FVN Chapter 655 - 665: Not A Hero (Part 5)
Chapter 655 - 665: Not A Hero (Part 5)
Far from Santos City, across the skyline of Omega DC.Far from the burning streets, collapsed towers, and infected hordes swallowing entire districts whole.
The night remained orderly.
Floodlights illuminated monuments along the Potomac in pale gold while military aircraft crossed restricted airspace in disciplined formations overhead.
Traffic on the outer highways still moved in controlled streams. Emergency services remained active. Buildings still held power. From a distance, the capital almost looked untouched.
Almost.
At the heart of the restricted federal district sat the Omega Defense Command Headquarters.
Massive.
Low to the ground.
Built less like a monument and more like something designed to survive the end of civilization itself.
The structure stretched outward across reinforced earthworks and buried concrete embankments, surrounded by layered security perimeters that extended for nearly a mile in every direction.
Vehicle barricades sat recessed into the roads leading toward the facility while anti-air batteries remained hidden beneath carefully maintained landscaping and artificial hills surrounding the outer grounds.
Above ground, the facility resembled a standard military administrative complex.
Below ground, it extended several levels deeper.
Hardened against missile strikes.
Biological contamination.
Electromagnetic warfare.
Even direct superhuman assault.
Nothing entered without authorization.
Nothing left unnoticed.
Active scanning systems swept continuously across nearby streets and surrounding airspace.
Concealed weapons platforms tracked every aircraft entering restricted range. Reinforced blast doors protected every major access point while military police and specialized security personnel rotated through visible and hidden checkpoints with machine-like consistency.
The deeper one went into Omega DC Command, the more obvious it became.
This wasn’t merely a headquarters.
It was a bunker for people expecting the world to fail eventually.
Deep within the underground structure, the main command center remained active despite the hour.
Cold white lighting reflected off polished flooring and reinforced steel walls while massive display screens dominated the far side of the chamber.
The room itself resembled something between a military war room and a crisis operations center.
Functional.
Massive.
Uncomfortable by design.
The central command table sat elevated above surrounding workstations, allowing those seated there clear visibility toward the enormous wall displays.
Additional seating ringed the perimeter below — analysts, intelligence representatives, liaisons, communications personnel, and department observers arranged according to relevance and clearance level.
The meeting had already been ongoing for nearly an hour.
Large screens displayed live feeds from Santos City continuously.
Satellite imagery.
Aerial surveillance.
Fragments of surviving ground-level camera networks.
Red markers covered enormous portions of the city map, identifying confirmed infection zones. Blue indicators showed UPSDF positions and emergency response teams.
More than half of those blue markers had either gone dark or now blinked STATUS UNKNOWN beside them.
Assistants moved quietly between stations carrying tablets and folders, occasionally leaning down to whisper casualty updates or operational developments into the ears of senior officers seated at the main table.
Along the walls, analysts worked through overlapping intelligence feeds while communications officers monitored unstable transmissions from Santos City and nearby sectors.
Every branch had representation present.
Army.
Navy.
Air Force.
Marine Corps.
UPSDF.
Civilian intelligence agencies.
Domestic security divisions.
The officers seated nearest the center table wore the heaviest decorations.
Stars. Eagles. Rows of campaign ribbons stretching across their uniforms. Faces worn by decades of command decisions and political compromise.
A three-star Army general leaned forward near the center of the table, elbows resting against polished black composite.
"We’re an hour into this," he said, frustration leaking through his otherwise controlled tone, "and I still don’t have a clear answer on how a senior UPSDF officer launched an attack on a civilian population center without anyone stopping her."
An Air Force general across from him shook his head slowly.
"With respect, General, that’s not the immediate concern. The immediate concern is that her actions appear to have triggered simultaneous biological and neurological outbreaks across the city."
"Triggered or coincided?" someone from intelligence asked.
The Air Force officer glanced toward the burning city displayed across the main screens.
"Does it matter? The result is the same either way."
Nearby, an assistant hurried toward a seated admiral and leaned down beside him, whispering updated casualty projections.
The admiral’s jaw tightened visibly.
He said nothing.
A woman in UPSDF dress uniform spoke next.
Major General rank.
Dark hair pulled tightly behind her head.
Expression rigid.
"The commanding officer stationed at SHQ — Commander Miller — initiated a saturation bombardment across congested civilian sectors several hours ago," she stated. "Her stated justification within the system was containment of a Class-3 infected outbreak."
She paused briefly.
"No such outbreak had been confirmed prior to her actions."
A low rumble moved through the room.
"Containment," a Navy admiral repeated flatly. "She bombed her own city and called it containment."
"We have preliminary intelligence suggesting Commander Miller may have been experiencing psychological degradation in the weeks leading up to the incident," the UPSDF major general continued. "However, those reports remain unverified. Her current status is unknown."
Several officers exchanged looks.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Others simply stared toward the screens displaying sections of Santos City still burning.
"Her unit?" someone finally asked.
"Mostly dead," the woman answered. "Seventeen personnel remain unaccounted for. Presumed active."
An analyst seated behind the main table spoke before being acknowledged.
"The biological outbreak appears tied to two primary vectors currently designated Sprout and Spineworm classifications."
Several screens shifted automatically as she spoke, displaying enlarged imagery of twisted organic growths and partially dissected specimens.
"Sprouts emerge underground and release airborne spores upon reaching maturity. Exposure causes rapid physiological mutation in nearby hosts." She changed slides. "Spineworms are parasitic organisms with structural similarities to Sprouts. They burrow into hosts and override portions of the nervous system directly."
She hesitated slightly before continuing.
"Both vectors demonstrate exponential spread rates once established."
A general frowned.
"You’re telling me we have two separate infection vectors operating simultaneously inside the same city?"
"No, sir," the analyst replied quietly.
"Three."
The room settled immediately.
"The third appears neurologically induced. Subjects display extreme aggression, complete disregard for self-preservation, and indiscriminate violence toward infected and uninfected targets alike."
She adjusted her glasses slightly. "Unlike the biological vectors, this one doesn’t spread through physical contamination. It appears behavioral in origin. Something is overriding neural functions remotely."
Another officer leaned forward from the Joint Chiefs domestic threat division.
"That profile matches a Blackgate Apex detainee," he said grimly. "Designation: Puppeteer."
Several eyes turned toward him immediately.
"Telepathic range estimated at multiple kilometers. Documented ability to override voluntary motor functions within a wide operational radius." His expression darkened further. "We believed Blackgate containment protocols were sufficient."
Several officers exchanged alarmed looks.
Blackgate Apex wasn’t supposed to fail.
The facility had been specifically designed to contain superhumans capable of leveling cities.
"Assuming this is our prisoner," the Joint Chiefs officer continued, "either Blackgate’s systems were compromised... or the prisoner evolved beyond projected containment thresholds."
That possibility settled heavily across the room.
Then a four-star general near the head of the table finally spoke.
"This is a disaster," he said bluntly.
His uniform carried enough insignia and political markings that nobody interrupted him.
"We have a rogue UPSDF commander bombing her own city. Multiple simultaneous outbreaks. No functioning chain of command on the ground because SHQ command is either compromised or destroyed."
He looked around the room slowly. "And by morning every major network on Earth will be broadcasting footage of Santos City burning."
A female admiral near the opposite end nodded once.
"France and Germany have already issued statements expressing ’deep concern.’ China is reportedly ’monitoring the situation closely.’ Russia is demanding independent verification of events due to involvement from one of their assets. Designation: Redstar."
"Diplomatic language for ’you lost control of your own people,’" the four-star general muttered.
Another officer from the National Guard Bureau threw up one hand in visible frustration.
"With respect, sir, we’re going to look completely incompetent on the international stage. A UPSDF commander goes rogue, unleashes God knows what inside a major U.P city, and we’re sitting here an hour later still trying to understand what happened?"
The atmosphere shifted immediately.
Not panic.
Something uglier.
Everyone understood what came next after disasters like this.
Investigations.
Blame.
Destroyed careers.
Political sacrifice.
The four-star general redirected the conversation before it spiraled further.
"The question," he said firmly, "is how we resolve this without deploying additional reserve forces."
Nobody liked that statement.
Nobody argued against it either.
"The National Guard is already stretched thin across three domestic containment zones," the Guard officer answered immediately. "We can’t reinforce Santos without exposing other sectors."
"We’re also facing severe political concerns if military escalation becomes too visible," an intelligence liaison added. "The administration is worried about martial law accusations. Federal overreach."
"And honestly," someone muttered quietly from the analyst section, "we don’t even know if sending more troops helps or just feeds the infection more bodies."
That ended whatever momentum remained.
The room settled into grim acceptance.
The limitations were real.
The crisis was real.
And nobody sitting there had offered an actual solution yet.
Then General D Lance finally spoke.
Broad shoulders.
Rigid posture.
Uniform immaculate despite the hour.
Unlike several others around the table, he hadn’t shifted once during the meeting. He simply watched. Listened. Waited.
And when he finally spoke, the room listened automatically.
"That’s simple, ma’am."
His eyes remained fixed toward the woman seated at the head of the table.
Charles’s grandmother sat perfectly upright beneath the overhead lights, white hair pulled tightly behind her head.
Her dark uniform carried enough medals and insignia to outweigh most of the room combined. Even seated, her posture looked straighter than officers half her age.
She had barely spoken during the meeting.
Only observed.
Allowed everyone else to exhaust themselves first.
Now she raised one eyebrow slightly toward General Lance.
"We use local assets," he continued evenly. "Personnel already operating inside Santos City. Survivors with useful capabilities. Contractors with existing operational clearance. There are people inside that city right now surviving and fighting without military support."
He folded his hands. "We identify them. Contact them. Utilize them."
Several reactions followed immediately.
Skepticism.
Curiosity.
Concern.
And from a smaller group around the table — the ones who understood exactly what "local assets" implied in practice — quiet interest.
"You’re suggesting we outsource military operations to civilians?" someone asked incredulously.
General Lance never flinched.
"I’m suggesting we stop pretending we have unlimited options and start using the ones still available."
The room quieted again.
Charles’s grandmother studied him for several long seconds.
Then she finally spoke.
"What exactly," she asked calmly, "do you have in mind, General?"
This time the room leaned forward almost collectively.
Everyone wanted the answer.