EPISODE 1: The beginning of the end.

"The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world." – Unknown

[0320 HOURS - TOKYO SUBURBS - DECEMBER 26TH 2032]

This operation was bullshit. None of this shit made any sense.

Regardless, the sedan lurched ever forward. Light from the streetlamps danced by, making the pitter-pattering rain drops on the windows shine like jewels. The smell of burnt gunpowder, and blood permeated the expensive vehicle. Hell, the car even had heated seats. Sure he was ruining them at the moment with the mud and dust on his uniform, but that was besides the point.

Hudson looked at his team's liaison. The man had identified himself as first name John, last name Doe. Real clever.

Doe was sitting next to Hudson in the back of the car. Factory creases still on the man’s uniform. Even in the dark his boots were shining. Meanwhile Hudson still had sand from Tehran pricking him in his boots. Doe pulled out a bottle cologne and sprayed himself with it. They were a few minutes out from an operation and this guy cared more about smelling nice than telling Hudson what was going on.

Hudson clenched his fist in the dark. What he wanted to ask the man was, "Are you trying to get us killed? What the hell is going on? Where are we going? Who's our target? Why did you take us off theater to do a sightseeing tour of a fucking Japan?!"

Instead, Hudson had to be diplomatic.

"Sir, could you please elaborate on the mission? We've almost arrived on site."

Doe stared at Hudson for a minute, face unmoving. And then he smiled. A smile too wide. A smile too thin.

"Ever the inquisitive one Mr. Hudson." Doe said.

Hudson’s eye twitched. It was Staff Sargent Hudson. Not, Hudson. He decided not to correct his superior.

Doe continued as if nothing had happened. He pulled out a dossier and started rifling through it like it was a chore for him.

The driver yelled out, "ETA 5 minutes!".

Five minutes out and they were getting their briefing now. Ridiculous. Actually, he still wasn’t getting his briefing, because Doe was taking his sweet time going through the files. At least it gave him an opportunity to run scenarios. Was it an Al-Qaeda safe house filled to the brim with foreign fighters? Or Red terrorists with suicide vests and sarin gas? North Korean infiltrators? Chinese MSS? What if the operation was compromised? One PKM machine gun nest overlooking a stairwell could turn his entire squad into pink mist. Shit, what if the whole damned house was rigged to detonate?

In fact, what the hell was even the composition of the house? Or was it an apartment?

All Hudson knew was one moment he was door knocking IRGC remnants. Then next he was on a plane to Tokyo being stuffed in the back of a luxury Japanese Sedan. His team got put in a Range Rover behind him. Hudson sighed, he had to play ball. He had to protect his team.

Doe finally picked up a picture and held it up.

Hudson's hands went cold.

"Shiro Kuroi. Age 17. Student at Sakuragaoka High School. Capture or kill."

Doe's smile was gone. His tone had switched, as if he could finally drop the act and be his actual self. Doe continued.

"Of course that's what the lawyers make us say. I wouldn't mind an unfortunate accident."

Doe’s eyes were distant, far away. The eyes of a man who had done too much, seen too much. Reached the point where ordering the death of a high school student was the same as if reading off the profit and loss reports.

Doe held up the next picture, "This is his domicile, he is alone. Electricity and fiber to the neighborhood will be cut by support elements. Electronic Warfare jammers will be activated to prevent any cell signals in or out."

The house was a two-story building. No outer concrete wall. No barbed wire perimeter. No metal reinforced door. A far cry from what he was used to. Next he was shown a layout of the house, three rooms on ground. A staircase leading to a second floor, where he’d be met by a hallway with three doors.

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Doe next pulled out a signed and sealed document, "You are no longer assets of the US Military for the duration of this operation. By order of the President of the United States you now operate under Title 50 of the United States Code for covert operations."

Doe put down the order. The shifting beams from streetlights for a moment illuminated a scar on his neck. A scar Hudson had never noticed before. As if Doe was only now allowing Hudson to view the truth of the matter.

Before Hudson was a killer of men.

"Welcome to the third option."

Third option, or Tertia Optio.

The motto of the Special Activities Center (SAC), the premier covert paramilitary arm of the CIA.

When diplomacy is impossible, when military action is unwise, there is the third option. The invisible hand.

The ice spread through Hudson's body, into his chest. They'd brought out Presidential Authorization, the SAC, a whole host of support assets and to top it all off Hudson and his unit as trigger pullers.

All to take out some Japanese teenager. 

Obscene.

Hudson's mouth was dry as he spoke finally, "Why sir?"

Doe's leaned back.

"Vital national security interests."

He let out a curt laugh and continued. 

"You really shouldn't let appearances cloud your judgement so much. They can be deceiving. “

The car’s driver hit the pedal and the engine revved to life.

“Time is of the essence Mr. Hudson.”

The world flashed and when it returned, it was pitch dark in Tokyo. It should never be pitch dark in Tokyo. The heavy grey clouds above would not even let a glint of moonlight in. The rain continued to come down. Harder now, louder.

The car stopped as Doe added his final remarks.

"Your team has been briefed. Make contact, disrupt, apprehend." There was a pause, "If he resists, do not hesitate."

The driver clicked open the locks, and Doe gave that smile again. Too wide. Artificial.

"Good luck Mr. Hudson. Be seeing you."

Ice had at last frozen Hudson’s being. He clicked the door open and stepped into the rain.

He could have continued to complain, continued to dither, continued to think. 

But time had run out. He had to protect his men the best he could. Now was the time for instinct.

His boots hit the wet pavement. In one swift movement, he pulled up the Arabic scarf around his neck and pulled down his night vision. The city was lit up again. Now in a dark blue. The dual thermal overlay lit up any objects warmer than ambient in a silver lining.

Three men exited the SUV behind him. Four tubes jutting out from each of their heads, demons of the night. They were his demons, and he was their king. The vehicles behind the men drove away. Hudson keyed his comms, still set up from the battlefield they'd just left.

"Move out."

In the top left of his vision he had a small mini-map. Blue dots corresponded to his teammates with him at the center. The image updated live with their movements and his own.

Hudson pushed forward towards the house. The blue dots on the map formed a tight line behind him. They sprinted forward. In a flash the operators were on the front door.

Hudson's team did not ask him any questions. Of course they didn't. In the hundreds of direct-action raids they’d done in hostile territory, there had not been a single casualty or injury outside. That trust he’d earned through blood, even if it was the enemies. Especially if it was the enemies.

He was in front of the stack, as always. First one in, last one out.

The world lit up for a second, as lightning streaked above him. This was the perfect night, the perfect weather. The cold was a comfort. As was the darkness.

He pulled out a lockpick and got to work. Thunder echoed through the neighborhood. The door unlocked in seconds. He stood back up, held up a thumbs up and put his hand on the door handle.

“Breach.”, he whispered.

Making sure that it didn't slam he pushed the door forward. They flowed in. Rifles up. Textbook. Room after room. Silent death dancing. Performance perfected. Beams of infrared laser light emanating from their rifles cut across the air under a surreal symphony that played only in their heads. Details faded. Instinct was the order of the day. Ultimate mastery. Speed was the only thing that mattered.

Hudson never noticed the family pictures up on the walls with the father's face scratched out, or the note on the refrigerator, or the dirty dishes in the sink. Those details didn’t matter. He only made note of entrances, exits, and windows.

Ground floor clear.

The team moved up the wooden stairs, each step creaking through the silent house, echoing.

Eventually they made it to the top. He stopped. He stopped the flow, held up his fist.

Something was wrong.

There was only a single door here. No, that couldn't be right could it. He’d memorized the layout perfectly, where were the other two door?

Tick tock Mr. Hudson.

He had to push through.

He creeped up on the door before stacking up on it.

It was quiet now.

Dead quiet.

Almost as if the storm outside had stopped in an instant. As if the rain drops had just been frozen in place. Had the storm stopped? He looked back at the staircase he had just come from.

It was a lifetime away. The hallway was longer than he’d remembered. How long were they walking? It had only been a few seconds.

Then, scratching. It was coming from the door.

He twisted his back around and faced the sound.

A voice greeted him from the other side.

"You're not supposed to be here."

It was hushed. Raspy. It was old. God, it was so old.

"You’re too late." It spoke again.

There was no time to think, he was compromised. He had to protect his team.

Hudson kicked the door open and forced a step forward. He would eat the bullet meant for them.

A snap.

The world went black, and he started falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Oblivion greeted him.

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 [???? HOURS - UNKNOWN LOCATION - UNKNOWN DATE]

Consciousness at last came to Hudson.

He was at peace.

And then the memory of who he was struck him like a cane.

His eyes bolted open.

He was greeted with a broken moon.

He blinked.

The moon was still broken.

Fuck.