Xenon stared into the evening sky from within the transparent tent where they all lay resting. After the chopper touched down in what seemed like an open field, Cassandra had decided that everyone should get some rest before the hunt began.
The sky was the only thing that still felt familiar to Xenon. Everything else barely reflected the humanity he remembered from before his awakening. Some old structures still stood in the distance—broken silhouettes of what once were buildings—but even those felt hollow, stripped of meaning.
The roads still existed. Vehicles—old, rusted, and long abandoned—were scattered across them like fossils. From above, the cities looked worse. Just dark, lifeless, uneven rows of buildings, packed too tightly together, as though the world itself had tried to suffocate what remained of humanity.
Everyone else except Malachi who was standing guard outside was asleep inside the tent, which was far larger than anything Xenon had expected.
When Cassandra had first retrieved the small box from the chopper, Xenon hadn't thought much of it. She cleared a wide area, placed the box at the center, tapped a few controls, then stepped back. Everyone except Xenon had instinctively followed her lead.
He hesitated for a second too long before joining them.
That hesitation could have been costly.
The box first began to collapse into itself, folding inward like paper being crushed by invisible hands. Then, without warning, it detonated outward—not in flames or shrapnel, but in controlled expansion. Panels unfolded. Supports locked into place. Walls rose from nothing.
What stood at the end of it all was a magnificent structure, closer to a cabin than a tent.
Everyone else had remained unfazed.
Since that was what they all called it—a tent—Xenon had decided to just go with the flow.
He wondered when all of this would stop surprising him. When he would look around and nothing would feel strange anymore. When he would finally feel like he belonged among them.
Earlier that day, he had decided to ask Jim and Kira a few questions.
"How long have you both been awakened?" he had asked.
"About a year and a half now," Jim replied, glancing at Kira. They both smiled sheepishly, as though Xenon's question had unlocked some nostalgic memory.
"But this all still feels… confusing," Xenon said after a moment. "If the apocalypse was just seven years ago, how come the world has advanced so much technologically?"
His mind drifted to the Dome. The sheer scale and precision it required. The nanites pulsing through his body—machines that had resurrected him from death itself. The System layered on top of it all, watching, calculating, rewarding.
Then there was the aerial vehicle they'd arrived in. It looked like a helicopter, but functioned more like a jet, reaching breakwind speeds despite the visible rotor blades.
Kira made a few quick signs at Jim before he spoke. Xenon guessed she was telling him to keep it brief—simple enough for Xenon to understand, but vague enough to stay safe. Jim lowered his voice.
Xenon suspected it was to avoid Malachi, who was asleep in another segment of the tent, or Cassandra, who had been standing guard just outside at the time.
"That's the thing," Jim said quietly. "It was a surprise to everyone. About two years after most of Earth's population was wiped out… all of this appeared. Like a miracle. A dying species doesn't really have the luxury of asking where miracles come from. People just played along."
"But shouldn't—" Xenon began.
Jim stiffened instantly. Kira signed again, slower this time, placing a finger against her lips.
There were consequences to asking too many questions.
"Our job as Terminators," Jim continued after a pause, deliberately redirecting the conversation, "is to thin out the infected population. So that whatever's left of humanity can take the planet back."
That had been the end of it.
Now, as Xenon lay awake while the others slept, his thoughts churned restlessly. Why was information that should have been common knowledge treated like contraband? What had really happened to the world?
When night thickened enough to swallow the horizon, Cassandra summoned everyone for the mission briefing.
Xenon rose from the floor, stretching slightly. As he did, he extended his hand—and his spear formed instantly, assembling itself out of thin air.
Another thing he had learned: all weapons were made of nanites.
Also he had finally given the spear a name; Grave point. The name was weirdly connected to the situation which led to his first kill.
Once synced to a Terminator's System, a weapon could be constructed or collapsed at will. Convenience layered atop lethality.
They gathered around a holographic table as Cassandra activated it. A three-dimensional map shimmered into existence, highlighting a cluster of ruined buildings.
"Target's here," Cassandra said. "Hospital cemetery on the outskirts. Estimated horde size: fifteen. Likely shamblers. We ambush, clean up, extract. No heroics."
Her voice was calm. Controlled.
They moved out shortly after. But another thing that marvelled Xenon was the fact that despite the thick darkness, he could see as clear as day.
The nanites at work, he thought.
The approach went smoothly.
Too smoothly.
They took positions among the broken walls and overgrown paths that surrounded the cemetery. Cracked headstones jutted from the ground at odd angles, some toppled, others half-buried beneath dirt and decay.
The first wave appeared just as Cassandra predicted.
Shamblers.
Slow. Mindless. Drawn by instinct rather than strategy.
Cassandra opened fire first.
Her assault rifle barked sharply in the night, controlled bursts dropping infected with surgical precision. As each bullet landed, Xenon noticed something else—an almost imperceptible ripple that followed the shots.
Neural disruption.
The zombies didn't just fall. They froze for a fraction of a second, systems collapsing from the inside before their bodies gave in.
The others joined in.
Blades flashed. Energy pulsed. Abilities activated—but Xenon didn't focus on the specifics. He was too busy keeping up.
He moved when the System told him to move. Thrust when it signaled a weak point. His spear pierced rotting flesh again and again, kills stacking cleanly.
For a moment, it felt easy.
Then the ground shifted.
Movement—too coordinated.
Shapes began emerging from behind mausoleums, from the shadows of collapsed walls, from beneath the broken hospital fencing.
Too many.
"Count's wrong," Jim muttered.
More shamblers poured in, doubling their initial estimate. Then tripling it.
They had been hiding.
"Formation!" Cassandra barked.
They adjusted just in time.
Then Xenon felt it.
A pressure.
Fast.
Two figures leapt into view, clearing obstacles with terrifying speed.
Hunters. Higher level zombies.
Their movements were sharp, predatory. Muscles taut beneath stretched skin. Eyes locked not on the nearest target—but the most dangerous one.
One lunged straight for Cassandra.
Xenon reacted before the System finished warning him.
He intercepted the Hunter mid-air, spear colliding with claw. The impact sent him skidding backward through loose dirt.
"Hunters confirmed!" Cassandra shouted.
The second one tore through their perimeter, forcing the squad tighter together. Shamblers closed in behind them, drawn by noise and blood.
They were being boxed in.
Cassandra fired again, disrupting one Hunter long enough for Michael to land a heavy blow—but it didn't go down. It adapted. Screeched.
More infected flooded in.
Thirty.
At least.
They were surrounded.
Xenon's HUD flickered.
Threat markers overlapped until they became meaningless.
The System tried to keep up.
And for the first time since his awakening, Xenon felt something new settle in his chest.
Fear.
Not of dying.
But of what would happen if they didn't.
The circle tightened.
And the hunt finally went south.