12 July, 1951
0200 hours
Operation: Morningstar - York Base


"Frankie"

She opened her eyes. She was on her back, a clear expanse of sky overhead. A gentle smile inched over her lips. Her little brother's voice resonated in her ears, warm and familiar, and an affectionate protective feeling washed over her. But where was he?

"Frankie!"

His voice was nearer this time. She strained to sit up, but something pressed down against her chest, some unseen weight held her down. She heard breathing, gasping, cracking, and her smile faded, the warmth vanishing, replaced with a cold apprehension. Something was very wrong.
Slowly, she turned her head toward the sound, finding it difficult to move, but finally she could see him, knelt on the ground, his fists balled tightly in the grass beneath him. His body heaved, his face contorting as he gasped and groaned, his eyes held shut tightly, and his skin began to turn dark, bruised. "Frankie" he muttered, his voice catching in his throat. He was changing. His bones cracking, his muscles quivering, the colour draining from his skin, he could barely force the word to leave his lips. Tears streamed down Frankie's face as she tried desperately to reach out to him, to make herself move, to say his name, anything.
Finally, he collapsed to the ground, breathing hard, wheezing, sputtering, before his body, a mass of slick, grey skin, stopped moving.

At once, the weight was lifted from Frankie’s body, and she sprang to her brother, her fingers shaking as she lifted him, his skin cold in contrast to the heat of the tears spilling over her cheeks.
“Johnny!”
She felt his name on her lips, and yet she heard nothing, her ears filled with her pulse, thudding hard, racing, drowning out everything else. She tried frantically to make him move, or say something, but he only lied there, limp, motionless. She looked around, trying to find someone, anyone who could help him, but there was only grass, now dead and dried to a crisp, and the sky, dark and bruised blue-black. She was helpless, she couldn’t protect him, she had failed him.
At last, her eyes returned to him, looking down, and the chimera in her arms stared back at her with glowing gold irises.


Frances Hale gasped, sitting bolt upright, her eyes flying open. She looked down into her arms, but nothing was there. Her shaking fingers rose to brush dark hair back from her forehead, damp with cold sweat, and within a few moments, reality had set in.
She was on a cot in a dark room, cold air emanating from the stone walls. The troops of Operation: Morningstar had retreated from their loss at York to a hidden base underground, where they would be safe, for now, from the Chimera. In the dark, she could just make out five or six more cots lined beside hers, some empty, others accommodating sleeping soldiers. A lightbulb flickered in the hallway just outside the room, and the faint sound of voices could be heard in the distance.

She stood, folding her blanket on her cot before entering the hallway, pulling her coat tightly around her, her pistol strapped to her belt. She wasn’t entirely sure how skilled the Chimera were when it came to tracking, but she assumed there was a good possibility that they could be found at any given moment, and she wanted to be safe.

At last, she reached the room from which she had heard conversation earlier. Several people sat around a table inside, some she knew or recognised, others she didn’t.

“We’ve lost nearly a fifth of this operation’s men already,” one man said, “We simply don’t have a chance with assault strategies, we need to fall back and try to move through quietly, if we try to kill them all before getting to what we want, we won’t have any men left by the time we get to the Angel—if we ever reach that point in the first place.”

“How the hell are we supposed to find it?” A woman interjected, “We don’t even know if it’s real or just a rumor at this point. It could be an ambush, what if we’re just walking into our own execution?”

“We’re doing that no matter what move we make, at this point.”

“We don’t have a chance of finding it, there’s no navigation procedures, nothing even close to tipping us off to the Angel’s location.”

“We’ve gotten closer,” Frankie said from where she stood in the doorway. Everyone in the room turned to look at her, awaiting an explanation. She took a deep breath, and continued. “Those of us who were infected, but didn’t… The visions, the nightmares, all of it has gotten worse as we’ve moved further inland. I’m almost positive that it has something to do with the Angel and its control over the chimera. With our partial infection, we can almost sense the communications it sends out.”
She looked around the room, and the grimaces of a few gold-eyed faces confirmed that she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

2 February, 1928

0916 hours

Hotel National, 6th floor- Moscow

The view in front of him was daunting tragic and dark. A veil of black has cast over the majestic city of Moscow. The Chimeran ships were creeping in the distance like a curse. Creatures that were born within the nightmares of men were tearing apart reality. The sky was lit with amber and red, representing desolation, devastation and destruction. Women and children were evacuated but the inevitable fate of his comrades will strike them as hard as metal. The end of the hammer and sickle was here.

Oleg settled himself up at the corner window of the first floor. A Vantage point was gifted to them from this position. Suppressing fire was needed to push the abominations back. The end may be here but the seed of Mother Russia will not be removed so easily. Like Lenin and Marx, they will strike a blow for the hammer and sickle once more. His comrade, Nikolai, brought the hammer that was needed to put down the nail: a Gatling gun. A few were stolen by a Russian smuggler during the turn of the 20th century. They will prove useful in the defence against the Chimera. Oleg smashed the window open to quickly give an open window of opportunity. Down below was the kill zone: A perfect view of a road junction. The Chimera are crawling there towards this trap and it’s the perfect time to slaughter them. Nikolai started getting the tripod set up and Gatling gun ready. They both wanted vengeance on the Chimera. They took their comrades and changed them into monsters. People, who they ate with, drank with, laughed with and even cried with. Those people were butchered and turned into rabid animals. The perfect torture: killing your former friends to save your life, day after day. A cold heart is born after that.

Nikolai managed to promptly to set up the weapon. He then started packing it with the ammo until it was full.

“The weapon is nearly ready. We’ll score one for our fallen comrades after this. Those fucking demons will crawl back down to hell after this.” He stated enthusiastically.

“Comrade, this’ll strike a hit against the chimera. It’s not going to end the war. We’ll take as many as we can to give our comrades back at base comrade a chance.” Stated Oleg. He gave a reassuring pat on the shoulder to Nikolai. He nodded in return.

The gun was ready and was aiming down at the death space. Oleg held the ammo and Nikolai started aiming at the junction. The movement of the chimera could be heard from miles away. It was an alarming and terrifying sound that sends fear to legs. Oleg held his fingers up and started counting down silently. The chimera were moving in, they were running down with fateful glee. Three. Two. One. Fire started to rain down on them, hammering them down like Mother Russia’s natural tool. They started dispersing for covering, some getting shredded to pieces as little pieces of metal rip their devilish organs apart. They laughed. They laughed and laughed as irony hit the Chimera like an anvil. Fate has never been more wicked.

The fun was short lived after Oleg spotted a rocket launcher being held by one of the Chimeran foot soldiers on one of the partly-destroyed buildings from afar. The rocket launcher was a wildfire, he had seen them used many times to incinerate Russian tanks. Oleg desperately shouted to Nikolai to aim at the danger but it was too late. The moments before impact slowed down for Oleg. He could see the rocket coming towards the building. It was death in the shape of missile. It was lady luck saying good-bye. Any movement for safety is deemed surplus. The rocket hit the floor below them. The floor swallowed them down towards a black abyss of darkness and departure.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

12 July, 1951

0200 hours

Overton Wood-Yorkshire

Oleg woke up a sudden distress and trepidation. The flashback returned. Every night he sees memory. A memory of horror and panic as he sees his friends and country reduced to a mere wasteland of isolation and darkness. Mother Russia was raped, violated and ripped open by the Chimeran scourge. This thought races his mind every second that he lives. He is being toyed with by some deity in the sky that is laughing down on his existence. He survives while everyone he knows is mutilated by a cancer that is sweeping lands like wildfire. He wasn’t blinded by the war, yet all he sees is black.

Oleg rubs his eyes and sits himself up. He is in a wardrobe in some luckless family’s house. He choose to sleep here to be hidden from the watchful eye of Chimeran scouts. They search for individual soldiers that have been cut off from their platoon like a weak deer from the pack. Like the dominant predators that they have become, the Chimera claims their prizes and uses them as they see fit. They can kill them on the spot, they can take them to the nearest conversion centre or sometimes eat them right there and then like the crazed creatures that they are. However, Oleg was no weakling. He was Russian. He had the heart of Marx and the blood of Lenin running through his veins. He is a child of Siberian wasteland and wielder of the hammer and sickle. He knows theses monsters for too long. He jots down their ways, movements, anatomies, thinking process, military strategies and even their types and names right down in a journal in his pocket. He is now a survivor by heart and he needs to know his enemy or otherwise he is fighting blind.

He peeks open the wardrobe door and starts listening intently for movement in the house. He keeps listening for the slightest pitter-patter of danger that might jump Oleg with a catastrophic surprise. After a few minutes of concentrating the sounds, he believes that it is safe. He stands up and opens the wardrobe door. He is met with pungent smell of dust and desertion. The house has been abandoned for around a year now and it has grown into the ruined remains that lie before him. The house was an individual house that was located in Overton wood. Due to the seclusion of the area, the house was barely touched by the threats of the outside world. He was lucky to be blessed with a place like this but Oleg is itched by a habit of his. He never stays in one place. He’s always on the move, always on the run. It has kept him alive for over two decades. His natural ability to survive is both a blessing and a curse.

He reaches for his M5A2 Folsom Carbine; which he salvaged of a dead American soldier. A key to survival is salvage. Nothing is ever useless; there is a purpose to everything that you can find. He takes the gun and places it gently on his rifle holster on his back. He reached for his lightweight pack and started carrying it on his shoulder. Oleg slowly makes his way towards the broken window, to get a good knowledge of the current state of the outside. It was the same as always: quiet and eerie with the suspicion of peril but in the distance you can see the flashing lights in the night of the city of York as the British and American forces dances for its survival. Oleg was not interested in the war between the Chimera and the British-Americans. He had already seen the inevitably of loss and he was not willing to experience it again. He still sees it every night. No more. He walks downstairs towards the front door, every step releases a ghost of dust and a cry of creek as he walks towards the exit. He opens the door and is met with infamous British weather. He was smacked in the face by the wind and was greeted by the sight of black barbarous night sky. Fitting thought Oleg.

He walked down the small pathway, making his way past the overgrown jungle that was the front garden. He walk towards the gate and vaulted over it; the rust that has grown its position on the metal gate has caused it to be unable to open. He was standing in the middle of the gravelly, dirty road. It was filled with cracks that represent the state of this war. Both roads to his left and right were very open. He would be easily seen and an easy target for the chimera. It was a death-trap either way. Oleg sighed and decided to walk through the woods in front of him. It was a large forest and a dark forest but it provided cover for him as he makes his way across the English countryside. He makes his step into the forest, with illusion of a safe haven trapped in his destitute mind.

He has been walking for about 10-15 minutes now. The forest looked like something from back home. Due to lack of human activity, it had grown wild, huge and was practically a rainforest. It reminded him of the jungles in the south of Russia, near the Kazakhstan border. Oleg was amazed by this forest. It was majestic, natural and peaceful. It was captivating; he couldn’t take his eyes of the height of the trees above. He remembers going on fishing trips with his uncle back when he was a teenager. They would take long walks up the river Vyatka and they would travel through many hardships to get to the perfect spot. It was a sweet memory. An old memory that for a brief moment, it made him forget the war and misery. Like every speck of hope, it was short lived as he trips and tumbles down a small hill that he did not see because he simply wasn’t looking in the dark. A mistake that he will not make again.

He reaches to the bottom of the hill and at the bottom was some sort of road. It was a dirty back-road that is used to get across country quicker. It wasn’t an official paved road. Oleg gave a groan of embarrassment and stood himself up. He was fine and unharmed. He took a quick look around. The road seemed to cut through the forest like a knife through butter. It carved the forest. He was then met with the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind. He's see's the bright headlights of it as it looms towards him. Oleg’s natural reactions turned quickly around as he faces the vehicle. His agility was able to instantly reach for his rifle and point it out at the unknown assailant driving the vehicle. The vehicle made a rapid stop in front of him. It was a simple military jeep with a high calibre machine gun attached to the top. One man was driving and the other was manning the large weapon. From their uniforms, he could tell that they were both British soldiers. One of them aimed the machine gun at Oleg and the other stood up from the seat and aimed his rifle at Oleg.

“Oi! What the hell are you playing at! Put down the weapon!” Shouted the driver. Oleg refused to budge from his position and kept his focus on the driver.

“Didn’t you ‘ear him! He said drop it!” Backed up the machine gunner. He seemed young and inexperienced. Oleg could tell the fear in his eyes and the anxiety running through his fingers. He was going to shoot out of fright and Oleg knows he can’t take two at a time. He swallowed his pride and places his weapon down.

“That’s good. Now ‘ands behind your ‘ead.” Oleg obliges. The worst that will happen is they‘ll get attacked and Oleg will use this too escape. It’s not his first run in with the British military. The driver started looking strangely and suspiciously at Oleg. He jumps out of the vehicle and moves closer to him. He was in his face and was looking at him intently.

“Your clothes isn’t military made. What’s your name?” Asks the driver. Oleg doesn’t answer he stands his ground and keeps a straight face.

“Oi! I asked you a question!” Oleg still doesn’t budge. He holds strong and true and refuses to speak. The driver moves out of the way and gives a nod to the young machine-gunner. He seems to give a smile as he instantly shoots the ground in front of Oleg. This causes him to fall back onto the ground. He was now on his back as the British military tries to threaten him.

“Now then, let’s try again...what is your name?” Oleg looks at him. He doesn’t want to reveal his name but he doesn’t want a stomach pumped with lead. He simply shouts one thing in the hopes that they’ll leave him alone.

“I am not infected, so why does my name matter!” He shouts this right into the face of the British soldier. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in years. It feels quite liberating, even in his situation. The British seem confused and amazed. Something in Oleg’s voice has made him speechless.

“Wait...I haven’t heard of that accent since I was a boy. You’re Russian!” This realization brought an array of awe across his face. It was like he had discovered the Holy Grail. He looks towards his partner.

“We’re going to have to show them this.” The machine gunner nodded. The driver then tried to pick Oleg up. “You’re coming us.” Oleg didn’t want to go with them. He would rather not be interrogated like a common criminal. What will his knowledge tell him that they don’t already know. He then punches the soldier in the face and tries to stand up. The British soldier’s resilience to the punch was quite admirable as he was then able to quickly take the butt of his gun and smack Oleg in the face.

Oleg is left on the ground unconscious and, basically, kidnapped. The soldiers load him in the vehicle and started transporting him to York base during the night. What will Oleg encounter on his arrival?

11 July, 1951
23:04
Near Escrick (Just south of York)

“What are you bugs up to?” whispered Charlie as he looked through the scope of his Fareye. In the small collection of cottages ahead were five hybrids and a Steelhead. Charlie had observed them enter the area from behind a log in the uphill forest tree-line. He waited whilst they cleared the houses (knowing no-one occupied them from his own sweep) in case any more showed up. A small group like this were likely scouts and engaging them was unlikely to draw too much immediate attention reasoned Charlie.

Charlie waited for them to walk further out into the open and away from cover before taking aim at the Steelheads face, “Good night”. It was a perfect shot, tearing through its cheek and straight out of the back of its helmet. Quickly adjusting his aim to the right Charlie took another shot before they could react. The second shot tore through one hybrids neck half decapitating it, and the bullet continued and struck a second hybrid in the chest. Charlie excitedly gasped at the collateral damage. The third shot was also successful, hitting a shoulder. Four down, two left. The remaining two at this point had begun retreating to cover in opposite directions. Charlie aimed quickly at the back of the one running for the cottages, but his shot was rushed and it missed the mark. “Shit” hissed Charlie as he retook his aim, this time taking his time and ensuring the shot hit its mark. The last one had made it behind a small stone wall that had once been used to pen in pigs. Charlie wasn’t sure whereabouts behind the wall the hybrid was, but there was no way he could have made it further on to the opposite tree-line. What felt like minutes passed as Charlie patiently stared at the wall for signs of movement. He wanted to reload but had a horrible gut feeling that if he did the hybrid would suddenly make a move before he could begin firing again. Suddenly he spotted the tip of the hybrids cooling tower and tracked his aim to where its head likely was. Unsure of whether the bullet would peirce the rock wall or not he took the shot, not wanting to miss the opportunity. The shot caused the hybrid to fall over out of view but Charlie couldn’t be sure it was dead.

Having reloaded Charlie strapped the Fareye to his back and brandished his Webley Revolver and Bowie Knife; holding the knife in his left hand, he rested his right hand holding the gun atop his left wrist. Charlie ran down from the trees towards the stone wall, carefully taking repeat glances at the other corpses as he did so. As he reached the wall he could hear inhuman wailing, and found to his displeasure the hybrid rolling in pain, having multiple fragments of stone impaled into its face. Despite hating the Chimera, Charlie was not one to enjoy the suffering of others, whether enemy or not. Rather than waste a bullet Charlie hopped the wall and put the beast out of its misery with his knife.
“My pick-up better arrive soon” Charlie sighed. He and the squad he had been with were expecting to be met at these co-ordinates that evening to hand over intel. Whilst the rest of the squad had been dead for over a week, and whilst they had not been able to get the intel the brass wanted, Charlie would at least be glad to hopefully be taken back somewhere warm and to get a decent meal. Charlie then went about ensuring the rest were dead and seeing what there was to scavenge.

12 July, 1951
0200 hours
Operation: Morningstar - York Base

James lay still in the oppressive gloom, his bunk a slab of rock beneath him. The stifling nature of the underground air, feeling always like the heated hand of a revenant clamping over his lips, was only disturbed by the indistinct murmur of voices in the adjacent room. His eyes began to drift shut, the globes crying out with relief as they were sheathed within the pleasant darkness of his lids, hot and soothing to his sandpaper eyes. The sound of the voices lulled him, almost enough to forget the precariousness of the situation, and the dark began to embrace him, closing around him as sleep claimed him...

At the last second, a gasp and the violence of sudden movement woke him, and with fluidity born of practice his hand flickered to the knife he left by his side. He lay still for a brief moment, evaluating the threat, mind flickering through possible scenarios, his pulse racing and his eyes stirring against his will behind closed lids, before he realised it was only the nightly torments of some other soldier. With a soft sigh, he unwillingly abandoned the prospect of sleep, the chance for much-needed rest having been robbed from him. He kept his eyes shut as he heard the soft tread of boots heading toward the softly murmuring voices at the edge of his awareness. It was Frankie, then...

Gritting his teeth, he turned onto his back, ignoring the mild pain from a minor wound on his leg. The pumping of his blood had set the damn thing aching again, and all of a sudden he felt restless - this place, suppressive in the stillness of the air and the thin patina of uncertainty lacing the air after the catastrophic battle, suddenly made him feel chained and restrained, the thick air seeming a constant irritation, an extra weight to bear. Seeking something to alleviate the inevitable boredom of his insomnia, he tuned in to the chatter, discerning Frankie's voice just as she broke into the conversation. She was an odd one, Frankie. Seemingly confident and determined, but always with the barest hint of need or desperation for something, though what that may be eluded James for now.

With a sigh, he swung himself out of bed and stood, wincing slightly as weight fell on his leg. He needed to move, to shake off this lethargy that he felt was being forced on him, despite the late hour - even if only to allow himself to sleep in a short while, once his mind was less active. Rest was important, on an operation like this.

He found himself speaking from behind Frankie, softly, his voice still a little rough and sleepy and not prepared yet for any strength or much authority - uncharacteristic, for him.

"That's all well and good, but it is a somewhat intangible lead - no offence. We need to recuperate and re-evaluate, before strategising."

12 July, 1951
0200 hours
Operation: Morningstar - York Base

Markus frowned in the gloom of the room's corners, the AUG leaning against the wall beside him, his Browning 9MM hanging loosely from his fingers, his other hand slowly cleaning the weapon down as he listened idly to the conversations in the room at large, knowing exactly where the topic was going. His golden eyes seemed fixed on his sidearm, but they were, in fact, watching the door closely.

A small smile toyed his lips as they complained about how dire their situation was, his eyes leaving the door just long enough for Frankie and James to appear, glad that his dark uniform allowed him to remain slightly obscured in the shadows. His attention was instantly drawn when Frankie spoke, just about to open his mouth to respond to the room's other occupants when she did, blinking slowly and looking over as James then proceeded to speak. It was then, that Markus' lips moved in earnest

"Yes, we may be getting the visions, and I'll be the first to admit they're getting clearer and more frequent, but do you really believe that the untainted are gonna believe that shite about it being because we're getting closer to our target? Come on Hale, I didn't train you to think like that" he spat simply, finally leaning forwards, his craggy face coming into the light, his golden eyes shining slightly.

12 July, 1951
0200 hours

Johnny walked with the occasional snarl that came naturally as he looked over the wastes of the world that once was. He had been separated from his squad of hybrids and had been wandering hopelessly for hours looking for anything wether it be a human, chimera or anything else one could find. It had been pretty quiet for a while until the voice in his head began to speak up to him, starting a conversation most likely out of boredom. The two talked about their opinions of objects they came across like a tricycle they saw which the voice saw as a neat children's toy where as Johnny saw it as a useless waste of metals.

Before his transformation, Johnny, would have agreed with the voice but now as the ruthless killer not much else gave him a thrill other than hunting humans wether it be to infect them or kill them. As they continued to walk they heard somthing near the small ruins of a house. The sound was what sounded like around seven or so people talking and brought the closest thing to a smile to Johnny's face which really made the voice in his head go into a fit of pleading to not hurt them and just keep walking. Johnny ignored this and continued towards the home as he crept up silently and stealthily. Once at the home he peaked through a broken window carefully at the humans on the inside talking around a small fire with weapons not to far from their grasps. If he was going to do this he'd need to be quick, luckily Johnny was quicker than quick. He leapt through the broken window as he drew his reaper carabiners and began a to rain down bullets on the men inside who were frozen with fear. He was able to get in a few head shots but he was to distracted to notice and instead continued until the NLT thing with life in the room was him and the quickly dwindling fire. As Johnny did the equivalent of a chimera smirk he could hear the voice in his head morning the men's death. He then left the building and continued wandering.

25 June, 1951
0900 hours
En Route to Westmore Base, Alabama, United States

A bump in the road sent all of the individuals in the back of the truck out of their seats, throwing them into the shoulder of the person seated next to them. Without a word of apology, each scooted back their respective spot on the hard bench. The road had been long and bumpy, and there was no longer any need to mention the tight quarters. The soldiers were used to it by now. One woman in particular, a petite blonde, did not even bother to glance up from her book. There were two pieces of literature that the young woman carried everywhere with her - a dog-eared bible, and an equally worn copy of Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind. It was the latter that she held in her hands this particular morning.

“How many times you read that now?” The southern drawl of the man sitting across from her may have sounded out of place, had everyone else in the truck not also had the same accent. “Must be a dozen now.”
“Two dozen, surely,” piped up another man.
“At least,” came her smooth answer, not missing a beat as she continued to read.
“Aw Molly, c’mon,” the first man continued. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” Though most soldiers referred to each other by their last name, the “army brat” had grown up around these men. They had been calling her by her terribly feminine name for as long as she could remember. She was often the butt of their terribly sexist jokes, but she paid them no mind. Molly was well aware that she could beat any of them when in action. And they knew it too.
“Hush you,” she shot back, though not unkindly. “I happen to enjoy a bit of culture every once in a while, unlike you swine.” There was a chuckle, and she spoke again. “Besides, I like the story.”
“Who is your favorite character?”
“Well that’s easy. Melanie Hamilton.”
“Isn’t she the pathetic one?”

Molly’s blue eyes widened, and she immediately swung her gaze toward the young man who had just spoken. The poor recruit, only twenty years of age, had no idea what it was he had just done.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I mean, she’s no Scarlett.”
“Yeah, everyone likes Scarlett best anyway,” another man added.
“I prefer Melanie myself. At least she can behave herself.”
“Those were hard times,” he replied with a shrug. “You have to do what you have to do.”
“Sort of like now,” came another voice. The atmosphere in the back of the truck suddenly grew dark, cold, and silent. The harsh reality lingered for a bit, before Molly finally did something about it.
She clicked her tongue and said, “the last thing you all should be doing is moping around. We have a war to win.”
One of her comrades chuckled at the only woman in the truck, and with more than a touch of admiration, addressed her. “Seems you have a bit of Miss O’Hara in you after all.”

---

12 July, 1951
0200 hours
Operation: Morningstar - York Base

Molly sat silently at the table. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and her head was down. It did not take a doctor to see that she did not look well. Dark black bags adorned each eye, her cheeks were pale, and her lips were drawn in a tight, pained line. Her blonde hair, normally neatly kept, had loose strands everywhere. She looked the way one might expect any woman who had suffered a great loss to look. A heavy jacket was pulled tightly around her, but it was not enough to keep away the goosebumps that she could not seem to rid herself of.

She had been invited to this meeting, though she was not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was due to her powerful father. That, at least, was what she hoped. She preferred that explanation over the alternative - that she was simply one of the few Americans who had survived the attack. The normally diligent young woman only half-listened to the discussion taking place. Had her father been there, he would have scolded her mercilessly. But he was not there. She had not spoken to him since her arrival. Again, Molly wondered if he knew the fate of the troops that had accompanied her oversees. Did the families of the poor men who had died know? The thought caused a silent sob to materialize in the back of her throat.

Suddenly, someone spoke from the doorway. The blonde glanced up to see another woman, and though she recognized her, she could not place her. Molly must have seen her in passing, perhaps the night before when she finally passed out on her cot. Her accent made it clear she was among the many British individuals on the base, but the woman knew nothing else about the stranger. The truth was, the American had been in a bit of a fog for the past twelve hours or so. It was not until a second individual appeared in the doorway that Molly began to really pay attention. The words he spoke rang very true to her. They had just suffered a crippling blow. She paused a moment until another man spoke, then added her own two cents.

“I agree that we should wait just a moment before proceeding.” Her voice was soft, and her southern accent sounded terribly alien. “We have a lot to talk about, and we should not take any further risks before we know exactly what it is that we are dealing with.”

July 12, 1951. An underground complex hidden beneath York, United Kingdom,

Andrew shook his head absent-mindedly, his nimble hands neatly organizing a medical kit as he sat on a table in the main complex of the base. The decision had already been made for him. There wasn't much of a choice to be made, really. Nonetheless, he waited until the others had let out their thoughts before he voiced his own, both to avoid appearing arrogant and to assess what sort of people it was that he was locked underground with. Plenty of different accents and backgrounds pervaded his ears and eyes, but none of them were personally familiar to him, and only some were wise. He reflected on the breadth of people brought here to accomplish a task, the North Atlantic was not a small place and it took a lot to bring the people living on it together. The scope and number of the people shipped here gave Andrew resolve in his decision. They were going to spend every last breath they had hunting Angels, because every moment they spent not doing that was a wasted moment.

"How many corpses do you figure there are in York?" Andrew asked. He spoke emotionlessly, as if half way between asking a math question and making a point. "Metaphorical corpses, I mean. The Chimera make very efficient use of human body tissue, so there's probably not a scrap of flesh left in what's rest of the city, let alone a full corpse. How many wives and children lost their lives on the ground right above our heads in the last few years? I would figure more than have ever died on this spot in all the rest of history. It's impressive, but I'm not impressed. The Chimera could do better. They don't have anything holding them back, like we do. While we sit in holes and plan the details of something more liable to change than the weather, they get their jobs done. They turn more and more corpses, more little boys and girls into congealed cesspools of flesh that could hold a rifle, every minute. Each and every second we spend here and not taking our one and only shot at doing something significant to stop this, is a second spent pissing all over the graves of not only those who've died in York these past few years, but everyone who came before them too. This isn't a war, it's a fucking extinction event, and the Chimera don't want to kill, they want to utterly exterminate not only all traces of humanity on this Earth, but every sign that we were ever here to begin with. There is not a god damn excuse to be made for not doing something to stop it. We're just as likely to die in this hole, efforts wasted, than we are to die with a hunting knife in the skull of an Angel topside. I say we use those among us who can find the Angels and damn well do so. We don't have another choice as human beings than to resist".

Still relaxed, and recovering breath, Andrew clasped shut his medical kit and set it in his pack on the table with the others he'd brought, found or made. Resources were in short supply nowadays, and it was the solemn duty of every man with medical experience to be able to fix an injury when the need arose. This wasn't new to Andrew, of course, as a combat medic. It took on a different tone now, though. There was something fundamentally different between helping keep the soldiers fighting a war in good condition and helping keep the human beings fighting against their extinction as a species alive. Andrew hoped the distinction would begin to make itself clear to the others, or there would be a lot of time wasted, and perhaps a few Angels spared.

2 February, 1928

0932 hours

Hotel National, 5th floor- Moscow

A dazed vision is what blesses Oleg as he tries to awake from violent spat with death. He is met with a strong ringing sound that echoes through his mind like the church bells of St Petersburg. Trying to move became a near impossible challenge as his lower body was covered in a debris of broken floorboards and smashed glass. From looking around wearingly, he could tell that he had landed on the floor below after being sucker-punched by a Wildfire rocket launcher. He looked above and saw the chomped-off half of the 6th floor. The power of Chimeran weaponry was fiercely advanced. They, practically, were carrying the power of a tank within their mutated, demonic hands. This power along is able to make Frankenstein’s monster and the bogeyman look like a pair of small chipmunks.

His vision started syncing itself back into place and he started trying to push the rubble of his body. He started coughing quite brutally. His face was covered in sheet of dirt, dust, and sweat with hints of blood. The coughs were the cause of an intentional inhale of dust during his fall. He sat himself up and a few metres away was Nikolai. His comrade was lying against the wall and pierced into the ribcage of his body was a giant piece of the 6th floor. The man in front of him was bloody and violent. Blood flowed down his mouth like a water fall and the open visible bones were gruesomely attached with small bits of organs. It made him wheezy and pant at the grisly sight of his comrade’s death. He looked to his left. A massive opening had now appeared thanks to the explosion. Within the time of a split second, a hand instantly surfaced from the outside. Fear struck Oleg’s nerves like a harp. A couple of Chimera were climbing the hotel too finish him and his comrade off; the job was half done.

A Chimera popped it self over the broken wall, it’s roar struck black into the fear of men. Oleg ran into the direction behind him. Fearing for his life, he opened the door ran through to the other side. Small red balls of death flew past his head as he slams the door behind him. He started running in terror down the hall of the Hotel National’s 5th floor. His movement was clumsy and his body was filled with adrenaline as he starts knocking chairs and desks over in the hope of making some sort of small and weak barricade. He looked behind him to the corridor growing longer and trippy by the second. Fear was now in control. He didn’t have time to think or mourn over Nikolai. He had known him for a few years and was a good friend but he didn’t cry over him. Comrades were dying left, right and centre and it leaves no second for a man to weep over a lost life. It hadn’t even been a year and already Oleg was desensitized by this war. Normal life is now but a illusive speck that cannot be reached or clung too.

He then looked forward but right down the path was a Chimeran foot soldier standing in the hallway. It roared with villainous glee as the soft sound of it’s Bullseye charges up and produces a fateful, orange glow in the barrel of it’s gun.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

12 July, 1951

0215 hours

York base- Containment Cell

Oleg woke up with a startling howl as he instantly sits up from the crooked bed, panting and sweating heavily. He stunk of nightmarish flashbacks. For 23 years his brain has acted like a broken film projector that repeats memories in his head, night after night after night. It drives men insane but Oleg has endured the burden that is laid heavy on his head. He looks around the prison that he is being kept in. Oleg’s impressive streak has finally ended: he had been found by the military. His nationality made him a high class catch for any GI Joe or Jane that happens to notice his accent. Nobody knows what happened in Russia and there have been no human survivors recorded; that he knows of. He is gone be greeted by a welcome party of questions regarding his painful past. They’ll force him to relive memories of his comrades being either killed or taken by the Chimera. By the end of the carousal of catechizing, they’ll either release him, kill him or recruit him. Two of the options seemed quite favourable.

He looked down at the clothes he was wearing. It was normal ruined military trousers that he has worn for years now. The wear and tear was quite visible to the naked eye but a change of clothes is not a privilege that came available to Oleg but with recent events, he’s pretty sure that a change of clothes is a privilege available to few. His boots were still on him and his white shirt was still intact. The only thing missing was his jacket, weapons and supplies. A moment of discord struck his realization has he noticed that his journal was not with him. He jumped out of the bed with anger and fury raging through the Russian’s heart. That journal contained information of Russia and the Chimera. At the back of the book was the name of every single comrade he has seen slaughtered by the Chimera. There were pages and pages filled with Russian names. Each name holds a dark vision of the Chimera butchering them right in front of Oleg’s young eyes. That part was a personal connection for him, which he doesn’t want tainted by the filthy hands of the Americans and British. It is unlikely that the western dogs will handle something that deep with care.

He stands up from the bed and looks around. It was a very concealed and plain room. Plain, brick walls surround him with no windows except one. The window was tricked out to look like a mirror but Oleg knew that it was a viewing point into the room from, what most likely is, the hallway outside. This was a multipurpose containment room. It can be used as containment for Chimera, a prison for convicts or an interrogation room for people of interest. A bed, a sink and a toilet is all that is there to comfort Oleg as he stands in his brick-box cell. He walks up to the window and looks at his reflection in the mirror of deception. He can see how old he has become. Time has hit him quite hard. He was no longer the young, eager private that he was once. All he sees now is another person. A broken man now stood in front of him. His eyes are what caught his attention. They were red, slightly puffy and teary. He looks deep into him but he falls into a chasm of alienation and misery. He saw nothing of the man he once was. He slowly places his right hand on his face to touch the effect of the Chimera War. He face had small noticeable wrinkles and it was very rough. He couldn’t believe how long it has been and how far he has came but for what?

He then stopped touch his face and banged his fist on the glass window in rage of his realization. He kept banging on it harshly and screaming to top of his voice. He was always brought up to believe in a god but what deity would allow any man to go under this much torment and torture. While hitting the glass, he looked up and started yelling in Russian.

“Pochemu, pochemu, pochemu!” Which translates too: why,why,why.

He then stopped banging the glass and looked in front of him. The mirror/window was barely scratched by his anger. He sat back down at the bed and laid his head down in gloom, waiting for his inevitable meeting with whatever glorified grunt that runs this place.

12 July, 1951
00:36
Near Eswick (Just south of York)

Charlie was hit with a wave of relief as the two military jeeps appeared and began driving down the lane between the tree-lines and towards the cottages. He was overjoyed to speak to another human being and had to hold back the urge to run out; they might be there expecting to meet up with the squad, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t get spooked and shoot at a figure running from the trees.

The jeeps stopped roughly level with where Charlie was camped and were facing the town with Charlie to their right. The front jeep then flashed its lights four times. That was the signal he was waiting for. Climbing to his feet he gave a whistle before going towards them, knowing that (to the best of his knowledge anyway) that the Chimera couldn’t whistle. The gunner atop the jeep spotted him and waved him to hurry up. “It’s so good to see your beautiful faces” laughed Charlie as he climbed into the jeep and grabbed the cheeks of another soldier. The soldier only gave him a bewildered look in response.

“Where are the rest?” asked the unfamiliar face in the driver’s seat, “I thought there’d be six of you.”

“Either KIA or MIA. Drive and I’ll catch you up. Where’s Captain Land? And why’s there only three of you?” replied Charlie noticing that there was only a driver in the jeep behind. Charlie felt a knot form in his stomach as he began to realise that the Chimera had clearly made some more progress in the few weeks that he’d been on Operation Archer. The driver did not need to be convinced to drive off, and so the tiny convoy quickly began heading North-East.

“Captain Land was killed two weeks ago. I don’t know how much our superiors know about your operation, but we were ordered to come out here and take your squad back to our base just outside of York. The Americans have arrived and we’re now launching another Operation; best I leave the explaining to someone higher ranked than myself” explained the private.

“Right,” said Charlie rubbing his face “well Operation Archer was a small scale recon mission. We were sent into Nottingham to investigate some sort of Chimera digging project. We never even got close to our target location…”

---

12 July, 1951
01:48
Entrance to the York Base

Charlie followed the soldiers in a single file jog along tree lines, shrubbery and the odd cottage, until they reached an old derelict pub in a wooded village. Charlie had a twinge of nostalgia at the sight; the memories of a similar pub back home came to mind, although the one standing before him was in much worse condition. The soldiers had parked the jeeps about a mile away from the pub and hidden them under some ghillie nets, supposedly as to not draw attention to this location.

The village seemed void of all life and was overgrown with flora, with the few visible sections of buildings having taken structural damage. Charlie had seen towns like this in the past, where the Chimera had lunged forward and raided the smaller towns in the early stages of the invasion; these towns seemed to vanish and very rarely did those in the bigger and ‘safer’ towns even notice. “Not really the right time for a pint is it lads?” Charlie asked as they made their way into the pub’s sheltered garden.

Inside the garden were two guards manning the pubs back door. They nodded to each of the arrivals in turn without saying much. The inside of the pub was not as ruinous as would have appeared from outside but was still quite torn. There were various pieces of furniture wedged against the doors and windows (this was not noticeable from the outside due to the plants). The soldiers led Charlie around the bar and opened up the cellar door, leading him down into the series of rooms and corridors hidden beneath. “Welcome to the York Base Lieutenant Morgan. I’d give you the grand tour, but me and the lads need to hit the hay. You’ll find some answers in the briefing room at the end of the hall” said the private pointing to a couple of figures standing in its doorway. Charlie nodded his thanks with a furrowed brow; it had been a while since anyone had referred to him by rank and it caught him off guard.