September 11, 2001. 19:00. Paris.
Nightfall.
The city glimmered under festival lights, alive with laughter and music. A beautiful calm before the storm. The Eiffel Tower's golden glow bathed the streets in radiant light, casting long shadows over cobblestone roads and rippling across the surface of the Seine.
Life was everywhere. The city—and its people—thrived in the blend of old-world charm and the promise of a brighter future woven into its architecture.
Above, flying vehicles cut through the night sky. Sleek electronics filled every shop window, accessible to all. Many walked with cybernetic implants that replaced limbs or organs as easily as changing clothes. Towering skyscrapers bore luminous posters promising "a better future, one of healing," selling endless variations of comfort and perfection. Screens, billboards, and holograms all pulsed with the same message.
"Escape and prosper—the Cold War is over!"
Yet beneath that shimmering surface of progress and hope, darkness lingered. For every radiant digital ad promoting luxury or distraction, another offered mental health services and crisis hotlines. A cheerful family passed a silent teenager scrolling on his phone. In a narrow alley, hidden from the polished boulevards, an exhausted worker sank to his knees and wept.
For every step forward humanity took, it stumbled several steps back.
But tonight was when it truly began.
Beyond the grand boulevards and glowing avenues of Paris, narrow streets wound into quieter suburbs. There, rows of low houses and condos stood in perfect, silent symmetry.
It was quiet. Peaceful.
Families gathered over dinner; the younger crowd had already vanished toward the city's nightlife.
Then—movement.
A group of armed figures slipped through the dim light, their steps soundless against the pavement.
Five teams, six soldiers each.
They advanced with mechanical precision.
Their uniforms bore no flag, only a jet-black insignia—reminiscent of the United Nations emblem. Sleek armour, heavy plating, and modified weapons gleamed beneath the streetlights, the kind of tech that made standard militaries look obsolete. Cylindrical helmets hid their faces, leaving no trace of identity to be discerned.
The only sounds were distant echoes from the heart of the city—laughter, music, life—all fading beneath the steady rhythm of the soldiers' advance.
They took position without a word.
One team readied a grappling rig while the others stacked along the condo's entrances. A soldier crouched, slipped a small sphere under the door. It landed with barely a thud before unfolding—metallic legs snapping outward like an insect. The drone crawled inside, scanning.
Seconds passed.
Then one soldier tapped the side of their helmet. A silent signal to the rest of their team.
Locks were picked. Bolts clicked free.
The door eased open, and the entry team slipped inside. Other elements breached through secondary doors, while one squad remained outside for perimeter security.
Rifles up, muzzles sweeping, they cleared the room in tight formation. Each sector was covered, and movements were perfectly synchronized.
The first floor opened into an empty lobby. Rows of worn sofas faced the main entrance, neat but dated. Dark concrete walls boxed in the space, a rusted mailbox panel bolted near the stairwell.
The teams confirmed the lobby was clear, then split.
Two squads moved for the staircase. Another checked the elevator shaft. The fourth held position to maintain rear security.
One of the soldiers in the holding team pressed a gloved thumb against the comms switch on his helmet.
A young male voice, accented faintly German, came through.
"R-1 to Castle. We've made entry. No Tanwir contacts. Have the local police arrived? Over."
The reply came seconds later—deeper, older, steady.
"Castle to R-1. Police en route to support and apprehend. Continue as briefed. Over."
"Acknowledged. Proceeding to second floor. Over."
R-1 released the switch and gave a hand signal forward. His team advanced toward the stairwell, where another squad stood ready. They exchanged quick nods before continuing the ascent.
Step by step, they climbed, boots whisper-soft on concrete. R-1 led the way, rifle angled upward, covering the flight above. The second floor was dark; faint voices carried from behind closed apartment doors—English, French, indistinct.
At the landing, the team paused. R-1 flashed a series of quick hand signs, assigning sectors and responsibilities.
The soldiers broke off without a word, stacking against the dark wooden door.
Amid the low murmur of conversation, two operators picked up a distinct exchange—two male voices, both Middle Eastern.
The younger one spoke fast, nervously, charged with adrenaline.
"Is everything ready? Brother, I—"
Footsteps shifted across the floorboards. Then came a second voice, older, steadier.
"Ayaan, stay calm. We wait for the signal."
Outside, a soldier tapped the button on the side of his helmet. R-1 answered with a slight nod and a two-finger forward signal. The point man eased his weapon aside, drew a slim pick, and began working while his partner watched the corridor. A faint click—almost lost in the chatter—and the latch gave.
A soft twist, and the door gave way.
The team flowed in, one after another, rifles up, lasers painting tidy red sectors across the dim apartment. They moved like a single machine toward the unsuspecting pair.
The place was cramped—a couch, a small table, a flickering TV. Against one wall, wooden crates were stacked, stenciled with the same angular mark. A folded leaflet in Arabic lay on top of the pile.
"Freeze! Hands where I can see them!" the point man barked.
The younger of the two complied at once, dropping to his knees with his hands high. "Shit! Please—I'm sorry! I surrender!" he cried, voice cracking.
The older man did not. He spun toward a bedroom, hand diving for a waist rig.
A sharp metallic click—then gunfire ripped through drywall.
The team slammed into cover and returned disciplined bursts. Three rounds from the operators answered the initial shot. Silence fell, punctuated by a dull thud and the clatter of a weapon skidding across tile.
Screams rose from the hallway, but inside the apartment, a charged stillness settled. Two soldiers pushed themselves up and trained rifles on the younger man, who lay trembling on the floor. Another swept the room with a quick, methodical clearance while a second produced zip ties and moved in to secure the survivor.
After a rapid search, the team confirmed one casualty where the gunfire had come from. The man on the floor—alive, breathing, eyes wide—had been restrained and sat with a soldier's knee near his shoulder to keep him from lunging.
He then tapped his helmet mic.
"R-5 to R-Team: two contacts in this flat. One KIA at point of contact; one secured. Possible caches present. Beginning exploitation. Out."
Above, a distant voice blared, angry. "It's the UNSAF! Those bastards are here!"
The other soldier—R-6—moved to the stacked crates and pried at the lids. Under the stenciled emblem were more cartons—but the first two came up light. R-6 frowned and overturned one; it held nothing more than cushioning plastic and labels from a corporate logistics supplier.
"It's empty.". He tapped the crate, then radioed the finding.
R-5 leaned toward the tied man, his voice low and controlled. "Stay on the floor and answer my questions. Cooperate and you live. Understood?"
The man nodded frantically.
"First—where are the chemicals taken from Germany?"
"They were moved." The man swallowed. "Split… sent to different cells. There's none here."
"Which cells? Names. Locations."
"I don't know—"
"What about your weapon suppliers? Who provides your guns?"
"They never told me—"
R-6 cut in, voice tight as he flipped open another crate. "They're empty. Nothing but packaging. And… Arasaka manifest numbers?"
R-5's jaw tightened. He put a careful, non-lethal pressure on the man's shoulder. "Explain. Now."
The man's answer came, small and defeated. "We never had the chemicals... I thought… you knew that."
Before anyone could press further, R-1's voice snapped across the net, urgent and raw. "EVERYONE, DOWN!"
Moments later, a chain of explosions ripped through the night. Far-off alarms triggered. Concrete trembled.
Judgement Day had begun.