Recovered Helmet-Cam Footage — Galon-Reach Perimeter Sector

File recovered from perimeter beacon 7-Delta.
Timestamp corrupted. Audio partially degraded.
Visual feed intermittently unstable.

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The camera shakes as it reorients.

A narrow beam of white light cuts through tall crystalline trunks, scattering into sharp prismatic fragments that crawl across the HUD like broken rainbows. The orchard looks different at night—less beautiful, more angular.

Like it could cut you if you move wrong.

Boots crunch softly over alien soil.

Three sets of footfalls.
Measured.
Professional.

PATROL LEAD (CALM):
“All right, perimeter sweep, sector seven. Should be routine. We tag the beacon, check the crawler, head back in time for synth-coffee.”

A soft chuckle follows. Someone exhales through their nose.

The camera dips slightly as the wearer adjusts their grip.

SECOND PATROL (LOW):
“Beacon’s been offline since mid-cycle. Could be wildlife interference.”

PATROL LEAD:
“On this planet? Only thing that interferes with anything out here is bad firmware.”

The orchard stretches on in neat, cultivated rows. Crystalline leaves chime faintly in the breeze.

No animal movement.
No night calls.

The silence presses in like insulation.

The HUD flickers.

A proximity alert pings—
then clears.

The wearer pauses, head turning.

SECOND PATROL:
“Anyone else getting interference?”

PATROL LEAD:
“Probably the ridge. Happens all the time.”

They move deeper into the orchard.

The beam of light catches something half-buried in the soil ahead.

The patrol slows.

A supply crawler.

On its side.

Panels torn open.

PATROL LEAD:
“…That’s not storm damage.”

The camera draws closer. The hull plating isn’t crushed or warped the way an impact would leave it.

It’s peeled.

Long, curved gouges rake across the metal—
evenly spaced,
precise.

Deliberate.

The light lingers.

No blood.
No scorch marks.
No bodies.

Just silence.

THIRD PATROL (QUIET):
“Where’s the driver?”

No one answers.

The audio spikes.

A faint sound bleeds into the channel.

Click—click—click.

Irregular.
But rhythmic.

The patrol stops.

The clicking stops too.

SECOND PATROL:
“…Okay. That’s not wildlife.”

The light swings left.

Nothing.

Swings right.

Nothing.

The orchard is empty—too empty. The rows stretch away into darkness, perfectly still.

Even the leaves have stopped chiming.

PATROL LEAD (TIGHT):
“Beacon’s ahead. Tag it and we’re done.”

They advance.

Each step sounds louder now.

The beacon tower emerges from the dark—tall, skeletal, its status light dead. No power. No signal pulse.

The patrol lead steps forward, reaching for the access panel.

The HUD flickers again.

Harder this time.

Static crawls across the display.

The camera jerks violently sideways.

The beam snaps upward, catching a blur of motion between the trees—
black against black—
and a sudden flare of red.

Something tall moves just beyond the light’s reach.

The HUD spikes.

THIRD PATROL (PANICKED):
“Contact—CONTACT—!”

A shape drops from above.

The camera slams into the ground.

The image spins wildly—trees, sky, soil—then settles on its side. The beam points uselessly at the orchard floor.

Audio erupts.

Shouting.
Metal impacts.
A wet, tearing sound cuts one voice off mid-word.

Something heavy lands nearby.

Boots scramble.

A weapon discharges once—
twice—
then stops.

The clicking returns.

Louder now.

Closer.

The camera rolls slightly, the beam finally catching a pair of legs—
long, wrong,
bent at angles no human joints should manage.

The light climbs.

A torso of living shadow.

Arms ending in hooked claws that glisten faintly.

And then—

Two ember-red eyes flare inches from the lens.

The thing leans in, filling the frame.

It tilts its head.

Curious.

The clicking multiplies, echoing from multiple directions now.

The red eyes blink once.

Horizontally.

The feed distorts.

Audio peaks.

Then—

—signal loss—

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STATUS REPORT

Perimeter Patrol: 7-Delta
Personnel: Three
Last Known Location: Orchard Grid, Sector Seven

STATUS:
MISSING