The Days After (Game Topic)

Destroyer, Ztron

They went left the first time, they went right the next. The tight corridors of Sky's living quarters made the pursuit hectic and full of adrenaline and a maze all the same. Garrett made sure to stay behind Clark, who for an old man could run fast. Clark made sure to do nothing to leave things in the way, not knocking down anything like in the movies, that only went to tell your pursuer where you were going, and not your goal, especially when he's armed with a .30 caliber full auto battle rifle.

In snow, your options are limited stealth wise, very limited, especially when the enemy knows you're there. You could fight back and awaken the entire town if they weren't already, or you could try your best to elude them quietly.

The best way to get away in snow though, is to go where the snow isn't, like the shadows of rooftop overhangs. Hardly anything gets under especially in an environment like this where a snow drift can't form, and when you use that to your advantage, footprints are harder to find in dirt than in snow and at these speeds, your pursuer is better off chasing ghosts than finding you.

"Don't stop running! Stay on the walls!" said Clark, still running. They ran to the end of the town, ran a bit further to where the horses were, gathered their rifles and spurred themselves west, taking those horses as fast as they could. A few stray shots came dangerously close to hitting them, but they kept their sprint. They were home free now.

********

Mboddz

He and Reznor lined up their targets and fired, once, twice, three shots, all missed.

"Damn it!" yelled Boddz, throwing his rifle into the ground. This guy was a smart man, had to be if he'd survived this long, but it didn't matter, all that he needed to know was proven in this little fiasco and he'd take it to Descateaux.

"We'll get another chance at him," Reznor patted him on the back and started walking back to Wooten's office, "Where's George and Eckert?"

"Yeah, where are they?!" Boddz was angry, this could've been easily dealt with. He picked up his rifle and caught up to Reznor, returning to the office where the jeep was. This situation would've been easily averted if the damn jeep was here.

They came back to the jeep only to see George trying to start it and Eckert sitting in shotgun. Boddz was furious now, they were just sitting here? What was going on?

"WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?!"

"Engine's cold! Won't start!" said George,

Boddz chagrined and sat back down on the porch of Wooten's office. He wasn't mad now, it only made sense the engine had gone cold in these conditions, but still, it was a real kick in the head to lose the guys. The first time he'd seen that man, he thought that was the last of him, but he guessed it was a small world. It only made sense that in their conflicting lines of work they'd run into each other.

Next time he saw him though, it would be the last, one way or another.

********

Jagdgeschwader, Apocalypse, KGBoom

They continued to fall back, covering each other as they ran past each other, but eventually breaking into a full on sprint into fortified locations. The M60 set up as a pillbox put in one shot on a tank, two shots, assisted by a trooper with a Carl Gustav and destroyed one hostile tank, but was blasted by the other pieces of armor. Western troops were in full retreat, but they weren't out yet. Many defendable locations existed through the enclave in case such a thing happened. Whether they were there or not, who knows, but at least they could try.

The three ran up to a small hill, adorned with sandbags and prepped with M60 machine guns. Four troopers were inside the fortification, including Durant and Hunter, the troopers putting many boxes of 7.62 in reserve when the soldiers advance past them. The hill offered a good vantage point over the advancing attackers, who wouldn't see the fortification until they came around. Many soldiers garrisoned the buildings around them and laid themselves down on the ground. This was the first point to fight back.

"I've got this one!" said Grant, pointing to an M60,

"I'll get this one," said Hunter after preparing an M60 to be fired. Hunter placed the belt in the gun, racked the bolt forward and back and readied himself, a trooper assisted him by holding the belt correctly to prevent jams.

"Open fire as soon as you see them!" said Desmond,

"Lieutenant, don't overheat the barrel, it's the only one we've got for each,"

"Noted," said Grant,

"Positions everybody!" called Desmond as loud as he could. The troopers waited, hearing the gunfire of the battle approaching and were nervous. It was time to stop running, and start defending their home.

The NET approached around the corner and all hell broke loose on that fortification. Both machine guns opened up in automatic fire, firing down onto the hapless soldiers in the open. Any survivors tried to run back behind the cover and waited, but every few seconds a trooper would try to run from cover to cover, only to be shot down in a few seconds at best. The rumbling of a tank was ominous. Machineguns wouldn't help against an armored vehicle at all.

"Rocket up!" two troopers pulled a Carl Gustav launcher out of one of the crates at the sandbags. It was a decent weapon and could disable a tank in one hit if it was lucky, but by no means destroy it. They got the attention of their comrades, "Sergeant!"

Desmond fired a few times downhill and went back to the troopers, "What's going on?"

"Get someone else and load that Carl Gustav, if a tank is coming we want to take it out before things get hectic."

"Corsican, help me with this," Desmond pulled the launcher from the crate and shouldered it, dropping his rifle while Corsican took a rocket and attempted to put it through,

Corsican had never operated one before, so he was naturally nervous, "How does it go in?"

"You just slide it in! Just slide it!"

"Just slide it?"

"My God! I'll do it myself," Desmond clumsily handled the 20lb rocket launcher, loaded the rocket clumsily, and closed the breech. It was really meant for two people, "Now hold the breech while I fire!"

An M60 tank reared its head around the corner, NET infantry with it to cover it. It came around the corner with its co-ax already firing non-stop, but the two AT crews stood fast. They fired almost simultaneously, calling "Clear my back!" a second before. Two rockets went into the tank, and it rolled for only a second more as the tread derailed. It's cannon though was still operational, and the next shot fired right under the fortification on the hill. Nobody injured, but a very loud explosion and a lot of dirt and snow kicked up into the air.

"Do it again! Do it again!" said the other AT soldiers, Corsican scrambled to get another shell and this time just slid it in almost in a race against the tank to load before he did. The soldiers picked themselves up as good as they could, but the shot was debilitating. From one of the buildings above, a trooper fired his LAW into the tank from above, effectively destroying it.

Above, a flight of F16s flew over near mach, again surprising the soldiers with the force almost putting them to the ground. Jets flying that fast tended to completely disorientate you especially when they were only a few dozen feet off of the ground.

********

Kiwi

"Revenant flight, break and approach from multiple directions. Do not drop on the western side, friendlies are in that area. Revenant 1 is lead," said Morrison

"Revenant 2 is approaching from the north," Revenant two broke north to hit from that direction,

"Revenant 3 will stay on your vector,"

"Revenant 4 is coming from the south,"

"The first is the last people, we've got contacts inbound," Morrison warned, the dots were getting closer and closer,

Revenant split into three groups, flying so low to the ground you could almost reach out and touch the buildings. Napalm was armed, it was time to light this place up to help the advancing force. Morrison increased speed and approached Bakken, it would be under them in a few seconds, then waited for an opportune time to drop. Now the enclave was approaching, the western side was off limits for now, friendly fire was not at all acceptable.

Down below, the battle raged. Tracer fire shot back and forth, cannon fire tore apart buildings and destroyed fortification. When you're so low to the ground you can see the battle, and almost breaking the sound barrier, you know you're suicidal. Morrison readied the switch, and dropped the bombs. He announced it and pulled away immediately, his wing and Revenant 3 following suit.

"Bombs away, Revenant 1 is heading for the skies," said Morrison,

"Bombs away Revenant lead, we're joining you," said Revenant 3,

Morrison looked behind and saw huge massive lines of fire completely engulf the targeted area. By itself, a single bomb wasn't very effective. Napalm doesn't spread, in fact by nature it's a very controlled flame, but when eight jets at once drop three each, the destruction is massive, and nothing in the target area is left untouched.

Now here came the challenging part, because four F15s were moving to counter, and behind them another twenty, in addition to ground attack aircraft en route. The lead? No more than Satan's Chariot himself, redone in his new scheme, a solid dark royal blue frame, with black tails, UGW roundel proudly displayed on the wings, and his kill count, now 102 kills, proudly displayed on the nose.

********



Because why not?

If you don't know what napalm looks like, there you go.

Mboddz

17 January, 2216

Captain Boddz sat in his chair next to his bunk, going through magazines and newspapers from back home to pass the time. He awaited Descateaux to call him into his office, anxiously, he couldn’t relax. Something about talking to Descateaux always made him feel odd, something stir in his stomach.

Reznor came into the room looking for Boddz, “Captain, why don’t you come with us down to the theater?”

“I’m a bit on edge right now, I don’t know if I’d enjoy a movie,” Boddz straightened his newspaper, “What are they showing?”

“Until the Dawn,” answered Reznor,

“That stupid horror film?”

“Hey, that’s a good movie,”

“Maybe if you’re a schoolgirl, Andre,”

“Oh, be quiet,”

Boddz put down his newspaper, “Talked to your daughters lately?”

“One was transferred to Virginia, the other is constantly arguing with Sharon,”

“About what?”

“Sharon wants both of the girls to follow in my footsteps, enlist early, become war heroes essentially, as strange as that sounds,”

“Sounds Western,”

“That’s what I’ve always said, but see, Laura was fine with enlisting but Sasha is reluctant. She wants to be an artist,”

“Like Tiesta?”

“Yeah, like her with all the realism art and what not,”

“Can’t control your children 100%,” said Boddz, “That’s what I learned,”

“Sharon just doesn’t get that, it’s her way or the highway, I mean, I’d be happy if they both wanted to enlist, but if it’s not happening, it’s not happening, you know?”

“That’s true,”

“I mean,” Reznor paused, “I just want my children to be happy!”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that brother,”

An operative came in and asked for Boddz, and he excused himself from Reznor who went back to the theater. Boddz headed down to the Colonel’s office, a long walk down a short hall as they say, past the mess hall, past the troop quarters, and down into the executive offices. Colonel Descateaux's was the very last at the end of the hall, constantly guarded by two troopers.

Boddz walked up to the troopers and flashed his I.D., "I was invited,"

"Go right on through, Captain," said the trooper,

Boddz saluted the trooper, and entered the room. Descateaux stood in the corner, lighting a cigarette and motioned Boddz to come over. Another operative, the transfer from the Kentucky frontier also sat inside.

"Boddz, Crane, come over here,"

They walked over to Descateaux, who had a map of Frontline on a long table, angles of attack planned out, infiltration, exfiltration, plan of attack, and a rough idea of where to find VIP targets. Both operatives were silent, until finally Boddz spoke up.

"Looks like you've already planned everything out,"

"If this guy thinks he can play with the big boys, he's got another thing coming," said Descateaux, "The plan is solid, this can't last more than a few minutes."

"What do you need us for? You've got people behind the lines that could very easily strike at them," asked Boddz,

"I need my best," said Descateaux, "Gastovski is currently busy, so I'm sending you, and Crane here. I'm tired of this guy causing problems, I'm tired of his mercenaries over here, and I'm tired of seeing him in reports. Fix it," explained Descateaux stoically,

"Do you want us to take him alive?" asked Crane,

"Doesn't matter to me," stated Descateaux, "I don't care how he ends up."

"This looks like a clean sweep, what are your conditions?"

"It doesn't matter to me. Kill anyone who gets in your way, soldiers, mercenaries, civilians, if little Timmy gets in the way, kill him too. At all costs, I want him out of the picture!"

********

Destroyer, Ztron, Westhybrid

As fast as possible they rode throughout the night, a dire situation at hand, if that NI4 operator recognized them, that meant they knew that Darius was making moves and Clark had been in the game long enough to know that if you’ve shown your hand like that, and you’ve pissed off somebody long enough, they’ll come after you. With Darius, there was no reason to not make an attempt on his life, so every second counted, every second passed was an opportunity to get ahead of them.

The morning came, and the exhausted horses were just reaching Frontline again. They hitched their horses and got on the move down to Darius’s office, a short run away. Darius was on the phone, as usual, his main weapon in the information trade business.

“No, I’m not a neckbeard, I don’t even know what you mean by that, who the hell has a neckbeard?” said Darius angrily over the phone, “Well screw you too buddy!” he hung up.

Clark and Garrett ran in, knocking the door off its hinges and it falling on the ground. Darius, who was about to drink a shot, froze in mid-lift, putting the shot glass back on the desk.

“You know, that’s what a doorknob is for, but I guess that works too,” said Darius disappointed,

“You really don’t mind that just happened?” asked Garrett inquisitively,

“I was planning on getting a new door anyway, just more than a plan now,” Darius drank his shot, “So, what’s going on?”

“We’ve got a problem,” said Clark,

“Really?” Darius sarcastically remarked, “I love problems, I have tons of them. How about everyone lays their problems on me, and I’ll-”

“Shut up Darius!” exclaimed Clark, “This is a real problem! Get what you need, be ready in half an hour, we’ve got to go. Leave this area,”

By this time, when Darius was told something like that, in that tone, he took it seriously, “I’ll be ready,”

Now the idea was surviving. Even if he wasn’t marked for death from that little incident, it never hurt to be prepared. If this was it, Clark was ready to fight to the death. They were coming for him too, he just hoped that the rest would be ready. He alerted the UGW outpost to the possible attack, anytime within the next few days, but he didn’t get the feeling they believed him much. On his way to his room, he spoke to himself, to calm himself down a little.

“Lord, if the worst is to come, grant that my aim be true, my resolve be strong and safety be upon me,”

He opened the door to his room, walked in and ripped out a piece of paper, and grabbed a pen from his pocket, “And if I am to die, forgive my sins.”

********
Jagdgeschwader, Apocalypse

Another tank approached and the Western troopers guarding the choke point took that opportunity to run away as fast as possible. Desmond slung the Carl Gustav over his back, and grabbed Hunter around the shoulder and got moving, hauling as much ammunition for the M60 as he could, as was Durant, Corsican and the other troopers. Two tanks actually rounded the corner and were advancing, so they tried to cover as much area as possible before the troops caught up again.

Above, a formation of jets flew over, dropping napalm far ahead of them further into the enclave. Desmond and Hunter dropped to the ground, and Hunter, still injured, screamed in pain. All of the gear they carried, their coats, their rifles, the rocket launcher, the machine guns and the boxes of ammunition, it was like carrying a cow on your back, but one of the troopers helped them up, and they continued. The sheer amount of fire dropped was like hell on earth, suddenly most of the enclave was on fire, its concrete buildings scorched and turned black, the normally snowy ground burned black as night.

"Stop in here," said Durant, "We'll offload the M60s to these troopers,"

So the troopers moved in to that building now, a two story office building, narrow and long. Up the stairs the proceeded to the high ground and dropped off the M60s and their ammunition, now those machine guns were just a liability, but hopefully they'd pay off in the long run.

"If those are getting heavy trooper, just hand them off to one of the troopers around here," said a soldier to Desmond and Hunter,

Desmond and Hunter nodded, and put the guns on the ground. Desmond put Hunter down easily, still grimacing from the continuing pain, who sat against the wall.

Above, more jets flew over firebombing the area viciously, again a good distance away from them, around 500 feet from their location, probably to avoid friendly fire. How effective it was, it definitely wouldn't be killing anyone in these concrete buildings anytime soon, but if things kept pushing this way then they'd have to retreat into that area where they faced bigger environmental problems. Carbon monoxide poisoning, smoke inhalation, suffocation, and just the danger of fighting in fire itself.

Things were going downhill fast and at this rate, many soldiers were wondering if this was it.

********

Kiwi

Revenant one and two dropped their payloads and took for the skies, third wing following through as well. Satan's Chariot headed the charge into them and screamed into the fray, leading twenty-four of his fellow comrades in as well. Eight against twenty-four flew straight into each other, and the rush was overwhelming, something that couldn't be explained in words, so many jets flying at each other at combined speeds over mach two.

Once they all passed each other, they turned into themselves, and Morrison targeted the Chariot himself, moving about like a preening rooster, he was determined to put him in his place. He ordered his wingman, Fournier, to follow him through.

"Fournier, keep a good distance from me, get anyone who takes my back," Morrison turned his attention to fourth wing, "Fourth wing! Divert to us immediately!"

"We haven't dropped payload yet!"

"IMMEDIATELY!"

"Jettisoning payload, heading to you," said Revenent four,

Three times their number, they turned into. Radar was still showing more, slower flying aircraft that were approaching the enclave just behind the fighters, probably ground attack aircraft. The truth of it was though, is that this was just plain nuts, fighting similar aircraft, but three on one odds now? Morrison continued with this run, but he was going to book it afterwards. They'd already done their mission and this wasn't a death or glory sortie, he alerted his people.

"Revenant flight, RTB, I repeat, RTB! Do not engage unless in imminent danger, retreat immediately! Repeat, retreat immediately!"

The way things were, the swarm of Linebackers would overwhelm the Falcons here, and when they were done with them, they'd swarm the remaining. They only stood a chance together, so Morrison, when he passed the Linebackers again, dodging missiles with chaff and IR flares and dodging bullets as well, he ordered every down and out, to regroup at the rally point miles east and exfiltrate.

Ten minutes later, they'd escaped. As Morrison predicted, the Linebackers didn't care if the Falcons flew back out of the combat zone, but it was probably more or less due to the SAM sites that existed behind NET lines just out of distance of Bakken, which Western aircraft would not pass. Why just out of range? The West had a bad habit, to the NET anyway, of destroying toys that they deployed, and SAM sites were valuable to the NET, valuable enough that they weren't willing to risk them by placing them near the frontlines so that the West would put them as a threat to normal sorties.

Morrison, Fournier, and Wing Two leader, Caron, escaped with their lives, and succeeded in their mission objectives. By this time, the napalm had extinguished itself, but the damage was done. Hopefully the rest of the assault would go through.

********

Tyson Ask nearby troopers that aren't in combat or already assigned tasks to begin cutting 28x28 facial kerchiefs out of spare cloth for basic air filtration. If extra shoelaces are present cut holes in areas of the kerchiefs for tying, so that the wearer does not have to adjust the kerchief accordingly, or if the wearer has a smaller head circumference that the kerchief may also be adjusted to their circumference. Assign the first created kerchiefs to those closest to the windows on the M60's, so they may pass on the kerchiefs to others on M60 gunner shifts for when the wind carries the smoke.

Furthermore, if there are any windows that are unnecessary, board them up with desks, tables, or stacks of debris for a rudimentary barricade.

People of the Philippines, I have returned.
By the grace of Almighty God, our forces stand again on Philippine soil…. Rally to me!

Or rather, Days After will again be daily updated now.

Sorry, I was a gone for a weekend.

Next update is tonight.

Jagdgeschwader wrote:People of the Philippines, I have returned.
By the grace of Almighty God, our forces stand again on Philippine soil…. Rally to me!

Or rather, Days After will again be daily updated now.

Sorry, I was a gone for a weekend.

Next update is tonight.

So don't lie. What are you really hiding in that pipe?

Mboddz, Cloakey

Four man teams were turned into eight man teams, as Descateaux wanted this op to be as successful as possible, so he pulled Gastovski out of whatever hole he was in and put him in charge of it. Major Gastovski was again, one of the best NI4 operatives in the entire section, and pulling him was a sign you wanted something to succeed. Gastovski was in charge of Alpha team who had their own helicopter, two dispatched for this mission. Bravo team was headed by Boddz, and consisted of his usual Reznor and George, Eckert, Crane, and three of his operatives, Belzer, Neal, and Defranc.

The two S70s flew swift and low, behind enemy territory approaching Frontline. Boddz’s strike team sat and waited, fiddling with their weapons, checking their equipment, the two crew chiefs of the S70 prepared their M134 miniguns, which they would use to suppress and tear combatants on the ground to pieces.

“One minute,” announced Gastovski over the radio stoically,

“One minute,” Boddz said to his team,

Alpha team, Gastovski, was approaching from the north. His team would attack the UGW outpost there and knock them out of the picture quickly. Bravo team, Boddz, would approach from the southwest and search for Darius. Which building was his was unknown, so they’d have to go door to door clearing out buildings.

“Thirty seconds,” announced Gastovski,

Both teams were going to fastrope out of the helicopters, allowing the miniguns to cover them as effectively as possible. Once they started to disembark the helicopter, the M134s would rain down 2000 rounds per minute of 7.62 caliber death.

The helicopters approached the town and hovered in position. The ropes deployed and the doors slid open and the teams came out. One on each rope, Boddz and Crane went first, then Reznor and Eckert, George and Declerc, Belzer and Neal. The raid had commenced.

********

Destroyer, Westhybrid, Ztron

His goodbyes were written, and his resolve was true. By now, Darius should’ve been ready to get out, and they’d leave by horseback. Hopefully the troopers at the outpost had taken him more seriously than he thought they did, because something would be coming, when, he didn’t know.

For the last time, Clark went down to Darius’s office, to see if he was ready. A short jog away, he entered, Darius was just now packing the last of his things, Garrett as well. They’d take horses west, to another town, Aurora, around fifty miles away. If the NET were going to be chasing them though, he didn’t know how effective that would be. They’d have to keep going from place to place, for sure the NET had cells in these territories.

“Are you ready?” asked Clark,

Darius hoisted his duffel bag over his shoulder, “Yep, let’s get moving.”

“Where are we going now?” inquired Garrett,

“Aurora,”

“Aurora is fifty miles northwest Clark,”

“I just got back from a 150 mile ride, you can do this much.”

A low rumbling was heard in the background, getting louder and louder as time went on. Clark ignored it, and instead escorted Darius out to the hitching post. Each of their horses waited to go, but Clark and Garrett’s horses were still exhausted from their ordeal, so things would have to be taken slow. Darius grew weary of the rumbling.

“What’s that sound?” asked Darius,

“Just keep focused,” ordered Clark,

“No, that’s getting loud…” said Garrett, noticing the Doppler effect,

A helicopter flew straight over, banking right and over to the north side of town. Another flew right after it, this one banking left and hovering on the south side. An aircraft none of them had ever seen before, it was astonishing, the propeller was on top and shifted with the frame of the aircraft and it could hover straight up…

But that only confirmed Clark’s fears, something like this had to be NI4, especially with its solid black paint scheme with a single red stripe going horizontally down the middle of it. The helicopters dropped ropes, and their doors slid open. People started to slide down the ropes quickly, from both helicopters. Things were about to get very bad.

“Darius get your game face on, this is it,” said Clark ominously. They went outside and got into the company of a few Western troops, one of which had a Stinger AA launcher. The Stinger beeped once, twice, three times, solid tone, and the trooper fired a missile which flew into the helicopter on the north side of town. The helicopter took the hit directly, causing a massive piece of the fuselage to blow off. The entire aircraft warped, the rotor spun wildly dislodging from its mount, a blade hit the tail, and the helicopter split in two pieces, falling to the earth and exploding. Stingers were very appropriately named.

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

Only seconds into the operation, Gastovski’s helicopter had taken a serious hit, as in it was down for the count already. Boddz’s helicopter provided suppressing fire with the M134 minigun and covered their advance, allowing Boddz to contact Gastovski on the radio, asking for status.

“Gastovski! Are you alright?! Your S70 went down!”

“…Two of my men were on the rope and it came down on top of one, he’s dead. The other is seriously injured, he fell about fifty feet…”

“Are you still combat effective?”

“Affirmative! Don’t worry about us, we’ll keep them off of you! Find Ico!”

That was the last thing that needed to happen, but Gastovski was one tough son of a bitch, he wouldn’t need help, even with the odds. They encountered some resistance from locals, some soldiers immediately, but nothing too serious. The S70 took care of those problems, upping the fire rate to 4000 RPM, it sounded like a single noise, like a primal animal. The biggest worry though was that S70 being knocked out. If they lost the other helicopter, there was no getting back home. They were completely alone on this raid, with no assistance, and the thought of being stranded this far in was scary.

“We’ll keep their heads down, Bravo, start searching!” said their helicopter,

“George, Crane, Neal, with me, the rest of you, clear out the other buildings,” ordered Boddz.

“Going,” called Reznor,

“On you, sir,” said Crane, leaning against the wall Boddz was on,

********

Destroyer, Westhybrid, Ztron

“Did you alert the outpost?” asked Darius,

“I did, looks like they took me seriously,”

The other helicopter fired his M134 all over the place, shattering windows and tearing walls apart with ease. Darius needed to escape quickly and discreetly, although, now that they thought about it, discreetly probably wasn’t possible.

More rounds came dangerously close, ricocheting off the ground like rubber balls, “Any plans to get out of here?” asked Clark,

“There’s a truck we could use…” said Garrett,

“That helicopter above us would tear it to pieces in a moment,” said Darius, “Unless we could take it out,”

Clark turned to the one trooper, “Do you have another Stinger missile?”

The trooper took up a quandary with him, “Does it LOOK like I have another missile?”

“I do!” said another soldier, armed with a LAW. The S70 was hovering slowly, enough to be able to get a decent shot in if the rocket flew straight. The trooper took out his LAW and fired, a target about 100 yards away, OK range for the LAW if the rocket didn’t skewer, which they were prone to doing.

The trooper’s rocket skewered, twisting down and then up, actually flying through the blades of the helicopter without hitting the propeller. The S70 took the hint and bugged out, probably to return later and pick up the operatives. At least it solved the problem for now.

Clark rounded the corner of the building and fired full auto into hostiles suppressing them and dropping one, but the operative responded with accurate return fire and injured Clark, hitting him in the forearm and causing him to drop his weapon and reel back. He examined his wound through his coat and he was bleeding pretty badly, but that really wasn’t important right now he figured. Bigger problems were at hand.

“Garrett, let’s try and make our way to one of the trucks,” said Clark, “Where were they again?”
“On the south side, in a garage!” explained Darius,

“Figures…alright, Darius, stay here with the troopers, Garrett and I will pull around with a truck,”

“That’s a horrible idea! That helicopter will waste us!”

“It’s the only chance we’ve got, you need to go!” yelled Clark at Darius,

“What about you?”

“I’ll keep them off of you,”

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

The two teams split, one going west, one going east. Their helicopter flew out of the area to avoid damage, he being a critical mission asset now, so they were now on the ground alone.

Boddz and his team maneuvered through the alleys, facing the occasional civilian with enough bravado to take up arms. To cover more area, his team split as well into two. Crane and George, and him with Neal, dividing again. Boddz and Neal busted down the door to a house that looked promising, one story, probably five or six rooms. They covered each other, checking corners cautiously before declaring the house clear. Now on to the next one.

“This one looks good,” said Neal,

“Alright Sergeant, cover my back,” Boddz knocked down the next door off its hinges and aimed his L1A1, covering from left to right. In the corner was a scared civilian, a woman, who Boddz disregarded, but she was a distraction from the actual threat, a man with a double barrel shotgun on the other side of the room.

“Get down!” Boddz ducked, but Neal took the 12 gauge blast and collapsed, his weapon flying out of his hands and he falling to the ground in a bloody mess. Boddz shot and killed the man with the shotgun, putting half a magazine into him full auto. The woman screamed, and Boddz checked on Neal, who was dead.

Not acceptable. Already two lost on an operation, at least two, against an enemy who was stronger than they had thought previously. Boddz hadn’t heard from Gastovski in a few minutes, which wasn’t good, but he could also hear the fire from the north side still, which meant that they were still putting up a fight. He could only hope everyone was faring well.

Now on to the next, clearing a house single handedly was difficult and dangerous, especially with all these unknowns. He exited out the front and leaned against the wall of another adjacent house and maneuvered into position to clear an alleyway. Voices down the alley, two, were coming. Closer and closer they approached and Boddz got ready to ambush them.

********

Destroyer, Ztron

Clark and Garrett ran through alleys trying to get to the south side garage. Gunshots from not too far away put them on alert, but if they weren’t on alert by now, there was definitely a problem. They crouched down, scanning in front of them, and their sides before they crossed a four-way in the alleys.

“Looks good,” said Garrett,

“Let’s go,” Clark picked up the pace down the alley, “Where is this garage anyway?” Clark looked behind him for a moment, but turned his head just in time to catch an elbow in the face, clotheslining him and knocking him on his back into the ground.

“Clark!” yelled Garrett, and the man turned the corner and hipfired into Garrett.

Clark tried to gain his composure, but his vision was blurry, his senses were haywired and his nose was broken. The one view he got was of a man in arctic camouflage fatigues only for a moment, who he then felt reach behind him and grab his kukri in his waistband. Clark grabbed for his pistol with his right hand, his good one, and aimed, but the man knocked it out of his grasp. Vision still blurry, senses still going wild, he tried to fight back as best as he could, but to no avail. The man plunged the kukri as hard as he could into Clark’s torso, and Clark coughed and choked at it.

“Full circle isn’t it?” asked the man,

“Go to hell…”

“Here,” the man took out the magazine, took out the chambered bullet, disassembled the gun and dropped it on Clark, “Have your gun back,”

“Agh…..” Clark suddenly felt extremely tired, completely devoid of energy, and felt the man walking away. He tried to move but he could feel the blade straight through him and lodged into the ground, pinned by his own blade, he gave up for the moment, again with no energy.

A bullet flew through Clark, and he let out another scream, “AGH!”, and then he felt nothing. Nobody was around, and things were quiet. He looked to his right, and saw Garrett face first in the snow, bleeding profusely.

He grabbed the blade, trying to breathe without choking on his own blood. He pulled once, nothing but a lot of pain. He pulled twice, again, nothing but pain. The third time, he didn’t stop pulling until it started to move. He felt it move out of the ground, then he felt it slide beside his spine, then through his stomach. Blood flowed behind him, and blood came out of the entrance wound. About twenty seconds of pure unadulterated pain later, he pulled the blade out, seeping in his own fluids.

One hand on the ground, put his knee under him, he started to stagger. He took Garrett’s handgun off his holster and got on to his feet, slowly staggering down an alley to flank that operative. His vision blurred and reddened, he bled from his chest still, and he found it hard to breathe at times. Holding onto the wall, he put the gun in his holster and redrew his kukri, continuing to limp along the wall.

A few feet later, he found him scanning the road getting ready to cross it. Darius was just a few houses up the road, he was going to stop him. The knife in his hand, still with fluid flowing off of it was raised, and he put his final stamina into one last attack.

********

Mboddz

“UUURRRRAGGGH!” Boddz heard the cry and turned, the man he just put in the ground with the knife he just pinned him into the ground with. He raised his rifle, blocked the attack holding his weapon perpendicular to his body. They were in a clash now, Boddz defending, Clark with all his weight on Boddz.

“Pretty clever, huh, bitch?” said Clark,

Boddz kneed Clark, then pushed forward on the rifle sending Clark again to the ground. Boddz shouldered his weapon, as well as Clark who pulled the handgun.

Clark fired once, Boddz fired his magazine.

“No, THAT’S CLEVER!”

********

Westhybrid

The soldiers around him either abandoned him or fell, Darius knew something was coming at him, he had that feeling, that inborn feeling or sixth sense or whatever, that told you something was coming. He heeded it, and retreated, running west from his office and trying to hide. Maybe, he could make it to the outpost. There was still scant fire from there, maybe they’d defeated the operatives that landed there.

He looked left, he looked right. Clark was nowhere in sight, and neither was Evan. He had hoped they were OK, but he heard gunfire over in the direction they went that didn’t sound like their guns. For a moment, everything seemed pointless, but he then heard a sound down the way.

“Clark? Evan?”

A man came around the corner, “Freeze asshole! Hands! Hands in the air!”

“Damn it,” Darius raised his hands, not willing to risk a bullet to grab his handgun.

The operative came up to him, and Darius opened his hands, showing he had nothing, but the operative just turned him around and smashed his head into the wall, knocking him out, and Darius fell limp on the ground.

********

Cloakey

“Maybe this will make it all worth it,” Crane called in on his radio, “This is Bravo 5, VIP is in custody. Who is still out there?”

“Bravo 1 reporting,” said Boddz,

“Bravo 2 and 4, status green,” said Reznor,

“Is Alpha still reporting in?” asked Boddz, “Has anyone heard from them?”

“Negative,” replied Crane, “Haven’t heard anything, assume the worst,”

“I’m calling back Razor 2, we’re getting out of here. Bravo, head to Rally Point Delta,” ordered Boddz, “Over and Out.”

Crane picked up Ico over his shoulder and hauled him to RP Delta, south of the city. It was a smooth trip there, with no resistance, the only threat being accidentally tripping over dead bodies. At the end of the buildings, he looked left and saw Reznor and Eckert, right, he saw Boddz, and from the West, inbound Razor 2, their helicopter.

“Where’s George?” asked Boddz, worried about his comrade’s wellbeing.

Crane’s face sunk, “He’s gone, Michael,”

Boddz stared at him, disbelieving, “Get in,”

Four of the original sixteen boarded the S70, and they were away with Ico in tow. He’d be taken to North Point, which had facilities for high profile captives. From an operational standpoint, it was a success, but if you had asked the operatives on the assignment…

Twenty dead

One helicopter lost

Another damaged

One injured

Elapsed time: 5 minutes, 34 seconds

It sure didn’t feel like a victory…

********

Mboddz, Cloakey, Westhybrid

At North Point, the next job was to hand Ico over to Descateaux. Ico had come to by this time, and wasted no time giving the operatives an earful of what he had to say, and it hadn’t stopped for half an hour now. He was blindfolded, so he couldn’t tell where he was going, with a belt, which only seemed to increase his anger.

“You bastards aren’t going to get away with this! I’m important, Mexico will send people for me! I should’ve killed you when I had the chance you little FUCK! I can’t believe any of this! What the hell are you going to do anyway you stupid little shits, torture me?! Do what you want! You fucking FUCKS-“

“Shut up!” said Crane in English, kicking Darius down to the floor of the cabin. Darius tried to get up, unable to get footing in the shaky ride and with bound hands.

“Can’t shut me up so you kick me down?! You coward! Taking advantage of a bound man, I’d kick your sorry ass to the curb if I didn’t have these binds, why don’t you take them off and give it a swing you little bitch!”

“What are we doing with him?” asked Reznor,

“We’re taking him to Descateaux personally,” said Boddz,

“Bet you’ve got a few words for him huh?”

Boddz again stared at Ico, contemplating the loss of a comrade, and a friend, “Nothing that I’ll say. George knew the risks. He was a good man.”

“It doesn’t mean much,” began Eckert, “But I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sure he was a good man,”

“You guys with your fucking pig latin! Untie me! Untie me and take me on you sons of bitches!”

“SHUT UP!” yelled Boddz, pulling his 9mm and shooting Ico in the calf.

“AAAGGHH!” Darius screamed, “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

“If anyone asks, it happened when we captured him,” ordered Boddz,

Nobody complained. It made him finally be quiet, but North Point was only about thirty seconds away anyway. The S70 landed, and the operatives escorted Ico down to holding. Crane and Boddz carried him, Eckert and Reznor walked alongside. It was a long walk to Descateaux, and both Boddz and Crane felt the urge to drop him at any particular moment.

Holding was a dark room. A dark room only lit by a droplight with Descateaux inside it. Spies felt it was best to interrogate someone with complete unknowns about them, where they are, who they’re being interrogated by, when they’re getting out, nothing. The less they knew, the better. The operatives approached Descateaux with Ico in tow, dropping him on the ground before him.

“There you go,” said Boddz, “I hope he’s worth it,”

“Very well, Captain. You never disappoint.”

Boddz took a look at Descateaux, and then left. Descateaux was a good man, but he was heartless as well. He may act like your friend, he may act like an ally, but all that mattered to Descateaux in the end was results. The fact he lost twelve operatives on one operation hastily planned didn’t matter to him, just that someone survived to bring back the objective. Even if it was only one man who returned, it would’ve have mattered. The ends always justified the means.

Of course, that’s what every NI operative was taught, but with some…it didn’t necessarily click.

********

Darius: He was tied up on a chair in a dark room, shot in the leg, with some NI4 top-dog. Obviously their plans had gone south. He looked up at Descateaux with a solemn look.

"You're bitch, the black one? Looked like he got roughed up a bit..Clark's doing. Must've put up a good fight, the old man. Guess he didn't make it..When I get out of here, I'm going to have to find his family." Darius said with a smirk, considering everything. It was a shame the Clark passed. He was a good friend. He'd make sure that he was honored.

"Garrett may be..No. He's alive." Darius said, mumbling to himself. Then he looked up again at Descateaux, who was still just staring him down.

"If you killed my family and burned a town to bring me here all to make a point, you are going to be very disappointed. For once in my life, I have nothing to say to you."

Westhybrid

Darius halted at the pain in his leg. He was handcuffed to a pipe with some man who he'd never seen before, in a dark room, with one small light, the man's face only halfway lit by the angle. It was like a movie, but this was real. It was far too real.

"Your bitch, the black one? Looks like he got roughed up a bit...obviously Clark's doing, must've put up a good fight, that old bastard," Darius watched as Descateaux paced the room, "When I get out of here, I'm going to have to find his family,"

"Who? Boddy's? Or Termous's?" asked Descateaux calmly,

"Who's Boddy? That black bitch of yours?"

"That black bitch helped, and successfully, take down your entire compound, with little to no casualties, he hijacked your planes, he infiltrated you many times before. He's better than you."

"I'll have his family too when I get out,"

"Look him up, Michael Boddy. You'll find a 47 year old Scottish shipbuilder who works in Bethesda. Look up this facility, you'll find a property bought by a man who died of a heart attack forty years ago in the last days of expansion, a property that is 40 acres of vacant lot. The phone number goes nowhere except a dial tone. Cyler Crane, the man who captured you personally? Look him up and you'll find a 21 year old lifer sitting in a prison in Georgia, 23 hours a day inside a cell, for fifteen counts of murder. Do you know who we are?"

"Can't say I do," said Darius,

"It'll stay that way, Mr Ico, as much as you need to know, we don't exist," Descateaux kept a calm voice throughout the conversation, "All you need to know is that I'm a very powerful man, and I have a lot of resources."

Darius tried to adjust his handcuff, chafing his wrist, "So are you some shadow organization for the Government? NET or something?"

Descateaux did nothing except stare him down, again his face only partially lit by the light. Descateaux was a big man, around 6'4, 210lbs, and battle scarred. His ice blue eyes seemed to stare straight through men, and were equally intimidating to friend and foe. It gave him a great fear factor, and he knew it well. It was often joked that's how he became the leader of this section of NI4, and it was joked he could intimidate the Director himself, "I'm glad my operatives are extremely intelligent, and always think of every option. Do you know why?"

Darius just looked at him, glaring.

"Because I ordered your death. I marked you the second I heard your little mercenaries were peeking on an objective of ours. Bad luck," Descateaux cocked his head, "It was only for a day too,"

"What do you want?!" demanded Ico,

Descateaux raised his voice, "No manners here? I could've expected as much from a Mexican! A man more willing to eliminate his competition rather than compete with it. You've got two options here Ico! You can be useful or you can sit in a prison in Georgia and meet the other Cyler Crane, who is far less hospitable than our Crane. Now what will it be Mr. Ico?"

********

Darius: "Well that depends on your definition of useful, fuckstick." Darius retorted, uncaring of the situation he was in.

He was either going to rot in jail or do something he would later regret. Either way, he was fucked.

"You french-speaking pieces of shit have cost me a brother, a father, and one hell of an employee. Why the fuck would I help you?"

Boddy stepped out on to the tarmac of North Point after dropping off the "new and improved" Darius Ico. His elbow was also a little tender from when he had clotheslined that older man from the compound; after all, he had really put his weight in to that one. The NI4 capatin leaned against one of the concrete barriers at the edge of the landing pads and quietly watched the mechanics come out and begin analyzing the damage to the S70 that returned. Boddy's mind however, was on Darius...and George. He hoped that Descateaux would make the spoiled punk squeal like the fucking pig he was, but at the same time also knew that it wouldn't bring back George. What he could take comfort in, was the bullet hole in the mans calf, and Ico's split forehead (courtesy of Crane no doubt).

Jagdgeschwader, Apocalypse, KGBoom

"Troopers, hold your ground!" called Desmond, "Not one step back!"

NET soldiers sat in cover behind rubble in and around the hill they just passed, firing at them and riddling the building with rounds. Corsican held a hand grenade, gained a running start and threw one as hard as he could out the window, the grenade landing up near the hostiles, felling one man. Inside the building, an M60 gunner set up his machine gun in the window, providing the fire on the NET that they needed to push them back, but still this was a heavyweight fight in both directions.

Behind them, the city burned red-orange, the smell of scorched earth fowled the air. In the action, people downstairs were losing ground and retreating further upstairs with no cover to be had down on the ground. Desmond fired a few times out of the window, looked behind him, fired a few more times down onto the ground and went back to Hunter, still injured. He got down onto one knee to talk to him.

"Have your gun ready OK? Any of these guys gets behind us, you waste them,"

Hunter was already set for that work, "Don't worry about me, I've got this."

On return, the man who was next to Desmond was readying a rifle grenade, a large muzzle launched grenade that was more accurately a mortar on a barrel than a grenade. He fired it into the crowd and the ground recoiled up, sending dirt even through the windows of the building they were in, at least fifty feet away. The rounds flew and the fight continued, when the short wave radio came from a trooper in the room barked out:

"All units on the ground, A10s are running in a few seconds, put your heads down!"

Desmond, Corsican and the others ignored it, figuring it was meant for someone else, but it was on them. If only a few seconds later, the ground where the NET were positioned started to detonate as if somebody threw a couple of handfuls of grenades down. Buildings hit by the force fell apart and crumbled on the ground, and the primal buzz of a 30mm Vulcan cannon sounded off along with the great sound of jet engines. Everyone shielded their faces, but once the runs were done, looked outside to see not one, not two, not even three, but four A10s run in one after the other, firing off FFAR rockets and their cannons into the enemy.

"Don't advance, engage the survivors!" said one of the NCOs in the room,

"Firing rocket!" another trooper fired his LAW down into the entrenched NET, prompting return fire from the NET in the form of a rocket fired back. That rocket collapsed the wall along most of the second floor, causing a chain reaction.

Rather though, the last NET were easily defeated, far less in strength then they were before. The troopers inside the building advanced on the attackers, role reversal taking place now with close air support to assist the West, something the NET could never have loiter in Western air space. When they exited the building, Corsican looked to the skies, seeing the blue open flood with Western aircraft both high and low. The next run by the A10s surprised everyone, flying extremely low to the ground and provided very effective air cover. Again, the column of A10s were, except this time from the east instead of the south, bringing the NET to the sword, striking the main group.

With those assaults, the West was able to gain the weight in this fight and although disorganized for the most part, banded together in the groups they had to push the initially strong NET force, which had almost nothing to back it up in the rear, out of the enclave. The Thunderbolts continued their runs, causing destruction and chaos with every consequent pass.

Within two hours, the force was defeated, but it was a wake up call to the enclave: They weren't safe anymore. Top leaders in the enclave would have to devise new protection plans, new tactics to cover areas once open, and areas once defended only by the NET's assumption it was just as strong as hardpoints along the perimeter.

Later in the day, it began to snow again, the whiteness covering up the scars pounded into the dust just earlier that morning. The firebombing was particularly effective, killing and mutilating a good number of soldiers caught inside the blast zones. Desmond stood next to a burning NET M48 tank, fire emitting from its turret set off balance. The cannon was blasted out of the side, as if a misfire happened inside, and fire emitted from under the hull as well. The occasional explosion inside the vehicle could be heard, ammunition cooking off, and a few road wheels laid on the ground around it next to its wrecked track. Every time a shell cooked off, it made a loud explosion, which sounded similar to a mortar but inside the tank. It made Desmond flinch every time, but something about watching it burn was...peaceful.

"How goes things?" asked Grant, walking up to him.

Desmond turned, still leaning on his weapon like a cane, "They burn rather slowly."

"Shame too, it's a nice tank,"

"Was,"

Grant gave Desmond a single pat on the back, "Need you back at the field HQ once you're done doing whatever you're doing, OK?"

"I'll be there," said Desmond, looking back behind him at Grant walking off, but then back to the burning tank. They'd be out soon, he just knew it.

"Don't doddle much longer, we've got work to do."

********

Kiwi

"Minot tower, this is Revenant One, requesting permission to land, over."

"Revenant One, this is tower, all clear," said Minot,

Now the landing again. One kilometer around from the airfield, he slowed down the thrust of the engine to around 30% power, he currently perpendicular to the airfield. The 30% power slowed down the aircraft from around 450mph when on 65% to about 300mph, coasting. Heading south and approaching south to north was the flight plan for landing, he again checked airspace to see if anything was going in on the runway, after all, NET pilots were specifically instructed to when dealing with a malfunctioning aircraft to "Pilot, Navigate, and Communicate,". In other words, when dealing with an emergency landing, it was all about getting the plane down, and while tower should warn any aircraft on approach of said aircraft in an emergency landing, it didn't hurt to be alert yourself.

In any case, nothing was visible, so he continued his approach. About one kilometer south of the runway, he turned the heading to 010, in line with the runway. Now around 250mph, he lowered his gear, which automated the flaps (Which doubled as ailerons) to a setting the computer thought was most efficient, and he lowered the leading edge slats, drooped low.

Now onto 200mph, he maintained a decent speed to prevent stall, steadily decreasing in altitude. Morrison kept the aircraft stable, the gear touched down, the wheels made their screech, and he was rolling down the taxiway, parachute behind him slowing down the plane.

The F16 was parked, Morrison released himself from the harnesses, opened the canopy, and shut off the engine. He waited for a bit to stretch before exiting the vehicle, then jumped down when the ladder was offered to him by crews on the ground.

"Thanks," he saluted one of the crews,

Morrison waited on Fournier and Caron to land, who came next after him and met them on the tarmac, parking next to his rather ornate F16. Fournier came first, followed by Caron, in a timespan of about ten minutes.

"That was good flying," praised Morrison, "I'm glad to have you on my wing,"

"It was pretty intense," said Fournier, "Almost got to mix it up with the F15s,"

"I used to fight those guys in the Phantom,"

"Oh yeah?"

"Trust me, it's not fun," Morrison restated that, "Nevermind, it's pretty fun,"

"Well, the Falcons can take whatever the West can throw at it, and give it right back,"

"Hopefully next time it's not so overwhelming odds. I want to get back up there and go head to head you know?" Morrison made a point of being casual with his people when he could. Nobody liked a hardass, and if he could make friends with as many pilots as possible, all the better when he needed their help in the air. Nobody was a lone wolf in combat, everything was a team effort. It was good to have people talking to each other, be cordial, as opposed to Western regulations which required strict professionalism and conduct. Unlike the West, the NET wanted their people to live a little.

"Everyone gets a turn Major," said Fournier, "They're practically lining up!"

Morrison and Fournier continued back into the commons, waiting on Caron to rejoin them. The sound of returning F16s would sound off many times over as people went back and forth for runway clearance, sometimes doing five or six passes. Another perk of being flight leader, generally, you landed first.

********

Westhybrid

"Well that depends on your definition of useful," said Darius, "Your little black ops cost me a brother, a father, and a friend. What makes you think I would ever help you?"

"Your brother would have to be your father if you didn't realize by now you have only one choice in the matter. I wonder sometimes how you even ran an organization, but it probably had something to do with a 62 year old body guard saving you every time."

"How do you know how old he is?"

"Moxi is an NI4 plant. Think about it now, all of your mail back to the West and Mexico goes through him."

Darius was tired of everything he thought was running smoothly be a trap. At this point, he just wanted to know what he needed to do and get on with his life. Hopefully good servitude would put him in a position to give himself leverage, but that was far ahead. Right now all that mattered was completing the next objective.

"What do you need me to do?" said Darius grudgingly,

"Good! That's what I like to hear...cooperation,"

"Choke on it,"

"I have several targets that need to be silenced, quietly, without suspicion," explained Descateaux,

"Sounds like something that your tools do," said Darius mockingly,

"Well, welcome to the toolbox! The order still stands,"

"It's an order now?"

"It always was. Again, you don't have a choice."

Darius sighed, he didn't like this position, he never wanted it, and it wasn't supposed to happen. Competition was always eliminated like this in the old country, and the NET had no right to intervene. The fact that his country dealt with these people just scared him, how they could manipulate want they wanted without effort.

"You're going to be going after several targets for me. Emilio Gutierrez, Samuel Hawthorne, and Marisela Rodriguez," explained Descateaux. That chilled Darius to the bone, those were some of his lieutenants that worked in the area!

"What? Those are my employees!"

"Which I think makes you a fine person to do it. You won't be noticed!"

Darius couldn't do that. He was no Cain, he wouldn't turn his back on people he trusted just for his own life. Hawthorne and Gutierrez were his father's employees, and Emilio was actually a family friend from when he was a child, who was practically a father when his wasn't around. Marisela was another friend from his childhood, a colleague of his father.

Even evil has standards. Darius may have committed questionable actions from his short time as head, but he wouldn't agree to this, he couldn't, nothing out of his conscious could justify it.

"For such a smart guy, you never actually thought of something,"

"What? That you would agree and just wouldn't do it? Don't insult my intelligence," Descateaux went over to the doorway and opened it, mumbling something to someone outside. He came back to Darius with someone following him, a woman.

"This is Sergeant Angeline Eckert, she'll be accompanying you during your escapades to ensure you do your job well,"

"I'm not doing it," said Darius,

"Really?" asked Descateaux curiously, "Are you not now?"

"I'm not. I'm not killing my life long friends and employees,"

Descateaux got in close, "Let's just remember the situation you're in here, this is NOT a trial. YOU ARE GUILTY. You've got two choices here, and one of them ends with Darius Ico slipping into the darkness and NEVER COMING BACK.

********

Darius: Darius gritted his teeth when Descateaux came close to him. With a swift movement, Darius slammed his forehead into Descateaux's face, knocking him back.

Darius had blood streaming down his forehead. He had a wild look in his eyes, clearly enraged.

"You have a deal."

Hunter: He switches his rifle's safety to the 'on' position, and scrambles up, using the rifle as a cane. He looked over at Desmond, "Hey, Desmond, You said back at the Enclave you wanted to talk to me about my previous assignment."

Westhybrid

Again, Darius was furious, but moreso at this man in front of him. To Darius, this man was the symbol of everything that had been his misfortune in the last year. A symbol of the country that had taken everything he’d ever owned, and to give Descateaux a headbutt as hard as he could was something he couldn’t resist.

“You’ve got a deal,”

Descateaux recoiled and his forehead ached, but he was also no man to not have the last laugh, he pulled his handgun and pistol whipped Darius, “You want to keep playing this game?” asked Descateaux.

He contemplated his own actions to come. He was not going to murder the people who more or less rightfully could hold the titles as his mother and father. It wouldn’t happen and he’d try as hard as possible to somehow avert it. As he came to again, he looked up and saw the woman and Descateaux standing over him.

“Has his wound been checked out?” asked Descateaux,

“Boddy missed him for the most part, it just grazed him,” replied Eckert,

“Put him in a cell for tonight. I’ll brief you further tomorrow morning Sergeant, dismissed.”

Darius went limp as he was carried off, restrained still. If anything, a cell didn’t really sound so bad, after this day he needed some time to relax, some time to sleep, and some time where he wasn’t getting his head beaten which NI4 seemed to like to do.

KGBoom

Waking up from well deserved sleep, Hunter found that he’d actually been sleeping on a pillar for the last couple of hours. He woke himself up, his aches even worse now from the strain earlier and grabbed his rifle. Hunter put the safety on and used the weapon as a cane, a popular thing to do in the enclave as an M14 was a good, long weapon.

Now dark, he put his priority as finding Desmond, who probably never went to sleep anyway knowing him. Hunter brought himself over to the field headquarters in the area, where all of the officers organized daily routines and defensive tactics. In it, Desmond stood out as the very angry looking man writing out defenses for the enclave. Hunter excused himself past other officers and approached him.

“Staff Sergeant,” Hunter saluted,

“It’s Lieutenant now, actually,” corrected Desmond,

“Lieutenant, wow! Bet you’re excited about that,” Hunter tried to be enthusiastic, but Desmond was also known for never smiling and consequently, Desmond just stared angrily.

“So…you’re not too happy about it I guess?” asked Hunter meekly,

“No.”

“Oh,” Hunter cleared his throat, “So uh…not wearing your great coat I see, aren’t you cold?”
Desmond was only wearing his overshirt, an olive drab dressing that all soldiers wore underneath their great coats. While Hunter was only trying to be friendly, Desmond took it suspiciously.

“Are you trying to seduce me Sergeant?”

“No! Just trying to make conversation. Not everyone is as good at the ‘Army badass’ routine like you are. You’ve got to live a little.”

Desmond raised an eyebrow, “You know what happens Sergeant when people ‘live a little’?”

“What, sir?”

“People die. Do you know what happens when people die?”

“Sir?”

“I have to write to their mothers, their fathers have to bury them, and the West loses another soldier, do you know how many people are dead from that last attack?”

“…” Hunter stayed quiet,

“267, and counting still.”

“Another four found Desmond!” called Grant across the tent, talking to medical personnel, “Gavin Fogerty, two John Does, and a Jane Doe,”

“My point exactly,” said Desmond, writing down the names in his logbook, “With our business, there is no happiness, only hard work and death. Excuse me if I’m not going to pretend it’s not real.”

Hunter tended to forget that with Desmond, and a lot of soldiers really, they had no happiness, although Desmond had always been like that from what he’d heard. The way Hunter saw it, things may have been miserable, in fact, these were the worst times of his entire life, of anyone’s here really, but just because that was true, you couldn’t always be that way. You couldn’t just hate everything and have a stoic approach because if you did you lost your personality, any hope of the next day having meaning. To Hunter, this situation was only temporary, and things would look up eventually, but right now, to appeal to Desmond, he adopted the usual professional attitude.

“You were saying earlier today sir, that you needed to speak to me about something?” asked Hunter.

“Yes,” Desmond stood up, “Come over here,” Desmond escorted him to a quieter area, signaling to an NCO to take over his duties for the moment. They stood out in the snow, wind blowing and chilling them to the bone, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I guess,” Hunter assumed this was professional, “I can do support roles if that’s what you’re asking,”

“What did Doctor Farnham request?”

Hunter thought back, “Physical therapy down the line, but to just take it easy and rest for now,”

“Can you do heavy lifting?” asked Desmond,

Hunter had a bad back, but he didn’t want to be a burden and he agreed, “I can lift crates, things like that.”

“Above the heavy weight requirement?” Desmond referred to a qualification in the MOS picking, which went from ultra light to heavy weight. Ultra light was something like a desk secretary, rarely picking things up heavier than 5lbs, heavy weight was pretty much anything that was a combat role, which required you to be able to pick up things heavier than 85lbs pretty regularly.

“Maybe a little help with the really heavy stuff, but don’t worry, I won’t be a burden. Like I said, just need to keep it easy for a few weeks,”

“Help is coming Hunter. When our boys break through the ring, I’ll recommend you for medical leave.”

“I’d appreciate sir,” said Hunter,

“Alright, dismissed. I’ve got to fill more casualty reports,”

Hunter definitely didn’t envy him with that task. He retired to one of the buildings nearby and sat at a campfire with a couple of troopers, sharing stories with each other about their experiences in the last fight. Hunter never had regretted leaving his hometown in Nevada, in fact you could say that all he ever really wanted to be was a soldier after all the bandit fighting they did, and that one day, when a raider group forty strong hit the town just in retaliation, burning it to the ground, it was a sight to be seen when the military counterattacked right back, an M60 rolling in at 40mph causing unheard of devastation to the raiders. The soldiers came, they gave them relief, and the Corp of Engineers rebuilt that town. What do you know, the next year was one of the best years for Orevada.

Almost ten years of service saw him well. His family was proud of him, he was confident in himself, but most importantly, he had served his nation well. Mistakes may have been made from time to time, people may have died, but there was no reason in his mind to dwell on it like the others did, because when you dwell on the past, you completely forget about the future, and that right there is a recipe for failure.

********

Corsican: Locate Desmond for standing orders.

Or go play charades with Hunter.

Apocalypse, Jagdgeschwader

Again it was that time, the time of the day where the gunshots stopped, the explosions ceased, and the only thing rising was the smoke from the fires. That night was windy, around 25mph, with almost all soldiers taking shelter in the bombed out ruins of buildings seeking comfort in the cocoons of still air. In Corsican's circle, Durant and Silva sitting in it as well, the troopers were silent. Silent in mourning for the loss of their comrades and in contemplation over what was next to come.

Corsican sat, legs crossed, lying on his back looking at the sky. The bandana he used as a face mask did little to help him against the cold North Dakota wind which found its way through every crevice, through every hole in his clothing, and in every gap of his clothing. By this time, they'd gotten used to the fact, but none of them had washed in ages either.

"Damn it," said a trooper, "Cigarette went out,"

"How'd you manage that?" asked another,

"Anyone got a match? That was my last one..."

"Light it on the fire," Corsican pointed to the burning logs on the fire,

Corsican took a moment to realize, but the circle was emptier than usual. A few of the familiar faces weren't there anymore, and instead of thirty or so people usually in the building, only nineteen populated it. Time was limited, that was always the proverb, time was limited, but when would it run out? They got an idea of that today, it almost ran out for them, in fact, most of them figured only by the grace of God did they live to see another day. When your time ran out, nobody knew, it could happen at anytime...

Desmond entered through the door, cigarette in his mouth, canteen frozen. He sat down beside Durant, using his weapon to guide him, and pulled out his water canteen, "Can I see your helmet?" he pointed to a trooper across the way.

The helmets the UGW used were reproduction PASGT from the old world, except made much differently. While in the old world they were made of Kevlar, a ballistic fiber, with the West, they were just made of steel and a liner, as the Kevlar was harder to come by and provided minimal damage threshold improvement, as both could not stop a bullet (they weren't designed to). The liner was like a hard hat, the steel shell came with varying covers, the current ones used varied from white to green.

Desmond took off the cover and separated the liner from the shell, throwing the liner back to the trooper. He placed his canteen into the helmet and placed it strategically atop the fire, hopefully melting the water in a minute or so.

"So what's going on in the officer's tent?" asked Corsican,

Desmond stared at him blankly, worrying Corsican for a moment that he may have sounded foolish, but he responded, "Just a lot of casualty reports,"

"Campfire is a lot smaller now," said a trooper,

"And it will only get smaller,"

"Is there any help?" asked Durant,

"Grant tells me that Mendoza is about to push through the ring, that the NET are actually pulling back from it," explained Desmond,

"Really?" asked Corsican,

"They should be here soon, within the week. They don't know why but the NET are throwing resources elsewhere, like in the north. Bakken was only a prime target because it was direct, and they didn't expect to get so far so soon. Supplies stretched thinner and thinner as the months go by, and you've got a lot of unhappy campers trapping us."

"Will we go home?"

The circle turned to Corsican like he was alien. Western society dictated that they stay and fight, and kick the NET out of every crevice that was rightfully theirs. Being from Alaska, it was a concept that he didn't understand, a social feature that nobody outside of the West really understood, and by this point, Corsican was enough of a comrade that they just let it slide. No, Western society dictated that every man, every woman fought to the end until they were either injured and unable to go on, dead, or permitted to leave given circumstances.

"Talk is that everyone inside the enclave will be sent back to Montana and be evaluated for combat, given two weeks of break and those still able to fight will be reinstated," said Desmond, calling the wolves off of Corsican.

"Ah..." Corsican stretched his arms a bit, "So what are we doing tomorrow?"

"Burying the dead," replied Desmond, "Tomorrow morning we'll start. The grave sites are planned out already,"

"Will be hard in this frozen soil," said one of the soldiers,

"We'll get it done. We always do,"

********

Mboddz,

The Ring. At first mention one would believe it was a ring around something, something like Bakken, but it wasn’t. The Ring was a massive bulge in the frontline, a frontline which was easy to forget over three hundred miles long. The Ring was a bulge fifty miles long, and thirty miles wide, an opportunity that the NET leadership needed to push through to the soft Western internals.

And it was falling.

2100

“Analysts are saying that the southern section will fall within the month, and the rest will fall within two,” explained Descateaux,

“What’s the plan?” asked Boddy,

“The Army wants to pull out on their own terms and fall back to strongpoints in Shepard’s line,” Shepard’s line was named after General Shepard. In his words, ‘The NET will lose if we regress to this line,’ “We’re being asked to help. NI4 will help the Army hold the line for as long as they need.”

“It’s not really our forte. How would we stand any better chance?”

“Shepard needs the most elite soldiers he can get his hands on. His professional soldiers were gone a long time ago, he’s relying on conscripts to handle the situation and it’s not working,”

“How many of us are going?”

“200 across the board.”

“If I may ask a personal question, sir,” said Boddy, meekly,

“Speak freely,”

“Griffon cut the funding for the war, the people want us to cut and run, look elsewhere, we’re at 48,000 casualties, what chance do we have in this fight?”

Descateaux walked to the window, leaned against it, “I warned Shepard, I went to Washington on it. We weren’t ready.”

“Sir?”

“We may have had a larger military, we may have seen success against every foe we’ve ever fought, but there’s one thing we don’t have that the West does,”

“And that is?”

“We don’t believe,” said Descateaux, “Our people don’t have that resolve that keeps going. Every man and woman in the West completely believes in their people, they believe in their cause. We’ve had four revolutions that almost split the country, and numerous that never took wing. Hardly anyone is like you or me, willing to lay down their lives for the nation, instead they want to live for their cars, their television, their radio,” Descateaux looked out the window in disbelief, “Everyone wants protection but nobody knows what it takes to achieve it,”

Michael stood out of his seat and walked up to Descateaux, “What needs to be done?”

He turned to him, “Save the few like us, the few that are worth their skin.”

Boddy walked out of the room, set on saving his people. He still believed, he’d still fight. Down to the quarters where Crane, Reznor, and Eckert among other operatives were relaxing, he entered and laid on his bunk, pulling a book he was reading from his night stand. Crane was curling weights, Reznor was reading, and Eckert was changing her shirt, various activities to keep people's heads clear. The quarters were ominously quiet for some reason, maybe it was because of the assignments handed to them, maybe it was the future of their country's presence here, it was unknown.

"So what did the Colonel ask?" started Reznor,

"We're going to the frontlines Jean," replied Boddy,

"He told you personally?"

"Yes, how did you find out?"

"Officers told us a while ago,"

"You're not concerned?" asked Boddy,

"Not really, it's just going back to roots," Reznor went back to reading his book, "It doesn't hurt to get back in the dirt with the grunts,"

Boddy remembered his roots. He was recruited out of the Army, and signed on to the opening in NI4 when he was a Captain back in 2209. Whenever someone was recruited into NI4, which was a separate entity from the military, their rank was reset. Officially, National Intelligence was a government agency, and different groups within NI4 handled different situations. Their group was Group Six, which dealt with black operations and ground work, whereas a group like Group Four, handled espionage, spying, the works.

Eckert, who slept to his left, was writing a letter using a book for a surface. She was relatively new in NI4, only a year of service, and was recruited out of the Air Force, like George, where she acted as airfield security. It showed a bit too, in the short time he knew her, she was...livelier than most.

"Who are you writing to?" asked Boddy,

"My husband, he's watching the children," replied Eckert,

"You have kids Angela?"

"I do!" she smiled, "They're my pride and joy,"

"How old are they?"

"One is eight, the other is six," she said, "Both boys,"

"Somewhat strange your husband is housebound, or is he?"

"He's 36, ten years older than me, and he did his service a long time ago," she explained, "He was injured around eleven years back and was discharged, so now he goes off government pension,"

"How long have you served?" asked Boddy,

"Going on...eight years now almost. I know most people do it right out of secondary school at sixteen, but I didn't really know what to do after I graduated so I did a little searching. Almost became a teacher, but I didn't qualify, and so I decided to be like my father," she said, ending with an inflection.

"How did you not qualify to be a teacher, but qualify to be in National Intelligence?" asked Boddy curiously,

"Well, keep in mind I did the qualifications for National Intelligence almost ten years after. I don't get to see my family very often, but National Intelligence pays five times what the Air Force was paying, and they're living much better now because of it."

Remembering Descateaux's conversation, Boddy thought it was only appropriate to ask the question, "Why did you join National Intelligence?"

"I won't lie, it cost me a lot socially, just joining the military did that. A lot of people aren't into the whole 'All before the few' concept, they're more self-absorbed you know? That's fine and all, but I thought to myself, 'Who allows that to be?', you know? Who protects us, who paves the way so we can have that lifestyle?"

"What do you think of the West then? Everyone is like that in the West,"

"They're completely wrong," said Eckert plainly, "They believe only in the nation. There's no personality to their world, everyone is a servant to each other. It's why they don't have philosophers, it's why they don't have artists, because they see that as irrelevant."

"You think so?"

"We may have our problems, sure, but our people have personality. Could it be better? Sure. But unlike in the West, where they believe everyone has to be subservient to the nation, in reality, only a few have to be completely loyal to it. I'm fine with being that though, I'm fine with being a servant to the nation, to fuel it. It's the land I love."

"Descateaux believes the reason why we're losing though is because we don't believe, because our people aren't like the West."

"Is winning really everything though? If we lost to the West here, what would happen? Oil wouldn't be exploited here? Oil is in a lot of places. We import from Mexico, we continue our operations in the Gulf, it isn't the end of the world if we don't have the Bakken Oil Fields. Again, our people may not have the resolve of the West, but we're the East. We know a fight when it's worthy, and Descateaux and the entire high command is too obsessed with winning that he can't see the big picture. It's not worth it necessarily. It's something that our people see too, that the people we lose in this conflict may be gone for no good reason,"

"You really believe that?"

"I do. Our people live well, they live like they did in the old world and we don't need to have something just to have it. If we win, so be it, nothing wrong there, but if we weren't able to have the oil and natural gas here, well, there's other things we could do."

"So, it's safe to say that you don't approve of this fight?"

Eckert put down her letter, "As strange as it sounds to say after all of that, it doesn't matter what I think, it's not my call. I don't care whether or not we win, if we do, great, if not, so be it. I'm loyal enough to the nation that where it sends me, I'll always give 110%. If I tried my best though, and it wasn't enough, it just wasn't enough. Understand me?"

"I respect your thinking. Trying to look at the broad spectrum,"

"It's hard to put into words, but I hope you understood some of it. I know I didn't!" Eckert laughed at herself for a moment, and so did Boddy. It was good to get perspective from someone on the same level as him. She did have one very good point in all of that, Descateaux was much too focused on winning, that nothing else phased him.

********

Hunter: He hobbles over to Desmond and taps him on the shoulder, whispering into his ear "You mentioned earlier that you had to write to the folks of the dead, I'll write the letter to Cpl.Blackwell's folks. I owe him that." He then sits down and pulls a bandana over his face so as to stave off the cold.

Spoiler:

Jagdgeschwader, Apocalypse, KGBoom

"That smell never goes away," Desmond said, laying down one of the bodies of the fallen, "Put him down gently now,"

"I'm too young for this," said Corsican, breathing slowly and limbering up, "I'm too young for this..."

"I'm going to go get the others,"

Desmond walked off, and Corsican walked over to Durant, who was shoveling the ground, or attempting to in the snow. Most of the dead were killed in the firebombings, as a result, most were charred remains and hard to look at. Almost all of them mutilated in the firebombings were unidentifiable masses of skin and bone, gruesome, revolting...

Corsican had seen a lot of things as a child he shouldn't of, but this topped the lists.

"Need help?" he asked Durant, who was struggling, like all of the troopers digging graves, in the frozen soil.

"Wouldn't hurt, thank you," Durant offered her shovel and went to get another, just a few feet away.

"You gave me the bad one didn't you?"

"Yeah!" She laughed a little bit, "Tough it out strong man!"

Corsican plunged the tool into the ground as hard as he could, but the frozen ground was an extremely difficult surface to break, as imaginable. He jumped onto the spade, but it only proved to slide off the ground. At best, a few inches were attained at a time.

"It's not easy, that's for sure," stated Durant,

"What are we using for grave markers?" asked Corsican,

"Their rifles," Durant put as much effort as possible into the plunge, "With most of them, they're destroyed anyway, so it's no loss."

"I was going to ask, is that supposed to mean something?"

Durant thought about it for a moment, "Um...I don't know. It's just symbolic, you know? Drop the bayonet, stick it in the ground, put their helmet on top or whatever they wore."

"Is that what you'd want?" asked Corsican grimly,

Durant continued to dig, breaking the surface, "It wouldn't be the worst thing. So...I guess so. Yeah."

He didn't reply, he kept his silence, continuing to dig and put his effort into grave digging. Corsican didn't approve of this war, he didn't care about it, and he couldn't wait to go home to Alaska. At times, he wished he was still work force. Hard labor 100 hours a week didn't even amount to this, this was seven days a week, no breaks, no relaxation, just constant living in fear and pain. In the old days, in the first weeks of Bakken, soldiers would fight a week for three blocks. Entire platoons would fight in other in the streets, going from house to house, losing people the entire way. It was a miracle he'd survived this long, and he attributed it to his comrades. If anything, that was the only part of his life that was better here. He had friends, and a lot of them.

"Something on your mind? You're awfully quiet," asked Durant,

He spoke up, "What makes someone in the West want to sign on for this?"

She put her shovel down for a moment, "A lot of things. Honor, integrity, the service to your nation."

"But what really does?" he pressed on, "What is really driving you?"

Durant didn't understand the question, "Like I said: Honor, integrity, service to the nation, service to the people, service to your family. It's what drives anyone."

"I'll never understand it," said Corsican,

"It's simple, really. As children, we're taught in school how the nation provides for us, how the nation benefits people who worked their entire lives so they can live comfortable, how the nation repays veterans for their service. We pay into our entire lives," She took another plunge into the ground, "It's a constant balance of the people working for each other's well being. All before the few."

"With some of you though, it seems like you spend so much time living for everyone else, there is no individual."

"It varies on how devoted you are to it, but almost everyone is devoted at least somewhat. Desmond is an instance of someone who's never known anything else, he only lives to serve. There's a lot of people like them. You see them in the military a lot, they're the lifers and career officers. Whereas Rovanel, he's the opposite. He was still loyal, but he was also a little more interested in personal pursuits, which is fine too. To an extent."

"I couldn't serve my nation like that, there's nothing to be proud of," said Corsican plainly,

"Could always live in the badlands, then we'll see how you think about it."

"Maybe,"

Smoke covered the sky, and the entire environment seemed to glow red almost, red on white. The wind hadn't let up from the previous night, this area infamous for its cold fast winds. Hunter, who had just awakened, approached Desmond, remembering the conversation had with him the previous night. Hunter felt that it was only fair he wrote to Blackwell's family instead of Desmond, he was, after all, in charge of him when he fell and it was particularly his fault that he did.

"Lieutenant,"

Desmond signaled to another trooper to pick up the body of a trooper by his ankles, he grabbing his shoulders, "Alright, 1...2...3..." he turned to Hunter, "Something on your mind, NCO?"

Hunter followed Desmond as he walked, "I remember you mentioning that you have to fill casualty reports, write to the families,"

"You want to mention any more obvious tasks that are given to NCOs, officers and rear echelon slackers? Or are you really just wasting my time?"

Hunter ignored it, he was used to Desmond being a curmudgeon by now, "I want to write Blackwell's family. It's the least I owe him,"

"Well, you've got that right," said Desmond, "Not now though. You need to help burying these troopers. It needs to get finished,"

"You agree then?" asked Hunter,

"Only that I have less to do now," Desmond signaled to put the trooper down, "Put him down...If you want to do my work, I'm more than happy. Don't screw it up,"

"Sir, how would I screw up writing a letter?" asked Hunter sarcastically,

"With you," he glared, "I'm not surprised. Help some of the troopers around here bury our comrades."

Hunter agreed, but it was starting to get to him how Desmond treated him like a second rate soldier, like he didn't trust him. Granted, as noticed before, he didn't particularly like anyone, but he seemed to harbor something against him. Whether or not it would show in the future, remained to be seen.

********

Mboddz, Westhybrid

The next morning, NI4 mobilized. They were heading out to the frontlines early that morning via helicopter, with the exception of a few, Eckert included, who would be assigned elsewhere to other areas temporarily. Launch time, 0500, there was about fifteen minutes left to get everything in place. Boddy and Eckert walked down the hallway to holding to meet Descateaux and Ico. Ico was held at gunpoint by Descateaux, his hands bounded and mouth gagged.

"And there's the drama queen in person again," said Boddy, approaching Darius,

Darius yelled, but it was fruitless as even he didn't understand himself.

"Time?" asked Eckert,

"Getting close on ten minutes here, get to your S70 Eckert," Descateaux turned his attention to Boddy, "Here to hand her off to me?"

"That, and check in," said Boddy,

Descateaux handed Eckert her hostage. He was rather feisty, struggling and moving about in an attempt cause the agents paranoia on what he might try to do, but for the most part, there was nothing he could do to surprise them.

"Are your teams ready?" asked Descateaux,

"Everything's above board," Boddy saluted, "We're ready to go on demand."

"By all means then, let's get to it."

The four figures walked back, Boddy on the left, Eckert on the right, Descateaux in the back and Darius in the middle. Ten minutes before dust off, the station's alarm went off, signaling everyone again that if they weren't already, to get their heads in the game, get to their stations, and execute their objectives. Out of the holding cells and onto the tarmac, forty helicopters spun their blades idle, creating huge winds and drifts from their rotor wash.

Eckert boarded her helicopter and Darius was helped inside of it, sat down, and fastened into his seat, bound still by Boddy. She was alone in the helicopter with the exception of him, and she'd be alone probably for the next day or two with the prisoner. Boddy relished in the fact this was the last time he'd see Ico, as he was considered useless after this exercise anyway and would be ridden of when finished, either by execution or by extradition, it didn't really matter operationally. Knowing Descateaux though, probably the former.

"Good luck, Sergeant!"

"I'll see you in a few days!" she yelled back over the engines,

"Hopefully!" Boddy slammed the S70's door shut and went with the Colonel to his helicopter, maneuvering past a few to get in his. The last operatives were boarding, and the Colonel was out to personally see them off the ground. The Captain got into his helicopter, sat down in a seat and got comfortable, familiar faces in the cabin.

"Good luck to you boys, Godspeed," said Descateaux, before walking off. It puzzled Boddy that he would say that, and his crew took notice.

"What's wrong?" asked Reznor,

"Nothing..." said Boddy, "It's just...he's never done that before."

********

Westhybrid

The sun came up, and they were alone now in the sky. If he looked over to the side, he saw the ground going by him at 150mph, and if he looked into the cabin, he saw his lone "protector", casually dressed for winter in a large great coat, appearing unarmed. When he turned to her, she noticed his attention.

"Hey, look who woke up," she said, "Enjoying the view?"

Darius just stared, not being able to talk anyway. Eckert was less strict though then other operatives and was lenient in some areas, if she was respected, "If you agree to be civil, I'll take off your gag,"

Darius shook his head in agreement, and Eckert came on over, "Alright then," she said. Darius ducked his head down and she untied the knot, his gag falling right out Darius, enjoying the freedom of not having an oversized object in his mouth, breathed deeply a little bit.

"Thank you," he said, still glaring. He still didn't like any of them.

"We'll keep this, as long as you're civil," she looked out the window for a moment, "Besides, I have to actually cut you loose once we touch down if you want to look convincing. I might as well start trusting you now,"

"And if I don't want to comply when we touch down?" asked Darius confidently,

"I'll do what I need to, to control you. Do NOT underestimate me."

Darius heeded it. If he was going to sabotage this anyway, he'd need to find a way to immobilize, incapacitate, or neutralize her effectively and make an escape. It'd have to be somewhere crowded, and the next couple of towns they'd be going to would be crowded, so that would work for him. Then he'd have to get help. That was the hard part though, getting help from someone who's casually dressed, doesn't look a threat, and not only that has a pretty face and charm to boot would be difficult. After all, who would even take her as a threat? She was a 5'7 black haired twenty something looking 120lb soaking wet lightweight with a charismatic voice.

"So how did you get in this position?" asked Darius,

She looked at him, "I don't know, how did you get in this position?"

Still a bitch.

********

Darius: Darius smirked at his guard. "I happened to be trying to kill competition, and your boss happened to be on his time of the month at the exact same time and place. But you already probably know that." He said.

"But, I don't know you. And considering I have to go around on an adventure with you killing my co-workers, I think I deserve a name to match to the pretty face."

"Especially considering you're probably ordered to shoot me as soon as this business is over with."