Jackson stares at him, bewildered.

  Jackson Cross: Is that… like, the name of a band or something?

  Cpt. Rourke: I ask that you don’t disrespect our name, kid. We are an elite unit, tasked with the safety of you and countless others.

  Jackson Cross (scratching his head apologetically): Right… sorry about that.

  From behind, a voice cuts through.

  Aby Cross (Jackson’s Mother): JACKSON!

  She rushes forward, wrapping him in a long, tearful hug. Jackson clings to her just as tightly, letting the brief comfort anchor him.

  Aby Cross: Jackson… I’m so sorry… If only I could’ve done something for Jane…

  Her tears fall freely, and Jackson feels the weight of grief all over again, swelling within him, raw and unrelenting.

  Jackson Cross: No… there’s nothing you could’ve done. I’m just glad you made it out alright, Mom.

  Aby holds him for another moment before he gently pulls away. Jackson’s eyes drift back to the armored squad, the ones who called themselves the Liquidators.

  Jackson Cross: I’ve never seen tech like that before… And that creature… What the hell is going on?

  A calm voice interrupts from behind him.

  Lt. Elias: That creature is called a Chthryn. Most likely a scout from a larger Chthryx colony. We encountered it underground, but… circumstances prevented us from eliminating it at the time.

  Elias steps closer, placing a steady hand on Jackson’s shoulder.

  Lt. Elias: I heard what you asked about your friend. I’m sorry. There’s nothing we could’ve done for her. I only wish we’d arrived sooner.

  The flames crackle in the distance. Smoke coils into the dark sky. Jackson doesn’t respond immediately.

  His jaw tightens.

  Jackson Cross: I have questions. These creatures… Chthryn… Chthryx… whatever the hell they are called. Why does no one know about them? Why were we not informed that this was a possibility? That this amount of devastation could happen?

  Lt. Elias: Sorry, kid. I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than I already have.

  Jackson gets visibly annoyed at that comment.

  Jackson Cross: The fuck?! What do you mean you can’t explain? Who knows how many damn people have died today, and you’re still keeping secrets?

  Aby Cross: Jackson, we should calm down.

  Jackson Cross: Calm down?! Why should I calm down?! Are you not angry? So many people and families, our home and field, and Jane! It’s all gone, Mom, and you want me to calm down?!

  Aby Cross: I understand you’re angry, son, but yelling and causing a scene isn’t-

  Jackson interrupts, hands shaking, and knuckles white

  Jackson Cross: No… no, no. You don’t understand! We. Lost. EVERYTHING! People died, and apparently we still can’t ask any damn questions!

  Jackson steps past Aby, toward Elias.

  Jackson Cross: Why won’t you tell us everything?! Why are you still trying to keep whatever it is you’re hiding a damn secret?!

  Suddenly, one of the armored figures appears in front of Elias and forcefully shoves Jackson away with a single hand. He skids across the dirt.

  Sgt. Mara: Watch yourself, civilian! I will not tolerate any more of your disrespect toward the Lieutenant.

  Aby rushes to Jackson’s side, but Jackson pushes her away as he stands up, swinging at Mara. She dodges and easily retaliates with a punch to the jaw. Jackson’s head hits the sand, dust rising around him.

  Lt. Elias: Mara, go easy on the lad. Remember how you were before.

  Elias begins to walk away, returning to his duties.

  Jackson stands slowly, unsteady, blood dripping from his split lip and falling into the dirt below. His chest rises and falls heavily.

  Jackson Cross: No… not. Yet. I still have questions.

  He steps toward Elias, boots grinding into ash and scorched soil, shoulders squared despite the swelling already forming along his jaw.

  Mara moves instantly, intercepting him with sharp precision. Her fist connects with his face again, snapping his head to the side.

  The world fractures.

  Time slows as Jackson’s body tilts backward. Dust lifts around him in suspended clouds. The crackle of distant flames dulls into a muted hum.

  Flashes of Jane’s death replay in his mind, her smile, the blood, the spray of blackened gore. Cold. Raw.

  His back arches as gravity pulls him down.

  And just before he hits the ground-

  His foot plants into the burned soil, ash compressing beneath his heel.

  The feeling from before creeps back into him, slow at first, like heat spreading beneath his skin. His breathing deepens, sharp and deliberate. His posture straightens.

  Something has changed.

  Jackson takes another step forward, boots pressing into the scorched earth.

  Sgt. Mara: When will you learn!

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She steps in fast, armored frame cutting through the air as she throws another punch toward his face.

  Jackson’s head shifts at the last possible second. The strike slices past him, grazing air.

  He pivots on his planted foot and drives his fist forward, slamming it directly into her armored chest.

  A heavy metallic thud echoes outward.

  The armor absorbs most of the impact, but the force behind it is unnatural. Enough to make Mara stagger half a step. Enough to shock her.

  Instinctively, she looks down at the spot where the punch landed.

  A thin line of blood drips from the impact point.

  It isn’t hers.

  Jackson’s fist hangs at his side, knuckles split open, skin torn and peeling back from the force of the strike. Blood runs down his hand, dripping steadily into the ash below.

  Yet he shows no sign of pain.

  No flinch. No hesitation.

  He steps forward again.

  Slow. Deliberate.

  His eyes locked on her with the same unbroken, burning look.

  Mara steps in again, this time channeling a surge of the armor’s enhanced strength. The servos whine faintly as she commits to the strike, aiming to end it.

  Her punch lands clean.

  Jackson’s head snaps back violently, feet nearly leaving the ground from the force.

  But instead of collapsing, his body bends with it.

  In a sudden act of defiance, he twists with the momentum, hips turning, shoulders rolling, using the very force meant to drop him.

  He drives his fist forward again.

  The blow slams into the exact same spot on her armor.

  Harder.

  A deep metallic impact reverberates through the field.

  The suit releases a burst of steam from its vents, not from failure, but from absorbed kinetic overload.

  Jackson’s wrist hangs at an unnatural angle now, snapped from the impact.

  He doesn’t look at it.

  Doesn’t acknowledge it.

  Instead, he shifts forward and throws a punch with his other hand, the one still scarred and blistered from the Chthryn’s blood.

  Mara raises her guard this time, armored forearm intercepting the strike.

  The impact detonates against her defense.

  For a split second, she feels it, her guard bends inward slightly under the force.

  Jackson’s skin tears open again on contact, fresh blood streaking across the reinforced plating.

  But he doesn’t stop.

  He doesn’t even slow down.

  The force behind the strike makes her shift, just once.

  A single step backward.

  Ash compresses under her armored boot.

  For the first time in her career as a Liquidator… she is retreating.

  Not from a Chthryn.

  Not from a creature that tears humans apart without hesitation.

  But from a human.

  From him.

  Her anger flares. Teeth grit, jaw tightening so hard it aches.

  The gum she had been chewing flies from her mouth in a quick flick of her tongue.

  Her mask slides back into place, covering her face completely. Servos hum to life, pumping power through her armor as vents hiss and steam begins to rise.

  She steps forward, heavy boots crushing the scorched earth beneath her.

  Jackson mirrors her movement, stepping toward her with deliberate, unbroken focus.

  The air between them seems to pulse with tension, two unstoppable forces closing in on one another.

  Time seems to stretch as they rush toward each other, arms cocked, muscles coiled, fists primed to strike.

  They launch their punches simultaneously, but something is different. Jackson’s body slows unnaturally, just a fraction, mid-motion.

  The impact erupts like a shockwave, sending dust and ash swirling into the air. The field disappears beneath a choking, blinding cloud of grit and smoke, the world reduced to heat, tension, and silence.

  After what feels like an eternity, the dust begins to settle.

  There, in the scorched soil, Jackson lies motionless, unconscious.

  Mara kneels above him, armor faintly gleaming as she surveys the human who had dared to defy her.

  lapping sounds echo from behind her.

  Lt. Elias: That was a good showing. He really pushed you, having to use your armor against a civilian. You even knocked him out cold.

  Mara doesn’t seem nearly as impressed with herself as Elias is.

  Sgt. Mara: He was unconscious before I landed the hit.

  She looks down at the motionless Jackson before her.

  Sgt. Mara: If I hadn’t noticed, I might have killed him.

  She shudders.

  Sgt. Mara: What a monster…

  Time passes. The darkness continues. But as time always proves, what was once darkness becomes light.

  Jackson opens his eyes, first taking in his surroundings. He is inside some sort of tent. His hands are wrapped, and his wrist is set back in place, though a dull pain still lingers.

  Memories hit him like a train. He sits up abruptly, but he’s too exhausted to stand or step outside the makeshift shelter.

  His hearing feels distant and shallow, but he can make out arguing just beyond the tent.

  Sgt. Mara: You can’t be seriously considering this?!

  Cpt. Rourke: I have already made up my mind, Sergeant Mara.

  Sgt. Mara: You saw him! He is unstable! What if he acts this way in combat? What about protocol?!

  Cpt. Rourke: Unfortunately, Sergeant Mara, protocol doesn’t win wars.

  Rourke enters the tent.

  Cpt. Rourke: Ah. Our troublemaker is awake.

  Rourke smiles kindly.

  Mara steps in as well, giving him a not-so-kind look. She leans against one of the tent pillars as Rourke pulls up a seat and sits in front of the lying Jackson.

  Cpt. Rourke: Well now. I hear you gave Sergeant Mara a bit of a pounding. Very surprising. So then, boy… what’s got you so agitated?

  Jackson looks like he wants to retort at being called a boy, but instead he breathes, forcing himself to calm down.

  Jackson Cross: I just want to know what you people are hiding. Are you finally going to tell me?

  Rourke simply smiles, one leg crossing over the other as he adjusts himself for a better look at Jackson’s face.

  Cpt. Rourke: Unfortunately, kid, I can’t just tell you anything. Sorry.

  Jackson stares down at the ground, tears starting to well in his eyes.

  Jackson Cross: Why… why do you still keep things from us? I have lost… so many people… to that… that thing. And you still won’t even tell me anything?

  Rourke doesn’t respond immediately. He just stares at Jackson, the same friendly smile on his face.

  Cpt. Rourke: I must have been wrong about you, Jackson. You really are still so naive. Only a child.

  Rourke stands up from his chair, ready to leave, when Jackson grabs his wrist, his body halfway out of his makeshift bed.

  Jackson Cross: No… you can’t leave without answering me! I lost everything! At least give me something!

  Mara steps forward, but is stopped by a wave of Rourke’s hand.

  Rourke slowly turns back toward Jackson. The friendly smile is gone. He grabs Jackson by the collar, lifting him slightly, and punches him across the face, not hard enough to seriously injure him, but hard enough to make a point.

  In an instant, Jackson falls silent. His hand presses against his cheek where the strike landed, fingertips trembling slightly. He stares up in shock and fear at the man who had been smiling only moments ago.

  The subtle taste of blood spreads across his tongue. Metallic. Warm.

  Cpt. Rourke: Who do you think you are, kid? What makes you so special that your life, your fears, and your losses are more valuable than anyone else’s? You want to know something? Fine. You had it easy. You got to live your fantasy of a life. At least you actually got to live. And yet you come to me, blaming me, as if I control your fate. Well, kid… it’s time for you to grow up. Who are you to lecture me about loss? Have you even thought about other towns? Cities? Countries?

  Each word lands heavier than the punch. Rourke’s grip tightens slightly in Jackson’s collar, fabric bunching in his fist. His shadow looms over the cot, blocking out the thin strips of daylight bleeding through the canvas.

  Mara shifts uneasily at the edge of the tent. For the first time, she looks uncertain. She steps forward, raising an arm as if to intervene-

  Rourke smacks it aside without even looking at her.

  The sharp motion echoes in the small space.

  Rourke releases Jackson’s collar abruptly.

  Jackson drops back into the thin cot, the frame creaking beneath him. The impact knocks a small breath from his lungs. His bandaged hands clutch at the sheets as he stares upward, stunned.

  Cpt. Rourke: You want answers, kid. I get it. However… maybe you should stop asking and go look for them yourself.

  Rourke straightens his jacket, composure already returning, as if the outburst never happened.

  Without another glance, he turns and walks out of the tent.

  Mara hesitates for half a second, eyes lingering on Jackson, something unreadable in her expression, before she follows.

  The tent flap falls shut.

  The light dims.

  Jackson lies there, staring at the closed canvas, the faint taste of blood still on his tongue.

  Then stillness.

  And darkness.

  - Centu