Routine. That was the word: routine. This was a routine mission. Marshal Dulle Dedmun was tired of routine. Save for the day he passed the Golden Trial and was accepted into the ranks of the Marshals, the past fifty years of his life had been routine; training, studying, drilling, and all of the other routine nonsense. His family had been a routine one. His mother and father worked for a planet side food distributor. The Marshal struggled to separate himself from this routine life only to be pushed into a routine patrol leading a squad of the Auxiliary’s dregs. 

Marshal Dulle stood there at the edge of the wheat field, the scene of carnage at his back. Tucked under his left arm was his glossy gray and black helmet with its black tinted face shield. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword, and his rifle rested on a nearby fallen tree. The rays of the setting sun shone on his face, and a breeze caught his blonde locks of hair.

“We should head back to the ship and report,” Senior Red said, daylight fading. The many bodies of the slain, an entire colonial settlement, were slowly swallowed by the creeping tide of night. Marshal Dulle had not noticed the Senior Auxiliary, a soldier of some three-hundred odd years, walk up behind him.

“Why? What’s the rush, Senior?” Dulle chuckled. “Do the dead frighten you so?” the marshal baited. He turned only enough to see the Auxiliary. The marshal’s shadow had grown to over 3 meters now, nearly a full meter taller than the marshal himself. 

The soldier did not bite. Senior Auxiliary Tunic Red had seen sprouts mightier than this one–this one having just reached his first century–come and go. “Marshal, this is a routine observe and report mission,” a hint of annoyance in her voice. “But all we have is a field of rotten wheat and dead colonials. No one to observe. No raiders in sight. Might as well report,” Red said, taking off her dark matte green helmet to hock a glob of mucus, her rifle slung around her back.  Dulle grimaced; he would never take up smoking. He would hate to see what smoking did to regular people.

Red hacked and coughed and spat globs of mucus the entire journey from the forward-operating, deep space outpost, The Long Hand, all the way to this agri-world, Juniper. Dulle hated everything about the Senior Auxiliary. He hated her shabby appearance only disguised by her armor. The dingy gray hair on her head, and smell of  body odor mixed with tobacco smoke. He hated the way her lips wrinkled from her centuries of smoking when she talked or spat. He hated her beady little eyes. He hated that she was an Auxiliary, meaning she failed to pass the Golden Trial, and that she was a disgrace to their warband, The Greyhounds. He hated that she drank and ate her body weight daily, and had zero dignity befitting an auxiliary soldier of a Marshal warband. The leftover powers of the Wyrdtree still in her body kept her from consuming herself to death. He hated that he had been assigned as the Marshal of this patrol, because she had been the Senior Auxiliary for this patrol for nearly two-hundred years and had little in the way of accomplishments. He hated her, and she knew it because she hated him too. 

“What about this seems like raiders to you, Senior?” Dulle asked. 

“The dead people, Marshal,” she replied, motioning to the bloodied field clearly accustomed to the scene–a song and dance she had played a part in too many times.

“I can see that. But if it were raiders, why has nothing in the settlement been taken? Why do none of the bodies have bullet holes?” Dulle pressed. The bodies were all mangled and misshaped by whatever violence had occurred, but there were in fact no bullet holes.

“I know, Marshal, that’s what we told you,” she hocked another loogie. “I ain’t no Investigator, Marshal. I observe and report. And if need be, shoot,” she put her helmet back on–for which Dulle was grateful– with a small hiss as the helmet sealed itself back to the rest of her armor.

“An Investigator would not be here for at least three sun cycles, and by that time whatever killed these people would be gone,” he said, shaking his golden hair back so he could don his own helmet. “We need to find a lead, and act on it,” he said, his voice now coming through the internal helmet comms. 

“Yes, Marshal,” Red replied, rolling her eyes, grateful this sprout could not see through the tan-green tinted polymer of her helmet’s face shield. Red watched him turn to the other five Auxiliaries coming toward them from across the gory field. She huffed a chuckle when she saw him try to hide a heave. Dulle shot her a look. She made no move, pretending she had done nothing. 

“Get in standard formation, I’ll watch from above. We’ll move east, away from the settlement,” Marshal Dulle commanded. Night had fallen completely.

“Yes, Marshal,” the Auxiliaries replied, getting into a spaced line and readying their rifles. Dulle lifted up off the ground ten or so meters, and then began to float forward, slowly, to keep pace with the soldiers, who could not fly, beneath him.

“Night vision,” Red said. 

“Yes, Senior,” the other five Auxiliaries replied. They each flicked a switch on the side of their helmets with an audible click. There was a small whine as the night vision spun up, then what was once darkness was a world of blue-grey against black. The smart display in their helmets drew a thin, but noticeable, blue outline on everything projected directly on their face shields. Red looked up at the marshal, who was scanning ahead of the group from his height. He folded his arms, as much as they could in the thick metal plate of his coralite armor, across his broad chest plate. Immature as the Marshal was, he still cut a gallant figure in his armor like a demigod of antiquity dressed in the armor of courtly, shining knights.

Red watched him for a moment more then turned her attention back to the area in front of her which was gradually transitioning from soft well maintained grass, to dry underbrush where dead leaves and twigs crackled and snapped under boot.  The patrol moved slowly, taking care to scan the more untamed environment thoroughly, looking for any sign. After  an hour of searching they found a few spatters of blood about three kilometers away, which confirmed their direction. Continuing onward, the patrol saw a few night critters native to the planet and habitat scurry about avoiding the aliens, avoiding them. They saw more signs: a broken twig, a gash in a tree, a set of odd imprints in the soft ground. Eventually, from up in the air, Marshal Dulle spotted something.

“There are more bodies ahead,” Marshal Dulle declared over comms, the senses of a marshal were exceedingly more keen than any mortal’s. The soldiers came to the bodies– if they could even be called such–about eight  kilometers from the original massacre. Their surroundings changed to dense alien woods. 

“More like parts. Body parts,” one of the other Auxiliaries said, Anym was his name. He might have just celebrated his first century; Red could not accurately recall. It was difficult to tell exactly how  many people were killed, but it was clear the patrol was headed in the right direction. “Filthy raiders,” he added. Marshal Dulle grunted in agreement. Red only sighed quietly. 

“Hold position. I am going to do a quick run ahead of you,” Dulle said, and flew off, a gust of wind followed his wake. The Auxiliaries did not move, on full alert without their marshal escort. After a time, Red hand signaled to the others for a comms channel change. She switched channels but set the previous one on monitor for when Dulle contacted them.

“It’s about time he flew ahead. Scouting out should have been the first thing that sprout did. Is Command even training these new marshals right anymore?” Red lifted off her helmet just enough for her mouth to clear another glob of crud, before seating the helmet back on her head. “I’m including some comments about his competency when we get back to the Hand,” she cleared her throat again but no loogie to spit. She hated this sprout, Marshal Dulle Dedmun. Hated his naivete. Hated his pretty, perfect hay colored hair. Hated his childish drive to prove himself.  Hated the way he looked at the Auxiliaries and Pages with utter disdain, as if the Order of Marshals would be better off without the failures. Hated the way he treated her as though she were filthy. Sure, Red knew she was not the most comely woman, but she bathed. 

Dulle judged her, and Red hated that. Sprout hadn’t seen what she had seen. Done what she had done. Killed what she had killed. Valiant Marshals, thousands of years old, had been slain in battle, but Red survived. So what if she smoked worse than a smithy’s chimney, gorged on food, and drank herself into oblivion whenever she got the chance. Red was old, she could feel it. Red cursed her fate. Why deny herself her pleasures when any mission could be her death? The only reason she stayed in service was because the First Marshal Commander of The Greyhounds asked her to stay. Needed her to stay. She saw how the times were wearing on the commander. He just celebrated his twentieth century, yet he was among the youngest of the First Marshal Commanders in the order. She was recruited into the warband the same day he was promoted to First Commander, nearly three-hundred years ago. 

“I’m sure he just wants to do well, and gain some approval,” another of the Auxiliaries, Cross Jo, broke Red’s train of thought. She looked over to the two-hundred year old Veteran Auxiliary, who stood rather casually given the situation. 

“You’re right,” Red admitted, a bit begrudgingly. “However, his impetuousness will get people–us– killed. He needs more training, Command should have started this one under a Senior Marshal before being given his own command.” She turned toward Jo then tipped her helmet forward in a certain manner to see him better.  If not for the smart display of her helmet identifying and outlining him constantly Jo would have been practically invisible. Even under night vision, the new active camouflage feature, designed to function similarly to the camouflage ability of cephalopods, of their HEVCP (Hazardous Environment Volatile Conditions Protection) suits prevented the Auxiliaries from being easily spotted. 

“I don’t disagree, Senior. But you and I both know how stretched The Greyhounds are. One of the Third Marshal Commanders is currently commanding the Hand because the First and all the Seconds flew out to relieve the Adamant’s Fist on the battlefront. There is no available Senior Marshal for Dulle to learn under,” Jo said, right again. 

Anym added his two credits, “Yeah, I’d take this patrol with Dulle over the trenches of  Aurelius II any day.” Red clicked her tongue. Coward, she thought. The so-called Great Unity was intent on wiping out humanity, and Red was stuck with an incompetent marshal and a coward looking for filthy bandits on a backwater agri world. Red cursed her fate.  

Guy, the youngest Auxiliary and newest addition among them, spoke up. “I see both sides of the argument here. Fighting the neoxenos hordes who want to kill all humans is essential, but we can’t leave people like these at the mercy of these faithless raiders,” Guy said noncommittally, trying his best not to get on anyone’s bad side. The wind brushed through the trees. Every hair on Red’s body stood on end. She shouldn’t have felt the cool wind through her armor and gear. She looked up through a gap in the otherwise dense canopy of the forest at Juniper’s two moons. Full and beautiful. One bright white like a heavenly orb of white quartz the other golden like a great yellow agate. She had seen them plenty of times, perhaps hundreds of times over the years, while conducting patrols, but they suddenly seemed off. Out of place. She could not state exactly what was off about them, even in all their heavenly majesty, she just knew they weren’t right.

Red averted her gaze back to the dark woods about her, trying to stay on alert. Some small but persistent will continued to pull at her focus. The beams of moonlight stabbed through the blackness like swords of white and gold thrust through a magician’s coffin. And there she could feel it. Through the rays of moonlight, beyond where her helmet’s sensors and technology could reach into the black beyond, it drew closer to her without moving at all. The inexorable pull of the thing that occupies oblivion moved her forward without end, yet her position did not change. She could hear pounding, like distant thunder. It was as though she were tethered at the waist to this thing, and the invisible forces of the universe pulled them further and further together. She was prisoner to its icy grasp for all time. The constant near rhythmless drumming drowned all other sound. Then the deep spoke to her. Red, it called. Red. It called again. Red.

Red!

RED!

“Senior Red!” Jo called, gripping her shoulder, snapping her back to this reality. “Red, are you alright?” He asked, worried. Red could feel the beads of cold sweat rolling down her face. The air of her helmet was thick and sticky;  it made it harder to breathe. Her eyelids were weighed down by films of sweat which  refused to depart from her eyelashes. “Red?” the concern apparent in Jo’s voice.

“Y-ye-yes,” Red steadied herself, then briefly lifted up her helmet just enough to hack up a lump of near solid mucus. “Yes, Veteran Jo. I am fully operational,” setting her helmet properly on her head.

“Don’t worry, Vet,” Guy piped up, “Senior was just having flashbacks of the war,” an ill attempt at banter. Red, Jo, and Anym just stared holes into Guy, who cleared his throat awkwardly, and then apologized.

“Not funny, Guy,” another of the younger auxiliaries, Meeks was his name, chimed in.

“No, I’m sorry,” Red  said, looking at each Auxiliary in turn as they had gathered into a semi-circle about her. “I don’t know… I got spooked. That’s all.” Red said, trying to shrug it off. Jo was giving her a long hard look full of concern, which Red could feel from behind his helmet’s face shield straight through hers.

“Are you sure you’re not a wyrding type, instead of a wyzing type like the rest of us? Cause that’s the weird stuff that wyrders do.” Jo asked, letting go of her shoulder. Red chuckled. Wyzer? Wyrder? Those terms only truly applied to people elevated to superhumans, demigods really, through the Golden Trial. As Auxiliaries, they were failures. She knew what he meant. What he was asking. Was she going crazy–cracking–like wyrders do?

“No. I’m a failure like the rest of you dogs,” she said smiling inside her helmet. She got a few relieved snickers from the others. The regulatory systems of her suit kicked in bringing the internal environment, and her body, back to homeostasis. She did not even realize how hard her heart was beating until she could no longer hear it raging in her ears. She glanced back to void just to make sure there was nothing there only to see a pallid, warped form shrink back into the darkness. The word CONTACT was about to break from her lips when Marshal Dulle interrupted.

“PATROL! Back to site one! NO DELAY!” Dulle’s voice came over the comms, panicked. The other Auxiliaries wasted no time and took off back to the field, Red lingered a moment more, watching. Even though the auxiliaries would never reach the heights of a marshal, their prowess still far surpassed that of a “normal” human, the eight kilometer distance back to the wheat field shrunk quickly.

“Marshal Dulle, what is your position?” Red’s voice came through, breathing heavily as they sprinted through the woods. In their speed, the smart display of their helmets barely had time to recognize and highlight objects in front of them.

“One-hundred meters over your top. I have you covered,” Dulle replied, the panic still coated his voice. Red took a moment to glance up and confirm his position, he was flying an erratic figure eight pattern, scanning, from above, the area surrounding his auxiliaries. Red spotted the edge of the clearing and adjusted her grip on her weapon ready to snap it into position to fire. Within four minutes they had run the eight kilometer distance.

“By the Headless Lady!” Jo exclaimed, reaching the field a step or two ahead, his terran heritage showing. Red and the others reached the field and stopped dead in their tracks; her breath caught in her throat even as her chest was heaving, her body desperate for oxygen. The settlers. The bodies were gone. Only the blood stained wheat and earth remained. They moved into the field, weapons raised, ready to open fire, scanning the field for something. Anything. But there was still plenty of the genetically modified wheat standing proudly, swaying in the breeze like a sea of gold bathed in the rays of the full moons, allowing only their heads to show above its surface. The soldiers waded forward through the field of wheat ripe for reaping. 

Red’s blood froze in her veins. The wheat was ready for harvest here on Juniper. Dulle came over the comms, but sounded lightyears away; his voice little more than a buzz in her ear. Seizing her attention once more, she peered up to the full moons. Having patrolled this section long enough, Red knew that the moons were wrong. On Juniper, at harvest, no moons should be seen in the night sky. “Marshal–” she began, but was cut off by a sudden shriek to her left. 

“Anym!” Guy shouted.

“CONTACT 2-8-5!” Jo hollered. Dark twisted shapes rushed toward them devilishly quick from their front left. All within the next few heartbeats after Anym’s cry of anguish; Marshal Dulle dropped out of the sky with a sonic boom to Anym’s position; the Auxiliaries opened fire on the charging creatures in a thunderous cacophony, lighting the area in front of them in the sapphire-blue of burning space-coral, propelling 16 grams of  hypersonic fury into their attackers. In the next two heartbeats the crooked forms of Anym’s assailants flew into the air, torn and tossed off of Anym by the marshal; the misshapen shadows in the field were blown apart by the 8.6 millimeter rounds of the auxiliary soldiers’ rifles. Then all was silent.

“That wasn’t so b–”

“Shut it, Guy!” the marshal commanded, “Anym is dead.” 

“But his armor!” Guy said in disbelief.

“These things shredded right through it,” Dulle stated, floating back to them, shaking his head, Anym’s body cradled in his arms. “Wedge formation–

“Marshal–” Red began 

“Senior Red on point,” he interrupted. “Veteran Jo take left position; keep it strong. 

“Yes, Marshal,” Jo said, moving to Red’s left. 

“Marsh–” Red started.

“We’ll move ba–”

“Marshal Du–” Red cut in, only to be cut off again

“Senior Red! I am a Marshal! Blessed with the might of the Adamancy itself! Do not interrupt me!” he screamed.

“Marshal Dulle!” Red shouted, “With due respect! I am Senior Auxiliary, your Senior Auxiliary. Listen to me!” Red pleaded desperately. 

Dulle relented, begrudgingly. “What is it?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“The moons!” she declared, sounding absolutely crazed. “The moons are full! They should not be visible at harvest time!” Dulle looked up at the moons. Back to Red. Back to the moons. Back to Red. 

“Yes,  it is clearly strange, but I don’t understand what that has to do wi–” he cut himself off as the sky abruptly went black; the light that had been given to the moons to be shone in the sky disappeared. A series of loud but distant booms shook the night air. From the distant West, from behind a set of mountains, the sun rose. Two of them. Juniper orbited only one star. These bright lights lit up everything before them casting a false daytime. The Auxiliaries shouted, averting their faces, blinded, turning off their night vision as quickly as possible. The two lights continued to rise, affixed to some great shadowy shape that loomed over the landscape. No. Not lights. Eyes. The lights were the shining eyes of some terrible giant being making its way to them with each booming, crashing step.

“Back to the shuttle! MOVE!” Dulle commanded, though the auxiliaries were already moving before he got the words out.  They did not go far before Dulle cried out in agony, falling from the sky; Anym’s limp body fell from his hold. Dulle plummeted to the ground, throwing up a spray of earth. The auxiliary soldiers reached the marshal quickly, writhing, curled into a ball. He then spasmed violently, arching his back so hard it was though he was going to fold himself in half backwards. He yelled out again in true pain. Red took control of the situation.

“Guy! Get the Marshal!” she commanded.

“What about Anym?” he cried.

“Leave him! No choice!” her voice unsteady.

“Contact! 1-8-0!” Jo called out. They spun around and saw more shapes racing to their position. They unleashed a torrent of blue fire, the flying bullets shred the things to bits, which under the lights the soldiers could see the things far more clearly. They were some hideous bipedal creature. With incredible speed, regardless of their awkward gait as though they had just learned to run, the things ran toward the soldiers. Their ridiculously long arms–so long they bent back over in front of their bodies– were raised above their heads, waving about wildly. The charging things let loose freakish yelps, blood-curdling squeals, and petrifying screams. The Auxiliaries emptied a magazine each. Even with precise and measured shooting, they each reloaded. And did so again. A single bullet would blow through multiple things at once, rendering the first one hit into a puddle of fleshy goo.

But more came. The number of monsters grew, more hurtling themselves to the soldiers’ position under the great spotlights. As the horde closed in, Red could see more of their malformity. Their arms were not long, neither were they raised in the normal sense. It was as if their arms had been attached upside down, keeping them always up in the air, with the elbows bending forward. Jutting out from what should have been hands were these long sickle like bone blades. Not dissimilar to the arms of a praying mantis. Their skin, although varying in color, was of a sickly, deathly tone. Mottled. Their eyes, if they had eyes for some did not, were covered in a milky white film. Rotting. 

The marshal stood, with a slight shake of his head clearing his mind of the fog that still hung over it. He drew his sword, which was as long from tip to pomel as Red was tall. “Make way,” he said, and the soldiers shifted aside. Dulle strode out in front of the five Auxiliaries, who shifted their focus to further targets. Dulle poised himself to swing his sword, and then unleashed his wrath. His sword cleaved the air with a loud crack. A vicious turbulent wind followed behind. Within the arc of the blade, nearly a dozen of the hideous things were hewn in twain. Many more were blown back by the tempestuous wake. 

“Shuttle. Go.” he commanded, his voice weary, but determined.  Without a word, the Auxiliaries began to move in shifts where two or so would fire while the others maneuvered, alternating roles back to the shuttle. The marshal stood firm, fixed to that point, the things swarming him, yet none came closer than the length of his sword.  Like an artist, his sword the brush, Dulle painted in blood. Was it blood? These creatures bled black, not red. Red was in awe. Even as she fought her way back to the shuttle with the others, she watched Marshal Dulle. Impudent, witless even, and he often was, his mastery of combat was monstrous. A true sight to behold. Dulle’s sword sliced through creatures with the ease of a farmer’s sickle through wheat.

 The Auxiliaries skirted around the edge of the settlement, the shuttle in sight. Guy, in front with another of the auxiliaries, ran at full tilt while Jo, Red, and the last auxiliary, Meeks, covered them. Red, just barely within her periphery,  caught sight of the abominable thing. But before she could give warning, it moved with freakish speed. Guy and the other never saw it coming–cut to ribbons by some unseen weapon. 

“No!” Red exclaimed, shocked. Red turned to face it. “Jo! 180!” she called. “Meeks! Hold!” Jo spun around to face the new threat, weapon raised, and just stopped. Creeping out from behind the shuttle, as if waiting for their arrival, the pale twisted creature Red had seen earlier in the dark woods emerged from behind the shuttle. 

The thing’s body was likened to that of a giant chalky-white beetle, but its shell was pocked and even chipped in some places. Some parts of the exoskeleton looked as if it did not even match the others, as though it were from a different creature. The monstrosity stood upright over three meters tall on a pair of awkward legs. It had two pairs of arms, both of which were some bizarre amalgamation of human and insect parts, hard exoskeleton appendages with human-like hands, each having six fingers and two thumbs. Both sets of arms were folded, tucked against its body, the hands folded over one another laid on its chest in a servile manner. The thing’s head was even more abnormal, a mostly human face–nose, mouth, bloodied grinning teeth– but it had huge crimson-red bulbous bug-like eyes. Each eye was spherical with thousands of the inner facets that many insects have, and each whole eye was a third of the beast's entire head. Protruding from behind the eyes were thin similarly white antennae, which added another meter to its height, twitching with what Red could only decipher as excitement. 

Antennae quivering, the bug-man smiled wider, revealing more bloody teeth. Cursing, Red moved to raise her rifle, not realizing that she unintentionally lowered it before. Then, as if in response, the thing’s face spasmed. Suddenly Marshal Dulle was in front of her, a great clang and boom sounded. The single pure note ringing from his sword hung in the air. The bug was displeased. It’s depraved smile turned into a horrific frown. 

“Red, Jo, Meeks get on the shuttle,” Marshal Dulle said, his coralite armor covered in black blood and gore. Red hesitated. “You will get aboard, Senior Red. I am far quicker than this thing,” he assured her. “I’ll meet you all in orbit.” The beast’s face flickered again, and again the air clapped and the marshal’s sword rang. Then the marshal became a blur, suddenly appearing beside the creature. With great might, he slammed his armored shoulder into the thing, causing it to hurl off smashing through the settlement buildings some way away. Nearly as quickly, Marshal Dulle flew off in pursuit. The path to the shuttle was finally clear. 

“Move!” Red called out. In all haste, Red, Jo, and lastly Meeks sprinted to the shuttle and finally climbed in before the bay door even fully opened. “Meeks, on the sticks!” Red instructed. Meeks took the pilot’s seat. “Jo, bay gun.” Jo stayed at the bay, releasing the autocannon from its stowed position at the side of the bay just within the door. The gun’s mechanized supporting arm and ammo feeder made no noise, as its joints and hinges were perfectly maintained. The remaining horde of mutants still charged at the auxiliaries. 

“Let ‘em have it, Jo!” Meeks cried as the shuttle’s wyrding engines came to life. Jo let out a quick burst. The eight barrels of the cannon spun imperceptibly; they were so fast. Everything was briefly illuminated in a great ball of sapphire light. A deafening, rippling, vibrating sound sundered the air. Jo looked out–carnage. The horde, save for a few, had been completely shredded. Red wasted no time and cleaned up the few remaining mutant things as the shuttle lifted into the air. 

“Shut the bay, strap in, and prepare for the tilt!” Meeks, as the pilot now in command, directed. Jo hurriedly stowed the bay gun, and smacked the button for the door. He then joined Red in the passenger seat beside her, bringing the safety bar down and locking it in place. 

“Locked in!” Jo confirmed. 

“Here’s the tilt!” Meeks shouted into the comms over the thrum of the wyrding engines. The craft oriented vertically, rising rapidly. The sky, and space just beyond that, before them. Red held her breath. A beam of light, of energy of some kind, streaked through the front of the shuttle, evaporating it.

“No!” Red cried out! The shuttle plummeted to the ground! 

Everything went dark. The nothingness, the void was complete bliss. Red bathed in it. It was warm and comforting. It was her shield from reality. Yet, she could feel it slipping. Slipping. Slipping away. She was filled with fear. She did not want to go back. But there she was. Red cursed her fate.

“Senior Red, are you able to fight?” It was the marshal’s voice over the comms. She blinked, and then blinked some more. The sweat kept pouring into her eyes. She looked over at Jo. Dead. She tried to turn over, the bar held her in place. She wrenched at it, the weakened locks gave way, freeing her.  “Red?” Dulle called to her again. 

“Yes, I am here, Marshal,” she croaked. Pulling off her broken helmet and tossing it aside, she spat a glob and mucus, and wiped the sweat from her eyes. No, it was blood. She rolled out of the seat and off onto the wall of the shuttle–which had come to rest on its side. She crawled toward the bay, the door of which was warped and partially wrenched open. Her armored hand knocked into something with a clatter. A rifle. She grabbed it. Jo’s rifle. She tightened her grip and crawled out of the opening. 

The marshal knelt, leaning heavily on the hilt of his sword. He was covered in blood. Wounded. His armor was rent. Most pieces, if not missing entirely, were beyond repair. The white bug thing was nowhere in sight. But that did not matter. The star eyed giant loomed over them. Its body was just black. Not as in its skin was black. No. It was as though the world cut out a piece of the black void and shrouded the being with this veil. It was a great dark unknowable shape. Only its eyes could be seen. And those eyes burned. Burned like two blazing novas, shining a harsh light down on Red and Dulle. 

Dulle stood. Red moved to his side. “I couldn’t finish that bug off. This thing came to its rescue,” Marshal Dulle stated. “Being my Senior, do you have any idea as to what we’re fighting here?”

“Marshal,” Red chuckled. “I’ve seen some wild stuff. But I have no clue what this insanity is.” She readied her rifle and pulled back on the charging handle, expelling the damaged, jammed round, and seating a new one from the magazine. A full mag, minus the one. Thanks, Jo, she thought. 

To their right, the white bug appeared. Half of its head was missing, yet it still wore that ghoulish grin. Its body had large gashes and large chunks missing. It was missing two whole arms, and two thirds of another. The last remaining arm was missing most fingers from its hand. From every slash oozed black goo. From every gap and gash black and dark grey innards spilled out. The bug turned and faced the star eyed giant, lifting its arms, what was left of them, as though praising the giant. 

“It seems we are a sacrifice to this thing,” the marshal observed. Red nodded in agreement. “Senior Red, you have my apologies for my uncouth behavior. Serving The Adamant with you was my great honor.”

“Marshal Dulle, I accept your apology. Though young, you are truly an incredible warrior. The honor was mine.” 

“For The Adamant.”

“For The Adamant.”

They were bathed in light.