-Retribution-
-Operation Midnight Thunder (New, Operation Castle Hopping)-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Fort Harling Briefing room
"What you're seeing here, ladies and gentlemen, is an Apostle of Emroy, the God of Death and Darkness," McKinsey explained, gesturing to the video on the holo-table for the officers gathered around.
The video played scenes of the Apostle advancing with unnerving resilience, bullets from standard small arms seemingly useless against him. "Our conventional weapons—small arms—are ineffective against these beings." A collective gasp echoed through the briefing room.
"However, high-caliber weapons, like 12-gauge slugs, .50 BMG rounds, and larger ordnance, do have a staggering effect. They can be stopped, at least temporarily," he continued, letting the video play until Harris's M1A4 burst onto the screen, smashing through a wall.
McKinsey paused the footage. "As seen here, anything designed to counter heavy armor—120mm main guns, artillery, and railguns—can effectively dismantle them. But I emphasize this: dismantling does not mean killing. These celestial beings are effectively immortal. However, by dismembering them and keeping their body parts separated, they can be rendered nonfunctional. Apostles possess an uncanny ability to reattach limbs and recover within seconds, so containment is critical to keep them subdued."
"If just one of these celestial… fucks took out more than two dozen Marines and even GIGN operatives, then what should we do if multiple of them attack at once?" a soldier finally asked, his voice echoing the worry in the room.
McKinsey took a deep breath, casting a steady gaze across the room as officers and soldiers shifted uncomfortably. "The truth is, we don't fully understand what we're dealing with yet. Just one of these so-called 'Apostles' tore through dozens of our best-trained Marines and GIGN operatives. And if one was enough to cause this much havoc, multiple Apostles could mean unprecedented devastation."
The tension in the room was palpable. But McKinsey continued, his tone steely. "However, we may have a way to counter their strength and make them manageable," he revealed, gesturing as the holographic display on the table switched to a series of images—ancient, temple-like structures, each unique but unmistakably holy.
"Our intelligence teams—OIA and Erusian DGSE—have been questioning captives from the field, and the intel they've provided is eye-opening. Each Apostle draws power from a specific deity, and that connection can be disrupted if we destroy or destabilize the temples dedicated to these gods."
He let the information settle for a moment, watching as expressions shifted from uncertainty to focused determination. "With the arrival of our bombers, including the B-2 Spirit, we have the capability to infiltrate enemy airspace undetected. American radar tech here appears unable to track our stealth aircraft, meaning our B-2s, MQ-99s, MQ-101s, and fifth and sixth-generation fighters can approach undetected. This gives us a chance—a real chance—to cripple these Apostles by targeting their temples. If the theory holds, each temple we destroy should reduce an Apostle's power, weakening them significantly."
McKinsey's gaze lingered on the officers, meeting each with an unspoken challenge. "But remember—this is uncharted territory. The success of this plan hinges on us acting swiftly and precisely, without alerting them to our intentions. Any questions before we commit?"
The room was silent, filled with a renewed sense of purpose and urgency.
"How can we be certain our aircraft are truly undetectable by American radar?" an Erusian Rafale pilot questioned, skepticism clear in his tone. "From what I've seen, we're using similar technology to theirs. I mean, their tanks, their aircraft—they all look suspiciously familiar to yours, Colonel."
McKinsey's smirk grew, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and confidence. "It's a good question, Captain," he acknowledged, leaning forward. "But here's the thing: we've observed them attempting, on multiple occasions, to sneak up on us with their F-35s. They seem to operate under the assumption that just because they can't detect their own aircraft, we can't either." He paused, letting the room take in the implications.
"Their miscalculation has given us an edge," he continued. "They think their stealth capabilities make them invisible to us, but our sensors have repeatedly tracked and intercepted these attempts. Essentially, they're relying on the same tech we have, but we're a step ahead in counter-detection. Our stealth birds—the B-2 Spirits, MQ-99s, MQ-101s, our fifth-gen, and even our sixth-gen fighters—operate on updated systems and tactics that remain undetectable on their radar screens. They don't see us coming, but we sure as hell see them."
He allowed a moment for his words to sink in, the room buzzing with newfound confidence. "So yes, we're using similar tech," he added with a satisfied nod. "But we've refined ours to keep us in the lead. It's not about what they have—it's about what they don't know about what we have."
Fort Harling Hospital
Room 225
Nick sat gently on the edge of the bed beside Cossette, his hand finding hers as they exchanged warm, knowing smiles. The quiet room seemed worlds away from the chaos they'd both faced outside these walls. Just beside them, nestled in a cradle, lay little Arthur, peacefully asleep, blissfully unaware of the battles fought and sacrifices made. The steady rhythm of Arthur's breathing filled the silence, a comforting sound that made them both feel, at least for this moment, like they had everything they'd ever need.
"He's beautiful," Nick murmured, gently rubbing Cossette's hand. "Just like you," he added with a playful wink.
"Oh, come on—get a room, will you?" teased Friedland from the doorway, grinning as he mockingly covered his eyes. Nick and Cossette laughed, their voices filling the room with a lightheartedness that felt like a long-overdue reprieve.
Friedland leaned over Arthur's cradle, waving with a warm smile before switching to his best baby voice. "What's up, big guy?" he greeted softly. "It's Uncle B."
Then, with a conspiratorial glance at Nick and Cossette, he leaned in closer to Arthur and whispered, "And just so you know, little buddy, the 'B' stands for Brandon." He gave them a playful wink, as if sharing a top-secret revelation only the newest member of their crew could understand.
"What's the situation outside the walls?" Nick asked, glancing up at Friedland.
"Word about your new arrival hasn't made it out yet," Friedland replied, leaning back with a nod. "I made sure the nurses and docs know to keep things under wraps until you give the word."
Nick exhaled, relief and gratitude blending into his expression. "Thanks, Friedland. I owe you one."
Friedland grinned, giving a casual wave. "Oh, you owe me a lot more than that, buddy. But we'll talk favors after you get a nap," he teased, casting a glance back at Arthur. "Something tells me the little guy's already a natural at keeping secrets."
"Hey, don't say that too loud, or Hudson might hear you," Nick quipped, chuckling. Friedland smirked, but just as the words left Nick's mouth, the door opened.
"Hudson might hear what?" the agent asked, strolling in without so much as a knock.
Nick muttered, "Oh, for fu—" but was immediately cut off by a pillow hitting him squarely from Cossette.
"Language!" she hissed, pointing at their sleeping son.
Hudson took a deep breath, clearly swallowing his pride. "Look, Nick. I know I'm probably not your favorite person right now… or ever, honestly. But…" he trailed off, extending his hand, "I'm here as a friend, if you'll let me be."
Nick hesitated, glancing at Hudson's hand. Finally, he sighed and clasped Hudson's hand in a firm shake.
"Thank you… agent," Nick said, a hint of sarcasm slipping in.
Hudson gave a wry smile. "Just Hudson—or Klark will do fine." Turning to Cossette, he nodded respectfully before glancing at the cradle. "May I?"
Cossette offered a gentle nod, and with unexpected care, Hudson stepped over to the cradle. He looked down at the tiny, sleeping form, suddenly unsure of himself. He swallowed, then softened his voice.
"Howdy… little man," Hudson murmured, the stern OIA agent now speaking gently to Nick and Cossette's child. A moment passed, then Hudson looked up at the couple with a rare, warm smile. "He's the spitting image of you two," Hudson murmured, glancing from the baby back to Nick and Cossette. He looked almost out of place, the hardened agent standing there with such a gentle expression.
"Alright, enough feelings, let's talk business," Hudson said, snapping back to his usual tone. Trigger and Longcaster exchanged a deadpan look, clearly unimpressed by the shift.
Hudson crossed his arms. "The Japanese are about… let's say, one serious escalation away from doing a full 180 and turning against us."
Trigger raised an eyebrow. "Why?" He asked completely perplexed.
"Not sure either, but from what Itami told me...
5 hours earlier…
"Would you mind telling me why you were shooting at my troops?!" Hazama's voice was sharp, nearly biting as he held the phone close to his ear. His tone held enough venom to make even the most battle-hardened soldier hesitate.
Standing nearby, Hudson shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back, while Itami kept his gaze steady. Behind them, the full assembly of the Third Recon Team and the OIA operatives watched in tense silence, each soldier holding their breath as they waited for the American commander's response.
But the line with Matthews went dead—just like that. The click on the other end left no question: the American had ended the call without a word.
"Son of a…" Hazama muttered, fists clenching as he spun around, pinning Itami with a piercing stare. "I want your report on all of… whatever that was… by yesterday. Do I make myself clear?"
Itami snapped to attention, his reply immediate and resolute. "Crystal clear, sir!"
They made their way out of Hazama's office, crossing the courtyard where their UH-60 Black Hawk awaited, its rotors stilled but ready. Pete slung his rifle over his shoulder, letting it rest on his back as he looked to Hudson. "Now?"
Hudson gave a slight nod, settling on the helicopter's ledge with a casual ease that didn't quite mask his own tension. "Now, the Lieutenant files his report, hands it to the General, and we sit tight. By the end of the day, with any luck, the Japanese government will be pushing for the Americans to be out of here once and for all."
Around them, the helicopter crew took a rare moment of downtime. The pilot leaned against the chopper, cigarette in hand, while the co-pilot and crew chief exchanged quiet words, occasionally glancing over to the group.
"Alright… I'll see to it, then," Itami said, a hint of determination flashing across his face before he turned and bolted off, leaving his squadmates standing in stunned silence, mouths open as they processed his sudden departure.
Hudson and his team exchanged glances, barely concealing their amusement as they climbed into the Black Hawk with the helicopter crew. Settling into their seats, Hudson chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Guess he finally decided to move like he means it."
Hudson leaned back, then settled down fully on the floor of the helicopter, tugging his high-cut helmet over his face with a sigh of satisfaction.
"What are you doing?!" Kuribayashi asked, still trying to process everything that had just unfolded. Her expression was a mix of bewilderment and irritation.
"Taking a nap," Hudson replied nonchalantly, his voice muffled under the helmet. "Wake me up when the Lieutenant's done, alright?"
Kuribayashi opened her mouth to protest but found herself at a loss for words. She glanced over at Pete, who only shrugged with a smirk. The rest of Hudson's team stifled laughs as they got comfortable in their seats, clearly unphased by their leader's laid-back approach.
Sōichirō Kuwahara raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained but unsurprised. "Guess that's one way to wait out bureaucracy," he muttered, pulling off his helmet and Vest to let his body breath some air again.
Kuribayashi looked at him incredulously, her voice nearly a screech. "You're approving of this?!"
Kuwahara just shrugged, giving her a half-smile. "Of course. Us old-timers have to stick together." He turned his gaze to Hudson. "Right, Hudson?"
Hudson lifted a fist in agreement, not bothering to lift his helmet. "Hell yeah, brotha!"
Kuribayashi threw her hands up in exasperation, muttering under her breath as the others settled in. Kuwahara chuckled, glancing at his wrist watch with a smirk. The Oseans and the old guard of the Third Recon exchanged knowing grins, letting the silence settle comfortably as they waited, each in their own element.
Before sleep could even take hold, Hudson heard footsteps approaching. He sat up, slightly annoyed, just as Itami reappeared, panting and visibly shaken.
"Agent…" Itami managed, catching his breath. Hudson raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Back already? You're a damn quick writer."
Itami shook his head, urgency in his eyes. "You have to leave… now," he said, still breathing heavily.
Hudson removed his high-cut helmet and fixed Itami with a hard stare. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice serious.
Itami glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot, before leaning in close to Hudson. His voice was tense. "Orders just came down—Japan's Prime Minister has been found dead, bullet to the head. The entire country's on lockdown. I don't know how long we've got before this base is sealed up too."
Hudson took in the news, his expression hardening. "Understood." He shifted his gaze to the pilot, already tense with anticipation. "We're wheels up in five."
The pilot grinned, sliding down his visor. "Make it three," he replied, the edge of a challenge in his voice.
With that, the crew snapped into action, preparing the chopper as Hudson and his team climbed aboard, ready to move at a moment's notice.
…And that's how we know what we know now. The situation is critical, and we need to act fast." Hudson looked around the room, his tone grave. "I've already briefed McKinsey and Shepherd, and they're both on the same page."
Trigger nodded slowly. "And? What's the plan?"
Friedland, standing nearby with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "Yeah… what's the plan? Because I'm not sending my fighters into a bloodbath without a damn strategy."
Hudson leaned back against the wardrobe door, rubbing his temples. "Here's the thing—we don't have a solid plan. Not yet. With Japan's reaction to these…recent complications still unknown, we're stuck. All we can do is stick to our castle-hopping campaign, pushing toward Sadera. But without reliable access to the Gate at Alnus Hill—either through Japan as our allies or on our own—we're not positioned to drive the United States out entirely."
"Hmm…" Friedland muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Yeah… that's a big problem. Without access to Alnus Hill, we're playing this game blind. We need a way to secure it, or at least ensure Japan's cooperation long enough for us to stabilize our position."
Trigger shifted uneasily. "So we're supposed to just sit and wait? That doesn't sound like much of a plan to me."
"Well… we can't just go and attack Japan preemptively. That'll make us look like the villains in this whole charade," Hudson said, the edge in his voice revealing his frustration.
Cossette's soft voice cut through the tension from behind them, where she cradled baby Arthur in her arms. "Why don't we just try to talk? Japan is reasonable; they've shown that before. And surely, even the U.S. government wouldn't be impossible to negotiate with."
Friedland glanced back at Cossette, his expression skeptical. "That's easier said than done, Princess. Diplomacy only works when both sides are willing to come to the table, and right now, we don't know where either side stands."
Trigger exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Still, she's got a point. If we go in guns blazing, we're no better than what they accuse us of being. We need to open channels, find common ground before it's too late."
Hudson's eyes softened as he looked at Cossette and the small bundle in her arms. "Fine. We try talking first. But if that fails, we need a contingency plan. One that doesn't put us at a disadvantage."
Cossette nodded, relief washing over her face. "Then let's reach out before we reach for weapons."
-Operation Castle Hopping-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Coalition Ground Forces
Rondel
In Rondel, the situation, while less tense than at Fort Harling, remained volatile. The city had been divided into three main sectors. The southwest, including the airfield, was firmly under Osean control. The blue and white star flags fluttered over makeshift hangars and rebuilt runways as the Osean Air Defense Force worked tirelessly to make the airfield operational. Despite the scars left by Arclight's payload that had cratered the tarmac, it was just serviceable enough for Osean fighter jets to land and refuel.
Resistance continued in pockets throughout the city, made up of both fanatical Empire loyalists and scattered U.S. forces. In the northern sector, the Erusian forces methodically cleared the streets, moving building by building. Whenever possible, they took prisoners, but more often than not, Empire loyalists charged them head-on, wielding spears, swords, and shields. The Erusians responded with disciplined precision, their FAMAS rifles barking out short, controlled bursts. The 5.56mm rounds tore through plate and chainmail as if they were paper, the loyalists falling before they could close the distance.
The once-bustling market squares and academic avenues of Rondel echoed with gunfire, mingled with the cries of battle and the heavy thud of boots on stone. Though the city's ancient walls and narrow alleys provided plenty of hiding spots for ambushers, the Coalition forces moved with calculated efficiency. Every corner cleared was a step closer to securing the city entirely.
At the same time, the Yuktobanian forces were far less tense than their Osean and Erusian counterparts. Among the Yuktobanian VDV, there was an unwritten rule—a tradition, really—that one of the soldiers would always have a guitar on hand. It was a ritual of sorts, and during the lulls in combat, they would sing the popular song "Don't Tell Mom I'm Fighting In…" followed by the name of whichever country they found themselves stationed in. For now, the refrain ended with "Rondel."
The song's origins were mysterious, yet it had been a staple among the VDV since its first recorded instance during the Circum-Pacific War. The first known singer of this ballad was a pilot who had crooned it over the radio while flying over Osea. But it is said that the original comes from a VDV trooper.
"Oh, Brother, my dearest, how are you?" he sang, the verses recounting the story of a soldier writing a letter to his brother back in Yuktobania.
"The roads at home must be covered in snowstorms"
It symbolized the distant life he had left behind. The song captured the bittersweet essence of duty, as the soldier expressed a longing to keep his mother from worrying about his fate.
"Stars are falling in St. Helwett's dawn sky," the chorus echoed through Radio above Osea, carried by a lone voice strumming a guitar. The soldier's plea was clear: "Just don't tell Mom I'm in Osea."
Today, as the Yuktobanians cleared the alleys and secured the buildings, that hauntingly familiar tune hummed through their comms, reminding them of home and the enduring bond shared among those far from it. The simple, soulful song served as a powerful reminder of the humanity that persisted even amidst the chaos of battle.
The haunting melody of the Yuktobanian song floated softly through the crumbling streets of Rondel, strummed by calloused hands on a worn guitar. The notes resonated, a familiar comfort to the soldiers who had weathered battles far from their homeland. As they sang, their voices, low and somber, melded together in a chorus that spoke of loyalty, sacrifice, and the quiet yearning for home.
"Hello Brother, my Dearest, how are you?" one voice led, rich with emotion.
"The roads at home must be covered by snowstorms," the others echoed, their voices growing in strength.
"Stars are falling in Falmart's dawn sky. Just don't tell mom I'm in Rondel," they continued, the refrain repeated with the weight of unspoken fears and the unyielding bond between comrades.
"Last night, a US bastard hit our tank," one soldier sang, a raw edge in his voice that hinted at grief and anger.
"Our tank mechanic is dead. He'll be coming home soon in the Black Tulip," another added, his gaze distant as if he could see the somber transport helicopter back in Yuktobania.
"It just makes me want to curse this bloody war," they sang as a collective, a note of defiance woven into their words.
"Just don't tell mom I'm in Rondel," the chorus repeated, a reminder to hold on to hope, to shield loved ones from the brutal reality they faced.
"Saturday is coming, we'll wash our clothes and forget about the war," one soldier sang with a hollow chuckle, the line a small nod to the brief reprieves they clung to.
"It smells of sweat and no one is sleeping; it was a difficult battle. Three of us didn't make it back, it makes me want to cry," a soldier's voice wavered, eyes cast down as the memory of fallen brothers weighed heavily.
"Just don't tell mom I'm in Rondel," they finished, their song hanging in the air, resonating against the cracked walls and echoing in the hearts of all who listened.
The song was a reminder that even amidst the chaos of war, the Yuktobanian soldiers carried their homeland with them. It was a song of resilience, of quiet mourning, and of unyielding spirit—a song that bound them together, no matter where the battle took them.
The locals of Rondel, wide-eyed and intrigued, gathered cautiously around the Yuktobanian soldiers. The haunting, yet heartfelt song in that foreign tongue resonated in the air, carrying stories of distant snows and bittersweet goodbyes. The Yuktobanian VDV troops sat in a rough circle, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of makeshift lanterns and fires. They cheered, laughed, and clinked their tin cups filled with whatever drink they could scavenge, their voices merging in a symphony of camaraderie and defiance.
The notes of the guitar strummed by a soldier with practiced ease told stories older than the war itself—stories of longing, pride, and resilience. Even though the locals couldn't understand the words, the emotion behind them was clear. The song painted pictures of home, of brothers and sisters far away, of snowy roads and star-studded skies, and of soldiers trying to protect their loved ones from the truth of where they really were.
Some of the locals hummed softly along, catching the simple yet powerful melody. Children peered curiously from behind their parents' legs, their expressions a mix of awe and fear at these warriors who, for a brief moment, appeared less like invaders and more like young men far from home.
The chorus rang out again, "Just don't tell mom I'm in Rondel," and even without knowing what it meant, the crowd felt its weight—a plea, a secret, a promise whispered into the night. The Yuktobanians cheered as the last note faded, their laughter breaking the solemnity and easing the tension in the air. It was a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos, one that connected strangers through the shared understanding of hope, loss, and the longing for home.
"Mama, what are they saying?" the little girl asked, her wide eyes fixed on the foreign soldiers as she clutched her mother's legs.
"I don't know, sweetie," her mother replied, a worried look crossing her face as she held her daughter protectively. But her grip faltered, and before she could react, the child broke free, waddling towards the circle of soldiers like a determined little penguin.
The Yuktobanians fell silent, their song abruptly halting as they noticed the tiny figure making her way toward them. The guitar player paused, mid-chord, and exchanged a bemused glance with his comrades. The crowd held its collective breath, unsure of what would happen next.
One of the soldiers, a burly man with a thick beard and kind eyes, knelt down, setting his rifle aside as he opened his arms with a warm smile. The girl hesitated for a moment before toddling up to him, giggling as he lifted her into the air and spun her around.
The tension broke, laughter rippling through the soldiers as they relaxed, their serious, battle-hardened expressions softening into genuine grins. The girl's mother watched from a distance, her worry melting into cautious relief as she saw the soldiers' gentle demeanor.
The guitar picked up again, but this time the melody was softer, more playful, matching the laughter of the little girl as she clapped along with the music, unaware of the language barrier or the war surrounding them. For a brief moment, the grim battlefield of Rondel felt like a distant memory, replaced by the simple innocence of a child's joy.
One of the Yuktobanians stood up, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he spun his finger in a circle, signaling the guitarist to pick up the tempo. The guitarist's grin widened, and with a nod, he called out, "Davai, let's do this!" His fingers danced across the strings, strumming a lively, upbeat tune that filled the air with energy.
The VDV soldier dropped into a low crouch, his knees bent as he prepared for the dance. The crowd, a mix of Yuktobanians and curious Rondel residents, leaned in, eyes wide with intrigue.
"Hop! Hop! Hop! Hopa!" the other soldiers chanted in unison, clapping their hands and stomping their boots in time with the rhythm. The dancer sprang up, kicking his legs out in sharp, impressive movements while balancing low to the ground. The tempo quickened, and he twirled and spun, his boots barely touching the ground before launching into the next step.
The gathered locals gasped and then cheered, the mood infectious. Laughter and applause erupted as a few children began to mimic the dance, giggling as they stumbled through their attempts. Even some of the older residents couldn't help but smile at the sight, momentarily forgetting the war and uncertainty that loomed over their city.
The impromptu performance brought a rare moment of joy and unity amid the chaos, and for a fleeting moment, Rondel was filled with music, laughter, and the resilient spirit of those determined to find light even in the darkest of times.
-Operation Ace of Hearts-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Special Operations Squad Specter
Sadera, Akusho district
Princess Piña Colada, the redheaded royal who had previously approached Specter Squad for assistance, had mysteriously failed to show up for her scheduled weekly check-in.
"She's missed her weekly check," Specter-2 said, his voice laced with concern as he peered through his binoculars, carefully scanning the castle's silhouette in the distance. "I think she's compromised."
"Can't be," Specter-6 muttered, adjusting the focus on his sniper scope. "She's the Crown Princess of the goddamn Empire. She could make someone disappear with a snap of her fingers for disobeying her."
The tension crackled in the silence that followed, each member of Specter Squad silently processing the weight of the situation.
Suddenly, their radios crackled to life. "Stop making speculations. Keep scanning," ordered Specter-1, his voice cutting through the static like a blade.
The two operatives shifted their attention back to their positions without another word. On the far side of the castle, Specter-1 and his team remained low and patient, fully camouflaged in their ghillie suits, eyes trained on the sprawling stone walls. They meticulously scanned the perimeter with binoculars, laser range finders, and sniper rifles, waiting for any sign that the Imperial Knights would slip up and reveal the answers they desperately sought. The cold, calculating silence was interrupted only by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city below, a reminder of the fragile balance they were trying to maintain.
Specter-1's eyes remained locked on the man in red, a noble whose presence alone commanded attention with robes adorned in gold and silver, reflecting the last light of day like a beacon. "See that shiny boy?" he asked, keeping his binoculars trained on the target.
"Uh-huh," Specter-3 confirmed, his sniper rifle sights following the man's every move.
"Alright… he's talking to the Devil in person," Specter-1 muttered as he shifted his gaze to Prince Zorzal, recognizing the distinct figure with an unmistakable arrogance in his stance. "Follow him," he ordered.
"Got it," Specter-3 replied, adjusting his scope with precision as he turned the windage and elevation knobs.
Zorzal and the noble strolled leisurely along the long balcony that curved from the northern tower, rounded the western side, and concluded on the southern edge of the castle. The balcony, which had likely been built to offer a view of breathtaking sunsets, now served a much different purpose. It gave the Osean Special Forces an unparalleled vantage point, revealing the prince's private chambers and a clear line of sight into the entire floor of the castle. The tension was palpable as they tracked each subtle gesture and movement, searching for any sign of vulnerability or intel that could tip the scales in their favor.
"Shit… we're losing them, boss," Specter-3 muttered as Zorzal and the mysterious noble disappeared from their line of sight, moving toward the southern side of the castle.
Specter-1 frowned, shifting slightly as he keyed his radio. "Alright. Specter-6, eyes up. Zorzal and a unknown motherfucker should be in your line of sight on the balcony in about ten seconds."
"Roger that," Specter-6 replied, adjusting his position and pressing his eye to the scope, scanning the far side of the balcony. The tension was thick as they awaited the figures to reappear, every second feeling like an eternity as they prepared to track and assess any valuable intel that came their way. The hum of distant voices of the Akusho residence were only sounds as the two Operatives stood inside the room, peering through the Open window.
"Uhh… tall guy, robe with silver and gold markings?" Specter-6 confirmed, adjusting his focus as he spotted the figures stepping into view.
"Yup, that's our man. Follow him and don't lose him," Specter-1 replied, the weight of urgency clear in his voice.
"Got it," Specter-6 responded, his voice low as he and Specter-2 kept their scopes firmly trained on the two figures.
"Boss, he just opened a wooden door. It looks like a dungeon of some kind," Specter-2 reported, adjusting his binoculars to zoom in and capture more detail. The heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges, revealing a dark passage that seemed to disappear into the depths of the castle. The dim torchlight flickered ominously, casting dancing shadows that only heightened the sense of foreboding.
Specter-1's eyes narrowed as he considered the implications. "Keep eyes on them. We need to know if they're planning something or moving prisoners," he commanded, a steely edge in his voice. The team tensed, their focus unwavering as they watched Zorzal and the noble step into the shadowy corridor, disappearing from view.
"Holy shit… Boss, you won't believe this," Specter-6's voice cracked slightly as he exchanged a worried glance with Specter-2.
"What is it? Talk to me," Specter-1 demanded, his tone hardening with urgency.
"They have Princess Piña Colada locked up…" Specter-6 reported, disbelief and anger mingling in his voice.
Specter-2 added quickly, "It looks like that sick bastard Zorzal is about to sell her to this noble."
Specter-1 clenched his jaw as he processed the information, eyes narrowing into determined slits. "Alright," he said, a dangerous edge to his voice. He turned to Specter-3, 4, and 5. "Pack your gear, we're heading back to Akusho. Once we're there, I'll request reinforcements. I want the princess out of harm's way before that deal has a chance to go through."
Specter-3 gave a sharp nod, already dismantling his sniper setup with practiced efficiency. Specter-4 and 5 exchanged a knowing look, quickly securing their gear and double-checking their escape route. The operatives moved with silent precision, aware that every second counted. The fate of the princess—and potentially the delicate balance of power in the Empire—rested on their success.
Specter-1 was the last to leave, casting one last glance at their makeshift observation post to ensure nothing was left behind. He gave a curt nod, signaling it was time to move. The team slipped away, blending into the dimming shadows of the city.
Navigating the bustling streets of Sadera was a challenge. The team had to avoid curious locals and the patrolling US troops scattered throughout the city. The tension was palpable, as Zorzal's disdain for the US presence meant the Americans were on foot, unable to use vehicles inside the city's limits—a small advantage for Specter Squad.
They moved with practiced stealth, weaving through narrow alleys and sidestepping into the shadows casted by tall buildings. The voices of street merchants and passersby masked the faint rustling of their gear. Specter-1 kept a keen eye on their surroundings, every sense heightened. One misstep could compromise everything.
With every step closer to Akusho, the team felt the weight of their mission pressing harder. The stakes were high, and failure was not an option.
The three operatives slipped into the dimly lit hideout, exchanging nods with Specter-2 and Specter-6 who still had their Binocular and Sniper rifle trained at the Prince. Specter-1 wasted no time and headed straight to their makeshift radio station, the tension in the room palpable.
"Station, this is Specter-1. How copy?" Specter-1's voice was steady, but there was an edge to it as he leaned over the radio, fingers drumming on the table.
"Specter-1, this is Station. Reading you Lima-Charlie," came the clear response from the radio operator stationed at Fort Harling.
Specter-1 took a deep breath, eyes flicking to the men around him. "We've got a significant problem, sir. I need Colonel McKinsey on the line. Urgent."
There was a crackle and a brief pause before Colonel McKinsey's authoritative voice broke through. "I'm here, Captain. What's the situation?"
Specter-1's gaze darkened, recalling the disturbing scene they'd witnessed. "Colonel, we've observed Prince Zorzal meeting with an unknown noble, heavily adorned in what looked like ceremonial robes—gold and silver detailing. The intel we gathered suggests this noble is looking to buy Princess Piña."
The room was silent save for the hum of the radio. McKinsey's reply came a moment later, the disbelief thick in his tone. "The Princess? How could he possibly sell her?"
Specter-1's jaw clenched as he dropped the bombshell. "Sir, Zorzal has imprisoned her in the castle. We have no Idea why he has imprisoned her but I want her out of there, before she's sold off as a slave."
The line went quiet for a few seconds as McKinsey processed the information. The operatives shifted uneasily, aware that the stakes had just risen dramatically.
"Roger that, Specter-1. I'll send an additional team of OIA operatives to support you, but that's all we can spare for now. Be advised, we won't be able to send in evac helos until we have full air superiority," McKinsey stated, his tone firm. "You, the reinforcements, and the Princess will need to hold tight at the safe house until then."
Specter-1 exhaled, running a hand over his brow as he acknowledged. "Understood, Colonel. We'll make it work. Specter-1 out."
Specter-1 turned to his team, eyes glinting with determination. "Alright, listen up. We're holding tight until the OIA team gets here. Once they're on-site, we move fast and bring the Princess to the safe house. Stay sharp, this is going to be tight."
The operatives nodded, checking their gear and mentally preparing for the extraction ahead. The tension in the room was palpable, but each of them knew what was at stake.
-Operation Ace of Hearts-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Sader, Capital
Dungeons
Princess Piña Colada
There was a creaking sound and the door swung open, revealing a guard, Zorzal, and a man Piña had seen once but couldn't remember his name.
She felt horrible. It was the culmination of exhaustion, hunger, and the relentless knot of fear twisting in her gut. Her once-pristine armor discarded, her skin bruised from days spent in the damp, unforgiving cell. Piña raised her eyes to meet Zorzal's, noting the triumphant smirk that made her shiver. He stepped forward, the echo of his boots reverberating against the stone walls.
"Little sister," Zorzal drawled, his tone a blend of mockery and superiority. "I hope your stay has been enlightening."
The man beside him, dressed in an elegant robe adorned with hints of gold and silver, shifted slightly, his cold, calculating eyes fixed on her. Piña vaguely recognized him, struggling to recall his name. All she remembered was that he was one of the Senators who had fervently supported the war on the Gate Forces.
Piña clenched her fists, fighting the tremor in her voice. "What more do you want, Zorzal? You have the throne, the power. Why keep me here?"
Zorzal's smirk widened as he exchanged a glance with the man. "Oh, dear sister, you still think this is about power? No, this is about breaking you and crushing the will of those cowardly senators who shy away from confronting the armies from beyond the Gate."
The man took a step forward, his voice deep and laced with a touch of condescension. "Since his majesty Emperor Zorzal has disowned you, you no longer hold the rank of Princess. And with your imprisonment, you are now fair game for the market."
Piña's heart dropped at his words, the implication sinking in like a cold blade. She knew exactly what "fair game for the market" meant—stripped of her title, her fate would now be that of a commodity, a symbol of Zorzal's cruelty and power over those who dared to oppose him.
Zorzal's smirk turned into a grin, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Do you understand now, sister? Your fall will send a message to the senators and the people alike. No one stands against me without paying the price."
The man beside him folded his arms, watching her reaction with an expression that was almost bored, as if he'd witnessed this power play a dozen times before. Piña met his eyes again, searching for a hint of mercy or doubt, but found none. He was loyal to Zorzal's vision, no matter how twisted it was.
Drawing a shaky breath, she steadied herself. "The people won't stand for this. The Empire will not tolerate it!"
Zorzal's grin faltered for a moment before he leaned down, his face mere inches from hers. "We shall see, dear sister. The markets open tomorrow. Enjoy your last night of nobility."
He turned on his heel, the guard falling into step behind him. The man lingered a moment longer, studying her with those cold, analytical eyes. Then he, too, left, the heavy door slamming shut and leaving Piña alone in the suffocating darkness.
Despite the fear coursing through her, she clenched her fists tighter, the rough stone floor biting into her skin. She wouldn't give Zorzal the satisfaction of seeing her despair. If she was to face the unthinkable, she would do so with her head held high, hoping that somewhere, someone would come to her aid—or that she could find a way to fight from within the storm.
-Operation Ace of Hearts-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Fort Harling
Special Agent Hudson, OIA
They were known simply as Team Kilo, an elite special operations unit specializing in deep-penetration search and rescue missions. Their primary focus was to extract high-value personnel from hostile territory, including downed pilots and stranded special ops teams. Comparable to the OADF Pararescue Jumpers, they held a reputation for being even more formidable and efficient—a testament to their rigorous training and unmatched field expertise.
Assigned under the OIA Special Activities Division, Team Kilo, accompanied by the seasoned Agent Hudson, was preparing to board a waiting C-17 Globemaster. The aircraft would carry them over the heart of the Empire, to the capital city of Sadera. From there, the operators would execute a high-altitude, low-opening jump, designed to minimize detection and place them just beyond the city walls.
Once on the ground, they were to rendezvous with Specter Team, a reconnaissance and intelligence unit embedded within the Empire's borders. Under the cover of night, the combined teams would advance through the shadowed streets and navigate the labyrinthine castle halls to reach the dungeons where Princess Piña was being held.
The mission was daring, almost reckless, but it was the only chance they had to liberate the Princess and disrupt Zorzal's ruthless hold over the Empire. As the crew completed the final checks and the C-17 engines roared to life, the operators exchanged silent nods. Each one understood the stakes—they weren't just rescuing a royal; they were striking a blow for hope against tyranny.
"Agent, here Station, do you read us?"
"Loud and clear, Station. Send traffic," Hudson replied, his voice steady as he adjusted his comms gear, the hum of the C-17's engines vibrating beneath his boots.
"Agent Hudson, this is Colonel McKinsey," the voice on the other end crackled through the headset, firm and commanding. "We've gathered what assets we could on short notice. You will have air support in the form of a F/A-18 Super Hornet carrying ADM-160 Decoys. Additionally, an AC-130J Ghostrider will be providing overwatch and fire support. However, be advised, the Ghostrider is coming from another Fire Support mission and is almost Winchester. They'll only be able to Orbit for about five minutes before they need to RTB."
Hudson's jaw tightened slightly, processing the limited window of support. "Understood, Colonel."
"One more thing," McKinsey continued. "From this moment on, the Princess is to be referred to by the call sign 'Ace of Hearts.' Ensure absolute radio discipline. Do you copy?"
Hudson glanced around at the team, who were now listening intently. "Copy that, Colonel. Ace of Hearts, radio discipline confirmed. We're ready."
"Good. Godspeed, Hudson. Bring her home."
"Roger that, Colonel. Hudson out."
He switched off the comms and addressed Team Kilo, his eyes meeting theirs with a sharp, focused intensity. "You heard the man. We've got limited time with the Ghostrider, so we'll need to be precise and fast. The Princess is now 'Ace of Hearts.' No slip-ups. We go in fast and undetected, then the same way out again. Let's make it count."
A unified nod passed through the team, their expressions a mix of readiness and steely resolve. The roar of the C-17's engines filled the cabin as they approached their drop point, the tension growing with every passing second. The operation was on the brink of execution, and failure was not an option.
The brakes were released, and the massive cargo aircraft began to move, its four turbofan engines whining as the pilots increased thrust and taxied toward the runway. The steady rumble beneath their feet vibrated through the fuselage as Team Kilo and Agent Hudson felt the anticipation build. The mission was now a living, breathing reality.
Behind the C-17, a single F/A-18 fighter jet emerged from it's Hangar, sleek and imposing. The jet taxied behind the Cargo aircraft, it's engines roaring to life as they prepared for takeoff. Their role was critical: they would overtake the Globemaster and launch the ADM-160 Miniature Air Launched Decoy, ensuring the confusion of enemy radar and making them launch Interceptors at the decoys instead of the Globemaster. The synchronized effort was a testament to the coordination between air and ground operations—each piece moving with precision to secure a path for the high-risk mission.
The pilots of the C-17 received the clearance and began to accelerate down the runway, the engines thundering as the massive aircraft gained speed. In the distance, the single F/A-18 Hornet. Carrying the ADM-160 Miniature Air launched Decoys followed, ready to ascend and comfuse the Enemy Radars. Within minutes, the Super Hornet would streak ahead, fire it's payload into Sadera's airspace to confuse enemy defenses and signal the beginning of the daring infiltration.
Team Kilo adjusted their harnesses, exchanging silent, resolute glances as the runway lights blurred by. The cargo aircraft lifted off, banking smoothly as it set its course for the Empire's capital. This was it—no turning back now. The mission to extract the Ace of Hearts had begun.
Hudson took a moment to survey the team, their determined faces illuminated by the soft glow of the red cabin lights. The tension was palpable, but so was the unwavering resolve. A surge of satisfaction ran through him as he keyed his radio and hailed their advance team.
"Specter, Specter, this is Kilo-1 Actual. How copy, over?"
A brief crackle of static followed before Specter-1's voice came through, clear and confident. "Kilo-1 Actual, this is Specter-Lead. We read you loud and clear, Lima Charlie. I assume you're en route, over?"
"Affirmative, Specter-Lead," Hudson replied. "We've received updated mission data. The Princess is now to be referred to as 'Ace of Hearts.' We'll have air support from an Ghostrider and a squadron of ADM-160 decoys for electronic warfare. How copy so far, over?"
"Solid copy, Kilo. Ace of Hearts confirmed, along with air support from the AC-130 Juliet and Decoys. We'll be ready, over."
Hudson nodded, a sense of calm efficiency washing over him. "Roger that, Specter-Lead. Our ETA is T-minus three mikes. Kilo-Actual out."
He released the radio key and glanced at the operators one last time, each of them giving a subtle nod in acknowledgment. The final countdown had begun, and every second brought them closer to the perilous drop over Sadera. They were ready to execute the mission, no matter the odds.
"Yo, Agent!" one of the operators called out, breaking the silence.
"Yeah?" Hudson answered, turning his head.
The operator, hands resting on his plate carrier, smirked. "Weren't you just leading a rescue mission in that other city not too long ago?"
Hudson let out a short laugh. "Funny you mention that," he replied. "If I got a penny for every time I had to lead a rescue mission to exfil what are essentially aliens, I'd have two pennies. Ain't much, but it's fuckin weird that it happened twice already."
The operatives around him chuckled, the humor cutting through the tension and lightening the mood. It was a small moment, but one that reminded them why they did this—to bring people home, no matter who or where they were. Hudson allowed himself a brief smile before the hum of the engines brought them back into focus. The mission was underway, and soon, it would be time to jump.
The loadmaster strode past them, his voice booming throughout the cabin. "Alright everyone, up on your feet! 30 seconds till drop zone!"
The operators sprang into action, rising as one, their movements practiced and precise. The ramp of the C-17 began to lower, revealing a sweeping view of the cloudy night sky, dark and endless. The cold rush of wind filled the cabin, mingling with the steady hum of the engines and the thrum of anticipation.
"Gear check!" the loadmaster barked, eyes scanning the line of operators.
The last Kilo operator inspected the parachute rig of the man in front of him, giving a curt but firm, "Gear checked! Okay!"
The checks continued down the line, each operator confirming their teammate's readiness with sharp nods and crisp declarations until it reached Hudson at the front. He felt the last tug on his parachute and turned back to the team. The wind roared around them, but his voice cut through it like a blade. "Gear checked! Everyone okay!"
A chorus of affirmatives came in response, shouted over the howling wind. Hudson's eyes met the loadmaster's, who gave a thumbs-up and a knowing nod.
"Stand by. 10 seconds!" the loadmaster yelled, his voice cutting through the noise. All eyes shifted to the red light on the cabin wall, the tension coiling tighter as they awaited the signal.
The operators crouched slightly, ready to spring forward. Adrenaline surged through their veins, fueling every heartbeat. The roar of the engines and the howl of the wind seemed to fade into the background as the world narrowed to that single light.
It turned green, casting an eerie glow across the interior.
The loadmaster's head snapped to Kilo, eyes fierce. "Get off my plane! GO! GO! GO!"
Hudson led the charge, bolting forward and diving into the open sky. One by one, the operators followed, disappearing into the swirling night with practiced precision. The rush of wind enveloped them as they plummeted through the dark, the faint glow of the Empire's capital below them their only guide.
The mission had officially begun.
The Decoys approached at a low altitude, skimming just above the treetops to avoid early detection. Their engines roared as they cut through the night sky, shadows darting beneath the dark clouds. At the designated point, the targeting system pulled up sharply, the cruise missiles banking into steep climbs as their electronic warfare systems powered on.
In an instant, the Decoys powered up and send Radar Returns in form of B-52s, F-15 EX Eagles, F-16s simulating a whole Air Assault on Sadera and sending the United states forces into a frenzy.
The comms of the United States forces erupted in a flurry of panicked voices as radar screens across their command centers blinked and then went dark. Operators scrambled to reactivate their systems, but to their horror, some consoles sparked and overloaded, leaving them momentarily blind and in disarray.
"We've got a massive formation of Aircraft over our heads! How weren't they detected!" one operator shouted, his voice barely audible over the chorus of urgent chatter filling the room.
Matthews clenched his jaw, eyes scanning the chaos around him as the realization set in. They knew all too well what this meant—hostile aircraft moving unchecked through their airspace. The last time this had happened, in Rondel, it had led to a devastating blow, one they could not afford to repeat.
"We need interceptors up now!" he barked, slamming his fist on the table, the urgency crackling through the room. "If we don't stop them now, we'll be staring down another Rondel situation. We'll lose everything—this war will be over, and they'll have won!"
The command center fell silent for a heartbeat, the weight of his words sinking in. Then, like a spark to dry tinder, the room burst into action. Orders were shouted, flight crews were scrambled, and the hum of jet engines preparing for takeoff rumbled through the base. The stakes had never been higher, and every soldier and pilot knew that failure was not an option. This was their last chance to turn the tide before it was too late.
Simultaneously, Hudson and Team Kilo had already landed outside the towering walls of Sadera. The descent had gone smoothly, and the silence around them indicated they were still undetected. Moving quickly and efficiently, the team discarded their parachutes, tucking them under the cover of dense trees to conceal any trace of their arrival.
With their gear checked and weapons at the ready, they moved out, each operator blending seamlessly with the shadows. The rally point wasn't far, and they advanced with practiced precision, senses sharp for any sign of danger.
As they approached, the dim moonlight illuminated six figures standing in a loose formation. They wore robes that might have passed for typical Imperial garb at a distance, but the tactical headsets secured over their heads and the rifles cradled in their arms revealed their true identities.
Hudson's eyes narrowed slightly as he signaled for the team to halt and spread out in a defensive semicircle. He stepped forward cautiously, raising one hand in a silent greeting. One of the figures stepped out from the group, lowering the hood of their robe to reveal a hardened face with sharp eyes.
"Specter-Lead," the man said, nodding in recognition. "You're right on time."
"Always," Hudson replied, his tone level but urgent. "SitRep?"
"Perimeter is clear, and we've scouted a route. No patrols between here and the castle, but there's increased guard presence around the dungeon entrances. They're expecting trouble."
Hudson nodded. "Good. We move now, under full cover. Ace of Hearts won't wait forever."
Specter team exchanged glances, then fell into formation with Kilo Team. Under the cover of darkness, they began their advance toward the castle, every step bringing them closer to the heart of enemy territory and their mission's critical objective.
A total of thirteen men moved in tight formation through the narrow, shadowed streets of the Akusho district. The air was thick with the stench of damp stone, mingled with the faint sounds of revelry and drunken laughter drifting from distant taverns. Above the rooftops, the wail of alarms from the U.S. base outside the main city blared into the night, a chaotic cacophony of sirens and shouts. Searchlights cut across the sky in frantic, sweeping arcs, searching desperately for the massive formation of aircraft that wasn't even there.
Hudson and the two teams exchanged brief, knowing glances. The ADM-160 decoys had done their job perfectly; the base was now on full alert, chasing phantoms in the night sky. The electronic deception had created enough chaos to buy Kilo and Specter Team precious time, allowing them to slip further into the maze of the main City undetected.
Their movements were methodical, each step soundless as they navigated the darkened alleys. The Multicam Black uniforms melded seamlessly with the shadows, turning the operators into wraiths gliding through the night.
U.S. patrols became a rarity the deeper the two teams pushed into the city. The initial chaos and confusion had left the outer districts scrambling, but here, in the heart of Sadera, the castle cast a long and foreboding shadow over the streets. The tension was palpable, each corner they turned an exercise in controlled nerves.
As they drew closer to the castle, the presence of Imperial knights increased. Clad in armor that gleamed under the intermittent torchlight, the knights patrolled with rigid discipline, their eyes sharp but unaware of the danger slipping by in the dark.
"Didn't you say the path should be clear?" Hudson whispered to Specter-1, casting a wary glance at a pair of knights patrolling further down the cobblestone street.
"The alarms triggered by the decoys probably spooked the hell out of them," Specter-1 replied, keeping his eyes ahead as he moved. His steps were deliberate, each one calculated to avoid loose stones and debris that could betray their position.
"Makes sense…" Hudson muttered, the tension in his voice betraying a hint of frustration. The decoys had done their job of creating chaos, but it seemed the panic had driven more guards toward the heart of the city than expected.
They paused in the shadow of an arched entryway, waiting as another patrol passed. The metallic clink of armor and hushed murmurs of the knights drifted past them. Hudson held his breath, every muscle coiled, ready for any sudden movement.
Once the patrol was out of earshot, Specter-1 gave a quick hand signal, and the teams pressed forward again. The castle walls loomed ever closer, towering and silent, daring them to make their move. The mission was tightening around them, the window of opportunity growing slimmer with each passing moment.
"How are we gonna get inside?" one of the Kilo operators asked, breaking the silence with the question hanging on everyone's mind.
Hudson glanced over at Specter-1, who exchanged a knowing look with him. "There's an old service tunnel that runs beneath the east wall," Specter-1 replied, his voice low but confident. "Used for smuggling goods in and out during times of siege. It should be unguarded, or at least, lightly watched."
The operator nodded, though a hint of skepticism flashed across his face. "And if it's not?"
Hudson's mouth twitched into a small, humorless smile. "We got these, don't we?" he said, raising his LVOA-C rifle for emphasis.
The operator he'd addressed glanced at the rifle and then back at Hudson, a slight smirk forming on his face. "Eh… I guess," he muttered, a touch of dry humor slipping through.
The brief exchange lightened the tension for a moment, a small reminder of their confidence in each other and their training. Specter-1 gave them both a sharp look, though a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. "Save the jokes for after the extraction," he said. "We move now."
Hudson nodded, signaling the team to proceed. The quiet camaraderie settled into the determined silence of professionals at work. With weapons raised and every sense attuned to the night, they pressed on toward the hidden entrance. The castle walls, imposing and ancient, stood as a formidable barrier, but the team approached with the unyielding resolve of men who'd faced worse and won.
"Over here…" Specter-1 muttered, directing his IR laser toward a narrow opening in the massive castle wall. The entrance was barely visible, cloaked in shadow and hidden from the casual eye. To an ordinary soldier, it would have blended seamlessly with the ancient stonework, but the operators' advanced night vision goggles turned the darkness into their ally.
Hudson scanned the area, the White-phosphor-tinted landscape of his night vision merging seamlessly with the advanced IR motion tracker built into the system. The combined technology painted a clear picture: no movement, no heat signatures. The path was as clear as they could hope for. With a subtle hand signal, he motioned for the team to move up.
Each operator shifted silently, their movements honed and deliberate as they approached the opening in the castle wall. The faintest rustle of fabric and the soft scrape of boots against stone were the only sounds as they took up positions around the entrance, eyes alert and rifles at the ready.
Specter-1 gave Hudson a brief nod, indicating all was set. Hudson responded with a quick gesture, signaling the team to prepare for entry. The night pressed around them, cold and watchful, as they prepared to breach the silent fortress that lay ahead. The castle loomed ominously, but to the operators of Kilo and Specter, it was just another challenge to overcome.
Together, they breached the entrance, moving silently and precisely into the cave. The faint glow of their IR lights cast a subtle, invisible beam, illuminating the space for their eyes only and leaving anyone without night vision capabilities in complete darkness. The cave's jagged walls flickered in ghostly White tones through their goggles, while their boots made only the slightest noise against the rocky floor.
Their rifles swept in calculated arcs, side to side, up and down, each operator covering angles as they quickened their pace. Every step brought them closer to the castle's inner sanctum, the tension coiling tighter with each second.
At the end of the tunnel, a closed wooden door loomed, heavy and foreboding. Its iron hinges were crusted with rust, hinting at years of disuse. But the silence beyond it was deceptive; it could be concealing guards, a trap, or worse. Hudson raised a fist, and the team halted immediately. His eyes scanned the door, then flicked to Specter-1, who nodded subtly.
"Snake cam," Specter-1 ordered, his voice low and steady. Without hesitation, Specter-2 stepped forward, pulling the flexible rod from his gear and sliding it smoothly under the slit of the door. The small camera transmitted a grainy, night-vision feed back to his goggles as he swept it across the room.
Specter-2 scanned the dark chamber on the other side, eyes flicking over stone walls, dusty crates, and cobweb-laced corners. Finally, he muttered, "A huge pile of nothing, sir." His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it carried the reassurance they needed.
Hudson nodded, the faintest smirk touching his lips. "We keep it that way. Breach on three," he said, signaling the operators to take positions on either side of the door. Rifles were at the ready, the tension thick as they waited for the next command.
Specter-1 held up three fingers and began the silent countdown. Three… two… one.
With a soft push, the door eased open, and the team slipped inside, rifles sweeping methodically to confirm what the snake cam had already shown. The room was dark and empty, a storeroom forgotten by time, filled with dust and the faint, musty smell of old wood and stone.
Hudson's eyes scanned the room, finding nothing but the silence that pressed in around them. This was just the beginning; the real challenge was yet to come.
"Perfect… move it," Hudson whispered, his voice barely audible but carrying the urgency of their mission. The operators pushed forward, moving through the narrow corridor with practiced precision. Their IR lights swept across the stone walls, highlighting ancient cracks and the occasional cobweb that clung to the edges of the path.
The stairwell loomed ahead, its spiral disappearing into the darkness above. Hudson took point, leading the team up the stone steps, each operator following in a tight, silent formation. The air grew colder as they ascended, the weight of centuries pressing down around them. The muffled sounds of distant footsteps and faint echoes hinted at life deeper within the castle, but none close enough to register as an immediate threat.
Reaching the top of the stairwell and stepping onto the first floor of the massive castle, Hudson's eyes scanned the familiar stone corridors. Memories of the last time he had been here resurfaced—back then, it had been under very different circumstances. The diplomatic mission had ended in failure, an encounter that had left a bitter taste and a stark reminder of the precarious balance between peace and conflict.
But tonight, failure was not an option. The stakes were higher, and Hudson's resolve was ironclad. He could feel the weight of the mission pressing on him, but it only fueled his determination. The castle, with its winding halls and maze-like architecture, was both an ally and an enemy; it provided cover but also potential traps. He recalled the layout from memory, each turn, each stair, imprinted from that failed mission.
Hudson glanced back at the team, giving them a silent nod before motioning forward. The operators spread out, moving in pairs, their rifles ready as they advanced down the corridor. The muffled sounds of voices echoed faintly from deeper within the fortress, but nothing close enough to cause alarm—yet.
This time, Hudson vowed, they would leave with the Ace of Hearts, and the mission would be a success. Failure was not an option.
The team moved silently through the dimly lit corridors, navigating the castle's twists and turns with the precision of seasoned operatives. Hudson took point, leading them deeper into the fortress, each step drawing them closer to the dungeons. The layout, familiar in his mind, guided them through narrow passageways and up another flight of stairs, where ancient sconces cast flickering shadows across the stone walls.
As they reached the second floor, the faint echo of voices carried down the corridor. Hudson raised a clenched fist, signaling a halt. The team dropped to a crouch, pressing themselves against the walls as the voices grew louder. Two Imperial knights appeared, their conversation hushed but casual as they walked past. One of them, however, noticed something amiss—a booted foot protruding slightly from the shadows. He brought his torch closer, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Before he could react, a gloved hand clamped over his mouth, silencing any cry. A sharp blade pierced his chest, driving deep into his lung. His eyes widened in shock and pain, the torch slipping from his grasp and clattering softly to the stone floor. He glanced toward his comrade, seeking help, but saw only another shadowy figure, knife flashing as it struck repeatedly, each thrust precise and lethal. The second knight's struggles were brief, his life extinguished in moments.
The operators eased the lifeless bodies to the ground, ensuring to hide them in the shadows and no sound betrayed their presence. Hudson signaled for the team to move, and they continued their advance, the corridor now silent once more.
They ascended another flight of stairs and reached the third floor. The atmosphere was colder here, more oppressive, as if the very walls whispered the secrets they held. This was where the dungeons were located, a place shrouded in darkness and silence. Hudson's eyes darted down the corridor, noting the intricately carved doors that marked this floor, including the imposing entrance with the replaced doors to Zorzal's chambers. The prince-turned-emperor was close, but he wasn't their objective. Their mission was clear: free Piña at all costs. Everything else was secondary.
"The dungeons are on the south side of the castle. We saw them from the safe house," Specter-1 whispered, his voice barely carrying over the still air. Hudson gave a curt nod, signaling his understanding, and took point once more.
They moved down the corridor, steps feather-light on the stone floor. The operators swept the hall with methodical precision, rifles trained on each corner and doorway as they advanced. Every shadow was a potential threat, every flicker of torchlight a possible patrol. The castle seemed to breathe around them, the ancient structure creaking softly as if aware of their presence.
They paused at a branching hallway, Hudson raising a hand to halt the team as two more guards passed by, their heavy boots echoing off the stone. The operators held their breath, pressed flat against the walls. When the guards turned a corner and disappeared, Hudson motioned them forward.
The team's pace quickened, moving with practiced precision toward the south side of the castle. The flickering torchlight dimmed as they neared the dungeons, replaced by the cold glow of lanterns that cast harsh, angular shadows across the rough stone walls. The scent of damp earth and iron filled the air, a prelude to what awaited them.
Hudson's pulse quickened as they reached the heavy, reinforced door to the dungeons. This was it—the point of no return. He signaled for Specter-2 to step forward and prepare to breach. The mission's most dangerous phase was about to begin, and the Ace of Hearts was just beyond that door.
Specter-2 dropped to one knee, moving swiftly but precisely as he unpacked his lock-picking kit. The small, metallic tools gleamed dully in the dim lantern light as he selected the right picks with practiced ease. The rest of the team fanned out around him, rifles raised and eyes scanning the dark corridor for any signs of approaching guards.
The air was tense, filled with the faint clinking of metal as Specter-2 worked the intricate lock. Hudson's heart thudded in his chest, each second feeling like an eternity. He glanced over at Specter-1, who nodded back with a silent assurance that they were on track.
A soft click broke the silence, and Specter-2's eyes lit up. He turned slightly, giving Hudson a quick nod. "We're in," he whispered, tucking his tools away and stepping aside.
Hudson checked his chamber one last time, ensuring a round was chambered and everything was in place. With a slight push, he eased the door open, the ancient hinges giving only a soft groan. The room before them was a long, narrow corridor lined with cell doors on both sides, the air thick with the musty scent of stone and dampness. Shadows flickered as their IR lights swept the hall, casting eerie shapes across the walls.
There were no guards or knights in sight—an unexpected stroke of luck or perhaps a sign of overconfidence from their enemy. Hudson motioned with two fingers, signaling the team to spread out and search the cells. The operators moved swiftly but carefully, each one taking a side of the corridor, pulling open the viewports of the heavy cell doors, and peering inside before closing them again.
"Negative ID," one operator muttered, moving to the next cell, eyes sharp and rifle ready.
"Clear," came another hushed report as the search continued down the dimly lit hall. The air felt heavier here, thick with dampness and the smell of rust and old straw. The shadows cast by their IR lights played across the walls, dancing shapes that seemed to move in sync with the tension building in the room.
Each cell revealed emptiness or the occasional forgotten prisoner, eyes hollow and unrecognizing, too broken to react. But none of them were Piña.
Hudson's jaw tightened as they neared the end of the corridor. Time was running out, and every second they spent searching was a second closer to discovery. He scanned the last few cells, muscles tense and ready for action.
One of the Kilo operatives pulled open a heavy hatch, his regular flashlight cutting through the gloom of the room beyond. The beam swept over a tangle of red hair strewn across a bench, and he paused, adjusting the light to see more clearly. The figure began to stir, the light rousing them from sleep. As the person shifted, the operative could see it was a young woman, likely in her early twenties. His pulse quickened as he glanced at the mission pad strapped to his wrist and compared the face of the squinting woman to the image of Princess Piña. Relief surged through him.
"Positive ID in here," he whisper-yelled, the tension in his voice replaced with urgency.
For Piña, the sight was bewildering. The sudden glare of the strange, magical light forced her to squint, trying to adjust her eyes. A masked figure clad in sleek, unfamiliar combat gear stood at the entrance, his silhouette stark and imposing. Panic and confusion coursed through her, but a glimmer of hope cut through the fear. These were not Zorzal's men. Whoever they were, they hopefully weren't here to harm her.
Then all fear left her as an all-too-familiar face appeared at the viewing port. Hudson's concerned eyes locked onto hers, his expression stunned and filled with urgency.
"Dear God… Open the door," he ordered, his voice laced with both relief and determination.
Specter-2 didn't waste a second, dropping to one knee and pulling out his lock-picking set. The metallic clicks of the picks working inside the lock filled the silence, each sound sharper and more urgent than the last. After a few tense moments, the lock gave way with a soft click, and Specter-2 stepped aside as Hudson pushed the door open and rushed inside.
The sight of him, familiar and real, shattered whatever composure Piña had left. A sob escaped her lips as she fell to her knees, the weight of days of fear and helplessness breaking loose. Tears streamed down her cheeks, relief and raw emotion overwhelming her. Hudson's heart clenched as he saw her collapse, but he was at her side in an instant, kneeling to catch her and steady her.
"It's okay, Piña. We're here now. We're getting you out," he said, his voice firm but gentle. He reached out, his gloved hand touching her shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. She clung to him, the sobs wracking her body as the hope she had dared not entertain finally came to life. The team stood guard, their eyes scanning the corridor, ready for any threat as their leader comforted the princess.
Two Kilo operatives stepped inside and immediately began a series of quick checks on Piña, their hands moving with practiced efficiency. One examined her pulse while the other inspected her for any immediate injuries. The room was silent except for the faint rustling of their movements and the muffled sounds of the castle beyond.
"She's dehydrated and malnourished," one operative reported, glancing back at Hudson with a grim expression. "A few bruises, but nothing broken. She's stable."
Hudson's eyes softened as he looked at Piña, taking in the pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes, and the bruises marking her arms and face. Relief mingled with a simmering anger at what she had endured. But there was no time for that now.
He nodded, squeezing her shoulder gently. "You're going to be alright. We're getting you out of here."
Piña met his eyes, the exhaustion and pain in her expression slowly giving way to a determined glimmer. She nodded weakly, her trust in Hudson and his team evident even through the fog of her exhaustion.
Hudson was a deeply introverted man when it came to his personal life. Whether it was a result of years in the field, a shield built from the constant pressure and danger, or the remnants of a childhood he never spoke about, no one knew—not even the closest members of his team. He had maintained that wall even when he first met Piña, refusing to let any part of himself slip through the cracks.
But there was something about her that stirred an instinct in him. It wasn't romantic; the age difference alone ensured that. She was at least ten years his junior, a young leader with an idealistic heart wrapped in the trappings of nobility. Yet, despite that, Hudson felt an undeniable pull, an urge to protect her. He couldn't quite pinpoint when it started or why it had taken root so firmly in his chest. Perhaps it was seeing her try to balance the brutal weight of leadership with a sense of justice, or perhaps it was simply the vulnerability that lay beneath her royal façade.
That feeling, that need to shield her from harm, had driven him more than he cared to admit. And now, seeing her in this state—bruised, weak, yet still holding herself together—it cemented that resolve. Hudson knew he would do whatever it took to see her safe, even if he could never fully understand why this protective instinct burned so fiercely within him.
"Stay with me, Piña," he whispered, more to himself than to her as he prepared to lead them out of the castle and into the night that would decide their fate.
A/N:
Alrighty Lads! This is where I draw a line gawd damnit. 13k words I'm fucking exhausted.
Except for that, there is nothing really much to say besides a Thank you for reading :)
Reviews:
Bazeblade—As off now, canonically with this story, the US citizens have no Idea what's going on in the Gate. I have a chapter written to describe the Situation in the US while the Gate war is being waged.
The US Military will take a heavy Hit for sure and the Citizens, once word reaches them, will also start to act up. I can definitely see that happening.
Sorry for the Spoiler but I am planing on making China, Russia and USA allies for a time until shit hits the fan and they hate each other again.
Guest-Bob Belkan—Why do I have so many Belkans here?! Anyways yes I see where you're coming from but them people over there have another project to finish first before they go to the seas.
For'Sleep 3rd—I definetly see where you're coming from and I agree 100 Percent. I guess that's why there are so many fics handling politics better than the actual anime (Exclude mine).
Hurting Itami that extensively seems a little to much for my liking. Sure I will have him catch a round or two but not more. Of course there will be PTSD.
Guest-Monarch—Yes, there will be a good/bad Japan scenario here but It won't include Osea or the other two nations and their super planes. Sry mate.
Guest-Future Belkan—Now I see... APPROVED!
schwarzhayasaka—I am currently rewriting the first 10 to 15 Chapters, from about chap 20 things get good. My writing started really amateurish but it gets better.