Prologue 2: Baby

The skies above churned with the fury of the Mistgwaks, their cacophonous screeches tearing through the air like blades. A swarm of twenty, their vast wings blotted out the meager light, casting monstrous shadows as they descended in a frenzied torrent upon the warriors.

Bullets howled their deadly songs, tearing through the leathery wings of the Mistgwaks, transforming their aerial grace into plummeting descents of despair. Each creature that fell became a testament to gravity's merciless pull, their bodies crashing against the unforgiving ground of Nextar, bones shattering in a symphony of destruction.

"God damn it!" The curse exploded from Burro's lips as his minigun clicked empty. Panic and frustration mingled in his voice, "Cover me!" he bellowed, working furiously to reload the beast of a weapon.

Tato, his eyes narrowed in lethal focus, tracked a Mistgwak diving towards Burro. The laser sniper's report was a flash of red death, severing the creature's neck in a gush of dark blood, its talons inches from rending flesh.

"Get down!" Xero's command cut through the chaos as he unhooked a Heat Bomb from his belt. In his grip, it was not merely a weapon but an executioner's tool—a harbinger of scorching oblivion. With a deft motion, he hurled the bomb into the heart of the swirling maelstrom of wings and claws.

The detonation was a sunburst of annihilation, a shockwave of searing heat that expanded with voracious appetite. The Mistgwaks caught in its wrath had no time for screams as their very essence melted mid-flight, flesh and bone dissolving in an infernal conflagration. The air was filled with the sickening smell of charred feathers and burnt flesh.

As the dust and ashes settled, the warriors rose, their chainblades drawn, glinting with the promise of finality. They approached the writhing forms of the surviving Mistgwaks—each one a grotesque tapestry of pain and defeat, their once-proud wings now but smoldering remnants.

With expressions hardened by countless battles, the men delivered the coup de grâce. Their blades plunged into the skulls of the fallen creatures, each thrust an exclamation of their survival and the futility of their enemies' assault. The ground turned slick with the dark ichor of the Mistgwaks, a macabre painting of the conflict's brutal conclusion.

Above them, the dark skies of Nextar seemed to watch in silence, a witness to the unending struggle between the tenacity of life and the inevitability of death.

The aftermath of the battle with the Mistgwaks left an eerie stillness in the air. With their chain swords sheathed, the men ventured towards the gaping maw of the cave. The warmth of Nextar's hostile surface quickly surrendered to the biting cold of the subterranean depths. "Men, lights on," Xero's voice cut through the darkness, authoritative and steady.

The helmets of the warriors flickered to life, beams of light slicing through the oppressive black, revealing the cavern's throat. Their footsteps echoed, a chorus of metallic taps that grew stranger as they delved deeper. Earth and stone gave way to rusted steel underfoot, the ground clinking with the sound of their armored boots.

"These caves... they're like a ghost's dream," Orvo mused aloud, his voice tinged with awe as they navigated the labyrinthine network of halls, each turn an invitation to the unknown.

Ahead, the path forked, a silent question posed by the bowels of Nextar. "Right or left?" Burro inquired, his voice echoing off the cold metal walls. Xero paused, consulting the scanner materializing before his eyes—a ghostly hologram that pulsed with data. The Eartha shards, it seemed, beckoned from the right.

"We go right," Xero decided, his figure a shadow leading them into the increasingly narrow corridor. The air grew denser, charged with an ominous energy, their hands instinctively tightening around their weapons.

Amidst the tension, Orvo's voice broke through, a mixture of longing and levity, "Can't wait to be back on the Nerva. First thing I'm doing is hitting Charlie's brothel, diving into paradise head first." His words hung in the air, a fleeting escape from their grim reality.

"This is not the time for distractions," Xero's reprimand was swift, his focus unbreakable. "Eyes sharp, the faster we secure the shards, the sooner we return."

Their journey culminated at a massive steel door, an anachronism amidst the cave's alien architecture. "Open it," Xero ordered. Orvo and Burro flexed their formidable strength, the door groaning in protest as it yielded to their might.

Beyond lay a spectacle none had anticipated—a verdant field of otherworldly flowers, their petals shimmering with iridescent hues, and at its heart, a fountain that seemed to defy the desolation of Nextar. It was an oasis of life, an impossible garden hidden in the planet's depths.

"I did not expect to see this," Tato murmured, his smirk a brief flicker in the face of the inexplicable beauty before them. They stepped into the garden, each warrior momentarily transfixed by the serenity that contrasted starkly with the world above.

In the heart of Nextar's darkness, the warriors found an unexpected sanctuary—a field of verdant green, a sight so foreign to their war-hardened eyes. The lush grass swayed gently, a stark contrast to the barren landscapes and metallic confines of the ships they called home. Here, in this hidden Eden, the relentless tempo of their lives as Gatherers paused, if only for a moment. The serenity enveloped them, and for the first time, they knew peace.

But the respite was fleeting. "Okay, snap out of it," Xero's voice broke the enchantment, a reminder of their mission and the perilous reality they inhabited. With a collective exhale, they refocused, proceeding towards the centerpiece of this surreal oasis—the fountain.

The fountain, with its angelic effigies, was a curious relic of artistry amidst the cave's enigmatic gloom. Water wept from the angels' eyes into the bowls they held, a display both mesmerizing and unsettling. "Creepy," Tato murmured, unable to shake the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes.

As they neared, the Eartha shards revealed themselves, glinting like stars beneath the fountain's waters. With practiced efficiency, the men deployed their specialized drills, extracting the precious shards. Yet, with each shard they removed, the water's hue shifted ominously, from clear to a sinister red, mirroring the color of blood.

"What the hell is going on?" Burro's voice rose in alarm as they noticed another transformation—the angels' faces, once expressions of sorrow, now twisted into visages of rage. The water churned, a crimson tide swirling in the bowls.

The fountain's core ruptured, unleashing a vortex of black and red shadows that danced a macabre ballet around them, colliding and merging into a dark sphere. It hovered, an ominous orb exuding a malevolent energy, slowly descending onto the fountain's apex.

"What the hell is that?" Orvo's question hung in the air, thick with dread. Xero, driven by a mix of curiosity and caution, edged closer to the enigmatic sphere.

Without warning, the sphere exploded into light, a blinding flash that seared their vision. A piercing ring assaulted their ears, an auditory blade slicing through their senses. One by one, they buckled to their knees, hands clutched over their helms, as consciousness slipped away like sand through their fingers.

Time seemed to stretch and warp, an elastic band pulled to its breaking point, as Xero regained consciousness in an expanse of white. It was a void, an endless, wall-less room of stark emptiness that swallowed his senses. "Burro? Tato? Orvo? Can you hear me?" His voice, a lone anchor in the void, echoed back to him, distorted and hollow. He reached for his communicator, only to find it as lifeless as the space around him, its signal as absent as the walls of this surreal chamber.

Then, like the insidious onset of a nightmare, a sound crept into the stillness. It began as a subtle, rhythmic ringing, akin to the innocuous chiming of an alarm clock. But it grew, swelling into a cacophony that clawed at his mind, an auditory tempest that escalated until it was a scream in his ears. Xero crumpled, his hands clasped over his helmet in a futile attempt to quell the agony, his vision blurring into a maelstrom of light and shadow.

Amidst this vortex of confusion and pain, a figure materialized—a woman clothed in a gown of black and red, her presence a stark contrast to the surrounding void. She wore a tiara, a twisted coronet adorned with rubies and jewels, horns curling from its sides like the appendages of some malevolent deity. Her appearance was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying.

"You can only fight darkness with more darkness," she intoned, her voice resonating within Xero's very marrow, cutting through the din and pain. Her presence was an enigma, her words a riddle wrapped in the shroud of mystery.

"For the Legion of Bright, how far are you willing to go to fight for your legion?" she continued, her eyes piercing into his soul.

Xero, though racked with confusion and pain, clung to the one truth he knew—his unwavering loyalty to the Legion. "It is my birthright to die for the Legion," he managed to utter, his voice a gritty whisper.

"Foolish human," the woman's laugh was a chilling cascade, mocking and cold. "You will awake soon, Sergeant Xero, and when you do, you will understand my truth. I will grant you the greatest gift for you and your legion."

Xero's mind raced, his thoughts a whirlwind of doubt and uncertainty. "What do you mean?" he gasped, struggling against the invisible vise gripping his senses.

"What are you willing to sacrifice for the legion?" she pressed, her words a serpent slithering into his thoughts.

"My life," he replied instantly, his conviction unshakable. But at her next question, about sacrificing his men, a moment of hesitation betrayed him. The notion was abhorrent, yet something in her presence, an inexplicable power, seemed to warp his resolve.

"For the greatest gift, a gift that could allow the Legion to rule the galaxies, stomp out all your enemies..." she tempted, her voice a siren song of power and conquest.

In a moment of weakness, a lapse that felt like an intrusion upon his will, Xero found himself agreeing, "For the greater good of the Legion, yes." Regret washed over him instantly, a tide of self-loathing and confusion.

"Excellent, Xero. I grant you the greatest gift," she declared, her voice a harbinger of something unfathomable. As she spoke, his vision blurred further, the ringing in his ears crescendoing into an unbearable pitch.

"What are you even talking about? What gift?" Xero's protest was a shout lost in the tempest of his pain.

Leaning in, her form still an indistinct blur, she whispered into his ear, a single word that chilled him to his core—"Darkness." The world spun wildly, her laughter etching itself into his memory, a haunting echo that promised to linger long after this nightmare ended.

Xero's emergence from the abyss of unconsciousness was a brutal return to reality. He found himself buried under a shroud of rubble and dirt, the once vibrant garden now a ruin of cold, dark stone. Gritting his teeth, he wiped the dust from his helm, revealing a world transformed. Where lush life once flourished, now only desolation reigned. The center fountain, a remnant of the room's former glory, stood ominously transformed—a colossal wolf's head carved from stone, so lifelike it seemed to breathe the very air of the crypt.

Struggling to his feet, his head still spinning from the nightmare encounter, Xero called out for his comrades. "Orvo! Burro! Tato!" His voice echoed off the walls, met only by a suffocating silence. The communicators lay eerily quiet, like the grave.

His heart sank as his gaze landed on three motionless figures sprawled near the fountain. With each step towards them, a dreadful certainty grew within him. The first body he reached was Burro's. Xero knelt beside him, his hands trembling as he tried to rouse his fallen comrade. "Burro, man, you okay? Wake up!" he pleaded, his voice cracking under the weight of a truth he couldn't yet accept. The realization hit him like a physical blow as he noticed the blood seeping from Burro's helm. Removing the helmet revealed the finality of death—Burro's lifeless eyes stared back, drained of color, his ears leaking blood. Xero's grief erupted, tears streaking down his face. "Burro?" he whispered, a broken scream escaping his lips.

He rushed to the other bodies, but each discovery was a repeat of the last—his men, his brothers-in-arms, gone. Their stillness was a stark contrast to the battles they had fought, the lives they had lived. Overcome with anguish, Xero's cries reverberated through the chamber, a mournful dirge for the fallen.

In the midst of his despair, the wolf fountain—an ominous sentinel of the room—stirred. Its stone jaws creaked open, and from its maw unfurled a long, stone tongue. Resting upon it was a swath of black cloth, silky yet radiating a dark, almost malevolent energy. Xero, caught between grief and curiosity, approached the bizarre spectacle.

As he reached the fabric, it unfurled slightly, revealing its contents—a baby, swaddled in darkness. Xero recoiled in shock, his mind a tempest of confusion and fear. How could a child exist in this place of death? And yet, there it lay, a beacon of innocence amidst the shadows of despair.