The acrid scent of burnt metal and flesh lingered in the air. Drace’s armor was scuffed and streaked with dark smears—some hers, most not. The hum of servos filled the cramped alcove where she’d settled for five, her pulse finally slowing to something resembling normal. The exosuit’s hydraulics hissed faintly as she shifted her weight, lowering the rifle across her lap. Drace stared at its matte surface, caked with dirt and grime, her fingers idly tracing a shallow gouge in the barrel shroud.

The drop had gone sideways, fast. The transports were barely through the clouds when anti-air lit up the sky, red streaks carving arcs of death through the dark. Someone had sold them out, and the ambush had been brutal.

Drace’s boat took a hit, lost an engine, and came down hard. Her team spilled out into a kill box of tracer rounds and plasma bursts. They fought tooth and nail to secure the zone, dragging bodies and equipment out of the line of fire. Caught off guard and on the back foot, they somehow kept it together, dug deep, and pulled through the thick. It was something to be proud of, if pride hadn’t felt like a betrayal. Not everyone had made it.

She leaned her head back against the cold steel wall, closing her eyes for a moment. Images replayed in her mind—Wilkes taking a hit while hauling Morris to cover; Raintz shouting something as they broke the enemy line, his voice drowning in the roar of explosions.

Drace’s hand tightened on the grip of her rifle. As a team leader, the “why” of it wasn’t hers to question; the “how” was her burden. Yet, as the silence deepened, she felt the thin veneer of victory crumble, like sand slipping through her fingers.

“Hell of a welcome party,” she muttered under her breath. The mission had only just begun.

Sergeant Jorrun Drace dropped her head and stared at the ground a little longer. Somewhere beneath the exhaustion, her determination still burned, but the area was quiet for the moment. And for the moment, quiet was enough.

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