Earth Calendar, 2074
Rammstein Airbase, Germany.
General Silas Morshower
As the Battle of Berlin rages on, claiming the lives of countless soldiers and civilians, NATO forces have breached the southern German border, pushing deep into the Czech Republic, Austria, and parts of northern Italy. This advance has effectively cut off the Russian occupation force in Italy, isolating them from the rest of the Russian military presence in Europe.
Meanwhile, in the Pacific, tensions continue to escalate despite diplomatic agreements. While both China and the United States had previously united in pressuring Russia to withdraw from the International Space Station and recall its forces, China has now deployed its most advanced aircraft carrier, the CVN-56 Zheng He, off the coast of Guam.
In response, the U.S. Navy has mobilized its own carrier strike group, spearheaded by the CVN-99 USS William McKinley, the most modern aircraft carrier in the American fleet. The two naval powers are now on a collision course, and the situation in the Pacific is on the brink of igniting into yet another—open conflict.
China's true intentions behind this maneuver remain unclear. Many military analysts and geopolitical experts have warned that this is, quote, "a very bad idea," as tensions in the Pacific are already at a boiling point.
With Russian naval forces advancing from the Northern Pacific, the U.S. Navy remains on high alert, prepared for a potential multi-front conflict. Speculation is growing over whether China's cooperation in the ISS negotiations was merely a diversion, though the true reasoning behind their latest actions remains unknown.
Meanwhile, in a press conference, General Silas Morshower addressed the ongoing NATO counteroffensive against Russian forces, stating that the operation is progressing well, despite Berlin remaining under occupation.
However, many believe he is downplaying the severity of the situation, especially as unconfirmed reports suggest that nuclear weapons are once again being considered as an option on the battlefield.
Historian George McMillan explains, 'Berlin holds not only tactical importance but immense symbolic value for the Russians. Historically, the Soviet Union was the first to breach the city, delivering the decisive blow to Nazi Germany and cementing their victory over fascism. Today, the Russian leadership operates under a similar ideological framework—believing they are once again engaged in a righteous struggle, this time to 'liberate' the world from what they see as the corrupt influence of the Western powers. President Kravchenko has repeatedly stated that if NATO wants Berlin back, they will have to fight for it block by block, street by street, meter by meter. Either they retake it at a devastating cost, or they level the entire city to drive the Russians out.'
Two new voices had taken the stage, and the debate was already on the verge of collapse. Congressman Tobias Hartman, a former U.S. Army Green Beret, and Maria Klein, the spokesperson for the Voices of Peace, had locked horns in what could only be described as a verbal firefight.
Klein, visibly frustrated, leaned forward, her voice sharp with conviction but completely detached from reality.
"This entire war is NATO's fault! If we had simply sent more diplomatic envoys to Moscow, we could have resolved this peacefully! Instead, we're sending tanks and soldiers, escalating tensions! We should be pulling back, surrendering Berlin, and showing Russia that we are not aggressors! If we stop fighting, they'll have no choice but to stop too!"
The room went silent for half a second, as if everyone needed time to process the sheer absurdity of what they had just heard.
Tobias Hartman blinked once, then let out a slow breath through his nose.
Then, in a voice that carried the weight of experience, exhaustion, and a lifetime of dealing with people like this, he simply replied. "Lady, if surrendering worked, Poland wouldn't have spent six years under Nazi occupation."
As the debate dragged on, Maria Klein pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, her face burning with self-righteous determination.
"I have here," she declared, waving the paper for emphasis, "a list of NATO casualties pulled directly from a highly credible Telegram channel. According to these reports, NATO forces have lost over 500,000 soldiers in just the past two weeks! That's half a million lives thrown away in this reckless war! But it doesn't stop there!"
She took a dramatic breath, as if she were delivering a grand revelation.
"NATO has also lost over 4,300 tanks, including the entire U.S. M1A5 Abrams fleet, nearly 2,800 IFVs, 1,500 self-propelled artillery units, and over 9,000 tactical vehicles! And let's not forget the air war—our forces have lost over 3,200 fighter jets, 1,100 strategic bombers, and an estimated 7,500 drones! At this rate, there won't be anything left of NATO's military in just a few more months!"
The room fell silent—but not because her words had shocked anyone.
It was the kind of silence one hears when a toddler insists monsters are real, or when someone confidently states that the Earth is flat.
Congressman Julian Hartman, who had thus far kept his composure, let out a slow, exasperated sigh before pinching the bridge of his nose.
Then, in a firm, no-nonsense tone, he replied. "Ma'am, I fought in Ukraine during the first war in the 2020s. If I believed every casualty report I saw on Reddit and Facebook, Kyiv would have fallen in the first three days, Russia would have conquered all of Europe, and NATO wouldn't even exist."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice turning sharper, colder.
"Let me break this down for you. Right now, NATO has a little over 1,200 frontline tanks in active deployment across the European theater. Even if every single one of them was destroyed four times over, we wouldn't hit your number. The U.S. doesn't even operate 1,100 strategic bombers—we barely have a fraction of that, and that includes aircraft that haven't even left U.S. airspace. And 3,200 fighter jets? Lady, that would be about the entire combined air power of the European NATO states."
His stare hardened, his next words delivered with the finality of a closing argument in court.
"500,000 dead in two weeks? That would be the single largest military disaster since World War II. Do you seriously believe that? If we had lost those numbers, there wouldn't be a NATO counteroffensive—there wouldn't be NATO at all. We'd already be signing the terms of surrender."
The argument dragged on for over an hour, with tensions only escalating as the debate spiraled further into chaos.
Ultimately, Maria Klein stormed out of the studio, ripping the microphone from her clothing in a fit of rage. Witnesses claim she was furious, shouting obscenities as she left. According to unconfirmed reports, she even punched one of the producers in the face before being escorted off the premises.
Wait—breaking news!
The President is now delivering a live press conference.
The camera feed cuts to the podium, where the Commander-in-Chief stands, flanked by high-ranking officials. His expression is stern, unwavering as a reporter just finished asking a question.
"We are willing to do whatever is necessary to free Europe from the Russian aggressors."
Reporters immediately clamor for attention, shouting questions over one another.
"Mr. President! About that ultranationalist group—do you have any further information on them?"
The President's jaw tightens slightly before he gives a short, clipped response.
"No. No, we don't."
More voices rise in the room, competing to be heard.
"Mr. President, Mr. President! Over here!"
A reporter pushes forward, raising his voice above the crowd.
"There are rumors circulating about the disappearance of multiple NATO vehicles. Allegedly— and I quote— they 'disappeared into thin air.' What can you say about that?!"
The President paused, his gaze steady, calculating his next words carefully.
He adjusted his stance slightly before leaning into the microphone, his tone measured but firm.
"We are aware of the reports, and we are currently conducting a full investigation. At this time, we are gathering intelligence from all available sources, including military, scientific, and reconnaissance assets."
The reporters exchanged glances, sensing something off in his response.
The President continued, his expression giving away nothing.
"What I can say is that we are not jumping to conclusions, nor are we ruling anything out. Our top experts are assessing the situation, and until we have verifiable facts, speculation will only do more harm than good."
A brief silence settled over the room—before the press erupted again, voices overlapping.
"Mr. President! Are you suggesting this was not a conventional military incident?"
"What do you mean by 'scientific assets'? Is NASA involved in this investigation?"
"Are you saying this could be something other than enemy action?"
The President held up a hand, signaling for order, but he offered no further clarification.
"We will release more details when we have them. Until then, I ask for patience and restraint."
With that, he turned away from the podium, leaving the reporters scrambling for answers—answers that, for now, no one seemed to have.
There you have it, ladies and gentlemen—straight from the White House. A new and unexplained phenomenon appears to be disrupting NATO operations, causing entire combat vehicles to vanish without a trace—and no one seems to know why.
What we do know is that top military and scientific agencies, including NASA, are now involved in the investigation, suggesting that this may be something far beyond conventional warfare.
We'll continue to monitor the situation as it develops.
This is Charlotte Hayes, reporting for Global Conflict News Network—where every voice is heard, and every story matters.
General Morshower set the remote down, his expression unreadable as the GCNN logo faded into darkness on the screen.
The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights.
Before him, three men in suits stood rigidly, their presence carrying an unmistakable aura of authority and secrecy.
Even without an introduction, Morshower knew exactly who they were.
CIA.
And if they were standing in his office, it meant things had just gotten a whole lot worse.
"General Silas Morshower?" The man in the center of the trio asked, his voice sharp and direct. Morshower barely spared him a glance, his tone flat, indifferent.
"Who wants to know?" He countered, returning to flipping through the paperwork on his desk as if their presence was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
The man in the center didn't flinch at Morshower's dismissive tone. Instead, he reached into his suit jacket, retrieving a sleek black ID wallet. With a practiced flick, he flipped it open, revealing his credentials.
"CIA Investigator, Agent Alexander Adelstein."
His voice was calm but deliberate, the kind that didn't ask for attention—it commanded it.
He held the ID just long enough for Morshower to get a proper look before snapping it shut and tucking it away.
"These are Agents Carter and Wilkes," he continued, gesturing subtly to the two men flanking him.
Both were cut from the same cloth—black suits, rigid posture, unreadable expressions. CIA, through and through.
Morshower let out a low exhale, finally setting his pen down and leaning back in his chair. His fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes studying them with a quiet intensity. "And what, exactly, does the CIA want with me today?"
Adelstein didn't hesitate, stepping forward with measured confidence. "We need to talk about the missing NATO vehicles, General."
Morshower's jaw tightened just slightly, his expression remaining neutral, though there was now a flicker of something else behind his gaze—a quiet wariness, a calculation of what was coming next.
"That so?" he mused, leaning forward again, resting his forearms on the desk. "I assume you've got something new for me then, because right now, we're all chasing ghosts."
Adelstein's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile—more of a knowing smirk, laced with something just short of amusement. "That's the problem, General."
He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a thick file folder, and placed it onto Morshower's desk with a quiet, deliberate thud.
The weight of it alone was enough to tell Morshower this wasn't just another intelligence briefing. "We're starting to wonder if those ghosts… might be real."
Morshower flipped through the thick folder, his eyes scanning the pages filled with classified reports, satellite imagery, and operational logs. The familiar red stamps of "TOP SECRET" and "EYES ONLY" were plastered across each document, but nothing in these files was new to him.
He had already spent countless hours going over these reports, watching the grainy satellite footage of NATO vehicles vanishing into thin air with no explosion, no wreckage, no trace left behind.
After a moment, he exhaled sharply, shook his head, and tossed the folder back onto the desk with a dull thud. His gaze locked onto Adelstein, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I've seen all of these reports. I've reviewed the satellite footage myself—hell, I've watched those tanks disappear more times than I can count. So tell me… what exactly am I supposed to be seeing here?"
His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable edge to it, a frustration born from too many unanswered questions and too little time to waste.
Adelstein didn't react immediately. Instead, he kept his stance rigid, composed, his expression unreadable. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his next words carefully.
Then, after a brief pause, he finally spoke—his voice low, deliberate, and just cryptic enough to make Morshower's gut tighten.
"We know, General. We've seen the footage too." He reached out, his gloved fingers pressing against the folder as he slid it back toward himself, as if reinforcing his point.
"But what you don't know… is that the exact same thing happened to the men sent to investigate."
Morshower's expression didn't change, but a shift in his posture gave him away—a barely perceptible stiffening of the shoulders, a subtle tightening of his jaw.
"Clarify," he said, his voice now devoid of any trace of impatience.
Adelstein nodded once, then slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing a secondary file tucked neatly inside a leather document pouch. He pulled it out, carefully placing it in front of Morshower—a new file, one that hadn't been in the previous folder.
He tapped the cover twice, his gray eyes locked onto the General's.
"One LAV-50, Navy SEALs. 75th Rangers. NASA scientists. Gone. No bodies, no wreckage, no distress calls. Just… gone."
Morshower stared at the file, his stomach twisting into a knot.
Adelstein's tone remained even, but there was an unmistakable weight behind his words.
"At your orders, General, the U.S. Air Force dispatched two F-22C Super Raptors to provide overwatch and air support for the investigation team. They reached the coordinates—right where the last transmission from the SEALs and Rangers had been sent."
He paused for a brief moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the file.
"What they found was a downed helicopter. A CH-85 Mammoth. Wrecked and burned out to some extent, but more or less intact. No smoke, no heat signatures, no signs of a recent engagement."
Morshower leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing. "And the team?"
Adelstein's gaze sharpened. "Gone. No bodies. No blood. No gear. Not a single damn footprint in the mud."
He slid a grainy black-and-white image across the desk, captured from one of the Raptors' infrared targeting pods. It showed the skeletal remains of the helicopter resting eerily untouched amidst a clearing—silent, lifeless, abandoned.
"Whatever happened down there, General, it happened fast. And whatever took them… left nothing behind."
Morshower's eyes lingered on the photo, taking in the unsettling sight. A multi-million-dollar military helicopter, shot down but not further touched. It didn't make sense.
He lifted his gaze back to Adelstein, his voice quieter now, but laced with tension. "You're telling me an entire platoon of SEALs, Rangers, NASA scientists, and a damn ICV—just vanished into thin air?"
Adelstein nodded once, his face unreadable. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."
Morshower leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His fingers drummed against the wood of his desk, his mind racing through every possible explanation—none of them good. His mind was racing, piecing together fragments of a puzzle that refused to fit.
Finally, he sat forward, his elbows resting heavily on the polished wood as he steepled his fingers, his eyes locked onto Adelstein's with the weight of a seasoned general who had seen far too much to be easily shaken.
His voice was low, measured, and edged with quiet authority. "Alright, Agent. Cut the bullshit. What is the CIA actually thinking here?"
Adelstein didn't hesitate this time. He had expected the question, maybe even welcomed it. "We don't know."
Morshower's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he leaned forward slightly, his patience wearing thin.
"The CIA's job is to know everything and anything, Agent. You're telling me you have nothing? Not even a theory?"
Adelstein held his ground, his expression unreadable. "We have theories, General. None of them good."
He tapped the Phantom Veil report with two fingers before sliding it slightly closer to Morshower. "This event doesn't follow any known patterns of electronic warfare, cyber disruption, or experimental enemy weapons technology. We've ruled out jamming, hacking, and direct-energy attacks. Whatever this is, it's outside conventional warfare as we understand it."
Morshower exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "That still doesn't explain how an entire SEAL and Ranger unit, along with their ICV, just… disappeared."
Adelstein nodded slowly. "That's because there's another layer to this, General. Something bigger than just missing men and lost equipment."
He pulled out a sealed envelope from his inner jacket pocket, marked with both CIA and NSA security clearances. He placed it on the desk, his tone dropping to something just above a whisper. "We have reason to believe this isn't the first time something like this has happened."
Morshower's gaze shifted between the envelope and Adelstein, the unease in his gut solidifying into something heavier. His voice was low, edged with suspicion. "And you're telling me—without a shadow of a doubt—that this isn't some CIA black-site project gone sideways? Some classified experiment you people lost control of and are now trying to sweep under the rug?"
Adelstein held his gaze, his expression unreadable. He let out a measured breath, then finally spoke. "General, I won't pretend the CIA doesn't have its share of secrets. We do. Some you don't want to know about."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to carry weight. "But I can tell you, unequivocally, that this is not one of them. Time travel, interdimensional shifting, phasing—none of that is in our wheelhouse. Whatever this is, it's not ours."
He tapped the envelope with two fingers, his tone darkening just slightly. "Which begs the question—who is it?"
Morshower shook his head, his fingers gripping the file as he pulled it toward him. His eyes never left Adelstein.
"The 'who' isn't my priority right now. At least, not yet." His voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy tension in the room. "What matters more is the when. You just said this wasn't the first time."
Adelstein sighed, reaching into his briefcase before pulling out another file, this one marked with older security stamps, the edges slightly worn from handling.
"November 18, 2025." He slid the file across the desk. "That's when we lost track of one of our scientists. A woman named Zelene Birkenbaum. She disappeared without a trace—no warning, no indication of foul play."
He paused, letting that sink in before continuing.
"At the exact same time, the U.S. Navy reported one of its Virginia-class attack submarines going completely dark—vanished off the coast of Japan. No distress call, no wreckage, no electronic signature. Just… gone."
Morshower's hand shot up, stopping the agent mid-sentence. "Hold it right there." His eyes narrowed, his tone now laced with something colder—something dangerously close to realization. "You just said 'one of your scientists.' So, she was CIA?"
Adelstein didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied Morshower's reaction carefully, like a man calculating his next move in a high-stakes chess game.
Finally, he exhaled, his voice lower this time. "She was… affiliated."
Morshower leaned forward, his fingers tapping against the thick folder in front of him. His jaw tightened, his eyes locked onto Adelstein like a hawk sizing up its prey. "Affiliated? That's a pretty damn convenient way to dance around the question, Agent."
Adelstein let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. "She wasn't officially CIA. Not in the way you're thinking. But she worked under one of our experimental research divisions—high-clearance projects, black-budget funding, the kind of work that doesn't exist... officially."
He flipped the file open, revealing a grainy black-and-white surveillance photo of a woman in her late 30s, dressed in a lab coat, standing outside a government facility. A small, stamped label at the bottom read:
ZELENE BIRKENBAUM – LEVEL 6 CLEARANCE – PROJECT LEGION
Morshower's brows furrowed as he scanned the page, his eyes flicking over the heavily redacted lines. "Never heard of her. Or that project."
Adelstein's lips twitched slightly, a ghost of a smirk—but there was no amusement behind it. "And you never will."
Morshower's gaze darkened, his tone low, edged with suspicion. "So what the hell was she working on?"
Adelstein paused, his fingers hesitating over the folder for just a fraction of a second before he flipped to the next page.
It was a technical briefing, the majority of it blacked out with heavy redactions. What little remained visible was a mess of complex equations, energy readings, and terminology that belonged more in a high-level physics journal than an intelligence dossier.
But one phrase stood out, stark and undeniable:
AI-Enabled / AI-Driven Multipedal Combat Units.
Morshower's brow furrowed, his gut twisting as he processed the words.
Directly beneath it, a technical sketch was attached—drawn in precise, clean lines. At first glance, it resembled a standard main battle tank—turret, cannon, reinforced hull. But where the treads should have been… were six articulated mechanical legs.
Morshower stared at the image, then back at Adelstein, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're telling me… she was designing that?"
Adelstein's jaw tightened slightly, but he gave a slow nod. "Not just designing it, General."
He flipped to another page. This one had a single word, typed in bold, red letters.
"ACTIVE."
Morshower snapped his head up from the file, his eyes wide, a flicker of something dangerously close to alarm flashing across his otherwise controlled expression.
He exhaled sharply, his fingers gripping the edges of the folder as if grounding himself.
"What the hell am I looking at here, Agent?!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the thick tension like a blade.
He gestured to the sketch, tapping a finger against the six-legged mechanical monstrosity like he was trying to force it to make sense.
"That thing is obviously a damn tank on legs. But I don't like seeing 'AI' anywhere near a weapons platform—especially not something like this."
His tone dropped, turning into something colder, heavier.
"And that 'ACTIVE' bullshit?" He snapped the file shut, the sound echoing off the walls. "That's even more goddamn terrifying."
Adelstein didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the desk. His tone was low, steady—but laced with something dangerous. "It should be."
He tapped the closed file once, the gesture deliberate, precise, emphasizing the weight of his next words.
"This is the XBT-5. The fifth in a series of experimental combat units designed to integrate the 'Legion' AI system. Unlike conventional armor, it doesn't rely on wheels or treads." Adelstein's gaze sharpened, his tone grim, measured. "It walks."
Morshower stared at Adelstein, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and fury, as if the agent had just grown a second head.
"I can see that it can fucking walk!" he snapped, his voice booming through the office, his temper finally snapping under the weight of the conversation.
He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to regain control, but his next words came out lower, more measured—yet carrying an unmistakable edge of unease.
"Please… for the love of God, do not tell me these damned things are still out there, roaming free across the goddamn world."
There was something almost pleading in his tone—a rare glimpse of a man who had fought enough wars to know when something was beyond human control.
"They're not," Adelstein replied, his tone steady but carrying a weight that suggested the truth was far from comforting. "They're currently inside a black site, buried deep beneath the Pacific…"
Morshower's eyes narrowed, his mind already racing ahead as he put the pieces together. "…Just off the coast of Japan?"
Adelstein nodded once, his expression unreadable.
Morshower let out a slow, controlled breath, his fingers drumming against the desk, the rhythmic taps betraying the tension building inside him. "Tell me, Agent. Are they still inside that black site?"
Adelstein didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out another folder, and placed it down in front of the general.
The bold red letters stamped across the cover said everything.
BREACH INCIDENT 0 – 1 – FACILITY K-12
Morshower's stomach sank, a deep sense of unease settling in his gut.
"Son of a bitch…" he muttered under his breath.
Adelstein didn't waste time. "One of Birkenbaum's… 'pets' breached containment and went on a rampage inside the facility." His voice was calm, clinical—like a man delivering a report on a natural disaster rather than a military nightmare.
He flipped open the Breach Incident file, revealing grainy security footage stills—shattered hallways, blood-streaked floors, twisted metal where reinforced doors had once been.
"The facility is several hundred meters beneath the Pacific, so there was never any risk of them reaching the surface."
Morshower didn't look reassured.
Adelstein continued. "The one responsible—XBT-1, the first in the line—managed to break containment. It tore through security teams, killed multiple researchers… but for some reason, it spared Birkenbaum."
Morshower's brow furrowed. "Spared her?"
Adelstein nodded, flipping to another report. "Didn't lay a finger on her. Walked right past her. Almost as if it recognized her."
The room fell dead silent for a moment before Adelstein pressed on.
"It was finally put down with an AT-4 rocket launcher. That ended the breach—but that's not the disturbing part."
He flipped to another security report, this one detailing post-incident observations.
"The other XBTs—the ones still in containment—reacted. Violently. As if they could feel what happened. They slammed against their holding locks, pushed their servos to the breaking point. It was…"
Adelstein hesitated, his expression unreadable as he read the next words. "…It was like watching soldiers mourn the loss of a comrade."
Morshower felt a chill crawl up his spine, a sensation he hadn't experienced since his early days on the battlefield.
His fingers clenched into a fist against the desk as he leaned forward, his voice low, edged with disbelief and something dangerously close to unease.
"Soldiers are human, Agent. They feel remorse. Pain. Loss. That's what separates us from machines." He gestured sharply to the security reports. "But these things? These things are not human. They're circuits and steel. So tell me, Adelstein—how in the hell do they 'feel'?"
Adelstein sighed, his fingers sliding over the edge of the file before he flipped to the next page.
"Well… that 'circuit' part you mentioned?" His voice dropped slightly, almost hesitant. "That's not entirely accurate."
Morshower's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his tone. "Agent…?" His voice was low, measured, carrying the weight of a man who had seen enough government disasters to know when he was being fed a sanitized version of the truth.
He tapped a finger against the desk, his glare boring into Adelstein. "Just what the hell did you people cook up down there?"
Adelstein didn't answer immediately. Instead, he flipped another page, revealing a series of medical diagrams, overlaid with neural scans and synthetic implant schematics.
Morshower's eyes flicked over the documents, his gut twisting as his mind processed the implications.
Finally, Adelstein spoke, his tone measured, deliberate—as if he was walking a tightrope with every word. "The XBTs aren't just machines, General."
Morshower stared at him, his fingers tightening into a fist on the desk. "Explain."
Adelstein turned the file around, sliding it toward Morshower so he could see the details himself. "Legion AI wasn't just built—it was grown."
Morshower's breath hitched, but he remained silent, his eyes locked onto the file.
Adelstein continued. "The project was meant to push autonomous warfare past its limits. We needed an AI that could think like a soldier, react like a soldier, learn like a soldier. But every attempt at traditional programming failed. There was always a flaw—hesitation, predictability, inability to adapt to the battlefield in real-time."
He tapped a particular page, which displayed a highly-classified neural interface prototype—a synthetic brain lattice, fused with organic components.
"So instead of writing an AI from scratch… they based it on something real."
Morshower's stomach twisted, but his voice remained like iron. "…What are you saying, Agent?"
Adelstein exhaled slowly, bracing himself. "I'm saying that the XBTs… have human minds inside them." The room went deathly silent. Morshower didn't move. Didn't blink.
Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his voice deadly quiet. "…You turned soldiers into machines."
Adelstein didn't flinch.
"No, General." He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if speaking the next words aloud would make them all the more damning.
His gaze locked onto Morshower's. "We turned machines into soldiers."
Morshower exhaled sharply, the weight of those words settling like a lead weight in his chest. Without another word, he pushed back from his chair and stood, turning away from the table.
He moved toward the large window, staring out over Ramstein Air Base, where rows of idle military hardware sat waiting within the compound's borders—tanks, aircraft, missile batteries. Tools of war. Machines.
He stood there for a long moment, his hands clasped behind his back, before finally speaking again.
"And that Navy sub?" His voice was level, but edged with something deeper—something colder. "What did that have to do with all of this?"
Behind him, Adelstein exchanged a brief glance with one of the other agents, hesitation flickering just for a moment before he finally spoke.
"You see, General… when I told you that the CIA wasn't researching time travel, interdimensional shifting, or phase manipulation… I was kind of lying."
Morshower didn't react. Didn't flinch. He simply shrugged indifferently, his eyes still fixed on the vast array of military hardware outside the window.
Without turning, he spoke—calm, measured. "Figured as much. So? Elaborate."
Adelstein exhaled through his nose, bracing himself before continuing. "The USS Barb."
Morshower finally turned slightly, his brow furrowing at the name.
Adelstein continued. "It wasn't just another attack submarine, General. It was a CIA black site—codename Black Aurora."
He placed another file onto the desk, this one bearing multiple classified clearance stamps—but Morshower didn't reach for it.
"The goal of the research aboard the Barb wasn't just surveillance or weapons testing." Adelstein's voice dropped slightly, as if saying the next part too loud might somehow make it worse.
"Their mission was to locate the borders of reality… and bend them."
"Borders of reality." He repeated the words slowly, as if tasting them, trying to decide whether to laugh or throw the agent out of his office.
He didn't do either. Instead, he folded his arms, his voice low and razor-sharp. "Tell me exactly what that means, Agent. No riddles. No cryptic bullshit. Start talking."
"Officially, the Barb was classified as an experimental recon sub. In reality, it was a mobile research station—outfitted with some of the most advanced quantum physics labs ever built."
Morshower exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples before letting his arms fall to his sides.
"So…" he began, his voice edged with restrained frustration. "We vaguely know how the sub disappeared. Some experiment went sideways, the whole thing went to shit, and now it's sitting at the bottom of the ocean—or worse, somewhere we can't even comprehend."
He turned fully to face Adelstein, his glare sharp as a blade.
"Presumably, the Barb was near your other little black site when it vanished, and somehow—only God knows how—it took only Birkenbaum with it. But none of that explains how, more than forty years later, four of my tanks suddenly disappear the same fucking way."
Morshower paused just long enough to let the weight of his words sink in before he pressed on, his tone growing sharper with every syllable.
"And not just anywhere. They vanished on the other side of the goddamn world—nowhere near an ocean, nowhere near your secret playground at the bottom of the Pacific."
He took a step closer, his presence towering over the agent. "And it sure as hell doesn't explain how forty of my best-trained men went AWOL at the same damned location, under the same mysterious circumstances."
His voice lowered, filled with something dangerous, controlled, and ice-cold. "So, Agent… I suggest you stop feeding me breadcrumbs and start giving me some goddamn answers."
Adelstein sighed, tapping a finger on the classified file he had just placed on the desk. "Black Aurora wasn't a weapons program. It wasn't even traditional espionage. It was the CIA's attempt to understand the fundamental fabric of spacetime—to manipulate it. To find ways to move beyond the physical limits of our world."
Morshower's expression remained stone-cold, but his eyes darkened, the implications sinking in.
Adelstein didn't flinch, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something too well-contained to be fear, but close. He exhaled slowly, bracing himself before leaning forward, fingers steepling on the table. His voice was low, careful, but carried the weight of a man who had seen something that defied explanation.
"General… we don't think this was an isolated event."
Morshower's eyes locked onto him, his patience thinning to a razor's edge. His fingers, still resting on the surface of the file, twitched slightly, though whether from irritation or something deeper, even he wasn't sure. The air in the room felt heavier now, the kind of heaviness that came when two men who had spent their lives in the shadows of war suddenly realized they might be standing at the edge of something far worse.
"No shit, Agent. That much I figured out on my own." His voice was cold, controlled, but beneath it, frustration simmered like an ember waiting to ignite. He leaned forward, his glare boring into Adelstein like a drill through steel. "Now tell me something I don't know."
Adelstein didn't argue. He simply reached into his briefcase, the smooth leather creaking under the weight of what he pulled free. With a practiced motion, he laid another thick folder onto the table. The dull thud it made as it landed between them carried the weight of classified knowledge—knowledge that had been buried for decades, hidden away like a sickness no one wanted to acknowledge.
Morshower snatched it up, flipping it open with the precision of a man who had been reading blacked-out reports for longer than most soldiers had been alive. But this wasn't just any classified document. This was different. Inside were declassified reports spanning nearly half a century—redacted names, missing coordinates, vague after-action summaries—but the pattern was undeniable.
Adelstein spoke as Morshower flipped through the pages, his voice steady. "These disappearances didn't start with your missing tanks, General. They've been happening for nearly fifty years."
Morshower's scowl deepened. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The 2026 Korea Incident—an entire armored convoy near the DMZ, gone without a trace. No distress calls. No signs of attack. Just gone." Adelstein tapped a document near the front of the file. "The 2034 Bering Sea Anomaly—a U.S. Navy destroyer, the USS Paul Ignatius, disappears during training exercises. Last transmission? Pure static. The ship or it's 350 Sailors were never found."
He flipped another page.
"2041 Moroccan Blackout. A NATO special operations unit deployed for counter-terrorism. Mid-transmission, their comms cut out. Last words recorded?" He slid the document closer to Morshower. "'Something is… wrong. We are not—' Then nothing."
Morshower's eyes flicked to the next report.
"2052 Siberian Rift." Adelstein paused, his fingers tightening against the folder. "A Russian strategic missile division. They lost an entire mobile launch platform—vehicle, crew, everything." He exhaled. "Satellite footage showed… nothing. No signs of an attack. Just an empty field where the convoy used to be."
Morshower frowned. "And did we ever get an official response from the Russians?"
Adelstein glanced at him. His expression unreadable.
"No. We never got anything. Because Russia had already gone dark."
Morshower stiffened.
"From 2030 to now," Adelstein continued, "Russia's been cut off. No communication, no trade, no intelligence leaks. We have zero knowledge of what's happened inside their borders for over four decades."
Morshower flipped another page, his scowl deepening.
"And that doesn't concern you?"
"Oh, it does," Adelstein admitted. "Because if they experienced more of these disappearances… we wouldn't know. And neither would they."
Morshower's jaw clenched.
"And now?"
Adelstein flipped to the last page, revealing a meticulously tracked graph, its jagged line crawling through time like a scar on history. He didn't slide it across the desk this time. He didn't let Morshower take it in on his own.
Instead, he laid his hand flat on the paper, fingers tapping once against the page before speaking.
"At first, the spikes were small," he began, his voice calm but carrying that quiet undercurrent of tension. "A single lost aircraft here. A missing armored vehicle there. Scattered years apart. Just enough to dismiss as accidents, bad intel, mechanical failures."
His finger traced the early part of the graph.
"But then came 2040. The frequency doubled." He tapped the line, where the numbers jumped. "We started seeing patterns. Incidents repeating. Disappearances clustering closer together."
Morshower's gaze was locked onto the graph now, his jaw tight.
"By 2060, it was undeniable." Adelstein's voice was steady, but he leaned in slightly, as if emphasizing the weight of the words. "At that point, it wasn't just aircraft. Or convoys. It was entire units. Platoons. Squadrons. Fleets."
He let that sink in before continuing. "Then came the last three years."
Morshower's fingers curled slightly against the table.
Adelstein exhaled, his voice lowering. "The numbers skyrocketed. What had once been an anomaly had become something… else." He met Morshower's gaze. "Something frequent. Aggressive."
Morshower barely breathed. "…How frequent?"
Adelstein's hand hovered over the last section of the graph. "Months apart. Then weeks." His voice was barely above a whisper now. Then—he tapped the last datapoint. "Then days."
The weight of those words settled into the room like a physical force.
Morshower's gaze darkened as he absorbed the full implications. His breathing was steady, but his pulse thundered in his ears.
"…Jesus Christ."
Adelstein nodded grimly. His own expression held no satisfaction in confirming the worst. "Whatever's causing this, General… it's happening more often."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice even further, as if speaking too loud would somehow make it worse.
"And now?" His eyes locked onto Morshower's. "It's getting bolder."
Morshower exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching, feeling the tension coil in his chest like a tightening noose.
His fingers drummed once against the file. Once. Twice.
Then he looked up, his voice measured, cold—the voice of a man who had spent his life dealing with war, but was now facing something he couldn't begin to comprehend. "So what the hell are we dealing with, Agent?"
Adelstein took a breath. Paused. Then, finally, he said the words Morshower hadn't been prepared for.
"Something that isn't following the rules anymore."
Stellar Year 2148, May 22nd
Republic of San Magnolia
Somewhere inside District 86
The convoy rumbled across the ruined landscape of the 86th District, the sound of heavy treads and roaring engines filling the air as the NATO armor rolled alongside the battered remnants of Ranger and SEAL units.
The M1A5 Abrams led the column, its turret scanning the treeline as its powerful engine growled, a mechanical beast among the wreckage of war. Behind it, the Challenger 4 and KF-51 Panther followed in formation, their imposing silhouettes casting long shadows over the cracked, barren road.
War Pig, the M7 Bradley III, trailed just behind, its Bushmaster autocannon swiveling, ready to cut down anything that might lurch from the ruins.
Among them, the T-34 Perun rumbled forward, a relic of a war that hadn't even happened yet—at least not in this world. Its Russian crew, silent and watchful, shared a look with their NATO counterparts but said nothing.
Atop the Abrams, Paul sat half out of the hatch, his helmet resting on the rim, arms crossed. The distant smoke of burning Legion wrecks still clung to the air.
"Hell of a first day, huh?" Paul called over his shoulder, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor as he sat inside the Abrams, watching the sun dip behind the horizon.
Behind him, perched on the turret, Nolan sat in silence, his gaze locked on the distance. The battlefield stretched before them—a graveyard of shattered Juggernauts and burning Legion wrecks, the twisted remains of machines painting a grim picture of the battle's cost.
Paul glanced back when Nolan didn't respond immediately. Finally, the Ranger captain exhaled, rolling the words over his tongue like they carried a weight he hadn't fully processed yet.
"Yeah… hell of a first day."
His voice was quieter this time, hollow in a way that only men who had seen too much could understand.
Nolan's fingers tapped absently against his knee as his mind drifted—to the bodies. The sheer number of them. Soldiers who, just hours ago, were standing beside him, joking, fighting, surviving. Now? Scooped up and loaded into the Bradley like cargo.
"I've fought in every damn battlefield Uncle Sam saw fit to send me to." His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed something deeper. "South America, fighting cartel insurgents. Africa, putting down the last of the terror cells. Then the Russians—France, Germany. I thought I'd seen it all.
He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But I've never taken losses like today."
The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant crackle of still-burning wreckage and the occasional metallic groan of twisted Legion husks settling into the earth.
Nolan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face as the weight of the battle—and everything it implied—settled on his shoulders. "Whatever the hell this was…" he started, his voice trailing off as the thought formed. "I mean… if we can come here—"
A SEAL sitting beside him, his uniform still streaked with dirt and blood, cut in, finishing the thought that had sent a cold chill down all their spines.
"—then whatever the fuck that was can go to our home too."
Nolan shuddered at the thought—those spider-like monstrosities rampaging through a major city back home, tearing through streets, mowing down civilians like wheat before a scythe. The idea made his stomach turn.
Shaking it off, he refocused, turning his attention to Paul. "Alright… so what's the objective here?" His voice was steady again, back to business. "Or better yet—" he continued, shifting slightly on the turret, "that base you mentioned earlier—what kind of setup are we looking at?"
Paul turned to Nolan, giving him a look that spoke volumes before sighing. "Uh… the objective right now? Survive. Indefinitely."
Nolan arched a brow. "Fantastic. Real comforting."
Paul ignored the sarcasm, rubbing the back of his head as he continued. "As for the base…" He hesitated for a moment before letting out a short chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "Yeah… you might not like this, but that place? It's full of kids."
Nolan blinked again, his expression hardening. "…The hell do you mean 'kids'?"
Paul shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "What do you think I mean? The base is full of kids, you know?"
Nolan's eyes narrowed. "No? I definitely don't know. Try again."
Paul exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples. "You know— a bunch of sixteen-, seventeen-year-olds running around with FALs and more of those spider tank thingies."
Nolan's grip tightened on his rifle, his knuckles turning white as he processed Paul's words. The battlefield around them had gone eerily quiet—only the distant crackling of burning wreckage and the occasional metallic groan of cooling Legion husks filled the air. The sky overhead was streaked with smoke, the acrid stench of burnt metal and flesh clinging to the wind.
He turned fully to face Paul now, his brow furrowing deeply. "…You're fucking with me."
Paul shook his head, leaning back against the Abrams' turret with a sigh. "I wish." His hands rested on his thighs, fingers drumming absently against his fatigues, his expression a mix of exhaustion and reluctant acceptance.
The SEAL, still perched beside Nolan, let out a low whistle and scoffed. "So let me get this straight. We just spent the last, what was it, fucking two hours fighting some Skynet nightmare fuel, lost God knows how many good men, and now you're telling me our best bet for shelter is some bootleg Lord of the Flies setup?"
Paul smirked dryly, looking up at the SEAL. "Something like that."
Nolan ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply before looking back at Paul, his eyes searching for any sign that this was some kind of sick joke. "Tell me you're exaggerating."
Paul met his gaze, his expression dead serious. "I'm not."
The SEAL let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Christ. Alright, well, at least tell me they're not completely feral."
Paul shrugged again. "Depends on what you mean by 'feral.' They're trained. Disciplined, even. They're soldiers, Nolan. And they've been at war their whole goddamn lives."
Nolan felt his stomach twist. He had seen child soldiers before, in some of the worst hellholes on Earth, but this? This was different. These weren't just kids with AKs forced into combat by warlords. They were organized. Equipped. Fighting on a scale that shouldn't even be possible.
And they were their only allies in this nightmare.
"…Fucking hell." He muttered, rubbing his temples before looking at Paul again. "And we're supposed to just… what? Move in and play nice?"
Paul exhaled sharply. "Like I said—our first objective? Survive. We can figure the rest out after we get there."
The SEAL let out a low grunt, shaking his head as he glanced toward the wreckage-strewn horizon. "Man… this day just keeps getting better."
Paul stretched his arms behind his head, leaning against the Abrams' turret with a lazy smirk. "But hey! You gotta see it from the bright side."
Nolan shot him a deadpan look, shifting his weight as he rested his elbows on his knees. His expression was pure skepticism. "What bright side?"
Paul twisted his torso to face them fully, his gloved hands gesturing loosely as if he were about to deliver some profound wisdom. "They might be kids, sure. But they sure as hell know how to take these things out."
He jerked his thumb toward the blackened husk of a Löwe wreck, its once-imposing frame now just another smoldering monument to the battle they had barely survived. The twisted metal still glowed faintly at the edges, heat distorting the air above it in shimmering waves.
The SEAL beside Nolan scoffed, crossing his arms as he tilted his head toward Paul. "Yeah? Well, I'd rather not rely on kids to keep my ass alive, if it's all the same to you."
Paul chuckled dryly, shrugging. "I hear you, brother. But take a good look at that thing—" he gestured again at the Löwe wreck, "because it wasn't us who put it out of commission."
Nolan exhaled through his nose, rubbing his face with both hands before letting them fall onto his knees. He scanned the battlefield—charred Legion wreckage, spent shell casings glinting in the dim light, and the mangled remains of what used to be men, now just another casualty of a war they barely understood.
"So, let me get this straight," he said, finally breaking the silence. "You're telling me that a bunch of high schoolers did here, what entire NATO armored battalions struggled with back home?"
Paul tilted his head, considering the words. "Pretty much."
The SEAL shook his head, scoffing again. "Shit's unnatural." His fingers flexed over his rifle as his gaze drifted to the burning remains of an Ameise, its shattered optics still glowing faintly, as if the machine refused to die completely. "Sixteen, seventeen years old… Back home, kids that age are worrying about prom dates, not blowing up walking tanks."
Paul leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His smirk had faded now, replaced with something more thoughtful. "Yeah… but 'back home' doesn't exist for them. Never did. For them, it's either fight or die."
Nolan rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness settling into his back. "You're really selling this place, Captain. What's next? Child soldiers with Medal of Honor citations?"
Paul let out a dry chuckle. "Wouldn't surprise me." He jerked his chin toward the direction of their base. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."
Nolan sighed, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield one last time before he pushed himself off the Abrams, his boots kicking up dust as he landed. "Alright," he muttered. "Let's get this over with."
The SEAL grunted as he followed suit, slinging his rifle across his chest. "Yeah, let's go meet the little war heroes."
Paul gave them both a knowing look before hopping off the turret himself. The distant hum of Juggernaut engines and NATO armor rolling forward signaled their next destination.
Whatever awaited them at that base, one thing was certain—this was only the beginning.
Current Character and Vehicles:
Wardog-2 (Challenger 4):
Lieutenant Noah Piers—Wardog-2 VC
Warrant Officer Jack Leeman—Wardog-2 Gunner
Corporal Arthur Williams—Wardog-2 Driver
Lance Corporal Jasper Robinson—Wardog-2 Loader
Kaiser-1 (KF-51 Panther):
Feldwebel Adrian Koch—Kaiser-1 VC
Unteroffizier Emma Neuman—Kaiser-1 Gunner
Obergefreiter Otto Klein—Kaiser-1 Driver
Warpig-3 (M7 Bradley II):
Gunnery Sergeant Elijah Jones—Warpig-3 VC
Sergeant Matteo Miller—Warpig-3 Gunner
Corporal David Anderson—Warpig-3 Driver
75th Rangers:
Captain Nolan Simmens
Sergeant Martinez
Corporal Ramirez
Eighty-Six Spearhead Squadron (M1A4 Juggernaut):
Captain Shinei Nouzen "Undertaker" "Reaper" 1st Platoon & Squadon Leader
First Lieutenant Raiden Shuga "Wehrwolf" 2nd Platoon Leader & XO to Spearhead
Second Lieutenant Anju Emma "Snow Witch"
Second Lieutenant Kurena Kukumila "Gunslinger" 6th Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Theoto Rikka "Laughing Fox" 3rd Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Daiya Irma "Black Dog" 5th Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Kaie Tanyia "Kirschblüte" 4th Platoon Leader
Ensign Kujo Nico "Sirius"
Ensign Haruto Keats "Falke"
Ensign Io Dodanthe "Argos"
Ensign Ochi Anton "Gladiator"
Ensign Shuri Gilith "Dendroaspis"
Ensign Kariya Rohga "La Bete"
Ensign Hariz Senya "Cato'Nine"
Ensign Mina Shiroka "Artemis"
Ensign Matthew Nanaki "Walpurgis"
Ensign Kuroto Hinie "Manticore"
Ensign Lecca Lin "Burnt Tayl"
Ensign Tohzan Sasha "Gunmetslstorm"
Ensign Mikuri Cairo "Leukosia"
Ensign Myna Yatomika "March Hare"
Ensign Chise Authen "Griffin"
Ensign Touma Sauvy "Helianthus"
Ensign Louie Kino "Fafnir" K.I.A.
San Magnolia:
Brigadier General Jérôme Karlstahl
Major Vladilena Milizé
Major Cecilia Amaranth
Technical Lieutenant Victor Lysander
Technical Lieutenant Henrietta von Penrose
Sergeant Elliot Fainwright
United States of America:
United States President Palmer
General Silas Morshower
CIA:
Agent Alexander Adelstein
Agent John Carter
Agent Peter Wilkes
Researcher Zelene Birkenbaum K.I.A.
Alive: 48
K.I.A.: 2
A/N:
something is wrong with the app and Website, the last Chapter I Upload or Update suddenly disappeares or goes back to the old Chapter, and you'd have to restart the thing like three times over until it's there again. Sorry for that, but I ain't got shit to do with that.
This is a rathe short chapter, with only 8k words compared to the others, but nontheless, it ist still vital to the Lore, for example, we know, the Legion is made by our guys and somehow (Will be explained) been trransported over to the 86.
I know I had no 86 in this chapter, and I hope this isn't an issue but like I said, this is Vital. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed and see y'all next time.
Reviews:
PapaFrankuu—Alright bro. I just realized, you're that Author of the other Story I've been reading. One, I'm honored having you reading this story, and Two, for the sake of the story, let's pretend they have some new type of Powder inside the shells that weighs half of what ever they put inside the current shells, Cuz I'm too lazy going back, and editting the whole thing to have the Challenger and Abrams have Autoloaders.
And for the third part, yes, yes I am searching for one. I am activaly searching for a editor lol.
Guest—Ghostly—I'm going to reply to two of your reviews with thid one, because I am making both.
Yes, yes they will put the knowledge that they pulled from the Panther and maybe, the Legion, not the Alba, the Legion may or may not come to our world, or the prototypes break out their facility. Hehe