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May 1981 — Operation "Crimson Break"
Location: Etailoi Gulf & Greater Athens Region.
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The night sky over Athens was already burning.
Columns of black smoke clawed at the stars.
The world shook beneath the roar of missiles and artillery.
The Combined Forces of Aetherland surged toward the city's battered gates —
but the Great Russ Federation stood defiant,
their navy pinning the flanks,
their Red Army grinding every inch of concrete into blood.
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At the mouth of the Etailoi Gulf,
the Imperial Combined Fleet clashed against the Federation's naval forces —
Destroyers shattered.
Aircraft carved spirals of fire across the sky.
Every mile of sea and stone was claimed and reclaimed at the cost of lives measured in seconds.
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On the cliffs above the Gulf —
a specialized sniper team was positioned.
Hidden.
Waiting.
Among them —
Liutenant Elias Jerkins.
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He lay prone in the dust.
Breath steady.
Finger tight on the trigger.
Through the heavy lens of his sniper scope —
he found his mark:
The Red Army Garrison Commander —
directing troops, rallying broken lines, a shadow of unbroken defiance.
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The order crackled through his headset:
"Target confirmed. Execute."
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Elias squeezed.
CRACK.
One shot.
Clean.
Precise.
The commander fell —
head snapped back.
Chaos broke across the Red Army line.
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Commander's voice buzzed again:
"Mission complete! All snipers, retreat! Forfeit remaining targets! Repeat — retreat!"
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Elias adjusted his scope—
Scanning instinctively.
And then —
he saw them.
Another Aetherland unit —
trapped at the edge of the cliff.
Pinned.
Cornered.
Federation soldiers tightening around them like a noose.
Young soldiers.
New faces.
Barely out of their academy years.
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His fingers tightened on the rifle.
Breath hitched.
His orders were clear: retreat.
But Elias Jerkins disobeyed.
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He threw his rifle over his back.
Raised his assault riffle.
Sprinted downhill, ready for shooting any enemies on sight
Bullets snapped past his ears.
Artillery shook the bones beneath his skin.
He run toward them.
But —
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He never reached them.
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MISSILE INBOUND!
A Federation anti-personnel rocket struck near the cliff's edge.
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The blast lifted him off his feet.
He heard nothing but rushing air.
Felt nothing but weightlessness.
Then —
the sea.
Cold.
Black.
Unforgiving.
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He sank.
Tumbled.
Light faded.
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The night sky burned over Athens.
The cliffs cracked.
The sea churned.
Elias Jerkins was falling —
Not toward salvation.
Not toward victory.
Only into the cold, endless blue.
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But fate had not finished with him.
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Below him —
the black steel belly of HMS Venter breached the waves.
The missile submarine —
silent predator of the Aetherland Vanguard —
surfaced through the boiling sea.
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CRASH.
Elias struck the hull.
Hard.
Bone against steel.
The impact snapped the air from his lungs.
He rolled —
battered —
bleeding —
but alive.
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Above him —
the forward deck hatch swung open.
Floodlights sliced into the night.
Boots thundered across the wet steel.
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And there —
Selene von Aetherwald.
Standing in the open hatch.
Field uniform dark against the pale light.
Eyes narrowing — assessing without mercy.
She saw:
The ripped sniper badge on his arm.
The Specialist patch barely clinging to his chest.
The bloodied rank insignia of a Maritime Special Operations sharpshooter.
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She understood immediately.
A relic of the field.
A weapon still functional.
A soldier useful.
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Selene barked a sharp command without hesitation:
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"Get him into the missile control room. NOW."
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The deckhands moved.
No salutes.
No sympathy.
Only efficiency.
They hauled Elias upright —
half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the forward bays.
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Inside the cold, humming corridors of HMS Venter —
The world changed.
No longer the chaos of the cliffs.
No longer the blood and broken sky.
Here —
It was clean.
Silent.
Ready.
The machine of death had surfaced —
and Elias had fallen into its gears.
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In the missile room, dripping seawater onto the steel floor,
shivering from cold and pain,
Elias stood before Selene.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
Still needed.
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Her voice was flat.
Unforgiving.
Selene stood in her field uniform.
No medals.
No crown.
Only authority.
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She approached him silently.
Elias tried to rise.
Tried to apologize.
The words caught in his throat.
Selene raised her hand —
And slapped him across the face.
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Not in anger.
Not in cruelty.
But to snap him back.
To break the spiral of guilt before it devoured him.
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Her voice cut through him like a steel blade:
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"don't gazing out, soldier"
"Now help me save the ones still breathing."
"Coordinates, Marksman!"
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No comfort.
Only orders.
But in her eyes —
behind the ice —
a flicker of understanding.
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Elias wiped the blood from his mouth.
Forced himself to stand.
He staggered into the radio ops bay of the submarine —
barefoot, dripping, still trembling —
and began to speak.
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"Enemy artillery batteries: coordinates 27.441, -23.120."
"Main barracks cluster: coordinates 27.450, -23.132."
"Anti-tank dugouts: east ridge, 27.446, -23.129."
and others vital coordinates
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Fast.
Precise.
Unstoppable.
His mind — a burning machine under the weight of failure.
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The missile doors of HMS Venter opened.
warheads loaded.
20 targets marked.
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Selene gave the nod.
No hesitation.
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"Fire."
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The submarine jolted.
One after another —
like judgment written in fire —
Missiles tore from the sea into the broken night.
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The impact turned the eastern defenses of Athens into smoke and rubble.
Barracks vanished.
Artillery silenced.
Tank clusters shattered like children's toys.
The very bones of the Red Army snapped under the barrage.
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At dawn —
the Imperial Land Forces broke through.
Athens fell within hours.
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Victory.
Carved not from glory.
But from blood.
And silence.
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Elias sat alone in the dim interior of HMS Venter.
Hands trembling.
Selene stood nearby, arms crossed.
Saying nothing.
Because nothing needed to be said.
They both knew.
This was what survival cost.
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Operation "Crimson Break" succeeded.
Aetherland's flag rose above the Acropolis once more.
But for those who lived through that night —
nothing was ever the same again.
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