The sky above Helion Prime burned a color that didn't exist before the war — a searing mixture of crimson and static blue, the byproduct of plasma bombardments and a fractured ozone. The air itself hummed with electricity, as if the planet was still screaming from the wounds of the previous night.
Kael Varen pressed his back against the remains of a collapsed transport carrier. The metal was hot enough to scorch his uniform. His hands shook as he reloaded the rifle — one of the standard-issue MK-9s the Directorate gave to every orphan who could hold a gun.
He didn't know how long he'd been here. Hours. Days. Time had turned into a blur of gunfire and silence.
Around him, the ruins of Sector Twelve smoldered — once a bustling industrial colony, now a graveyard of bent steel and shattered glass. Bodies lay where they fell, their faces hidden by ash. The Directorate called it a "cleansing operation." Kael called it what it was: mass murder.
He heard footsteps — slow, heavy, methodical. The sound of metal boots crushing gravel. He froze.
From behind the wreckage, a soldier emerged, armor glinting in the haze. The silver insignia of the Directorate shone proudly on his chestplate. Kael's throat closed. He recognized the symbol — the same one worn by the unit that bombed his home three years ago.
The soldier scanned the field. His voice was cold, filtered through his helmet.
"Area secure. Survivors will be processed."
Kael's finger twitched on the trigger. The word processed echoed in his skull. He knew what it meant.
He thought of his mother — her hands stained with engine grease, pulling him into the shelter when the sirens wailed. He remembered her voice:
"Kael, no matter what happens, don't lose your name."
The next moment was instinct. He rose from cover and fired. The recoil slammed into his shoulder. The soldier stumbled, armor sparking, then fell face-first into the dirt. Kael stood over him, panting, the rifle trembling in his grip.
The visor of the soldier's helmet had cracked, revealing a single eye beneath — human, terrified, and young. No older than twenty. Kael froze. His stomach turned as the reality sank in.
He wasn't a hero. He was just another killer in a war of ghosts.
A deafening explosion tore through the silence. The shockwave threw him backward, crashing into twisted metal. The world blurred again — smoke, flames, static. When the dust settled, he could barely hear anything except the ringing in his ears.
A voice crackled through his comms, faint but urgent.
"Any survivors of the 19th unit, respond! Evacuation transport en route to Grid Nine!"
He swallowed the lump in his throat, pressing the comm against his mouth.
"Cadet Kael Varen... reporting."
"Copy that, Cadet. Hold your position. We'll find you."
He didn't believe them. Nobody ever came for survivors in the wastelands. But he followed orders — because that's what soldiers did. They followed orders even when the world made no sense.
He waited. He watched the smoke twist upward into the broken sky. He wondered if his mother would recognize him now — covered in dust and blood, his uniform torn and blackened.
Minutes turned into hours. No transport came.
Then, in the distance, he saw movement. Not Directorate soldiers this time — scavengers. Warlords of the ruins, the ones who picked clean the battlefields after the fighting stopped.
He gripped his rifle again, but it was empty. He reached for a sidearm that wasn't there. His ammo was gone, his energy cells drained. He had nothing left but his name.
The scavengers spotted him. Three of them, wrapped in rags and rebreathers, carrying makeshift weapons. They laughed — a low, distorted sound.
"Look at this one. A Directorate pup, lost and alone."
"Uniform's still warm. Strip it."
Kael backed away, his boots scraping the gravel. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
The first scavenger lunged — and then stopped mid-step. His chest burst with a flash of blue light. Plasma round.
The others screamed. More shots followed, precise and cold. The scavengers dropped where they stood.
Kael fell to his knees, eyes wide. From the smoke, a figure emerged — a woman in worn-out combat armor, visor cracked, rifle resting on her shoulder.
"You're Directorate?" she asked.
Kael hesitated. "…Not anymore."
She studied him for a moment, then extended a hand. "Name's Rhea Solen. Outworld mercenary. You look half-dead, kid."
"I… I was part of the 19th."
She glanced at the insignia on his sleeve and sighed. "Figures. The Directorate eats its young."
He didn't know what to say. He just stared at her hand. After a pause, he took it. Her grip was firm, calloused — real.
"Congratulations, soldier," Rhea said. "You survived your first massacre."
Her voice wasn't cruel. It was tired — the kind of exhaustion that came from seeing too much and feeling too little.
They moved through the ruins together. Kael limped, his armor sparking with each step. Rhea led him toward a waiting hovercraft, painted matte black — no faction markings, just the logo of a broken wing.
"Who are you people?" Kael asked.
"Mercenaries. Scavengers. Survivors. Depends on the day."
"You fight the Directorate?"
"We fight everyone."
Kael looked back at the battlefield one last time. The fires were dying down, leaving only smoke and shadows. Somewhere under that rubble were the faces he trained with, laughed with, saluted with.
Gone.
He felt the weight of their silence pressing against his chest.
When they boarded the hovercraft, Rhea handed him a flask. "Drink. You'll need it."
The liquid burned down his throat like acid, but it steadied his shaking hands.
"What now?" he asked.
Rhea smirked faintly. "Now? You rest. Tomorrow, we'll see if you're worth keeping alive."
As the craft lifted off, Kael watched the ruins of Sector Twelve fade into the clouds. His reflection in the window stared back — pale, hollow-eyed, barely human.
He whispered his name under his breath.
"Kael Varen."
He didn't want to forget it. Not again.
Above the smoke, the shattered moon glowed faintly — broken, yet still there.
Somewhere deep inside, Kael made a silent vow.
"I'll never serve anyone again."
But the universe had other plans.