Heavy is the Head That Wears the Crown of Thorns

Inside his low-orbital pod, Eilífr sat motionless, his massive frame dwarfed by the sleek confines of the drop capsule. The hum of its systems filled the small space, accompanied by the faint clicks and beeps of hundreds of holographic feeds blinking across the curved display before him. His visor reflected the chaotic symphony of data: live video streams, tactical maps, and overlapping comm chatter from all fronts of the Corsair assault.

He absorbed it all, his mind parsing the information with surgical precision. The sounds of battle filled his ears—rapid exchanges of gunfire, shouted orders, desperate cries for reinforcements, and the guttural shrieks of Extractants. It was chaos, but for him, it was a puzzle. Each piece mattered, every fragment of information another clue in determining the exact moment he would deploy.

The voices from the operations room, a distant echo through his comm link, barely registered. Their tone was fraught with panic, a sharp contrast to his unnervingly steady demeanor.

"Northwestern front is pinned! They're going to collapse!"

"The Northeastern push is too far ahead—they'll be overrun if we don't shore up their flanks!"

"Why hasn't SABER-1 deployed yet? What the hell is he waiting for?"

Eilífr didn't care for their opinions. Most of the voices in that room belonged to people who had never set foot on a battlefield, let alone felt the weight of life-and-death decisions. It was easy to call for action from the safety of a reinforced base. They didn't understand the consequences of acting too soon—or too late.

They would never understand the weight.

He shifted slightly, his armor hissing faintly as the pod's internal systems adjusted to his movements. His eyes flicked from one feed to another, his mind cataloguing every detail. The Northeastern front was dangerously overextended, but the mechanized units were holding for now. The Northern front, a grinding battle of attrition, was barely moving but hadn't faltered. The Northwestern front, however, was on the brink. Stalled, pinned, bleeding.

He could hear the desperation in their voices over the radio. Tank commanders barking orders as Extractants swarmed their flanks. Infantry leaders calling for artillery strikes to stave off overwhelming forces. The screams of soldiers caught in the fray, their lines barely holding. It was bad, but not yet catastrophic.

And that was the key.

He didn't have the luxury of guessing. If he miscalculated—if he allowed emotion or pressure to dictate his decision—it could spell disaster. If he deployed to the Northwestern front only for the Northeastern to falter moments later, the entire operation could unravel.

This was why he didn't listen to the chatter in the operations room, why their frustration and impatience didn't faze him. They weren't the ones who would bear the weight of a wrong decision. He was.

They don't understand. They can't, he thought, his grip tightening slightly on the armrests. But one person did.

The Colonel.

Eilífr respected him, not because they agreed on much, but because the Colonel understood what it meant to carry the burden of lives. Decisions weren't made in the heat of the moment. They were calculated, deliberate, grounded in the cold logic of necessity. That respect, though unspoken, was mutual.

His visor flickered as the feeds updated, his attention drawn to a small cluster of screens in the bottom-left corner of the display. A triangulation had begun—a series of overlapping signals pinging a location approximately 180 miles from the stalled Northwestern front. The data was incomplete, fragmented, but there was something about it.

"If I am wrong, please forgive me." He thinks to himself, matching the pods drop with the swirling triangulation. He gives his order, and releases his pod.

The command room was a maelstrom of tension. Voices clashed and overlapped, officers and personnel arguing with growing desperation as the holographic map in the center of the room painted a grim picture. Twelve grueling hours had passed, and the operation to retake Corsair was teetering on the edge of collapse. The Northwestern front, in particular, was a disaster waiting to happen.

Six senior officers had gathered near the Colonel, their faces etched with frustration and panic. Their voices rose and fell, a cacophony of demands and accusations.

"Colonel, with all due respect, we can't keep stalling! The Northwestern front is about to break!"

"They're pinned, out of ammo, out of options! If we lose them, the entire flank collapses!"

"We've already sent reinforcements, but they're not enough. We need SABER-1!"

The Colonel, standing ramrod straight at the head of the room, kept his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze remained fixed on the holographic map, where red markers—the Extractants—continued to swell and press against the dwindling blue of the human forces. His expression was a mask of control, but there was a flicker of something beneath it—tension, perhaps, or exhaustion.

"Gentlemen," he began, his voice calm but firm. "SABER-1's deployment is not a decision we take lightly. He has one drop. One chance to make an impact that can decide the fate of this entire operation. If he deploys prematurely—"

"Prematurely?" one of the officers interrupted, his voice incredulous. "We're twelve hours in! This isn't premature; it's a goddamned emergency!"

The Colonel's jaw tightened. "If he drops now, and the Northeastern front collapses—"

"That's a hypothetical! The Northwestern front is a certainty! They're dying out there!" another officer shouted, slamming his fist on the console.

"Enough!" the Colonel snapped, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. The room fell silent, save for the hum of the holographic display and the faint, distant chatter of battlefield comms.

His gaze swept across the group, hard and unyielding. "You think this is easy? You think I don't see what's happening out there? Every inch of ground, every life lost—it's all on my shoulders. But this decision isn't about saving one front or one group of soldiers. It's about the entire city. The moment SABER-1 deploys, the momentum shifts. If we get it wrong, we don't just lose a front—we lose Corsair."

"But sir," another officer began hesitantly, "what if he's waiting for something that never happens? What if we lose every front because we waited too long?"

The Colonel's silence was heavy, the weight of the question pressing down on him.

At the back of the room, Icarus sat in her chair, biting her thumb as she listened to the heated exchange. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her stomach churned with a sickening mix of anxiety and frustration. She was biting so hard now that she hadn't even noticed she'd broken the skin, a faint trickle of blood staining her lips.

Her eyes flicked to the upper-right corner of the holographic display, where the icon for SABER-1 still blinked faintly, unmoving. She couldn't understand it. Twelve hours. Twelve hours of chaos, of stalled advances, of desperate soldiers clinging to their positions. And he was still just… there.

What are you doing, Elfy? she thought, her mind racing.

The Colonel's voice broke through her thoughts, drawing her attention back to the argument.

"Do you know why SABER-1 has operational freedom?" he asked, his tone sharp. "Because he doesn't act out of panic. He doesn't make emotional decisions. He calculates. He sees the battlefield in a way none of us can. And when he moves, it's because it's the right moment—not a second before."

"Sir, with all due respect," one of the officers countered, "if we keep waiting for the 'perfect moment,' there won't be anyone left to save."

The Colonel turned back to the map, his gaze hardening as he stared at the shifting lines of battle. He knew they were right in their panic, but he also knew the stakes. If SABER-1's drop was mistimed, it wouldn't just cost the Northwestern front—it would cost everything.

Icarus's hands tightened into fists, her bloodied thumb throbbing as she fought to keep her composure. She hated the whispers, the doubts, the accusations being flung at the man she trusted more than anyone. But even she couldn't deny the gnawing question in the back of her mind:

What's stopping you, Eilífr?

The room's tension reached a boiling point as another officer raised his voice. "We're running out of time! If you won't give the order, then—"

Before he could finish, the holographic display flickered, and a small red dot appeared in the bottom-left quadrant of the map. The room fell silent as all eyes locked onto the new marker.

"What's that?" someone whispered.

A triangulation signal began to pulse on the map, steadily growing brighter. The Colonel's gaze sharpened, his posture straightening as the realization dawned on him.

"It's him," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence.

The officers exchanged uncertain looks, but no one spoke. The room remained hushed, the tension coiling tighter as the icon marking SABER-1's pod shifted.

The moment the icon marking SABER-1's pod began to shift, the room froze. Conversations halted mid-sentence, heads snapped toward the holographic display, and breaths were collectively held as the impossible finally happened.

"He's moving," someone murmured, the words rippling through the room like a shockwave.

A palpable sense of relief washed over the command room, tension releasing like a coiled spring. Officers who had been locked in heated arguments moments before now exchanged cautious, almost giddy glances. The Colonel exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours.

"About damn time," one of the senior officers muttered under his breath, his words laced with both frustration and hope.

But the relief was short-lived.

As the pod's trajectory became clear, a supporting analyst paled, their fingers flying across the console as calculations updated in real-time.

"Sir!" the analyst called, their voice cutting through the brief lull in tension. "Projected drop point estimated at… 180 miles behind stalled enemy lines."

The room's newfound calm shattered instantly, replaced by a new wave of panic and disbelief.

"What? That's insane!"

"180 miles? He'll be completely cut off!"

"There's no way he can hold out alone back there!"

"It gets worse," the analyst continued, swallowing hard as their calculations updated further. "Closest unit to his estimated position is the 56th Tank Battalion… stationed at the Northwestern front."

The mention of the Northwestern front sent a ripple of unease through the room. Everyone knew the state of that front: on the brink of collapse, barely holding under the relentless onslaught of Extractants. To reach Eilífr's drop point would mean punching through miles of enemy lines—a near-impossible feat for a force already struggling to survive.

"This has to be a mistake," an officer muttered, their voice shaking. "No one—not even him—could survive that far behind enemy lines. What the hell is he thinking?"

The Colonel's eyes narrowed as he stared at the trajectory on the map, his mind racing. "He's thinking long-term," he said, his voice measured but strained. "If he can disrupt their lines from behind, he might force a retreat. But it's a gamble—a big one."

Before anyone could respond, the comms crackled to life with a voice so cold, so commanding, that it sent shivers down the spines of everyone in the room.

"This is SABER-1. All Northwestern units: Punch through enemy lines and regroup on me. No exceptions. Execute immediately."

The room fell into stunned silence, his words hanging heavy in the air.

"No…" Icarus whispered, her bloodied thumb trembling as she pressed it against her lips. Her heart pounded as she stared at the map, her mind reeling.

The silence was broken by an explosion of voices.

"Is he out of his mind?"

"They're barely holding as it is! How does he expect them to punch through?"

"That's suicide! He's dooming them all!"

The Colonel's voice cut through the chaos, his tone sharp and commanding. "Enough!" He slammed a fist onto the console, silencing the room. "This isn't a debate. SABER-1 has made his decision, and you all know damn well he doesn't make them lightly."

"But sir," one officer protested, their face pale with worry, "this command—those units… they're not equipped to do this. They'll be slaughtered!"

"Then they'd better find a way to succeed," the Colonel snapped. His gaze softened slightly as he glanced back at the map. "Because if SABER-1 thinks this is the only way, he's already factored in what happens if we don't try."

Icarus sat frozen, her fists clenched in her lap. She wanted to scream, to argue, to demand answers. But deep down, she knew Eilífr. He wouldn't give an order like this unless he believed it was their only chance.

The battlefield trembled as the sky above the Northwestern front split with an ear-shattering boom. Soldiers and Extractants alike paused, their eyes snapping upward to witness the streak of fire descending from the heavens—a pod, screaming through the atmosphere like a falling star. 

It hit the ground with the force of an earthquake, the impact sending shockwaves rippling through the ruins and toppling anything within a hundred meters. An incendiary explosion erupted from the pod, flames roaring outward in a blinding halo of destruction that consumed the surrounding Extractants in a searing inferno.

The pod's walls hissed and groaned, superheated metal buckling before detonating outward with a violent burst. Fragments of the pod shot into the air, spinning like deadly shrapnel before embedding themselves in the ground. Smoke and dust billowed high into the air, a plume of chaos marking its arrival.

Then, through the thick haze, came the unmistakable thunderous roar.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Flashes of golden light cut through the smoke, illuminating the battlefield like lightning strikes. The sound was deafening, each shot a promise of destruction as SABER-1's MK99 came to life, spitting death into the encroaching Extractants.

The hiss of hydraulics followed, and a towering figure emerged from the dissipating smoke, his olive-green armor gleaming in the firelight. His weapon roared again, each burst a symphony of chaos that echoed across the battlefield.

The ground beneath him was littered with the twisted, smoldering remains of Extractants, their hulking forms collapsing under the unrelenting firepower.

Eilífr moved through the battlefield like a force of nature, his massive blade—a chainsaw-edged monstrosity—humming with lethal intent as it tore through the Extractants in his path. Each swing was precise, brutal, and unrelenting, cleaving through carapaces and severing limbs as if they were made of paper. The creatures lunged at him from all sides, but he remained untouchable, sidestepping claws and fangs with calculated ease, his armor gleaming with ichor and grime. As the last of the immediate threats crumpled to the ground, he paused, his visor tilting upward. Before him stood a massive cathedral, its once-majestic spires twisted and scarred by the Extractants' infestation. The ornate stained glass, now fractured and darkened, cast eerie patterns across the rubble-strewn plaza. Eilífr stood motionless, his weapon resting at his side, the distant echoes of battle fading as he assessed the imposing structure. The air was heavy with an unnatural stillness, as if the cathedral itself held its breath, waiting for what would come next. The CLACK of his weapon against his gauntlet seemingly echoing into the night.