The bus ride was quiet, the air thick with the smell of diesel, old vinyl, and a new, pervasive dread.
Specialist Harris Brown stared out the window, watching the rain-slicked Texas landscape blur past. Fort Hood was a ghost town. The world was. Since the Jerusalem broadcast, the "Global Holiday" had become a permanent, unnamed state of being. People were home, behind locked doors, watching the sky.
Next to him, Specialist Miller was nervously drumming his fingers on his knee. "So... Peterson Space Force Base. What, are we going to teach 'em how to shoot? Those flyboys get spooked by a little elf?"
"Stow it, Miller," Harris said, not looking away from the window. "They don't call up C-Company Rangers for a training gig."
"Yeah, well, I just... Space Force, man. Feels... weird."
"It's all weird, man," whispered PFC Diaz from the seat behind them. "My mom thinks I'm going to fight the Devil. I... I didn't tell her she was wrong."
Harris looked back. "Diaz, you're fine. We're fine." But his voice lacked conviction.
The bus pulled up to a different section of the base, one Harris had never seen. Three more men were waiting, standing under a harsh security light.
Captain Elias Thorne, their CO. "Doc" Russo. And "Deadeye" Jin, their sniper.
"Captain?" Harris asked, his brow furrowing as they boarded.
"Brown," Thorne nodded, his face a grim mask. He took a seat at the front. The bus, built for forty, now held only six.
"Well," Miller muttered, slumping in his seat. "The whole damn squad. This is either an honor... or we're seriously fucked."
The bus pulled onto the tarmac of Peterson SFB. The place was a circus, but a disciplined, terrifying one. It wasn't just US Air Force blue. Harris saw British RAF roundels, French tricolores, and even the red-and-gold star of China on various cargo planes. The Alliance Cooperation Treaty, it seemed, was already in motion.
Then, they all saw it. And they all stopped.
It was a helicopter, its rotors winding down with a deep, guttural whump-whump-whump. It was sleek, predatory, and painted in the pixelated green-and-tan digital flora camouflage of the Russian Federation. A Ka-52 "Alligator" attack helicopter. In the middle of Colorado.
"You... seeing that?" Diaz whispered, his voice cracking.
Miller's hand, by pure, ingrained reflex, dropped to his hip, his fingers grasping for the M9 Beretta that wasn't there.
"Russians," Captain Thorne said, his voice flat. "Hostiles. Here. What in the..."
"They're not hostile, Captain," a voice said. A man in a GDI uniform, his face all hard angles, was waiting for them at the bus door. "Not anymore. Grab your kit. You're late."
The briefing room was sterile, cold, and bright. And it was already occupied.
Six men in Russian EMR camouflage were on one side of the long, polished table. They were kitted out in advanced Ratnik combat gear, their helmets on the table, their AK-12 rifles leaning against their chairs. They were VDV, Spetsnaz. And they looked like they'd been carved from frozen, angry granite.
Harris's squad filed in, taking the seats opposite them. The silence was so thick it was a physical weight.
The Russian on the far end, a wiry man with a cruel, thin-lipped smile, leaned over to the massive, bearded man next to him and muttered something in Russian.
"Posmotrite na etikh shlyukh." (Look at these whores.)
Diaz, who had a minor in Slavic Languages, stiffened. His chair screeched as he stood up.
"The fuck did you just call us?"
The wiry Russian, "Sukhoy," just smirked. "I speak no... English."
"You just said 'whores,' you son of a bitch!" Diaz snapped, his hand moving toward his own rifle.
"Diaz, sit down!" Captain Thorne ordered.
"He called us..."
"I heard him. Sit. Down."
The Russian Captain, a man with cold, pale-blue eyes, "Voron" on his nameplate, barked a single, harsh word at his man. "Sukhoy. Molchat'." (Be quiet.)
The door at the front of the room slid open. A GDI officer, Colonel Renner, stepped in. He looked like he hadn't slept since Omega appeared, but his uniform was razor-sharp.
"Right," Renner said, his voice a gravelly monotone as he slapped a tablet on the lectern. "Let's dispense with the foreplay. You're all here because you're the best. And because you're politically... convenient. Welcome to Task Force Avenger."
A map of Omega appeared on the screen behind him.
"Two days ago, Sir Malcolm Hayes and the GDI command staff signed the Alliance Cooperation Treaty. As of 0400 this morning, the United States and the Russian Federation are, for the first time since 1945, allies in a hot war."
Renner paced. "The public is in a state of terminal panic. The Odyssey massacre, followed by the Battle of Jerusalem, has broken them. Our civilization is... failing. This mission is not just a military recon. It is a narrative-setting operation. Your job is to give the world a reason to stop cowering. You are the first joint-strike-force. You are... the Avengers. The press is already running with it."
"So we're a PR stunt," Miller muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
Renner's head snapped to him. "You're a PR stunt that's carrying live ammunition, Specialist. Your mission is twofold. One: locate the Odyssey-1 landing site. Your primary objective is to recover its mission recorder. We need that data. Two: deploy this GDI surveillance package so we can get eyes on that rock. Your unstated third objective... is to kick the hornet's nest."
"You want us to start a fight," the Russian Captain, Voron, said. It wasn't a question.
"I want you to win a fight," Renner corrected. "Your every move, from the moment you land, will be broadcast live from your helmet cams, just like the Odyssey. But unlike the Odyssey, you are not scientists. You are killers. And the world needs to see you kill. They need to see Americans and Russians, side-by-side, putting these... things... in the ground. No pressure."
The room was filled with a gloomy, confused silence.
"Right," Renner said. "Get your gear. Your transport is on the pad."
The transport was unlike anything Harris had ever seen. It was sleek, angular, and looked less like a rocket and more like a... bus with no wheels. It was unpainted, showing the dull, heat-resistant composites, with a single, small ISRO logo stenciled on the side. The Garuda-1.
The two squads boarded, six Americans on the port side, six Russians on the starboard. The tension was a physical presence.
"So," Miller said, trying to break the ice as he settled his M249 SAW at his feet. "An AK-12, huh? Nice rifle. That that new 5.45? The 'poison bullet'?"
Sukhoy, the wiry Russian, just stared at him. But the big, bearded machine gunner, Dimitri "Medved" Orlov, grunted. "Is good round."
"It's a copy," Miller smirked. "A copy of our 5.56. Heard you guys cooked it up to mimic our wound ballistics. Fucking copycats."
Sukhoy leaned forward. "Your 5.56 tumbles. Our 5.45... it yaws. It is... more beautiful. Your round... clumsy. Like your women."
Before Miller could lunge across the aisle, the Garuda's engines spooled up. It wasn't a roar. It was a deep, electric, bone-vibrating hum. A smooth, powerful force pressed them all back into their seats. There was no rattling, no fire. Just a sensation of impossible, clean speed.
In less-than ninety seconds, a metallic voice announced, "Main engine cutoff. Welcome to zero gravity."
The straps released. Diaz, his eyes wide, unbuckled and floated an inch off his seat.
"Oh yes, baby!" he laughed, a genuine, childlike sound of joy. "We're in space! We're real-life Jedis!"
Harris felt it too, a lightness in his chest. He looked across the aisle. Even the hard-faced Russians... Voron was staring out the porthole, and Harris saw the barest hint of a smirk. They were all soldiers... but they were human.
Harris floated near the window, looking down at the brilliant blue-and-white marble of Earth. Then, his blood ran cold. He looked up.
Omega. The Second Sky. It filled the heavens. It was so close, a vast, green-and-blue continent-sized... thing.
"Jesus," he breathed.
He turned. The big Russian, Dimitri, was floating by his seat, his head bowed. He was staring at a laminated photo: a smiling, dark-haired woman and a small, gap-toothed girl.
Harris stabilized himself on a hand-hold. He saw the man's nameplate. "Orlov."
"Family?" Harris asked, his voice quiet.
Dimitri's head snapped up, his eyes hard. He tucked the photo away. "Pashol ty." (Fuck off.)
Harris just nodded. "I get it."
A beat of silence passed between them, the hum of the ship the only sound.
"...Yelena," the Russian said, his voice a low rumble. "My wife. And... Katya. My daughter."
Harris smiled, a real smile. "Katya. That's a beautiful name."
Dimitri looked at Harris, his eyes softening for just a second. He gave a single, curt nod. The ice, it seemed, was cracked.
The landing was as smooth as the takeoff. The pilot's voice came over the intercom, "We're down. I'll be right here, engines hot. Don't... don't be long. Good luck."
Captain Thorne hit the ramp control. "Avenger-1, Avenger-2, stack up. Alternating formation. We're on."
The ramp hissed open. The air hit Harris's face. It was... sweet. Like a pine forest after a rain. But there was a coppery, metallic tang under it. The smell of... blood.
The twelve men moved out, a perfect, alternating chevron of American MultiCam and Russian EMR camouflage. It was a sight that would have started World War III a week ago.
"This is... weird, Captain," Miller whispered to Thorne, his SAW at the low-ready.
"Focus, Miller."
They found the Odyssey-1 site in ten minutes. It was a burned-out scar on the landscape.
"No bodies," Doc Russo said, scanning the wreckage.
"They police their brass... and their bodies," Thorne said grimly. "They're disciplined."
"Sova," the Russian point-man, a man named "Owl," waved them over. He was crouched, his AK-12 aimed at the ground.
"Captain," Thorne called. "We got something."
"Deadeye" Jin, the American sniper, was the first to see it. "Oh, Christ... Captain, I... I got a finger. Severed. Looks like... female. That scientist, Rostova."
"Fucking cannibals," Diaz spat, his face pale green. "They're eating them."
Sova was pointing at something else, half-buried under a rotted log. It was a mask.
It was carved from a single piece of what looked like obsidian, polished to a dull sheen. It wasn't an elven mask. It was... something else. The features were snarling, demonic, with deep-cut ridges and empty, hollowed-out eyes.
Sova poked it with his rifle barrel.
"Ya ne khochu eto trogat'," Sova muttered, shaking his head. (I don't want to touch this.)
He looked at Harris, who was closest. "You. American. Take." He nudged it with his boot. "Is bad... d'yavol. Demon. You take. Evidence."
Harris, wary, pulled a containment bag from his pouch. He picked up the mask. It was... warm. He ignored the feeling, bagged it, and stowed it in his dump pouch. Just another piece of intel.
"Alright," Thorne said. "We got the recorder. Let's plant the package and get the hell..."
The Russian Captain, Voron, held up a single, gloved fist.
A single, whispered word cut through the jungle.
"Kontakt."
Instantly, the chattering stopped. Twelve men became one weapon.
"Deadeye" Jin and "Laska," the Russian sniper, dropped prone on a ridge, their rifles—an M110 SASS and an SV-98—sweeping the trees.
Miller and Dimitri "Medved" Orlov deployed the bipods of their machine guns, an M249 and a PKP Pecheneg, setting up a devastating L-shaped crossfire.
The other eight men, including Harris, dropped to a knee, weapons snapping up, finding cover. The professionalism was terrifying.
"Brown," Captain Thorne ordered, his voice a whisper. "Binos. What do you see?"
Harris raised his binoculars, scanning where Voron was looking.
"Got 'em," he breathed. "A platoon. Maybe twenty... thirty. They're... medievals. Plate armor. Swords, axes. They're... they're human. I think."
"What are they doing?"
"Moving... just... patrolling. Wait. Wait. There's someone in the center. They're protecting them. A... a girl. Young. Maybe sixteen. In a... a dress. Looks like a... a princess?"
"A queen?" Diaz whispered from beside him. "What in the fuck is this place? Narnia?"
Captain Thorne was on his sat-comm, his voice low. "Control, this is Avenger-1. We have eyes on a new hostile group. Non-elven. Appear... human, medieval-era. They are 300 meters from our position, moving east. Requesting Rules of Engagement."
The reply from GDI Control was instant, cold, and clear. It was McCaffrey's voice. "Avenger-1, your mission is to secure that site. Those hostiles are too close to your objective. You are weapons-hot. Wipe them out."
Thorne closed his eyes for a second. He looked at Voron. The Russian captain just gave a single, brutal nod.
Thorne looked at his combined squad.
He held up three gloved fingers.
Safeties clicked off.
He showed two.
Fingers went to triggers. Breaths were held.
He showed one.
"FIRE!"
The jungle erupted.
It was a sound of total, apocalyptic violence. The two snipers fired as one—CRACK-CRACK. Two armored soldiers, their helmets exploding, dropped.
Diaz's M203 grenade launcher—THUMP—sent a 40mm HEDP round into the center of their formation, which detonated with a WHUMP, throwing bodies.
And then the machine guns opened up.
BRRRRRRRRRRT!
CHUG-CHUG-CHUG-CHUG!
The combined, overlapping fire of the M249 and the Pecheneg hit the medieval platoon like a physical fist. The high-velocity 5.56mm and 7.62x54mm rounds tore through the plate armor as if it were tinfoil. It wasn't a fight. It was a massacre. The front rank of ten soldiers disintegrated in a red mist.
The rest of the soldiers, screaming in shock, formed a protective wall around the girl, who had ducked, terrified.
Sukhoy, the wiry Russian, laughed, firing a burst from his AK-12. "Legkaya rabota!" (Easy work!) "Die, you medieval..."
The girl stood up. She wasn't screaming. She was... furious.
Her eyes, blazing with a cold, blue light, locked onto their position.
She pulled a... a stick... a polished white wand... from a sheath on her belt.
She raised it and began to chant, her voice high and musical, a language that hurt to hear.
A scream.
It wasn't English. It was Russian.
Harris whipped his head to the side.
It was Sukhoy.
The Russian soldier was on his feet, his rifle clattering to the ground. He was clawing at his chest, his eyes wide with a final, agonizing shock.
He was on fire.
Not... burning. He was incinerating.
A blinding, white-hot fire, hotter than any chemical, was erupting from inside his body, melting his armor, his gear, his skin.
He let out one more choked, gurgling shriek.
Then he collapsed, a molten, smoking, charred heap.
The jungle was silent, save for the crackle of his still-burning remains.
The princess lowered her wand. And smiled.