Futuristic Space 'Nam: The First of Them All

[Axel The Englishman]

SPACE 'Nam

Elephantom - The Squad Leader
"Because everybody needs a jackass in every unit."

Hagbard Celine - The Designated Field Gunner
"Fucking pussy! Pull the damn trigger!"

Axel The Englishman - The Assistant Field Gunner
"I only like this guy. And that's saying a lot."

Raku - The Rifleman
"Meh."​

 

[Axel The Englishman]

Ah, the fresh jungle air. You could take it all in from just below. And by fresh, it smelt like absolute fucking shit. The worst kinds of smells mixed into one, glorious cocktail of nasal genocide. About four Marines crammed into a Remfield got front row seats to it all. They all appeared gruff 'n hot stuff, except for that pussy just on the left. Fucking wanker. Can't even hold his bloody gun right - even with MAS assistance.

Behold B. Potentially the most likeable member of this unit. And that's saying quite a lot.

"Hey, Field Sergeant." Dared the brave soul. "I noticed you chucked out all of our flares and swapped it with mango juice. I'm not questioning your wisdom, but that decision was piss poor 'n all."

This wasn't exactly the most capable Squad Leader about.

 

[Raku]

James took in a long, deep breath of jungle air as they went along. It smelled much better than the foundry or home, not saying it smelt good though. The stench was still horrid, but James has dealt with worse. With an adjustment of his rifle, he cracked his neck. Ignoring what one of the soldiers said, James let out a chuckle. "Smells much better than home" he says loud enough for everyone to hear.

 

[Elephantom]

FLD SGT. STUART


Stuart winced at the cacophony that surrounded him — the jungle was practically crackling with life. Birds were crowing, large animals were growling, and a whole menagerie of small animals and large insects were struggling over their respective territories, scurrying about like mangy little kids. The jungle smelled thickly of animal shit, wet mud, and moist leaves — there was a slight hint of exotic fruits, orange-ish, could've been the mango juice he had stocked away in his enormous backpacks and the separate packs of his men. He had replaced all their canteen waters with mango juice; mango had a lot of potassium in it, and potassium was good for the body.

As the car zoomed down the craggy path, bobbing up and down, an animal lurched from the treeline and for the car — the creature screeched, scratching its claws against the metal before the miracle of physics tossed it away towards the road. Stuart started back, slacking against the seat. Dis-fucking-gusting, Stu mused, as he watched a couple of red ferns flanked by two lines of russet brown trees, where the animal had disappeared off to. It was a quick sight, the vehicle having driven by quickly, but it was long enough for Stu to digest the visual information; it was a lot, to be honest.

Red ferns, Stu had never seen any red ferns in his entire life — Edinburgh wasn't known for red ferns, or any kind of exotic plants. Then again, Stuart himself wasn't known for being a botanist.

Stuart shrugged, rolling up the window, before shifting his view from the vehicle window to the innards of the car. The ambiance was generally quiet, now that Stu had closed off the window, except for the low hum that emitted from the hood of the car — the new ion generator. Could go on for days and days on end, but was very susceptible to damage; good thing there was a 'smart guy' on board. Stu guffawed at the though of that. The kid was a blot on the name of the commandos.

~

“Who the 'ell needs flares, anyway?” In the quietness, Stu's mild Irish accent was even more apparent.

He shifted around, grumbled inaudible words — curses, maybe — before reaching out for B's backpack, and slipping out the water flask tucked in the open, side pocket.

“If yer' so afraid of potassium, you'd be better off without 'em!” He barked, before squeezing it near the window. He leaned in forward, until he could get a good view of the ridiculously ordinary rifleman. “And it smells like sweat 'n grime in 'ere!”

A thunder, muffled by the closed-off car, erupted in the distance.

 

[Hagbard Celine]

Glenn-ter The Dragon.



Their "car" lurched wildly. Glenn supposed that he should stop thinking of it as a car and start trying to learn the lingo. It was an "AV." After referring to it by it's civilian title, their Squad Leader had berated him for five minutes straight. Some of the words were intelligible. Some were words that Glenn had never heard before, though he got their gist. He didn't think that SL. Sgt Stuart liked him very much. Which is probably why he made Glenn drive the damned thing. Every time they hit a pothole, or swerved to avoid leaping fauna and random flora, the rest of the fire-team would shout, swear and in the case of Sgt Stuart, spill mango juice down his neck.

He kept checking the Network Guidance System to ensure that there were no sudden geographical features that might suddenly leap out of the over-growth and claim them in the name of Darwin. Sudden drops and rapid ascent would mean that they were stranded together ... or rather, that Glenn was stranded with the three stooges. There wasn't a lot he could do about the rocks or smaller, squat, course vegetation. Fortunately, the AV lurched over or crunched through them with barely a scratch. It was good kit, if you knew how to handle it. Glenn was finally grateful for that year that he had spent in that dilapidated warehouse, gaining a familiarity with the forklift, his only area of manly-mechanical aptitude.

They were an inane and rancid bunch, each of them bore their own scars, physical or psychological from whatever theatres they'd fought in ... or whatever horrifying madness had gone on inside their penal unit. Of all of them, only rifleman James seemed approachable but he spent most of his time giggling at the other's jokes, instantly earning him Glenn's disrespect. Not that he had the time or inclination to lend voice to that disrespect but he let it stew there a while, regardless.

After a while of no violent movements on the part of the vehicle, having found something that resembled a road, the drive became almost peaceful, with the thrum of the power-cell throbbing away in the background. One of the members of fire-team alpha started snoring, but another was grinding his teeth angrily. Glenn didn;t dare look round to find out which was which. His neck was itching ... Damned Mango Juice ... Glenn was sure that something foreign had crawled down there and bit him.

 

[Axel The Englishman]

The young Marine lad sat lurched in his individual seat. Sweat made sure to stick his UCD straight to his back as if it was some sort of super adhesive. The formation of this unit was worrying at best. At best, I say.

"I got another question for ya, Field Sergeant." The chap fired away like Glenn normally does on the Firing Range. "Why the fuck did we jack an ATMAV? We were suppose to hop in a Shelley with the rest of the Squad."

So many questions for an incompetent Squad Leader. Chances are that their deaths were close by. Either by ramming into a tree, careening off the path or by simply getting blown up by some Seps.

 

[Raku]

James leaned forward in his seat with his rifle across his chest. He was in awe and disgust at the scenery. It was definitely a change for him, but not so much when it came to the heat. He had built a tolerance to heat, but the sweat is what bugged him. Wiping his brow, he turned his head back to the squad. With Bart conversing with the CO, he felt the need to talk to someone as well. With another rifle adjustment, he spoke loud and clear. "So, when we gonna get to shoot shit?". James was known to have that attitude that just says "Okay, let's do something other than bench are asses here, aka, shoot something". It would make some instantly know he was a grunt, a frontline fighter that lived for the rush of combat.

 

[Elephantom]

FLD SGT. STUART


Stu yawned, his cheeks flush with a reddish tinge, and his eyes burning with a furious lilt to it. One can easily assume that he had blended the mango juice in his canteen with an alcoholic liquid, as he is known to do. The car, as it was bobbing up and down courtesy to the ardor of the suspension systems, suddenly reached a flat ground, putting the vibrations at ease; the thick, lush jungle thinned, though it still retained its verdant colours. Contrasting against the exotic leaves, were the sallow, khaki road. Wherever it lead, Stu had no idea, although he faintly remembered the objective catering to scouting needs — the memory, as soon as it sparked, died down within Stuart's hazy head.

Stuart hoisted himself up more reasonably on the seat, mumbling incoherent words — his belly wasn't made out of lead, despite popular perceptions.

“Because, because, because-” His voice trailed off into unintelligible phrases, his Irish accent now even more thicker — this usually signified that he was terribly drunk. In spite of the fact that he had imbibed a lot of the quasi-mango juice, he had still clearly acknowledged the AFG's words.

The rifleman's vigorous words soon popped up, striking Stuart out from his drunken stupor; with renewed energy, he spoke again. “We got a car, because, eh, we need to shoot shit!”

Stuart promptly planted his knee into the seat in front of him, Glenn's seat, jerking it forward. “Drive fast, nerd, and ram anyone you see!” Stu barked as he started drinking from the uncapped flask again, specks of the viscous orange fluid dropping down the back of Glenn's loose shirt and body armour.

 

[Hagbard Celine]

From Glenn to Glenn - and Down the Mountainside ...

The drive had been long. They were nearing their blip. Pvt Friendly couldn't remember if it was a DZ, an AO or a COP. It was getting hotter as it hit the middle of the day. Glenn was starting to feel faint as drops of sweat began to bad and drip behind his glasses, stinging his eyes and making them water more than was usual. On top of this, the rifleman had begun checking his weapons periodically and shouting macho catch lines, which seemed to please the others but left Glenn wondering if the man had a case of PTSD. He was twitching and grinning, obviously dealing with constant streams of adrenaline coursing through his blood stream. He was probably psychologically immune to it's effects and desired actual combat in order to get his buzz. Glenn glanced at him in the mirror once and looked back quickly at the NGS after finding James staring back at him, an horrific grin plastered on his face.

Maybe another five minutes of this and hopefully they'd be among more sane individuals. A Command Structure that didn't rely on alcohol-spiked, potassium rich, mango juice. People who knew their business. Maybe they would realise his ocvious potential for organisation and promote him out of this band ...

... at that exact moment, Sgt Stu kneed his chair forward, crushing him briefly against the steering wheel, honking the horn loudly as more mango juice spilled down Glenn's back. The chair righted but the NGS had been knocked onto the floor. Glenn scrambled for it desperately with one hand, trying to look over the steering wheel as he did so, his foot sticking under the break. He felt around for it under his seat. Something moved and he recoiled in fear, though it had just been Sgt Stu's boot. The vehicle, jokingly named "Remfield" after the VTOL that their Squad Leader had been given the orders to collect, totally ignored and settled for this oversized monstrosity instead, swung off the track that they had been heading along and went headfirst down a deep ravine.

Leaves and branches thrashed and whipped into the open windows, cracking a lens in Glenn's glasses. The rest of the fire-team bounced around the vehicle as none of them had fastened their seat-belts. Heads smacked from the ceiling, teeth and lips rattled from seats and shoulders and someone's weapon discharged, putting a hole in the windscreen. After only half a minute of this, "Remfield" slowly and comically ran into a tree, where it wedged at an angle. Not going anywhere any time soon.

Glenn chose this moment to worry, briefly, about which of the rest of the fire-team would take this turn of events the worst. The Drunkard Sgt, the Sociopathic Charmer or the PTSD rifleman. He needn't have worried about that though, because although the crash had not been fatal, Glenn looked through the windscreen and was horrified by what he saw ...

... and his neck still itched.

 

[Axel The Englishman]

B contemplated what kind of sin he had committed just to be placed within this unit. A Squad Leader who can't even follow his own orders, and a Field Gunner who couldn't even keep on the road. Well, none of them were even Motorised and had no training in operating an ATMAV. So no surprise there. This AWOL mango juice had sprayed everywhere - looks like someone should've kept the flares and not replaced it with 48 cartons of shitty processed 'necessities'.

"Well done, Glenn. But you fucked up getting us all killed, you flippin' muppet." A rant escaped the Marine's mouth, before directing itself towards the ears of the Squad Leader. "And you... how the bloody Hell are you even a Field Sergeant? We sure you just didn't come about and fake your seniority?"

Bart made an attempt to remove the buckled door that protected the innards of the vehicle. Not even with the assistance of MAS could it be removed. Appeared as if some sort of tree had fallen on top.

 

[Raku]

James let out a chuckle as the driver fumbled around trying to grab something off the floor, but was replaced with curses as the vehicle was sent of the trail and into a ravine. He felt as if he was in a giant washing machine as he was tossed around the back seat. At some point his head was thrown into the seat in front of him. James felt the recoil of his rifle as it fired a round. Once it finally stopped, James brought his hand up to his nose. His nose was bleeding from the impact, good thing it wasn't broken. Spitting out some blood that made it's way down his throat, he sighed. "FUCK!" he shouted as slammed his fist against the door. He made sure his rifle was on safety, it was at the moment. He didn't understand how the round was fired, but he wasn't gonna think about it at the moment. "I second what he said. How the hell are you are Sergeant!?" he said to the mango-juiced squad leader. Turning towards the door, he kicked a few times with full force. He could only hope it flew open.

 

[Elephantom]

FLD SGT. STUART


The car rushed down the jungle, jumping over craggy cliffs and sloped hills, before landing in a ravine, and then moving on to crash into a rickety tree. The hard modusteel bumper let out several dull clangs as it skewered the weak support of the tree, forcing it to drop on them. The tree came crashing down on the car, the top bending down but not breaking exactly.

Shit.

~

“I'm captain because I'm, eh, captain.” Stu muttered, surprisingly audible yet terribly incorrect — he was still far enough from being a lieutenant, much less an actual captain. The shock had driven the liquor out of him, filling him instead with great fury. He realized his incompetence in selecting a reliable compatriot to drive their sole mode of transportation.

“The one who can handle shit, unlike a few certain lunkheads.” There was a strong emphasis on 'lunkheads' — his tone was undoubtedly venomous. Stuart half-warily glanced at everyone, rotating his head painstakingly slowly, before shifting his attention to surveying their bugging problem.

The damage to the vehicle wasn't too exceptional — the car itself was neatly armoured — but the main worry was the fact that it was their only method of travel, now ruined, and they were stuck in unknown, possibly hostile lands; the car was getting too acquainted with the tree above it, and the ground below it, to bother.

~

He bit his chapped lips. They were in a bit of a quagmire, it seemed. He sent a fidgety hand through his head, brushing it through and through till it resembled less and less of the fine comb it was few minutes ago. A few seconds of lingering without any action, stagnant thoughts running through his head, the squad leader decided to consult his primary source of information: the standard field pamphlet.

Every leading officer were given a special-issue personal dialog device — PDD, to be more concise — to turn to in the event that they forgot the essence of their objective, or were drowning in metaphorical mire. Stuart was given one after his hasty promotion, and it was a thoroughly used one, which broke after three days of mildly rough use. They never gave him another one, nor did he ask for them.

And so, now, it was with deliberation that Stu approached a more traditional form of knowledge-seeking — physical paperback. It was a thick book, despite being touted as a pamphlet, red in colour and the title written in a bold military stencil typesetting. Should one try to observe the book further, they might discover that it truly wasn't any ordinary standard-issue book: ‘War for Dummies’, and written in smaller words beneath it, ‘For Popular War Enactments’. It wasn't even a professional book by the looks of it, the cover bearing an amateurish vibe.

Stuart held the book on one hand, flipping through the pages in several fleeting motions, never staying on any certain page for too long. After a minutes passed, with no resolution reached, Stuart quietly slid the book into the cracked, open window of the car. It landed on the seat with a cushioned thud.

He now knew well enough on what to do next.

~

“Alright, boys, orders is that we, uh, move deep into the jungle.” Stuart said as he turned towards Glenn, addressing him directly. “Ready your objective-tracking-hootenanny.”

“Those pinko tossers might be close by.”

 

[Hagbard Celine]

A Glenn-t of Steel.

... and so they marched. B's incessant moaning keeping them fuelled with indignation towards their squad leader who, in turn, fuelled himself on his rage towards Pvt Glenn. Before long Glenn was decidedly out-of-fuel. He'd attached the NGS to his gun, an unwieldy weapon that he found hard to carry, even with the support of his mechanised-exo-frame which bore the brunt of the weight. Having been directly transferred by accident to this penal unit instead of the admin role that he had been drafted for, he had not undergone basic training. He did not yet know how this had come to pass but none of his superior officers (penal units but for the political officers and judicial guards) had listened to his snivelling and fearful whining about a lack of training. It was simply unfeasible to them that this man, clearly an advanced con-artist or tax cheat, had come to be in the wrong place.

His cracked lens was giving him a headache ... but that could have been the heat, the humidity ... or the insect bite, which had begun to throb the further into the jungle they walked. His vision was blurred with sweat and his feet dragged and tripped on roots and rocks. He was in hell ... and hell smelled of warm Mango juice.

He looked back at the burn-out sergeant and wondered what crimes had brought him to be at the head of a penal unit, risking his life for the opportunity at redemption or freedom. Wandering blindly through a jungle with barely a functional central nervous system to help guide his path.

After what felt like hours and probably was ... they had made it to the edge of their destination. Why on earth the others let him struggle along at the head of their column, heavy weapon in tow, glancing down at the NGS through squinting eyes and broken glasses, tripping constantly and slowing them down without either helping him or killing him and stripping him of his gear, he could not fathom. They probably thought it was funny.

Glenn pushed his way through a thick bush that stank of some over-ripe fruit and found himself in the middle of a village. The houses were on stilts and there were not many of them. There were people though, none in uniform and each staring at the hideously unfit, skinny man, encased in a metal frame and carrying a weapon that was clearly too large for him.

He blinked and scratched at the bite which had now grown to the size of the end of his finger and burned when he touched it. That couldn't be right ... The people were still staring. Waiting for him to make his next move. They seemed on edge. The rest of the fire-team had not followed him through the bush. He looked at the nearest person, an old man sitting on a log, who had paused eating from a wooden bowl filled with what looked like beetles and grubs, some of which crawled on him as he sat frozen.

"Do you umm ... have any water by any chance?"

 

[Axel The Englishman]

B admired the pure stupidity that had manifested itself right before his very eyes. The Designated Field Gunner wasn't exactly one for a subtlety as one could make out just by looking at him. Simply walking right in front of Tangos without a single care in the world. Fortunately the rest of the unit had some brain functionality to take up position behind the bushes and await the results. It was too risky to launch an offensive with no knowledge of their current situation.

The lad readied his rifle in case the situation got a little too spicy. Something that could at least avenge this chap over here when he gets gunned down by potential Seperatists, of course. He maintained the weapon with the sights locked with his eye. The gun was directed towards the biggest and baddest bloke right here, sharing the spotlight with the DFG.

"10 units says the lad kicks the bucket. Anyone going to take me up on that, or nah?"

"Also, why couldn't the Field Sergeant have been leading? Why can't you be up there instead? I mean, this was the only standard tactical procedure we managed to get right, but c'mon man."

 

[Raku]

James wasn't enjoying the trip out here. He had to constantly shoo bugs away from the drying blood on his lips and chin that would just come right back. As they appeared to approach some kind of village he almost felt happy, then he remembered something from the textbooks in school about this war called the "Vietnam War". Enemies would act like civilians before attacking friendly troops. He shrunk back behind the bushes and laid down, pointing his gun at the most hostile looking one there. Looking to B as he spoke, James gave a smile. To some, it would have been a sinister site. Blood around the mouth, smiling like that. He looked like he just bit into a freshly killed animal. "Amen to that" he said. How many times is James gonna look this evil? It was bad enough the way he grinned, now his face was covered in blood.

 

[Elephantom]

FLD SGT. STUART


The trek was long, dreadful, and with the summer heat bearing down on the poor sergeant, it also appeared to be tiring — not that Stuart was lacking in endurance, he was just chock full of sweat now. The salty fluid streamed down his forehead, and made the whole ordeal more annoying than it was. The walking, by itself, was something that Stuart could handle. He doubted the same thing went with Glenn; the tosser was downright tripping on shadows, tumbling towards the ground many a time. The kid looked like he had a pair of real sleepy legs. Body revolution, Stuart thought, amusing. The clumsy lunkhead had been positioned right on the front, in the guise of leading their spear-like formation, at the behest of Stuart — though, it appeared more like a thinly-veiled threat than a genuine insistence.

While this action might've confused his comrades, Stuart knew that well, since this positioning seemed to encourage a lacklustre speed, Stu felt no need to point out the obviousness of his reasoning: Glenn was their meat shield, and it might've been the only true way by which the kid contributed to the team. When adversaries attack, Stu had learned from his book, they always kill the pointman or the leader first.

As plain as that.

~

The gruff sergeant went on grumbling without any end, about the consistency of their troubles, and of the varied incompetence of their only field gunner; increasing his vigour was the fact that he just couldn't drink his rummy mango juice. The alcohol only seemed to increase the heat.

Glenn's stumbling slowly began to crescendo, and with it, also Stu's weary fury. Stuart had tried — many times at that — to petition to the captain about the possible transfer of Cpl. Glenn, but the answer had always remained the same: nothing but frequent attempts at dodging the situation at hand.

Stu let out a more accented grunt, the thought having infuriated him slightly, as he strode dangerously close to Glenn. Stuart's fury rowing in on a stable point now, but even the man himself didn't know exactly when it was going to reach its boiling point — the last thing Stu wanted was to get court martialed for treason, for slaughtering Glenn and cannibalizing the shit out of him.

Stuart nudged the gunner with his elbow. His grimy hands were occupied with carrying his rifle, which he cradled unceremoniously in his interlocked arms.

“Hurry up, Lunkhead.” Stu's voice now lacked the common comical hint to it that most men were used to back in the garrison camps. It was a rare moment of seriousness. “Before we get, eh, ambushed.”

They were walking on what seemed like a pathway, lacking in any significant hurdles — strange, really. Sallow rows of stolid trees, foreign in build and reeking of sickeningly sweet fruits, decorated the edges of the seemingly well-tread path — while the tracks were covered neatly, by bushes that were propped upwards and stray twigs and leaves, Stuart found the lack of obstruction to be odd, especially considering the density of the forest. Brooding only momentarily, Stu continued to walk, half-mindedly, his rifle pointed loosely towards the front.

~

“Wary, gents.” Stuart spoke. His Irish accent had somewhat returned. “We may 'ave ou'selves a rowdy shindig 'ere.”

As if one cue, Glenn, not heeding his warning, went straight through the tarp-like treeline and into an obvious opening. The light that pierced through the dense canopy contrasted heavily against the dark jungle — any fool could recognize that it led to a place more vacant than the forest. In other words, it could be an enemy stronghold. Stuart's eyes nearly popped open at the though of that, soon turning into a suitable pair of slits — the sudden transition from dark to light was, needless to say, disorienting.

“Lunkhead!” Stuart hissed, prudent enough to not let it become a shout. It was too late by then, for Glenn had already strayed too far into the clearing. He inched nearer, lowering his body to a careful crouch, before positioning himself close to the AFG and the terribly nondescript rifleman who had moved in quick.

They were saying something, but Stu couldn't make it out — his mind dwelt on other matters.

“Shit, if the cap'n finds ou' we flunked ou' first mission-” Stuart's voice trailed off. Indeed, the captain wasn't going to be satisfied with this turn of things. First, the deliberate car-jacking, and now the loss of a teammate. Stu gulped. This was a real unlucky day, filled with bad omens.

The squad leader sidestepped away from his mates, crouched down, and then rested his left elbow on a nearby tree stump, using the other hand to gingerly place his rifle on the flat top of the former, proud tree. With the long-barreled front of his rifle, Stu pushed back the flanges of fern till he got a good view of the situation.

And it was a bad situation.

~

A very bad situation, indeed. Stu silently cursed; he got the worst out of the recruits, the bad bunch. Glenn was living testament to that.

The gunner was squatting awkwardly near a stilted floor, on the muddy ground; over him, was a bullish-looking man dressed in a peasant-like tunic and other rough clothing; he had a bearish face that rivaled that of a bulldog, and a dark skin that only accentuated his hateful eyes. He didn't seem like a possible adversary, or a separatist, but he had a great enough build — a brutish build, to be exact, larger than any of the soldiers Stuart had, and one to be feared.

Beside him, were many men all staring at him. None wielded weapons, except for a supposedly old man who was wielding a bowl and many insects within his fingers.

Shit wasn't looking pleasant for Glenn.

~

The village wasn't, by all means, well-built — the stilts, staked into the muddy, craggy ground, were barely holding the houses and the floor above them. It was the city's more drier time, the water hardly covering the ground itself — the stilts and village's height seemed more apparent as a result. The village was split into two sections, resembling two crude squares, a bridge connecting them and allowing the hidden path to continue. The bridges weren't affixed to the primitive mezzanine, rather they were simply lain on them, a product of hasty thinking. Bridges such as this were scattered throughout the village, connecting the various floors and houses together — while the village itself evoked a crude aura, it was a sight to behold.

The houses were made from clay, mud, and reed-like substances — material that could bear on wood without straining them. The bridges, stilts and floors were all made from unrefined wood — similar in colour, pale khaki with the occasional brown blemish.

~

The man that was above Glenn hadn't noticed the gunner yet, concentrating on some sort of food and perhaps even enjoying it — but even in his R&R moment, the man looked as if threat was lingering nearby. Stuart wouldn't have been surprised if this turned out to be one of the village's guardsmen. The others beside Glenn had well-noticed the soldier, though were too shocked and confused to mutter any word.

Stuart knew he had to act fast. Or there was going to be an extra pair of MAS stocked away that night.

Stu propped his rifle more prudently on the tree stump, holding it with both hands, before aiming down the sight. He stayed like this for a while, pondering, before turning away.

“Corporal,” He began, looking at B. “Ditch the ammunition. This fight's gunn' be quick, and ye'll need to be quick too- like a weasel.”

He turned towards the rifleman, continuing. “Private, cover my arse.”

“B, ye'll follow me. We'll move on my go.”

~

The 'go' wasn't any simple vocal command; Stuart had aimed the gun towards the stilts close to the bridge — this seemed like the suitable place to explode, throw the enemies into disarray. It was the opposite side of Glenn, the other section of the village. He quietly motioned for the private to come forward, before patting B on the back. With his ritual finished, Stu lifted his rifle from the tree stump, aiming it in, a lackadaisical manner, towards a couple of stilts near the the bridge. If one were more careful with their eyes, they might've realized that Stu wasn't planning to shoot bullets — he was clearly thinking about launching a 20mm into stilts.

Acting quickly, Stuart hovered his hands nimbly through the gun, reaching the trigger of his grenade-launching attachment. In a quicksilver motion, he pushed the trigger.

A distinct boom erupted from the auxiliary barrel of his gun; the grenade moved through the air, more sluggish than an actual bullet, before landing on one of the supports.

The ground tore apart, the wood rendered apart into many splinters, the stilts broke off and stumbled into the other supports, soon forcing the floor to tumble down onto the ground — the bridge was affected more badly, with the force sending the featherweight bridge criss-crossing through the air and landing on the solid ground with a thud.

Stuart, as soon as he fired, quickly rushed forward towards Glenn, gun brandished and ready to fire at any person thick enough to confront him.

 

[Hagbard Celine]

Gentle Glenn.

The world exploded beyond the old, insectivore, who leaped up and tore away into the bush, reacting faster than any human Pvt Friendly had ever seen. Certainly faster than him, who stood and looked at the awesome ripple of flame detonate a stilt building, right in front of him. His mouth gaped. He stepped back, blinking ...

... and began to hear the gunfire. There had been maybe a dozen people, scattered around the roughly, semi-circular village. Some were fleeing. Some were dying. A few had pulled archaic looking ballistics from somewhere and were returning fire. Dirt danced in front of Glenn. He wondered if it were hailing, briefly, before being knocked flat onto his face by what felt like a bull. He tried to struggle and fight, but his arm was trapped underneath his gun, the other flailed uselessly. His face was in the dirt and at any moment, he expected to feel a knife in his back.

Maybe they could at least scratch that itch ...

What a strange thought to die with, thought Glenn. Then he thought ... No, that was another thought. Not dead. Breathing.

Alive! He bucked and leaped but was grabbed by his collar and dragged, half running until he found his feet, then pushed head first through some more dense thicket, away from the gunfire. He looked back. Much to his dismay, Sgt Stuart was red faced, teeth gritted, weapon spitting death into the village. His weapon ran out of ammo and he dived through the thicket he had thrown Glenn through, just as a hail of bullets ripped into the ground where he'd been standing.

Glenn stared at the man as he reloaded his weapon, efficiently and competently. He looked down at his own gun and realised he never even knew how to ready it. Sgt Stuart finished with his rifle, ditched it and readied Glenn's without even removing it from his hands. He grabbed Glenn's head in a vice like grip between his hands and screamed into his face,

"NOW SHOOT! YOU SAINTED IDIOT! YOU CHIMP SAVANT! SHOOT!" he then grabbed his rifle back up and began a drilled rate of fire exercise. Pvt friendly threw himself down and aimed ... high.

Fire ripped through the tops of buildings, raked back and forth. The devastation was immense and the noise was incredible. Friendly got a brief glimpse of Pvt's B and James, assaulting from cover, using the sudden hail of fire from Glenn's weapon as they bounded towards a pocket of resistance. James ripping off shots, to keep heads down as B rushed the position, grenade in hand.

Tears began to well up in his eyes as it detonated. He saw parts of men silhouetted in flame, as they flew heavenward. Grim hands, waving farewell to their bodies. He didn't close his eyes. He didn't stop firing. He just carried on being horrified until his ammo ran dry, then he became immersed in fear, for the first time and began to shake. He rolled over and put his hands over his ears to drown out the murderous shouting of his NCO.

He focused on the pain in his neck. The raging burn. The burning lance that crept up his neck.

Soon, it would be over.

Soon.

 

[Axel The Englishman]

B glared at the Squad Leader after he was ordered to abandon such valuable recourses. Dropping .50 calibre ammunition and leaving it just like that would be too much of a risk, considering the situation. It would still fare better as a weapon for close and uncomfortable situations - if needed, of course.

"With all due respect, Field Sergeant, but that is both stupid and pointless at the same time, I think I'll keep hold of it." Came whispers from the lips of the Marine.

As soon as the Squad Leader made the first attack, it was about time to follow up. Bart aimed at some of the villagers who had taken up arms in hopes of besting these Marine Commandos. A couple bursts and soon their courage was spilling all over the floor like canned beans. The Marine pulled off a fragmentation grenade from his belt and lobbed it at a crowd of resisting forces. Each of the lot were rendered by the shrapnel that came as a result of the explosion.

B took notice of Glenn being a little pussy with his face down in the mud. The Commando made his way over to the led and took hold of him by the exo frame. A quick swivel brought the two face to face with each other.

The Marine brought down an open hand across the lad's face. It turned red and raw after a single strike. "Get your arse in line, Marine! Get the fuck up or we'll be overstocked on a pair of MAS!"

B shoved the lad's weapon straight into his arms and adjusted the safety. "Connect the feeding belt from your container with the ammunition port, and get to work."

 

[Encrypted]

He'd be hovering over the base in the VTOL, The pilot would do the routine checks while everyone else Talked and Prepped their Equipment for the Search. He'd be looking at his Cheap magazine for his Automatic Rifle, he'd let out a deep breath as he slowly removed and attached the mag into the Gun. He was quite Un-interested to the mission to be fair, He'd give a Glance to David.

"Shitty Day, Ain't it?" He'd let it out of his mouth, Quite annoyingly. He'd be looking at these other people in the VTOL, most of them were quite unknown to Jack, but he knew he has to Work with them even thought he might not ever talked to them at all.

"Whatcha' plannin' after This?" He'd ask trying to start up a Small chat before the Departure, He'd seemingly ignore the Safety procedures by not putting on his Seatbelt which was a minor Issue to him (Not an issue at all). "Hmph, I'm plannin' to have a Nice Frozen Pizza." You'd hear the Struggle of trying to speak to the American Who barely understands him anyways.​

 

[Elephantom]

FLD SGT. STUART


“Damn you, lunkhead!” Stu barked towards Glenn, though the sound was soon drowned out beneath the crassitude of warfare — lead pellets and metal bullets flying everywhere and nowhere, only few hitting their intended marks and not the various stilt, all of which stood hopelessly gallant. Not gallant enough, Stu supposed, as the supports soon gave away to the withering fire of Glenn's machine gun, tearing them apart flake-by-flake.

The massive floor, hoisting its fair share of buildings, gave way and leaned close to falling upon the silt — a crack akin to the sound of a bone crunching emphasized the weight of the situation. It gave one last heave as it fell down, like a cascade, houses and all langorously slipping down the wooden tier. The minuscule amount of people who'd taken refuge inside the buildings, mostly women and children, tried to jump away from their possible doom; it was a dire mistake, as most, if not all, of the children splattered their innards onto the thick ground, their frail bodies having been unable to withstand the fall. Those who survived died from Stuart's relentless gunfire, whipping from target to target without a slight care for who they actually were — both children and women suffered from his wrath. Alas, the stilts finally crumbled, bringing down the houses with a loud crack, followed by several littler ones. Several advancing clansmen, unfortunate enough to be under the wooden floor in its time of capitulation, died from the weight of the crude buildings.

~

A clansman clad in chalk-white tattoos, hair slicked back in a devious manner, came running towards the hysteria-stricken duo amidst the chaos of the, frankly, one-sided battle — he had, apparently, survived what his companions didn't. The clansman was a gaunt person, possibly in his thirties — his gangly arms sported visible sinews and lean musculature, though contrasted against his belly which hung loosely over his groin. He had in his interlocked hands a club of brutal appearance, a dark grey stick with a black stone affixed to its head with leather bands. He was also howling, madly.

The clansman tore off his cloak, revealing the fuller extent of his tattoos, each an off-white ring decorating his dark skin — Stuart suspected that each stood for a kill. He was likely a warrior. Stuart gulped, trying to concentrate his fire upon the advancing footman, but to no avail, for he was too fast.

The clansman lurched after Stuart and Glenn, brandishing his weapon high over his head. As he reached striking distance, Stuart instinctively ducked, feeling the weighty force of a blow moving near his head — another second later, and Stuart would be sprawled against the muddy floor with the remnants of his brain beside him. The whole gravity of the situation compelled Stuart to hold his damned breath, and without wasting another second, the squad leader bore down the back of his hand against the clansman's cheek.

The clansman, stunned by the blow, fell towards the ground with a thud. Unwilling to waste his precious advantage, Stu aimed his gun towards the warrior and pulled the trigger. A flurry of fiery discharge sent the man to whatever sort of paradise he believed in.

~

A few minutes later and Bart had come to their rescue, crippling the momentous numbers with a grenade. It was a quick, furious battle — a torrent of bullets and destruction packed into a few brief moments. Wars were like those, Stu supposed. With a brief window of spare time on their belt, Stu let out a sigh, of sullen relief. He watched B slam some senses into Glenn, and he would've liked to join in too, if he wasn't so exhilarated.

He watched the battlefield; everything was eerily quiet, with the tribesmen trying to gather their senses and their wounded after their fruitless charge, and the soldiers trying to figure out what was happening. Stuart checked his mag — he had wasted away two and a half clip, approximately seventy-five rounds. He had three remaining, excluding the one already on his gun.

His eyes wavered around, half-mindedly, for a while. A vague buzzing filled the ambiance, which was previously only dominated by the crackle of fires and faint moans.

“Bart, ye' hear that?” Stu rasped, his eyes fixed on the gaining objects far off on the distance.

There was little time to answer that question, as a couple of choppers came into view — only two-three shadows far off into the distance, barely discernable, but far too big to be a bird. They had likely noticed the fiery action, and probably were gearing up for a fitting response.

Stu's usual crooked smile, grew wider, before turning more into a weary l grimace. The silhouettes, as they came closer, became more clearer — and their insignia certainly didn't match that of the commandos.

Stuart audibly gulped. It was the separatists.

 

[Axel The Englishman]

"You've got to be jerking me off..."

The sight of a jacked Shelley being piloted by Septembers was not a sight to praise at all. In fact, this was the sign of an incoming slaughter that would surely claim a couple lives in the process. Oh, damn modern technology and it's need to be uneccessarily deadly! Wait... never mind. Deadly technology is useful technology. Just like that .50 calibre, 6000-rounds-per-minute weapon that Glenn ( Hagbard Celine ) was still gawking at - as if he skipped every bit of training that even covered the basics of this deadly contraption.

Then again there was no solid cover to hunker down behind. It was either shattered pieces of wood or slaps of clay bricks that were barely makeshift. And they won't exactly stand against the power of .72 calibre heavy machine guns.

"Well, Fielder. What's your divine plan to get us out of this scenario?"

 

[Yang Xiao Long]

When the battle had started Dr. Leila Cazal haad already been in the village. The day before she had been part of a unit of Marines who had been sent to the village to talk to the locals. Now she was the one one left due to a set of mysterious circumstances. When the bumbling idiots had stumbled in and started shooting she decide to lay low and let it play out. She had hoped that the locals would win and possibly take some of the men captive. Now it looked as if she had to do something or she would loose her willing test subjects.

Turning to one of the tattooed men holed up with her she spoke quickly. "Zimbabaway, go to the weapons catch and bring the SAM launchers. I'll get these idiots out of the open."

"They killed our clansmen, how could you want to help them?!" He accused her bluntly.

"Because if we don't help the idiots, the separatists will destroy the village in the process of killing them. Now go!"

The man followed her orders without question and ran from the building. Then the ex doctor swung into action. Bursting from the building wearing her exoskeleton, she sprayed at one of the VTOLs with her heavy weapon. "You idiots with the Marines?! Get your asses inside, now!"

 

[Axel The Englishman]

Bart took note of whoever that was bursting right through the shabby craftsmanship that presented itself as a 'door'. Judging by their uniform, they appeared to be a fellow Marine Commando. Looked like they were part of the 121st Marine Division if one were to notice the TRF printed onto their breastplate. Same as B and the rest of his unit. Well, if this Marine was an actual Marine of course. It was quite suspicious that one of their own would be all the way out here with these lot.

Then that Shelley from above made itself clear again - though unnecessary to begin with. But in quite a brutal fashion. One of the Door Gunners had taken a liking towards Alpha's Rifleman. So much, that he sent hordes of .72s chewing right through his chest until guts and gibs came spewing out. Now shit was getting serious.

"Fuck!" was the first word to come out of his mouth. Clearly to express the shock and disdain being experienced in this here scenario. "Glenn ( Hagbard Celine ), Fielder ( Elephantom ). I think we should maybe listen to the lass ( Yang Xiao Long ) over there."

But he wasn't going to wait to get chewed up by lead. It was time to make like the wind into the only building that had managed to stand up straight. B made sure to stay out of sight and avoid any stray bullets. This tactic somehow managed to not get him killed and lob him right into the presence of this unknown Marine here.

"Well. Bonjour."