In the dimly lit room, Falcon sits with a heavy heart, observing the dance of dust particles illuminated by the last sliver of sunlight struggling through the grime-streaked window before dusk falls. The weight of the words, "We're going to war," reverberates in Falcon's mind, casting a shadow over every decision he makes. How can he, a leader of a disparate band of rebels, stand against the formidable military might of their adversary? As they continue their hit-and-run strikes on Cobra supply lines while strategizing their next move, Falcon grapples with the daunting task of orchestrating an assault that he feels is their only option. This is uncharted territory for him - devising battle strategies and making decisions that will decide the fate of those serving under his leadership. Men and women he personally recruited with promises of victory.
For the last two weeks, he has spent countless hours trying to formulate a plan of attack that doesn't end with the death of G.I. Joe.
All the while, Falcon finds himself greenlighting increasingly dangerous forays deeper into Cobra Controlled Territory. These incursions have provided him valuable information. The odds are stacked against them in every way - troop strength, equipment quality, weapons capabilities, and ammunition quantities; Cobra holds a decisive advantage in all these areas. He also wonders if these raids are some sort of subconscious attempt to stop the inescapable, all it would take is one tragedy and he could call the whole thing off.
He reaches for his chipped and stained coffee mug, the faded pattern, the once proudly displayed logo and motto of the Army Special Forces, barely visible against dark smudges of grime. With a heavy heart, he lifts it, anticipating a comforting weight, only to find it empty, a solemn reminder of how little they have. His last sip of bourbon had vanished days ago, leaving behind only the bitter aftertaste of regret. With a resigned exhale, he sets the mug back down on the scarred and pitted surface of his dented metal desk, the only piece of furniture, other than a couple of derelict folding chairs, in the cramped and dingy room he begrudgingly calls his office. The walls, dripping with neglect, close in on him, a constant reminder of his fall from grace. Once an esteemed officer in the country's most elite Special Operations Unit, he now finds himself confined to this claustrophobic space, leading a ragtag group of survivors teetering on the brink of hopelessness. The weight of depression bears down on him, threatening to undo everything he has fought so hard to preserve.
As he sits lost in his own thoughts, a sudden, urgent knock on the door jolts him back to reality. Before he could respond, the door burst open, Throttle and Drifter rushing into the room as the door slammed into the wall. "Sir, you've got to come to the garage," Throttle exclaimed, clearly out of breath. Falcon instinctively rose to his feet, sensing the urgency in her voice.
"Right now, sir," Drifter added, his tone leaving no room for debate. Without hesitation, Falcon followed the energized pair, feeling relieved to escape the confines of the grungy room. As they approached the garage, home of Joe Team's small motor pool, the sound of voices grew louder. Every available Joe seemed to be gathered there, crowding around a computer that was repeatedly playing an announcement. "To any Autobots out there, you are not alone. We are coming. We will find you. Help is on the way," the message echoed throughout the large space, igniting a sense of hope and purpose among the assembled crowd.
As Falcon joined the cluster of people, all eyes turned to him. "Sir, listen to this," Ground exclaimed, urging Beachcomber to replay the message. The robot relayed the message once more: "To any Autobots out there, you are not alone. We are coming. We will find you. Help is on the way."
Falcon, intrigued, questioned the large robot, "What is it?"
"It's a signal from our kind," he replied, nodding towards his compatriot Bumblebee. "Autobots. The 'good guys' are coming."
Excitement rippled through the crowd, with murmurs rising up, "This could be it..." "Just what we needed..." "We have a chance..."
Falcon, wanting to ensure they weren't getting their hopes up for nothing, cleared his throat before speaking. He looked from Beachcomber to Bumblebee, the two invaluable robotic members of the Joe Team, and then asked, "How do you know it's Autobots and not those other ones?"
"Decepticons," Bumblebee finished for him.
"Decepticons," Falcon confirmed, turning back to Beachcomber. "How can you be sure?"
"It has an embedded code, one only an Autobot would recognize. I am absolutely certain," Beachcomber explained, the excitement building once again.
"Have you been in contact yet?" Falcon inquired.
"Not yet, but we are working on boosting our signal..." Beachcomber begins.
"Don't," Falcon interrupts. "Stop trying to contact them. Immediately." Everyone in the garage looks at him, this time with puzzled expressions. "If we can hear it, so can Cobra." He glances around the room as the team begins to grasp the implications. "So far, Cobra hasn't been able to lock on to this location. If we start transmitting a boosted signal..."
"Cobra will be able to track our location," Beachcomber interjects.
Falcon nods with a steely gaze, his voice firm and commanding. "Exactly. Keep monitoring the signal. Do not broadcast anything without my explicit approval, is that understood?" The large imposing robots nod in unison, "Yes, sir." their mechanical movements convey their obedience. Falcon then turns to the rest of the group, "The rest of you, we have a battle to prepare for, with or without reinforcements." Heads around the room nod in silent acknowledgment as team members slowly return to their respective assignments, the initial excitement giving way to a focused determination that permeates the air.
Falcon watches as they walk off alone or in pairs, sadness begins to overtake him again as he thinks, 'Looks like this is it. We're really doing this. I only hope we all come back from this.'
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