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May 1981 — Secured Naval Base, Southern Athens
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The fires had barely died.
Smoke still clung to the rooftops of shattered Athens.
But the flags were up.
The south territory was secure.
The Great Russ Federation Army had retreated northward,
regrouping beyond the scorched hills.
And for now —
for now —
Aetherland held the south.
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Inside the fortified naval base —
the officers gathered in a cold, angular meeting room.
Steel chairs.
Concrete walls.
Maps of crumbling sectors pinned under heavy lights.
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They spoke in clipped sentences.
Evaluating.
Calculating.
Preparing for the inevitable counterstrike they knew would come
within 24 to 48 hours.
Their voices were sharp, efficient.
But when Selene von Aetherwald entered —
the undercurrent changed.
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Murmurs rippled through the room.
"That's her..."
"Romanov bloodline..."
"Only 23..."
"Commander of a submarine..."
Whispers laced with fascination.
With jealousy.
With fear.
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Selene walked in silence.
Her navy-grey uniform immaculate.
Her golden trim catching the harsh light.
No expression.
Only cold, perfect formality.
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She halted before the Vice Admiral of the South Seas.
Saluted — sharp, mechanical.
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"Sir."
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The Vice Admiral returned the salute slowly.
His face betrayed nothing.
Only words:
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"Your submarine's missile strike crippled the enemy lines. Athens is ours because of it."
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Selene stood straighter.
But her voice was calm, almost distant:
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"The missile strike was nothing without the Maritime Special Operations Forces marksman, Lieutenant Elias Jerkins."
"He marked every target within minutes, under direct enemy fire."
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The Vice Admiral nodded.
Nothing more.
He knew the name.
Everyone did.
A ghost among soldiers.
A weapon too unpredictable to display.
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The murmur among officers grew louder.
Selene caught fragments:
"The sniper?"
"The one with the frozen rank..."
"The problem child..."
But she said nothing.
Her duty was done.
The formalities finished.
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Meanwhile —
Outside the walls of steel and polished boots —
Elias Jerkins walked the broken streets.
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He passed the bodies.
Some still warm.
Some still clutching tattered flags.
Aetherland soldiers.
Boys he had seen through his scope.
Boys he had failed to save.
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He did not cry.
He did not curse.
He helped.
Carrying stretchers.
Digging shallow graves with his bare hands.
Lifting wounded men to field medics.
A sniper without a rifle.
A ghost without orders.
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Until —
Military Police approached.
Three of them.
Clean boots.
Starched jackets.
Polished sidearms.
No blood on them.
No mud.
No smoke.
Just the stink of untouched authority.
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One barked the order:
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"Lieutenant Elias Jerkins — by the command of the Military Judicial Authority, you are to forfeit to Amsterdam for charges of disobedience in active theater."
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Elias turned.
Slow.
His red eyes — tired.
Dead.
He looked at them like looking through glass.
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His voice was quiet.
Flat.
Lethal.
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"How glorious you are..."
"Walking into a battlefield only to discipline the ones still bleeding for your victories."
"I hope a missile finds your heads before you reach your barracks."
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The lead MP's jaw tightened.
Without warning —
the first kick landed.
Elias grunted —
fell to the ground.
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Another boot crashed into his ribs.
Another into his back.
He didn't scream.
He didn't beg.
He just curled into himself.
Silent.
Bleeding into the dust.
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From across the ruined square —
Selene stepped out of the headquarters.
Half-formed words on her lips —
She had meant to thank him.
She had meant to speak to him.
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She saw it.
The kicks.
The violence.
The betrayal.
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Her hands clenched into fists.
Her heart cracked again —
in a place she thought had already turned to ice.
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But she said nothing.
Could do nothing.
Because that was Aetherland.
Victories celebrated in golden halls.
Heroes buried in back alleys.
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The MPs dragged Elias away.
Blood trailing behind him.
He never looked back.
Selene never looked away.
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In that moment —
two souls crossed again.
Both understanding, without speaking —
This was their empire.
This was their home.
This was the price of living.
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