-May 4th, 2002
Brett had never known strength—not the kind sung about in military anthems or glorified in war movies. He was a soldier, yes, but not the kind that inspired awe or command. At one hundred and ten pounds and standing just five foot five, Brett was the kind of soldier people underestimated at first glance—and laughed at by the second. Even in basic training, he had been a target: too small, too quiet, too awkward with a rifle. Life hadn't handed him many victories, and the uniform hadn't changed that.
Stationed on the outskirts of Afghanistan, Brett lived
deployment one day at a time, counting the weeks, then the days, until he'd finally be shipped home. Each sunrise was just another checkpoint in a long, grinding wait. His hands still trembled on cold mornings. His boots still blistered his feet. And no matter how hard he pushed himself, he always seemed one step behind the rest.
Today was no different.
Early that morning, command had dispatched a small reconnaissance team to investigate a cave deep in the rocky terrain—one flagged by local intel as a potential enemy hideout. Usually, those tips amounted to nothing: empty shadows, abandoned camps, or maybe a lone straggler with an old rifle. Sometimes, they'd find a couple of fighters holed up, easily flushed out with American firepower—quick and clean. But this time was different. The scouting team hadn't returned. No radio. No gunfire. No signal. Four men, just gone.
Now it was Brett's turn.
His squad—ten men, divided between two Humvees—was being sent to find out what happened. Rescue the missing soldiers if they were still alive. Neutralize any threats along the way. Simple orders on paper. Far from simple in reality.
The inside of the Humvee was a sweltering steel box, stifling and claustrophobic, the sun turning it into a mobile oven. Dust kicked up through the floorboards, clinging to skin, settling on lips. Brett shifted uncomfortably, his gear pressing into his ribs, the strap of his rifle digging into his collarbone. All he could think about was a cold glass of water.
"ETA FIVE MINUTES!" barked the driver, his voice nearly drowned out by the engine's constant growl. The man behind the wheel was a burly, broad-chested brute with a scruffy beard that was just long enough to be against regulation—but no one called him out on it. He had the kind of presence that made people look the other way.
Brett glanced around at the others crammed in with him. Across from him sat Carlo—thin, wiry, and twitchy, with a face that always looked half-skeptical, half-annoyed. About Brett's size, maybe slightly bulkier, but he never let anyone forget it. Carlo had a mouth on him too, always cracking jokes that walked the line between funny and just plain cruel.
Beside him was Musk—the gentle giant of the team. Towering at six foot seven and built like a freight truck, Musk looked like he belonged in a pro wrestling ring, not a combat zone. But despite his size, he had a soft, almost shy demeanor, and a voice that barely rose above a murmur. Brett had once seen him lift an entire ATV to pull a man out from underneath—but he still said "please" and "thank you" to everyone. The kind of guy who'd carry your gear without being asked.
Then there were the triplets—Tim, Klecky, and Griffin. All three had enlisted together, trained together, and somehow ended up deployed together. Identical from boots to buzz cuts, the only thing separating them was their patch placement and the way they pronounced each other's names. Brett had long since stopped trying to tell them apart. One of them had once told him, "If you don't know who you're talking to, just say 'Trip'—we'll all answer."
As the Humvee rumbled forward, Brett clutched his rifle a little tighter. They were almost there. The cave waited ahead, carved into the edge of a craggy ridge like a mouth ready to swallow them whole.
He didn't feel strong. He never had. But he was here, wasn't he?
And maybe—just maybe—that counted for something.
When the two teams arrived, they wasted no time. The air filled with the sounds of metal clinking and gear rustling as they began offloading equipment—rifles were checked and slung over shoulders, heavy bags thudded to the ground, and helmets were clipped on with the practiced efficiency of soldiers who had done this far too many times. It was go-time.
Each team consisted of five members, moving with careful precision as they began the slow ascent up the slope that led into the mountainside cave. The incline wasn't steep, but the tension in the air made every step feel heavier. What had first appeared to be a modest cave entrance—no bigger than a regular door—now loomed before them like the gaping maw of a beast, wide enough to swallow a house whole.
But that wasn't what grabbed Brett's attention.
There was something wrong. Whenever he looked into the black void of the cave, it felt like the shadows inside were shifting—squirming even. He blinked several times, trying to shake the illusion, but the unease remained, crawling up his spine like cold fingers.
As the teams reached the mouth of the cave, they paused, rifles up and eyes scanning. The interior stretched wider than they anticipated, a cavernous chamber that could easily house a two-story building. The path ahead wound deeper into the mountain, swallowed by impenetrable darkness.
"Nope. I'm not going first," said the triplets in eerie unison, breaking the silence.
Brett didn't blame them. The deeper they went, the worse the sensation got. Like the air itself was thick with unseen eyes, watching—waiting. Every step forward felt like they were walking straight into a trap.
Then it happened.
Just as they were preparing to round a corner, Brett's stomach twisted violently. Something primal inside him screamed in protest, his entire body locking up.
"STOP!" he shouted instinctively, voice echoing through the cave.
Everyone froze. Boots scraped against rock, rifles whipped up toward unseen threats. Tension snapped through the group like a live wire.
Then, from the narrow path ahead, something moved.
A massive boulder came barreling through the tunnel at impossible speed, slamming into the wall across from them with a thunderous crack, sealing the passage ahead. Dust and small rocks rained down from the ceiling.
"What the hell did that?" Carlo shouted, adrenaline spiking in his voice.
Surveying the scene, the team quickly agreed they had no choice—they'd have to move the boulder to proceed.
"Hey Brett, can you come help us with this?" Musk called, motioning him over.
But Brett didn't move. He couldn't.
It wasn't hesitation. It wasn't fear.
It was instinct—pure, ice-cold survival instinct screaming at him that something was terribly wrong. His body refused to obey. He stood frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the boulder.
Then it blinked.
Right in the center of the mass—an eye opened. Slitted. Alien. Aware.
Brett's breath caught in his throat. Before he could shout a warning, the "boulder" began to unravel.
It was not a rock. It was a creature.
The monster towered over them—easily ten feet high, with a body that looked cobbled together from rusted metal plates and living flesh. The seams between the armor oozed a sickly black fluid, and its jagged limbs gleamed with deadly intent. It looked like something that had no right to exist.
As the flashlights of the team flickered wildly in the sudden chaos, hell broke loose.
Three men at the front didn't even have time to scream. A single swipe of the creature's massive claw sent them flying, their bodies smashing against the rock wall with sickening cracks.
Gunfire erupted, deafening in the enclosed space. Brett only realized shots were being fired when he saw muzzle flashes strobing in the dark. Musk had already pulled a small grenade launcher from his pack, hurriedly loading it as the others unleashed their rifles on the creature.
Brett snapped out of his daze and raised his weapon, opening fire—but the bullets seemed to bounce off or sink uselessly into the creature's plated armor. It didn't slow down.
The monster lunged.
It grabbed one of the soldiers—one of the triplets—and tore him clean in half. The upper torso hit the ground near Brett with a dull, wet thud, eyes wide and unblinking. Blood pooled at Brett's boots.
He staggered back, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to run, to scream, to wake up from this nightmare. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not while his team was still fighting.
No, he told himself. You can't run. You can't leave them to die.
He took a breath, steadied his shaking hands, and focused on the creature.
"Shoot between the plates!" he shouted. "Go for the seams—the flesh!"
It worked.
Rounds began punching into the creature's soft spots, causing it to stagger. Black ichor sprayed from the wounds, and the beast's movements grew sluggish, erratic.
Musk, finally ready, slammed the launcher shut and raised it.
"FIRE AWAY!" he yelled.
With a pop, the grenade soared through the air in a perfect arc, slamming into the creature's shoulder. The explosion rocked the chamber, shrapnel flying as a gaping hole was blown through the armor. The monster reeled back, shrieking in fury.
For the first time, Brett allowed himself a glimmer of hope.
Maybe—just maybe—they had a chance.
As the battle raged on, Musk fired one shell after another, each explosion carving deeper cracks into the monster's armor. Chunks of metal and sizzling flesh scattered across the cave floor, and for the first time since the ambush began, Brett dared to believe they might actually win.
But the cost had already been devastating.
Of the original ten-man team, only five remained: Brett, Musk, Carlo, and two of the triplets. Every other soldier lay motionless, twisted and broken across the cave's unforgiving stone. Still, if Musk could get off just one or two more shots, they might be able to end this nightmare.
As long as the monster didn't go for him, they had a chance.
That's what Brett told himself.
But then it happened. The monster, its jagged body riddled with holes, paused mid-swipe, its head slowly turning toward the source of its pain—the explosive blasts. And then it charged.
"No, no, no—"
"FIRE! KEEP FIRING!" Brett screamed, emptying another clip into the beast. The others followed suit, spraying bullets desperately.
But it was no use.
The creature barreled through the hail of gunfire and reached Musk before anyone could stop it. With one horrifying strike—its long, spiked fist a blur—it crushed Musk's body into the stone floor, leaving behind only a splatter of blood and shredded gear.
Time stopped.
Brett didn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Musk was gone. Just like that.
He was the strongest among them, the kindest. The one who had joked with him during downtime, who had shared rations when supplies were tight. The one who made him feel like he mattered. And now... now he was gone.
How?
His brain couldn't process it. Couldn't accept it. Sadness, rage, guilt, they all hit at once, boiling together into one single, overwhelming emotion:
Wrath.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to tear the monster apart with his bare hands. As the creature turned its attention toward the last surviving men—Carlo and the remaining triplets—it seemed to dismiss Brett entirely, turning its massive back to him.
A fatal mistake.
Without thinking, without breathing, Brett sprinted toward Musk's mangled remains, diving for the grenade launcher still clutched in what remained of his friend's hand. Blood smeared his fingers as he grabbed it, yanked it free, spun around, and aimed.
The monster raised its arm, preparing to finish the others.
"EAT THIS, MOTHERF—" Brett roared.
The grenade fired with a loud pop, sailing through the air in a graceful arc. For a split second, time seemed to slow. Everyone held their breath.
The round struck the exposed flesh at the monster's neck.
BOOM.
The explosion rocked the chamber. The creature's head launched off its shoulders in a spray of gore and fire, slamming against the far wall and rolling to a stop, expression still frozen in rage. The rest of its body staggered, then collapsed chest-first with a thunderous crash, sending a tremor through the ground.
Silence.
It was over.
They'd killed the monster.
But the victory felt hollow. Brett stood amid the carnage, heart pounding, lungs burning. Bodies were everywhere—friends, brothers-in-arms. Musk.
Only three others had survived—Carlo, and two of the triplets. They stared at the creature's remains, wide-eyed and pale, their weapons lowered, breaths shaky.
Brett felt nothing. Not relief. Not sadness. Only rage—deep and all-consuming. Rage at the military. Rage at the mission. Rage at the universe for allowing Musk to die.
Then something shimmered in the corner of his eye.
From the monster's severed neck, four thin trails of glowing light began to slither into the air—each a different color: red, blue, green, and silver. They floated slowly toward the surviving men, twisting like strands of smoke, each one subtly drawn to an individual.
"What the hell is that?" Carlo muttered, backing away slightly.
"I... I don't know," Brett answered.
But strangely, he wasn't afraid.
Unlike the sick dread he'd felt when facing the monster, this... this felt different. Calmer. Inviting. Like a hand reaching out in the dark.
Brett's hand lifted almost on its own, fingertips brushing the red mist.
The instant contact was made, a surge of electricity tore through him like a bolt of lightning. His body arched, muscles tensing, mouth opening in a silent scream. The pain was unbearable—his veins felt like they were boiling, his skin rippling like molten metal.
All around him, the others were screaming too.
Carlo, the triplets—they had touched the strands as well.
Their bodies convulsed in agony as the mist worked its way into them, merging with flesh, twisting something deep inside. Bones cracked, muscles stretched, and something... changed.
Five minutes passed, but it felt like hours.
And then—it stopped.
They collapsed to the floor, panting. The pain was gone. Replaced by something else. Power. Pure, overwhelming power. Brett could feel it—his arms were stronger, his breathing easier. Every inch of him buzzed with raw potential.
"What just happened?" he asked, breathless.
Before anyone could answer, something stirred inside their minds. A voice—not heard with ears, but felt.
"Welcome, players... to a new beginning. Welcome, to the Rebirth System."
And then, everything went black.