No Place for Fear

The jungle pressed in around them as they moved, thick and stifling. Every breath felt damp, heavy with the scent of wet earth and unfamiliar vegetation. The weight of their full canisters sloshing against their backs made them slower, made every step feel like it echoed louder than it should. The feeling of exposure gnawed at them—their desert uniforms, once perfect for the arid wastelands, now stood out like pale banners against the deep greens and browns of the jungle.

Bogi led from the center, his rifle steady in his hands, his eyes locked ahead. Roki walked just in front of him, guiding the group back the way they came. Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder at Bogi, their unspoken understanding keeping the formation intact. Oliver moved beside Bogi, his presence calm but sharp, always watching.

Olek and Gregor had fallen quiet.

At first, it wasn't noticeable—Olek was a man of few words, and Gregor usually muttered to himself while checking his grenades. But their silence was different now. Their movements were just a little too stiff, their eyes darting to the sides more than the others.

The jungle made them uneasy. A creeping, unfamiliar feeling had settled in—not panic, not yet, but something close. Something they didn't like. "Stay close," Oliver murmured, his voice low but firm. The reassurance wasn't just for them. It was for all of them.

Olek exhaled through his nose, shifting the heavy machine gun on his back. His grip on the strap was tight, knuckles paling. Gregor, walking just beside him, kept rolling his shoulders like the weight of his gear suddenly felt heavier.

Bogi didn't miss it. He caught the way Olek's breaths came a little shallower, the way Gregor's head twitched at every stray rustle in the trees. The two weren't afraid of a fight—that was what unsettled them. There was no fight yet. No target. Nothing to fire at. Just the weight of the unknown.

Oliver, noticing the same thing, slowed his pace just enough to fall beside them. He didn't look at them directly, didn't call them out. Instead, his voice came steady, controlled.

"Keep moving," he said. "This isn't fear. This is caution. And caution keeps men alive." Olek exhaled, nodding once. Gregor did the same, his fingers flexing before tightening around the strap of his pack.

The words weren't soft, but they landed the right way. A command, but also a reminder. Bogi approved.

No wasted words. No mockery. Just enough steel to keep them sharp, just enough understanding to keep them steady. "Pick up the pace," Bogi ordered quietly, signaling to Roki. "We don't linger." Roki nodded, leading the way with practiced steps.

The jungle was loud in its quietness. No screaming winds, no shifting sands—just the constant rustle of unseen things. Every now and then, a branch creaked. A distant bird call echoed through the canopy. The sounds were natural, but none of it felt normal.

They didn't belong here.

Their uniforms clashed against the greens and browns, their movement too rigid compared to the sway of the jungle. They had spent years blending into deserts, into the ruined cities of a broken world. Here, they were like soldiers marching through an uncharted land, too visible, too alien.

Bogi's mind worked as they moved. This wasn't sustainable. Their pale tan gear, their structured movements—they needed to adapt. If they were going to last here, they had to stop standing out.

But that was for later. Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting back to camp. They moved with discipline, with experience, but the tension never left. No one spoke unless necessary. The formation stayed tight.

Step by step, the camp grew closer. And still, none of them let down their guard. The jungle had tested their nerves. And they had no intention of giving it another chance.

The squad's return was met with a shift in the air. Soldiers at the perimeter, though disciplined, could not fully conceal their relief. Their grips on their weapons loosened just slightly, shoulders uncoiling from hours of tension. Their captains had returned—mission accomplished.

Even as the men continued their duties, there was no denying it. They had waited. Not just for the water, but for the ones who held this fractured force together.

Michael and Ogar stood by the entrance to the command tent, postures rigid, expressions unreadable. Yet, as Bogi and Oliver approached, both men straightened further, offering sharp, wordless nods—a subordinate's acknowledgment of the leaders they followed.

The moment their captains stepped inside, they followed.

The command tent was simple, practical. A heavy wooden table sat at its center, layered with maps drawn in rough strokes, notes scribbled in the margins. A lantern flickered at one corner, casting jagged shadows along the fabric walls.

Michael was the first to speak, his voice crisp, professional. "Captain Bogi. Captain Oliver," he addressed them properly, standing at attention. "The camp remains secure. As ordered, we reinforced the pass—the only entry point. Sharpened stakes, layered stone barricades, and overlapping defensive positions. Anyone trying to enter will have to come through us."

Ogar stepped forward next, his voice steady but firm. "Sentry rotations have been maintained—four men per shift, changing every four hours. We've conducted patrols within the valley itself to confirm no unknown factors inside our perimeter. The only way in or out remains the pass. We are holding it."

Bogi gave a slow nod, absorbing their words. Good. No surprises. Michael hesitated briefly before adding, "However, there is one issue. Water."

Ogar exhaled. "We've rationed carefully, and no supplies have been wasted. But for us to dye our uniforms properly, we need a considerable amount more. What you brought back will be enough for only twelve uniforms. The rest will have to wait."

Bogi's eyes flicked to Oliver. They both knew what had to be done.

Turning back, Bogi's voice was level, deliberate. "Then we take twelve." His fingers pressed lightly against the table as he laid out the decision. "We take our best ten men. You and I, Oliver. That makes twelve. Agile. Precise. Deadly. This is no longer a simple supply run—we go in expecting resistance. We do this right."

Oliver didn't hesitate. He met Bogi's gaze and gave a single nod. "Agreed."

As Bogi and Oliver stepped out of the tent, the camp had begun to settle. The tension from the day lingered, but there was a rhythm now, an order. Weapons were checked, sentries relieved, small portions of rations consumed in quiet efficiency. The men moved with purpose, but there was no mistaking the exhaustion beneath their discipline.

Then the light shifted.

It was gradual at first. A deepening of the gold, a subtle lengthening of the shadows cast across the valley. The heat that had pressed down on them relentlessly began to ease, the air cooling just slightly.

A few soldiers noticed. Then more. One by one, heads tilted upward. The two suns that had blazed over them for what felt like an eternity were finally lowering toward the horizon.

First, the larger one descended, its burning orange glow melting into the distant landscape. Its light stretched long across the valley, as though reluctant to release its hold. The second sun lingered just a little longer, casting its pale golden light a while longer before it too dipped lower, fading into the unknown.

But what followed next was not darkness. It was the moons. Gasps rippled through the camp.

Five massive celestial bodies emerged from the horizon, rising slowly into view. Their forms were staggering in size, far larger than the single moon they had once known. Some glowed in pale silver, their surfaces smooth and endless. Others carried an ethereal blue hue, their light cold and unnatural.

The sky deepened into shades of dark indigo, but it did not turn black. Instead, the moons bathed the valley in an eerie glow, illuminating the jagged cliffs, the stone pathways, and the gathered soldiers in a surreal silver-blue light.

A murmur spread through the camp. "This marks the end of our first day…" one soldier muttered, almost to himself.

Others glanced at each other, shifting uncomfortably. It was real now. Not just theory, not just speculation. They were no longer on their world. They had left it behind.

Oliver watched their reactions carefully, his sharp blue eyes reading the unspoken words in their expressions. They weren't panicking, but they were shaken.

It wasn't fear. Not yet. But the longer they stared at the sky, the more their controlled discipline threatened to slip.

Bogi stepped forward. "Steady!" The word was quiet, but it cut through the camp like steel. Soldiers turned, their gazes shifting from the sky back to him. Their commander was not shaken.

"We do not break," Bogi continued, his voice unwavering. "We have fought in worse places. We have survived worse enemies. This is no different."

Oliver stepped beside him, reinforcing the moment with a voice just as steady. "We have our orders," he added. "And our mission remains the same—we fight, we adapt, and we survive."

Bogi's gaze swept over his men. This was no longer about calming them. This was about making them understand. "We will not falter. We will explore this place. We will claim it. We will endure."

The murmurs died down. Slowly, uncertainty hardened into resolve. Their sky had changed. Their world was different. But they were still soldiers.

And under the watchful glow of five unknown moons, they prepared for what came next. Tomorrow, they would return to the jungle. Tomorrow, they would be ready.

The night was filled with quiet labor.

Under the eerie glow of the five moons, the camp moved like a machine, each soldier playing their role with sharp discipline. There was no idle talk, no wasted effort—only the practiced efficiency of men preparing for what lay ahead.

Michael and Ogar oversaw the dyeing of the twelve uniforms, working alongside the soldiers as they soaked, wrung, and stretched the fabric to dry. The pale desert tones were erased, replaced with deep greens and muted browns, crude but effective. By the time the moons had begun their slow descent, twelve sets of camouflage gear lay neatly folded, ready to be worn.

In the armory tent, Dante and Corvin worked tirelessly, testing, calibrating, and repairing what they could.

Six plasma blades—scavenged from the enemy—had been their greatest challenge. The alien technology was unlike anything they had ever used, delicate, unpredictable.

Dante frowned as he held one of the sleek weapons, running his calloused fingers over its unfamiliar grip. "You're sure it won't melt someone's hand off?"

Corvin, adjusting a power cell module, gave a half-smirk. "We'll find out soon enough." With a low, vibrating hum, the first plasma blade flickered to life.

The blue energy edge ignited with a sharp, controlled hum, casting a glow across their faces. Dante exhaled. "Huh. Wouldn't mind one of these in a knife fight."

One by one, each of the six blades was tested and confirmed operational. Meanwhile, in another tent, two men who would rather not work together did exactly that.

Lazar and Zeke, two of the highest-ranked officers beneath Bogi and Oliver, were given a task neither particularly wanted—assembling the combat gear for the attack squad.

The two men worked in stiff, unspoken cooperation, each going through the motions with barely concealed irritation.

Lazar checked and adjusted belts, holsters, and weapons, ensuring everything was tight and secure. Zeke packed rations, ammo clips, and additional supplies with precise but begrudging efficiency.

Not once did they speak unless absolutely necessary.

At one point, Lazar tightened a belt a little too aggressively around a supply pack. Zeke let out a sharp exhale through his nose.

"You know," Zeke muttered as he picked up a folded uniform, "you don't have to act like you're strangling the equipment."

Lazar ignored him. He grabbed another piece of gear and tossed it into place. "We don't have time for your complaints."

Zeke scoffed. "Right. Because you're a picture of patience. " The tension crackled between them, but orders were orders. And so they continued.

By the time they had finished, twelve full sets of battle gear lay neatly arranged, complete with reinforced plating, field rations, extra ammunition, and secured holsters for the plasma blades.

Viper entered the tent then, carrying a small medical kit strapped tightly in his grip. Without waiting for them to acknowledge him, he set it down and fixed them both with a sharp look.

"This is all you're getting," Viper said flatly. "Bandages, a handful of painkillers, and a single dose of antibiotics. That's it. You need more? Too bad. I don't have it."

Lazar exhaled through his nose, folding his arms. "We'll make it work." Zeke, for once, didn't argue.

Viper let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Sure you will." His dark eyes flicked between them. "Just try not to get your guts spilled. I don't have enough supplies to put them back in."

He left without another word. Lazar and Zeke exchanged a single glance. Then, as if deciding it wasn't worth discussing, they moved on.

With preparations complete, the soldiers finally allowed themselves rest.