From miles above, through the thick smoke blanketing the clouds, the two nations burned with the unforgiving flames of war. The regions closest to each other were the most ravaged.
Even the capitals weren't spared from the onslaught, each side hammering the other to see who had the stronger will to survive—a merciless trial of morale between the two states.
One was the invader; the other, the defender. This was no ordinary border skirmish, but a full-blown war masquerading as a special military operation.
Three years had bled past since D-Day, yet the conflict raged on.
Below, between gutted highways, charred refineries, and smoldering houses, the earth trembled under relentless shellfire.
The elegant arcs of the missiles' trails—a testament to human ingenuity—clashed with the carnage they sowed and the devastation left in their wake.
Occasionally, a formation of hulking suicide drones lumbered toward its target, only to fragment midair in a fireball or plummet to the earth, thwarted by electronic warfare.
Closer to the ground, fighter jets screeched low over the battle-scarred terrain, shattering the false silence of the battlefield.
Sonic booms rolled across miles like the war-drums of vengeful gods before the jets jerked their noses up and loosed a barrage of unguided rockets, then veered away sharply, spewing flares and chaff behind them.
As expected, missiles erupted from hidden launchers, streaking toward the jets—only to be lured astray by the countermeasures.
One missile managed to stay steadfast, locking on—but it missed its trajectory and detonated prematurely, triggered by its proximity fuse.
One jet took damage, its wings and fuselage scorched by the blast. Yet the aircraft held firm, shrugging off the attack with only minor wounds, and pressed on into the smoke-choked sky.
An hour later, the opposite side of the frontline echoed the same brutal rhythm—but this time, the attackers were not jets, but a pair of battle-worn helicopters:
The legendary Hind, the aging but lethal Mi-24. Same routine, same brutality, thudding overhead just above the treeline, pounding enemy positions from afar.
Accuracy was an afterthought; the message was clear: retaliation. Unguided munitions—crude, cost-effective, and devastating—remained the weapon of choice. Aim true, and they delivered hell.
Mini-combined arm warfare staged in various theater. Some areas suffered a total obliteration losing the entire columns of armored tanks and APCs—armored personnel carriers.
…
Time raced forward, bleeding into the fading light of sunset.
Somewhere along the frontline, The fighting erupted with unprecedented ferocity. The relentless pounding of artillery and multiple rocket launchers drew the most attention.
Breaking from the norm, today's attack intensified to a frightening degree, as if a breakthrough had been found.
The defenders deployed quickly, establishing a strong foothold and launching counterattacks to retake the lost trenches.
Across the line, small tank formations exchanged fire at a distance. Neither side dared to close the gap, particularly the attackers.
Nonetheless, the pressure mounted steadily without the slightest sign of easing. The attackers gradually gained an advantage—insufficient to sustain results but enough to achieve their intended goal: distraction.
The defense faction's commanders focused their meeting on deciphering the enemy's objective.
Twenty kilometers behind the smoke-choked frontline, in the urban sprawl, military convoys rolled down the roads, hauling logistics and supplies.
No one noticed the shadows slipping past.
A small formation had infiltrated successfully, bypassing trench checkpoints and patrols by exploiting the chaos their allies had created.
A twelve-man special operations team had embedded themselves in the ruins of a collapsed rail hub, crouching in total silence.
The members conducted full observation, careful to avoid alerting the enemy unnecessarily.
Their primary mission was absolute stealth—knives in the dark, striking at the perfect moment.
Stop. Sight. Smell. Sound. Scan.
An important technique, or TTP every military personnel knew in the tactical operation level.
They were Spetsnaz, or what remained of it after the unprecedented misuse of special forces in conventional battles.
The unit's former elite status had dissipated, yet they could still deliver a devastating blow when the situation demanded.
Armed to the teeth:
Kevlar helmets and vests
Ghillie suits draped over their gear for camouflage
Specialized clothing to mask thermal signatures
AK-12s and AK-74s with suppressors, optics, and night vision goggles
Unlike past wars—or wars against peer adversaries—their scouting and infiltration occurred during a strictly defined timeframe: neither night nor day, but the dead hours between.
The advent of drones—with their mass production at outrageous levels and efficient deployment—extended unmanned patrols' operational time, making infiltration nearly impossible without detection.
Thermal equipment also posed a threat during nighttime operations. Fortunately, these devices required batteries and consumed significant power, forcing users to conserve them whenever possible.
As a result, thermals were seldom used unless absolutely necessary to scan an area—typically only under the cover of night to spot enemies.
In the darkness, a person's thermal signature glowed like a blazing sun through a thermal lens.
The optimal window of opportunity was the brief transition between day and night, when drone patrols thinned and the likelihood of encountering thermal surveillance dropped significantly.
Furthermore, residual heat in vegetation reduced the equipment's efficiency before full darkness fell. Conversely, dawn's rising temperatures could overwhelm the sensors when sunlight worked against them.
The Spetsnaz team had moved patiently during this narrow window of opportunity. Yet sometimes, despite all their careful planning and training, success still came down to luck.
All it needed to take them out was a stray drone to detect the mishap and investigate further.
Having defied all odds to evade detection in the earlier phases, they now waited for full darkness to advance, ensuring their next infiltration would be easier.
This deep behind enemy lines, it was unthinkable to waste high-energy equipment on routine patrols.
Yet, the echoes of war never fully faded—disoriented soldiers sometimes broke formation, hiding among abandoned houses.
Occasionally, enemy patrols would hunt them down for interrogation or to eliminate even the slightest threats.
These stragglers stood no chance against mop-up operations, but the cracks of gunfire and distant booms served as constant reminders of the ongoing conflict.
Infiltrators still must remind themselves to not falter in the last steps. That was the reason for their wait for utter darkness.
BOOM! BANG! BANG!
CRACKLE! CRACKLE!
The shockwaves of distant artillery trembled through their bodies. Dust rained from crumbling pillars as loose pebbles danced across the floor.
They weren't the target. The bombardment came from enemy guns firing nearby—the raw physics of large-caliber shells kicking back against the earth. No surprise there.
The twelve operators didn't flinch at the background chaos. As full darkness enveloped them, they conducted final equipment checks: weapons, optics, suppressors.
The team leader signaled move-out. No words. Just compliance.
Only he knew their actual mission.
The others had theories—the specialized gear they carried hinted at objectives—but being kept in the dark left a bitter taste.
This was the old song-and-dance with intelligence spooks. Worse under an authoritarian regime.
"Operational security" just meant distrust. Maybe HQ feared morale would crater if they knew the truth. Or that soldiers might balk at an impossible task.
The team advanced away from the firestorm, halting at their leader's raised fist.
Total radio silence held. All communication came through hand signals. Their encrypted relay unit only transmitted one-way bursts at preset intervals—no responses, just updates from HQ.
Frequency-hopping sequences and pre-programmed logic handled any essential comms automatically. Made enemy interception a statistical nightmare.
If encryption was perfect, they wouldn't need such paranoia. But nothing ever worked flawlessly.
Every safeguard needed another safeguard behind it.
The leader gestured to secure the nearby building floor, and the operators quickly cleared it.
Two lookouts were posted to guard against intruders. Finally, the leader revealed the mission's objective: to locate and confirm the presence of the enemy's high command.
Everybody frowned, lamenting their future outcome even after a successful attack. Too risky to evacuate once things turned hot.
Naturally, the target wouldn't be some low-level or even mid-ranking officer. Only the highest echelons warranted such meticulous attention.
Intel suggested that several of the enemy's senior generals were hosting a small victory tour for allied generals—a showcase of strength and morale, meant to prove their allies' support was effective and were turning the tide, and to solidify their commitment.
The donated weapons' enhanced performance had staved off national collapse. Among the foreign delegation, key strategists aiding the enemy's defense planning were also expected to attend.
The Spetsnaz's goal was simple: eliminate them all. Decapitate the enemy's leadership and cripple foreign support. Deter further encroachment. They were a mere blade before the hammer struck.
More precisely, they were the designation team for a hypersonic missile strike launched from the border. Multiple Su-57s had already been loitering near the border since the last encrypted checkpoint update.
The team's only task was to confirm the targets' identities and laser-designate them until impact.
After the briefing, the leader turned to the sole female operator. "Valkyrie, take two men and secure the building 150 meters at our two o'clock."
The soldier nodded, selected her partners, and moved out, NODs active.
"The rest of us will advance along the flank. Use buildings for concealment if needed. We hold until Valkyrie signals. Understood?"
"Understood," the team murmured. As soldiers, they followed orders, no question asked even if they could predict their fate afterward.
"Davai. Davai." The leader comforted in spite of his similar low mood. No way the original extraction still fended fine.
Separated from the main group, Valkyrie's trio covered their sectors, rifles scanning key angles while maintaining spacing.
They crossed the road hugging the walls, avoiding light pools. Within minutes, they stacked up outside the target building.
Valkyrie's brow furrowed. Noise inside.
Not every structure held enemies... but any tactically relevant one would be guarded. If Spetsnaz identified this building, the enemy certainly had too.
She crept toward the entrance, pressing against the wall, and peered around the corner. Six men stood under a dim lamp, chatting and laughing. A few sipped steaming coffee.
Valkyrie glanced at her weapon—the SVCh-308, a designated marksman rifle chambered in 7.62x51mm, fitted with a suppressor, magnified optic, and canted backup sight. A semi-auto system, equally lethal at range or in close quarters.
Her teammates were better suited for room-clearing—their AK-12s would dominate here. Noticing her partners stacked behind her, she signaled with her free hand:
Five fingers, then one. Thumbs-down.
Six hostiles inside.
The operators squeezed her shoulder in acknowledgment.
Valkyrie yanked the curtain aside, and all three surged in. A staccato of suppressed gunfire cracked through the room.
The enemies barely had time to react—one managed a choked "Suka...?" before collapsing.
Six bodies hit the floor.
The third operator delivered methodical headshots to confirm each kill and turned off the lamp. Valkyrie swung her arm forward—advance.
Upstairs, she intercepted a roaming guard, driving her knife into his throat. Her teammates flowed past, neutralizing two more enemies. Floor by floor, they eliminated isolated threats—never giving the alarm a chance to sound.
The distant artillery thunder masked their movements. Without it, even their suppressed shots might have drawn attention. Of course, these activities were lit up on purpose by her allies on the frontline.
Finally, the trio secured the building. They split up, unpacking their heavy equipment. Valkyrie arranged her sniper nest inside the room—using the table for cover, completely concealed—with her laser designator within arm's reach. The other two took positions as rear guards, signaling their nearby comrades that the building was clear.
The nine operatives below acknowledged the message and advanced deeper into enemy territory. Valkyrie covered their movement, picking off sentries who might expose them. Soon, her teammates vanished from sight—their task now was close reconnaissance.
This "victory tour" would, of course, be discreet. No sane commander would parade high-ranking officers openly on a battlefield. Disguises and secrecy were guaranteed.
As expected, the team leader confirmed the targets' location and relayed the coordinates. These men were highly skilled enough to maintain stealth. Valkyrie glanced at her radio operator and nodded.
"T-minus 30," he announced before darting downstairs to secure their escape route. They all knew the odds—half of them probably wouldn't make it out. But no one spoke of it.
Focusing, Valkyrie powered up the laser designator, counting down silently. At twenty seconds, she flipped the switch.
"Painting target."
She steadied her aim on the designated spot, lips moving soundlessly:
Ten… Nine…
Then—a flash.
From her elevated position, she caught a glint of searing light in her peripheral vision. The dark sky split open—first on the left, then the right.
Two suns. Hanging. Growing. Probably hundreds of miles away yet felt so close.
Her stomach dropped. "Boss!" she barked into the radio.
Static hissed back.
"Boss, please respond!" She shrieked at her nearby comrades.
Then—impact.
The missile her team had called in struck—but wrong. All wrong. It wobbled midair, spiraled, and slammed into her building without detonating somehow.
Ahem… Ahem…
Coughing through the dust, she stared at the unexploded warhead embedded in the floor. The markings seared into her vision:
A yellow circle. Three black fan blades inside a triangle.
A tactical nuke.
Twelve feet away.
Why hadn't her laser guidance worked? Why this?
It didn't matter now. The result would've been the same either way—but for a nuke to land in her lap? Valkyrie almost laughed at the cruelty of it.
She barely had the time to mutter: "Chirt Vozmi." God damn it.
Then—white.
Her lungs never finished that breath.
Her last thought wasn't fear.
It was clarity and a small joke to amuse herself—this must be missile-kun or nuke-kun.
How had the world led to this result. She only longed for the world's peace. She didn't enter the military just to follow orders. She always had a grander goal, one hidden inside her inner child.
A pity, her life and her fight seemed meaningless. All her skills and expertise, worthless in the face of nuclear destruction.
The weightlessness. No more orders. No more uniforms. No more war.
Then—nothing.
No pain.
Just light.
So… this is death.
Amidst the huge explosion, her body came apart before her thoughts did.
Cells unravelled like thread. Bones atomized in sequence.
But her soul—if that's what it was—didn't leave. It lingered.
The nuclear shockwave reached her second. The light reached her third.
But the energy? That reached something deeper.
Something took root in the disintegration—something alive in the blast.
As her neurons died, they sparked a chain not of death, but transition.
Heat did not devour her—it translated her.
She didn't move. The world folded. And she was taken.
Not gone. Just... no longer human in the same way.
All of it happened within nanosecond. She had disappeared from the world along with the surrounding infrastructure totally devastated into oblivion.
A phantom pulse echoed in her chest—alien, mechanical, eternal.
And then, from somewhere beyond matter, a voice began to speak—not aloud, but through her, yet unbeknownst to her consciousness.
"Quantum resonance matched. Crisis Response System initializing…"