SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

The cockpit of the ZR34-Rumbler was cramped and stifling, its overhead lights casting a dim glow across the brushed metal panels. 2nd Lieutenant Alekzandra Trottle sat in the pilot's seat, her breathing shallow and her uniform clinging to her skin. Sweat dripped down her temple, dampening the neck of her flight suit. Her hands hovered over the controls, trembling as she went through the pre-launch checklist.

On the surface, the Rumbler was a bulky, intimidating beast of a gunship, designed to endure punishing fire while deploying troops into hostile zones. But Alekzandra knew its weaknesses intimately. Its engines were slow to spool, its maneuverability left much to be desired, and its bulky frame made it an easy target for Extractants' projectile and acid-based weaponry.

She wiped her forehead with a shaky hand, her pulse thundering in her ears.

In the war room, the sight of SABER-1's relentless struggle had sparked something within her—a surge of courage, a sense of duty. But now, enclosed in the cockpit with the weight of the mission pressing down on her, that spark was smothered by fear.

"Pull it together," she muttered, forcing her hands to steady as she flipped switches and adjusted the throttle. "You've done hot drops before. You've landed under fire. This is no different… right?"

Except it was different. This wasn't a hot infiltration where speed and surprise were her allies. This was an extraction. She would have to land, expose the vulnerable underbelly of her ship, drop the bay ramp, and wait—all while a swarm of Extractants clawed at her hull.

She exhaled shakily, her hands returning to the sticks. "Confidence in the war room doesn't mean anything now," she thought.

Her comms crackled to life. "Lieutenant Trottle, you're clear for launch. Clock's ticking."

She swallowed hard and gripped the controls, her knuckles whitening. "Copy that, Control. This is Rumbler 2-1, prepping for takeoff." Her voice was steady, but only just.

The engines of the Rumbler roared to life beneath her, the vibrations rattling through the cockpit. She took a moment to focus on the rhythmic thrum, grounding herself in the tangible. Her gloved hands rested on the throttle, the slight tremor in her fingers almost imperceptible now.

The hangar doors groaned open, revealing the orange glow of the burning city beyond. Thick plumes of smoke curled into the sky, and the distant sounds of battle were muffled by the Rumbler's reinforced glass.

"Rumbler 2-1, you are go for launch," the controller said.

Alekzandra inhaled deeply, held it, then exhaled slowly. Her fingers tightened around the throttle, and with a flick of the sticks, the Rumbler's bulky frame began to lift off the hangar floor.

The ship rose with a laborious groan, its engines straining as it hovered, then eased forward out of the hangar.

"Lieutenant Trottle," a voice broke through her comms—it was the Colonel, his tone sharp. "SABER-1's signal is holding steady, but the swarm is closing fast. You'll have minimal time on the ground. Make it count."

"Understood, sir," she replied, keeping her voice even.

In truth, she wanted to scream, to demand someone else take this mission. But there was no one else. It was her, the Rumbler, and SABER-1.

As she veered toward the designated LZ, the Extractants came into view. They were a writhing mass of grotesque forms, an army of claws, fangs, and sinewy limbs. Some were airborne, their leathery wings carrying them in erratic, menacing patterns. Others were on the ground, their monstrous bodies surging toward the lone blue dot on her HUD—SABER-1.

Her heart pounded as she keyed into his comm channel. "SABER-1, this is Rumbler 2-1. ETA five minutes to LZ. Prepare for extraction."

"Understood," came his calm reply, as if he were reporting the weather.

The contrast between his composure and her internal panic almost made her laugh. Almost.

"Here we go," she whispered as she angled the Rumbler lower, her eyes darting between the controls and the nightmare unfolding outside.

Her training took over as she engaged the Rumbler's weapon systems, unleashing a barrage of suppressive fire to clear a path. Explosions rippled across the swarm, and the Extractants scattered like ants.

But they wouldn't stay scattered for long.

She reached the LZ, her pulse hammering as she brought the gunship into a hover. The ship rocked under the strain of enemy fire, her shields flaring as acid splattered against them.

"Deploying bay ramp!" she called out, flipping the switch.

The ramp lowered with agonizing slowness, the metallic whine almost drowned out by the sounds of combat.

"Come on, come on," she muttered, her hands gripping the controls so tightly her gloves creaked.

Through the cockpit window, she saw him—SABER-1, a golden blur of motion as he cut down anything in his path.

He was coming. She just had to hold the line.

The Rumbler rocked violently under the onslaught. Alekzandra gritted her teeth, her hands trembling on the controls as the ship's shields flared brighter with every hit. Warning lights flashed on her HUD, filling the cockpit with a sinister red glow.

"Lieutenant Trottle," came SABER-1's voice, calm and collected amidst the chaos, "your shields won't last. Abort the extraction. I'll find another way."

Alekzandra's throat tightened. Her fear clawed at her, but something deeper pushed it back—the sight of him earlier, fighting alone, a lone warrior against impossible odds. She pressed the comms button, her voice trembling.

"Negative, SABER-1," she said, barely holding back the quaver in her words. "I won't let you die alone out here without any hope."

There was a pause on the other end, a silence filled with the sound of explosions and screeching Extractants. Then his voice returned, as calm and composed as before.

"Bravery isn't defiance, Lieutenant," he said evenly. "It's knowing when to make the hard call."

Her chest tightened further. She wanted to argue, to scream at him, but she couldn't find the words.

Then she heard it—a faint, mechanical sound over the comms, like a series of locks sliding into place. Her heart dropped as she recognized it: SABER-1's armor reconfiguring itself, activating its survival protocols.

"Eilífr Mode engaged," the suit's automated voice announced faintly in the background.

Her HUD display flickered, briefly hijacked by a remote signal. A readout of SABER-1's suit status appeared—an ominous red overlay marked Override: Maximum Survival. She knew what it meant even despite never seeing that before, only hearing the tales of other pilots who extracted him. His armor was cutting off everything non-essential—pain, fatigue, even parts of his humanity—to push him beyond his limits.

"No," she whispered, gripping the comms. "You can't—"

"It's already done, Lieutenant," he said, his voice devoid of the warmth he'd just shown. It was colder now, more detached, the product of a man whose every sense had been honed for survival. "Focus on the mission. Keep the ship steady. I'm coming to you."

Through the cockpit window, Alekzandra saw him surge forward. His movements were no longer human but mechanical, precise, and relentless. The Extractants swarmed around him, but nothing slowed him down.

Golden arcs flared as his shield absorbed blow after blow, the occasional flare of blue from his Hemacrine Gel system patching wounds as fast as they formed. Acid splattered across his armor, hissing and bubbling, but he didn't falter.

She clenched the controls, her knuckles white. The Rumbler's shields dipped dangerously low, the alarms blaring louder now. "SABER-1, we're not going to make it. This ship—"

"You'll make it," he interrupted, his voice like steel. "Hold steady."

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, tears stinging her eyes as her hands fought against the tremors threatening to take over.

He was closing in now, less than fifty meters from the ramp. She caught glimpses of his battered armor, gleaming with the glow of survival systems working overtime. He was fighting with a ferocity she'd never seen before, and the sight sent a shiver down her spine.

"Almost there," he said, his tone still cold, almost machine-like. "Prepare for takeoff the moment I'm aboard."

Alekzandra swallowed hard, her heart pounding as she held the Rumbler steady. The ship groaned under the strain, and the shields flickered again.

"Come on," she whispered, gripping the controls tighter. "Come on, damn it!"

And then, through the chaos, she saw him leap—his armor glinting in the firelight as he propelled himself up the ramp with inhuman strength. He landed hard, rolling to his feet in one fluid motion.

"Go!" he barked.

Without hesitation, Alekzandra yanked the throttle. The Rumbler roared as it lifted off, the ramp closing just as Extractants lunged for it, their claws scraping uselessly against the reinforced metal.

As they climbed higher, the sounds of battle faded, replaced by the hum of the ship's engines and the rapid beeping of her heartbeat monitor.

For a moment, she couldn't speak. Her hands were still trembling, her breath shaky.

"Good work, Lieutenant," SABER-1 said, his voice slightly warmer now but still distant. "You did well."

Alekzandra laughed bitterly, wiping her damp forehead. "I'm terrified out of my mind, and you call that doing well?"

"You kept me alive," he said simply. "That's all that matters."

She glanced at the rear camera feed, catching a glimpse of him sitting on the floor of the cargo bay, his armor still glowing faintly from the overdrive systems. He looked less like a man and more like a machine—a warrior built for survival, no matter the cost.

And for the first time, she truly understood why they called him Eilífr.