Chapter 3: The Revelation

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  The ship's engines hummed a low, insistent growl as it descended into the wreckage of Fortis Isle. It was big. Too big. The kind of ship that shouldn’t have been anywhere near an island like this. John could feel his blood thicken as he crouched low behind the jagged ruins of a collapsed building, his rifle’s butt pressed firmly against his shoulder.

  This wasn’t a regular *Xyrexia* drop. John had been on enough of those to know. The ships were usually sleek, efficient, all business. But this? This ship was ominous. The kind of thing that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. And he could feel it—a tremor in the air, something more than the usual post-apocalyptic shitshow. This drop was different. It was big.

  Clara, god bless her, had the sense to keep quiet. But she was just as uneasy as he was, eyes flicking to the horizon, then back to the ship.

  “What the hell is that?” she murmured under her breath, her voice tight with tension.

  John didn’t answer at first. He didn’t need to. He was already assessing the situation, scanning their surroundings, calculating the next move. You don’t survive this long by standing still and waiting for a miracle.

  "Stay close," John muttered. He hated the silence, but even more, he hated that quiet dread that filled the air when you knew something was coming, but you had no damn idea what it was.

  The ship landed with a smooth thud, almost too perfectly. John’s grip tightened on his rifle. He could feel the weight of the past bearing down on him. The scent of smoke and salt in the air wasn’t enough to mask the metallic taste of fear in his mouth.

  Then came the figures. Dark, imposing. Menacing. They moved with precision, like soldiers in a war movie you never wanted to watch. Their armor gleamed under the failing light of the dying sun, their red eyes glowing through the shadows. They weren’t human. John could see that. Not in the way anyone who had ever shared a drink, a laugh, or a battle would understand. These weren’t *men*. They were something else.

  John didn’t need to see more. He knew they were trouble. Serious trouble.

  “Take cover,” John whispered, his voice sharp as he yanked Clara behind a concrete pillar. The figures moved like a well-oiled machine, not a sound escaping their lips. Their boots didn’t even make a damn noise on the crumbling ground. They were professional. And if they were here, it meant only one thing—*trouble*.

  Clara pressed her back against the pillar, her hand on the grip of her sidearm. Her fingers were shaking, and he could see her lip twitch. They were both in over their heads, but in a world like this, you didn’t get to pick your battles. The world picked for you. And if you weren’t ready? Well, that’s how people died.

  John’s mind raced through options. Should they fight? Could they fight? They didn’t have the manpower for a full-on assault. But he wasn’t about to just sit and pray they didn’t notice them. There was no time for that kind of optimism.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “They’re going for the crates,” Clara said, her voice a whisper of disbelief.

  John nodded. The crates. The supplies. That was what they were here for. Or at least that’s what it seemed. But John had been doing this long enough to know that sometimes the obvious answer wasn’t the right one.

  A flash of something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. One of the armored figures had stopped. It turned toward the pile of crates, scanning the surroundings with mechanical precision, its red eyes cutting through the gloom. It wasn’t just a routine drop. They were here for something more. But what?

  Then, the unthinkable happened.

  From within the dark depths of the drop ship, a figure appeared. Human. Or at least it looked human. For a second, John thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but the figure was unmistakable. It was wearing civilian clothes, but there was something off about it—something wrong.

  It was a woman.

  But it wasn’t her appearance that made John’s pulse spike. It was the way she moved. She walked like she knew exactly what was coming next, like she was in control. No hesitation. No fear. Just a calm, collected air that screamed confidence in a place where that kind of confidence would get you killed.

  John’s breath caught in his throat. He took a step forward, his mind racing. This was all wrong. Too clean. Too efficient. *Xyrexia* didn’t send civilians into a hellhole like Fortis Isle. And they sure as hell didn’t do it without a reason.

  “You see that?” Clara asked quietly. She had the same tight expression on her face. She knew something was off too. They both felt it.

  John didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed as he studied the woman. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she wore a combat vest—practical, worn, but not military-issued. She looked like a survivor. But there was something else in her eyes. Something that told John she wasn’t just a victim of this world. She was part of it. And that was the worst kind of enemy to face.

  A voice crackled through the comms, faint and distorted, but just audible enough to catch his attention. The frequency was private—no civilian would be able to intercept it without the proper equipment.

  "Classified assets, activated. Releasing containment. Proceed with extraction."

  John’s stomach dropped. "Containment"—it was the word that had been gnawing at the back of his mind since they first saw the body in the crate. *Containment* meant something was being held. Something *dangerous*. And whatever it was, it wasn’t staying locked up for long.

  Before John could react, the woman’s eyes flicked toward them. She locked onto him with laser-like precision, and for a heartbeat, everything went still. Her expression was unreadable—like she knew exactly who he was and what he would do next.

  Then, in one swift motion, she raised her hand. The armored figures snapped into place, forming a perimeter around the crates. John had no choice. They’d been spotted.

  “Run,” John barked at Clara. “Now.”

  They bolted, sprinting through the wreckage of Fortis Isle with the sound of boots behind them, the thunderous boom of their pursuers’ heavy steps growing louder. But John wasn’t going to run forever. He couldn’t.

  As they rounded a corner, Clara’s voice barely broke through his thoughts. “What the hell was that?” she gasped, panting. “What is going on, John?”

  “*Xyrexia*—they’ve been holding something. Something dangerous. And now they’re releasing it.”

  Clara’s face paled. “What—what do you mean?”

  Before John could respond, a figure appeared in front of them. It was the woman from the ship. Her calm demeanor had never wavered as she stepped into their path.

  “You’re in the way,” John said, his voice low, the threat in his tone unmistakable.

  The woman tilted her head, almost as if she was considering his words. Then she spoke, her voice steady, almost too calm. “Not anymore.”

  And in that moment, everything clicked. This wasn’t a mission. This wasn’t about supplies.

  This was the beginning of something far worse.

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