"It's been three hours…" Drayke muttered, arms crossed as they stood in the scorching sun, bags piled at their feet.
Each of them had two packs: an assault pack for quick-access essentials—uniform changes, field rations-–and a rucksack, bulky and heavy with mission-critical gear. Entrenching tool. Gas mask. Full MOPP gear, sealed tight in case of a chemical encounter.
No one liked the suits. They were hot, stiff, and suffocating.
But if they were to have seen what happened to the soldiers who marched into a poisoned zone unprepared, they wouldn't complain.
Drayke adjusted the strap on his ruck, shifting his weight. "You'd think a brigade commander could tell time."
Grayson looked up at the sun, squinting and covering his face with his forearm, "You know what they say, hurry up and wait."
The statement was too true…
"Team! Attention!"
Sergeant Kaldros barked the command, and his squad snapped into formation. He threw up a crisp salute just as the brigade commander made his slow, deliberate approach—each step measured like he had all the time in the world.
General Hathaway moved like a relic from another era, spine straight despite the weight of age. His uniform was immaculate. The only thing sharper than his creases were his eyes—narrowed at first, then lifting beneath heavy brows to reveal striking emeralds.
He stopped in front of the two assembled teams. His gaze lingered on Drayke for just a beat longer than the rest.
"Good morning, sir!" the soldiers called in unison, voices carrying through the humid air.
General Hathaway nodded once, slow and heavy with meaning.
"Soldiers…" he began, his voice gravel and steel, "you are embarking on the third eastward assault toward Old Reno. The Command back home—emboldened by the success of the Vegas push—has opted for haste. But haste is not your ally. Discipline is."
He let the silence sink in before continuing.
"Your objective is to pierce the enemy's outer lines and investigate the source of the continuous disturbances—wherever and whatever is spawning these creatures. There is absolutely no room for failure."
A subtle wind tugged at the edge of his coat.
"You ten are the spearpoint. The tip of the blade. Behind you, by twenty hours, marches the rest of the brigade. If you fall…" he looked across each face, one by one, "…the rest will fall with you."
He drew a deep breath, shoulders rising with the weight of it.
"Under these orders, I am now authorized to release confidential intelligence on your future combatants."
A pause.
His voice softened—not in volume, but in weight, like a stone being dropped into deep water.
"I pray to whatever god still watches over us… that you survive what's to come."
General Hathaway reached into the folds of his coat and produced two thick folders, worn at the edges and sealed with the dark-red stripe of high clearance. He handed one to Sergeant Kaldros, the other to Master Sergeant Jerome.
"Everything you need to know is in here," he said. "Study it. Memorize it. And burn it when finished."
Kaldros took the folder without a word, his expression unreadable. Jerome gave a sharp nod, face set like stone.
"Be advised," Hathaway continued, voice dipping lower, "what you'll read in there is not for the faint of heart. I won't sugarcoat it—this mission is unlike any before it. These creatures, these… anomalies—they don't follow the rules of war."
He paused, jaw tightening.
[The contents of the folders are not fully detailed here due to the obscenity of the material. Graphic depictions of violence, suffering, and monstrous acts exceed what is necessary to convey the weight of the mission. The soldiers know. That is enough.]
General Hathaway stepped back, straightening his cap.
"You leave at noon. May your minds remain intact… and your blades swift."
With that, he turned and walked away, just as slowly as he'd arrived—each footstep leaving a deeper impression than the last.
~
A few hours later…
The crew strapped their rucks to the tank's rear, securing them to the hooks once meant for spare treads and supply crates. Now, they bore the weight of survival gear and the last pieces of comfort anyone could carry into hell.
Inside, the engine roared like a caged beast—hot, loud, and alive. The vibrations ran through their boots and into their bones. Obi wasn't built for comfort, but she was theirs.
Team Obsidian and Team Skyfall rotated in shifts—some rode inside, crammed shoulder to shoulder between rattling panels and storage racks; others perched up top, exposed to the sun and the wind but with breathing room. Sleep came in short bursts, never deeper than a shallow doze. No one complained. The adrenaline wouldn't allow rest even if they tried.
Every hour or so, the tank screeched to a halt—another obstacle. A tree grown thick and defiant across the road, roots tearing through cracked asphalt like nature itself was trying to hold them back. Sometimes they cleared it with raw muscle and entrenchment tools. Sometimes, Kaelwyn torched it to ash.
The road to Reno clearly didn't want them coming.
The terrain had shifted from cracked highways to jagged mountain trails, the kind that turned treads into sleds and patience into ash. Sheer drops loomed just feet from their treads. Every curve felt like a dare.
They sent a two-man scout team ahead—Sergeant Hawkins and Specialist Mirelle—to survey the trail, check for cave-ins, and ensure no rerouting was necessary. The rest stayed behind, boots up and nerves wound tight, waiting in the cramped belly of Obi.
Inside, for the first time in a while, there was laughter.
Grayson slapped his cards down onto a battered cushion that had been repurposed as a makeshift table. "Royal Flush! Baby!"
The other soldiers groaned.
"Hah! Hand over those rations," Grayson crowed, scooping a small pile of snack wrappers and ration bars like he was cashing chips at a high-stakes casino.
Grayson had a reputation—sharp eyes, sharper instincts. Poker wasn't just a game for him; it was war with prettier cards. He'd already cleaned out most of the squad of their extras. All that remained in the others' packs now were the bland necessities: heat-sealed entrees, protein bars, the kind of stuff you'd eat when flavor was just a distant memory.
He tore into a peanut butter bar like it was gourmet.
"Someone check his shadows," muttered Private Kaelwyn, squinting deeply into the dim corners of the tank. "No way he's this lucky."
Grayson grinned, chomping through a mouthful of dry rations. "Luck is for the weak." He tapped the side of his head with two fingers—then, like a magician, pulled a card from behind his ear. "This—" he twirled the jack of spades between his fingers, "—is skill."
The others groaned. Someone cursed. Specialist Kaelwyn threatened to duct tape his hands mid-sleep.
Drayke didn't say a word.
Something about the quiet beyond the laughter—just outside the tank, past the creaking trees and whispering wind—reminded Drayke that the game was only a distraction. A brief illusion of normalcy.
Then the road reminded them why they were here.
BOOM.
The tank lurched as the explosion rocked the forest floor. Cards scattered. Laughter died. Drayke was the first to move, head out the hatch in a heartbeat.
They had arrived.
Without warning, the artillery squad had already deployed, lobbing mortars downrange—warning shots to announce the beginning.
At the edge of a mountainside, Sergeant Kaldros and Master Sergeant Jerome stood with binoculars trained on the ruins of Reno.
"You think the reports were right?" Jerome muttered, taking a pull from his canteen. The sharp scent of alcohol clung to him like sweat.
Kaldros didn't flinch. "Doesn't matter what we think." He extended a hand, waiting. Jerome passed the canteen without a word.
"We do what needs doing," Kaldros said before taking a long swig.
Drayke climbed out of the hatch and jogged over. "What's going on? We're not going for the element of surprise?"
Kaldros paused mid-drink, swallowing what he could. He gestured back at the tank. "We lost the element of surprise the second we rolled up in that beast."
He pointed toward the valley below. "And survival ain't the mission. Our job's to wipe out that nest of goblins—nothing more, nothing less."
Kaldros pointed toward the crew as they climbed out of the tank one by one. "Get moving. As soon as the sun drops, we start the infiltration." He glanced at Jerome. "He and I will work out the details. You focus on what you do best."
Team Obsidian began packing up, bracing for the worst.
Kaldros lowered his binoculars, a shadow of disappointment crossing his face. "That hotel—it's the den. Our primary target." He nodded across the ruined boulevard. "The casino over there, that's where the high-goblins linger. That's likely where the boss is holed up."
Jerome caught the fire burning in Kaldros' eyes. "You're not seriously thinking about going in there… are you?"
"And what? Just leave them?" Kaldros said, jaw tight. "They survived this nightmare. If they're still human—and still willing—they deserve a chance to be saved."
Jerome dropped his empty canteen into the dirt and sank down beside it. "If it were anyone else, I'd call that naive and order them to turn back. But you…" He met Kaldros' eyes. "Don't die out there. If we don't see your signal by morning, we're firing on that position. No exceptions."
Kaldros nodded and turned without a word, heading to gather his gear. He unclasped the cross from around his neck, securing it to his ruck where a cluster of dog tags hung—a memorial of the names he'd carried since the start of his deployment. All the dog tags were unoriginal since they were unable to be retrieved, today was the day he vowed to remember their names.
Grabbing his greatsword, time seemed to blur. One moment, the squad was joking around; the next, they stood in silence, faces hardened, fully aware of the horrors they were about to walk into.
Kaldros laid down the rules—clear, brutal, necessary.
Rule One: Gas masks stay on. The goblins use a drug that knocks humans out cold.
Rule Two: If someone falls behind, leave them. One life isn't worth the many we came to save.
Rule Three: What you see in there stays in there. Don't speak of it. Don't spread it. The victims have suffered enough.
Rule Four: Failure is not an option. If you're going down, take as many as you can with you. Fight until your body gives out.
Rule Five: If the mission's blown, spark the flare. That's the signal for Team Skyfall to begin bombardment. The brigade will handle the boss.
The Last Rule: Have faith. Whether in science, God, or the gods—believe. In yourself. In your squad. In the mission.
Thus began Operation Spearhead—a mission forged in desperation, driven by duty, and bound by blood.
No turning back. Just a single shot at piercing a critical asset to this nightmare.