His advisors were already barking orders and updating live feeds, but he stood motionless. Then the call came in from General Roth.
"Mr. President,"
Roth's voice blared over the secure line.
"The East has launched all of their ICBMs our interceptors are on their way. Antivirus worked perfectly."
President Caldwell's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His voice trembled, not from fear, but volcanic rage.
"F*cking c*nts,"
He spat. Then, louder.
"Retaliate. Retaliate back! Fire everything!"
"Confirming authorization,"
Said the nuclear command officer at the console.
"This is your authorization,"
The President snapped, slamming his hand on the biometric scanner. The red scan turned green. The room darkened for a beat.
"All Western ICBMs launching."
From deep silos buried across the Western hemisphere, the war machines screamed skyward. One after another, fiery plumes devoured the sky, matching the Eastern salvos with unrelenting fury.
Across the world, the skies lit up. Not with hope, but with vengeance. All out nuclear war had begun.
...
MC POV
Airid zipped up the last seam of his one piece black space uniform and flexed his shoulders with a satisfying pop.
"So… mind explaining what the f*ck happened to us?"
I just smirked.
"Invi, if you would."
"With pleasure,"
Invicta purred, already snapping her fingers as she did an encrypted neural file uploaded directly into their brains through their implants.
Data. Visuals. Memories. Surgery logs. Augmentation reports. World status. The works all condensed into a fraction of a second.
"What the...?"
Robert blinked, swaying slightly, then rubbed his temples.
"Okay, that was like binge watching a whole season of nightmares."
"Did I just see myself get carved up like turkey and then stiched back Into one piece?"
Julian muttered, staring blankly at his own stomach.
"Correction,"
Paul grunted.
"You saw me get carved up and you just got butchered like a pig."
"Oh right."
"...Nice."
Darius stretched his arms and cracked his neck.
"Okay, yeah, I don't hate this. Feels like I could tear a f*ckin APC in half with my bare hands."
Only for the klaxons to start blaring. The lighting shifted in a heartbeat. From sterile white to an urgent, blood red pulse. The alarm sirens howled through the ship with mechanical urgency.
BOOOOHHHHHMP. BOOOOHHHHHMP.
I narrowed my eyes and turned to Invicta, whose golden-yellow HUD glowing pupils were already narrowed with calculated calm.
"Well. It's begun,"
She said with eerie coolness.
"Do you want to watch the fireworks,"
She asked casually.
"Or just lay back and chill with a beer while the world goes full M*d M*x?"
I rolled my neck, popping the joints like dry twigs.
"I want to see it."
"Figured."
She spun on her heel with a grin and stormed out of the lab, boots hitting the steel deck in measured rhythm. I followed after her without a word.
"Hey, hey, wait the f*ck up!"
Julian called from behind.
"C'mon, vamp, don't hog all the apocalyptic cinema,"
Robert added, stomping after while shoving his arms through his space uniforms sleeves. Airid was already sprinting to catch up.
...
In the Eastern Bloc's fortified command center, the atmosphere was tense. A radar officer, pale and visibly shaken, turned to the room.
"Sir, we've detected multiple launches from the Western Block interceptor missiles and ICBMs. They're in the air."
The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the Eastern Bloc leader. He stood motionless for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Then, his face contorted with rage.
"Launch our interceptor missiles immediately! Activate all atomic submarines and order them to fire everything they have! Now!"
Deep beneath the ocean's surface, Eastern Bloc submarines received the launch orders. Crew members sprang into action, initiating the launch sequences.
Submarine Captain:
"Prepare all missile tubes for launch. Target coordinates locked. Fire on my command."
One by one, the submarines released their payloads, missiles piercing the ocean surface and ascending toward their targets.
In the North Bloc's command center, leaders watched the escalating situation with grim determination.
"If the world is ending, we're not going down without a fight. Launch all nuclear missiles. Target strategic locations in both East and West Blocs."
Simultaneously, in the South Bloc's command center, the south block leader with bloodshot eyes made the same decision.
"Initiate full scale nuclear launch. If this is the end, we'll ensure our enemies fall with us."
Missile silos across both blocs activated, sending their deadly cargo into the sky, contributing to the global conflagration.
...
MC POV
the moment the CIC blast doors hissed open, the world hit me like a freight train of data, noise, and heat.
The Combat Information Center THE heart and brain of the spaceship was alive with fury. Technicians barked out confirmations and commands. Officers rushed from one console to another. Engineers monitored power surges, comms traffic, and defense grid pulses. Overhead, dozens of holographic projectors lit up the chamber in chaotic light.
Walls were alive with glowing displays, live feeds, satellite visuals, radar sweeps. Red lighting bathed the room in urgency.
"ATTENTION!"
Barked Centurion 1111 the commander of the CICs on duty contubernum, his voice cold and scrambeled, echoing through the walls.
The room stilled. Hundreds of clone officers and NCOs snapped to their feet, saluting as I entered.
"At ease,"
I growled, already stomping toward the captain's console. Invicta followed at my heels, her boots clicking like punctuation against the steel flooring.
Her skirt swayed behind her, the red glow making her look more demon than AI. We stopped at the captain's chair, a throne of steel, screens, and tactical control rods. I didn't sit.
I leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the control interface.
"Pull up global telemetry. Real time. Give me everything."
Dozens of screens flashed to life. And the end of the world greeted me like an old friend.
ICBMs screamed into the heavens like ancient wrath reborn, their ignition tails scorching brilliant orange trails across the black canvas of the stratosphere.
Each missile sleek, intercontinental, death-bringing was a promise, retribution, devastation, finality. Contrails tangled like spiderwebs across the sky, woven from steel, flame, and fury.
The E*rth's upper atmosphere became a theater of extinction. No longer stars above only streaks of light, paths to annihilation.
The Eastern Bloc's missile silos had fired first, the horizon behind them still glowing hellish red as their warheads carved arcs toward their enemies.
Western retaliation followed, precise, mathematical, enraged. Northern and Southern salvos joined last, out of fear, out of spite, out of madness.
There were hundreds. Some missiles streaked higher, carrying MIRVs multiple independently targetable reentry vontainers each capable of breaking into a dozen smaller warheads.
Others flew low, skimming beneath radar horizons, heat shielded and brutal.
Across the globe, early warning systems shrieked like banshees. Generals barked orders while technicians clutched their heads. Some prayed. Others drank. Many ran.
In orbit, satellite constellations captured the entire thing trajectories, speeds, estimates of impact and relayed them back to nations who could only watch.
The defense grids blinked some intercepting, some failing. Blue blooms of explosions burst mid air. Others continued. CCTVs showed the mayhem and chaos happening all arround the world.
Smoke choked a famous plaza, swirling up from overturned vehicles and Molotov cocktails. A statue of N*lson stood watch, silhouetted against flickering fires.
Looters smashed windows of high end boutiques, dragging mannequins and armfuls of clothes out into the street. A red double decker bus was on its side, flames licking its undercarriage.
In the distance, sirens howled, but they were drowned out by the mob.
A group of teenagers danced in front of a burning police car, recording themselves for a livestream. Hashtags blinked: #EndOfDays #WorldBurns
In another city gunfire echoed like thunderclaps. A wall of riot police pushed back against a tidal wave of protestors.
The air was thick with tear gas and the acrid smell of burned rubber. Protestors hurled bricks and Molotovs at the Kremlin walls.
One young woman screamed into a smartphone camera, her face streaked with tears and ash, shouting about betrayal, about the lies, before vanishing in a blur of movement as she was tackled by riot cops.
In another thousands knelt in silence, holding candles. Monks stood shoulder to shoulder with university students, forming human chains around old temples and cultural monuments.
It was hauntingly peaceful until a low rumble shattered the silence. APCs rolled in. Loudspeakers barked orders. The crowd refused to disperse. When tear gas filled the air, screams followed.
In another was total chaos. Motorcyclists roared past shattered storefronts. Hooded men smashed ATM machines with bats and crowbars. A man wearing a clown mask danced atop a burning SUV.
Across the city, whole neighborhoods were already blacked out. Fires leapt from rooftop to rooftop. Police were nowhere to be seen. In the shadows, gunshots sparked like fireflies.
In another city downtown was gridlocked, but not with traffic. It was bodies. People running. Screaming.
A woman collapsed in the middle of an intersection, sobbing, clutching her child as the crowd stampeded around her.