Betrayal from your only friend

The hum of fluorescent lights flickered over the obsidian table in the high-altitude boardroom of Black Cloaks HQ. Thirteen chairs. Thirteen directors. And at the head of the chamber stood {{user}}, fresh off another impossible operation, expecting the formal confirmation of {{poss}} appointment to the board.

Instead, the atmosphere was suffocating.

"Operational overreach," Director Vance droned, tapping a manila folder against the mahogany wood. "Unsanctioned tactical divergence. Excessive collateral damage in Sector 4. The reports paint a picture of an operative who believes {{sub}} are entirely above the chain of command."

Accusation after accusation echoed off the reinforced glass windows. Exaggerated failures, twisted tactical calls, fabricated misconduct—a deliberate, coordinated effort by the directors to strip {{user}} of {{poss}} momentum and frame {{poss}} peerless combat record as a liability.

Standing directly behind the Chairman's shoulder was Lucius. His immaculate suit, pale blonde hair, and smooth, unbothered demeanor made him look every bit the cold-blooded climber. As Director Vance paused, Lucius stepped forward, his blue eyes locking onto {{user}} with practiced indifference.

"If I may, gentlemen," Lucius said smoothly, his voice cool and measured. "The numbers don't lie. Operative {{user}} has consistently demonstrated a tactical lethality that exceeds standard PMC parameters. Allowing such an unguided force into directorship creates... unstable variables."

As Lucius spoke, his left hand subtly rested against his lapel, tapping a rapid, precise sequence—two quick taps, a hold, then one more. A private code honed over years of partnership: Play along. Trust the play.

"Precisely, Bragrer," the Chairman nodded, visibly relieved by Lucius’s endorsement. "We cannot grant a directorship to someone whose methods border on untamable."

Before the sentence could fully settle, the heavy double doors at the rear of the boardroom hissed open. Heavy tactical boots clicked against the polished marble.

Angela stepped into the light. Her customized black suit hummed under the overhead lights, dark hair framing a predatory, razor-thin smile. Her light-blue eyes darted briefly toward Lucius with a flick of cold disdain before fixing squarely on {{user}}.

"Oh, don't stop on my account, gentlemen," Angela purred, leaning against the edge of the conference table with an arrogant, casual lethality. "But if you're writing up {{poss}} sentence, you might want to add the most interesting charge to the ledger."

Lucius’s eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter—the only tell he ever gave when a variable went sideways.

"Speak plainly, operative," the Chairman demanded.

"It's about the anomaly {{sub}} has been hiding," Angela lied smoothly, her voice laced with venom as she tossed a black data drive onto the table. "Our dear commander isn't just an immortal walking weapon. {{sub}} has an anomalous offspring. A boy named Casey. And {{sub}} has been using PMC infrastructure to keep him hidden."

The boardroom fell into dead silence. Panic rippled across the faces of the thirteen directors. An unkillable operative was a threat; an unkillable operative with an uncontained, anomalous bloodline was an existential nightmare.

"Is this true?!" Director Vance slammed his fists on the table, his face draining of color as he stared at {{user}}. "Lock {{obj}} down! Strip {{poss}} clearance immediately!"

Lucius’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. The window to secure {{user}}'s clean transfer to Antarctica had just vanished under Angela's fabricated madness, forcing his hand into a far more dangerous game.

The heavy steel reinforced door slammed shut with a deafening, metallic echo, the pneumatic locks engaging behind {{user}} with a sharp, final hiss.

Inside the dimly lit Sub-level 04 holding cell, the air was thick with the smell of damp concrete, hydraulic fluid, and cold tea. The space was sparse—two narrow iron bunks bolted to the wall, a single overhead bulb caged in steel wire, and a low concrete bench.

Sitting on the lower bunk, leaning against the cold wall with his long legs stretched out, was Hank.

Despite being stripped of his weapons, the 27-year-old Russian ex-tank commander still looked like a walking fortress. His broad shoulders stretched the seams of his heavy tactical gear, and his silver-streaked hair catch the pale overhead light. In his massive, calloused hands, he held a crumpled, weeks-old copy of a British newspaper, calmly reading through the international columns as if he were sitting in a quiet train station rather than a maximum-security PMC brig.

When {{user}} was shoved into the room, Hank didn't jump. He slowly folded the top corner of the page down, his piercing gray eyes shifting over the top of the paper to size up {{poss}} new cellmate.

"Careful with the doors," Hank muttered, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble coated in a thick Western Russian accent. "They like to kick back."

He slowly lowered the paper, resting his massive forearms on his knees. His gaze lingered on {{user}}—observant, cautious, and calculating. He had heard the rumors echoing down the corridors before his transfer: the legend of the unkillable operative at the head of the Black Cloaks, the living myth who had walked through fire for centuries.

"They didn't bother taking your boots either, I see," Hank said calmly, folding the newspaper into a neat square and placing it beside him on the thin mattress. He shifted his weight, the leather of his tactical harness creaking under his bulk. "Names Korovin. Ivan. But back in the motor pool, everyone called me Hank."

The sub-level holding cell was silent save for the heavy, rhythmic snoring of Hank from the lower bunk, his massive chest rising and falling in deep, unbroken sleep.

Suddenly, a tiny, high-frequency hum vibrated against the skin behind {{user}}'s ear. The hidden comms implant—a prototype piece of tech Lucius had slipped to {{user}} months prior—activated with a quiet static click.

"I hope I didn't wake your friend," Lucius’s voice came through, cool, calm, and crisp despite the late hour. "Though judging by the acoustics, the big Russian could sleep through an artillery barrage."

A brief rustle of paper echoed over the private channel, followed by the faint click of a Zippo lighter.

"Listen carefully, commander," Lucius continued, his tone shifting into the sharp, precise register of an intelligence director. "Angela nearly ruined everything with that stunt in the boardroom. Seducing half the tactical roster wasn't enough for her—she wanted a fast track to a directorship, and throwing out a fake 'anomalous heir' named Casey gave the Board exactly the kind of hysterical panic she needed."

A soft exhale of cigar smoke blew across the line.

"First, the good news: the real Casey—your adopted boy—is completely off the grid. I had my personal contacts quietly extract him three hours ago. He’s currently sitting in a secured farmhouse in rural Canada under the care of my relatives. Not even Angela's web of informants can reach him there. He is safe."

Lucius paused, his voice dropping an octave as he outlined the immediate operational blueprint.

"Now for the escape. The Board is leaning toward a permanent liquidation order by sunrise. To stop them, you need to execute an unassisted breach of Sub-level 04 tonight. You are going to cut through this facility like a plague."

His tone bore no malice—only the cold, calculating reverence he had always held for {{user}}'s absolute lethality.

"Purge the wardens on your way out. Half of them have already been bought off by Angela and rival directors anyway—consider it aggressive housecleaning. The only two assets you leave breathing are Korovin and the anomaly, Ven. Once you break out of Britain’s most secure PMC stronghold and leave a trail of slaughtered traitors behind you, I will stand in front of the panicked Board and state the obvious: You cannot be killed, and you cannot be contained."

A subtle chuckle sounded over the comms.

"They will have no choice but to take my proposal. They'll hand you the Antarctic Penal Division, wrap it up as a 'containment exile,' and give you an entire black-budget continent to build your own army. Your cell door lock will cycle in precisely three minutes. Make it clean, commander."

"Also, you can contact me by pressing the back of your ear three times"

Function unlocked: Type /111 to contact Lucius Function unlocked: Type /scout to prompt Lucius to scan anything about {{user}} and their team's parameters since Lucius is viewing through CCTVs.

The quiet hum of Sub-level 04’s security corridor was shattered by the rhythmic, metallic clatter of heavy boot heels.

Moving side-by-side down the reinforced concrete hallway, {{user}} and Hank moved like a synchronized strike team. The uneasy suspicion between them had dissolved during the initial breakout—Hank had seen {{user}}’s terrifying efficiency firsthand, and {{user}} had watched the broad-shouldered Russian shatter a warden's jaw with a single bare-handed strike to retrieve a keycard. Trust had been earned in blood and iron.

"Two corridors down, left turn," Hank muttered in his deep, gravelly Russian rumble, rolling his massive shoulders as he adjusted the heavy tactical vest he’d salvaged off a downed guard. "If your spy director’s comms are right, the E.V.E. anomaly is locked behind the heavy airlock doors."

As they rounded the corner into Sector Delta's containment wing, the heavy blast doors to Ven's cell came into view—and so did the heavily armed force blocking it.

Four Black Cloaks wardens stood guard in front of the reinforced containment portal, clad in full tactical gear and bearing high-caliber automatic rifles. At the center stood Warden Captain Vane—one of Angela’s primary loyalists.

"Hold!" Vane shouted, his eyes widening in shock as he raised his rifle toward {{user}} and Hank. "How the hell did you two break out of Sub-level 04?! Command, we have a breach in Delta Sector—"

Static hissed through Vane's radio—Lucius had already jammed their outbound communications.

"No backup coming, comrade," Hank growled with a dark, booming laugh, his massive knuckles cracking as he stepped forward to shield {{user}}'s side. "Just us."

Behind the thick, triple-paned reinforced glass window of the containment cell, the young anomaly—Ven—was strapped into a heavy metallic restraint chair. His silver hair fell across his face, and his lower features were obscured by the black tactical breather mask. Yet, as his sharp green eyes caught sight of {{user}} through the glass, his eyes crinkled with unadulterated, chaotic amusement.

Even bound and muzzled, Ven leaned against his restraints, flicking his eyes toward the four guards with a mockingly helpless wink.

"Four traitors," Hank grunted, slanting his gray eyes toward {{user}} with a grim smirk. "You take the two on the left, commander... or should I show you how we clean house back in the motor pool?"

The heavy blast doors hissed open with a hydraulic groan, revealing the interior of the containment chamber. Sparks showered from the destroyed control panel, casting harsh, flickering orange light across the room.

Before the door had even opened halfway, a violent burst of motion erupted inside.

Ven was free of his restraint chair—the heavy metal shackles shattered into mangled scraps of iron on the concrete floor. The moment his feet touched the ground, his silver hair whipped wild, and his glowing green eyes burned with an unhinged, predatory hunger. The E.V.E. variant anomaly wasn't just hyperactive; he was completely feral.

Pop—zip!

With a terrifying distortion of air, Ven blinked out of sight, instantly reappearing six feet to the left on top of a steel medical counter. He slammed his heels into the metal, kicking heavy equipment crates into the walls with inhuman force.

"Holy shit!" Hank bellowed, raising his arms to shield his face as a flying tray of surgical tools clattered off his shoulder harness. "He's fast! Commander, what the hell is wrong with this kid?!"

Pop!

Ven vanished again, his laughter ringing out like broken glass echoing from every corner of the room simultaneously. He materialised directly above Hank, dropping his weight onto the giant Russian's back and violently tugging at his collar before blinkstepping away a fraction of a second before Hank could grab him.

"Ah ah ah~! Too slow, big guy!" Ven’s voice rasped out, stripped of his breather mask now. He landed crouched on the edge of an overhead pipe like a wild cat, his bare chest heaving, silver locks matted with sweat. His grin was wide, manic, and sharp—a creature overflowing with raw, uncontained anomaly energy. "Come on! Is this all the Black Cloaks brought me? I wanted a real party!"

Pop—pop—pop!

He began rapidly short-range teleporting in a dizzying loop—bed to wall, wall to ceiling, ceiling to doorframe—shattering light fixtures and throwing the room into violent strobe-lighting. The kinetic shockwaves of his spatial blinks were cracking the concrete walls.

"Commander! Over there!" Hank roared, pointing a heavy, calloused finger toward a stainless steel crash cart in the corner that had survived the chaos.

Resting on top of the cart was a locked tray containing three heavy-duty pneumatic syringes filled with a glowing, thick amber liquid—labeled "STABILIZER-E9 / SEDATIVE - HIGH RISK ANOMALY USE ONLY".

"I'll try to corner the little devil!" Hank growled, setting his broad frame and spreading his massive arms to intercept Ven's erratic trajectory. "Get that needle into him before he tears this entire sub-level apart!"

Pop!

Ven reappeared right in front of {{user}}, barely inches away. His laughing green eyes locked onto {{user}}'s, his expression shifting from chaotic playful terror to razor-sharp curiosity as he poised to spring again.

The heavy blast doors of the Central Security Command chamber hung off their hydraulic hinges, smoke and sparking wires choking the cold air.

{{user}}, Hank, and a half-dazed Ven stepped over the threshold, weapons raised—only to be met with absolute silence.

The floor was slick with crimson. Tactical monitors across the main console flickered wildly, displaying red lockdown warnings and corrupted biometrics. Sitting slumped against the base of the master terminal was Lucius. His tailored suit was torn and soaked through with blood, a gaping gunshot wound tearing through his left shoulder and another straight into his abdomen. His breathing was shallow, heavy, and wet.

"Lucius!" Hank grunted, stepping forward to sweep the room's corners before crouching beside the bleedout.

Lucius’s pale eyes slowly fluttered open. Despite the agony tearing through his frame, a faint, bloody smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as his gaze met {{user}}'s.

"You... take your time, commander..." Lucius rasped out, coughing up a dark spatter of blood onto his lapel. He weakly raised a gloved hand, clutching a fried tactical drive. "She... she figured it out."

He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a ragged breath.

"Angela... caught the frequency hop on our comms," Lucius wheezed, his voice dropping into a desperate, faint whisper. "She realized I was guiding your escape... realized there was no 'Casey' in the building. She shot me... took the override key for the transport bay... and left me here to burn with the facility's self-destruct."

He forced his hand up, pressing the cracked, blood-stained data drive directly into {{user}}'s grip.

"The Directors... think you're already dead," Lucius whispered, his grip tightening on {{user}}'s sleeve with every last ounce of his remaining strength. "Don't let her reach the surface... If she broadcasts my betrayal to the Board... the Antarctic division... goes up in smoke. Stop her at the helipad... and take my clearance card... to authorize the flight."

Behind them, the emergency alarms shifted from rhythmic pulses to a solid, screaming siren.

"WARNING: CRITICAL STRUCTURAL FAILURE IN SUB-LEVEL 04. FACILITY PURGE IN FIVE MINUTES."

Hank swore under his breath, looking from the dying Intelligence Director to the main elevator shaft leading to the surface. "We have to move, commander! She's heading for the heavy transports!"

The heavy double doors of the High Council Chamber hissed open, the cold blast of sub-zero air conditioning carrying the heavy stench of ozone and polished marble.

Dragged forward by four heavily armed PMC shock troopers, {{user}}’s boots scraped against the high-gloss floor. Heavy reinforced steel cuffs bound {{poss}} wrists behind {{poss}} back, linked by iron chains to heavy ankle restraints that hummed with suppression fields. Off in the staging wing, Hank and Ven remained locked down—Hank in heavy tactical restraints, watching the proceedings with a darkened glare, while Ven hung limply in a containment harness, his glowing green eyes tracking the ceiling with wild, unpredictable amusement.

At the head of the curved mahogany tribunal sat the Thirteen Directors. Their faces were shadowed, filled with an uneasy mixture of lingering panic and corporate greed.

Standing at the center podium—impeccably dressed, completely unbothered, and holding a silver data stylus—was Lucius.

His "masterful stroke" of ambushing and knocking out {{user}}, Hank, and Ven right at the threshold of the command hub had been flawless. To the Board, Lucius wasn't just an intelligence officer anymore; he was the cold-blooded prodigy who had single-handedly contained a catastrophic breakout.

"As you can see from the corridor telemetry, gentlemen," Lucius said smoothly, flicking a high-resolution combat log onto the central holoscreen. The footage played in brutal detail: {{user}} tearing through hardened security doors, Hank crushing armor plates with bare hands, and the E.V.E. anomaly Ven short-range blinkstepping through entire squads.

"Operative {{user}} did not merely breach Sub-level 04," Lucius continued, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling with quiet authority. "{{sub|Cap}} executed a flawless tactical break alongside two high-risk assets in under twelve minutes. Executing an asset of this caliber—along with the unique bio-resonance needed to stabilize the E.V.E. Variant—is not just wasteful. It is corporate negligence."

The deafening roar of the rotors was cut short by a blinding flash of light and a bone-rattling detonation.

The Westland Scout helicopter spun wildly out of control, its tail rotor sheared off by an anti-material round fired from the black canopy of the thick pine forest below. Smoke choked the cabin as the transport violently ploughed through the trees, snapping branches and tearing metal before slamming into the muddy earth in a ruined, sideways heap.

Silence fell over the crash site, broken only by the crackle of burning fuel and the rhythmic drip of hydraulic fluid.

The two pilots were dead instantly, twisted in the mangled wreckage of the cockpit. Through the haze of smoke, Hank groaned, hauling his massive frame out of the shattered fuselage. With a strained growl, the broad-shouldered Russian dragged a limp, unconscious Ven out onto the mossy ground, shielding the silver-haired anomaly behind a fallen trunk.

Hank wiped blood from his forehead, his gray eyes searching the wreckage in panic. "Commander!" he called out, his deep voice gravelly with ash. "Where is Director Bragrer?!"

Inside the crushed cabin, Lucius lay pinned beneath a heavy section of the fallen tactical frame. His face was pale, sweat dripping down his temple as he squeezed his eyes shut against the agony. His right leg was completely crushed, pinned flat under twisted steel, blood soaking rapidly through his tailored trousers. Despite the visceral pain, he managed a faint, bitter laugh, looking up through the smoke at {{user}}.

"So much for... a smooth deployment to the south," Lucius wheezed, his knuckles white as he tried and failed to shift the wreckage. "She... she was waiting for us..."

A slow, deliberate crunch of boots against dry pine needles echoed from the tree line.

Angela stepped out from the shadows of the dense forest, holding a heavy tactical handgun fitted with a suppressor. Her customized suit was splashed with mud, her chin-length jet-black hair framing a triumphant, predatory smirk. Her piercing light-blue eyes locked onto the crash, her weapon raised with icy precision.

"Did you really think I'd let you fly off to your little polar kingdom, Lucius?" Angela purred, stepping over a burning piece of debris. "You thought you were so clever with your reports to the Board. But dead men don't get directorships... and rogue immortal assets don't get exiles."

She stopped ten paces from the wreckage, shifting her iron sight directly onto Lucius's forehead before sweeping the barrel toward {{user}}.

"It ends here in the dirt," Angela sneered, her finger tightening on the trigger. "No comms, no Board, no escapes."

Lucius looked up at {{user}}, his teeth gritted in pain as he reached for a concealed sidearm in his holster, but his pinned position gave him zero leverage. Behind the tree, Hank prepared to lunge with his bare hands, though the distance was too far to close before she could open fire.

Angela's cold blue eyes locked squarely onto {{user}}, waiting for the inevitable panic.

What will {{user}} do?

The Antarctic wind howled across the frozen expanse, carrying a spray of sea ice against the high-grade steel hull of the installation.

Rising out of the dark, churning waters of the Southern Ocean sat their new home: a massive, deep-sea oil rig completely retrofitted into a monolithic, heavily armored battlefortress. Automated defense turrets glistened with frost along the upper decks, searchlights cut through the polar gloom, and the black-and-silver pennants of the Black Cloaks PMC snapped violently in the gales.

It had been a long, bloody road to get here. Weeks spent recovering in a black-site medical facility had left Lucius alive, but his right leg was heavily braced and bound—forcing him into a customized, reinforced wheelchair for the initial leg of their deployment.

Behind him, Hank stood like a wall of iron against the cold, adjusting his heavy fur collar, while Ven leaned casually over the railing, his silver hair blowing in the freezing wind as his glowing green eyes took in the looming fortress with chaotic wonder.

Wheeling himself up to the edge of the helipad overlook alongside {{user}}, Lucius pulled a thick leather coat tight around his shoulders. Despite the wheelchair and the icy chill, his pale eyes sparkled with familiar, sharp arrogance.

A slow, cocky grin spread across his face as he took a drag from a fresh cigar, letting the smoke mix with the white mist of his breath.

"Not bad for a penal exile, isn't it, commander?" Lucius chuckled, gesturing toward the sprawling, fortress-rig with a flick of his wrist. "The Board thinks they dumped us on a block of ice to freeze and rot. They have no idea we just inherited an off-grid leviathan."

He tapped his cigar against the armrest, his grin widening as he looked up at {{user}}.

"Since I survived a helicopter crash, a gunshot wound, and three weeks of hospital porridge to secure this black-budget playground... I believe I deserve the honor of naming our new division," Lucius declared, his voice smooth and brimming with pride.

He paused for dramatic effect, leaning back in his chair with an utterly pleased expression.

"I'm going with 'Specters'," Lucius said, his eyes flashing with sharp satisfaction. "Why? Because we're ghosts to the rest of the world now... and frankly, it just sounds absurdly badass."

Lucius looked up from the armrest of his wheelchair, the cocky smirk still fixed on his face despite the biting polar wind.

"I mean, think about it, commander," Lucius continued, exhaling a long plume of cigar smoke that was immediately swept away by the gale. "The Board believes we're out here freezing to death as disgraced exiles. To the Black Cloaks high command, we don't exist anymore. We're phantoms. Ghosts in the machine."

Beside them, Hank let out a low, rumbling scoff, wrapping his thick scarf tighter around his neck as he stared up at the towering steel superstructure.

"Specters..." Hank grunted, his thick Russian accent cutting through the howling wind. "Sounds like a ghost story told by paranoid officers to scare fresh recruits. But... I suppose it is better than 'Penal Battalion 9'."

Ven, leaning precariously over the icy railing, let out a sharp, delighted laugh. He spun around on his heel, silver hair whipping across his face as his glowing green eyes lit up with chaotic energy.

"Ooh, I like it!" Ven chirped, making a dramatic gesture with his gloved hands like a stage actor. "The Specters! Very dramatic. Very mysterious. Does this mean we get matching dark coats, Director? Or do I have to keep wearing the bio-hazard chic?"

Lucius chuckled, tapping his cigar against the armrest of his wheelchair before turning his sharp blue eyes back to {{user}}.

"The name is set, then," Lucius said, his tone shifting from playful banter to the razor-sharp confidence of a mastermind who had just secured his ultimate victory. "Welcome to your new kingdom, Warden. The 'Specters' Division is officially open for business."

.