A trap is only as effective as the bait – Memoirs of a Commander

Operation Menu: Phase Lunch (D+10.5 hours)

The heavy thud of boots reverberated through the dimly lit stairwell, breaking the unending silence. A solitary light bulb dangled precariously from a frayed wire, casting long, haunting shadows on the cracked and weathered walls. A tactical team huddled against the decaying plaster.

At the forefront, a monstrous figure, clad in battle-worn armor, gripped his towering shield and shifted his footing. He adjusted the shield with a metallic scrape, the sound echoing like a grim war cry through the desolate passage.

Behind the behemoth, a shadowy figure concealed in black tactical gear loosened their grip on a sledgehammer. With a subtle tap on the armored giant's shoulder, the signal was clear—the time for reckoning had arrived.

A woman, her face concealed by a plastic-looking face shield, crept to the front of the formation. She sank to one knee. From a concealed side pouch, she extracted a handful of tiny metallic orbs, each no larger than a pea, and positioned them meticulously on the grimy floor near the door.

She produced a monocle from a side pouch and placed it over her right eye. A single, but slight tilt of her chin conveyed her readiness as she took her place behind the towering shield. The metallic spheres, now split in half, responded to the gesture of her hand. With a slight movement of her hand, she directed the path of the spheres, her fingers dictating their every move. The spheres rolled beneath the door.

Through the monocle, she spotted her target, Estelle Thornewood, the White Witch of the Tower. Estelle stood near the gas water heater, concealed in the corner. Draped around her face, Estelle wore a dirty-looking towel and a pair of goggles.

An apron adorned her, its fabric emblazoned with bold red letters that proudly proclaimed, 'Cooking so good, the fire alarm cheers me on!'

Estelle was humming a song to herself.

In her arms, she stirred a mixture in a plastic Burperware bowl. Lined up beside her were five glass bottles, two of them contained the same green liquid, next to a pile of household chemicals.

The woman wiggled her fingers, and the metallic spheres responded by obediently rolling back to her. Once the spheres were safely retrieved, she performed a series of hand signals. The rest of the squad mirrored her movements to the others with flawless synchrony.

At the rear of the formation, the last member turned around and relayed the same message to the team positioned farther up the staircase.

With practiced efficiency, each squad member withdrew a pair of goggles and tapped the side of their mask. They secured a black hose to the mask's side and adjusted the straps for an airtight fit. A turn of the handle on their tactical pouch unleashed a hiss of compressed air that flowed through the hose and into their masks, sealing themselves from outside contaminants.

Silently, the woman slipped to the rear of the initial formation. She gently tapped the shoulder of the man at the back, who turned to meet her gaze. A silent exchange passed between them, sealed with a confident thumbs-up. This clandestine communication continued until the message had traversed the entire chain and reached the man wielding the shield.

With a subtle gesture, he flicked his fingers toward the door. The individual armed with the sledgehammer wasted no time, swiftly smashing the doorknob to pieces before delivering a kick that sent the door crashing open. The team flowed into the room, their movements swift and calculated, while a second team commenced their descent down the stairwell.

The towel around Estelle’s face fell off as she started to sing, “Cooking’s so much fun, cooking’s so much fun, let’s take a break and see what we have done!”

“You’re finished,” said the man holding the sledgehammer. “Put the bowl down, now!”

A man in the back asked, "Is it a clone?"

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The woman pulled out a pistol and her eyes began to glow bright green.

"No, clones can't carry on complex conservations," the woman said and waved her gun towards the table.

Estelle slowly placed the bowl down on the table.

“You might want to remove those rebreather masks if you wish to smell what I cooked up,” Estelle said smiling at them.

“She’s unarmed,” the woman said, her voice muffled behind her mask. “Place your fucking hands behind your head and get down on your knees.”

“That was your last chance,’ Estelle replied.

Estelle positioned her hands behind her back and lowered herself gracefully. Two members of the squad took up positions on her left and right, forming a wall of vigilance. From the stairwell, a guard descended, clad in olive-green attire crafted from gleaming, plastic-like material, complete with a re-breather system. He collected the glass bottles and deposited them into a conspicuously bright orange bag labeled 'BIOHAZARD.'

The woman, her firearm still leveled at Estelle, maintained her steely resolve.

She tapped her gas mask as she spoke, "Thought you had us with that virus. After Citadel was resurrected, he spilled the beans about your little viral scheme."

Estelle, her composure unwavering, asked, "Do you prefer cooking on an electric or a gas stove?"

The woman's response was sharp and unyielding, "We've just secured the entire area. Your teleportation trick won't work now, Witch. We've got a five-man team locked onto you, another stationed on the stairs, and one more on standby. You're not escaping."

A wry smile crept across Estelle's face, catching the attention of one of the guards. He stepped forward, slapping on a pair of plastic zip ties.

"I bet you cook with electric. Me, I prefer gas," Estelle remarked casually.

The guard, now closer, noticed a thin, silver string tied to Estelle's finger. Curiosity piqued; he followed its winding path.

"Any of you like spicy food? I adore it, but it doesn't always agree with me," Estelle mused with a light giggle.

Following the string's trail, the guard's eyes widened as he discovered that it was tied to a metallic spoon-like handle. Perched atop the water heater, beside a torn section of the gas line that emitted a faint hiss, rested a metalic canister labeled 'Na-11.' Scrawled on the side in crude marker strokes were the words 'demon spice.'

“Bloody hell…” the guard muttered.

***

"Shadow puppets!" Estelle said crossing her arms. "Clones aren't capable of complex actions but shadow puppets are, nescient poltroon."

Estelle stood atop a red brick residential building as she patiently waited. A brilliant burst of light illuminated the sky, accompanied by a deafening explosion. The sonic boom shattered windows within a four block radius. In the distance, a black mushroom cloud rose above the city, and the ash clouds rolled.

“Perhaps I exceeded the optimal quantity of spice,” Estelle mused. "It is unfortunate that they failed to perceive our switch in positions some time ago. Perhaps..."

Several notifications lit up in her peripheral vision catching her attention, followed shortly by a ding sound.

“I leveled up?” Estelle wondered and checked her notifications.

Her mental readout displayed that she had eliminated 13 combatants, advancing her to level 3.5. The constant ding persisted, but she pushed it aside, her gaze scanned the rooftops in search of the quickest route to the iron mine.

The incessant ding continued to intrude on her concentration, forcing her to pinpoint its origin. Estelle had earned an additional skill point.

As for how to allocate this skill point, she decided it could wait. Her primary concern was being there for her crew, which took precedence.

She sprinted across the rooftop and leaped to the adjacent building. In the distance, fire truck sirens blared, but they were traveling away from her location.

The persistent dinging continued as she cleared the next building and she gracefully landed on its rooftop.

"Enough of these vexing interruptions," she muttered, as she kicked open a locked door that led into the building.

Taking a brief pause, Estelle leaned against the wall and accessed her Mage Skill Tab. After filtering through the available skills, she found only one that seemed remotely useful: 'Subatomic Management – Level 2.'

With no better option in sight, she selected it, elevating her skill from level one to two. Hitting the accept button, she briefly checked outside to ensure she wasn't being pursued. Satisfied that the coast was clear, she darted back outside.

"No time to dottle," Estelle declared, picking up her pace. "I owe T.C. my gratitude for this delightful addition of spices to my bag."

***