Green Valor

Front Lines

The roar of the crowd was deafening as Jack Evergreen rushed through the throngs of people, his heart pounding in time with the heavy footfalls of soldiers moving towards the front lines.
News reports blared from every screen, capturing the chaos and urgency that had gripped the city. The tension in the air was palpable as troops hustled towards their vehicles, preparing for the battle that awaited them.
As Jack moved to board a truck, a sharp voice cut through the noise. "Is that THE Jack Evergreen?!" a reporter shouted, her voice laced with disbelief and excitement.
The cameras swung towards him, and within moments, the headlines flashed across billboards in every corner of the city: *Jack Evergreen Alive and Back on the Front Line!*
The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices rising in a tidal wave of support. Jack, caught off guard by the sudden attention, felt the weight of his fame pressing down on him.
His name had become legend, a symbol of hope in these dark times, but the reality of his mission was far from glamorous. Still, he couldn't ignore the surge of pride that filled his chest as the press closed in, microphones and cameras thrust in his face.
"Mr. Evergreen!" a reporter called out, shoving her way to the front. "Can you tell us about the color codes of the uniforms your troops are wearing? The people are eager to understand what they mean, especially since Cordero's soldiers are so colorful!"
Jack paused, the question pulling him back to the present. He took a breath, glancing at the uniforms of the soldiers around him. Each color represented a role, a responsibility, a commitment to the cause they were fighting for.
He tapped the blue fabric of his own uniform, standing tall as he addressed the crowd. "The Blue uniform," he began, his voice carrying over the din, "represents the Cordero Super Soldiers. High-ranking operatives trained for the most critical and dangerous missions. It's a symbol of trust, leadership, and the power to protect."
He remembered Quinn, who wore his deep red uniform. "The Red uniforms, like the one my friend,Quinn wears, are for the Infantry Battalions. They are the backbone of our forces, the ones who take the fight directly to the enemy. They symbolize strength, courage, and the unyielding will to push forward."
Jack then recalled to Yuri, clad in white. "White uniforms are for the Counterintelligence Agents. These soldiers work behind the scenes, gathering information, sabotaging enemy operations, and ensuring that we stay one step ahead. They symbolize precision, clarity, and the unseen hand that guides our success."
"And the yellow vestments?" another reporter asked, her voice trembling with anticipation.
"Yellow," Jack said with a nod, "is for the Search and Destroy units. These soldiers are our hunters, tasked with seeking out enemy threats and neutralizing them. They are the spearhead, the ones who cut through the darkness and pave the way for victory."
The reporters scribbled furiously, cameras clicking as they captured every word. The crowd leaned in, hanging on Jack's every syllable.
Then, the first reporter who had spotted him blurted out, "And what does Evergreen mean?"
Jack grinned, a glimmer of his old confidence returning. Without missing a beat, he shouted into the microphone, "And Green means VALOR!"
The crowd exploded in cheers, their voices echoing through the streets. The enthusiasm was contagious, and for a moment, Jack allowed himself to bask in it. But the moment was fleeting—there was still a war to be won.
As the crowd continued to chant his name, Jack finally boarded the waiting truck, his comrades following close behind. The vehicle rumbled to life, and with a lurch, they were off, speeding towards the battlefield where their fate would be decided.
The cheers faded into the distance, replaced by the ominous hum of engines and the cold, hard reality of what lay ahead.
Jack's mind raced as the city fell away behind them. The weight of his responsibilities pressed heavily on his shoulders, but he knew he had to keep moving forward.
There was no turning back now. The battle was coming, and with it, the chance to end this war once and for all.
As the trucks barreled towards the front lines, Jack steeled himself for the fight ahead, knowing that every decision he made could mean the difference between life and death—not just for him, but for everyone he had sworn to protect.
The frozen rain began to pour as Jack sat in the back of the truck, the rhythmic drumming on the metal roof a sharp contrast to the chaos brewing in his mind. Through the downpour, he could see the distant shapes of Archer's planes, their ominous silhouettes slicing through the stormy sky.
His thoughts turned dark as he considered the promise he had made to the people—to win the war, to bring them peace. But only he knew the bitter truth: peace was impossible as long as Cordero remained in power. The war wouldn't end with the defeat of Archer alone; Cordero had to be fought back, too.
But how could he justify the treason he was contemplating? If the people found out he was willing to kill Cordero for their freedom, would they even support him? And even if he succeeded, who would lead them?
Jack's mind raced with these questions, but he forced himself to focus. Killing Archer wasn't the solution.
He needed to negotiate with him, but first, Archer's army had to be neutralized. The truck rumbled closer to the battlefield, and Jack could feel the tension in the air, thick as the rain soaking through his uniform.
As the truck slowed to a halt, soldiers began hopping out one by one, their boots splashing into the muddy ground. Jack reached into his pocket, feeling the cool metal of Saskia's butterfly brooch.
He pulled it out and kissed it, a silent promise to her and to himself. It was time. His group was next to jump out, and Jack could feel his nerves tightening.
He didn't have his team with him, and Saskia was far away on her own mission. For the first time since joining Cordero's forces, he felt truly alone, just as he had been when he first stepped into Cordero's boot camp.
Suddenly, a trooper shoved him out of the truck. "On your feet, Evergreen!" the soldier barked, his voice barely audible over the roar of rain and distant gunfire.
Jack stumbled, his boots slipping in the mud, but he quickly regained his footing. He clutched his gun, his heart pounding as he surveyed the battlefield.
In the distance, through the sheets of rain, he saw an enemy soldier planting Archer's flag on a hill. The sight filled him with anger—an anger that quickly focused his thoughts.
"Take it down," he thought, his grip tightening on his weapon. The flag on that hill became his mission, his singular goal. But between him and that hill, the battlefield was a nightmare, a landscape out of hell itself.
The ground was littered with bodies, the rain turning the earth into a thick sludge that threatened to swallow the fallen whole. Gunfire crackled from all directions, punctuated by the deafening booms of artillery.
Smoke mixed with the rain, creating a suffocating haze that blurred the line between friend and foe. And in the midst of it all, ghouls—those monstrous results of Dr. Wormsly's twisted experiments—prowled the battlefield, their inhuman shrieks cutting through the din of battle.
Jack took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He couldn't let fear paralyze him now. He had to move, had to make it to that hill.
Every muscle in his body screamed at him to run, to charge into the fray and bring down that flag, but he knew that rushing in blindly would only get him killed. He needed to be smart, to move carefully and deliberately.
He started forward, the mud sucking at his boots with every step. His eyes darted around, scanning the battlefield for threats. The rain made it hard to see, but he could make out the shapes of soldiers engaged in desperate combat, their screams of pain and rage blending with the howling wind.
A ghoul suddenly lunged out of the mist, its eyes glowing with unnatural hunger. Jack barely had time to react, raising his gun and firing. The bullets tore through the creature, but it kept coming, driven by some unholy force. Jack sidestepped just in time, the ghoul crashing into the mud beside him.
He didn't have time to celebrate the narrow escape. The hill was still far off, and the battlefield was alive with danger. Jack pressed on, his heart hammering in his chest. Every step was a battle in itself, but he kept his eyes on that flag, its bright colors standing out against the dark, stormy sky.
This was it—his mission, his moment. The battlefield around him might look like hell, but he was determined to survive it. To reach that hill, to take down Archer's flag, and to begin the long, dangerous road toward ending this war once and for all.
As the chaos of battle raged around him, Jack's eyes caught sight of a fallen soldier—a comrade who had died with Cordero's flag still clutched in his hand.
The flag was soaked in blood, the vibrant colors dulled by the grime and mud of the battlefield, but to Jack, it was a beacon.
He knew this was his chance, his moment to make a stand. With a grim determination, he pulled the flag from the soldier's cold grip and began his ascent toward the hill.
The hill was a symbol of victory, a place where Archer's flag waved defiantly. As Jack trudged through the muck, the rain still pouring relentlessly, he could feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. But that weight also fueled his resolve.
He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore; he was fighting to give hope to everyone who was watching—his comrades, the civilians, and even himself.
As he neared the top, bullets zipped past him, some grazing his uniform, others embedding themselves in the ground at his feet. But nothing could stop him now.
With a surge of adrenaline, he tore Archer's flag from the pole and raised Cordero's banner high. For a brief, shining moment, it felt like victory was in his grasp.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw an injured comrade, struggling to crawl to safety. Without hesitation, Jack rushed to assist him, the hero's instinct taking over.
As he reached down to help, the ground shook violently. He looked up in horror as one of Archer's planes, trailing smoke and fire, spiraled out of control and plummeted straight toward him.
The impact was catastrophic. Jack was thrown to the ground as the plane crashed into the hill, its burning wreckage pinning him beneath twisted metal and debris.
All at once, the world became a blur of pain and confusion. His ears rang with deafening silence, and the edges of his vision started to darken. He could feel his life slipping away, the unbearable pain overwhelming his senses.
He tried to move, to push the burning wreckage off his body, but his strength was failing. Desperation clawed at him, and for the first time in years, he found himself crying out—not for his comrades, but for his mother.
He called out to her, his voice raw and broken, begging her to come and save him. The guilt of not being able to protect her when she was attacked years ago surged through him, the memory of her death the driving force behind his enlistment in Cordero's army.
But then, through the haze of pain and tears, he felt something—a soft, gentle hand on his bloody cheek. A calm voice, familiar yet distant, whispered to him.
It told him that he didn't need to punish himself by being a soldier. His eyes fluttered open, and there, sitting besides him, was the ghostly figure of his mother. Her soft complexion radiated love and warmth, and for a moment, all the pain melted away.
She smiled at him, a bittersweet expression of pride and sorrow. But then her face hardened, and her voice grew stern. "I raised a soldier, not a boy," she said, her words cutting through the fog of his mind. "Get up and live, Jack. The Evergreen tree lives forever."
Her words struck him like a bolt of lightning, snapping him back to reality. The pain returned, but so did his will to survive. Jack gritted his teeth, the memory of his mother's strength giving him the power to push back against the darkness. With a guttural cry, he summoned every ounce of strength left in his battered body and began to move the debris.
Slowly, agonizingly, he forced the twisted metal off of him, inch by inch. His vision was still blurred, his limbs trembling, but he refused to give in. He wasn't just fighting for himself anymore—he was fighting for his mother's memory, for the soldier she had raised him to be.
Finally, with a final surge of effort, Jack freed himself from the wreckage. He collapsed onto the muddy ground, gasping for air, the pain throbbing through every fiber of his being. But he was alive. He had survived.
As he lay there, drenched in blood and rain, Jack knew that this battle was far from over. He still had a mission to complete, a war to win. But more than that, he had a promise to keep—to his mother, to his fallen comrades, and to himself. The Evergreen tree lives forever, and so would he.