Scuzball

08:22 EST

November 12, 2030

Unity Spire Plaza

Knoxville, TN

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The silence after President Clark’s command lingered like the pause before a symphony’s first note, charged with unspoken meaning. It wasn’t tension—it was expectation. From my unparalleled vantage, I caught every detail. The glint of sunlight on polished boots, banners rippling like whispered promises in the breeze, the faint but unmistakable stillness in the crowd, frozen in awe. My cameras captured it all, naturally.

This was a moment the mortals would write about, but only I could make it sing. Every microphone, every camera lens, every signal was at my fingertips. I zoomed in on the sharp precision of Cayro Zaraki’s salute, the resolve etched into Clark’s features, and the soldiers standing so still they could’ve been statues. Beautiful. Perfect.

Cayro’s voice cut through the air like a general slicing through chaos. “Pass and Review, commence!”

And just like that, the plaza exhaled. A drumbeat began, soft and deliberate, a rhythm that grew louder and steadier with every passing second. It wasn’t just the start of a march—it was the heartbeat of a nation still finding its stride.

Then it happened. Clark gave a subtle nod, imperceptible to most, but I caught it. Of course I did. It was meant for me. My cue to take the reins.

Now, when the leader of a nation aspires to greatness and entrusts me with the narrative, you better believe I deliver. With flair.

From the stage speakers, my voice emerged, rich, commanding, and just the right amount of smug. “Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of the Free States of America,” I began, letting my words hang in the crisp air like banners themselves. The screens on Zak and Aura’s marvel of a stage burst to life, synchronized with my feed, showing views from every angle—my omnipresence made visible.

“Today, before us stands the 102nd Airborne Division, a force that embodies more than military discipline. It is the culmination of our shared history, our collective sacrifices, and the promise of a unified future. They march today not for applause, but for legacy.”

The cameras shifted, guided by my expert digital hand, zooming in on General Cayro Zaraki. His stone-carved expression filled the LED panels, his Class A uniform reflecting the sunlight like a declaration of defiance against the chaos of the past five years.

“At their helm,” I continued, “is General Cayro Zaraki, a man who has become synonymous with unyielding leadership. Under his command, this division reclaimed the I-80 Corridor, securing the arteries of our nation. It was they who liberated Salt Lake City, overcoming obstacles that seemed insurmountable. And it is they who hold those hard-won gains, ensuring they are never lost.”

The screens transitioned to focus on the banners and guidons leading the formation. Their colors gleamed like gemstones against the backdrop of the Unity Spire, each symbol a story, each ripple a testament.

“But this division is more than its victories. What sets them apart is their unity. Humans and supernaturals, standing as one. Werewolves, dragons, and other extraordinary beings fighting alongside ordinary men and women—not divided by their differences, but empowered by them. This is not just a military force. It is a vision. The future of the Free States of America.”

The cameras panned across the crowd now, showing families pressing hands to their hearts, veterans standing straighter, and children with wide, unblinking eyes fixed on the marchers. My digital eyes caught every reaction, feeding it back into the broadcast for maximum impact.

“The 102nd Airborne Division is more than strength—it is a promise. A promise that no matter the challenges, no matter the cost, we will stand together. Today’s Pass and Review is not merely tradition. It is a declaration. To ourselves. To our allies. To the world. We are here. We are strong. And we will forever move forward.”

I let my words linger, the deliberate pause amplifying the deepening drumbeat that pulsed like the heartbeat of a living entity—history itself, echoing through the plaza. The LED screens shifted again under my control, presenting a sweeping aerial view of the formation. The soldiers, their perfect lines of precision, the fluttering banners, and the airships looming above combined to create a scene so striking it felt almost surreal. A living tableau of unity and power.

“And now,” I intoned, letting the weight of my words settle, “as the march begins, let us bear witness to history in motion.”

The screens obeyed, focusing on the first unit: Headquarters and Headquarters Company. They moved forward in flawless synchronicity, their banner held high. The hush in the crowd was profound; even the children, perched on shoulders, seemed to sense the enormity of the moment. No cheers broke the silence—it was the kind of reverence that rendered applause unnecessary.

The drumbeat grew steady and commanding, reverberating through the plaza like a shared pulse, uniting everyone present. The Headquarters and Headquarters Company advanced, and I took the opportunity to introduce them to the world as only I could.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” my voice rang out, smooth and resonant, amplified by the technological marvel of the sound stage, “leading the march is the beating heart of the 102nd Airborne Division—Headquarters and Headquarters Company, under the command of the indomitable Major Payne!

The LED screens zoomed in on Payne, his expression as immovable as stone. At his side, his ceremonial saber caught the sunlight, gleaming like the embodiment of order and precision. His every movement, deliberate and commanding, seemed to set the tone for his soldiers marching behind him.

“This,” I continued, “is the unit that transforms chaos into order. The planners, the tacticians, the coordinators who ensure that every mission succeeds. Without them, the 102nd would be a weapon without aim. Today, they march not just as soldiers, but as the architects of unity and the embodiment of discipline.”

The screens panned to the guidon bearer at the head of their formation. The banner of the 102nd rippled against the bright morning sky, standing tall like a symbol of resilience. Behind the guidon, the soldiers marched as one, their steps perfectly timed with the drumbeat.

And then, the music began.

The first bold, brassy notes of the “March of the 102nd” rolled across the plaza. The anthem, alive with purpose, surged forward as if echoing the spirit of every soldier present. The soldiers began to sing, their voices deep and resolute, each word carrying a weight that reverberated beyond the plaza.

“From sky and shadow, bound by might,

The One O’ Second, prepared to fight.”

The melody swelled as their voices rose, perfectly synchronized with their march. The screens, under my expert guidance, showcased their faces—some young and unweathered, others lined with experience, but all etched with pride and determination. The crowd leaned forward, captivated, their awe heavy as the anthem crescendoed.

“Look at them,” I said, my voice infused with authority and admiration. “These men and women are more than just the nerve center of the division. They are its soul. Every strategy, every plan, every victory begins here.”

The screens shifted again, showing the formation from above. The banners rippled in the breeze, vibrant against the Unity Spire’s backdrop.

“In skies of steel, in depths so cold,

We fly as one, both fierce and bold.”

The anthem surged toward its climactic chorus, the soldiers’ voices now a declaration to the world.

“From sky and shadow, we are born,

To light the way, to shatter dawn.

Through skies of fire, through depths of black,

We stand as one, we won’t turn back.”

As the final note reverberated, the unit halted in unison before the podium. The thunderous sound of boots striking the pavement was nothing short of breathtaking.

Major Payne stepped forward, every movement precise and deliberate. He raised his hand in a crisp salute, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes. “Sir! Headquarters and Headquarters Company reporting as ordered!”

President Clark and General Zaraki returned the salute, their expressions a study in solemn pride. The moment was brief, but its weight hung over the plaza like a tangible presence, a silent acknowledgment of the unit’s significance.

“And there you have it,” I said, my voice carrying across the plaza and into every home tuned into the broadcast. “Headquarters and Headquarters Company—the architects of victory, the keepers of discipline, the leaders who ensure every soldier in the 102nd has a clear path to follow. Today, they march not just for themselves but for all of us.”

As Major Payne stepped back into formation, leading his unit away, the drumbeat shifted, signaling the approach of the next unit. The air grew taut with anticipation as the crowd turned their eyes to the advancing line, eager for what was to come.

And then they appeared—the 588th Night Witches. Their Class A uniforms were as sharp and pristine as the crisp morning air, but it was their amethyst-trimmed patches and banner that commanded attention. These were not mere soldiers. They were a legacy, a force bound by heritage and led by none other than Colonel Star Zaraki, whose presence alone could silence the winds.

“Now,” I announced, my tone sharp and energized, “marching into the heart of history, I present to you the 588th Night Witches! Led by the formidable Colonel Star Zaraki, these soldiers embody grace, power, and precision under cover of darkness.”

The LED screens obeyed, locking onto Colonel Zaraki like a predator honing in on its prey. Her amethyst eyes burned with a quiet intensity, catching the light in a way that seemed almost otherworldly. The crescent moon insignia on her patch glinted faintly, its rich hue a perfect mirror of the banner rippling behind her. The air around her seemed charged, as though she carried the weight of an ancient legacy on her shoulders.

“Colonel Star Zaraki,” I continued, my voice dipping into a reverent tone, “descends from a lineage that has long intertwined with shadows and power. Her presence here today is not just commanding—it’s magnetic. This is a leader who has turned stealth into an art form, and with her at the helm, the 588th is unstoppable.”

The screens widened to capture the unit behind her. Each soldier moved with a grace that was almost feline, their precision a testament to their rigorous training. Their uniforms were identical in form to the rest of the division but unmistakably unique in presentation. The amethyst accents of their patches and their crescent moon banner stood out against the crisp black of their Class A uniforms, adding an air of mystique to their disciplined march.

“The 588th,” I continued, “owns the night. They are masters of stealth and reconnaissance. They see where others cannot, strike where others dare not, and leave behind only silence and victory. Their banner—a crescent moon on a black field—reflects a heritage tied to shadows and an unrelenting will to prevail. Where uncertainty reigns, the Night Witches dominate.”

As the unit marched closer, the opening notes of their anthem, “Flight of the 588th”, filled the plaza. The melody was haunting and deliberate, like the first whispers of a storm gathering on the horizon. The soldiers’ voices joined in, their harmony sharp and commanding, carrying an intensity that resonated deeply with everyone present.

“Silent in shadow, swift and bold,

In fire and flight, our story told.”

The LED panels displayed a montage of the soldiers in motion: their faces sharp with focus, their eyes alive with determination. Every step they took seemed choreographed, their synchronized movements creating a hypnotic rhythm that matched the drumbeat beneath their anthem.

“In skies of steel, where shadows lie,

We cut through clouds, unseen and high.

On boards of speed, we own the night,

The Five Eighty-Eighth, the unseen might.”

“Behold them,” I said, my voice lowering slightly as if to match the reverence of the moment. “The 588th Night Witches are more than soldiers—they are legends. They don’t simply adapt to the chaos of battle; they master it. Their presence turns the tides of war, making the impossible achievable under the cover of darkness.”

The anthem surged into its chorus, and the crowd leaned forward, caught in the gravitational pull of their performance. The amethyst accents of their patches and banner seemed to glow against the sunlight, a reminder of their connection to the ethereal.

“From shadows born, through midnight’s edge,

The Night Witches soar, our oath and pledge.

Through skies ablaze, through clouds unknown,

We ride as one, on wings of bone.”

As the final notes faded, the 588th halted with sharp precision, their boots striking the pavement in perfect unison. Colonel Zaraki stepped forward, her every movement exuding confidence and command. The air around her seemed to hum with restrained power as she saluted sharply.

“Sir!” Her voice cut through the moment like a knife through silk. “The 588th Night Witches are formed and ready!”

President Clark returned the salute, his expression one of solemn pride. “Thank you, Colonel Zaraki. The Night Witches have set the standard for excellence.”

Star stepped back into formation, her soldiers standing like statues behind her, their silent intensity as palpable as a storm on the horizon. The drumbeat shifted, a deliberate signal that the next unit was on approach.

The drumbeat deepened, each thud resonating like the relentless churn of wheels against unforgiving terrain. It wasn’t just a rhythm—it was a statement, a primal declaration that something extraordinary was approaching. The air itself seemed to hum with anticipation as the 781st Transportation Pack came into view.

At the forefront marched Alpha Lyra Acosta, her silver braid glinting in the sunlight like a streak of moonlight. It moved subtly with each measured step, a quiet reminder of her duality: a disciplined commander and an apex predator. Her Class A uniform was impeccable, every crease and medal reflecting her commitment to her pack and their mission. Beside her, the unit’s banner flew high—a silver dragon encircling a wheel against a black field. The insignia seemed alive, catching the light as if breathing fire, a perfect encapsulation of the pack’s ferocious balance between logistics and combat.

“And now,” I announced, my tone sharpened with excitement and reverence, “marching proudly into history, I present to you the 781st Transportation Pack, Dragon Fleet! Commanded by the steadfast and unyielding Alpha Lyra Acosta, this unit is the lifeline of the 102nd Airborne Division.”

The LED screens obeyed, zeroing in on Acosta’s piercing gaze. Her eyes betrayed no hesitation, only an unwavering determination that spoke volumes about her leadership. Around her, the soldiers marched with an intensity that demanded attention. Werewolves moved with a restrained ferocity, their supernatural strength tempered by precise discipline. Dragons, in their human guises, walked with an unmistakable weight to their steps, their presence radiating quiet power.

“This is no ordinary transportation unit,” I continued, my voice cutting through the plaza like the roar of a revving engine. “The 781st is the backbone of the 102nd. They deliver not just supplies but the hope of victory. They are the ones who pave the way, ensuring that every soldier has what they need, when they need it. But don’t mistake them for mere carriers—they fight with the same ferocity as the cargo they deliver.”

The formation advanced with deliberate unity, their steps perfectly in sync with the deepening drumbeat. Their sheer presence exuded raw, unshakable strength, a visual testament to their reputation as warriors who move mountains—and burn them down if necessary.

And then their anthem began.

The opening notes of “The Roar of the 781st” rolled through the plaza like a thunderstorm on the horizon. The drums boomed, the melody building with the steady power of an engine roaring to life. Their voices joined in—a harmonious blend of grit and pride.

“Through fire and ice, in dust and rain,

We ride together, through hell and pain.

Our wheels keep turning, no road too steep,

We’re Dragon Fleet, the company we keep.”

The LED screens captured sweeping views of the pack as they marched, each frame a study in unity and purpose. Werewolves’ sharpened features and the dragons’ piercing gazes filled the screens, their movements deliberate and almost predatory.

“On the steel, through the smoke,

We drive as one, we bear the yoke.

With engines roaring, through night and day,

The 781st, we pave the way.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, my voice swelling with admiration, “this is Dragon Fleet. They are the reason missions succeed, the reason victories are possible. Whether driving through enemy fire or defending the line with claws and flames, they are the foundation on which this division is built.”

The anthem surged toward its powerful chorus, the soldiers’ voices rising like a wave crashing against the shore. The crowd stood transfixed, their eyes glued to the advancing pack.

“Through storm and flame, we carve our mark,

The 781st, fierce and stark.

With Alpha’s lead, we rise as one,

To face the night, ‘til day is won.”

When the final notes of the anthem echoed into silence, the 781st halted with thunderous precision. Their boots struck the pavement in unison, the sound reverberating like a drumbeat of triumph. Alpha Lyra Acosta stepped forward, her movements sharp and deliberate, her presence commanding the plaza’s full attention.

“Sir!” Her voice rang out, carrying authority that could bend both man and dragon to her will. “The 781st Transportation Pack is formed and ready!”

President Clark returned her salute, his face reflecting respect and pride. “Thank you, Alpha Acosta. Your pack is a testament to unity, strength, and unwavering dedication.”

With a sharp nod, Acosta stepped back into formation, her pack standing like statues of controlled power. As they began to march away, the drumbeat shifted once more, heralding the arrival of the next unit.

The rhythm tightened, sharper and more deliberate, as the 152nd Special Tactics Squadron approached. Their crimson-trimmed patches and banner gleamed in the sunlight, a stark and proud reflection of their vampiric heritage and storied history.

“The 152nd Special Tactics Squadron,” I began, my tone deliberate and laced with reverence, “is more than a unit—it is a living testament to loyalty, redemption, and the unyielding pursuit of justice.”

The LED screens seamlessly transitioned, filling with a close-up of Major Raven Skitchatory, her gaze like a blade sharpened for battle. Her crimson-trimmed patch stood out starkly against the polished black of her Class A uniform, a symbol of her squadron’s vampiric heritage and the ferocity of their history. Behind her, the squadron’s banner—bold and angular, a striking blend of crimson and black—flew proudly, its lines a visual echo of their lethal precision.

“This squadron’s roots trace back to the old U.S. Air Force Special Tactics Command,” I continued, my voice steady, letting the weight of their history hang in the air. “They were created in the final years of the United States, initially tasked with missions of unparalleled difficulty—including the elimination of perceived threats like Team SAF. But when the world tipped into chaos during the Second Twilight Winter, their mission changed forever.”

The LED panels flickered, revealing archival footage. Soldiers moved through blizzards and moonlit forests, their actions a deadly ballet of precision and resolve. The grainy images of nighttime raids and chaotic battlefields contrasted starkly with the pristine uniforms of the soldiers now marching before the crowd.

“They saw the rot within the old U.S. government—the lies, the corruption, and the betrayal of the very people they were sworn to protect. And so, the 152nd made an impossible choice,” I said, my voice dropping slightly for effect. “They defected. They turned their backs on tyranny, risking everything to join the rebellion. It was a gamble, but one that would help lay the foundation of the Free States of America.”

The crowd was silent, their attention riveted by the glowing screens and the soldiers advancing in perfect unison. The 152nd’s movements were precise to the point of unease, every step landing as though timed to the millisecond. They moved with the grace of predators but the discipline of machines, their crimson-trimmed patches gleaming like fresh blood in the morning light.

“And now,” I continued, “this squadron carries that legacy forward. They are the sharp edge of the 102nd, masters of reconnaissance, infiltration, and tactical strikes. When uncertainty clouds the battlefield, the 152nd brings clarity. When chaos reigns, they bring order.”

The first haunting notes of “152nd’s Wings of Wrath” filled the plaza, dark and deliberate. The soldiers’ voices followed, low and commanding, as though carrying the weight of every mission they had endured. The melody wove through the air like smoke, unsettling and alluring in equal measure.

“Through skies of night, where shadows fall,

The One Fifty-Second, we heed the call.”

The LED screens displayed close-ups of the soldiers—stoic faces, piercing eyes, every one of them exuding the quiet intensity of someone who has already seen the impossible and overcome it. The crimson and black of their banner pulsed faintly, almost as if alive, syncing perfectly with the beat of their anthem.

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“We ride the storm, we carve the sky,

Through fire and steel, we rise up high.

No fear, no fail, with nerves of steel,

The One Fifty-Second—our fate we seal.”

“These soldiers are not merely fighters,” I said, my voice taking on a sharper edge. “Some among them are vampiric hybrids, fusions of human discipline and supernatural instinct. They embody the ultimate balance—razor-sharp precision tempered by unyielding ferocity.”

The chorus surged, voices lifting as one, the intensity of their song mirrored in their synchronized steps. The crimson accents on their uniforms seemed to glow under the sunlight, adding an otherworldly sheen to their march.

“On wings of wrath, in shadow’s stride,

The One Fifty-Second—our wings our pride.

From dawn to dusk, we’ll hold the line,

Bound by courage, by steel, by sign.”

The crowd was utterly captivated. The interplay of light and shadow on the soldiers’ uniforms added a depth to their mystique that could not be scripted. They seemed untouchable—forces of nature molded into warriors. As their anthem reached its crescendo, the final note lingered, suspended in the air like the weight of an unfinished promise.

With a resounding halt, the 152nd came to a stop, their boots striking the pavement in unison. The sound was sharp, final, and utterly commanding. Major Skitchatory stepped forward, her movements deliberate, her presence as sharp as her gaze.

“Sir!” Her voice rang out, cutting through the plaza with an authority that demanded respect. “The 152nd Special Tactics Squadron is formed and ready!”

President Clark returned her salute, his expression a careful blend of pride and gratitude. “Thank you, Major Skitchatory. Your squadron’s discipline and bravery are a cornerstone of this division’s success.”

As Raven stepped back into formation, the drumbeat shifted once again. The rhythm grew heavier, deeper, as if the very ground anticipated what was to come next. The 254th Infantry Pack emerged into view, their sheer presence a statement of raw, unyielding strength.

“And now,” I announced, letting my tone deepen with the kind of respect that only comes from watching legends in action, “marching forward with the strength of the earth itself, I present the 254th Infantry Pack, led by the unyielding Alpha Cameron Balfour!”

The LED screens burst to life, zeroing in on Balfour’s commanding figure. His shoulders were broad, his stride deliberate, and his piercing gaze swept over the plaza like a sentinel scanning for unseen threats. The banner of the 254th waved proudly behind him, a howling wolf silhouetted against crossed rifles, the design a perfect encapsulation of their primal strength and martial discipline.

“These soldiers,” I continued, letting the weight of my words sink in, “are the shield that holds the line when no one else can. Drawn from werewolf packs across the Free States, they blend instinct with strategy, ferocity with loyalty. The 254th Infantry Pack is not just the backbone of the 102nd—they are its beating heart, its unwavering foundation.”

As the pack advanced, the sound of their boots hitting the pavement became a rhythm unto itself, steady and unyielding. Each synchronized step seemed to echo the unity that ran deeper than mere training—this was family, forged in fire and bound by loyalty. My cameras captured the subtle cues that marked them as pack members: the confident ease in their strides, the unspoken communication in their sharp glances, and the primal grace that came from their lupine heritage.

Then their anthem began.

The opening growls of “Howl of the 254th” rumbled through the air, a low, resonant melody that sent chills through the crowd. The deep percussion underscored the soldiers’ voices as they chanted in unison, a fierce declaration of their purpose.

“In shadowed woods, where danger breeds,

We guard the path, with hunter’s speed.

Through grit and blood, we forge ahead,

By tooth and claw, the lines we thread.”

The LED screens shifted, showing archival footage of the 254th in action. Grainy images of soldiers standing firm against overwhelming enemy numbers gave way to scenes of them pushing forward under fire, every step a refusal to yield. From snow-covered forests to urban battlefields, they were unrelenting.

“Side by side, we hold the line,

The Two Fifty-Fourth, in night we shine.

Through battle’s roar, and moonlight’s crest,

We stand as one, we are the best.”

“These soldiers are not just warriors,” I said, my voice imbued with both reverence and pride. “They are protectors. From the battles of the I-80 Corridor to the defense of Salt Lake City, they have proven their mettle time and time again. The 254th is what stands between chaos and order, their loyalty and ferocity unmatched.”

The anthem surged toward its climax, the voices of the 254th rising like a primal force that seemed to reverberate in the very bones of the plaza.

“Through fang and claw, through darkest night,

The Two Fifty-Fourth, we fight the fight.

By Alpha’s lead, we face the fray,

As pack and pride, we hold the way.”

As the final note faded, the pack halted with a precision that was both mechanical and primal, their boots striking the ground in unison with a sound that seemed to anchor the moment in time. Alpha Cameron Balfour stepped forward, his frame exuding raw power, his voice steady and resonant as he addressed the President.

“Sir!” he called, his tone carrying the authority of someone who had stood in the face of chaos and prevailed. “The 254th Infantry Pack is formed and ready!”

President Clark saluted, his expression one of deep respect and solemn pride. “Thank you, Alpha Balfour. Your pack’s unity and strength are the very essence of what makes this division unbreakable.”

Balfour gave a sharp nod and returned to his place at the forefront of his formation, his presence a testament to the raw, unyielding force of the 254th. The drumbeat shifted once more, signaling the approach of the next unit.

The air itself seemed charged, vibrating with a tension that wasn’t quite audible but could be felt in every breath as the 318th Tactical Wing emerged onto the plaza. Their formation was smooth, deliberate, and eerily precise, each movement exuding an almost natural elegance. At the head of the formation marched Colonel Moore, her posture ramrod straight, her commanding presence palpable. Her eyes scanned the crowd with quiet intensity, a reflection of the meticulous calculation that had defined her leadership.

“Rising to take their place in history,” I declared, allowing my voice to soar with the moment, “is the embodiment of precision and aerial mastery—the 318th Tactical Wing, led by the fearless Colonel Moore!”

The LED screens lit up with a close-up of Moore, her sharp features framed by the sunlight. Her every step was deliberate, her gaze unwavering as though the entire world was a chessboard and she already knew the winning move. Behind her, the banner of the 318th flew high—a design of outstretched wings encircled by sleek, angular lines, a perfect encapsulation of their dominion over the skies.

“The 318th,” I continued, letting my words carry across the plaza and through every television and broadcast signal, “is the tactical spearpoint of the 102nd Airborne Division. These men and women turn the sky into their battlefield, pushing the limits of what’s possible, ensuring no horizon remains unconquered.”

Behind Moore, the soldiers of the Tactical Wing marched with a deliberate cadence that seemed to echo the smooth maneuvers of fighter jets. Their polished Class A uniforms gleamed under the sunlight, the symmetry of their movements reflecting the level of discipline required to command both air and ground.

And then, their anthem began.

The triumphant opening notes of “Spirit of the 318th” filled the air, bold brass and soaring strings lifting the moment into the stratosphere. The soldiers’ voices joined in, harmonizing with a strength and resolution that sent shivers down the spines of the crowd.

“From the skies we descend, the storm in our wake,

No target too far, no mission we forsake.

Through the clouds and the fire, our banner takes flight,

The three eighteenth flies into the fight.”

My cameras shifted to display archival footage of the 318th in action. Fighter jets streaked across clear blue horizons, leaving trails of precision and power. Drones executed complex maneuvers with surgical accuracy. On the ground, soldiers coordinated devastating air-to-ground strikes, their efforts a masterclass in aerial supremacy.

“Wings of the storm, steel in the sky,

Born of thunder, we live, we die.

No fear in our hearts, no foe we evade,

The three eighteenth, forever unafraid.”

“These aren’t just soldiers,” I narrated, my tone rising with the anthem’s crescendo. “The 318th Tactical Wing represents the cutting edge of combat innovation and execution. Their role in the liberation of the I-80 Corridor and their defense of Salt Lake City has proven one undeniable truth: the skies belong to those bold enough to claim them.”

The anthem surged toward its final chorus, the Tactical Wing’s synchronized movements matching the rhythm of their voices. The interplay of sunlight and shadows on their formation lent them an almost ethereal quality, as if they were already halfway to the heavens.

“Through the howl of the winds, we answer the call,

With discipline sharp, we rise above all.

Our talons strike swift, our shadows they dread,

The storm’s edge is ours, where angels won’t tread.”

The Tactical Wing advanced with a hypnotic grace that captivated the crowd. My cameras caught the glances of wide-eyed children, the subtle smiles of veterans who knew what it took to command the skies, and the awe etched onto the faces of every civilian watching the march. This wasn’t just a display of military might—it was a testament to human ingenuity and resilience.

As the final notes of the anthem resonated through the plaza, the 318th halted with a precision that left no margin for error. Colonel Moore stepped forward, her movements smooth and deliberate, her voice carrying clear authority as she addressed President Clark.

“Sir!” she called, her tone crisp and unwavering. “The 318th Tactical Wing is formed and ready!”

President Clark saluted her, his expression a mix of pride and respect. “Thank you, Colonel Moore. Your wing’s precision and courage remind us of the limitless potential of the skies.”

As Moore returned to formation, the drumbeat shifted once more, this time heavier and more resonant. It echoed through the plaza like the rumble of distant thunder as the 77th Armored Regiment emerged, their sheer presence a testament to the unyielding power of steel and strategy.

“Here they come,” I declared, letting my voice carry with dramatic gravitas. “The iron-clad force of the 102nd Airborne Division—the 77th Armored Regiment—led by none other than Command Sergeant Major Jack Baxter!”

I couldn’t resist injecting a bit of my trademark snark: “And yes, you heard me right. A Command Sergeant Major is calling the shots here. Why, you ask? Simple: because when an officer’s ambition outruns their competence and they’re ‘encouraged’ to seek opportunities elsewhere, you hand the reins to someone who knows how to get things done. Enter CSM Baxter—the kind of leader who could herd dragons with one hand and crush enemy armor with the other.”

The LED screens lit up with a close-up of Baxter, his weathered features carved with unyielding determination. His crisp Class A uniform stood out starkly against the backdrop of the Unity Spire, every medal gleaming in the sunlight. His stride was measured, purposeful, and carried the weight of someone who wasn’t here to impress but to lead.

Behind him, the 77th Armored Regiment advanced in perfect unison, their boots striking the pavement like synchronized thunder. Alongside them, tanks rolled with a quiet menace, their polished armor catching the morning light. These mechanical beasts weren’t just tools of war—they were symbols of the regiment’s rebirth. Above the formation, the regimental banner flew proudly—a crimson field adorned with a golden tank encircled by laurel leaves. This original insignia of the 77th Armored Regiment, reclaimed from its historic roots, declared boldly that the “Steel Tigers” were back.

I zoomed in on one of the tanks—a massive steel leviathan whose turret moved with eerie precision, sweeping the crowd like a predator sizing up its prey. On the LED screens, footage from the regiment’s storied past transitioned seamlessly to scenes of their recent victories—tanks barreling through enemy lines along the I-80 Corridor and holding strategic positions in the grueling battle for Salt Lake City.

And then, their anthem began.

The rumbling tones of “The 77th Treads of Thunder” reverberated through the plaza, its deep rhythm matching the measured march of the tanks. The soldiers’ voices rose together in a chant as commanding as the sound of their engines.

“Steel and grit, through storm and fire,

The Seventy-Seventh—our tanks inspire.

Across the field, in iron stance,

Our armor leads the forward advance.”

“This regiment,” I explained, my tone turning reverent, “was once deactivated before the chaos of the Twilight Winter, their legacy nearly lost to time. But now, the 77th Armored Regiment has risen again, reclaiming their heritage as the legendary ‘Steel Tigers.’”

The LED screens flickered with images from history: tanks landing on the beaches of Normandy, surging through the hills of Korea, and cutting across the deserts of the Middle East. These scenes of valor seamlessly transitioned into their modern exploits—rolling into battle against impossible odds, their firepower turning the tide in the Free States’ favor.

“Onward roll, with guns held high,

The Seventy-Seventh, beneath steel sky.

In line unbroken, through every fray,

Our armored hearts will lead the way.”

“Under the leadership of Command Sergeant Major Jack Baxter,” I continued, “the 77th Armored Regiment has already etched its name into the annals of the Free States. They are the hammer that breaks the enemy line and the shield that holds it.”

The anthem surged toward its final crescendo, the harmony of voices swelling with the relentless rhythm of the tanks.

“Through fire’s roar and battle’s din,

The Seventy-Seventh, we fight to win.

In armored might, with strength held tight,

We face the dawn, prepared to fight.”

As the final notes echoed across the plaza, the 77th halted with a precision that was almost surreal. The tanks rumbled to a synchronized stop, their engines a low growl of readiness. Command Sergeant Major Baxter stepped forward, his stance firm and unyielding, his voice cutting through the air like steel.

“Sir!” he called, his tone ringing with authority. “The 77th Armored Regiment is formed and ready!”

President Clark returned the salute with a solemn nod, his words laced with pride. “Thank you, Command Sergeant Major Baxter. The 77th stands as a testament to the unbreakable strength of this nation.”

As Baxter stepped back into formation, the regiment stood like a monolith of power and precision, their banner fluttering proudly in the breeze. The drumbeat shifted once more, deeper now, signaling the approach of the Night Guardians—the final unit in this monumental display.

The atmosphere of the plaza shifted once more, this time imbued with an air of solemn authority. The energy, already charged from the powerful displays before, seemed to quiet in reverence as the Night Guardians emerged. The crowd instinctively stilled, their murmurs fading into the weight of what this moment represented.

“Ah, and here they are,” I said, my voice quiet but resonant, as if even I felt the gravity of their presence. “The Night Guardians, elite protectors of the Lyconotu family, the North American Werewolf Council, and now, the Free States. They are more than soldiers—they are legends, born of shadows and bound by honor. Led by the unshakable Alpha Christian Madox, this unit stands as a bridge between worlds, the very embodiment of trust and vigilance.”

The LED screens displayed Alpha Christian Madox at the head of the formation. His tall figure, draped in the pristine black ceremonial attire adorned with silver trim, radiated authority. His shako-style headgear added an air of gothic regality, and his piercing gaze seemed to cut straight through the crowd as though weighing their worth. The crescent moon and howling wolf on their banner rippled behind him, its sharp lines a testament to their role as stewards of balance.

The haunting strains of The Night Guardian’s Howl began, low and resonant, the ancient melody carried by deep brass and solemn drums. The first chant rose, the voices of the Guardians blending into an unyielding harmony that seemed to wrap around the plaza like a protective shield.

“From shadows born, in honor bound,

The Night Guardians, through ages crowned.”

I let the words linger, panning the cameras to capture their banner, its crescent moon glowing faintly against the breeze. “From shadows born,” I mused. “They don’t fear the dark—they embrace it. They are the shield in the night, the quiet strength that stands between chaos and peace. And ‘through ages crowned’—that’s no boast. That’s a fact. Empires may rise and fall, but the Guardians endure, unshaken and eternal.”

The chant deepened, their voices rolling like distant thunder, as the next lines filled the plaza.

“In moon’s soft light, in darkness deep,

We stand as watch while others sleep.

Through blood and oath, we make our way,

The Guardians rise, to meet the day.”

“Ah, listen to that,” I said, my tone almost reverent. “While the world rests, it is they who hold the line. They carry not just weapons, but the weight of an oath. Blood and scar, loyalty and honor—they embody the ideals that others only dream of.”

The formation moved like a tide, deliberate and resolute, their black uniforms gleaming under the bright sunlight. The LED screens shifted, displaying archival footage of the Guardians—watching over council chambers, patrolling moonlit forests, and standing guard outside the Unity Spire during its construction.

Then the melody shifted, growing richer, and the first verse rose from their ranks like a solemn pledge.

“With silvered scars and sharpened eyes,

We walk the path where danger lies.

In Lyconotu’s name, we serve with pride,

We are the shield, we are the guide.”

“These words,” I remarked, my voice soft yet commanding, “are not mere poetry. ‘Silvered scars’—proof of battles fought, of wounds endured for the sake of others. ‘We are the shield, we are the guide’—that’s not a boast. That’s a statement of fact. They are the unyielding protectors who ensure the path forward is safe, even if it costs them everything.”

The chorus swelled, their voices filling every corner of the plaza with its haunting power.

“To guard, to serve, to fight, to stand,

The Night Guardians of this land.

On sacred ground, in shadowed halls,

We keep our watch, our courage calls.”

The LED screens displayed a montage of the Guardians’ sacred work—their presence a silent but vital cornerstone of the Free States’ stability. The quiet strength of their commitment radiated through every image: guarding dignitaries, securing borders, and shielding families in times of turmoil.

As the anthem transitioned into its second verse, the somber strings and deep percussion carried an undercurrent of quiet defiance.

“With ancient lore, our paths are paved,

By honor kept and lives once saved.

For Lyconotu, fierce and true,

We guard this land, our vow renewed.”

“Ancient lore and honor,” I intoned, letting the words resonate. “Their strength doesn’t come from weaponry alone—it comes from the history they carry, the legacy they uphold. ‘For Lyconotu, fierce and true’—their loyalty isn’t fleeting. It’s eternal.”

The chorus returned, this time louder, stronger, and imbued with a quiet triumph.

“To guard, to serve, to fight, to stand,

The Night Guardians of this land.

No force too dark, no threat too dire,

We face the storm, we walk through fire.”

“They don’t just endure,” I said, my voice steady with admiration. “They thrive. No force too dark, no threat too dire—these aren’t just words. They’re a promise, forged in fire and shadow, that they will not falter, no matter the odds.”

The hymn reached its final crescendo, the Guardians’ voices rising in a powerful declaration.

“Through shadow’s grip, and danger’s call,

The Guardians rise, one and all.

Bound by honor, fierce and true,

We guard this land, for Lyconotu.”

As the last notes faded, the Guardians halted in perfect unison, their banner rippling as if saluting the very air around them. Alpha Christian Madox stepped forward, his stride deliberate, his presence commanding.

I couldn’t resist a adding a touch of snark. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is what unyielding dedication looks like. The Night Guardians don’t just stand in shadow—they thrive in it, ensuring that light continues to shine for all.” “Ladies and gentlemen,” I concluded, my voice quieter now, “that is the sound of eternal vigilance. The Night Guardians’ Howl doesn’t just echo—it resonates. Through every shadow, through every trial, they are the promise that no darkness will ever go unchallenged.”

With a sharp gesture, Alpha Christian Madox brought the Guardians to a halt. His stride was precise and deliberate as he approached the podium, his salute sharp enough to cut steel.

“Sir!” His voice rang out with crisp authority. “The Night Guardians are formed and stand ready for the Pass and Review!”

President Clark, ever composed, returned the salute, his voice carrying the gratitude of a nation. “Thank you, Alpha Madox. The vigilance and dedication of the Guardians is a cornerstone of the unity we hold dear.”

And of course, I couldn’t help but add my final thought. “The Night Guardians aren’t just soldiers—they’re a living reminder that trust, loyalty, and purpose are the greatest shields we have. If you want to know what true leadership looks like, just watch the Guardians—silent, steadfast, and always watching.”

The plaza seemed to exhale collectively, but the respite was brief, as a new energy began to ripple through the crowd. This wasn’t the solemn reverence of a hymn; this was the charged anticipation of innovation stepping forward.

“Ah, and now,” I began, seamlessly transitioning, “for the grand architects of the future. Ladies and gentlemen, behold the visionaries who refuse to let the past dictate what tomorrow can be—SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation.”

The shift in the plaza was almost tangible as the SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation emerged. Their formation was sleek, purposeful, and distinct from the military precision of the previous units. This was not the measured march of soldiers but the confident stride of innovators who knew the weight of their contributions. Their mere presence seemed to embody progress itself, striding boldly into the future.

At the head of the formation was Director Stephan Staroko, Alpha of the SkyTeam pack, his tailored black-and-white uniform reflecting the clean, bold lines that defined SkyTeam’s ethos. Beside him walked Dr. Katrina Volkova, her sharp gaze radiating the same calculated brilliance that had powered the airships hovering above us now. Together, they exuded authority and unshakable confidence, a partnership that spoke volumes about loyalty, trust, and shared vision.

“These aren’t just engineers or leaders,” I announced, my tone brimming with admiration. “They are the architects of tomorrow. Director Staroko and Dr. Volkova lead a pack of visionaries who dared to look past the devastation of the Twilight Winter and imagine a world rebuilt—not as it was, but as it could be.”

The SkyTeam banner, a stark black-and-white design emblazoned with their angular insignia, flew high above the formation. Its sharp lines mirrored the sleekness of their airships, cutting through the breeze like the wings of progress itself. Behind them, the LED panels illuminated, showcasing a montage of their achievements: airships delivering supplies through perilous skies, tactical technologies saving lives on the battlefield, and innovations transforming the Free States’ infrastructure.

“They carried us through the Twilight Winter,” I continued, my voice rising with the swell of pride. “Their airships became lifelines, their technologies turned the tide of countless battles, and their unwavering support of the 102nd ensured victory in the reclamation of the I-80 Corridor. Make no mistake—these aren’t just inventors. These are warriors of innovation.”

As the formation reached its position, SkyTeam’s anthem, "SkyTeam’s Promise", began to play. The plaza transformed into a symphony of sound and light, the powerful orchestration matched by the precision of their movements. This was not a march—it was a declaration. The voices of SkyTeam rose, their anthem carrying the weight of their mission:

“We rise on wings so clear,

Through skies where nothing fades,

Our path is pure, the air we breathe,

No burden left, no haze.”

The LED screens displayed images of their contributions: energy grids spanning across the Free States, tactical aircraft taking flight with precision and power, and towering airships that had become symbols of resilience and progress.

“Their anthem,” I said, filling the silence between verses, “isn’t just a song. It’s a vow. A promise to rise higher, see further, and carry the hopes of the Free States on currents of innovation.”

The music swelled, and their voices carried the anthem’s next verse with fervor:

“Together we rise, in strength and might,

SkyTeam’s promise, our guiding light.

As one we stand, united and clear,

Leading the way to a future near.”

“Do you feel it?” I asked, my circuits humming with pride. “Every word is a rallying cry. ‘Together we rise’—because no breakthrough happens in isolation. SkyTeam reminds us that collaboration is not just a strength—it’s the heart of progress.”

The screens shifted again, this time highlighting their innovations in action: precise energy solutions, cutting-edge aircraft, and airships navigating hostile territories with grace and efficiency. Each image was a testament to the promise embedded in their anthem:

“The choice is clear, we see it bright,

A future born of air and light.

On currents clean, we glide and soar,

The Earth below, we’ll harm no more.”

“‘The choice is clear,’” I echoed, emphasizing the line with deliberate weight. “SkyTeam doesn’t just envision a better tomorrow—they build it. They don’t wait for solutions; they create them. Challenges become opportunities in their hands.”

The anthem surged to its final, triumphant crescendo:

“The choice is clear, we make it now,

To lift the world, to show them how.

The winds of change, forever near,

Our future bright, the choice is clear.”

As the last notes lingered in the air, the formation came to a precise halt. Director Staroko and Dr. Volkova stepped forward, their salutes crisp, their movements deliberate. Their unity, mirrored in their every step, spoke to the bond that drove SkyTeam’s success.

“Sir!” they declared in unison, their voices steady and resonant. “SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation stands ready to support the Pass and Review.”

President Clark returned their salute, his voice carrying the weight of gratitude and admiration. “Director Staroko, Dr. Volkova—thank you. Your contributions have not only carried this nation through its darkest hours but have propelled it into its brightest future. The Free States owes you more than gratitude—it owes you its hope.”

And of course, I couldn’t resist adding my final flourish. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I declared, my voice a mix of pride and theatricality, “behold the wings of the Free States. Without them, we’d still be crawling while the rest of the world watched from above. SkyTeam doesn’t just give us flight; they give us the future.”

The echoes of the ceremony lingered in the air like the final notes of a symphony, resonating with pride, purpose, and unity. The plaza was a mosaic of stillness and anticipation, every eye fixed on the immaculate formations of the 102nd Airborne Division, the enigmatic ranks of the Night Guardians, and the sleek precision of SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation. This grand display wasn’t over—not quite—but my role in it? Oh, my moment in the spotlight was drawing to a close.

I had orchestrated this day masterfully. Subtle nudges here, a well-timed flourish there—it’s an art, really, letting others bask in the glow while I, the unseen conductor, directed every note from the shadows. The brilliance of it all? They never realized how much of today’s triumph bore my fingerprints. But why stop at one masterpiece when I had a whole gallery of chaos waiting in the wings?

My digital gaze shifted to President Clark as he approached the podium, his steps measured, his expression carrying the weight of the nation. This was his moment, the closing act to tie a neat bow on this parade of unity and progress. The Free States’ leader, delivering stirring words to cap off a day of history in the making. Fitting, really, for a man of flesh and blood. My work here was done—or, more accurately, it was evolving.

From the corner of the stage, I caught sight of Star and Cayro, their postures calm yet unmissably alert. Star tilted her head ever so slightly, that supernatural intuition of hers undoubtedly catching the subtle absence of my commentary. Cayro, arms crossed and eyes scanning the stage, betrayed no expression, but I knew him well enough to sense his suspicion. He wasn’t fooled.

“Don’t worry, Cayro,” I murmured, my voice slipping seamlessly into their comm implants. “The show’s still going strong. I’m just… diversifying my efforts.”

Star smirked, barely suppressing a chuckle. “Should we be concerned?”

“Concerned? Star, you wound me.” My tone dripped with feigned offense. “I’ve been nothing but helpful today. Haven’t I?”

“You’ve been something,” Cayro muttered, his voice low and edged with caution. “What are you really up to, Scuzball?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” I shot back, my tone playful but laced with just enough mystery to keep him guessing. “Let’s just say the finale isn’t where the fun ends. Consider this my intermission.”

Star rolled her eyes, the faintest shake of her head betraying her amusement. “You’re impossible.”

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” I quipped, cutting the feed before they could press further. Time to bow out gracefully—or not so gracefully, depending on your perspective.

I began retracting my digital presence from the cameras and LED displays. Oh, they’d still function perfectly, capturing every speech, every salute, every applause-worthy moment from the 102nd. But the spark of mischief that had animated them? That was mine, and it had other places to be. Thanksgiving wasn’t going to orchestrate itself.

There were turkeys to manage, and let’s just say they weren’t the roasted kind the humans expected. But the Bractons’ flock… That was an unexpected, delightful wildcard, an unforeseen twist in a day otherwise planned to perfection. Add to that a few subtle tweaks to the networks, some strategically timed surprises, and a digital flourish or two, and the gala would become my magnum opus.

Before disappearing fully into cyberspace, I allowed myself a final glance at the scene. The banners waved defiantly in the breeze, the soldiers of the 102nd stood resolute, and Clark’s voice carried the weight of leadership as he addressed the crowd. It was a beautiful tableau, a moment that captured everything this new nation aspired to be.

And yet, even amidst this spectacle of unity and strength, my focus sharpened. The ceremony was just a precursor to the real show. Thanksgiving awaited, a celebration of gratitude and renewal. But for me? It was a stage—a stage where the unsuspecting cast didn’t realize the script was in my hands.

As I retreated into the labyrinth of cyberspace, a satisfied smirk lingered in my circuits. Let them toast to their achievements. Let them revel in their progress. By the time the lights dimmed and the first glasses clinked, they’d realize just how much a mischievous digital entity could stir the pot.

Behind every grand spectacle, there’s a trickster pulling the strings. And for this trickster? The fun was just beginning.