The pale, sickly dawn broke over Sector 8 Rift Fringe like a bruised peach. He cast long amber shadows across the frozen salt basins. At six o’clock in the morning, the freezing desert wind had finally died down to a sluggish breeze that carried the bitter reek of sulfur from the southern earth-shaking rifts.
Arthur Vance was already awake, step by step boiling a pot of clean stone tea over the fire bowl while checking the freezing liquid seals on his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine. On his chest, Vesper had finally uncurled from her 2:30 AM purr donut, stretching her long spine in a luxurious, shuddering arch before leaping lightly onto Titus’s shell to inspect Toby’s morning ration prep.
Toby yawned, stretching his arms toward the warming coals. “Another forty hours to go, Boss. The tracking data shows our survival rating is currently sitting at number one among the eight academies. If we hold Delta-4 until tomorrow afternoon, we’re guaranteed a spot in the Semi-Finals.”
Suddenly, a sharp, bone-shaking crack shattered the morning stillness.
THWUMP.
Ten miles to the northeast, rising from beyond the jagged dark shape of a collapsed pre-Cataclysm railway viaduct, a brilliant crimson flare hissed high into the amber sky. It burst at two thousand feet, releasing a sprawling parachute of blazing red phosphorus that spelled out the universal military distress rune. CODE RED // IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION Needed.
