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Abandoned Island Dock — Day 5, Twilight
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Across the black waters, aboard the Federation flagship —
The mood fractured.
Some soldiers leaned in toward the radios, pale and silent.
Hearing the eerie, broken jingle of an ice cream song in morse code.
Others laughed nervously.
Shrugging it off.
Whispering old superstitions:
"Ghost island..."
"Witch frequencies..."
Every vessel received the transmission.
But at the center of one Destroyer-Class Vessel bridge —
Commander Voronov stood rigid.
Fury twisting across his face.
His voice sliced through the command room:
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"Enough of this nonsense!"
"Send a chopper! I want eyes on that island!"
"Now!"
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Orders cracked down the comms.
Within minutes —
A Federation helicopter rose from the carrier deck.
Rotors chopping the evening mist.
Floodlights sweeping the sea.
Its nose turned west —
Toward the forgotten island.
Toward the broken ghost fleet.
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Meanwhile, on the ground...
Elias Jerkins stood on a collapsed radar tower.
Squinting into the setting sun.
He saw it first.
A black shape.
Growing larger.
Churning the fog.
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He didn't panic.
He grinned.
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"This..." he muttered, half to himself, half to the firelight,
"...is not a threat."
He turned — eyes alive, mischief reborn.
"This... is a supply delivery."
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Within seconds — the crew gathered.
Silent.
Alert.
Elias outlined it like gospel:
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"New mission: steal everything."
"No killing. No noise."
"We take tools. Ammo. Food."
"Whatever they thought they brought to patrol — it's ours now."
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Roxy secured her tools, tightening her belts.
Dr. Lilly stuffed a field kit into her satchel.
Rocco, sunglasses gleaming, twirled a stolen wrench like a gunslinger.
The others nodded grimly.
Steel sliding into their blood.
No hesitation.
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The helicopter began to descend.
Floodlights raked across the docks.
The ground vibrated under the downdraft.
Loose metal clattered.
Torn tarps flapped like broken flags.
The chopper's landing skids kissed the cracked tarmac.
Rotor blades screamed above.
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Inside the helicopter — crates of repair kits.
Ration boxes.
Field ammunition stacked loosely.
Perfect.
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Elias tapped his foot against the ruined dock.
Counting seconds.
Waiting for the patrol to step out.
Waiting for the blind moment.
Waiting to become ghosts.
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And then —
The game would begin.
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They had less than five minutes.
And that was enough.
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Elias barked silent orders.
Roxy and Lilly nodded sharply, scattering into the ruins.
The others followed — fast, invisible, trained by desperation itself.
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Within minutes—
The abandoned dock had changed.
Bush costumes sewn from netting and scrap plastic.
Fake grave markers hammered into cracked concrete.
Bodybags — stitched from tarps, filled with driftwood, bloodied with crushed berries.
The island didn't look like a camp anymore.
It looked like a cemetery.
A battlefield the sea itself had abandoned.
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The helicopter descended.
Rotors screamed.
Floodlights raked the ground.
The landing skids hissed against the dust.
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The Russ squad disembarked.
Six men.
Steel helmets.
Rifles up.
Tension so sharp it cut their own boots.
Scouting the island professionally
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And then—
On the far side of the island...
A sound.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink-clink-clink.
A tapping wrench against a warped sheet of iron.
Rhythmic.
Eerie.
An ice cream jingle — broken, mechanical, wrong.
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Field ammunition relayed to the bushes
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The squad froze.
Half turned toward the sound.
Guns raised.
Shadows long in the floodlights. Marching into the sound origin
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Repair kits casually taken by Rocco
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The pilot hesitated.
He glanced at the tree line.
At the shadow moving through the graves.
At the mist creeping from nowhere.
His hands shook.
He refused to leave his cockpit.
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Supply crates secured.
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And then—
Something flew.
A bodybag —
Launched by a hidden rig.
Sailed into the trees like a ragged ghost.
THUMP.
Branches cracked.
Leaves rained down.
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The pilot screamed —
Panicked —
Grabbed his sidearm —
And fired blindly behind the helicopter.
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CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Gunshots shattered the air.
The squad near the wreckage panicked —
Rushed back toward the chopper —
Screaming orders no one heard.
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Meanwhile—
The 34th candidates moved.
Silent as wraiths.
Through the shadows.
Under the rotors.
Past the distracted guards.
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Rations disappeared.
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One by one —
They robbed the Federation blind.
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By the time the Russ soldiers regrouped —
There was nothing left but grave markers, broken radios, and echoes.
No sign of enemy movement.
No sign of a trap.
Just a ghost island, whispering through metal and mist.
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Commander's Report:
"No enemy found."
"Island compromised. Recommend immediate extraction."
The helicopter roared skyward —
Scrambling to flee the cursed ground.
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Meanwhile—
In the caves and old hulls beyond sight —
The 34th crew crouched.
Breathless.
Silent.
Waiting.
Watching the helicopter disappear into the sunset.
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Only when the rotors faded into the horizon—
Did they move.
Opening crates.
Checking supplies.
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What they had stolen:
Field Repair Kits — enough to mend the skeleton of a ship.
Emergency Rations — enough to keep 8 alive another month.
Ammunition — small arms, flare guns, smoke grenades.
Water purification tablets.
Even a working field radio baseplate.
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Elias exhaled slowly.
Grinned.
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"This," he whispered to Roxy and Lilly,
"...is how you survive a war without firing a single bullet."
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And somewhere above them —
in the fading twilight —
Selene's invisible hand tightened around their destiny.
Her ghosts had passed their first true trial.
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