-Operation White Dove-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Sadera, throne room
Captain John Mitchell, Basilisk
"This is your last warning! Stand down!" Hudson shouted one final time, his voice echoing through the grand hall. But it was too late-the imaginary line had already been crossed.
"Elmar, give 'em hell. But leave the prince alive," Mitchell ordered, his tone sharp and decisive.
"Got it, sir," Elmar responded, racking his M-249 with a swift, practiced motion.
He quickly took aim, his sights locking on the advancing soldiers. With a grim determination, he squeezed the trigger.
"Eat 5.56, motherfuckers," Elmar growled as the machine gun roared to life, spitting out a rapid hail of rounds that ripped through the air, the chamber erupting into chaos. The bullets tore into Zorzal's soldiers, cutting through their ranks as they struggled to advance with swords and shields. Some fell instantly, while others scrambled to find cover, their armor useless against the raw firepower being unleashed upon them.
The thunderous sound of gunfire filled the room, mixed with the shouts and screams of the wounded. The Marines held their formation, methodically laying down suppressive fire while maintaining the protective perimeter around Cossette and Piña.
GIGN operatives moved with precision, coordinating with the Marines, picking off targets with controlled bursts. Zorzal's forces, though brave and driven by their prince's orders, were no match for the modern weaponry and tactics of the Osean and Erusian forces.
Amidst the chaos, Prince Zorzal stood frozen, the reality of his soldiers being gunned down finally sinking in. His face twisted with rage and disbelief as he watched his men fall, but his body remained stiff, gripped by fear. He still held the chain attached to the pale woman, though his grip had loosened.
Zorzal's remaining knights scrambled for cover behind the massive stone pillars as the battle turned against them. Meanwhile, several Osean Marines began to leave the protective perimeter in pairs, rifles raised as they methodically advanced, sweeping around the pillars with military precision.
Their comrades kept their weapons trained forward, ensuring no escape for the knights hiding behind their cover.
"What are you doing?!" Zorzal roared, his voice laced with desperation as he tried to rally his faltering forces. "Attack the barbarians! Shields up and for-"
His command was abruptly cut short as a powerful fist collided with his face, the impact sending him stumbling. One of the GIGN operatives, moving with practiced stealth, had closed in on Zorzal. The strike was precise and brutal, causing the prince to momentarily drop the chain that bound the woman at his side.
It was the only window of opportunity the other GIGN operative needed. Moving swiftly, the second operative freed the woman from her chains, pulling her out of harm's way. Without hesitation, he tossed her onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry and sprinted back toward the safety of the Osean-Marines' perimeter, all while his partner kept Zorzal engaged.
"You will regret putting your hands on my divine body, barbarian!" Zorzal growled, his eyes burning with fury as he raised his fist, preparing to strike the GIGN operative down. But the operative was faster and more skilled. With a smooth, practiced motion, he delivered a sharp uppercut to Zorzal's jaw, the prince's head snapping back as he staggered.
Zorzal roared in rage, swinging wildly with his fists, but the GIGN operative ducked and dodged effortlessly, his movements fluid and precise. Each of Zorzal's clumsy blows missed, his frustration growing with every failed attempt. The GIGN operative countered with swift strikes, avoiding the prince's attacks with the grace and training of a seasoned fighter.
With a push-kick to Zorzal's chest, the prince staggered back. Despite beeing taller and having more muscle than the GIGN operative, he was no match against the martial arts training the latter had recieved. After the push-kick, the operative didn't wait a single second before jumping forward, giving the prince no minute of rest as he gave the prince a round-house-kick to the face, knocking him out cold.
The woman who had been freed, sat next to cossette crying as Shepherd looked at her wounds. Cossette hugged her in a noothing motion. Meanwhile Piña stood there, shocked to her core, holding her ears as her perfect plan of finally achieving peace crumbled in front of her with the worst outcome possible. Meanwhile her father, the Emperor sat there with the same amused expression as he had at the beginning of this whole ordeal. He now whitnessed first hand, the power of these other worlders.
Piña, however, stood motionless, shocked to her core. Her hands covered her ears, trying to block out the noise of the battle, but it did nothing to shield her from the devastation of her shattered dreams. Her perfect plan to finally achieve peace, to bring her Empire into a new era, had crumbled before her eyes. What she had hoped would be a delicate negotiation had descended into violence-the worst possible outcome.
And then there was her father, Emperor Molt Sol Augustus, sitting calmly on his throne with the same amused expression he had worn from the beginning of the ordeal. He made no move to stop the events, as though the chaos was merely another political game, an inevitable spectacle. Yet, despite his calm exterior, the Emperor had now witnessed firsthand the overwhelming power these otherworlders wielded.
The throne room was now a silent battlefield, the remnants of Zorzal's arrogance lying at the feet of those who came seeking peace but were met with violence. All eyes turned toward Molt, the Emperor who still had yet to decide the future of his Empire.
Hudson marched toward Zorzal, ignoring the pitiful sight of the remaining knights who were now cowering in fear as the Marines held them down with their rifles. The prince's once-arrogant forces were reduced to little more than frightened men, paralyzed by the overwhelming power of the coalition.
Reaching Zorzal, Hudson dismissed the GIGN operative with a slight push, taking control of the situation. He knelt, driving his knee into Zorzal's chest, causing the prince to groan in pain. Zorzal, still reeling from the brutal beating, barely had time to register what was happening before Hudson yanked his Pit Viper from its holster and pressed the cold barrel of the handgun firmly against the prince's forehead.
"Where is the rest of them?!" Hudson growled, his voice stripped of all formality, his tone thick with pure, unfiltered hatred.
Zorzal, dazed and numb from the punishment he had endured, blinked, his mind still struggling to catch up with the present reality. He didn't respond, his arrogance clouding his comprehension.
Hudson, his patience at its limit, leaned in closer, applying more pressure with his knee as the barrel pressed deeper against Zorzal's skin. "Where are the other hostages?!" Hudson repeated, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Zorzal's eyes, hazy with pain, began to clear as he finally understood the gravity of the situation. Fear flickered in his gaze, but he remained silent for a moment longer, his stubborn pride keeping him from yielding.
"Why do you care so much about these slaves?!" Zorzal cried out, his voice cracking with a mix of desperation and confusion.
He weakly attempted to shield his face with his hand, but Hudson effortlessly swatted it away, his eyes cold and unrelenting.
Hudson leaned in closer, his voice low and menacing. "I ain't asking a third time," he growled, his patience gone as he cocked the hammer of his Pit Viper, the sound of the click filling the air with finality. The cold metal pressed harder against Zorzal's forehead, leaving no room for doubt.
Zorzal's breath quickened, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. The pain and humiliation of his defeat were overshadowed by the very real threat of death staring him in the face. His bravado crumbled, replaced by a flicker of panic.
"Th-They're in my chamber!" Zorzal finally cried out, his voice breaking as he gave in to the mounting pressure. The words spilled from his mouth in a desperate plea for mercy.
Without hesitation, Hudson struck Zorzal over the head with the butt of his pistol, knocking him out cold. The prince crumpled to the floor, his unconscious body a stark reminder of the collapse of his arrogance and power.
Hudson didn't waste a second. He stormed over to where Piña and Molt sat, his movements quick and filled with purpose.
Piña, overwhelmed by the rapid escalation, was now on her knees, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she hyperventilated.
The reality of the situation had shattered her carefully constructed vision of diplomacy and peace, leaving her trembling in disbelief as the violence and betrayal unfolded before her.
Hudson, filled with righteous fury, yanked Piña up by the collar of her clothing, his actions rough and forceful. His pistol was aimed squarely at her head, the cold metal of the barrel pressing firmly against her skull.
His eyes burned with fury, his voice thick with rage as he growled, "You told us they were sold off."
Piña, shaking and terrified, could barely form words, her eyes wide with panic. "T-They were," she stammered, her voice breaking, tears welling in her eyes as the full weight of the situation crushed her spirit.
Hudson's anger reached its peak. "THEN WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" he roared, his voice booming throughout the chamber, filled with unrelenting wrath. He pointed fiercely at the Erusian woman, still terrified and crying, her body trembling as Cossette tried to comfort her.
"I… I don't know," Piña cried, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face. The weight of everything that had unfolded crushed her spirit, and she trembled as Hudson's fury bore down on her.
Hudson's patience had long since worn thin, but he needed answers. Leaning in, his voice sharp and unrelenting, he demanded, "Where is this fucker's chamber? Room, quarters, whatever the hell it is?!"
Piña, barely able to keep herself composed, sniffled and stammered, "It's… it's in the west wing… third floor… just past the grand corridor. But I swear… I didn't know… I didn't know what he was doing."
"No, no. You're going to show me," Hudson growled, his eyes locking onto Piña. He wasn't going to let her off that easily. She would face the consequences of her family's actions and lead him to the hostages herself.
Turning to the Marines, he barked his next orders with authority. "Ten of you stay here. The rest, on me. We'll come back once we've got the hostages."
The Marines snapped into action, ten of them securing the area and maintaining a protective perimeter around Cossette and the terrified Erusian woman. The others moved in line behind Hudson, their weapons at the ready, prepared for whatever resistance might come.
Hudson grabbed Piña's arm, pulling her forward, forcing her to lead the way. "Show me the way, now," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Trembling and still shaken from the ordeal, Piña stumbled ahead, her steps unsteady as she led the group through the grand corridors of the palace. The tension was thick, every soldier on edge as they prepared for what lay ahead in Zorzal's chambers.
The Marines, GIGN, and OIA agents moved swiftly through the palace corridors, their boots echoing against the marble floors with a sense of urgency. Their formations were tight, rifles raised and scanning every corner, ready to engage any threat that might emerge. Piña, still shaken, led them through the twisting hallways, her heart pounding as the reality of the situation weighed on her.
The palace staff—maids, guards, and servants—froze as the foreign soldiers rushed past, their eyes wide with fear. They had never seen such weapons, such precision, and such deadly focus from soldiers before. The guards, though armed with spears and swords, wisely stepped aside, intimidated by the sheer firepower of the otherworlders. Their hands trembled on their weapons, unsure whether to act or retreat.
Hudson and the soldiers did not fire but kept their weapons trained on anything that seemed like a potential threat, fingers resting on the triggers but never pulling. Their mission was clear—rescue the hostages—and any unnecessary bloodshed would only complicate things further.
Piña, still in a daze, stumbled occasionally as she hurried to guide them through the grand passages, her mind racing. The sheer weight of responsibility and the betrayal by her own family twisted inside her.
"We're almost there," Piña whispered hoarsely as they approached the large door leading to Zorzal's chambers. Hudson nodded, his eyes narrowing as they prepared to breach. This was it—the hostages were near, and they wouldn't leave without them.
"Open the doors!" Hudson barked, his voice sharp as they reached the imposing double doors of Zorzal's chamber.
Piña, her hands shaking, tried pulling, then pushing against the massive wooden doors, but they didn't budge. "It's closed," she admitted, her voice filled with shame.
Hudson muttered under his breath, "Not for long." He nodded to one of the OIA agents, who immediately ripped a brick of C-4 from the back panel of another agent's plate carrier. The agent quickly placed the explosive on the door, stepping back with the rest of the team.
"Everyone step back!" the agent called out, producing a clacker from one of his many pockets. The team moved back, ready for the blast.
"Breach, breach, breach!" he yelled before squeezing the clacker. A thunderous explosion rocked the hall, sending splinters of the delicately carved wooden door flying everywhere, blowing a massive hole through what was likely hundreds of years of tradition and craftsmanship.
"Aller, aller!" the lead GIGN operative shouted, charging through the smoldering wreckage with his MP-5 raised, the weapon set to full-auto. As they stormed the room, the operative wasted no time, ramming his fist into the face of a nearby guard, rendering him unconscious in an instant.
The rest of the team surged into the room, weapons raised, moving with lethal precision. The once-intimidating chamber was now theirs to control, and they were ready for whatever came next. Hostages and guards alike had no time to react as the coalition forces quickly secured the area, prepared for any resistance. The air was thick with tension, but the soldiers' resolve was unshaken—they were there to complete the mission.
The GIGN operatives and Marines surged into Zorzal's chamber, clearing the room with military precision. The massive space, once decorated in opulence, was now filled with the deafening silence of submission. Guards lay unconscious, quickly overpowered by the superior force of the coalition team. The only sound was the scuffle of boots on the finely polished stone floors as the soldiers spread out to secure the area.
Hudson entered last, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of the hostages Zorzal had mentioned. Tapestries and lavish decorations adorned the walls, but they were of little concern now. What mattered was finding the captives.
"Check everything," Hudson ordered, his voice sharp. "We're not leaving until we get them all."
One of the Marines, a young Private, swept his rifle from left to right, his eyes searching every nook and cranny of the large chamber. His boots thudded softly on the carpet as he moved deeper into the room.
Suddenly, his foot struck something odd—a hollow thud that didn't match the solid stone flooring beneath the rest of the chamber. The corporal froze, his rifle still raised, as he felt the floor beneath him shift slightly. The wood underneath the thick carpet groaned quietly under his weight.
"Uh, sir…" the Marine called out, glancing down at his boot. "There's something weird here."
Hudson, now on high alert, approached quickly. "What is it, Private?"
The Marine knelt down and pulled back the edge of the richly embroidered carpet, revealing a large section of wooden planks underneath. The wood was rough, clearly out of place in the otherwise luxurious chamber. He knocked on it with the butt of his rifle, and the hollow sound echoed up through the chamber.
"On me, get me some help," Mitchell barked, moving swiftly toward the now-revealed trapdoor. Without hesitation, he grabbed the edge of the carpet, yanking it completely away. Several Marines quickly moved to his side, assisting him in pulling the carpet free, exposing the entire hidden entrance beneath their feet.
As the Marines worked, others secured the perimeter, their rifles trained on the room's entrances and exits, maintaining a vigilant watch for any reinforcements or hidden threats. Their eyes darted back and forth, ensuring the team wasn't caught off guard.
"GIGN now it's your turn", Hudson called, pointing to the trap door as Mitchell and the Marines readied themselves to pull it open. The GIGN Captain nodded and began instructing his team.
The GIGN operatives began readied themselves, pulling flashbang grenades from their vests, fingers hooked on the pins as they prepared to breach the space below. One of the operatives crouched near the opening, peering down into the darkness with a tactical flashlight, trying to gauge what they were about to drop into.
"Alright… everyone ready?" Mitchell asked, glancing at the GIGN operatives, his voice steady but tense.
"Oui, let's do this," one of the Erusian operatives responded, his thick accent adding weight to the moment.
Mitchell gave a final nod. "Okay. Three, two… go, go, go!" On his signal, he and the Marines heaved the wooden trapdoor open, revealing the pitch-black space below.
The GIGN operatives moved quickly, tossing their flashbangs into the darkness without hesitation. For a brief second, silence hung heavy in the air. Then, in a split second, all hell broke loose.
Six concussive explosions rocked the room below, the force of the flashbangs sending shockwaves through the hidden chamber. The sound reverberated back up the stairwell, shaking the floor and causing dust and debris to fall from the ceiling.
The explosions were followed by screams—shrieks of terror and confusion, unmistakably women's voices. Their cries filled the space, filled with fear and disorientation as they struggled to comprehend what had just happened.
"Aller, aller, aller, aller!" the GIGN Captain yelled as the trapdoor was fully opened. The six operatives stormed down into the dark chamber, the lights attached to their MP-5s slicing through the shadows, giving them the visibility they needed.
"Au sol! Au sol, tout de suite!" they shouted in unison, issuing the command to lay down on the ground to everyone in the room. The sharp tone of their voices echoed throughout the underground chamber, spoken in Erusian, demanding compliance.
But as the operatives spread out, what awaited them was a scene of pure horror and disgust. The flickering lights revealed a space that was not only dark but utterly filthy. Cells lined the walls, filled with the stench of human suffering, so intense it seeped through the operatives' black balaclavas, making their faces scrunch with revulsion.
Flashlights illuminated the inside of the decrepit cells, and the horror only deepened. Women—of all kinds, sizes, and ages—cowered in the corners of their cages, eyes wide with terror, their bodies weakened by neglect. Their clothes were tattered, and their faces were gaunt, hollowed out from starvation and abuse. The combination of the sight and the smell was overwhelming, the air thick with the stench of filth and misery.
The operatives exchanged grim looks but kept their weapons raised, their hearts heavy. They had trained for violence and combat, but nothing could have prepared them for the depravity they were now witnessing.
"Y a-t-il des Erusiens ici ? Des Oseans ?" the GIGN operatives called out, their tone now slightly softer, trying to calm the terrified captives.
Soft whimpers echoed from a cell deeper into the room, drawing their attention. The operatives cautiously moved toward the source of the sound, their flashlights cutting through the thick shadows. As they approached, they felt their boots splash into some kind of puddle. In the dim light, it was impossible to immediately tell what the liquid was, but the combination of the stench and the ominous surroundings made it clear that whatever it was, it wasn't good.
Their expressions hardened as they pushed through their disgust, moving forward with determination to uncover the horrors that awaited them.
"Erusia?" A weak voice called from their side. One of the operatives, closest to the sound, turned and aimed his MP-5, the attached light piercing the shadows of the cell. His breath caught in his throat, shocked at the sight before him.
The other operatives, sensing the shift in tone, halted their task of securing the darkened corners and corridors. The grim silence was shattered by the horrified voice of the GIGN operative who had stopped.
"Capitaine… Des enfants," he choked out, his voice trembling as he took in the harrowing scene of a young girl, no more than a child, covered in every possible human fluid and filth, clutching the lifeless body of her mother.
The GIGN captain moved in closer, his eyes locking onto the heartbreaking sight. "Mon dieu…" he muttered under his breath, the gravity of the situation sinking in as he stood before the cell. This wasn't just a rescue mission anymore—it was a confrontation with pure, unimaginable cruelty.
"Mitchell, you can come in now. It is secure," the captain said into his radio, his heavy accent barely concealing the emotional strain in his voice.
Shortly after, the rest of the team entered the chamber. The stench hit them immediately, and their reactions were visceral. Some began coughing violently as the putrid air filled their lungs, others couldn't contain themselves and puked, their stomachs turning from the overwhelming odor. Those who managed to hold back stood frozen, their faces etched with horror at the sight before them.
Mitchell walked toward the group of GIGN operatives, his eyes scanning the chamber. As he reached the cell, his heart sank immediately, a lump forming in his throat as he laid eyes on the scene inside. "God almighty," he muttered, his voice barely audible.
The dungeon filled with the sound of heavy coughing as Henry approached, his face scrunched in disgust. "Bloody fuckin' 'ell," he managed between coughs, the smell overpowering. "What bloody died here to give off such an ungodly smell?" he asked, unaware of what lay in the cell.
Mitchell didn't respond immediately. Instead, he nudged Henry with his elbow, his face grim as he gestured toward the young girl clutching her mother's body.
Henry's bravado crumbled instantly as his eyes fell on the child. His face went pale, and he swallowed hard, his voice faltering as the weight of the scene sank in. No words were spoken, but the reality of the situation was more than clear. What they had found was a true testament to the depravity and cruelty that they had come to fight.
"What the…" Henry began, but his sentence was abruptly cut short as his stomach turned. He doubled over, vomiting to the side, unable to hold it in any longer.
Mitchell's face hardened, forcing himself to stay focused on the mission. "Let's go, free them—all of them," he ordered, his voice resolute despite the horrific scene before them.
Without wasting any time, Mitchell grabbed a halligan tool from one of the GIGN operatives and slammed it into the cell door's lock. With a few solid strikes, the metal groaned before finally giving way, allowing him to crack open the door. The others moved swiftly into action, following his lead. Marines without specialized breaching tools used their shotguns to blast the locks off the cell doors, while others simply kicked them in with sheer force.
As the cells opened one by one, the reality of what lay inside became undeniable—women of all ages, starved, filthy, and terrified. They huddled in corners, their eyes wide with fear and disbelief, some too weak to even stand.
Sabrina, moving in just behind Mitchell, walked up to the young girl still clutching the body of her mother. Kneeling down, she gently checked the mother's pulse, her fingers resting against the cold skin. Her expression darkened, and after a moment of silence, she looked back at Mitchell and shook her head, a silent confirmation of the grim reality.
Mitchell's heart sank. He had hoped, if only for a fleeting second, that there might be something left to save. But the truth was cruel and final. He swallowed hard, his face a mix of sorrow and determination as he turned his focus to the girl.
Sabrina, keeping her voice soft, tried to coax the girl away from the lifeless body of her mother. "It's okay… we're here to help," she whispered, though the girl remained motionless, her small hands still gripping her mother, too broken by the trauma to let go.
The room was filled with a chaotic blend of activity—doors being breached, prisoners being freed, and the overwhelming stench of death and suffering hanging heavily in the air. The soldiers, though visibly shaken, remained resolute in their mission. They moved with grim determination, working methodically to free the living and tend to the dead.
Body bags were brought in, and one by one, they began the heartbreaking task of carrying the deceased out of the dungeon. The somber procession made its way upstairs, where the bodies were gently laid on the cold stone floor of the upper chambers. The bags varied in size, some larger than others, a chilling reminder of the horrors these women and girls had endured. Every life lost weighed heavily on the soldiers, but there was no time for hesitation—there were still lives to save.
Suddenly, the Marines began carrying out other hostages from the deeper cells, revealing more of the hidden horrors of Zorzal's cruelty. These weren't just the women of this world—they were Demi-humans and monster girls, creatures from the strange lands beyond the Gate. Many of them had been badly mistreated, their unique forms scarred by brutality. The soldiers exchanged glances of shock and disbelief, having never seen such beings up close.
Some had animalistic features—beastmen with ears, tails, and fur-covered bodies. Others had reptilian scales, wings, or even aquatic features, like fins or gills. Despite their terrifying appearance, it was clear that they, too, were victims of unimaginable suffering.
The GIGN operatives and Marines handled them with care, recognizing the fragile state they were in, just like the other prisoners. The trauma etched into their eyes was unmistakable, the fear of what they had endured clear in every expression.
Sabrina swallowed the lump in her throat, her voice soft and soothing as she gently placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Sweetheart, it's okay… she's at peace now," she whispered, though the words felt hollow in the face of such pain. The girl continued to cling to her mother's body, her small hands gripping the tattered fabric, unwilling to accept the harsh truth.
Sabrina's heart ached as she slowly reached out, lifting the girl's hand away from her mother's lifeless form. "Come with me, you're safe now," she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly.
The girl's tears began to flow as the realization sank in. Her fragile body, trembling with shock and grief, finally let go. With great care, Sabrina pulled the girl into her arms, holding her tightly as the girl's sobs broke through the quiet of the room.
Mitchell, who had been watching from a few feet away, turned his eyes toward the scene, his expression grim. He had seen the worst of war, but there was something about this that cut deeper than any battlefield.
"We're getting her out of here," Sabrina said firmly, her arms wrapped protectively around the child. She rose slowly, carrying the girl away from the scene, her footsteps echoing in the dimly lit chamber.
Piña, who had been frozen in shock until now, watched with growing terror and disgust as the full extent of her brother's horrific actions became clear. The Marines, carrying body bags past her, cast her looks of disgust—some even glaring at her with thinly veiled hatred. Though the tension was palpable, to Mitchell's relief, it remained just that: looks. No one acted on their anger, and the situation remained under control.
As Sabrina moved away with the child in her arms, Hudson stepped into the cell, his expression hardening as he flicked on his flashlight. He swept the beam across the dark corners of the room, scanning for any signs of other survivors. His mind was focused on one critical task—finding the missing Yuktobanian agent, Smirnova, who had yet to be located.
"Smirnova?!" Hudson called out, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. He paused, waiting for any response, but the room remained eerily quiet, the only sounds being the faint rustling of the Marines and operatives working around him.
He moved further into the cell, his flashlight illuminating the filth and desperation that surrounded him. The walls seemed to close in, their cold stone surfaces still holding the weight of the suffering endured within them. Hudson's frustration grew as he pushed deeper into the space, calling out again, louder this time.
"Smirnova?!"
Still, no answer came. The silence was deafening, each second ticking by increasing his anxiety. He knew time was running out, and if they didn't find her soon, the chances of her survival diminished with each moment that passed.
Hudson's flashlight flickered over a section of the floor that appeared disturbed. His pulse quickened as he walked up to the spot, shining the beam more closely on the area. The light revealed a heartbreaking sight—a bunny girl, her once pristine white fur now matted and stained with the filth and grime that covered the ground. She lay motionless, her small body twisted unnaturally.
Hudson crouched down, the weight of the scene sinking in as he carefully examined her. Her face, streaked with dirt, bore a tragic stillness that told him everything he needed to know. She had suffered like the others—trapped in this hellish place with no escape.
"I need help down here!" Hudson yelled, his voice echoing through the chamber. Within moments, several Marines stormed down into the cell, their boots pounding against the stone floor. Most of the hostages had already been freed, leaving only this bunny girl and Smirnova unaccounted for. But of the Yuktobanian agent, there was still no trace.
As Hudson turned back to the bunny girl, he noticed a faint stir in her movement. Weakly, she tugged at his sleeve, her frail hand barely gripping the fabric. Hudson crouched down, leaning in close as she struggled to speak.
"K… Katarina…" she whispered, her voice weak and broken. "Sh… she d… didn't m… make it." The words came out in spurts, as if every breath was a battle. Before she could say more, she was wracked by a fit of coughing, her body trembling from the effort.
Hudson's heart sank as he realized what she was saying. Katarina Smirnova, the Yuktobanian agent, hadn't survived. He gritted his teeth, a wave of frustration and sadness washing over him. The mission had taken a dark turn, and the loss of a fellow agent weighed heavily on him.
"Easy, easy," Hudson said softly, placing a reassuring hand on the bunny girl's shoulder. "You're safe now. We'll get you out of here."
He turned to the Marines who had arrived. "Get her some medical attention. We're not losing anyone else," he ordered, his voice resolute despite the growing weight of loss.
As the Marines carefully lifted the bunny girl, Hudson stood, his jaw clenched tightly. The reality had sunk in—the Yuktobanian agent was gone, but the mission wasn't over. There were still lives to save and a reckoning to be had.
"Mission Command, this is Basilisk 0-1. We need the Chinooks here. We've got too many hostages; they'll never fit into the trucks and JLTVs. Oh, and… send medics," Mitchell called out over the radio.
"Roger, Basilisk. The 160th SOAR guys are already on their way," McKinsey's voice crackled back.
Mitchell nodded to himself, satisfied with the response, then turned toward Hudson. "Agent! Air transport is on its way!" he shouted over the cries and whimpers of the rescued hostages, the scene a chaotic blend of relief and trauma.
Hudson glanced around the room, his expression dark. "Sick bastard…" he muttered under his breath, taking in the horror Zorzal had wrought. He turned toward Mitchell, giving a quick thumbs-up in acknowledgment before making his way over to the captain.
"Give me one of your Marines. I'll go get the others," Hudson said, gesturing toward Sabrina.
Mitchell, confused, frowned. "Why? I can just call them via radio."
Hudson's face hardened. "I still have a word or two to talk with that emperor asshole. And the prince." His tone darkened, the simmering anger clear in every syllable.
Mitchell immediately sensed Hudson's intent, raising a hand in warning. "Hudson, no! You're not killing either of them. An international—or interplanetary, whatever the hell it is at this point—incident is the last thing we need right now!" he warned, his voice firm.
Hudson, however, was already dismissing Mitchell's caution. "I'm just going to talk," he replied coldly, racking his pistol with a sense of finality. "Vostok, on me!" he ordered, pushing through the shattered remnants of the door.
Sabrina, ever loyal, immediately fell into step behind him, silently walking in his wake. Mitchell watched them go, worry etched into his features, knowing full well that Hudson's idea of "talking" rarely meant diplomacy.
Inside the throne room, Cossette continued to hold the terrified Erusian woman, her soft voice murmuring soothing words as she gently comforted her. The chaos of the situation had not diminished her compassion. Nearby, Shepherd moved with quiet determination, scanning the room for anyone who might need medical attention. She didn't discriminate; imperial knights, civilians, or anyone in between—if someone was in need, she was there to help.
However, the grim reality of the scene hung heavily in the air. Most of the imperial knights who had fallen were beyond saving, their bodies riddled with gunfire. The devastation was so severe that some of them, Shepherd thought darkly, were in such a state that if reincarnation existed, they'd likely come back as little more than a grim shadow of their former selves.
Still, Shepherd pressed on, tending to those who were still breathing, ignoring the sides drawn by the conflict. Her only focus was on the living and the wounded, working methodically amid the wreckage.
Cossette glanced up from the woman she was comforting, her eyes locking with Shepherd's for a brief moment. They shared an unspoken understanding—this was about saving lives, no matter whose they were. But even as they worked, the tension in the throne room continued to build, the weight of what had happened pressing down on everyone present.
The Marines, though focused on maintaining their positions, occasionally cast Shepherd odd looks as she moved between the wounded. Her choice to help even the imperial knights, some of whom had just been fighting against them, didn't sit well with all of them. But none of them said a word.
She was one of them—a Marine, and more importantly, the daughter of General Shepherd. Her name alone commanded respect, and no one had the nerve to challenge her, even if they didn't agree with her actions. There was an unspoken rule among them: Shepherd was untouchable, and even if her methods were different, they couldn't argue with her commitment to saving lives.
Still, the tension was palpable. They watched in silence as she knelt beside fallen knights and civilians alike, doing what she could to offer aid.
Zorzal, still pinned down by the Marines, winced as some of his maids attempted to tend to his wounds, though their efforts were largely in vain. His pride seemed as bruised as his body. Meanwhile, Emperor Molt remained seated on his throne, the same bored expression etched onto his face as if none of the chaos unfolding around him was of any real consequence. Marines stood guard in front of him, their presence a clear reminder that his power meant little at this moment.
Suddenly, all eyes snapped to the grand doors as they burst open again. Hudson and Sabrina stormed in with purpose, moving as though they owned the room. Their entrance was commanding, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a blade.
"Alright, everyone, pack your shit. We're out of here!" Hudson barked, his voice loud and authoritative, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. The shock of his entrance was palpable, but it was clear he was in no mood for any more games.
The tension in the room spiked as the Marines shifted slightly, awaiting further orders. Even the maids tending to Zorzal froze, unsure of what to do next.
Hudson's gaze locked onto Emperor Molt, who still wore a look of amusement, as though the unfolding events were merely a game to him. Hudson's tone darkened, his grip on his Pit Viper tightening as he took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"And Emperor," Hudson began, his voice carrying a dangerous edge, "do you want a war? Because what we found in that sick bastard's room…" he trailed off, his eyes flickering toward Zorzal, who visibly stiffened at the mention, "is enough evidence to eradicate this place from the face of the fucking earth."
As Hudson cocked the hammer of his pistol, the metallic sound sliced through the tension in the room.
Molt, intrigued rather than intimidated, leaned back slightly, the amusement in his eyes growing. "What if I do want a war?" he asked with a smirk, his words taunting and calculated.
Hudson's response came without hesitation, his voice icy and filled with the kind of certainty that sent a chill down the spine of everyone present—even Zorzal.
"Then you will get one," Hudson said, his words a promise, not a threat. The weight of his tone left no doubt about what he meant. He wasn't bluffing, and Molt, for all his bravado, sensed the gravity of Hudson's words.
For the first time, the lightness in Molt's expression dimmed, even if only slightly, as he realized the forces he was toying with were far beyond anything he had anticipated. Hudson turned on his heels, the others following closely, the Erusian woman hugging close to Cossette as if her life depends on it.
Meanhwile the Chinooks had arrived and flew extraction missions out of Zorzal's chambers. His balcony wasn't enough to land the big Helicopter, but it was enough to perform what the Pilots refer to as a pinnacle landing. In this maneuver, the aircraft hovers near a ledge or uneven terrain, allowing personnel or cargo to be loaded or unloaded while only part of the helicopter touches the ground, or sometimes without touching the ground at all.
First, all the wounded hostages where loaded up into the first Chinook, the second one was stuffed with the dead bodies of both human and Demi-Human slaves and the last one had all the others that where down there. The Marines would stay back so they could drive their vehicles back to base.
-Operation White Dove-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Skies over Area-3
Captain Nickolas Preston "Trigger"
1 hour earlier
"I got eyes on the UAV," Trigger called over his radio as the unmanned aircraft approached from the side. Meanwhile, the remaining members of Aether Squadron were engaged in a fierce effort, trying to distract the massive lizard that loomed ahead, buying their leader precious time to arm himself with the Railgun.
"Alright, Trigger," McOnnie's voice crackled through the comms, steady but urgent. "It's just like aerial refueling. Stay still and maintain your speed, the UAV does the rest."
Trigger's eyes remained focused, his hands steady on the controls. The UAV moved into position, inching closer to Trigger's jet, carrying the powerful railgun they needed to take down the beast. The tension was palpable, the squadron's distraction keeping the lizard from noticing what was about to happen.
"Copy that," Trigger responded, keeping his flight steady as the UAV prepared to arm him mid-air. The maneuver was delicate, but if anyone could pull it off, it was him.
Suddenly, a warning flashed across Trigger's HUD, indicating that the UAV was attempting to link itself to his aircraft's system.
"Press accept," McOnnie instructed, her voice calm but focused.
With a click, Trigger followed the command, and almost immediately, the feeling of control over his jet vanished. His hands tensed on the controls as he realized the UAV had taken over, guiding the plane into position. Below him, the UAV moved with precision, its rail cannon on top ready to be mounted and fired.
The drone maneuvered directly beneath Trigger's craft, its mechanical clips opening, poised to grasp the corresponding latches on his plane. The HUD displayed a live feed from the UAV's camera, showing the railgun as it slowly closed the gap between itself and the underside of Trigger's jet.
Trigger's heartbeat quickened. The worst part wasn't the complexity of the operation—it was the unsettling reality that he now had no control over his aircraft. He could only watch as the UAV, guided by its autonomous system, brought the railgun closer and closer. Each second felt like an eternity.
"Steady… it's almost in place," McOnnie reassured him through the comms, but the helplessness of the situation weighed heavily on him. Everything depended on the system working flawlessly, and there was no room for error.
The plane suddenly shuddered violently, causing Trigger to grip the controls instinctively. The live feed from the UAV cut out abruptly, and a cascade of warning lights lit up his cockpit, alarms blaring in unison.
"Shit, shit, shit," Trigger muttered through gritted teeth, his hands moving swiftly across the console in a futile attempt to regain control. His plane wasn't responding, and for a split second, it felt like everything was spiraling out of control.
Then, McOnnie's calm voice broke through the chaos. "Clear detachment. Railgun is mounted."
Almost immediately, the warnings and alarms vanished from his HUD, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. Trigger exhaled sharply, relief flooding through him as his controls returned to normal. The heavy presence of the railgun mounted underneath was now unmistakable, but everything seemed stable.
"You're all set," McOnnie continued, her tone steady, as though the tension of the moment hadn't phased her. "Railgun's armed and ready. Now, let's get that shot lined up."
Trigger's heart was still pounding, but he nodded to himself, refocusing. The next move was his—and the massive lizard below wouldn't know what hit it.
Trigger swept the wings back, feeling the sudden shift in aerodynamics, and pulled the flight stick sharply to the side. His jet rolled onto its back, the sky flipping beneath him, and he plunged into a steep dive. The engines screamed as he dove toward the ground at neck-breaking speeds, the rush of air and adrenaline flooding his senses.
Below him, the massive dragon had begun spitting fire from its gaping maw, great streams of flames igniting the air around it. Trigger's AIM-9X missiles immediately started reacting, their seeker heads locking onto the intense heat being generated as the dragon built up gas in its throat. The dragon's very breath was enough to trigger the missile's heat-seeking system, and Trigger knew he could turn that to his full advantage.
He timed it perfectly. The moment the dragon began to build up gas for its next attack, Trigger's finger hovered over the trigger. Now.
"Fox-2, Fox-2!" he called out over the radio, his voice clear and steady despite the chaos below. His squadmates, understanding the danger of interfering with the missile's sensitive seeker, quickly cleared the area, giving Trigger the space he needed.
The missile bay opened with a mechanical whine, the two hatches parting like jaws. The Sidewinder missile, eager to strike, growled through the targeting system, its seeker head locked onto the growing heat signature of the dragon's gas buildup. With a sudden burst, the rail holding the missile extended, launching the AIM-9X forward with terrifying speed.
The missile screamed through the air, the hot, swirling vortex of flames guiding it straight toward the dragon's gaping mouth. Trigger could hear the missile's distinct growl in his cockpit as it honed in on the fire-breathing beast below, ready to deliver its deadly payload.
With a devistating explosion the Missile exploded inside the mouth of the Dragon, rendering it dazed for a short time. Enough to give Trigger time to pull the flightstick back again, leveling the plane and giving himself some distance.
"Hit its eye, Trigger," McOnnie's calm voice cut through the comms, repeating the critical instruction with precision.
"Dear lord, this will be one hell of a shot," Jet muttered through the radio, the tension evident in his voice as Trigger banked his fighter hard, pulling up from the dive and leveling it out. The nose of his jet pointed directly at the massive dragon, now looming before him.
Trigger's HUD flickered to life as the targeting system aligned, and the railgun mounted beneath the aircraft came to life.
Sparks of electricity crackled and danced along the barrel, charging up the powerful weapon. The hum of energy vibrated through the cockpit as the railgun primed itself, ready to unleash its devastating payload.
"Come on, baby... be good now," Trigger growled to himself, his focus narrowing as the targeting reticle hovered over the dragon's massive right eye. The beast twisted in the air, its scales glistening with the residual heat from the earlier missile attack, but Trigger had one clear target-the vulnerable eye.
His finger tightened on the trigger, the dot perfectly aligned. This wasn't just any shot; this was the one that could turn the tide of the battle. The railgun was ready to fire, its high-energy projectile waiting for the command.
With bated breath, Trigger aimed for the dragon's eye, the air thick with anticipation and the weight of the moment pressing down. He exhaled one last time, steadying his nerves, and pulled the trigger. The recoil was immense, causing the plane to surge and shudder wildly as the force rippled through it. It felt as though the very sky had been torn apart, sparks of electricity flashing in and out of existence, dancing in the air as the railgun discharged its massive round.
The force of the railgun's recoil had not only sent Trigger's plane surging, but it had also torn the gun clean off the aircraft's underbelly. The once mighty weapon now tumbled helplessly through the air, spinning downward in a chaotic free fall, sparks trailing behind it as it descended toward the ground far below.
"Trigger, the gun's gone!" Jet called out in alarm over the comms, noticing the debris spiraling through the sky.
Trigger grimaced, glancing at the warning lights flashing across his HUD. The damage to the plane was significant, but the aircraft was still flying, albeit shakily. The absence of the railgun left a gaping hole where it had once been mounted, exposing critical parts of the jet's structure.
"I see it, Jet! I've lost the railgun, but we've still got this thing to finish!" Trigger barked back, his mind racing for the next course of action.
The tungsten round screamed through the atmosphere, an unstoppable force that ripped through the dragon's eye socket with devastating precision. The impact was horrifying—one whole side of the dragon's head was blown apart, exposing the inner workings of the beast's skull, blood and flesh trailing in the wake of the destruction.
But, to the team's shock, the dragon still lived. Its roars echoed through the sky, louder and more furious than ever. Its body, though gravely wounded, thrashed violently in the air. Blood poured from its mutilated face, but it was still kicking, the sheer resilience of the beast defying belief.
"Damn it! It's still moving!" Stiff's voice came through the comms, filled with disbelief.
Trigger's eyes stayed locked on the dragon, sweat beading on his forehead. "McOnnie, it's not down yet!" he called, the urgency returning to his voice. "And the Railgun had teared itself off my plane!", he added with a slight hint of panic. The damage was severe, but it wasn't over—the beast was enraged, and their fight was far from finished.
"I... I don't know!", McOnnie admitted, shame seithing through her words.
Trigger sighed and turned his attention back to the task at hand. The brain of the Dragon was exposed, but if it was armored like the scales then the Missiles and normal Guns won't do much and Skid wasn't able to pull of the shot, as she said herself.
"What now?!" Cole's voice crackled over the comms, filled with fear and uncertainty as the situation spiraled out of control.
"We have to fall back!" Crash called, his tone urgent, clearly rattled by the sight of the dragon still flying, even after the devastating hit.
"No! There's still a chance!" Trigger snapped back, his determination cutting through the tension. He knew the odds were stacked against them, but his instincts told him they weren't done yet.
"But it's suicide!" Jet interjected, his voice sharp with disbelief. The dragon's resilience, combined with the loss of the railgun and the damage to Trigger's aircraft, made the situation feel dire.
Trigger's heart pounded in his chest as he glanced at the damaged dragon below. Bloodied and enraged, it was still a threat, but it was weakened. His mind raced, calculating the next move. He had led Aether Squadron through impossible missions before, and he wasn't about to let them back down now.
"You guys can go. I'll finish this. I'll be right on your six," Trigger's voice crackled through the comms, calm and steady, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable. Flying in tight formation beside Crash's Nosferatu, he could feel the tension hanging in the air like a thick fog. His mind raced, but his decision was made—he wasn't turning back.
The silence that followed was broken only by the distant roar of the dragon's ragged breaths below, its massive form still battling despite the gaping wound in its head. Trigger could see the destruction he'd caused, but it wasn't enough. Not yet.
"Are you insane?!" Skid's voice cut through the comms like a sharp blade, slicing through the tension. Her disbelief was palpable, and Trigger could almost picture her gripping the controls of her fighter in frustration.
Trigger swallowed hard, forcing a light chuckle into his response. "Probably… yeah. Yes, I definitely am."
There was a moment of silence, then Stiff chimed in, his voice unexpectedly warm, breaking the emotional weight with a chuckle. "You're something else, Three Strikes." His words carried a strange mixture of respect and camaraderie, acknowledging the insanity of what Trigger was about to do.
Trigger glanced at his HUD, watching as the squadron members slowly peeled away, one by one. They were leaving him—just as he'd asked—but not without hesitation. Each pilot trusted him, but the weight of that trust felt heavier now. They knew what he was planning, but none of them could stop him.
"Alright. All fighters on me," Jet ordered, his voice steady, yet the strain of the moment still clung to every word. As Aether-2, the command was his to give, and despite the disbelief in his tone, he followed Trigger's call. The formation began to break apart, the sleek fighters peeling off, climbing into the sky. They were retreating to a safer distance, but none of them liked the idea of leaving Trigger behind.
The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the battlefield below, where the dragon still writhed, half-blinded and bloodied but very much alive. Its massive wings thrashed violently in the sky, the roars of pain and anger echoing like thunder.
Trigger took a deep breath, his hand steady on the stick, but his heart pounded against his ribs like a drum. He watched his comrades fly off, leaving him alone with the beast. His plane hummed in the twilight, the rhythmic thrum of the engines vibrating through his bones.
"Trigger, don't do this!" Skid's voice came through again, more pleading this time. "It's suicide! We'll regroup and figure something out—don't play the hero!"
But Trigger's eyes stayed locked on the dragon, its body illuminated by the fading light, every beat of its wings a reminder of the sheer destruction it could bring. He knew what he had to do, and there was no turning back now.
"I'm not playing the hero, Skid," he said softly, his voice almost too calm for the situation. "I'm just making sure this thing doesn't come after you guys. After all, this was my job in the 444."
There was a long pause on the comms. They all knew what that meant. It wasn't about heroism—it was about responsibility. The responsibility of being Three Strikes, the leader, the one who could always pull off the impossible.
"Goddamn it, Trigger," Crash muttered, his frustration barely masked, but he didn't argue. He knew, just like the others, that Trigger had already made up his mind.
The dragon below let out a guttural roar, and Trigger's HUD flickered with warning lights. It was now or never.
"Stay safe up there," Jet said, his voice softer, almost resigned. He was no longer giving orders—just hoping that his friend would somehow make it out alive. "We'll see you on the other side."
Trigger smirked, a small, bitter smile as he watched the last of the squadron disappear from view. His cockpit was quiet now, the distant roar of the dragon the only sound that filled the air. He looked down at the massive creature, its head half torn open, yet still fighting.
"Alright, you ugly bastard," Trigger muttered to himself, his knuckles tightening on the stick. "Let's finish this."
With a sharp yank on the controls, he dove toward the dragon, the wind howling around him. The ground rushed up to meet him as the beast reared back, flames flickering in its throat, its one good eye glaring up at him.
For a brief moment, Trigger thought of his squadron, flying somewhere behind him, trusting that he'd follow them. They didn't see the last glance he gave them, the silent farewell hidden behind his visor. They believed in him. But this was his fight now.
His plane roared as it screamed toward the dragon, the target lock flashing on his HUD. The beast opened its mouth, preparing for one last attack, but Trigger was faster. His hand hovered over the trigger.
"See you on the other side, guys," Trigger whispered, exhaling slowly. Then, with a firm squeeze of the trigger, he let the AIM-9X missile loose. It streaked through the air like an arrow of light, aimed directly at the dragon's mangled face. But the beast, learning from its earlier wounds, twisted its head at the last second. The missile exploded against the still-intact side of its skull, sending chunks of scales flying, but doing less damage than Trigger had hoped.
"Smart girl," Trigger muttered under his breath, frustration biting at his calm. He roared past the dragon, his jet shaking from the turbulent air as he sped by.
The dragon snarled in response, its wings beating powerfully, sending a gust of hot wind rippling through the sky. Its massive form twisted in the air, trying to turn and keep pace with Trigger's nimble jet. Even in its wounded state, the creature was fast—too fast.
Trigger gritted his teeth, pushing his craft harder as he gained altitude, climbing into the sky with the beast on his tail. The flames billowing from its throat flickered in the corners of his HUD. The dragon wasn't backing down, and Trigger knew he had to think fast.
"Come on, come on, keep following me," Trigger muttered, his eyes darting to his gauges as he pushed the throttle to its limit. The jet screeched in protest, climbing higher and higher into the sky.
The dragon, undeterred by the altitude, pursued relentlessly, its one good eye locked onto Trigger's jet like a predator locked onto prey. Each beat of its wings brought it closer, its fury pushing it through the pain of its grievous wounds.
"Gotta outsmart this thing," Trigger murmured, the battlefield playing out in his mind. He could hear his squadmates' voices in the back of his mind, but they were already far away now, leaving him alone in this deadly dance with the dragon.
Trigger suddenly dove, throwing his plane into a steep descent. The jet groaned under the pressure, but Trigger kept his grip steady. The dragon followed, letting out an ear-splitting roar, its massive jaws opening wide as if it was about to unleash a stream of flames.
"Not yet, not yet…" Trigger whispered, eyes locked onto his HUD. The dragon was closing in, and it was almost in range. His heart pounded in his chest as he pulled up at the last possible second, skimming just above the ground.
The dragon, focused entirely on catching its prey, hurtled downward with all its weight, but it was too late to pull up. The massive beast crashed into the ground, the impact shaking the earth. Trigger banked hard, coming around to see the dust cloud rising from the crash site.
But the dragon wasn't finished. Even as it lay sprawled across the ground, its body battered, it snarled and struggled to rise. Its wings, tattered and torn, flapped weakly as it pushed itself up on trembling legs. The fight wasn't over.
"Damn, this thing's tough," Trigger muttered, circling back with a sharp bank. His mind raced as he scanned his remaining options. The railgun was gone, and his missiles along with it. As the railgun was ripped away, it ripped the weapons bay on the XF/A-22s belly open and dropped the missiles. The jet's fuel gauge was dropping fast, and the only two choices left were grim: attempt a gun kill with his Gatling cannon, or—Trigger glanced at the massive, dazed dragon below—take the unthinkable route and kamikaze straight into the beast's head.
The thought hit him hard, and for a moment, it lingered in the back of his mind. A gut decision. He had led Aether Squadron through countless impossible missions, but this… this was different. The dragon was still barely moving, its chest rising and falling, half-dead yet defiant. Its wings, torn and battered, twitched as it lay there, dazed from its crash to the ground. But Trigger knew it wasn't over yet. It was never over until it was.
The beast's eye, half-gone from the earlier strike, glared up at him as if daring him to finish it.
"I could end this now…" Trigger whispered to himself. He imagined slamming his jet into the dragon, nose-first, cutting through its skull in one final act. He felt the weight of the moment press against him, the idea crawling into his thoughts. It would be quick—over in an instant.
But as Cossette, Longcaster, Count, Strider, and the rest of Aether Squadron flashed through his mind, Trigger's grip tightened on the stick. They trusted him.
They needed him to come back. And he had promised them, hadn't he?
Trigger took one last, deep breath, his pulse pounding as he yanked the fighter into a steep climb. The sky stretched out before him, a brief moment of calm in the chaos.
Then, with a sharp pull, he sent the jet into a steep dive, plummeting toward the dragon below.
"This is for all the souls back at Fort Harling... for all the souls in Italica. DIE, YOU BASTARD!" Trigger roared, his voice filled with a burning, unrelenting fury.
The Gatling gun thundered to life, spitting out 20mm rounds with a relentless ferocity.
The rounds tore through the air, slamming into the dragon's head with a deafening impact. Its massive form writhed beneath the onslaught, but it was too late.
The plane, now screaming through the air, crashed straight into the dragon's skull.
In an instant, the jet's fuel tanks ignited, setting off a massive explosion. The force of the blast ripped through the beast's head, sending blood, bone, and brain matter flying in every direction.
The dragon's final roar was silenced, its enormous body convulsing one last time before collapsing into a lifeless heap on the ground. The explosion lit up the battlefield, casting long shadows across the land as the beast's head was obliterated in a violent, fiery end.
Trigger's final act had sealed the dragon's fate, and as the flames burned out, the battlefield fell into a deep, eerie silence. The dragon, the relentless force of destruction, was no more.
A/N:
10K words... holy moly... and what about Trigger?! What happened? He dead? He ain't? Is the story now over?! All this you'll get in the next chapter hehe
Reviews:
Guest- I guess I'm Author Person now lmao. Yes I am aware but I'm not going to sacrifice that last bit of realism I got in my story to give them planes infinite amounts of Missiles. As of the more battleharden part, yes, yes they are and it will show.
Guest, Some dude- I don't feel offended by the amateurish comment, I know how I've been and I am aware of how I am. I'm glad you're enjoing it friend!
Shashenka- But of course my friend!