PROLOGUE — MarseilleACT I — Approach to the City (02:41)
The armored vehicle crawled along the coastal road like a tired steel beast, its suspension groaning at every pothole.
Outside, night-time France looked like a sick body: neighborhoods in darkness, windows barricaded, walls covered in ripped political slogans painted over in fresh colors.
Some streets still bore French flags — burned at the edges — as if patriotism had been left to rot under the sun.
Inside, the amber glow from the control panel lit faces marked by fatigue and too many missions.
Hans "Grandpa" Keller stroked the stock of his G36 like a man petting an old dog.— Shit… — he muttered, staring through the narrow side slit. — Bosnia '94, Afghanistan '02… never saw rot eating a country from the inside like this.
Across from him, Falken kept his eyes locked on the digital map projected on the wall, silently plotting approach routes.
Tomasz "Echo" Zielinski meticulously cleaned the barrel of his AK-12.— This is what happens after years of opening the gates to anyone who shows up at the docks, — he said, not quite to himself but loud enough for all to hear. — This isn't war. This is consequence.
Sofia "Rain" Andrade looked up from the magazine she was loading.— Consequence? You talk as if everyone crossing the sea is here to kill Europeans. I bet not even five percent of those migrants have ties to militias.
Zielinski smirked coldly.— They don't all need to. Five percent is enough. The rest are cover.
Malik "Doc" Rahman gave a low, ironic chuckle, adjusting the med kit in his lap.— Always comforting to hear socio-political analysis from a man whose favorite pastime is hunting people in the dark.
— And it's always comforting — Zielinski shot back — to get moral lectures from a doctor who treats the same men who would kill him for being who he is.
The air inside the APC grew thick. Sofia dropped the magazine onto the seat, the metallic clink echoing.— If you're going to argue about who hates who, at least wait until we're not driving toward gunfire.
From the shadows, Yelena "Viper" Morozova's Russian accent sliced the air:— Interesting… each of you has a clear enemy in your head. None of you realizes the enemy could be sitting at the same table.
Hans suddenly barked:— Enough! — The old soldier had the kind of authority that came from burying too many friends. — Save your hate for when the sight's on the target. If we kill each other with words, there'll be no one left to pull the trigger.
Silence. Only the engine's muted hum and the rhythmic bump of tires on asphalt.
The radio crackled with Command's dry voice:— Bravo-7, approaching designated point. Hostile contact confirmed. Expect heavy resistance.
Falken checked his magazine, racked the bolt, and spoke for the first time since they'd boarded:— Helmets. Visors. When we step out, you know what to do.
The APC swung into the avenue leading to the port. The smell of smoke was already in the air.
The Port (03:12)
The city was silent.
Not the silence of peace — the silence before a spark.
Cranes loomed against the clouded sky like skeletons of steel. Falken leaned against a white container marked Aide Humanitaire – UE, the paint faded, rust blooming at the edges. The smell of salt and burnt oil clung to his uniform.
At his feet, the water lapped lazily against the quay, carrying scraps of wood and plastic bags that glistened under the dim floodlights.
Everywhere, signs of a nation in partial collapse:
Soldiers in worn uniforms
Propaganda posters slapped over political graffiti
Civilians with empty stares queuing for document inspection
Armored vehicles parked beside Red Cross ambulances
The earpiece crackled:— Bravo-7, movement in sector east. Confirm and report.
Falken moved forward, hand firm on the HK416's grip.
His footsteps echoed against the steel container walls, mingling with the distant clink of chains in the wind.
At the intersection, he pressed to the side of a blue container and peeked.
Faint lights flickered from the far quay, where stacked containers formed a crude barricade. But it wasn't the light that caught his attention — it was the shadows moving too fast, paired with the metallic click of magazines being seated.
A short burst of gunfire cracked.
French shouts followed — drowned by the unmistakable rhythm of Kalashnikovs.— Alpha to Command, confirming armed militia, Indo-Spanish pattern. Advancing toward cargo zone.
From shadow to shadow, Falken moved until he found cover behind an abandoned forklift. Now he could see clearly: men with scarves over their faces, mismatched armor, moving with military precision. Among them, red-and-yellow improvised flags, hastily painted with religious symbols and political slogans.
The first explosion came from a makeshift RPG, slamming into a nearby warehouse. Flames lit up the attackers' faces — and the under-equipped French soldiers scrambling to respond.
The radio again:— Bravo-7, hold position. Extraction team inbound.
Falken ignored it.
Three precise shots — one hostile down. More shouts. More gunfire.
The battle noise grew — and with it, Falken's certainty: Marseille was about to change flags.
The firefight lasted just over eight minutes, but for Bravo-7 it felt like a day compressed into heartbeats.
The Halcyon extraction APC roared in from the flank, crushing pallets and debris.
Hans hauled Sofia inside. Malik followed, med kit streaked with blood that wasn't his. Zielinski covered the rear until the last second, firing two short bursts before climbing in.
Yelena's gaze lingered on the cargo zone, as if calculating what else could have been done.
The armored door slammed, muting the chaos outside.
Inside, the air was thick with gunpowder and sweat.
A comms operator handed Falken a reinforced tablet.
CHAPTER 1 — BrusselsACT I — The Halcyon Report
Halcyon Report — Black Level Classification
Recipient: Operator Erik Falken (Bravo-7)
Origin: Strategic Intelligence Division – Halcyon
Subject: Geopolitical & Biological Situation – European Sector, Post-Calais
Date: Year 0 – Month 0 – Week 3
European Union Blocs
Traditionalist Bloc (Hardline Anti-Immigration)
Germany (Bloc Leader): Pragmatic Chancellor, full military mobilization along critical borders. Strong economy but strained by energy crisis and military costs.
Poland: Maximum border fortification. Total cooperation with Hungary. Public opinion overwhelmingly anti-immigration.
Hungary: Near-military regime. Regular Halcyon deployment for "internal stabilization" operations. Condemned internationally for human rights abuses.
Austria: Provides logistics and cyber-ops support. Limited direct combat presence but controls critical supply routes.
Pro-Migration Bloc (Open-Borders Policy Supporters)
France (Post-Coup): Regime under martial law. Direct support to Indo-Spanish militias. Evidence of foreign funding. Heavy propaganda.
Belgium: Administrative and propaganda hub. Brussels hosts aligned NGOs and media networks.
Sweden: Maintains open migration policy despite crime surge and partial healthcare collapse.
Netherlands: Financial and training hub for allied forces.
Neutral Bloc (Selective Cooperation)
Italy: Mediterranean pressure point, official neutrality. Secret cooperation with Germany and Poland.
Portugal: Divided government. Ports used covertly by both blocs.
Greece: Economic collapse. Migrant and smuggling gateway.
International Context (Realistic Alignment)
United States: Formal EU ally, politically split. Congressional factions push to cut ties with the Pro-Migration Bloc. Special Forces confirmed in Italy and Greece to collect Vespera-13 samples.
Russia: Officially denies virus involvement. Intel indicates capture of live specimens in Eastern Europe for military research. Quietly backs the Traditionalist Bloc to destabilize the EU.
China: Denies lab leak accusations. Accuses EU of using Vespera-13 as political distraction. Maintains trade and discreet support to France and Sweden.
Japan: Technical and military support to Traditionalist Bloc. Supplies drones and mutant-detection systems.
South Korea: Aligns with Japan and Germany. Cyber-defense and maritime surveillance cooperation.
North Korea: Covert arms supply to pro-migration militias via West African routes.
Taiwan: Technology cooperation with Germany and Poland, especially on bio-sensors.
Turkey: Ambiguous stance. Uses crisis to pressure EU on territorial/energy disputes. Facilitates migrant passage to Pro-Migration Bloc.
Middle East: Regional conflicts feed migrant routes and illegal bio-weapons trade.
Israel: Officially neutral. Evidence suggests financial elites helped fund the original program behind Vespera-13.
Biological Threat — Vespera-13 (Status: Not Publicly Confirmed)
Transmission: Airborne and via bodily fluids; high contagion rate.
Progression: Initial fever & spasms → physical changes (muscle hypertrophy, bone deformation, pigmentation changes in skin/eyes) → heightened aggression & cognitive decay.
Strategic Impact: Infected urban zones become "Black Zones." Evacuation and combat operations extremely high-risk.
Falken closed the tablet and handed it to Hans. The old man scanned a few lines, grunted, and shook his head.
— I've seen political shit before… but this? This is Sarajevo meets Chernobyl.
Sofia leaned over Hans's shoulder.
— Same story as always — they blame each other, wash their hands, and we're the ones catching the bullets.
Zielinski muttered:
— Or we shut the damn borders and in a year half of Europe won't be speaking Arabic.
Sofia turned fully toward him, eyes narrowing:
— And if in a year half of Europe speaks Arabic but still pays taxes, what's the problem?
— The problem, Rain, — Zielinski replied, each word cutting — is that culture is not currency.
Malik cut in, voice dripping sarcasm:
— Oh sure… the great defender of Western civilization, armed with a Russian-made AK-12.
Hans let out a long, irritated sigh:
— You don't get it. This isn't just about migrants, or mutants, or flags. It's about who's in charge when the dust settles. And the ones in charge… they're never on the front line.
From the corner, Yelena smiled faintly:
— Which is why Halcyon always wins.
Falken raised his eyes from the floor:
— Enough. Save the debate for Brussels. Looks like we've been invited to the big family reunion.
The APC rolled on through the dark road. Far ahead, the silhouettes of helicopters lit the horizon — the road to Europe's capital.
The European Council
Arrival in Brussels — 10:02
The helicopter hit the helipad on the Council of Europe building with a hard thud, rattling the windows. The sky hung low, heavy, with a fine slanted rain carried by the wind.
Belgian guards with G36s held rigid positions outside. Eyes sharp but tired — few troops in the EU hadn't seen urban combat that year.
Falken stepped off first, the Halcyon black beret perfectly in place. Hans followed with the gait of a man who'd climbed too many helicopter steps in his life. Sofia adjusted the rifle sling, Malik carried the med kit like an extension of his body. Zielinski's eyes stayed locked on the sentry positions. Yelena seemed more interested in who was watching them than in why they were here.
Inside — Council of Europe
The corridor to the Oval Room smelled of polished metal and expensive perfume. The contrast with the Marseille docks was almost offensive — modern paintings, pristine carpet, diffused lighting.
— This is the problem, — Hans muttered low to Falken. — People deciding war and peace from a place where dust never enters.
An aide led them to a discreet row of chairs — "technical observers." A polite way of saying they had no voice, only ears.
Extraordinary EU Meeting — 10:45
The door closed with a dry snap. Around the oval table, heads of state took their seats.
On the monitors: drone footage of Marseille's port — explosions, Indo-Spanish militia fighters, civilians running.
The German Chancellor, voice deep and steady, opened:
— What happened in Marseille this morning is not an isolated incident. This is the continuation of a coordinated campaign. These forces are not just taking ground — they're testing our response.
The French President crossed his arms, eyes cold:
— With all due respect, Chancellor, the territory is French. And France will not accept foreign troops operating on sovereign soil under the pretext of "assistance."
Zielinski murmured to Hans under his breath:
— Here comes the same old song…
The Polish President leaned forward:
— Mr. President, Marseille is no longer sovereign territory — it's a war zone. And the rumors of infection cannot be ignored.
The Swedish Prime Minister spoke with that infuriatingly neutral tone:
— Rumors are not policy. Until we have verified evidence, Vespera-13 remains a dangerous element of speculation.
Malik muttered quietly to Sofia:
— Right… and until yesterday, the virus didn't exist in her speeches either.
The Hungarian Prime Minister cut in, voice heavy:
— While you debate semantics, there are mutants — or whatever the hell they are — running the streets. This is how you lose a continent.
The Italian Prime Minister, conciliatory:
— We can't answer with troops alone. We need armed quarantines, medical teams, mobile labs. Without that, we're just buying time with bullets.
The French President turned toward him, eyes narrowed:
— And let me guess — those teams will be "protected" by Germans and Poles with more rifles than doctors.
Hans sighed, almost too softly to hear:
— And that's how the ship sinks… with everyone rowing in different directions.
In the shadowed corner, Viktor Hale — founder of Halcyon — watched in silence. For him, every exchange was just a disguised auction.
Falken said nothing. He wasn't listening for who was right — only for who would have the most money to pay for the next job.