Late December, 1981 — Scandinavian Front
The north burned in silence.
After the catastrophic BETA offensive of 1978, the once-vast defensive belts of Eurasia collapsed in succession. Sino-Soviet and European Union allied forces bled themselves dry buying time, retreating ever northward until only the Scandinavian Peninsula remained. Mountains, fjords, and frozen forests became the last wall between humanity and annihilation.
The wall held—but only barely.
Year by year, the Scandinavian front intensified, grinding into a decade-long war of attrition beneath perpetual snow and ash-filled skies.
Far across the Arctic Circle, the reason became clear.
H08 — Rovaniemi Hive
In northern Finland, the earth split open as if flayed from within. Organic pylons pierced the frozen soil, exhaling heat that melted centuries of ice. BETA labor forms swarmed endlessly, weaving bone, flesh, and alien matter into something vast and irreversible.
The H08 Hive, later designated the Rovaniemi Hive, had begun construction.
Its emergence shifted the strategic balance overnight. Scandinavia was no longer a shield—it was a siege.
A New Machine on an Old Front
As nations struggled to reinforce the line, France unveiled a stopgap answer born of necessity: the Mirage 2000 Tactical Surface Fighter.
Derived from the Mirage III, Dass-Ault's engineers enlarged the frame by fifteen percent, sacrificing elegance for endurance. Heavier armament loads, longer operational time, and reinforced joints made it a 1.5-generation TSF—a transitional machine bridging outdated doctrine and the brutal realities of BETA warfare.
Later upgrades would push it into full second-generation status.
But in 1981, it was already too late for perfection.
What mattered was that it could still fight.
Norway Garrison
Snow lashed sideways as TSFs descended through the clouds over northern Norway, their thrusters burning white-hot against the polar night.
These units bore no national insignia—only kill marks, repainted armor plates, and scars welded shut in field depots. Mercenaries.
At their center flew the command unit of Simo Heimlich, a Finnish-German veteran and former Bundeswehr battalion commander. When politics failed him, he sold his skill to survival itself.
Under his leadership, the 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion had become a feared name on the Scandinavian front—a professional TSF mercenary corps trusted with defenses regular armies could no longer spare troops to hold.
"All units, contact expected within ten minutes," Simo's voice cut through the comms. Calm. Cold.
"Check seals. This isn't a drill."
Siegfried
Among the formation flew a slimmer TSF, its armor newer, its kill markings few.
Its pilot was Siegfried.
Seventeen years old. No last name. Born in East Germany, abandoned by a homeland fractured long before the BETA arrived. During the chaos of an early invasion near the inner German border, Simo had found him—malnourished, feral, clinging to the wreck of a destroyed machine he had no right to be piloting.
Siegfried should have died there.
Instead, he learned.
Now, the cockpit felt like the only place he truly existed. As radar contacts blossomed across his display, his breathing remained steady. Destroyer-class signatures. Heavy Laser-class support behind them.
"Jäger-Seven ready," he reported, voice stripped of fear.
For Siegfried, the 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion was not a contract. It was family. It was meaning carved out of a world that had given him none.
First Contact
The snowfield erupted.
Assault cannons roared. Support guns thundered from rear positions. TSFs vaulted over ice ridges as BETA surged forward like a living tide, their mass darkening the white landscape.
Above it all, far to the east, the unfinished silhouette of the Rovaniemi Hive loomed—silent, inevitable.
This was not a decisive battle.
It was another night bought with blood.
And on the Scandinavian front, that was all humanity could ever afford.
Norway Garrison — Contact Line
The moment the BETA swarm crested the ridgeline, Simo Heimlich pushed his machine forward.
His TSF—MiG-23 Cheburashka—cut through the snowfall like a steel predator. A true 2nd-generation TSF, it was still considered new at the time, its angular frame heavier and more aggressive than earlier Soviet designs. Painted in dull mercenary gray with improvised unit markings, it looked less like a national weapon and more like a hired executioner.
"All Jäger elements—open fire."
Simo squeezed the trigger.
The WS-16 Assault Cannon roared to life, its recoil shuddering through the Cheburashka's reinforced arms. Tungsten rounds tore into the leading edge of the BETA swarm, bodies exploding into black mist against the snow. The weapon's sustained fire capability—one of the hallmarks of second-generation designs—allowed Simo to keep the pressure on without pause.
"That's it… walk it in," he muttered, calmly adjusting aim as if at a range.
Around him, the rest of the 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion joined the storm.
MiG-21 Balalaika units darted forward, lighter and faster, slashing at exposed flanks.
F-4R Phantom TSFs anchored the line, their heavier frames providing suppressive fire.
F-5E/G/I Tornado variants maneuvered aggressively, weaving between targets with practiced precision.
A patchwork arsenal. A single purpose.
Siegfried — Jäger-Seven
Siegfried's Balalaika skidded to a halt behind a snow berm.
His radar was screaming. Too many contacts. Too close.
For a split second—just one—his hands froze.
A Destroyer-class BETA lunged through the smoke, massive limbs tearing through the snow toward him.
"Jäger-Seven, MOVE!" someone shouted over comms.
Siegfried didn't.
The BETA's shadow swallowed his cockpit.
Simo's Voice
"SIEGFRIED—ARE YOU TRYING TO GET EATEN OR WHAT?!"
Simo's voice slammed into the comm channel like a physical blow.
The sudden shout snapped Siegfried out of it.
"I—I'm firing! I'M FIRING!"
He mashed the trigger.
The Balalaika's assault cannon erupted—not in controlled bursts, but in a wild, panicked spray. Rounds tore up snow, clipped a BETA leg, missed entirely, then finally punched straight through the Destroyer's core with a lucky hit.
The creature collapsed in a heap barely meters from Siegfried's position.
A brief silence followed.
Then—
"HAHA—HOLY HELL, KID!"
"Did you mean to do that or did the BETA trip over your bullets?"
"Next time, warn us before you invent a new firing doctrine!"
Laughter crackled across the channel, cutting through the tension like a knife. Even Simo allowed a snort.
"Idiot," he said, not unkindly.
"But you're alive. Good. Now stop redecorating the snow and AIM."
Siegfried swallowed, cheeks burning, hands finally steadying.
"Jäger-Seven… acknowledged."
This time, when he fired, the shots were clean.
The battle surged on—mercenary machines dancing amid fire and snowfall, humor and terror intertwined.
On the Scandinavian front, fear was inevitable.
Panic was forgiven.
But survival—
That was mandatory.
Norway Garrison — Turning Point
The tide began to shift.
What had started as desperate containment slowly became controlled annihilation. On Simo's tactical display, the dense red mass of contacts thinned—first at the edges, then collapsing inward as the 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion maintained relentless pressure.
"Enemy density dropping," a Phantom pilot reported.
"We're breaking the swarm."
Simo didn't celebrate. He simply adjusted formation.
"Good. Hold the line. Let the ground boys do their job."
Steel in the Snow
From behind the TSF defensive arc, engines growled.
Heavy shapes emerged through the blizzard—armored columns, rolling forward with deliberate inevitability. Treads crushed ice and frozen corpses alike as ground forces finally committed their reserves.
T-55s advanced first, older machines but reliable, their guns barking methodically.
T-62M tanks followed, upgraded armor shrugging off glancing blows from smaller BETA.
T-72 MBTs anchored the push, their main cannons hammering Warrior-Class targets with brutal efficiency.
High-explosive shells detonated among the swarm, tearing apart clustered BETA bodies that TSFs had herded into kill zones.
Infantry Engagement
Behind the tanks came infantry—dark figures moving through smoke and snow.
They engaged Soldier-Class and Warrior-Class BETA at close range, firing anti-armor rifles, shoulder-launched rockets, and heavy machine guns. It was dirty, brutal work—fought at distances where screams were audible even over gunfire.
A Warrior-Class lunged from a snowdrift—only to be cut down by overlapping fire.
"Contact neutralized!"
"Reloading—cover me!"
"Don't let them close!"
The battlefield became layered—TSFs above, tanks at mid-range, infantry sealing the gaps.
For the first time that night, the line did not bend.
Rocket Fire
Then the sky itself ignited.
From the rear echelon, trucks rolled to a halt and deployed stabilizers. Tubes elevated in unison.
A half-second later—
WHOOMPF.
Dozens of rockets screamed overhead, leaving incandescent trails against the dark sky. The BM-21 Grad launchers emptied their racks in coordinated salvos, saturation fire washing over the remaining BETA concentrations.
Explosions rippled across the snowfield in waves. The ground shook. Organic matter vaporized. What remained of the swarm was torn apart before it could regroup.
Simo watched the feed in silence as contact markers vanished one after another.
"That's the last of them," someone said, almost disbelieving.
Aftermath
The snow settled again—now stained black and burning in places.
TSFs stood motionless, heat venting into the frozen air. Tanks halted, guns tracking instinctively even as no targets remained. Infantry regrouped, some slumping against hulls, others staring blankly at the devastation.
Simo finally exhaled.
"All Jäger units," he said.
"Good work. No pursuit. Re-arm and refuel."
Siegfried's Balalaika stood among the survivors, scarred but intact. His hands trembled slightly as adrenaline drained away—but he was still alive.
Tonight, the Scandinavian front held.
Not because of grand strategy.
Not because of politics.
But because mercenaries, soldiers, and machines had refused—just this once—to give ground.
Norway Garrison — After the Guns Fell Silent
The battlefield did not celebrate its own survival.
Snow drifted down over shattered carapaces and burning craters, hissing where heat met ice. Emergency strobes blinked across the frozen plain as recovery crews moved in, their silhouettes dwarfed by the hulks of TSFs and tanks standing guard like exhausted giants.
Simo brought the Cheburashka to a halt on a ridgeline overlooking the kill zone. He powered down the assault cannon first, then the main systems—slow, deliberate, ritualistic. Only when the cockpit grew quiet did he allow himself to unclench his jaw.
"Damage reports," he ordered.
Voices answered, one by one.
Minor actuator damage.
Ammo expenditure high but acceptable.
No fatalities.
That last report lingered in the air longer than the rest.
Jäger-Seven
Siegfried's Balalaika stood knee-deep in churned snow and blackened remains. A jagged scorch mark ran along its left shoulder where a glancing blow had nearly torn him open.
Inside the cockpit, Siegfried sat still, helmet resting against the seatback.
He hadn't realized he was shaking until his hands began to ache.
"Hey, kid," a veteran pilot's voice crackled in.
"Next time you panic, try panicking forward. Worked out for you."
A few muted chuckles followed.
Siegfried swallowed, then managed a weak reply.
"I… I'll do better."
"You lived," the pilot answered. "That is better."
Simo's Visit
Simo's Cheburashka approached, snow crunching beneath its mass. The mercenary commander opened a direct channel.
"Siegfried."
The boy stiffened.
"Yes, sir."
A pause.
"You froze," Simo said bluntly. "That gets people killed."
Siegfried stared at his controls, bracing for what came next.
Then—
"But you unfroze," Simo continued.
"And you stayed in the fight."
Another pause—shorter this time.
"Learn from it. Fear doesn't go away. You just get faster than it."
Siegfried nodded, even though Simo couldn't see it.
"Understood."
"Good," Simo replied. "Because the Hive won't care next time."
The channel closed.
Night Over Scandinavia
Far to the east, beyond the horizon, the sky glowed faintly—an ugly, organic light pulsing where the Rovaniemi Hive continued to grow, untouched by tonight's victory.
This battle had bought hours.
Maybe days.
Fuel trucks rolled in. Mechanics climbed over TSFs. Infantry shared cigarettes with shaking hands. Somewhere, a radio played softly from a command tent, its music oddly gentle against the ruin outside.
The Scandinavian front endured.
And among mercenaries hardened by loss and veterans long past belief, a seventeen-year-old boy stood taller than he had that morning—still afraid, still alive, and now truly part of the 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion.
Tomorrow, the snow would fall again.
And the war would continue.
Norway Garrison — Forward Base, Night
Simo Heimlich removed his helmet as he stepped into the heated command shelter, frost melting from his coat almost instantly. Inside, maps of northern Norway and Finland were projected onto a canvas wall, red and blue markers shifting slowly as data finalized.
Waiting for him was a West German officer, Bundeswehr insignia still crisp despite the long war.
The debrief was short and clinical.
Enemy pressure reduced.
Hive construction confirmed in Finland.
Next mission pending—likely a delaying action near a supply corridor feeding the Scandinavian line.
"Your battalion bought us breathing room," the officer said, extending a hand.
"Don't waste it."
Simo shook it once.
"Breathing room is all mercenaries ever sell," he replied, then turned and left.
Stand Down
Outside, floodlights illuminated rows of parked TSFs, steam rising from cooling armor like ghosts in the snow. Arno "Vulcan", callsign Jäger-Two, stood near the maintenance crews, arms crossed.
"You heard the man," Arno called out over open comms.
"All units—stand down. Eat, sleep, or stare at a wall. I don't care. You've earned it."
Pilots dispersed in small groups, laughter and exhaustion mixing freely now that survival was no longer in question.
But one machine remained isolated.
K-07
Siegfried stood alone beside his MiG-21 Balalaika.
The machine's armor bore fresh scars, but his eyes were fixed on one mark in particular—burned deep into the left shoulder plating.
K-07.
The designation was still visible despite the scorching, blackened but intact.
He reached out, gloved hand resting against the cold metal. The image replayed in his mind—the moment of hesitation, the charging Destroyer, the sudden terror of realizing he might die without ever meaning anything at all.
"Planning to apologize to it, or are you waiting for it to talk back?"
Siegfried nearly jumped.
Arno's voice came from behind, amused, relaxed—far too relaxed for someone who'd just survived a BETA engagement.
"S-Sir," Siegfried stammered, straightening instinctively.
Arno waved it off and leaned against the Balalaika's leg actuator.
"Relax. If we stood at attention every time we screwed up, we'd all be statues by now."
Siegfried hesitated, then spoke quietly.
"I froze. Back there. If Commander Simo hadn't yelled—"
Arno chuckled, low and warm.
"Kid," he said, "everyone freezes the first time the BETA decide you look tasty."
Siegfried frowned slightly.
"Even you?"
Arno grinned.
"Especially me. Difference is, you unfroze fast enough to stay alive."
He tapped the scorched K-07 marking with a knuckle.
"That machine didn't die. Neither did you. That's the only score that matters tonight."
Siegfried exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders.
"Don't overthink it," Arno continued. "Fear's just your brain reminding you you're human. Ignore it completely, and you're already dead."
A brief pause—then a smirk.
"Now get some rest. Tomorrow, you get to be scared professionally."
Siegfried managed a small, genuine smile.
"Yes, sir."
As Arno walked off toward the barracks, Siegfried took one last look at his Balalaika—at K-07, burned but standing—and finally turned away.
For the first time since the battle ended, he felt ready for whatever came next.
Forward Command Post — Hours Later
Simo Heimlich had barely finished his coffee when the call came.
He stood once more inside the command shelter, coat still dusted with snow, as the same West German officer activated a new tactical projection. This time, the map was unmistakable.
Federal Republic of Germany.
Red markers pulsed violently across the display—thin, sharp vectors cutting through defensive lines.
"Laser-Class BETA," the officer said without preamble.
"Multiple confirmed sightings. They've been bleeding our airspace and chewing up rear-area logistics."
Simo's jaw tightened. Laser-Class meant one thing: air denial, shattered supply chains, and dead pilots who never even saw what killed them.
The Huckebein
The officer highlighted a blue formation pushing into the danger zone.
"We've already deployed the 51st Tactical Armor Battalion—the Huckebein," he continued.
"They're holding, but barely. Your 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion is to move south immediately and assist in suppression and escort operations."
Simo nodded once.
"They'll need TSFs that can survive exposure," he said. "And pilots who don't panic when the sky starts shooting back."
"Exactly."
An Uncomfortable Addition
The officer hesitated—just long enough for Simo to notice.
Another marker appeared.
Different color. Different doctrine.
"There's… additional support," the officer said carefully.
"East German forces."
The name followed a moment later.
"The 101st Werewolf Battalion."
The room seemed to cool.
"They're operating under the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit—Stasi," the officer added.
"Commanded by Major Beatrix Brehme."
Simo exhaled slowly through his nose.
Stasi TSF units were infamous. Ruthless discipline. Zero tolerance. Pilots trained more like hunters than soldiers—and rumored to value orders over lives.
"You're putting mercenaries, Bundeswehr regulars, and Stasi in the same battlespace," Simo said flatly.
"That's asking for trouble."
The officer met his gaze.
"I know the reputation," he said.
"But Brehme's orders are explicit. They are there only to eliminate BETA. Not deserters. Not political targets."
A pause.
"You have my word."
Simo said nothing for several seconds.
Then—
"Fine," he replied. "But my battalion answers to me. Anyone points a gun at my pilots for the wrong reason, we're done cooperating."
The officer nodded. He had expected no less.
Orders Issued
Back outside, Simo opened a battalion-wide channel.
"All Jäger elements, listen up," his voice carried across the base.
"New mission. We're redeploying south to assist the 51st Tactical Armor Battalion—Huckebein. Laser-Class BETA confirmed."
Murmurs rippled across the comms—low, serious.
"Additional allied units include East German forces," Simo continued.
"Stasi-backed. Keep your discipline tight and your safeties on. They are allies—for now."
In the hangar, Siegfried paused mid-check beside his Balalaika.
East German forces.
For the first time since joining the mercenaries, the war was no longer distant from his past.
"This isn't politics," Simo finished.
"This is survival. We watch the sky, we watch each other, and we kill the BETA. Nothing else matters."
Acknowledgments rolled in, one after another.
Heading South
Engines spun up. Transport craft warmed their thrusters. TSFs were refueled, rearmed, repainted where necessary to obscure identifying marks.
Somewhere to the south, Laser-Class BETA waited—silent, invisible, lethal.
And soon, the 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion would be fighting not just beside regular soldiers…
…but alongside the ghosts of a divided Germany.
Next Morning — En Route to the German Front
The sky was pale steel as the 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion moved south.
TSFs advanced in staggered columns, boosters kept low to avoid drawing attention from any hidden Laser-Class observers. Snow crunched rhythmically beneath metal feet, the sound oddly calming after the chaos of the night before.
Yet inside the open battalion channel, tension simmered.
"I don't like this," Jäger-Four muttered.
"Stasi shouldn't be anywhere near a mixed-operation zone."
No one contradicted him.
"You all remember '81," he continued, voice grim.
"The incident near the inner border."
Several pilots shifted uncomfortably in their cockpits.
"The Werewolf Battalion was deployed for 'security.' Turned into a manhunt. Two deserters—both TSF pilots. MiG-21s."
"They never made it across."
A pause.
"Executed on the spot."
The channel went quiet.
Even the background chatter of engine diagnostics seemed louder now.
Simo's Silence
Simo heard every word.
He remembered the reports—classified summaries stripped of names and faces, written in language so clean it barely sounded human. The Stasi had never denied it. Deserters, to them, were not soldiers who broke—they were prey.
"Focus," Simo finally said.
"We're not here for politics. Eyes on sensors. Laser-Class doesn't care who you voted for."
Acknowledgments came back, subdued but professional.
Siegfried
In the rear of the formation, Siegfried said nothing.
The name Stasi echoed in his head, scraping against something buried deep. Images tried to surface—concrete walls, shouting voices, cold fluorescent lights—but dissolved before he could grasp them.
All he felt was a dull, aching pressure in his chest.
Why does it hurt?
Why does it feel… familiar?
He tightened his grip on the controls of his MiG-21 Balalaika, knuckles whitening inside his gloves.
A Check-In
"Jäger-Seven," a voice cut in—Jäger-Three.
"You good back there?"
Siegfried startled, then forced his voice steady.
"Yeah," he replied quickly.
"I'm okay."
There was a brief pause on the other end.
"If you say so. Just don't drift. We'll need everyone sharp."
"Understood."
The channel closed.
But Siegfried's thoughts did not.
The word Stasi lingered, heavy and unwelcome, like a scar he couldn't remember earning. He stared ahead at the marching TSFs, at the mercenary colors that had become his new identity.
Whatever he had been before—
Whatever the Stasi meant to him—
He had no answers.
Only the certainty that when they finally met the Werewolf Battalion, something buried inside him would wake up.
And he wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was.
En Route — Southern Approaches
The convoy pressed on.
Forests replaced fjords, snow thinning into muddy slush as the terrain flattened into the scarred countryside of West Germany. Burned-out villages passed on the flanks—roofs collapsed, church spires snapped like bones. The signs of Laser-Class activity were everywhere: melted asphalt, glassed fields, the skeletal remains of aircraft that never knew what hit them.
Simo adjusted the battalion's spacing.
"Spread another fifty meters," he ordered.
"If the sky blinks, I want no chain reactions."
The TSFs complied, formation stretching like a cautious animal crossing open ground.
Old Fears, New Ground
The radio stayed mostly quiet now. Jäger-Four's reminder still hung heavy, unspoken but shared.
Simo glanced at Siegfried's telemetry—steady vitals, clean inputs. The kid flew like someone trying very hard not to think.
East German, Simo thought. MiG-21 pilot.
Bad coincidence. Or no coincidence at all.
Contact — Not BETA
A sharp tone cut through the command channel.
"Unknown TSF formation, twelve o'clock," a sensor officer reported.
"IFF… East German."
Simo slowed the column.
Through the thinning mist, silhouettes emerged—leaner frames, darker paint schemes. Red star insignia partially obscured by winter camouflage. Their movements were precise. Predatory.
The 101st Werewolf Battalion had arrived.
They didn't wave. They didn't chatter. They simply took up parallel formation, matching speed and spacing with mechanical perfection.
One unit peeled slightly forward.
"This is Major Beatrix Brehme," a cold female voice cut across the shared channel.
"Werewolf Battalion joining operation as ordered."
No warmth. No wasted words.
"Simo Heimlich," he replied evenly.
"86th Krieg Jäger Battalion. Acknowledged."
A pause—just long enough to feel deliberate.
"Maintain discipline," Brehme said.
"Laser-Class BETA expected ahead. Any deviation will be dealt with."
The channel closed.
Several mercenaries exchanged looks inside their cockpits.
"Friendly bunch," someone muttered.
Siegfried's Reaction
Siegfried felt it the moment her voice came through.
A sharp, involuntary spike in his chest—like ice water down his spine. His vision tunneled for half a second, HUD flickering as his heart rate jumped.
Don't panic.
Not again.
He forced his breathing slow, eyes fixed forward.
For a fleeting instant, a memory tried to surface:
A woman's voice. Cold. Commanding.
Stand still.
Look at me.
Gone—before he could grasp it.
Quiet Intervention
Simo opened a private channel.
"Jäger-Seven," he said calmly.
"Status."
Siegfried swallowed.
"Green," he replied. "Systems nominal."
Simo watched the data a second longer than necessary.
"Good. Stay on my wing when we engage. No heroics."
"Yes, sir."
The channel closed.
Simo didn't ask more. Not now. Battlespace was tightening, and Laser-Class meant death came from silence, not noise.
Ahead
Far on the horizon, something shimmered—barely visible, like heat distortion in winter air.
Laser-Class BETA territory.
West German defenses were dug in just beyond it, the Huckebein waiting, already bloodied. Above them, the sky was empty in the most dangerous way possible.
Mercenaries. Bundeswehr. Stasi.
Three forces that trusted each other only slightly more than the enemy.
And somewhere between them all, a seventeen-year-old boy piloting a MiG-21 Balalaika felt the past clawing its way back—
while the war ahead promised there would be no time left to run from it.
West German Sector — Engagement Zone
The battlefield was already on fire when they arrived.
Burned-out urban blocks and cratered farmland blended into a single killing ground, the air warped by heat and refracted light. BETA swarmed everywhere—Tank-Class hulks grinding forward like living fortresses, Destroyer-Class tearing through rubble, Warrior- and Soldier-Class flooding the gaps in endless waves.
And towering above them—
Laser-Class.
Their organic emitters pulsed rhythmically, firing invisible death skyward and across the field, carving glowing scars through buildings and wreckage alike.
Ground forces were already engaged.
West German armor burned along the defensive line, infantry dug into half-collapsed structures, firing desperately as the 51st Tactical Armor Battalion — Huckebein fought to keep the sector from collapsing outright.
"You're Late to the Party"
A sharp burst of cannon fire cut across the comms.
One of the Laser-Class BETA staggered—then its upper structure exploded in a shower of organic debris.
The firing TSF landed hard atop shattered concrete, smoke venting from its arms.
"About time you showed up," a confident voice chimed in.
"Were starting to think you mercs and wolves got lost."
The speaker's IFF flashed—
Major Joachim Balck, commander of the Huckebein.
His F-5G Freedom Fighter TSF swung its WS-16 Assault Cannon back into firing position, already chewing into a cluster of Warrior-Class BETA.
"You missed the appetizers," Joachim continued cheerfully.
"But the main course is still screaming."
A few mercenary pilots snorted despite themselves.
Command Discipline
"Joachim," another voice cut in sharply.
"Focus."
That was Circe Steinhoff, his second-in-command.
Her TSF pivoted smoothly, covering Joachim's flank as a Tank-Class BETA absorbed round after round before finally collapsing.
"Don't get carried away," Circe warned.
"Laser-Class density is still high. This isn't a shooting gallery."
"Relax," Joachim replied. "I only shoot what shoots back."
Then Circe's sensors updated.
New formations.
Parallel approach vectors.
Her jaw tightened.
"We've got additional forces," she said flatly.
"East German."
Her tone made it clear exactly how she felt about that.
Wolves and Mercenaries
The Werewolf Battalion advanced without ceremony.
Their TSFs slipped into firing positions with surgical precision, immediately targeting Laser-Class units. Coordinated volleys erupted—angular movements, disciplined bursts, no wasted motion.
Cold. Efficient. Unnerving.
The Jäger Battalion followed moments later, mercenary colors streaking through smoke and debris as Simo took command of the combined advance.
"All Jäger elements," Simo ordered,
"priority targets are Laser-Class. Huckebein, mark them—we'll tear them down."
"Gladly," Joachim replied. "Was getting tired of dodging the sky."
Siegfried Under Fire
Siegfried barely had time to react.
A Laser-Class emitter flared—then—
"INCOMING!" someone screamed.
A beam sliced through the space where he'd been a heartbeat earlier. Siegfried jerked the Balalaika sideways, armor screaming as fragments tore loose.
He stabilized—breathing fast but controlled.
Then he saw it.
A Werewolf unit had moved into perfect overwatch, its fire intersecting the Laser-Class emitter just as it charged again—decapitating it with ruthless precision.
No hesitation.
No wasted rounds.
Siegfried felt that same sharp ache in his chest.
I've seen this before…
Tension in the Ranks
"They fight like machines," a Jäger pilot muttered.
"Yeah," another replied, "that's what scares me."
Circe watched the Werewolf formation with open disdain.
"East Germans," she said coldly.
"Always pretending they're not human."
Joachim laughed, even as he fired again.
"Long as they're killing BETA, they can pretend to be aliens for all I care."
The Battle Escalates
Explosions stacked upon explosions.
Tank-Class BETA fell under combined fire. Destroyers were pinned and dismantled. Warrior-Class bodies piled so high they became cover.
But the Laser-Class still stood—fewer now, angrier, focusing their fire.
Simo's voice cut through every channel.
"This is it. All units—push now. Break them or we don't leave."
Mercenaries surged forward.
Huckebein dug in harder.
Werewolves advanced like executioners.
And amid it all, Siegfried flew straight into the fire—heart pounding, past screaming louder than the battlefield—
—about to learn why the name Stasi hurt so much to hear.
West German Sector — Battle at Full Burn
If the battlefield had been chaos before, it became methodical slaughter the moment the Werewolf Battalion fully revealed its hand.
They stopped reacting.
They began hunting.
The Werewolves Unleashed
At the forefront surged a MiG-23 Cheburashka, its angular frame painted in stark, intimidating Stasi colors—dark, predatory, stripped of any excess markings.
"First Lieutenant Katrina, engaging."
Her voice was flat. Emotionless.
Katrina's Cheburashka advanced straight into overlapping fire lanes, boosters flaring just enough to reposition as her assault cannon barked in precise, disciplined bursts. A Laser-Class emitter tried to track her—
She didn't dodge.
She timed it.
The beam fired. Katrina rolled through the residual heat distortion and returned fire mid-motion, rounds tearing straight through the Laser-Class' cranial structure. The massive organism collapsed before it could even retarget.
Behind her, another unit cut in sharply.
"Second Lieutenant Farka, covering."
Farka's movements were aggressive, almost brutal—his TSF hammering into Destroyer-Class BETA with short-range fire, then disengaging before their mass could retaliate. He didn't linger. Werewolves never lingered.
Then the battlefield shifted again.
Blades in the Smoke
A blur of motion cut through the ruins.
Lise's partner—known across the Stasi ranks for her mastery of the Type-77 blade—dropped from above, TSF landing amid a cluster of Warrior-Class BETA.
No gunfire.
Just steel.
The blade flashed once—twice—three times. Limbs fell. Heads followed. The motion was clean, almost graceful, as if violence itself had been reduced to a practiced art form.
"Contact neutralized," she reported calmly, already moving on.
Watching from a distance, several Jäger pilots went silent.
"…She's insane."
"No," another muttered. "She's trained."
Buch Squadron Enters
Then came the heavy hitters.
"Buch Squadron advancing," a commanding female voice announced.
Captain Rosalinde Buch led her unit forward in a tight wedge, her squadron moving with flawless cohesion. Their fire overlapped perfectly, chewing through Tank-Class BETA like industrial machinery dismantling scrap.
Every movement served a purpose.
Every shot was fatal.
This wasn't improvisation.
This was doctrine perfected by paranoia and fear.
Jäger Battalion Holds the Line
Despite the spectacle, the 86th Krieg Jäger Battalion did not falter.
Simo kept his formation tight, mercenary TSFs providing flanking fire, intercepting BETA that slipped past the Werewolves' advance. Huckebein units regrouped behind them, pressing forward under the renewed pressure.
"Jäger elements, keep supporting Huckebein," Simo ordered.
"Let the wolves run ahead—we'll make sure nothing bites their backs."
Assault cannons roared.
Explosions rippled across the battlefield.
Jäger pilots watched the Werewolves fight—not in awe, but with wary respect.
"They're monsters," someone muttered.
"Yeah," another replied. "But tonight, they're our monsters."
Siegfried Watching the Wolves
Siegfried flew on Simo's wing, firing when ordered, moving when told—but his eyes kept drifting back to the Werewolf formation.
The way they moved.
The discipline.
The cold efficiency.
Something deep inside him twisted painfully.
I know this…
I've seen this…
A sudden flash—boots on concrete.
A shouted command.
A red star painted over gray metal.
His heart skipped a beat.
"Jäger-Seven, stay focused," Simo warned gently over the private channel.
"Yes, sir," Siegfried replied—too quickly.
The pain faded, but the unease remained.
Momentum
The battlefield tilted decisively.
Laser-Class BETA fell one by one.
Tank-Class hulks burned.
The swarm began to fracture.
Between the relentless advance of the Werewolf Battalion and the steady, brutal pressure of Jäger and Huckebein, the enemy was no longer advancing.
It was dying.
And as the smoke thickened and the night burned brighter than day, one truth became undeniable to everyone watching:
The Stasi did not fight wars.
They ended them.
West German Sector — The Breaking Point
The battlefield finally cracked.
With the Laser-Class BETA systematically eliminated, the sky itself seemed to breathe again. No more invisible death cutting the air. No more sudden losses without warning. For the first time since contact, the defenders could maneuver freely.
And they did.
Collapse of the Swarm
Tank-Class BETA attempted to push forward—too late.
Huckebein's armor surged, main guns firing point-blank into exposed joints. Jäger units flanked mercilessly, herding Warrior- and Soldier-Class BETA into overlapping kill zones.
The Werewolves finished what remained.
Katrina's Cheburashka pivoted, boosters flaring as she drove straight through a collapsing formation, assault cannon punching holes with clinical precision. Farka covered her withdrawal without a word, his fire perfectly timed.
Captain Rosalinde Buch's squadron advanced like a wall, crushing resistance outright.
What had been a swarm became scattered prey.
A Moment Too Close
Siegfried didn't notice the Warrior-Class BETA until it was almost on him.
It burst from the smoke, massive and fast, closing the distance before his sensors screamed. His Balalaika reacted slower than his mind—
Too slow.
A beam of cannon fire sliced the BETA in half just meters from his cockpit.
"Jäger-Seven, watch your blind spot."
The voice was female. Calm. Cold.
He recognized the accent immediately.
Stasi.
For half a second, his vision blurred.
Hands forced onto controls.
A voice behind him.
"Do it again."
Siegfried gasped, fingers spasming on the controls.
"Jäger-Seven!" Simo barked. "Respond!"
"I— I'm good!" Siegfried forced out. "Still combat-capable!"
Another half-second passed.
Then he fired.
Clean bursts. Controlled. Perfect.
The panic vanished as suddenly as it had come—leaving only a hollow ache behind it.
End of Engagement
The last Destroyer-Class BETA fell beneath combined fire, its massive body collapsing into rubble and steaming organic matter. Sporadic contacts flickered, then disappeared entirely.
Silence crept back onto the battlefield—broken only by fires and cooling metal.
"All units," Joachim Balck announced, breathing hard but grinning,
"Huckebein sector secure. Drinks are on me—assuming we're still alive tomorrow."
A few weary laughs crackled across the channel.
Circe Steinhoff scanned the field, then spoke with quiet satisfaction.
"Confirmed. Laser-Class neutralized. No further mass movement."
Aftermath — Uneasy Allies
The Werewolf Battalion did not celebrate.
They halted. Stood guard. Weapons ready. No chatter.
Major Beatrix Brehme's voice came once—brief and absolute.
"Objective complete. Werewolf Battalion disengaging."
No congratulations. No thanks.
They simply turned and began repositioning, already preparing for whatever came next.
The Jäger pilots watched them go.
"They don't even look back," someone muttered.
"Predators don't," another replied.
Siegfried Alone Again
Siegfried hovered near a ruined building, Balalaika venting heat into the cold air. His heart had finally slowed—but his thoughts hadn't.
The Stasi voice echoed faintly in his head.
"Do it again."
He stared at his hands.
He didn't remember when he learned to fire like that.
Only that, for a brief moment, it felt… familiar.
Simo opened a private channel.
"You held it together," he said quietly.
"That's all that matters today."
"Yes, sir," Siegfried replied.
The battle was over.
But whatever the Stasi had carved into him long ago—
it had not stayed buried.
And now that the wolves had returned to the field,
it was only a matter of time before Siegfried remembered why.
West German Sector — After the Wolves Passed
Dawn crept over the ruins like an apology that came too late.
Smoke still curled from shattered buildings and melted streets, the battlefield lit in pale gray light that revealed the full cost of the night's fighting. Hulks of BETA lay strewn across the sector, their organic remains steaming in the cold air. Between them stood TSFs—scarred, dented, but upright.
The line had held.
Barely.
Regrouping
Huckebein units formed a loose perimeter while recovery crews began moving in. Infantry emerged from cover, weapons still raised out of habit more than necessity.
Joachim Balck powered down his F-5G Freedom Fighter, his voice relaxed but tired.
"Alright, party's over. Damage reports in ten. Anyone missing a limb, now's the time to complain."
Circe Steinhoff shot him a look even as she scanned the sector.
"You survived Laser-Class fire," she said dryly.
"Try not to die to paperwork."
Joachim laughed.
The Werewolves' Shadow
At the far edge of the battlefield, the Werewolf Battalion stood apart.
Their TSFs were aligned with unnerving precision, pilots silent, weapons still hot. Major Beatrix Brehme walked her formation like an inspector, eyes cold, posture rigid.
No one approached them.
Not Huckebein.
Not Jäger.
They were allies in function only.
"Creepy bastards," one mercenary muttered under his breath.
No one disagreed.
Siegfried's Fracture
Siegfried remained seated in his cockpit longer than necessary.
The silence pressed in on him now that the battle noise was gone. His HUD was clean. No warnings. No targets.
Yet his hands wouldn't stop trembling.
That moment—
The effortless firing.
The absence of fear.
It scared him more than the BETA ever had.
He closed his eyes.
A flash—
A firing range.
Targets shaped like silhouettes.
A voice behind him, sharp and uncompromising.
Again.
Siegfried inhaled sharply and forced his eyes open.
"You gonna stay in there all day?"
Arno's voice came over the local channel, lighter than the mood deserved.
"Or should we weld you to the seat and call it a new doctrine?"
Siegfried managed a weak chuckle.
"I'm coming out."
Simo Watches
From a distance, Simo observed the field—and Siegfried.
The kid had fought well. Too well, at the end.
Simo had seen that look before in other wars, other fronts. The look of someone who didn't just learn how to fight—but had been made to.
He didn't like it.
A Brief, Cold Encounter
As Jäger units repositioned, a Werewolf TSF passed close—its red star partially obscured, paint unmarred by the night's fighting.
A private channel opened without warning.
"MiG-21 pilot," a female voice said.
"Designation K-07."
Siegfried froze.
"Your control inputs during final engagement," the voice continued.
"They were… familiar."
Simo's head snapped up as he intercepted the channel.
"This is Jäger-One," he cut in sharply.
"Any further inquiries go through me."
A pause.
Long. Calculated.
"Understood," the Stasi voice replied.
"For now."
The channel closed.
Siegfried swallowed hard.
Quiet Before the Truth
The sun climbed higher.
The sector was secure.
The Laser-Class threat eliminated.
Another temporary victory carved out of blood and steel.
But for Siegfried, the war had shifted.
The Werewolves had seen him.
Recognized something in the way he fought.
And whatever the Stasi had taken from his past,
they had just proven it wasn't forgotten.
As the battalions prepared to move again, one truth settled heavily in the cold morning air:
The BETA were no longer the only thing hunting him.
Eastern Approach — K-Team Route
K-Team advanced through broken woodland and ruined rural infrastructure, sensors sweeping low and wide. The terrain here was deceptive—rolling ground, scattered trees, half-frozen streams. Perfect for ambushes. Perfect for observation.
Arno slowed the formation slightly.
"Maintain spacing. Passive sensors only," he ordered.
"If something's watching us, I don't want it knowing we noticed."
Too late.
Shadows in the Sky
Five contacts appeared on long-range sensors—high altitude, controlled thrust, perfect formation discipline.
MiG-23 Cheburashka.
IFF: East German.
Arno's eyes narrowed.
"K-Team, we've got company," he said calmly.
"Do not react. Weapons cold."
Siegfried saw them too—dark silhouettes cutting across the clouds like predatory birds. His pulse spiked, sharp and instinctive.
Werewolves.
Werewolf Battalion — Borkwalde Squadron
Above and offset from K-Team's route, five Stasi-painted Cheburashkas glided silently.
"Borkwalde-Two," a female voice reported.
"Visual confirmation. Mercenary formation below. That them?"
The lead unit adjusted its vector slightly.
"Ja," Captain Nicola Michalke replied, voice measured and controlled.
"That's K-Team. Confirmed."
Her TSF held steady, maintaining just enough distance to observe without provoking a response.
"Orders stand," Michalke continued.
"We wait. No engagement."
A Dangerous Question
Another pilot spoke up—Borkwalde-Three, her tone low, restrained.
"Captain… if that person really is him… perhaps we should—"
"Nein."
Michalke cut her off instantly. No anger. No hesitation.
"We are in West German territory," she said coldly.
"Any unauthorized action risks political fallout. Another conflict is the last thing this front needs—especially with BETA still at our doorstep."
A brief pause followed.
"Our role is observation. Nothing more."
"Understood," Borkwalde-Three replied, though the tension in her voice remained.
Below — Unaware, Yet Not
Siegfried felt it again.
That unmistakable pressure at the back of his mind—like eyes drilling into him through metal and glass. His hands tightened on the controls without conscious thought.
Arno noticed.
"Easy, kid," he said over a private channel.
"You feel it too?"
Siegfried hesitated, then answered quietly.
"Yes."
"Good," Arno replied. "Means you're not imagining things."
He didn't say who was watching.
He didn't need to.
Parallel Paths
Two formations moved on parallel courses through hostile land.
One pretending not to watch.
The other pretending not to notice.
Above them all, the clouds rolled slowly eastward—indifferent witnesses to a standoff that had nothing to do with BETA… and everything to do with a past that refused to stay buried.
For now, there were no shots fired.
But everyone involved understood the truth:
This was not a coincidence.
It was a prelude.
Eastern Approach — Sudden Convergence
K-Team crested a shallow rise—and nearly ran straight into another formation.
Five MiG-21 Balalaikas, weathered Soviet markings dulled by winter grime, hovered low over a ruined service road. Weapons hot. Formations loose.
Arno raised a hand instinctively.
"Unknown Soviet unit," he hailed, voice firm. "State status and intent."
The Soviet squadron leader answered after a beat, accent thick but controlled.
"Separated during BETA ambush," he said. "Main unit lost contact. We're falling back to regroup."
Arno didn't like how exposed they all were—but before he could reply, the sky shifted.
Wolves Cut In
Five dark shapes slid down from the clouds like blades.
Borkwalde Squadron.
Captain Nicola Michalke's voice cut across all channels—cold, absolute.
"Soviet unit, stand down. Hold position."
The Soviet pilots stiffened. Arno's eyes widened a fraction.
"Didn't expect you to show," Arno muttered on a closed channel.
Michalke didn't respond.
Because something far worse announced itself first.
Surrounded
The ground moved.
Sensor alarms screamed as organic mass erupted from treelines and broken fields—Destroyer-Class hulks pushing through debris, Tank-Class giants grinding forward, sealing every approach.
They were boxed in.
No clean escape vectors. No air cover.
Arno didn't hesitate.
"K-Team—defensive ring! Interlock fire lanes, now!"
Mercenary TSFs snapped into position, forming a tight perimeter around the Soviet Balalaikas.
Before Arno could even finish issuing secondary orders—
"Borkwalde Squadron," Michalke said calmly,
"Charge."
Side by Side
The Werewolves surged forward.
Cheburashkas plunged into the swarm with brutal precision, assault cannons hammering joints and cores. Michalke led from the front, cutting a corridor through advancing Destroyers to buy space.
"Soviet unit," she snapped, "integrate with K-Team. You defend, we strike."
No arguments.
The Soviet squadron slid into the defensive ring, Balalaikas opening up on incoming Warrior- and Soldier-Class BETA, their fire overlapping cleanly with K-Team's lanes.
Siegfried found himself firing in rhythm with a Soviet pilot on his left and a Werewolf on his right—three doctrines, one purpose.
Holding the Line
Tank-Class BETA absorbed round after round—until concentrated fire cracked armor and brought them down. Destroyers fell under coordinated crossfires. Snow vanished beneath fire and gore.
Arno's voice stayed steady.
"Good! Keep them at range—don't let the Tanks close!"
Michalke's squadron punched again and again, creating space whenever the ring threatened to collapse.
For several brutal minutes, there was no East or West.
Only survival.
Aftermath in Motion
The last Destroyer-Class collapsed with a thunderous crash, steam rolling across the battlefield. What remained of the swarm scattered—then broke.
Silence returned in ragged breaths and cooling metal.
Arno glanced at the tactical display—astonished.
"Hell of a time to make friends," he said dryly.
Michalke answered without looking back.
"This was not friendship," she replied.
"It was necessity."
Above them, the clouds closed again.
And somewhere in that uneasy quiet, everyone understood:
the line had held—
because enemies chose, briefly, to fight together.