The Mutiny Part 1 

After the long, grueling winter mountain battle on the Eastern Front, the scene shifts to Captain Red's tent. Inside, Red is sleeping, shirtless, with the bed sheet draped over him. His arms are wrapped around someone—Shadow, who is also fast asleep beside him. The bed sheet covers both of them, and their uniforms are scattered around the tent.

As the early morning light filters in, the two begin to stir. Red's eyes slowly open as he sits up, groaning; mornings are hardly his favorite. Beside him, Shadow also starts to wake, sitting up and clutching the blanket to cover most of herself. Her true appearance is revealed—short blonde hair and striking blue eyes, which she rubs sleepily.

"Ugh... quelle heure est-il?" Shadow mumbles, asking Red what time it is in her groggy, half-asleep state.

"Uh..." Red squints, trying to make out his watch or alarm.

As the two share a soft, sleepy kiss, the moment is suddenly interrupted by Sergeant Thompson entering the tent in full gear, holding a report. "Captain, Lieutenant, I've got the latest report on Able Company and the prisone—" He stops mid-sentence, noticing the situation before him: Shadow's uniform scattered, both of them together in bed.

Thompson's eyes widen, and then a huge grin spreads across his face as he realizes what happened. "Oh... my god..." he says, trying to suppress a laugh.

Before he can say anything else, both Red and Shadow, wide-eyed, clutch the blanket and shout in unison, "GET OUT!"

Thompson scrambles out of the tent, laughter echoing behind him as he exits, leaving Red and Shadow alone, exchanging embarrassed glances as they realize they'll have some explaining to do later.

As the scene unfolds, the classic tune blares through the helicopter speakers, adding a lively contrast to the tense atmosphere over the fortified city of New Avalon. A Black Hawk helicopter glides overhead, transporting a Ranger unit across the city, which is filled with League school forces stationed throughout. Davy Crockett's tanks are lined up alongside armored vehicles from Washington Boys' and Girls' Academy, as well as Kansas Chief High. Infantry patrol the streets, and groups of soldiers sit on sidewalks, some even playing cards, while Humvees, Jeeps, and Halftracks drive along the main roads.

In a Humvee on the edge of the convoy, Red, Shadow, and Thompson sit in tense silence. Shadow, unusually quiet, sits beside Red with her mask on, blushing slightly as she stares out the window. Red, visibly embarrassed himself, keeps his left hand covering his mouth. Behind them, Able Company trucks rumble forward, carrying troops and heavy weaponry. Joey's Soviet Company follows, troops seated in carrier trucks with a line of T-34 tanks rolling steadily. Many of Joey's tanks are towing captured Association and Federation tanks, which are set to be examined back at base. Prisoners, secured from the recent Eastern Front battle, ride in separate transport trucks, under tight guard.

Gunther's company assists Joey's, their halftracks hauling disabled enemy tanks back to headquarters. Young Wehrmacht soldiers relax on top of Panzer IVs and Panthers, while others sit in halftracks, grabbing some much-needed rest.

In one of the lead trucks, Nonna sits beside Austin, with Mark to her left. As they approach the League's main base, they exchange glances, taking in the city's formidable defenses and the sheer scale of reinforcements manning every corner.

When the convoy comes to a stop, a Ranger MP approaches the back of the prisoner trucks, gesturing to his comrades.

"Alright, get them out of the trucks now," he orders, his voice steady and firm.

The Rangers begin unloading the prisoners, guiding them into formation for processing.

As the Rangers begin unloading prisoners, they waste no time with pleasantries. The MP officers pull or push each captive out of the trucks, nudging them firmly when they hesitate. One by one, familiar faces emerge from the back of the vehicles—Hans, Mark, Austin, William, Chubbs, Nonna, Katyusha, Klara, Nikolia, Miho, and Jonathan—all of whom had fought in the unforgiving mountain battle.

The prisoners are lined up and marched down the road toward a secure holding area. Each step is monitored by rows of Ranger MPs and Archie's Commandos, who flank both sides of the procession. The Commandos stand rigid, their airsoft weapons trained on the captives. Even though the weapons are non-lethal, the guards' serious expressions and firm stances convey a clear message: any wrong move would be swiftly handled.

A few prisoners hesitate, glancing at each other in silent exchanges, only to be met with immediate nudges or rifle prods from the MPs to keep moving. Nonna exchanges a glance with Katyusha, both wearing looks of quiet determination, while Miho keeps her gaze forward, her expression resolute despite the situation.

Archie's Commandos are particularly vigilant, watching every step with hawk-like precision. When a prisoner stumbles or hesitates, the guards don't hesitate to remind them of the gravity of their situation, giving them either a firm nudge or a harder push to pick up the pace. The march continues through the city streets, surrounded by the massive presence of League troops and defenses, reminding everyone involved that they were now in the heart of enemy territory

As the group marched under the vigilant watch of Ranger MPs and Archie's Commandos, hushed conversations broke out among the students from the Association and Federation Joint High School. Nervous whispers and exchanged glances filled the air as they tried to make sense of their situation.

A few paces up, Nonna maintained her stoic composure, but her sharp, defiant gaze caught the attention of one of the guards. Narrowing his eyes, the guard took it as a challenge. Without warning, he delivered a hard sucker punch to her gut. Nonna gasped, doubling over as she stumbled, catching the breath that had been knocked from her.

"Nonna!" Austin shouted, anger flashing in his eyes as he moved toward her. Before he could reach her, another guard struck him with the butt of an M16A2, sending him staggering to the ground. The guard leveled the rifle at him, warning Austin to stay down. Austin clenched his fists but held back, his eyes filled with fury as he glared up at the guards.

Katyusha, watching from a few paces back, was outraged. "What do you think you're doing?" she yelled, trying to move forward, only to be held back by a guard's firm grip. "Do you have any idea who we are?"

A nearby guard smirked, ignoring her and giving her a dismissive shove. "You're prisoners. Act like it."

Miho, always composed, called out softly, "Katyusha, please—don't make it worse." She glanced over at Nonna, her brows furrowed with concern. "We're going to get through this. Just... stay strong."

Klara, close to Nonna, leaned in quietly, trying to help her stand up. "Are you alright?" she whispered.

Nonna managed a nod, still catching her breath. "I'm fine," she muttered, though her voice was laced with pain. Her eyes, however, betrayed her determination not to show weakness in front of their captors.

Meanwhile, Chubbs whispered to Mark, trying to lighten the mood despite the tension. "Not exactly the warmest welcome, huh?"

Mark gave a grim chuckle, "Wouldn't be a Tuesday without a few punches." His attempt at humor drew small, tense smiles from a few of the others, though the mood remained thick.

In the ranks ahead, Jonathan glanced back at Austin and Nonna, sighing quietly. "We're only making it worse if we resist," he whispered to William, who nodded in silent agreement, still keeping a wary eye on the guards.

As the group continued their tense march, they eventually stopped in front of a large, fortified building. Standing by the entrance was Command Sergeant Major Dean, who observed the prisoners with a steely gaze. A Ranger MP snapped to attention and saluted Dean, before gesturing toward specific individuals—Katyusha, Jonathan, Hans, and Miho.

"These four led the Eastern Front forces," the MP announced.

Dean took a step forward, his voice calm but with an unmistakable edge. "These leaders are to be processed and taken in for questioning immediately." His gaze flicked over them. "You wanted a fight, and now you're going to answer for it."

The MP nodded in acknowledgment and motioned for the guards to separate the designated four from the group. One by one, the guards seized Katyusha, Jonathan, Hans, and Miho, tightening their grips as they delivered swift punches to each of their stomachs. Katyusha gasped, doubling over as she glared defiantly at Dean, her expression showing no sign of backing down.

"Hands off me!" she spat, only for the guard to grip her shoulder harder, silencing her with a glare.

Jonathan, in contrast, took the hit silently, his jaw clenched as he maintained eye contact with Dean, refusing to show any weakness.

"Let's go," barked the guard, dragging them toward the building's entrance. Miho stumbled as she was struck, but quickly regained her balance, her face composed, though her eyes held a fierce determination. Hans, though winded, gave Dean a silent look of disdain before being yanked forward by his captor.

Dean watched them get hauled away, his expression unreadable. He turned to the remaining prisoners, giving a brief nod to the guards. "Take the rest to holding. We'll deal with them in due time."

As Katyusha, Jonathan, Hans, and Miho were dragged through the building's heavy doors, they found themselves led down a dimly lit corridor. The walls were cold, and the only sounds were their footsteps and the clanking of metal doors. Finally, they arrived at the interrogation rooms—each one sparse, furnished only with a single chair and a metal table. The guards pushed each leader into separate rooms, cuffing them to the tables before exiting with a curt, "Wait here."

In the dimly lit medical tent, Ben sat at his desk, finishing up notes on his latest patient's medical report. He set his pen down, eyeing the young Ranger across from him—one of many who had been hit by the lingering effects of powder napalm, causing an allergic reaction severe enough to bring him here.

"Alright," Ben said, handing over a discharge paper. "Since I've calmed your allergic reaction, you're clear to rejoin your platoon. But if you have trouble breathing, or if any symptoms flare up, come straight back here."

The Ranger nodded, a hint of relief in his eyes. "Thanks, Doc."

Ben waved him off with a slight smile. "You're clear—now get out of my office."

As the Ranger left, Ben glanced around at the tent filled with beds, each occupied by soldiers suffering from similar reactions. Known as the best medic in Davy Crockett and, by now, one of the most respected doctors in the American Tankery League, Ben had earned his reputation during the Dallas Incident, performing complex surgeries that saved numerous lives. With his father's influence in the medical field, he'd grown up immersed in stories and hands-on learning, absorbing everything from basic first aid to surgical techniques. Despite his young age, Ben's hard work had earned him a surgical license and the position of Head Medic for the Davy Crockett Tankery team.

Now, here on Tomodachi Island, Ben moved from bed to bed, checking vitals and administering treatments to the afflicted Rangers. Many of them were struggling with intense itching, labored breathing, and severe discomfort from the napalm residue. Some lay groaning, while others tried in vain to scratch the relentless irritation that had set their skin aflame.

As he approached another patient, he heard a familiar voice from the next bed over.

"Doc, you're a lifesaver," groaned a Ranger, his face half-covered by a mask to help his breathing.

Ben gave a curt nod, moving efficiently. "Just doing my job. Let's get you all patched up and back out there."

After finishing his rounds, Ben took a moment to catch his breath, only for two Rangers to enter, guiding a restrained Maho Nishizumi into the medical tent. The taller of the two Rangers gave a respectful nod, relaying the message with quiet urgency.

"Houston's orders, Doc—Boss wants her checked out," the Ranger said.

Ben acknowledged with a brief nod. "Got it. Leave her with me."

As the Rangers exited, Ben turned to Maho, who stood with a calm but guarded expression. He began his usual checkup routine, carefully observing her condition as he asked, "Any current health issues I should be aware of?"

Maho remained silent, her icy demeanor unchanged. Ben had encountered this stoic resistance from Federation members before and understood it all too well. Still, he proceeded professionally, checking her vitals with meticulous precision.

Reaching for his stethoscope, he leaned in to check her heartbeat, only to pause as he heard something... strange. A faint second heartbeat echoed alongside hers. Frowning, Ben focused, listening closely to confirm the irregularity. There it was again—a steady, soft beat in sync with hers, but distinctly separate.

Puzzled, he quickly decided to investigate further. "I'm going to run a quick blood test," he said, reaching for a syringe. Though Maho eyed him warily, she complied, extending her arm.

Drawing her blood, Ben worked swiftly, running the sample through a rapid diagnostic. The results lit up the screen with undeniable clarity, and he stared, stunned. His mind reeled, grasping what the test revealed. Maho Nishizumi was pregnant.

"Oh my god..." he murmured, barely able to process what he was seeing.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, Ben knew he couldn't let this information slip carelessly. Swallowing his shock, he straightened up and stepped outside the tent, addressing the two Rangers who stood on guard.

"Stay here with her," he instructed firmly. "I'll be back shortly."

Without waiting for a response, he hurried off, already anticipating the necessary steps ahead. There was no doubt in his mind—this revelation would send shockwaves through both sides of the conflict.

In the dimly lit briefing room, the smoky haze curled around Houston's cigar as he listened intently to Jefferson's report. Dean was carefully flipping through the projector slides, each one illuminating more details about Hoja City and the possible locations of the enemy forces.

Jefferson cleared his throat, tapping a slide that showed a reconnaissance image of Hoja City, the sprawling urban base of the American Tankery Association's main schools. "So, after scouting passes over Hoja City, we have good intel on where Uncle Sam, Edison High, Montana Tankery Academy, Saunders, and St. Gloriana's forces are stationed. Given the strong defenses, we suspect this might also be where they're holding Commander Graham, Commander Muller, and their companies."

Houston nodded, taking a long drag of his cigar. "That would make sense. But what's the plan for reaching them?"

Jefferson leaned forward, setting the cigar down. "Thanks to our Vice Commanders, Joey and Gunther, and Red securing the eastern front, we've got a solid line. If we move, we'll have enough of an advance to push in. But it's risky—without direct intel, we could be facing a mess of ambushes and unknown fortifications."

Houston gave a half-smile. "So you're saying this could use a personal touch."

"That's the idea, Boss," Jefferson said with a nod. "A single operative could slip past defenses more easily. We'll need precise intel on the captives' locations and potential hazards before the full team moves in."

Dean crossed his arms, adding, "Problem is, the prisoners we've captured are giving us nothing. Stubborn to the bone. We're following rules, so we're not forcing anything, but it's frustrating."

"Of course," Houston nodded, his tone firm. "This is a match, not a war. We'll abide by the regulations. No cruel punishments. Keep them in cells, have them do labor if needed, but nothing more. We're not Commander Akrai." His expression hardened. "I won't have our side associated with anything close to torture."

"Understood, Boss," Jefferson agreed.

Houston took another puff of his cigar, a spark of anticipation flashing in his eyes. "Run me through the city layout, Jefferson."

Jefferson looked at him knowingly, a slight smirk forming on his face. "Let me guess: a one-man infiltration mission. Just like old times, huh? We both know the objectives—gather intel on Graham and Muller's whereabouts, avoid detection, and prepare for possible extraction without alerting the main forces."

Houston nodded, and the two shared a quick, knowing glance. "I'll go in alone, fully off the radar. Any airsoft weapons or gear I need will be OSP—on-site procurement only. Just the way I like it."

Jefferson chuckled. "The real one-man army. And let's not forget, without supplies, you'll need to live off the land."

Houston grinned. "I've done it before. Not the first time."

Dean shook his head, impressed. "Leave it to you, Boss. We'll keep the perimeter secure. If there's any trouble, radio us, and we'll be ready to mobilize the second we get the word."

Houston stood, taking one last pull from his cigar before stubbing it out. "Alright, let's get started. Time to show them the Lone Wolf's still got a bite."

As Houston, Jefferson, and Dean continued discussing the plans for the operation, the flap of the briefing tent suddenly swung open. Ben stumbled in, clearly out of breath, his eyes wide with urgency. The three men turned to him, confusion etched across their faces.

"Ben? What's wrong?" Houston asked, noting the medic's distress.

Ben raised a hand, trying to catch his breath before responding. "Boss, I need to talk to you. Alone."

Houston exchanged glances with Jefferson and Dean before nodding. "Alright, you two, let's step outside for a moment."

As they exited the tent, Ben took a deep breath and faced Houston, the gravity of the situation pressing heavily on him. "It's about Maho."

The mention of Maho's name immediately caught Houston off guard, his expression shifting to concern. "What about her?"

"She's pregnant, Boss. One month along," Ben said, his voice steady but urgent. "I just examined her, and it's confirmed."

Houston's brow furrowed, a myriad of thoughts racing through his mind. "Pregnant? With who?"

Ben hesitated for a moment, then continued, "I suspect it might be Edward's. Given their history and everything that's happened between them, it makes sense. But with her condition, we need to be cautious."

Houston rubbed his temples, trying to process the implications. "What are you suggesting?"

"I think we need to keep her out of harm's way. Put her in a comfortable cell—she shouldn't have to do any labor or anything that could put her or the baby at risk. I can keep an eye on her health," Ben said, his tone serious.

"Right. You're right," Houston agreed, the weight of the responsibility settling on his shoulders. "I don't want anything to happen to her or the child. We need to ensure her safety."

Ben nodded, relieved that Houston understood the urgency. "I'll set up her quarters and make sure she has everything she needs. I'll also keep an eye on her to monitor any changes in her condition."

Houston glanced towards the entrance of the tent where Jefferson and Dean were waiting. "Keep this between us for now. I'll talk to them later about her situation. We can't risk the wrong people finding out."

"Understood, Boss," Ben replied. "I'll make sure she's comfortable and safe."

With a firm nod, Houston added, "And keep me updated. If anything changes, I want to know immediately."

"Absolutely," Ben said before stepping out of the tent, determination written on his face. Houston watched him go, a mix of concern and resolve stirring within him as he prepared to address Jefferson and Dean about the next steps in their mission.

In the command center, Houston sat at his Marshal Commander desk, a stack of reports in front of him, while Jefferson, Red, Shadow, and Dean sorted through intelligence from the recent Eastern front skirmishes. He noticed that Red and Shadow were unusually quiet but assumed they were just worn out from the grueling battle.

Just then, Thompson strode into the room, his usual laid-back grin in place. Dean looked up, and the two sergeants greeted each other with an enthusiastic handshake that quickly turned into a friendly arm-wrestling contest, their muscles straining as they tested each other's grip—just like the classic scene from Predator.

As they chatted, Thompson, in his casual way, dropped a bombshell. "Oh, by the way, you guys knew that Captain Red and Lieutenant Shadow hooked up, right?"

Instantly, the entire room went dead silent. Red and Shadow froze, faces turning several shades of crimson. Jefferson, who had been casually sipping from his canteen, spat out his drink in shock, and Houston's head snapped up from his report.

"WHAT?!" Houston exclaimed, his voice booming through the command center. He fixed Red with a disbelieving look. "You... you actually... with Shadow?!"

Red stammered, his face flushed. "Well, it's... I mean, it's not like... we didn't... it's complicated, alright?"

But Houston wasn't done. He placed a dramatic hand over his heart. "My baby brother—the one who told me women were a distraction in combat—now goes gallivanting around with Lieutenant Shadow?" Houston sighed, shaking his head. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Red's face went from pink to full red. "Oh, come on, Houston, it's not like that!" he protested, but the grin creeping onto Houston's face showed no mercy.

"Wait, wait," Houston interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me that my ever-disciplined, ever-serious brother just tossed caution to the wind?" He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, adding, "My boy's all grown up!"

Shadow, meanwhile, had her hands up to her masked face, mumbling something in French—presumably curses—while trying to become invisible.

"Alright, alright, enough!" Red snapped, finally done with the teasing. "Yes, okay, it happened, but it's none of your business!"

Houston held up his hands, chuckling. "Fine, fine, I'll stop. But I'll need all the details later, bro. This is pure gold."

Red glared, while Shadow lowered her hands slightly, muttering, "Je n'en reviens pas..."

Meanwhile

Inside the dimly lit, stone-walled cell of Hoja City, Graham and Muller sat against opposite walls, their clothes dusty and disheveled. Graham, unfazed by their confinement, had been singing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall for what felt like the hundredth time, his voice echoing off the cell walls with each verse.

"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer! Take one down—"

Muller, who had initially tried to block out Graham's relentless singing, clenched his fists and, finally losing his patience, shot him a sharp glare. He interrupted, switching to German in exasperation. "Graham! Hör endlich auf mit diesem Lied! Ich kann es nicht mehr hören!"

Graham smirked, hardly offended. "Come on, Muller, it's a classic! Helps pass the time," he said, winking. "Besides, it's not like there's a whole lot else to do in here. Unless you've got some brilliant escape plan you're holding back on me?"

Muller rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Wenn das so weitergeht, werde ich diesen Song in meinen Albträumen hören..."

"Hey, don't act like you didn't secretly miss this," Graham chuckled. "Last time I sang this, it was Galveston Island, S-Rank match. We made it out of there, didn't we?"

Muller sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as he leaned back against the cold cell wall. "It's been a week," he muttered, almost to himself. "Wonder how much longer until Houston decides to crash the party."

Graham, glancing over with a wry grin, nodded. "If I know Houston, he's probably coming up with some grand one-man infiltration scheme right now. Just a matter of time."

The two sat in silence, their thoughts drifting between worry for their team and the long, tense wait for rescue. Just then, the creak of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, breaking their reverie. Edward, flanked by Rivers and Davis, stepped into the cell with an icy glare and a smug smile.

Edward leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "Good to see you're both... comfortable. Thought you might have some answers for us about your precious Davy Crockett team," he said, his tone dripping with disdain.

Muller just looked at him, unimpressed. "*Du bist lächerlich,*" he muttered in German, rolling his eyes. Then he glanced at Graham. "I think he expects us to actually answer him," he smirked.

Graham chuckled, leaning forward slightly as he raised his middle finger toward Edward. "How's that for an answer, buddy?"

Rivers' face twitched with irritation, and Davis clenched his fists. But Edward, feigning calm, shook his head. "You know, a little cooperation would go a long way here. Or you can keep testing my patience. Your call."

"Patience? Really?" Muller scoffed, his tone dry. "I've seen more patience from a kid at Christmas than from you three."

"Yeah," Graham chimed in, his voice full of mock cheerfulness. "Besides, what's the worst you're gonna do? Bore us to death with more empty threats?"

Edward's eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer, his face inches from Muller's. "Careful with that attitude. There's a line you don't want to cross."

Muller grinned, unfazed. "If it means getting out of this cell sooner, I'd be happy to cross it."

Edward's frustration grew as he stared down Graham and Muller, who remained utterly unimpressed by the attempted intimidation. "You know," he growled, "a little cooperation could mean a lot less trouble for you both."

Graham leaned back, an amused smirk spreading across his face. "Trouble?" He chuckled, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Edward, if you're trying to scare us into talking, you're in for a disappointment." He raised an eyebrow, his tone shifting to something more serious. "But if you're so dead set on keeping us here... then I'd start praying Houston doesn't show up. Because when he does, well... let's just say it won't be us with regrets."

Edward scoffed, unimpressed. "Empty threats, Graham. Houston's got his hands full. You're out of options here."

With that, Edward turned on his heel, nodding to Rivers and Davis as they walked out, leaving the cell door to clank shut behind them. The heavy footsteps faded into silence as Graham and Muller exchanged a look.

Graham shrugged, pulling out a small, well-worn iPod he'd managed to smuggle in. He scrolled through his playlist and pressed play, letting Here's to You by Ennio Morricone fill the stillness of the cell. The poignant melody drifted through the small, dimly lit space, echoing off the concrete walls with a haunting resonance.

Muller sat back, listening quietly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Good choice, Graham," he murmured, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Figured we could use a little something to keep our spirits up," Graham replied. The music carried a weight that felt fitting—a promise of solidarity, hope, and resilience in the face of seemingly endless odds.

The rain poured down in torrents, thick and unyielding, as Edward, Davis, and Rivers strode through the soaked streets of Hoja. They walked in silence for a moment, the splattering raindrops filling the spaces between their uneasy thoughts.

Rivers broke the silence, glancing at the looming city walls. "I don't like this... Our guys and others being held by those league schools. They're using our own people against us."

Edward clenched his jaw. "They've probably got Hans, Johnathan, Christian—all of them tied up somewhere. Houston's probably doing the same to theirs."

"Think they're looking for a prisoner exchange?" Davis suggested, voice low.

"Maybe," Edward replied. "But knowing those yanks, they're not going to let us off easy."

As they continued down the rain-slicked street, they passed squads from Saunders High School and St. Gloriana High School, working with the boys to repair tanks, patrol the city, and maintain watch over Hoja's perimeter.

Naomi Firefly was stationed along one of the city's cliffside roads, positioned by the commanding edge overlooking the churning ocean below. The rain hammered against the turret as she stood half out of the hatch, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. Satisfied with the empty view, she nodded to her crew to move the tank forward, unaware of what lurked just beyond the cliff's edge.

A quiet figure was climbing up the slick rock face from the ocean side, his gloved hands gripping the craggy surface as he steadily pulled himself upward. His uniform, dark and drenched, was designed to blend seamlessly with his surroundings, and the boy pressed himself flat against the cliff as he reached the top. Keeping his body low, he crawled silently over the ridge, the rain masking his movements.

In the distance, the lights of Hoja city glimmered faintly, hazed by the downpour. The figure reached up to adjust the NVG covering his eyes, activating his radio as he surveyed the city's silhouette.

"I'm in front of the city," he whispered.

From the other end, Jefferson's voice crackled softly over the line, almost drowned by the storm. "Excellent, 'Snake.' Age hasn't slowed you down one bit."

The boy slowly got to his knees, lifting the NVG off his eyes to reveal Houston's face beneath, his right eye hidden beneath a dark eyepatch. A grin played at his lips as he looked into the distance, rain dripping from the brim of his cap.

"Kept you waiting, huh?"

   As Houston crouched beneath a jagged outcropping overlooking Hoja City's entrance, his radio crackled, and Jefferson's voice came through.

"Alright, Boss, quick rundown. You're going in alone—meaning no backup, no marks on the radar, nothing. The objective is to find and extract Graham and Muller. We suspect they're being held somewhere within city limits, possibly a secure building toward the center. But remember, this is a stealth op, so absolutely no alerts. Once you're in, keep it quiet, don't get spotted, and maintain radio silence unless necessary."

Houston smirked, slipping the MK.22 tranquilizer pistol into his gloved hand. "Got it. Nothing new for me."

"Good. And, Boss, remember, the main roads are heavily patrolled. Use alleys, rooftops, and sewers if you need to. Watch yourself—there's no extraction until you're out of the city."

"Understood," Houston replied, keeping his voice low as he took in the faint glimmers of lights and shadows moving across the city. "Radio silence begins...now."

Slipping through the shadows like a phantom, Houston made his way down a narrow path, past a break in the city walls that led into an alley. He maneuvered through the darkened streets, blending into the narrow spaces and slipping behind obstacles whenever he heard footsteps or saw lights flickering around corners. His movements were precise, deliberate, almost soundless against the rain-soaked pavement.

In the distance, he caught sight of two Saunders students patrolling a narrow street up ahead, their casual chatter carrying in the night. Houston crouched behind a stack of empty crates, observing as they walked closer. He waited, watching as the two separated—one heading down a side path, the other continuing straight ahead.

Quickly and silently, he raised his MK.22 and took aim, lining up the tranquilizer dart. With a soft *pfft*, the dart found its mark. The girl paused for a moment before she crumpled, sinking to the ground. Her friend, oblivious, continued walking down the street alone.

With practiced ease, Houston slipped past the unconscious student, keeping to the shadows as he resumed his approach toward the city center.

*Codec: Incoming Call.*

He tapped his earpiece, hearing Jefferson's voice again, low and controlled.

"Boss, status?"

"Just putting Saunders' finest to bed," Houston replied with a hint of humor in his voice. "No alarms, all clear."

"Glad to hear it. Stay sharp, Boss. You'll be moving into the more heavily guarded zone soon. Stick to the plan."

"Copy that. Over and out."

As the call ended, Houston continued, slipping further into the city's depths, each step taking him closer to his captured comrades.

Houston crouched behind a low wall, watching as Kay, Alisa, Darjeeling, and Assam walked past, each of them clad in raincoats as the storm's downpour intensified. Their voices were slightly muffled by the rain, but he could still make out parts of their conversation.

"Still no word from Maho or Miho," Kay was saying, her tone laced with frustration. "It's like the League's keeping everyone in the dark about where they're holding them."

"They're not the only ones," Darjeeling replied, her usual composed demeanor showing hints of concern. "Edward mentioned working on a plan, but he's waiting for more information from the captives at Hoja. It's not just Maho or Miho either—Jonathan, Hans, Erika, Christian, and Nonna... all detained."

Assam nodded in agreement, her voice calm. "Perhaps once Edward finalizes the plan, we'll move forward. For now, he's keeping things close."

Houston's eyes narrowed as he took in the conversation, analyzing his options. He needed information—something that could lead him to Graham and Muller. As his gaze flicked over each of the girls, his instinct pinpointed Alisa. Her body language gave her away—she looked bored, distracted, shuffling a bit as she half-listened to the others.

Waiting until the others were a safe distance ahead, he intentionally created a soft but noticeable rustling noise in the brush nearby. Alisa stopped in her tracks, her head swiveling in the direction of the sound. Glancing back at her friends, who hadn't noticed her hesitation, she cautiously stepped toward the noise, drawn by her curiosity.

In an instant, Houston slipped from the shadows, clamping a gloved hand over her mouth and pulling her close. With his other hand, he popped open his knife, holding it threateningly but without intent to harm.

"Stay quiet," he whispered, his tone icy. "I just need answers."

Alisa's eyes widened in shock, and she managed a frantic nod as his grip softened just enough for her to answer.

"Now," Houston continued in a low, threatening voice, "where are Graham and Muller being held? Talk."

Alisa hesitated, but the gleam of the knife and Houston's unyielding hold on her made her reconsider any defiance.

"They're... they're in one of the buildings in the south sector... closest to the old industrial zone," she stammered, her voice a mixture of fear and compliance. "That's all I know, I swear!"

Houston's eyes studied her, and after a moment, he nodded. "Good. Now, head back to your friends and forget you saw me. Got it?"

She nodded fervently, her breaths shaky as Houston released her and faded back into the shadows. Alisa took a step back, looking around nervously, before quickly hurrying off to rejoin Kay, Darjeeling, and Assam, not daring to look back.

Watching her disappear into the rain, Houston activated his codec.

"Jefferson, I've got intel. South sector, near the old industrial zone. I'm moving in."

"Copy that, Boss," Jefferson replied. "Stay alert—sounds like you're close."

With the location now in mind, Houston kept low, slipping silently through the rain-soaked city streets, his senses sharp and focused as he moved ever closer to rescuing his comrades.

In the war room, Edward leaned over a large map, tracing a potential escape route for their detained friends. Rivers and Davis stood by, both looking intense and focused as they hashed out strategies.

"If we're going to get Maho, Miho, and the others out, we'll need diversion teams in place," Rivers muttered, tapping the map near the city's outskirts. "We can't risk all of us going in at once; we'll need some of the Saunders and St. Gloriana forces as well."

At that moment, the doors opened, and Kay, Darjeeling, and Assam entered, their faces serious. Alisa trailed behind, looking pale and uneasy. Davis noticed her expression immediately and frowned.

"Alisa? What's going on?" he asked, watching her struggle to find her voice.

"It's... it's him," she stammered, glancing nervously at Edward. "Houston. He's here."

Edward raised an eyebrow, taken aback. "Houston? Here in Hoja?"

Alisa nodded, her eyes wide. "He grabbed me in the alley, demanded information about Graham and Muller... he's in the city."

The revelation hung in the room like a dark cloud, and Edward clenched his fists. "Then he's already a step ahead."

Meanwhile, in the cold, damp cell block, Graham's marines and Muller's Wehrmacht boys lay on the floor, resting in their cramped confines. Their heads jerked up as they heard faint grunts and the sound of bodies hitting the ground. Through the dim glow of the cell block's single light, they caught sight of a figure methodically disarming and subduing guards with precise, calculated moves.

Houston's silhouette moved seamlessly through the guards, his close-quarters combat technique swift and effective. In seconds, he cleared the hall, silently neutralizing the last guard and stripping him of his keys. He moved to the first cell and unlocked it, his eyes sharp as he glanced at the weary marines.

"Is everyone accounted for?" Houston asked in a low voice.

One of Graham's marines pointed down the hall. "Commander Graham and Commander Muller are in the far cell. Most of us are here."

Houston nodded and, after unlocking their cell, hurried to the last door. Inside, Graham and Muller were sitting against the cold concrete wall, looking up in surprise as a faint, familiar beam of light flashed three times. Houston smirked when he saw their expressions, and with a final twist of the lock, he swung the door open.

"Took you long enough," Graham muttered with a grin, clapping Houston on the shoulder.

Muller chuckled. "Glad to see you back in action, Boss."

Houston gave a quick rundown of the escape plan, his voice barely a whisper. "You'll need to retrieve your tanks, then make a break for the rendezvous point. Head straight back to base once you're clear."

Graham looked him over, noticing the subtle fire in his old friend's eyes. "What about you? How do you plan on getting out?"

Houston's smirk deepened. "You'll see," he said cryptically, handing them a keyring with the gate codes. "Once you're moving, I'll create a distraction. Just keep moving and don't look back."

With that, he gestured for them to go, then watched as they slipped into the shadows, leading their comrades toward the tanks. Houston took a deep breath, readying himself for what came next.

As the echo of their steps faded, he turned toward the city's watchtower, his mind already mapping out the series of diversions he'd set off to buy them time.

As Houston weaved through the waves of oncoming attackers, he spotted Kay's tank rolling up, its turret already locking onto his position. Knowing he had to disable it quickly, he ducked behind cover, formulating a plan.

"All units, eyes up—someone's coming for the tank!" Kay shouted over the tank's intercom. She spotted Houston slipping between shadows, moving with uncanny speed. "Whoever he is, he's quick! Saunders, form up on me! We're not letting him through!"

From his position, Houston saw his opening. He sprinted around the tank's rear, using the noise of nearby skirmishes to mask his approach. As he reached the tank, he pulled a smoke grenade from his belt and tossed it in front, clouding Kay's vision and creating a moment of chaos. The crew scrambled, coughing and blinded by the sudden smoke.

"What's going on? Who is this guy?" a Saunders crew member called out in confusion, their voices muffled within the tank.

Kay's tank hatch flew open as she tried to get a better view. In one swift move, Houston leaped up onto the hull, reached inside, and yanked the firing mechanism out of the turret controls.

"What the—!?" Kay gasped, watching in shock as Houston dropped back down from the tank.

"Sorry, Kay," he said with a smirk. "I have an objective, and you're in my way."

Without waiting for a response, Houston moved on, pressing through the field of reinforcements converging on his position. Students from Montana Boys and St. Gloriana surrounded him, calling out his position.

"There he is! Everyone, close in!" an excited Montana cadet shouted, rallying his squadmates.

"Let's go, y'all! Hit him from all sides!" another voice yelled, their excitement barely masking a trace of fear.

But Houston was already ready, turning into a whirlwind of force. He flowed through the students with expert precision, each strike purposeful and devastating. When a St. Gloriana student attempted to flank him, he dodged with a swift sidestep, following up with a spinning kick that sent her sprawling.

"He's not human!" one Montana cadet stammered, taking a step back.

As Houston patched through to Jefferson, he moved swiftly, dodging rounds and repositioning for cover behind a half-destroyed barricade. He glanced toward the distant perimeter, catching glimpses of friendly forces retreating into the outskirts.

"Jefferson, this is Houston! Where's my extraction?" he demanded, steadying his breathing as more reinforcements arrived to press him from multiple angles.

"Houston, hold tight," Jefferson's voice crackled over the codec. "Black Hawk's inbound. ETA two minutes. Just hang in there; the chopper will be moving in hot. Defend your position until then!"

Houston clicked off and steeled himself as he heard more footsteps and voices.

The unmistakable figures of Edward, Davis, and Rivers pushed forward, with Rivers barking, "You're done, Houston! There's nowhere left to run!"

As they spread out, Edward called, "Give it up, Houston! This city's surrounded. We're not letting you just waltz out of here!"

Houston responded with a smirk, "I'd worry about keeping up if I were you."

He surged forward, dodging Rivers's punch and grabbing his wrist in one fluid motion, twisting him around before sending him crashing to the ground. Davis took the opening to charge at Houston from the side, swinging hard with a baton. Houston blocked, deflecting the blow with an elbow before countering with a sharp jab to Davis's side, knocking him off-balance.

Then, from above, the unmistakable sound of a chopper's rotors began cutting through the storm. A Black Hawk appeared over the ridge, skimming low across the rain-soaked rooftops. Its spotlight lit up the area, casting long shadows as it circled above.

"Black Hawk, callsign 'Viper,' coming in hot. Watch your six, Houston—we're lighting up the kill zone!"

"Just in time," Houston muttered, gritting his teeth as he refocused on his attackers.

The Black Hawk swept in, its door gunners opening up with a series of chalk rounds that sprayed across the infantry on the ground. Chaos erupted as the rounds exploded near the students, creating blasts of blinding, colored smoke and concussive impacts that sent many scrambling for cover.

"What the hell—Houston's got a helicopter?!" Rivers shouted, staggering back in disbelief, his voice barely heard over the din of the chopper's strafing run.

As the Black Hawk continued circling, one of the gunners called, "Tanks spotted at three o'clock! Engaging now!"

The Black Hawk's pilot tilted into a strafing run over the line of advancing tanks, sending a shower of chalk rounds against the armor plating, disorienting and scattering the infantry who were attempting to surround Houston.

Seeing a gap, Houston pivoted, his focus now on Edward, who squared off with him, fury in his eyes.

"You're not getting out of here!" Edward snarled, lunging forward with a knife.

Houston sidestepped, catching Edward's wrist and using his momentum to throw him off balance. Edward twisted, trying to counter, but Houston's boot shot out, kicking him back and sending him tumbling to the ground. In the chaos, Rivers managed to sneak in with a roundhouse kick that connected with Houston's side, staggering him briefly.

"Looks like Big Boss isn't as tough as he seems!" Rivers taunted.

Houston grunted but grinned, the challenge reinvigorating him. He rolled back, countering Rivers's next strike with a powerful left hook, following it with a knee to his midsection that sent Rivers reeling.

Davis moved in, aiming for a tackle, but Houston sidestepped, taking advantage of his momentum to sweep his legs out from under him.

Just then, the pilot's voice crackled back in Houston's ear, "LZ is hot, Viper. Stay clear while we lay down a final sweep. We're pulling you out now!"

Edward, breathing heavily and recovering from the last blow, launched at Houston with a final burst of energy, slashing at him. Houston blocked and countered, finally kicking Edward back with enough force to send him sprawling.

The Black Hawk hovered overhead, the rotors creating a whirlwind as the gunner fired another volley, keeping the remaining forces at bay.

"Houston!" the pilot called out. "This is your ride! Get moving!"

Without looking back, Houston sprinted toward the Black Hawk, grabbing the rope ladder as it descended. As he climbed up, Edward staggered to his feet, yelling over the roar, "This isn't over, Houston!"

Houston looked down, smirking at Edward one last time. "Maybe not. But you're not stopping me today."

The Black Hawk lifted into the sky, leaving behind the scattered forces below as Houston made his escape, a trail of rain-splashed dust and smoke marking his exit from Hoja City.

In a dimly lit corner of the League's base, a gathering of discontented soldiers from different companies shared muttered complaints and exchanged grim looks. Rangers, Soviets, Wehrmacht members, Scots, and Comanche fighters—all hailing from various squads under their respective captains and lieutenants—filled the room, their faces painted with frustration and disdain. These were the outliers, the ones who quietly seethed over the recent decisions made by their superiors. Among them, the tension was palpable, each man sizing up the others and gauging their commitment to this secret meeting.

Captain Sobel of Red's airborne company, a man known for his strictness and ambition, paced in front of the assembled group, his brow furrowed. "This whole prisoner situation, it's a disgrace. Graham, Muller, Wesley, and Houston? They're letting these American Association turncoats off far too easy," he began, his voice laced with contempt. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I think we've had enough of playing along with these so-called 'commanders' and their cushy treatment of traitors."

Victor, a hardened lieutenant in Joey's Soviet company, crossed his arms and nodded in agreement. "Comrades, we're supposed to be fighting for discipline, for strength. Instead, our leaders are coddling them," he spat, his Russian accent heavy. "Those American defectors are nothing but scum, and here we are, keeping them as if they deserve fair treatment." His gaze shifted to the others as murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

Brock, one of Elijah's Comanche fighters, chimed in next, his voice steely and controlled. "Elijah's gone soft. All that talk about 'honor' and 'respect,' it's gotten him blinded. We didn't sign up to be peacekeepers; we signed up to win," he said. "There's too much wasted potential in following leaders who won't make the hard calls."

The men grumbled in agreement, their frustration feeding off one another.

As the meeting continued, a Scottish lieutenant named Calder, who had a bitter rivalry with Wesley and Archie, stepped forward. "Lads, this is a chance," he said, his Scottish accent cutting through the room. "These commanders of ours—they think they're untouchable, that we'll follow them without question. But look at what's happening! They're weakening our forces, splitting us up, holding back from taking action that'd put us in charge." Calder's eyes glinted with ambition. "Why not us, eh? Why not take what's rightfully ours?"

Sobel nodded approvingly, sensing the momentum shifting. "Exactly. We're the ones doing the real work, keeping order. But our leaders? They're getting soft, letting sentimentality make decisions for them. It's high time we show them what real leadership looks like."

Victor leaned forward, speaking in a low, dangerous tone. "So, comrades, here's what I propose. We organize, gather those loyal to us, and establish an ultimatum. If they won't listen, we take matters into our own hands."

Brock smirked, "A coup then? Force them to either listen or step down. We seize control, make sure those American Association boys pay for their betrayal, and bring our forces back to full strength. What's the point of calling ourselves soldiers if we can't even enforce discipline?"

Sobel crossed his arms, his eyes glinting with conviction. "We do this right, and we'll be the ones setting the rules. No more bending over backward for traitors. No more soft leadership."

Victor, Calder, and Brock exchanged determined glances, the tension giving way to a newfound resolve. Each man saw this as an opportunity to step into power and take control of the League's future.

Sobel, sensing he had their full support, gave a final nod. "Then it's settled. We gather our allies and make our move. These so-called commanders won't see it coming."

And with that, the seeds of dissent were sown, as each man returned to his post, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The silent corridors of Davy Crockett High and the other American League schools echoed with hurried footsteps and whispers as the tension reached a breaking point. Captain Sobel, with a hardened expression, took one last look at his assembled forces—Rangers, airborne troops, tank crew members—those who had grown disillusioned with the command. They stood armed and ready, awaiting his orders with steely resolve.

"Listen up," Sobel began, his voice carrying a chilling finality. "The ones in command have led us down a path of weakness and compromise. Today, we restore order. Execute Order 66. No hesitation."

With a simple nod, Sobel gave the signal, and the halls of Davy Crockett High were filled with the echoing sounds of marching boots and the clicks of weapons being cocked. The order rippled through the ranks, spreading like wildfire to Washington Boys' and Girls' High, Kansas Chief, North High, and Grand Lake. Across the schools, those loyal to the commanders suddenly found themselves surrounded by supposed allies, now turning on them with weapons raised.

Inside Davy Crockett's command wing, loyalists like Sergeant Morgan were quick to realize the betrayal. He looked around at the men he'd trained with, noticing the coldness in their eyes as they closed in.

"Captain Sobel... you were supposed to protect us, not betray us," Morgan said, disbelief mixing with anger. "What happened to loyalty, to honor?"

Sobel's gaze was unyielding. "Honor? Loyalty? Those are dead words in a world led by cowards." With a cold gesture, he signaled the men to advance. Morgan and his loyalists fought back, but they were quickly overpowered by sheer numbers. The betrayal was a coordinated, ruthless act, and soon, many found themselves either overpowered or forced to retreat into the shadows of the school.

At Washington Boys' High, the betrayal took on a brutal edge. Captain Wesley's loyalists fought desperately as their own former comrades moved in to arrest them, led by a lieutenant who had once sworn to follow him. Wesley, bruised and cornered, tried to reason with them.

"Why are you doing this? We're supposed to be united against a common enemy, not tearing each other apart," he shouted, struggling against the cuffs.

One of his former soldiers sneered, "You've grown too weak, Captain. We can't win a war by being soft."

Wesley looked into the faces of his former comrades, seeing nothing but hardened resolve. His voice faltered, replaced by a resigned, bitter silence as they led him away, powerless to stop them.

In the dark confines of Grand Lake High, Joey found himself betrayed by Victor and a group of Soviet loyalists. They had him surrounded in the armory, the faint glow of their flashlights casting eerie shadows on the walls.

"Victor... we've known each other since the academy. You were my friend," Joey whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow.

Victor's eyes were cold, void of the friendship they once shared. "Friendship means nothing when it's built on lies, Joey. You've gone soft, and our people need strength."

With a silent nod from Victor, the loyalists moved in, forcefully cuffing Joey as he struggled, betrayed by the very men he once trusted with his life.

Over at North High, Gunther and Captain Ludwig were cornered by their own platoon. Gunther, injured and barely able to stand, looked at the young lieutenant leading the mutiny.

"I trained you, guided you," Gunther said, struggling to understand. "Is this how you repay loyalty?"

The lieutenant, his expression cold and unreadable, replied, "We can't keep following men like you. This is about survival now, and you... you're in the way."

With a final look of regret, Gunther was wrestled to the ground, while Ludwig fought with every ounce of strength he had, refusing to go down without a fight. But the betrayal was too widespread, and the numbers against them were overwhelming. Soon, he too was subdued, their loyalists forced into silence.

Amidst the chaos, Red, Shadow, Dean, and Jefferson, each bound and cornered by the mutineers, looked on with a mix of anger and disbelief. Their loyalists lay subdued or captured, outnumbered by those who had once fought at their side. Red, fury flashing in his eyes, struggled against his captors as he watched Sobel approach with a twisted sense of authority.

"Sobel, what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Red demanded, voice taut with rage. "You think you can take my brother's place just like that? Houston earned his rank. He's a better leader than you'll ever be, and that's why you resent him. You'll never measure up."

Sobel's face tightened, his jaw clenching at each word. Red's accusation had struck a nerve, and in Sobel's eyes, a storm brewed, revealing the simmering envy he'd hidden for so long. Without a word, he reached for his Airsoft pistol, raising it steadily until it pointed directly at Red's chest.

"Enough, Houston. I'm done listening to your family's so-called 'legacy,'" Sobel sneered, his voice carrying a dark satisfaction. Then, he pulled the trigger, marking Red with a sharp, echoing shot.

Red staggered back, clutching his chest where the pellet hit, a red mark blooming on his uniform. The impact of the betrayal stung more than the shot itself. From the sidelines, Shadow let out a cry, breaking free momentarily from her captors, reaching toward Red.

"No! Red, no!" Shadow screamed, but Sobel's cold gaze fell upon her as well. Without hesitation, he raised the pistol again, marking her with a quick, precise shot. Shadow recoiled, horror in her eyes as the pain of betrayal overtook her.

Dean and Jefferson, struggling against their captors, glared at Sobel with a fierce defiance. Jefferson's voice was a low growl, his gaze never wavering. "You're making a mistake, Sobel. You think a mutiny will make you powerful? You won't last a day in Houston's shoes."

Sobel smirked, unmoved. "Take them away," he ordered, dismissing the former leaders as his Airborne boys tightened their grip on them.

The streets had turned into a chaotic battleground, filled with gunfire, shouts, and the sound of retreating footsteps as loyalists and traitors clashed amidst the rising smoke and rubble. Houston's former Vermont Tankery Academy boys, now known as Houston's Rangers, fought with determination despite the mounting odds.

"Cover fire!" one loyalist shouted over the noise, laying down suppressive shots as comrades scrambled for better cover.

Another voice rang out, panic seeping into the words. "They've broken through!"

"I've lost contact with Alpha team!" a radio operator called, frantically tuning the comms, only to receive nothing but static in response.

"There are too many of them!" shouted the squad leader, his words abruptly cut short as a shot found him, sending him to the ground.

A group of three airborne traitors advanced with relentless fire, their betrayal stinging even more than their bullets. As the loyalists fell back, one called out, "Finish them!"

"We can't hold this line — fall back! Fall back!" ordered the second squad leader, motioning for his squad to retreat. They scrambled from cover to cover, some bearing fresh wounds, others limping, but all with a grim determination etched on their faces.

As they regrouped and withdrew, crackling voices over the comms conveyed the grim situation. The mutineers were picking off loyalists across the city, seizing North High, Washington Boys' and Girls' Academy, Grand Lake High, and Kansas Chief High. One loyalist, his face pale, reported breathlessly, "Sir, the only secure place left is the prison."

The second squad leader turned, his face hardened. "Then get someone on the line and tell them to release the prisoners, now!"

Inside the prison walls, the tension was palpable. The imprisoned commanders and captains—Jonathan, Hans, Christian, Miho, Maho, Austin, Mark, Katyusha, Nonna, and others—stood bewildered as they watched guards frantically grab weapons and gear, some barely glancing back as they unlocked cell doors.

"Um... what's going on?" one Uncle Sam boy asked, watching the guards sprint out.

"Why are we being released? Did something happen?" one of the Virginia boys muttered to his friend, glancing around.

A guard paused just long enough to yell, "Get out of here! You're free to go. Your tanks are in hangars 1 and 2—repaired and ready. Get on them and get out!"

The group exchanged glances as the guard rushed off to join the chaos, his footsteps fading quickly. Hans looked over at Jonathan, bewildered. "Any idea what's happening?"

Jonathan shrugged. "Maybe Edward's making a play to free us?"

Christian shook his head. "No way. Edward would never get through the city defenses on his own. Something bigger must be going on."

"Like what?" Jonathan said, just as a massive explosion shook the ground, making dust fall from the ceiling.

"Why are we standing around talking?" Katyusha shouted, hands on her hips. "We should be escaping!"

Meanwhile, outside the prison's courtyard, Houston's loyalists were dug in, firing defensively as waves of mutineers closed in. Amid the chaos, a Davy Crockett M113 APC controlled by the mutineers rolled up, its gunner quickly loading an airsoft machine gun and spraying rounds at any loyalists who dared to move. The sound of airsoft shots echoed in bursts, sending loyalists retreating deeper into the building. Those who weren't marked scrambled for any form of cover, arming themselves with riot gear or any weapons they could find.

In one of the prison's hallways, a squad of loyal Rangers formed up defensively. Two with riot shields led the way, pushing forward while the rest covered them with M16A2s and MP5s, firing at traitors closing in from both ends of the hallway. A traitor peeked out, marking one Ranger who dropped with a yell, leaving the last Ranger prone, desperately firing at anyone who approached.

Inside the security room, the camera feeds displayed a grim scene, showing hallways littered with Rangers marked as "dead," leaving only a handful unmarked.

"They're down the hall!" one loyalist monitoring the cameras said, turning to the head guard.

"Damn it! We've only got four left," another muttered, panic lacing his voice.

The head guard grit his teeth. "We just have to hold our position. Stand your ground!"

Suddenly, an explosion shook the door as two mutineer Commandos breached, flashbangs filling the room with a blinding light. The Rangers inside had barely a moment to react before the Commandos stormed in, marking each one in quick succession. The once-defended security room was overtaken, the last of the loyal Rangers within it marked, and silence filled the room—broken only by the whir of the surveillance monitors showing the prison falling further into enemy hands.

The last loyalist, battered crouched behind a toppled table, his airsoft rifle empty. With only his sidearm left, he clutched his pistol and took a deep breath, steadying his aim as the traitors closed in. The hallway was thick with smoke, flashes of muzzle fire, and the shouts of combatants. A stray shot grazed his shoulder, forcing him to retreat further, his body pressed against the wall as he struggled to stay conscious.

In a last desperate act, he tapped his earpiece, his voice strained but steady. "Olympus has fallen... Olympus has fallen... Olympus has fallen..."

The traitors advanced, their footsteps echoing louder, but he wasn't about to go quietly. With a determined glare, he lifted his pistol, firing at one of the mutineers who rounded the corner, marking him in return. He grimaced as his sidearm clicked empty, the bitter end finally looming. Just as the next wave closed in, he found himself face-to-face with a mutineer whose gun was aimed right at him.

The loyalist's eyes narrowed, defiance glinting in his gaze as he whispered, "For Houston."

A rapid volley of shots sounded, and he slumped back, marked in his final stand.

As the joint high school students made their way through the wreckage-strewn corridors, their faces turned grim upon seeing the fallen Ranger loyalists lying marked on the ground. They glanced uneasily at the mutineers rounding up captives — Joey, Gunther, Ludwig, Anchak, Elijah, Dean, and Jefferson — bound with zip ties, some marked, others struggling despite their restraints. Shadow and Red lay nearby, both marked, eyes shut as if the weight of betrayal had taken its toll.

In a desperate last attempt, Jefferson wrestled with his restraints, managing to activate his comms. His voice came through the static, strained but sharp, carrying an urgent warning across the distance.

"Houston, come in! This is Jefferson," he called out, his voice shaking. "We've been attacked by our own back at the base! Do not return! I say again, do not return back!"

Silence fell.

https://youtu.be/H_5-Y2B7E-Y

To be continued...