Chapter XXV: The Silence Before Cannons, The Stillness Before Screams
"So... how'd I do?" I muttered aloud to the damp jungle clearing. The air was thick with aftermath, iron tang of blood still fresh enough to stain breath. For a moment, there was only the hush — then a massive, three-fingered claw came to rest on my shoulder like a consecration.
"You fought exquisitely," rumbled the Stalker, voice thick with reverence and low-register hunger. "The prey you killed was far beyond your current physical threshold. It was cunning, feral, desperate — and you triumphed through instinct, guile, and predatory nerve. It confirms what I already knew: you are worthy, my future mate."
Before me lay the carcass of the jungle cat, slain by my hand — a sinuous, muscled thing of predatory grace, its fur matted with neon blood and psionic ash. I found myself stroking it gently, a strange hush in my chest. There's a myth that says true warriors form a tether with what they kill — that death is an intimacy. I felt it now, raw and honest. This wasn't a monster. It was an equal who lost.
"Where's Kimchi?" I asked at last, turning.
The Stalker clicked her mandibles softly. "Apologies, Irvine. Her emotional signature was still hidden from your perception. I've lifted the veil."
In that instant, Kimchi blinked into focus on the other side of the corpse, crouched low with her crimson-black eyes reflecting my soul back at me. There was something in her gaze — pride, yes, but also mourning. She could feel my grief even if she didn't fully grasp it.
She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. She simply stayed.
Minutes passed like molasses in a dream. Finally, I stood. Steel in my spine, blood on my hands. "I want her biomass preserved," I said. "This creature is mine. As hunter, I claim the right to honour her in return. When we return to the Nest — she will be remembered."
The Stalker dipped her head and crouched, reverent. "Then I shall consume her alone. That way, her essence won't be diluted with the common dead."
With a clicking hiss, her mouth unfolded — tripartite and terrible, mandibles glinting with wet anticipation. I turned away as the devouring began, placing myself between the feast and Kimchi.
"So," I said, trying to cut through the sound of cracking ribs and enzymatic slurry, "whose idea was the ambush? It felt... orchestrated."
"It was a collective decision," Kimchi replied softly. "The Queen noted casualties among our vanguard in this region. The Stalker variant was dispatched, evaluated the threat, and deemed it a suitable test for you. We shielded our presence from the beast to let it believe it held the upper hand."
"To rattle me," I muttered, half-scoffing.
"To temper you," Kimchi corrected. "We never intended to cause distress."
I sighed. "It's fine. The beast would've died to the Conquest either way. I'm just glad I killed her. I can give her a death with meaning."
She nodded. I didn't need her agreement. Just her presence.
We moved on.
The Stalker finished her meal in record time — a vacuum of muscle and malice — and the three of us pushed deeper through the underbrush. Trees thinned, vines burned away, and then suddenly:
City.
Ker'Min architecture was strange — elegant, tubular towers made of quartz-sand and alloy resin, rising like ancient reeds in a swamp of civilization. Once it must've been beautiful. Now the outskirts were charred, blistered ruins. A wasteland sculpted by war.
Fire bombs had rained down here, a last-ditch effort to halt the Hive's advance. Ker'Min civilians had either been devoured in the first wave or burned by their own military in self-sanctified suicide.
Not far ahead, I spotted two familiar silhouettes: a Psionic Agitator and a Freethinker. I strode toward them, brushing my hand along the Freethinker's long armored leg as I arrived. She shivered under my touch.
Her voice came soft, held-back. "Their firestorms are weakening. This is their fallback doctrine: bombard, delay, regroup. Most of their elite reserves are engaged elsewhere, but we expect renewed aggression soon."
Her leg twitched beneath my fingers again. I was still stroking it. I stopped — but not before Kimchi caught the scene with narrowed eyes and a barely-audible snarl.
She hated the Freethinkers around me. Technically, yes, I belonged to the Hive — all of it. But Kimchi had grown beyond the base instincts of the collective. She had possessiveness now. And thanks to the fucked-up boon I'd been given, those feelings burned like starfire.
"Alright," I said after a long silence. "Let's crack this open. If they're going to hit us hard, then we hit harder. I'll lead the Armoured Warrior caste in a wedge — let the elites form a shield wall at the vanguard. The others follow in layers. Let their guns chew on my front while our rear builds up force. Then we breach. One decisive blow through their line."
The Agitator cut the psychic link for a moment. I could feel the hum of calculation — their hivemind warcouncil debating at light-speed. It felt like a thousand pins behind my eyes.
Then silence. Then the link reconnected.
Then the Agitator puked.
Like, actual puke. Bioluminescent, viscous biomass onto the ground at my feet. A glistening wad of alien meat.
I just stared.
"Feed it to your Psionic Core," Kimchi said with a grin. "It'll heal your suit."
Ah. Right. Of course. Living armor. Self-sustaining.
Using telekinesis — because fuck touching that — I lifted the biomass. It floated toward the sphere on my chest. As soon as it made contact, the Core pulsed with deep violet light and began devouring the mass. It broke down in layers, torn apart by psionic vortices, absorbed molecule by molecule.
Fascinating. And horrifying.
I made a note to study it later.
For now, I began preparing for war.
...
Ker'Mon'Ard was livid.
He had survived Swarm Fleet Heron — two full years of trench crawling and pheromone-choked skies — and was finally granted leave. A whole month. A whole month to see his forty-two spawnlets.
And then this.
An undocumented swarm. In his sector. On his world.
His rank was high enough to commandeer the East District's defense grid. His armor, unfortunately, was scout-class. The heavy exo-frames were already committed to the South and West — where the swarm hadn't stopped coming in days.
He stood now at the edge of a shattered highway, watching the smoke of his city curl like mourning flags.
Something felt wrong.
Not tactically. Not intellectually. Just... wrong. An instinctual clenching in his thorax.
He brushed it off. Raised his voice.
"Listen up! I know this is a nightmare. But we hold! Twelve hours to reinforcements. That's all we need. The swarm is vast — but predictable. We've reinforced our line. Incendiary barrages will disrupt their advance and let us resupply. They will break. And we will feast upon the ashes!"
A cheer rose from his troops. Stubborn, defiant.
It would be the last cheer many of them ever gave.
(To be continued...)