Hello Firefall Fans,
I am proud to present the first episode of my exclusive Firefall Fanfic narrative series, On the Offensive. The Chosen attacks are becoming more frequent, the Melding’s encroachment is more severe than ever, and the fate of humanity drifts further into uncertainty. If there is anyone that can shift the tide in this war, it’s seasoned Accord Official, Alexis Briggs.
Major Alexis Briggs – Unofficial Report
On 28 September 22XX at approximately 1800 hours, Trans-Hub Command fell prey to a systematic attack from a highly organized foreign collective. Coordinating in a two-tiered assault, an incursion-sized Chosen squadron hit the outskirts of the Crato Valley in an offensive blitz, followed by a covert cyber-strike within the heart of Accord HQ.
Typically restrained to the combative bravado of sheer militant aggression, on this occasion, the Chosen conducted their efforts with a deft hand; infiltrating the Accord’s center of operation through the smokescreen of a frontline-assault. Although I was able to stifle the Chosen advance on our doorstep, knowing that the military mainframe could potentially be hacked was a haunting prospect.
Official reports describe the incident as an engineering malfunction, but this instance was clearly a deliberate act of aggression against Accord HQ. For a brief period, nearly all primary Accord systems were disabled, including an attempt on the Hub’s Melding Repulsor matrix. Without its protection, who knows if the Arclight’s STIZ bubble alone is still powerful enough to repel the deadly advance of the Melding? No extent of combative might can save us from such an enigmatic tempest; the threat of the Melding’s encroachment is a ubiquitous concern, now more than ever.
Day by day the Chosen grow in numbers. They are getting stronger, smarter. I fear that this is only the beginning…
It has been one week since the Accord rallied to repair a small scale engineering failure or so the official story goes. Portrayed under the veneer of normalcy, what was pushed off to the masses as a glitch in an arbitrary system nearly brought the entire Accord to its knees. Say what you will about journalists, no silver tongued reporter could bend the truth quite as masterfully as the military. I should know, as a combat and tactical specialist for the Accord Special Ops I’ve traversed the murky terrain of moral ambiguity first hand. Honesty is a noble prospect, but widespread panic is the last thing we need at a time like this.
Fear has the unique ability to cling to the spirits of the disheartened, and fester in times of desperation. Though erect in domineering supremacy on the surface, the Accord is not immune to the its influence. Waves of uncertainty have undoubtedly permeated the hardy shell of humanity’s saviors. The appearance of the Melding merely chipped the exterior, the Chosen’s declaration of war only cracked the facade, but this last blow shook the Accord to its core. If the headquarters of humanity’s survival efforts could be so easily penetrated, survival as we know it drifts further into a realm of uncertainty.
I exhale in potent dejection, and withdraw from the inner workings of my mind. Solemn times call for ample reflection, or at least such thoughts relieve the itch of boredom. Although I’ve forged a career in the gritty recesses of war, for the past 72 hours I’ve been uncharacteristically appointed to a veritable ivory tower.
Handsomely adorned, the powder white office perched in the executive wing of Accord HQ has served as my makeshift workplace, although it feels much more like a jail cell. With high ranking officials locked away in secret meetings I’ve been reduced to a glorified desk jockey; assigned to a disheveled tabletop towering with military reports and financial ledgers.
Outstretching my legs, I depart from the warm embrace of the office chair and drift over to the rear-facing window. A faint hum of collective voices resonates from the courtyard below. I watch as a new batch of recruits jog around a cyclical track followed by barking, red-faced drill sergeants. Near-tragedy certainly has a way of igniting patriotism.
Glimpsing at the tailored lawn, I catch my own reflection in the shatterproof glass. Scanning the reflective echo, my eyes dart from scar to scar, each boasting its own tale, its own battle. The essence of midmorning tedium quickly fades into fully-fledged reminiscence.
In all my years serving with the Accord, fighting to forge a stable existence for the remnants of humanity, I’ve never faltered from my purpose. It is my directive as a member of mankind’s last bastion, to strive for greatness, to embolden the hope that flourished prior to the Arclight disaster, prior to the Firefall. Despite my personal charge, the Chosen’s unyielding grip on New Eden’s throat is beginning to test my resolve.
No matter how strong we stand, how poised we are for battle, the Chosen keep coming. What if they had succeeded in disabling the Melding Repulsor? In an instant, the storm could have engulfed the entirety of Trans-Hub, transforming it into something different, something alien. New Eden may be a refuge amid the Melding’s blemishes, an oasis amongst the caustic pockets that have settled in swathes across the planet, but how long will the Accord truly be able to defend this land from the mounting Chosen threat?
Shattering the quintessence of concentration, a dizzyingly loud mechanical screech blares through the ceiling intercom followed by monotony incarnate.
“ATTENTION MAJOR BRIGGS,” the words drone through the speaker, “REPORT TO CENTRAL COMMAND EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.”
“I guess that’s my cue,” I whisper, while taking one final glance at my blurry countenance, securing wild strands of hair with a carefully placed bobby pin. Walking briskly down the tiled walkway, I traverse the maze-like progression to the epicenter of Accord strategy and war planning. A tower of a man stands in statuesque precision beside the reinforced double doors.
“Major Alexis Briggs, reporting for –,” His intensity stops me in my tracks. “This way Ma’am,” the giant motions for me to enter with solemn rigidity. He trails my every move until we arrive at the command center. The room is dark, unusually so. A single source of light sways back and forth above my position, transforming the room into a collection of amorphous shadows.
“Sit,” A voice emerges from the obscurity. I examine the scantly lit chamber to no avail, and sit in a lone chair wedged between two armed guards. This is not good.
Image Source: 
Originally written for Red 5 Studios during my time working there as Web Content Editor.