It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn

The platoon of troops Icarus had dropped off wasted no time. As soon as their boots hit the ground, they moved with practiced precision, securing the area around the Cathedral. Shovels struck the dirt as soldiers hastily dug foxholes and shallow trenches, their breath visible in the cold, smoky air. The rhythmic clanking of tools and the whir of automated sentries deploying punctuated the tense silence.

A sergeant barked orders, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Set up a perimeter! I want defenses ready five minutes ago! Dig in—we're holding this position until reinforcements arrive or we're buried here!"

Troopers moved with practiced efficiency. Sandbags were unloaded from supply crates, hastily forming barricades. Heavy weapons teams lugged autocannons into position, their barrels gleaming under the flickering light of fires in the distance. Another group worked quickly to string razor wire between makeshift posts, creating an improvised barrier that might slow the inevitable tide of Extractants. The sandbags were stacked into makeshift barriers while heavy machine guns were positioned to cover every conceivable angle of attack. A few soldiers mounted flamethrowers on tripods, the weapons emitting faint hisses as they primed their incendiary payloads.

One of the squad leaders barked orders, his voice steady despite the unease that hung over them all. "Gunners, keep your barrels cool. Watch for overheat warnings. Riflemen, make every shot count—we don't have the luxury of spraying ammo. Engineers, get those mines in place!"

Further back, medics readied their supplies, setting up a small triage area in a protected corner of the Cathedral grounds. The tension was palpable; the soldiers knew this wasn't going to be a quick engagement. They were digging in for a long, brutal fight, and every one of them was acutely aware of the relentless Extractants lurking just beyond the perimeter.

Meanwhile, SABER-1 strode through the organized chaos, his towering form cutting a path as soldiers glanced up in awe. None dared speak to him, but their eyes followed his every move, drawn to the unshakable confidence in his steps. The glowing visor of his helmet swept over the scene, taking in every detail, every position, every weapon placement.

He moved toward Sister Marianne, who stood near the civilians huddled in the shadow of the iron door. The nun's hands trembled as she clutched her rosary, whispering hurried prayers as her gaze flicked between the soldiers and the civilians she was desperately trying to organize.

Behind him, Icarus's ramp hissed shut, the ship's engines kicking up dust and debris as it began its ascent. Her voice crackled over the comms, sharp but tinged with a weariness she couldn't hide.

"On the move, Elfy. How many did we get?"

SABER-1 didn't pause as he approached Sister Marianne. He already knew the answer but asked anyway. "Sister, how many boarded?"

Her face fell, guilt shadowing her features. "Eighty three, just as you ordered—"

He nodded once, cutting her off. Turning his head slightly, he replied into the comms. "Not enough." His tone was calm, devoid of emotion, but the weight of the words hung heavy in the air.

Icarus's voice returned, quieter this time. "I figured. Preparing for the next group."

SABER-1 watched as her ship ascended, disappearing into the smoky sky. "The last transport is on its way," he added, his voice steady. "Be ready."

"I'm always ready," she replied, though the strain in her voice betrayed the truth.

SABER-1 turned back to the troops as they continued fortifying their positions. A young soldier worked a spade furiously, digging into the packed earth to create a foxhole. Nearby, another adjusted the scope on a mounted autocannon, his hands steady despite the tension in his jaw. The sergeant passed by, checking positions, and offering terse words of encouragement.

"Stay sharp. When they come, they're not stopping," he said, slapping a soldier on the shoulder.

The distant rumble of Extractant movement could be faintly heard, a reminder of the storm brewing just beyond the horizon.

SABER-1's gaze lingered on the hastily constructed defenses. The soldiers were prepared, but he knew all too well what they would face when the swarm came. Without a word, he turned back toward the civilians, his massive form moving purposefully as the tension thickened like the air before a storm.

Behind him, the troops continued to work, their resolve firm but unspoken questions hanging in their minds. Would reinforcements arrive in time? Would they be enough?

The only thing certain was the fight to come—and SABER-1's unshakable presence gave them the faintest glimmer of hope.

The chaos surrounding the Atlas Titan was deafening. The thunderous roar of its engines reverberated through the battlefield as soldiers continued to hold off the Extractants, their weapons blazing against the relentless tide. The ramp groaned under the weight of the civilians packed aboard, the interior of the massive transport now crammed to capacity.

SABER-1 stood near the base of the ramp, his towering frame an unyielding barrier between the horde and the terrified crowd. His visor swept over the scene, taking in the desperate faces of those still trying to board. The stark reality settled over him: they couldn't fit another soul.

He raised his voice, his words cutting through the cacophony like a blade. "The Atlas is full. Everyone who cannot fit—return to the chamber below. I will come for you when it's time."

The crowd froze, their fear-fueled murmurs swelling into a cacophony of protests and cries. A man near the edge of the ramp, his face pale and streaked with sweat, shook his head violently. "No! I'm not going back down there! I have to get on!" His voice was shrill, his eyes wide with panic.

SABER-1 stepped forward, the ground seeming to tremble beneath his boots. He raised his MK99, the barrel glinting under the flickering light of the battle. He pointed it directly at the man, his voice cold and uncompromising. "You have two choices. Step off this ramp and return to the chamber. Or fall where you stand. I am not asking. I am telling."

The man froze, his breath hitching as he stared into the glowing visor. For a moment, it seemed as though he might argue, but the unflinching resolve in SABER-1's stance was enough to drain the fight from him. With trembling steps, the man backed away, stumbling down the ramp.

SABER-1 turned his attention to Sister Marianne, who stood nearby, clutching her rosary as she watched the scene unfold. Her face was pale, but her eyes held a quiet determination. SABER-1 reached into his belt and handed her a compact communicator.

"Hail me directly if anything happens," he said, his tone firm but steady.

She hesitated for a moment, her hands shaking as she took the device. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos.

"Go," SABER-1 ordered, his gaze already shifting back to the horde advancing in the distance.

Sister Marianne nodded, turning and jogging toward the entrance to the chamber below. Her movements were deliberate, careful not to run, as though trying to project calm to the civilians watching her. The roar of gunfire and the unearthly screams of the Extractants echoed around her, but she kept her head high, whispering prayers under her breath.

"Everything will be okay," she murmured to herself, even as doubt gnawed at the edges of her resolve.

The civilians who had been forced to stay behind began retreating back into the chamber, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty. Sister Marianne ushered them along, her voice steady as she reassured them. "Stay together. Keep calm. Help each other. We will get through this."

Behind her, SABER-1 stood firm, his weapon, barking thunder as the Extractants pressed closer. The soldiers at the perimeter continued their desperate fight, buying precious seconds as the last of the civilians boarded the Atlas Titan.

The ramp began to close, the hydraulic hiss barely audible over the din of battle. SABER-1's visor glinted as he watched it rise, his massive form silhouetted against the flickering flames of the battlefield. With a final glance toward the retreating civilians, he turned back to the chaos, his weapon roaring to life as he prepared to hold the line once more.

Above, the Atlas Titan ascended, its engines roaring as it carried its precious cargo away from the nightmare below.

The air was thick with tension, the muffled echoes of gunfire and distant explosions reverberating through the underground chamber. Sister Marianne stood near the edge of the crowd, her rosary clutched tightly in her hands as she whispered silent prayers. The civilians huddled together, their whispers and sobs filling the space with a palpable sense of fear.

The communicator in her hand crackled to life, and the deep, steady voice of SABER-1 broke through the oppressive silence.

"Sister Marianne, report. Including yourself and the other nuns—how many remain?"

She froze, her breath hitching as the weight of the question settled on her shoulders. She glanced around at the frightened faces surrounding her, her fellow nuns exchanging uncertain looks as they waited for her response.

Her voice trembled slightly as she pressed the button to reply. "One hundred and seventeen," she said after a long pause. "Including us… there are one hundred and seventeen."

The line went quiet, the static crackling faintly as her words hung in the air. She wondered if he had heard her, or if the weight of the number had struck him as deeply as it had struck her.

Finally, his voice came through again, low and deliberate. "Thank you."

There was something in his tone—an edge of finality, perhaps even gratitude—that sent a chill down her spine. Before she could say anything more, the line went dead, leaving her alone with the echoes of his words and the prayers of those around her.

SABER-1 stood amidst the wreckage of the battlefield, his armor streaked with ichor and ash. His visor glowed faintly in the smoke-choked air as he activated his comms, opening a direct line to the reinforcements.

"56th, status update. ETA to my position?"

The line crackled briefly before a strained voice answered, laced with the urgency of combat. Captain Marek of the 56th Tank Battalion responded, his words punctuated by the thunder of tank shells and the sharp crack of small-arms fire.

"ETA is… 25 minutes, SABER-1," Marek said, his voice steady despite the chaos around him. "But we're heavily engaged. Extractants are pushing hard on our flanks, and we're doing everything we can to keep moving forward."

SABER-1 was silent for a moment, processing the information. 25 minutes. It wasn't a bad timeframe, but the intensity of the fight could drag it out—or worse, grind them to a halt. Every second mattered, and he knew the difference between survival and catastrophe could hinge on the slimmest margin.

"Understood," he replied, his voice as calm as ever. "Hold your line. I'll maintain my position until you arrive."

"Acknowledged," Marek said, his voice almost drowned out by the roar of another explosion.

SABER-1 ended the transmission, his visor tilting slightly toward the distant horizon. The Extractants weren't letting up, and the weight of every passing second pressed heavily against him.

He turned back toward the iron door he was guarding, gripping his weapon tightly. He didn't have the luxury of 25 minutes feeling like enough.