The "new normal" was a fragile thing.
For the GDI and the world's high command, the war was a geopolitical chess match of secret FOBs and global treaties. For the grunts, it was a desperate, tactical nightmare of blood, magic, and survival.
But for everyone else, on Earth, the war was a thing of the mind. It was a creeping, existential dread. It was the "Second Sky" hanging over them, a 24/7 reminder that they were no longer alone, no longer safe, no longer at the top of the food chain.
And in the cracks of this new, broken reality, new monsters were crawling out.
THE DISPATCH
10:17 AM
LOUISVILLE METRO POLICE DEPARTMENT (LMPD) 911 DISPATCH CENTER
Joyce "Mama" Dupree rubbed her temples, the headset a permanent, heavy fixture on her graying hair. The "new normal" meant her job was hell. Every unconfirmed "monster sighting," every domestic dispute that ended with "He's a cultist!," every panic attack from someone just staring at the sky... it all came through her.
She was in the middle of a mundane fender-bender call—"No, ma'am, a 'bad vibe' from the other driver is not a GDI-level threat"—when Line 4 flashed.
It wasn't a normal line. It was the red line. The direct, emergency-only number for consulates, high-security federal buildings, and major infrastructure.
Her heart, a veteran's steady drum, kicked up a notch.
She dropped the fender-bender. "911, this is Dispatcher Dupree. You are on a secure line. What is your emergency?"
The line was open. She heard... chanting. A low, guttural, rhythmic sound. And... crying.
Then, a whisper. A man, his voice cracking, his breath ragged.
"...doko desu ka... tasukete... (Where... help...)"
"Sir, I need you to speak English. I can't understand you. Where are you?"
The whispering man switched, his terror breaking the language barrier. "Consulate. Japanese Consulate, River Road... They are... inside. The... the white robes... 'The Purified'... they're... they're here..."
A door slammed in the background of the call. A woman screamed.
"Sir, are you safe?" Joyce's fingers were already a blur on her keyboard, her foot hitting the silent alarm that alerted her supervisor.
"No... no, we are not... They have... oh God... they have Mr. Tanaka... they're dragging him... they said... 'a sacrifice for the New Heaven'..."
A new voice, loud and booming, not on the phone but near it. "We see you, unclean! The New Sky demands your soul!"
The whisperer let out a small, terrified gasp.
Then the sound of a heavy, wet thud, and the line went dead.
Joyce was already on the radio, her voice transformed from a calm operator to a steel-cold commander.
"All units, all units. This is a Code 10. I repeat, a Code 10, GDI-priority. We have an active 11-99 (Hostile Takeover) at the Japanese Consulate, 2200 River Road. Confirmed hostiles, 'Purified' cult. They are armed, and they have the staff hostage."
She hit the button that patched her directly into the GDI regional command at Fort Knox.
"This is LMPD Dispatch. We are declaring a Code 10-GDI. We have a hostile, multi-national incident in progress. I need SWAT, I need a perimeter, and I need a GDI liaison on-site, now."
The city, and the world, was about to get another reminder that the monsters from Omega weren't the only ones they had to fear.
10:23 AM
LMPD CRUISER 12-ADAM
Officer Ben Miller, a five-year veteran, drove. His partner, Officer Sarah Chen, a rookie still in her first year, worked the laptop.
"Consulate," Miller spat, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he weaved the Ford Police Interceptor through panicked civilian traffic. "Why the hell is there a consulate in Louisville?"
"Toyota," Chen replied, her eyes scanning the intel as it poured in. "And... auto parts. Sir, they're saying... 'The Purified.' That's the cult that thinks Omega is 'New Heaven.' They've been sacrificing... animals... all over the county."
"Well, looks like they've graduated," Miller said grimly, his eyes hard.
They were the first on scene. They pulled the cruiser 100 yards from the entrance, using the engine block for cover.
The scene was chaos. The pristine, modern glass-and-steel building was defaced. The front doors were smashed. White-robed figures—some with shotguns, some with simple bats—were milling around inside. They were painting something on the glass in... red.
"Is that... blood?" Chen whispered, her hand on her holstered Glock 19.
"Don't look at it," Miller ordered, grabbing his radio mic. "12-Adam to Dispatch. We are on scene. We have visual on at least... ten hostiles, confirmed armed with long-guns. They are... fortifying the lobby."
Then, his blood ran cold.
"Dispatch... they're on the roof. I repeat, they are on the roof. They're... they're dragging people up there. Looks like... two, three hostages. Oh, Christ..."
Chen looked. On the flat, open roof of the three-story building, a group of robed figures was setting up what looked like... a stone altar.
"This is 12-Adam," Miller yelled into the mic, his voice cracking. "We have an active, imminent threat to life. They're setting up for a... a sacrifice! Where... IS... SWAT?!"
THE BREACH
10:52 AM
LUMBERJACK 1 (LENCO BEARCAT ARMORED VEHICLE)
The inside of the BearCat was hot, cramped, and smelled of sweat, gun oil, and adrenaline.
Sergeant "Hoss" Miller (no relation to the officer at the perimeter) pulled his helmet tight. As the SWAT team leader, he was the eye of the storm.
"Alright, listen up!" he barked, his voice muffled by his balaclava. His team—eight men in full, heavy, black tactical gear—were a knot of focused, deadly potential.
"This is not our first rodeo with these Omega-worshippers," Hoss said, his eyes scanning each man. "But this is the first one with diplomats. The Japanese Consul-General is in there. This is a GDI-level, international clusterfuck. That means we don't get to fail."
He tapped a 3D-map on the tablet mounted to the wall.
"Intel says 'The Purified' are armed with small arms. Shotguns, pistols. No confirmation of automatic weapons. No confirmation of... other assets."
Everyone knew what "other" meant. Elves. Werewolves. Ninjas.
"We go in assuming this is a domestic-terror gig. But your head is on a swivel. You see anything that isn't human... you are weapons-free. Command wants 'em dead. But our priority... is the roof. They're prepping for a show, and we're the party-crashers."
He racked the charging handle of his M4A1 short-barreled rifle, the shlick-shlack a final, deadly punctuation.
"Alpha Team: Me, 'Breach,' 'Doc,' and 'FNG.' We go main entrance. We are the hammer. Bravo Team: 'Ghost,' 'Slayer,' 'Tank,' 'Zeus.' You hit the rear service entrance. You are the anvil. First team to the stairwell cuts 'em off. Flash-and-clear. No heroes. Just... pros. Questions?"
No one spoke.
"Good. Lock and load. We hit in two."
The BearCat lurched to a halt, its armored prow just touching the front steps of the consulate.
"ALPHA TEAM, GO! GO! GO!"
The side doors burst open. Hoss was first, "FNG" (the 'Fucking New Guy') was last, carrying the ballistic shield.
"Breach!" Hoss yelled.
"Breach," the massive man with the Halligan bar replied. He didn't bother with the lock. He slammed the 30-pound steel "key" into the main glass door. It shattered.
"Flashbang out!"
The small, octagonal grenade was thrown in, rolling into the lobby.
WHUMP-BOOM!
A sound-and-light explosion, 180 decibels and 7 million candela. Designed to deafen, blind, and disorient.
"MOVE!"
Hoss led the stack in. The lobby was a warzone, filled with smoke, ringing fire-alarms, and... chanting.
"Sacrifice! Sacrifice! The New Sky demands it!"
A robed figure with a Remington 870 shotgun leveled it from behind a marble reception-desk. "Die, you unpure...!"
"HOSTILE, SHOTGUN!" FNG yelled from behind the shield.
POP-POP-POP!
Hoss's M4, loaded with 5.56mm rounds, was not on full-auto. It was three, controlled, hyper-fast shots. The 'double-tap.' The rounds hit the man center-mass. His white robe turned red, and he collapsed.
"Suspect down! Clear left!"
The team moved like a single, black-armored serpent. They were not soldiers. They were police. Their job was to dominate the space, not destroy it.
"Stairwell! Stairwell! I got movement!" 'Breach' yelled.
Two more cultists, their faces painted with the red, spiral "Omega" symbol, fired handguns down the stairs.
PING-PANG! The rounds sparked harmlessly off FNG's shield.
Hoss and 'Doc' leaned out. POP-POP. POP-POP-POP.
"Clear!"
They took the stairs, two-by-two, leap-frogging. They passed the second-floor conference room.
"Oh, God..." FNG whispered, his voice sick.
Hoss glanced in. He wished he hadn't. The walls were painted... with blood. It looked like the cultists had... "sacrificed" one of their own. A man was... nailed to the conference table, a "warning."
"Don't look," Hoss ordered, his voice like iron. "Eyes on the threat. Bravo, what's your status?"
"Stairwell clear, boss!" 'Ghost's' voice crackled on the comm. "We're one floor below you. They're... they're all on the roof."
"Copy. Alpha is on the roof-door. FNG, shield up. Breach, you're on the..."
BOOM.
The roof-door exploded inward, the force of a shotgun blast tearing it off its hinges. A cultist, his eyes wide and mad, stood there.
Hoss didn't flinch. His M4 was already up. POP-POP.
"Suspect down! MOVE! ON THE ROOF!"
Hoss and his team spilled out into the daylight.
The scene was medieval.
Twenty cultists, all in white robes, were chanting, forming a circle. In the center, the 'High Priest'—a tall man in blood-red robes—held a long, curved, serrated sacrificial knife.
He was holding it over a man in a torn, expensive suit, who was tied to a makeshift stone-and-wood table.
The Consul-General of Japan.
"The Devil of Omega commands us!" the High Priest screamed at the sky. "The Second Sky... demands a soul! The First... must be given!"
He raised the knife high, its serrated edge gleaming.
"LMPD! DROP THE WEAPON! ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!" Hoss's voice was the roar of God.
The High Priest looked at him, his face a mask of ecstatic, insane joy. "The sacrifice will be...!"
He plunged the knife down.
Hoss didn't wait. He didn't ask twice.
POP-POP.
Two 5.56mm rounds. Center-mass.
The High Priest's body jerked. The knife stopped, a centimeter from the Consul's chest.
The man looked down, confused, at the two new holes in his robe. He looked at Hoss. Then he collapsed, dead, his grip releasing the knife.
The thud of Bravo Team's flashbangs on the far side of the roof, and the shouts of "GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!" was the signal.
The other cultists, their "prophet" dead, just... stopped. They fell to their knees, their hands in the air, weeping. The madness... it was a fragile thing.
"ROOF IS CLEAR!" Hoss roared into his mic. "HOSTAGES SECURE! SUSPECTS IN CUSTODY! REPEAT, ROOF IS CLEAR!"
He walked over, his M4 still covering the crowd, and used his boot to kick the knife away. He knelt by the Consul-General.
"Sir, you're safe. We're the police. You're... you're safe."
The Japanese man, his eyes wide with terror, just nodded, and wept.
Hoss stood up. He looked at the dead "priest." He looked at the weeping, pathetic cultists.
These weren't elves. They weren't ninjas. They were... people. They were bank-tellers, and students, and... neighbors.
Hoss wasn't sure which was worse.
"Doc," he said, his voice flat. "Start cutting 'em loose. This scene is... contaminated."
The war for Earth was no longer just against the monsters in the sky. It was against the madness they had unleashed, right here, at home.