THE NARRATIVE
(SOUND OF A DRUM-AND-SYNTHESIZER THEME, SWELLING AND THEN FADING UNDER)
Announcer: "From the GDI Broadcast Network, you're listening to... 'The Omega Report.' The only show bringing you the real story of our new, unified world. And now, your hosts, Marcus Vance and Ben 'The B-Side' Shapiro."
Marcus: "Good morning, everyone. And... it is a good morning, for the first time in a long time. Welcome to 'The Omega Report.' We've had a... week. After the tragedies of the Odyssey and Avenger missions, humanity was on the back foot. We were terrified. But this week... this week, we're fighting back."
Ben: (Chuckles) "And how! I mean, who knew? All it took to get Russia and the U.S. to stop pointing nukes at each other was... drumroll... elves and werewolves. It's the 'Lord of the Rings' peace treaty, folks. I, for one, am just waiting for the orcs to show up... probably in Florida."
Marcus: "Ben, please. It's... a serious situation."
Ben: "I'm totally serious! I saw a guy at the store yesterday... Gorkha Rifles t-shirt. Sold out! The capture of those 'K-Strain' ninjas in India? That's a win, Marcus. A real, tangible 'W' in the humanity column. My kid isn't having nightmares about elves anymore. He's asking for a khukuri."
Marcus: "And that is our topic today: 'The New Optimism.' For the first time, it feels... united. The 'Alliance Cooperation Treaty' isn't just paper. It's working. And to discuss it, we have two fantastic guests. On the line from GDI-Command, we have Colonel Hank Davis, GDI Public Affairs. Colonel, welcome."
Col. Davis (Voice): (Crisp, professional) "Pleasure to be here, Marcus. It's a new dawn, indeed."
Marcus: "And in-studio, a man who has seen his fair share of conflicts, former Naval Special Warfare Commander and GDI-skeptic, Frank 'EVA' Costello. Frank, thanks for coming in."
EVA: (Gruff, gravelly) "Happy to be here, Marcus. Though I think 'new dawn' is painting it a bit bright. Looks more like a 'lull in the storm' to me."
Marcus: "A fair point. Let's start right there. Colonel Davis, the K-Strains. The 'ninjas.' We captured two of them. That's a first. What has GDI learned?"
Col. Davis: "What I'm authorized to say, Marcus, is that this is the single greatest intelligence-breakthrough of the war. The fact that the Indian Gorkha Rifles—some of the finest soldiers on this planet—were able to capture two of these hostiles alive... it's a testament to the skill of our new Alliance partners. The data is currently being... processed... and is already informing our new defensive and offensive strategies."
Marcus: "So, it's good news."
Col. Davis: "It's foundational news. It proves they can be caught, and they can be studied."
Ben: "I just wanna know if they're really ninjas. Like, with the 'substitution-jutsu' and everything? 'Cause that... that changes my weekend plans. Frank, you're the old-guard. You're a 'boots-on-the-ground' guy. What's your take? We impressed?"
(SOUND OF A CHAIR CREAKING)
EVA: (Sighs) "Here's my take, Ben. We, humanity, sent a four-man Gorkha 'Hunter-Killer' team—specialists in that exact terrain—against an unknown number of hostiles. One of our men came back in a bag. We came back with two prisoners, who are only alive because the kunoichi didn't get to their suicide pills in time. We call that a 'win'? In my day, we called that a 'costly engagement.' We got lucky. We got a scrap of intel. We haven't won anything. We just learned the name of the bullet that's about to hit us."
Marcus: "That's... a very grim take, Commander. What about the unity? The Alliance?"
EVA: "The Alliance? It's a shotgun-wedding, Marcus. It's a marriage of convenience, held together by sheer, pants-wetting terror. We're not friends. We're just... not enemies. For now. That lasts exactly as long as the monster is at the door. You wait. You wait until GDI finds a piece of tech, a 'magic' weapon... or one side gets an advantage. This 'unity' is a house of cards."
Col. Davis: "I have to disagree, Frank. Vigorously. I am seeing unprecedented cooperation. I am seeing Chinese FOB-deployment data being shared, in real-time, with ROK engineers. I'm seeing Russian intel from the Avenger mission being used to train American Rangers. This is real. It's not a 'lull.' It's... it's the start of the real fight."
Ben: "Boom! See, Frank? Hope! We need that! We need to know we're not just... waiting to die!"
Marcus: "And Colonel, that brings us to our last, and most exciting, piece of news. It's been confirmed this morning... Operation Bedrock is a 'go.' Can you tell our listeners what that means?"
(A PAUSE, A SENSE OF EXCITEMENT)
Col. Davis: "I can, Marcus. As of 0800 hours this morning, GDI has confirmed that the new, permanent GDI Command Base on Omega... 'FOB Bedrock'... is fully operational. The Garuda-3 excavator and the ROK engineering teams have completed their work. And... as we speak... the first official American garrison... 'Task Force Sentinel'... is launching from Peterson Space Force Base. They are going... up. Not to visit. Not to explore. But to occupy. To hold. We are on Omega. We have a foothold. We are there. Humanity... has a flag planted on the Second Sky."
Marcus: "Incredible. Truly incredible. After so much loss... a real, permanent fortress. We are taking the fight... to them."
Ben: "Get some, Sentinel! Get some!"
Marcus: "You're listening to 'The Omega Report.' When we come back: 'Omega Cults - Madness or the New Religion?' Stay with us."
(SOUND OF THEME MUSIC SWELLING) FADE OUT...
THE REALITY
10:11 GST
ABOARD GDI TRANSPORT GARUDA-4, OMEGA ORBIT
The transport cabin was dark, cold, and smelled of recycled air, rifle-oil, and fear.
There was no cheerful music. No 'get some.'
Captain Mike "Stone" Russo, leader of the 12-man Ranger squad "Task Force Sentinel," stared at the holographic 3D-map of their objective. He was a good officer. He loved his men.
Which was why he hated this.
His squad—twelve of the best Rangers from the 75th Regiment—were kitted in GDI-spec "Black-Site" armor. But the squad was... wrong. There were eleven Rangers, and one... thing.
In the back-left corner of the transport, sitting alone, was it.
Specialist Harris Brown. The "Demon."
He was a nightmare in the flesh. The black, demonic mask wasn't a mask; it was a face, fused into the scarred, raw skin of his neck. He was in a fresh, clean, black-ops uniform, but it didn't matter. The thing wearing it made it look like a shroud.
He sat, unmoving, his new HK417 battle-rifle held across his lap. He hadn't spoken. He hadn't blinked. He just... stared... his two cold, blue, pinprick eyes fixed on the bulkhead.
Specialist "Psycho" Ramirez, the squad's M249 SAW gunner, leaned in close to his fireteam leader.
"Sir, I gotta say... this is fucked," Psycho whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engines. "We're... we're sharing a transport with a... a boogeyman. He smells... wrong, man. He smells like... like old blood."
"Stow it, Psycho," Russo whispered back, his jaw tight. "GDI-Command says he's our new Designated Marksman. They say... he's our 'tip of the spear.' We treat him as an asset. Understood?"
"He's not an asset, sir," Psycho countered, his hand nervously tapping his sidearm. "He's a horror-movie-monster. The guys from 'C-Company'... they said he ate his restraints. You... you can't eat..."
"I said... stow it." Russo's voice was final.
"Sir," the comms-officer, Specialist "Edison" Kim, said, his voice a welcome, professional interruption. "Control is on the line. They're... updating the situation."
Russo's head snapped up. "'Updating'?"
"Affirmative, sir. Sat-Sweep 3-Charlie just painted a new hostile signature. We got... movement. 300 meters north of the FOB cap. And... it's not just Orcs, sir. Sensors are flagging five... Brutes. Strain-O-Bravo. The werewolf-things. No... wait. Correction. The 'Brutes' are just... big Orcs. Really big Orcs. Tank-class."
A new, layered, static-and-gravel voice rumbled from the back of the cabin, making every man jump.
"The ones that tanked 5.56."
It was Harris. He was staring at the map, his cold, blue eyes glowing.
"Five Brutes. Ten Orcs. They're sniffing the door."
Psycho looked like he was about to be sick.
Russo, to his credit, just nodded, his professionalism taking over. "Thank you, Specialist. We'll handle it."
"Control, this is Sentinel-1," Russo said, his voice calm. "We copy the update. Fifteen hostiles at the objective. We will... clean... the LZ before we move in. Requesting silent-insertion, 500 meters south."
General McCaffrey's voice, tired and strained, came back instantly. "Affirmative, Sentinel. The LZ is yours to clean. Welcome to the war, son. Godspeed."
The Garuda-4 descended like a ghost. The ramp lowered.
"Sentinel-1, we are on the ground. Go," Russo whispered.
The 11-man squad fanned out.
And then, Harris. He didn't 'fan out.' He just... stepped off the ramp, his HK417 held in a low-ready, and... vanished into the shadows of the jungle. He didn't make a sound.
"Jesus Christ," Edison whispered, crossing himself.
"Keep up," Russo growled. "Hawk, 'Deacon,' you're on overwatch. Get to that ridge."
"Sir," 'Hawk' (the drone-op) said, "Brown is... he's already on the ridge. He's... just... there."
Russo just shut his eyes. "Fine. Hawk, get your 'bird' up. Give us a picture."
"Hawk is up," the drone-op whispered a minute later. His Black Hornet 3 micro-UAV fed a tactical-view to their helmet-displays. "Got 'em. I have visual. Ten... no... twelve standard Orcs. And... shit. Look at the size of those Brutes. They're huge... eight, nine feet tall. They're... they're carrying tree-trunks as clubs. They're pounding on the FOB cap."
Russo and his assault-team had set up a perfect L-shaped kill-zone. "Deacon," the squad's other sniper, was lining up his shot.
"Deacon, I have the big-man..."
"No."
Russo's comms crackled. It was Brown, his voice a whisper, but it sounded like it was inside their heads.
"The Brutes are mine. The little ones... are yours. Fire on my mark. And... do not miss."
Russo felt a cold fury. "Sentinel-1 is on my mark, Specialist. Weapons-hot. Wrecker... open the..."
THWACK.
The sound was... wrong. It wasn't a gunshot. It was a suppressed, heavy, hard sound. Like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef.
On the ridge, 300 meters away, Harris had fired.
Through his thermal-mod, the Orcs were glowing-white.
He fired.
THWACK.
The 7.62x51mm heavy-round hit the first Orc in the head. It's skull exploded.
THWACK.
The second Orc looked up, confused. The second round took it in the throat.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
In less than three seconds, five of the "little" Orcs were dead, executed with inhuman, metronomic precision.
"He... he didn't wait for the order!" Edison whispered.
"FIRE! FIRE! ALL STATIONS, FIRE!" Russo roared.
The jungle erupted. Psycho's M249, Wrecker's M320, the eight M4s of the squad... all opened up. The remaining "little" Orcs were shredded.
But the five Brutes...
PING! PANG! PING!
The 5.56mm rounds from the M4s and the SAW were sparking off their crude, thick, iron armor. They were tanking it.
They roared, dropping their clubs, and drew massive, crude, axes. And they charged.
THWACK!
Harris's HK417 spoke again. A Brute, charging, was hit in the knee. The heavy round shattered its joint, and it went down, screaming.
THWACK!
A second Brute was hit in the chest, staggering it, but it kept coming.
"IT'S NOT STOPPING THEM!" Psycho screamed, his SAW rounds just bouncing off.
One of the Brutes, its eyes on fire, broke the line. It ignored the Rangers and charged straight for Edison, the comms-officer, who was fumbling for his sidearm.
"EDISON, NO!"
Russo tried to turn, to fire, but he was too far.
The Brute raised its massive axe...
CLICK.
On the ridge, Harris's 20-round magazine went empty.
The Brute swung.
And Harris... moved.
He didn't reload. He dropped his multi-thousand-dollar rifle.
And in a blur of black, he leaped from the 20-foot ridge.
He landed, silently, on the moss, a black shadow.
The squad stopped firing, their eyes wide with disbelief.
The Brute, its axe about to kill Edison, sensed the new threat. It turned.
Harris was... walking... toward it, pulling a simple KABAR combat-knife from his chest-rig.
"Brown! What are you doing?! Get back!" Russo screamed.
The Brute roared and swung its axe, a decapitating-blow.
Harris didn't dodge. He didn't block. He flowed.
He moved under the swing, his left hand grabbing the Brute's axe-arm at the wrist.
And he pulled.
He used the monster's own, massive momentum against it, pulling it off-balance.
And as he did, his right hand, holding the KABAR, moved in a blur.
SHLICK. SHLICK.
He didn't stab. He cut. He severed the massive, exposed tendon at the back of the Brute's ankle, then the one behind its knee.
The Brute roared, its leg collapsing.
As it fell, Harris was already on its back, his claws/hands digging into its fur, his knife...
SHUNK.
He drove the 7-inch blade up, under the Brute's jaw, through the soft-palate, and into its brain.
The Brute's roar stopped. It just... died. Collapsed.
Harris stood on its back.
The second Brute, seeing its companion fall, charged him.
Harris turned, slowly. He raised his bloody knife.
"Come on," his voice rumbled.
The Brute swung. Harris ducked, the axe-head a whiff over his demonic mask.
This time, he didn't bother with the legs.
He moved inside the creature's guard. His left hand, clawed and black, shot out and grabbed the Brute's throat.
He lifted it—a 500-pound monster—clean off its feet, his arm straining with inhuman, demonic-strength.
The Brute choked, its axe falling from its numb hands, its legs kicking uselessly.
Harris, his blue-eyes burning, just... squeezed.
CRACK.
The sound of its neck breaking echoed in the suddenly-silent jungle.
He dropped the corpse.
The fight was over.
Harris stood, his chest heaving, his black-gloved hand, slick with blood, still holding the knife.
The other ten Rangers just... stared.
They were all panting, high on adrenaline, their hands shaking.
Harris was... still.
He calmly, methodically, wiped his bloody knife clean on the Brute's matted-fur.
Then he sheathed it.
He walked over, picked up his rifle, and, without a word, started walking toward the FOB.
Psycho looked at Russo, his face white as a sheet. "Sir... I... I'm... I'm not... I'm not calling him 'Brown' anymore. I'm... I'm calling him sir."
Russo just swallowed, and nodded.
The 11-man squad, and their... asset... stacked up on the "cap"—the camouflaged "hill."
Russo placed his hand on the panel.
HISS. CLANK.
The 10-foot-thick iris-door opened. The bright, clean, white elevator stood in stark contrast to the bloody, dark jungle.
"In," Russo ordered, his voice shaky.
The squad piled in. Harris was last. The doors sealed, and the elevator descended.
With a final, soft hiss, the doors opened.
And "Task Force Sentinel" stepped out into a cavern.
It was massive.
The "Hell's Mother" excavator had carved a fortress.
The main room was the size of an aircraft-carrier's hangar-bay, the ceiling a hundred feet high, braced with massive, pre-fabricated steel-arches. The air was clean, cool, and smelled of new concrete and ozone.
It was brilliantly lit by LED-panels. Pre-fabricated, two-story modules were already in place, labeled: COMMAND, BARRACKS A, BARRACKS B, MED-BAY, ARMORY, MESS-HALL.
It was a city. A clean, high-tech, human city, hidden 200 feet beneath the surface of this alien hell.
Psycho just whistled, a low, long sound of pure, unadulterated shock.
"Holy... shit, Captain. This... this ain't no 'FOB.' This is... this is the Batcave."
Captain "Stone" Russo, his rifle lowered for the first time, just stared, a slow smile spreading on his face. This was a win. This was a foothold.
"Control, this is Sentinel-1. We are... inside... FOB 'Bedrock.'"
He took a deep breath, the awe clear in his voice.
"My God, sir... those Koreans... those crazy, brilliant bastards... they built us a city."
He turned. The rest of his squad was staring, mouths open, at the incredible feat of engineering.
All... except for one.
Harris Brown, the "Demon," was standing in the middle of the clean, white, sterile hangar. He was still dripping Brute-blood onto the pristine, polished floor. He wasn't looking at the city.
He was just... staring... into the darkness of an unlit tunnel at the far end of the cavern.
As if he was... listening... to something.
Russo's smile died.
"Brown," he said, his hand moving to his sidearm. "What is it?"
Harris didn't turn.
"This isn't a city," his voice rumbled, echoing in the vast space. "It's a tomb."
He raised his rifle.
"And... we're not alone."