Night had settled over Westonglappa, heavy and deceptive. The discipline of routines—repetitive instructions, measured civilian flows, patrol handoffs at each block—created the illusion of security in every shelter, hospital bay, and cordoned corridor. President Alderhart's words, "Hold the corridor. Hold the line. Hold to verified truth," echoed through television speakers and mobile alerts, repeated until the sound was almost background, woven into the rhythm of survival.
Beyond the capital, lights burned low in occupied cities across Eastoppola. Blackened banners hung limp over municipal squares. Darkened maroon standards glared at every intersection, each flag a line drawn in threat. Shadow Regime patrols slipped down the ghost-lit lanes of Shadowatranceslenta, their presence measured in silence, not in numbers. In the east, inside the labyrinthine halls of Deathenbulkiztahlem, Death Regime scientists and armored rangers gathered around bioluminescent terminals, their plague-masked faces unreadable.
The world seemed, for a moment, to breathe in—waiting.
A thousand kilometers away, a coded message blinked into life on encrypted radios. Supreme Commanders across continents glanced at their tablets and terminal screens, watching as the icon of the "all-leader call" began to spin. In a hidden conference room in Auttumotto, Blackwing tapped the side of his headset, bored and restless. In Deathenbulkiztahlem, Doctor Deathwing's reflection gleamed across tanks of glass and steel, his pupils aglow with cross-shaped precision. In Shadowatranceslenta, Shadowwing's silhouette flickered—his only voice a caption: "NO MORE RESTRAINT."
Somewhere behind a wall of burning maroon, Darkwing appeared. He did not wait for ceremony. His words detonated through the secured channels, a shockwave of capital-letter fury.
"SUPREMES. ELITES. THIS WAR LEAVES NO STATE UNTOUCHED. NO MERCY. NO PAUSE. INVADE. STRIKE. BURN EVERY CHAIN OF COMMAND THEY THINK CAN SAVE THEM."
The faces on the network were grim, distant, most refusing to meet the camera. Deathwing spoke in a voice as cold as a laboratory's air. "The time for raids is past. Now we escalate. Simultaneous invasion. Systemic attrition. Let the continents bleed together."
Blackwing's grin flashed through a haze of monitors and urban maps. "You want chaos? I'll deliver chaos. Let's flood the board—make them play catch-up on every front. Chess pieces everywhere."
Shadowwing raised a hand, a silent gesture. His screen filled with scarlet text: "INITIATE PHASE RED."
Orders began to pour through every BRD channel: encrypted packets, dead-dropped drive instructions, coded signals threaded through black-market networks and ritualized comms. In occupied districts, Blackened and Darkened Supreme Commanders received mobilization codes and prepared their strike teams—urban squads, sabotage cells, elite commandos. In the Shadowlands, Supreme Commanders convened in ritual silence, arranging talismans and sigils for silent incursion. In the laboratories of Deathenbulkiztahlem, Death Regime bioengineers unscrewed forbidden crates, releasing cold vapors and gene-sealed canisters, while their Supreme Commander recited a sermon for the end of all light.
The screens pulsed as mission briefings arrived: objectives scrolled past—invasion, sabotage, abduction, terror—each name matched to a city, a node, a rival's stronghold. Across continents, Supreme Commanders checked their weapons, inspected the faces of their chosen elite companions. For some, the anticipation was electric; for others, merely another line in a chain of duty. On dockyards and airfields, strike columns began to roll—stealth aircraft lifting into the night, convoys crawling along backroads, elite squads vanishing into city shadows.
Midnight came.
A sequence of coded activations swept the map: blackout warnings in Solbrineispolisbara, silent alarms tripping in Lunna's crystalline towers, financial signals stuttering in Starrup's emerald core, observatory beacons flashing red in Galaxenchi. At the edge of every homeland, the first incursion was already moving—quiet, clinical, deliberate.
One by one, Supreme Commanders appeared in shadowed rooms. A Death Regime leader laced up gloves, the order pulsing on his phone: "Begin." In the Neon Blackened district of Eastoppola, an urban team leader flexed his hands over a tablet, face half-lit, reading coordinates. In Shadowatranceslenta, a pair of Marauders moved wordlessly through the mist, eyes bright, the last text they saw: "No waiting. No hesitation. Now."
By the time Westonglappa's command board began to flicker with cross-continent alarms—systems going dark, comms jittering, reports piling in from every direction—the invaders had already crossed their lines.
Across the world, the tide turned. This was no longer a war contained by borders, doctrine, or daylight.
And by dawn, every regime on the map would know: the battle had gone global.
Night covered the continent. In Westonglappa's command bunker, corridors lit in steady, fatigue-proof white carried a single, deliberate rhythm: orders executed, confirmations returned, updates logged, and handoffs completed without theatrics. President Corvin Alderhart's broadcast faded from shelter screens and municipal feeds, but its closing directive did not fade. In homes, barracks, and checkpoint tents, the same line repeated with quiet insistence—Hold the corridor. Hold the line. Hold to verified truth—less as inspiration than as a behavioral anchor.
At the edge of that order, BRD activity intensified.
OCCUPIED EASTOPPOLA — BLACKENED DISTRICT, 02:17 LOCAL TIME
A drone camera, lens streaked by drizzle, captured the movement with clinical clarity. Blackened banners rose over damaged civic halls. In a converted operations room, Blackendale sat with the posture of someone who treated occupation like routine business. Black Guards filed in, armored and expressionless, while squad leaders formed a half circle around a table of blinking tablets.
Encrypted orders populated screen by screen: targets, infrastructure nodes, timing windows, and the authorization line that mattered most—unrestricted operations approved.
Blackendale scrolled once, then passed the device to one of his elites. Blackkyria took it without ceremony, cracked her knuckles, and allowed herself a thin, streetwise grin.
"Bout time," Blackendale muttered.
Blackkyria glanced up, voice low and confident. "We been training. Now we playin' for keeps."
AUTTUMOTTO — DARKENED PARADE GROUNDS, MAROON MUSTER
In Auttumotto, furnace-light shimmered across maroon banners and armored columns staged for rapid deployment. Darkwing did not address his forces in measured sentences. His voice detonated through the secure network in FULL CAPS, aimed at every Darkened Supreme Commander and every subordinate channel listening for permission to escalate.
"YOU ARE UNLEASHED. NO REST. NO FEAR. WESTONGLAPPA, SOLLARISCA, LUNNA, STARRUP—THEIR WALLS ARE PAPER IF YOU STRIKE HARD ENOUGH. YOU WILL BURN EVERY SAFEHOUSE, EVERY ARCHIVE, EVERY HOPE THEY CLING TO."
Darkened Supreme Commanders stood in formation—Darkendale, Darkcassandra, Darklevik, Darksabian—responding with clipped salutes. Their squads moved immediately into transport columns. Engines stayed low. Weapons were checked once. Rations were minimal. The emphasis was speed and pressure, not comfort.
SHADOWATRANCESLENTA — SHADOW REGIME HEARTLAND, RITUAL DISPATCH
In Shadowatranceslenta, mobilization occurred with almost no sound. Inside a ritual-lit chamber, Shadowwing stood motionless, face concealed, presence communicating authority without speech. Supreme Commanders knelt in silence, heads bowed, while violet glyphs flashed across the wall in short, absolute directives.
NO MORE RESTRAINT. INITIATE PHASE RED.
Shadowadale. Shadowastorm. Shadowastride. Each received an assignment without commentary. Ritual daggers pressed briefly to palm—an oath made physical—then the commanders rose in unison and disappeared into neon-shadowed streets to assemble elite hunter squads. No one spoke. Even the air felt disciplined, as if sound itself had been instructed to minimize.
DEATHENBULKIZTAHLEM — DEATH REGIME PLAGUE LABS, RELEASE PREP
In Deathenbulkiztahlem, sterile lights hummed over sealed rooms and bio-vaults. Doctor Deathwing adjusted security seals with gloved precision. His voice carried the tone of a medical directive delivered under pressure—controlled, cold, and final.
"The age of caution is over," he said. "Supremes: infect, disrupt, render the enemy's medicine a liability."
Deathendale, Deathendye, and Deathlurina studied mission screens set for multiple theaters—Sollarisca, Starrup, and Lunna. Their cross-shaped pupils reflected the glow of forbidden vials and necro-weapon casings. No hesitation. No debate. Only preparation executed as procedure.
THE ALL-LEADER CALL
A single coded pulse synchronized the moment across BRD networks. Darkwing's fury filled the master channel. Deathwing's logic cut through it. Blackwing's charisma threaded the same signal into a tone his forces would obey. Shadowwing's directives arrived as captions and symbols on every encrypted device.
BEGIN. DO NOT WAIT. DO NOT HESITATE. NOW.
MOBILIZATION — SUPREME COMMANDERS IN MOTION
Blackened forces moved first in the way they preferred: urban, disguised, and fast. Blackendale and his elite package—Blackkyria, Blackrhevon, Blackvenaira, Blackxenessa—suited into tactical gear, boarded camouflaged transports, and rolled toward preselected city sectors in Eastoppola and Westonglappa. Their insignia was consistent and deliberate: Black emblems etched into chestplates, rank marked by dark-maroon highlights, the visual language of intimidation refined into a uniform.
Darkened columns moved with brute intent. Units with maroon-painted faces loaded storm rifles and ritual artifacts into armored vehicles. Their rally did not romanticize the coming violence. It framed it as inevitability.
"No hesitation. No mercy. We are the storm," Darkcassandra barked over the engines, and the formation answered by moving.
Shadow forces dispersed into the city fabric. Shadowadale led Shadow Rangers through alley labyrinths with the cohesion of a single organism. Shadowastorm guided movements by pulse-coded signals, directing squads without voice, without wasted motion, and without leaving clean patterns for defenders to anticipate.
Death units staged in the corridors of laboratories that resembled hospitals until you noticed the weapons. Deathendye briefed elites in a tone that sounded like instruction to a surgical team.
"You know the cadence," he said. "Strike—withdraw—infect again. Let their medics chase phantoms."
Outside, VTOL engines spun up, and the aircraft lifted with the silence of practiced repetition.
CUTAWAY — AES HOMELANDS, THE THREAT BREAKS SURFACE
At midnight, the first verified alarms propagated across AES domains.
In Sollarisca, a blackout cascaded through a capital district as Blackened teams targeted substations and attempted to seize switching access. Sun Marines surged to contain the breach before it could widen.
In Lunna, Shadow Marauders infiltrated civic shelter spurs, sabotaging sensor coverage and marking VIP categories for follow-on pressure. Moon Guards braced and tightened corridor discipline.
In Starrup, Death Rangers targeted audit systems and supply routing, attempting to scramble trails and force misallocation under stress.
In Galaxenchi, a civic data storm struck observatory-linked networks, triggering system-wide alerts and forcing mobilization at speed.
On each continent, a Supreme Commander's presence shadowed the initial contacts—eyes narrowed, posture set, intent fixed—prepared to turn a manageable incident into systemic doubt.
FINAL INDICATOR — POISED FOR ESCALATION
On BRD devices, a single line blinked repeatedly, uniform across regimes.
DO NOT WAIT. DO NOT HESITATE. NOW.
In one shelter corridor, a Sun Guard tightened his grip as lights flickered. In a lunar hospital spur, Moon Guards shifted into protective formation as warning tones echoed through tile and steel. In Starrup, civilians froze as financial district screens turned red in synchronized sequence.
By then, the boundary between theaters no longer felt reliable.
By dawn, no one would measure the world by peace. They would measure it by whether the system held.
The first half hour did not look like conquest. It looked like synchronized disruption executed with discipline, designed to leave defenders reacting to smoke while the real losses accumulated in routing, equipment, and trust.
In Sollarisca, Blackened teams struck substations and switching yards with fast entry, fast damage, and fast denial. Helicopters came in low over industrial roofs, rotor wash bending dust and debris into the lights of emergency vehicles. Black Guards hit the perimeter screens first, then elites dropped behind them with compact bursts of black-maroon energy that folded barricades inward and threw Sun Marines off their angles. The objective was not to "hold" the district. The objective was to create a cascading blackout long enough to force emergency rerouting, while extraction crews stripped copper, relays, and sealed control modules into sling nets. By the time Solar escorts stabilized the outer blocks, the inner stations were already burning in controlled patterns that made repair slower than firefighting.
In Lunna, Shadow Marauders did not arrive with loud vehicles. They arrived as gaps. Cameras blinked, sensor feeds skipped, and corridor signage was replaced with false arrows that pushed civilians toward dead ends until Moon Guards physically retook the lanes and reset the markers by hand. Shadow elites moved in and out of shelter spurs with short, precise strikes, tagging VIP categories and officer nodes, then vanishing before a sustained engagement could form. When Lunar security finally boxed a team near a hospital spur, the attackers did not "fight it out." They released a wave of violet distortion that forced defenders to choose between maintaining formation and protecting civilians from stampede risk, then slipped away into the shadowed service corridors they had already mapped.
In Starrup, the Death Regime played the city like a medical crisis. Their teams hit supply convoys and audit routing simultaneously, using sterile, cold vapors and gene-sealed canisters that forced hazmat protocols even when the physical damage was limited. Star Rangers attempted containment and verification on the fly, but the attackers counted on the fact that every extra minute spent confirming a contamination event was a minute the convoy sat still. Death elites struck in pulses—one sudden bombardment that shattered escort cohesion, one clinical extraction of sealed crates and lab instruments, then an immediate withdrawal before Star leadership could concentrate a decisive response.
In Galaxenchi, the assault arrived through the observatory-linked civic systems first, then through the streets as diversionary noise. Shadow Rangers staged riots and diversion assaults to pull response teams toward visible incidents while smaller squads targeted signal junctions and public broadcast relays. Galaxy responders contained the instability with coherence protocols and predictive routing, but the enemy did not need a permanent breach. They needed a brief window where the public questioned what was real and where instructions came from.
Across all four theaters, the pattern held: a short, violent interval; concentrated superpower bombardment to break formations and open lanes; targeted theft and destruction; then immediate extraction before defenders could convert response into pursuit.
WESTONGLAPPA — MULTIPLE STATES, SAME HALF HOUR
While the AES homelands reeled, Westonglappa took a second cut.
In Auttumotto's occupied administrative district, BRD ground units used the global distraction to widen their internal screens. Darkened squads pushed maroon heat into municipal edges—archives, procurement yards, fuel depots—forcing Westonglappa police and AES reinforcements to split between defending civilians and protecting infrastructure. Blackened crews hit warehouses with practiced speed, stripping generators, comms units, and vehicle parts that would take weeks to replace. In Leblaela and Sashax, the attacks concentrated on repair confidence: ambush a crew, burn the equipment, leave the street intact, and let rumor do the rest.
Above the streets, helicopters rotated like a schedule. Elites dropped into small pockets, fired a short bombardment that shattered the immediate defensive geometry, then lifted out before any local commander could build a trap around them. The intent was not to win a battle. The intent was to deny stability by making every recovery attempt expensive.
BRD FIELD COMMS — THE WITHDRAWAL BECOMES DOCTRINE
As the half hour closed, Supreme Commanders across BRD networks began sending the same type of message, each in their own voice, each describing the same outcome: objectives achieved to threshold, extraction underway, contact avoided by design.
Blackendale's update hit first, the tone almost casual, as if the damage were a business transaction.
"Package collected. Grid's staggered. Sun boys chasing ghosts. We out."
A second ping followed from one of his elites, tagged with a route code and a time stamp.
"Two minutes to lift. Leaving 'em dark enough to argue."
Darkened channels carried a different cadence—less detail, more threat—because Darkwing's doctrine valued fear as much as material gain.
"PRESSURE ACHIEVED. BURN MARKERS SET. WITHDRAW ON SIGNAL."
Shadowwing's network did not transmit speeches. The update arrived as captions and symbols, a crosshair over a category list, followed by a single directive that meant the same thing everywhere.
"Hit. Fade. Reassign."
Deathwing's channel was the coldest. It read like a clinical checklist closing a procedure.
"Exposure delivered. Samples secured. Pursuit risk rising. Extraction authorized."
Then the coordination layer activated, not to brag, but to confuse. Supreme Commanders began swapping targeting priorities in real time, instructing the next wave to strike different continents than the defenders expected, forcing AES to chase yesterday's logic.
Blackendale pushed it openly, voice low and sharp.
"Don't let 'em settle. Swap the board. If they stack Solar tonight, bleed Lunar at dawn. If they lock Star lanes, hit Galaxy's broadcast spine. Keep 'em guessin'."
A Shadow caption followed, precise and unnerving.
"Change hands. Change clocks."
Deathwing's response came in mixed clinical English with hard German fragments, the stress finally leaking through his discipline.
"Sie reagieren zu schnell. We rotate. We do not repeat. No pattern comfort. No prediction comfort."
In the ocean between Westonglappa and the AES homelands, the colossal silhouettes waited like moving fortresses, positioned to receive the withdrawing strike packages without slowing.
Darkeneddemonica 666 held a maroon-lit wake, its decks alive with heat shimmer and disciplined loading crews.
Obsidian Eclipse cut the water with predatory calm, Blackened lights kept low, retrieval lanes lit only when the helicopters came in.
Spectre of Oblivion appeared less like a ship and more like absence given shape, its extraction teams receiving Shadow squads without sound.
Todeskreis–Sturmträger sat under sterile deck lights, its bays sealed and marked, as if even the ocean air needed quarantine.
The helicopters returned in staggered intervals, some carrying wounded, some carrying crates, some carrying nothing except elites who had spent their power in short bursts and refused to be caught in prolonged fights. As each aircraft touched down, crews moved with rehearsed efficiency: unload, seal, refuel, relaunch. The strike had been designed as a loop, not a single event.
Back in Westonglappa, the collateral settled into numbers: damaged substations, burned convoys, stolen equipment, dead patrol officers, wounded civilians, and repair crews forced to restart from zero. In the AES homelands, alarms became lists, lists became mobilization orders, and mobilization orders became the next layer of defensive posture.
On BRD networks, one final message propagated across Supreme Commander channels, tagged to every theater simultaneously. It carried no flourish and no celebration, only a cold reminder that this was not the end of an operation. It was the maintenance of pressure.
NEXT WINDOW: ROTATE TARGETS.
PRIMARY: WESTONGLAPPA INTERNAL GAINS.
SECONDARY: AES HOMELAND SWAP STRIKES.
EXECUTE: HIT–AND–FADE UNTIL GOVERNANCE BREAKS.
Out at sea, the four colossal ships adjusted their positions by a few degrees, subtle enough to look like ordinary navigation, precise enough to change the next approach vector across the globe.
In Orinvalde Crowncity, the boards filled with after-action pings and new anomaly clusters, and the timing stamps on the newest alerts matched each other too closely.
Not one theater. Not one continent.
Multiple.
And the next "half hour" was already being scheduled.
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