Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
The briefing room was a sterile box of forced, impotent calm. On the main screen, the live feed from Los Angeles played out its silent, horrifying story. Lin Feng stood at the back of the room, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stone. He was here as part of a joint training exercise, a diplomatic handshake between the East Asian Community and the Pan-European American Alliance. A token gesture of cooperation in a world tearing itself apart.
An American Air Force colonel was grimly outlining the situation, his voice tight with suppressed panic. Beside him, Mei-Ling, who had been assigned as Lin Feng's liaison, stood rigid, her expression unreadable.
"...Sentinel One is down. Presumed disabled. All conventional forces have been rendered ineffective," the colonel concluded, his words hanging in the air like a death sentence. "All personnel on this base are to remain on high alert and await further instructions. That is all."
As the American personnel filed out, their faces grim, Mei-Ling turned to Lin Feng. "Our orders are clear. We are to remain here. This is an internal Alliance matter. We are not to interfere."
Lin Feng's gaze didn't leave the screen, where the Deep Sea Giant Whale was slowly, methodically turning the ruins of a skyscraper into dust. He saw the flashes of distant explosions—pockets of National Guard resistance, fighting and dying in a futile last stand. He saw the city, a place filled with millions of people, being erased.
"They are losing," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"That is not our concern," Mei-Ling stated, her voice sharp. "Our concern is following protocol."
"Protocol?" Lin Feng turned to face her, and for the first time, she saw the cold fire burning in his eyes, the same fire she had seen in the town of Wuzhen. "There are people dying. Soldiers. Civilians. Protocol did not save them. My orders... they were to learn how the Alliance deals with high-level threats. I am going to get a closer look."
Before she could protest, he turned and walked out of the briefing room, his movements filled with a calm, unbreakable purpose. He didn't run. He walked. He walked past the confused guards, through the panicked corridors, and onto the tarmac, where transport planes were being prepped for a potential evacuation. He moved like a man who belonged there, his every step radiating an authority that no one dared to question. He found a C-17 transport plane, its ramp half-lowered, its engines whining. The pilot, a young, terrified-looking lieutenant, saw him approaching.
"Sir, this plane is grounded on..."
Lin Feng didn't break his stride. He looked the pilot in the eye. "That city is dying. I can help. Are you going to fly me there, or am I going to fly it myself?"
Bering Sea, aboard the RFS Admiral Makarov
The Russian battlecruiser cut through the slate-grey, ice-choked water like a shark. Colonel Ivan Petrov stood on the bridge, a silent, imposing figure wreathed in the cold mist. His mission was simple: hunt the new Aberration signatures that were appearing in the arctic seas, analyze their capabilities, and terminate them.
"Colonel," the comms officer called out, his voice tight with disbelief. "Urgent message coming through. Priority Alpha. It's... it's from the American Pacific Command."
A hush fell over the bridge. The Americans didn't talk to them. They postured, they shadowed, they spied. They did not ask for help.
Ivan walked to the comms station. The message was a frantic, desperate plea, stripped of all political pretense. It was a raw cry for aid from a dying city. It spoke of a B-Class threat, of a fleet destroyed, of their own super-weapon disabled.
Ivan's face remained a mask of ice. He patched a secure, encrypted line to High Command in Moscow. The reply was swift, and just as cold as the Arctic wind.
"The political ramifications are... complex," the voice of a distant general said. "However, the opportunity to gather direct combat data on a B-Class entity is unprecedented. You are authorized to render assistance, Colonel. Observe. Analyze. And demonstrate the superiority of Russian resolve."
The line went dead. The order was clear: go, but go for Russia, not for the Americans.
Ivan looked out at the churning, grey sea. He didn't care about the politics, or the data, or the demonstration of resolve. He cared about the monster. He had seen what one could do to his home, to his crew. The world was his station now, and all of humanity was his crew.
"Set a course for Los Angeles," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that cut through the silence of the bridge. "Maximum speed."
Far to the south, as Jack Wilson fought to bring his crippled mech back online amidst the ruins of a skyscraper, two new signals appeared on the long-range military networks. One was a C-17 transport, flying dangerously fast and low out of Nevada, its flight plan unauthorized. The other was a heavily armed Russian battlecruiser, moving at flank speed, far from its designated patrol zone.
Against all orders, against all protocol, against all logic, help was coming.