September 11, 2001. 13:00. Paris.
"The objective is to raid the Tanwir supply nodes in Paris." Castle's voice was flat, precise. He tapped a remote, and A map of the city flashed up on the screen. "From what our intel says, the Tanwir have been moving precursor chemicals and weapons through Paris for several weeks. Therefore, Paris has been registered as the primary area of operations. Our goal is to disrupt their logistics, seize materiel, and deny further distribution."
Only the projection's pale glow cut through the dark.
Short black hair, broad shoulders, an officer's bearing—Castle read down the list like a man reciting radio checks.
The room felt taut; no one smiled.
Rows of UNSAF personnel sat at attention while UN liaison officers and allied delegates stood along the perimeter. Around them gathered some of the most lethal, well-trained troops from multiple nations, assembled to neutralize a transnational threat with the best equipment available.
Slides cycled: routes, vehicle markings, times, a handful of grainy photos.
Images of Tanwir operatives filled the screen—faces set with conviction and a fanatical edge of zealotry. Banners were raised, denouncing corporations and technology. The pictures were grainy but unmistakable: desperation and rage burned in their eyes.
Anti-corporate hatred and a creed warning of the perils of technology had been welded into Tanwir's identity.
One photo showed a rally beneath a flag labelled "The Enlightened," with a banner depicting a robotic arm being torn apart raised above the crowd. Another captured the aftermath of ritual violence—severed heads and mutilated prosthetics, hostages' faces frozen in terror; brutality emphasized over spectacle.
A final series showed stolen chemicals—drums and pallets—being loaded into unmarked trucks.
"We'll operate in full CBRN protection," Castle continued. "Standard mission kit is contractor-provided—Arasaka and Militech—augmented by UNSAF issue. Our rules of engagement: 'Comply or be detained.' Lethal force is authorized against hostiles who present a clear threat or refuse lawful orders. Intel will maintain kinetic and non-kinetic tracking of shipment vectors throughout the operation."
He swept a hand toward a row of suited observers near the front.
"As a reminder: police will coordinate cordons and crowd control to minimize civilian exposure. Corporate liaisons from Arasaka and Militech will continue to be present for asset identification and post-op custody." He paused, carefully weighing his next words. "For this operation, operational authority has been extended to corporate command oversight—Arasaka and Militech now hold joint tactical control with UNSAF command. They are cleared to issue directives or override mission parameters where they deem necessary, particularly concerning proprietary materials or classified interests."
The room shifted. A few soldiers exchanged uncertain glances; no one had ever heard that before. Most stayed quiet, unsure what to think.
Among them sat R-Team. In their midst, R-1 watched the suited representatives near the front. Suspicion filled his mind, his eyes narrowing as he studied the corporate delegates.
They wore tailored suits, and the clean-cut confidence on their faces contrasted with the gritty practicality of his team.
He didn't like this one bit. How could he?
The UNSAF might be backed by them, but being commanded by corporate hands was a bad sign. They didn't understand the field—they made decisions from the comfort of their boardrooms.
R-2 noticed R-1's discomfort and gently nudged his team leader, whispering in a low tone, "Everything all good?"
R-1 shook his head with an expression of distrust. He wanted no part of whatever the corpos had in mind; politics and economics be damned.
"I don't trust them, but they have our hands tied."
They spoke only briefly before Castle closed the presentation.
"Questions on tasking are to be asked after the brief."
…
September 11, 2001. 19:30. Paris.
R-1's gaze swept across the ruined room as R-2 and R-3 finished securing the surviving Tanwir.
His thoughts blurred—fragments of Castle's debrief still echoing in his head—but he forced his focus back to the present.
Spent casings littered the floor like brass confetti. Bullet holes chewed through plaster and concrete. Blood pooled beneath the bodies of the fallen; the air was thick with cordite and iron. A few Tanwir had dropped their weapons and surrendered—smarter than the rest.
One of the crates lay cracked open nearby. Inside, stacked in foam-lined rows, were Militech and Arasaka rifles—brand-new. The corporate logos caught the weak overhead light, clean and unmistakable, their serial numbers sharp and unfiled.
R-1 crouched, brushing his gloved fingers along the cold metal.
These weren't stolen surplus or scavenged black-market leftovers. They were straight from the production line.
"They shouldn't have this," he muttered under his breath. "Verdammt noch mal…" The frustration slipped out before he caught himself.
In every prior operation, the Tanwir had fielded a patchwork of NATO relics and old Warsaw scrap. Seeing them now armed with UNSAF-grade weapons twisted something in his gut. "How the hell did intel miss this?"
Gunfire erupted from the floors above—short bursts, followed by the screams of civilians.
R-1 barely flinched. He stepped deeper into the apartment, mind racing faster than his pulse.
"R-1 to Castle, we've got a problem—Tanwir are carrying Arasaka and Militech weapons. Repeat, Arasaka and Militech."
He moved toward a shattered window, scanning the street below.
Police were herding detained militants into vans while onlookers watched from behind the tape—phones out, eyes wide.
Castle's reply came a few seconds later, his tone clipped but tinged with disbelief.
"Arasaka and Militech? Copy that... But it makes no sense. Keep your team sharp, R-1."
R-1 frowned, eyes tracking rooftops and upper floors through his visor feed. He made sure his comms were set to a private channel—Castle's frequency only.
"Copy, Castle. But if even you weren't looped in, something's wrong with the intel. This shouldn't be a blind spot."
A brief pause. Then Castle's voice, quieter now, less command and more friend.
"I know. Keep this between us. But I don't buy the coincidence—not with corporate brass breathing down my neck. I've been reviewing the packet, and the intel on Paris is suspiciously thin… too thin for a regular green-lit op."
Static filled the line for a heartbeat before R-1 answered.
"Understood. We'll keep digging. Feels like we're not seeing the whole board here."
"Just stay alive long enough to tell me about it over a drink," Castle said, trying for levity but not quite masking the concern.
R-1 gave a short exhale that passed for a laugh. "Copy that, Colonel."
The channel went quiet, leaving only the sound of distant gunfire and the muffled chaos below.
Unease settled heavily in R-1's gut.
The Tanwir shouldn't have access to any of this—not unless someone wanted them to.
Had they really stolen the weapons… or been handed them? If it was theft, they'd have needed to crack military-grade convoys and bypass top-tier security. Difficult, yes—but not impossible.
Still, it didn't add up.
If the Tanwir could pull that off, it meant they'd grown far beyond anyone's estimates. But if that were true, UNSAF intelligence would have seen it coming.
But if it wasn't theft—if it was supply…
R-1 shifted uncomfortably at the thought.
The idea clawed at him. If the weapons had been supplied, it meant someone on the inside of both corporations was arming a multinational terror network.
Cold dread tightened in his chest. Was he overthinking it?
A car horn blared from somewhere below, snapping him out of the spiral. Through the corner of the window, he spotted a black van tearing toward the building's entrance.
Down on the street, officers were already shouting, weapons up.
But the driver didn't slow down.
Civilians scattered, some too late to react.
The van smashed through the barricade, metal shrieking, bodies flung aside. Mid-skid, its side doors slid open, releasing a swarm of compact drones that burst outward in tight formation.
Drones darted through the street, weaving between vehicles and panicked crowds, rotors whining like a nest of hornets. R-1 recognized the maneuver instantly.
"Everyone down!" he barked into the comm channel.
Buzzing swelled, even through the glass. He didn't need visuals to know what each drone carried.
Only seconds remained. R-1 threw himself flat as the world went white.
The van erupted—heat, pressure, and shrapnel ripping through the building's front. The blast wave rolled down the street, tossing dust and fire through shattered facades while alarms wailed in a chorus of chaos.
Broken glass rained down around R-Team as flames clawed up the edges of collapsing walls.
Every shard caught the last of the daylight, scattering it across smoke and chaos. Civilian screams ricocheted through the streets, blending with the thunder of explosions that drowned out every other sound.
R-1 pushed himself off the floor, ears ringing, limbs leaden. He slammed a hand to his comms.
"R-1 to R-Team, report! Sound off!"
The cacophony was relentless—people screaming from inside the building, boots hammering down the stairwell, distant sirens bleeding through the smoke.
The structure groaned under the strain, dust and plaster raining from the ceiling.
One by one, the team's voices crackled through the radio.
"R-4, still up!"
"R-3 here. The hell was that?!"
"R-5, good to go!"
"R-2, standing!"
"R-6, in position!"
Relief cut through the static for half a heartbeat before Castle came on the line.
"Castle to R-1, I need you and your team on the ground ASAP. Command's redeploying other units, but you're first out. I'll be deploying—"
His transmission was abruptly overridden by a sharper, younger voice—male, impatient, and dripping with arrogance.
"Step aside, Castle. R-Team, get your asses moving unless you want Paris gone in thirty minutes. The Tanwir are hitting the city hard—police can't contain them. Kingston out."
The line went dead, leaving a static hiss that somehow felt louder than the blast outside.
Confusion erupted over the net—teams calling for clarity, overlapping voices flooding the channel. R-1 barely heard them. Through the shattered window, he saw the city below awash in firelight, an orange glow consuming the streets.
Another voice broke through, a woman this time—strained, hurried.
"Command to all teams—Tanwir assault on Paris confirmed. All units to be repositioned immediately."
Airwaves exploded with more chatter, disbelief, and half-finished orders.
R-1 rallied his team at the exit, checked his rifle, and gave a short nod.
Without hesitation, R-Team charged down the fractured stairwell, boots hammering against the walls. Cracked concrete and scattered rubble turned each step into a hazard as they descended two, three floors at a time.
Another explosion rolled through the city, shaking the building and showering them in dust.
They burst through the doors and into chaos. The night air hit like ice, only to be drowned out by the acrid stench of burning vehicles and the raw sound of panic.
Outside, fresh sirens wailed as police units pushed through the gridlock. Civilians screamed while officers shouted orders no one obeyed.
People ran in every direction—eyes wide, faces ghost-pale under flickering streetlights.
Paris was burning—and R-Team was running straight into the fire.
"Move it, people! Disconnect from the main comms—Command channel only!" R-1 motioned his team forward. Each operator tapped the side of their helmet, isolating their feed to UNSAF command as they followed him toward the nearest intersection.
Traffic had turned feral—cars veered onto sidewalks, crashed into lampposts, or sat abandoned mid-lane.
As R-Team pushed toward the main boulevard, a black van screeched around the corner ahead.
Tires screamed before it slammed broadside into a crowded city bus. Metal crumpled; glass exploded outward.
Doors flew open, and half a dozen figures spilled out—dark clothes, heavy jackets, balaclavas concealing their faces. They moved fast, rifles raised, corporate-grade steel glinting in the orange glow.
Gunfire erupted before R-1 could issue a command. Bullets tore through asphalt and storefronts, shredding the night with chaos.
"Tanwir!" he shouted, diving behind a parked car as rounds ricocheted off the frame.
Sparks skittered across the pavement like fireflies.
R-Team broke off, slipping into cover behind walls and shattered doorways.
Smoke and dust hung thick over the street—broken glass, blood, and bodies strewn across the asphalt.
Far ahead, towers burned and folded in on themselves, one after another.
Gunfire from the remaining Tanwir was erratic, recoil jerking muzzles skyward, yet a few steadier shooters zeroed in on R-1. Rounds hammered his cover, forcing him lower behind the burning wreck.
"Need covering fire!" R-1 shouted over comms.
Without hesitation, R-5 and R-4 leaned out from cover and unleashed suppressive fire, their bursts cutting through the chaos. R-5 checked his sightline, flipped his rifle to burst mode, and dropped one hostile—then another. R-4 mirrored the move, rounds snapping off walls and forcing the Tanwir to duck.
R-6 joined in, spraying short, controlled bursts that drove the enemy farther down the street. R-1 seized the moment, popping out to tag the retreating silhouettes. R-2 and R-3 followed up, emerging from their positions to finish the job.
One by one, the gunmen fell silent.
Then a woman's voice crackled through the radio again—strained, rushed.
"Be advised, all teams, expect heavy resistance. Tanwir are rallying near the Eiffel Tower; proceed to—"
Static swallowed the rest.
Confusion flickered across R-Team's visors. R-1 swept the street, confirming no more hostiles, while R-2 glanced upward, staring at the sky.
"What is that?!" R-2's shout snapped everyone's attention skyward.
R-1 turned, following his gaze.
The roar hit first—multiple aircraft screaming overhead. Trails of vapour cut through the night, glowing faintly against the fires below.
"God help us all," R-1 whispered as his eyes widened.
From the sky descended a swirling mass of yellow gas, an oily mist shimmering with iridescent light, spreading fast on the wind.
One plane broke formation and plunged earthward, slamming into the streets beyond their position. The impact sent a shockwave tearing through the district—windows burst, storefronts caved, water mains exploded into towering geysers.
"R-Team, move! Now!"
R-1 sprinted toward the Eiffel Tower, the team close behind.
Overhead, more aircraft streaked past, releasing their payloads—chemical trails blooming across the skyline. The wind carried the gas perfectly, drifting low through the boulevards.
They raced past fleeing civilians and overturned vehicles. A man appeared ahead, hoisting a rocket launcher toward a packed bus. R-2 and R-3 cut him down before he could fire.
Everywhere around them was destruction—fire, screaming, chaos, and the slow descent of a poisonous haze over the burning city.
Near the end of the street, R-Team spotted a wounded dog limping through the debris. Its fur was patchy, matted with blood and dust, and its eyes—once bright with life—were dull and unfocused.
R-1's gaze narrowed. Something about its movements was wrong. The animal was struggling far more than an injured creature should, its swollen belly pulsing unnaturally.
Around them, the scene was bleak—sirens, firelight, and rising casualties painting a picture of utter failure. The helplessness gnawed at every soldier, but for R-1 it cut deeper. UNSAF had never been prepared for a city-wide assault.
He approached cautiously, noticing the grotesque bulge of the dog's abdomen.
A faint light flickered beneath the skin.
Horror slammed into him.
He twisted mid-stride, throwing his weight back to stop.
R-3 and R-4 were still advancing.
"GET AWAY FROM THE—"
The dog went up in a burst of fire. The explosion tore the street apart, leaving a crater where it had stood.
R-3 and R-4 were hurled backward, their bodies slamming into the pavement as R-1 dove for cover. The blast wave rolled through, shredding what was left of nearby vehicles.
Civilians screamed as the first wave of chemicals descended. A yellow haze crept through the streets, thick with the stench of chlorine and burning flesh. Blisters erupted across exposed skin; choking coughs became wet, ragged gasps. Children's cries turned to gurgles; the elderly convulsed, paralyzed where they stood. Hands clawed at throats as blood seeped from eyes and mouths.
R-1's fists tightened until his knuckles went white inside his gloves. The weight of failure pressed on his chest, every breath laboured.
He could do NOTHING—UNSAF's suits kept them alive, but the civilians had no such mercy.
The screams. The smell. The sight of it all. It would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He forced himself to turn away, swallowing the bile burning his throat.
Paris had become hell.