Spawn of Nothingness

The late afternoon sun blazed down on the rugged terrain of Kandahar Province, Afghanistan. Lance Cross adjusted his gear, the weight of his rifle a familiar comfort as his team prepared for the mission ahead. This wasn't his first operation, but the stakes always felt high when WARCOM themselves guided the mission

"Alright, listen up," Chief Petty Officer Ramirez began, his voice low and commanding. The squad huddled in a circle, their faces shadowed beneath helmets and sunglasses. "Intel confirms the target's location inside the village ahead. He's an HVT—a financier for multiple insurgent cells operating in the region. We're going in quiet, extracting him alive if possible. Resistance is expected."

Lance listened intently, his mind cataloging every detail. His heart beat steadily; the adrenaline coursing through him was a steady companion by now.

He had been with SEAL Team five for almost four years, and while every mission brought its own challenges to the table, he trusted his training and his team implicitly.

As night fell, the squad moved into position, the village's faint glow visible in the distance. The terrain was a mix of dry riverbeds and jagged rocks, offering both cover and peril. Lance's boots crunched softly against the gravel as he followed Ramirez's lead.

"Movement at three o'clock," whispered Petty Officer Johnson, their sniper, through the comms.

The team froze, their eyes scanning the darkness. Lance's grip tightened on his weapon. A few moments later, a pair of figures appeared, rifles slung across their shoulders.

They walked casually, unaware of the SEALs watching their every step.

"Hold," Ramirez ordered. The men passed without incident, disappearing into the shadows.

The squad resumed their advance, reaching the outskirts of the village. The buildings were a mix of mud-brick homes and small stone structures, their edges softened by years of wind and sand. Lance took position near the entry point, his breathing steady as he scanned the area.

"Stack up," Ramirez instructed. The team formed a line, each member covering a different angle. Lance felt the familiar surge of focus as they breached the first building. Inside, the room was empty save for a few scattered mats and a cooking pot. Clear.

The operation unfolded with precision. They moved from house to house, gathering intel and avoiding detection. As they approached the target's location, the tension thickened. The sound of muffled voices reached their ears, and Ramirez signaled for silence.

Lance's pulse quickened as he prepared to breach the door. A sharp kick sent it flying open, and the team stormed in. Chaos erupted as the occupants scrambled for cover. Lance's training kicked in, his movements swift and deliberate. He engaged an armed insurgent, his shots precise and controlled. The man went down, his weapon clattering to the floor.

"Target acquired!" Ramirez shouted as the team secured their objective. The HVT, a wiry man in his forties, was subdued and cuffed. His expression was a mix of anger and fear as he was dragged to his feet.

The exfiltration was just as perilous as the infiltration. As the team moved toward their extraction point, gunfire erupted from the surrounding hills. Lance dropped to a knee, returning fire as his teammates took cover.

"Contact, high ground!" Johnson called out, taking aim with his sniper rifle. The crack of his shots echoed as he neutralized threats one by one.

"Keep moving!" Ramirez barked. Lance fired a few more rounds, suppressing the enemy before following his team. The extraction helicopter's rotors were a welcome sound as it approached, its spotlight cutting through the darkness.

The team boarded under a hail of bullets, the chopper lifting off just as an RPG exploded nearby. Lance turned and fired a burst from the cabin, the rounds sparking against a distant wall as the helicopter climbed higher. Inside, the tension finally eased as they secured the HVT and checked their equipment.

"Good work, team," Ramirez said, his tone grim but satisfied. "Another day in paradise."

Lance leaned back against the cabin wall, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. His hands were steady, but his mind replayed every second of the mission. 

As the lights of the forward operating base came into view, Lance felt a deep sense of purpose. He was here, at the tip of the spear, making a tangible difference. It wasn't about the accolades or the recognition—it was about the mission, the brotherhood, and the peace that they created.

Instead of finding out what his so-called superhuman abilities were that he would find out in due time, he was here doing something worthwhile with himself and becoming a hardcore special forces combatant. 

He didn't regret one bit coming into this path as it had made his body and mind rigid.

As the helicopter descended, Lance allowed himself a moment of reflection on what happened.

Doing some push-ups in quick succession with some sixty pound curls, he sat down on the bunk that was littered in ammo casings

The regeneration of his that was godlike let him go beyond his limits in training and everything else as if anything happened, it would heal like nothing happened

The following morning, after hours of debriefing, Lance sat in the dimly lit operations tent, sipping on a stale cup of coffee. His body ached, but his mind remained sharp. The quiet was disrupted when an unfamiliar officer stepped inside. The man wore a crisp black uniform with black shades, his demeanor radiating authority.

"Petty Officer Cross?" the officer asked.

Lance stood, his curiosity piqued. "Yes, sir."

The man gave a small nod. "I'm from the Department of Defense. Your name has come up for a special assignment. DEVGRU selection."

Lance blinked, momentarily stunned. DEVGRU—the elite of the elite. Seal Team Six. The whispered name carried weight even among the special forces community.

"You'll receive further details soon, but expect to be given a unique test," the officer continued. "We'll see if you've got what it takes to be the Comman-, carry on."

Lance's lips quirked into a faint smirk as the officer left, leaving him in silence. He exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table. DEVGRU—this was it. The ultimate proving ground. A way to stand above the rest.

He glanced at the stale coffee, a glint of arrogance flashing in his eyes. Of course I'll pass. Why wouldn't he? He had made it this far—BUD/S, Afghanistan, and every hell they'd thrown at him. He was built for this, sharper, faster, better than anyone else. Lance Cross wasn't just a nobody—he was the perfect specimen.

"Whatever they throw at me," he murmured to himself, his voice laced with quiet confidence, "Will be very easy."

He pushed back his chair, standing tall, the faint smirk lingering as he walked toward the tent's exit. The sun burned bright outside, but it didn't shine nearly as brightly as the future he envisioned for himself.

Afghanistan had hardened him, forged him in fire. DEVGRU was his next trial, and he would face it like everything else—head-on, without a single doubt. This wasn't just about serving the country or being patriotic. It was about proving—becoming—something greater.

And nothing would stop him.