The hum of the aircraft was steady, almost soothing—if not for the tension that hung thick in the cabin. Commander Darius Holt stood near the open bay, one gloved hand gripping a support rail as he stared out into the endless stretch of grey sky. Below, far beyond the clouds, the sea churned like a living thing.

Ten soldiers. That was the count this time. One Commander. One Sharpshooter. One Support. Six Elites. A full unit. And yet, the silence felt heavier than when there had only been three. Behind him, the team prepared in quiet routines. Armor checks. Weapon calibrations. Low murmurs that never quite became conversation.

“First deployment with us, sir.”

Darius didn’t turn immediately. The voice was new—confident, but measured.

“I know,” he replied. “You’re the Sharpshooter.”

A pause. Then boots approached.

“Renn,” the soldier said. “Sharpshooter.”

Darius turned now, studying him. Sleek rifle. Clean posture. No wasted movement. Nothing like Kael.

“Had one before you,” Darius said. “Best shot I’ve seen. Didn’t miss. Not once.”

Renn gave a slight nod. “I’ve heard the stories.”

“He died on Ironcliff.”

Another pause. Heavier this time.

Renn stepped closer anyway. “Then I’ll make sure you hear new ones.”

Darius held his gaze for a moment longer… then gave a small, approving nod.

“See that you do.”

Across the bay, the Support soldier struggled with a crate latch.

“Careful with that,” one of the Elites muttered.

“I’ve got it,” the Support replied, voice thin but steady.

Darius walked over. The man was slight—too slight for war. His armor looked like it weighed more than he did.

“Name,” Darius said.

“Silas, sir. Support.”

The latch finally snapped open with a metallic crack. Silas nearly stumbled back from the effort. Darius caught the crate before it tipped.

“Medical and comms?” Darius asked.

Silas nodded. “Yes, sir. Field surgery, signal recovery, long-range transmission… I’m better behind a console than a rifle.”

One of the Elites chuckled. “Good thing we’ve got six of us for the shooting.”

The others stood nearby: Varn, broad-shouldered and silent. Kade, constantly scanning. Rho, tapping a blade against his thigh. Tarek and Juno, whispering between themselves. And Brigg, leaning back like this was just another ride.  Darius looked at them all. A full squad.

“Mission briefing stands,” he said. “Coastal reconnaissance. Possible hostile presence. We land, secure, report. Clean and simple.”

“Nothing’s ever simple,” Brigg muttered.

The plane lurched. Hard. The hum of the engines shifted into a strained, uneven roar.

Darius’s head snapped toward the cockpit. “Status!”

No response. Then...

A violent jolt. Red lights flooded the cabin.

“Brace!” someone shouted.

The aircraft dipped sharply. Metal screamed as something tore loose along the hull.

“Engine failure!” Juno yelled.

“Altitude dropping!”

The ocean was suddenly visible ,far too close.

“Impact in...” Kade started. The crash came before he could finish.

Cold. That was the first thing Darius felt. Cold and pressure. Water surged around him as he forced his eyes open. The wreckage of the aircraft lay scattered, half-submerged, waves crashing against twisted metal. He dragged himself onto a jagged section of hull, coughing violently.

“Report!” he shouted, voice raw.
Shapes emerged through the surf.

Varn.

Kade.

Silas, barely staying upright, clinging to a floating panel.

Rho… limping.

Brigg.

Six.

Darius’s eyes scanned the wreckage.

“No…” he muttered.

Renn was nowhere to be seen. Nor three of the Elites. The sea had taken them. Darius clenched his jaw. No time.

“On me!” he barked.

The survivors regrouped on a narrow stretch of rocky shoreline. Waves battered the coast behind them, dragging debris and bodies back into the depths. Silas collapsed to one knee, shivering.

“I—I think the comms are gone,” he said. “I need to find the unit—”

“You’ll get your chance,” Darius said. “First we secure—”

A sound cut him off. Not the wind. Not the waves. Something… sharper. A whistling crack through the air.

“Down!”

A trident slammed into the rock where Silas had been seconds before. The water churned. And they rose.

Merfolk.

Their forms were twisted blends of human and sea predator—scaled limbs, webbed hands gripping long, barbed tridents. Their eyes gleamed with a cold, alien intelligence.

“Contact!” Kade shouted.

The first wave hit fast. Tridents flew like spears of lightning. One pierced Tarek clean through before he could raise his weapon. Gunfire erupted.

Varn charged forward, ripping a trident from the ground and hurling it back into the surf, striking one of the creatures. It shrieked—but more followed. They moved with terrifying speed, surging between water and land. 
Rho went down next, dragged screaming into the shallows.

“Hold the line!” Darius roared, firing controlled bursts.

Kade dropped two before a trident struck his chest, throwing him backward. Brigg fought like Brok had—fists, fury, no hesitation. He crushed one Merfolk against the rocks before three more overwhelmed him. Silas stayed behind, hands shaking as he tried to reload a rifle he clearly wasn’t built to use.

“Silas!” Darius shouted. “Stay back!”

“I’m trying!” Silas yelled, voice cracking.

By the time Varn fell, the shoreline became a chaotic mix of blood and seawater, the air filled with the clash of steel and gunfire. And then...Silence.

Darius stood, breathing heavily, rifle half-empty. Around him lay the fallen. And the dead Merfolk. Only one figure remained behind him.

Silas.

Alive. Barely, but definitely alive. Darius looked at him, then at the battlefield. A short, disbelieving laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The weakest soldier survives.”

Silas gave a shaky, humorless smile. “I… try not to be where the sharp things are.”

Darius exhaled, then slung his rifle.

“Can you still do your job?”

Silas nodded, already moving toward the wreckage. “If I can find the comm unit… yes.”

They searched in silence, the waves continuing their relentless assault. Minutes passed.

“Sir!” Silas called out.

He held up a battered device, half-cracked but intact.

“I can make this work.”

Darius nodded. “Do it.”

Silas knelt, hands moving with sudden confidence. Wires adjusted. Frequencies tuned. Static crackled.

“This is Support Specialist Silas of Holt Unit,” he said, voice steadier now. “Requesting immediate extraction. Coordinates incoming. Hostile aquatic species confirmed. Repeat—requesting backup.”

Static. A pause. Then a faint response. Darius didn’t catch the words—but he saw Silas’s expression shift.

“They heard us,” Silas said.

Darius looked out over the darkening sea.

“Good,” he said quietly.

They sat among the wreckage as the sky dimmed, waves whispering against the shore.

Two survivors. Waiting for rescue.