Zughaib's mind floated somewhere between consciousness and a murky haze, the past bleeding into the present in fragmented memories. He wasn't in the bunker anymore, wasn't with his platoon, but his mind was still trapped there, replaying the events that had led him to this moment. The sounds of clinking metal, murmured voices, and the harsh, sterile light of his surroundings pulled him slowly from the past and into the reality of his situation.
---
Somewhere, years ago at a bunkerbase, Zughaib sat around a small, dented metal table with his squadmates. The air in the room was thick with tension, but also with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. Their platoon, the Flanké Platoon, had successfully breached the Anarchy base—a mission that had seemed almost impossible at the outset. The declassified items they had retrieved were piled on the table in front of them, papers and files that held proof of Anarchy's secret operations. Operations that went deeper than they had ever suspected.
Rex, in such valour and glory, was the first to break the silence. "We've done it," he said, a grin spreading across his face as he rifled through one of the files. "This is it. This is how we bring them down. Anarchy's been playing in the dark for too long, and now we've got the evidence to expose their whole operation."
Zughaib, seated across from Rex, didn't share his enthusiasm. He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Something didn't sit right with him. The mission had gone too smoothly despite the deaths... it felt coerced, the documents too easy to find. It was as if someone had wanted them to uncover this information. His instincts, honed through years of battle, told him that there was more to this than what they were seeing.
Jovian, the war-hardened leader of their platoon, entered the room, his steps heavy and slow. His face was a mask of grief, his eyes rimmed with fatigue. He stood at the head of the table, his gaze falling on the declassified items before shifting to the faces of his men.
"We did it," Jovian said, his voice thick with emotion. "We breached Anarchy's base, retrieved what we needed... but we lost two good men today."
The room fell silent, the weight of their losses settling over them like a heavy blanket. Jovian's eyes glistened as he spoke, his voice wavering with sorrow. "Wolard and Kaben... They gave their lives for this mission. Their sacrifice will not be in vain. We'll take this intel and expose Anarchy for the criminal scums they are! That's how we'll honor them!"
A teary silence followed as the men bowed their heads, mourning the loss of their comrades in their own way. Rex clenched his fists, his face hardening with determination, while the others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Zughaib, though he mourned the loss as much as the others, couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.
As the squad continued to analyze the declassified items, their excitement growing with every new piece of intel, Zughaib quietly stood from the table and slipped out of the room. He needed air, space to think. His mind churned with questions, doubts. Why had the mission gone so smoothly? Why had Anarchy's secrets been so easily accessible?
His footsteps echoed down the cold, concrete hallways of the bunkerbase as he wandered aimlessly, lost in thought. That's when he saw it—Jovian, standing at the far end of the hall, speaking with a man in a suit. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, his face partially obscured by the shadows, but his presence was unmistakable. He wasn't one of them. He didn't belong here.
Zughaib's pulse quickened as he moved closer, his instincts screaming that something wasn't right. But before he could reach them, a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
---
The flashback shattered. The bunker disappeared, and reality came crashing back to Zughaib like a tidal wave. He blinked rapidly, his vision blurry, disoriented by the sudden shift from past to present. The cold, harsh light above him was blinding, and his muscles were stiff, restrained. His hands were bound to the arms of a steel chair, his legs strapped to its base.
Zughaib groaned softly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was in a dull, featureless room, the walls a sickly gray, the air cold and sterile. The only sound was the faint drip of water from somewhere behind him. His body ached, the aftereffects of being tased still coursing through his nerves.
As his vision cleared, he noticed three figures standing in front of him—men in suits, their faces devoid of emotion. One of them, however, stood out from the rest. He was dressed in a distinct gray suit, his expression calm, almost amused. His dark hair was slicked back neatly, and his sharp eyes glinted with something that might have been smug satisfaction.
The man in the gray suit stepped forward, carrying a silver tray with a porcelain teapot and two cups, as if they were about to sit down for a casual chat. He placed the tray on a small table beside Zughaib and smiled, a thin, calculated smile.
"Welcome, Mr. Zughaib," the man said, his voice too formal, too polite. "I apologize for the rather... abrupt invitation. But I thought it was time we had a little tea party, don't you?"
Zughaib stared at him, his mind still fuzzy, but the clarity was coming back, and so was his suspicion. He was restrained, interrogated, but this man was offering tea? It didn't make sense.
The man in the gray suit, still smiling, poured two cups of tea, the delicate clink of porcelain echoing in the otherwise silent room. "I see you're still gathering your senses. No rush, of course. Take your time. I'll even let you enjoy some tea." He lifted the cup to Zughaib's lips, forcing him to sip.
The bitter liquid slid down his throat, but Zughaib barely tasted it. His mind was racing, trying to piece together where he was, who these people were. And why they had him restrained.
The man in the gray suit placed the cup back on the tray and straightened his posture, his hands clasped behind his back. "I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Orwen. I work with a... special branch of the Bureau Investigatory Federation, or BIF, if you prefer. I'm also connected to CounterMercs, though I suspect you've heard of them already."
Zughaib said nothing, his eyes narrowing as he studied Orwen's face. He didn't trust a word that came out of the man's mouth, but he knew better than to show any fear or anger. He needed to keep his mind sharp, stay focused.
Orwen's smile widened slightly as if he were enjoying Zughaib's silence. "You're a hard man to track down, Zughaib. But we've been following your exploits with great interest. The Flanké Platoon, the very missions you and your pals took part on and your connections with certain... unsavory individuals. It's all very impressive."
Zughaib's pulse quickened at the mention of his platoon, his mind flashing back to the faces of his comrades. Rex, Jovian... He hadn't heard from them in years. And now this man was digging up the past as if it were some kind of game.
"Anarchy," Orwen continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "A misinterpreted organization, really. A bunch of former CM units who play out as a civil dispute; pretending to be revolutionaries. They're a fluke, you know. They were never the real threat. Not in the grand scheme of things... not on sides of the vigilant CounterMercs!"
Zughaib's jaw tightened. He wanted to speak, to demand answers, but he bit his tongue, waiting for Orwen to continue.
"DARKCON..." Orwen said, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Now, that's a real force to be reckoned with. A paramilitary group that's been pulling the strings behind the scenes for years. You and your platoon stumbled upon their operations during your mission, but I doubt you even realized it."
Zughaib's heart sank. DARKCON. The name had always been whispered in the darker corners of the underworld, but they had never been directly linked to Anarchy. If Orwen was telling the truth, then everything they had fought for, everything they had lost, had been part of a much larger, much more dangerous conspiracy.
Orwen stepped closer, his smile fading as his voice dropped to a more serious tone. "I need you, Zughaib. I need you to help me expose or perhaps... destroy DARKCON for the betterment of humanity. They've embedded themselves into every level of government, of society. And they're growing more powerful by the day."
Zughaib stared at him, his mind racing. Orwen wasn't offering tea. He was offering a deal. But Zughaib wasn't sure if this man was any better than the people he wanted to bring down.
Zughaib finally responded, but instead spat onto the table as a sign of disassociation.
Orwen's smile returned, wider this time. "Oh, Mr. Zughaib, you may not have a choice anymore... remember, you only have a brother to live for."
The door behind them clicked open, and more suitmen stepped in, their eyes cold and unwavering. Zughaib's gut twisted, knowing that whatever Orwen had planned, this was far from over.