Location Unknown (IS Controlled Region of Syria)
Date Unknown
I wake to the sound of a recording with terrible audio quality, which includes frequent occurrences of static interrupting the spoken dialogue. It's in Arabic, which doesn't surprise me, as my face still hurts like hell and was left untreated. I know therefore that I'm likely still in danger, so my first instinct is to move, to stand, but I'm tied to a rusted metal chair, in the center of a sickeningly large splatter of dry blood. My stomach turns, not from the sight of the blood, but because it's mine and the decreased blood volume makes my head swim as soon as I move it.
Seeing a sudden increase in motion, the captor to my left smiles and gives a thumbs up to a camera guy situated in the middle of the room. He withdraws a heavily worn test tape from the ancient machine, replacing it with a cleaner, newer one, presumably to record my capture. I turn back to the other man. The churning in my stomach turns suddenly cold, and I realize that a simple capture isn't good enough for the ratings they're after; rather, my execution is what they want to show. It's perfect for prime-time.
The one beside me sharpens a dull scimitar off an increasingly widening gap in the brick wall; the weapon is the hydra's signature device, stereotypically and appropriately associated with these savages.
I gulp, reaching through my pockets with the limited movement I am permitted.
Bastards. Not only is my rifle out of sight, but so is my damn pistol.
The two men make an introduction in the language of the land, and I care not enough to listen. I will not fall here.
They don't notice my wiggling, as they seem to have done this procedure many times before and are content enough to let their guard down. From the debris kicked up from my tumble, I find a few sticks - they likely stuck through the fabric as I hit the ground - and bundled up with them…
The Chronos.
I chuckle. Imbeciles.
I attempt to light a fire in a similar manner used by the Western youth training corps known as the Boy Scouts. I activate the Chronos as the man with the serrated blade concludes his introduction and begins walking towards me. I manage to kindle a flame, then stick it between the loosely knotted ropes that bind my hands. It chars my skin a bit, and with the release of the rope comes off a bit of my flesh. I repeat the process in a less painful manner for my legs, as I have free reign over torso movement. With my body completely freed, I casually stand and walk over to the camera, refocusing it to include the now terrified men. I grab an AKM left on the wall across the room and check its magazine before walking back over to the camera. I disable the Chronos.
Walking back into the frame, the two men realize that I have the upper hand. The cameraman tries to escape, but with one bullet, I put him down. The executor drops his blade.
"I sincerely thank you for that. It will make this whole process easier." I smirk, stringing the firearm with its muddy strap to the back of my torn school uniform.
I reach for the scimitar and motion for the man to sit where I had. He complies and begins to cry now that the roles have been reversed, pleading for his god's assistance. I wait for a moment to ensure the audience understands that nothing of a divine nature would occur, then slice through the man's neck. I walk over to the camera to remove the film. I have a hard time disengaging the contraption, but as I yank it loose, I immediately head over to their computer. It runs smoothly on Windows 3.
After a satisfying yawn, I leave the room with a weapon in hand.
A complete change of pace occurs when I reach the hallway. The guards stationed at the end of the corridor are taken by surprise, and I am able to effortlessly put down. I grab a chest rig from one of the men and stockpile on magazines, as a fight against a small army is going to require a lot of ammunition. Surprisingly, no alarm of any sort for the situation sounds; rather, the method of announcing any catastrophe would have been through vocal projection.
The silence has a feeling of being a bit too fortunate to be true, and when I listen carefully I can hear that it is. Hushed, frantic voices, accompanied by the scuffing sound of numerous pairs of heavy feet, reach me from somewhere in the building. The voices seem close, but with the way these corridors wind and curl around themselves, they could indeed be nearby or be echoing from elsewhere.
I cast off in some oblique direction, having no better path to follow; I stop and double back when the voices only get louder. I try to find a route away from or around them, but in short order realize that they're moving as I am. They're trailing me and doing a damn good job of not being seen. But, in my own frenzy, that fact somehow failed to cross my mind until now. Dammit, Vasily.
I realize the inevitable confrontation, yet continue navigating the maze of hallways. I know not a single way out and am clearly outnumbered. I stop in my tracks, doubting my ability to get out of this situation, as my failure the first time was what led me to this point.
The legion of pursuing footsteps halts suddenly, and all seems to go quiet on the Middle-Eastern front. I turn to look to my sides and situate myself in front of a small side hallway. I am right in doing so. Squads of IS soldiers emerge from both sides of the hall and, without a moment's notice, open fire.
I quickly reach for the Chronos and activate it just in time for the bullets to switch from whizzing dangerously close to my head to gliding - rather elegantly - past my nose. I blow off one of the incoming bullets, the force of it amplified due to the difference in flow of time.
Nice shot there, buddy.
I take a step back and allow the flow of time to return to normal.
What follows could be defined as nothing less than a self-induced bloodbath. The insurgents fire solely on one another, eliminating over half of their own before realizing their error and ceasing fire. In the moment of their collective shock, I quietly retreat to the door at the end, but in the process, stumble forwards off a protruding brick and drop the Chronos. As it rolls innocently - obliviously - back into the main hall, I wince. Damn.
I run to a door, but jiggling the handle has no effect. I fire a few shots approximately where the hinges should be, the kick the door inward.
Hearing the gunshots and realizing that my escape could be imminent, an insurgent yells to avenge their fallen,. The remaining forces sprint into the hallway in pursuit. Bad choice, bud.
Like a support gunner, I lay on the floor and spray lead at the aggressors. They drop like flies, and before long, the last bullet casing hits the floor, leaving the complex silent.
Well…
It isn't entirely silent; muffled pleas for help sound pitifully from behind me. I turn to see a room full of prisoners who had most likely been left in the locked room to starve. I look among the ranks, noting the differences in each prisoner.
I clear my throat. "Is anyone here of Russian or of any Slavic descent?" There is a moment of absolute silence in the room. "Okay, how about American? Any Americans here?" Again, no response. I sigh. "English?" I'm wasting my damn time, time that I don't have.
The remaining prisoners look confused, as if I had just spoken an unfamiliar language. I look around once more.
"Is that it? Ok then, I'll be taking my leave." I half-salute almost mockingly, and as I turn around to leave, the muffled screams amplify.
I block them out; they're not a part of my objective and have already wasted enough of my time: the time that very well could decide whether or not I'll make it out of this place alive. I ignore their voices and amble over to retrieve my fallen Chronos, now covered in the blood of the attackers. I clean it with a loose rag that I yank off a corpse and walk away, stepping over many others.
A few more soldiers had been stationed on the other side of the military prison, so many that I'd actually rather not handle them myself. I slip out to where the entrance is situated. The front gates to the fortress had been conveniently open for an incoming prisoner transportation. I activate the Chronos and casually walk over to one of the desks with a display of IS-controlled regions. The map even includes a pin marking this base's exact location. How nice of them. I trace the coordinates onto a sheet of paper and borrow a radio on my way out.
While in the shadows directly outside the fortress, I deactivate the machine. I am overwhelmed by a loud sequence of commands on the enemy communication lines. Had I known the language, I would've known exactly what they spoke of, but judging from their seriousness in tone, I can assume that they've noticed the mess I created back there. I switch the communication line to a private frequency.
"To any available escort squadron, this is Wolf Cub. In need of immediate extraction as well as a bombardment at coordinates 39°15′07″ North, 36°16′09″ East. These coordinates mark an IS stronghold."
My voice quivers as an armored convoy rumbles into view. I don't have any anti-armor weapons on me.
"Hey Wolf Cub, it's been a while. Gaduka Squadron is on its way, ETA 20 minutes," a voice announced.
It pauses.
"You'll have to tell me the story later. There are currently some Turks on our tail."
Turks? What interest would they have in our operation?
I want to ask for clarification, but communication has ceased. I can only sit and hope for the best. In the meanwhile, I spot areas and structures of interest, that would, of course, be in ruins within the next hour. I huddle behind the wall, trying my best to be inconspicuous, and try to keep my nerves in check.
In time, a battalion of SU-35s and a single Halo swarm in from the West, heralded by an otherworldly roar and a whirlwind from on high. I quickly tune the radio and designate targets within the fortress. The jets fly past to strike the positions while the helicopter hovers for a second before descending to my location. From the rear emerges a middle-aged sergeant, who grabs my arm and drags me to safety. I abandon the radio in the dust as I climb in.
He pats me roughly on the back and I try to act professionally, but it's the most I can do to nod along and try to breathe normally. My blood feels to be mostly adrenaline, and as it filters out the strain of my escape catches up with me. The thunderous percussions of the warbirds doing their work around us don't help; my heart is already running at full tilt and the vibrations only make me feel shakier.
I strap myself into the first empty seat I lay eyes on - at this point, I honestly don't give a damn if I've taken somebody else's - as the copter's rotors accelerate to their flight velocity and the ground begins to fall away. I close my eyes - the last thing I need right now is vertigo - and the door finally rolls closed. With that, we leave, letting the base drift away below us as if it were descending into hell.