-All-Out War-

Falmart Calendar, 1291

Fort Harling


The FAEB detonated with a blinding flash, instantly transforming the battlefield into an inferno.

The explosion grew into a towering hund-red-meter-tall fireball, its heat and force consuming everything in its path.

The advancing US forces near the blast radius stood no chance. ICVs, IFVs, and even tanks were caught in the devastating explosion, their armor no match for the immense overpressure and heat unleashed by the blast. The vehicles were ripped apart, their steel hulls twisted and melted, as if they were nothing more than tin cans.

The crews inside were hit with an unimaginable wave of fire, the temperature so intense that it burned straight through the metal, incinerating everything inside. The soldiers and tank crews were engulfed in the flames, their bodies reduced to little more than charred bones as the fireball expanded, obliterating everything within its lethal radius.

Mitchell and his men, sheltered just inside Fort Harling's walls, felt the heat radiating even from a distance. The sight was horrifying—a wall of fire had engulfed the battlefield outside the main gate, turning what had been an organized attack into nothing more than scorched earth and burning wreckage.

"Holy shit..." one of the Marines muttered, his voice shaking as they all stared at the destruction.

Mitchell, eyes wide with shock, knew the tactical advantage they had just gained, but the devastation was hard to process. The thermobaric explosion had bought them time, but at a terrifying cost to human life.

Everything near that gate was gone-enemy soldiers, vehicles, and equipment turned to ash in an instant.

"Alright, get your shit together! We push now! Go! GO!" Mitchell shouted, snapping his team out of their stunned silence, his voice urgent as he moved from cover to cover. The fireball from the thermobaric explosion had decimated the US forces outside the main gate, buying them precious time, but Mitchell knew it wouldn't last long.

Marines scrambled with him, their weapons raised as they sprinted through the smoky, debris-filled battlefield. Some dove for cover at just the right moment, while others weren't so lucky—falling to stray bullets from what remained of the enemy forces still capable of fighting.

"Harris! You there?!" Mitchell called into the radio, knowing the tank commander had to be somewhere out there.

"Mitchell?! Hot damn, I thought you were dead!" Harris's voice came through the radio, a mix of surprise and relief.

"These assholes ain't killing me this easily," Mitchell replied, breathing heavily as he slid into cover behind a crumbling wall. "We're pushing outside the wire. I'm sending a detachment of Marines to secure Station, but we need to know—do you have contact with them?"

As he spoke, he signaled to a group of his men to break off and move toward Station. They nodded, quickly regrouping and preparing to move toward the fort's command center.

"Negative!" Harris's voice crackled through the radio. "They destroyed the transmission tower. No one's having contact with Station. They're completely cut off!"

Mitchell cursed under his breath. Without contact, Station was isolated, and no one knew their status or if they could still hold out. The situation was worse than he'd thought.

"Roger that, Harris! We'll have to break through and get them ourselves. How's your ammo?"

"We're almost Winchester, but these new tanks have a couple of tricks up their sleeves. We'll do just fine," Harris replied confidently, despite the dire situation.

"Roger, Harris. Signal when you're ready. Stand by," Mitchell responded, his eyes scanning the battlefield as he peered over the edge of his cover. The devastation from the thermobaric explosion had taken out a significant portion of the enemy forces, but now the remaining US troops were regrouping. He could see them moving cautiously through the smoke and debris, readying themselves for another assault.

Mitchell clenched his jaw. Time was running out. They had to act fast before the enemy could regain momentum.

"Marines!" Mitchell barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "We push in two teams! Sabrina, Shepherd and Team Alpha, on me!" He gestured to a group of Marines, their faces hardened with resolve. "Elmar, Nantz and Dawson you stay with Team Bravo, gather any and all ammo you can find and hold the gate! Cover us!"

The Marines sprang into action, moving with military precision. Team Alpha prepared to follow Mitchell, checking their weapons and forming up behind him.

"That's our destination!" Mitchell shouted, pointing his knifehand toward the beaten and battered command center. The once-imposing structure, the heart of Fort Harling's defenses, was still standing but showed visible scars from the relentless attacks. The concrete dome next to it, protecting the Gate, had taken a beating as well. The UAVs that had crashed down and the enemy fighter jets still lingering above had pounded the area relentlessly.

But the dome, built to withstand even a nuclear blast, held firm. The UAVs' puny attacks were nothing to it. As for the enemy jets, there was a friendly aircraft circling in the skies—a competent pilot, it seemed, holding them at bay. Reinforcements from FOB Goliath in Italica would be arriving soon, fighter jets that could turn the tide of the air battle completely. The situation was shifting in their favor, but they had to regain control of the base's defenses to make sure they could hold out.

"We have to push outside the wire," Mitchell explained, his voice serious. He gestured toward the far side of the base, where rubble and debris had completely blocked their direct route to Station. Large chunks of the fort's walls had collapsed during the battle, with a tangle of concrete, metal beams, and burning wreckage covering what had once been their only clear path. There was no way to cross it now—it was impassable.

"The main route is blocked by rubble from the explosions. We've got no choice but to move around it," Mitchell continued. "We'll need to navigate outside the wire, run around the wall to the right side, and then enter through the eastern gate. From there, we'll be on course toward the command center."

He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the faces of the Marines around him. They knew what was coming. As soon as they breached cover, they'd be exposed, running into enemy fire with limited protection.

"Be advised, we'll be getting shot at the moment we leave cover. Once we're in the open, they'll light us up. If anyone doesn't want to come, raise your hands now."

Mitchell's voice softened slightly as he spoke those final words. "There's no shame in wanting to survive." His eyes lingered on his men, giving them a moment to decide. He wasn't about to lead anyone to their deaths if they weren't ready for it.

But there was no hesitation. The Marines stood tall, their eyes locked with Mitchell's, every one of them determined to push forward, no matter the risk.

Mitchell nodded, a mix of pride and grim resolve filling him. "Alright, we move on my mark. Get ready." The next moments would decide whether they could reestablish contact with Station and turn the tide of the battle.

"Yo, pilot in the air, can you hear me?" Mitchell called through the radio, ducking instinctively as the F-15 roared overhead, its engines buzzing past, shaking the ground beneath them. Above, the jet downed an enemy F-16 with its gun, the wreckage spiraling to the ground in a fiery trail.

The radio crackled in response. "This is Three Strikes. Who am I talking to?" came the voice, firm yet casual, unmistakable.

Mitchell's grin spread wide, and he could see the same expressions forming on the faces of the Marines around him. There was no mistaking that unofficial call sign. The tide of the battle suddenly felt a little more manageable.

"The Pizza guys. You're a sight for sore eyes, Trigger." Mitchell replied, his tone shifting from tense to relieved. "We're pushing toward Station. Can you cover us from the air?"

"Roger that, Mitchell. I'll keep the skies clear. You just worry about the ground." came the quick reply from Three Strikes, his voice carrying that calm confidence.

"You heard the man!" Mitchell turned to his Marines, his voice now charged with renewed energy. "We've got air support!" He quickly switched to his radio again, hailing the tank out in the field. "Harris! You ready?"

"Born ready, Captain," Harris's voice came back with a growl of determination. As if to punctuate his words, the tank's railgun fired again, tearing through the armor of an enemy Abrams in the distance, sending it up in flames. "Iron Horse 2 through 4 and I will cover your push. Once you're out, we'll light them up with our machine guns and pin these fuckers down!"

"Great!" Mitchell shouted back, adrenaline coursing through him as he turned to his men. "Everyone ready?!" he called out, looking at his Marines, then hitting his radio to make sure Harris and the tanks were in sync.

"GO, GO, GO!" Mitchell yelled as he rounded the corner, leading Team Alpha in a sprint toward the eastern gate. His HK-416 was raised, pointed upward to not be in the way while he sprinted as fast as his legs allowed it.

At that very moment, the deafening roar of Harris's tanks filled the battlefield, their coaxial machine guns erupting in a symphony of fire. Tracer rounds streaked through the smoke-filled air, raining down on the US forces trying to regroup outside the fort. The fire from the tanks was relentless, tearing through enemy positions and cutting down any riflemen who tried to poke their heads out.

Behind them, Elmar added to the chaos, his M249 SAW spitting a stream of lead downrange, keeping the enemy forces pinned as Team Alpha advanced through the hellish landscape. Mitchell's heart raced, his senses heightened as they charged toward the gate, using the tanks' overwhelming firepower as their shield.

Despite the heavy fire support, war's cruelty showed no mercy. Some of the Osean and Erusian soldiers running alongside Mitchell were hit mid-sprint. The sound of bullets slicing through the air was followed by painful groans and cries. Men collapsed to the ground, clutching wounds or lying still, claimed by the brutal, unforgiving battlefield.

Mitchell pushed forward, his mind focused on the mission, but every fallen comrade was a reminder of the stakes. They had to reach Station. They had to turn the tide.

"Keep pushing! Don't stop!" Mitchell yelled over the gunfire, his voice barely audible over the symphony of war. They were halfway to the gate, and the enemy was scrambling to regroup, caught off-guard.

Mitchell turned the corner hard to the right, sprinting with all his might, his boots pounding against the debris-littered ground. He could feel the heat of the battle on his back, the relentless gunfire and explosions behind him pushing him forward. After a few more seconds, he dove to the right, hurling himself behind the safety of the fort's walls. His chest heaved with the effort, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he pressed his back against the solid stone, waiting for the others.

Seconds passed, and a tense silence filled Mitchell's mind. He glanced over his shoulder, fearing the worst—had they all been cut down in the open? Were they pinned down?

Just as panic began to creep in, the first soldier appeared, an Erusian diving into the gate, breathing heavily but alive. He was quickly followed by two Osean Marines, then more, one after the other, stumbling and diving for cover. Relief surged through Mitchell as he saw his comrades make it, but his heart sank as he did a quick headcount.

Of the almost three dozen men they had started with, barely ten had managed to follow him. The battlefield had claimed the rest.

Mitchell's eyes scanned the faces of those who had made it. His mind quickly noted the absence of two critical members of his squad.

"Wait… where's Sabrina? And Shepherd?" Mitchell demanded, his voice sharp with concern, his eyes darting back toward the battlefield, searching for any sign of the two female soldiers.

The Marines exchanged uneasy glances, some shaking their heads, the absence of Sabrina and Shepherd unsettling everyone.

Mitchell's heart raced as the realization hit him. But just as he was about to rush back into the open, he heard two female screams echoing over the sound of gunfire.

He quickly poked his head around the corner and saw the unthinkable. Jenna Shepherd, the new Navy Corpsman who had recently joined the squad after they lost Motorola, was dragging Sabrina along the ground. Sabrina, wounded and struggling, was clutching her side, blood staining her uniform, all the while firing her HK416 with her free hand, laying down suppressing fire at the advancing US riflemen. Despite the chaos, Jenna wasn't hesitating. With grit and determination, she was pulling Sabrina to safety while bullets whizzed passed them.

Mitchell didn't think twice. His instincts kicked in, and he sprang into action. He left the safety of his cover, diving back into the open, and knelt just outside the wall, his own HK416 raised. With precision, he began taking crack shots at the enemy soldiers who were trying to pin down Jenna and Sabrina.

"Covering fire!" Mitchell shouted as he squeezed the trigger, each round finding its mark. US riflemen fell under the well-placed shots, buying Jenna the time she needed to drag Sabrina closer to safety.

Jenna kept pulling Sabrina, her teeth clenched with determination as bullets whizzed past them. Sabrina, despite her weakening state, continued firing her HK416 single-handedly, though her shots were becoming less accurate as her consciousness started to fade. She struggled to stay alert, her grip loosening slightly on the rifle, but she refused to stop.

Sabrina, desperate to help, tried to push herself forward with her feet, giving what little strength she had left to assist as Jenna dragged her along. Every inch felt like a battle, but Jenna didn't let up, determined to get her fellow soldier to safety.

Mitchell's heart pounded as he kept up the cover fire, every shot deliberate, every second critical. His team was in danger, but he wasn't about to let them go down.

"Keep moving! I got you!" he yelled over the chaos, his voice firm and steady.

"Almost there!" Jenna called back, her voice strained but determined as she closed the gap to the wall.

Mitchell held his position, picking off any enemy that dared to take aim at the two soldiers, determined to see them through.

They were getting closer, inching toward the safety of the gate, but the enemy wasn't letting up. The next few moments would decide whether they made it out alive.

Suddenly, Mitchell's radio crackled to life, a male voice cutting through the chaos. "This is Striker 2-1, guns hot, guns hot!"

Within seconds, two A-10C Warthogs appeared over the treeline to the south, where Italica lay. Their unmistakable silhouettes were a welcome sight. The lead Warthog lined up its target and unleashed a devastating barrage from its 30mm GAU-8 Gatling gun, the massive weapon spitting out uranium-tipped rounds the size of beer cans at a blistering rate of 70 rounds per second.

The thunderous roar of the gun echoed through the battlefield, the iconic BRRRT sounding like music to Mitchell's ears. The strafing run tore through a group of US soldiers that had been advancing on Sabrina and Shepherd, obliterating everything in its path. The enemy forces stood no chance—men, equipment, and vehicles alike were ripped apart by the high-velocity rounds, the ground erupting in a deadly hail of fire and metal.

Mitchell's heart swelled with relief as the overwhelming firepower from the A-10s decimated the threat, buying them precious time. The Warthogs peeled off after the strafe, banking sharply to line up for another pass if needed.

The second A-10 swooped in right after the first, its engines roaring as it lined up its target. With a quick squeeze of the trigger, the rocket pods mounted beneath its wings unleashed a barrage of unguided rockets. The dumb munitions, as they where called, streaked toward a tank formation that was pushing down one of the hills, leaving trails of smoke in the air.

The rockets slammed into the formation with devastating force, detonating on impact. Two of the tanks were instantly destroyed, their hulks exploding in massive fireballs, while a third was left immobilized, its treads blown apart.

Meanwhile, on the ground, Shepherd had managed to pull Sabrina behind cover and immediately began tending to her wound. She removed Sabrina's plate carrier with quick, practiced movements, ready to provide aid despite the chaos still raging around them.

"You idiot!" Sabrina groaned in pain, her voice strained but defiant. She grabbed Shepherd's collar with her free hand, glaring at her through the haze of her injuries. "I told you to just fucking leave me there!" she growled, her face twisted in both agony and frustration. "You almost got yourself killed!"

Shepherd, unshaken, continued her work with calm efficiency, her voice steady and nonchalant. "Yeah, fight me about it later once we survive this," she replied, not missing a beat as she packed Sabrina's wound with gauze, trying to stop the bleeding.

Sabrina gritted her teeth but didn't argue further. The pain was overwhelming, but she knew Shepherd had saved her life, even if it had put them both in danger.

Mitchell, watching the scene unfold, quickly assessed the situation. He turned to the others, pointing to a nearby Erusian and Osean Marine. "You and you, stay with them," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The two soldiers nodded, stepping back to provide cover and protection for Shepherd and Sabrina.

"The rest, on me!" Mitchell called out, rallying the remaining Marines. "We have to push up to Station and get those defenses online, or at least open up the Gate so we can retreat if the situation gets dire enough!"

With a quick nod from his team, Mitchell and the rest of his men prepared to push forward. Time was running out, and the battle was far from over. Their next move would determine whether they could hold the line—or be forced to fall back.

In the sky, Trigger sat in the cockpit of Jet's F-15 S/MTD, his eyes scanning the weapons loadout displayed on his HUD. He still had three FAEBs, about two thousand rounds of 20mm Vulcan ammunition, along with several AIM-9 Sidewinders and AIM-120 AMRAAMs at his disposal. The sky was still littered with US Air Force jets, but Trigger was ready to spread fear and chaos among them.

He never quite understood how they managed to load so much firepower onto a jet like that. Yes, the F-15 was a powerhouse—designed to dominate the skies—but even the mighty Eagle had its limits somewhere. Trigger glanced at the weapons readout again, still seeing the array of FAEBs, missiles, and rounds of ammunition at his disposal, and it defied logic.

He remembered one of the fresh recruits back at Fort Grays Island—a Nugget who had looked at these kinds of configurations with awe—calling it "Belkan space magic." It was a joke, of course, a way to explain the seemingly impossible feats that happened on the battlefield. But there were times, like now, when Trigger couldn't help but think the kid was onto something. It was as if the laws of physics bent to the will of this war machine, lifting all the usual limits and allowing a jet to carry an arsenal that shouldn't have been possible.

It didn't make sense, but that didn't matter now. All that mattered was that it worked—and he had the firepower to rain destruction on anyone who stood in his way.

His attention locked onto a single bomber, presumably the last surviving B-1 Lancer. The massive aircraft was limping through the sky, a reminder of the devastation Trigger had already caused. With cold precision, Trigger selected his AIM-120 AMRAAMs, his finger hovering over the trigger. He watched the HUD as the targeting reticle shifted from green to red, signaling a solid lock. The familiar beeping tone rang in his headset, confirming that the missile was primed.

Without hesitation, Trigger squeezed the trigger, and the eagle claws holding the missile released it. The missile's engine ignited with a roar, propelling it to supersonic speeds as it closed in on the bomber. The AIM-120 streaked across the sky like a bolt of lightning, its proximity fragmentation warhead exploding just meters away from the B-1's wing. The explosion ripped the wing clean off, sending the bomber spiraling uncontrollably, debris trailing behind it as it plummeted toward the ground.

Trigger watched, unmoved, as the bomber spiraled into oblivion. Another enemy down, and the skies were clearing. But he wasn't done yet—not by a long shot. His next targets were already lining up in his sights, and he still had plenty of firepower left to unleash.

"It's Payday, you motherfuckers," Trigger muttered under his oxygen mask, eyes locked on the enemy formation ahead. He pulled the stick hard to the left, the force pushing him into his seat as he ignited the afterburner, closing the distance between him and a formation of F-16s with deadly precision.

"Fox three," he muttered, his tone cold and steady as he squeezed the trigger. A contingent of four AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles streaked away from his jet, flying at supersonic speeds toward the unsuspecting Falcons. The sky was lit up with explosions as three of the F-16s were caught in the blasts, their fiery wrecks spiraling toward the ground.

But one survived, dodging just in time, banking hard to escape the carnage. Trigger's eyes narrowed as he tracked the lone survivor.

"Not fast enough," Trigger growled, his eyes sharp and focused as he lined up his next shot. He pressed the trigger, firing off a single AIM-9X Sidewinder.

The F-16 ahead was agile and fast, but the AIM-9X was built for more advanced adversaries—designed to counter planes like the Su-57 and F-22, both far more maneuverable and sophisticated than the aging Falcon.

The F-16 pilot dumped flares in a desperate attempt to throw off the missile, but the advanced seeker head of the AIM-9X ignored the decoys, locked firmly onto the fighter's heat signature. The missile's trajectory didn't waver, and within moments, it found its mark.

With a blinding flash of light, the missile exploded, shredding the F-16 in midair. Debris scattered in the sky as the once-formidable aircraft disintegrated, flames trailing from the wreckage.

"Splash four bandits," Trigger muttered under his breath, watching the F-16 pilot eject from the ruined plane, his ejection seat firing him to safety as his doomed aircraft tumbled toward the earth. Trigger's eyes lingered for a moment before turning his attention back to the battlefield. He wasn't done yet.

"Splash confirmed," said a voice over the radio, catching Trigger off guard. It was Longcaster.

"Shit! Major, you're still alive!" Trigger exclaimed, the joy unmistakable in his tone. "I thought they had shot you down!"

"Who? Those amateurs from Aether Squadron?" Longcaster replied, his voice laced with confidence. "They wouldn't hit me even if I were flying a Boeing 747. Besides, I watched you decimate them. That was some great flying there."

Trigger grinned beneath his oxygen mask, but Longcaster wasn't done.

"It's just a shame you had to ruin those beautiful planes," Longcaster added, a teasing edge to his words. "McOnnie won't be happy when she finds out what you did to her prized jets."

Trigger chuckled, still buzzing from the adrenaline of the fight. "I'll deal with McOnnie later. For now, let's make sure we get out of here in one piece."

"Roger that, Three Strikes. Let's clean up the rest of these skies," Longcaster said before switching channels to address all the friendly fighters in the air. His calm, commanding voice filled the comms as he coordinated the aerial support.

"This is AWACS Longcaster to all friendly aircraft in the airspace above Fort Harling. Radio check."

Responses quickly came through, confirming who was still operational.

"Here Striker 2-1 and 2-2. Solid copy, AWACS."

"This is Tiger Squadron, flying in from Itallica. ETA two minutes."

"This is Viper-3, we can't take off from Fort Harling. The runways are completely ruined," came the frustrated voice from the ground.

"Here Thunder Squadron, we're joining the fray."

Trigger's heart skipped a beat at that last voice. He recognized it immediately. It was Dagger, his former wingman from his last squadron. Memories of their missions together flashed in his mind. Despite the rocky end to their partnership—despite the fact that she hated him—he couldn't help but feel a surge of relief knowing she was up there with the rest of thunder squadron. Whatever tension had existed between them, Dagger was an excellent pilot, and he was glad to have her in the air.

"Dagger, good to hear your voice," Trigger said through the comms, his tone controlled but betraying a hint of gratitude.

There was a brief silence before her sharp reply came. "Just don't get in my way, Three Strikes."

Trigger smirked beneath his mask as he looked over at Fort Harling, watching the V-TOL jets take off, their engines roaring as they lifted into the sky. Just then, a familiar voice crackled through his radio.

"Ey, pendejo! You still owe me a beer!" It was Taco, his old squadmate, his voice carrying that playful edge that Trigger had come to know well.

Trigger couldn't help but smile. "We'll see about that," he shot back teasingly, his mood lightened for the moment. The banter was a brief escape from the chaos around them, a reminder that despite the hell they were flying through, they were still a team.

As the mood lightened just a bit, Longcaster's voice cut through the radio with grim news. "All call signs, be advised. We have enemy 5th-gen fighters in the airspace."

The shift in tone was immediate. Trigger's smirk faded, his focus sharpening as he scanned the horizon. Somewhere out there, the F-22 Raptors—America's most advanced fighters—were lurking. But what took even the US pilots by surprise was the fact that they had been detected at all.

"Huh? They detected us?!" the lead F-22 pilot muttered in disbelief, confusion lacing his voice as their RWR started to ho off one by one. They had been operating in full stealth mode, invisible to conventional radar systems. The fact that they'd been spotted was unsettling, especially with that F-15 S/MTD already wiping the floor with other US fighters in the area.

"Alright, Dicemen, we have superior planes. We're gonna clear the skies!" their squadron leader barked with confidence, rallying his pilots with his firm resolve. Despite the unexpected detection, they knew the F-22s were unmatched in technology and capability—or so they believed.

"Trigger, they're all yours," Longcaster's voice came through the radio once again, calm but carrying the weight of a challenge. The Raptors were fast, maneuverable, and stealthy—but none of that mattered if Trigger could track them. And now, he could.

Trigger's HUD flickered to life as the green target reticles around the F-22s turned to bright red, with a large "TGT" flashing next to them, marking the Raptors as Priority Targets.

"Wilco, Longcaster," Trigger muttered under his breath, his tone cold and focused. He adjusted his grip on the flight stick and pulled his jet into a steep climb. The canards and vectoring nozzles of the engines angled upward, giving the F-15 S/MTD an aggressive angle of attack as it rocketed into the sky.

The hunt was on.

Longcaster switched to the open channel, knowing full well the enemy pilots would hear every word. With a calm but dangerous resolve, he keyed his microphone.

"Attention, enemy pilots." Longcaster's voice cut through the chaos with a steady, deliberate tone. The weight of the legend was palpable in his words, carrying across the open channel where every Raptor pilot could hear. "You're up against more than just a pilot, and if you haven't figured that out yet, you're already dead."

High above, Trigger had already zeroed in on his first target. His F-15 S/MTD rolled effortlessly on its back, entering a steep dive, descending on the Raptors like a predator. Longcaster's voice continued to echo in the minds of the enemy pilots.

"Out there, circling above, is a name that's whispered in the wreckage of downed fighters, written in the fire trails of those who thought they could outrun him."

A split-second later, Trigger fired an AIM-9. The missile streaked forward, locking onto its prey, the explosion scattering the Raptors like startled birds.

"He is Three Strikes—an omen, a force of nature. You might think your Raptors are invisible, untouchable… but nothing escapes his sight."

Without hesitation, Trigger pulled his jet back into a climb. His canards and thrust-vectoring nozzles gave him the agility he needed as he performed a High-G turn, lining up his next target. His HUD confirmed the lock—Trigger squeezed the trigger, sending an AMRAAM rocketing toward the second Raptor. The enemy plane exploded before the pilot even had a chance to react.

"He's the shadow that haunts your every move, the whisper you hear just before your instruments go dead. Your radar can't save you now."

Trigger's F-15 ripped past the formation at supersonic speeds, his plane dancing in the sky with deadly precision. He performed a Post-stall maneuver, dodging an incoming missile and forcing the enemy to overshoot. Trigger leveled his jet, unleashing a burst of 20mm Vulcan rounds that tore through the third Raptor, sending it spiraling to the ground in flames.

"Look around you, watch the skies. Every fighter that's fallen today thought they had the edge—superior tech, superior speed. But none of them made it."

Another AIM-9 detached from his wing, seeking out its target and blowing the fourth Raptor apart in midair.

"Three Strikes doesn't just fight; he reclaims. When you're in his sights, you're no longer a pilot—you're a memory waiting to be erased."

The wreckage of the Raptors plummeted like falling stars. Trigger had already locked onto the next panicked pilot. The enemy's frantic movements gave away his fear. With a calm hand, Trigger strafed the Raptor with his Vulcan, shredding the fifth plane into pieces.

"You'll hear the wind scream before he strikes."

Another AIM-9 found its mark, bringing down yet another Raptor. The skies began to clear as the last two F-22s made a desperate attempt to break off, fleeing from the overwhelming force that had obliterated their squad.

"You'll feel the sky tighten around you, and in that moment, you'll know: your time is up."

Trigger's calm precision had left only wreckage in his wake. The final two enemy pilots made the only decision that could keep them alive—they retreated, abandoning the fight they knew they couldn't win.

"There's no escaping him, no outmaneuvering him. He's not a man; he's a myth forged in the flames of war. He is your end."

The wreckage of the defeated Raptors continued to rain down as Trigger turned his jet back toward Fort Harling. Longcaster's voice, steady and cold, echoed through the open channel one final time:

"So go ahead. Try to run. Try to fight. But when the sky itself trembles and the world goes dark, remember this—after the thunder, follows lightning… as he is… Three Strikes."