It’s a UHF-sanctioned declaration.

Seeing that shimmer on someone’s chest means you're looking at a future legend. 

A Faction-certified problem—the kind Command will one day deploy to end wars. 

And our enemies know it too. 

That’s the risk you take. 

MVM medals draw attention, paint targets. 

If you’re wearing one in combat, everyone with a scope, blade, or grudge is gunning for you.

Not out of respect, or even disrespect.
But out of fear.

Because a one-star MVM wielder might just become the Marine who puts down your entire forward line in the next deployment.
A two-star? That’s the signed death warrant of the entirety of a future Battlefield, if left unchecked.

But that’s the point.

They weren’t just made to reward greatness. They were made to provoke it. 

To push every Marine a step further. To ask the question, every mission, every fight: “Do you want it bad enough to be the next name carved into UHF history?”

And if the answer’s yes? Then wear it proud. 

Because every shot aimed at that medal is one more chance to prove exactly why you earned it in the first place.

So… Let them come.

Let them try their best.
Let them break themselves upon you, despite it.
Let them be the kindling that fuels your fire to set the whole damn galaxy ablaze.

Because the medal isn’t just a trophy—it’s a promise.

“I’m not fully here yet. But I’m coming. And you better pray for the Emperor’s own mercy, that you're not there anymore when I arrive.”

[UHF High-Marshal Myra “Godeyes” Veltros, 2x 2-Star Crysium MVM Recipient, PFC922]

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PoV: Private Chester O’Neil

Loading into the Digital Mission’s staging area, Chester felt a calm wash over him—something he hadn’t felt in months.

“Finally back…” he muttered, as the space around him solidified into a small, private locker room—the standard initial staging area for every DM.

After months of relentless, messy combat in the real world, returning to the DDS for the several-month trip toward one of the south-western-most fronts near the Klaedish Sector was more than welcome. 

Here, inside the ship’s servers, there was a strange comfort in knowing nothing could touch you. 

Well… unless some cosmic-level rarity Void-event decided to split the ship in half mid-transit, in which case—‘Not my problem anymore,’ he thought dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a humorless scoff.

The simulation finished loading, and the familiar Grade 0 parameter list popped up in front of him. 

Nothing seemed to have changed since before his deployment. 

“No higher Tier weapons, even with a voucher. No higher Tier combatants, even if the enemy gets some. Squads are formed by Squad Leader Role Marines in the prep room, CO chosen from the same pool… yep. Same as ever. Good to see the update didn’t screw with the basics,” he hummed under his breath, stepping toward the locker.

A new window bloomed into existence, listing every License he’d acquired and prompting him to choose his equipment and gear loadout.

‘It’s a Grade 0 Hold-The-Line... Not particularly hard, but not a walk either—60% clear rate still means four out of ten DMs don’t succeed. Not something to slack on.’ 

His eyes scrolled over a long history of loadouts from nearly three years in the UHF MC. 

‘Tauron-6’s environment isn’t hostile, no nasty local diseases in the timeframe… eh, standard kit should do.’

Decision made, he selected one of his tried-and-true setups. 

Immediately, the weight of his armour settled across his shoulders, followed by the familiar heft of the large, med-packed backpack he’d hauled countless times before. Every pouch and strap was exactly where muscle memory expected it to be.

“No respawns means more work for people like me,” he muttered with a faint grin, reaching for his Corscew—his trusty laser-type SMG, by his side since his Recruit days. The weapon was, of course, flawless—freshly spawned from the governing AI—but he still inspected it. 

Habit.

His instructor back in basic had drilled it in: “Always check your weapon when you have free time. It keeps you sharp, and it might just save your life.”

Years later, Chester still did it instinctively whenever there was even a second to breathe. 

He just wished he had managed to develop a flashier personal quirk alongside it.

‘Would’ve much preferred a tick like Feldoh’s—spinning those knives like some damn Terran holo-drama badass. Way cooler than re-checking the same damn gun for the 13,000th time…’

Holstering the Corscew, he drew his Vibrosword, giving the blade a slow once-over—finding no apparent issues with it, as he had expected. 

Satisfied, he set it back into its sheath before turning his attention to the backpack. 

Even after years of running missions, it was easy to mix up which loadout had which specific setup—something he had done exactly once before.

“Yeah… that’s the right one,” he muttered, leaning over the open pack. 

The neat rows of injectors sat snug in their custom pouch, each one secured in place alongside his preferred med-tools: Compact cutters, sealant sprayers, trauma foam canisters—all exactly where his hands expected them to be.

With everything checked and in working order, he stepped toward the lone door in the small staging room and wrapped his fingers around the handle.

[Do you want to move into the Preparation Room now? Y / N]
[Note: Once entered, you cannot leave the Preparation Room. Your Loadout cannot be changed for free once inside the Preparation Room. Additional changes to the Loadout will incur System Credit costs, equal to a portion of the Licenses used.]

He tapped confirmation, and the door allowed itself to be opened with a soft hiss, leading him into the Digital Mission Preparation Room—which, in reality, was a network of connected chambers.

The space he entered now was another locker room, but far larger and busier than the private one he’d just left. 

Several dozen Marines were scattered throughout; some leaned together in quiet conversations, while most were focused on their own gear—tightening straps, running diagnostics, or making small adjustments before the operation began. 

The faint sounds of touch-fasterners tearing, metallic clicks, and the low hum of powered systems filled the air.

A soft, translucent icon pulsed in the top-right corner of his vision, the System’s polite reminder that there was still time before the op kicked off for real.

[Status: Waiting for Participants… 41/100]

Chester moved further into the room, weaving past a pair of Marines arguing over the best anti-armor loadout until he spotted a larger, empty stretch of bench near the eastern wall. 

Dropping onto it with a quiet sigh, he set his backpack at his feet and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, letting his eyes roam across the room.

The status counter in the corner of his vision had started at forty-one when he’d loaded in, and it was ticking steadily upward now. More Marines trickled through the door, sometimes even two or three at a time—friend-linked—each group's arrival bringing a bit more noise and motion into the space.

Some of the Marines moved with a casual confidence, others with that tense, twitchy energy that came from nerves—those never really went away, Chester knew.

He kept an easy, neutral expression, but his mind was already cataloguing details—gear choices, stance, the way someone handled their weapon or armor. 

A guy with an overstuffed ammo rig hanging lopsided.

A woman carrying a loadout far too heavy for her frame, clearly trying out something she’d never used before, simply by the way she was fumbling with her equipment.

A tall Marine with the kind of mismatched kit that screamed “picked whatever looked cool on the list.” 

All potential trouble down the line—the kind of players who ended up needing a Medic for entirely, 100% preventable reasons. 

He made a mental note to keep an eye on them once the bullets started flying; they were free Credits and Merit, ready to be harvested.

As the locker room filled, the atmosphere started to shift. 

Squad Leaders started working the room, calling out over the background chatter or approaching Marines directly. 

The questions were always the same: Preferred Role, combat specialty, previous DM experience or notable deployments. 

Groups began to form in loose clusters, conversations turning into quick loadout comparisons and tactical discussions.

It didn’t take long for Chester to get noticed. 

Within moments, three separate Squad Leaders approached him, each making their pitch to have him join as their Squad Medic. They all wore the same eager expression, the same edge in their voice—like this was their shot to put together the perfect team.

He smiled politely, shook a few hands, but kept his answer the same each time. “Appreciate the offer, but I’m holding off for now. Going to reach out later if I think your squad’s a good fit, promise.”

He’d learned that lesson the hard way years ago—joining the first squad that came knocking. 

The most over-eager Squad Leaders were usually trying to prove something, and in Chester’s experience, that kind of desperation rarely translated to high scores. 

Better to wait, watch, and pick the squad that actually seemed to have their act together.

This plan did not last longer, however, as a sudden spike in noise pulled Chester’s attention from his idle observations. 

The usual background chatter had swelled into a loud, excited buzz, accompanied by the sound of boots scuffing against the deck as people moved toward the far side of the room—where the entry doors of the personal lockers were located. 

A tight knot of Marines had formed around someone who’d just walked in, their voices overlapping in bursts of questions and half-shouted greetings. Even the three Squad Leaders who’d been trying to recruit him earlier had abandoned their other pitches mid-sentence and hurried over, practically elbowing their way into the crowd from the back.

Not one to let some good tea pass him by, Chester pushed off the bench and wandered over at a casual pace, weaving between benches and gear crates until he reached the edge of the gathering. 

He leaned slightly toward the first Marine at the back of the crowd.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

The other Marine didn’t take their eyes off the scene. 

“One-Star Platinum MVM just walked in,” they said, voice full of awe. “People are peppering them with questions—experience, tips, what missions they’ve run lately. Squad Leaders are losing their minds trying to pull them into their groups.”

“Ah. Of course,” Chester gave a polite nod. “Thanks.”

With that, he turned and made his way back to his bench, the noise already fading into the background. 

The excitement didn’t surprise him; he had seen it many times before. 

It wasn’t exactly rare to see an MVM Medal winner show up in a Digital Mission lobby. 

If anything, it made perfect sense—those Marines were some of the hardest-working in the entire Corps, and the DMs were a natural place for them to hone their edge between deployments.

He’d met more than a dozen before in his time, and the reaction was always the same—wide-eyed awe at seeing a potential Battlefield Ace in the flesh, even more so at the slim chance of ending up in the same squad. 

Most MVM winners were Alpha Squad or their equivalents, meaning the average Marine never got to watch them work up close as an equal; a true once-in-a-career chance for them to potentially pick up some trick or tactic that could help them along the way.

Chester, though? He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea. 

‘MVM winners are always so… disruptive,’ He thought with a heavy sigh. ‘They move faster, hit harder, and often leave very little for a Squad Medic like myself to actually do… Sure, it makes for an easier mission, but it also means I am essentially just tagging along instead of getting to practice my craft and earn Credits and Merit.’

He had long decided that if he could avoid being slotted into a squad with one, he would do so—every single time.

A few minutes later, the noise in the room settled back to a steady murmur. 

The MVM had clearly made their choice, now standing beside a Marine with the bright “SL” marker floating over their head—a Prep-Room-specific tag that made picking out Squad Leaders quick and easy. 

The crowd that had been fawning over the medal winner was now jostling for position around that SL instead, voices overlapping as they all tried to secure a spot on the same team.

Chester’s gaze drifted up to the corner of his vision, checking the counter. 

The number ticked upward, and that familiar tension began to creep into his chest—the anticipatory kind. 

The one that came right before the fighting started, when the promise of chaos and injury loomed close enough to taste. Combat, drama, adrenaline… and the steady rhythm of his hands working over torn armour and bleeding Marines, keeping them moving long after most people would have dropped.

[Status: Waiting for Participants… 87/100]

As the last few stragglers filtered in, the room’s energy shifted again, the idle chatter breaking apart into small, focused clusters. 

Squads were starting to take shape, with SLs adjusting their floating markers as roles filled, making it easy to see which teams still needed key positions.

Chester rose from the bench, stretching his shoulders before weaving through the rows of benches and lockers. 

He moved squad to squad, zeroing in on the ones that still had a gap where “Squad Medic” should be. Each time, he stopped to ask about their current loadouts, tactical plans, and intended approach to the mission—quietly gathering information, weighing whether any of them were worth his time.

By the time he’d made the rounds and gathered a solid picture of which squads were worth even considering, the status indicator in the corner of his vision ticked up the last few numbers and landed on 100/100. 

A quiet pulse of light passed over it as the display updated, signalling that all three platoons—five squads apiece—were now officially inside the lobby. 

The number vanished, replaced by a bold countdown.

[Status: Waiting for Squad Creation… 14:59]

Perfect. It meant the real sorting was about to begin.

Chester decided not to rush it, however. 

The three squads he had in mind were solid enough, but they still had a couple of open slots beyond the medic role. He’d let them fill those first—see if they kept their cool under the growing impatience that always crept in during the squad-building stage. 

That told him more about an SL than any pep talk could.

On his way back toward one of the quieter corners of the prep room, he caught a snippet of hushed conversation from two Marines leaning against a locker. Both had that mix of curiosity and mild annoyance in their tone, their words low enough to keep it between themselves—except Chester’s ears were tuned for this kind of tea.

“…did you see the kit they’re running? What even is that loadout supposed to be?” one muttered.

“I have no idea… Who needs more than one DMR for a DM…? I don’t think they even know what they’re doing in here,” the other replied.

There was a pause, a shuffle of boots. “Should we… I dunno, say something? Or just leave it?”

“Eh, probably a Recruit. Looks lost.”

The comments jogged something in Chester’s mind. 

‘Right—this is the first Digital Mission that includes the new blood from the latest Recruitment Drives, isn’t it…’ 

He hadn’t given it much thought earlier, but now? That definitely changed the math. 

Recruits were, without fail, walking opportunities in the DMs. 

They came in underestimating a “simple Grade 0 simulated mission,” thinking it’d be a cakewalk compared to the real thing. 

And while the stakes weren’t physical death, the sim still played by brutal rules. 

It always chewed up the unprepared—leaving them limping, bleeding, and racking up points for any medic sharp enough to keep them alive until extraction.

Chester slowed, weighing the situation. 

The mystery Marine they were talking about could just be an eccentric veteran messing with their expectations—but if it truly was a lost Recruit? 

That was easy score potential on a silver-rarity platter.

Instead of brushing past, he angled toward the bench near the two Marines and dropped himself onto it with an easy, unhurried motion. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the backrest, his tone casual—almost bored—when he finally cut into their private little debate.

“If you think they’re doing something wrong,” he drawled, glancing between them, “might as well help ’em out, no? Recruits—especially first-timers—can use all the help they can get in here.” 

He let a faint smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. 

“We all started out like that.”

The two Marines exchanged a look, and Chester just let the silence hang, comfortable in the knowledge that his suggestion would either guilt them into stepping up—or make them tip their hand about what they actually thought of the new arrival. 

Either way, he’d just positioned himself to learn something useful.

The two Marines seemed to mull over his words, glancing at each other with that half-guilty, half-unsure look that told Chester they were deciding whether to take his advice or ignore it. 

He used their pause to shift his attention toward the so-called mystery Marine.

She stood a few rows down, near a locker, and even from here and at an off-angle she looked young—twenty, maybe twenty-one at the absolute most. 

The first thing he clocked was her loadout, and it took him all of two seconds to peg her as a sniper. The giveaway wasn’t just the gear either—it was the way she carried herself, shoulders drawn in, feet spaced like she naturally wanted to melt into the background.

An adaptive camo-cloak was pulled fully around her body, the faint shimmer of its shifting pattern blending her outline just enough to make her seem part of the locker she was standing in front of. 

Slung across her back were not one, not two, but three DMRs. 

Two rested on one side in a crisscross sling setup, pulling her cloak tight at the front, while the third hung solo on the other, positioned for the fastest draw.

It was overkill, sure—but also oddly meticulous, in a way. He could appreciate that kind of over-prep, even if it screamed “rookie overcompensation” to him.

Outside the cloak’s coverage, he caught glimpses of plated combat leggings and the half-mask dangling loosely from her neck, ready to snap into place the moment she needed it. 

His gaze drifted upward, idly cataloguing details—until she turned.

It wasn’t sudden, just a slow, methodical sweep of her head as her eyes scanned the room. 

And that’s when he saw them.

Cyan.

For a split second, something cold twisted in his gut. 

The reaction was automatic, older than his years in uniform—an instinct born from stories told to wide-eyed kids around mess hall tables and campfires. His eyes narrowed slightly before he caught himself, pulling in a slow breath and forcing his shoulders to stay loose.

Cyans weren’t inherently bad. He knew that. 

Hell, he’d run missions with a few in various DMs, and they’d all more than pulled their weight, as if trying their damndest to prove every stereotype about them wrong. 

Onig himself—one of the better medics Chester had crossed paths with—was a Cyan and served on a squad from the same damn transport ship. 

Still, the feeling lingered. 

That old, ingrained suspicion didn’t fade easily, no matter how many times reality proved the old stories, news reports and articles thoroughly exaggerated.

He broke the stare before it could turn into a challenge, letting his attention wander back to the two Marines beside him as if nothing had happened—though the image of those Cyan eyes lingered, sharper than it had any right to.

Just in time, it seemed—the two Marines had finally come to some kind of decision.

They both stood, moving toward the girl at a casual pace. 

One of them, grinning like he thought he was clever, opened with, “Hey there, Marine. You think you got enough guns for the mission?” His tone carried that joking edge meant to break the ice, though Chester could hear the faint hint of judgment underneath.

The Cyan blinked at him, her brows pulling together slightly as she gave the rifles slung across her shoulders a quick glance. “Ehh… I’m not sure. First time in one of these, honestly. It’s all a bit new. You think I need more?” 

She half-turned back toward the locker she’d been standing in front of, raising one hand to its surface. The interface flickered alive under her palm. “…I have two more I could bring.”

That made Chester pause mid-thought.

‘Five weapon licenses? As a Recruit? How the fuck has none of the brass flagged that yet? …Guess they’re still big on letting rookies experiment for the first year. And if she’s only packing Partials, the credit loss isn’t exactly back-breaking...’

His confidence in her being a walking payout just ticked up another notch.

“Wha—What?” one of the Marines stammered, catching himself a beat later. “Ehh, I meant more that you don’t really need to overprepare like that. The mission’s only, what, six hours? You’re not gonna burn through a barrel in that time, let alone three of them.”

That was Chester’s cue.

Pushing himself off the bench, he crossed the gap in a few quick strides. 

“Jenkins,” he cut in smoothly, his voice carrying just enough weight to turn heads, “tormenting the new Recruits again, huh?”

Both Marines turned toward him, frowns knitting in confusion.

“Let the Recruit take her guns into the run,” Chester went on, stepping right past them like they weren’t even there. “Extra firepower never hurt anyone, and a jam or malfunction can ruin your day quick. You should know better than to hassle a first-timer in their first Digital Mission.”

The two exchanged baffled looks, clearly both wondering who exactly he’d just called Jenkins. Truth was, he called anyone ‘Jenkins’ when he needed a quick name to throw out—though the one time he’d actually run into a real Jenkins mid-rant had been… awkward.

Stopping in front of the girl, Chester gave her a polite nod. “My name’s Chester O’Neil, Recruit. Squad Medic. I’d recommend you stick with me—I’ll make sure you don’t get hassled by other veterans who think first-time Recruits are prime targets to screw with.”

He glanced back at the pair, letting his gaze linger just long enough to make the point, before turning back to her. “Follow me. I’ve got a squad in mind for us to join.”

It was a gamble—a medium-sized one. But he’d played this game before.

New Recruits, in their very first DM, were always the same: Overwhelmed, scrambling to process a flood of information and stimuli. They rarely had the footing to push back against a decisive suggestion from someone who looked like they knew the ropes. 

All it took was the right moment to swoop in and play the saviour, and more often than not, they’d follow his lead without a second thought.

The two Marines were quick to jump in, voices overlapping as they tried to explain themselves. 

“Hey, hold on—”
“We weren’t giving her a hard time—”

Chester just tilted his head slightly, cutting their defense off with a casual, “Didn’t expect to see you two chastising her for something that’s completely valid. Bringing extra weapons? That’s just smart.” 

He didn’t give them the breathing room to argue, stepping right over their protests. “What does say something, though, is the first thing out of your mouths being about her loadout instead of even a simple hello. Bit telling, don’t you think?”

That landed. 

Both paused—caught somewhere between confusion, severe irritation and the faint realization they’d been cornered in front of an audience.

Chester seized the moment, turning back toward the Cyan. 

“So,” he asked, his tone lighter now, “you want to join a squad with me? I’ll make sure you survive this one in one piece, promise.”

She hesitated, her cyan eyes flicking toward the two Marines for a heartbeat before settling back on him.

After a moment’s thought, she gave a small nod.

“Good choice,” Chester said, already leading her away from the pair—who now looked thoroughly pissed but were clearly unsure whether to follow, press the issue, or just let it go.

He didn’t give them the chance to decide. 

He cut straight across the room toward one of the squads he’d scoped out earlier—the one with a medic slot still open. They were already sitting at five members out of six, but that wasn’t a problem he couldn’t easily fix.

Stepping up to the Squad Leader, a big, broad-shouldered man in heavy armor whose voice and presence practically radiated authority, Chester got straight to the point. “I’ll join your squad, but only if you take her too. She’s a Recruit, first-timer. I’ll take care of her. Name’s Chester O’Neil, Squad Medic, six-times Grade 3 MVP in the past year.”

The SL’s gaze swept over him, then shifted to the Cyan. 

His scowl deepened, and for a second Chester thought he might refuse outright. 

But after a brief sigh, the man rumbled, “Very well… Wellis’ the name. She’s on your ass. I’ll register us as one of the oversize squads. Don’t fuck this for us, O’Neil.”

“You won’t regret it,” Chester said with an easy smile, clasping the man’s huge, calloused hand. The handshake was firm enough to make his knuckles pop.

[Do you want to join “Wellis’ Squad”? Y / N]

He turned to the Cyan standing just beside him. “Accept the prompt.”

She gave a quick nod, her gloved fingers flicking in the air to confirm. 

The floating marker above Wellis’ head ticked over to 6/+.

Chester’s lips curved upward, just a touch sharper than before. 

‘Just as planned…’

He confirmed his own prompt a moment later, the number shifting to 7/+.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Wellis,” Chester said, turning back toward the SL. “I’ll make sure to keep everyone alive and get us that Squad MVP; don’t worry.”

“I’d fucking hope so,” Wellis muttered, his gaze flicking toward the Cyan like she was a dent in his otherwise spotless kit. “Making me take a Cyan first-timer… Always trying way too hard, those ones.” 

He said it like she wasn’t standing literally two meters in front of him—his voice carrying over the ambient noise of the Prep Room without a hint of subtlety.

The Cyan didn’t flinch, but Chester caught the flicker in her posture. 

Wellis didn’t bother to notice, already barking to the rest of the squad about the change in headcount and how they’d now be running as one of the oversized teams. With a hundred Marines in a Platoon, six-man squads never divided up perfectly; there were always a few extras tagged on here and there.

Chester leaned toward her slightly, keeping his tone casual. “So, what’s your name, Recruit? And, uh… sorry for the way Wellis talked. Guess it’s not exactly the first time you’ve heard that kind of thing though, huh?”

The girl shook her head, her cyan eyes steady, the faintest hint of amusement curling her lips. “Used to it. But he’ll learn… Name’s Thea McKay. I’m looking forward to working together, O’Neil.”

“Call me Chester,” he said, offering his hand again. “O’Neil’s my father, really.”

“Thea, for me,” she said, gripping his hand firmly before letting go.

Chester grinned wide—warm and welcoming on the outside, but underneath he was already celebrating. 

Every obstacle had been cleared, every piece on the board exactly where he wanted it.

‘This is going to be a damned good Digital Mission for me. Thank you, new Recruitment Drives—always a pleasure when your chicks leave the nest for the first time…’

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 49 - Action

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 49 - Action for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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There was no other title for this chapter that made sense to use here.

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1S0oOOkdH3_jvkISmgrBEkGD49u5RqEd0g-17t7uoWjc/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 49 - Action

[UHF Armed Forces News Network – Frontline Voices Series, PFC814]

“The Freak Problem”

—

Private Nash Harkins:
“Thing about the Freaks is… you never really kill them. 

You drop one, he hits the mud, and you feel good for—what—three seconds? Then there he is again, same damn face, same damn gun, coming at you like you didn’t just burn half a mag putting him down; except now he knows where you are. 

First time I fought ‘em, I thought my sights were off. Sure, they tell you in GalPol101, but… It’s different when you’re there, y’know? 

Second time, I realized my brain just didn’t wanna really process it. 

By the third engagement, I stopped caring if it was the same guy or not. You just shoot ‘til they stop moving and pray they stay stopped long enough for you to move up.”

—

Private Raul Avarin:
“You can’t flank ‘em. 

You think you got an angle, you think you’re clever—and then another full squad just exists there now, right where you wanted to push. 

They don’t even have to be good shots; they just have too many barrels on you. 

And when you’re pinned like that, your brain starts doing the math on how much ammo’s left in your mag, and how much is left in your whole pack, and you start wondering if it’s even worth burning it on the ones you can see...”

—

Private Brick Holten:
"My first op against the Freaks? Four hours in, we’d burned through two-thirds of our ammo and my squad leader just kept muttering about the resupply never making it through. 

I didn’t get why until later: You can’t win when the other guy can just keep pressing the attack with fresh bodies and fresh guns. 

They don’t need to hold ground—they just need to keep you from moving forward. 

And, unfortunately, they’re damn good at that."

—

Private Emeka Dorn:
"The armor helps, sure. You can chew through a few more before they overwhelm you. 

But the real problem is the ammo. 

Our squadron had to abandon an assault last month because we just… ran out. 

Couldn’t clear the sector, not without more resupplies. 

They were still coming in waves when we pulled out. That’s the thing—if you can’t find the Duplicator, the clones just don’t stop.

It’s like trying to seal a hull-breach with cotton."

—

Lieutenant Verren Shin:
“I’ve commanded over thirty platoons against the Stellar Republic. 

The tactical problem is one thing—you plan around infinite numbers, you ration ammunition like it’s the most precious commodity, and you accept you’ll never get a clean wipe on the field. 

But the morale problem? That’s what really kills. 

Marines need to feel like they can win. 

Against the Freaks, all they see are their brothers and sisters falling while the enemy never seems to truly lose anyone, as they just keep coming. 

It eats at them. 

You can see it—the fight draining out of their eyes after the third or fourth time they put down the same target. 

We’ve made progress now and then—new scanners, improved tracking, even entire squads dedicated to hunting Duplicators, or special roles in each squad purposefully designed to find them—but they adapt just as fast as we do. 

Sometimes faster. 

Every battle resets the board, and we’re right back where we started. 

You ask me? The war’s not even about winning ground anymore.
It’s about surviving long enough to fight them again tomorrow...”

—

Closing Note – Lera Han:
"From the greenest Private to the most seasoned officer, one truth apparently always stays the same: Fighting the Freaks isn’t a battle of muscle or firepower alone. 

It’s a war of will. 

Every duplicate that steps back onto the field is a reminder that this fight isn’t fair, and it never will be. 

But fairness doesn’t win wars—persistence does. 

The Stellar Republic can throw a thousand copies at our Marines, but they’ll still have to face the one reality that they can’t clone: A Marine never backs down from a fight."

“You can’t drown a Marine in bodies—we just learn to swim faster.”
— Common UHFMC saying when facing Stellar Republic forces

======

======

The last streaks of sunlight bled out across the treetops before her, the glow fading as the sun slipped fully behind the mountain at her back. Shadows deepened over the slope, and Thea kept her eyes locked on the forest edge below. 

Any moment now, the Stellar Republic forces would come pouring out.

Beside her, Chester, Marie, and Falks were busy fiddling with the side panels of their helmets, likely tuning the night-vision overlays in their visors to match the dimming light. The forest still carried that faint twilight haze—more than enough to see without full NV, but dark enough that the settings mattered.

‘Just because it says ‘Nighttime’ on the DM screen doesn’t mean it’s pitch-black from the start… good to keep in mind.’ 

She gave her own helmet a small adjustment, making sure it sat comfortably. Her visor was set to the same settings as always: Crystal clear.

Right then, squad comms crackled to life, and Wellis’ voice cut in.

“Last reminders from the CO: Main ammo depots are in trenchlines two and four. Three each, spaced evenly. Everywhere else—including our trench—only has small stations, so don’t burn through rounds like a fucking moron.”

There was the faint scrape of movement in the background before he continued, his voice hard. 

“With this stupid scaled-up version, we’ve got triple the enemy numbers, fewer emplacements, and lost several depots when they pulled trenchlines. Every shot matters. Make it count.

“We’ve only got two explosive weapons in the squad, both over here on the west side with me. The squads east of you guys on the right have some too though, so you’re not completely without area-of-effect options. Let them take care of the masses.”

A faint pop of static followed as he shifted tone, slipping into a faster, clipped cadence.

“Remember firezones Kilo, Lima, and Mike—leave those to the emplacements when the wave hits. You focus on the ones that slip through.

“For the eastern-side squad: Chester’s got command authority. If he says abandon the trench, you abandon the trench. I don’t want to see any bullshit in the after-action report about someone staying behind when they shouldn’t have.

“That’s it. Keep your heads down. Good hunting, and may the Emperor guide our shots—this one’s going to be rough.”

With a single click, the comms went dead, leaving only the quiet night and the faint hiss of the trenchline’s ambient noise.

Marie, Falks, Chester, and Thea shared a quick round of nods to show they were all on the same page with Wellis’ orders before falling back into their final checks.

Thea glanced down at the Gram in her hands, then out toward the shadowed forest ahead.

‘Hmm… if the ammo’s back in the trenchline behind us, it might be smarter to start with a gun that actually uses ammo. Then when we fall back, I can stock up right away and not worry about it later.’

Her gaze slid to the Ballistic and Gauss variants propped against the trench wall to her right. 

‘With these lighting conditions, firing the laser’s basically putting a glowing arrow on my head…’

Decision easily made, she swapped her trusty Laser-Gram for the Ballistic variant, feeling the somewhat unfamiliar weight shift in her hands. 

The Ballistic wasn’t the hungriest for ammunition, but its ammo was far bulkier when compared to the Gauss variant’s, which were a lot easier to carry—she had more than twice as much ammunition for it in her backpack than for the Ballistic version.

Still, it made sense for the opening stretch, as she could just resupply once they fell back to the second line—if they made it that far.

She crouched slightly to run through her checks—confirming the suppressor was locked in tight, optics clean, and all attachments powered. They were all brand-new attachments and this would be their first real field-test, so she made sure that everything seemed operational.

She went on to tap the scope’s side panel, watching the readout blink as the automatic zeroing kicked in. 

Normally, with the Laser-Gram, she never had to think about bullet drop, but with Ballistic or Gauss, it was worth the extra step.

‘Not like I’ll need it at just over three hundred meters… but better safe than sorry.’

Pulling the rifle close, she popped the magazine for a quick glance—full, of course—before seating it back with a click. Then she slid into position at the reinforced firing port, cheek resting against the stock as her crosshairs settled on the treeline’s shadowed edge.

‘Any moment now…’

That familiar edge of anticipation crept through her chest, a slow tightening in her lungs. 

The mission had officially begun minutes ago, but the forest was still silent. It almost felt deliberate, like the enemy was making them wait on purpose.

Just then, Thea’s comms crackled to life again—this time on the command channel.

“The time for preparations is over, brothers and sisters. Pick up your weapons, the Freaks are coming,” Kalt’s voice thrummed through her helmet.

“I am not one for speeches, so here is my order to you. See to it that it is fulfilled to the last letter. Exert yourselves with every fiber of your being… and when you’ve given everything, keep going until you crumble to nothing but dust, or the mission is done:

“Fire at will. Kill them all.”

The line went dead with a sharp click, leaving the trench in a heavy, unnatural stillness. 

Even the usual shuffle of boots and faint clink of gear seemed to vanish for a moment.

Then it hit her—a strange, electric surge spreading through her chest and out into her limbs, sharp and focused like a sudden adrenaline spike. 

It wasn’t just her getting pumped up—she knew this feeling, or rather, something like it.

It was the same undeniable push that came whenever Corvus used his [Direct Order] Ability, only on a scale she’d never seen before.

‘A platoon-wide buff…? Holy fuck…’ Thea’s grip tightened on her rifle, a grin tugging at the edge of her mouth. ‘No wonder the Squad Leaders voted for him… And that speech was perfect, Commander Kalt! That’s the kind of order I can definitely work with.’

A sharp, predatory grin crept across her face as she settled back into position, eye locked to the scope of her Gram.

For a few heartbeats, the world was nothing but the stillness of trees, dense shrubs, and the tangled underbrush swaying faintly in the evening wind. 

Then—’There.’

The faintest ripple of motion, barely noticeable at first, threading its way between the trunks.

“They’re here,” Thea reported evenly, her voice low but carrying enough weight that the others in her outcrop would hear. She didn’t bother glancing over to check; they either believed her or didn’t—it made no difference for her own plans.

Through the staggered, uneven lines of trees, shapes began to coalesce—first a handful of faint silhouettes slipping between trunks, then more, swelling with each passing second. 

What had been isolated blurs became a thick, advancing wall of movement, until dozens… then hundreds… of armored figures were surging toward the forest’s edge in a relentless tide.

Thea’s breathing slowed, the chaos of the treeline narrowing into a tunnel of focus. 

She aimed at the heads of the incoming soldiers, intending to shoot each one, but ripping her scope to another one nearby just a moment later, not having fired. 

She repeated the same thing several times until finally—she felt it—the familiar weight pressing against her chest, the subtle pull of certainty she’d come to associate with her precognition. 

Somewhere in that rushing tide, she’d just locked onto a Duplicator. 

She’d been given a simple, unambiguous order and this was a perfect place to start.

Her finger squeezed the trigger.

The Ballistic Gram kicked harder than she’d expected, a sharp shove into her shoulder that reminded her recoil was a real thing—a fact she’d almost forgotten after a solid month of relying on the almost recoil-free Laser variant. 

It wasn’t unpleasant, but she’d definitely have to compensate for it now.

The round tore downrange, cutting through the dim air of the late-evening battlefield. 

Muzzle flash flared briefly in her peripheral vision before fading into the dark. 

Half a heartbeat later, the shot found its mark—slamming dead-center into the visor of the advancing Duplicator. 

The armored figure jerked violently before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

All around him, the duplicates he’d spawned crumpled as well, their bodies hitting the churned mud for barely an instant before disappearing from view entirely—swallowed back into the surging tide of enemy soldiers as if they had never been there at all.

“What?” someone muttered from her left, but Thea didn’t bother seeing what that was all about.

She squeezed the trigger again, dropping another Duplicator and wiping his clones from existence in the blink of an eye. 

Then again. And again. 

Three sharp cracks rang out in quick succession, each one sending a round through the darkness and punching straight into the visors of her chosen targets. Every kill took multiple enemies with it—but with the flood of armor pouring toward the forest’s edge, the effect was like throwing pebbles into a raging river.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Chester’s voice cut in sharply from her left. “We’re supposed to be conserving ammunition. Do you not know what the fuck that means?”

Thea didn’t look up, her cheek still pressed to the stock as she lined up another shot. “It means making sure our shots count—which is exactly what I’m doing. Is there a reason you’re not shooting, Chester? You heard the CO; it’s fire at will.”

She fired again. 

The suppressor’s front vented a faint curl of smoke that drifted away in the cold night air, and another Duplicator’s body crumpled before disappearing into the forest’s underbrush.

“They’re still inside the forest,” Chester bit out through clenched teeth. “I don’t plan on wasting ammo on the trees—Ahh, fucking whatever. Waste your ammo then.” 

He shuffled back to his position with a sharp shake of his head, muttering something about “thankless first-timers” and “ammo dumps in human form.”

Thea ignored him completely. 

Her scope tracked another moving figure, the pull in her chest guiding her aim. One more shot—another sharp recoil—and a Duplicator’s head snapped back, helmet shattering as his clones vanished in the chaos.

The first incoming shots started cracking through the night now, streaking from the treeline toward the trenches. 

Thea’s section caught more than its fair share, tracer rounds bouncing off of the reinforced embrasure in front of her and thudding into the dirt near the outcrop. 

Chester’s grumbles carried easily over the gunfire. “Perfect. Some dumbass Recruit just marked us for death with their shit fire discipline…”

Thea ignored him, shifting her aim to hunt the muzzle flashes flickering between the trees. 

She caught a visor behind a thick trunk, squeezed the trigger, and watched the body slump. 

Another flash, further left—one clean shot, another sniper down. 

She kept working methodically, cutting down the sharpshooters trying to pin them down in-turn, but none of their shots had even gotten close yet.

Then the treeline finally broke open.

The first Stellar Republic soldiers burst from the shadows, sprinting into the open field—only to be met with an unrelenting torrent of fire from the UHF lines. 

What had been sporadic gunshots—just her, a few snipers, and the occasional overeager Marine—erupted into a full-blown storm of bullets and laser fire as if on command. 

Beams carved through the night, while rounds sparked off enemy armor in showers of light. 

Bodies fell hard into the mud, cut down before they’d made it more than a few steps from the forest, only to be replaced by more bodies right behind them.

For about two seconds, it worked. Then the tide began to push back. 

Super-Heavy armoured Defensive Heavies advanced in formation, shields raised high to catch the incoming fire. Behind them, regular soldiers followed tight in their shadow, using the moving wall of armour as cover, while firing back towards the trenchlines to try and suppress the incoming deluge of fire.

Explosions followed from handheld rocket-propelled weaponry or grenade launchers—sharp concussions that sent dirt and debris raining down on the trenchline. 

From both sides, almost simultaneously, several flares went high into the sky, lighting up the entire field of battle in a red hue.

Thick jets of white-foam barrier erupted across the battlefield where thrown Stellar Republic grenades exploded, rapidly expanding into jagged walls that gave their troops even more protection as they pushed forward and began returning fire in earnest.

To Thea’s left, Chester, Marie, and Falks were now fully engaged as well, their rifles spitting carefully aimed bursts into the mass of advancing troops. 

The flow from the treeline didn’t slow, however—it thickened. 

More and more Stellar Republic soldiers poured into the field, their formations rippling forward like a living tide. Each line that pushed up seemed denser than the last, their advance gaining ground despite the initial losses. 

It wasn’t until the deep, rattling roar of the UHF’s heavy machine guns joined the fight that their momentum finally staggered. 

The emplacements along the trenchline lit up in a storm of muzzle flashes, spewing out sheets of high-calibre explosive rounds that shredded the hastily erected white-foam cover and chewed through anyone caught in the open; even pushing back and killing several of the Defensive Heavies that had been seemingly unstoppable so far.

The first salvo of explosive weaponry came at the same time—a rapid succession of concussive thuds and thunderclaps. 

Grenades, rockets and shells burst across the Stellar Republic’s forward positions, ripping foam barriers apart and blasting the soldiers behind them into chunks of armour and red mist. 

Dirt and burning debris rained down over the red-hued field, combining with the Duplicate sludge, body parts and blood into a sickeningly wet mucus. 

For a brief moment, the push faltered.

Next to Thea, Marie and Falks had kept firing throughout all of it as well, but their voices carried the edge of fraying nerves.

“Holy shit, they’re not stopping,” Marie muttered, working her rifle’s action faster now, swinging it around as she aimed at easily hittable targets here and there.

“No kidding,” Falks answered between bursts. “There’s too many of them—”

His words cut off in a scream as a round punched through the narrow opening of their embrasure, catching him high in the shoulder. 

The sound was raw and wet, followed by the thud of him hitting the trench floor.

“Shit! Falks!” Chester was on him instantly, kneeling down, gauntlets pressing hard against the wound.

“Keep still, it’s not fatal—stop thrashing! You’re making it worse!” Chester’s voice was firm, but his eyes flicked up every few seconds to check the embrasure.

“Fuck—hurts—” Falks hissed, breath ragged.

“No shit it hurts. Hold on. I’ve got you.”

Through it all, Thea’s scope stayed steady. 

She tracked movement, found another Duplicator, felt that familiar pressure in her chest, and fired. The round punched through his visor cleanly, and the duplicates around him scattered like smoke in the dark.

‘Recoil’s still kicking more than I’d like,’ she noted calmly as she aimed for the next person. 

Another shot. Another Duplicator down. 

The sound of Falks groaning behind her was like background noise now, mixing with Marie’s rapid-fire curses, worried questions about his status and Chester’s clipped medical instructions.

“Keep pressure on it—no, more—stop lifting your damn arm—”

‘Attachments are doing good work… for now. Might need spares for a fight like this—suppressor’s already starting to make the air shimmer… I wonder if it will last for the whole DM…’

“Aaahhhh! Fuck!” Falks screamed, voice cracking as Chester yanked the mangled remnants of the bullet from his shoulder, the metal clinking faintly as it hit the trench floor. 

The smell of burnt propellant and blood was thick in the air by now.

‘Maybe it’d be better not to have the suppressor screwed on at all right now,’ Thea mused, glancing at the heat shimmer distorting the front of her Gram. ‘There’s no real point in trying to be stealthy in the middle of a battlefield like this… probably a waste to keep it on.’

She exhaled slowly as she adjusted for the next target, and squeezed the trigger. 

Another clean hit. 

She didn’t bother to watch the body fall before shifting aim, sighting another Duplicator and sending him down a moment later.

That’s when a sudden, sharp pang flared in her chest. 

She leaned slightly towards the left, just in time for a laser to slice through the embrasure’s small opening, hissing past her head by mere millimeters and burning a molten groove into the dirt wall behind her. 

She didn’t flinch, didn’t dwell on it—just popped back into position and lined up the shot she’d spotted before the precognition had urged her to move. 

Another Duplicator down. 

His duplicates collapsed into heaps next to him right away.

“They’re never-ending! Fuck! Why are we in this fucking upscaled bullshit mission?!” Marie’s voice cracked with panic as she ducked down, clutching her rifle close. “How are we even supposed to do anything here?!”

The return fire from the Stellar Republic lines was only getting heavier, a relentless storm of rounds hammering the reinforced walls of their embrasure. 

Each impact rang out in sharp, metallic dinks or dull thuds, the ricochets sparking before disappearing into the churned-up haze. 

Bullets and laser bursts slammed into the sidewalls, tearing into packed earth and sending gritty clumps spraying into the air until a fine dust hung permanently in front of the trench like a dirty fog.

“Just keep firing!” Chester barked back over the chaos, one knee pressed to the trench floor as he jabbed a set of injectors into Falks’ neck. 

The suppressed bark of each of Thea’s shots was barely audible under the pounding gunfire from the battlefield.

“Fuck, man, why does this shit always hurt so much?!” Falks groaned, squirming under Chester’s grip. “I need to get me a fucking auto-injector for painkillers after this.”

Thea slapped a fresh magazine into her Gram—the first reload of the fight. 

She glanced at the Gauss variant leaning against the wall at her side. 

‘Maybe I should try it out soon,’ she thought, sliding the bolt forward to load the first round into the chamber with a satisfying click. ‘In a target-rich mess like this, I don’t really need the penetrative punch of Ballistic. Gauss should do just fine…’

Thea settled back into her scope, the rhythm of fire and target acquisition flowing as naturally as breathing—it felt undeniably great to be back in the action. Another Duplicator’s visor shattered under her crosshairs, his body collapsing and his clones with him. 

She spotted another target, exhaled, and squeezed—another headshot.

Then the twinge hit again. 

“Hey, Rookie, how are you doi—” Chester’s voice cut off mid-sentence as he caught sight of her movement. Without hesitation, she leaned right at the twinge, a pulse of heated air from a passing laser brushing her cheek as it smashed into the dirt wall.

She stayed in that slight lean, eyes locked on her scope, and fired, the recoil thumping into her shoulder as yet another Duplicator dropped.

“Doing good, thanks,” she replied flatly, not once looking away from the sight picture, already lining up her next target.

Chester stared at her for a beat longer before snapping his own rifle up and taking a few quick shots from his own embrasure. 

Thea’s high Perception caught his low mutter, barely audible under the chaos. “Fucking Wellis was right, these Cyans always overdo it to show they’re tough, huh? That was such a lucky reposition, holy fuck. I hope she’s not gonna die with the first shot that finally hits… I need those points… especially since we’ll all fucking die here anyway…”

Marie cursed under her breath as a streak of energy chewed the top edge of her firing position, continuously forcing her to duck, missing out on opportunities to fire back. 

Thea fired again, another Duplicator collapsing into the dirt.

Falks tried to pop up for a burst, only for a flurry of shots to slam into the lip of the trench, showering him with dirt and forcing him back down with a hiss. 

Thea shifted her aim and calmly took out another clone-maker before his decoys could vanish into the mob.

Even Chester was firing in short bursts rather than keeping up steady fire, the incoming counter-fire pounding their section hard enough to rattle the reinforced walls. 

Between his shots, Thea picked off another Duplicator, watching the ripple effect of their collapse open brief gaps in the advancing lines—gaps that were almost instantly filled again.

‘I missed this kind of chaos,’ she thought, an easy grin tugging at her mouth as she squeezed off another round. 

The Gram’s report thumped into her shoulder, the recoil pushing her sight just slightly off for the next target for a split second. ‘Ballistic version really isn’t bad at all… though I’d definitely be firing faster with the Laser one. Recoil’s a bit of a pain for this kind of pace.’

She flicked her eyes open to the [Resource] tab of her Profile, letting the transparent interface settle into the corner of her vision while she kept scanning for targets.

[Resources]
Focus: 261 / 225

Another pull of the trigger, another Duplicator’s head erupting. 

She squinted through the numbers floating in her view.

‘Hmm… I’m chewing through Focus pretty quick. Only been a few minutes and I’m already down fourteen. Precognition’s really draining, even just passively like this, huh?’

“Ah, fuck!” Marie’s scream cracked through the din to her left, followed by the frantic clatter of her rifle hitting the trench floor.

Chester was already halfway to her when she waved him off, breath coming fast. “I’m fine! I’m fine! Don’t worry—fuck—it’s just a ricochet, nothing happened.”

Thea’s didn’t really pay attention. ‘Maybe it’s time to mix things up… Opening my Gate a bit more should slow the drain. If I can find the perfect balance—enough recovery to keep the passive precog running without bleeding Focus dry—that’d be perfect.’

She centered her mind on the Gate within her chest, just behind her heart, feeling for that familiar point of pressure and heat. With slow, deliberate care, she eased it open a fraction wider, exactly the way she’d been taught—not forcing it, not rushing it.

‘Thank you for teaching me, Zach. I won’t waste your lessons,’ she thought, a flicker of reverence threading through her focus as she lined up another shot and sent a round tearing into the enemy ranks.

“There’s like a thousand of them!” Falks yelled, voice high with frustration, before snapping off another hurried shot and ducking back down. His helmet dipped as he shook his head, muttering under his breath, panic starting to creep in.

Thea’s gaze never left her scope. 

‘Let’s see if this is wide enough or if I need just a bit more…’

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[ND] Chapter 144 - Consequentia III

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Chapter 138 - Image has just released on RR with no major changes.

For the Fixers, this chapter has seen no changes.

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Things, somehow, get even worse? Oh lord.

WARNING: More Cliffhanger in this one than the last. Probably. Maybe.

But I know y'all don't care, you'll read it anyway.

Also a coloured sketch of the main woman in question:

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1nTNA1nZ1Q1H5aWPviGh7YqFgU8KhJgxj3sXrIfruBpY/edit?usp=sharing

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Chapter 144 - Consequentia III

The room hung in a tight, ugly pause after the armored man’s words—just the sound of Gabriel and me still straining against the agents holding us down, our grunts of effort going nowhere. 

Three seconds, maybe, before he finally turned back toward us.

“Well,” he said, voice dripping mock sympathy, “looks like she doesn’t really give a shit either way. What a mother, huh? I pity the both of you, truly…”

He jabbed a finger toward the extra agent standing next to me. “Anyway. This one’s getting the mental treatment; we’ll split it up between the two. See which part Viper actually cares about—if she cares at all. Inject her with a millilitre of her mom’s favorite—NeuroCorpse. Should get the girl screaming a bit. Might even leave something permanent behind. Who knows.”

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit at that.

‘Maybe I can’t actually tank the torture after all…!’

That was two and a half times the dosage Valeria had slipped into Gabriel’s and my food during her so-called “educational punishment.” 

And that had been beyond hell. 

The mere thought of taking that much NC now made my muscles lock up in raw terror despite my Ego trying to force me to keep struggling.

But the armored man wasn’t done. 

He flicked his attention toward the extra agent behind Gabriel. “We’ll just cut this one up. Maybe the Viper will feel something when there’s visual, permanent damage done to her heir. He’s the first-born son, after all—maybe that’ll finally stir something in that fucking freak.”

He raised his voice, not even bothering to turn toward Valeria this time. “You hear that, Viper? I’m going to cut up your first-born. Take his limbs, make him bleed out right here. Your girl’s getting her brain scrambled with NeuroCorpse, just like you love to do with our guys. Maybe she’ll even end up like me—permanent, irreversible nerve damage across an entire side of her body. Wouldn’t that be poetic? You’d get to look at her every single day and be reminded of me—for the rest of your lives.”

Valeria’s head lifted just enough for her voice to cut through the room like a blade. “Touch my children, Nyxstalker, and I guarantee you will regret it. I’ll make sure you live long enough to feel every moment of it. Don’t believe that you have seen what I am capable of, just because you’ve been my guest once before!”

The armored man—Nyxstalker, apparently—stopped dead for half a beat, then his mouth pulled into an ugly, wide grin; at least the portion of his face that worked. 

“Finally hit a nerve, have I?” he said, almost laughing. “Good. That just makes me more certain we’re going the right way here.”

Gabriel and I didn’t say anything—terror had us both by the throat. 

My eyes locked onto the agent beside me as they pulled out a syringe, the barrel filled with a faintly luminescent, grayish liquid that caught the light in a way that made my stomach twist.

I tried to pull back from it, dragging my cheek, jaw, even my shoulder across the rough carpet, trying to edge away, but the knee digging into my spine kept me nailed in place. 

I couldn’t move more than a few useless centimeters before the weight on me pressed harder.

My active-Ego kept me lucent enough to try to come up with a plan, but that was about all it managed to do at this point.

‘Okay… think. Narrow Twist? No—knee’s still pinning my lower back. Use [Venombite]? Wouldn’t even make a dent on him... Grab the syringe? Arms pinned, no chance. Bite? Too far, and I’d just get my jaw shattered for the trouble... Scream for help? That’ll just make them happy! Fuck! THINK SERA!’

Every route I ran through my head collapsed into the same dead end: There was no way out.

The agent with the syringe crouched down beside me, his gloved hand gripping the back of my head to keep me still. I thrashed anyway, teeth bared, but it didn’t matter—he drove the needle into the side of my neck with a brutal, unhesitating shove. 

The jab alone made me grunt, the sharp sting running deep as my muscles instinctively seized around it.

Somewhere to my left, Gabriel’s voice cracked into the air—high, panicked, and raw. 

“No—stop! Please, stop!” I had no idea what they were doing to him, couldn’t see through the press of bodies and armor, but the sound carved straight into my chest.

“Gabriel!” I screamed his name, my voice breaking halfway through it. 

I bucked under the weight pinning me, snapping at anything that came within reach—armor, gloves, whatever I could get my teeth on—but it was useless. My body wasn’t going anywhere, and the knee in my spine pressed harder every time I moved.

‘I have to help him—I have to—’

My mind spun through useless ideas, tripping over itself, trying to find a crack in the situation that wasn’t there.

Then the NeuroCorpse hit.

The familiar fire roared to life under my skin, moving fast. 

My eyes went wide, the recognition hitting me at the exact same time as the agony. 

Every nerve lit up at once, a white-hot burn that surged down my arms and legs, into my fingertips, into my teeth. 

It was just like last time—and it was only getting started.

I lasted exactly four seconds before the pain tore its way out of my throat. 

The scream ripped through me raw, ragged, and far too loud to hold back.

“You will pay for this, Nyxstalker!” Valeria’s voice lashed across the room, sharp enough to cut through even my own cries—and Gabriel’s. 

I could hear her struggling against the corpo agents restraining her, the violent clatter of boots and armor near the kitchen as she thrashed hard enough to make the floor vibrate.

Nyxstalker just laughed, low and cruel, as if the sound of us breaking was something he’d been waiting for. “Hah… so there are things you actually truly care about, huh, Viper? Who would’ve—”

He stopped mid-sentence, cutting himself off as abruptly as someone yanking a plug. 

His boots froze in place mid-step.

And at that exact same moment, Valeria’s thrashing went dead still as well.

The fire tearing through my nerves didn’t stop—it never did—but my active Ego kept it just barely contained enough for me to notice something was off. The agony was still there, chewing at every part of me, but a strange shift in the air cut through it.

Valeria and Nyxstalker had gone utterly still. Not tense. Not bracing. Just… still. 

It was wrong enough to catch even through the haze, and apparently I wasn’t the only one who noticed. A few of the corpo agents hesitated mid-movement, glancing between each other, before—one by one—they also froze in place.

The unnatural silence was utterly suffocating.

And then I finally heard it.

A deep, rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk, each step heavier than the last, like something several tons in weight was slowly, inevitably, making its way down the floor’s main hallway toward us. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in any residential building—hell, not even in a warzone.

The gauntleted hand on my back shifted. 

Fingers wrapped over my mouth, sealing it shut. Instinct kicked in and I bucked against it, thinking this was just the next stage of whatever they had planned—but then the voice came.

“Shhhhh! Be quiet, please!” The agent whispered, low and utterly terrified, right in my ear.

That’s when I realized—he wasn’t trying to hurt me. 

His grip was firm but not crushing, his palm pressing just enough to keep me quiet. 

This wasn’t part of the torture at all.

I forced myself to stop fighting, against all my instincts and impulses, my breathing loud in my own head as the rhythmic pulsing of pain continued to wreak through my body.

To my left, Gabriel’s groans dulled as well, his earlier screams cutting off into muffled, ragged breaths. It sounded like they’d clamped a hand over his mouth too—and whatever they’d been doing to him had stopped cold—or at least been paused.

The seconds dragged like hours, each thunk of those massive steps rattling closer, pressing the air out of the room. My muscles locked, every nerve still burning under the NeuroCorpse but forced still by sheer survival instinct. 

Then, finally, something emerged through the jagged breach in the hallway wall.

The impact of its footstep carried through the carpet, into my ribs, deep enough I felt it in my teeth.

A yellow light spilled across the room, harsh and clinical, and a voice rolled out—low, grinding, and unmistakably mechanical.

“Scanning…”

The word seemed to stretch on forever, each drawn-out second drilling into me. The pain clawed for my voice again, a scream swelling up my throat. I bit it back, but even the small buck of my shoulders was enough to make the yellow light suddenly flare orange.

The gauntlet over my mouth clamped down—hard. Pain spiked through my jaw as the grip tightened to the edge of breaking bone.

“MOVEMENT WILL BE CONSIDERED A HOSTILE ACTION UNTIL PREMMED HAS COMPLETED ASSESSMENT AND RETRIEVAL,” the booming voice declared, the sheer force of it vibrating in my chest.

It clicked in my head then—this was one of PremMed’s ‘Borgs.

I instinctively stopped breathing at the warning, even as my lung was already burning from the NeuroCorpse, my Ego straining hard to make everything work, somehow. 

The orange glow slowly faded back to yellow, then to a soft green.

“Scan completed. No hostile entities found. Assessment and Retrieval can begin.”

The words were barely done echoing when lighter footsteps tapped their way down the hallway—fast but unhurried, deliberate. 

They entered through the same breach the ‘Borg had filled seconds ago.

I could hardly see anymore, my eyes flooded and stinging, but a faint outline resolved through the blur—a person, small enough that they looked almost childlike beside the towering ‘Borg. 

White coat, the kind that screamed medical. 

They hummed and hawed to themselves as their gaze swept across the room, calm and methodical, as if none of us were half a breath from collapsing.

“Well, well, well… What a cute little apartment we have here. How quaint,” the man’s voice drifted in, casual and almost sing-song. The sheer disconnect between his relaxed tone and the room’s razor-wire tension scrambled my brain for a second.

“Let’s see, then… One code Black-Red…” He tutted to himself, stepping toward Oliver’s body. “Not good. Not good at all.”

The faint click-clack of his fingers tapping away at some handheld device followed, then a few crisp electronic chirps.

“Hmm, yes, I see…”

No one else moved. 

No one breathed louder than a whisper of air. 

Every corpo agent in the room, every one of us pinned down, froze like statues while the doctor went about his business.

“That is not good at all… thirty-four percent chance for complete recovery…? Oh no…” His voice was still smooth, but there was an undercurrent of disapproval now. He finally looked up at the corpo agent standing beside Oliver—the same one who’d pulled the trigger.

“This is your doing,” the doctor said flatly, not asking, just stating. “You are marked by the PremMed system as the perpetrator of this injury. Are you aware of what a thirty-four percent chance for complete recovery means, my dear sir?”

No answer. Not even a twitch.

“I thought not. Let me spell it out for you—it’s unacceptable. PremMed prides itself on a spotless record. Thirty-four percent isn’t just poor—it’s utterly atrocious. So…” he straightened slightly, “…we will have to work very hard to salvage this situation for our client.”

More taps on the device. 

A quiet hum rose somewhere to my left, followed by a faint gust of air brushing across my cheek. My angle, the tears blurring my vision—none of it let me see what he was doing, but then a faint shape drifted into view.

A floating stretcher-barge, its edges rimmed in that harsh Black-Red holographic tape.

It clicked in my head all at once.

‘He’s taking Oliver. Thirty-four percent chance… he might make it. Of course he will—it’s PremMed. They always guarantee survival unless you die outright. The damage afterward, though…’

“Dear sir,” the doctor went on, “it is my honor to speak the verdict for this infraction: A thirty-four percent chance for complete recovery, caused by your actions, is a direct violation of PremMed’s Terms and Service Agreements. While you yourself have not agreed to these terms, this individual has—” he gestured toward Oliver’s still form, “—which places you in breach of PremMed’s rights. With the authority vested in me as a PremMed Medical Specialist, I hereby proclaim the verdict for your crimes: Death.”

I couldn’t see the agent’s face, but the pause, the subtle shift in the room, told me he’d been blindsided by the calm, clinical sentencing.

“Wha—”

BOOM.

The ‘Borg didn’t even give him the chance to finish. 

One moment it stood in the center of the room, the next it was gone in a blur of metal and sheer mass, slamming into the target with bone-shattering force. The impact detonated armour and flesh alike, the wet spray that followed painting the entire side of the apartment in a red mist.

“Ugh… always so messy with this,” the doctor muttered, not missing a beat as he turned toward the hallway breach.

Halfway out, he stopped like he’d remembered a grocery list item. “Oh, right—thank you all for your cooperation. I wish you a wonderful rest of your day. If any of you are interested in enjoying the benefits of PremMed insurance, please contact our headquarters for potential package options… I believe that’s all... Yes, that’s it. Have a great day.”

And just like that, he strolled out, the stretcher-barge gliding beside him. 

The ‘Borg—now smeared in blood—followed with slow, thunderous steps, leaving the apartment in an oppressive, shocked silence.

Meanwhile, my head was weirdly clear, even if my body screamed otherwise. My Ego was definitely working at the very edge of what it could provide, forcing focus through the static haze.

Maybe it was the momentary pause in the chaos, maybe it was knowing Oliver was still breathing—even if he might wake up with half his body in pieces—or maybe it was just the bizarre sense that something about all this didn’t add up. 

Whatever it was, it gave me enough mental room to actually think coherent thoughts for the first time in minutes.

‘Why is this NeuroCorpse so weak…?’ The thought stood out like a red flag in my head, completely at odds with the fire racing through my nerves. 

But it wasn’t wrong. 

‘It’s two and a half times the dose from last time. I should be drooling on the floor right now. Even with my Ego being higher now, there’s no way I should still be this… functional.’

I forced myself to drag up the memory of the last time I’d been hit with it, even though every part of me wanted to shove that memory back into whatever dark corner it came from. 

I remembered the fog rolling in so thick I could barely breathe, the way thought itself had slipped out of reach. 

Compared to that, this felt… severely dulled.

‘Last time, I couldn’t even string thoughts together by this point. So how the hell am I still lucid now…?’

The room stayed dead quiet for a few heartbeats, everyone still locked in that PremMed-induced stillness. 

Then Nyxstalker’s voice finally cut through, smooth and unbothered like nothing had happened. “Well… now that that’s out of the way, let’s continue with what we were doing, shall we? Unless you want to finally speak-the-fuck-up, Viper? Tell me what I want to know and we can stop this farce. These kids have nothing to do with any of it; why are you making me do this, you psychotic blank?”

Something was off—different from last time—but I couldn’t pin down what or why.

‘Sure, I’ve got more Body now and my Ego’s way higher than before… but it still shouldn’t be this much of a difference…’ The thought ran in loops, half-frantic, while I tried to piece it together as fast as possible. 

I ran through everything I’d gained since then—Perks, Skill levels, Attribute upgrades—anything that might mess with NeuroCorpse.

Then an idea hit me.

‘The food…! It boosted blood filtration, right? Maybe that’s—’ I cut the thought short almost immediately. 

No, that didn’t add up. 

NeuroCorpse was built to drop augmented people, and they’d definitely have filtration implants or bionics. 

It wouldn’t make sense for that to be enough.

I forced myself to stop spiraling. 

Cracking the mystery now wasn’t going to save me, even if knowing might help me ditch the NeuroCorpse. 

The important thing was, I already had a way out.

‘Doesn’t matter why. I’m stronger, my Ego’s better. I can ride this out and make it work this time.’

This was going to be hell.

I let myself drop, using [Elemental Balance] to lock every muscle in my body into a state of complete limpness. 

“Huh?” The corpo agent on my back sounded thrown. “Boss, I think she’s out…? Want me to—?”

“Out?” Nyxstalker’s voice carried real confusion—then a low chuckle. “Oh, no. Don’t worry. She’ll be back. NeuroCorpse doesn’t let you pass out, no matter the pain. Just keep her pinned—she’ll thrash like crazy when the next wave wakes her up again.”

He turned to the agents by Gabriel. “Little quiet in here for my taste. Cut off his other arm.”

‘Other arm?!’ Every instinct screamed to lunge at them, but [Elemental Balance] and my Ego boxed my rage in before it could blow. ‘Gabriel… hold on.’

I forced my focus inward. 

‘One minute,’ I told my Ego. ‘Block the pain from touching my thoughts for one minute, no matter what you have to give up.’

My muscles tried to seize and jerk with the command, as the active-Ego that had been keeping them under control from the spasms was redirected to the new goal, but [Elemental Balance] froze me in place. 

It was like my whole body cramped at once, every nerve firing in perfect, unbearable unison. 

I couldn’t even breathe.

Didn’t matter. No time to waste.

I let my thoughts sink into stillness, pushing everything else out—Gabriel’s screams, Valeria’s venomous shouting, Nyxstalker’s taunts and laughing—until there was only the quiet I forced myself to feel.

‘The pain’s weaker. I’m stronger. Relax where there’s no room to relax. Calm down, Sera.’

It was the only move left to me. My last shot.

Last time, it had failed.

This time, it wouldn’t. 

It couldn’t.

Time stretched and snapped in the same instant before the chime I’d been clawing toward finally rang inside my head.

[System]: [Serenity] Perk activated successfully.
[System]: [Serenity] Perk has cleansed User of 2x Negative Ailments: 1x Poison, 1x Network Jamming.

‘It cleansed the Jam?!’ For a heartbeat I thought I’d read it wrong, but no—it made sense.

In game terms, a network jam was technically a debuff.

My Ego slammed into a crash right after, the corpo agent’s weight drilling sharp pain into my spine. 

Didn’t matter.

I knew exactly what came next. 

I cracked my eyes just enough to trigger my cerebral interface, darting straight to the message function. It was still there, littered with dozens of error flags.

[HELP US! CORPO AGENTS!] 

I mentally slammed the button to send it to Mr. Stirling.

A heartbeat, yet a seemingly endless moment later, the system chimed once:

[Message successfully sent…]

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[TAS] Volume 2 - Chapter 46 - Digital Marine

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Volume 2 - Chapter 41 - UHF 101: Challenges & Aces has just released on RR with no changes.

For the Wolf Lords, this chapter is unchanged.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

------

o7

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Ri3RMUk8fh6vabdWjnHHpus4w3T-M-RDkf7ImB4idWI/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 46 - Digital Marine

[Forum Thread: “MMM – Anything And Everything We Know”]
Page #5973
Thread Start Date: Month 4, Day 12, PFC 935
Current Page Date: Month 8, Day 15, PFC 943

[HexaBladeX90]: So uh, not tryna stir shit, but has anyone heard anything about MMM in the last like… year and a half? Their site’s still dead, socials are nuked, last archive update was almost two years ago.
Starting to think they’re actually just gone. Anyone got something?

[RecoilReaper]: @HexaBladeX90 Bro.
If MMM even farted near a digital terminal, this entire fucking forum would implode; and not just this one. Don’t you think if there was anything, we’d already be neck-deep in ten thousand posts dissecting it pixel by pixel?
No. Nobody knows shit. Still MIA. Still nothing. Not gonna change either.

[BioCharger]: @HexaBladeX90 Let the dead rest, man. MMM was a ghost the moment that “Tidal Core” build dropped. No notes. No patch follow-up. No fucking goodbye. Just poof.
Either they got picked up by corp dev teams or burned out like everyone else with talent in this goddamn scene.

[CreepingModem]: I’m new, sorry if this is the wrong spot, but who exactly was MMM? I don’t exactly have time to read 6k fucking pages. Who or what even was MMM? Only been playing Archion a couple months, so I’m completely out of the loop on this.

[NanoFish32]: @CreepingModem TLDR? Sure, here goes:
MMM was THE build-maker. Not “one of the top.” THE.
Like, galaxy-shaking, balance-breaking, dev-team-responding level of builds.
You know “Stormborn Spec”? “Riftdrift Swapper”? “Dustfire Trickster”?
That was all them.

[Cr1tFetish]: @CreepingModem @NanoFish32 Nah. I respect the legacy but MMM was kinda overrated tbh. Good builds, yeah. But y’all act like they were the Emperor-incarnate or some shit. The meta was always gonna shift—MMM just rode the wave better than most; all there’s to it. Stop dick-riding the dead so hard.

[DirgeBox]: Dude, disrespectfully: Cope harder *******, @Cr1tFetish, you’re on fucking Glitter you fucking ********* [Moderator Warning: Watch your language, @DirgeBox. User muted for 30 minutes, reason: Offensive Language.]
MMM didn’t ride the wave. MMM was the wave.
There’s a reason people still compare every new build maker to them even years later. They dropped like 80+ builds, and except the first 10-15, almost every single one defined an era.

[Brainracked]: Speaking of—does anyone actually know anything about MMM? Like, real info? Not rumors. I remember some people saying they were like 15 or 16 during the height of their run, what’s with that?

[Autoweld42]: Closest thing to facts I’ve seen was the rundown on Page 3,874:
– Estimated age during peak activity: 15-18
– Supposedly female, but they never really interacted with anyone, so proof is missing
– Known builds: 87 (not counting variants)
– First known post: Archived on an old 933 forum buildlist
– Disappearance: Somewhere start-of-941
– No confirmed IRL identity, 0 confirmed IRL appearances at tournaments
– Several builds got direct patch nerfs after launch
– Last build was “Tidal Core”

[GlitchFeast]: Also hold the fuck up—“15-18 during their peak”? That makes no Emperor-damned sense. You’re telling me MMM started dropping top-tier meta builds at what, age 5? No fucking way that’s true. Check your math, dude.
Like what kind of mutant drops meta-breaking tech before finishing primary school?

[GravitonPunch]: @Autoweld42 Double digits doesn’t sound impressive when you put it like that, but remember that every single one was basically THE build of its meta, except maybe the earliest dozen or two. MMM was quality over quantity, for real.

[PulseHawk]: Learn to read @GlitchFeast Not five. @Autoweld42 specifically said “during their peak.” First posts in PFC933, vanished in PFC941. That’s an 8-year window. So they could’ve started around 7-10 on the low-end, would be around 17-20 or so by now, if they’re still alive. Still insane, but at least a bit more plausible.

[QuietStorm]: @Autoweld42 What kind of Emperor-forsaken fanfic horseshit is this? A girl, aged 17-20, is supposed to be the legendary build maker? Y’all high on Glitter in here or something, just making up fantasies to jerk to at night? “Uhhh yaaaa gamer girl, give me the build and then come join me in bed, baybee!” Next you’re gonna tell me she’s also super pretty and exotic in some way, huh?

[C0rruptionByte]: @Pulsehawk @Glitchfest @Autoweld42 I heard the first dozen builds weren’t solo anyway. Some of the earlier ones were collabs. I think the other guy was “dRelic” or something? He went corporate after that and wiped all his stuff.

[SandDagger7]: @Pulsehawk @Glitchfest @Autoweld42 @C0rruptionByte Nah, you’re mixing names. It was “Keystone-Kai.” That dude dropped off even earlier, but I remember they co-authored “Phantom Array Splitter” together. Last known build tag had both their sigs.

[WraithNull]: @Pulsehawk @Glitchfest @Autoweld42 @C0rruptionByte @SandDagger7 All of you are wrong. MMM only ever worked with one other creator, ever. Name was “EchoLimn.” He was the prodigy before MMM blew up. Everyone thought he ghosted, but I always believed he mentored MMM before peacing out. You can see it in the decision trees, the tactical structuring… it’s too similar.

[SandDagger7]: @Pulsehawk @Glitchfest @Autoweld42 @C0rruptionByte @WraithNull Source? Anything?

[WraithNull]: Just patterns, instincts. I’ve studied those builds more than most of you have played Archion for. If you know, you know.

[BioCharger] By the Emperor’s golden udder-soaked undercloth, here we go again with the conspiracy shit. Can’t go five pages without someone dragging ghost mentors and thought-ghosts into it.

[CreepingModem]: So basically… they were a legend, possibly started as a kid, might be a hot babe at prime age but also might be some bunker dweller on a Frontier-World for all anyone knows, might’ve been mentored, nobody knows where they went, and everyone’s still fighting over what they meant. Oh and they might also just be dead.
Got it.
Damn. Archion community really is built different, huh…?

======

======

Ten minutes after Corvus had helped her to the bed, Thea heard a soft knock on the door again.

“Come in,” she called, her voice back to something close to normal. 

Not quite strong yet, but clear, at least.

She still felt like her whole body had been wrung out and left to dry, but the aching grief  wasn’t consuming her anymore. It was just there now—sharp and heavy—but bearable. 

The small metal plate still clutched in her hand helped. It grounded her.

Corvus stepped inside, giving a subtle nod to someone just out of sight as he entered and quietly shut the door behind him.

‘Probably Kara,’ Thea thought, the familiar guilt crawling in again. ‘She did say she’d wait nearby… I should thank her—again.’

It felt like she’d done that a dozen times already, and it still wasn’t enough. 

She wasn’t used to this kind of reliance, this kind of closeness. 

Needing people. Trusting them. Letting herself be seen like this. 

Every time it happened, she couldn’t help but feel like she was tipping some invisible scale too far in her direction.

‘I need to find a way to be there for her too,’ she thought, jaw tightening. ‘I can’t just keep dumping my shit on her, relying on her over and over again without giving anything back and calling it friendship.’

Her thoughts scattered as Corvus walked over, pulling something from the small duffle bag he’d been carrying. 

It was the whole reason he’d left earlier.

An old-looking, metal lockbox.

It looked like something from another era—gunmetal gray, slightly scuffed on the corners, with a simple mechanical latch on the front. 

No digital pad, no biometrics. 

Just a keyhole and a short handle on top.

“I managed to convince the Sovereign to pick one up and send it over,” Corvus explained, holding it out for her. “Alpha Squad perks.”

He gave her a small smile, but before she could protest, his tone turned firm.

“Don’t even try to argue the cost. It’s going under the Squad Fund. I’m getting one for everyone eventually. You’re not going to be the only person in this team who loses someone. And having a place like this? It matters.”

He gave a small shrug. “It’s something a lot of Marines do. Has been for decades. My parents still have theirs. My grandfather carried his with him till he couldn’t anymore. You keep pieces of them—names, tags, bits and pieces. So you don’t forget. And so you’ve got somewhere to put it when it all gets a bit too heavy.”

Thea opened her mouth, paused, then shut it again. 

She really couldn’t argue with that.

When she accepted the box from him, she nearly fumbled it—it was heavier than she’d expected. Not massive, maybe a bit over 35cm wide and long, less than 15cm tall, but it had real weight to it. 

‘Barely big enough for the Icicle,’ her mind offered, but she dismissed the thought instantly.

Instead, she placed it gently down again, turned the key with a satisfying metallic click, and opened it.

‘So much empty space inside. Too much. And yet… not nearly enough.’

Thea stared at it in silence, feeling the dread settle low in her stomach. 

Someday, this box would be full. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next. 

But if she stayed in this war long enough… it would fill. 

They always did.

Her Old Man had several boxes just like it. All filled to the brim.

Carefully, she reached into her palm and lifted the small, scratched plate she’d carved earlier. 

“Z-A-C-H.” Uneven. Jagged. But undeniably hers.

She placed it inside almost reverently.

But when she reached for the lid, her hand paused. 

Her mouth moved before she could stop it.

“Thank you, Zach,” she whispered. “For showing up when it mattered. For giving a damn. For helping me figure things out… And I’m sorry.”

She closed the box, twisting the key slowly until it clicked again.

Then, she crossed the room to her wardrobe and pulled open the lowest drawer. 

Her old pullover from Lumiosia lay folded neatly inside, next to the tournament controller she’d brought with her. The only two things she had carried from her old life into this one.

She placed the lockbox beside the controller.

For a long moment, she just stood there—hand resting on the cool metal lid, eyes closed, letting the silence settle around her like a heavy blanket.

Then, slowly, she reached for the controller. 

Her fingers curled around it like they’d never forgotten the shape—like years of muscle memory came flooding back the instant she touched it. Even after everything that had happened, even after Integration, the grip felt natural; familiar.

“You’re not the only one anymore… Wish neither of you were gone,” she whispered. 

She knew Corvus was still in the room, probably close enough to hear her but strangely enough, for once, that vulnerability didn’t bother her overly much.

Turning the controller over, she carefully popped off the modified plastic-aluminum cover at the back, revealing the worn-down metal plate screwed into the chassis. 

The lettering—once easily legible, if scrappy and horribly scratched from her attempts at scratching the name—was now barely legible, faded by time and use. 

Her fingertips brushed over the etched letters, following every scratched groove with care.

‘It’s stupid how much affection I have for a dumb name like that,’ she thought, her throat tightening. ‘I wish you’d told me who you really were outside Archion… even just once. At least you stopped swapping them all the time for me...’

A pained, bittersweet smile flickered across her lips. 

She clicked the cover back into place—carefully, reverently. 

She had made it long ago to shield the plate, once she realized how fast the name was fading. 

She could’ve re-scratched it, sharpened the letters, made them clear again.

But that would’ve made it… different.

‘It wouldn’t mean the same thing anymore, would it?’

And now, with a second plate—Zach’s plate—resting quietly in her lockbox, she knew that the thought would return again. And again. And again.

But just like her Old Man had told her, “the fading doesn’t matter. The memory does.”

She placed the controller gently beside the box and closed the wardrobe with care.

Then, standing in front of it, she finally took a breath—deep and unshaking.

It didn’t magically fix anything. She didn’t expect it to. But something uncoiled in her chest. 

Something raw and clawing finally settled, even if just for now.

“Zach. NotADuck… I’ll remember you both. And whoever comes after. I won’t die. And I won’t let you be forgotten,” she murmured, touching the wardrobe door one last time.

She turned away, stepping toward the door where Corvus waited, standing at a polite distance, hands behind his back. He clearly pretended not to have heard a thing.

“Thank you, Corvus,” she said as she approached. “For… well, everything. I’m sorry for—”

“Don’t even start with that shit,” Corvus cut her off with a raised brow and a firm tone. “You’re part of my squad. Helping you when you’re hurting is the bare minimum as a Squad Leader. And more than that…” He softened slightly. “I consider you a friend, Thea. And that’s what friends do. We show up when needed.”

Thea blinked. She hadn’t expected that.

Especially not Corvus swearing, that was a new one.

But even more importantly, that last part had surprised her quite a lot.

‘Corvus… considers me his friend? Since when…?!’

“I… I… Thank you,” she stammered, forcing down a half dozen apologies and ‘sorry’s that were trying to worm their way out of her throat. 

Feeling like if she missed this chance, she’d have to wait a long time for another, she quickly added, “Ehh… I’d like to be your friend, also.” 

Corvus blinked a few times at that, until he simply smiled and nodded, “I’d like that. Yeah.”

He lingered for a moment longer, watching Thea carefully. “So… You doing alright now? Or, well… as alright as can be?”

She offered a faint smile and a short nod. “Yeah. I am. Thanks to you—and Kara. I’ll be okay now. You’ve done more than enough.”

He gave her one last glance, a final check to see if she meant it. 

Then, satisfied, he gave a short nod and turned toward the door. 

As he opened it, Thea’s voice stopped him.

“Hey—can you send Kara back in?”

She didn’t need to wait long. 

Karania had clearly been standing just outside, arms crossed, foot tapping in impatience. 

She slipped inside before the door had even fully closed behind Corvus.

“You alright now?” she asked.

“I’m better,” Thea said, motioning her inside fully. “Thanks to you. Again.”

Karania tilted her head slightly, as if inspecting her. “Good. I was worried.”

Thea hated how much she felt like she owed her at this point. 

Every time something went sideways, it was Kara picking up the pieces without hesitation. 

And what did she ever give back, really?

‘I’ve got to figure out how to balance this soon… somehow.’

“I am going to run a few checks,” Karania continued, already pulling out her datapad again. “Just to make sure that hypoxia didn’t fry your brain more than usual. You can either try and resist me, at which point you will suffer slightly more hypoxia before getting tested, or you can let me do my thing.”

Thea didn’t exactly feel like getting jabbed with whatever relaxant Karania had prepared for situations like this—or getting choked out, if her warning was anything to go by.

So, she simply groaned and rolled her eyes, but didn’t resist…

—

Twenty minutes and several eye-rolls later, Thea finally got the all-clear.

“So,” she said, tucking the pad away and giving Thea a once-over. “What now? Going to lie down? Get some rest?”

Thea paused, considering it for a heartbeat. 

Then she stood up, stretched her back, and cracked her knuckles.

“I think… I think I need to shoot some people.”

Karania raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Not real ones,” Thea clarified quickly. “I just—look, I could really use something to take my mind off all this. Get some frustration out. And, I mean—lucky thing that something just opened up, like, an hour ago, huh?” 

Karania rolled her eyes so hard, her entire head moved. “Of course your first thought would be the damn Digital Missions.”

Thea smirked, shrugging. “I never said I wasn’t predictable.”

But Kara simply shrugged and added, “Well… I won’t lie. I’ve been curious about them too. If you’re going to be stupid about it, I might as well be stupid with you. Or, at least, at the same time as you, considering that we can’t go in together.”

“Now that is the kind of medical analysis I can get behind,” Thea grinned.

“That’s… That’s not a medical—Ah, whatever…” Karania tried, but the soul of the argument left her before she could even really get into it. 

“Come on then, you lunatic,” Kara sighed, already heading for the door. “Let’s go head up to the DMD then and “shoot some people” to make you happy.”

Thea simply grinned at that as she followed Karania out of the room, and two of them headed towards the DMD on Deck L-24…

—

Arriving at the Digital Mission Deck, Thea and Karania stepped through the bulkhead doors alongside a cluster of Recruits they’d run into on the way. 

The moment they entered, it was obvious—the deck was packed to the brim.

Thea’s eyes swept the room, quickly estimating at least three hundred Recruits already crowding around the dozen Recruit-class terminals near the entrance. The Private-ranked stations, she remembered from the lecture earlier, were further in—neatly sectioned off with brighter terminal pillars and quieter lines.

“Wow,” she muttered, taking it all in. “It’s really full, huh?”

“No kidding…” Karania replied, before giving Thea a light nudge forward and casually placing a hand on her shoulder, gently steering her like a living battering ram for social interactions.

“Wait—what are you—?!” Thea started to ask, but Karania was already moving them both forward with purpose, guiding her directly into the shoulder of another Recruit.

The bump wasn’t rough, but it was enough to get the guy to turn around with a scowl—only to flinch hard the second his eyes met Thea’s. He blinked twice, mouth halfway open, then wordlessly stepped aside and disappeared into the crowd like a ghost.

It took Thea half a second to register what just happened.

‘No fucking way… She’s using me as a fear aura tank…!’

Sure enough, the further they pressed into the crowd, the more heads turned—and the more people scrambled to get out of their way. Recruits moved like parting water, recognizing Thea with wide, sometimes legitimately panicked-looking, eyes and practically dragging their squadmates aside in the process. 

The ripple effect was immediate. 

A push here, a shift there, and suddenly they were advancing through the mess with barely a struggle.

She shot Karania a deadpan look. “I can’t believe you’ve weaponized me like this?!”

Karania didn’t even blink. “Technically, it was your Old Man that did. I didn’t teach you to be this way, must’ve been him. And also: Worked, didn’t it?”

Thea’s mouth hung agape for a moment, before she had to whip around again as she lightly bumped into another Recruit’s back, the earlier experience repeating itself once again.

“Unbelievable…” She muttered, but couldn’t help but be similarly amused and horrified at what Karania was putting her through.

“That’s her!” someone hissed nearby, somewhere to the left—too fast for Thea to catch who it was.

“Oh shit, fucking Alpha Squad coming through…!” a second voice muttered as the group ahead split like a school of fish, heads down and avoiding eye contact.

The absolute worst part of all this? It was working… and flawlessly at that.

More voices called out from the crowd as Thea and Karania continued their effortless push forward.

“Yo, isn’t that the scary sniper chick from the Awards Ceremony?”

“Move, idiot! Do you want to end up on her fucking bad side?!”

“I swear I just looked at her eyes and I thought I died, what the fuck?! Get out of my way, I gotta get the fuck out of here—!”

“Dude, that’s her. Don’t look—just don’t look, man!”

Most of the crowd didn’t even wait to recognize Karania. 

The moment Thea’s face was visible, people turned aside, stepped back, or flat-out backed into other squads in their rush to make space. Every single person who made eye contact with her flinched, looked away, or suddenly found something very interesting to do with their datapad—except for one.

That one person, a short, sharp-eyed girl near the edge of the commotion, didn’t flinch. 

She met Thea’s eyes for a full second. No challenge, no fear—just a calm, curious stare. 

And then she was gone, swallowed by the sea of shifting Recruits before Thea could even get a proper look at her. She had been so surprised to not be met with the usual flinch, that she had completely blacked out on trying to clock her.

But there wasn’t time to dwell on it.

Because, somehow, they had made it to the terminals. 

In record time.

The sea of bodies behind them closed back in almost seamlessly, as if the parting never happened, while Thea and Karania stepped up to a terminal that had just miraculously opened. 

A moment ago, a full group of Recruits had been huddled around it, but now? 

Completely clear. 

Either they’d overheard the ruckus or had simply recognized the name Alpha Squad being thrown around and made the executive decision to vacate.

Karania strolled up to it like she owned the place, flashing the most insufferable, self-satisfied grin Thea had ever seen on her. 

It wasn’t just a grin—it was a declaration.

“Are you fucking proud of yourself?” Thea muttered under her breath, annoyed, as she stepped up beside her.

“Immensely,” Karania whispered back, practically vibrating from smugness.

Thea groaned softly and pinched the bridge of her nose.

She felt… utterly humiliated. 

That part was undeniably true. 

Being the center of that much attention was something she would never be comfortable with. 

But yet… Somehow, this time, it hadn’t felt… bad? 

It didn’t make any sense.

Her cheeks were flushed, her pulse a little too quick, but there had been something weirdly fun about being dragged so far out of her comfort zone like that.

‘Damn it… I don’t know how you do this to me, Kara.’

Even more than that, though—she couldn’t argue with the result. 

They were exactly where she wanted to be, faster than she ever thought possible. 

And after everything she’d been through in the last hour? That was something she could appreciate more than comfort.

Pushing all of that aside for now, Thea decided to simply get going with what she came for, and opened the terminal’s interface—ignoring the loud chatter behind her that was very much audible, even without her high levels of Perception.

She was greeted by a selection of three different Digital Missions, all listed as Grade 0:

[Helix Prime Assault] (Grade 0)
Type: Assault
Duration: 8h
Respawns: 0
Completion Reward: 130 System Credits
Condition: Rainy
Special Condition: None
Short-Briefing: Assault an entrenched Stellar Republic position on the Helix Prime ridgeline. Expect strong resistance, heavy artillery, and terrain penalties due to mud and limited visibility.

[Tauron-6 Defense] (Grade 0)
Type: Hold The Line
Duration: 6h 45m
Respawns: 0
Completion Reward: 115 System Credits
Condition: Nighttime
Special Condition: None
Short-Briefing: Defend a Forward Operating Base under siege from Stellar Republic forces until reinforcements arrive. Limited ammo supply and wave-based enemy behavior expected.

[Dagon's Field] (Grade 0)
Type: Point Assault
Duration: 7h 30m
Respawns: 1
Completion Reward: 150 System Credits
Condition: Snowy
Special Condition: Infiltrator
Short-Briefing: Push deep into enemy lines and capture two strategic points on the northern slope. Stealth is advised, but open combat is likely unavoidable. Expect mixed terrain and low visibility. 

‘Huh… Neat. It’s just like in Sundawn; you get a mini-mission brief, parameters, special modifiers and everything…! That’s so cool!’ Thea thought, grinning to herself as her eyes skimmed across the terminal. 

The whole interface just felt right—simple, clean, and intuitive, like she was back home at the arcade again. Except this time, it wasn’t a game. 

But damn if it didn’t feel like one right now.

Her gaze locked on the red Infiltrator tag next to the [Dagon’s Field] mission. 

Curiosity piqued, she tapped it, just as she would have in Sundawn. A new window popped up immediately with the modifier details—just like she remembered from her gaming days.

‘Terra, you sneaky, sneaky bastards… Just how long have you been prepping all of us for this kind of stuff…?’

[Special Modifier: Infiltrator]
One or multiple members of your platoon for this mission will be hostile infiltrators, aiming to sabotage as many objectives and eliminate as many members of your platoon as possible. Finding, identifying, and neutralizing the infiltrators will award additional System Credits upon successful Completion of the Mission.

“You seeing this whole Infiltrator thing?” Thea asked without looking up, tilting her screen slightly toward Karania, who was just a step to her left, poking around her own mission list.

“Infiltrator? No idea what that is—hang on, let me see.” Kara leaned in, eyes scanning the modifier readout. “Huh… I don’t even have that one. The only modifier I’ve got says Faultline. Something about high seismic instability, sinkholes, and a warning that explosive weapons might trigger environmental collapses.”

Thea raised an eyebrow. “So it’s randomized then… We’re not even getting the same missions at all.”

“Guess that’s what the Professor meant when he said they were solo runs. Makes sense if no two people get the same options, right?” Kara said, already eyeing her own screen again. “I think I’ll try this Faultline thing. It sounds chaotic—and it's been a while since I’ve had to handle cave-in or tremor-related injuries. Could be fun.”

She looked back up at Thea with a crooked smile. “You know what? I get it now. I’m starting to see why you were so excited about this whole Digital Mission thing.”

Thea smirked. “Told ya it would be awesome.”

She scrolled back through her own list and tapped on [Tauron-6 Defense].

‘Started with a Hold The Line back in the Cube Trial… Might as well do the same here with the DMs. I’ll try the Infiltrator stuff later—right now, I just want to shoot some people and work off some of today’s business…’

“Alright,” Thea said aloud, standing up straight, finger hovering over the confirmation prompt. “I’m going in. Catch you in seven-ish hours?”

“Sounds good,” Karania replied, already locking in her own selection. “Mine’s a little shorter, so I’ll probably be in the lounge when you’re out. Just shoot me a ping.”

Thea gave her a quick thumbs-up, then pressed the confirm button.

[Mission Selected: Tauron-6 Defense (Grade 0)]
You will be transported to the staging area momentarily…
Loading UHF Marine profile…
Assessment Award Medals detected.

A new prompt suddenly appeared, flickering softly in her field of vision.

Do you want to display your highest available Medal as part of your issued armour set? (It will be built into the suit, just above the heart, as if it had been properly integrated by an Armoursmith.)

Y / N

She paused, finger just centimeters from the display.

‘Huh… It’s like the tournament awards back then… That’s so cool.’ A quiet smile tugged at her lips. ‘I guess Major Quinn did say these were actual medals, forged from the real materials they represented. So I guess it makes sense they could be built into your suit like that…’

Her thoughts wandered for a moment. ‘Still have to figure out what the fuck Crysium even is… and what it actually does. Might be better to wait until I know if the material has any weird side effects—or effects in general—before I use it for something. But since this is just a Digital Mission...’

She made her decision. 

Her finger shifted and tapped the prompt.

There was a soft chime from the terminal—and then, in an instant, everything around her went dark…

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[ND] Chapter 143 - Consequentia II

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Chapter 137 - Downloads, Downloads, Downloads has just released on RR with no major changes.

For the Fixers, this chapter has seen no changes.

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Things get worse. Strap yourselves in.

WARNING: More Cliffhanger in this one than the last.

But I know y'all don't care, you'll read it anyway.

Also a coloured sketch of the main woman in question:

-----

I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZMbPd-5uitfKN3A3lPdv7VJ3NQtKH_jb7eNxdw2QfDY/edit?usp=sharing

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Chapter 143 - Consequentia II

“Now then,” the large armored man’s voice cut in from the kitchen, pulling me out of my desperate, failed attempts to get a message out. “Let’s have a little chat, Viper. Long overdue, don’t you think?”

He paused mid-sentence, like something had just occurred to him. 

I couldn’t see much—my face was still mashed into the carpet—but I heard the faint creak of his armor as he straightened up.

“You,” he said, voice snapping in another direction—somewhere to my left, “do not, under any circumstances, hurt that man. Rough him up if you want, but no lasting harm, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply from further left.

‘That’s the guy who’s got Oliver, right?’ I tried to shift my head, but the knee digging into my spine sent pain shooting all the way to my fingertips. 

Any real movement was out of the question.

The armored man started to turn back toward Valeria, then stopped again, reconsidering. 

His voice came sharper this time, aimed at the same agent.

“Listen—I feel like you might have heard me say ‘don’t hurt him,’ but I really need you to understand me: Do not, under any circumstances, harm that man. He’s got PremMed Insurance. You mess this up even slightly, and all your colleagues have died for nothing getting us in here. Got it?”

That got my attention. 

I managed to angle my head just enough to catch a sliver of Oliver’s face. 

The flicker of surprise there was a perfect mirror of my own.

‘I/He have/has PremMed?!’

PremMed wasn’t your average top-tier coverage—it was the top-tier coverage.

In Neon Dragons, it was the medical equivalent of god mode—so broken it wasn’t even available to Players. The devs had been asked about it in multiple interviews and straight-up admitted they had no idea how to balance something that ridiculous, so they’d just locked it out of Player access entirely.

PremMed was built as a fail-safe, an NPC-only buff for special, story-critical characters—basically a way to disincentivize Players from killing them, even by accident, and nuking entire questlines. 

Full-spectrum recovery from anything short of total vaporization, cutting-edge biotech, and regeneration tech that made cloning look like a children’s toy—all wrapped into one disgustingly overpowered package.

But the real benefit people paid for? The field team.

If a PremMed client was injured badly enough to risk more than a day or two of downtime, a retrieval unit would be on-site in minutes. And they weren’t just medics—they rolled in with cybernetically enhanced ‘Borgs built for heavy combat.

They were combat-ready, fully augmented ‘Borgs packing military-grade hardware, the kind of muscle that could go toe-to-toe with fucking MaxTech. Not as well-trained, maybe, and not as many, but the fact that they could even be compared was terrifying enough.

How Oliver had gotten himself on that list was, hands down, the most impossible part of tonight. And that was saying something, considering everything else I’d seen in the last few minutes. Even Valeria—based on what I’d managed to dig up on her so far—was nowhere near the level of influence or wealth needed to get within sniffing distance of PremMed.

“Y… Yes, sir! I understand, sir! No harm will be done!” the agent barked back, sounding almost rattled. I saw the pressure on Oliver’s back ease slightly. He immediately tried to twist free, but the knee came back down hard, pinning him again with a thud.

The armored man finally turned his attention back to Valeria. “Now—where were we? Ah, right. Sorry about that. Can’t have PremMed waltzing in here and ruining all our fun, yeah?”

Valeria hadn’t said a word the whole time. 

She just stared him down—cold, silent, and utterly unreadable. And from the look in her eyes, she wasn’t planning to break that silence anytime soon.

“You really gotta make this difficult, huh?” he said with a long, almost tired sigh, leaning one hip against what was left of the central kitchen counter. The thing was more rubble than furniture—shattered stone, splintered supports, dust still drifting down from the ceiling above it—but he rested there like it was a perfectly good place to lounge. 

“But I guess that’s nothing new with you.”

He tilted his head, his tone sharpening just slightly. “Two years, Viper. Two years I’ve been chasing you. Every time I thought I had you cornered? You vanished. Over and over. Do you have any idea how many meetings I’ve sat through, listening to ‘colleagues’ question my competence because of you?”

Pushing off the counter, he crouched down until he was almost level with her, the thick plates of his armor creaking with the movement. “What happened, Viper? I didn’t suddenly get better at this. I know that. I’ve burned through every method, every budget increase I could get approved, thousands of man-hours of tracking and surveillance… and I still shouldn’t be here. I’ve been running the same plays for two years—same angles, same tools, same everything. And yet, somehow, I’m standing here now, looking at you. Why? Because you stopped. You let me catch up. And I want to know why.”

His voice rose, not in volume, but in weight—sharp enough to cut with. “I don’t understand!”

Then his fist hit the tile right beside her head. 

The floor exploded under the impact, shards of ceramic and chunks of rockcrete spraying outward as he left a crater big enough to bury a fist in.

He stayed there for a beat, breathing steady, before his tone settled again. “You know I can’t seriously hurt you. EtherLabs wouldn’t let it slide if we crossed that line.”

The cold edge in his voice came back, sliding under the words like a blade. “But you also know, that I know, that you know this. That big brain of yours is already running the math, searching for an angle, figuring the odds… but you can’t help thinking about the big, ugly other half of the equation, can you?”

I had no clue what the hell any of the things he had just said meant. 

And stuck here, pinned under a corporate agent’s knees grinding into my spine, I didn’t exactly have the freedom to ask. My best option was to keep listening and—if I got lucky—spot something I could use.

[Narrow Twist] was the most obvious escape trick I had, but with a knee jammed into my back? No chance.

‘[Slippery Body] would’ve been so good right now, fuck.’ I couldn’t help thinking how perfect it would’ve been to have held onto that Perk for a moment like this. 

But I knew better. That kind of thinking was a trap.

Even if I did somehow break free—then what? Where was I supposed to run? What was I supposed to do? At best, my knives could slip into one of the armor’s neck joints, maybe take down a single guy if I got lucky. 

But that was it—one kill, maybe—and then I’d be right back here. 

Or more likely: Plastered against the floor and wall.

The standoff between Valeria and the armored man was broken by a new voice drifting in from the kitchen breach. 

A figure stepped through the jagged opening like they had all the time in the world.

“Twelve minutes, sir,” the newcomer reported, tone clipped and professional. “The active-jam is keeping them contained, and the distractions are working as intended—but I wouldn’t give it more than those twelve minutes, even at the most optimistic estimate.”

The armored man didn’t answer. 

He just kept staring down Valeria through that blacked-out visor, his silence heavy enough to press into the air. One gloved hand lifted briefly—a simple, wordless signal of acknowledgment—before dropping back to his side.

The newcomer didn’t linger at the breach. 

He walked further in, boots crunching over broken tile and debris, until he was standing dead center in what was left of the apartment.

A large datapad rested in his hands, his eyes occasionally flicking between its display and whatever invisible streams of input were feeding directly into his head.

I finally got a clear look at him and the first thought hit instantly: ‘Netrunner.’

He didn’t match the rest of the crew. No helmet. 

Instead, a full Crown sat on his head—one of the serious ones, high-end, purpose-built. 

Thick bundles of wires sprouted from the band like the roots of a metal plant, threading into ports along his neck, vanishing under his armor into whatever rigs he had strapped across his torso.

That Crown was almost certainly what let him single-handedly choke every signal in the apartment—and probably more. The way he moved, the way he kept scanning data mid-step, told me he was juggling more than just us.

If his words were any clue, he wasn’t just locking us down. He was probably blanketing the entire floor, keeping EtherLabs blind to whatever the hell these “distractions” had caused.

The armored man finally broke the stalemate after a few more moments, straightening to his full height with a sharp, impatient roll of his shoulders. Even through the visor, I could feel the annoyance radiating off him at Valeria’s continued silence.

“Well,” he said, voice turning flat, “unfortunately, I’m on a bit of a time crunch here. Which means the ugly side of the equation’s gonna have to come in earlier than I planned—since you don’t seem to want to talk.”

He took a slow step back, as if to give the words room to sink in, then added almost conversationally, “Still, I guess I should be grateful you stopped running when you did. Let me catch you—and the whole family—in one sweep. Real efficient, huh?”

That line sent a cold shiver crawling down my spine and settled a growing terror in my gut.

Because that’s when it clicked.

Oliver had PremMed. Valeria had whatever shadowy protections EtherLabs extended to someone like her—serious enough that even this guy wouldn’t dare cross the line.

But Gabriel and I?

We were the soft spots. The leverage.

If he wanted something out of Valeria, he couldn’t touch her. 

Not in a way that mattered, not with the time he had. 

But us? We were entirely fair game. 

And the way he’d just said “entire family”… it wasn’t just a potential threat. 

It was the plan.

Valeria’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing into something razor-sharp. 

“You shan’t dare lay a hand on them,” she spat, her voice carrying that cold, controlled rage I’d only ever seen in the most dangerous people. 

She’d clearly followed the same thought I had—where this was headed; or probably had already known.

The armored man didn’t flinch. “You know why I’m here, Viper. You can end all of this right now—just tell me what I want to know. Sure, you’ll die—no avoiding that—but I swear, on the Dragon herself, no harm will come to the rest of them.”

She tried to wrench free, muscles straining against the two agents holding her. 

They locked her arms down tight, armor servos whining under the force she was putting out. 

But there was no leverage, no angle to break their grip.

The big man waited, almost patient, giving her a moment to consider—probably banking on her knowing brute force alone wasn’t going to work here. 

But Valeria just glared back at him, silent.

Finally, he let out a long, irritated sigh. 

“Alright,” he said, and gestured to two of the idle agents. “Go.”

They started moving toward me and Gabriel, boots crunching across the debris-strewn floor.

“I really don’t want to hurt kids,” the man continued, voice just a shade softer, almost like he meant it. “Not what I signed up for. But… sometimes, it’s the only option left.”

That’s what finally caught Oliver up to the situation.

“Don’t you fucking touch either of them! I will fucking kill you!” he roared, the words cracking in a way I’d never heard from him before. 

Probably the first time I’d ever heard him swear like that at all. 

And it was venomous—pure fury packed into every syllable.

The corporate agent on top of his back was struggling to keep him contained, but still managed to.

“You always do love squeezing intel out of our people, don’t you, Viper?” the armored man went on, as if Oliver hadn’t just shouted at him like he wanted to tear his head off. His tone was almost conversational, but there was a cold, deliberate weight behind every word. 

“You’ve got quite the reputation. Not that I really need to tell you that now, do I?”

He tilted his head slightly, briefly looking back at her as he slowly walked towards me and Gabriel. “Your methods are… revolutionary. I’ll give you that. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to have to borrow someone else’s playbook for gathering intelligence? No, of course you don’t—why would you? But at least we both know just how well those methods of yours work…”

His voice dipped into something nastier, more deliberate. “Now… Here's a question I’ve been wondering.” 

A small pause, just long enough to make it sting. “Did you ever put your kids through anti-torture training? Surely, even you wouldn’t go that far… right?”

Gabriel and I had been thrashing uselessly under the weight of the corpo agents pinning us down—ever since that particular line of conversation started, really—but it was like trying to push a building off your back. 

If even Valeria couldn’t muscle her way out of this, we didn’t stand a chance in hell.

The only thing keeping me from spiraling into full-blown panic at the idea of corpo-level torture was my Ego, filtering the fear just enough to keep me thinking straight.

And weirdly, my biggest worry right then wasn’t me—it was Gabriel.

‘I can probably take it better than he can,’ I told myself, running the numbers in my head. ‘My Body is comparatively high for my size, plus I have the Rest Function for recovery… I could maybe tank it… All I have to do is hold out for around ten minutes.’

But Gabriel? Not a chance.

‘How the hell do I get this guy to zero in on me instead?’ I thought, mind already clawing for something—anything—that would make me the more tempting target for whatever he had in store.

So I just went for it.

“Hey, asshole!” I barked, twisting against the knee in my spine just enough to lift my head a fraction. “You done spewing bullshit at her, or you need me to explain how utterly fucking pathetic you sound while hiding behind a bunch of goons?”

The armored man froze mid-step. 

His visor shifted toward me, slow and deliberate, until he was staring straight down like I’d just grown a second head. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Valeria’s gaze cut to me, sharp enough to sting. 

Gabriel, on the other hand, had stopped moving entirely, his confusion and fear written all over his face.

“You fucking heard me, bitch,” I snapped, pushing harder. “You’re not getting a single fucking thing out of her, no matter what! Hiding behind that stupid helmet so nobody can see the tears you’re shedding while crying about how she’s so much better than you… Absolutely pathetic, blank-tier behavior. Are you worried you’ll get embarrassed in front of your own men if they see you cry like that?”

A low chuckle filtered through his helmet, metallic and humorless. 

“I was wondering,” he said, voice taking on an unsettling calm, “if the Viper’s feisty genes would actually propagate. But seeing you like this—pinned, cornered—and still mouthing off?” 

He straightened, giving a slow shake of his head. “Yeah. I’m certain now. For all the horrors that’s going to drag into the world, really.”

Raising his voice, so everyone in the room could clearly hear him, he added, “Let’s start with her, then.”

The order had barely left his mouth when a sudden scuffle erupted to my left—fast, violent, over in less than a second. 

A single gunshot cracked through the air, sharp enough to cut every sound in the room.

“…Sorry, children.”

It was Oliver’s voice—faint, fragile, stripped of all the force it normally carried. 

I strained against the weight on my back, trying to see, but before I could, Valeria’s voice came low and dangerous.

“Oliver…”

That one word told me everything I didn’t want to know.

At the same instant, the Crown-wearing netrunner jerked violently, like he’d just taken a lightning strike to the skull. Blue-white arcs of electricity snapped across the metal lattice on his head, popping and crackling loud enough to sting my ears. 

His scream was high and ragged as he clawed at the device, trying to rip it off like it was actively melting into his head, before collapsing to the ground in a heap, still twitching.

The agent who’d been holding Oliver down just stood frozen, staring at the body. 

Around Oliver, a perfect black-red flashing holographic square, about two and a half meters on each side, shimmered into place. 

The glowing tape pulsed slowly, the words “DO NOT ENTER. PREMMED EN-ROUTE” cycling in dozens of languages for anyone dumb enough not to get the message.

“I didn’t—he—” the agent stammered, voice shaky. “He somehow dislocated his shoulder, grabbed my gun, pulled it right towards him—right to his heart and… I… my finger was on the trigger… I didn’t…” 

He swallowed. “He just… did it himself.”

Silence settled over the room like a lead blanket, thick and suffocating.

“How hard can it be not to fuck this up after I explicitly told you what to watch out for, huh?” the armored man snarled, his voice suddenly booming against the walls. “Guess that’s what I get for working with fucking amateurs!” 

He stomped forward, the impact of his step rattling debris, until he stood over Oliver’s body.

“Stay with the fucking body!” he barked at the agent hovering nearby. “Don’t touch the tape, or I’ll kill you myself! There’s nothing we can do for you now. Just pray PremMed doesn’t call this a major incident—but with black-red tape? Your odds aren’t looking good, you absolute fucking blank!”

He spun on the netrunner, who was still twitching on the floor, trying and failing to get both feet under him. “And what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

The man gasped between words, like each one cost him. “PremMed… signal… punched straight through the jam. Overloaded… everything. Fried the whole system.”

He dragged in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Only the passive-jam’s still active. Four minutes of juice, maybe, before the whole floor reboots.” 

His voice cracked as another groan escaped. “Best guess—it might last longer.”

“Fuck!” The armored man spat. He swung his glare back to Valeria. “Didn’t expect your useless fucking man-toy to be the one to throw himself away here. PremMed suicide just to screw us? Did you teach him that as a contingency, you cold-hearted bitch? I knew you were ruthless, but this is fucked up, even for your subterranean standards.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead, he jabbed a finger toward the two corpo agents who’d been moving toward Gabriel and me earlier. “You and you—prep them both. We don’t have any fucking time left now, thanks to your blank-ass colleague over there.” 

He jerked his head toward Oliver, whose blood was already spreading out in a thick, dark pool beneath the holographic barrier. “So we’ll do this the hard way.”

Then he stepped up to me.

I was still trying to process the fact that Oliver—Oliver—had just killed himself right in front of us. My thoughts were running like they’d been dragged through gravel, but he didn’t give me the chance to catch up. 

He crouched down until we were face-to-face, and with one slow, deliberate movement, he removed his helmet.

The helmet came off with a hiss of released pressure, and for the first time, I saw the man’s face: Weathered, scarred, and ugly in the way that came from years of surviving things that should’ve killed him. 

But what caught me was the left third of it—frozen in a permanent rictus of pain. 

The flesh there was stiff, almost waxy, lips twisted and eye half-closed, locked in some grotesque expression of agony that didn’t match the rest of him. The other two-thirds were alive with anger, brows furrowed, teeth bared just enough to show he was relishing this.

“This,” he growled, voice low and rough, “was a gift from your mother dearest. Over three years ago, now.”

He tapped the ruined side of his face with two fingers. “She’s got a bit of a knack for causing permanent damage, you see. The kind even the best medtech on the market can’t scrub out—unless you’ve got the kind of credits no corporate agent’s ever gonna see in their lifetime, of course. A real fucking specialty of hers.”

His grin widened, pulling awkwardly across the scar tissue. “One I’ve gotten pretty good at myself, chasing her slippery ass all these years. And now?” 

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my face. “How fitting that her own children get a first-hand taste of mother-dearest’s specialty… right in front of her.”

He straightened a fraction, raising his voice just enough for Valeria to hear it clearly. “Of course… you could just speak up now. Tell me what I want to know; and we’ll just leave. Though that would make your man-toy’s little sacrifice over there”—he tilted his head toward Oliver’s body—“worth exactly nothing.”

He got back up, half-turning away from me as he removed his gloves, revealing a pitch-black cybernetic hand on his left.

“So, Viper… which is it gonna be?” 

He turned to look at her directly, eyes narrowing. 

“Waste your children’s future… or waste your man-toy’s sacrifice…?”

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 48 - Mission Briefing

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 48 - Mission Briefing for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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Yes, action will be next chapter, calm your tits, god damn.

🙄🙄🙄

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/18vvyhfD5OsPmqYckb5f5GD2x0AGUt_rHuWfR_NwdcPI/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 48 - Mission Briefing

Section 4.2 – Mandatory Creation Parameters for Digital Missions
The governing principle of the UHF Digital Mission system is to provide Marines with combat scenarios that are both engaging and educational, while maintaining operational value for the Corps. 

To that end, the following creation parameters are mandatory for all DMs created under UHF oversight:

1. Clear, Understandable Goals:
Mission objectives must be simple enough for any Marine to comprehend at first briefing—no convoluted secondary chains. Objectives must be actionable from deployment onward, allowing immediate engagement with mission parameters.

2. Mission Type Alignment:
All DMs must adhere to one of the established operational categories listed in Appendix 3 (Hold the Line, Point Defense, All-Out Assault, etc.). Variants are permitted only with prior approval from the corresponding Local Simulation Command.

3. Ruleset Grade Selection:
Select from Grade 0 through Grade 5 restrictions, balancing mission complexity with desired training outcomes. Ensure the ruleset complements the intended teaching focus.

4. Enemy AI Configuration:
Designate the core enemy type from the approved AI library. Optional inclusion of randomized high-threat elements (Enemy Aces, Battlefield Aces, etc.) is recommended for unpredictability. 

Note: Randomized threats are generated at mission start, not during design phase, potentially increasing the intended difficulty beyond initial intentions.

5. Feasibility by Force Size:
Mission sizes are allowed to scale between 1–5 Platoons (100–500 Marines). Scenarios must remain realistically survivable with optimal execution.

6. Special Modifiers:
Special combat conditions (environmental hazards, limited visibility, logistical shortages, etc.) may be applied to train Marines in specific stress conditions. See Appendix 6 for full list.

7. Role Representation:
Role distribution must meet mission-critical ratios. Governing AIs may assist in assigning Role requirements across Platoons to fulfill operational viability (minimum Squad Medics, Heavy Weapons Specialists, etc.). The number of minimum Squad Leaders is always equal to the number of total squads planned to be part of the mission.

8. Real-World Scenario Parity:
Mission backstory may be fictional or based on a historical operation. Disclosure of origin to participants is optional, but permitted—Marines may train on simulations of real battles without obfuscation.

9. Defined Timed Endpoint:
Each DM must have a conclusive end-condition compatible with its Grade’s ruleset and explainable in-mission (arrival of reinforcements, destruction of key assets, completion of evacuation, etc.).

10. Upscale Contingency Protocol:
All missions must include an upscaled variant to accommodate high-value participant queues. Minimum trigger conditions: 4× 1-Star MVM Medal holders; or 1x 1-Star MVM Medal and 1× 2-Star MVM Medal holders in the same queue. Adjust parameters in accordance with Appendix 9a to ensure appropriate challenge scaling.

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Failure to meet any of these criteria will result in automatic rejection by the Digital Mission Generation Committee. 

Resubmission will be permitted only after deficiencies are addressed in full.

Repeated violations may result in removal of simulation design rights.

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[Excerpt from UHF MC Operational Handbook – Digital Mission Creation Protocols, Rev. 227, PFC 943]

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Having been scooped up by an experienced Squad Medic wasn’t exactly on Thea’s list of planned ways to step into her first Digital Mission, but she had to admit—it beat wandering around the Prep Room, trying to haggle her way into a squad like a good chunk of the lobby was doing right now.

Sure, Chester didn’t exactly scream trustworthy. 

He’d been the one to stir up that little mess with the two Marines who’d commented on her weapons, only to sweep in afterward like some kind of white-knight recruiter. 

Still, given how it turned out, she figured it had been worth the gamble.

‘It’s really awesome to have this high a Perception, huh?’ she thought, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she sat beside Chester on one of the benches with the rest of Wellis’ squad. 

He’d probably never considered the possibility that a Recon/Sniper Recruit could possibly have enough Perception in their very first Digital Mission to catch the venom in his earlier “advice” to the two Marines. 

But her recent focus on actively tracking everything around her was already paying off—it had let her hear it clear as day.

She’d thought, for a moment, about calling him out. 

But she knew the type well enough. 

She’d seen them plenty of times in arcades across the galaxy—players who preyed on fresh faces to pad their own numbers. 

Not the deadweight grifters, but the other kind: The ones just solidly above average in skill. Not good enough to be top-tier on their own, but talented enough, sharp enough—and motivated enough—to recognize their limits and build a strategy to work around them.

It wasn’t flattering, sure, but Thea didn’t care about flattering.

‘I don’t have to like the guy. He just has to perform.’

Her motto had always been simple: Better a competent asshole, like Desmond, than a friendly anchor dragging you down. In a mission, you could ignore a personality you didn’t mesh with—but you couldn’t ignore someone dropping a grenade at your feet on accident, or even worse, tanking your score.

So someone like Chester? Perfect. 

In her eyes, these were exactly the kind of people worth queuing up with in missions like this. 

And to have that opportunity handed to her on a silver-rarity platter without even having to lift a finger?

‘Couldn’t have asked for a better start, honestly.’

Leaning back against the cool metal of the locker behind her, quietly pleased with how things had gone so far, Thea let herself relax and kept lazily scanning the Prep Room. 

Marines milled about in varying states of readiness—some checking weapons, some chatting in tight squad-sized circles, others standing off alone, radiating that “don’t bother me” energy. 

Her eyes moved from group to group, mentally tallying the rough spread of Roles she could spot, noting the gear choices, the way people carried themselves, and—most telling of all—how confident they looked. 

A few had that casual ease of veterans, leaning on their lockers with weapons already slung, while others were clearly fresh, fidgeting with straps or re-checking menus like they’d missed something.

She’d only entered the Prep Room toward the tail end of selection—maybe one of the last fifteen or so people to load in—so most of the early chaos had already passed her by.

‘Should’ve made my loadout decisions faster, I guess…’ she thought, a faint pang of curiosity cutting through her calm. ‘Hope nothing major went down in here while I was picking gear.’

Her gaze drifted sideways to Chester, who was also watching the room with quiet focus, eyes flicking between clusters of Marines. ‘Maybe I should just ask him…?’

She dismissed the idea almost as soon as it surfaced. 

If this was anything like Sundawn’s prep stages, the early part wasn’t all that important. 

It was mostly over-eager Squad Leaders scrambling to fill their rosters with the first promising faces they could charm—or pressure—into joining, while the smart ones bided their time, watching and waiting for the best squads to take shape before committing.

And judging by the way Chester had moved the instant she’d agreed to follow him—cutting straight across the room like he already had his target picked—Thea was about ninety-nine percent certain her guess was spot on…

—

By the time the status indicator in the top right corner ticked down to zero and flashed its update, every Marine had found a squad—some of them only just scraping in at the last second, practically begging to get squeezed into an oversized team. Thea knew full well she could’ve been one of those poor sods if it hadn’t been for Chester’s timely interference.

Things moved fast after that. 

All the Squad Leaders filed into one of the side rooms, the heavy door sliding shut behind them. Whatever they were discussing didn’t take long; just a few minutes later, the rest of the platoon got the call to follow.

“Alright, let’s go,” Chester said to her, as if she could somehow miss the massive notification dead-center in her vision instructing her to move to the adjacent room for the mission briefing. “Next up’s just a quick brief about the mission, nothing to worry about.”

“Gotcha,” Thea replied, half-listening as she fell into step behind him and the rest of Wellis’ squad, the flow of Marines funneling into the next chamber.

The briefing room was big—wide enough for the whole platoon, with rows of seats neatly arranged in perfect lines. 

Each row seemed to be tagged for a specific squad, because Wellis’ crew didn’t stop until they’d passed several empty sections before finally choosing one toward the middle. 

Just before she sat down, Thea caught the faint, almost ghostly text floating above her chair—Wellis’ Squad—visible only when she focused on it. 

Mystery solved.

Once everyone had settled in, fifteen of the sixteen Squad Leaders took their places near the front, standing slightly behind a single man positioned at the center. 

Clearly, he was the one in charge here.

Her first thought when she saw him was, ‘He’s like Lucas’ scruffier brother, huh?’ 

The man was massive—taller than even Lucas and Isabella by a good ten centimeters—and clad in the unmistakable bulk of Super-Heavy armor. 

The design wasn’t identical to Lucas’ Stalwart rig, but the type was the same: Enormous angular plating, reinforced joints, and the kind of imposing silhouette that drew every eye in the room; or Battlefield. 

The massive man stepped forward, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room as he opened with a deep, steady, “Brothers and Sisters.”

“I’m Sergeant Kalt,” he continued, his tone both commanding and oddly warm, “and by unanimous agreement among your Squad Leaders, I’ve been designated as Commanding Officer for this Digital Mission. I thank them for their trust, and I promise you this—I’ll do my damnest to get every single one of you through this DM without fail.”

He took a moment to scan the room, letting the words settle before pressing on. 

“I also want to give a special welcome to any new Recruits with us today. You’ve just finished your first Assessment and now you’re trickling into DMs across the galaxy, without much pre-amble. You’re stepping into something big here. I ask all of you others—veterans and returning Marines alike—to welcome the new blood with open arms, open ears, and open minds.” 

His tone softened slightly, though it still carried that same pressing weight. “Recruits, you don’t have to identify yourselves if you don’t want to. You’re free to stay quiet, stay hidden as much as you like. You’ve got enough on your plates learning how these missions work without the whole room staring at you.”

Thea found herself appreciating that. A lot. 

That simple bit of consideration was enough to bump the Sergeant straight onto her internal “Nice Guy” list.

“Now then,” Kalt went on, “if there were any organisational issues during squad creation, now’s the time to speak up.” 

His gaze swept over the room again. Silence. Not a single voice raised.

“Good. Then let’s move on to the main part.” 

He squared his shoulders slightly, addressing the line of Squad Leaders. “Squad Leaders—please ready up and confirm your final squad compositions, and your agreement to offer operational command to me for this run.”

For a moment, nothing visible happened. 

Then, without so much as a sound, the Status Indicator in the top right corner blinked and shifted to read: [Final Mission Briefing].

Right on cue, a datapad shimmered into existence in front of Kalt, hanging weightlessly in the air until he reached out with one massive, armor-plated hand and plucked it from the void. 

The metal fingers of his gauntlet tapped across its surface for barely three seconds before his movements froze. 

His eyes widened a fraction, then he dragged one huge, armored palm over his face and let out a long, drawn-out sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire platoon. “Haaaa…”

“Sergeant Kalt?” one of the Squad Leaders ventured, his voice cautious but unable to mask the curiosity that rippled through the entire room. 

Even Thea found herself leaning forward slightly, trying to read the man’s reaction.

Kalt lowered his hand and cleared his throat. 

“I am… forced to amend my previous statement,” he said slowly, almost begrudgingly. “I will no longer attempt to get every single one of you through this DM… but rather any single one of you.”

The room stirred, a few Marines exchanging confused glances.

Without elaborating, Kalt gave a short, almost lazy flick of his wrist, and the contents of the datapad leapt from his hands to the massive wall-mounted display behind the Squad Leaders.

Thea’s eyes locked on the bold, glaring letters now dominating the screen—bright red, large enough that nobody in the room could pretend not to see them.

“WARNING: HIGH-VALUE QUEUE DETECTED. UPSCALED MISSION PROTOCOLS WILL BE ENGAGED. MISSION BRIEFING HAS BEEN ADJUSTED ACCORDINGLY.”

The reaction from the room was instant and loud, a chorus of groans, muttered curses, and outright protests.

One Marine in the back let out an exasperated bark of laughter followed by, “Of course it’s a damned HVQ—why wouldn’t it be today?” 

Another just slumped forward in his seat, hands dragging down his face like the weight of the galaxy had just landed on his shoulders. 

A woman near the aisle muttered, “Great, just great… goodbye easy payout,” while a younger Marine actually stood halfway up in his seat, voice sharp with panic: “Are you fucking kidding me? This was supposed to be a Grade Zero warm-up!” 

Someone else, a broad-shouldered Heavy with an almost feral grin, just chuckled darkly, cracking his knuckles and saying, “About time we had a real fight,” which earned him more than a dozen death-stares.

Even Chester, normally so composed and clearly confident in his ability to milk a mission for all it was worth, was staring at the warning like his carefully constructed plan had just gone up in a spectacular IgT-fueled self-immolation.

Thea, meanwhile, was simply… lost. 

She had no idea what “High-Value Queue” actually meant, and judging from the mix of dread and barely-contained excitement in the room, it was either something really good or really bad—probably both.

Thankfully, Sergeant Kalt didn’t let the suspense linger. 

“Seems we’ve got more MVM medal winners in here than any of us thought,” he began, voice calm but carrying a weight that silenced most of the chatter. “I knew about one one-star, but apparently, we’ve got at least three more hiding in the ranks—that’s enough to trip the HVQ protocols.”

One of the Squad Leaders behind him shrugged. “Could also be a two-star,” he offered.

Another shook his head immediately. “Nah. We’d damn well know if we had a two-star in here. Trust me, they’re not exactly easy to mistake for a one-star.”

“Correct. Far more likely for there to be three hidden one-stars who didn’t want to tip their hand,” Kalt agreed, his eyes scanning the assembled Marines.

Thea frowned, turning that over in her head. 

She was certain she’d agreed to the prompt before the DM started—hadn’t she? 

But as she glanced down at herself, realization hit hard enough to make her wince. 

Her Spectre’s Cloak, wrapped snugly across the front of her torso thanks to the awkward cross-strap setup for her triple-DMR loadout, was covering her entire chest. Which meant the medal embedded in her armor, right above her heart, was buried under layers of adaptive camouflage fabric. 

Nobody could have possibly seen it, even if they had known it was there and explicitly tried.

She facepalmed hard. 

The sharp movement caught Chester’s attention. 

He glanced over, and clearly misreading her embarrassment, leaned in just enough to say, “Relax. You’ll be fine as long as you stick with me. Even with the upscale, we’ll get through this in one piece.”

Thea didn’t even have to answer Chester before Kalt’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

“Everyone—sit down and shut up!”

The shift in tone was jarring. Gone was the calm, reassuring weight he’d carried before.

This was the bark of a drill sergeant, sharp enough to make even the most seasoned Marines in the room straighten up without thinking. The easy-going warmth had been stripped away, replaced by something hard-edged and commanding.

“This DM,” Kalt continued, his voice cutting through the murmurs, “just turned into a gauntlet. The usual sixty percent clear rate for Tauron 9? On the upscaled version, that drops to twenty-eight.”

A wave of horrified looks rippled across the platoon. 

A few Marines couldn’t stop the half-formed complaints slipping past their lips—but one glance from Kalt’s steel-grey eyes was enough to shut them up cold.

“Updated parameters,” he went on, not giving them a moment to stew. “Our original ten trench lines? Cut in half—we’ll be working with five. Enemy numbers are tripled. We’ve also lost eleven heavy machine gun emplacements, four bunkers, and one of our two pre-prepared trap-trench lines. We’ll have only one left to lure them into and blow up. Make it count.”

Thea felt the tension in the room spike. 

Even without a deep knowledge of this particular DM’s layout, she understood that was bad news layered on top of worse news.

“This won’t be easy by any metric,” Kalt admitted, “but remember: You’ve got several MVM Medal winners on your side. Consider that the equivalent of having up to four Battlefield Aces in this platoon. They’re not quite the same, of course, but close enough to make the point.”

That earned a few sidelong glances, but Thea noticed almost everyone’s eyes settle on a single Marine halfway down the row—a wiry man who suddenly looked like someone had swapped his armor out for a heat suit. 

He was sweating hard, eyes fixed on the floor. 

‘Is that the other MVM the Squad Leader mentioned earlier…?’ Thea couldn’t help but think.

Kalt gave no hint either way. 

Instead, he flicked a hand, and the full mission briefing was transferred directly to everyone’s personal datapads. “Read it when you’re bored,” he said dryly. “Though I doubt any of you will find the time for that.”

He scanned the room. “Questions?”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere near the back, a voice spoke up. 

“Sir—who are the other MVMs? We could plan around them better if we knew.”

“Denied,” Kalt said instantly, not even blinking. “There is no need for them to identify themselves. If they want to, they can. If not, you’ll work with what you’ve got and keep moving. If there are no more questions, we’re done here.”

With that, he gave the signal to move, striding toward the eastern-most door with heavy, deliberate steps. “Focus up, brothers and sisters. Take this seriously. I don’t care if it’s your first DM or your hundredth—you treat this like your life depends on it. An upscaled DM is nothing short of an invaluable opportunity. You’ll only get a handful of these in your entire career. So fight for every last point you can grab; you won’t see another like this anytime soon.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. 

With a firm push, the door slid open, revealing a dimly lit wall of pure white light that pulsed faintly, almost like it was alive. 

Kalt stepped through without hesitation, his bulk vanishing into the glow.

The rest of the platoon followed in silence, boots clunking against the deck, the air heavy with a mix of nerves and grim focus. It wasn’t the tense, ready-to-snap kind of silence—it was the quiet you’d hear before a funeral march, the kind where nobody wanted to be the first to break it.

Meanwhile, Thea had other thoughts occupying her mind.

‘This is shaping up to sound surprisingly fun,’ she mused, doing her best to smother the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Hard mode with extra rewards? I was just gonna use this run to mess around with a few things, but now? Now I can actually get some real gains out of it, too. Fuck yeah!’

One by one, the Marines stepped into the white light and vanished, their silhouettes swallowed whole in an instant. 

Thea waited her turn, boots shifting against the deck, until the line in front of her was gone and the glow filled her vision.

She stepped through expecting… something. 

A rush of warmth, the crackle of static, maybe even a strange pull in her gut.

Instead, nothing. 

No sound, no sensation—just the sudden, jarring shift to standing on the crest of a hill. 

Below her stretched the gray-brown churn of the upcoming battlefield, half-frozen mud and churned slush glistening under a pale sky. 

The northern slope had been carved into five jagged rows of trenches, their dark earthworks stark against the gray mud, all braced to meet whatever would come crawling out of the forest some three hundred meters beyond the final line.

‘Not quite Rog’An Prime… but close enough. I can work with this,’ she thought, already running through firing angles and potential sniper nests in her head—until Chester’s voice cut through her planning, snapping her back to reality. 

This wasn’t the Cube Trial. 

She wasn’t a lone gun this time. She actually had a squad to worry about.

“Stick with me, Thea,” he said, his voice tight with focus. “Let’s figure out where the CO wants Wellis’ Squad to set up.”

She figured there was no point in wasting mental effort when she could just follow Chester’s lead for now. So she trailed him down the slope as the rest of the platoon began swarming into their positions.

For the next ten minutes, they prepped the trench lines as best they could. 

Most of the work had already been done—the mission parameters had provided everything from packed earth walls and sandbag barriers to several HMG nests, three reinforced bunkers, and the trap-trench in the center of the defensive line. 

One button press, and the whole thing would explode like an angry volcano, turning into a killing pit for any poor bastards caught nearby.

Orders came down, and Wellis’ Squad was assigned to the eastern flank of the trench system—though there were still three more squads between them and the far edge.

“Would’ve preferred the outer-most flank again… but I guess this’ll do,” she muttered under her breath, setting up in the section marked with their squad’s tag.

Every twenty meters or so, the trench walls opened into reinforced firing alcoves—low, narrow kill-slots shielded with durasteel plates—and their squad had been given several to cover. 

Wellis split the group evenly. 

Chester, Thea, and two Medium-armored Marines—Marie and Falks—took the eastern position. The remaining three, plus one last-minute member snagged right before the Prep Room closed, were set up in the western pocket of their sector.

The plan was simple: Hold each alcove as long as possible, then collapse inward to the next closest one, both teams falling back toward each other until the squad was reunited. 

Only then would they pull back to the next trenchline.

‘Pretty smart for a rush-job plan,’ Thea admitted to herself. Then she smirked faintly. ‘Sucks for Chester though—he’s gonna have to sprint the whole damn length of our sector if someone on the far side gets hit.’

She would’ve much preferred having a Defensive Heavy parked beside her, but Wellis had already claimed the only one in their squad for his half of the trenchline.

‘Eh, I made it through the Cube Trial without one—at least for a while. This’ll work out… somehow.’

The thought didn’t bother her as much as it should have. 

That steady, sharpened focus she always slipped into before a fight—the thing players online had often called Battlefield Trance—was already starting to take over.

She knelt briefly, securing her backpack into a tucked corner of the firing alcove. 

It was positioned so she could reach it in seconds if she needed extra mags, medkits, or a quick grab-and-run, but far enough out of the way that it wouldn’t snag her legs mid-firefight.

Her hands moved automatically as she unholstered her three DMRs. 

First came her trusty Laser-variant Gram, then the two newcomers she’d just picked up at Abundant Ammunitions: One Ballistic, one Gauss.

“Time to see where the differences really are,” she muttered, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. She propped the Ballistic and Gauss-Gram against the trench wall for quick access, settling the Laser onto her shoulder to start off with.

To her left, Marie, Falks, and Chester were going through the same ritual—checking mags, chambering rounds, doing quick optics calibrations—all while keeping an eye on the ticking timer in the corner of their vision.

Thea’s fingers brushed against the strap securing her cloak around her chest—the same strap keeping the Laser-Gram from simply dropping from her hands. 

For a moment, she considered undoing it entirely just to see Chester’s face when the MVM medal glinted in plain sight. 

The idea almost made her smirk, but she pushed it aside.

‘Better keep the strap where it is for now. Who knows how long this alcove’ll last before we’re moving, and losing it will make carrying all three a pain. Maybe three DMRs really was a bit overkill… but hey, too late now.’

Then, the timer finally struck 0:00:00.

A sharp, almost metallic chime rang in her ears as a crisp notification cut across her vision:

[DIGITAL MISSION START: Tauron 9 – Hold The Line – Upscaled Version]
[Mission Objective: Hold the uppermost trenchline for six hours and forty-five minutes until relief forces arrive, denying enemy forces any advance toward the hilltop.]
[Respawns: 0]

The numbers shifted instantly, rolling over into a fresh countdown:

[Mission Complete: 6:44:59]

The glow of the objective text faded, leaving only the ticking clock in the corner of her vision. 

Thea felt her pulse pick up—not from nerves, but from the familiar edge of anticipation curling through her chest. The grin she’d been keeping in check finally broke free, stretching across her face as her fingers tightened around her rifle’s grip.

‘Showtime…’

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 47 - Locker-Room Talk

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 47 - Locker-Room Talk for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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Trying out a bit more of that "whole chapter of PoV" thing in this one, to cover a lot of the background information on how systems work and such, without making it seem like I'm front-loading it.

Let me know how you feel about this chapter!

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bmc3YhQp0cJYQskIzDqc80tV7C-1r90ZjqbUWpJ-jNs/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 47 - Locker-Room Talk

MVM—Most Valuable Marine—medals aren’t just for bragging rights. 

They’re made for the battlefield. 

Forged from actual combat-grade metals, shaped to survive more than just glass cabinets. 

And while some recipients do hang them up as keepsakes, waiting for retirement, most Marines know exactly what they’ve got in their hands: A tool; and a guarantee.

The lower-tier medals—Silver, Gold, even Platinum—don’t carry much weight in raw material value. But trade one in? The UHF will pay handsomely. 

Recognition of excellence always comes with its own perks, and plenty of Marines exchange their first medal for top-tier equipment, a spot in elite squads, or high-grade training modules.

But once you get into the rare stuff—Palladium, Crysium—you’re holding something else entirely. 

Not just a trophy. A resource.

These are materials most Marines will never see outside a System Lecture. 

Weapons forged with Crysium alloy are often considered heirloom-tier, and armor integrated with plating made of it? That’s the kind of protection Battlefield Aces get custom- commissioned from the Faction itself. 

Which is why some Marines melt their medals down and reforge them into what they need most: A knife. A barrel. A reinforced plate to encase an overcharged powercell.

The possibilities are as endless as the Marine’s own creativity.

And yet… most don’t.

Most simply wear them. Slotted into the armor, just above the heart.

Because an MVM isn’t just about what you’ve done—it’s about where you’re headed.

See a Marine walking through the staging zone with a one-star Palladium medal implanted in their breastplate? You’re looking at someone officially recognized by the Brass as on track to become a Battlefield Ace.

You see a two-star Crysium? You’re looking at somebody with the potential to rival the greatest of the greats: Witchglass. Thunder Breaker. Unbreakable Shield.

A Marine that’s been officially recognized to have what it takes to be added to that very list.

That’s what the stars mean.
That’s why there’s only one per type, per cluster, per quarter.
That’s why there’s only ever a few hundred of them being handed out at most, across the entire galaxy, in any given year.

Wearing an MVM medal isn’t just a random arrogant flex. 

It’s a UHF-sanctioned declaration.

Seeing that shimmer on someone’s chest means you're looking at a future legend. 

A Faction-certified problem—the kind Command will one day deploy to end wars. 

And our enemies know it too. 

That’s the risk you take. 

MVM medals draw attention, paint targets. 

If you’re wearing one in combat, everyone with a scope, blade, or grudge is gunning for you.

Not out of respect, or even disrespect.
But out of fear.

Because a one-star MVM wielder might just become the Marine who puts down your entire forward line in the next deployment.
A two-star? That’s the signed death warrant of the entirety of a future Battlefield, if left unchecked.

But that’s the point.

They weren’t just made to reward greatness. They were made to provoke it. 

To push every Marine a step further. To ask the question, every mission, every fight: “Do you want it bad enough to be the next name carved into UHF history?”

And if the answer’s yes? Then wear it proud. 

Because every shot aimed at that medal is one more chance to prove exactly why you earned it in the first place.

So… Let them come.

Let them try their best.
Let them break themselves upon you, despite it.
Let them be the kindling that fuels your fire to set the whole damn galaxy ablaze.

Because the medal isn’t just a trophy—it’s a promise.

“I’m not fully here yet. But I’m coming. And you better pray for the Emperor’s own mercy, that you're not there anymore when I arrive.”

[UHF High-Marshal Myra “Godeyes” Veltros, 2x 2-Star Crysium MVM Recipient, PFC922]

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PoV: Private Chester O’Neil

Loading into the Digital Mission’s staging area, Chester felt a calm wash over him—something he hadn’t felt in months.

“Finally back…” he muttered, as the space around him solidified into a small, private locker room—the standard initial staging area for every DM.

After months of relentless, messy combat in the real world, returning to the DDS for the several-month trip toward one of the south-western-most fronts near the Klaedish Sector was more than welcome. 

Here, inside the ship’s servers, there was a strange comfort in knowing nothing could touch you. 

Well… unless some cosmic-level rarity Void-event decided to split the ship in half mid-transit, in which case—‘Not my problem anymore,’ he thought dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a humorless scoff.

The simulation finished loading, and the familiar Grade 0 parameter list popped up in front of him. 

Nothing seemed to have changed since before his deployment. 

“No higher Tier weapons, even with a voucher. No higher Tier combatants, even if the enemy gets some. Squads are formed by Squad Leader Role Marines in the prep room, CO chosen from the same pool… yep. Same as ever. Good to see the update didn’t screw with the basics,” he hummed under his breath, stepping toward the locker.

A new window bloomed into existence, listing every License he’d acquired and prompting him to choose his equipment and gear loadout.

‘It’s a Grade 0 Hold-The-Line... Not particularly hard, but not a walk either—60% clear rate still means four out of ten DMs don’t succeed. Not something to slack on.’ 

His eyes scrolled over a long history of loadouts from nearly three years in the UHF MC. 

‘Tauron-6’s environment isn’t hostile, no nasty local diseases in the timeframe… eh, standard kit should do.’

Decision made, he selected one of his tried-and-true setups. 

Immediately, the weight of his armour settled across his shoulders, followed by the familiar heft of the large, med-packed backpack he’d hauled countless times before. Every pouch and strap was exactly where muscle memory expected it to be.

“No respawns means more work for people like me,” he muttered with a faint grin, reaching for his Corscew—his trusty laser-type SMG, by his side since his Recruit days. The weapon was, of course, flawless—freshly spawned from the governing AI—but he still inspected it. 

Habit.

His instructor back in basic had drilled it in: “Always check your weapon when you have free time. It keeps you sharp, and it might just save your life.”

Years later, Chester still did it instinctively whenever there was even a second to breathe. 

He just wished he had managed to develop a flashier personal quirk alongside it.

‘Would’ve much preferred a tick like Feldoh’s—spinning those knives like some damn Terran holo-drama badass. Way cooler than re-checking the same damn gun for the 13,000th time…’

Holstering the Corscew, he drew his Vibrosword, giving the blade a slow once-over—finding no apparent issues with it, as he had expected. 

Satisfied, he set it back into its sheath before turning his attention to the backpack. 

Even after years of running missions, it was easy to mix up which loadout had which specific setup—something he had done exactly once before.

“Yeah… that’s the right one,” he muttered, leaning over the open pack. 

The neat rows of injectors sat snug in their custom pouch, each one secured in place alongside his preferred med-tools: Compact cutters, sealant sprayers, trauma foam canisters—all exactly where his hands expected them to be.

With everything checked and in working order, he stepped toward the lone door in the small staging room and wrapped his fingers around the handle.

[Do you want to move into the Preparation Room now? Y / N]
[Note: Once entered, you cannot leave the Preparation Room. Your Loadout cannot be changed for free once inside the Preparation Room. Additional changes to the Loadout will incur System Credit costs, equal to a portion of the Licenses used.]

He tapped confirmation, and the door allowed itself to be opened with a soft hiss, leading him into the Digital Mission Preparation Room—which, in reality, was a network of connected chambers.

The space he entered now was another locker room, but far larger and busier than the private one he’d just left. 

Several dozen Marines were scattered throughout; some leaned together in quiet conversations, while most were focused on their own gear—tightening straps, running diagnostics, or making small adjustments before the operation began. 

The faint sounds of touch-fasterners tearing, metallic clicks, and the low hum of powered systems filled the air.

A soft, translucent icon pulsed in the top-right corner of his vision, the System’s polite reminder that there was still time before the op kicked off for real.

[Status: Waiting for Participants… 41/100]

Chester moved further into the room, weaving past a pair of Marines arguing over the best anti-armor loadout until he spotted a larger, empty stretch of bench near the eastern wall. 

Dropping onto it with a quiet sigh, he set his backpack at his feet and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, letting his eyes roam across the room.

The status counter in the corner of his vision had started at forty-one when he’d loaded in, and it was ticking steadily upward now. More Marines trickled through the door, sometimes even two or three at a time—friend-linked—each group's arrival bringing a bit more noise and motion into the space.

Some of the Marines moved with a casual confidence, others with that tense, twitchy energy that came from nerves—those never really went away, Chester knew.

He kept an easy, neutral expression, but his mind was already cataloguing details—gear choices, stance, the way someone handled their weapon or armor. 

A guy with an overstuffed ammo rig hanging lopsided.

A woman carrying a loadout far too heavy for her frame, clearly trying out something she’d never used before, simply by the way she was fumbling with her equipment.

A tall Marine with the kind of mismatched kit that screamed “picked whatever looked cool on the list.” 

All potential trouble down the line—the kind of players who ended up needing a Medic for entirely, 100% preventable reasons. 

He made a mental note to keep an eye on them once the bullets started flying; they were free Credits and Merit, ready to be harvested.

As the locker room filled, the atmosphere started to shift. 

Squad Leaders started working the room, calling out over the background chatter or approaching Marines directly. 

The questions were always the same: Preferred Role, combat specialty, previous DM experience or notable deployments. 

Groups began to form in loose clusters, conversations turning into quick loadout comparisons and tactical discussions.

It didn’t take long for Chester to get noticed. 

Within moments, three separate Squad Leaders approached him, each making their pitch to have him join as their Squad Medic. They all wore the same eager expression, the same edge in their voice—like this was their shot to put together the perfect team.

He smiled politely, shook a few hands, but kept his answer the same each time. “Appreciate the offer, but I’m holding off for now. Going to reach out later if I think your squad’s a good fit, promise.”

He’d learned that lesson the hard way years ago—joining the first squad that came knocking. 

The most over-eager Squad Leaders were usually trying to prove something, and in Chester’s experience, that kind of desperation rarely translated to high scores. 

Better to wait, watch, and pick the squad that actually seemed to have their act together.

This plan did not last longer, however, as a sudden spike in noise pulled Chester’s attention from his idle observations. 

The usual background chatter had swelled into a loud, excited buzz, accompanied by the sound of boots scuffing against the deck as people moved toward the far side of the room—where the entry doors of the personal lockers were located. 

A tight knot of Marines had formed around someone who’d just walked in, their voices overlapping in bursts of questions and half-shouted greetings. Even the three Squad Leaders who’d been trying to recruit him earlier had abandoned their other pitches mid-sentence and hurried over, practically elbowing their way into the crowd from the back.

Not one to let some good tea pass him by, Chester pushed off the bench and wandered over at a casual pace, weaving between benches and gear crates until he reached the edge of the gathering. 

He leaned slightly toward the first Marine at the back of the crowd.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

The other Marine didn’t take their eyes off the scene. 

“One-Star Platinum MVM just walked in,” they said, voice full of awe. “People are peppering them with questions—experience, tips, what missions they’ve run lately. Squad Leaders are losing their minds trying to pull them into their groups.”

“Ah. Of course,” Chester gave a polite nod. “Thanks.”

With that, he turned and made his way back to his bench, the noise already fading into the background. 

The excitement didn’t surprise him; he had seen it many times before. 

It wasn’t exactly rare to see an MVM Medal winner show up in a Digital Mission lobby. 

If anything, it made perfect sense—those Marines were some of the hardest-working in the entire Corps, and the DMs were a natural place for them to hone their edge between deployments.

He’d met more than a dozen before in his time, and the reaction was always the same—wide-eyed awe at seeing a potential Battlefield Ace in the flesh, even more so at the slim chance of ending up in the same squad. 

Most MVM winners were Alpha Squad or their equivalents, meaning the average Marine never got to watch them work up close as an equal; a true once-in-a-career chance for them to potentially pick up some trick or tactic that could help them along the way.

Chester, though? He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea. 

‘MVM winners are always so… disruptive,’ He thought with a heavy sigh. ‘They move faster, hit harder, and often leave very little for a Squad Medic like myself to actually do… Sure, it makes for an easier mission, but it also means I am essentially just tagging along instead of getting to practice my craft and earn Credits and Merit.’

He had long decided that if he could avoid being slotted into a squad with one, he would do so—every single time.

A few minutes later, the noise in the room settled back to a steady murmur. 

The MVM had clearly made their choice, now standing beside a Marine with the bright “SL” marker floating over their head—a Prep-Room-specific tag that made picking out Squad Leaders quick and easy. 

The crowd that had been fawning over the medal winner was now jostling for position around that SL instead, voices overlapping as they all tried to secure a spot on the same team.

Chester’s gaze drifted up to the corner of his vision, checking the counter. 

The number ticked upward, and that familiar tension began to creep into his chest—the anticipatory kind. 

The one that came right before the fighting started, when the promise of chaos and injury loomed close enough to taste. Combat, drama, adrenaline… and the steady rhythm of his hands working over torn armour and bleeding Marines, keeping them moving long after most people would have dropped.

[Status: Waiting for Participants… 87/100]

As the last few stragglers filtered in, the room’s energy shifted again, the idle chatter breaking apart into small, focused clusters. 

Squads were starting to take shape, with SLs adjusting their floating markers as roles filled, making it easy to see which teams still needed key positions.

Chester rose from the bench, stretching his shoulders before weaving through the rows of benches and lockers. 

He moved squad to squad, zeroing in on the ones that still had a gap where “Squad Medic” should be. Each time, he stopped to ask about their current loadouts, tactical plans, and intended approach to the mission—quietly gathering information, weighing whether any of them were worth his time.

By the time he’d made the rounds and gathered a solid picture of which squads were worth even considering, the status indicator in the corner of his vision ticked up the last few numbers and landed on 100/100. 

A quiet pulse of light passed over it as the display updated, signalling that all three platoons—five squads apiece—were now officially inside the lobby. 

The number vanished, replaced by a bold countdown.

[Status: Waiting for Squad Creation… 14:59]

Perfect. It meant the real sorting was about to begin.

Chester decided not to rush it, however. 

The three squads he had in mind were solid enough, but they still had a couple of open slots beyond the medic role. He’d let them fill those first—see if they kept their cool under the growing impatience that always crept in during the squad-building stage. 

That told him more about an SL than any pep talk could.

On his way back toward one of the quieter corners of the prep room, he caught a snippet of hushed conversation from two Marines leaning against a locker. Both had that mix of curiosity and mild annoyance in their tone, their words low enough to keep it between themselves—except Chester’s ears were tuned for this kind of tea.

“…did you see the kit they’re running? What even is that loadout supposed to be?” one muttered.

“I have no idea… Who needs more than one DMR for a DM…? I don’t think they even know what they’re doing in here,” the other replied.

There was a pause, a shuffle of boots. “Should we… I dunno, say something? Or just leave it?”

“Eh, probably a Recruit. Looks lost.”

The comments jogged something in Chester’s mind. 

‘Right—this is the first Digital Mission that includes the new blood from the latest Recruitment Drives, isn’t it…’ 

He hadn’t given it much thought earlier, but now? That definitely changed the math. 

Recruits were, without fail, walking opportunities in the DMs. 

They came in underestimating a “simple Grade 0 simulated mission,” thinking it’d be a cakewalk compared to the real thing. 

And while the stakes weren’t physical death, the sim still played by brutal rules. 

It always chewed up the unprepared—leaving them limping, bleeding, and racking up points for any medic sharp enough to keep them alive until extraction.

Chester slowed, weighing the situation. 

The mystery Marine they were talking about could just be an eccentric veteran messing with their expectations—but if it truly was a lost Recruit? 

That was easy score potential on a silver-rarity platter.

Instead of brushing past, he angled toward the bench near the two Marines and dropped himself onto it with an easy, unhurried motion. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the backrest, his tone casual—almost bored—when he finally cut into their private little debate.

“If you think they’re doing something wrong,” he drawled, glancing between them, “might as well help ’em out, no? Recruits—especially first-timers—can use all the help they can get in here.” 

He let a faint smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. 

“We all started out like that.”

The two Marines exchanged a look, and Chester just let the silence hang, comfortable in the knowledge that his suggestion would either guilt them into stepping up—or make them tip their hand about what they actually thought of the new arrival. 

Either way, he’d just positioned himself to learn something useful.

The two Marines seemed to mull over his words, glancing at each other with that half-guilty, half-unsure look that told Chester they were deciding whether to take his advice or ignore it. 

He used their pause to shift his attention toward the so-called mystery Marine.

She stood a few rows down, near a locker, and even from here and at an off-angle she looked young—twenty, maybe twenty-one at the absolute most. 

The first thing he clocked was her loadout, and it took him all of two seconds to peg her as a sniper. The giveaway wasn’t just the gear either—it was the way she carried herself, shoulders drawn in, feet spaced like she naturally wanted to melt into the background.

An adaptive camo-cloak was pulled fully around her body, the faint shimmer of its shifting pattern blending her outline just enough to make her seem part of the locker she was standing in front of. 

Slung across her back were not one, not two, but three DMRs. 

Two rested on one side in a crisscross sling setup, pulling her cloak tight at the front, while the third hung solo on the other, positioned for the fastest draw.

It was overkill, sure—but also oddly meticulous, in a way. He could appreciate that kind of over-prep, even if it screamed “rookie overcompensation” to him.

Outside the cloak’s coverage, he caught glimpses of plated combat leggings and the half-mask dangling loosely from her neck, ready to snap into place the moment she needed it. 

His gaze drifted upward, idly cataloguing details—until she turned.

It wasn’t sudden, just a slow, methodical sweep of her head as her eyes scanned the room. 

And that’s when he saw them.

Cyan.

For a split second, something cold twisted in his gut. 

The reaction was automatic, older than his years in uniform—an instinct born from stories told to wide-eyed kids around mess hall tables and campfires. His eyes narrowed slightly before he caught himself, pulling in a slow breath and forcing his shoulders to stay loose.

Cyans weren’t inherently bad. He knew that. 

Hell, he’d run missions with a few in various DMs, and they’d all more than pulled their weight, as if trying their damndest to prove every stereotype about them wrong. 

Onig himself—one of the better medics Chester had crossed paths with—was a Cyan and served on a squad from the same damn transport ship. 

Still, the feeling lingered. 

That old, ingrained suspicion didn’t fade easily, no matter how many times reality proved the old stories, news reports and articles thoroughly exaggerated.

He broke the stare before it could turn into a challenge, letting his attention wander back to the two Marines beside him as if nothing had happened—though the image of those Cyan eyes lingered, sharper than it had any right to.

Just in time, it seemed—the two Marines had finally come to some kind of decision.

They both stood, moving toward the girl at a casual pace. 

One of them, grinning like he thought he was clever, opened with, “Hey there, Marine. You think you got enough guns for the mission?” His tone carried that joking edge meant to break the ice, though Chester could hear the faint hint of judgment underneath.

The Cyan blinked at him, her brows pulling together slightly as she gave the rifles slung across her shoulders a quick glance. “Ehh… I’m not sure. First time in one of these, honestly. It’s all a bit new. You think I need more?” 

She half-turned back toward the locker she’d been standing in front of, raising one hand to its surface. The interface flickered alive under her palm. “…I have two more I could bring.”

That made Chester pause mid-thought.

‘Five weapon licenses? As a Recruit? How the fuck has none of the brass flagged that yet? …Guess they’re still big on letting rookies experiment for the first year. And if she’s only packing Partials, the credit loss isn’t exactly back-breaking...’

His confidence in her being a walking payout just ticked up another notch.

“Wha—What?” one of the Marines stammered, catching himself a beat later. “Ehh, I meant more that you don’t really need to overprepare like that. The mission’s only, what, six hours? You’re not gonna burn through a barrel in that time, let alone three of them.”

That was Chester’s cue.

Pushing himself off the bench, he crossed the gap in a few quick strides. 

“Jenkins,” he cut in smoothly, his voice carrying just enough weight to turn heads, “tormenting the new Recruits again, huh?”

Both Marines turned toward him, frowns knitting in confusion.

“Let the Recruit take her guns into the run,” Chester went on, stepping right past them like they weren’t even there. “Extra firepower never hurt anyone, and a jam or malfunction can ruin your day quick. You should know better than to hassle a first-timer in their first Digital Mission.”

The two exchanged baffled looks, clearly both wondering who exactly he’d just called Jenkins. Truth was, he called anyone ‘Jenkins’ when he needed a quick name to throw out—though the one time he’d actually run into a real Jenkins mid-rant had been… awkward.

Stopping in front of the girl, Chester gave her a polite nod. “My name’s Chester O’Neil, Recruit. Squad Medic. I’d recommend you stick with me—I’ll make sure you don’t get hassled by other veterans who think first-time Recruits are prime targets to screw with.”

He glanced back at the pair, letting his gaze linger just long enough to make the point, before turning back to her. “Follow me. I’ve got a squad in mind for us to join.”

It was a gamble—a medium-sized one. But he’d played this game before.

New Recruits, in their very first DM, were always the same: Overwhelmed, scrambling to process a flood of information and stimuli. They rarely had the footing to push back against a decisive suggestion from someone who looked like they knew the ropes. 

All it took was the right moment to swoop in and play the saviour, and more often than not, they’d follow his lead without a second thought.

The two Marines were quick to jump in, voices overlapping as they tried to explain themselves. 

“Hey, hold on—”
“We weren’t giving her a hard time—”

Chester just tilted his head slightly, cutting their defense off with a casual, “Didn’t expect to see you two chastising her for something that’s completely valid. Bringing extra weapons? That’s just smart.” 

He didn’t give them the breathing room to argue, stepping right over their protests. “What does say something, though, is the first thing out of your mouths being about her loadout instead of even a simple hello. Bit telling, don’t you think?”

That landed. 

Both paused—caught somewhere between confusion, severe irritation and the faint realization they’d been cornered in front of an audience.

Chester seized the moment, turning back toward the Cyan. 

“So,” he asked, his tone lighter now, “you want to join a squad with me? I’ll make sure you survive this one in one piece, promise.”

She hesitated, her cyan eyes flicking toward the two Marines for a heartbeat before settling back on him.

After a moment’s thought, she gave a small nod.

“Good choice,” Chester said, already leading her away from the pair—who now looked thoroughly pissed but were clearly unsure whether to follow, press the issue, or just let it go.

He didn’t give them the chance to decide. 

He cut straight across the room toward one of the squads he’d scoped out earlier—the one with a medic slot still open. They were already sitting at five members out of six, but that wasn’t a problem he couldn’t easily fix.

Stepping up to the Squad Leader, a big, broad-shouldered man in heavy armor whose voice and presence practically radiated authority, Chester got straight to the point. “I’ll join your squad, but only if you take her too. She’s a Recruit, first-timer. I’ll take care of her. Name’s Chester O’Neil, Squad Medic, six-times Grade 3 MVP in the past year.”

The SL’s gaze swept over him, then shifted to the Cyan. 

His scowl deepened, and for a second Chester thought he might refuse outright. 

But after a brief sigh, the man rumbled, “Very well… Wellis’ the name. She’s on your ass. I’ll register us as one of the oversize squads. Don’t fuck this for us, O’Neil.”

“You won’t regret it,” Chester said with an easy smile, clasping the man’s huge, calloused hand. The handshake was firm enough to make his knuckles pop.

[Do you want to join “Wellis’ Squad”? Y / N]

He turned to the Cyan standing just beside him. “Accept the prompt.”

She gave a quick nod, her gloved fingers flicking in the air to confirm. 

The floating marker above Wellis’ head ticked over to 6/+.

Chester’s lips curved upward, just a touch sharper than before. 

‘Just as planned…’

He confirmed his own prompt a moment later, the number shifting to 7/+.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Wellis,” Chester said, turning back toward the SL. “I’ll make sure to keep everyone alive and get us that Squad MVP; don’t worry.”

“I’d fucking hope so,” Wellis muttered, his gaze flicking toward the Cyan like she was a dent in his otherwise spotless kit. “Making me take a Cyan first-timer… Always trying way too hard, those ones.” 

He said it like she wasn’t standing literally two meters in front of him—his voice carrying over the ambient noise of the Prep Room without a hint of subtlety.

The Cyan didn’t flinch, but Chester caught the flicker in her posture. 

Wellis didn’t bother to notice, already barking to the rest of the squad about the change in headcount and how they’d now be running as one of the oversized teams. With a hundred Marines in a Platoon, six-man squads never divided up perfectly; there were always a few extras tagged on here and there.

Chester leaned toward her slightly, keeping his tone casual. “So, what’s your name, Recruit? And, uh… sorry for the way Wellis talked. Guess it’s not exactly the first time you’ve heard that kind of thing though, huh?”

The girl shook her head, her cyan eyes steady, the faintest hint of amusement curling her lips. “Used to it. But he’ll learn… Name’s Thea McKay. I’m looking forward to working together, O’Neil.”

“Call me Chester,” he said, offering his hand again. “O’Neil’s my father, really.”

“Thea, for me,” she said, gripping his hand firmly before letting go.

Chester grinned wide—warm and welcoming on the outside, but underneath he was already celebrating. 

Every obstacle had been cleared, every piece on the board exactly where he wanted it.

‘This is going to be a damned good Digital Mission for me. Thank you, new Recruitment Drives—always a pleasure when your chicks leave the nest for the first time…’

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[TAS] Volume 2 - Chapter 45 - Honour

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Volume 2 - Chapter 40 - Fashion has just released on RR with no changes.

For the Wolf Lords, this chapter is unchanged.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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o7

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/12-xiHvLs6Xq4fEUvP4ejnDQgnF_rmzdIn8upKmSvsdw/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 45 - Honour

"You will never finish every conversation.
You will never return every laugh.
You will never repay every debt to the ones who fell beside you.

That is life as a Marine.

You do not carry the dead by mourning them.
You carry them by walking forward with what they gave you.

Their grit in your unerring aim.
Their voice’s echo in your heart’s conviction.
Their unfinished business in each and every one of your fights.

That is life as a Marine.

Grief is not the weight that holds you back.
It is the proof that someone marched beside you—
and the reason you will not stop marching now, nor ever, until the war is won.

Your burden is not their absence.
Your burden is to live in a way that honours what they gave up.

That is life as a Marine.”

[Attributed to Colonel Vesta Armin, UHF 3rd Fleet, after the loss of Bastion Alp 9, PFC 855]

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Fragments of a familiar voice cut through the static haze buzzing in Thea’s skull, but her brain struggled to string them into meaning. 

The words were just… sounds. Echoes of something she should understand, but couldn’t quite catch.

“Thea… Major Quinn… need me… what is goi—Thea?!”

Hurried footsteps thudded closer, then stopped right beside her.

A pair of warm hands cupped her cheeks—gentle, familiar—fingers brushing up to her forehead, then down along her jaw, checking her pulse at the neck. 

The pressure settled on her shoulders next, firm but steady.

“Thea… talk… me… happened?”

The steady voice had a hint of urgency in it, but Thea couldn’t seem to grab hold of it. 

Her entire world had narrowed to the crushing weight in her chest and the sharp, hollow pang of her heartbeat echoing like a broken bell through her ears. Everything else—the words, the room, even her own thoughts—just drifted somewhere out of reach.

The hands didn’t leave her. 

If anything, they grew more purposeful—one settling against the center of her back, applying slow, steady pressure between her shoulder blades. The other rested over her sternum, just lightly enough to be felt through the uniform. 

Rhythmic pressure. In… out… in… out…

Her body wasn’t obeying. 

Her limbs had gone rigid, but her chest felt too loose—like her lungs had collapsed in on themselves. Her hands were ice. Her thoughts barely coalesced at all, scattered into static fragments.

Her breathing, she realized dimly, was suddenly too fast. Too shallow. 

The hand moved from her back to her wrist, gently guiding her hand up, fingers curling around her palm, squeezing once. Then again. A pattern. 

A rhythm.

One-two. One-two.

The rhythmic pressure on her chest, the squeezing of her hands…

She realised now, someone was trying to give her a metronome.

The touch didn’t vanish. Neither did the voice. 

It came again, closer this time—measured, calm, insistent in the way that only training could teach. The cadence was wrong for panic. There was no fear in it. Just quiet certainty. 

Words started forming shapes in the static now.

“…not alone. You’re here. You’re safe. With me.”

A thumb brushed against her cheekbone, back and forth in the same exact line. 

A hand stayed wrapped around hers, still tapping gently.

“One breath. That’s it. Just one.”

A slow inhale—one she barely noticed. Then another. 

Something inside her cracked. 

Not loudly, not all at once. More like a hairline fracture giving way with each breath.

Her vision sharpened, just slightly. The noise receded. The static dulled.

Thea blinked.

The haze slowly continued to peel away just enough for her to register the face in front of her: Brown, curly hair. Freckled face. 

Green eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Kara…?”

“I’m here. Keep breathing, Thea. Nice and steady.” Her voice was calm, anchored in that strange, unshakeable certainty she always had when things got bad. She hadn’t let go of Thea’s hand once, still squeezing gently with that same slow rhythm. 

In. Out. In. Out.

Thea’s head still felt like it was filled with fog, but the words finally pushed through.

“He’s dead…”

Karania didn’t react to the words. Not outwardly. Her hand just squeezed again.

“In… and out. Don’t stop breathing. Once your brain’s getting oxygen again, you can tell me all about it.”

Thea gave a shaky nod, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she focused on doing exactly what Karania told her. 

‘Breathe... You’re not okay. Trust Kara. She always knows what to do.’

The cold numbness in her limbs slowly shifted to pins and needles. 

Her heart wasn’t jackhammering anymore, just pounding in a more manageable rhythm. 

After a few minutes of sitting like that—still half-slumped over, still holding Karania’s hand—she finally started feeling her body again.

She pushed herself up straighter, groaning softly at how much tension had settled into her back. Only then did she notice how much of her weight had ended up leaning on Kara. 

Her friend didn’t even flinch—just watched her quietly, eyes sharp and focused, making sure every part of her was okay before saying anything else.

“Welcome back,” Karania said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Bit of hypoxia. You weren’t getting enough air there for a minute. Should pass soon. Keep breathing normally, alright?”

Thea nodded again. 

Her lips felt dry. 

Her chest didn’t hurt, but it was tight in a different way now. Less like panic, more like grief packing itself in behind her ribs, digging in and refusing to budge.

That hollow feeling crept in more and more with every breath. Deeper. Heavier. 

The more “okay” she became, the more the hollowness spread.

“He’s dead, Kara…” she whispered. “I didn’t even get to thank him…”

Karania’s hand tightened around hers again. “Who is, Thea?”

“Zach,” she whispered. “He… he got Zero’d just a few days ago. Freak accident during a Void-breach on ship duty… I… I never got to say thank you properly… For helping me with my psychic issues during the Assessment… I wanted to call him; asked Major Quinn. But he’s dead, Kara…”

Karania’s expression softened even more, her grip still firm on Thea’s hand. 

She didn’t look away—not once—as Thea’s voice cracked through the weight of it all.

“I’m really sorry, Thea,” she said, voice low. “I never got to meet him, but from everything you’ve told me… Zach sounds like he was the kind of person who shows up exactly when he’s needed most and does what’s needed to help others. Not a lot of people like that out there. He didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

Thea tried to nod, but it barely worked. 

Her face twisted again, her throat tightening until it was hard to swallow. 

The weight of it—Zach’s death, the finality of it, the simple truth that she would never get the chance to look him in the eye and say thank you—it was too much. 

She didn’t sob. 

But tears streamed freely down her face now, her entire body tense with the effort of just staying upright. 

The silence pressed in around them, broken only by her shaky breaths.

Then, a knock.

It came soft at first, polite. 

Karania turned her head toward the door immediately, “Come in.”

The door hissed open and Corvus stepped through, his gaze flicking across the room in an instant—zeroing in on Thea, and then shifting to Karania with a subtle frown.

“You said you needed me, Karania?” he asked, tone low but clearly concerned.

Karania nodded, rising slowly from where she sat beside Thea. 

“She needs you, actually,” she said quietly. “I’ve done what I can… but this is your area of expertise, not mine.”

She gave Thea’s shoulder a final, gentle squeeze before stepping aside. Her expression was calm—but her eyes lingered on Thea with a kind of fierce, protective worry.

“I’ll be just outside, okay?” she said softly. “If you need anything—anything at all—you just say the word. I’m not going anywhere. Just giving you two some privacy to work through this.”

Thea simply nodded, watching Karania slip silently out the door, leaving her alone with Corvus.

He didn’t speak right away.

Corvus simply walked over and lowered himself slowly onto one knee in front of her, his movements quiet and deliberate. 

Not intrusive. Not forceful. 

Just there.

His voice, when it came, was calm—low and steady like always—but lacking the usual edge of his role. There was no force behind it. Just a person reaching out.

“Karania didn’t give me the details,” he said gently, meeting her eyes without hesitation—somehow preventing himself from flinching at the contact. “She said you were grieving. Said it hit hard. That’s all I know.”

He let that hang in the air for a second, gave her room.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he added. “But if you do… I’m here.”

Thea looked away at first, her gaze drifting to some far-off corner of the room as if she could stuff the grief back into some corner of her chest. 

But it didn’t work. 

Not this time.

“I… He helped me,” she muttered, voice raw. “During the Assessment. After my Gate had completely spiralled out of control… After the Awakening… I had no idea what was happening, no information at all. Nobody had reached out to help me or explain things… Nobody but him.”

Corvus nodded slowly. “What was his name?”

“Zach,” she said. “Zachary Cal Vemun.”

“Tell me about him.”

That simple invitation cracked something. 

She didn’t even realize she’d needed someone to ask until he did. She blinked through the lingering blur of tears and shook her head slightly, trying to organize her thoughts.

“He was smart. Very smart. Knew exactly what was going on with me, even when I didn’t. And calm, like—really calm. He talked me through it all, gave me space to ask whatever questions I wanted. Grounded me. He kept me from falling apart when everything was burning down inside my head; when it felt like I was somehow all alone with this whole… psychic bullshit."

Corvus nodded again, still kneeling in front of her. 

He didn’t push, didn’t interrupt. 

He just listened.

When she paused, trying to find more words, he spoke again. “Sounds like he knew what he was doing. Knew how to show up in the moment, how to be there for somebody that needs them. That’s not just instinct. That’s choice, and experience. He made the choice to be there for you… Wish I could’ve met him. He sounds like a great guy.”

Her jaw tightened, a fresh ache blooming behind her ribs. “I didn’t get to thank him. Not properly. I asked if I could… talk to him again. But…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

Corvus inhaled deeply, his own expression tightening just a fraction. 

Then he exhaled slowly, grounding himself before speaking again.

“You’re feeling that open loop right now. The unfinished conversation. That need to close the story. It’s called ambiguous loss—it’s one of the hardest kinds to process, because the brain keeps looking for resolution that’ll never come.”

Thea’s eyes flicked to his again. She hadn’t expected a psychology lesson from him. 

But he went on.

“There’s no perfect fix for it,” he said. “But what helps—what starts to help—is naming it. Giving shape to the feelings. And then doing something with them.”

He sat down on the floor completely now, arms resting casually on his knees.

“You said you didn’t get to thank him,” Corvus said. “So thank him now. Not to me—for you. Out loud. Say what you would’ve said if he was standing in this room. As if I was him.”

She hesitated.

Corvus didn’t push. He just gave a small nod, as if to say, I’ll wait.

And after a few heartbeats, she whispered, “Thank you, Zach… for not walking away. For helping me when no one else did. For treating me like I wasn’t broken, even when I felt like I was… And I’m sorry. Sorry for what happened—” she had to cut herself short, remembering  Major Quinn’s intense order in regards to the incident, “what happened to you.”

The tears came again, but slower this time. Softer. Less overwhelming.

Corvus gave her a moment before speaking again. “That? That’s what closure starts to look like. You won’t ever forget him—but you can let the weight shift from pain to memory; over time. That’s how we carry them with us instead of letting it break us.”

That sparked something deep in her—an echo from the past.

The phrase “carry them with us” lit up a corner of her mind, and suddenly, the room around her faded.

She saw her Old Man again. 

That weathered, scar-lined face. 

Those intense eyes that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred lifetimes. 

He was sitting across from her, much like Corvus was now, that same serious-but-steady look on his face. Thea could hear his voice—gravelly, always tired, and full of that stubborn kind of care he never quite admitted aloud.

“Golden Rule #7: Never forget them,” he’d said, the words rumbling out slowly, “but don’t let their memories drag you down. Carry them with you, like the badges of honour they are.”

She’d only been ten at the time. 

It had felt like the end of the world then—her first taste of real grief. 

A close acquaintance online. Another build maker. 

One of the first people who’d truly seen her for the mind she had, not the life she’d come from. Somebody that had taught her a large portion of the build making knowledge she had possessed at the time—enabled her to truly understand what it meant to create.

And then one day, they just… didn’t log in. 

A mutual acquaintance told her the truth a week later. Gone. 

Just like that.

It had wrecked her. 

She hadn't known how to process it, only that the silence left behind had hollowed her out.

Her Old Man had picked up on it, of course. 

He always did. 

Quietly sitting beside her until she was ready to talk—then offering words that stuck.

“I’ve lost too many to count, Missy,” he’d said, brushing a hand down his face like the names were still resting behind his eyes. “But their memories? I still carry ‘em. Every single one. Because being part of their lives, even just for a few weeks in some Emperor-forsaken shithole with no sunlight, that was the greatest honour I’ve ever had. And carrying their names after? That’s not just a burden. It’s a privilege.”

She remembered him getting up then, disappearing into his bedroom and returning with an ancient lockbox, one that still had a mechanical key.

It clattered gently when he set it down. 

Inside, thin rectangular plates of varying metal—titanium, steel, old copper, some she couldn’t even name—each one worn from years of being handled.

One by one, he picked them up. Carefully, reverently. 

Held them like relics.

Each had a name. Just that—engraved or scratched in by hand. 

Some were full names. Others just callsigns or nicknames. 

But every one of them was someone real. 

Someone he’d fought beside. 

Someone he’d outlived.

“I write them down when I’ve got time to grieve,” he told her. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes. Each one deserves to be remembered. Their own piece. Their own weight. Their own honour.”

He’d looked at her then, more serious than she’d ever seen him, and said, “You’re gonna lose people, kiddo. More than you’ll ever be ready for. But you remember them. You carry their names forward, every step. That’s what it means to be brothers and sisters in arms. That’s what it means to be a Marine. We don’t bury them and forget—they live on through us. That’s our burden as the survivors. Our gift, as the one that gets to remember. Our duty, as the last one left.”

Now, years later, sitting curled up in the chair in her room, knees drawn tight to her chest and fingers twisted into the fabric of her uniform pants, Thea could still hear every word her Old Man had once said. 

The memories played back with crystal clarity—etched into her bones now. 

And for the first time since hearing about Zach, she didn’t feel like she was sinking anymore.

She felt like she had something to anchor to. A plan. 

A way to carry this grief forward without letting it drown her.

“Thank you, Corvus,” she murmured, voice scratchy and faint, barely holding itself together. 

“I… I need to get something.”

He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, then gently helped her up. 

Her legs felt clumsy beneath her, uncooperative and hollow from the crash of everything that had just hit her body and mind. The hypoxia hadn’t fully worn off, and neither had the emotional weight of it all, but Corvus stayed steady—an unshakable presence at her side as he guided her over to the workbench tucked against the far wall of her room.

It wasn’t much. 

Just a tiny setup she’d cobbled together over the past week—a couple of scattered tools, a few miscellaneous weapon parts, scraps of metal, and the familiar rhythm of something she could focus on when the rest of the world got too loud.

She reached for the first sheet of metal her fingers could grasp. 

Corvus glanced at her, curiosity flickering in his eyes, but said nothing. He simply stayed close, one hand lightly on her arm to keep her steady as she leaned over the desk.

Her fingers curled around the well-worn screwdriver—the same one she’d used to disassemble and reassemble her Gram more times than she could count. 

It felt heavier than usual in her hand. 

She adjusted her grip and began to scratch letters into the metal.

“Z-A-C-H”

It was horrible to look at.

The lines were jagged. Uneven. 

Her hand shook and the tool slipped a few times, scraping off-target, gouging crooked strokes into the sheet. It was messy—ugly, even—but it was hers. 

Her work. Her goodbye.

And Corvus, bless him, hadn’t offered to help. 

Hadn’t tried to “fix” anything. 

He just stood there, steady and silent, a grounding force behind her.

Once the name was finished, she took a pair of snips and clumsily cut the corner of the sheet off, shaping it into a rough rectangle, no bigger than a dog tag. 

Just like her Old Man had likely done countless times before.

She pulled it close to her chest, clutched it tight in her fist until the edges bit into her skin. 

Her voice cracked as she whispered, barely more than a breath.

“Thank you, Zach. For answering my questions, when I was confused. For being there, when I needed you. For… everything. I… will carry you with me. It’s been an honour to cross your path and call myself your sister in arms—if only for a short while. Your memory is my burden, my gift, my duty. Rest in peace… And thank you.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks again, but this time they didn’t crash over her like a wave—they just flowed.

She stumbled back from the bench, and Corvus moved instantly, catching her without hesitation and guiding her to the nearby edge of her bed as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

“I got you. Don’t worry,” he said gently, lowering her down with care.

Once she was seated, still holding the metal tag tight, he knelt in front of her again, eyes damp but calm. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Thea shook her head slowly. 

Her voice came out quieter than before, but steadier now, “No… Thank you, Corvus. You’ve done more than enough. You reminded me of something I needed to remember. And it helped. A lot… I… I just need a moment.”

Corvus didn’t say anything. Just gave a small, reassuring nod. 

But he didn’t leave.

He stayed by her side, settled in quiet company. No pressure. No expectations. 

Just there—like a weight that steadied rather than crushed. 

He didn’t look at his datapad or check the time. He didn’t try to talk. 

He simply waited with her, through the long silence that followed, while her hands slowly unclenched and her breathing leveled out.

Ten minutes passed. 

The tears had stopped, dried in uneven streaks across her face. Her fingers still curled tightly around the piece of metal in her hand, but they weren’t trembling anymore.

Eventually, Thea glanced over, and for the first time that entire day, her gaze was clear. 

Focused.

“Actually…” she said, her voice a little hoarse, but more herself than before. “I could use a box. A lockbox. An old one. One with a mechanical key. Do… Do you know where I could buy one like that…?”

Corvus blinked at the request, then a smile ghosted across his face—something quiet and knowing.

“Yeah, I think I know a place, actually…”

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[ND] Chapter 142 - Consequentia I

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Chapter 137 - Downloads, Downloads, Downloads has just released on RR with no major changes.

For the Fixers, this chapter has seen no changes.

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Welcome to the beginning of the end of "Volume 1" for Neon Dragons.

(ND doesn't actually have Volumes, but this would be considered the end of the first one, if there were any).

Strap yourselves in.

WARNING: More Cliffhanger in this one than the last.

But I know y'all don't care, you'll read it anyway.

Also a coloured sketch of the main woman in question:

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d97028EdLe-J7lt_RQ-UVR__1ODWUm8dUZdLTAy1BB4/edit?usp=sharing

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Chapter 142 - Consequentia I

I didn’t even get the chance to fully process what that sound meant before everything went straight to hell.

“Oliver, the kids!” Valeria snapped, somehow already on her feet.

She didn’t hesitate—grabbed the chair she’d just been sitting on with one hand and hurled it across the room, dead center toward the short hallway that led to the main door. 

The crash of it barely registered before Oliver was already in motion too, launching himself over the table like it wasn’t even there. 

One moment he was sitting across from us as confused as we were, and the next he was already airborne, crashing into both me and Gabriel like a human battering ram.

“Wha—” was all Gabriel managed before the three of us hit the floor in a heap. The table went with us, toppling over with a heavy thud, in a mess of plates, silverware, and the remains of our definitely-too-expensive dinner.

Then—

Boom.

The apartment exploded.

The front door didn’t open—it launched. 

Ripped clean off its hinges, shot into the room like a railgun round the size of a riot shield. It slammed into the far wall with a sickening crunch, half-burying itself in solid rockcrete like it was nothing.

At the same time, the kitchen simply imploded.

The outside floor-facing wall gave way first, then the fridge came flying out like it had been punted by a mech. It slammed into the opposite wall with a hollow metal clang, while the oven-stove combo tore through the air and crashed spine-first into the central rockcrete counter, crumpling into scrap metal on impact.

My ears were screaming—ringing so hard I couldn’t even tell if I was shouting or silent. 

Everything spun. 

I must’ve hit my head on the way down, because the lights overhead blurred into streaks and my limbs felt like they were lagging behind my thoughts.

But I could tell I was moving—being dragged. 

Away from the wreckage. Someone had me.

This was absolutely no time to play coy, I thankfully somehow managed to put together. 

I flicked my Ego on.

The effect was instant—ice in my veins, my vision clearing up and the static in my thoughts wiped clean. The ringing in my ears flattened out into silence, letting my mind function again. 

I still couldn’t hear shit, but it stopped being completely debilitating.

Oliver had both me and Gabriel by the collars, dragging us backwards with one arm while pulling the kitchen table with the other, using it as a makeshift barrier. 

He was moving fast, hauling us toward our shared bedroom. 

Away from the kitchen. Away from the breach.

And Valeria—Valeria had moved toward the chaos.

I caught a glimpse of her through the dust and smoke, and my brain short-circuited for a second.

She was elbow-deep in the rockcrete kitchen counter—the same one that had just taken a hit from a flying oven like it was a battering ram. 

Her expression didn’t even twitch as she pulled something out.

A gun. No, not just a gun—a hand-cannon. 

Matte black, wide-barreled, the kind of weapon that didn’t come with a serial number. It looked more like a personal anti-materiel solution than anything meant for a sidearm.

And her arm? Not a single scratch.

‘What the actual fuck?!’

That was about all I managed to think—right before the chaos found a way to get even worse.

Figures in full black body armor stormed into the apartment through the shredded openings—through what used to be the hallway door and the gaping hole where the kitchen wall had been moments before. 

No markings, no logos, nothing to ID them by at all. 

But my brain had no trouble slotting them into a category: ‘Corpo agents…!’

Had to be. 

Nobody else came in like this—fully coordinated and ruthless enough to use high explosives in a residential floor, especially not one owned by another Corporation.

The very second the first figure crossed the threshold, I felt a resonant thud ripple through my chest as Valeria’s hand-cannon roared from behind the mangled kitchen counter she’d turned into cover. 

The shot connected instantly, and the agent’s head—the helmet, faceplate, everything—just evaporated. 

A misty cloud of gore hung briefly in the air where their head used to be, the body simply dropping to the ground like a sack of algae.

At nearly the exact same moment, the ceiling at the center of the apartment exploded downward, plaster and rockcrete shrapnel scattering in every direction. 

A sleek, automated turret unfolded rapidly from inside, humming as it locked onto something I could barely glimpse in the hallway—a shadowy figure, frantically shoving aside the wreckage of Valeria’s chair.

Two heavy, concussive shots punched through the chaos, echoing in my chest. 

The black-armored figure didn’t even manage to hit the ground—the impact of the rounds ripped them out of view, sending them collapsing silently into the darkness of the floor’s hallway beyond. 

Then, just as fast as it had emerged, the turret went still again, smoke rising gently from its muzzle.

For half a heartbeat, there was silence. 

And then everything went straight back to hell before I could gather a single thought or come up with a plan of action on how to react to all of this.

The assault didn’t stop to give me that time. 

If anything, it escalated.

More of them poured in—similarly black-clad, faceless, rifles already up but now pre-firing as they breached. Muzzle flashes lit up the apartment like strobe lights, rounds pinging off every surface with deafening fury. 

Bullets ricocheted wildly, the walls sparked, hit furniture exploded into splinters, and somewhere behind me, a painting hung on our walls burst into a thousand pieces like it had been waiting for a reason.

One round slammed into the edge of the kitchen table we were crouched behind with a sharp, teeth-rattling crack. 

Splinters of metal and ceramic plating exploded out across my face and arms. Gabriel yelped beside me, but it was muffled, distant—my ears still trying to recover from the initial explosion.

Meanwhile, the turret held the hallway, its twin barrels letting out rhythmic bursts every few seconds—each one slamming like a steel fist into the corridor. I couldn’t see if it was hitting anything from where I was tucked against the floor, but judging by the lack of return fire from that direction, it was doing its job. 

For now.

But Valeria was a different kind of storm entirely.

She moved behind the counter with seriously practiced fluidity—ducking, pivoting, leaning out just long enough to fire off another brutal shot. 

Each time she did, the result was devastating.

One shot caught a breacher mid-sprint. 

The round hit center mass, and his torso simply detonated. 

Armor cracked open like a cheap toy, ribs turned to shrapnel, and what was left of his lungs splashed against the wall in a thick, red smear. 

Another shot blew straight through a helmet, vaporizing skull and brain in one violent instant—leaving a neck stump gushing blood as the corpse slumped forward and twitched, rifle clattering uselessly to the floor.

Another assailant barely had time to train their weapon towards her before Valeria snapped to the side and hammered a shot into their thigh. The leg exploded below the knee, sending them collapsing sideways, screaming, only for a follow-up shot to take their head off mid-fall.

Still, they kept coming.

Four more. Then a fifth. 

Three from the kitchen breach, two from the hallway—no hesitation, just bodies feeding into the grinder, pre-programmed movement and fire patterns, their goal obvious: Overwhelm us.

But then—

Boom.

A flash of light burst through the hallway. 

The turret jerked once, then was ripped from the ceiling in a hail of fire and twisted metal. 

It hit the floor hard, skidding across the floor in a shrieking pile of debris, sparks and flame licking off its shattered core. One of its barrels clanged once as it spun loose from the wreckage and rolled to a stop by the edge of the tipped-over couch.

‘Fuck!’ Was the first conscious thought I managed since the first agent had lost their head, realising that the destruction of the turret meant that nothing was holding the hallway anymore.

I also now realised I was still holding the cutlery from the dinner, my fork and the steak knife. 

I simply stared at the knife in my hand like it was personally insulting me for being there.

‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with a fucking steak knife in this situation?! I don’t… I don’t have my gear… And even if I did, this is way above my fucking level, fuck!’

Valeria, meanwhile, didn’t waste the moment like I was. 

She pivoted sharply and eliminated the three intruders flooding through the kitchen breach with surgical brutality—three shots, three shredded bodies. 

One collapsed backward out of the breach, head half-missing.
Another dropped mid-step, chest blown open in a grotesque flower of bone and red mist. The third barely had time to raise their rifle before she put a round through their clavicle, the exit wound painting the far wall in arterial arcs.

She didn’t slow down.

In the next heartbeat, she was already shifting toward the hallway breach, taking both fronts like it was routine. Two quick shots and she was already aiming back towards the kitchen.

Another figure stepped into the breach—too slow of a follow-up. 

Valeria’s hand-cannon roared one final time. Boom. 

Without hesitation, somehow realising it was empty—or so I hoped—she hurled the weapon straight at the next incoming assailant with enough speed to whistle through the air. 

The heavy pistol struck center-mass and crumpled the agent like a ragdoll, the blow carrying enough force to knock them clean off their feet and into the nearby wall. 

I doubted I could’ve matched that kind of throw even with [Blademaster’s Throw] active.

Now unarmed, she was already charging forward at the other person stepping inside the breach behind the pair.

Two rounds hit her in the shoulder and hip—full-auto bursts that would’ve dropped anyone else. She didn’t even flinch. She slammed into the next invader full-force, grabbed them, and drove her fist straight through it. 

Not into. Through.

Armor buckled. Ribs shattered like twigs. 

Her hand punched through meat, straight through the heart, and burst out the back in a fountain of blood and shredded gore. The agent convulsed violently, choking on nothing, already dead—his body just hadn’t realized it yet, hanging limp and twitching on her forearm like a skewered puppet.

Without breaking stride, Valeria stepped over to the one she’d dropped with the thrown hand-cannon. He was still moving, just barely, trying to recover from the sudden, heavy impact.

She ended that with a clean, brutal downward kick—her high heel driving straight through the center of his visor. 

The crack of reinforced polymer, the crunch of bone beneath it followed by the sound of metal scraping into rockcrete—it was final. 

She didn’t bother retrieving the shoe either. Just left it there, embedded through his skull and into the kitchen-floor beneath, and kept going barefoot.

Valeria didn’t stop moving.

She twisted with the corpse still impaled, grabbing the dangling rifle now swinging from its shoulder harness.

Then she turned.

Right back towards the open hallway.

Rounds zipped past, two more black-clad shapes pressing through, filling the gap the turret had once covered. Valeria lifted the corpse—still stuck on her arm like a grotesque shield—and glanced briefly at the rifle.

Half a second passed, then it beeped. A green LED flickered on.

Recognition flashed in her eyes.

She raised it and opened fire, spraying controlled bursts down the corridor while moving, ducking behind the remains of the half-exploded and ripped apart counter. 

The arm still impaled the corpse like a riot shield, angling it into the hail of bullets that kept slamming into it with sickening, wet thuds. 

Each shot made the body jolt, twitching unnaturally as rounds tore through ruined armor and pulverized what was left underneath. Bits of ceramic plate flaked off like dead bark.

But somehow, it still held—for now.

And me? I was frozen. 

Crumpled behind the overturned kitchen table, just staring, my brain barely keeping up.

It hadn’t even been ten seconds since the explosions tore the apartment open. 

My heart was still hammering like it was trying to break out of my chest despite my Ego’s best efforts to calm me down. 

Meanwhile, Valeria was out there, taking on a goddamn black-ops hit squad with nothing but a corpse, a borrowed rifle, and sheer corporate rage—and she was somehow seemingly winning?!

‘What the fuck am I even supposed to do here?!’

My eyes darted around, desperate for anything I could use. ‘Come on, come on—think!
If I had my knives, I could—’

My Ego forcibly cooled down my thoughts. ‘Could what, exactly? Get myself killed faster? Their armor would just eat my knives, even with [Sharpen], like they were cosplay-tier. At best, I’d piss one of them off before getting ventilated.’

I felt the floor shift under me and snapped my head around. 

Oliver was still dragging all three of us—me, Gabriel, and the goddamn kitchen table—toward the hallway leading to our rooms. 

His face was all clenched jaw and tunnel vision, legs moving like pistons.

“Do we have more guns?!” I shouted, barely hearing my own voice over the chaos.

He didn’t even turn, just shook his head sharply, still dead set on getting us out of the blast zone.

“Fuck!” I hissed, turning back toward the front of the apartment, scanning again, reaching for any half-baked idea that could make a dent in the situation.

There was something—my neural link still had a single charge of [Venombite] loaded from the Operator Meeting earlier. One hit only, before it would kill me—I hadn’t exactly designed it for mass-usage, after all.

Except… I was behind cover, with no angle. 

And even if I did somehow hit someone, and even if it did somehow manage to get through whatever Corporate-ICE they all undoubtedly had chipped, it wasn’t like these bastards were gonna stop and politely wait for the quick-hack to run its course. 

These weren’t stupid scavs—they were here for one reason, and subtlety wasn’t on that list.

They weren’t here to talk. They were here to end whatever Corpo-war this was.

While I was struggling with all that, Valeria simply dropped two more with clinical precision. 

Controlled bursts—one to the throat, another straight through the visor of a breacher trying to flank. Both dropped like bags of meat, one crumpling over the remnants of the chair she’d tossed earlier, the other folding mid-step and skidding across the broken floor.

Then, without pause, she tossed the rifle like it was spent—which it probably was—and let the mangled corpse that had served as her shield slide off her arm with a wet, sickening schlunk. 

It hit the floor with a thud, limbs splayed at awkward angles, what was left of its armor barely holding shape.

Valeria exhaled hard. Not dramatic, but heavy enough to see. 

Her shoulders rose and fell once—measured, but taxed. 

She ducked behind the kitchen counter again just… breathing.

That’s when I heard it.

A voice—male, distorted through static in my ears and the chaos, filtering in from the breached kitchen wall.

“Ten seconds, huh? Not bad. But seems like you’re running out of options, Viper.” 

The name hit like a nail through the room. 

“Would be a lot easier if you just gave up, you know?”

I blinked. My hearing had apparently stabilized enough to parse words clearly again, if still filtered like they were coming through a half-broken headset.

Valeria didn’t miss a beat.

“That’s not proper decorum,” she replied flatly, as if correcting someone’s email etiquette.

A second later three more of them came in through the breach—tight formation, tactical movement, rifles raised, sweeping like they expected her to be pinned.

Bad guess.

Valeria suddenly moved. 

She literally disappeared from behind the counter, only to re-appear in a blur as she slammed into the first guy like a freight train. 

The sound of the impact was like a miniature explosion, as the agent’s bones and armour folded into itself. He flew backward, crashing into the side of the destroyed fridge with a crunch that bent steel. 

Before he even hit the ground, she had already pivoted into the second one, catching his rifle mid-swing and ripping it out of his hands with a single wrench of her arm.

He tried to throw an instinctive punch to catch Valeria while she was off-balance from the disarm.

But Valeria simply ducked under it with impossible speed, stepped in close, and drove her knee upward into his stomach. 

Armor cracked and crumpled. 

Air left his lungs in a strangled wheeze—just in time for her to catch the back of his helmet and slam it down onto the remains of the kitchen counter at her side.

The crack was wet and final, leaving nothing but a gory lump where his head had been.

The third one actually managed to fire. 

A short burst caught her across the ribs and thigh. Blood sprayed—but she kept coming, shrugging it off like it was nothing. She closed distance mid-dodge, slipping under the follow-up shot with inhuman speed.

Her fist caught him in the jaw and spun his entire body halfway around. Before he could even stumble, she kicked the back of his knee out, grabbed the back of his vest, and ripped his entire head off with a fluid, abrupt pull.

Three heartbeats. Three bodies.

She stood there for a breath, blood-slick and towering over the broken mess of bodies at her feet. Her wounds leaked freely—shoulder, side, leg—but if they were slowing her down, she didn’t show it.

‘Holy f—’

The thought barely formed before my eyes went wide in horror.

Suddenly, there was someone next to her. 

A large man, armored head to toe, had appeared out of nowhere, just like she’d disappeared from the counter and re-appeared mid-sprint when she bodyslammed that first guy.

The man didn’t waste time.

He seized Valeria by the arm and hurled her across the kitchen like she weighed nothing. 

She slammed into the wall hard enough to crack it from the impact, the plaster spiderwebbing behind her back. A sharp grunt left her lips, followed by a spray of blood that painted the tile below in crimson streaks.

But she didn’t stay down.

Valeria pushed off the ground and launched herself back at him immediately, striking with a speed and precision that would’ve obliterated any of the previous opponents. 

Her elbow drove into his ribs with a crack, followed by a palm strike to his helmet that sent his head snapping sideways. She spun low, sweeping at his knees, but he stepped through it, grunting as he absorbed the blow and brought a gauntleted fist straight into her jaw.

She stumbled, but retaliated immediately—two lightning-fast punches to his torso, then a vicious upward knee that dented the front plate of his chest armor, sending him stumbling.

But it didn’t matter.

He barely managed to catch her next strike mid-swing, using the leverage of the strike to twist her arm behind her back, and slammed her into the wall again—even harder this time. 

The crack echoed through the apartment, louder than the gunfire before. 

His forearm braced across her throat, pinning her in place, crushing her against the cracked wall.

Valeria choked out another breath, jaw clenched, struggling against the hold—but she was trapped, the sheer brute force of the man too difficult to fight against. 

Her fingers twitched, trying to reach for something, anything, but the pressure kept her locked down, feet dangling in the air.

Then came the others.

Five more black-clad figures swept into the apartment, split between the two breaches.

Two peeled off immediately toward Valeria, rifles lowered but ready. 

They moved to her sides, grabbing her arms and locking her down with tight, practiced motions, putting their entire weight onto her arms and shoulders as the big man pushed her face-first to the ground.

The other three saw us.

And they moved fast.

Boots thundered across the floor as they rushed toward our makeshift barricade—toward me, Gabriel, and Oliver—rifles already rising into firing position.

I was half-expecting them to just raise their rifles and light us up. 

But instead, they swarmed us, moving fast and with a clear purpose in mind. 

One of them ripped Oliver away from our side like he weighed nothing, tossing him a few meters, slamming him to the floor, and pinning him with a knee between the shoulder blades. 

Gabriel barely got a sound out before he was yanked down the same way. 

Then me.

I hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of me, and before I could react, a boot pinned my back and a knee dropped right onto the base of my neck. Pain lanced down my spine as my face was shoved into the carpet, the rough weave scraping against my cheek. 

I could barely move—barely breathe.

Pure, unadulterated panic flared inside me, hot and utterly useless. 

But my Ego was somehow still running, keeping the worst of it at bay. Just barely.

‘Think, think—there’s gotta be something—’

Then it suddenly hit me. ‘There is… This is a security issue!’

I forced my cerebral interface to open, doing my best to navigate the menu with my eyes half-blinded, still rammed into the floor. I pulled up the messaging prompt, mentally racing over the keyboard inside the neural command structure.

[HELP US! CORPO AGENTS!] I fired off the message to Mr. Stirling with everything I had.

For half a heartbeat, I had hope.

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

The words hit harder than the knee on my neck.

‘They… they fucking jammed us...’

That must have been what Valeria had picked up on earlier. 

That flicker of confusion on her face. 

All her comms, all her contacts, all her connections that she undoubtedly had running 24/7—abruptly cut off, throwing errors.

I tried again, desperate for the one single play I had to work out somehow.

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

‘Again…!’

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

‘Again…! Come on!’ 

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

‘COME ON, FUCKING PLEASE WORK!’

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

‘Please…’

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent…]

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[Fixer+ | Draft] Chapter 142 - Consequentia I

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Chapter 142 for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

-----

Welcome to the beginning of the end of "Volume 1" for Neon Dragons.

(ND doesn't actually have Volumes, but this would be considered the end of the first one, if there were any).

Strap yourselves in.

WARNING: More Cliffhanger in this one than the last.

But I know y'all don't care, you'll read it anyway.

Also a coloured sketch of the main woman in question:

-----

I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1d97028EdLe-J7lt_RQ-UVR__1ODWUm8dUZdLTAy1BB4/edit?usp=sharing

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Chapter 142 - Consequentia I

I didn’t even get the chance to fully process what that sound meant before everything went straight to hell.

“Oliver, the kids!” Valeria snapped, somehow already on her feet.

She didn’t hesitate—grabbed the chair she’d just been sitting on with one hand and hurled it across the room, dead center toward the short hallway that led to the main door. 

The crash of it barely registered before Oliver was already in motion too, launching himself over the table like it wasn’t even there. 

One moment he was sitting across from us as confused as we were, and the next he was already airborne, crashing into both me and Gabriel like a human battering ram.

“Wha—” was all Gabriel managed before the three of us hit the floor in a heap. The table went with us, toppling over with a heavy thud, in a mess of plates, silverware, and the remains of our definitely-too-expensive dinner.

Then—

Boom.

The apartment exploded.

The front door didn’t open—it launched. 

Ripped clean off its hinges, shot into the room like a railgun round the size of a riot shield. It slammed into the far wall with a sickening crunch, half-burying itself in solid rockcrete like it was nothing.

At the same time, the kitchen simply imploded.

The outside floor-facing wall gave way first, then the fridge came flying out like it had been punted by a mech. It slammed into the opposite wall with a hollow metal clang, while the oven-stove combo tore through the air and crashed spine-first into the central rockcrete counter, crumpling into scrap metal on impact.

My ears were screaming—ringing so hard I couldn’t even tell if I was shouting or silent. 

Everything spun. 

I must’ve hit my head on the way down, because the lights overhead blurred into streaks and my limbs felt like they were lagging behind my thoughts.

But I could tell I was moving—being dragged. 

Away from the wreckage. Someone had me.

This was absolutely no time to play coy, I thankfully somehow managed to put together. 

I flicked my Ego on.

The effect was instant—ice in my veins, my vision clearing up and the static in my thoughts wiped clean. The ringing in my ears flattened out into silence, letting my mind function again. 

I still couldn’t hear shit, but it stopped being completely debilitating.

Oliver had both me and Gabriel by the collars, dragging us backwards with one arm while pulling the kitchen table with the other, using it as a makeshift barrier. 

He was moving fast, hauling us toward our shared bedroom. 

Away from the kitchen. Away from the breach.

And Valeria—Valeria had moved toward the chaos.

I caught a glimpse of her through the dust and smoke, and my brain short-circuited for a second.

She was elbow-deep in the rockcrete kitchen counter—the same one that had just taken a hit from a flying oven like it was a battering ram. 

Her expression didn’t even twitch as she pulled something out.

A gun. No, not just a gun—a hand-cannon. 

Matte black, wide-barreled, the kind of weapon that didn’t come with a serial number. It looked more like a personal anti-materiel solution than anything meant for a sidearm.

And her arm? Not a single scratch.

‘What the actual fuck?!’

That was about all I managed to think—right before the chaos found a way to get even worse.

Figures in full black body armor stormed into the apartment through the shredded openings—through what used to be the hallway door and the gaping hole where the kitchen wall had been moments before. 

No markings, no logos, nothing to ID them by at all. 

But my brain had no trouble slotting them into a category: ‘Corpo agents…!’

Had to be. 

Nobody else came in like this—fully coordinated and ruthless enough to use high explosives in a residential floor, especially not one owned by another Corporation.

The very second the first figure crossed the threshold, I felt a resonant thud ripple through my chest as Valeria’s hand-cannon roared from behind the mangled kitchen counter she’d turned into cover. 

The shot connected instantly, and the agent’s head—the helmet, faceplate, everything—just evaporated. 

A misty cloud of gore hung briefly in the air where their head used to be, the body simply dropping to the ground like a sack of algae.

At nearly the exact same moment, the ceiling at the center of the apartment exploded downward, plaster and rockcrete shrapnel scattering in every direction. 

A sleek, automated turret unfolded rapidly from inside, humming as it locked onto something I could barely glimpse in the hallway—a shadowy figure, frantically shoving aside the wreckage of Valeria’s chair.

Two heavy, concussive shots punched through the chaos, echoing in my chest. 

The black-armored figure didn’t even manage to hit the ground—the impact of the rounds ripped them out of view, sending them collapsing silently into the darkness of the floor’s hallway beyond. 

Then, just as fast as it had emerged, the turret went still again, smoke rising gently from its muzzle.

For half a heartbeat, there was silence. 

And then everything went straight back to hell before I could gather a single thought or come up with a plan of action on how to react to all of this.

The assault didn’t stop to give me that time. 

If anything, it escalated.

More of them poured in—similarly black-clad, faceless, rifles already up but now pre-firing as they breached. Muzzle flashes lit up the apartment like strobe lights, rounds pinging off every surface with deafening fury. 

Bullets ricocheted wildly, the walls sparked, hit furniture exploded into splinters, and somewhere behind me, a painting hung on our walls burst into a thousand pieces like it had been waiting for a reason.

One round slammed into the edge of the kitchen table we were crouched behind with a sharp, teeth-rattling crack. 

Splinters of metal and ceramic plating exploded out across my face and arms. Gabriel yelped beside me, but it was muffled, distant—my ears still trying to recover from the initial explosion.

Meanwhile, the turret held the hallway, its twin barrels letting out rhythmic bursts every few seconds—each one slamming like a steel fist into the corridor. I couldn’t see if it was hitting anything from where I was tucked against the floor, but judging by the lack of return fire from that direction, it was doing its job. 

For now.

But Valeria was a different kind of storm entirely.

She moved behind the counter with seriously practiced fluidity—ducking, pivoting, leaning out just long enough to fire off another brutal shot. 

Each time she did, the result was devastating.

One shot caught a breacher mid-sprint. 

The round hit center mass, and his torso simply detonated. 

Armor cracked open like a cheap toy, ribs turned to shrapnel, and what was left of his lungs splashed against the wall in a thick, red smear. 

Another shot blew straight through a helmet, vaporizing skull and brain in one violent instant—leaving a neck stump gushing blood as the corpse slumped forward and twitched, rifle clattering uselessly to the floor.

Another assailant barely had time to train their weapon towards her before Valeria snapped to the side and hammered a shot into their thigh. The leg exploded below the knee, sending them collapsing sideways, screaming, only for a follow-up shot to take their head off mid-fall.

Still, they kept coming.

Four more. Then a fifth. 

Three from the kitchen breach, two from the hallway—no hesitation, just bodies feeding into the grinder, pre-programmed movement and fire patterns, their goal obvious: Overwhelm us.

But then—

Boom.

A flash of light burst through the hallway. 

The turret jerked once, then was ripped from the ceiling in a hail of fire and twisted metal. 

It hit the floor hard, skidding across the floor in a shrieking pile of debris, sparks and flame licking off its shattered core. One of its barrels clanged once as it spun loose from the wreckage and rolled to a stop by the edge of the tipped-over couch.

‘Fuck!’ Was the first conscious thought I managed since the first agent had lost their head, realising that the destruction of the turret meant that nothing was holding the hallway anymore.

I also now realised I was still holding the cutlery from the dinner, my fork and the steak knife. 

I simply stared at the knife in my hand like it was personally insulting me for being there.

‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with a fucking steak knife in this situation?! I don’t… I don’t have my gear… And even if I did, this is way above my fucking level, fuck!’

Valeria, meanwhile, didn’t waste the moment like I was. 

She pivoted sharply and eliminated the three intruders flooding through the kitchen breach with surgical brutality—three shots, three shredded bodies. 

One collapsed backward out of the breach, head half-missing.
Another dropped mid-step, chest blown open in a grotesque flower of bone and red mist. The third barely had time to raise their rifle before she put a round through their clavicle, the exit wound painting the far wall in arterial arcs.

She didn’t slow down.

In the next heartbeat, she was already shifting toward the hallway breach, taking both fronts like it was routine. Two quick shots and she was already aiming back towards the kitchen.

Another figure stepped into the breach—too slow of a follow-up. 

Valeria’s hand-cannon roared one final time. Boom. 

Without hesitation, somehow realising it was empty—or so I hoped—she hurled the weapon straight at the next incoming assailant with enough speed to whistle through the air. 

The heavy pistol struck center-mass and crumpled the agent like a ragdoll, the blow carrying enough force to knock them clean off their feet and into the nearby wall. 

I doubted I could’ve matched that kind of throw even with [Blademaster’s Throw] active.

Now unarmed, she was already charging forward at the other person stepping inside the breach behind the pair.

Two rounds hit her in the shoulder and hip—full-auto bursts that would’ve dropped anyone else. She didn’t even flinch. She slammed into the next invader full-force, grabbed them, and drove her fist straight through it. 

Not into. Through.

Armor buckled. Ribs shattered like twigs. 

Her hand punched through meat, straight through the heart, and burst out the back in a fountain of blood and shredded gore. The agent convulsed violently, choking on nothing, already dead—his body just hadn’t realized it yet, hanging limp and twitching on her forearm like a skewered puppet.

Without breaking stride, Valeria stepped over to the one she’d dropped with the thrown hand-cannon. He was still moving, just barely, trying to recover from the sudden, heavy impact.

She ended that with a clean, brutal downward kick—her high heel driving straight through the center of his visor. 

The crack of reinforced polymer, the crunch of bone beneath it followed by the sound of metal scraping into rockcrete—it was final. 

She didn’t bother retrieving the shoe either. Just left it there, embedded through his skull and into the kitchen-floor beneath, and kept going barefoot.

Valeria didn’t stop moving.

She twisted with the corpse still impaled, grabbing the dangling rifle now swinging from its shoulder harness.

Then she turned.

Right back towards the open hallway.

Rounds zipped past, two more black-clad shapes pressing through, filling the gap the turret had once covered. Valeria lifted the corpse—still stuck on her arm like a grotesque shield—and glanced briefly at the rifle.

Half a second passed, then it beeped. A green LED flickered on.

Recognition flashed in her eyes.

She raised it and opened fire, spraying controlled bursts down the corridor while moving, ducking behind the remains of the half-exploded and ripped apart counter. 

The arm still impaled the corpse like a riot shield, angling it into the hail of bullets that kept slamming into it with sickening, wet thuds. 

Each shot made the body jolt, twitching unnaturally as rounds tore through ruined armor and pulverized what was left underneath. Bits of ceramic plate flaked off like dead bark.

But somehow, it still held—for now.

And me? I was frozen. 

Crumpled behind the overturned kitchen table, just staring, my brain barely keeping up.

It hadn’t even been ten seconds since the explosions tore the apartment open. 

My heart was still hammering like it was trying to break out of my chest despite my Ego’s best efforts to calm me down. 

Meanwhile, Valeria was out there, taking on a goddamn black-ops hit squad with nothing but a corpse, a borrowed rifle, and sheer corporate rage—and she was somehow seemingly winning?!

‘What the fuck am I even supposed to do here?!’

My eyes darted around, desperate for anything I could use. ‘Come on, come on—think!
If I had my knives, I could—’

My Ego forcibly cooled down my thoughts. ‘Could what, exactly? Get myself killed faster? Their armor would just eat my knives, even with [Sharpen], like they were cosplay-tier. At best, I’d piss one of them off before getting ventilated.’

I felt the floor shift under me and snapped my head around. 

Oliver was still dragging all three of us—me, Gabriel, and the goddamn kitchen table—toward the hallway leading to our rooms. 

His face was all clenched jaw and tunnel vision, legs moving like pistons.

“Do we have more guns?!” I shouted, barely hearing my own voice over the chaos.

He didn’t even turn, just shook his head sharply, still dead set on getting us out of the blast zone.

“Fuck!” I hissed, turning back toward the front of the apartment, scanning again, reaching for any half-baked idea that could make a dent in the situation.

There was something—my neural link still had a single charge of [Venombite] loaded from the Operator Meeting earlier. One hit only, before it would kill me—I hadn’t exactly designed it for mass-usage, after all.

Except… I was behind cover, with no angle. 

And even if I did somehow hit someone, and even if it did somehow manage to get through whatever Corporate-ICE they all undoubtedly had chipped, it wasn’t like these bastards were gonna stop and politely wait for the quick-hack to run its course. 

These weren’t stupid scavs—they were here for one reason, and subtlety wasn’t on that list.

They weren’t here to talk. They were here to end whatever Corpo-war this was.

Valeria simply dropped two more with clinical precision. 

Controlled bursts—one to the throat, another straight through the visor of a breacher trying to flank. Both dropped like bags of meat, one crumpling over the remnants of the chair she’d tossed earlier, the other folding mid-step and skidding across the broken floor.

Then, without pause, she tossed the rifle like it was spent—which it probably was—and let the mangled corpse that had served as her shield slide off her arm with a wet, sickening schlunk. 

It hit the floor with a thud, limbs splayed at awkward angles, what was left of its armor barely holding shape.

Valeria exhaled hard. Not dramatic, but heavy enough to see. 

Her shoulders rose and fell once—measured, but taxed. 

She ducked behind the kitchen counter again just… breathing.

That’s when I heard it.

A voice—male, distorted through static in my ears and the chaos, filtering in from the breached kitchen wall.

“Ten seconds, huh? Not bad. But seems like you’re running out of options, Viper.” 

The name hit like a nail through the room. 

“Would be a lot easier if you just gave up, you know?”

I blinked. My hearing had apparently stabilized enough to parse words clearly again, if still filtered like they were coming through a half-broken headset.

Valeria didn’t miss a beat.

“That’s not proper decorum,” she replied flatly, as if correcting someone’s email etiquette.

A second later three more of them came in through the breach—tight formation, tactical movement, rifles raised, sweeping like they expected her to be pinned.

Bad guess.

Valeria suddenly moved. 

She literally disappeared from behind the counter, only to re-appear in a blur as she slammed into the first guy like a freight train. 

The sound of the impact was like a miniature explosion, as the agent’s bones and armour folded into itself. He flew backward, crashing into the side of the destroyed fridge with a crunch that bent steel. 

Before he even hit the ground, she had already pivoted into the second one, catching his rifle mid-swing and ripping it out of his hands with a single wrench of her arm.

He tried to throw an instinctive punch to catch Valeria while she was off-balance from the disarm.

But Valeria simply ducked under it with impossible speed, stepped in close, and drove her knee upward into his stomach. 

Armor cracked and crumpled. 

Air left his lungs in a strangled wheeze—just in time for her to catch the back of his helmet and slam it down onto the remains of the kitchen counter at her side.

The crack was wet and final, leaving nothing but a gory lump where his head had been.

The third one actually managed to fire. 

A short burst caught her across the ribs and thigh. Blood sprayed—but she kept coming, shrugging it off like it was nothing. She closed distance mid-dodge, slipping under the follow-up shot with inhuman speed.

Her fist caught him in the jaw and spun his entire body halfway around. Before he could even stumble, she kicked the back of his knee out, grabbed the back of his vest, and ripped his entire head off with a fluid, abrupt pull.

Three heartbeats. Three bodies.

She stood there for a breath, blood-slick and towering over the broken mess of bodies at her feet. Her wounds leaked freely—shoulder, side, leg—but if they were slowing her down, she didn’t show it.

‘Holy f—’

The thought barely formed before my eyes went wide in horror.

Suddenly, there was someone next to her. 

A large man, armored head to toe, had appeared out of nowhere, just like she’d disappeared from the counter and re-appeared mid-sprint when she bodyslammed that first guy.

The man didn’t waste time.

He seized Valeria by the arm and hurled her across the kitchen like she weighed nothing. 

She slammed into the wall hard enough to crack it from the impact, the plaster spiderwebbing behind her back. A sharp grunt left her lips, followed by a spray of blood that painted the tile below in crimson streaks.

But she didn’t stay down.

Valeria pushed off the ground and launched herself back at him immediately, striking with a speed and precision that would’ve obliterated any of the previous opponents. 

Her elbow drove into his ribs with a crack, followed by a palm strike to his helmet that sent his head snapping sideways. She spun low, sweeping at his knees, but he stepped through it, grunting as he absorbed the blow and brought a gauntleted fist straight into her jaw.

She stumbled, but retaliated immediately—two lightning-fast punches to his torso, then a vicious upward knee that dented the front plate of his chest armor, sending him stumbling.

But it didn’t matter.

He barely managed to catch her next strike mid-swing, using the leverage of the strike to twist her arm behind her back, and slammed her into the wall again—even harder this time. 

The crack echoed through the apartment, louder than the gunfire before. 

His forearm braced across her throat, pinning her in place, crushing her against the cracked wall.

Valeria choked out another breath, jaw clenched, struggling against the hold—but she was trapped, the sheer brute force of the man too difficult to fight against. 

Her fingers twitched, trying to reach for something, anything, but the pressure kept her locked down, feet dangling in the air.

Then came the others.

Five more black-clad figures swept into the apartment, split between the two breaches.

Two peeled off immediately toward Valeria, rifles lowered but ready. 

They moved to her sides, grabbing her arms and locking her down with tight, practiced motions, putting their entire weight onto her arms and shoulders as the big man pushed her face-first to the ground.

The other three saw us.

And they moved fast.

Boots thundered across the floor as they rushed toward our makeshift barricade—toward me, Gabriel, and Oliver—rifles already rising into firing position.

I was half-expecting them to just raise their rifles and light us up. 

But instead, they swarmed us, moving fast and with a clear purpose in mind. 

One of them ripped Oliver away from our side like he weighed nothing, tossing him a few meters, slamming him to the floor, and pinning him with a knee between the shoulder blades. 

Gabriel barely got a sound out before he was yanked down the same way. 

Then me.

I hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of me, and before I could react, a boot pinned my back and a knee dropped right onto the base of my neck. Pain lanced down my spine as my face was shoved into the carpet, the rough weave scraping against my cheek. 

I could barely move—barely breathe.

Pure, unadulterated panic flared inside me, hot and utterly useless. 

But my Ego was somehow still running, keeping the worst of it at bay. Just barely.

‘Think, think—there’s gotta be something—’

Then it suddenly hit me. ‘There is… This is a security issue!’

I forced my cerebral interface to open, doing my best to navigate the menu with my eyes half-blinded, still rammed into the floor. I pulled up the messaging prompt, mentally racing over the keyboard inside the neural command structure.

[HELP US! CORPO AGENTS!] I fired off the message to Mr. Stirling with everything I had.

For half a heartbeat, I had hope.

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

The words hit harder than the knee on my neck.

‘They… they fucking jammed us...’

That must have been what Valeria had picked up on earlier. 

That flicker of confusion on her face. 

All her comms, all her contacts, all her connections that she undoubtedly had running 24/7—abruptly cut off, throwing errors.

I tried again, desperate for the one single play I had to work out somehow.

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

‘Again…!’

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

‘Again…! Come on!’ 

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

‘COME ON, FUCKING PLEASE WORK!’

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent.]

‘Please…’

[Error: No connected network detected. Message could not be sent…]

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 46 - Digital Marine

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 46 - Digital Marine for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

------

o7 o7 o7

------

I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Ri3RMUk8fh6vabdWjnHHpus4w3T-M-RDkf7ImB4idWI/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 46 - Digital Marine

[Forum Thread: “MMM – Anything And Everything We Know”]
Page #5973
Thread Start Date: Month 4, Day 12, PFC 935
Current Page Date: Month 8, Day 15, PFC 943

[HexaBladeX90]: So uh, not tryna stir shit, but has anyone heard anything about MMM in the last like… year and a half? Their site’s still dead, socials are nuked, last archive update was almost two years ago.
Starting to think they’re actually just gone. Anyone got something?

[RecoilReaper]: @HexaBladeX90 Bro.
If MMM even farted near a digital terminal, this entire fucking forum would implode; and not just this one. Don’t you think if there was anything, we’d already be neck-deep in ten thousand posts dissecting it pixel by pixel?
No. Nobody knows shit. Still MIA. Still nothing. Not gonna change either.

[BioCharger]: @HexaBladeX90 Let the dead rest, man. MMM was a ghost the moment that “Tidal Core” build dropped. No notes. No patch follow-up. No fucking goodbye. Just poof.
Either they got picked up by corp dev teams or burned out like everyone else with talent in this goddamn scene.

[CreepingModem]: I’m new, sorry if this is the wrong spot, but who exactly was MMM? I don’t exactly have time to read 6k fucking pages. Who or what even was MMM? Only been playing Archion a couple months, so I’m completely out of the loop on this.

[NanoFish32]: @CreepingModem TLDR? Sure, here goes:
MMM was THE build-maker. Not “one of the top.” THE.
Like, galaxy-shaking, balance-breaking, dev-team-responding level of builds.
You know “Stormborn Spec”? “Riftdrift Swapper”? “Dustfire Trickster”?
That was all them.

[Cr1tFetish]: @CreepingModem @NanoFish32 Nah. I respect the legacy but MMM was kinda overrated tbh. Good builds, yeah. But y’all act like they were the Emperor-incarnate or some shit. The meta was always gonna shift—MMM just rode the wave better than most; all there’s to it. Stop dick-riding the dead so hard.

[DirgeBox]: Dude, disrespectfully: Cope harder *******, @Cr1tFetish, you’re on fucking Glitter you fucking ********* [Moderator Warning: Watch your language, @DirgeBox. User muted for 30 minutes, reason: Offensive Language.]
MMM didn’t ride the wave. MMM was the wave.
There’s a reason people still compare every new build maker to them even years later. They dropped like 80+ builds, and except the first 10-15, almost every single one defined an era.

[Brainracked]: Speaking of—does anyone actually know anything about MMM? Like, real info? Not rumors. I remember some people saying they were like 15 or 16 during the height of their run, what’s with that?

[Autoweld42]: Closest thing to facts I’ve seen was the rundown on Page 3,874:
– Estimated age during peak activity: 15-18
– Supposedly female, but they never really interacted with anyone, so proof is missing
– Known builds: 87 (not counting variants)
– First known post: Archived on an old 933 forum buildlist
– Disappearance: Somewhere start-of-941
– No confirmed IRL identity, 0 confirmed IRL appearances at tournaments
– Several builds got direct patch nerfs after launch
– Last build was “Tidal Core”

[GlitchFeast]: Also hold the fuck up—“15-18 during their peak”? That makes no Emperor-damned sense. You’re telling me MMM started dropping top-tier meta builds at what, age 5? No fucking way that’s true. Check your math, dude.
Like what kind of mutant drops meta-breaking tech before finishing primary school?

[GravitonPunch]: @Autoweld42 Double digits doesn’t sound impressive when you put it like that, but remember that every single one was basically THE build of its meta, except maybe the earliest dozen or two. MMM was quality over quantity, for real.

[PulseHawk]: Learn to read @GlitchFeast Not five. @Autoweld42 specifically said “during their peak.” First posts in PFC983, vanished in PFC941. That’s an 8-year window. So they could’ve started around 7-10 on the low-end, would be around 17-20 or so by now, if they’re still alive. Still insane, but at least a bit more plausible.

[QuietStorm]: @Autoweld42 What kind of Emperor-forsaken fanfic horseshit is this? A girl, aged 17-20, is supposed to be the legendary build maker? Y’all high on Glitter in here or something, just making up fantasies to jerk to at night? “Uhhh yaaaa gamer girl, give me the build and then come join me in bed, baybee!” Next you’re gonna tell me she’s also super pretty and exotic in some way, huh?

[C0rruptionByte]: @Pulsehawk @Glitchfest @Autoweld42 I heard the first dozen builds weren’t solo anyway. Some of the earlier ones were collabs. I think the other guy was “dRelic” or something? He went corporate after that and wiped all his stuff.

[SandDagger7]: @Pulsehawk @Glitchfest @Autoweld42 @C0rruptionByte Nah, you’re mixing names. It was “Keystone-Kai.” That dude dropped off even earlier, but I remember they co-authored “Phantom Array Splitter” together. Last known build tag had both their sigs.

[WraithNull]: @Pulsehawk @Glitchfest @Autoweld42 @C0rruptionByte @SandDagger7 All of you are wrong. MMM only ever worked with one other creator, ever. Name was “EchoLimn.” He was the prodigy before MMM blew up. Everyone thought he ghosted, but I always believed he mentored MMM before peacing out. You can see it in the decision trees, the tactical structuring… it’s too similar.

[SandDagger7]: @Pulsehawk @Glitchfest @Autoweld42 @C0rruptionByte @WraithNull Source? Anything?

[WraithNull]: Just patterns, instincts. I’ve studied those builds more than most of you have played Archion for. If you know, you know.

[BioCharger] By the Emperor’s golden udder-soaked undercloth, here we go again with the conspiracy shit. Can’t go five pages without someone dragging ghost mentors and thought-ghosts into it.

[CreepingModem]: So basically… they were a legend, possibly started as a kid, might be a hot babe at prime age but also might be some bunker dweller on a Frontier-World for all anyone knows, might’ve been mentored, nobody knows where they went, and everyone’s still fighting over what they meant. Oh and they might also just be dead.
Got it.
Damn. Archion community really is built different, huh…?

======

======

Ten minutes after Corvus had helped her to the bed, Thea heard a soft knock on the door again.

“Come in,” she called, her voice back to something close to normal. 

Not quite strong yet, but clear, at least.

She still felt like her whole body had been wrung out and left to dry, but the aching grief wasn’t consuming her anymore. It was just there now—sharp and heavy—but bearable. 

The small metal plate still clutched in her hand helped. It grounded her.

Corvus stepped inside, giving a subtle nod to someone just out of sight as he entered and quietly shut the door behind him.

‘Probably Kara,’ Thea thought, the familiar guilt crawling in again. ‘She did say she’d wait nearby… I should thank her—again.’

It felt like she’d done that a dozen times already, and it still wasn’t enough. 

She wasn’t used to this kind of reliance, this kind of closeness. 

Needing people. Trusting them. Letting herself be seen like this. 

Every time it happened, she couldn’t help but feel like she was tipping some invisible scale too far in her direction.

‘I need to find a way to be there for her too,’ she thought, jaw tightening. ‘I can’t just keep dumping my shit on her, relying on her over and over again without giving anything back and calling it friendship.’

Her thoughts scattered as Corvus walked over, pulling something from the small duffle bag he’d been carrying. 

It was the whole reason he’d left earlier.

An old-looking, metal lockbox.

It looked like something from another era—gunmetal gray, slightly scuffed on the corners, with a simple mechanical latch on the front. 

No digital pad, no biometrics. 

Just a keyhole and a short handle on top.

“I managed to convince the Sovereign to pick one up and send it over,” Corvus explained, holding it out for her. “Alpha Squad perks.”

He gave her a small smile, but before she could protest, his tone turned firm.

“Don’t even try to argue the cost. It’s going under the Squad Fund. I’m getting one for everyone eventually. You’re not going to be the only person in this team who loses someone. And having a place like this? It matters.”

He gave a small shrug. “It’s something a lot of Marines do. Has been for decades. My parents still have theirs. My grandfather carried his with him till he couldn’t anymore. You keep pieces of them—names, tags, bits and pieces. So you don’t forget. And so you’ve got somewhere to put it when it all gets a bit too heavy.”

Thea opened her mouth, paused, then shut it again. 

She really couldn’t argue with that.

When she accepted the box from him, she nearly fumbled it—it was heavier than she’d expected. Not massive, maybe a bit over 35cm wide and long, less than 15cm tall, but it had real weight to it. 

‘Barely big enough for the Icicle,’ her mind offered, but she dismissed the thought instantly.

Instead, she placed it gently down again, turned the key with a satisfying metallic click, and opened it.

‘So much empty space inside. Too much. And yet… not nearly enough.’

Thea stared at it in silence, feeling the dread settle low in her stomach. 

Someday, this box would be full. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next. 

But if she stayed in this war long enough… it would fill. 

They always did.

Her Old Man had several boxes just like it. All filled to the brim.

Carefully, she reached into her palm and lifted the small, scratched plate she’d carved earlier. 

“Z-A-C-H.” Uneven. Jagged. But undeniably hers.

She placed it inside almost reverently.

But when she reached for the lid, her hand paused. 

Her mouth moved before she could stop it.

“Thank you, Zach,” she whispered. “For showing up when it mattered. For giving a damn. For helping me figure things out… And I’m sorry.”

She closed the box, twisting the key slowly until it clicked again.

Then, she crossed the room to her wardrobe and pulled open the lowest drawer. 

Her old pullover from Lumiosia lay folded neatly inside, next to the tournament controller she’d brought with her. The only two things she had carried from her old life into this one.

She placed the lockbox beside the controller.

For a long moment, she just stood there—hand resting on the cool metal lid, eyes closed, letting the silence settle around her like a heavy blanket.

Then, slowly, she reached for the controller. 

Her fingers curled around it like they’d never forgotten the shape—like years of muscle memory came flooding back the instant she touched it. Even after everything that had happened, even after Integration, the grip felt natural; familiar.

“You’re not the only one anymore… Wish neither of you were gone,” she whispered. 

She knew Corvus was still in the room, probably close enough to hear her but strangely enough, for once, that vulnerability didn’t bother her overly much.

Turning the controller over, she carefully popped off the modified plastic-aluminum cover at the back, revealing the worn-down metal plate screwed into the chassis. 

The lettering—once easily legible, if scrappy and horribly scratched from her attempts at scratching the name—was now barely legible, faded by time and use. 

Her fingertips brushed over the etched letters, following every scratched groove with care.

‘It’s stupid how much affection I have for a dumb name like that,’ she thought, her throat tightening. ‘I wish you’d told me who you really were outside Archion… even just once. At least you stopped swapping them all the time for me...’

A pained, bittersweet smile flickered across her lips. 

She clicked the cover back into place—carefully, reverently. 

She had made it long ago to shield the plate, once she realized how fast the name was fading. 

She could’ve re-scratched it, sharpened the letters, made them clear again.

But that would’ve made it… different.

‘It wouldn’t mean the same thing anymore, would it?’

And now, with a second plate—Zach’s plate—resting quietly in her lockbox, she knew that the thought would return again. And again. And again.

But just like her Old Man had told her, “the fading doesn’t matter. The memory does.”

She placed the controller gently beside the box and closed the wardrobe with care.

Then, standing in front of it, she finally took a breath—deep and unshaking.

It didn’t magically fix anything. She didn’t expect it to. But something uncoiled in her chest. 

Something raw and clawing finally settled, even if just for now.

“Zach. NotADuck… I’ll remember you both. And whoever comes after. I won’t die. And I won’t let you be forgotten,” she murmured, touching the wardrobe door one last time.

She turned away, stepping toward the door where Corvus waited, standing at a polite distance, hands behind his back. He clearly pretended not to have heard a thing.

“Thank you, Corvus,” she said as she approached. “For… well, everything. I’m sorry for—”

“Don’t even start with that shit,” Corvus cut her off with a raised brow and a firm tone. “You’re part of my squad. Helping you when you’re hurting is the bare minimum as a Squad Leader. And more than that…” He softened slightly. “I consider you a friend, Thea. And that’s what friends do. We show up when needed.”

Thea blinked. She hadn’t expected that.

Especially not Corvus swearing, that was a new one.

But even more importantly, that last part had surprised her quite a lot.

‘Corvus… considers me his friend? Since when…?!’

“I… I… Thank you,” she stammered, forcing down a half dozen apologies and ‘sorry’s that were trying to worm their way out of her throat. 

Feeling like if she missed this chance, she’d have to wait a long time for another, she quickly added, “Ehh… I’d like to be your friend, also.” 

Corvus blinked a few times at that, until he simply smiled and nodded, “I’d like that. Yeah.”

He lingered for a moment longer, watching Thea carefully. “So… You doing alright now? Or, well… as alright as can be?”

She offered a faint smile and a short nod. “Yeah. I am. Thanks to you—and Kara. I’ll be okay now. You’ve done more than enough.”

He gave her one last glance, a final check to see if she meant it. 

Then, satisfied, he gave a short nod and turned toward the door. 

As he opened it, Thea’s voice stopped him.

“Hey—can you send Kara back in?”

She didn’t need to wait long. 

Karania had clearly been standing just outside, arms crossed, foot tapping in impatience. 

She slipped inside before the door had even fully closed behind Corvus.

“You alright now?” she asked.

“I’m better,” Thea said, motioning her inside fully. “Thanks to you. Again.”

Karania tilted her head slightly, as if inspecting her. “Good. I was worried.”

Thea hated how much she felt like she owed her at this point. 

Every time something went sideways, it was Kara picking up the pieces without hesitation. 

And what did she ever give back, really?

‘I’ve got to figure out how to balance this soon… somehow.’

“I am going to run a few checks,” Karania continued, already pulling out her datapad again. “Just to make sure that hypoxia didn’t fry your brain more than usual. You can either try and resist me, at which point you will suffer slightly more hypoxia before getting tested, or you can let me do my thing.”

Thea didn’t exactly feel like getting jabbed with whatever relaxant Karania had prepared for situations like this—or getting choked out, if her warning was anything to go by.

So, she simply groaned and rolled her eyes, but didn’t resist…

—

Twenty minutes and several eye-rolls later, Thea finally got the all-clear.

“So,” she said, tucking the pad away and giving Thea a once-over. “What now? Going to lie down? Get some rest?”

Thea paused, considering it for a heartbeat. 

Then she stood up, stretched her back, and cracked her knuckles.

“I think… I think I need to shoot some people.”

Karania raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Not real ones,” Thea clarified quickly. “I just—look, I could really use something to take my mind off all this. Get some frustration out. And, I mean—lucky thing that something just opened up, like, an hour ago, huh?” 

Karania rolled her eyes so hard, her entire head moved. “Of course your first thought would be the damn Digital Missions.”

Thea smirked, shrugging. “I never said I wasn’t predictable.”

But Kara simply shrugged and added, “Well… I won’t lie. I’ve been curious about them too. If you’re going to be stupid about it, I might as well be stupid with you. Or, at least, at the same time as you, considering that we can’t go in together.”

“Now that is the kind of medical analysis I can get behind,” Thea grinned.

“That’s… That’s not a medical—Ah, whatever…” Karania tried, but the soul of the argument left her before she could even really get into it. 

“Come on then, you lunatic,” Kara sighed, already heading for the door. “Let’s go head up to the DMD then and “shoot some people” to make you happy.”

Thea simply grinned at that as she followed Karania out of the room, and two of them headed towards the DMD on Deck L-24…

—

Arriving at the Digital Mission Deck, Thea and Karania stepped through the bulkhead doors alongside a cluster of Recruits they’d run into on the way. 

The moment they entered, it was obvious—the deck was packed to the brim.

Thea’s eyes swept the room, quickly estimating at least three hundred Recruits already crowding around the dozen Recruit-class terminals near the entrance. The Private-ranked stations, she remembered from the lecture earlier, were further in—neatly sectioned off with brighter terminal pillars and quieter lines.

“Wow,” she muttered, taking it all in. “It’s really full, huh?”

“No kidding…” Karania replied, before giving Thea a light nudge forward and casually placing a hand on her shoulder, gently steering her like a living battering ram for social interactions.

“Wait—what are you—?!” Thea started to ask, but Karania was already moving them both forward with purpose, guiding her directly into the shoulder of another Recruit.

The bump wasn’t rough, but it was enough to get the guy to turn around with a scowl—only to flinch hard the second his eyes met Thea’s. He blinked twice, mouth halfway open, then wordlessly stepped aside and disappeared into the crowd like a ghost.

It took Thea half a second to register what just happened.

‘No fucking way… She’s using me as a fear aura tank…!’

Sure enough, the further they pressed into the crowd, the more heads turned—and the more people scrambled to get out of their way. Recruits moved like parting water, recognizing Thea with wide, sometimes legitimately panicked-looking, eyes and practically dragging their squadmates aside in the process. 

The ripple effect was immediate. 

A push here, a shift there, and suddenly they were advancing through the mess with barely a struggle.

She shot Karania a deadpan look. “I can’t believe you’ve weaponized me like this?!”

Karania didn’t even blink. “Technically, it was your Old Man that did. I didn’t teach you to be this way, must’ve been him. And also: Worked, didn’t it?”

Thea’s mouth hung agape for a moment, before she had to whip around again as she lightly bumped into another Recruit’s back, the earlier experience repeating itself once again.

“Unbelievable…” She muttered, but couldn’t help but be similarly amused and horrified at what Karania was putting her through.

“That’s her!” someone hissed nearby, somewhere to the left—too fast for Thea to catch who it was.

“Oh shit, fucking Alpha Squad coming through…!” a second voice muttered as the group ahead split like a school of fish, heads down and avoiding eye contact.

The absolute worst part of all this? It was working… and flawlessly at that.

More voices called out from the crowd as Thea and Karania continued their effortless push forward.

“Yo, isn’t that the scary sniper chick from the Awards Ceremony?”

“Move, idiot! Do you want to end up on her fucking bad side?!”

“I swear I just looked at her eyes and I thought I died, what the fuck?! Get out of my way, I gotta get the fuck out of here—!”

“Dude, that’s her. Don’t look—just don’t look, man!”

Most of the crowd didn’t even wait to recognize Karania. 

The moment Thea’s face was visible, people turned aside, stepped back, or flat-out backed into other squads in their rush to make space. Every single person who made eye contact with her flinched, looked away, or suddenly found something very interesting to do with their datapad—except for one.

That one person, a short, sharp-eyed girl near the edge of the commotion, didn’t flinch. 

She met Thea’s eyes for a full second. No challenge, no fear—just a calm, curious stare. 

And then she was gone, swallowed by the sea of shifting Recruits before Thea could even get a proper look at her. She had been so surprised to not be met with the usual flinch, that she had completely blacked out on trying to clock her.

But there wasn’t time to dwell on it.

Because, somehow, they had made it to the terminals. 

In record time.

The sea of bodies behind them closed back in almost seamlessly, as if the parting never happened, while Thea and Karania stepped up to a terminal that had just miraculously opened. 

A moment ago, a full group of Recruits had been huddled around it, but now? 

Completely clear. 

Either they’d overheard the ruckus or had simply recognized the name Alpha Squad being thrown around and made the executive decision to vacate.

Karania strolled up to it like she owned the place, flashing the most insufferable, self-satisfied grin Thea had ever seen on her. 

It wasn’t just a grin—it was a declaration.

“Are you fucking proud of yourself?” Thea muttered under her breath, annoyed, as she stepped up beside her.

“Immensely,” Karania whispered back, practically vibrating from smugness.

Thea groaned softly and pinched the bridge of her nose.

She felt… utterly humiliated. 

That part was undeniably true. 

Being the center of that much attention was something she would never be comfortable with. 

But yet… Somehow, this time, it hadn’t felt… bad? 

It didn’t make any sense.

Her cheeks were flushed, her pulse a little too quick, but there had been something weirdly fun about being dragged so far out of her comfort zone like that.

‘Damn it… I don’t know how you do this to me, Kara.’

Even more than that, though—she couldn’t argue with the result. 

They were exactly where she wanted to be, faster than she ever thought possible. 

And after everything she’d been through in the last hour? That was something she could appreciate more than comfort.

Pushing all of that aside for now, Thea decided to simply get going with what she came for, and opened the terminal’s interface—ignoring the loud chatter behind her that was very much audible, even without her high levels of Perception.

She was greeted by a selection of three different Digital Missions, all listed as Grade 0:

[Helix Prime Assault] (Grade 0)
Type: Assault
Duration: 8h
Respawns: 0
Completion Reward: 130 System Credits
Condition: Rainy
Special Condition: None
Short-Briefing: Assault an entrenched Stellar Republic position on the Helix Prime ridgeline. Expect strong resistance, heavy artillery, and terrain penalties due to mud and limited visibility.

[Tauron-6 Defense] (Grade 0)
Type: Hold The Line
Duration: 6h 45m
Respawns: 0
Completion Reward: 115 System Credits
Condition: Nighttime
Special Condition: None
Short-Briefing: Defend a Forward Operating Base under siege from Stellar Republic forces until reinforcements arrive. Limited ammo supply and wave-based enemy behavior expected.

[Dagon's Field] (Grade 0)
Type: Point Assault
Duration: 7h 30m
Respawns: 1
Completion Reward: 150 System Credits
Condition: Snowy
Special Condition: Infiltrator
Short-Briefing: Push deep into enemy lines and capture two strategic points on the northern slope. Stealth is advised, but open combat is likely unavoidable. Expect mixed terrain and low visibility. 

‘Huh… Neat. It’s just like in Sundawn; you get a mini-mission brief, parameters, special modifiers and everything…! That’s so cool!’ Thea thought, grinning to herself as her eyes skimmed across the terminal. 

The whole interface just felt right—simple, clean, and intuitive, like she was back home at the arcade again. Except this time, it wasn’t a game. 

But damn if it didn’t feel like one right now.

Her gaze locked on the red Infiltrator tag next to the [Dagon’s Field] mission. 

Curiosity piqued, she tapped it, just as she would have in Sundawn. A new window popped up immediately with the modifier details—just like she remembered from her gaming days.

‘Terra, you sneaky, sneaky bastards… Just how long have you been prepping all of us for this kind of stuff…?’

[Special Modifier: Infiltrator]
One or multiple members of your platoon for this mission will be hostile infiltrators, aiming to sabotage as many objectives and eliminate as many members of your platoon as possible. Finding, identifying, and neutralizing the infiltrators will award additional System Credits upon successful Completion of the Mission.

“You seeing this whole Infiltrator thing?” Thea asked without looking up, tilting her screen slightly toward Karania, who was just a step to her left, poking around her own mission list.

“Infiltrator? No idea what that is—hang on, let me see.” Kara leaned in, eyes scanning the modifier readout. “Huh… I don’t even have that one. The only modifier I’ve got says Faultline. Something about high seismic instability, sinkholes, and a warning that explosive weapons might trigger environmental collapses.”

Thea raised an eyebrow. “So it’s randomized then… We’re not even getting the same missions at all.”

“Guess that’s what the Professor meant when he said they were solo runs. Makes sense if no two people get the same options, right?” Kara said, already eyeing her own screen again. “I think I’ll try this Faultline thing. It sounds chaotic—and it's been a while since I’ve had to handle cave-in or tremor-related injuries. Could be fun.”

She looked back up at Thea with a crooked smile. “You know what? I get it now. I’m starting to see why you were so excited about this whole Digital Mission thing.”

Thea smirked. “Told ya it would be awesome.”

She scrolled back through her own list and tapped on [Tauron-6 Defense].

‘Started with a Hold The Line back in the Cube Trial… Might as well do the same here with the DMs. I’ll try the Infiltrator stuff later—right now, I just want to shoot some people and work off some of today’s business…’

“Alright,” Thea said aloud, standing up straight, finger hovering over the confirmation prompt. “I’m going in. Catch you in seven-ish hours?”

“Sounds good,” Karania replied, already locking in her own selection. “Mine’s a little shorter, so I’ll probably be in the lounge when you’re out. Just shoot me a ping.”

Thea gave her a quick thumbs-up, then pressed the confirm button.

[Mission Selected: Tauron-6 Defense (Grade 0)]
You will be transported to the staging area momentarily…
Loading UHF Marine profile…
Assessment Award Medals detected.

A new prompt suddenly appeared, flickering softly in her field of vision.

Do you want to display your highest available Medal as part of your issued armour set? (It will be built into the suit, just above the heart, as if it had been properly integrated by an Armoursmith.)

Y / N

She paused, finger just centimeters from the display.

‘Huh… It’s like the tournament awards back then… That’s so cool.’ A quiet smile tugged at her lips. ‘I guess Major Quinn did say these were actual medals, forged from the real materials they represented. So I guess it makes sense they could be built into your suit like that…’

Her thoughts wandered for a moment. ‘Still have to figure out what the fuck Crysium even is… and what it actually does. Might be better to wait until I know if the material has any weird side effects—or effects in general—before I use it for something. But since this is just a Digital Mission...’

She made her decision. 

Her finger shifted and tapped the prompt.

There was a soft chime from the terminal—and then, in an instant, everything around her went dark…

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[TAS] Volume 2 - Chapter 44 - Friendship

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Volume 2 - Chapter 39 - Shopping Finale has just released on RR with no changes.

For the Wolf Lords, this chapter is unchanged.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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I'm a big fan of this title for this chapter.

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UrKQ6tU7pqJ5cN1TqpaLvnYItqR4lDKNqRMM7rFtsCg/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 44 - Friendship

Program: “In Formation”
Host: Laurel Naya
Guest: General Atora Fields, Strategic Development Liaison, UHF Marine Corps

Laurel Naya:
“Welcome back, viewers, to “In Formation”. I’m Laurel Naya, and today we’re diving into one of the most quietly controversial decisions the UHF has made in recent decades—not about weaponry or strategy, but about something far more human: Friendship. With us today is General Atora Fields, a longtime architect of the Digital Mission structure and a strong proponent of its current social integration systems. Welcome, General.”

General Fields (nodding politely):
“Thank you, Laurel. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

Naya:
“Let’s jump right into it, then: There’s been a lot of buzz surrounding the latest updates to the Digital Mission framework—especially the new ‘Friendship Integration’ program that was quietly rolled out last cycle. What prompted that change?”

Fields (smiling faintly):
“Well, Vela, believe it or not, it wasn’t driven by any technological advance or tactical reshuffle. It came from feedback—millions of comments, from Recruits and Privates all the way up to Generals like myself, believe it or not. The message was simple: ‘Let us stay in touch.’ So, after considerable analysis, we finally decided to stop resisting something that was already happening unofficially.”

Naya:
“Even though Digital Missions are designed to be run solo—without your usual squad, without your usual comfort zone?”

Fields:
“Precisely because of that. When you throw a Recruit or a Private into a Digital Mission, you’re not just testing their fire discipline or their ability to execute. You’re testing their adaptability, their communication, their emotional resilience. And friendships—genuine, earned camaraderie—help reinforce those things. Especially when you're fighting alongside someone you’ve never met and still come out alive together.”

Naya (raising an eyebrow):
“But isn't there a risk? Emotional entanglements. Morale crashes when a friend is Zero’d. The long-distance communication barriers. Isn’t there concern that Marines might form attachments that end up becoming liabilities?”

Fields (nodding slowly):
“There are risks. Absolutely. Losing a friend can fracture someone—especially when they can’t even say goodbye. And yes, it’s hard when you haven’t seen someone in months because they’re on another end of the galaxy. But our psychologists and tactical analysts ran the data, and the outcome was clear: Marines who felt connected to something—to someone—performed better. They fought harder. They survived longer. They stayed in the Corps longer. The risk is real. But the reward? Far greater and, frankly, definitely worth the efforts and risks involved.”

Naya:
“And so the ‘Friendlink’ system was born.”

Fields (nodding):
“That’s right. If two Marines find themselves paired in a Digital Mission and enjoy working together, they can add each other to their Friendlink roster. That roster lets them keep tabs on one another—what Digital Missions they’re queuing for, when they’re active and what they’re training for. If the DM Grade isn’t too high and the timings line up, and if they haven’t exceeded their monthly join limit, they can even jump into each other’s lobbies pre-launch to reconnect occasionally. It builds a sort of web of relationships across the entire Faction.”

Naya:
“But not a full Squad, right? You’ve limited the number of follow-up joins per month?”

Fields (firmly):
“Correct. The point isn’t to let people reform cliques or recreate their squads. We want connections, not crutches. You get three follow-up joins per standard month, per friend. Enough to maintain and encourage those bonds, but not enough to become reliant on them. You should be growing your network across the Corps, after all. One friend in every unit, not five best friends in the same bubble.”

Naya (softly):
“So it’s not just about fighting better. It’s about belonging.”

Fields:
“That’s what it’s always been about, Laurel. We’re not training machines here—we’re forging people into something greater than themselves. And people… Well, they need people.”

[GalNet Channel 5 | Interview Snippet: General Atora Fields, Strategic Development Liaison, UHF Marine Corps, PFC 796]

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======

Back inside Alpha Squad’s dorm, Thea and Karania were holed up in Thea’s room, surrounded by the results of their most recent shopping spree—neatly folded tops, layered jackets, and an impressive amount of pants and skirts in varying tones and cuts. 

After the UHF 101 lecture had wrapped, they’d come straight here, mostly because Thea had gotten a message back from the Runepriest in response to her earlier request for help. 

It hadn’t been quite the response she was hoping for, but definitely far better than she had feared.

"Sit tight and wait," he’d written. "I’m going to get someone to watch over you. No amateurs, promise. Somebody I’d trust my life on in a situation like that."

So essentially… She was grounded for an unknown amount of time.

And if she had to be stuck in one place for who-knew-how-long, she figured she might as well be productive. Or at least... stubbornly distracting.

That’s how Karania had ended up here, slightly dazed and entirely confused, being bombarded with questions about clothing combinations and fabric weights—while Thea absolutely refused to admit why she had suddenly taken an interest.

She had her reasons.

‘Not going to give Kara the satisfaction of having kept the fashion hunting game to herself this whole time without me even knowing...! Now I finally have something that confuses her for once!’

There was just one thing that had been seriously testing her patience over the last couple of hours.

“Kara, can you stop turning around already?” Thea grumbled, tossing yet another half-buttoned blouse onto the growing pile of “I’ve somewhat understood what this is for now”-clothing on the bed. “I get that you’re trying to be polite, but I have no idea how to put half of this stuff on without looking like an idiot.”

Karania, seated cross-legged on the edge of Thea’s bed and turned strategically away, didn’t even blink. “Absolutely not! If you don’t learn how to do it yourself, how are you gonna handle it out in the wild, huh? You can’t expect me to dress you every morning like your personal stylist for the rest of time.”

Thea froze halfway into a pair of tight, high-waisted black leggings. One of the few pieces she’d actually chosen herself, with minimal coaching, and one of the only items she felt moderately confident in putting on without incident.

“I mean… I guess?” she muttered, wriggling them into place. “But it’s not like I’ll forget how to put on pants once I’ve done it once.”

“Still no!” Karania called, now thoroughly absorbed in whatever was on her datapad. “You learn through struggle, Thea. Struggle builds character!”

Thea let out a very deliberate, long-suffering sigh and pulled a plain white shirt over her head—the kind of shirt she would’ve called a waste of Credits just yesterday.

Now though? She could… kind of start to see the logic. 

Especially when she threw a dark marine-blue sweater over it, left open halfway down to give the white underneath a bold contrast. 

She paused in front of the mirror, adjusting the fabric slightly at her hips.

Yeah… that did look pretty good.

“The combo’s not bad at all,” she admitted out loud.

Karania perked up immediately, glancing over. “That’s what I’ve been saying! That’s why we got you all those shirts! White is the ultimate base—it adds contrast to layers, smooths out chaotic palettes, and works under almost anything. It’s a neutral tone miracle, Thea. Write that down. Carve it in stone. Frame it on your wall.”

Thea gave her a side-eye but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Maybe this fashion stuff wasn’t bad at all, especially when shared with a friend like this.

Before Thea could so much as adjust the sleeves on her sweater, the Sovereign’s voice chimed in, soft but unmistakably present—cutting through the quiet like the distant click of a safety turning off.

“A visitor is waiting outside the Alpha Squad dormitory. Requesting entry permission.”

Thea shot upright immediately, her eyes flashing to the door.

That was fast.

“Let them in,” she said quickly, voice sharp with anticipation. “Please.” 

Then, without missing a beat, she was already reaching for the UHF uniform she’d carefully laid out earlier. It was folded neatly on the corner of her desk, pristine and ready to throw on at a moment’s notice.

Because whoever the Runepriest had sent… it didn’t feel right to greet them in casuals. 

Especially not when they were someone he’d explicitly “trust his life on.”

As she scrambled to change—yanking off the white shirt and sweater and wrangling herself into the crisp, more formal lines of the UHF uniform—Karania glanced up briefly from her datapad, then immediately turned her attention back to it. 

“Alright,” Thea muttered, brushing down the front of her jacket with a hand. “Ready.”

The two of them stepped out of Thea’s room together, turning the corner into the dorm’s shared living space—only to both immediately freeze in the doorframe.

Because standing dead-center in the middle of the dorm’s common room, like it was the most natural thing in the world, was one other than the legendary Major Quinn herself.

Thea blinked. 

The Major gave them a long, lazy glance before motioning vaguely toward the front door behind her with one hand. 

“Sorry about the ambush, I guess… Didn’t exactly feel like waiting on the Sovereign,” she said, her tone dry and unimpressed. “Figured I’d save us all the time. Not every day the literal owner of this entire damn star sector is asked to ‘request permission’, right?”

Her tone was clipped—still professional, but even easily managed to Thea pick up on the strain underneath it immediately. Something was definitely off. 

Major Quinn was annoyed. Not raging or furious—but a very specific kind of tired irritation that set Thea’s nerves on edge.

She flicked her eyes sideways, catching Karania’s just as her friend did the same.

Karania gave the faintest shake of her head. Thea understood immediately.

‘Yeah. Definitely not the time to ask for the Skill slips…’

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Kara said, with an easy, respectful tone that managed to sound both casual and polite. She offered Quinn a quick nod and a respectful “Major Quinn,” before slipping out of the living room and disappearing into her own quarters, the door hissing softly closed behind her.

That left Thea alone with Major Quinn, as none of the other Alpha Squad members were inside the dorms at the time—or maybe inside their own rooms, Thea wasn’t entirely sure.

She took a breath, then stepped fully into the common room, standing at attention—not stiff, but straight. 

“Major Quinn,” Thea greeted carefully, trying to keep her voice calm—even as her pulse thumped just a little too loudly in her ears. “Am I right in assuming the Runepriest asked you to be here, or… is this about something else entirely?”

A sigh, followed by a small nod from the Major, was answer enough—but she confirmed it anyway, casually folding her arms as she spoke. “Yeah. Old—Anrake asked me to help you out with something, though—true to form, as ever—he didn’t give me any real context. Just said you’d know. Wouldn’t be the first time he sets up a meeting where neither party knows why they’re in the same room, though... That’s kind of his style.”

Thea nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

“Ah, Yes. I know why. I, uh…” she hesitated, every word catching awkwardly in her throat.

How in the galaxy was she supposed to say this out loud? To Major Quinn, of all people?

‘Hi, I’m scared of leveling up.’

Yeah. Fucking great. Very impressive for someone in Alpha Squad.

The Major raised a single eyebrow—impatient, curious, but not unkind. That subtle shift was all it took to push the confession out of Thea’s mouth.

“I’ve got a problem with my Attribute allocation from level ups. During the Assessment, there was a situation where—”

“Stop,” Major Quinn said sharply, voice cutting through the room like a command siren. It wasn’t loud, but it hit. All the warmth dropped from her tone like a rock.

Thea went rigid, wide-eyed and suddenly very aware of every molecule in her body.

“Do not continue that sentence,” the Major said firmly, tone lower now, but no less serious. “And do not speak about this to anyone. I mean anyone, Thea. Not your squad. Not anyone, but me and Anrake unless told otherwise. No one. You understand?”

Thea nodded frantically, her voice completely gone. 

Her heart hadn’t just skipped a beat—it had left this sector of space entirely.

Quinn gave a short, satisfied exhale. “Good. Then I know why he sent me.” 

She glanced toward the dorm hallway. “Let’s move this to your room. No need to put on a live show for any of your squad members that might wander through here.”

She paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Although… I’ll admit, the idea of me just casually sitting here and jump-scaring your squad one by one is extremely tempting... Might keep that in my back pocket.”

Thea didn’t laugh. 

She was still stuck between is this really happening? and what the fuck was that all about just now?

Major Quinn waved a hand. “Relax. C’mon. Lead the way.”

Thea turned stiffly, walking toward her room with the Major’s footsteps trailing behind her like the world’s most intimidating shadow. Panic was slowly creeping back in—not from Quinn, but from the ticking time bomb that was her current room situation.

Before she had left the room, she hadn’t exactly had time to clean up, after all.

Clothes.

Everywhere.

Not organized. Not stacked. Not even folded and placed aside, as per regulation.

She swallowed hard, internally screaming at her past self.

‘Oh no, no, no nononono! There’s fucking leggings on the floor! And why did I throw that one  sock in my charging dock just for a cheap laugh from Kara?! How the fuck do I explain this to THE Major Quinn without getting chewed out?!’

There wasn’t even time to whisper a plea to the Sovereign to clean it up, as she was only two steps away from her door, with Major Quinn hot on her heels.

All she could do was grip the doorframe, breathe in once, and prepare herself to walk into absolute social death with the most high-ranking woman aboard the Sovereign—and probably the entire star sector—standing behind her.

Thea pushed open the door, already scrambling through her brain for something—anything—to say that might explain the absolute chaos she expected to greet them with.

“Sorry about the mess,” she rehearsed internally. “We were mid-outfit planning?”
“I was searching something inside my wardrobe and just tossed stuff around, I was definitely going to clean up later, I promise?”
“Kara had a fashion seizure.”

None of them were good. All of them were terrible. 

But as the door swung open and her eyes fell on the room, every single excuse died on her tongue.

It was spotless.

The bed was made, perfectly crisp. Her desk was cleared, all three of her datapads arrayed neatly. Clothes were folded and sorted on the side shelf, and even her charging dock was somehow free of the rogue sock she knew had been there just two minutes ago.

She blinked once.

Then again.

No way—

The Sovereign had done it. 

Somehow, it had read her panic, her internal screaming, and stepped in like the quiet, omnipresent guardian angel of sanity it was.

‘...Thank you, Sovereign,’ she thought silently, reverently. ‘You beautiful, omnipresent lifesaver of a ship. I owe you!’

Swallowing her surprise and relief, she stepped aside and gestured inward. “Please, come in, Major.”

The Major didn’t hesitate. 

She walked in like she owned the place—and, technically, she literally did—heading straight for the chair by the desk. Without a word, she picked it up with one hand, like it weighed nothing, planted it in the middle of the room, turned it to face her, and gave it a light tap with her hand.

“Sit,” she ordered simply.

Thea obeyed immediately, dropping into the chair before Quinn even finished the gesture.

The Major cracked her neck once, then clasped her hands behind her back, her voice sharp but calm. “Since I’ll be monitoring you during this, I’m afraid I’ll need to smother you with my Presence for the next few minutes here. It’s the only way I’ll be able to keep tabs on your Gate with the level of precision I’d want for this.”

She rolled one shoulder, already adjusting her stance slightly. “I’ll need every bit of my Resolve tuned for maximum sensitivity. Your little Assessment mishap may have been a freak accident—but if it wasn’t and there’s any residual instability left… I want to know. And I want to catch it before it becomes a problem like it did back then.”

Then she smiled—calm, cold, clinical. “So. Sit back. You won’t be able to stand upright anyway. I’d also say, ‘relax’, but definitely don’t do that. ”

Thea swallowed hard, nodding quickly as she planted her feet and straightened her spine. She could already feel the tension building, like the air itself was warning her to brace.

“You should brace yourself. Ready?” Major Quinn asked, voice low now.

“As I’ll ever be,” Thea managed, her throat dry, as she engaged her core muscles.

The Major didn’t say another word.

The pressure abruptly hit her like a tidal wave—like standing beneath a waterfall made of pure, crushing authority. Her lungs stuttered. Her spine locked. And her entire upper body felt like it wanted to fold on itself like a cheap lawn chair.

Major Quinn’s Presence surrounded her like a net of steel threads, invisible but unyielding and seemingly tightening with every moment.

Yet, despite herself, Thea found her thoughts grounding in the odd familiarity of it.

It was heavy. Suffocating, even. 

But it wasn’t anywhere near the level of the Runepriest’s, despite her drastically closer proximity to the Major. Compared to that mountain of infinite weight that had once held her Soul in place with nothing but a flick of its will, this… this was manageable.

Her legs trembled slightly under the pressure—and she was damn glad that she was sitting down for this—but she managed to stay seated upright, breathing slow, but shallow breaths. 

She managed to keep her head up, too.

Barely.

‘Okay,’ she told herself, jaw clenched tight. ‘You wanted help. This is what help looks like.’

“Standing next to you is quite odd, you know?” Major Quinn commented casually. “The first time I met you on stage during Integration, I almost thought you were some kind of weird Null-like. Your high base Resolve is quite impressive, I must admit. For a Recruit to feel this… Resistant to everything Psychic… it’s definitely something else entirely. I’m looking forward to watching you grow into whatever it is you’ll be doing, Thea. Don’t disappoint me.”

Thea blinked, startled by the sudden turn in tone. 

Major Quinn’s voice—usually sharp-edged and carved from command—held something strangely genuine for once. Not warm, exactly. But honest. 

Like that walk towards the first meeting with the Runepriest, a few days ago.

But it was still weird to hear. 

Praise.

From her.

Thea's throat felt a little tight, and for a second, all her usual sarcasm, dark humor, and practiced stoicism failed her. The best she could muster was a quiet, “I’ll try my best, Major.”

The Major didn’t respond right away. Instead, she stepped in closer—far closer than Thea expected—before placing a hand on the base of Thea’s skull.

It wasn’t an unkind touch… but there was absolutely no mistaking the pressure behind it.

Major Quinn leaned down slightly behind her, voice low and level in her ear.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.”

Thea froze.

“You’re going to open your System Interface. You’re going to navigate to the Attribute section. You’re going to start the investment process—but you’re going to give me a warning before you hit confirm. Understand?”

 Thea nodded once, very slowly.

“If I detect even a single spike of Gate activity I don’t like,” Quinn continued, calm as ever, “I will crush your brainstem. Instantly. It will cancel any and all Psychic mishaps from occurring and you won’t even feel it. And the Sovereign’s going to bring you back right away, so no worries.”

Thea’s breath caught. 

Being told, in no uncertain terms, that you were going to get instantly killed for something you had no control over, even with the promise of it being fine in the long-run, wasn’t exactly something that was easy to swallow.

Thea swallowed hard. Then nodded to show that she had understood.

“Good. Here’s how we’ll do it.” Quinn’s voice fell back into mission-briefing mode. “Open your System Interface now. Then start investing your Attribute Points. And again, do not confirm anything until I give you the go-ahead. You announce every step before you lock it in. If I tell you to stop, you stop. That simple.”

“Understood,” Thea murmured, as she opened the System Interface as instructed and started putting her Attribute Points into Resolve and Perception.

“Now,” the Major added, casually as if she were suggesting a new lunch option, “purely a recommendation—and I do mean that, no orders here—I’d suggest only investing half your points for now. And all of those into Perception.”

Thea glanced up, confused. “Why?”

“Because there’s still ten and a half months before Class Selection,” Quinn said, tone even. “There’s a very real chance you’ll need to update or re-record your Blueprint during that time. And while it is possible without banked Attribute Points, it’s a right pain in the ass. If you hold on to at least one or two, you can easily update the Blueprint again should it become necessary. Especially for someone like you, whose Blueprint changes are… more common than the norm, let’s just say.”

Thea frowned. “And you’d want me to put them all into Perception?”

“It’s the one Attribute that gives you the most real-time value right now,” Quinn said. “Resolve will be vital later, don’t get me wrong. But until your Psyker abilities mature, it’s not exactly super useful for you. While, yes, it does add some extra psychic resistance for you, let’s not pretend like you aren’t completely overgeared in that department for your Tier already. Perception, though? You’ll be able to use all of that immediately. And you can’t ever get enough of it, especially as a Recon and Sniper.”

She could definitely see the logic in those words—and silently kicked herself for not thinking of it on her own. It was so obvious in hindsight, so painfully common sense, that it made her feel stupid to have needed Major Quinn’s unsolicited advice to avoid screwing up her own future Blueprint updates for almost no immediate gain.

Of course Resolve wasn’t giving her much now. She wasn’t using any Psychic Powers yet. 

And Blueprint updates? Those were going to matter a lot.

‘Major Quinn’s right… Resolve really doesn’t do anything for me right now, does it?’

With a sigh, Thea adjusted her planned allocation—two points into Perception, holding the remaining two in reserve. Her mental cursor hovered over the confirm prompt. 

She took a slow, steady breath, readying herself. 

‘No way this just works without something going wrong...’

Closing her eyes, she muttered, “I’m ready to confirm.”

A pause. Then Major Quinn’s cool voice: “Do it.”

She pressed the prompt and was almost immediately greeted by the System Notification she had been waiting for, for so long.

[System]: The Participant’s Blueprint has been updated.

And then…

Nothing.

No distortion, no surge of pressure near her heart. No abrupt blackness from Major Quinn having vaporizing her brain stem from behind. 

Just a subtle sharpening in her hearing—soft ambient details rising into clarity around the room—as the new Perception scores began integrating with her physical body.

Thea opened her eyes slowly, still in disbelief. “It… it worked. I think?”

“I think so too,” Major Quinn replied after a heartbeat, her hand still resting lightly at the base of Thea’s skull. “Do you feel anything unusual? In terms of Psychic backlash. Gate tension, dissonance, anything? The Call, maybe?”

Thea paused, scanned her own mental space, then shook her head. “No. Nothing. I’m good.”

The hand withdrew. And along with it, the invisible weight of Major Quinn’s full Presence—finally lifting, like stepping out from under a crashing waterfall. 

Thea exhaled with real relief, only now realizing how much tension had built up in her neck and shoulders.

“Wonderful,” Quinn said, her voice almost chipper now. “Just as I figured. The Assessment incident was a freak accident.”

She walked around to lean lightly on Thea’s desk, arms crossed loosely. “You should be more than fine handling Attribute investments on your own going forward. I didn’t feel even the slightest tremor from your Gate. And I doubt your lack of investment into Resolve this time around is the issue. While yes, Resolve does impact the Gate as a whole, what happened during the Assessment was probably a perfect storm.”

Thea tilted her head slightly, listening.

“Most likely,” Quinn continued, “it was just too much input, too fast. You had just Awakened, and right after, you dumped a big load of points into an Attribute that directly influences a still-raw internal organ—your Gate.” She gave a small shrug. “Your mind was still adjusting, your entire being still processing what was happening, and something cracked under the pressure. Won’t happen again.”

Thea nodded slowly, the explanation settling neatly into place in her head. 

When it was laid out like that, it really did make sense. 

And frankly? It was extremely comforting.

“Just to be safe, however,” Major Quinn added, tone shifting back into something a little more clinical, “you should inform Anrake the next time you plan to invest your remaining points. Just to rule out the Resolve theory completely. Even if I’m confident you're in the clear, we can’t afford assumptions when it comes to Psyker incidents like yours. Not if we can avoid it with a little bit of extra prudence—not again, at least.”

“Agreed,” Thea said immediately. It was the smart call, no question.

“Now, if there’s nothing else…?” Major Quinn looked at her, one brow raised, head tilted slightly.

Thea was halfway through shaking her head when she hesitated—then stopped.

“Actually…” She cleared her throat, gathering up the nerve she needed. “Back when we talked… after everything that happened with Selene… I asked if I could speak to her again. And I understand now why that’s not possible.”

Quinn didn’t interrupt, but her posture stiffened slightly.

“I was wondering instead… would it be possible to talk to a fellow Marine? Someone who helped me. Zach—ehhh Private Zachary Cal Vemun. He was the Psyker who helped me during the Assessment when the Gate surge-thing happened. I never really got to thank him properly, and I just…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes caught Quinn’s expression.

It wasn’t the amused smirk she sometimes wore, or the tight smile she used when delivering sharp truths, or even the dignified expression she had on all other occasions.

It looked… pained. Human. And oddly exhausted.

Major Quinn sighed heavily and brought a hand to her temple, rubbing it for a long, quiet moment.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Thea,” she said at last. Her voice had dropped, softer than Thea had ever heard it. 

“I’m really sorry, but Private Vemun was declared as being Zero’d. A few days ago.”

The words landed like a hammer blow. Thea’s stomach dropped out from under her. 

Her mind blanked.

“W…What? How? When? Why? I don’t… What?” she managed, her voice a jumble of broken questions as her thoughts scrambled to catch up.

“I hate having to break it to you like this,” Quinn said gently. “But when I was writing up the post-incident report on your situation post-Assessment with Selene, I went looking for Private Venum’s—Zach’s file. Wanted to check in on him myself. I… wasn’t expecting what I found.”

She took a step closer and gently rested a hand on Thea’s shoulder. 

The gesture wasn’t heavy, but it was grounding—real.

“I sincerely apologize. But you don’t have the clearance to know more about that report,” Quinn said quietly, then gave a dry smile, her eyes flicking with something that might’ve been sympathy, might’ve even been pain. “Lucky for you, I am the Major Quinn. And that means I get to bend rules on occasion.”

Quinn crouched down, eye level now. 

The tone in her voice was heavier than Thea had ever heard it.

“Zach was assigned ship-duty the week after the Assessment—standard stuff, just regularly scheduled duty. There was a Void-Breach incident—routine, at first. But one of the Privates in the duty-crew mishandled explosive weaponry against all regulations. Part of the hull was blown out, and before the bulkhead seals engaged…”

Thea’s mind was still stuck on the words Void-Breach.

The phrase felt like static in her ears.

“Zach and two other Privates who were closest to the breach were thrown out into the Void.” Quinn continued quietly. “Resus ships were launched as fast as protocol allowed. But with how fast things move during Void Travel… the distances involved made recovery impossible. Their bodies couldn’t be found and that means their Souls couldn’t be brought close enough for transfer.”

Thea barely registered the rest. 

Her thoughts were stuck on one thing: ‘He was just helping me a few weeks ago. He was fine.’

And now he was gone. Just like that. 

No goodbyes. No thank you. No chance to ever return the favor.

Zero’d. Dead forever.

“They were declared Zero’d just two days ago, after the Resus ships returned from their renewed trips. The Captain ordered additional searches, against protocol, but they failed to bring up anything… I’m truly sorry, Thea,” Major Quinn concluded.

She stayed there with her for a moment, hand on Thea’s shoulder, before getting up and making her way to the door and leaving the room.

Thea heard some muffled conversation through the droning in her ears, but couldn’t process anything but the static buzzing in her head…

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[ND] Chapter 141 - Expectations

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Chapter 136 - Mixer has just released on RR with no major changes.

For the Fixers, this chapter is new.

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CLIFFHANGER WARNING.

You've been warned.

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mH_LSapllNw8nMhsrTb1GgjwrSXCyk6JrfKVLH6BXuA/edit?usp=sharing

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Chapter 141 - Expectations

Trying to decipher what Valeria actually meant by that cryptic jab was like playing high-stakes Go against a chicken—except I was the chicken pecking aimlessly at the board. 

I didn’t know the rules. Couldn’t read the pieces. 

Hell, I wasn’t even sure we were playing the same game in the first place.

So I defaulted to the safest play I knew.

“Yes, Mother. I will ensure stricter adherence to expected behavioural protocols going forward.”

Obedience: Executed. Tone: Appropriately deferential, without sounding like I was groveling.

Valeria didn’t even blink before reclaiming the floor with that ever-polished blade of corporate grace.

“Beyond that, I am modestly encouraged by your current development arc. I recommend you maintain your upward trajectory with that same unbroken discipline you’ve displayed so far, daughter,” she said, tilting her chin in that fractional, ceremonial nod of approval that was the Valeria-equivalent of a standing ovation. 

She returned to perfect posture a second later, already pivoting forward.

“I further acknowledge your willingness to assist your brother in the continued refinement of his martial aptitude, particularly in regards to the Arkion Dojo. However, I must stress that such benevolence must not impede your personal development. I would consider it deeply regrettable were I forced to intervene in the fraternal dynamic due to an imbalance of effort distribution—especially when the resulting stagnation would compromise both your growth vectors.”

I nodded without missing a beat.

“Of course, mother. I’ll make sure to keep my developmental efforts within optimal thresholds. Miss K herself maintains a rigorous and individualized approach to instruction, and I have full confidence she would flag any downward trend in my performance the moment it manifested. She’s… very direct with her feedback.”

It was a subtle card to play, but an effective one. 

I’d seen enough corporate meetings in my past life to know that bringing in a respected third-party authority was a surefire way to dodge suspicion and offload accountability. If Miss K vouched for me—or didn’t raise any concerns—then it wasn’t on me if Valeria had doubts.

Citing her was like slapping an expert seal of approval onto my work ethic.

“See that you do,” Valeria said, giving me that same imperceptible nod again—just enough to count, but not a fraction more.

‘Bingo!’

Internally, I filed it under a win—even if the pressure building behind my eyes from her earlier warning still hadn’t gone anywhere. I hated not knowing how much she actually knew about what I’d been up to outside the boundaries of her perfectly ordered world. 

Operator gigs. Gang ties. The whole damn mess.

“Now,” Valeria continued, controlling the conversation with the ease of someone who never truly let go of it in the first place, “I have been made to understand that you have some manner of request for me, daughter. Your father has been soft-launching it over the course of the past week and asked that I afford you the courtesy of being genuinely heard out—a highly unusual request for him, I must say, which naturally makes me cautious about the nature of what you intend to ask.”

Her head turned smoothly toward Oliver, that unreadable smile never quite reaching her eyes. 

But Oliver… looked surprisingly serious for once. 

No awkward grin. No lighthearted buffer. Just a single, quiet nod toward Valeria, followed by one aimed directly at me—wordless, but solid.

‘Thanks, Oliver.’

I hadn’t been sure he’d actually follow through. Part of me had figured he’d forget, or brush it off as a passing comment, or decide that the timing wasn’t right. 

But clearly, I’d underestimated him on this. 

He’d backed me up, and now the ball was squarely in my court.

Valeria’s eyes returned to mine—sharp, focused and thoroughly expectant.

That was my cue.

Time to roll out the carefully curated, meticulously phrased, “please let me dig into the one thing you explicitly didn’t want anyone to touch” pitch, and pray to whatever higher powers ran this world that I had picked the right angle to make it stick.

I met her eyes—steadily, calmly, like I’d practiced—and began.

“As you have correctly surmised, Mother, I do indeed have a request to make, though I would first like to preface it with context I believe to be highly relevant to the matter at hand: My amnesia, while no longer fully debilitating, continues to present intermittent complications in both my day-to-day interactions and long-term cognitive reconstruction. There have been repeated instances of memory confusion, misattributed associations, and moments of disorientation that, while manageable, remain a source of inefficiency and concern.”

I paused, just briefly, before continuing in the most polished corporate tone I could muster.

“Examples include the inability to recognize particular building layouts within the Megabuilding, despite clearly having visited them in the past; failing to recall individuals who recognize me and attempt conversation, leading to awkward or inefficient exchanges; and more recently, an incident involving a confused response to a known operating system shortcut that had previously been muscle memory. I do not list these to excuse any behavior, but to highlight that full integration with my prior experiences has not yet occurred.”

These were, of course, entirely fabricated examples.

But I’d spent hours crafting them—situations that fit neatly within the expected parameters of general post-traumatic amnesia. 

Not so major that they’d raise red flags or warrant deep medical investigation, but just inconvenient enough to sound plausible. The kind of memory hiccups no one would really follow up on, yet couldn’t easily disprove without jumping through unnecessary hoops. 

Just the right level of believable—or so I hoped.

Naturally, however, Valeria gave no reaction about her thoughts on the matter whatsoever. 

No twitch of the eye, no arch of the brow. 

Just that same perfectly neutral, vaguely expectant mask she always wore.

So I pushed forward.

“With that in mind, I believe there is potential value in forging a small, controlled bridge to my former life—one point of contact that might assist in reducing the severity of these inconsistencies. Furthermore, I am aware that there is still a great deal of uncertainty surrounding the exact nature of my previous incident, and I have no doubt that your efforts in that regard have been both thorough and exhaustive. As such, that singular point of contact could be valuable for more than one reason. Not to replace professional care or investigative efforts, but to augment them both.”

Still no change in her expression at all.

“However, given the intricacies of JOI-enforced compartmentalization and the intentionally obfuscated nature of the subgroups operating within that structure, I imagine that even the most comprehensive surveillance or forensic analysis has likely run into a significant number of brick walls in tracing my final hours leading up to the incident, which I have been made to understand, I might have spent with or in the general vicinity of the individual in question.”

I drew in a breath, trying to keep myself level.

“Ultimately, I believe I can assist in that effort. Or, at the very least, reduce the mental tax currently affecting my own forward development. But I want to make it explicitly clear that I am not requesting a reintroduction to my former social circle. I am not seeking to recover what was lost for the sake of nostalgia or emotion.”

My posture straightened as I moved into the final point.

“I am asking only for the contact ID of one individual—Rina. That is the full extent of my request. Should the ID still be connected to her, I will reach out for the sole purpose of establishing contact. If it is inactive or leads nowhere, I will not pursue any further attempts to reach out to her. I will also not request any additional contact IDs from my previous cerebral interface, nor will I solicit any such information from Rina herself unless she brings up details that are directly tied to the circumstances of the incident. In such a case, I will forward that data to you, Mother, before taking any further steps with it.”

My voice softened, just a touch—still corpo, but with a sliver of genuine intent slipping through.

“I am not seeking to undermine your efforts in my recovery nor the investigation in the incident. I am merely seeking a tool to aid my own recovery further and perhaps, in the process, aid your ongoing investigation as well.”

I dipped my head as I wrapped up the request, keeping my gaze glued to the plate in front of me. 

Dinner sat there untouched, topped with one of those overly polished KeepAllFresh™ domes—chrome-slick and spotless, like it had been buffed ten seconds ago. 

Whatever Valeria had decided on for tonight was sealed underneath, undoubtedly kept at the perfect temperature and moisture level to keep it preserved as if it had just been freshly made and plated.

Yet… I wanted to glance up. 

Just a quick look, maybe catch a twitch of expression, anything that might give me a read, even though I already knew better: Valeria didn’t do tells—not the visible kind, anyway.

Still, the instinct clawed at me. 

I forced it down and sat rigid, with my head bowed, instead, all polite posture and corporate discipline, sticking to the protocol like it actually meant something.

‘At least as long as Valeria still prefers the corporate way… That whole thing with Gabe’s request… I’m not even sure this is the right play anymore. But I’m a bit too deep at this stage to stop, huh?’

Valeria didn’t answer. Not right away. 

She let the silence settle, deliberate and calculated, like every second was being logged for a quarterly report. No motion, no breath I could hear—just that cold executive stillness, the kind you learned in boardrooms where mistakes cost billions of credits and, even more horrifying, reputations.

It felt like forever.

I was thankful for my newly upgraded Edge. 

It gave me enough leeway to regulate breathing, to stop the tension from grinding into my jaw or leaking into a tremble, without having to dip into my Ego—I really did not want to burn the active Ego, now that I knew there was a limit on it, unless absolutely necessary.

Then finally, she spoke up—measured, precise, like she was reading from a script she’d rewritten six times already.

“After reviewing the broader context and correlating it with the behavioral patterns observed, I can now understand why your father has maintained such persistent involvement over the past week.”

The pause that followed wasn’t long, but it was weighty. 

I heard the faint shift of her posture—a slight turn, probably toward Oliver—but I didn’t risk looking. Not until I knew whether I was in the clear or not.

Her attention returned to me like a tracking sensor locking back on target.

“I must admit… It would be inaccurate to deny the current stalemate in actionable progress in regards to the investigation. As you’ve outlined, daughter, the JOI-unit subnetwork is… exceptionally cohesive. Their internal loyalty is beyond reproach, however reprehensible their chosen line of work might be. We’ve attempted incentives, asset realignment, and discreet pressure—none have yielded viable results. Extraction without escalated methods is, at this stage, seemingly nonviable.”

She didn’t say torture. Didn’t need to. 

The implication sat between the words like fine print.

She continued, smoothly pivoting. “Regarding your lingering memory irregularities—I find the persistence of the issue distinctly suboptimal. I’ll be reallocating some personal time to examine potential cognitive remediation vectors with vetted professionals on the matter.”

Another pause. Longer this time, like she was actively thinking this entire thing through. 

“I want to be perfectly clear,” she said, tone flattening to executive steel, “that I do not support this course of action from a preference standpoint. Re-introduction to your previous life under current circumstances is… not a precedent I’m comfortable normalizing. Particularly when it comes to certain sections of said previous-incident life, that should never have been allowed to persist to begin with.”

‘She’s talking about that Luca guy here, guaranteed,’ I thought immediately. ‘I wonder if Valeria ever tried to “persuade” him in regards to the investigation… Given that everything I know about the guy sounds like he’s mostly a loner, I doubt he has the kind of support network Rina and the JOI-girls have, that keep them relatively safe in that regard…’

Valeria continued her rundown.

“However, the argumentation presented was structurally and logically sound, as much as I would like to find inadequacies in your presentation to deny this request… And your father’s endorsement—considering his historical lean towards caution, his risk-averse tendencies, and his general reluctance to interface with matters such as these, particularly the raising of both you and your brother—speaks volumes. His alignment with this request, as such, cannot be ignored.”

A deep breath. Not audible, but felt.

“In light of all these considerations… I am prepared to approve the request.”

But of course, there was the qualifier.

“Only under strict adherence to the pre-established conditions, however: No pursuit of legacy contacts unless their involvement becomes categorically necessary to the ongoing investigation. And if said threshold should be met, those contacts will be flagged and submitted to me directly. You will not act independently on this matter. Do you agree to these terms, daughter?”

I nodded immediately. “Yes, mother. I understand the terms of the agreement and agree to them fully.”

It wasn’t exactly a hard promise to make—considering I'd written those terms myself. 

Hell, I barely had any interest in getting to know Luca at all in the first place. 

Based on everything I knew about him from the second-hand descriptions of both Gabe and Oliver? There was no point in ever pursuing that connection.

Still, the outcome felt almost too good to be true.

‘That went…way smoother than I expected.’

I’d come into this prepared for trade-offs, ready to sacrifice a bit of freedom here, some autonomy there. 

But Oliver’s influence was clearly pulling a lot more weight than I'd anticipated. And maybe, just maybe, my carefully structured arguments had managed to land exactly right on Valeria. 

She did love her logic bulletproof, her reasoning neatly formatted. 

I'd given her precisely that, and she'd seemingly bitten down hard.

‘Maybe that’s the way to get to her… As long as you can manage to throw together a truly good argument, that is. I doubt she’d fold just because I structured things well, if she sees any clear openings to exploit.’

Valeria gave a short nod, perfectly measured and final. “Very well. I'll transfer the ID once dinner concludes. It will be yours to use—within the agreed-upon parameters.”

There was no ceremony to it, no further warning. 

Just a clean handoff, as if we’d signed a document and filed it in triplicate. 

Then, without missing a beat, she shifted tone, pivoting with that usual smoothness that made even social niceties feel like part of a quarterly planning session around her.

“Well then,” she said, voice softening just a touch, “now that the primary business has been handled, I suggest we all take a moment to enjoy each other’s company. It’s not often we get time like this anymore—especially with how things have been lately.”

She extended one manicured hand and gestured gracefully toward the covered plates. “Please.”

I didn’t need a second invitation. 

The dome slid off with a quiet hiss of preserved air, and the scent hit me first—warm, layered, rich. 

My eyes landed on a dish that looked like something out of a high-end culinary archive: Slices of seared meat, pink-centered and crusted in herbs I couldn’t name, resting over a delicate swirl of black pepper pasta. 

A miniature salad sat to the side, built like a sculpture—shaved greens, something that looked awfully close to blood orange slices, microgreens, and crumbled cheese that definitely hadn’t been printed. Even the dressing had that glossy texture that only came from ingredients that were actually grown, not fabricated, or so my [Cooking] knowledge told me.

Based on the last time Valeria had treated the family like this, I was pretty confident this entire spread was honest-to-god proper, real food. 

Nothing synthetic at all.

I was half-ready to just dig in without hesitation, but a quiet thought lodged in the back of my mind.

‘Please let this be clean this time. Just food. No add-ons, no enhancements, no “correctional measure” snuck in like last time...’

Once had definitely been more than enough.

Valeria didn’t say a word, but the faint curve of her lips said enough. 

She watched us, sipping from a glass of something amber and aged, as if she were observing a well-executed presentation rather than her own family. 

Oliver let out an exaggerated hum of approval the moment he got a whiff, leaning in close like the steam itself deserved analysis.

“Is that some form of mushroom…?” he asked no one in particular, already halfway to dissecting his plate with gleeful precision.

Gabriel followed suit with a dramatic sigh. “Mum, you really don’t have to do all this for us.” 

Then, without missing a beat: “Though I’m extremely glad you always do.”

Only once she’d let their reactions stretch for a few seconds—just long enough to savor their approval—did she give the nod. 

A quiet, elegant “now you may eat.”

I stuck to the strategy that had worked before: Mimic the queen. 

I waited until Valeria reached for a fork and noted the exact dish she started with—the meat, sliced with surgical care. 

I mirrored her movements, right down to how she held the utensils.

The moment the first bite hit my tongue, [Cooking] kicked in like a silent commentary track.

The meat wasn’t just seared—it had been basted in a herb-spice reduction during the final minute, locking in that umami-forward crust. The inner pink was precision work—pan-seared first to seal in the juices, then low-temp cooked to perfection. 

The Skill highlighted the kind of balance I never would have been able to truly care about, much less name in-detail: Protein to fat ratio, enzyme tenderization, even the faint aftertaste of smoked salt dusted post-plating.

I would’ve just called it amazing in my last life. 

But here, I could practically chart the flavor map thanks to [Cooking].

The black pepper pasta wasn’t just a garnish either. 

Freshly rolled linguine-like noodles, made from real flour—aradia flour, as the Skill told me, though I had no idea what that was—with flecks of something it identified as Radcherry pepper that added a warm, citrusy heat. 

Even the oil clinging to the strands had a soft herb-type base, though this time around the Skill failed to identify it. There was, however, also something richer—maybe some kind of nut in there, but once again, the Skill failed me.

‘Too low of a Level for that one, huh?’

Even the relatively simple side-salad was a layered experience. 

The blood orange-thing wasn’t just there for color I realised as I bit into the first fork full—it added a very nice level of acidity, the shaved greens cut through it with a licorice sharpness, and the microgreens weren’t just random fluff either; they had a peppery snap, that balanced very nicely with the other two parts. 

Every bite wasn’t just food—it was perfect calibration. Real ingredients stacked with purpose. 

And for once, I was able to fully understand what that meant.

But more amazingly than that? 

‘No extra additions from what I can tell…!’

Just as that thought hit me and I swallowed the last of my first-bites of each, I was also greeted by a System Notification.

Not particularly busy, I risked a peak, figuring it might be another [Cooking] Level.

But instead, I was greeted by something I hadn’t been expecting at all.

[System]: You have received 1x Buff [Venison Noir Meal], lasting for 23:59:59.

‘A food buff…?’ I thought, thoroughly taken aback.

While I had expected them to exist, especially after my run-in with one of MiXer’s creations just earlier today, I hadn’t expected to gain one this quickly.

Especially considering that none of the other family dinners had given one like that before.

‘Though… Now that I think about it…’ I mused. ‘I guess it makes sense. The first one was Oliver’s treat and the second one wasn’t the original recipe, considering Valeria’s “addition”... Maybe that’s what fried the recipe, so there was no buff attached to it afterwards?’

I followed the notification with a simple mental confirmation and it opened the [Buffs] Interface for me, listing off what the [Venison Noir Meal] actually did.

[Venison Noir Meal]
- 75% increased blood filtration.
- 50% increased cold resistance.
- 20% increased concentration.
- 10% increased Body Attribute coefficient.

‘Not bad at all…!’

The 10% boost to my Body Attribute coefficient was fucking awesome. Seriously. 

That was basically like getting a clean half-rank on top of my current 5—without needing to actually grind for it. I could get so much done with this kind of buff backing me. 

Combat drills, movement training, physical resistance routines... it all stacked faster.

It was one of those long-hyped strategies people had been theorycrafting ever since the DLC leak hinted at [Cooking] becoming an active player-side system. 

Food buffs weren’t exactly new to Neon Dragons, but until now, only NPCs had ever cooked them. They’d been background flavor—quite literally. 

But with the drop of the DLC, the meta would’ve undoubtedly shifted. Players would finally be able to prep and optimize with exact consumable loadouts, and buffs like these were suddenly targetable and worth their weight in gold.

And the real beauty? The coefficient didn’t raise the Attribute value itself—it boosted its output. No penalty to XP gain, no slowed progression. 

Normally, leveling a Skill or raising an Attribute meant exponential grind. 

The higher you got, the harder it became to gain even a fraction of progress. But coefficient buffs bypassed that, giving a temporary power spike without dragging your scaling through the mud.

Honestly, I was this close to excusing myself and diving into a 24-hour training circuit just to capitalize on the edge while it lasted. 

But I knew better. 

No matter how tempting the numbers were, walking out mid-dinner for that kind of stuff would’ve been… ill-advised, especially with Valeria opposite the table from me. 

So instead, I stuck to the plan. 

Watched her cues. Matched her pace. 

Ate what she ate, how she ate it, and made the most of the fifteen minutes that followed.

Conversation drifted in and out around the table—if you could call it that. 

Valeria’s presence ensured everything got filtered through at least three layers of corporate speak and strategic positioning. Even when Gabriel tried to joke a few times, it ended up sounding like he was pitching an idea in a product meeting. 

Still, Oliver and Gabe both let out more than a few appreciative groans as they ate, like they were reviewing a five-star meal live on stream.

And honestly? I couldn’t blame them.

It wasn’t a bad time. 

Surprisingly decent, even with the ever-looming specter of Valeria sitting in. 

In a weird way, it was… downright relaxing. 

Not the cozy kind of relaxing—not soft rain on the roof or a warm drink on a couch. 

This was the calm that came from knowing your role inside and out, and you know how to perform it properly. 

Every word, every move, calculated and executed clean. 

No guesswork. No surprises. Just performance.

And for once, that kind of clarity felt really good.

I had tuned in to the conversation at times, drifting off into my own thoughts or trying to identify more things about the food with my [Cooking] Skill.

“…so naturally, when Operations flagged the discrepancy, I requested a full third-party packet scrub. The other executive tried to claim it was a pipeline delay, but I had already reviewed the thermal freight records. I said—” she paused for emphasis, offering the faintest smile, “‘If your data integrity is so airtight, then I’m sure you won’t mind if Legal does a little leak test.’”

Valeria had been mid-anecdote—one of many that evening—delivered with her usual boardroom polish. She’d been recounting a logistics audit on Neo Avalis’s southern corridor, each word chosen like it had passed through compliance first.

Oliver chuckled at the recounting. Gabriel gave a theatrical “Oof” though I doubted he knew what she was even talking about—as I didn’t know either.

Valeria raised her glass slightly, a mock toast to her own rhetorical kill.

“…I said—”

Silence.

No stutter. No filler. 

Just a full stop, mid-thought.

My fork hovered in place as my mind tried to catch up. 

Valeria never interrupted herself.

I looked up, expecting the usual ice-queen stare, some pointed glance about manners or decorum, figuring that Gabriel had stepped over the line one too many times tonight.

Instead, I met something else entirely.

Something far more horrifying.

Emotion. Specifically, Confusion.

Not irritation masked as curiosity. Actual, raw confusion. 

Her brow slightly furrowed, lips parted just enough to show she’d forgotten what she was even saying. Her eyes weren’t focused on the table or any of us—they were somewhere far off, lost in a discrepancy in her plans for tonight that she wasn’t trained to handle.

My heart started pounding hard. 

My Edge spiked, flooding me with tight, cold clarity. 

Even my passive Ego had to step in and reign back the adrenaline flooding my body.

Something was off.

The entire room had followed her into stillness. 

Oliver stopped mid-chew, Gabriel’s hand froze near his glass, and I swear I heard the ventilation hum for the first time all evening. 

The silence wasn’t just awkward—it was wrong.

Then her expression gradually changed again. 

The confusion faded—and what replaced it made my blood go cold.

Concern.

Genuine. Unmasked. The kind of concern that didn’t belong on her face, because I hadn’t thought she was capable of feeling it, let alone showing it.

And then—

Click.

A mechanical click, sharp and surgical, just past the threshold of the dining room.

So soft I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t already been listening for something. 

It came from the apartment door…

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 45 - Honour

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 45 - Honour for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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o7

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/12-xiHvLs6Xq4fEUvP4ejnDQgnF_rmzdIn8upKmSvsdw/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 45 - Honour

"You will never finish every conversation.
You will never return every laugh.
You will never repay every debt to the ones who fell beside you.

That is life as a Marine.

You do not carry the dead by mourning them.
You carry them by walking forward with what they gave you.

Their grit in your unerring aim.
Their voice’s echo in your heart’s conviction.
Their unfinished business in each and every one of your fights.

That is life as a Marine.

Grief is not the weight that holds you back.
It is the proof that someone marched beside you—
and the reason you will not stop marching now, nor ever, until the war is won.

Your burden is not their absence.
Your burden is to live in a way that honours what they gave up.

That is life as a Marine.”

[Attributed to Colonel Vesta Armin, UHF 3rd Fleet, after the loss of Bastion Alp 9, PFC 855]

======

======

Fragments of a familiar voice cut through the static haze buzzing in Thea’s skull, but her brain struggled to string them into meaning. 

The words were just… sounds. Echoes of something she should understand, but couldn’t quite catch.

“Thea… Major Quinn… need me… what is goi—Thea?!”

Hurried footsteps thudded closer, then stopped right beside her.

A pair of warm hands cupped her cheeks—gentle, familiar—fingers brushing up to her forehead, then down along her jaw, checking her pulse at the neck. 

The pressure settled on her shoulders next, firm but steady.

“Thea… talk… me… happened?”

The steady voice had a hint of urgency in it, but Thea couldn’t seem to grab hold of it. 

Her entire world had narrowed to the crushing weight in her chest and the sharp, hollow pang of her heartbeat echoing like a broken bell through her ears. Everything else—the words, the room, even her own thoughts—just drifted somewhere out of reach.

The hands didn’t leave her. 

If anything, they grew more purposeful—one settling against the center of her back, applying slow, steady pressure between her shoulder blades. The other rested over her sternum, just lightly enough to be felt through the uniform. 

Rhythmic pressure. In… out… in… out…

Her body wasn’t obeying. 

Her limbs had gone rigid, but her chest felt too loose—like her lungs had collapsed in on themselves. Her hands were ice. Her thoughts barely coalesced at all, scattered into static fragments.

Her breathing, she realized dimly, was suddenly too fast. Too shallow. 

The hand moved from her back to her wrist, gently guiding her hand up, fingers curling around her palm, squeezing once. Then again. A pattern. 

A rhythm.

One-two. One-two.

The rhythmic pressure on her chest, the squeezing of her hands…

She realised now, someone was trying to give her a metronome.

The touch didn’t vanish. Neither did the voice. 

It came again, closer this time—measured, calm, insistent in the way that only training could teach. The cadence was wrong for panic. There was no fear in it. Just quiet certainty. 

Words started forming shapes in the static now.

“…not alone. You’re here. You’re safe. With me.”

A thumb brushed against her cheekbone, back and forth in the same exact line. 

A hand stayed wrapped around hers, still tapping gently.

“One breath. That’s it. Just one.”

A slow inhale—one she barely noticed. Then another. 

Something inside her cracked. 

Not loudly, not all at once. More like a hairline fracture giving way with each breath.

Her vision sharpened, just slightly. The noise receded. The static dulled.

Thea blinked.

The haze slowly continued to peel away just enough for her to register the face in front of her: Brown, curly hair. Freckled face. 

Green eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Kara…?”

“I’m here. Keep breathing, Thea. Nice and steady.” Her voice was calm, anchored in that strange, unshakeable certainty she always had when things got bad. She hadn’t let go of Thea’s hand once, still squeezing gently with that same slow rhythm. 

In. Out. In. Out.

Thea’s head still felt like it was filled with fog, but the words finally pushed through.

“He’s dead…”

Karania didn’t react to the words. Not outwardly. Her hand just squeezed again.

“In… and out. Don’t stop breathing. Once your brain’s getting oxygen again, you can tell me all about it.”

Thea gave a shaky nod, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she focused on doing exactly what Karania told her. 

‘Breathe... You’re not okay. Trust Kara. She always knows what to do.’

The cold numbness in her limbs slowly shifted to pins and needles. 

Her heart wasn’t jackhammering anymore, just pounding in a more manageable rhythm. 

After a few minutes of sitting like that—still half-slumped over, still holding Karania’s hand—she finally started feeling her body again.

She pushed herself up straighter, groaning softly at how much tension had settled into her back. Only then did she notice how much of her weight had ended up leaning on Kara. 

Her friend didn’t even flinch—just watched her quietly, eyes sharp and focused, making sure every part of her was okay before saying anything else.

“Welcome back,” Karania said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Bit of hypoxia. You weren’t getting enough air there for a minute. Should pass soon. Keep breathing normally, alright?”

Thea nodded again. 

Her lips felt dry. 

Her chest didn’t hurt, but it was tight in a different way now. Less like panic, more like grief packing itself in behind her ribs, digging in and refusing to budge.

That hollow feeling crept in more and more with every breath. Deeper. Heavier. 

The more “okay” she became, the more the hollowness spread.

“He’s dead, Kara…” she whispered. “I didn’t even get to thank him…”

Karania’s hand tightened around hers again. “Who is, Thea?”

“Zach,” she whispered. “He… he got Zero’d just a few days ago. Freak accident during a Void-breach on ship duty… I… I never got to say thank you properly… For helping me with my psychic issues during the Assessment… I wanted to call him; asked Major Quinn. But he’s dead, Kara…”

Karania’s expression softened even more, her grip still firm on Thea’s hand. 

She didn’t look away—not once—as Thea’s voice cracked through the weight of it all.

“I’m really sorry, Thea,” she said, voice low. “I never got to meet him, but from everything you’ve told me… Zach sounds like he was the kind of person who shows up exactly when he’s needed most and does what’s needed to help others. Not a lot of people like that out there. He didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

Thea tried to nod, but it barely worked. 

Her face twisted again, her throat tightening until it was hard to swallow. 

The weight of it—Zach’s death, the finality of it, the simple truth that she would never get the chance to look him in the eye and say thank you—it was too much. 

She didn’t sob. 

But tears streamed freely down her face now, her entire body tense with the effort of just staying upright. 

The silence pressed in around them, broken only by her shaky breaths.

Then, a knock.

It came soft at first, polite. 

Karania turned her head toward the door immediately, “Come in.”

The door hissed open and Corvus stepped through, his gaze flicking across the room in an instant—zeroing in on Thea, and then shifting to Karania with a subtle frown.

“You said you needed me, Karania?” he asked, tone low but clearly concerned.

Karania nodded, rising slowly from where she sat beside Thea. 

“She needs you, actually,” she said quietly. “I’ve done what I can… but this is your area of expertise, not mine.”

She gave Thea’s shoulder a final, gentle squeeze before stepping aside. Her expression was calm—but her eyes lingered on Thea with a kind of fierce, protective worry.

“I’ll be just outside, okay?” she said softly. “If you need anything—anything at all—you just say the word. I’m not going anywhere. Just giving you two some privacy to work through this.”

Thea simply nodded, watching Karania slip silently out the door, leaving her alone with Corvus.

He didn’t speak right away.

Corvus simply walked over and lowered himself slowly onto one knee in front of her, his movements quiet and deliberate. 

Not intrusive. Not forceful. 

Just there.

His voice, when it came, was calm—low and steady like always—but lacking the usual edge of his role. There was no force behind it. Just a person reaching out.

“Karania didn’t give me the details,” he said gently, meeting her eyes without hesitation—somehow preventing himself from flinching at the contact. “She said you were grieving. Said it hit hard. That’s all I know.”

He let that hang in the air for a second, gave her room.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he added. “But if you do… I’m here.”

Thea looked away at first, her gaze drifting to some far-off corner of the room as if she could stuff the grief back into some corner of her chest. 

But it didn’t work. 

Not this time.

“I… He helped me,” she muttered, voice raw. “During the Assessment. After my Gate had completely spiralled out of control… After the Awakening… I had no idea what was happening, no information at all. Nobody had reached out to help me or explain things… Nobody but him.”

Corvus nodded slowly. “What was his name?”

“Zach,” she said. “Zachary Cal Vemun.”

“Tell me about him.”

That simple invitation cracked something. 

She didn’t even realize she’d needed someone to ask until he did. She blinked through the lingering blur of tears and shook her head slightly, trying to organize her thoughts.

“He was smart. Very smart. Knew exactly what was going on with me, even when I didn’t. And calm, like—really calm. He talked me through it all, gave me space to ask whatever questions I wanted. Grounded me. He kept me from falling apart when everything was burning down inside my head; when it felt like I was somehow all alone with this whole… psychic bullshit."

Corvus nodded again, still kneeling in front of her. 

He didn’t push, didn’t interrupt. 

He just listened.

When she paused, trying to find more words, he spoke again. “Sounds like he knew what he was doing. Knew how to show up in the moment, how to be there for somebody that needs them. That’s not just instinct. That’s choice, and experience. He made the choice to be there for you… Wish I could’ve met him. He sounds like a great guy.”

Her jaw tightened, a fresh ache blooming behind her ribs. “I didn’t get to thank him. Not properly. I asked if I could… talk to him again. But…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

Corvus inhaled deeply, his own expression tightening just a fraction. 

Then he exhaled slowly, grounding himself before speaking again.

“You’re feeling that open loop right now. The unfinished conversation. That need to close the story. It’s called ambiguous loss—it’s one of the hardest kinds to process, because the brain keeps looking for resolution that’ll never come.”

Thea’s eyes flicked to his again. She hadn’t expected a psychology lesson from him. 

But he went on.

“There’s no perfect fix for it,” he said. “But what helps—what starts to help—is naming it. Giving shape to the feelings. And then doing something with them.”

He sat down on the floor completely now, arms resting casually on his knees.

“You said you didn’t get to thank him,” Corvus said. “So thank him now. Not to me—for you. Out loud. Say what you would’ve said if he was standing in this room. As if I was him.”

She hesitated.

Corvus didn’t push. He just gave a small nod, as if to say, I’ll wait.

And after a few heartbeats, she whispered, “Thank you, Zach… for not walking away. For helping me when no one else did. For treating me like I wasn’t broken, even when I felt like I was… And I’m sorry. Sorry for what happened—” she had to cut herself short, remembering  Major Quinn’s intense order in regards to the incident, “what happened to you.”

The tears came again, but slower this time. Softer. Less overwhelming.

Corvus gave her a moment before speaking again. “That? That’s what closure starts to look like. You won’t ever forget him—but you can let the weight shift from pain to memory; over time. That’s how we carry them with us instead of letting it break us.”

That sparked something deep in her—an echo from the past.

The phrase “carry them with us” lit up a corner of her mind, and suddenly, the room around her faded.

She saw her Old Man again. 

That weathered, scar-lined face. 

Those intense eyes that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred lifetimes. 

He was sitting across from her, much like Corvus was now, that same serious-but-steady look on his face. Thea could hear his voice—gravelly, always tired, and full of that stubborn kind of care he never quite admitted aloud.

“Golden Rule #7: Never forget them,” he’d said, the words rumbling out slowly, “but don’t let their memories drag you down. Carry them with you, like the badges of honour they are.”

She’d only been ten at the time. 

It had felt like the end of the world then—her first taste of real grief. 

A close acquaintance online. Another build maker. 

One of the first people who’d truly seen her for the mind she had, not the life she’d come from. Somebody that had taught her a large portion of the build making knowledge she had possessed at the time—enabled her to truly understand what it meant to create.

And then one day, they just… didn’t log in. 

A mutual acquaintance told her the truth a week later. Gone. 

Just like that.

It had wrecked her. 

She hadn't known how to process it, only that the silence left behind had hollowed her out.

Her Old Man had picked up on it, of course. 

He always did. 

Quietly sitting beside her until she was ready to talk—then offering words that stuck.

“I’ve lost too many to count, Missy,” he’d said, brushing a hand down his face like the names were still resting behind his eyes. “But their memories? I still carry ‘em. Every single one. Because being part of their lives, even just for a few weeks in some Emperor-forsaken shithole with no sunlight, that was the greatest honour I’ve ever had. And carrying their names after? That’s not just a burden. It’s a privilege.”

She remembered him getting up then, disappearing into his bedroom and returning with an ancient lockbox, one that still had a mechanical key.

It clattered gently when he set it down. 

Inside, thin rectangular plates of varying metal—titanium, steel, old copper, some she couldn’t even name—each one worn from years of being handled.

One by one, he picked them up. Carefully, reverently. 

Held them like relics.

Each had a name. Just that—engraved or scratched in by hand. 

Some were full names. Others just callsigns or nicknames. 

But every one of them was someone real. 

Someone he’d fought beside. 

Someone he’d outlived.

“I write them down when I’ve got time to grieve,” he told her. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes. Each one deserves to be remembered. Their own piece. Their own weight. Their own honour.”

He’d looked at her then, more serious than she’d ever seen him, and said, “You’re gonna lose people, kiddo. More than you’ll ever be ready for. But you remember them. You carry their names forward, every step. That’s what it means to be brothers and sisters in arms. That’s what it means to be a Marine. We don’t bury them and forget—they live on through us. That’s our burden as the survivors. Our gift, as the one that gets to remember. Our duty, as the last one left.”

Now, years later, sitting curled up in the chair in her room, knees drawn tight to her chest and fingers twisted into the fabric of her uniform pants, Thea could still hear every word her Old Man had once said. 

The memories played back with crystal clarity—etched into her bones now. 

And for the first time since hearing about Zach, she didn’t feel like she was sinking anymore.

She felt like she had something to anchor to. A plan. 

A way to carry this grief forward without letting it drown her.

“Thank you, Corvus,” she murmured, voice scratchy and faint, barely holding itself together. 

“I… I need to get something.”

He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, then gently helped her up. 

Her legs felt clumsy beneath her, uncooperative and hollow from the crash of everything that had just hit her body and mind. The hypoxia hadn’t fully worn off, and neither had the emotional weight of it all, but Corvus stayed steady—an unshakable presence at her side as he guided her over to the workbench tucked against the far wall of her room.

It wasn’t much. 

Just a tiny setup she’d cobbled together over the past week—a couple of scattered tools, a few miscellaneous weapon parts, scraps of metal, and the familiar rhythm of something she could focus on when the rest of the world got too loud.

She reached for the first sheet of metal her fingers could grasp. 

Corvus glanced at her, curiosity flickering in his eyes, but said nothing. He simply stayed close, one hand lightly on her arm to keep her steady as she leaned over the desk.

Her fingers curled around the well-worn screwdriver—the same one she’d used to disassemble and reassemble her Gram more times than she could count. 

It felt heavier than usual in her hand. 

She adjusted her grip and began to scratch letters into the metal.

“Z-A-C-H”

It was horrible to look at.

The lines were jagged. Uneven. 

Her hand shook and the tool slipped a few times, scraping off-target, gouging crooked strokes into the sheet. It was messy—ugly, even—but it was hers. 

Her work. Her goodbye.

And Corvus, bless him, hadn’t offered to help. 

Hadn’t tried to “fix” anything. 

He just stood there, steady and silent, a grounding force behind her.

Once the name was finished, she took a pair of snips and clumsily cut the corner of the sheet off, shaping it into a rough rectangle, no bigger than a dog tag. 

Just like her Old Man had likely done countless times before.

She pulled it close to her chest, clutched it tight in her fist until the edges bit into her skin. 

Her voice cracked as she whispered, barely more than a breath.

“Thank you, Zach. For answering my questions, when I was confused. For being there, when I needed you. For… everything. I… will carry you with me. It’s been an honour to cross your path and call myself your sister in arms—if only for a short while. Your memory is my burden, my gift, my duty. Rest in peace… And thank you.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks again, but this time they didn’t crash over her like a wave—they just flowed.

She stumbled back from the bench, and Corvus moved instantly, catching her without hesitation and guiding her to the nearby edge of her bed as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

“I got you. Don’t worry,” he said gently, lowering her down with care.

Once she was seated, still holding the metal tag tight, he knelt in front of her again, eyes damp but calm. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Thea shook her head slowly. 

Her voice came out quieter than before, but steadier now, “No… Thank you, Corvus. You’ve done more than enough. You reminded me of something I needed to remember. And it helped. A lot… I… I just need a moment.”

Corvus didn’t say anything. Just gave a small, reassuring nod. 

But he didn’t leave.

He stayed by her side, settled in quiet company. No pressure. No expectations. 

Just there—like a weight that steadied rather than crushed. 

He didn’t look at his datapad or check the time. He didn’t try to talk. 

He simply waited with her, through the long silence that followed, while her hands slowly unclenched and her breathing leveled out.

Ten minutes passed. 

The tears had stopped, dried in uneven streaks across her face. Her fingers still curled tightly around the piece of metal in her hand, but they weren’t trembling anymore.

Eventually, Thea glanced over, and for the first time that entire day, her gaze was clear. 

Focused.

“Actually…” she said, her voice a little hoarse, but more herself than before. “I could use a box. A lockbox. An old one. One with a mechanical key. Do… Do you know where I could buy one like that…?”

Corvus blinked at the request, then a smile ghosted across his face—something quiet and knowing.

“Yeah, I think I know a place, actually…”

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[Wolf Lord+ | Draft] Volume 2 - Chapter 44 - Friendship

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Welcome to the draft release of Volume 2 - Chapter 44 - Friendship for y'all.

As always, a quick reminder that this chapter is still in the process of being workshopped by me and that this is simply the first-draft.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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I'm a big fan of this title for this chapter.

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UrKQ6tU7pqJ5cN1TqpaLvnYItqR4lDKNqRMM7rFtsCg/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 44 - Friendship

Program: “In Formation”
Host: Laurel Naya
Guest: General Atora Fields, Strategic Development Liaison, UHF Marine Corps

Laurel Naya:
“Welcome back, viewers, to “In Formation”. I’m Laurel Naya, and today we’re diving into one of the most quietly controversial decisions the UHF has made in recent decades—not about weaponry or strategy, but about something far more human: Friendship. With us today is General Atora Fields, a longtime architect of the Digital Mission structure and a strong proponent of its current social integration systems. Welcome, General.”

General Fields (nodding politely):
“Thank you, Laurel. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

Naya:
“Let’s jump right into it, then: There’s been a lot of buzz surrounding the latest updates to the Digital Mission framework—especially the new ‘Friendship Integration’ program that was quietly rolled out last cycle. What prompted that change?”

Fields (smiling faintly):
“Well, Vela, believe it or not, it wasn’t driven by any technological advance or tactical reshuffle. It came from feedback—millions of comments, from Recruits and Privates all the way up to Generals like myself, believe it or not. The message was simple: ‘Let us stay in touch.’ So, after considerable analysis, we finally decided to stop resisting something that was already happening unofficially.”

Naya:
“Even though Digital Missions are designed to be run solo—without your usual squad, without your usual comfort zone?”

Fields:
“Precisely because of that. When you throw a Recruit or a Private into a Digital Mission, you’re not just testing their fire discipline or their ability to execute. You’re testing their adaptability, their communication, their emotional resilience. And friendships—genuine, earned camaraderie—help reinforce those things. Especially when you're fighting alongside someone you’ve never met and still come out alive together.”

Naya (raising an eyebrow):
“But isn't there a risk? Emotional entanglements. Morale crashes when a friend is Zero’d. The long-distance communication barriers. Isn’t there concern that Marines might form attachments that end up becoming liabilities?”

Fields (nodding slowly):
“There are risks. Absolutely. Losing a friend can fracture someone—especially when they can’t even say goodbye. And yes, it’s hard when you haven’t seen someone in months because they’re on another end of the galaxy. But our psychologists and tactical analysts ran the data, and the outcome was clear: Marines who felt connected to something—to someone—performed better. They fought harder. They survived longer. They stayed in the Corps longer. The risk is real. But the reward? Far greater and, frankly, definitely worth the efforts and risks involved.”

Naya:
“And so the ‘Friendlink’ system was born.”

Fields (nodding):
“That’s right. If two Marines find themselves paired in a Digital Mission and enjoy working together, they can add each other to their Friendlink roster. That roster lets them keep tabs on one another—what Digital Missions they’re queuing for, when they’re active and what they’re training for. If the DM Grade isn’t too high and the timings line up, and if they haven’t exceeded their monthly join limit, they can even jump into each other’s lobbies pre-launch to reconnect occasionally. It builds a sort of web of relationships across the entire Faction.”

Naya:
“But not a full Squad, right? You’ve limited the number of follow-up joins per month?”

Fields (firmly):
“Correct. The point isn’t to let people reform cliques or recreate their squads. We want connections, not crutches. You get three follow-up joins per standard month, per friend. Enough to maintain and encourage those bonds, but not enough to become reliant on them. You should be growing your network across the Corps, after all. One friend in every unit, not five best friends in the same bubble.”

Naya (softly):
“So it’s not just about fighting better. It’s about belonging.”

Fields:
“That’s what it’s always been about, Laurel. We’re not training machines here—we’re forging people into something greater than themselves. And people… Well, they need people.”

[GalNet Channel 5 | Interview Snippet: General Atora Fields, Strategic Development Liaison, UHF Marine Corps, PFC 796]

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Back inside Alpha Squad’s dorm, Thea and Karania were holed up in Thea’s room, surrounded by the results of their most recent shopping spree—neatly folded tops, layered jackets, and an impressive amount of pants and skirts in varying tones and cuts. 

After the UHF 101 lecture had wrapped, they’d come straight here, mostly because Thea had gotten a message back from the Runepriest in response to her earlier request for help. 

It hadn’t been quite the response she was hoping for, but definitely far better than she had feared.

"Sit tight and wait," he’d written. "I’m going to get someone to watch over you. No amateurs, promise. Somebody I’d trust my life on in a situation like that."

So essentially… She was grounded for an unknown amount of time.

And if she had to be stuck in one place for who-knew-how-long, she figured she might as well be productive. Or at least... stubbornly distracting.

That’s how Karania had ended up here, slightly dazed and entirely confused, being bombarded with questions about clothing combinations and fabric weights—while Thea absolutely refused to admit why she had suddenly taken an interest.

She had her reasons.

‘Not going to give Kara the satisfaction of having kept the fashion hunting game to herself this whole time without me even knowing...! Now I finally have something that confuses her for once!’

There was just one thing that had been seriously testing her patience over the last couple of hours.

“Kara, can you stop turning around already?” Thea grumbled, tossing yet another half-buttoned blouse onto the growing pile of “I’ve somewhat understood what this is for now”-clothing on the bed. “I get that you’re trying to be polite, but I have no idea how to put half of this stuff on without looking like an idiot.”

Karania, seated cross-legged on the edge of Thea’s bed and turned strategically away, didn’t even blink. “Absolutely not! If you don’t learn how to do it yourself, how are you gonna handle it out in the wild, huh? You can’t expect me to dress you every morning like your personal stylist for the rest of time.”

Thea froze halfway into a pair of tight, high-waisted black leggings. One of the few pieces she’d actually chosen herself, with minimal coaching, and one of the only items she felt moderately confident in putting on without incident.

“I mean… I guess?” she muttered, wriggling them into place. “But it’s not like I’ll forget how to put on pants once I’ve done it once.”

“Still no!” Karania called, now thoroughly absorbed in whatever was on her datapad. “You learn through struggle, Thea. Struggle builds character!”

Thea let out a very deliberate, long-suffering sigh and pulled a plain white shirt over her head—the kind of shirt she would’ve called a waste of Credits just yesterday.

Now though? She could… kind of start to see the logic. 

Especially when she threw a dark marine-blue sweater over it, left open halfway down to give the white underneath a bold contrast. 

She paused in front of the mirror, adjusting the fabric slightly at her hips.

Yeah… that did look pretty good.

“The combo’s not bad at all,” she admitted out loud.

Karania perked up immediately, glancing over. “That’s what I’ve been saying! That’s why we got you all those shirts! White is the ultimate base—it adds contrast to layers, smooths out chaotic palettes, and works under almost anything. It’s a neutral tone miracle, Thea. Write that down. Carve it in stone. Frame it on your wall.”

Thea gave her a side-eye but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Maybe this fashion stuff wasn’t bad at all, especially when shared with a friend like this.

Before Thea could so much as adjust the sleeves on her sweater, the Sovereign’s voice chimed in, soft but unmistakably present—cutting through the quiet like the distant click of a safety turning off.

“A visitor is waiting outside the Alpha Squad dormitory. Requesting entry permission.”

Thea shot upright immediately, her eyes flashing to the door.

That was fast.

“Let them in,” she said quickly, voice sharp with anticipation. “Please.” 

Then, without missing a beat, she was already reaching for the UHF uniform she’d carefully laid out earlier. It was folded neatly on the corner of her desk, pristine and ready to throw on at a moment’s notice.

Because whoever the Runepriest had sent… it didn’t feel right to greet them in casuals. 

Especially not when they were someone he’d explicitly “trust his life on.”

As she scrambled to change—yanking off the white shirt and sweater and wrangling herself into the crisp, more formal lines of the UHF uniform—Karania glanced up briefly from her datapad, then immediately turned her attention back to it. 

“Alright,” Thea muttered, brushing down the front of her jacket with a hand. “Ready.”

The two of them stepped out of Thea’s room together, turning the corner into the dorm’s shared living space—only to both immediately freeze in the doorframe.

Because standing dead-center in the middle of the dorm’s common room, like it was the most natural thing in the world, was one other than the legendary Major Quinn herself.

Thea blinked. 

The Major gave them a long, lazy glance before motioning vaguely toward the front door behind her with one hand. 

“Sorry about the ambush, I guess… Didn’t exactly feel like waiting on the Sovereign,” she said, her tone dry and unimpressed. “Figured I’d save us all the time. Not every day the literal owner of this entire damn star sector is asked to ‘request permission’, right?”

Her tone was clipped—still professional, but even easily managed to Thea pick up on the strain underneath it immediately. Something was definitely off. 

Major Quinn was annoyed. Not raging or furious—but a very specific kind of tired irritation that set Thea’s nerves on edge.

She flicked her eyes sideways, catching Karania’s just as her friend did the same.

Karania gave the faintest shake of her head. Thea understood immediately.

‘Yeah. Definitely not the time to ask for the Skill slips…’

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Kara said, with an easy, respectful tone that managed to sound both casual and polite. She offered Quinn a quick nod and a respectful “Major Quinn,” before slipping out of the living room and disappearing into her own quarters, the door hissing softly closed behind her.

That left Thea alone with Major Quinn, as none of the other Alpha Squad members were inside the dorms at the time—or maybe inside their own rooms, Thea wasn’t entirely sure.

She took a breath, then stepped fully into the common room, standing at attention—not stiff, but straight. 

“Major Quinn,” Thea greeted carefully, trying to keep her voice calm—even as her pulse thumped just a little too loudly in her ears. “Am I right in assuming the Runepriest asked you to be here, or… is this about something else entirely?”

A sigh, followed by a small nod from the Major, was answer enough—but she confirmed it anyway, casually folding her arms as she spoke. “Yeah. Old—Anrake asked me to help you out with something, though—true to form, as ever—he didn’t give me any real context. Just said you’d know. Wouldn’t be the first time he sets up a meeting where neither party knows why they’re in the same room, though... That’s kind of his style.”

Thea nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

“Ah, Yes. I know why. I, uh…” she hesitated, every word catching awkwardly in her throat.

How in the galaxy was she supposed to say this out loud? To Major Quinn, of all people?

‘Hi, I’m scared of leveling up.’

Yeah. Fucking great. Very impressive for someone in Alpha Squad.

The Major raised a single eyebrow—impatient, curious, but not unkind. That subtle shift was all it took to push the confession out of Thea’s mouth.

“I’ve got a problem with my Attribute allocation from level ups. During the Assessment, there was a situation where—”

“Stop,” Major Quinn said sharply, voice cutting through the room like a command siren. It wasn’t loud, but it hit. All the warmth dropped from her tone like a rock.

Thea went rigid, wide-eyed and suddenly very aware of every molecule in her body.

“Do not continue that sentence,” the Major said firmly, tone lower now, but no less serious. “And do not speak about this to anyone. I mean anyone, Thea. Not your squad. Not anyone, but me and Anrake unless told otherwise. No one. You understand?”

Thea nodded frantically, her voice completely gone. 

Her heart hadn’t just skipped a beat—it had left this sector of space entirely.

Quinn gave a short, satisfied exhale. “Good. Then I know why he sent me.” 

She glanced toward the dorm hallway. “Let’s move this to your room. No need to put on a live show for any of your squad members that might wander through here.”

She paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Although… I’ll admit, the idea of me just casually sitting here and jump-scaring your squad one by one is extremely tempting... Might keep that in my back pocket.”

Thea didn’t laugh. 

She was still stuck between is this really happening? and what the fuck was that all about just now?

Major Quinn waved a hand. “Relax. C’mon. Lead the way.”

Thea turned stiffly, walking toward her room with the Major’s footsteps trailing behind her like the world’s most intimidating shadow. Panic was slowly creeping back in—not from Quinn, but from the ticking time bomb that was her current room situation.

Before she had left the room, she hadn’t exactly had time to clean up, after all.

Clothes.

Everywhere.

Not organized. Not stacked. Not even folded and placed aside, as per regulation.

She swallowed hard, internally screaming at her past self.

‘Oh no, no, no nononono! There’s fucking leggings on the floor! And why did I throw that one  sock in my charging dock just for a cheap laugh from Kara?! How the fuck do I explain this to THE Major Quinn without getting chewed out?!’

There wasn’t even time to whisper a plea to the Sovereign to clean it up, as she was only two steps away from her door, with Major Quinn hot on her heels.

All she could do was grip the doorframe, breathe in once, and prepare herself to walk into absolute social death with the most high-ranking woman aboard the Sovereign—and probably the entire star sector—standing behind her.

Thea pushed open the door, already scrambling through her brain for something—anything—to say that might explain the absolute chaos she expected to greet them with.

“Sorry about the mess,” she rehearsed internally. “We were mid-outfit planning?”
“I was searching something inside my wardrobe and just tossed stuff around, I was definitely going to clean up later, I promise?”
“Kara had a fashion seizure.”

None of them were good. All of them were terrible. 

But as the door swung open and her eyes fell on the room, every single excuse died on her tongue.

It was spotless.

The bed was made, perfectly crisp. Her desk was cleared, all three of her datapads arrayed neatly. Clothes were folded and sorted on the side shelf, and even her charging dock was somehow free of the rogue sock she knew had been there just two minutes ago.

She blinked once.

Then again.

No way—

The Sovereign had done it. 

Somehow, it had read her panic, her internal screaming, and stepped in like the quiet, omnipresent guardian angel of sanity it was.

‘...Thank you, Sovereign,’ she thought silently, reverently. ‘You beautiful, omnipresent lifesaver of a ship. I owe you!’

Swallowing her surprise and relief, she stepped aside and gestured inward. “Please, come in, Major.”

The Major didn’t hesitate. 

She walked in like she owned the place—and, technically, she literally did—heading straight for the chair by the desk. Without a word, she picked it up with one hand, like it weighed nothing, planted it in the middle of the room, turned it to face her, and gave it a light tap with her hand.

“Sit,” she ordered simply.

Thea obeyed immediately, dropping into the chair before Quinn even finished the gesture.

The Major cracked her neck once, then clasped her hands behind her back, her voice sharp but calm. “Since I’ll be monitoring you during this, I’m afraid I’ll need to smother you with my Presence for the next few minutes here. It’s the only way I’ll be able to keep tabs on your Gate with the level of precision I’d want for this.”

She rolled one shoulder, already adjusting her stance slightly. “I’ll need every bit of my Resolve tuned for maximum sensitivity. Your little Assessment mishap may have been a freak accident—but if it wasn’t and there’s any residual instability left… I want to know. And I want to catch it before it becomes a problem like it did back then.”

Then she smiled—calm, cold, clinical. “So. Sit back. You won’t be able to stand upright anyway. I’d also say, ‘relax’, but definitely don’t do that. ”

Thea swallowed hard, nodding quickly as she planted her feet and straightened her spine. She could already feel the tension building, like the air itself was warning her to brace.

“You should brace yourself. Ready?” Major Quinn asked, voice low now.

“As I’ll ever be,” Thea managed, her throat dry, as she engaged her core muscles.

The Major didn’t say another word.

The pressure abruptly hit her like a tidal wave—like standing beneath a waterfall made of pure, crushing authority. Her lungs stuttered. Her spine locked. And her entire upper body felt like it wanted to fold on itself like a cheap lawn chair.

Major Quinn’s Presence surrounded her like a net of steel threads, invisible but unyielding and seemingly tightening with every moment.

Yet, despite herself, Thea found her thoughts grounding in the odd familiarity of it.

It was heavy. Suffocating, even. 

But it wasn’t anywhere near the level of the Runepriest’s, despite her drastically closer proximity to the Major. Compared to that mountain of infinite weight that had once held her Soul in place with nothing but a flick of its will, this… this was manageable.

Her legs trembled slightly under the pressure—and she was damn glad that she was sitting down for this—but she managed to stay seated upright, breathing slow, but shallow breaths. 

She managed to keep her head up, too.

Barely.

‘Okay,’ she told herself, jaw clenched tight. ‘You wanted help. This is what help looks like.’

“Standing next to you is quite odd, you know?” Major Quinn commented casually. “The first time I met you on stage during Integration, I almost thought you were some kind of weird Null-like. Your high base Resolve is quite impressive, I must admit. For a Recruit to feel this… Resistant to everything Psychic… it’s definitely something else entirely. I’m looking forward to watching you grow into whatever it is you’ll be doing, Thea. Don’t disappoint me.”

Thea blinked, startled by the sudden turn in tone. 

Major Quinn’s voice—usually sharp-edged and carved from command—held something strangely genuine for once. Not warm, exactly. But honest. 

Like that walk towards the first meeting with the Runepriest, a few days ago.

But it was still weird to hear. 

Praise.

From her.

Thea's throat felt a little tight, and for a second, all her usual sarcasm, dark humor, and practiced stoicism failed her. The best she could muster was a quiet, “I’ll try my best, Major.”

The Major didn’t respond right away. Instead, she stepped in closer—far closer than Thea expected—before placing a hand on the base of Thea’s skull.

It wasn’t an unkind touch… but there was absolutely no mistaking the pressure behind it.

Major Quinn leaned down slightly behind her, voice low and level in her ear.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.”

Thea froze.

“You’re going to open your System Interface. You’re going to navigate to the Attribute section. You’re going to start the investment process—but you’re going to give me a warning before you hit confirm. Understand?”

Thea nodded once, very slowly.

“If I detect even a single spike of Gate activity I don’t like,” Quinn continued, calm as ever, “I will crush your brainstem. Instantly. It will cancel any and all Psychic mishaps from occurring and you won’t even feel it. And the Sovereign’s going to bring you back right away, so no worries.”

Thea’s breath caught. 

Being told, in no uncertain terms, that you were going to get instantly killed for something you had no control over, even with the promise of it being fine in the long-run, wasn’t exactly something that was easy to swallow.

Thea swallowed hard. Then nodded to show that she had understood.

“Good. Here’s how we’ll do it.” Quinn’s voice fell back into mission-briefing mode. “Open your System Interface now. Then start investing your Attribute Points. And again, do not confirm anything until I give you the go-ahead. You announce every step before you lock it in. If I tell you to stop, you stop. That simple.”

“Understood,” Thea murmured, as she opened the System Interface as instructed and started putting her Attribute Points into Resolve and Perception.

“Now,” the Major added, casually as if she were suggesting a new lunch option, “purely a recommendation—and I do mean that, no orders here—I’d suggest only investing half your points for now. And all of those into Perception.”

Thea glanced up, confused. “Why?”

“Because there’s still ten and a half months before Class Selection,” Quinn said, tone even. “There’s a very real chance you’ll need to update or re-record your Blueprint during that time. And while it is possible without banked Attribute Points, it’s a right pain in the ass. If you hold on to at least one or two, you can easily update the Blueprint again should it become necessary. Especially for someone like you, whose Blueprint changes are… more common than the norm, let’s just say.”

Thea frowned. “And you’d want me to put them all into Perception?”

“It’s the one Attribute that gives you the most real-time value right now,” Quinn said. “Resolve will be vital later, don’t get me wrong. But until your Psyker abilities mature, it’s not exactly super useful for you. While, yes, it does add some extra psychic resistance for you, let’s not pretend like you aren’t completely overgeared in that department for your Tier already. Perception, though? You’ll be able to use all of that immediately. And you can’t ever get enough of it, especially as a Recon and Sniper.”

She could definitely see the logic in those words—and silently kicked herself for not thinking of it on her own. It was so obvious in hindsight, so painfully common sense, that it made her feel stupid to have needed Major Quinn’s unsolicited advice to avoid screwing up her own future Blueprint updates for almost no immediate gain.

Of course Resolve wasn’t giving her much now. She wasn’t using any Psychic Powers yet. 

And Blueprint updates? Those were going to matter a lot.

‘Major Quinn’s right… Resolve really doesn’t do anything for me right now, does it?’

With a sigh, Thea adjusted her planned allocation—two points into Perception, holding the remaining two in reserve. Her mental cursor hovered over the confirm prompt. 

She took a slow, steady breath, readying herself. 

‘No way this just works without something going wrong...’

Closing her eyes, she muttered, “I’m ready to confirm.”

A pause. Then Major Quinn’s cool voice: “Do it.”

She pressed the prompt and was almost immediately greeted by the System Notification she had been waiting for, for so long.

[System]: The Participant’s Blueprint has been updated.

And then…

Nothing.

No distortion, no surge of pressure near her heart. No abrupt blackness from Major Quinn having vaporizing her brain stem from behind. 

Just a subtle sharpening in her hearing—soft ambient details rising into clarity around the room—as the new Perception scores began integrating with her physical body.

Thea opened her eyes slowly, still in disbelief. “It… it worked. I think?”

“I think so too,” Major Quinn replied after a heartbeat, her hand still resting lightly at the base of Thea’s skull. “Do you feel anything unusual? In terms of Psychic backlash. Gate tension, dissonance, anything? The Call, maybe?”

Thea paused, scanned her own mental space, then shook her head. “No. Nothing. I’m good.”

The hand withdrew. And along with it, the invisible weight of Major Quinn’s full Presence—finally lifting, like stepping out from under a crashing waterfall. 

Thea exhaled with real relief, only now realizing how much tension had built up in her neck and shoulders.

“Wonderful,” Quinn said, her voice almost chipper now. “Just as I figured. The Assessment incident was a freak accident.”

She walked around to lean lightly on Thea’s desk, arms crossed loosely. “You should be more than fine handling Attribute investments on your own going forward. I didn’t feel even the slightest tremor from your Gate. And I doubt your lack of investment into Resolve this time around is the issue. While yes, Resolve does impact the Gate as a whole, what happened during the Assessment was probably a perfect storm.”

Thea tilted her head slightly, listening.

“Most likely,” Quinn continued, “it was just too much input, too fast. You had just Awakened, and right after, you dumped a big load of points into an Attribute that directly influences a still-raw internal organ—your Gate.” She gave a small shrug. “Your mind was still adjusting, your entire being still processing what was happening, and something cracked under the pressure. Won’t happen again.”

Thea nodded slowly, the explanation settling neatly into place in her head. 

When it was laid out like that, it really did make sense. 

And frankly? It was extremely comforting.

“Just to be safe, however,” Major Quinn added, tone shifting back into something a little more clinical, “you should inform Anrake the next time you plan to invest your remaining points. Just to rule out the Resolve theory completely. Even if I’m confident you're in the clear, we can’t afford assumptions when it comes to Psyker incidents like yours. Not if we can avoid it with a little bit of extra prudence—not again, at least.”

“Agreed,” Thea said immediately. It was the smart call, no question.

“Now, if there’s nothing else…?” Major Quinn looked at her, one brow raised, head tilted slightly.

Thea was halfway through shaking her head when she hesitated—then stopped.

“Actually…” She cleared her throat, gathering up the nerve she needed. “Back when we talked… after everything that happened with Selene… I asked if I could speak to her again. And I understand now why that’s not possible.”

Quinn didn’t interrupt, but her posture stiffened slightly.

“I was wondering instead… would it be possible to talk to a fellow Marine? Someone who helped me. Zach—ehhh Private Zachary Cal Vemun. He was the Psyker who helped me during the Assessment when the Gate surge-thing happened. I never really got to thank him properly, and I just…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes caught Quinn’s expression.

It wasn’t the amused smirk she sometimes wore, or the tight smile she used when delivering sharp truths, or even the dignified expression she had on all other occasions.

It looked… pained. Human. And oddly exhausted.

Major Quinn sighed heavily and brought a hand to her temple, rubbing it for a long, quiet moment.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Thea,” she said at last. Her voice had dropped, softer than Thea had ever heard it. 

“I’m really sorry, but Private Vemun was declared as being Zero’d. A few days ago.”

The words landed like a hammer blow. Thea’s stomach dropped out from under her. 

Her mind blanked.

“W…What? How? When? Why? I don’t… What?” she managed, her voice a jumble of broken questions as her thoughts scrambled to catch up.

“I hate having to break it to you like this,” Quinn said gently. “But when I was writing up the post-incident report on your situation post-Assessment with Selene, I went looking for Private Venum’s—Zach’s file. Wanted to check in on him myself. I… wasn’t expecting what I found.”

She took a step closer and gently rested a hand on Thea’s shoulder. 

The gesture wasn’t heavy, but it was grounding—real.

“I sincerely apologize. But you don’t have the clearance to know more about that report,” Quinn said quietly, then gave a dry smile, her eyes flicking with something that might’ve been sympathy, might’ve even been pain. “Lucky for you, I am the Major Quinn. And that means I get to bend rules on occasion.”

Quinn crouched down, eye level now. 

The tone in her voice was heavier than Thea had ever heard it.

“Zach was assigned ship-duty the week after the Assessment—standard stuff, just regularly scheduled duty. There was a Void-Breach incident—routine, at first. But one of the Privates in the duty-crew mishandled explosive weaponry against all regulations. Part of the hull was blown out, and before the bulkhead seals engaged…”

Thea’s mind was still stuck on the words Void-Breach. The phrase felt like static in her ears.

“Zach and two other Privates who were closest to the breach were thrown out into the Void.” Quinn continued quietly. “Resus ships were launched as fast as protocol allowed. But with how fast things move during Void Travel… the distances involved made recovery impossible. Their bodies couldn’t be found and that means their Souls couldn’t be brought close enough for transfer.”

Thea barely registered the rest. 

Her thoughts were stuck on one thing: ‘He was just helping me a few weeks ago. He was fine.’

And now he was gone. Just like that. 

No goodbyes. No thank you. No chance to ever return the favor.

Zero’d. Dead forever.

“They were declared Zero’d just two days ago, after the Resus ships returned from their renewed trips. The Captain ordered additional searches, against protocol, but they failed to bring up anything… I’m truly sorry, Thea,” Major Quinn concluded.

She stayed there with her for a moment, hand on Thea’s shoulder, before getting up and making her way to the door and leaving the room.

Thea heard some muffled conversation through the droning in her ears, but couldn’t process anything but the static buzzing in her head…

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[TAS] Volume 2 - Chapter 43 - UHF 101 Finale: Digital Missions

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------------------- Start of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) -------------------
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Hello everyone, LunaWolve here!

Volume 2 - Chapter 38 - Focus Problem has just released on RR with no changes.

For the Wolf Lords, this chapter is unchanged.

And also: Please do not read the chapters here on Patreon, but go for the googledoc, .pdf or .epub instead. Patreon butchers all forms of formatting and you're missing out on easier and more enjoyable reading experiences.

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HEAVILY EXPERIMENTAL CHAPTER!

Trying to make the lectures not too dry and boring, so throwing in some humour, timeskips, excerpts, etc.

Let me know how this one feels!

FINAL CHAPTER FOR THIS LECTURE!

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I'm looking forward to hearing your first impressions and opinions on this chapter. \o/

I hope you will enjoy it!

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-------------------- End of Pre-Chapter Author Note (Patreon-only) ------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the link to the chapter:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vUuV8YFN0K1QZaK0IH3qC05l1NbI0vdYzBwiJ6VKKvc/edit?usp=sharing

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Volume 2 - Chapter 43 - UHF 101 Finale: Digital Missions

The Blade Persists: Melee Combat in the Age of functionally Infinite Ammunition

“It’s not that melee weapons came back. They were never really gone…
It’s more that the galaxy finally became strong enough to be able to use them again.”

For a Galactic War supposedly ruled by long-range precision and ammo produced from System Printers faster than you can blink, it may seem baffling to outsiders why Chainswords, Vibroblades, and Resonance Hammers remain staple gear in the modern UHF Marine’s kit.

But the truth is far simpler than most think: The resurgence of melee isn’t a return to tradition or a vain attempt at making things personal—it’s a natural response to the very shape of war.

Boarding: The Eternal Domain of the Blade

Inside a ship, every shot fired is a risk. 

Bulkheads, reactors, pressurized corridors—each one a catastrophic failure point just waiting for the wrong round. Even with SmartAmmo that carefully tracks its targets and hull-safe dispersal-charged tips, both defenders and attackers learned early in the war that precision was never going to be enough.

As ship-losses mounted, more resources were poured into developing ammo and firearms that would minimize internal damage during shipboard engagements. Specialized rounds were created, engineered to break apart on impact or disperse energy rather than pierce through walls and hit fragile systems.

But while those improvements made the ships safer for a short time, the Allbright System was busy rewriting the rules of combat entirely.

With Marines abruptly several times stronger, faster, and more durable than any human had a right to be, it became possible to strap thick, reinforced armor onto even the most mobile soldiers. And once System Materials entered the picture, you had combat suits capable of shrugging off hits that would’ve once torn holes through light vehicles. 

Armour that could stand toe-to-toe with a ship’s own bulkhead—sometimes quite literally.

That left both sides in a bind.

You had weapons designed to be safe for the ship, but now they couldn’t actually punch through the armor worn by the people inside it. 

So once again, the tactics had to evolve.

Boarding teams shifted back toward the fundamentals—blades, bludgeons, and blunt-force trauma. Simple Chainswords, Hammerheads, modified Lifter-Gauntlets. 

Anything that let you smash your way forward without lighting up a reactor core or venting half a hallway into space.

And as it turned out, the very same advancements the Allbright System had introduced—stronger bodies, higher Attributes, heavier armor—worked just as well for melee combat. 

Maybe even better.

When you’re swinging something five times heavier than any soldier from the Old Era could’ve ever possibly imagined being able to lift, at speeds that would’ve once torn muscle from bone? Basic physics does the rest. 

That kind of weight and velocity doesn’t just hit—it obliterates.

Naturally, as attackers brought out hammers, cleavers, and high-frequency blades, defenders followed suit.

What do you do when a threat appears that your doctrine can’t answer? You steal it. 

If it works against you, chances are it can also work for you. 

And it did.

Once both sides started fielding melee weaponry again, the equation shifted, drastically. 

It wasn’t just about having the best gear anymore—it was about who could use it. 

Suddenly, techniques that had long been dismissed as obsolete or ceremonial—parries, ripostes, stances, disarms—were back in full force. 

Swordplay schools that had desperately clung to last shreds of relevancy for centuries on the Core Worlds were now suddenly flooded with contracts from military instructors.

What used to be a noble’s pastime became essential battlefield training.

And now? It’s baked into doctrine.

Every Major Faction’s boarding kit includes melee equipment—custom-fitted to the user's size, strength, and combat role. Every Major Faction’s training curriculum includes melee combat classes.

The Allbright Factor: Attributes Made Flesh

‘Now, boarding actions are one thing,’ I hear you saying. ‘But what about real Battlefields? Planet-side? Why would they have melee weapons there?’

Here’s what outsiders forget: Marines aren’t just people with guns anymore. 

They’re walking tanks. 

The Allbright System takes every inch of training and multiplies it by raw, unfiltered power. 

A Marine with 25 Strength and a movement-type Ability doesn’t just run—they accelerate like a damn missile. Who needs a firearm if you, yourself, are the bullet?

And when something that fast and that heavy closes 40-50 meters in less than a second?

You’re not aiming. You’re praying.

Firearms do still dominate the Battlefields at range; no question. 

It is unlikely to change either.

But in engagements where terrain, supply, or squad composition collapse those distances? Where ammo can’t be wasted, as printers are out of reach, or you’re facing a Super-Heavy, or Emperor-forbid, bona-fide Ultra-Heavy armour?

Unless you just so happen to be packing anti-armour specific weaponry, have it readily at hand and are ready to fire the moment they come into view?

You draw your blade. You hunker down. 

And you meet the paintrain head-on.

The modern battlefield is diverse, nuanced and technologically advanced beyond comprehension of your average grunt on the ground. 

But even now, at the edge of advancement and doctrine, there is one universal truth:

Blades don’t jam.
Hammers don’t miss.
And the ones who forget that, don’t get to forget it twice.

—Excerpt from The Practical Doctrine of Close-Quarters Supremacy, Vol. 7, by Commander Halish Cole (Ret.)

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=======

Professor Harrow’s explanations and re-iterations had dragged on for nearly twenty minutes, and Thea had done her best to squeeze as much actual value from it as she could. 

Painful as it was, the man had a habit of using even the dumbest questions from the less fortunate Recruits as excuses to deepen or expand on key topics. 

It was just enough to keep her from banging her head against the desk.

A few of the details that stuck with her the most included:

• Specific Ability Alterations didn’t matter for unlocking Classes. Even Capstone ones.

• Combinations of Accomplishments held more value than individual feats, especially for Silver-rarity and below. But there was a ceiling—after a certain point, around Platinum-rarity and above, individual Accomplishments would become more important for unlocking Classes, comparatively speaking.

• Skills played a much bigger role than most expected. According to Harrow, every Marine should aim to complete at least five or six Skills by year’s end. The Allbright System heavily favored those who committed to actual education, not just raw combat.

• Later in the year, UHF instructors would host dedicated Class lectures with step-by-step breakdowns on how to unlock popular and high-performing Classes—but not before everyone had a fair shot at uncovering their own unique options, which the Professor highly encouraged.

• Class power was definitely no joke. He had tossed out a range between 40% to 500% effectiveness boosts, depending on the Class and its synergy with the user’s overall build. Most hovered around 40-70%, but that alone was already massive.

But the part that had really grabbed Thea’s attention came buried in one of the Professor’s casual responses to a question about Class rarity.

He’d mentioned, almost offhandedly, that anyone who met the criteria to unlock a completely unknown Class—something never-before catalogued within the UHF—would receive significant rewards from the UHF’s research divisions. 

Not just recognition, but actual compensation. 

“They often come with unique Abilities or perks that are otherwise not available in the Allbright System, right? As such, the knowledge about their existence alone, is very valuable for the war as a whole,” he had said.

And, most interestingly, they didn’t actually have to pick that new Class—just uncovering it, documenting the details through the Class Selection Interface, and submitting the report to their assigned research liaison was enough. 

The UHF would be combing through everyone’s Class lists during graduation, so nobody had to guess whether what they found was actually rare or not.

“Just unlock it, have it get documented, and let the brass figure out how important it is,” the Professor had explained. “They’ll know.”

Considering her current trajectory, Thea was already kind of a research subject to begin with. 

‘If I really am the first T0 Psyker the UHF’s ever trained… there’s no way I won’t end up unlocking at least one or two Classes they’ve never seen before,’ she mused. ‘But then again… is all the support they’re throwing behind me right now part of that payout already? Or are they just chalking it up as investment and I’ll still get the bounty as well…?’

Questions for another day. Maybe something she could float past Major Quinn. 

Or the Runepriest, if he ever stopped talking in riddles long enough to answer her straight.

Either way, it wasn’t something she’d solve while sitting here. 

The lecture had finally reached a lull, the last wave of questions petering out before Professor Harrow stood and announced that, after a short break, they’d be diving into the final section of the lecture—and the reason it had been made mandatory in the first place: Digital Missions.

They were the next big milestone for every Recruit, and Thea was practically vibrating in place waiting for it to start. A few minutes into the break, her leg had started bouncing uncontrollably and her fingers had started tapping the desk with an intensity that earned her no less than three sideways glares from Karania.

“Listen, I get it,” Karania said, “I also want to get this over with and have a better grasp on stuff, but that doesn’t mean you have to make it even more unbearable for the both of us, Thea. You could just read some of the technical docs from your new purchases, instead of nervously waiting for the Professor to come back, you know?” 

It was a thought that had crossed Thea’s mind before as well, but she hadn’t wanted to commit to breaking out the holy scriptures quite yet—they were meant for boredom emergencies, not for minor annoyances like this.

“They’re for actual emergencies, Kara,” she grumbled. “Besides, I was just thinking… if we knew how these Digital Missions actually work already, I could finally plan out the rest of my week.”

She sighed, leaning back in her chair, as she started counting off things on her fingers. “I still need to talk to Major Quinn about that Skill slip. Check in with the Runepriest. Actually take the Skill classes. Do the Digital Missions. Break down the research on all the gear I bought. And—ugh—have that chat with Corvus I’ve been putting off for a while…”

Thea let her head thunk gently against the desk, ignoring the amused glance from Kara. She knew she sounded whiny, but she couldn’t help it—lectures really weren’t her thing.

“I just wanna do things, Kara. Not sit here in lecture limbo and wait to be told I’m allowed to start…”

Before Karania could reply, Professor Harrow stepped back onto the podium like he’d been waiting for a dramatic cue. A sharp clearing of his throat echoed through the room, immediately snapping the scattered conversations and quiet fidgeting to a halt. 

Every head turned toward the front.

“There you go, Thea,” Karania whispered with a smirk, brushing her hair back behind one ear. “Your knight in academic armor has returned.”

Thea gave a half-hearted glare, trying hard not to break character and laugh. 

At least things were finally moving again.

“Now,” Professor Harrow began, clapping his hands together with far too much enthusiasm for the beginning of the tail end of a long lecture, “I do hope you all feel appropriately refreshed after that break. Because we’re going on a little excursion now.”

That got the room to stir again.

“So pack up your things, form up behind me, and try not to get lost along the way. Any stragglers will be chucked out of an airlock by our dear Sovereign—and don’t look at me like that! I ran it by our beloved Major Quinn, and she confirmed that’s her preferred method of classroom discipline as well. So I’m in the clear on this one!”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. 

Just stepped down from the podium, walked straight to the exit, and disappeared into the corridor outside—non-chalant as ever.

For about half a second, the entire room sat in stunned silence.

Then chaos.

Chairs scraped, datapads clattered, and dozens of Recruits rushed to gather their things all at once. A few were muttering about the Sovereign’s airlocks with a nervous edge that suggested they weren’t entirely sure he was kidding this time.

Thea and Kara moved fast—far faster than almost anybody else in the room. 

They were among the first out the door, despite sitting towards the rear-end of the hall, slipping into the corridor and finding Professor Harrow already waiting a few meters down, leaning casually against the wall like he hadn’t just sent the entire room into mild panic.

That smug, shit-eating grin on his face told Thea all she needed to know.

He definitely enjoyed the chaos.

And, honestly, Thea couldn’t blame him.

‘Lectures are probably even worse for him than for us… Good on him for finding a way to keep things interesting for himself,’ she thought, watching the satisfied look on the Professor’s face.

This time, though, she wasn’t about to get caught off-guard.

She kept her gaze moving, scanning the hallway around them with deliberate care. 

It was a habit she’d forced herself into after that chaotic shopping trip with Karania—a day that had made it painfully clear just how easy it was to miss things if you didn’t actively pay attention in non-combat environments. 

Awareness wasn’t just a battlefield tool, it had to be constant.

Sure enough, the hallway was slowly filling with Recruits stumbling out of the lecture hall, only to freeze when they realized the entire student body had already lined up behind Professor Harrow. 

A moment of panic, then the awkward shuffle into place. 

It happened over and over again, like clockwork.

Thea didn’t pay it too much mind, but she still clocked each face, each movement. 

Just in case.

And then her eyes caught someone else doing the exact same thing: Tiberius Soren.

He was watching, just like her. Not just scanning aimlessly—but reading people, cataloguing posture, attention, subtle shifts in behavior. 

Their eyes met.

He flinched—just slightly—but clearly not from guilt. Instead of looking away, he forced himself to hold her gaze. Just long enough to make the point, before giving a small, respectful nod and shifting his focus back to the rest of the group.

Thea’s brows furrowed slightly.

‘He’s dangerous,’ the thought settled in without hesitation.

Not because of anything hostile. But because she could feel it—he was far ahead of her. 

His awareness came naturally, almost lazily so, like it didn’t take effort anymore. 

Like he didn’t have to think about checking his surroundings in non-combat environments, he just did. And that realization made her stomach twist.

‘I need to get back there, too. And fast…’

It was a weird sensation. 

Thea hadn’t felt out of touch like this in a long time. 

Back on Lumiosia, her situational awareness had always been razor-sharp—growing up in the undercity had made it a requirement just to stay alive. But something about the relative safety of the past years—first during basic training and Integration at the UHF station, then during her time aboard the Sovereign—had dulled those instincts. 

Not completely, but more than enough for her to notice it clearly. 

Enough to seriously bother her.

She doubled down, pushing the discomfort aside and resuming her scan of the crowd. 

A few things stood out—one Marine seemed unusually close with Tiberius, likely someone from his squad, given the casual body language between them—but nothing truly strange.

That changed the moment Professor Harrow started walking again.

He said nothing, simply turned on his heel and moved down the corridor. 

Instinctively, Thea and Karania were among the first to follow, both unconsciously slipping into the third row—not directly behind the Professor, but still leading the pack.

But something was off.

As they walked, Thea became acutely aware that the rest of the Recruits weren’t keeping pace. Instead of forming the expected tight column like they’d been trained to do, the others were hanging back. Not falling behind entirely—just far enough to leave a noticeable gap between the two of them and the rest of the crowd.

Frowning, Thea glanced over her shoulder after another minute of walking. 

And, sure enough, the gap was still there. 

Still wide enough to be deliberate rather than accidental.

“…Okay, this is weird,” she muttered under her breath towards Karania. “Do we smell bad or something?”

She tried to be subtle about it, leaning slightly forward to catch a sniff of her blouse. Nothing. 

Fresh enough.

Karania didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at her. That look.

Thea sighed deeply, because she knew that look all too well in recent days.

It was the look Kara gave her every time she missed something obvious—half amusement, half disappointment, like watching someone try to open a sliding door by pushing.

“Don’t—don’t say anything yet,” Thea said quickly, holding up a finger. “Let me figure it out. I got this.”

Karania tilted her head, clearly curious now. “Alright. By all means. Enlighten us, oh perceptive one.”

Thea crossed her arms, eyes narrowing slightly as she mulled over the situation. 

Her first instinct was to check clothing again—maybe they were overdressed? But a quick glance around told her that wasn't it. 

If anything, they were on the upper end of presentable, sure, but not dramatically so. Most Recruits had shown up wearing either neutral standard-issue gear or some decent variations of shopping casual. 

She and Kara? Probably top twenty percent, tops. 

Definitely not enough to warrant the awkward gap behind them.

Next option: Behavior during the lecture. 

But neither of them had even asked any questions, let alone drawn unnecessary attention. They’d participated when it made sense and otherwise stayed quiet. 

Nothing to really stir the pot there.

That only left one real explanation in her mind.

“…It’s probably the Alpha Squad thing,” she said slowly. “What Professor Harrow said during the lecture. The whole ‘future Battlefield Aces’ bit. That might’ve… I don’t know. Shifted how they look at us?”

Karania gave a soft snort. “That’s definitely part of it. But it’s also just you.”

Thea blinked. “Me?”

“Mhm.” Kara smiled, but her tone was matter-of-fact. “You’ve had your hood up or a helmet on basically every single time people saw you on the ship, right? Until the lecture today.”

Thea frowned, thinking about it. 

That was… actually true. 

Between training, combat sims, and just not wanting to deal with people, she hadn’t exactly made herself the most visually familiar person aboard the Sovereign.

“So?” she asked, a bit defensively.

“So,” Karania went on, “now they can actually match your face to what they saw on the stage at the Awards Ceremony. Repeatedly, I might add. “Most notably the last time being when you pretty much looked the entire drive in the eye and dared them to come for your spot. Publicly. On a stage. On camera. In front of the entire ship.”

“Okay, but that wasn’t—”

“You challenged hundreds of people to social ritual suicide, Thea,” Kara said, smiling far too brightly for Thea’s comfort. “You thought that wouldn’t leave an impression?”

Thea rubbed her temple. “It wasn’t meant to intimidate everyone. I just wanted to shut down that ‘Why is a Cyan in Alpha Squad’ crap before it gained even more traction…”

Kara nodded sagely. “And you did. Very effectively. I’m just saying—you might have overcorrected a little… While you’re not wearing your uniform right now, you’re also not wearing a hoodie and your hair’s the same as back then, so they can actually pick you out at a glance now.”

Thea sighed again. 

She hadn’t considered that angle at all. It wasn’t that she minded being respected—or even feared a little, if it helped—but she’d thought her speech was more of a... diplomatic strike.

Apparently, it had landed more like an orbital bombardment.

With that mystery cleared up, they fell silent again.

They continued in this silence behind Professor Harrow, footsteps echoing softly through the corridor for a few minutes. All the while, Thea kept her gaze mostly forward, doing her best to ignore the glances being thrown her way from various angles. 

She could feel the stares now more clearly—could categorize them better. 

Some were cautious, others calculating. A few wide-eyed ones, like someone watching a grenade roll across the floor and not knowing whether it would go off or not.

The occasional look of admiration still caught her off guard, though.

She tried not to dwell on it. 

It wasn’t like she’d done anything that outrageous. Right?

A few stairways later, the group emerged onto a new deck. 

Bold white letters stenciled across the dark grey alloy walls spelled it out clearly: Deck L — Section 24.

As they passed through a set of heavy, sealed bulkhead doors, Thea felt a shift in atmosphere—not just physically, but in mood. 

The space they entered was massive. Like the commercial deck where all the shops had been, but this one was… different. Less consumer chaos, more organized chaos.

The first thing she noticed were the terminals. 

Dozens of massive data stations stretched along both flanks of the thoroughfare, each one outfitted with multiple angled screens and large holographic interfaces. 

The entire space positively buzzed with activity. 

Hundreds of Marines, clearly older than them, were posted up around the terminals—some standing at attention, others slouched across seats, a few arguing over screen readouts with exaggerated hand gestures. Loud voices filled the space, all revolving around combat, tactics, mission outcomes, and performance reports.

“Welcome,” Professor Harrow called, loud enough to cut through the low din. He waited as the last of the stragglers finally caught up and trickled onto the deck. “This, my dear Recruits, is Deck L-24. But you won’t hear many people calling it that. Around here, this is just called the Digital Mission Deck, Mission Deck or DMD for extra-short, if you’re super lazy.”

He swept a hand toward the hundreds of uniformed figures working and milling about the terminals.

“These fine folk are your senior brothers and sisters. The Privates currently stationed aboard the Sovereign. You’ve seen some of them around, probably—well, from now on you’ll be seeing a lot more of them. Roughly eighteen hundred of them are aboard right now, making up the majority of our ship’s personnel as of right now.”

Thea blinked at that. 

She’d known there were active-duty Marines aboard, obviously, but she hadn’t realized the numbers were that high. A wave of murmurs rippled through the Recruits behind her—clearly, she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t known.

“But,” Harrow continued, not missing a beat, “that will be changing soon. Over the next few months, we’ll be picking up more Recruits at designated ports. The Sovereign is a Recruit ship, first and foremost—and by this time next quarter, you will be the majority on this vessel; by quite a lot. Make of that what you will.”

That little bombshell hit hard. Even Kara let out a quiet “huh” beside her.

Thea narrowed her eyes slightly, gears already turning. 

More Recruits meant more competition. More people to either rise above—or fall behind. 

And, more importantly, more eyes. 

More people watching what Alpha Squad did and whether they deserved the slots instead.

‘So much for any errant thoughts of maybe coasting a bit after the first Assessment,’ she thought. ‘This just means we’ve got more work to do.’

“Now, for the Digital Missions themselves,” Professor Harrow called out as he casually broke from the group and began striding toward one of the many empty terminals. 

No warning, no transition—just silently walked away at his usual, brisk pace. 

The crowd of Recruits lurched after him, scrambling to keep up in order not to miss anything.

He reached one of the stations, tapped at the console a few times, and then looked up at the three large data-screens mounted overhead. 

A list popped up with a sharp flicker of light.

“This is the general ruleset for Digital Missions,” he said, loud enough to cut through the muttering. “These rules apply to both Recruits and Privates, across the entire UHF, so if you’ve forgotten something, just ask one of your seniors. They were just as dumb as you are right now, not too long ago. Maybe even dumber. So they’ll sympathize. Or… Tell you to shove it. But that’s part of life too, so get used to it.”

He jabbed a finger up toward the first item on the list.

“First up—Digital Missions are mandatory. Every single one of you is required to complete at least one per week. That’s every seven days. Doesn’t matter if you do one on Sunday and another on Monday; you just need to get one done within each weekly window. If you skip out, you’ll hear from someone. Probably me. Or if I’m lucky, Major Quinn, at which point I’ll have a free afternoon and will request the recordings of your crying and humiliated faces from the Sovereign.”

Some people's heads nodded, faces serious. 

Others started tapping at their datapads, likely setting reminders. 

Thea didn’t need one—she was raring to get a go at these missions since she had first heard of them existing.

“Second,” he went on, gesturing to the next point, “Digital Missions are not Assessments. You’ll still get Contribution Points, Merit, Credits, and you can still unlock Accomplishments. But none of that comes in bulk. It’s throttled, right? You’ll earn about one-tenth of what you’d get during a real Assessment, and any Accomplishments you unlock are capped at Silver-rarity.”

There was a beat of hesitation in the crowd. The kind of reaction that reeked of skepticism.

“But,” he continued, raising a finger, “don’t be idiots. Digital Missions aren’t just about farming resources, which are still plentiful, given the number of these you will run in your career. They’re primarily about experience, right? Actual, tactical, field-relevant experience—far more valuable than whatever shiny number the System throws at you. Trust me when I say this: The people who grind these, who practice in these—they’re the ones still alive a few years down the line.”

Thea didn’t need convincing.