THE ORBITAL TRAIN
OMEGA ORBIT, HIGH-ANCHORAGE
06:00 GST (Global Standard Time)
Space was no longer empty.
Two months ago, the space between Earth and Omega had been a vacuum of fear. Now, it was a highway. It was the greatest logistical undertaking in the history of the human species, a "conveyor belt" of survival forged from desperation and the infinite budget of a terrified planet.
The GDI Transport Fleet was arriving.
It wasn't just a few shuttles. It was an armada. The formation was led by the hulking shapes of the American US-SSTV 'Atlas' heavy-lifters, their thrusters firing in rhythmic, computerized bursts to maintain station. Flanking them were the sleek, ceramic-white deltas of the Korean 'Geobukseon' fleet, acting as rapid shuttles. Interspersed were the utilitarian, cylinder-shaped Indian 'Garuda' transports and the massive, blocky Russian 'Burlak' cargo-haulers.
Inside the lead Atlas, The Spirit of St. Louis, the air recycled with a mechanical hiss.
Lieutenant Colonel Alexei Volkov of the Russian Ground Forces sat strapped into his crash couch. He was a man carved from granite and bad vodka, a veteran of Syria and Ukraine. Now, he was staring at a screen showing a green, alien hell.
"Check seals," Volkov barked into his comms. "We touch down in ten mikes. I want the armor rolling before the ramp hits the dirt. If we bottle-neck on the offload, the Americans will laugh, and I will shoot you."
"Sir," his driver, Sergeant Petrov, replied nervously. "The atmospheric density... the intake manifolds on the T-14 Armatas. We haven't tested them in this mix."
"The engine will breathe, or it will choke," Volkov grunted. "Just like us. Prepare for insertion."
The fleet began its descent. It was not a graceful glide. It was a brute-force invasion of the atmosphere. Hundreds of retro-thrusters fired simultaneously, painting the upper atmosphere of Omega with streaks of man-made fire.
THE ANTHILL
FOB BEDROCK, OMEGA SURFACE
LANDING ZONE 'ALPHA'
The Landing Zone had changed. It was no longer a muddy clearing where Rangers fought Orcs.
It was an industrial scar.
The ground had been fused into a crude glass-crete tarmac by the thermal wash of repeated landings. As the Spirit of St. Louis settled on its hydraulic struts with a groan of tortured metal, the ramp dropped.
It didn't unleash soldiers. It unleashed monsters of steel.
The first to roll out was the pride of the Russian Federation: the T-14 Armata Main Battle Tank. Its unmanned turret swiveled, the 125mm smoothbore cannon sniffing the alien air. The active protection systems hummed, green lasers scanning for threats. Then came another. And another. A full platoon of heavy armor, their diesel engines roaring a defiant, smoky challenge to the jungle.
Simultaneously, from a neighboring Indian Garuda, the Gorkha Rifles poured out. They didn't march; they flowed. They were light infantry, distinct from the heavy Russians. They carried Carl Gustaf M4 recoilless rifles and heavy packs, moving instantly to secure the high ridges overlooking the LZ. They were the eyes.
From the Chinese 'Y-20 Stratolifter' (space-modified), the logistics flowed. Not guns, but crates. Endless, unified pallets of ammunition, medical supplies, and processed rations. The PLA soldiers moved with the efficiency of a colony of ants, operating automated forklifts and exoskeletons to strip the ship bare in minutes.
And finally, the Americans. The US Army Corps of Engineers. They brought the bulldozers. Massive, up-armored D9 dozers and excavators rolled off the ramps, ready to expand the perimeter, clear the kill zones, and bury the dead.
It was a symphony of noise. The roar of engines, the scream of thrusters, the shouting of NCOs in four different languages.
"MOVE IT! GO, GO, GO! CLEAR THE RAMP!"
"DAWAY! DAWAY!"
"JALDI KARO!"
"KUAI DIAN!"
It was chaos. But it was organized chaos. It was the sound of humanity digging in its heels.
THE CITY BENEATH
FOB BEDROCK, SUB-LEVEL 4 (COMMAND DECK)
General McCaffrey watched the feed from his office in Gibraltar, but on the ground, the man in charge was Brigadier General "Iron" Ironside of the British Army. He was a man who believed in stiff upper lips and overwhelming firepower.
He stood on the gantry of the main underground hangar. The "Batcave" that Russo had found empty was now teeming with life. It smelled of unwashed bodies, gun oil, ozone, and the distinct, metallic tang of stressed concrete.
The hangar was divided into sectors.
Sector North: Russian Armor. Mechanics were already stripping an engine, cursing in Russian as they tried to adapt the air filters to the spore-heavy atmosphere.
Sector East: Chinese Logistics. A perfectly organized warehouse of supplies, stacked three stories high.
Sector West: American/Alliance Barracks. A sea of cots and modular living quarters.
Sector South: The Indian QRF (Quick Reaction Force) staging area.
Ironside tapped his cane on the railing. "It's a powder keg, Colonel," he muttered to his aide. "We have four thousand men and women down here. Four nations that hated each other six months ago, all armed to the teeth, breathing recycled air, living in a concrete box under a dinosaur planet."
"Discipline is holding, sir," the aide replied. "The fear helps. They hate the planet more than they hate each other."
"For now," Ironside said. "Where is the Asset? Where is the Hunter-Killer team?"
"Inbound, sir. They are clearing decontamination now."
THE GHOSTS RETURN
DECONTAMINATION CHAMBER 4
The airlock hissed. High-pressure jets of chemical mist blasted the three figures standing in the center of the room.
Rakesh Thapa and Rahul Gurung stood stoically, letting the decontaminant wash over their battered armor. They looked exhausted. Their gear was shredded, covered in frozen violet mud and the dried, black blood of the Shogun's guards. They leaned on their Tavor rifles, their eyes hollow.
Harris Brown stood between them.
The mist hissed off his black suit. He didn't look tired. He looked... charged. The blue lights of his mask were pulsing with a slow, rhythmic intensity. He was still holding a waterproof, blast-proof satchel in his left hand. The Intel.
The cycle ended. A green light flashed. CLEAN.
The inner door opened.
They walked out into the bustle of the main hangar.
The noise of the base—thousands of soldiers talking, working, fixing—died down instantly in their immediate vicinity.
It was a wave of silence that spread outward.
Soldiers stopped. A Russian mechanic dropped a wrench. An American marine paused mid-chew of his ration bar.
They stared.
They had heard the rumors. The "Demon." The "Monster of Avenger-1."
Now they saw him.
Harris walked with a predator's gait, heavy and silent. He didn't look at the soldiers. He looked through them.
Rakesh and Rahul walked a step behind, like handlers—or like accolades.
A young American private, fresh from boot camp, stared open-mouthed as Harris passed.
Harris stopped. He turned his head slowly. The blue eyes locked onto the Private.
The Private flinched, stepping back, his hand trembling near his holster.
"Don't," Harris rumbled.
He turned back and kept walking toward the Command Module.
THE DEBRIEF AND THE HORROR
COMMAND MODULE, BRIEFING ROOM A
Brigadier General Ironside sat at the head of the table. Alongside him were the on-site commanders: Colonel Volkov (Russia), Colonel Lin (China), and Major Pant (India).
Harris threw the satchel onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud.
Rakesh stepped forward. "Mission accomplished, General. Target 'Shogun' eliminated. Stronghold neutralized via artillery. All intelligence assets secured."
"Casualties?" Ironside asked.
"None," Rakesh said. "Though... Asset-1 took a direct hit from a kinetic-magic blast. Armor integrity held."
Ironside looked at Harris. "Asset-1. Report."
Harris stood silent for a moment. The mask shifted, the chitinous plates sliding over each other.
"They are scared," Harris said.
"Scared?" Colonel Volkov scoffed. "These ninjas? They fight like demons."
"Not of us," Harris clarified, his voice grinding. "They are scared of what is coming."
He pointed a clawed finger at the satchel.
"The Shogun... he spoke before he died. He said they are not here to conquer. They are here to find a 'Key'. A 'Prime Gene'."
"A gene?" Colonel Lin asked, leaning forward. "Biological weaponry?"
"And he said..." Harris paused, the memory of the dying warlord playing in his mind. "He said the 'Architects of Flesh'... the Third Factor... are already here. He said we have invited them."
Ironside opened the satchel. He pulled out a scroll. It was made of a material that felt like cured human skin. The writing on it was geometric, shifting, almost alive.
"Get this to the cryptologists," Ironside ordered, his voice tight. "And get a direct line to Gibraltar. Tell Dubois... tell him the war just changed."
He looked at the three men.
"You three need rest. Go to the barracks. Get food. Get sleep. You are off rotation for 12 hours."
Harris turned to leave.
"Asset-1," Ironside called out. "Where are you going? The barracks are that way."
"I do not sleep," Harris said.
"I will be on the perimeter. Watching."
He walked out.
THE FRICTION
ALLIANCE MESS HALL, SECTOR WEST
20:30 GST
The mess hall was the true melting pot of the Alliance. It was a loud, clattering cavern of stainless steel tables and the smell of rehydrated food.
Rakesh and Rahul sat at a corner table, nursing trays of "GDI Standard Curry" (which tasted mostly of salt and turmeric). They were exhausted, but the adrenaline hadn't faded.
A group of Russian tankers from Volkov's unit sat at the next table. They were loud, boisterous, passing around a flask of something that definitely wasn't water.
One of the Russians, a massive Sergeant named Boris, leaned over.
"Hey! Gorkha!" Boris shouted in broken English. "You! You are the ones who climb the mountain, yes? With the Monster?"
Rakesh looked up, his eyes cool. "We climbed the mountain, yes."
"Is it true?" Boris asked, his face flushed. "Is it true he eats the dead? Does he keep the bones?"
The mess hall went quiet. Everyone wanted to know.
Rahul put down his spoon. "He is a soldier, Sergeant. Just like you. Just... different."
"Different?" Boris laughed. "He is a chort. A devil. You fight with a devil, you become a devil." He spat on the floor. "I do not trust him. One day, he will get hungry. And he will eat you."
Rakesh stood up. He didn't shout. He didn't posture. He just placed his hand on the hilt of his khukuri.
The silence in the room stretched, thin and tight as a wire.
"He saved my life," Rakesh said softly. "He saved this base. You sit in your tank, inside the wire. He goes out. Do not speak of him."
Boris glared, his pride stinging. He started to stand up.
A hand slammed onto Boris's shoulder. It was Colonel Volkov.
"Sit down, Sergeant," Volkov growled. "The Gorkha is right. You are drunk on adrenaline. Eat your slop."
Boris sat. The tension broke, but it didn't vanish. It hung in the air, heavy and thick.
The Alliance was strong on paper. But down here, in the dirt and the dark, it was fragile.
And outside, on the perimeter wall, a lone figure in black stood perfectly still, watching the purple jungle, waiting for the monsters that everyone else was trying to forget.