Avignon, European Federation, May 2037

The retreat or psychological ward depending on who you asked sat quietly in the heart of central France, nestled among rolling vineyards that stretched for miles, their rows of grapevines swaying gently in the breeze. The stone building a former convent sat there like it had been for hundrerd of years. Unyielding walls encased by iron gates, yet within, a strange peace lingered in the air. The scent of wine and earth mixed with the sharp tang of antiseptic as men in surrprisingly clean track suits wandered the halls, their eyes either distant or way too lively, as if trying to outrun ghosts one way or another. Outside, a handful of patients, those deemed stable enough, tended to the vineyards under careful supervision by staff and hornet drones, their hands moving with slow precision among the vines, the labor offering a rare moment of normalcy. Former Lt. Col. Mathias Lemonier, once a towering figure of discipline and command, was said to be having one of his better days — calm enough for an interview, the staff told me. He had been on track for the second manned mission to Mars, alongside other European ESA and Chinese CNSA astronauts, until he murdered his former commanding officer, a French Air Force general, at a dinner gala. No one knew what Général Crosson had said to Mathias that triggered him to attack the general with thirty knife stabs. Nor did anyone understand how a man who would later be diagnosed with severe PTSD, chronic depression, and paranoid personality disorder could have reached such a breaking point without being spotted earlier.

We sit outside after Mathias's lunch, the warm air of the vineyard surrounding us. A handler sits a few tables behind, pretending to read something on his phone, though I can't help but notice the tiny microphone tucked under the edge of the table.

"Yeah, the irony of us making wine without being allowed to drink it isn't lost on us. The whole place is full of ironies, really. All we can do is kiss the ring and keep our hands busy. Not a psychiatrist, but I'm pretty sure keeping people occupied just to stop them from losing their shit isn't exactly a long-term solution.

"Not like most of us here will ever be allowed out. Oh well. I could be in a Russian or Iranian psych ward for their vets. They chain the madmen to radiators, from what I hear."

"Well, I suppose life is full of ironies," I say.

"Army first and foremost. Either that or people doing stuff just because they have to. There's that circle jerk every morning. We'd form in platoons in the square of our base. The platoon would report to their lieutenant, then the lieutenant would report to the company commander that everyone was present—or that one guy probably didn't hear his alarm because of how hungover he was. Then the company commander would ceremonially yell to the regimental sergeant major, telling him everyone was present, or how many missed the appel. Then the RSM would tell the commander personally, while everyone stood at attention in the rain. Some old, old shit, straight from the Napoleonic era, just so the chief would know personally how many people were actually in his unit."

"Even in the words," Mathias continues, his voice carrying a faint edge of bitterness. "Did you know 'Lieutenant' literally meant 'place holder' in old French? A guy just filling in for someone else, a role with no real authority, just there until the actual person shows up. And 'Sergeant'? That's from 'serre gents'—'servant,' basically. The guy who'd make sure everyone was in formation, keeping the line tight while they marched calmly towards the cannons that were about to blast them. Yeah sure its all ceremonial, but besides the upholding of the ceremonies it does allot on morale. "Even the biggest cynic feels something as he marches in platoon during a parade in the center of his capital," Mathias muses, his tone dipping into something almost nostalgic. "I don't care how many whine after or before due to the heat or rain, how they'd rather be home or somewhere else. But even in those shitty morning assemblies, you felt really wrong when you noticed everyone's boots were polished to perfection, and yours weren't. Or that you forgot to put your velcro flag patch on your shoulder, something dumb like that. It sounds ludicrous when you say it out loud, civilians might not understand, but you can't even imagine the kind of fear a private might feel, wondering if his staff sergeant noticed that or not."

"If that private feels that shame, he's more likely to dismount from his vehicle and attack an enemy position when given the order. Or step out of his trench and charge, or press the release button in his cockpit and have his Rafale send an ASMP-A nuclear missile towards its target."

He pulls a cigarette from his pack, something only a few patients here are allowed.

"Thanks again for the fresh smokes. I wonder how many packs you had to give out to write that book of yours."

"Don't mention it," I say, as he lights it, the flicker of the flame catching the edge of his eyes for a brief moment.

"We're a long way from flight school," he continues, taking a slow drag. "Cigognes squadron—literally 'stork'—what that had to do with dropping nuclear weapons, I don't know. Fifteen Rafales, with the best pilots the Air Force had to offer. Some of those guys had downed Russian Sukhois and Tupolevs before the war, sending their crews plummeting to earth at 600 km/h, screaming and burning alive, if the shrapnel from the missiles or the shock of depressurization hadn't killed them outright. All of us had downed Banshees and V2s during the war, destroyed countless Crabs from the air, bombed numerous Crab marching formations.

We'd set off in flights of four to six Rafales. Normally, two armed with missiles, the rest providing cover. Strikes at the beginning of the war hit Germany—some in the early days, a few later on. None of those I was part of. Then came the push from the sea into Central Europe, and suddenly the brass wanted momentum on the French and Benelux front too. So a new wave of nuclear strikes was approved. Momentum for what? We could've taken most of Germany and Denmark from the north, flanked the Crabs, locked them in along the Rhine. Our boys on the southern line could've just held fast, waited for the northern clamp to snap shut. But no. Had to make a show of it. Make headlines. Before that madness, nuclear strikes required the president's direct approval. But I guess she was too busy hunting protesters and dissidents for sport. I doubt that bitch even read the briefings—the lists of towns and regions the generals wanted to erase.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

We were given the order to fly out at midnight. Just sitting there on the tarmac, the Rafales lined up like sharpened blades in the dark, waiting for the payloads to arrive—God knows from where—when the comms crackled and everything changed. The target had been switched. Techs rushed to update the guidance systems, and we were pulled into a second, improvised briefing right there on the runway. That's when we learned a section of the front had collapsed. All of Alsace—Strasbourg included—was under threat. Command wanted a strike, and they wanted it fast.

The blast would incinerate tens of thousands of Crabs and whatever half-boiled seafood monstrosities they dragged in with them. The radiation wouldn't kill the survivors instantly, but it'd seep into them—rot them from the inside over days or weeks, depending on how long they stayed in the hot zone. For humans, that region would be done for—maybe decades before it's safe to grow crops or raise animals again, maybe longer. But no one thought that far ahead. No one ever does.

We had an hour to strike Haguenau, just north of Strasbourg. We were told—no, assured—that the town had been fully evacuated: soldiers, medics, support crews, everyone. I asked my squadron commander how he could be so sure. He didn't even look at me when he answered. Said if I had questions like that, he'd happily give me the keys to his car so I could drive to High Command in Paris and ask them myself—while he found someone else to fly the mission.

None of my colleagues said a word. Just quiet smirks, one or two chuckles. Like it was all some damn joke. We were about to drop the power of the sun on our own territory, and they laughed. I don't care if you've already dropped one, two, or three of those things—you're not supposed to laugh. Maybe they'd all gone numb. Or maybe I was the only one left who still gave a shit. Or maybe they knew something I didn't. Maybe I missed the real briefing. Maybe the evac was a lie. Maybe it always is. I could already see the flash before we took off, feel it behind my eyes. The air peeling backwards. The silence after. I should've said something else. I should've—"

I remove the cigarette burning his fingers, which he doesn't seem to notice before he continues, his voice distant, like he's somewhere else entirely.

"I tried to push it all away by thinking of Christine, 'cause there's one more thing I learned in all that madness: cancer doesn't care if you just turned 30, or that you've got a kid in your stomach."

His eyes lose focus for a moment. His hand twitches slightly, but he doesn't pull away from the silence.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly now, but he doesn't seem to notice. He starts speaking again, his voice mechanical, like he's reciting something learned by heart, something that might shield him from the weight of what he's actually saying.

"You'd have about 250 kilometers of range with the ASMP-A, Just enough time to set the coordinates, lock onto the target, and make sure the payload's ready to go. You don't think about the blast, not at that range, not when the orders come down. You just... follow the procedure. You arm the missile, check the launch system, make sure it's in 'ready' mode. There's a countdown in your head even if there isn't one on the display. It's automatic, you know? You can feel the pressure in your chest, but you don't focus on that. You're too busy with the controls—switches, dials, arming circuits. Everything has to be precise. Everything. Fire the missile, it's in the air, and in a few minutes, the world's different. You don't see the impact, don't feel it, but you know. You know exactly what's coming.

Everything was precise, until I heard the voice on the radio. Some girl from the Air Support Operations Center.

"Soultz-sous-Forêts... Isn't evacuated yet, I can't reach high command, stand by!"

Her southern accent—it would've made me laugh in any other context. But not now. She was from the ASOC, the nerve center where air support is coordinated across multiple platforms and units.

"We're targeting Haguenau," I answered, the words coming out sharp, automatic. I'll spare you the radio protocols—she dropped them the second she heard my message anyway.

"What do you mean? Haguenau??? We're still here! Abort! Abort! Abort!" She screamed into the comms, panic rising in her voice.

"Mathias, shut off that frequency right this moment!" My commander's voice crackled over the comms, sharp and commanding, like a slap to the face.

"There's still thousands of us here, abort! Abort! Abort!" The girl from the ASOC fired back, her panic unmistakable.

"Mathias, shut off that frequency now!" This time, it was my flight commander, his voice rising with frustration, more forceful.

I could hear the tension in both their voices, the urgency, but all I could think about was the mission—the orders. They were clear. And yet, in the back of my mind, I heard her voice echoing, a siren in the chaos. Thousands? Still there?

I hesitated, fingers hovering over the controls.

"Mathias, shut off that frequency right now!" My commander barked, his voice breaking through the static, thick with authority.

I clenched my jaw. "Confirm strike location. ASOC claims area is st—"

"You follow the mission, Mathias!" His voice dropped to a growl. "You don't question orders. Shut off the frequency now."

I felt a knot tighten in my chest, a weight settling on my stomach, but the tension in his command was undeniable. I didn't say anything else. Just flipped the switch.

The line went dead. The only sound now was the hum of the aircraft, my wingmen on the other frequency trying to convince me we were doing the right thing before being told to shut up by our CO, the steady rhythm of a heart that had stopped asking questions.

I turned back to the console. The launch sequence was already in motion, the missile ready. I could feel my hands moving almost on their own, inputting the final commands, one by one. Each click of the button sounded too loud, like a countdown I couldn't stop.

The order was clear. I had my job.

The target was locked.

I pressed the button.

I sat there for a second, staring at the console. My heart was racing, but I felt... detached. It wasn't real, not anymore. The voices in my head had become distant whispers.

Guess they really wanted that forest north of Haguenau gone, even before the Crabs got to it.

The thought floated in my mind, like it belonged to someone else. My fingers moved again, no hesitation, no pause. As if this was what I'd been trained to do, what I was made to do. The order had been given. The target had been locked. There was no turning back now. Not for me, not for anyone.

The girl's voice still echoed in the back of my skull, but it was fading. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it didn't matter. The blast and then the radiation would clear it all. The people, the Crabs, the trees—it would all just vanish.

And if I thought about it too long, about who might still be there—if I let that creep in—it would break me. It would send me spinning into a place I couldn't pull myself out of.

Just follow the procedure. Follow the orders.

I pressed the button. The cruise missile under my jet detached with a sharp jolt, its engine roaring to life, sending it streaking away into the night sky. The air felt thick, heavy, like it was waiting for something to happen. And I just sat there, watching the missile disappear into the dark, knowing what was coming next.

"You know. we tried to be heroes too. We really tried."

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