Aftermath and Code Name
The infirmary was quiet save for the faint beeping of medical monitors. Outside, boots stomped against gravel and voices barked orders as the war machine turned its wheels once more. Inside, however, it was calm—almost deceptively so. John Wayne sat upright on the bed, his muscles aching beneath the bandages, but his posture rigid and alert. His eyes, dark as the battlefield smoke, stared at the door like it was his next enemy.
The door opened with a soft creak, and in stepped a tall officer wearing a khaki uniform adorned with four silver stars. His expression was calm, but there was a weight in his gaze, a presence that demanded attention.
"John Wayne," the officer spoke, voice stern yet controlled.
John saluted weakly. "Sir."
"At ease. I'm Colonel Reid. You've been summoned for a formal debriefing regarding the supply camp incident. We'd like to hear your account—word for word."
John nodded slowly. "Understood."
They moved him to a nearby room, a smaller, unadorned office with only a metal table and two chairs. Cameras blinked red above them. A silent observer.
Colonel Reid sat opposite him and pulled out a notepad. "Let's begin from the moment the camp was attacked."
John took a deep breath. "It started late at night. Around 0200. The first mortar hit the west side of the camp. Chaos ensued. Screaming. Confusion. I was stationed near the mess tent when it happened."
"And your actions?"
"I retreated into the surrounding woods, using the darkness to mask my movement. I waited. Listened. Memorized their patrol routes. Then I struck."
"With what?"
"My combat knife."
The colonel frowned slightly. "Why not use your issued silenced pistol?"
John met his gaze. "Too inefficient, sir. I'd have to reload frequently. And even with a suppressor, muzzle flash is still a giveaway in pitch black. A knife—clean, silent, lethal. One cut, one enemy down. No wasted movement. No unnecessary sound."
The colonel scribbled something down, but paused midway. "You eliminated over two dozen enemies that night. Alone."
John didn't respond.
Reid looked up. "That's not human. Not by any standard."
John tilted his head slightly. "Desperation makes monsters out of men, sir."
The colonel shivered—just slightly—but John noticed. Behind that calm mask, he understood now. The man across from him wasn't a soldier. He was something else entirely. Something born in the darkness, forged in blood. The rumors would soon spread. The death god had emerged.
Three Weeks Later
The medical clearance came through. John Wayne was finally off the recovery list. His wounds had healed, at least on the outside. Inside, it was harder to say.
He walked across the base with mechanical steps, each stride purposeful. Soldiers nodded in respect, but none dared speak to him. Whispers followed him like a trailing shadow.
"That's him."
"The one from the supply massacre."
"They call him Reaper now."
But John ignored them. He had been summoned to the Command Office again.
The door to the general's chamber opened with a hiss of hydraulic pressure. General Marcus Bennett stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the training yard. The man was a fortress of discipline, scars etched into his skin and soul. He turned slowly.
"John."
John saluted. "General Bennett."
"At ease."
John relaxed, but only slightly.
Marcus walked to the desk and sat down, motioning for John to follow. He did.
"I'm not going to dance around this," the general began. "I had to personally keep your name out of every after-action report. If the brass knew what you did out there, they'd have you dissected on a lab table."
John said nothing.
The general's face softened slightly. "But I'm not calling you here to debrief. I'm calling you here because I got a very angry call."
John raised a brow.
"Jennifer Lewis."
John blinked.
Marcus chuckled dryly. "She's been calling nonstop since she heard the supply squad was attacked. Said she'd burn half the damn country if we lost you. Said she'd bring down Wayne Industries on our heads like a goddamn meteor."
For a moment, John's face remained still. Then, almost imperceptibly, his lips twitched upward. He looked down—confused at the warmth that bloomed in his chest. Something wet touched his cheek.
His hand rose instinctively and wiped it. Tears.
"I didn't even feel them," he said quietly.
"She's worried about you," Marcus said, tone softening. "I was, too."
John remained silent, his gaze falling to the desk.
Marcus leaned forward. "Welcome back, soldier."
John looked up and nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Then the general's expression shifted. Serious once more.
"John, your actions have not gone unnoticed. We're forming a new unit. Top secret. High-level clearance only. Multiple operations: covert, high-risk, recon, assassinations. It's a black ops squad. You'll lead it."
John's eyes narrowed. "A squad?"
Marcus nodded. "You choose the members. The squad exists for you. To utilize your... unique talents."
John shook his head slowly. "No. I work alone. That's how I've survived this long."
The general sighed. "This isn't a negotiation, son. You're talented, yes. But even the best lone wolves get hunted eventually. You need a pack."
John stared at him for a long moment. Then, as if to make the conversation end, he relented.
"Fine. I'll assemble a team."
Marcus smirked. "That's all I ask."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small case. Inside was a black patch embroidered with a white skull surrounded by feathers. Below it, one word: Reaper.
"That's your call sign now. Your name is being wiped from all active files, except for a select few who already know the truth."
"Reaper?" John asked.
"It suits you," Marcus said. "People are already talking. The squad that found the aftermath at the supply camp said they've never seen such... precision. Such brutality. You were a myth before you even got a name."
John took the patch. For the first time since his reincarnation, he felt something click into place.
A role.
A purpose.
A legacy in the making.
Later That Night
John sat in the shadows of his quarters, the lights dimmed, the Reaper patch resting on the table before him.
His fingers traced the edges slowly.
He wasn't the same man who walked into this world weeks ago. That man was afraid, confused. An engineering student trapped in a soldier's body. But now... now he was something different. He had tasted war, danced with death, and come out the other side not just alive, but reborn.
He looked at the small photo tucked into the corner of his mirror. It was of Jennifer, smiling and holding a graduation cap. The last memory of a life that no longer existed, but whose love had reached him even now.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Two Days Later
A memo circulated the command center.
Top Secret – Level Omega Clearance
Unit Reaper-01 Activated
Team Leader: Classified
Designation: REAPER
Mission Scope: Variable – Covert Assassinations, Tactical Reconnaissance, Black Operations
Status: Active
To most, the Reaper was a rumor.
To others, a ghost.
But to General Marcus Bennett and the reinforcements who witnessed the aftermath of the supply camp…
He was real.
And his war had only just begun.
END OF CHAPTER