Chapter 139: Manhattan Crisis - Part 6
At JFK Airport, on the eastern edge of New York City, the atmosphere in the control tower had shifted from routine to surreal.
The technicians, air traffic controllers, and ground officers had all gathered around the large mounted television, their work momentarily forgotten. No planes were landing. No planes were taking off. Every runway was empty, every frequency silent.
On screen, a news helicopter hovered above the East River, camera zoomed in on the Manhattan skyline, or what was left of it.
Smoke curled into the afternoon sky. Fires raged in pockets across the island. The bridges had been cut off. Black dots of military helicopters circled far in the distance like vultures around a corpse.
A reporter's voice broke through, sharp over the sound of rotor blades.
"This is Derek Alvarez reporting live from NewsChannel 4. It's been several hours since the coordinated terrorist attack began in Manhattan.
As of now, the U.S. Armed Forces have fully sealed off the island. No one is allowed in or out.
Cell footage from survivors escaping via makeshift rafts and boats shows scenes of chaos, fire, destruction, and what some are describing as… creatures. We cannot confirm the nature of these images, but we-"
Suddenly, the broadcast cut to black.
A harsh emergency alert tone echoed through the tower, drawing everyone to attention.
Then came the unmistakable red-white-blue seal of the Office of the President of the United States.
A moment later, the President appeared.
Standing behind a lectern in the White House briefing room, the Commander-in-Chief's expression was grave, composed but behind the calm, the tension in his eyes betrayed the weight of what he was about to say.
"My fellow Americans,
Earlier today, the city of New York, specifically the borough of Manhattan, was the target of a brutal and unprecedented terrorist attack.
At this time, we have confirmed the use of advanced and illegal chemical agents by the perpetrators, which has resulted in widespread panic, casualties, and serious disruptions across the island.
Let me be clear: this was a deliberate, calculated act of violence. The perpetrators will be found, and they will face the full might of justice.
Our brave men and women of the U.S. Armed Forces, alongside emergency services and law enforcement agencies, are working around the clock to contain the situation and ensure that no further harm comes to our citizens.
We are currently in a state of national emergency. In accordance with emergency protocols, a temporary no-fly zone and restricted access perimeter will be established around Manhattan. This is to ensure the safety of all civilians and first responders.
I ask every American to remain calm. Stay indoors. Do not approach the Manhattan perimeter. Do not attempt to travel into the city.
Updates will be provided regularly by the Department of Homeland Security and the National Emergency Response Team.
We will face this crisis as we always have, together, as one nation.
God bless you all. And God bless the United States of America."
The broadcast ended.
Silence fell in the tower.
Then one technician whispered, almost to himself:
"They're hiding something… It's impossible that they are so honest at the first announcement without hiding something."
No one disagreed.
Outside, the sky over New York darkened.
Suddenly, the control tower's speakers crackled to life, a sharp tone cutting through the silence, followed by a cold, authoritative voice:
"Priority transmission. Priority transmission. This is the United States Armed Forces to JFK Control Tower. Requesting confirmation, are all runways clear for landing?"
The tower supervisor jolted into motion, his heart skipping a beat. He sprinted toward the central communications console and picked up the line.
"Stand by, please," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
Without wasting a second, he turned to the ground crew supervisor, shouting across the room:
"Confirm runway status, now!"
The answer came quickly.
"All runways clear. No obstruction. Ready for landing."
He turned back to the mic.
"United States Armed Forces, this is JFK Control Tower. We confirm: all runways are clear. You are cleared to land."
He dropped the line and rushed toward the panoramic windows at the front of the tower, his team following close behind.
As they reached the glass, the sky unfolded before them and they froze.
From beyond the horizon, a swarm of aircraft burst into view.
Massive military transport planes, over two dozen, thundered through the clouds, their bellies loaded with troops and equipment. Flanking them were two full squadrons of fighter jets, sleek and deadly, engines screaming across the sky in tight, protective formation.
The supervisor's eyes widened, jaw slack as he whispered under his breath:
"My God…"
The air above JFK Airport rumbled with power.
Inside one of the roaring C-17 Globemaster transport planes, the interior was a silent chamber of steel, sweat, and tension. A hundred of Nu-7 "Hammer Down" operators sat in two disciplined rows on either side of the aircraft, weapons resting between their legs, helmets strapped tight, eyes focused forward.
Between them, two matte-black APCs loomed in the cargo hold, chained to the floor, silent and hulking like beasts awaiting release.
The men didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Near the front, a rugged, battle-worn man sat motionless. Captain Daniel Rourke, callsign Bravo-1-1, commander of the 1st Company of Nu-7 "Hammer Down", watched the red lights lining the cabin overhead, waiting.
Then his radio crackled.
"Hammer Actual to all units. We are approaching JFK Airport. Prepare for immediate deployment.
Artillery and 3rd Company will push into Queensbridge Park to establish an initial fire support position.
2nd Company, you're headed into Manhattan via the Williamsburg Bridge to secure and hold the evac zone. Airborne platoons will provide cover.
1st Company, you're moving with the armored platoon through the Lincoln Tunnel rendezvous with GOC forces near the UN Headquarters.
4th Company, you'll drop south into SoHo with the engineering platoon and deploy Scranton Reality Anchors ASAP.
Be advised, we've got confirmed anomalous aerial threats: bird-like entities, some with red eyes, others with human heads. Rules of engagement: shoot on sight.
Intel also suggests strong Chaos Insurgency involvement. Expect asymmetric warfare. Guerilla tactics. Booby traps.
Watch your spacing, check your corners, and keep your squads tight. Understood?"
Captain Rourke grabbed his headset.
"Yes sir."
Other company leaders echoed the same over the comms.
He turned toward his men, voice rising over the hum of engines.
"You heard the commander. Saddle up! Boys, it's time to bring the goddamn hammer down on these freaks."
Hundreds of fists punched the air.
"YES, SIR!"
The cabin shook as the landing gear deployed.
The green light flashed.
Everyone stood up in perfect silence, grabbing their rifles with practiced ease. No one spoke. No one needed to. Orders had been given. Minds were focused. The ramp of the aircraft let out a long metallic hiss as it slowly descended, revealing a world flooded with sunlight, jet noise, and movement.
And war.
Outside, the airfield of JFK looked like a military invasion zone. Hundreds of Nu-7 operators were disembarking from other aircraft. Massive transport planes rolled across the tarmac, opening up to release armored vehicles, crates, and entire platoons of troops. Fighters passed overhead in formation, engines screaming like thunder.
Rourke narrowed his eyes against the glare and muttered under his breath.
"Back in the old days again."
He took the first step down the ramp and hit the tarmac running.
"Move out!" he shouted without looking back.
His entire company followed in perfect sync, jogging behind him in tight formation. The sound of boots pounding pavement echoed around them, joined by distant shouting, machinery rumbling, and the mechanical grinding of treads on asphalt.
They reached one of the nearby cargo planes just as APCs were rolling out from its belly.
Rourke raised his voice again.
"Mount up!"
The soldiers peeled off toward the vehicles in groups, climbing into the designated transports with speed and efficiency. No panic. No delay. Every second counted.
To their right, the deep, snarling growl of engines echoed across the tarmac. A tank platoon was making its way toward them, six M1A2 Abrams, painted in matte urban gray, barrels sweeping slightly as they moved to position.
The lead tank halted beside Rourke. Its upper hatch swung open. A familiar face appeared.
"Rourke!" the man shouted. "Me and my boys are ready to roll."
Lieutenant Vasquez. Heavy armor, 1st Tank Group. Reliable. Brutal. Loud.
Rourke didn't waste time.
"Good. We'll form up in convoy formation. I want your tanks in the center, our APCs at the front and rear. But I need one of your beasts out front to clear debris and open a path through Lincoln Tunnel."
Vasquez gave him a sharp grin and a thumbs-up.
"Copy that, Captain. Lead tank'll be yours. We'll sweep the road clean."
Rourke nodded once and turned back to his team, already loading into their vehicle. He climbed into the lead APC, stepping over gear and soldiers before settling into the seat near the command console. His personal squad was already buckled in and waiting.
"Status report," he ordered.
One by one, four platoon leaders reported in over the internal comms.
"Platoon 1, ready."
"Platoon 2, green."
"Platoon 3, good to go."
"Platoon 4, ready."
Rourke exhaled through his nose and leaned back.
"Then let's get to work."
His voice was calm. Focused. Ruthless.
"1st Company, advance."
The convoy rolled out from JFK Airport like a steel serpent awakening. At the very front, an M1A2 Abrams tank thundered ahead, its tracks grinding over the tarmac with unwavering force. Behind it followed a string of black APCs, their matte armor catching the dull overcast light of the city. Inside the lead APC, Rourke sat upright, visor lowered, eyes focused.
Everything outside was wrong.
The streets of New York should have been packed, noisy, alive. But now they were cluttered with abandoned vehicles, discarded bags, and open doors that swung in the wind. Traffic lights blinked to no one. Trash rolled like tumbleweeds between glassy-eyed buildings. There was no noise, just silence.
"Maintain formation," Rourke ordered into the comms. "Clear path forward. Avoid collateral if possible."
Up ahead, a pile-up of sedans and delivery trucks blocked the avenue. One of the Abrams tanks slowed, rotated its turret, and with a mechanical groan, pushed aside the wreckage like toys. Metal screeched and snapped. Nothing stopped the hammer of Nu-7.
Further in, the situation changed. Civilians.
Hundreds of them.
Men, women, children, some walking, others running, many just standing, staring at the approaching column. Most looked terrified. A few looked hollow. One kid raised his hand as if to wave, but his mother dragged him back behind a car.
"Don't stop," Rourke said sharply. "This route isn't secure. Keep them back."
Smoke grenades were fired in controlled arcs, blanketing the sidewalks in gray to obscure the convoy's presence and discourage clustering. The tanks honked with deep, bestial blasts, forcing the crowd to part like a sea under threat.
They pushed through block by block, past East New York, past Fort Greene, moving with brutal efficiency. The tanks cleared debris, the APCs stayed tight, and the infantry inside remained silent. There was tension in every breath, every vibration of the armored floor beneath their boots.
Then finally, the tunnel came into view.
Lincoln Tunnel.
The entrance loomed ahead like the mouth of a slumbering beast, half-covered in fog and diesel exhaust. Armed checkpoints surrounded it, held by National Guard units and NYPD still holding the line. They waved the convoy through without question. Some saluted. Others just stared.
Inside the tunnel, the radio was quiet.
Rourke watched the flickering lights pass overhead, counting them by instinct. One after another. A hundred of them. A thousand. Then daylight returned.
As they emerged on the Manhattan side, the city opened up again. On their right, the UN Headquarters towered above the East River. Surrounding it was a perimeter of hundreds of armed personnel, UN peacekeepers, GOC soldiers in high-tech gear, and scattered American military units. Reality Anchors buzzed faintly on the ground, half-buried in concrete.
Rourke leaned forward slightly in his seat.
"There it is," he muttered. "Time to link up."
The convoy slowed as it approached the perimeter.
They'd made it.
They didn't get more than fifty meters past the UN perimeter before a row of GOC soldiers raised their hands and stepped forward. The convoy ground to a halt.
Rourke pushed the APC door open and stepped down calmly, hands visible. One of the GOC guards approached, his armor polished and layered with occult shielding sigils.
"SCP Foundation," Rourke announced.
The soldier nodded. "This way. The Global Occult Coalition's Chief Commander is waiting for you."
Rourke followed without a word. A second soldier flanked him, escorting him into the towering UN complex. The inside was chaos, not military chaos, but human chaos. Refugees had been packed into the main atrium. Dozens of people huddled under emergency blankets, some sobbing quietly, others staring into space. Volunteers rushed with supplies. The floor reeked of sweat and antiseptic.
They walked quickly.
As they passed the center of the lobby, Rourke's eyes caught something bizarre. A procession of robed priests flanked by heavily armed knights strode through the hallway in the opposite direction. They didn't speak. Their presence felt… ancient.
"What the hell?" Rourke muttered.
The GOC escort didn't answer.
They took a left turn and descended a secured staircase into the lower levels of the building. The emblem of the GOC's PHYSICS Division was plastered over the doors, sigils, languages not meant for human tongues, and glowing runes flickering across the digital seals.
The command center inside was full to bursting. Operators shouted across terminals, screens flickered with maps and energy readings, and a dozen radio transmissions blared at once. This was war coordination, GOC-style. It was less clean than the Foundation's methods but twice as fast.
At the central command table stood a group of senior officers. Rourke and his escort approached.
"Vice-Director," the soldier said. "A representative from the Foundation has arrived."
The woman who turned to face him was in her mid-forties, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued from the look of her. She wore a dark coat with a GOC command sigil pinned to the collar. Her presence silenced the table.
"Welcome, Foundation representative," she said briskly. "How can I assist you?"
Rourke cleared his throat, feeling suddenly awkward. "I was ordered to link my unit with your current forces. That's all I was told."
She raised an eyebrow, sighed heavily. "Of course. Riddlers, the lot of you. Always half the picture."
Before he could reply, alarms exploded across the room.
Klaxons blared. Lights shifted to red. Operators shot to their feet.
"Situation report!" the Vice-Director barked.
A tech shouted from across the room. "Ma'am! Spatial anomaly detected directly in front of the UN entrance! A portal just opened at the main gate!"
The wall screens changed. One of the external feeds showed it live: a glowing rift, swirling with static and green-blue energy, widening before the building.
Rourke's heart jumped. His entire company was stationed outside.
He broke into a run without waiting for permission. Several GOC soldiers followed.
They stormed through the upper levels and pushed open the main entrance doors. A wall of soldiers had already formed, dozens of GOC riflemen, armored infantry, and heavy weapons. Even the Nu-7 operators had left their vehicles, weapons trained on the glowing anomaly.
And then, it moved.
Something shifted in the light.
A figure stepped out.
One man. No armor. GOC Formal clothes. Hands in his pouches.
He blinked as a hundred guns pointed straight at him.
"WHAT THE- Chill, guys! It's me! Your leader!"
The silence was instant and deafening.
Several GOC soldiers blinked. One of them stepped forward and squinted.
"…That's Undersecretary-General DC. Al Fine."
---
Leonard stepped out of another glowing portal and onto the grass of Governors Island. The moment his boots touched solid ground, the rest of Resh-1 emerged behind him, their black combat suits gleaming under the overcast sky, weapons ready, eyes scanning the surroundings like predators on a leash.
Wind blew softly from the bay. The air carried salt, smoke, and distant screams.
O5-6 was already waiting for him, tall and rigid, one gloved hand resting on his silver cane. His gaze was sharp, but his tone remained measured.
"Boss. Do you want to take command?"
Leonard's eyes swept toward the Manhattan skyline. From here, they could see the rising columns of smoke, faint flashes of gunfire echoing between the towers. The city was wounded, not dead. Not yet.
He took a breath. "No. Not yet. I'll observe for now."
Then, without warning, the cold, mechanical, voice of the system echoed in his mind.
[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for temporarily stabilizing the SCP-2911-JP Incident Zone while keeping total casualties below 2,000,000.]
[Current Civilian Death Count: 1,326,117 / 2,000,000.]
Leonard froze.
His breath halted. His eyes darkened.
More than a million dead. In just a few hours.
His fists clenched silently. Resh-1 noticed the shift in posture, but none of them dared speak.
[Ding! In recognition of your efforts, and to incentivize continued progress, the system will now provide the reward package: "Manhattan Crisis Rescue Mission."]
[Would you like to open it?]
Leonard didn't hesitate. His voice was low, steady.
"…Open it."
[Ding! Reward Package "Manhattan Crisis Rescue Mission" opened successfully. You have received the following assets:
— Mobile Task Force Mu-13 "Ghostbusters"
— Mobile Task Force Gamma-10 "Balmung"
— Mobile Task Force Gamma-119 "Air Superiority"
— Mobile Task Force Zeta-23 "Bacchus' Wine"
— Mobile Task Force Eta-44 "Spiral Staircase"
— Mobile Task Force Pi-4 "The Chorus"
— Dr. Alto Clef (One of the Four Doctors of the Apocalypse)
— Dr. Jack Bright (One of the Four Doctors of the Apocalypse) ]
His eyes widened slightly at the list. But it was the last two names that made his jaw tighten in disbelief.
Dr. Alto Clef.
Dr. Jack Bright.
Two legends of the Foundation. Two living weapons wrapped in human skin.
Dr. Alto Clef — a reality-bending assassin specialized in anomaly decommissioning with a violent past and a strange fondness for chaos and anomalous middle-aged women.
Dr. Jack Bright aka SCP-963 — an immortal lunatic genius who treated containment breaches like toys and who is driving the Ethics Committee crazy without them being able to do anything.
And now they were his.
He exhaled slowly.
The system was pushing him harder. That much was clear.
And now, with this new power in his hand,
Minutes passed.
The wind on Governors Island carried sirens, distant gunfire, and the occasional rattle of helicopters streaking across the clouds.
Leonard remained silent, arms crossed as he watched a Resh-1 operator adjust the uplink on a portable radar dish. O5-6 stood beside him, unmoving, as calm as if they were watching waves crash against the shore.
Then a foundation aide ran up, out of breath, pale, and clutching a headset.
"Urgent transmission for you, sir," he said to O5-6.
O5-6 took the device, switched to the secure channel, and cranked the volume.
A voice barked out of the radio, raw and unfiltered:
"This is Dr. Jack Bright to whoever the fuck is in charge, we've got a situation. Dr. Alto Clef just got arrested by the GOC."
O5-6 blinked slowly.
Leonard raised an eyebrow.
Silence.
O5-6 took the radio, his voice cold and direct. "This is Overwatch. Explain."
Bright didn't skip a beat.
"We were near the UN headquarters. I had six MTFs with me, all eyes on the perimeter. Then Clef pulled a bottle of whiskey outta fuck-knows-where and downed it like water. Then, piss-drunk, he got into an argument with a GOC general. Ten seconds later, he smashed the bottle over the guy's head."
…
…
…
Leonard stared into the void for a moment, unsure if he was more surprised by the stupidity or the consistency.
O5-6 didn't move. His face was unreadable.
The rest of Resh-1 didn't say a word.
Everyone simply stood in silence, absorbing what they'd just heard.
Leonard finally muttered under his breath.
"…Of course I had forgotten about his personality."
---
Back near the UN headquarter, amidst the chaos choking the skyline, Dr. Jack Bright adjusted his white lab coat as he barked out orders to the newly added MTF units under his command.
Operators flanked him on all sides, fanning out in defensive lines across the streets leading to the UN headquarters. The air was tense, thick with the smell of smoke and ozone.
Standing beside Bright was a man dressed like a medieval crusader.
Polished steel armor. A crimson tabard bearing the sigil of the Horizon Initiative. A longsword sheathed at his hip. He radiated confidence and something else, conviction forged in doctrine.
Bright squinted at the man, then pushed up his cracked glasses.
"Well, Father Montfort," he said casually. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Montfort turned to him with a warm, earnest smile. "The Initiative fights for the light and the souls of humanity, not for politics. The Tribunal often answers late to crises, but fortunately, our leader ordered immediate mobilization."
Rourke, standing just behind a stack of sandbags, gave a short nod.
"For that reason alone, we're grateful for your presence during this emergency," he said. "But, uh… no offense, is your arsenal even operational? I mean…"
He pointed discreetly at a group of Initiative fighters across the road.
Dozens of them stood solemnly, clad in chainmail and plate. Some carried spears. Others held maces etched with holy scripture. Many had small leather-bound Bibles clipped to their belts, glowing faintly under the emergency lights.
Rourke frowned. "They're… a bit outdated."
Montfort laughed softly. "We do not deny the effectiveness of bullets. But plate armor, crosses, and the Word can sometimes strike harder than rifles, especially when the enemy comes from Hell itself."
Rourke was about to respond when a voice cut through the air:
"Pardon my interruption, priest, but the wicked approach from the west."
One of the Horizon fighters gestured urgently.
Montfort's smile vanished.
"To arms!" he shouted.
Together, the Foundation, GOC troops, and the Initiative warriors surged toward the western barricade, a barricade hastily assembled from cars, rubble, and overturned sand trucks. The clash of steel, the whir of drones, and the static of radio chatter filled the air.
And then it emerged.
A demon, forty meters tall, tore through the intersection at Third Avenue. Its colossal blade scraped across the asphalt. Sections of its flesh shimmered with the pink fog that had poisoned the city. It raised one jagged hand…
…and flipped off the entire defensive line.
Then, at its feet, the pink mist surged violently. Hundreds of demons erupted from the ground like rats from a corpse, charging straight for the barricade with bloodlust in their eyes.
Bright let out a long whistle. "That's surreal as hell. Kinda reminds me of that dream I had when I was tripping balls trying to off myself again. Think that thing has an object designation?"
Rourke didn't answer. Just stared.
Montfort sighed without turning. "We'll pretend we didn't hear that, Doctor. We are tolerant of those who do not read the Scriptures… as long as they do not blaspheme."
Then he drew his sword, jumped atop the barricade, and roared to the heavens:
"COME ON, ALL OF YOU! DEFEAT THE ENEMIES OF THE LORD!"
Montfort did not wait for the demons to strike first.
With a roar that echoed through the broken streets of Manhattan, he raised his longsword to the heavens, and the warriors of the Horizon Initiative charged behind him, steel, scripture, and fury united.
"FOR THE LORD!"
They surged past the barricade in a disciplined wave, shields raised, weapons gleaming in the unnatural light. The demons screamed in response, sprinting forward on all fours, claws digging into asphalt, their forms shifting in and out of the pink fog.
The two forces collided in a brutal explosion of sound.
A paladin drove his halberd into a demon's chest, twisting until black ichor sprayed across his armor. Another brought a blessed mace down on a snarling beast's skull, shattering bone with a single strike. Everywhere, steel met flesh, prayers clashed with snarls, and holy fire met corrupt blood.
Montfort's blade moved like lightning.
He parried a swipe from a horned fiend, spun, and severed both its arms before driving his sword through its gut. Without hesitation, he kicked it off the blade and moved to the next. "Do not falter! They are beasts, they are evil! Make them bleed!"
Around him, the Initiative was a whirlwind of trained might. Their weapons, old-fashioned to the eye, burned with faith-infused power. Lances crackled with holy runes, swords cut through scales like parchment, and shields radiated divine force that repelled the mist.
A knight tackled a demon the size of a van to the ground and pinned it with his body weight while another drove a spear through its throat. A group of Initiative warriors locked shields and advanced in a phalanx, pushing back clawed beasts step by step.
The demons fought with ferocity, shrieking and biting and clawing, but the Initiative never broke. Their lines held, their discipline unmatched.
One demon leapt from a rooftop, aiming straight for Montfort.
He turned at the last second, raised his blade and with a single upward slash, he split the creature from groin to skull in one perfect arc. The halves landed at his feet, twitching.
"My faith for the Lord is sharper than any claw," he growled.
Behind him, a banner of the Initiative fluttered in the wind, stained with soot and ash but still standing tall.
For several long minutes, the ground was a blood-soaked arena. The Initiative carved a path through the demonic horde with merciless precision. The screams of the dying echoed between ruined buildings, but none came from the faithful.
And then, silence.
The last demon collapsed under a barrage of blessed javelins. The pink mist thinned slightly. The warriors stood, breathing heavily, armor stained black, but morale unbroken.
Montfort lowered his sword. "Is that all?"
A tremor ran through the street.
From the west, another wave approached.
This one was larger. Far larger.
Hundreds of demonic silhouettes began emerging from the fog. Towering brutes, shrieking abominations, and multi-limbed horrors formed a monstrous tide of hate. Behind them, something even worse loomed in the fog, its form still obscured but its presence undeniable.
Montfort turned toward his men, raised his sword once more, and smiled grimly.
"Good," he said. "We'll make this a sermon."
And the warriors of the Initiative roared once more, preparing to meet the next wave head-on.
Smoke and mist danced above the battlefield, the air charged with static and blood. Ash floated down like snow. Amid the chaos, squads from the Foundation and the Coalition converged near the shattered remains of a parking garage, trying to regroup.
"I can't believe it," muttered one of the Foundation operators, eyes wide as he watched a heavily armored figure crush a demon's skull with a two-handed hammer. "He bludgeons demons with a hammer. Is he really a priest?"
Another agent, crouched beside him behind a broken concrete barrier, answered without looking away from the carnage. "Pay attention to your words, he's Greek Orthodox. If you look closely, the cross is different."
The two exchanged a glance and ducked as a severed demon head flew past them.
A voice barked over the Foundation comms, cutting through the static.
"Withdraw the engineering units!" shouted Rourke. "We must prioritize refugee containment and provide support afterward!"
"I don't mean to interrupt your command of the field, Captain…" Bright's voice chimed in smoothly from a nearby observation drone feed. "But I don't know if it's possible to provide support in this chaotic situation. We are working with organizations that have an even more delicate relationship with each other and we do not want friendly fire."
Rourke's tone was dry as gunpowder. "As a military man, I cannot comment on the organizational situation there, but it is not a problem. Currently, our most reliable weapons are water guns."
As if on cue, a shout came from the GOC line.
"Shoot the holy water! Get out of the line of fire!"
A retrofitted transporter erector launcher vehicle rolled into view, its missile bay now converted into a bizarre, high-pressure bomb truck, firing giant capsules of blessed liquid. With each intermittent blast, arcs of consecrated water exploded over the demons, searing their flesh.
One particularly large entity halted mid-charge, visibly stunned. Its molten gaze blinked once and then, the creature vanished entirely, dissolved by the sacred deluge.
Cheers erupted briefly across the Coalition line.
"We'll continue as long as we can," Rourke said, his voice steady despite the madness. "But once we're out of holy water, we fall back to the main force. We'll form a unified front with the rest."
Bright responded quickly. "I'm totally in agreement here."
Across the avenue, Montfort stood atop a crushed bus, eyes ablaze with conviction. His armor was blackened, his tabard soaked in ichor, but his posture never wavered.
He lifted his right arm toward the mist-choked heavens and bellowed:
"Recite the Scriptures and praise the Lord! Launch the spear!"
With a coordinated cry, a formation of Initiative warriors hurled a rain of spears into the approaching horde. The weapon glowed mid-air, trailing golden light as it flew straight into the chest of a charging abomination.
The impact was cataclysmic.
A shockwave of divine force erupted outward, vaporizing several demons instantly and blowing others back in mangled heaps.
The battlefield trembled once more.
One of the spears struck the 40 meters-tall demon's heart.
A blinding explosion tore it apart, not into smoke or fire, but into a storm of flesh. Over three hundred lesser demons burst from the remains like insects from a ruptured nest, clawing, screaming, oozing sin.
Bright blinked in disbelief. "Hey, there's more. What the hell is that thing?"
A GOC commander nearby replied grimly, rifle braced against his shoulder, "That block used to have a brewery, a lingerie store, and a sex toy shop."
Bright exhaled. "The derivatives are true to the original."
Then Montfort raised his sword and his voice shook the sky.
"The Icon of Sin is coming! Prepare, warriors! Let your faith burn these devils!"
He wasn't naming a single beast. He was naming the wave. The embodiment of impurity. The onslaught of corruption. Three hundred demons, each formed from the rotten essence of vice, filth, lust, and indulgence.
And they charged.
But the Initiative didn't flinch.
They advanced.
Steel clashed against claws. Blessed silver cut through corrupted flesh. Shields lined with relics shattered fangs. Flame met shadow, and faith stood unbroken.
Montfort led the charge personally, slicing his sword into the face of a goat-headed brute, cutting it in two. Beside him, a twin-sworded warrior twirled like a storm, slicing three imps in a single motion. Another fighter, robed in red and armored with bone-plated mail, ripped a shrieking demon apart with his bare hands, then crushed its skull underfoot.
Litanies rang from their mouths as they fought.
"Purge the sin!"
"Strike down the corrupted!"
"By fire and blade, we reclaim this land!"
A dozen of foundation operatives stood in formation on the rooftop of a half-destroyed building, releasing volley after volley of holy water-infused bullets into the horde. Each bullet found its mark. Each impact turned a demon to cinders.
The Initiative dominated, supported by the GOC and Foundation behind.
They weren't defending, they were erasing.
Within minutes, the three hundred had become one hundred.
Then twenty.
Then none.
The smoke cleared.
The battlefield stank of burning blood, scorched filth, and divine fury.
Montfort stood at the center of the carnage, surrounded by the fallen, none of his own.
Only demons.
His voice echoed, calm, unwavering:
"The Wicked Ones are gone."
-/-/-
Voici la scène réécrite en anglais, dans un style sérieux, tendu, et international, fidèle à ton univers :
United Nations Headquarters, GOC Command Room
Undersecretary-General DC. Al Fine entered his office at the Global Occult Coalition's command center within the United Nations compound. The room was dim, lit only by the cold glow of five large monitors arranged before his desk. Each screen displayed the face of a world leader, the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the President of the Russian Federation, the Chairman of the People's Republic of China, and the President of France.
They were already waiting.
Al Fine closed the door, walked calmly across the room, and sat down behind his polished steel desk. His fingers interlaced before him. The air was heavy.
The President of the United States spoke first, his voice sharp with barely-contained frustration.
"So? When is the situation going to stabilize?"
Al Fine exhaled slowly, his tone firm but burdened.
"We are mobilizing every available resource. But the situation is… tragic."
The American snapped.
"What do you mean tragic? They're just demons. I've read the reports, bullets kill them. This should've been over already."
Al Fine met his gaze through the monitor, unwavering.
"It's more complicated than that. Conventional bullets only work against what we call 'contractor demons', demons that have taken possession of human hosts."
The Prime Minister of the UK leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.
"You mean to say that everything we've been fighting so far…"
"Yes," Al Fine interrupted. "Until now, all encounters have been with corrupted human vessels. However, the true demons, the ones not bound to human forms, are immune to standard munitions. They can only be killed using blessed objects, holy water, silver-based weaponry, or tools sanctified through religious rites."
A moment of silence followed, tension mounting.
Al Fine continued, voice grim.
"And unfortunately… this incident is far from ordinary. It's not a random emergence. It was orchestrated."
He tapped a control on his desk. Files briefly flashed across the screens, then minimized.
"Do you remember the intelligence brief I sent you regarding the Chaos Insurgency?"
The U.S. President frowned.
"You mean the terrorist group?"
"Yes." Al Fine's voice turned cold.
"They are responsible for the attack."
There was a collective jolt, visible discomfort across the five faces, but they quickly composed themselves. The French President was the first to speak.
"What exactly did they do?"
Al Fine rubbed his temples, then replied with restrained fury.
"They performed a ritual, a massive one, designed to merge a portion of their dimension of choice with ours. And that dimension… is one you all know."
He looked each of them in the eye.
"Hell."
The room fell silent.
No one spoke. Even over encrypted global comms, the air felt thin.
Then Al Fine continued, voice like a blade:
"The Chaos Insurgency conducted this ritual not to unleash chaos randomly. No, they had a purpose. They are trying to cultivate a god."
There was a long silence across the screens.
The American President, now visibly pale, murmured almost to himself:
"They're… trying to grow a god? Using Hell as the soil?"
The Russian President muttered something in his native tongue before straightening up, jaw clenched:
"You let this happen in Manhattan?"
The Chinese leader narrowed his eyes, his tone calm but cold:
"If this entity becomes real… its influence won't stop at your borders."
The British Prime Minister placed both hands firmly on his desk:
"A god, born in the heart of a city. This isn't terrorism. It's apocalyptic engineering."
Finally, the French President stared at DC. Al Fine, his voice low and strained:
"And now? Is this… thing conscious? Can it see us?"
DC. Al Fine lowered his gaze for a moment.
"Not yet. But the soil is ripe, and the harvest has begun."
A long, suffocating silence followed.
Then, the Chinese President spoke, cold and firm:
"I propose we annihilate New York City."
The words struck like a lightning bolt. A wave of shock surged across the room.
The American President shot up from his chair, fury in his voice:
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
The Chinese leader didn't flinch.
"Exactly what I said. If we allow this god to be born, all of humanity will be at risk. We must destroy it before it destroys us. This is a radical decision, yes. But it's a necessary one."
"Do you know how many Americans would die?!" the American President shouted, slamming his palm on the desk. "And all our assets, our people still fighting down there-!"
The Chinese President cut him off.
"Between losing millions… and losing billions of lives, my calculation is simple. We cannot gamble the fate of the world on one city."
The Russian President's voice came next, colder than steel.
"I agree. I support the proposal."
One by one, the other screens followed.
The British Prime Minister gave a single, solemn nod.
"I support the decision."
The French President, grim-faced, spoke without emotion.
"So do I."
DC. Al Fine remained silent for a moment. He exhaled, leaned forward, and spoke:
"Then let us proceed to a vote."
He raised his hand.
"All in favor of initiating the total destruction of New York City?"
Four hands were raised.
"All opposed?"
Only the American President raised his hand, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
DC closed his eyes briefly, then opened them with finality.
"Four in favor. One opposed. Motion passed."
He tapped a sequence on the surface of his desk.
His voice came low, restrained, but deadly serious:
"The deployment of Procedure Pizzicato will be initialized across the entire New York City area."
Then, after a short pause, he added:
"A 48-hour grace period will be granted… for humanitarian reasons. I hope you understand."
He didn't wait for a reply.
The screens began to go dark.