-Operation Fallen Eagle-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Fort Harling, Hospital
Room 225
Room 225, at first glance, appeared like any other hospital room. The plain white ceiling, standard medical equipment, and the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor gave it an air of normalcy. But this space was far from ordinary—it was a fortress disguised as a sanctuary. The spotless, clear windows were bulletproof, capable of withstanding high-caliber rounds such as .50 BMG or .50 Krupnokaliberny. The walls were lined with soundproofing material, ensuring no sound—cry, whisper, or scream—escaped. The heavy reinforced door, blast-proof and unyielding, could withstand the force of a hand grenade.
This room was reserved solely for Princess Cossette and her newborn as she recovered from the stabbing that had nearly taken her life. Just outside, a contingent of GIGN operatives stood on high alert, fully outfitted in tactical gear. Their dark helmets and visors concealed any emotion, their weapons—MPs and PDWs—primed for action. Each operative was stationed with unwavering focus, fingers hovering over their triggers. Their orders were clear and unforgiving: shoot first, ask questions later.
Inside, Cossette lay quietly in the hospital bed, the thick blanket draped over her slender frame. Her breathing was slow and steady, but her mind was far from tranquil. The heavy silence in the room was broken only by the soft, rhythmic breaths of her newborn son, Arthur, who slept soundly in a cradle beside her. His serene presence seemed almost otherworldly, a fragile bubble of innocence amidst the chaos of an interplanetary war.
Cossette reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the cradle, her eyes lingering on her son's peaceful face. For a brief moment, Arthur's presence brought her a fragile sense of calm, a fleeting reminder of the beauty she was fighting to protect. Yet, the memories of that horrific night clawed their way back to the surface—the attack, the screams, the cold steel against her skin.
Despite the layers of security around her, the unease gnawed at her, an unrelenting shadow she couldn't escape. The events replayed in her mind, sharp and unyielding. Nick, her rock and the father of her child, was still missing. The thought of him in the hands of his captors was enough to make her chest tighten. And Arthur—her precious, fragile son—could have been hurt. Or worse.
Her fingers curled into the blanket, gripping it tightly as her knuckles turned white. She took a deep, shaky breath, forcing herself to look away from the cradle. For Arthur's sake, she couldn't break. Not now. Not ever. Her resolve solidified, and she whispered to herself, a quiet vow that carried the weight of her heart.
"I'll get him back. No matter what it takes."
But as Cossette fought to hold herself together, unbeknownst to her, Trigger was already one step ahead. Even in the depths of captivity, his mind worked relentlessly, formulating a plan to make it back to her and Arthur.
-Operation Castle Hopping-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Bellnahgo City
Coalition Forces
South-Southwest at the main gate of Bellnahgo, Coalition forces had successfully established a secure bridgehead. The forward operating units, a combination of small tactical infantry units, helicopters, and armored vehicles, pressed deeper into the city. Tactical teams moved methodically, clearing one street and house after another, dismantling the last remnants of Imperial Knights still loyal to Zorzal and scattered U.S. forces caught in disarray.
The operation unfolded like a well-rehearsed play, each element working in perfect sync to maintain their momentum. Osean AH-64 Apache gunships and Yuktobanian Mi-35 Super Hinds roared low over the battlefield, their rotors kicking up dust and debris as they provided suppressive fire and overwatch. Below, Erusean Leclerc tanks and Yuktobanian BMPT Terminators crushed through the narrow, cobblestone streets, their presence an unstoppable force shielding infantry as they advanced. Occasionally, the streets echoed with the sharp bursts of gunfire and the distant thud of controlled explosions, the sounds reverberating off the ancient stone walls of Bellnahgo.
The enemy resistance was fragmented and disorganized. Imperial forces, already battered from earlier engagements, were no match for the Coalition's firepower and coordination. What few U.S. troops remained often hesitated, their resolve shaken at the mere sight of an Apache or Fullback thundering overhead.
The operation had begun with devastating precision. Yuktobanian SU-34 Fullbacks and Erusean AV-8B Harriers spearheaded the assault with a meticulously coordinated bombing run that obliterated Bellnahgo's key defensive emplacements. The Fullbacks flew in from Rondel, where Osean Seabees and Yuktobanian combat engineers had managed to rebuild the bombed runway. This critical feat opened the base for full-scale operations, allowing the Coalition to strike farther north without relying on aerial refueling or needing to return to Fort Harling for rearmament. Erusean aircraft launched from Itallica, refueled at Rondel, and carried out their devastating airstrikes with precision. Overhead, A-10 Warthogs from Striker Squadron maintained a relentless tempo, providing close air support for Yuktobanian ground forces advancing on the city. Meanwhile, Thunder and Underdog Squadrons loitered in the skies, ready to pounce on any hostile aircraft daring to challenge Coalition air supremacy.
Once the bombing runs concluded, the Coalition's artillery took over, pounding strategic positions with calculated ferocity to further disorient the defenders. Among the artillery units, the Oseans had a new toy they wanted to test out, and this was the perfect place for it. Developed by both the North Osean Gründer Corporation and Belkan arms manufacturer Königswaffe GmbH, it was called the Panzerhaubitze-2000, or PZH-2000 for short. A marvel of cutting-edge artillery, this self-propelled gun could link with UAVs for pinpoint precision, delivering devastating firepower with unmatched accuracy. It could even coordinate with orbital satellites for targeting or operate traditionally with a forward observer on the ground.
But what set it apart was its MRSI capability—Multiple Rounds Simultaneous Impact. The PZH-2000 could fire five rounds at carefully calculated angles so that all the shells struck the target at nearly the same time, overwhelming defenses with a catastrophic barrage.
As the thunderous artillery fire rained down, enemy strongholds crumbled, their defenders left stunned and scrambling for cover.
With the defenders in disarray, Coalition ground forces wasted no time capitalizing on the confusion. Infantry squads moved with precision, neutralizing scattered defenders with ruthless efficiency. Mechanized units from both Yuktobanian and Osean forces secured critical chokepoints, ensuring that enemy forces could not regroup or counterattack. Erusean Leclerc tanks and Yuktobanian BMPT Terminators led the armored advance, their massive frames carving through Bellnahgo's narrow streets like an unstoppable tide. Resistance was fragmented at best, with some defenders surrendering outright while others were swiftly dispatched.
At the Coalition's makeshift command center just outside the city gates, the atmosphere mirrored the intensity of the battlefield. The tent, heavily reinforced with sandbags and camouflage netting, was a bustling hub of activity. Inside, operators worked tirelessly at advanced communications and ISR systems, their screens flickering with live drone feeds and high-definition thermal imaging. Tactical maps projected the Coalition's advance in real-time, with red markers denoting known enemy positions and blue markers highlighting friendly units steadily closing in on the city center.
Radio chatter filled the air, operators relaying orders to units on the ground with a calm, methodical precision. For many of the seasoned soldiers, the operation felt more like a live-fire exercise than a full-scale battle. The mismatch in technology and tactics was stark: Imperial knights armed with swords, spears, and shields were no match for modern firearms, tanks, and airstrikes. Even the scattered U.S. forces, though better equipped, found themselves overwhelmed by the Coalition's superior coordination and firepower.
Kingpin, this is Oscar 1-4 from the Eastern Walls. Requesting artillery fire at designated position. How copy? Over," crackled the voice of one of the many forward observers, his calm tone betraying the chaos unfolding beneath him. Smoke and distant gunfire peppered the skyline beyond the walls, the echoes of combat rising faintly over the static-filled radio.
"1-4, switch to channel 139.98 MHz. Warhammer is on standby and awaiting coordinates. Over," replied a radio operator from the command post, his voice crisp and professional as the artillery fire request was relayed.
"Warhammer, Warhammer, this is Oscar 1-4. Requesting artillery fire at grid Papa-Uniform—two—four—three—niner—niner—one. How copy? Over."
The static hissed for a moment before a gravelly voice came through. "1-4, this is Warhammer. Confirming coords: Papa-Uniform—two—three—four—niner—niner—one. How copy, over?"
"Uh… Negative, Warhammer. I say again, requesting artillery strike at Papa-Uniform—two—four—three—niner—niner—one. How copy? Over."
"Solid copy, 1-4. Papa-Uniform—two—four—three—niner—niner—one. Over."
"Affirmative, Warhammer. How copy? Over."
"Roger, 1-4. Stand by for fire mission."
"Roger. Standing by."
For a moment, the only sounds on the comms were the hum of static and the distant, rhythmic thud of outgoing mortar fire somewhere in the distance. The forward observer stood on the scorched battlement, scanning the target area through his binoculars. The enemy force below was a mix of infantry and armor regrouping, unaware of what was about to descend upon them.
"Uh… Oscar 1-4, this is Warhammer. Just to confirm, what are we shooting at? Over."
"Roger, target is… uh… five-zero Footmobiles, niner Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles and four Abrams Mike-Bravo-Tango. How copy, over?"
The comms went silent for a beat before the reply came, the radio operator's tone dropping into something sharp and focused. "Solid copy, 1-4. Stand by for fire mission. FDC coming online."
"Roger. Standing by," Oscar 1-4 replied, his pulse steady as he crouched down to take cover behind a low section of the stone wall, all the while keeping a vigilant eye on the enemy forces through the smoke and haze.
"1-4, Fire Direction Center here. Message to Observer: Five guns, five rounds. One gun spotting round. Two, three, and four guns H-E in effect."
"Lima Charlie, FDC. We're ready," Oscar 1-4 confirmed, his tone steady despite the tension crackling over the comms.
"Roger. One gun. Shot, over," the FDC replied, a subtle note of precision in the operator's voice as the order was passed down the line.
Oscar 1-4 adjusted his binoculars, focusing intently on the target grid as the faint whistle of the spotting round began to cut through the cacophony of distant gunfire. The sound grew louder, sharper, until the shell impacted with a deafening BOOM, sending a column of fire, dirt, and shrapnel into the air. The ground shook beneath him, and the smoke that followed rolled out like a wave, obscuring the chaos momentarily.
"Splash, over," Oscar 1-4 called into the radio, his gaze never leaving the target zone. He smirked as he watched figures scatter like ants below. "FDC, right on the mark. Fire for effect! I say again, fire for effect!"
"Solid copy, Oscar 1-4. Fire for effect," FDC acknowledged.
Seconds later, the unmistakable chorus of artillery erupted. Five PzH-2000s let loose in unison, their powerful recoils rumbling like thunder across the battlefield. The ground seemed to tremble beneath the weight of their combined firepower.
Oscar 1-4 kept his eyes fixed on the devastation below, each shell landing with pinpoint accuracy. The first wave detonated across the enemy positions, flipping armored vehicles and disintegrating entire formations of infantry. Fireballs bloomed, smoke plumes rose violently into the air, and the once-structured lines of resistance devolved into chaos.
"Impact complete, FDC," Oscar 1-4 reported, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "Target neutralized. Requesting status on follow-up barrage."
"Standby, Oscar 1-4. We're recalculating for secondary strikes. Good effect on target."
Oscar 1-4 lowered his binoculars and let out a sharp breath, watching the smoke-choked horizon. The Coalition's firepower had spoken, and the message was clear: resistance was futile.
Meanwhile, inside the city, the 61st Iron Horse Battalion pushed steadily through the dense streets of Bellnahgo, its armored might carving a relentless path forward. At the head of the formation, Iron Horse-1, the formidable M1A4 Abrams, rumbled like a beast awakened. Its massive treads crushed shattered wooden storefronts, broken carriages, and the remains of fallen Imperial knights, leaving nothing but dust and debris in its wake.
The remote-controlled machine gun mounted on top scanned rooftops, alleys, and windows with methodical precision, its barrel ready to fire at the first sign of a threat.
Behind the tank, Osean Marines followed closely, advancing on foot. They moved with practiced discipline, using the Abrams as mobile cover against unseen dangers lurking in the buildings ahead. Their weapons were raised, eyes sharp, every shadow treated as a potential ambush.
Up ahead, at an intersection, a group of Yuktobanian VDV troops had taken cover behind a burned-out BMPT Terminator. The wrecked vehicle was pockmarked with scorch marks and holes, evidence of the brutal fight that had taken place here earlier. The VDVs were hunkered low, rifles trained on the surrounding buildings as they awaited backup, their tension palpable.
"Intersection ahead," Harris called over comms. His voice was calm but firm. "Stay sharp. Something's up."
The tank slowed its pace, the engine rumbling like a low growl, as the infantry tightened their formation. The air was thick with smoke and the distant crack of gunfire, but the intersection ahead lay eerily still. Tension gripped the Marines as they moved cautiously forward, their boots crunching over shattered debris.
One of the Marines, Lance Corporal Meyers, broke formation and cautiously moved around the side of the tank, his rifle raised. He advanced toward the Yuktobanian VDV troops hunkered behind the burned-out BMPT. The Yuktobanians, realizing what he was doing, began to gesture frantically, waving him back.
"Go around, you idiot!" one of them hissed through gritted teeth, but Meyers either didn't hear or ignored the warning. He pressed himself against the crumbling wall of a nearby building, his back scraping against the rough brickwork. Adrenaline overriding caution, he took a deep breath and pushed off the wall, making a break to cross the exposed street.
A sharp crack echoed through the narrow streets.
The sound came faster than anyone could react.
Meyers' helmet flew off his head, spinning through the air as if tossed by invisible hands. He crumpled to the ground lifelessly, a clean hole punched through his skull, blood pooling rapidly around him.
"Sniper!" a Marine barked from behind the tank, his voice slicing through the chaos.
"Sniper!" the shout was echoed again and again, traveling like wildfire as Marines huddled down and scrambled for cover. Others grabbed Meyers' body by the arms and legs, dragging it back behind the Abrams as bullets pinged against nearby walls and sent dust spraying into the air.
"Where the hell is he?!" another Marine yelled.
Another Marine pulled a compact mirror from his pouch, his hands trembling slightly as he extended it around the edge of the Abrams to get a better look. A sharp crack rang out almost immediately, and the mirror shattered into pieces, shards clinking against the pavement. But not before the Marine caught sight of the glint of a rifle scope.
"Sniper! Green building, second floor, right window!" he yelled, pointing toward the building with a shaking hand.
The radio operator crouched low, huddled behind the tank, and keyed his comms. "Yo, Harris! We need you to advance and take out that sniper. Target: green building, second floor, right window. I say again, green building, second floor, right window. Over."
Inside Iron Horse-1, Harris gritted his teeth and replied through the radio, "Copy that." He flipped to the internal intercom. "Driver, advance and traverse left. Gunner, main gun at 40 percent power. Put an HE through that window."
"HE up!" Andreas, called out as he slammed the high-explosive round into the breach and secured it.
The tank rumbled forward, its heavy treads crushing debris beneath them. As the Abrams began its slow advance, part of its power was diverted from the railgun to the Active Protection System. A faint blue shield materialized around the tank, shimmering like a thin layer of energy and glowing faintly in the haze of the battlefield.
Lucas, maneuvered the tank with precision, angling it to provide the best shot for the gunner. Inside, Tarry aligned the crosshairs of the main gun with the green building's second-floor window, his hands steady on the controls.
"Target acquired," Tarry reported calmly. "Locked."
Harris leaned forward in his seat. "Fire."
The railgun emitted a low hum as the electromagnetic coils charged. Even at reduced power, the energy output was immense. A sharp hiss followed by a crackle signaled the release of the HE round. The projectile zipped through the air with blinding speed, impacting the second-floor window with devastating accuracy.
The explosion ripped through the structure, a massive fireball bursting from the second-floor window. The building groaned under the force before the entire thing crumbled inward, collapsing into a heap of debris and sending a dense cloud of smoke and dust into the air.
Inside the tank, Harris shrugged nonchalantly as the echoes of destruction subsided. "Hmm…" he muttered. "Forty percent might've still been a bit much," he added halfheartedly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He pushed open the hatch and climbed halfway out, his helmet catching the glint of daylight as he surveyed the scene. Turning back toward the Marines still hunkered down behind the wall, he spun his finger in the air. "It's clear, guys. Move it up!" he shouted.
The Marines exchanged quick glances before nodding, a renewed sense of confidence visible in their movements. One of them raised his hand and called out, "Let's go! Move!" They broke from their cover, moving low and fast as they advanced past the tank, their boots crunching against the debris-strewn ground.
A small group peeled off toward the Yuktobanian VDVs, coordinating their next move. Another squad cautiously approached the collapsed building, weapons trained on the rubble to ensure no threats emerged from the destruction.
Meanwhile, Harris kept his eyes on the surroundings, his hands steady on the controls of the 30mm chain gun mounted via the CROWS system atop the Abrams. The turret whirred softly as it scanned left and right, the barrel tracking windows, doorways, and any potential sniper perches.
Above the smoke-covered city of Bellnahgo, an Erusean UAV circled in precise orbits, its sensors scanning every corner of the battlefield. The operator's voice crackled over the comms, calm but firm.
"Kingpin, this is Avatar-1, standby for sitrep. Over."
"Roger that, Avatar-1. Kingpin standing by. Over," came the swift reply from the command center.
"Roger, Kingpin," the operator continued. "Here is Report 1-2. I have eyes on at least one-zero-zero personnel moving out in the open. Two-zero India-Foxtrot-Victors identified, along with more than a dozen MBTs approaching from the North-East. City Sector-1 Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie are fully secured by Coalition forces. Sector-2 Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie are also secured. Sector-3 Alpha is under full control, Bravo is actively contested, and Charlie remains under enemy occupation. How copy, over?"
The command center buzzed with activity as the report was relayed. A tactical officer leaned over a map display, marking the updated positions in red and blue.
"Solid copy, Avatar-1," Kingpin responded after a moment. "Maintain overwatch and keep us posted on enemy movements. Close air support is on standby. Over."
"Understood, Kingpin," the operator replied. "Avatar-1 maintaining overwatch. Out."
From the UAV's perspective, the battlefield looked like a patchwork quilt of chaos and precision. Coalition forces held a tight grip on several key sectors, but the enemy's reinforcements from the northeast threatened to tip the scales. The UAV's live feed was a lifeline, feeding crucial intel to ground units and ensuring that every move was calculated. The city of Bellnahgo was still a contested zone, but the Coalition's iron grip was tightening with every passing moment.
"Avatar-1, this is Kingpin. Be advised, strike fighters are inbound to engage enemy reinforcements. A flight of two Warthogs is approaching from the south, preparing an opening barrage with Mavericks. They need you to designate the target with a laser. How copy, over?"
The UAV operator, sitting tensely in the control room, quickly acknowledged. "Kingpin, this is Avatar-1. Solid copy on tasking. Lasing target for Warthogs. Standby for designation. Over."
"Roger, Avatar-1. Linking you to Striker 2-1. Keep us posted on target acquisition. Kingpin out."
Seconds later, the radio crackled with the unmistakable voice of the Warthog flight lead. "Avatar-1, this is Striker 2-1. Ready for Laser. Over."
"Target designated. Lead MBT, grid coordinates Papa-Uniform—five—two—niner—seven—four. Laser hot, awaiting Warthog strike. Over," Avatar-1 transmitted, the calm professionalism masking the tension in the air.
"Avatar-1, this is Striker-2-1. Tally on laser. Mavericks locked. Guns hot. Engaging target. Out."
The distinct roar of the approaching A-10 Thunderbolts grew louder, cutting through the noise of the battlefield. The first Maverick missile streaked toward the lead tank, its trail glowing against the smoky sky. Moments later, an explosion rocked the streets as the missile struck true, sending debris and fire cascading into the air. The Warthogs wasted no time, delivering their payload with deadly precision, systematically dismantling the enemy formation.
"Good hits, Striker 2-1," Avatar-1 confirmed as he watched the carnage unfold on his screen. The battlefield was a chaotic mess of smoke, fire, and shattered vehicles, the enemy's once-coordinated formation reduced to smoldering wreckage.
"Roger that, Avatar-1. Coming around for another gun run," the lead A-10 pilot replied, his voice calm and focused despite the destruction they were unleashing.
The two A-10s reappeared on Avatar-1's feed, their distinct silhouettes unmistakable. Seconds later, the nose of the first Warthog erupted in smoke, and the ground beneath it exploded into chaos. The iconic BRRRRT of the 30mm GAU-8 Avenger cannon echoed across the battlefield, tearing through armor, infantry, and anything else unfortunate enough to be in its path.
The second A-10 followed swiftly, its own gunstrafe targeting any stragglers or surviving vehicles. The combined assault was surgical, leaving no room for the enemy to regroup.
"Striker 2-1, hostile forces suppressed. Excellent hits on target," Avatar-1 reported, the devastation on his screen a testament to the Warthogs' precision and firepower.
"Copy that, Avatar-1. We're bingo on munitions, heading back to base for rearm and refuel. Keep the skies clear for us. Striker 2-1 out," the pilot replied before banking sharply and departing the area.
"Roger, Striker 2-1. Avatar-1 resuming overwatch. Good hunting. Out."
The operator shifted his focus back to other parts of the city, scanning for additional threats while coordinating with ground forces. Bellnahgo was far from secure, but with support like this, the Coalition's grip was steadily tightening.
-Operation Fallen Eagle-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Fort Harling
On the same floor as Cossette lay Princess Piña Co Lada, her presence sparking a heated debate among the security teams. Initially, the idea of placing the two royals on the same floor was outright rejected. The risk was deemed too high; the possibility of someone targeting one princess and inadvertently endangering Cossette and her son was a scenario no one wanted to entertain.
However, after extensive discussions and reassessments, the decision was made under one condition—a fortified and heavily coordinated security detail. This elite protection team now included a mix of Osean Special Forces operatives, the highly trained Erusean GIGN, and a newly introduced squad of Yuktobanian Spetsnaz. Each group brought their unique expertise to ensure the safety of both royals, their collaboration a testament to the Coalition's shared commitment.
The hallway outside their rooms was a fortress in its own right. Operatives in full tactical gear patrolled in pairs, their movements calculated and their weapons ready. The air was heavy with the tension of soldiers on high alert. Bulletproof barriers had been discreetly installed, and checkpoints monitored every point of access. Cameras and motion sensors dotted the walls, feeding live footage to a nearby command center.
Despite the layers of security, the shared floor arrangement still drew unease among the guards. They knew that with two high-profile targets in such close proximity, any breach could spiral into chaos. But for now, the calm prevailed, each operative silently prepared to face whatever threat might come through those fortified doors.
Inside the secure wing of the hospital, the atmosphere was tense, but an uneasy peace held. The two princesses, despite their shared predicament, remained isolated from one another. Cossette, still recovering from her injuries, spent most of her time resting or quietly tending to Arthur. Meanwhile, Piña, shrouded in a mix of suspicion and intrigue, kept to her room under the watchful eyes of her own assigned guards.
The shared hallway served as a no-man's land between the two rooms. Conversations among the security teams were kept to a minimum, their professionalism overriding any curiosity or casual chatter. Still, the tension was palpable. The Erusean GIGN and Yuktobanian Spetsnaz operatives often exchanged wary glances, their contrasting methods and philosophies occasionally clashing despite the unified mission. The Osean Special Forces team, seasoned in managing such dynamics, worked silently to maintain order.
Inside a nearby room on the same floor, a makeshift community and command room had been established exclusively for the SpecOps operatives guarding the royals. It served as both a tactical hub and a space for the operatives to take a breather between shifts.
The room was dimly lit, the glow of multiple LCD screens providing the primary source of illumination. These screens displayed live feeds from the CCTV cameras and motion sensors that laced the entire floor. Each monitor showed different angles of the secured wing, ensuring there were no blind spots. A digital map on a central screen tracked every operative's position, overlaid with thermal and motion data from the sensors.
At the far end of the room, a makeshift command post was set up, with a cluster of desks loaded with advanced communications equipment. Operators manned the consoles, their eyes glued to the monitors as they coordinated movements and monitored activity across the floor. The faint hum of the electronics was accompanied by the crackle of radios and the occasional clipped report.
In the more relaxed section of the room, coffee tables were scattered with an assortment of snacks, soft drinks, and the occasional half-finished cup of coffee. Folding chairs and sofas offered a momentary reprieve for operatives coming off patrol. Despite the tense circumstances, the atmosphere was surprisingly casual. Light banter floated through the air as soldiers from different nations shared stories, jokes, and quiet laughter.
A Yuktobanian Spetsnaz operative leaned back in his chair, a steaming cup of tea in hand, a sly grin spreading across his face. "So, the Oseans think their tanks are better, huh?" he quipped, his voice laced with playful sarcasm.
"Our tanks own the battlefield. Don't know what else to tell you," an Osean operative replied casually, tearing into an energy bar, his tone dripping with confidence.
An Erusean operator nearby leaned on his arm, his own grin forming. "Now you're really pushing it, my friend," he said, raising an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?" another Osean chimed in, chuckling as he leaned forward. "The M1A4 has everything your tanks don't." His tone was self-assured, almost smug, as he pointed at the Erusean and Yuktobanian operatives.
"Oh? Alright, comrade," the Yuktobanian said, setting his tea down and leaning forward, an eyebrow raised and his grin widening. "What do your tanks have that ours don't?"
The first Osean raised a fist, extending his thumb as he started counting. "Alright, so for one, we have the superior gun."
"Superior? Please," the Erusean scoffed, rolling his eyes but grinning all the same.
"And," the second Osean jumped in seamlessly, "we've got the APS from the Arsenal Bird. Nothing gets through." His confidence was palpable.
At that, the Yuktobanian burst out laughing, slapping the table as his deep chuckle echoed through the room. "The APS from the Arsenal Bird?" he repeated between laughs. "And how long can it keep that up, huh? Two minutes? Maybe three?"
The Erusean joined in, shaking his head with an amused smirk. "And don't forget the downtime when you're waiting for that fancy system to reboot. What's that, another two minutes?"
The Oseans, despite their pride, couldn't help but crack a smile. "Alright, alright," one of them conceded with a shrug. "At least we don't have to worry about our tanks catching fire from a bad weld." He shot a playful glance at the Erusean.
"Touché," the Erusean said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "But at least our tanks don't sound like jet engines when they roll out."
"And don't forget," the Yuktobanian added, grinning mischievously, "your turbine tanks drink more fuel than a Hind doing laps. What's the range again, Osean?"
The room erupted in laughter as the operatives bantered back and forth. For a moment, the tension of their high-stakes mission melted away, replaced by the camaraderie of soldiers sharing a rare moment of levity.
At the radio station the operatives reported back to the HQ of Fort Harling. "Oxide, this is Station. What's your situation? Over."
"Station, this is Oxide," the reply came back, steady and professional. "The entire floor is clear. No contact to report. Over."
"Copy that, Oxide," Station responded after a pause. "Maintain your patrol. Keep us updated on any changes. Out."
The operatives in the command post exchanged glances, some nodding in acknowledgment. The faint hum of the CCTV monitors and the crackle of radios filled the air as the team remained vigilant, ready for any escalation.
"Looks like another quiet shift," one of the Yuktobanian Spetsnaz muttered, but his tone held no relief—only the practiced caution of someone who knew how quickly quiet could turn into chaos.
The sharp beep of the alarm jolted everyone in the command post to attention. The motion sensor indicator on the screen pulsed red, and the CCTV feed showed the elevator doors trembling slightly, as though someone—or something—was inside.
"Sentinel-3, movement detected at the elevator. Go check it out!" came the urgent order over the radio.
"Copy that, Oxide. Moving to investigate," Sentinel-3's squad leader replied.
The operatives in the room immediately sprang into action. The Yuktobanian Spetsnaz team pulled their balaclavas up and checked their rifles, while the Osean operators locked and loaded their HK416s. The Erusean GIGN members adjusted their helmets, gripping their MP5s tightly. The squad moved with precision, breaking into pairs and covering each other as they approached the elevator.
"Sentinel-3 approaching the elevator," one of the operatives whispered into his comms as the team closed in.
The air was thick with tension as they formed a semi-circle around the elevator doors. The faint whirring of the elevator's mechanics could be heard as it descended to their floor.
"Oxide, elevator is in motion. Doors opening in three… two… one…" The squad braced themselves, weapons aimed at the now-still doors.
With a chime, the elevator doors slid open.
"Oxide, all clear. It's OIA. Over," one of the operatives radioed back, their tone relieved yet professional.
The tension in the command room eased slightly, though the operatives remained cautious. The CCTV feed showed three men stepping out of the elevator, their presence immediately commanding attention. Clad in sleek, full black combat gear, they moved with an air of precision and authority. Each wore a tactical rig adorned with ammunition pouches and gear, their rifles slung loosely across their chests. A pistol rested snugly in a holster on their thighs, and their helmets were clipped neatly to their battle belts, suggesting they had just returned from the field or were ready to deploy at a moment's notice.
Hudson stepped out the Elevator and raised a gloved hand, signaling the nearby squad to stand down. "At ease, gentlemen," he said, his voice calm but firm as he stepped fully into view of the operatives.
On the vest of each agent was a low-visibility Osean flag patch, velcroed neatly in place. It was subtle yet unmistakable, a mark of their allegiance and authority.
"What's OIA doing here of all places?" an Erusean operative asked as he stepped closer to the agents, his posture relaxed but his tone carrying a hint of curiosity.
Hudson, offered a faint smile in response. "It's more or less a private matter," he said, his voice measured but casual. "We need to have a word with the princess."
The Erusean quirked an eyebrow, folding his arms as he tilted his head slightly. "Which one?" he asked, the question laced with mild amusement.
Hudson chuckled, shaking his head as if at his own forgetfulness. "Oh, right," he said with a grin. "I almost forgot we've got two princesses up here now." He paused, the humor fading slightly as he clarified, "To Piña."
The Erusean's brow furrowed slightly, his tone turning more serious. "The situation with her is already sensitive. What exactly does OIA need with Princess Piña?"
Hudson leaned in slightly, his expression calm but his tone carrying a weight that implied the conversation was over. "Like I said, it's private. Don't worry, we'll keep things… professional."
The Erusean operative held Hudson's gaze for a moment, his expression neutral but his eyes betraying lingering doubt. After a tense pause, he gave a small nod of reluctant approval. Hudson offered a faint, curt smile in return before turning to his team.
"Alright, gentlemen," Hudson said, his tone crisp and commanding. "Let's get this show rolling."
The agents nodded silently, falling into step behind their leader. Hudson walked past the GIGN operatives with a confident stride, exuding an air of purpose. He could feel the weight of the Erusean operatives' stares boring into his back, suspicion practically radiating from them. But Hudson didn't flinch. He had a mission to complete, and no amount of side-eye would deter him.
The hallway seemed to grow quieter as the agents advanced, their boots striking a steady rhythm against the polished floor. The tension in the air followed them like an unwelcome shadow, settling heavily over the soldiers and operatives they left behind.
Behind them, the Erusean operative exchanged a pointed glance with one of his comrades.
"Private matter, my ass," he muttered under his breath, his skepticism clear in the way he tightened his jaw. His comeade gave a subtle shrug. "Just leave it be man. This is above our paygrade." He muttered, their shared unease evident in their expressions.
Hudson rounded a corner and came to a halt in front of a heavy, reinforced door. It was Piña's room. Without hesitation, he pulled out a keycard, swiped it through the reader, and the lock clicked open with a faint beep. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside while the two agents behind him stayed in the hallway. They turned on their heels, positioning themselves on either side of the doorway, their postures rigid and alert, rifles held low but ready.
Inside, Hudson's sharp eyes locked onto Piña's the moment he stepped in. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of the air purifier and the faint rustle of fabric as Piña shifted slightly in her chair.
n solid minute, neither of them spoke. Hudson's expression was unreadable, his sharp features offering no clues as to his intent. Piña's face, a mix of defiance and unease, betrayed her discomfort with the unexpected visitor.
"Agent…? What is…?" Piña began, her voice tinged with uncertainty as she straightened slightly in her bed.
Hudson raised a hand, cutting her off mid-sentence with a gesture that was firm yet non-threatening. "How are you holding up? Is everything good?" he asked, his tone unexpectedly calm and conversational, as though they were old acquaintances catching up.
Piña blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. She hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied his face for any sign of his true intentions. "I… suppose I'm fine, considering the circumstances," she replied cautiously. "But forgive me if I find this sudden concern a bit… out of place, Agent."
Hudson tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Out of place? Princess, I'm just doing my job. Making sure our esteemed allies are well taken care of."
"Allies…" Piña repeated, her tone dripping with skepticism. "Is that what this is? A courtesy check?"
Hudson grinned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took another step forward. "No. Not really," he said, his grin fading as his tone turned serious. "I need something from you."
Piña blinked, clearly caught off guard by his sudden shift. "Something from me?" she echoed, her expression a mixture of confusion and wariness.
Hudson nodded, locking eyes with her. "I want your blessing… Piña," he said firmly, his words hanging heavily in the air.
"My… my what?!" Piña stammered, her brow furrowing as she leaned back slightly, her confusion now evident. "Agent, you aren't making any sense."
Hudson crossed his arms and let out a heavy sigh, his stance firm and unwavering. "Listen, kiddo," he began, his voice calm but laced with an edge. "I've got a new mission. We're going to rescue a pilot—one of ours—from the US forces. And they've got him in Sadera."
Piña's eyes widened slightly, the mention of her homeland clearly striking a nerve. Hudson didn't miss it but pressed on. "Now, I'm pretty sure your brother is going to be there. And when I see him," he said, his voice dropping to a chilling tone, "I will shoot him. No questions asked. No hesitation."
Her jaw clenched as she stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. Hudson leaned in slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto hers. "So, I need your blessing, Piña. I need it so I can do what has to be done—with a clear conscience."
Piña's mouth opened, then closed, her thoughts scrambling for a response. "You… you're asking me to—what? Condone my brother's execution?" she finally managed, her voice shaky but laced with disbelief.
Hudson shrugged nonchalantly, though his eyes carried the full weight of his words. "Call it what you want. Condone it, approve it, bless it. But the fact remains—if he's there, he's the enemy. And furthermore," his voice grew sharper, more pointed, "he's a psychopathic asshole who's already taken the life of your father. Or have you forgotten that?"
Piña flinched as his words hit like a hammer, the sharp reminder bringing a flicker of pain to her eyes. Hudson leaned forward, his tone hardening further. "What's stopping him from sending another killer squad after you? Hm? What's stopping him from finishing the job? But this time, instead of locking you up and playing with his food, he'll go straight for the execution."
Her breathing quickened, and her hands balled into fists at her sides. She wanted to protest, to argue, but she couldn't deny the truth in his words. Zorzal had already proven himself capable of anything—and her safety, along with that of the people around her, was a tenuous illusion.
Hudson pressed on, his voice unyielding. "You think sitting here under guard makes you safe? He's not just your problem anymore, Piña. He's everyone's problem. And if we don't put an end to him now, he'll keep spreading that poison of his until there's nothing left but ashes."
Silence fell between them again, the air thick with tension. Piña's mind raced, torn between familial loyalty and the harsh reality staring her in the face. Her lips trembled as she finally whispered, "You're asking me to betray my blood."
Hudson shook his head, his gaze unflinching. "No. I'm asking you to make a choice. Between him—and everything he's destroyed—or the chance to finally move forward without that monster looming over your shoulder."
The room felt heavier, the silence suffocating as Piña's voice cracked. "I… I… I'm sorry, Agent. I can't… he and my brother are the only family I have left. I can't lose more." Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as she wiped them away with trembling hands, her voice breaking with each word.
Hudson stood still for a moment, his back to her. The warmth, the faint traces of humanity that had flickered in his expression earlier, were gone now. His voice was cold, resolute. "Alright," he said, the words sharp and final. "Then I'm sorry for what I have to do."
Piña froze, her breath hitching. "What… what do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hudson didn't answer. He turned toward the door, his hand reaching for the handle. His movements were deliberate, calculated, as if he were already miles away in his mind. The weight of his decision loomed over the room like a storm cloud.
"Agent!" Piña called out, her voice desperate, but he didn't stop. Her heart raced as the reality of the situation settled in. She wanted to run after him, to beg him to reconsider, but her legs felt like lead.
As Hudson stepped through the door, his voice echoed back, devoid of emotion. "You'll understand one day, Princess. There is no victory without sacrifice." The words hung in the air like a heavy shadow, pressing down on her chest. Then the door clicked shut, sealing her in the oppressive silence of her own thoughts.
Piña sat motionless, her trembling hands clutching the her sheets. The tears on her cheeks had dried, leaving faint streaks on her flushed skin. Her mind raced, replaying Hudson's words over and over. No victory without sacrifice.
Her heart ached, torn between loyalty to her family and the painful reality she couldn't ignore. Her father was gone, her brother had become a monstrous shadow of the man she once knew, and now, the decisions of others would write the next chapter of her life. A chapter she feared would be written in blood.
Outside the room, Hudson strode purposefully down the hallway, his face an unreadable mask. The agents standing guard exchanged glances but said nothing as they fell into step behind him. He didn't need to speak; the intensity radiating off him said it all.
As the elevator doors closed behind them, Hudson leaned against the wall, exhaling deeply. His mind was already racing ahead, planning his next move. He'd given Piña a choice, but he knew the path he would take regardless of her answer. Victory always demanded a price—and he was more than willing to pay it.
Author's Note:
Hello there, people of , and a warm welcome to all the new readers diving into this piece of fiction! I genuinely hope you all enjoy this story and stick around until the very end because, trust me, I have plans—big ones!
As I write this, it's currently 13:04 (or 1:04 PM for those of you who prefer that) on 01.01.2025—yep, the very first day of the new year. So, before we go any further, let me take a moment to wish each and every one of you a Happy New Year! May it be filled with joy, success, and all the prosperity your heart desires.
This year has been one hell of a roller coaster, not just for me, but I'm willing to bet for you guys as well. A bunch of things happened that no one could've predicted—bridges collapsing, planes getting shot down, others crashing due to bird strikes, new presidents, assassination attempts, and the whole nine yards. It's been chaotic, to say the least.
But amidst all that chaos, writing this story for you guys gave me something I desperately needed—call it motivation, purpose, or just an escape. I never thought this story would grow to the extent it has. I know, hitting 100 followers might not seem like much to some, but for me? It's everything. And as far as I know, we've already cracked the 10,000 views mark, which blows my mind. Seriously, I can't thank you enough for that.
Every time I uploaded a new chapter, I found myself eagerly waiting for your reviews. Some of them made me laugh out loud, others nearly brought me to tears (no shame in admitting that lmao), but they all had one thing in common—they kept me going. They kept me writing.
So, with this, I just want to say a massive thank you to all of you for sticking with me and helping me improve as a writer, no matter how small I may be in the grand scheme of things. You've all made this journey worth it.
Here's to more chapters, more stories, and more growth in the year ahead. Let's keep this ride going!
Reviews:
Blazblade—Yeah Technically there should be some kind of Balance. Strangereal fighters being limited to their Missile range and agility and the RL fighters having better missiles but no supersoldier-Pilots. But fuck Balance, and equal chances. I wanna make people bleed hehe!
But jokes aside, I was planning to include some sort of "super" Jet to the RL forces like the NGAD or F/A-XX. Maybe even that Chinese Coffin thingy. I still don't know.
After the war there will be a lot of politics, rebuilding efforts and minor scirmishes between fragmented people, governments and rebel groups. This much I can say, any more and it'll be a spoiler.
Guest-IllArmaLitell—I know its a sin... and please don't murder me over it but... I never played Metal gear solid... hehe... Pls don't kill me...
Guest-FreedomEagle123—Yes. Enemy go Boom!
last admiral—I'll try my best. Even though I personally think I'm on a good way on going at it. I hope you'll like my approach.
With how the war's going, I think the damages done by Japan in cannon would be a mere annoyance at best in comparison to this here lmao.