Los Angeles, evening
"9-1-1, how can I help you?"
A voice breaks through the line, "I... am in mortal peril", strained and breathless.
The caller's accent carries an unnatural formality, sharp and upper-crust British. The panic heightens through his stiff diction.
A moment of stillness hangs between them. The operator sounds calm and professional. "Sir? Who is threatening you?"
The telephoner pauses, mustering the last dregs of strength. "I cannot divulge... the assailant's identity." His words clip, deliberated, as nevertheless revealing this secret would shatter him.
"Is the attacker still present?" The agent goes on steady, her tone formal and unshaken, despite the strange exchange.
Another calms grows, longer this time, before the phone speaks again, his breath rattling. "Grapefruit juice... painkillers!" His tone cracks on the wind-down word, fading into an ominous quiet. The faint sound of a phone hitting the floor follows, near at hand, swallowed by the sluggishness.
"Sir? Can you hear me?" The administrator's tone escalates with finesse. "If you're unable to speak, please press a button on your cell phone." Yet, laced with concern, grounded in her professional detachment.
Nothing. The windlessness lingers, heavy and stand by.
"Sir, please do not disconnect the call." The maneuverer's expression stands pat, "We'll trace your location using the signal. Help is on the way."
Ground Control, Scotland - Midnight
"One day to launch," General Ordlaf of Astgill's speech slices through the tension in the space, precise and cold as a surgeon's scalpel. Midnight casts long shadows over the control panels, launch procedure etched into the heart of everyone present.
The countdown began days ago, and each second thunders with the intensity of a drumbeat, amplifying the pressure that clings to the air.
Alive with the rhythmic flicker of blinking consoles. The whispered commands ripple through the hall, echoing from another world. An entire gallery pulses with a mechanical heartbeat, a relentless cadence. Hushed instructions that wave through the ether.
The chief's on-command automated eye scans the dashboard, its precision unmatched by his human one, which hides beneath a mane of pewter hair. The blend of man and machine in him feels out of place here but also right, as yet this high-tech battleground awaited him.
The scent of burnt electronics mixes with the bitter tang of over-brewed coffee, clinging to the already stale air. Large cooling fans hum, underscoring the frantic rhythm of keystrokes tapping across holographic keyboards.
The chieftain, battle-hardened from years in the Army, commands this futuristic labyrinth with an iron grip. His authority, once bound to the physical battlefield, now extends here, where war wages in code and data streams. The control lodge turns into his arena. All soldiers—dressed in immaculate uniforms—stand ready under the commanding officer's supervision.
Military personnel swarm the auditorium.
The unnatural lime-green glow of the panels casts an eerie pallor over the auditorium, bathing everything in an unsettling light. His cyborg arm waits motionless, hidden beneath the pristine fabric of his uniform. It's a muted threat, a reminder of the destructive power he can unleash.
Around him, figures of varying ranks handle the virtual controls, spooky outlines lit by the ambient glow of their displays. Despite their differing roles, they work as a well-oiled machine under the leader's steady gaze.
The central screen ticks down, each number flashing with cinematic precision. The hall feels frozen in these last moments, each breath measured, each movement deliberate.
When the timer strikes zero, the transformation becomes immediate. Tension crackles through the atmosphere as an electric storm. Orders snap through the hall, breaking the stillness.
Operators' faces glow under the harsh light of their screens, each one locked in a battle of focus, their dread rough masked beneath their calm exteriors.
Anxiety coils tighter around the auditorium, but it doesn't break them. Nerves stretch taut. Minds lock into position, hands poised over the controls, pushing through with a near-obsessive focus. Precision reigns here, and the commander's presence ensures nothing falls out of place.
Manhattan, New York
Rachel Marron emerges from the restaurant. Her skin glowing with the warmth of polished bronze, embodying a beauty that feels both timeless and untouchable. She wore an elegance that turned heads without trying, her eyes bright with a joy that made everything else seem distant. Her silk dress, flowing and radiant, catches the cool night breeze, rippling with the grace of a performer always in command of the spotlight. She moves with the elegance of a woman born for the stage. There exists something unmistakable in her presence—a fierceness that makes her seem greater than in life as if the night itself becomes part of her set. Her smile, lush and infectious, lights up the street with the warmth and charisma of a superstar who knows who she belongs. Without effort captivating and yet somehow still human beneath the aura of fame. Her merriment grows radiant and effortless and lights up the street more than the flashing cameras that swarm around them.
Beside her, Wesley Black moved with a confident ease, his arm draped around her waist. A man who knows how to command attention—above all, when he stands next to someone who matters. His presence feels electric, a live wire of charm and swagger. He works his ass off to keep Rachel under control and maintains the mystique of her private life. Anyone unfamiliar with the right-now music scene may get a misleading impression. Wes may gain more fame than being the face fashionable next to Rachel. At least that's what other celebrities believe. Wesley Black appears more in interviews and magazines because Rachel puts him in the spotlight. It's been this way for a long time and it will continue in the same way (needless to argue about it) in the future. Wes's laugh, low and warm, wrapped around her, a familiar melody.
They don't just walk—they glide through the night and bow to its rhythm. Crisp air, tinged with the scent of jasmine from a nearby garden, envelops them in a gentle embrace.
The gold chain around his neck glints under the streetlights, a subtle reflection of his bold, unapologetic persona. Wes' giggle, deep and reckless, wraps around them both, an echo of past triumphs and scandals that follow him as a shadow. He exudes confidence in the way alone someone with a history of highs and lows could—cocky, rebellious, yet beyond control, charming.
Rach leans into him, her head tilting toward his as if drawn by gravity, the scent of his cologne mingling with the night air. They are the picture of love in its simplest form—a moment captured in time, framed by the soft glow of streetlights and the hum of the surrounding city.
They do not just walk; they own the street, moving in sync, two stars in orbit, pulling the gaze of anyone nearby. The jasmine-scented air swirled around them, adding an almost cinematic touch to their aura. They were a power couple in every sense—a blend of glitz, glamor, and raw energy, magnetic and impossible to ignore.
The queen leans into Wesley, her head resting against his shoulder with the ease of someone who learns the rhythms of his life. His cologne mixes with the cool air. A familiar scent that carried memories of shared stages and shared struggles. A picture of love, or at least a love the world saw—a union that weathers public storms. At this moment, a weightless fall catches in the glow of streetlights and the hum of the city.
The pop star's laughter rings out, bright and genuine, as her boyfriend whispers something into her ear. His words brought a playful smirk to his lips—the mischievous, unpredictable charm that had drawn her years ago. For an instant, the flashes of cameras around them froze time, capturing the image of two stars bound together in a shared spotlight.
But for Rache, the cameras or the crowd aren't important. The city hums around them, a backdrop to their effortless connection. All she sees … Wesley's smile. All she feels... The warmth of his hand holding hers—a night that belongs to them, for a fleeting moment. Cameras flashes. An explosion of light froze them in time, capturing not just two stars, but a picture of love that felt as real as the night sky above. Rachel sees nothing but Wes's smile, she feels the warmth of his hand in hers, and all that matters here and now, a night that belongs to them. Popularity turns the spotlight into a trap. Multi-faceted, Rachel Marron doesn't presume to understand the complexity. She has money and bel esprit at her disposal, and the sing star continues to appear as a child in a fairy tale. Rachel is a pop idol and a living myth.
The online world, capturing the buzz on social media…
GlamFan123: "The Voice looks radiant tonight! Always! Her dress is perfect. The Queen of the Night knows how to shine on the red carpet. Wesley's suit is slick. The power couple is back and better than ever! #RachelAndWesley #RedCarpetRoyalty"
FashionistaXOXO: "Wow, Rachel Marron gives us life with that outfit! And Wesley, you're looking dapper, as always. In fact, they are the ultimate duo. So in love with their style and presence. #FashionGoals #CoupleGoals"
CelebrityObsessed87: "Rachel Marron is a queen, no doubt. And Wesley Black? He's got that charisma down to a science. Loving how they complement each other. Here's to many more stunning appearances! #RachelAndWesley #Stunning"
PopCultureAddict: "Rachel Marron matures in the truest sense of the word to a vision tonight! Wesley Black's suit is sharp but feels outshone by Rachel's ensemble. Still, they make a great pair and look fantastic together. #Glamorous #PowerCouple"
IhateHipHop: "Rachel Marron is on fire, as always! But Wesley Black? Are you serious? He's starting to look like a sidekick rather than the leading man. Wish he'd step up his game. #RachelRules #WesleyWho"
The Hip Hop star's demeanor turns sour after reading the last comment. Nothing recommends 'I'm not secure in my relationship' more than a little online trolling. He mutters under his breath, annoyed by the criticism. Rachel continues composed, focusing on the positive feedback and basking in the glow of her successful appearance.
London, Defense Ministry
The Ministry of Defense hums with quiet energy. Tradition meets avant-garde technology, reflected in polished marble floors and holographic displays floating in the elysium. Officer's move with practiced precision, their steps muted by protocol.
A towering hologram flickers to life, casting a pale blue glow across the room. Prime Minister Agatha Thistledown's regal figure dominates, each inch rendered with flawless precision. Her cold eyes scan the officers, as still piercing through the veil of technology. The ethereal shimmer of her hologram adds a wizard-like quality—commanding and elusive.
In this square, the future shapes itself, but the past never gets forgotten. Brass fittings and steel beams blend as far as one can see, a marriage of tradition and modernity that mirrors the men and women moving within it.
Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron stands among a tight circle of generals, his posture ramrod straight, his presence sharp as a blade. His dark skin contrasts with the deep hue of his naval suit, adorned with medals. The surrounding conversations are low, clipped—each word heavy with rank and restraint.
The soft hum of holo-screens punctuates the air, adding a subtle sense of unease. Here, in this blend of past and future, decisions that change the world get made with the muted, calculated efficiency that comes with centuries of tradition.
A young Lieutenant Colonel strides through the hall, slicing through its disciplined hum. His pale gold hair catches the light, almost rebellious against the ceremony of shimmering gala uniforms. His combat suit marks him as an outsider. Nothing implicit 'I'm no team player' quite as much as showing up in tactical gear while everyone else dresses up for a gala.
In the vast reception hall of the British Ministry of Defense, a sense of history clings to the ambience. Ornate chandeliers hang as frozen stars above a grand piano, a relic more suited for a museum than a military headquarters. The keys, tarnished and more or less out of tune, await a touch that has been absent for years. Gaderian watches the Lieutenant Colonel's fingers stumble over the keys. The melody—An End Once and For All—seems to elude him in fragmented bursts. Yet, it's not the notes that hold Gaderian's attention; it's the brief flicker of emotion behind the officer's icy gaze. The Lieutenant Colonel catches the flowing parts. The song carries more weight than his technical inadequacies suggest.
The vice admiral knows this song. Too well. Gaderian clenches his jaw, a wave of bittersweet recognition crashing over him. The song he feels... A whisper of something long buried. His daughter used to play this very piece. A subtle tightening in his chest warns him of what it means—what it always meant. The rough melody under the Lieutenant Colonel's hands ties Gaderian to memories of another time. He shifts his weight but says nothing. Instead, he let the mournful notes wash over him, feeling the unspoken echoes between the music and the man playing it.
The notes come out fractured, hesitant. Gaderian can see the Lieutenant Colonel's hands faltering. It's not about missing a key—it's about the man losing his grip on something far more elusive. Gaderian can't tell for sure. The thought hangs, a fragment made of music. He pushes it aside. The cracks in his composed façade are there, fleeting but undeniable. It's not just the loss of rhythm.
The song stirs up a tension Gaderian refuses to acknowledge. It's not just the melody or the missteps that matter; it's what lies beneath. The Lieutenant Colonel—so young, yet carrying a weight that no rank or uniform could hide. He struggles to keep pace with the music, just as he struggles to control his emotions. The song isn't just a song, not to him.
There pop up no outward sign from Gaderian, but his thoughts drift back to conversations with Shelley, late at night, voices lowered in concern. They both know this song creates roots in a history, a connection, one that neither of them control. But they feel it. Gaderian, more than anyone, understood the loss—both his daughter's and the officer's. He knows that behind the Lieutenant Colonel's cold exterior, there lies grief, unresolved and unspoken. But what troubles him more? His own silent wish—that things turn out otherwise.
As the music struggles to maintain its rhythm, Gaderian's thoughts do the same. The Lieutenant Colonel, gifted with a talent for dealing with children that contradicts his first impression. He brings lightness into dark spaces. It's one reason Gaderian took a shine to him many years ago. Even then, it gave him hope. A hope that he stepwise loss, unequal to his wife. Not just as an officer but as a man—a surrogate son after the deep disappointments of his own biological children. He wasn't blind to the Lieutenant Colonel's weaknesses. He had seen his struggle, the demons that this man fought. But Gaderian, despite a flicker of hope, knew the Lieutenant Colonel's demons too well. He couldn't see him as the anchor Rachel and Ashley needed, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise.
And yet, there grow that nagging fear. His daughter, once a flame too bright to hold, now flickered uncertainty in her shadow. A leaf on a stormy wind she is, caught in the chaos of her own making, refusing to combat the drug problem that tore her apart. Gaderian feared she might drag the Lieutenant Colonel down with her, ruin him the way the world had tried to destroy her.
Still, as the Lieutenant Colonel stumbles through the ending notes of the song. Gaderian feels a tightening in his chest, the faint hope that there might still be time. That maybe, just maybe, the Lieutenant Colonel would find his way—back to the song, back to Rachel, back to himself.
The military tribune's approach pulls them back into duty's grip. His eyes—bluer than ice on a winter lake—hold a cold, assessing clarity. Unlike the others, stiff with protocol, he moves with fluid ease. He glides, as though the Valhalla itself bends around him, his presence commanding attention with no need to raise his sound or posture.
He bears the emblem of Section 13, the branch of military intelligence cloaked in shadow. Reminiscent of the American Delta Force, but with an unmistakable Brit influence. The badge—a sharp-edged crest—absorbs the light, a symbol of operations buried deep in classified reports, whispered in muted corridors. His youth makes his rank more unsettling, a reminder that power often grows in dark places. The older officers, hardened by decades of service, watch him with little veiled unease. The whispers start as soon as they see the cockade: Military tribune? No separation of powers … they can judge, investigate, execute…
The lieutenant colonel, around thirty, turns to a senior officer as he passes: "You're still here, Brigadier? I thought incompetence would've rooted you out by now."
As he moves, two gray wolves—lean and quick-footed—keep pace at his side. Their presence catches the attention of anyone nearby, creating a ripple of conversation and curiosity. A general leans toward a colleague, whispering, "This tribune... doesn't he resemble that new Hollywood star? The name escapes me…"
Vice Admiral Marron's sharp eyes miss nothing. His uniform, pristine and decorated, reflects years of naval service and command. The warmth beneath his seasoned authority softens his imposing figure. He catches the murmur of whispers and his peers' reactions to the Lieutenant Colonel's presence. The coat of arms, the wolves, the aura of mystery—it all makes the young man seem less an officer and more a symbol of something larger, something unsaid.
Vice Admiral Marron watches the Lieutenant Colonel approach, noting the distant gleam in his eyes—eyes that inspire discomfort in others. But for Marron, there's a closeness, a hidden layer of humanity alone the family knows.
Gaderian waves off the whispers with a half-smile, excusing himself from the group. "Excuse me, gentlemen." His deep, resonant statement carries as he makes his way toward the young officer.
As the Lieutenant Colonel approaches, his demeanor shifts. His military posture persists, but a hint of warmth breaks through his rigid facade. The wolves at his side halt, a gesture of submission to Marron's presence.
Royal Navy's traditional ribbing for the Army: "Brown Job!" the Vice Admiral jokes, his tone layered with paternal affection. His greeting plays with the expected camaraderie. The Lieutenant Colonel responds, a rare smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Andrew," he says, a light jab at the Navy's long-standing traditions. He greets, expression softened, but still formal, respectful, almost protective. A flicker of humanity, reserved for Marron and his lineage, softens his demeanor.
"Don't tell me you're here to ruin my weekend plans?" Marron says, a playful glint in his eyes, brushing aside the unspoken tension.
The Lieutenant Colonel allows a slight, almost imperceptible smirk to touch his lips. "You're the one I'd take orders from. But this weekend's … complicated." His tone, though aristocratic, lacks the stiffness one might expect, as though the conversation is both routine and unexpected. "Misses M will be without me in Dover at the fish burger lunch." The Lieutenant Colonel offers no apology. The vice admiral expected none. "I'm heading to Washington D.C. The 'Sentinels of the Celestial Realm'... Exotic murder, or so they say. Rather unpleasant." Despite the gravity of his words, his polished manner betrays no emotion. The mention of murder and celestial realms lingers in the air, reminding everyone that Section 13's work lies far from the world of medals and parades. Yet, underneath the professionalism, there rises a glint of something more—a storm brewing within him, frustration at the weekend missed in Dover.
The Vice Admiral's expression falters, his eyes darkening with a fleeting flash of regret. "Misses M won't be pleased." He sighs, a man already bracing himself for the storm of displeasure that awaits him back home. "Are you flying through New York?"
The young officer's eyes flicker, a brief shadow crossing his face. "Yes. Though I'd rather not." His jaw tightens ever so petite.
Silence lingers. There lurk things they don't discuss in the open, even among fellow officers.
"Wait here," the Vice Admiral orders, breaking the quiet. His voice has a firm edge, but it softens with the weight of familiarity. "I'll see you off."
"Aye, aye, Captain," the Lieutenant Colonel responds. His speech, formal, though carrying the weight of an old cabal ritual, spoken with the reverence of tradition rather than respect for rank.
The surrounding officers, watching this exchange in muted confusion, whisper amongst themselves. "That's improper for a Lieutenant Colonel," one remarks, eyeing the younger man.
Marron overhears and brushes it off with a flick of his hand. "It's quite fine."
Another nod, their tone tense. "Tribunus militum or not, he cannot speak to an admiral in that manner."
"Let's clutch our pearls over a little hierarchy—because that's what matters to the British general in the face of celestial murder," the lieutenant colonel says, disregarding protocol.
The Vice Admiral tires of the chatter and faces them. "This militum is different." Marron casts a look over his shoulder, an expression slicing through their discontent. "He's part of the Marron coven. Saved my granddaughter's life and has been her godfather for years." He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "For me and my wife, he's... well, the son we wanted."
The group stiffens. "But you already have a son," one officer ventures, unsure whether to press further.
Marron's smile grows wry, his gaze distant for a moment. "Two. But this one's the one we wanted. Though it would have been better if he'd joined the Royal Navy." He chuckles, but it's a laugh that springs from old wounds. "Perfection's never quite what we expect."
The men exchange glances, unsure whether to laugh or stay composed. The Vice Admiral's candid disappointment in his biological sons stings the aura, softened by his humor.
The others exchange glances, not daring to ask more, sensing that the conversation has veered into a territory too personal. Marron waves them away. "Go on, gentlemen. I'll catch up."
As they filter away, the Lieutenant Colonel stands straight, his blue eyes arctic. He glances at Marron. A ghost of a smile plays at his lips, but it never quite touches his eyes.
"The Royal Navy?" His sound drips with dry skepticism. "Are you sure, sir?"
The Vice Admiral smiles with delight at the military tribune's strange and contradictory interest in everything to do with the sea.
"Indeed, I considered joining the Royal Navy," the Lieutenant Colonel replies, his tone still as dry as sand on the shore.
Which astonishes the Vice Admiral, "No joke?"
"No, sir!" the tribune replies with the enthusiasm of a tax audit. "I aspired to be a submarine commander; for me, that's the ultimate adventure!"
"With your qualifications, you could have done it," the Vice Admiral wonders about the unfamiliar tones. "What changed your mind?"
The officer grins at him, a slow, devilish stretch across his face, a cat discovering it can knock over all the expensive vases. "My financial advisor warned me that a submarine captain can, by a whisker, keep himself afloat."
Marron shakes his head with a sigh, though his voice holds a touch of warmth. "You'd have been a bloody nightmare, lad."
As they near the exit, the hologram of Prime Minister Thistledown fades, leaving behind an eerie stillness. The wolves, silent and swift as shadows, slip ahead, sleek gray forms weaving through the polished marble corridors. Their eyes, sharp and calculating, reflect the glow of the gaslights hanging from brass fixtures. The Ministry of Defense employees part, waves of uncertainty flowing through them, unsure whether to fear the wolves or the grim aura clinging to the men.
Outside, the grand Victorian facade of the Ministry looms. Stone gargoyles perched on ledges, overseeing the streets as ancient sentinels from a forgotten age. The building, with Gothic arches and sprawling iron gates, seems frozen in another century yet hums with life from the modern world. Ivy creeps up the worn bricks. Stained-glass windows—survivors from the turn of the century—cast faint colors onto the rain-slick cobblestone streets, their scent rich with damp stone.
Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron's expression tightens as they step into the chilled air. His gaze shifts to the wolves at the door, their noses raised, assessing the world beyond with predatory calm.
Gaderian leans closer, expression a murmur. "How long are you in New York?" His thoughts turn to his daughter and granddaughter.
The officer's response is as casual as discussing the weather. "I have business in Washington D.C. first, then it's off to the city of fallen angels." His eyes, cold and unyielding as ice, lock onto Gaderian's. "One of those tasks includes a visit to the British Consul in New York."
Marron stiffens. His daughter, Rachel, lives near the consulate. The wolves circle, sensing the tension thickening, a brewing storm. "He lives near my daughter," Gaderian says, his tone edged with a father's unease.
"I know," the officer replies, lips curling into the faintest smirk, though his speech remains dispassionate.
They step into the street. The wolves dart ahead, noses skimming the pavement. Their eyes cut through the surroundings, twin blades dissecting shadows, hunting for the faintest flicker of danger. The scent of wet stone and rain mingles with the soft chatter from the café across the road, where Gaderian's colleagues sit, their laughter too carefree for the foreboding in the air.
The Lieutenant Colonel's voice slices through the evening breeze. "An employee of Starlink Enterprise, killed with morphine," he says, his casual tone at odds with the weight of his words. "He was involved in the plotting for the meeting with the Americans."
Gaderian's brow furrows, the café's playful atmosphere all at once distant. The wolves flank them, sentinels, never straying far, their sharp ears twitching at every noise, every hint of movement.
The officer's expression darkens as they walk. "What disturbs me," he continues, "is that the victim wasn't a developer, engineer, or scientist—but an advertising strategist. Why kill him?"
"Perhaps it's a private motive," suggests the vice admiral, sound low in the dark.
The wolves pause, their lean bodies stiffening as they reach the café's boundary, noses pointing to the breeze. Gaderian glances at them, then at the officer, whose cool blue eyes have narrowed. "Messages," the vice admiral muses, his tone dipping into a dark edge, words cutting through the silence. "You always said they were dangerous."
The Lieutenant Colonel holds his gaze a moment too long, smile sharp and deliberate. "And sometimes," he whispers, "they're written in blood."
Quiet stretches—a moment of uneasy stillness before the street erupts into chaos…
The vehicle hurtles through the breeze, a missile, before crashing down with a thunderous roar. The explosion tears through the street, heat searing Gaderian's skin with the intensity of molten steel. A shockwave rips through the ether, knocking him back, his ears ringing from the deafening noise. He, rough registers the Lieutenant Colonel's grip yanking him away from the flames.
In the aftermath, thick smoke swallows the street. The car's battery had propelled it into the sky, a firework gone wrong. As it crashes back down, Gaderian's colleagues scramble from the café, wide-eyed with panic.
Screams ripple through the crowd, people stumbling in confusion, unsure of the blast's cause.
The wolves tense, ears twitching as they catch an unfamiliar scent. Eyes fixed on the approaching figure, bodies coiled, they hold their ground. A low growl escapes one, lost in the chaos of the panicked crowd.
The Lieutenant Colonel's hand moves to his sidearm, drawn and aimed. His blue eyes cut through the smoke, searching for signs of a larger threat. His body speaks focus with no need for words.
At the café, Gaderian's colleagues leap to their feet, fear and confusion etched on their faces. The vice admiral's gut tightens. In the distance, he spots the glint of metal—something on mechanical legs, scurrying with the precision of a rat through the fleeing crowd.
"Get out!" Gaderian shouts, but the distance swallows his voice. His eyes widen. "Bomb!"
The Lieutenant Colonel's eyes flick to the metal rat, narrowing in recognition. In one fluid motion, he hooks Gaderian's arm with a firm grip and yanks him back. His gaze sweeps the scene, the body a blur of urgency as he barks commands to those too close to the blast. The blast rocks the ground, heat swallowing the air as plasma consumes the street. Around him, the wolves surge forward, a blur of metal and muscle, their growls lost in the ringing in his ears. He fires his pistol, but the shots vanish into the chaos.
Through the chaos, a figure strides toward them, cutting against the fleeing crowd. He doesn't run. He's determined.
It's too late. The mechanical mouse hurls a capsule into the high. The plasma charge ignites, shattering the scene. Those closest to it vanish, a fiery wave ripping outward. The Vice Admiral and Lieutenant Colonel are just far enough sheltered behind a concrete barrier. Heat slams into them, a furnace, but it doesn't consume them. Hearts pounding, the world collapses around them, smoke and ash swirling through the narrow streets of London.
A figure emerges from the tide of fleeing bodies and swirling smoke. He doesn't run. He moves with unnatural calm, the chaos spinning around him as if it doesn't exist. Each step is deliberate. His eyes never leave Gaderian. With ease, he draws his gun and aims it at the Vice Admiral.
The Lieutenant Colonel doesn't need to fire—the wolves do what they made for. He watches, almost mesmerized, as their calculated brutality ends the assassin within seconds.
The wolves, designed for savage precision and force. The assassin crumples under the weight of the mechanical beasts.
Blood arcs through the ambience, spraying the street in sharp bursts.
The wolves pounce, jaws crushing bones with machine precision. His body crumples, reduced to blood and ruin in a blink.
In moments, the violence ends. The wolves, stained red, fall silent.
Gaderian's heart slams against his ribs as plasma sears the atmosphere, turning everything to dust. He struggles to breathe, his mind racing to grasp what's left of the scene—until the Lieutenant Colonel's grip steadies him, anchoring him to the world.
"A bloody marvel of technology," Gaderian mutters, still gasping for breath. His eyes dart around the scene—smoke rising, debris scattered, emergency sirens wailing in the distance. The adrenaline surges through him, making every breath a struggle.
The Lieutenant Colonel, all business again, stands, holstering his weapon and glancing at Gaderian with a slight smirk. "You need to stop getting in the way, sir. There won't be a next time." His tone, despite the carnage, stays cool, almost mocking.
Gaderian offers a tired smile, his grip tightening on the Lieutenant Colonel's arm. They exchange no thanks, sole silent acknowledgment of the darkness they both swim in.
The chaos of the London explosion settles just as the story's first flashes hit American screens.
News anchors splash dramatic headlines across every major outlet: "Father of the Queen of the Night Killed in London Attack!"
Grainy footage of the explosion replays, stoking the flames of public outrage. Calls for Prime Minister Agatha Thistledown's resignation echo through Parliament's grand halls. Journalists outside Downing Street feed on speculation. Microphones buzzing with questions of security failures under Thistledown's watch. Within her cabinet, once-loyal ministers shift with embarrassment, some already drafting exit strategies. Political vultures circle, sensing weakness.
In Parliament, the tension becomes palpable. Some MPs in public criticize Thistledown's leadership. Others whisper about her future, calling for emergency meetings behind closed doors. The opposition leader seizes the moment, standing before a thrumming press conference to deliver a sharp attack.
"An intelligence failure of this magnitude on British soil cannot go unanswered," he declares, eyes flashing with the promise of upheaval.
As dawn breaks over the Australian outback, a convoy of British military vehicles crosses the endless desert, a trail of dust in their wake. The ground quakes beneath the armored tanks as they roll forward, their purpose clear. Soldiers, dust-caked and tense, stand poised under the oppressive heat, their movements efficient but full of urgency.
Mock cities, fast thrown together, serve as crude simulations of the looming threat. Makeshift barricades line the perimeter. The landscape, a far cry from the bustling metropolis they aim to mirror, serves as an eerie prelude to the chaos about to unfold.
All at once, sirens pierce. A sandstorm, swirling as nature's battle cry, engulfs the training grounds. Soldiers scramble into vehicles, abandoning gear in the swirling dust. Every action, though frantic, carries a rhythm of order. Orders bark with precision. This is no drill—they know something far worse lies ahead.