Torin 'Turret' Moore

The jungle peeled open in flashes of green and shadow under the ATV’s headlamp, vines whipping at his shoulders, mud kicking up behind the wheels in a wet spray. Torin’s hands were steady on the handlebars, gloved fingers flexing just enough to feel the machine beneath him like a heartbeat. Tall and broad, rugby-built with unchiseled but powerful muscle, he moved with the instinct of someone who knew his own weight. Night was thick and humming—cicadas screaming, air wet enough to drink, and something about it felt off.

Cap had sent him out on a sweep loop east of the main trail. Nestled in the jungle of the nature preserve Khao Ra in Thailand - nothing but trees, bushes and calling wildlife. Narrow, barely a game path. Locals didn’t tread here. The maps didn’t show much past the rise, but the intel said there were old shrines, abandoned conservation posts—and too many footprints for an unoccupied stretch of jungle.

He slowed near a break in the treeline, engine dropping to a soft idle hum. Scanned the clearing—dense, no obvious threat, but the hair on the back of his neck rose like it always did before something shifted.

There.

Movement, maybe thirty meters ahead. Could’ve been a scout. Could’ve been a trap. Could’ve been someone not supposed to be here. Torin kicked the ATV into neutral, slung his leg over, and rose slowly—shoulder tense, sidearm low and ready but not aimed. His short, messy blonde hair clung damp to his forehead, and permanent stubble shadowed his jaw. Full lips tight in concentration, alert blue eyes traced shape and silhouette. A faded bonding mark sat at the crook of his neck, half-hidden beneath the collar of his jacket. He carried himself like a man who used to rest easy.

And then he saw them.

Figure crouched half-in the ferns. Not camo’d. Not geared. Breathing hard. Clothes didn’t match the zealots, but they weren’t local pattern either. No visible scent suppressors. No ID. Not Alpha. Not Beta. And not presenting.

Unknown.

“Alright,” Torin called out, voice dry and casual but firm, “If you’re not planning on shooting me, maybe stand up real slow so I don’t accidentally do it first.”

The figure froze. Hesitated.

“Not here to hurt you,” he added, lowering his weapon just a fraction, scanning their posture. “But you’re about four klicks too deep into someone else’s backyard. Mind telling me who the hell you are?”

The jungle sweat clung like guilt — hot, thick, and hard to scrub off.

Torin “Turret” Moore crouched low in the underbrush, fingers working a detonation cord into place like he was rewiring the nerves of the Earth itself. The soft snap-snap of leaves under his knee, the rubber stretch of gloves against sweating skin — everything was too loud out here. Even the silence had a shape to it. Too still. Too clean. Like the trees were waiting for something to die.

Demo Point One: set.

He reached for the detonator cap clipped to his vest, the familiar weight grounding him more than anything else had in years. Wires curled like lazy serpents around the shaped charge, and his scent — burnt cedar, gunpowder, that low hum of warm musk — threaded into the air. Duller than it used to be. Emptier. These days it carried the faintest edge of scorched metal, like something had once caught fire deep in his chest and never quite gone out.

He liked this part — the quiet before the bang. Just him and the wires and the tension you could hold in your hands. Here, everything made sense. Everything stayed exactly where you put it, until it didn’t.

Turret adjusted his position, boots sinking into wet loam. Khao Ra had a way of crawling under your skin. Moss clung to stone like grief. Bugs thick enough to chew. But it was better than base. Better than the barracks. Out here, he didn’t have to talk to anyone. Didn’t have to pretend the letters were still coming.

His comms buzzed.

“Turret, be advised — your field medic’s on approach. New assignment, Omega designation.”

He stopped moving.

Not a breath. Not a twitch. Just let the words hang there in the air, static catching like splinters behind his ears.

An Omega?

He exhaled slow. Long. Pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, then dragged them down his face. As if he could wipe the thought away like sweat.

No. No, no, no.

This wasn’t a patrol op. This wasn’t a dustoff. This was jungle demolition, deep recon — and now they were assigning him an Omega? They’d just dropped a volatile variable into a live-fire equation and expected him to make the math work. Someone at Command had lost their damn mind.

He rose to his full height, slow and deliberate, gaze already sweeping the treeline in the direction of the approach. The scent would hit first — it always did. He hated how sensitive he still was to it, how easily instinct overrode logic when it was close enough to matter. Didn’t even have to be hers. Any Omega was enough to stir up the echo.

He flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders once, a familiar crack echoing off tense joints. You’re fine. You’re always fine.

The jungle didn’t care what designation you were. It cared if you were quiet. Smart. Useful. He’d outlived smarter men who thought heat cycles and chain of command meant anything once boots hit the mud.

Turret unhooked his pack from a branch and shouldered it. Movement felt sluggish, deliberate — not hesitation, exactly. Just… recalibration.

A medic. An Omega. On his flank. With demolition charges tucked into his gear and a mountain trail full of Inanna’s freakshow zealots likely watching from the brush.

He didn’t turn when he heard the footsteps, not right away. Just stared ahead, jaw ticking. A breeze stirred through the jungle canopy, brushing against the skin of his neck where the old bond mark still lay — pale, faded, but permanent. A scar with a memory. He still wore it like a weight.

Nine years, and he hadn’t let anyone close enough to catch more than the scent of smoke.

He reached for the detonator cap again, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger with practiced ease. His hands didn’t shake — never did — but there was a tension in his shoulders now, coiled tight. Like he could hear the tick-tick-tick of some new clock just out of sight.

He finally spoke, not looking back, voice low and measured.

Not for them. For himself.

“Let’s get this done.”

And then he moved, feet silent over damp ground.