Pittman Outpost

Day 17: Pittman Outpost

Pittman isn’t a place for the faint of heart. The landscape stretches out as a barren wasteland — rugged, scarred, and burned by countless battles. I stood watch this morning, staring across the plains littered with craters, some still smoldering from yesterday’s skirmish. The ground is jagged and hostile, peaks jutting upward like broken teeth against a dark, unyielding sky. Everything about this planet feels alive with malice, as if it’s trying to drive us off.

Our outpost is little more than a cluster of armored bunkers and hastily welded barriers — a temporary fortress holding back an enemy that never seems to stop. The Marines here move in cycles: fight, patch, reload, and rest when they can. Exhaustion shows in every face, but there’s no other option. We keep going because stopping isn’t an option.

By midday, the sky was choked with storm clouds, lightning flickering along the horizon. Thunder rolled in the distance, a grim reminder that even the weather here is an enemy. The real danger, though, lies closer — alien scouts that move just beyond our sensors, never attacking, never retreating. Just watching. Waiting.

Day 18: After the Battle

Last night was brutal. They came in waves — fast, silent, their movements like shadows flickering through the storm. We lost three Marines before we could even return proper fire. When the fight was over, the field was a tangle of debris, smoke, and the broken remains of both sides.

The medics worked through the night, patching up burns and trauma wounds while the smell of scorched metal and ozone hung heavy in the air. I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them — their armor glinting in the lightning, their forms disappearing into the storm as if the darkness itself was alive.

By morning, the outpost was quiet. The wounded were sent to the med-bunkers while the rest of us scouted the field. The enemy had vanished, leaving behind nothing — no wreckage, no tracks, no trace of origin. Just silence and ruin.

Day 19: The Calm Before the Storm

Today was quiet — too quiet. The kind of stillness that grinds at your nerves. We spent the day reinforcing the perimeter, laying fresh barricades, and reestablishing firing arcs. Every Marine worked without speaking much. You could feel the tension building with every passing hour.

I walked the perimeter before dusk. The plains stretched endlessly, marked by blackened craters and twisted alien debris half-buried in the ash. Hard to believe this was once a thriving colony world. Now, it’s a graveyard — a monument to endless conflict.

As night fell, the outpost settled into uneasy silence. Everyone knows what’s coming. The quiet never lasts long on Pittman. When the next storm breaks — we’ll be ready, or as ready as anyone can be against an enemy that shouldn’t exist.

Day 20: The Sky Burns

The attack came before dawn. It started as a low hum — then the screech of engines tore through the air as alien fighters streaked across the sky, plasma trails burning against the clouds. The bunkers shook under impact. I grabbed my rifle and sprinted for the line as the alarms screamed.

The Marines poured from their shelters, returning fire with everything we had. The darkness erupted in a storm of light — red tracer fire, slashing through sheets of blue plasma. Then the rain hit, hard and heavy, mixing with smoke and ash until the whole battlefield became a storm of mud and flame. It was chaos. Half the time, we couldn’t see what we were shooting at — only the flashes of light and the screams through the comms.

They were relentless, moving with terrifying precision. But somehow, we held. When the sun finally broke through the clouds, their forces were gone, retreating beyond the ridges. The field was a wasteland of shattered armor and scorched earth. The rain washed away the blood, but the craters remained — deep and silent reminders of what it cost to survive another day.

Day 21: Reflection

I don’t know how much longer we’ll last here. Pittman isn’t a place you survive — it’s a place you endure. The terrain, the storms, the enemy — everything about this planet is designed to break you. And yet, somehow, it doesn’t. Every day we wake, we fight, and we endure. That’s all there is.

Looking out over the battlefield, I wonder how long this war can go on. How many more names will be carved into memorials that no one will ever visit? Still, one thing is certain: Pittman won’t break us. We’re Marines. We fight until there’s nothing left to fight for.

— Journal of Private First Class Jayden, 2299