___________________________
Mont-Blanc Naval Training Grounds — Day 0, 05:10 AM
___________________________
They stumbled through the snow.
Boots frozen.
Fingers stiff.
Eyes bloodshot.
Most hadn't slept in 48 hours.
Some were limping.
One dragged a chair leg like a makeshift cane.
None spoke.
Until —
They reached the gate.
A black steel wall hidden in the cliffside.
A sealed entry with no emblem.
No welcome.
___________________________
One muttered:
"There's a base... here?"
Another:
"I thought we were walking from mountain toward a port..."
"Navy on a mountain... who the hell thought that up..."
___________________________
The gate opened.
Heat.
Lights.
Concrete.
Inside —
A full-scale underground naval compound.
Naval Academy seal on the walls.
Radar dishes turning above.
A flag fluttered under floodlights.
___________________________
Aetherland Naval Crest.
34th Division — Formation Unit.
___________________________
They looked up —
And there she was.
Selene von Aetherwald.
Standing on the watchtower,
Wearing her field uniform.
No winter coat.
No gloves.
Just wind against skin.
___________________________
Her voice echoed from the loudspeakers:
"Good morning."
"Enjoy your rest."
"And your breakfast."
___________________________
Below — a soup stand hissed with steam.
Soldiers blinked.
Some cried.
Some muttered curses under their breath.
They lined up.
No ranks.
No orders.
Just hunger.
___________________________
Requests were varied:
"Can I get a coat?"
"Coffee. For the love of God, coffee."
"...Molotov?"
The cook blinked at that one.
"Depends. You want it hot or explosive?"
___________________________
And then —
Sunrise.
___________________________
A helicopter roared overhead.
One. Then two.
Orders barked.
"Board. Now."
No time to finish breakfast.
No time for questions.
They obeyed.
Because that's what survivors do.
___________________________
Later That Day — Somewhere South of Italy
Abandoned Island Dockyard – 17:15 PM
___________________________
The sun was dipping.
Their boots hit cracked concrete.
Paint peeled off rusted shipping cranes.
Dead cargo containers lay like carcasses.
Ropes, barrels, ship bones.
A literal ship graveyard.
Silence.
No officers.
No guards.
No cameras.
Then a loudspeaker flicked on from the heli they just came in on.
___________________________
"Next mission:"
"Go home."
___________________________
Silence.
Then—
"What the hell does that mean!?"
"We're on a rock! There's no dock!"
"Go home?? GO WHERE?!"
"Is this a joke!?"
"...I want coffee again."
___________________________
Some candidates sat down and cursed the sky.
Others pulled out their field knives.
Began exploring the wreckage.
Ripping off metal sheets.
Checking hulls.
Assessing the rust.
___________________________
One began sketching out a blueprint on the sand.
Another found a half-submerged hull and shouted,
"We weld that... it floats!"
___________________________
Some found an engine.
Some found sails.
One found a working crank radio and tried to call his mom.