Chapter 13: Unstoppable work
The skies above Iron Hill, Delaware, near the city of Newark. Known for its once-thriving steel mining activity, were a choking gray, smothered by the acrid smoke of artillery fire and the burning husks of vehicles. Once a proud hub of white folk, it now stood as a crumbling stronghold for the KKK militia, surrounded by layers of barbed wire, trenches, and gun emplacements. The Chitauri had come from the skies—tens of thousands in their wedge-shaped landing crafts—tearing apart the world's defenses as they spread like a plague across cities and countrysides.
Now, 145,000 heavily armed Klan soldiers stood as a bulwark within the city, their numbers bolstered by another 85,000 auxiliaries, including sympathizers and radical militias. Opposing them were 315,000 Chitauri shock troops, relentless and biomechanical, descending in waves as if the air itself carried their forces. The U.S. Army and National Guard remained miles to the west, focusing on defending Washington D.C. and major infrastructure, leaving the Klan isolated.
This was no government-sanctioned operation—this was desperation. The KKK, clad in improvised armor with symbols of hatred, wielded both modern and scavenged weapons, their lines bristling with modified M4 carbines, AK-47s, anti-tank missiles, and improvised rocket launchers mounted on pickup trucks. Their banners flew, both as symbols of their cause and as rallying points for survival.
The Chitauri advanced in tight formations, towering alien walkers with plasma cannons rolling forward while infantry units leapt through the rubble. Their command vessels floated above like thunderclouds, releasing swarms of drone bombers that darkened the sky.
As the final dawn broke over Iron Hills, the clash began.
The first volleys came at 06:43 AM. The Chitauri artillery opened fire from their forward positions, launching glowing plasma projectiles that screamed through the sky and erupted in bright orange bursts. The Klan's 155mm howitzers, salvaged abandoned military bases, returned fire. The ground trembled as hundreds of explosions shook the city's perimeter.
In the northern quadrant, the 5th Klan Battalion, numbering 12,500 men, dug into trenches reinforced with steel plates and sandbags, firing Javelin anti-tank missiles at the advancing Chitauri walkers. One massive walker, standing 18 meters tall, collapsed under concentrated rocket fire, but its explosion showered defenders with flaming debris, killing 47 Klan soldiers instantly.
On the eastern flank, the 7th Battalion, led by Commander Wyatt Grayson, held the, industrial corridor with flamethrowers and machine gun nests. Grayson barked orders through a loudspeaker, his voice echoing amidst the chaos. They faced 6,000 Chitauri drones diving into the factories like locusts, their energy beams cutting down defenders. Grayson personally led a counterattack, sacrificing 3 platoons—about 260-' 260-' 260-' xxx men—to push the enemy back by 600 meters before the drones reorganized.
The battle lines fluctuated wildly.
By 10:12 AM, the KKK began deploying their reserve forces—a mix of heavy armor and irregulars. The Iron Wolves, an elite 900-man armored division with 18 salvaged Abrams tanks and 12 M2 Bradleys, surged forward, flanking the Chitauri from the west.
The tanks fired 120mm shells, shattering alien formations, while the Bradleys raked them with 25mm autocannons. The Chitauri walkers responded with plasma mortars, vaporizing 5 tanks in quick succession. Smoke and flame engulfed the horizon as turrets exploded and shrapnel turned soldiers into broken forms.
Casualties climbed rapidly.
KKK forces lost 3,180 men by noon.The Chitauri suffered 6,400 dead, but reinforcements poured in from overhead dropships.
The city's main boulevard turned into a killing zone—4,000 Klan fighters entrenched behind barricades and overturned buses faced 10,000 Chitauri infantry, firing plasma rifles and deploying hunter drones that exploded upon contact. Combat engineers on the Klan side used improvised explosives, toppling buildings to create chokepoints.
Commander Grayson's second-in-command, Luther Calloway, led a suicide charge of 500 fighters, detonating explosive-laden vehicles inside a Chitauri formation. The detonation annihilated 700 aliens but left Calloway's entire unit dead.
By 3:00 PM, the air battle intensified. The Klan deployed Surface-to-Air Missile Systems (SAMs) and MANPADS, shooting down 32 Chitauri bombers and 14 landing craft. However, enemy reinforcements arrived via orbital drops, landing with massive tremors that shattered nearby streets.
The Klan's air force, composed of 43 stolen Apache helicopters and 17 A-10 Warthogs, provided strafing runs, unleashing hellfire missiles and 30mm cannons. They took heavy losses—8 Apaches and 3 Warthogs were downed within 90 minutes—but slowed the Chitauri advance long enough to reinforce defensive lines.
Over 12,000 civilian refugees huddled in the construction tunnels, now turned into makeshift hospitals and ammunition depots. Field medics treated wounds with scavenged supplies, and prayers mixed with the echoes of distant explosions.
At 6:45 PM, the KKK's eastern defenses collapsed. Chitauri shock troopers, supported by battle hounds—bioengineered beasts the size of rhinos—breached the lines, slaughtering 1,300 defenders in ,28 minutes.
Desperation grew. The Klan deployed chemical weapons, releasing chlorine gas through tunnels, killing 4,000 Chitauri but leaving hundreds their own men choking when the wind shifted. In response, the aliens launched orbital bombardments, leveling two square miles of the city and killing 8,000 Klan soldiers.
Commander Grayson, now wounded, ordered a final stand at Fort Ashfield: yes he named it after his home town, the city's last stronghold. He issued a call to all remaining forces—19,000 combat-ready fighters and 7,000 wounded—to gather for the defense.
By midnight, the Klan fought hand-to-hand in the ruins. Bayonets, knives, and axes clashed against Chitauri claws and plasma blades. Blood soaked the rubble. Snipers on rooftops took precise shots, while explosives detonated in alleyways.
The KKK casualties climbed past 32,000, while the Chitauri suffered 48,000 dead but continued pushing.
A final explosion—triggered by the Klan detonating their central munitions depot—killed 12,000 aliens and forced the survivors to retreat. However, it also buried much of the city, leaving only 7,500 Klan soldiers alive to hold the ruins.
At dawn, the smoke cleared, and the battlefield was silent. Chitauri ships retreated to orbit, their losses deemed too severe to justify further assaults.
The U.S. government issued no official statement. The KKK claimed victory in their propaganda, calling themselves the Defenders of Earth, but the government labeled them domestic terrorists and condemned their actions. Investigations began into potential war crimes, even as civilians hailed them as reluctant saviors.
Casualties:
KKK forces: 49,300 dead, 20,500 wounded.
Chitauri forces: 112,000 dead, 40,000 wounded.
Civilians: 17,000 dead, 12,000 displaced.
But as survivors searched the ruins, whispers spread—this was only the first wave.
Another kkk base. POV change.
They came down like fire.
I remember the first impact—how the earth split and the sky burned orange, and then blue when their weapons screamed. We were ready, or at least we thought we were, but readiness means nothing when alien warships the size of stadiums blot out the sun and spew soldiers like locusts.
I stood in the ruins of Lansing, Michigan, an industrial sprawl once home to 200,000 people, now reduced to shattered concrete and twisted rebar. We had 3,000 men—most of them hard-edged, desperate types—dug into the wreckage of factories and tenements. Our weapons were cutting-edge but scavenged, supplied through black-market arms deals and defense contractors willing to sell to anyone.
The Chitauri had landed the night before—40,000 strong. Tall, armored, and deadly, with rifles that fired superheated plasma bolts and drones that detonated on impact. They didn't bleed. They didn't hesitate. And they didn't stop.
We were outnumbered more than 13-to-1, but we had one advantage: firepower.
I knelt behind a slab of concrete, my hands clenched around my Josh weapon this one is the best in the series, its sleek black body still warm from the last burst of fire. This wasn't military-issue—this Josh was experimental, a railgun hybrid that fired tungsten-carbide slugs at Mach 5. Each shot tore through alien armor like paper, but the battery could only handle 20 shots before recharging.
"Contact, north quadrant!" shouted Rackham, my second-in-command. His voice cracked through the comms. "I count two walkers and forty infantry, pushing east!"
I took aim.
The Josh barked, and the first slug punched through a Chitauri trooper's chest, leaving a 10-inch hole and sending its mangled body flying into the ruins. The second slug hit the leg joint of a walker—a 30-foot behemoth armed with dual plasma cannons—and severed it clean. The machine crashed sideways, crushing two more aliens in its fall.
"Reloading!" I called.
Rackham's Hammer Industries Assault Rifle thundered beside me, spewing 6.8mm hypervelocity rounds—magazines with 45 rounds each, firing 1,200 RPM. The rounds didn't just pierce; they exploded on impact, leaving softball-sized craters in whatever they hit.
But the Chitauri didn't stop.
Three drones screamed overhead, their sleek bodies leaving trails of smoke. Carter—our heavy weapons guy—let loose with the Hammer Explosive Charge, a grenade launcher capable of firing thermobaric rounds. The first shot caught the drones mid-flight, detonating in a sphere of flame that vaporized them.
"Carter, keep them off the trucks!" I yelled, but he was already moving, dragging an M32 multi-shot launcher and laying down fire. Six grenades, rapid-fire. The Chitauri fell back, but not far.
They reached the trenches by 10:17 AM. Plasma fire turned dirt and rubble into glass, and the air stank of burning ozone and flesh.
"On me!" I shouted, vaulting over cover with six men. The Hammer rifles roared, shredding the first wave of aliens, but more swarmed over the barricades. Rackham dropped two with precise bursts, but one lunged at me.
I fired the Josh. Point-blank. The alien's torso disintegrated, but its blade-tipped arm caught my shoulder, slicing through the kevlar vest. I fell hard, blood soaking my sleeve.
Carter stepped in, swinging a carbon-steel machete that cleaved the Chitauri's head clean off. "Get up!" he barked, dragging me to my feet.
We fell back to the factory floor, where the Klan had set up a fallback point with flamethrowers and improvised turrets. 140 men held the line there, firing everything they had into the horde. Explosions lit the night.
At 1:30 PM, the sky turned black. The Chitauri had called in an orbital strike. From the wreckage of an upper floor, I watched as a beam of energy lanced down, obliterating a city block and killing 800 of our men instantly.
"Get the missiles online!" Rackham yelled.
We had 3 launchers, each loaded with long-range hypersonic missiles scavenged from military depots. Carter prepped them, calibrating guidance systems while bullets snapped overhead.
"Target locked!" he called.
"Fire!"
The first missile shrieked into the air, spiraling toward the Chitauri command ship. It struck the vessel's shields, but the impact shattered two forward emitters, forcing it to retreat higher. The second missile missed, but the third hit home, blowing apart one of its engine pods. Flames poured from the ship's hull.
The Chitauri retaliated, sending hunter drones that tore through our backlines, killing 150 men in seven minutes.
By 7:45 PM, we were down to 800 men—half wounded, many out of ammunition. The Chitauri were still 12,000 strong, though their command ship hovered in retreat, trailing smoke.
I stood in the ruins of a factory office, reloading the Josh. Rackham lay nearby, sleeping it out, we did that in shifts, and Carter had run out of explosives. The rest of us fell back to a fortified intersection, piling debris and vehicles as makeshift barricades.
We rigged Hammer Explosive Charges to collapse buildings, funneling the aliens into narrow kill zones. When they came, it was chaos—bullets, fire, screams.
I emptied the Josh, taking 13 more Chitauri before switching to Rackham's rifle. Carter detonated his last charge, burying 200 aliens beneath concrete.
But they kept coming.
At 10:21 PM, reinforcements arrived—U.S. Marines and National Guard pushing through the ruins. 16,000 troops, with tanks and helicopters, joined the fight.
The Josh fired its last slug, and the Chitauri line broke. Their command ship, crippled by missiles, lifted off, abandoning the ground forces.
By dawn, the city was silent except for the cries of the wounded.
We held the line, but at what cost?
Casualties:
KKK Forces: 2,207 dead, 684 wounded, 109 missing.Chitauri Forces: 31,600 dead, 5,000 wounded, 3,400 retreating. Civilians: 1,800 dead, 3,400 missing, 12,000 displaced.
The Josh Rifle was out of slugs. The Hammer rifles were bent and burned. Carter slept for hours like a dead man, exhaustion of 21 hours of no sleep as the only explosive expert on hand. Rackham took time to call the family and the like.
The government called it a "joint civilian effort," though they never named us. No medals. No credit. Just whispers of "terrorists" and "radicals."
But we knew. We'd fought the monsters and won.
And as I cleaned the blood off my rifle, I knew it wasn't over.
The air still stank of burnt meat and melted plastic when they called for volunteers.
I hadn't even had time to wipe the grime off my face. My hands shook—not from fear, but from the comedown. Too much adrenaline and not enough water, and now my muscles felt like wet paper. But when the sergeant—some Marine lifer with a voice like gravel and eyes that didn't blink—asked for bodies to push north and clean out the last Chitauri nests, my hand went up before my brain caught up.
"Ramsey, you sure about this?" Rackham asked, leaning against the rusted husk of a Humvee. His arm was wrapped in bloody bandages, and his face looked gray under the dirt.
"Hell no," I said, slamming a new slug cartridge into the Josh Rifle. "But if we don't kill the rest of these bugs, they'll come back twice as mean tomorrow."
Rackham nodded, but we both knew the truth—he wasn't coming with me this time. His eyes flickered down to his leg, where superficial plasma burns had melted his boot into his flesh. He'd been lucky to keep the foot.
"Don't get killed," he said.
"No promises."
The Convoy of Doom, that's what we called it.
Eleven trucks, all patched-up military leftovers loaded with 120 volunteers—a mix of Klan remnants, militia freaks, and National Guard stragglers. Not exactly an inspiring sight. Most of the vehicles looked like they'd already lost one or two drivers. The guy in front of me—skinny kid, maybe 19 years old, with glasses held together by tape—kept looking back at me like I was supposed to protect him.
I didn't even know his name.
The plan was simple—roll north into what was left of Midway Heights In Virginia, Montgomery , hit the alien hive, and wipe out whatever was still breathing. We had nine Judas Rifles, four Josh launchers, and enough Hammer Assault Rifles to outfit half the convoy. Ammo? Not enough. Body armor? Held together with duct tape.
We hit the outskirts at 11:45 PM, and the world went straight to hell.
The first explosion knocked the lead truck on its side, killing five guys before the rest of us even knew what was happening. Plasma bolts tore through the convoy, lighting up the night like a goddamn carnival.
I jumped out, rolled, and hit the dirt behind a burned-out SUV just as a Chitauri mortar round flattened two more trucks. Fourteen men died screaming, trapped inside the burning wrecks.
"Contact left!" someone yelled, but the voice cut off—followed by the wet, snapping sound of something big tearing into flesh.
I popped up, sighted down the Josh, and put a slug through the thing's face. It was bigger than the others—nine feet tall, bulked out with extra armor plating and carrying a plasma cannon the size of my leg. The slug caved in its skull, and it dropped like a sack of bricks.
"Push up! Push up!"
The kid with the glasses was next to me now, firing bursts from his Hammer Rifle. He was breathing too fast, pulling the trigger like it owed him money. I grabbed his shoulder.
"Breathe, kid! Control it!"
He nodded, but his hands didn't stop shaking.
We made it five blocks before the drones came.
Fast, buzzing things the size of trash-can lids, spitting fire and shrapnel. One clipped the kid—blew his arm clean off at the shoulder. He screamed, fell, and I didn't have time to stop and help him.
The Josh roared, and three drones exploded mid-flight, raining molten parts onto the pavement. I reloaded, but the cartridge jammed.
"Shit!"
Josh—big, loud Josh—was up ahead, hammering away with a grenade launcher. Six shots, and the drones started dropping, but then the aliens hit him. Three of them—fast, armored, and mean. They tore into him with blades and claws, ripping chunks out of his armor before he managed to blow them apart with a thermobaric charge.
I ran to him, but by the time I got there, he was already gone.
His guts were hanging out, his hands still locked around the launcher. I took it.
Fuck I didn't even know the guy for long, I had made the joke that my gun was named after him.
We hit the hive at 1:30 AM.
It wasn't a building anymore—just bones and meat. They'd hollowed out the shopping mall and turned it into a nest, hanging bodies from the rafters like trophies. Humans, animals—some still alive. The walls pulsed.
"Jesus Christ," someone whispered.
"No talking," I snapped, but my voice didn't sound right. It was shaking.
We moved through the corridors, stepping over piles of bodies and alien slime. The smell was unbearable—rot and chemicals that burned my nostrils.
And then they came.
Not drones. Not foot soldiers. These were berserkers—hulking bastards Teeming with arms, armored plating, and hydraulic muscles that let them tear through concrete.
We opened fire.
The Judas barked, and one of them lost its head. The grenade launcher spat fire, blowing holes in the walls and sending shrapnel everywhere.
One of them grabbed Wilson, a guy from the Klan with a shotgun. It tore him in half—ripped him apart like paper—before I managed to put it down. Another alien tackled me, knocking the Judas out of my hands.
We hit the ground, rolling, and I pulled my combat knife, stabbing it in the neck. It didn't die. I stabbed it again and again—twenty times—before its body finally stopped twitching.
By 3:00 AM, we were down to twenty men.
The hive was burning behind us, but the Chitauri didn't stop. They kept coming—wave after wave. My rifle was empty. My knife was broken.
I picked up a Hammer Explosive Charge, set the timer for thirty seconds, and ran straight into the horde.
"Ramsey, no!" someone shouted, but I didn't look back.
I threw the charge. It detonated, taking out forty aliens in one blast. The shockwave knocked me flat, and for a second, I thought I was dead.
But then I heard the gunfire again.
The others were still fighting, and so was I.
We held the hive. Barely.
Casualties: Volunteers: 101 dead, 15 wounded, 4 missing.Chitauri: 2,700 dead, unknown wounded.
When we got back to the trucks, the kid with the glasses was gone. So was Josh. So was Wilson.
And me? My hands still won't stop shaking.
The government will sweep this under the rug. They'll say it was just another skirmish, another "isolated incident." But we know better.
We saw what came out of that hive.
And we know it's not over.
They called it the White Cross Armor—a name that sounded more like some forgotten crusader relic than a piece of military tech.
The thing looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie—a seamless blend of kevlar, ceramic plates, and liquid polymer armor that hardened on impact. It wasn't flashy, no capes or spikes. It was built for war, and it showed.
I slipped into it, feeling the mechanical spine hum as it locked into place. 42 pounds of reinforced plating but light as a feather thanks to the exoskeleton joints running through the arms and legs. Felt like wearing someone else's skin.
The HUD visor flickered to life, feeding me a flood of data—ammunition counters, vitals, environmental scans—but I tuned it out. The real prize wasn't the suit's nanoweave lining or its magnetized holsters. It was the Gauntlet Core strapped to my left arm.
The thing was barely bigger than a deck of cards, but it hummed with energy—Felix Fix-It Jr. energy.
See, I wasn't just wearing the suit. I was part of it.
My hands twitched, and the nano-tools buried in my hands passed through my gloves snapped to life—blowtorches, repair wires, and welding tips fine enough to stitch a bullet hole in seconds. The gauntlet's field generator was for show as an excuse to how I could fix a busted rifle or patch up armor mid-battle.
I wasn't just a soldier anymore.
I was a walking repair factory.
"Listen up, maggots!" Captain Hawthorne's voice cracked like a whip. The briefing tent smelled like sweat and stale coffee, packed with 200 bodies—all crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder.
"This isn't a raid. It's not a sweep. It's a goddamn siege."
The Chitauri fortress north of the river was a three-mile death trap, layered in defensive turrets, energy shields, and living walls—alien meat and metal fused into a breathing monstrosity. Satellite scans showed 50,000 hostiles, not counting drones and whatever monsters they were cooking up inside.
"We're hitting them with everything we've got—tanks, airstrikes, artillery. But make no mistake…" Hawthorne paused, scanning the room. "This'll be trench warfare. No retreat. No mercy. Casualties projected at 60%."
I heard someone swear under their breath.
"We push them back here, we stop them from spreading east. We lose this battle?" He gestured to the map. "We lose the goddamn continent."
The trench line ran for four miles, carved out of the earth like an open wound. Hundreds of men and women, most of them wearing the new White Cross armor, crouched in the mud, waiting for the signal.
The sky was black—no stars, no moon, just the glow of alien fires and the distant thrum of hovercraft engines.
I adjusted the Judas Rifle, checked the Hammer Grenade Launcher strapped to my back, and flexed my fingers. The nano-tools twitched in response, syncing to my nervous system.
"Ramsey, you good?"
Rackham—patched up and limping—was at my side. He didn't have the armor. Most didn't. Only 800 suits had been built, and I got mine because I wouldn't shut up about being on the front lines, plus I was the factory.
"Yeah. I'm good."
I wasn't, but that didn't matter.
The artillery started at 05:00 AM sharp—howitzers, mortars, and rocket batteries unleashing hell. The ground shook, throwing dirt into the air, and for a moment, it looked like the world was ending.
Then the Chitauri charged.
The first wave hit like a tidal wave—10,000 Chitauri, screaming and howling as they poured over the trenches.
The Judas Rifle barked in my hands, dropping the first three with headshots, but they didn't stop. I switched to burst fire, taking out seven more before the barrel overheated.
"Reloading!"
A Chitauri jumped into the trench, claws out. I bashed it with the butt of my rifle, knocking it back, then drove my combat knife into its throat. Blood—thick, black, and steaming—splattered my visor.
I barely had time to pull the knife out before another one tackled me. We hit the ground hard, rolling through the mud. Its claws tore into my shoulder plate, ripping the armor open, but the suit sealed itself in seconds—liquid polymers hardening like glue.
I jammed my gauntlet into its chest and fired the plasma torch. The thing screamed as it burned, then fell limp.
By 07:30 AM, we'd pushed them back half a mile, but the bodies piled up fast—300 humans dead, 500 wounded. I saw someone familiar go down, plasma fire ripping through his leg, but I couldn't stop.
The Felix power had finally assimilated hummed, feeding me energy. My gauntlet fired repair bots into the trenches, patching up guns and armor as fast as the Chitauri could break them.
A tank's tread blew out behind me—direct mortar hit—and I was there in seconds, fixing the hydraulics while gunners covered me.
"Come on, come on," I muttered, sweat pouring down my face. Sparks flew, metal groaned, and the tank roared back to life.
It fired, blowing thirty aliens into paste.
By noon, we were down to 150 men.
The Chitauri brought in their shock troops—15-foot titans wrapped in energy armor. The first one tore through three trenches, killing 22 men before we finally dropped it with explosive charges.
I was covered in blood—alien and human—when the second one came.
The Judas Rifle was out of ammo. My knife was gone. All I had left was the gauntlet and a Hammer Charge.
I sprinted straight at it, dodging plasma fire and leaping onto its back. My plasma torch cut through the armor just enough to jam the charge inside.
"Eat this, you bastard!"
I jumped off, hit the dirt, and the titan exploded—fire and blood raining down.
By 03:00 PM, it was over.
49,700 Chitauri dead. The survivors retreated into the forests, leaving the fortress in flames.
We'd won.
But it cost us 840 soldiers, with 200 more wounded. The trench line was a graveyard, bodies piled so high you couldn't see the dirt anymore.
I found Rackham in the med tent—alive, barely.
"You're a crazy son of a bitch," he said, grinning through the pain.
"Yeah," I said, but my voice was hollow.
The White Cross armor hummed softly as I sat down. It didn't feel like protection anymore. It felt like a coffin.
Because I knew this wasn't the end.
Not even close.
The medical tent smelled like blood, sweat, and that stinging chemical tang of antiseptic. Every bed was occupied, most of them by men who wouldn't be walking out under their own power. A low hum of moans and murmured prayers filled the air. The place was dimly lit, flickering bulbs hanging from wires duct-taped to the tent poles.
I sat on a stool next to Albert Rackham, his left arm bandaged up to the shoulder after a plasma shot cooked through his armor. The guy looked rough—his usual buzzcut matted with sweat, dark circles under his eyes, and a permanent scowl on his face that seemed etched in granite.
"Goddamn aliens," Rackham muttered, his southern drawl thick enough to butter bread. "They oughta ship these sonsabitches to Little Alcatraz, see how long they last in the hole."
"Yeah?" I replied, pulling a chair over to sit. "Think you'd take 'em on with that bum arm?"
Rackham snorted, wincing as he shifted in his cot. "Don't need two arms to run a prison, kid. Just need a strong voice and a stronger billy club. Besides," he added, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "you seen those bastards? They ain't built for confinement. One week with half-rations and they'd tear each other apart."
Albert Rackham wasn't like most of the other men. Hell, he wasn't like anyone I'd ever met. The guy had a past—a mean one. Born and raised in the sweltering heat of Baton Rouge, he joined the military at 17, went straight into specialized work, and never looked back. His middle name, Grantham, matched his personality—formal, calculated, and unyielding. It sounded like a man who knew how to get things done, even if it meant stepping on necks.
By the time he was 22, Rackham had already worked in counterinsurgency, urban combat, and riot control. After that, he'd done a stint as a prison guard in a place they called Little Alcatraz—a high-security facility known for its brutality. The stories he told could make a war vet cringe.
"You ever heard what they call Little Alcatraz?" Rackham asked, lighting a cigarette despite the medic glaring at him from across the tent.
"Nope," I said, leaning back. "What's the big deal?"
Rackham exhaled a cloud of smoke, his baby-blue eyes narrowing. "Ain't just a prison. It's a fuckin' jungle. Guards like me? We didn't just run the place; we owned it. The prisoners, the staff, the goddamn vending machines—they all answered to us. Anyone stepped outta line, they got the hole. Two weeks, no light, half-water, and a cot so thin you'd rather sleep on the floor."
"Sounds like a paradise," I said dryly.
"Don't knock it, boy," Rackham snapped, though there wasn't any real heat in his voice. "Kept men alive, kept 'em scared. Sometimes scared is all you got."
I didn't disagree.
Rackham had been working under me for a little over three months now, ever since the Chitauri War started ramping up. The guy wasn't just a grunt—he was brutal, efficient, and about as far from PC as you could get. He had a way of talking that made you feel like you were in the 1950s, not 2004.
And yet, for all his flaws, Rackham respected me. He never said it outright—guys like him didn't do that—but it was there in the way he listened, the way he followed orders without question.
"You know, Ramsey," Rackham said, leaning back against his cot, "you're one mean little bastard. Sixteen years old, and you're already leading men like a goddamn general. Where'd they make you?"
"Russia," I said, shrugging. "Ten years of military school. Learned everything from hand-to-hand combat to battlefield tactics."
"Ten years," Rackham repeated, letting out a low whistle. "Shit, boy, I didn't even finish high school before they shipped me off to the Army. How the hell did you end up here?"
I hesitated, not because I didn't know the answer, but because I didn't feel like sharing. "Just happened," I said vaguely.
Rackham wasn't buying it. "Bullshit. Nobody just 'happens' into a war like this. You got that look in your eye—like you're fighting for somethin' bigger than yourself. What is it? Patriotism? Family? Revenge?"
"None of the above," I said, though that wasn't entirely true. "I just don't think this country deserves to burn. Not yet."
Rackham nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "You're a better man than me, Ramsey. If it were up to me, I'd let the whole damn system collapse. Start over, build somethin' better."
"And who's gonna build it?" I asked. "You?"
Rackham chuckled, the sound low and bitter. "Nah. I'm just a cog in the machine. But you? You got that spark. The kind that could light a fire big enough to burn down the whole goddamn forest."
We weren't just sitting around swapping war stories. The next wave was coming, and we needed a plan.
Rackham pulled out a crumpled map from his pocket, spreading it out on the cot. "Alright, kid, here's what we're lookin' at," he said, pointing to the alien fortress. "Main force is holdin' the front, but they're weak on the flanks. We hit 'em hard on the east side, blow their supply lines, and fall back before they can regroup."
"Risky," I said, studying the map. "What if they cut us off?"
"Then we die," Rackham said bluntly.
By the time we finished planning, the medics were kicking us out of the tent.
"Rest up, Rackham," I said, standing up and adjusting my armor.
"Rest?" Rackham snorted. "Hell, Ramsey, I'm comin' with you."
"You sure about that?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "You're down an arm and half a pack of blood."
"Don't need two arms to shoot straight," he said, grinning. "Besides, someone's gotta keep your skinny Russian ass alive."
I didn't argue. Truth was, I wanted him there. Not because I needed his help, but because I trusted him to watch my back.
And in a war like this, trust was worth more than any amount of firepower.
The night was dark, but it wasn't quiet. The sky burned with streaks of alien plasma, and the distant rumble of explosions sounded like a drumbeat to the chaos. The air reeked of burnt flesh and cordite—a smell that clung to you no matter how many showers you took.
We were moving out, just the eight of us, a small strike team tasked with hitting the aliens where it hurt. The plan was simple: flank their eastern supply line, blow it to hell, and get out before they knew what hit them. Simple didn't mean easy.
I glanced back at Rackham, who was already grumbling as we made our way through the rubble-strewn streets.
"Y'know," he said, cradling his Hammer Industries Assault Rifle with one good arm, "I ain't paid enough for this shit."
"You're not paid at all," I reminded him, keeping my voice low. "None of us are."
"Exactly my point," he muttered.
We moved in military formation, keeping low and tight, using the ruined buildings for cover.
Rackham took point, his experience showing in the way he scanned every corner, every shadow. He might've been hampered an arm, but the guy still moved like a predator—silent, deliberate, dangerous. Behind him was Dale, our demolitions expert, carrying enough explosives to level a city block. Then came Martinez, our sniper, her Judas Rifle slung across her back like a talisman. The rest of the squad followed, each man and woman hardened by weeks of relentless combat.
"Eyes up," I whispered into the comms, my voice barely audible over the crackle of static. "We're getting close."
Ahead of us, the alien supply convoy was exactly where our intel said it would be. A dozen hovercraft, sleek and angular, glowing faintly with that eerie blue light the aliens seemed to love. They were guarded by about thirty troops, tall, spindly creatures with bulbous heads and armor that shimmered like oil on water.
"Rackham," I said, my voice tight. "You're up."
He nodded, raising his rifle. The rest of us fanned out, taking up positions in the surrounding buildings.
"On my mark," I said, counting down in my head. "Three… two… one… mark."
Rackham fired the first shot, a single, well-placed round that punched through an alien's skull. The creature went down with a wet thud, and for a split second, everything was still. Then all hell broke loose.
The aliens responded with precision and brutality, their plasma weapons lighting up the night like fireworks.
"Covering fire!" I shouted, squeezing off a burst from my own rifle. The Hammer Industries Assault Rifle kicked against my shoulder, the rounds slamming into an alien hovercraft and sparking off its energy shield.
Rackham was in his element, firing and moving with a speed that belied his age. "These bastards don't learn, do they?" he snarled, dropping another alien with a clean headshot.
Martinez was perched on a rooftop, her Judas Rifle barking with every pull of the trigger. "Tango down," she said calmly, her voice a stark contrast to the chaos around her. "Two o'clock. Next target marked."
Dale was already moving toward the convoy, a satchel charge slung over his shoulder. "Cover me!" he yelled, ducking behind a pile of rubble as plasma bolts stitched a line across the ground.
The fight was brutal, messy, and up close.
An alien lunged at me, its elongated fingers tipped with claws that looked more like surgical tools. I sidestepped, slamming the butt of my rifle into its head. The creature staggered, and I finished it off with a burst to the chest.
To my left, Rackham was grappling with another alien, his one good arm locked around its throat. "C'mon, you ugly son of a bitch!" he growled, driving his combat knife into its side. The alien let out a high-pitched screech before collapsing.
"Dale, status!" I shouted, firing over a barricade.
"Charges are set!" he called back, his voice hoarse. "We need two minutes!"
"You've got one!"
The aliens were regrouping, their ranks tightening as more of them poured in from the west. This wasn't just a skirmish anymore—it was a goddamn battle.
"Martinez, take out that hovercraft!" I barked.
"On it!" she replied, lining up her shot. The Judas Rifle fired with a deafening crack, the round punching through the hovercraft's shield and into its power core. The explosion lit up the street, a blinding flash followed by a shockwave that knocked half the squad off their feet.
"Nice shot!" Rackham yelled, pulling me to my feet.
"Don't thank me yet," Martinez said, already scanning for her next target.
"Dale, are we good?"
"Good to go!" he shouted, sprinting back toward us.
"Fall back!" I ordered, firing as I moved. The rest of the squad followed, retreating through the maze of rubble and wreckage.
Behind us, the charges detonated, a series of explosions that turned the alien supply convoy into a smoking crater. The shockwave rattled my teeth, and the heat singed the back of my neck, but it was worth it. The mission was a success.
We made it back to the forward operating base just as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon.
The place was a hive of activity, medics rushing to and fro, engineers repairing damaged vehicles, and soldiers catching a few minutes of rest wherever they could.
Rackham collapsed onto a cot, his face pale but triumphant. "Hell of a night," he said, lighting a cigarette with a shaky hand.
"Yeah," I agreed, sitting down beside him. "Hell of a night."
We didn't say much after that. We didn't need to. The mission was over, and for the first time in weeks, we could breathe.
Setting: Douglas on rotation leave.
The wind whipped against me like a living thing, clawing at my face even through the visor of my helmet. The motorbike roared beneath me, its custom-engineered engine pushing a ridiculous 396 miles per hour. The landscape around me blurred into streaks of color—gritty gray highways, endless stretches of scorched earth, and the skeletal remains of what used to be towns.
I wasn't slowing down. Couldn't, even if I wanted to. America was too damn big, sprawling out like a bloated corpse across 16.4 million square kilometers. This land felt foreign, even as I raced across it. Every crack in the pavement, every rusting road sign screamed "this is not home." I clenched the handlebars tighter, the vibration of the machine thrumming up through my arms.
"California, huh?" I muttered to myself, spitting the name out like it tasted bad. I'd always thought it was the softest part of this country. Fancy beaches, celebrities, avocado toast—all fluff. The Russians should've taken it when they had the chance. Would've shown them what real grit looks like. But no, history went the way it always does: the West got fat and smug, and now look where they are.
My helmet's comm buzzed, and my mother's voice came through, cutting into my thoughts.
"Arosha, ты где? (Where are you?)" she asked, her voice taut with worry.
I sighed. I didn't need this right now. "I'm on the road, Mama."
"On the road? Where?"
"Just… working, okay? Handling some things," I replied, keeping it vague.
"You're not in danger, are you? You should be home! These… these creatures, they don't care about your plans, Douglas. Stay where it's safe!"
I bit back the urge to snap. She didn't understand—how could she? "Mama, I'm fine. I know what I'm doing."
"Do you? Ты еще ребенок! (You're still a child!) You should be with your family, not out there playing soldier!"
I tightened my grip on the handlebars, my frustration bubbling up. "I'm not a kid anymore. I've been through more in the last six months than most people see in their whole lives. Let me handle this, okay?"
There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost pleading. "Arosha, promise me you'll stay safe. Don't take risks."
I exhaled, trying to let go of the tension in my chest. "I promise." It wasn't a lie, not exactly. I'd stay safe—if I could.
As soon as I hung up, another call came through. This time it was Vasily, my head of household staff. The man was dependable but knew how to bend the truth when it suited him.
"Mr. Ramsey," he started, his voice calm and professional. "Your mother called earlier. She was asking about your whereabouts."
"And?"
"I assured her you were at home, resting. She seemed satisfied with the answer."
I snorted. "You lied to her."
"Only to keep her from worrying, sir. I assume you'd prefer it this way?"
I considered it for a moment. "Yeah, fine. Just keep her off my back. I've got enough to deal with."
"Of course, sir. Is there anything else you need?"
"No. Just keep things running."
"As you wish." He hung up without another word, leaving me alone with the sound of the wind and the engine.
The bike tore through the landscape, eating up miles like they were nothing. The speed was intoxicating, but it was also a necessity. I had a meeting to get to, and time was not on my side.
I passed through the ghost towns, remnants of communities abandoned in the wake of the invasion. Burnt-out cars littered the roads, their twisted frames rusting under the sun. In some places, there were signs of recent skirmishes—alien corpses strewn about, their dark black blood pooling in the dirt.
In others, the devastation was more subtle: empty streets, broken windows, a silence that felt heavy, like the air itself was mourning.
The comm buzzed again, and I groaned. "What now?" I muttered, tapping the button to answer.
It was Vasily again. "Sir, one more thing. Your father was asking about your plans. He seemed… concerned."
I rolled my eyes. "Why? He's never concerned."
"Well, he mentioned something about your 'reckless tendencies.'"
"Tell him not to worry about it. I'm handling things."
There was a pause. "Very well, sir. But if I may… you're pushing yourself hard. Perhaps too hard."
I didn't respond. What could I say? He wasn't wrong, but slowing down wasn't an option. Not now.
By the time I reached California, the sun was starting to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The roads here were smoother, the landscape greener, but it still felt wrong. Too perfect, too artificial.
The fancy neighborhood where my meeting was supposed to take place was a stark contrast to the rest of the country. Gated communities, manicured lawns, expensive cars parked in pristine driveways—it was like the aliens had skipped this part of the world entirely.
I pulled up outside a massive house, its facade all glass and steel. The bike's engine cut out, leaving an almost deafening silence in its wake.
"Home sweet home," I muttered sarcastically, swinging my leg over the seat.
As I walked up to the door, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. This place felt too safe, too untouched by the chaos that had consumed the rest of the country. It was like a bubble, a piece of the old world that refused to acknowledge the new one.
For a moment, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorbell. Was this really where I needed to be?
I shook my head, forcing the doubt aside. There was no turning back now.
POV change.
When the accident happened, the doctors told me I was lucky to survive. Lucky. As if they couldn't see the betrayal written across my body, the paralysis that turned my spine into a prison.
The world hadn't ended that day—it had shifted, leaving me behind.
Eleven months. That's how long it had been since I lost everything. Since the explosion that left me a tetraplegic—paralyzed from the neck down. Eleven months since my ambitions were snatched away, my plans derailed, and my body broken.
Before that, I'd been on the fast track. Valedictorian in high school. Top marks in my criminal justice program. A sharp, analytical mind that had already caught the attention of the FBI's internship division. I had a plan—graduate at 22, get my badge at 23, climb the ranks.
Deadpool ruined that.
Now, my world consisted of metal frames and careful lifts. Nurses came and went, their polite smiles doing nothing to ease the gnawing void in my chest. I couldn't even feed myself anymore. My parents, once so proud, now looked at me with pity they couldn't hide.
So when the stranger arrived, I didn't hesitate.
I should have.
It started with an invitation.
A courier in a sharp black uniform—too professional, too polished—appeared at my door with an envelope bearing no return address. My name, handwritten in calligraphy, gleamed on the front.
Inside was an offer.
No—a promise.
"Allison Kemp,
I can restore what you've lost. Your future is not gone; it is merely waiting to be reclaimed.
Come to me, and we'll make it yours again.
Douglas Ramsey."
I was desperate. Desperation doesn't ask questions.
That's how I found myself here—in his office, seated across from the man who promised to give me my life back.
Douglas Ramsey wasn't what I'd expected.
He wasn't old, or eccentric, or unnervingly charismatic in the way villains in movies often were. He was… normal.
And that made him worse.
Blonde hair, neatly combed. A sharp black suit that spoke of obscene wealth without flaunting it. Eyes so pale they seemed almost colorless, but with a gleam that felt too alive. He didn't need to dominate the room because it bent around him naturally.
"You came," he said, and his voice was silk over steel.
She walked—or rather, was wheeled—into my domain precisely on time. A small triumph of punctuality, considering the obstacles her body placed in her way.
I watched her carefully, as I always did with those on the brink of accepting me.
Allison Kemp. Age 22. A brilliant mind dulled only by the weight of misfortune. Her file was impressive, her future clear. FBI material through and through.
And then fate—chaotic, stupid, careless—ripped it all away.
Her condition now was a masterpiece of irony. A woman who thrived on control reduced to dependency. A strategist forced to be passive.
Delicious.
She thought she came here willingly. In truth, every choice she'd made since opening my letter had been mine.
She looked at me with the defiance of someone clinging to pride, even in ruin. Her jaw tightened, and I allowed the corner of my mouth to twitch—just enough to unsettle her.
"Allison," I said, leaning forward slightly. "Do you know why you're here?"
"To... hear your offer," she said. Her voice was steady, but I could feel the cracks beneath the surface.
"Not quite." My fingers laced together, elbows resting on the polished desk between us. "You're here because you have potential. Potential that's been buried, but not extinguished. I intend to unearth it."
She blinked, confusion flashing across her face. "You're saying you can fix me?"
"Not fix," I corrected smoothly. "Restore. Elevate. Make you more than you ever were."
His words wrapped around me like smoke—intangible but suffocating.
"You're serious," I said. It wasn't a question, but he nodded anyway.
"Deadly."
The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine, though I couldn't tell if it was fear or hope. Maybe both.
"How?" I asked.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he'd already solved. "I have resources beyond your comprehension, Allison. Science, technology, methods the world doesn't even know exist. All I require is your consent."
The air felt heavier. "Consent to what?"
"To be mine."
Her silence stretched, and I let it. Watching her mind work was part of the joy.
I could see her calculating, weighing options she didn't truly understand. The sharpness of her intellect was dulled by desperation, but not broken.
Not yet.
"What does that mean?" she asked finally.
I smiled. Not a wide grin—just enough to unsettle her further. "It means your loyalty, your service, your existence. In exchange, I'll give you what you desire most: freedom from this prison."
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into her gaze. Good. Suspicion was the first step toward realization.
"And if I say no?"
"You won't."
The arrogance in his voice should have made me furious, but instead, it left me cold. Because he was right.
I couldn't say no.
"What's the catch?" I asked, my voice sharper than I felt.
"No catch," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Just an exchange. Your future, for your surrender."
The words hung in the air, and I knew—I knew—there was more he wasn't saying. But the weight of my broken body pressed down on me, drowning out logic.
"I'll do it," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
His smile widened, and for the first time, I saw the predator beneath the suit.
"Good."
Her words sealed the deal, though she didn't know it yet.
I stood, crossing the room to where she sat, her chair a cage she couldn't escape. My hand reached out, fingers brushing the top of her head in a gesture that was almost gentle.
She flinched, but didn't pull away.
And then I began.
Sometime later.
The meeting in California had gone better than I expected—hell, it might've been my best one yet. I leaned back in the leather chair of my office, my gaze drifting out the window to the sun-soaked lawn. Even with the alien invasion bearing down on the world, California felt untouched. It was one of those places that somehow managed to keep its shine, like a diamond in the dirt.
The office here was sharp—minimalist, all dark wood and chrome. The kind of place that screamed money without having to shout. The men I met(yes their was another meeting) with walked out shaking hands and smiling, and I knew I'd left an impression. That's what mattered. Deals made, power consolidated, all while the world burned outside.
I was savoring the quiet when my phone buzzed on the desk. It was a text from Harry.
"Hey, Ramsey. Party tonight in Texas. Flash says you promised not to ghost us again. Clock's ticking, buddy."
I groaned, rubbing my temples. Harry was relentless, always dragging me into these things. And Flash? He was worse. I could already hear his voice in my head, giving me grief if I didn't show.
They weren't wrong, though. I'd been dodging them for weeks, burying myself in work and battles, using the chaos as an excuse to stay away. I promised Flash I wouldn't disappear on them like I used to. A promise is a promise, even if it's a pain in the ass.
It wasn't long before I was back on the bike, tearing out of the driveway and onto the highway. The engine roared beneath me like a caged beast, the speedometer climbing past 400 miles per hour. California's coastline blurred behind me, the golden beaches fading into the harsh, dry plains of the Southwest.
Texas wasn't exactly next door, but at this speed, it didn't feel far. The air was hot and dry, whipping past me as I pushed the bike to its limits.
Halfway through the ride, my phone buzzed in my helmet. It was Melissa, my financial advisor. She didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"Mr. Ramsey, I've got the numbers you asked for," she said, her voice crisp and professional.
"Go ahead," I replied, keeping one hand on the handlebars as I navigated a sharp turn.
"Well, your investments in defense contracts and reconstruction efforts are yielding significant returns. If projections hold, your net worth could increase from $20 billion to approximately $47 billion within the next fiscal year."
I couldn't help but smirk. "Not bad. Guess the invasion isn't bad for everyone, huh?"
Melissa hesitated. "It's… a grim way to look at it, sir, but yes. The chaos is creating opportunities for those who know where to look."
"And I'm always looking."
"Indeed. Oh, and your offshore accounts are secure. No activity flagged by the authorities."
"Good. Keep me updated."
"Of course, Mr. Ramsey." She hung up, leaving me alone with the sound of the engine and my thoughts.
As the miles flew by, my mind wandered to Russia, to the country I need to visit often to never forget. I was born in 1988, three years before the Soviet Union fell apart. I barely remember it—just flashes of gray buildings, long lines for toys, and the sense of something big breaking down around me.
Putin came in like a hammer, slamming down on the chaos and wrapping the country in a veil of federalism. Sure, the corruption was still there, but it wasn't as blatant, as crippling. In some places, it got better. In others, it just went underground. It made me wonder—what happens after Putin? He's not immortal. When he's gone, does it all come crashing down again?
Not that the rest of the world is any better. The USA? Corrupt as hell, but they're good at hiding it. China? Same story. It's not about whether a country's corrupt—it's about how deep it runs and how well they cover it up.
By the time I crossed into Texas, the sun was dipping low, painting the horizon in shades of orange and red. The landscape was wide open, all flat land and endless sky. Texas had been lucky, untouched by the invasion, and it showed. Towns were still standing, roads were clear, and people were going about their lives like nothing had changed.
The bike hummed beneath me as I slowed down, taking in the sights. It was almost eerie—another little bubble of normalcy in a world gone mad.
I pulled up to Harry's place just as the first stars were coming out. It was a sprawling ranch house, the kind of place that screamed Texas wealth. Trucks and cars were parked all over the yard, and I could hear music blasting from inside.
I killed the engine and swung off the bike, stretching out my legs. My helmet came off, and I ran a hand through my hair, already regretting this.
As I walked up to the house, Harry burst out the door, a drink in hand and a grin on his face. "Ramsey! You actually showed up!"
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, stepping past him. "Don't make a big deal out of it."
He laughed, clapping me on the back. "Too late for that. Flash's been talking you up all night. You're a goddamn legend around here, you know that?"
I snorted. "A legend, huh? Guess I'll have to live up to it."
The ranch house was alive with noise—music thumping through the walls, people laughing and shouting over the beat, the clink of bottles meeting in cheers. Outside, the air was thick with the smell of barbecue, spilled beer, and freshly cut grass. The massive backyard was a sea of bodies, partygoers spilling out of the house and onto the lawn, illuminated by the golden glow of string lights hung between the trees.
Inside, Douglas Ramsey was doing his best to blend in. He didn't like these kinds of events—too loud, too chaotic—but he knew his presence mattered to the group. And if there was one thing Ramsey didn't do, it was let his boys down.
"Alright, let's get this show on the road," Harry said, leading the way to a quieter part of the ranch. The study was far enough from the main action that they could hear themselves think, though the bassline from the music still vibrated faintly through the walls.
The group of sixteen settled into the room, sprawled across couches, leaning against walls, and perching on the edge of the massive desk that dominated the space. Ramsey took a seat in the corner, arms crossed, watching as Harry pulled a whiteboard from the wall.
"Alright, boys," Harry said, uncapping a marker with a dramatic flourish. "We've got a situation. Plenty of girls downstairs, but we need a game plan. No sense running in blind."
Before Harry could get too far into his pep talk, one of the party staff poked her head into the room. She was in her early twenties, wearing a standard catering uniform, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She held a notepad and pen, looking equal parts annoyed and exhausted.
"Hey," she said, cutting Harry off mid-sentence. "Before you get too deep into… whatever this is, what do you guys want to eat? Kitchen's slammed, so make it quick."
The group erupted into a chorus of overlapping requests—burgers, wings, sliders, nachos. Ramsey waited until the chaos died down before making his order.
"Veggie wrap," he said simply.
The room went silent for a beat before bursting into laughter.
"That," said Flash, wiping a tear from his eye, "is the gayest order I've ever heard."
"Gayest?" Harry interjected, grinning. "In Massachusetts, that order could legally marry a dude."
Paul chimed in, "Order like that'll get you kicked outta the army, Ramsey."
"If you put a helmet on that wrap," someone else added, "it could join the Village People."
The jokes kept coming, each one more ridiculous than the last. Ramsey shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was all in good fun, and he wasn't one to let a little ribbing get under his skin.
The staff girl, however, wasn't as amused. She raised a hand, silencing the group. "Alright, knock it off, or none of you are getting fed. I'm trying to do my job here."
Ramsey almost sighed in relief. Finally, someone on his side. But then she turned to him, pen poised over her notepad.
"Veggie wrap, right?"
He nodded.
"Want a side of cock with that?" she deadpanned.
The room exploded in laughter again, louder than before. Ramsey just shook his head, chuckling despite himself. "You're lucky you're funny."
After the staff left to get their orders, the group settled back into their discussion. One of the guys, Brian, was tapping away on a sleek laptop. His dad owned a high-end security firm, and Brian had access to tools most people only dreamed of.
"Alright," he said, looking up from the screen. "I ran a quick background check on the girls downstairs."
The group leaned in, curious.
"Clean," Brian continued. "No diseases, no criminal records, no sketchy history. Couple of 'em are even virgins, far as I can tell."
"Good," Harry said, nodding. "We're not here to catch anything but good vibes."
The conversation shifted to strategy. Specifically, how to handle the age-old problem of the fat friend.
"We all know the drill," Harry said. "There's always one, and someone's gotta take one for the team."
The group groaned, each one looking around for someone else to volunteer.
"I'm not doing it," Flash said, holding up his hands. "I did it last time. I'm still recovering."
"It's like a rite of passage," Harry said. "Who's stepping up?"
Ramsey raised a hand. "I'll do it."
The room went silent for a moment before erupting in cheers.
"Ramsey, you beautiful bastard," Harry said. "Taking one for the team like a true hero."
"You're a goddamn saint," Flash added.
The insults started flying, all in good fun.
"Refrigerator defeater," Brian muttered.
"High-calorie woman," another quipped.
"Ramsey's about to enter the danger zone," Harry said, drawing laughter from the group.
When their food arrived, they ate quickly, cracking jokes and going over their plan one last time. Once the plates were cleared, they headed downstairs, stepping into the chaos of the party.
The group spread out, each man targeting their chosen girl with a mix of charm, intelligence, and wit. Ramsey spotted the fat friend—she wasn't as bad as they'd made her out to be, but she was definitely out of his usual wheelhouse.
Still, a promise was a promise. Ramsey approached her with a confident smile, starting up a conversation that had her laughing within minutes.
It was all about the team, after all.
To Be Continued...