Avatar Colonel Miles Quaritch Novels & Stories

However, that was such a great coincidence to have his wish fulfilled. "The Firmament's Ghoul-Locker Spear!" Caspian shook the staff, and the light spread out instantly as if a huge eyeball stared at Miles, who ran away. Miles felt as if the abyss stared at him, and his hair stood on end as he felt a chill running down his spine. That felt as if his life was about to end in a split second! Nonetheless, Miles was still ranked fourth in the Ninth Sacred Sect's apprentices, so his reaction was extremely fast. When he turned around and saw a burst of spear light rushing at him, Miles swiftly took a huge shield from his storage back and blocked himself with it.

The violet light of the kill-switch turned a soft, peaceful green. ​"The 'Sallow-Remnant' is no longer a 'Board'," Kaelen said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant vibration. "You’re just a gardener who forgot how to plant. Julian!" ​Julian Sallow stepped from the shadows of the Vane’s Legacy II, his silver-mapped skin glowing with the authority of the Andromeda-Peace. ​"Julian?" the Auditor gasped, his grey face turning even paler. "You... you’re the 'Traitor-Architect' from the Proxima system."

Gertrude mumbled to herself as she zoomed into the room and saw the disorganized drawers and cabinet. She heaves deeply then says, "I just hope Velmont arrives soon.” Meanwhile, Velmont hastily packed his things, shoveled everything in the trunk of the car, and sped away. While driving, he contacted the searcher to give him a rundown of every detail they had about Alpha Qillalon. Soon, the searcher spoke over the phone. Full name: Qillalon Savant Van Kirk. Position in Citadel: Alpha from the Blood Moon Pack. His father is Quillion Daemon Van Kirk, leader of the Helix cartel.

It was clear that sitting behind a desk didn't do him much good. The third man, standing to the right was the least decorated, but only slightly. The fourth and final character standing at the door was dressed in a rust-coloured robe. He was the most peculiar of the set with all sorts of technology sticking out of him. Price could not help but wonder if he was looking at a man or a machine. After a few seconds the lead officer walked up to the threshold of the airlock but stopped just short. At the same moment, men on both sides saluted each other, the Imperials with the sign of the aquila and the colonials with their hands straight to the hairline.

The word echoed across the chamber like a whisper of forgotten prophecy. “Mother.” Evryn didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her entire system—biological and synthetic—froze. The figure in obsidian armor stood still, his hand still raised, as if he had been waiting for this moment longer than time could measure. Myles stepped in front of her instinctively, his pulse gun drawn. “Who the hell are you?” The armored man tilted his head slowly, his voice processed yet oddly gentle. “You’re irrelevant to this phase.”

He was a shadow in the dark, preparing for a war against men who had forgotten how to be human. They reached the Signal-Hub—a massive room filled with wall-to-wall analog dials and humming Vacuum-Tube Amplifiers. In the center, a man in a tattered AetherCorp uniform stood over a console, his skin grafted with wires that trailed into the floor. "You have the scent of the stars," the soldier rasped, turning to look at Elara. His nameplate read Miller. "We felt the pulse when the Scavenger died. We knew the Vessel would seek the deep signal."

"Now that we’ve broken the Command Vessel?" "Now," the Avatar said, the sapphire fire in its eyes flaring, "the quarantine is broken. The Hunger knows its masters have returned. It isn't coming to eat you anymore, Elena. It is coming to merge with you." A proximity alert screamed in my ear. The Silent Luna was being targeted. Out of the violet nebula, three ivory Consensus warships emerged, their weapons already primed. Pelari hadn't just been curious; he had followed us to ensure the quarantine stayed sealed.

“I’m Mila Quinn. Lieutenant.” The guy beside her follows, his tone clipped and professional. He’s built like the rest of them—broad shoulders, thick forearms—and even sitting down, it’s obvious he’s tall. His dark-blonde hair is cropped in the short military buzz cut most of the elites favour. “Adam Brooks. Private.” Next is a man with shock-red hair and freckles so thick they almost look like a tan. His bright blue eyes gleam mischievously as he grins, the corners of his mouth twitching before he winks—at me.