THE PUBLIC NARRATIVE
GDI Global Broadcast Center, New York City
19:00 EST
The studio was a masterpiece of psychological engineering. Situated on the 90th floor of the Alliance Tower, it overlooked a revitalized New York skyline, projecting an image of unshakeable stability. The lighting was warm, the glass desk sleek, and every camera angle calculated to inspire confidence.
Diana Shaw, the face of the GDI's public relations machine, smiled at the camera. It was a smile that said everything was under control.
"Welcome back to 'The Global Pulse,'" she said, her voice smooth and reassuring. "Tonight, we are honored to have the heroes of Task Force Sentinel with us. Captain Michael Russo and Specialist 'Psycho' Ramirez."
Captain Russo sat rigid in his chair. His dress uniform was immaculate, starched to the point of armor, but his eyes were tight. He looked like a man holding his breath. Beside him, Specialist Ramirez looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He was chewing a piece of gum with a nervous, rhythmic intensity.
"Captain," Diana began, "the world is celebrating the victory at FOB Bedrock. The destruction of the 'Leviathan' class hostile is a turning point. It proves we can stand our ground on Omega."
Russo nodded, reciting the lines he had practiced for three days straight. "It was a confirmation of Alliance interoperability, ma'am. The success belongs to the global strategy. We utilized Alliance-supplied heavy mortars to exploit a structural weakness in the target. It was a textbook execution of combined-arms doctrine."
"Textbook," Diana repeated warmly. She turned to Ramirez. "Specialist, can you tell us what it felt like? To face something that large?"
Ramirez shifted, his chair squeaking loudly in the quiet studio. "It... it was loud, ma'am. Sounded like a freight train derailing on top of us. But, you know, the training kicks in. You just focus on the job." Russo's hand subtly pressed down on Ramirez's knee under the table, a silent command to stop talking.
"And we must address the soldier the world is asking about," Diana said, her voice dropping to a respectful hush. "Specialist Harris Brown. He isn't here tonight. Captain, can you update us on his condition?"
Russo didn't blink. He looked directly into the lens. "Specialist Brown is a hero. During the operation, he maneuvered to a high-risk position to draw the hostile's attention. In the final collapse of the creature, he sustained severe injuries while shielding another team member. He is currently in a secure medical facility, receiving the best care the Alliance can provide. We expect a full recovery."
"Thank you, Captain," Diana said. "Godspeed to you all."
As the cameras cut to commercial, Russo let out a long, shuddering breath. He hadn't just lied to the world; he had invented a human hero to cover up the existence of a monster.
THE PRIVATE HORROR
GDI 'Alpha-Omega' SCIF
Deep within the Rock of Gibraltar
02:00 GST
The atmosphere in the Gibraltar facility was freezing. This was a black-site, carved deep into the limestone, soundproofed and shielded from every signal on Earth. The only light came from the massive holographic table in the center of the circular room.
Around it sat the architects of the war. General McCaffrey looked older than his years, his face gray with exhaustion. Director-General Kurosawa sat motionless, her expression unreadable. Director Ivanov of Russia stared at the table with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. At the head sat General Jean-Pierre Dubois, the Supreme Allied Commander, a man known for his ice-cold demeanor.
They were watching the truth.
The holographic table played the raw footage from the engagement. It wasn't the clean story Russo had told on TV. It was the thermal feed from the sniper's scope.
They watched Harris Brown scale a two-hundred-foot alien tree in seconds, his movements arachnid and unnatural. They saw the thermal bloom as he poured fire into the dragon's eye. But it was the audio that turned the blood in their veins to ice.
The speakers played Harris's voice, cutting through the static. It wasn't a shout; it was a distorted, multi-tonal roar that sounded like grinding gravel.
"MORTARS! NOW! BREAK ITS SPINE!"
They watched the dragon fall. They watched Harris descend, calm and predatory, amidst the destruction.
The feed ended. General Dubois broke the silence.
"The public believes in mortars and luck," Dubois said softly. "That is necessary. But we know the reality. We possess a biological asset of unprecedented lethality."
Sir Malcolm Hayes stepped out of the shadows of the room. "He is effective, General. That is undeniable."
"He is a weapon," McCaffrey grunted, rubbing his temples. "But he's barely stable. I've seen the medical reports. The artifact... the mask... it's rewriting his physiology. He's not just stronger; he's changing."
"He is adapting," Hayes corrected. "And we need him to adapt. The enemy is evolving, General. We must evolve with them."
Dubois nodded. "Bring him in."
The heavy blast doors hissed open. Two GDI guards, clad in full tactical gear, stepped aside nervously.
Harris Brown walked in.
He wore a sleek, matte-black operative suit that seemed to absorb the light. But no one looked at the suit. They looked at his face. The mask was no longer an accessory; it was a part of him, a chitinous, demonic visage fused to his flesh. His eyes were two burning pinpricks of cold blue light that swept the room, analyzing every threat in a microsecond.
He didn't salute. He didn't stand at attention. He simply stopped in the center of the room and waited. The temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees.
"Gentlemen, Director-Generals," Hayes announced. "I present Asset-Omega-1."
THE MISSION AND THE SQUAD
General Dubois stood up. He met the burning blue gaze of the asset.
"Harris Brown," Dubois said. "As of 0800 hours, your designation as a Ranger is suspended. You are now classified as a Tier-1 Strategic Asset. You operate outside the standard chain of command."
Harris tilted his head slightly. The movement was smooth, predatory. "The mission," he rumbled.
Dubois keyed a command into the table. The hologram changed, displaying a jagged, mountainous region. But this wasn't Earth. The topography was alien, the rock formations twisted and strange.
"This is Sector 4 on Omega," Dubois explained. "The captives we secured—the K-Strain ninjas—have provided intelligence under enhanced interrogation. This is the location of the Kage-no-Ha stronghold. The Shadow-Leaf Clan."
The map zoomed in on a fortress carved directly into the side of a sheer obsidian cliff. It was a masterpiece of defensive engineering, bristling with watchtowers and hidden entrances.
"Why this target?" McCaffrey asked, looking at the map.
"Because it is the brain," Dubois answered. "The K-Strain operatives attacking Earth are not random raiders. They are scouts being coordinated from this specific hub. This fortress acts as a relay station for their incursions. If we destroy it, we blind them. We stop the raids on India and Nepal at the source."
Dubois looked back at Harris. "Furthermore, the prisoners revealed that the Shadow-Leaf Clan holds archives. Ancient records. We believe they possess intelligence on the 'Third Faction'—the Architects of Flesh. We need that data."
"Infiltration," Harris said. "Assassination."
"Precisely," Dubois said. "You will infiltrate the stronghold. You will eliminate the Shogun commanding these forces, and you will secure the data. Your physiology makes you the only asset capable of matching their speed and stealth."
Harris looked at the map, calculating. "Solo?"
"Negative," Dubois said firmly. "You are a potent weapon, Asset-1, but this mission requires a team. You need support, and frankly, you need a leash. I am not sending a battalion. A large force would be detected before they reached the perimeter. This requires a surgical strike."
Dubois gestured to the blast doors. "I have selected the only soldiers in the Alliance with the relevant experience to keep up with you."
The doors opened again.
Two men walked in. They moved with the silent, sure-footed grace of men born in the mountains. They wore dark grey tactical gear, distinct from the American or Chinese uniforms. Slung across their chests were Tavor X95 rifles, and at their hips hung heavy, curved knives in leather sheaths.
Rifleman Rakesh Thapa and Rifleman Rahul Gurung.
They stopped just inside the room. Rakesh's eyes instantly locked onto Harris. He didn't flinch, but his hand drifted instinctively toward the handle of his khukuri. He sensed the danger radiating from the creature in black. Rahul's eyes went wide, taking in the demonic mask, the glowing eyes. He had fought monsters in the jungle, but he had never seen one standing in a briefing room.
"Asset-1," Dubois said, a thin smile touching his lips. "Meet your new squad. These are the men who captured the ninjas. They know how to hunt your prey."
Harris turned his head slowly, the blue lights fixing on the two Gorkhas. He assessed them. He smelled the jungle on them, the old sweat, the quiet competence.
"Good," Harris rumbled. "Let's go hunting."