December 25th, 2026 — 20:49 Hours.
Vermont National Guard Base — Northern Deployment Sector.
The wind outside howled like it was mourning something not yet dead.
Inside the hangar, the air was heavy — not just with diesel and frost, but with the kind of silence only killers knew. The kind of silence that came before everything went wrong.
A hundred men sat in cold metal rows.
No ranks. No names.
Only scars and steel and the hum of suppressed adrenaline.
The best of what was left.
Specters leaned forward, ghost-masked and still, already calculating angles and breach paths.
Grey Wardens hunched in their heavy armor, expressionless, knuckles white against their knees.
Ghosts, Black Hand, Task Force 141, Foxhound — all in formation, waiting.
None of them spoke.
None of them needed to.
The walls of the hangar creaked under the weight of Vermont winter. Condensation hung from the rafters like frozen sweat. Outside, the helicopters thudded rhythm into the earth—Apaches, Chinooks, Blackhawks—already fueled, blades turning, teeth bared.
At the front of the hangar stood a man that silence didn't touch.
General Walter Briggs.
Square-jawed. Weathered. Dressed not for ceremony, but for war.
No mic. No podium worth the name.
Just a bolted-down steel plate and a crumpled satellite photo behind him.
He spoke.
> "Gentlemen, I apologise for gathering you here on this Christmas night. But war doesn't pause for holidays."
His voice carried. Not because it was loud—but because it was real. Raw. Forged in decades of blood.
> "Your target is Fort Blackridge. Eastern face of Mount Mansfield. Old Cold War penitentiary. Supposed to be mothballed since '89."
He stabbed a gloved finger at the satellite photo — a grainy overhead of a structure buried in snow and mountain.
> "Intel says it's not empty."
A low murmur ran through the crowd, quiet as breath in a morgue.
> "Tonight, the three most dangerous criminal syndicates on U.S. soil are meeting there. The Black Brotherhood. The Musicians Cartel. The Red Lions."
He let the names hang like smoke.
> "They've stopped fighting. Started talking. That alone should terrify you."
He took a slow breath, eyes sweeping the room.
> "We don't know exactly what they're planning. But we know when: tonight. While your families drink eggnog and unwrap socks, these bastards are drawing lines through your country. Three factions. Three future states. One plan."
The lights buzzed above like insects trapped in frost.
Briggs didn't blink.
> "You've been cleared weapons-free. No civilians on-site. No journalists. No rules of engagement. If it breathes and fights—kill it. If it begs—use your judgment."
He paused.
And then his voice shifted.
Lower.
Sharper.
> "There's more."
A flicker of discomfort rippled across a few faces.
> "Unconfirmed reports suggest hostages. Women. Girls. Young ones. We believe they're trafficking victims—taken from across the East Coast, held beneath the fortress for trade or worse."
Frank Armstrong sat still in the second row, his helmet resting in his lap like a weight he barely noticed.
The moment the general mentioned children, he felt something shift beside him.
Bruce Redford, nearly seven feet tall and all stone and meat, leaned forward slightly—his hand closing tighter around the handle of the rigged minigun on his thigh.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
That was all it took. Bruce was in.
But Frank…
Frank's eyes narrowed.
There was something in the general's voice.
Something too clean.
Too practiced.
Like the line about hostages had been rehearsed. Written. Slotted in for effect.
> "If they're there," Briggs said, "you bring them out. Alive."
He let the silence sit.
Then:
> "You launch in sixty. Lock and load. Show them why this country still breathes."
He stepped down, not waiting for applause. There wasn't any.
The men rose like machines. Boots scraped. Buckles locked. Helmets slid on.
No cheers. No bravado.
Only purpose.
Frank stood slow. Pulled his gear tight. Checked his rifle. Loaded the round he always loaded last—one for himself, if it came to it.
Beside him, Bruce exhaled.
> "Still thinking about that tone?" he asked, half a growl.
Frank didn't answer immediately.
> "Something was off."
Bruce chuckled. "It's just Briggs. He always sounds like a funeral."
> "No," Frank said. "This was different. He sounded like he was saying goodbye."
Bruce shrugged, massive shoulders flexing beneath his vest.
> "You're overthinking it. We've done missions like this a hundred times. Hit hard, rescue the girls, be home by morning. Just another op."
Frank said nothing, he just stared toward the hangar doors, where the snow blew sideways in the wind. Then he muttered to himself.
> "Lets hope so."
And so he walked out towards the chopper's, and beside him, Bruce grinned. The mission had begun, and soon all the men were already seated within their own helicopters.
And outside their Blackhawk, the world seemed like it was made of ice and shadow, so cold.
Constantly snow beat against the windshield in streaks, dissolving against heat vents and vanishing into vapor. The rotors cut the air with steady rhythm, sharp as a heartbeat, dull as distant drums. The inside of the bird was dark, close, cold. No music. No jokes. Just nine men riding into hell, and secretly praying to God that they would come back.
Frank Armstrong sat with his back straight, carbine resting across his lap, boots braced against the floor. His eyes stared ahead, but his mind wasn't there.
Bruce Redford sat across from him, taller than everyone, broader than the bench itself, his minigun rig rigged and ready between his feet. His eyes were closed. Breathing slow.
They looked like warriors, and they were.
But tonight, in that moment — in the last stretch of sky before the guns started — they were just two men lost in their own thoughts.
Bruce was thinking about trees.
Not the dead pines of Vermont. Not the black ones charred by war or scattered along ridgelines like broken spears. He was thinking about Greenland. And Iceland. Places he'd never been.
He'd read that those countries were once green. Covered in forests.
But now… barren. Like him, in a way.
So he'd started donating to Greenland Trees and Mossy Earth, slipping parts of his Army salary into digital boxes he never told anyone about. He didn't trust NGOs, but these felt different. Personal.
These were something real, these were reforesting projects. Planting birch, rowan, willow. Life.
That meant something to him.
And if they survived this op?
He'd go see it. Maybe plant one himself.
He could already picture it now, tall, twisted, wind-battered, a tree that wouldn't break even when the wind howled.
Like him.
> "You still got that bad feeling?" Bruce asked suddenly, eyes still shut.
Frank blinked, stirred from his own thoughts.
> "Little bit," he admitted.
Bruce didn't open his eyes. He just exhaled.
> "You always get weird before insertions."
> "You always act like it's a vacation."
Bruce smiled.
> "Well, maybe it is. We do our job, blow the bad guys into paste, save the kids, get them reunited with family and relatives, and then it's back to planning our real mission."
> "The British Isles," Frank murmured, a small smirk forming.
Bruce opened one eye, grin widening.
> "That food challenge site you sent me—'Gods of Gluttony'—it's got a six-pound shepherd's pie in Cornwall. If you finish it in under 30 minutes, you get your name on the wall and a free dessert."
> "I already called ahead," Frank replied, deadpan. "They're expecting a 6'9" American freak with a minigun appetite."
> "You calling me a freak?"
"With affection."
Frank leaned his head back against the vibrating wall.
> "Cornwall. Then Kent. The Isle of Wight. Maybe Wales if we don't get stabbed."
> "You mean when we do get stabbed," Bruce corrected. "And I want to try haggis. Real haggis. In Scotland. None of that pre-made tourist crap."
Frank nodded. "You're going to end up starting a pub brawl over a meat pie, I can already tell."
> "Worth it," Bruce muttered, eyes closing again. "You know what I want to do after all that?"
Frank tilted his head.
> "Get a girlfriend who doesn't ghost you after seeing your freezer full of elk jerky?"
Bruce chuckled.
> "No. I wanna go home. Build a greenhouse. Finish the one I started before deployment. And then plant a thousand trees. Maybe more."
> "Reforesting Vermont?"
> "Everywhere. Iceland. Greenland. Vermont. Hell, even New Jersey if they'll let me."
Frank let that sit.
The minigun beside Bruce hummed softly, echoing the blades above.
For Frank, his thoughts were quieter.
Colder.
He wasn't thinking about trees or meat pies.
He was thinking about knighthood.
About the dream he and Bruce had back in high school—after beating Medieval 2 Total War. And especially when they later had that dream enforced when they later in life beat Dark Souls, three times on Ironman permadeath mode.
They'd promised to tour England, not just for food—but for honor.
To walk Hadrian's Wall.
To sleep in castles.
To drink beer at pubs named The Red Stag and The Hanging Bishop.
To see swords behind glass and imagine what it would've been like if the two of them were born into another time, a better time, or well a simpler one at least.
They would've been knights. Or warlords. Or kings. Not paid dogs sent to die by ghosts in suits.
Frank stared out the side hatch, at the snow, the mountains, the dark below.
He didn't believe in heaven.
But he believed in home.
And he'd take Bruce there, no matter how many corpses they had to climb over.
Then the radio clicked.
> "All units, this is Vulture Command. ETA to drop: ninety seconds."
Frank adjusted his grip.
Bruce opened his eyes.
And ahead, just past the drifting snow curtain, Fort Blackridge rose from the earth like a forgotten god.
It came into view through the snow, slowly, then all at once.
Fort Blackridge.
No lights flickered inside. No signs of welcome. Just jagged towers, thick stone walls, and razorwire draped like barbed garland along its crown. Spotlights were embedded in the concrete — not rusted, not broken, not abandoned.
Alive.
Waiting.
It looked like something ancient. A medieval stronghold torn from another world and shoved into the Vermont wilderness.
Bruce leaned forward slightly, squinting through the side hatch.
> "That's no prison."
Frank's stomach had already dropped.
> "That's a killbox."
Inside Echo-2, no one moved. The Specter across from Frank tilted his head, eyes narrowing behind the blacked-out mask. The Grey Warden beside Bruce reached silently for another mag.
None of them said what they were thinking.
The walls were manned.
There were men on those towers. Moving.
And that meant one thing, they were waiting for them. Then the radio came on again.
> "All units, prepare for descent."
"Apaches engaging primary targets. Breach plan is active. Countdown initiated."
Up ahead, two Apaches peeled downward — sleek, predatory, and silent — their nose cannons tracking along the outer walls of Blackridge.
Frank's hand found his rifle. Bruce tightened his harness straps.
And then—
The sound.
Sharp. Rising. Wrong.
Frank heard it just a breath before the comms lit up:
> "MISSILE LOCK—MISSILE LOCK!"
The first streak of light ripped upward from the tree line.
One of the Apaches exploded mid-air — disintegrated in a ball of fire and steel, sending rotors tumbling like scythes through the snowclouds.
> "Eagle-1 is down! Repeat—Eagle-1—!"
Another missile.
Then another.
The entire ridge lit up with muzzle flashes and tracer arcs. Red and orange zipped through the night like laser fire.
Below them, Fort Blackridge opened its throat and screamed.
Gunfire poured from every window, every tower slit, every rooftop. Dozens — no, hundreds — of insurgents. Armed. Ready. Firing.
> "We're taking fire! RPGs from the ridge—"
"Abort mission! ABORT! They're dug in! Repeat—"
But it was too late.
Blackhawk Echo-4 took a tail hit and spun sideways into the trees. Flames burst up as it clipped a power tower and vanished into fire and snow.
One of the Chinooks banked left — trying to escape the formation. It didn't get far.
Another missile soared out from a camouflaged bunker.
Direct hit.
The Chinook exploded — men, gear, fuel — all gone in a single flash of thunder.
Shrapnel from the blast peppered Echo-2.
Frank felt the bird jolt, hard.
Warning alarms blared.
> "We're hit! Tail rotor's out! I can't—" the pilot screamed.
"Hold on!"
Bruce reached for the ceiling brace. Frank locked into the side rail.
The Blackhawk dropped fast — nose dipping, rear dragging.
Frank's stomach lurched.
They weren't flying anymore.
They were falling.
> "Brace!"
"Twenty meters!"
"Ten—!"
The Blackhawk slammed into the outer wall, bounced off, spun mid-air, and crashed down into the courtyard, skidding across frozen concrete.
Metal screamed.
Men inside screamed louder.
Frank was thrown sideways, his shoulder slamming against the hull. A Specter was torn in half by a broken bulkhead. Another soldier's helmet caved in against the wall.
And then, came silence.
Just the sound of wind and creaking steel remained for a moment, as Frank then opened one eye.
The bird was tilted.
Twisted.
Not burning.
But the storm had arrived.
Gunfire cracked from above. Dozens of flashes blinked from towers and windows.
Shouting.
War cries.
> "Get the pigs!"
"¡Ahora, ahora!"
"For the Brotherhood! Bury them here!"
Hearing it Frank immediately tried the radio.
> "Titan-1 to Command. We're down. Repeat—we're down in the courtyard. Request—"
But there was only static. It seemed they were alone now, and so Frank looked to Bruce and asked.
> "You good?"
Bruce, bloody but upright, gave a thumbs up.
> "Still breathing."
Frank slid into cover beside the broken door.
The bird's frame rattled with incoming rounds. Sparks lit the cabin. Muzzle flashes flickered on the stone.
They were surrounded, but they weren't dead yet.
Then the bullet's came, they chewed through the helicopter frame like termites.
Rounds ricocheted off twisted steel , hitting the crews already dead unmoving bodies. Sparks bounced across Frank's visor. Bruce yanked the side door closed halfway and positioned the minigun barrel against the open slit, his grip steady. The chain-fed monster hissed softly as he locked the trigger.
Frank popped out from cover, squeezed off two quick bursts — dropped a shooter on the upper balcony, then ducked back in.
> "Top left tower's got a spotter," Frank muttered.
"Saw it," Bruce growled. "Mine."
He fired a three-second burst. Concrete splintered. A body dropped.
From above, the gangs continued to scream:
> "Light 'em up!"
"They ain't making it past this wall!"
"Fire everything! KILL THEM!"
Black Brotherhood soldiers rained fire from sandbag nests, chanting in cadence as they loosed rounds.
Musicians Cartel gunners leaned out from prison buses-turned-bunkers, spraying LMGs like madmen.
Red Lions moved in disciplined formations—rifles braced, bayonets fixed, shouting war hymns and pseudo-religious curses from above.
Then—
The treads.
Tanks.
Frank's eyes widened as the steel gates on the far side of the courtyard split open, and two T-72s, patched with cartel paint and Brotherhood flags, rumbled into the open.
> "We've got armor," Frank hissed.
"That's new," Bruce muttered.
One of the turrets swiveled, locking onto the downed Blackhawk.
There was no way out.
Frank turned to Bruce.
> "Move—"
But he didn't have to finish the sentence.
Because from the sky above, came the scream of an engine.
Not a missile.
A plane.
Low. Private. Sleek. And falling fast.
The tanks never saw it coming.
Impact.
The plane slammed down into the courtyard like a divine hammer, right between the two tanks. The explosion was massive — a blinding bloom of flame and thunder that tore the air in half.
Shockwaves blasted across the yard.
The left tank was launched sideways into a wall.
The right tank flipped like a child's toy, crashing down in a fireball.
Gangsters were thrown into the air.
The courtyard shook.
And out of the smoke, falling like a spear from heaven—
Chad von Richter. The Punisher.
Ballistic shield strapped to his back.
Grenade launcher in hand.
Pistol at his hip, rifle slung, belt loaded with grenades, mags, and death.
He landed in a crouch. Rose. Smiled.
> "Merry fucking Christmas," he said.
Then he fired a grenade straight into the upper tower.
BOOM.
The top half collapsed. Bodies rained down like snow angels made of blood and fire.
Frank leaned out of cover, jaw tight, rifle raised.
> "Damn, did he just use a plane as a missile?"
Bruce blinked, unfazed.
> "Of course he did, you know how he is, money is nothing to that guy."
Chad strode through the smoke like it wasn't even there, ballistic shield catching bullets with loud, angry pings as they ripped toward him. A squad of Musicians were hauling a .50 cal into place on a makeshift tripod when he leveled his grenade launcher.
> "Nope."
He fired.
The entire corner of the barricade detonated, sending men, metal, and limbs spinning through the air.
He didn't stop walking.
> "Seems you already started the party without me. Although then again I was never invited, but I thought I might as well drop by, why the hell not." He said through the open channel. "Figured you might need some real testosterone."
> "You're late," Frank said dryly.
> "I'm always late to funerals. Too much drama. Not enough action."
> "This isn't a funeral."
> "Not ours," Chad replied, grinning behind the visor.
Frank climbed from the wreckage. Bruce followed, reloading as he moved. And then without a word needing to be said the three moved fast, tight and deadly. After all it wasn't their first time meeting up and working together. Although it had not always been like this, back in school there was a time when Chad had been the asshole bully who beat the two each week at least once, just because he could, and something to do with him thinking that the two were gay or something.
Nonetheless Chad led, shield up, absorbing fire like a walking wall.
Frank flanked, slipping between craters and bodies, dropping targets like dominoes.
Bruce advanced behind the shield, minigun roaring like a war god, his massive frame lumbering forward with the unstoppable force of judgment.
Gangsters screamed. Barricades crumbled. Blood slicked the concrete.
One by one, the towers went silent.
They reached the gate.
A towering slab of reinforced steel, twisted from the inside by a poorly aimed RPG. Smoke drifted from the edges. The opening was just wide enough for three ghosts to slip through.
Chad held at the breach, shield still raised.
> "We go in now?" he asked, voice lower, serious.
Frank paused. He glanced up—past the walls, to the trees and mountains beyond. The gunfire was fading in the distance. Retreating? Or regrouping? Most likely all the others who survived the landing were already dead and now the gangsters were coming their way, but still there was a chance.
> "We could push out through the back," he said slowly. "There's cover along the ridge. Snowfall's thick. We've got enough to punch out and disappear."
Bruce turned his head sharply.
> "You're saying we run and abandon the mission, the hostages?"
> "I'm saying we live," Frank replied. "Command's gone silent. Comms are dead, everyone except us are dead as well. This mission is over."
> "We came to save those kids," Bruce growled. "We saw what they did to our people. You think I'm walking away from that? For their sake we have to finish this, I have to finish this or at least try."
> "They've got tanks," Chad said flatly. "They had fucking tanks, Bruce. Surface-to-air missiles. They were ready. This wasn't a raid—it was a massacre."
Bruce only huffed and said.
> "Then we return the favor."
> "Jesus," Chad muttered, slinging his launcher. "You're serious."
> "Deadly."
Bruce stepped forward, past the shield. His eyes were locked, not on Chad, not on Frank—but on the smoke-choked maw of the fortress.
> "You two can run. I won't blame you. But I'm going in. There are hostages. Even if there's just one kid in there still breathing—then I finish the damn mission."
Frank watched him walk.
Watched the way his silhouette moved through the firelight, like something out of a different time. A giant. A soldier. A brother.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Then followed.
> "You think I'd let you go in alone?" he said. "Idiot."
Bruce didn't turn around. He didn't have to.
Chad sighed loudly, pulled his shield into position, and swore under his breath.
> "Goddammit. Why can't either of you be the one with common sense? AHH fuck, never would have guessed these two had such balls, or maybe they are just idiots. Well they are my idiots and I'm not letting them go on without me."
And so Chad the Punisher jogged after them.
> "Wait for me you little fucks and let this big over two meters of muscle of a man take the lead. But just so you know, if I get shot in the ass because of this? I'm so taking it out of your future beer fund, and no more bro loans to you two and for anymore armoured cars in the future, the governments gonna have to fund that next time."
> "Noted," Frank said.
> "Shut up and focus, this is serious work." Bruce added.
And the three of them moved forward.
Chad at the front, shield catching the first line of fire.
Bruce behind him, minigun whirring like a chainsaw of judgment.
Frank on the flank, sliding between shadows and steel, quick, clean, and lethal.
They slipped through the breach like smoke through a crack in the wall.
And within Fort Blackridge they went, and behind them steel creaked as they passed through the breach.
Smoke and dust curled through the fractured threshold like the breath of something ancient. The air inside the fortress was colder than outside—dead air, unmoved, heavy with powder and rot. The halls were dark, long, and red-lit by flickering emergency strobes. Every sound was sharp. Every footstep echoed like a heartbeat in a coffin.
Chad the Punisher took point, shield up, and rifle drawn across the top lip. He moved with heavy-footed confidence, like a over two meters tall sentient battering ram made of muscle.
Bruce the slightly shorter one followed behind him, mini gun spinning slowly, and shoulders hunched like a war beast ready to charge.
Frank the shortest and the fastest of the three used his mobility. He ghosted between pillars and doorways—eyes scanning, rifle raised, silent as a breath.
And within Fort Blackridge the walls bore the ghosts of the past. Chains still hung in some cells. Blood—not fresh—lined the corners. Symbols had been painted over the old prison signage: skulls, crowns, inverted crosses, gang emblems etched in with blades.
For Frank and Bruce the fans of medieval history and games, this was not anymore looking like just a stronghold, or a castle. It was more like a start of a kingdom, one built on corpses.
Nonetheless they moved room by room—clearing each one fast, there was no wasted movement.
First hallway: empty.
Second: collapsed from a controlled blast.
Third: motion—two cartel gunners, startled, not ready.
> "Contact—left!" Frank called.
Chad turned, shield raised. One round pinged harmlessly off the ballistic plate before he fired a two-round burst—tap tap—and dropped them both. Frank moved to confirm the kills.
> "Clear."
> "They're on edge," Bruce said. "Expecting someone to come—but not us."
> "Means they didn't know we were still alive," Chad replied. "Good. Let's ruin that."
Then came the first clue as they breached a former security checkpoint, that was now more like an command post for the Musicians Cartel. Maps were scattered. Laptops still open, running decrypted message chains.
Frank skimmed them quickly.
> "They were organizing evacuation points. Ammo counts. Prisoner transfers…"
He trailed off.
Bruce stepped forward asking.
> "Are they the hostages?"
Frank pointed at a line.
> "No mention. Just 'cargo successfully sold and moved out three days ago. And so it seems there are none of them here."
Bruce went still, then, slowly, his knuckles tightened around the minigun.
> "So no heroic rescue of women and children, followed by a happy Christmas celebration, right? Were we really too late?"
In response Frank just shrugged and said.
> "Looks like it. Intel sure messed this one up bad, this whole mission is just a complete mess."
Chad didn't say anything. He just looked toward the stairs leading further down into the heart of the mountain. Then he looked at the way they came from, there was no movement yet, but he knew that sooner or later the gangsters above were going to come for them here.
Bruce although wasn't concerned with any of this, he as the optimistic one merely said. "I say we go deeper, and we kill every last one of these bad guy's. Let's at least try to get one objective complete like so, and avenge the deaths of our fallen."
And so further within they moved. And the lower they went, the more the corridors seemed to narrow.
Concrete peeled away to reveal steel. The walls pulsed with red emergency strobes, bathing the descent in bloodlight. Pipes hissed along the ceiling. Power cables snaked across the floor like veins in a dying god.
At the end of the hallway, a heavy blast door stood partially ajar — sparking, groaning from a misaligned locking rod.
The three didn't speak.
Chad took point, shield forward.
Bruce followed close behind, weapon up and spinning.
Frank ghosted to the edge of the hallway, rifle low, eyes sharp.
Unknown to them, they were being watched from security cameras within the command center. Behind the blast doors, beyond an armored threshold deeper in the core, the command center of Fort Blackridge buzzed with life.
A semi-circular array of monitors wrapped around the rear wall — each showing thermal signatures, surveillance feeds, breach zones, collapsed corridors. In one monitor: the ruined courtyard. In another: the stairwell. The three shadows approaching the final door.
They watched.
Saint Templeton leaned forward, cigar clenched in teeth, body wrapped in matte-black riot armor with red stripes and tribal markings. The skull of a police badge was bolted to his chest plate.
El Maestro Reyes sat in a throne-like chair made of reinforced plastic and bolted weapons. He wore cartel-modified body armor plated in gold. His mask was a stylized skull. His gloves fingered two custom pistols lazily.
Lord Henry McGrath stood tall, unmoving. His armor was crimson-ceramic hybrid plating, polished to mirror sheen. A white Union Jack stretched across his back like a cape. A saber hung at his hip. A grenade launcher on his back.
> "They made it further than expected," McGrath said, voice even, cold.
> "Means we get to kill them ourselves," Templeton growled.
> "I've waited for this," Reyes whispered. "Three men who think they can stop a nation."
> "Three martyrs," McGrath corrected. "Let them in."
Then the Final Door hissed open slowly, groaning as the deadlock disengaged.
Chad was the first through.
The moment he crossed the threshold, bullets erupted from the far end of the room.
Three Juggernauts. Three warlords.
And a dozen heavily armed soldiers in exoskeletons, carbines, thermal optics — elite gang enforcers. The last line.
The control room had been fortified for war, and so the Fight Began with a shout.
> "GO LOUD!" Chad roared, shield raised.
Rounds smacked into his plate like a drumline, forcing him back, step by grinding step.
Bruce stepped to the right, brought his minigun up, and fired.
The roar was thunder.
The front line of enemies disappeared under a tide of blood and metal — torsos shattered, gear exploded off bodies, screams choked under lead.
> "Reloading!" Bruce shouted.
> "Flanking left!" Frank called, already moving.
He dipped into smoke, sliding low past a console. A guard turned — too late. Frank's knife kissed the soft spot under the helmet. Then came one twist, a single breath, and the target was dead.
Chad threw a frag grenade forward — it bounced once, rolled into a huddled trio of Musicians, and detonated.
BOOM.
The bodies flipped backward.
> "Keep pressure left!" Chad barked.
He advanced, using the shield as a battering ram. Then a Red Lion rushed him with a fire axe. Chad sidestepped, slammed the shield forward, and crushed the man's skull against the wall.
Another gunner tried to line up a shot, Frank shot him in the temple first.
Bruce rotated right and ripped through the gang's center line, clearing consoles and bunkers.
Then from further behind the room the Leaders engaged.
Templeton charged first — shotgun raised, roaring.
> "I'll bury you like I buried half the damn city!"
Chad met him shield-first. The shotgun blast ricocheted. Templeton tackled him into a wall, both giants grunting, brawling like titans. Chad headbutted through the helmet visor, then body-checked the warlord across the room.
Reyes slid across a countertop, pistols blazing, gold plating flashing in the light.
Bruce met him with fire.
The minigun's chain hit him center mass, shredded the lower half of his armor. Reyes screamed, rolled, dropped a flashbang.
White-out.
Then, Silence.
Frank reappeared from behind a console — low, blade drawn.
> "Hey," he whispered.
Reyes turned.
The knife went in through the neck. Deep. Clean. A perfect flank.
> "Adiós."
McGrath stepped down from the upper catwalk like a walking god, saber drawn, launcher in his other hand.
He fired once — a concussion grenade.
It threw Frank off his feet.
He turned to Bruce.
> "A knight, are you?"
Bruce fired.
McGrath deflected it with the shield mounted to his gauntlet — sparks flew.
He lunged.
The blade scraped across Bruce's pauldron — nearly cut through.
But Chad came in from the side, tackling the warlord against the railing.
> "Sorry, your majesty. I don't bow to cowards."
With the strength of a bodybuilder he then punched three times. The visor cracked. Then Bruce leveled the barrel and said.
> "Eat this."
Click. Boom.
McGrath dropped.
Breathing heavy, blood in the air, the room fell silent again.
All three warlords were dead. While the screens behind them flickered, then they too died.
The command room was quiet now.
Blood pooled beneath the shattered consoles. Three warlords lay dead — sprawled in broken armor, their bodies twitching with the last gasps of failed empires.
Smoke curled toward the ceiling, dancing lazily in the flicker of dying overhead lights.
Frank lowered his rifle slowly.
Bruce stood over McGrath's corpse, breathing like a storm engine cooling off.
Chad paced along the far side of the room, muttering curses under his breath, blood smeared across his knuckles, his cracked visor hanging half off his helmet.
The quiet wasn't peace.
It was the kind of silence that followed something wrong. Not finished. Just… waiting.
Then they heard it.
Not footsteps exactly.
Just the slow, wet drag of a man who should've already been dead.
Frank turned first, rifle halfway up before he froze.
There, staggering through the open doorway, was a man barely standing.
His uniform was shredded, torn into hanging strips. His vest was pockmarked with bullet holes and soaked red. His face was a mosaic of blood, swelling, and bone — one ear gone, an eye swelling shut, his lips trembling. His shoulder had been shot clean through, and his right leg dragged behind him like an anchor.
But somehow, he walked.
Frank moved without thinking, crossing the room in a few long strides and catching him just before he collapsed.
> "Easy. I've got you."
Bruce dropped to one knee beside them. Chad just raised a brow.
> "That one of yours?" he muttered. "Looks more like a chew toy."
The man tried to speak — coughed, gasped, and finally rasped out:
> "Run… the bomb…"
Frank leaned closer.
> "What bomb?"
> "It's… below. Wired into the core. Storm Shadows, fuel tanks, chemical drums… everything. On a timer. It's gonna blow the whole fucking mountain."
> "Who armed it?"
> "Me…" the man choked. "I was the inside man. Sent to destroy the gangs. Set it, then exfil. No one told me… they'd send you too. No evac. No backup."
> "How long?"
> "Minutes."
Chad stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
> "Who gave you the order?"
The man coughed again — a weak smile spreading across his ruined face.
> "All of them."
He convulsed once.
Then stilled.
Frank laid him down gently.
The blood kept spreading.
> "Goddammit," Chad muttered. "We were the objective. A story to sell the next regime."
Frank didn't answer. His jaw was tight. Eyes unreadable.
Bruce stood slowly, shaking his head.
> "That can't be true. Command wouldn't… not Briggs. Not to us."
Frank didn't look up.
> "Look around, Bruce. Dead men. Soviet missiles. Half a nation's worth of cartel funding. No reinforcements. No comms. It was never about hostages."
Bruce flinched.
> "No… We were sent here to save people."
> "There's no one left to save," Chad snapped, pointing to the corpse. "Except ourselves. That is, if we move now."
But Bruce's face had gone still — cold, stubborn.
> "Even if there's one child hiding in this hellhole," he said quietly, "I'm not leaving them behind."
Frank sighed, gripping his rifle tighter.
Chad swore under his breath.
Then the stairwell lit up with fire.
Boots thundered down from above. Shouts echoed.
Then came the bullets — chewing through the control panels, shattering steel, slicing through air.
Frank ducked. Bruce grabbed a shotgun from a dead enforcer and pumped a shell.
> "Hold the line!" Frank shouted.
> "We're not going to make it!" Chad snapped.
> "Then we die like kings," Bruce growled.
And so they turned to face the dark one last time.
Side by side.
Together, as the world was breaking.
Screams echoed through the stairwell. The firelight was growing. Shadows raced across the walls — gang reinforcements pouring in with rage and desperation, yelling curses in five languages, trying to avenge their kings.
Frank's radio was still dead.
The timer was ticking down somewhere below, buried under layers of steel and payloads meant to kill nations. But they didn't need a countdown. The air already smelled like burning copper and raw fuel. The mountain was already groaning, as if it knew it was about to die.
> "Incoming left!" Chad roared.
He moved to the doorway, shield raised. Rounds pinged off his plate like metal rain. One bullet clipped his shoulder and spun him, but he stayed up. Held the line.
Bruce stood beside him, shotgun in one hand, sidearm in the other. Blood streamed down his arm from a shrapnel cut — ignored.
Frank crouched behind a destroyed console, dropping a final mag into his rifle. He fired once, twice. Hit two. The rest kept coming.
There were too many.
> "We're out of time," Frank said.
> "Then let's make them bleed," Chad growled.
Bruce dropped behind cover beside Frank, breathing heavy. His armor was cracked. His eyes were calm.
> "You remember that night?" he asked suddenly.
Frank looked at him.
> "Which one?"
> "The porch. After the drive-by."
Frank said nothing.
Bruce smiled faintly.
> "You were twelve. You held my hand and begged me not to die."
> "I remember."
> "You saved me that day."
Bruce looked away, then back again. Slower this time.
> "I love you, Frank."
Frank blinked. Stared at him.
> "You're my brother. Always have been. If I don't say it now…"
Frank swallowed.
> "You don't have to."
> "I want to."
Frank leaned forward, forehead resting against Bruce's. Their helmets clinked. Their breath mingled.
> "You always were the best of us," Frank whispered. "The heart. The fire."
> "And you were the spine," Bruce replied. "The will. I'd never have made it this far without you."
> "Neither would I."
> "Guess we die together then?"
Frank smiled through the blood.
> "Better than dying apart."
A pause.
Then—
> "Man…" Chad muttered from the other side of the room. "I always knew you two were fucking gay."
Frank laughed — actually laughed.
Bruce snorted.
> "Shut the fuck up, Chad," Frank called out.
> "Not judging," Chad shouted back. "Just… maybe save the honeymoon for after the goddamn building explodes."
And then it happened, exactly at, 22:20.
A deep, metallic pulse surged through the ground — not a bang. A thump. Like a giant heartbeat beneath the mountain.
The lights died.
The floor shook.
The ceiling split.
And from somewhere far below, the first warhead cooked off.
The fire came next — not red, not orange.
White.
It flooded the corridor in an instant, ripping steel off walls and vaporizing everything in its path. The explosion moved up, out, through — eating oxygen and light as it came.
Chad turned one last time, his visor cracked, teeth bared in a grin.
> "Merry Christmas, assholes."
Frank held Bruce's hand.
Bruce didn't let go.
The fire took them whole.
***
December 25th, 2026 — 22:23 Hours
White House Sublevel, Strategic Operations War Room
Applause echoed beneath Washington.
In the sublevels of the West Wing, below the map-lined walls and stainless steel doors, the War Room was alive with celebration. Suits clinked glasses of bourbon. Generals in combat fatigues gave polite nods to Defense Department reps with perfectly shaved beards. Congressional liaisons laughed about stock surges. No one talked about the bodies.
On the far wall, a 30-foot screen flickered with satellite footage.
The crater still glowed orange — a circular pit of molten ruin carved into the snowy mountain like God had poked His finger through the crust of Vermont.
Above the feed, bold letters read:
OPERATION FINAL STAND: MISSION COMPLETE
CASUALTIES: 132
ENEMY CONFIRMED KIA: 287+
SPECIAL FORCES SURVIVORS: 0
That last number made someone raise their glass.
> "Zero survivors," said Undersecretary Lawson, swirling his drink. "Goddamn perfect execution."
> "I thought that one unit might make it out," muttered Colonel Reyes, reading from a tablet. "The—what were they called? Army of Two?"
> "They didn't," said the Secretary of War, lighting a cigar. "Which is the point. Clean, poetic, heroic. A gift-wrapped martyrdom."
Behind them, a young analyst tapped away at a terminal. Her voice was small, unnoticed.
> "I think… they were trying to call for evac. There's fragments of a signal—"
She was cut off by a voice over the speakers.
"Public address draft ready for confirmation," said an AI-generated female voice.
"Would you like to review the Presidential speech now or approve the prewritten format?"
President Ethan Royce, forty-five, ex-senator, strong jaw, whiter teeth than conscience, stepped forward with a smile that never touched his eyes.
> "Let's hear it."
The screen shifted.
A pre-recorded draft flickered into life, clean white font over a waving flag.
"Fellow Americans,
Today, we remember the brave men who gave their lives to stop tyranny from rising within our own borders. In the face of treason, they chose sacrifice. And because of them… we are free."
> "Good tone," someone said.
"Perfect Christmas tragedy," said another.
The President nodded.
> "Run it live in ten. Full national broadcast. Have the Pentagon issue ribbons to next of kin — make them shiny. Mothers like shiny."
Someone cracked a joke about "Christmas spirits" and bourbon was poured again.
Behind them, the crater burned on.
Somewhere, beneath the ash, were three men who had fought for something more.
But they were gone now.
Burned away.
Rewritten into a myth for someone else's purpose.
And in the War Room, where truth didn't matter and death was currency—
The clapping continued.