A/N: This little fanfic is trying to expand on Mobius, the world where Sonic and his buddies frolic, play, and run so fast they liquefy everybody's insides. Wait, what was that last part? Oh, that's right, Mobius has consequences now...
Sonic is still going to be in this story; it takes place in the early Sonic universe, but in a more alternate reality. Think the Ultimate Marvel series.
I'm not trying to use any OCs. I dug deep for some notable G.U.N troopers to make a squad. However, the only OCs are cannon fodder and some diplomats.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sonic the Hedgehog or Sega.
Prologue - Divided We Fall (1/2)
There's this romanticized version of the Guardian Units of Nations floating around people's heads, making its rounds through Mobius' population. They think we're just a bunch of animals toying with military equipment and causing childish mischief with no real consequences. No. Not even close.
Soldiers coughed throughout the transport boat as they anxiously awaited their departure from the craft. Bodies twitched, hands fidgeted, legs shook, fingers tapped uncontrollably against their weapons' triggers. Behind their covered faces, the soldiers were terrified of the upcoming conflict that would ensue. Faint whizzing sounds grew deafeningly louder until they were silenced after slamming into the water, spraying the crew and kicking up the scent of sweat, blood, and salt.
A lot of young Mobians that get recruited think they're the next Sonic the Hedgehog. Not everyone could be like the greats. Too bad they realize this when it's too late. They won't be remembered, the U.F. doesn't really care about the five jackasses that call themselves Zero the Demonic-Artificial Wolf, or whatever the hell, that tried to play hero.
The operator of the transport boat fed orders to the other drivers, among other ramblings, on the radio. He steered, or at least tried to steer, the slow vessel from the barrage of projectiles. He wiped his irritated eyes, the salt water continued to rain down on him and the soldiers up front. He looked to his left for a moment, more projectiles hit the water until one landed a direct hit on the boat next to him. The resulting explosion left him and most of the soldiers struggling to hear through the induced ringing.
In the end, it doesn't matter. Anyone, Human, Mobian, Overlander, or otherwise that are willing to pick up a gun and give their lives for this country are heroes in my book. While the fat cats and bankers are cozy in Station Square or Central City, we're out here. We're out here doing what matters for all of Mobius, not just the United Federation. Sometimes, though... sometimes things aren't this black-and-white.
"This is it! We hit the beachhead in roughly thirty seconds!" The operator yelled to the crew, specifically talking to the sergeant, who was only identifiable by his rank being on the front of his helmet.
The sergeant turned to the rest of the soldiers, "Thirty seconds! Westwood, pass it down!" He bellowed out louder than the gunfire.
The masked soldier looked down to his jacket, unfortunately, 'Westwood' was written on his left breast-plate. He took in a deep breath under his balaclava, "Thirty seconds!" His voice was much higher, that of a young man. He was able to be heard by the soldiers in the front, snapping them out of their terrified trances.
Upon hearing this, the soldiers grew more anxious, "No, no, I can't be here! I have to get out! I have to get out!" One of the troopers dropped his carbine and grabbed the edge of the open boat and lifted himself over. The other soldiers yelled in protest, grabbed his legs and tried to pull him back down. The fleeing trooper kicked back at them until a line of gunfire cut through him, ending his yelling.
The rest of the soldiers, including Westwood, ducked down in the fetal position with their arms covering their helmets. As the line of bullets thoroughly shredded the boat, each trooper prayed they would get lucky. Fortunately, the wave of rounds passed and the soldiers got up. Westwood quickly scurried to the back of the mass of soldiers, thinking this was the safest. Bullets can only go through so many bodies, right?
As soon as they got their composure back, the boat jerked to a stop. The soldiers all stared at the door through their tinted goggles. The large door was branded with the infamous G.U.N insignia. Westwood cleared his throat from the back, "S-sergeant?"
The sergeant looked up towards the sky, "Hold steady, boys. We wait for the Blues and Vulks."
Ten agonizing seconds passed with the only audible sounds being gunfire, explosions, and the screams of unlucky soldiers. The operator of the boat rose up from his seat, looking at the fleet of fighters, "Air support's here, boys!" The operator yelled to the men.
The troopers watched on as the squadrons of Blue Eagles and Vulkan fighters flew overhead. The noise emitted from the fighters' engines blasted through the soldiers as the jets flew over the beach. The sergeant raised his arm up, "This is it open the doors!" The soldiers obeyed and two of the identical troops released the locks on the door and prepared to charge out.
Westwood took one last look behind him, noticing a Vulkan fighter take a direct hit from an anti-air missile. The jet was almost blown in two. The mangled remains of the aircraft spewed out black smoke as the pilot struggled for control. The plane collided with the soft sand next to their transport boat, causing a deafening boom and emitted shock waves that sent the boat dangerously rolling in the air.
Unable to grab anything, Westwood was mercilessly thrown into the ocean water. As he took his last breathe through his mesh balaclava, the salt water rapidly filled his his mouth and pocketed inside his mask. As he sunk down, he witnessed his boat roll on to another transport craft, the water carried the cringe-worthy sound of sheering and bending metal to his ears. Westwood felt his rear plant lightly on the sea floor, kicking up a cloud of sand that seemed to dance throughout the water before settling back down.
Westwood stared at the sun shining brightly through the surface of the water, it was the brightest he had ever seen it before. Westwood grabbed his throat, quickly realizing he had been submerged. The surface looked like it was miles above him, he had no chance to breach for air. That didn't matter to him.
Out of sheer determination he lifted his legs up and prepared to push himself upwards, but quickly splashed around and drew a breathe of sweet oxygen. He stood frozen for a second before realizing the water was waist deep. The bitter sounds of the ensuing battle waged on the beachhead filled his ears once more. The sight was too much for him to take in; G.U.N units, dressed head-to-toe in tactical black, charged up the beach hill. It seemed like a losing fight, the horde of black soldiers were constantly being gunned down and cut short by the machine guns that were placed in a line of residential houses along the beach. Smoke trails from missiles and rockets filled the sky, crossing paths like a smoky spiderweb. The once pristine beach was now littered with the bodies of soldiers and debris of all sorts, from aircraft to pieces of brick and mortar.
A trail of bullets snapped Westwood back to reality, each one kicking up a little splash of water in front of him. He let out a surprised yelp and began running to shore, his legs trying to push past the weight of the water. With a glorious splash, Westwood made it on the beachhead, and made a beeline toward a mangled Vulkan that had crashed nose-first into the sand. He couldn't feel anything, his adrenaline blocked all that out long ago. He was too focused on the cover the downed jet provided. The buzzing of bullets flying near him simply made him run faster. He dove down and slid behind the large wing of the jet, meeting up with several other soldiers already behind it.
None of these men had the rank to command, all of them lower enlisted like Westwood himself. He crouched down near the center of the wreck, where he thought was safest. He took a long look behind him only to see the shoreline now tinted a deep red with his deceased comrades occasionally poking out from the surface, along with some destroyed transport crafts.
"Quite the sight, eh?" Westwood faced another masked soldier, he leaned out of the safety of the wreckage and sent a quick burst from his light machine gun down the beach. The red stripe on his shoulder identified him as demolitions, but his explosives weren't present, "Brass set us up to fail! Has to be!" He yelled over the gunfire.
Westwood simply continued to stare at the man, "W-what?" He did not actually hear this man's words, his mind still in shock from the fight in progress. The man did not respond, he simply continued to pop shots at the houses up hill.
"Hey you! Errr, 'Westwood?'" His attention was grabbed by yet someone else, "At least that's what's on your tit, hehe..." This man looked way too scrawny, but not too scrawny for his yellow stripe; communications. His giant backpack housed everything needed for... Whatever those guys did. The man grabbed an assault carbine from the sand and tossed it to Westwood, "Catch."
With a grunt, Westwood felt the carbine hit his chest and fall to his feet, "Ha, nice catch," The man jokingly said, and high-fived himself. Westwood furrowed a brow to the man's attitude under such conditions, but picked the weapon up, "Why don't you help your buddy over there shoot at those tiny, timeshare houses, would ya?" He pointed to the demolitions man who had not stopped spraying in the general direction of the enemy.
"Sure," That was all Westwood could muster before he made his way over to the side of the wreckage. He took a deep breathe and slid out of cover. Westwood held the carbine to eye-level and carefully aimed it towards one of the many houses.
He took a shot.
Then he took one to the chest.
That's it for part one. Feel free to count all the tropes and cliches in this shameless D-Day knock-off.