5th of May, 2035 - Former U.S. National Park of Yellowstone
The old truck's engine gave a guttural roar as it made its way through the old roads in Yellowstone's Haven. More like it followed, in their backs men and women that would decide the fate of this Haven's inhabitants, to protect and stem the tide of the alien advance. At least, that's what he hoped.
Many hidden towns and fortified settlements around the world that had resisted the aliens and their puppets had been lost back in March, their people taken or butchered by the alien puppets. New Acadia, Alesia, Bornholm, Lushan… gone in the first week of the retaliations, like a wave of terror and destruction that swept throughout the entire world.
The Resistance Network, their only link to the outside world and the other Havens, had lost so many frequencies in that one week that Yellowstone's own radio host had broken down while they were live. With that loss, fear spread, and there had been rumors that people wanted to leave the Haven and surrender themselves to the puppet government.
But Yellowstone wouldn't let itself be subjected to a slaughter. To Jebediah Norman's knowledge, Yellowstone was the largest Haven in North America, being founded by the remnants of the old United States military. Their defenses and weaponry, though old and underpowered compared to what the puppet government possessed, were still large and robust. And those attacks had better prepared them for what was to come, and in late April, a mere week ago, it had finally came.
The puppets would make one of its largest air raids in North America, using a full squadron of radar-impervious gunships to strike from the air. But, with XCOM's help, and of course, hubris from the puppets, had turned their assault into a massacre on their side. Hidden surface-to-air missile sites and anti-air artillery had shot down every single aircraft, and whatever freak had managed to arrive on land unscathed was then met with hunting parties on horseback and armored fighting vehicles. It had been a resounding victory for sure, one that raised the spirits of the people and the morale of the militia.
But now, it has all changed, and the entire Haven could feel their fate being woven by what was to come.
The trucks drove over the deserted roads of the Haven's outskirts, the only sign of life being the odd young teen or child being accompanied by a guardian that was either only a few years older than them, or too old to be of any use in the fight. Their parents had been recalled back to service, and those now old enough to serve were swept by the conscription, implemented after the puppet retaliations months ago. Their very existence had been threatened, and although most of the people in the Haven were ex-soldiers turned farmers and workers, this had been a wake-up call to take up arms again.
Everything they had was taken into commision, from mothballed armored vehicles to the rarely used trucks, and even things he'd never thought they even had in their possession. Self-propelled artillery, a fleet of bulldozer tractors that prepared the Haven's last lines of defense, and somehow they even got the tanks moving. Jebediah thought of it as surreal, as many weeks ago one would have had to march on foot towards the defensive positions while the more agile units used horses to get around. And now with all of these vehicles in action, he wondered where they got their fuel.
Needless to say, they didn't have an abundant amount of it, and they needed to make the best of it. The truck they were in was a tight fit, as an entire platoon worth of soldiers were crammed into its tarpless back, to the point that some unlucky soldiers were forced to sit on the bed of the truck. Jebediah himself was squeezed right between Staff Sergeant Smith and Private Kyle, the oldest and the newest members of the squad respectively. Alicia, Javier, Fergus and Oliver were on the opposite benches, while the twin brothers, Thomas and Jackson, had picked the short straw and were sitting on the uncomfortable metal floor, back to back. They were the platoon's weapons squad, meant to provide the necessary firepower to take out any threat that might endanger them all, let it be vehicles or a numerical superiority.
The squad was composed by two sections, each containing a machine gun team and an anti-tank team. Staff Sergeant Smith led them, a man in his forties that always reminisced about the past and was doing it again with a poor guy to his left. Fergus was Jebediah's section leader, and thankfully for him he himself was the leader of the team, but there was also a slight con. Oliver sat in front of him, his teammate and pseudo-friend who often boasted and was as arrogant as he was careless. He was responsible in providing Jebediah with backup and ammo, while also carrying the tripod for his new toy.
Jebediah looked at the weapon resting between his legs, made by the very same organization that had helped them last week. It was a four-barreled automatic gauss cannon, bulky, box-shaped, and ugly to look at. Despite its aesthetic drawbacks however, it was one mean son of a gun, its projectiles able to chew through wood as if it was cardboard. A good match against the puppet weaponry, as they were based off the very same technology, but many in the Haven did not enjoy this rare luxury.
"Think they'll let you keep it?" he heard, and Jebediah looked upwards to see Oliver sitting with his looted gauss rifle in his lap, black and with a scribbled over ADVENT logo on its side.
"It was high time I got something nice you know." Jebediah responded, cocking an eyebrow, "You spent an entire week flinging that rifle like it was your dick."
"That's because I earned it, Jeb." he pointed to himself, omitting the fact that he only scavenged it from the still smoldering corpse of a puppet during last week's attack. Jebediah tried not to roll his eyes. "Besides, maybe I'll get something better. That spook talked about finding aliens on the field, and you know what those freaks carry? Plasma guns."
"Plasma guns." Jebediah echoed, his opportunity finally arriving. This one he'd been saving for a good while now. "I think the Casanova of Grant Village would have an easier time wooing one. That last one had her eyes all over you." Jebediah finished with a laugh, and the rest of the team hooted and chuckled. Oliver's face contourned in a frown.
"Oh, come on Jeb, that's just nasty!" he protested among the mirthful men. And of course, before finding his beloved rifle, the squad had found Oliver doing the unthinkable. Prodding at a dead Viper's chest plate.
"Careful Tennison," came Javier on the other side of the truck, the section leader of the squad's fireteam. "The captain might accuse you of fraternizing with the enemy. God knows how many times you'll try." The men's collective guffaw had turned him deaf, and Jebediah tried to contain his own laugh.
"Oh, not you Woods!" Oliver said, a slight red tinge on his skin. "I swear, I was just curious! I mean, a snake with tits? You don't see that every day."
"You said that before, man." Fergus spoke, his head thrown back to rest on a satchel that cradled his head against the truck's railing, eyes closed.
"And it rings true," Oliver punctuated each word, and like an afterthought, turned to Jebediah with a finger raised at him. "Oh, and you, Jeb. You don't get to make fun of this."
"Why not?" he almost wanted to snicker, feeling a little petty. "Teaches you to mess around in my locker."
Oliver's eyebrows shot up, "No way, that?" he asked as if it was something hard to understand, "I was just trying to help you out man!"
Jebediah frowned, the words "Help?" hissing out of his mouth, and before he knew it, he lost control of it, "By taking my God damned letter and reading-"
"Alright, cut it out you two!" Staff Sergeant Smith ordered, his usually relaxed voice now stern and cutting through Jebediah's speech. "Take it elsewhere privates, and try to cool down."
Jebediah deflated, rubbing his cheeks to get rid of the flush of anger and embarrassment from his face. He hated himself for easily losing his cool, and Oliver's presence never helped him in that regard. Even now he could feel his heart beating, and he took deep breaths to calm himself as Oliver spoke.
"Sorry sarge, just killing time. You know how we are." Oliver said, casual as if it was a daily occurrence, though it probably was, considering how short Jebediah's temper was. However, now he needed to reassure the staff sergeant of his commitment, again.
"Yeah, we're just fooling around, staff sergeant." Jebediah said and swallowed, putting up his best smile as he tried to sound convincing to his superior. Smith's face was skeptical, his eyes going back and forth between Jebediah and Oliver.
"Well then, if that is true," -his brows turned to a mild scowl- "then I hope that Captain Zheng won't complain about you two's attitudes when we arrive on site." Smith turned to the Rogers twins, who were both staring at him with grins on their faces. "And that includes you both."
"Oh, come on sarge," Thomas, at least Jebediah thought it was Thomas, said. "The captain already hates us. Might as well make the men laugh before we hit the dust."
"Wait, already hates us?" Jackson asked his brother, straining his neck to look at him. "Captain's been giving us the bad eye ever since we were assigned to him."
"And he will give you two more than a bad eye if you keep it up." the staff sergeant said, arms resting on his knees as he leaned forward. "We're his favorite platoon, you know."
"We may have something to do with that." Thomas's smile was smug, "Our quips and skill are unrivaled in this company. Captain Zheng just doesn't want to admit it!"
"You gotta know when's a lost cause, Thomas." Oliver chimed in, "The captain has a stick so far up his ass he can't help but yell every time he opens his mouth."
Even at that did the staff sergeant laugh, a series of wheezes that wrinkled his old face even further. "Don't let the lieutenant hear you say that, private Tennison." Smith managed to chuckle out, nodding towards the truck's front. "He will relegate you something worse than shit disposal."
"He already did." Oliver shrugged, his tone casual, "Several times in fact."
Jebediah frowned in confusion, and the staff sergeant even seemed to be taken aback. "Wha- When?" Smith stammered out.
Oliver pursed his lips, looking away as the staff sergeant, Jebediah, and the twins looked up at him. "Four weeks ago." he responded, turning to face them, "He didn't like my… fraternization with private Bourne from third platoon, despite the fact that we're both on the same rank."
The truck roared again, filling the silence that had crept up. The staff sergeant leaned back onto the bench, chuckling softly as he shook his head. "Now that does explain some things."
"Oliver?" Thomas called, bringing the man's attention to the twins.
"You're my hero." Jackson said next.
Oliver grinned. "Hey now, I charge for personal classes. I'm a professional you know?" he turned to Jebediah, an eyebrow raised. "Maybe you need one Jeb? God knows you need one for sweet Moira."
"Oh, shut up." Jebediah snapped, turning away as to end their conversation and hide the oncoming flush on his face. His eyes looked at the receding road, and the truck riding behind theirs, hearing the twins and Oliver speak in their ever lively tones. Since they were the last ones in, they were seated at the end of the truck's bed, while the lieutenant and the other sergeants were seated near the front. Kyle Gilles, Fergus's newest teammate, sat just beside the half-door of the truck's back, quiet and with his head held down as he stared at the space between his bobbing legs, arms rested on his knees with his hands clasped.
It took Jebediah a moment to realize that Kyle had not joined them in the conversation, and he had a hunch as to why. A quick look at the seventeen year-old teenager showed how out of place he looked among them, not even wearing actual body armor. He wore old digital grey patterned fatigues, a green load-bearing vest, and a baseball cap that had once been red, but faded to pink. Where the rest of them looked like a unit, he stood out like a sore thumb. A draftee from the conscription program implemented by General Bannon, Kyle Gilles looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.
"Hey," Jebediah bumped his shoulder, "you alright?"
Kyle jumped at the bump, turning towards Jebediah like he'd seen a ghost. "What? Did the sergeant say something?" he asked, his face and tone marred with anxiety.
"No," Jebediah answered, keeping his tone gentle but for a small half-smile creeping up on his lips at the man's obliviousness, "I said, are you okay?"
Kyle blew the air out of his lungs, shoulder slumping as if a weight had been taken off of them. He looked away momentarily before turning back to Jebediah. "It's just… well," -his skin gave off a tinge of red- "I'm making my peace."
Jebediah's eyes widened, appalled. "Come on, man, don't say that." he chided Kyle, bringing up a hand to grasp his shoulder, and shook him lightly, "If anyone's got a right to be nervous, it's me."
That seemed to amuse Kyle at the least, a smile forming on his lips, "No way, you're army. You have training and experience. Me? I only have two months of basic."
"Two months to tell you the do's and don'ts." Jebediah countered him, "There's nothing more important than knowing how to react to a situation. How well did you take basic?"
Kyle scowled at nothing in particular, staring off into Jebediah's side, "Terrible?" he phrased it more as a question than an answer, then shook his head. "I don't get it. You said you'll be nervous out there? How?"
A smirk formed on Jebediah's mouth, Well, ain't that a secret?
"Well," he drew the word out, before continuing, "Last week, when we were searching the hills and forests for stragglers, I was practically shitting my pants the entire damned time. Just thinking that sometime now one of'em will pop out of nowhere and caps me right then and there where I'm standing." he shrugged, "No chance to fight back."
That seemed to fill Kyle with some trepidation, and Jebediah grimaced.
"Then how do you deal with it?" Kyle asked, now wary.
Seeking to salvage that blunder, he spoke, "Well, for one, focus on the mission." Jebediah held up a finger, then uncurled a second, "Two, jokes help a lot to reduce the tension."
Kyle snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, and jokes will save me when shit hits the fan?"
"You don't know that shit's gonna to hit the fan." Jebediah retorted, a little flustered. For having trained for two months, close to finishing basic, Kyle was awfully jittery. Seemingly more so than even Jebediah himself. Something had to be done, and he needed help for that.
He turned towards the brothers on the floor, and called out over the roar of the engine, "Hey Rogers!"
Both twins turned to him, almost too robotic in their sameness, but Jebediah knew it was just an act between them to creep them all out. "Yeah?" they both said when they turned to him, and it still sent a chill down Jebediah's spine.
Shrugging it off, he addressed them, "Kyle here needs some encouragement." Jebediah nodded towards the teenager, "He's got the classic case of the battle jitters, and I'm sure you both are qualified to remedy this situation."
"Now wait a minute-" Kyle was saying when Jackson suddenly spoke.
"Oh, what's wrong rookie?" Jackson said, tapping the man's leg with the back of his hand. "You got stuck with the best platoon in the company! You won't envy anyone that didn't get to be with us."
"Whatever happens dude, we got your back, alright?" Thomas added, head pulled back over his twin's shoulder to look at Kyle. "Unless, of course, the staff sergeant decides to split the squad that is. Then you're on your own with sourmood Fergus."
"You don't have to tell me he's sour." Kyle said, looking over at said man with a glance. "I swear, he is just... gloom personified."
Jebediah snorted, following Kyle's gaze to look on the offending man, his head cushioned by his pack and eyes closed. Hollow cheeks, a jutting chin, and a hawkish nose, Fergus was not that much of a talking man, and often wanted to do things alone. It was thanks to the volunteer shortage before the retaliations that he was left without an assistant for the longest time, though some… well, most would fault him for that.
Fergus was not an amicable man, not like the twins and the staff sergeant. Like Thomas had said, sour was the best description towards him, from his comments that often ruined bouts of laughter to his fatalistic view on everything. It often seemed that the only thing that cheered him up is the prospect of blowing something up, which was rare.
By the time Jebediah had turned back to Kyle, he found him engrossed with the twins and Oliver, pretty much leaving him out of the conversation as the trio relentlessly pushed the rookie with words. They had already extracted every ounce of Kyle's origins days ago when he had been assigned to them, and now they seemed to be scouring every nook and cranny in his remaining psych to either tease him or bringing him at ease. Just like how they'd done it with Jebediah some two years ago.
It wouldn't be long before they reached the Old Faithful district, a town in its own right by its sheer size and population. Being the farthest western point in the Yellowstone Haven, it saw use as a refugee camp, growing to eventually becoming a settlement housing over ten thousand people with military oversight over a decade ago. Now, it was a formal district, and a focus point in the defense of the western front.
Passing by its southern perimeter, all pretense of being a deserted tourist attraction was gone, as what seemed like hundreds of men and women worked around the site on its north-eastern section. It became clear what they were doing when the truck neared the exit of the settlement, as tractors were digging trenches and wide, deep ditches. The mismatching and lack of uniforms on the workers told of being from the militia, as they toiled with pickaxes and shovels and sawed logs onsite, building what would be the main, and last, line of defense on this side of Yellowstone.
Jebediah tried not to think in the ifs. They usually led him towards anxious and morbid thoughts, but sometimes he couldn't help himself. If the lines further north of here couldn't be held, then they would have to retreat back here. And if this position was lost… then there would be no stopping the enemy from pouring deeper into the park. They could be outflanked, outmaneuvered, outgunned, and outnumbered, and he was sure they only wanted to keep those last two true.
He blew the air out of his nose and shook his head, now that the truck was taking them off into the woods and heading north. The conversation between the men had died down, their destination finally drawing close, up until a snap was heard up front.
"Hey fellas!" someone said, and Jebediah, along with the entirety of the truck, turned towards the front. Through the open window to the truck's cabin, another soldier beside the driver was looking back at them, a radio in his hand. "Command wants the trucks out of harm's way. We'll be stopping about four miles out from your destination."
The men did not like that one bit. Groans and whines of 'What?' and 'Come on!' filled the back of the truck, masking Jebediah's groan, for he had to carry his heavy-as-hell machine gun through the rest of the way.
It kept up until one man near the front of the truck stood up, using the railing to support himself so as to not get thrown off by the truck with its jostling. "Alright, alright! Quit your whining and cry somewhere else!" shouted Lieutenant Bourne, the commanding officer of the platoon and a beast of a man with his height and build, "One ride on this truck and it's already made you soft?"
"Come on, Lieutenant Bourne, we have to carry all our shit there now." Thomas whined, "We at least had horses to pull our stuff there when we marched!"
"You know why, private?" The lieutenant asked, as if daring him to know, "That's because your lucky asses were classified as motorized infantry at the last minute. So consider yourselves fortunate. Others are still classified as light infantry."
Jebediah mocked a hiss at the lieutenant's words, knowing how the words light infantry had nothing light about them. Those men would've had to walk the entire trip with their gear on their back. "He got you there, Thomas."
"I'm just sayin'," Thomas replied, hands held up, "if we're in trucks, then we might as well go the entire way, right Oliver?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely." Oliver said, "What's the point of stopping there?"
"Because, privates," the lieutenant said, "our dear colonel, who in turn told our great captain, and at last me, your benevolent overlord, ordered us to do so." Jebediah felt more than he saw the truck pull over then, as the suspensions of the truck creaked and whined as it left the road and jostled them all in their seats, even forcing the lieutenant to sit before he tumbled. The truck grounded to a halt just beside the road, and the lieutenant once again stood. "And now, I want you all off this damned truck and prepare to march!"
"You heard the man." Staff Sergeant Smith spoke, relaxed and seemingly unnerved by the lieutenant's outburst. He leaned forward and rubbed Thomas's head with his knuckles. "Otherwise we'll make mules out of you."
Jebediah smirked, watching Thomas grumble as he, his brother, and the rest of the men sitting on the floor got off the truck first. After them, the men on the benches were next, though hampered with having to lower their heavy weaponry first. Jebediah and Oliver lowered the autocannon and tripod along with Alicia and Javier, who lowered their Javelin guided missile launcher and ammunition. Fergus was the lone wolf though, preferring to jump with the heavy launcher on his body than handing it to someone else first, like his actual assistant.
Afterwards, time was spent checking their gear as the other trucks were dismounting their men and materiel, filling the sparsely forested field with men and women of the Third Battalion. They were the last of the reinforcing waves towards this front, as the rest of the Second Division had already been onsite for the better part of two days, digging in and setting up positions to so as to be able to work with their battlefield, meanwhile they had been forced to hold back for an entire day.
The reason they had lagged behind the rest of the division was because of their supplies, stretched thin enough that they had to wait for the logistics department to, as Captain Zheng put it, "unfuck themselves" and provide them with the proper munitions for their heavy weaponry. From where Jebediah sat on top of a stack of ammo cans, stuffing his rucksack with extra magazines and batteries, he saw mortar tubes and heavy machine guns being tended to by their operators in a heavy weapons platoon, oiling and lubricating their innards so as to not jam.
He took a look at his weapon then, feeling little smug when he remembered the XCOM spook saying that its internal mechanism did not allow any jamming. There was no firing pin, or faulty ammunition, just some magnetic mumbo jumbo that propelled pellet-sized projectiles using electricity, or something close to it. It was the reason on why it needed a battery, though it did not look like any Jebediah had ever seen, looking like one of those cans of soda you would find in the woods, though smaller and so much heavier.
"You're doing it again." he heard Oliver say, and Jebediah looked upward to see him approach with his puppet-made rifle in hand. He was already donning his helmet and ballistic glasses, and, just like the drill sergeant had said so long ago, looked ready to kill. "You sure that you don't want some time alone with it in the woods?"
Jebediah snorted, grunting as he brought the machine gun upwards to rest on his lap, and patted it gently, "Now that you thought about it…"
"No, stop, forget I said anything." Oliver interrupted him, coming to sit beside him on the crate, the wood creaking under their combined weight. "You think Kyle will do good?"
Jebediah raised an eyebrow, dusting one of the barrels of his machine gun. "He needs some time in the field is all. He's almost completed basic before being assigned to us."
"Yeah, but he's just too, you know, twitchy." Oliver said, with actual worry on his face, "I often look at his trigger finger to see if it's off the fucking trigger."
Jebediah snorted, "He'll do fine, come on man. Kyle's not worse than me on the battle jitters." Though in reality, Jebediah hoped Kyle wasn't worse than him. After all, he had almost shot his own foot off from anxiousness during last week's attempted raid, and he still remembered how heavy his heart was during the whole affair.
"Except you aren't half-baked goods, Jeb. I trust ya." Oliver gave a smirk as he patted Jebediah's shoulder, but then his smile faltered. "As for Kyle... well, if anything happens, Fergus will be there to deal with him. Poor bastard."
"Fergus is not that psychotic, dude." Jebediah chuckled lightly, "What, battle's over and we find out Kyle's buried six feet deep in the woods?"
Oliver chuckled this time, and Jebediah would've said more had he not heard a somewhat familiar sound. It was the reeve of a car's motor, much more lesser than a truck's but still loud enough to be noticeable to him and the other men in the field. Jebediah turned to the north, and there, on the road some hundreds of meters away, was a Humvee heading south. It was a light truck, almost like a boxy car, painted green, armored and armed with a manned heavy machine gun at its top. Beside the road, Jebediah spotted a group of men - all officers including their own Lieutenant Bourne and Captain Zheng of their company. In there, Lieutenant Colonel Godfrey stood with them, the leader of their battalion.
The Humvee soon stopped beside the group, and a man stepped out of its back passenger seat. Unlike them, he did not wear a ballistic rig or helmet, just his uniform and a cap, and he approached the saluting officers with a slight limp.
"Who's he?" Jebediah asked, not able to see any rank or insignia by the distance.
"An officer, considering his uniform and wrinkles." was Oliver's answer and joke, adding nothing to what Jebediah had assumed. Even after years in the military, Jebediah had not bothered to memorize the names of officers above his lieutenant colonel, something that was annoying him now. Although he could ask-
"That's a colonel, private." a voice cut in suddenly, and Jebediah jumped off the crate when he realized it had come straight from his shoulder, a "Jesus!" escaping his lips.
Staff Sergeant Smith stood there, hands on his hips as he chuckled, while Oliver cackled. Jebediah bawled his fists as he scowled at the indignation, "Fuck me sarge, why'd ya gotta do that?"
"To keep you aware at all times, Private Norman." answered the sergeant with a cocky smile, rounding the crates to stand beside him. "Next thing you know, they're inside your head," his voice turned low, "raping your mind."
"What?" Oliver chuckled out as Jebediah stared at his sergeant dumbly, trying to make sense of his words, and failing.
"It's true." The staff sergeant said with a shrug. "It was all the talk back then. You know those little big-headed aliens? Sectoids?" At Jebediah's nod, he continued, "We kept hearing about how they could mess with your head. Drive you insane, make you want to eat the flesh of the living, that sort of stuff."
"Yeah, that's gotta be bullshit, right?" Oliver asked, still with his smile on his face like what the sergeant had just told them had been a joke, and Smith turned to him, a mild annoyance on his face.
"I'm afraid not, private." Smith said, "It was pretty much confirmed by every state's national guard, including Wyoming's." he turned back to Jebediah, "They do fuck with your minds."
Jebediah had honestly nothing to say to that, wanting to incline to what Oliver had said. Of course, during training, they had been told about these sectoids, and how they looked like. Grey skinned, thin faces without a mouth and nose, and large eyes that did not have pupils. They are supposedly short, up to five feet tall, and lanky, which did not paint an intimidating picture, and yet, the instructors told of how dangerous they were.
However, that's all they had said about these sectoids. They are dangerous, but that's it, and then immediately moved on to the puppets as they were their primary enemy. And what the staff sergeant just told them...
"Sir," Jebediah began to speak with apprehension, "Why didn't the instructors tell us about this?"
Staff Sergeant Smith raised an eyebrow, and his lips were pressed thin, like he'd tasted something sour. "I'm guessing they don't want to believe it." he said, staring downward as his arms crossed, now pensive. "I remember my own lieutenant telling us to keep quiet about this mindfuckery. Dunno why."
"Maybe I should believe them." Oliver said, cutting in like he always did, except he now seemed agitated. "That's fucked up. Seriously sarge, that has to be God damn bullshit."
"Watch it, Private Tennison." Smith's voice took a warning tone, a finger raised towards the offender, "The captain hears you and the lieutenant will make you swear to have washed that mouth of yours."
Oliver's face was tight as he stared at the sergeant, most likely wanting to tell him off but reining himself him. It was, after all, Smith just warning him, not necessarily scolding him. Jebediah gave him a look and a shake of his head, to which Oliver sighed in frustration, rubbing the back of his head as he said, "Yes, sir."
"Weapons platoon!" someone yelled, and the three men turned to find Lieutenant Bourne approaching them. "Gather up!"
At the man's words, the platoon sprang into action, thankfully fully defusing the situation between the staff sergeant and the private as they congregated on the space around the lieutenant.
"Alright people," he made a short loop to stare at the forty men that encircled him, "Unsurprisingly, we'll be behind the frontlines. Deep, in fact." At those words, a strange sort of feeling coursed through Jebediah, and he refused to let it be relief. "Now, I know you're all disappointed, so I've taken to remedy the situation to make up for it. At the basin's entrance, there are a number of hills that overlook our assigned section of the battlefield. We'll climb it, and set up there, where we'll get a vantage point of the Prismatic Spring."
Javier Woods held up a hand, and the lieutenant nodded to him. "Corporal."
"What're we supposed to do? Sit it out?" he asked, followed by a string of murmurs from the men.
"Wait for the enemy to come to us, corporal." Bourne said, "Our boys up front won't be able to hold ground, so we're covering them and then sneaking off ourselves. If you do your jobs right, you will be carrying much less when that order comes."
The murmurs got louder, with one speaking up. "So we're running away?"
"Unless you plan to stop multiple armored brigades by yourself, Private Flood," the lieutenant turned to the young soldier with a raised voice, "you will retreat when the order is given. In case you haven't noticed, we're going to bleed them dry before we properly face them. Now, is that clear?"
It seemed to have placated the men, as they gave 'yessirs' while others nodded, including Jebediah.
"Fine, dismissed, and we're on the move now, so move your asses or the captain will have my ass on a plate."
The platoon dispersed, gathering their weapons and gear, shouldering packs and strapping helmets on their heads. And just like they were trained to do, the platoon was ready to move at a moment's notice with several tens of kilograms on their backs and shoulders, following the rest of the young rifle company led by the old and experienced. Led by Captain Zheng, a slant-eyed man with a greying but trimmed beard, who was already shouting out the positioning of the platoons in their march.
"Weapons platoon, you're riding with me!"
And of course, the captain needed to keep an eye on them, or more specifically, Oliver and the twins. After all, Bravo Company was… somewhat notorious for the misconduct of some of its members, and last year's Christmas celebration drove that fact home. It's no wonder to anyone inside the company as to why the captain liked to shout more than giving a respite in drills and exercises.
So it was with stern eyes drilled onto their back that Captain Zheng followed them towards the road and beside it, where they began their march north. To a battle that Jebediah tried not to think about, and failed.
General Peter van Doorn had flown in a myriad of helicopters in his life, from small and cramped to enormous and spacious, colored an olive drab, a tan brown, or completely black. Black Hawks, Super Stallions, Hinds, Hips, Ospreys, Merlins, Cougars… Whatever the design and purpose, a single constant would always plague their design, stemming from the propellers. They were loud as hell. But the alien technology always found a way to surprise you, or kill you, and the aircraft he was in was the embodiment of those two concepts.
In comparison to a train's horn, the ADVENT gunship was like a cat's purr, a gentle buzz that resonated throughout the ship that did not compete to be at the forefront of your attention. If it weren't for the inertia and the mild sense of having empty air below your feet, then it wouldn't feel as if you were flying at three and a half hundred kilometers per hour, speeding towards a soon-to-be battlefield… and a possible massacre.
Yellowstone: the last bastion of the United States of America. An enclave surrounded on all sides by the enemy, and yet managed to evade their attention for twenty years. It was an impressive feat, but luck would run out sooner than later, and it was with that that XCOM managed to save it from a swarm of the very thing Peter was riding on. But such act can't be done forever, and Yellowstone's stubbornness will one day be its downfall.
All Peter had to do, as XCOM's commander had said, was convince General Bannon to join and provide them with an experienced officer corps, so that they could better train and lead their troops against the aliens. Peter had been cocky the first time he had come to Yellowstone, telling himself that the general would accept the proposition as soon as it left his mouth, followed by drinking a bottle of their infamous spirits. Who would've thought that such a thing was a nigh impossible task?
"We're the Armed Forces of the United States of America, not some mercenary army that bends it will to someone else!" the general had claimed, followed by their dismissal and subsequent withdrawal of Yellowstone. But thankfully, it had not ended there. There were many officers and staff personnel in their West Thumb district that were sympathetic, even those that are close to Bannon. Through them, much was accomplished, including materials exchange and technical help to better their lives in that cold place, even if Bannon openly advocated on the Resistance Network for independent operations rather than working with XCOM.
That man couldn't see they were capable, but in time, maybe after this battle, they will all see.
Peter was brought out of his musings by the chime of his communicator, informing him of a transmission request. Strapped in as he was onto the seat, it was a chore to pry out the datapad from the satchel at his feet, but thankfully, Commander Bradford was saint when it came to patience as the chime never left when he managed to retrieve it. Peter saw the high priority message emblazoned on the screen, and without wanting to test the commander's sainthood, he tapped on the accept button.
Peter grunted at the sight of the commander, looking like he'd been flung from hell, only to arrive at shittier one. Bags under bloodshot eyes, a greying buzzcut, and a white stubble he hadn't bothered to shave. He looked like shit. Commander Bradford regarded him through the screen with a raised eyebrow, possibly by his grunt, and Peter only shook his head in exasperation.
"Jesus Christ, Bradford, I'm not your fucking wife, you know." Peter began without preamble, "I don't have to tell you to get some rack time before your sleep deprivation kills you."
Bradford looked at him with a frown, and at that moment, Peter looked over the commander's shoulder, and breathed a discreet sigh of relief when he saw that Bradford was in his stateroom in the Avenger. Despite Peter's qualms, a subordinate scolding his superior officer looked bad in the eyes of the men, and set a dangerous precedent. Especially after ADVENT's retaliations.
"You know I'm your commanding officer, general." Bradford finally responded, voice deep and gravely. "That is insubordination."
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, "Sue me, Bradford." Peter snapped, but managed to catch the faintest sign of a smile at the corner of the commander's mouth. He tried to hide his own. "John, listen-"
"We've already discussed this with the others, Doorn." this time Bradford interrupted, still with his frown as he shook his head, "These duties are my own, and I have already noted your concern for my well being."
"Noted?" Peter wanted to laugh, "Try to heed it. You look like you're about to fall dead on the spot."
His commander blew the air out of his lungs, elbows resting on his worktable as he rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. As much as Peter wanted to continue to berate him, he was more likely to give the poor man a stroke at the ripe age of forty-six than than actually help him. He should have expected this from Bradford. After all, the commander was a driven man, relentless, and most of all, a fighter. Bradford's grizzle and scar on his right cheek lent him a look of a long-seasoned officer, jaded and cynical as they come, but the commander had the motivation most of them seemed to lack, or have lost at their age and experience.
"Fine. What do you need, commander?" Peter conceded, and Bradford finally looked up from his faux insomnia.
"Yeah, right." Bradford sighed, straightening his back as he stared at the screen with tired eyes, "Is it really necessary that you be onsite during this offensive? I would prefer that you stay near the perimeter to coordinate any raiding of supply lines and flank harassment."
Peter snorted, "Can't keep me cooped up, Bradford. I have to take action and see just what in the hell Bannon got himself into. Gauge out his planned and proposed tactics to the defense to see if we can better the odds towards our favor."
Bradford gave him a look, prompting Peter to give him his best poker face. "Knowing you," the commander began, his tone low, "you'll rather sneak off to the frontlines and be with the grunts. Even the score, as you said."
"Is that so bad?" Peter asked with a mock innocence, while Bradford could only frown - his favorite expression now.
"I'll rather you not and keep you on the sidelines than get you killed, but I see that's out of my hands." he looked at something off the screen, looking pensive for a moment as he rested his chin on intertwined hands. "What about Ghost Company? They have been there the longest, and have been assisting in briefing their troops for what's coming. What did they say?"
"They have no cause to believe that the defenses will fail, unless ADVENT's armor breaks through the first lines of defense today." Doorn said, "However, Captain Crothers assured me that their anti-tank capabilities are up to par, and all but one axis of attack can be turned into narrow killing zones. Which is why most of them are concentrating on this one front, but even then, it's densely forested."
Peter let Bradford stew the information in his head, before the man suddenly nodded. "Right, and you're sure they're well supplied?"
A smile grew on Peter's face, remembering those bulky beauties and the sleek valkyries. "Oh, they are. A lot of ass kissing and ferrying supplies for those landing zones and the air strip, but now they have their fuel and ordnance. With what they had before, they can now stop armageddon at their gates."
A smirk broke on Bradford's face, though he looked away. Whatever fear was on Bradford's mind, Peter also shared. This was the largest mobilization of armored divisions anyone has ever seen on ADVENT's part, and William Thorne, their man inside the government, has confirmed it. However, it was also a gamble. ADVENT could've used this much force to attack the much smaller Havens that they know exist, but are instead heading into the largest one in North America, and Peter had an idea why. A symbol of the old regimes, as the alien propaganda called them, and them existing undermined their image of complete superiority over Earth.
But to Bradford, it could also mean another thing. These people were his countrymen, Americans, and knowing all their stereotypes, they idolized their nation and ideals. After all, Bradford had been an American before he was XCOM, just like how Peter had been Dutch before he had become part of the United Nations, and then the resistance.
Bradford sighed, "I hope so, general, but I do have to make myself clear on one thing." he looked straight at Peter, or his screen's camera, and continued, "There's a noose tightening around Yellowstone, and once the aliens begin their offensive, we won't be able to extract you."
"I know the risks, commander." Peter reassured him, "But as you said, we need this Haven for the insurgency in North America to survive. The First Air Brigade is on standby and will be called upon when needed, but I won't give the signal if it's hopeless. These men need us, as much as we need them."
"My very own words, general." The commander said with a smile, though he looked about ready to drop, leaning back on his chair with a hand rubbing his bruised eyes as he took a deep breath, then spoke. "If Bannon keeps the aliens on their toes, then they might be forced to pull forces from both Cascadia and New Denver. Might give us a chance to make some trouble and spread chaos behind the enemy lines."
"Any help's appreciated, Commander. We might finally get the victory we need to pull this off."
"We might. Once you're there, keep me updated on the situation." Bradford seemed to look downwards, watching the screen, before he thought otherwise and looked directly at the camera, a scowl marring his face. "If there's a window of opportunity to hurt the enemy, take it. And make sure that ADVENT knows that we can bite them harder than they can."
Peter smirked, "We'll give'em hell, commander. Now get some fucking sleep. General Doorn, out."
He disconnected the call, the window with the image of the commander's face closing, and replaced by a spinning insignia of the ADVENT Coalition in the background of the user interface. An insignia he had grown to revolt. Although it seemed far fetched that they could overthrow ADVENT, he still had a dream where that flag was burned and shunned by the very people that had forgotten their forefathers' sacrifice to protect them from the alien menace.
But as of now, baby steps. Or a snail's, but progress was being made. Twenty years to rebuild their resistance while ADVENT ruled the world and built their super-cities. They had bid their time, and now it was time to see if it was all worth it.
The geyser basin of Yellowstone was the closest thing Jebediah would get to being in an alien world. As they walked west on a dirt path, and towards the hill they are supposed to climb, the land north of them was white, rocky, and barren. Rivers with banks colored a bright amber flowed through crevices in the rock, and steam bathed the landscape in a perpetual fog. And although it was noticeable warmer here, Yellowstone only transitioned from cold to chilly, even if the sun was already high in the sky.
But still, even in the cold temperature, the marching had managed to make him break a sweat. With more than fifty kilograms weighing down on his body, Jebediah kept up with the rest of the platoon, trudging and watching the almost alien landscape to distract himself as the others spoke, mindful of the captain tailing their column. His hands were beginning to cramp.
They at last found a line of fortifications that ran parallel to the dirt path and faced north, where the Grand Prismatic Spring steamed. It was the usual: sandbag nests, recessed fighting holes, and earthworks to soak up firepower, but then there was something odd about it. There was a whirring of an engine that became louder as they continued forward. Not like that of a truck or a car, as it was shrill instead of deep, but somehow it felt more powerful.
It sat between two pillboxes of sandbags, a defilade that receded below ground level. The rear of it was massive, the chassis a boxy shape while the turret's front was slanted, and Jebediah knew for sure that he wasn't seeing things. It was an Abrams tank, painted in green and hidden with camouflage netting, the whir of its engine audible dozens of meters away. A behemoth of a machine, it was big, loud, and mean looking.
Jebediah couldn't keep marvel out of his voice when he spoke, "Never thought I would see one of those alive." As they passed it, Jebediah felt the tremendous heat radiating off of its backside, and one of the crew members, the commander probably, sat on an open hatch and waved them on.
Jebediah waved back, and then Oliver spoke, "What, you seen them before?"
A smile formed on Jebediah's face when he turned to Oliver, almost incredulous. "Yeah, back at West Thumb near the gardens. You're telling me you never saw them?"
"Oh, don't get smug on me. Of course I saw them!" he defended himself, but already Jebediah knew he was lying. After all, Oliver never ever spent any time in his crop growing duties.
Jebediah could take a jab at it, and found himself to be very tempted by it. But, of course, his own temper would flare if Oliver got the upper hand, and Smith had told them not to do it in the presence of the lieutenant, and a certain captain at their back. And so Jebediah, quelling that small part of pettiness inside of him, changed the subject.
"Yeah, though I only counted thirty-six." Jebediah said, and Oliver's frown turned inquisitive. Jebediah forged on, "Could you imagine if we had an entire army of them? Hell, what if we were able to drive one?"
"Oh ho ho," Fergus, who was walking in front of them, chuckled. "No you don't. Those things are death traps, and have you ever heard what a cook-off is?" he paused, briefly and as if waiting for someone to speak up. No one did. "You know, magazine blows, you get burnt so bad that all that's left is a crispy you. Or even get fused to your seat! I heard the smell is terrible though."
Where Jebediah cringed and Oliver frowned, Fergus had spoken animatedly in front of them, oblivious maybe, and Jebediah doubted the man did not have a smile on his face as he spoke of burnt people. Often as he had talked about nauseating things, he had done it with that damned smile, which always made Jebediah doubt Fergus's sanity.
"And somehow he jinxes it." Oliver muttered, and Jebediah for once had to fully agree with him. The silence that the conversation had brought stretched as three companies broke off from the column and began to set themselves up on this defensive line. Captain Zheng, however, did not stop, and soon they found themselves leading the company in its march up a winding path on the hill that was adjacent to the defensive line. Somewhat steep, the path was only slightly worn by use, but a considerable amount of people have passed through here, as the weeds that had grown from decades of misuse had been trampled, and the dirt had been flattened.
Half-way on the climb, that theory was confirmed when out from the bushes beside the path, a sentry made himself known, stepping out and holding an armored hand out. The sight of him made Jebediah's eyes widen.
The man wore no armor made before the war, but one that almost looked liked it came from the Middle-Ages. A chest plate, pauldrons, greaves, and vambraces, strapped over a dark green undersuit. Black and grey, slanted and angular, it was an imposing sight that spoke of being puppet-made. And the only thing that placed the soldier on their world was the regular ballistic helmet and the boxy rifle of the same make to the one Jebediah was carrying.
The company stopped in its tracks when Lieutenant Bourne at the head of the column did. This close, Jebediah could see the man clearly, eyeing the white stripe that ran from the collar of the chest plate to the groin, and there were similar stripes that ran down the soldier's arms. They were obviously painted over, as parts of them were flaked and worn, and an orange cloth was tied around the man's left arm. These were markings to distinguish them from the puppets, and Jebediah knew exactly where he had seen those before, and who wore them.
XCOM.
"We didn't expect you boys here!" the stranger called out, keeping his distance from the file of soldiers. For a moment, Jebediah thought the man had said 'hear' with a lack of an 'r', but then again, the man's overall accent was just off. A foreigner? Jebediah asked himself.
"Yeah, and we expected more of you." the lieutenant countered as the captain walked down the column to reach them. "This is Captain Zheng of the Third Battalion, commander of Bravo Company."
The captain had sauntered forward from the file and reached the cautious sentry, some five meters ahead of them. Already were there murmurings along the company, and it was not long before Oliver elbowed Jebediah to get his attention.
"Now, ain't that badass?" he asked and nodded towards the XCOM soldier speaking with their captain. It really did look badass, now that Jebediah thought of it, but he wasn't ready to show it off to Oliver just yet.
"Badass?" Jebediah asked with half a smile, "You're saying that the Puppets are badass?"
"Hey, come on, Jeb, you gotta keep an open mind." Oliver smacked his shoulder, hard and sudden enough for a grunt of surprise to escape his lips, "You might as well drop that gun of yours then, since it's puppet-tech, right?"
"Human-made." Jebediah retorted, clutching his machine gun tighter before the file began to move once again. "And a whole deal better than yours."
Oliver laughed, "Oh, we're comparing dicks now? That's what we're doing?"
"If that's the case then, mine's definitely…" Jebediah's voice trailed off when he spotted something in the shrubbery alongside the path. In a moment, his eyes widened, now noticing the machine gun emplacement that had gone unnoticed by him. Behind it, a soldier was kneeling behind the tripod-mounted machine gun of the very same make as Jebediah's, waving and giving out greetings as they passed him.
"Definitely… what?" Oliver prompted, and Jebediah only gazed at him before looking straight at the gun barrels aiming near their way.
"Nothing. Forget about it."
Where the men of the platoon were giving out their greetings and salutes as they passed the man, Jebediah only gave a tight, forced smile, trying not to think about a simple squeeze of the trigger that would mow them all down like grass. It was something he had to push himself into, to not think about the mere possibility of getting killed. Years ago, he knew he would've scoffed at the idea, young and willing to fight for his home. A hail of bullets? Dive straight in! Have at it with the enemy!
Now, however, after last week's attack, it seemed as if there had been a switch on his mind, now facing the real possibility of being killed. It was a self-conscious shame that loomed over him ever since, and now whenever that feeling of impending doom returns, he's had to override it through will alone. After all, who will be the team's gunner? Oliver might, but it was his responsibility, his job, his damned purpose.
Even thinking like this felt like letting the entire platoon down, so once again, like so many times before, he buried it. No one needed to see it, no one had use for it, and sure as hell no one wanted it.
The summit of the hill came as a great relief to his legs and mind, though the encampment had caught him off guard. Of course, he should've expected it, considering the sentries that now accompanied them, though Jebediah had thought of forward observers to communicate the battle with their high command. Not an entire company of black-armored troopers, closely resembling the puppets.
They were let into the perimeter without any fuss, and although some watched them, most of the soldiers were packing up - collapsing tents and filling their rucksacks with supplies. Just like in West Thumb, it was all professional, no dilly-dallying or complacency allowed, and when they had arrived at the center of the encampment, they watched as it was systematically dismantled around them.
The XCOM captain was an easy person to spot, heading towards them and wearing a set of armor that was unlike what they had seen before. Where the puppet armor was bulky, this one was slim, contouring around the woman's body from head to toe. The torso armor looked more like a vest now, and instead of wearing an undersuit like the rest, she wore regular fatigues underneath it. Even her helmet was not made of kevlar, but seemingly of the same material as her armor, with a visor the color of honey that shielded the eyes, and an angular crest that looked suspiciously like a camera.
The lower face was exposed, and she did not look pleased in any way as she approached their captain, but before they had a chance to watch the impending shitshow, Lieutenant Bourne stepped in front of them.
"Staff Sergeant Smith, we got dibs." the lieutenant said, and although he had the attention of the squad, the small tirade behind him caught the eyes of some, "Head over north and dig in. We're expecting the enemy in a few hours."
"What about these guys, sir?" Smith gestured to the departing black-clad soldiers, now leaving what used to be the perimeter and heading towards the path were they came.
"Don't know, don't care, and the captain's taking the brunt of it, so don't take his ears' sacrifice in vain, staff sergeant."
Oliver chuckled, the irony not lost on him it seemed.
The staff sergeant nodded then, and said a "Yes, sir!" before departing with them. Whatever they did, that captain didn't like it, and Jebediah racked inside his head for any reason when Oliver, and of course it had to be him, spoke.
"Looks like a match made in heaven, right Javier?" the man asked with a grin, peeking behind him. "I swear, we got a strong contender for the greatest hardass contest."
"Tennison, don't make me smack you." Javier Woods warned, "We're almost there, and then you can yapp all you want."
Jebediah snorted, but he couldn't blame him, considering the enormous Javelin tube strapped on his back that looked like it could break any man's spine. Jebediah's own legs felt like jelly right now, and his hands cramped from the machine gun's weight. The cons of being the designated gun operators.
"Come on, man, how long have you been a corporal? Six months?" Oliver asked, "You used to talk so much during these trips. Now after the staff sergeant made you a corporal, you act like an ass."
"It's part of the job, Tennison." Javier said, and then fell silent as he walked on.
Oliver sighed, then turned to Jebediah, walking backwards. "Jeb, promise me one thing, man. Please."
Jebediah raised an eyebrow, "What is it dude?"
"If you become an NCO, don't be an asshole" Oliver turned back to the rest of the walk, and Jebediah could only stare at his back in confusion, the word 'What?' dying on his lips as he stopped. The squad was at the end of the hill, where there was a sharp drop, and beyond was the Grand Prismatic Spring.
It looked like an bleeding sore, with its orange-colored rim that seemed to seep into the chalk-white barren land with tendrils roaming in every direction. The water near the rim was cyan, while the center was a very deep blue, but all around it it was steaming along with another smaller spring further north. An alien world indeed, and that idea was reinforced by the fact that virtually no one lived here.
The Firehole River curved along with the road, now running perpendicular to them for a few hundred meters. The cause of this was the Midway Bluff, a cliff that rose sharply on this side but wasn't high enough to cover what was beyond it. And everywhere else that wasn't the wasteland around the immediate vicinity of the spring were woods and creeks, with only some odd clearings of green meadows. Infantry would rule this battle.
When Jebediah arrived to his squad, the staff sergeant was pointing an invisible line around the treeline, "-hold your fire until told otherwise. I'm sure you didn't forget your spades this time?"
"No sir." Thomas proudly declared, and both the twins and the staff sergeant turned to Jebediah and Oliver as they arrived. "Got yours, Jeb?"
Like he always did after leaving the barracks, Jebediah reached behind him to grope, and felt the shafts of his spade and pick. "Yup." he said, smiling, and trying to be discreet with the relief that had spread through him. Not again would he dig with his hands and nails.
"Well then," the staff sergeant began, motioning to the ground around them, "dig your holes and break your backs. We'll be here for a while."
And just like that, with swallowed groans and dropping of packs, they began a new episode of playing mole-rat.