Chapter 260: The Lone Star

O’Neer glowered at the twitching thing in front of him. It was disgusting. Insectoid. Thankfully, there was no mouth on the underside. In fact, there was no mouth at all. No eyes either. Just a repulsive cluster of limbs clearly designed for one purpose.

Grabbing onto his face.

He looked up just in time to see General Abel sigh, step forward, and lift the creature toward himself. It latched on with a soft, unsettling click. Abel stumbled back half a step, brows knitting together, then steadied himself and turned to face O’Neer’s stunned stare.

“You know,” Abel said after a moment, shrugging slightly, “it’s not that bad. Can’t say it’s uncomfortable.”

What was worse, his voice was not muffled at all.

Abel glanced at a nearby officer who was hesitating a bit too long. He sighed, reached out, and shoved the creature straight at the man’s face. The bug latched on instantly.

The officer yelped and flailed, hands scrabbling at the thing clamped to his snout.

“Oh, calm down,” Abel snorted.

The officer froze, then gave a stiff nod, standing perfectly still as if movement alone might make the situation worse.

Watching this, O’Neer sighed. He stepped forward and pressed the creature to his own face. It latched on immediately.

To his surprise, it was… comfortable. Disturbingly so. It did not restrict his breathing in the slightest, which was unsettling, given that O’Neer could not see a single air hole beneath the thing’s body. It clung snugly, evenly, as if it had been tailored to his face. Stranger still, it did not feel hard or chitinous at all. The surface was soft, pliable, almost like fabric.

That was the worst part.

It looked like something that should be rigid, spiked, and actively attempting to burrow into his skull. Instead, it felt like a mildly warm scarf that had made some deeply questionable life choices. The sensation made his skin crawl in ways the desert never had. His brain kept insisting this was wrong, profoundly wrong, while his face stubbornly refused to suffocate or suffer in any meaningful way.

He hated it.

“See? Not so bad, right?” the Great Beast said cheerfully.

The response he received was a chorus of low, disgruntled grumbling from the assembled Vulpus. Not screams. Not protests. No one tried to run, which in hindsight was impressive. It was the sound of professional warriors reaching the same grim conclusion at once.

First, this was happening.

Second, it was happening right now.

Lastly, fighting it would only make it worse.

The noise rolled through the group like a shared sigh of resignation, punctuated by the occasional muttered curse and the unmistakable tone of people filing a mental complaint they knew would never be addressed. Faces remained stiff. Bodies stayed still. Pride was swallowed whole. It was not fear. Fear would have at least been energetic. This was the collective irritation of being forced into a deeply undignified situation by something powerful enough that objecting felt not just pointless, but futile in the worst way.

“So how do these things work?” Abel asked.

“Oh, they generate a field around you that blocks the ether fog,” the Great Beast replied cheerfully.

An awkward silence washed over the rangers. The kind that settled in when no one was quite sure which question to ask first, or whether asking any questions at all would make things worse.

“So,” Abel said at last, gesturing at the creature latched firmly to his muzzle, “why does it have to be on our face?”

“Aesthetics,” the Great Beast said with absolute confidence.

That answer landed poorly.

“Does it work if we put it on our arm?” one ranger asked carefully, as if speaking too loudly might void whatever fragile safety they now possessed.

“No,” the Great Beast replied without hesitation. “I designed it so it only functions when attached to the face.”

Another wave of grumbling rolled through the group. Louder this time. More pointed. The sound of people realizing that this was not an accident, not an oversight, but a deliberate design choice made by something that clearly enjoyed watching them endure and process it.

O’Neer stared out at the desert, face wrapped in a creature that felt like an expensive scarf from hell, and wondered how exactly his life had reached a point where face based fog immunity was something that existed.

Abel sighed and glanced toward the distant wall of fog. “Should we test them out?”

Another round of grumbling rolled through the ranks.

“You don’t trust me?” the Great Beast asked, his tone wounded in a way that was very obviously sarcastic.

“He doesn’t trust anyone,” O’Neer said helpfully. “Not even himself. No offense.”

Without another word, Abel turned his mount and began riding toward the distant wall of fog, its pale edge curling and shifting like a living thing.

“Stay here,” he called over his shoulder.

Behind him, the men shifted uneasily in their saddles. Leather creaked. A mount snorted, sensing what its rider did not like to think about.

“Ah, fuck,” O’Neer muttered, tugging on the reins as his mount sidestepped before falling in line behind the general.

“I believe I ordered you to stay put,” Abel said curtly, the clipped edge of command carrying easily across the open ground.

“If it doesn’t work,” O’Neer replied lightly, adjusting his seat as the sand crunched under hoof, “someone has to drag you back.”

“Love the vote of confidence, Captain,” Abel grumbled.

“I could go in instead, you know,” O’Neer said, glancing down at the creature clamped to his face. “Test the thing out.”

Abel shook his head once. “I appreciate the initiative, Captain, but as the commanding officer, I need to know how this works.”

“Then tactically, we should go in together,” O’Neer replied idly. “Teams. You know.”

“Really, Captain? The buddy system?” Abel snorted. “Seems a bit late to be revisiting basic training.”

“First principles, sir,” O’Neer said with a faint chuckle.

“No,” Abel replied, firm. “You stay back. If something goes wrong, I need you ready to rush in and drag me out.”

“That doesn’t seem viable if you wander off alone, sir,” O’Neer replied as they both paused in front of the fog wall.

Up close, it was worse than it looked from a distance. The ether fog churned and coiled in on itself, thick and luminous, its edges breaking into slow, writhing tendrils that reached out before dissolving back into the mass. Faint crackles of energy rippled through it like distant lightning trapped in mist. The air prickled against exposed skin, and O’Neer felt his eyes sting the moment he got too close.

“Yeah, well, by regulation I can’t order you on a suicide mission,” Abel grunted.

“To be fair, General,” O’Neer replied, “you wrote the regulations. You can unwrite them.”

Abel turned, reached out, and poked O’Neer squarely on the forehead, giving his head a slight shove.

“And that,” Abel growled, “is exactly why you’re a captain and not a general. I do that, and half the men desert.”

Abel let his hand fall and fixed O’Neer with a look that carried more fatigue than anger. O’Neer knew why he couldn’t change it, it was obvious once you were in the business long enough.

Regulations were not just words on paper. They were promises. Rules had to be stable, even for the men who wrote them, especially for the men who wrote them. The moment rules bent to convenience, they stopped being rules and became weapons. People needed to know the line would hold, that it applied today, tomorrow, and to everyone equally. If soldiers believed regulations only existed to be rewritten when it suited command, trust collapsed, discipline followed, and what remained was not an army, but a mob waiting for an excuse to fracture.

“Now stop yapping and keep watch. If not, I’m promoting you,” Abel growled.

O’Neer visibly recoiled.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Pay attention. If I die, you wear the Lone Star,” Abel grunted, before turning and stalking off toward the fog.

O’Neer watched as Abel approached the fog. The creature clamped to Abel’s face shifted slightly, and the ether mist peeled away from him, forming a clean, perfect sphere of empty air.

Abel looked around, then took a cautious step to the left. The fog parted again, obediently curling away from him. He stopped, planted his hands on his hips, and grunted.

“Then why,” he asked flatly, “is it on my face?”

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.♚.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Back at Fort Rolv O’Neer stalked between the tents holding the face hugger out in front of him like a sacred relic, the thing twitching eagerly in his grip. Recruits scattered on instinct, boots kicking up sand as they tried and failed to look disciplined while fleeing.

“Relax,” O’Neer shouted cheerfully. “This little beauty will protect you from the fog. Just let it latch on.”

Several of them froze in place, eyes wide.

“It’ll be quick,” he added helpfully. “Probably.”

One unfortunate recruit backed into a supply crate and squeaked when O’Neer lunged a step closer. “Don’t fight it,” O’Neer continued. “Fighting just makes it worse. Lay still, breathe normally, and try not to think about the eggs.”

“What eggs?” someone yelled.

“Oh, you’ll know,” O’Neer said. “You’ll all know.”

In the distance, a sergeant pretended very hard not to see any of this happening, and the camp filled with the sound of panicked obedience, nervous laughter, and the unmistakable lesson that survival in the Vulpina Rangers involved many things, not least of which was learning when your superiors were enjoying themselves a little too much.

Then a scream cut through the camp.

One of the recruits had snapped.

With a sound somewhere between a battle cry and a nervous breakdown, he lunged forward and slapped the face hugger onto his own face. It latched instantly.

There was a half second of stunned silence.

Then he started screaming.

“WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE CLOTH?” he howled, clawing uselessly at it. “THIS IS WRONG. IT SHOULD BE HARD. OR SHARP. OR SOMETHING. WHY IS IT SO SOFT?”

O’Neer doubled over laughing.

“I KNOW, RIGHT?” he shouted back. “That’s the worst part!”

The recruit staggered in a tight circle, hands hovering near his face like he was afraid touching it too much might make it angry. “IT’S WARM. IT’S BREATHING WITH ME!”

“Stop panicking,” O’Neer called. “You’re fine. If it was gonna kill you, it would’ve done it by now.”

That did not help.

Eventually, the recruit froze, shoulders slumping as the realisation hit him. He stood there, stock still, face wrapped in a creature that felt like a cursed scarf, quietly reassessing every life decision that had led him to this moment.

Then a voice boomed from the watchtower.

“CAPTAIN O’NEER!”

Every head snapped upward.

“STOP HAZING THE RECRUITS AND GET YOUR SORRY ASS UP HERE!”

The camp went dead silent.

O’Neer slowly straightened, still holding the face hugger. He glanced around at the frozen recruits, one of whom was still standing rigid, face wrapped, breathing very carefully.

“…In my defense,” O’Neer said loudly, “this is technically training.”

Abel’s silhouette leaned over the railing. “MOVE. NOW.”

O’Neer winced. “Right. Yes sir.”

He gently peeled the creature off the recruit’s face. The thing resisted for half a second, then let go with a faint, disappointed twitch.

“You did great,” O’Neer told the shaken recruit solemnly. “Textbook acceptance phase.”

The recruit did not respond. He was staring into the middle distance, forever changed.

O’Neer jogged toward the tower, passing a line of wide-eyed recruits who instinctively leaned away from him as he went.

Behind him, someone whispered, “Do… do we get one of those too?”

Another voice replied softly, “I hope not.”

From the tower above, Abel sighed the long, tired sigh of a man who deeply regretted promoting competence over personality.

When O’Neer reentered the tower, he had the gall to look genuinely curious.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “what’s wrong?”

Abel did not raise his voice.

“Captain O’Neer,” he said evenly, “stand at attention.”

The tone was calm. Flat. Worse than shouting.

O’Neer straightened immediately, boots snapping together, back rigid, eyes forward. Every trace of humor vanished from his face.

The ashtray struck him a heartbeat later.

It clipped his shoulder and shattered against the wall behind him, fragments clattering across the floor. Abel did not even look at where it landed.

“Explain,” Abel said quietly, stepping closer, “why I am hearing screams in my fort?”

O’Neer swallowed once. “Sir, morale exercise.”

Abel stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable.

“Captain,” he said at last, “if I hear that you have introduced the phrase ‘lay eggs’ to another recruit, I will personally ensure you spend the rest of this campaign cataloguing latrines.”

O’Neer did not blink. “Understood, sir.”

Abel turned and planted a finger on the map spread across the table. Several areas had been circled in thick ink, some overlapping, others connected by short, deliberate marks.

“Here. Here. And here,” Abel said.

O’Neer leaned in, expression sharpening.

“Four days’ march to reach the general area,” Abel continued evenly. “Six days minimum to search it properly. Four days back, assuming nothing goes wrong. Then we reassess and try again if needed.”

Abel paused before he straightened. “I’m not going.”

O’Neer glanced up. “Sir?”

“The bandits are still active,” Abel said flatly. “Someone has to hold the line and keep this camp from falling apart while you’re gone. That’s me.”

Abel fixed him with a steady look. “You’ll lead the expedition.”

O’Neer nodded once. No jokes this time.

“Pick six officers,” Abel continued. “Each of them heads a team. People you trust to operate independently, keep discipline, and not lose their heads when things get strange.”

A pause.

“This is a suicide mission if mishandled,” Abel said. “I want officers who understand that and don’t need to be reminded.”

“Yes, sir,” O’Neer replied.

“Get your act together,” Abel added. “Prepare properly. Supplies. Timelines. Contingencies. This is not a stunt.”

O’Neer straightened. “I’ll have names within the hour.”

As he turned to leave, Abel spoke again, voice dry.

“And Captain?”

O’Neer stopped. “Sir?”

“If any of your officers die because you thought something was funny,” Abel said calmly, “I will promote you.”

O’Neer stiffened.

“That’s right,” Abel continued, voice dry and merciless. “Paperwork. Endless reports. Meetings. Stuck indoors while other people do the fighting. No dust, no gunfire, no field work. Just a star on your chest and a desk you can’t escape.”

He looked up at O’Neer. “You hear that, Captain?”

O’Neer swallowed. “…Yes, sir.”

Abel nodded once. “Good. Now move.”

Understood, sir…