First Blood, First Doubt

The stale air of the underground bunker, thick with the scent of recycled oxygen and unwashed bodies, did little to stir Fabian’s resolve. He stood before Commander Rostova, her face etched with a weariness that mirrored the crumbling walls around them. Her eyes, once bright with the fire of defiance, now held a flickering ember of desperation. He knew, with a certainty that settled cold and hard in his gut, that she was no longer the one truly in charge. He was.

“The Overlords’ supply lines are their arteries, Commander,” Fabian began, his voice unnervingly calm for a boy who, just weeks ago, had been lost in the pixelated landscapes of a video game. “If we can sever them, cripple them, we buy ourselves time. Time to regroup, to rebuild.”

Rostova’s jaw tightened. “We’ve tried disrupting their convoys. They’re too heavily guarded. And our ships…” She trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air: our ships are a joke compared to theirs.