It began in filth.
Not on a battlefield. Not in a war room. But in a tunnel, dark and wet, carved beneath a shattered city that smelled like copper, rot, and piss.
Above ground, Gaza was a graveyard.
The buildings were skeletons—half-buried, half-bombed. The air tasted like rusted tin. Children slept in bathtubs. Dogs barked from rooftops at shadows that didn't move.
But underground?
Underground there were rats. Not the kind with tails. The kind with rifles and radios, AKs wrapped in duct tape and Qur'anic tattoos. The kind that hadn't seen the sun in days because God, if He still watched, didn't look here anymore.
A dozen men sat hunched in the damp, coughing under flickering headlamps. Sweat ran down their backs. One rubbed engine grease on his face like war paint. Another poured crushed red pepper into a line on a rusty tray and snorted it.
Another inhaled something thicker, stronger. Hash, maybe. Or opium. Maybe something worse.
They didn't talk at first.
They buzzed.
Jittery. Eyes wide. Hands twitching like spiders.
A small transistor radio crackled in the corner.
"تكلم."
One voice.
Another replied from Egypt.
"جاهز."
Then Lebanon.
"جاهز."
Then Yemen.
Then Tehran.
One by one, the check-ins echoed through the static.
"جاهز."
"جاهز."
A long pause.
Then the lead man—bearded, half-mad—stood up and raised his rifle over his head.
His voice cracked like a whip:
"الموت لميا خليفة!"
The others shouted with him.
"الموت لأمريكا!"
"الموت لليهود!"
They screamed it again, louder, fists in the air, eyes wild.
Then they emerged from the sewer tunnels like boil-popping demons. Rats with rockets. Ghosts with death in their mouths.
Up top, the wind blew hot across broken rooftops. The horizon glowed orange with city-smoke and lightless buildings.
They moved fast—grimy, shirtless, veins bulging. One man dropped his magazine. Another forgot to chamber a round. They screamed at each other, hit each other, laughed like jackals.
The missiles were old. Rusted. Iranian design. Modified with scrap metal and desperation.
They mounted them on rooftops with oil drums, sandbags, and hope.
One man began praying—hands up, eyes to the sky.
Another beat his chest.
Another slipped and accidentally fired a round into his own foot.
The screaming didn't stop.
It got louder.
And then—
With the final radio click, the lead man bellowed over the din:
"الله أكبر!"
The word exploded from a dozen throats.
"الله أكبر!"
"الله أكبر!"
And the missiles launched.
Rockets screamed into the sky like metal prophets.
They arced upward—clumsy, chaotic, glorious.
As they flew, the men danced.
They spun in circles, firing AKs into the air. One man threw a grenade without pulling the pin. Another slipped on his own shell casings and cracked his chin on the edge of a cinderblock.
It didn't matter.
This wasn't war.
It was revenge dressed in chaos.
Bullets flew upward, cutting nothing. The city below remained unchanged.
But the sky?
The sky was changing.
And somewhere, thousands of miles away, on a floating palace of steel off the Mediterranean coast…
Jack Fritz was still asleep.
The sirens were screaming again.
Not softly. Not subtly. Not like a drill.
They wailed through steel halls like dying whales—long, rising, dragging at the bones of the ship and the ears of everyone onboard.
Somewhere, klaxons howled. Bulkhead doors slammed open. Boots hit steel in rhythm. Voices were yelling. Orders were barked.
But inside Captain Marlowe's private cabin, the world was soft.
And warm.
And quiet.
Jack Fritz stirred beneath two blankets, one arm flopped across his bare chest, the other reaching lazily down into his pants like he was about to remind himself how amazing he was.
His hair was a mess. His mouth was dry. His breath smelled like weed and pussy.
"Ugh... again?"
He didn't open his eyes.
He didn't need to.
The mattress was real. The pillow was real. And the sirens?
Fake.
Again.
He reached under the mattress, found the slit in the lining, and pulled out his actual emergency stash—a rolled velvet pouch containing the kind of weed that got you banned in three states and promoted in two.
He lit up.
Inhaled deep.
Held it.
Exhaled slow.
The cabin didn't smell like war. It smelled like post-coital sweat and high-thread-count sheets. One of the captain's sports bras was draped over the lamp. A mug of protein latte—half-drunk and still warm—rested on the bedside table. The corner of a navy-blue thong was stuck to the side of the wall-mounted display like a proud little flag.
Captain Leigh Marlowe had left just before dawn, still glowing, probably humming Mika's national anthem under her breath. Pregnant now—probably his. Forty-two years old, jacked, lactating, loaded with rage and affection. The perfect Fistforce MILF.
She called him "bad boy." Gave him the room. Gave him the job. Gave him immunity.
Jack loved her for it.
In a lazy, smug, deeply noncommittal way.
He finally blinked his eyes open, squinting at the red-lit ceiling.
"What now, huh? Somebody sneeze too hard on the flight deck?"
He reached into the waistband of his shorts and pulled out his real phone—an Energizer-branded brick that could survive a naval shelling and looked like it already had.
He unlocked it.
Blurred vision.
Still high.
He puffed again.
Vision cleared.
3:04 A.M.
"For fuck's sake…"
He sighed.
Louder.
"Third time this week."
He dropped the phone onto his chest and stared at the red pulsing overhead like it was trying to hypnotize him into caring.
Then came the knock.
BANG-BANG-BANG
"J-Jack! I-it's Sam! O-open up! I-it's th-the w-w-world, it's h-h-happening!"
Jack groaned.
"Oh Christ…"
BANG-BANG-BANG
"Th-they s-s-said m-Mika gave the order! T-they're h-h-hitting bases! I-Iran, Korea, e-e-everywhere!"
Jack stayed in bed. Pulled the covers over his head.
"Sam. If you're quoting The Two Towers again, I'm going to slap the autism out of your soul."
BANG-BANG-BANG
"N-no, really! T-this is it! T-The D-Day of D-days! W-w-we're th-the last ship in the m-m-med!"
Jack didn't move.
Not yet.
Not until—
CRACKLE — The intercom exploded.
A voice, panicked, hoarse, female—someone who sounded like they'd just had sex and then a breakdown.
Captain Marlowe.
"ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"
"MULTIPLE INCOMING HOSTILES—CIWS ALREADY ENGAGED! IF YOU'RE STILL IN BED, YOU'RE DEAD!"
The voice cracked at the end, full of static and rage and lingering afterglow.
Jack sat up.
Stared at the ceiling.
"...Leigh?"
He reached for his phone.
Not to check messages.
To check FistVault.
The logo blinked on.
His crypto tracker spun.
Bitcoin: -19%Ethereum: -31%Solana: deadDogecoin: +3% (somehow still alive)
He tapped over.
Fistcoin: +27%
His wallet bloomed:
Fistcoin Holdings: $407,912.55
NFT Tier: "MILF Patriot—Gold++"
"Ohhh... oh fuck yes."
He grinned, high as a cloud.
"I'm gonna be rich off this war…"
And only then—only then—did he finally sit up and say aloud:
"Okay. Maybe this shit's real."
Jack groaned, stood up, shoved on his pants—no underwear, no belt—and yanked the door open.
There stood Sam Harding.
Barely five-foot-five. Helmet half-on. Uniform rumpled. Plastic lightsaber hanging from his belt like a sacred relic. Face flushed. Eyes wide behind thick prescription glasses fogged from adrenaline and hyperventilation.
He looked like he'd sprinted through every deck on the ship. His arms shook. His legs trembled. And yet—he was beaming.
"Th-th-they said it! Th-this is it! I-it's started! The l-l-l-last war!"
Jack blinked at him.
Then blinked again.
Then leaned against the doorframe and took another hit from his joint.
"Sam... buddy... you realize you look like a PTSD Ewok in heat, right?"
Sam gasped.
"Th-th-thank you."
Jack exhaled slowly. Let the smoke roll from his nose like a dragon that couldn't be bothered.
He looked Sam up and down.
The man was sweating through his undershirt. Holding a folded piece of printer paper like it was a battle map.
"What's that?"
"I-it's the p-plan. T-the Admiral p-probably needs it. I-I d-drew the missiles b-based on what I th-think the Iranians have. B-but also the R-Russians. I-it's all in here."
He held it up.
Crayon.
Jack stared.
Then laughed.
"You're serious."
Sam nodded.
His voice cracked.
"T-th-they're attacking from everywhere. M-Mika gave the o-order. T-Taiwan's gone. S-Seoul's gone. T-The Islamic bloc j-j-just called M-Mia Khalifa a devil-witch. The r-r-radio's full of it. I think t-they nuked Cyprus."
"Cyprus?" Jack tilted his head. "That's still a country?"
Sam didn't laugh. His hands were shaking too hard.
"W-we're g-gonna be heroes, Jack."
Jack's grin faded a little.
He looked at Sam—really looked.
There was pure belief in the little guy's face.
Not irony. Not fantasy.
Hope.
That same look Sam had back in college, in that crappy one-room dorm with a broken heater and a stack of Star Wars DVDs he'd pirated off Limewire in 2009.
The same look he had when he'd first said:
"I'm gonna j-j-join the military. I'll s-s-save someone. M-m-make a name."
Jack didn't respond right away.
Instead, he reached out, gently plucked the crayon-drawn map from Sam's hands, rolled it up, and shoved it into his waistband.
"Alright, Frodo. Let's go see Mordor."
They walked.
Jack barefoot. Shirtless. Joint still dangling from his lips like a cigarette in a French film.
Sam fast-walking beside him, mumbling quotes under his breath:
"Th-th-there's still good in this world... a-a-and it's worth fffighting for..."
He gripped the lightsaber tighter.
Jack looked at him sideways.
"You bring that plastic thing to a war?"
Sam nodded.
"I-it's symbolic."
Jack snorted.
"So's my dick. But I don't wave it around in a crisis."
Sam didn't say anything.
But he smiled.
And that made Jack roll his eyes and mutter:
"Fuck it... you're my retard."
They reached the stairwell.
Sirens louder now. Ship rumbling. The Eisenhower was alive with panic and purpose.
Men ran past them. Orders screamed. Somewhere above, a CIWS cannon spun up—its deep, whirring growl building like a god winding a chainsaw.
Smoke started to creep into the hallway vents.
The lights flickered.
Sam looked up.
"W-w-w-we're gonna m-make history, Jack."
Jack didn't answer.
He was too busy wondering if Fistcoin would hit another spike before they got topside.
The hatch wheel turned with a groan.
A gust of freezing sea air punched through the opening, carrying with it the smell of salt, smoke, and something else—something wrong.
Jack stepped out onto the Eisenhower's flight deck with bare feet, bare chest, and a joint that was burning down to its last inch.
He stopped.
Sam skidded to a halt behind him, gasping.
And then they both looked up.
The sky was alive.
Not with stars.
With fire.
Hundreds of missile trails burned across the heavens like gods had slashed the night with knives made of flame.
Some moved fast—streaking like lightning, so bright they left afterimages in Jack's eyes. Others arced slowly, crawling across the black like death on a string.
Some were white.
Some red.
Some green.
Too many.
Far too many.
Jack knew war simulations.
He'd seen missile exercises.
But this?
This was beyond war.
This was extermination.
"Holy shit…" he whispered.
The joint fell from his lips, forgotten.
He didn't move.
He didn't blink.
He just stared.
The CIWS guns were already spinning—vomiting hot brass across the deck as they tracked and shredded whatever they could reach. The noise was deafening, like a thousand jackhammers screaming into God's ear.
Jets launched off the deck, one after another, engines roaring. Officers shouted. Sailors scrambled. Chaos pulsed through every inch of steel.
Jack saw it all.
And for the first time in a very long time, he felt small.
He stumbled forward a few steps.
Then dropped to his knees.
Not dramatically.
Just… collapsed.
His hands dangled at his sides. His head hung low.
And all at once, it hit him.
"I could've been on a boat," he muttered.
"Just a goddamn fishing boat. With my old man."
"Woke up at 4. Threw nets. Smelled like shit. Made just enough to buy bait and whiskey."
"But I was good at that. Better than anyone."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"But no… no, I had to go and join the fucking navy."
"Why?"
He laughed—hollow and cracked.
"Because a retarded hobbit told me he wanted to be a hero."
Sam stood behind him, silent for a moment, watching.
Then he knelt down beside Jack.
The world was ending above them.
But Sam?
Sam cleared his throat.
His voice cracked.
"I-know Lieutenant I-it's all wr-wrong…"
Jack didn't look up.
Didn't respond.
So Sam kept going.
His stutter thick, his breathing shaky.
But the words came anyway.
"By r-r-rights we sh-shouldn't even be here. B-but we are…"
Jack twitched. Barely.
Sam swallowed, blinked back tears.
"It's l-like in the stories, Jack. The ones that… that really mattered."
Another missile arced overhead—so low Jack could feel its heat brush his face.
Sam's voice trembled.
"F-full of darkness and danger, th-they were. And… and sometimes you didn't want to know the end."
"Because h-how could the end be happy?"
Jack let out a breath—slow, ragged, bitter.
Sam kept going.
"But in the end, it's only a p-passing thing, this shadow. E-even darkness must pass."
"A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer."
Jack looked at him now.
Really looked.
His eyes bloodshot. Face pale. Lips trembling.
Sam nodded.
"T-those were the stories th-that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why."
He reached out.
Took Jack's forearm.
Held it.
"But I th-think I understand now."
Jack didn't pull away.
Didn't sneer.
Didn't joke.
He just stared at Sam like a man lost at sea finding a rope in the waves.
Then, Sam said softly:
"Folks in those stories… they had l-lots of chances to turn back. Only they didn't."
"Because they were holding on to something."
Jack's lips parted.
A whisper:
"…What are we holding on to, Sam?"
Sam smiled.
Through the fear. Through the tears.
"That there's still some good in this world, Jack."
"And it's worth fighting for."
Jack stared at Sam.
The words hung in the air like smoke that wouldn't rise.
"There's still some good in this world…"
"And it's worth fighting for."
Jack blinked. Once.
Then winced like he'd just eaten a lemon with a nail in it.
"Jesus Christ, Sam…"
His voice was raw.
"We really just quoted Tolkien. Out loud. On a fucking warship. While the sky's melting."
He coughed. Wiped his face with the back of his hand. Blood. Sweat. Snot. It all blended.
"That was... I don't know. That was lame as hell."
He sniffed.
"And kinda gay."
Sam chuckled. A small, broken laugh. Like he was just happy to be acknowledged.
Jack looked at him again.
Smaller than ever. Dirt on his face. Eyes too wide for the situation. Hopeful in a world that was coughing up its lungs.
Jack didn't say thank you.
He didn't have to.
But something in his chest... shifted.
He nodded. Just a bit.
And for the first time in hours, maybe days, Jack felt not alone.
Then came the light.
Too fast.
Too bright.
Too close.
Jack had just started to look away when the USS Mason, a destroyer off their port side, exploded.
Not a spark.
Not a flash.
A rupture.
A missile struck her amidships—deep—burrowing into her metal gut like a spear thrown by God.
There was a split-second where nothing happened.
Then the detonation.
A column of fire rose like a demon howling out of the sea.
The Mason cracked down the middle—ribs of steel peeled back like the shell of a dying animal.
For a moment, it looked like the ship tried to stay alive—tried to hold together.
Then she gave up.
And ripped in half.
Jack didn't have time to scream.
The shockwave hit them like a truck made of sound.
Air became thunder.
Deck became sky.
He was lifted—body flung like a ragdoll across the Eisenhower's flight deck.
Something cracked in his shoulder. Something else in his ribs. He couldn't tell if the screaming was his or the wind's.
Sam vanished beside him—just gone in the blast.
Jack hit metal hard, skidding until something stopped him with a wet, metallic THUD.
He tasted blood. He tasted copper. He couldn't feel his legs.
Ears ringing.
Vision blurring.
Lights flickering above, missiles still carving trails into the sky.
But he was still alive.
For now.
The world had gone quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. Not the kind after sex or in the early morning with fresh coffee.
This was the bad kind.
The kind that comes after a bomb drops and your brain hasn't caught up yet.
Jack blinked.
His vision stuttered, flickering like a corrupted screen.
Everything was red.
His ears rang with a high, shrill whine—constant, sharp, like a blade pressed against his eardrums.
He tried to move.
Pain lanced through his chest.
He coughed—wet, deep, metal-tasting.
Blood sprayed from his mouth and hit the scorched deck.
He was lying half on his side, half on his stomach, his left arm twisted under him, useless. His right hand was still loosely clenched, holding—what? A strip of Sam's map? A bit of his own shirt?
Didn't matter.
He was alive.
Somehow.
The Eisenhower wasn't.
The flight deck looked like hell.
Metal twisted into jagged sculptures. Smoke poured from ruptured bulkheads. Fire danced along the wreckage like it was looking for more fuel. A helicopter had flipped on its side, blades broken, tail gone. Dead bodies were scattered like forgotten dolls.
Some were burning.
Others were missing limbs.
One man crawled three feet before collapsing.
Another stood in place, screaming with no sound—just mouth wide, blood pouring from his ears.
The ship groaned.
A deep, tectonic sound.
Jack realized it was listing—leaning hard to port. The Eisenhower was tipping.
Slowly.
But steadily.
He tried to push himself up.
His body didn't respond.
Everything inside felt... disconnected.
Like his nerves were on strike.
Still—he managed to twist enough to see over the rise of a twisted wing mount.
"Sam..."
His throat barely worked. His voice came out dry, cracked.
"Sam, where the fuck are you..."
He coughed again. More blood.
The joint was gone. The weed high was gone. His world was gone.
But still—
He looked.
Through the smoke. Through the red. Through the panic.
And then he saw something move.
A shape.
Small.
Dragging itself across the scorched deck.
Sam.
Crawling.
Covered in blood.
Legs gone.
"L-Lieutenant..."
Jack blinked.
It was real.
Sam was crawling toward him.
Face streaked with ash and tears, arms trembling with every pull, gasping like each inch was a marathon.
He looked more broken than human.
But his eyes?
Still bright.
Still locked on Jack.
"I-I'm... I'm not... leaving y-you."
Jack didn't move.
Couldn't.
He just watched.
Breathing slow. Ragged.
As Sam—what was left of him—dragged himself across the burning deck to reach him.
One bloody pull at a time.
Until—
He reached out.
Gripped Jack's hand with his own mangled fingers.
And smiled.
"N-not today, Jack..."
"N-not today."
The fire kept rising.
The deck buckled under the weight of the destruction.
And yet… everything felt still.
Jack lay there, bleeding into steel, body half-broken, vision going dark at the edges.
Beside him, Sam collapsed. Chest heaving. Face pale. Legs gone.
But he smiled.
A little lopsided. A little too wide.
Still—a real smile.
"H-hey... y-you know what G-Gandalf said?"
Jack coughed. It hurt to even roll his eyes.
"You're dying, Sam. Please don't make me sit through another speech."
Sam giggled.
"D-don't be afraid. D-death is just another path... one that we all must take."
Jack blinked slowly, staring at the smoke spiraling into the sky.
"That's from the fucking movie, isn't it?"
"Y-yeah," Sam whispered.
"Figures."
Sam took a slow breath.
The firelight reflected in his eyes.
"I-I think... we'll go to the g-good place. Maybe Elysium. Maybe Valhalla. O-or the f-Force plane... wh-whatever it's called."
He turned his head to face Jack.
"M-maybe even Heaven."
Jack stared at him for a long time.
And for once—he didn't say anything cruel.
He didn't mock.
He didn't laugh.
He just looked at the little bastard lying beside him—half-broken, half-baked, quoting wizards and Jedi like they were real—and realized...
He didn't hate him.
Not even a little.
Jack coughed again. Blood this time. A lot.
But he managed to grin.
Not big.
Not cocky.
Just… content.
"Fuck it."
"At least I didn't have to gut fish for a living."
Sam laughed. It was weak. But genuine.
Jack nodded, voice barely a whisper.
"No regrets."
They lay there like that.
The hero and the asshole.
Hand in hand.
Eyes open.
Watching the sky.
The second missile came without warning.
No siren.
No alarm.
Just a white-hot streak from the heavens—silent, swift, inevitable.
It hit the Eisenhower amidships.
The fire spread like a scream.
The deck cracked.
The light swallowed everything.
And then—
Silence.
White.
Weightless.