Spawn of Nothingness

The hum of the MH-60 Seahawk filled the darkened cabin. The team was clad in full tactical gear, faces stoic, eyes fixed on the mission brief displayed on their HUD systems.

Lance stood at the front, his presence magnetic, his posture as unyielding as the steel frame of the aircraft itself. He wasn't just leading the team tonight; he was sending a message—to his men, to his country, and, perhaps most importantly, to himself.

"Listen up," Lance began, his voice sharp and steady, cutting through the droning rotors. "The intel's solid. Stolen U.S. tech—classified military prototype—is sitting on that platform 30 nautical miles off the Somali coast. They've got hostiles armed to the teeth, but let's not kid ourselves: they don't know who they're dealing with."

His words carried a self-assuredness that bordered on arrogance, but no one in the cabin doubted him.

They couldn't afford to.

Cross's track record was immaculate, his missions spoke for themselves, and they did. If he said it could be done, it would be done.

"Primary objective: secure the package. Secondary objective: neutralize all threats. Nobody touches that prototype but us, this is high priority on warcom, this comes from the president himself. Rules of engagement are tight; we're surgical tonight, gentlemen. We're not just SEALs. We're DEVGRU. We're the goddamn tip of the spear."

The men nodded, their faces a mix of grim determination and quiet reverence. Lance smirked slightly, feeling the familiar rush of command.

This was his domain—the chaos, the precision, the sheer artistry of combat. He thrived on it.

The Seahawk hovered low over the pitch-black waves, the roar of its rotors muffled by the sound-dampening tech installed specifically for missions like this.

Lance was the first to rappel down, his boots hitting the deck of the RHIB with a practiced grace. One by one, his men followed, each moving with the kind of discipline only forged through years of relentless training.

"Three clicks out," came the voice of the pilot through their comms.

Lance raised a fist, signaling silence. He felt the familiar tug of adrenaline in his veins, his heartbeat steady, almost unnaturally calm.

His potent accelerated healing made him fearless, but it was his heat vision that lingered at the back of his mind. Though he hadn't use it almost at all, he knew if things went sideways, he had a trump card—a weapon even his own men didn't know about.

The platform loomed ahead, a hulking silhouette against the starless night. Floodlights carved jagged beams through the darkness, and the glint of automatic weapons was visible as the guards patrolled the perimeter.

Lance tapped his earpiece.

"Team One, set the charge on the west mooring. Team Two, you're with me. We're breaching the main deck. Quiet and clean."

The RHIB came to a halt, engines cutting as the team moved like phantoms, their black gear melding into the night.

The first guard fell under Lance's knife, the sound of metal slicing flesh drowned by the symphony of the ocean. His body was pulled into darkness, the lifeblood pooling silently on the deck. Lance's knife work was surgical—efficient and merciless.

"Breach point secure," whispered a voice over comms.

Move," Lance commanded, adrenaline lending power to his voice.

They stormed the deck, moving in perfect synchronization. Muzzle flashes lit the darkness as suppressed shots neutralized hostiles. Lance's movements were a symphony of violence—fluid, efficient, deadly.

He relished these moments, where his dominance was absolute, his authority unchallenged, and when nothing could stand in his way.

The control room was their final target. Inside, the stolen prototype—a sleek, metallic device humming with latent mysterious power—sat on a reinforced table.

Lance's eyes narrowed. This was it. This was why they were here.

"Package secured," he reported, his voice clipped. "Team One, status?"

"Charges set. Extraction ready."

"Copy. Move to exfil."

Without warning, a deafening explosion rocked the platform, smoke and debris blanketing every surface. Hostiles poured onto the deck, their frantic shouts melding into the chaos of war.

Lance kept firing, his rifle barking with ferocity as he pushed the team toward the escape vessel. A bullet whizzed past, grazing his arm, but he felt no sting since pain was a distant memory to him now, a ghost he barely acknowledged or always acknowledged.

The RHIB was in sight, but the chaos erupted around them like a maelstrom. The deck erupted into a battleground, bodies falling, screams piercing the air. Lance stayed at the rear, a stalwart guardian against the tide of enemies.

He glimpsed one combatant aiming toward his team, quick as a flash; with a squeeze of the trigger, the man was down—blood spraying in vividly grotesque arcs against the steel deck.

"Go! Go! Go!" Lance shouted as they sprinted toward the RHIB, each of his teammates fighting to stay alive among the carnage. As they boarded, the remnants of the platform began to twist and collapse, consumed by fire and the frigid sea.

He took one last look back, satisfaction flooding through him as the inferno lit the sky—a symphony of destruction.

Back on base, Lance debriefed his men with the same calm authority he'd carried throughout the mission. They looked at him with a mixture of respect and awe, their Commander who had led them to yet another flawless victory.

Later, in the solitude of his office, Lance stared at the DEVGRU team picture on his desk. The skeleton frog tattoo on his shoulder itched slightly, as if reminding him of the burdens he carried. He knew this was the last time he'd lead these men.

Soon, he'd be trading the familiar chaos of DEVGRU for the shadowy world of the CIA's Special Operations Group, where classified was taken to an upper level.

The hum of the MH-60 Seahawk still reverberated in his mind as he recalled the chaos of the mission. The team, clad in full tactical gear, had executed their objectives flawlessly, neutralizing threats with ruthless efficiency. The metallic scent of blood and the sounds of gunfire played on a loop, a visceral reminder of the life he was leaving behind.

Jacob Williams, a long-time friend and fellow SEAL, knocked softly on Lance's door before stepping inside. A member of SEAL Team 4, Jacob had been there during some of Lance's most important missions with SEAL Team 5 doing a joint operation with them, the two forming a bond forged in blood.

"Hell of a mission tonight," Jacob said, dropping into the chair opposite Lance's desk.

He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, his grin tired but genuine. He cracked open a Budweiser, taking a long swig before setting it down on the desk. "Still making the rest of us look bad, huh?"

Lance smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Someone's got to set the bar. You're welcome."

The two shared a laugh, the kind only men who had faced death together could manage. Jacob had always been the steady presence, the one who could diffuse tension with a well-timed joke or a look that said, "We've got this."

"Remember that op near Kandahar?" Jacob said, his tone turning nostalgic. "You saved my ass when I got pinned down. Never got to thank you properly for that."

Lance waved him off. "You'd have done the same for me."

"Maybe," Jacob replied, his grin widening. "But I wouldn't have looked half as good doing it, you just got out from BUD/s a year prior, don't know how you do it man."

Despite Lance's guarded demeanor, Jacob had always found a way to chip through the armor. The two had shared countless moments like this, their camaraderie a rare constant in a world of endless danger and shifting alliances.

"You hear the scuttlebutt?" Jacob asked, leaning forward. "About you heading to the CIA?"

Lance's expression hardened slightly. "Yeah. Looks like it's happening."

Jacob nodded, his face serious now. "You'll kill it there, Lance. But don't forget where you came from, your roots. And don't forget the people who've got your back, no matter where you go."

Lance held his gaze for a moment before nodding. "I won't. You know me."

Jacob grinned again, standing to leave. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

As the door closed behind him, Lance felt a rare pang of emotion. Jacob wasn't just a teammate; he was a brother, someone who had been beside him and shared moments with him. And while Lance might be moving on to a new chapter, some bonds were unbreakable.

Later that night, as Lance reviewed the mission footage in his quarters, something on the muted news broadcast caught his eye.

The headline flashed across the screen: "Mystical Phenomenon in New Mexico—Freak Storms, Sightings of Hammer-Like Object."

The footage showed a vast desert, lightning striking in patterns too deliberate to be natural. Scientists were baffled, and the military was reportedly investigating.

Lance furrowed his brow. He didn't believe in coincidences, and something about the footage tugged at the edges of his awareness.

It was as if a distant part of him recognized the energy in those storms, something ancient and mystical. But the thought passed quickly, drowned out by the immediate demands of his reality.

He switched off the TV, his mind returning to the mission ahead. Whatever was happening in New Mexico was someone else's problem—at least for now.