The crown crashed down, knocking the tablet from the statue's hands. Now, both symbols sat decaying in the dirt. Total chaos: bodies, burning ruins, and piles of burned vehicles stuck in traffic jams. Three hours into the war... No, let's call it what it is — total extermination. Naturally, GMO-free slaughter by way of UFOs. Bullets, shells, and missiles are powerless against the invaders' chitin armor. Their tech is terrifying. You might spend thirty minutes crawling through filth just to find the perfect spot for a launcher. Stay hidden, set up, lock on, and fire... The missile screams toward the target!.. And right then, you realize: all that "AI" nonsense with its six-fingered drawings and brainrot is complete and utter garbage. Because their AI stops a multi-million dollar missile in a fraction of a second and sends the shockwave right back to your face.
A new beat for the concrete jungle: life now pulses in sync with screaming sirens, choppers, and the crash of missiles. We grew up watching this in popcorn blockbusters. The script never changes: unstoppable evil turns a city into a wasteland. But in the movies, a hero shows up. Out here? You just pray. Pray that some guy in red tights is the Second Coming and those Hollywood stories were real prophecies. That he'll take out "Main CP-01" (Main Command Post) with one single, divine strike. That lead ship in the sky, where their arrogant humanoid calls the shots.
But there are no miracles — back to reality, then. A guards captain raced through the apocalypse toward home, driving around abandoned vehicles and craters. His only goal was to hug his loved ones before the evacuation. The moment the transporter's wheels touched the sidewalk, he jumped out and ran for the door, but for some reason, he stopped dead. He looked toward the far bank. He had been working late shifts, seeing the same quiet view every morning. But now, he saw a broken world: a shattered bridge, a blackened sky, and burning towers. All these wars... The world is officially insane, and that "divine anger" the leftists spent so long wishing for has finally arrived.
And yet, if it weren't for the chaos and the screams behind his back, he could have fooled himself for a moment — believed that today was just a normal Sunday morning, and he had simply stayed late at work again to watch the sunrise. Fortunately, the sun's rays had not yet been hidden by the smoke of the fires. He stared hard at a patch of clear sky, trying to ignore reality. He wanted to stay like that, never looking back. But a helicopter blade crashing into the ground beside him instantly brought him to his senses. The captain snapped out of his brief trance and ran into his apartment. It looked exactly as it had yesterday... only the gray dust drifting in through the shattered windows ruined the picture. In the very center of the living room, on a thick rug, lay a woman. Her hair was tangled, and coal-black circles had frozen around her eyes, looking like a secret mask: her mascara had hopelessly run from sobbing. A heavy, distinct smell hung in the air — the kind of scent you'd find in a dorm room at four-twenty. The officer rushed to her, fell to his knees, and began to shake her by the shoulders, desperately hoping to wake her up:
"Abigail, where is Nancy? Why aren't the things packed?" He shook her by the shoulders. "Abigail, do you hear me?! You're a mother, damn it!"
"Look who's here…" She slowly lifted her head. "Oh-h, it's our little whore… Did you know you're a dirty whore?" She spat each word with bitter hate.
"What are you talking about? Abigail, there's no time for your nonsense! Is this because of the joint?"
"It's because my dear husband loves to taste some cock, ha-ha!" Abigail laughed bitterly.
"Can you be serious for once?! Where is Nancy?!" He raised his hand to hit her but stopped.
"What, you gonna hit me, Saint?" Abigail broke into a dry, harsh laugh. "Do it! Hit me, you prick! It's not against the rules in your Bible, is it? Go on, for once, follow the rules you've been pushing down my throat!"
She pushed his hands away and spat in his face. The commander only blinked, accepting it. She stood up, kicked him in the leg, and angrily knocked over the floor lamp. Then she sat back into the armchair, continuing to finish her smoke. The fact that she could sit there calmly smoking in the middle of this hell was the final straw:
"What is wrong with you… I wasn't going to hit you! I'm trying to make you see reality!" He shouted. "Do you hear me? If you don't care about yourself, think of our daughter!"
"I'm perfectly fine, I don't need to 'come back,'" She gave a crooked smile, smearing mascara across her cheek. "You only remembered your daughter now? Where was your conscience when you were sleeping with that Antichrist of yours? What, were you trying to see St. Peter's Basilica by looking into his 'dickhole'?"
"Abigail, I'm begging you, not now! We'll fix everything, but later!"
The captain didn't waste a single second on empty arguments. In Special Forces, the instructors had taught a simple truth: time is the only resource you can't replace. Unless you are an immortal vampire, don't you dare throw it away. One extra movement during a reload, and you're a corpse. A finger moves the wrong way, catching cold metal instead of the trigger, and the enemy has already put a bullet through your forehead. Seconds — they are life.
There are creatures whose lives are far too short. All they have time for is seeking food and having babies; they are in a constant rush, terrified of running out of time. Now, the captain felt like one of those short-lived flies. Not knowing how many seconds of life he had left, he desperately tried to save every one. But he knew exactly how long those godless creatures — the ones currently burning humanity — lived. He had asked them himself.
The officer, used to kicking doors down, only gave the child's room door a gentle push. Little Nancy sat on the floor, separated from the world's madness by loud music. She was completely lost in her game, in her dollhouse — a gift from either Christmas or a birthday; one of those rare days when his job allowed him to stay with his family longer than usual. The captain knelt beside her, picked up a toy Ken, and tapped lightly on the pink plastic wall.
"Is it true that Princess Nancy lives here?"
"Daddy! You came!" She hugged his neck with all her strength.
"Mom said you're with the Antichrist now."
"She's not herself. Look, Nancy, see who's here?" He held up a "Military Ken."
"Sweet Nancy, you're expected at the castle. Dragons have attacked our lands."
"Da-ddy! There are no dragons in the real world!"
"You know, baby, I didn't believe in aliens either..." He sighed heavily.
"Show me your toys?"
"Sure, Dad..."
First was Teddy, her favorite. Then came the Kens, "standing in line" by his knees. Among them was "Camo-Dad Ken," second only to the bear. A bitter thought crossed the captain's mind: if he'd been around more, maybe she wouldn't have been so angry at his actual uniform. Years of training, careful strikes, reflexes sharpened just to beat the enemy by a fraction of a second... All that time stolen from death hadn't been saved for medals. He was spending that entire "gold reserve" of seconds now — on the most important game of his life.
"And this is the one I hate most, the plastic cucumber. It's disgusting, Dad!" She was laughing now.
"Nancy, tell you what. Since I'm off duty today, get your clothes on. We're all going to the zoo."
"Hand in hand?"
"I'm afraid Mommy managed to grab that hand first!"
"Then I'm bringing Teddy!"
"Better hurry, or the real bear will run away."
"Oh no!"
Leaving the child's room, the officer noticed a family album on the floor. He looked through it and shivered: in every photo with the captain, his face and figure were crossed out with thick marks and covered in insults. But there were "special" shots: in a photo of their first trip to church, his face had been burned away with a cigarette, with a note below reading: "two-faced beast." In another picture, where he was talking about family values, his image had been rubbed until it tore, with a poisonous note added: "sodomite against his own kind." Under her own photo, where she was still a young girl listening to his speech with great respect, Abigail had written: "I should have left this crazy man back then!"
The captain grabbed Abigail in a death grip and dragged her outside. He pulled her toward the SUV while she fought with all her might, trying to bite through the armor on his back. As soon as he set her on her feet, the very nails she'd paid for with his money scratched into his face. They snapped, leaving rough cuts and getting stuck under his skin. The soldiers watched him with disgust — not a trace of their former respect for the commander remained. Abigail screamed, calling for the soldiers to break orders and save her. The sergeant would have jumped at a stranger's call, but the military rules forced him to stay. He tried to find the words to calm the commander, but the captain didn't hear him. He had only one mission: to push his "loved ones" into the car.
The men saw it for what it was: a commander trying to hide his old weakness under a show of raw force. It was sad. She kept fighting him, screaming "sodomite" at the top of her lungs. The driver's eyes were locked on the captain through the mirror, unblinking. The look said it all: Where was this strength when you had to say "no"? A junior officer pushed himself into the corner of the cab, watching the captain try to force his wife in. Eventually, the younger man stepped in to help. He muttered a quick apology to Abigail, took her from the commander, and whispered in her ear. She shut up immediately. Then Nancy threw herself into her mother's arms — the girl had missed the whole scene, a masterpiece of toxic masculinity.
"Daddy, Daddy, where are you going to sit?" His daughter shouted.
"I'll be right behind you.." The officer said.
"Ahem." Came a sharp, annoyed cough.
"Sergeant, your mission is to deliver the woman and child in total safety."
"Sir, yes, sir!"
"Thank you. And be careful with them."
"Sir, yes, sir!"
""Forget the rank, Sergeant. I love..." "No, sir!" The sergeant barked"
"...them" He managed to finish. "Just… keep them safe."
The captain slammed the door shut. The car tore away, kicking up a cloud of dust. He felt a cigar in his front pocket. He couldn't even recall how that garbage had ended up in his formal uniform, which usually held nothing but a protein bar. Biting off the tip, just like they do in the movies, he inhaled. And nearly died. The commander, who had never let unhealthy smoke into his lungs, broke into a violent coughing fit — as if a hard object had been pushed into his throat. Memories of that cursed metting, the one that changed everything, immediately flashed through his mind. His head spun from the very first puff, and he threw the cigar into the mud.
Coming to his senses, he watched the car drive away. Tears filled his eyes — either from the sharp smoke or from a late rush of emotion. A desperate urge burned inside him: to stop them, to catch up, to beg for forgiveness. This wasn't how you were supposed to say goodbye to your loved ones. And it was as if he'd been heard. The SUV stopped suddenly. Two figures jumped out: his wife and daughter. But they didn't run into his arms; they ran toward the ruins. Away from the car, away from him. Confused, the officer rushed after them, grabbing his radio on the move and trying to call the sergeant.
"Sergeant! Sergeant, answer me, damn you!" He ran toward the ruins, gasping with rage and disbelief. "Sergeant!"
The radio crackled and hissed, matching his despair. Finally, through the wall of static, a voice broke through:
"Sorry, Captain... We aren't a prison truck. We couldn't pull them by force."
"That was a direct order!" He roared into the microphone. "You're going to military court! Do you even understand?!"
"And who's going to judge us?"
"Justice! I'll personally drag you to court!"
"Yeah... well, you try surviving first."