Further Still Into The Abyss...

Icarus lay sprawled on her narrow cot, one arm draped across her forehead as she stared at the muted ceiling lights of her room. The faint hum of the base's systems buzzed in the background, but it did little to soothe the nausea twisting her stomach. She couldn't eat, couldn't think straight—could barely breathe without the gnawing anxiety clawing at her insides.

She clenched her teeth, shutting her eyes tightly, as if willing the sickness away. But the image of him—Eilífr—kept surfacing in her mind. His towering form, the unwavering stride, the low rumble of his voice that carried unshakable confidence. That was who he was: a force of nature, humanity's greatest shield.

And now, he was completely silent.

Her communicator sat on the table next to her, its cold, metallic shell mocking her. She had checked it a hundred times, hoping for the faintest flicker of a message, a ping—anything that would confirm he was still alive. But there was nothing. The silence stretched on, oppressive and deafening, amplified by the fact that he was underground, far beyond the reach of her connection. She hated it.

"Stupid... reckless..." she muttered to herself, her voice cracking with frustration. She rolled onto her side, clutching a pillow to her chest like it might hold the answers she needed. "Why'd he have to go silent like that? He knows... he knows how much I worry."

Her thoughts churned like a storm, torn between anger and desperate hope. She tried to tell herself he was fine, tried to picture him cutting down the Extractants with the same terrifying ease she'd watched him display time and time again. She could almost hear the bark of his MK99, the rhythmic crunch of his boots as he moved through whatever hellscape he was navigating. He was winning. He always won.

And yet, the sickness in her stomach wouldn't go away.

"Ugh," she groaned, throwing her pillow across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud before sliding to the floor. She sat up, running a hand through her hair and letting out a shaky breath. "Pull it together, Icarus. He's fine. He's probably... standing on a pile of corpses right now, grumbling about how slow the Extractants are these days."

She forced a weak laugh, but it didn't last. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her knees, her gaze flickering to the communicator again. Her heart ached with the weight of all the words she couldn't say, all the questions she couldn't ask. Was he injured? Trapped? Or worse?

"No," she said aloud, shaking her head violently. "He's fine. He's always fine."

She stood abruptly, pacing the small room like a caged animal. The motion didn't help; it only made her dizziness worse, but sitting still was unbearable. She stopped at the edge of the table, gripping its edge tightly as she stared down at the communicator. Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, and for a moment, she thought about hailing the control room, demanding updates.

But what good would that do? They were as blind as she was.

The thought made her sink back down onto the cot, her knees drawn up to her chest as she wrapped her arms around them. A thousand scenarios played out in her mind, each one more unbearable than the last, but she shoved them away.

"He's fine," she whispered, resting her forehead on her knees. "He has to be."

It was the only thought she allowed herself, the only reality she was willing to accept. Eilífr wasn't just a soldier; he was humanity's last hope, their unyielding savior. He wouldn't fall. He couldn't.

But as much as she tried to convince herself, the sick feeling in her stomach remained, a gnawing reminder of how fragile even legends could be.

The air grew heavier with every step, the oppressive weight of the abyss pressing down on Eilífr's shoulders like an unrelenting burden. The dim red glow that had guided him earlier was now swallowed by the void, leaving only the faint illumination of his visor's night-vision mode to light the jagged, uneven path before him. The rocks underfoot were slick with some viscous, black fluid that reeked of decay, forcing him to place each step carefully.

He didn't know how many days had passed since he began this descent. Time was meaningless down here, swallowed by the eternal black. The timer on his HUD had long since blurred into an afterthought, replaced by more immediate concerns: tracking the skittering and pattering of Extractants in the dark, conserving his dwindling ammunition, and keeping one foot moving in front of the other.

His body was screaming at him, every system within his armor sending warning after warning. Critical fatigue detected. Combat effectiveness compromised. Rest required immediately. The alerts pulsed faintly in his peripheral vision, but he ignored them. He had to. Rest wasn't an option. Not here. Not while the Extractants stalked him, their movements echoing just out of sight.

The creatures of the dark were clever, far more than he cared to admit. They didn't attack outright. They didn't need to. They lurked just beyond the range of his scanners, scuttling over rocks and clawing at walls, their sounds amplified by the cavern's acoustics. They were testing him, waiting for that moment of weakness when his reflexes dulled, when his reactions slowed.

He gritted his teeth, his gauntleted hand tightening around the grip of his MK99, though the weapon's ammunition counter was already blinking a warning: LOW. He had fought so many engagements that the number of kills blurred together. Wave after wave of the grotesque, chittering beasts had thrown themselves at him, clawing, biting, and screaming. He'd cut them all down, but at a cost.

The glowing edges of his armor, once golden and proud, were now scorched and dimmed. His visor flickered occasionally, struggling to maintain clarity after a particularly brutal acid spray had warped part of its circuitry. Blood, ichor, and grime coated him from head to toe, forming a second skin that clung to every joint and plate.

192 hours. That was the limit. The absolute ceiling of his operational window before his body, even with all its enhancements, would begin to shut down. His augments could only delay the inevitable for so long. He was near the breaking point, his every movement slower, more labored. His limbs felt like lead weights, each step an agonizing effort as he pressed deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels.

A faint clicking sound echoed from behind him, followed by a rapid skittering. He froze, his visor snapping to the sound's source, but nothing appeared. Only the dark. Only the oppressive silence that followed, more suffocating than the noise itself. They were watching, waiting. He could feel their countless eyes boring into him from the shadows, studying him, assessing his every move.

With a low growl, he forced himself forward, his boots crunching against loose rock as the tunnel narrowed further. The walls were lined with pulsating, organic growths that oozed black ichor and twitched unnaturally in his presence. The stench was overwhelming, a mix of sulfur, rotting flesh, and something far more alien. It clung to the back of his throat, making every breath feel like a violation.

He stopped abruptly, his HUD pinging with faint thermal signatures ahead. His grip tightened on the MK99, his finger hovering over the trigger. The skittering grew louder, more frantic, as if the creatures sensed his hesitation. A sharp, guttural shriek echoed through the tunnel, followed by another and another. The noise surrounded him, bouncing off the walls in a disorienting cacophony.

"They're closing in," he muttered to himself, his voice a low rumble that barely cut through the noise.

He racked the slide of his rifle, the sound sharp and deliberate. It wasn't just preparation; it was a message. He was still fighting. He was still dangerous.

The skittering paused for a moment, the creatures reassessing. But the silence didn't last. From the corner of his vision, a shape lunged from the shadows, its elongated limbs and grotesque maw illuminated by his visor's faint glow. The MK99 roared, a burst of thunder that echoed violently in the confined space. The creature crumpled mid-leap, its body twitching as it hit the ground.

Two more emerged from the darkness, followed by a third. Eilífr fired again, his movements mechanical but precise. Each shot hit its mark, sending the creatures sprawling. But for every one he killed, more emerged, their numbers endless.

His breathing was ragged now, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a vise. His body screamed for rest, his vision swimming as his augments struggled to keep him upright. But he couldn't stop. Not here. Not with the source of the abnormal hive still ahead, still waiting to be destroyed.

"Just a little further," he growled, his voice a mix of determination and desperation. He pushed forward, his weapon barking as he cut a path through the dark, his mind focused on a single thought, a single person:

Icarus.

As long as she remained in his thoughts, he couldn't fail. Not now. Not ever.