Location: Somewhere in North West Afghanistan...

Date: December 26, 2011, 0630 hours

Subject: Robert R. Clay

Age: 32

Rank: Sergeant First Class

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Clay, a 32-year-old Iraq War veteran, now found himself in Afghanistan, serving on direct action missions as a three-year Delta operator. Though still considered a "new guy" in the Unit, his years as an experienced Ranger during the Iraq War had left him confident and capable. He loved his time in Iraq, but life in Afghanistan presented a different kind of grind.

At the moment, Clay was dead asleep, exhausted after barely making it out of a firefight against Al-Qaeda. The firefight had been a brutal clash, even with the decent Afghan Commandos fighting alongside Delta. Though the team came out alive and unscathed, Clay hadn't been so lucky. A Soviet 7.62 round had slammed into his body armor, leaving a bruise on his chest and a permanent reminder of how close things could get. The plate carrier had done its job, but Clay had been grumpy about the hit ever since, muttering now and then about how much it stung, both physically and to his pride. Still, he was thankful to be alive.

He stirred as the bunk he was lying on suddenly jerked with a hard kick. Groaning, Clay opened one eye to see his closest friend standing over him. The two had enlisted on the same day and had been inseparable ever since.

"Wake up, buttercup," his friend Miles said with a smirk.

Clay groaned, pulling the pillow over his face to block out the light. "Miles? What now?"

Miles snatched the pillow away, earning a louder groan from Clay. "Come on, sleepyhead. We've got a mission. This one's supposed to be exciting—JSOC says so."

Sighing, Clay sat up slowly. "Alright, alright. Give me ten minutes. Let me shower."

Miles chuckled, heading for the door. "Ten minutes, Clay. Don't be late."

Dragging himself out of bed, Clay shuffled to the bathroom, splashing water over his tired face and slipping into his Crye G3 cammies. The thought of another mission stirred some energy—anything to break the monotony of clearing empty caves and patrolling dried-up high-value locations. While Clay appreciated the camaraderie of Delta, he often found working with Afghan locals less motivating. At least today promised something better.

In the briefing room, Clay barely slid into his seat before the team leader greeted him with a smirk. "Clay, late as always," the man joked.

Shaking his head, Clay sat down next to a teammate, grumbling, "Not this time."

The room settled, and the team leader started the briefing. "Alright, listen up. Langley tipped us off a few days ago. We've got intel on a convoy carrying weapon shipments, likely sourced from Uzbekistan. It's moving through this valley." He pointed to the map displayed behind him. "These shipments may contain anti-air weaponry—or worse."

The room quieted further, tension palpable.

"Our mission is straightforward. We insert via MH-60 Black Hawks escorted by armed AH-6 Little Birds. We swoop in, neutralize their armed escorts, land, secure the guards, and apprehend prisoners. Once the area's clear, we mark it for the support team to take over. Mission duration is expected to be about 45 minutes. We leave base at 0930. Get your chow, prep your gear, and be ready to move. Happy hunting, gentlemen. Dismissed."

As the operators stood to leave, Clay grabbed his helmet and was making his way out when a teammate stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Miles, grinning.

"Hope you're ready for this one, brother," Miles said, his tone low but excited.

Clay just smirked. He might grumble about the grind, but deep down, he loved the action. Moments like this were what he signed up for.

"Clay, it's okay to get hit, alright? Be thankful it was your plate and not your flesh," his team leader said with a small smile, patting Clay on the shoulder before walking off.

"Hey, what was that about, you and TL?" Miles asked, falling into step beside him.

"Nothing," Clay muttered, shaking his head as he headed toward the chow hall to grab a meal.

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Location: Mess hall

Clay grabbed his tray of food and sat down at the table where his team was gathered. One of them was mid-conversation, possibly bragging about some shiny new gear.

"So yeah, I picked up this GPS system at the PX for a steal," one of them said.

"I finally caved and got the L3 GPNVG-18s," another added. "Cost a fortune, but totally worth it."

"At least we're not stuck using those old PVS-15s or those Air Force ones," someone chimed in.

"Yeah, but those things are heavy as hell," Clay commented as he joined in. "Not bad, though—I liked using them back in the day."

"Well, well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," joked a teammate, one of the better shooters in the unit, though not quite as fast as Clay, who still held the top spot on the range board.

"Would've skipped if I could, asshole," Clay shot back with a smirk.

The group chuckled and shared grins, finishing their meals before heading to the armory to prep their gear for the upcoming mission.

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"Forty-five minutes till mission launch, gentlemen. I don't want to hear anyone whining about forgetting something once we're airborne," the team leader called out, his voice steady but sharp, ensuring no one slacked off in the final moments before deployment.

"Copy that," the team replied in unison.

As Clay finished strapping his gear, one of the operators tapped his shoulder. "Yo, Clay, got my six up there, yeah?"

Clay smirked. "Since when have I ever not?"

"Sheesh, relax, man. Just messing with you."

Miles chimed in, smirking as he adjusted his kit. "Rob's been on edge ever since he got tagged last time. Cut him some slack."

"Hey, I'm just messing, bro. No harm, no foul," Rob said defensively, hands raised in mock surrender.

Clay shook his head, the banter keeping the mood light despite the tension of the upcoming mission. The team quickly shifted gears, donning their Ops-Core helmets, Crye JPC plate carriers, and gloves. With their game faces on, they headed out to the landing pads where the helicopters waited, blades slicing through the cool Afghan air.

Minutes ticked by before command gave the signal to board. The operators moved with precision, mounting the MH-60 Black Hawks as the engines roared to life.

"Ey, get some tunes going," one of the Delta operators shouted, already settling into the rhythm of the mission.

The crew chief grinned, flicking on the cabin speaker. Soon, the iconic beats of Barra Barra filled the chopper.

"Oh yeah, baby," someone shouted over the din. "Let's get these bastards."

"Empire flight, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy—you are cleared for takeoff," the radio crackled with the codeword.

With that, the five Black Hawks and their escort of AH-6 Little Birds lifted into the air, slicing through the darkness as they headed toward their target: the convoy of weapon shipments. The mission was on.

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Sometime later, the Night Stalker helicopters closed in on the convoy from behind.

"This is Empire 6-4, we have visual on the convoy, over," the Black Hawk pilot called out.

"Python 5-1 here. Tally two technicals escorting. We'll clear a landing zone for you. Out," replied one of the AH-6 Little Bird pilots.

The Little Birds lined up for their attack run, their miniguns spinning to life and shredding the technicals in moments. With the escorts neutralized, a Black Hawk carrying Tiger Team 1, including Clay, landed at the convoy's front, blocking their path forward. A second Black Hawk positioned itself at the convoy's rear, cutting off any escape.

"Alright, disembark! Move, move, move!" barked the team leader.

Clay was the first out, taking point. Before the insurgents could react, he fired twice, dropping two armed guards attempting to draw their weapons.

"Two X-Rays down," Clay reported.

"I got the left side, brother," Miles called out as he moved to flank.

"This is Ryke. I'm tagging with Miles, over," came another operator's voice over comms.

The team leader quickly split them into two stacks. "Marsh, Jack, Stephenson, you're with Miles. Dober, Smokey, Emile, you're with me and Clay."

The teams advanced methodically, sweeping both sides of the convoy. Smokey tapped Clay's shoulder, signaling him to move forward. Each truck revealed more stragglers attempting resistance, but they were swiftly eliminated by the experienced Delta operators.

Clay pressed ahead, clearing the trucks with his stack. Thoroughness was key—missing anything could jeopardize the mission. After a final sweep, the convoy was declared secured. The operators opened the trucks, revealing their cargo: dozens of Stinger missiles. It was hardly a shocking find—America had supplied the Mujahideen with the same weapons during the Soviet-Afghan War—but the sheer volume was concerning. If these had reached Taliban or Al-Qaeda hands, allied aircraft could have faced devastating losses.

"Alright, mark the convoy and prep for exfil. Support element is inbound," the team leader ordered. He glanced at Clay. "Not bad today—five kills. You're improving, but there's still a lot to learn."

As the operators marked the convoy with signaling smoke, they boarded their Black Hawks and lifted off.

"Five kills, huh," Clay muttered, half to himself.

"Yeah," Smokey chimed in. "That puts you at fifty total. Miles is at thirty-eight. Seriously, are you even human?"

Clay smirked, patting his HK416D affectionately. "What can I say? My reaction time's on point, and this beauty here? She doesn't miss."

Back at base, the choppers touched down, and the operators disembarked. They stored their gear and headed for showers, but Clay and Miles were intercepted by their commander.

"At ease," the commander said as they saluted. He continued, "I need you two in my office after you're done. Don't worry—you're not in trouble. Not that you've ever been."

"Uh, sir? What's this about?" Clay asked, puzzled.

"Some woman—mid-twenties—came in with a pass. She said she wanted to talk to you both directly. Didn't say what it's about. You'll have to find out yourselves."

Miles exchanged a look with Clay before replying, "Understood, sir. We'll be there shortly."

The commander nodded and left, allowing the duo to finish their showers before heading to the office, curiosity gnawing at them the entire time.

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Office...

Not long after their shower, Clay and Miles made their way to Colonel Baron's office. Clay knocked three times.

"Come in, you two," Colonel Baron called out. As they entered, the first thing Clay noticed was a young woman with pale skin, striking white hair, and sharp blue eyes, just as the Colonel had described. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties.

"Take a seat," the Colonel offered.

"No need, Colonel. We can stand," Miles replied politely, declining the offer.

The Colonel nodded and gestured toward the woman. "This is Koko Hekmatyar. She's an arms dealer from HCLI and is here regarding the convoy you recently intercepted."

"Thank you, Colonel," Koko began, her tone calm yet authoritative. "The convoy you hit belonged to me. Naturally, I'm not thrilled about its loss, but I understand it's your job to stop weapons from falling into terrorist hands." She paused, her piercing gaze shifting between the two operators. "That said, your performance that day and your service history intrigued me. I'm here to make an offer: I want you two to be my bodyguards. I'll pay you three times your current military salary. What do you say?"

"Sir..." Miles began, looking to the Colonel, but before he could fully respond, Koko continued.

"But before you decide, I'd like to address something about Sergeant Leonard Miles—an incident from 2005 in Iraq."

"Miles?" Clay glanced at his friend, confused.

The Colonel interjected, "Sergeant Miles was involved in a hostage rescue operation while serving with the Green Berets. During the mission, he shot a civilian, mistaking them for a combatant. After investigating two potential suspects, Miles discharged his weapon on the wrong individual. It was an accident, but one with significant consequences."

Miles clenched his fists but remained silent.

The Colonel continued, "The brass pushed me hard on this. I had two choices: reinstate you in the Green Berets or court-martial you. I fought to protect you, but ultimately, you were reassigned."

Miles exhaled deeply, the memory of the incident still raw.

Koko stepped forward, her tone softening slightly. "And that's why I'm here. I'm offering you a second chance to use your skills where they'll be truly appreciated. As my bodyguard, you'll face excitement, action, and challenges far beyond what you see here. Of course, the decision is yours."

Miles looked conflicted, his mind weighing the consequences. Returning to the Green Berets felt like stepping into a shadow of guilt, while staying in Afghanistan training locals seemed a waste of his talents. After a moment, he made up his mind. "I'll do it."

"If he's in, then I'm coming too," Clay said firmly, stepping forward.

Koko smiled knowingly. "I expected nothing less, Sergeant First Class. Your bond is evident."

The Colonel sighed and began to sign the necessary paperwork. "If that's your decision, then so be it. But, Clay, should you ever find yourself in trouble, remember that you have the unit's full support. I'll send a team to help you anytime, day or night, even if it's against protocol. You've earned my respect as a soldier and a person, and it'd be a waste to see your talents lost."

"Thank you, sir," Clay replied, saluting.

The Colonel finished signing and looked at the two men. "You've served this unit well, and I'm proud of you both. Good luck on this new chapter. Go show the world what our operators are made of."

"Yes, sir!" they replied in unison, saluting sharply before being dismissed.

As they left the Colonel's office, officially discharged from the Army and Delta Force, they glanced at one another. A new chapter awaited them, one filled with unknowns, but they were ready to face it together.

(Author: *Sighs* This chapter sucks but at least I wrote something out of my mind and wrote a backstory for the Deltas. Up next is a present chapter these origins are always published after 4 chapters or 4 episodes from the anime, God help my soul for writing this shit.)