Reborn as a Girl?

December 25th, 2027 — 19:30 Hours

Rural Cabin near Allegheny National Forest, Pennsylvania

Outside, the winter storm howled like a wounded beast, whipping snow against the cabin walls. The trees shivered violently, bending beneath the weight of ice. It was Christmas night, and the world beyond the isolated woodland cabin seemed intent on burying everything beneath endless white.

Inside, however, the chaos was of an entirely different, warmer kind. Every available surface in the cramped living room, hallway, and even parts of the kitchen were piled high with gingerbread. Boxes upon boxes, bags of candy, icing tubes, and brightly colored decorations sprawled everywhere. Over ten thousand dollars' worth of gingerbread and an additional six thousand spent on sugary embellishments had transformed the cabin into a confectionery construction site.

Bruce Redford stood nervously at the bathroom window, large palms pressed gently against the cold glass. He stared outside, eyes wide with genuine worry, his voice a soft stammer under his breath. "P-please, strawberries... hold strong under all th-that snow. I-I promise I'll build you a greenhouse this spring, j-just like I said. Hang in there."

He stepped back slowly from the frosty window, turning to the sink. With exaggerated care, Bruce washed his massive hands, trying awkwardly to get them damp enough to work with the gingerbread. As he scrubbed his palms vigorously, he accidentally splashed water on his shirt and sighed deeply. His eyes inadvertently drifted upward toward the mirror above the sink.

Bruce froze for a moment, confronted by his reflection. He winced slightly at what he saw—the awkward shape of his large, slightly egg-shaped head, his overly broad shoulders hunched forward shyly, his gentle eyes reflecting years of insecurity. He'd been called "Hodor" by cruel kids for his massive size and limited speech. They'd laugh and shout "egg head" at him, poking fun at his unusual looks. It always hurt him deeply, though he never told anyone except Frank.

Gently, Bruce reached for the sunglasses hanging from the collar of his white t-shirt. Sliding them onto his face carefully, he offered himself a small nod in the mirror, murmuring softly, "There we g-go. N-now you're Neo, Bruce. You're t-the One."

Satisfied with his Matrix-inspired confidence boost, he lumbered out of the bathroom, moving toward the living room. Frank Armstrong stood there, his expression deadly serious, assembling an elaborate gingerbread replica of the Statue of Liberty with expert precision. Frank's fingers moved deftly, applying icing like glue, his eyes narrowed with intense focus.

Bruce knelt down clumsily beside Frank and picked up two large pieces of gingerbread, frowning deeply in concentration. As he awkwardly tried placing them together, they immediately collapsed into crumbs. He sighed heavily. "I-I'm sorry, Lady Liberty. Y-you're never getting your house now."

Frank glanced over, shaking his head slightly in amusement and mild concern. "Bruce, maybe gingerbread isn't your thing. You know, you've got the same problem in Warcraft. Your gnome warrior—Happyman—he's never gonna hit max level if you refuse to kill anything. You can't keep sightseeing on airships and avoiding quests. Azeroth needs a hero."

Bruce blinked at Frank with sincere confusion. "B-but Frank, Happyman d-doesn't believe in unnecessary violence. H-he just wants to see t-the world and m-make friends. M-maybe Azeroth n-needs pacifism too."

Frank sighed deeply, giving him a pointed look. "Maybe Azeroth would, but you're still never going to raid or hit max level that way."

Bruce, slightly wounded, retaliated clumsily. "W-well, you're never g-getting a girlfriend if y-you keep staring at every w-woman like they're a hostile t-target!"

Frank rolled his eyes gently. "Bruce, I'm not the one scaring away potential girlfriends. They see you with your giant hands and sunglasses indoors and think you're either a mob enforcer or blind."

Bruce's shoulders slumped slightly, his voice quieter now. "I-I thought the sunglasses m-made me look c-cool. Like the Matrix."

Frank felt a sudden pang of guilt as he saw Bruce's eyes grow watery. He quickly moved to Bruce's side, his tone softening instantly. "Hey, I didn't mean it, buddy. Let me help you with that house. Come on, we'll fix it."

Bruce brightened immediately, smiling gently as Frank carefully guided his large hands, helping him place gingerbread walls together delicately. "T-thanks, Frank. Y-you're the Samwise to m-my Frodo."

Frank chuckled softly despite himself. "Alright, Frodo, let's finish your house before you drop it again."

The two men, entirely absorbed in their delicate confectionery construction, almost missed the sudden, urgent buzzing from their phones. Bruce fumbled awkwardly for his small, battered Nokia—his enormous fingers struggling comically with the tiny buttons. "F-Frank, wh-what's going on? M-my phone's angry again!"

Frank calmly pulled out his sleek, high-tech smartphone and quickly scanned the alert. His face hardened immediately. "Bruce, we gotta move. General Redford wants us geared up and at the air force base immediately."

Bruce's face fell instantly, voice small and disappointed. "R-right now? B-but Frank, we're n-not even halfway d-done with the gingerbread city. W-we haven't even built the little gingerbread bakery or t-the tiny gingerbread people yet."

Frank shook his head gently, placing a steadying hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Bruce, you know we can't say no to this order. It's straight from the general—it's important."

Bruce nodded slowly, resigned yet hopeful. "O-okay, Frank. B-but can we finish it after the m-mission?"

Frank squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Yeah, Bruce. I promise we'll finish building the gingerbread city afterward. And we'll even build it bigger and better than last year. Maybe we'll use Chad's—"

Bruce's eyes lit up immediately, voice booming with sudden excitement. "Chad's secret base! Y-yeah! He's got that huge Batman cave underground! W-we could build the biggest g-gingerbread Gotham ever—"

Frank quickly interrupted, voice sharp yet gentle. "Bruce! Remember, Chad's base is secret. You can't talk about it out loud. Chad—the Punisher—doesn't like when people spill secrets. He's like evil Santa Claus; he'll punish you for being naughty."

Bruce's eyes widened dramatically, mouth clamping shut tightly. He whispered quickly, mortified, "S-sorry, Frank! I-I'll never say it again. Secrets are s-secret!"

Frank nodded approvingly. "Good. Now gear up. We've got work to do."

Bruce brightened instantly, placing Happygun gently over his broad shoulder, cradling it as one might a cherished pet. "Y-you hear that, buddy? Time to put on your best stickers and shine."

Frank moved efficiently toward the hallway, flipping a concealed switch on the wooden wall. A panel hummed quietly as it slid aside, revealing a reinforced steel door. He quickly keyed in a code—fingers moving swiftly and accurately—and the door beeped softly before opening with a mechanical sigh.

They descended down a short, dimly lit staircase that led into their heavily reinforced garage—a space that looked like it belonged more to a military outpost than a suburban cabin. Steel shelves lined every wall, loaded meticulously with crates of ammunition, tactical gear, spare parts, and neatly maintained weapons. Racks of body armor, helmets, exoskeleton components, and specialized gadgets were illuminated by stark overhead LED lights.

At the center stood their pride and joy—a large, heavily modified armored SUV, plated like a Mad Max war machine. Its sides bore thick steel plating and bulletproof windows reinforced with mesh. The hood sported a reinforced grill, and thick steel bars lined the front and rear bumpers, capable of breaching barricades without hesitation. Tires rugged enough for combat bore traces of mud and grime, showing signs of frequent use—not just in missions, but even during mundane grocery runs.

Bruce gazed lovingly at their armored vehicle. "T-the War Wagon," he whispered reverently. "My precious."

Frank shot him a dry glance, shaking his head as he quickly pulled on his tactical vest. Frank's armor was utilitarian—sleek, minimalist, optimized purely for efficiency and practicality. A simple patch displaying the American flag was the only adornment he allowed himself.

Bruce, in sharp contrast, eagerly strapped himself into his custom exoskeleton—a hulking piece of advanced military technology carefully modified to fit his massive frame. On his chest armor were colorful stickers: a smiling Yoda declaring "Do or Do Not!", a fluffy white bunny giving a thumbs-up, and even a bold rainbow sticker because Bruce thought it might bring good luck despite General Redford's rants. The patch on his shoulder proudly displayed a goofy cartoon knight holding a giant sword with the caption: "Level 1 Hero".

Frank double-checked his rifle—meticulously maintained, sleek, efficient, and unadorned. He loaded fresh mags into his tactical vest, each move practiced and precise. Bruce meanwhile spoke softly to Happygun, applying a fresh sticker—a smiling gingerbread man—to its heavy barrel. "J-just in case, buddy," he whispered lovingly, "we c-can't leave home without you looking your best."

Frank sighed gently but said nothing, knowing how much comfort Bruce derived from his small rituals. He glanced over at Bruce, watching the larger man carefully adjust his sunglasses once more, checking his reflection briefly in the reinforced vehicle window, making sure he looked sufficiently "Matrix-like."

Finally, Frank tossed a pair of rugged gloves to Bruce. "Hey, big guy—gloves on. Let's move."

Bruce caught them clumsily, quickly pulling them on. "Th-thanks, Frank. Y-you always look out for me."

Frank shrugged slightly, giving Bruce a slight smile. "Somebody has to."

Bruce grinned broadly, carefully hoisting Happygun into the vehicle, securing the minigun lovingly into its custom mount beside the passenger seat. Frank slid into the driver's seat with practiced ease, initiating the ignition sequence. The heavy engine growled awake—a comforting rumble vibrating beneath their seats.

Bruce shifted in his seat, checking the passenger-side mirror nervously. "Y-you think Chad's gonna be okay out there, Frank?"

Frank nodded calmly, shifting gears. "Chad's Chad. He's probably already blowing something up."

Bruce nodded slowly, though his expression was troubled. "I-I just wish h-he was home. He c-could've come along, built gingerbread Gotham with us, t-then joined the mission."

Frank glanced briefly at Bruce, his voice reassuring. "He's probably out there right now, hunting terrorists to keep the peace on Christmas. Chad always works alone; you know that."

Bruce smiled softly, a hint of admiration on his large, honest face. "Y-yeah. Chad's like Batman. B-but scarier."

Frank chuckled softly, shaking his head as he guided the heavily armored vehicle out of the garage, snow crunching loudly beneath rugged tires.

They drove quietly down the secluded, snow-covered road toward the main highway. Outside, the forest was blanketed in white, the storm still raging fiercely, visibility limited by swirling snowflakes caught in the headlight beams. The road was deserted, isolated—a quiet stretch of woodland serenity, despite the chaos looming on the horizon.

Soon, they passed the side road that led to Chad's mansion, hidden deep within the woods. Bruce leaned forward in his seat, eyes straining hopefully toward the familiar turn-off. But tonight, Chad's property was completely dark, no lights visible, no vehicles present. Bruce's face fell slightly, disappointment clear.

"H-he's still not home," Bruce murmured softly, a note of concern in his voice. "W-wherever Chad is, I h-hope he's safe."

Frank reached out and gently tapped Bruce's massive arm. "Hey, Chad's the Punisher. Remember? He's always safe. It's everyone else around him who should worry."

Bruce managed a small smile. "Y-you're right, Frank. Chad's too scary to get hurt."

Frank nodded reassuringly, refocusing on the road. "Exactly. Now focus—we've got our own problems coming up."

Bruce settled back into his seat, glancing briefly at Happygun beside him. "Y-you hear that, buddy? T-time to save the world."

The War Wagon rumbled onward through the darkness, headlights piercing the heavy snowfall.

The armored SUV rumbled heavily through the snow-covered backroads of rural Pennsylvania, its powerful headlights piercing the thick curtain of snow. Bruce sat hunched forward, gloved hands anxiously gripping Happygun, peering through the windshield with wide-eyed anticipation. Frank drove calmly, hands steady on the wheel, the radio humming softly with staticky country music that neither man listened to.

As they approached the airforce base, the usually quiet road suddenly became crowded. Sleek black sports cars, armored vans, and heavy-duty military trucks were pouring through the main gates, forming lines toward the brightly lit hangars ahead. Frank exchanged a curious glance with Bruce, eyebrows slightly raised.

Bruce immediately sat up straighter, adjusting his sunglasses and leaning closer to the window. "W-whoa! Frank, look at all this! T-this looks like the Avengers assembling! Or m-maybe like something from Call of Duty?"

Frank merely nodded, expertly maneuvering their vehicle past armed sentries, through security checkpoints and onto the base. Soldiers saluted respectfully, recognizing the iconic armored SUV—the notorious "War Wagon"—and its famous occupants.

Inside the compound, the scale of the operation was staggering. Helicopters lined the runway, blades spinning slowly in the heavy snowfall, waiting for deployment. Two lethal-looking Apache attack helicopters were prominently positioned at the front, technicians hurriedly loading them with missiles and rockets, working with remarkable efficiency despite the blizzard conditions.

Bruce's mouth dropped open slightly, awe radiating from him as he stared at the bustling scene. "L-look at all those missiles, Frank! I-it's like Top Gun meets Transformers! Y-you think we'll be flying next to the Apaches?"

Frank shrugged calmly, steering carefully toward a reserved parking area. "Sure looks like it, Bruce. Whatever this is, it's big. Way bigger than the usual raids."

Bruce's excitement bubbled over as he spotted the other specialized teams arriving—elite figures clad in distinct gear stepping from sleek vehicles, their movements precise, confident.

First, the Specters emerged silently from their armored black van—ghost-like figures in advanced adaptive camouflage armor, faces hidden behind sleek visors, radiating a cool, professional lethality.

"F-Frank, those are the Specters! They look like Commander Shepard's team in Mass Effect!" Bruce nearly bounced in his seat, his enthusiasm childlike and genuine.

Next came the Grey Wardens, President Trump's favorite elite unit. Their imposing armor was thick and medieval-styled but clearly futuristic, ballistic plates resembling knightly gear, complete with heavy riot shields embossed with American eagles. Bruce stared in admiration. "T-they're knights, Frank! Like real knights! Trump even n-named them himself. I wish we had shields like that."

Frank chuckled lightly, keeping his focus sharp but appreciating Bruce's sincere excitement. "Shields would just slow you down, big guy. You already carry enough gear."

Ghost operatives, lithe and agile in tactical stealth suits, moved quietly past, weapons drawn and alert. Bruce grinned broadly, nudging Frank excitedly. "A-and look, Frank! Ghost Recon! D-do you think they use drones like in Wildlands?"

The sinister-looking Black Hand troops followed closely, their dark robes concealing hidden Kevlar plating, faces masked and eyes watchful. Then came Foxhound, agile soldiers sporting advanced cybernetic exosuits, moving with sleek predatory grace that seemed almost robotic. Bruce stared openly, whispering reverently, "Metal Gear…Foxhound. S-so cool."

Finally, the disciplined members of Task Force 141 exited their vehicles—strong, confident, and efficient, exchanging brief nods and sharp commands as they moved with practiced precision toward the briefing room.

Frank parked their SUV carefully, shutting off the powerful engine. For a brief moment, he stared ahead through the windshield, eyes narrowing slightly as he surveyed the unusually intense activity unfolding around them.

Bruce, still excited, barely noticed Frank's concern. He set his sunglasses down carefully on the dashboard, freeing himself from his Matrix-inspired confidence. He reached back, taking his custom ballistic mask—a high-tech piece of gear adorned with colorful stickers similar to Happygun's decoration—and pulled it carefully onto his large head.

Frank followed suit, slipping his own minimalist, advanced tactical mask into place, the internal HUD illuminating softly. Both masks fully concealed their identities, marking them unmistakably as the legendary Army of Two—famous yet anonymous heroes of a divided America.

Bruce adjusted his heavy mask clumsily, the internal HUD flickering to life with gentle, welcoming indicators. He spoke softly, almost apologetically, "H-hey, Happygun. T-time to look our best, right? J-just like Iron Man—except, y'know, not s-so flashy."

Frank chuckled quietly, his amusement tempered by a subtle tension now visibly creeping into his posture. He checked the compact heads-up display in his mask, the sophisticated optics syncing seamlessly with his armor's tactical systems. His voice was measured, quieter now, serious. "Bruce, something big is happening. They've never gathered all these units together before. Specters, Grey Wardens, Task Force 141... this isn't normal."

Bruce blinked beneath his mask, briefly distracted from his excitement. He glanced around more carefully, noticing for the first time the intensity of activity outside. Soldiers moved swiftly, loading ammunition and heavy weapons onto multiple Blackhawks, Chinooks, and even two menacing Apache attack helicopters. The sheer volume of ordnance—missiles, rockets, heavy machine guns—was unsettling, especially for such a severe winter storm.

"Y-you think it's b-bad?" Bruce asked hesitantly, his earlier enthusiasm slightly dimmed by Frank's seriousness.

Frank nodded slowly, eyes narrow behind his tactical mask. "Whatever's happening, it's huge. Look at all those helicopters and missiles. This isn't an ordinary mission. President Trump wouldn't mobilize his whole personal superhero force unless something serious was going down."

Bruce, trying to mask his worry, straightened his large frame, gripping Happygun firmly, his voice trying to sound braver than he felt. "W-well, we're the Army of Two, Frank. W-we can handle anything."

Frank's expression softened slightly, hidden behind his mask, his voice gentle. "I know, big guy. Just stay close and keep your eyes open."

As they exited the armored SUV, stepping into the frigid air, a petite young woman hurried quickly toward them, weaving expertly through soldiers and equipment with effortless agility. She wore military gear tailored perfectly to her small frame, bright blonde braids bouncing beneath her helmet. Her large blue eyes sparkled with obvious excitement, her voice cheerful and clear as she approached eagerly.

"Oh my gosh! It's really you! Frank Armstrong and Bruce Redford—the Army of Two! I'm Lili. I'm supposed to guide you to the briefing room." Her voice, despite her genuine excitement, was respectful and slightly shy, matching her petite figure and gentle presence.

Bruce, startled by her enthusiasm and sudden attention, froze slightly, eyes widening behind his mask. He recognized her immediately, his voice a mixture of awe and nervousness. "W-wait... You're Lili! T-the gymnastics champion! I-I've seen you win medals on TV!"

Lili blushed deeply, eyes wide with astonishment and excitement. "Wait, you know who I am? Oh wow—I never thought you guys would even notice me! I'm such a huge fan of yours. You're real-life superheroes!"

Frank chuckled softly, amused by the unexpected exchange, nodding politely. "Appreciate that, Lili. Thanks for guiding us."

Bruce's voice quivered with sincere emotion, nervously shy yet deeply earnest. "C-could you… maybe sign our masks? J-just real quick? I-I've never m-met a real celebrity before."

Lili giggled brightly, stepping forward eagerly, her petite frame dwarfed by the enormous presence of Frank and Bruce. "Are you kidding? I'd be honored! Here, let me—"

Bruce carefully bent down, the massive bulk of his exoskeleton creaking slightly as he lowered himself to her level. Frank followed suit, a subtle amusement evident in his posture. Lili stood on her tiptoes, quickly scribbling her neat, graceful signature across Bruce's armored mask with genuine excitement. She repeated the gesture with Frank's mask, smiling brightly, eyes glowing.

Bruce straightened up carefully, beaming with pure joy beneath his mask, his stammering voice full of genuine admiration. "T-thank you, Lili! I-I'll cherish this forever."

Frank nodded kindly, a faint smile beneath his own mask. "Thanks, Lili. Now lead on, we don't want to keep the General waiting."

She quickly nodded, regaining a more professional composure, though her cheerful excitement was still evident. "Right! Follow me. The briefing room's just inside."

As they moved toward the main briefing hall, soldiers and special operators glanced their way, whispering respectfully. Bruce nudged Frank slightly, excitement returning to his voice, though now tempered slightly by cautious awareness. "Frank, s-see how they're looking at us? We're like Batman and Superman to these guys."

Frank shook his head slightly, voice calm and professional. "Don't let it go to your head, Bruce. Remember—focus on the mission."

Inside, the briefing room was massive, shaped like a large university lecture hall, rows of tiered seating rising upward from a central stage. Elite operators filled the seats—Specters in sleek adaptive armor, Grey Wardens with heavy medieval-styled ballistic shields, Ghosts, Foxhound operators with cybernetic exosuits, Black Hand operatives in dark tactical robes, and the disciplined members of Task Force 141, all speaking in quiet, serious tones.

Frank and Bruce found seats near the front, their armored presence commanding quiet respect. Bruce settled Happygun carefully beside him, whispering softly to the weapon as he often did, "D-don't be nervous, buddy. W-we're gonna be fine."

Frank took a deep breath, scanning the room carefully, noticing the intensity and seriousness of everyone gathered. His gut tightened slightly, instincts alert. "Bruce, keep sharp. Whatever they're about to announce, it's something major."

Bruce nodded earnestly, adjusting the gingerbread-man sticker on Happygun with tender care. "R-roger that, Frank. A-Army of Two ready."

Frank leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing slightly behind his tactical mask as the room quieted, the lights dimming in preparation for the General's entrance. Every soldier, elite operator, and tactical specialist instinctively sat straighter, heads swiveling sharply toward the stage entrance.

General Walter "Bulldog" Redford strode into the room, boots clicking sharply against the polished concrete floor, his rugged face etched with decades of battle and steely authority. He took his place at the podium, scanning the room with a gaze that could have burned holes through steel.

"All right, settle down," he barked sharply. "Eyes forward, ears open—time is short."

He reached down and activated the large, state-of-the-art 3D holographic projector. The room dimmed slightly, and instantly, the glowing image of Fort Blackridge appeared before them, rotating gently to display its entire layout. The structure rose proudly from the virtual landscape—jagged stone walls, watchtowers bristling like medieval battlements, surrounded by dense forests and rugged mountain terrain.

Bruce leaned forward excitedly, whispering softly under his breath, "W-wow… It's l-like Winterfell, Frank."

Frank elbowed him gently, reminding him to stay quiet, though his eyes remained focused sharply on the detailed holographic projection.

General Redford cleared his throat, his voice low and authoritative, carrying across the silent auditorium with powerful resonance. "This, ladies and gentlemen, is your target—Fort Blackridge. Officially classified as an abandoned Cold War penitentiary, but as you can clearly see, it's a fortress. Medieval in style, fortified with towers and walls, complete with a suspected underground network."

A few murmurs arose among the gathered operators, prompting the general to raise his hand sharply, silencing them instantly.

"I assure you," he continued, his voice stern but reassuring, "this is nothing you haven't faced before. This fortress currently hosts a dangerous gathering—the leaders of America's three most infamous criminal syndicates: The Black Brotherhood, the Musicians Cartel, and the Crown Boys. Alongside these dangerous criminals, we suspect that high-ranking politicians sympathetic to their cause might be present. But most crucially, intel strongly indicates the presence of innocent hostages—trafficking victims, held against their will inside."

Bruce's eyes widened dramatically, his gloved hands anxiously gripping Happygun tightly. Frank noticed, placing a steadying hand discreetly on Bruce's shoulder, silently reassuring him.

The general continued, stepping slightly closer to the holographic projection. "Here's how we'll handle it: fast, decisive, overwhelming air assault. We have Apaches armed to the teeth with missiles and rockets ready to neutralize their outer defenses first. Simultaneously, our Blackhawks, Little Birds, and three Chinooks will move swiftly to deploy you directly into the courtyard area. You'll disembark immediately and push inside, eliminating or capturing hostile targets, and most importantly, rescuing those hostages."

His voice grew even more serious, tone dropping slightly. "Now understand clearly—this is Vermont territory, one of the blue states openly hostile to our American values. Just like New York, Vermont's roads and borders are barricaded by woke militia forces composed of unemployed radicals, state-welfare recipients, and college dropouts who prefer protesting over working."

A brief, frustrated murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled ranks.

"These blue-state militias are particularly volatile, especially the Furries," the General added, visibly scowling. "They're triggered instantly into hostility if they so much as glimpse an American flag. And let's not forget the Karens—God help us—the Karens. They'll scream accusations of fascism and racism if you even breathe patriotically in their vicinity. While they seldom attack physically, their verbal harassment can compromise operational secrecy."

Frank exchanged a quick, incredulous glance with Bruce, who whispered nervously, "F-furries? Karens? I-is this real life, Frank?"

Frank merely shook his head slowly, refocusing on the General's serious expression.

"Given this situation," Redford continued sharply, "there is no chance of land-based reinforcements. We cannot risk igniting a ground conflict on state borders. You are strictly airborne. Get in, secure the hostages, neutralize threats, and extract immediately."

He paused dramatically, scanning the room slowly, locking eyes briefly with Frank and Bruce, his gaze firm and resolute. "This mission comes directly from the President himself. President Trump personally authorized your actions. You're his chosen forces—his Task Force Liberty—the best of the best. You are America's Justice Corps. He trusts you to handle threats others can't."

Bruce's eyes lit up beneath his mask, whispering enthusiastically to Frank, "W-we're officially superheroes now, Frank! Task Force Liberty—th-that sounds so cool."

Frank allowed himself a slight smirk, but quickly returned to attention as the General raised his voice again.

"Make no mistake, soldiers," General Redford declared passionately. "Tonight, you're not just fighting gangsters or terrorists. You're defending the very soul of this great nation. Fail tonight, and the woke rainbow flag replaces our proud stars and stripes. We will never let America become a communist state ruled by unpatriotic radicals. We will never submit to these traitors and their corrupt politicians."

He paused briefly, his voice lowering reverently. "God watches over us tonight, soldiers. Fight with honor, courage, and conviction. Protect our nation, save those innocents, and strike fear into the hearts of those who would destroy our freedom."

He stood tall, saluting sharply. "Good luck, and Godspeed. Now gear up—Task Force Liberty, it's time to make your country proud."

The room immediately erupted into disciplined motion, soldiers quickly standing and filing out toward their respective helicopters. Bruce stood carefully, hoisting Happygun with gentle reverence, clearly inspired by the General's words. "W-we won't let you down, sir!"

General Redford nodded solemnly, turning to leave the stage, his boots clicking sharply as he exited with confident, decisive strides.

Frank exchanged a long glance with Bruce, his expression serious. "Ready for this, big guy?"

Bruce nodded earnestly, adjusting his grip on Happygun. "Y-yeah, Frank. It's time to s-save the world—just like real superheroes."

Frank smiled faintly beneath his mask, placing a reassuring hand on Bruce's massive shoulder as they moved toward their designated helicopter waiting outside in the bitter snowfall.

Then the cold wind hit sharply against Bruce and Frank's armored bodies as they stepped outside and began crossing the tarmac toward their designated Blackhawk. Around them, Task Force Liberty mobilized with practiced urgency. Helicopter engines thundered, rotor blades spun fiercely, and crews rushed to finish loading ammunition and securing equipment. Powerful searchlights cast elongated, dramatic shadows through heavy snowfall, illuminating the full scale of this unprecedented operation.

Bruce moved slowly, his eyes wide behind his custom ballistic mask, awe-struck by the chaos and grandeur unfolding around them. His large hand gripped Happygun securely, and he whispered nervously, "F-Frank, this feels j-just like an Avengers movie. T-there's Specters, Wardens, Foxhound, Ghosts—all the heroes are here. A-are we gonna be okay?"

Frank placed a reassuring hand on Bruce's broad shoulder, gently guiding him toward their helicopter. "We'll be fine, Bruce. Just stick with me, stay focused, and trust Happygun."

As they reached their assigned Blackhawk, they quickly climbed aboard, settling into their seats alongside a squad of other seasoned operators. Frank strapped himself in methodically, double-checking the secure harness. Bruce carefully positioned Happygun at his side, stroking the colorful stickers lovingly before securing the massive weapon firmly.

A voice crackled over the radio—the confident, deep tone of Captain Marcus Draegon, leader of the elite Grey Wardens and acting commander of Task Force Liberty for this operation. His voice held authority and calm reassurance, steady despite the approaching storm of combat.

"All teams, comm check. This is Warden-Actual, leading the spearhead assault. Specters, your primary objective is disabling enemy electronics and communications. Ghosts, take and hold those towers and walls—make sure no blue-state militias breach our perimeter. Foxhound, maintain overwatch. Task Force 141 and Black Hand, support entry and extraction. Army of Two, you'll follow closely behind us—be ready for heavy resistance."

The comms crackled with swift confirmations from each specialized team.

"Specter-One, ready."

"Ghost-One, copy."

"Fox-One, standing by."

"Black-One, explosives primed."

"141-Actual, locked and loaded."

Frank keyed his comm calmly, voice steady despite the adrenaline slowly building inside him. "Titan-One, Army of Two ready. Good to go."

Bruce hesitated slightly, then keyed his comm nervously. "T-Titan-Two, ready. M-me and Happygun are set."

The helicopter's side doors slid shut with a firm click, muffling the howling winds outside. The engines roared louder as the rotors spun to full speed, vibrating powerfully beneath their seats. Frank and Bruce exchanged a tense, silent glance beneath their masks.

Suddenly, the pilot's voice broke clearly through their headsets, sharp and professional. "Entering enemy airspace now—we're crossing the New York state border. Stay low, stay quiet. Avoid detection from blue-state militia patrols."

Bruce felt his stomach lurch slightly as the helicopter dipped lower, hugging the rugged, snowy terrain beneath. He glanced anxiously out the window, snowflakes streaking rapidly past the reinforced glass. His voice trembled slightly with nerves. "F-Frank, you ever think w-we'd be sneaking back into Vermont like this? A-after all these years?"

Frank's eyes softened beneath his tactical mask, memories briefly flickering through his mind—their shared childhood in Vermont, the mountains, forests, and simpler times before everything changed. "Never imagined it'd be like this," he replied quietly. "Home shouldn't feel like enemy territory."

Bruce nodded slowly, his tone quietly reflective. "Y-yeah… Vermont was always s-supposed to be safe. A-and now we're flying in l-like enemies."

The pilot's voice crackled again, sharp and focused, breaking their moment of reflection. "Approaching Vermont airspace—ETA to target ninety seconds! Get ready for rapid insertion, boys. Shock and awe."

Bruce straightened, gripping Happygun with determined resolve. Frank carefully double-checked his gear, ensuring every piece of armor, every magazine, every grenade was precisely in place.

Captain Draegon's calm voice returned, cutting clearly across comms. "Remember, all roads into Vermont and New York are blocked. No reinforcements can come by land without starting a firefight with the blue-state militias. We're airborne and alone, Task Force Liberty. Stick together, watch each other's backs. Grey Wardens are your shield—let us lead the way."

Frank nodded silently, grateful for the reassuring presence of the heavily armored Grey Wardens spearheading their assault. Bruce whispered softly, more to himself and Happygun than anyone else, "W-we're in good hands. T-the Grey Wardens are knights. T-they'll protect us."

Outside, the snowy Vermont landscape flashed beneath their helicopter, forest and mountains blurred by speed and snowfall. Ahead, Fort Blackridge loomed darkly—a jagged silhouette rising from the white wilderness, formidable and threatening in its silent presence.

Frank felt his pulse quicken, adrenaline sharpening his senses, instincts kicking in fiercely. His voice, steady and calm, spoke clearly to Bruce. "Stay tight, Bruce. Trust your training. Trust Happygun. We've got this."

Then they heard it, "Sixty seconds out," the pilot's voice crackled urgently through Frank and Bruce's comms, snapping their thoughts back into sharp focus.

Bruce's gloved hand tightened instinctively around Happygun, knuckles white beneath his tactical armor. He glanced nervously through the helicopter's side window, watching Vermont's dark, snow-laden forests rush past below them, shadows flickering ominously under the moonlight.

Frank leaned forward slightly, speaking softly, his tone reassuring despite the tension. "Stay sharp, Bruce. Stick to the plan. We'll be fine."

Bruce nodded quickly, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him. "I-I trust you, Frank. J-just... keep an eye on Happygun, okay?"

"Always," Frank answered calmly, his voice steady and reassuring beneath his mask.

The helicopter formation dipped even lower, hugging the tree line, their powerful rotors sending flurries of snow swirling violently in their wake. Bruce and Frank exchanged a tense glance behind their masks, each taking a slow, steady breath.

Then, abruptly, the calm shattered.

A shrill warning pierced the comms, panic lacing the pilot's voice. "Missile lock! Enemy fire incoming! Defensive maneuvers now!"

Frank felt his gut clench as the pilot banked the Blackhawk sharply, sending the occupants lurching sideways against their harnesses. Through the windows, flashes of fiery light illuminated the dark, snow-filled skies as missiles streaked upward from hidden emplacements below.

And then suddenly one of the Apache gunships exploded violently nearby, spinning wildly as flaming debris showered across the formation, vanishing into the snowstorm. Screams erupted over the comms—urgent, desperate.

"Echo-3 is hit! Echo-3 going down!"

A Chinook suddenly erupted in flames, its heavy frame plummeting earthward like a comet trailing fire and smoke. Bruce stared in horror, hands trembling uncontrollably. "F-Frank! T-this isn't right—they knew we were coming!"

Frank's voice was a growl, sharp with realization. "It's an ambush—they were waiting for us, and clearly someone's been arming them with more than just the usual things you can bye out of your local gun store."

Another missile streaked past their Blackhawk, close enough for Bruce to see the bright glare through the cabin window. Before he could react, a deafening explosion rocked them violently, their helicopter bucking sharply sideways.

"We're hit! Tail rotor damaged! I'm losing control!" the pilot's voice broke frantically through the headset.

Frank shouted sharply, instantly commanding authority. "Brace! Brace for impact!"

Bruce clutched Happygun desperately, eyes wide with fear as the helicopter spun uncontrollably, alarms screaming inside the cabin. Soldiers around them shouted, bracing helplessly. The helicopter plummeted sharply, descending into the heart of Fort Blackridge like a wounded bird.

"Ten seconds! Impact imminent!" the pilot yelled desperately.

Frank locked eyes with Bruce, his voice fierce and protective. "Hold tight, Bruce! Don't let go!"

Bruce nodded frantically, his voice barely a whisper. "N-never."

The Blackhawk slammed violently into the stone walls surrounding Fort Blackridge, metal shrieking as the helicopter bounced brutally, spinning mid-air, then crashing down into the fortress courtyard. The impact shattered the aircraft's frame, sparks and debris erupting wildly around them.

The cabin spun chaotically, men thrown violently from their seats, harnesses snapping under the brutal force. Soldiers were tossed like rag dolls, bodies breaking against bulkheads, cries cut short abruptly by deadly impacts. Bruce's massive frame slammed into the cabin wall, knocking the breath from him, vision blacking out momentarily.

Then silence.

Slowly, painfully, Frank opened his eyes, vision blurred and distorted. The wreckage was twisted, steel bent grotesquely around him, smoke and sparks filling the cabin. Soldiers lay unmoving, lifeless, their bodies broken, helmets cracked, limbs twisted awkwardly.

He tasted blood in his mouth, grimacing sharply as he forced himself upright. Pain radiated through every muscle, every bone.

"Bruce?" Frank called weakly, voice hoarse. "Bruce, are you alive?"

Across the cabin, Bruce stirred slightly, groaning softly. He slowly raised his massive head, his visor cracked but intact, eyes unfocused beneath the mask. "F-Frank? What… h-happened?"

Frank moved unsteadily, crawling painfully toward Bruce, relief flooding him. "Seems we survived the crash. And they just ambushed us with some heavy duty military Russian anti-air hardware by the looks of it."

Bruce looked around weakly, eyes widening in horror at the broken bodies around them. "I-is anyone else…?"

Frank shook his head slowly, jaw clenched. "It's just us now."

Outside, through twisted metal and shattered glass, gunfire erupted fiercely, punctuated by explosions and frantic shouts. Frank's senses sharpened rapidly, adrenaline cutting sharply through the dull ache of his battered body. Smoke billowed through the Blackhawk's wreckage, electrical sparks flickering wildly in the darkness.

Frank forced himself onto his feet, using the twisted hull for support. "Bruce, up! We have to help the others—they're getting slaughtered out there."

Bruce staggered upright, his huge frame unsteady but intact, gripping Happygun tightly as if it were a lifeline. Strangely enough, despite the chaos, Bruce appeared calmer now that his boots were back on solid ground. He exhaled deeply, finding an odd sense of peace in the familiar weight of the minigun. "O-okay, Frank. I'm r-ready now. J-just tell me where to point Happygun."

As they cautiously approached the damaged helicopter doors, a sudden deafening explosion ripped through the air mere yards away. Another Blackhawk, engulfed in flames, slammed brutally into the courtyard beside them, debris scattering violently as its fuel tanks detonated in a furious fireball. The shockwave knocked both men backward against the wreckage, rattling their bones and scattering sparks and twisted metal around them.

Bruce blinked through the smoke, horror dawning in his eyes. "F-Frank, everyone's d-dying out there. T-the whole squad—"

Frank keyed his comm desperately, voice tight with urgency. "Titan-One to all units! Respond! Anyone, come in!"

Only harsh static answered him. The realization hit Frank like a physical blow. Either their comrades were dead, or their communications had been utterly destroyed in the chaos.

Frank clenched his fists, a cold rage seizing him. "Dammit! They set us up. General Redford didn't mention a damn thing about this kind of heavy resistance. Anti-aircraft missiles, and who knows how many hundreds of tactically armed and armoured gangster's—this isn't just some typical gang base. This is a fucking heavily garrisoned fortress."

Bruce, surprisingly calm amidst the chaos, glanced at Frank, concern filling his voice. "W-what about the hostages, Frank? W-we have to help them. T-they're counting on us."

Frank nodded sharply, focusing himself, drawing strength from Bruce's unwavering sincerity. "You're right. Mission hasn't changed—we save those people."

But as they stepped cautiously out of their Blackhawk's wreckage, gunfire exploded viciously from every direction—walls, watchtowers, and rooftops lighting up with muzzle flashes. Bullets screamed past them, ricocheting violently off twisted metal, forcing both men immediately back into cover inside the shattered helicopter frame.

Bruce crouched low, his voice slightly panicked but determined. "T-They're everywhere! Frank, I-I can't even s-see where they're shooting from!"

Frank quickly adjusted his position, calmly pinpointing enemy locations through his tactical HUD. "Top left tower, right battlements—multiple hostiles! Bruce, we need suppressive fire—now!"

Bruce took a deep breath, bracing himself. He leaned slightly from cover, aiming Happygun through a gaping hole in the helicopter's torn fuselage. He squeezed the trigger, and the minigun roared violently to life, an ear-splitting torrent of bullets cutting viciously through the courtyard, shredding stone, metal, and human bodies alike. Enemy combatants, unprepared for the devastating onslaught, screamed and fell, their bodies brutally torn apart.

A truck suddenly appeared from the darkness, its mounted heavy machine gun swiveling ominously toward their position. Bruce instinctively swung Happygun around, adrenaline surging sharply. "N-not today!" he shouted defiantly, letting loose another devastating barrage. The truck exploded spectacularly, flames erupting skyward as bodies scattered in all directions, obliterated instantly by Happygun's overwhelming firepower.

Frank moved quickly, calmly, his movements precise and lethal. Rifle raised, he took careful, rapid shots, dropping Crown Boy snipers hidden on the battlements above with deadly accuracy. Unlike the other gangs, the Crown Boys moved tactically, disciplined, carefully aiming and firing from cover, engaging in a controlled and deadly exchange of fire.

In stark contrast, the Black Brotherhood stormed suicidally into the open courtyard, rifles raised haphazardly, screaming anti-police slogans with reckless abandon. "Come get us, pigs! We'll die before surrender!"

Bruce aimed shakily at them, almost reluctant. "W-why won't they t-take cover, Frank? It's l-like they want to get shot!"

Frank's voice was grim as he returned fire steadily. "Fanatics, Bruce. They think martyrdom makes them heroes."

The Musicians Cartel joined the chaotic fray, wildly waving Mexican flags and shouting furious slogans in Spanish as they charged recklessly. "¡Mátalos! Die gringos!"

Bruce glanced nervously at Frank, a slight edge of comic disbelief in his voice even amidst the chaos. "F-Frank, t-this feels like the Alamo. W-we're defending our l-little broken helicopter like it's our fortress."

Frank allowed himself a tight smirk beneath his mask. "Then let's give them a fight they'll remember."

Bruce nodded earnestly, steeling himself and firing another roaring burst from Happygun, tearing through cartel fighters, sending them scattering in panic. Frank continued picking precise targets, moving with disciplined precision, his anger and betrayal fueling a cold, lethal efficiency.

Above them, the disciplined Crown Boys kept up relentless sniper fire, their ranks small but lethal, clearly occupied with finishing off whatever remained of the other special forces operators outside the walls. Each crack of their rifles forced Frank and Bruce back behind cover, pinning them inside the shattered helicopter wreckage.

Frank cursed sharply, reloading swiftly. "We can't stay pinned down, Bruce. We need to find a way inside and rescue the hostages."

Bruce nodded quickly, gripping Happygun with renewed determination. "Y-you lead, Frank. I'll f-follow."

But before they could move more gunfire tore relentlessly through the shattered courtyard, bullets ricocheting dangerously close as Frank and Bruce crouched behind the twisted metal of their crashed Blackhawk. Frank cursed sharply, quickly reloading his rifle while Bruce held Happygun tight, his massive chest heaving from adrenaline and smoke-filled breaths.

Suddenly, a deep mechanical growl shook the ground beneath them, resonating through the chaos. Bruce's eyes widened in dread. "F-Frank, please tell me that's not what I think it is!"

Frank turned sharply, grim reality hitting him hard. From the opposite end of the courtyard, three heavy, modern Russian battle tanks rumbled menacingly forward, their turrets swinging toward the two men with cold, mechanical precision.

"Dammit!" Frank snarled. "They set us up, Bruce. There's no way these gangs got tanks without government help, those fucking bastards!"

Bruce shook his head stubbornly, unwilling to believe the betrayal. "M-maybe they just built them from spare car parts or something within their garages, or it's stolen or s-something! We can't lose heart now, Frank! W-we gotta believe in the government, I mean the Generals daughter just gave us her autograph so that's gotta mean something right. And besides we have to save the hostages, whatever it takes!"

Frank opened his mouth to argue when suddenly a deafening roar tore through the night sky above them. Both men looked up in shock as a sleek, private jet plunged through the snowstorm, flames trailing from its wings as it streaked downward.

"What the hell?!" Frank shouted.

With a catastrophic explosion, the plane slammed into the tanks, instantly obliterating them in a massive fireball that sent shockwaves rippling violently through the courtyard. The blast hurled debris skyward, scattering flaming wreckage everywhere and momentarily silencing the gunfire.

From the smoke and flames above descended a single figure, gliding down gracefully on a jet-black parachute. Frank and Bruce watched, stunned, as Chad von Richter—a man that was even larger than Bruce and who was known simply as the Punisher by many, although once he was known for other things like being the local football star in Vermont—landed heavily amidst the burning wreckage.

Chad rose slowly, his intimidating frame encased in futuristic black armor, reinforced with grey metallic accents. White skull motifs gleamed menacingly from his chest and shoulders, illuminated by the surrounding fires. His full-face tactical helmet concealed his identity completely, the emotionless skull-shaped visor reflecting the chaos around him.

Without hesitation, Chad drew a high-tech grenade launcher from his side and began methodically firing grenades into the surrounding guard towers and defensive positions, sending gang members scattering in fiery arcs of destruction. As towers exploded around him, Chad's amplified voice boomed clearly through his helmet speakers.

"I can't believe that you assholes didn't invite me to the party? No text messages or anything. like damn, even after all the missions we have gone through together in the past couldn't you two have at least tried to call me." he called, his deep voice edged with arrogant amusement. "Lucky I caught your armored monstrosity rolling past my property on surveillance. And good thing I planted tracking devices in your suits, or your dumb asses would be so dead by now just like all your teammates are."

Frank groaned audibly, frustration mixed with relief. "Damn it, Chad, you arrogant prick—always gotta make a dramatic entrance, don't you?"

Chad merely laughed, tossing aside the spent grenade launcher with casual disdain. "You're welcome, Frank. Now let's get moving before we get shot in the ass. I don't want to die here, I still got shit to do and millions to be made and jobs for the peasants to be created as well."

Bruce stood up shakily, eyes wide behind his mask, his voice filled with genuine relief and excitement. "C-Chad! You came! Oh I'm so glad, although I knew you'd come, m-man, like you always do!"

Chad shook his head slightly, his voice softening despite his stern demeanor. "Of course I came, Bruce. Someone's gotta babysit you two idiots. Now, move your asses. We'll grab a vehicle from the garages and get outta here."

Bruce quickly shook his head, determined. "W-we can't just leave, Chad! T-the hostages are still inside. We need to save them!"

Frank hesitated, now he felt unsure if there even were any hostages within the fortress to begin with. However he knew Bruce wasn't going to back off from this and so he nodded and said. "Bruce is right. We're finishing this or at least seeing it through, and who knows maybe there is a hidden exit somewhere down there within the heart of the fortress that we can use to safely get out from here."

Chad sighed dramatically, retrieving his large ballistic shield from his back and readying a high-powered combat shotgun. "You sentimental bastards are really gonna be the death of me. Fine. Let's do this—but if I get killed, I'm haunting your asses forever."

Bruce grinned beneath his mask. "I-I'll take those odds, Chad."

With a growl, Chad moved forward with unstoppable purpose, his heavy armored boots thudding firmly against the blood-stained concrete. His towering frame, encased in black futuristic armor adorned with imposing skull motifs, filled the hallway as he advanced. His massive ballistic shield caught incoming fire effortlessly, bullets pinging harmlessly off its reinforced surface.

Behind him, Bruce followed closely, Happygun humming steadily in his massive arms, the barrels slowly spinning, eager for battle. His breathing had steadied now, confidence returning as Chad's imposing presence offered an additional layer of comfort.

Frank moved with practiced efficiency along their flank, sliding smoothly behind cover made of steel, rifle precise and lethal. He fired short, controlled bursts, each shot dropping an enemy gangster with brutal efficiency.

As they slipped through the breached metallic doors, the heavy steel creaked ominously behind them. Smoke and dust curled inward through the shattered threshold like the breath of something ancient, swirling around their armored forms. The air inside Fort Blackridge felt even colder than the harsh Vermont winter outside—dead air, heavy with powder and the scent of decay. Red emergency lights flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced upon the reinforced walls.

"Move tight," Chad commanded, his deep, modulated voice resonating clearly through his helmet speakers. "Clear each room fast. Don't let them breathe."

Bruce nodded sharply, gripping Happygun firmly. "R-roger that, Chad. W-we got this."

Frank slipped ahead slightly, eyes sharp behind his tactical visor, scanning each shadowy corner as they advanced deeper. "Eyes open, boys. This isn't just gangs anymore. We're dealing with something worse."

The interior corridors bore grim signs of decay and defilement. Walls painted bright red were adorned with symbols of twisted ideology—hammer-and-sickle motifs crudely sprayed beside rainbow flags. Strange and unsettling, these images intermingled with the grim gang emblems etched deeply into the concrete, creating an unsettling sense of madness.

From around the next corner, footsteps echoed. Frank gestured sharply, raising his rifle. "Contact ahead! Stay alert!"

As they rounded the bend, gunfire erupted immediately. A small squad of Furries dressed in brightly colored animal suits appeared, weapons blazing wildly, their high-pitched battle cries mixing bizarrely with the chaos. Beside them, a pack of snarling small attack dogs wearing rainbow-colored collars lunged forward, barking ferociously.

"Get those haters!" screamed one of the Furries, voice muffled by their animal mask. "Destroy the oppressors for the animal god's!"

Chad growled deeply, clearly annoyed by the absurdity, and advanced relentlessly. "Seriously? Furries? You've gotta be kidding me!"

With brutal precision, Chad fired his shotgun, each blast knocking down a costumed attacker with devastating force. Bruce swung Happygun steadily, unleashing disciplined bursts that shredded the entire corridor, scaring away the small attack dogs, and sending a few Furries tumbling backward with terrified screams and barks.

Behind a pillar, two angry middle-aged women that were true Karens suddenly appeared, holding small handguns awkwardly, their voices shrill with fury as they pointed at the trio. "You fascist homophobic pigs! Stop right there, or we will blast your butt's!"

Bruce hesitated briefly, clearly confused. "W-what? F-Frank, what do we do?"

Frank rolled his eyes beneath his tactical mask, quickly aiming and firing two precise shots. The Karens dropped instantly, silenced mid-rant. "Focus, Bruce. They're armed; it's us or them."

Bruce nodded, taking a deep breath, adjusting his grip on Happygun. "R-right. Let's keep moving."

Chad moved forward again, stepping around the fallen Karens and Furries without hesitation. As they reached a narrow hallway intersection, Frank spotted movement in the shadows, then suddenly a Middle Eastern terrorist emerged from behind the corner, shouting incoherently, strapped in a suicide vest packed with explosives.

"ALLAHU AKBAR!" the terrorist screamed, his hand clutching the detonator tightly, but he hesitated to press the red button.

Chad reacted instantly, his massive armored boot slamming into the attacker, sending him sprawling backward into a small maintenance closet. Pulling a grenade from his belt and tossing it inside, Chad then swiftly slammed the door shut and yelled. "Cover!"

The grenade detonated violently, obliterating the small closet in a fiery explosion that shook the corridor. Dust and debris rained down upon the three men, who stood firm against the blast, their futuristic armor absorbing fragments of shrapnel harmlessly.

Bruce coughed slightly, his voice relieved. "T-that was close. Y-you okay, Chad?"

Chad turned slowly, the skull-shaped visor reflecting the flickering emergency lights ominously. "Never better. Let's move before they send more of these lunatics after us."

The trio continued swiftly through the narrowing corridors, their armored forms dominating the confined spaces. Frank quickly led them toward what appeared to be the central command room—a large, heavily fortified chamber guarded by reinforced doors. Frank gestured sharply. "In there. Let's breach and secure intel."

Chad nodded, raising his shield. "Stack up behind me. Breach on my mark."

Bruce stood ready behind Chad, Happygun spinning menacingly. Frank crouched slightly, gripping his rifle tightly. Chad counted down clearly, voice steady and powerful. "Three... two... one... breach!"

Chad slammed his shoulder forward, crashing through the heavy doors effortlessly, ballistic shield raised. Inside, Mexican cartel and black gang members scattered in panic, quickly reaching for weapons. In the middle a small dwarf wearing a red communist bandana and clothes pulled out a knife from beneath his shirt, but before the Dwarf could do so much as yell, "Oh hell no." Chad managed to fire a precise shotgun blast, dropping the Dwarf instantly. Then he aimed again and fired dropping more targets, while Bruce swept Happygun across the room tearing consoles and monitors along with human bodies apart, cutting through human flesh like a scythe through wheat.

Frank moved swiftly, rifle precise, systematically clearing remaining threats. Within moments, the room fell silent. Chad immediately moved to secure the doorway as Frank stepped quickly toward the numerous laptops and scattered documents on the tables.

Frank skimmed the intel swiftly, his eyes narrowing sharply. "Damn it... there's no mention of any hostages. I don't think they were ever even here. There's nothing but logs about ammunition, weapons, body armor—gear enough to outfit an entire army of at least 20 thousand people."

Bruce's shoulders slumped slightly, disappointment clear in his voice. "N-no hostages at all? Did t-they really lie to us about everything?"

Frank's voice tightened grimly. "Worse. We're being set up. Nobody ever planned for us to succeed. This fortress is a trap, a weapon storage facility stocked with Russian arms to ignite chaos."

Chad slammed his fist into a console angrily, voice edged with fury. "I bet they planned for you guys to die here. Martyrs for their agenda and all that. Typical government bullshit to gain more support for their law's."

Bruce's voice shook slightly, resolve firm despite the betrayal. "Well, l-lets keep fighting anyway, right? I mean we can't let all our teammates' sacrifices be in vain. We owe them justice, and besides all the people here are like bad guys, r-right? So let's clear this place."

Frank nodded firmly, steeling his voice. "Well I guess Bruce is right. And besides if we go further down, we might actually find a exit out of this place that will not involve us having to face the entire blue state militia army, I mean who knows how many of those bastards must be up there on the surface coming for our asses right now. Let's just move further down and take as many of these bastards with us as we can as we do so and find a way out of here."

Chad growled softly, gripping his shotgun tightly. "Damn just how did I get myself into this situation. You two idiots are so gonna be the death of me. But fine, let's just move and see what happens. At least if we're going down, we're doing it fighting like real men."

And with that the three moved forward, out of the room and within to the corridors and towards the staircase leading further down wards.

Chad took point again, his heavy boots echoing firmly against the metallic stairs as the three men descended deeper into Fort Blackridge. The red emergency lights strobed harshly in the narrow stairwell, casting surreal, flickering shadows across their heavily armored frames.

The silence was briefly broken by a loud, abrupt crackle as the fortress's intercom system came alive. A familiar, nasal voice filled the corridors, echoing sharply off the cold concrete walls. Bruce stopped suddenly, his head tilting in confusion.

"Wait—is that…?"

Frank nodded grimly. "Sounds like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez…"

AOC's voice rang out, firm yet condescending: "Attention, fascist invaders. This is Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez speaking. You are trapped. We have you surrounded by an army of brave, inclusive blue-state militia warriors on the surface. Lay down your toxic masculinity, your patriarchal weapons, and surrender peacefully. There's still time for re-education."

Another voice joined hers, older, more gravelly, unmistakably the distinctive Brooklyn accent of Vermont Senator Bernie Sanders: "What my distinguished colleague means to say is that your violent display of oppression ends here. The revolution against billionaires and warmongers like yourselves has arrived. Your weapons of war are no match for our progressive unity!"

Chad groaned audibly behind his skull-shaped visor. "You've gotta be kidding me. The hell kind of clown show is this?"

Bruce shifted uneasily, glancing nervously at Frank. "A-are they serious, Frank? Are we really surrounded?"

Frank shook his head, voice edged with cold sarcasm. "They're bluffing. Probably trying to demoralize us. Stay sharp."

The intercom crackled again, AOC's voice rising passionately: "We are building a kinder, gentler society down here—one where your toxic aggression has no place. Surrender now, and we'll ensure you're treated with compassion, given sensitivity training, and integrated into our woke utopia!"

Bruce glanced at Frank, confusion in his eyes. "W-woke utopia? W-what's she even talking about?"

Frank sighed deeply, irritation clear. "Just propaganda, Bruce. Ignore it. Let's keep moving."

Bernie's voice echoed once more, sternly chastising: "The time has come to end your imperialist reign of terror. Surrender your guns, and we will offer forgiveness. Otherwise, we have prepared multiple levels filled with fearless defenders ready to stop your fascist rampage!"

Chad laughed bitterly, shaking his helmeted head. "I'm really starting to hate politicians. Let's shut these idiots up."

The three moved down quickly, reaching a narrow hallway where the walls were painted a bright rainbow of colors, communist symbols crudely drawn alongside progressive slogans. At the corridor's end, a cluster of Democratic party supporters stood waiting—an absurd mixture of activists holding guns awkwardly, alongside snarling small dogs wearing rainbow collars.

Upon seeing the armored trio, the activists immediately opened fire, screaming political slogans and insults. "Die, you sexist, fascist, homophobic pigs!" one shouted hysterically, fumbling with her pistol.

Bruce stepped forward, aiming Happygun steadily. "I-I'm sorry, but we're not pigs. W-we're the good guys!"

He squeezed the trigger. Happygun erupted into devastating fire, the barrels roaring violently as bullets tore down the corridor. The enemy's defensive line disintegrated instantly, blood and gore splattering the brightly painted walls, body parts and shredded banners scattering everywhere. The small rainbow-collared dogs, terrified by the thunderous onslaught, scattered back down the hall with pitiful whimpers.

Chad nodded approvingly, a grim laugh in his voice. "Damn, Bruce. Guess negotiations failed."

Frank glanced down at the blood-slick corridor, his tone darkly amused. "Negotiations were never on the table."

As they moved through the grisly aftermath, stepping carefully over shattered bodies and shredded slogans, Frank's eyes caught sight of a tactical map displayed prominently near the stairwell entrance. He moved quickly toward it, examining it carefully through his helmet's tactical HUD.

"Chad, Bruce—over here," Frank said sharply, gesturing toward the map. "Looks like the main control room's just down this corridor. All the cameras, security doors, everything controlled from there."

Bruce exhaled deeply, nodding firmly. "T-then that's our target. Maybe we can find out what's really going on here."

Chad adjusted his grip on the ballistic shield, shotgun held ready. "Let's get it done then. But watch your corners—they've probably got more weirdos waiting."

Moving swiftly yet cautiously, the three warriors approached the heavily reinforced door marking the control room's entrance. The lights continued flickering ominously overhead, casting surreal patterns along the gore-streaked hallway.

Frank quickly moved to the reinforced door's access panel, carefully examining it through his visor. "Locked down tight. Chad?"

Chad nodded, stepping forward and positioning himself firmly in front of the doorway, shotgun braced securely atop his ballistic shield. "Stack up, boys. We're breaching on my count."

Bruce positioned himself carefully behind Chad, Happygun spinning steadily, his breathing calm and steady now. Frank took a deep breath, adjusting his rifle, ready to move with lethal precision.

Chad counted down sharply, voice deep and commanding. "Three… two… one—breach!"

Then the reinforced steel door shattered inward as Chad's massive frame slammed through, his skull-emblazoned armor gleaming menacingly under the harsh emergency lights. Immediately, a storm of bullets tore through the air, ricocheting violently against the Punisher's heavy ballistic shield.

Frank and Bruce surged in directly behind Chad, their weapons raised, sweeping the control room rapidly. It was large, illuminated by dozens of screens flickering with surveillance feeds. Around a massive central table, a gathering of familiar and infamous figures stood in shock, their eyes wide as death itself charged toward them.

Bernie Sanders was at the forefront, his distinctive voice booming defiantly. "You imperialist thugs! The revolution cannot be stopped! Socialism will triumph over fascism and tyranny!"

Beside him stood the three gang leaders—Saint Templeton, El Maestro Reyes, and Lord Henry McGrath—decked out in tactical gear, weapons drawn, faces twisted in shocked rage. Next to them, visibly panicked and frantically clutching a large handbag, stood Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.

Without hesitation, Bernie raised a pistol, firing wildly at the intruders. Chad took the rounds effortlessly against his shield, laughing grimly as he leveled his shotgun and fired a deafening blast. Bernie's frail form exploded backward, blood spraying across the console behind him, leaving the elderly senator a mangled heap of shredded fabric and bone fragments.

Bruce stepped forward, spinning Happygun's barrels up to full speed. The minigun roared violently, spitting a torrent of bullets across the room, tearing cartel soldiers apart in a storm of blood and gore. But within seconds, the barrels whined empty, leaving Bruce momentarily stunned.

"H-Happygun's out!" Bruce shouted, voice edged with panic as enemy fire forced him behind cover. "F-Frank, I'm empty!"

Frank ducked low, firing precise shots from behind a console, yelling sharply, "Stay in cover, Bruce! Chad, cover fire!"

Chad moved forward immediately, shotgun blasting relentlessly, dropping attackers in brutal sprays of blood. Yet even as Chad's fierce defense gave them momentary relief, the overwhelming enemy fire pinned them firmly behind cover.

In that brief lull, Bruce turned desperately to Frank, his voice shaking with sudden emotion. "F-Frank… if we d-don't make it out, I just—I want you to know you're my brother, m-my best friend. I-I love you, man. You're everything to me."

Frank turned sharply, locking eyes with Bruce, his voice firm despite the chaos around them. "Bruce, you're my brother too. Always have been, always will be."

Chad's voice echoed sarcastically from behind cover, cutting through the touching moment. "Holy shit, you two. This isn't Brokeback Mountain! Save the romance for after we survive!"

Frank laughed grimly despite himself. "Shut it, Chad."

But Bruce, driven now by something deeper than fear, rose to his feet with sudden determination, dropping Happygun to the floor. His armored fists clenched, eyes burning behind his cracked visor. "I-I'm sorry, Happygun. Please forgive me."

Frank's eyes widened sharply. "Bruce—what are you doing?"

Bruce charged forward, his massive armored body barreling into the enemy line like a runaway tank. Gunfire sparked uselessly off his heavy armor as he slammed through cartel soldiers, his powerful fists hammering them aside with devastating force. Bones cracked audibly beneath each blow, bodies crumpling around him in sprays of blood and broken limbs.

Yet, even as Bruce fought with a powerful, sorrowful fury, he kept apologizing repeatedly. "I'm s-sorry! Please f-forgive me! I d-didn't want to hurt you!"

Frank and Chad followed quickly, using Bruce's unstoppable charge as cover to fire precise, lethal shots. Chad's shotgun roared relentlessly, sending gang members flying backward. Frank's rifle barked sharply, each bullet dropping a target instantly.

As the fight neared its brutal conclusion, Chad spotted Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez cowering frantically beneath a shattered console, gripping a suspiciously bulky handbag tightly against her chest. Her wide, panicked eyes darted between Chad and the chaos surrounding her.

"Hey! You under there!" Chad barked sharply, leveling his shotgun directly at her trembling figure. "Hands where I can see 'em—now!"

Alexandria, voice shaking and high-pitched with fear and desperation, slowly emerged from beneath the console, rising shakily to her feet. Tears streaked her face, eyes wide and manic as she clutched the oversized bag tighter.

"You… You fascist monsters!" she shrieked hysterically. "You killed Bernie! You ruined everything we stood for!"

Chad cocked his head mockingly. "Don't worry lady, Bernie already went peacefully to hell five minutes ago, the place where he rightfully belongs and is surely happy to be within. So now drop the handbag kindly, please."

But Alexandria shook her head defiantly, suddenly revealing something large and metallic from within the bag—a bulky, heavily modified tactical nuclear device, a blinking red trigger clutched tightly in her hand.

Frank's eyes widened sharply. "Oh shit! Chad—I think she's got a damn mini-nuke!"

Alexandria screamed hysterically, voice cracking with madness. "If Bernie can't have his socialist utopia, nobody will! The revolution dies today—with all of us!"

Chad lunged forward instantly, shotgun aimed directly at her chest, yelling sharply, "DROP IT NOW YOU CRAZY COMMUNIST BITCH!"

Alexandria met Chad's eyes in a final, defiant gaze. With a trembling, desperate hand, she slammed her thumb down onto the trigger.

Chad in response instantly pulled the trigger of his shotgun. With a bang the shotgun blast erupted, shredding Alexandria's torso in a gruesome explosion of bone, flesh, and gore that splattered grotesquely across the command consoles and monitors behind her. But it was too late. The trigger fell from her mutilated hand, flashing a final, ominous red.

A deep, resonant mechanical hum filled the air, pulsing violently beneath their feet. The entire fortress shuddered violently, alarms screaming as consoles sparked and monitors exploded. Frank and Bruce exchanged a terrified glance as Chad turned back toward them, his armored frame battered, smoke trailing from his gear.

Bruce reached instinctively for Frank's hand, gripping it tightly in his massive armored fist, voice trembling like a frightened child. "F-Frank! I-I think this is really bad—"

Frank squeezed Bruce's hand reassuringly, his own voice shaking slightly despite his best efforts. "It's okay, Bruce—we'll get through this together."

Chad turned sharply, his armored form silhouetted by the chaotic glow of the room. He glanced down at Bruce and Frank, seeing them holding hands, eyes wide beneath his skull-shaped helmet. For just a moment, despite imminent annihilation, Chad let out a deep, exasperated laugh that echoed through his speakers. "You know, I always fucking knew it! You two are so goddamn gay!"

Frank managed a weak, defiant chuckle. "Shut the hell up, Chad!"

Bruce's voice broke slightly, nervous but defiant. "Y-you're just jealous, Chad!"

But before they could utter another word, the entire world exploded around them in a blinding flash of light.

The tactical nuclear device detonated with unimaginable force, instantly vaporizing the control room and all those within it. White-hot flames surged outward, tearing through corridors, ammunition caches, and hidden Russian missile stockpiles. The chain reaction spiraled uncontrollably, igniting every explosive device, every shell, every warhead buried deep within Fort Blackridge.

The mountain itself seemed to buckle inward, collapsing as nuclear fire erupted skyward in a towering, blinding mushroom cloud that lit the night brighter than the sun. The ground shook violently for miles around, the thunderous shockwave echoing like the fury of an angry god across the Vermont wilderness.

As the colossal blast swallowed them whole, in their very last instant, Bruce squeezed Frank's hand tighter, his voice a frightened but earnest whisper, childlike and sincere.

"F-Frank, I-I'm scared—will there be gingerbread houses in heaven?"

Frank exhaled softly, holding Bruce close, eyes squeezed shut behind his mask. "Yeah, big guy. The biggest gingerbread houses you can imagine. It will be like Gotham city from Batman but with everything made of gingerbread and sweets."

Chad managed one final, wry chuckle amidst the inferno, his voice mockingly resigned. "Damn you two—if I wake up next to you idiots in heaven or wherever, I'm so kicking your asses all over again just like back in school."

Then, in an incandescent flash of blinding nuclear fire, the Army of Two, Chad the Punisher, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Bernie Sanders, and every gang member within Fort Blackridge ceased to exist—reduced instantly to atoms, scattered upon the winds of a now-silent, devastated Christmas night.

But for Bruce it wasn't the end, but a new begining. A begining filled with darkness.

Cold, endless darkness stretched around Bruce, infinite and eternal, a gentle void with neither sound nor sensation. But somewhere far, far away, a single point of pure white light pulsed gently, distant yet inviting, like a solitary star whispering silently in the dark.

Bruce reached out desperately toward it—though he had no form, no hand, no body. Yet he reached nonetheless, with all the will and hope remaining in his soul, drawn to that fragile, beautiful point of light.

Slowly, inexorably, he drifted closer. The orb grew brighter, warm and brilliant, until he touched it at last.

And when he did, Bruce became the light. Warmth flooded through his consciousness, power and purity coursing within him. He felt himself reborn, renewed, fused inseparably with this radiant, gentle force.

But suddenly, the light faltered. Bruce felt something pulling him downward, powerful and irresistible, drawing him swiftly away from the comforting glow, into the depths of something unknown.

With a flash, he awoke again—small, microscopic, vulnerable—within a quiet, warm darkness. He was an egg cell, nestled among thousands of others, floating in calm tranquility within some unknown woman's body, peaceful yet profoundly confusing.

Then, with startling suddenness, visions flashed before his awakening consciousness—fleeting glimpses of the world left behind, visions of the future after his death.

He saw the great burning crater carved into Vermont's mountainside, glowing angry and molten in the snow. He saw the cold metallic gleam of a satellite high above the Earth, transmitting images down to a distant, hidden room far beneath the White House.

In that room, President Trump stood triumphant, a glass raised confidently in celebration. Vice-President J.D. Vance clapped with smug satisfaction, while generals and cabinet members exchanged joyful congratulations. Yet amidst their cruel celebration, Bruce saw a familiar face—Lili, the young daughter of General Redford. Her eyes were filled with tears, quiet sorrow etched deeply into her expression.

She whispered something inaudible, almost desperately, her lips forming the silent syllable of his name: "Bruce…"

Her father gently placed a hand on her shoulder, softly reassuring her, yet Bruce saw only sorrow in her eyes. "Don't mourn them, my dear," the general said kindly. "They died heroes—no pain, just peace and true American patriotism."

Bruce's heart tightened painfully, feeling a deep, inexplicable sadness.

Then, on massive screens behind them appeared two familiar faces: Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong-un, smiling triumphantly, congratulating President Trump on the great victory. It was clear in that instant—the enemy forces, the weaponry, even the nuclear device—all had been carefully placed, funded, and orchestrated by these powerful foreign allies to forge Trump's new empire.

Bruce's vision shifted again, images flashing rapidly forward in time:

He saw Mexican flags lowered, replaced swiftly by America's stars and stripes. Canadian cities fell under the shadow of the eagle, the red maple leaf torn away by armored forces marching northward. Soon, the entire continent was unified, under Trump's ruthless regime.

Then the vision darkened. War erupted violently between America and Europe. Nuclear missiles traced fiery arcs across the skies, cities consumed in blinding white flashes. The entire world descended into chaos—World War III engulfed humanity in fire and blood.

Yet from ashes and ruins, humanity slowly rose. Bruce glimpsed an orbital space station above Earth, crowded with humanity's weary leaders, signing treaties and agreements. Beyond their view, immense colony ships—monstrous and majestic—drifted silently outward, heading toward distant stars. Earth below was scarred, continents reshaped, oceans devouring entire regions—a broken world barely recognizable.

But the vision did not end.

Centuries flickered past in mere heartbeats. Earth rebuilt itself, protected now by vast orbital defense fleets, formidable ships stationed in high orbit like steel sentinels. Bruce felt hopeful—but hope turned swiftly to despair.

From the darkness between stars came a vast, nightmarish cloud—a living, fleshy swarm, countless millions of monstrous organisms drifting in a single, colossal, terrible fleet. It was enormous, larger than Earth itself—a ravenous, living storm of hunger and destruction.

Bruce watched in frozen horror as the orbital defenses were obliterated effortlessly, humanity's greatest warships shattered beneath the relentless, alien swarm. The living fleet descended upon Earth like a consuming storm, stripping away atmosphere, oceans, forests—every last trace of life consumed utterly.

Left behind was only a pale, lifeless husk, gray and barren, reminiscent of the moon itself.

Then with a violent jolt, the visions shattered, leaving Bruce suspended in darkness.

A cool silence enveloped him, infinite and empty, stretching endlessly in every direction.

But then suddenly, that void gave way to something else—a gentle rainstorm, distant thunder rumbling softly, the cool kiss of rain upon imaginary skin. Bruce blinked and opened eyes he didn't realize he possessed, finding himself standing in the middle of a familiar countryside—a peaceful, medieval landscape he immediately recognized.

It was Westfall—the gentle rolling hills, quaint farmhouses, fields and windmills from his beloved World of Warcraft world. Bruce had always found peace here, far away from Azeroth's battles. But today, the sky over Westfall was dark and brooding, heavy rain pouring relentlessly down, lightning flickering like distant fire.

Confused yet comforted, Bruce looked down and realized he was no longer a mere orb of light. Instead, he had taken on the small, sturdy armoured form of his World of Warcraft character—Happyman, his cherished Level 59 female gnome warrior. Looking at his own chest Bruce couldn't help but admire his characters strength that he believed were held within the peculiarly prominent "pectoral muscles" on her chest, something he'd always assumed meant she was exceptionally powerful.

Bruce had always thought that her pronounced chest and backside represented impressive muscles, proof of immense strength, intimidating and powerful. He respected those intimidating muscles immensely, despite his fundamental misunderstanding of basic anatomy.

Just as Bruce was contemplating his new gnomish form, lightning flashed violently, striking the earth mere yards before him. An explosion of light and sound erupted, smoke billowing upward. As the smoke cleared, Bruce saw a tiny cloaked figure slowly standing up, wobbling slightly in the muddy earth. It seemed like an infant, hooded in a dark robe resembling Medivh from Warcraft lore, a tiny wooden staff held firmly in his small hand.

The figure stepped forward awkwardly, white, fluffy wings extended slightly from beneath his cloak, each feather radiating soft, gentle light. This tiny being was clearly an infant, Icy blue eyes vast and innocent, yet radiating profound power, and long strands of golden blonde hair could be seen under his hood.

Bruce stared in awe, voice trembling with confusion and wonder. "W-who are you?"

The Baby God straightened himself, using his wings to lift gently off the ground. Each flap created powerful gusts of wind that rippled around Bruce. In a trembling yet mystical voice, the Baby God spoke softly yet firmly:

"Bruce… the sands of time for humanity have nearly run dry. You've seen the visions I shared—of humanity's rise, and its potential inevitable fall, and the darkness lying beyond."

Bruce shifted uneasily, feeling overwhelmed. "B-but... what does it mean? And why am I here, in Azeroth as Happyman?"

The tiny god floated closer, gentle eyes filled with solemn concern. "Humanity stands at the precipice. To avoid destruction, they must unite, and swiftly reach the stars—before the third millennium ends. To aid them, I've gifted you a small fragment of my power—the White Core of Creation and Healing. It holds the power to transform even the moon into a lush, habitable world."

Bruce's eyes widened, overwhelmed by the weight of responsibility. "B-but… I'm no hero, God. So why me? I'm no good, not in school or anything really. Usually I only helped people because Happygun gave me strength and Happygun and Frank usually did all the work. I-I can't fight like Chad, or I'm not smart like Frank or Albert Einstein. I don't think I will even know how to use your gift! I just know how to make strawberries grow and such things, I didn't even ever get Happyman to max level either."

Without answering directly, Baby God raised his tiny hands, releasing two glowing orbs—one vibrant red and another glittering gold. The orbs soared directly into Bruce's small gnomish body, filling him with newfound strength, courage, and toughness. Bruce gasped as the overwhelming power flooded through him.

Yet the act exhausted Baby God greatly. His tiny form fell to the muddy ground and stumbled, collapsing softly into the muddy earth before Happymans small figure. Bruce immediately rushed forward, kneeling gently beside the divine infant. "G-God! Are you alright?"

Baby God weakly grasped Bruce's gnomish hands, looking deeply into his eyes. "Bruce, you are pure of heart, truly kind, and good. That's why I chose you. Use these powers gently—heal the world after humanity's next war, nudge them toward a brighter destiny. Because I know you would never abuse such gifts. You understand, Bruce: with great power…"

"...comes great responsibility," Bruce whispered reverently, finishing the phrase.

God smiled warmly, nodding. But Bruce hesitated, confused and fearful. "But… God, what exactly am I supposed to do? Am I becoming Superman but with healing powers like a paladin or something? Or maybe I should begin forming a Justice League? Or no wait, what if I just become a nice doctor or a physiatrist and help people choose groceries or something? Hmm, although I don't know if I can as I'm no good at school. Except if your powers make me get better grades, you know like those kids with glasses."

Baby God sighed softly, placing one tiny hand gently on Bruce's armored chest—right upon his female gnome warrior's chestplate. He smiled gently, understanding Bruce's confusion. "Bruce, just do what feels right. Follow your heart. You've always understood kindness and empathy. Those are your greatest strengths. And just believe in yourself, because that's what real heroes do. And don't worry about Frank and Chad. You will return to December 25th, 1990—the day you were born. This time, you'll save your parents. You'll meet your friends again. Of course you won't remember anything at first, but you'll find eachother somehow and they'll be with you again."

Bruce swallowed, eyes wide. "B-but… going through school again, and watching my parents die again… I don't think I can handle it, God!"

God gazed deeply at Bruce, sadness and understanding filling his eyes. "Don't worry Bruce, this time you'll have the power to save them. Even disasters like the Twin Towers can be prevented. And you'll surely have a good life with many more fans of yours and supporters like that girl Lili, I think she really cared for you. I mean I quickly checked her web history and well let's just say she really did care."

Then Baby God's voice deepened slightly, mystical and foreboding, echoing through the stormy village. "The drums of war beat loudly, Bruce. Soon humanity faces an unimaginable storm of death and suffering. They must unite and join Heaven's angelic armies against Hell's darkness, so that the End war can begin. Humanity's survival is the key to creating balance in all of existence itself once more."

God's tiny voice softened again, filled with gentle uncertainty. "You are my chosen, Bruce, now bearing a part of my own flesh and blood. Only you can guide humanity. But I warn you—I do not know everything. I cannot see all futures clearly. I'm not all-powerful, Bruce. I cannot promise it will all work out."

Bruce nodded, taking a shaky breath. "D-dont worry God, I will try my best for you."

God smiled softly, eyes full of trust. "Just remember, real Heroes believe in themselves, Bruce. And through their own belief they inspire others to begin believing as well. You don't need all the answers—just believe. I trust you."

Then, in a soft shimmer of radiant particles, Baby God slowly faded away within Bruce's small gnome arms, leaving Bruce alone in the muddy, rain-soaked village of his subconscious.

As the storm subsided gently, Bruce glanced up—seeing a Level 14 wolf standing calmly nearby, an easy kill to potentially reach his desired level 60. Bruce hesitated briefly, then shook his head gently. "No, friend," he whispered softly, "I don't harm animals—especially cute furry wolves."

He turned slowly, moving away from the wolf toward the cozy inn nearby, where warm golden lights glowed invitingly through the storm.

Bruce paused briefly, turning his eyes to the stormy sky one last time, determination rising slowly within him. "I'll do this, God. I'll believe in myself, even if I'm a bit scared, but don't tell anyone I said that, ok."

With gentle confidence, Bruce stepped into the welcoming warmth of the inn, where friendly NPC characters awaited him, offering comfort with their dialogue, presence, and peaceful refuge from the storm.

Inside, he felt safe, ready for whatever awaited him—guided gently by the trembling, infant deity's hopeful trust and his own newfound belief in himself.

Now, as he sat within the inn, among familiar yet imaginary companions, Bruce awaited his new rebirth, resolved and calm, ready to face the unknown destiny that lay ahead—armed only with innocence, courage, and the quiet faith of a gentle, trembling Baby God.