The war drags on, relentless, without pause or mercy. Already, the earth has taken its fill of sons, of mothers, of wives - all sacrificed upon the altar of Nataziel, the holy flame, the conquest said to redeem what had been lost. Yet the struggle shows no hint of exhaustion. Both sides persist, locked in their obstinacy, unable or unwilling - to concede.
Within the hangar, the air hangs thick, stifling those who breathe it. The place reeks of spent machinery and human ruin: the acrid tang of scorched plating, the faint, nauseating scent of flesh preserved by fire. Crimson lights from the klaxons pulse in their slow rhythm, warnings to men and women who no longer need to be warned.
Silence is the discipline of those trained for combat, the art of minimising vulnerability at all costs, even at sacrifice to the soul. Thought in this one moment, it felt like respite. A moment of content that at least, right now, nothing was happening. That would come later. But right now, there was some sorely needed peace. For some, it came as penance for their hardships - time to think inwards, to escape into the self, thinking of golden dunes, baked by the gentle rays of the sun just as it was back on their home world, the smiles of their lovers, children, gazing back at them as they return from their arduous pilgrimage across the stars. The scent of home cooked meals and wet laundry wafting through the hallways, the warm rays of sunlight through the rafters-
The captain’s gaze wanders over the crew, eyes red and raw with unshed tears, forced into the cruel theatre of command. He still dons his mask of valor, brittle and transparent, some vexing veneer of bravado - anything to ignite, if only for a moment, the spirit of vengeance these same men and women had carried like fire in their chests but a month ago. That fire has since burned them, left its mark upon their flesh and armor alike - scorched carbon-fiber plating, torn Max-Tec suits, cloaks and bergens held together by hemp string, duct tape, and hope.
They already knew the next order. Words have lost their meaning here. The assembly is a farce, a parody of what their order once called “holy knighthood.” The banners and oaths, the pageantry of their crusade - all of it hollow now, drowned in ash and blood. Still they stand, waiting. Maybe they were just waiting for their final hope to be shattered, to rip off the plaster from the wound, something to make any sense of the nightmare they were in.
The captain let the silence bleed out, as though each second bought them some fragile reprieve. At last, he spoke. His voice did not rise above the murmur of machines idling in their restless slumber, and yet it carried, heard by all who had been waiting for it.
When he spoke, the words echoed in their inevitability, a bell’s toll for the condemned. The crew stirred, heavy, mechanical, performed by habit rather than will. Each step toward the waiting vessel seemed less a march than a surrender, as though they climbed into their own tomb.
The craft loomed before them, vast and un-moving, its scarred frame dim under the hangar’s crimson lights. For a moment it seemed asleep, like some beast at rest, and there was almost comfort in that - the quiet before its heart awoke.
They boarded in silence, boots ringing soft against steel, counting their steps, as if marking time could ward off the unease curling in their stomachs. Those sweet fantasies from what felt like hours before turned to memories floating unbidden: a brother lost to a stray shot, a mother’s face seen only in dreams, the warmth of a sun that seemed impossibly distant. A laugh from a month ago felt alien now, even obscene. Habit carried them to their places. Harnesses were buckled. Systems flickered awake, bathing tired faces in gentle green light.
For a while, nothing pressed on them but the hum of machines spinning to readiness. In that pause, some allowed themselves a breath, a thought unspoken. The rhythm of preparation was familiar, almost soothing: the clatter of straps, the click of seals, the slow pulse of instruments coming alive - reminders for the subconscious that they were still alive.
When the doors closed at last, the hangar vanished, sealed off as though it had never been. A faint vibration passed through the hull, a reminder that soon the silence would break. But for now, it lingered - fragile, uneasy, almost merciful.
The doors sealed shut. The silence outside resumed, broken only by the rising hum of engines. Inside, all that remained was the dread, the waiting, the knowledge that what lay ahead was only some form of reckoning.
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