"Brace yourselves," Flint says, voice steady. "Twenty seconds to impact."
The temperature inside drops sharply and thick translucent gel begins seeping from walls and floor, cool against Stagger's armor as it flows upward to encases his legs, his torso, finally his head. He closes his eyes as the gel fills the small space around him, pressing against his skin like a second layer that makes each breath come strange, not impossible but wrong in ways that keep tension locked in his chest even though the gel oxygenates on its own.
When the pressure equalizes, he forces his eyes open.
The capsule shakes violently as it hits the upper layers of atmosphere, streaking through the fractured sky like a comet. Outside, the metallic forest stretches upward, its impossible geometry twisting into fractal patterns where light refracts off the trees and casts jagged rainbows into the void below. Through the thick haze of gel Stagger sees the others: Flint at the front, stoic and unmoving; Wren shifting nervously, head jerking toward every sound; Edge smirking as though this is just another game; Ash silent, his massive frame still as stone.
The gel presses harder, locking his body in place. Oxygen floods directly into his blood. Wrong. Invasive.
His left forearm burns.
Stagger looks down. Through translucent gel he sees patterns beneath his skin, dark and asymmetric, surfacing like script written in seared flesh. The lines crawl upward from his wrist.
No.
He forces his breathing steady. Pushes the fire down. Down. Until the flesh remembers what it is supposed to be. Until the pattern fades into skin that bears no mark.
Edge's head turns slightly in his harness, dark eyes searching through the gel's distortion.
"Impact in five," Flint says, voice muffled.
Stagger closes his eyes, counting down.
Four. The capsule roars, walls groaning under the strain.
Three. The gel presses harder, locking his body in place. His arm throbs with phantom heat.
Two. The ground rushes up to meet them, metallic terrain gleaming with unnatural light.
One.
The capsule slams into the forest floor with a deafening crash, its reinforced hull crumpling slightly on impact while the gel absorbs the worst of the force and holds them in place as energy disperses outward. For a moment, silence. The air thick with the hum of the forest.
The gel begins to retreat, draining back into the capsule's walls as Stagger gasps, lungs filling with air in a sudden rush that leaves him momentarily lightheaded while around him the others unbuckle their harnesses and move with practiced efficiency.
"Form up," Flint orders, already stepping toward the exit as the hatch hisses open to reveal the alien landscape beyond.
The metallic forest looms around them as Stagger steps from the capsule, boots crunching against strange gleaming ground. His legs feel unsteady beneath him. The impact rattles in his bones still. He adjusts his grip on his kiran. The weapon sits at an unfamiliar angle on his hip, though he cannot say why it feels that way.
Twisting branches reach skyward like skeletal fingers and the air hums with an almost musical resonance that thrums through his chest with each breath. The forest feels alive, branches moving subtly as if observing their every step.
"Formation Gamma," Flint says, scanning the horizon where his kiran glints faintly in the fractured light. "Maintain alertness."
Stagger's hand rises toward his left shoulder, seeking something that is not there. He catches himself. Falls into position instead: rear guard, center, the slot assigned to the weakest link. Wren takes his position on the left with kiran ready while Edge moves right with loose confident strides, and Ash lumbers forward as a steady silent presence.
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Stagger falls into place, eyes tracking across the shifting landscape where faint marks catch his attention in the metallic soil. He crouches, running a gloved hand over the grooves and feeling how they are recent, edges sharp and untouched by the forest's shifting geometry.
Boot treads. Military standard. Someone walking with purpose, not fleeing.
The details arrive unbidden, processed through instincts he does not question.
"Stagger," Flint snaps, voice sharp. "Eyes forward."
Stagger rises, letting the marks fade from his focus as he falls back into formation and they move deeper into the forest.
A patch of ground shifts beneath Wren's boots. Seemingly solid becomes liquid.
He stumbles with a yelp, catching himself on a low-hanging branch as the others freeze, weapons raised, while the ground ripples like water and a tendril of metal lashes out from the earth, coiling toward Wren's leg.
Flint moves instantly, his kiran flaring white-hot as a beam lances out, severing the tendril with surgical precision.
The ground stills. The forest falls silent once more.
"Status," Flint demands, scanning the group.
"Unharmed," Wren mutters, though his face remains pale as Edge's smirk sharpens into something cutting.
"Does Raven Five hunt today, Flint? Or do we shepherd the clumsy through strange woods?"
Stagger does not respond, instead crouching to run his hand over the severed tendril where it pulses faintly before dissolving into the ground. He straightens, watching the way the forest seems to ripple in response.
"We advance," Flint says, and they press on.
Stagger lingers at the rear, gaze moving between the shifting trees and the faint marks in the ground as something about this place feels wrong, not just dangerous but deliberate, as though the forest itself is alive and watching. The hum grows louder, a subtle vibration beneath his feet.
They reach a fork where one path slopes upward while the other delves deeper into the forest, and Flint pauses to consider their options before speaking.
"Counsel," he says.
"High ground," Wren says quickly. "We will see threats before they reach us."
"Deeper," Edge counters. "Threats worth facing lie below, not above."
Ash remains silent, calm gaze fixed on Flint, while Stagger hesitates before stepping forward.
"The deeper path," he says softly. "It remains less disturbed. If danger has passed through here, it has not taken that route."
Flint glances at him, eyebrows raised, then nods after a moment. "Deeper, then. Maintain formation."
As they move the forest seems to shift around them, metallic trees leaning closer with branches that twist into impossible shapes while the light dims and shadows stretch long and unnatural. Stagger keeps his kiran ready but his attention divides across everything: the faint vibrations in the ground, the subtle shifts in the air, the way the trees seem to breathe as if the forest itself watches their passage.
Then he sees it.
Something glints in the disturbed soil beneath a gnarled root.
Stagger crouches, glancing toward the others as they press forward, unaware. His fingers close around a smooth fragment. Cold. Humming faintly with contained energy that makes his skin crawl in ways he cannot name. The signature feels familiar. Dangerous. Forbidden.
Necessary.
He should leave it.
His hand slides it into his pouch instead, the movement automatic and unquestioned.
The weight settles against his hip like a secret. Like a promise. His kiran suddenly feels different, heavier, though nothing has changed. His left arm throbs with sudden heat.
For what purpose, he does not know. Only that he was meant to take it.
The certainty frightens him.
Stagger rises, glancing toward the others where they move through twisted trees, and the hum around them intensifies, vibrating through the forest like a warning. He slows, glancing over his shoulder where shadows shift and shapes flicker at the edge of vision.
"Something is wrong," Stagger says, voice low.
The fragment pulses against his hip. Not sound but pressure, building like storm clouds before lightning. It wants something from him. Recognition stirs in his hands, knowledge of how to use it sitting in his grip like borrowed memory.
His fingers hover over the pouch.
He could draw it now. Something in him knows how, though he has never held one before.
Flint glances back, frowning. "Focus, Stagger."
The words are barely out of his mouth when the forest explodes into motion. Metallic branches lash out. The ground splits open. The Thrynix emerge from the shadows.
Creatures with translucent chitin faintly aglow and limbs tipped in serrated claws, their clicking mandibles reflecting shards of pale light while shadowy shapes writhe beneath their shells. A chorus of chittering echoes through the clearing, an eerie rhythm that grates against Stagger's nerves.
"Ambush!" Flint shouts. "Raven Five, form defensive!"
The team scrambles, weapons flashing as the Thrynix close in. Stagger presses himself against a twisted trunk, heart pounding while the fragment in his pouch hums louder, its energy building against his skin. He grips his kiran tightly, forcing himself to breathe.
These Thrynix are coordinated, their movements precise. Stagger watches them through the distorted reflections in the glassy sky above, tracking their positions while he counts five of them, armed with lethal claws and dripping mandibles, their void-black eyes set on the group with singular focus. They are not random creatures. They are Thrynix, lethal and deliberate in their assault.
The fragment screams against his hip. Warm. Eager. Wrong.
He could use it.
His hand drifts toward the pouch.
Stops.
Not this. Not now. Not for this.
He does not understand the certainty, only feels it like iron will planted in his chest.
Stagger tightens his grip on his kiran instead. The standard weapon feels inadequate in his hands, but he raises it anyway as the first Thrynix steps into the clearing. Six shots remain. He must make each one count.
The beam flares white-hot, lancing through the air.
Alien screams claw the forest.
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Ablations (ongoing)