"Alright gents, this is a standard Dual-Purpose Night Raid, secure the HVT and hostage
The location is a old mansion used by the Umbral Enclave for resupply during their war with the Verdant Kingdoms
Overwatch has confirmed 13 hostiles, including the HVT. However, intel suggests there could be more unknowns. Stay sharp.
Hostage is being held on the top floor. Their safety is our top priority. We don't want to start a war gentlemen
The HVT is a key individual by the name of Zin; we need him for interrogation. He's confirmed to be on-site The Verdant Kingdoms want him ALIVE he's ex-Enclave special forces so be on your toes
Sniper is already in position as we speak
We move closer by carriage and make final approach on foot
Teams will be split to two Alpha and Bravo
Myself and Miguel will take the east side as alpha one and two
Bravo You two take the west
We meet back and clear the second floor together, Noah is our overwatch
And our exfil is the same carriage
We don't have the schematics, We don't have QRF and we definitely don't have MedEvac and our next supply drop is in two months
So lads… stay aware and don't fuck up, any questions?"
The old wooden table bore the weight of the moment, its surface scattered with high-quality photographs Each image captured the HVT and the hostage from a distance, their faces frozen in time.
The room itself seemed to hold its breath, the silence thick but not born of confusion. It was the kind of quiet that comes when every word, every detail, is being absorbed, turned over, and etched into memory. No one dared to speak too soon, as though breaking the stillness might shatter the fragile clarity of the moment. Then, at last, a voice cut through—heavy with an accent, hesitant, as if the language it carried was an unfamiliar burden.
"Peter, what's our ROE?"
"any raising of a staff and or casting is the equivalent of a hostile raising a weapon. Consider it a direct threat. And if some poor bloke runs at you with a sword, they are to be engaged with lethal force. Bows and crossbows too, search for magical artifacts or items that could pose a residual threat.
Any hostiles that surrender are to be zip tied and made to follow"
"Right any more questions? Good gear up we move in five"
******
"Gramps, we there yet?"
He sat at the front of the carriage, the reins of the reptiles clutched firmly in one hand, their rough texture a familiar comfort.
The world around him was swallowed by an impenetrable darkness, but the GPNVG mounted on his head cut through the void, revealing the faint outlines of the path ahead and the trees hugging closely to the road.
He snapped the locket shut, its faint click echoing in the low noise of travel. His fingers lingered for a moment, tracing the cool metal and engravings before tucking it safely beneath his vest, close to his chest.
The gesture was familiar, ritualistic, as if the small trinket carried more than just a memory
He did this before every mission, and this one wasn't any different, they might not shoot lead at you in this world but spikes of flying ice would kill you the same.
"Im thirty eight you cheeky fuck, and no we still have a couple more minutes, theres a split in the road, thats when we move on foot"
As the eldest and most seasoned among them, he was chosen to lead the group—a role that felt both familiar and weighty. For eleven years, he had honed the art of command, though the faces before him now were not the ones he'd fought alongside in the SAS. Still, these men were cut from the same cloth, forged in the same fire of relentless training and specialized skill. They were young, yes, but youth didn't equate to naivety. No, these were no green recruits. He was leading killers—men like himself, hardened and unflinching, each carrying the same quiet intensity that came from knowing too much of war and too little of peace.
"Piotr i heard the hostage is an elf Princess, you might be lucky, she might fall in love with such a handsome saviour"
"pierdol się, ty chuju"
The carriage fell into quiet chuckle. Soldier would be soldiers of course
Peter glanced over his shoulder, taking a moment to truly see the team that sat behind him. His eyes first landed on the blue-eyed man, whose words flowed like poetry in his native tongue. The man's helmet bore a grom patch, a bold emblem featuring a green-haired woman in a provocative pose, The white and red flag stitched onto his plate carrier's vest had caught the light too.
Peter's gaze shifted to the next person, a man who had earlier spoken to the pole. Henry, they called him. He was the kind of man who wore his arrogance like a second skin, his demeanor sharp and unapologetic. A neatly trimmed Balbo beard framed his face, giving him a rugged, almost theatrical air. His plate carrier was adorned with an Australian flag patch, stitched proudly over his chest, and on his helmet, a patch reminiscent of the SAS emblem gleamed under the light. Henry carried himself like a man who thrived on being the center of attention, his every move calculated to remind you that he was, above all else, an asshole.
And finally, Peter's gaze settled on the quiet figure at the far end of the carriage—the man who would be his clearing partner. He was methodically inspecting his firearm, an IMBEL M964 A1 ParaFAL carbine, its polished metal catching the dim light. A BOPE patch was affixed to his helmet, a silent badge of authority. Clean-shaven, his face was lean and weathered, the faint lines around his brown eyes hinting at years of experience. Miguel. That was his name. He was the team's interrogator, a man who carried the weight of his role with a quiet, unsettling intensity. Peter couldn't help but wonder what stories those eyes had witnessed, what truths they had extracted in the shadows.
He paused, his breath steady, and turned to look back. There it was—the fork in the road
"Were here"
The air shifted palpably as the carriage rolled into a secluded clearing, shrouded beneath a dense canopy of ancient trees. The men disembarked with a quiet efficiency, their movements deliberate and practiced. The reptilian creatures that had drawn the cart now settled into stillness, their scaled bodies resting in the shadows, as if savoring the brief respite.
In silence, the men formed a single file, their boots crunching softly against the forest floor. They moved as one
******
"Overwatch to Team Lead, be advised, I have two hostiles at two. They are Armed and unaware . Awaiting your call to engage. Over."
Just before they emerged into the clearing where the mansion loomed, they clung to the shadows of the trees, their movements silent and deliberate. Ahead, two guards stood watch at the gate marking the perimeter of the estate. The one on the right leaned casually on a staff, its polished wood catching the faint glint of moonlight, while the other clutched a spear in one hand and a weathered shield in the other, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the darkness.
Peter pressed the comm on his neck and spoke in a hushed whisper
"Team Lead to Overwatch, you are cleared to engage. Take the one on the right first, then the left. Confirm. Over."
The magic user would be more of a problem if allowed a second longer to live
"Overwatch copies. Engaging right hostile first, then left. Stand by. Over."
The man who had been speaking just moments before crumpled to the ground like a dried leaf caught in a sudden gust. It happened so fast that the man beside him turned, his brow furrowed in confusion, as though he expected to see his companion rise again, brushing off some unseen stumble. But then his eyes dropped to the dark stain spreading across the dirt, and his breath hitched. Panic surged through him as he fumbled for the horn at his side, his hands clumsy and unsteady. Before he could even draw breath to sound the alarm, a sharp, searing pain erupted in his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. He didn't hear anything, didn't register the sound—only the sudden weightlessness as his legs gave way, and the world tilted sideways.
"Overwatch to Team Lead, both hostiles down. Area clear, and the courtyard appears to be clear. Over."
Noah their sniper, a skill beyond useful in a world like this
"Team Lead copies. Good work, Overwatch. Proceeding to objective. Over."
They emerged from the shadowy embrace of the trees, their movements deliberate and silent, like predators stalking their prey. Before them loomed the gate, rusted and weathered, flanked by crumbling walls that seemed to groan under the weight of time. The mansion beyond stood as a forgotten relic, its grandeur swallowed by neglect.
Alpha and Bravo moved in unison, with a curt nod, they split, Alpha to the left, Bravo to the right, each hugging the walls as they advanced. The courtyard stretched before them, a graveyard of overgrown weeds and tangled vines, nature reclaiming what had long been abandoned. Their eyes scanned the area, weapons at the ready, as they cleared the space with practiced efficiency, the only sound the crunch of brittle leaves beneath their boots, the light from the fires around the mansion made them lift their nod up
They reconvened by the front door, a heavy slab of weathered wood barred shut and unyielding. Piotr stepped forward, his movements deliberate, and slung his bag off his shoulder. Behind him, another member of the group readied a flashbang, its weight resting comfortably in their gloved hand. The air was tense.
A strip of C2 had already been carefully placed along the door's weak points, its presence almost innocuous against the rough grain of the wood. Piotr's eyes flicked over the setup, ensuring everything was in place, before he retreated to a safe distance. His thumb hovered over the remote detonator, the small device feeling heavier than it was.
"Breaching"
A breath. A pause. Then, with a decisive press, the world erupted in a deafening crack, the door splintering into fragments as smoke and dust filled the air. The group braced themselves, the flashbang's blinding light and thunderous roar following close behind. The moment hung, suspended, before they surged forward, stepping into the chaos they had created.
"move"
Peter was always the first to move, the tip of the spear. He believed in leading from the front, never commanding his men from the rear. As he crossed the threshold into the building, his body shifted diagonally, a fluid motion born of instinct and training. His rifle snapped to the far right corner of the room, sweeping the space with practiced precision. Nothing. The section he had was clear, at least for now. He halted at the corner, his movements sharp and deliberate, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.
The suppressed gunfire behind him was still audible, a muted staccato that underscored the tension in the air. But Peter didn't glance back. He didn't need to. The man behind him had his six, and that was all the reassurance he required. Trust wasn't just a word in their line of work, it was the foundation they built their lives on. And Peter trusted his team with his life.
The three men stood frozen, their faces etched with shock, still reeling from the deafening roar of the flashbang that had shattered the air moments before. Peter moved swiftly to the door of the east wing, his body pressed against the wall, waiting. His muscles tensed as he felt the reassuring tap on his shoulder—the signal. In one fluid motion, the door was kicked open, and another flashbang was hurled into the room, its blinding light and thunderous crack echoing down the hall.
Peter surged through the doorway, his senses sharp. The hallway stretched before him, dimly lit and narrow. To the left, a series of closed doors hinted at rooms waiting to be breached. To the right, tall windows let in slivers of pale light, casting long shadows across the floor. At the far end of the corridor, a figure stood silhouetted against the gloom. In his hands, he gripped a staff, its tip beginning to rise as if summoned by some unseen command. The air grew heavy, seconds slowed down as everything slowed, Peter advanced, every step bringing him closer to the confrontation.
"PUT IT DOWN NOW, DOWN NOW!"
The man looked at him anger as he looked at Peter's gun and his own staff, he knew that look, he was about to do something very stupid
"Don't fucking try it"
The man's eyes burned with a quiet fury as his gaze flickered between Peter's C8 L119A2 SFIW and the unassuming staff in his own hands. Peter recognized that look in the mans eyes, the sharp, reckless glint of someone teetering on the edge of a decision they couldn't take back. It was the kind of look that preceded chaos, the kind that made his stomach tighten with dread. He knew, with a sinking certainty, the guy was about to do something profoundly, irreversibly stupid.
"Hell fi-"
Before the man could utter his final word, Peter's finger tightened on the trigger—once, twice. The shots struck true, center mass. The man crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes, his staff clattering beside him, its bounces growing smaller and smaller until it lay still.
Taking a life didn't move Peter anymore, not like it used to. The weight of it had long since settled into the marrow of his bones, a cold, familiar companion. But there was one thing he could never shake, one detail that etched itself into his memory every time: the eyes. He never forgot the eyes.
They moved methodically down the hallway, clearing each room with the precision of a well-rehearsed dance. As a two-man team, the odds were stacked against them—more ground to cover, more angles to watch, more shadows that could hide danger. But close-quarters combat was an art form they had spent years perfecting, a language they spoke fluently. Every step, every breath, every flick of the wrist was deliberate, honed by countless hours of training and the unspoken trust. They were outnumbered, but not outmatched.
The final room loomed before them, its door indistinguishable from the others they'd forced open. The air was thick with tension, their flashbangs spent, their breaths shallow but steady. Hesitation wasn't an option—not now, not this close. With a sharp, decisive kick, the door splintered and burst inward. Peter surged through, his movements swift and deliberate.
The man inside barely had time to register the intrusion, his eyes widening in shock as he found himself face-to-face with a burly British figure towering over him. The moment hung suspended, a split second of raw, unspoken confrontation before the crack of gunfire shattered the stillness. The man crumpled, struck by the precise shots of 5.56 rounds.
Peter's gaze swept the room. Across from him, a woman was already in motion, her hands clawing at the air as if summoning something unseen. A flicker of orange light sparked between her fingers, the beginnings of a flaming sphere taking shape. But she was too slow. Miguel's shot rang out, clean and final. The fire died before it could fully form, and she dropped to the floor, her body collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut.
The room fell silent, the echoes of gunfire still going on throughout the mansion
"Overwatch to Team, I have eyes on the HVT. Second floor, first room, He's holding hostage at knifepoint. No other hostiles visible in the area. Repeat, HVT is isolated with one hostage, no additional threats observed."
"This is alpha-1 east side clear heading to main area to regroup now"
With practiced ease, he reached into his vest and retrieved a fresh magazine. In one fluid motion, he ejected the spent one from his gun and slammed the new one into place. The switch was seamless, almost instinctive. He pulled the slide back, the metallic *click* echoing sharply as the first bullet slid into the chamber, ready.
"This is bravo-1 west side is clear, heading back now"
Both groups sprang into action without hesitation. They were all too aware of the dangers of hesitation when a life hung in the balance, the cold edge of a knife pressed against flesh. The door at the top of the stairs loomed before them, solid and unyielding, unlike the flimsy ones downstairs that had given way so easily under their boots. Piotr stepped forward, his movements deliberate and calm, the weight of the Benelli M4 now free from his bag and resting in his hands. With practiced precision, he aimed at the hinges, the sharp crack of the shotgun echoing in the confined space. The door groaned, then gave way with a splintering crash as his boot finished the job.
The team surged forward, weapons raised, scanning the room. Behind a scarred wooden desk, a bald man stood, his face twisted with desperation. In his grip, a blade glinted, pressed firmly against the throat of a woman, whose wide eyes betrayed a mixture of fear, and hate.
"Get back you fucks!"
He shouted pushing the knife closer
"Hey hey alright we will back up, just put the knife down and everyone can go home alive
"Bullshit, i would rather cut this bitches throat and start another war then let the enclave be brought down by war respiration"
Peter tensed
"Overwatch to alpha-1, I have a shot on the HVT's shoulder, but I need you to shift right to clear my line of fire. Move approximately 5 meters to your left. Acknowledge with one tap twice if understood."
Peter put his arms up and moved to the left he saw the giant window behind zin and knew exactly what was about to happen his team was on both sides of zin now
"Lets all just calm down a bit, talk it out"
"I'LL KILL HER"
Peter tapped the comms device on his neck twice—the signal. He waited, his breath catching in the stillness, though it was barely half a second. Even though he had braced himself for it, the crack of the window still startled him. The bullet tore through Zin's right shoulder with brutal precision, sending the knife clattering to the ground. The hostage stumbled forward, wide-eyed and scrambling to put distance between herself and her captor. Zin staggered, his face contorted in pain, but before he could regain his footing, a bean bag round slammed into his chest with a dull thud, knocking him flat. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the echoes of violence hanging heavy in the air.
The high-value target was swiftly secured, his wrists bound with zip ties as the chaos of the moment began to settle. The woman stood nearby, her gaze drifting across the scene as if trying to piece together the fragments of what had just unfolded. Her green eyes, sharp and luminous, reflected a storm of emotions—shock, relief, perhaps even a flicker of disbelief. Long strands of white hair cascaded around her face, framing features that were both striking and otherworldly. Her pointed ears, barely visible beneath the silvery waves, hinted at a lineage far removed from the ordinary.
She looked up and smiled, she was thankful, she could finally return
"Thank you dear adventures might i know the names of my saviours"
There was a silence before peter spoke
"Bag her lets go"
Before she could fully grasp what was happening, she felt herself being lifted once more by her so-called savior, a coarse black bag now obscuring her vision. She grunted in protest, her muffled cries swallowed by the thick fabric as she was dragged down the stairs and thrust into the biting chill of the night air. The darkness pressed in on her, both inside the bag and out, as the world around her shifted in ways she could neither see nor control.
"unhand me, DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM, I AM PRINCESS ERIN OF THE VERDANT KINGDOMS, AND I DEMAND TO BE TREATED WITH RESPECT"
"Piotr she's as feisty as you"
"Overwatch this is leader, meet at extraction we need to get to the drop off point"
"Copy that leader"
*******
The man of the hour arrived just as the tension began to thicken. They had waited at the carriage for scarcely a minute when the sharp crack of a snapping branch shattered the stillness. In an instant, a dozen guns swung toward the sound, fingers tightening on triggers, eyes scanning the shadows.
"Blue, blue, blue!"
The call came sharp and clear, cutting through the silence like a blade. It was a voice they knew well—their overwatch, their guardian in the trees. Emerging from the underbrush, he moved with the quiet confidence of a predator, his form blending seamlessly into the forest. His entire body was draped in a camouflage pattern that mirrored the woods around him, as though he were a living extension of the landscape. Slung over his shoulder was a McMillan Tac-50. If you looked closely, barely visible against the fabric of his vest, was the faint outline of a maple leaf stitched with care.
"a bird was sent already so i set up claymores, if they don't trigger through contact they go boom automatically"
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. No more needed to be said. One by one, they climbed into the carriage, the weight of their haste pressing down on them. The princess, her head still shrouded in the oppressive black bag, fumed and protested with every jolt of the wheels. Her complaints spilled out in a steady stream, sharp and unrelenting, though they fell on ears too preoccupied to listen. Under different circumstances, her indignation might have been amusing, even entertaining.
"Jesus, Miguel, take the bag off. I can't listen to her talk for another hour," Peter snapped, his voice frayed with irritation.
Before Miguel could even process the command, the black bag itself seemed to protest. A muffled voice, sharp and impatient, cut through the fabric. "Yeah, Miguel, take the damn bag off."
Miguel grunted, his hand hovering over the bag as he glanced back at Peter. "Sir, did the orders specifically say she needed to be retrieved alive?"
A small, startled *eep* escaped from beneath the bag, followed by an abrupt silence. Miguel sighed, finally yanking the bag off her head. She blinked rapidly, her eyes squinting as they adjusted to the light. Slowly, her gaze swept the room, taking in her surroundings with defiance. Thought miguel could still tell she was scared
"Relax you are going home"