The Martian sunrise was a pale, sickly gold, washing over a battlefield littered with broken constructs and shattered dreams. Ethan tightened the seals on his cracked helmet, feeling the cold bite of thin air sneaking through microscopic fractures. Every breath tasted like blood and iron.
Behind him, Rina limped along, one hand pressed hard against her side where armor plating had given way to shrapnel. Aly hovered close, her systems flickering sporadically—overloaded, battered, but still holding together out of sheer stubbornness. Eve had deployed a drone ahead, scanning for any remaining threats. None answered.
Only silence and the long, endless echo of loss.
"So," Rina said between pained breaths, "this is victory. Feels a lot like losing."
