"First squad, eyes up. Second squad, clear the site. Move!"
The operators wasted no words. They moved with a mechanical, predatory grace, drawing tactical daggers and glass sampling tubes from their webbing. The street was slick with a black, viscous ichor that smelled of ancient rot. One soldier used tweezers to sift through the remains, pulling out a clump of grey, diseased brain tissue.
"Command, sample extraction complete," the soldier reported, his voice flat. "High-concentration viral stock and mutated spinal marrow have been secured. Sealing now."
"Prioritize the bio-data," the Company Commander's voice crackled through the neural link. "We need the molecular structure of this rot. Once the tubes are locked, establish a hard perimeter. Nothing gets through."
As the soldiers moved with the practiced efficiency of a bio-hazard unit, Ethan's voice resonated through their minds and the speakers of the Astra Command Hall.
"Aegis Recon, establish a circular defensive array. 360-degree vigilance."
"Technical teams, begin environmental analysis. Air, soil, water. I need to know if we're dealing with aerosols or spores. Until we confirm this virus isn't airborne, the Threshold operates under Red-One Protocol: Entry only. No exit."
On the monitors, the soldiers snapped into action. Gun muzzles tracked every shadowed window and collapsed doorway in the ruins. Technicians set up portable biochemical workstations, their instruments humming as they sampled the leaden air.
Fifteen minutes later, the report flashed onto Ethan's terminal.
"Commander, air analysis complete. Oxygen is slightly lower than Earth-standard. Unknown organic compounds detected, but viral aerosol count is nominal. Preliminary assessment: The virus requires fluid contact or tissue-tearing for transmission. It is not airborne."
In the Command Hall, a collective breath was released. Non-airborne meant they weren't fighting an invisible ghost. It meant they could hold a line.
Ethan turned to Marcus Zhang, his expression unreadable. "Uncle Marcus, activate the Void-Shifter Battalion. Bring in the heavy materials."
"Understood. Initiating Phase Two."
On the Astra-MC side, the Enderman engineers—standing in silent, tall rows—hoisted massive crates. These weren't just wooden blocks; they were high-strength alloy fencing and massive, shimmering blocks of Obsidian—the world's most durable mineral.
The Threshold's purple light flared violently.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
The lanky, black figures flickered into the ruined city, ignoring the decay. They moved with a speed no human construction crew could match. There were no cranes, no cement mixers—only the instantaneous displacement of matter.
Foundation-shifters blinked into position with concrete slabs. Wall-builders slammed alloy fences into the cracked asphalt, while others teleported to the top to weld the reinforcements in a shower of sparks. At the center, the heavy-labor teams meticulously stacked Obsidian blocks, creating a bunker capable of tanking direct artillery fire.
In the dead ruins, a Small Forward Operating Base (FOB) began to rise at a visible speed—a hybrid of modern Federation tech and Minecraft's indestructible geometry.
Ethan watched the progress, his eyes cold. "Uncle Marcus, status on the Air Force's modified gunships?"
He paused, his voice dropping an octave. "I want a three-kilometer 'dead zone' around the FOB. Once the birds are up, I want a carpet-bombing run using Atmospheric Incineration Ordnance. Purify the sector."
A Senior Colonel in the hall slammed his fist onto the table, his eyes bright with tactical fervor. "Brilliant move, Commander! Conventional clearing in this density is a meat-grinder. Thermobaric strikes won't just clear the hostiles; the high-pressure heat will vaporize the virus at a molecular level. It's the only logical choice."
"We also need a four-stage decontamination lock at the Threshold exit," an analyst added, pushing up his glasses. "Every grain of sand returning from that world must be scrubbed with UV-C, acid baths, and particle beams. That line is more important than any trench."
"Agreed," Ethan stood up, his voice echoing. "Make it happen. Engineering, prioritize the De-Con facility. Recon, hold the line and wait for the 'Fire-Drakes' to arrive."
He looked at Marcus. "How long for the WZ-10s?"
Marcus checked a fresh report. "The neural links are green. We're just finishing wind-tunnel testing on the reinforced dust filters for the intakes. Another-World airflow is... tricky. We need twenty-four hours to ensure the engines don't choke."
"One day? We can wait," Ethan nodded, glancing at the massive Gateway. "The gate is wide enough for a flight formation. Once those gunships cross, they won't just be exploring. They'll be purging."
Satisfied that the front was stable, Ethan straightened his collar and headed for the exit. The routine slaughter didn't require his constant oversight. He had other moves to make.