The Truth Lies Part 3

Later, the scene shifts to Delia in her office at the American Tankery League headquarters in Washington D.C. As the chairwoman, she was busy sorting through reports on the ongoing match at Tomodachi Island. Taking a glance at the TV in her office, she was startled to see a news report covering a recent shootout in downtown Houston.

A clip showed Doyal driving an SUV, pursued by unmarked police cars firing at him. He narrowly escaped by maneuvering two police cars into the path of an eighteen-wheeler truck, resulting in a fatal crash for both officers. The reporter continued, now identifying General Doyal Houston as a wanted man pursued by the FBI and CIA.

Confused and shocked to see her husband's face on live news, Delia's work phone suddenly rang. She picked it up and answered.

"This is Delia," she said.

"It wasn't real officers..." Doyal's voice came through on the other end.

"Doyal?" Delia asked, recognizing her husband's voice.

"The officers who were killed were trying to take me out on my way to the airport... They knew exactly when I'd be leaving the base where I was stationed," Doyal explained.

The scene cuts to him in a phone booth, leaning against the glass, wearing a large trench coat. Visible injuries hinted at the struggle he had just been through.

Doyal took a steadying breath, trying to make sense of everything. "Delia, this is bigger than we thought. Those weren't just any officers—whoever sent them knew exactly where I'd be, right down to the minute. They want me out of the picture, and I don't even know why."

Delia listened carefully, sensing her husband's frustration and concern. "Do you have any idea who might be behind this?" she asked.

"No, but there's something going on. I just don't know what yet. It feels... orchestrated." Doyal paused, exhaling. "But before I go deeper into this, I need to know how Don and Red are. They're in the middle of all this mess."

"They're safe for now," Delia replied, her voice steady. "Though, McKenzie hasn't been able to locate them directly yet. But here's the odd part—many in the League have started sending them supplies, far more than usual. Normally, only a specific amount is allocated, but we're seeing large-scale shipments headed their way."

Doyal's brow furrowed. "Wait. Did McKenzie request those supplies?"

"No... It was General Reyes. The request came directly from him," Delia answered. "He hasn't provided an explanation. Just that it was needed urgently."

Doyal's jaw clenched. "Reyes? Why would he be the one to make that request? It doesn't add up. If there's one thing I know, it's that Reyes has always kept his distance from anything involving Red and Don. This isn't his usual behavior. I'll have to reach out to Don through codec, get to the bottom of this."

Delia hesitated, her voice lowering. "Are you sure about that? You know how Don sees us... and the League organization itself. After what happened, they see us as traitors. The League and Government has painted you, Don, and even Red as threats."

Doyal nodded, understanding the gravity. "I know. But there's a phrase he'll recognize, something only I would know. He'll know it's me, and he'll know I'm serious."

Delia paused, finally agreeing. "Alright. Just be careful, Doyal. You're walking into something we don't fully understand."

Doyal straightened, glancing over his shoulder as if anticipating trouble. "I will. And if I can get Don to listen, maybe we can uncover what's really going on here."

After ending the phone call with Delia, Doyal stepped out of the booth and made his way to a safehouse, one that was off the grid and almost forgotten, with no one daring to set foot in it. Inside, the equipment was old, relics from the 1980s Cold War era. Sitting down in front of a worn-out table, he looked over a bulletin board covered in maps and notes before initiating a codec call.

*Codec Call*

"Don, can you hear me? This is Doyal," he said.

"Yeah, I hear you," Houston replied, his voice guarded. "What do you want? Trying to convince my boys and the others to surrender?"

Doyal gave a dry chuckle. "Heh... No, Don. There's something I need to ask you about."

"And what's that?" Houston replied, his tone skeptical.

"There are shipments being sent to the island where the match is happening. General Reyes is supposedly expecting these shipments, but no one knows what he's actually receiving," Doyal explained.

"So, you want me to infiltrate the League base and find out what they're bringing in?" Houston asked.

"Exactly," Doyal confirmed.

"Hmm... That won't be easy," Houston remarked thoughtfully.

"What makes you say that?" Doyal asked.

"Because just last week, Graham, Muller, and I interrogated one of my men who turned against us. He hinted at another group involved—seems like some kind of black ops or something," Don replied.

"Black ops? Special Forces on the island?" Doyal asked, his interest piqued.

"Yeah, but we're not entirely sure if they're really black ops. And there's more: the 'Jester' is alive," Houston added.

"Wait—Robert? Your old squadmate from Vermont Tankery Academy? The one we thought was lost during the Dallas incident three years ago? He survived?" Doyal was visibly shocked.

"Yeah... something big is unfolding here. I can't put all the pieces together yet, but it's bigger than we realized," Houston said, his tone heavy with uncertainty.

Doyal took a deep breath, processing the news. "So, the 'Jester'—Robert—is still alive. If he's mixed up in this, then we're dealing with something far more serious than just a few rogue agents. You said he survived the Dallas incident... How? And why is he here?"

Houston hesitated, the weight of old memories hanging in the silence. "I don't know. But he's not the same man we once knew. His tactics... they're cold, methodical. He's using tricks that only a handful of us were ever trained in. If he's behind some of what's happening on the island, he's not just here by chance."

Doyal's eyes narrowed. "What else did the informant say? Anything that could help us put the pieces together?"

"He mentioned a group, something called 'The Forgotten.' Rumor is they're ex-military operatives, disillusioned with the League's higher-ups. From what he told us, they've got deep ties in government and military circles. They're the ones pushing for some kind of 'reset' within the League itself," Houston explained.

Doyal frowned. "A reset? Are they trying to take control of the League?"

"Possibly. Or they're aiming to create something else entirely. Whatever their endgame is, they're acting in the shadows, and they're not afraid to cross lines. Robert—the 'Jester'—might be leading them, or he could just be a pawn. But if he's here, then someone with influence wanted him in play."

Doyal rubbed his temple, feeling the weight of his own memories. "This doesn't make sense. Reyes ordering shipments, black ops agents on the ground, and now a rogue group with an agenda. We're looking at a power play, Don. One that's using our family as leverage."

Houston's voice took on a sharper edge. "That's exactly what I'm worried about. They're using the match as cover, bringing in weapons, supplies—who knows what else. My team and I can't sit around waiting for them to make their move."

Doyal nodded, though he knew Houston couldn't see him. "Understood. But listen, Don—these people are playing for keeps. Whatever you're planning, you need to be careful. They're already watching you. If they find out you're onto them—"

"I know, Uncle," Houston cut in, his tone steady. "But we've got to find out what's coming. If we don't, it won't just be me and my team who suffer. The League, our families—everyone gets caught in the crossfire."

Doyal allowed a rare smile. "Family's family, Don. No matter what. Stay sharp. And don't hesitate to use the code phrase if things get too hot."

With that, Doyal ended the call, looking over the worn, dusty safehouse around him. As he set the codec aside, he murmured to himself, "Stay safe out there, Don."

Back on Tomodachi Island, Houston walked alongside Jefferson as they reached Hoja City. They were joined by their high school teams, including Grand Lake High, North High, Washington Boys' and Girls' Academy, and Kansas Chief High, along with schools from both the American Association and Federation: Uncle Sam High, Montana Tankery Academy, Edison High School, and Virginia Academy of Arts. Japanese Federation schools Kuromorimine Girls' Academy, Ooarai Girls' Academy, Saunders Girls' High School, St. Gloriana, and Pravda High School were also present.

Despite what had transpired during operations on both the Western and Eastern fronts, there was noticeable tension and mistrust towards the League's boys. Many of the Japanese girls openly referred to them as "Yankees." Yet, given the situation, the League schools had no choice but to ally with them, even if the alliance was strained.

"You're really going to infiltrate the League team and the Sobel division?" Jefferson asked.

"Yeah. A 'bird' told me that a strange shipment is set to land here soon, and I need to figure out what it's all about," Houston replied.

"You think it's more weapons?" Jefferson asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Could be, but we can't be sure... If it is, we might be facing another incident like the one three years ago," Houston said.

"The Dallas Incident... All right, 'Boss.' That means I'll be in charge while you're away," Jefferson said.

"Exactly. I won't be around to command our boys, including my Rangers and tanks. The responsibility will be yours, Jefferson," Houston confirmed.

"Got it. I'll also stay on Codec. Just radio me if you need anything—documents, maps, whatever you need about the area you're in," Jefferson assured him.

"Will do," Houston said with a nod.

As they reached Houston's tent, he crouched down and pulled a large, reinforced suitcase from beneath his makeshift bed. Unclipping the latches, he lifted the lid to reveal the OctoCamo suit—a sleek, advanced piece of stealth technology capable of blending seamlessly into its surroundings. Its smooth, segmented surface was dotted with small sensors and panels, allowing it to mimic textures and colors of nearby environments with near-instant precision.

Houston began removing his commander's uniform, carefully folding it to the side, then slipped into the OctoCamo suit. The fabric clung to him comfortably, feeling almost like a second skin, adapting to his movements without restriction.

Jefferson raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed. "That suit... it's incredible. Fits you like a glove, Boss. Can it really adapt to any environment?"

"Yeah," Houston replied, flexing his fingers as he adjusted to the suit's feel. "It's based on the tech used by elite operatives. This OctoCamo can blend with any surface it comes in contact with—stone, grass, sand, even concrete. Makes infiltration a lot easier when you're practically invisible."

Jefferson watched as Houston touched the side of his tent, activating the suit's adaptive camouflage. Within seconds, Houston's outline seemed to dissolve into the background, his form blending with the canvas of the tent until he was almost completely indistinguishable from his surroundings.

"Damn," Jefferson muttered, circling him to get a better look. "This could give you a serious edge. Imagine the looks on those Yankee-hating Federation girls when you suddenly appear out of nowhere."

Houston smirked, letting the OctoCamo deactivate. "It'll definitely make getting around easier. The fewer eyes on me, the better."

"Agreed," Jefferson said. "But let's make sure all the systems are working. Last thing we need is the suit glitching out in the middle of enemy territory."

They ran a few tests together, starting with the suit's full camo functionality. Houston moved against different surfaces inside the tent, and the OctoCamo seamlessly adapted each time—from the sandy earth floor to the rough canvas walls, even to the metallic legs of a nearby cot. The suit's response time was near-instantaneous, and the textures it displayed were uncannily accurate.

Jefferson nodded in approval. "All systems seem solid. You're like a ghost in that thing."

"Perfect," Houston replied, straightening up. "This mission won't be easy, but at least I have the advantage. I'll head out tonight and make contact with the League team to get close enough to figure out what's in that shipment."

Jefferson clapped him on the shoulder. "Just be careful, Boss. With tensions running high, one wrong move and the Federation schools will jump at the chance to pin something on you."

"I know," Houston said, his tone serious. "If anything happens, I'll radio back. Keep the boys ready and on alert in case this turns into something big."

"Understood," Jefferson replied. "And if you need intel on the area, documents, or even a quick extraction plan, just use the codec. I'll keep the maps and resources at hand."

Houston gave a firm nod. "Appreciate it, Jefferson. Hold down the fort. I'll be back with answers soon."

In the city...

"Houston branded Graham and Müller?" Hana asked, as the scene shifted to most of Ooarai's girls sitting or standing near their tanks, listening intently to Mallard Team. Sodoko was recounting what she'd seen the previous night.

"Yeah... I couldn't understand everything they were saying, but I caught something like, 'You'll carry my family name till the day you die.' Weird, right? Some sort of bonding ritual, maybe?" Sodoko speculated.

"Or maybe it's some kind of loyalty thing?" Noriko suggested.

"Or possibly something related to honor, like what veterans sometimes do," Saemonza added, crossing her arms thoughtfully.

"Could be like what the Americans did back in Iraq!" Oryou said with a grin.

"Well, there's a lot we don't understand about the League Americans... What do you think, Prez?" Tsutomu asked, turning toward Anzu.

Anzu was lounging back in a lawn chair with Yuzu and Momo standing beside her, both watching their president munch on her favorite dried sweet potatoes.

"Hmm, I don't know. There's something about Houston that always interests me," Anzu replied, her tone thoughtful.

"Why do you say that, Prez?" Yuzu asked, leaning in curiously.

"I bet it's just because he's a one-eyed Yankee," Momo huffed, folding her arms in irritation.

"No, it's not that... He's different. Not like Edward, Davis, Rivers, or Jonathan. Houston has secrets, and he's always two steps ahead of everyone. That's what got me interested," Anzu said with a knowing smirk before taking another bite of her sweet potatoes.

The other girls exchanged glances, some intrigued, others uncertain, as they considered Anzu's words.

Anzu took another slow bite of her sweet potatoes, her eyes narrowing slightly as she pondered her thoughts on Houston. The rest of the Ooarai girls watched her, curious to hear more.

"You know," Anzu began, "I've been keeping an eye on him for a while now, trying to get a read on the way he operates. He's not just some one-dimensional leader who sticks to the playbook. The way he commands his team and leads in battle... it's different. Strategic, ruthless, yet calculated. Not many in the League have his level of skill. In fact, he's the only one ranked as an S-Rank Commander. They call him 'Big Boss' for a reason."

"Big Boss?" Hana echoed, a bit of surprise in her voice. "That sounds like quite a title. It's almost legendary."

"Exactly," Anzu nodded, taking another bite. "He didn't earn that title easily. From what I've studied, he's led his team at Davy Crockett High through some of the toughest matches the League has seen, and not just by relying on brute force. He uses tactics that feel almost unpredictable. He's known for fighting in his M4A3E8 Sherman, but it's not just tank skills that set him apart. He's also fought on foot in certain operations—another rarity among League commanders."

"On foot? In tank battles?" Momo asked, sounding skeptical. "Who does that?"

"Someone with guts, I'd say," Anzu replied with a small grin. "It takes a different kind of leader to jump out of the safety of a tank to lead his team directly. I don't think many would risk it. From what I hear, he makes sure his team is taken care of first, and he's willing to get his hands dirty if it means getting the job done."

"So that's why he's S-Rank... because he does things no one else does?" Yuzu asked.

"That, and the fact that he's undefeated in the past few seasons," Anzu said, leaning back with a satisfied look. "His reputation is more than just talk. He's earned it, and the League holds him up as the ideal. There are plenty of commanders in the League who try to copy his style, but no one quite pulls it off the way he does."

Saemonza crossed her arms, nodding in understanding. "Then it's not just his skills, but his dedication to his team. That's true honor."

"Honor, loyalty... maybe even a little insanity," Anzu chuckled. "But there's something else about him. His nickname, 'Big Boss,' it's not just for show. It's a title that implies something more... like he's got an understanding of the game that others don't. Whatever it is, Houston's not someone to underestimate."

"Prez, sounds like you've got a little crush on him," Yuuki teased, nudging Anzu.

"Don't get it twisted, Yuuki," Anzu replied with a smirk. "I'm interested, yes. But only in the way he leads his team. It's rare to see someone so dedicated, with a plan in every move, and his loyalty to his team is unshakable. That's what makes him different—and dangerous."

As Chubbs, William, Mark, Austin, and Hans joined the conversation, Anzu gave them a casual shrug, downplaying the curiosity she had about Houston and his team.

"Oh, nothing too important," she replied, a small, mischievous smile crossing her face.

"Right," Hans nodded, settling himself on a nearby crate. "It's weird seeing the League teams camping out just outside the city. I mean, it's like they've set up a whole military base out there."

Mark leaned against a nearby stack of boxes, chiming in, "Yeah, but at least they're keeping to themselves. I've seen our guys bothering them here and there, but they don't seem to care too much."

Aya tilted her head, curious. "What exactly do they do out there?"

"From what I saw, they're training constantly, checking their equipment, maintaining their tanks... it's like a military operation," Austin explained.

Erwin nodded knowingly. "Well, they do have infantry teams trained with airsoft weapons in each of the League schools, so it makes sense. They treat it like a real military exercise."

Austin crossed his arms. "Still, can't say I trust them. Not one bit."

Saroi tried to ease the tension, shrugging. "As long as they're minding their own business and we do the same, we'll be fine."

"Speaking of which, where's Yukari?" William asked, glancing around.

---

Meanwhile, Yukari had managed to slip away and found herself in the heart of Davy Crockett High's camp. Rows of tanks stretched out in front of her, a mix of Shermans, Pershings, and Chaffees, each tank with a unique paint job and tally of "kills" marked on its armor. She marveled at the skill and pride evident in every tank, especially in the meticulous detailing of their battle records.

One particular Sherman caught her eye: a rugged M4A3E8 with the name *Lone Star* emblazoned on its 76mm barrel. This tank was different—its armor bore countless scratches, scars from past battles, and a white star painted on its top turret, worn and faded but still standing out. The sight filled her with admiration and curiosity.

Inspecting it closer, Yukari noticed the Lone Star had an impressive number of kill marks on its side armor. Many of the tallies belonged to teams from North High and Grand Lake, along with other American League schools. But as she crouched down to examine the faded emblem on the lower part of the tank's armor, she spotted something that truly surprised her.

Five faded high school emblems were painted at the bottom, almost ghostly against the dark green armor. Among them, she recognized the insignia of the *Dogs of War,* from Vermont Tankery Academy. The markings looked like they had been painted years ago, suggesting that this tank had a storied past, one reaching back to events from three years prior.

Seeing the Vermont insignia stirred something in Yukari. The Dogs of War... Could this tank have fought in the Dallas incident? She knew that incident had left a lasting impact on the Tankery League, and it now seemed that this Lone Star Sherman had been at the heart of it.

As Yukari inspected the weathered armor of Lone Star, she heard voices approaching from nearby. Quickly, she ducked behind a stack of supply crates, peeking out just enough to see four crew members heading toward the tank. They carried trays and mugs from the chow camp, chatting and laughing, but with an undertone of tension in their voices.

"Man, I still can't believe we're here with the Federation schools," said Grant, the Loader, shaking his head. "I get why we're allied for this whole thing, but still... they look at us like we're a bunch of aliens or something."

Troy, the Driver, nodded. "Yeah, and now we've got to play nice with them while also watching our backs. It's weird. Doesn't help that they call us 'Yankees' every other minute." He rolled his eyes, smirking.

Scott, the Gunner, grunted in agreement. "And don't forget, they're the ones who picked the fight last time, not us."

"True, true," chimed in 'Machine,' the tank's machine gunner, his nickname apparently from his quick trigger-finger. "But we all know who's keeping this show running, right? Houston's always one step ahead. Not sure how he pulls it off, but he keeps things together." He chuckled, clearly relieved to have Houston's leadership—even if the rest of the camp didn't understand him.

Scott frowned, then shrugged. "Yeah, well, he's off doing his own thing again. So guess what? That means I'm taking command of Lone Star for now." He gave a mock salute, putting on an air of authority, which immediately earned him a groan from Grant.

"Oh, great," Grant sighed, dramatically slumping his shoulders. "Last time you took command, we ended up stalling in that mud pit for three hours!"

"Hey!" Scott shot back, hands on his hips. "That wasn't my fault! You were the one who couldn't keep the loader from jamming, remember?"

"Oh, please," Grant shot back, rolling his eyes. "The last time I commanded, we actually won that match in the rain! You just can't handle pressure."

Troy chuckled, watching the back-and-forth. "Grant, Scott, you two are like an old married couple. Every time Boss isn't around, you go at it like clockwork."

Machine grinned, adding fuel to the fire. "Honestly, maybe we should just strap both of you to the tank's front so you can argue while we roll. At least we'd have some decent entertainment."

Grant groaned again, but a smile crept onto his face. "You guys are the worst. But really... I just wish Boss was the one in command. It's like he has this sixth sense in the field. No one else has that. And this tank? This isn't just a machine to him—it's a piece of our family. I mean, he's the only one who would think to put Vermont's mark right alongside our League kills."

"Yeah," Scott admitted, quieter this time. "It's a privilege, being on Houston's crew. I know we joke around, but... when he's around, I feel like we're untouchable."

Yukari listened intently from her hiding spot, piecing together the dynamics between the crew and their loyalty to Houston. The way they talked about him—it was clear that Houston wasn't just a commander. He was their leader, their guide, and perhaps even a bit of a legend to them. The reverence they had for him, the way they referred to him as "Boss," and the pride in being part of Lone Star resonated with her deeply.

As the crew settled down, Troy leaned back, looking up at the sky. "Well, here's hoping Houston comes back soon. This whole 'playing nice with the Federation' thing... doesn't feel quite right without him steering the ship."

"Agreed," Grant said, and for a moment, the entire crew seemed to lapse into a quiet respect, each one lost in thought.

"You sure you want to do this, Red?" Dean asked, pulling off his hardened Sergeant helmet and tossing it to the side, followed by his gloves. His expression held a hint of a smirk, knowing that sparring with Red always led to an intense match.

Red nodded, removing his Airborne Captain helmet and shedding his jacket, revealing a black tank top beneath. They stood in a makeshift training pit, surrounded by a low wooden fence and packed dirt beneath their boots.

"Yeah," Red replied, rolling his shoulders. "I need to work on my CQC. No better way than getting a few rounds in with you."

"Whatever you say, Captain," Dean said, stepping closer, his stance lowering as he prepared for the first move.

Dean didn't waste any time. He threw a swift, powerful punch aimed straight for Red's face. But Red was quick on his feet, sidestepping to avoid the blow. He took advantage of Dean's momentum, landing a solid punch to Dean's side. The impact echoed in the pit, and Dean grunted, twisting to regain his balance.

Dean countered immediately, pivoting and aiming a quick elbow strike at Red. Red barely managed to duck, feeling the rush of air from the missed blow just over his head. Dean followed up with a knee aimed at Red's midsection, but Red blocked it, grabbing Dean's leg and shoving him backward to create some distance.

They circled each other, each man analyzing the other's movements, searching for an opening.

"You're faster than last time," Dean commented, adjusting his stance, a look of determination in his eyes.

"Maybe you're just getting slower," Red teased, flashing a grin.

Dean took the bait, lunging forward with a series of jabs. Red weaved left, then right, dodging each one with practiced agility. But Dean wasn't done. He spun around, sweeping his leg low to try and trip Red. Red hopped back just in time, then lunged forward, grabbing Dean's arm and twisting it behind his back in a classic hold.

Dean grunted, a slight smile creeping onto his face. "Not bad, Captain. But you know this isn't over."

With a sudden burst of strength, Dean pulled forward, loosening Red's grip just enough to twist free. He used the momentum to land a solid shoulder strike, pushing Red backward. Red stumbled but quickly regained his balance, ready for more.

Dean pressed forward, this time throwing a heavy right hook. Red blocked it, but the force pushed him back a few steps. Seeing an opening, Dean aimed another punch toward Red's midsection. Red deflected it with his forearm, then countered with an uppercut that grazed Dean's chin.

They were both breathing harder now, each hit and counter-hit fueling their determination.

Dean smirked, rubbing his jaw. "You're definitely stepping up your game."

"Guess I had a good teacher," Red replied, his stance still solid.

They continued exchanging blows, each strike landing with precision and purpose. The dirt beneath their boots kicked up, adding to the intensity of the bout. Dean, ever the seasoned fighter, noticed a brief moment of hesitation in Red's movements and capitalized on it, grabbing Red's shoulder and throwing him down to the ground. But Red, agile as ever, rolled to his feet almost instantly, coming back with a swift kick aimed at Dean's side, landing it with a thud.

The fight had attracted a small crowd. Rangers and Airborne soldiers gathered around the edge of the pit, watching intently as Red and Dean continued their intense sparring session. The two men were relentless, each punch, block, and counter coming with practiced precision. Dirt flew from the ground beneath them as they moved, each strike adding to the rhythm of the fight. Red had a small cut above his eyebrow, and Dean's lip was bleeding, but neither man showed any signs of slowing down.

Just then, a figure entered the makeshift arena, causing a stir among the gathered soldiers. It was Houston. The crowd quickly noticed him, and a wave of respect rippled through them as they turned to salute their commanding officer. Houston raised a hand, giving them a nod. "At ease," he said calmly, his gaze fixed on the pit. He stepped forward, crossing his arms as he watched his younger brother in action, a slight smirk on his face as he observed Red's movements.

Dean swung another punch, and Red barely managed to sidestep, returning with a swift jab to Dean's ribs. Dean grunted, his breath hitching, but he immediately pressed forward, throwing another combination of strikes. Red blocked two but missed the third, which landed solidly on his shoulder, knocking him off balance. Red stumbled slightly, but his resolve remained unshaken. He spat to the side, clearing the blood from his mouth, and reset his stance, eyes locked on Dean.

"Come on, Red!" one of the Rangers called out, cheering him on.

Red felt the energy of the crowd behind him, but his focus stayed on Dean. He threw a hard right cross, catching Dean across the jaw. Dean staggered back, clearly feeling the impact, but he quickly reset, a determined grin on his face. They continued exchanging blows, each strike gaining weight as exhaustion set in.

Finally, with a surge of energy, Red slipped under one of Dean's strikes and landed a solid uppercut, followed by a swift left hook that caught Dean squarely in the side. Dean groaned, his knees buckling slightly as he tried to keep his footing, but he finally dropped to one knee, catching his breath, his chest heaving.

Red, panting and with blood dripping from his nose and mouth, stood over him, equally spent. The two men stared at each other, both bruised and battered but filled with mutual respect.

"You got me, Red," Dean managed between breaths, chuckling slightly. "Guess you're not as rusty as I thought."

Red smirked, extending a hand to help Dean up. "I've learned from the best."

Dean took his hand, pulling himself to his feet, and gave Red a firm pat on the shoulder. The crowd of soldiers erupted in applause, cheering for both men. They knew how much skill, grit, and respect it took to fight like that.

Houston stepped forward, the crowd parting to let him through. He looked between the two, noting the blood on their faces, but his expression showed pride rather than concern.

"Not bad, you two," Houston said, a glint of approval in his eye. "Red, you've come a long way. And Dean, you're as tough as ever."

Dean gave a respectful nod. "Thanks, Boss."

Red wiped the blood from his nose, looking up at his older brother. "Just trying to keep up with you, Houston."

Houston chuckled, clapping Red on the shoulder. "Keep fighting like that, and you'll do more than just keep up." He looked out at the gathered men, who were still murmuring among themselves, clearly impressed. "Alright, everyone. Show's over. Back to training."

The soldiers dispersed, but not without casting a few more glances at Red and Dean, murmuring about the intensity of the sparring session and Houston's silent nod of approval.

As the crowd dispersed, Houston looked over to Red and Dean, giving a short nod. "Alright, you two, clean yourselves up. Blood might make you look tougher, but we've got a reputation to keep."

Dean grabbed his helmet and gloves, giving Red a quick salute. "Nice brawl, Captain. Next time, though, don't expect it to go so easy."

Red chuckled, wiping a bit more blood from his mouth. "I'll be ready."

Dean headed off, leaving the brothers alone as Red gathered his own things and walked alongside Houston. There was a calm between them, a natural quiet that only came with years of understanding each other. Houston seemed thoughtful, his gaze distant.

They strolled up a gentle hill nearby, where a few trees provided shade and wildflowers dotted the grass. The two brothers stopped at the top, letting the breeze settle around them as they gazed over the landscape. From here, they could see the coastline and hear the faint roar of the ocean against the rocks. Birds flitted between the trees, and the rustling leaves filled the silence.

After a moment, Houston broke the quiet. "You know, Red... this part of the island reminds me a bit of the family ranch back home. Just needs a few cattle and that old wooden fence Dad always fixed every spring."

Red glanced at him, noticing the hint of nostalgia in his brother's voice. "Yeah... there's a bit of Texas here, alright. Never thought I'd say it, but I do kinda miss those endless fields, the sound of cicadas at night."

Houston gave a dry chuckle. "Funny, isn't it? I spent most of my life trying to get away from that place. But out here, sometimes I think about it." He looked over at Red, his face more serious now. "Speaking of home, Red, I need you to know something. I'm gonna be gone for a while after this. Not sure when—or if—I'll be back."

Red nodded, absorbing the words with quiet acceptance. He knew Houston wouldn't say it without reason. "I understand. Duty calls, right?"

"Something like that." Houston looked out over the hill, his gaze wandering before he spoke again. "But before I go, there's something I want you to remember. It's something that ties us back there, no matter where we are."

Houston unbuttoned his collar slightly, revealing a small, faded brand on his chest—a symbol pressed into his skin from years ago. It was something Red knew all too well. Without hesitation, Red lifted his own shirt slightly, showing the same mark, burned into the right side of his chest.

"That damn brand," Houston muttered, bitterness creeping into his tone. "Our father left it on both of us, like some mark of ownership. He wanted us bound to his damn 'legacy'—to the Houston name, to the family ranch, to his version of honor. And he put the weight of all of that right on my shoulders."

Red's face tightened. He knew exactly what Houston meant. Their father had been strict, almost to the point of cruelty. The brand wasn't just a mark; it was a reminder of the expectations forced upon them, especially Houston.

Houston's voice softened, though there was still an edge of resentment. "He'd always talk about 'preserving the family name.' I tried to live up to that... for a while. But I broke that chain when I left. I didn't want to be bound by his rules, his name, his ideals. Thought maybe I could just... leave it all behind."

He exhaled deeply, his hand absently resting over the brand. "But no matter where I go, this thing... it's still here. A reminder that some things just stay with you."

Red placed a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder. "Maybe it's not the mark that matters, Houston. Maybe it's what you make of it now. You didn't stay bound to that legacy—you created your own."

Houston looked at him, a small, rare smile forming. "Yeah, maybe you're right. Guess it's time I started looking at it that way." He gave a soft laugh, glancing back out at the view. "You know, for a second there, you sounded just like something out of Yellowstone. All we need is a cowboy hat and some horses."

Red chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, we do come from a family of cowboys. Maybe we're not so far from that life after all."

They shared a quiet laugh, the kind that came easily between them. For that moment, standing on the hill with the sun dipping lower, the world felt simple.

Meanwhile at War Room

The war room was a mess—papers scattered everywhere, maps pinned to walls, and hastily scribbled notes detailing enemy positions. Edward leaned heavily on his crutches, wincing from the pain of his recent scouting mission. He'd seen how spread out the League's professional players were, despite Houston's constant warnings about the dangers of launching an assault.

Houston had made it clear that sending teams out now would be too risky. But Edward couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, Houston was being overly cautious. Then again, there was a nagging thought in the back of his mind that Houston might actually be right. With a frustrated sigh, he rubbed his temples.

"You alright?" Maho's voice cut through the silence.

Edward looked up to see Maho standing next to him, still in her Kuromorimine Sensha-Do uniform. Her presence was calm and reassuring as she walked over and stood beside him.

"I'm fine... just a lot on my mind," Edward replied.

"Thinking about what Houston said?" Maho asked.

"Yeah, it's been gnawing at me... I just don't know what the right move is," Edward admitted.

Maho crossed her arms, deep in thought. "Well, we could pull off what Houston and the others did against us before—fight on two fronts."

Edward nodded slowly. "That could work, but Houston's already suspended all future offensives until he comes back from his sneaking missions."

Maho raised an eyebrow. "You don't trust him, do you?"

Edward sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not that... It's just—unlike when the Jester and his men ambushed us—I don't feel confident. Houston can handle himself, sure, but... if it's him versus the Jester, something tells me this could go sideways."

"You don't trust Don to handle it, either?" Maho pressed.

"No, I don't," Edward said firmly. "I mean, last time, Don didn't even confirm the kill. And what scares me is if Houston goes after him again... I just have this gut feeling something's bound to go wrong."

Maho looked at Edward, concern etched into her usually composed face. "Is that what's really eating at you?"

"Yeah... and more than that, I'm worried about what Houston will uncover. If this 'Laughing Jester' is as crazy as we think, who knows what he's planning? I'd rather deal with him myself than leave it all on Houston."

Maho nodded thoughtfully. "So, what's your plan? How do we find the Jester?"

Edward's eyes narrowed. "Simple. We'll send someone to shadow Houston. He's against having backup, but we need someone keeping an eye on him. Once he finds the Jester's hideout, we can figure out what the League is up to."

"And who do you have in mind to follow him?" Maho asked.

Edward gave a sly grin. "You know who."

Meanwhile In the Depths of the Forest

The scene shifted to a dark forest, the moonlight barely piercing the thick canopy. Insects chirped in the night, and the soft rustle of leaves whispered in the breeze. A rat scurried across the forest floor, only to be swiftly snatched up by a snake, which slithered away into the underbrush.

Among the shadows, Houston lay flat on the ground, blending seamlessly into the dirt with his Octocamo suit. His heart rate slowed to a near standstill, making him almost impossible to detect. Moving with painstaking slowness, he inched forward, making no sound as the wildlife continued undisturbed around him.

Suddenly, his codec crackled to life. He tapped it with a gloved hand, his voice barely a whisper. "Jefferson, how close do you think Sobel's men are?"

Jefferson's voice came through, slightly distorted. "Not too far, Boss. Even with all the equipment and high-tech gear they've got, they're still lacking in manpower. The League's professional players aren't enough to satisfy Sobel's ambitions."

Houston sighed. "Figured as much. He wants more troops, but he knows the rules—no reinforcements. He's gotta work with what he's got."

Jefferson hesitated before continuing, "But what about the 'Laughing Jester'...? Boss, what do you think he's really up to here?"

"I don't know yet," Houston replied, his tone grim. "But if he's trying to continue Anderson's twisted dream—controlling people's wills on the battlefield—then this goes deeper than just a power grab. Anderson's vision was to control IDs, manipulate the flow of information, and dominate the battlefield economy. Those were the real prizes he was after... and I stopped him once."

There was a pause on the other end. "I see... but, um... about 'him'...?" Jefferson hesitated, referring to someone Houston clearly understood.

"If you're talking about George... He wasn't really my brother," Houston said, his voice growing cold. "He was just a clone—a puppet. Red killed him, but everything George said to him... it's still haunting me. I fear those words are starting to come true."

Houston's mind drifted, memories flashing like strobe lights. He could still hear George's voice, echoing in his mind.

"The Patriots are trying to protect their power, their own interests... by controlling the digital flow of information..."

Houston slowly rose into a crouch, peering through the dense foliage. Ahead, he spotted one of the League's Marines patrolling the forest, gripping an M4 airsoft rifle. Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, Houston readied his Mk.22 tranquilizer pistol. Just as he was about to move, his codec crackled to life again.

"There they are... League's Professional Players," Jefferson's voice came through. "Boss, you've got to get past them undetected. Avoid combat if possible," Jefferson reminded before going radio silent again.

Houston nodded to himself, adjusting his grip on the pistol. He moved with the precision of a ghost, slipping through the shadows and avoiding the guards' patrol routes. Every step was calculated, his Octocamo suit blending seamlessly with the terrain.

Unbeknownst to Houston, three figures were tailing him at a careful distance. Edward had dispatched a small team to secretly follow Houston and gather intel on his activities. The group consisted of Ark, Terrance, Hina, and Fuka.

"Are you really sure he won't notice us following him?" Hina whispered, turning to the others with a worried expression.

"Of course not," Ark replied confidently. "If he had noticed, he would've stopped us a while ago. We've been trailing him for quite some time now."

"Yeah, but how does he manage to cover so much ground without any vehicles?" Fuka complained, rubbing her sore feet. "I'm exhausted from all this walking."

Terrance chuckled softly. "Well, all I can say is, he's built differently. Houston's a machine."

Ark, keeping an eye on Houston's distant silhouette, spoke up. "Alright, enough rest. He's on the move again."

The four paused their brief respite and continued trailing Houston, keeping a safe distance so he wouldn't detect their presence. Each step they took was cautious, careful not to give themselves away as they navigated the dense forest terrain.

The moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting fragmented shadows on the forest floor. Houston moved silently, his Octocamo suit blending perfectly with the foliage as he stalked his prey. The League's Marines patrolled the area, but they were no match for Houston's expertise.

He crept up behind a lone sentry who had paused to check his surroundings. With the swiftness of a striking snake, Houston seized the guard in a chokehold. His grip was precise, cutting off blood flow to the brain—an efficient way to render him unconscious without causing permanent harm. The guard slumped to the ground, his M4 airsoft rifle slipping from his grasp with a soft thud. Houston dragged the body into a thick bush to keep it out of sight.

A short distance behind, Ark, Terrance, Hina, and Fuka cautiously navigated through the underbrush. The trail Houston left was faint—merely a few broken twigs or subtle impressions in the dirt. But every few hundred meters, they would come across unconscious guards lying in the undergrowth, breathing shallowly.

"Wow, he's good," Terrance muttered under his breath as they passed another tranquilized sentry, drooling softly on the forest floor.

"No kidding," Hina whispered. "If we get too close, we might end up like them."

"Stay sharp," Ark instructed, eyes scanning the trees. "We can't afford to lose him now."

Houston reached the edge of the forest and peered through the underbrush. Ahead, a small compound stood illuminated by harsh floodlights. The perimeter was guarded by sentries, patrolling in pairs, while searchlights swept the area intermittently. Houston took a deep breath, assessing the patterns and timing of the patrols.

He waited patiently until the searchlights swept away from his position, then darted forward in a low crouch, sticking to the shadows. He approached a lone guard standing near a stack of cargo crates. Without making a sound, Houston slipped behind the guard, delivering a quick chop to the back of the neck. The man crumpled instantly, and Houston caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him gently.

The codec buzzed softly in his ear. "Boss, be careful," Jefferson's voice whispered. "That compound is crawling with them."

"I know," Houston replied quietly. "I'm going dark for now. Radio silence."

Now inside the compound, Houston stayed low, using the large cargo crates for cover. He could hear the muffled conversations of guards nearby as they patrolled the narrow passages between storage containers. He had to be quick and undetectable.

Peeking around a corner, Houston spotted another guard approaching. Thinking fast, he pulled out his trusty cardboard box from his pack. With a fluid motion, he unfolded it and crouched beneath it, blending into the environment as if it were just another forgotten piece of cargo.

The guard walked past, glancing briefly at the box but paying it no mind. "Damn rats," the guard muttered, distracted by the rustling sounds Houston had purposely made earlier to divert attention. As soon as the coast was clear, Houston lifted the box slightly and slid it forward in small, measured movements, inching closer to the central building.

The four operatives following Houston watched from a distance, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Is he seriously using a... cardboard box?" Hina asked incredulously.

"No way... and it's actually working," Fuka muttered, shaking her head in amazement.

"Don't question it," Ark said, trying to keep his voice low. "Whatever he's doing, it's working. Let's keep up—quietly."

Houston entered the control center, slipping silently through the door. Once inside, he quickly removed his trusty cardboard box, folding it efficiently and tucking it back into his pack. Pressing his back against the cold, steel wall, he gripped his Mk.22 tranquilizer pistol tightly, listening intently to the distant voices echoing through the hallways.

He advanced carefully, his footsteps as light as a whisper. As he approached a side room, Houston caught sight of something that stopped him in his tracks. He peered through a narrow gap in the doorway and froze. The room was dimly lit, the metallic scent of blood heavy in the air. One of the League's officers was slumped in a chair, brutally beaten beyond recognition, blood dripping slowly to the floor beneath him.

Suppressing a surge of anger, Houston moved on. He reached the door to the communication room just as a voice crackled through a radio.

"Yes, sir, we broke him... We've acquired the whereabouts of target five-niner-niner," the radioman reported.

"Acknowledged... 'Smokes' are loaded. The barge has cleared point Bravo," a distorted voice responded on the other end.

"Copy... Out."

Houston's eyes narrowed. Whatever they were planning, it sounded big. As the radioman turned away, Houston sprang from his cover, attempting to seize him in a chokehold. The two struggled fiercely, the radioman thrashing desperately, but Houston's strength and training won out. With a grunt, Houston tightened his grip and pressed a knife to the man's throat.

"The cargo... where is it? What's inside?" Houston demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"Ugh... It's... at Outpost Charlie... on the north side of the island... in the city," the radioman gasped, fear evident in his eyes.

Houston could tell the man was holding back. Tightening his grip, he pushed for more information, but the radioman clammed up. Frustrated, Houston released the chokehold only to slam the man into the wall. A taser fell from the guard's holster upon impact. Before the radioman could recover, Houston snatched the taser and drove it into the man's side, sending volts of electricity through him. The man screamed in agony before collapsing into unconsciousness.

Breathing heavily, Houston stepped back, tossing the taser aside. As he did, he noticed a yellow folder clutched in the unconscious guard's hand. Houston swiftly picked it up and leafed through its contents. His eyes widened as he read through the documents—test results, experiment logs, and schematics.

It was a nightmare come to life. The files detailed experiments on human subjects and referenced something called "Smoke." Chemical weapons. Houston's blood ran cold.

Grimly, he pulled out his codec and reestablished contact with Jefferson.

"Jefferson, can you read me?" Houston whispered, breaking radio silence.

"Loud and clear, Boss," Jefferson responded.

"I found a map of the League's bases... and intel on where Sobel and his forces are moving. They're pushing north, aiming to take Homedale," Houston reported.

"Figures. Sobel's desperate for a fight," Jefferson replied.

Houston's eyes darted back to the documents he was holding. "Jeff, remember the place Tim mentioned to us? The cargo is being transported there. But it's worse than we thought... These documents... they're full of test results—dozens of them. And whoever was on the other end of that radio just called the cargo 'Smoke.'"

"Wait... are you saying... chemical weapons?" Jefferson's voice faltered, a rare moment of fear breaking through his usual calm.

"Yeah... They're manufacturing chemical weapons here, Jeff," Houston confirmed, his voice laced with grim realization.

"Holy mother of God..." Jefferson muttered, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Unbeknownst to Houston, Ark, Terrance, Hina, and Fuka had managed to follow him undetected. Hidden behind a stack of crates, they overheard the entire conversation. Their eyes widened in horror as they realized what Houston had just uncovered.

"Did he just say... chemical weapons?" Hina whispered, her voice shaking.

Terrance's face had gone pale. "This... this is way beyond a game. They're using real weapons..."

"Stay quiet," Ark hissed, his expression tense. "We need to figure out what to do... but we can't let him know we're here."

Fuka swallowed hard, her hands trembling. "If this is true, we're all in serious danger..."