Perspective: Sergeant Marcus Jones
Sergeant Marcus Jones clicked his tongue impatiently, trying to wash away the familiar yet cloying, rusty taste unique to the "Contact Zone" with his saliva.
His squad, "Worker Bee Six," was stationed at a T-junction formed by a dry riverbed on the edge of Patrol Zone 03, carrying out what seemed to be a routine surveillance mission.
"Chief, the background noise from the 'Whisper Detectors' on the perimeter is the same as always,"
"as steady as the unchanging poker faces of those high-level bureaucrats in Bedrock City's central administrative district."
Allen, the squad's medic and communications specialist, a young man with sharp eyes, spoke with a hint of banter in the encrypted comms channel.
"Don't let your guard down, Allen. Never trust the damn 'safety threshold,'"
Jones replied, leaning against a giant, twisted mutant plant. He carefully scanned the ominous reddish-purple mist spreading around them through the specialized tactical visor of his "Sentinel" interface.
"Remember what I said the last time those Intelligence bastards who do nothing but sit in their offices drinking synth-coffee swore this area was clear of even the lowest-grade Ash Scorpipedes."
"Roger that, Chief."
"Never use an official map from Intelligence as toilet paper unless you're actually out of toilet paper,"
rumbled Reno, the squad's heavy weapons specialist. This drew a few suppressed chuckles over the channel.
Despite its designation sounding like a logistics engineering unit, this "Worker Bee Six" squad was in fact an elite rapid-response team that had been fighting in the "Contact Zone" for years. Every one of its members was a seasoned veteran long accustomed to some of the Federation's more rigid and inflexible bureaucratic processes.
Just as Jones was about to remind his team to check their energy reserves again, Allen's voice suddenly crackled urgently over the comms channel. It was filled with an ill-concealed panic and fear that nearly broke his voice.
"Captain! Emergency distress signal! A top-priority S.O.S.!"
"It's from the 'Pathfinder' squad attached directly to the rookie training camp."
"They're about three kilometers northeast of our position in coordinate sector SC-Gamma-07."
"Oh god! They're reporting an encounter with a 'Calamity-Tier' threat from the Federation database: the 'Wailing Aggregation'!"
"What did you say?!"
Sergeant Jones shot up from his position by the twisted plant. The veteran's composure vanished in an instant. It was replaced by a look of absolute shock and unprecedented gravity, as if he had just been hit head-on by an abyssal behemoth.
"Wailing Aggregation? Allen, are you sure you heard that right?"
"How could a monster like that appear in a patrol zone on the fringe of the 'Contact Zone'?"
"It's confirmed, Captain! The signal source has been verified three times; the sender is the 'Pathfinder' medic."
"Her voice sounds like she's about to break down."
"They are requesting all possible emergency fire support."
"I repeat: Coordinate sector SC-Gamma-07. They are encountering a 'Calamity-Tier' threat!"
Sergeant Jones cursed inwardly.
Dammit!
Those fucking rookies again!
What are those out-of-touch bureaucrats in high command thinking?
Isn't this just sending them to their deaths?
Even though his heart was filled with fury, as an experienced commander, he didn't hesitate for a second.
"All members of 'Worker Bee Six,' listen up!"
Sergeant Jones's voice shot through the encrypted battlefield communications channel like an electric shock into the earpieces of every squad member.
"Abandon your current defensive positions immediately!"
"Objective: coordinate sector SC-Gamma-07."
"Engage maximum tactical mobility mode on the 'Interface,' full speed ahead!"
"Allen, maintain contact with the Pathfinder squad. Tell them to hold on no matter what; we're on our way."
"Reno, check your PP-8 'Inferno' plasma projector and get ready to give that big bastard a nasty welcome."
"Sarah, you're taking point, so run scout!"
"Everyone, activate your 'Interface' to maximum combat power."
"Prepare for a tough fight the likes of which we've probably never seen!"
"Roger that, Chief!"
The channel instantly filled with the squad's synchronized response—a reply brimming with do-or-die resolve.
The energy indicators on the shoulders and chests of their standard-issue Type-12 Mod. I "Reinforced Sentinel" interfaces lit up in succession. The specialized, high-powered thrusters under their feet roared to life and spewed jets of pale blue, incandescent light.
Like five arrows released from a bowstring, the five well-equipped, imposing figures instantly vanished into the twisted jungle and ominous reddish-purple mist, racing toward the source of the distress signal like the wind.