"Begin containment."
The lead officer spoke with a grim tone.
Dozens of Special Operations members fanned out swiftly, their movements sharp and precise.
The infected, strewn across the street, remained unconscious from the high-voltage shocks and massive trauma, though their twitching limbs still pulsed with an unsettling vitality.
Snap—!
The sharp sound of magnetic locks closing echoed through the air.
One after another, the infected were forcibly restrained, limbs bound tightly, leaving them completely immobile.
Then, the special ops lifted each one and placed them into containment pods.
As each pod lid shut, the seals activated with a hiss, and red warning lights flickered to life on the pod surfaces—cold coffins that entombed these twisted beings.
"Containment Pod 1, stable."
"Containment Pod 2, stable."
".All targets confirmed."
The updates echoed through the comms.
Each confirmation was clinical, precise, and devoid of emotion.
Soon, all infected had been secured inside their respective pods, which were then loaded via mechanical rails into the lower hold of the transport vessel.
The bay doors sealed once more with an airtight lock, a red line glowing to signify the threat had been safely contained—for now.
Nearby, several special ops members approached Leroia and the Glory warriors.
They carried portable dispersal devices containing high-grade disinfectant developed by the Bio Division.
With the whir of pressurized pumps, a transparent mist tinged faint blue sprayed out, coating their armor and energy shields entirely.
The chemical fog, sharp with antiseptic, clung to their armor and sank into its crevices before being evaporated away.
"Primary disinfection complete. You are required to comply with quarantine protocols."
The special ops personnel made the statement flatly, with mechanical detachment and inflexible authority.
Leroia gave a slight nod.
She knew they wouldn't offer unnecessary words. Their only role was to ensure every risk was extinguished before it spread.
With the process complete, she turned toward the fire station and spoke into her comms:
"Escort the survivors."
Inside, two of her squad responded immediately, the thud of their heavy boots echoing down the ruined stairwell.
Moments later, they emerged with the group of survivors who had huddled together in the dormitory.
Some wore faint relief at having lived—but the moment they stepped outside and saw the street, their expressions drained of color.
Limbs, torn flesh, pools of blood—it was a nightmare made manifest.
The air reeked of iron, gunpowder, and rot.
"Ugh—!"
Someone vomited immediately. A chain reaction followed as several women and children couldn't hold it in.
Still, the Glory warriors stood sentinel beside them, their armored forms and energy shields forming a silent bulwark.
Even through their horror, the survivors instinctively gravitated toward these steel giants, as if their presence alone could offer sanctuary from this hellscape.
The Special Ops team sprayed them down with disinfectant too—impersonal, efficient.
The cold mist stung as it soaked through clothes and skin, drawing shivers and pained gasps.
Only after ensuring no one showed visible symptoms were they guided aboard the massive transport vessel.
Upon entering the second-level bay, the survivors found themselves in a vast metallic chamber.
Cold white lighting gleamed from the walls. The air was heavy with disinfectant and machine oil. Transparent barriers separated different sections.
The survivors were taken to the frontmost chamber, fully isolated by energy walls and shielding.
Leroia and her warriors were guided to a separate area—temporary observation quarters designed for elite soldiers. The air still carried the sharp tang of sterilizer, and their armor gleamed under the harsh lights.
As the doors sealed behind them, the interior pressure systems kicked in with a dull roar.
"Power system check complete."
"Course confirmed—heading to spatial gate."
"Liftoff."
The pilots' voices crackled over the internal comms.
BOOM—!
The vessel jolted, then steadily lifted off, leaving the ruined streets shrinking beneath.
High above, two assault shuttles flanked it like blades, their hulls aglow with tactical lights. Gun turrets locked onto the terrain below, ever vigilant.
The transport's engines tore through the cloud cover, blazing a path toward the deep woods.
Through the windows, the survivors stared, faces drawn and haunted.
The elderly clutched their rags, hands trembling, still paralyzed by the horror they'd escaped.
Young mothers clung to children, whispering shaky reassurances they barely believed themselves.
The three firefighters who had once stood as the final shield sat off to one side. Their backs were straight—but exhaustion bled from their eyes. What they'd thought their last bastion had been, they now saw was nothing compared to the true force of the Empire.
The cabin's mood turned heavy.
Some muttered to themselves, repeating "It's over, it's over..." Others simply stared into the cold metal walls, eyes empty.
And understandably so—
Only hours ago, they'd been besieged by a horde of ravening infected. Then came armored warriors who tore through them with supernatural force. And now, they were flying inside a ship that looked like it had come from a different world.
It was a rollercoaster no one had signed up for.
Inside the vessel, the hum of engines pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat.
Gradually, a few survivors drifted toward the windows, seeking a glimpse of something familiar.
But as the fleet approached within ten kilometers of its destination, what they saw turned every face to stone.
Time itself seemed to pause.
Moments ago, the world outside had been nothing but endless forest, mist curling through the canopy.
But now—as if reality had been torn open by an invisible hand—a massive mirror appeared at the forest's heart.
A spatial gate, 6 km by 6 km in size.
It shimmered like a lake of mercury, surface rippling yet impossibly smooth.
Light played across it in surreal refractions, reflecting sky and earth in an otherworldly spectacle.
It didn't lie in the forest. It hovered above it, a monument separating nature from something beyond comprehension.
"Oh my God... what is that...?" a voice whispered, barely audible.
"A... a gate...? But—how could it be that big...?" another murmured, hand over mouth, eyes wide.
The awe this inspired surpassed even their fear of the infected.
Blood and death were terrifying—but at least they could be understood.
This? This shattered their understanding of reality itself.
In truth, a ten-kilometer energy field surrounded the gate, masking it from all conventional detection—light, heat, sensors, even psychic scans.
Only by the will of the Emperor was the barrier lifted, allowing the gate to appear.
The survivors, of course, knew none of this.
They could only grasp at meaning with their limited imagination.
And then, a child's voice broke the silence.
"Mom... I told you, didn't I? They're from the future! Only the future could have a gate like that!"
A boy, maybe seven or eight, looked up at his mother with wide, earnest eyes.
The mother started to hush him—but the words caught in her throat.
Everyone looked at the child.
Their expressions were complicated—
A mix of surreal disbelief, and a desperate, fragile kind of hope.
Behind her visor, Leroia's lips curled ever so slightly.
It wasn't sarcasm. Nor mockery.
Just the faintest, almost imperceptible softness in her otherwise cold, sculpted face.
She said nothing. Because nothing needed to be said.
In this moment, that child's belief might be the only thing keeping them grounded.
The fleet pushed forward, cutting through the churning clouds. As they closed in, the outline of the forward base finally came into view.
A marvel of engineering.
Modular structures had already taken root, steel frameworks jutting from the ground like blades.
Habitation pods, medical units, and command centers all slotted together with an eerie precision, forming a disciplined city of order amid chaos.
The barracks were the most prominent—rows of armored bunkers, layered defenses nearing completion.
Even a passing glance revealed the base's meticulous planning and ruthless efficiency.
Machinery roared below.
Giant cranes moved plating and power cells. Hovertrucks zipped overhead, delivering new components to assigned zones.
Hex robots, terminators, and hunter drones moved in perfect coordination on the ground.
The Engineering Corps—rightly feared and respected for their godlike capacity for construction—once again proved why.
With steel and will alone, they built citadels in wastelands.
The transport began its descent, the forward base drawing closer with every second.
Circling once, it lowered steadily.
"Landing configuration stable. Preparing for touchdown."
The pilot's voice echoed through the ship, cold and emotionless.
Thud. Thud.
With a final shudder, the vessel settled onto the landing pad.
The rumble ceased. Heavy locks clamped down with metallic clinks—like a beast chained to the earth.
The bay doors hissed open. Cold air rushed in, laced with metal and fuel.
Outside, teams awaited. They wore white bio-armor as well, faces obscured by masks, movements precise and disciplined.
"Survivors first."
One officer issued the order succinctly.
Escorted by the Glory warriors, the survivors exited cautiously.
As soon as they stepped onto the landing pad, they were directed into a silver-gray corridor flanked by energy walls—narrow, enclosed, and tightly sealed.
A preliminary quarantine tunnel, keeping unverified personnel isolated from the base proper.
Nervous but compliant, the survivors filed in. They knew well the Empire's efficiency and unyielding control.
At the tunnel's end, they could hear the hum of machinery.
"Stop."
A mechanical voice rang out.
In an instant, dozens of nozzles extended from the ceiling.
Whirr—!
Blue mist sprayed down, completely enveloping them.
The chilling fog penetrated their clothes and skin with an icy sting.
Someone gasped—but the heavy atmosphere quickly silenced any protest.
Minutes passed. The mist thinned. Air filters pulled it away. The corridor cleared.
An energy door slid open at the far end. One by one, the survivors were taken to the medical module—for thorough screening and isolation.
Elsewhere, Leroia and her warriors were directed to a separate quarantine unit.
A sealed metal chamber. Gleaming, sterile. Lit with harsh, almost punishing white.
"Remove armor protection."
As ordered, tech staff approached, assisting Leroia and her squad in dismantling their heavy armor.
The sound of metal clasps releasing echoed through the chamber. Plates fell to the floor with heavy thuds.
Even without armor, the warriors stood tall—physiques sculpted like statues, dense with silent strength.
Leroia was the last to remove her helmet.
Her face was cold, sharp, unwavering. Even without her armor's imposing presence, her gaze held power.
Medical staff stepped forward with scanners and biosensors.
Blue-white beams swept from head to toe. Pulses scanned beneath the skin. Any anomaly would be instantly flagged.
Airborne samplers also analyzed their breath, sweat, and blood in real-time.
"No unusual energy fluctuations detected."
"Blood sample acquired. Uploading data."
"Heart rate normal. Immune response within standard range."
One report after another followed.
Leroia stood still, eyes forward. Calm. Confident.
She knew it wasn't personal. These protocols were essential—for everyone's safety.
Her squad said nothing. They were long accustomed to such procedures.
Finally, after the last scan, a message appeared on the main console in glowing green:
"Test results: No signs of infection. No abnormal response."
The holographic display showed a perfect diagnostic chain—every metric within safe limits.
"Confirmed. Glory Legion squad cleared of infection."
The special ops officer made the declaration with finality.
For the first time, the atmosphere inside the chamber eased slightly.
______
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