crossed the line
by : the bishop
what is A psychopath ?
The word “psychopath” is often tossed around casually, but the reality of what it means is far more complex. Psychopathy is not merely the absence of empathy; it’s a pervasive disorder of the human psyche that allows a person to manipulate, deceive, and harm others without remorse.
Dr. Robert Hare, one of the world’s leading expertsnopsychopathy, defines it as “a personality disorder characterized by persistent patterns of manipulativeness, deceit, and a lack of remorse or guilt.” These individuals exhibit a profound indifference to the rights of others and often present a façade of charm and intelligence to mask their true nature. “They’re often skilled at convincing others they’re someone they’re not,” Dr. Hare notes, “making them highly dangerous, especially when their goals align with darker desires.”
But not all psychopaths fit the same mold. According to Dr. Kent Kiehl, a neuroscientist who has studied the psychopathic brain, the difference between a psychopath and the average person lies in the brain’s structure. Psychopaths tend to have abnormalities in the areas associated with empathy, morality, and emotional regulation. The amygdala, for example, which controls fear and emotion, is often underactive in psychopaths. This leads to a complete absence of guilt or empathy.
Psychopathy is more than just a personality quirk—it’sa neurological condition that warps a person’s capacity to feel for others. And in a world where the line between justice and vengeance is often blurred, psychopaths can be the perfect instruments for a task force designed to eliminate those who escape the law’s reach.
The government recognized this. They took a few of society’s most dangerous individuals—people who were too cunning and unfeeling to fit into a normal society , and trained them to hunt down others like them. Their lack of conscience made them effective, but it also meant that they had no qualms abou t using brutal methods to achieve their goals. They weren’t just enforcing justice , they were playing their own game, in which morality was an illusion, and efficiency was the only rule.
This is the world they live in. This is what it means to be a psychopath.
volume one forces of the universe
"Psychopaths are often cool under pressure, capable of making decisions without being influenced by emotional factors. In that sense, they can be invaluable in environments where others might falter, such as in war zones, business, or law enforcement."
— Dr. Kevin Dutton, The Wisdom of Psychopaths
In a secret bunker, hidden from the eyes of the world, the governments of the globe came together , an unlikely coalition forged by necessity and desperation. They had one goal in mind: to deal with those who had slipped through the cracks of justice.
Criminals so dangerous, so ruthless, that the conventional systems of law and order could not touch them. Murderers, traffickers, war criminals , those who manipulated the system, twisted the truth, and escaped punishment . These individuals didn’t just break the law , they broke the very fabric of society, evading retribution and leaving a trail of devastation in their wake.
And so, in the shadows of the political world, they created something new. A task force unlike any other, made up of people who shared a common trait: a capacity for violence and calculation that far surpassed what most could comprehend. These were individuals whose very nature allowed them to operate o utside the normal constraints of morality and empathy.
Their mission was simple, yet horrifying: Take care of those who slip through the cracks.
The world didn't know they existed. They were the government's hidden weapon, a force too dangerous to be acknowledged, but one that w ould strike without hesitation when the system failed.
[Deep voice narration begins, steady and cinematic]
Out of darkness, two problems gave birth to a single solution. It was perfect. Ruthless… but perfect. The leaders of the w orld saw an opportunity , a rare moment to set things right. To pull humanity back from the brink of chaos. To cling to a fragile hope of peace… and to end the coming calamity before it swallowed them whole.
That opportunity? A weapon made not of missiles or machines… but of people.
Task Forces.
Not ordinary soldiers. No. These were something far worse — or far better, depending on how you look at it.
Agents with incomplete minds. No conscience. No hesitation. No regrets. Only a deep, primal desire to kill. And one thin leash… tying them to justice.
Each continent received its own. With hidden headquarters buried beneath mountains, rigs, cities. Staffed by elite soldiers. Scientists. Psychologists. Even tools and tech that law enforcemen t didn’t dare imagine. All sanctioned. All untouchable. All deadly.
And from this system… many stories were born.
But this one , this one focuses on Task Force B. The unit responsible for Asia and Africa. A team of ghosts built on discipline, violence… and madness.
They don’t do it for medals. They don’t do it for praise.
They do it because they crave the kill.
laughs faintly , quiet, amused, dangerous
And, somehow… they’re the ones who saved the world.
The Global Secret Summit of 2025 , an event long awaited by the governments of the world, especially the leaders of Africa and Asia , who se Task Force has been out of commission since an event no one speaks of. Yet, it is unforgettable: an event that nearly compromised operations worth billions , an event called Oilburn.
The world leaders sit at the table, and in the middle, a big screen with a black silhouette on it. This is the Commander of Task Force B.
The Commander: OILBURN WAS A MISTAKE , A COSTLY ONE. A MISTAKE THAT SHALL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN. AND I CAN ASSURE YOU, PRECAUTIONS HAVE BEEN MADE. AND THE AGENTS... WELL, THEY HAVE BEEN REPRIMANDED.
Asian World Leader: Well, Commander, even though it was the logical move to dissolve any remaining assets and start fresh, your insistence on keeping the Task Force has convinced us. Do not let it happen again.
Commander: Very well. All in favor of the rig being launched and all in favor of the agents being reinstated?
Everyone raises their hand , and hence, Task Force B: the heroes of a tale to be told.
The Commander: Now, let’s go back from the top. We are a top-secret, world-funded organization assigned with the task of dealing with individuals who slip through the legal system , dangerous people who get past the law and harm the innocent. Mafia organizations, serial killers, terrorists , and the frustrating reality behind those who do bad and can’t be prosecuted, not even if they were caught red-handed — all because of sloppy legal work and crafty lawyers.
The world’s justice system fails too often. That’s why the governments forged secret Task Forces , shadows operating beyond law, beyond recognition, hunting the monsters that slip through the cracks.
Task Force A controls the Americas, striking fast and vanishing without a trace.
Task Force B covers Africa and Asia , ruthless killers hidden beneath an oil rig in the Red Sea, predators with a deadly purpose.
Task Force C owns Europe’s shadows, masters of silent infiltration and surgical strikes.
Task Force D watches over them all, making sure none go rogue. And when threats cross borders, Task Force E acts , the silent hand uniting them all.
No names. No glory. Just results. This is the war the world doesn’t see.
The Commander: And with the briefing complete, I shall note that Task Force B will have its first mission after reinstatement next week. Please provide your complete cooperation — passports, IDs, equipment, and access clearance to any shared bases — and all the proper documentation for it in the next four days or so. Thanks for your cooperation.
A helicopter lands onto a helipad positioned in the middle of the Red Sea. This is the HQ of Task Force B. The official name is Naval Chamber 116, but to those who know of its existence, it's called The Rig.
Out of the helicopter, four men exit.
First Man: So this is what Layla has been ranting about for the last few weeks.
Second Man: Cut her some slack, you unfeeling jerk. You know she was excited about this.
Third Man: We're all unfeeling. We're psychopaths. Shut up! Hahahahahah!
Fourth Man: Alright, everyone, focus. We got a lot to unpack.
They head to a small elevator under the helipad and go in.
First Man: I thought there would be more elegance to the entrance.
Fourth Man: You idiot, it's supposed to be discreet.
The elevator goes down. The door opens. They look up in amusement.
Second Man: Awww, all this for us?
In front of them: a highly militarized base with a big central console and rovers driving around with cargo loads.
Woman (from below): Look down, dimwits.
The men look down and see her.
First, Second, and Third Man (together): LAYLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
The fourth man looks at her silently. She smiles at him.
Layla: Welcome back.
A soldier approaches them.
Soldier: Welcome, agents. Please follow me. I'll show you the operations quarters, your sleeping area, and I have been ordered by the commander to have you see Doctors Rami and Noura... even if by force.
Third Man: Nope.
Soldier: I was told to use lethal force if you refuse.
Third Man: Okay, psychologists it is.
They head to the psychologists. The first man enters Doctor Rami's office.
First Man: Wow, nice office, Doctor Rami. How many times have you brought the wife here?
Doctor Rami: As usual, Rami Al-Khatib... the fact that we share a name makes me scared. But I respect what you do for a living.
Narrator: Agent Rami. Codename: The Ghost. Creepy guy, silent but deadly. And even in your playful moments, you can be pretty scary.
Doctor Rami: So how have you been, Roo? That's what you liked to be called, right?
Roo: Well, since Oilburn, we’ve been deactivated. And if I don't get a knife and a mission with a lot of killing, I feel like I will explode.
Doctor Rami: Wow. Scary. But glad to inform you your next mission is in a week. Can you wait till then?
Roo: Can't promise ya. I’m probably taking on side quests until the mission starts.
Doctor Rami: Well, let’s hope there are any.
The second man enters Doctor Noura’s office.
Second Man: Can I get some gum or could your sweet fingers be a good substitute?
Doctor Noura: I told you, Firas, I don’t like these jokes.
Firas: Well, I don’t care. Gimme gum.
Doctor Noura: Oh, Firas Al-Rawi. Codename: The Cleaner. You handle the gore left behind by others and take any leftovers like a crow or a hyena. Yet when you kill, it's vicious, and even our top experts sometimes can’t clean it up.
Firas: Well, I take pride in my art. And those who get my blade deserve it.
Doctor Noura: Well, if I ever go under your code, please let Layla kill me instead.
Firas: Not gonna happen.
Doctor Noura (nervously): Okaaaayyyyyyyyy.
The third and fourth men go in next, one to Doctor Rami, one to Doctor Noura.
Doctor Rami: Oh, my favorite psychopath in the wholeidewworld! Nabil Haddad. Codename: The Surgeon. Precise. Clean. Quiet. Careful. Just the perfect man and weapon.
Nabil: Ohhh bishhhhh, you make me blush.
Doctor Rami: Well, it's all true. And I hope you're ready for next week’s mission.
Nabil: More than you could ever imagine. Also... your bone structure? It’s great. I wish I could pull out your skeleton and dance with it.
Doctor Rami: The one thing I hate about you... Creeeepyyyyy.
The fourth man enters Doctor Noura’s room.
Osama: Hey doc, how are you? How is your kid? She’s in preschool, right? Her class is 4B.
Doctor Noura: Yet again, your twisted and complicated sense of humor gets to me. Hello Osama, how are you?
Osama: I am fine. Although I need the mission. If not, I disappear. And you know I won’t be found.
Doctor Noura: Well, the surprising thing is I know you’re not lying. Osama Al-Zain. The Interrogator. You vet everyone. You check everything . You are the leader and the only person capable of extracting information from anything as long as it has a pulse.
Osama: Well, when you put it that way…
Doctor Noura: By the way, how is your scar? Since Oilburn, you haven’t been the same. And just looking at the mirror… you can see it, can’t you…
Osama: Stop. Don’t go any further.
Doctor Noura: Of course. Whenever you're ready. By the way... what do you think of Layla?
Osama: She is Layla Al-Sabah. She goes by two codenames: The Tracker and The Siren. She maps things out for us and sets boundaries. Sometimes I doubt if she’s actually a psychopath, but she’s effective. And I respect her for it.
Doctor Noura: Well, that’s good to know. And good luck.
After the last of their psych evaluations, the agents are once again met by the same soldier, standing firm, hands behind his back, expression unreadable.
Soldier: Agents, please proceed to the briefing room
Firas (stretching, arms behind his head): Oh? So we’ll finally meet the elusive Commander , after keeping out of touch forever.
Osama (coldly, without turning): If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here right now, dimwit.
Nabil (cracking his knuckles): Well said.
Layla (smirking, arms folded): Okay, okay. Shush. I want you all to see this.
They step into the corridor, guided by motion sensors that light the path ahead— sleek steel floors, reinforced walls humming faintly with power. As the door to the briefing room hisses open, the space unveils itself:
A large, circular chamber. At its heart, a raised central console glows faint blue, surrounded by sophisticated touchscreens and encrypte d panels. Holographic projectors hum silently above. Massive monitors stret ch across the far wall, displaying satellite feeds, mission maps, and scrolling redacted data. The room is cold, intimidating , and stunning.
Firas (grinning as he walks in): Okay… this is kinda sexy.
Roo (giving his chair a spin with a sly smile): These chairs spin. Dangerous move for psychopaths.
Nabil (staring daggers at him): I swear, if one of you starts spinning, I’m snapping a neck.
Layla (chuckling as she throws herself into a seat): Then maybe spin first, Nabil.
Osama (standing still, analyzing the ceiling-mounted devices): Eyes front. We’re not here to play.
One by one, they take their seats around the central console, the subtle weight of the moment pressing against the room’s silence. The lights dim. A mechanical hum builds.
Then , a soft click.
A shimmering blue hologram flickers to life at the heart of the console—encrypted, staticfilled at first , before stabilizing into a faceless figure. The voice that follows is altered, but unmistakably in control. It reverberates through the chamber like a cold current.
Commander (hologram): So, agents… what do you think of this place? Can you maintain it?
Roo (leaning back with a lopsided grin): Don’t counton it. Hahahah. Still , cool place. Definitely smells better than Oilburn.
Osama (snapping to him with sudden sharpness): No. Don’t even mention it.
Roo: Okayyyyy… chillllllllllllll.
Commander (dryly): Gentlemen, enough chit-chat.
Layla (without missing a beat): And lady.
Commander (a pause , then evenly): And lady. Yes. Thank you, Layla.
A flicker of data streams behind the hologram as it pulses brighter
Commander: Now listen carefully. Your first mission begins next week. Before that, our lead scientist will walk you through your new tools , weapons, tech, toys… whatever you want to call them. You’ll need every edge we can give you.
Osama (resting back slightly, eyes sharp): Ah, yes. How’s he holding up?
Commander (with a small chuckle under his breath): Better than when you last saw him... far fewer burns this time.
Firas (snorting): Damn. There goes my bet.
Nabil (deadpan): Still might lose a limb, though.
Layla (smirking): Play nice, boys.
Commander: Gear up. You’re all dismissed for now , report to Lab Sector 3 in twenty.
A faint mechanical whir cuts through the silence. From the side of the briefing room, a sleek wall panel slides open with a pneumatic hiss. A man steps into the light , tall, wiry, soot-streaked lab coat half-burnt at the edges, goggles pushed up over messy hair, and an unmistakable limp in his left leg.
Firas (grinning wide): Riyad?! You’re in one piece? Damn, I owe Osama fifty riyals.
Layla (raising a brow): You survived? I thought you blew up trying to microwave uranium again.
Nabil (chuckling): He looks like a B-movie villain. I love it.
Doctor Riyad (arms wide open with exaggerated drama): Look who it is… The Rig’s top shelf lunatics.
Roo (plopping into his chair sideways): And you still look like a meth lab cosplaying as a person.
Doctor Riyad (grinning): I missed you freaks too.
He walks past the table’s edge and taps a square touchpad. Instantly, the large glass surface at the center of the briefing table lights up , clean blue interface, smooth transitions, and a rotating 3D model of a combat blade spinning in place.
Doctor Riyad (gesturing proudly): Welcome to your new toy chest. I’ve been working day and night on weapons and tools that none of you should legally be allowed to carry.
Firas (grinning, looking over the gear): Oh you say that like it’s a bad thing.
Doctor Riyad (tapping the table again): Right here we have:
A carbon-fiber fang-blade , lightweight, nearly unbreakable, and sharp enough to glide through Kevlar.
A magnetic-locked silenced pistol, standard issue for close-quarter discretion. Integrated flash suppressant and low recoil chamber.
A tactical suit woven with carbon-fiber strands , enhanced flexibility, slash resistance, fire retardant, and built for silent movement.
And this... a non-lethal shock unit. Clips to your wrist, wired through the palm. One quick press sends 50,000 volts into whatever you touch , designed for takedowns, not sci-fi. Think of it as an aggressive handshake.
The screen-table shifts layouts as he swipes through weapon profiles with two fingers. Loadouts appear in sleek overlays , tactical specs, internal diagnostics, recharge indicators.
Roo (eyeing the shock unit): If this thing starts whispering to me, I’m marrying it.
Doctor Riyad: That’s fine. Just don’t let it meet your mother.
Osama (calmly): Do they work?
Doctor Riyad (deadpan): Half of them I tested on myself . The other half... well, you’ll find out.
Layla (leaning over the table, scrolling): Which half?
Doctor Riyad: I stopped keeping track after the concussion.
Nabil (selecting a digital scalpel display): Does this glow red when I cut someone?
Doctor Riyad: Only when you hit an artery. It’s reactive. Mood lighting, if you will.
Firas (already reaching into a drawer on the table): What’s this tiny red button?
Doctor Riyad: That was from my espresso machine. If it explodes, you owe me a new one.
A light chime pings from the table console. The enscredims just slightly as the Commander’s voice returns, firmer now.
Commander: You have two days to familiarize yourselves with your equipment. Live field testing will follow. Layla , upload coordinates for the training arena.
Layla: Already sent, Commander.
Commander: Doctor Riyad, please don’t maim anyone before deployment.
Doctor Riyad: Only emotionally. Physically… no promises.
Laughter breaks across the group like a ripple—sharp, familiar, borderline feral. Despite the jokes, the energy in the room shifts. The weapons are real. The clock is ticking.
Osama (pushing off the table as he stands): Finally... the warm-up's over.
After the equipment showcase, the agents are dismissed to settle in. One by one, they peel off into the corridors, each handed a small keycard
Each room is identical , sleek, simple, utilitarian. A single bed, a mounted TV, a steel wardrobe, a small bathroom, and ambient lighting low enough to keep the mind calm but alert.
Osama steps into his room and doesn’t even bother unpacking. His eyes go straight to the corner of the ceiling. A tiny red blink. Another in the vent. One above the bathroom mirror.
Osama (dryly): Cameras? Seriously? Commander… you’ve trusted us with corpses, bloodbaths, and worse… but this is where the trust ends?
Across the base, each of the others has a similar reaction.
Firas (to himself): Oh, look. Daddy’s watching. Cute.
Roo (laying back on the bed): I kill for you people, and this is how you repay me? Rude.
Layla (coldly, while brushing her hair): Watch me all you want. You’ll only regret it.
Nabil (smiling into the lens): I bite.
Within minutes, they’re all back in the briefing room . The irritation hangs in the air like humidity. Osama walks to the main console and taps a direct comms link.
Osama: Patch me through. Commander only.
The screen flashes. The Commander appears, static clinging to the edges of his image. His voice calm, but unmistakably annoyed.
Commander: You’ve been on The Rig less than a day, Osama, and already you’re causing trouble.
Osama (measured): Relax. It’s nothing serious... unless those cameras stay.
Commander: Protocol. You breached trust after Oilburn, remember?
Osama (firm): Oilburn was a miscalculation. None of us saw it coming. You know that.
Commander: And yet, it happened. And my hands were the ones that had to clean it up after you vanished for forty-eight hours. The cameras stay.
Osama: Then so do the consequences. H–E–L–L.
There’s a pause. A long one. The Commander exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Commander: Fine. I respect your conviction. But if one mistake happens again—it won’t be just cameras. You’ll wish it was.
Osama: Understood. I want them gone before we return t o our rooms. And if you tried to sneak in any hidden mics… we’ll find them.
A silence settles over the room.
The others, arms crossed or hands in pockets, exchange looks , no one speaks, but each of them gives a quiet shake of the head. Not at Osama... bu t at the situation. It's clear they stand with him.
The Commander notices. He straightens, then gives a single, sharp salute.
Commander: Dismissed.
The screen cuts out.
Without a word, the five turn and walk back toward thei r rooms. No plan. No discussion. Just an unspoken agreement: trust is earned, not watched.
After getting used to their assigned rooms , some throwing their bags into corners, others silently checking every inch for bugs—theefivregroup and make their way toward the cafeteria. The hallway lighting is dim but smooth, the air carries a faint smell of freshly polished steel and something almost... edible.
The cafeteria isn't much to look at: silver counters, overhead LED strips, and a decent attempt at a buffet. Not bad for an off-the-books death squad headquarters.
They load up on trays , sandwiches, coffee, anything that looks edible—and slump into a booth near the far window.
Layla (casually, unwrapping her sandwich): Did you guys ever get the news about Yin and Yan?
Roo (already munching on chips): Nope. Where’ve those twin Asian freaks been? Last we saw ’em was right after Oilburn. Then boom , gone.
Layla: Well... turns out after Oilburn, they got their own base in Tokyo. They call it The Blossom.
Nabil (raising a brow, chewing): Those two shits got their own base?
Layla (biting into her sandwich, mouth half full): Mmmhm. They did. And they couldn’t be happier. They operate almost exclusively in East Asia now. Last time we spoke, they said they missed the gang… but they love having full control—missions, kills, all theirs.
Firas (jealous, dramatic): Lucckkkkkkkkkkkkkyyyyyyyyyy.
Roo (sarcastic): Yeah, meanwhile we get to sleep in bugged rooms and kill people under surveillance. So dreamy.
Nabil (smirking): Don’t be bitter. At least we still get to kill as a family.
Layla (smiling through her chewing): It’s cute how you think this is a family.
Osama (quietly, sipping his coffee): It’s not a family . It’s a firepit. We’re just the logs they keep tossing in.
The table goes quiet for a beat. Just the hum of the lights and the occasional clink of trays in the background. It’s a weird kind of comfort. Twisted, bitter, but real.
Roo (shrugging, mouth full): Firepit or not… at least we burn hotter than those two.
Firas: Yeah. Let them have their cherry blossoms. We’ve got blood on concrete.
Layla: Cheers to that.
They clink their plastic coffee cups together like champagne glasses. Warped loyalty, black humor, and barely contained madness , just another lunch break
The team finishes their lunch — trays half empty, bante r simmering down, the energy relaxed but sharp. The clatter of a soldier’s boots breaks the calm. He stops beside them, stiff and formal.
Soldier (firmly):
Agents. The training facilities have been fitted and calibrated for your use. Also , Agent Osama, Agent Layla—you’ve been assigned to Research, Evaluation, and Interrogation Division. AI simulation models have been programmed to spar with you. Consider it a warm-up.
Layla sets down her drink with a glint in her eye.
Layla (grinning):
Well… what are we waiting for?
Firas stretches with a mischievous grin and stands up.
Firas:
Yay! Gonna play with weapons we definitely shouldn’t be touching.
Osama doesn’t budge. He glances at the soldier, then slowly stands, voice steady but firm.
Osama:
One mistake in that training room—one—and the Commander will have cameras sprouting from every gap he can find. Don’t fail me. Or us.
Especially you, Roo.
Roo (half-laughing, hands up):
Okay okay , chilllllll.
Nabil (muttering as he stands): Still can’t believe they trust us with anything sharp.
They all push up from the table, trays clattering as they head toward the corridor. The weight of training ahead doesn’t kill the mood—but it sharpens the edges of their walk.
INT. HIGH-SECURITY BRIEFING ROOM – NIGHT
Dim red lighting bathes the room. Monitors glow softly. A heavy silence hangs. Then a screen flickers to life, displaying a sealed encrypted feed. One by one, blurred silhouettes come into view.
The Commander stands at the head of the room , calm, collected, but unmistakably tired.
Commander (dryly): Well, ladies and gentlemen... What have I been summoned for?
A figure steps forward , a poised silhouette of a woman, sleek, composed. A salute first, then her voice cuts through with quiet steel.
Female Shadow (Task Force D): Commander. Oilburn. It cost us too much—and it may still cause damage. The ripples haven’t stopped.
The Commander doesn’t flinch. He looks each figureaddeon through the screen, measured.
Commander:
I understand what you’re saying. Since then, the agents have been through updated psych evaluations, outfitted with more efficient gadgets and combat tools, and introduced to redesigned training environments. Security? Raised. Perimeter? Reinforced. No one comes within 300 meters of the Rig without getting noticed, warned, or gunned down.
Female Shadow: You misunderstand. Our concern isn’t the walls, the weapons, or the training dummies. It’s the people inside. These men and women you chose , they were a liability once. How can we be sure they won’t be again?
The Commander takes a long breath. He doesn’t raise his voice.
Commander:
Because now ... they have motive. A strong one. You’re all aware of what happened. You know what was lost.
A hush follows. The weight of that silence is heavier than any report.
The woman doesn't speak for a moment. Then:
Female Shadow:
Let’s hope you’re right, Commander. Because if they mess up again It won’t just be their necks on the line. It’ll be yours too.
Commander (firmly): Noted.
A final pause. Then the voice closes the conversation.
Female Shadow:
This is Task Force D and E… signing out.
She salutes. The others follow. The feed cuts to black.
The Commander remains still, the hum of the Rig the only sound.
The agents have been at it for hours. Sweat, frustration, and sarcasm fill the room. Layla is furiously jabbing at a terminal, lips curled in a snarl. Roo sits on the floor, handcuffed. Osama stands alone , calm and smug , he's already beaten the AI. In the corner, Firas and Nabil spar with padded gear, exchanging blows and laughs.
Roo (tugging at cuffs): Oh, come on, soldier , uncuff me already!
The soldier guarding him says nothing. He just holds up a phone screen. On it, a familiar contact: DOC RAMI.
Doc Rami (on speaker):
Not until you promise to stop screaming "BOOM HEADSHOT" every time you land a shot. You've triggered two full lockdowns.
Roo (groaning): Fine.
Doc Rami: Uncuff him.
The soldier obliges, slowly removing the cuffs.
Roo (grumbling): This place is oppressive.
Across the room, Layla finally beats the AI module. She throws both fists in the air and screams like she won the lottery. Then, without warning, she plants a full kiss on the screen , lipstick smearing all over the display.
Osama (deadpan): Stop it, you perv.
Layla (silly, still hugging the screen): NO. I deserve this moment.
In the training pit, Firas and Nabil are on their backs laughing, fists bumping midair as a sparring match ends in a draw.
Suddenly, a chime rings out from the ceiling speakers. The training room quiets.
Intercom (neutral female voice): All agents, soldiers, doctors, and scientists, please proceed to the Central Council Chamber for mission briefing. Thank you.
Osama (stretching his back): Finally.
Firas (dusting off his shirt): If they don’t let me keep the staff I broke Roo’s nose with, I’m quitting.
Roo (glaring): You didn’t break my , okay yeah, maybe a little.
They all start making their way out of the facility, grabbing water bottles, towels, and cracked jokes as they go.
The room falls dark. A large screen flickers to life. The COMMANDER appears , stoic, shadowed, eyes sharp. Behind him, the Rig’s insignia glows faintly.
Commander (firmly):
Ladies and gentlemen of the Rig... Welcome to the first official mission briefing since an incident we shall never forget.
Silence grips the chamber. Even the air feels heavy. Osama, in the front row, subtly brushes the scar on his cheek.
Commander:
Next week’s mission is codenamed... Smoke.
The screen shifts. A photo appears , Hafiz Al Arabi, stern-faced, eyes cold. Data scrolls beside him.
Commander (voice steeled):
This is Hafiz Al Arabi. Born June 14th, 1982. A known terrorist. Murderer. War profiteer. Leader of a militant group called Barq Al-Lil ,“Lightning of the Night.” Each of his men has dodged at least one conviction. Some have escaped death sentences. They don’t yield. They don’t run. And no local or international law can seem to stop them.
He leans forward.
Commander: But you can.
A map briefly flashes on screen , coordinates, terrain, satellite photos.
Commander:
Your mission is simple: Eliminate Hafiz and his men. But be warned , intel suggests he may be holding hostages. Proceed with precision.
A pause. He scans the room, even through the screen.
Commander (sharply): And agents... Don’t get caught.
The screen fades to black.
No applause. No cheers. Only silence... and a new fire in every eye.
Nabil (whispering): Time to clean the world.
Firas: Let’s take out the trash.
They all stand, slowly, purposefully. The mission has begun.
End of volume one .
Had to delete and re-upload since two things happened
1: discovred a mistake
2: some board redditors took it as a personal duty to tourture me for using a digital writing assistance full disclosure : Im a new writer this is not Ai , Im just sloppy , too much things come rushing down my mind thanks to my hunting adhd , thanks and happy reading , next volume will be better and less assistance will be used
A volume each week
hope you like it I'm new to this hahahahahaha .
written by : the bishop cover art by : the bishop
BTW? , is it safe to add your instagram to these things?
lemme know