Into The Rift

Final Departure (46)

Yes, this is a double update. First time for everything eh? (45 and 46). So if any of you returning readers jumped straight to here, please head to 45 first.
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-1734 Military Hours
-Callisto Island, Safehouse

The sky resonates brightly with a clear blue as I look up to it. My lips held a steady frown as I slowly pull away from the familiar sight above. It reminded me so much of Earth, that it was depressing to consider the reality now.

I drop a sigh, following through with a basic read on the current airspace. It was a quiet afternoon, with only a few... heated interactions with the locals to break up the monotonous drone of day. "They're not here yet," I say.

"Likely won't be, for the time being I'd reckon. They had to scrape through the rubble," Robert answers with an equally defeated tone. "Most of the equipment's been taken. Doubt med supplies will be any different, even if those dumb fucks don't have the slightest clue on what they are."

I shake my head slightly, reminiscing about the damage sustained by the defunct outpost. "We'll just need to manage, somehow," I remark, pushing a heated glare at the passing locals.

Feeling increasingly restless, I nudge Robert on the shoulder, earning his attention. "Keep an eye on the Valor for me, I'll check on the others inside," I say.

"Go for it." He acknowledges my intent with a shrug as I head towards the safehouse.

A sense of palpable anger rises as I mull over the conditions the survivors of Anvil were put under prior to my team's arrival. It was all behind in the past now, but it did little to extinguish the resentment building at the back of my head.

I stop just before the entrance, pushing aside the tapestry-like curtains to proceed ahead. The red fabric easily parts away to one side, briefly allowing a portion of the interior to be lit up by the sun's rays. Inside the pitiful remnants of Visegrad's security detachment shot a cautious look in my direction.

Only a few were relatively unscathed, able to take up positions on the windows for all around surveillance. The rest were injured to varying degrees, all requiring some level of medical attention.

"For God's sake," a brash voice at the far left remarks. "It's almost out."

Huddled over a makeshift bed, James applies a conservative layer of Biofoam onto the upper left torso of his patient, a surviving Corporal from the barely functioning second squad. The medical Sergeant quickly wraps up the bandages before moving onto the next, barely noticing my presence, if at all.

"Hey," I call out to him, waving a hand in his direction to further prompt a reaction.

James turns slightly, only offering a cursory glance in my general direction. "They better pull out something useful from Visegrad, I'm burning through the last of my med-canisters," he announces.

I take a momentary look over the military survivors of the Taskforce, reflecting on the weakened state most are in. "Douglas and the others won't return empty-handed, they know we're gonna need anything they can scrounge up."

Deciding to provide a temporary set of hands, I follow him to the next wounded soldier. He was barely conscious, eyes glazed over with a distant look as James takes up position diagonal to me. I look down at the shivering mess beneath, heaving out a sigh.

The wounded man's tattered uniform is partially removed, and stained with old blood, revealing the bare skin underneath. His deltoid and pectorals are marked by several large gashes, covered mostly by a slew of field rated dressings, all of them tinged dark red.