OPERATION: RAGIN’ MOUSE

The video began with a red background, the words "Classified" in bold white font, accompanied by a stern warning about severe consequences for unauthorized disclosure.

The screen shifted to a gray background and at the top was a small BUA flag, flanked by two crossed arrows over a laurel. Beneath the emblem, the text read: "3rd Seraphim Special Operations Group - Operational Detachment Delta". Underneath the flags printed in a simple text was this:

Time of Operation: 0630

Units Involved:

3rd Seraphim Group, Operational Detachment Delta

1st Transport Company

1st Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR)

Mission: Slave camp assault and liberation

The screen flickered, transitioning to the helmet-mounted camera view of a Seraphim operator. The footage showed the team advancing through a dense forest, recently dropped off by a V-280 Valor Tiltrotor helicopter, which ascended quickly into the cloudy, humid morning sky. The air was warm, heavy with moisture, but not steaming—yet there was a palpable sense of unease hanging over the area, as if the very atmosphere was tense with anticipation.

The camera jostled as the team moved with disciplined precision, every footfall deliberate, every breath controlled. The forest around them seemed unnaturally quiet, no birds chirping, no insects buzzing. A thick, oppressive silence filled the air, and a sense of foreboding settled over the team.

“Diesel” the team leader named Ramkin stated “Contact command, let them know we are near the slaver encampment.”

"Command, command, this is Checkmate 6 Romeo, over," came Diesel's voice, the team’s radio operator, transmitting to headquarters. “We are at the target area, preparing to engage. Do you copy? Over.” The radio crackled with static as Diesel's voice faded.

Ramkin checked the overhead drone footage from a small terminal mounted to his arm as it flew over the zone. The camp was encircled with massive log fortifications, watchtowers and ramparts to allow for archers to engage attacking units. Inside the camp were multiple buildings and various shacks. He checked the intel overlay, as he signaled for everyone to come near him.

“Zaldin, get up high, and let me know when you are set. Cork, Diesel, Drapper, Doc, fall in on me. Let’s go.”

Zaldin moved quickly and disappeared into the trees, as the others moved to a large boulder near the camp.

"Eyes up," Zaldin whispered over the comms, his voice low but firm.

"Zaldin, keep overwatch. Cork, prep the launcher." Ramkin ordered.

“Roger that,” Zaldin replied, positioning himself with his sniper rifle to cover the team’s advance. "I’ve got eyes on the first set of targets—4 sentries near the treeline,…..5 on the rampart…I see..5 mages in the middle of the camp. Outside of that I don’t see anyone outside, there may be more in the buildings.”

Cork, the grenadier, nodded, loading his 40mm grenade launcher under his rifle. “Let me know when to light ‘em up,” he muttered, glancing at Ramkin.

Ramkin held up a hand, scanning the area with his rifle. "Wait for it… wait..." His voice was calm but intense, his eyes flicking between his team and the target ahead. After a tense pause, Ramkin gave a sharp nod. “Go!”

Cork fired a 40mm grenade, and it exploded near a cluster of slavers.

The camera captured the chaos—shouts, confusion, and scrambling as the slavers tried to recover.

“Now!” Ramkin barked. "Engage!"

The operators opened fire in unison.

Muzzle flashes lit up the shadows of the forest as bullets cut through the underbrush.

Diesel ducked behind a tree, his voice steady over the radio. "Command, we’ve engaged hostiles. Multiple contacts—Short Swords, Spears and bows, over!"

“Left flank, moving in!” Zaldin warned, sniping at the enemy from his overwatch position. “Two down… another coming up fast.”

Drapper, the light machine gunner, pivoted and unleashed a torrent of suppressive fire. "I see 'em, I got 'em!" he shouted, keeping the enemies pinned down.

The air filled with the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and the occasional grunt or curse as the operators methodically advanced.

“Reloading!” Cork shouted, ducking behind cover to load another grenade.

“Keep pushing!” Ramkin yelled over the gunfire. “We need to neutralize those mages!” He pointed to a group of battle mages stepping forward, their hands glowing with arcane energy. “Diesel, smoke out! Zaldin, take the shots as soon as they’re exposed!”

Diesel tossed a smoke grenade, and a thick, white cloud billowed out. “Smoke deployed!” he confirmed.

"Frag out!" Cork yelled, launching a fragmentation grenade toward the mages.

An explosion rocked the ground where a mage once stood, and two other mages were killed by the detonation and the shrapnel, as blue lightning of arcane energy held by the mages was sent harmlessly into the air.

Zaldin squeezed his trigger twice, precise shots ringing out through the smoke. "Got the last two mages," he reported calmly, watching as the blue energy dissipated harmlessly. "Area clear." “Good work,” Ramkin nodded. “Move forward, secure the perimeter.”

As the team moved through the camp, the sense of unease grew. The buildings stood with doors ajar, dark and hollow like gaping mouths, but no movement came from within. Shadows stretched long across the ground, distorted by the dim light filtering through the thick canopy above. The air felt heavy, almost stagnant, as if it was waiting for something to happen. Drapper, his light machine gun at the ready, scanned the empty pathways between the shacks. "Where is everyone?" he muttered, a frown deepening on his face. "This can't be all of them." The team moved cautiously, their weapons raised, eyes darting from one shadowy corner to another. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the soft crunch of their boots on the dirt.

"A camp this size should have nearly a hundred or so guys protecting it, right?" Zaldin whispered over the comms, his voice tense. "Feels like we missed something."

"Yeah, intel said this place was crawling with slavers," Ramkin responded, his eyes scanning every inch of the area. "Keep your eyes open and watch for traps. Something's off here."

They checked every building—shacks, storehouses, and barracks—all empty, doors swinging gently on their hinges. Inside, they found signs of recent occupation—half-eaten meals on tables, weapons carelessly discarded, a smoldering fire pit still radiating heat. But no people.

Doc's gaze was fixed on the slave pens at the far end of the camp. "Cover me," he called out to Diesel, who nodded and took up a position to provide cover.

Doc sprinted over to the pens, his medical kit clutched tightly in his hand, but even from a distance, he could sense something was wrong.

The slaves stood huddled together, their faces gaunt and eyes wide with fear. They were deathly silent, not even a whisper among them.

"Why aren't they moving?" Doc muttered to himself, stepping closer. "Why aren’t they saying anything?"

The rest of the team continued their sweep.

Ramkin's voice came over the comms, low and wary. "Anyone see anything? This place is giving me the creeps."

Dapper glanced around, the unease gnawing at his gut. "We need to get these people out of here, Ramkin. It's too damn quiet... not even the birds are chirping, or the insects are making noise."

Cork nodded, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "Yeah, it feels like we're being watched… but by what?"

Ramkin waved them in, signaling for them to gather near the center of the camp. "Stay sharp. Diesel, call in evac. We need to get out of here fast."

Diesel keyed his radio. “Command, Command, this is Checkmate 6 Romeo. Requesting evac at this location, over,” he reported, his voice steady, but his eyes kept darting to the shadows, searching for any sign of movement.

As the radio crackled with static, Doc knelt beside the pens, examining the collars on the slaves. "Ramkin, over here," he called, his voice filled with a tense urgency.

As Ramkin approached, Doc pointed at the collars. "These… they’re slaver collars, but… not quite. Look at the runes—never seen anything like them."

Ramkin bent down, inspecting the strange symbols etched into the metal. "Are you sure?" he asked, frowning. "I’ve never seen a slaver collar before."

Doc nodded, his expression grim. “I’m sure. Took one off my sister when we escaped… it nearly killed her. I'd never forget something this evil.”

Before Ramkin could respond, a sudden noise cut through the stillness—a loud, metallic crash from a concealed structure at the edge of the camp. The team spun toward the source of the sound, weapons raised, hearts pounding in their chests.

"What the hell was that?" Cork muttered, his grip tightening on his grenade launcher.

"Everyone on me," Ramkin ordered sharply. They found the hidden building with a large wooden door reinforced with metal that seems to be sealed from the inside.

"We breach now. Diesel, Cork, set the charge. Drapper, cover the entrance." Ramkin ordered.

As they moved into position, the eerie silence grew even more oppressive. The wind seemed to die down, and the air felt colder, almost biting. The team exchanged tense glances, each one knowing they were stepping into the unknown.

Diesel and Cork moved swiftly, planting the breaching charge on the door.

"Ready to breach," Diesel whispered, his hand steady but his heart racing.

“Breach in three… two… one!” Ramkin counted.

The door exploded inward with a deafening blast, sending shards of wood and metal flying.

A rush of cold, acrid air flooded out, chilling the camp instantly. Fog poured from the doorway, spreading like a creeping mist. The ground disappeared in a thick, gray haze, and a deep, foreboding silence fell over the camp once more.

“SHIT! GAS!” Ramkin yelled, grabbing his gas mask from a pouch on his tactical vest. All the others followed suit.

Suddenly, all the slaves in the pens screamed and ran to the farthest corners, their faces twisted in abject terror.

"Something’s wrong," Doc muttered, but his words were drowned out by an ear-shattering shriek that pierced the air, followed by a terrifying, guttural growl. The team froze, their eyes locked on the dark entrance of the structure.

Shadows began to shift and move, and a massive form slowly emerged from the fog. The creature let out another bone-chilling shriek, dragging a bloody spine connected to a severed head in its right hand. Its grotesque, hairless body was unnaturally tall and muscular, its skin deathly gray, and its black, pupil-less eyes glistened with madness.

“What the hell is that thing?!” Diesel shouted, his voice breaking the tension.

Ramkin's eyes widened, but he stayed focused. “Light it up!”

Drapper opened fire immediately, his light machine gun roaring, but the creature continued to advance, seemingly unfazed.

Diesel fired his carbine, the rounds hitting the target, but the Berserker Beastkin kept moving, closing the distance with terrifying speed. The creature stood over Diesel, who had run dry on his rifle.

“DIESEL!! RUN!” Drapper yelled at him, but Diesel was frozen as the monster loomed over him. It snarled and, with a massive punch, sent Diesel crashing into a wall.

"Diesel’s down!" Dapper yelled, shifting his aim.

“Keep firing! Aim for the head!” Ramkin commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos.

The team unleashed a relentless barrage, and the Berserker staggered under the onslaught. Finally, it collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud, its chest heaving for a moment before the green runes on its collar began to fade, and it lay still.

Doc rushed over to Diesel, checking his vitals. “You’re one hard motherfucker,” Doc muttered as Diesel groaned and blinked awake.

Diesel coughed, grimacing. "What happened?"

"You met a wall, and the wall won," Doc replied with a grin. "But you’re fine. Plates took most of the hit, just a bruised rib."

Ramkin, still on edge, approached the dead Berserker and examined the collar. "Doc, what do you make of this?"

Doc shook his head, his expression grim. “These aren’t ordinary slaver collars… and that one was glowing until that thing died. This isn’t Austorian… it’s something else, something worse.” “We need to get this back for analysis,” Ramkin agreed. “This is bigger than we thought.”

The video concluded with the operators loading the freed slaves onto waiting trucks and boarding the V-280 Valor for extraction. The screen faded to black, then a red screen with the words "Classified" in bold white font, accompanied by a stern warning about severe consequences for unauthorized disclosure appeared again as Rader turned off the video.

The video ended, and the lights flickered back on in the briefing room, casting a harsh glow over the faces of the assembled soldiers. A heavy silence settled in, the weight of the mission hanging over them like a thick fog. Tarfire remained at the front, his face taut with concern, but his eyes were steady.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "What you just saw was a real threat," he began, his voice firm yet empathetic. "These Chaos Collars—twisted, sadistic creations designed to strip away one's reason and turn them into monsters." He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in.

A ripple of uneasy murmurs passed through the room. A few soldiers shifted uncomfortably in their seats. One female soldier, her face pale, suddenly wavered and fainted, collapsing into the arms of the soldier next to her. Tarfire glanced over but didn’t falter. He knew the fear was real.

“Easy,” whispered Staff Sergeant Wellknife as he helped the soldier back into her seat. “We’ve got you.”

Tarfire nodded, acknowledging the incident, but he pressed on. “I understand if you’re scared. These collars… they induce madness, give unnatural strength, and make the wearer a puppet for whoever controls them. They’re unlike anything we’ve faced before. But that’s exactly why we’re here. Because if not us, then who?”

A young private, Julian Razorclaw, raised his hand, his voice quivering slightly as he spoke. “Sir… how do we fight something like that? If they’re… if they’re like that… monsters?”

Tarfire gave a small, grim smile. “We fight with everything we have, Razorclaw. Remember, they can be beaten. You saw it in the footage. They’re not invincible. We just need to stay smart, stay together, and trust in each other’s skills.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, soldiers nodding to one another. A few clenched their jaws, determination etched on their faces.

“We’ve got an infantry platoon from Echo Company accompanying us,” Tarfire continued, raising his voice to command attention. "They’ll be our backbone, providing security, manning the Remote weapons systems in the trucks, and covering our rear in their own vehicle. Staff Sergeant Wellknife and his team are seasoned, and I trust they’ve got our backs as much as we’ve got theirs.”

"Count on it, sir," Wellknife said, a calm confidence in his tone. “Echo’s ready to move.”

Another soldier, Corporal Harris Slogthaw, chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, Wellknife’s boys don’t miss a thing, not with those 50 calibers. We just need to make sure we don’t get in their way.”

A few nervous chuckles spread through the room, breaking some of the tension. Tarfire allowed a faint smile. “That’s right. We’re all in this together. Remember, this mission isn’t just about getting supplies through. It’s about bringing hope to those who’ve been stripped of it. To those who are enslaved and waiting for someone, anyone, to stand up for them.”

He paused, scanning the room. Some faces still showed worry, but more and more, determination was setting in. “I won’t sugarcoat it; this mission is dangerous. We face an unknown enemy with unknown abilities, and there’s no room for hesitation.”

Tarfire’s voice grew stronger, more resolute. "But we are the 3rd Logistics Company, and we carry the hopes of those who cannot carry themselves. Remember, we fight as one. If not everyone, then..."

The tent reverberated with a powerful response, "NO ONE!"

A surge of unity filled the room, the shared purpose resonating among the soldiers. Tarfire felt it too—a collective resolve settling over them like a protective shield.

“Alright,” he said, his voice steady with conviction. "Let’s get to our trucks. Remember, we face this head-on, together. No one left behind. No one forgotten.”

As the soldiers began to rise, some exchanging nods or slaps on the back, Tarfire caught the eye of the female soldier who had fainted earlier. She was sitting up now, still pale but more composed.

“Hey,” he called softly, drawing her attention. “You good to go?”

She nodded, a flicker of determination in her eyes. "Yes, sir. Just… caught off guard for a second."

He smiled. "You’re not alone. Just remember why we’re doing this."

Another soldier, Private Michael Daniels, chimed in with a grin. "And keep an eye on Wellknife's team. They'll probably be counting on us more than we know."

That brought another round of chuckles, and the mood lightened further. Tarfire nodded, satisfied. "Let's move out," he said firmly. “We’ve got a mission to complete.”

With that, the soldiers filed out of the tent, their nerves steeled, ready to face whatever awaited them beyond.