Battle

Your heart pounds steadily, adrenaline spiking sweetly beneath your skin, mixing anticipation and dread into a delicious cocktail of tension. The men shift nervously, weapons gripped tightly, eyes flickering constantly toward the horizon.

You're at the vanguard, right in the throat of the coming carnage—exactly where your mom didn't want you. But you're no strategist’s pet tonight. You belong in the thick of it, tasting danger first hand, dancing closer to **** than anyone sane would enjoy.

Suddenly, the distant growl of engines splits the tense silence. Heads snap upward, bodies stiffening, pulses quickening. Trucks appear on cue, lumbering arrogantly down the predictable route, dust swirling behind them.

"Hold," you whisper harshly, gripping your weapon tighter, knuckles white, finger teasing the trigger eagerly. Sweat beads your forehead. "Wait for her signal."

Seconds stretch painfully, the waiting almost unbearable, breaths shallow, bodies tense. The trucks creep closer, engines rumbling louder, arrogance growing heavier.

And then, out of nowhere, a single shot cracks sharply, echoing violently through the valley. Mom’s signal.

Instantly, chaos unfolds beautifully, choreographed carnage erupting like violent ballet. Trucks swerve desperately, confused and panicked, until a thunderous explosion tears through the air, fire blossoming violently as one truck meets a carefully placed mine. Metal screams savagely as twisted, flaming wreckage blocks their escape.

"Showtime," you growl darkly, adrenaline igniting your veins like gasoline. The men around you roar wildly, emerging from concealment, a tidal wave of rage and determination.

The Russians pour from their crippled vehicles—stumbling, shouting, cursing—roughly twenty enemy soldiers and traitorous Zahiri scum desperately scrambling for cover, trying to organize a hopeless defence.

Gunfire erupts wildly around you, bullets slicing viciously through twilight, tracers painting deadly streaks. Your heart races fiercely, vision narrowing. You grin savagely, revelling in the symphony of battle, body moving instinctively, returning fire brutally, bullets ripping satisfyingly through enemy flesh.

"Welcome to Zahiriya, motherfuckers!" You shout defiantly, laughing wildly as blood sprays, men screaming as they're thrown violently backward by your bullets.

Your mom’s precise shots ring out steadily from above— **** from the ridge above—methodically picking off stragglers attempting to flank your positions. Each shot is lethal.

The battlefield shifts chaotically, Russians scrambling desperately, bodies littering the dusty road, the air heavy with screams, curses, and smoke. But your Lions press forward savagely, an unstoppable wave of fury reclaiming your soil with merciless ****.

You advance boldly, blood splattering deliciously across your cheek as you fire relentlessly, the savage rhythm of combat filling you with primal satisfaction.

Tonight, Zahiriya remembers exactly who its fucking rulers are.

The battle ends as quickly as it began—a savage burst of **** leaving the air thick with smoke, blood, and victory. The trucks smoulder quietly, a twisted monument to Russian arrogance scattered carelessly across Zahiriya’s dirt roads. Your men quickly swarm over the wreckage, looting munitions, armaments, and whatever else might help tear your enemies to shreds tomorrow.

You survey the battlefield with grim satisfaction. Your heartbeat gradually steadies as you wipe blood casually from your cheek, watching the men shout victoriously to each other, adrenaline making their eyes wild, feral with triumph.

Your mom emerges from the shadows, rifle slung gracefully over her shoulder, a deadly siren returning from her perch.

"Efficient," she murmurs approvingly, surveying your bloody handiwork. "Perhaps your recklessness has merit sometimes."

You smirk darkly, turning toward a handful of wounded, terrified Russians kneeling helplessly on the blood-streaked ground, faces pale beneath dirt and gore.

"Time for some conversation," you say casually, pulling your blade smoothly from its sheath, the metal gleaming hungrily under the moonlight. Your mom steps silently beside you, drawing a second blade.

You crouch slowly before one trembling Russian—a young soldier, barely out of boyhood. Fear swims thickly in his eyes, **** and pleading.

"Please," he begs in broken Arabic, voice cracking pitifully. "No… please—"

You smile almost gently, leaning closer, voice mockingly sympathetic. "Don’t worry. We just want to talk. And maybe redecorate your face a little."

Farah smirks beside you, watching approvingly as you draw your blade lightly across his cheek, blood dripping beautifully against trembling flesh.

Information comes easily after that—pain loosens tongues faster than any kindness ever could. You trade brutality with Farah, each taking turns asking questions, blood coating hands.

Eventually, words run dry—useless bodies no longer needed. Farah nods silently to you, eyes darkly intimate as she plunges her blade deeply, efficiently through a Russian officer’s chest, his final gasp echoing weakly into silence. You follow swiftly, mercilessly dispatching the last terrified prisoners, your pulse quickening in perverse satisfaction as blood stains your fingers warm and sticky.

You rise slowly, adrenaline still humming sweetly beneath your skin. Farah cleans her blade methodically, calmly meeting your gaze with satisfied eyes, unspoken praise lingering silently between you.

Turning back toward your gathered men, you lift your bloodied blade high, voice booming victoriously into the night air. "Tonight, we remind every traitor, every Russian, every fucking invader whose land this is! Tonight—we celebrate!"

Your men roar savagely, cheering, weapons raised defiantly to the star-filled sky. Your mom stands silently by your side, her fingers brushing subtly against your wrist.