Season 3 chapter 43
The A55 Compromise
Kniya took a deep breath, the sheer scale of the corporate and military war fully settling on his shoulders. He adjusted his tailored jacket, his arrogant CEO persona locking back into place.
"Okay," Kniya declared. "We are going to execute this plan. I am literally going to help you out with this operation. But I have to say one thing for sure..."
Kniya pointed a furious finger right at the operative's chest.
"You literally tested my absolute patience by your disgusting underwear ads on my encrypted phone," Kniya growled. "And there is one more thing. 'G36' is a terrible, highly bureaucratic name. It would be a much better name if we called the unit A55."
Malesh, who had been silently reviewing the assassination list, slowly lowered the document. He turned his head to look at Kniya with an expression of pure, unfiltered exhaustion.
"Do you mean 'Ass' in simple words?" Malesh asked flatly.
"Yeah," Kniya grinned shamelessly.
Salesh burst into loud, echoing laughter, slapping the hood of the off-road truck. Filoska just buried her face in her hands, questioning every single career choice that had led her to this desert.
The operative stared at Kniya, letting out a long, heavy sigh.
"Ahhhhhh!!" the operative groaned, shaking his head. "We are plotting the downfall of a nation, and you are pitching potty humor for the strike team, but I have to say Kniya, that you have a big brain when it comes to weaponizing sheer, unadulterated stupidity. Fine. A55 it is."
The Four Phases
"Focus," the operative demanded, clapping his hands once to break the tension. "We are going to implement this plan in several highly coordinated phases. Listen closely."
"Phase One," the operative held up a finger, "consists of saving the civilians. You will utilize your vast resources to provide them immediate relief shelters and extract them from the blast zones."
"Logistically sound," Malesh noted smoothly, slipping the dossier into his inner jacket pocket. "We will need to proactively construct temporary camouflage shelters in the targeted districts and deploy highly concentrated sucrose rewards to mitigate child panic during extraction."
"Yeah, I'll order the burlap sacks of candy," Kniya smirked. "And I'm not listening to your diabetes lectures when I do it, Malesh."
"Phase Two," the operative continued, holding up a second finger, completely ignoring their candy logistics. "Consists of killing the important targets on that list. Taking out the financial and logistical pillars of the Royal Family is absolutely required to save the country."
"Phase Three," he went on, "consists of ending the civil war by buying the scorched land from the government. You will use the highly classified intelligence info you will gain from me when the time is right, and you will have to blackmail the President directly to force the sale."
"And Phase Four," the operative finished, his eyes burning with quiet intensity, "will result in one final thing. The regime change."
Kniya crossed his arms, nodding in approval at the sheer, ruthless efficiency of the timeline.
"That's more than enough," Kniya stated, satisfied. "We have the roadmap. But yeah, I am still literally annoyed with your retail ads right now. You literally annoyed me a lot, you idiot. My blood pressure is still high."
The operative looked at Kniya. The serious, hardened federal spy vanished in a millisecond. The massive, deeply irritating retail smile returned to his face.
"Well, sir," the operative pitched cheerfully, reaching down toward his duffel bag. "If you are feeling stressed, do you want one more packet? The cotton is incredibly breathable!"
"I am going to end your life!" Kniya roared.
In a flash of pure street-level aggression, Kniya yanked his gold-plated handgun from his shoulder holster, aiming it squarely at the operative's chest.
The operative didn't even flinch. He just laughed, spun on his heel, and sprinted away.
"You cannot run away!" Kniya yelled, taking a step forward.
But as the operative sprinted toward the rusted water tower, a sudden, violent gust of Antovian desert wind kicked up a massive wall of blinding yellow sand. Kniya coughed, shielding his eyes with his arm. Malesh, Filoska, and Salesh turned away from the stinging grit.
When the wind died down five seconds later, the dust settled.
The operative was completely gone. There were no footprints. No vehicle. He had vanished into the harsh, rippling heat distortion of the desert like an absolute ghost.
"What the fuck?" Kniya muttered, slowly lowering his golden gun, completely baffled by the sheer evasion tactics. "He literally disappeared."
Malesh stepped forward, looking out into the empty, scorching wasteland. He adjusted his dragon-themed tie. A rare, highly awkward trace of defensiveness crossed his features. He cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Hey!" Malesh shouted loudly into the empty desert wind, his voice echoing awkwardly across the dunes. "We are not as bad as you think, my guy! You are literally thinking wrong about us! Actually, it is just our behavior! We are not just as bad as you think! It is just the propaganda!"
Kniya stared at his business partner, his jaw dropping in complete disbelief. He popped a fresh piece of mint gum into his mouth and burst out laughing.
"Bro, are you seriously trying to fix our public relations with a cloud of dust?" Kniya cackled, pointing at the empty desert. "He's gone, you idiot! You're yelling apologies at the sand!"
"I am ensuring that federal intelligence does not classify us as total psychopaths," Malesh defended flatly, turning around and brushing off his suit. "It is a necessary administrative defense. We need good optics."
"You literally pointed a military-grade rocket launcher at a bookstore owner yerterday!" Kniya yelled, tears of laughter in his eyes as he walked back to the heavy truck. "The PR ship has completely sailed! We are certified lunatics!"
Malesh sighed, realizing his partner was objectively correct. "Fine. Open the vehicle. We have an assassination list to fund and a country to buy."
The Southern DI'an Ocean
(Present Day)
The pitch-black darkness of the Southern DI'an Ocean was absolute. There was no moon, no stars—just the endless, terrifying abyss of the freezing water crashing against the steel hulls of two solitary border-patrol frigates.
Aboard the DNV 36 and the DNV 39, the night shift was dragging on with agonizing slowness.
Inside the dimly lit bridge of the DNV 36, a young radar operator rubbed his bloodshot eyes and took a sip of lukewarm, bitter coffee.
"I am officially requesting a transfer to the logistics division," the operator groaned, leaning back in his chair. "It is freezing out here, the coffee tastes like engine oil, and we have been staring at empty black water for eight hours. How great is it that we get to freeze to death while the mainland is dealing with actual action?"
"Stop complaining," the commanding officer replied, not looking up from his navigational charts. "A quiet border is a secure border. In times like these, with the capital burning, boring is exactly what we want."
"Yeah, but seriously, Commander," another crewman chimed in, adjusting his heavy coat. "What is even out here? Nobody crosses the Southern sector. It's a navigational dead zone. We are practically guarding saltwater."
"Just keep your eyes on the screen," the Commander ordered.
The radar operator sighed and turned back to his monitor.
BEEP.
A single, massive, bright green blip flashed on the outer edge of the radar screen.
The operator frowned, leaning closer to the glass. "Uh, Commander? We have an anomaly. I am picking up a highly dense mass entering our sector."
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Suddenly, the screen lit up. Ten blips. Twenty blips. Fifty blips. The green dots flooded the radar so fast the machine began to violently stutter, indicating a massive wall of solid steel rapidly closing in on their coordinates.
"Sir!" the operator yelled, panic instantly gripping his throat. "Radar is completely flooded! We have multiple—dozens, maybe hundreds of unauthorized vessels approaching at high speed!"
"That's impossible!" the Commander shouted, rushing to the console. "The screen has to be malfunctioning! Look out the window!"
The crew rushed to the reinforced glass of the bridge, staring out into the pitch-black ocean. For a second, there was nothing.
And then, out of the abyss, a blinding, terrifyingly intense spotlight violently clicked on, hitting the bridge of the DNV 36 with the force of a physical blow.
The crew shielded their eyes, stumbling backward. Another spotlight clicked on. Then another. And another.
Like a sleeping leviathan waking up in the dark, the massive, towering silhouettes of colossal aircraft carriers, heavy destroyers, and armored battleships suddenly illuminated the night. They were entirely boxed in. The sheer scale of the foreign armada was physically paralyzing.
A deafening, heavily distorted voice boomed over a massive military loudspeaker, echoing across the crashing waves.
"YOU HAVE BEEN SURROUNDED FROM ALL SIDES. SURRENDER RIGHT NOW, OR YOU WILL FACE DIRE CONSEQUENCES."
The Commander's face went completely pale. His hands shook as he grabbed the bridge's communication mic. "Identify yourself! You are invading sovereign DI'an waters!"
The loudspeaker crackled, and the cold, ruthless voice delivered the final, devastating blow.
"SURRENDER, DI'AN NAVY. THIS IS THE ZUMAVIAN NAVY. LOWER YOUR WEAPONS, OR BE ERASED FROM THE WATER."
Absolute, chaotic panic erupted inside the bridge of the DNV 36 and DNV 39.
"Sir, what are we going to do?!" the radar operator screamed, grabbing his headset. "We only have two frigates! They have an entire fleet! We cannot surrender like that, it's treason!"
"If we don't surrender, we are dead in ten seconds!" the Commander yelled back, staring in sheer terror as hundreds of heavy artillery cannons on the Zumavian ships slowly lowered, aiming directly at their tiny patrol boats.
The war had officially reached the shores of the DI'an Republic.