BIRTHCRY1: CHAPTER 3 – THE PLAN
Days blurred together in the steel-and-glass labyrinth of SYRIA 71, each moment a silent echo of failure. Dexter, cloaked in authority but corroded by shame, sat alone in his room. A holographic screen glitched before him, displaying a slow-spinning 3D model of the missing sculpture. A relic of incomprehensible value—older than civilization—now lost to the ocean's depths. It mocked him with every silent revolution.
The Hiranian President's encrypted messages had ceased. Their covert alliance, once delicate but essential, was shattered in a single act of failure. And that silence? It wasn't a retreat. It was judgment.
Dexter refused to fall beneath it. He wouldn't be remembered as the man who lost everything.
The mission had never been official. While SYRIA 71 operated under a coalition of twelve governments, this retrieval was Dexter's alone—a backroom deal struck with the Hiranian President in encrypted channels, bypassing the other eleven nations entirely. The arrangement was simple: Dexter would deliver the sculpture to Lycra, the President's clandestine research facility, where it would be studied in absolute secrecy. In exchange, he will secure Dexter's position for years to come in Syria 71. The sculpture's secrets would belong to Hiran. But now, with the sculpture lost, so was everything else.
Worse—the Hiranian President had become a liability. If cornered, he could expose the arrangement and frame it as Dexter's betrayal to the coalition, revealing the entire operation—the mission, the deal, the loss—without ever revealing his own participation.
Dexter had planned an insurance protocol, something dark, something final, that would eliminate the threat permanently.
"I'll give the world a new headline," he muttered. "One they'll never forget."
That night, he issued the order.
From the depths of SYRIA 71, a black-ops unit emerged—faceless men in matte armor, silent as shadows. They crossed borders undetected, slipping past satellites and surveillance. Their target: the Hiranian President himself. Not his secrets. Not his lab. The man.
They found him in Nehran, nestled in a private hotel suite at the city's edge, intoxicated by wine and a woman's soft laughter.
Then—bang. The door exploded inward.
The masked team flooded in. The woman screamed—one blow silenced her. The President scrambled, naked, eyes wide. Cameras hacked into state networks flared to life, broadcasting every moment across the nation.
The execution wasn't swift. It was surgical.
They broke him slowly. Methodically. Until his final scream echoed across homes, boardrooms, and government halls. Then the feed cut. Silence fell.
The very next day,
The world convulsed. Embassies erupted in flames. Nehran drowned in riots. Condemnations flooded global channels.
Then came a voice from the void.
Ru, president's right hand—publicly a leader, secretly a terrorist faction commander—once a silent observer, stepped into the spotlight. At a press conference, without notes, without aides, he addressed the world:
"I know who is behind this. Vengeance is coming to those who are involved in this terrible act."
Ru was more than a right hand for the president. In secret, the Hiranian President's facility—Lycra—had been built on stolen tech and knowledge from SYRIA 71 with Dexter's help.
Dexter watched the broadcast in silence, whiskey untouched beside him. A cold smile flickered.
"Let them come."
But fate had other plans.
That evening, beneath SYRIA 71 in the medical wing, an alarm chimed. A nurse rushed into the intensive recovery ward. The crew member Boston had been dragged into the ocean.
"Get... The Commander," he rasped.
Dexter arrived moments later. The man sat upright, trembling. "Sir…You... don't know what he did," he gasped. "Boston... sabotaged everything. He let the sculpture fall. He was the only one who pulled me with him. And left me to die."
Dexter's fury ignited. His fist slammed the wall.
"Bring him to me," he snarled. "Alive."
Armed guards descended on Boston's quarters.
Inside, Boston slept peacefully.
They breached the lock and dragged him out. Chains clanked.
In front of him, Dexter stood.
"You never understood," Boston murmured through split lips. "This place... your rules... they're all built on lies."
Dexter didn't speak. He hit him. Again and again.
He was midway through signing the execution order when Main Five intervened.
S1, their battle-scarred leader, summoned the others. They moved swiftly, eliminating Dexter's guards with lethal precision. Soon, S1 faced Dexter alone.
"You touch him," S1 warned, "and we'll reduce this place to ash. We built it. We can bury it."
Dexter hesitated. His hand hovered over his pistol. But the odds were clear.
"Fine," he said. "He lives."
But by law, traitors must face death.
Dexter's compromise came sharp and cold.
"You're hereby dismissed, Boston. And with you, Soldiers S1 through S5."
Boston stepped forward, stunned. "You realize what you're doing, don't you? If we leave, the missions, the secrets—they all go public."
Dexter's voice was steel. "I know. That's why you'll remain stationed just outside the perimeter. You're not gone. You're exiled. This desert is your prison."
Boston, still shackled, stood motionless. Then:
"All the prototypes... every advancement—those were mine. If I'm not dead, I want them back. Or I'll take them."
Hearing this with a cold smile, one word made Boston freeze: "002K."
Dexter continued, "If any decision you make is wrong, we both fail."
The storm outside deepened.
And within Boston's silence, war began to take shape.