Steel Don't Bleed

Fire of The Ridge

The convoy slowed at the edge of the ridge, headlights cutting through the night like knives. Below, the refugee camp sprawled in fragile clusters of white tents, barely holding against the wind. Iris’s fingers brushed the edges of her weapon as the team disembarked. Every sense was alive—muscle memory, instinct, calculation. She had done this countless times before, but tonight there was a weight pressing on her chest, a quiet tension that felt… off.

Elias stepped beside her, gear already secured. “Eyes open,” he murmured, voice low. “Black Talon isn’t subtle. They’ve had time to prepare.”

“I know,” she replied, scanning the perimeter. Shadows shifted, trees swayed in the wind, and the faint vibration of engines hinted at threats waiting beyond their sight. “But it’s never enough. They always have a trick we don’t see coming.”

Alex’s voice cut through the radio, coordinating squads. Drones hummed overhead, their infrared scans cutting through darkness. Sadie moved toward the nearest tent cluster, her thermal scope glowing faintly in the night. Iris followed instinctively.

Then chaos erupted.

Gunfire shredded the air. Red tracer lines from conventional rifles and bursts of green from laser rifles streaked across the field. Tents ignited, sending columns of flame skyward. Civilians screamed, diving for cover. The team split, trained to cover every angle. Iris ducked behind a toppled supply crate, firing controlled bursts from her rifle while taking stock of the new weaponry—glowing plasma rifles, compact laser pistols, and mechanical grenades that detonated in arcs of blue energy.

Something moved in the shadows. Faster than anyone else.

Iris felt it before she saw it. A figure emerged, sleek and deliberate, matching her movements almost perfectly. She struck, spinning low, sweeping her leg. The figure blocked without turning.

Every move she made, every instinct she executed, it was countered, anticipated.

How are they so good?

A shot cracked from above. Jackson, their newest recruit, fell to the ground, blood blossoming across his chest, his rifle clattering away. Sadie screamed, moving forward, but Iris darted between them and the shadowed figure, adrenaline sharpening every sense.

They traded blows across the cratered ground, punches, kicks, knives flashing. Iris drove forward, striking hard—then felt a sudden pressure along her forearm, sharp but distant, like something heavy had been pressed against her skin too fast.

She looked down.

A clean slice ran along her arm, fabric parted neatly. Blood spilled freely, thick and dark—heavy and almost metallic as it slid down her skin and dripped to the ground below. She noted the color without alarm. She had seen it before. It was always like that.

She adjusted her grip and kept moving. The pressure lingered, insistent but dull, nothing she couldn’t function through.

“Iris,” Elias said, suddenly at her side, eyes flicking down as he covered her with a burst of fire. “That looks like it hurts.”

She glanced at the cut once more—long, open, still bleeding—then back to the fight.

“It doesn’t,” she said simply. “I’ll deal with it after.”

Elias didn’t argue. There was no time. Another explosion tore through the ground nearby, forcing them apart as the fight surged on.

The figure pressed, relentless, a blur of precise motions. Iris rolled, came up under an arm, but was slammed backward against a crate. Wood splintered beneath her.

Elias was at her side again in an instant, plasma rifle raised. “Iris! Step back!”

She obeyed, breathing hard, trying to anticipate the figure’s next move. The shadow moved with preternatural timing, dodging, weaving, forcing her to react faster than she ever had. Her chest tightened. How are they so strong? How are they so fast?

Another scream tore through the chaos. Serena, crouched behind a burned vehicle, went down, clutching her leg, a laser burn searing through her uniform. Iris’s stomach clenched, but she couldn’t stop. Not now.

The figure lunged. Iris twisted, striking at an arm—her blade biting through armor with a sharp burst of sparks. The resistance was wrong. Metal should have stopped it. Instead, dark, heavy blood spattered across her knuckles beneath the fractured plating.

What kind of armor does that?

She didn’t slow to think further.

Elias fired, forcing the figure to dodge. “Focus!” he barked. Together, they pressed, covering each other, inching forward despite the overwhelming odds.

The rest of the Black Talon squad swarmed. Hundreds of mercs with rifles and laser pistols, some armed with mech-mounted cannons. Chaos everywhere.

The fight became a blur—laser beams, bullets, explosions, the smell of burning metal and ozone. Shadows leapt across the cratered field, smoke curling like fingers. For every team member who fell or retreated, another pressed forward, adrenaline and training overriding fear.

Finally, the fighter Iris had been locked against faltered, retreating under the pressure of coordinated strikes from her and Elias. The moment it fell back, the rest of Black Talon followed—mercs with rifles and laser pistols breaking formation, some firing wildly as they fled into the night. Shouts echoed across the field as the retreat spread, fast and uneven, until the camp was left smoldering in their wake.

Iris’s chest heaved, arms trembling. She stepped forward, scanning the remnants of the battlefield. Smoke rose in columns, illuminated by sporadic fires. Then something caught her eye—a glint under her boot.

Metal. She crouched, brushing dirt and debris away. Her fingers closed around a small, angular piece of machinery. It was cold and heavy, etched with markings she didn’t recognize.

Her gut stirred with recognition, though she didn’t understand why. What is this?

“Move!” Elias’s voice cut through the quiet, tense now, more command than warning. “We need to regroup. Now!”

Iris swallowed, slipping the piece into her pocket. She rose, letting her gaze flicker back to the field one last time. The Black Talon mercs scattered, but the questions lingered.

Elias fell into step beside her as they moved toward the rally point. “Your arm,” he said, not slowing. “You’re still bleeding.”

Iris followed his gaze and finally looked. The cut along her forearm had soaked through her sleeve, the fabric stiff and dark. She flexed her hand once, feeling only that familiar pressure.

“I’ll wrap it,” she said. “Until we can stitch it at camp.”

Elias nodded, then hesitated. “That blood of yours,” he added, quieter now. “Why does it look darker than normal?”

She slowed, just a fraction. Her eyes dropped to her arm again, then drifted to the bodies scattered across the field—Black Talon mercs lying still in the dirt, their blood stark and unmistakably red against the ground.

Her own looked different. Thicker. Heavier. Almost metallic in the firelight.

A faint memory surfaced—sparks, fractured armor, and that same dark, heavy blood spattering across her knuckles during the fight.

Iris frowned, the question forming too late to voice.

Iris shrugs and pulls down her sleeve as the convoy lights come into view. “Let’s go.”

She fell back into formation, the weight in her pocket and the unanswered questions settling deeper as the night closed in around them.