Cayro Zaraki
12:03 EST
November 11, 2030
McGhee Tyson Airport – Formation Grounds
Knoxville, TN.
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The tarmac stretched out before me like a stage, the actors frozen in tableau—disciplined lines of soldiers in crisp uniforms, their bearing a testament to days of preparation. From left to right, the 102nd Airborne Division stood arrayed, their Class A uniforms gleaming under the pale midday sun. Overhead, the airships FSAS Crescent Moon, Chaos Reckoning, and Star Lancer hovered in silent vigil, their massive shadows cutting across the tarmac like the presence of gods looking on. Imposing, unyielding, they were the guardians of the division’s strength, a reminder of the power we wielded.
This was no mere exercise. This was tradition in its purest form. A symphony of precision, each note struck to perfection. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving celebration was more than pomp and circumstance—it was a message to the world: the Free States stand unbroken, united even when chaos nips at our heels.
At the far left, Major Payne’s Headquarters and Headquarters Company anchored the formation. Their ranks were the very image of textbook perfection. Not a crease out of place, not a speck of dust daring to mar the sheen of their brass. Payne himself stood at their head, a statue carved from granite. His expression was as unreadable as ever, his posture unyielding. Payne wasn’t just performing a duty—he was the embodiment of ceremony, the kind of officer you’d swear saluted in his sleep.
Beside them, the 588th Night Witches brought their signature blend of discipline and fire to the line. Every step, every breath carried a subtle energy just beneath the surface, like a coiled spring waiting for its moment. Col. Star Zaraki stood motionless at their head, her piercing gaze cutting through her soldiers with the precision of a laser. The Night Witches didn’t just command the night; they were the night—graceful, powerful, and utterly unrelenting.
Further down the line, the 781st Transportation Pack stood with a stoic calm that bordered on eerie. The werewolves among them had mastered the art of restraint, their lupine nature carefully leashed. Beside them, the dragons—human in form but no less commanding—carried themselves with quiet intensity, their postures relaxed yet deliberate, like apex predators surveying their domain. Alpha Lyra Acosta was a study in quiet authority. She stood tall at the front, her silver braid catching the light, her presence alone enough to keep her unit sharp. Lyra didn’t need to speak; her leadership radiated in every glance, every subtle shift of her stance.
To their right, the 152nd Special Tactics Squadron exuded an aura of surgical precision. Their dark uniforms melded seamlessly with the shadows cast by the airships, an almost supernatural extension of the division’s might. Major Raven Skitchatory was the quiet force at their core, her soldiers moving like clockwork, their precision bordering on the mechanical. If the Night Witches and the Transportation Pack were untamed energy tempered by discipline, the Special Tactics Squadron was the blade honed to perfection.
The 254th Infantry Pack came next, their raw strength evident in every step. These were soldiers who didn’t just wear their strength—it radiated from them, palpable and undeniable. Alpha Cameron Balfour stood at their head, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sweeping over his wolves with quiet pride. Though they held human form, their presence was unmistakably lupine—sharp-eyed, lean, and brimming with restrained power. They moved as one, a single organism bound by loyalty and purpose.
My gaze continued down the line to the 318th Tactical Wing. They carried themselves with a confident ease, their polished boots glinting in the sun as they adjusted into position. Col. Moore stood at their front, her expression sharp, her presence commanding. The pilots’ sleek uniforms and fluid movements were a stark but complementary contrast to the rugged power of the unit standing beside them.
At the far end of the formation, the 77th Armored Regiment stood like a wall of unyielding force, an immovable anchor to the division’s right flank. Rows of soldiers stood at perfect attention before their gleaming tanks and heavy artillery, the sunlight bouncing off polished steel like it had something to prove. These were the division’s iron fists, and they made sure everyone knew it. Command Sergeant Major Baxter loomed near one of the lead tanks, his booming voice cutting through the air like a whip as he made final adjustments.
“Straighten that line, soldier! This isn’t amateur hour!” he barked, his tone somewhere between a roar and a growl. Baxter didn’t need ceremony to project command—his voice alone could make artillery recoil.
Flanking the formation, the Night Guardians and SkyTeam balanced the regiment’s brute strength with mysticism and innovation. The Guardians moved with an ethereal grace that defied the rigid lines of the formation. Their all-black uniforms seemed to absorb the sunlight, giving them a shadowy presence that was equal parts eerie and commanding. They didn’t need heavy artillery—their very existence was enough to unsettle even the most hardened soldier.
SkyTeam, by contrast, was sharp and deliberate, a study in controlled precision. Their polished uniforms gleamed with the promise of innovation, their white lab coats a stark contrast to the darker tones surrounding them. If the Guardians were the Capital’s soul, SkyTeam was its mind, the cutting-edge tech in their arsenal standing as a quiet reminder that the future was always within reach.
I took a slow breath as the last few adjustments were made, the weight of the moment settling over the tarmac. Every soldier was in place, their lines sharp, their presence commanding. This wasn’t just a division. This was the 102nd Airborne—the living embodiment of discipline, power, and unity.
I stepped forward, my boots clicking sharply against the concrete. Letting the silence stretch for a moment longer, I drew in a deep breath and raised my voice.
“Division!”
The response came immediately, like a well-oiled machine roaring to life. From the airships overhead, the ship commanders’ voices boomed across the tarmac.
“Battalion!”
Their call was followed by the crisp echoes of the unit commanders on the ground.
“Company!”
The commands rolled through the formation like a wave, a symphony of precision that crescendoed as I bellowed the final command.
“Attention!”
As one, the division snapped to attention. The synchronized stomp of thousands of boots striking the tarmac reverberated across the airfield like a drumbeat, sending a ripple of pride through my chest. This was my division. And they were flawless.
I let the silence stretch, the weight of the moment pressing down on every soldier present. Then, with deliberate authority, I called out, my voice steady and sharp.
“Prepare units for inspection.”
The tension shifted subtly as soldiers adjusted their postures, their expressions sharpening into focused determination. This was no drill—it was a statement. Every motion, every breath would echo far beyond this airport, into the hearts of allies and enemies alike.
The faint echo of my last command still lingered in the air as I began my measured walk down the line. The tarmac seemed eerily quiet now, the kind of silence that amplifies every detail—the faint rustle of fabric, the polished gleam of boots, the sound of my own steady steps.
Major Payne stepped forward to join me, his presence as sharp and purposeful as the saber hanging at his side. The ceremonial blade gleamed faintly in the sunlight, a touch of tradition against the stark backdrop of the modern military might. Payne’s expression was unreadable, his focus absolute. He would accompany me through the inspection, ensuring no detail—no matter how small—escaped notice.
We began with Headquarters and Headquarters Company, the heart of the division. Their ranks were a study in discipline, their rows as straight and unyielding as the runway lines beneath their feet. I paused briefly in front of the first row, letting my gaze sweep over them.
“Major Payne,” I said, my voice low but deliberate.
Payne snapped to attention, saluting with crisp precision before calling out. “Headquarters and Headquarters Company, ready for inspection!”
The soldiers before us held their positions, their chins lifted just slightly, their eyes locked forward. Not a single movement betrayed their focus.
I stepped forward, my hands clasped neatly behind my back, and began the inspection. Slowly, deliberately, I moved down the line, my gaze lingering on every detail—the alignment of ribbons, the shine of boots, the crispness of collars. These were my officers and soldiers, my first point of command. They set the tone for the entire division, and today, they rose to the occasion.
A bead of sweat rolled down one officer’s temple, catching the sunlight for a brief, fleeting moment. He didn’t flinch. Good. This wasn’t just about appearances—it was about bearing. About standing unyielding under scrutiny.
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Satisfied, I nodded, my voice firm. “Excellent.”
And with that, we moved on.
The 588th Night Witches were next in line, their dark uniforms cutting stark silhouettes against the sunlight. There was no mistaking their presence; they didn’t just stand—they dominated, the sheer force of their precision balanced by an undercurrent of restrained energy.
Star stepped forward, her movements crisp and deliberate. Her expression was neutral, but there was a quiet intensity in her posture that demanded attention.
“Colonel Zaraki,” I said, nodding to her.
She saluted sharply, the motion flawless, as though it had been drilled into her muscle memory a thousand times over. “588th Night Witches, ready for inspection!”
Her voice carried an edge, as if daring me to find a single flaw among her soldiers. I didn’t bother hiding the faint smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Let’s see it,” I replied, stepping into her formation.
As I moved down the rows, I allowed myself to take in the full scope of her command. The Night Witches were a study in perfection—every button polished, every ribbon aligned with exacting precision. Their bearing was sharp, their gazes unwavering. Each one stood as a testament to the discipline Star demanded—and that they clearly respected enough to deliver.
Behind me, Star’s presence loomed over the process like a watchful sentinel. Her eyes flicked between me and her soldiers, as if willing them into perfection by sheer force of will. And they responded. Not a single movement, not a breath, broke the unyielding tableau of her command.
When I returned to her position, I gave a curt nod. “Impressive, as always.”
Her lips twitched, just slightly—the faintest crack in her stoic demeanor. “Thank you, sir.”
To the right of the Night Witches, the 781st Transportation Pack awaited their turn, their energy a quiet counterpoint to the charged precision of Star’s unit.
Alpha Lyra Acosta stood at their head, her silver braid neatly tucked behind her collar. Her presence was calm, yet magnetic. The werewolves and dragons behind her—human in form—stood tall and silent, their supernatural power carefully restrained beneath their polished exteriors.
“Alpha Acosta,” I said as I approached.
She saluted, her motion as composed and steady as her demeanor. “781st Transportation Pack, ready for inspection!”
Her tone was even, her expression a mask of professionalism, but the faint flicker of pride in her eyes didn’t escape me.
I moved into their formation, my steps deliberate. The werewolves stood with a military precision that was almost unnerving, their movements as sharp as the click of their boots. The dragons, even in their human forms, carried themselves with an air of quiet power, their stillness more commanding than most soldiers’ shouts. It was a unity born of discipline and instinct, every member of the pack perfectly in sync.
Reaching the end of the row, I turned back to Lyra. “Your pack does you credit.”
She inclined her head, her response measured but sincere. “Thank you, sir.”
We continued down the line, each unit offering its own unique rhythm and presence.
The 152nd Special Tactics Squadron radiated an aura of calculated efficiency. Their movements were swift and silent, their lines razor-sharp. Every soldier in their ranks moved with the precision of a blade, their discipline so ingrained it felt less like ceremony and more like muscle memory. Major Raven Skitchatory stood at their head, her expression unreadable, her gaze sharp as a scalpel.
The 254th Infantry Pack exuded raw strength, their presence brimming with restrained power. Alpha Cameron Balfour’s wolves held their human forms, but their lupine nature lingered just beneath the surface, evident in their sharp eyes and unyielding postures. They moved as one, their synchronization a quiet reminder of the primal bond that tied them together. Balfour himself stood tall and still, his quiet pride evident in every glance he gave his soldiers.
Next came the 318th Tactical Wing, their understated confidence a stark contrast to the primal energy of the infantry. They carried themselves with ease, their movements smooth and deliberate. Col. Moore’s sharp eyes didn’t miss a single adjustment, her posture a silent demand for perfection that her pilots delivered with precision.
Finally, the 77th Armored Regiment waited, their tanks looming like silent sentinels in the background. The soldiers in front of them stood at perfect attention, their bearing unshakable. Command Sergeant Major Baxter towered near the lead tank, his booming voice filling the tarmac as he barked his final commands. Their presence wasn’t just disciplined—it was unrelenting, a testament to the sheer force they brought to the division.
As the last inspection concluded, I returned to the head of the formation. The soldiers stood unmoving, their discipline unwavering even under the midday sun. This wasn’t just ceremony. It was a reminder of what we had built together—a division forged in strength, unity, and trust.
“Division, at ease!” I commanded, my voice ringing out across the tarmac.
The synchronized shift of thousands of boots echoed like a drumbeat as soldiers relaxed into their positions. The sound was precise, controlled—a testament to the discipline we had drilled into every fiber of this division.
I stood still for a moment, letting my gaze sweep over them, taking in the sight of the 102nd Airborne Division in its entirety. Every soldier, every pack, every unit stood as a testament to the strength, discipline, and unity of the Free States. The morning sun gleamed on their polished brass and crisp uniforms, but it wasn’t just their appearance that caught my breath—it was the sheer force of presence they exuded.
The inspection was done, but the air hung heavy with anticipation, a quiet energy crackling beneath the surface. Their gazes were locked forward, unwavering. These were my soldiers. My family. And they deserved more than orders today—they deserved to know what they meant to me, to each other, and to the future of this nation.
I stepped forward to the center of the formation, my boots clicking against the concrete as the weight of responsibility settled over me like a mantle. I drew in a steady breath, my voice cutting through the cold November air as I began.
“Soldiers of the 102nd Airborne Division,” I called, my tone steady, commanding. “Look around you. You stand beside the best of the Free States—no, the best of the world.”
I paused, letting my words settle, watching as some of the soldiers’ shoulders straightened just slightly, their postures tightening with quiet pride.
“Together, you have faced trials that would break most. You have endured the unimaginable, and yet, here you stand—stronger than ever.”
The silence stretched, charged with the weight of the moment. My gaze swept deliberately across the ranks, meeting the eyes of a few soldiers before continuing.
“We are not just soldiers,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “We are a mosaic of strengths—each one different, each one vital. Together, we are unstoppable. Tomorrow, the world will see what we have built here. They will see our discipline. They will see our unity. They will see our strength.”
I paused again, this time allowing myself a faint smile as I stepped forward, letting my voice drop slightly to draw them in.
“But more than that,” I continued, “they will see the bond we share. The trust we place in one another. The unshakable belief that no matter what, no matter who stands against us—we will stand together.”
My words hung in the air for a moment before I stepped back, straightening my posture and letting my tone harden.
“Let me be clear: This is more than a show. This is a message. To our allies, to our enemies, to everyone who has ever doubted the Free States. The message is simple: We are here. We are ready. And we will not falter.”
I turned slightly, letting my gaze rest on the Headquarters and Headquarters Company at the far left of the formation. Major Payne stood at their head, every inch the image of precision and control. I inclined my head toward him.
“To the officers and soldiers of Headquarters—you are the heart of this division. The ones who ensure that every plan is sound, every order precise, and every unit supported. You turn chaos into clarity. Without you, none of this would be possible.”
I shifted my focus to the Night Witches, their dark uniforms stark against the sunlight, their posture unyielding.
“To the 588th Night Witches—you own the night. You see where others are blind. You strike where others fear. You bring light to the darkest corners. Your courage, your adaptability, your precision—they are unmatched. You inspire us all.”
Next, I turned to the 781st Transportation Pack. Their stoic presence was unshakable, their energy tightly controlled, yet palpable even from where I stood.
“To the Transportation Pack—you are the foundation on which this division moves. You carry more than supplies. You carry our strength. Our momentum. Our mission. Whether on the ground or in the skies, your resolve drives us forward.”
I paused, letting my words sink in before shifting my gaze to the 152nd Special Tactics Squadron.
“To the Special Tactics Squadron,” I continued, turning to the shadowed precision of their formation, “you are the scalpel when others wield hammers. The edge that cuts clean when the fight is at its most brutal. Your precision and professionalism make the impossible possible. You are our silent force, and we are stronger because of you.”
Their stillness was unnerving, deliberate. A few soldiers gave the faintest nods—barely perceptible, but enough to show they heard and understood.
Next, my gaze shifted to the 254th Infantry Pack.
“To the 254th Infantry Pack—you are the line that holds when others falter. The ones who dig in and fight when the stakes are highest. Your strength and unity are the foundation of this division’s unyielding spirit.”
The infantry stood like statues, their unshakable presence radiating raw power. Alpha Cameron Balfour’s gaze met mine briefly, a flicker of pride passing across his face before looking forward again.
I turned to the far right of the line, where the 318th Tactical Wing and 77th Armored Regiment anchored the formation. Their sheer presence, both in personnel and machinery, was a testament to the division’s might.
“To the Tactical Wing and the Armored Regiment—you are the hammer and the shield. The force that breaks through, the wall that cannot be breached. Your firepower and precision are unmatched, and you remind us that strength comes in many forms.”
The sunlight gleamed off polished tanks and sharp-edged flight uniforms, each a symbol of relentless force. Baxter stood like an immovable pillar near his regiment, nodding faintly at the acknowledgment.
Finally, I turned to the flanking units, the Night Guardians and SkyTeam.
“To the Night Guardians—you are the balance between the seen and the unseen. Your vigilance, your grace, your power—they remind us that strength is not always loud but always felt.”
The Guardians’ black uniforms absorbed the sunlight, their quiet presence carrying a mystique that was almost tangible. They didn’t need a show of strength—they were strength.
“To SkyTeam—you are the architects of tomorrow. Your creativity, your innovation, your unshakable commitment—they light the way forward and show us that the future belongs to the bold.”
Their polished lab coats gleamed like mirrors, a sharp contrast to the rugged gear of the surrounding units. A few of them exchanged glances, a small but telling gesture of pride at their acknowledgment.
I paused, stepping forward again, letting my voice rise with conviction, my words carried by the cold November air.
“Tomorrow, we march. Not just for ourselves, but for those who look to us for hope. For every soldier who has fallen, for every family we protect, for every corner of the Free States that still believes in the promise of unity—we will march.”
The words hung in the air, charged with purpose. I took another step forward, turning to face the division head-on. Every soldier’s gaze was locked on me, their postures straight, their presence unwavering.
My voice boomed now, a crescendo of conviction that reverberated through the stillness.
“102nd Airborne, prepare yourselves. Tomorrow, we do what we do best. Tomorrow, we lead!”
I raised my fist in a silent cue, the gesture carrying every ounce of authority and pride I felt. “What is our cry?”
The response came like thunder, shaking the very ground beneath my feet.
“102nd, Forever Forward!”
The sound rolled across the airfield like a tidal wave, echoing against the hovering airships and carrying into the open sky. It wasn’t just a cry—it was a declaration, a promise, a battle hymn. It was unity. It was strength. It was defiance.
As the roar subsided, I stood for a moment longer, letting the echoes linger in the air. My gaze swept across the ranks, taking in the sight of my division—polished, proud, and unshakable.
This was who we were. And tomorrow, we would make history.