A week after the russian deployment
In a small, dingy bar in K Town, outside the military base, Titan and Boomer sat in a booth, nursing their drinks. They were dressed in civilian clothes, no longer bound by their military uniforms, but the weight of the mission still hung over them. The bar was filled with the low hum of off-duty soldiers, but Titan and Boomer remained quiet, deep in thought.
Boomer took a sip from his glass and then leaned back, staring into the liquid as if it held all the answers. The bar was dimly lit, its cracked neon sign barely visible through the haze of smoke that hung heavy in the air. Old posters from forgotten concerts were plastered haphazardly on the walls, and the faint hum of an old jukebox played a melancholy tune in the background. The bartender, a grizzled man with more wrinkles than Titan had ever seen, worked quietly, wiping down the counter with slow, methodical strokes. In the far corner, a group of off-duty soldiers laughed loudly, drowning their war stories in cheap beer, but their laughter felt hollow—a desperate attempt to cling to something normal amidst the chaos.
Titan glanced around the room. This place, like so many others, was a refuge for soldiers who had seen too much and wanted to forget, at least for a few hours. But there was no forgetting, not really. Not when the ghosts of their fallen teammates clung to them like shadows.
His eyes drifted to Boomer, who was staring blankly at his glass, the light reflecting off the amber liquid casting a warm glow on his weathered face. There was something different about Boomer now—an edge that hadn’t been there before. Titan could see it in the way his fingers drummed against the table, restless, searching for something, anything, to break the silence.
Boomer broke the stillness, his voice a low rumble. "You ever wonder if this is it? If this is all we have left?" He didn’t look up as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the glass in front of him. "We’re sitting here, drinking ourselves stupid, pretending like the world outside hasn’t gone to hell. But it has, Titan. And it’s not going back to the way it was."
Titan watched Boomer, seeing the weariness etched into his features. He knew Boomer wasn’t just talking about the mission or the war. He was talking about the future—about what they had left after everything had been stripped away. And the truth was, Titan didn’t have an answer. Not yet.
"You ever think about what comes next, Titan?" Boomer asked. His voice was rough, a mix of exhaustion and frustration.
Titan grunted, not taking his eyes off the drink in front of him. "Next? We get discharged, go home. Try to forget what happened." His voice was heavy, tinged with bitterness.
Boomer shook his head. "Nah, man. I’m talking about really next. After this life. After the military. You think we're just gonna sit around, trying to forget all this?" He gestured to the scar across his arm, a remnant of their last mission. "There's no going back from what we've seen. What we’ve done."
Titan didn’t respond immediately. His fist tightened around the glass, his mind clearly churning through the thoughts Boomer’s words had stirred up.
Boomer continued, lowering his voice. "I’ve been talking to a friend. He’s... well, he’s working with this group. You’ve heard of the group known as Spectre Company, right?"
Titan raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.
Boomer leaned in, his voice quieter now, conspiratorial. "It’s a lucrative business, Titan. More than what we’d ever get from this discharge or a pension. My friend? He says they’re pulling in big money selling these crystals. You know, the ones that come from the alien creatures? These things are worth a fortune on the black market. People are paying top dollar for 'em—corporations, governments, even private collectors. They don’t care where the crystals come from, just that they have 'em."
Titan frowned, his jaw tight. "You’re talking about mercenary work."
Boomer shrugged. "Call it what you want, but this isn’t some small-time gig." He leaned back, staring down at the faded scar on his arm, his fingers tracing its jagged outline. "You know, Titan," he muttered, his voice low and reflective, "I've been thinking about what we’ve been doing all this time. We’ve been soldiers, sure. But it’s more than that. The thing is… I’ve always been good at surviving, adapting. But this? This life we’ve been living, being used up and discarded when we're no longer 'fit'—that’s not survival. That’s being trapped in someone else’s game."
Titan looked at him, his brow furrowed as Boomer continued. "Back when we first signed up, I thought we were doing something bigger. You know? Protecting people. Fighting for a cause. But over time... all I see is how expendable we’ve become. Just another cog in the machine. Lifeline, Phantom, Circuit, Shadow—they’re all gone, and no one’s even blinking. We’re ghosts walking in a war that no one cares to end. I can’t do that anymore."
He took a long sip of his drink, his hand tightening around the glass. "The GRRA, they don’t care about guys like us. But out there? Spectre Company... it’s different. It’s not about orders. It’s about using what we know to survive and thrive. I’m not talking about being a merc for hire. I’m talking about doing things on our own terms. Making sure we never end up like the ones we lost."
Titan was quiet as Boomer went on. "The world’s changed, man. Rifts, aliens, all this stuff. And it’s gonna keep getting worse. The way I see it, we can either be pawns, or we can be the ones calling the shots. Spectre Company? That’s not just some merc outfit. They’ve got plans, resources. And for once... maybe, just maybe, we get to be the ones in control."
There was a pause. Titan’s mind was racing. Everything Boomer was saying made sense on a practical level, but a part of him resisted. "You’re really ready to walk away from all this?"
Before Boomer could respond, a soldier from the nearby table—a muscular man with a crew cut and a faded GRRA patch on his jacket—overheard their conversation. He stood up, his drink sloshing slightly as he approached their booth, his eyes narrowed in disdain.
"You two really think you're just gonna walk away?" the soldier said, his voice a low growl. He glanced at Titan and Boomer, his lip curling in disgust. "After everything the GRRA’s done for us? After all the blood we’ve spilled? You’re just gonna turn your backs and run? Join some black market merc outfit? That’s how you honor the dead?"
Boomer’s expression hardened as he leaned forward. "Honor the dead? You think the GRRA gives a damn about honoring the dead?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the noise of the bar. "They didn’t even send a team to recover Lifeline’s body for days. Didn’t give us intel. Just sent us out to die like the others. And you think they care?"
The soldier’s eyes flashed with anger, his fists clenching at his sides. "We’re soldiers, not mercs. We don’t do this for money."
"No," Titan said quietly, his voice low and measured. "We do it for people. But look around you—how many more of us have to die before someone up the chain starts caring?" His gaze locked with the soldier’s. "You think they’d care if it was your body out there, left behind? Or mine?"
The soldier hesitated, the anger in his eyes flickering for a moment, replaced by something else—uncertainty. "That’s not the point," he muttered, but his voice had lost some of its heat. "We’re supposed to stick together."
Boomer leaned back in his seat, his gaze cold and unflinching. "You do that. Stick together while they send more people out to die with no plan. We’ve given enough. It’s time to look out for ourselves."
The soldier stood there for a moment, staring at them, his jaw working as if he wanted to say more. But he didn’t. With a muttered curse, he turned and stalked back to his table, picking up his drink as if the conversation had never happened.
Boomer watched him go, then turned back to Titan. "You see? Some people will follow orders until they’re in the ground. Not me. Not anymore... Like I said the GRRA doesn’t care about guys like us anymore. We’re liabilities now. But out there?" He pointed vaguely toward the world beyond the bar. "Out there, we’re assets. We can make something out of this, Titan. Something that’s ours."
Titan stared at his drink for a long moment, the idea sinking in. The money, the opportunity... but more than that, the chance to keep fighting, on his terms. No more bureaucratic chains. No more rules. Just survival and profit.
His mind drifted to Lifeline. Her death still gnawed at him, festering like an open wound. He hadn’t saved her, and no amount of money or mercenary work could bring her back. But fighting—fighting was all he knew. And maybe, just maybe, out there in the chaos, he could find some way to make her sacrifice mean something.
Finally, he looked up at Boomer, his eyes hard with a new resolve. "How do we get in?" he asked. He wasn’t just asking about Spectre Company, but about the path forward in a world that had only taken from him.
Boomer grinned. "I’ll make a call."
While Titan thought on the road ahead with Boomer, another soldier sat on the precipice of his own decision. Razor stared at his coffee cup, its bitter taste a far cry from the bitterness festering inside him.
The steam rose lazily from the cup in the quiet, dimly lit corner of the shop. The faint hum of conversation and the clatter of cups around him barely registered as his mind wandered back to the mission—the faces, the screams, the smell of blood. The loss of Lifeline. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memories, but they came back sharper, clearer.
How did it come to this?
His hand trembled as he lifted the cup to his lips. The bitter liquid did nothing to dispel the weight pressing down on his chest. He had taken a few days of leave, isolating himself from everyone—he needed space, time to think. Yet the silence was suffocating in its own way.
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On the table next to him, his phone buzzed, the sharp vibration jolting him out of his dark thoughts. He glanced at the screen. An unknown number. He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the button, then pressed ‘answer.’
“Razor,” a voice greeted him, low and calm. The sound immediately put him on edge—no one called him that outside the team.
“Who’s this?” Razor asked gruffly, setting his coffee down. He glanced around the shop, feeling a sudden unease. Was someone watching him?
“My name’s Johnson,” the voice replied smoothly. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you for some time now, Razor. You’re just the kind of man we’ve been looking for.”
Razor’s grip on the phone tightened, his pulse quickening. “I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”
Johnson chuckled softly, unbothered. “Oh, I think you will be. I represent a group called The Ascendants. We’re not here to sell you anything—just an opportunity.”
Razor glanced out the window, watching people walk by on the street, oblivious to the storm raging in his mind. He was about to hang up, but something stopped him. An opportunity? His gut told him this wasn’t some scam or random solicitation. This was different.
“Go on,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair, his eyes scanning the coffee shop more carefully now.
“You’ve lost a lot,” Johnson continued, his tone growing more serious. “Good people. Friends. And for what? To be pushed aside after everything you’ve given? The GRRA treats you like a tool, Razor—useful until you’re not. They’ve used you up, and now they’re letting you go like you never mattered. But we see more in you. The Ascendants see potential—power that could change everything.”
“You’ve been a soldier long enough to know how the game is played, Razor,” Johnson’s voice softened, almost fatherly. “You follow orders, you fight, you bleed, and then when you’re no longer useful, they discard you. You’ve given everything—your time, your body, your friends. And for what? A pat on the back and a discharge paper? They’ll forget about you the moment you walk out those gates.”
Razor’s jaw clenched as Johnson’s words cut deep, hitting a truth he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” Johnson continued, his voice gaining momentum. “You don’t have to be just another name on some memorial wall. The Ascendants offer more than survival—we offer power, real power. A chance to not only understand the chaos of the rifts but to shape it. Imagine being part of that, Razor. Imagine wielding power instead of being crushed by it.”
Razor remained silent, but Johnson sensed the shift in his posture, the slight relaxation of his grip on the coffee cup.
“I get it. You don’t trust anyone anymore. You’ve seen what loyalty gets you—graves and broken promises. But the Ascendants? We’re different. We don’t hide behind politicians or bureaucrats. We don’t throw people away once they’ve served their purpose. We’re building something, Razor—something that will change the future of this world. And we want you to be a part of that. Not as a grunt following orders, but as someone with authority. With a say. You could lead, you could command, and you’d never have to answer to anyone you don’t respect again.”
There was a pause as Johnson let the weight of his words settle.
“And there’s one more thing,” Johnson added, his voice dropping lower, more serious. “I know you haven’t given up on Mercer. Neither have we.”
Razor’s grip tightened around the cup, his heart pounding faster. “What are you getting at?”
“We can help you get him back,” Johnson said, his tone calm but deliberate. “GRRA may have written him off, but we haven’t. If you join us, we can make sure he’s rescued. You don’t have to leave him out there.”
Razor’s thoughts raced. Johnson was offering a rescue, but how? What did they know that GRRA didn’t? But Johnson wasn’t giving any details—just the promise of help, a vague offer of salvation for the one person Razor hadn’t given up on.
“You’re saying you can rescue him?” Razor’s voice was low, his skepticism evident. “How?”
Johnson chuckled softly again. “That’s the beauty of it, Razor. You don’t need to worry about how. You just need to decide if you’re ready to make it happen. The Ascendants have the resources, the reach. Join us, and we’ll make sure Mercer isn’t left behind.”
Razor’s jaw clenched. The offer sounded too good, too convenient. But the thought of leaving Mercer behind twisted his gut in a way that nothing else could. The GRRA had written Mercer off as another casualty, but here was someone offering a way to get him back.
But at what cost?
“And what makes you any different?” Razor snapped, a harsh edge creeping into his voice. “You talk like you’re not going to use me like the rest of them. But how long until you throw me under the bus? Just like Gadget?”
Johnson was silent for a moment, listening.
“You tossed her aside the second she leaked that research on rift stabilization tech. Like she didn’t matter, like she was nothing. You really think I don’t see the same thing happening with me? You’ll chew me up and spit me out just like you did with her.”
Johnson sighed, his voice losing its earlier smoothness, replaced with a note of frustration. “Gadget had potential, but she made a choice. A dangerous one. The kind that draws too much attention. I didn’t throw her under the bus. I made a call. A necessary one. If she hadn’t acted so recklessly, she’d still be here. With us. Do you really think I wanted to cut her loose? She acted without understanding the bigger picture. The GRRA isn’t the only enemy out there, Razor. There are forces moving that neither of us can fully grasp. But trust me, if you join us, Mercer can be saved. Make your decisions carefully, and you won’t end up like Gadget. You just have to decide what’s more important—your pride, or his life.”
Razor’s thoughts swirled, the offer hanging in the air like a poisoned apple. He knew it wasn’t that simple, but the promise of rescuing Mercer—the one person left he still owed something to—was too tempting to ignore.
“And if I say no?” Razor asked, his voice quieter now, the tension mounting inside him.
“Then you go back to the civilian life you’ve been living,” Johnson said simply. “You keep following orders from the GRRA, waiting for the day you don’t come back alive. It’s your call. But if you join us, you’ll have the authority and resources to carry out the rescue—on your terms.”
There was a pause, the weight of the offer settling over Razor like a cold fog. Johnson’s voice softened, his tone almost coaxing now. “When you’re ready to take control, head to the park off Volkspark, near the old war memorial. You’ll find a dead drop under the third bench from the fountain—a device will be waiting for you. Power it on when you’ve made your decision.”
Johnson paused again, letting the silence linger for a beat longer than necessary, then added, “Once you use the device, there’s no turning back.”
The silence stretched between them as Razor weighed the words. Control over his future, over Mercer’s fate. It sounded too good to be true, and maybe it was. But what if it wasn’t?
“I’m not making any promises,” Razor finally muttered, his voice rough and uneven.
“You don’t have to,” Johnson said smoothly. “Not yet. But when you’re ready to stop being a pawn and start shaping your own destiny, you’ll know where to find us.”
The line went dead.
Razor stared at the phone long after the call had ended, his mind buzzing with the weight of Johnson’s offer. The coffee shop around him seemed to fade, the hum of conversations blending into a dull roar in the back of his mind. Mercer. The thought echoed louder than anything else now. The one man who had been there through it all, abandoned by the GRRA, left for dead—yet Johnson had dangled the possibility of a rescue right in front of him. A lifeline.
But what would it take?
His hand clenched tightly around the coffee cup, so hard that he could hear the faint creak of the plastic lid, the tension building in his knuckles. It wasn’t just his mind that felt caged, it was his body too—like a coil wound too tightly, ready to snap. He felt the weight of every mission, every choice he’d made press against his chest. Razor’s breathing quickened, shallow, and uneven as the memories clawed at him. Lifeline, Phantom, Circuit... their faces blurred together, lost in the fog of war. He had tried to push it all down, shove the pain deep enough that he wouldn’t feel it, but it always bubbled back up, rising like bile in his throat.
He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as if that could shut out the faces of his dead teammates. A tremor ran through his arm. Razor felt the anger building, the frustration gnawing at his bones. His lips pressed together in a hard line as he slammed the cup down onto the table. A few drops of coffee splashed over the edge, staining the napkin beneath it, but he barely noticed. His breath came fast, uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears. He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, knuckles white.
"I can’t keep doing this," he muttered under his breath. "I can’t..."
Razor’s eyes darted toward the door, the urge to leave clawing at him, to run from the weight of it all. But then Johnson’s words echoed in his mind. Power. Control. Saving Mercer. For the first time in what felt like forever, someone was offering him a way out, a chance to be something more than just a discarded soldier. The temptation tugged at him, a mix of anger and hope twisting in his gut.
His fingers loosened their grip on the table, and for a moment, Razor just sat there, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or fury that churned inside him now. Maybe both.
Razor’s mind whirled. He’d always been a soldier, following orders, doing what was expected. But where had that gotten him? A team torn apart, friends dead, and his own future reduced to a meaningless discharge. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, just a tool, like Johnson had said. Useful until he wasn’t. And now... discarded.
The anger bubbled up again, but this time it wasn’t just directed at the GRRA or the war—it was aimed at himself. He’d let them use him, let them send him into battles that cost him everything. And now, with nothing left to fight for, they were ready to wash their hands of him, like he never mattered in the first place. The GRRA didn’t care about Mercer. They didn’t care about any of them.
But Johnson did. At least, that’s what he claimed. The Ascendants were offering more than survival—control, power, a way to save Mercer. But could I trust him? Could I trust anyone after what happened to Gadget?
Razor’s grip tightened around the phone, the conflicting emotions swirling inside him. Johnson’s offer was too tempting, too convenient. The promise of saving Mercer, of having the power to choose his own future—these weren’t things he could easily turn away from. But that trust? It was fragile, almost impossible to give anymore. He had been burned before, manipulated, lied to.
What if Johnson’s playing me the same way GRRA did? What if saving Mercer is just another manipulation, another trap?
But the alternative was doing nothing. Letting the GRRA continue to push them aside. Letting Mercer slip away, lost forever. If I don’t act, who will?
Johnson’s words echoed in his mind. Make your decisions carefully, and you won’t end up like Gadget. A warning or a threat, Razor couldn’t tell. But one thing was certain: the choice was his. For the first time, it was in his hands. And that? That was more power than he’d ever felt. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, but so did the glimmer of something else.
Hope. Twisted, maybe even dangerous, but hope nonetheless. The kind that came from knowing that, for the first time, he wasn’t a pawn in someone else’s game.
His eyes flicked to the door of the coffee shop, his mind already running through scenarios, possibilities. Could he really turn down the only chance he had to save Mercer? To take control of his life again?
One thing was clear: he couldn’t go back to the way things were. Not after this. Not after everything Johnson had told him. His future wasn’t about following orders anymore. It was about deciding what was worth fighting for.
Razor took a deep breath. The choice was in his hands now, and that—dangerous as it was—felt like the only way forward.