The Truth Lies Part 2

With the Walkman now playing "Don't Fear the Reaper," the scene shifts to Houston sitting in a booth at Buffalo Wild Wings, watching his boys maintain the restaurant despite it being locked up. The owner, along with many others, had left the island for the Tankery match, but Houston couldn't resist the appeal of a good American restaurant. He had arranged for wings and planned to cover the costs later through his family account. As he sipped his drink, he watched American sports news on the TV.

A voice spoke up from behind him.

"Watching the Cowboys update, brother?" Red asked, standing next to his older brother.

"Yeah..." Houston replied, taking another sip.

"Hmm, mind if I join you?" Red asked, sliding into the booth beside him. He turned to Houston and added, "Did you order yet? I've been craving some buffalo wings."

"Yes, Red, I already did," Houston said.

Red leaned back, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table. "Man, I can practically smell those wings already! How long's it gonna take, Houston? You sure you ordered them?"

Houston sighed, giving his younger brother a side-eye. "The food's coming, Red. Patience," he replied, taking another sip of his drink.

But Red kept at it, grumbling and leaning dramatically across the table. "You call this hospitality? The older brother invites you out, and you gotta wait forever for some wings? I'm starving here, man!"

Houston shook his head, muttering, "They're coming, Red. Just relax."

A few moments later, one of their guys finally came over, placing a large tray of wings on the table. Before Houston could even thank him, Red dove in, grabbing a wing and tearing into it like he hadn't eaten in days.

"Mmm... See? Now this is what I'm talking about!" Red mumbled, sauce already all over his fingers. He looked up at Houston, grinning. "Guess you're not so bad after all."

As Houston picked at some fries and wings, he glanced over at Red, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So, how's it going with your Lieutenant? Shadow keeping you on your toes?"

Red chuckled, wiping some sauce from his chin. "Oh, it's going great, Don. She's something else, you know? Always smooth-talking me in that French of hers—drives me crazy, man. And let's just say she's not shy about the flirting either."

Houston shook his head, amused. "You're not exactly low-key about it yourself."

"Hey, I learned from the best," Red replied with a grin, grabbing another wing. "Besides, a guy's got a right to enjoy himself a little, right?"

Before Houston could respond, the restaurant door opened, and in walked Shadow, her gaze immediately locking onto Red. She smiled, her eyes twinkling as she approached the table.

"Bonjour, mon chéri," she purred, leaning down to plant a light kiss on Red's cheek.

Red lit up, returning her grin. "Ah, ma belle Shadow! I was just telling Don here how lucky I am to have a lieutenant like you."

Shadow chuckled, sitting beside him. "Only because I put up with you," she teased, letting her hand rest on his shoulder.

Houston sighed, watching the two lovebirds, and shook his head as they continued to flirt, throwing French phrases and inside jokes back and forth. He took another sip of his drink, feeling equal parts amused and exasperated.

"Alright, you two. At least wait until I'm done eating before you start giving me a show," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

Red just laughed, throwing an arm around Shadow. "Come on, Don! Just relax and enjoy the food."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Houston muttered as he was about to pick up a fry. Just then, his codec went off, and he paused, raising a hand.

"Hang on," Houston said, then fell silent, his gaze fixed on the two of them.

Shadow tilted her head, looking at him curiously. "Um... what is the boss doing?"

Red smirked. "Oh, he's using nanocommunications."

Shadow raised an eyebrow. "Nanocommunications? What is that?"

"Well," Red began, clearly enjoying explaining this bit of tech, "if you've ever heard the saying 'silence beats talk,' then you'll get the idea. It's something my brother got injected with during his time at the Vermont Tankery Academy. Back then, he was in this squad called the Dogs of War. They needed a way to stay in constant communication without the enemy overhearing or intercepting radio chatter. So, Anderson, one of the academy's tech whizzes, developed this 'nanocommunication' system."

Shadow glanced back at Houston, who was still silent and staring at them. "So... he's talking to someone right now, inside his own head?"

"Pretty much," Red nodded. "The system uses tiny transmitters that were injected into his brain, letting him speak directly to others who have it, all without saying a word out loud. It's private, untraceable, and perfect for ops. No one can intercept it, no recording devices can pick it up."

Shadow looked fascinated, glancing back at Houston, who was still watching them. "So that's why he's just... staring at us right now?"

Red chuckled. "Yeah, he's listening to someone else, probably getting some kind of update. Looks a little weird, I know."

Shadow smirked, leaning back in her seat. "I guess this explains why he's always in his own world half the time."

Red shrugged, popping another wing in his mouth. "Welcome to life with Don Houston. Full of secrets, always one step ahead. You get used to it."

Just then, Houston's expression shifted, and he blinked back to focus on them, clearly done with his call.

"Everyone, let's go," Houston said, getting up from his seat, confusing both Red and Shadow.

"What's wrong?" Red asked, frowning.

"Ben contacted me—we've got an issue," Houston replied.

A Few Moments Earlier

Back in Hoja City, many of the boys and girls from the Joint High School team were patching themselves up, especially those who were critically injured. The scene showed some of the boys receiving treatment.

Chubbs was getting checked over by Saori, who placed an ice pack on the bruise he'd received while fighting the Jester. Nearby, Klara was bandaging Nikoli's right arm after it had been dislocated. Peter, with a broken hand, was being tended to by Rosehip, who carefully examined his injury.

Austin, who had also taken a serious beating from the Jester, lay with his chest wrapped in bandages from a cracked rib. Despite his condition, he looked calm as Nonna, herself bruised and cut from trying to fight the Jester, ran her fingers gently through his hair, his head resting on her lap.

William, sporting a bandage around his head and eye from a nasty cut, was getting a new pair of glasses from Yukari, who handed them over with a smile.

Inside the medical tent, Samuel was bandaging Edward's leg, which had been brutally dislocated by the Jester. Sitting by Edward's bedside were Rivers, Jonathan, Davis, and several of the team commanders, including Maho, who held Edward's hand, along with Kay, Miho, Katyusha, and Darjeeling, all gathered to discuss the coordinated attack on their team.

"Who the hell were those guys who attacked us?" Rivers demanded, anger flashing in his eyes.

"I don't know," Darjeeling replied, shaking her head. "They weren't from any of the League's schools or their organization."

"Exactly," Davis added, flipping through the League handbook. "There's no record of these people belonging to any League school team here."

"Whoever they are, they knew exactly who we were," Kay said, crossing her arms.

"Do you think it's possible Kai was part of that group?" Katyusha asked.

"Impossible... Kai's been on the run for weeks now—almost a month—pursued by both U.S. and Japanese authorities after what he did to us in our last match," Jonathan said.

Miho's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Still, it could be him under the Jester mask. I mean... the way he moved and acted—it had to be him, right?"

"No... it's not him..." Edward said quietly, drawing everyone's attention.

"What do you mean by that, Edward?" Maho asked, concern evident in her voice.

"The way he moved, the way he fought... it was different. And the way he knew my name—it didn't feel like it was Kai," Edward explained.

Rivers leaned in, puzzled. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, if it were Kai, he'd have said something about getting revenge on me for putting him in jail. But the way this guy fought and moved..." Edward trailed off, lost in thought.

Edward took a shaky breath, his gaze distant as he tried to put into words what he'd experienced.

"It wasn't just his movements," he started. "It was... unnatural, like he was dancing and fighting at the same time, but with this eerie rhythm that felt... off. Every move he made was precise, but too fast, like he was almost predicting where I'd go before I even thought about it."

The others looked at each other uneasily as Edward continued.

"And the way he laughed..." Edward's voice dropped, and a shiver ran down his spine. "It was this twisted, echoing laugh, like he was enjoying it way too much. Not just the fight, but seeing us hurt, seeing us desperate. It was so loud under that mask, like it was coming from somewhere deeper inside him. That laugh wasn't human... It was hollow and cold, like he was nothing but a shell enjoying our pain."

Katyusha hugged her arms, looking around as if expecting the Jester to appear at any moment. "He sounds... terrifying."

Edward nodded, his hand gripping his blanket. "When he spoke, it was the same. That twisted laugh sneaking into his voice, mocking, like he'd broken us before he even touched us. It felt like he wasn't there to fight us but to... haunt us."

Jonathan clenched his fists, looking grim. "Whoever this Jester is, he's dangerous. Way more dangerous than anything we've dealt with before."

Miho swallowed hard, a determined glint in her eyes. "We'll need to be ready, no matter what. If he comes back, we can't let him shake us like this."

Edward nodded, feeling the tension shift in the room as their determination grew. But even as they prepared, he couldn't shake the chill that lingered from the Laughing Jester's eerie, hollow laugh echoing in his mind.

As the group sat in tense silence, the tent flap swung open, and Ben strode in, his usual laid-back demeanor tempered by a look of concern. Freshly released from his cell, he took in the scene: Edward lying on the bed, leg bandaged and elevated, surrounded by the team. His face dropped as he took in Edward's injuries.

Ben raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of disbelief. "Broken leg, huh? That must've taken quite the tumble... or are you testing some new extreme sport for the adrenaline junkies?" he asked, his tone light but curious as he crossed his arms.

Edward's grim expression didn't change. "It wasn't a fall... some guy in a jester mask did this."

Ben's smile faded instantly. His body stiffened, and his face grew serious. "Hold on," he said, his voice unusually tight. "Did you just say... a jester mask?"

Edward nodded, watching Ben carefully. "Yeah. The guy was fast, brutal... laughed the entire time, like he was enjoying every second of it."

Ben's gaze drifted as if replaying a distant memory, his voice barely above a whisper. "A jester mask... with a creepy laugh?" He looked back at Edward, his face almost pale. "Are you sure that's what you saw?"

"Yes," Edward said firmly. "He moved unnaturally, fought like he was predicting my every move... and that laugh, like he got some thrill out of hurting people."

"Shit... can't be..." Ben muttered, freezing in place.

"What's wrong?" Rivers asked, watching him with a puzzled expression.

"I need to contact the 'Boss'—now," Ben replied, urgency in his voice as he walked out of the tent. The group exchanged confused glances as he left.

Once outside, Ben grabbed his radio, dialing in to reach Houston. After a few moments, Houston's codec went off, and he answered.

*Codec Call*

"This is Houston. Ben, is that you?" Houston asked.

"Yes, Boss, it's me. I've got important news that you'll want to hear," Ben said, sounding tense.

"Alright, what is it? News about the Federation Sensha-Do or the American Tankery Association and what they've got going on over there?" Houston replied casually.

"The Jester is alive," Ben said, his tone grave.

There was a pause, and then Houston's voice, now alarmed. "...What...?"

"Robert... he's alive. They're confirming that the 'Laughing Jester' is here," Ben said.

"Shit..." Houston muttered, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

"Do you have any idea why he's here, on this island?" Ben asked.

"No... not at the moment. But if he's roaming around, then he could be listening in," Houston warned.

"What do you mean?" Ben asked, slightly confused.

"The way you're talking to me over the radio—he could be listening in on you by pretending to be someone around you right now," Houston explained.

Ben immediately glanced around, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he moved to a more private area. He continued, speaking in a low tone. "So, what's the plan?"

"I'll meet up with you and the others. It's better they know what they're dealing with," Houston replied.

"Roger," Ben confirmed.

"And Ben..." Houston added, his voice steady, "don't trust anyone."

The codec call ended, leaving Ben staring warily into the shadows around him, realizing that this threat might be closer than anyone thought.

Back at Hideout City, Houston walked alongside Graham and Muller, who looked equally stunned by the news.

"Wait, you're telling me that son of a bitch survived the Dallas incident three years ago?" Graham asked, incredulous.

"Apparently so," Houston replied, his expression grim.

"How?! We took him out when he was in that tank! You were the one who took him down, Houston," Muller added, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I know. How he survived... leaves a lot of questions," Houston admitted.

"That, we can agree on," Muller said, crossing his arms.

"We all remember that bastard was the one who took your eye, Houston," Graham said, as the memory flashed back to them.

*Flashback*

Three years ago, Graham and Muller had joined Houston in the fight against the "Laughing Jester," Anderson's last lieutenant from those dark days. It was during Houston's betrayal of the Dogs of War at Vermont Tankery Academy. Graham and Muller were Vice Commanders, united in their mission to take down the Jester.

The two crept closer to an outpost under Anderson's control, tension thick in the air. Graham, then wearing standard Vietnam-era fatigues, brought his radio to his lips.

"Something's off... way too much activity around that outpost. Yankee 1-3, report," Graham called, waiting for Houston's response, but there was only silence.

He radioed again, voice growing more urgent. "Yankee 1-3, report."

"Think he's gone radio silent?" Muller asked, his German accent adding an edge to his concern.

"Let's hope so... but scout it out with those binoculars of yours and tell me what you see, my German friend," Graham replied.

Muller raised his binoculars, scanning the area. "Hold on... looks like a trap. Patrols everywhere, and they're all armed. Heavily," he said, voice tense.

Muller continued scanning the outpost with his binoculars when Graham noticed something else.

"Wait... there, near the center. Do you see that?" Graham pointed, his voice laced with dread.

Muller shifted his gaze to where Graham was indicating, and his eyes widened. In the middle of the open area, tied to a chair, was Houston. Beside him stood a figure they knew all too well—Robert, or as he was better known, the "Laughing Jester." He was grinning wickedly, holding Houston's radio, taunting them.

Muller's hands clenched around the binoculars as they heard the Jester's voice crackle through their own radios.

"Well, gentlemen, it seems your friend here doesn't feel much like sharing why he's here," the Jester said, sounding almost amused. "I'll give you one chance—surrender, and maybe you'll get him back in one piece."

Graham and Muller shared a look but stayed silent, refusing to comply.

The Jester sighed, and his tone shifted to something far more sinister. "Your choice."

Before they could react, the Jester pulled out a knife. They watched in horror as he moved in front of Houston, gripping his face and drawing the blade close.

The next moment was filled with Houston's agonizing scream echoing through their radios as the Jester plunged the knife into his right eye. The blood-curdling cry sent a shiver through both Graham and Muller, who, unable to bear it, quickly shut off their radios, the sound of Houston's pain still haunting them.

The flashback continued, showing Graham and Muller executing a swift, quiet assault on the outpost, cutting down guards and evading alarms until they reached Houston's holding area. By the time they reached him, he was bruised, bleeding, and barely conscious, his right eye covered in makeshift bandages.

Graham crouched by him, muttering under his breath, "Damn it, Houston, we almost didn't make it." He carefully helped him stand while Muller kept watch.

After helping Houston regain his footing, the three of them slipped out, knowing they had one last target—the Laughing Jester's Type-99 tank that had terrorized them throughout this twisted match.

As they reached the enemy's fortified position, the roar of the Type- 99's engine filled the night air. They readied their weapons, knowing that the tank's armor was tough, its firepower devastating, and the Jester's unpredictable tactics made him even more dangerous.

With Houston guiding them, they set up an ambush. Graham aimed the RPG while Muller handled the C-4 charges, waiting for the perfect moment as the Type-99 rolled into view.

"Now!" Houston shouted, his voice weak but determined.

Graham fired the RPG, the rocket screaming through the air, hitting the tank's rear. The explosion shook the ground, and the tank lurched but kept moving. The Jester laughed from within, taunting them over the speakers, "Is that all you got?"

Unfazed, Muller crawled up to the side and slapped the C-4 onto the tank's treads, then dove back, detonating it just as the tank ground over the charges. The blast finally halted the Type 99, flames erupting from its hull.

As smoke filled the air, Graham's voice echoed, almost like a ghost. "Satisfied, Houston?"

Houston's voice followed, steely and cold, "No. Not until I see the body."

Muller's voice cut through, calm but resolute, "Trust us, Houston. I'd bet that bastard's burning right now in there."

The three stood, watching the tank engulfed in flames, assured this was the last they'd ever see of the Laughing Jester.

In the present day, Houston stared out the window of the Humvee, lost in thought. Graham and Muller sat in the back, their expressions just as grim. The Humvee rumbled along, part of a small convoy. There were four Humvees in total—one carrying Houston's Rangers, another with Graham's Marines, and the third holding Muller's Wehrmacht boys. Leading the convoy was Houston's Lone Star tank, and bringing up the rear was Graham's M60 tank.

"Four miles out from Hoja City, Commander," Troy's voice crackled over the radio.

"Copy that. Maintain formation," Houston radioed back.

Graham broke the silence, glancing over at Houston. "You think the others will listen to us, Houston?"

"They have to," Houston replied, his gaze steady. "We're the only ones who know just how dangerous the Laughing Jester really is."

"Ja... I agree with Houston on that," Muller chimed in, nodding. "If they don't listen, well... that's their funeral."

As time passed, the convoy arrived at the city, which was heavily guarded. Members of both the American Tankery Association and the Japanese Sensha-Do Federation watched as the convoy came to a stop. Rangers exited the first Humvee, led by Sergeant Dean, who moved quickly with Houston's loyal Rangers to secure the perimeter. Moments later, Graham's Marines and Muller's Wehrmacht boys disembarked from their vehicles, taking up positions around the area.

"Area is secure, Sergeant," one of the Rangers reported.

"Copy that... Boss, the area's clear," Dean called out.

With the confirmation, Houston, Graham, and Muller exited their Humvee. Though they wore their formal uniforms, they also had on combat vests. Graham had his Marine helmet on, paired with a set of classic sunglasses that gave him a "Hollywood" look. Muller kept his German helmet securely in place as he scanned the surroundings, his gaze sharp and alert. Houston wore his dark green fatigues with a vest but no helmet, his iconic bandana tied around his forehead as always.

As the group began moving forward, Ben approached them, saluting as he caught sight of Houston.

"Boss, good to see you here," Ben greeted.

"Good to see you too, Ben. Are they treating you well?" Houston asked, giving him a brief but genuine nod.

"Of course, Boss. Everything's fine on my end," Ben replied, standing a little taller.

"Well, it was about to be, until you tell us what the hell is going on and how the hell you know that weird Jester!" someone yelled from behind.

Turning, Houston and the others saw Rivers, Davis, Jonathan, Darjeeling, Miho, Maho, Kay, Katyusha, and Edward—who was managing on crutches—making their way toward them.

"Good to see you all here again," Houston greeted.

"Save the pleasantries, one-eye! What the hell are you planning, and who the hell infiltrated us and attacked us? They broke Ed's leg!" Davis snapped.

"Look, I know you all have questions—" Graham began, but he was cut off.

"Of course we do!" Kay interjected. "We're being spied on by these black-suited, masked people your league Yankees brought in!"

"Yeah, you know who they are, so spill it," Katyusha demanded, arms crossed.

With a resigned sigh, Houston gestured for the commanders to follow him to a private meeting room. Inside, he took a position at the center, pulling out a cigar and lighting it. After taking a long puff, he began to speak.

"The group that attacked you was Vermont Tankery Academy... an old school from the Battle Reenactment Association, an organization that existed long before the league. Most of you wouldn't have heard of it, because technically, it doesn't exist anymore. That changed three years ago after the Dallas Incident. Graham, Muller, and I managed to end the match and save over five hundred survivors."

Houston's tone hardened. "The Battle Reenactment Association couldn't cover it up—4,500 boys were killed in that match, and they couldn't explain it away. So, they shut down the whole thing. Most of the officials who worked there either went into hiding or were arrested. But as for Vermont Tankery Academy... I made sure it was destroyed. The team, the school, all of it."

"You seem familiar with that school, Houston. Care to explain why?" Miho asked.

"Well, girly, that's because he was part of it," Graham interjected.

"Exactly. I was," Houston admitted.

"But that still doesn't explain how you know him so well," Edward pointed out. "We know you all encountered him during the incident, but there's something deeper here, Houston. Something you're not saying."

Houston nodded, taking another puff of his cigar. "You're right. I know him all too well—his moves, the way he operates. And he knows me just as well. He's good... very good, and he knows exactly how I work."

"Wait, how's that even possible?" Darjeeling asked, brows furrowing.

Houston glanced at each of them before answering. "He was my squadmate."

The room fell into silence, with shock rippling through the group. Only Graham and Muller stood unfazed, both bearing grim expressions. They'd long known the truth about Houston and the Jester, and it was a truth they would never forget.

Houston took a slow drag from his cigar before continuing. "Back then, we were part of an elite squad known as the 'Dogs of War.' We were the ghosts you'd never see coming, a six-man squad that handled the ugliest missions the Academy could throw at us. The Commander at the time was Anderson, and I was his Vice Commander. They called me 'Specter of Death'—not a name I'm proud of, but one that came from experience in the field."

He paused, his gaze drifting as memories resurfaced. "We were highly trained, each with our specialties. And Robert—'The Laughing Jester'—was our infiltration specialist. He could become anyone, take on any role, blend in flawlessly. That's what made him so dangerous; he could slip into your ranks without a trace. You'd never see him coming until it was too late."

Graham crossed his arms and nodded, his face dark with memories of the past. "Jester was the type who could make anyone uneasy. There were times I'd look at him, and he'd be pretending to be one of us so convincingly, we almost forgot who he was. We trained together, fought together, but even then... the way he went deep undercover was unlike anything I'd ever seen. For a long time, I'd catch myself second-guessing everyone around me, wondering if it was Jester under some other face."

Muller, shifting uncomfortably, chimed in. "Ja, even for me, it was unnerving. There were times he'd be right in front of you, but you'd have no idea if it was really him. He could assume not only appearances but entire personalities, right down to the smallest mannerisms and quirks. It was terrifying how convincingly he could act like someone you trusted. One moment he was friend, our squadmate, and the next, he was an enemy right within our ranks."

Houston nodded, glancing around at the gathered commanders. "That's why I'm warning all of you. If he's here, he could be listening, watching, and blending into your ranks. Three years ago, during the Dallas incident, we thought we had ended him. We trapped him, cornered him in his Type-99 tank, and blew it sky-high. But... somehow, he survived."

He took another long drag, letting the silence hang heavy. "Jester knows how I operate, as I know him. I'm giving you this background so you understand: if you see him, don't underestimate him. He'll exploit your weaknesses, make you question your own people. And he won't stop until he's finished what he came here to do."

The commanders looked at each other, absorbing the weight of Houston's words.

Meanwhile.

As Doyal left his office at the U.S. military base in Houston, Texas, he gathered his things and stepped outside. On his walk through town, he passed a TV store and stopped as his gaze caught on the bright screens in the window, broadcasting a sports news update. Two reporters appeared, animatedly discussing the latest in the American Tankery League.

"More boring updates," Doyal muttered to himself, starting to walk away.

But as he turned, the reporters announced something that caught his attention.

"And in celebration news," one reporter said, "the American Tankery League is paying homage to one of its oldest teams from the 1960s, the iconic squad from the Battle Reenactment Association known as the 'X-Men.'"

Doyal froze, his interest piqued, and turned back to watch. As old, grainy footage filled the screen, he could hardly suppress a grin. There was his younger self, just eighteen, outside his M4A2 Sherman tank. He wore a blue and yellow uniform that matched the colors and style of Cyclops from the X-Men comics, his favorite character at the time. His crew members, dressed as other X-Men characters, were in the heat of a match against a tankery team from Wyoming, their tanks painted with comic-book-inspired insignias.

"Look at us," Doyal chuckled, shaking his head. "Just kids."

In the footage, young Doyal, grinning from ear to ear, adjusted his visor and looked back at his crew with a confident nod. Delia, now his wife but then his high-school girlfriend, stood at his side dressed as Jean Grey, laughing and ready for action. The announcer's voice-over broke through the footage: "Led by a young, fearless Doyal Houston, this team made history not just with their skills, but with their incredible camaraderie and enthusiasm for the comics that inspired them."

A nostalgic glint in his eye, Doyal remembered how, back then, he'd quoted Cyclops every chance he got. The footage showed him turning to his crew and giving their signature rallying cry: "To me, my X-Men!"

Doyal chuckled softly, repeating the line to himself with a smile. "To me, my X-Men," he murmured, feeling the old spirit rush back

As Doyal reached the downtown area, his black SUV hummed steadily along the empty road. He tried calling his wife again, but her phone went straight to voicemail. With a sigh, he left a brief message before ending the call.

Coming to a red light, Doyal idly watched as a police cruiser pulled up slowly on his left. He glanced over to see two officers, one on the radio and the other staring straight at him. Sensing something unusual, he decided to throw in a bit of humor.

"You want to see my lease?" he quipped, flashing a grin.

The officer gave a small honk of the siren in response. Doyal chuckled, but his unease grew as the light turned green. The police car pulled forward, and he followed, only to be jolted as another cop car suddenly rammed into the back of his SUV, shoving him toward the curb. Before he could react, the original cruiser reversed, slamming into his front bumper. A third car veered in from the right, pinning him completely.

Pain shot through his body as his head hit the steering wheel, blood trickling from his nose. A sharp pang radiated from his left leg, and he quickly realized it was fractured. Gritting his teeth, he reached over to the glovebox and pulled out a small syringe of medical serum—a prototype his younger brother Vince had developed. Wasting no time, he uncapped it and injected it into his leg, feeling the numbing warmth spread as the serum began its work.

Looking up, Doyal's eyes narrowed as more cop cars swarmed around him, boxing him in. Then came the unmistakable sight of a SWAT van rolling up, and officers poured out, rifles raised and aimed directly at his SUV. Their faces were obscured, but something in their movements confirmed his suspicion—these weren't real cops.

Doyal spat out the syringe cap and gripped the steering wheel as the bullets began to rip through his SUV, each round cracking the windows and tearing into the body of the vehicle.

Doyal, still recovering from the shock, yelled at the dashboard. "Come on, baby, give me something!"

In response, the HUD flickered to life on the windshield, displaying his SUV's armor integrity levels. Red warning indicators blinked as bullets pounded the exterior, showing the armor depleting rapidly under the hail of gunfire. Doyal could feel the vehicle's shudder as rounds struck from all sides.

"Motion system offline," an automated voice chimed.

"Damn it! Reboot it, now!" he shouted, smacking the console with his fist.

The HUD updated, showing a progress bar for the system reboot as it ticked along painfully slow. Doyal gritted his teeth, watching the armor integrity fall even faster. If the system didn't come online soon, he'd be left a sitting duck. The gunfire intensified, and cracks began to spread across the windshield, creeping closer with each passing second.

"Come on, come on!" he urged the system, glancing around for any possible escape route. His eyes darted to the progress bar, willing it to complete. He felt the SUV lurch slightly, indicating the reboot was close, but not close enough.

Doyal watched in horror as the SWAT team rolled out a battering ram, its heavy frame approaching the SUV's reinforced windows. A crack in the window began to spread, spider-webbing under the repeated blows.

"Armor integrity at 31%," the computer warned.

"Damn it, that's low," Doyal muttered, glancing at the dashboard. "Not looking good, baby."

He took a deep breath, then leaned back in his seat, reaching under and pulling up a large gun case. Fumbling for the lock with hands that shook slightly from adrenaline, he opened the case, revealing his custom AR-15. As he quickly began assembling the rifle, the computer chimed in again.

"Defense countermeasures ready for deployment."

"Not yet," he hissed, tightening a scope to the top of the weapon. He could hear the crunch of the battering ram smashing the window again, and the HUD flashed with the latest blow: 19% protection remaining.

"Come on, just a little more," he muttered under his breath, locking in the final magazine. He grabbed the rifle firmly, his face contorting with both anger and determination. "You're not getting me that easy, not today."

As the battering ram struck again, the system displayed a grim warning: Window integrity at 1%. Doyal took a deep breath, steadied his rifle, and just as the window began to give way, he pulled the trigger, unleashing a hail of bullets toward his attackers.

"Take this, you impostor bastards!" he yelled, watching the SWAT team scatter for cover.

Finally, the system chimed, "Systems restored. Motion capabilities online."

"Drive, now!" he barked at the car.

The SUV's engine roared as it unpinned itself from the barricade, backing up with a sudden jolt and ramming past one of the blocking vehicles. Doyal kept firing, catching glimpses of the fake SWAT officers retreating as he made his escape, the rifle echoing in the narrow street. Once they broke free, he reloaded swiftly, turning to check the rearview mirror for any pursuit as the vehicle sped through the city streets.

"Send a distress signal to headquarters!" he commanded.

"Signal damage detected, all long-range communication is down," the computer replied flatly.

Doyal gritted his teeth. "Fine. What systems are still operational?"

After a brief pause, the computer responded, "Air conditioning operational."

He shook his head, letting out an exasperated laugh. "Great. Guess that's something."

Two cop cars tailed him, sirens blaring and lights flashing as Doyal weaved through heavy traffic. Glancing in the side mirror, he saw one of the attackers leaning out the window, an Uzi aimed directly at him. The rapid-fire rounds ricocheted off his SUV, causing the armor integrity to flash warnings on his display.

With a sharp maneuver, Doyal gripped the wheel, biding his time until the perfect opportunity presented itself. Just as they closed in, he slammed on the brakes. The sudden deceleration caught the attackers off guard, and their cars shot past him—right into the path of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. The truck thundered forward, colliding into the two cop cars with a bone-crunching impact that left his attackers in a twisted wreck.

Doyal hit the gas and muttered, "Let's see you try that again."

"Computer, GET ME OFF THE GRID!" he ordered, hoping the system could locate an inconspicuous route to get him out of sight.

As the system searched for a safe location, he squinted at the road ahead, where a lone figure in all black stood calmly, a mask concealing his face. The man raised a grenade launcher, aimed, and fired. Doyal's eyes widened as the projectile arced toward him, and he instinctively swerved, but it was too late. The explosion rocked his SUV, sending it tumbling into a brutal roll.

Dazed and disoriented, Doyal blinked through the smoke and debris, catching a glimpse of the masked attacker approaching through the haze. Knowing he had precious seconds, he unbuckled, kicked open the damaged door, and crawled out of the overturned vehicle, slipping into the shadows before the attacker realized he was gone.

At the outskirts of Hoja City on Tomodachi Island, Houston sat by the campfire, a quiet scene surrounding him. A few meters away, his campsite was set up, and sitting around the fire with him were Muller and Graham. The three old friends gazed into the crackling flames, the night sky stretching dark and endless above them.

"So, that happened," Graham said, breaking the silence.

"Yeah..." Houston replied.

"You think they'll listen to us after we told them everything?" Muller asked, his gaze still fixed on the fire.

"Who knows..." Houston sighed. "If they really think they can take him on... I'm gonna have to ask my boys to get the shovels ready. Might need to dig more holes."

"Tch... Hell, I might join you on that," Graham said with a grim chuckle.

"Same here..." Muller added.

They fell back into a comfortable silence until Sergeant Dean walked up to them.

"Area is clear, Boss," Dean reported.

"Good. Get some rest... you need it," Houston replied.

"You sure, sir? I mean, you asked me to bring this to you after I finished my patrol with the squad," Dean said, holding out a hot branding iron marked with a lone star.

"Yeah, I'm sure, brother... Get some rest," Houston said, nodding to Dean.

"Alright, sir..." Dean nodded back, handing the hot branding iron to Houston before heading off to his tent. As Houston returned to the campfire and sat with his fellow commanders, Graham and Muller noticed him placing the tip of the branding iron into the flames.

As Houston held the branding iron in the fire, Graham gave him a sidelong glance, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

"Alright, I gotta ask—why'd you ask Dean to bring that?" Graham asked, motioning to the branding iron.

Houston's gaze remained on the flames, his expression a mix of thought and nostalgia. "You know, after all these years, especially after the Dallas Incident, something about this life we're leading... it's got me thinking about family. About what it means to have brothers—not just by blood like Red, but chosen ones. Men I'd trust with everything."

Muller and Graham exchanged looks, each one silently acknowledging the loyalty they'd built over the years.

"Guess I look at the two of you," Houston continued, "and I see that same bond. Louisiana-born, Graham, commander of Grand Lake High—and you, Muller, all the way up in North Dakota, leading North High. But here we are, right? Every step of the way. Makes me realize just how much you two have given to stand by me."

Graham gave a slow nod, watching the firelight flicker across Houston's face. "Hell, you know I'd do it all again. You're my family, Houston. Don't need any blood for that."

"Same here," Muller agreed. "I might've come from North Dakota, but it doesn't matter where I was born. Where I belong is right here. You've given us a hell of a lot more than anyone else ever did. A home. A purpose."

Houston looked at both of them, his expression hardening into a resolve that felt as solid as stone. "Then hear me on this. As long as I draw breath, you'll have a place. You'll have a home 'til the day you die... or my family name is no more. That's a promise I intend to keep."

Graham nodded, his voice steady. "We're in, Houston. For life. Whatever that means, however far we go. We're with you."

Muller gripped Houston's shoulder firmly. "You say it, and we'll see it through."

As Sodoko, Moyoko, and Nozomi approached the campsite, Sodoko held a stack of papers tightly in her hands—their list of ground rules the Americans would need to follow if they wanted any cooperation.

"You really think we can trust these Yankees?" Nozomi asked, her skepticism evident.

"We don't have a choice," Sodoko replied with a serious tone. "If Commander Ed's giving them a chance, we might need their help to get the league out and deal with that masked clown and his thugs."

"Uh-huh," Moyoko smirked, nudging Sodoko playfully. "And maybe you just want an excuse to go over the rulebook with them."

Sodoko huffed, straightening up. "Of course! It's our duty as the Public Morals Committee to make sure everything is in order!"

The girls moved closer, but as they neared the campsite, they stopped short, hidden just behind a bush as the scene by the campfire came into view. Houston, Graham, and Muller were standing together, their figures lit by the flickering flames. In Houston's hand was a branding iron, its tip glowing red-hot from the fire.

"What... what are they doing?" Nozomi whispered, her eyes widening as she tried to make sense of the ritual unfolding before them.

The girls watched as Graham stepped forward, opening his Tankery jacket and pulling his shirt off to reveal his bare chest. Taking a breath, he steadied himself and nodded to Houston, who firmly pressed the searing iron to Graham's chest. Graham grunted, the pain evident as he clenched his jaw, but he didn't move, bearing the branding mark with a resolve that left the girls speechless.

"Is... is that some kind of loyalty ritual?" Moyoko asked in awe, her voice barely above a whisper.

Before they could even process what they'd seen, Muller moved next. He removed his German officer hat, shrugged off his jacket, and shed his shirt, exposing his chest to Houston. Houston didn't hesitate, pressing the iron against Muller's skin as well. Muller took the branding with a silent endurance, the mark sealing a bond that ran deeper than words.

"Who does something like that?" Sodoko breathed, both horrified and oddly captivated. These men weren't just teammates; they were bonded by something beyond typical military camaraderie.

As the iron hissed against Muller's skin, the three girls watched the unwavering loyalty of the three commanders and the solemnity of their ritual. It was something they weren't meant to witness, a moment too raw, too private for them to fully understand.

Quietly, the three girls turned and slipped back down the path, leaving the campsite and their unspoken questions behind.

 As the branding iron left Muller's chest, a thin line of smoke curled into the night air, the seared skin marking him with the Lone Star just like Graham. Houston took a step back, letting the iron cool, and looked between the two of them. He knew they'd faced countless battles together, had each other's backs in the darkest hours—but this was something different. This was family.

Houston's voice, low and steady, broke the silence. "Welcome home."

Graham looked down at the fresh brand on his chest, a small grin of pride flickering on his face. "Feels like a bit of Texas just got burned into me," he said with a chuckle, the pain still evident in his eyes.

"About time," Houston replied, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "Thought you Louisiana boys needed a reminder about what home feels like."

Muller nodded, exhaling slowly as the sting lingered, yet the weight of the gesture settled in. "North Dakota may be cold, but I'd take this heat if it meant fighting beside you two." He placed a hand over the brand, letting the warmth of the bond—and the pain—sink in.

Houston's gaze softened. "No matter what happens out there, no matter who we have to face, you'll always have a place here. You both know where my family stands, and that means you'll have a home 'til the day you die... or my family name is no more."

https://youtu.be/YzX1jPQNbYQ