Eastern Approach — After the Clash
Smoke thinned. Snow drifted back in.
The three formations—mercenary, Stasi, and Soviet—held their positions in a wary triangle while cooling systems hissed and warning tones faded. No one powered down. Not yet.
Arno broke the silence first.
"K-Team, ammo check. Don't relax."
Green indicators flickered in response—low, but serviceable.
Across the ring, the Soviet squadron leader exhaled audibly.
"We appreciate the assistance," he said, measured. "We would not have broken out alone."
Michalke answered before Arno could.
"Acknowledged," she said. "Remain alert."
No thanks. No pleasantries.
Lines Redrawn
Borkwalde Squadron repositioned with surgical precision, two Cheburashkas stepping forward to overwatch while the rest held depth. The Soviets mirrored the move instinctively, Balalaikas slotting into gaps as if they'd trained together for years.
Arno watched it happen, impressed despite himself.
"Clean work," he admitted over a shared channel. "All of you."
Michalke gave a minimal reply.
"Competence is expected."
A Look Too Long
Siegfried felt it again—the pressure. He was mid-scan when a Stasi Cheburashka drifted closer than necessary. For a heartbeat, their cockpits aligned.
A private channel opened.
"K-07," a female voice said softly.
"Your control timing during the Tank-Class collapse—precise. Where did you learn it?"
Siegfried's throat tightened.
"On the job," he replied, keeping his voice steady.
A pause.
"You lie efficiently," the voice said. Not accusing. Observational.
Before he could respond, Michalke cut in—firm, final.
"Borkwalde-Three. End private traffic."
The channel snapped shut.
Arno noticed Siegfried's vitals spike, then settle.
"You holding?" Arno asked privately.
"Yes," Siegfried said. "Still green."
Parting Without Closure
Sensors remained clear for two full minutes—an eternity in contested territory.
Michalke turned her formation.
"Werewolf Battalion elements," she ordered, "disengage. Resume shadow at altitude."
Her Cheburashka rose first, the others following without deviation.
The Soviet leader waited a beat.
"We will rejoin our main unit," he said to Arno. "Good hunting."
"Stay alive," Arno replied.
The Soviets peeled off west. The wolves vanished into cloud.
K-Team was alone again.
On the March
Arno set course and motioned the formation forward.
"Alright, K-Team. We move. Eyes open."
As they advanced, Siegfried replayed the fight in his head—not the BETA, but the coordination. The way the Werewolves moved. The way his own hands had matched their tempo without thought.
I've done this before, he realized. Somewhere.
Arno glanced back once more at Siegfried's marker, then keyed a brief message to Simo.
Arno: Contact with Stasi and Soviets. Joint engagement. Kid held steady—but they're definitely watching him.
The reply came a moment later.
Simo: Copy. Keep him close.
The terrain rolled on ahead—quiet, deceptive, waiting.
And though the BETA were gone for now, the sense of pursuit lingered—
not in the sensors,
but in the space behind Siegfried's eyes,
where memory was finally beginning to sharpen.
High Altitude — Werewolf Command Element
The clouds above the battlefield were calm, almost serene.
Within that quiet, Major Beatrix Brehme listened in silence as data scrolled across her display and Captain Nicola Michalke's report concluded. Every movement of K-Team, every firing solution, every deviation in formation discipline had been logged with meticulous precision.
"—joint engagement concluded successfully," Michalke finished.
"K-Team performance within expected parameters. Subject K-07 confirmed present."
For a brief moment, there was no reply.
Then—just barely—
A small smile curled at the corner of Beatrix Brehme's lips.
It was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Continue observation," Brehme ordered calmly.
"Do not interfere. Do not provoke. Maintain distance."
"Understood," Michalke replied.
"Report only if deviation escalates," Brehme added.
"Brehme out."
The channel closed.
Werewolf Squadron — Command Pair
In formation beside Brehme's TSF, First Lieutenant Katrina—her MiG-23 Cheburashka still bearing the faint scars of earlier fighting—waited several seconds before speaking.
"Major," she said carefully,
"Was it him?"
Brehme's eyes remained on the forward sensor feed.
"The data matches the inscription," she replied.
"Control timing. Reaction delay. Suppression pattern."
Katrina exhaled quietly.
"Then he survived…"
Another pause.
"Is he connected to Black Marks Squadron?" Katrina asked.
"The Schwarzesmarken?"
Brehme shook her head once.
"No," she said. "Not officially. No confirmed operational overlap."
Katrina frowned.
"But—"
"However," Brehme continued, cutting in,
"he is one of us."
The words carried weight.
"A Stasi asset?" Katrina asked.
"Potentially," Brehme replied.
"There is no conclusive evidence. His records are fragmented. His identity… deliberately obscured."
She folded her hands calmly.
"But the conditioning is there."
Katrina's voice lowered.
"Then what is he now?"
Brehme looked out over the cloud cover, expression unreadable.
"Unclaimed," she said.
"Which makes him dangerous—to others, and to himself."
The Hunt Without Claws
Below them, K-Team moved on, unaware of the quiet verdict being formed above their heads.
Beatrix Brehme made no move to pursue. No orders to retrieve. No command to interrogate.
Not yet.
"Let him remain where he is," she said finally.
"If he truly remembers… he will come to us on his own."
Katrina nodded slowly.
"And if he doesn't?"
Brehme's eyes hardened—just a fraction.
"Then we continue to watch."
The Werewolf formation adjusted course, shadows slipping back into the clouds.
No shots fired.
No lines crossed.
But somewhere between observation and inevitability,
the hunt had already begun—
silent, patient, and unmistakably Stasi.
Extraction Point — Dusk
The war moved on, as it always did.
At the designated extraction point—a scarred stretch of road ringed by half-standing structures—J-Team and K-Team finally converged. TSFs touched down in staggered order, engines throttling back as pilots ran post-mission checks with practiced efficiency.
Arno's voice came first over the shared channel.
"K-Team accounted for. Minor damage only."
Simo answered a moment later.
"J-Team green. Good work bringing everyone back."
Siegfried's Balalaika settled into formation beside the others, armor scorched but intact. For the first time since the engagement, the tension in his shoulders eased—just a little.
Wolves Rejoin the Pack
High above, five dark silhouettes peeled away and climbed—Borkwalde Squadron returning to altitude. Their task complete, they rejoined the broader Werewolf Battalion, which had already begun withdrawing eastward in disciplined silence.
No one pointed.
No one stared.
If the Werewolves had been watching someone in particular, there was no sign of it now.
Only clouds closing behind them.
Formalities of Survival
A secure channel opened.
"This is Major Joachim Balck," the Huckebein commander announced.
"On behalf of the 51st, I thank the Jäger Battalion for timely support."
A brief pause—then, measured and deliberate—
"And… the Werewolf Battalion as well. Your intervention prevented a collapse."
Circe Steinhoff added quietly,
"Whatever our differences—today, you held the line."
No reply came from the Werewolves. None was expected.
Simo acknowledged with a short nod of his head.
"Glad we were useful," he said. "Stay alive, Huckebein."
Paths Diverge
With refueling complete and casualties accounted for, the battalions separated.
The Jäger Battalion turned north, transport craft lifting them toward the frozen skies of Norway. Engines roared, and soon the battlefield was only a memory fading beneath cloud cover.
To the east, the Werewolf Battalion crossed an invisible boundary—back into East German territory—their formations tightening as if the land itself demanded it.
Two forces.
Two ideologies.
One war.
A Quiet Moment
Inside his cockpit, Siegfried watched the clouds roll past, Norway-bound.
No alarms.
No voices.
Just the low hum of engines and the echo of thoughts he couldn't quite silence.
He didn't know he had been observed.
He didn't know conclusions had been drawn.
Only that something had shifted—subtly, irrevocably.
Simo glanced once more at Siegfried's telemetry. Steady. Calm.
For now.
The mission was over.
The front held.
And somewhere behind them, in another country with another flag,
eyes remained open—
waiting for the day the past finally caught up.
Northbound,
Night reclaimed the sky as the Jäger Battalion crossed back into Norwegian airspace.
Snowfields stretched endlessly below, unbroken and indifferent, as transport craft descended toward the forward base. One by one, TSFs touched down, landing lights cutting pale cones through drifting snow. Engines powered down. Heat bled into the frozen air.
The war receded—never gone, only quieter.
The Battalion at Rest
Pilots dismounted in small groups, exhaustion finally overtaking adrenaline. Mechanics moved in with practiced hands. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else sat on a crate and didn't move for a long while.
Arno clapped Siegfried lightly on the shoulder as they passed.
"You did fine," he said simply.
"Get some sleep."
Siegfried nodded.
"Yes, sir."
No teasing. No lectures. Just acknowledgment.
That meant more than praise.
Simo's Watch
From the edge of the tarmac, Simo watched his people return.
All accounted for.
All alive.
His gaze lingered—just a moment—on Siegfried's Balalaika, its scorched K-07 marking still visible under the floodlights. A survivor's mark, whether earned by chance or design.
Unclaimed, Brehme had called him.
Simo didn't know the truth. He only knew this:
Whatever the boy had been before, he was Jäger now.
And Simo intended to keep it that way.
Far to the East
Beyond borders and ideology, the Werewolf Battalion vanished into their own night—back behind walls of paperwork, secrecy, and doctrine. Reports were filed. Data archived. Names left unspoken.
They had not taken their prize.
Not yet.
Quiet Before the Next Storm
Siegfried lay awake in his bunk later, staring at the ceiling as the base settled into uneasy sleep. Snow tapped faintly against the window.
Fragments of memory drifted at the edge of thought—no longer painful, but insistent. Waiting.
He didn't know what he would become if he remembered everything.
But for the first time, he suspected the choice might still be his.
Outside, the Norwegian night held.
For now,
the front was quiet.
The battalion was whole.
And somewhere between past and future,
a seventeen-year-old pilot slept—
unaware that both sides of a divided world were already counting the days until he woke up again.
Night — Siegfried's Dream
Darkness, then light.
Siegfried opened his eyes—and found himself inside a cockpit.
Not the dim, utilitarian interior he knew from Norway's base, but something colder, cleaner. The panels were familiar, unmistakable.
MiG-21 Balalaika.
His hands were already on the controls.
The HUD flickered to life, painting a battlefield across the canopy—ruined terrain, burning silhouettes, movement everywhere. BETA signatures bloomed in hostile red, dozens of them, advancing fast.
Too fast.
Before he could speak, a voice echoed through the cockpit.
„Weißer Wolf… hörst du mich?"
"White Wolf… do you copy?"
Siegfried froze.
White Wolf?
Who…?
Another voice cut in—female, calm, urgent.
„Verstärkung angefordert. Sofort."
"Reinforcements requested. Immediately."
Without thinking—without answering—
His hands moved.
Thrusters ignited. The Balalaika surged forward, leaping into the burning sky as if it had always been waiting for this command. His fear was gone. His hesitation nonexistent.
He knew where to go.
He knew how fast to fly.
He knew exactly where the enemy would be.
That frightened him more than the battle itself.
Why am I here? he wondered, even as his machine fired.
Who is White Wolf?
The battlefield blurred—voices overlapping, orders shouted, then—
A sudden, overwhelming silence.
Awakening
Siegfried gasped and sat upright in his bunk, heart pounding.
Cold sweat clung to his skin. The room was dark, quiet, the low hum of the Norwegian base surrounding him. No alarms. No voices.
Just the echo of that name, still ringing in his ears.
White Wolf.
He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing slowly until the world felt real again.
"It was just a dream…" he whispered.
But even as he lay back down, staring at the ceiling, one thought refused to fade:
He hadn't imagined the controls.
He had remembered them.
And somewhere, buried beneath years of silence and erased records,
the White Wolf was beginning to wake.
Next Morning — Two Days Before New Year
Norwegian Forward Base
The base felt… different.
For once, there was no immediate alarm, no hurried scramble for launch readiness. Snow fell gently outside the hangars, blanketing scorched ground and half-buried tracks. It almost felt peaceful—almost.
Inside the mess hall, New Year's preparations were already underway.
A Rare Normal Morning
Long tables were pushed together. Field kitchens hummed. Someone had even found a string of old lights and strung them along the wall, half of them flickering but still working.
Base Commander Peter—middle-aged, thinning hair, perpetually tired eyes—stood in the middle of it all with a clipboard, trying to look authoritative while clearly enjoying the chaos.
"No, no—meat there, vegetables there," he said, pointing vaguely.
"If we poison the mercenaries, they'll invoice us."
Beside him, his secretary Alma—short, petite, glasses perched neatly on her nose—moved with quiet efficiency, jotting notes and redirecting people with polite firmness that somehow worked better than shouting.
"Commander," she said calmly,
"If we don't start boiling now, dinner will be late."
Peter sighed.
"Fine. But if this turns into soup instead of stew, I'm blaming you."
She smiled faintly.
Siegfried Wakes
Siegfried shuffled into the base café, hair still a mess, eyes heavy from dreamless sleep that felt far too deep. He poured himself a mug of black coffee, dark and bitter, and took a long sip.
The warmth helped ground him.
No cockpit.
No voices.
No White Wolf.
Just the smell of food and the low murmur of people pretending the world wasn't ending.
"Hey, Kid!"
"Jäger-Seven!"
He looked up.
At the cooking station, Jäger-Six was elbow-deep in preparation, while Jäger-Five—one of the battalion's few female pilots—stood beside him, apron on, sleeves rolled up, already looking annoyed.
"You just gonna stand there or you got hands?" Jäger-Five called out.
"Grab a knife. You're on vegetables."
Siegfried blinked, then nodded quickly.
"Y-Yes!"
He set his coffee aside and joined them, awkward at first, then slowly relaxing as the simple rhythm of chopping took over.
For a moment, he smiled.
Actually smiled.
Bad Timing, As Always
Elsewhere in the base, the calm didn't last.
Arno and Simo stood over a portable tactical display, both still in jackets, coffee untouched.
"Disturbance near the Swedish border," Arno said.
"Movement pattern doesn't match known wildlife."
Simo frowned.
"BETA?"
"Likely," Arno replied.
"Client's offering double if it's resolved before New Year's Eve."
Simo exhaled slowly.
"Figures."
He glanced toward the mess hall through the window.
Siegfried was there, laughing quietly as Jäger-Five scolded him for cutting uneven pieces. For once, he looked like a normal seventeen-year-old.
Simo's jaw tightened.
Orders Given
"We'll deploy at night," Simo said at last.
"Quick in, quick out. No complications."
Arno nodded.
"Team?"
Simo didn't hesitate.
"Jäger-Three. Jäger-Five. Jäger-Seven."
Arno glanced back toward the mess hall.
"You sure about the kid?"
Simo watched Siegfried a second longer, then spoke quietly.
"He needs this kind of mission. Controlled. Clean."
"I'll supervise from here."
Arno nodded once.
"I'll make the arrangements."
Preparations Begin
Arno stepped away to coordinate logistics. Alma met him halfway, already holding deployment forms.
"Night sortie?" she asked.
"Afraid so."
She adjusted her glasses.
"I'll prep the launch window and inform Commander Peter."
"Thanks."
As Arno walked off, Simo remained by the window.
Inside, Siegfried handed a bowl to Jäger-Six, still smiling, unaware of what had just been decided.
Simo spoke softly, to no one in particular.
"Enjoy it while you can, kid."
Outside, snow continued to fall.
And somewhere near the Swedish border,
something was already moving—
waiting for the night.
Nightfall — Two Days Before New Year
By evening, the base wore two faces.
Inside the mess hall, laughter lingered. The stew simmered. Someone tuned a battered radio until it caught a crackling melody that sounded almost festive. Commander Peter made a short speech about "making it to another year," and Alma quietly ensured everyone had a bowl before he finished.
Outside, the hangar lights burned cold and bright.
Quiet Orders
Arno gathered Jäger-Three, Jäger-Five, and Jäger-Seven near the staging line. No speeches. No bravado.
"Border sweep," he said simply. "Suspected BETA disturbance near Sweden. In and out. Keep it clean."
Jäger-Five wiped her hands on a cloth, apron already gone, pilot again in an instant.
"Figures," she muttered. "Food's finally good and we're sent out."
Jäger-Three chuckled.
"Bring some back for us."
Siegfried nodded, listening, shoulders squared. The earlier warmth of the mess hall felt distant now—like a dream he'd already woken from.
Simo's Hand on the Leash
From the command room, Simo watched their prep feeds. He leaned closer to the console, voice low but steady as he opened a private channel.
"Jäger-Seven."
"Yes, sir."
"Stay with your element. No improvisation. If anything feels wrong—anything—you pull back."
A beat.
"Understood," Siegfried replied. "I won't rush."
Simo let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Good hunting."
Launch
The hangar doors slid open, releasing a gust of snow and darkness. One by one, the TSFs powered up—hydraulics whining, reactors humming into a familiar, dangerous song.
Siegfried climbed into his Balalaika, the cockpit sealing around him. The HUD flickered alive. Green. Clean.
For a split second, the dream brushed the edge of his thoughts—the voice, the name—
White Wolf.
He shook it off.
"Jäger-Seven ready," he said, calm.
"Jäger-Five ready."
"Jäger-Three ready."
"K-Team element," Arno finished, "launch."
They stepped into the night.
Northward
The forest swallowed them quickly. Snow muffled sound. Sensors scanned for movement that didn't belong—too straight, too heavy, too purposeful.
Simo tracked their markers from the base, the trio advancing toward the border line like beads on a wire.
"Telemetry stable," Alma reported quietly behind him.
"Keep the channel open," Simo replied.
Somewhere Ahead
The woods thinned into a shallow valley. Wind carved lines across frozen ground. Then—just for a moment—Siegfried's sensors flickered.
Not a contact.
A pattern.
His grip tightened.
"Jäger-Seven to element," he said, keeping his voice even. "I'm picking up… something. Not solid. Yet."
Jäger-Five slowed.
"Copy. We see it too."
Arno's voice cut in from the rear channel.
"Hold position. Let it come to us."
Snow fell harder. The night pressed closer.
Back at the base, the stew finished cooking. Someone set aside a bowl for the pilots who weren't there.
And on the quiet border between years—between countries—
three machines waited,
while whatever had stirred in the dark decided whether to show itself.
Swedish Border — Night
K-Team Forward Element
The forest was too quiet.
Jäger-Three slowed his TSF to a crawl, optics sweeping between snow-laden trees and broken ground. Jäger-Five ranged wide on the left, while Siegfried held rear-right, sensors probing for anything that didn't belong.
"Negative contacts," Jäger-Three reported.
"Area looks clean."
From Norway, Simo's voice came through—measured, alert.
"Don't trust clean," he warned. "BETA favor patience. Keep your heads on a swivel."
They advanced another hundred meters.
Then—
"Contact," Jäger-Five said sharply. "Wreckage ahead."
They converged.
Half-buried in snow lay the twisted frame of a Mirage 2000 TSF—armor torn open, cockpit shattered. No organic residue. No BETA spoor.
Simo leaned closer to the feed.
"Zoom in… there," he said, then went still.
"That damage pattern—no. That's not BETA."
The realization hit him like ice.
"All units—RETREAT. NOW."
Silence
The command feed cut to static.
Simo's heart slammed.
"Jäger-Three, do you copy? Jäger-Five—Seven—respond!"
Nothing but hiss.
Cut Off
In the forest, Jäger-Five's voice wavered.
"We're losing contact with command—trying to reacquire—"
Static swallowed her words.
Jäger-Three's radar chirped.
"New contacts," he said, voice hardening. "Three dots. Close. Bearing—front."
Siegfried's breath caught.
The trees ahead moved.
From the shadows stepped three TSFs—angular, predatory silhouettes. MiG-23 Cheburashka. Dark paint. No friendly markings.
Stasi.
Jäger-Three opened a general channel.
"Unidentified units, this is Jäger-Three. State your intent."
No answer.
Then one Cheburashka's channel opened—German, cold, absolute.
„Der weiße Hund wurde gesichtet. Phase Zwei—Erfassen. Den Rest eliminieren."
"White Hound has been spotted. Phase Two—capture it. Eliminate the rest."
Siegfried felt the words hit inside his skull.
White Hound…?
Ambush
The Cheburashkas opened fire.
Jäger-Three's TSF staggered as rounds slammed into his shoulder assembly, alarms screaming.
"Contact hostile!" he barked. "They're Stasi—MOVE!"
Jäger-Five fired back instantly, assault cannon ripping through the night, forcing one attacker to sidestep.
Siegfried didn't think.
He fired.
Clean bursts. Perfect lead. His Balalaika's rounds sparked across a Cheburashka's armor, driving it back just enough to breathe.
"Seven—good hits!" Jäger-Five shouted.
But they were outmatched.
Three hunters. One objective.
"Five! Seven!" Jäger-Three ordered, forcing his damaged machine between them and the attackers.
"RETREAT! NOW! I'll hold them!"
"Negative!" Jäger-Five protested.
"That's an ORDER!"
Another impact rocked Jäger-Three's TSF. He fired again, buying seconds with fire and smoke.
"GO!"
Siegfried hesitated—just a fraction—
Then the word from his dream echoed, unbidden.
White Wolf.
He turned and ran, boosters flaring, Jäger-Five breaking with him into the trees as tracer fire carved their wake.
Behind them, the forest lit up.
And in the darkness, the wolves closed in—
not for the battalion,
not for the border—
but for one name that had finally been spoken aloud.
Swedish Border — Night
Ambush Fully Unleashed
Jäger-Three held his ground.
His damaged TSF planted its feet into the frozen soil, assault cannon roaring as he laid down suppressive fire, forcing the first three Cheburashkas to keep their distance. Snow and splintered trees exploded around him, warning alarms screaming in his cockpit.
"Five! Seven! Keep moving!" he shouted.
"I've got them—GO!"
Jäger-Five and Siegfried pushed deeper into the forest, boosters flaring in short, controlled bursts to avoid giving away clean vectors.
Then—
Two more contacts dropped in from above.
Siegfried's sensors spiked hard.
"More Cheburashkas—!" Jäger-Five began—
A familiar voice cut through the chaos.
Cold. Female. Absolute.
„Hier spricht Major Beatrix Brehme."
"This is Major Beatrix Brehme."
Siegfried felt the world tilt.
The Truth Reveals Itself
Jäger-Five snapped her channel open, anger bleeding through discipline.
"Why are you ambushing us?!" she demanded.
"We didn't do anything wrong!"
There was no hesitation in the reply.
„Ihr seid nicht das Ziel."
"You are not the objective."
A pause—brief, deliberate.
„Brehme-Schwadron. Angriff."
"Brehme Squadron. Attack."
The two newly arrived Cheburashkas surged forward, weapons blazing—directly at Five and Seven.
"CONTACT FRONT!" Jäger-Five shouted, swinging her TSF to shield Siegfried as she returned fire.
Siegfried fired alongside her, muscle memory overriding fear, shots snapping dangerously close to one of the attackers—but they kept coming.
Relentless. Coordinated.
Hunters closing a net.
Jäger-Three's Desperation
From behind, Jäger-Three saw the new attackers break through.
"Damn it—!" he growled, trying to pivot back toward them—
Too late.
The original three Cheburashkas slammed him again, focused fire crippling his left actuator. His TSF lurched, one knee slamming into the ground.
"I can't break free!" he reported through clenched teeth.
"They're pinning me!"
Still, he fired—every shot meant to buy seconds for Five and Seven.
Norway — Realization
Simo's transport thundered south, the rest of the Jäger Battalion racing behind him.
Telemetry finally flickered back—fragmented, chaotic.
Simo stared at the incoming data and felt his blood run cold.
Mirage wreck.
Stasi deployment.
Signal jamming.
Phase Two.
"…It was a trap," he said quietly.
Arno looked up sharply.
"Planned," Simo continued.
"They baited us in. The Mirage was never the target."
His eyes locked onto one blinking identifier.
Jäger-Seven.
"They were waiting for him."
Fish in a Barrel
Back in the forest, the noose tightened.
Five and Seven dodged between trees as laser fire carved burning lines through the snow. Their escape routes collapsed one by one as Cheburashkas repositioned with ruthless precision.
"We're boxed in!" Jäger-Five shouted.
"Every vector's covered!"
Siegfried's breathing grew ragged.
White Wolf.
White Hound.
Names layered over gunfire and fear.
Arno's Voice
A private channel cut through the noise—steady, familiar.
"Seven. Five. You hear me?"
"Arno?!" Jäger-Five gasped.
"We're inbound," Arno said firmly.
"Hold on. You are not alone."
Siegfried swallowed hard.
"They're everywhere," he whispered.
Arno's voice didn't waver.
"I know. But you've got Five with you… and Three's still fighting."
A pause—then, with conviction—
"That's enough. We'll break this."
Above the forest, Stasi machines closed in.
Below, mercenaries fought with their backs to the wall.
And somewhere between command, memory, and bloodshed,
the truth was undeniable:
This was no misunderstanding.
No border incident.
It was a hunt—
and Siegfried was finally running out of places to hide.
Swedish Border — Night
The Hunt Becomes Personal
The forest erupted into close-quarters chaos.
Five vs. Farka
Jäger-Five broke left, trying to draw fire away from Siegfried—
Only to have a Cheburashka drop directly in front of her, landing hard enough to shatter frozen ground.
"Jäger-Five," a calm female voice announced.
"Second Lieutenant Farka."
Farka didn't wait for a reply.
Her TSF lunged forward, assault cannon barking in short, vicious bursts that forced Five into evasive hops between shattered trees. Five returned fire, rounds clipping armor but failing to slow her opponent.
"You Stasi really don't know when to quit," Five snapped, swinging wide.
Farka answered with motion, not words—closing distance aggressively, forcing Five into a defensive spiral.
"You are skilled," Farka said coolly.
"But you hesitate for others."
Five gritted her teeth.
"Yeah," she shot back, "it's called being human."
Their machines collided shoulder-to-shoulder, sparks showering the snow as the duel dragged them away from Siegfried—exactly as Farka intended.
Siegfried vs. Beatrix Brehme
The temperature seemed to drop.
Siegfried barely had time to turn before Beatrix Brehme's Cheburashka descended in front of him like a judgment.
Her TSF drew a Type-77 Close-Range Battle Halberd, its blade gleaming dully in the moonlight.
"White Wolf," Brehme said softly, almost fondly.
She struck.
The halberd came down in a brutal diagonal arc—fast, precise, lethal.
Siegfried reacted on instinct.
He raised his DS-3 Multi-Purpose Supplemental Armor, locking it into a reinforced guard position.
CLANG—!
The impact rang through the forest like a church bell, shockwaves rippling through Siegfried's frame as the armor barely held. Warning lights flared—yellow, then red.
Siegfried staggered back a step, boots carving trenches in the snow.
"Good," Brehme said, voice cold but amused.
"You remember how to defend yourself."
She rotated the halberd effortlessly and pressed the attack, each strike measured—testing.
"You were always like this," she continued.
"Silent. Obedient. Efficient."
Another blow—blocked.
Another—parried barely in time.
"They called you our White Wolf," Brehme said.
"Do you remember how proud—"
"You've got the wrong person."
Siegfried cut her off.
His voice was shaking—but firm.
"I don't know who you think I am," he said, bracing his armor against her weapon,
"but I'm not your wolf."
For the first time, Brehme paused.
Just a fraction of a second.
Enough for Siegfried to breathe.
Cracks in the Mask
Brehme tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"Interesting," she murmured.
"You deny it… yet your body remembers everything."
She pulled back, halberd humming as she shifted stance.
"Then let us see," she said softly,
"what remains when the past is stripped away."
She surged forward again.
Elsewhere — Still Fighting
Jäger-Three's TSF reeled under sustained fire, alarms blaring, but he refused to fall.
"Not… tonight…" he growled, firing point-blank into a Cheburashka's chest and forcing it back.
Jäger-Five and Farka's duel intensified—two skilled pilots locked in a vicious dance, neither willing to give ground.
Closing In
Siegfried blocked another halberd strike—barely.
His arms burned. His systems screamed. But something else stirred beneath the fear.
Not obedience.
Not conditioning.
Choice.
He pushed back—hard—forcing Brehme's blade aside and finally creating space between them.
Snow swirled. Firelight flickered.
Two pilots faced each other in the dark:
One chasing the past.
One fighting to reject it.
And as engines roared and steel clashed again, one thing was certain—
This battle was no longer about capture.
It was about identity.
Swedish Border — Night
Steel, Snow, and Memory
The forest shook as both machines surged again.
Five vs. Farka — The Breaking Circle
Jäger-Five slid hard, boosters flaring sideways as Farka pressed in, her Cheburashka cutting off every escape with ruthless geometry. Their machines collided again—armor screeching, trees snapping like twigs.
"You protect him," Farka observed coolly, blade angled low.
"That makes you predictable."
Five spat back through clenched teeth.
"Then predict this."
She dumped thrust straight down, collapsing the snow beneath them and yanking free at the last second. Her cannon barked point-blank—not to kill, but to blind. Farka recoiled, sensors flaring white.
Five didn't pursue. She pivoted—back toward Siegfried.
"Seven—MOVE!" she shouted.
Siegfried vs. Brehme — Choice Over Conditioning
Brehme's halberd came in again, faster now—no more testing.
Siegfried blocked once, twice, the DS-3 armor shrieking as its integrity dipped. He felt the old rhythm trying to take over—the perfect counters, the silent compliance—
He broke it.
Instead of the expected parry, he stepped inside the arc, shoulder-checking her Cheburashka and firing thrusters laterally. The move was ugly. Inefficient.
Human.
Brehme slid back half a meter, surprised enough to let it show.
"You deviate," she said softly.
"That was never allowed."
Siegfried steadied his breath.
"That's why I'm not yours."
He surged forward—not to strike, but to create space, tearing past her and forcing her to turn. Snow and sparks erupted as his Balalaika scraped through the trees.
For the first time, Brehme was reacting.
The Cost of Defiance
She recovered instantly, halberd snapping up to guard.
"Defiance does not erase what you are," she said, voice ice-calm.
"It only delays the inevitable."
Her Cheburashka lunged—then stopped.
A new sound cut through the night.
Heavy engines. Multiple. Closing fast.
Reinforcements — At Last
Simo's voice slammed into every open channel, fierce and unmistakable.
"All Jäger elements—this is Jäger-One. Break contact. Reinforcements arriving."
From the north, the forest lit with approaching thruster flares—Jäger Battalion signatures flooding the sensors.
Arno's voice followed, steel in every word.
"Five. Seven. Hold for thirty seconds. That's all we need."
Jäger-Three—battered, limping—forced one last burst that drove his attackers back just long enough to breathe.
"I'm still here," he growled. "Not done yet."
Wolves Withdraw
Brehme assessed the field in a heartbeat. The hunt window was closing.
"Brehme Squadron," she ordered, perfectly calm,
"disengage."
Farka broke away first, smoke trailing as she vanished into the trees. The remaining Cheburashkas followed, fading back into shadow with surgical discipline.
Brehme lingered—just long enough.
Her gaze locked on Siegfried.
"You can deny it," she said quietly.
"But when the time comes… you will remember."
Then she was gone.
Aftermath — Standing, Not Owned
Silence rushed in, broken only by the crackle of fires and the hiss of cooling metal.
Siegfried's hands shook—not from fear, but from release.
Jäger-Five skidded to his side, armor scarred but intact.
"You good?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Yeah."
Jäger-Three limped in behind them, machine listing.
"Hell of a New Year's warm-up," he muttered.
Above the treeline, Jäger reinforcements thundered overhead—too late to catch the wolves, but soon enough to end the hunt.
Siegfried looked at the snow where Brehme had stood.
For the first time, the name didn't own him.
Whatever White Wolf had been—
he chose who he was now.
Swedish Border — After the Wolves Vanished
The night exhaled.
Where gunfire had torn the forest apart moments ago, only drifting snow and the crackle of dying fires remained. Jäger reinforcements fanned out in disciplined arcs, floodlights cutting through smoke as medics and mechanics moved in.
"Perimeter secure," a pilot reported.
"No hostile contacts."
Simo's TSF landed hard near the center of the clearing, boots grinding ice into slush. He didn't wait for systems to finish cycling before opening a channel.
"Status. One by one."
Jäger-Three answered first, voice rough but steady.
"Banged up. Left actuator compromised. Still standing."
"You did your job," Simo replied. "Hold."
Jäger-Five chimed in next.
"Armor damage, nothing vital. Ammo low."
Then—
"Jäger-Seven," Simo said.
A breath.
"I'm here," Siegfried replied. "All systems… barely green."
Simo nodded, unseen.
"That's enough."
The Cost Counted
Mechanics swarmed Jäger-Three's machine, bracing the damaged leg with field struts. Jäger-Five dismounted and leaned against her TSF, helmet off, breath fogging the air as the adrenaline finally drained.
She looked at Siegfried.
"You blocked that halberd," she said quietly.
"Not many could've."
Siegfried shook his head, still staring at his hands.
"I didn't know if it would hold."
"It did," she replied. "So did you."
Arno arrived then, his presence grounding the clearing like an anchor.
"Extraction in five," he ordered. "No heroics."
A Commander's Truth
Simo stepped close to Siegfried's Balalaika, studying the gouges in the DS-3 armor where Brehme's halberd had struck. His jaw tightened.
"They were never here for BETA," he said softly.
"They were here for you."
Siegfried looked up, fear flickering—and then resolve.
"I know."
Simo met his gaze.
"Whatever they think you are… you're under my command. That's not negotiable."
Siegfried nodded once.
"Thank you, sir."
Withdrawal
Transports descended through the trees, rotors and thrusters scattering snow in white spirals. One by one, Jäger machines were guided aboard, clamps locking them into place.
As the last ramp closed, Siegfried glanced back at the forest—at the spot where Brehme had stood.
The words echoed, distant now.
You will remember.
He didn't answer them.
Northbound, Again
The convoy lifted and turned north, Norway's lights faint on the horizon. Inside the transport, the battalion sat in exhausted silence—alive, intact, together.
Arno broke it with a low chuckle.
"Guess the New Year's stew will be cold."
Jäger-Five smirked.
"Worth it."
Simo watched the snow slide past the viewport, expression unreadable.
This wasn't over.
But tonight, they had survived the hunt.
And for Siegfried—whatever name the wolves had tried to claim—
the future remained unwritten.