[???]
"I dare say I've done quite enough for one rotation," Grimm muttered to himself. "I could go for some coffee right about now."
He stood upon a fractured cliff-face—one of the rare few parts of the planet that hadn't been utterly reduced to lava slag or craters the size of minor moons. But "not completely ruined" was charitable at best; the terrain was still cracked like shattered glass, and the horizon burned in hues of ash-gray, strewn with debris and dust that floated aimlessly through the atmosphere.
His visor-clad gaze slowly drifted across the broken vista.
("Still…") his internal voice mused, ("I've an irksome feeling. A crawling on the edge, as if someone—or something—is watching me.")
Another beat of silence.
Then a whisper—
"…Grimm…"
His head tilted slightly, slowly, his posture shifted a fraction of a degree. He was certain he'd heard something. A voice.
"…Grimm…"
Again.
More annoyed than concerned, he turned with all the urgency of a man checking to see if the mail had arrived late.
"Grimm, Grimm, Grimm, Grimm, Grimm, Grimm, Grimm—"
The monotonous chant broke through the air like a unenthusiastic summoning ritual, delivered in a tone so flat it could press flowers. And just as the last 'Grimm' fell, he instinctively tilted his body slightly to the left—
—just in time for a human-shaped blur to come rocketing through the upper atmosphere like a comet.
The figure slammed down nearby, carving a long, trench through the dirt before coming to a grinding halt twenty paces away, arms flailing slightly from residual momentum. A final bounce. A skid. And silence.
Grimm's helmet angled downward. Then he let out a soft, almost imperceptible exhale.
"I was beginning to wonder what the stench of idiocy was," he observed aloud, voice blank. "Now I see it was you fouling the planetary atmosphere."
There, dusting herself off with the aggression of someone who'd been metaphorically (and quite literally) drop-kicked into a warzone, stood his ever-faithful, ever-frustrated, ever-grievance-filled Lieutenant—Mallory.
Her hat was askew and her eyes were narrowed in a deadpan stare of such disbelief it could have collapsed a planet.
"You," she said with the dramatic intensity of a betrayed soap opera heroine, "threw me into an enemy teleportation spell."
Grimm didn't flinch, he merely shifted his weight slightly onto one leg.
"Baseless allegations are unbecoming of a subordinate," he replied coolly. "Especially from a twerp."
"You looked me directly in the eyes before punting me like a ball through the spell." She said with the dullest of glares.
"That sounds like hearsay," Grimm said flatly.
"That sounds like you."
He tilted his head as though genuinely confused by the concept.
"I have no recollection of such an event. Do you have—how do the normies say—proof?"
"Why would I have proof? You threw me into an enemy trap in the middle of a teleportation spell. I didn't exactly have time to set up a camera crew."
"Then it is your word against mine," Grimm responded. "And as a superior officer, I find your word questionable at best."
Mallory's eye twitched. There was a sound from deep in her throat that might have been a growl. She folded her arms, turned her back on him, and let out the kind of noise that only came from someone who'd spent far too long being emotionally terrorized by a man who considered sarcasm to be a weapon of war.
"Hmph!" she puffed, nose turned upward. "I'm never speaking to you again."
Grimm nodded once. "Excellent news. Finally, some peace and—"
"Wait what?" Mallory turned back around, eyes wide. "You're happy I'm not speaking to you?"
He gave a small tilt of the head. "I am neither happy nor sad. Merely... relieved."
Mallory gave another pout. "You absolute menace to society. I'm your lieutenant. You're supposed to value my input, you know!"
"I do. Occasionally. Mostly when it involves cannon fodder calculations."
She stormed up to him, glaring up at his much taller frame. "I have half a mind to defect."
"You'd die within the hour," Grimm said simply.
"You'd miss me."
He stared in silence.
"…Right?"
A long pause.
"Right…?"
"Your delusions are persistent," Grimm finally said, looking off into the distance. "Like fungus."
Mallory looked like she was about to lash out. She stomped a foot, pointed at him, and declared, "You are literally the worst superior I've ever had." It was funny seeing the normally detached girl so furious.
Grimm tilted his head again.
"That's statistically improbable. I'm certain I rank within the top three."
"I hate you."
"You say that every cycle," he replied.
"And I mean it more every time." She folded her arms again. "I'm still not talking to you."
"Joy."
She glared.
Grimm shook his head, amused if anything as he reached into a small pouch in his armor, pulling out a barely scorched ration bar, and handed it to her without a word.
She blinked.
"…Is this your way of apologizing?"
"No."
"Is this pity?"
"No."
"…Bribery?"
"…Possibly."
She snatched it.
"…I still hate you."
"I remain unbothered. Still…" Grimm's voice broke through again. "I am curious, how many enemies did you actually eliminate?"
Mallory hummed as she took a seat comfortably on a piece of rock, swinging her legs back and forth as she chewed noisily on the ration bar he'd given her. Loud, unapologetic munching filled the air. She didn't even meet his gaze—her eyes were fixed somewhere in the vague middle-distance, like she was recalling something stupid and mildly traumatic from the last hour. Probably Grimm's fault.
"Mmm… one," she mumbled around a massive bite, crumbs scattering to the wind.
Grimm's helmet tilted.
"…Only one?" His tone had shifted just enough to be barely offended, which, for Grimm, was practically shouting.
Mallory gave a slow, unconcerned shrug, still chewing like she hadn't slept in three days and was now powered entirely by calories and spite. "Yep. The other one took off. Poof. Gone. Like a cowardly magic rabbit in a trenchcoat."
She paused to chew. Louder.
"Too lazy to chase 'em," she added flatly. "Didn't feel like cardio. Not after being tossed through the sky by someone I will not name."
Grimm exhaled slowly through his nose, a sound somewhere between disdain and resignation.
"…Give me back that ration bar."
Without hesitation, Mallory locked eyes with him—and in an instant, crammed the entire remaining half into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out like a squirrel hoarding rations during a blizzard. Crumbs exploded outward in all directions like shrapnel from a grenade.
Her expression didn't change.
She chewed.
Silently and aggressively.
Grimm stared at her. She stared back.
"You're lame," he said finally. "I eliminated two. That's double. A full hundred percent more efficient. That makes me, without question, the superior combatant. Congratulations, you're officially the underachieving gremlin of the day."
Mallory swallowed loudly. And then narrowed her eyes, indignant.
"Nuh-uh," she said with the confidence of someone who absolutely knew she was wrong but refused to yield out of principle.
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Nooo."
"Yes."
"Nu—"
Before she could finish, Grimm's gauntleted hand moved—his fingers curling in a flicker as he delivered a perfectly-timed, perfectly-placed chop to the top of her head. It wasn't enough to hurt—but just enough to assert moral superiority.
The impact made a satisfying bonk, and Mallory's hat jolted to the side like a disoriented pancake. She blinked twice in pure betrayal, reaching up with both hands to dramatically readjust it as if her pride had been physically dented.
"You absolute nincompoop," Grimm said blankly.
"You're the nincompoop." she snapped, jabbing a finger into his armored chest. "That was an illegal move. I'm calling the Combat Conduct Board when we get back."
"They've already ruled in my favor," Grimm deadpanned.
"You're just jealous of my stylish combat hat."
"That's not a hat. That's a textile abomination."
She gasped. Audibly. "You take that back."
"Not until you take back your disgraceful kill count."
Mallory puffed her cheeks again—this time with rage instead of rations. "Fine. You may have gotten two. But I got style points. I backflipped into my elimination. That's, like, a minimum of five extra flair points."
"This isn't a circus."
"You're not with the flair authorities."
Grimm slowly turned his helmet to the side, as though weighing the pros and cons of launching her into orbit. She caught the motion and scoffed.
"Oh don't you dare do the creepy dramatic head tilt. That's your 'I'm about to do something morally questionable but technically legal' pose."
"Observation: my actions are rarely moral, but always legal under wartime jurisdiction."
"One day I'm gonna outscore you in something. And this isn't wartime yet."
"You won't."
"I will."
"Unlikely."
"I'm gonna write a very stern letter to HQ about your attitude."
"Spellcheck it this time."
Mallory fumed, turning her back again and folding her arms with extra dramatic flare.
"Whatever. I'm again not talking to you."
"Rejoice," Grimm said softly, turning his gaze back to the horizon. "The planet is quieter already."
"You are the worst."
"And yet, here we are."
"I mean, seriously…" she muttered, brushing some lingering ration crumbs from her coat. "You think you're so cool with your 'I'm Grimm, I kill things in multiples of two' aura..."
"I don't think I'm cool," Grimm replied. "It simply happens to be the observable conclusion."
"Ughhh." She groaned and leaned forward. "You're impossible."
"And yet more tolerable than you," he replied.
She opened her mouth for another sarcastic comeback—but the words never made it out. Something shifted in the air, in the sky, in reality. The shadows on the ground no longer matched their forms. Then the wind—nonexistent for hours—stopped. Mallory's head slowly turned, Grimm was already looking up.
And in the skies above them something descended. A mass of black—vast, tumorous folds of purple-black shadow. The air groaned as whatever it was began pressing down on the surface of the dead planet. Like fingers. Like a hand. Gigantic silhouettes blotting out light, curling downward, the scale so titanic that Mallory's mind couldn't comprehend where the sky ended and the thing began.
Grimm stepped forward, instantly assessing.
"Move," he said flatly.
Mallory blinked, dazed. "What is that?"
"Dunno" Grimm said. "Move, Mallory. Now."
She didn't budge.
Appendages began unfurling. Enormous. Moving in impossible, angular arcs that bent space with their presence. Light dimmed to nothing. The ground cracked and shattered upward, like the shadows were pulling gravity in reverse.
One of the colossal limbs surged down with impossible speed.
Grimm lunged.
His body blurred—flashing in front of Mallory, one arm already moving to push her clear. A smooth, decisive action. But just as his hand reached for her shoulder—
She grabbed him.
Not with urgency. But with softness, a strange calm.
Her small arms wrapped around him tightly, almost stubbornly, like she was refusing to be moved. Her face pressed against the front of his armored chest, and when she tilted her head up, her dull eyes met the blank surface of his visor.
"…Told you," she murmured, her voice so soft it could've been mistaken for a passing thought. "You're not cool."
Grimm froze.
For a brief, almost imperceptible instant, he felt a phantom sensation. He barely ever registered it. But this—this wasn't tactical. It wasn't logical. It wasn't even emotional.
"…Let go," he said, quieter than before.
"No," Mallory said. "You'll just go running off again. Pretend it didn't happen."
Grimm's hand hovered at her shoulder as the impact came.
A monstrous appendage of black and violet shadow engulfed them, the planet shuddered. An explosion of shadows rippled outward from their location, and then—
Gone.
No trace of them anywhere to be seen.
Though there was the faint echo of, "Moron."