The Last of Nova Group
Seventeen-year-old Kona, at six feet one, is a striking figure with a lean yet powerfully sculpted physique. Her raven hair, styled in a chic bob, frames a face considered breathtaking. Her luminous emerald eyes hold a captivating intensity. She is a mesmerizing fusion of Eastern and Western ancestry. A dreadful truth, unknown to most, lies concealed within her. She is a Hybrid.
An orphan from infancy, Kona was the unforeseen product of The Nova Group, started by a rogue faction of Xeno-Warfare scientists. These renegade researchers, obsessed with creating human-alien hybrids for warfare, subjected the then eighteen-month-old Kona to a perilous genetic fusion – a melding of her DNA with that of an adolescent alien Queen, a creature of unparalleled lethality. She was the sole survivor of all attempts to combine human DNA with this extremely powerful and dangerous aliens DNA. Kona's upbringing was a relentless regimen of tactical and combat training. Weapons were her playthings; combat simulations, her games. The alien DNA infused her with extraordinary strength, agility, and an unparalleled intellect. She excelled in every endeavor, mastering not only diverse combat disciplines but also achieving unparalleled mastery of stealth and infiltration. No lock, no computer system could withstand her cunning. She moved with the lethal grace of a phantom. Remarkably, despite inheriting the genetic legacy of a deadly extraterrestrial and possessing its ruthless capabilities, Kona remained remarkably unassuming, a quiet and respectful young woman. A solitary introvert, she favored solitude.
The Nova Group, which had morphed into a mercenary collective, once boasted fifty such hybrids. Kona, the youngest, became the last when the scientist responsible for all their creation succumbed to madness and self-destruction shortly after her procedure was completed. Their missions: the brutal pacification of supposedly deserted facilities, space stations, and derelict starships – often occupied by ruthless pirates or space gangs. From sprawling multinational conglomerates to modest enterprises, and even national governments, Nova Group received lucrative contracts to forcibly displace occupants from targeted areas, paving the way for aggressive expansion and exploitation. Other assignments involved the retrieval of critical data or valuable artifacts. Sometimes locating high value targets and eliminating them. Typically, the Nova Group deployed only one hybrid, on rare occasions two hybrids; it was invariably sufficient. They would swiftly eliminate all opposition, seizing control with cold efficiency.
Despite their dwindling numbers—a consequence of their exceedingly perilous assignments—the Nova Group’s success remained unassailable. Years of high-stakes missions, undertaken almost exclusively by solo operatives except in the direst circumstances, had decimated their ranks. This elite team's dominance provoked intense resentment among rival mercenary outfits, envious of their lucrative contracts and unparalleled reputation. With only twelve hybrids remaining, a coalition formed to orchestrate their demise. A corporation weary of the Nova Group's exorbitant fees joined forces with a competing mercenary organization, devising a treacherous plan. The unsuspecting Nova Group was contracted to secure a vast subterranean facility, allegedly overrun by a heavily armed and highly trained militia. The contract stipulated the deployment of every remaining operative—an unprecedented demand.
Their orbital starship served primarily as a transient staging area, a fleeting sanctuary from which Operators were dispatched. The vessel would then immediately depart, remaining in vigilant orbit as a silent, watchful guardian. The entire team prepared for this unprecedented mission; this time their support vessel would remain on-site. The target, they were told, lay beneath an obsolete mining installation. This was the first time Kona and her colleagues, despite their long shared history as members of Nova Group, would collaborate as a complete unit. Despite living on the ship together, the crew's existences remained rigidly separate, their interactions confined to the regimented routines of meals and drills. Conversation was strictly limited to tactical maneuvers and training exercises; personal disclosures were exceedingly rare, almost nonexistent. Intriguingly, their alien symbiotic's somehow recognized each other's species, a fact that occasionally sparked simmering tensions. However, the human element consistently maintained a strictly professional demeanor. Every hybrid's symbiotic knew what Kona's Symbiotic was and acknowledged, respected, and even dreaded the power of her symbiotic. Yet, despite this awe, they playfully teased her—a common affliction of youth. Yet, through years of rigorous, synchronized training enabled an immediate, seamless integration of skills.
Nova Group disembarked their transport, their boots thudding on the tarmac as the cargo bay doors retracted. Sixteen figures emerged into the moon —twelve hybrids and four supervisors. Each supervisor a veteran of elite special forces units, their expertise was the backbone of every operation's logistical, training and tactical planning. Dressed in comprehensive environmental suits, the entire team braced themselves against the harsh, unforgiving atmosphere. Each member donned a robust, life-sustaining ensemble: a protective exoskeleton paired with a reinforced helmet, augmented by a self-contained oxygen system and a miniature, supplemental propulsion unit. This compact jet pack offered only minimal vertical lift, sufficient merely to surmount minor impediments in their path. They were each heavily armed with rifles and ammo.
Kona, carrying her assault rifle, and with her side armed holstered on her vest, brought up the rear. They entered a cavernous cargo bay, a desolate expanse of discarded mining equipment and rubble, remnants of a bygone era. They went about making sure the bay was cleared. Proceeding towards the outpost, a large two level structure with a single, imposing airlock—a large, steel behemoth of a door—Kona swiftly moved to the head of the formation as her teammates established a perimeter. With practiced ease, she bypassed the lock's security protocols using a digital lock-pick. A hiss of compressed air announced the outer door's opening, and Kona, her rifle held at the ready, entered the inky blackness within.
The facility was plunged into darkness; the power was dead. Activating her face shield's HADAR mode, her face shield lite up illuminating her visor so she could see in the darken rooms like they were all lite up with daylight. Her green eyes keenly scanning the shadowed corridors. Stealthily, efficiently, she advanced towards the control room, her every movement precise and purposeful. The rest of the team followed behind her, leaving a hybrid to guard the entrance. The facility was secured swiftly; Kona commenced the restoration of the complex's systems and accessed the central database. Her quest: to uncover the clandestine access point to this subterranean labyrinth. The entrance, cleverly concealed, demanded meticulous identification and a subsequent unraveling of its intricate unlocking mechanism. She anticipated this information, crucial to her mission's success, would be readily retrievable from the central data processing unit. To her profound shock, the reported underground complex was non-existent. This site was merely an abandoned mining depot, devoid of any structure or indication of subterfuge; her repeated scans confirmed this chilling reality. The senior Nova Group executive, acutely aware of the mission's unusual scale, had accompanied the team. Upon revealing her discovery to their leader he realized that this was a trap. An immediate evacuation order was given.
As they fled, a cataclysmic explosion shattered the silence—their starship, engulfed in flames, was being systematically destroyed. Kona, who had been the first in was now the last out, joined the end of the stack that was heading toward the flaming ship. She thought it would be better to remain in the outpost, but she was trained to follow orders. They had emerged onto the desolate, but illuminated landing strip, to witness the inferno. Kona noticed that the hybrid assigned to security at the airlock entrance lie dead. A hole in his face shield indicated that a sniper had killed him. Instantly, the waiting mercenaries launched their ambush, their deceit fully revealed. From all directions, a storm of heavy-caliber fire erupted, augmented by the searing beams of fusion lasers. The enemy, acutely aware of the hybrids' lethality, launched a merciless assault. Instantly, the Nova Group coalesced into a defensive perimeter, returning fire with desperate precision. Under the cloak of night, they were forced to target only the fleeting muzzle flashes, their positions betrayed by the illuminated tarmac—easy prey for the mercenary horde.
Ambushed and overwhelmed, the Nova Group sustained catastrophic losses, their offensive crippled. A desperate few unleashed what they termed "Beast Mode," their alien physiology amplifying their combat prowess in the face of imminent annihilation. Recognizing their perilous predicament, they launched a furious counterattack, weaving a chaotic, evasive dance through the hail of enemy fire. Closing with the shocked mercenaries, they unleashed a brutal fusillade at point-blank range. When depleted of ammunition, they resorted to savage hand-to-hand combat, snapping necks, shattering limbs, and pulverizing spines. Despite a terrifying display of ferocity that decimated a significant portion of the mercenaries, the Nova Group was hopelessly outnumbered. Inevitably, they were all eradicated. The survivors, meanwhile, maintained a relentless barrage of fire, skillfully maneuvering to evade the deadly crossfire. Reaching the wreckage of their vessel, the *Super Nova*, they confirmed the grim reality: total annihilation; every soul aboard perished.
The senior executive, in a desperate gambit, ordered a retreat back into the mining outpost, this would force a close-quarters engagement on less favorable terms for the mercenaries they were fighting. They would filter back, a deadly trickle against the overwhelming enemy force.
Even this desperate maneuver proved costly; each leapfrog movement was met with a hail of lethal fire. Kona provided covering fire, a futile shield against the onslaught. Then, a fusion laser, a devastating bolt of energy, bisected the senior executive, the order-giver, instantly silencing his commands.
Kona froze, a cacophony of sound and furious activity rendered her immobile, her senses overwhelmed. The horror of the carnage quickly snapped her out of it. Only now fully registering as she saw the lifeless form of a fallen comrade at her feet. Another female hybrid. She was about ten years older than Kona. With all their rigorous training, it had neglected a crucial element: social grace. While she wouldn't classify them as friends, she only understood comradeship, not friendship. This individual stood out; she found solace and meaningful engagement in their conversations. She genuinely liked and respected her. With a surge of primal instinct, she cradled the hybrid's body with her left arm and with her right aimed her rifle at the attackers. As mercenaries closed in, she unleashed her magazine into one, felling him with a desperate burst. A flash to her left – another fusion laser – and her world exploded.
Her right arm vanished in a searing flash, ripped away six inches below the shoulder. Weapon and limb arced through the air, her reality fracturing. Only raw adrenaline stanched the torrent of pain that threatened to overwhelm her. She looked for the source of the attack, her grip let go of her dead comrade. Frantically, Kona attempted to draw her sidearm, a large caliber pistol in a right handed vest holster, a cruel irony in her desperate plight. It was set up to be drawn with her right hand. Her severed right arm and hand were now lying over ten feet away from her. As she struggled with the locking mechanism with her left hand, another blinding flash seared her vision. The fusion laser found its mark, piercing her lower right abdomen, hurling her to the ground. She struggled to get to her feet. She actually thought about going to retrieve her arm, but then thought better of it.
Then, the alien consciousness within her, a silent partner she'd communicated with only through shared thoughts, asserted its control. Emerald fire ignited in her eyes. A ferocious snarl ripped from her throat, a visceral eruption of rage unleashed from the creature dwelling within. A desperate, agonizing sprint ensued, her wounded form a blur of motion toward the outpost's airlock. Vision swam, the airlock's luminescence her sole beacon in the swirling darkness. Then, the deafening roar of another heavy-fusion laser blast—a searing impact against her back. The force propelled her forward, simultaneously detonating her jet pack. Intended for mere elevation, the explosion hurled her through the air, a projectile hurtling two feet above the ravaged ground. Her intended refuge, the airlock, became her nemesis. She soared, a fleeting, uncontrolled flight, before a devastating impact many feet from her salvation. Her face smashed against her visor, plunging her into oblivion.
Hours later, her eyes were opened to a desolate, horrifying truth: she was the last member of Nova Group, the sole survivor amidst the ashes of a massacre. Pre-dawn the assault had commenced in the inky blackness before sunrise. Now, twilight descended, mirroring the oppressive darkness of her last conscious moment.
A bloodcurdling scream—a visceral shriek that resonated deep within her very being—had jolted her awake. Slowly, agonizingly, she turned her head. A horrifying tableau met her gaze: Over a dozen grotesque creatures, towering behemoths at least seven feet tall, were savagely mutilating the corpses of her fallen comrades. Their monstrous talons, like wicked scythes, ripped through the remains; their elongated fangs, gleaming in the fading light, sank into their flesh and bones with effortless brutality. They devoured her comrades, stripping their suits away with a chilling efficiency.
Panic clenched her heart. Her hand instinctively moved to her holster—empty. Gone. Her pistol, its magazines, her favorite combat knife, even her extra rifle magazines —all vanished. The battlefield, usually littered with discarded weaponry after such a conflict, was eerily clean. The mercenaries hadn't just retreated; they had meticulously plundered the fallen, taking everything of value. They had assumed her dead, leaving her—a grim mercy—to the encroaching darkness. Had she still shown signs of life, her fate would have been sealed. Instead, they simply relieved her of her arsenal, leaving her defenseless and alone amidst the carnage.
Kona glanced slowly towards the airlock. The outer hatch hung open, a gaping maw in the outposts wall. Only the inner door remained between her and certain death. The agonizing prospect of waiting for the outer door to close and seal, then the pressurization of the airlock. Only then would the inner door open—that sequence might be a death sentence. Those beasts could be upon her before the cycle completed. This slim chance, hinging on a single door, was all she had. Drawing on her latent alien heritage, Kona tapped into a wellspring of strength. Her otherworldly power surged, overriding the searing pain that wracked her body. Despite the absence of her right arm, she hauled herself to her feet, each movement a battle against agony. Mercifully, the heavy laser blasts that had ravaged her had also cauterized her wounds, sparing her from bleeding to death. Only the fierce torment remained, a pain her alien half valiantly fought to mitigate.
A master of covert movement, Kona utilized every ounce of her skill to navigate the bodies and spaceship parts littering the tarmac, her approach a silent whisper. Reaching the open outer hatch, she risked a glance back. The aliens remained oblivious. With a swift motion, she entered the airlock and engaged the inner airlock door. A deafening clang, the hatch's alarm a piercing wail, violently fractured the stillness as the external door's mechanism groaned shut. The aliens, their crimson eyes blazing with predatory intent, whirled around. A terrifying unison of movement propelled them towards the airlock, a wave of shrieking, hissing fury. Time fractured. Kona, pressed against the wall, raised her remaining arm in a futile gesture, as if to ward off the inevitable. Even so, she would still try to go down fighting. An eternity compressed into a heart-stopping moment. Then, the outer door hissed shut, a metal barrier against a tide of monstrous teeth and claws, mere instants before the lead beast struck. The impact echoed – a sickening thud of flesh against metal. The cacophony of snarls and frustrated roars hammered at her senses, a symphony of primal rage. The airlock pressurized, the inner door releasing its grasp. With her left arm, she wrestled off her helmet, letting it clatter to the deck. She surveyed the desolate chamber, her vision blurring. Thankfully she had restored the power to the facility earlier and the lights were now on. She collapsed into a nearby chair, unconscious before her head even touched the back rest.
As the dawn broke, it revealed Kona in the desolate mining outposts reception area. She tried to get up however, pain slowed her movements. This was no ordinary depot; she recalled accessing the terminal, learning it served as a mineral exchange point, a now-abandoned nexus where smaller mines delivered their bounty, only to be later collected by massive transports. The facility's former profitability had clearly waned, leading to its swift desertion.
She slowly moved toward the window. The scene outside the window was horrific. Blood, stark against the grey tarmac, painted a gruesome picture. The vast cargo bay, designed to hold tons of ore, lay eerily empty. If there had been any remnants of her comrades, she surmised, they would had been scattered by the howling wind, their bodies reduced to nothing but crimson stains. A chilling thought pierced her: they had all been devoured. Her own severed right arm, a grim testament to the brutality, had laid amongst the carnage. A silent, bitter prayer escaped her lips—a wish that those monsters had choked on her limb. She delved into the derelict outpost's desolate interior: the command center, a communal space, a galley suffocating under the spectral weight of forgotten feasts, living quarters redolent with the poignant echoes of past lives, and a cluster of deserted workrooms, each a silent testament to vanished endeavors. A surge of hope flared as she located the medical bay, only to be crushed by its stark emptiness. The entire facility had been meticulously stripped of anything useful—no medicine, no sustenance, no weapons, save for a two-foot length of rebar she clutched for meager protection.
Despair threatened to consume her until, in the supervisor's quarters, a glint of hope emerged. A first-aid kit, miraculously untouched, nestled behind a cabinet. A carelessly opened drawer had concealed it, preserving its precious contents: healing paste, pain relief injectors, a scissor and a scant supply of bandages. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Attempting to remove her scorched suit proved futile. The intense heat of the fuse laser hadn't just cauterized her wounds; it had fused the fabric to her skin, creating a horrifying, albeit life-saving, seal. This explained her survival—the molten suit had become a gruesome, impromptu armor. Normally a breached suit was a death sentence in this type of environment. She did her best to cut around the wounds then removed as much of her suit as she could. Wearily, she administered the soothing healing balm to the searing injuries then administered a pain-relieving injection. The metallic tang of the injectors spring, a bitter reminder of her ordeal. The sharp sting of the needle was the least of her worries. The vast, empty expanse of the mining outpost now pressed in on her, a landscape of violence and profound loss.
Three days passed. She was out of medicine. She had no rations. The outposts water recycler still hummed, a lonely counterpoint to the gnawing emptiness in her belly. She hadn't eaten since before she got there. She slept alone on the supervisor’s cot, a stark reminder of her isolation. Trapped without a spacesuit she could not leave the facility. Her only sustenance the dwindling supply of purified water. Death felt like a looming shadow, a cold hand resting on her shoulder. She got up and went into the reception area. She sat at the reception desk, her bright green eyes scanning the desolate expanse beyond the window, when a sound ripped through the silence – the thunderous roar of a starship descending.
Mercenaries, she instantly surmised; a grim return to confirm the Nova Group's annihilation. The fingers of her remaining hand tightened around the metal rod she’d fashioned as a weapon. Rising slowly, a prayer whispered to her alien symbiotic – a plea for one final surge of strength, a last desperate echo of their shared existence. She thanked it, her voice thick with emotion, for the honor of its presence within her, mind, body and soul. Her companion responded with a silent promise, its essence intertwining with hers.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Then, the harsh clang of the outer airlock door activating, the earsplitting shriek of alarms, the grinding of metal. Every muscle coiled, primed. Pain receded, replaced by a potent elixir of adrenaline, a temporary reprieve. Killing one or two would be enough. She would meet her end fighting, dying with honor, a warrior’s death. She started spinning the metal rod in her hand with the speed and precision of a martial arts master. She was trying to psych herself up for the coming battle. The outer door hissed closed, followed by the whoosh of pressurization. The inner door began to groan open. Kona’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, breath catching in her throat. Her gaze hardened; her alluring blend of Eastern and Western ancestry was eclipsed by a fierce resolve. A final, defiant whisper escaped her lips: "Nova Group, my brothers, sisters.....I'm coming home."