Þetta er bara tezt <br>

0600 hours. The Soviets are pushing their way through the south of Mexico. The sun hasn't quite risen yet, and it's a cool Mexican morning. The sounds of vehicles echo off of the steep valley walls. The Soviets are tired: they've been routed at every turn by the Allied forces. They're not too cautious this morning, though. Intel suggests that the Allies are nowhere near here…and besides, Tanya's off on leave somewhere, or so the reports read.

Someone shoulda told Ivan that you can't believe everything you read.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. The air is filled with the sounds of powerful Harrier engines, ripping the sky apart as they come over the valley's edge. A stream of IFVs pour out of an arroyo like angry ants. The air is suddenly filled with the sounds of explosions as Grizzlies roar into place behind the Soviets and start justifying the yearly military budget.

The Reds are good, though. They couldn't have made it this far if they weren't. Hordes of conscripts start plowing their way into the incoming IFVs. They're backed up by Tesla troopers with their crackling coils of death. Soon the sky is filled with pitch-black smoke. The Reds are giving as good as they get.

The Allied forces are pushing hard, but they're as tired as the Soviets are; this war hasn't been easy on anybody. But the Allies are defending their own land: it tends to make a soldier give all he can when he thinks of his home town flying the hammer and sickle.

The Soviets are desperate to defend their War Miners; there's no war without materials, after all. They've got a phalanx of Apocalypse tanks surrounding the miners, promising to deliver a neat package of death to any Allied forces that come near.

Too bad they didn't think about the Chrono troopers. Soon Soviet conscripts are running terrified from the War Miners as the Chronos make short work of the machines. The Apocalypses manage to take a few out, but when you're up against a soldier who can travel through space and time like he's stepping through a revolving door, there's no real contest.

And then the Soviets are pulling back, hard, trying to extricate themselves from the hornet's nest of angry Allies that's dropped on them. The Soviet commander is pulling for a small forest a mile away; if they can just get to the trees, he thinks….

And then the trees open fire. Mirage tanks. A lot of them.

The Red commander should have known better. It's not like he hasn't seen Mirages before. But he's panicking, and that's no way to run a campaign. He's got one shot, though. He calls for his second-in-command.

“Ready the Bomb, comrade. Today our names are written in the pages of history.”

The Allies pause; they know something is up. The Soviets are acting a little too cocky for being caught between a rock and a hard place. The American commander thinks for a moment, places a phone call. Decisions are made.

The Soviet commander grins at his opponents across a field of dust and bodies. Imperialist pigs, he thinks. Prepare to meet your God. He hits the button. T-minus ten seconds…nine…eight…seven…six…five–

And suddenly the world flickers around him, and instead of the hot Mexican desert, he's someplace cold. Someplace dark. Someplace with…penguins, waddling around at his feet?

The Allies used the Chronosphere.

He screams in fury, but it only last for a second. And then the world is filled with white light and the sound that could only ever come from an atom unraveling itself with horrific power.


And five thousand miles away, the Allies cheer and raise their flags in victory. They've won the last battle.

The Allied commander looks at the date on his watch and thinks, how fitting.

After all, today is Independence Day