Texan NOD Recruitment File (canon)
Texan Nod Recruitment File
Omake by FaxModem1​

The following was discovered south of RZ-7 by Forgotten laborers at the ruins of the Dallas Botanical Gardens, who delivered it to GDI:

Voice 1: "We can't move to California or Boston, we'd never make it before the ion storms got us."

Voice 2: "We could head south, I heard the Navy is killing Nod pirates."

Voice 3: "That's about 400 miles south. Most of us wouldn't survive that journey."

Voice 1: "Well, we have to do something, the red zone is encroaching on us, and green crystals are starting to appear in the water supply. It's why we can't go north, it's all red zone."

Voice 3: "What about any of the Fortress towns, surely there's one we can go to?"

Voice 2: "They're all along the blue zone borders. We're too far from them."

Voice 4:" They keep on saying things are improving, where are they improving?"

New voice: "Chicago"

(Several cries of surprise)

New Voice: "Isn't it typical, California and the East coast, those areas they save. But some Texans like you, who built this shelter and preserved as much of the old world as you could? They leave you to die."

Voice 1: "Who are you?"

New Voice: "Just someone offering you a choice beyond waiting to die in your little slice of eden."

Voice 3: "Those are Nod colors."

New Voice: "Yes they are. But I'm here with food, medicine, and an offer to help. I admire what you've built here, how you kept as much of the old ecosystem alive as possible. Well, until GDI's apathy let the tiberium kill you all. So, I ask, where's GDI?"

(quiet for a moment)

New Voice: "I'll tell you where they are, where they've always been, helping out people who are not you. It's not a coincidence that Texas is being swallowed up, and the east and west coasts are fully protected. It's also not a coincidence that they're rebuilding Chicago, but leaving New Orleans, Galveston, and Houston to be destroyed. Even a city they might consider like them, like y'all's Dallas, they abandon. They do not care about you, and they never will."

(quiet moment)

New Voice: "Do you wish for help in protecting what you have built here?"

Voice 1: "It's better than dying out here."

Voice 3: "I'm a Texan, not a Yellow Zoner, Red Zoner, GDI, Nod, or whatever. But you're helping us and they're not."

Voice 2: "As long as we preserve the plants of home we've spent our lives protecting, and we keep what we've got, I'm in."
 
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Imagined Conversation (noncanon)
I'm in favor of the Warmonger, to be honest. With Nod ramping up from guerilla war to open hostility, putting a military fanatic in charge will shock everyone.

I can just imagine the conversation between Granger and Kai Jun :

-Recording Begins:

Kai Jun : I'm honored sir, but for the record...

Granger: You want to know why I chose you over the others?

Kai Jun : Yes sir.

Granger: Because, regardless of what everyone thinks of me, I'm a pragmatist. Nod is diverting resources from Tiberium abatement and Orbital Infrastructure development with their very existence, and fails to recognize that Tiberium is the greatest overall threat to our species survival, unless the Scrin come back. So even though I think that Tiberium should be Priority One, the reality is that Nod has to be destroyed before we can focus on what really matters: reversing the spread of Tiberium, and getting our population offworld so we don't go extinct if we fail to do the first.

Kai Jun : ...I understand sir.

Granger: I'll leave you with this last bits of advice: amateurs talk about tactics, while experts study logistics. Don't forget about building infrastructure to support your overall war effort, however you chose to do so. And if those political animals and corporate tools try to screw with you, just do what I did: undercut them to the point they're rendered impotent, and play enough political games to get the vultures to back off so you can do your job.


-Recording Ends.
 
Red Zone Engineer (Semicanon)
Omake: zone trooper/engineer in the red zones.

The ion storm-wracked skies cast a flickering werelight over the fields of eerie luminescent spikes jutting from the landscape. Tiberium filling the landscape as heavy winds created harsh shattering sounds as the crystals small enough to be carried on the winds broke apart into smaller fragments, easier for the minuscule shards to spread and seed new tiberium fields far away in some distant yellowzone.

Here at the heart of the North American redzone it was a world away from Williams bluezone home. The blight in the middle of the continent a nigh impassible wasteland separating the two north american coasts, dangerous even for aircraft to fly through or over thanks to the constant pillars of sickly lightning that crashed into the delicate wounded Earth.

During the second tiberium war, at the height of the Forgottens strength, before tiberium had mutated yet again into the cold unfeeling rock it was now that simply created more of itself scientists had theorised tiberium was terraforming the world, paving the way for a new Tiberium based lifeform, many respected medical and scientific masterminds theorising that Tiberium could herald the next stage in human evolution.

And yet, tiberium had mutated, becoming more deadly, and the mutations of the forgotten more severe, until they scarce resembled humans. Survival, but at what cost? And who was to say tiberium would not mutate yet again, causing complications that killed off those changed by it?

Because the scrin indeed, had not seeded the planet with tiberium in order to make it habitable to their kind, but instead as simply a preparatory stage. Laying the explosives for a mine as it were. Intercepted transmissions from the scrin indicated all life should have been extinguished and yet some still clung on. The forgotten, monstrous tiberium fiends, descended perhaps from mutated dogs or bears and other stranger lifeforms.

Yet even for those mutated by tiberium, this was still a hostile desolate world, but even with all that there was a strange haunting beauty to it. Perhaps something similar to what had drawn humans to the north pole, or the top of mount Everest, or earths deepest caves or ocean trenches, even the surface of the moon or the emptiness of space.

it was there, so humans would explore it. A testament to human ingenuity, encased as he was in a small bubble capable of supporting life. Decades of war, an alien invasion, even tiberium itself had left humans battered and bruised, yet they clung onto the rock that was earth, for now still the only home they had, even as tiberium steadily continued it's seemingly relentless advance. Tiberium was beautiful perhaps, like the stars themselves. Yet like those balls of flaming gas it would kill you if you got too close.

There was but a small flicker of hope left. He stood here. Despite the dangers. Despite the sheer power of the earth and skies themselves seeming to conspire to create the perfect conditions to execute him without remorse here he stood, taking the worst the planet could throw at him and weathering the storm.

"Yeah. Fuck you too you green son of a bitch." William growled. "Planet earth is still ours and even if you take it all? You're not keeping it." He promised, his words swallowed by the howling wind.
 
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This Zone Is Ours
This Zone Is Ours​

There was a rumble in the sky, the clouds twisting and bunching together above them. It was not the light grey smudge of a light rain, nor was it the thick dark grey, nearly black, clouds which heralded true thunderstorms. By now, anyone who had lived in a yellow zone for longer than a year could recognize the blinking lights and alien blooms and bursts of coloration that had no business being there. The way the clouds shifted was almost alive, alive with new gasses and elements that were not native to it. Already, there was bursts and crashes of static on the radar systems. As of yet, however, their communications arrays were still functioning, mostly, in that conversations could be held if one accepted constant drops and weak signals.

"I don't think you understand, we are already under attack! Every day, I'm dealing with bikes and buggies skirting closer and closer, and those new artillery units the Brotherhood has are popping up more and more!" A dark-skinned man snarled into the comm, a lit cigar barely maintaining its integrity as a thick veiny fist clutched it.

He stood, loomed almost, over the console, his once jet-black beard now mostly white from age and stress. Heavy wrinkles covered his face, as did more than a few scars, all of which were twisting as his lips thinned together. He was not even wearing a regular uniform but had in fact donned the under-suit requisite for properly wearing power armor. That, as well as the large if archaic revolver hand cannon on his hip granted him a rather particularly aggressive air. All around him, base staff scurried back and forth, some of them typing furiously at their consoles, others rapidly conversing with different troops spread throughout the area. Opposite him, glancing through her viewscreen towards him with remarkable calm, was a man wearing a far more finely pressed uniform, his headset perfectly aligned, without even a fourth of the bags under his eyes that the angrier man did.

"And we are aware of that commander, but you know as well as I do that you've got an ion storm, category three by the way, imminent. We simply cannot make the transfer of the remainder of the crews and materials on a whim, if not agreed upon by the Treasury. They'll be thrown out of the sky."

Yusuf Escoffier growled, but whatever he meant to say next, he paused as he glared at the hastily approaching and well-exhausted communications officer.

"What?" He boomed.

"Commander Escoffier, sir," they saluted, which Yusuf curtly returned. "Patrols 1, 2, and 4 are all reporting heavy contacts."

The elder Frenchman's eyes narrowed, his former conversation partner now finally looking somewhat alarmed.

"How heavy?"

"More than just regular raiders, sir. It looks like they've busted out a lot of old scorpion tanks from…somewhere, and…," they trailed off nervously.

"Speak up, lieutenant!" Yusuf barked.

"It's unconfirmed, but Captain Briggs swears he saw some…some walkers, sir."

Yusuf swore viciously, causing both other men to cringe and others in the base to look over.

"Avatars or Purifiers?" He half-shouted.

"We-we don't know!" The communications officer nearly yelped.

"Shit!" Yusuf whipped his head around. "Well, ensign, it looks like we might not be needing the last of the crews and materials after all."

"C-Commander Yusuf? I don't understand?"

Yusuf scoffed.

"Because that wily little bastard is making his move," he grunted, leaning close to the screen. "And it's highly likely that by the time this ion storm is over, either we'll all be dead…or he is."

He slammed the end call button and then shifted his fist over to do the same to the radio.

"Attention all troops! This is Commander Yusuf Escoffier! Nod is on the move! Get ready, children, because we're on our own out here!" He then turned back to the communications officer. "You, start getting the civilians inside the base. A favela is no place to die in a battle."

"B-but, sir? Where are we going to house them? We don't have nearly enough bunks to-,"

Yusuf laughed darkly as childhood memories of a truck trailer filled with refugees tipping over as tiberium-fueled rockets slammed into a caravan. The cigar in his hand finally gave up and crumpled to pieces as his hand clenched that much tighter.

"You'd be amazed at how many people you can stuff into a little space, lieutenant. We aren't housing them in permanence, we're just getting them out of the way. Now get to it! I've got a battle to fight."

High above, the ion storm rumbled as the very first of many lightning strikes began to strike the ground.

================================================================

There was a distinct difference between the methodical energies of an assembly line or factory inside a blue zone and the frantic, almost manic workings of a facility that was a few minutes shy of being attacked by Nod. Below the earth, on absolutely enormous rotating platforms, lay a considerable number of the super-heavy vehicle known as Super MARVs in varying stages of completion. Three of them were complete, all three sections properly hooked up, its guns complete, and all six modular hardpoints prepped and ready. In fact, by the time Yusuf got down there, now completely ensconced in his armor, his orders had proceeded him well enough such that troopers were loading themselves up into the hardpoints or were otherwise rushing out of their barracks and bunks towards their respective points. Or at least, that was going on for two of them. It was the third that he was heading towards now, heavy thumps accompanying each footstep as he barreled forward just under a full run.

"Hey! Saladin! Where are you, you-," Yusuf came to a screeching – literally, his armor's boots scraping the ground to halt his forward momentum. "Are you serious? Now?"

In front of him, the chief engineer of the assembly teams sent by ZOCOM command did not acknowledge him until he finished his prayers and rose up from his mat.

"Now, of all times when we may all be about to die? Absolutely," the man replied, his own skin slightly duskier than Yusufs. "Now, what do you need from me?"

"This tank," Yusuf said bluntly, jerking his thumb at the silent but fully assembled Super MARV.

At that, the engineer's serene expression cracked, his craggy brow lifting up bushy white eyebrows.

"Excuse me?"

"The ion storm and some kind of logistical mess-up that could be from Nod for all I care kept the last of the crews from getting here," Yusuf grunted out, his railgun creaking ever so slightly under his grip.

Saladin sputtered.

"Wha-wh, Yusuf, I am not a tank driver, or commander, or-or pilot or any of these things!"

Both men had to brace themselves as something struck the earth nearby, something which exploded. Followed by several others. Deep down in the MARV bay, the sounds of battle were still very, very faintly audible.

"You build these things?" Yusuf glared down at the shorter man. "Do you not?"

"I – yes, but-,"

"You've built these things inside and out? Different fleets, different models, different parts of the world?"

"Yusuf-,"

"Saladin," the commander placed a heavy hand sheathed in metal on the engineer's shoulders. "The people need you. If command wishes to punish me for breaking regulations, so be it, but right now, I need someone – a group of someones – who know these things well enough to drive them. We don't have anyone else."

Saladin gulped, before firming his shoulders and nodding.

"Very well. We'll…we'll begin the activation sequence."

Yusuf smiled, though the grin was obscured by his helmet.

"Good man. You'll go third, so you have time to get everything ready." Then he turned and activated his radio. "Venkman! Shiori! Let's get going already!"

"Yes, commander!" The leaders of the two actual certified Super MARV teams responded simultaneously.

Instantly, they began driving forward towards the elevator which, unfortunately, could only accommodate one of them at a time. It was Captain Venkman's Super MARV, Red Betty, who made it there first. The elevator immediately began lifting, pneumatics hissing and groaning under the weight as several zone troopers scramble atop it as well, joining their commander. The higher the elevator went, the louder the sounds of battle became. The sound of the sonic cannon warming up was almost deafening. Yusuf then turned to the rest of his fellow troopers. They had, thankfully, all been updated to the new suits by ZOCOM command and the confusing little man sitting the big chair at the Treasury, but it remained to be seen if that would be enough in the here and now.

"All right, children," Yusuf called out, getting many heads turning his way. "It looks like Nod has decided that they want us off their premises. And they're willing to slaughter their way through a camp of thousands of innocents to do it. Not, of course, that we're any stranger to Nod's monstrosities, eh?"

A resounding answer of angry negatives answered him. Some of them were hefting their railguns or sonic grenade launchers, almost shaking them over their heads in sheer savage fury.

"We know what Nod wants. We've seen it when we've gone into the reds! That's the world they want! That's the world we're trying to stop from coming into existence! What this very camp is built to do! And they want to destroy it! Are we going to let them, troopers!?"

"SIR, NO SIR!"

"DAMN STRAIGHT!" Yusuf roared.

The elevator reached the top, its gigantic metal doors sliding downwards to reveal a roaring battlefield. What looked like whole clouds of militants with rifles or rockets were swarming towards them out of the hills, while columns of scorpions and buggies pushed forward. Here and there were teams of rocket bikes spewing their tiberium-augmented missiles at every hard target they could find. As of yet, they hadn't breached past the first outer limits of the favela, the towers that Yusuf had fought hard to get installed holding them back with the rest of his forces. Now, however, it was impossible to miss that they were right next to a priority target. Especially as Captain Venkman thumbed the speaker system, his normally willowy voice bass boosted heavily until it barely sounded human.

"SUPER MARV ONLINE!"

"LET'S GIVE THEM THE HELL ON EARTH THEY WANT, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!" Yusuf bellowed as he triggered his rocket pack. "ILS NE PASSERONT PAS!"

He ascended into the heavens to be temporarily wreathed in contrails of ion storm electricity sparking before descending back to earth directly on top of a Nod buggy shooting at some of his infantry. His heavy power armor slammed through its bullet-resistant glass and each leg turned the torsos of the two crew inside the vehicle to super-heated chunks of meat as his thrusters fired to control his descent into them. Turning slightly, he fired his railgun into the front wheel of a passing rocket bike, tearing it apart and sending the bike and rider both flipping head over heel into a scorpion tank's treads. All around him, the rest of the zone troopers and zone raiders arrived, firing relentlessly out into the enemy.

==========================================================

"Red Betty's gotta retreat, Commander, any more hits like that and she'll crack like an egg!" Venkman's panicked voice rang out through the radio.

"She's already got enough already," Yusuf coughed as he dragged himself out of the crater that had been left behind by the missile that had nearly killed him. "Pull her back some but keep the left flank clear as best you can while the drones get to work. Shiori?"

"Death Blossom's okay!" The quaver in the woman's voice betrayed the confidence her words were meant to have.

"It is okay," a third voice entered the channel, one thick with almost audibly sweaty nervousness, "It will be okay!"

The doors to the assembly bay opened up, and finally their third Super MARV joined the battle. Almost immediately, the Nod forces pivoted once more, concentrating fire and effort as best they could. The incredibly fanatic troops that the Brotherhood always seemed to have on hand even willingly crossed killing fields and no man's lands to try and launch just one more rocket or barrage onto the new super heavy on the field. Yusuf coughed again and glared at the red splatter on the inside of his helmet which had just emerged from his throat. He glanced down and frowned at the jagged piece of metal that had somehow stabbed him in the side. How had he missed that?

"Uh, Commander! Yusuf!" Saladin's thready voice made him look up. "Walkers!"

Yusuf cursed again as he saw them. Worse, they were not Purifiers like he'd hoped. It wasn't that the more primitive versions weren't deadly, they could be incredibly horrifying for urban combat, such as a favela if he hadn't had it evacuated inside the base. The problem was that these were Avatars, and he could see by the way the beams double-lensed and focused to begin melting the remaining tanks he had on hand as well as hit the Super MARVs that they'd been upgraded with 'help' from some of their mobile beam cannons. He glanced back down at the metal in his side, and growled again.

"I'm on my way, Saladin. You hold position, you hear me?"

"I…yes! We will hold our ground. For goodness sake Samantha fire the cannon!"

"Y-yes Chief! I've just never-!"

"Press the button!"

The sonic cannon boomed out, and for a wonder the squirrely engineer who'd been placed behind the gun managed to hit one of the Avatars right in the legs, tearing the two spindly limbs apart and making them crash to the ground. Yusuf grinned through reddened teeth at that and began moving again.

"This is Commander Escoffier. I need some volunteers to accompany me. Those walkers need to go down. Today."

The problem being, of course, that the walkers were not being simply pushed to the forefront as they might have been during the Third Tiberium War. No, the Nod commander was being conservative with the incredible powerful, and dangerously versatile, walkers. Probably because they no longer possessed the resources or facilities to mass-manufacture them like the used to. Yusuf hoped. Instead, the walkers were surrounded by supporting tanks and troops. But that didn't matter. Not to Yusuf. Not today. Nor did it matter to the groups of zone troopers and zone raiders that were joining him, joining into his command link the moment they got close enough. They knew the score, just like he did.

"Well, children. One last time, for GDI and for Earth, eh?" He chuckled wetly as they all began pushing forward, jump jets activating as one.

"COME OOOOOOOOOOOOOON!" He roared, red flecking onto the insides of his helmet as he held down the trigger on his railgun from in the air.

All around him, the rest of his children did the same. Railguns fired again and again, power armored soldiers crashing down amongst the enemy. Sonic grenades thumped and fired as shoulder-mounted missile racks emptied themselves. Like a beast, Yusuf fought. His power armor let him backhand a screaming militant with enough force to decapitate, his boots could snap their legs like twigs, and his rifle thrummed in his hand again and again as he fired it. Tanks exploded, and men died. Not all of them Nod, either. An Avatar quite simply stepped on one, while another picked a zone raider up and planted the tip of its flamethrower into their face, the woman's scream audible for a single second before the fire overwhelmed. Yusuf fought on, picking up a second railgun up from a zone trooper that had been shot apart by tanks and began firing them one-handed. One zone raider managed to detonate her entire sonic grenade payload on a suicide rush at one of the Avatars, blowing a hole through its chest and out the back which killed its cybernetically linked pilot. Yusuf never stopped moving, his jump jets pushing him up and down, letting him get shots out in almost every direction.

Even the ion storm was joining the fun, moving into an even more intensive phase than before, massive lightning strikes striking the ground all around them. Neither side could afford to even try to use their air forces, and frankly even using the jet jumping capabilities of his armor was pushing it, all things considered. But Yusuf didn't care. He stumbled to the side as a lightning strike took out a scorpion tank right next to him but struggled to his feet and fired his two railguns at tank that had managed to run over a zone trooper who was still moving. He was knocked over then as a pair of militants leapt on top of him, stabbing down with knives and desperately trying to find any soft spot they could.

"KANE LIVES!" One shouted at him, eyes bloodshot and teeth cracked and yellowed right into his visor.

"YOU WON'T!" Yusuf yelled back and grabbed the militant by the throat and squeezed hard enough to hear a snap, dropping his second railgun to do so. The second militant didn't last much longer than that either, swung by their legs directly into a burning tank wreck hard enough to kill them through blunt trauma alone.

"Commander! Get down!" Saladin's voice came from strangely far away, but Yusuf complied nonetheless, throwing himself downwards as the tell-tale sounds of tri-barreled sonic cannons firing filled the air.

When Yusuf popped, or rather worked harder than he expected to rise, having to support himself on the same burning tank wreck with some twitching militant's legs sticking out of it, he beheld the devastation left behind. The Nod forces had been too distracted by their attack, by the looks of it, and the Super MARVs had taken advantage of it to truly sight in their weapons. Their precise aim had wreaked havoc amongst the zealots while a great many more ZOCOM forces were still up and at them.

"Hah! I knew you had it in you, Saladin!" He crowed and stumbled forwards, growling as his legs wobbled beneath him. "Continue the attack! I don't want these scum getting away!"

ZOCOM troops shouted assent as the ion storm continued to rage, and by now more GDI tanks were managing to push up through the ruined remains of the favela and attack the grudgingly retreating enemy. Several zone raiders were jumping ahead, just as he'd taught them, to try and get at the slower moving Nod artillery before they disappeared, escaped, or both. That the two were not mutually exclusive anymore thanks to their damn stealth systems was just one more annoyance. He'd really need to request an upgrade on the scanner packs they were assigned, on range if nothing else. Squinting, he glared up at the skies as the ion storm was starting to quiet itself. It was already fading out of existence entirely, the clouds that made it up its body dissipating utterly like ion storm clouds sometimes could. He needed to get some air defenses out, if only because Nod might try to use some venoms to...to...

"Nng," he grunted as slumped back against the burning tank and found himself staring the fallen head of one of the Avatars, wires still sparking as its own internal lights began to dim.

It felt like he was forgetting something…

"Oh. Right," he said hazily. "Medic! Dying, I think. Just…follow…transponder."

Yusuf slumped to the ground amongst the dead and the dying, and he wasn't quite sure which he was when the darkness took him.

======================================================================
"...and if it were not for the Commander's aggressive defense of our base, I do not think we would have survived by the time that the remainder of the Super MARV crews and materials arrived. And, on a personal note, his heroic deeds in forcing the enemy away from bombarding our forces and focusing instead on himself and his volunteers went above and beyond the call, and his valor should stand as an example to all members of ZOCOM and GDI. What do you think?" Saladin asked quietly, not looking up at his notepad.

"I think it sounds shit," Yusuf wheezed from his medical bed. "Don't put that in there. They'll promote me again and stick me behind a desk somewhere in a blue zone. I was born in a yellow zone, I have fought my whole career in them, excepting some parts where I was fighting in a blue or a red, and I aim to die in one."

Saladin gave a quiet laugh.

"Of course, Commander. I should tell you, the Hub's defenses have been increased as per your orders, and some of our troops are helping the civilians with rebuilding their housing."

"Good. Get Venkman and Shiori out and and clearing Tib," Yusuf leaned back onto his bed, wincing as his stitches pulled slightly. "This is our zone. Nod can't have it. Tib can't have it. Understood?"

"Of course, Commander."

"And tell me if any Nod are getting close!" The man who was medically barred from even light combat for the next few weeks shouted as Saladin left the medical bay. "I've still got my pistol, and - shit!" He cut himself off as several concerned nurses appeared from seemingly nowhere. "Away, vultures! Away! Ils ne -ghk!"
 
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Doctor Granger's Home Life (Canon)
The moon hung proud and white in the clear night sky as he arrived home, walking the footpath to his front door. The information wasn't publicly available, but many would likely be shocked to find that he lived in a rather humble duplex; the other annex taken by his mandated security team. He had little interest in the luxury of one of the recently rebuilt Arcologies, preferring something closer to the home he grew up in, though his actual family home was long gone by this point. Standing with the key to his door in hand, he put away the stress of the day as best he could, pushed up his glasses, combed his regretfully thinning hair with his fingers and took a deep breath. Of course, his key didn't even touch the lock before the door swung open, and the warmth and light of his home spilled out atop him.

His wife lets out a put upon huff, before smiling, a fleck of paint lodged into a laugh line at the edge of her left eye. "Well James, are you just going to stand there on the doorstep or are you going to be even later home than usual?" She teases, drawing a faint smile from him.

"Well, it is rather cold. I'll come in I suppose." He says, stepping in by her and putting down his briefcase as she closes the door. She has him wrapped in a gentle hug before he can turn back around, her ear pressed to his back to listen to his heartbeat. He rests a hand on hers, and simply exists for a moment before breaking the comfortable silence. "Did you get much done on your project, Irene, my love?"

"Never you mind, I can show off after we've eaten, let me just get some of the leftovers out of the freezer and I'll warm them up." She says, letting go of the hug and hustling off to the kitchen.

"The fish stew?" He calls after her hopefully, though he knows he won't get an answer until he's changed out of his work clothes. He can hear she's already put the kettle on for a cup of tea, so he kicks off his shoes, leaving them by the door before he heads for their bedroom.

He sighs in relief as he pulls off his suit and puts on something more comfortable. He'd honestly prefer one of the old Tib encounter suits he used to wear rather than the awful suits he has to put on to keep up appearances in the office nowadays. Something he didn't think he'd ever really be comfortable with, though the new cuts and designs coming out were at least a victory over the tyranny of ties. Something he was glad were firmly planted in the dustbin of history, along with the cravat and ruff. A quick glance in the mirror and he looks away; the years weigh especially heavily on his face when he hasn't slept properly, and some small part of him can't bear to acknowledge that he's closer to the end of his life than the start. Where did the years go?

On the way back to the kitchen he pauses briefly in the hall. A small space, but one lined in photographs collected throughout the years and paintings Irene had made, he reaches out to one in particular, straightening it unnecessarily as he looks up at the face of his son. Smiling and looking so proud and sharp in his navy uniform. A rote little gesture, though one done in all seriousness; pressing two fingers to his lips, and then to his sons forehead. "I'm still doing my best. I love you, Son."

He reaches the kitchen, feeling a little lighter, the ritual always giving him strength. His wife is already sitting at the small dining table, nursing her own cup of tea as one sits waiting for him, fish stew slowly heating back up on the stove. "How was your day, love?" She asks as he sits down beside her, their shoulders brushing as they lean against each other. He doesn't answer right away, running his finger around the rim of his mug. "I almost made a mistake again." He finally admits. "The Favela I mentioned before, it was due to be overrun, but I managed to get enough resources diverted in time... I won't lie, it was a close run thing. Too close."

She rests a hand on his, giving it a little reassuring squeeze. "But you didn't. You got it right." He lifts the mug to his lips, taking a sip. "This time, I managed to get it right this time." She kisses him on the cheek. "It's a little early, but let me show you my latest project." She says, standing up and pulling her easel out of its designated corner in the sitting room, placing it in the kitchen before pulling the cover off with a theatrical 'tah dah!'.

A beautiful landscape of the Lake district. A place untouched and unsullied by Tiberium. "I was thinking you could bring it to the office with you, a nice little counterpoint to your 'wall of doom.'"

He shakes his head, tutting in amused annoyance. "You put up a few informative charts and everyone loses the run of themselves." Standing up, he pulls her into a hug, kissing her softly, before resting his forehead against her own. "I think I will, it might be nice to have a few more pictures to remind me of the brighter side of what I'm working towards." The smile she gives him is as beautiful as the one she wore the first time they met. She gives him another peck on the lips, before slipping out of his arms to check on the stew. He looks again at the painting, eyes tracing the sparkle of the sun hitting the water, the gentle curve of hills, the small white blotches of pre Tiberium houses, and the beautiful green of plant life. He thinks of his Wife, and his Son, gone too soon, and the world he fights for. The world he will always fight for.
 
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Social Engineering (noncanon)
Social Engineering

(Archivist's note: Major Morton was active in InOps until somewhat after the Second Tiberium War, officially in Media Relations.)

[CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET/FARMHOUSE]

I'm aware that this won't be read outside rarified circles until a while after I'm dead, but I'm also pretty sure nobody else who knew what was going on with CAMLANN is still alive. Well, some of the low-level folks are still around, but they never got much of the details. And Hawk, but he's a sneaky old bastard who vanished years ago. So, here's what happens when the higher-ups give a bunch of clever idealists orders to "promote enlistment".

First off, yes, we went farther than our official orders. That was on the table after the first planning meeting, and decided on not too long after that. We knew the sort of shitbags who were actually in charge, and... well, we decided to give them what they asked for, in the way they'd least want. We were supposed to be half ad-men, half manipulating the news editors. Maybe a little leaning on reporters. We did all of that, and more...

(Archivist's note: details of actions taken which were officially part of project CAMLANN have been removed to appendix b, as they are not strictly relevant.)

However, while we were getting set up, we commissioned some studies - primarily childhood education and folklore. Messing with promotions and failure was pretty routine, although we had to keep it pretty subtle. What we looked a lot at, were superhero comics and historical/fantasy fiction. A couple of our Lieutenants drew on their experience with role-playing games, which was where we got the archetype we decided to push for.

It took us years to get covert resources together, and get the people we needed in place - Stan Lee's death was a sad day for us all, as was that British author's. We moved slowly when we were ready, since we obviously didn't want anyone else to notice. A few NOD infiltrators were quite useful for diverting attention, and a couple times, we had to point the finger at people we weren't entirely sure of. I probably should be sorry about that, but... I've known for a long time that I'm not a good man. I am proud of some of the productions we enabled - the Captain America series was exactly what we wanted, but we couldn't be too blatant.

(Archivist's note: a list of books, video productions, and other projects has been moved to Appendix c.)

We had to shut down the project before 2043, with the draw-down in military forces, and the last of our cabal retiring. But still, we were seeing some indicators of good results. And I'm guessing you're seeing more evidence of it now. I can't say I'm sorry that Kane took out the Philadelphia, if that let the Grangers actually make things into what the GDI has promised to be. And thanks to our work, hopefully they'll have a generation of Paladins to help with that.

___

So, I was thinking, what would happen if an unscrupulous InOps faction decided that the GDI needed to boost the idealism quotient among the youth, and weren't too concerned about the morality of how they did so?
 
Gamer Gideon (noncanon) (here there be memes)
Allright, this is a massively cursed Omake I have written and it needs explanation, I'll put in spoilers below.
Okay, you know Gideon, the guy making us problems in NA, he is actually a character from the game that shall not be named. And he is responsible for the horror that is the new Scorpion tank in that game.

You see this claws? Well, let me explain what they are for:
"The secondary weapon of the AT-20 are its claws—which can be used by the operator to grab vehicles, and immobilize them using a built-in electromagnetic current generator—disabling the victim whilst allowing the tail laser to rip it apart with ease. Lighter units including infantry can be picked up with the claws and carried off. Scorpion pilots have also been noted to enjoy grabbing GDI's female soldiers, such as the Zone Defender or Zone Raider, and reportedly rewarded Scorpion pilots whom accomplished such a feat with an (unofficial) medal."
- quoted off the CnC wiki. Its real, grabbing Zone Defenders and Raiders will net you an in-game archievement.

So...yeah, after that "Gamer" Gideon became a meme on the discord and it resulted in the following.

Gamer Gideon

Gideon quickly licked off the crumbs from his fingers before bending forward towards the screen again, but as he did so he did not see the open can of coke, branched off from Space Commands supplier, tilting it and spilling sugary liquid over his keyboard and desk.

"Fucking Hell", he growled, pulling out a tissue from the almost empty box to his right to cleaned it up, wiping off his keyboard as best as he could. Throwing the sticky tissue in the room behind him, he refocused his attention to the discussion he was currently having. One of the few secure and secret connections to the GDI internet in the north american red zone.

"Yeah same", he typed. "My so-called 'girlfriend' left me and is now together with someone from SpecOps. I cannot believe all females fall for these stupid asshole losers."

As he waited for the other person to reply he reached for another can, only to find his supply empty. Frustration rose inside him, before the notification noise returned his attention to the screen.

"Oh man, you are right", he read. "I swear it is impossible for nice guys like us to find a girlfriend. They all want their soldier types with square jaws, chiseled abs and at least 6' in height."

"Have you seen Carter?"
, Gideon answered, posting a picture of his sworn nemesis from the recent moon landing press conference. The picture popped up in the chat, showing the Admiral shaking hands with Captain Stevens. Gideons eyes scanned Stevens' form, imagining the body under that hidden by the unflattering orange space suit, before eyeing Carter, looking at his false smile showing perfect teeth.

"The Admiral? Please don't remind me. Fucker must drown in the attention he gets. Look at his perfectly angled occipital lobes."

"It's all the problem of these romantic shows giving females false representations of what a relationship is supposed to be like."
Gideon added. After typing that, he got up and searched his private chambers for an unopened pack of cola cans, rummaging through mountains of empty cans and chips bottles before finding six cool glass bottles filled with black, tasty liquid. Satisfied he returned to his computer, ready to continue.
 
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Kane's Letter (Canon)
Farewell Letter From a Friend
Secretary Granger's Last Day of Work, Early Afternoon

Doctor James Granger, formerly Treasury Secretary of the Global Defense Initiative, walked into his home with a sigh somewhere between relief and regret. These last several years had been long and difficult, but also rewarding. He felt he'd done at least a little bit of good, working in the midst of the grinding gears of GDI's bureaucracy. He heard his wife moving around in her studio; this was probably the earliest he'd been home since starting the job.

Technically, his "last day" had been yesterday. That had been the mid-morning official ceremony, the fancy supper ceremony giving him a strange trophy-thing to put on a shelf, and a chance for his beloved to wear one of her fancy dresses. Today, though, had been the true passing of the torch. Lots of handing over secure paperwork files and folders, deactivating and activating clearance codes, signing TOP SECRET-level NDAs, and all the other hundred things you do when handing over reigns of one of the two most powerful and influential pieces of the entire Initiative.

His wife's voice drifted out of the studio; she'd heard him come home but was apparently in the midst of painting. "You have a card on the counter, dear! It came in the mail. The envelope was nice, so I left it be. We can tuck it with the others when you've read it!"

He turned and saw the envelope. It was high-quality paper, something that showed the sender cared. When he picked it up, he could tell there was slight texture to it; typically a sign it was all or mostly natural paper rather than the smooth synthetic stuff used for the "average" cards and books these days. Bit of an off-white color, slightly old-style printing. All very tasteful. No return address on the envelope, though. Odd, but not unheard of; the postage was first-class so it was clearly sent through GDI's Postal Service.

Dr. Granger flipped it over and found the envelope sealed with what looked to be some sort of candle wax; a couple of bits had flaked off of the rim, but the symbol in the center was still clearly there. It was almost like a 7, but with the vertical line being at nearly a right angle; there were two smaller, unconnected marks parallel to the top bar. Nothing else. He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged as he broke the seal. Probably a fellow academic; they were all "weirdos" according to his wife, and some like the "old ways" of marking their letters and such. He'd had to stop doodling green crystals in the corners of official letters within a week of getting his Secretary position; didn't go over well with folks in the Treasury, it seemed. He pulled out the letter within; also thick, high-quality paper. This one was probably a keeper.

To Doctor James Granger,
Treasury Secretary (Ret.), Global Defense Initiative,


Dr. Granger, I must admit to being a long-term admirer of your work. I recognize that you have likely endured more hours of glowing, empty praise from people who barely understand what you do, or who are only giving you mouth-flaps to appease their electorates or subordinates, than you know what to do with. Your critics have been isolated to the fringes of GDI's most extreme parliamentary parties, disgruntled military members, and the various leadership of NOD cursing the fact that you haven't helped drive GDI into the ground.

Still, you have accomplished much. Please do not dismiss that praise, dear Doctor. You came into the Department of the Treasury, an outsider to politics, bureaucracy, and money-wrangling. Your background and education gave you an appreciation for the dangers Tiberium presented, but also the opportunities. And beyond that, you made the decision to do more than simply consume the green death-rock; you chose to use much of what you produced to better the lives of every citizen of the world you could. Very, very few men or women in your position would have done the same. Most would likely have poured it all into the military, or at best focused on securing the borders of existing Blue Zones.

But not you. You built up all levels of infrastructure. You build housing in nearly obscene amounts, for a seemingly endless stream of refugees. You enlarged and hardened every apparatus of government in such a way as to not only make it effective now, but make it effective for generations to come. That, my good doctor, is a truly rare gift.

You have opened your arms to the outcasts of the Brotherhood of NOD, a move unthinkable to almost anyone else. You have revitalized every layer of industry across the globe. You have equipped the military to beat back the forces of NOD at every turn. You have advanced the sciences of giving food, water, and medicine to the people in new and astounding ways.

In short, you have made life better, in an objectively measurable way, for any and every person you possibly could.
Could things have gone better? Likely.
Could you have 'done something more'? Perhaps.
But you did what you could with what you had. And that, Dr. Granger, is no mean feat.

I am truly sorry to hear that you are retiring, but it is understandable. I hope that you find some measure of peace and relaxation now, and that you can rest easy knowing you've done good work while paving the way for your successor to do good work as well. Your name should go down in history as one of the greatest humanitarians in existence, and someone who did the most for the sake of all mankind.

I would like to think and hope we could, one day, sit down for a chat face to face, over some tea, or perhaps stronger drinks. I think I could secure a bottle of 2025 Ponzi Pinot Gris for the occasion; their 2022 is delightful, and I've taken to understand 2025 is the peak of their product. Your 2033 is a pale shadow in comparison; definitely a better choice to use it for cooking.

Until the day we might share a word, a table, and a toast, I bid you to have a peaceful life. Gentle be the breeze upon your back, and soft the sand beneath your feet.

Sincerely Yours in Utter Respect,
Kane

PS: If you call the gallery hosting your wife's works, you will find that there was a purchase two days ago, for two separate paintings. The one of that family ranch, and the other of the old Rocky Mountains. Both are simply fantastic. It was worth paying ten times their marked value; I can appreciate good art when I see it. Consider it a retirement gift.
PPS: Do not fret, the only thing in this letter is paper and ink. Poisoned letters are a think of the 14th century, dear Doctor. I really do want to wish you the best.

The letter dropped from nerveless hands as Dr. Granger stared into space. After almost a minute, he looked down at his hands. Nothing was wrong. No blotches, no rashes. Just...his hands.
He'd go get checked out, but somehow, he knew there had been no poison. Deep in his heart, he knew it had been a sincere letter of praise and well-wishes.

Which made the empty pit in his stomach yawn all the wider.

-This is vaguely-placed timeline-wise because it's basically just "whenever Granger finishes retiring", which I assume to be a process taking a non-zero amount of time.
-There's no poison or anything. It's just a nice letter on nice paper in a nice, wax-sealed envelope. That's all it needs to be.
-He really did buy the 2 paintings for way more than they "ought" to have gone for. They're nice paintings!
 
We can do better
Omake: We can do better.


It was a small base, all things considered.

More than an outpost, but less than a true NOD stronghold. Small enough they could keep the entire location under the umbrella of an old Third War disruption tower. And since the tower itself couldn't be cloaked, the local Confessors ordered it wedged into a convenient rock formation and disguised with Tiberium-green paint. Simple, and not especially airtight under scrutiny, but good enough at a distance.

For such a small forward base, meant to scout out GDI mining operations and provide some minimal support in the case of an offensive, even if that support only came as a place to lay low after a raid, it might seem like a crew of just under a hundred souls was quite a lot. But most of them were Militia, the disenfranchised of the yellow zones. Barely more loyal to NOD than their next meal, they were still loyal enough to shoot or take a bullet. And with a few true believers seeded through the crowds and a small core of proper Confessors, that's all the commander really needed.

Also, maintenance crew, technicians, janitors, cooks - quite a lot of work went into even a single semi-permanent barracks.

It didn't have to be like this. With GDI arming up even their basic infantry beyond what old war stock could reasonably penetrate, the Militia concept itself was getting a bit long in the tooth. Giving them some laser weaponry was a stopgap - mostly older stock, but two or three more modern variants sometimes appeared in would-be Fanatic or Confessor hands simply by virtue of actually still being produced - but sooner or later NOD would have to separate the wheat from the chaff just so they could reliably equip their forces in something competitive with the new GDI powered armors. And of course, so that effort wasn't wasted on the unfaithful.

But nonetheless, the Militia still formed the backbone of NOD's infantry, especially in these times of hardship when so many full brothers were slain in the third war. So they would stand until Kane or his Messengers delivered the tools and methods of the future.

Still, nearly a hundred people needed nearly a hundred rations, and more specifically it meant transporting those rations from elsewhere.

And even in the deep Yellow Zones, that was enough to tip off the GDI patrols.

----

Finding a disruptor tower within a kilometer of a mining operation was cause for significant concern to local the GDI garrison.

They had no idea what was under the thing's umbrella, and the supply caravan - spotted by a sniper team on an overlooking ridge - was enough to feed quite a few people. It might be called a minor miracle they hadn't started infiltration or sabotage campaigns against the relatively vulnerable harvesters or refineries, but they also might be biding their time for a full frontal assault.

There could be a full forward military base, fields of laser and shredder turrets surrounding a single bunker, or just about anything else. The only thing the local commander was relatively sure could be ruled out was the advanced Specter artillery tanks, and that mostly because the base was too close to really make good use of it.

So it was little wonder a tank column with full mechanized infantry complement rolled up to deal with what would turn out to be a handful of half-assed barracks - only one of which even tried to look the part of the iconic Hand of Nod - and a listening outpost.

What came to meet the GDI soldiers was a half-feral mob in little better than rags and some surplus or scavenged armor plates.

Honestly, despite their numbers, the Militia of NOD, in that moment, seemed... pitiful. These were the terrorists? These were the fanatics?

There was a fight, of course. The listening post, as a high value target, wasn't so much destroyed as it was evaporated under tank and infantry railguns. The Militia on watch and their Confessor shepherds were slaughtered in the dozens, screaming rhetoric the whole time as only the indoctrinated could.

But as the rest of the base's forces came piling out of their quarters, they paused. In the face of so much death and surrounded on all sides by GDI's hammer, even the die-hard fanatics had to take a moment to look around and really consider: this is the end for me.

---

The moment of silence was probably no more than two seconds, but in a warzone that felt like an eternity. The dust had already settled from the previous salvoes; an eerie silence waited for someone, anyone, to raise their gun and commit suicide by GDI. NOD Militia took in the carnage while GDI sighted targets. A sight was lined up-

A man popped out of a Predator tank, drawing all eyes from the NOD barracks and halting any intent to fire from the GDI ranks.

He brought out a megaphone, and shouted into the void.

"If you'll hold your horses for a moment - not that too many people know what the hell a horse even is any more - I'd like to make an announcement. GDI is now officially offering amnesty to any of you sons-of-bitches that put your fucking weapons on the ground and surrender right-the-fuck now."

Some of the infantry briefly glanced the tank's way before re-sighting on their NOD opposites. Say what now?

The NOD forces didn't look like they believed it either, but they carefully kept their weapons facing downward as they filed out of the barracks and makeshift Hand. If this blowhard was going to give them the opportunity to get situated, who were they to argue? Some of the faster hands with the lasers might even take down a Zone armor before they died, when the shooting started again.

"Now I know we aren't exactly on the best of terms with you people, so I'll make this short.

"We're sorry.

"Not for you more crazy assholes who actually buy into Kane's bullshit, but the rest of you sorry fucks that didn't have much choice but to sign on with NOD if you wanted to live.

"We get it. You need water. You need food. You need a place to sleep that isn't going to start glowing green overnight and turn your lungs to rock. And the Global Defense Initiative has consistently fucked you all over at every opportunity for... probably longer than some of you have been alive. If not through action, then through inaction. We left you to die, and NOD didn't."

There was another brief hush. The mob had fully filed out of their quarters by now, but otherwise nobody continued to move.

"But we're fixing that. I swear to god, we're fixing it. Granger - the current head of the GDI Treasury for those of you who don't know - has emptied his pockets getting aid, infrastructure, and even proper living conditions out to the yellow zones. And I don't mean a short term publicity stunt either - it's been over half a decade and he's still going strong.

"If you need food, we've got that. If you need water, we've got that. If you just need a place to rest your head that isn't actively trying to kill you or your families - because, yes, we know you have families out there - we've got that. And I'm telling you, right now, we'll give it to you. Any of you that want it. for nothing."

There was a bit more of a stir in the ranks from that announcement. At least one GDI trooper had taken a moment to stare incredulously at his commander, and he would be disciplined for that lapse later if he survived the NODdies' sudden and inevitable betrayal. But in the mean time, the loosely balled group of maybe fifty NOD survivors were still listening, if only because they implicitly understood the moment they stopped was the moment they died.

"That's what the GDI has been fighting for, recently. It's what we should have been doing all along, but we're doing it now, which is the best we can actually do under the circumstances.

"I won't lie to you - you'll be quarantined. We have signed NOD sympathizers on in the past, but it's a long process to get vetted and you'd be under surveillance either way. And it's far; right now we're deep in the yellow zone, and all our best infrastructure and buildup is in places we can actually reach it, which usually means bordering the blues. But we'll do our best to keep you in good health, to move you with your families, and to keep you together with them on the other end.

"THIS!"

The commander waved around, gesturing to the blasted green landscape.

"This is how you live right now!

"I promise. I promise! We can do better.

"We can do... better.

"If you just... put down your fucking guns."

The megaphone made the distinctive squak of being turned off, and the commander laid it down on the tank hatch in front of him.

Wind blew in the silence.

A Confessor, iconic black armor gleaming in the sun, stepped forward and began to brandish his weapon at these heretics who would try to convert the holy! To defy KANE!

And he instantly dropped the the ground, lifelessly. Not a single railgun had fired, but a hole had been burned from the back of his head to the front.

A militiaman slowly tossed his just-fired laser rifle to the ground, put his hands behind his head, and dropped to his knees. The sound of other guns hitting the ground soon followed.

The confessor would be noted as having died to "Ork snipers", confusing at least one GDI clerk.

A/N: Sorry, not sure about the quality here; particularly in the beginning where it was both all exposition and with as few real details as possible, so it could fit in any of our operation zones. I could probably blame it on the time - almost 5:30AM here - but frankly I don't know if I could improve it even if I had more time to plot it out. So, posting as-is.
 
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The Prep Team
The Prep Team
Omake by FaxModem1​

Seo Thoki was working on a formula on his computer, waiting on the computer simulations to start giving him the results. He was boiling some water for tea when he heard a knock on the door. He was curious to see who on earth would come to visit him. Most of the time he was happy to just be plugging in figures and sending in reports over the glacial mine and it's projections.

When he opened the door, he expected maybe a member of his staff, maybe a messenger who had an important message for him, maybe an urgent piece of information that or worst case scenario, maybe even a NOD assassin coming to kill him for trying to remove Tiberium from the world. This was none of those. Instead, it was a group of people carrying cases.

"Mr. Seo, this is your protection detail, we're just going to have them survey your quarters for any security risks."

He nodded, figuring it was just part of the job.

There was another knock, and when he opened it, he saw people in GDI military uniforms, "Mr. Seo, we're going to go over with you the proper evacuation routes for when you're at GDI headquarters, and the best ways to shave time in case of missile attack from NOD."

"Are we expecting an attack?"

"Not currently, but it's best to be prepared."

Another knock at the door, this time the security men let them in. It was a group of people carrying different cases of equipment, different from the security equipment the first group brought in.

"Mr. Seo, I'm Grace Dubois, we're here on behalf of the Fashion Development Houses, flown over from France to try and ensure you're presentable for your speech."

"My speech?"

"Yes sir. My name is Nancy Casteen, I'm the speech specialist hired by GDI to help you for your speech. The fashion team is going to go over what you will wear, as this will be your first major public appearance. After that, we are going to be talking about public appearance etiquette. The fashion team is going to give you a proper haircut, manicure, and skin treatment along with makeup tests to see what looks best on camera, and what clothing best matches your skin tone. I'm going to be with you for the next few days working on your diction, your hand movements while you speak, and your cadence."

"Is there anything wrong with how I talk?"

"No, but it's for the best that we avoid any potential problems now, and see what style would work best for you."

Miss Dubois approached him, holding a tape measure, "I see you as a bit of an Autumn."

Seo gulped as she approached.
 
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