Not long after, inside an interrogation room in the quarantine zone.
Cold light poured down from the ceiling, striking the cramped space and casting a hard, icy glare across the metal tabletop.
The furnishings were spartan.
A fixed metal table, two fixed chairs—nothing else.
The right-hand wall was a single pane of one-way bulletproof glass. The personnel behind it watched every movement in the room through that transparent barrier.
An invisible pressure hung in the air, making even breathing feel heavy.
At the moment, an agent from the Investigations Department, clad in a black uniform, sat upright at one end of the table.
On his shoulder boards, the Empire's insignia reflected a grim, cold light. His gaze was blade-sharp, posture straight, the man himself like a frozen sculpture.
At the other end sat a man who looked just past thirty—the police officer among the survivors.
Though he had already washed up and changed into clean clothes provided by the base, his expression was still taut, his eyes carrying a residue of unease and wariness.
The agent spoke first, his voice low and calm, without a ripple of emotion:
"Let's start with the basics. Name, age, agency, and what year, month, and day you believe it is right now."
The officer froze for a moment, then answered softly with a trace of hesitation but no deceit:
"My name is Grant MacDougall, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, assigned to the Portage la Prairie detachment. As for the date…"
His brows knit, as if weighing something, but he finally said it:
"Today is June 2, 2009."
That answer made the agent's eyes sink slightly, but he showed no other reaction, merely noting it down.
After a brief silence, the agent asked, "What exactly happened here? Start at the beginning—be specific."
But the officer didn't answer at once. He lifted his head, a guarded, probing look in his eyes:
"Who… exactly are you? Where did you come from? Those ships, those weapons—I've never seen anything like them. Are you from the future?"
The agent's tone did not change at all. If anything, it grew lower and colder. "Answer my questions first. I'll clarify for you after your statement."
The officer was silent for a few seconds, his Adam's apple working. He clearly still had doubts, but finally drew a deep breath and began.
"The summer of 2008—it all started in London."
His voice trembled, like he was reliving a nightmare that couldn't be erased. "The U.K. was first to erupt with a massive plague. We called those monsters… the 'Blood Cross.' They weren't like ordinary patients; they turned into bloodthirsty, deranged creatures."
The agent's gaze stayed cold and steady. He didn't interrupt, just listened.
"Not long after, the White House in the USA had an outbreak too—even the president himself became one of the Blood Cross."
Here the officer lowered his voice, steeped in dread. "We thought those lunatics would just tear each other apart like animals, but we were wrong—terribly wrong. The Blood Cross kept most of their memories and skills. They knew how to use firearms, how to drive vehicles—they could even operate modern weapons with proficiency."
His fingertips tapped the table, a small, nervous sound that only underlined the tension in his account.
"And they have no empathy, no hesitation—only slaughter and destruction. One thing mattered to them: how much carnage a weapon could cause, how much blood it could spill."
The air in the interrogation room grew heavier.
The officer went on: "They say a group of Blood Cross pilots even managed to hijack strategic bombers—the kind that carry nuclear weapons. Their aim wasn't deterrence. They wanted to ignite a global nuclear war, to turn every major city on Earth into a sea of fire."
His fists clenched as pain and despair flitted through his eyes. "If not for the U.K.'s last surviving Royal Air Force squadron… they intercepted and shot down that bomber formation in a way that meant going down with them. Otherwise, human civilization might already be gone."
The agent folded his hands on the table, eyes never leaving him. "Continue."
"America fell completely not long after. Japan soon followed… The Blood Cross didn't just rip cities apart; they drove tanks, flew jets—they were humanity's nightmare."
His voice was low and weighted, every word carrying a load too heavy to bear.
"As for Canada—once we realized the situation was out of control, we ordered the border with the U.S. sealed. But what good did that do?
The Blood Cross were not impeded by anything. In a sense they were still human—and more terrifying than beasts. A defensive line was just paper."
"They didn't even need to break our checkpoints by force. The Canada–U.S. border… has far too many holes."
He paused and exhaled heavily. Beads of sweat had gathered on his brow; his voice had gone hoarse from recounting so much.
Silence again settled over the room.
The only sound was the ceiling light's faint electrical hum.
The agent spoke slowly, tone flat as ever:
"Your statement will be recorded in full. Next, we'll verify everything you've said."
After a moment, the officer's breathing steadied, though the shadow in his eyes refused to leave.
After a long time, he began again, continuing with what had happened to their town.
"Canada's situation… wasn't much better than anywhere else."
His voice was gravelly with fatigue. "The whole country was under attack. There was hardly a place that could truly stay untouched."
"Our town—Portage la Prairie—isn't large. We had, what, a hundred sworn officers in total? In terms of numbers, we were nothing."
He paused, a complicated look flickering in his eyes, then added, "Fortunately, we were relatively well stocked on guns and ammo.
After all, plenty of civilians owned their own hunting rifles and large numbers of semi-automatic rifles. Without those, the Blood Cross would have swallowed us whole in the first few weeks."
"So we officers did all we could—set up obstacles at the main approaches to town and blocked the arteries.
We cut radio comms entirely and stopped answering any calls on the air."
"At the time we knew full well that once we exposed ourselves, the Blood Cross hordes could target us. We could only fake being a dead, silent town and hope those devils wouldn't notice."
He drew a deep breath, his voice threaded with helplessness. "But… the Blood Cross weren't some calamity you could dodge by luck."
His gaze went distant, as if the horror replayed before him.
"After ravaging one town, they would migrate in groups to find their next target. They were countless, their movements mad yet eerily aligned.
There was no clear pattern, but once they fixed on a place en masse, destruction began. Our town… was unlucky enough to become their target this year."
His voice sank, his fists slowly tightening.
"That night, the sky lit with fire. The streets drowned in howls and gunfire. The Blood Cross swarmed from every direction and washed over the barricades we'd thrown up like a tide."
"Our firepower held their vanguard for a time, but when the wave truly broke, our so-called defensive line tore apart in an instant."
His Adam's apple bobbed. Painful struggle flashed in his eyes; each word sounded like it tore open an old wound.
"We… had to retreat. I and a few fellow officers, along with several firefighters, fought to shield a group of survivors. While the Blood Cross were focused on the front, we fled with them in a panic."
"Our only goal then was to find a refuge where we could barely hold on. In the end, we holed up in the fire station."
His tone eased a little, tinged with relief—but more with lingering fear.
"It had proper fireproofing. The walls and structure were much sturdier than a regular home. We sealed the entrances as best we could and turned leftover gasoline and rubble into traps… that was the only way we fended off a few waves of Blood Cross pursuit."
"Those nights were like simmering on the edge of hell. Only after the main horde moved on did we dare confirm the town was gone."
His voice rasped; his eyes were empty, as if he could still see the ruins and blood.
"By then we'd lost most of our colleagues and townsfolk. We scraped by on what little remained—canned food, dry goods, even half-spoiled food became our lifeline."
He paused again, breath quickening as he reached the most painful memory.
"But you can't survive like that for long. Not long ago, two fellow officers couldn't stand it anymore. They decided to risk heading to the big supermarket at the edge of town for supplies."
"We all knew what that meant… Leaving the fire station meant you could run into roving Blood Cross at any time."
His voice shook; remorse cut through his gaze. "And… the nightmare came. They'd barely gone a few blocks when they ran right into a migrating Blood Cross horde."
"I can't even bear to picture it. The entire area was instantly shrouded in screams, gunfire, and a mist of blood. I knew they weren't coming back alive—"
His voice fell, almost a sob. "If… you hadn't shown up when you did, we would have met the same fate.
No matter how sturdy, a fire station can't hold back a Blood Cross flood. In the end, we would have been wiped out."
He closed his eyes, sinking into the chair as if his strength had been drained away.
The sight spoke of exhaustion without end and made his account all the heavier, all the more real.
Meanwhile, in the observation room behind the one-way glass, the mood was equally grave.
Heavy cigar smoke thickened the air, its bitter edge curling lazily under the ceiling lights, throwing blurred shadows across the room.
John Price, overall commander of the Reconnaissance Troops, sat with a lit cigar between his fingers.
Pale smoke spilled slowly from his mouth, carrying a cool composure forged by years. His gaze was fixed on the anguished officer in the interrogation room, hawk-sharp eyes set beneath crow's-feet and graying temples.
Beside him stood three comrades who had fought at his side for years.
Simon "Ghost" Riley still wore that iconic skull mask. Though age had bowed his back a touch, the dangerous pressure he radiated hadn't dimmed at all.
John "Soap" MacTavish stood with arms crossed, eyes locked on the mirror, brows knitted as if barely keeping a lid on his anger.
Gary "Roach" Sanderson leaned lightly against the wall, idly turning a small tactical knife in his hand. His expression was cool, but deep in his eyes lay the numbness and weariness of too many fights.
These four were the core backbone of the Reconnaissance Troops—without equal.
They had lived through countless operations and were living legends to a generation of soldiers.
Yet even with the Biology Division's nanomedical recuperation systems and after gene-enhancement procedures, the marks of time on them were plain.
Wrinkles, white hair, a heaviness to their movements—
Time had not spared them, but beneath armor of steel they still kept a warrior's undying spirit.
Price drew on the cigar. Ash fell softly. He murmured, "I'm afraid it won't be long before I step down from the command chair for good."
There was a hint of feeling in his tone, but nothing fragile.
He turned slowly to MacTavish, voice steady. "Soap, sooner or later the burden will be yours."
MacTavish stiffened, as if to object, but ultimately only nodded. He knew Price was right.
By seniority, prestige, and command ability, he was the most suitable successor.
It was just a weight heavy enough to crush any soldier.
On the other side of the observation room, Leiruoya stood quietly.
Her posture was straight, her eyes fixed on the officer. As his horrific account went on, her gaze grew colder; anger creased her brow, impossible to hide.
Her loathing for the Blood Cross was absolute.
It wasn't just hatred for an enemy, but a total rejection of something that had defiled human dignity and civilization.
She spoke, voice low but resolute. "Monsters like that should never exist. Any softheartedness is a betrayal of our own."
Price bit down on his cigar, exhaling a dense plume, and nodded. "You're right, Legion Commander Weitailius."
Now there was no hedging in his voice, only iron resolve. "Your Glory Legion and the Wailers Battalion can deploy without worry. Don't concern yourselves with the rear. Our Reconnaissance Troops will stay here and make sure there are no threats to the forward base."
He crushed the cigar into the ashtray—sharp, decisive, as if erasing every uncertainty.
"I give you my word: as long as I, Price, am still here, no enemy will set foot in this base."
Soap, Ghost, and Roach all dipped their chins in unison. Their silence was a wordless oath.
Leiruoya studied them, her features easing into a stark resolve.
She knew these battle-scarred veterans would not fail her. If the Glory Legion and the Wailers Battalion were the Empire's razor spearhead, then the Reconnaissance Troops were the steel shield guarding the rear.
Whatever awaited them—be it the shadow of the Blood Cross or threats unknown—they were ready to meet it head-on.
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