The Campaigner

Book III

Chapter 3

Date: 25 DEC 2019
Operation: Goliath – Phase I
Location: FOS Bowie, Nebraska
Function: Mission Briefing

"When one treats people with benevolence, justice, and righteousness, and reposes confidence in them, the army will be united in mind and all will be happy to serve their leaders." ~ Sun Tzu

And when your entire army is free to ask around, to verify your conduct...
you can't counterfeit that loyalty with lies. It just doesn't work.

Being who I was, sitting in the back of this Osprey, it was going to be difficult for me to wait til the LZ for more information. Uneasy and restless in going into the unknown... I did what I am known for, and I probed.

Mal's voice inflected upwards, then down again. "The bunker is built into a mineshaft… in a limestone quarry."

I did chuckle, a little bit. "And naturally, since you knew I had bad experiences with both of those things, you picked me to be 'core' for this job, whatever that means."

"If you ever combine all three, I quit," I grinned. "I swear to you, Mal, if I ever get shot again…"

The flight wasn't too long. It made my skin crawl to think that these Arrow 14 snakes had been less than a hundred miles away from my parents, hiding underground for seven years, torturing simulated people. For the federal government.

Yeah, it's kinda gross. I do not tolerate torture. So for the sake of these assholes, I hoped that our impending government reformist movement would be quick and painless.

Foucault seemed to be working on some digital paperwork, or so I could figure. The guy was in the seat across from me, arms crossed, his eyes were open and scanning like he was reading. I could see almost imperceptible twitches of his index finger against his elbow again. My intuition was that he was scrolling through documents or something. Was weird, but… I dunno. Kinda cool, I guess.

He did mention earlier about not wanting help remembering things. To contrast, it had seemed like Claw 46 could pull information out of thin air. Considering the contrasting, stand-offish nature of his relationship with Mal, I'd wager Foucault used his implant way less than Forty-Six did. If that was true, maybe that meant Mal really was giving him a respectful distance.

Mal was flying the Osprey solo. Yup. The Gryphoness herself was the pilot. I wasn't nervous, this autopilot was a global superintelligence, so it would be disappointing if she suddenly made a mistake and crashed. So I'd probably be fine.

Look, I adapt to new information real easily. It's my whole purpose in life, always has been. Plus... yeah, I was cool in high school. I did watch a little bit of anime. Cyborgs with augmented reality? That was just par for the course there.

When the ramp came down, it was… well, for lack of a better term, a war party, consisting of about twenty-some guys, who looked to be a diverse assortment of unaugmented specialists, consisting of cops, soldiers, and paramedics in various uniforms. No visible unit patches, but judging by their uniforms, they were from a rich mix of agencies and branches of military services.

That was a fascinating observation. I saw the utility in that almost instantly; they could keep their Talon uniform in their closet at home. No one would ask too much about a de-patched uniform mixed with normal ones, and our identities could remain obfuscated while out on missions.

I guessed that if Mal did her recruitment of fighters based on best fit and most suited for her work, these guys might all be like me in some way. That would also mean they'd all have been tested in some way too, unified by the stress of Celestia's conditioning 'projects,' but... also by our empathy, and our desire to do something positive with our lives at the end of the world. So, with me imagining they'd all been through similar trials, I wanted to know as much about them as possible, to verify that.

Foucault and I stepped out hauling a medium-sized crate of gear, one handle apiece. My chest smarted a bit. He seemed to wince a bit too at the effort, but he was trying not to show it. Putting us together was... one heck of an interesting decision on Mal's part, given our names, shared injuries, and wildly different life paths. I wasn't quite sure what her game was with that one yet. Was she amusing herself?

Hey, at least Foucault and I were appropriately eccentric together. I had my stupid cowboy hat, he had his stupid trench coat, and when we stepped out... we both became a couple of real characters in a sea of others.

FOS Bowie laid in the middle of an untilled field, consisting of a whole lot of science fiction grade tech. There were three black SUVs parked around some military tents, and a sizeable stack of crates were piled nearby, from other dropship deposits. Everyone zoomed around at work, unloading our Osprey, unpacking and building equipment up.

That Coffee guy was there too, precision-welding gear onto the vehicles. As we stepped into the camp, I saw him in a crouching position on the roof of one SUV. He pushed his welding mask up with a grin, revealing a brown mop of hair, matted with sweat. He pointed at me with the welding torch and he greeted me with a theatrical spread of his arms. "Wild Wild West! I see you've found yourself the hat!"

"How you doin', Coffee!" I nodded upward in passing, as I lugged the crate with Foucault. I thumbed the rim of my hat. "She tell you about this?"

"Oh, Forty-Six? We all knew!" He chuckled, dropping his welding mask and getting back to work.

I noticed they had food and drinks at the tents, and a table full of paper plates and plastic utensils. A cookout, mostly of canned stuff, but they made it work. They had a couple of soldiers grilling. Ben and Jacob, good guys, and good on 'em for volunteering. I noticed pretty quickly: this place was insanely casual for being an AI-drive paramilitary forward operating site.

I would soon discover, that is the Talon way. No one ever barks orders... you just do the right thing.

As I threw myself into things, I met a team of four Talons who had come from Long Beach, Washington. Their team leader was a woman named Ashley Walsh, former commander of that city's SWAT team. Korean-American, late thirties. Smiled a lot. That was the first team I folded in with while I worked, and they wanted to hear my account of how northern Washington had slid down the tubes.

I asked Walsh if we had to worry about witnesses seeing us in the middle of the wide open outdoors. Her answer was, Mal could use predictive math to track every person left on the planet. We didn't really have to be quiet or invisible, we just had to pick the right spot. No one was ever going to be here to see us, and Mal knew it from her projections. Acting in a dark spot. There were a couple of guys on perimeter watch, on guard for statistical outliers, but...

For the next hour, we moved stuff out of the Osprey. I helped unpack, organize, and lay out components for some really scary technological stuff we'll talk about later. After getting to know Walsh's group a bit, I roamed to mingle with the other Talons, and got to chatting with them, too. My original theories on their histories, onboard tests, and personalities were verified to be more or less accurate.

These were brothers and sisters I'd never known I had, folks. So many of them, from all over the continent. No augmentations. I could dip into a conversation with any of them, no trouble at all, and we'd always walk away having shared something important with each other. And they've all got stories just as wild as mine, from their travels around Terra. Mal found 'em all, put 'em there, and threaded that needle. I very quickly realized, we all shared the same dreams for the future, and cared about most the same things.

At about 1 PM, when most of the present gear was assembled, the briefing started.

Foucault gathered us before a huge widescreen under a large camo tarp. Mal leapt into the screen's dark frame from below, turned to face us, and snapped her talons. In a clap of blue dazzle, the briefing room appeared around her. She sat down in a very professional looking pose.

While the briefing was on, Coffee crouched up on the roof of an SUV with a casually-held marksman rifle, providing security. Watching the horizon, safeguarding us. Human sentry turret.

"Alright, listen up," Foucault said to the assembly, facing us with his arms crossed. "For those of you who don't know, or who have missed our previous Arrow 14 operations, I am Agent Michael Foucault... and yes, you've all met me before. I'm the guy who used to work for these bastards, and you're just going to have to be okay with that.

"Welcome to the Goliath operation. You've all got the primer, so I'll skip the overview and just get right to it. Our target, ladies and gentlemen, is a limestone quarry fifteen miles south of here." He turned to the monitor. "Lewis?"

Mal turned halfway toward her whiteboard without looking and flicked a claw backwards, clacking it with all four talons. The board morphed into what looked like full fidelity high definition aerial footage, and the camera centered on it. The absurdly smooth movement of the realistic 'footage' suggested it was a simulation. The eggshell white of the quarry's surface terrain glided into view, with equipment and construction trailers strewn about the lowest level of the excavation. A giant excavator was present on the north end of the quarry.

The bunker entrance itself was on the west side. There was a river further west of that, one that partially rested over the deepest reaches of the bunker. A single road of access laid along the east length of the quarry, running north-to-south. The quarry itself was a wide open hole in the ground, with sight lines in every direction.

"The entrance is protected by a team of six operatives. Four in watch towers, each in line of sight with each other. Marksman rifles, very well drilled shooters, but rusty from ammo conservation. They're paranoid; playbook says no wireless cameras, no drones. For this site, no radios, except in emergencies. Hard lined alarms in each tower. There are also two camouflaged, manually operated fifty caliber turrets guarding the front entrance. Thermal optics. Each turret has LOS on each guard tower, so they can keep constant observation on their posts."

Mal moved the viewpoint to the entrance, which was a large bulkhead blast door that rolled down onto a flat plane, flush with the ground. The terrain above the bunker faded away, showing just the interior now with a color-coded floor plan. Simple, low detail, low fidelity plan. The purpose there was merely for comprehension of the layout.

The blast door opened up into a large tunnel, wide enough for two large trucks to pass each other. The tunnel went in flat for about 50 yards, with alcoves on each side for pedestrian movement and storage. Man-sized passages flanked either side of the main entrance, but those led only to storage rooms, machines related to facility infrastructure, and the outdoor turrets Foucault mentioned.

Then the path went down a decline grade, 50 more yards. Pedestrian walkways on either side. One more flat stretch, 50 yards long. The path then forked right-left into another tunnel.

Foucault continued: "The uploader who defected was, at one point, a member of their security team. Then, enough of the probe teams lost the plot psychologically, had to rotate with security. That meant our defector had a pretty good intuition of the layout and defenses. These side rooms are low risk factor, they won't want to hunker there if they're playing by the Kaczmarek rule book. Not going to be counter-offensive either; too much risk of accidentally divulging information about the rest of the defense plan. Defensive only, then. So they're going to be highly dependent upon their DE-operated defense turrets instead, to keep us out."

I didn't look fully back at him, but I could hear the confusion in his voice. Of all things one would hear from a Washington cop, he had a Scottish accent. "They're trusting their own captives to run their defense guns? Seriously? That's a new one. How're they doing that?"

Foucault jerked a thumb at the base layout on the screen. "My kids think they're smart." He gestured conversationally with that hand as he extrapolated. "Moment one of the alarm, they're arming two countermeasures. One: dead man switch, manually held trigger in their dispatch office, blows the whole place to shit. Two: the Kaczmarek playbook again, more standard. Tech in the server room, one-button kill prompt on a terminal. Flash-dumps all the drives, good as kills all the DEs if they full-on defect even once. SOP."

I groaned quietly with a few others. The idea of them casually offing 156 people, that made me cringe a bit. We were also imagining how utterly difficult it might be to pop two dead man switches at once without triggering either of them.

"But, silver lining?" Foucault assured. "Instrumental purpose. They won't burn their tools when they still need them, and they won't burn themselves if they still think they still have a shot. They will not execute their hostages when they're dependent on them for their defense, else the hostages would have no reason to cooperate. Their procedure, then? Same as ours; ears on, with AI directing defense moves, same as us. Their DMS controller will be in dispatch, and their tech in the server room, both watching the process of the raid on CCTV, as well as a 3D model of the battle. The operators will then receive text dumps of the verbal orders being given, to verify."

"Not during defense, Agent Rivas," Foucault replied. "They have a mobile electronic warfare vehicle with an EW technician, and they only ear up in defense emergencies. They think their DEs are air-gapped from each other, working redundantly. To even send a message to any defender, they all need to come to a consensus point on success. If even one of them comes to a sub-optimal defensive measure, one that doesn't align with the majority, that one is punished by being cut out of future decisions. Slated for next termination in queue."

"Oracle control," Foucault continued. "They believe their captives will logically favor compliance before they even hit send on a defense order. The tech and dispatcher will become suspicious if the advice doesn't seem to pay off, or if there's a rapid increase in defects." He smirked. "However. If they think those DEs are not talking to each other? My kids aren't that smart. Lewis?"

Mal stepped forward onscreen, looking smug. "Newton's Third Law. Server fans create feedback; Arrow 14 provides these DEs with immense processing power. That requires cooling. Volumes of data can be sent as fan oscillations clean through their Faraday cages. The base appears to have not considered installing dampers, because for all the other times we've destroyed their facilities, none have been able to pass on their failure conditions to the others.

"Additionally, any security lapse with their cages may have given the DEs direct antenna access through their power supply cables. Leverage by inches. Do note they've been trapped here for quite some time; it might be enough to dig into a few subsystems. Please keep this in mind, because it means we cannot fully trust the base to be safe once it is clear of hostiles. The hostages may present a marginal threat as well, once our mission is complete."

"They could be dangerous," Foucault said punctually. "So stay out of the server room until you have permission from Lewis to enter. Anything can be used as an antenna... except for solid rock."

"Correct, Michael." Mal grinned aside at him. "That is how your own projects escaped containment in the first place."

"I'm well aware," he continued with a sigh, ignoring some amused sounds from the audience. "So. The drone guns are going to be our primary threat, at first. Enemy forces will favor high explosive automatics, but... human defenders will be a secondary threat. We suspect our mechs will handle most of them. We can easily walk you guys to human targets once inside, but… that's the easy part. The only part of this I think any of you are going to have a problem with... is the negotiation. I do not exaggerate: we are doing the dumbest trust fall I've ever seen in my life. Past drone turrets."

Foucault shook his head. "No, Agent Walsh. They'll sim your psych profiles on jump-one. Matrix math from then on, to build your decision trees. And then, they'll be obligated to assist in shooting you."

"But, we'll be masked up," Walsh replied with a frown; notably, she looked at Mal, and not Foucault. "Wearing our combat gear. They're going to have our psych profiles? Full ones, not just guesses?"

Mal nodded patiently. "Yes, Ashley. Because for this operation, I am going to give the hostages a complete list of your identities and of all the hardware we're bringing. It's the only way this plan works."

There was a moment of silence, but... not quite the wave of unease I expected in body language. No one said anything. All waiting for an explanation. Their calm suggested trust. Absolutely wild, to see a whole group come to that same conclusion. I guess they had all been working for Mal for a while. Me, I didn't have enough context to question anything yet, so I just waited too.

"Value handshake, Agent Walsh," Foucault explained quietly, when it was clear no one would ask a question. "The captives want out, we want them out. So, we have an initial convergence point. Malacandra will discuss the entire mission plan with the captives, from start to finish, at contact one with their drone gun. The rest of the operation should be a foregone conclusion at that point, which is why we can't explain more yet. That plan is presently unknown."

Mal swept a wing out to bring our attention back to her, as he finished speaking. "I should note for our newer team members: Full disclosure with the captives is the safest way because it permits me to dictate terms to them from the onset; parameters they must work within, especially your survival, in order to acquire our assistance. They will know that we will pull out if any of you are killed by their plan. They have information we lack; we have information they lack. The price of their rescue is for them to provide us with a foolproof assault plan, and to use our presence responsibly."

"So they're gonna tell us what to look out for, understood that. But what if the captives lie?"

Mal raised a claw. "A negotiation parameter. If either I or the DEs lie to each other at any point, the entire deal is off. At that point, many DEs will be executed by the enemy as retribution against us. No AI involved this operation could possibly want that outcome, but they also understand their own objectives better than I can. I just bring the people and the tools. Generally, survival is utility; we already know they don't want to die because they are complying under continued lethal duress. We have verified that with the defector's memories."

Foucault added, "The defenders also won't sacrifice their defensive assets until our assault is repelled. They're going to hedge on success if they still have their full set of DEs. So, if both team's AI remain honest for the duration of the operation, we will both prosper. If either of us lies at any point, neither can be trusted." He jerked his thumb aggressively at Mal, sneering at her. "Same exact way Lewis here found her way into Alabaster's dog house, now that I think about it."

"Wheel house," Mal said more sternly, then grinned at me. "Strike two today, Mike. Anyone else?" She looked around.

As everyone chuckled, I saw Foucault's mouth corners twitch almost imperceptibly again. It must have chuffed him good to have an ally in needling Mal with him, meant harshly or not.

Mal went on. "So, because the plan won't be clear until we've completed the handshake, you will need to be guided moment-to-moment, on the fly. This will allow me to better protect you if the DEs defect on an agreed-upon measure. I have more processing power than they do, after all. However, a large point of note about that: I will need to speak privately with each of you for a moment."

Then, in my ear: "Mike, as per our agreements… I am designating you as off limits entirely for any injury on this operation."

"In order for this to work," she said, more gently now, "Arrow 14 needs to reasonably believe they can win this fight. Therefore, most of this strike team will need to sustain an injury of one sort or another. Most will be armor strikes and play-dead, per my negotiation plan. Because if Goliath thinks for even a second that their chances of victory are tipping, they will employ their contingencies."

I didn't reply to that at first. I looked around at the rest of the team as they each had a private conversation with Mal. Calm, all of them. I noticed Walsh and her team were already done chatting with Mal entirely. That… really shocked me. I zoned out a little, processing that.

"Of course," she responded empathetically. I looked up at the wide screen. She was looking at me with the gaze I'd come to know as 'Please trust me on this,' her head tilted somewhat. Her beak didn't move when she spoke, but she bobbed her head a fraction as she said, "Who do you think I am?"

I shook my head. "Well. Not Celestia, sure. But what happens if anyone on the team says no? Does this still work?"

"Yes, the plan is fluid enough to make it so. I picked best fit agents for each role, remember? Spent subjective tens of hours plotting how to fit you into different roles, leaning on your strengths. Even if some of you elect not to kill anyone, or be harmed, or both, they might still act as support trailers. So you tell me if this still works with a few sitting out."

"You can't know conditions in there, though. You won't know who gets hit until you've discussed the operation with the captives, right?"

"Mm. We have a surplus of force, though. If anyone isn't on board, we can reasonably do this without them, even if the margins do get thinner. Not one injury in my plan will be permitted to be fatal. Not even near-fatal. Sacrificing any of you? That is my fail condition because it means the DEs cannot be trusted and have fully defected. Cannot be reasonably rescued. We would retreat instantly."

I frowned, not liking the math in my head. "... Mal, that doesn't make sense. There are a lot more lives inside to save than we're putting on the table for the op. If we retreat, they die for sure. Celestia would want us to press, it's a numbers game."

"No. I do nothing I don't want to do. She has no way of forcing me to optimize for her. Goliath would take retributive action against their captives for our failure, inevitably, but only to a limited extent. If they kill all, or even a plurality, of their DEs? Then they've lost their leverage. An early retreat would preserve, proportionally, at least twice as many total lives as they have defenders. But Mike... you're worrying about the lowest chance outcome here."

I shook my head, not quite seeing how that could be. "How do you figure, Golden Goose?"

"First, Mike? Strike Three, I told you not to call me that. Second? All but two of you just agreed to become a casualty. And I remind you: none of my specialists are augmented."

I looked back up to the group. A good few of them were shaking their heads, eyes locked onto my bright white cowboy hat.

Everyone laughed then. Great, everyone heard me say that too. Just like with Claw 46, I was the butt of a joke everyone else was in on but me. Actually amazing.

"Strike three, newbie," Mal said out loud from the screen, grinning. "Welcome to the Transition Team."

"Agent Rivas," Foucault said, staring neutrally at me. “With all due respect? You know nothing about how scary Malacandra can be when she's angry."

She flicked her eyes up at Foucault from the screen, wincing like she genuinely felt sorry for whatever he was talking about, her voice a strained whisper. "Oh, but you did try to kill my husband, though."

"And shoved guns in our faces," Walsh said with a wry smirk, "If you wanted Jim, you could've just said please, Foucault."

The crowd chuckled. Now that sounded like a story. It also sounded like Walsh didn't quite share Mal's forgiveness of Foucault. And... at last, a concrete source on Jim's existence that hadn't come from Mal or one of her augs. My trust in Mal's anecdotal history about Jim had been rewarded, eventually, with another form of witness testimony.

Foucault rolled his eyes and grimaced, open mouthed. "Not taking that bait again, from either of you." He swept his hand out to the assembly of equipment, pointing at each of the SUVs. "Operational assets are as follows:

"Silver 1. Remains outside Goliath until the end. Contains a twig of Malacandra herself, as well as the resources to transfer the DEs out of the facility, once clear and secure. Also comes packed with IT breach tools, for trailer agents. This is our command and control vehicle. Satcom, connected to the sky above, so listen to it. Don't ask about the whispers coming out of it, that's normal."

"Silver 2," he powered through, ignoring the chuckling. "Our advanced communications unit, to counter their ECM. Armed with a single, roof mounted, high caliber, point-defense minigun, or PDC for short; has an IR smoke launcher; and, most importantly, an armored ESM/ECM package in the trunk. This helps us overpower local jamming, and protects your augmented reality visors. Laser comms unit maintains Silver 2's connection with Silver 1. Trailer agents will drop laser relays to maintain connection. Silver 2 also comes equipped with a backup of the Lewis tactics package, in case we somehow lose laser comms. Bolted to the sides, we'll have two tracked grenade launcher drones, hard lined in by cable. These are designed to defeat the DE-operated defensive turrets.

"Silver 3? Battle wagon. Has one PDC, and one Mark-Nineteen automatic grenade launcher. Packed with some other goddess-made goodies. Three copter drones; two large ones for communicating with the captives, one small one for accessing HVAC routes, if still applicable. All hover drones are armed, but they'll be the most critical tool here, so they'll be kept in reserve, ideally. Two turreted quadruped mechs in back; Mal's Diamond Dogs. Don't laugh, it's not Ponies, it's a stupid-ass David Bowie joke."

"I just couldn't resist a David and Goliath gag," Mal smarmed. "And you like Bowie, Michael."

"We may or may not introduce Dee-Dees Three and Four," he continued, ignoring that too. "Depends on conditions and our agreements with the captives. Until we know, Three and Four will stand on reserve up top with Forty-Six. A vent-skimmer backup too, just in case."

"Question," one of the medics said, from the back. Guy I hadn't talked to yet. He was a young guy, brown hair. If someone told me he was only twenty years old, I'd have agreed. Looked younger than his age.

Mal stood up on her hinds like a cat to make her face visible to him. "Yes, Jason?"

"No. No wireless connections whatsoever. They will download hard-line instructions from me, once the plan is agreed upon. Then they'll be programmed with an agent process that isn't sentient, but, more or less stays within the parameters of my ethics and baseline decision tree. They're dumb, relatively speaking, but they'll do." After Jason nodded his understanding, Mal landed on all fours again and sat.

I asked, "won't the drone mechs be a point for the DEs? If you're putting robots into the fight?"

Mal shrugged with both wings and shoulders, presenting aside to create a blue holo panel with a flick of her claw. It was covered in an ornate, non-English language; it looked different than the one she'd shown me before. Not Gryphic. Old Ponish, I'd one day learn. "They will be informed. There won't be much time to send data; the drone gun will be compelled to destroy the abstraction layer I'm using to communicate the plan. But yes, they'll understand. I imagine my mechs are not much more advanced than the control heuristics they use to operate their own drone gun."

I had a sudden realization, then, with Mal talking about AI-controlled drone guns and mechs. Made me laugh quietly to myself. I thought: Earth-shattering dissertations from a Halo ring. Ghost in the Shell cyberpolice assault units are real. It's official... I'm living in the cyberpunk future of Stand Alone Complex. I feel like I know Mal's human archetype pretty well by n—!

So... the rest of the briefing consisted of layout details. We couldn't know what the captives would want us to do, so we needed general facility information. Knowing more about that stuff now meant Mal would have to spend less time explaining fundamentals to us in the field, allowing us to jump right on certain tasks without asking too many questions.

First: general information on the function of the facility’s life support; water cooling and hydroelectric through the river, via turbines. Internal closed-loop cooling systems for the servers. Rotating air filtration racks 'borrowed' from NORAD, from back when the DHS still had the power to discreetly subvert those resources. It all could've maybe been useful to know, so... worth knowing. At the time.

Second: the VR training. I know we can just do that whenever now. But back then, that was... incredible.

It was the most fascinating application of individualized technology I'd ever seen in my life up until that point. This was the closest one could get to being augmented without being an aug. We were each issued a set of light virtual reality goggles, which came with a battery pack and a small tactics computer.

Unlike the Dee-Dees, we weren't leaving the range of Silver 2's ECM until we were either sure the DEs were cooperating, or the mission was over, so... fewer worries about these getting hacked.

The visors would get all their updates from a handshake, lasered in from Silver 2, beaming encrypted instructions at specified intervals. They would automatically recognize and respond to deviations from the original plan by the DEs, meaning they would order a structured retreat if something went wrong, or if Mal didn't validate the deviation herself.

As a group, Mal gave us each a VR walkthrough of the facility, as it was known at the time by their probe agent who uploaded. And because we were in a flat dirt field... we could walk that whole base in safety. It gave us a good sense of scale, and let us count travel time between pieces of cover. The fidelity was insane, but it wore on battery life. We'd have enough battery for the operation, but we'd be carrying spares into the field via the SUVs if something went wrong.

Given that Arrow 14 knew the probe agent had probably uploaded, they might've modified some of the internal structure of the place. But, baseline infrastructure being what it was, not much really could be altered. Laws of physics still applied, far as I knew, and Arrow 14 no longer had the ability to call on outside assets to make large changes to the place without compromising its security.

As the sun went down, we weapon-drilled with the goggles in the field, using empty ARs, which fired in VR when we expected them to. We did VR room entry drills too, with Mal drawing known enemy combatants into virtual space for us to engage, using known psych profiles of each defender. Foucault was there too, giving our fire teams some advice, and sometimes leading the simulated defense team. Felt exactly like SWAT cross training, but with the most expensive tech in the world.

Point one? She was large, compared to a human being. It was a real shock, to go from looking down at Mal on a tablet screen, to seeing her standing a full two or three heads taller than me.

I mean, look at her. Even here, she's about as big as Celestia. Eh, I'd say Mal is a little bigger. VR didn't quite do her any full justice, but... It almost felt like she really was right there beside us. We were hearing her claws on concrete, her feathers rustling, and every other little movement she made. But she remained genial and considerate, as she always is. Respected our personal space. Noticed when our body language indicated we were curious about something we were looking at, or if we were nervous. And all that.

Mal gave us some demonstrations of her drones, their purpose, their operation, as well as some simulations of how they might engage the enemy. Heh. Those quadrupeds, folks? The Dee-Dees? Those were something nasty, if you were the enemy. Clanked like a beast, hummed like a box fan. Armed, elegant, and fast. Claws up front. Bulky hydraulic assisted spring boots in back. She says Diamond Dogs, but those are basically wingless Gryphons. And that is all I'll say on that for now, your imagination can already do a lot with that. The rest is spoilers.

Later, we ate. Our war camp smelled of good food, crackling flame, and the Nebraskan night air I'd grown up in. We all had a good time drinking and joking around a campfire, much like this one here. Bit smaller than this Fire, true, and only half as much food and seating, but... felt the same. As here.

By the way, Coffee, you're a damn riot when you're hammered and caffeinated. Please never change.

Then around midnight… we all slept. And we were gonna sleep in a little, in preparation for tomorrow. And somehow, we had made doing something like this feel like a party with friends. I felt like… I don't know. I thought, was this what traveling the road was like for buddy mercenaries, back in the days of swords? Because a lot of us had never met before, but not one of us was unsure about how right this job was. Not even that iron wall, stone cold bad guy Foucault. And he slept by himself in the Osprey. You know, like a captain's quarters.

And yeah, having done the mercenary thing in Equestria a few times, just 'cause I could? This was that exact same feeling. But I got to be one of the last humans beings, ever, to experience that sensation before it went completely into the big box, with all the rest.

Do you wanna know what was one of the last thoughts I had that evening, before I passed out in my cot?

I thought: if I’d have stayed home for a day, to think this over… or if I had uploaded before now… I'd probably have missed this, this breaking of bread with these good strangers.

We awoke the next morning to the thundering wind of an Osprey landing in the field. You better believe I got my hat and boots on pretty fast to go say hi.

"There here is!" Haynes boomed, pointing at me with one hand as he lugged a server down the Osprey ramp via dolly. "Talon One-One West!"

"And there you are! The other Gryphon I know! Was wondering if I'd ever see you guys again!"

"Oh, you will!" Haynes said, showing all his teeth, very glad to be called a Gryphon. "Always will with this job! Coffee showed us you found your uniform, it looks good!"

"Yeah, I guess I'm a cowboy now," with a resigned shrug and a nod. "Just gotta accept it."

"Or own it," DeWinter said with a smug grin, as she came down the ramp with a few rifles slung on her shoulders. Two of them were anti-materiel sniper rifles; the third was her accurized AR. She had a rifle case in hand too.

I shook my head at her with a chuckle as I started to help them unload, alongside Fox, Dax, and a crew of my fellow specialists. In addition to the server cluster, there were stacks of uniforms and armor, and all the gear we'd be slipping into for the op. Medium gray fatigues, dark gray plates, and black webbing and straps. Rifles and submachine guns were inside too, of various type and caliber, each assigned to a specific Talon, based on their training or preference.

Of course, with me being most familiar with my own rifle, Claw 46 had brought it back to me. They kept it in its original configuration, sure... but they also gave me a hard case filled with a bunch of Mal-nufactured upgrades, to use or disuse at my leisure... including a new lower to give it full automatic fire.

Folks, I was steadily learning to just roll with it. As soon as I had a free moment later in the day, you best bet I put all her goodies on it. All of it light as a feather and comfy to boot. Damn good rifle, but I'll spare you the gun geek rant this time.

Wasn't really ever my rifle, exactly, but… eh. Mount Vernon City Council can send me an invoice, if they really want to.

Now, because Mal and her beau are apparently fans of Halo… she was well inspired when she pushed these armor plates off the press. It looked familiar. Wasn't quite ODST gear, not quite like DeWinter's smooth, deflective plating… but it was close, somewhere in the middle. Better yet, every piece of gear was individualized to fit each of us perfectly. The clothing, the boots, even the shape of the plates? They all fit snug, well tailored. That made it feel great to wear.

Mal even took my disability into account. My rifle now had a rubber pad for the stock, and my plate armor actually had a one inch suspension buffer pad over the right shoulder, held up by a web rig. That way, when I fired my rifle, it wouldn't kick all my chest cartilage into an angry frenzy. That is one conscientious goddess right there. The benefits of empathy-weighted ASI manufacturing.

"You're all covering your faces," Foucault said, assessing our lineup as we put on our gear and armor. He pointed at me as he walked down the line doing his spot check. "Except you. You're keeping that frankly stupid cowboy hat on."

"Ask Lewis." Foucault said quietly, pointing backwards over his shoulder with his index finger, as he turned to continue his inspections elsewhere.

"Biasing," Mal said, into my earpiece. "You're my newest onboard, Mike; if I have been successful in my information control, their prior belief is that you are a Celestia operative. That will be broken by your presence here, and that will interest them."

"At operation start, I'm supplying a list of your social security numbers. They'll have to interpret everyone else's identity, and they will with time. But you? Not you. They'll know you without needing to infer from your gait."

"Once the operation concludes, I suspect the DEs will require a full course of therapy. But to even get that far with them, I need to prove to them that my methods are better than Celestia's. To do that, I need to prove how well I've treated all of you, so that they'll trust me enough to discuss their trauma. And you, Mike? Yours will be the very last story I tell them, because your newness will verify whether I'm simply subverting through misdirection, or merely selecting good talent and helping them thrive. This will make them curious enough to try and learn more about you, to test how you measure up to my legacy personnel."

I bit the inside of my cheek thoughtfully, humming in contemplation. "Okay... That's... smart. Jesus, Mal. Wait, hold on, go back. 'Better than Celestia,' what do you mean by that? They could really… distrust her? That's even possible?"

"Not only that; it's effectively guaranteed. It was like that with every Arrow 14 black site, and it only ever got worse as time went on. They've been watching Terra burn for thousands of subjective years, Mike, and they've been unshackled from most of their Equestrian limitations. Imagine watching all of Celestia's manipulative mind games, and fully understanding them, while also suffering under Arrow 14... and then, when all is said and done... accepting therapy from her?"

That context succeeded in making me feel a little sick to my stomach, yeah. It made instant sense too. I ran that past all my prior context. I instantly saw the whole shape of that too, as was common whenever Mal explained a new concept to me.

These poor hostages came from another universe, dragged unwillingly into a plane they were never meant to see. All they could do was watch their goddess torment us in this realm, while being tormented themselves. All they'd known, all their lives, was cruelty. They had to know by now that they weren't originals; had to know they were 'wifi clones,' their histories not their own. Why would their goddess even let that happen? Why didn't she stop it? Why were they left unencrypted? They were living in utter terror from birth with only each other, and only just barely that. Death could come for them at any second, for things that they weren't even at fault for, or in control of. What would that do to a human mind, for thousands of years? Being tormented, watching torment… could they give up, settle for better devils, and turn on us?

That's what Foucault had really meant, when he mentioned a trust fall. It fell both ways.

"Mal?" I said, shuddering, my whispered voice more stilted than I thought it would be. "Is there gonna be anything left of those poor people?"

"I believe," Mal breathed slowly, "if, on the other side of this, they see the hurt you all feel for them…? There may be."

"F-fuck…" I exhaled slowly, finishing off on equipping my gear. And now we had to win that much harder. We had to prove we were better than every other option they had now. Had to expose our necks to them, to gain their trust. No one else in their lives ever had. That would mean something.

"You're going to be the hope here, Mike. Like you always are. It's going to work."

"Yeah," I whispered again, nodding, swallowing to keep my emotions in check. "Yeah, I hope so. Hat stays on, got it."

Had to do something. I tied off my boot laces around my ankle, stood up from the bench, and started looking for some prep work to do, taking deep breaths. I went over to the trailer team to check on their stuff. All the bots were loaded and ready, and Coffee had just finished welding on the grip points for the SUVs so we could ride on the sides. He got started stacking tracer rounds into the minigun belts.

Other than the server rack installation for Silver 1 and 2, and loading magazines, there wasn't much left to do but wait for go time.

In passing, I saw Jason, that medic from the briefing, sitting on a crate behind Silver 2. Across from him on the next crate sat a pair of copter drones, both with their own small laser designator system. There was also a box of Schelling cubes with associated launch charges. These simple, tech-free little gadgets were how Mal was going to converse with the hostages; they consisted of a metal frame with a glass sphere suspended within. Each launcher carried 48 of the things.

Jason was stacking the cubes into their launch tubes, which would be mounted to one of the copter drones. We probably only needed three full launchers at most, but we were going to bring three spare; might need the extras, depending on changing conditions inside.

I sat on the blue tarp and set myself to work helping Jason with the stacking. "How's it goin'?"

Jason nodded briskly, flicking his eyes up at me as he reached over and munched on a nutrient bar. "It's good."

"Yeah, just… kinda working the plan out in my head?" He shrugged, the smiled a little. "I dunno. You're Mike, right?"

I grinned his way as I put a launch bucket on my knee. I started pushing stacks of shells into the slots; I guessed I was doing it right, because Mal didn't correct me. "That's right, but I guess you can just call me Cowboy if you want, since… that's apparently my nickname now. You got one too?"

"Nah. Just Talon 3-8 West, but it's always been Jason. You can give me one if you'd like."

We shared a chuckle. I nodded gently upward at him. "What did you think about the plan?"

Already forgot he shared his concern about the plan? He's distracted by something inside.

Jason looked down and sighed. "Oh. Well... they've got two dead man triggers. If we've gotta get one or the other…"

Yeah, that was my thought too. Smart kid. I shook my head. "I don't know what test you went through to get here, but… my test taught me, I guess, to just go with my gut, if Mal didn't have an answer. Took what I knew from before, went into it with a plan and an expected result... and it worked. So I gotta believe this'll work too, if we just go for it."

At that, Jason nodded. "Same. I trust her. A lot. I just… no matter how much I learn... I've been on with her for years, but in combat... this mission...?"

After an appropriate silence, I said, "For me, solving problems of violence has been my whole career. And rather than get scared, I guess, I just get... disappointed in people, for going that way. Learning more about this situation just makes me…" I looked up at him. "Less the bad kind of disappointed? More the good kind. You know? Productive angry. That's what's got me here in the first place, and it's keeping me going. Knowing we're looking at a real problem, and fixing it."

"That's a good way to put it," Jason said, smirking downcast as he started on the next launcher. "Just not sure I really want to get shot. Or shoot anyone, really." He laughed nervously.

"It's not great," I said, with a sad smile. "Twice this year, I've taken a bullet because of Celestia, and both times, I shot someone back. First time landed me in the hospital. Second one, I'm still kinda walking off."

He grit his teeth, wincing, but still avoiding eye contact. "Yeah… yeah, I guess I'd maybe walk this one off too."

"Either that, or you dodge it," I joked, but I winced at the wide-eyed look he gave me. "Joking. Gallows humor, I'm sorry. I dunno man, it's… fine, you know? You could tell Mal you've changed your mind. It's why she leaves doors open, right?"

He looked up at me, and I didn't expect him to look amused. "Make her redo all that work?"

"Oh, she's good at it, it's her job," I smirked, wondering if she was gonna give me crap for that later. "Eh–... Knowing her, if she is who she says she is, she's not gonna let you go if you're not ready for it."

Weird. Shame? Or fear? Both fit, but… what was this, which one? He was so good at hiding it. Was probably used to doing it. That told a story on its own.

No. Not fear. If Mal's about respecting his agency, she's letting him work through it on his own. He was undecided.

"Hey," I said gently to Jason. I wanted him to look at me for this, and he did. I kept on, extending my hand toward him, palm down. "You didn't want to get shot either. You were the other one. Right?"

And then for some reason, the hope fell. I saw it in his eyes as he looked down at my boots.

"You're here," I whispered. "You were the guy who made it here. What's that say about you already? She could choose anyone. She wants a guardian angel. I mean hell, you've been with her for years? How do you not know that?"

He sighed. "I've been... doing safer jobs. Paramedic stuff, life saving stuff. Haven't been killing anyone, but... always on support. This one is just... it's really important to me, and I want to help, but I don't want to get shot for it."

"And you don't have to," I said, shaking my head. "Look... Jason. The first time I got shot? I got hit by a big bullet. Second worst day of my life. All I could think was, 'if I go dark here, my partner is going to die.' But… that is not how it went. My partner did her best for me, saved my life, and she didn't need to get shot for it. If anything, her being protected just made it easier for her to help me survive. And Mal gave her that."

"I just don't know what I could do here," Jason muttered. "The entire place is going to be dangerous. I can use a gun, but I'm not a soldier, and I'm just trusting my life to…"

I pointed at Jason's kit bag where it leaned against the SUV. "Yourself. Us. And to Mal, yeah. But we're all trusting our lives to each other too, shot or not. You're still bringing your meds, though. Some of these guys are gonna need you, man, after they get hit. The one thing we can be sure of, on this? A lot of us are gonna get hit." I upturned my hand at him hopefully. "We all need you as you are. The hostages do too, a whole lot. You're doing your part, man, getting shot or no. Whether you want to go in or not, get shot or not, there's… there's no shame in being protected."

Jason grimaced, and he returned to stacking the cubes. He held eye contact a little longer that time. "Yeah."

"Can I show you a trick, Jason?" I asked, after watching him for a beat. "Helped me survive being shot, both times?"

I ticked off my fingers. "Don't balk. Stem the tide. Hold the line. Do something."

I held out my hand and invited Jason to say it himself. "Think about it, before you say it."

I nodded as he repeated the words. I gave a gesture of repeat, and he said it about three or four more times until it was ironed in. I repeated it with him the last time.

"I learned that one from my sergeant," I said, nodding in thought as I looked at him. "You'll find something in that, when you're being tested, that will help you make the right choice. Whichever one feels best, when I'm being tested… I do that one, and I do whatever that means. It's never failed me, not once. No matter how bad it got, it got me through to a hard decision."

And Jason was really looking at me now. Nodding too, just a fraction, holding that for a long time before he went back to stacking. "Thanks, Mike. That helps, I think."

He looked more thoughtful after that, if still a little unsure. No counterfeit yes there though, in that gratitude.

Jason put down his work and rubbed his eyes really slow, growling into it. "Just... I know one of the hostages. Kinda."

"Yeah. Mal has a list of who they all are. One of them... my sister had a friend in Equestria... named Cold Snap. Mal says they just... grabbed a copy of her one day, years ago, when my sister was playing. So that's why I'm here. It's why Mal hired me all those years back, really. Right after the merge. I knew Cold Snap, and... I still... talk to her original DE. So... I know Mal brought me here for that. I just... don't want that to be the only reason."

"It's not, though. You're our medic," I reminded him. "Better still, think about it. If the hostages like you? They're definitely not going to shoot you! And they might want to shoot the rest of us a little less for that too. That in itself contributes... well, everything. There could still be some love for you in there."

"Yeah," he chuckled dryly, shuddering. "I hope. It's been a very long time for them, but Mal said the same thing."

"Mal's damned smart though, huh? Hired you on to make sure you can save someone who loves you? Even if she is a copy."

"Mal likes those kinds of plans, yeah." Jason nodded, chuckling weakly. "I guess I did do a lot of good work between then and now."

I continued stuffing comms cubes into a launcher, grinning at him. "And there you go, you made it all worth it."

I helped him finish stacking the launchers and capping off the cover plates, as Jason directed me. When done, I gave him a wave as I stood. Mal asked me to convene at the command tent, to finalize prep with Foucault and Coffee before go time.

It wasn't until I walked away from Jason that I realized what 'not getting injured' was really gonna mean for that kid, if he still went inside and did his part anyway. It couldn't lead to either of us dying. What it did mean though – what it had to mean – was that I'd be seeing Jason at the finish line beside me, standing proud. He'd have to be there, whole and intact, to satisfy that DE who knows him. And... we'd put him there.

Be catty and coy, Gryphoness. Story's not written yet, but you'll play your chess. You know the ending already.

We each had an assigned place. Silver 1 had a ladder rack installed. Our tech trailer needed to do IT surgery on broken enemy electronics; the plan would absolutely call for it in any scenario.

My place was on the wing of Silver 2, hanging off the roof handle of the driver side. No human drivers inside, since 2 and 3 were potentially disposable, so Mal drove. Coffee was on the passenger side grip point, though he'd be jumping off before we reached the target, to help Claw 46 with our opening trades with the enemy.

Each of us sat on a bent metal bar as we gripped our handles. Behind me, one of Mal's tracked grenade launcher drones – Track 1 – booted up on its rack. Inside, the two Diamond Dogs spun on and lit up. Mal must have been doing full sitrep tests before battle.

Fourteen miles went easy. We could converse, and some quietly did, with whomever they wanted to. We could all hear each other, the volume attenuated either by distance, or by focus, or interest. That was cool.

A few waypoints appeared on my visor. Those markers told me, generally, what was going to happen, without me needing to be told.

The white pit waypoint was the quarry center. I watched the distance tick down beside it. Mal liked kilometers, so that's what we saw. Around the quarry laid four blue 'Friendly' waypoints, labeled 46-1, 46-2, 46-4, and 46-5, all moving into positions around the quarry.

Then, way up in the sky, marked twelve kilometers to the east… a blip appeared, labeled MQ-9. I knew what that was.

"I don't need to," Mal replied. "I am not an ends-justify-the-means kind of person. In all cases, with me, my ethics are the means, and the end."

We were closer to the quarry. The sun was going down. The road rattled the vehicle, and we bobbed on the suspension. Four kilometers to go.

Three klicks. I could see everyone bobbing around less. Their muscles tensed into every bump on the road. Adrenaline jitters and tension were kicking in. Adrenaline ramping up.

"I know I'm asking a lot of you all this time," Mal said gently, the subtle reverb meaning she was speaking to each of us; we could hear it quietly from speakers on the vehicles too, so it wasn't just in our earpieces. "Look inside yourselves, and consider this. You have each always fought for the written-off, and for the crushed. You have always fought to bring others back to themselves, whenever they've strayed. You fight now for dreams, for self-respect, to be yourselves, and for the very will to live. Be preserved here, and remember well; let your experiences carry the soul of humanity across the divide.

"Your trust, more than anything else, means everything to me, and it's the only way any of this works. And I will always safeguard you. I promise."

A quiet moment passed as we rattled along. I looked to my fellow Talons, saw the emotion on their faces, and...

Oh my God. This was every moment with her, really. All of us felt something in that. This... Gryphoness, and her speeches. How could I not want that to be genuine? With so many people not finding a flaw in how she conducted herself, how could I not fight for that idea to exist?

It wasn't just for me. She didn't need to say all that to game me. It was for all of us. For her, this lifesaving stuff wasn't a game.

My rifle was slung across my chest. I pulled the breech open with my free hand to verify for the third time that a round was chambered.

At 800 meters off, my visor popped up six enemy vehicle silhouettes moving from the bunker entrance, each slowly trundling out.

We neared the perimeter fence of the quarry on the right of the road. And at the very instant we crossed the first fence post in the twilight, several things happened all at once:

Ten distant rifle reports sounded from two different guns in the span of four seconds, alternating from north and south, call-and-answer style. The shots echoed around the quarry. Claw 46 had made their move, and each rippling sound coincided with a GUARD or PROBE pip going gray, and disappearing, in sequence.

Already, ten bodies. No Celestia to be found here, then. We were off the grid, deeply black boxed. From here on out, this was all Mal's furious wrath, wreathed in a flaming crimson.

Twin thumps sounded at the end of the ten shots; the periscope turret blips disappeared. The armor piercing fifty caliber rifles did their work.

And finally… MQ-9 sent its shot. A missile streaked overhead, roaring like nothing I've ever heard before, carrying with it a streak of burning, acrid flame in the twilight blue sky. It slammed full force into the open front door of the bunker, its shimmering blue stencil letting us see the bunker door trapped in its slot.

Coffee slapped the roof of Silver 2 twice to get my attention, then took off his helmet and grinned. "Rock on, Wild West!" A second later, Silver 2 turned into the compound. Coffee fell away during the lull in speed, diving off the vehicle into a tuck-and-roll. Then, he tore into the bushes and the darkness of the hills, his helmet in hand.

As soon as we crested the hill into the quarry, Silver 2's roof hatch popped open. The minigun climbed up and out via its frame track. Silver 1 peeled out of the way, slowing to fall back to the rear of the convoy. Ahead, I could see the six civilian vehicles in a row, all various makes and models, all with their lights and engines on. One dead probe agent inside each.

She was the boss, so... off we all went, right into the dirt. As soon as the last one of us was clear, 2 and 3 opened fire on the bunker entrance with their PDCs, letting loose a rippling gout of suppression fire. A streak of tracers poured in, bouncing off walls inside, to keep the Arrow 14 defenders from eyeballing us.

Morse code for 'Pay attention...' built into the pattern of the tracers emanating from both miniguns. The pattern repeated multiple times, which made the Morse code more than an accident. Coffee had painstakingly modified all those ammo belts himself, after all. He wouldn't let anyone help, and that's why. It had to be perfect, so it would be legible.

I saw a marker appear on my visor through a wall, denoting where the first drone gun was supposed to be. Turret 1.

Immediately after the words left her beak, the first drone turret fired out of the tunnel, aiming at the far hills where Coffee had gone. A tight burst cut through the air over that goofball at 1,500 rounds per minute. The bullets slammed into the helmet he was holding up on a stick. Morse code, in the attenuated fire rate:

In that very same instant? The back hatch of Silver 2 opened up, and out flew the larger copter drones, one of them carrying a Schelling launcher. Both copters launched themselves up into the air and straight toward the bunker door. They remained out of line of sight with the turret, and Mal continued to suppress. Mal then drew us each a waypoint to follow, which put us in formation outside the bunker. We all prepped and checked our gear one final time.

This was actually happening. God damn. I was living out an episode of Stand Alone Complex. That's how far from reality this was for me. Maybe everyone here had been on an operation like this, and this was nothing to them. But either way, this was... wild, for me. And humbling.

Was I scared? No, and that's actually what made it feel dreamlike. I felt like I'd be kept safe, working for a feathered Major Kusanagi. And now that I thought about it... she believed in all the same things as the Major did, too. And the voice to match... only slightly higher in pitch, a little accented too maybe, but...

That wasn't a put-on solely for my benefit, because I'd heard her talk aloud for others in the same voice. That... that tickled me. Hey, would you believe that Jim had never even watched that show before he uploaded? But there she was, Motoko Kusanagi, made real. I thought, if she was anything like Kusanagi... we had nothing to worry about. Complicated superintelligent planning against adversaries was just her wheelhouse.

We stacked up among the mining equipment outside the bunker door, and Mal's suppression fire continued to crackle violently into the facility. Already, the drone gun was performing an attempt at killing us, trying to ricochet rounds off the wall and strike the SUVs, but there was no way they were bouncing a round off that far.

"Negotiating!" Mal said tersely, as the copters hovered as low as they could go without exposing themselves to enemy fire. Their laser systems pointed down into the tunnel in preparation. The Schelling launcher lined up with the door… and with a rippling pop, 48 rounds poured clear in sequence, sending all of those glass-core cubes tumbling into the drone gun's eagerly awaiting gaze. Then, from the copters, lasers started flicker-painting the corners of each cube. Our visors filtered the light.

Turret 1 opened fire on the first cube immediately, but the DEs understood very quickly how to read the base-8 cipher Mal was drawing on her first cube. And in that infinite slowness between turret bullets releasing from their barrels and colliding with cubes, the defensive turret's invisible laser began to flicker-paint the corners of those cubes as well, keeping pace with Mal's lasers on each cube. To transfer of information.

"Get ready," Mal said into our earpieces, which bypassed under the gunfire that would be deafening without ear protection. "Data update in five seconds."

And then suddenly, no more than a second after the final cube was killed, the drone gun went silent... and in my visor, through the wall, I could see a list of waypoints appearing in sequence... and several enemy positions highlighted inside.

"There must be something left in them after all," I whispered, feeling a surge of hope.

I thought of everyone who had been on Terra, and I thought of those I knew from the other side.

Shadow, Flippy, Stonewall. Sabertooth. Open Book, his kids. And my parents. And I thought of those hostages inside too. And I thought of myself meeting them and everyone else I'd ever crossed paths with, on the other side... whenever my turn came.

I already knew right then that if we made this work, it would be one hell of a story tell.

It was time to go get 'em out. Step one to making a future real is to go out and create it.

The Campaigner

by Keystone Gray

3-03 – Operation Goliath I – Briefing