I’m mid-bite, squirrel grease on my chin, when thirteen naked men explode out of the north tree line—wild-eyed, panting, crashing into our clearing like they’re running from hell itself. “Defensive positions!” Mr. Simons bellows, stomping to the center, voice a Texan thunderclap. “Sophia, triplets—stay put, run intel! Tim—you hold the line, keep us breathin’—might be the most critical job here!” I drop my food, heart slamming, as Sophia’s purple eyes flare, the triplets humming beside her in eerie sync.

  Shields snap up—mine’s shaky but there—Pete’s lightning crackles, Teddy’s flames roar, Gideon’s fists flex. We’re braced to clash when Sophia’s voice, clear yet startled, cuts through: “Wait!” No psionics—just thirteen Ki users. She and the triplets weave them into the network fast—“Fleeing, hunted, we're under attack!”—and then I see it: behind them, more figures stumble out, collapsing in a heap—exhausted, bloodied, some gashed deep.

  Spears—a touch smaller than normal for an adult human—shoot from the trees, bouncing off Aura and telekinetic shields. The Ki newbies grab them, hurling back with grunts. Then they emerge—grey-skinned humanoids, five feet tall, purple eyes glinting, incisors jutting over cruel grins. Claws for fingers and toes, moving like a pack—vaulting off each other, weaving through trees, synced tight.

  "Ninja's?" I murmur.

  “Don’t use psionics!” one of the naked men gasps, catching a buddy with a chest gash. More spears fly as dozens of greys pour out—met with telekinetically flung rocks, returned spears, Teddy’s fire gouts, Pete’s lightning bolts. But they’re fast— using accrobatics to dodge. A trio breaks through, lunging at Gideon. He swings, flattens one, but another leaps from its buddy’s back, claws raking his shoulder. Blood sprays—a nasty gash opens down his back. He roars, staggering, smashing the grey into the dirt, but he’s bleeding bad.

  I’m stuck back here, hands twitching, watching it unfold. Two Ki fighters—new guys, paired up—try to hold their own off to the side. They’re scrappy, dodging spears, landing punches, but a pack of greys circles them. Five, then six, moving like a swarm—one feints low, another slashes high, a third vaults over. Claws flash, and one’s throat tears open, blood jetting. The other screams, swinging wild, but they’re on him too—ripped apart in seconds. I look away, stomach lurching, unwilling to watch as they tear into them like a pack of starving wolves. I feel so useless, fists clenched— why couldn't I have powers to fight, instead stuck in place deflecting the odd Javelin.

  The greys press harder— whilst weak alone, quick as a human but nearly half as strong. In twos and threes: one feints, one strikes, one intercedes.

  “They’re running a psionic network!” the triplets shout in unison, eyes blazing with Sophia’s. They hum louder, purple light pulsing, and our fighters sync—Gideon, still bleeding grabs a grey, swinging him like a club and crushingvanother grey in a bloody mess—carnage, unreal.

  I watch as two greys avoid a fire blast from Teddy, jumping off each other Olympic display of acrobatics. Only for one to end up colliding with a thrown boulder by Mr Simons in midair turning it into a ragdoll and the other to end up a charred mess thanks to a lightning bolt from Phil.

  Four pained gasps jolt me—Sophia, Alex, the triplets, eyes shut, blood trickling from the corners. I rush over, hands glowing, touching Sophia and Alex first—ether flows, easing the strain. Peeking out, our synced attacks are shredding them—numbers dropping fast. The greys turn as one, bolting back to the trees, a few falling to last spears and rocks, but most of us are too drained for a chase.

  Hours later, the fire’s down to embers, casting a dim glow over the clearing as we finish piling dirt over the last graves. My hands are caked with earth, passing rocks to mark the spots—no more sulking about with wizard dreams, I crafted together a few of what vaguely resembles a shovel.

  Rebecca’s ether fading from her hands, shoulders slumped from patching who she could. We weren’t enough—two more slipped away despite our healing auras, too much blood lost and the weight of it hangs thick.

  Pete steps up, Aura flickering out as he finishes assisting the gravediggers with his earth shaping. “Four dead,” he says, voice low and sad, tossing a rock onto the fresh dirt. “Four too many.” The words settle heavy, his usual spark dimmed, and I clench my fists, dirt grinding under my nails. Gideon’s pacing, back bandaged but blood seeping through, his scowl meaner than ever. Alex is murmuring to him, trying to calm him, but her usual grin’s gone—“Perimeter’s holding, no further sightings ”—and the triplets stand stiff, eyes dim, blood wiped from their faces. Sophia’s gaze is ice, scanning the trees, while Teddy hovers near the wounded, ether spent. A few folks sob softly, others clutch vine-woven togas like armor.

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  Mr. Simons steps up, voice rough but firm. “Alright, y’all—we took a hit, lost good people. That’s a tragedy we can’t undo. But we’re stickin’ together, makin’ ourselves strong so it don’t happen again. We’ve got grit—proved it holdin’ them greys off. Let’s honor the fallen, keep pushin’.” It’s raw, steadying, and the panic ebbs as we turn from the graves.

  One of the newcomers—a big guy, bushy beard spilling over his chest, kind eyes shadowed with weariness, and a bit of a gut straining his frame—clears his throat, loud and gravelly, pulling eyes to him. Eleven of his crew left, hollow-eyed.

  “Name’s Marcus,” he says, voice rough like it’s holding onto something. “Led what was fifty of us. We tried hittin’ the greys with our psionics—thought it’d crack their minds. But it backfired—our own psionics screamed in pain, collapsed right there, like somethin’ ripped through ‘em. Left us a mess, no cohesion. Fightin’ turned chaotic after that—I saw my fighters cut down, greys swarmin’ ‘em, claws tearin’ through like nothin’. Outnumbered, scattered. Lost most in the madness.” He pauses, then adds solemnly, “At least that’s what happened to the men.” Rebecca shifts, uneasy; Alex’s breath catches. Gideon’s fists clench, meaner still. Mr. Simons leans in, “So what happened to the women?”

  Marcus drops his gaze, ashamed. “Didn’t notice at first. The women fighters… they weren’t killed. Beaten unconscious, dragged off into the forest. Happened to all of ‘em, I think. Saw it myself—one of our healers, after her detail got hit. Checked the psionics who’d passed out—they were gone too. Tracks led back where the greys came from, not far into camp. Strange thing—they walked out, not carried.”

  The silence after is suffocating. I’m stuck on that—walked out, not carried—and my brain’s churning, nerd gears grinding. Why? What do the greys want? Gideon growls, low and dangerous, “They’re takin’ ‘em alive—why not just kill ‘em like the rest?” Alex grabs his arm, whispering, but her eyes are wide—“No new traces, but…”—like she’s digging for answers too. Rebecca’s hands twitch, like she wants to heal something she can’t reach. Pete kicks a rock, muttering, “Bastards—what’s their game?”

  Sophia steps forward, voice cutting through like a blade. “The greys’ network—it’s not just combat sync. They’re more like a hive mind.” Her purple eyes narrow— "The purpose is unclear, but deliberate.”

  I blink—deliberate? Like a plan, not just hunger or rage?

  Marcus shifts, uneasy. “Saw it in the fight—greys’d swarm a guy, rip him up quick. Bite and tear at him like Animals. But a woman? Claws held back, knocked her down, hauled her off fast. Same with the psionics—didn’t claw ‘em, just… took ‘em all orderly like” His voice cracks. “Thought they were huntin’ us for food or somethin’, but this… this ain’t that.”

  Teddy rubs his beard, grim. “So they’re grabbin’ ‘em for—what? Slaves? Breeders?” Rebecca flinches hard, and I feel my stomach twist. Mr Simons’ jaw tightens. “Or they’re buildin’ somethin’—an army, maybe. Them psionics walkin’ out… sounds like they turned ‘em somehow.” Gideon snarls, “Don’t care what for—I’m rippin’ ‘em apart next time.”

  I cut in, nerd brain buzzing. “Sophia, I’ve been on the end of a mind-blast—wouldn’t recommend it. How’s it feel casting one? Is it, uh, how do I put this—strainful?” She tilts her head, purple eyes steady. “It’s like pushing through a barrier—resistance, then release.” I nod, sparking a small forcefield in my hand, blue ether shimmering. “What if, with the greys all synced, it’s like hitting an impenetrable forcefield? That’d knock you for next Tuesday.” Sophia’s gaze sharpens—“Accurate enough Tim, their network’s dense—reflective. Could rebound hard.” She pauses. “But then why walk off willingly?” A beat, then—“The attack left a door open. Perhaps allowing the hive mind at least temporary control” She turns to Marcus, voice softening an inch. “You saved me from a fate worse than death—thank you.” Shivering at the thought of being puppeted.

  I sigh, forcefield fading. “At least we saved one woman from that fate. The greys’ biggest advantage is larger numbers—you only increase your numbers one way.” I grimace, voice dropping. “Poor girls.”

  “Whatever they’re after,” Mr Simons says, voice steel, “we ain’t sittin’ ducks. Rest, heal— lets keep our women folk away from the northern edge of camp. Tomorrow we scout, figure out their behaviour. And we won’t let our women stay prisoners—we will rescue ‘em. They want a fight, they’ll get one.” He stomps off, barking—“Watch doubled tonight, get some firewood collected, lets get this fire up”—and I’m left staring at my hands, dirt under my nails, no longer worried about being just a crafter.

  The greys aren’t random—they’re hunting with purpose, and we’re in their sights. Not if Tim has anything to say about it.

  Sleep doesn’t come easy that night. We huddle in tight groups, leaf togas rustling, the doubled watch casting long shadows. Fear’s thick—disquiet hums through us all. I drift in and out, nightmares clawing at me—grey claws slicing me apart, dragging me off into the dark, or worse, that hollow-eyed walk, mind not my own. I wake gasping, hearing soft whimpers nearby—Rebecca’s curled up, muttering in her sleep; Gideon’s fists twitch like he’s still fighting. Even Sophia’s rigid, eyes half-open, staring into nothing. The greys’ purpose haunts us, a shadow we can’t shake.