The battlefield stretched endlessly beneath a bruised sky, the horizon a haze of smoke and ember. Marin Caze crouched behind a shattered tank turret, his breath steady despite the chaos. Beside him, Nathan Cole surveyed the war-torn landscape with dark eyes, every muscle poised for action.
They'd fought through swarm after swarm of genre-infused soldiers. Nathan's fists had become weapons of precision—disarming, disabling, and dismantling opponents with a speed that left bodies in his wake. Marin moved in tandem, a zig-zag ghost between cover points, exploiting every scrap of destroyed terrain.
"You sure you're not the main character here?" Marin had teased earlier, watching Nathan flip an enemy over his shoulder.
"I get that a lot," Nathan had replied, voice low. "But today, we're both on borrowed time."
At last, they reached the enemy headquarters: a looming fortress of blackened concrete and welded steel, ringed by stacked sandbags and watchtowers bristling with gun barrels. The front was sealed by a heavy blast door, dented and scorched.
Marin and Nathan crouched behind a crumbling rear wall, voices hushed.
Nathan: "In most war movies, this is where you call in an airstrike. Or charge with armored support. We're just two guys."
Marin (smirking): "But we have plot armour."
Nathan's jaw tightened.
Nathan: "Plot armour gives you a chance to survive. It doesn't make you a walking tank. And if the caster's clever, some weapons here must be infused with plot armour —powerful enough to cut through the guard."
Marin: "He's an amateur, right? Shouldn't know how to craft a perfect trap."
Nathan's fingers drummed on the grenade in his hand.
Nathan: "Amateurs are unpredictable. Their mistakes can kill you fast. We breach from the west wing—smoke, flash, and straight to the command center. Swift and quiet."
Before Nathan could finish, Marin bolted for the front gate.
"You idiot!" Nathan cursed, rushing after him.
Bullets arced through the air, mortars exploded at Marin's feet—and every shot curved away, leaving him untouched. He vaulted over sandbags, dropped into the compound, and charged a group of soldiers.
Marin (grinning): "Hey! You want some of this?"
He spun, unleashing a flurry of punches: face, jaw, temple—each strike precise enough to incapacitate. Two soldiers lunged; he ducked and used one's momentum to catapult the other. In under a minute, the courtyard lay silent.
Nathan skidded to a halt beside him, out of breath.
Nathan: "Next time you if just charge, I'm leaving you behind."
Marin: "Time's ticking and we are losing plot armour here every second shouldn't we move fast. Whybwaste time planning ?"
They slipped through a side entrance into a narrow corridor. Torches flickered against rusted metal walls.
Ahead, thirty soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, knives gleaming.
Nathan (quietly): "Classic hallway ambush."
Marin: "Yours or mine?"
Nathan cracked his neck.
Nathan: "Yours was reckless. This one's mine."
He sprang forward. Body slamming the first attacker into the wall, twisting behind a second to deliver a crushing elbow. He deflected three blades at once with a steel pipe, pivoted on his heel, and executed a spinning back kick that sent two more sprawling. The corridor echoed with the clang of metal and thuds of bodies.
Marin watched, impressed.
Marin (quietly to himself): "Teaching a masterclass here."
Nathan glanced back.
Nathan: "Save the commentary."
He ducked under a swing, locked hands with one soldier, and flipped him over five heads. Behind him, three attackers converged—Nathan spun through them, narrow escape, then swept a leg to send all three crashing.
Thirty gone. Nathan's chest heaved; a faint aura flickered and dimmed around him.
Marin (alarming): "You okay?"
Nathan (breathless): "Plot armour is very low . I can't keep this up.You just go in and knock him out to end this ."
They arrived at the final door—a heavy metal slab. Nathan pressed a palm to it, ready to kick down, but only managed a weak shove.
Nathan (weakly): "Go."
Marin nodded. Pushing it open, he found the criminal center stage, cackling amid an array of war relics: bullet-riddled flags, cracked monitors, and a circle of half-melted candles.
Criminal (grandly): "Ah ha! Welcome, welcome!"
He spun, arms stretched wide.
Criminal: "Behold my masterpiece: a narrative within a narrative—war upon war, genre upon genre. You insects — you are pieces in my grand design!"
Marin didn't respond. He advanced.
Criminal (annoyed): "Wait, no, you must hear this! I have transcended conventional storytelling—"
Marin's fist connected with his jaw.
Criminal (mouth full of blood): "Ow! That… was unnecessary."
Marin delivered a second punch.
Criminal (groaning): "Fine, I get it. Violent resolution… exquisite. But you haven't considered the existential consequences of my creation—"
Another punch.
Weary guards in the hallway pounded on the door, muffled cries echoing as reality began to warp behind them.
Marin delivered the final blow. The criminal slumped, unconscious.
With a pop like tearing paper, the compound dissolved.
They staggered to their feet on a deserted city street.
Police sirens blared. Yellow tape fluttered. A small crowd gathered, cameras flashing.
Nathan collapsed to one knee, head in hands.
Marin: "You good?"
Nathan (hoarsely): "Never do that hallway stunt without backup."
The criminal lay unconscious on the asphalt, bruised and groaning as stray bullets from a past war faded into echoes.
Marin cocked an eyebrow. "Well, at least we beat the cliché."
Nathan glanced up at the sky, half-smile cracking.
They heard sirens wailing as soon as they got out , nathan exclaimed ah we are out and lost consciousness and MC found himself in a an area taped by the police
As the police closed in, a strange calm washed over them—two unlikely allies who'd survived the gauntlet of genre-war with nothing but wit, skill, and a dash of divine favour.