The comms static cuts. Jax's scream. It pulls, then snaps. The neural link shatters. A burning wire against Vael's skull. He hears the wet, gurgling sound die. It echoes, not from his comms, but from the empty air behind them. From where Pilot Jax was.
His jaw clenches. A phantom thrumming pulses at the base of his skull. His neural crown. It wants to burst. Not his, this pressure. Never his.
"Move. Double time." The squad leader's voice, flat. No emotion. The words are cold. They cut the silence that swallowed Jax.
Zara Kim, the Culex pilot, flinches. Her wings fold tighter against her backplate. The movement is tight, almost a wince. Her head snaps to the leader. Vael sees it. The flicker of revulsion on her face. A human thing. He feels nothing of it. His suit hums.
They move. A broken trot through the ruined sector. Buildings are skeletal ribs. Dust coats everything. The air tastes of concrete and decay. Vael's suit scans. Heat signatures dim. The cold, logical data feeds into his neural crown. Four human signatures. Three squadmates. One abandoned.
One less mouth to feed. A foreign consciousness whispers inside him. It sounds like fact. Not judgment. He shoves it down. The neural crown throbs harder. A dull ache spreads behind his eyes.
Zara is ahead. Her wing-damage trauma makes her cautious over debris. A subtle limp in her gait. Vael's suit notes it. An asset, her speed. A liability, that hesitation. Data points.
"Clear the next street. Keep formation." The leader's voice again. No change in tone. As if Jax was just another protocol failure.
Vael's boot grinds on shattered rebar. The ground shifts beneath his seismic feet. His suit absorbs the impact. The thrumming in his head intensifies. He feels it, a hard ridge, pressing against his scalp. Silent growth.
He smells it. Coppery and wet. Old blood, but something else. Sour. The Gorebreed scent. He pulls his rifle up. Instinct. Not thought.
"Hold." His voice, clipped, raspy. The comms crackle slightly. He ignores it.
A dark shape skitters. Too fast. From a collapsed structure. Not big. Just a blur. Then another. And a third. Nestwretch larvae, newly hatched. Small. Ugly. They dart in shadow, like roaches. They track heat.
"Scouts." Vael states it.
"Engage." The leader's order. Immediate. No hesitation.
Zara is already moving. Her Culex blades extend from her forearms. She leaps, wings flaring for balance. Agile. She skewers one, then another. No wasted movement.
Vael's Gravemind suit focuses. His own bio-signature burns. A lure. He lets it. His rifle swings up. Two shots. Precision. The larvae explode in wet bursts of chitin and slime. Anatomical. Clinical. The remnants steam on the cracked pavement.
One skittering Gorebreed escapes. Disappears into a pile of bio-mass, decaying flesh. A faint scent of human skin. A Scarp Maw gorebreed. It will hide. It will wait. Dry thought: Always waiting.
A sudden flash. Not light. But memory. Corrupted data.
Vael sees a hand. His hand. Smaller. Younger. Splattered with something red. Not blood. A clear gel. The air smells of ozone and iron. A deep thrumming, like a generator. His father's lab. He's standing over a table. A steel table. Something writhes beneath a sheet. Fragmented. The sensation of cold sweat on his face.
Then it's gone. His suit's optical sensors reset. The ruined street returns. The other squadmates move. Their forms are solid. Reality. The phantom pain from his jaw flares. The neural crown. Always the crown.
Zara stands over a fallen larvae. Her blades drip. She wipes them on the rubble. Her suit armor is pristine. She looks at Vael. Her helmet, faceless, gives nothing. But Vael feels the presence of her gaze.
"You heard it too." Her voice, low. For Vael only. Not for the leader.
Vael's reply is a low growl. "Confirmed."
"It wasn't comms static." Her voice holds a tremor. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. A hint of that empathy. She looks back towards the path they took. The path where Jax was left.
"No." Vael's voice is flat. His gaze sweeps the ruins. Danger. Always danger. The suit's logic overrides everything. The threat is current. Not past.
"The leader. He gave the order." She doesn't ask. She states. An accusation in the air.
"Containment protocols." Vael's suit feeds him the standard response. Logic. He delivers it.
"Bullshit." Zara's voice hardens. "Jax was still… human."
Vael says nothing. His suit measures her heart rate. Elevated. Stress response. A liability. He feels no empathy. Only the cold assessment. He hears the suit's own silent analysis of her. Vulnerable.
The leader calls again. "Status report. Gravemind-7. Culex. Are you moving?"
"Affirmative. Minor contact. Contained." Vael transmits. No mention of Jax. No mention of Zara's dissent.
They press on. The ruins grow denser. Twisted metal. Collapsed bridge sections. Signs of old battles. Of a world that broke. The air thickens with dust. And that faint, sickeningly sweet Gorebreed scent.
The neural crown burns. The thrumming pressure becomes a dull roar. His entire skull aches. He feels the ridge of bone shift, subtly. A physical extension. It wants to push through. To complete.
Another flicker. Deeper this time.
He is looking down at a vast, open pit. Circular. Filled with a pulsing, living mass. Bio-organic tissue. Red. Grey. Black. It pulses like a monstrous heart. His father's hand. Strong. On his shoulder. The foreign consciousness of the suit whispers. The Fracture. His father's experiments. Not just a scientist. Not just a victim. A creator. The horror of it. His perceptions swim. He stumbles.
"Gravemind. Stay on your feet." The leader's sharp command.
Vael rights himself. The ground feels solid again. His suit compensates. Neural stabilization. He is in control. Almost. The suit's whispers quiet. But the knowledge remains. His father's legacy. His suit's knowledge. Blurred.
They reach the extraction point. A wide, crumbling plaza. An old landing pad. Debris scattered everywhere. No sign of a transport. Or other humans.
"Extraction team is late." The leader mutters. He checks his comms. Nothing but static.
The air here is thick with the scent of bio-matter. Not just Gorebreed. But something else. A raw, festering smell. Like deep wounds. Like infected tissue.
Vael's suit pulses. The neural crown burns with an alarming intensity. A pressure builds behind his eyes, inside them. He sees the others. Their bio-signatures flicker in his enhanced vision. Warm. Fragile. The suit's cold, predatory focus sharpens.
Then it happens. A sound. Not from the external comms. Not from the crackle of static. It comes from the immediate vicinity. From the rubble around them.
A low, guttural moan.
Then, distorted. Wet. A cough. A choke.
"Vae…l."
The sound rips through him. It is Pilot Jax's voice. Twisted. Broken. But unmistakable. It is not an echo in his mind. It is here. Beside them. A predator's call. A hunting cry.
Something snaps inside Vael's skull. A cracking sound. Bone against metal. Or bone against bone. The light from his visor flickers, red. The neural crown pulses. It is complete. He feels the cold power surge. The transformation. His jaw locks. The phantom pains intensify, now real. His perception shifts. He is no longer just seeing. He is sensing. Hunting. And the sound of Jax, closer now, is no longer terrifying. It is a challenge.