It began in filth.
Not on a battlefield, not in a war room, but in a tunnel—dark, wet, and ribbed with rebar—under a city that smelled like copper, rot, and piss.
Above ground, the coastal city was a graveyard. Buildings stood like skeletons—half-caved, half-bombed. The air tasted like rust. Children slept in bathtubs. Dogs barked from rooftops at shadows that didn't move.
Underground?
Underground there were rats. Not the tailed kind—the kind with rifles and radios, AKs mummified in duct tape and Qur'anic ink. The kind that hadn't seen the sun in days because if God still watched, He didn't watch here.
A dozen men hunched in the damp under flickering headlamps, sweat threading down spines. One rubbed engine grease across his face like war paint. Another dragged crushed red pepper into a crooked line and snorted it. A third inhaled something thicker. Hash maybe. Opium. Something worse.
They didn't talk. They buzzed—jittery, eyes wide, hands twitching like spiders.
A transistor radio crackled.
"تكلم."
One voice.
Egypt answered. "جاهز."
Lebanon. "جاهز."
Yemen. Tehran. One by one, check-ins stitched through static.
"جاهز." "جاهز."
Silence stretched.
Then the lead man—bearded, half-mad—rose, raised his rifle overhead, and barked:
"الموت لميا خليفة!"
The echo came back ragged, rabid.
"الموت لأمريكا!" "الموت لليهود!"
They screamed it louder, fists up, eyes wild—then swarmed from the sewer like boil-popping demons. Rats with rockets. Ghosts with death in their mouths.
Up top, wind blew hot across broken rooftops. The horizon glowed orange with city-smoke and lightless towers. They moved fast—grimy, shirtless, veins like cable. One dropped his magazine. Another forgot to rack a round. They shoved, slapped, laughed like jackals.
The missiles were old—rusted, Iranian bones reworked with scrap and desperation. Oil drums. Sandbags. Hope. They braced launch rails with whatever the city had left.
One man prayed—palms up, eyes skyward. Another beat his chest. Another slipped and shot himself in the foot. The screaming rose and kept rising.
A final click over the radio.
The lead man bellowed:
"الله أكبر!"
It detonated from a dozen throats.
"الله أكبر!" "الله أكبر!"
And the missiles went.
Rockets clawed skyward like metal prophets, arcing clumsy and glorious into night. Men danced beneath them, spinning, firing AKs into nothing. One threw a grenade without pulling the pin. Another slipped on his own brass and split his chin on a cinderblock.
It didn't matter.
This wasn't war.
It was revenge in a borrowed uniform.
Bullets stitched empty air. The city stayed broken. But the sky changed.
And somewhere, thousands of miles away, on a floating palace of steel off the Mediterranean coast…
Jack Fritz was still asleep.
The sirens were not. They wailed through steel corridors like dying whales—long, rising, pulling at bones and eardrums. Klaxons answered. Bulkheads slammed. Boots hit deck in rhythm. Voices barked orders into the roar.
Inside Captain Marlowe's private cabin, the world was soft and warm and quiet.
Jack lay under two blankets, one arm across his chest, the other drifting lazily south, as if to remind himself how amazing he was. Hair a mess. Mouth dry. Breath like weed and sex.
"Ugh… again?"
He didn't open his eyes. He didn't need to. The mattress was real. The pillow was real. The sirens?
Fake. Again.
He reached beneath the mattress, found the slit, and pulled a velvet roll from the lining—his actual emergency kit: weed that got you banned in three states and promoted in two. He sparked up, dragged deep, held, exhaled slow.
The room didn't smell like war. It smelled like post-coital sweat and high thread-count sheets. A sports bra draped over the lamp. A mug of protein latte—half-done, still warm—on the table. A navy-blue thong clung to the corner of the bulkhead display like a proud little flag.
Captain Leigh Marlowe had left before dawn, still glowing, probably humming Mika's anthem. Pregnant now—probably his. Forty-two, jacked, lactating, furious, and tender. The perfect Fistforce MILF.
She called him "bad boy." Gave him the room. Gave him the job. Gave him immunity.
Jack loved her for it. Lazily. Smugly. Noncommittally.
He squinted up at the red light pulsing overhead. "What now, huh? Somebody sneeze too hard on the flight deck?"
He fished out his real phone—an Energizer brick that could shrug off a naval shelling and looked like it already had. Unlocked. Blinked through blur. Took another hit. Blinked again.
3:04 A.M.
"For fuck's sake…"
He sighed—loud. "Third time this week."
He let the phone drop to his chest and watched the red pulse try to hypnotize him into caring.
Then the knock.
BANG-BANG-BANG.
"J-Jack! I-it's Sam! O-open up! I-it's th-the w-w-world, it's h-h-happening!"
Jack groaned. "Oh Christ…"
BANG-BANG-BANG.
"Th-they s-said M-Mika gave the order! T-they're h-hitting bases! I-Iran, Korea, e-e-everywhere!"
Jack stayed under the covers. "Sam. If you're quoting Two Towers again, I'm gonna slap the autism out of your soul."
BANG-BANG-BANG.
"N-no, really! T-This is it! T-The D-Day of D-days! W-we're the last ship in the m-m-med!"
The intercom cracked alive—female, hoarse, furious, and frayed at the edges. Captain Marlowe.
"ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! MULTIPLE INCOMING HOSTILES—CIWS ALREADY ENGAGED! IF YOU'RE STILL IN BED, YOU'RE DEAD!"
Static chewed the last word. Jack stared at the ceiling.
"…Leigh?"
He grabbed the phone again—not for messages. For FistVault. Logo up. Spinner. Numbers.
Bitcoin: -19% Ethereum: -31% Solana: dead Dogecoin: +3% (somehow still alive)
Tap.
Fistcoin: +27%
Wallet bloomed:
Fistcoin Holdings: $407,912.55
NFT Tier: "MILF Patriot—Gold++"
"Ohhh… oh fuck yes." He grinned through the haze. "I'm gonna be rich off this war…"
Only then did he sit up. "Okay. Maybe this shit's real."
He rolled out of bed, pulled on pants—no belt, no underwear—and yanked the door open.
Sam Harding filled the jamb—five-five, helmet crooked, uniform wrinkled, plastic lightsaber dangling like a relic. Face flushed. Glasses fogged. Arms shaking. Legs trembling. Beaming.
"Th-th-they said it! Th-this is it! I-it's started! The l-l-last war!"
Jack blinked. Then again. He leaned on the frame and drew from his joint.
"Sam… buddy… you look like a PTSD Ewok in heat."
Sam gasped. "Th-th-thank you."
Jack let smoke curl from his nose like a bored dragon and looked him over. Sweat through the undershirt. Crumpled paper clenched like a battle map.
"What's that?"
"I-it's the p-plan. T-the Admiral p-probably needs it. I d-drew the missiles b-based on what I th-think the Iranians have. A-and the R-Russians. I-it's all in here."
He held up crayons.
Jack stared. Then laughed. "You're serious."
Sam nodded, voice cracking. "Th-they're attacking from everywhere. M-Mika gave the order. T-Taiwan's gone. S-Seoul's gone. T-the Islamic bloc j-just called M-Mia Khalifa a devil-witch. R-radio's full of it. I think they nuked Cyprus."
"Cyprus?" Jack tilted his head. "That's still a country?"
Sam didn't smile. His hands shook too hard. "W-we're g-gonna be heroes, Jack."
The grin slipped. Jack looked—really looked. In Sam's face: belief. Not irony. Not fantasy. Hope. The same expression from that one-room dorm with the broken heater and the stack of pirated DVDs.
"I'm gonna j-join the military," Sam had said then. "I'll s-save someone. M-make a name."
Jack gently took the crayon map, rolled it, tucked it into his waistband. "Alright, Frodo. Let's go see Mordor."
They moved—Jack barefoot, shirtless, joint clinging to his lip like a French film cigarette; Sam quick-stepping, whispering:
"Th-there's still good in this world… a-and it's worth fffighting for…"
He gripped the lightsaber.
"You brought that plastic thing to a war?" Jack asked.
"I-it's symbolic."
"So's my dick," Jack said. "I don't wave it in a crisis."
Sam said nothing. He smiled. Jack rolled his eyes. "Fine. You're my retard."
They hit the ladderwell. Sirens louder. The ship shuddering awake. Men pounded past. Orders snapped. Somewhere above, a CIWS spun up—deep whirr like a god starting a chainsaw. Smoke crept through vents. Lights flickered.
"W-we're gonna m-make history, Jack," Sam said.
Jack didn't answer. He was wondering if Fistcoin would pop again before they reached topside.
The hatch wheel groaned. A slap of freezing sea air punched through, carrying salt, smoke, and something wrong.
Jack stepped onto the Eisenhower's flight deck—bare feet, bare chest, joint burning to its nub—and stopped. Sam skidded to a halt beside him.
They looked up.
The sky was alive. Not with stars—with fire. Hundreds of missile trails slashed the night like knives of flame. Some streaked fast and blinding; others crawled—death on strings. White. Red. Green. Too many. Far too many.
Jack knew simulations. He'd watched exercises.
This wasn't war.
This was extermination.
"Holy shit…" he whispered. The joint fell, forgotten.
The CIWS screamed, vomiting hot brass across the deck as it chewed whatever wandered into range. Jets hurled off the bow, engines punching holes in the noise. Officers shouted. Sailors scrambled. The whole ship throbbed with panic and purpose.
Jack saw all of it—and felt small for the first time in forever.
He took a step. Another. Dropped to his knees—not dramatic, just… done. Hands slack. Head down.
It hit him.
"I could've been on a boat," he said. "Just a goddamn fishing boat with my old man. Up at four. Throw nets. Smell like shit. Make enough for bait and whiskey."
"I was good at that. Better than anyone."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"But no… I had to join the fucking Navy."
"Why?"
He laughed—hollow, cracked.
"Because a retarded hobbit told me he wanted to be a hero."
Sam stood behind him, silent. Watching.
Then he knelt beside Jack.
Above them, the world was ending.
Sam cleared his throat. His voice came out thin and cracked.
"I–know, Lieutenant. I-it's all wr-wrong…"
Jack didn't look up. Didn't answer.
So Sam kept going—stutter thick, breath shaking—but the words found him anyway.
"By r-rights we sh-shouldn't even be here. B-but we are…"
Jack twitched. Barely.
Sam swallowed, blinked the gloss from his eyes.
"It's l-like in the stories, Jack. The ones that… that mattered."
A missile scythed overhead—so low Jack felt its heat comb his face.
Sam's voice trembled.
"F-full of darkness and danger, th-they were. And sometimes you d-didn't want to know the end.
Because how c-could the end be happy?"
Jack exhaled—slow, ragged, bitter.
"But in the end," Sam said, "it's only a p-passing thing, this shadow. E-even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer."
Jack looked at him now. Really looked. Bloodshot eyes, pale face, trembling mouth.
Sam nodded.
"Th-those were the stories that stayed. That meant something. E-even if you were too small to know why."
He reached and took Jack's forearm. Held it.
"But I th-think I know now."
Jack didn't pull away. Didn't sneer. Didn't joke. He stared at Sam the way a drowning man stares at a rope.
"Folks in those stories," Sam whispered, "had l-lots of chances to turn back. Only they didn't. Because they were holding on to something."
Jack's lips parted. A rasp:
"…What are we holding on to, Sam?"
Through fear, through tears, Sam managed a smile.
"That there's still some good in this world, Jack. And it's worth fighting for."
The words hung in the air like smoke that wouldn't rise.
"Some good," Jack echoed. "Worth fighting for."
He blinked once. Then winced like he'd bitten a lemon spiked with a nail.
"Jesus, Sam… we really just quoted Tolkien. Out loud. On a warship. While the sky melts."
He coughed and wiped his face—blood, sweat, snot, all the same color here.
"That was… I don't know. Corny as hell."
A beat. "And somehow perfect."
Sam let out a small, broken laugh—relieved just to be heard.
Jack looked again: smaller than ever; dirt on his cheeks; eyes too wide for this apocalypse. Hopeful anyway.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't have to. Something in his chest shifted. He nodded—just enough.
Then came the light.
Too fast. Too bright. Too close.
Jack had only started to look away when the USS Mason, off their port beam, came apart.
Not a spark. Not a flash. A rupture.
A missile speared her amidships, burying deep like God's own harpoon. For one held-breath second, nothing. Then—detonation. A column of fire roared up out of the sea, and the Mason split—steel ribs peeling open like an animal's chest.
For a moment, the ship tried to stay alive. Then she gave up and tore in two.
Jack didn't have time to scream.
The shockwave hit like a truck made of sound. Air became thunder. Deck became sky. He went weightless, body flung across the Eisenhower's flight deck.
Something snapped in his shoulder. Something else in his ribs. He couldn't tell if the screaming belonged to him or the wind.
Sam vanished.
Jack slammed down, skidding until a jag of metal stopped him with a wet, metallic THUD. Blood. Copper. No legs under him—couldn't feel them anyway.
Silence, except for the shrill knife of ringing in his ears. Lights juddered. The sky above still scored by burning trails.
He was alive.
For now.
The flight deck was hell.
Twisted steel like black flowers. Smoke boiling from torn bulkheads. Fire prowling for more to eat. A helicopter on its side, blades snapped, tail gone. Bodies scattered like dropped dolls—some burning, some undone, one man crawling three feet before folding. Another stood screaming with no sound, blood sluicing from his ears.
The ship groaned—a tectonic animal. Listing. Port side dipping like a slow nod.
Jack pushed. Pain lanced his chest. He coughed metal and spat red onto scorched nonskid. Left arm dead under him; right hand clenched around—what? A shred of crayon map? A strip of shirt? Didn't matter.
He twisted enough to see over a bent wing mount.
"Sam…"
His voice was dry paper.
"Sam, where the hell are you…"
Another cough—more blood.
The joint was gone. The high was gone. The world was gone.
He searched anyway. Through smoke and red and ruin.
Something moved.
Small.
Dragging.
Sam.
Crawling. Covered in blood. Legs—gone.
"L–Lieutenant…"
It was real. Sam dragging himself forward, face streaked with ash and salt, arms trembling, breath hitching with each inch like a marathon made of knives. Barely a man. But the eyes—still bright. Still locked on Jack.
"I–I'm… I'm not… leaving y-you."
Jack couldn't move. He watched, breathing shards, as Sam dragged what remained of himself across the burning deck.
Closer. Closer.
Sam reached out, found Jack's hand, and squeezed with mangled fingers.
"N–not today, Jack… n–not today."
Fire climbed. Metal groaned. Deck plates popped, buckled, settled. Yet the moment went still.
Jack lay bleeding into steel, vision tunneling at the edges. Beside him, Sam collapsed—chest sawing, face pale, legs absent—but smiling anyway. Crooked. Too wide. Real.
"H–hey… you know what G–Gandalf said?"
Jack rolled his eyes as far as pain allowed.
"You're dying, Sam. Please don't force a director's cut."
Sam giggled—actually giggled.
"D–don't be afraid. D–death is just another path… one that we all must take."
Jack watched the smoke spiral into the ruined sky.
"That's from the movie, isn't it?"
"Y–yeah."
"Figures."
Sam breathed in slow. Firelight flickered in his pupils.
"I–I think… we'll go someplace good. Maybe Elysium. Maybe Valhalla. Or the F–Force plane—whatever it's called."
He turned his head. "M–maybe even Heaven."
Jack stared a long time. For once, nothing cruel rose to the surface. No mock, no laugh. Just the sight of this stubborn little bastard—half-broken, half-baked, quoting wizards and Jedi like liturgy—and the slow realization:
He didn't hate him. Not even a little.
Another cough. More red. Still, a smile—small, not cocky. Almost content.
"Ah, screw it," Jack whispered. "At least I didn't have to gut fish forever."
Sam's laugh came weak, but true.
Jack nodded, voice down to thread.
"No regrets."
They lay there like that—the hero and the asshole—hand in hand, eyes open, watching the burning firmament.
The second missile arrived without warning. No siren. No alarm. Just a white-hot seam ripped from the heavens—silent, certain.
It hit the Eisenhower amidships.
Fire ran like a scream. The deck cracked. Light swallowed everything.
And then—
Silence.
White.
Weightless.