THE ALUMINUM HIVE
FOB BEDROCK
OMEGA, SECTOR 1 (THE PERIMETER)
NOVEMBER 15, 2027
06:00 GST
The sun on Omega didn't rise; it bruised the horizon. A deep, sickly purple light bled into the grey sky, illuminating the steel sprawl that Humanity had carved into the alien rock.
FOB Bedrock was no longer a hole in the ground. It was a city of war.
In the last month, the Engineering Corps—a joint task force of US Seabees and Russian railway troops—had leveled a two-hundred-meter radius around the central bunker. They had blasted the jagged basalt flat, poured quick-drying lunar-grade concrete, and erected a perimeter of Hesco barriers filled with crushed obsidian.
It was now Bedrock Airfield.
Captain Russo stood on the observation deck of the new Control Tower, drinking coffee that tasted like burnt copper. He watched the morning dance of the logistics crews.
It was a beautiful, chaotic ballet.
"Clear on Pad 4!" a flight coordinator shouted over the squawk box. "Fuel lines detached. Spinning up!"
On the tarmac, the rotors of a MH-60M Black Hawk began to turn.
But this wasn't a standard Earth-variant. The intakes were covered in bulky, oversized filtration boxes—"lungs"—designed to scrub the heavy fungal spores from the air before they choked the turbines. The fuselage was painted a matte, radar-absorbent grey, but the edges were scorched and pitted from the acidic rain of Sector 4.
"No jets," Russo muttered to himself. The atmosphere was too thin for fixed-wing lift without massive runways they couldn't build yet.
This was a rotor-wing war.
Bedrock was home to the 1st Omega Expeditionary Air Wing:
Six AH-64E 'Guardian' Apaches: Up-armored with ceramic plating to resist corrosive sap and dragon-fire.
Four CH-47F Chinooks: The workhorses. Heavy lift. They carried the supplies, the ammo, and the bodies.
Two Mi-24 'Hind' Gunships: The Russians had brought their flying tanks. Ugly, brutal, and perfect for a world that wanted to kill you.
"Captain," a voice crackled in his earpiece. "Briefing in T-minus 20. The Asset is en route."
Russo finished his coffee in one gulp. "On my way."
He looked down at the tarmac one last time. A fuel truck was pumping a specialized JP-8/Ethanol mix into a Chinook. A squad of Indian Para-Commandos was loading crates of 7.62mm ammunition.
It looked like a normal airbase.
Until you looked past the fence, where the purple jungle writhed and screamed in the dawn light.
PART 2: THE UNREMOVABLE MASKTHE ARMORY, SUB-LEVEL 2
The room was quiet. The usual banter of soldiers gearing up—the jokes about bad food and ex-wives—died instantly when the door hissed open.
Harris Brown walked in.
He wasn't a giant. The mutagenic growth spurts had stopped. He stood at six-foot-two, broad-shouldered and lean, a silhouette of condensed violence. He wore the standard GDI Multi-Environment Combat Uniform (MECU), but the fabric was stretched tight over muscle that looked as hard as cable wire.
But nobody looked at his muscles. They looked at his face.
Or rather, where his face used to be.
The Demon Mask—the ancient artifact recovered from the Amazon, the thing that had whispered to him, fed on him, empowered him—was no longer an accessory.
A month ago, he could take it off.
Now, the edges of the porcelain had dissolved. The white material had fused with his skin, blending seamlessly into his neck and hairline. The mask was his skin. The terrifying, frozen snarl of the demon was his permanent expression. The eyes—glowing with a soft, bioluminescent blue—were his only eyes.
He didn't breathe through a mouth anymore; the mask filtered the air. He didn't speak with lips; his voice vibrated directly from his chest, amplified by the artifact.
"Rakesh," Harris rumbled. The sound was deep, metallic, like a heavy stone dragged across a grate.
Rakesh Thapa, the Gorkha sergeant, didn't flinch. He was polishing his kukri.
"Brother," Rakesh nodded. "You slept?"
"No," Harris said. "I don't think I sleep anymore. I just... wait."
The other soldiers in the room—a mix of Russian Spetsnaz and American Marines—averted their eyes. They respected him. They owed him their lives after the Wolf-Gate incident. But they couldn't look at him for too long. It triggered a primal "fight or flight" response deep in the lizard brain. He was an apex predator, and they were, biologically speaking, prey.
Captain Russo walked in, breaking the tension.
"Alright, form up," Russo barked. "Briefing room. Operation Eagle Eye is a go."
THE BRIEFING
BRIEFING ROOM A
06:30 GST
The room was dark, lit only by the central holographic table. The air smelled of recycled oxygen and nervous sweat.
Around the table stood the team:
Captain Russo (Team Lead)
Harris Brown (Asset-Omega-1)
Sgt. Rakesh Thapa & Cpl. Rahul Gurung (Close Protection/Support)
Lt. Volkov (Russian Spetsnaz - Heavy Weapons Specialist)
Dr. Elena Kovač (Civilian Specialist - Geologist/Thaumaturgist)
At the head of the table stood Colonel Vance, the tactical commander of Bedrock. Beside him was a civilian debriefer, Dr. Aris.
"Gentlemen, and Dr. Kovač," Vance began, his voice crisp. "Welcome to Operation Eagle Eye."
He tapped the console. The hologram zoomed out, showing a 3D topographic map of the Omega continent. It panned North, past the fungal jungles, past the shimmering plains, into a region of jagged black spikes.
"Sector 7," Vance said. "The Iron Coast. Specifically, the Magnetic Peak."
A red marker pulsed on a massive, needle-like mountain that seemed to twist naturally, defying gravity.
"Thirty days ago, Shadow Company unauthorized element 'Black-Gold' went dark here," Vance continued. "They were wiped out by a hostile biological entity. An Arachnid-Construct. The 'Spider'."
Harris shifted. The Mask's eyes flared slightly.
"Is it still there?" he asked.
"Thermal scans are inconclusive," Dr. Aris interjected. "The region is saturated with high-level magnetic interference. It scrambles our sensors. That is why we are sending you."
"Your objective is threefold," Vance said.
"Objective One: Reconnaissance."
Vance highlighted a path up the mountain.
"We need to know what is up there. Is it a nest? Is it a base? Shadow Company found gold, but the Queen mentioned an 'Anchor.' We need eyes on target."
"Objective Two: Sample Retrieval."
Dr. Aris stepped forward. "The 'Anchor' is believed to be Architect technology. A gateway node. If we can secure a piece of it—a chip, a crystal, even a scrap of the hull material—we can analyze their alloy. We need to know how to kill them before the main fleet arrives."
"Objective Three: Search and Rescue... theoretically."
Vance grimaced. "We don't expect survivors from Shadow Company. But we need their flight recorders. The 'black boxes' from their SSTVs will tell us exactly how they died and, more importantly, what killed them. We need that data."
Lt. Volkov crossed his massive arms. "We are walking into a spider's web, Colonel. With respect, we will need more than flashlights."
"You have it," Vance nodded. "Logistics?"
Dr. Aris pulled up a manifest.
"You are deploying via CH-47F Chinook, designated 'Big Mother'. Escort provided by two Apache Guardians."
"Ground gear includes:
Mark-IV Environmental Suits: Acid-resistant, reinforced weave.
Ammunition: You are issued the new X-Round. It's a depleted uranium core tipped with cold-iron. It's designed to punch through mana-shields and heavy armor alike.
Seismic Sensors: You will deploy these every 500 meters to build a monitoring network."
Dr. Kovač raised her hand. She was a small woman with sharp eyes and heavy glasses.
"And the Asset?" she asked, looking at Harris. "What is his loadout?"
Vance looked at Harris.
"The Asset is the loadout, Doctor. But he will be carrying the M134 Minigun usually mounted on a vehicle. He has the strength to wield it as a personal weapon."
Harris looked at the hologram of the mountain.
The Mask whispered to him. The Spider waits. The Gold glitters. We bring the fire.
"When do we leave?" Harris asked.
"Wheels up in one hour," Vance said. "Good hunting."
BEDROCK AIRFIELD - PAD 1
07:30 GST
The Chinook was a beast. Its twin rotors were already spinning, whipping the dusty air into a frenzy. The whine of the engines was a physical pressure in the chest.
The team was loading up.
Volkov was hauling a crate of explosives. Rakesh and Rahul were checking their rifles. Dr. Kovač was nervously adjusting her helmet.
A crowd had gathered near the blast barriers to watch them leave.
It wasn't an official ceremony. It was just soldiers—engineers, cooks, riflemen—taking a smoke break to see the "Suicide Squad" depart.
As Harris walked toward the ramp, the crowd went quiet.
He was carrying the M134 Minigun—a six-barreled rotary cannon that weighed eighty-five pounds, plus the ammo backpack that weighed another sixty. He carried it like a toy.
The hydraulic feeder chute snaked over his shoulder like a metallic tail.
"Hey! Brown!"
A young Private, a kid from Ohio who worked in the motor pool, stepped forward. He looked terrified but determined.
"Give 'em hell, sir!"
Harris stopped. He turned his masked face toward the kid.
The blue eyes glowed. The frozen snarl remained.
For a second, the Private flinched, expecting a monster to roar.
Instead, Harris raised a thumb.
A simple, human gesture.
"Keep the lights on for us, kid," Harris rumbled.
A ripple went through the crowd.
"Go get 'em, Asset!" someone shouted.
"Kill the spider!" another yelled.
"For Earth!"
It was a strange mix of emotions.
They cheered him because he was their savior. He had stopped the Wolf-Men. He was the only reason they weren't fighting a losing war against magic.
But underneath the cheers, there was the unease.
They saw the Mask. They saw the fused skin. They saw the way he moved, too smooth, too heavy.
They were cheering for a tank. They were cheering for a biological weapon that happened to have a human name.
Harris walked up the ramp into the dark belly of the Chinook.
He sat down on the red nylon bench seat.
He didn't strap in. He didn't need to. His mass and his grip were better than any seatbelt.
Rakesh sat next to him.
"They fear you," Rakesh said quietly, over the roar of the engines.
"Good," Harris said. "Fear keeps them alert."
"But they also love you," Rakesh added. "Do not forget that part, bhai. You are still one of us."
Harris looked at the open ramp as it began to close. He saw the faces of the soldiers fading into the dust.
One of us?
He looked at his hand. The skin was grey, hard as stone. The Mask was part of his skull.
We are the Engine, the voice whispered. We are the End.
"I'm on the clock, Rakesh," Harris said. "Let's get to work."
ASCENSION
ABOARD 'BIG MOTHER' (CH-47F)
EN ROUTE TO SECTOR 7
ALTITUDE: 2,000 FEET
"Pilot to Asset Team," the intercom crackled. "We are passing the perimeter. Entering uncontrolled airspace. Guns hot."
The Chinook banked hard to the left.
Through the porthole window, the landscape of Omega unfolded.
Below them, the purple jungle gave way to the grey, ash-covered wasteland of the Valley of Ash.
And looming ahead, tearing the sky apart, was the Magnetic Peak.
It was black, jagged, and terrifying. Lightning arced silently between the spires of rock.
It didn't look like a mountain. It looked like a tombstone.
Captain Russo stood up, holding onto the strap.
"Listen up!" he shouted over the rotor noise. "LZ is hot! We drop fast, we secure the perimeter, we move! The air up there is thin and the gravity is weird! Watch your step, watch your six, and for the love of God, do not touch anything that glows!"
Volkov slapped a magazine into his heavy machine gun. "I love this job."
Dr. Kovač was staring at her tablet. "Readings are spiking," she yelled. "The magnetic field... it's singing. It's almost like a code."
Harris sat still in the shadows of the fuselage.
He closed his eyes—or tried to. The blue light simply dimmed.
He reached out with his senses. He didn't use radar. He used the hunger.
He could feel it.
Miles away, deep inside the rock.
A cold, metallic heartbeat.
And something else.
Legs. Many legs. Skittering in the dark.
"It knows we're coming," Harris said to the empty air.
The Chinook dipped its nose. The engines screamed as they pushed for altitude.
Operation Eagle Eye had begun. And the Spider was waiting.