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[b]|| Approximately 62 miles from Bellwood, Earth[/b]


Agent Marcus Hale pushed aside a low branch and signalled his squad forward, boots sinking into damp soil as they followed the trail deeper into the forest. The sun was dipping behind the treeline, turning everything a muted gold that did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach.

S.W.O.R.D. had sent in Hale’s mobile containment division a few days ago now. They had been combing this stretch of the East Coast since then, tracking the Brood pack that had crawled out of the crashed pod. Each new sign brought them closer, tightening the circle around their quarry. 

Too close, Hale thought.

He had read every file S.W.O.R.D. had on the Brood. Every incursion. Every casualty report. Every grainy helmet‑cam recording of chitinous shapes tearing through containment teams. He knew their biology, their hive structure, their hunting patterns. 

Knowing was one thing. Actually facing them was another.

“[color=#cfcfcf]Trail’s still fresh. Multiple sets. Moving fast.[/color]” murmured Agent Ruiz, scanning the ground.

Hale nodded. Ruiz was the new of the team, only 22, yet Hale trusted him completely. He’d even given a toast at his wedding a few months ago.

The forest floor was torn up in long, purposeful lines. Trees were gouged. The underbrush flattened. Clearly something had been here recently.

“[color=#d8d8d8]Eyes sharp. They’re close.[/color]” Hale said quietly.

The squad moved in a tight formation, rifles raised, flashlights cutting thin beams through the thickening shadows. The forest around them felt wrong. Too quiet. Too expectant.

They reached a small clearing near a stream. Hale stopped short.

A deer lay collapsed near the waterline. It wasn’t moving. Its flank was torn open in long, ragged strips, ribs exposed where something had ripped through with methodical force. The ground around it was churned and darkened, the soil disturbed by claws that had pinned it down.

Hale felt his stomach twist. The files had warned him what Brood feeding looked like, but seeing the aftermath in person was something else entirely.

A twig snapped.

Hale froze.

Another snap.

Then a low, rhythmic clicking.

The squad tightened instantly, forming a defensive circle. Flashlights swung through the trees.

Shapes shifted between the trunks. Chitin glinted. Eyes reflected back the beams of light.

Hale’s breath caught. Seeing them through a screen had not prepared him for the size of their insecticide bodies, the stillness, the predatory focus. The Brood moved with a terrifying patience, circling the squad with the quiet confidence of creatures that had already decided the outcome.

“[color=#bfbfbf]Sir… we’ve got at least 6. Maybe 7.[/color]” Ruiz whispered.

Hale swallowed. “[color=#d8d8d8]Hold formation. No sudden moves.[/color]”

Then he noticed something strange.

Thin metal chains wrapped around the Brood’s limbs and thoraxes, trailing upward into the canopy. He followed the lines with his eyes, but the branches above were swallowed in shadow.

Someone was controlling them. Someone strong enough to leash a Brood pack.

The clicking stopped.

The forest held its breath.

Then a voice drifted down from somewhere above them. 

“[color=#d7b0ff]Feast.[/color]”

The Brood surged forward.