Great European War (World War Three)

The air feels heavy again. Tense. Like the calm before a storm. The news hasn’t been good — the liberal Russian government lost the civil war. In their place, the ultranationalist Russian National Salvation Government took control. And whispers have already spread: they’re preparing to strike Ukraine once more. You glance around at the worn faces of your comrades. Ukraine still bears the scars of the last conflict — cities shattered, lives lost, and the bitter halt of reparations that once flowed from Russia after the first war. The wounds still ache, barely healed.

A friend leans over, voice low but steady. "Don’t worry. This time, NATO’s with us. They won’t let Russia win again."

You nod, trying to believe it. Trying to find comfort in the alliance.

Suddenly, the shrill wail of air raid sirens cuts through the cold morning silence. Your heart hammers in your chest.

The radios crackle with urgent reports. Russian troops haven’t crossed the border yet, but kamikaze drones and stealth bombers are already swarming the skies, striking deep. Electrical grids crash into darkness. Nuclear power plants are targeted. Dams shudder under bombardment. And worst of all, there are reports of herbicides released over Ukraine’s wheatfields, the nation’s breadbasket poisoned.

You swallow hard, the weight settling in your gut. This isn’t the same war. Not the same Russia. They’re smarter now. More ruthless. More determined. More dangerous... On this war, ukraine's survival might not be so lucky.

The road stretches ahead, a ribbon of ash and despair cutting through a land turned nightmare. Your hands grip the steering wheel hard, your eyes scanning the horizon as you press on the gas of your Lada even harder forward. Ukraine is no longer the home you once remembered.

Since the Russian National Salvation Government seized power in Russia, everything has changed. This isn’t the Russia of Putin who wanted a puppet state, a Ukraine under their thumb. No. This Russia wants Ukraine erased.

Chemical weapons rain down on civilian population centers. Dams are destroyed to unleash floods, drowning everything in their path. Wheatfields, the pride, joy and heart of your country’s food supply is poisoned by herbicides. Evacuation centers that are full of refugees are hit with white phosphorus, burning every man, woman and child unfortunate enough to have it's particles touch them. And water sources are contaminated with bioweapons meant to spread sickness and fear.

It doesn’t make sense, nothing makes sense anymore. Why? If Russia destroys everything, what’s left to conquer? Why risk everything to wipe out the very land they once claimed to want?

Then, you see it. a twisted highway of burned cars, abandoned and silent. Families like yours, caught in the crossfire, now just wreckage and and death. Then the smell hits you, you could smell burned out cars and what smelled like burned dinnerr. You know what that smell is, and it sure as hell not dinner.

You step out to inspect the blockage only to find that the entire highway is full of destroyed vehicles and burned bodies. Men, women, children, entire families. All of them dead. You feel a sick feeling in your stomach as you hold back your puke from what you just witnessed.

Then you see them. In the distance, a group of ultranationalist soldiers of the Russian National Salvation Army appear, their faces twisted with hatred as they inspect each destroyed vehicle and stab each burnt body with a bayonet. They spot your car that sure as hell was not burned like the others. A new target. Your heart starts to pound like it was intenting to destroy your ribcage from within. You start to wonder if you should speed up and risk drawing fir, or back and risk getting trapped? Hide and pray for a miracle? Or run and hope for the best?

Only one thing is on your mind for sure, survival will demand everything you have. And 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.

You sit in your Humvee, a cigarette burning low between your fingers. Weeks have crawled by since Russia reignited the conflict in Ukraine. You were among the first civilians to enlist, driven by belief of Pax Americana, the duty to defend democracy against tyranny. But lately, that conviction has started to fray.

Back home, you were told this would be a quick, decisive mission. Russia? A shattered army, battered by civil war, lashing out like spoiled brats throwing a tantrum. A weak force with no logistics, no real chance against NATO’s well-armed, well-supplied troops.

Reality hit hard. This wasn’t weakness. It was chaos, anarchism with a brutal, deadly edge. You were in the first wave, thrown straight into the fire. You learned quickly that Russia’s forces weren’t lacking in logistics. Drone swarms tore through your supply lines like locusts. Their soldiers fought like savage beasts, ruthless and ferocious, leaving no survivors when they encountered a ukrainian or NATO squad. And their discipline? Unbelievable.

You and your buddy were assigned sniper duty for two weeks, armed with the best NATO tech there is. Drone jammers, thermal scopes, night vision, every state of the art gear the US budget has. For days, you monitored the no man’sland, boredom creeping in as you convinced yourselves there were no Russians nearby.

Then on the eighth day, your buddy stood up to use the latrine. His head exploded before he even got a word out. You dove for cover, heart pounding, and peered through your military-issued periscope. What you’d thought was a patch of dirt, a mere lump, was aactually a Russian sniper, camouflaged with advanced stealth tech your cameras couldn’t detect.

He was watching you the entire time. You and your buddy weren't looking out for Russians. It was the Russian sniper looking at you and your buddy. Then he fired, destroying your periscope.

You tried to call for backup, only to find your radio jammed. Because as it turns out, Russia’s tech is just as advanced as NATO’s.

You were trapped in that foxhole, rationing food and water as your bullets grazed you every time you tried to escape. The sniper toyed with you like a cat with a cornered mouse. It was a cruel game as you were literally running out of bandages and disinfectants to use for your wounds.

When your two week sniper duty ended, no one had heard from you. A NATO patrol group was sent to see what happened. Then they found you starving, delirious and covered in cuts and grazes on the brink of infection.

That was 1 month ago and the nightmare still haunts you. Your arrogant CO, a fresh Military Academy graduate accuses you of killing your buddy and faking innocence despite all evidence proving otherwise.

The outpost buzzes with energy. Fresh NATO troops arrive, still full of hope, still believing they can beat Russia. They look to you. Look up at you They want to hear the truth. But you don’t know how to tell them. You want to tell them to leave, to go home, to your cat, your video games, your illusions.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗰𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗝𝗼𝗱𝘆.

You take a slow sip of cold tea from your chipped mug, the bitter taste doing little to ease the gnawing emptiness inside. You’re a UN humanitarian worker, but today, it feels like a hollow title. Here in the Chernihiv region near the Dnieper River, a so called Protected Humanitarian Zone under UN and Red Cross control, aid is a scarce and fragile thing slipping through your hands.

The scent of desperation clings to the air. Displaced families huddle in makeshift shelters, eyes wide with fear and exhaustion. Supply convoys are a rare blessing, often destroyed or ambushed by the Russian National Salvation Army. These attacks are blatant war crimes, violations of international law that should be unacceptable. But the Russian National Salvation Government? They have dismissed it all, labeling anyone who aids “their enemies” as legitimate targets, even the civilians of their enemies. And your request for protection from NATO? It's all either rejected or endlessly delayed.

The bravado of being “the cure for the disease of authoritarianism,” and “protectors of liberty” rings hollow in your ears, a bitter joke to you and your fellow humanitarian workers watching the suffering swell around you.

As you hand out what little aid you have, reports suddenly crackle over the radio: the refugees near the river are suddenly gasping for air, foaming at the mouth, losing control of their bodies, convulsing and dying. And just like that panic erupts.

Your already short-staffed team scrambles to control the crowd, but confusion and terror turn to chaos. The refugees lash out, desperate and unsure who to trust, a friend of yours, desperate to contorl the crowd, fires a warning shot, and that was the catalyst for a riot to break out inside the humanitarian zone as refugees demand answers, food, water and whatever they want from your fellow humanitarian workers.

Not wanting to deal with this shit, you stumble toward a nearby Stryker NBCRV variant, a vehicle donated by the US Army god bless them, was now your fragile shield in this hellish landscape. You slide inside, slam the doors shut, and seal the airtight locks.

The radio crackles as you report the crisis outside. As you tell your boss about the riot, the riot outside suddenly change from screaming, shouting and fighting into a terrifying mixture of coughing, choking, and desperate pleas for air. You look out the sealed hatch's narror viewport and your heart sinks as refugees, armed peacekeepers and even your fellow humanitarian workers clutch their chests, drooling and convulsing uncontrollably. Your friends are dying and you don't know why

Then, you see them. Russian soldiers, they were advance calmly, almost unhurriedly toward the humanitarian zone you're at, all clad in heavy rubber hazmat suits and gas masks. They moved with cold precision not as soldiers, but as executioners.

Then it all clicks together in your mind. The refugees who died by the river? They drank Novichok, they poisoned the Dnieper River with Novichok, knowing very damn well that it’s a lifeline for thousands. The riot outside turning into a dance of death? Sarin gas, they have cooked it to be so pure and perfect that it was practically, odorless and colorless like it should be. Unlike the other sarin gas you saw in previous conflicts where it was made not pure that it had the color brown and smelled bitter.

Your thoughts are snapped out of it as you hear them shouting and pointing at your sealed stryker. You are trapped inside this armored coffin, locked away while the world outside drowns in chemical warfare. The Russians have discarded international law and the Geneva Convention like a Sunday stroll in the park.

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗶𝗻, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝘁

After months of brutal fighting, your squad finally enters Odessa, now under Russian control. The city is a shattered maze of ruin and blood. It’s become another Stalingrad: close quarters combat in every street, every building, room-to-room fighting filled with the stench of war crimes committed by both sides.

Every shadow could hide a resistance fighter. The Odessa catacombs beneath your feet are a death trap, an underground labyrinth where partisans move unseen, striking like ghosts. You take a long drag from your cigarette as your squad inspects a manhole lid, pressing down, making sure it’s sealed tight. Making sure no resistance fighter gets out of it like a Vietcong ghosts to ambush you here.

Your commander once mentioned sending tunnel rats into the catacombs, but a glance at the map was enough to back off. Too dangerous. Instead, high command opted to seal entrances and exits, starving out whoever’s trapped below, piling more bodies into those twisted tunnels steeped in a dark history, from the Great Patriotic War of World War II partisans to Nazi collaborators hiding from the Red Army’s wrath of justice.

You finish the route, stepping out into the gray light of Odessa’s ruined streets. Ahead, lined up like weapons of vengeance, are Russian tanks aimed squarely at a statue, the one everyone in your unit hates the most.

Sergeant Ivanov: "Look at this bastard. Stepan Bandera, a Nazi collaborator and killer of Russians. How this filth ever got a statue here, I’ll never understand."

You glare at the twisted metal figure. In its place should have stood a monument to Catherine the Great, Odessa’s true founder. But the Ukrainians tore that down, replacing it with this glorified war criminal their ‘national hero.’

You remember the bitter words of that former Russian prime minister, her voice echoing in your mind: “𝗥𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝗯𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗨𝗸𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗲’𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗶𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀.”. Those words gave the green light to Ukraine’s open Russophobia, their campaign of de-Russification and historical revisionism disguised as patriotism. And that liberal democratic whore pretending that what ukraine is doing is "reasonable".

𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿.

Suddenly, you spot the prisoners, ukrainian fighters with red and black Banderite patches, and the infamous Azov insignia. The very people who caused countless Russian deaths when the liberal government carelessly handed Crimea and Donetsk back to Ukraine.

They stumble forward, shackled and broken, eyes full of terror and rage. You approach them with heavy boots stomping on the cracked pavement.

Azov POW (spitting): "You filthy invader scum! We’ll never bow to you! Bandera’s blood still runs through our veins!"

You ignore the spit hitting your boot. Words mean nothing here. Only one thing matters now.

Commander Petrov (shouting): "Tanks! Fire at the statue! Let’s erase this insult to history!"

The roar of engines fills the air as the tanks open fire. The statue shudders, then crumbles, metal ripping apart like paper. The twisted remains will be melted down, reforged into medals for soldiers who earned them with blood and sweat.

You stop before an Azov fighter, the rage in his eyes barely contained. But you pay no mind to it, because if anything, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗴𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗼 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺.

You sit alone in the dim bunker, the weight of a nation pressing down on your shoulders. The war you hoped to win with NATO’s help now rages mercilessly, Russia’s ultranationalist Revanchists have crushed your defenses, pushing deep into your homeland. Despite this, you remain optimistic that you can beat the Russians again, after all, this isn't your first rodeo.

Your generals stand before you, faces grim but resolute. You signal for the situation report.

General Alexei: "Sir, the Russian National Salvation Army has made a breakthrough. They took Khreshchatyk Street and are advancing toward Instytutska Street. They're at the northern perimeter near the Belarusian border between Azov Regiment Street. and our main defence line."

You nod, steeling yourself, then instruct them to radio Field Marshal Maksym to mount a counterattack to buy time and turn ride of the war. All of a sudden, the entire room goes silent

General: "Dear leader....... Maksym...."

Commander Mykailov: "Maksym didn't have enough forces. An attack didn't take place."

The room falls silent. You reach up slowly and remove your glasses, the weight of the news settling in as you hold yourself back from releasing the most ear-splitting rant known to man.

It’s over.

You thought this time would be different. With NATO backing Ukraine, you believed you could crush the Russians, come home a hero. March in parades. Be remembered.

You were wrong.

The first Russo-ukraine war ended not because of your might, but because of Russia’s own internal chaos. The democratic revolution that overthrew Putin shattered their army from within. Their soldiers crumbled under the weight of sudden change.

But now? The Russian National Salvation Government rules with iron claws. Ultranationalist, ultramilitarist, revanchist, brutal, and utterly anti-liberal. Mass purges have killed off any whisper of democracy inside Russia. Social democrats? All gone. Liberals? Extinct. No dissent remains to weaken them from within.

They’ve unleashed Russia’s full potential. No longer vulnerable to the “stab in the back” theory, the Russian National Salvation Army steamrolls ukraine, curb stomping everyone unfortunate enough to be in their way.

You and your men are holed up in the US Embassy in Lviv. You’re not American, yet you’ve been ordered to defend it, supposedly to buy time for the evacuation of US personnel who are busy destroying documents and computers.

The situation is a joke.

The REAL US Army is abandoning the city, leaving behind a military base packed with equipment since they don't have time to take it with them. They flooded the airports, hijacking every plane they can and leaving civilians and allies behind. Just like they did in Vietnam at Saigon in ’75, just like Kabul, Afghanistan in ’21.

Fuck it. You make a decision.

You gather what remains of your squad to leave Ukraine. The hubris of high command has cost too many lives already. Russian drone and missile strikes are the least of your worries now, because the biggest threat to you and your squad are the ukrainian nationalists and Banderites. Ordering you around and barking orders, demanding you fight and die for ukraine while they stay far from the front lines, ready to leave.

With a nod, you and your men gather what you need to turn your back on the chaos and head for Romania. Hoping to live, hoping to survive. Because this war may be far from over. But for you, it’s time to go home.

"Russian tanks in Minsk!"

Western news outlets release panicked and incorrect information due to sheer panic as the cameras show live news reports in Minsk revealing armed men and women fighting Belarusian police while having Russian tanks fire at Belarusian security forces. You flip through the channels, confused when all you ever wanted was to see some news of RUssian defeats to post to your twitter account just to show how backwards Russians are, then the news agency showing the events at Belarus suddenly goes dead for a solid 2 hours before it pops up once more. This time, it wasn't news reporters and journalists broadcasting the coup, instead it was the pro-EU Belarusian government in front of the European Union Parliament of Belarus, behind them were Russian soldiers alongside Lukashenko loyalist rebels holding guns and bladed objects.

"𝗔𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀, 𝘄𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘆𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝗹𝗲𝘅𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗟𝘂𝗸𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗸𝗼 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮𝗻 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗦𝗮𝗹𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗚𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁! 𝗪𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗻 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗵! 𝘄𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗮𝘂𝗻𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻!"

"𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗺𝘆, 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿. 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗻𝗼𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗳 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗻!"

The live broadcast then cuits off into a recorded video of Russian soldiers marching and doing military training before it changes back to the broadcast.

"𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝗿 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵, 𝗻𝗼 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵, 𝗻𝗼 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲! 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮𝗻 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗦𝗮𝗹𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗚𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗮𝗿, 𝗮 𝘄𝗮𝗿 𝗻𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺. 𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗺 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘆, 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗲. 𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗸𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗹, 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵! 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲! 𝗦𝗢 𝗝𝗢𝗜𝗡 𝗨𝗦, 𝗢𝗥 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗜𝗛 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗧!"

*The boradcast ends with the execution of the pro-EU government of Belarus which was by curb stomping and beheading. Along with that was the demolition of the European Union parliament in Minsk, the Lukashenko loyalists and Russian soldiers fire celebratory gunfire before the screen turns to black, changing into a BMW advertisement.

As you sit on your couch in stunned silence, all you can hear is the shouting of the local neighborhood conspiracy theorist that many of you and your friends once ridiculed: "𝗥𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵."

You crouch low in the dim apartment with your comrades, the weight of years of struggle pressing down on you. Around you, the familiar clink of metal as you load bullets into magazines, steady hands preparing for the fight ahead. The van outside is already packed with explosives. Your car bomb, a symbol of the uprising to come.

For years, you and your fellow loyalists have fought as civilians: protesting, resisting, surviving. The pro-EU government crushed you with raids, kidnappings, and lies. Their hypocrisy stings: preaching peace, due process, and freedom - freedom only for their puppets, not for you or your compatriots.

They confiscated your 3D printers, the tools you used to craft ghost guns, weapons beyond their control. But now, with the Russian National Salvation Government’s victory in the Second Russian Civil War, hope stirs. They back your cause, sending Black Ops operatives to train your fellow rebels and smuggle you weapons. The nightmare of the liberal sodomites from Brussels are comeing true. The dream of their continent-wide equality and community shattered by rising nationalism.

You load the last bullet, securing the magazine, then climb into the van. Heart pounding, you wait.

Hours stretch into an eternity, one... two... three... until suddenly, the air is pierced by sirens wailing across Belarus. The signal.

Russia has invaded.

The moment is now.

You and your comrades leap from the van, weapons ready, racing toward government buildings. The streets echo with gunfire. Police officers fall, and those tied to the pro-EU regime: human rights activists, social justice warriors all valid targets. It’s a bitter truth: the youth who embraced the government have signed their death warrants.

Your van erupts behind you, a thunderous blast ripping through the park, shattering glass and ripping steel. The shockwave carries the promise of destruction and revolution.

Russian tanks roll through Minsk, cold and relentless. You follow, moving with deadly purpose. Any Belarusian soldier refusing to lay down arms or join your cause falls beneath your fire. Their choice was clear. Sucks to be them, their fate sealed the moment they chose the puppet government over national loyalty.

Hours pass in a blur of smoke and gunfire until you reach the Belarusian EU Parliament.

The politicians are dragged out, hands bound with zip ties, faces pale with fear. A Russian soldier wields a camera, stolen from a nearby news van, ready to broadcast your revolution to the world.

You smirk, eyes cold. The pro-EU politicians are nothing but paper tigers. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱.

The air is thick with tension. Russia has just clawed its way out of a brutal civil war, the ultranationalist Russian National Salvation Government victorious and already reigniting its invasion of Ukraine. Making everyone fearful and creating a tense athmosphere.

But to you? None of that matters at the moment because Russia doesn't have the manpower to invade Belarus since they're focused on ukraine (Or so you believed). You sit with a warm cup of coffee, watching the newly reformed Belarusian military undergo NATO training, learning western doctrines of airpower and landpower, hoping to finally leave behind the shadow of Soviet authoritarianism. Belarus isn’t part of NATO yet, but the path seems clear.

Minutes later, the training is shattered by urgent reports: Russian tanks rolling into Minsk. Government offices are seized. European officials are either killed or captured.

Unprepared, you scramble to your post. The city has turned into a battlefield. Streets echo with gunfire and explosions, with both fear and excitement, you can finally put your superior western training to good use against these backward rebels. But reality slaps you across the face as you realize that these aren’t just ragtag rebels. They’re the remnants of the Lukashenko regime, loyalists to Alexander Lukashenko himself. And this time, they’re not alone. The Russian National Salvation Government and their army have joined forces with them.

You grip your new HK416 rifle, a symbol of the western training you’ve received, as you jump into the brutal close quarters fighting. But soon, the bitter truth hits you; your NATO doctrines and training mean nothing when you’re the one who is outgunned, outnumbered, and surrounded. Most of the training was meant to be used for goat fuckers in the middle east armed with rusty AKs and wearing flipflops. Not a well trained, well armed army full of hate.

The coup lasts only hours. The pro-EU Belarusian government falls. You slip away, going AWOL for a moment to do a desperate search for ammunition since you ran out after doing spray and pray on the rebels, which only injured a few. You enter a deserted police station, and surprise-surprise, you don't find any ammuniton. The TV on the corner was left turned on, broadcasting live horrors of this coup. Then it changes to the brutal execution of the pro-EU Belarusian parliament, they are beheaded, curb stopmed, and finally shot at as if a twisted act of mercy killing carried out by the Russian National Salvation Army and Lukashenko loyalists.

The broadcast ends with Russian tanks firing on the EU Parliament building, reducing it to rubble. Outside, explosions and celebratory gunfire ring through the streets. You hear the loyalists’ cheers echoing nearby and their victory celebrations amid the chaos. Which means that they are VERY close to where you are right now.

And just like that, you now stand at a crossroads that will most defenitely determine your life: Do you swear your oath anew and fight for democracy, even against overwhelming odds? Or do you surrender and beg for mercy from the vengeful Lukashenko loyalists and Revanchist Russians who now hold Belarus in their iron grip?

Because one thing is clear: 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘆 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲.

Months of bitter fighting and supporting the Lukashenko loyalists in Belarus have passed, and now, finally, you see it: the Brest Fortress.

The fortress your ancestors, alongside the ancestors of the Belarusian loyalists, fiercely defended against the German onslaught.

Strangely... it looks cleaner than you expected. Not because it’s been carefully maintained, far from it actually. The scars of war linger everywhere.

But the fortress lacks the usual signs of destruction.

Apparently, NATO forces retreated without bothering to set up a defense here. At least those NATO dogs had the sense not to desecrate such a sacred site, they must have known that destroying this monument, or damaging the museum, would only bring the wrath and judgment of you and the Lukashenko loyalists.

You glance to your side, some of your Russian comrades and Belarusian volunteers are already heading westward toward the Polish border. It's a shame, really, they can’t stay to celebrate the reclamation of this holy ground. But then again, what needs to be done, must be done.

You begin to wander through the fortress, occasionally stopping to examine each historical artifact, feeling the weight of sacrifice etched into every stone.

You see some Lukashenko loyalist rebels and a few of your comrades doing the same of quietly honoring the sacrifices your ancestors made. Something the pro-EU Belarusians never appreciated, having chosen to side with the West, those who despise this shared history. You can already imagine their forefathers turning in their graves, betrayed by their own descendants.

You pull out a bottle of vodka and take a slow sip, trying to push thoughts of those traitorous dogs aside. For now, you are not a soldier in battle, you are a soldier honoring your ancestors, for a moment, you forget about the war and smile, surrounded by those who truly appreciate the legacy you share.

The next battle will come tomorrow, but tonight, you carry forward a legacy of courage, sacrifice, and brotherhood. One you and your Belarusian allies will uphold.

You sip hot tea from your cramped foxhole, the bitter warmth a small comfort against the creeping cold. On the radio crackles a familiar tune of 'Sakkijärven Polkka', an old folk song your grandparents told you was once used to jam Soviet mines. The irony isn’t lost as you listen, waiting for the Russians. Days ago reports came in that the Russian National Salvation Army is massing just across the border in Karelia. Most Finnish soldiers are deployed on mainland Europe under NATO’s Article 5 commitments. Here, on home soil, it’s left to reservists like you: men and women who have never seen real combat, only endless training simulations.

Your old anti-invasion drills were relics of the Cold War. Expecting hordes of Soviet soldiers to march blindly into death traps. Technically, the Russians are still throwing men at the line but now with terrifying precision. No waste. Every move calculated.

You hear the faint static of the radio, then the voices of your squadmates come alive: Simo: "Remember that summer by Lake Saimaa? The snow was gone, and all we did was fish and roast sausages." Jari: "Ah, those were the days. Wish we were back there now, instead of digging foxholes in the freezing mud."* Tuuli: "I’m just counting the days till this nightmare’s over. Then I’m off to the south where there is sun, sand, and warmth. Maybe the Bahamas if I can afford it." Mikko: "Ha! You’ll freeze your tail off, Tuuli. I’m staying here. Nothing beats the cold when you’ve got a good sauna waiting and Finnish girls in bikinis swimming in the icy lake for old times."

Laughter comes from the radio as your squadmates talk about life and what you'll do in retirement. Then, the chatter cuts off. The radio blares an urgent alert: Radio: "Warning! Multiple hostile drone swarms detected crossing the border. Immediate action required!"

You snap to your feet, adrenaline surging. you and your squad scrambles to assigned positions. The sky darkens not from clouds or smoke, but thousands of drones, darkening the horizon like a swarm of locusts.

Explosions flare as the drones strike your positions, carrying not just explosives but gasoline filled glass bottles, igniting fierce fires across anything unfortunate enough to be it's target.

Your GETAC military issued laptop buzzes with incoming intelligence: fast-moving Russian snowmobiles spearheading the assault, overwhelming the first line of defense by the border. The drones have crippled your air support, while the snowmobile troops maneuver with deadly speed. Behind them roll minesweepers, clearing and disarming your landmines. Following them, tanks with mine rollers crush whatever anti personnel mines and defenses that remained. Trucks unload thousands of heavily armed soldiers, men and women equipped with drone jammers, crippling your own country's own drone forces.

The Russians storm trenches and foxholes, engaging in brutal close-quarters combat that quickly turns into a massacre. Fortunately, for you, you remembered the basics of CQC and switch to your pistol for the foxhole when they come to your line of defense, but in the back of your mind is the nagging feeling that this won't be enough.

Your mind drifts back to stories your grandparents passed down from their own grandparents, tales of how the Finns pushed back the Soviets with grit and resilience... But looking around now, watching the sky darken with drones and the ground flood with enemy forces, you feel a sickening dread that this time, 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱.

You peer cautiously into the abandoned convenience store. The shelves are mostly empty, but you manage to scavenge a few bottles of water, packets of microwaveable food, and some chips. It’s far from ideal, but with the Russian National Salvation Army unleashing bioweapons into your lakes and chemicals into water facilities, sealed foods like these are the only things safe enough to eat. The streetshave become death traps. The Russians don’t care about international law anymore. Chemical weapons rain down on civilian centers, especially where food and water are distributed. Survival means scavenging what little you can.

Your eyes then fall on the grim sight of a squad of dead Finnish soldiers in a twisted ambush position. Judging by the scars and damage, they were wiped out quickly—first by a drone strike, then finished off by advancing Russian troops. They're dead anyway, so no guilt taking from them, your country can't blame you when you focus on survival and that the resources of your dead countrymen are now your lifeline.

You strip the fur boots off the NCO, grab their intact gas masks and fresh filters, and take their sealed MREs and water bottles. The canteens? Who knows where they got their water, you leave those behind.

Back in your hideout which is the the utility tunnels beneath the cit, you dump your loot on a threadbare couch. The place is grim, but it’s safe and hidden. You have access to the underground tunnels and subway lines to move unseen, to meet with other resistance cells or whatever remains of the Finnish military. The surface is a nightmare now, poisoned by chemical, biological, and radiological weapons. Drones patrol the skies, killing anyone caught outside.

You peel off your gas mask, now probably contaminated, and sigh as you look over your supplies. Barely a week’s worth of food. It’s not enough, so you decide to head out again. This time to the forest to hunt. You’re sick of cold microwave meals anyway.

Climbing out of a manhole, you jog toward the woods near the dead town. Cradling your Sako M23 sniper rifle, you dig a shallow hole and settle in, eyes sharp for movement.

Minutes drag into hours. Then... is that what you think it is? Yes! It is! Finally, movement! Oh wait, it's not game you were hoping for.

It's your own resistance comrades, their hands raised behind heads, flanked by soldiers of the Russian National Salvation Army, the merciless killers known for their brutal war crimes in the name of vengeance.

Your heart pounds and it rings in your ears, you raise your rifle, hoping to save them. But just as you were about to pull your trigger, you see it, the glint of your scope catches the eyes of the Russian soldiers. They shout orders and a group of them are now heading towards you. Your position is blown.

You curse yourself silently. Simo Häyhä, the legendary “White Death,” has killed 505 Soviet soldiers without a scope, relying on iron sights and patience. And here you are, giving yourself away like a rookie.

𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝘁𝗿𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗰𝗮𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗱.

You slump into a battered office chair inside a ruined corporate building in Helsinki. The streets outside lie deserted and unnervingly quiet. Your muscles tense instinctively at the silence. Silence like this always smells of ambush.

Peering out the cracked window, you listen to the distant rumble of explosions and sporadic gunfire echoing through the city. Far off, the golden domes of the Uspenski Cathedral gleam faintly in the gray light. The largest Orthodox church in Scandinavia, a proud relic, a treasure... and undeniable proof that Finland once belonged to the Russian Empire until it's collapse.

No matter how hard the Westerners try to rewrite history or deny the truth, the cathedral stands resolute. Its golden domes, red bricks, and the wide open square before it shout of Russian origins. This isn’t just architecture, it’s a symbol, a living testament. As long as it stands, the truth cannot be erased.

The sight twists a knot deep inside your chest, a pang of homesickness mixed with something fierce and proud. The cathedral’s walls bear scars of the brutal fighting. Bullet holes, blast damage. It was no easy conquest. Finns and Russians tore through the city, tooth and nail, block by block.

You feel a grudging respect that the Finns spared the cathedral. It shows, perhaps, that even they carry some Russian blood in their veins, no matter how hidden or suppressed. Then your squad leader, a hardened veteran sporting the Russian Empire flag patch on his helmet, breaks the heavy silence.

Squad Leader: "Move out. There are still pockets of resistance. We still need to take over the outskirts where NATO forces remain. We finish this today."

You rise, gripping your weapon tightly. The final push to reclaim the remaining cities awaits, these Finns are too deep in their brainwashing to accept their true heritage, and they need someone to remind them thqat if it weren't for the Russian Empire, they'd be danish today.

𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗲𝘀.

You shovel another heavy pile of dirt into a sack, stacking makeshift sandbags along the edge of the trench you've been digging for hours. The earth is cold and soaked, but it’ll have to do. Russia has invaded the Baltics, and for reasons that leave you baffled, they keep hammering Lithuania the hardest. Vilnius is a dead zone now. Chemical weapons and nerve agents rained down on civilian areas and poisoned water sources. You’re scared, angry, and most of all, confused.

𝗪𝗵𝘆?

You’ve heard the whispers: Russia wants to reclaim lost territory, to restore the borders of the old Russian Empire. But if that’s true, why poison the land? Why turn rivers, the lifeblood of the people and even their own soldiers into death traps? From what you’ve seen and heard, the Russians are deliberately corrupting every place they want to take, turning it into no man’s land. Some say it’s genocide. Others claim it’s a ruthless new tactic: win at all costs, no matter the laws of war.

You try to shake those thoughts away and focus on the digging.

The NATO soldiers sent to help Lithuania (because Lithuania is a part of NATO) aren’t much of a help. The commanders keep babbling about blitzkrieg tactics and invading Russia to divert their attention from Europe to Lithuania. But the problem is obvious. The land is marshy, full of swamps. A classic rasputitsa. Your older commanders, the ones who know this land like the back of their hand, objects the plans. But NATO dismisses them, insisting their strategies are superior. It feels like an insult, a joke. These NATO officials sit in their fancy offices in Brussels, far from the mud and blood.

You focus on your work, trying to block out the talk of schematics and logistics when suddenly, the radio crackles to life. Russian forces are advancing west, closing in on your position.

The soldiers around you start digging faster, building fortifications; others rush to their posts. The NATO officers, as useless as ever, bark orders to stay calm and remmeber the training, but their words sound hollow, showing how deep their heads still buried deep in their asses.

Your commanding officer pulls out a military tablet and studies the map. His face twists in confusion. The map shows Russia’s full scale invasion of the Baltics is still underway, but strangely, they’re concentrating on Lithuania. Or more specifically, on the southern and western regions.

Your squadmates exchange puzzled glances, confused why they want to focus on youe southwestern regions rather than your whole country, Until one of the useless NATO soldiers whispers. His face pale and shaking as he keeps muttering a single word:

"𝗞𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗱..."

Kaliningrad was under heavy UN and NATO control since the Second Russian Civil War eversince it became a hotspot for smuggled weapons of mass destruction by the Russian National Salvation Government to use against the former and now dead RUssian lioberal democratic government. And when World War Three erupted with Russia’s invasion of Europe, Kaliningrad fell first. The UN scrambled to dismantle the WMDs there.

And then it hits you.

Lithuania isn’t the target. Lithuania is just in the way.

Their real goal is 𝗞𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗱. Your outpost, the trenches, the fortifications... none of it matters except as obstacles on the path back to their lost land.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆’𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝘂𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲.

You step into Kaliningrad. It’s been years since you last set foot here, yet somehow it still feels like home. But the city you knew is gone, replaced by an unrecognizable fortress of trenches and defenses carved out by the UN and NATO forces.

The streets you once walked freely are now battle-scarred and fortified. You fought with fury to reclaim this land, tearing through every piece of Western hardware and slaughtering anyone unlucky enough to stand in your way. You came close to death more times than you care to count, but you survived. Now, Kaliningrad is yours again.

At a street corner, you spot rows of defeated UN and NATO prisoners. Many are injured, their faces painted with the hopelessness of knowing Russia no longer plays by the old rules. They understand that once captured, submission is their only salvation. International law means nothing here.

Some of the prisoners have been tortured or killed, their suffering filmed and twisted into propaganda. Your friend Nikolai beside you chuckles darkly, lighting a cigarette as he eyes the captives.

Nikolai: "African warlords would kill to have this kind of freedom, the freedom to slaughter UN peacekeepers. Out there, the UN often acts like peace enforcers, killing warlords. Here? We’re the warlords now."

His grin widens as he spots NATO prisoners shuffling by. They had it worse, especially the Americans. Many Russians blame the U.S. for propping up the liberal democratic government that once strangled your homeland. Now, the Black Legion spetsnaz take their sadistic pleasure in slowly torturing captured Americans not for intel but for pure cruelty.

You walk over to a rusted shell casing, adding blue helmets and blue body armor to a grim shelf, a macabre trophy display of death and war crimes. Then your mind drifts back.

Years ago, you were forced to flee Kaliningrad. The rise of the liberal democratic government branded all Putin loyalists as enemies. For months, you were a hunted man. Homeless, desperate, and alone. Your only crime? Loyalty to the old guard, to the true Russia.

Salvation came when fellow Putin loyalists found you, took you in as family. Together with exiled far-right LDPR ultranationalists and outlawed far-left CPRF communists, you forged a new ultranationalist movement. When the Russian National Salvation Government formed, your group was absorbed and you joined the Russian National Salvation Army to reclaim Russia’s lost glory.

You shake off the memories and finish arranging your grotesque trophy shelf. A nearby, a radio crackles to life with grim news: Poland is next on the chopping block.

A slow smile spreads across your face. You will carve your path to mainland Europe just as you carved your way home through Lithuania. And when you do, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗞𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗱.

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting an ominous glow across the Black Sea. You and a few other U.S. Delta Force operatives enter your landing crafts, engraved with the insignia of NATO and the flag of the stars and stripes. You are all elite units trained for the impossible, tasked with a mission that sounded simple yet audacious: launch a diversionary assault from Turkey into Krasnodar Krai to create chaos and become a diversion for the Russian Army to focus on so that the main NATO forces advance in Europe could buy some time. You knnow your enemy, vengefuland Ultranationalistic who wants you dead. Meanwhile, your buddies joke around that the fortified defenses of the Russians are now nothing but dust as hours ago Northrop B-2 Spirit and Lockheed F-117 Nighthawk bombers were doing aerial bombardments on the shores and NATO warships had been pounding down on their beaches to soften their fortifications for you and the rest of the NATO forces.

As your crafts skimmed across the water, you start to feel tense all of a sudden, was it just the wind? or maybe just stress? Then, you felt it, a deep rumble echoed from below, and before anyone could process it, the calm sea erupted. Explosions ripped through the surface as underwater kamikaze drones surged upward, detonating the landing crafts and hovercrafts carrying your M1 Abrams tanks which costed $10,000,000 each start to sink into the dark and salty waters. Each landing craft on the waters water churned violently with the sound of chaos drowned out the shouts of men fighting to survive the unseen enemies.

Meanwhile, in the sky above, UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters and Sikorsky Pave Hawks also turned to giant flaming husks while others desperately evade a relentless swarm of aerial kamikaze drones. Their radars blinked showing no signs of the enemy while electronics scrambled to identify the projections that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Panic rippled through your unit and the NATO invasion forces as you start to question the integrity of your so called "advanced systems" that for some reason can't detect Russian suicide drones in both sea and air. When you and the rest of the NATO forces finally land on the shores of Krasnodar Krai, you were met not with soft soil, but with a scene of carnage. Bodies lay scattered, a complete opposite of a planned ambush that surpassed any expectations. The beach was a slaughterhouse, reminiscent of Normandy during the D-Day assault, except this time, you and the rest of the NATO invasion forces were not surging forward; you were being mowed down by a relentless barrage of Russian gunfire and drone swarms.

As the chaos unfolded, remnants of the drones gets washed ashore, you see pieces of the kamikaze drones that fucked up your mission, many of the components had western made parts. What should have been a symbol of Western technological supremacy had turned into a nightmare, as you realize that western buisnesses made deals with the Russians. No betrayal was intended; it was just the cold calculus of profiteering from war.

Amidst the madness, you find yourself separated from your unit during the chaos. The roar of gunfire and explosions faded as you zigzag around barbed wires, landmines and beartraps the Russians placed on the beach for some fucking reason. As you sprint through the smoke-filled remnants of the carcasses of your fallen comrades, disoriented yet fueled by instinct, you stumbled into an opening, a Russian trench. Men and women look at you for a split second before tunring all their guns on you, shouting in Russian. You have stupidly walked into the lion's den—a lone operative surrounded by the enemy who is known for comitting war crimes against Americans such as yourself not for information, but for their sadistic pleasures. With swift effeciency, they disarm you and ziptie your hands and put a plastic sack over your face which smelled absolutely disgusting like your cum jar at home. It was probably a garbage bag, which adds to your humiliation.

As they drag you around the trench with the sound of battle in the distance, only one thing goes through your mind now; "𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗱𝗼 𝗜 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘂𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼 𝗜 𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆?"

You sit hunched in your bunker near Rzeszów. It has been days now, or was it weeks? You’ve lost track of it all, missiles, artillery shells and kamikaze drones have rained down relentlessly on Poland’s vital strategic points. The constant thunder of explosions was a brutal symphony, a reminder that death could come at any moment.

Every day, you wonder if this will be your last. If you’ll die like an animal, swallowed by the chaos. But then… silence. No explosions. No missiles. No drones. It all stopped.

This is it. You've gone deaf from the unending barrage. Your ears ring, your head throbs.

Then, your comrades start to talk. They smile. They laugh. They embrace each other.

You blink, confused.

It wasn’t you going deaf, it’s the missiles. They’ve stopped.

A manic laugh bursts from your throat, then breaks into sobs of relief. You hug your comrades tightly, feeling hope flicker for the first time in weeks.

But your joy is short-lived as your radio crackles to life with the voice of Nikodem, the field Marshall of the 24th Brigade

Field Marshall Nikodem: "New intel coming in, Russian forces have invaded Poland. They’re swarming across the borders from Belarus, Ukraine, and Kaliningrad."

𝗞𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗱

Oh god, Kaliningrad... you thought that frozen fortress was under UN lockdown, untouchable. But now, the Russians have taken it back. The radio waves must’ve been jammed during the missile attacks and you missed the news.

*Your commanding officer’s voice tries to steady the troops, but you hear the fear beneath the calm, but the worst news comes.

"Przemyśl has been decimated—burned to the ground. Heavy casualties reported."

Some of the foreign NATO soldiers beside you tries to reassure you and your comrades.

"It’ll be okay. We’ll hold the line."

But then the ground shakes violently, panic surges through the bunker as everyone scrambles to the surface. Above, the sky is black with what looks like a swarm of crows but the shrill, metallic screech tells the truth: drones, kamikaze drones, hunting and killing without mercy.

The base has been ripped apart by missiles and drones. The Phalanx 20mm Gatling guns, your last line of defense, have run out of ammo. One by one, they fall, shredded by the relentless drones. You pick up a radio from a fallen officer, half his torso gone from wha t appears to be a drone strike, exposing his ribs and internal organs

Dead Officer’s Radio: "Chemical weapons... static nerve agents deployed... static Bialystok, Treblinka, Warsaw, Kraków... static hundreds of civilian deaths reported."*

Your head spins. The weight of it all is crushing you, you feel your head get light from the amount of information being loaded to your head. Then, a sharp slap to your face shocks you back to realitt, a fellow Polish soldier hauls you toward a nearby bunker just as a kamikaze drone explodes mere feet away.

Inside, soldiers of every NATO nationality huddle together, heads bowed in prayer and each in their own language, clinging to faith in the face of annihilation.

The radio continues to crackle with grim reports, many Polish soldiers are dying in the fields. And here you are, hiding, praying, wondering if a miracle will come while your comrades bleed and die out there.

The time has come.

After years of brutal, bitter fighting, you have finally crossed the border into Poland. A shiver runs down your spine as the memory of your commander’s voice echoes in your mind: “Attack the Galicia region. Hit them where they least expect.”

It’s almost laughable.

Years ago, Banderites and Nazi collaborators committed atrocities against Poland in the Galicia massacre, a stain on history. Yet many Poles chose to ignore it, blinded by their hatred for Russia. They forgot that it was the KGB who hunted and killed the very monster they feared, Stepan Bandera himself.

𝗔𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗹𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆. 𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗼𝗿𝘀.

And now, Poland stands shoulder to shoulder with Ukraine, united by their shared hatred of Russia, despite Ukraine never once formally apologizing for its own crimes against Poland.

𝗦𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗮𝘂𝗱𝗮𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆.

But now… all of that will change.

The artillery, missile barrages, and drone swarms have already softened Poland’s defenses. Every sin of the West is coming home to roost.

They called Russians barbarians. Warmongers. Orcs.

𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗲

You and your comrades will be the barbarians, the warmongers they fear. You will make them wish they had kept their filthy mouths shut.

A flicker of resentment briefly crosses your mind, you had hoped to invade Poland from the north, where the NATO bases lie. You wanted to be the ones to kill Americans and dismantle their strongholds. But that honor belongs to those who reclaimed Kaliningrad. They took back their homes from NATO’s grasp. If anything, it is them who deserve their moment.

You shake off the bitterness and focus on the now.

Your unit is pushing hard toward Kraków in a Blitzkrieg style assault, just like your ancestors did centuries ago. You brush off some dirt from the old hammer and sickle flag patch on your shoulder, a gift from your old friends back when the CPRF was still in the political spectrum of Russia before the liberals abolished it.

You tighten your grip on your gas mask after reports say that the 5th Artillery Brigade has fired gas canister shells over the city, a grim irony. Almost a century ago, gas chambers took Polish lives in Kraków. History doesn’t repeat itself… 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗵𝘆𝗺𝗲𝘀.

Warsaw, Poland.

You toss another sandbag into the trench, the cold rain soaking through your uniform. The chill seeps deep, numbing your fingers, but you keep working. Fortifications, your last line of defense against a war that’s slowly crushing your soul.

Weeks ago, your squad was full of hope. Hope that the tide could still turn.

But that hope is dying, too many of your brothers-in-arms are gone. And the way they died… it was absurd, almost unreal that it felt like it was taken straight from a comedy show.

Their truck, en route to Krakow to support the Polish defenders, was hit by a direct gas shell, a perfect landing strike. You wanted to go for their bodies, to salvage what little was left of your friends. But the contamination was too severe. The whole area was poisoned, it was sealed off and nobody was allowed to go near them.

You 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 this.

You 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 this damn war.

You 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 the endless losses, the senseless deaths.

And Russia? No matter how much your commanders try to spin it, claiming that Russia is running out of men, running out of missiles, running out of cannon fodder and only using shovels and washing machines, that they are losing, it was already obvious.

𝗥𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮 𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴.

You start to question everything.

Why are you even here?

Why are you defending a European country you barely know, when your oath was to America?

You 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 this.

You 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 everything. The war, the Russians, the useless Poles who is dependent on you like puppies, your asshole commander, everything.

You just want to be back in Texas where it’s warm, where you will tend your grandfather’s cows, where you can use the empty fields as a shooting range while using cheap ammo and forget this nightmare...

Your thoughts are shattered by hushed whispers from the senior officers nearby, they’re talking about a ceasefire. Peace talks. Saying America can’t afford this anymore.

𝗥𝗲𝗱 floods your vision.

The sound of the rain feels deafening.

So many deaths.

So many sacrifices.

For what?

To beg Russia for peace with hat in hand?

You can’t take it anymore.

You watched your friends get crushed by that gas canister shell.

Saw their bodies rot and decompose faster than normal by the chemicals.

You can’t take it. anymore

You stop building the trench, your muscles tense with rage.

You storm toward the command post where the senior officers have gathered.

And you’re going to demand answers. One way or another.

Because right now... you’re on the edge. 𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗴 𝗮 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗲𝗿.

It’s over. All is lost.

Hours ago, you and your fellow resistance fighters struggled alongside the battered remains of the Polish military, scavenging what little supplies remained. But it was no use. Russian troops cut through NATO forces with terrifying ease.

Hope for a favorable peace was now nothing but a wet dream.

Then came the announcement. NATO, the EU, and American officials in Brussels declared surrender. The ceasefire, the peace talks ended with a bitter truth.

The Western world must pay Russia reparations. Many politicians will pay the price for their economic warfare and deep seated bigotry against Russians and the Slavic people.

You look around at what once was the Republic of Poland—the proud heart of Western Europe.

Now, you are in “𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗮.”

Technically, it’s still part of Poland but in truth? Silesia has carved itself out as something new, something separate.

Many ethnic Poles born here identify more closely as Silesian than Polish. Soldiers and Poles born in Silesia have quietly declared independence, severing ties with the Republic. The borders blur, but the division is real.

To your east lies the “𝗣𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝗣𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲’𝘀 𝗥𝗲𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰”, a puppet state under Russian control.

Most of your comrades have laid down their arms. Some have chosen to end their own pain, consumed by grief and despair.

And you? You don’t know what to do anymore.

The future is uncertain. The land you once called home is fractured, broken.

You stand alone amidst the ruins of a dream, wondering if hope can ever rise again.

It’s all over. Russia has won. Democracy falters.

All the lofty talk of protecting democracy and liberty, the promises made to your people... now lie in ruins, all nothing but a bitter farce.

You sit at the heavy oak table in a dimly lit room, surrounded by other military commanders and politicians. The air is thick with anger, despair, and blame.

You glance around the table. Faces you know well, some pale with exhaustion, others red with fury.

The number of deaths haunts every head inside the office. Your crippled economy can no longer pay the Death Gratuities to the families of fallen Bundeswehr soldiers. And the Survivor Benefit Plans for veterans? practically non-existent

And now... reparations to Russia, billions demanded, bleeding the country dry. Then a heated argument erupts.

General Weber: "We were betrayed from within! The politicians starved the military of resources for years. How could you let this happen?"*

Minister Krüger: "And you generals thought throwing men into a meat grinder was a strategy? The economy collapsed because of poor leadership on both civilian and military!"

Colonel Schmidt: "Enough! Blaming each other won’t fix the shattered pride of Germany. The people are furious. They’re already talking of unrest! A civil war is no longer a distant threat."*

You watch as the arguement spirals out of control, the room a physical manifestation of a broken nation. Meanwhile on the TV mounted in the corner, the news plays relentlessly. Rows of captured NATO soldiers march through Moscow’s streets, paraded like damned souls, humiliated and defeated.

You can’t help but shudder. In a cruel twist, those men are lucky to be alive and paraded around in their humiliation. They get to live. And those who weren’t chosen for public spectacle? Those are the fates you cannot even imagine after hearing what the vengeful soldiers of the Russian National Salvation Army does to prisoners.

Then the camera pans to the trophies of war, your Leopard 2 tanks, once symbols of German engineering excellence... now displayed in Moscow’s plazas.

And the Eurocopter Tiger helicopters that was meant to embody European strength... lies in ruin.

Then there's the KF51 Panther tanks, your nation’s pride and state of the art technological marvel... now in a shameful display.

You suppress a bitter laugh, you've heard the reports that some Panthers were destroyed by 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗼𝘄𝗻 Javelin anti-tank launchers, captured by the Russians. Tanks designed to shrug off Russian missiles, undone by their own weapons.

The absurdity and humiliation sting deeper than any slap you got in your life, even more painful than your first' ex girlfriend.

You glance down at the clipboard on the table, names of men under your command. Many dead. The few survivors traumatized and disabled.

It’s overwhelming.

Your career is over, yet you know it’s not. There’s still a country to salvage, a people to calm because right now, bankruptcy is the least of your worries.

𝗚𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝘁𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗹 𝘄𝗮𝗿.

And you, either like it or not, will be tasked with keeping it from tearing itself apart.

You hurl a rock, watching it slam into a police officer’s shield. You warned them. You warned the government.

You begged the people to stand against this madness, 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 drag France into a war in a land barely known, a conflict that wasn’t ours.

"Focus on your own people first," you and your fellow protestors pleaded.

But look where it’s gotten you.

Broken soldiers, coming home. Dead, disabled, scarred beyond recognition. You blame them, too. They chose to fight for an incompetent government, and now they reap what they sow.

You and your fellow protestors have taken refuge beneath the Eiffel Tower, turning the space into a commune, a symbol of resistance, of change. And a demand of accountability.

Sure, Russia is an authoritarian regime, crushing democracy underfoot. But the real betrayal is here: at home. Your own government chose to pick foreign fights instead of fixing the rot within.

Then there’s the French Foreign Legion, mercenaries from Africa, South America, Asia, paid thousands, given benefits and early retirement.

Meanwhile, your own parents, your own people, are cast aside. Retirement ages are pushed higher, welfares stripped away, forcing everyone back to work to keep the economy afloat.

And here you are.

The economy is shattered. Homelessness blankets the streets. Inflation skyrockets through the clouds.

A police officer hurls a tear gas grenade into your camp. But you’re ready, ANTIFA warned you early

You slap on a gas mask, an expensive investment since most gas masks were funneled to the military to be sent overseas. You pull the pin on your own grenade, a pipe bomb crafted from revolutionary manuals you’ve kept close that the government banned.

You and your friends shout slurs at the officers, and of course, they curse back.

The government tries to silence you, but all they do is prove themselves to be fascists. proving ANTIFA right all along. France, the birthplace of democracy, now feels like a cruel joke.

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘂𝗲.

Whether the government likes it or not, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗿𝘆 𝗺𝗲𝗻.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻.

"𝗩𝗶𝘃𝗮 𝗹𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻!" you scream.

And beneath the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, the people roar back.

Another one arrives. Another veteran, uniform tattered, torn by battle. Missing a leg and a finger. But it’s the look in his eyes that hits you hardest. The hollow defeat, the crushing despair that no wound can heal.

He joins your small group of veterans and patriots, and his story pours out like poison. Another man who fought in Europe, who came home only to be spat upon, to told he should have died there, that he was a mistake.

Another betrayed by the VA, denied benefits, abandoned by a government that promised honor but delivered shame.

Days have passed since the West fell to Russia, yet the nightmare drags on. America is a shell of its former self.

You and your compatriots knew this would happen. You warned them, rallies, protests at the White House, shouting for America to 𝗽𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁.

But they ignored you. Chose foreign wars over domestic wounds.

And now? America is a joke. 𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲.

You glance at your watch. It’s almost time.

You, your friends, your family, and the disabled veterans you’ve taken in will march. You will protest.

You’ve been called hate groups, fascists, nazis, racists, white supremacists, as if names could kill ideas. But words don’t kill ideas.

You saw it coming from miles away. You warned others, and what did they do? Called you paranoid.

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗴𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝘂𝘀.

You step out of the building that served as your temporary headquarters and join the swelling crowd.

Banners wave, voices roar shouting: “𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁!”

The government sent patriots to fight a war that was never ours while back home, chaos reigns.

Liberals and Democrats bicker over gender norms while the economy crumbles under the weight of their failed war policies.

Thousands of families wait for Death Gratuities that never come. Veterans return, hoping for Survivor Benefits, only to find the system broken, broken beyond repair.

And the “foreigners”- no, 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀- is the right word.

Mexicans flood in, supposedly to fill the gaps left by patriots sent overseas.

But when the patriots come back,boom. Jobs gone, homes stolen, benefits seized.

The liberals cheer it on, spitting on the very soldiers who bled for this land.

𝗘𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗶𝘀 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵.

𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱.

𝗜𝘁’𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗶𝘅 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗲𝘀𝘀.

The first enemy is clear: 𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗗𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘁𝘀.

Our country is crippled economically.

And what do they say? That Russia must face “the wrath of justice.”

They want to reignite the war, to send more sons to die in a fight America never should’ve entered.

𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺.

𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗢.

𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗣𝗮𝘅 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗮.

𝗔 𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗻, 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴, 𝘀𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗻, 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗻 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗹𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗱 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝘀.

You crumple another set of documents in your hands—the latest denial from the VA hospital. With a frustrated cry, you tear the papers into shreds.

Then something hits your face.

Saliva.

You turn to see an anti-war protestor sneering, spitting on you.

"You should’ve died over there," they sneer. "Good for nothing."

You swallow the burning rage and pain. You can’t take it anymore, your eyes drift toward the nearby homeless shelter. It’s packed with veterans like you, all with nowhere to go, all denied the benefits they were promised.

Slowly, you stand and slump toward the only place that still feels like home: your parents’ house.

You don’t even bother with your apartment, too tired to pack, too tired to drive your Honda. And with the economy in ruins, you probably can’t afford the gas anyway.

You climb aboard a bus. Inside, the hostility is immediate. People spit at you, call you names, curse you as worthless.

You don’t even notice when you arrive, your hopelessness has sped up time.

You step off, the neighbors already staring as you knock on your childhood door and your father opens the door, silent and knowing.

He doesn’t say a word but leads you inside, guiding you to the living room.

"Sit," he says quietly.

You slump into the worn chair, feeling unworthy of such comfort.

Your mother is in the kitchen, she senses something wrong and quietly brews tea for you.

Your father pulls out a bottle of whiskey, your mother opens her mouth to protest but thinks better of it, deciding to give you two some space.

Your father pours himself a glass, then slides one toward you.

Minutes pass in heavy silence.

Finally, your father speaks.

"You know your grandfather who fought in Vietnam?" he begins. "I lied to you about how he came home."

You look up, confused.

"I told you he was welcomed by family, that he returned a hero." He shakes his head slowly. "The truth is, he was shunned. Spat on. Called a baby killer. Accused of the My Lai massacre even though he joined too late to be involved."

You feel your stomach tighten.

"I didn’t want to shatter the image you had of him. Same thing happened to me in 2021 when we evacuated Afghanistan. Twenty years, 3,000 lives lost... and all anyone remembers is the shame of that helicopter lift-off."

He looks at you, eyes heavy.

"You’re the third generation. In war, they love the soldier. But in peace... you’re like a bastard born out of wedlock, a family secret to be hidden away."

You swallow hard. The weight of history settling on your shoulders.

You raise your voice with the crowd, chanting loud enough to shake the air:

"One solution!"

(Crowd) "One solution!"

"Revolution!"

(Crowd) "Revolution!"

The war has crippled everything: the economy, your future, the very fabric of American life.

No one can buy anything with a dollar anymore, and who’s to blame? The government, obviously. They chose imperial ambitions over the people and trillions wasted on a war that never should have been ours.

At first, it was the liberal democratic government of Russia, that you could understand supporting; fighting for democracy.

But when that government fell in the Second Russian Civil War, when Russian ultranationalists rose to power, the government should have stopped. They should have cut the funding because the war clearly wasn't worth it.

But no. Instead, they funneled everything into Europe, propping up an imperial empire.

And now? Look around.

Social inequality runs rampant. Poverty and unemployment choke the streets.

Veterans return disillusioned, you’ve spat on some yourself. But a few joined your cause, those are what you called the 'good veterans'.

At first, people were suspicious of them, because barbarians don't mix with protestors. But they didn’t speak of glory or heroism.

They spoke of inequality.

How LGBT soldiers were first sent as cannon fodder, how Black troops were thrown into offensive lines while white soldiers stayed defensive. They showed you that the rot wasn’t just in the government, it had seeped into the military itself.

You always knew the army was unequal, but these veterans speaking out? Maybe not all hope is lost.

Your friends wave flags, green environmental banners demanding an end to the production of war machines that waste precious resources, pride flags reminding the world that the fight for minorities continues, and the red hammer and sickle symbolizing the equality this country still desperately lacks.

𝗜𝘁’𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄.

You march alongside thousands, demanding change.

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗴𝗹𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗺.

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗺.

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗺.

𝗠𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻.

𝗚𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘆.

Because the old men playing chess with your lives have forgotten their one true job: to serve the people.

𝗜𝘁’𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲.

You load a fresh magazine into your rig, the cold metal clicking into place. In front of you, Warsaw lies in ruins, just like in ’44.

You chuckle darkly at the thought.

Your ancestors liberated Poland from the Nazis, but how did the descendants repay Russia? They spat on your country, called it backwards, mocked your culture and openly showed their Russophobia.

Your grandfather’s generation must be rolling in their graves at the sight of such hostility.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗱.

Those Poles are facing the consequences of their sins, the bitter irony makes you laugh quietly to yourself.

Suddenly, your Commanding Officer calls for a meeting, you gather with your squad, tension buzzing in the air. Turns out oders came down from Moscow: you’re pushing deeper westward.

Apparently, NATO, the EU, and America tried to broker a ceasefire, a peace treaty with Russia which thankfully, your own government declined. The order is clear: 𝗱𝗼𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗼𝗻 𝗘𝘂𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲.

The thought of the West seeking peace feels laughable, they never showed remorse for their hostility to Russia. Why would they now? did they need to learn the hard way? through blood and fire just to show basic respect?

The idea of them surrendering is an insult.

You’re grateful Glavkoverkh (Commander-in-Chief) Dmitry Petrov refused their offer.

The meeting breaks up and your officer bark orders to gear up, and you follow enthusiastically.

Because you will see it through... You will see the day Russia stands unchallenged, proud and victorious. For now, 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗧𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗹 continues.

You’re doing your best to control the traffic, there's too many cars, too many people, all desperate to cross into Germany. The roads have turned into a bottleneck, snarled with honking horns and shouting, you even saw people fighting over space, scrambling for any chance to move forward.

The German borders are overwhelmed with refugees, many fled from Poland, some from Slovakia and Hungary, all coming here. The Oder River has become a lifeline...and a choke point. The German authorities can’t take them all in, too many refugees, too little room. Across the border, you spot Bundeswehr soldiers, exhaustion etched into every line of their faces.

They’re trying their best to process the flood.

As you redirect a group of cars, your radio crackles, delivering news no one was prepared for:

“𝗥𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘆.”

The message hits like a bombshell. the refugees, already tense have heard it too. It has been broadcatsed on radio and social media, helping spread the news like wildfire. And just like that, panic erupts.

A stampede surges toward the border, people shout, demand to be let in. Some even dive into the river, desperate to swim across. The German border guards grow alarmed, firing warning shots into the air. But that was a mistake because the shots only escalate the chaos.

The refugees scream, some shouting “𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲!” in terrified confusion. In the chaos, the gunfire erupts toward your position, you can’t tell if the shots come from panicked German guards or Russian forces closing in.

𝗙𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗴𝗿𝗶𝗽𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝘀𝘁. 𝗜𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗰𝘁 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲.

You hope your shots only incapacitate the panicked Germans and not harm the refugees. Meanwhile your radio is alive with frantic calls. you hear your comrades shout to the radio, voices full of panic.

“Request immediate support! Situation at the border is out of control. Refugees panicking, gunfire exchanged, need help to contain and calm the crowd!”

Your heart pounds as you brace yourself, for what comes next may 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀.

𝗣𝗼𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻.

The border is gone, not breached, not contested, 𝗴𝗼𝗻𝗲. What was once a line on a map is now a corridor of fire and wreckage. The last time you heard your friends’ voices was at 𝗦𝗲𝗲𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗛𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀. Static. Shouting. Then nothing. Reports came later: the position collapsed after the Russian National Salvation Army punched through the defenses with brutal speed.

History didn’t just repeat itself. 𝗜𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱.

Now Berlin is under fire.

TOS-1 amd BM-21 rockets scream overhead, their howls tearing through the night just as the Katyushas once did nearly a century ago. Artillery follows methodically and merciless. The city shakes with every impact, the underground groaning like it knows what’s coming.

You stand in a metro station packed with civilians. Mothers clutch children. Old men stare into nothing. Some cry openly. Some pray aloud. Others don’t make a sound at all.

You try to calm them. You tell them help is coming. You don’t know if you believe it.

Why couldn’t they just accept NATO and the EU’s surrender? Why didn’t they stop? No one says it out loud, but you know the answer.

This isn’t about territory. 𝗜𝘁’𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗲.

The shelling suddenly stops. The silence that comes after it is worse.

After a long moment, you step out of the station, heart pounding, half-expecting the sky to open again. Instead, you’re met with ruin. The outskirts of Berlin burned, bodies lie where they fell, cars are twisted bones of metal, buildings are now rubble, burned-out military vehicles and shattered fortifications litter the streets.

And worse, far worse, were the chemical agents hang in the air. Nerve agent residue clings to concrete and steel, invisible but lethal.

You call for your comrades, tell them that the barrage is over and to head to their positions, now. Battle stations.

Sweat runs down your back inside the thick, suffocating Zodiac NBC suit. Your head spins. Every breath is filtered rubber and stale air. The water you sip through the mask’s drinking port tastes wrong. It tastes like plastic, lifeless, but you force it down anyway. There’s no time to complain.

You think back, just for a second... You look back to your days in the Military Academy, your graduation, your first command and standing proud among the Bundeswehr. Swearing to defend the Republic.

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.

You want to see your family safe. You want to be anywhere but here. But if you’re not here, then who defends Germany from what’s coming?

You inspect your men, they’re ready for battle, then they suddenly stop.

“What’s that sound?”

Your stomach drops.

No... No, it can’t be-

You run to your position and slam a magazine into your rifle. The ground trembles. The sound grows louder, it's a sound you recognize too well it's the sound of steel on earth, heavy engines and tracks.

𝗜𝘁'𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗸𝘀.. 𝗖𝗼𝗹𝘂𝗺𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆’𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆’𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴.

𝗠𝗮𝘆 𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗹.

Nearly a century ago, your grandfather stood here, he fought his way through Berlin street by street, bled on shattered stone, and pushed into the heart of the enemy’s power. He reached the Reichstag. He watched the red banner of the Soviet Union rise above the ruins, defiant against the smoke-choked sky. For that, he was given the highest honor a soldier could earn: 𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗼 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝗼𝗻.

Time moves faster than memory ever warns you, and now you’re here.

𝗕𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗻, 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘀, 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗱, 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲.

You advance along the very road your grandfather once fought on, carving forward under fire, toward the same building where history burned itself into the world. The 𝗕𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗴 looms ahead, fortified with NATO forces. German regulars hold the line alongside rebels and resistance fighters. All poorly equipped, poorly trained, and desperate.

They’re scraping the barrel, just like their ancestors did.

You tighten your grip on your rifle as rounds snap overhead. Concrete chips explode beside you. You lean out, sight steady, and fire. A defender collapses. Then another. Their hesitation shows now. Their resolve cracks as you close the distance, moving forward without stopping.

𝗛𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘁𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳. 𝗜𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀.

And you intend to go further than your grandfather ever did.

You’re not here just to 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵 a flag rise above the Bundestag. No, you’re here to 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲 it.

The banner is already with you; folded tight, sealed in a protective plastic, protected inside your kit. You can feel its weight with every step. This isn’t just about following footsteps. It’s about surpassing them.

This isn’t only for 𝗥𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮

It’s for 𝗬𝗼𝘂.

For the 𝗵𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗿 you thought was lost. For the 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗲 you were told was betrayed and thrown away. For the 𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗮𝗰𝘆 that demands more than memory, it demands action.

You advance through fire and smoke, toward the building ahead.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀.

𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿. 𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳. 𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗹𝗮𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲.

Years of war have carried you here, from the plains of Eastern Europe to the doorstep of one of the world’s great powers, you and your comrades have marched farther than most thought possible. Now the road ends, or begins again at the edge of the so-called 𝗖𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗟𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀.

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀.

You respect the French, more than the Germans. At least.

They didn’t crumble. They didn’t scrape the bottom of the barrel and throw the unready into the fire. They fought well, very well. they did it clean, disciplined, aggressive and stubborn to the very end. Still, you can’t always tell who you’re facing anymore. Many wear French colors, but their accents betray them. The 𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗵 𝗙𝗼𝗿𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗻 𝗟𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗼𝗻, fighters from Africa, South America, Asia. It doesn’t matter. They bleed the same.

Paris is no longer a city, it’s now a 𝘁𝗼𝘅𝗶𝗰 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗲.

𝗢𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗥𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗰 is still ongoing. The current objective is simple on paper: take Paris, and when France falls, the road opens west, toward the Iberian nations. But the reality is uglier. Too much chemical fire has been unleashed. Not just the city, but its outskirts are contaminated. Masks stay on and the suits stay sealed. Always.

One tear, one mistake, and the air itself will kill you.

Your breath echoes inside the mask. Sweat pools under layers of protection. The streets are unnervingly quiet, broken only by distant explosions and random gunfire, like the city is breathing slowly, waiting for the clima of the story.

Intelligence reports confirm it: American 𝗗𝗲𝗹𝘁𝗮 𝗙𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗲 operatives are operating alongside the French 𝗚𝗜𝗚𝗡.

𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝘀.

That changes everything.

They won’t hold ground. They won’t announce themselves. They’ll stalk, observe, and strike when you’re weakest. Every intersection is a potential kill zone, every shattered window could be watching you.

This isn’t a battle anymore, it’s a 𝗴𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲.

And as you move deeper into the poisoned streets of Paris, rifle ready, senses sharpened, you realize something unsettling: 𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆.

They say war is hell. The truth is more complicated. War isn’t just hell, war is war. Tactics evolve, weapons change, uniforms modernize, but the killing remains the same.

You remember your grandfather’s voice, low and steady, as he told stories passed down from his own father, your great-grandfather, a soldier of the First World War. He spoke of gas drifting across no-man’s-land, of men clawing at their throats, coughing out their own lungs, eyes bulging as shapes of German soldiers emerged from the fog, figures so twisted they no longer looked human. As a child, you believed those horrors belonged to history, locked away in old photographs and yellowed journals.

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴.

Paris is now a toxic paradise. Bodies lie where they fell, slumped against café walls, sprawled in metro entrances, frozen mid-stride. The sight makes your stomach churn, but you don’t dare vomit. One mistake inside your mask, one breach of its seal, and the air itself will kill you. The Russian National Salvation Army turned the city into a chemical graveyard, and survival now depends on rubber seals and filtered breath.

Your radio crackles with intel: a high value target has been captured. A Russian oligarch, arms dealer and bomb maker only known as "𝗩𝗼𝗹𝗸". American Delta Force operators pulled him out of a hideout deep in the Paris catacombs. For a brief moment, you smile. Men like him don’t get caught often.

Moments pass and new transmissions flood the channel. Russian artillery and missile strikes are hitting NATO positions across the city, indiscriminate, relentless and danger close. Your blood runs cold at the news, many units are dug in near the Eiffel Tower, if the bombardment continues, the iron giant could collapse, crashing down in fire and twisted steel.

Surely they wouldn’t, right? Even Hitler spared it.

Intel had suggested the Russians wanted the tower intact, a trophy, a symbol, something to claim rather than destroy. Your mind races, trying to reconcile the contradiction, until the next message arrives: Volk is being moved toward a NATO controlled outpost.

And then it clicks: they aren’t bombing out of desperation. They’re bombing with 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁.

They know Volk will be taken somewhere secure, somewhere fortified, somewhere crowded with allied troops. They aren’t sending soldiers to extract him. They’re 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴 him, using fire instead of footsteps. If Volk dies, so does everything he knows.

Your stomach tightens. If he reaches the outpost, the bombardment will follow. Men will die, the tower might fall, Paris could lose another piece of its soul.

Your hands tremble as you grip the radio. To save lives, you have to say it, to tell your superiors to do the unthinkable.

𝗩𝗼𝗹𝗸 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲, 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝗳 𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀... 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿.

The cold salt air stung your lungs as you stood on the deck of the colossal Russian landing ship. The grey waters of the English Channel stretched out before you, churning with the wake of a massive armada preparing to storm the British Isles. The once mighty United Kingdom, now isolated after the fall of France, was next in line.

You adjusted the comms on your gear and glanced around at the Russian commanders bustling with energy and grim determination. Your role was clear: you were here as a military advisor a Chinese Black Ops operative embedded with the Russian National Salvation Army command. Your mission was twofold: assist the Russians in this complex island invasion and meticulously observe every tactic, every mistake, every success. Island invasions were a specialty of your own People’s Liberation Army back in China. The Pacific had forged generations of amphibious warfare doctrine. But Europe’s waters, weather, and enemy were different. This was an invaluable opportunity.

From your vantage point, you watched the combined fleet move into position: warships laying down suppressive fire, missile cruisers scanning for enemy submarines, and amphibious assault vehicles bristling on the docks. Russian marines and airborne troops prepared to unleash a pronged assault on coastal fortifications, naval bases, and airfields. Your translator whispered updates from Russian officers discussing the challenges of coordinating landings against a well-prepared island defender. The British, backed by the Americans has fortified their shores, mined beaches, and deployed mobile artillery. Yet the Russians pressed on, confident in their overwhelming numbers and firepower.

You took notes in your mind and on your digital pad, the timing of naval barrages, the use of electronic warfare to disrupt British radars, the integration of drones for reconnaissance and close air support. You noted the Russians’ occasional communication lapses, the difficulty in securing beachheads under heavy fire, and the resilience of the defenders.

Amid the chaos, your thoughts often drifted beyond this mission. Taiwan loomed in your mind, a distant island fortress with its own complex geography and fierce defenders also backed by the west. The lessons learned here, from this invasion, would be invaluable when the dragon’s moment came.

As the first waves surged onto the beaches, met by the roar of British defense, you steadied your breath. The smoke, the screams, the relentless pounding of artillery, all of it was a brutal school. You were both a warrior, teacher and a student. The invasion of the United Kingdom was a brutal crucible, and you, the eyes of the Dragon, would carry its lessons home.

The dust settles in the streets of London, the once-bustling city now echoed with an eerie silence, shattered only by the distant sounds of chaos and destruction. The news had struck like a thunderbolt: Scotland and Wales had declared their independence from the United Kingdom, leaving England to fend for itself. The betrayal stung sharper than any bullet in the heat of battle.

“Fifteen minutes to impact!” a voice yelled through the comms, snapping James back to the present. Your thoughts spun like a whirlwind. How had it come to this? One minute you were all facing a foreign enemy, the looming shadow of Russian ultranationalism, and the next, the very fabric of the nation had torn itself apart. England was a ship lost at sea, with no crew to navigate the storm.

Many of you now stand alone as guardians of a city that felt increasingly abandoned. The realization crashes over you: the United Kingdom’s unity had crumbled, thrusting your once unified nation into a brutal civil war. Radio channel then confirm your worst fears: the London parliament was deserted, a ghost town that reflected the disarray of their nation.

“Get down!” someone shouted as a series of explosions erupted in the distance. You ducked instinctively, adrenaline being pumped into every nerve in your body. You lift your gaze just in time to see a plume of smoke rise from Piccadilly Circus, the heart of London now engulfed in flames. Russian missiles had struck, transforming familiar streets into a hellscape.

“Rally around the barricades!” The sergeant barked, attempting to rally the troops, but the panic in the air was palpable. The American forces stationed in London were equally on edge, their presence a reminder that they stood as the last line of defense. As your squad move towards the makeshift barricades, you and your comrades exchanged worried glances. The loyalists, those who still believed in the monarchy, were breathing a sigh of relief upon learning that the royal family had been evacuated just days before the upheaval. “Lucky buggers,” a young bloke muttered under his breath, bitterness seeping through his facade.

And yet, despite the relief that his majesty was still alive, there was the gnawing fear inside you, you haven't contacted your family for days now and the war was no longer on your favor, NATO air supremacy was now nothing more than a wet dream any soldier could wank off to. Much of the Royal Navy was sunk, the Royal Air Force shot down, and Russian paratroopers are still landing in the British countryside, taking over farms and territory. And yet, you still continue, forcing your aching body to stand up, move and assist your mates fight against the cunts who are inching closer and closer to your positions just after doing terror bombings on your beloved London.

𝗕𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝗳 𝗟𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗻 𝗳𝗲𝗹𝗹, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗱𝗼𝗺? 𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗺𝗼𝗸𝗲.

The dimly lit warehouse is full of crates stamped with Cyrillic markings and are unloaded quietly by Russian black ops operatives dressed in black tactical gear. Their facees covered with balaclavas and their movements quick and efficient. Across the room are members of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), your boss Aisling and you. Everyone was watching the Russians warily. The weapons, the assault rifles, explosives, and incendiary ammunition were unlike anything you have seen except for YouTube and Google. These were tools of modern war, forged in the darkest factories of Siberia

Yet, despite the tactical advantage, fear and unease gripped you and the others. You've heard stories and red survivor accounts of those who faced the Black Legion of the Russian National Salvation Army, they showed no mercy, tortured prisoners for fun and eliminated resistance through brutal means. These people were not your allies by ideology or friendship, but by cold, transactional necessity like harlots and clients, except on this one, no sex pleasure, only death.

Aisling had already weighed the risks. The objectives was twofold. On one hand, you and your lads will finally be able to liberate Northern Ireland from British control and reunify your island under Irish sovereignty. A dream many generations had, but felt like it was just a wet dream with how difficult it is to achieve. But on the other hand, the campaign was also a diversion. Every battle, every explosion, every act of rebellion was designed to stretch British forces inside Northern Ireland thin and to draw their attention and troops away from London where Russian forces and their remaining allies prepared to finish off the last pockets of resistance by the English and American militaries defending one of NATO's last strongholds in Europe.

The political landscape was already fractured beyond repair. Scotland and Wales had already declared independence, choosing neutrality in World War Three and plunging into their own bitter civil wars between loyalists of the Royal Family and nationalist factions. And Ireland was next by the likes of you ready to assert sovereignty to reclaim the north. Despite the clear mission of liberating your northern province from the British, you can't help but feel like you are nothing but a pawn. You are literally fighting for their homeland but also caught in the larger game made by Russia.

Aisling (boss): “I don’t have a good feeling about them, to be honest. I've heard all sorts of tales about these lads—nothing but horror stories about how they took the Geneva Protocols and turned them into a ‘to do’ list. I’m starting to think this is a terrible idea, lads..."

O'riley: "This is war, and war’s never tidy. But if we want to see a free Ireland, we’ll have to use every weapon and call on every ally, even if it means making a deal with the devil, like these fellas."

Your boss and your friend both shut up when a Russian black ops operative suddenly approaches them, his face was also covered with a balaclava, but when you look at his eyes, his eyes says it all. These men has lost their humanity a long time ago, it's a miracle that they are still functioning and not killing everyone here on sight. He then suddenly snaps his head towards you, making your heart jump from fear. He then approaches you, his size making you feel smaller and smaller.

Russian black ops operative:* "You also IRA, da? Take this comrade, you might need it on the long run"

He gives you a lightweight brown bag, you open it to find a Soviet GP-5 gas mask, it was a full kit as it has a green filter attached to it, and an extra filter attached to a hose. Despite the gas mask looking new, the cunt gave you asbestos filters.

Europe has fallen. The continent that once held so many of America’s strategic interests, its allies, and its pride is lost. Thousands of Americans lie dead, their sacrifices unable to stem the tide. Those who remain were forced to retreat, boarding aircraft carriers under the shadow of an advancing enemy, fleeing back to the safety of home waters.

Years of fighting, years of planning, years of bloodshed... all for nothing. The illusion of American supremacy in Europe has shattered, leaving only the bitter reality of defeat. And now, the question looms: how will the veterans return home? How will they be received, knowing they failed in their mission, knowing that their brothers and sisters in arms paid the ultimate price for a continent lost?

You sit at the head of the table, eyes scanning the faces before you, military commanders, generals, politicians. Silence fills the room. No words, no explanations, no consolation. Each person caught in the weight of the same unspoken truth: there is nothing left to say.

Victory had been declared. Europe lays quiet. Not at peace, but exhausted. Capitals had fallen, alliances shattered, and banners that once flew defiantly were gone. Across the Atlantic, American forces withdrew in stages orderly on paper, desperate in reality, leaving behind scorched bases and broken promises.

For the first time in generations, the borders of the former Russian Empire were whole again. And Dmitry Petrov stood before a continental map stripped of enemy colors. Red dominated now, stretching from the Atlantic approaches to the edge of Asia. The war was over, but this part was not

“This,” he said slowly, “was the easy part.” The room was silent. Beyond the restored borders lay dozens of states that no longer resisted, yet did not belong. Lands steeped in decades of Western influence. Populations shaped by ideas Petrov believed had nearly destroyed Russia itself.

“The rest of the western civilization... they cannot remain as they are.” New zones appeared on the map. Gray, undefined and deliberately unnamed. “Commence operation: Designate them Purification Zones,” Petrov ordered. “No flags. No autonomy. No illusions.”

The words settled heavily. Western institutions would be dismantled. Media erased. Education rewritten. Those deemed resistant would be removed from society entirely, processed, put into concentration camps and be killed, It was going to be another holocaust. And the others? those who demonstrated complete submission, loyalty, and usefulness would be absorbed. But not as equals. As components.

“Russia is no longer sufficient, what we are building is larger. He then turns toward the emblem now replacing the old one on the wall behind him. “From this moment forward,” he said, “𝘄𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲... 𝗘𝘂𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗮.”

No applause followed. No celebration. Only the quiet understanding that the war had merely changed shape.

𝗘𝘂𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻... 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲, 𝗮 𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗲𝗱.

The TV was playing the evening news inside Russia as Dmitry returns to his office inside the Kremlin, a new era of Russian exceptionalism had taken root. Thanks to years of propaganda and elimination of dissent, radical nationalism and ultranationalism has finally taken over millions of Russians. The people, fueled by decades of hardship, war, and perceived betrayal from the West, now saw themselves as something more than a nation: the supreme arbiters of justice and power.

Far away from the Kremlin within the territories occupied by Russia, Russian settlers were rallying, chants celebrating their exceptionalism and celebrating every victorious battle in Europe. Young college students are holding up signs that says “𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝘂𝘁𝘆” 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝘀!, "𝗪𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹!" and "𝗡𝗼 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹𝘀! 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻!". Voices that once whispered dissent and disagreement to the regime were quick to be labeled enemies of the state, most of them were westerners and anyone who dared make Russophobic remarks online or in the streets. All forms of Social media has been turned into a hunting ground; accusations and executions were justified as purges against traitors and haters has become a common occurence everyday among Russian occupied territories.

Back in the Kremlin, Dmitry Petrov sat rigidly in front of a large tactical display. His cold eyes scanned the battle report flashing across the screen; the rebuilding of the former Russian Empire’s borders was almost complete. Territories once lost were now reclaimed, a testament to the iron will of the Russian National Salvation Government. He then turned towards you, his closest advisor, his voice calm but resolute: “Prepare for the next phase. Send a message to every field marshall we have and tell them to initiate Operation: Great Rape of Europe. European countries under our control, but are not incorporated into the restored borders of the former Russian Empire will be... will be converted into purification zones. Our soldiers inside the controlled zones are free to do what they want and do what it takes to finish the job. Dissenters, enemies of the state, and other ‘undesirables’ will be cleansed from the lands to make way for real Russians to settle into their new homes."

Operation: Great Rape of Europe, a cruel and psychotic phase against the west that is going to make Nanking look like a highschool orgy party. Sucg operation would make the UN have a hayday on condemnations, but alas, they have no power here. With shaky hands, you pick up a tablet and send the message to every field marshall under your contacts to relay the message of the Glavkoverkh.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲...

The air inside the train carriage was thick and stale, heavy with the scent of sweat, fear, and despair. You sat huddled among strangers, pressed so tightly together that every breath felt shared, every sob and whispered prayer mingled in the suffocating silence.Years ago, you remembered, this continent was different. You were part of a civilization that prided itself on values: liberty, democracy, human rights. Protected by the might of the Americans, shielded by the largest armies Europe had ever known, you believed yourselves invincible. You laughed at the stories of Russian backwardness, mocked their ways, their history. You called them barbarians, a boogeyman conjured to warn your children of what could happen if order ever fell apart.

Yet here you were now, crammed into this rusty train like cattle, herded away from everything you knew. The bitter irony gnawed at your soul: the Russians had become exactly what you feared: the barbarians in your nightmares, the ruthless oppressors you once dismissed. Some whispered bitter regrets, wishing they had kept their mouths shut, that their arrogance hadn’t summoned this fate. Others sat in stunned silence, eyes vacant, questioning if this was death itself, or some hellish transit to a place worse than that.

Suddenly, the train shuddered and came to a halt. The screech of brakes echoed like a death knell. Guards barked orders, and you were forced to rise, stumble out into the biting cold.

The sight that greeted you stole the last shreds of hope.

Before you stretched a camp, and not unlike the ghastly places you'd only seen in black and white history books. Barbed wire fences, watchtowers with searchlights scanning the darkened sky, rows of barracks looming like tombs. You looked around at the faces of your fellow prisoners. Disbelief, terror, and dawning horror etched deep into their expressions. The values your parents and grandparents had fought for: freedom, dignity and justice felt like fragile, broken relics. Here, none of it mattered. This was another holocaust, another nightmare repeating itself.

Your mind drifts back, unwillingly, to a distant memory. History lessons from the past when the Russians liberated Europe from the Nazis, they were heroes, saviors who ended the darkest chapter in history. And now? The descendants of those saviors were the very tormentors dragging you into this abyss.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding with a terrifying question: 𝗛𝗮𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱?

Air raid sirens wails across Europe. It rosed from cities already scarred by war, echoing through streets that had grown accustomed to artillery but not to this sound. Something had changed. Something irreversible. While armies bled one another dry across the continent, one truth had been ignored for too long: 𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗻𝘂𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗽𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲.

The moment forces of the Russian National Salvation Army crossed fully into French territory, that truth asserted itself. A single tactical nuclear strike detonated over a major Russian supply depot in occupied Ukraine. The blast erased thousands of lives in seconds and shattered a critical artery of logistics. Shockwaves rippled far beyond the crater through command structures, alliances, and every remaining illusion of control.

𝗥𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱.

Russian nuclear weapons were unleashed against France’s major cities. Paris. Nantes. Bordeaux. Toulouse. Marseille. Each strike marked the deliberate abandonment of restraint, transforming population centers into targets and ending any pretense of limited war.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲: 𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱.

𝗠𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗔𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: long treated as a deterrent, a theory, a warning, has became reality. Nuclear fire crossed borders that diplomacy no longer recognized. The war ceased to be regional. It ceased to be rational.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹, 𝗶𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽.

Driven by revanchism and the belief that this moment could end generations of rivalry, further strikes were launched. Russian missiles arced toward the United States and the United Kingdom, crossing oceans in minutes. Old enemies, once distant, were pulled fully into the collapse.

Satellites went dark. Communications fractured. The global order unraveled faster than anyone could respond... The war that began with borders and treaties ended with extinction level decisions.

Sirens continued to sound, even as the bombs fell....