Fort Squabalum.

  "Who in the Hell names a place 'Squabalum'? That's stupid," Sonata grumbled, kicking a loose rock across the dusty ground.

  Mitchell returned from his scouting mission with Sam and Jack

  "The bridge is the only dry way to the Fort," Sam reported,

  Jack, added, "The alternative is swimming the water around the island fortress." He gestured towards the vast expanse of water surrounding the imposing structure, its dark surface reflecting the ominous grey clouds above.

  Sonata, her mind already racing, contemplated their options. A plan began to form, its contours shaped by the urgency of their situation and the formidable defenses they faced. "We'll use the water," she declared, "Any sane defender would focus on the bridge – it's the obvious approach. They'll have it mined, guarded, fortified. The water, though... that's where we'll find our advantage."

  Her companions listened intently as she outlined her strategy, their initial skepticism gradually replaced by a grudging admiration for her audacious plan. It was risky, undoubtedly, but it also offered their best chance of success. The element of surprise, coupled with the cover of darkness, could be their key to infiltrating the heavily fortified island fortress.

  As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape, Sonata and her team prepared for their daring aquatic assault. The battle for Fort Squabalum was about to begin, and the outcome was far from certain.

  "At least we left Mackenzie Rose and Cadenza behind," Sam said, exhaling heavily as he leaned against a crumbling wall, the dampness seeping through his worn fatigues.

  Mitchell nodded, his expression grim. "Yeah, we had to. Remember that soldier we rescued? Needed serious medical attention, and Cadenza... well, she's not exactly subtle. Trying to hide a half-ton titanium suit that leaves a trail of destruction wherever it goes? Not to mention her acrobatics... we'd have been spotted in no time."

  A shiver ran down Sam's spine as he recalled the booming crashes and tremors that accompanied Cadenza's movements. "True. And this place..."

  "I've heard about this place," Macaroni spoke up, "Nothing pleasant."

  Sam raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

  Macaroni's eyes darkened. "Since the Medieval ages, this place was basically a non-Russian Gulag before Gulags even existed. The prisoners sent here... Let's just say fighting a tiger barehanded would be preferable. It has a long, dark history, and none of it is pretty. Built to withstand any siege, it has survived every hurricane and storm surge. It was constructed back in the early Medieval era to house anyone the government didn't want but couldn't kill. And the prisoners..." She trailed off

  Sam's blood ran cold. "What about them?"

  Macaroni swallowed hard. "Their fate... it was worse than death. They were subjected to unspeakable horrors, their cries echoing through these very walls."

  Sonata replied, "Maybe they'll have prisoners from either the previous regime or people that were causing trouble for the OpFor here," her eyes scanning the dimly lit corridor, the silence punctuated only by the distant hum of machinery.

  Mitchell, his brow furrowed in concentration, nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "So you're guessing we find the control room, get the OpFor's attention, and release the prisoners to fight the guards when the OpFor attention is directed to us," he summarized, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Sonata confirmed, "That was the plan in my mind." She paused, her expression hardening, "Because in my mind, the people locked up in here are either members of the previous regime or people who fought against the OpFor the moment they took over."

  Macaroni, her voice laced with cynicism, chimed in, "I'm surprised that when the war was here, when the OpFor was overthrowing their government, that the Americans didn't come." She scoffed, "The United States, a peace-loving champion of justice, or a heavy-handed bully meddling in foreign affairs to get their hands on oil reserves depending on the situation," her words dripping with sarcasm.

  Mitchell shot Macaroni a warning glance, his expression stern. "Watch your tongue," he hissed, his voice barely audible. "We don't need to be attracting any more attention than we already are."

  Sonata nodded in agreement, her expression grim. "Macaroni's right, though," she admitted, her voice laced with a hint of bitterness. "The US has a long history of intervention, but they always seem to have their own agenda."

  The discussion grew heated as Macaroni insisted that Mitchell and Cadenza were undeniably American, their birthplace of the South Bronx solidifying their citizenship.

  The tension momentarily subsided as they faced the challenge of crossing the water. Their ingenuity led them to a solution: using buoyancy to their advantage, they allowed the water's current to carry them to the opposite shore. Sonata, ever prepared, unsheathed her knife, a silent signal for Mitchell, Jack, and Sam to follow suit. Lacking suppressed weapons, they knew their success depended on stealth and quiet takedowns. With a combination of skill and caution, Mitchell managed to pry open an old, rusted iron gate, their path forward now clear.

  The musty air of the underground passage hung heavy, a stark contrast to the lively banter that had filled the space moments before. Mitchell's voice, usually laced with an easygoing warmth, held a note of finality as he addressed his cousin, Macaroni. "We'll finish this conversation later," he stated, his gaze holding Macaroni's for a beat longer than usual. The unspoken tension crackled between them, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of their situation.

  With a nod, Macaroni fell into step behind Mitchell, their footsteps echoing hollowly as they ventured deeper into the subterranean labyrinth. The darkness swallowed them whole, their figures illuminated only by the flickering beams of their headlamps.

  Behind them, Sam's voice cut through the silence, a low murmur barely audible above the rhythmic drip of water from the cavern's ceiling. "Time to get rich," he muttered, his words laced with a mix of anticipation and cynicism.

  Sonata and Jack, their expressions hidden in the shadows, interpreted Sam's statement in vastly different ways. Sonata's eyes gleamed with excitement, her mind already envisioning the treasures that awaited them within the depths of the passage. "Good loot," she thought, her fingers twitching with the urge to start digging.

  Jack, on the other hand, scoffed inwardly. "Unofficial and unsanctioned," he reminded himself. Yet, a flicker of satisfaction danced in his eyes. Despite the clandestine nature of their mission, their military paycheck would continue uninterrupted. "Getting paid either way," he mused, a wry smile playing on his lips.

  The air was thick with tension as Macaroni whispered, her voice barely above a breath, "Hope we don't have to face anybody that's going to be another enemy."

  Sonata's reply was equally hushed, "Well, there have been reports of an all-female mercenary group operating in some parts of the island. They're full of misandrists."

  Sam, his curiosity piqued, interrupted, "What's a misandrist?"

  Macaroni, her brow furrowing slightly, explained, "A misandrist is a woman who hates men."

  A chill ran down Sam's spine as he digested this information. The thought of encountering a group of women who harbored such intense hatred towards men was unsettling, to say the least. He wondered what could have driven them to such extremes, what experiences had twisted their hearts and minds to the point where they viewed all men with such animosity.

  "The Veil of Thorns," Sonata announced, her voice laced with a hint of warning. "Now, if we encounter any situation that requires dialogue," she continued, her gaze sweeping over Mitchell, Sam, and Jack, "I expect you three to maintain absolute silence. Not a word, not a whisper. Understood?"

  In a tense exchange, Jack questioned why he, Sam, and Mitchell were expected to remain silent. Sonata responded with a chilling explanation, revealing that the women in "The Veil of Thorns" were far more likely to resort to violence - either killing them outright or capturing them for a single use before disposing of them.

  Jack's confusion was evident, prompting Macaroni to elaborate further on their grim fate. She explained that the women would use Jack solely for reproductive purposes, by getting impregnated by him and then discarding him once his usefulness was fulfilled most likely being killed afterwards.

  Sam's response underscored the numerous male relatives he could reach out to who would readily embrace a similar predicament. These relatives, he explained, already engaged in behaviors that led to fathering multiple children and facing court-ordered child support. This implied that they were accustomed to the responsibilities and complexities of parenthood, even if they weren't always actively involved in their children's lives.

  Despite this network of relatives, Sam expressed a willingness to be a sperm donor if it meant avoiding interference in someone else's life and the potential for unintended consequences. He implied that he preferred a less entangled route, even if it meant contributing to a family in a more detached way. Sam even compared his potential role as a sperm donor and Sonata's situation with her two daughters, Mackenzie Jackson and Sonata Jr. He likened himself to Mitchell, who is Sonata Jr and Mackenzie Jackson's father and is listed on their birth certificates. However, Mitchell isn't obligated to provide a set amount of money to Sonata each month to raise the children. Sam highlighted that while the government recognizes Mitchell as the birth father, Sonata doesn't pursue him for child support. This lack of legal obligation creates a scenario similar to that of an anonymous sperm donor or a child conceived through a fertility clinic.

  Intrigued by Sam's reference to "Paramarines" and their stamina, Sonata inquired about their existence. Sam clarified that while the Little Bird military doesn't have "Paramarines" in the traditional sense, Mitchell had been a temporary volunteer in the Mariens, acting as a liaison to another branch when he and Sonata met. The closest equivalent to "Paramarines" in the Little Bird Marines are the "Marine Commandos," who are renowned for their extended operations behind enemy lines and their specialized hit-and-run tactics. Sam further explained that the Marine Commandos are the only Marines, besides the LBMCAF (Little Bird Marine Corps Aviation Force), trained in parachute deployment, enabling them to be dropped into operations from the air.

  Shifting the conversation, Mitchell expressed his puzzlement over the names of the four Marine Commando units: "Sapphire," "Calcite," "Aragonite," and "Pearl." He recounted that when they were established in 1941, they were called "Sapphire," "Ruby," "Turquoise," and "Lapis," with the last one being short for Lapis Lazuli. Mitchell understood why "Sapphire" remained, as sapphire gemstones share the same blue color as water, often depicted in drawings and crayons. However, he questioned why "Lapis Lazuli" wasn't retained, implying that its historical significance or unique characteristics warranted its continued use.

  "Ah yes, the 'Sapphire' outfit of the Marine Commandos, once nicknamed the 'All-Female' outfit," Sonata began, her voice laced with a hint of nostalgia. "Back in 1941, the Marines were the last branch of the L.B. military forced by the government to allow women to join in combative roles, rather than relegating them to clerical work. The Army, Air Force, Army Air Force, Rangers, and Airborne had all integrated women into combat positions, but the Marines resisted. With the world at war, however, they had to accept the inevitable."

  Sonata paused, her expression thoughtful. "Many Marine officers, especially those of the 'Old Guard' who had been in the military for a long time and were resistant to change, didn't like how many of the women outperformed their male counterparts in every field. They failed to consider the backgrounds of these female recruits. Many were farm girls, born and raised in rural areas, often without a father figure due to the First World War. They had learned to be self-sufficient and resilient, taking on tasks typically reserved for men. They knew how to use tools, fix things around the house, and even handle firearms for hunting. These women were tough and resourceful, shaped by their challenging upbringing."

  "In contrast," Sonata continued, "the average male Marine trainee was often a naive cityslicker who hadn't experienced the same level of hardship. Many lived in comfortable homes or apartments, where their fathers or brothers, even if disabled, could easily navigate and contribute. In rural areas, the situation was different. The First World War had decimated the male population in many small towns, leaving few options for widows to remarry and creating a generation of women who had to take on traditionally male roles to survive."

  Sonata's voice softened as she spoke of the societal impact of the war. "In cities, widows had a greater chance of finding a new partner due to the larger population. But in rural communities, the scarcity of men meant that many women remained single, shouldering the responsibilities of both parents. The war had drastically altered the social fabric of these towns, leaving a lasting impact on gender roles and expectations."

  Macaroni, who had been listening intently, interjected, "I come from a certain American state, and I can guess where you're headed with this, Sonata."

  The group cautiously navigated the twisting underground tunnel, their footsteps echoing in the damp silence. They reached a fork in the path, where the left passage was ominously blocked by rusted iron bars. With no other option, they turned right, their unease growing with each step.

  As they continued, the tunnel opened into a larger chamber, where a rickety ladder led up to a closed manhole cover. A tense silence fell over the group as they contemplated their next move. Mitchell, a man with a wife and children waiting for him at home, instinctively began to climb the ladder.

  Sonata, a mother herself, followed closely behind Mitchell, her maternal instincts urging her to protect him despite the danger. Sam, Jack, and Macaroni watched in surprise, their protests cut short by Mitchell's swift action. They had wanted to volunteer to climb first, arguing that Mitchell had more to lose. Sam and Jack are married but childless, while Macaroni has only a girlfriend and no children. However, Mitchell's determination to do what the military won’t have overridden their concerns, and he had begun his ascent before they could voice their objections.

  To Sam, Mitchell's focus on the mission stemmed from a deep-seated belief that a soldier's duty was inherently tied to danger and risk. This conviction was exemplified during the war when Mitchell had pointedly remarked, "Wars have never been won by the two sides playing a card game," a statement that resonated with Sam's own understanding of the sacrifices involved in military service.

  This understanding was further reflected in Sam's decision to name his father as the beneficiary of his military life insurance policy. This choice was a response to the strong bond they shared, a relationship characterized by his father's unwavering dedication. Despite working grueling 14-hour days as a restaurant owner, Sam's father always made time for his son, whether it was helping with homework or taking him to a ball game. These shared experiences fostered Sam's love for both baseball and football, and instilled in him a deep appreciation for his father's presence in his life.

  Sam recognized that his father had played a far more significant role in his upbringing than his mother ever had. His father had imparted invaluable life skills, such as cooking and money management, long before Sam even entered the 6th grade. Consequently, by the time he reached middle school, Sam was already equipped with practical knowledge that extended far beyond the basics. He understood the difference between wants and needs, could navigate tax forms, balance a checkbook, and even count money - skills that his peers were only just beginning to grasp. Taking Home Economics in 6th grade was merely a formality for Sam, a way to fulfill a requirement while already possessing a firm foundation in essential life skills.

  As Sam, Jack, and Macaroni stealthily infiltrated the fort's interior, the scene that unfolded before them was a stark contrast to the silence of their entry. It was a controlled chaos, a whirlwind of activity that held an undercurrent of disciplined precision.

  Mitchell and Sonata were the eye of the storm. Their movements were a blur, a synchronized dance of deadly efficiency. They were engaged in a close-quarters combat with two OpFor guards. The guards, though formidable in their own right, were no match for the duo's seamless teamwork and honed skills.

  The takedown was swift and silent, a master skill to their expertise. With a final, decisive move, the guards were neutralized, their bodies slumping to the ground with barely a whisper.

  A brief moment of silence followed, broken only by Mitchell's voice, "Die already you… Son of a bitch. Two down. About a thousand to go." His words, though lighthearted, underscored the daunting task that lay ahead.

  Sonata and the crew moved like shadows, quiet and careful. They only went after the guards if they had to, focusing on being sneaky and getting the job done without a messy fight. They really didn't want to get caught.

  Macaroni, always the practical one, had warned them not to think this was like a video game. He reminded them that there were no respawns or alarms that went off after a certain number of enemies were taken down and their bodies being discovered. In the real world, they had to hide the bodies, and if their buddies were found, it would mean tighter security and a messed-up mission.

  So, they had to pick their targets carefully, choosing the right moments and making sure they had a good spot to hide the evidence. Every guard they took down had to be worth it, and every body had to be hidden really, really well.

  To Sonata, the experience of sneaking past the OpFor triggers a memory from her past stealth training. She recalls the grueling exercises where she and fellow special forces trainees had to navigate past friendly soldiers disguised as enemy combatants. The challenge was immense; if spotted, the trainees would be ordered to "Start over," forcing them to repeat the entire infiltration attempt.

  Sonata remembers the frustration and pressure of those training scenarios. The consequences of failure in the real world were far more severe; instead of simply restarting, getting caught by the enemy would likely result in death.

  Time wore on, and the group inevitably found themselves at a crossroads. Mitchell and Sonata, their synergy undeniable, decided to forge ahead on one path. Jack, Sam, and Macaroni, their camaraderie equally strong, chose a different route. Macaroni, though lacking a knife, possessed a handgun. She held it unconventionally, by the barrel, the grip and magazine exposed, her readiness to use it as a blunt force weapon should the need arise.

  Their decision to split up was strategic. Sonata, ever the tactician, recognized that smaller units could navigate the terrain more swiftly and efficiently than a larger, more cumbersome group. By dividing their forces, they could cover more ground, increase their chances of locating the POWs, and minimize the risk of detection.

  This strategy was rooted in the very nature of Special Forces operations. Such missions, especially those conducted deep within enemy territory, relied on stealth and agility. Large groups were conspicuous and vulnerable, drawing unwanted attention from the enemy. In contrast, smaller units could move discreetly, blending into the shadows

  Visala, Macaroni and Mitchell's cousin by marriage, spearheaded the advancement of the Little Bird Military's technological infrastructure. Under her guidance, they developed cutting-edge weaponry, sophisticated computers, and even autonomous robotic armies. However, Visala remained acutely aware of the potential dangers of their creations. She foresaw a scenario where enemy nations would attempt to steal or replicate their advanced technology, potentially using it against them.

  To mitigate this risk, Visala focused on developing entanglement-based technology. This innovative approach, which far surpassed the military infrastructure of any other nation, offered a higher level of security and control. Additionally, she created a wrist-mounted computer for Little Bird's special forces soldiers. This device provided them with an array of capabilities, including scaling buildings, hacking systems, and executing complex tasks.

  Visala's contributions were instrumental in transforming the Little Bird Military into a formidable force, equipped with unparalleled technology and prepared for the challenges of modern warfare. Her foresight and ingenuity ensured that their advancements remained secure, while her entanglement-based technology provided a strategic advantage over potential adversaries.

  Sonata and Mitchell cautiously made their way through the labyrinthine facility, their senses on high alert. Their objective was clear: locate the control room. They moved with the stealth and precision of seasoned operatives, quickly and silently neutralizing the guards they encountered.

  Once inside the control room, Mitchell immediately went to work on the computer system. With a cursory glance, he noted the outdated technology. "This system's ancient," he muttered, "Late 90s, I'd guess." His fingers flew across the keyboard as he navigated the antiquated interface.

  Suddenly, a CCTV feed caught his eye. There, on the screen, were Sam, Jack, and Macaroni. Without hesitation, Mitchell pressed a button, triggering the opening of a door somewhere within the facility.

  A voice crackled over the intercom, tinged with frustration. "Mitchell or Sonata, if you can see us, you opened the wrong door." It was Sam. Mitchell and Sonata exchanged a knowing glance. They had miscalculated, but Sonata pressed another button in which it opened another door in which Sam, Jack and Macaroni were able to move on going forward.

  Mitchell and Sonata, ever vigilant, tracked Jack, Sam, and Macaroni's movements through the facility's CCTV network. Utilizing the remote control system, they opened the cell doors, prompting Mitchell to remark on the inherent flaw of such technology. "Imagine if the power went out," he mused, "We'd be unable to open or close these doors. It's understandable why prisons use them; it prevents inmates from overpowering guards for their keys or fashioning their own to bypass traditional locks."

  His thoughts then turned to Little Bird, all prisons where riots are less frequent due to the stringent cell design. Everything was bolted down, leaving little for inmates to manipulate. However, he acknowledged that such a facility was a last resort for certain offenders. For others, rehabilitation could be achieved through alternative means, like mandatory counseling, community service, or house arrest.

  As Mitchell and Sonata continued their work, opening doors to allow Macaroni, Jack, and Sam to proceed, a thoughtful conversation unfolded. Mitchell, reflecting on his role as a police officer, expressed his satisfaction that alternative methods existed beyond incarceration. He acknowledged that some criminals he and his partner Starlight had encountered didn't truly belong in a cramped jail cell. Instead, they required someone to talk to, medication, psychiatric care, or other forms of support.

  Mitchell felt encouraged that some individuals were receiving the necessary treatment and assistance, rather than being locked away and forced into the prison's "trust system." This system, while offering certain inmates privileges and responsibilities, was still a far cry from true rehabilitation. He recognized the irony of inmates working within the prison, earning meager wages to spend in the commissary, all while remaining trapped within the system that had confined them.

  He believed that true justice involved addressing the root causes of criminal behavior, not simply punishing offenders. He envisioned a system that prioritized rehabilitation and reintegration, offering individuals the opportunity to become productive members of society. While acknowledging the complexities of the criminal justice system, Mitchell remained hopeful that a more compassionate and effective approach could be achieved.

  In the Little Bird prison system, the philosophy of rehabilitation over idleness is deeply ingrained. From the moment of intake, new inmates are made aware that their sentence is not meant to be a period of inactivity. The expectation is clear: inmates will work. They will not be allowed to languish in their cells for 22 hours a day; the remaining two hours are strictly allocated for essential activities like meals, recreation, and yard time.

  The prison operates with the understanding that meaningful employment is a key component of rehabilitation. By requiring inmates to work within the prison system, it aims to equip them with skills and a work ethic that will facilitate their reintegration into society upon release.

  This emphasis on work is complemented by a range of programs designed to address the root causes of criminal behavior and provide inmates with opportunities for personal and professional development. These programs include:

  

  
• Alcoholics Group Therapy and Pharmacological Treatment of Drug Addiction: Recognizing that substance abuse is often a contributing factor to criminal activity, the prison offers targeted therapies to help inmates overcome addiction and develop healthier coping mechanisms.


  
• Behavioral Therapy: This program assists inmates in identifying and modifying harmful behaviors, promoting positive change and reducing the risk of recidivism.


  
• Workshop Safety Induction: Before inmates begin working, they undergo safety training to ensure they can perform their duties safely and responsibly.


  
• Carpentry Apprenticeship and Kitchen Safety and Hygiene: These vocational programs provide inmates with marketable skills that can lead to employment opportunities after release.


  
• Foundation Education Program and General Education Qualification: For inmates who lack basic literacy and numeracy skills, these programs provide foundational education, opening doors to further learning and employment.


  
• Spiritual Guidance: Recognizing the importance of spiritual well-being, the prison offers spiritual guidance and support to inmates of all faiths.


  

  Through this comprehensive approach, the Little Bird prison system strives to transform inmates' lives, not simply punish them for their crimes. By providing opportunities for work, education, and personal growth, it aims to break the cycle of recidivism and prepare inmates for successful reentry into society.

  Mitchell explained that many incarcerated individuals, upon their release, were able to secure employment that would typically be inaccessible to them due to their criminal records. This was made possible by the support of program teachers or leaders within the prison system, who would often write letters of recommendation on their behalf. These letters could be instrumental in helping former inmates overcome the stigma associated with their past and gain access to jobs that were previously out of reach.

  One example that Mitchell highlighted was the wildfire fighting program at many Little Bird prisons. This program trained inmates to become makeshift wildland firefighters, providing them with valuable skills and experience. However, upon release, these individuals would typically be denied employment as wildland firefighters due to their criminal history. The letter of recommendation from their program leaders served as a "golden ticket," demonstrating their rehabilitation and potential, and opening doors that would otherwise remain closed.

  Mitchell and Sonata were tasked with guiding Jack, Sam, and Macaroni through the building and opening the appropriate doors for them. Although the building's cameras were equipped with audio recording, Mitchell and Sonata were prohibited from speaking to Jack, Sam, or Macaroni.

  However, Jack and Sam, and occasionally even Macaroni, still managed to engage in playful banter with Mitchell and Sonata. They would jokingly reprimand them whenever they opened an incorrect door. This lighthearted behavior masked the underlying reality that Sam and Jack were not genuinely amicable with Sonata.

  The sole reason Sam and Jack consented to assist Sonata in locating Julia was due to Mitchell's involvement. They reasoned that aiding in the search for Julia was preferable to becoming entangled in a federal investigation that appeared to be stagnant.

  In a daring maneuver, Jack found himself ambushed by an OpFor guard. The ensuing struggle was brief but brutal. Jack, with his extensive training and quick reflexes, swiftly gained the upper hand. He forced the guard to the ground, applying pressure to his eye with his thumb until the guard was incapacitated. With a swift and decisive motion, Jack silenced the guard with his combat knife, ensuring the mission's secrecy remained intact.

  Simultaneously, Sam executed his own stealthy takedown. He had been observing an OpFor guard who was distracted, sitting at a desk. Seizing the opportunity, Sam delivered a powerful kick to the chair, propelling the guard's face into the hard surface of the desk. The impact disoriented the guard, and Sam wasted no time in using his knife to swiftly and silently neutralize the threat.

  Unbeknownst to Jack and Sam, the entire ambush and Jack's subsequent response had been captured by a CCTV camera. The footage was being monitored by both Mitchell and Sonata, who watched the events unfold.

  Macaroni quickly took out the enemy guard that was coming towards them by stabbing them repeatedly in the back before finishing them off with a stab to the neck.

  Mitchell and Sonata, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the control room's monitors, expertly guided Jack, Sam, and Macaroni through the labyrinthine corridors of the enemy stronghold. The trio, their footsteps muffled by the thick silence of the night, stealthily navigated their way to the location of the prisoners.

  With a synchronized burst of coordinated action, they overwhelmed the guards and liberated the prisoners. The air was thick with tension as they led the freed captives back through the winding passageways, their hearts pounding in unison with the urgency of their escape.

  As they retraced their steps, they met up with Sonata and Mitchell, their expressions a mixture of relief and concern.

  The group pressed forward, their path illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through the cracks in the ceiling. Reaching the water's edge, they swiftly crossed, their breaths breathing in the cool night air.

  On the opposite bank, they wasted no time in loading the captured friendly combatants, now subdued and disarmed, into a waiting vehicle. The engine roared up, shattering the tranquility of the night, as they sped back towards their base of operations, leaving behind only the fading echoes of their daring rescue.

  ___________

  Base of Operations.

  Sonata, Mitchell, Jack, Sam, and Macaroni were all key players in making sure their rescued friends got to Mackenzie Rose for some much-needed medical attention. They pulled off the mission, and it should've been a time to chill and celebrate, but then Jack just disappeared without a word. Sonata was confused and wanted answers, so she went to Mackenzie Rose. Turns out, Jack was a Nihilist, which explained a lot about his behavior, but it also left Sonata with even more questions.

  Macaroni, always the one to connect the dots, thought Jack's Nihilism reminded her of her granduncle Charlie. Charlie was a Nihilist who fought in the 82nd Airborne during World War II, then came back from Korea and, surprisingly, married a super religious woman in 1954. Macaroni always wondered how Charlie's Nihilism and his wife's strong faith worked out. She started to think about how Jack's Nihilism might affect his life and relationships, maybe even causing some inner struggles and problems with others.

  Macaroni remembered something specific that showed her granduncle's Nihilistic views. She found out from his journal that he predicted the Vietnam War way back in 1964. Charlie didn't believe in the "Domino Theory," the idea that if one country fell to Communism, others would follow. He thought nobody really cared about that stuff.

  Charlie's journal was pretty bleak about the war. He wrote about how American soldiers, both volunteers and draftees, would be sent to fight a pointless war in Vietnam. He said even if Vietnam fell to the Communists, it wouldn't matter in the long run. The soldiers would come home with PTSD, their lives messed up. The messed-up part, Charlie wrote, was that they were fighting against poor farmers, many of whom didn't even have shoes. His words showed the harsh truth of war and the disillusionment that came with it.

  Mitchell delved into the stark contrast between the experiences of their granduncle and older brothers, who fought in World War II, and those who served in Vietnam. The granduncle had participated in two major conflicts: World War II, the deadliest global war in history, and the Korean War, often referred to as "The Forgotten War" due to being overshadowed by the magnitude of World War II and the subsequent Vietnam War.

  Mitchell highlighted the generational gap in understanding Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The soldiers of World War II, including Charlie, Stanley, and their older brothers, were raised in an era where PTSD wasn't fully recognized until 1980. Before that, what is now known as PTSD was often dismissed as "Battle Fatigue." The prevailing belief was that soldiers simply needed rest and, if necessary, sedation, to recover from the psychological impacts of combat.

  Mitchell emphasized the disparity in treatment between World War II veterans and those who returned from Vietnam. The World War II generation was greeted with parades and hailed as heroes, a stark contrast to the reception of Vietnam veterans. The latter returned to a nation divided, often facing hostility, a lack of benefits, and no welcoming parades. This lack of recognition and support exacerbated the challenges faced by Vietnam veterans grappling with the psychological aftermath of war, including PTSD.

  Macaoni recounted a story about his granduncle Charlie, highlighting his compassionate nature. During the war in France in 1944, Charlie's response to a fellow soldier's injury was described as heartwarming. Even amidst the chaos and bloodshed, with soldiers losing limbs, sight, and suffering severe facial injuries, Charlie would reportedly set aside his weapon to comfort the wounded. He would sit them down and offer a hug, a gesture that Mitchell noted was uncommon for men at that time, except perhaps between fathers and their children because men at the time viewed hugging as something intimate.

  This compassion, Mitchell explained, stemmed from the unique training and camaraderie within the Airborne units. These soldiers were volunteers who had undergone two years of rigorous training together. The men in the airborne knew they could rely on each other and handle themselves in high-pressure situations because they had volunteered for this demanding role. For soldiers like Stanley, who trained at Camp Tacoma, and Charlie, who trained at Fort Bragg, the men they fought alongside were often the same ones they had trained with. This shared experience fostered a deep sense of trust and dependability, crucial when parachuting into enemy territory, a novel and dangerous tactic at the time.

  Mitchell's reasoning was that Charlie's perspective was unique because he recognized the humanity in the Paratroopers he encountered. He understood that they weren't simply soldiers, but individuals—sons who had been compelled to fight due to an attack on their homeland. Their motivation wasn't rooted in malice, but in patriotism and a desire for retribution; deep down, they longed for the comfort and safety of home.

  Macaroni further emphasized Charlie's atypical viewpoint by highlighting that he didn't perceive the Wehrmacht and Fallschirmj?gers as enemies, but as fellow humans. Charlie believed that under different circumstances, they could have been friends. He reserved his enmity for the SS, recognizing them as the true antagonists.

  Mitchell drew a parallel between Charlie's perspective and that of many Little Birden soldiers during World War II. These soldiers also saw the Wehrmacht soldiers as individuals not unlike themselves; they were simply caught on opposing sides of a conflict, one fighting for freedom and the other for a dictatorship. However, there was a consensus among Little Birden soldiers that the SS, with their fanaticism and cruelty, were the true enemy.

  Mitchell even told Sonata that Jack's nihilistic worldview was not merely a philosophical stance; it was a profound response to the trauma he had endured during the war. Witnessing the horrors inflicted upon child soldiers, whose innocence was violently removed as they were forced into the brutal machinery of conflict, had shattered his faith in humanity and any belief in an inherent meaning to life. The stark contrast between the inherent vulnerability of childhood and the monstrous cruelty of war left an enduring mark on his psyche, leading him to question the very foundations of morality and the purpose of existence. The war had revealed to him a world where innocence was not protected, where life could be extinguished meaninglessly, and where the darkness in humanity could overshadow any glimmer of hope.

  Mitchell, however, offered a contrasting perspective on the genesis of Jack's nihilism. He argued that Jack's upbringing in a developed country, with its relative affluence and insulation from the harsher realities of life, had inadvertently fostered a naive worldview. In developed nations, where basic necessities are readily available and a certain standard of living is taken for granted, individuals can remain unaware of the struggles and suffering endured by those in less fortunate regions of the world. This lack of awareness, Mitchell contended, created a distorted and privileged perspective, which ultimately contributed to Jack's profound disillusionment when confronted with the unvarnished horrors of war. Jack's sheltered life had not prepared him for the harsh truths of the world, and the sudden exposure to such brutality had shattered his illusions and led him to a nihilistic despair.

  Macaroni supported Mitchell's argument by highlighting the stark disparities in living conditions and access to basic human rights across the globe. She emphasized that poverty was not merely a statistic but a lived reality for countless millions, and that civil liberties, often taken for granted in developed nations, were non-existent in many parts of the world. These vast differences in experiences and opportunities underscored the contrast between Jack's nihilism, born out of privilege and a sheltered existence, and the realities faced by those who had known nothing but hardship and deprivation. While Jack's nihilism stemmed from a loss of innocence and a shattered worldview, the nihilism of those born into poverty and oppression was rooted in the daily struggle for survival and the absence of hope for a better future.

  Sonata's upbringing in a religious cult provided yet another lens through which to examine the origins of nihilism. The cult's isolationist practices and indoctrination of children with archaic beliefs had fostered a distorted worldview that was divorced from reality. The emphasis on large families and mandatory military service perpetuated a cycle of control and conformity, while the suppression of individuality and critical thinking stifled any questioning of the cult's doctrines. Sonata's expulsion from the cult at a young age due to her bisexuality further highlighted the cult's intolerance and rejection of those who deviated from their rigid norms. The cult's oppressive environment and its rejection of her identity had left deep scars on Sonata's psyche, contributing to a sense of alienation and a questioning of all she had been taught.

  Despite the cult's pervasive negative influence on her life, Sonata still clung to cherished memories of her sister's cooking, a poignant reminder of the human connection and warmth that even the most oppressive environments could not entirely extinguish. Her experiences illustrated the complex interplay of external influences, individual resilience, and the enduring power of human connection in shaping one's worldview and sense of self. Even amidst the darkness of her past, Sonata found a glimmer of hope and meaning in the simple act of sharing a meal with her sister, a testament to the enduring power of love and human connection to transcend even the most oppressive circumstances.

  Macaroni's upbringing instilled in her a deep appreciation for the value of resources. Her father consistently told her not to waste food, reminding her, "Think about all the hungry people out there who would be grateful for this!" So, Macaroni learned to eat everything, even vegetables and meats she did not prefer. She always favored cheeseburgers, meatloaf, and especially macaroni and cheese - hence her nickname. Her father's words had taught her empathy and gratitude, and she carried those lessons with her throughout her life.

  Her cousin, Mitchell, further expanded her understanding of the world by explaining the difference between industrialized and pre-industrial societies. He explained that in many countries, farming is extensive and modern, so people can easily obtain food, entertainment, transportation, and money. They can go to the store, watch television, drive cars, and use bank cards. These conveniences, he explained, were the result of industrialization and technological advancements.

  However, Mitchell pointed out that many people still live in a pre-industrial farming era. They do not have cars, rely on animals like donkeys, do not use banks or credit cards, and their leisure activities are limited to hunting, fishing, or simple games. These differences, he emphasized, demonstrated how fortunate those in industrialized nations are and why it is important to value resources, just as Macaroni's father had taught her. Mitchell's explanations had opened her eyes to the vast disparities in living conditions and opportunities across the globe, and she realized how fortunate she was to live in a developed country.

  Sonata agreed with Mitchell's perspective, adding her own insights from her experiences in the country of Little Bird. She explained that Little Bird had both organic and industrialized farming, which provided inexpensive and abundant food and convenience for the consumer. However, she also highlighted the importance of government policies and social structures in shaping people's lives. In Little Bird, the government permitted people to bear arms, vote regardless of gender or wealth, and had programs for literacy, disaster relief, and agricultural subsidies. They also had an educational system that teaches practical skills and basic knowledge, preparing students for adulthood.

  Sonata emphasized that while people in developed countries enjoys many privileges, there were still people in the world who lacked basic education and literacy. Her experiences had taught her to appreciate the opportunities she had and to recognize the struggles of those who were less fortunate.

  Sonata, observing Macaroni fiddling with an ornate ring, inquired, "What's that?"

  Macaroni proudly replied, "It's a five-year anniversary gift from Lusty, marking our time as girlfriends."

  Continuing, Macaroni offered a description of Claire Johnson, characterizing her as a woman who refuses to tolerate nonsense. Claire, she explained, is someone who wouldn't hesitate to fight if necessary, yet possesses a lovable and sweet nature. However, Macaroni cautioned, crossing Claire could prove dangerous.

  Macaroni also shared a piece of wisdom that her girlfriend Lusty, her cousin Mitchell, and his friend Dave often emphasized: "Leadership is about making big decisions in tough moments."

  Macaroni was recounting a story about Claire, where a cop who had once been an uptight police officer. The story involved a hostage situation where Claire's company needed to access a specific area to use their deck gun against the hostage-taker. Two members of Claire's company had already rescued a hostage through a window. To enable her company's access, Claire had moved a police car that was blocking the way.

  This action resulted in the officer, whose car had been moved, filing a complaint against Claire. The charge was "Officer unbecoming," suggesting that Claire's behavior was inappropriate for a police officer. However, this charge didn't stick. The Empire Police Department, where the officer who filed the complaint worked, was inundated with 60,000 complaints against him. This overwhelming response stemmed from the tight-knit community where Claire was raised. In their eyes, an attack on one of their own was an attack on everyone, and they rallied to Claire's defense.

  Macaroni continued her story, explaining how her girlfriend's upbringing in a disadvantaged part of the city shaped her life. Entertainment was scarce; using a TV or radio was dangerous due to outdated wiring that posed a fire hazard. These circumstances fostered a deep respect for the fire department, which played a crucial role in the community.

  Claire, her girlfriend, had early memories of the fire department's constant presence. The tenement building she grew up in was plagued by fires, and one of her most vivid memories was of a firefighter rescuing her from a smoke-filled apartment. This experience instilled in her a desire to join the fire department and give back to her community.

  Macaroni went on to describe how Claire's perspective on the fire department differed from the norm. She saw them as more than just firefighters; they were responders to all kinds of emergencies. In a community where other city services were often lacking, the fire department filled the void. They responded to tenant-landlord disputes, water main breaks, electrical problems, childbirths, fights - anything and everything.

  People in the community knew that pulling the fire alarm box was a guaranteed way to get help, even if it wasn't for a fire. The fire department was a lifeline, a symbol of hope in a neighborhood where hope was often in short supply.

  Sonata was about to interject, but Macaroni continued, explaining how her girlfriend, Claire, harbored a deep resentment towards the police department. The root of this disdain stemmed from their perceived sluggishness in responding to crimes within poorer neighborhoods. Macaroni elaborated, highlighting Claire's personal experience growing up in Eastside, a poverty-stricken neighborhood. She recounted an incident where an armed robbery had occurred, and it took an agonizing four hours for the nearest patrol unit to arrive. Even more disheartening was the fact that it took two years for robbery detectives to even begin their investigation.

  Before Sonata could respond, Macaroni launched into a tirade about the city of Empire's police force. She cited the statistics: 5,000 uniformed officers and 2,500 detectives, divided into three shifts to provide 24-hour coverage. In her view, this was more than sufficient manpower to adequately protect the entire city.

  To further illustrate her point, Macaroni relayed another incident involving a robbery-homicide. The Fire Department had been on the scene within four minutes, administering first aid and stabilizing the victim until an ambulance arrived. The police were summoned due to the severity of the crime, but as Macaroni bitterly noted, they never followed through with a proper investigation.

  Macaroni's voice rose as she expressed her frustration, "The city has the money to hire more officers, more detectives! But no, they'd rather waste it on frivolous projects that nobody cares about!" Her words hung heavy in the air, a stark indictment of the city's priorities and a reflection of the deep-seated distrust and disillusionment felt by many of its citizens.

  Macaroni went on to explain the disparity in police response across different socioeconomic areas of the city. In the affluent Highwood district, a robbery would elicit a massive response of 12 Adam units (patrol cars with two officers each), a supervisor, and a SWAT team. In contrast, the middle-class districts of Emerald Pastors and Riverview would receive a significantly smaller response of approximately 4 or 5 police cars.

  Macaroni then delved into the complexities of law enforcement in her girlfriend's former district, where a considerable number of residents, both male and female, were ex-military. This presented a unique challenge due to the prevalence of incidents that could be classified as "homicide." However, these cases were often convoluted by the "Castle Doctrine," which grants individuals the right to use deadly force to protect their homes. This created a dilemma for the District Attorney's office, as they were hesitant to file charges in situations where murder had been committed but the Castle Doctrine could be invoked as a defense.

  Macaroni, in a conversation with Sonata, relayed the sentiments of many who unfairly labeled the residents of Eastside, Westside, and Anderson as "Undesirables." Macaroni passionately defended these individuals, highlighting their significant contributions to society. They were the hardworking people who ensured the cities had electricity, running water, and functioning sewage systems. These were not the idle or undeserving; they were the backbone of the community, performing essential tasks that often went unnoticed.

  Macaroni spoke further about the truck drivers who traversed the highways of Little Bird. These drivers, Macaroni explained, spent a considerable amount of money to obtain their commercial driver's licenses. They dedicated long hours to their jobs, driving for miles and miles, fueled by the necessity to earn a living. Their work was not glamorous; it involved fueling their rigs, grabbing meals at truck stops, and occasionally catching a few hours of sleep in roadside lounges before hitting the road again.

  Although truckers on Little Bird were not unionized, they were well compensated. Their high pay reflected the vital role they played in the economy. They transported goods across the land, ensuring that store shelves were stocked and that commerce continued to flow. The government recognized the importance of truckers and strived to keep as many as possible on the road.

  Macaroni distinguished between two types of truckers: owner-operators and company operators. Owner-operators owned their rigs and enjoyed the autonomy that came with being their own boss. However, they also bore the responsibility of covering all expenses associated with their business. Company operators, on the other hand, worked for trucking companies and operated vehicles owned by those companies.

  Macaroni's words painted a picture of a society where every individual, regardless of their occupation, played a crucial role. The so-called "Undesirables" were, in fact, the unsung heroes who kept the wheels of society turning. Their hard work and dedication deserved recognition and respect, not scorn and dismissal.

  Sonata emphasized the vital role truckers play in the economy, highlighting that goods don't move themselves. Grocery store shelves, for instance, need to be stocked by someone, and that 'someone' is often a trucker hauling goods over long distances.

  She explained to Macaroni that many truckers in Little Bird operate in pairs, often couples - husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, or same-sex couples. These pairs implement a shift change system where one person drives for approximately 10 hours a day (not including stops for food or refueling). After 12 hours of being awake, their partner takes over and drives through the night, following the same pattern. This strategy allows them to maximize their earnings.

  With a rate of $1.06 per mile, and Little Bird federal law restricting truckers to a maximum of 14 hours of driving per day, truckers have found ways to legally circumvent this limitation. While the law prohibits a single driver from exceeding 14 hours of driving in a day, it doesn't explicitly prevent a driver from switching with a friend or family member who also holds a Commercial Driver's License (CDL).

  Macaroni confirmed this loophole, stating that the law focuses on individual driving time and doesn't prevent someone from driving for 14 hours and then handing over the wheel to another qualified driver for another 14 hours. This practice allows trucking teams to cover more ground and earn more money while technically staying within the bounds of the law.

  “If it’s not a sore subject,” Macaroni she said, “But were you apart of a cult?”

  Sonata continued her explanation, "Yes, I was involved in Little Bird. It was a real hassle, to be honest. The Almighty Believers there were a hardcore religious cult that completely separates itself from the rest of society. They followed The Unseen One with absolute devotion, and their entire lives were controlled by strict moral and social rules."

  She elaborated on their beliefs, "They rejected any symbols of nationalism, refused to take part in secular government, and only go to war if they believe it's justified by their god. They had a doctrine that forces people to marry young and have lots of children. They didn’t allow any outside influences or modern medical practices like blood transfusions."

  Sonata painted a picture of their restricted lifestyle, "Things like entertainment, pleasure, and personal freedom are basically nonexistent. They lived a really isolated and strict life."

  She then delved into their views on marriage and reproduction, "The Almighty Believers have these rigid rules about marriage and having children. They believed that if you conceive a child, you're automatically married, and they absolutely despise surrogacy. They had a very traditional gender roles: men were expected to support their families financially but have to give half their income to the religion."

  Sonata concluded with their views on women and their dietary restrictions, "Women were expected to stay home and take care of the house, and if they do work, they also have to give half their earnings to the religion. They even had a strange dietary laws. They only ate fruits and vegetables for the first six months of the year and then only meat and pork for the other six months. It was part of their unique spiritual practice."

  Sonata's past tense narrative stemmed from the dissolution of the cult she was once a part of. She expressed relief at its demise, attributing it to their failed revolt. The uprising was doomed from the start, as the cult members were ill-equipped, wielding outdated weaponry that was 135 years old or poorly maintained, jamming after each shot. Their arsenal was a hodgepodge of rusted rifles, antique pistols, and cobbled-together explosives that were more likely to harm the user than their intended target.

  They faced the formidable LBAR (Little Bird Army Rangers), clad in their protective olive drab Ranger armor and helmets with built-in gas masks and red lenses. The Rangers' advanced weaponry and overwhelming support from tanks, Infantry Fighting Vehicles, attack helicopters, and fighter jets with napalm canisters, rotary cannons, and air-to-surface missiles sealed the cult's fate. The LBAR were a force to be reckoned with - highly trained, disciplined, and equipped with the latest technology. Their movements were swift and coordinated, their aim precise and deadly.

  Sonata recounted her attempts to persuade her former comrades to lay down their arms, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. She had foreseen the inevitable consequences: death in battle, execution by firing squad, or life imprisonment in a maximum-security facility for treason. The majority of those she once called friends met their end by firing squad, their blind faith and misguided loyalty leading them to a tragic end.

  Despite the grim outcome, Sonata did not shed tears. She believed she had offered them a chance to surrender peacefully, which would likely result in imprisonment but eventual freedom. However, they chose to fight, only to surrender later in the battle or die on the battlefield. The stark contrast between a well-trained, professional army and untrained combatants with poor aim where they couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn if it was next to them was evident. The cult members, fueled by fanaticism and false hope, were no match for the LBAR's superior firepower and tactical expertise.

  The aftermath of the battle was a scene of devastation. The town laid in ruins, smoke rising from the wreckage. The ground was littered with the bodies of the fallen, their lives cut short by their own misguided beliefs. Sonata, standing amidst the chaos, felt a sense of emptiness. The people she once considered family were gone, their dreams shattered, their lives wasted. She knew that the cult's demise was inevitable, but the cost of their rebellion was high.

  Sonata vividly recounted a conversation where she had informed her supposed friends and even her mother about the stark imbalance of power they faced. The Rangers had deployed their entire First Ranger Regiment, encompassing the formidable 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th Ranger Battalions, to encircle the town. The 1st Ranger Battalion spearheaded the assault, while the remaining battalions strategically cut off any escape routes. Sonata emphasized the overwhelming advantage the Rangers possessed in terms of sheer manpower. The 1st Battalion alone boasted 800 battle-hardened and expertly trained Rangers, supported by an arsenal of 12 Main Battle Tanks, 8 Self-Propelled Artillery, and 16 Infantry Fighting Vehicles.

  Macaroni interjected, pointing out that 16 IFVs couldn't possibly transport 800 Rangers. Each IFV could only accommodate a single infantry squad, suggesting a maximum capacity of 160 squads. Sonata clarified that the remaining personnel were transported in APCs stationed outside the town. The APCs, equipped with .50 caliber HMGs, provided additional firepower, while the IFVs boasted an array of weaponry, including 30mm autocannons, AA Railguns, 7.62mm coaxial guns, AA Missile Systems, and Point Defense Systems.

  Furthermore, Sonata explained the Rangers' organizational structure, which divided them into three distinct specializations: Rangers Riflemen, Rangers Engineers, and Ranger Snipers. The term "Rangers Riflemen," while potentially misleading due to the inclusion of female Rangers, accurately described their primary function of engaging the enemy and advancing. The Rangers Engineers fulfilled the crucial role of combat engineers, employing their skills to shape the battlefield and support the assault. Lastly, the Ranger Snipers, as their title suggested, specialized in long-range precision engagements, neutralizing key targets and providing overwatch.

  Sonata, in her recounting of the events, emphasized the vulnerability of the "Almighty Believers." She stated that the "Rangers Snipers" had a tragically easy time due to the Believers' lack of tactical awareness. Many stood exposed in the open, making themselves clear targets, and even those who attempted to move did so in a predictable, straight line toward the snipers, neglecting basic cover and maneuver tactics. Sonata grimly added that the snipers' use of the M1109 Sniper Rifle, with its distinctive smoke trail, further compounded the Believers' disadvantage as their position was easily given away with every shot.

  Macaroni, with a hint of dark irony, chimed in to note the M1109's reputation as the "mainstay of the Ranger's sniper arsenal." She highlighted its unmatched range and accuracy, despite being a bolt-action rifle, implying that the Believers never stood a chance against such a weapon in the hands of skilled snipers.

  Sonata went on to commend the Rangers from the 1st Ranger Battalion for their professional and efficient tactics. She described how they moved swiftly and effectively from cover to cover, displayed deadly accuracy, and consistently supported their comrades with suppressing fire, blindfire, and grenade lobbing. She suggested that in terms of sheer deadliness, the Rangers were potentially only surpassed by the Airborne, though she implied that the Airborne might lack the Rangers' finesse.

  Mitchell acknowledged the effectiveness of Airborne units, emphasizing their agility in moving between cover, proficiency in blindfire and grenade tactics, and their ability to provide accurate suppressing fire for their allies. However, he drew a distinction with the Rangers, highlighting their historical roots tracing back to frontiersmen who thrived in the wilderness. This upbringing, Mitchell argued, instilled in them a resilience and adaptability that set them apart.

  He explained that Rangers were traditionally recruited from these frontiersmen due to their inherent survival skills and intimate knowledge of the wilderness, making them ideal candidates for further specialized training. The harsh and unpredictable nature of their environment fostered the development of unconventional tactics, and they were granted a degree of flexibility when it came to adhering to formal army discipline.

  Mitchell noted that while the Rangers' origins lay in scouting and raiding missions that demanded exceptional skills, their roles evolved during the World Wars. They were transformed into elite commandos and infantry units, tasked with spearheading operations and clearing objectives in advance of the main army's arrival. This shift in responsibilities underscored their versatility and dependability in fulfilling critical missions.

  Macaroni and Mitchell found themselves engrossed in a conversation about the trucking industry. Mitchell, with his characteristic enthusiasm, shed light on the financial prospects of the job. He explained that truckers could earn a decent $14.84 per day, a sum that could accumulate into a substantial income over time. While this daily rate might not appear extraordinary at first glance, Mitchell emphasized that many truckers opted for additional shifts to bolster their earnings. He believed that after a year of dedicated work, truckers could earn enough to comfortably support a family.

  Expanding on the realities of the job, Mitchell also provided insight into the demanding nature of the work. Due to the vast expanse of the country, which spanned an impressive 1,974 miles, truckers often found themselves driving 939 miles in a single day. This demanding schedule translated to truckers spending approximately 13 hours and 44 minutes on the road each day. He acknowledged that pay could fluctuate within the industry, but on average, a trucker earned around $4 per hour for a 40-hour workweek. Mitchell pointed out that this hourly rate was significantly higher than the Little Bird minimum wage, and truckers typically worked four days a week, allowing them to enjoy three days off at home.

  Macaroni expressed her appreciation for this work schedule, stating that many people would value the balance of four workdays and three days off. She also noted that the specific days worked could vary, with some truckers working Monday through Thursday, while others might work Tuesday through Friday, Wednesday through Saturday, and so on. This flexibility, Macaroni mused, was a definite perk of the job. She admitted that she would have enjoyed the flexibility and benefits of being a trucker but expressed contentment with her current career as a firefighter. She explained that her work schedule followed a biweekly pattern, with shifts on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday during the first and third weeks of the month. The second and fourth weeks of the month were designated as her off weeks.

  Sonata, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, interjected with a note of clarification. She explained that her $4 per hour wage, after taxes were deducted, equated to roughly $36 per day. "Over a year," Sonata explained, "that comes out to about $7,500."

  Macaroni's eyes widened in surprise. "$7,500? That's significantly more than what most middle-class folks back on Little Bird make," she remarked, recalling the average yearly income of $5,500 back home.

  A flicker of injustice ignited within Macaroni. She couldn't fathom how someone working a standard 40-hour week could earn so much more than she did as a firefighter, risking her life daily for a meager $3,120 annual salary. The disparity seemed unfair, and it bothered her.

  Mitchell, observing the conversation, gently reminded Macaroni that her income wasn't solely derived from her firefighting job. "Don't forget about your rental property," he interjected. "After deducting expenses for upkeep and maintenance, your total yearly income is closer to $3,901."

  Macaroni paused, considering Mitchell's words. While her rental income did supplement her firefighter's salary, the disparity in income between her and Sonata continued to gnaw at her. It raised questions about the fairness of income distribution and the value placed on different types of work. Was it just that someone working a relatively safe and comfortable job could earn so much more than someone who put their life on the line every day?

  Lost in her thoughts, Macaroni even temporarily forgot that she owned three bars of her own, which also supplemented her firefighter income. In reality, she made around $6,400 a year after taxes, placing her comfortably in the upper middle class. The oversight showm to how deeply the conversation had affected her. It had brought to light the complexities of income, the value of different professions, and the inherent inequalities that existed within the system.

  In a surprising turn of events, Sonata encouraged Macaroni to express discontent regarding her salary. Sonata pointed out that Macaroni's workload, which involves working eight days each month, justifies a higher pay rate. This unexpected move by Sonata highlighted the perceived disparity between Macaroni's compensation and the demands of her job.

  Macaroni, her voice laced with disbelief, questioned the group's composure amidst the chaos. "How can you all be so calm? If someone took my girlfriend, I'd be a mess - hyperventilating, panicking, the works!"

  Her outburst was met with knowing smiles and a collective shrug. They reminded Macaroni of their extensive experience in high-pressure situations. Sonata, with her steely gaze and quiet confidence, was a former Special Forces Group operative. Mitchell, his demeanor calm and collected, had served in the Airborne, jumping into danger zones with the will wanting to fight. Jack, Mackenzie, and Sam, their stances steady and eyes alert, are Marines, forged in the crucible of combat. And Nighthawk, her hands steady on the controls, is an Army Air Force helicopter pilot, accustomed to navigating perilous skies under enemy fire.

  Years of facing danger, both in the boardroom and on the battlefield, had honed their ability to remain calm in the face of adversity. They had confronted life-and-death situations, where panic could mean the difference between survival and disaster. Their training and experiences had instilled in them a sense of control, even when the world around them seemed to be falling apart.

  Macaroni, despite her time in the Navy, had never experienced the harsh realities of combat. Her closest encounters with danger had been during maintenance work on the Phalanx CIWS or the Mark 45 5-inch/54-caliber lightweight gun aboard the USS Ticonderoga. While these weapons were designed for combat, her role had been to ensure their operational readiness, not to employ them in the heat of battle. Even though she was an Fire Controlman.

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  The stark contrast between her experiences and the others was evident. While she had served her country with honor, her service had not exposed her to the visceral nature of combat. The fear, the adrenaline, the life-altering decisions - these were experiences that had shaped her friends, but had remained foreign to her.

  Sonata's outward composure belied her inner turmoil. She confided in Macaroni, admitting, "I'm panicking on the inside, but I'm not showing it. Panicking won't help; it won't do any good."

  Cadenza, entering the scene, affirmed Sonata's stance. "She's absolutely right," Cadenza declared, her voice steady and reassuring. "Panicking won't get us anywhere. The remaining soldiers we need to free won't be rescued if we're consumed by panic."

  Mitchell asked , "Where have you been, Cadenza?"

  "I was out exploring," Cadenza replied, a hint of excitement in her voice. "And I found some 'weird chips.'"

  Macaroni interjected, "Those are memory cards."

  Mitchell, Sam, Jack, Mackenzie, Nighthawk, and Sonata exchanged puzzled glances. The term "memory card" was foreign to them.

  Macaroni, realizing their confusion, offered an explanation. "Think of them like floppy disks," she suggested, hoping the analogy would bridge the technological gap.

  The team opted to utilize a machine where the memory cards posed a risk due to a multitude of reasons. The conversations among the OpFor soldiers were direct and pragmatic, revolving around the acquisition of resources, exploitation of markets, and other topics typically discussed in corporate boardrooms. However, their discussions centered on the production of illegal narcotics and involvement in illicit markets. They spoke about matters such as high addiction rates and mortality in a dispassionate, businesslike manner.

  Upon hearing this, Mitchell expressed a strong preference for returning to his previous role as a police officer, where he dealt with domestic disputes regularly. He recounted numerous instances where he had to mediate conflicts arising from infidelity within relationships, often where one partner had cheated with a close friend or relative. He described how the offending partner and their accomplice would often attempt to downplay the incident, characterizing it as a "minor mistake," and would seek reconciliation, despite the irreparable damage caused to the relationship and the betrayed partner's trust.

  Mitchell was about to delve deeper into his experiences, but Macaroni interjected, eager to share her own perspective. However, Mitchell continued, sharing a specific anecdote from a recent shift he had worked with his partner, Starlight. They had responded to a call where a man had discovered his fiancée had slept with his close friend. The man, understandably enraged and hurt, had evicted both his fiancée and friend from his residence. However, the fiancée and friend, displaying a shocking lack of remorse, were now demanding an apology from the man. Mitchell expressed his disbelief, highlighting the audacity of their demand, especially considering the fiancée's father had subtly threatened the man through his professional connections. Mitchell emphasized that such actions constituted a threat and that if the man's boss were to retaliate against him at work due to these threats, he would have grounds for a lawsuit based on retaliatory action.

  In the quaint town of Dilimore, where news traveled faster than wildfire, residents Sonata and Mitchell found themselves embroiled in a discussion about the downsides of small-town living. The rapid dissemination of information, often distorted and exaggerated through gossip and speculation, was a primary concern. They both agreed that while close-knit communities had their benefits, the lack of privacy and the constant scrutiny could be suffocating.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mitchell's partner, Starlight, who had just mediated a dispute between a pregnant woman and the alleged father of her unborn child. The situation was fraught with tension and animosity. Despite a paternity test definitively proving that the man was not the father, the woman, fueled by anger, denial, and possibly a sense of misplaced entitlement, refused to accept the results. Her feminist friend further escalated the situation, accusing the man of shirking his responsibilities and perpetuating patriarchal norms, even though the evidence clearly showed he had no biological connection to the child.

  The dispute eventually landed in court, where the judge, after careful consideration of the evidence, including the conclusive paternity test, ruled that the man had no legal obligation to support the child. This decision, however, was met with vehement opposition from the woman's feminist friend. She accused the judge of bias, claiming that the legal system was inherently patriarchal and designed to oppress women, disregarding the fact that the ruling was based on concrete evidence and not on any gender bias.

  The judge, unfazed by the accusations, countered that such inflammatory rhetoric only served to fuel distrust of women and undermine the progress they had made in achieving equality. He reminded her that the legal system was based on evidence and facts, not personal beliefs or ideologies, and that the ruling was in accordance with the law and the presented evidence.

  The incident served as a stark reminder of the challenges of small-town life, where gossip and misinformation could quickly escalate into conflict and personal disputes could become public spectacles. It also highlighted the importance of evidence-based decision-making and respect for legal rulings, even when they contradicted personal beliefs or challenged prevailing social narratives. The feminist friend's refusal to accept the court's decision and her insistence on blaming the man, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, underscored the dangers of ideological extremism and the potential for it to distort perceptions of reality and hinder justice.

  Mitchell, reflecting on the situation, shared his perspective, stating that he had worked with many women in the past and had no issue working with females. He emphasized that his Commanding Officer was a woman, and that she, like many other professional women he knew, focused on their work and didn't create unnecessary drama or conflict. He commended the women he worked with for their professionalism and dedication, and contrasted them with the feminist friend in the paternity case, who seemed to prioritize her ideology over reason and evidence.

  Mitchell even shared that the judge in the paternity case had remarked on the progressive nature of their country, Little Bird, which in its 305 years of existence had achieved gender equality and had seen multiple female leaders, including two female Presidents and numerous female mayors.

  Macaroni, listening intently, was about to offer her opinion, but paused as she reflected on the cultural differences between her home country, the United States, and Little Bird. She remembered learning about the history of Little Bird and how, since its founding, Native Little Birdens had a significant say in the government. She recalled stories of female warriors and chieftains among the Native tribes, and realized that gender equality had deep roots in Little Bird's culture.

  She also remembered how her grandmother, while having a job, had been held back by the glass ceiling in the United States, a problem that didn't seem to exist in Little Bird. She recalled reading about how after the First World War, during the Great Depression, many jobs in Little Bird were vacant due to men either not returning from the war or being too injured to work. Women had stepped up and taken those jobs, defying traditional gender roles out of necessity. She also remembered how, despite the country's chivalrous nature, Little Bird had recognized the need for women to work and contribute to society, especially during times of hardship.

  Macaroni inquired why the Silent Serpents couldn't simply handle the rescue mission themselves. She explained that the two Battalions, the 8th and 11th, were divided into multiple companies, each with its own specialized responsibilities. These roles included:

  

  


  
1. Deep Ground Surveillance or Long Range Reconnaissance: These units conduct patrols in small groups, often far behind enemy lines, remaining undetected while gathering intelligence and potentially directing air or artillery strikes. Their focus is on stealth and observation, not direct combat.


  
2. Direct Action: These units specialize in short-duration strikes and offensive actions in hostile or sensitive environments. They possess specialized skills to seize, destroy, or capture targets, using precise force to achieve specific objectives.


  
3. Unconventional Warfare: These units engage in long-duration operations, often working with indigenous or surrogate forces. This includes guerrilla warfare, covert operations, and activities like subversion, sabotage, and intelligence gathering.


  
4. Counter-Terrorism Operations: These units respond to terrorist threats and acts, both real and potential, using specialized tactics and strategies to neutralize threats and protect civilians.


  
5. Counter-Contraband Operations: These units focus on stopping the smuggling and trafficking of illegal goods, working to intercept and seize contraband and apprehend those responsible.


  
6. Personnel and Special Equipment Recovery/Capture: These units specialize in recovering friendly personnel from combat zones, providing medical treatment if necessary, and capturing high-value individuals or equipment.


  


  

  

  
• Skyward Strikes: Specialists who uses a jet pack to bypass staircases, ramps, and other obstacles by flying directly to their destination and to navigate challenging environments and reach high vantage points. They are experts in vertical mobility, making them invaluable for missions that require quick and efficient access to elevated positions.


  

  Given these specialized roles, Macaroni argued that the two companies responsible for "Personnel and Special Equipment Recovery/Capture" should have been dispatched to rescue their comrades. However, Cadenza countered that such rescue operations require extensive planning and preparation. Unfortunately, the war department seemed unwilling to invest the time and resources needed, essentially writing off the mission and abandoning the soldiers to their fate.

  Cadenza explained that This bureaucratic indifference was why she and their team were there. They were taking on the responsibility that the military had shirked, risking their own lives to rescue their fellow soldiers because it was the right thing to do.

  Sonata Jackson sat with group folded, her expression composed, but her eyes sharp. Beside her, Cadenza and Macaroni waited with similar poise, though the tension in the air was palpable. Across from them, Mitchell held their collective gaze, his stance unwavering.

  He didn’t even let them ask the question.

  “No.” His voice was clipped, cutting through the silence like a blade.

  Sonata raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t surprised. She’d expected resistance, but not outright dismissal before a conversation had even begun.

  Mitchell exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look,” he started, “my mother-in-law is a spook. She’s got influence, sure, but the LBIAOSA—” he emphasized the acronym, making it clear he wasn’t talking about some run-of-the-mill agency, “—has zero authority over military operations.”

  There was a quiet defiance in his tone. Mitchell wasn’t one to back down easily, but Sonata had learned that his defiance wasn’t always a hard refusal—it was often a prelude to negotiation.

  “That being said,” he continued, “Star can get us untraceable weapons and provisions. If we’re caught, captured, or killed, the government of Little Bird gets plausible deniability. We’re ghosts.”

  Sonata exchanged glances with Cadenza and Macaroni. This wasn’t unexpected, but it made things clear—this mission was off the books, with no safety net.

  Mitchell leaned back, crossing his arms as he shifted the discussion. “The Little Bird military has been playing this game for a long time. They’ve got a history of using soldiers from the same backgrounds as their enemies—Germans against Germans in both World Wars, Italians against Italians in World War II. Hell, during the Battle of the Bulge, Skorzeny’s men pulled the same trick.”

  Macaroni scoffed, arms crossed. “Wearing the enemy’s uniform? That’s a war crime.”

  Mitchell didn’t flinch. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t effective.”

  Macaroni shook her head, recalling historical context. “Skorzeny’s commandos tried it, dressed in captured Allied uniforms, using stolen jeeps. They were supposed to seize the Meuse bridges, but logistics ruined the plan. It didn’t work.”

  Mitchell nodded. “True. But language skills? That’s different. Having soldiers who can speak like the locals—who can pass as one of them? That’s a weapon in itself.”

  Sonata leaned forward, her mind already piecing things together. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if we’ve got the right people, they can gather intel, blend in, extract information from civilians or prisoners. Even captured allies are useful—people under stress revert to their native language. We listen, we learn.”

  Silence settled for a moment. Then Sonata asked the real question. “Could your mother-in-law help us?”

  Mitchell hesitated. “I’d ask, but favors like this aren’t free.”

  Macaroni smirked. “Marrying Star’s only kid was already a pretty big favor on your part, don’t you think?”

  Mitchell gave her a dry look but didn’t argue. Sonata knew there was truth in Macaroni’s words—Mitchell’s marriage to Cadence gave him a direct line to power. But even with family ties, Star wouldn’t just hand over resources without a price.

  More than that, their mission was unsanctioned. No official backing. That meant scrounging for supplies, keeping everything untraceable, and avoiding any moves that would expose them. Asking Star for help could make things easier—or more complicated.

  Mitchell, ever the pragmatist, brushed past the concerns and refocused on logistics. “Weapons, gear, whatever we need—I can get it. Star’s got connections.”

  A collective exhale followed. It was one less thing to worry about, but Mitchell wasn’t done.

  “But,” he added, voice firm, “don’t get stupid. This isn’t a blank check. No one’s funding your James Bond fantasies. No jet-powered sports cars, no flamethrowers. If we need it, we pay for it.”

  His gaze swept across the room, making sure the message landed. It did.

  The weight of the conversation settled, but Mitchell, ever unpredictable, suddenly shifted gears.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he announced, “I need to find a breakfast burrito.”

  Sonata blinked. “What?”

  Mitchell, already halfway to the door, didn’t break stride. “Breakfast burritos. Best thing for law enforcement. Quick, convenient, better than a donut. Unless they’re the messy kind—those are a problem.”

  Cadenza sighed, Macaroni stifled a laugh, and Sonata just shook her head. Only Mitchell could pivot from espionage to food in a heartbeat.

  Then, as if remembering something, he turned back. “Island Patrol’s uniforms are a mess, by the way. Light blue shirts? Show stains way too easily. City cops have the right idea—dark blue looks more professional.”

  Sonata wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or exasperated.

  Then, as abruptly as he had derailed the conversation, Mitchell pulled out his phone. The room quieted, tension creeping back in as he made the call.

  Star.

  Sonata had always assumed “Star” was a codename, something fitting for a high-ranking LBIAOSA operative. But no, that was just her real name. And despite her quirks, she was a powerful ally—if she chose to be.

  Sonata watched as Mitchell spoke in low tones, the conversation short but efficient. When he returned, his expression was unreadable.

  “She’s got a few places we can check.”

  Sonata knew better than to feel reassured just yet. Star’s help came with strings. What those strings were, they’d soon find out.

  Macaroni figured now was as good a time as any for a little humor. With the tension in the room thick enough to cut, she leaned back and smirked.

  "You know," she began, "my stepbrother got himself tangled up in an anti-establishment group back in December 2010. Thought he was some kind of revolutionary."

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow, but Macaroni wasn’t finished.

  "By January 2011, he was in a full-blown protest," she continued. "Problem was, that 'protest' turned into a riot real quick. Cops moved in, things got messy, and guess who had to patch him up before they hauled his sorry ass away?"

  She jabbed a thumb toward herself.

  "I got him stitched up, made sure he wouldn’t bleed out, and let the cops take him. And you know what the little idiot had the nerve to ask me?"

  She paused for dramatic effect.

  "'So, uh… when are you coming down to the precinct to bail me out?'"

  Macaroni rolled her eyes. "Like I had time to play hero for some wannabe anarchist."

  Sonata smirked, while Cadenza shook her head, half-exasperated, half-amused.

  Mitchell, ever practical, asked, "What was he even protesting? War? Government corruption? Something halfway meaningful?"

  Macaroni snorted. "Oh, please. Nothing that noble."

  She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if revealing some grand secret.

  "You wanna know why he joined an anti-establishment group?"

  A beat of silence.

  "Because he was failing university."

  Cadenza actually laughed. "You’re kidding."

  Macaroni held up a hand. "I swear. Not some ideological stance. Not some deep moral outrage. He just figured that if the whole system collapsed, maybe nobody would care about his failing grades anymore."

  Mitchell exhaled, shaking his head. "That’s next-level stupid."

  "Yup," Macaroni agreed. "And the best part? He still flunked out. Turns out, being an 'enemy of the state' doesn’t get you extra credit."

  Macaroni shook her head, letting out a short laugh as she continued.

  "I even warned him," she said, "that the cops in Little Bird aren’t like the ones back in the States. Not even close. Over here, a lot of them carry riot clubs made from the same wood they use for baseball bats—solid, unforgiving. And the ones that don’t? They’ve got those side-handle polycarbonate batons, and trust me, those things hurt just as much."

  She leaned back, crossing her arms. "I told him straight up—there was a damn good chance he was either gonna get cracked over the head with a truncheon or have a police dog take a bite out of him. And, if he was really lucky, maybe he’d get sprayed against a wall by a firehose."

  Sonata winced. "They still use firehoses?"

  Macaroni nodded. "Oh yeah. And considering it was the dead of winter, that would’ve been the worst possible way to learn about hypothermia." She smirked. "Lucky for him, they didn’t break out the hoses that day."

  Mitchell scoffed. "That idiot wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in a real riot."

  "Oh, he barely lasted thirty seconds in this one," Macaroni said, shaking her head. "And you know what he told me while he was sitting there, bruised and handcuffed? That his mom would’ve bailed him out if I wouldn’t."

  She rolled her eyes, then pulled out her phone for emphasis. "So, naturally, I put that theory to the test."

  "You called her?" Sonata asked, intrigued.

  "Yep. Phoned up Jake’s mother right then and there," Macaroni confirmed. "Told her her darling boy was in lockup and asked if she wanted to come to the rescue."

  Mitchell let out a low chuckle. "And?"

  Macaroni grinned. "She didn’t even hesitate. Just sighed and said, 'I’m done bailing that boy out. He can rot in there for all I care.'"

  Cadenza let out a short laugh. "Ouch."

  "Right?" Macaroni said, shaking her head. "Dude thought he had a safety net. Turns out, even his own mother had limits."

  Sonata backtracked, her brow furrowing. "Wait, they still use firehoses in riots?"

  Macaroni smirked. "Oh, absolutely. And trust me, if it were up to some people, they’d be using worse." She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. "I know a firefighter—goes by ‘Dynamite.’ That’s not just some nickname, either. Her real name’s Madeline, but everyone calls her that because she was a Marine combat engineer before she switched to firefighting."

  Cadenza tilted her head. "Wait—combat engineer? So, explosives?"

  "Exactly," Macaroni confirmed. "She knows her way around demolitions. But here’s the kicker—Dynamite thinks firehoses are too soft."

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "Too soft?"

  Macaroni nodded. "Oh yeah. According to her, if riots get too out of hand, the military should roll out those old armored flamethrowers—the ones that can fire napalm for thirty-two seconds straight and hit targets over five hundred feet away."

  A silence hung in the air before Mitchell let out a low whistle. "Damn. Remind me never to piss off Dynamite."

  Sonata shook her head. "That’s a bit much, don’t you think?"

  Macaroni shrugged. "She’s got strong opinions. Then again, so does everyone in my family." She sighed, shifting in her seat. "Not that Jake had anyone willing to back him up when he got himself arrested."

  Mitchell glanced up. "No one?"

  "Not even Alex," Macaroni said, shaking her head. "And that’s Jake’s own stepbrother. He straight-up refused to help."

  Cadenza raised an eyebrow. "Harsh."

  "Not really," Macaroni countered. "Even my dad warned Jake not to go through with it. Told him straight to his face—'If you get caught, you’re gonna face the consequences.'" She let out a humorless chuckle. "And, of course, Jake being Jake, he ignored the warning."

  Mitchell leaned back. "And now?"

  Macaroni’s expression darkened. "Well, last time I visited him, he wasn’t in county lockup anymore. He’s in a max-security prison now."

  Sonata frowned. "How’s he holding up?"

  Macaroni exhaled. "Not great. Told me he’s in a terrible situation." She glanced at Mitchell before continuing. "So, you know what I told him?"

  Mitchell smirked. "Something uplifting, I’m sure."

  Macaroni gave him a dry look. "I told him that our grandfather, granduncles, and uncles all fought in the deadliest war in human history. And in the later stages of that war, they came across concentration camps. They saw things that can’t be unseen. They heard from their higher-ups about what the Soviets found—the extermination camps."

  She crossed her arms. "So, I told Jake straight-up—he thinks he’s in a bad place? He’s not. Millions of others in World War II were in places far, far worse. What he’s dealing with? It’s nothing compared to that."

  A heavy silence followed.

  Cadenza finally spoke. "And how did he take that?"

  Macaroni shrugged. "Didn’t have much to say after that. Guess reality finally hit him."

  Mitchell leaned back, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “You know, my grandfather—your great-grandfather—his division liberated two of those camps,” he said, his voice carrying a rare weight.

  Macaroni blinked, taken aback for a moment. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned that before.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Yeah, well, it’s not something that comes up in casual conversation.” He exhaled sharply before continuing. “That man fought in both world wars. Lived through the trenches of the First. Survived a gas attack. And yet, for all the horrors he saw—artillery tearing men apart, bayonet fights in no-man’s-land, bodies rotting in the mud—nothing prepared him for what he saw in those camps.”

  Macaroni’s face hardened. Eight years of combat experience across two wars, and still, the sheer inhumanity of what he witnessed had shaken him.

  Mitchell’s gaze turned distant for a moment before he shifted to another family story. “And then there was Uncle Charlie,” he said, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. “Now, Charlie? He was a whole different breed.”

  Macaroni let out a short laugh. “Fearless, professional, and completely nonchalant about just about everything.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “Yeah. You ever hear the guys in his unit talk about him? They said he always had either a ‘creepy stare’ or a ‘mischievous smirk.’ Between Operation Avalanche and Overlord, he’d just… accepted the fact that he was dead.”

  Sonata frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Macaroni leaned forward, her tone matter-of-fact. “Charlie was reflective. Self-aware. He knew the risks. And instead of fearing them, he just embraced them. No hesitation, no second-guessing.”

  Mitchell nodded. “He was reckless, indifferent to violence—hell, he had a nihilistic attitude about death itself. Maybe even a little bit of a sadistic streak, if we’re being honest.”

  Cadenza raised an eyebrow. “So… a sociopath?”

  Macaroni smirked. “A functioning one, at least.”

  Mitchell’s expression turned serious. “But even he—Charlie, the guy who could jump out of a plane under enemy fire without flinching—was shaken in ‘45 when the Allies and Soviets started liberating those camps.”

  The room fell silent.

  Macaroni exhaled. “So if someone like Charlie—who treated war like it was just another job—was shaken by what he saw? Then that tells you just how bad it really was.”

  Macaroni leaned forward, her fingers drumming on the table. “Alright, so where else could Julia be hiding?”

  Mitchell exhaled, rubbing his temple. “There are three possible locations.”

  Macaroni nodded but then frowned. “What do they even want with Julia? She’s just an NCO in the Special Forces. She’s not exactly high value like—” She gestured toward Cadenza. “Like Lieutenant Commander over here.”

  Cadenza gave a small shrug, but her sharp gaze remained focused. Sonata, arms crossed, weighed in. “She’s not an officer, sure, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know something useful. It depends on what kind of mission she was on before she went missing. Maybe she saw something she shouldn’t have, or maybe she’s leverage.”

  Jack, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up. “You think they’re using torture to get information out of her?”

  Mitchell scoffed, shaking his head. “They’ve done studies. Torture doesn’t work. Makes sense, too. If someone’s beating the hell out of me, I’m not gonna do them any favors. I’ll say whatever gets them to stop, even if it’s all bullshit.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “That being said, just because it doesn’t work doesn’t mean it’s disappeared. The practice never really vanished—it just evolved.”

  Sonata glanced at Mitchell. “Alright, so where could they be holding Julia?”

  Mitchell exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “According to Star, back in the mid-2000s, the Little Bird Army, Marines, and Air Force flew drones all over this country. Between 2005 and 2009, they mapped out possible locations that had been used to hold prisoners throughout Salaqueras' history.”

  Sonata narrowed her eyes. “And?”

  He shrugged. “And none of these places are exactly easy to waltz into. A lot of them were designed to withstand long sieges. Fortifications built centuries ago—long before rockets, missiles, or gunpowder. Probably even before trebuchets.”

  Macaroni scoffed. “Great. So we’re dealing with ancient castles?”

  Mitchell smirked. “Think less ‘fairy tale castle’ and more ‘fortress meant to hold prisoners indefinitely.’”

  Jack crossed his arms. “So we call for support, right? Get the Little Bird military to back us up?”

  Mitchell’s smirk vanished. “Yeah, about that—no can do. We’re not even supposed to be here.”

  Sonata sighed. “We’re here illegally Jack.”

  “Exactly,” Mitchell said. “We can’t just ring up the War Department and ask them to send a carrier strike group off the coast of Salaqueras. No jet squadron loaded with anti-radiation missiles to take out enemy comms, no laser-guided bombs, no cluster munitions, no napalm for close air support.” He leaned forward, voice dropping slightly. “Hell, we can’t even request supplies. Not because of plausible deniability—though that’s a nice bonus—but because the War Department has written this mission off.”

  Macaroni frowned. “Written off?”

  Mitchell nodded grimly. “No search-and-rescue operation. To them, Julia and anyone else captured are already dead. The higher-ups in the Little Bird Army have decided they’re not worth the risk.”

  A heavy silence followed. The weight of their situation settled over them like a suffocating fog.

  Cadenza, who had been quiet for most of the discussion, suddenly scoffed. “And they wonder why I told my father off.”

  Cadenza’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. It was clear—she had already burned bridges over this mission.

  Mitchell leaned forward, tapping a finger against the map spread out on the table. “We should check out the other fort. Not Fort Squalablaum.”

  Sonata raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but before we move on—who the hell named a fort ‘Squalablaum’?” She shook her head, exasperated. “Back in Little Bird, forts actually have meaningful names. They’re named after war heroes, Native Little Birden gods and goddesses, or something tied to the local geography.”

  Mitchell smirked. “Yeah, well, Salaqueras doesn’t seem to have the same system.”

  Macaroni leaned back, folding her arms. “Seriously, though. ‘Squalablaum’ sounds like someone sneezed while trying to name it.”

  Jack chuckled. “Or a toddler banging on a keyboard.”

  Sonata huffed. “Meanwhile, back home, names actually make sense. Take Fort Highcrest, for example—the Little Bird Army Airborne Training Center. It’s named after, you know, an actual crest of a mountain.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Exactly. And trainees don’t just stare at that mountain—they run up it. Four miles up, four miles back, carrying full gear.”

  Macaroni winced. “Brutal.”

  Mitchell smirked. “It separates the weak from the strong.”

  Jack snorted. “Or just breaks everyone’s knees.”

  Sonata sighed. “Alright, back on track. If we’re not heading to Fort Squalablaum, then where?”

  Mitchell’s smirk faded as he turned serious again. “There’s another site Star flagged. Older than Squalablaum, but still in use. It’s a fortress, built to last. If they’re holding Julia anywhere, it could be there.”

  Mitchell dragged his finger across the map, stopping at a remote location nestled between jagged hills and dense forest. “Fort Varasque,” he said. “Older than Squalablaum. Pre-gunpowder, reinforced over the centuries. It was originally designed to withstand long sieges, and it’s still being used—whether officially or not.”

  Sonata studied the map. “If it’s that old, what are the odds they’ve upgraded it with modern defenses?”

  Mitchell exhaled. “High. Satellites show structural reinforcements, guard posts, possible electronic surveillance. The real problem? Accessibility. Only a few roads lead to it, and they’re all choke points. We’d be funneled in like rats.”

  Macaroni frowned. “That’s assuming we use the roads. There’s always the wilderness.”

  Jack leaned in, scanning the terrain. “Dense forest to the north, rocky outcrops to the east… Maybe a hike is our best bet. Harder to track us.”

  Cadenza, quiet until now, finally spoke. “Or we use deception.”

  All eyes turned to her.

  Cadenza tapped the map thoughtfully. “The enemy expects infiltrators to come in quiet, sneaking through the trees. They won’t expect something louder—a distraction, a bait. We give them something to focus on while the real team moves in another way.”

  Mitchell nodded slowly. “Diversionary tactics. It could work, but it depends on what we have to work with.”

  Sonata crossed her arms. “We’re short on manpower, supplies, and firepower. Any kind of distraction needs to be something we can control, or else we just get caught up in the chaos.”

  Macaroni smirked. “Well, if we’re going loud, why not make it spectacular? Maybe steal a truck, cause a nice, messy roadblock. Draw the guards out, then slip in while they’re dealing with the mess.”

  Mitchell gave her a flat look. “You just want to steal a truck.”

  Macaroni shrugged. “I’m a woman of simple pleasures.”

  Cadenza rolled her eyes but refocused. “No matter what, we need intel. We’re working with assumptions. If we move on Fort Varasque, we need eyes on the ground first.”

  Jack nodded. “Agreed. So, recon first. Figure out security, entry points, weak spots. Then we plan our move.”

  Mitchell stood, stretching his shoulders. “Alright. We’ve got a target. Now we figure out how to break in.”

  A silence fell over them, heavy with the weight of what was to come. Fort Varasque wasn’t just another obstacle—it was a fortress, and inside, Julia might be waiting.

  Or worse, she might not be waiting at all.

  Macaroni leaned back, tapping her fingers against the table. “Look, if we’re talking about who’s trained for this kind of op, Mitchell, Jack, Sam, and maybe even Mackenzie Rose all have the skills.”

  She gestured toward Mitchell. “Paratrooper. Little Bird Army Airborne doesn’t just train for drops—they train for fast strikes, commando-style raids, and deep-insertion missions behind enemy lines.”

  Jack and Sam exchanged looks as Macaroni turned to them. “Then we’ve got you two—Marine Commandos. Not only are you trained in amphibious operations, but also in direct action, raiding, and special operations. You’re used to moving fast, hitting hard, and getting out before the enemy even knows what happened.”

  Mitchell smirked. “Don’t forget the part where we leave a mess behind.”

  Macaroni rolled her eyes before continuing. “And Mackenzie Rose—if she’s with us—she’s a Marine Combat Medic. Which means she probably got certified in more than just patching up wounds. Combat medics in specialized units usually get cross-trained in survival, infiltration, and even close-quarters combat.”

  She then turned to Sonata. “And of course, we’ve got you. Former Special Forces. That means special operations, counterterrorism, high-risk extractions—this kind of thing is second nature to you.”

  Sonata gave a small nod, but Macaroni wasn’t done.

  “As for me,” she said, with a dramatic sigh, “I was Navy. Fire Controlman. Which means I know how to make things explode.”

  Jack smirked. “That explains a lot.”

  Macaroni ignored him. “And Cadenza? Well, she’s a whole different story. Not just highly trained—she’s biologically enhanced, ridiculously skilled, and, let’s be real, an absolute super-soldier.”

  Mitchell exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. If anyone’s walking out of this in one piece no matter what, it’s her.”

  Cadenza rolled her eyes. “I’m still human. I can bleed.”

  Macaroni grinned. “Maybe. But I’d bet on you over any poor bastard dumb enough to stand in your way.”

  A moment of silence followed as the weight of their collective experience settled over them. They weren’t just a ragtag group—they were specialists, warriors, and professionals.

  They had the skills. Now they just needed the right plan.

  Macaroni leaned back, shaking her head with a grin. “I’ve seen Cadenza do some crazy shit. Once, I watched her dislocate a guy’s arm like she was just opening a bag of chips. No hesitation, no effort—just pop—and he went down screaming.” She smirked at the memory. “And then there was that time she kicked a guy so hard he flew down an entire city block. Like, full-on airborne.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Swear on my life,” Macaroni insisted. “And let’s not forget when she ripped a car door clean off its hinges, used it as a shield, and then threw it like she was Captain freakin’ America.”

  Sonata let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to piss her off.”

  Cadenza sighed. “It’s really not that impressive.”

  Jack stared at her. “Not that impressive? You threw a car door like it was a frisbee.”

  Macaroni chuckled. “Yeah, Cadenza, that’s not normal. Normal people don’t do that.”

  Cadenza simply shrugged, unbothered.

  Macaroni leaned back, switching gears. “You know, when I was a kid, I stayed with my extended family while my dad was deployed during Operation Just Cause and the Gulf War. Some of my relatives had these old comic books from World War II—the ones their parents had saved since they were kids back then.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Yeah, those war-era comics were something else. The propaganda was off the charts.”

  Macaroni smirked. “I mean, yeah, but they were fun in their own way. Over-the-top heroes punching dictators in the face? Classic.”

  Then she paused, looking at Mitchell curiously. “Speaking of old war stuff… What were you humming just now?”

  Mitchell glanced up, as if he hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “It’s an old Little Bird military song. Dates back to 1941.”

  Sonata tilted her head. “Never heard of it.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Not surprising. It’s one of those wartime morale songs, meant to fire up the troops. The lyrics are all about how this time, the military is going to finish the job they started and won’t come back home until the country wins the war.”

  Mitchell said, voice quieter now. “It was written during the early years of the war, when people weren’t sure how things would turn out. By 1944, the song wasn’t just some rallying cry—it was real to the soldiers singing it.”

  Macaroni glanced at him. “It was sung publicly in ‘44, right?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Yeah. Last time anyone sang it publicly was in 1944, by a bunch of 17-to-19-year-olds getting shipped out. By then, the war was already swinging in the Allies’ favor, but the Axis… They were like a cornered rattlesnake—desperate, unpredictable, and dangerous as hell.”

  Sonata leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table as she studied the map of Fort Varasque. “Alright, we need a plan. We can’t just stroll in and knock on the front door.” She tapped her fingers against the map, thinking. “One option? We get a vehicle—something discreet, with dark-tinted windows. Drive right up to the fort, park in a concealed position, and wait. Any hostiles that get too close, we take them out with suppressed weapons—clean, quiet.”

  She glanced around the room. “Not exactly foolproof, but it’s better than going in guns blazing.” She leaned back in her chair. “That said, if anyone’s got a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

  Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What about a diversion?” he suggested. “Something big enough to make the garrison send out a bunch of their forces to investigate. That’d open up a window for us to slip in while they’re busy elsewhere.”

  Jack nodded. “Not a bad idea. We could set off a car bomb a few miles away, fake a shootout—hell, even trigger a false distress signal. If they think they’re under attack somewhere else, they might thin their defenses.”

  Mitchell, however, wasn’t convinced. “Risky,” he said. “What if they don’t take the bait? Some commanders won’t just send their men out—they’ll double down and go into full lockdown instead. If that happens, we’re screwed before we even get near the place.”

  Sam sighed. “Yeah, that’s the downside. Could work, could backfire spectacularly.”

  Sonata drummed her fingers on the table. “So… we either try the stealth approach with the vehicle or gamble on a distraction. Neither is perfect.”

  Macaroni replied. “Welcome to military planning. Nothing’s perfect.”

  The room fell into silence as they mulled over their options. Whatever they chose, it had to work—because failure wasn’t an option.

  Sonata crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful. “Sam’s plan isn’t bad, but there’s a flaw,” she pointed out. “Let’s say we do set up a diversion—what’s stopping the enemy from just radioing another garrison for backup? Or worse, calling in reinforcements from nearby patrols? It wouldn’t take much for them to send out a squad to investigate while the rest hunker down and prepare for an attack.”

  She leaned forward, her voice firm. “One thing they hammer into us in Special Forces training is avoid detection at all costs. We’re not built for prolonged firefights. Small teams like ours aren’t meant to hold ground—we’re trained to hit hard, hit fast, and get out before the enemy even knows what’s happening.”

  Mitchell nodded in agreement. “Even with Cadenza. We don’t have the numbers or the firepower for a siege. If we get pinned down inside that fort, we’re done. We need an insertion plan that keeps us quiet.”

  Sonata gestured toward the map. “And let’s not forget—modern communications make this even trickier. This isn’t the ancient world where armies relied on runners, messenger birds, or smoke signals. One radio call, one satellite ping, and suddenly we’re facing a whole damn battalion instead of a skeleton crew.”

  Jack exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “So what you’re saying is… we can’t afford to get spotted. Period.”

  “Damn straight,” Sonata said. “Once we go in, we have to stay in control of the situation. That means no alarms, no radio transmissions, and no time for them to react. If we make a mistake, we won’t be fighting just the garrison—we’ll be fighting every enemy force in the region.”

  Macaroni tapped her fingers against the table, deep in thought. “Alright, so… we need stealth. But we also need an exit strategy. If we go in quiet, we better have a way to get out just as cleanly.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Then let’s work out both. No matter how we get in, we need a way to disappear when it’s done.”

  Cadenza leaned forward, arms crossed, her expression calm but calculating. “I’ve got a plan,” she said. “We create multiple distractions—small ones—scattered across the area. Something subtle enough to make them uneasy but not immediately scream ‘attack.’ If we do it right, they’ll start sending patrols out to investigate, slowly pulling troops away from the main defenses.”

  Mitchell rubbed his chin, considering it. “Not bad. Actually, that lines up with something my Lieutenant—Lieutenant Luna—taught us back in the day.” He glanced at the group before continuing. “At Officer School, they drill into you the importance of battlefield deception. The idea is to confuse the enemy, make them second-guess where the real threat is.”

  He pointed at the map spread across the table. “Inexperienced commanders—hell, even some seasoned ones—tend to react instinctively when they feel like they’re losing control. If they think one side of their defense is under threat, they’ll start shifting forces to compensate. The trick is making them think they need to move their troops, and then we hit where they least expect it—when the weak spot opens up.”

  Cadenza nodded. “Exactly. We don’t need to take out the entire garrison—we just need them to believe something bigger is happening so they start making mistakes. A little paranoia goes a long way.”

  Macaroni smirked. “Psychological warfare, huh? I like it.”

  Sonata, still studying the map, glanced up. “Alright. So let’s break it down. What kind of distractions are we talking about? How do we make sure they react the way we want them to, without tipping them off that they’re being played?”

  The room fell silent as everyone started thinking through the possibilities. The mission was beginning to take shape—but execution would be everything.

  Jack exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers against the table. “Alright, so we need distractions. But we also need control—we can’t just go around setting off explosions and hoping for the best. If they figure out it’s a trap, they’ll hunker down instead of sending troops out.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Right. We need just enough noise to make them think they’re dealing with a real but manageable threat. If it feels too big, they’ll call for reinforcements. If it feels too small, they’ll ignore it. We need that sweet spot.”

  Cadenza traced a line along the map. “We hit multiple points at once. Spread them out enough that the garrison has to split their forces to cover them all. Maybe a few well-placed detonations—small ones, controlled. Enough to mimic sabotage rather than a full-blown assault.”

  Sonata leaned back, arms crossed. “Could set off some remote charges near their supply lines, make it seem like someone’s trying to cut off their logistics. Maybe stage a fake ambush on one of their patrol routes—some false footprints, spent shell casings, a little blood to make it look like a firefight happened.”

  Sam cracked his knuckles. “Hell, we could even go old-school—mess with their comms. Some good old-fashioned signal interference, maybe a bit of fake radio chatter to make them think enemy operatives are moving in.”

  Macaroni grinned. “I like it. A little misdirection, some psychological pressure… and while they’re busy running in circles, we slip in.”

  Jack, still skeptical, tapped the map. “That’s assuming they take the bait. What if they don’t? What if they just go into full lockdown?”

  Mitchell sighed. “That’s the risk. But that’s why we don’t rely on just one distraction. We throw several at them, make it look organic. And if they do lock down, then we adjust. Maybe we create a bigger problem they can’t ignore.”

  Cadenza’s expression darkened. “If it comes to that, we’ll have to get more aggressive. But let’s try the smart approach first.”

  Sonata nodded. “Alright. We divide into teams. Some of us handle the distractions, the rest prepare to infiltrate. We set up a tight timetable—execute the distractions at the right intervals to keep them reacting instead of thinking.”

  Macaroni cracked her knuckles. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

  Mitchell smirked. “Then let’s make it happen.”

  Mitchell leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Alright, I’ve got an alternative plan—one that doesn’t rely on us sneaking around in the dark and hoping they take the bait.” He tapped the radio clipped to his vest. “As a Radiotelephone Operator in the 39th Airborne Regiment, I learned how to use military comms inside and out. I can pretend to be one of their officers and radio Fort Varasque directly, requesting reinforcements because we’re supposedly under attack. If I do it right, their commander will have no choice but to send out troops, leaving the fort vulnerable.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you think they’ll just buy that?”

  Mitchell smirked. “You’d be surprised how often officers and high-ranking members of the same military—or even terrorist organizations—don’t actually like each other. There’s tension, distrust, egos clashing. Hell, look at history—Patton and Montgomery were both on the same side in World War II, and they still couldn’t stand each other. If I play it right, I can make it sound like some rival commander is demanding reinforcements, maybe even subtly insult the guy’s competence so he feels pressured to comply.”

  Macaroni grinned. “Ah, classic manipulation. Appeal to pride, make them feel like they have to act.”

  Mitchell nodded. “And to seal the deal, we jam communications with the other garrison so Fort Varasque’s commander can’t call and confirm whether the request is real. By the time they figure it out, it’ll be too late.”

  Sonata leaned back, chuckling. “You know, this whole thing sounds like something out of a spy movie. I took our daughters to see a film a while back where some guy rerouted all of his wife’s outgoing calls to his own phone. No matter who she tried to call, it went straight to him.”

  Cadenza smirked and nudged Mitchell. “And you’re the one playing the con artist here. That doesn’t worry you?”

  Mitchell shrugged. “I have no problem being a sperm donor.” He paused, glancing around. “Wait—what does that have to do with anything?”

  Sonata rolled her eyes. “Nothing. Just messing with you.”

  Jack shook his head, suppressing a laugh. “Alright, so if we pull this off, we get Fort Varasque to send out a good chunk of their forces. That leaves us a window to slip in.”

  Sonata nodded. “And it’s a way better solution than just blindly hoping they react to random distractions. If Mitchell can successfully trick the garrison commander while we block his ability to verify the info, we control the battlefield before we even step foot inside.”

  Macaroni grinned. “Now that’s some next-level psychological warfare.”

  Mitchell smirked. “Then let’s get to work.”

  __________

  One hour later, at 01:35 hours, the thick, oppressive darkness of the forest surrounded the group. The air was cool, damp, and heavy with anticipation. Outside the heavily fortified walls of Fort Varasque, the dense trees provided the perfect cover as the team crouched low, their figures barely visible in the shadows. The silence was only broken by the rustling of leaves as the wind swept through the branches, and the occasional distant chirp of night creatures.

  Sonata leaned in close to Mitchell, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s your turn. Make it count.” She looked around at the others, signaling them to stay sharp.

  Mitchell, who had been silently checking his equipment, nodded. His hands moved with practiced precision as he adjusted the settings on his radio. He’d spent countless hours as a Radiotelephone Operator in the 39th Airborne Regiment, and now it was time to put that training to use. With a quiet click of a button, he found the right frequency. His eyes narrowed as he started transmitting.

  "Fort Varasque Command, this is Garrison Command from Fort Halvador. We are under heavy attack and require immediate reinforcements," Mitchell’s voice came through the radio, deliberately deepened to sound more authoritative. He paused for a moment, letting the words settle. "We have already lost a portion of our outer defenses. We need backup, now."

  Sonata and the others held their breath, eyes fixed on Mitchell as he waited for the response. The seconds ticked by, the tension palpable in the air. Finally, the crackling voice of Fort Varasque’s garrison commander came through.

  “Understood, Halvador. Reinforcements will be dispatched immediately. Hold your position, and we will send a convoy.” The voice sounded rushed, almost panicked.

  Mitchell grinned inwardly but maintained his composure, knowing he had successfully lured them in. “Copy that. We’ll hold the line until you arrive.”

  With the transmission done, Mitchell switched off the radio, a small but satisfied smile forming on his lips. “That’s one down. Let’s see how they react.”

  Sonata nodded. “Nice. Now, we wait.”

  Minutes dragged on as the team remained still, the sounds of the forest around them mixing with the occasional crunch of leaves underfoot. They could hear the faint hum of trucks approaching in the distance.

  The sound grew louder and louder until the headlights of a convoy of twenty military trucks appeared through the trees, moving quickly toward Fort Varasque. The convoy kicked up dust and gravel, and the vehicles sped past their hidden position without even slowing down. The vehicles were clearly focused on getting to the fort as quickly as possible, and the garrison commander’s hurried orders ensured they were sending out reinforcements without verifying the situation first.

  The team watched from their concealed positions, their breathing steady but sharp with focus. Sonata held her hand up, signaling for everyone to stay put.

  As the last truck in the convoy passed, Mitchell whispered, “That’s our window. We move now.”

  Without hesitation, the group moved quickly and quietly through the trees, keeping to the shadows and staying low to the ground. They knew this was their moment—an opportunity that wouldn’t last long. The convoy had pulled away most of the garrison’s forces, leaving Fort Varasque vulnerable.

  Sonata, Macaroni, and the others moved with swift efficiency, carefully threading through the dense undergrowth, their eyes locked on the entrance to the fort. The moonlight filtering through the trees gave them just enough visibility to avoid obstacles without making them visible to anyone still at the fort. Every step they took was measured, every movement deliberate.

  They neared the perimeter of the fort, stopping briefly to assess the situation. The main gate was still guarded, but the tension of the moment was palpable.

  “We need to get through the side entrance,” Mitchell whispered, his voice barely audible. “They’ll be distracted by the convoy. We’ve got a few minutes before anyone figures out it was a ruse.”

  Sonata gave a sharp nod, her eyes scanning the surroundings. “Let’s move, then. We’ve got one shot at this.”

  They approached a side entrance, moving swiftly but cautiously, their breaths measured, their senses heightened. The metal door, partially rusted at the edges, loomed in front of them. Sonata tested the handle—it was unlocked. Exchanging glances, they nodded to one another before slipping inside undetected.

  The corridor beyond was dimly lit, the flickering overhead bulbs casting long, wavering shadows against the cold stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of aged concrete, gun oil, and a faint trace of dampness. It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that felt unnatural, like a coiled spring waiting to snap.

  Macaroni frowned as she scanned their surroundings. “This doesn’t sit right with me,” she murmured, keeping her voice low.

  Mitchell tightened his grip on his suppressed rifle. “They sent twenty trucks out. Eighteen of those were packed with soldiers, with the last two likely carrying additional supplies. That means Fort Varasque is nowhere near as heavily guarded as we originally thought.”

  Macaroni exhaled through her nose, thinking. “If my math is right, and assuming this place had around three hundred troops before the convoy left, that means we’re dealing with roughly sixty soldiers left behind. Give or take.”

  Jack, who had been keeping an eye on the corridor ahead, turned slightly. “Sixty’s still enough to make our lives hell if they catch us. We need to move fast.”

  Sonata nodded in agreement. “They’ll still have patrols, and at least a few guards posted at key positions. They’re not stupid—they wouldn’t completely strip their defenses bare. But this?” She gestured around the seemingly abandoned hallway. “This tells me they weren’t expecting trouble tonight. They probably think they have enough men left behind to handle anything short of a full-scale assault.”

  Cadenza, standing near the rear of the group, folded her arms. “Then we stay unpredictable. Move fast, stay quiet, and hit hard if we have to. If they don’t realize we’re here until it’s too late, we’ll have the upper hand.”

  Macaroni smirked. “I like the sound of that.”

  Mitchell motioned for the group to move forward. “Alright, no unnecessary risks. We get in, find Julia, and get out before they even think about sounding an alarm. Let’s go.”

  Jack leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Alright, where are they keeping the prisoners? Any idea where the cells would be?"

  Sonata furrowed her brow, scanning the dimly lit corridor ahead as if trying to see through the walls. “If I had to guess,” she murmured, “they’d either be at the bottom of the facility or underneath the security wing. That’s standard for most fortifications. Keep the prisoners deep, out of sight, and hard to break out.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Makes sense. Harder to escape from underground, and easier to keep an eye on them.”

  Sonata shrugged. “Yeah, but here’s the thing—who knows when this place was last updated? Fort Varasque has been around for centuries. Hell, blueprints weren’t even a thing until 1842. Before that, architects and engineers just worked off sketches, measurements, and memory.”

  Jack exhaled slowly. “So, what you’re saying is... we’re dealing with a fortress that’s been modified who-knows-how-many-times since the High Middle Ages?”

  Sonata nodded. “Exactly. If this place was originally built in the late 11th century, then we have no clue what’s been added, removed, or reinforced over the years. Secret passages, collapsed tunnels, hidden rooms—anything could be waiting for us down there.”

  Macaroni muttered under her breath. “Great. Just what we needed. A medieval labyrinth.”

  Cadenza, standing nearby with her arms crossed, “If it’s a maze, we just have to make sure we don’t get lost in it.”

  Mitchell tapped the side of his rifle. “Then we stick to the plan. Move fast, stay quiet, and take out any threats before they can raise an alarm. First priority—finding a way down.”

  Sonata nodded. “Agreed. If the cells are underground, there has to be a stairwell or an access point somewhere. We just need to find it before the remaining guards figure out we’re here.”

  The group pressed forward, their footsteps nearly silent against the stone floor.

  Macaroni glanced at Mitchell as they crept down the dimly lit corridor, "What’s the chance Julia’s not even here?"

  Mitchell exhaled through his nose, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. “One in three,” he admitted. “There’s a decent chance she’s somewhere else. But we’re not just here for Julia.”

  Macaroni gave him a questioning look.

  Mitchell continued, “When this country got taken over by these bastards, they imprisoned the people they couldn’t just kill. Political prisoners, rebels, suspected traitors—hell, probably innocent civilians too. And they didn’t throw them in modern facilities. No, they locked them up in old castles like this one.”

  Jack furrowed his brow. “Makes sense. These places were built to withstand sieges and prolonged assaults.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Thick stone walls, reinforced gates, narrow passageways—it’s hard as hell to break into or out of. But…” He hesitated, glancing toward a window where the wind howled softly through a crack in the aged stone. “They weren’t built for weather.”

  Sonata caught on immediately. “You’re talking about the hurricanes.”

  Mitchell grimly nodded. “And the storm surges. These old fortresses may have been impenetrable in medieval times, but they weren’t designed to handle months of exposure to extreme weather. When the hurricanes hit, some of these places were flooded. No power, no proper drainage, barely any ventilation. If there were prisoners locked up when the storms came…”

  Macaroni swallowed hard. “They weren’t so lucky.”

  Mitchell’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. If anyone’s still alive in here, they’ve been left to rot.”

  Jack clenched his fists. “Then we’re saving whoever we can. Julia or not.”

  Sonata nodded firmly. “We came here for a reason and we came in for a rescue, and that’s what we’re doing.”

  As they moved deeper into the fortress, Macaroni furrowed her brow, the weight of their mission pressing on her mind. “I don’t get it,” she muttered, keeping her voice low. “Why the hell do they even lock up their own people just for being different? For thinking differently?”

  Sonata, walking just ahead, glanced over her shoulder. Her expression was hard, her tone even harder. “Because regimes like this one—hell, even terrorist organizations—hate being questioned.” She paused, scanning their surroundings before continuing. “The moment their leaders start feeling threatened, the moment anyone challenges their authority or their ideology, those people suddenly become enemies.”

  Mitchell nodded grimly. “It’s not about logic—it’s about control. Dissent spreads. One person asks a question, then another, then another. And if too many people start thinking for themselves, the whole damn system cracks.”

  Jack exhaled sharply. “So they silence them. Imprison them. Or worse.”

  Sonata’s gaze darkened. “Most of the time, it’s worse.”

  Macaroni shook her head in disgust. “Cowards. Instead of defending their beliefs, they just crush anyone who dares to challenge them.”

  Mitchell shot her a knowing look. “That’s why they’re in power. Not because they’re right, not because they’re strong, but because they’ve made fear their greatest weapon. The moment fear fades, so does their grip.”

  Macaroni clenched her fists. “Then let’s give them something to be afraid of.”

  As they moved through the dimly lit corridors of Fort Varasque, Mitchell kept his voice low but steady. “Throughout human history, oppressive regimes have always tried to suppress those who question them. They thrive on obedience, on fear. That’s why we call them totalitarian governments.”

  Macaroni glanced at him. “Totalitarian? You mean like dictatorships?”

  Mitchell nodded. “More than just dictatorships—totalitarian governments don’t just want political control; they want to control everything. They dictate how people think, what they believe, and even how they live their private lives. They enforce a single ideology and punish anyone who doesn’t conform.”

  Jack frowned. “And how’s that different from an authoritarian government?”

  Mitchell adjusted his grip on his weapon as they crept forward. “Good question. Authoritarian governments still demand obedience, but they don’t necessarily try to control every aspect of life. They concentrate on maintaining political power, but they might allow certain personal freedoms. Totalitarianism, on the other hand, leaves nothing outside the government’s control. It dictates how you live, what you believe, and even who you associate with.”

  Sonata muttered, “So basically, totalitarianism is the worst-case scenario.”

  Mitchell nodded. “And that’s why Little Bird isn’t like that. It’s an authoritative government, meaning it enforces laws and expects order, but it still allows individual freedoms. The government doesn’t dictate how people live their lives. It doesn’t care how many kids a couple has, what religion they follow, or what they do in their private lives—so long as it doesn’t break the law.”

  Macaroni scoffed. “Tell that to those three Commonwealths that kept trying to pass those child limit laws.”

  Mitchell smirked. “Yeah, and the courts struck them down every time. Because in Little Bird, the government can encourage order, but it can’t force people to live a certain way. It doesn’t have a guiding ideology like a totalitarian state does. It just enforces stability.”

  Jack exhaled. “So basically, totalitarianism tries to control everything, and authoritarianism just wants people to shut up and obey?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Pretty much. And what we’re dealing with here? This is totalitarianism at its worst. A regime that locks people up just for questioning their leaders. That’s why we’re here.”

  Macaroni gritted her teeth. “Then let’s make sure these bastards lose some control tonight.”

  Sonata suddenly raised a hand, fingers spread in a silent signal to stop. The group froze behind her, weapons at the ready. She tilted her head slightly, listening.

  Voices. Up ahead.

  They weren’t close—probably a patrol—but they weren’t far either. The murmured conversation echoed faintly off the stone walls, distorted by centuries-old architecture. Everyone remained motionless, waiting.

  After about a minute, the voices faded as the patrol moved on. Sonata exhaled softly through her nose, then gestured for them to continue. They crept forward, slipping through the ancient corridors of Fort Varasque until they finally emerged into what had once been the castle’s main hall.

  The room was vast, its high ceiling supported by massive stone pillars. Flickering artificial lights had replaced whatever grand chandeliers or torches had once adorned the space. Against one wall, a mounted map of the fortress caught Sonata’s eye. Without a word, she moved toward it, scanning the layout with careful precision.

  She took her time, memorizing key locations—potential guard posts, possible prisoner holding areas, escape routes.

  As she studied the map, Jack nudged Macaroni and smirked. “You might’ve been trained with all that digital stuff in the U.S. Navy, but in Little Bird? We do things differently.”

  Macaroni arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jack folded his arms. “I mean all branches of the Little Bird Military train their people—from the greenest recruits to the highest-ranking officers—in basic skills. That means using analog tech, reading paper maps, and learning how to operate in a world where digital convenience isn’t an option.”

  Macaroni scoffed. “You’re telling me your officers have to know how to function without GPS, radios, and all that fancy tech?”

  Jack nodded. “Damn right. They’re trained to lead in real combat situations—without relying on satellites or an AI doing half the thinking for them. The Little Bird military drills old-school methods into everyone because, in today’s world, no one ever stops to ask: What happens when the digital age fails?”

  Mitchell, still keeping watch near the entrance, added, “EMP. Solar storms. Cyberwarfare. One good pulse, and all that tech you Navy folks rely on? Gone. But we’d still be able to navigate, communicate, and fight. That’s why we train the way we do.”

  Macaroni frowned, considering. She hated to admit it, but they had a point. If something knocked out digital systems, a lot of modern militaries would be stumbling in the dark.

  Sonata finally spoke, still studying the map. “Alright. I think I’ve got it. If they’re holding Julia here, there are two places they’d keep high-value prisoners.” She turned to face the group, her expression set. “We’ll need to split up.”

  Sonata took a step back from the map and turned to the group. “Alright, here’s how we do this. We need to split up. Waterson and I will take one route. Cadenza, you take another. Jack and Sam, you two go together. Waterson and Mackenzie Rose, you’re securing a secondary exit in case things get loud.”

  Macaroni raised a hand, frowning. “Hold up—which Waterson?” She gestured between herself and Mitchell. “Because last I checked, we’ve got two Watersons here. And, just to make it extra confusing, Mackenzie Rose and I share the same first name.”

  Sonata smirked slightly. “Right. Good point. To clarify—Mitchell and I will stick together. Macaroni and Mackenzie Rose will form the other team securing the exit.”

  Macaroni sighed in mock exasperation. “See? That’s all I needed to know.”

  Jack chuckled, adjusting his gear. “Damn, your family’s a logistical nightmare.”

  Mitchell smirked. “Try filling out paperwork with us.”

  Cadenza rolled her eyes. “Alright, enough. We’ve got a job to do.” She adjusted her rifle and turned toward the dimly lit corridor ahead. “We move quietly, we move fast. Radio silence unless absolutely necessary. Once we locate Julia—or any other prisoners—we regroup. If we run into trouble, we don’t get bogged down. We adapt.”

  Sonata nodded. “Exactly. Everyone knows their assignments. Let’s move.”

  With that, the team split up, disappearing into the ancient halls of Fort Varasque. The real challenge was about to begin.

  As the group split off in different directions, Mitchell and Sonata moved carefully through the dimly lit corridors. Keeping their footsteps light, they navigated around old stone archways and shadowy alcoves.

  Mitchell, keeping his voice low, muttered, “I’m expecting Macaroni to find us a boat—or some kind of ship—for the escape.”

  Sonata, scanning ahead for any signs of movement, replied without looking back, “An escape vehicle is an escape vehicle. Beggars can’t be choosers.” She smirked slightly. “We’re here illegally, remember? If this were a legitimate military op, the planners would’ve had everything sorted out. Every detail, down to the last second.”

  Mitchell exhaled sharply. “Yeah, and if this were a joint operation with another country, those planners would’ve been coordinating logistics from the get-go. Extraction, backup, contingencies—everything.”

  Sonata nodded. “Exactly. Back in my military days—before motherhood—I worked with all kinds of special forces units. SAS, Delta Force… hell, even the Soviet Spetsnaz back in the day.” She glanced at Mitchell. “And let me tell you—no matter how good a plan looks on paper, when things go sideways, you are your own backup. If we don’t have an escape ready, we’ll make one.”

  Mitchell chuckled quietly. “Guess I should be glad we have you around, then.”

  Sonata smirked. “Damn right.”

  As they moved cautiously through the fortress, Sonata kept her voice low but steady, reflecting on the differences in how their respective military units operated.

  “A lot of the time, we didn’t have the same fire support assets that you or the others would’ve had,” she said, her eyes sweeping the dimly lit hallway ahead.

  Mitchell nodded knowingly. “Yeah, I get that. Back in my unit, we were trained for commando-style raids, so being behind enemy lines meant we weren’t exactly expecting airstrikes to bail us out. We had to rely on our own tactics and firepower.”

  Sonata smirked slightly. “Try never expecting fire support,” she countered. “There were plenty of times where it was just me and my team—no airstrikes, no artillery barrages, no cavalry coming over the hill. The only support we might get was from satellites or a recon plane skirting the edge of space. Those cameras could pick up heat signatures and help guide us, but that was about it.”

  Mitchell glanced at her. “No support at all?”

  Sonata shrugged. “Sometimes, yeah. Other times, we had access to direct artillery—small, precise barrages on strike zones no bigger than a city block. And then there were those operations where we had everything at our disposal.”

  She began listing them off, counting on her fingers. “Napalm strikes, tank-buster runs, laser-guided bombs, heavy airstrikes, mortar barrages, full-scale artillery bombardments, precision strikes, cluster munitions, carpet bombing, fuel-air bombs, incendiary attacks—hell, even those specialized bombs designed to clear forests so we could make landing zones for helicopters.”

  Mitchell let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of firepower.”

  Sonata gave a wry smile. “Yeah, but don’t let that fool you. More often than not, those fire support options were limited or completely off the table. Sending in military aircraft or launching strikes inside a neutral country? That’s a fast track to starting a war—or at the very least, a major international incident. And that’s why special forces teams are trained to avoid detection at all costs.”

  Mitchell nodded, understanding. “Yeah. That’s also why they use weapons sourced from whatever country they’re operating in—so if something goes wrong, it doesn’t scream foreign intervention.”

  Sonata exhaled, her expression serious. “Exactly. The more invisible we are, the less chance of turning a covert op into an international disaster.”

  Mitchell smirked. “And here I thought my missions were high-stakes.”

  Sonata chuckled under her breath. “Trust me, once you’ve been in a firefight where no one is coming to save you, you learn real fast just how high the stakes can get.”

  As they moved through the fortress, keeping low and quiet, Sonata glanced at Mitchell. “I’ve been in situations that made the Siege of Bastogne look like a vacation.”

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

  Sonata nodded. “At least the 101st had reinforcements on the way. My squad? Most of the time, if we got into trouble, we had to get ourselves out.”

  Mitchell smirked. “You know, my Uncle Stanley served with the 101st, and he always said that no one in the division ever agreed they needed rescuing. Even though, technically, Patton and the Third Army did break through to them.”

  Sonata shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t need rescuing, but at least they had someone coming for them.” She exhaled sharply. “We didn’t have that luxury. No backup, no cavalry charging over the hill. If we were compromised, we had to fight our way to exfil—not just pop smoke and wait for a ride.”

  Mitchell frowned slightly, considering that. “No waiting for pickup, huh?”

  Sonata shook her head. “Nope. Most of the time, our helicopters had a strict window. They’d land, sit for a few minutes, and if we weren’t there, they had to take off at bingo fuel to make it back to base. If we weren’t at the rendezvous point in time, we were on our own.”

  Mitchell let out a low whistle. “And if you missed your ride?”

  Sonata smirked grimly. “Then it was ‘find your own way home’ time. We’d have to hike to another predetermined exfil site, and that was if we were lucky. Sometimes our ride would be forced to come to us, but that was only if the risk was low enough. Other times, we’d have to get real creative—like setting up a balloon for a surface-to-air recovery system.”

  Mitchell’s eyes widened. “You actually used Skyhook?”

  Sonata nodded. “Yeah, once or twice. But honestly? That was rare. About 85% of the time, we had to commandeer civilian transport—trucks, boats, whatever we could get our hands on—to make it to a preselected exfil site.”

  Mitchell chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn. And here I thought the worst part of my missions was a rough landing.”

  Sonata smirked. “Try running through hostile territory with a timer ticking down, knowing if you don’t make it, you’re walking home.”

  Mitchell’s expression turned serious. “Yeah… that’s a whole different kind of pressure.”

  As they navigated the dimly lit corridors of Fort Varasque, Sonata found herself speaking in a quieter, more reflective tone. “You know, in Special Forces, they pull you out of service a lot more than regular infantry. The missions take a toll—not just physically, but mentally.” She exhaled. “Gives you a lot of time to think.”

  Mitchell glanced at her. “Yeah? Think about what?”

  Sonata hesitated for a moment before smirking slightly. “Honestly? About time travel.”

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “Time travel?”

  “Yeah.” Sonata nodded. “Sixty percent of the time when I was forced to take leave—to relax, to destress—I kept thinking: What if I could go back to the First World War and snipe Hitler before he ever became a threat? Maybe that way, the Second World War never happens, and those seventeen million people don’t get killed.”

  Mitchell let out a low chuckle. “The old ‘kill Hitler’ debate, huh? Classic.”

  Sonata tilted her head. “You don’t think it would work?”

  Mitchell shrugged. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t change something, but the world doesn’t work in neat little cause-and-effect chains. Even if you got rid of Hitler, you’ve still got Stalin.”

  Sonata frowned. “Stalin?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Yeah. Ever hear of the Great Terror of 1937? Also known as the Great Purge? Nearly a million people executed. Millions more sent to forced labor camps, deported, starved, massacred, detained, interrogated—sometimes just for knowing the wrong person.”

  Sonata sighed. “Yeah… I guess you’re right. If it wasn’t Hitler, it would’ve been someone else.”

  “Exactly,” Mitchell said. “That’s the problem with trying to rewrite history—you never really know what’s going to happen. That’s the butterfly effect. Science fiction loves to play with the idea—some guy goes back in time, steps on a butterfly, and suddenly the entire timeline is thrown into chaos. Even if you could go back and take out Hitler, who’s to say someone worse wouldn’t have taken his place? Maybe the war still happens, but under different circumstances. Maybe the Cold War turns hot.”

  Sonata let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah… I guess that’s why we don’t mess with time travel.”

  Mitchell smirked. “That, and, you know… it doesn’t exist.”

  Sonata rolled her eyes. “Yet.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “Alright, Doc Brown. Let’s focus on this mission first before we go rewriting history.”

  Sonata shook her head, but she was smiling now. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

  Macaroni and Mackenzie reached a fork in the hallway, both knowing the time for splitting up had arrived. As they exchanged glances, Mackenzie calmly pulled out her handgun, the weapon almost blending with her combat medic uniform.

  Macaroni raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Hey, is it even legal for a combat medic to carry a gun like that?”

  Mackenzie gave a slight nod, her tone cool but confident. “It’s legal, but there are restrictions. I can only use it for self-defense or if I need to protect a patient. It’s not for offensive actions.” Her gaze was focused ahead, the weight of her words not lost on either of them. “If I ever need it, I’ll make sure it’s for the right reason.”

  Macaroni nodded, processing the information. She couldn’t help but feel that having someone like Mackenzie by her side, even with those rules, was a reassuring asset.

  The two split off, moving in opposite directions. Macaroni slipped into the shadows of the dimly lit hall, her boots light against the cold stone floor. Her eyes darted toward the outside of the fort, where the muffled sounds of the wind howled through cracks in the walls. She quickly made her way outside, creeping toward the waterline, knowing it was time to find a solid plan for escape.

  As she reached the dock, she spotted several rowboats tethered to the wooden pier. At first glance, it seemed like a viable option. But as she inspected the boats, a sense of unease crept over her. Rowboats, even in the best circumstances, were slow and vulnerable. They’d be sitting ducks in the water, easy targets for anyone with a decent line of sight. The last thing they needed was to be stranded or pinned down in an exposed position. With a quick shake of her head, Macaroni turned and made her way back toward the heart of the compound, determined to find something more reliable.

  A few minutes later, she met back up with Mackenzie, who had a satisfied gleam in her eyes.

  “I found it,” Mackenzie said, the words almost a whisper as she gestured toward a heavily armored vehicle parked a short distance away. The vehicle was a far cry from the rowboats, boasting thick plating and a mounted gun on the roof—an ideal choice for their escape.

  Macaroni grinned. “That’s exactly what we need. Armor, firepower, and a means to get out of here quickly. Let’s make sure it’s operational and get moving.”

  After securing the armored vehicle, Macaroni and Mackenzie knew that the next phase of their plan was crucial—ensuring a clean and undisturbed getaway. Their plan wasn’t just about escaping; it was about ensuring that the enemy would have a long time before they could react.

  The pair moved quickly but carefully, slipping through the shadows toward the parked enemy vehicles. These weren’t just any ordinary vehicles; they were well-maintained military transport trucks and armored jeeps, each one capable of putting up a serious chase if the enemy gave pursuit. But Macaroni and Mackenzie weren’t just thinking about the here and now—they were thinking ahead, calculating every move to buy their group precious time. They needed to sabotage these vehicles in a way that would leave the enemy scrambling for repairs, allowing them a massive head start before the alarm was even fully raised.

  “I’m thinking tires first,” Macaroni whispered, looking over a jeep. “Slashing them might be too obvious—let’s mess with the brake lines. That’ll take them longer to spot and fix, but they won’t be able to go anywhere without realizing something’s wrong.”

  Mackenzie gave a sharp nod, already pulling out tools from the small kit she’d brought along. “That’ll work. I’ll go for the engine components. If we disable their ability to start, they’ll be dead in the water. A few wires cut here and there should do it.”

  They split up, working with precision. Every action was deliberate, aimed at creating maximum chaos with minimal effort. Macaroni found the brake lines and expertly severed them, ensuring that the damage wouldn’t be immediately obvious. Meanwhile, Mackenzie went to work under the hood of a military truck, cutting wires, loosening essential components, and making sure it would be a headache for anyone attempting to fix the engine later on.

  As they moved from vehicle to vehicle, their pace quickened, but they remained cautious. Each vehicle was methodically disabled: tires punctured, brake lines shredded, wires disconnected, fuel tanks tampered with. It was a silent symphony of sabotage, a plan that would keep the enemy from getting their machines back into working order for a long while.

  By the time they finished, it wasn’t just a few vehicles that were out of commission; it was nearly every vehicle in the area. The enemy would be forced to scramble to get even one functional vehicle operational, and by the time that happened, Macaroni and Mackenzie’s team would already be long gone—miles ahead, hidden within the dense forests, well on their way to freedom.

  “They won’t know what hit them,” Mackenzie muttered with satisfaction, wiping her hands clean. “By the time they realize they’re stranded, we’ll be miles away.”

  Macaroni flashed her a grin. “Exactly. We’ll have a serious head start. If we’re lucky, they won’t even have the time to call for reinforcements before we’re out of range.”

  The two of them took one last look at their handiwork—vehicles completely immobilized, the enemy unaware of the damage done. With a final glance at the armored vehicle they’d secured, they turned and headed back toward their group, ready to execute the next phase of the plan.

  Mitchell and Sonata moved swiftly down the cold, damp corridor, their boots barely making a sound against the worn stone floor. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, sweat, and rusted iron, a testament to the years of suffering that had taken place within these walls. As they rounded a corner, they found Sam and Jack already at work on the heavy cell doors, forcing them open one by one. The clanking of metal echoed eerily through the prison block.

  Inside the cells, they found no sign of Julia. Instead, they were met with the hollow-eyed stares of political prisoners—men and women who had been deemed enemies of the regime. Some were gaunt, their ribs visible beneath ragged clothing, while others bore fresh wounds from recent interrogations. Among them, however, were several captured Little Birden Special Forces soldiers, their expressions grim but defiant.

  One of the Little Birden soldiers, a middle-aged man with a bruised face and a deep gash along his arm, stepped forward as soon as his restraints were removed. "If you're looking for Julia," he said, his voice hoarse from dehydration, "she's not here. Most likely, they took her to Schmerz."

  Sonata's brow furrowed. "Schmerz?"

  Mitchell exhaled sharply. "It’s German. It means Pain." He looked to Sonata, his expression darkening. "That’s not a good sign."

  There was no time to dwell on the implications. They had prisoners to get out. Mitchell motioned for everyone to move. "Let’s get these people out of here first. We’ll figure out the next step once we’re clear."

  They hurried back through the fortress, moving as quietly as possible to avoid alerting any remaining guards. When they reached the rendezvous point, they found Macaroni and Mackenzie Rose waiting by the armored vehicle they had secured. Without hesitation, they began loading the freed prisoners into the vehicle, ensuring the most wounded got inside first.

  Cadenza arrived moments later, slipping into the turret position and gripping the mounted gun. With a smirk, she pulled the charging handle back with a satisfying clack, ready for action.

  Jack wasted no time, sliding into the driver’s seat and working quickly to hotwire the vehicle. The engine started up, and just as they were pulling away, a massive explosion erupted from within the fortress.

  The night sky was illuminated by the fiery blast, and Cadenza let out a triumphant cheer. "Hell yeah! That’s their heavy weaponry gone! No way they’re giving chase now!"