Forgotten Activity

The control room was chaos incarnate. Voices overlapped, panic rising like a tidal wave as the tactical map updated to reflect SABER-1's audacious deployment. His drop zone, a staggering 180 miles behind enemy lines, flashed in bright red on the holographic display—a beacon of both hope and disbelief. The Northwestern front, already on the verge of collapse, was now faced with his near-impossible command: Punch through enemy lines and regroup on him.

"What is he thinking?!" an officer yelled, slamming a fist onto their console. "The Northwestern front is barely holding! They don't have the strength to push forward, let alone make it that far!"

Another officer threw up his hands in frustration. "Does he even realize what he's asking? They've been pinned for hours! They're out of ammo, out of supplies—he's asking them to suicide charge!"

The room was a cacophony of frantic voices. Analysts frantically recalculated supply lines, commanders shouted over each other, and the ever-present chatter of frontline comms added to the overwhelming noise.

"This is reckless," someone muttered.

"It's SABER-1," another snapped back. "Reckless isn't in his vocabulary. If he's doing this, there's a reason."

A senior officer shook his head, disbelief etched across his face. "A reason? He's practically thrown himself into a meat grinder and told the Northwestern front to follow him. If they fail to break through, they're done. He's done!"

In the corner, an analyst stared at the projected casualty estimates for the Northwestern push, her hands trembling as the numbers spiraled upward. "If they can't make it…" she whispered, the words trailing off.

At the center of the room, the Colonel stood silent, his face carved into a mask of cold determination. His eyes were locked on the holographic display, taking in the chaotic battlefield. The Northwestern markers were blinking ominously, signaling critical damage. The Northeastern and Northern fronts, though still advancing, were slowed to a crawl.

"What are we missing?" he muttered under his breath, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "What does he see that we don't?"

The whisper of his words was drowned out by another outburst. "This is madness!" an older officer bellowed. "He should have deployed to reinforce the Northern or Northeastern fronts. At least there we had momentum. Why the hell would he drop there?"

Icarus sat in her chair, biting her lip so hard it nearly bled. Her thumb, already raw from earlier, twitched against the edge of her console. She wanted to scream at them all, to tell them to trust him, to stop questioning every decision he made. But even she was struggling to understand.

Why, Elfy? she thought, her heart pounding in her chest. Why there? Why now?

"Colonel!" someone called out, their voice cutting through the noise. "Permission to contact the Northwestern front directly. We need to clarify his orders—"

"No," the Colonel interrupted sharply, his tone brooking no argument. He turned slowly, his gaze piercing as it swept across the room. "SABER-1 doesn't issue commands lightly. If he told them to push, then that's exactly what they're going to do."

"But sir!" another officer protested. "They're going to collapse—"

"Then they'll collapse fighting," the Colonel snapped. "And if you don't believe in his plan, then get the hell out of my command room."

The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the hum of the holographic map and the distant chatter of battlefield comms.

Finally, one of the analysts spoke up, her voice hesitant. "What if he's planning to cut through their lines from behind? He could relieve the pressure on the Northwestern front long enough for them to regroup."

"Or," another countered grimly, "he's creating a distraction so they can retreat."

Icarus clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She couldn't stand the way they talked about him, as if he was just another officer making a desperate gamble. They didn't understand. They couldn't.

But even as she tried to steady her breathing, doubt began to creep into her thoughts. Was this part of some grand plan? Or was he pushing himself too far, trying to shoulder more than even he could bear?

The room erupted again, voices arguing over strategy, tactics, and what the hell they were supposed to do now. Amidst the chaos, the Colonel remained silent, his eyes flicking between the map and the red marker where SABER-1 had landed.

And through it all, one unspoken question loomed in the minds of everyone present:

What happens if he fails?

And then it happened. 

The control room was alive with an energy that hadn't been felt in hours. Cheers erupted as reports flooded in from the Northwestern front: The line was advancing. Against all odds, the embattled units had forced the Extractants to retreat.

"Look at that push!" an officer exclaimed, his voice full of awe. "The 56th Tank Battalion is rolling through like they're unstoppable!"

"The infantry's regained momentum!" another shouted, pointing at the live-streamed map. "They're clearing ground faster than we ever projected. This is it! We've turned the tide!"

Smiles and laughter spread like wildfire through the room as personnel clapped each other on the back, the oppressive weight of failure finally lifting. For the first time, it seemed like victory was within reach.

But not everyone was celebrating.

At the back of the room, an analyst sat frozen, her face pale as she stared at her console. Her fingers hovered over the keys, trembling slightly as her mind pieced together the scattered data from the battlefield. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Wait," she muttered, her voice barely audible over the noise.

No one noticed.

Her heart pounded as she keyed in more commands, pulling up overlays of Extractant movement patterns. The data was clear now, painfully clear.

"It's not a retreat…" she whispered, her voice cracking.

Still, no one paid her any attention. The room was too consumed with celebration.

"It's not a retreat!" she finally shouted, her voice cutting through the cheers like a blade.

The room went silent. All eyes turned toward her as she stood, her face etched with a mix of fear and grim realization.

"What are you talking about?" one of the officers demanded, the jubilation in his tone giving way to irritation.

She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the live map. The markers representing Extractant forces weren't scattering—they were converging. And they weren't retreating away from the Northwestern front; they were funneling toward a single point.

"They're not falling back from the Northwestern assault," she said, her voice shaking. "They're reinforcing. They're moving toward SABER-1."

The room fell deathly quiet as her words sank in.

"That's ridiculous," another officer argued, though his voice wavered. "Why would they abandon defensive positions to focus on him?"

The analyst turned to him, her expression dark. "Because it's what they always do. It's been so long since we've liberated a city that we've forgotten the most basic rule of Extractant behavior: they always target the biggest threat."

Her words hung heavy in the air, and the energy in the room shifted from relief to dread.

"That's why the Northwestern front got hit harder than the others," she continued, her voice growing steadier with conviction. "It wasn't random. It wasn't bad luck. They were drawn to the Armored Vehicles and Artillery. And now…" She gestured to the map, where the converging red markers painted a horrifying picture.

"They've found a new target."

Icarus, seated near the center of the room, felt her stomach drop. Her hands gripped the edge of her console as her mind raced.

Elfy…

The Colonel broke the silence, his voice cold and steady. "You're saying the Extractants are abandoning other fronts just to focus on him?"

"Yes, sir," the analyst replied. "They don't think like us. They don't care about strategy or territory. They see him as the biggest threat, and they'll stop at nothing to eliminate him."

The room erupted into frantic discussion.

"How many are converging?"

"What happens to the other fronts if they leave their positions?"

"Can SABER-1 hold against that kind of force?"

The Colonel raised a hand, silencing the room. He turned to the analyst. "How long until they reach him?"

She hesitated, pulling up a new set of calculations. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "At their current speed? Fifteen minutes."

The Colonel's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the map. The converging forces were vast, far larger than anything even SABER-1 could reasonably withstand. "And the 56th?"

"... Around three hours." She replies.

For a moment, no one spoke. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the realization crushing the room.

And then, almost as if to confirm their fears, a crackling voice came through the comms. SABER-1's voice, calm and unwavering, cut through the silence:

"Northwestern front, maintain your push. I'll handle this. Just bring supplies, LOTS of supplies."

The room fell silent again, the sheer audacity of his statement sending a chill through everyone present.

"Handle this?" Icarus whispered under her breath, her voice trembling. For the first time, absolute doubt crept into her thoughts.

The Colonel turned back to the map, his face a mask of stoic resolve. "SABER-1 knew this was coming," he said finally, his voice heavy. "And he still made his move."

But even he couldn't hide the tension in his voice as he added, "God help him."