Location: Some district in Syria...

Time: 1130 hours

As the sun began to set, another high-stakes night began for Cold Harbor contractors. Tasked with handling government business in the field, their objectives were straightforward: eliminate a high-value target, extract assets, train locals, all the while avoiding potential ambushes. It was dangerous, but the money made it worthwhile.

In the dimly lit Land Cruiser, the team made their way down a dirt road. "Tig, what's on the menu when we get back?" the driver, Tula, asked, glancing sideways.

"Goat slop and dirty rice," Tig muttered, unimpressed.

"Well, at least the coffee here's decent, right Dutch?" joked the man in the back seat.

Dutch smirked. "Hey, I managed a second cup this morning. How 'bout you, Tula?"

"Maybe you should ask Poker here," Tula replied, nodding toward their fourth teammate.

"Still don't know why we call him that," Dutch chuckled.

"'Cause he can't keep away from poker games, man. It's just what we do with names," Tula said with a shrug.

They drove on in silence, eyes peeled. In the red zone, nobody was friendly until proven otherwise. Out here, wearing no visible uniform was a survival tactic—at least it helped them blend in, but there was no guarantee it'd keep them from being singled out. Every intersection, alley, and bystander was potential danger.

A technical vehicle armed with a ZPU turret passed them, and Tula slowed to avoid suspicion. The car's heavily tinted windows offered cover, but they could feel the tension. Once the technical was gone, Tula picked up the pace, crossing the intersection.

"If it weren't for these windows, every eye on the street would be glued to us," he muttered.

"True to that," Tig agreed.

The team continued cautiously, Tig scanning their six when he noticed a white sedan creeping closer. "Heads up—we got a tail," he said, eyes narrowed.

Dutch turned to check it out and immediately radioed their command. "Ground table, Granite Zero Niner. We have a crow tailing us, over."

"Copy, Zero Niner. Be advised: several additional vehicles converging on your location. You need to get clear, ASAP."

Without hesitation, Tula pressed the gas, speeding past an alley where another car lurked, waiting to intercept them. But they passed too quickly, throwing off the pursuit. Still, as they moved on, more vehicles began emerging around them, closing in.

"Ground table, requesting direction support, over," Tig called in.

"Copy, Granite Zero Niner. Take the next left. Over."

As they reached the first turn, Tula swung the wheel, veering left down a dimly lit road. "Keep going straight, and we'll tell you when to turn," command advised.

"Roger that," Tig replied, watching as the shadows grew darker, the buildings taller, and the streets more confined. Every street, every corner felt like an ambush waiting to happen.

"Ground table, we need updated directions," Tig pressed urgently.

"There's a T-junction up ahead. Turn right, then left at the next."

Tula saw the junction, made the sharp turn, but immediately hit the brakes. A car blocked their path, its driver eyeing them with hostile intent. "Damn it," Tula hissed, slamming on the accelerator to dart past before the vehicle could block them completely.

"New tail," Tig reported, watching as the sedan from earlier reappeared, creeping closer.

"I don't like this..." Poker said quietly, scanning the deserted road lined with shattered windows and abandoned buildings.

"Agreed. Tula, pick up the pace," Dutch urged.

"Trying to, but I don't wanna hit an IED," Tula muttered, steering around obstacles in the road. Every turn brought the potential for hidden mines, roadside bombs, or even a waiting ambush—thoughts that weighed heavily on all of them.

"Granite Zero Niner, be advised: hostile vehicles have stopped pursuit, over." The radio went silent for a beat, and tension filled the car. It was a bad sign. Ambushes often quieted right before the storm.

The voice on the other end broke the silence: "Granite Zero Niner, multiple contacts detected on all sides from SPARK asset intel—get out now!"

The warning had barely finished when an RPG streaked by, exploding just past their vehicle. Tula stomped the pedal, the engine roaring as they sped forward. Gunfire erupted, a relentless hail of bullets pinging off their armored vehicle. The Land Cruiser shuddered under the impact of AK and PKM rounds, with every window and panel taking a beating.

Tula kept his hands tight on the wheel, weaving around debris, his eyes scanning for mines or IEDs hidden along the road. Their NVGs gave them an edge, but it was little help against an ambush on unfamiliar ground.

"Granite Zero Niner, you're nearly out of the kill zone. QRF inbound for escort back to base."

"Copy that, Ground table," Tig confirmed.

"Finally, some good news," Dutch said, breathing a sigh of relief.

POV: Shadow Emirate Jihadist fighter

High on khat but still steady enough to hold a gun, I waited, my grip tight around the RPG-7 my brothers had entrusted me with. From what I'd heard, the Americans had driven into our zone in one of their armored vehicles, and the RPG was just what we needed to take it down. The excitement coursed through me as I stood on the rooftop, overlooking the narrow, dusty street below.

One of my brothers crouched nearby, his old AKM resting against a wall. He glanced at me, nodding, and whispered, "Amir, get the rocket ready."

I nodded back, setting my rifle aside, picking up the RPG, and loading a HEAT round, carefully removing the safety cap. The weight of it felt satisfying in my hands as I shouldered it, the purpose of the weapon heavy with the promises of the Shadow Emirate and a path to a hero's end. "Wait until they're close," my brother instructed, "and when the time comes, Allah will make your aim true. The Shadow Emirate will honor you."

"Yes, brother," I whispered, ready.

Then, from the distance, the low hum of an engine grew closer. Peeking over the wall, I spotted the American vehicle creeping toward our position. The anticipation was electric.

"Here they come—fire now, Amir!" my brother urged, his voice laced with fervor.

I steadied the launcher, aimed, and fired. The rocket screamed down the street as we chanted "Allahu Akbar," sure of the coming explosion. But instead of the blast, a blinding white light erupted from nowhere, brighter than anything I'd ever seen. It was as if the heavens themselves had opened, an intense flash that forced us all to look away.

As the light faded, I blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what had happened. Where the Americans' car had been, there was nothing—just a blackened mark on the road. I glanced at my brothers, equally stunned. Whatever the light was, we had no explanation, nor any sign of the Americans. We were left in shock, ordered to leave the area and forget what had happened.

But I couldn't forget. The tale lived on in whispers, a story too strange to keep hidden.

Rewind...

"Granite Zero Niner, just a few hundred meters left; QRF will be there to meet you—how copy, over," Ground Table's voice came through the radio.

Tig, the team leader, nodded, relieved but cautious. "Copy that, Ground Table. Any word on how far the QRF is?" A support team in this situation would be the best news all night.

"Affirmative. Crisis Troops 'Python' and 'Cobra' are en route to meet you, but they might be a little delayed. We're getting word from ground teams that they had to divert due to enemy roadblocks; their ETA is static..."

Tig frowned as the radio cut out. "Say again, Ground Table? What's their ETA? Over."

"RPG!" Dutch's voice shot through the comms just as a rocket streaked toward them. Before impact, a sudden blinding white light flooded the interior, causing the team to rip off their NVGs and shield their eyes. The light burned for about ten seconds, long enough to disorient them, then faded as quickly as it had come.

"Tula, look out!" Dutch shouted, alerting their driver, who quickly veered to avoid pedestrians scrambling in panic around them. The road ahead was chaos, with people running in every direction. Their cracked windshield made visibility nearly impossible.

"Who are all these people?" Poker muttered.

"I don't know, but they need to get out of the way!" Tula yelled, dodging the frantic crowd. An armed man with a sword darted into their path, and Tula couldn't avoid hitting him. "Damn it, who did we just hit?" he asked, but there was no time to check. They kept moving, weaving around civilians, each block more crowded than the last.

With visibility near-zero, Tula slammed into a street lamp head-on. The SUV ground to a halt, the impact concussing the team. Dazed, Tig glanced around. "Everybody okay?" He saw Poker, a bit shaken but clearing his head, Dutch leaning against the headrest, and Tula slumped over the wheel, catching his breath.

Dutch reached out, patting Tula's shoulder. "You alright?"

Tula raised a thumbs-up, signaling he was okay.

"Car's done for," Tig decided. "Grab your weapons and gear—we need to move. We can't stay in this chaos."

The team scrambled out, securing the area as Dutch and Tula unloaded heavier weapons and bags of ammo. Once they'd packed everything, they took their gear and left nothing behind that could be used against them.

Twenty minutes later, after weaving through a maze of narrow streets and alleyways, Tig turned to Dutch. "Any idea where we are?"

Dutch scanned the surroundings, frowning. "Not Syria, that's for sure. And beyond that, I've got no clue."

"Hey, Tula, look at that sign—it looks Cyrillic. Can you read it?" Poker pointed to a weather-beaten sign on a nearby building that appeared partially destroyed, probably in the chaos they'd just driven through.

Tula, fluent in Russian thanks to his parents, squinted at the letters. "Let me see..." He took a closer look and then furrowed his brow. "Tavish's Pub...? It's Cyrillic, but it's weird; I'm fluent, but I had a hard time reading that."

Dutch turned to Tig. "What's the play here, boss?"

"We keep moving. We need to find out where we are, the situation here, and if there's any way to contact Ground Table. Keep your eyes open."

The team fell into a cautious diamond formation as they moved down the street. Tig signaled Dutch to cover his back, while Tula and Poker crossed to the opposite sidewalk for better coverage. With weapons at the ready, Crisis Troop 'Granite' pushed forward, alert to every shadow and echo as they navigated this strange, unpredictable place.

"...Thanks to the swift response and teamwork of the Chernobog Military Police..." The contractors halted, gathering around a small TV they'd spotted in a storefront window. To their relief, the reporter was speaking a familiar language. Tula let out a breath, glad he wouldn't have to translate this time. "...the situation is largely under control. Incidents in most areas have already been contained."

The screen showed footage of military police clashing with mobs of rioters and anarchists. Shielded officers tried to hold the line as the crowd threw stones, bottles, and the occasional Molotov cocktail. From the contractors' perspective, the battle looked intense; there was no sign of the crowd giving up.

"Currently, the Military Police have surrounded the rioters who took Vaschuk Prospect. This senseless violence will soon be put to an end," the news anchor continued, as the camera zoomed in on an officer whose shield was on fire, his comrades frantically trying to put out the flames. Behind them, the shield line buckled, a gap forming as the rioters forced their way through. Then, suddenly, the screen went dark.

"What a mess," Tig muttered.

"Yeah, propaganda's at full throttle here. They're trying to keep people calm, but it's pretty obvious things are out of control," Dutch said, watching as the storefront's power flickered.

"Anyone know where the hell Chernobog even is?" Poker asked, but the team exchanged only blank looks and shrugs.

"If they're talking about losing an entire prospect to rioters, that's a serious situation. They're not up against some small-time rebels," Tula remarked. Just then, an explosion shook the ground nearby. Smoke plumed in the distance, and gunfire echoed through the streets.

"Looks like there's some action close by," Tig said, adjusting his rifle strap. "Let's move toward the sounds and see if we can find someone to give us intel—or someone we can trust."

With a shared nod, the team advanced, slipping into a quiet yet quick formation, ready for anything. As they got closer to the commotion, they heard something they hadn't expected: the eerie hum of machinery mingling with unfamiliar, metallic footsteps, sending a chill up their spines. Little did they know what lay in wait, a clash not just of violence but of worlds.

(Hoookaaay. Its been awhile, I know, but I was busy doing school work and it's a pain in the ass, I know but I'm enduring it especially when it's face to face here in my area. So anyway here's an Arknights fanfic, be aware that the writing might be weak in the first couple chapters, I was pretty tired when I wrote them at 1 Am, you'd probably see the writing get better future, but anyways, I hope you enjoy the first chapter or episode and I'll see you in the next one.)