The clash between Brooks and Baracko was a storm of muscle and steel. The corridor trembled beneath their every movement. Baracko's massive form towered over most grasshoppers, his four powerful arms each a monument to brute strength. Jagged exoskeletal spikes jutted from his limbs like natural weapons, catching the dim fortress light with a wicked gleam. He attacked without pause, each punch a thunderous blur that shattered the air.
Brooks, hardened by years of warfare and driven by the pain of loss, stood his ground. His mandibles, honed like blades, shimmered as they cut through the darkness, clashing against Baracko's fists with the sound of war drums. Sparks lit up the narrow corridor as mandible met flesh, as steel met stone. Their movements were a violent symphony—each strike, each block, each dodge composed in perfect, brutal rhythm.
To any other soldier, Baracko's onslaught would have meant instant death. But Brooks met him blow for blow, his reflexes flawless, his instincts born from countless battles. He moved like a master duelist, parrying and redirecting, slashing upward with his mandibles before twisting into a stabbing motion aimed at Baracko's abdomen. Baracko pivoted, the spikes on his lower right arm intercepting the thrust just as his upper left fist came down like a sledgehammer. Brooks blocked, feet skidding back along the stone, but never falling.
Nearby, Rory stood in stunned silence, his eyes wide with awe. He'd witnessed Brooks fight before, but never like this. The speed, the ferocity, the calm control—it was like watching a living legend carve his name into reality. To face one of Hopper's generals and not only survive but push him back with nothing but mandibles—it defied belief.
But even legends had limits.
Brooks deflected a trio of blows, only to catch a vicious uppercut to his chest. The spiked knuckle cracked against his exoskeleton, sending a tremor through his body and knocking him slightly off balance.
That sliver of vulnerability was all Baracko needed.
A massive fist arced toward Brooks' exposed side. Too fast. Too close.
"Lieutenant!" Rory's voice rang out.
He launched himself forward without a second thought, both mandibles gripped tight. In the blink of an eye, he was between them, intercepting Baracko's strike. His mandibles crossed into an 'X' just as the punch landed. The shockwave blasted outward, rattling the walls and cracking the stone beneath his feet. Rory was sent hurtling through the air, his frame flung across the corridor like a ragdoll until he slammed hard into a pillar.
"Rory!" Brooks shouted, spinning toward the debris, panic breaking through his otherwise calm tone.
Dust swirled around the shattered stone. A groan escaped the rubble—and then, slowly, Rory emerged. His armor was scratched and cracked, mandibles trembling from the impact, but he stood.
"I'm fine," he said with a pained grin, wiping blood and dust from his face. "There's no need to worry, Lieutenant. This is nothing. I'm just getting started."
Brooks' eyes widened.
For a fleeting second, Rory wasn't Rory.
He was Toran.
"Toran..." Brooks murmured, the name falling from his lips before he could stop it. That same look—defiance in the face of death, the same reckless, noble fire that once burned in his son. That same crooked smile Toran had worn the day he fell in battle.
Rory stepped forward again, his stance unshaken despite his wounds. He stared directly at Baracko, fearless.
"I know I'm weak," he said quietly, voice steady even as his body trembled. "Always have been. A burden to everyone I tried to protect."
Brooks remained silent, his mandibles lowered, his expression unreadable.
"I've trained nonstop since the war started. Trying to keep up with Ari. Trying to become someone useful. But no matter how far I pushed, I always felt like I was chasing a shadow."
Rory glanced down at his mandibles, shaking in his hand. He then clenched them tightly, ignoring the pain.
"But I won't run. Not anymore. I won't stand by and watch others suffer while I do nothing. I may not be strong enough... but I'm still going to fight."
He looked back up, eyes burning with something purer than pride—conviction.
"You're not alone in this, Lieutenant. Helena's soldiers, Lily, Beatrice, Isla, Anastasia, Ari—me. We fight together. We win together for the sake of our colony's future."
A long silence followed.
Brooks stared at him—not as a subordinate, but as an equal.
Then he exhaled, the years of grief in his chest softening ever so slightly.
"You know what, kid..." Brooks said, his voice lower now but warmer. "I was right. You do remind me of my son. Stubborn as hell. Always had something to prove."
Behind them, Baracko watched in silence, arms lowered but tense, his eyes glinting with interest. A flicker of something—nostalgia, perhaps—passed through them.
Baracko was not always a destroyer of colonies. Once, long ago, he had been a mentor, a trainer.
He could still remember Hopper—young, impulsive, filled with raw strength but lacking control. A diamond buried in bloodlust. Baracko had shaped him, taught him restraint, focus, the art of battle. He had hammered the rage into order, forged a killer from a wildfire.
But somewhere along the way, Hopper had stopped listening.
"Foolish bravery and trust," Baracko said suddenly, his voice like distant thunder, "will only lead to your doom. Do you truly believe spirit alone can change the inevitable?"
Brooks stepped forward, mandibles crossed.
"Maybe not. But it's a start. And this time, you're not fighting just one ant. This isn't just a battle to avenge my son's death—this is a battle to decide the future of the colony I've served and protected for so many years."
Rory dropped into a low stance beside him, bruised but burning with determination.
Baracko smiled—not mockingly, but as a warrior intrigued. "Then come. Let me reward your courage... by grinding it into dust."
Brooks leaned toward Rory. "Listen closely. Follow every command. Don't go for his body—his armor's too thick. Aim for the joints. And don't engage head-on unless I say so."
Rory nodded. "Understood, sir. Let's end this."
With a roar, Baracko lunged forward. Four arms moved like a whirlwind, each punch heavy enough to crush stone. Brooks met the onslaught head-on, mandibles flashing, parrying two strikes while rolling beneath the others. Rory darted left, targeting Baracko's back knee joint with a swift jab. Baracko twisted, one arm swinging back and forcing Rory off.
But that created an opening.
Brooks struck downward with his right mandible, catching Baracko's upper shoulder. The blade chipped one of his jagged spikes—the first sign of damage.
Baracko's expression darkened. He unleashed a furious barrage, forcing both ants to retreat. Brooks blocked with veteran efficiency, but Rory narrowly avoided a sweeping blow, ducking and stabbing upward again.
Baracko dodged with ease.
"Faster! Move faster!" Brooks barked.
"Got it!" Rory replied through gritted teeth.
They moved together now, slower than Baracko but synchronized. Brooks took the brunt of the assault, creating space for Rory to slip in, strike, and retreat. Baracko's attacks remained devastating, but now they met resistance. His blows were no longer unanswered.
Still, Baracko knew—these ants could not defeat him. Not yet. But something in their unity made him hesitate. That stubborn spark reminded him of someone he once believed in.
Hopper… What would you think, seeing them now? Would you call them fools for challenging your power… or ants with the courage to risk it all for the sake of the future of their colony?
He snarled and clenched his fists tighter.
He would test their spirit.
To its breaking point.