"The southern deployment promises absolute success. We thank the modificants in advance for their sacrifices. Each one of them will become a hero who helped pave the way to our victory.

Prim watches. Prim leads. Prim endures."

  • Excerpt from a Prim Council infovision broadcast during the southern deployment


Reng, Southern Front Sector


That night, he sheltered beneath a small rocky overhang, hoping it would keep him safe. Still, after the events of the day, he wasn’t able to close his eyes and sleep.


He lay there, staring into the darkness, listening to the night around him. Even now, after hours of walking, distant explosions echoed faintly through the air, a clear sign that the south was still far from over. That was one of the reasons he couldn’t rest, and as soon as the horizon lightened with the coming dawn, he set off again.


After the sleepless night, he felt drained, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d need to find something to eat. The only thing he didn’t need to worry about was water, still falling straight from the sky, slowly turning the terrain into a soggy mire. Eventually, he made the decision to descend onto one of the reinforced roads, hoping it might lead him somewhere with help.


He dodged several long convoys heading south and managed to hide in time so no one spotted him. He was sure he’d have a hard time explaining to any of them why he was going the opposite direction. Occasionally, vehicles passed going his way, and each time he hesitated, wondering whether to try and flag one down. But the fear of drawing unwanted attention always held him back.


He noticed the blurry shape on the horizon fairly early on. Not sure what he was seeing, he raised the cracked binoculars again. After a moment of watching the scene unfold near a break in the terrain, he concluded it was a single vehicle pulled to the side and four passengers milling around it in agitation.


He hesitated. Even from a distance, he sensed something was happening between them, but finally decided that if he was going to try and get a ride, this might be his best, and perhaps only, chance.


He realized it might not have been the best idea the moment he recognized their uniforms. They bore the insignia of the PDC, though tattered and dirty. The men themselves looked beat-up too, one had his arm in a makeshift sling, tied across his chest to keep it from moving. From that alone, it was clear: these were deserters.


That, however, could work in his favor.


They were just as lost as he was, only more nervous. Chances were, they wouldn’t want to be spotted fleeing any more than he did. That’s why he didn’t hide but walked toward them directly, giving them time to react. After all, not so long ago he had been one of them and he remembered well the kind of people who ended up in the PDC. If these guys had survived, odds were they hadn’t volunteered but were serving to pay off something worse than dying in the south. That had to be part of his calculation.



“Hey you! Stop!” barked one of the men, who spotted him first. All four turned toward him with open suspicion. One of them glanced at the vehicle, as if weighing whether to fall back or confront what they assumed was a threat.


He stopped, and to keep things calm, raised his hands where they could see them.


“I’m alone!” he shouted back. “I just want to talk. Easy now…”


The four exchanged glances, clearly still unsure. One of them even let his hand drift toward his belt, where unlike Reng, he still had a weapon. Reng sighed inwardly. Not long ago, a situation like this would have made him genuinely fear for his life. That had changed. Now all that crossed his mind was a quick mental estimate of how much more his armor, damaged from the fall, could still take. One or two shots, maybe. Or maybe not. Best not to test it.


“You an alter, or did you just strip one for the gear?” asked another of the men cautiously, instinctively shifting his stance so he could react if things went south.


There was no point denying it, so Reng nodded. “I am. Does it matter?”


“Damn right it matters,” growled the man with the weapon, spitting on the ground with disgust. “Everyone knows you freaks are nuts. And you were supposed to burn up with the rest of ‘em in that firestorm.”


His eyes still scanned Reng from head to toe, trying to assess just how much of a threat he was.


“Burn… burn… supposed to burn, like all of them…” babbled another one, rolling his eyes.


Reng narrowed his gaze suspiciously and replied dryly, “I wasn’t there.”


“Well, then you got one hell of a lucky break, pal,” muttered a third deserter, giving a sharp kick to his trembling comrade to snap him out of it.


“Those Letras bastards knew exactly what they were doing. They lit it up right under your buddies’ asses.”


“What did they light?” Reng’s throat tightened at the memory of the inferno that had consumed everything the day before.


“Raw spongus. What else? Didn’t you see yesterday’s bonfire?” grunted the armed deserter.


“The sky… the sky was on fire…” shrieked the crazed one again, bursting into wild laughter.


Reng had no words. Only now did he fully understand what had happened. Igniting spongus vapors trapped in deep cracks… madness. But Letras had been cornered, and they must have decided they had no other chance. They’d gambled everything on one move. Judging by the size of the explosion, the deposit must’ve been massive. So massive that maybe it was worth launching the whole war machine just to get it. And now it was all gone. The modificants, the army that believed they were fighting for ideals and a good cause, and in the end. even the spongus, which had likely been the true reason behind all this horror.


“Did anyone survive?” he whispered, unconsciously lowering his arms as the realization sank in that everyone he knew out there was gone.


They weren’t his friends, but they were still people who’d shared pieces of their lives with him.


“Yeah, some did. You. Us,” shrugged the first deserter indifferently. “Maybe a few others. It was a mess, most of ours got wiped too. Whatever could run, ran. Whatever couldn’t, burned, or got finished off by the Letras boys.”


It sounded terrible. It had been a massacre, just as expected. But the irony was, it was nothing like what the Beacon or Prim had originally planned.


“How’d you guys make it out?” he asked, scanning all four of them with a skeptical look.


“Maybe we weren’t there either,” smirked the man with the weapon. “Just like you.”


“Fair enough,” Reng nodded, deciding there’d been enough pointless talk. He raised his hands again, this time in a more peaceful gesture.


“Look, I’m not your enemy. I survived same as you. I’ve got no weapon, no ride. You’ve got both, and it looks like we’re all headed the same direction. Away from here. So how about we help each other out?”


The armed man frowned a bit, clearly weighing the risk against the benefit of having someone like Reng around.


“What’s in it for us?” he barked finally.


“I’ve got nothing,” Reng admitted honestly. No point in lying.


“What about that armor of yours?” the deserter suggested, and a greedy glint flickered in his eyes.


Reng hesitated. The armor was priceless, but for him, its value lay in one thing: it kept him alive. Still, he knew it would be useless if he didn’t get back to civilization soon. Even so, he shook his head.


"That one's not for sale," Reng replied calmly, though his voice left no room for negotiation.


"And here I was just starting to like it," the man with the weapon sneered. "Bet it would look real good on me. Shame you don't want to make a friendly deal."


Reng did not move an inch. He simply lowered his raised hands, slowly and deliberately. The man watched him closely, and from the twitch of his fingers it was obvious what he was thinking about.


"You really want to try it?" Reng's eyes narrowed as he quickly assessed what to expect from each of the deserters.


The one with the gun was clearly in charge and also the biggest threat. The other two only had knives, though they might still surprise him, especially since one of them stood behind the vehicle and was partially out of sight. The fourth deserter, the one with the injured arm, looked visibly uneasy about how the conversation was going. He seemed like he would rather back out of it entirely.


"What are you gonna do? There are four of us, we’re armed, and you’re alone."


Reng had no idea if the guy was just stupid or had spent so long on the front line that he had never heard what modificants were really capable of. He could not blame him for it, but he still found it sad. If he had known, maybe he would have been more open to a mutually beneficial agreement.


"You’re making a mistake," Reng warned one last time, but it was already too late.


The first deserter, the one closest to him, lunged without thinking, knife raised. Reng reacted purely on instinct. He hurled the helmet in his hand straight at the man. Startled, the attacker flinched, arms still outstretched, which gave Reng the opening to grab his wrist. The man let out a surprised yelp as Reng yanked him in, completely throwing him off balance. A hard elbow strike to the throat followed. The deserter collapsed to the ground, choking and gasping for air through a crushed windpipe.


For a split second, Reng realized how recently he would have been helpless in a situation like this. Now it was over before he even had time to think about it. He gave the man a quick glance and concluded it was over for him. No point dwelling on it. What mattered was that he no longer posed a threat.


If he had hoped the others would back off after seeing one of them fall, he was wrong. A loud gunshot rang out across the field, but Reng was too fast. He dove headfirst behind the vehicle just as the bullet tore through the spot he had been standing, kicking up a cloud of dust. He knew better than to stay put. A static target was a dead target. One of the modificants’ key advantages was not only speed but their close-combat training.


He sprang back up, scooped a handful of dirt into his palm, and when he moved again, he flung it into the shooter's face with all his strength. The man cursed loudly and hesitated just long enough for Reng to reach him. Reng rammed into him shoulder-first, sending him flying. The man landed hard with a grunt, and his weapon skittered out of reach. Reng pinned him to the ground with his knee and knocked him out cold with a single punch. Then he quickly yanked the knife from the man's belt and hurled it at the third deserter who had just reached for the dropped gun. The blade struck him in the shoulder and he staggered back with a cry. Panic filled his eyes. He backed away, then turned and ran, deciding that escape was the better option.


Reng paused and scanned the scene. Two deserters down, one had fled and likely would not return. And the fourth?


His eyes found the injured man, who had remained hidden behind the vehicle and had watched everything. He was clearly terrified, especially once Reng's gaze settled on him.


"P please don't hurt me," he stammered, raising his uninjured hand in the air. "I didn’t want any of this. It was them. Their idea." His voice cracked as he spoke. "I wasn’t even with them at first. I only joined up because I was scared. I didn’t think I’d make it alone."


Reng hesitated and gave the man a closer look. Judging by the deep lines in his face, he was older, or maybe just too worn down by life. Gaunt, thinning hair, bruised and battered. Reng had enough experience to tell he was no fighter, more like someone who had scraped by, doing whatever it took to survive.


"Look, man," the older deserter said, noticing he had Reng’s attention. He pressed his injured arm to his side nervously. "We’ve both been through enough already. We’re in the same boat, so why make this more complicated than it needs to be?"


"Do you have something to say, or are you going to get out of the way and let me go?" Reng growled impatiently as he picked up the weapon from the ground and checked the spongus cartridge to make sure it wasn’t damaged.


It was intact, which meant he was armed again.


"Wait, wait!" the man raised his good hand quickly, flustered. "Don’t be a fool like the others. Believe me. That vehicle is a ticket to a whole lot of trouble."


Reng was convinced the deserter was just trying to stall him, yet something in his conviction gave him pause. He walked slowly toward the cabin, keeping his eyes on the man the entire time. He cracked the door open and peeked inside to make sure no one else was waiting for him. The cabin was empty, except for a few scattered items on the seats.


"Why?" he asked at last, rolling his eyes at himself for even bothering to engage.


"This machine," the man said, tapping on the vehicle, "this isn’t some regular army junk. Look at it. This belonged to an officer. And when I say belonged, I mean that uniformed clown is not with us anymore. If you want to be the one blamed for slitting his throat and stealing his toy, that’s your call. But I know someone who would be happy to buy it off you and offer you something less… noticeable in return."


Reng pressed his lips into a tight line. The story might have been embellished, but it was probably not far from the truth.


"And how do I know your contact isn’t just another throat-slicer?"


The man snorted, offended. "I’m a trader, not a killer. Maybe I smuggle a few things, maybe I sell stuff that the higher-ups don’t like, but everyone knows I only do what I have to in order to survive. Believe me, life in the Raj is not easy. We do what we must."


Reng was silent for a while, weighing the man’s words. There was a chance he was lying, and Reng had no time or patience for more games. But if he was telling the truth, he could gain a safer vehicle and maybe some supplies.


"Alright, listen," Reng finally said, his voice quiet but firm. "If I find out you lied to me, you’ll end up like your three pals back there. Now get in."


The deserter moved cautiously toward the vehicle, but Reng stopped him with a single gesture.


"Not in the back. Front seat. I want you where I can see you."


Then he searched him thoroughly, relieving him of a knife, a spark igniter, and a pouch of leaves, which he confiscated without a word.


"That wasn’t necessary," the man smirked. "I thought we were gonna be partners who trust each other."


But Reng was already pushing him down into the passenger seat.


"You’re a passenger, not a partner. And remember. One wrong thought and you’re done. Understood?"


With that, Reng slid into the driver’s seat and finally started the vehicle.