THE FEED
(GDI GLOBAL BROADCAST NETWORK - LIVE FEED)
(TIME: 20:00 EST)
[GRAPHIC: A spinning globe showing red hotspots over Paris, Mumbai, and Lagos. The chyron reads: "GLOBAL UNREST: DAY 45."]
DIANA SHAW (Anchor): Good evening. I'm Diana Shaw, and this is The Global Pulse.
Tonight, the euphoria of the "Omega Victory" is meeting the harsh reality of a world in transition. While GDI celebrates the destruction of the Leviathan at FOB Bedrock, the streets of Earth tell a different story. We are seeing a third night of consecutive riots in Paris and Berlin, sparked by the new "Resource Rationing" protocols implemented by the Alliance Council.
[VIDEO FEED: Grainy footage of riot police in futuristic riot gear clashing with protestors in front of the Eiffel Tower. Tear gas canisters arc through the air. A banner reads: "EARTH FIRST - STARVE THE WAR."]
SHAW: But the unrest isn't just economic. It is ethical. It is existential. To discuss the shifting landscape of the Omega War, we have a full panel tonight. Joining us from the Pentagon is General (Ret.) Marcus "Iron" Vane, military analyst. From Oxford, Dr. Elara Vance, xenobiologist and ethics advocate. And from the New York Stock Exchange, Carter O'Neil, senior analyst for Deep-Space Commodities.
General Vane, let's start with the military front. Rumors are circulating about "Project Poseidon." Can you confirm that humanity is attempting to put a battleship on an alien ocean?
GEN. VANE: Diana, I can't speak to classified specifics. But I can tell you this: the logistics of this war are evolving. We aren't just sending soldiers anymore. We are sending infrastructure. The Korean Geobukseon fleet has been working overtime. If we are going to hold Sector 5—the "Iron Coast"—we need naval superiority. We are talking about modular destroyers, flown up in pieces and welded together on-site. It is the greatest engineering challenge since the Pyramids.
SHAW: Is it sustainable?
GEN. VANE: It has to be. Because the enemy isn't just throwing rocks. They have magic. Which brings me to the tech breakthrough.
SHAW: The EMP rumors?
GEN. VANE: It's not a rumor. GDI R&D has confirmed that high-frequency electromagnetic pulses disrupt the "mana-cohesion" of the Strain-E and Strain-O spellcasters. Magic, as it turns out, has a frequency. And if it has a frequency, we can jam it. We are currently retrofitting our forward units with localized EMP emitters. We are turning their wizards into guys with sticks.
SHAW: A promising development. However, Dr. Vance, your camp argues that we shouldn't be fighting all of them.
DR. VANCE: (Visibly agitated) "Fighting" is a sanitized word, Diana. We are exterminating. The leak regarding the captured Strain-K prisoners—the so-called "Ninjas"—has confirmed they are sentient, intelligent, and possess a complex culture. And what is GDI doing? They are vivisecting them.
GEN. VANE: They are enemy combatants, Doctor.
DR. VANCE: They are prisoners of war! We have reports from whistleblowers inside the containment facilities. Chemical interrogation. Neural mapping. Vivisection while conscious to study regeneration rates. This is why you are seeing hunger strikes across university campuses. The "Generation Z" coalition is blocking highways not because they love aliens, but because they hate what we are becoming. If we lose our humanity to save our planet, what have we actually saved?
SHAW: Carter, let's bring you in. While the Doctor worries about ethics, the market seems to be worrying about... opportunity.
O'NEIL: (Smiling, slick) Look, ethics are important. But let's look at the data. The samples brought back from Omega—the mineral samples—contain isotopes we haven't seen since the formation of the solar system. Room-temperature superconductors. Bio-regenerative compounds. Omega isn't just a threat, Diana. It's a gold mine.
SHAW: And who is going to mine it?
O'NEIL: That's the trillion-dollar question. The military is stretched thin. GDI can barely hold the perimeter at FOB Bedrock. They can't run mining operations. That is where the private sector comes in.
SHAW: You're talking about private military contractors. Mercenaries.
O'NEIL: I'm talking about "Private Security Solutions." Look, Lockheed, Raytheon, Blackrock... they are all spinning up off-world divisions. We are hearing chatter about private firms purchasing their own SSTVs. If the military can't secure the resources, the free market will.
GEN. VANE: (Scoffing) That's a dangerous road, Carter. You put PMCs on a planet with magic and dragons? You're going to have warlords within a month.
O'NEIL: We already have warlords, General. At least these ones pay taxes.
SHAW: I want to pivot to a breaking story regarding the "Hero of Bedrock." We've received thousands of messages regarding Specialist Harris Brown. The official line is that he has retired due to injuries.
[IMAGE ON SCREEN: A stock photo of Harris Brown from his Ranger days, looking young and human. Not the monster he is now.]
GEN. VANE: That's the official line, yes. The man took on a Leviathan. He earned his rest.
SHAW: Alright, it's time for a intermission and I desperately need some coffee. When we return: The weather on Omega. Why is the ocean purple? And later, a look at the new "Earth Defense Tax" and what it means for your paycheck. Stay with us.
(COMMERCIAL BREAK: A sleek, high-production ad plays. A family sits in a reinforced bunker, smiling, eating MREs. Text on screen: "SAFE-HOME SYSTEMS. BE READY FOR THE SECOND SKY.")
THE HIGHWAY MEN
ROUTE 375, NEVADA DESERT (THE EXTRATERRESTRIAL HIGHWAY)
02:45 LOCAL TIME
The desert was a void of ink-black silence, broken only by the low, guttural thrum of heavy diesel engines.
Two massive Oshkosh Defense HEMTT A4 transport trucks tore down the lonely stretch of asphalt. They were painted in the new, matte-gray livery of the United States Space Force Logistics Corps. They were unmarked, ungoverned, and carrying a payload worth more than the GDP of a small country.
In the cab of the lead truck, "Lead-1," Sergeant Miller gripped the wheel, his eyes scanning the endless cone of headlights cutting through the dark. Beside him, Private Jenkins was struggling to stay awake, the blue light of a tablet illuminating his bored face.
"You hear what that suit said on the radio?" Jenkins asked, rubbing his eyes. "Private firms going to Omega. Man, I'm in the wrong line of work. I'm hauling 'Class-4' cargo for enlisted pay, and some Blackwater-wannabe is gonna make six figures to shoot orcs."
Miller grunted, shifting gears as the truck groaned up a slight incline. "Don't believe the hype, kid. Mercs die just the same. Besides, you don't want to go up there. You saw the footage of the Dragon."
"Yeah, but the loot," Jenkins pressed. "They say the rocks glow. They say you can sell a piece of 'magic wood' for fifty grand in Tokyo."
"Focus on the road," Miller snapped. "We're twenty mikes out from Groom Lake. We drop these crates, we turn around, we sleep."
"What's in 'em anyway?" Jenkins asked, glancing back at the sealed trailer. "Manifest just says 'SSTV-Prototype-Light'."
"Commercial grade," Miller said. "Space-trucks. Not the big military lifters. These are the frantic, slap-dash models meant for corporate use. Probably headed up to help build that factory on the coast. Musk's toys, or Bezos's. Who knows."
"Boring," Jenkins sighed.
The radio crackled. It was the driver of "Lead-2," the truck behind them.
"Lead-1, this is Lead-2. I'm picking up... weird interference on the comms. Static. Like... rhythmic static."
Miller frowned. He checked his own console. The GPS was flickering.
"Solar flare?" Miller asked.
"Negative. It's local. I'm also reading a thermal spike... directly ahead."
Miller slammed on the brakes. The massive ten-wheeled truck screeched, tires smoking on the asphalt.
"Contact front! Jenkins, eyes up!"
Fifty meters ahead, in the middle of the road, a single red flare sputtered to life.
It illuminated a figure standing in the middle of the highway.
He wasn't an alien. He was human. He was wearing high-end, non-standard tactical gear—quad-lens panoramic night vision goggles, heavy ceramic plating, and no insignia.
He held a device in his hand.
"Ambush!" Miller screamed, reaching for his M4 carbine. "Reverse! Lead-2, back it up!"
The figure on the road squeezed the trigger of the device.
It wasn't a bomb.
It was an EMP Claymore.
VWOOM.
A pulse of invisible, high-frequency energy washed over the convoy.
The Oshkosh trucks, despite being military-hardened, died instantly. The engines cut out. The headlights died. The digital dashboards went black. The comms went dead.
The desert plunged back into absolute darkness.
"Night vision!" Miller yelled, fumbling for his helmet. "Jenkins, get out! Use the door for cover!"
CRACK-THWIP.
A single shot rang out from the darkness of the desert scrub.
It was a suppressed, high-caliber round. It punched through the ballistic glass of the windshield.
Jenkins's head snapped back. A hole the size of a grapefruit opened in his skull. He slumped against the dead dashboard.
"CONTACT LEFT! CONTACT RIGHT!" Miller screamed into the dead radio.
He kicked his door open and rolled out onto the asphalt, bringing his rifle up.
He couldn't see anything. The night was pitch black.
But they could see him.
From the ridges on both sides of the highway, a synchronized volley of fire erupted. It was professional. Terrifyingly so.
They weren't spraying and praying. They were using .300 Blackout subsonic rounds. Quiet. Deadly.
The four guards in the second truck bailed out. Two were dropped before their boots hit the pavement.
"Suppressive fire!" Miller roared, firing blindly into the desert. Muzzle flashes lit up the night, revealing fleeting glimpses of armored figures moving in a pincer formation.
They were fast. They moved with the coordination of a hive mind.
A figure sprinted from the darkness, sliding over the hood of Lead-1. Miller spun, firing.
The figure moved like liquid. He deflected Miller's barrel with a gloved hand and drove a combat knife into Miller's throat gap.
Miller gurgled, dropping to his knees.
The attacker held him there, staring into his dying eyes with the glowing green lenses of his NVGs.
"Shhh," the attacker whispered.
Within sixty seconds, the firefight was over.
Six US Space Force guards lay dead on the asphalt.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
"Clear," a voice called out from the dark. It was a modulated, synthetic voice.
"Clear right."
"Rear guard neutralized."
A man walked out of the shadows. He was taller than the others, wearing a long, dust-colored tactical coat over his armor. He carried a customized SIG MCX Spear. He walked to the dead body of Miller and nudged it with his boot.
"Sloppy," the man said. "They relied on the tech. Once the lights went out, they panicked."
"Captain Mercer," one of the soldiers said, approaching him. "Trucks are disabled. The EMP fried the ECUs."
"Replace them," Mercer ordered calmly. "We brought spares. Get the 'Override Modules' installed. We have ten minutes before the satellite sweep passes overhead. I want these trucks moving."
The team—twelve men—moved with mechanical efficiency. They weren't looting the bodies. They were erasing them.
Two soldiers dragged the corpses of the guards into a pile in a drainage ditch.
"Thermite?" one asked.
"Burn them," Mercer said. "Make it look like a fuel rupture. No ballistics."
A soldier placed a canister on the pile of bodies. He pulled the pin.
A blinding white light ignited, burning at 4,000 degrees Fahrenheit. It consumed flesh, bone, and uniform in seconds. There would be nothing left to autopsy.
Meanwhile, the mechanics popped the hoods of the massive Oshkosh transports. They ripped out the fried computers and slotted in black, unauthorized modules.
The engines roared back to life.
"Payload confirmed," another soldier called from the back of Lead-2. He had cracked the seal. "Two Lockheed-Martin 'Starlite' rapid-deploy SSTVs. Disassembled. Plus spare fusion cores."
Mercer nodded. He looked up at the stars. Somewhere up there was Omega.
"Good," Mercer said. "The Client will be pleased. We have our ride."
"Captain," the soldier said, wiping grease from his hands. "Getting these up there... bypassing the GDI blockade... that's going to be a dangerous job."
Mercer climbed into the cab of the lead truck, shoving Jenkins's headless body out onto the road. He looked at his reflection in the shattered rearview mirror. He smiled.
"Dangerous is what we charge for, Sergeant. The war is changing. The governments are slow. The Alliance is fragile."
He revved the engine.
"We're not going there to save the planet. We're going there to own it."
He keyed his radio, which was encrypted on a frequency GDI didn't even monitor.
"Convoy is secure. 'Shadow Company' is mobile. Tell the board of directors... we are going to space."
The two stolen trucks, carrying the keys to a private invasion, turned off the highway and vanished into the uncharted darkness of the Nevada desert, leaving nothing behind but a pile of white-hot ash.