1st Person POV
A thought—confirmation.
And then, presence.
A figure appeared. A full-grown man in a full kit. Ballistic helmet, body armor, rifle lowered by reflex, head turning slightly as his surroundings registered.
"Hands in the air," I said in English—flat but clear. Not loud. Just enough.
Even if this soldier was from the far future, English should still be one of the known languages.
The soldier froze for a second, but only that. His hands went up smoothly, rifle hanging by sling.
"Turn around."
He obeyed. No questions, no hesitation.
I stepped forward, keeping my aim steady on the back of his head. I pulled my left hand from its support beneath the frame and worked fast—rifle off the sling, sidearm unholstered, quick sweep over the vest and belt. After taking the soldier's weapons, I placed the rifle and pistol on the chair, out of his reach but still close enough for me.
No hidden blade. No backup piece.
Clean.
"Do you have any other weapons?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know me?"
"Yes, sir. You're the Commander."
"Other than that?"
A pause. One beat. Two.
"Negative, sir. I can't remember details. The only thing I know is that we were assigned to you. That's all I can recall."
"Turn around."
He did. Slowly. Hands still raised.
Now I could see him fully.
Caucasian, maybe early to mid-thirties. Brown hair buzzed close. Faint stubble across his jaw. His face was composed—neutral. Not anxious. Not eager. Just… ready.
There was no blind loyalty there. No worship in his eyes.
Just recognition.
Of command.
Of orders.
Of function.
Not awe—just protocol
"Who are you, soldier? What is your mission?" I asked.
"I can't remember my name, sir. I only remember my duty—to serve you through this operation until it's finished, sir," the man answered.
"Callsign? Code name?" I asked again.
The soldier shook his head. "I can't remember anything about myself, sir."
"How about the one giving you orders? Do you remember?" I pressed.
"Sorry, sir. No, I don't. But I only serve you and you alone, sir." he replied.
I studied his expression and eyes carefully. He didn't meet my gaze, nor did he look away. At that moment, I was certain he was telling the truth. Were they never given memories or knowledge of their true identity from the start? Or was it because of damage to the system? I pondered briefly but didn't dwell.
"Apologies for the treatment, soldier. This whole situation is too sudden for me," I said, lowering my pistol and reengaging the safety. "You can lower your hand."
"It should be me who's sorry, sir. I can't answer most of your questions… though, if I may," the soldier lowered his hands and looked at me.
I took the rifle from the chair with my left hand and handed it back to the soldier, then picked up the sidearm beside it and passed it to him as well.
I watched him as he secured his weapon—fluid, practiced, unthinking. Every movement carried the ease of someone forged in repetition. Whoever made them didn't just clone bodies. They printed experience.
"What?" I asked.
"I'm not sure of the reason, sir," he said, his tone respectful yet firm, "but I believe my memories will return once I've regrouped with the rest of my squad." As he spoke, he holstered the pistol at his belt and resecured his rifle with practiced precision
"Very well then, follow me." I said, turning toward the front room—the same area where Andre had been standing earlier. The soldier lingered on the zombie corpses briefly, then turned away and followed me without hesitation.
I stopped near the pillar and spoke without turning, "Are you also unaware of the threat in this operation?" Then I turned around to face him, waiting for his response.
My gaze shifted to the door. The latch was locked, the handle and keys stained with blood—Andre and Danny's last act before retreating. A thin curtain veiled the window, behind it a steel trellis. Shadows moved—an elbow, the tremor of hands hitting wood.
The soldier followed my line of sight. "Negative, sir." he said, his focus returning to me.
"We'll take care of that later." I lifted my head slightly, gesturing toward the door with a subtle nod.
"But first, I need to summon the others and brief all of you."
The soldier nodded first.
'It seems like he already knows I can summon the others.' I thought.
Despite the familiarity in his response, there was no greed in the soldier's eyes—no curiosity, no hunger for power. Only calm acceptance, as if the idea had always been part of his reality.
I chose this room for a reason. Once a parlor, now just space. After renovations, the furniture had been moved elsewhere. No clutter. No obstacles. Room enough to summon soldiers.
I slid the pistol into my shorts pocket and accessed the system.
This time, I selected everything.
All at once.
I felt something in both of my hands—the weight, the cold metal. An HK416 assault rifle, standard-issue, fully loaded, materialized in my grip. At that same moment, around me and the first soldier, five more appeared out of thin air, their forms stabilizing into a loose half-circle around me.
They stood at attention, combat uniforms tailored to their roles. No two kits were the same. One wore heavy armor and an ammo vest loaded with belts. Another had lightweight plating, a tactical knife, and an IR laser. A third bore a ghillie-wrap rig and spotting tools. One carried breaching charges and flashbangs; another, a full trauma kit strapped tight to his frame.
Among them, two stood out—not for their gear, but their appearance. African Americans, distinct among the otherwise all-Caucasian squad. It wasn't a detail that mattered operationally, but the contrast made it noticeable.
They all looked young—mid to late twenties, by appearance alone. Younger than the first one I summoned. The others, though alert and composed, still moved with the reflexes of those accustomed to following.
They all turned toward me in unison. No words. Just acknowledgement. I nodded once. Recognition sparked quietly in their eyes—just like with the first one. It was subtle, almost instinctual, but unmistakable.
They knew who I was. Not as a man. As a role.
I turned to the first soldier again. "How is it? Any changes?" I asked. The other five shifted their gaze toward him as well, a synchronized movement that needed no command.
The soldier's eyes flickered briefly, as if something had reconnected behind them. "I remembered my call sign, sir. I am Alpha-1," he said crisply, his voice more stable now—more grounded. He straightened slightly before continuing, "Captain of the Sentinel-6 squad."
I nodded. "Good."
I turned toward the rest of the squad.
"You," I said, pointing to the broad-shouldered one carrying a heavy breaching shotgun,
"Callsign?"
One of the African American soldiers took half a step forward,
"Bravo-2. Breacher, Sir."
Heavyset yet solidly built, he held a breaching shotgun ready in his hands, while a rifle hung slung across his chest. Reinforced gloves covered his fists. He looked like a wall built to walk through other walls.
Next, a tall soldier with a scar over his brow gave a nod,
"Charlie-3. Pointman, reporting in."
Sleek frame, close-quarters setup, his eyes constantly scanning the room even as he answered. The kind of person who moved first and thought faster.
To his right stood a shorter soldier with the red cross taped subtly on his vest, stocky and silent until now.
"Delta-4. Combat Medic, Sir."
Strapped with more than one medkit and an assault rifle configured for flexibility. He gave a short nod, calm and steady.
The other African American soldier, leaner, more agile in his presence, spoke next.
"Echo-5. Suppression, Sir."
Carried a compact LMG, belt-fed. Rear guard. Quiet eyes, steady breath.
And finally, the last soldier—the only one clad in modular ghillie suit components, rangefinder slung to his side—answered last.
"Foxtrot-6. Overwatch, Reporting for duty."
Scoped rifle on his back. He hadn't looked directly at me once—his attention flicked to the windows, the door, the corpses before even acknowledging me—gave a short nod.
Alpha-1 remained beside me, his presence no longer uncertain.
Six of them now. Alpha through Foxtrot. Each one a variable. Each one waiting for orders.
And now, it was time to brief them.
I slung the rifle over my shoulder, feeling its weight settle naturally against my back.
"This is what we're up against," I said, motioning toward the door where the dull thuds of dead fists still pounded. "Zombies—walking corpses infected by some sort of virus. I advise all of you to aim for the brain to eliminate them—there's a high chance most of their vital organs aren't functioning the same anymore, since they're already walking corpses. But the true threat lies behind them—an alien species called the Xh'kral."
I let the name sit there for a moment.
No reaction.
As expected, they don't know about this either. Looks like I'll have to figure it out myself… or wait until the AI comes back online.
"Our main mission is to locate and eliminate all agents of this species," I said, my voice steady. "But first, we survive. We clear this area, secure a foothold, and figure out the overall situation of the outside world."
"I'm guessing you all still recognize each other enough to function as a team, even with the memory gaps?" I asked, my gaze shifting from one soldier to the next.
They exchanged brief glances—subtle, instinctive. Then, in quiet unison, they nodded.
"Good," I said. Then, after a brief pause, I added, "Your memories might not be lost completely. There's a chance they'll return, bit by bit—faces, names, instincts. If anything comes back, no matter how vague or strange, I want to hear about it. Anything could help us make sense of how all of this happens… and what we're really dealing with."
"Yes, sir," Alpha-1 replied firmly.
"Understood," echoed Bravo-2.
The rest followed with similar affirmatives—steady, clear.
The next second, their responses hung in the air like a silent pact. From beyond the barricaded door, the pounding grew louder—heavier, more erratic. As if the infected sensed the gathering inside, as if time itself were thinning and they were clawing to break through it. Each thud landed like a warning.
The soldiers, all six of them, turned their eyes to the door in near-unison. No words passed between them—just an immediate, instinctive shift. Their grips on their weapons tightened subtly. Fingers steadied near triggers. Feet repositioned. They were ready—not out of fear, but out of conditioning. Discipline. Duty.
The tension rose, but no one flinched.
They were prepared to eliminate the looming threat the moment it crossed the threshold.
While the others kept their eyes fixed on the door, weapons steady against the looming threat, Alpha-1 turned to me. "Orders, Commander?" he asked, calm and focused—waiting.
I looked toward the locked entrance, then shifted my gaze to the men nearby. My eyes settled on Foxtrot-6, our overwatch, and Echo-5—suppression specialist.
"Foxtrot, Echo," I said, keeping my voice level, firm but not barking. "Head up to the balcony on the second floor. Set up a watch, cover the street and nearby buildings. Let me know if you see anything—movement, infected, civilians, whatever. Report all visuals over comms. And keep an eye out upstairs—there might be one or two still lurking."
A thought flickered in the back of my mind. While the ones pounding at the front could be Billy and Aril, there was still a chance one of them had made it upstairs... and maybe the pounding wasn't even them at all. Maybe it was the neighbor—the one who chased the guards. That possibility stayed with me.
After all, being this close to the door made me realize there weren't just two of them behind it. There were clearly more—but judging by the sound, the number didn't exceed five, at least.
Both men nodded, giving their guns a quick check—tightening straps, adjusting sights—making sure everything was in place. They didn't move yet, waiting for the go.
I then turned to Charlie-3 and Delta-4—pointman and the combat medic. I gestured toward the hallway where the corpses of Andre and Danny still lay limp and broken.
"Charlie, Delta, head to the kitchen," I ordered. "There's a backdoor there, but it's locked. Key should be under the doormat."
They gave slight nods, already tracking mentally.
"From what I've seen, they're drawn to sound. We'll need you two to create a distraction. Don't go too loud—just let the door do the work. It's old, noisy. That'll be plenty."
'It's actually more like a side door, since the backyard connects to the front yard through the garage.'
Brief words, but they understood. No questions. No confusion.
"Me, Alpha, and Bravo will breach through the front once they're pulled back," I added, gesturing subtly toward the front door and my immediate flanks—then pointing at Alpha's chest radio with my chin. "I'll give the signal to move."
I looked back to Charlie and Delta, then to each soldier in turn. "Any questions?"
"No, sir," they answered as one. A few heads shook. Guns remained steady.
"Good. Get in position," I said.
At my word, the distraction team—Charlie and Delta—peeled off toward the hallway, steps measured and quiet. Foxtrot and Delta moved in tandem toward the stairs, their eyes scanning every corner as they advanced to establish overwatch. Each pair heading to their designated posts with the unspoken precision of soldiers slipping into roles they somehow remembered, even if they didn't know how.
At the same time, my team was ready as well. Bravo moved quietly and took position just behind the front door, while Alpha and I stood near the window, guns raised and steady, eyes sharp.
We were set. Now it was just a matter of execution.