Mercer’s eyes fluttered open, a dull ache pulsing through his limbs. The world was blurred, the shapes around him melting into one another. Voices drifted through the haze, speaking in a language he didn’t understand—Latin. He shifted slightly, his muscles screaming in protest, the iron shackles clinking against the cold, uneven wooden floor. As his vision sharpened, he scanned the rough interior of his cell—bare walls, flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows, the scent of damp wood and old metal hanging in the air. A sharp reminder of where he was, and how far he had fallen.
Captured.
The word echoed in his mind as his body recalled the fight—flashes of battle, his team scattered, and the crushing grip of magical tendrils that bound him. He had failed. But he wasn’t dead. Not yet.
Suddenly, the sharp bark of voices outside the cell shattered the stillness. Metal boots clanked against the ground, growing louder. Mercer tensed, his muscles stiff from the lingering effects of the magic that had incapacitated him, but he tried to move, straining against the chains. The door swung open with a creak. Two Roman soldiers entered, their armor engraved with glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. Their faces were hard, their movements sharp and practiced. They didn’t speak as they grabbed him roughly, yanking him to his feet.
The air outside hit him like a cold slap, snapping him fully awake. Sunlight filtered through the forest canopy, and Mercer blinked at the sight before him. In the center of the camp, a small wooden flying ship hovered, its polished hull gleaming in the early morning light. Unlike the massive war machines Mercer had encountered before, this vessel was sleek, elegant. Intricate runes were etched into its sides, faintly glowing with a power that Mercer couldn’t quite understand. Soldiers loaded supplies and gear onto the ship, their movements efficient and orderly. Ropes dangled from the vessel, swaying gently in the breeze, a reminder of the impossible blend of magic and technology that the Romans wielded.
Mercer’s eyes tracked the ship, his soldier’s mind instinctively calculating. It wasn’t a warship, more likely a transport vessel—designed for speed and efficiency. But the presence of the runes on the hull meant it could be more dangerous than it appeared. How do you fight an army that bends the laws of reality?
Before he could process the thought, the guards shoved him forward, pulling him toward a large tent at the far end of the camp. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, to resist, but his body was too weak. His muscles burned from the strain of captivity, still recovering from the spell that had taken him down. He clenched his jaw. He would wait. For now.
They dragged him into the tent, where he was unceremoniously thrown into a wooden chair. His wrists were shackled to its sides, the iron biting into his skin. The scent of incense mingled with the sharp tang of steel, a pungent reminder of the battles fought outside. Across from him stood a Roman officer, his armor similarly engraved with runes, though his were more elaborate, their glow more intense. Beside him, standing in stark contrast, was an Orthodox priest. His robes were simple, his posture dignified. His eyes, however, betrayed something that Mercer hadn’t expected—quiet compassion.
The Roman officer spoke, his voice low and commanding, each word sharp and deliberate in Latin. The priest stepped forward, translating, his tone measured yet soft.
“He says you fought bravely,” the priest began, his eyes flickering briefly to Mercer’s shackled wrists. “You and your men showed strength unlike any they have seen before.”
Mercer’s eyes narrowed as he met the officer’s gaze. Flattery. A tool, a trap. He remained silent, his face a mask of indifference, even as his mind raced. They were testing him, looking for cracks in his resolve.
The Roman spoke again, this time his voice more deliberate, the cadence darker. The priest hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing. “He wants to know why you resist. The weak crumble before the might of the Legion, but you and your men fought as if you believed you could win. Why do you persist in fighting a war you cannot hope to win?”
Mercer’s fists clenched against the restraints, the metal biting into his skin as he kept his expression neutral. “I fight,” he said finally, his voice steady, “because this is my home. I fight because people like you don’t belong here.”
The priest relayed his words with a calmness that didn’t quite match the tension in the room. The Roman officer listened, his eyes narrowing in thought. Mercer saw it then—a flicker of calculation behind the officer’s cold gaze. The priest’s expression, however, remained unchanged, though Mercer caught the slightest glimmer of something else in his eyes—sympathy, perhaps. Or uncertainty.
The officer responded sharply in Latin, his voice cutting through the thick air. The priest translated, though now there was a weight to his words, a hesitance Mercer hadn’t noticed before.
"He says you are different from the others," the priest said quietly. "Most crumble when faced with the strength of the Legion. But you... and your soldiers... are something else. He says you could be useful to the Legion."
Mercer’s heart pounded as his mind raced. They were trying to break him. Offering survival. A future. Things that might tempt any man in his position. But what kind of future? One forged in chains? How many had they offered this to? How many had taken the deal? He could see how it worked—presenting power as a reward for submission. For betrayal. But he wasn’t like the others. He wouldn’t be broken.
“Useful?” Mercer’s voice was low, but the anger simmered beneath it. “To butchers who slaughter civilians and force them to fight for sport? I’d rather die.”
The priest translated the words carefully, his voice steady, though Mercer noted the tension in his hands as he spoke. The Roman officer remained unfazed, a faint, almost amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He responded with cold precision, and the priest’s hesitation grew. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more somber.
"He says the Advent is coming," the priest continued, his tone darkening. "And when it does, you and your kind will be wiped from existence. The choice is yours: join the Legion, fight beside the strong... or die alongside the weak."
The word—Advent—hung in the air, unfamiliar and heavy with threat. Mercer’s brow furrowed as he locked eyes with the officer. “What is the Advent?” he asked, his voice sharper now, pressing for answers.
The priest hesitated again, waiting for the officer’s response. But the Roman remained stone-faced, his eyes cold and unyielding as he spoke in rapid Latin. The priest’s eyes widened slightly before he turned back to Mercer, his discomfort more evident.
“He will not say.”
Mercer’s frustration surged, but he held it behind a cold, calculating stare. They’re offering survival, but won’t even tell me what I’m facing?
The Roman officer smirked, his tone turning condescending. The priest translated, though his voice trembled slightly. “Survival is all that should concern you. You may choose to be strong, or you may choose to die.”
Mercer’s gaze flicked to the priest, sensing his growing discomfort. He doesn’t fully believe this either. “And what about you?” Mercer asked quietly, his voice probing. “Do you believe in this?”
For the first time, the priest’s facade cracked. His expression faltered, his voice softer now, almost unsure. “I believe,” he said, “that survival is never as simple as choosing sides. But I also believe in mercy, and in faith... even when it is difficult.”
There was something unsettling in the priest’s quiet understanding, a depth to his gaze that made Mercer wonder whether the man knew more than he was letting on. Empathy or calculation? Mercer couldn’t tell, and it unnerved him. Despite the priest’s soft tone and seemingly honest words, there was a guardedness in his expression, a flicker of something hidden beneath the surface. Was the priest truly a man of faith trying to navigate impossible circumstances, or was he playing a longer game—one that Mercer hadn’t yet seen? The ambiguity gnawed at him, making him question whether the priest could be an ally, or whether his kindness was just another weapon in the Legion’s arsenal.
The Roman officer shot the priest a sharp look, clearly displeased with his response. But before he could speak again, Mercer cut in, his voice steely with defiance.
“You offer me survival in exchange for becoming one of you? To serve a cause that wipes out the weak and leaves only the cruel? That’s no life worth living.”
The priest’s eyes met Mercer’s, and for a brief moment, there was something like understanding between them. He translated Mercer’s words, but his own doubt was clear. The Roman officer listened in silence, his cold smile returning, as though he believed Mercer’s resistance was temporary, a game to be won in time.
The Roman finally stood, his voice cutting through the tent like a blade. The priest translated the final command. “Think on the offer, Captain Mercer. Your bravery is wasted in a losing cause. Serve the Legion, and you will have a future.”
Without another word, the officer turned and left, his armored boots clanking against the ground. The priest lingered, his eyes soft with quiet compassion.
“I will pray for you, Captain Mercer,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Your path may be dark, but it does not have to end here.”
As Mercer was pulled away, the weight of the Romans' words pressed down on him, but he wasn’t broken. Not yet. They think they have me trapped, Mercer thought. But I’m still breathing. I still have time. And as he glanced back at the priest, he wondered if he had found an unlikely ally in this strange, hostile world despite his initial reservation with the priest's intentions.
Meanwhile at the Refugee Camp
The morning sun crept through the ragged edges of the makeshift tents, casting long, distorted shadows across the muddy ground. The air was thick with exhaustion, grief hanging like a veil over the camp. Civilians, huddled in clusters, were silent save for the occasional whispered conversation. Their faces were drawn and pale, etched with the kind of fear and sorrow that comes only from surviving the unimaginable. Some still bore wounds from the attack, others stared blankly into the distance, as if trapped in the horrors they had witnessed.
The surviving members of MTF 1 were gathered near a rusted comms array set up by MTF 2, their own equipment lost when Circuit had fallen. Razor hunched over the array, jaw clenched tight, the words of the casualty report leaving his mouth mechanically as he relayed the grim details to HQ. Around him, his teammates sat, each lost in their own thoughts, the silence between them as oppressive as the cold morning wind cutting through the camp.
Titan sat a little away from the others, his head bowed, staring at the ground. His hands still trembled. Every breath felt like a weight on his chest, a reminder that he was still here—when they weren’t. The moment Lifeline had gone silent on comms replayed over and over in his mind, each time ripping a little more at the hole that had opened in his chest. He hadn’t been fast enough. Hadn’t done enough. The silence left by her, Phantom, Circuit, and Shadow echoed in his thoughts, like ghosts whispering reminders of their absence. They weren’t coming back. And he had to live with that.
Nearby, Nomad picked absently at the bandage on his arm, the wound from the Roman’s arrow barely registering compared to the weight of the losses. Nomad was silent, the silence felt easier. Safer. Talking meant acknowledging the gaping hole that Phantom and Circuit had left behind when they decided to stay put and fight, and that was a truth he wasn’t ready to face just yet. The dull throb of his arm was nothing compared to the numbing cold settling into his bones. These were his people. That made it different. That made it hurt more.
He glanced at Titan, then quickly looked away. There was a shared understanding between them now—both of them had lost more than just teammates. But for Titan, the wound was deeper, more personal. Nomad could see it in his eyes, in the way his body sagged under the weight of that loss.
Eagle Eye perched on a crate nearby, meticulously cleaning her disassembled sniper rifle. Her movements were methodical, deliberate, but there was no hiding the strain in her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly as she worked, but she kept going, her focus sharp. She had always been good at masking the grief, at keeping it under control in a way that the others couldn’t. But even she felt the cracks starting to show. The loss of Lifeline, Circuit, Phantom, and Shadow had hit her harder than she let on.
The silence in the camp was unbearable, but no one seemed ready to break it until Razor’s voice finally cut through the heavy air. “HQ wants a full debrief,” he muttered, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. “General Hayes is asking for details on how the operation went down. They want to know why it all went to hell.”
Titan’s fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. “They know exactly why,” he muttered, his voice shaking with barely controlled anger. “We didn’t pull out because we were still trying to save those people. We didn’t stop fighting because… because we couldn’t. We were supposed to protect them, and instead, we watched our own die. What more do they want? A reason?” His voice cracked, the raw emotion finally breaking through. “There is no reason for this.”
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Nomad shook his head slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “They want answers, man. You know how this goes. They want to know why MTF 1 got torn apart out there.” His words held a bitter edge, knowing that no explanation would ever truly satisfy those sitting safely behind desks.
Eagle Eye looked up from her rifle, her expression hard. “It wasn’t just the numbers,” she said, her voice sharper now. “Those Romans… they had magic shields, creatures we’ve never seen before. They were organized, disciplined—nothing like we’ve gone up against before. Command needs to know that.”
Razor sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned away from the comms array. “Yeah, they need to know everything. Especially that we lost our comms guy. We’re reporting through borrowed equipment. HQ's already asking why we didn’t call for evac earlier.”
Nomad grunted, frustration clear in his tone. “That’s because Circuit was already down by the time we realized how bad things were getting. Shadow and I barely made it to the extraction point in one piece. By the time we were there, it was already too late.”
Titan’s voice broke through again, heavier this time. “We didn’t just lose a comms guy. We lost our medic, our two scouts, and our captain. All because we didn’t have the firepower or the intel to know what we were walking into.”
Silence fell over the group, each of them retreating back into their own thoughts, replaying the horrific moments when they had watched their teammates fall, one by one. The weight of it pressed down on them all, a collective burden they couldn’t shake.
When Razor spoke again, his voice was quieter, more somber. “General Hayes wants us to send a full report. He’s asking for specific details—how they died, how we lost communication, and... why we didn’t pull out sooner.”
Eagle Eye’s gaze darkened. “Pull out sooner?” she echoed, her voice filled with disbelief. “Is that what they think we should’ve done? Run, instead of fighting to save those civilians?”
Nomad spat on the ground, his tone bitter. “Those civilians were the whole reason we were there. We saved them, even if it cost us.”
The sudden sound of Titan’s fist slamming into the ground startled the group, a sharp crack echoing through the camp. Dirt scattered as his hand hit the earth with force. The others flinched but didn’t speak, the tension in the air thickening. Titan’s voice was low, trembling with restrained anger and grief. “We couldn’t save everyone. Mercer’s still out there, and we left him behind.”
Razor looked at him, sympathy clear in his eyes, but no words of comfort came. There were no easy answers for this. “We did what we could,” Razor said finally, his voice heavy with guilt. “Command’s going to want to know how it all went wrong, though. And if they don’t get answers from us, they’ll start making their own.”
Eagle Eye sighed, her hands continuing to reassemble her rifle with grim determination. “Let them try. They weren’t there. They didn’t see what we saw.”
The radio crackled as Razor connected the line to HQ. General Hayes’s voice came through, cold and professional, but with an edge of frustration underlying his words. “MTF 1, report.”
Razor took a deep breath before responding. “This is Sergeant Ramirez. We’ve... we’ve suffered significant losses, sir.”
“I’ve received the casualty report,” Hayes replied, his tone stern and unyielding. “What I want to know is how it happened. Why did you lose communication? Why weren’t we notified of the situation sooner?”
Nomad leaned in slightly, his voice steady but quieter now. “Sir, Circuit was hit during the mission. We lost comms before we even knew truly what we were up against. Shadow stayed behind... he fought off as many as he could to buy us time. Without him, some of the civilians wouldn’t have made it to the extraction point in time.” His eyes grew distant as he spoke, reliving the final moments of the battle. “He knew what he was doing.”
Hayes’s voice hardened, pressing them for answers. “And the others? Why weren’t they pulled out once the situation deteriorated?”
Titan finally spoke up, his voice strained with frustration and lingering grief. “We didn’t pull out because we were still fighting to save the civilians. We didn’t have a choice. Mercer gave the order to push through, and we followed it.”
There was a brief pause on the line before Hayes responded, his tone colder now. “And Captain Mercer? What is his status?”
Razor hesitated, the weight of the truth hanging in the air. “We believe that he was captured, sir. The Romans took him. We... we couldn’t get to him in time.” Razor’s voice cracked slightly on the last word, and the silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.
When Hayes spoke again, his voice was calm but decisive. “Understood. I’ll have another MTF team deployed to secure the refugee camp and maintain the mission objectives. MTF 1 has taken too many losses, and your priority now is extraction. You’re to return to base immediately for debrief and reassignment.” His tone softened slightly before he added, “You’ve done your part. Let the next team take over from here.”
Boomer, still struggling to process the loss of their teammates, spoke up, his voice tight with emotion. “We can’t just leave him behind, sir. Mercer’s still out there. We’ve got the resources here—MTF 2 to 5, and even the Russians. If we hit the Roman camp now, we might still be able to bring him back.”
General Hayes paused, considering Boomer’s words. “It’s not that simple, Sergeant. Our forces are spread thin across multiple fronts. A rescue op, especially one this unplanned, would stretch our resources even more.”
Nomad chimed in, his tone more insistent now. “We know the terrain, sir. We have MTF teams in place. We can do this. We’re already here.”
Razor exchanged a glance with Titan, then added, “We owe it to him. If there’s even a chance Mercer’s alive, we can’t just walk away.”
Hayes sighed, the weight of command and the decisions he had to make clear in his voice. “We’ll regroup at base first, get the intel from this mission, and see what can be done from there. Right now, you follow orders. Understood?”
Reluctantly, the group nodded, the desire to save Mercer clashing with the harsh reality of their situation.
The comms clicked off, leaving them in silence once more. Titan stared at the ground, fists clenched tightly. The losses weighed on them all like a storm they couldn’t escape. “We’re not done here,” Titan muttered, his voice low but resolute. “Not by a long shot.”
Nomad glanced over at him, his usual humor gone, replaced by grim determination. “No, we’re not.”
Post-Debriefing 9 Hours Later
The sterile hum of the debriefing room’s fluorescent lights filled the silence, casting a cold, artificial glow on the remaining members of MTF 1. Each man sat across from General Hayes, their faces drawn and heavy with exhaustion. The room felt as lifeless as they did—stale air, harsh lighting, and the lingering scent of disinfectant that did nothing to clear the emotional weight in the air. The losses of Lifeline, Phantom, Circuit, and Shadow loomed over them like a shadow that they couldn’t shake, seeping into every corner of the space.
General Hayes cleared his throat, the sound breaking through the oppressive quiet. His voice, when he spoke, was more solemn than usual—almost as if he, too, was struggling with the weight of the disaster. “You’ve all done everything you could,” he said, his eyes scanning the room, lingering momentarily on each of them. “But MTF 1 will need to regroup. Replacements will be assigned as soon as possible.” He paused, giving the words a moment to settle. “This war isn’t over, and I need to know where each of you stands. After everything that’s happened, it’s time to reassess.”
Razor glanced at Titan and Boomer. There was no hesitation in their eyes, just grim determination. But inside, Razor’s thoughts raced. The desire to find Mercer was gnawing at him, an instinctive pull that he couldn’t ignore. Yet, at the same time, the exhaustion—the endless cycle of loss and grief—was pushing him toward a breaking point. How many more missions? How many more would they lose before it was all over? He realized then that he was at his limit. But how could he leave now, knowing Mercer was still out there?
“I’m tired, sir,” Razor began, his voice steady but laden with emotion. "Tired of knowing that we will lose people. Tired of walking into missions blind, fighting battles we’re never ready for. I’ve been with MTF 1 for what feels like a long time, and this mission..." His voice faltered, the weight of his words threatening to overwhelm him. "It broke us. It broke me."
General Hayes’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing Razor’s tone. "What are you saying, Sergeant Ramirez?"
Razor took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. "I’m saying I don’t know how much more I can give to MTF 1 as it is, sir. I’ve seen too many people die before me, and I don’t want to keep watching it happen again." He glanced at Boomer and Titan before locking eyes with Hayes again. "I want to be part of any rescue operation for Mercer, but after that..." He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. "After that, I’m done."
Hayes raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the shift in Razor’s stance. "You want to be discharged, but you’re asking to be part of a rescue op first?"
Razor nodded slowly, his jaw clenched. "Mercer’s still out there. We can’t just abandon him. But after that, I need to walk away. I’ve lost too much already."
As Razor spoke the words aloud, the weight of his decision settled heavier on his chest. Walking away from MTF 1 felt like betraying the very people he had fought alongside, but how much more could he give before he, too, ended up like the others—another name on the casualty list? The faces of Phantom, Lifeline, Circuit, and Shadow flashed in his mind, each of them trusting him, relying on him to do his part. And yet, they were gone, despite everything. Was it cowardice to leave? Or had he finally reached the end of what he could offer? The war wasn’t over, but maybe, for him, it had to be. He had given enough, lost enough. Mercer’s fate would be his last burden, and after that... he needed to find a way to survive—not just the war, but himself.
Titan, who had been silent throughout the debrief, finally spoke, his voice low and strained. "I’m out too, sir," he muttered, the grief weighing heavily on his words. "Losing Lifeline... I can’t do it again. Not after her. I’m resigning my post. I’ve given everything I can, and it’s not enough anymore."
Boomer shifted in his seat, nodding in agreement. "I’m with them. I thought I could do this forever, but after seeing how that mission went down..." His voice trailed off as he struggled to find the words. "I’m done too. But if there’s a chance to get Mercer back, I’ll help. After that, I’m out."
General Hayes exhaled deeply, his face hardening as he processed their words. "You know this isn’t something you can just walk away from. We’re in the middle of a war. There are protocols—psych evaluations, the military discharge process. It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to be quick."
Razor’s gaze didn’t waver. "We understand that, sir. But if there’s any operation to get Mercer back, we want in. After that, we’re finished."
Hayes leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, his expression inscrutable. "I’ll start the process for your discharges. But it’s going to take time. You’ll need to go through evaluations and be cleared by the psych team. You’ll be placed on administrative leave until then." He paused, his tone softening slightly. "If there’s any chance of a rescue mission, I’ll let you know. But I’m not making any promises."
Titan and Boomer exchanged glances, their faces resigned but resolute. Razor remained silent, his thoughts locked on Mercer. Mercer’s fate was uncertain, and that uncertainty gnawed at him. He couldn’t let go, not until he knew.
Hayes turned his attention to the remaining team members—Nomad, Eagle Eye, and Aegis. "What about the rest of you? You’ve all been through the same mission. Are you staying, or are you walking out too?"
Nomad, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the debrief, shifted in his seat and spoke up. "I’m staying, sir," he said, his voice steady but tired. "I signed up to fight, and that’s what I’m going to keep doing. I owe it to the people we lost to keep going."
Eagle Eye, who had maintained her characteristic poise throughout the meeting, finally spoke. She shifted slightly in her chair, her hands resting calmly on the table. "I’m not leaving either. We all knew the risks when we signed up, and we’re still in this war. I’m not walking away."
Aegis, drawn and exhausted, nodded. "I’m staying too, sir. The team needs to rebuild, and I know I can still make a difference. Losing the others..." His voice faltered for a moment, the pain of their losses evident. "It’s hard, but I’m not done fighting."
Hayes nodded, his expression softening ever so slightly. "Understood. We’ll be rebuilding MTF 1, and you’ll be key in training the replacements."
Aegis’s eyes hardened with determination as Hayes’s words sank in. Training replacements meant taking on a new responsibility, one he was ready for. He had seen enough loss to know that the only way to honor the fallen was to ensure those who came next were even stronger. "I’ll make sure the new guys are up to standard, sir," Aegis said, his voice firm. He could already picture the newcomers—raw recruits with no idea what they were in for—and he felt a surge of purpose. They’d need guidance, structure, and someone to remind them that this war wasn’t just fought with weapons, but with discipline and resolve. He would make sure they had both.
Nomad, on the other hand, was more reserved. The idea of training a new team didn’t stir any real feelings in him, one way or the other. He understood the necessity of it, sure, but the attachment he had once felt to his team was frayed, worn thin by the losses. "It’s just part of the job," he muttered, barely loud enough for the others to hear. He would do what was expected of him, but he wasn’t sure he could ever feel the same camaraderie he once did.
Eagle Eye’s silence was telling. She sat stiffly in her chair, her jaw tight, her hands gripping the table as if to hold herself back. The thought of replacements made her stomach turn. New faces. New names. New people to get killed. She had lost enough. Investing in attachments with people she didn’t even know, only to see them torn apart by war, wasn’t something she could bear. "I’ll do my duty," she said finally, her tone clipped and distant. But there was no fire behind her words. She was already pulling away, already shutting down that part of herself that might connect with the new recruits. She couldn’t allow herself to get close again—not after everything.
Nomad glanced at the others who had decided to leave and nodded slightly. "I get it," he said, his voice filled with understanding rather than judgment. "We all have our limits."
Titan didn’t respond, his gaze distant as he processed the gravity of his decision. Razor and Boomer sat quietly beside him, their expressions resigned but firm in their choice.
General Hayes stood, his authoritative tone returning. "For those of you staying, you’ll continue your duties and be reassigned as needed. For those resigning, I’ll fast-track the discharge process. You’ll need to complete the evaluations, and you’ll be on leave until the paperwork is finalized." He paused, giving them all a long, measured look. "This war takes its toll on all of us. You’ve served with honor, but I won’t hold anyone here who can’t continue the fight."
He turned his attention to Razor, Titan, and Boomer one last time. "You’ll be debriefed one more time before you’re officially out. Until then, you’re on leave."
The three men nodded, each lost in their own thoughts as they stood. They had made their decision, and now there was no turning back.
As they left the debriefing room, Nomad and Eagle Eye stayed behind, exchanging a glance. Eagle Eye’s gaze lingered on the door as Razor, Titan, and Boomer disappeared down the hall.
"Guess we’re the last ones standing," she muttered, her voice a mix of bitterness and resolve.
Aegis remained silent, while Nomad nodded, his expression grim but determined. "Yeah. But we’ll keep going. We have to."
Eagle Eye tightened her fist, her resolve hardening. "We’re the last ones standing for a reason."