Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

The first day ended without collapse.

That was the kindest thing anyone could say about it.

West held.

North held.

South burned through three clusters and somehow did not burn through Hale’s patience entirely, which Hendrik later called ’the most surprising tactical outcome of the day.’ Central remained clean under Thomas and Andrea, their team moving with the steady brutality of people who understood exactly how fragile stability became once infected pheromones clung to armor, hair, skin, and breath.

By the second day, the field stopped feeling like a single operation and became weather.

Mud. Rot. Smoke. Reports.

Beasts hit the walls in uneven waves, some large enough to shake emitters loose from the ground, some small enough to vanish into drainage cracks until aerial scouts caught their heat signatures sliding through dead grass. Insects came in fragments rather than swarms at first, black flickers against gray air, testing seams and thinning points where pheromone density wavered.

Dean learned the sound of a breach alarm before breakfast.

He learned the weight of gravel in his pockets and the difference between broken glass useful for shredding wings and concrete too soft to pierce a skull. He learned that his neutralization radius felt different depending on what it touched: the dominant alpha strain went quiet like a held breath; corrupted pheromones recoiled like oil beneath water; infected residue on uniforms clung stubbornly, sticky and sour, until he flattened it by force.

By the third day, alpha agents stopped looking startled when Dean stepped into their space.

They simply turned toward him, lifted an arm, opened a collar seal, or bowed their head so he could work.

”Hold still,” Dean snapped at one of them when the man tried to apologize through clenched teeth.

The agent froze.

Dean spread out his field of neutralization.

The infected pheromone residue clinging to the man’s shoulder guard thinned, shuddered, then broke apart under the pressure. The agent’s own scent steadied almost immediately, no longer fighting corrupted traces buried in the fabric.

”Better?” Dean asked.

The man swallowed. ”Yes, Your Highness.”

Dean’s eye twitched. ”Do not call me that while smelling like dead moss.”

”Yes, Lord Dean.”

”Worse.”

Arion, standing three meters away with blood drying black along his sleeve, said, ”You are developing battlefield manners.”

”I am developing battlefield regrets.”

”You are very good.”

Dean pointed a piece of compressed gravel at him. ”Do not start.”

Arion smiled.

A beast hit the wall.

Dean fired without looking.

The projectile cracked across the field and punched through the beast’s eye before it could test the seam.

Arion’s smile became unbearable.

Dean closed his eyes for one second. ”I hate that you saw that.”

”I saw nothing.”

”You saw everything.”

By the fourth day, Hendrik stopped asking whether Dean could handle West Point too and started asking how many neutralization cycles he had left before mandatory rest.

Dean hated that more. It meant trust.

Trust was worse than suspicion because it came with expectations.

West became a rhythm of movement and denial. Arion held the larger beasts off the barrier with the alpha agents, dark and precise through mud and smoke, his command pressure never spilling past what the wall could bear. Dean held back at the second marker, then the second marker, then—because the swarm had found a drainage breath point and the technician’s voice had cracked on comms—half a step beyond it.

Arion had seen.

”Back,” Arion said.

”I am exactly where I need to be.”

”You are half a step beyond the marker.”

”The marker is emotionally fragile.”

”Dean.”

Dean shredded the swarm with a cyclone of glass dust and gravel, waited until the readings cleared, then stepped back.

”There,” he said.

Arion’s eyes remained on him.

Dean looked away first.

On the northern flank, Sebastian continued to report clean numbers.

No casualties. Moderate exertion.

Controlled strain. Pheromone levels within acceptable range.

Dean read the summaries every night, and hated every sentence, because they were too polished to comfort.

Sebastian was fine.

Sebastian was always fine until fine became a weapon pointed at his own throat.

South reported far less politely.

Nero cleared trench clusters, intercepted carriers, reinforced relay points, and generated three separate command notes labeled effective but excessive. Hale’s reports were brutally concise and increasingly personal.

Sahan asset contained.

Sahan asset temporarily obedient.

Sahan asset set local brush on fire for tactical reasons and personal satisfaction.

On the fifth day, Hendrik forwarded that last report to Arion without comment.

Dean read it over Arion’s shoulder and said, ”Hale is aging.”

Arion looked at the report. ”Nero is behaving better than expected.”

”That is horrifying.”

”Yes.”

Then the west alarm went off again, and there was no time to be horrified about anything except the field.

The swarm that came that afternoon was larger than the first.

It moved low through the orchard line, hugging the wet ground, drawn toward the warmth of the civilian buffer and the tiny imperfections where the pheromone wall thinned over old drainage stone.

Dean stepped into position before Hendrik ordered it.

Arion was already at the forward line, holding off two mutated beasts that had hit the barrier at the same time as the swarm, because infected things apparently understood cruelty even without intelligence.

”Dean,” Arion said over comms.

”I know.”

”Do not overreach.”

”I said I know.”

He expanded the radius.

The world vanished into one meter of silence.

The readings cleared, stuttered, failed, and then cleared again.

Too much corruption. Too much noise.

Dean’s fingers curled.

Loose gravel lifted around him. Glass dust followed. Metal filings from a shattered road sign pulled free in silver streaks. He spun them outward, not as bullets this time, but as a rotating blade of debris, grinding through the leading edge of the swarm before it could press into the wall.

The insects shredded.

More came, and Dean’s breath tightened.

The neutralization radius held.

A beast broke through the barrier seam.

Arion killed it in two strikes, but its blood sprayed across one of the alpha agents, and the man’s pheromones spiked instantly, reacting to the infected residue clinging to his uniform.

”Agent Valez is destabilizing,” a technician called.

Dean turned too fast, and the world tilted for a fraction of a second.

A second later Arion was there, one hand at Dean’s back, not holding him up, not quite, but close enough.

”I have him,” Arion said.

Dean glared at the agent. ”Get over here.”

The alpha stumbled into range.

Dean forced the radius tighter, flatter, and more precise. The infected pheromones on Valez’s uniform broke apart under the pressure, dissolving from sour rot into ordinary sweat, metal, and mud.

The agent sucked in a breath.

”Stable,” the technician said.

The swarm broke.

The wall density climbed.

Arion’s hand did not leave Dean’s back until Dean stepped away on his own.

”Do not say it,” Dean said.

Arion’s voice was very quiet. ”You need rest.”

”I said, ’Do not say it.’”

”You are shaking.”

Dean looked down at his hands, which were steady. Mostly.

”How observant.”

”Dean.”

”I know.”

And he did.

That was the infuriating part.

He knew the difference now between effort and overreach. Between fear and warning. Between stubbornness and stupidity. He had spent days learning his own limits under rot and pressure, and he hated that Arion had learned them too.

So he stepped back.

”Cycle me out for ten minutes,” Dean said into the comm.

Hendrik answered immediately. ”Approved.”

Arion walked with him to the armored vehicle while the alpha agents reset the line. Inside the vehicle, the air was filtered and too clean.

Dean sat down and closed his eyes for exactly three seconds.

Arion crouched in front of him.

”I am fine,” Dean said.

”I know.”

Dean opened one eye. ”That is not your usual answer.”

”I am adapting.”

”Disgusting.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

His glove brushed Dean’s wrist, checking his pulse without making it obvious enough to insult him.

Dean let him.

Outside, the west flank kept moving.

Days of rot passed over them, and still the line held, not because any of them were untouched by the field, but because each flank learned the shape of its burden and carried it long enough for the next wave to break.

Dean leaned his head back against the armored wall.

”Ten minutes,” he said.

Arion’s eyes softened. ”Ten minutes.”

Then, after a pause, quieter, ”Then autumn.”

Dean closed his eyes again.

”Survive summer first,” he muttered.

Arion’s hand remained around his wrist, warm and steady over the pulse.

”We are,” he said.