The briefing room at Ramstein Air Base buzzed with the low hum of conversation as MTF teams 1 through 5 gathered, the scent of stale coffee hanging in the air. Captain Alex Mercer sat with his team, MTF 1, near the front. His eyes scanned the room, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in the fog of recent events. Gadget’s betrayal still gnawed at him, a festering wound that refused to heal. Every glance between Titan and Lifeline felt like another reminder of how easily trust could fray. They seemed focused now, but the growing bond between them... it weighed on him, especially with what lay ahead.
I can’t afford any distractions—not in Russia, Mercer reminded himself.
The door swung open, and General Nathaniel Hayes strode in, his presence alone commanding the room’s immediate silence. The buzz of conversation died away like a snuffed flame.
“Good morning, everyone,” General Hayes began, his voice steady, each word weighted with the urgency of the mission. “We have a critical operation ahead of us. You’ll be deployed near the Kursk region in Russia to support local soldiers defending a refugee camp. Reports indicate potential invader activity and alien creatures due to two uncontained rifts in the area.”
Mercer’s gut tightened, a familiar knot of dread coiling deep in his stomach. This mission wasn’t routine. The tension in the room mirrored his own. As General Hayes spoke, Mercer caught Lifeline glancing at Titan. The flicker of concern on her face was impossible to miss. Titan, always protective, sat rigid, his body language betraying an edge Mercer hadn't seen before. Stay focused, Mercer urged silently. No room for mistakes.
Hayes continued, pacing the front of the room. “Your first task will be to secure the landing perimeter near the camp. This will allow us to airdrop critical supplies for both the defenders and the refugees. You’ll be on the ground for several days, so securing those supplies is vital for the mission’s success.”
A hand shot up from the back—Sergeant from MTF 3. “Sir, what kind of resistance are we looking at?”
“Good question,” Hayes replied with a grim nod. “The alien creatures are varied, but we expect encounters with blind wolves, stalkers, and greyhounds. More troubling, Russian forces have spotted two larger, tank-like creatures. The first is what we’ve identified as a Brute Giant—it’s slow, carries a shield, and is highly resistant to standard firearms. You’ll need armor-piercing rounds or RPGs to take it down. The second is a new alien creature we’ve classified as Tusk. This one is particularly dangerous. Its bones cover the outside of its body like armor, making it incredibly strong. It doesn’t carry a shield, but its bone blades can slice through armor, and reports indicate it’s capable of denting even tank armor. Small arms fire will barely slow it down—anti-tank weapons are recommended. Do not underestimate these things; they’re built to outlast a fight.”
Another hand, this time from MTF 2’s Corporal. “What about the rifts, sir? Are we containing them?”
“We don’t have the resources to contain the rifts,” Hayes said, his tone sharp, eyes sweeping the room to make sure the gravity of his words hit home. “Your primary objective is to secure the camp and protect the civilians until Russian reinforcements arrive. The rifts will have to wait.”
Mercer leaned forward, his voice cutting through the room. “General, how are the local forces holding up?”
Hayes hesitated, just for a second, but it was enough. “The Russian soldiers are low on supplies,” he admitted. “They’re doing their best with what they have, but without your support, the camp will fall. The safety of the Russian refugees is paramount. Without supplies or reinforcements, they won’t hold much longer.”
The room fell silent as the weight of the mission pressed down on them all. It wasn’t just about aliens or invaders anymore—it was about people. Civilians. Lives in the balance.
Before the teams could fully process the situation, Hayes shifted, his expression darkening further. “Before you deploy, I want to share an update regarding the broader situation in Russia. Major Ivanov?”
Major Ivanov stood, her posture rigid, every word laced with the weight of the deteriorating situation. “As you all know, Russia’s military is stretched thin. The war in Ukraine may be over, but the rift crisis has forced them to scatter their forces across the country. Kursk is especially vulnerable. Civilians are caught between alien creatures, invader factions, and Crimson Dawn—a rogue group attacking both military and civilian targets. You’ll be walking into a volatile, unpredictable situation.”
Mercer felt the tension rise another notch. Crimson Dawn. He’d heard of them. Rogue, ruthless, opportunistic. Another complication they didn’t need.
Hayes gave a solemn nod. “Thank you, Major. Remember, the civilians are your priority. I’ll be in contact with President Putrik to discuss NATO support, but for now, you are the frontline. We have to tread carefully. Russia isn’t a NATO ally, and our presence there could stir up diplomatic tensions. Your job is to help the civilians, secure the camp, and not escalate the situation. Understood?”
Mercer met Hayes’ eyes, feeling the weight of the unspoken pressure. Politics always had a way of entangling itself with war, and now it was creeping into their mission. “I understand, sir,” Mercer replied, though the burden of responsibility settled even heavier on his shoulders. Politics, war, and now civilians trapped in the crossfire—nothing was ever simple.
The weight of the briefing settled over the teams as they filed out of the room in silence, each soldier preparing mentally for the mission ahead. The air outside the briefing room was colder, heavier, as if the seriousness of what they were about to face had seeped into the very atmosphere. Mercer’s mind whirled, still turning over the details of the mission, but his body moved on autopilot as he led MTF 1 to the hangar. The familiar hum of aircraft engines greeted them, a stark reminder that there was no turning back now. The mission wasn’t just imminent—it was happening. Boots clattered against the concrete as they made their way to the Ospreys, the noise mingling with the last-minute orders and preparations for the deployment.
The cold wind that greeted them as they climbed aboard the Ospreys matched the chill running down Mercer’s spine. This was no ordinary deployment. As they strapped into their seats and prepared for the jump, the reality of what lay ahead crystallized. Everything they had trained for would be tested in the chaos awaiting them on the ground.
After a few hours with the deafening roar of the Osprey aircraft engines filling the air as MTF teams 1 through 5 geared up for their descent. Captain Alex Mercer sat alongside his team, MTF 1, in tight formation, the tension palpable inside the aircraft. The rhythmic hum of the engines barely masked the weight of the mission that lay ahead. The Kursk region, now visible through the small windows, was a stark patchwork of forest and open fields, scarred by the devastation of the two rifts and the war that ukraine and russia had before the rift crisis.
“Approaching drop zone,” the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, breaking the quiet tension. “Prepare for airdrop.”
Mercer exchanged a brief glance with Titan, who had his head bowed slightly, mentally preparing for the chaos that was about to unfold. Lifeline, Razor, and the rest of MTF 1 were strapped in tightly, their faces grim, focused, and ready. This wasn’t just another mission; this was a fight for survival.
The rear ramps of the Ospreys lowered, and cold wind rushed in, carrying the scent of smoke and distant gunfire. One by one, the MTF teams moved into position. The jump felt both familiar and unsettling—there was always a moment of pure vulnerability before hitting the ground. Parachutes deployed with a snap, and Mercer’s stomach tightened as he descended toward the ground.
The descent was swift, and soon they were touching down near the refugee camp. As their boots hit the earth, the landscape before them was chaos. Distant explosions echoed, and the unmistakable sound of gunfire rattled through the air.
“Move out!” Mercer’s voice cut through the comms, rallying MTF 1. They sprinted toward the camp, their rifles at the ready. But it wasn’t alien creatures they encountered first—it was a more familiar threat. Human forces. A convoy of civilian trucks and cars, mangled and burning, had been ambushed just outside the camp. Crimson Dawn forces.
Mercer’s jaw clenched. Of course it’s them.
“Crimson Dawn,” he growled, as the harsh reality of their presence settled in. The rogue paramilitary group, notorious for ambushing both military and civilian targets, had beaten them to the punch.
“MTF, on me!” Mercer’s command was immediate, cutting through the chaos. They sprinted toward the ambushed convoy. Civilians, caught in the crossfire, scrambled for cover as gunfire rang out from entrenched positions.
The MTF teams fanned out, using cover to advance. The unmistakable crack of rifle fire filled the air as they returned fire, the sharp efficiency of their training immediately becoming evident. The rebels fought with brutal precision, but they weren’t prepared for the coordinated response of the MTF teams.
It was an intense firefight, the sound of bullets whizzing past and ricocheting off the burning vehicles. Mercer fired controlled bursts, his rifle kicking in his hands, as his team pushed forward with ruthless efficiency. Despite the chaos, they began to turn the tide.
Mercer’s voice cut through the din. “Advance! Push them back!”
Crimson Dawn’s forces, realizing they were outmatched, began a hasty retreat into the surrounding forest. MTF’s superior tactics had done the job, but the cost of the ambush was evident in the wreckage and the scattered bodies.
The retreating shadows of Crimson Dawn melted into the forest, leaving behind a ghostly silence that felt heavier than the sounds of battle. For a brief moment, the camp stood still, as if the entire world had paused to catch its breath. Mercer exhaled slowly, his rifle still raised, scanning the tree line for any lingering threats. But there was none—only the burning wreckage of the convoy and the shocked expressions of those they had saved. Relief washed over him, though it was tempered by the grim reality of what they had just witnessed.
But there was no time to dwell on the carnage. Mercer forced his thoughts back to the mission. The camp wasn’t secure, and they had a limited window before Crimson Dawn regrouped—or something worse arrived. The familiar roar of Osprey engines in the distance broke the stillness, signaling the arrival of the much-needed supply drops. The team moved quickly, shifting from the heat of battle to the structured efficiency of setting up defenses. Each moment felt more fragile, the knowledge that they had only temporarily pushed back the threat hanging over them like a storm cloud.
“MTF 1, set up defensive positions around the camp’s perimeter!” Mercer barked, knowing that the battle wasn’t over yet.
The team moved quickly, securing the perimeter for the crucial supply drops that were coming. Within an hour, the familiar roar of the Ospreys filled the air again as they returned, this time dropping crates of essential supplies for both the soldiers and civilians. Mercer stood near the landing zone, overseeing the operation, ensuring everything proceeded smoothly.
The dust settled, and Mercer took a moment to take in the camp. It was a sprawling area, hastily assembled to shelter over 1,500 refugees. Rows of makeshift tents dotted the landscape, and the strain of the ongoing battles was etched into the faces of every man, woman, and child huddled together for safety. Exhaustion and fear seemed to permeate the very air.
The medical tents were overwhelmed. Doctors and nurses worked with frantic determination, tending to the wounded as best they could. The sound of groans and whispered prayers mixed with the rustling of supplies.
Mercer approached a group of Russian soldiers, Elena Volkov by his side, acting as an interpreter. “How are the civilians holding up?” Mercer asked, his voice steady but filled with concern.
One of the soldiers, his face weathered and gaunt, gave a tired nod. “We’re doing better now that you’ve arrived,” he replied in Russian, which Elena swiftly translated. “We were low on supplies, and the constant attacks were breaking us. Mentally, physically. But now, with your help... we have a chance.”
Mercer nodded, a heavy burden lifting slightly from his chest. “More reinforcements are on their way. We’ll hold the line until then,” he assured them, his voice resolute.
As night fell, the camp settled into a precarious calm. The MTF teams remained on high alert, their positions secured around the camp’s perimeter. Every soldier knew the coming days would be critical in ensuring the safety of the civilians and keeping the camp from being overrun.
Mercer, unable to rest, took a slow walk along the perimeter, his thoughts weighed down by the mission and the uncertain days ahead. The distant hum of murmured conversations and the occasional clatter of gear filled the still air, but something caught his attention—a commotion farther down the line, near the far edge of the camp.
Through the dim light, Mercer could make out a group of Russian soldiers, their movements rough and aggressive. His gut tightened as he noticed those weren’t just any refugees—they were the ones MTF teams had saved earlier from Crimson Dawn’s ambush. Something was wrong. They were pushing several refugees to the ground, the sound of rifle butts striking flesh echoing across the camp.
“Elena, come with me,” Mercer ordered, urgency in his voice.
They moved quickly, cutting through the camp’s rows of makeshift tents and huddled civilians. As they approached, Mercer could hear the desperation in the refugees' voices, pleading in broken Russian, but it was the aggression of the soldiers that unsettled him. One of the refugees—a middle-aged man, his face gaunt with exhaustion—was on his knees, clutching his arms as a Russian soldier raised his rifle again.
“Stand down!” Mercer barked in English, his voice carrying authority. Elena stepped forward to translate, her voice sharp as she relayed his words to the soldiers.
The Russian soldiers hesitated, clearly displeased at the interruption but lowering their rifles. The man on the ground coughed, blood running from a cut on his lip. A few others were huddled nearby, their faces streaked with dirt and tears. The refugees were battered, but their desperation was palpable, their voices shaky as they pleaded with the Russian soldiers for help.
Mercer stepped in, signaling to Elena to translate. “What’s going on here? Why are they being beaten?”
The Russian officer, his expression stony, spoke quickly to Elena, who frowned. “He says these refugees have been pestering the soldiers the whole day, begging them to go out and find others who were left behind. The soldiers told them they can’t spare the resources, but the refugees won’t stop asking.”
Mercer knelt beside the beaten refugee, his eyes scanning the man’s bruised and trembling form. His voice was calm, but the underlying urgency was clear. “Tell me what happened.”
Elena translated swiftly, and the man, struggling to catch his breath, began to speak, his words broken and uneven. “We fled our village,” he rasped, one hand clutching his chest as though the memory of the attack had left a physical wound. “They came... the people in red. They came like a storm, took our families, killed anyone who resisted.”
Mercer’s brow furrowed. “People in red?”
The refugee nodded desperately, his eyes wide with fear. “Soldiers... like from old times. Roman soldiers. Shields, swords... but they had strange weapons too. They took our loved ones, dragged them into the woods. Please... you have to help us. They’re still out there!”
Mercer glanced up at Elena, who raised an eyebrow, her face reflecting the same skepticism that he felt. Roman soldiers? It sounded absurd—another wild tale born of fear and desperation. But after everything they had seen and been briefed about—rifts, invaders, creatures from other worlds—it wasn’t something he could dismiss out of hand.
“The people in red? Roman-like soldiers?” Mercer repeated, his mind working through the implications. The absurdity of it clashed with the grim reality of their world. What was impossible before the rifts had opened was now, at best, improbable.
“Can you show us where they took your people?” Mercer asked.
The man nodded, his hands shaking as he pointed to the map held by one of the Russian soldiers. He dragged a trembling finger over a marked area, drawing a crude circle over a forested region a few kilometers away from the camp. His voice was barely more than a whisper now. “They came from here. Please... they have my family. My wife, my daughter—” His voice broke, the weight of his fear and helplessness crushing him. “We couldn’t fight them... we need your help.”
Mercer stood slowly, his mind churning. The story sounded impossible, yet the man’s desperation was unmistakable. In this world where the impossible had become routine, he couldn’t afford to dismiss anything, no matter how far-fetched.
Elena’s eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him. “Captain, you’re not seriously considering this, are you?”
Mercer let out a slow breath. “I don’t like it,” he admitted, his tone betraying his doubt. “But we can’t just ignore them. If there’s something out there—whether it’s Crimson Dawn or something else—we need to investigate.”
Elena looked conflicted, but she didn’t argue. Mercer turned to his team, the familiar determination settling over him. “Gear up. We’re going to check this out.”
Razor, who had been leaning against a nearby tent, pushed off and crossed his arms. “You sure about this, Captain? We’re already stretched thin, and if this turns out to be a wild goose chase...”
“I know,” Mercer replied, his voice firm but understanding. “But if there’s even a chance these people are telling the truth, we can’t afford to ignore it. We move fast, get in, and get out before the situation changes here.”
Eagle Eye, perched on a nearby crate, gave a small shake of her head, her sniper rifle resting against her knee. “The other teams aren’t going to like this, you know.”
“They don’t have to,” Mercer said, his tone sharp. “This is MTF 1’s call. If there’s something out there that threatens this camp, I’d rather find out now than wait for it to come to us.”
Titan, who had been silent until now, glanced briefly at Lifeline before stepping forward. “I’m with you, Captain. If there’s even a chance we can help those people... we should take it.”
Mercer nodded, a sense of grim resolve settling over him. “Alright. We move in 15.”
As MTF 1 began to gear up, preparing for the mission, Mercer felt the full weight of his decision pressing down on him. The other MTF team leaders wouldn’t approve—they would see it as a risk, an unnecessary detour when they were already under pressure. But something about the refugees’ story gnawed at him. The idea of Roman-looking soldiers clad in red armor—it was ridiculous. And yet, so was everything else that had happened since the rifts opened.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever they found out there, it wouldn’t just be another strange encounter. It would be something bigger—something that could change everything.
The armored transport rumbled to a stop just beyond the outskirts of the village. The sun hung low, casting long, menacing shadows across the dilapidated rooftops. Captain Alex Mercer scanned the area, his eyes narrowing at the sight of hastily erected barricades that now stood abandoned. The location matched the survivors' descriptions—now it was time to find out what they were really up against.
The team dismounted swiftly, their boots crunching against the dry earth. Nomad immediately dropped into a crouch, his eyes sweeping the treeline beyond the village, searching for any signs of movement. Razor moved next to him, casually checking the sharpness of his blade, though the tension in his normally cocky demeanor was hard to miss.
"Looks quiet," Razor muttered, though his voice betrayed unease.
"Too quiet," Nomad replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Something’s wrong here."
Mercer nodded in agreement. The village, despite its weathered and worn appearance, should have shown some signs of life. Instead, it felt like a ghost town. No one had returned after the people in red had come. The survivors at the camp hadn’t given many details, but their haunted expressions had spoken volumes. Fear clung to the air, thick and oppressive.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Nomad, Razor,” Mercer said, breaking the silence with the commanding calm of a leader who had seen far too much. “I want you two to scout ahead. Head into the forest, find this camp the refugees mentioned. Stay out of sight and bring back something solid. We need to know what we’re dealing with.”
Nomad gave a sharp nod, already adjusting the straps of his gear. Razor flashed a quick grin—though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, his confidence flickered under the surface.
“On it, Captain,” Razor said, his voice low, more focused now. “We’ll be ghosts.”
The two vanished into the thickening shadows of the forest, leaving Mercer to turn back to the rest of his team. Eagle Eye was already setting up on a nearby rooftop, her sniper scope trained on the edge of the forest, her gaze sharp and unwavering. Titan and Lifeline stood ready, prepared to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
Time crawled by. The tension mounted with every passing second, every tick of the clock louder in the oppressive silence. Mercer’s grip tightened on his comms, the anticipation gnawing at him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Nomad’s voice crackled through.
“Captain, this is Nomad. We’ve got eyes on the camp.”
Mercer immediately straightened, signaling the rest of the team to listen in. “Go ahead, Nomad. What do you see?”
There was a brief pause, as though Nomad was carefully considering his words. When he spoke again, his tone was grim.
“It’s... it’s organized. Real organized. The camp’s laid out like a small wooden military fort, but it’s Roman, Captain. The formations, the sentries—they’ve got shields, spears, armor. Everything looks like it’s straight out of ancient history.”
Mercer’s brow furrowed deeply. “Roman? Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be, sir,” Nomad replied. “But it’s more than just a reenactment. These soldiers—they’ve adapted. Their weapons and armor are enhanced. There’s magic, most likely. I saw symbols carved into their shields. They glow faintly under the moonlight. And the men—they move with military precision, but there’s something else. They look... obsessed. Fanatical.”
Razor’s voice cut in next, and the disgust in his tone was unmistakable. “They’ve got a pit, Captain. Saw them forcing refugees from the nearby villages to fight to the death. Entertainment for these sick bastards. They sit around, cheering like it’s some kind of sport.”
A chill ran down Mercer’s spine. “Any sign of leadership?”
Nomad responded with a focused tone. “Yeah, there’s someone different. A high-ranking officer, I think. He’s in more ornate armor and doesn’t join in the madness. He just watches, like he’s got the whole world under his boot. They follow him without question.”
Mercer’s fists clenched at his sides. A Roman legion. Here. And worse—they weren’t just invaders. They were exploiting the chaos, turning it into some twisted version of gladiatorial games.
“Anything else?” Mercer asked, his voice tight as he struggled to keep the anger out of it.
“One last thing,” Razor said, his voice tinged with disbelief. “They’ve got creatures with them. Big, hulking things—like they’ve tamed some kind of beasts. Saw one dragging a cart like it weighed nothing. They’re using them for labor. And there’s another type, made for combat. We’re not just dealing with men and shields, Captain.”
Mercer’s mind raced. This was more than another rogue faction or alien nest. This was something ancient and dangerous, organized in a way that sent shivers down his spine.
"Good work, both of you," Mercer finally said. "Stay put. I’ll bring the rest of the team. We need to plan our next move carefully."
As the comms went silent, Mercer turned to the rest of the team. "Get ready. We’re going to have to move fast if we want to stop this madness."
The forest was unnervingly quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant crackle of Roman campfires. Dim moonlight barely pierced the thick canopy above, casting shifting shadows that only heightened the sense of danger. Mercer crouched over the map just outside the camp’s perimeter, his flashlight providing the only source of light. His team gathered closely around him, each of them aware of the stakes. This rescue mission had to succeed—but the risks were undeniable.
Mercer’s eyes moved over his squad one by one. They were good soldiers, some of the best, but even now, he could feel the tension building. This wasn’t some routine operation—it was the kind of mission where lives could be lost. The air felt heavier, charged with the weight of what lay ahead.
"Alright," Mercer began, his voice steady despite the pressure bearing down on him. "We’re going to split into two teams. It’s the only way we’re getting in and out of that camp alive."
He caught a flicker of hesitation in Lifeline’s eyes, and the tightening of Phantom’s jaw didn’t go unnoticed either. They had trained for this moment, but the reality of doing it in the field was different. More dangerous. More unpredictable.
"Team One will be Titan, Aegis, and Boomer," Mercer continued, lowering his voice slightly, giving it the edge of command. "Your job is to create the distraction. Titan, I need you laying down heavy fire to draw the Romans away from the camp’s center. Aegis, you’re going to position makeshift barricades and traps along the forest paths—anything to slow them down. Boomer, you’re our key here. Plant explosives on their supply routes and paths leading in and out of the camp. We’ll time the detonations to cause as much chaos as possible."
Boomer gave a quick, sharp nod, already calculating the amount of explosive needed with precision in his mind. Titan flexed his hands around the heavy weapon at his side, the weight familiar in his grip. Aegis, though silent, had already started mentally mapping out where to place barriers, his focus laser-sharp.
"Remember," Mercer added, his tone firm. "Your job is to pull them away and hold them long enough for the rest of us to get the prisoners out. Don’t engage unless you have to—this is about confusion, not a full-scale fight. We’re not here to win a war, just buy time."
Titan nodded, though the grim set of his jaw told Mercer everything. They all knew that if something went wrong, the distraction team would be the first to face the Romans head-on.
Shifting his focus to the rest of the squad, Mercer spoke again. "Nomad, Razor, Phantom, and Lifeline—you’re with me. We’re Team Two. Our job is to infiltrate the camp and extract the prisoners. Nomad, you lead us through the forest. Keep us out of sight until we’re in position. Razor, I need you ready to take out any guards quietly. Phantom, you’ll scout ahead, track patrols, and map out the best escape route."
Phantom’s expression tightened, his eyes reflecting the weight of the task ahead. "Roger that, Captain."
Lifeline, always dependable, was silent but resolute, already double-checking her medical gear. They all knew her role wouldn’t just be about patching up prisoners—they’d rely on her to keep one of their own alive if things went sideways. Her eyes, usually filled with a quiet warmth, were now sharp with determination.
"Once we’re inside," Mercer continued, "we move fast. No unnecessary risks. We get the prisoners, move them to the extraction point where the truck is waiting, and time it with the distraction. Eagle Eye will be in position on overwatch. She’ll be our eyes from a distance, picking off high-value targets or covering us if it gets messy."
"Roger that, Captain. I’ve got your back," Eagle Eye’s voice crackled over comms, her tone cool and composed as ever.
Mercer paused, scanning the faces of his squad. The forest around them seemed to close in, its shadows deepening as the night pressed in, the air thick with anticipation. This was it. Once they moved out, there would be no turning back.
"We’ve trained for this," Mercer said, his voice lowering, meant only for them now. "You know your roles. Stick to the plan, and we get those people out alive. I won’t sugarcoat this—it’s not going to be easy. But we’re MTF 1. We get the job done. Always."
The words hung heavy in the air, but they carried weight. Despite the creeping doubt that tugged at the back of Mercer’s mind, he pushed it down. They were splitting up, relying on everything they’d learned. But once they were in the field, everything could change in an instant.
"Alright," Mercer said, straightening up, his tone decisive. "Move out. Team One, start your distraction in 60 minutes. Team Two, we’ll head to the southern edge of the camp and wait for the signal."
The teams nodded in unison, the quiet professionalism of seasoned operatives taking over as they readied their gear. Titan exchanged a brief glance with Razor, the two sharing a moment of unspoken understanding, while Nomad and Phantom worked in silence, methodical in their preparations.
This was the calm before the storm, and Mercer felt the weight of leadership pressing harder than ever.
He caught Titan glancing at Lifeline, a silent exchange that told Mercer they were ready—though the tension between them was still palpable. As they adjusted their gear, checking weapons and double-checking comms, Mercer walked down the line, his gaze settling on each member of his squad. The nervous energy was almost tangible, but beneath it, a quiet resolve. They had been in this situation before, but tonight felt different. The stakes were higher, and the unknown nature of their enemy gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
"Stay sharp," Mercer said as the teams moved out, the weight of the moment hanging thick in the air.
The teams moved with a practiced silence, the soft shuffle of boots against the forest floor barely audible over the distant sounds of the Roman camp. Every step felt like a countdown to chaos. The forest stretched on endlessly, the thick canopy above barely letting the moonlight through, casting eerie shadows that danced with every gust of wind. The air was thick with tension, each soldier on edge, knowing that once the plan began, there was no room for mistakes.
Mercer’s eyes remained fixed ahead, his focus unwavering, even as the branches scratched at his face and gear. They had trained for this moment—every movement, every command ingrained in muscle memory—but something about this mission felt different. The stakes were higher, the risks greater. In the distance, the faint glow of the Roman campfires flickered, a grim reminder of the danger they were walking into. This would be the moment when their training would either save them—or doom them.
Titan and his team reached their designated spot just as the darkness of night fully set in, cloaking the forest in a tense quiet. They wasted no time setting up explosives along the paths, Boomer moving with swift precision while Titan kept his weapon at the ready, his eyes scanning for movement. The plan was simple: hit the Romans hard, using the forest’s natural cover to their advantage.
When Titan finally opened fire, the night exploded with the roar of gunfire, the sound reverberating through the trees. The ground trembled as Boomer detonated the charges, sending trees and debris flying into the air. The sheer force of it would leave the Romans with no choice but to investigate the disturbance.
Meanwhile, Mercer led his infiltration team deeper into the forest, keeping low and moving swiftly. Nomad was like a shadow, guiding them through the undergrowth with the precision of a hunter. Razor and Phantom followed close behind, senses razor-sharp, every rustle of leaves putting them on high alert. They reached the camp’s edge just as the explosions began, the Roman soldiers distracted, scrambling to deal with the chaos Team 1 had unleashed.
Inside the camp, pandemonium ensued. Roman soldiers rushed out, leaving behind a skeleton crew to guard the prisoners. Razor moved in like a ghost, quickly and silently dispatching the guards with brutal efficiency. Phantom, meanwhile, located the remaining prisoners—battered, bloodied, but alive.
For a moment, it seemed like the plan was unfolding perfectly. But then, everything shifted. The alarm blared through the camp, sending a chill through the team.
Eagle Eye’s voice crackled over the comms, laced with urgency. “We’ve got incoming! Magical creatures heading your way!”
Mercer’s pulse quickened as he processed the information. The sound of Roman reinforcements echoed ominously through the camp, a rolling thunder of boots and hooves. Eagle Eye’s voice came again, cutting through the growing tension.
“Multiple hostiles closing in fast—looks like heavy cavalry. They’re heading straight toward the camp. You’ve got two minutes, max!”
Mercer’s jaw clenched as he glanced at Nomad, Razor, and Phantom. They had freed the prisoners, but things were unraveling faster than they could manage. The prisoners, still dazed and terrified, huddled in small groups, paralyzed by fear. Lifeline knelt beside one of the more severely injured captives, a man who could barely stand.
“Phantom, get them moving!” Mercer’s voice was sharp, cutting through the noise. He pointed toward the treeline. “We’ll cover the retreat!”
Phantom nodded, his voice stern as he barked orders at the captives, pushing them toward some semblance of organization. His eyes darted between them and the edges of the camp, scanning for any sign of the advancing Romans.
Razor appeared at Mercer’s side, his voice low and urgent. “We can’t hold this position, Captain. It’s too exposed. If we don’t move now, we’re dead.”
“I know,” Mercer replied, the frustration rising in his chest. Time was slipping away. Staying put wasn’t an option, but getting everyone out cleanly seemed more impossible with each passing second.
Mercer tapped his comms. “Titan, status!”
“The explosives are going off, Captain, but we’ve got more trouble inbound from the north. The Romans are regrouping faster than expected—Aegis is still setting up traps to slow them down, but we’re running out of time here.”
Mercer cursed under his breath. They were boxed in. Too little time, too many enemies. The prisoners were the priority, but the window of escape was closing fast. He looked over to Lifeline, her hands busy stabilizing the wounded captive.
“Lifeline, can he move?” Mercer asked, his voice edged with urgency.
She glanced up, her face shadowed with fatigue. “Barely. I can give him a shot of adrenaline to get him on his feet, but he won’t make it far.”
Mercer nodded grimly. There was no easy choice.
As the team pushed the prisoners toward the treeline, Phantom took point, his eyes darting through the shadows. The eerie silence of the forest weighed heavy on him. Every rustle, every movement felt like a threat waiting to pounce.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the side of the camp. Phantom turned just in time to see a group of Roman soldiers, led by a towering brute in heavy armor, charging straight at him and the prisoners. Without hesitation, Phantom raised his rifle and opened fire. His shots rang out, striking one of the advancing soldiers, but their magical shields absorbed the bullets like they were nothing.
"Keep moving!" Phantom yelled to the prisoners, his voice a mix of command and desperation. He had to buy them more time.
But the Roman brute closed the distance faster than expected. With a bellowing roar, the massive figure swung his spiked mace in a vicious arc. Phantom barely dodged, rolling to the side just as the mace slammed into the earth where he’d been standing, the impact sending a tremor through the ground. Phantom quickly regained his footing, firing again—this time aiming for the brute’s unprotected knee.
The bullets struck the brute’s legs, but a shimmering brown light flickered around the Roman’s body, like stone absorbing the impact. Phantom’s heart raced. He adjusted his aim, sending another volley of rounds into the brute’s legs, this time breaking through the shield. The brute faltered, but not enough.
The spiked mace came down again, too fast to avoid. Phantom watched it come, the weight of inevitability bearing down. The weapon connected with his side, the force of it sending him flying into a nearby Roman barricade. The sickening thud echoed through the night as his body hit the ground, his luck finally running out.
Pain exploded across Phantom’s ribs. He gasped for breath, each inhale sharp and ragged. Blood seeped through his uniform, the warmth of it sickeningly familiar. He struggled to stand, his vision swimming as he clutched at his side. His time was running out, and he knew it.
"Phantom!" Razor’s voice cut through the haze as he moved to cover his fallen comrade.
Phantom, fighting through the pain, raised a hand in a weak wave, knowing there was no coming back from this. His voice rasped, barely a whisper. "Get them out. Finish the mission."
Razor hesitated, torn between running to his friend’s side and obeying his final order. Phantom’s weak wave stopped him in his tracks. His heart raced, the decision agonizing. But Phantom’s words echoed in his mind—“Finish the mission.”
With a heavy heart, Razor nodded, muttering a quiet curse under his breath. The bitter sting of loss surged through him as he turned to help the others escape.
With one last, desperate effort, Phantom reached for a smoke grenade on his belt. He triggered it, tossing it between the advancing Romans and his team. Thick clouds of smoke billowed out, obscuring the battlefield. It gave the prisoners and the rest of the team the precious seconds they needed to retreat.
The last thing Phantom saw before darkness claimed him was the towering brute’s shadow looming over him, mace raised for a final, crushing blow.
The rest of the team kept moving, but the fight was far from over. As the group pushed forward, the ground began to rumble beneath them. From the far side of the camp, a Roman chariot, drawn by two snarling beasts, barreled toward them with terrifying speed.
Lifeline was the first to spot it. “Get down!” she screamed, voice sharp with urgency. The prisoners dove for cover as the chariot thundered past, but one of the beasts, a creature twice the size of any wolf, lashed out with its massive claws. It caught Lifeline in her unarmored side, ripping through her fatigues. Blood poured from the wound, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to stop moving.
Despite the agony, she reached for her medkit, injecting herself with a stimulant that dulled the pain just enough to keep going. Mercer’s heart raced as he watched, horror-struck, while she struggled to her feet. Even in her condition, Lifeline managed to reach one of the injured prisoners and attempted to help him to safety. But the beast wasn’t finished.
It circled back, its eyes locking onto her like prey. In one horrifying motion, its jaws clamped down on her shoulder, fangs sinking deep into her flesh. Lifeline screamed, her voice echoing across the battlefield. With a final burst of desperate strength, she drew her sidearm, firing three precise shots into the creature’s eye. The beast howled in pain, releasing her, but the damage was already done.
Blood soaked through Lifeline’s fatigues as she collapsed to the ground, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Mercer sprinted to her side, sliding to his knees just as she took her last breath, her eyes meeting his in a silent, agonizing apology. He knelt there, his heart heavy with grief. Lifeline was gone.
The weight of the loss hit Mercer like a tidal wave, the familiar pull of grief threatening to drag him under. Lifeline had always been the heart of the team, the one who kept them grounded, the one who patched them up when things went wrong. And now, in her final moments, he could see the silent plea in her eyes—a plea for forgiveness she didn’t owe. He clenched his fists, the raw, searing pain of failure burning in his chest. There wasn’t time to mourn her, but as he stood, a piece of him shattered, knowing he had failed to save her.
Nomad and Razor had managed to get the prisoners to the extraction point, but Mercer lagged behind, covering their retreat. Just as he was about to follow, a deafening crack of thunder filled the air, the sound almost unnatural in its intensity.
Mercer’s instincts screamed at him to move, but before he could react, a Roman mage appeared at the edge of the clearing, his staff crackling with energy. The air around the mage shimmered with power, his eyes glowing with a malevolent light.
“Go!” Mercer shouted at Razor and Nomad. “Get them out of here!”
The mage raised his staff, and lightning arced through the air, striking the ground in front of Mercer with a blinding flash. The force of the spell sent Mercer tumbling backward, his body slamming into the dirt. He was dazed, his vision spinning, but the mage wasn’t done. With a cruel gleam in his eyes, the mage whispered another incantation, and tendrils of purple eldritch energy spiraled toward Mercer, wrapping around him like chains.
The energy slammed into Mercer’s chest, locking his muscles in place, a sensation so intense it was as though his body was on fire. He tried to scream, but the pain was so overwhelming that it choked his voice. His vision blurred, the world around him flickering in and out of focus, and then—blackness.
Titan’s voice crackled over the comms, sharp with worry. “Captain, respond! Mercer, do you copy?”
But there was no response.
“Where’s the Captain?” Aegis shouted as Razor and Nomad emerged from the treeline with the Russian civilians.
“Taken,” Razor growled, his voice tight with frustration. “A mage got him.”
The team didn’t have time to mourn the loss of their captain. The forest was alive with the sounds of approaching enemies—heavy boots trampling through the underbrush, the low growl of Roman beasts hunting for survivors. Each step felt like an eternity, every moment filled with the unspoken fear that Mercer was gone for good. There was no time to process what had just happened. They had to keep moving, or else risk being overwhelmed.
“What about Circuit and Shadow?” Aegis pressed, desperation creeping into his voice.
“They stayed behind to buy us more time. I don’t think they’ll be making it,” Razor replied, his tone grim.
As Nomad and Razor reached the extraction point with Titan, Aegis, Boomer, and Eagle Eye, the team quickly loaded the remaining prisoners into the truck. Their faces were grim, the sounds of battle still echoing behind them as the weight of their losses sank in.
Circuit and Shadow had provided cover for the prisoners, holding off the advancing Romans as Razor and Nomad made their escape. But the enemy had overwhelmed them. Circuit went down first, a spear piercing through his chest, his comms falling silent as he collapsed to the ground.
Shadow fought valiantly, his blade flashing under the moonlight as he cut down Roman soldiers with precision. But even his skill wasn’t enough. He, too, fell beneath the weight of the Roman forces, his body disappearing under the crush of their assault.
“Let’s get out of here!” Razor shouted, slamming the truck’s doors shut as Titan cursed and floored the gas. The truck roared forward, tearing through the forest, leaving behind the carnage and chaos.
As they sped away, Titan’s mind flickered back to Circuit and Shadow. They had held the line without hesitation, sacrificing themselves to buy just a few precious seconds. Titan could still hear Circuit’s voice in his comms—steady, calm, focused—until it was suddenly cut off, replaced by the cold, unforgiving static of silence. And Shadow, always the quiet professional, had been one of their best. Sharp, precise, deadly. Now, he was just another casualty in this endless war.
Titan clenched his jaw, the guilt swelling inside him like a storm. They had trusted him to lead them, to bring them home, and yet, he had driven away while they were left behind to die.
Titan’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, his fingers digging into the worn leather. His mind raced, replaying the last moments in the camp over and over like a broken reel. Lifeline’s voice had been steady over the comms—always steady—until that sudden scream, the unmistakable sound of tearing flesh, and then… nothing. Silence. He hadn’t allowed himself to process it at the time. There had been too much chaos, too many lives hanging in the balance. But now, as the adrenaline drained from his system and the weight of their losses settled over him like a suffocating blanket, the truth hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Lifeline was gone.
He hadn’t seen it happen. Hadn’t been there to protect her. A deep, gnawing pit of guilt opened in his chest, his breath hitching as the realization dug in. She had been more than just the team’s medic—she had been their heart, his anchor, the one who patched him up both physically and emotionally. The one who always knew what to say when the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. Now she was gone. Forever. His chest tightened, and his vision blurred as rage and grief battled for control. How could this happen? The thought replayed in his mind, a relentless drumbeat of self-blame. He had failed her, just like he had failed to protect Mercer, Circuit, and Shadow. The mission might have been a success on paper, but for Titan, it felt like nothing more than a hollow, empty victory.
Nomad glanced over from the passenger seat, sensing the shift in Titan’s demeanor. But there was nothing to say. No words of comfort or reassurance would fix this. Titan’s face had hardened into a mask of quiet fury, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The loss of Lifeline had left a crack in him—one that he wasn’t sure would ever heal. Roman reinforcements were already closing in on the extraction point, their armored forms appearing through the trees like shadows, but all Titan could feel was the gaping emptiness inside.
The forest outside the truck passed by in a blur, darkness swallowing everything in its path. Titan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel again, his knuckles bone white against the black. He had lost too many today—Lifeline, Phantom, Circuit, Shadow. Good soldiers. Friends. Family. And for what? His chest felt hollow, the fire that usually kept him going flickering dangerously low. He couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep watching the people he cared about die one by one. MTF 1 had been his family, but now, with Lifeline gone, something inside him had shattered. For the first time, the thought of walking away, of leaving it all behind, crept into his mind. And he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to push it away this time.
Boomer sat in the back, staring out at the passing trees, his own mind racing in a different direction. The mission had cost them too much. Five good people, gone. And for what? Another mission, another fight? He wasn’t so sure anymore. The weight of it all pressed down on him, suffocating, as his thoughts drifted to the magical crystals his friend had mentioned before the mission. Maybe this world wasn’t worth saving. Maybe survival meant something different now—something beyond the endless cycle of fighting. The world was overrun with alien forces, with magic, with chaos. Maybe it wasn’t about winning anymore. Maybe it was about finding a way to live through the madness without losing yourself.
Nomad, usually the first to break the silence after a mission, sat quietly, glancing back at the darkened forest behind them. The silence inside the truck was thick, almost oppressive. The weight of their losses hung in the air like a storm cloud, and for once, even Nomad had nothing to say. The faces of the fallen haunted them all, ghosts that would linger long after the mission ended. Razor, sitting next to him, glanced at the others, his expression grim. He knew, just as they all did, that these losses would stay with them forever. The mission had been a success—they had liberated the civilians, done what they had come to do—but it had torn MTF 1 apart in the process.