♦Unit Zero♦

[Vanquaria]

''We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm'' - George Orwell

---

Base Barushnokov, North Pole
5:30 am, 29th April 2019

Droplets of bitter liquid clashed against the steel structure that was Base Barushnokov. The Russian Arctic facility was one of many constructed by the Russian government in their bid to control vital natural resources that lurked beneath the ice in this bleak wasteland of Earth.

What separated this military base from its brother bases in the region was that it was solely managed by the SVR RF as a camp intended to train their agents, including the infamous Zaslon units. But it was reduced to an almost silent place plagued by ferocious snow storms and winds as better, improved facilities were made available for use by the Russian external intelligence agency thanks to the efforts of the Kremlin.

Having faded away into the countless documents of the Russian services and due for demolishment it was the optimal site for those who wished to remain faded as Base Barushnokov was.

Captain Macmillan was a bit of a tough fellow, tough enough that the bogans down at the public dunny bowled him a barbie during one Sunday arvo to acknowledge his manliness.

Numerous training exercises had been executed almost nonstop during his 1 month in this bleak land. He only knew his teammates from the profiles given out which was sufficient enough to allow the exercises to run without a major hitch. But Nathan was a realistic person and being the realistic bastard he was the fact that they were being scheduled for actual operations only after just 1 month of training as a unit was not the right path to smooth teamwork. He pleaded to the entity above that the skills that each operator brought would cover the gaps.

Each operator in the base had been given their own private quarters which were quite a luxury in any military. It seemed their handlers had acknowledged the fact that these soldiers were being pulled out of their already large comfort zones into uncharted territory. The fact that these elite men and women were each evaluated to be able to handle the burden was one of the reasons why they were selected anyways.

Having dressed and prepared in his standard Australian Army clothing Macmillan carried his duffel bag along with him which contained his personal belongings, a combat knife and his essentials. All members of the Unit were notified that this was the last day they would be spending in the base before leaving to begin ‘’work’’. Arriving in the mess hall of Base Barushnokov Macmillan picked up one of the 9 bowls of relatively cold food laid out for them already, prepared by the few staff members of this base that had clearly left very early.

No announcement by the general had resonated from the intercom this morning. The weeks before the unit was kept on its toes with meals only lasting for less than a dozen minutes before more training, no time set aside to really get to know the people who you will fight alongside and even risk life and limb for. The first one in the messhall Nathan began shoving down spoonfuls of rice and meat. As leader of the Unit he felt more pressure to perform 110%. He was thankful the SASR majors back at Australia had moulded him to do such feats. Why no one should ever question their teacher's methods.

Soon he expected the rest of his foreign mates and sheilas to come filing down, maybe 5 minutes to get to know them a bit better before he heard the old man’s voice roar down the hallways again.

[Altito Asmoro]

Central Africa
Exact Location : Rumored to be in Congo

A man, tied, mouth was filled with sock, with scarves over his eyes, wept on the floor, beaten and bloody.

That man, is, and now was, an arms smuggler. Someone who worked independent, which should be fine. He always let those who work independent and refuse to align themselves with him alone, not that it will interfere with his businesses anyway. What bothers him the most however, is when they try to take over your businesses violently--and with military aid, he might added that--that bothers him the most. Bribery is the easiest, but also the more expensive option. So he chose assassination. With his military and intelligence and criminal connections across Africa, the military troops were ordered to returned, after their military leader, the one with connection to the arms smuggler, mysteriously killed.

Central knew, they took over the authority and all back to normal. Except for the fate of the smuggler.

"Now then," as Jacques, as he drank his wine, as he looked over the man, "What do you want? Please answer. Otherwise, I may have to make an example." The man attempted to answered, but unable to speak one. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. You don't want to answer."

He ordered two of his men to brought the men for public...execution. In front of Congo's military, political and intelligence officers. The high-ranked ones.

"AGM wants new information, sir," said one of his men as he returned to the office, with clean and new clothes. Previously the clothes had been dirtied with the blood.

"What to give? Mostly old. The new ones are not worth the risk to get nor to give. Ask them to wait."

"Yes, sir."

No repercussions, as usual. His...men and connections and resources...are too influential to be shaken. And no one like a new man on the throne.

[United States of Conner]

Base Barushnokov, North Pole
5:20 am, 29th April 2019

Anthony Nesson had been awake for almost an hour when he decided it was time to go eat.

Nesson had been, as usual, just thinking about the past. He should spend more time thinking on the future, but given what he had been through, the things he had seen, the things he knew - Nesson and his psychologist both felt that if he tried to bury the past, it would just keep biting at his ass until he snapped.

This time, Nesson had been thinking about his last Zaslon mission before he had joined Unit Zero.

Kabul, Afghanistan
2:42 PM, 13th February, 2019

"Well, if you don't tell me where he is, we're going to get a bit more ... in depth. I'll give you - excuse me for a second."

As his phone buzzed, Nesson stepped out a cramped bathroom and into the hallway of the small apartment room.

"What do you need, Sergei? I'm busy right now."

"Anthony, let me ask you something. You hate AGM with a passion, yes?"

"I do. Why do you ask?"

"Would you be willing to do anything to fight them?"

Nesson paused to look back into the bathroom, specifically to the tub, where a beaten, sniveling man laid bloodied and gagged, with a black hood over his head.

"Sergei, the man I have here killed thirty children, at least. In the name of God. I may not go to church anymore, but I do know that whatever God might be up there, he is not blessing these men. Their atrocities need to end."

"I was hoping you would say that. Come back to Moscow at once."

"Sergei, I'm in the middle of an operation."

"You've done enough, my friend. Our other agents can take it from here - they've got another AGM man that knows the location of your target. Clean up and exfil to base."

Nesson paused for a second before replying, "Understood."

With that, Nesson grabbed a long, sharp blade off his bedside table. Walking into the room, he silently and emotionlessly cut the man's throat and waited until he stopped breathing. Then, Nesson packed up the few things he had brought with him, armed himself, and left the apartment room, walked down to his car, and drove back to a private airfield, where he boarded a plane that took him back to Moscow.

---

After that had come the psychological test. Nesson certainly knew how to ace those, after the battery that he had undergone after returning as a freed POW in 2013. He assumed he had passed that one as well, as not too long after, his superiors within Zaslon approached him with an offer to join a secret beyond secret international unit.

Though Nesson had rolled his eyes originally at the offer, after giving it some consideration, he decided to accept. Nesson was already known as an agent with no partisan agendas whatsoever - in fact, he had gotten in hot water before after disobeying an order that he felt (and turns out, it was) politically biased. An international unit with no partisan agenda would be perfect for him.

Of course, Nesson wasn't so naive as to think there would be no partisan agendas. Well, maybe there wouldn't be.

But he would be damned if he were following one.

After showering, prepping for the day, and getting his few possessions in order, Nesson left his room and went to the mess.

Nesson had been here before, during part of his Zaslon training. He had spent three months here, although when he had been here previously, there had been about twenty trainees present and they slept in four bunk rooms. The training, though, had been pretty similar. Though the training they were receiving was the best in the world, Nesson saw a lot of similarities to his original Zaslon training.

As Nesson entered the mess, he saw that the only other person up was the unit's commander, Captain MacMillan. Nesson liked MacMillan. Like his superiors in Zaslon, MacMillan had almost no agenda except get the mission done, and Nesson appreciated that.

Nesson grabbed a bowl of food and walked over to MacMillan, sitting down across from him. Setting his duffel bag - which contained his phone, a couple jackets, some dark jeans, t-shirts, and four guns and multiple knives - down on the ground, Nesson eased himself into his chair. As he spoke to MacMillan, he made no attempt to hide his slight Russian accent - which he could do rather easily, but usually didn't like to do unless necessary when speaking English.

"Good morning, Captain MacMillan. Are you ready to get to work today?"

[Western Pacific Territories]

Unknown Location
Near Aleppo, Syria

Mukbed looked down the road in Aleppo. This city had been captured 2 years ago, and had been firmly in ISIS, then AGM forces ever since. Today, the AGM was holding a victory rally in the streets. They had been pushed out of Iraq, but when Mukbed took command of the AGM, he had made up his mind that AGM would be the owners of Syria, the Syrians were confined solely to everything east of Al-Qisa and south of Damascus, Bashar Al Assads regime was at the crossroads of death, and AGM would make one final offensive to finish the job.

Not two months ago a friend of the AGM was found dead in a bathtub, somewhere in Kabul, and AGM would get their chance at revenge. A Russian fighter was shot down a few months ago, and Mukbed personally ordered his life be spared, he wanted to use the pilot for negociations. However, chances of that ended in Kabul, the pilot would die.

Along the road, dozens of soldiers, holding guns ranging from simple AK-47s and AK-74us, and G3s, or simply pistols, lined up, cheering in excitement and shouting curses upon the terrified Russian, as he was handled down the road, slowly until the two soldiers holding him stopped at the square. In the middle of it was a simply made wooden platform, with a metal rack. Just in front of the platform, on a separate platform was a expensive and high quality camera filming the execution. ISIS had a reputation for its very well made propaganda.

The two men escorted the man up a staircase onto the platform, and tied him down on the rack. A man wearing a sking mask, holding what appeared to be a very good microphone stood up behind the platform, just out of sight of the camera.

The two men at the same time said the same sentence,

"Glory to Allah. May his enemies be struck down brutally and without mercy!"

In the distance, the crowds of soldiers all shouted the same sentence,

"Glory to Allah!"

One of the two men went behind the rack and lifted it up, showing the Russian as though he was standing. The two men then pointed their AKs at the man and began shooting. They both went through their magazines, and when they were done the Russian was riddled with bullet holes, dead, and blood was splattered all over the rack, and the two men. Given what they could have done, this was tame compared to other executions.

The video ended with one message.

"All Russian bombing strikes in Syria will end now, or Moscow will be next. Make your decision, we are happy to deliver death to your nation if you choose."

[Vacif]

Base Barushnokov, North Pole
5:27 am, 29th April 2019

Meanwhile Tonnerre wiped the steam off of the mirror in front of him, and leaned in to examine his facial features. The resident Frenchman contorted his face in rather odd looking ways as he searched for hairs on his face that required shaving. Content that he didn't need to shave today, he backed away from the mirror, and hung up his towel on the rack behind him. The washroom was small, but it was his, and he was sure to keep it clean, and tidy. They didn't have room service this far north. On his way out of the small lavatory, he flicked off the lights, and fan, and let out a small yawn. After leaving his personal dorm, he stuck his hands into his pockets, and marched down the grey utilitarian halls towards the mess hall. Tonnerre was happy. Today would be their last day in the tundra base. He loved snow as much as the next person, but this was a bit much. The soles of his boots echoed through the halls as he approached. When he entered, the only people outside of the few staffers in the base were Captain Macmillan, and Agent Nesson. Morgan casually scooped up one of the nondescript prepared bowls of food, and sat down at the table at which the Captain, and Russian resided. He nodded towards his seniors as he sat down.

"Good morning Captain, Agent. Comment ca va?" Morgan said, before scooping portions of his meal into his mouth. They probably didn't have much to say to each other, likely didn't have much time either, but common courtesy, and etiquette still applied even out here in the north pole.

[Vanquaria]

Nesson grabbed a bowl of food and walked over to MacMillan, sitting down across from him. Setting his duffel bag - which contained his phone, a couple jackets, some dark jeans, t-shirts, and four guns and multiple knives - down on the ground, Nesson eased himself into his chair. As he spoke to MacMillan, he made no attempt to hide his slight Russian accent - which he could do rather easily, but usually didn't like to do unless necessary when speaking English.

"Good morning, Captain MacMillan. Are you ready to get to work today?"

Nathan looked up at the Russian agent as he approached and sat down.

An individual who has been through damning physical and psychological trauma and suffering during his line of duty. Having gone through his profile I should take note to keep this man under my eye at all times

''Morning mate. Yes, I am very much pumped to get the hell out of this place and bring the fight to whoever our enemy will be. Though I do have concerns about the limited time we have been provided to sharpen our ability to coordinate effectively as team, hopefully we will be more than up for any challenge that howzats our way..."

Base Barushnokov, North Pole
5:27 am, 29th April 2019

Meanwhile Tonnerre wiped the steam off of the mirror in front of him, and leaned in to examine his facial features. The resident Frenchman contorted his face in rather odd looking ways as he searched for hairs on his face that required shaving. Content that he didn't need to shave today, he backed away from the mirror, and hung up his towel on the rack behind him. The washroom was small, but it was his, and he was sure to keep it clean, and tidy. They didn't have room service this far north. On his way out of the small lavatory, he flicked off the lights, and fan, and let out a small yawn. After leaving his personal dorm, he stuck his hands into his pockets, and marched down the grey utilitarian halls towards the mess hall. Tonnerre was happy. Today would be their last day in the tundra base. He loved snow as much as the next person, but this was a bit much. The soles of his boots echoed through the halls as he approached. When he entered, the only people outside of the few staffers in the base were Captain Macmillan, and Agent Nesson. Morgan casually scooped up one of the nondescript prepared bowls of food, and sat down at the table at which the Captain, and Russian resided. He nodded towards his seniors as he sat down.

"Good morning Captain, Agent. Comment ca va?" Morgan said, before scooping portions of his meal into his mouth. They probably didn't have much to say to each other, likely didn't have much time either, but common courtesy, and etiquette still applied even out here in the north pole.

"Same to you as well mate. I was just expressing my thoughts concerning the limited training given to us. Though I am itching to get out and permanently eliminate the stains of this world unit cohesion is of vital importance obviously. What are both your thoughts on this if you don't mind me asking?"

---

Kremlin, Moscow
8:55pm, 29th of April

General Yasnir Moscovich was a hardened commander. Formerly of Alpha Group he was one of the top heads of GRU, Russia's espionage branch that was alongside the SVR successor to the legendary KGB organisation.

He watched the latest execution of a Russian Armed Forces member with a grim face. The general had witnessed the turning tide of the Syrian conflict with horror. And in his and many of his colleagues opinions the fault lay on the Americans who refused to provide much needed support in the Middle East. Currently the US was in high tensions with China which was another totally different story to the current War on Terror.

The AGM was the incarnation of everyone's nightmares. It was the combination of the worlds most feared radical extremist terror groups. Its leaders and soldiers were true fanatics, absolutely crazy. But for some reason the West, being led by the Americans, was preparing for a fantasy "conflict" with the Chinese and the North Koreans. It was simply preposterous for the West were ignoring the current, most dangerous threat to the entire world! Not only was the stability of the Middle East at stake but also all Europe itself. Something had to be done, with or without American support.

As the video ended the decision was made to ramp up Russian military efforts in Syria. Already the air force and the infamous Russian Spetsnatz were in deployment but soon thanks cooperation with Iran and Turkey the deployment of conventional Russian forces was currently in the works. The general was adamant that the AGM would be defeated just as its predecessors had been.

Mother Russia will not be intimidated by the pathetic demands of the lowest scum on Earth.

[Monfrox]

Barushnokov Base, North Pole
April 29th, 2016

It had been a quick last month of training, as it usually was. The unit may still be new, but this was just the usual for them. Especially for Michelle, who had to go through some of the most grueling and hardcore training this side of the Western hemisphere. Though many might argue, and she was sure that one such individual from Hereford would disagree, she felt top of the chain around here. Delta was renowned and feared across the globe, with only those uneducated in their dealings taunting them. Those individuals usually resided in the Middle East, or in East Asia. Of course, she was happy take them to school to learn if they so wished, just as she had done years ago when the Daesh rolled in and tried what the Taliban and Al-Qaeda already had. They eventually got what was coming to them, just as the others did.

Ah, but it was a never ending game with these fuckers. Take one cell down, watch another pop up in it's place. That new cell was called Allah's Golden Mujahideen. She thought it very tongue-in-cheek because the acronym they used as AGM was also the same one they encountered on a daily basis: Air-to-Ground Missiles. Of course, that wouldn't deter them. No, the only way to do that was to show them what happens when you play your game too much, and then the last thing you do is get woken up suddenly in your bed and find yourself choking to death on your own blood. Yes, that was the preferred method of assassination she used. She would creep into their huts or other abodes in the dead of night, take out the KA-BAR, and open up another airway for them. Sometimes they had beds, and they would slide up underneath them, reach up with both hands, and do the same thing. That was, of course, when they weren't trying to gather intel to use for their next raid.

Ah yes, those were the good old days, back a couple years ago before everything really started going to shit. Now there was a lot more to cleanup, and not enough people willing to give the orders to do it. She supposed that was why this new unit was made. This way, there was no real political leash to keep these dogs of war from doing what they did best. Didn't she read about something similar to this in a Tom Clancy novel? Probably. She was just happy that she was picked. It wasn't hard to figure out why, though. Michelle was a lot of woman, and a feared enemy of would-be anti-Western terrorists from the Middle East. She didn't let it show, much, but the reason for her smile was always different. For now, she couldn't wait to get her hands dirty again. The new kids on the block, the AGM, needed to learn real quick what kind of shit they were about to get themselves in, and this new unit was going to show them exactly that.

For now, though, Michelle occupied herself as she usually did. Morning PT was a must, always. She never skipped a day, not without punishing herself the next. She did sit-ups while hanging upside down from her pull-up bar, one-handed and standing push-ups, and ran her 2 miles worth around the indoor track. After that, it was to the shower and then off to the cafeteria. She kept it sort of casual with her pair of black multicam G-3 combat pants and a pair of black Bates Tactical boots that she had custom made with a steel toe and nail stopper along the sole. She wore a standard black t-shirt which still seemed to struggle to keep together under the strain of being tight up against her chest. Well, it wasn't exactly her fault that she had gotten more from her momma than other girls did, but she felt she didn't have to worry too much as the t-shirt was fighting a war on two fronts trying to also not get shredded if she happened to flex her bisceps. Didn't she order bigger sized shirts? Well, maybe she grabbed an old one out of the dresser this morning.

Oh well, it wasn't like she had much trouble with anyone over it. She sympathized with the men who she caught staring instead of wringing their necks over it. Some things just couldn't be helped, but they knew what would happen if they went a little farther. Little Miss Delta Force was here for a reason, and they knew it. Still, she always made it a point to ask the base staff what was new in their lives and how their days were. It was a little courtesy that went a long way.

Michelle grabbed a tray and went through the food line for the usual breakfast: Powdered eggs, bacon that may or may not have been mirco-waved, hashbrowns that sometimes were hashblacks, a biscuit that might have needed some more hydration to it, a quickly-toasted excuse for a bagel with the usual cream cheese that came in a cup that had a bunch of juice on top of it when you opened it up half the time, and a glass of milk that she thought was probably about as powdered as the eggs were. It was the usual base food she'd eaten for the better half of her life, but at least it wasn't bad tasting. Yes, after eating so much of the stuff over the years, she learned to like it. She couldn't help but wonder if it was the same for the foreign troopers in the unit. Speaking of, there were some. The ruskie, the frenchy, and Mr. Boss Man himself.

"Mornin' Cap'n." Michelle greeted the stark Aussie as she took a seat at the table, that grin having never left her face. She took a bite out of that bagel as a prelude to wolfing down the rest of the food on her tray. Once again, training back in the day was all about doing things quick. Your mouth was never empty when you were eating, at least not for long. Still, she tried pacing herself a little since it seemed there was more time this morning.

[Tytus Abaddon]

Base Barushnokov, North Pole 
5:23 am, 29th April 2019


“Devyanosto vosem'... devyanosto devyat'... sto. “

Dima dropped down from the pull-up bar, sighed and quickly looked at his watch, 2 minutes and 10 seconds. Not bad. He smiled contentedly. He was happy. He had just spent a month of training, just exercise, exercise, exercise. No annoying officers giving him bullshit assignments, no distractions, just work. And at the end of the night he got to sleep in HIS OWN ROOM. He hadn't had his own room since he was a kid in Magadan, and even then he slept on the couch in the living room. Not once did he have his own room up until now. Even after he had become a Serzhant he shared with others of the same rank. Even when that one time he had been hit by a ricochet in the ass and had been briefly hospitalized he didn't have his own room but was in the dorm with all the other wounded and dying. Privacy was alien to him, but he quite liked it. He enjoyed it while it lasted. This past month had been like staying at a Dacha on the Black Sea. And the food! The food was like in American movies. He suddenly realized he was hungry. Time to go to the cantina.

Dima showered quickly then slipped into his Army-issue tracksuit and running shoes. Might as well get comfy for the road back. His bag was packed. He never really unpacked it, not that there was much to it except his tracksuit, his uniform, and his personal weapons. They were shipping out today, he knew. He knew because there had been no announcements over the intercom. As much as he enjoyed the place, he was even more thrilled at the prospect of seeing some action. It was clear that he was to be part of some international operation, and a big one, or perhaps several of them. All the other operators that had gone through this ultra-secret one-month course with him, with the exception of the SVR guy, had been foreigners. In Dima's mind this meant joint operations abroad, and very, very sensitive ones at that. He slipped his reserve Makarov in his waistband and left his room. For Dima sensitive missions meant fun. So he was glad to be a part of whatever this all was. Sure he hadn't got to know the others very well, but he more or less trusted they wouldn't be here if they had no skill.

He had been shocked at the sight of women in the course. He had been fairly certain the American girls would be annoying and loud most of the time just like any of their male counterparts he'd ever had the displeasure of encountreing, but turns out he was quite wrong. The blonde American was a bit of a recluse and Dima suspected not well in the head, the British girl he had barely heard speak a single word but the other one they call Girl Scout, she seemed professional and friendly enough to work with easily.

Dima always thought women had no business in combat roles. What kind of operator became less reliable and more stressed out once a month? What kind of operator could not dive or hide her scent at that time of the month cause she was bleeding? Not to mention the logistical complications regarding facilities ect. On the other hand, women did fight ferociously in the Great Patriotic War, and he supposed, if the female operator is a specialist and can pull her own weight, she could pull off stuff men could not, particularly in clandestine ops. The Amerikankinye and Britankinya seemed to do well in training, in fact they seemed twice as driven as the men. Powell was strong, the Waters woman knew how to clear a room, the Brit was good at sniping, very good at arctic warfare, which surprised Dima. He had thought Westerners incapable of rivaling Russians in the snow. They weren't quite there yet but they were catching up. The girls had not once complained. Dima realized he was set in his ways, and the Russian army was a bit lagging behind the world, so he resolved to gradually overcome his prejuidices.

Not that anyone else had complained really, you don't get to this level by being a pussy, and Dima for one saw everything as a competition on some level. He believed this to be the case for the others too. Still you could tell some were less used to the cosy military setting here in Barushnokov than others. Some were almost civilians like that French guy. He might not be military, but he damn well knows his way around explosives. Dima tried to imagine what a strange experience for some pampered soldiers from the West this all must be. If they were off-put, they didn't show it and Dima had been impressed by his new boss. The Australian Captain reminded him of his previous officers. No non-sense guy that expects nothing less than a 110% from his men and women, Dima corrected himself.

There was only one person he had an issue with so far, and it wasn't even the Polish guy. The hadn't really interacted but Dima would have no trouble with the Polack if the guy had no trouble with him. No, Dima was suspicious of the SVR guy. The guy never used his Russian name though he was clearly Russian. What the hell is that about? He didn't like those spooks, things were never straight with them. Same like the FSB. He remembered how many times the FSB had messed up their operations in Chechnya because this or that warlord had been paying them protection money. He wondered if the SVR would be the same...

Dima finally reached the cantina. He saw the SVR guy in question, Macmillan, Powell and the French Žandar. He smiled politely at them and nodded hello in a thick Russian accent, rolled up his tracksuit sleeves then went to help himself to a load of bacon and hashbrowns with some eggs on the side. He sat down and started shoveling the bacon into his mouth happily.

“Dobroye utro Captain, Lady, Gentlemen. How are you today?”

[Miraaki]

Base Barushnokov, North Pole
29th April 2019

Danielle slowly roused herself from her bed, hearing her alarm go off. She gave herself 10 seconds. 10 seconds of total rest and relaxation in her, very comfortable by army standards, bed.
10...
9...
8...
7...
6...
5...
4...
3...
2...
1...
"Zero," whispered Danielle out loud, before leaping out of bed, and almost immediately dropping to the ground and starting her normal morning PT. She started with pushups, non-stop for 3 minutes, before transition to one-handed ones, and repeating the process on both arms. She switched to her situps, and then pullups, and so on, until she was done with her workout. This was how she woke up every morning. Every morning since... it happened. The day that tore her family away from her, and transformed her into the ruthless killing machine she was today. She got in the shower, and painful memories washed through her mind. The chaos, the fear, the confusion that wracked her young mind at the time, she resolved to never let that happen to her again. So she joined the military.

Getting out of the shower, Danielle stepped in front of her mirror, and began to freshen up a bit, brushing her hair and teeth. Small luxuries like this were not available in Africa. It was a constant struggle for survival out there. Sometimes, the only thing that kept her going were her sheer determination and will to survive. After getting dressed in a simple black shirt and camo pants, she made her way to the cafeteria, where after getting her food, she sat down next to her new teammates.
"Hello," began Danielle, "Good morning."

[Vanquaria]

Macmillan hailed his arriving teammates, 'G'day to y'all all, mate and sheila. We are discussing among us the training period we have been granted as an unit currently. Come sit with us and share your thoughts mates!'

[Tytus Abaddon]

Dima burped loudly between gulps of orange juice and bacon.

“It's all a bit rushed Kapitane. I'm assuming there's a reason for that, but we didn't really get to know, or trust each other. On the other hand, we're all professionals, I think we could all tell that from the training. If you judge this group based on the individual performance of its members during training, I'd say you've got a pretty good unit. As a whole however, there's no way of knowing whether this is going to work out, is there? The truth is, we won't know until we know, you know? Unit cohesion that survives pressure under fire can only be evaluated through time or combat experience. This unit has had neither, so we don't know whether we'll function well in the field.

What little joint trainings we've had seemed to have worked out pretty well though. And I for one respect the competence of some of my comrades. As you Americans like to say, the jury is still out for some of them, I don't know them enough to say I trust them, but I trust their credentials, more or less, and that will suffice for now. I'm sure by the end of our first mission, we'll get along pretty well for the most part... either that or we'll all be dead.” Dima smiled.

“This is my humble opinion boss. But none of this matters right now. It's too late is it not? We're about to go on a mission, right? It's why we've got the day off, right? If so, we should celebrate. I have just the thing...”

Dima pulled out of his pocket a flask, he spilled the orange juice onto the floor and then poured some vodka into his empty glass. “Who else wants some? What should we toast to?” He extend the flask to the other members of Unit Zero, offering them the alcohol.

[United States of Conner]

Nesson chuckled softly and shrugged before chugging the rest of his glass of tea and extending it to Dima.

"I don't see why not. I always say, start the day off right, yes?"

As he held his glass up for Dima, Nesson turned to MacMillan.

"I think we're ready for it, Captain. We are all professional soldiers, and I'm sure we have both the individual and team skills needed to give AGM a taste of their own medicine. I, personally, am ready to get back in the field! Now, let us toast! Dima, where is this vodka from?"

[Western Pacific Territories]

Aleppo, Syria

---

Mukbeds headquarters, or more specifically, his Northwestern headquarters, he had dozens more he tended to use, in Aleppo was a majesty. A grand government palace, he thought it was built perhaps in the French colonial period. Perhaps none of this would be happening, were it not for 1918, he thought. Mukbed was a well educated man.

He had the fourth floor of the building all to himself, the floors beneath him mostly were used for storage of ammunition, or oil barrels to be smuggled into Turkey. The western side of the floor consisted of one massive balcony made of ornately crafted sandstone. The balcony was completely covered up with sandbags and concrete blocks, and two machine guns were set up, in addition to the 4 armed guards patrolling the balcony.

The layout of the floor looked something like this: As someone entered the floor through the only stairwell, there was a elevator but it was sealed off, though a skilled climber could shimmy up to the fourth level assuming he wasn't shot. The stairwell led you into a 4-wall room. The room had a desk and a broken computer on it. Opening the door out of the room, you found a hallway with three doors on each side, and further down the hallway turned to the right. These rooms were used for storage of weapons, except for the second and third rooms on the right, which acted as a sniper over watch position. Taking the turn, you would be led to two doors. The door on the left led to a massive barracks filled to the brim with soldiers, the door on the right to Mukbeds office. The entire hallway was patrolled, though at night the only light source was the shoddy lightbulbs of questionable quality hanging.

Mukbed was inside his suitably expensive and lavish office. He also had several security features installed. The windows, for instance, were bulletproof. He was currently making a phone call to his main supplier, Jacques. Mukbed didn't bother with getting his last name, if it came down to the point where he was getting waterboarded at Gitmo, at least Jacques wouldn't get caught. The FBI and CIA were both far over-rated, Mukbed thought. He had years of eluding these guys, and they still couldn't catch them. They only could work with leads, and Mukbed left none alive. His home village was exterminated on his orders.

At this point in time, most people probably couldn't even tell you what Mukbed looked like except for weight and height. And Western intelligence only got that because his medical info from a checkup in his 20s got into Western hands and gave some estimated numbers.

He dialed up one of Jacques throwaway phone numbers, sailing three of the now defunct ones in a order, until he got ahold of him, or at least one of his lackeys. He let out a cough, before saying something in a rather annoyed tone.

"If this isn't Jacques, give the phone straight to him. If it's you, we need to place a order."

[Altito Asmoro]

Central Africa
Exact Location : Rumored to be in Congo

There's a call. His first and foremost client, Mukbed, decided to signed in for an order. Good thing he's still opening his business, lately there has been almost no offers, even when he is the only remaining arms dealer in Africa, probably, most of the time. His office is more or less a rented apartment, lower-tiered ones, four floors. First floor is the security checkpoints, where most of his men act as security officers and soldiers. Second, third, and fourth, are mostly office rooms, communications network rooms, internet, armory, security rooms.

His building is not just this one, though. He has plenty, plenty to share, plenty to care. He answered the call, "Yes, this is Jacques, your friend when you need one. What order do you need, my friend?"

[Ubaria]

Leutenant Konrad 'Blitz' Faust
Base Barushnokov, Frozen Norths


There was no place on Earth as bleary as the Arctic Circle, nothing but expanses of white and grey for as far as one could see and even then that wasn't very far, the skies were constantly plagued by rain and snowdrifts that obscured vision to a few dozen feet at best, blocking out the sun for hours at a time making it seem like constant night, all days melded into one, it could drive men to madness. The day (or night, it was hard to tell) was like any other on Base Barushnokov, a grey sky only yielded more half frozen rain that was amplified by a driving wind, clattering off the roofs and turning the settled snow into a icy grey slush, churned by the feet and wheels of its various occupants, luckily the men inside were separated from the harsh winter elements by a few inches of concrete and metal yet it did little to provide much comfort, the biting cold was still present even inside.

Glancing to his issued digital alarm clock, Konrad read off the numbers 5, 3 and 0 off the red crystal display and then cast his sleepy eyed gaze out of the frost encrusted window, to no surprise it was another depressing day, through the rivulets of rain drifting down the glass pane one could barely make out the shapes of various military and industrial equipment lit up by the large halogen lamps scattered around the base, a drift of ice slush had formed overnight and men were beginning to flatten it down with trucks and ploughs. Luckily for Konrad, this was his last day in this dump and it couldn't be said he would miss this place, perhaps their next post would be somewhere sunny and warm, one could wish.

After washing and getting dressed into his standard fatigues, Konrad made his way to the mess hall to grab a bowl of, whatever the hell they served, another thing he wouldn't miss was the food. He wasn't sure the meat was even meat, and the rest of it was grey mush, the true taste often masked with a sprinkle of flavoring or condiment. Several members were already present in the room talking among themselves, Konrad helped himself to the prepared food and made way over to the gathering.

"Morgen" Konrad found a spare seat and slapped his tray down onto the bench, just as the Russian bought out a suspicious looking flask, it was barely 6am and already the alcohol was coming out, typical russians one could suppose.

“Who else wants some? What should we toast to?”

"Don't you think its a bit early to hit the spirits, Ja?" Konrad grinned and slurped down a spoonfull of what could have been oatmeal.

[Tytus Abaddon]

Dima was pleased his countryman was still Russian enough to accept the drink. Dima believed you could judge a man by the little things as much as by the big ones. Nesson being the first one accepting to share the vodka scored him a lot of points in Dima's eyes, unlike the German.

"Tovarish, this is Kizlyarka, from Dagestan, it used to be the only vodka we would be given in the military base in Khankala in Grozny while I was stationned there. Well technically comrade it is a brandy, hence the unique flavour and color. It is an acquired taste.I've grown quite fond of it since Grozny and I've been keeping it on me ever since."

"And no, comrade Konrad, It is never too early for Kizlyarka. We slavs often take brandy or vodka with our morning coffee. It is good for your heart and it is invigorating. Maybe, if your countrymen had started days with spirits Russians wouldn't be celebrating Victory Day every year!" Laughed Dima. "You sure you don't want any?" He asked playfully.

[Ubaria]

Leutenant Konrad 'Blitz' Faust
Base Barushnokov, Frozen Norths



"And no, comrade Konrad, It is never too early for Kizlyarka. We slavs often take brandy or vodka with our morning coffee. It is good for your heart and it is invigorating. Maybe, if your countrymen had started days with spirits Russians wouldn't be celebrating Victory Day every year!...You sure you don't want any?"

"Maybe you just drink to forget it" Konrad replied, watching as the Russian swished the bottle invitingly from side to side, the liquid inside not actually being Vodka but apparently a form of Brandy. Konrad had always been a lightweight, his alcohol tolerance was surprisingly low for a man of his stature which could have been down to any manner of things so more often than not he would pass up drinking save for special occasions, drinking only Beers and the occasional Whiskey or Rum.

"Alright give that here" Konrad sighed, he held out the empty mug so Dima could pour out an alarming amount of the stuff. He swirled the mug around for a moment before slamming the liquid aback his throat, a warm sting assaulted the tastebuds and mouth cavity before shivering its way down, the warm burning followed to the pit of his stomach.

"Yeh. Great stuff" Konrad winced, spluttering a couple of times.

[United States of Conner]

Nesson raised his glass to the group and said, "To success." With that, he took a sip and smiled.

"I can see why you would call it an acquired taste, but I like it. You said this was from Grozny? I'm quite familiar with the area, I'll have to get some sent to me from there. To be consumed off duty, of course.."

Nesson grinned, though he wasn't entirely truthful.

"Anyways, Captain, what will we be doing today? I'd like to get back on the ground against AGM, and I'm sure many of us feel the same."

[Vanquaria]

Nesson raised his glass to the group and said, "To success." With that, he took a sip and smiled.

"I can see why you would call it an acquired taste, but I like it. You said this was from Grozny? I'm quite familiar with the area, I'll have to get some sent to me from there. To be consumed off duty, of course.."

Nesson grinned, though he wasn't entirely truthful.

"Anyways, Captain, what will we be doing today? I'd like to get back on the ground against AGM< and I'm sure many of us feel the same."

Before Macmillan could respond a rough voice erupted through the base's numerous installed Soviet-era intercoms;

''All Personnel Report To Tactical Operatons Room Now''

''Y'all heard the General, let's move our asses now,'' Nathan told his teammates.

Resigning from breakfast the Australian soon entered the TOR. Like the rest of the base, it was almost devoid of life. Just a bunch of rickety chairs and at the front stood General Schofields...well, former General Schofields of USMC.

''Ladies and Gentlemen, I invite you all to take a seat. As you all know today is your last day in special training. Good thing too because the world outside is becoming more fucked up by the minute people.

I hope you all have packed your bags because we are now leaving. Our destination is Europe, more specifically France. As you all know terrorism in Europe poses a very real threat to European civilians, thanks to your friendly neighbourhood AGM the possibility of an attack has grown tenfold. DGSE has been generous enough to lend us some facilities and equipment for our little stay. Details concerning coming operations in the European theatre will shared upon arrival.

Alright men and ladies, the Embraer KC-390 is waiting outside on the runway as we speak. Let’s head out now.’’

Soon the members of the Unit found themselves not bound for the Middle East in which the frontlines against the AGM had been laid but towards Europe, of all places…

[United States of Conner]

DGSE Operations Base
Marseille, France

Nesson pulled a black canvas jacket over his grey t-shirt and black jeans and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder as he entered the operations room.

Sitting down in one of the chairs facing the briefing room, Nesson dropped the bag onto the ground, guns, knives, explosives, and gadgets shaking around as Nesson relaxed and looked around.

He was the first person there, other than General Schofields. That wasn't terribly surprising. Nesson wasn't sure he was too much like the rest of Unit Zero. He wasn't a tactical team member. The last time he had been in anything close to tactical gear was when he had gotten into a scuba suit last year to infiltrate a boat. Typically, he didn't dress in anything other than what he had right now - dark jeans, sweater or t-shirt, canvas or motorcycle jacket, slim bulletproof vest on occasion, and a pair of black gloves in his inside jacket pocket. This gave him the ability to conceal weapons and gadgets without looking like anything more than a normal civilian.

Did Nesson have the relevant skills to be a tactical operator? Probably. He could act as a sniper, breacher, HMG operator, anything. However, his speciality was one-man operations. Nesson didn't watch many spy movies - almost all of them were unrealistic - but he had always sympathized with Bourne. Bourne wasn't wearing armor or supported with helicopters and a full team. Like Nesson, he relied on his skills to do things that full assault teams couldn't. If he got shot, so be it.

Nesson relaxed in his chair and looked around the room. None of his fellow operators had showed up, but he was there early on purpose.

Nesson was ready. Now, it was time to get going and take the fight to AGM. Whatever they were doing here - Nesson wasn't sure what the op would be because of the whole operational security deal. With that in mind, he leaned back and asked Schofields, "General, what will we be getting up to today?"

[Western Pacific Territories]

Aleppo, Syria.

"Ah, hello Jacques, my partner in crime. I have a major order for you today. My plan of concentrating AGM forces in Syria from all around the world has gone better than I could have ever dreamed. We are preparing for... well, I'd assume you would have good enough security measures to ensure your phone hasn't been tapped. I know mine hasn't. We are preparing to send forces in Indonesia to resume the conflict in the region via Syrian cargo vessels. The Russians have been on my a** lately, word is Iran and Turkey are letting Russian forces enter. They're gonna sick the hounds on me soon, and I just don't want to have to divert guns from Syria into Indonesia. It shouldnt take too much effort to spark a large rebellion there. We need something along the lines of four thousand guns, don't care where you get em or what they are, but if they were created after World War Two and you have ammunition I'll take it."

Lyon, France.

In the basement of the mosque, which Wahabbist preachers were more than glad to rent out to the AGM, some of them even being supporters, three men sat in discussion.

The first man, Nazdid, the leader of the three terrorists-in-training sent by the AGM to Lyon, spoke first, speaking with a distinctive authorities voice.

"My comrades, how is our progress on acquiring explosives for our car bomb?"

"We've encountered very little difficult so far. We've been able to get explosives smuggled across from the refugee camps quite easily. We've got enough explosives to fill up the entire backseat. Anyways, I've actually come up with a idea myself."

"And?"

"Place bags full of sharp pieces of metal in the car."

"I like it. We will start acquiring as much of that as we can find. Anyways, in the meantime we will find and choose each one of our targets."