Arrival and Operational Briefing

A sapphire dusk stretched over the eastern skyline as four silhouettes arrived quietly, each under different skies and different stories, trailing separate timelines that converged at twilight.

Captain Price, first to land after John, stepped off the jetway wearing a navy blazer and chinos, Holobuds tucked discreetly in his ears. The earbuds flickered micro-LEDs to adjust his facial profile on the airport's cameras. He glided through exit control like an international businessman, not a high-value fugitive. Within minutes, he hailed a ride to the coastal district near the target compound and began absorbing everything—guard shifts, security camera placements, tourist trails—his eyes trained, fingers tapping invisible notes.

Nikolai came two hours later. Dressed casually in a linen shirt and slacks, he ordered a yellow cab, joking in broken local dialect about the weather while covertly consulting aerial photos on his phone. Narrow streets, hidden alleys, vendor stalls, tuk-tuk quit zones—all mapped in his head as he finished the short ride into town.

Ghost touched down next. His face still obscured by mask and Holobuds, he passed customs with no questions asked. The towering facades of the tourist hotels beckoned him upward; he quietly checked into one on the 22nd floor. From there, he surveyed rooftops, antenna sets, and utility tunnels—all potential overwatch perches. A silent operator in motion.

Soap was the last to arrive—nearly five hours after the others. He'd waited, ignored, and tested multiple flights to stagger his arrival, then finally emerged wearing lenses and a backpack, strolling toward the seaside esplanade near the target compound. He took in entry points, loading docks, maintenance access—all while snapping selfies and sipping a smoothie. A tourist, not a killer.

Every piece slid into place.

At exactly 20:15, the secure comms phone buzzed in their pockets—a vibration masked by the city's night rhythm.

The bar's open, first three nights.

All drinks free. Come celebrate.

His voice plain as a promotion: John.

Each agent recognized the call's true intent: the team gathering. Their cover wouldn't crack.

One by one, they arrived at the bar John had set up as a "front." The girl John hired—young, eager—flitted between tables, whispering to tourists: "Tonight's on the house. Free drinks for the next three nights." Her eyes lingered on each man when she passed, but loyalty died on a quieter battlefield; none would fall.

The crowd was thick—backpackers, couples on holiday, businesspeople unwinding from meetings. The music pulsed, blending laughter and the hiss of clinking glasses.

They were let into a backroom, a quiet study of polished wood and soundproof panels, overlooking the party through tinted glass. John stood, lighting low and even, gazing at the crowd like a general surveying his force.

Silence fell. He flicked three steel marbles from one hand into the marble floor: clink… clink… clink. Noise paused—brief breath held—before the ambient noise swallowed it again.

John turned to each of them.

"Glad you made it," he began.

He scanned their faces: Price nodded, Soap leaned in, Ghost remained still, Nikolai poised.

John opened a case on the table, unveiling the gear from his vault.

To Price, he offered the silenced pistol with biometric grip. Price flexed his fingers around it, nodding.

To Soap, the breacher's shotgun with an under-barrel launcher. Soap whistled quietly. "That's not a holiday souvenir."

To Nikolai, a soft case packed with access cards, jammer modules, and signal scramblers. Nikolai examined it like a jeweler.

To Ghost, a compact drone swarm unit. Ghost weighed it before tucking it into his pack.

John kept silent, watching each reaction before speaking.

"Tomorrow at 18:00, we trigger an EMP grenade in the compound's power substation. It'll blackout everything—CCTV, phones, lights—for two hours." He paused. "Even devices with Faraday cages won't work."

Price exhaled. "Two hours. Enough."

Nikolai shifted. "We'll get in, hit the targets, exfil—should be safe." He tapped his phone where map coordinates hovered.

Soap leaned forward. "Secondary objectives, Reaper?"

John met his gaze. "Stay alive."

Silence: each mind calculating the weight of that sentence.

John's inner landscape flickered. Soft, ethereal, but unmistakable: Master — shall I pilot? It was Great Sage, the voice of his cheat skill.

John's conscious voice replied: Not yet — but be ready. If I break...

Great Sage responded in calm reassurance, and withdrew.

John didn't pause, but each syllable carried deeper meaning. His friends didn't know it, but he had a backup within him: a voice guiding him through breakdowns he'd survived before.

Price cleared his throat. "EMP window ends—likely reaction time. When they send in military units, we're watering our graves."

John nodded. "Two hours—tops. Extraction at 20:00. Second wave starts then, if we're not gone." He looked around the room. "I need no one dead. No unnecessary heroics."

Soap cracked a grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. "No martyrdom stories. Not this time."

Nikolai collected his gear. "I'll scout exfil routes tonight. Motorbikes ready at 17:00."

Ghost spoke quietly, but clearly. "I'll jam any last-minute signals for our extraction."

John paused. Then addressed them all: "Go enjoy tonight. You're off-duty… but remember: tomorrow is the day we start a war without a face. Report for duty at 09:00 here. Until then, blend. Talk to no one about anything. Understood?"

They all nodded.

John stood at the door. One by one, they filed out silently.

Price paused, glanced back, and said: "Got my eye on 1102 and 1105—they switch shifts at 18:05."

Nikolai tipped his head. "Motorbikes are staged. I'll hit you on comms by noon with lay of the land."

Ghost remained sharp. "Check your drones at midnight. Night flight 20:00."

Soap offered a rare grin. "I'll be undercover in the cafe. Don't buy me a souvenir."

John responded with a curt nod.

As the last of them vanished down the hallway, John took a deep breath. The crowd's noise seeped through the walls again.

He closed the door. The room darkened.

John didn't go to the bar. He stayed alone for a moment.

His eyes closed; Great Sage pressed close again, whispering calm.

Letting the world outside stay ignorant for now, John focused on the night—clock ticking, shadows deepening, lives balanced between success and disaster.