19 July 2037
00:31
Dast-E-Kavir, Iran
The Defender's headlights cut through the smoke and lingering haze of ash as it rolled slowly back into the ruined compound. Flames had dulled to orange embers licking broken walls and collapsed roofs. The acrid stench of charred flesh hung heavy in the air, thicker than the desert dust.
Sohel killed the engine outside what used to be the prisoners' center. For a moment, no one moved. The silence pressed down harder than the roar of battle had.
Mei opened her door first, stepping down into the sand with a blank face, her rifle slung loosely. Sohel followed, moving like a man carrying the weight of a thousand failures. Behind them, Elina hadn't moved. She sat hunched in the back seat, her AR visor dark, her face buried in her hands.
Liora's wrists were bound with a heavy zip tie, but she still managed to lean back against the rear door of the Defender, lips curled into that same insufferable smirk. The firelight danced in her eyes, making her look less like a prisoner and more like a queen satisfied with the destruction she'd orchestrated.
Overhead, Athena hovered motionless, her floodlights sweeping the scorched earth like a silent mourner. Annabelle and De Luca had cut their comms. They couldn't bear to speak.
Sohel walked forward into the ruins. His boots crunched against glass and scorched metal fragments. As he stepped past the first collapsed wall, his breath caught.
Bodies. Everywhere.
SNA soldiers, hostages, even FNA troops who hadn't managed to escape the detonation—all were strewn across the rubble, burned black, frozen in grotesque positions of terror.
Rage bubbled inside him like molten steel, but it was hollow rage, the kind that only came after everything had already been lost.
He froze. Just ahead, two burnt corpses lay slumped together. Their uniforms had been obliterated by the fire, their bodies charred beyond recognition—but on their blackened sleeves, barely visible, the tattered remnants of Task Force 7's emblem still clung to the fabric.
Sohel's throat closed. His legs felt heavy as stone as he staggered closer. He dropped to his knees beside the bodies. One had been severed from the waist down, the torso fused into the rubble. The other's skull was cracked open like fragile pottery. Neither looked human anymore.
Mei knelt silently beside him, her shadow stretching across the ruins.
AURA's voice cut through the comms, soft but merciless.
"Bio information match: 99.4%. These are the bodies of Sergeant Mitali Roy and Sergeant Arina Sergeevna Kuznetsova."
Sohel shut his eyes. The confirmation he already knew was true still felt like a knife twisting deeper. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to scream, to rip the sky open with his grief—but the sound never came. The mission wasn't over. The war wasn't over.
He felt Mei's hand rest gently on his shoulder. A small gesture, wordless comfort. But it steadied him. He opened his eyes and stared at what was left of his comrades.
"I've had enough," he said softly, though his voice was steel. "This ends tonight."
He rose, shoulders squared, and turned back toward the Defender.
"Princess, land Athena," he ordered. His voice was clipped, cold. "AURA, contact SNA Regional HQ in Tehran. We need a cleanup crew at our coordinates."
"Yes, Major."
No response came from Annabelle. A moment later, Athena descended in silence, her landing gear kissing the sand.
Sohel walked back to the vehicle. His eyes flicked to Mei's, and without a word, she understood.
Mei opened the passenger door and yanked Liora out by her hair. The prisoner shrieked and twisted, her legs flailing as Mei dragged her across the sand like a sack of trash. The desert grit coated her once-pristine skirt. She hit the Defender's engine block hard, collapsing against it with a sharp cry of pain.
Her smirk wavered for the first time.
Sohel removed his helmet and placed it gently on the engine, the gesture deliberate. Mei followed, unclipping hers and letting it drop.
Liora's eyes widened. She swallowed hard as realization set in—no helmet cameras, no recording. Whatever happened now would be buried here in the desert.
Sohel crouched in front of her, his face level with hers. His voice was calm, controlled, and more terrifying than if he'd been shouting.
"You know why we took off our helmets?" he asked. "So there's no record of what comes next. Now, I have one question."
He leaned closer, his eyes like ice. "Where. Is. Tatsuo Kuroshima?"
Liora forced her lips into a brittle smile. "Why would I know where he is?"
Sohel's jaw tightened. "I'm not interested in games. Answer the question."
She held his stare. "You'll never get that from me."
Sohel stood, rubbing his temples with one hand, like a man who'd given someone their last chance. "You had the opportunity to walk away with your life. You wasted it. Aphrodite, take over."
He stepped back and sat on the Defender's hood, arms crossed, his pistol holstered but ready.
Mei stepped forward, her knife already in hand. She crouched before Liora, her face unreadable. Without hesitation, she drove the blade into Liora's thigh. The steel slid through flesh with a sickening sound.
Liora screamed, a raw, guttural cry.
Mei pressed the hilt, deepening the wound. Her voice was cold, measured. "Where is Kuroshima?"
Liora clenched her jaw, sweat beading across her brow. She glared, lips trembling, but said nothing.
Mei twisted the knife. The scream that tore from Liora's throat echoed across the compound ruins.
"Where is Kuroshima?" Mei asked again, louder, each word dripping with venom.
Finally, Liora broke. Her voice cracked into a shriek. "HALIFAX! HE'S IN HOTEL ROSEVILLE, HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA!"
Mei smiled faintly, satisfaction in her eyes. She pulled the knife free, blood staining the blade, and wiped it clean on Liora's ruined skirt. "See? That wasn't so hard."
For a moment, Liora almost managed to mimic that smug grin again. Almost. Until the cold metal of Sohel's M17 pressed against her scalp.
His voice was quiet. Deadly. "I promised you, Liora. When the time came, I'd kill you myself."
The pistol fired once.
The bullet punched through her skull, snapping her head back against the Defender. Her body went limp, falling sideways into the sand. The smirk was gone forever.
Sohel holstered the pistol, picked up both helmets, and tossed Mei hers without looking. "Let's go."
Mei caught it, her face impassive.
From the Defender's back seat, Elina watched it all through the window, her breathing ragged. For the first time, she felt genuine fear—not of the FNA, not of the chaos of battle, but of the Undeads themselves. The very warriors she had admired now seemed like something darker. Something untouchable.
19 July 2037
03:33
North Atlantic Ocean
The roar of Athena's engines carried across the dark Atlantic as the VTOL descended through thick mist. Below, the broad deck of HMS Freedom came into view, her flight lights glowing like a beacon on the endless water. The ship cut forward through the waves, flanked by destroyers and frigates of the SNA's Atlantic Defender Fleet.
"Landing zone clear," AURA reported through their comms, her tone crisp, mechanical.
Annabelle steadied the controls. Athena hovered for a breath, then her landing gear touched steel. The deck shook faintly under her immense weight.
"Ramp opening," De Luca called. The hydraulics hissed as the rear ramp lowered. Salt air and the smell of jet fuel rushed inside.
Sohel stepped down first, his boots clanging against the deck, Mei just behind him. Both wore their helmets again, though their faces underneath were pale from fatigue. Elina followed, stiff and silent, her rifle hanging heavy at her side. Annabelle and De Luca joined them once Athena's systems were locked into standby.
Waiting on deck was an honor guard of sailors and marines. At their head stood a tall, broad-shouldered officer in a dark naval coat—Rear Admiral David Palmer. His weathered face betrayed decades of sea command, but his posture was steel. He returned their salute with a sharp one of his own.
"Task Force 7," Palmer said, voice booming above the noise of the carrier deck. "Welcome aboard HMS Freedom. I've been briefed. New Eden's orders are absolute—full support, no restrictions. Whatever you need, you'll have."
Sohel didn't waste time. "Admiral, we'll need reinforcements in Nova Scotia. Quick reaction. Air assets, gunships, medevac. Everything you can spare."
Palmer gave a firm nod. "Already being prepared. Follow me."
---
Inside the carrier's operations center, the atmosphere was tense. Dozens of officers worked across glowing consoles, their screens showing maps of the North Atlantic, radar feeds, and encrypted communications. The hum of machinery filled the air, punctuated by clipped reports.
Palmer led Task Force 7 to the central plotting table. A digital map of the Canadian coastline projected upward, with a red marker pulsing over Halifax.
"That's your target," Palmer said, gesturing. "We've been tracking chatter from the FNA cell there since your signal came through. Now it makes sense." He looked at Sohel. "You won't be going in alone. I'm committing two helicopter wings and a detachment of marines to back you up. We'll keep the fleet offshore and provide air cover. You'll have every asset this carrier can put in the air."
Mei asked flatly, "What about enemy air defenses?"
Palmer turned to a nearby lieutenant. The officer replied, "Satellite passes indicate heavy SAM coverage around Halifax, likely hidden among urban infrastructure. Mobile batteries, not static. We expect resistance."
Sohel's eyes narrowed, but he only said, "We'll deal with it."
Palmer studied them for a moment, his expression softening. He could see the exhaustion etched into their faces, the kind of weight carried only by the Undeads. "You've been through hell," he said quietly. "And you're about to walk straight back in. My men know what's at stake. They'll fight with you."
Annabelle stepped forward. For the first time since Iran, her voice carried warmth. "Thank you, Admiral."
Palmer gave a short nod. "Prep starts now. Wheels up in forty minutes."
---
03:52
The carrier deck had come alive with activity. Helicopter rotors whined as crews strapped down ammunition crates and refueled aircraft. Dozens of marines jogged across the steel surface, weapons slung, their faces set with grim focus. The sea wind carried the sharp smell of fuel and salt spray.
Sohel stood near the edge of the deck, helmet off, watching the horizon. The ache of Mitali and Arina's absence lingered like a phantom beside him. Mei joined him silently, saying nothing, only resting her hand against the railing. They both stared into the dark sea, shoulders brushing but words unnecessary.
Behind them, Elina checked her rifle for the fifth time, her movements sharp, nervous. De Luca was inspecting crates of munitions being loaded onto Athena. Annabelle stood near Palmer, discussing flight coordination. She carried herself like royalty, but her face betrayed strain.
Palmer raised his voice across the deck: "Task Force 7, final briefing!"
The squad gathered around. Palmer looked each of them in the eye. "Once you lift, you're on your own in hostile territory. You've got marine detachments for muscle, gunships for fire support, and medevac ready to pull your wounded out. Whatever happens, don't hold back. New Eden has made it clear—this mission takes priority over everything. End this, once and for all."
Sohel gave a sharp nod. "We'll finish it."
Palmer extended his hand. Sohel clasped it firmly. "Good hunting, Ghost."
---
04:10
Engines thundered across the deck. Two squadrons of MH-90 gunships spun their rotors, lights piercing the mist. Marines boarded the troop carriers, their voices drowned out by the rising roar. AURA's calm voice chimed in their helmets: "All systems online. Weapons hot. Athena ready for departure."
Sohel pulled his helmet on, visor flickering to life. Mei locked hers in place beside him. Annabelle, back at Athena's controls, gave a thumbs-up from the cockpit window.
"Alpha 1 to all stations," Sohel's voice crackled through the comms. "We lift in five. Destination: Halifax."
---
04:15
The carrier deck trembled as Athena rose into the sky, her massive engines lighting the mist with white fire. Around her, the helicopter wings lifted one by one, a swarm of steel and thunder. The formation banked east, cutting toward the black horizon.
From the deck below, Palmer watched them vanish into the dark, the sound of their engines fading into the sea wind. He crossed his arms, the weight of command heavy on his shoulders.
"Godspeed, Undeads," he muttered.
Above the Atlantic, Task Force 7 and their reinforcements flew toward Nova Scotia. Toward Halifax. Toward Hotel Roseville.
And toward the war's next crucible.