Callan Pierce
I charged Valkyrie through the skeletal remains of old highway systems. Rusted vehicles lay scattered like discarded toys, monuments to a world long gone. I crushed several underfoot, not bothering to navigate around the debris in my haste. Only the occasional flashes from distant fractures brought color to this dead world, brilliant purples and blues that signaled more Nephilim would soon emerge.
Humans have always been drawn to colorful things, to neon lights and glowing effects. Like our ancestors invented fire and then learned it could burn. When the portals first appeared, humanity was drawn to their hypnotic beauty. Scientists and civilians alike approached the shimmering tears in reality, fascinated by the kaleidoscope of colors until the first Nephilim crawled through, and humanity once again learned a painful lesson about curiosity. Now, those same beautiful lights signaled only death and destruction.
I stared at the distant silhouette of Echo-5, our base carved into the weathered cliffs that once overlooked Boston Harbor. The massive repurposed naval fortress had become our last line of defense, a final stronghold against the Nephilim threat. Where fishing boats and cruise ships once docked, anti-Nephilim weapon systems now lined the shore, their energy cannons aimed toward the sea, where underwater fractures occasionally unleashed aquatic variants of our enemy.
"Pierce to Base," I said, enabling communications. "Emergency medical required at northwest entrance. Civilian casualty. Repeat, civilian casualty."
The response was immediate. "Copy that, Pierce. Medical standing by. Command wants to know why you're bringing in a civilian."
Of course, they did. I could already hear Commander Rivera's lecture.
"ETA three minutes," I replied, ignoring the question. I cut the communication channel before they could ask anything else. Questions would come later. Right now, getting this civilian proper medical attention was all that mattered.
"SERA, initiate disengagement sequence and activate autopilot for the final approach to the base."
"Acknowledged. Disengagement sequence initiated. Autopilot engaged."
The neural tether began its phased disconnection from my Synaptic Bridge implant. This was always the worst part.
My body tensed as the millions of microscopic filaments withdrew from my nervous system one by one. The sensation mimicked thousands of tiny insects crawling beneath my skin, working their way from my spine through my entire body. The pilot suit I wore helped mitigate some of the pain by delivering localized analgesics to the connection points, but nothing could completely eliminate the sensation.
As the neural link weakened, phantom limb sensations washed over me. For the past several hours, Valkyrie's massive frame had been an extension of my own body. Now that the connection was being severed, my mind struggled to reconcile the loss of those extra limbs. I gritted my teeth against the nausea that always came with disconnection.
The suit itself was a marvel of engineering. It fit like a second skin, made from pressure-reactive fibers interwoven with cooling systems and medical monitors. Black with blue energy conduits tracing patterns that mimicked the human nervous system, it reduced physical trauma during neural integration. The helmet retracted into a collar around my neck, giving me full visibility now that SERA controlled our approach.
"Disengagement at 40%," SERA announced. "Warning: accelerated disengagement may result in increased neural strain and potential synaptic scarring."
I knew the risks all too well. Rapid disconnection could cause everything from migraines to seizures, even permanent nerve damage in extreme cases. My medical file already noted early signs of neural degradation from years of piloting. Most Aegis pilots lasted three years before the cumulative damage forced retirement. I'd doubled that, but at a cost. The headaches were getting worse, and the tremors in my hands were more frequent. The military doctors had a term for it—Synaptic Degradation Syndrome—but we pilots called it "the shakes."
Today would only add to the damage, but I couldn't wait for the standard twenty-minute disconnection protocol. Not with an injured civilian requiring medical attention.
While Valkyrie continued its approach on autopilot, I unfastened the neural harness restraints and turned toward the secondary compartment. The civilian lay strapped to an emergency med-cradle, unconscious but breathing steadily.
I knelt beside him, taking a closer look. His forehead was clammy, covered with a thin sheen of sweat. I eased strands of dark hair from his face. Dust and debris covered him, remnants of the collapse, but beneath the grime, I could make out a pattern of freckles scattered across his pale skin.
Looking for identification, I checked his pockets. Inside his jacket, I found what I was looking for—an ID card from Dome City Eight. Leo Tanner, 22 years old. The name struck an odd chord, stirring emotions I hadn't expected.
My focus fractured, pulled toward an image out of reach. It was him. This specific face dredged up a memory, like a ghost I hadn't seen until now.
Those freckles peppered across pale skin, and something about the shape of his face… for a moment, the wasteland disappeared, replaced by sunlight filtering through a protective shield, by green fields that hadn't seen Nephilim destruction.
A face from my past overlaid Leo's unconscious features. Someone I'd lost. Someone I'd failed to protect.
This wasn't him. Logic told me that. Then it hit me: that boy was gone years ago, along with my chance at redemption. He was someone I'd been chasing through every mission, every war zone. And Leo wasn't him. Just another stranger caught in humanity's mistake.
"Disengagement at 75%," SERA intoned. "Base perimeter security has acknowledged approach. Prepare for arrival."
I returned to the pilot station, already registering the physical consequences of neural strain. My vision blurred at the edges, and a familiar throbbing began at the base of my skull, spreading outward. By tonight, the pain would be unbearable, requiring the maximum allowed dose of neural stabilizers to sleep. By tomorrow morning, my hands would likely tremble too much to hold a cup without spilling. The price of pushing an Aegis unit beyond its limits—and my own.
But looking back at the unconscious young man in my secondary compartment, I couldn't bring myself to regret it.