It's me again, I wrote this too. Something different I wanted to try, don't know if it'll really work but you know whatevs. Chapters 1 and 2 are basically a prologue, the real of it will kick in starting more with Chapter 3. Hope whoever reads this enjoys it!

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

-"The Second Coming," W.B. Yeats

Chapter 1 – Tip of the Spear

The sky was bleeding.

That was the only way that she could describe it, looking out past the hatch on the back of the dropship as the last of the troopers piled on-board. She could see the hopelessness in their eyes, and for the rare few that had managed to keep their helmets intact through the last 24 hours, she could see the exhaustion set into the slump of their shoulders and the slack fingers barely gripping scarred rifles. They could doubtless see it in her, even through the mirrored blue visor that masked her eyes and young face. Almost twelve years old, already a veteran. Lieutenant Junior Grade Frisk-STF15, Special Weapons Group, Sovereign Task Force, Team Three. A child soldier since the day she was grown, bred and raised for war.

The Commander had wanted only commissioned officers in the task force, give them the option to modify mission parameters as needed, which was how the girl that came out of a test tube for the purposes of special weapons programs found herself leading men and women into battle. They were all hardened, everyone who had managed to stay alive this long. They'd all lost something or someone. There were no such things as noncombatants against the aliens, the Authority. They'd already killed trillions, scorched entire planets in their single-minded mission to exterminate every last living human being. ISAF, the Interstellar States Allied Forces, had once spanned across the galaxy, massive fleets guarding untold star systems. Now, there was only Earth. Only them. Why the war started, she couldn't say. But it was everything she knew. There was no disrespect among survivors, no such thing as "too young" or "too green." Only alive and dead, and they were alive.

It was still dark, not quite early enough for morning light to begin making its way up over the horizon, yet the clouds were alight with carmine flashes that rumbled in the near-distance. They weren't rain clouds in the air, but rather a dense canopy of acrid, tarry smoke, covering the night and blocking any light from the moon or stars. Only the scarlet lightning that bore down and gouged out great holes in rock and steel and flesh and bone illuminated the sky.

Frisk gave the last trooper aboard a slight pat on the shoulder, nodding to him as he took a deep breath and responded with a "ma'am." It had been a long day, but they'd made it, everyone that was here. It couldn't be called a victory, not with the city burning in the distance, not with the glassed bodies and downed shuttles, but they'd delayed the coming storm for a few precious hours, and to EASTCOM that was enough. Lives for minutes, that was the going rate. Could be worse.

EASTCOM, short for East Coast Command, was officially in charge of all that remained of humanity ever since the Collapse, those nightmarish days when the entire North American West Coast defensive line and the European front had fallen in an instant, the Authority's lightning strike taking every last one of them by surprise. Oceanica had already gone dark, alongside everything south of Israel and most of South America. It had taken everything that they'd had, along with the ten million lives of the 4121st and 1192nd Airborne, the First, Third, and Twelfth Armies, the 12th and 383rd Bomber Wings, the Entreaty, the Andal, and the entirety of the Redoubt carrier group, but they'd stymied the Authority rampage across the central United States . . . but not until they'd annihilated WESTCOM, CENTCOM, and every settlement and military installation from California to Illinois. It was only by sheer luck that Special Operations Command had relocated to EASTCOM in time, and it was through a massive coordinated effort that the Tannhauser Line had been established as a defensive perimeter, extending to the eastern seaboard that was already under siege.

It wouldn't hold for long. This was their final hope: Operation Brionac. All available assets striking as hard as possible at the blockade over the East Coast, punching through and linking up with the beleaguered European forces still fighting. She could still hear Commander Winter's words in her ear, the quiet desperation in his voice.

"All available operators: if you're receiving, you're what we've got left. You're the tip of the spear. Counteroffensive operations are underway across the countryside; rally with any assets and punch through that battle cluster, no matter the cost. If we let them divide us up here, it's all over. Godspeed and good hunting. Sovereign Actual, out."

That had been yesterday. They'd been fighting ever since, and were preparing to get back on the move once more, pushing ever onward. They were just waiting for one last soldier to make it back to the dropship.

"Ho, partner," came a voice as an armored girl came around from the shelled-out ruins of what was once a skyscraper. Her visor was a thin slit of crimson, and her long rifle was propped over her shoulder, bayonet slick with dark-blue blood.

"Chara!" Frisk ran over, taking off her helmet as the other girl removed hers, the two greeting face-to-face. They looked nearly identical, wispy brown hair mussed over pale skin. The only major difference to note were the eyes and how they held themselves: Frisk had wide, bright eyes of a shining hazel, while Chara's eyes were sharp and piercing-red as her visor. Young faces, aged by war and hardship. Chara was overall leaner, her hawkish eyes always with an ill glint, and she walked with a predatory confidence that matched her role as designated marksman and sharpshooter. Frisk, on the other hand, was softer, her edges rounded down, and despite her arsenal and her skill would often walk with trepidation amongst the others when the battle had subsided. They were twins, two halves of a greater whole, though each would call the other the better half. They were each others anchors, what enabled them to keep going in this broken world. The only fireteam to earn the title of "hyper-lethal." Sisters that trusted each other to the very end, would defend each other to the very end. The last two remaining members of Team Three, scarred but unbroken.

They matched not just in physique and appearance, but in armor styling as well, at least to a degree; since camouflage was all but useless against the Authority, SOCOM authorized all Tier One operators free customization of their gear, for morale purposes. That was the official reason. The real reason was that they couldn't do a damn thing to stop them from painting their gear; what were they gonna do, give them an even more suicidal mission? Take them out of combat? Unlikely.

Frisk's combat suit was sleek and svelte, a rich blue with stripes of purple that raced across the chest and down the legs, while Chara's was much more angular and jagged, olive green criss-crossed with streaks of yellow. They were both covered in armaments: black durasteel knives holstered on the collarbone, sidearms at the hip, smokes and flares, frags and incendiaries, in-built cannons and heavy arms, thrusters at the joints. Titan suits, well beyond the standard issue of the troopers; but then, Frisk and Chara were well beyond troopers. As Sovereign Task Force operators, they were Tier One; the best of the best of the best. Genetically augmented, conditioned to never stop fighting, trained to win no matter the foe. Born in blood and bred in war. Or at least, that was the mantra. The best of the best of the best; no line they couldn't cross, no foe they couldn't kill. Whatever means, whatever it took. They got the job done. No sortie too dangerous, no target out of reach.

No such thing as "too costly."

"You're okay!" Frisk holstered her battle rifle on her back, grabbing Chara's outstretched arm and pulling herself in to embrace her better self.

"Of course," Chara smirked, patting Frisk on the back with a metallic clank. "You expected anything less?" Frisk answered with a grin and a shake of the head. Chara was the one constant in the world.

She hooked her arm around Frisk, pulling her along with her as she headed towards the dropship, cocky swagger in full effect.

"You want to do the honors, partner?" Chara asked, her eyebrows raised as she stowed her helmet in the nook of her back and tapped at Frisk's knife. Again, Frisk shook her head; she'd let Chara handle that. That was a bit . . . morbid for her. Frisk was glad that Chara was all right, glad to be alive herself, and that was enough. But Chara, it felt like she reveled in the carnage sometimes. To emphasize the thought, Chara shrugged her shoulders and pulled her own knife out, carving another tally onto her armor. Most of the scratches weren't battle damage, but rather kill tallies; Chara kept track of every confirmed kill, numbering well into the thousands by this point, who even knew about the unconfirmed.

"Suit yourself," Chara sheathed the knife, puffing the paint dust off and admiring the latest line. "You all right?"

" . . . yeah," Frisk replied, her voice whisper-soft. She'd always been quiet, and even around Chara, she found it hard to express herself in words . . .

"Hey," Chara turned Frisk around to face her. "Be honest."

. . . but then, Chara could see through the silence. She understood Frisk, and Frisk understood her. Frisk tightened her grip on Chara's hand, their fingers interwoven.

" . . . I was worried."

"Have some faith," Chara knocked her on the shoulder, soft. "No way some scum's gonna get me. I'm never leaving you. Never."

Frisk smiled, finding comfort and reassurance in Chara's confidence, in the wolfish grin that pulled at her red eyes, and nodded in reply.

"Now, let's get onboard and have a seat and a bite, yeah? My legs are killing me," Chara led them to the ship, still hand-in-hand.

"Lieutenant!" An older sergeant rose as they approached, saluting. Chara returned his salute and waved the rest off, striding towards the open hatch. As a full lieutenant, Chara was the commanding officer; she also seemed to like the respect, as opposed to Frisk who really preferred for the others to not salute at her.

"Michaelson. Glad to see you made it," Chara replied, ignoring his outstretched hand and climbing in on her own. She reached out to help Frisk up, though, which Frisk gladly accepted.

"We're made tough, ma'am," Sergreant Major Michaelson cracked a wry grin. His weathered face was covered in dust and mud, the soot light on his dark skin, and his mustache looked like it hadn't been maintained in weeks. Even through the war, he'd managed to keep a spark of life in his grey eyes. "You bagged the firelord?"

"Bagged, tagged, and fragged 'em," Chara threw out a thumbs-down on the last part for emphasis. A resigned chorus of "oorah" rang out from the weary soldiers, still enough fight left in them to celebrate the termination of one of the Authority's aether prophets. "We're moving out with the armada. Full-scale sortie. Package is highest priority. You hear that, up there? Try not to fly into any of our own." Chara walked up and banged on the pilot's door once, and got a knock in reply. She heard. Warrant Officer Denna, callsign Super Six-One, was an amazing pilot; she'd been with them for almost a year now, miraculously enough. Truthfully, Frisk kind of looked up to her . . . she always had this cool look on her face, like nothing touched her. She was like Chara in that respect.

"All right, troopers, rest up while you can. Alberts, Walker, you're on the side guns. Holloway, you've got the tail. We'll rotate every two hours," Michaelson barked out, taking control of the squad as Chara and Frisk strapped themselves in to the last two seats nearest the hatch.

"We've got roughly six hours until we hit the zero barrier," Chara called out as she crossed her arms and placed her sniper rifle on her lap, barrel facing the hatch.

"Then we rock and roll and steal the show," Walker clapped his hands as he stuffed an especially large plug of snuff into his mouth, his cheek bulging with the chewing tobacco. He slapped himself on the cheeks, knocked his helmet, then settled his hands on the port-side turret's controls.

"Do or die," Chara nodded as she propped her head back against the wall of the dropship, olive-drab Titanium-E. Toughest alloy that Humanity could manufacture . . . still didn't do much against the kind of firepower being thrown around in this war. Outside, they could hear the whir of the Kestrel's twin VTOL engines coming to life, increasing in volume as the interior lights dimmed to black, only the constant, dim carmine of the guidance lights on the floor and ceiling illuminating the cabin. "You should get some rest, Frisk. No offense, but you look like shit."

Frisk let out a snort of amusement, a small grin playing out on her face. She couldn't see Chara through her helmet, but she was sure the other girl was smiling as well. "I'm fine. You get some sleep."

"No argument from me, but you'd better catch some shut-eye yourself before we get there. That's an order."

"Yes ma'am," Frisk kept her grin as she answered, though her smile quickly faded. The roar of the engines hit their crescendo as they came fully alight, lifting the bird of war and all its occupants into the air. Frisk's stomach lurched slightly as the Kestrel came off the ground; it was smooth, or at least as smooth as these things got, but she always preferred to keep her feet on the ground.

She looked around, at the men and women either settling themselves into their seats for a much-needed nap, or the ones manning the guns with a grim resolve. At the ones that bowed their heads and prayed to whatever higher power they believed in, and at the ones with the far-off look in their eyes that knew that what lay behind their eyelids wouldn't be rest. They were heading straight into the den . . . no, that wasn't an apt comparison. They were shoving their heads into the monster's mouth and trying to bite their way through its stomach. How many of them would make it through this? Her stomach lurched at the thought.

Frisk glanced out the transparent-steel window, saw the green smoke pouring out from every crack in the city as every other living human being ascended, a mix of air cavalry, gunships, dropships, and attack helos; higher up, she saw the contrails of the superiority fighters escorting the heavy bombers, and even higher above them, up in orbit, the last remnants of the Sol Defense Fleet prepared for the push. She flicked through some of the comm channels, listening to the chatter as everyone coordinated and began to move out. They'd not rallied this much manpower since before the Collapse. One final push, one last-ditch effort. No one needed to say what would happen if it didn't work. It had to work.

Frisk popped off her helmet, ran a hand through her hair with a heavy sigh. She didn't want tomorrow to come. But, whatever happened, she wouldn't let anything happen to Chara. No matter what.

"Hey. Lieutenant," a voice called out to her, barely audible, and Frisk rose her head to see Corporal Dana Holloway looking over at her, dirty blonde hair peeking out from under her helmet and propped up dust goggles. She tapped at the side of her helmet, over her ear; she wanted to talk. Frisk put her helmet back on with a snap, flipped open the visor, and opened a direct channel to Holloway.

"Just . . . Frisk, please," she replied, now able to communicate with the tail gunner over the roar of the BEF. Her voice was still quiet, even amplified through her helmet's comms system. She didn't like being referred to by rank; something about it was off-putting to her.

"Frisk, then. Just wanted to talk, if that's all right."

"Sure," Frisk answered, though she wasn't really that talkative, so she wasn't sure if she'd be a great conversation partner.

Holloway was much older than Frisk, 46 to be exact, though not the oldest soldier in the squad (that was the Sergeant Major). She was kind of the communal helping hand, always the one that had an extra sock or string to mend a hole, or an extra incendiary grenade when a bug hole needed popped. Always seemed to have a cigarette even when no one else had any (Neither Frisk nor Chara smoked; against Special Weapons Group code), and always had a light. Her face was mired with wrinkles and scars, but there was a cheekiness to her face, to her blue eyes and nose that hooked just the slightest bit at the end, leading some to call her "Witch." She was well-built, strong and solid, though not as tall as Walker, and had on the same urban camo armor plating over fatigues that the rest of the troopers had; not powered armor like Frisk and Chara, but rugged and dependable nonetheless. She'd painted a pine tree on the side of her helmet, but had never said why.

"I realize this is pretty tasteless, especially given, well," she gestured towards Frisk, "but I just feel like I have to get it out, you know? Before tomorrow."

Frisk nodded, not sure where she was going with it, and let her continue.

"I had a daughter." Oh. Oh. There was an unspoken rule around them; no one talked about the lost. If Holloway was bringing this up . . .

"She'd be about your age now, actually. A bit older. Tomorrow she'd have been thirteen. Hell of a birthday, eh?" she chuckled. "I know I shouldn't have had her. Bring her up in this. But . . . I needed something more to live for. You know?"

"A future," Frisk bit the inside of her cheek. "Hope."

"Yeah. Bring something good into this world. I thought we'd, you know. Win. Can't believe it's like this now."

That hung in the air, only the crackle of radio silence filling the gap. Until Frisk cut through the silence.

" . . . I'm sorry, Dana."

Holloway swallowed hard at that, nodded her head. Frisk could see the thanks in her eyes even if she couldn't say it right now.

" . . . we're gonna get through this, Frisk. We're gonna survive. I'll watch your back until the very end. Let's hit them so hard they regret ever coming here."

"I don't want anyone else to die either," Frisk replied, locking eyes with the Corporal. "We'll make it."

*Authority – Conglomeration of alien races on a war of extermination against Humanity.

*ISAF – Interstellar States Allied Forces. Human military and government during the war with the Authority.

*BEF – Brionac Expeditionary Force