June 23rd, 1983
Walter walked alone through the dim, fractured halls of Erebus.
The distant creak of metal and the faint drip of water echoed around him, but he paid it no mind. His steps were slow. Unhurried. Like he already owned the place.
After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph.
A family picture.
He looked younger in it—sixteen, maybe. Standing tall, a faint smirk on his face. The kind of picture meant to capture something warm.
Something happy.
But it didn't.
Because one part of it had been ruined.
The image of an eleven-year-old Wren had been scratched out completely, her face reduced to nothing but torn paper and jagged lines.
Walter stared at it for a second longer.
Then lowered it.
"You're in a bad mood today."
The voice came from behind him, light and teasing.
"You're supposed to be the comic relief of our dysfunctional little group."
Walter didn't turn right away.
A woman stepped into view beside him.
Long pink hair fell past her shoulders, contrasting sharply with her sharp orange eyes. She wore a fitted combat uniform, a cap tilted slightly over her head, and carried herself with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was.
A knife rested loosely in one hand.
A coiled whip hung at her side.
"Poor hubby," she said, pouting playfully. "Do you want a massage?"
She blew him a kiss.
Selena Nightingale
Codename: The Shepherd
Walter finally glanced at her.
"Tell the commander he can shove his orders where the sun doesn't shine," he said flatly. "I'm going to kill Wren."
Selena's smile widened, almost fond.
"You're so cute when you're angry," she said, stepping closer.
Then she wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her chin lightly on his shoulder.
"But I can't let you do that."
Her tone stayed soft.
Sweet.
"I'll do it for you instead."
Selena smiled as she said it, but there was something cold beneath the sweetness.
"I won't let my beloved be consumed by his hatred for that filthy little wretch."
Walter let out a tired sigh.
"I told you, I'll handle it."
Selena only laughed softly.
"So grumpy," she teased. "Come on, let's head back to our little hideaway. Ellis was even kind enough to give us a room to share."
She blew him another kiss as the two of them walked off together.
The wing of the staff dormitories had already been repurposed into Task Force Eleven's base of operations.
It looked less like a barracks and more like the aftermath of a massacre.
At least seven corpses lay scattered across the floor, left where they had fallen. Blood had dried in dark streaks along the walls and beneath the doors. Any infected organisms that had once claimed this part of the facility had already been exterminated.
Nothing hostile remained.
Nothing except them.
Waiting in the middle of the hallway was a man in a black suit.
His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, in a way that felt more threatening than alertness ever could. He had messy black hair, one visible blue eye, and a black eyepatch covering the other. Black gloves covered his hands, and at his side rested a sheathed sword.
But what drew the eye most was where he sat.
A coffin.
Dark wood.
Polished.
And from within it came the sound of frantic banging.
Something—or someone—inside was still trying to get out.
Ellis Kingsley
Codename: The Ripper
"Hey, boss," Selena said brightly. "How's it going? And where is everyone?"
Ellis exhaled a slow stream of cigarette smoke before answering.
"Sleeping," he said. "Most of them, anyway."
The muffled pounding from inside the coffin continued beneath him, but he didn't so much as glance down.
"Though it seems John wandered off on his own. Said he was getting bored." Ellis's visible eye narrowed faintly. "Apparently he decided to pay August a visit."
Walter let out a short laugh.
"He always was impatient."
A grin tugged at Walter's mouth.
"But I'm not worried. No way he'd lose."
Elsewhere in the facility, August stood in the middle of a quiet hallway, showing little interest in the fresh corpse at his feet.
The body had been ruined.
A man with short, messy green hair and purple eyes lay twisted across the floor, his white dress shirt shredded, his black tie hanging in tatters, his suspenders snapped and stained. Flesh and fabric alike had been torn apart, but the strangest wounds were the spirals—deep, circular indents carved into his skin as though parts of him had been twisted inward and drained away, like water vanishing down a sink.
His body looked less killed than unraveled.
Beside his mangled head lay a broken pair of sunglasses.
John Smith
Codename: The Starfish
August gazed down at him for only a moment before looking up again, entirely unimpressed.
"It seems," he said smoothly, "that a mass of heathens has entered our lovely place of worship."
His voice carried easily through the hall.
From the surrounding shadows, robed figures began to emerge one by one, silent and obedient, their faces hidden beneath hoods as they gathered around him.
"Fear not, my followers," August continued, spreading his arms as if delivering a sermon. "They shall all be exterminated."
He smiled faintly.
"Just as easily as this one was."
The cloaked figures began to clap.
Softly at first.
Then louder.
A chorus of devotion echoed through the bloodstained hall.
August let it continue for a few moments, basking in the sound as if it were worship in its purest form.
Then he raised one hand.
"Now, now," he said softly. "Calm yourselves, my faithful."
The clapping gradually died away.
"These interlopers may appear formidable," August continued, smiling as he looked over his gathered followers. "They may carry weapons. They may bare their teeth and call themselves hunters."
He glanced down at John's ruined corpse.
"But in the end, they die as all ordinary humans do."
His smile widened.
"Whether it is Wren's little band of survivors… or these feeble hunting dogs sent by Alexander… it changes nothing."
He spread his arms as though embracing the entire blood-soaked hallway.
"We shall endure."
His voice dropped lower, almost reverent.
"We shall be the final survivors of this holy war."
The followers erupted into applause once more, louder than before, their devotion ringing through the corridor like the applause of the damned.
June 23rd, 1983
On this date, a direct confrontation took place between August Roswaal and John Smith.
With minimal effort, the first operative of Task Force Eleven was killed.
Thus began the three-way conflict between:
Wren's group
Task Force Eleven
and The Church of Ascension