Chapter 1: The Cause of The War?
Historical Disclaimer:
This work of fiction contains references to real-world events, including the September 11, 2001 attacks. These moments are included to ground the narrative in a recognizable reality and to explore the personal impact such events may have on fictional characters. No disrespect was intended to the victims, survivors, or those affected by these tragedies. This was a scene of personal growth, loss, and resilience set against the backdrop of history.
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September 11, 2001 – Arlington, Virginia
08:53 AM
Just like every other day in his life, Alexander Velmora, currently a freshman in George Washington University, currently doing a major in Government and International politics, which could have been different if it wasn't for those words said by his father all those years ago.
He was still very proud of his father and his ideal, but this dream of his now had taken deep root in his heart, even a little above joining the military, but that didn't mean he was slacking on his training as it had become a natural habit to now, and he appreciated how his father would try to teach him something whenever he saw him train.
He knew his father enjoyed teaching him, so he never stopped even for a day, even after realising what he really wanted in his life, which was to become the president of his country and make things better, which he believed he could do.
The morning sun was barely cutting through the haze when Alexander stepped onto the stone paths of George Washington University.
His bag hung lazily from one shoulder, a government theory textbook tucked under his arm.
The chill in the air felt out of place for September — like something was holding its breath.
He paused for a moment near Kogan Plaza, watching students filter past with coffee cups and crumpled lecture notes.
It was just another Tuesday.
He should've been thinking about midterms.
About debate prep.
About the seat in the mock senate chamber he was gunning for.
He was thinking about the debate in his mind.
Not until the first scream cracked the air like glass.
Students looked up as one — heads tilting toward the sky.
Then the dull, thunderous boom rolled in from the southeast.
Not loud enough to be fireworks.
Not distant enough to be thunder.
A second later, the campus sirens flared to life, and dozens of phones lit up at once.
Alexander's chest tightened as he turned toward the smoke.
A thick column of black was curling into the air just across the Potomac — not far, maybe four miles out.
He didn't need a map to know what stood there.
"The Pentagon," someone whispered beside him, as if saying it too loud would make it worse.
He dropped his bag.
His feet moved on instinct.
His legs carried him down H Street, past students frozen in place, past professors fumbling with cell phones, past alarms echoing off buildings like war drums.
Each block he crossed, the smoke in the sky grew darker — closer.
Cars had already jammed up the roads, radios blaring confused news anchors and terrified speculation.
By the time he reached the edge of campus, the reality had hit the city like a second impact: a plane had crashed into the Pentagon.
Alexander gripped a railing tightly, his hands were shaking, watching emergency vehicles roar across the bridge toward Arlington.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
He felt sick — not just from the smoke, or the fear, but from rage.
Alexander had followed the sirens.
Somewhere between impulse and numb instinct, he found himself just beyond the Arlington Memorial Bridge, across the Potomac — far closer than most students dared go.
He wasn't alone.
Dozens stood along the barrier, some filming, some praying, none speaking.
The Pentagon was a gaping wound.
One side of the building had been torn open like a soda can, walls sheared, flames licking at the sky.
Parts of the fuselage jutted from the impact site like rusted knives.
Bodies — burned, broken, or worse — were being dragged from the wreckage by men in soot-blackened uniforms.
One soldier collapsed mid-run, carrying half a man whose charred arm hung by threads of skin.
Alexander couldn't breathe.
Not from the smoke — from the reality.
This wasn't a movie.
This wasn't theory.
It was death — loud, messy, indiscriminate.
A twisted piece of metal crashed nearby, still glowing red from heat.
Blood smeared across pavement where someone had been triaged and lost.
He stumbled back and nearly vomited.
But he didn't look away.
Somewhere under that rubble were people who had just been drinking coffee, writing emails, laughing with coworkers — until their lives were reduced to ash in under fifteen seconds.
His hands trembled.
Rage burned in his stomach.
Not fear.
Rage.
By the time night fell and he returned to his dorm, every corner of him felt scorched.
He didn't sleep.
The next morning, he woke early and wrote a letter to his father — telling them not to worry, telling them he was safe, but leaving out the part about the recruiting office he'd walked into before the week ended.
Even his father knew his son's dream had been changed, so right now his decision to join the military seemed like an impulse, but it came deep from his heart.
He had already heard about how it happened, what the supposed causes were, through the news — just like everyone else on campus.
And knowing that this wasn't the only place hit made it feel even heavier.
It wasn't just Arlington.
New York had been struck too, and another plane had crashed in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
Three attacks, almost back to back.
The kind of thing that didn't even feel real at first.
People were glued to their TVs, watching the same footage over and over.
Some cried.
Some just sat in silence.
He didn't say much either.
But deep down, something had shifted.
He hadn't thought about joining the military before — not seriously.
But now, it wasn't just some passing thought.
It stuck with him.
Not because someone told him to.
Not because it was expected.
But because sitting still felt wrong.
More than 2000 of his fellow Americans were reported dead in the news, his blood was boiling, and he couldn't wait to end the terrorists who were the cause of this tragedy.
And to do that, he was going to join the military.
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