City-21 “Kyiv”, UNSA Protectorate, Avril Dominion
Solomianskyi Landscape Park
Vasiliy Horobetz, August 12, 2049, 1:19 PM
Vasiliy brushed off the dirt, debris, and twigs from his head. Hands were trembling as he propped himself up and struggled to sit. The sensations were utterly harrowing – nausea churned in his stomach, the world spun before his eyes, a relentless ringing tortured his ears, and his head throbbed with pain. Horobetz tried to utter something and realized he couldn’t hear his own voice.
His makeshift shelter had been obliterated by the blast, which had stripped the shrubbery bare and felled the trees surrounding him. Luckily, nothing heavy had landed on him.
Blinking to clear his vision, the journalist re-enabled the lenses implanted in his eyes and immediately checked his gear. As expected, his flying camera was gone, destroyed. Only two devices from his harness had survived, appearing intact. His pistol, however, was nowhere to be found, neither in his hands nor on the ground.
But the action camera had miraculously survived. Tough as nails! This little marvel of engineering resilience seemed capable of making through an even worse maelstrom – just a quick wipe of the lens to clear the settled dust was needed, and it was ready to record again.
Looking up, Vasiliy saw that the Protectorate’s machines returning. Alongside them loomed something massive, cigar-shaped, with truncated wings near the back of the fuselage, a modest keel, and stabilizers.
Automatically activating the camera, Vasiliy noted two oddities: firstly, this was the first Protectorate aircraft he’d seen that possessed even rudimentary wings and a tail fin; secondly, it was substantially larger than the typical drones and bombers.
“What the hell is that? Military transport plane? Paratroopers?” Not bothering to hide anymore, Vasiliy sprang to his feet and launched his small scout drone into the air. Restarting the live stream, Horobetz gaped in astonishment at the viewer count. Over five hundred thousand viewers on the stream! He had never reached even a quarter of that audience in any of his previous live streams.
“And, damn, I did it just in time!” Vasiliy noted with satisfaction, watching the unfolding events along with his viewers. Without decelerating, the central squadron, including the mysterious “aircraft,” suddenly dived sharply.
“A-ha!” As he tracked the maneuver and focused on the central object, Horobetz couldn’t help but shout, overwhelmed by emotion. “It’s even larger than I thought!”
At its lowest point, the “aircraft” leveled out horizontally and, after skimming over the combat zone for a few seconds, sharply ascended. Vasiliy noticed that small clouds of smoke lingered in the sky after the machine passed.
“Are they dropping bombs again?” he theatrically posed to his audience, maximizing the zoom. “Are they planning to scorch the earth with napalm, to leave no survivors?”
But what Vasiliy saw next was entirely unexpected. The world had been vigilantly following every video that featured the Protectorate. Human nature compels us to seek out information, even amidst danger and mortal peril.
Yet now, in the year 2049, a truly unique situation had arisen – there was no reliable, detailed information available about the Protectorate. Only brief official statements and speculative discussions on darknet media platforms were available. The mystery was intensified by the total lack of information from the millions who had flocked to the so-called “accumulation points.” Who met them there, what did they tell them, where were they headed now – all of that remained a secret.
Most hesitated until the last possible moment, reluctant to align with the Protectorate, but ultimately, as they watched countless black drones annihilate monsters emerging from the portals online, they reluctantly headed to the assembly points. The UNSA promised safety, and its military hardware diligently provided it.
But no living representative of the Protectorate had ever been seen on any of the numerous streams or videos. Persistent rumors swirled of “certain warriors,” incredibly formidable beings who intervened only in the most dire of circumstances and who could reportedly tear apart a twenty-ton monster with their bare hands.
Suddenly, watching the picture from his action camera and his scout’s broadcast, Vasiliy realized that he was the first – the very first, damn it! – person in the world who had shown those mysterious warriors live!
The viewer count exploded, skyrocketing wildly. The numbers flashed by – seven hundred thousand, nine hundred thousand, more than a million viewers!
“I’m Vasiliy Horobetz, and you’re watching the live broadcast from ‘Honest War’ channel!”
Vasiliy shouted, unable to contain his excitement, “The drop height is three hundred meters! I see ten, no, eleven soldiers! They’re in free-fall! Five seconds out! It’s too fast! Braking thrusters are engaging now! Everyone, watch closely!!!”
Moments before hitting the ground, brilliant lights ignited beneath the silhouettes of the paratroopers. The ground exploded outward in a shower of dirt and debris as they landed. Each soldier was momentarily shrouded in a semi-transparent cocoon just fractions of a second before impact.
Touchdown.
The shells exploded, apparently, getting rid of energy absorbed during the contact.
When the dust settled, you could take a better look at the newcomers.
“That’s… some kind of crazy blend of different eras!” Vasiliy exclaimed, amazed, and cautiously manipulating the drone’s zoom to maintain a safe distance while closely observing the nearest warrior.
On one hand, he was clad in a modern-looking armor with reinforced parts, details resembling exoskeleton elements, and armed with a massive short-barrel submachine gun, plus a bunch of grenades was hanging on his belt. On the other, the entire appearance was screaming medieval knight. The helmet adorned with emblems of crosses or swords against sun motifs, oversized shoulder guards bearing similar insignias, far larger than pragmatism would dictate. The visor was down, completely hiding the face.
“Remarkably, that’s a sword! I just can’t figure out how it’s affixed behind him in that clever harness on the jetpack. It’s all quite… extraordinary. Wouldn’t be surprised if one of them also carries a mace or even a bow and arrows!”
The camera switched to another figure; likely the team leader. His helmet’s faceplate lifted, and Vasiliy zoomed in to capture the details. The leader was a middle-aged man with light hair and piercing blue eyes, cold and detached as if mechanical. His features were angular, sharply defined. A straight nose, a substantial, almost block-like chin. Metal plates of implants were visible on the left side of his forehead and on the temple.
With a brief wave of his hand, he issued a command and turned, showcasing a sword at his belt and a large emblem on a billowing white cape.
The soldiers spread out across the former portal site, methodically finishing off the surviving shaiszu creatures. Two of them pulled out small containers, using ultraviolet lamps to collect pieces of the “artillery squid” – tentacle fragments and gelatinous tissues surrounding the recently functional cannon.
All of this was done in complete silence. Their movements were quick and coordinated, always aware of their surroundings, ready to respond with force at a moment’s notice.
A second passed.
Over a million viewers were there – intently watching the activity of the alien soldiers.
Close-up shot.
Another second.
The camera pulled back, showing the big picture.
Another second passed.
Suddenly, a massive geyser of dust and stone erupted into the sky.
The leader’s helmet visor snapped down instantly, and his hands were wielding a sword and a pistol.
A burst of gunfire!
The paratroopers operated seamlessly, not obstructing each other’s firing lines, unleashing a barrage on the enormous figure that has just burst from beneath the ground.
“That’s the beast that burrowed underground before the explosion! I caught only a glimpse of it! Oh, my… Holy… what a fuck!”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The entity stood on its hind legs, raising its bald head with enormous black eyes. Its body wasn’t covered with chitinous plates but a soft, continually shifting mass, as if molten rubber flowed over it. The shots appeared to be absorbed, seemingly inflicting no damage. But, perhaps angered, the monster opened its vast toothed maw and let out a piercing screech.
Vasiliy had never seen such a creature before, not in any video. Tall and lean, it appeared almost human from afar – two arms, two legs, a head. But when the monster charged at the nearest warrior, any resemblance to humanity vanished. It wasn’t just its speed, which far surpassed human capability; our limbs simply don’t have enough joints to match such flexibility!
The creature raised its arms, and at the ends, where hands should be, solid-looking “fins” abruptly expanded. As the monster shielded its head, it was clear it used them as a shield – bullets ricocheted off the hard surface. Sharp, serrated edges also allowed it to slash its prey.
image [https://i.imgur.com/hM4q2KC.jpg]
Credit to the paratroopers, none faltered – besides firing, six grenades were thrown simultaneously. Then something unbelievable happened. For a moment, the creature’s arms moved so fast they blur into a hazy sphere in the video. It managed to “catch” all the grenades with its fins.
A series of flashes indicated the detonation of the “traps” inside, but it didn’t stop the monster.
Five paratroopers leapt back, reloading swiftly as the rest focused their firepower on the beast’s head, as if realizing what was about to unfold.
Then, opening its maw, the monster shot its tongue towards the nearest soldier.
The squad leader, with a deft move of his armored shoulder, knocked the paratrooper aside and, twisting dramatically, caught the tongue with a gauntlet-clad hand. In his other hand, a pistol appeared, rapidly emptying its clip into the creature’s gaping mouth. Under the beast’s wild howling, the leader tossed aside the pistol and drew his sword, its edge igniting with a searing line of plasma.
Emblems on his armor flared with white fire, etching lines across the helmet and shoulder pads, casting the paratrooper leader in the heroic mold of a sci-fi warrior. With a powerful tug, he pulled the ensnared tongue toward him and leapt forward into the fray.
And a frenetic dance ensued! The shaiszu, managing to free its tongue after all, surged with increased ferocity. The speed was so fast, Vasiliy’s camera struggled to capture their lightning-fast movements.
Approach!
Strike exchange!
Clinch!
Retreat!
The monster was clearly more agile and flexible but matched in speed. Their patterns of fighting were different. Fluidly shifting forms, the beast was darting around the paratrooper in high-speed arcs, seeking vulnerabilities in his defense.
In contrast, the Protectorate warrior moved with deliberate, precise actions, conserving his counterstrikes unless certain to impact or when parrying was necessary. To defend, the monster continued to employ its blackened fins – now seemingly impervious to the plasma sword – as it twisted with unearthly flexibility to block attacks from every direction.
The clash rapidly evolved into a duel of wits more than brute force. Despite the creature’s frenzied slicing, its fins only cleaved air, never reaching the soldier.
“Unbelievable!” Vasiliy narrated with rising fervor, his focus solely on the combat, oblivious to the audience numbers and the broader battlefield. “The trooper has a full 360-degree sensory awareness. He anticipates the beast’s moves, dodging with surgical precision! His cloak, seemingly animated and likely integrated with combat-AI, is actively defending him. Yeah!!! Nice strike!”
With a swift counter-thrust, the leader’s sword traced a fiery plasma arc through the air, clipping the monster’s flank in a fleeting vulnerability as its limbs, momentarily pinned by the cloak, failed to cover. The merciless blade carved through hide and sinew, unleashing a torrent of dark crimson. The beast staggered, struggling to maintain its stance.
The outcome of the battle had already been determined, however.
Another rapid arc of the plasma sword, and the beast’s head tumbled to the ground, a pillar of blood soaring into the sky.
For a few seconds, the headless body continued its blind assault, movements growing increasingly erratic.
Leaping back, the leader allowed another soldier to take his place. This fresh combatant efficiently ended the confrontation, severing the beast’s limbs with two precise strikes and, with a final powerful sweep, cleaving the creature’s torso in two.
Vasiliy exhaled cautiously, a realization dawning on him that had been nagging since the fight began. It all felt staged, like a theatrical show. Now, watching the squad leader gesticulate, clearly explaining his tactics mid-combat, Horobetz understood: this battle was a live-fire training exercise. The experienced leader was demonstrating how to combat this type of monster to newcomers. Yes, it made sense.
“So those soldiers are constantly learning and adapting their tactics to new kinds of monsters!” Vasiliy thought aloud, his intrigue growing by the second.
His contemplation was abruptly interrupted by a hard object pressing against the back of his head. A voice spoke in a language that sounded vaguely like French but was thick with harsh, guttural sounds – lots of “kh” and “th”. Within half a second, his mediaphone’s translator kicked in, and his augmented reality lenses flashed a notification:
# language identified: Akkhitaine (The UNSA Protectorate)
“Stand up slowly, do not turn around. State your name, present your Protectorate ID or visa!”
Vasiliy got up carefully, trying to make no sudden movements.
“I’m Vasiliy Horobetz, citizenship – polis of Kyiv. I’m here legally. I’m a media representative… covering events under intergovernmental freedom of media agreem–”
“Enough. Turn around.”
Meanwhile, the live broadcast continued. In front of Vasiliy and his viewers, three figures appeared. Two were clad in unfamiliar black-and-green armor, clearly urban in design. On the left of their chests, a large emblem featured prominently: a golden two-handed sword over a wide red shield with a stylized sun, below which “MP” was boldly inscribed. They stood silent, their rifles trained on Vasiliy’s head.
Another man, in his fifties, wore light black armor with shiny gold accents and a black cap adorned with a blazing sun emblem set within an inverted triangle. His look was completed by massive shoulder pads and a heavy cloak; a large holster with a pistol was fastened to his belt.
“I am an operational protector, Lieutenant Thibaut-Dominique Bertrand,” he declared, sizing Vasiliy up with a disdainful look.
“Lieutenant, I–”
“You will speak when I tell you to,” Bertrand interrupted, pulling a small electronic device from a tablet bag on his belt.
He aimed the device at Vasiliy and waited for a result visible only to him.
“A renouncer. Just as I thought. You were required to leave the area before the curfew began. Speak.”
“Lieutenant, excuse me, but I have carefully read the terms,” Vasiliy responded confidently.
Years of reporting had immunized him against attempts at psychological pressure and manipulation, as the journalist had had to talk to all kinds of representatives of the law. Moreover, he felt justified; the curfew had not yet started, and he had technically broken no laws.
“So, here’s the thing,” Horobetz continued, “I exercised my right to refuse. My car is waiting for me on the outskirts of Kyiv, and I will leave the city within half an hour, as planned. The curfew hasn’t started yet; there’s plenty of time!”
“Enough!” Thibaut-Dominique’s voice cut through the air, relentless and cold. “For a true citizen and patriot, curfew is eternal because the enemy won’t pause its terror to suit your convenience.”
Vasiliy attempted to interject, “But I...” but a harsh nudge from a gun barrel silenced him abruptly.
With a stone-faced calm, Thibaut-Dominique concealed his device and withdrew his pistol. “It is not within my duties to explicate the Law to renouncers… and other scum. It is sufficient for me to declare the verdict and execute it. But we are not alone here. Sergeant!”
The policeman, keeping his rifle trained on Vasiliy, advanced three steps and moved behind him.
When the stranger’s hand clamped on his shoulder, everything shrank inside the blogger. A brutal strike to the knees followed, buckling his legs, and forcing him down. Bertrand approached, pressing the cold muzzle against Vasiliy’s temple.
“I’ll spare a minute for clarification. The Protectorate’s actions are for the supreme benefit of you people. We are under no obligation to save or defend, yet we persist. It is our duty. All we demand in return is the absolute compliance of our laws! But you, you’re not even a citizen of the Protectorate! Your sole obligation was to evacuate the city immediately! And instead, what do we find?”
Terror gripped Vasiliy; he seemed to forget how to breathe. Each word from the protector hammered into his consciousness like a pile driver into soft earth.
“What are you doing here? What is this filming? How is the broadcast running? You have abused the leniency granted to you, lingering until the final moment. Moreover, with a 97% likelihood, you intended to conceal yourself beyond the city’s boundaries within the Safety Zone and continue your subversive activities against the Protectorate. You are in a restricted combat zone. You are exploiting an illegal network for unauthorized broadcasts! Sergeant, the sentence is recorded!”
Everything went dark in Vasiliy’s eyes. He desperately gasped for air, but in vain.
“By the True Light granted to me, I, Thibaut-Dominique Bertrand, operational protector of UNSA, hereby pronounce your sentence! Vasiliy Horobetz, a renouncer in favor of TACTA, identity confirmed by genetic code. Location of the offense: City 202, Zone 18/04.”
“Violation! Disregarding the direct directive of the Protectorate before curfew!”
“Violation! Using a TACTA-controlled data transfer protocol in the Protectorate’s territory without the necessary communication visa.”
“Violation! Conducting information activities related to disclosure of data regarding the armed forces, tactics, and methods of operation of the UNSA Protectorate to other factions. This violation is considered as spying for TACTA.”
“Violation! Mass dissemination of information intended to cause panic and chaos among the population! This violation is classified as extremist activity.”
“These violations have been documented by the operational protector and submitted for investigation to the Bureau of Internal Protection. Confirmation received, violations verified.”
“The sentence – the execution of the violator as the supreme measure of unconditional safeguarding of the citizens of the Protectorate.”
Extending his arm, Lieutenant Bertrand ripped the camera from Vasiliy’s head, stepped back, and pulled the trigger. A quiet pop. Vasiliy’s head vanished in a brilliant flare, his decapitated body tilting grotesquely to the ground. A crust formed on the neck, cracking as blood pulsed into the dirt.
“The sentence has been carried out, the measure of deterrence utilized once.”
Bertrand then turned the camera towards himself, his expression unyielding.
“To all witnessing this! Those on the Protectorate’s territories must adhere to the Law! You have all accepted these terms voluntarily and with full awareness. Citizens of the Protectorate have chosen to receive protection, and receive it they shall, at any cost! Only UNSA can confront shaiszu! Our Law is stringent, and justly so. This is how we better the world. Renouncers, take heed!”
“Firstly! A visa control mark must be displayed on a visible part of your clothing!”
“Secondly! In case of violations, patrols are authorized and mandated to employ lethal force!”
“Thirdly! If our Law does not suit you – leave the territories of the Protectorate before curfew commences.”
The camera fell to the ground, capturing the close-up view of a boot sole.
The scene on Vasiliy’s stream faded to a stark black screen emblazoned with the terse message:
# Signal lost
This would continue for seven more hours, until a Protectorate robot would arrive to dispose of both Vasiliy’s body and his mediaphone.