Whup-whup… whup-whup…
Two helicopters move through a harsh blizzard and slowly approach what is known as the black zone's outer boundary.
Ahead of the helicopters, an forever frozen expanse stretches far and wide.
Xi-4, otherwise known as "Literature Club", sits shoulder-to-shoulder within the cabin of the second helicopter, strapped into metal seats that tremble violently beneath them. The wind outside screams against the fuselage. And no one speaks. The only sounds are the churning of the engine, the rattling of their equipment, and the voices of the pilot and copilot over the internal channel.
"Xi-4, this is Helo-One. Approaching the outer boundary of the black zone in thirty seconds. Visibility nearly zero. Turbulence increasing rapidly," mentions the pilot of the leading helicopter.
An operative, Navarro (Xi-4-3), face hidden beneath a cold-weather mask marked with stylized ink patterns that glow faintly in the natural light coming through the windows, tightens their grip on a thaumaturgically enhanced rifle. Beside the masked rifleman sits a woman, Mara (Xi-4-2), with short black hair and a throat tattoo resembling a star. Across from her is a broad-shouldered veteran, Calhoun (Xi-4-1), wearing a heavy scholar's vest covered in stitched diagrams, all the while gripping onto an enormous metal tower shield positioned in front of him. Next to him sits Eldric (Xi-4-4), a quiet older man in heavy robes with mirrored lenses over his eyes, absently turning a small brass device that occasionally ticks. To his left, a younger operative, Lio (Xi-4-6), in a hooded winter coat clutches a charm of folded paper and metal wire, whispering unintelligible words that spread a gentle warmth through the cabin. Farther down the row, a tall Russian man with braided hair and a small library of knives hanging from his belt, Abrams (Xi-4-5), sits completely motionless.
"Copy, Helo-One," the pilot responds.
The cabin shakes. Straps creak. Breath fogs in the frigid air despite the heated interior. Calhoun shifts slightly, his tower shield rattling as the helicopter tilts.
Mara glances toward the frosted window. "Visibility is getting worse. I cannot even see ten metres out there."
Navarro checks the charging sigil on their rifle. "This storm is no joke."
Lio exhales softly, keeping the charm cupped in both hands. "The air gives me the heebie jeebies."
"We are approaching him," Abrams says, shut eyelids peeling open as he breaks free from a strange trance. "I am certain of it."
A brief silence follows. Each operative knows who he refers to.
The pilot breaks in through the intercom. "Xi-4, this is Helo-One. We've just crossed the threshold. Most of our instruments are losing calibration. Keep yourselves steady, fellas."
The cabin sways violently, almost on cue. Timekeeping devices notably immediately cease to function, alongside any other regular devices not fueled by thaumaturgy.
Xi-4 braces as the helicopter dips along a sudden downward draft, the fuselage vibrating hard enough to rattle their bones. The blizzard outside is a solid wall of white, and the world feels terribly suffocating.
Calhoun steadies his tower shield against his knee as the cockpit alarms chirp faintly. Navarro leans forward. "Distance?" The copilot is quick to answer. "Eleven klicks to the target's last known location. Thermal is practically useless out here. Thaumaturgic sensors seem to be picking up active signatures across the whole zone. We won't get anything precise with what we have here."
Eldric mutters something under his breath as the brass device in his palm clicks twice.
The radio crackles. "Helo-One to Helo-Two. We have visual on something. It's moving below the cloud line. It is large. Fast, too."
Every operative looks toward the window. The white churn outside shifts slightly. Navarro whispers, "Already? I did not think we would have attracted something so fast."
The pilot curses under his breath. "Whatever it is, it is matching our speed."
"...Great," mumbles someone.
The radio crackles again. "Helo-One to Helo-Two. Continue toward the target. We are diverting to draw whatever it is away."
"Copy, Helo-One. Stay high. Be careful."
The moment Helo-One veers off, the storm seems to shudder. Fortunately, whatever tails the helicopters appears to be successfully drawn away by Helo-One.
The tension eases only slightly as Helo-One drifts off into the white abyss, its silhouette fading behind the wall of snow.
. . .
Approximately ten minutes later.
Mara exhales through her nose. Calhoun adjusts the strap on his shield while glancing toward the cockpit. Navarro shifts their rifle into a ready posture, the sigils lining the barrel flickering alight. The pilot steadies the helicopter and says, "Approaching target zone. Thirty seconds."
The copilot calls out coordinates and altitude. Navarro leans toward the window, squinting through the blind whirling snow. "I see something. Ahead, low."
A vague shape moves beneath the storm line.
Calhoun rises half an inch in his seat, grip tightening. "That him?" The pilot lowers their speed, eyes fixed on the many instruments in the cockpit. "Unknown. Contact in fifteen seconds."
The blizzard thins for only a moment, and in that narrow window, they all see it: a lone figure walking north through the storm, long hair whipping in the wind.
Mara's throat tightens. "That has to be S-1119." The copilot switches channels. "Helo-Two to Command. We have visual."
The figure pauses, lifts his head, and looks toward the sky. Straight at them.
. . .
He hears the helicopter's churning blades before he sees them. An absurd machine, flying through the intense, unwavering storm. He has not seen or imagined anything like it.
He lifts his head and narrows his eyes, staring directly at the approaching machine. Snow whips across his coat and up his hair, yet he does not blink.
His voice does not rise higher than the wind, only but a soft murmur. "Magnificent. So very magnificent."
He resumes walking, snow crunching underfoot, as a distant roar grows louder while the flying machine begins circling overhead, slowly dipping lower.
A strange machine, somehow defying the harsh winds of nature. He intently studies it as it circles, only to suddenly shut his eyelids and focus.
CHRRR-CHRRR-CHRRR.
The machine dips lower, fighting the wind. Its shape becomes clearer through the white veil. Twin rotors. Thick hull. Wide wings. Heat spilling faintly from its underbelly. Its metal trembles against the storm's might, but somehow persists, stubbornly.
He lifts his chin slightly, red irises catching the light as his eyelids peel open. "Humans," he murmurs. "I was starting to think I was all alone."
Nearly on cue, the helicopter's loading ramp lowers, and six silhouettes drop from the aircraft, landing roughly twenty metres away. Their boots strike the snow, their landing muted by the roaring wind and powdered snow. He pauses mid-stride and studies them, head tilted slightly.
They spread out in a cautious formation, forming a half-circle with their weapons low but evidently prepared to raise them if need be. If it is not for one of them actively fighting the enveloping cold with their anomalous ability, it would not be long before they freeze to death.
One of them steps forward. Calhoun.
He is strong, stronger than the others.
While squinting, he can discern that the all of them possess two threads, except Calhoun and Abrams. The one before him, Calhoun, possesses four dim threads, while Abrams possess three vibrant threads. He cannot quite discern the colors of their threads, but can tell they're cool in hue.
He studies the man in front—a man built like a walking fortress. The tower shield in his hold hums faintly, runes carved along its surface pulsing steadily.
The wind wanes.
"We don't mean no harm, friend," Calhoun finally speaks.
"You hold what I am led to assume to be weapons, poised," he replies.
The entirety of the squad grows tenser.
He watches them tense, watches their shoulders uplift. Their breaths are short-lived.
Calhoun plants his shield into the dense snow, letting it rest against his boot as both hands remain visible. "Standard protocol," he says. "This place is highly dangerous. We cain't risk comin' in unarmed, now can we?"
He tilts his head slightly in vague acknowledgement. "Then? If you are not here to bring me harm, what exactly is your intention?"
"We're here to extract you," he says. "We received orders to locate you quick and bring you outta the black zone... alive."
The others in the half-circle remain tense and ready.
He steps forward once, letting the snow part around his feet. "Ordered? By whom?" he repeats under his breath.
Calhoun nods once. "Someone with high authority. Someone that wants you - other than that, I cain't exactly say."
He studies their formation for a long, silent moment.
And all of them watch him in return.
I cannot guarantee that I can incapacitate them all. Those weapons, too... they're quite the threat.
"Very well," he answers. "I will go with you. I do not have much of a choice, now do I?"
Besides, I would rather not continue to walk. Especially in this cold.
His gaze returns to Calhoun as the man lifts his shield and steps closer. "Thank you for cooperatin'," Calhoun says. "We'll escort you to Helo-Two. Once aboard, we'll transport you to a secure location outside this godforsaken place."
Navarro speaks unintelligibly into an earpiece, presumably informing Helo-Two of the successful cooperation.
Lio fishes out an extra set of clothes from his bag and approaches, promptly extending them. "Here you go. You must be cold," Lio murmurs, glancing briefly at the evident lack of any relevant protection from the cold.
"Thank you," he replies, promptly taking hold of the clothes to put them on, while the helicopter circling above finally dips lower and moves to land.
His fingers brush against the warm fabric. It's soft.
The helicopter descends through the screaming wind and settles on its landing struts, snow spiraling outward in a violent ring from the downwash.
Calhoun gestures with one arm, keeping the other close to the strap of his shield. "This way," he calls over the wind. The others close formation around him, promptly moving towards the helicopter as its loading ramp lowers.
"So, the black zone. That's what this place is called?" He quietly steps after.
Calhoun leads him up the ramp and into the cramped cabin, the loading ramp beginning to slowly rise just as he is directed to one of the many seats. "...Yep. One name for it."
Boots scrape against metal. Straps clink.
Mara sits down beside him and reaches for him first with a gloved hand, palm lit by a faint blue glyph as she runs it quickly in front of his chest and throat, eyes narrowing. "Heartbeat, respiration, body temperature all seem to be normal," she says. "Strange."
Mara withdraws her hand, the faint blue light fading from her palm. "Very strange," she repeats, "considering you were in this weather for so long, without any protection. Practically bare." An awkward laughter.
Calhoun looks across his face, watching the red eyes watch each motion in the cramped cabin.
Abrams, sitting across from him, leans forward as the helicopter lifts off. "Hah. You really do look like a doll—remind me of my grandmother's old porcelain dolls," he says with a hearty laugh. "I always hated them. Made my skin crawl."
He narrows his gaze towards the man that spoke the remark and only smiles.
Mara shoots Abrams a brief glare. "Do not test me today, Abrams. Remain professional, please," she mutters.
Abrams rolls his eyes.
Calhoun ignores the exchange, eyes still on the longhaired anomaly. "If at any point you're feelin' unwell, you tell us," he says. "This place don't treat anything kindly - least of all, the livin'."
On an alternative channel, the pilot radios command. "Command. This is Helo-Two. We are leaving the central band of the black zone. We are in possession of the asset."
Abrams leans back with a huff and half closes his eyes as the helicopter climbs, the sound of the rotors changing while the white hell outside thins into a lighter veil. The cabin shudders once, then settles into a steady vibration.
What a peculiar machine.
He sits still in the oversized coat, red eyes half-lidded, gaze roving over every bolt and cable inside the cabin, as though mapping the machine in his head.
Mara keeps sneaking curious looks at him. Well, a few of the squad do so.
Navarro finishes checking the safety on their rifle, glancing outside the window.
Calhoun taps his earpiece. "Helo-One, this is Calhoun on Helo-Two. What's your status?" A bout of static is first to answer, followed by a low hiss that crawls under the usual hum of the channel.
Then a voice. "Helo-One, holding pattern, three klicks west of your vector. Still diverting unknown contact. Turbulence is getting worse out here. You focus on the asset."
Calhoun glances toward the cockpit. "Copy," he says into his mic. "Maintain separation and keep it busy. We got S-1119."
Eldric flicks the little brass device in his hand with a thumb. It ticks once, then again.
S-1119?
"Is that my name?" he speaks up, focusing his gaze on Calhoun.
Calhoun turns his head toward him, studying the red eyes that study him in turn. "Short of, but not exactly. S-1119's a designation," he answers.
He tilts his head to the side. "What does it mean?"
Calhoun clicks his tongue. "Not the slightest clue. Us operatives got little to no information on you. Above our paygrade."
Abrams plays with one of his razor-sharp knives. "A lot of trouble for one puny guy. Surprised you were not all chewed up when we got there," he mutters. "No offence."
Mara elbows Abrams knee. "Shut it."
Lio shifts closer on his harness. "Do you remember anything?" he asks. "From before you woke up?" The cabin hums.
For a moment, only the churning of the rotors answers.
His red eyes turn from Lio to the floor, following a bolt head along the decking as if it is more interesting than the question itself.
"Nope. Nothing at all. I simply awoke with no knowledge of where I am, who I am, or what I am," he answers.
The wind suddenly becomes much, much harsher, slamming into the hull of the helicopter as the cabin jolts sideways hard enough to make harnesses bite into the operatives' shoulders. Calhoun shouts, "Hold on!" as the helicopter lurches, one wing dipping for a second.
A crate rattles free and Navarro catches it with one hand, the glyphs on their glove flickering as they steady it. Lio clamps both hands around his charm.
The internal channel crackles with static. For a moment, they all hear it - Helo-One's pilot cutting in. "Whatever is chasing us is accelerating, it is right on top of us. Our shields have given out to the storm. I repeat, it is right on top of—" The transmission tears apart into a scream of unintelligible noise.
Red warning lights blink to life along the ceiling. The cockpit door rattles as the pilot swears under his breath and drags the helicopter into a rough climb.
How bumpy.
He sits unnaturally calm, red eyes lifting toward the roof, as fortunately, the pilots manage to steady the helicopter.
On cue, Command cuts in, loudly. "Helo-Two, this is Command. Telemetry from Helo-One has gone dark. We have lost visual and thaumaturgic feed. Assume Helo-One is down. You are to continue on current vector and leave the black zone immediately. Do not investigate."
A few of the operatives bite their teeth together, followed by Calhoun soon responding, "Copy, Command. Continuin' on current vector."