The Days After (Game Topic)

Westhybrid

What seemed as hours passed during the flight, but out of the window he saw the burning fires of the war, how the horizon always was rife with smoke trails high into the sky. Occasionally, he would see the small silhouette of a plane, barely visible fly fast, pull up and drop a fireball onto the ground, it plumed into the air. The reality of the situation hit him then and there, that twenty percent of that equipment was by his doing. He was enabling it to happen, and it looked like hell on earth.

It was like committing murder, he tried to imagine how many people had been affected by his work, what the consequences were, no wonder he was captured by NI4. This would’ve pissed off anyone watching this, and the fact that he was so easily available.

That pissed off looking NI4 type probably jumped at the opportunity. Granted, it also wasn't his business. There wasn't a day he thought about what people did with his guns, not only that, he'd seen it personally. His guard in the corner was alternating between staring out the window and at him, analyzing him and never taking her eyes off him for very long.

"I happened to be trying to kill competition, and your boss happened to be hurt in his girl parts at the same time and place. But you probably already know that," Darius smirked, "I don't know about you, but considering I have to go around on an adventure with you killing people who I'd consider family by the way just for karmic balance, I think I deserve a name to match the pretty face sweetie,"

Eckert just stared him down, unimpressed, and sober.

"Especially since you're probably ordered to off me as soon as this is out," Darius turned to her from the window, "But that's just me being pessimistic, you probably would never do that to someone. I mean, you obviously can't be that evil!" Darius was very keen on sarcasm.

The helicopter got ready to land, slowing down and rearing itself. Hovering for a moment, it touched down a few miles from the town to keep attention away from itself. Eckert hopped out first, then opened the door on the other side to let Darius out, holding him while he hopped off. Eckert pounded on the co-pilot's door twice, then gave a thumbs up, and the S70 was away.

"Guess your restraints have to come off now," said Eckert,

"Llegar a esta puta, yo no tengo todo el día," insulted Darius,

"I'm sure you just insulted me, but I'm going to act like you said 'thank you'," Eckert reminded him with hostility before removing his restraints, "Remember, if you try anything it will end painfully for you."

"Yeah, yeah, I got that part," Darius held his arms for Eckert and she removed his restraints. It was comfortable, the first time he'd been unrestrained since he was captured yesterday. Granted, what was ahead was fairly morbid still, "Are we going to see Mari now?"

"Yes, Rodriguez works in the next town,"

Aurora, the town that Darius, Clark and Garrett were going to escape to happened to be the town that Marisela Rodriguez, an old family friend from Darius's childhood worked under him. He had no idea if people knew he was missing yet. In a way, he kind of wished they did. The walk was a only a few miles, about a thirty minute trek before approaching town. Aurora was like any other Western frontier town. Compact with buildings, large dirt boulevards, tight alleys between the buildings, lots of horses, and farm houses that sparsely populated the landscape for miles around it. Marisela worked in the local Ico Corporation office, where she managed shipping manifests into this area. Aurora was the town where all supplies were delivered to, then shipped to various outposts, military bases and other towns. Darius walked up the front steps onto the porch, Eckert right behind him the entire time, he could almost feel her breathing down his neck.

To his excitement, and also disappointment, Marisela was there, and very excited to see him. She was around her mid 30s, and dark, being from central Mexico.

"Dari! ¿Cómo está mi hijo, es tan bueno verte!" she exclaimed, getting up to hug Darius,

"Es bueno verte también Mari, ¿cómo estás?"

She noticed the woman behind her, "¿Quién es?"

"Oh this is...uh...Angela, she's one of my associates," guessed Darius. Eckert tried not to flinch at that, but she was surprised that he guessed her name completely right.

"You're very pretty," said Marisela, hoping to impress her, "What brings you here Dari?"

"I just came to visit!" said Darius nervously,

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

This is where things were about to hit the fan. North of Bakken in the ring, this is where the West were pushing their assaults, not in stalemate, but in advance. Armor was pounding the lines, and infantry right behind it. The three S70s flew in from the east, astern, low to the ground, dodging enemy ground fire. Below, damn near hell on earth. Artillery fire was raining from the skies, armor was pushing the lines and infantry in some cases were in melee battles with each other. Only a few seconds before all teams would be out, Boddy put it straight.

"Alright, goal is to get on the ground, and organize the defense long enough to exfiltrate key assets and forces from the area," explained Boddy,

The battle raged below them, a rocket actually flying very close to the helicopter they were in. This was suicide if anyone had ever known it,

"I don't even need to tell you this, be ready for heavy, heavy combat. Chances of survival will be maximized if we stay together and fall under me. No John Wayne heroics alright?"

Coaxial machinegun fire from the armor on the ground shattered a door window, throwing glass around the cabin. The hull echoed from shots being taken from almost all directions, and it made the thought that they'd have to exit this vehicle terrifying.

"Keep your spacing though! I don't want one hand grenade taking out half of my squad! Take advantages of high ground, trenches, spiderholes and foxholes that have been made, they may just save your life, but be weary as well!"

"Get ready to disembark!" called the crew chief, he returning to his minigun and putting rounds downrange,

The S70 formation slowed, the front helicopter taking catastrophic damage from an M60's cannon fell out of the sky, down about thirty meters before crash landing. The other two S70s changed landing zone, landing safely, but taking heavy machinegun fire before unloading their troops. On the battlefield, it was a snowy landscape, scarred by craters, scarred by battle, with that crimson red staining the white in so many places. The dead of both sides littered the ground, and only more soldiers entered the fray.

"Everyone out!" ordered Boddy. The squad of eight was out in moments, and the scene which would of overwhelmed most people, even seasoned veterans, was a sight to be seen.

Almost as fast as they disembarked, the S70s were out, not in the mood to overstay their welcome. The first thing that came to Boddy's mind was to get to the crash of the lead S70 which fell from the sky. They were going to need as many operatives in the fight that they could get their hands on. He moved quickly over to the third squad's leader and grouped him as well to retake the crash sight, which was already being attacked by Western soldiers.

The teams sprinted, firing occasionally at the Western soldiers advancing up the incline. The S70 had landed into a trench, dipped down into the ground with its tail high. The trench was deformed from the crash, instead of only six feet wide, twenty feet wide, and from the looks of it, both pilots were killed.

Boddy, Crane and Reznor, the latter armed with a MAG 60.20 for support, got into the wrecked helicopter, while the other team held back invaders and the rest of his team, 2nd Lieutenant Runil, 1st Lieutenant Sharps, Staff Sergeant Hadwell, Sergeant Rekow, and Sergeant Rousseau secured the wreck itself. Crane ducked into the cabin, struggling through it, looking for life.

"Anyone alive? Is anyone alive?"

"I'm wounded!"

"I'm good!" said one, "I think!"

"How bad are you wounded?" asked Crane,

"Minimal!"

"What about the rest of the crew?"

Silence for a moment, and no response. Most were dead from the crash, and the operative only confirmed it, "Damn it all, we've got a lot of dead!"

Crane returned to the surface, and saw a hand grenade land in the trench he was in. His eyes widened, but he had no intentions of dying today and picked it up, pitching the grenade up into the sky where it detonated, sending shrapnel everywhere. The shockwave felt as if it flattened his chest for a moment, and he looked to the fuselage of the S70, only to see a piece of the hand grenade stuck in the aircraft.

"Is everyone alright?" asked Crane,

"We're above board," Boddy hopped into the trench, speaking loud to talk over the gunfire, "How's the situation?"

"Lot of dead, two survived intact,"

Boddy only gave Crane a glazed stare. He ordered his operatives into the trenches for increased protection. They were here to find a Lieutenant, a Lieutenant Spiers who was the man to go to in this area. Hopefully, he wasn't like most of his comrades in these trenches bleeding out or dead.

********

*Bump*

Sorry, updated the update for today, didn't feel it required its own post as it was about NI4 still.

Hunter: He sat down in one of the many tents around the frozen graveyard that was being made. He picked up a pencil and started writing.

Spoiler:

After slipping the letter and Blackwell's dog tag into an envelope, he went off to find Desmond.

Jagdgeschwader, Apocalypse, KGBoom

Hunter sought shelter to think and write about the ordeal. It wasn't the first time he'd done it, but every time was different. Simply copying and pasting may have been enough for Desmond and practically everybody else, but not him. It was personal to him.

Granted, once it started, it flowed pretty well. About thirty minutes went into the writing for it, and he was satisfied. Once finished, he looked for Desmond, who wasn't too far away burying corpses with the troops. Desmond broadcasted the letters over the radio every night to get them written on the outside, then sent home, as no mail could go out of this place.

"Lieutenant," said Hunter, jogging up to Desmond,

"Where have you been?" interrogated Desmond,

"I went to write the death letter, like you told me to earlier..."

"I said to bury our COMRADES you slouch!" Desmond grabbed the note, and held it up, "THIS, is a formality," he pointed to the graves, "THIS, is respect."

Hunter was furious. What was with these 180 turns he thought? "Sir, if I may speak,"

"Do I get extra points if I act like I'm listening?" remarked Desmond mockingly,

"You act like I'm a piece of garbage, you question my abilities every chance you get!"

"Maybe I wouldn't have to if your abilities weren't questionable!"

"I don't deserve it! I pull my weight around here just as much as anyone else!" Hunter said defending himself,

"Oh really? You did NOTHING in this enclave besides the occasional reconnoiter into hostile territory, and when I sent you on one alone with Blackwell," Desmond pushed Hunter away, "You got yourself almost killed and you got him killed by picking a fight with an entire armored column! Then, I had to send more soldiers to find your sorry ass crawling through town choking on your own blood!"

"Well if you really didn't think it was worth it, you shouldn't have sent after me if I was so 'useless'!"

"And there's the failure talking in you again! Just because I'm talking you down means you should believe it? You're a damn coward! Where's your honor?"

"And what are you then? Lieutenant?" Hunter began to get hostile, "Sergeant Rock gunning everyone down because they can't amount to how 'courageous' you are? Huh?"

"I'm in no position to be judged by the likes of you! I've done everything that's ever been commanded to me to the fullest of my abilities, I went against a junior officer when he refused to save his own people, organized an attack, saved the soldiers no less, and I finally accepted the officer promotion after the eleventh time offered in my career. The damn Alaskan has more nerve than you!"

"So what? I've been in the service just as long as you have! You have no right!"

"I have all the right, I see why your former COs just put you in charge of guarding dignitaries and ammunition dumps. Have you even killed a man Hunter? Have you even popped that cherry?"

Hunter's teeth hurt from how much he grinded them, "Killed a man? Or burned a village on a pile of tires?" Desmond said nothing in return, nothing to say really, "I'm not going to be judged by you Lieutenant. Just because you're a maverick when it counts, and just because you've killed more people than you count, doesn't give you the moral ground to judge me."

Hunter started to walk away, until Desmond called him back again, "Sergeant!"

Hunter turned, and Desmond threw him his shovel, "Your turn now. Take it up until I come back,"

********

Apocalypse, KGBoom

Hunter plunged the shovel into the frozen dirt, repeatedly to break it like so many others. In a half an hour, they'd already buried two soldiers, so they were making good time. It bothered him now though how much his Lieutenant didn't like him. Was he really just another soldier? Did he really not stand out? Why was Desmond so concerned about it? Why did he expect more of him than from any other soldier?

Well, probably because he was an NCO he figured.

"Is he always like that?" asked Hunter,

"Yeah, but not that bad with people who carry their weight," said Durant coldly,

"You agree with him?"

"No comment," said Durant, continuing to dig,

"What about you?" he asked Corsican,

"I'm not getting involved, but he seems to like me. I must be doing something right," replied Corsican bluntly,

Hunter couldn't wait to get relieved to Montana. A break was needed.

********

Jagdgeschwader

Desmond returned to the field headquarters and put Hunter's letter down on the table, placing it under the radio to keep it still in the wind, and sat down in the chair. It felt like ages since he had just sat down and relaxed, but then again it was almost impossible in these conditions. He looked to his canteen again, thirsty, but it was frozen again. An all too common occurance here.

"Lieutenant," approached Grant, "Have a minute?"

"Always, for you,"

"I need you to take someone and go confirm what a scout reported earlier this morning. He said that NET armor is massing on the eastern flank, about a mile from here, near the church?"

"Yes?"

"I figure you've got an eye for these things. Take one of your troopers and go check it out would you?" asked Grant,

"How come you're asking me for this?" curiously Desmond asked,

"In case you haven't noticed, we lost a ton of people and damn near everyone is off doing something. I'd do it myself but I'm tied up helping the quartermasters reallocate our supplies. If you don't have anything to do, get on it,"

"Just asking, Archer," assured Desmond, "I'll get Silva and we'll head out in a few."

Grant saluted and nodded, and Desmond saluted back. He rubbed his face a little bit before picking up his rifle, and the pace. Silva would probably be somewhere around here, and if not, he'd just find someone else.

********

Eckert, Westhybrid

"As part of National Intelligence, you must never let your emotions compromise your assignment, your duty, or your resolve,"

Eckert remembered the opening lectures in National Intelligence. For months they drilled it into your head how to behave, what was expected, more or less just the military, but it seemed to conflict now with her own personal opinions.

"It is each of ours, unto the nation. The work we provide for the nation enables it to continue,"

"Well, come! Come and sit down," said Marisela, "Would you like to join us...uh...Angela?"

Eckert stared into the wall for a moment, "If you are to fail in your obligations, the security of the nation could be at risk,"

"Uh...no, do you mind if I talk to Mr. Ico for a moment?"

Darius looked at her, gravely, as if he wouldn't even get to speak to Marisela before the deed would happen. Eckert just stared back and tried to show now emotion, and guided him to the door, as if he actually needed it. Darius told Marisela they'd be back in just a second, and everyone went back to their prospective work. Eckert only led him outside to the porch before she began.

"Are you serious? You're not even going to let me reacquaint or anything?" said Darius angered, trying to speak low, "You're a bitch, you know that? How can you live with yourself-"

"I have an idea," she calmed him down, "You need to follow it to the letter, or else you will pay for it."

"Am I not paying now?" asked Darius, "What's worse than this?"

Eckert pulled the cyanide capsules out of her pocket and threw them in a trash can on the porch, "I'm disobeying my orders,"

"What?"

"It's definitely not for you," said Eckert, "If this was just about you, I'd have you shot in an instant. But those people don't deserve to die just because of your incompetence,"

"I'm...I'm not following, won't you get in trouble for this?"

"The only objective that matters was that you were dealt with in the end," Eckert pointed inside, "Their deaths were just to burn you. If I were to say that you got violent and I had to use force, I wasn't instructed to assassinate those people."

Darius couldn't believe what he was hearing, he didn't know if she was penetant or just plain idiotic, hoping that he would go away if he agreed to this. He was still plenty angry at the East, they'd taken a lot from him. More than they could repay.

"What's your idea?" asked Darius, playing along,

"This is what I'll do. I'm going to leave and you're going to disappear. I'll report your death to my superiors, but in turn you need to disappear. Darius Ico as you know it cannot exist anymore. You cannot go back to being the CEO of Ico Corporation, you need to change your name, you need to change your IDs, you need to possibly change your appearance as well,"

"Start over? That's how it goes down?" asked Darius, he still couldn't believe it.

"You can still socialize with your friends. Tell Marisela when you talk to her to write notes to the others about your situation, then destroy the letters. They can't talk about you as Darius. They can know who you are, but they can never refer to you as that," Eckert knew what it would take to get NI4 off his back. What she said alone would throw them off, but her end of the deal would probably end it completely. The word of an NI operative was taken very seriously, even low ranking operatives. They'd believe her.

Darius sat down on the bench on the porch. "I can't believe it," he said, relieved at the weight off his shoulders. "You only met Mari for a few seconds, and you just disobeyed your commander like that? There has to be more to it,"

Eckert leaned against the post, "The way I see it, you've already lost enough. This was just cruel," she looked inside and saw Marisela working, "And like I said, she doesn't need to die because of your screw up,"

"So, that's it then..." He was willing to change everything in return for that. He'd lost a lot, but he retained some in this case. It was better than nothing, and in a world full of losers, he may have lost the day, but he won his life.

"Do NOT take advantage of my kindness. If you don't change your IDs, if you try to regain your position as CEO, I will be in more trouble than you can imagine, but better yet, you'll be in more trouble than you can imagine. The next operative that comes for you will NOT have my mercy," Eckert walked off the porch, Darius still sitting on the bench. She turned her back as he gave her one last look.

"Hey," he said,

She turned.

"Who are you going home to?"

"My husband, my sister, my parents, and my boys,"

She began to walk again, but Darius stopped her, "What's your name?"

Eckert turned around, "You already know it," and walked off through the snow.

********

Westhybrid

Darius returned inside the building, and Marisela still sat at her desk. She turned to him again as the door closed, a little snow blowing in from the wind. She shivered at it, she could never get used to the cold of North Dakota.

"¡Dios mío! I can never get used to the cold, it chills me to the bone. ¿Quién era esa mujer otra vez?"

"Ah..." said Darius, he hadn't spoken Spanish for the most part in years.

"¿Hablas en serio Dari? You haven't been out of the country for five years and you've already forgotten our language?"

"No hablan español aquí en su mayor parte Mari, lo sabes!"

"Alright, alright, we'll have it your way. What was that all about?" asked Marisela,

"I'll...I'll talk to you later about it,"

********

Eckert

Eckert trudged through the snow, the cold wind beating her face continuously. She would go to the payphone across the street and contact North Point that way. There were specific procedures in place for contacting the command structure through the public phone system covertly. A payphone across the street would suffice, she got into it, a wooden shanty and picked up the phone. She dialed the rotary wheel to 9-0-0, or to an operator.

Holding it to her ear, she waited for a response. This would be a very short call.

The phone rang, but an operator picked up, "Operator, how may I help you?"

"Operator, recall code 7-1-5," she ordered. 7-1-5 was an isolated line. The operator hung up and a machine took over from here.

"Romeo Lima, 1-3-7-1-1-0-9-6, Code Protocol Château Echo 1-4-7," this was an order to 'Redirect Line', NET Secure phonelines, Code Protocol 'Château Echo' (which was North Point's codename), 1-4-7 directing to operational status.

"Identification number," said a man on the other side,

"3-1-7-5-9-6-1-4-4"

A hold on the other side, and then, "Sierra,"

"Alpha - One, Thomas Actual - Four, Thomas Bravo - Four, Thomas Château - Four,"

Another momentary wait, and then, "Copies all,"

Eckert hung up the phone, spun the rotary dial, then left. Like that, she was confirming Darius's death, and saying that all three tertiary objectives had been negated. Going back to the LZ, a helicopter would be inbound in about an hour.

********

NI4

"Copies all," the man hung up the phone and stood up out of the chair. This specific operation, Descateaux wanted to know personally when completed.

The operator walked over to Descateaux's office and knocked on the door, both troopers standing at his door not even giving a glimpse at him, but he neither. He knocked again, and Descateaux called him in.

"What is it?"

"Mission debrief in the field from Angela Eckert," he said, "She reports: Primary objective completed, tertiary objectives negated."

Descateaux smiled in a sinister fashion, taking a drag from his cigar and leaning back in his chair, "Thank you. First good news I've heard all day."

********
Westhybrid

"...then I've got runners that don't want to ride out because it's too cold, or because their feet hurt and they don't want to walk," Marisela scoffed, pointing to herself "What little babies, what do they think I used to do for your father when I was their age? Well, besides take care of you,"

"I've had my share of bad employees," said Darius, "Like a few weeks ago, I had one of my planes hijacked!"

Marisela put her coffee down, eyes widened as she finally remembered that, "I wanted to talk to you about that! What the hell was that all about?"

"Two planes hijacked actually. NET black ops killed a truck driver, hijacked that, infiltrated the runway, killed my guards, and they stole my C330s!"

"Really?" said Marisela,

"They dropped bombs on the West, only one of my guards made it back, and not unscathed mind you!"

"My God, the times we live in. I didn't even know, I just hear things," she said, "What happened to the guy who survived?"

"He was killed a few days ago when NI4 raided Frontline."

Marisela's jaw dropped, "OK, you're lying to me, how are you still here then?"

Darius took the next hour explaining to her about how he had been captured, interrogated, and forced to kill her, Samuel, and Emilio. He explained to her how "Angela" was an NI4 operative that was sent to oversee him, but disregarded him in the end because of the moral issues surrounding it. He explained to her everything; from how he wouldn't run the corporation anymore to how he wouldn't even been called Darius anymore. He'd have to start over, he'd have to become a new person, and there was nothing he could do.

Darius Ico the man, officially died that day. It had to stay that way.

"I have to change identities completely," said Darius,

"I think I know who could help you too. He lives in Boise," Marisela got to writing down an address in Boise, Idaho, inside the West. She handed it to him, and he was ecstatic.

"Thank you, Mari," Darius hugged her sitting down standing up, "I won't forget this,"

"Get to it," she said with conviction, "You've got a lot of work to do."

********

Jagdgeschwader

Desmond and Silva had gotten to work scouting further into the city. In order to protect their territory from another armored attack, they'd have to know where it would be coming from. Initial reports said that a large armored force was amassing nearby, equal to or greater than the last one that attacked. If so, they needed to be sure of the threat. Resources were scarce enough without wasting them going off half cocked.

"Should be getting close by now," said Silva,

Desmond looked up, "Bank is the tallest structure in this area. If we got up there, we could get a decent vantage point, we'd have a good view."

"How are we going to get up there?"

Desmond pointed to the fire escape ladder in the back, "How high can you jump?"

"Not that high,"

"Not even with a boost?" asked Desmond,

"I could try, but if I smack my face I'm blaming you!" she said,

"Why? It'd be your fault. You agreed to it."

Sarcasm aside, Desmond sat at the base of the fire escape. It was about ten feet up to the ladder, which would fall down if released. Silva got in position to run, lift off Desmond and jump up, which would be very difficult to do if ready for it, let alone in all of her gear. She limbered up, and prepped herself.

"Ready?" she asked,

"As I will be," he responded,

Silva readied herself some more. She didn't do this often, and now that she thought of it, nobody really did. Continually nervous, it was hard to get composure to try, as she'd basically be sprinting at a brick wall which if she missed the ladder, would run face first into, quite literally if Desmond went limp on the push.

"You're ready right?" she asked again,

"Just whenever you're ready,"

Realizing now or never, Silva started her dash, turning into a sprint, stepped into Desmond's hands as he pushed her as hard as he could, she jumping off that, or her best attempt. She made it on the first shot, barely hanging on to the first bar in the ladder.

"Little help!" she exclaimed. Desmond pushed her up and she pulled herself with much effort up the ladder with no footrests. Up one bar was tiring, up two bars was tiring as well. Five rungs on the ladder she finally got footrests and the rest was easy. She rested on the steel grate fire escape and lowered the ladder. Allowing Desmond to climb up easily.

"See? That wasn't so bad," said Desmond,

"It's like doing a pull up but a thousand times worse!" she said, "You're doing the next one!"

"Should just be a door at the top,"

They climbed up the narrow passage ways, barely even making clearance. Only two staircases to the top, when they reached it. They were greeted with a door that didn't open.

"What kind of door doesn't open?" asked Desmond sarcastically. With nowhere near enough room to try and kick it down, they had to look for alternative options.

"You could try and jump," she said. The roof was just above them, if they climbed the wall that the door was on, the roof was right there.

"Sounds solid," Desmond hopped up to the ledge, holding on with his hands. He pulled himself up to his elbows, resting his forearms, then tried to lift himself slowly to get his torso up. Once he got his torso up, he just shimmied forward until the rest of his body was over the edge.

"How am I supposed to do that?" asked Silva,

"I'll pull you up," and Desmond pulled her up. It helped to forget how high they were off the ground, but that didn't matter now. With luck, they hadn't been noticed even with all the noise they had made. The bank overlooked a park, a park which was used from time to time by the NET as a staging ground. It was a pretty good hot spot, so they could stay put for a while and take notice on anything that came along, reporting it back for the soldiers in the enclave.

********

Apocalypse, KGBoom

The dead just kept on piling up. More and more bodies kept being found, usually unidentifiable, usually completely destroyed. It was best to disconnect from the situation; think about other things; let your mind wander in various places all the while trying to forget your problems.

“Do the men you’ve killed haunt you?” asked Hunter, piling dirt onto a corpse.

Corsican didn’t answer, phased out of the situation, or attempting to. That smell of burnt skin, blood and pus didn’t go away easily, neither did the memories, neither did the images.

“Corsican,”

“What?”

Hunter spoke lowly, “Do the men you’ve killed haunt you?”

“Just…” Corsican piled more dirt, “Just try to block it out,”

Hunter stuck his shovel in the ground and leaned on it, “They haunt me,”

Corsican continued to dig, harder and harder to block the images Hunter was conveying. He didn’t say anything, but he wanted it to stop. Corsican had found his ways of dealing with the mental pains and didn’t need people digging. What does war result in anyway? A generation of young adults, expected to continue their societies, being injured? Does it harden people into better beings, being knowledgeable and mature or does it destroy them from the inside, leaving them angry and empty? Do we actually learn anything or do only the dead know the end of war?

“I go to sleep sometimes, imagining the faces of the people I’ve killed. I think about the children I’ve turned into orphans without them knowing,” Hunter put another pile of dirt on the grave, “I think about why some of my soldiers were cut down and I wasn’t. Is it just chance, or is just divine intervention?”

He knew why so many were so angry. It was easier to bring it out on others and not confront it yourself. It was easier to be distant and not be attached. After all, he didn’t care about these people. Sure, it was terrible and it was hard to watch, but he didn’t know any of them. He didn’t relate to them, but when you started to think about them, you think ‘Who is this person’s wife?’ or ‘Who is this person’s son?’ How would those people know? Many of these men and women were unknown and may never be identified, there may be those families that went on with their father ‘missing’ or ‘unaccounted’.

“When you pull the trigger, that’s one thing. But when you pull the trigger and know that person is done for, when you know that person is gone because of you, it’s a whole ‘nother ball game.”

“Then how do we deal with it?” asked Corsican,

“We make the enemy feel the same damn thing,” said Hunter.

“It’s good enough for me.”

When the dead have names they cease to be a statistic.

********

Darius:

Darius had a step by step plan in his head since he left Marisela's home.

Step One was out of the way. He had Mari withdraw a decent amount of funds from Darius' personal accounts in the Ico Corporation, to pay off Marisela's contact in Boise, and to maintain a low profile. Darius had also made other arrangements for his "funeral", mainly his will, and the list of guests. One of them being a Mr. Wooten. The remainder of his shares in the company would be given to Emilio, to run the company. Darius' destination though, was not Idaho. It was a small town in UGW territory, where Clark's daughter lived.

Darius had Marisela arrange in advance for Clark's body to be delivered to his hometown, but Darius owed him and his daughter more than that. Not only that, though. After the loss of both Clark, and Garrett, Darius needed a field-expert that he could trust.

Darius arrived in the town not long after, and after looking around, found the address of Clark's daughter. Walking up to the front door, he knocked twice, and waited for a response.

Mboddz, Cloakey

When they say “A hiss means its close, a crack means it’s coming at you”, they don’t lie. What is worse is when practically everything you’re hearing is cracks. The team split up to find Spiers; Boddy, Rousseau, Crane and Reznor in one, the rest in the other. Boddy’s team scurried through the trenches passing by soldiers every few feet almost as if things were only centered on them. They’d pass one soldier, a bullet would down a man, they’d pass another, a grenade would fall straight into the grenade hole.

Boddy and his team stopped at the end of the trench, before it turned into another one just a few feet ahead. Two soldiers firing over the edge of the trench stood up, and one caught a round in the head and fell limp on the ground onto Reznor. Reznor, briefly horrified by the man’s hollowed skull far too close for comfort, threw the body off of him.

“Horace!” shouted the other trooper, “God! No!”

“Hey! Trooper!” yelled Boddy, “Keep it together, where’s Spiers?”

“Oh my God!” the trooper stared at his friend, “What am I going to tell his mother?? What am I going to say to his sister?!”

“Trooper! Where’s Lieutenant Spiers?” ordered Reznor,

“Ah…shit! Ah shit!” the trooper continued to frenzy,

Boddy backhanded the man, “FOCUS!”

“What the hell do you want?” replied the trooper,

“I need to find Lieutenant Spiers, where is he?”

"Spiers was dead a half hour ago!"

"Who's in command now?" asked Crane,

"Hell if I know! For all I know it could be me!"

With the chain of command in turmoil, and any representation of order turned upside down (and that was an understatement), the team moved into the next trench, dodging bullets, dodging explosives, a feat which besides Boddy experiencing in an operation in Kentucky, turning two clans into total war against each other effectively destroying both, none of them had ever seen.

It was fighting from foxhole to foxhole, trench to trench, just barely avoiding death around every corner. It was easy to see why the normal soldiers did not respect operatives, and almost didn't care about them. They had the luxury of the best weapons, the best toys, the pro of attacking weakly defended areas to seize what they needed, the ability to go back to their cushy base in the middle of nowhere after an operation.

If you were to ask a regulation soldier what he thought of NI4, what he thought of special forces, he'd probably say a lot of things and not many would be kind.

********

Jagdgeschwader

Cooped up on the top of a roof, freezing from the winds, Desmond and Silva stood as sentinels, watching for enemy movements, watching for suspicious activities. Whoever had reported in an entire armored platoon was grossly overexaggerating. After that defeat, and with the losses on the frontlines, the NET was pulling out if anything.

"See anything?" asked Silva,

"I see some infantry, maybe two or three groups," Desmond adjusted himself, "And they've got one M113. I don't see reason to get excited."

Desmond put his binoculars on the roof, turning to Silva, "You've got that LAW?"

"Ready," Silva pulled it from her back, "And armed,"

"Alright, we'll wait until nobody is looking, then you aim for that personnel carrier,"

"You're expecting me to hit it from here?"

"Not really," explained Desmond, "But it'll be funny to watch those boys squirm won't it?"

"There's something I really like about you Lieutenant," said Silva,

"Yeah?"

"You're never afraid to down some mooks," she pulled the LAW launcher and aimed down the sight,

"I guess that's a good quality, isn't it?"

They stayed on the roof, Desmond watching through his binoculars when the opportune time to strike would be. This wouldn't be a full on assault, no, there were way too many for that, but a LAW rocket that came flying out of nowhere would be good for a laugh, good for memories, good to go back to the enclave and tell people about.

Only days separated them from freedom. It really was ending, the time was coming when they'd no longer be bound by a ring of fire around them, no longer be put down by the enemy. It was time to bring the fight back to them, just like their comrades were, so honorably across the lines.

"What are you going to do when you get out of here Corporal?"

"I think..." she pondered the question, "I think I'm going to take a nap,"

"Sounds good,"

********

They Were Our Children

In the West, back home, they rallied for us. All of the talk back home was about “going to the East”, defending what was ours. The whole economy was turned into a war-time budget. Steel was hard to get, wood was hard to get, everything was rationed, quite badly as well, but still we stood united. Recruits at home talk about the glory of war, the glory of battling the giant in the east, and in all honesty it was a good fight.

The cost though is astronomical. It has been said before that every action has a cost, but the cost of being energy independent was perhaps too high. Our oil in the east is burning now anyway, it’ll take a long time to put them out. Until then, we have to rely on Alaska. Rationed materials are still hard to come by, and our economy is in a recession, unemployment is high with manufacturing low and we gave way for a generation of wounded warriors, wrecked either physically or mentally. It is such a shame.

Our children gave so much for the West; many made the ultimate sacrifice. The new generation proved themselves worthy to their predecessors and they made them proud.

But our generation threw them to the wolves because they weren’t content with the status quo.

They were our children and we damned them.


24 February 2216


Desert Sleepy, Snowwolf

Every day that glowing horizon seemed to get closer, and closer, and closer to him. Only a month ago, Wooten could look out his window, look at the fireballs and disregard it. It may as well have been a thousand miles away. But every day for a month, closer, and closer, and closer, those fireballs creeped. It was eerie, it was frightening, but he was confident in his security. He wasn’t moving until he absolutely had to. Moving operation was such a time consuming affair, it wasn’t logical to move until absolutely necessary.

“It gets closer every day,” said Wooten,

“The war?” asked Liam,

“Were you in Bakken the day this happened, Mr. Krieger?”

“No, I was working in the Carolinas.”

“I had to jump shift in about ten seconds, completely abandoning about five years of work.”

“Was it really that bad, that fast?”

“You don’t understand,” Wooten flicked his cigarette’s ash into the ashtray, “The NET and the West had soldiers in Bakken already even in peacetime. As soon as word came, the war broke out in the streets in seconds,” he inhaled from his cigarette and blew, “A real shame too, I ran a soap shop.”

“Soap shop?” asked Liam, confused,

“There’s nothing degrading about it! As much as I am a fan of selling weapons to bloody hands I am also a fan of cleaning them afterwards,”

“I wasn’t insulting Mr. Wooten,” asserted Liam,

“See that you don’t. When you reach my stature in society you may judge me as you like,” Wooten put out his cigarette now, “Enough chatter though. Mr. Durov needs you urgently,”

“Is that why you called me?”

“Go to him, just up the road. Something along the lines of evacuation, he needs you to help him get his product out of a hotspot they’re abandoning.”

Liam left the room, Wooten saluting him on his way out. Durov was having a serious problem and needed as much help as possible, an oil derrick camp that housed about a hundred slave workers was about to be overrun on the lines. Durov had lost a few camps over the last couple of weeks all up and down the three hundred mile long front. If the West captured them without being effectively abandoned first, they took the slaves and integrated them into their society, not to mention the control of an oil derrick being unacceptable. Durov’s government orders were to destroy the oil derricks if they were about to be lost. They could not be handed over to the West intact by any circumstances.

********

DJDimitri

“Luna, did you get my mercenaries out to Arthur Platform?” asked Durov,

“I dispatched three squads, they’re on the way now,” replied Luna,

“They’re going to need more than 24 mercs Luna, pile on who you can find,”

“There’s one possible still coming,”

“Well, great! Who?” Durov was angrily sarcastic,

“Krieger? I believe his name is?”

“Does he have a truck?”

“I don’t know, brother,”

Dimitri stood out of his chair, heading for the door, “When he gets here, give him the five ton truck, we need those people out of there! I’m tired of losing capital!”

He walked out of his main office to Liam Krieger pulling up in a pickup truck, sliding on the iced ground just avoiding another mercenary. Durov ran up to his window while Liam rolled it down.

“OK, I’m glad you’re here,” said Dimitri,

“Mr. Wooten said you needed me,”

“Yes, I called him about an hour ago. I need you to haul ass down to Arthur Platform and get my product out of there. It’s in danger of being overrun by the West, it’s not looking good!”

“Anything else?”

“Take the five ton,” Dimitri pointed to the 6x6 beast of a truck, “You’ll need it to get the workers out in any significant number. You also need to set fire to the oil derrick.”

Krieger took a double take at that, “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Might try igniting it. Not my problem, it’s yours. Don’t leave until the derrick is burning! Government orders!”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Liam,

“Don’t poke the bear!” said Durov, heading back into the building.

********

Jagdgeschwader, Apocalypse, KGBoom

In between the calm lands of the West and the fires of the East stood Fort Helena. Fort Helena, one of the larger UGW forts scattered across the West, was where the remaining 250 soldiers in the 7th and 9th Battalions were relocated after Bakken was liberated on 14 February.

Fort Helena also stood as safe haven for the troopers being rotated in and out of combat. When units were put on leave, Fort Helena was what they had to look forward to. It was chosen for its remoteness and beautiful wilderness which in the words of the officer who ordered the building of the fort, 'Gave the troopers something to wish for'.

Outside of the commons room, just outside, all soldiers from the 7th and 9th able bodied stood at parade rest. The Colonel in charge of the fort and the 20th Battalion which ran Fort Helena was Colonel Holzknecht, a career officer of twenty three years, wanted to greet the war heroes and heroines of the 7th and 9th, who against all odds, survived, even when it seemed as though everybody had left them. Holzknect walked in front of them all, and cleared his voice.

"For the state of the West?" he shouted,

"We Fight!" returned the crowd,

"For the chaste of the West?"

"We're right!"

"For the people of the West?"

"We bleed!"

"The call of the West?"

"We heed!"

"For the enemies of the West?"

"Their death!"

"Our final strife for the West?"

"Our dying breath!"

"Oorah!"

"Oorah!" returned the soldiers.

"For seven months, all of you never forgot the Chants of our Purpose. For seven months, you never relented in your fight to see your homeland again, for seven months, you endured. That is the spirit of the West, gentlemen, it is all of you," Holzknecht put his hands behind his back, "Now, it is time to give back to you. Welcome to Montana gentlemen, welcome to the big sky country. Enjoy your stay, and enjoy your leave. Dismissed."

Desmond worked his way through the lines to the commons with the other soldiers, Corsican right behind him. Corsican, although not part of the West, was under the jurisdiction of the West being literally dropped into their custody.

"What was that?" asked Corsican,

"What was what?" asked Desmond,

"That shouting."

"Those are the Chants of our Purpose. It's one of the first things we learn in training," Desmond moved through the crowd, "An embodiment of our virtues,"

"It was just strange to me. Makes me just feel more distant from all of you."

From the commons room was a grand window that looked at the "Sleeping Giant" mountain, covered in snow for the winter, which overlooked the countryside, fort, and the neighboring town. Fort Helena really was built for the comfort of the returning warriors, scarred from battle. It was an oasis of joy and care-free relaxation that for a lot of people, was better than their actual homes. This was a place to forget your problems, forget your duties, and enjoy life; life which had been so miserable before, now seemed appealing.

What any soldier would give for a station to Montana...

********

Destroyer, Westhybrid

9 February 2216

“Never were that good at writing formalities Clark,” said Sarah to herself.

The daughter of the man was one estranged, who never really knew her parents well unfortunately, so is the reality of so many children in the West. Combatting raider tribes non-stop for almost sixty years saw that be true. She folded the letter and put it in her coat pocket, returning to her work of almost seven years now as a welder in Bend, Oregon, her father’s profession after his military career. Here, she worked to repair body damage on various damaged vehicles from the frontlines in North Dakota, a work which never really seemed to end, but the feeling of returning an M60 Patton from the brink of a scrapyard back to a fully operational machine put a good feeling in you. It was honest work. Honest, if not hard, work.

The letter that her father had sent her confirmed his death. It was something she’d been expecting to receive every day since he had left last year to go back to his life of combat. She protested, but he would have none of it. It was just ‘something he had to do’.

“Termous!” called a colleague,

“What is it Miles?” Sarah went over to him on the way to the equipment room, opening his welding cubicle, “What do you need?”

Miles put his mask down on the work table, most workers just held their mask in front of their face, since the pitch blackness of the industry standard masks made you quite literally, blind, “I need another tank of acetylene, this thing’s been limping for a while, you mind going to the equipment room?”

“I was just going, I’ll get you one.”

Sarah went into the equipment room and took a tank of acetylene from the floor. She walked out and almost ran into another one of her colleagues, who had a large piece of metal in his hand, sharp end pointed towards her.

"Are you trying to stab me, Roger?" she said sarcastically,

"Wow, that could've been bad, you actually have a visitor at the door, he says he knew your father or something?"

"Sounds important," She went to Miles and delivered the acetylene tank, then walked over to the front of the shop in the lobby. A man stood in the lobby on a slight limp, with slicked back hair, clad in a long coat, fedora in hand. She went up, clapped her hands and cleaned them on her pants and offered her hand, "Hi there, Sarah Termous, can I help you?"

The man stood and looked at her, remembering description from her father. Brown shoulder length hair, brown eyes, around 5'11, thin build. He eyed her a little bit more, just trying to get a feel for her.

"Pleased to meet you to," said Sarah uneasily, "Not interested in talking or something?"

"Roll up your sleeves," requested the man,

"Why?"

"Would you please?"

"Sure, I guess," Sarah had distinctive blue tribal tattoos, or marks in the West, on her right arm and right half of her torso.

"You are his daughter..."

"Can we stop with the mysteriousness of this? It's really creeping me out. Why are you looking at me like that? Why do you want to see my marks? How do you know my father?"

"My name is Darius Ico. I employed your father not too long ago,"

That name made her shiver. This man was one of the reasons her father was dead, "I don't want anything to do with you. You're a complete idiot!"

"Well, I would've hoped Clark thought of me better," said Darius, "I'm here for a good reason. I've been driven to hiding, I'm a shell of my former self," Darius paced the room, "I'm but a fraction of a man, and I need help."

"The only thing I know about you is that you like to fight things much bigger than yourself, and that you're a spoiled brat," she rolled her sleeves down, "I'm not interested in talking to you, or having anything to do with you."

Sarah began to walk back into the bodyshop, until Darius called her again, "You want to take down the man who killed your father?"

That got her attention.

"Your father was killed with his own blade, by the dragons of the NET," he got up to her, closely, "I met those bastards, face to face. I escaped them. They killed your father in cold blood," he moved closer, "And they'll kill more."

She thought about it. As much as her father had always said he was an idiot, he was devoted. Right now, just the reminder that the NET was the reason she was an orphan was enough to infuriate her. How many friends had been lost in this war against the NET, then the reminders of all the equipment that comes back barely worthy for scrap.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked,

"You can continue to repair tanks here, just to send them back to get destroyed, for people to get burned alive in again," he backed off, "Or you can come with me. I know how the NET operates, I know how to hit them where it hurts, and I know how you can help your country for the better...if you feel like signing on with some mercenaries."

Sarah thought about it. There was big risk in running off with some man, who she hardly knew. Everything inside of her told her this was a bad idea, that this guy didn't know what she was talking about, but he must've had confidence in her if he traveled this far to find her. The idea of signing on with mercenary groups also would be a realistic plan if they were to affect the NET in any way...

The choice was hard...both with pros and cons.

********

Sarah looks pensive for a moment, considering her options. She pockets Clark's letter, turning back to the man before her. Sarah knew that she was no combatant; the most she'd handled was the occasional man at a bar that had drunk too much to take a hint. She rubs her neck and addresses the man.

"Not sure what you want from me. I'm just a welder; Clark was the soldier in the family." Sarah looks over her shoulder through the door leading to the workshop. When she looks back, the resolution in her eyes tell the man that she's made her decision. "Fine. When do we leave?"

Spoiler:

Darius:

"I don't need a soldier, I need an envoy. There are certain towns I just can't be seen in anymore. Besides, if my operation runs smoothly, we'll have our soldiers within the week." Darius said.

"We'll head out as soon as you're ready. After that, we're headed to Boise."

Sarah: "Alright, just let me tell my boss." Sarah turns and pokes her head into the workshop. "I'M LEAVING!" Sarah returns, rolling her sleeves back down. "I'll go and pack. Where should we meet?"

Liam hops into the truck and starts off to the oil derrick (assuming i'm going lone wolf)

Morrison: Continue to be in a plot-induced coma.

Snowwolf

Liam rolled up the window, got out of his truck and locked it before proceeding to the 5ton truck, climbing up into it. He closed the door, trying to readjust to the coldness of this vehicle, then checked the visor for a key. On the luck of the draw, a key was tucked into it, and he started the vehicle, a powerful diesel engine failing to start at first, but then roaring to life with black smoke coming out of the exhaust.

"OK, try to remember how to drive a stick," said Liam to himself. His truck was automatic, and he hadn't driven a stick since he learned how to drive a car. Luckily for him, shifting and accelerating on an H-Pattern came back easily enough for him, and he was driving out of the facility in no time.

The radio then started to talk to him, "Hey! Sunshine! Are you there?"

Liam picked it up, "Mr. Durov?"

"The one and only. Have you gotten an idea on how to ignite the oil derrick?"

Liam thought about it for a moment, "Not particularly,"

"Underneath the seat in that truck is an FGR-17 Viper rocket launcher,"

"Is there any reason you have cut rate rocket launchers in here?" asked Liam. When the NET discovered the plans for the FGR-17 Viper, they used the same designs as the old world, with terrible results. A redesign though turned it into an actual competent weapon. Competing with the LAW.

"Once the government threw money in them they ceased to be cut rate. This is history boy! Those rocket launchers have been used for almost eighty years now, on six different warhead designs!"

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Fire it at the oil derrick. That should ignite it easily. Stay back though, they're high pressure oil derricks. Once you blast the cap off you'll see a geyser of napalm shoot a hundred feet into the air and it won't stop for months.

"Sounds fantastic!"

"Get to it!" ordered Durov, and Liam clicked the mic back onto the radio.

Ahead of him, six pickups filled with mercenaries passed him on the road, speeding past consecutively. He assumed they were the other mercenaries, since they sported the mercenary look of "Civilian with a gun". As they passed, he would give each a salute of acknowledgement, more or less an "I see you," gesture, to which they saluted back.

Orders were thin as it was. He was pretty much just tasked with retrieving property, destroying a derrick, and extracting as fast as possible. Another five minutes on the road, Durov came on to the radio again saying how Arthur Platform was currently being overrun by the West, as in, they were inside the area.

"The mercenary teams just passed me, we're a couple miles out," reported Liam.

********

Destroyer, Westhybrid

Sarah thought about it. This was a difficult decision, a practical stranger coming into your life one day and just saying 'forget everything and come with me' was usually an easy choice. She wasn't a fighter, she'd never killed anything past a bird, and to associate herself with these killers?

"I don't know what you want with me. I'm just a welder; my father was the fighter," she looked into the workshop, her colleagues at work, then back to Darius, switching between the two. Her final look at Darius though was clear, she knew what she wanted, "When are you leaving?"

"I have people here we need to talk to; local members of Los Zetas. I'll go as soon as you're ready, so, say your goodbyes for now and meet me in my truck."

"Alright, let me tell my boss," Sarah went back into the body shop and went to inform the floormaster about this, John Kite. He was welding when she interrupted him, opening his welding curtain to talk to him. He responded accordingly.

"Do you not remember your lessons of flash burning seven years ago? Or are you just stupid?" he stopped for the moment, "What's going on?"

Sarah had to come up with a good excuse as to why she would be leaving right now, on no notice at all, out to God knows where, but she already had a good one in mind. One that would go with anyone.

"I'm leaving,"

"Uh...no you're not. We're in the middle of a shift, YOU still need to help Miles and I mount the track back onto the M113 in the shop," Kite leaned on the wall, "What's going on here?"

"I was drafted. It's my time I guess," lied Sarah. Women in the West had a 66% chance of being drafted alongside men, who had a 95% chance of being drafted.

Kite's eyes widened, in a show of respect, "Good on you for the country. I'll tell the others. You go, you've got a lot of work ahead of you."

"Thank you, John,"

Sarah then went back out to the lobby after removing her hand shoes, welding apron, and putting her equipment away. Outside waited Darius in his truck, idling in front of the shop and she entered it, sitting passenger.

"I just lied about being drafted, which in a sense is almost what you just did to me, so you better not be completely full of it," Sarah knew well that lying about being drafted was tantamount to draft dodging, punishable by ten to fifteen years in prison. It was very seriously taken. "What's next?"

"Next, we need to get you enlisted in Los Zetas. They have a sector here in Bend, we'll start there."

********

Kiwi

These days, things get quiet when people start to talk about how the frontlines were approaching the airfields. Reserves were in place, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that nobody could comprehend that they were losing, despite the fact that they had a modern military, on par with the standards of old. Morrison and Caron relaxed in the commons room, waiting for the next call, which these days, you were lucky to relax an hour.

“Caron,” asked Morrison,

“Yeah?” Caron lit a cigarette,

“Do you know anything about cars?”

“A little,” Caron put his lighter back in his pocket, “What do you need?”

“It just came back to mind, but my sedan back at home has this knocking sound,”

“What kind of car is it?”

“’99 Albany,”

“Albany has always had a problem with rod knocks, you know, where the connecting rod comes loose and bangs against the cylinder, ever since they switched to the G3100 series in the late nineties. Does it sound like a woodpecker?”

“Sort of, I guess,” Morrison shrugged his shoulders,

“Might be a rod knock,” Caron was cut off by their squadron leader interrupting.

“Need you two for another sortie,” said Colonel Martin, their new squadron commander. Morrison had been in charge of the squadron for a while after the old commander was killed in combat in the north, and this new Colonel Martin was a straight-from-the-provinces officer with little to no experience in combat. Not only that, but he also liked to volunteer people for sorties.

Never the less, orders were orders, “What’s going on?” asked Morrison,

“I’ll have the tower tell you on your way out, get your suits on,”

At this rate, most pilots practically lived in their G-suits. Morrison and Caron went out to the tarmac not before getting suited and piloted their F16s, maneuvering them into the position on the runway. Callsign Spectre.

“Spectre, this is tower, hold for brief, over.”

Morrison replied, “Waiting,”

“This is straight from Martin. Colonel Descateaux is calling in a favor and you guys are it. One of his wetwork teams was sent to the frontlines a month ago. Under conditions on the frontlines, they were separated over the weeks, but now have reunited in a small village just due west of Bakken, called Chapoi. They are in trouble and need immediate air cover. F4 Phantoms are en route from Sundown to provide it, but they need to be guided in. Over.”

“Copies all,”

“Radio chatter from them is sparse, but a U2 flying over the area showed that the West may be moving to intercept them, although they’re not being prioritized,”

“Orders?”

“Guide the Phantoms in on their runs. Keep them protected from any hostile fighters.”

“Understood,”

Caron pulled up next to Morrison on the runway and gave him a salute before pulling on his oxygen mask. With clearance from the tower, it was time to act. Full throttle sent them into the air, headed west.

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

Boddy took time to adjust the tripod on the .50 caliber machine gun in the attic window of the two story building. He set the range on it to a hundred meters, preparing for an assault by the West at any given moment. Defending this village though was only a fallback plan. The true work was in leaving the village somehow.

After that was done, he went downstairs to the rest of them. Crane and Reznor were out scouting, but Eckert, a tank crew, Greg Stergess, and a professional soldier, Gene Gerard, were scattered about the village, preparing for the worst. If the West were to attack, they wouldn’t last long, no matter how much they prepared. Boddy approached Gerard down in the center of the village, where he was stockpiling all of their remaining supplies.

“It’s a good thing this village has been empty for a year,” said Gerard carrying a box, “Nobody to complain about us,”

“What’s in that box? You find something?” asked Boddy,

“Air,” Gerard threw the box on the ground, “Unfortunately, that’s all we’re finding,”

“There’s so much equipment left here,” Boddy pointed to the wrecked trucks, an abandoned M48, the fallen soldiers, “You’d think that there would be more than-”

“Ten hand grenades, four FAL magazines, one hi-power magazine, three hundred .50 rounds and a smoke grenade?” said Gerard, “They fought hard here. Down to the last man.”

Boddy walked over to Stergess, who was just about to open up the abandoned M48. Sturgess was an M60 gunner who had to abandon his tank holding the line when it lost its tread. He was the only survivor, the rest of the crew killed in the ensuing battle.

“About to open that up?” asked Boddy,

“Just about,” said Stergess, he pointed to the turret, “Sabot round penetrated the armor, right side track is out, hatch is popped open,”

“What’re you hoping to find?”

“Tanks have tons of .30 and .50,” he said, “I’m more concerned about the 7.62. We can use it to fill all of the empty magazines we have. M60s fully loaded carry 11000 rounds of it, in combat conditions, it can be less than a thousand. Point is,” he popped the hatch, looking back to Boddy, “It’s more than we have right now,” he looked inside, “Oh God,”

A smell all too familar overwhelmed Boddy and Stergess, “Oh God, I’m afraid to ask,” said Boddy,

“Blood, ash and death,” said Sturgess, “Sabot went through the crew…” Sturgess put his shirt over his nose, “Going to need a hose to wash this out,”

“You’ve seen this before?” asked Boddy,

“Not often, but yes. Every now and again, sabot round goes through the turret. It goes through the crew, goes through the equipment, sometimes it comes right back out,” he shook his head, “Last time this happened, I just opened the hatch underneath the hull and washed them out with a hose. The ground underneath was crimson for two weeks.”

“Sounds traumatizing,” said Boddy,

“Happens…” Sturgess still reeled at the stench, “Ugh, do I have to go in there?”

“What is that smell?” Eckert walked into the conversation,

“The crew inside,” Boddy said,

“Oh God,”

Chapoi was a testament to the NET’s resolve in the Resource War. Chapoi proved Descateaux wrong. This town was littered with the remains of the soldiers that defended it to the death, littered with the empty magazines from the soldiers and their rifles which covered the village sticking out of the snow like tree branches, all of the equipment which was left behind, not because they ran, but because nobody was left to carry it back. It was one of many testaments, one of many that only grew in number as the days passed on.

********

Destroyer, Westhybrid

Los Zetas was a shady organization, to say the least. In Mexico, a country that was built on enterprise and corporations, doubled well with mercenary corporations that were private armies. Restrictions were in place to keep individual mercenary groups low in recruitment, the cap usually being three thousand employees, but it was needless to say that Mexico was a country of shady business, umbrella corporations, and shadow companies. Mexico was loyal to the highest bidder, and currently, that was the West.

Mercenaries were useful to the West. In some cases, the West didn't want to spend time dealing with certain situations, or sometimes the West didn't want responsibility for an act that would be a waste of time for their own black ops. Los Zetas worked hand in hand with OFSA as boots on the ground, fulfilling the work of destroying supply convoys, disrupting logistics, and harassing the NET, but when it came to mercenaries, their combatants were about as varied as snowflakes, ranging all over the playing field from abhorrent to professional. Often, OFSA just used them as distractions, at least the less skilled groups, which only served as testimony to anyone who could survive that.

Volke, or Darius, just changed identity, drove out of town with Sarah in passenger. She gazed out into the countryside as they drove, freezing in the vehicle with no heat whatsoever.

"So, I have to ask," started Volke, "What's with the weird marks?"

Those marks were old, about twelve years ago when she was in her late teens she had the marks done illegally. Marks like these were illegal in the West, "They're to represent the Mauraton tribe from Oregon," she said, "Honored members of the tribes chisel these marks into each other, taking months to do the intricate patterns," she raised her sleeve to show, "Going through the process is considered extremely courageous, as it is very painful and the marks represent that courage said person has,"

"Were they done the same way?" asked Volke,

"Yes," said Sarah, "I wanted to complete them in the same manner to respect their memory,"

"Guessing how the West deals with tribals," he continued,

She looked at him, "Thirty years ago, the Mauraton tribe was destroyed by government forces, violently, after living peacefully on reservations for seventy years after their initial defeat. They were a great and noble people, and they didn't deserve it. I bare these marks to preserve their memories."

"That's strange to hear from a Westerner. Every Westerner I've ever met doesn't believe in any other people besides the Western people."

"The Western people though are a people that are conquered through our conquests," she explained, "History is destroyed when tribes are conquered. The remnants must assimilate into society, their memories gone," Sarah signed in sadness, "The Mauratons co-existed with the Western people for seventy years, until Chancellor Weston ordered them assimilated, the same one who is Chancellor today. It is illegal to bare the marks of a conquered tribe, but the Mauraton people deserve more than that, punishable by death in some cases for disgracing one's body with such 'filth'."

"Do you face that punishment?" asked Volke,

Sarah lifted her shirt partially, "I bare their marks on the right half of my torso, from the stomach, to the breast, to the collar, and down my arm. It was tradition for them," she explained, "I wear long sleeve shirts everywhere to prevent them from being visible."

"Then what's the point if nobody sees them?"

"The thought," she explained, "The thought is the point."

"See, I like that, you know why?" asked Volke,

"Why? So you can live your fantasy of relations with a marked woman?" she answered seductively,

Volke was flat, "No."

"Oh," Sarah looked out at the range again, "You're no fun,"

"You're rebellious. Not only that, you think for yourself,"

"Not in a way you'd be interested in logistically. I may go against the grain a bit, but I still believe in my country's sovereignty."

"It doesn't matter, you still go against the grain, and that's what we need to win wars like these. People who think outside of the box."

Sarah sighed again at the thought that she may have been just being used. She wasn't militarily experienced, had no leadership ability that she knew of, and had succeeded in life by just following in the path of her father, and those above her. She didn't know what this man saw in her, but, it was too late to back out now.

A facility outside of town came closer and closer into view. It was where the Los Zetas chapter here in Bend was headquartered, and where Volke would get her recruited officially into said organization. They approached the gate, and were immediately waved through, the gate guard recognizing him. He parked up to the building and disembarked, Sarah following suit.

Inside, men and women armed to the teeth in what resembled more of a street gang with too much money. If anything, they screamed 'rebels'. Sarah was puzzled at how things like this were allowed so close to the cities, this was basically a private army!

"Um..." said Sarah,

"Surprised?"

"This is funded?"

Volke put his arm around her, "Let me show you how this all works while we walk," he said, "Mexico is under incentive to...assist...the West in combative roles without actually...sending soldiers. Mercenary groups like Los Zetas, that yours truly happens to be a part of proudly, are funded through umbrella corporations and shadow companies by the Mexican government-"

"Sounds like you guys just play for the highest bidder," noticed Sarah, "You're proud to be the whore of the modern world?"

Volke moved his arm from around her to grabbing her behind the neck, "Now that's not very nice is it now? Choose your words carefully, I don't criticize your ass backwards country now do I?"

Sarah remained quiet,

"You can go back to welding metal just for it to get destroyed again or you can help and make a difference, although you actually just lied about being drafted so I guess that option is off the table. Wouldn't want to go in on a capital charge now would you? I hear draft dodging is seen as treason..."

"Were you like this with my father as well?" asked Sarah, angrily,

"No," said Volke, "He knew his place,"

********

Sarah: Grinning, she replies to Volke "Don't be so sure about that. If Clark didn't like something you did, youd've gotten to see just how good that old bastard was with a knife." She runs a finger across Volke's neck, then walks towards the compound. She continues talking over her shoulder. "Didn't matter how much you were paying him. Money never meant much to Clark."

Volke:

"I don't mean money kept him in his place. Loyalty kept him in his place." Volke said, clearly aggravated.

"You don't know a damn thing about your father. He didn't need money, he needed a purpose." Volke said.

He sighed, calming himself down and clearing the air.

"Lets go."

Snowwolf

"Oh my God,"

Arthur Platform's situation was going from bad to worse, not to mention, the retreating NET army was just shooting the workers as denying assets rather than let them be. Liam parked up behind the mercenaries in the trucks and picked up the FGR Viper from under the seat, disembarking the truck. He knelt down beside, armed the FGR and aimed at the oil derrick, then fired. The oil derrick then detonated like a bomb, spewing burning oil high into the air as shrapnel came down. Liam threw the Viper back in the truck, then went further into the camp to find survivors, grouping with the other mercenaries in the fight, who were already taking casualties.

"Did Durov send you guys?" asked Liam,

The mercenaries kept themselves against the incline as much as possible, trying to not crowd each other. Their leader spoke up, "We need to get into that barracks over there," he pointed to a building,

"Alright then! I'm on it!" Liam picked himself up and started to run, much to the chagrin of the mercenary leader,

"Wait! Wait!" said the officer, but Liam ran anyway.

The mercenaries looked to each other in awe, that he was just running down there, "That guy's nuts!" said one,

"He's going to get himself killed!"

Liam started his run, sprinting down the way to the barracks about two hundred feet away, dodging through busted structures, ducking around car wrecks, stepping over bodies, and all the while his comrades stared in awe as rounds fell around him, not hitting a thing. The Western soldiers probably couldn't believe what they were seeing, but then to top that off, as if it could be topped off. He came back. One minute after he entered the barracks, he began his run again, sprinting through the same structures, jumping onto of car wrecks to clamber over them quickly, stepping lightly to not trip on bodies, and again the Western soldiers couldn't hit him.

"Fornell, help me keep their heads down!" said the officer, spraying his L1A1 full automatic down range, and the awe in that officer's face when suddenly Liam was running back, "My God..."

Liam tripped when a round almost hit him in the foot, but he picked himself right back up and kept on sprinting, right into the ditch that the mercenaries were holding and taking casualties. He rolled in, over a mercenary, and got right back with the group officer.

"You must be divine or something..." said the officer, "Did you find anything?"

"The..." Liam was out of breath, "The...the barracks is...empty. Everyone inside was shot and killed,"

"That's probably the NET denying assets!" blurted a mercenary, "They're not going to be happy!"

"OK...uh..." the officer looked back and forth, thinking about his options, "You three, stay behind and keep the soldiers' heads down, the rest of us, let's go!"

The group got up and ran back to their trucks, firing behind them as they ran. The three soldiers still in the trench stayed for a few more seconds, and then also took to running while their comrades held the Western troops in their place. All in all, it was about five minutes of chaos, five minutes of complete chaos and something of failure. The few remaining NET soldiers, either left behind, or still alive even among all the fighting being overwhelmed, grouped up with the mercenaries, piling into the trucks with them, crowding them all.

"I've got the wheel!" called Liam, hopping into the cabin of the truck and starting the engine, which again failed to start immediately, only proving to make the situation more intense, before then starting up. A few NET soldiers piled in the back, getting low to the ground to avoid rounds, one flew through the cabin, whizzed by Liam's head, and put a nice clean hole through the windshield.

The convoy then rolled out, the three pickups taking the lead, overloaded with mercs, then the 5t truck started behind them. Liam looked in the mirror to see the derrick spewing flames far into the sky, black smoke billowing from the well, along with the hostile troops securing the remnants of Arthur platform.

"At least we completed one thing," he said to himself,

********


Apocalypse

The cold February wind blew softly, just enough to shake the grass a little and the troopers took advantage of it, playing baseball in the thin snow and enjoying the warm sun. Corsican took his time to draw the Sleeping Giant mountain that overlooked the fort and town. Helena prided itself on it, and Corsican respected it. It raised itself north of the town, almost as if standing sentinel, like it was the big brother of the area.

As he drew it and the forests before it, a few of his comrades played baseball. Hunter walked up to bat, taking the stance to hit it.

“Nail it, Franki!” said one of the soldiers standing in the sidelines, Durant, who was pitching, prepared herself.

“Feeling confident Sergeant?” she asked,

“I can take whatever you’ve got!” said Hunter,

“Guess what though,” Durant changed hands, “I’m not left-handed!”

Durant pitched the ball as hard as she could, having been varsity in secondary school on the girls’ baseball team. Hunter hit it, and it flew straight back to Durant who caught it and turned to first base.

“RUN FRANKI! RUN!” shouted the soldiers, and Hunter ran but not before Durant threw it to first base and put Hunter out.

“Nice try there Sergeant, I’m to bat first!” Durant ran to the home plate, but first went to the chain link fence Corsican was sitting behind, “You want to play with us Tyson?”

Corsican looked to her, “No I’m fine, but thanks for asking anyway,” he smiled,

She smiled and went to bat, and Corsican continued on his art. He had always found it soothing to draw things ever since he was a little boy in Alaska, drawing the mountains that carved the landscape. He erased, sharpened, and kept on drawing eventually completing the silhouette of the mountains and landscape.

“What kind of Westerner are you?” said a voice behind him,

“What?” Corsican turned around,

“Drawing instead of playing baseball, it’s as Western as it gets!” Lieutenant Grant put his foot on the bench and leaned on his knee, “You like art?”

“It calms me,” explained Corsican, “How many times in Bakken I wanted to just draw to get my mind off of things, you know?”

“Yeah…” said Grant, “I like to draw too,”

“Really?”

“Really,” said Grant, “See, I grew up in the mountains, they’re called the Sawtooth mountains back home because they’re really jagged; great for drawing! They take your breath away,”

“I love the mountains,” said Corsican, “They’re so scenic and picturesque,”

“I used to log with my father when I was just your age,” Grant sat down with him, “My father, I don’t know how he did it, but he could cut a tree down, any which way he wanted,” Grant raised his hand, “In fact! This one time, a fence flanked this tree we were cutting down, and I didn’t know how to take it down without it smashing the fence,”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know how he did it, but he cut a groove in the tree, and got to it with the axe. Took him about thirty minutes, but that tree practically spun on its trunk, fell over, hopped the fence and landed parallel to the fence on the other side.”

“Like jumped?” asked Corsican,

“It jumped the fence,”

“How about that,” said Corsican, still drawing, “Do you talk to your father?”

Grant sighed, “He made no apologies, and he was an unforgiving man, but he made your hardass 1st LT didn’t he?”

Corsican smiled, “You know, when I was first introduced to all of you soldiers, I hated this place. Everyone treated me and Gunnar like something they scraped off their boots but over the year, I felt fine,” Corsican watched his comrades play ball, “We’re all brothers and sisters, we’ve gone through so much together. Every day, we got our butts handed to us but we got right back up and hit back every time,”

“Hit hard too,”

“For me, but I think for a lot of us it’s true…I never had a family. My parents were always gone, I couldn’t make friends for the most part because there weren’t a lot of children, and then one day I just lost it all,”

“But you feel you gained a lot more?”

“A lot more,” said Corsican, “When we shouted that chanting, I told Desmond it made me feel more alienated, and that was a little true, but these people…”

“It’s a strange bond,” explained Grant, “It can only come from war, but the people you meet here aren’t colleagues, they aren’t acquaintances,”

“They’re family,” said Corsican, “And I’m glad to have them,”

“I’ll let you be, I’m going to talk with the officers,” said Grant. Corsican saluted him, went back to drawing, and the officer walked off. While this was leave for everyone, for the officers, it was really just work under peaceful conditions. Their work almost never stopped because there was always something to organize, always soldiers to put in line, and always squabbles to argue about in the officer chambers. Their current work pertained to organizing the new replacements into companies, reorganizing the battalions, support for the veterans, and other miscellaneous services like the psych checks that were required to return them to battle.

********

Jagdgeschwader

Officers were up for marksmanship qualifications as part of the combat testing, along with the replacements that were being funneled in. Desmond, Grant, and the other senior enlistees turned officer were being tested alongside new junior officers straight out of the University of Military Science (Known as ‘The Academy’) in Twin Falls, Idaho, who were on their first assignments.

Master Sergeant Jeffery Allen administering, the officers stood at attention, ready to begin their testing on the firing range with several weapons: The M14, the M1911, and the M60, which were the three main firearms used by the West.

“Obtain your weapons and prepare yourselves on the lines,” said Allen, the officers obtaining M14 rifles. An M14 is the basic weapon of any UGW serviceman. In basic training, every soldier is required to be able to hit 80% of their shots in a stationary man sized target at 300 yards, or 900 feet, to complete training, but only from the prone position, the most steady. In the qualifications however, everything was only 200 feet away, man sized targets. Any soldier could hit 300 yards away while prone, completely immobile. Hitting a target 200 feet away, while standing up, was still challenging,

"Twenty rounds each, weapons free on the firing range!" said the Master Sergeant with that inflection all instructors seemed to have.

The officers fired slowly, but for qualifications were also timed. Thirty seconds were given to fire twenty rounds, and again, 80% had to hit. Master Sergeant Allen walked the officers, observing their postures, critiquing mistakes, and analyzed their hits. All of the officers could pull this off easily, especially the battle hardened ones, but formalities were formalities. After thirty seconds, the Master Sergeant called it.

"Cease fire!" he said again with an inflection, "Cease fire on the firing line!"

Allen watched the officers handle their weapons, all of them, except for one, putting their rifles pointed up or down. The one who didn't, standing just to the right of Desmond and Grant, swung his rifle around and aimed it all of the officers to the right of him, including the Master Sergeant, who didn't take kindly to that. Allen approached him non-nonchalantly, taking his weapon from the graduate's hands and smacking him so hard upside the head that his officer's cap fell off.

"The hell's your problem? Think you can swing a rifle like you own the place graduate?" the Master Sergeant opened the chamber on the rifle, which ejected a single bullet. Allen shoved the rifle back in the hands of the 2nd Lieutenant, and picked up the bullet, "Next time you decide to swing your loaded rifle around like a conscript recruit, I'm gonna shove this rifle down your goddamn throat and send this bullet flying out of your ass at 2800 feet per second, UNDERSTAND ME?"

The Lieutenant looked back to Desmond and Grant, who were watching it happen behind him, "Don't look at us graduate, Master Sergeant's right," said Desmond calmly,

Allen returned to business, "Next is onto the M60 machinegun after the targets are reset, 15% accuracy while standing at 50 feet..."

********

FoundDa Kiwi wrote:

Spoiler:

Finally someone caught a reference. Only had to be the most obvious one.

There's so many references in this entire story to Operation Flashpoint and various other sources, I'm surprised I haven't been accused of plagiarism. Tons of names from the story are from Flashpoint, Band of Brothers, etc. not direct copies but definitely close.

Granted, The Pacific definitely needed to be referenced. Such a great series.