The war raged. The Red Army pushed forward, but the Emerald League refused to break. Zion himself moved between fronts, trying to bolster morale and exploit any tactical advantage.. the emerald league despite lost of half his 3/4 territory still stubbornly resist the invasion and refuse to capitulate.
In the not-so-distant future, a shadowy figure known only as Wraith plotted his next move, His plan was audacious, rooted in the twisted tactics of Japanese WWII strategists, but with a modern, absurd twist.
“Let’s smuggle drugs into this land,” he declared to an empty room, his voice echoing back like a ghostly affirmation. “We’ll keep the populace blissfully ignorant and high, while we roll in like a band of merry marauders! And the best part? We’ll label it forbidden fruit! Delicious irony, wouldn’t you agree?” He chuckled to himself, picturing the citizens stumbling about in a haze of euphoric stupidity.
But Wraith’s whimsical vision took a dark turn when the infamous Red Mist is not longer effective, coalition is more frequently using a gasmask, and the bright color of red is too obvious to miss, Time to get creative.. he just dip the various mischilinous on red mist liquid. the plan is to infect the animals. and do the infection job for them
then wraith plane,. From its belly, it released a shower of rice, strands of hair, and the unmistakable stench of rotten meat. “A feast for the senses!” Wraith cackled as he watched the chaos unfold below.
The city became a quarantine zone, not because of barricades or soldiers, but because of something far stranger. A wave of manic energy swept through the population, turning the streets into a bizarre, never-ending party. The city was effectively neutralized; no sane army would risk entering.
In the Emerald League’s council chambers, the mood was tense. It was clear this wasn’t just a random outbreak. Wraith’s strategy was becoming clear: isolate Tehran by creating a ring of infected cities.
“It’s the fleas, the rats, and the birds,” Councilman One exclaimed. “We must burn the entire city to the ground!”
“Burn our culture?” Councilwoman Two gasped. “We can’t do that! What about the annual cheese rolling festival?”
“Honestly, it’s like the bubonic plague but with a lot more glitter and jazz hands,” Councilman Three chimed in, rolling his eyes. “Let’s just close the borders and call it a day!”
Meanwhile, back in his lair, Wraith watched the council’s dysfunction with bemusement. “Advanced warfare,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Nukes are child’s play! Why destroy our future infrastucture? We can just remove the rats!”
As the war raged on, fate took a turn for the absurd. Wraith’s lab, nestled in the rugged terrain of Afghanistan, met an unexpected demise at the hands of some very disgruntled locals. thanks to CAD team and the wanderers effort.
“Those people destroyed my factory! How rude!” Wraith exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exaggerated disbelief at empty room
“Well then, let’s go old school! Time to unleash the vintage bomb! Because why not blow things up in style? It’s like a retro party, but with more shrapnel!” He grinned,
“Classic bomb it is! Because why not blow things up in style?”
After losing the bio lab, Wraith moved his operations to Central Asia. He was trying to stop the Coalition from pushing further, since this area was a key link between North America and the parts of Asia they’d already taken. Meanwhile, Zion was leading the charge against the Emerald League in North Persia.
Duc, a tired Red Army soldier, crouched in a muddy trench at a place called Iron Hill. It was a depressing spot, full of bunkers and wrecked old tanks. Above him, his commander—a gaunt, almost ghostly figure—was ordering them to build a new defensive position. They were using tank wrecks and… mummified bodies. Apparently, the intense radiation had left a lot of them intact. It was a crazy idea, but it actually worked as camouflage. Still, even the toughest soldiers found it creepy. Duc thought it was a sick joke that their commander was called Wraith.
The soldiers’ mood kept changing. When they were feeling good, they were like a well-oiled machine, carefully placing mines in no man's land. But when morale was low, things got… messy. They’d just toss explosives around like kids scattering toys, wanting to get the job done and get back to the safety of the trench.
Duc, as their commander, didn’t argue much. He knew most of them were just kids who’d been pulled off the streets and thrown into the war. He understood—he’d been a street kid himself before ending up in the gladiator arena.
He looked out across no man’s land. It was quiet now, a mix of mud, dead bodies, and twisted metal. Even with the gruesome view, it was almost peaceful compared to when the enemy was attacking. He chewed on his rations, trying not to think about the scenery.
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Suddenly, the ground shook violently. Duc, seated on the edge of the trench, felt the earth lift him from his seat, while those standing collapsed like marionettes with their strings cut. A violent blow slammed into his stomach and head, and then—darkness. The door of their makeshift bunker resonated like a giant gong, signaling doom, as a cloud of dust and acrid smoke enveloped them, searing their throats and nostrils.
Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. No one dared to breathe a word as they listened to the ominous rumble of earth raining down on their shelter. After what felt like an eternity, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake.
The Iron Hill had taken a beating; by the end of the war, it would have shrunk by thirty meters. Duc surveyed the grim landscape: lines of trenches and mass graves stretched before him.
From his squads of nine, only four remained. The sight was overwhelming, while new from craters bombardment large enough to swallow a train marred the ground.
After hours of hellish waiting, Duc took a deep breath and began to reorganize his troops, He glanced back at the steel mansion they were supposed to defend, a behemoth of rust and despair. A thought nagged at him—why not just retreat?
"What's the point?" he muttered, looking around at the ruined fortress. "We're not heroes. We're just holding the line until someone else shows up." He gave a dark chuckle. It all felt pretty pointless.
D-Day: February 2406
Dawn broke over the Caspian Sea. The coalition forces were ready to attack, a huge landing to try and save Tehran. The air was thick with excitement. Planes, paratroopers, and ships filled the horizon, heading towards the shore. The plan was bold: land in several places, cut off the Red Nation's supplies, and create a strong base.
As soon as it got light, the fighting started. The landing forces met heavy resistance from the Red Nation, bullets flying everywhere. Nara, in the thick of it, felt a rush of adrenaline as she charged forward. The beach became a chaotic mess of sand and fighting.
By evening, the coalition had made progress, taking some ground and pushing inland despite the Red Nation's constant attacks. "This is going to take a while," Nara muttered, wiping sweat and dirt from her face.
As they moved closer to Tehran, they had to fight in the city. Every step was a struggle. The city of Babol was just ahead, but it felt miles away. "We'll get there," Nara told herself, pushing on with her comrades. "We have to."
The battle for Babol got even more intense. But day by day, the coalition started to win. They heard reports that the Red Nation was running low on supplies and getting weaker. There were even talks of surrender. The coalition tightened its hold on the city. Nara felt a spark of hope. Could they actually win?
Then, in the middle of all the chaos, came some unexpected news: Nigel was alive. He was trapped near Gol Pasha, trying to break through the Red Army’s lines around Tehran. Hearing this made Nara’s heart race. She couldn’t believe it.
“622,” Nara said, her voice steady despite the mix of feelings inside. “What’s the plan?”
“New mission,” he replied. “We’re escorting a VIP. A few Hornets are leading the rescue.”
Nara nodded, a spark of excitement rising in her. “We’re getting him out?”
“That’s it. Quietly. This is important. It could change everything,” 622 said, his voice serious.
“Understood,” Nara said, feeling determined. This wasn't just another job; it was personal. She had to make sure Nigel was safe.
As they got ready, Nara thought about seeing him again, the relief on his face. We’re going to get him back, she told herself.
Early March 2406, Tehran Underground Bunker
Deep beneath Tehran, in the reinforced concrete bunker that served as their makeshift command center, the news was grim. The Red Nation propaganda machines were working overtime, broadcasting across all remaining channels: “Tehran has fallen. The council is in custody.” Jammers blanketed the city, cutting off most communication with the outside world. Moving through the ruined streets was a death sentence, thanks to constant artillery fire and lingering pockets of chemical agents—likely a mix of the now-ineffective Red Mist variants and newer, more potent compounds.
The only way to send messages out was through cloaked runners they to slip past sensors and patrols under the cover of darkness. These messages, however, were slow and unreliable.
The council meeting was tense. Supplies were running dangerously low, and contact with their scattered forces was sporadic. News of the coalition’s landing at least offered a glimmer of hope, but they were spread too thin to capitalize on it.
Nigel cleared his throat, the weight of the situation heavy on him. “We need to establish a direct link with the coalition. I propose a small, high-speed team breaks through to Madaran.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Nigel, despite the recent losses, was their best chance. He had the skills, the experience, and the sheer audacity to attempt such a risky maneuver.
On the coalition side, the Hornets, including Nara, received a priority transmission. Using a secure quantum entanglement communicator—a pre-Collapse relic capable of instantaneous, untappable communication—they received precise intel on Nigel’s location: a small village near Gol Pasha.
Nara felt a surge of excitement. She might see him within hours. She compulsively checked her gear—her silenced ballistic pistol, her thermal vision goggles, and the micro-drone she carried for reconnaissance—making sure everything was in perfect working order.
The team held a quick briefing, finalized their equipment checks, and boarded a sleek, tiltrotor aircraft. The aircraft took off smoothly, then transitioned to forward flight, quickly covering the distance to their drop zone. They landed a few kilometers from the village in a secluded valley, then switched to all-terrain hover bikes—silent and fast, ideal for navigating the rough terrain. The landscape was surprisingly beautiful, a stark contrast to the war-torn cities; colorful wildflowers lined the paths that wound through rolling hills and valleys.
As they approached the village, they deployed several micro-drones to scout ahead, establishing observation points and scanning for Red Nation activity. As dusk began to settle, they moved in, splitting into smaller teams for better stealth. Nara led her team towards the villa indicated by the intel. It was now 6 PM, and the adrenaline was starting to flow. She double-checked her equipment one last time, making sure everything was ready for what lay ahead.
By 10 PM, they still hadn’t found Nigel. The team regrouped, trying to figure out what to do next. Nara felt a wave of anxiety. Had the intel been wrong? Was this the wrong place? She looked at her team, hoping they had some answers.