Location: Unknown
Year: Unknown
Across the blood-soaked landscape lay the shattered remnants of a forward base, its walls reduced to rubble, its defensive emplacements twisted into grotesque scrap. The acrid scent of burnt metal and ozone hung heavy. The snow resembled a crimson field as countless bodies, several derelict vehicles, and fallen aircraft lay wasted upon it.
Their enemy, an army bent on conquest, advanced relentlessly. Their objective was chillingly clear: defend the monstrous, colossal towering device at all costs, even as the skeletal remains of their own support structures smoked around it.
Several turrets peppered the terrain, their intensified fire tearing through anything that dared approach. Gigantic, powerful vehicles, their forms unknown, rumbled forward, while infantry, armed with formidable weapons, systematically shot down anything that dared approach the colossal structure.
From the command bridge of our gigantic gunship, he watched, utterly powerless, as his people perished one by one trying to bring down the device but can never make it that far. Then he saw it: at the front of the device, leading its defense, a hooded figure. A dark, efficient silhouette against the pristine snow, it moved with chilling precision, unleashing a barrage of explosive darts that tore through all opposition.
It dodged like a ghost against our army's assault; countless bullets, shells, lasers, thunder strikes, cryo beams, and even the neutron cannon shots capable to warp time itself tried to find its mark, only for not a single one to land. The figure laughed maniacally with uncanny thirst, relishing every scream, explosion, and moment of agony from our army's might.
The figure laughed maniacally, its response filled with even more bloodlust. The explosive darts intensified their assault, tearing through our lines with greater ferocity. And then, its physic power manifested, levitating every vehicle that dared to approach. With a flick of its unseen wrist, the figure flipped the vehicles, sending them crashing down in fiery explosions.
The screams of the dying echoed, a desperate counterpoint to the enemy's chilling unison shout from the Enemy: "The world and our minds belong to him! Surrender your free will and witness the glory of the One who will take the world!"
He witnessed it all with his own eyes—the desperate charges, the impossible odds, the sickening inevitability of doom. We intensified our assault with our strongest forces, but their power was overwhelming. Even with the Engine's support, they prioritized the device's defense above their own lives. Then, a piercing, mechanical wail ripped through the bridge. A catastrophe has strucked the Engine.
"Defense system compromised! We're losing power, our defenses are down!" A voice blared over the intercom, static-laced but unmistakably panicked. A cold sweat slicked my face.
"Systematic defense nodes one and zero have fallen! Two intruders, they've bypassed our shields from the inside!" Personnel screamed, confirming two hooded figures had sabotaged the nodes. A violent explosion tore through the heart of the Engine, obliterating the remaining guarded sectors.
A gut-wrenching explosion shuddered through the gunship's core, throwing him violently against the console. Just then, a torrent of explosive darts, bullets, and rockets found their mark, tearing into the weakest part of the Engine: the primary energy section, the very source of our defensive shield. The gunship groaned, a dying leviathan, as it began its irreversible descent.
Orders screamed through the chaos. "Evacuate! Everyone out!" the intercom agent voiced bellowed, urging them away from the plummeting Engine.
But he couldn't leave. Someone had to guide this plummeting beast. With grim resolve, he clawed his way back to the mangled controls.
"Sir... you need... evacuate... immediately!" A crew member, his voice fading in and out amidst the cacophony, tried to persuade him as the gunship pitched further. His vision blurred, my ears rang with a deafening ping.
"No. Go on. Don't worry about me. I have to stay. This is our only... our only chance against them, and I won't let them have it!" he barked, his voice laced with an authoritarian finality. He slammed the door button, locking it shut.
"Sir! Please... join the others... to the... Hangar... join them to escape the Engine!" The intercom blared in his ear, a voice filled with urgent concern, pleading for him to evacuate the rapidly plummeting Engine.
"No," I replied, my voice resolute, "I have to stay! It's been a long journey... I can't abandon my duty. I have to minimize... the damage. This is our last card against them." he ripped out his earpiece, casting it aside. His decision was made; he would remain to steer the crippled Engine, now a falling meteor.
Power drained, systems unresponsive—there was no stopping its fall. His only option was to steer us directly toward their towering device, a desperate, suicidal gamble to take it down with us. A searing pain lanced through his skull; his hand instinctively flew to his head, coming away slick with blood. His vision flickered, accelerating flashes of the descent interspersed with suffocating blackness.
"Is this the end?" The words rasped from his bleeding lips, a fragile whisper lost in the roar of the descent. He held on with his last ounce of strength as the gigantic gunship slammed into the colossal tower.
The crash threw him to the ground, his head bleeding profusely, pain searing through him as his sense of balance vanished. He dragged himself towards the wall, slumping against it.
Then, a loud crash ripped through the air, followed by a series of explosions in the front sectors that quickly engulfed my location, consuming the bridge of the engine.
"Finally, I can rest now." A faint smile appeared on his face; it had been a long journey, and fatigue had worn him down.
He closed his eyes and accepted it without regret as the explosions slowly engulfed him. His vision went dark as the void came to claim him.
Then he woke abruptly, gasping for air, drenched in a cold sweat. The profound silence of my room was a stark, almost deafening contrast to the nightmare's cacophony. A dream? It felt too real, too vivid. Like a horrifying vision, a chilling glimpse of the end itself—a foreboding omen that lingered.
Today was February 26, 1984.
The digital display on the cheap alarm clock glowed 7:00 AM, beeping periodically, a stark contrast to the chaotic battlefield of his
dreams. His name was James Rutherford, twenty-seven and currently jobless. He stretched in his bed, the familiar ache in his shoulders a dull companion. His rented room in a New Jersey apartment, small but his own, offered a quiet solitude he'd come to appreciate.
He didn't mind being out of work; it simply freed him up for more "trivial matters," as he liked to call them, he never worried in expenses as he save enough back in the day on his service. He swung his legs out, padding barefoot into the kitchen. The rhythmic hiss and gurgle of the automatic coffee maker soon filled the air, a comforting counterpoint to the distant city sounds.
While the dark brew dripped, he glanced at the stacked boxes in the corner, still unpacked from his last move. It had been years since his discharge from the army, years since he last commanded a squad of troopers, his tactical brilliance and commanding performance earning him accolades even as he walked away. He had served his time. Why go back to that bullshit? he thought, a familiar bitterness rising.
Mug in hand, steam curling lazily, James settled onto the worn couch in his living room. The television flickered to life, the clear image of a news anchor filling the screen. The headlines, as always, painted a picture of a world teetering on the brink of war. Analysts droned on about Soviet Russia's resurgence, their might growing exponentially after their losses in what the world now called the Second Great War.
The relationship between the Soviet Union and the Allied Nations, once cautiously cooperative, had soured considerably, yet an uneasy neutrality somehow persisted.
James took a long sip of his coffee, a bitter warmth spreading through him. "They remain friendly, while showing hints of hostility," he murmured to the empty room, a hint of irony in his voice.
"I Hope it won't escalate any further from that point." He raised the mug for another swallow, about to finish his morning ritual, when a loud, insistent pounding erupted from his front door, rattling the cheap wood in its frame.
The insistent thumping on his door intensified, punctuated by intervals that felt less like knocking and more like a demand.
"Hello Mr. James Rutherford? Are you there?" A voice, sharp and authoritative, cut through the wood.
"I'm coming!" James shouted. He stretched, walked to the doorway, and peered through the spy hole. His face hardened. A man in a full tuxedo stood with four buffed army guys.
"What do you want? How did you know im here? And most importantly, Why are you here? James asked with confusion and surprise about how he was found while he cutoff every communications he had.
"My name is Agent Fox. I'm here with four of the finest men from the Allied U.S. military, requesting your immediate return to service. Im sorry Mr. James but its confidential info about your whereabouts, the reason why we are here because It's an emergency." The agent kept pounding.
"No, I don't want to" he responded with rejection.
James returned to his sofa, remaining rooted, his coffee mug clutched tight in both hands, his gaze fixed on the vibrating door.
"I'm not interested in their cause anymore. I'm not going back!" he shouted, his voice rough with old resentment.
"I'm already full of their nonsensical bullshit!" James got up, returned to the doorway, and locked the door with two deadbolts.
"Please, Mr. Rutherford, calm down. HQ needs your help; you're fit for this line of work, sir." Agent Fox's voice remained calm, though a hint of steel now threaded through it.
"Please, Mr. Rutherford, come outside and let's discuss this matter. The Allied US Military needs you."
James scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Then make me, assholes!"
Outside, Agent Fox's patience clearly snapped. "Alright, gentlemen," he barked, his voice losing its diplomatic edge. "Open the door. Any necessary means. Just make sure we aren't leaving here without James." He ordered the four G.I.s to open the door and take James by force.
Wearing only a T-shirt and shorts, James moved with a veteran's practiced efficiency. He snatched a small, pre-packed duffel bag and a few other necessities from beside the couch. His plan was simple: the fire escape.
He was halfway to the window, the cool New Jersey air already beckoning, when the resounding CRACK of his front door splintering inward echoed through the apartment. The two locks had failed.
Four G.I.s burst in, moving with trained precision. They were on him in an instant, tackling him to the ground before he could react, the element of surprise entirely theirs. Agent Fox stepped over the broken door frame, a thin smirk gracing his lips.
"Sorry, but You are coming with us, Mr. Rutherford," he stated, his voice now a low, chilling promise.
"Whether you like it or not." James, frustrated, could only glare at Agent Fox as he was handcuffed to prevent another escape attempt.
Rough hands hauled him to his feet. James struggled, but they were too strong, too many. He was escorted, practically dragged, out of his apartment building and down the front steps. On the sidewalk, a few early morning passersby stopped, coffee cups halfway to their mouths, their eyes wide with curiosity and confusion.
"Poor guy, what'd he do?" someone whispered.
"Looks like he finally got what was coming to him," another muttered.
A woman on her porch clutched her rosary beads, her gaze a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. "Must be serious. "
a construction worker mumbled to his colleague, watching as a agent and 4 military men take him in. "You don't see that kind of show for a fender bender."
A passing mother holding her child murmured softly about how negatively James had ended up in this situation. A delivery truck driver slowed, openly staring. Their gazes burned into James as he was forced into the waiting black limousine idling at the curb.
Just as the door slammed shut with a definitive thud, sealing his fate, four grim-faced G.I.s swiftly entered a dark Humvee that had been parked discreetly behind the limo. Its engine roared to life, and it pulled out, positioned to guard the limousine. The dark vehicles pulled away, leaving behind the splintered door and the hushed whispers of the neighborhood.
As James was escorted towards their destination still cuffed on his hands. Agent Fox, wearing dark glasses, finally spoke.
"Mr. James," he began, his voice calm but firm, "your presence is required at the Pentagon, as the Allied Nation has declared that every personnel, even those who served their time, must return immediately." Agent Fox explained why the army had gone to such lengths to bring him in.
"I don't want to. I already left that wretched place, and I'm not returning! But why? Why am I needed when the people who feeds me with lies now wants me back?" James protested, demanding answers, but Fox cut him off with a raised hand.
"I understand you have questions. Believe me, they will be answered. However, the nature of your involvement and the reasons for this, shall we say, expedited transportation, are highly classified. You'll understand everything in due time. For now, let's just say this isn't a social call, but a pure emergency." Agent Fox replied, acknowledging James's frustration but making it clear he was following orders given to him and that order is to bring him.