Semi-Occupied Town – Bravo Team Enters Hostile Territory
September 2054 – 1100 Hours
The streets were dead, but the war had left its mark.
As Bravo Team moved through the outskirts of the semi-occupied town, they saw what was left of civilization—burned-out cars, collapsed buildings, bullet-riddled walls. The air carried the sharp scent of smoke, gunpowder, and rot.
Yet, unlike the ghost village they had rested in the night before, this place was not abandoned.
Someone was still here.
Jackson Osiris tightened his grip on his rifle, scanning the rooftops. His instincts screamed at him—they were being watched.
Elias Scott muttered, "I don't like this."
Elle Favreau, keeping pace beside him, whispered, "Yeah, no shit."
Then—a shadow moved.
Jackson barely had time to react before—
"STAI! NU TE MIȘCA!"
A voice roared from the rubble.
Within seconds, rifles were trained on them from multiple directions.
Bravo Team froze.
The Romanian resistance had found them first.
A Hostile Welcome
Men and women in battered combat gear emerged from cover—from behind broken cars, out of shattered buildings, from rooftops with sniper scopes trained on Bravo Team's skulls.
They wore a mix of old military fatigues and civilian clothing, but their weapons were modern—AK rifles, scavenged NATO gear, jury-rigged explosives.
These weren't untrained survivors.
These people had been fighting for a long time.
One man—a bearded fighter with a scar over his cheek—stepped forward, aiming his AK directly at Elias. His voice was a guttural growl.
"Cine dracu' sunteți voi?! Ce căutați aici?!"
Irina Vinogradova stiffened.
Gaz Brown, completely lost, leaned toward her. "I'm gonna assume that wasn't 'welcome, dear travelers.'"
"It wasn't," Irina muttered.
More fighters stepped closer, their fingers hovering over triggers.
"Drop your weapons!" another man barked, his Romanian accent thick. "Acum!"
"Oh, fuck off," Gaz snapped.
The resistance fighters reacted instantly, their weapons snapping up.
"Ați spus ceva, nenorocitule?! Te împușc chiar acum!"
Irina's hands clenched. "They're pissed."
Elias didn't lower his rifle. "Neither do we."
The bearded resistance leader stepped closer, his AK still aimed at Elias' chest.
"I won't say it again—drop your fucking guns."
Elias' eyes locked onto his. "Not happening."
The Romanian spat on the ground. "Americans." The way he said it was filled with disgust and venom.
Jackson's jaw tightened.
The fighter sneered. "You think we're stupid? We've seen what your people do. We've seen the corpses. You think we'll just let you stroll into our city?"
Irina, the only one who could actually communicate, finally stepped forward.
"We are not Russians. We are not Osiris. We are not your fucking enemy."
"Bullshit!" One of the resistance fighters—a younger woman, barely in her twenties—screamed. She pointed at Jackson's gear. "Look at them! They wear Osiris tech! They are no different!"
Jackson narrowed his eyes. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
The bearded leader stepped even closer, his rifle now pressed against Elias' chest. "I know enough."
Gaz, ever the tactician, muttered. "Okay, so, this is going well."
"Shut the fuck up, Gaz," Elle hissed.
Tension suffocated the air.
One wrong move, one twitch, and this town would be painted in blood.
Irina lifted her hands in a slow, careful motion. "Listen to me—
we don't want a fight. We just need passage. Food. Supplies. We'll leave. That's all."
The resistance fighters didn't lower their weapons.
The bearded leader's eyes burned with rage, exhaustion, and years of suffering.
"Passage?" he scoffed. "You think you can just ask for passage?"
He took another step forward, practically nose to nose with Elias.
"After what your kind did to my country?"
Silence.
Elle, her voice ice-cold, finally spoke. "We are not your kind."
The bearded leader's finger twitched over the trigger.
Jackson's grip tightened around his rifle.
The entire street stood on the edge of chaos.
And then—
"Ce se întâmplă aici?!"
A new voice cut through the tension.
Someone important had just arrived.
– The Standoff on the Streets
September 2054 – 1102 Hours
For a long moment, the world stood on the edge of a gunfight.
Bravo Team didn't lower their weapons.
Neither did the Romanian resistance fighters.
Fingers hovered over triggers. Eyes burned with rage, exhaustion, and mistrust. Every breath felt like it could be the last.
Then—
"Ce se întâmplă aici?!"
A new voice rang out, sharp and authoritative.
The bearded fighter, the one holding Elias at gunpoint, immediately stiffened. He hesitated—just for a second—before lowering his rifle slightly, turning his head toward the newcomer.
Jackson Osiris stole a glance at the source of the voice.
A woman. Late thirties. Strong posture. Hardened eyes.
She stepped forward, dressed in a worn but well-maintained combat vest, a pistol strapped to her thigh, and a patch on her shoulder that looked different from the others.
She wasn't just another soldier.
She was in charge.
The woman's gaze swept over the scene, taking in the stand-off—the raised rifles, the boiling tempers, the tension thick enough to suffocate.
She spoke calmly but firmly. "Jos armele. Acum."
Irina Vinogradova immediately translated for the team. "She's ordering them to lower their weapons."
A pause. Then, slowly, the resistance fighters complied.
But it wasn't an act of trust.
It was an act of control.
Elias Scott, keeping his rifle half-raised, shot Irina a look. "And us?"
Irina took a breath, then spoke to the woman in Romanian. "Nu suntem inamici. Suntem în fugă. Nu căutăm lupte."
(We are not enemies. We're on the run. We don't seek a fight.)
The woman's expression didn't change. She studied them carefully—Jackson's Osiris gear, Elle's sniper rifle, Elias' tactical vest. She wasn't stupid. She could see they were professionals.
Mercenaries? Ex-soldiers? Traitors?
She didn't know yet.
But she wasn't immediately pulling the trigger.
The woman crossed her arms. "Americans? British? What are you?"
Irina translated the question.
Jackson spoke first. "We're not with Osiris. We're not with NATO. We're not with the Russians or Chinese. We're just trying to stay alive."
The woman didn't look convinced.
"Convenient."
Jackson clenched his jaw. "It's the truth."
The bearded fighter—the one who had nearly executed Elias a minute ago—spat on the ground.
"They're lying. We should gut them and hang their heads on the fence."
Gaz Brown exhaled dramatically. "Jesus, you people don't do half-measures, huh?"
The woman shot him a glare. "We don't have the luxury."
Her eyes flicked back to Irina. "You're the only one who speaks Romanian?"
Irina nodded. "Yes."
The woman folded her arms. "Then you're the only one I'm talking to."
The woman stepped forward, addressing Irina directly.
"If you are truly not our enemy, you will prove it. You and your team will come with us—unarmed."
Irina frowned. "That's not going to happen."
The woman's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I see no reason to let you live."
Jackson didn't like this. The tension was still razor-sharp, and one wrong move could tilt this negotiation into bloodshed.
Elias muttered under his breath, "This is going great."
Elle shifted her grip on her rifle. "This could still go either way."
Jackson took a slow breath. They needed to push this in the right direction.
September 2054 – 1105 Hours
The air was still thick with tension.
Jackson Osiris could feel the weight of a dozen rifle barrels still pointed at them. The Romanian resistance fighters were ready to kill. If they made the wrong move, if one trigger finger twitched the wrong way, this would become a bloodbath.
Irina Vinogradova kept her hands up, her posture steady, but careful.
"We're not surrendering." She said it in Romanian, her voice firm. "But we'll show you we're not here to fight."
The resistance leader—a woman with cold, calculating eyes—studied her for a long moment.
"And how do you plan to do that?"
Irina glanced at Jackson. He knew what needed to happen.
Jackson slowly exhaled and, with a measured motion, unclipped the rifle from his vest.
The resistance fighters tensed immediately, their fingers hovering over their triggers.
"Easy." Elias Scott's voice was sharp, warning.
Jackson didn't toss the rifle down. Instead, he lowered it carefully to the ground, butt-first, before raising his hands.
"We'll give up some weapons," Irina translated for him, "but we're not walking in blind."
Elias and Elle Favreau followed suit, lowering their primary rifles to the dirt but keeping their sidearms and knives hidden.
Gaz Brown groaned as he unfastened his carbine, muttering under his breath. "I feel naked already."
Dr. Adrian Mercer, having no weapon to begin with, raised his empty hands. "Congratulations, I surrender absolutely nothing."
The resistance fighters watched carefully, eyes darting between the weapons on the ground and the soldiers who had wielded them.
The bearded fighter—the one who had nearly shot Elias earlier—still didn't trust them. He spat on the ground.
"They're lying. They still have sidearms."
Irina's jaw clenched. "Wouldn't you?"
A beat of silence.
The resistance leader let out a slow breath and finally lowered her pistol.
"Good enough for now," she muttered. Then she turned on her heel and gestured toward the ruined buildings behind her.
"Come with us."
Jackson exhaled slowly.
Bravo Team had bought themselves time.
But that didn't mean they were safe.
Not yet.
– Resistance-Controlled Zone
September 2054 – 1115 Hours
Bravo Team moved carefully, their boots crunching over broken glass and loose rubble as they were escorted deeper into the war-torn town.
The resistance fighters surrounded them, keeping their rifles half-raised, eyes sharp.
There was no trust here.
Only suspicion.
Jackson Osiris could feel it in the way they moved—tight formation, controlled breathing, the way their fingers hovered over triggers. These weren't undisciplined militia.
These people had been fighting for a long time.
And they were very good at it.
– A City That Refuses to Die
The deeper they went, the clearer it became—this place wasn't dead.
Despite the war-torn streets, despite the crumbling buildings, despite the scars of airstrikes, artillery, and execution squads—life still clung on.
Smoke curled from hidden fire pits, the scent of burning wood and old fuel mixing in the air.Laundry lines stretched between shattered buildings, shirts and jackets swaying in the wind.Children peeked out from behind alleyways, their faces thin but their eyes wide with curiosity—and fear.Murals painted on bullet-riddled walls showed resistance symbols, Romanian flags, and messages in bold, angry letters:
"MOARTE OCUPANȚILOR!" (DEATH TO THE OCCUPIERS!)
This wasn't just a town.
It was a battlefield. A graveyard. A home.
And right now, Bravo Team was walking straight through the lion's den.
One of the resistance fighters, a lean man with a shaved head and a long scar down his neck, sneered at Gaz Brown as they walked.
"Americans," he spat in heavily accented English. "Think you own the world!?"
Gaz raised an eyebrow. "Mate, do I look like I own anything?"
The fighter didn't smile. "You come here. You bring war. You leave us with the bodies."
Gaz exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "That's not us, pal."
The fighter stepped closer, his rifle brushing against Gaz's arm. "You all look the same to us."
Jackson subtly shifted his stance, ready to intervene if things escalated.
Irina Vinogradova, walking alongside Jackson, muttered under her breath. "They're testing us."
Elle Favreau's voice was cool. "We've noticed."
The woman leading the escort—the one who had taken charge earlier—hadn't spoken much since they started moving.
But she watched.
Every step Bravo Team took, every interaction, every glance—they were being studied. Evaluated.
Jackson finally broke the silence. "You have a name?"
The woman didn't look at him. "Yes."
He waited.
She didn't elaborate.
Gaz muttered, "Oh yeah. This is gonna be a great friendship."
Irina, still acting as the translator, sighed. "What do you want from us?" she asked in Romanian.
The woman finally turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at Irina.
"I want to know why you're really here."
Irina didn't flinch. "We told you the truth."
The woman exhaled. "Maybe. Maybe not."
They kept walking.
The air felt heavier with every step.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
September 2054 – 1130 Hours
The streets above were a graveyard of war.
The cracked pavement was littered with bullet casings, crumbling debris, and abandoned vehicles stripped down to their skeletal remains. The buildings, once homes and shops, now stood as hollowed-out husks—monuments to battles before.
But the real fight wasn't happening here.
It was happening below.
"Move."
The Romanian resistance ushered Bravo Team forward, leading them toward what had once been a maintenance tunnel entrance, now hidden beneath piles of wreckage and sandbags.
Jackson Osiris barely hesitated as he stepped inside.
The world above was hell.
But somehow, the world beneath felt worse.
The Underground Resistance Hideout
The tunnel smelled of rot, rust, and damp concrete. Water dripped from unseen cracks in the ceiling, echoing in the tight, suffocating space.
The deeper they descended, the darker it became—lit only by scattered oil lanterns and the occasional flicker of dying LED lights.
They passed through makeshift barricades, stepping over barbed wire coils and stacked sandbags. The walls were lined with old pipes and hanging tarps, concealing rooms filled with stockpiles of stolen weapons, ration crates, and bloodied bandages.
This was no ordinary sewer.
This was a fortress.
A place where war never stopped.
And at the heart of it all, waiting behind a heavy steel door, was the resistance leader's war room.
The interrogation was about to begin.
Underground Resistance Hideout – War Room
September 2054 – 1145 Hours
The room was cold, dimly lit, and suffocating.
A single table sat at the center, scarred from knife gouges and bullet holes. Rusted pipes lined the walls, hissing faintly as steam vented into the damp air.
Bravo Team stood in a rough semi-circle, unarmed, their rifles confiscated at the entrance. Dr. Adrian Mercer sat at the far end, his glasses slightly askew, exhaustion written all over his face.
Across from them, the resistance leader—the same woman who had taken charge earlier—leaned forward, both hands pressed against the table.
Her eyes were cold. Calculating.
"Sit."
Nobody moved.
"I said sit."
Jackson Osiris didn't react, but Elias Scott was the first to ease down onto the nearest chair. Elle Favreau followed, then Irina Vinogradova. Gaz Brown, arms crossed, stayed standing.
"We can do this civilly," the woman said. "Or I can start sending bodies back to the surface."
Jackson exhaled sharply and pulled out a chair, the metal scraping against the concrete as he sat.
"Good," the woman muttered. "Now—who the fuck are you, and why are you here?"
Irina, the only one fluent in Romanian, started to translate, but Jackson raised a hand to stop her.
"You speak English," he said, voice flat. "Talk to us directly."
The woman's eyes flickered, but she didn't deny it.
"You're right." She leaned forward. "I do. But this isn't about making you comfortable."
Jackson clenched his jaw. "We told you already. We're not with Osiris. We're not with NATO. We're not with the Russians. We're just trying to survive."
The woman snorted. "That's a nice, clean answer. Too clean."
She turned her gaze to Mercer.
"And you? What the hell is an Osiris scientist doing with a squad of ex-soldiers?"
Mercer sighed, adjusting his glasses. "I'm not with Osiris anymore."
The woman raised an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."
"I defected," Mercer said. "Bravo Team saved my life."
A silence settled over the room.
Then the woman scoffed.
"I don't believe you."
Mercer's face darkened. "That's not my problem."
The bearded resistance fighter—the same one who nearly executed Elias earlier—stepped forward, his rifle still slung over his shoulder. "You expect us to believe that you, an Osiris scientist, just decided one day that you'd rather play hero?"
Mercer exhaled sharply. "I didn't decide anything. I saw what they were doing—what they were building. I ran."
The woman studied him for a long moment. "What were they building?"
Mercer hesitated. Then he looked at Jackson.
Jackson knew what he was asking—how much should they say?
He made the call.
"Project Acheron."
The room went still.
The woman's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," Jackson said.
She didn't blink. Didn't react. But something changed.
The resistance knew something.
And they weren't sharing.
The woman turned to Irina. "Translate for me."
Irina hesitated but nodded.
The woman stepped closer, placing both hands on the table.
"I have watched my people die." Her voice was low, steady, but filled with quiet fury. "By the thousands. Our homes burned. Our children slaughtered. And every time we find a new enemy, another one crawls out of the dirt to take its place."
She leaned in. "So tell me—why should I believe that you're not just the next group of killers?"
Silence.
Gaz Brown, arms still crossed, exhaled. "Jesus, lady. You want a blood sample?"
The bearded fighter snarled. "Shut your mouth."
"Or what?" Gaz shot back. "You gonna slap me?"
The man lunged, grabbing Gaz by the collar, yanking him forward.
Jackson immediately stood, Elias right behind him, but the woman raised a hand.
"Enough."
The bearded man held Gaz's glare for a second longer, then released him with a shove.
Gaz dusted off his jacket. "Great hospitality. Five stars."
The woman ignored him. She turned back to Jackson.
"You say you're running from Osiris?"
"Yes."
"Then prove it."
Jackson frowned. "How?"
The woman exhaled, as if making a decision.
Then she spoke. "Tell us everything you know. About the war. About Osiris. About Acheron. And maybe—just maybe—I'll believe you."
The room was silent.
This wasn't just an interrogation anymore.
This was a test.
Jackson looked at his team. Looked at Mercer.
Then, finally, he exhaled.
"Alright."
September 2054 – 1200 Hours
The dimly lit war room was silent except for the distant echo of dripping water and the occasional muffled explosion from somewhere above—reminders that the war hadn't stopped just because they were underground.
The resistance leader studied Bravo Team carefully, waiting.
Jackson Osiris could feel the weight of her stare.
"Talk," she ordered. "Tell us everything you know."
Jackson exchanged a brief glance with Elias Scott.
They had agreed—give them enough to earn trust, but not everything.
Jackson took a slow breath. "You already know what Osiris is."
The resistance leader didn't move. "Enlighten me."
"They don't fight wars. They control them." His voice was steady, deliberate. "They don't care who wins—only that the war keeps going."
A murmur spread through the room. Even the bearded resistance fighter who had nearly shot Elias earlier seemed to hesitate at that.
"And what about you?" The woman leaned forward. "You say you're running. Why?"
"Because we saw what they're really doing."
That was true. It just wasn't all of it.
Jackson left out Project Acheron.
He left out what was done to him.
The woman studied them for a moment before stepping back.
She turned toward the large map pinned to the wall, marked with hand-drawn borders, troop movements, and battle reports.
"Romania is a graveyard," she said, tracing her finger over the map. "Berlin fell a few weeks ago. NATO forces pulled back across Europe, and we've been left to fend for ourselves. Russian and Chinese battalions are still contesting this region."
Elle Favreau folded her arms. "So NATO abandoned you."
The woman scoffed. "Of course they did."
She gestured to the shattered remnants of their underground hideout. "We're not an army. We're the last breath of a country being erased from history." Her voice was bitter, but steady. "And Osiris? They profit from all of it."
Jackson nodded slightly. "That's what they do."
The woman turned back to him. "Then explain this to me."
She walked closer, her gaze sharp, unrelenting.
And then, in a voice laced with confusion, disbelief, and something almost like anger—
"Why the fuck, Roberta Osiris' son out here?! Why are you suffering with the rest of us?!"
The words hung in the air like a gunshot.
Bravo Team tensed.
Irina Vinogradova's breath hitched. Gaz Brown muttered, "Well, shit."
The resistance fighters—most of whom had been watching quietly—immediately reacted. A ripple of whispers, muttered curses, and tightening grips on weapons.
They knew the name Osiris.
And they knew who Jackson really was.
Jackson didn't flinch. He simply met the resistance leader's stare. "That's none of your concern."
The woman narrowed her eyes. "I think it is."
She took another step forward.
"Your mother is the most powerful woman on Earth." Her voice was cold. "She commands armies that burn entire nations to the ground. People like you don't end up on the battlefield—you're supposed to be sitting in some tower, drinking from a golden glass while the rest of us fight for scraps."
Her gaze darkened. "So tell me, Jackson Osiris—why are you here?"
Jackson could feel his team watching him. His team knew he was part of the Bravo team since he was a teenager.
He could feel the burning glares of the resistance fighters, their hands twitching near their rifles.
How the hell was he supposed to explain this?
That he wasn't like his mother? That he wasn't Osiris? That he had spent his entire life as a weapon, a project, a tool—designed, engineered, and programmed for war?
That he was just as much of a victim as they were?
He took a slow breath. "I made my choice."
The woman studied him. "Did you?"
Silence.
Then—an explosion rumbled in the distance.
And just like that, the conversation was over.
For now.