The Earth choked on the ashes of its own technological hubris. World War III claimed five billion lives, waged with hyper-advanced, reality-fracturing munitions that left the biosphere irreversibly poisoned. The sky is a perpetual, bruised grey of chemical smoke, and the soil is so thoroughly irradiated that nearly all animals and life have been driven to extinction.
To survive the apocalyptic fallout, humanity was forced into absolute isolation. The wealthy elite retreated behind colossal, electromagnetically shielded metal walls, sealing themselves inside pristine, automated megacities. The poor and displaced now scavenge in the shadow of those barricades, enduring a miserable, gloomy existence in the rotting ruins of the old world.
But the war that broke the planet was merely the prologue. The devastating energy weapons used during the conflict didn't just scorch the earth—they tore open the fabric of reality itself. Through those microscopic rifts came the monsters: terrifying apex predators of unknown, perhaps extra-dimensional origin, that now stalk the outer slums.
And worse than the beasts is the phenomenon the survivors whisper about in the dark. Entire outer settlements are vanishing overnight. There is no blood, no signs of a struggle, and no footprint left behind. Just a deafening silence where hundreds of people used to be.
The transport ship vibrated violently, the low, deafening hum of its plasma thrusters rattling the reinforced steel deck. It was a massive, heavily modified drop-ship—capable of carrying a hundred heavily armed soldiers, mechanized suits, and artillery straight into the dead zones. Inside, the cabin was bathed in the bloody glow of red tactical lighting.
Next to Qinn, a young soldier's knuckles were white as he gripped his four-point safety harness, his eyes fixed on the vibrating floor.
"The ship won't break apart," Qinn said, her voice easily cutting through the engine roar. "You can relax your grip."
"Yeah, I know," he replied, swallowing hard. "But... we're being deployed to a new battalion. I'm just quite nervous."
Qinn leaned her head back against the cold bulkhead. She was somewhat worried about the reassignment, too, but she had survived enough deployments across the irradiated wastelands, fighting enough twisted abominations, to be numb to the pre-drop jitters. She had nearly lost her own life more times than she could count, and had buried enough friends to mourn them every single day. She wasn't terrified like the kid beside her. He was clearly fresh meat, straight out of the academy.
"Look at the trajectory on the monitors, boy," a raspy voice cut in from across the narrow aisle.
It was Jorge, a veteran wearing a skin-tight black undersuit beneath a battered, old-issue military uniform. He had the hardened, daring look of a man who had seen the worst of the apocalypse and survived by being ruthless.
"We're heading dead north to Helsinki," Jorge smirked grimly. "It's pretty obvious which meat grinder we're being assigned to. Unit 1107. The Devil's Frame."
The name sent a physical ripple of dread through the cabin. Several soldiers, sitting shoulder to shoulder, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Suddenly, the deafening roar of the jet thrusters felt comforting compared to the heavy, suffocating terror that name carried.
"Hey, old man, back off. Stop scaring the recruit," Qinn snapped, trying to break the suffocating silence.
"Who are you calling old?" Jorge shot back, his smirk fading. "And don't try to sugarcoat it to ease their nerves. You know it too, Qinn. Going to Helsinki means only one thing."
"No, it's okay," the young recruit blurted out, his voice cracking. "I just hope we aren't assigned to 1107. I don't want my first mission to be my last. Everyone knows the captain is a devil. His methods are... insane. I don't want to lose my life just to add myself to his collection of dead subordinates."
Dead silence fell over their section of the plane. The surrounding soldiers stared at the kid, stunned. They all shared the same fear, but no one could believe how stupid he was to speak it out loud. They had all been assembled from different remnants just hours before takeoff; they didn't know each other, and they certainly didn't know who was eavesdropping. The captain himself, or a high-ranking loyalist, could easily be sitting three rows down in the dark.
Qinn let out a dark, dry laugh. "Look on the bright side, kid. See all these gloomy, terrified faces around you? They'll freeze up and die first. You might actually make it to your second mission." She nudged his shoulder. "But seriously, keep your mouth shut. Not out loud. What's your name, anyway?"
"Umm... Reach," he muttered, looking down at his boots in shame.
Before Qinn could reply, the heavy pressurized door to the pilot's cockpit hissed open. A blast of cold, filtered air swept through the stifling cabin.
A high-ranking Lieutenant stepped out into the red light. Her uniform was immaculate, her expression carved from absolute ice.
"Shut your mouths and listen up!" her voice snapped like a whip, instantly killing the murmurs in the cabin. She paced down the center aisle, her eyes sweeping over the pale, nervous faces of the soldiers.
"I have your final briefing and your ground rules. You follow orders without hesitation. You do not break formation. And you do not question your commanding officer. For those of you whispering like cowards in the dark—yes. Your reassignment is confirmed."
She stopped directly in front of Reach and Qinn. "You belong to Unit 1107 now. You will drop in Helsinki in exactly five minutes."
The cabin grew palpably colder. A collective, stifled breath of despair echoed among the ranks. The Devil's Frame. It was universally known across the military as a suicide unit—a place where the brass sent soldiers to die violently under a commander who viewed them as expendable ammunition. Discomfort and raw fear washed over the faces of the troops, some lowering their heads, others gripping their weapons with trembling hands.
The Lieutenant's lip curled in disgust as she watched them panic.
"Look at yourselves," she sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. "If the mere rumour of a commander breaks your spirit before you even hit the ground, then you are entirely unfit for Special Ops. Stiffen your spines and check your gear! Five minutes to hell!"