"-Charlie, 5 guns in effect-"
"-coming out of batteries-"
"-I'm not gonna send my guys into a minefield-"
"-sector, so like, if you see a dog, shoot it-"
Somewhere in Afghanistan, 0112, March 2nd, 2018...
"Wilson, tighten it up. Crown, look right. Stoner, look- Stoner? Where's Corporal Stoner? Stoner!"
"He's not here, sir. He was with us just a second ago."
"Shit. Alright, stay here."
In the cold cover of the night, when the full moon is upon them, five individuals, with determination in their eyes, set upon a goal. A goal that, if achieved, will save them from more destruction and will bring them a chance to go back home, so they can meet up with their friends and families and to never come back to this sandy hellhole ever again.
At least, that's what Wilson says to himself. Truth be told, he's scared shitless.
Private First Class Wilson is just an ordinary kid, who had dreams of becoming an artist. Unfortunately, to become an artist, he had to get enough money to attend to a college, and due to things that he won't tell you, he and his family doesn't have enough for him. So, to settle the problem, Wilson had to join the Army, and hoped to God that He will save him from death. Luckily, he earned himself a relatively boring but quite safe job of guarding an insignificant outpost in the middle of Iraq. Or, at least, that's what he thought.
Then the unthinkable happened.
The insurgents attacked anyway.
While the base was a tad bit understaffed (it was, tactically speaking, standing like a cancer in a middle of nowhere) and mostly used to train recruits (which there are many other places, which is much more important and better equipped), they actually successfully repelled the attack. The problem is that only a handful survived. And all of them agreed to launch a counterattack, with only him said no. But they went on, anyway.
The enemy base was on a place the locals called Sinjar. And it was hell.
Miraculously, he survived (but not without being hit) but not his friends. He only has Crown as a remaining friend after that clusterfucked trainwreck of a mission, including his childhood friend PVT Douglas, and his battle buddy SPC James. Many reinforcement waves were wiped out of the map, and the operation was a pyrrhic victory. The brass decided that the two of them weren't suffered enough, and then sent them to another platoon, where they got attacked again, but they didn't counterattack yet.
Instead, what they are doing now is to play hide-and-seek with a weapon cache.
"Wilson? You still up?" The raspy voice of Crown, hiding behind the bunch of weed, his weapon held tightly.
"Yeah. What do you want, man?"
"What the hell are we doing again?"
He sighs.
"Didn't you pay attention to the debriefing?"
"Blow up a cache and kill all hostile. But why are we here?"
"Probably waiting for Stoner to stop living up to his name."
They laugh.
In the background, the sniper of the squad, Specialist Azura facepalms.
"Stoner? Corporal Stoner, are you here? Stoner, there you are- what are you- Stoner, what're you doing? You're sitting on the ground, you okay?"
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?"
"Stoner, what are you doin- Ah, what's that smell? Are you- are you smoking Afghani hash?"
In short, Gunnery Sergeant Dawson is having a bad day. A few days prior, he lost all of his family and friends away from home. Yesterday morning, he went through a bureaucratic hellhole just to solidify his position as the new NCO of a different squad, and now he's dealing with this shit.
He's new to the platoon, and he doesn't have the time to get used to the troops yet. After Sinjar, and the loss of all of his old squad, the higher ups decided that he still haven't suffered enough, and then sent him to the other squad. A somewhat eccentric squad, but still effective nonetheless. However, when he met Corporal Stoner the first time, he knew he had to keep attention to said corporal. The file said that he's Green Beret, and been a part of many exchange programs. However, in practice, Stoner is an ungodly combination of a hippie and a Special Forces' soldier, and his newly-revealed state just confirms that he will be the source of his suffering for the rest of his deployment.
"Not all of it, dude." The aforementioned corporal exhales a gust of smoke. It smells like shit, "I spliced with this stuff I brought in from San Francisco, it's called Nightdrive Wonder. I haven't had, dude, like bringing the cultures together, it's a fuckin' trip, dude, you want a hit?"
"Stoner, what the fuck are you doing?!"
"Dude, what's the big deal? It's just a little hash, man. S'not like we're on a mission or anything."
Dawson would return to his mother's grave and say sorry to her just for whom can convince him that Stoner had paid attention to any and every briefing in his military life, and he was not definitely not smoking weed while on it. Resisting the urge to punch the daylight out of the hippie, he snarks back with an angry tone.
"Stoner, we are on mission. We're on a mission to find and destroy an enemy weapons cache somewhere in this area!"
Stoner has a look of apprehension after that.
"Really? O-oh shit."
"Stoner, put that roach down right now and get up!"
"Alright, dude I'm puttin' down the roach, chill!"
It's a fucking wonder that the insurgents haven't pick up the smells of burnt pot and the trail of smoke a long time before. But it's a risk that the NCO is not willing to take any longer.
"No drugs while we're operating." In actuality, Dawson should have immediately relive Stoner from his duty, but since the squad is understaffed as it is, he has to deal with this bullshit.
And if it costs his life, coolness and sanity in order to complete the mission and bring his subordinates in one piece, then so be it.
They walk back to the squad, and he sees the rifleman and the gunner, Wilson and Crown, respectively, talking to each other. The talk stops the moment the two of them come in, and Dawson takes the silence to start a debrief, to make sure that they understand why they are here. He signals the team to move in, and then pull out a map.
"Okay, team. There's a weapon cache somewhere in this area. We don't know where it is, but we have three potential position, here, here, and here." He points to the three areas on the map. "Now, we're sure on time, the sun's coming up soon, so, Azura, I want you to take Crown, and I need you to-" He is interrupted by the sound of a lighter lighting up. He has an idea of what's happening, but he need some confirmation.
"Stoner, are you lighting up again?"
The sounds of someone smoking halt his temptation to facepalm himself and maybe facepalm the smoker hard in the process.
"It's just a little hit, man, to get me through the briefing." and he exhales, sending smokes all over the squad position. There's a bunch of barely held giggles that held anyway due to the coughing. Once again, he thanks God for covering his back while his sanity is slipping away.
"Stoner, put that fucking thing out, what the hell do you think you're doing? C-cut it out!"
"Jeez, Captain Buzzkill over here. You really need to mellow out, man. You're totally killin' the whole vibe of this op"
"I'm a gunnery sergeant, Stoner, I'm your NCO. And as your NCO, I'm ordering you to stop doing drugs right now!"
There is an uncomfortable silence after Dawson pulling rank on an experienced, but high as fuck soldier.
"...you are being kind of a buzzkill, sir." Crown, being the smartass of the squad, involuntary mutters that.
"Aw, Christ, don't you start it-"
"اې، سړی، څه روان دی؟"
"Shit, everybody down!" And so every one of them go prone behind the bushes of drugs, and some hide behind the closest sandstone cover nearby.
"د خبرو اترو ضبط کول روان دي، دا څه دي."
"شټ، رښتیا؟ ما فکر کاوه چې زاړه کالي غصب دلیل لیدلی دی؟"
"په ښکاره توګه نه. خدای، زه باید له خپلې میرمنې سره لاړ شم، مګر اوس مې وګورئ."
"Huh, sounds like Arabic." Dawson states the obvious, while trying to get a better view of the guards. "Can't make out that dialect, though."
"ته نیکمرغه یی. زه په دې وخت کې هیڅ ښځه یا کورنۍ نه لرم."
"شټ، رښتیا؟"
"هو. هرڅه، موږ دلته څه کوو؟"
"Dude, it's definitely Pashto." Surprisingly, the pothead of the squad provides the answer.
"What? Are you sure? How did you know?"
"ښه، زاړه وزر غواړي چې مهمات د کلي څخه ووځي. موږ هڅه وکړه څو د امو په حرکت کې ځینې مرستې او لارۍ واوسو، او هغه څه ... مګر دوی وویل چې دوی په تیاره کې نه شي کولی. دوی به سهار وخته راشي، که زه په سمه توګه یاد وساتم."
"Well, 'cause we're in Southern Afghanistan, and I paid attention to the language training?"
"Holy shit, you actually paid attention to something?" Wilson voices his thoughts out loud. He never guesses that the resident pothead, debrief escaping extraordinare actually paid attention to anything, and if he did, the next joint he smoked would have erased anything from his brain.
"'سهار وختي؟ ایا دا د امنیت لپاره اسانه نه ده؟"
"You and your stereotypes, man. You gotta open up a little bit-"
"Hey, be quiet! So, what're they talking about?"
"هو، ما ورته یادونه وکړه، مګر مالک د یو بیکار پلان په اړه څه وویل. ښايي هغه د هغه شي په اړه خبرې کوي چې موږ مو وموندل."
"هغه باید د دې لپاره وړاندیز وکړي چې. دا د تیښتې لپاره یوازې یو راکټ دی."
"تاسو پوهیږئ چې دا څنګه ده. او موږ په دې قاتل باندې زموږ په ژوند باور لرو. زه یوازې کور ته ځم."
"زه هم سړی یم. زه هم."
"Well, that guy over there is super pissed that they had to protect this ordinance. One of the tribal elders, the one we've tracking through Jalalabad to Nili, wants it out of the village. They're gonna bring a truck to move it in this morning." He then looks at Dawson, grinning from ear to ear. "They're probably talking about the cache, dude."
"You're right." The said squad leader is forming a new plan now, while also changing his impression of Stoner. "For sure. Alright, new plan. We're gonna grab these two, and get whatever information we can out of them."
"Sounds solid, man, I'm down. Let me just burn and thrust this bone really quick."
And just like that, his view towards Stoner plummets like a raging meteor.
"Stoner, I said put that FUCKING THING DOWN!"
"څه؟"
"اې!"
"Oh shi-"
The two guards turn their weapons toward them, open fire on the weed immediately. One of them goes full auto on the AK, nearly knocking him out with recoil. The other has more trigger discipline, and so uses his SKS for adequate suppression. The squad keeps their heads down, unable to fire, while some others are flanking the guards and the incoming reinforcements, following the "No! Spread out, guys! Return fire!" of the sergeant to the tee.
"Hold your position! We're not giving this place up!"
"I should've joined the fucking Air Force!"
"Somebody kill that fuck!"
"Don't let up! Keep firing!"
"Help!"
"South! South! Do I have to kill everyone myself?!"
"RPG!"
"Somebody give me a fucking tourniquet!"
After a long ass time when all hostiles are all dead, the squad leader, after checking himself whenever if he got hit, and when confirming that he isn't, yells out: "Is everyone okay?! Report!"
"This is Azura, I'm good! Wilson and Crown are okay!"
"Hey, gunny! Yo, gunny! I got one!"
"Did you kill all of them, Stoner?"
"No, I mean, like... I got one in gunpoint!"
"Alright, everyone move to Stoner!"
And just like that, Dawson knows that his view towards Stoner is going to be mountains of fluctuation aiming down to hell.
As the squad, battered and tired, move into the location of the corporal, they realize that Stoner isn't hallucinating the surrendered insurgent, as they see a man, with dark-colored clothing, a chest rig for AK mags and a balaclava is cuffed on the ground.
"This dude is trying to make a break for it, man, but I got his ass on the ground." Stoner, with slurred accent and smells of marijuana, grins like a motherfucker.
"Why don't you finish the job and kill me? I won't talk!"
The pothead then voices his own thoughts again: "Oh, shit, he speaks English, that's cool!"
"Listen to me," Dawson then takes lead of the conversation. "We are looking for the weapon cache you and your friends were talking about. We need to know where it is-"
"I'm not telling you anything! You and your whole occupation can go to hell!"
"If you help us, we can offer you and your family amnesty and safety. We can pay you! We award people that cooperate-"
"I don't want your pot money, and I refuse to make any deal! You may as well kill me now!"
Tired from the useless conversation, Stoner decides to steps in. "Look, man, w-what's your name?"
"My name is Abdul!"
"Listen, Abdul. I know you think we're just a bunch of Western imperialists infringing on your way of life and upset the balance of delicate socioeconomic structure that we don't understand." He coughs. "L-look, I've been doin' Special Forces for a while now, be around the globe for a bit, did some traveling and, really got a chance to find myself."
To be honest, Abdul is quite jealous about the Americans. Before the war, he barely got enough money to keep his family afloat. He always wanted to go around the world, and bring his son and family with him. However, with the occupation and his family being killed by an airstrike, he had nothing else but to avenge his wife Lyla, sister Amara, and son, Ahmed. And if he dies fighting the imperialists, then so be it. At least he will meet his family in heaven.
"And I tell you, one thing that I learned doing this job, that it is all just the matter of perspective."
"Perspective?"
Stoner then put his still burning hash near the face of Abdul. "Take a long drag of this, Abdul, and give yourself some perspective."
He did.
Abdul's vision starts getting a bit darker, and he himself is getting sleepy. It's been a long time since he got a sleep.
He also feels... drunk.
What is that stuff?
"I can't believe it actually fucking works."
"Neither can I, Wilson."
"Hey, boss, I think Stoner's gonna be a better squad lead than you, huh?"
"Go fuck yourself, Crown."
"Uh, guys, am I too high or is that stone glowin' purple?"
"You're just hallucinati- oh what the hell- wait! Spread out! Fucking scatte-"
"The cache has been destroyed."
...
"...oh what the fuck? They're here?!"
...
"Fucking hell, man..."
Somewhere near the Ylisse-Plegia border, midnight...
...approximately 0039, March 29th, 2018...
This is the day that they are all waiting for.
Well, this is the day that they are all waiting for. Not him.
He was there, by the orders of the King himself, to escort the valuable asset which, supposedly was found near the border, and it will be the key to let Plegia extracts justice from their eastern neighbor, Ylisse. And to ensure the success of the mission, the King also sent his best and most loyal men to overseer the convoy. He can sense their hawking eyes around him, even when they aren't around. Some of them have the looks of killers, waiting the common army to fail a miniscule task just to earn a pathetic reason to wipe them all. It is so obvious to him, yet none of his subordinates have yet to worry about them. They are the King's chosen, they must be important enough to safeguard this utmost mission.
Speaking about his men, they are indeed excited, for they are all orphans from the last war with the last Exalt, which left millions to suffer and die. Under the occupation, their families were mistreated, starved, and executed, and it left heavy resentment for the common people when the war ends. The Mad King's constant speech of invasion as a retaliation for their crimes serves only for riling the country for war again. Many were fell into the constant propaganda and raids of bandits and supposed pegasus knights of Ylisse.
However, he saw through their lies. He used to be a simple merchant of the two countries, before and after the war, and the people, and the kingdom itself, are peaceful, especially within the cares of the current Exalt, Emmeryn. And he knows that there are still a lot of people in his country that, despite the theocracy's effort, still considers the neighboring country is not the hostile demon that many, if not most, believed.
But there is one thing that the theocracy was right after all, and it is the heights of the level of corruption inside the court of Ylisse can rivals the tallest mountains of the world.
But apparently his men are not sympathetic to any of them. At all. In their eyes, each Ylissean, of any age and any gender, is an enemy which must be destroyed.
And so he is, marching through the long stretches of sand, with his own men laughing, singing songs of the death of the Witch Queen, and even suggest immediately attacking the enemy directly.
"Captain, are we going to level Ylisstol in the coming day?"
"Captain, we have finally had the chance to get rid of the Exalt! Are you excited?"
"Captain, with this, we can finally wage war against the House of the Witch Queen! We must celebrate once we return to the capital!"
And so on, and so forth.
He hoped to the gods that he will never raise his sword towards the eastern country.
He hoped to the gods that he will never orphan any Ylissean children.
He prayed to the gods that war will never happen.
He prayed that he will never, ever, go to war.
He wished nothing else, but for the packages to be gone forever.
He wished for peace.
And as of right now, none of his prayers are being answered.
"Captain." An acidic accent rings out to his ears.
The voice of the guard stops his thoughts and to concentrate to the source of the voice. One of the King's noble guard, the Barbarian, starts a conversation.
"You seems... distracted."
"Yes I am. Is there a problem here, guardsman?"
The man grins manically. The captain does not like that smile.
"We are in the eve of our times of greatness, Captain." The last word stresses out mockingly, as if he is referring to a peasant that he is going to kill. This man surely does not care for the man with higher ranking. "And you seems not to care of it. Many of my peers had also expressed the fact as our journey begin, and I have heard of accusations of sympathy towards the Witch Queen and her subjects, and even desertion. And looking at your state, I felt that those baseless claims seems to... harden a bit."
The captain's frustration is increasing rapidly. His fist is gripping tighter to his sword, and his teeth are grinding toward themselves. Had he been his superior, he would have immediately enact heavy discipline so he can at least learn manners towards his supposed superior, and if not, immediate discharge, for he does not want soldiers ignoring orders. But this is reality, and he knows that, practically, the guardsman can dismiss him in anyway that he likes if he just looks at him funnily. But the mongrel in front of him does not see his reaction, or he just simply does not care now.
"Therefore, may I ask you a question: Why aren't you-"
And his chest suddenly exploded, with his organs and pieces of meat bursts out, and blood spits everywhere.
And it is accompanied with a scream of a silent demon.
"Guardsman down."
"Copy that, Azura. Crown, suppress the foot mobiles. Wilson, take down the horses and cover their flank. Stoner-"
*sounds of inhale over the radio*
*cough*
"Gotta take the herb, man, sorry 'bout that-"
"For fuck's sake, I said no fucking DRUGS! DID YOU EVER FUCKING LISTEN TO MY ORDER?!"
The men are in a state of complete disorder.
As the wraith of the gods descends upon them, man after man, conscripts or veteran, fall down to the ground with holes in their bodies, even the heavily armored mercenary knight can not stand against the raining death. It is a massacre, and it does not discriminate anyone with anything. The horse is killed, men die like droves, and the remainders are horrified. The ones who stand their grounds are the King's guards, who still tries fruitlessly to destroy their bringers of death. The ones who survive are the least experienced men of his own aide, who did the right thing and tries to conserve their lives. Some died trying to run away, others find shelter behind a boulder, which is slowly being chipped down by one or multiple assailant(s). The sounds and the flashes from different sides may or may not confirm his musings. But there is one thing clear on his mind, amid of all the madness outside.
He has to lead them out. He is the captain. It is his duty to bring them alive and in one piece, and as the gods as his witnesses, he will complete his duty.
The package can screw itself. His men come first.
"Men, turn around and retreat!" He yells out, his call is almost drown by the myriad of unearthly sounds of explosions, but they still understand what he means. But one of his youngest surviving grunts, speaks out:
"How can we make it out alive, sire?! In case you didn't notice, people are dying in droves out there!"
"Do you want to let the devil finds you here, cowering and helpless?!"
He is a bit too harsh on them, he know. But this is a life to death situation, where a mistake will cost you a life. They had made enough mistakes already, they do not want more. And it does install fear onto his men. He knows he will be condemned in the afterlife, but at least his men may have the chance to live to tell the tale.
And so they run, run to the sandy desert, away from impending doom. He sees the kid fall down nearly immediately the moment he stands up. Another one, the mage, meets the same fate. His back is punctuated by something naked to the normal eyes, or something that flies too quick to be seen, and left with a large hole. He tries to help him up, but the devil has already dealt with him.
He can not stop now.
So he continues running, changing directions randomly to seemingly avoid death, and sometimes looks back to check his responsibilities, but all is dead, except for him. And so he continues on, and on, and on, and on, and-
He has suddenly pushed back.
He can feel the pain of his wound. It punches through all of his organs and seems to leaves through his back.
Blood is everywhere. On his hands, on his body, and as his stamina wears off, he can also feels other similar wounds in different places.
He had made a mistake.
And he is paying for it.
In short, Gunnery Sergeant Dawson is still having a bad day. A few weeks ago, he and his squad was screwed over by the universe. A few days ago, he and his squad was almost thrown into jail, and now, he's still dealing with this particular shit, along with one gigantic political clusterfuck in his care.
Fuck losing an important trade partner, this is openly declaring a world war.
And yet someone still have the balls to be high at this volatile situation.
"Holy shit, man! This is still so trippy! It's like I'm in some acid trip!"
It's actually more logical to call their current experiences as a genuine acid trip.
"Goddamnit, can someone just slap him please!"
"Way to kill the moment, dude!"
Blackwater cocksuckers are much less annoying than this sorry excuse of a hippie/soldier.
"Do you even know what kind of moment we've been through? We've been pissing off the four nations in this fucked up, magical medieval fantasy world on steroids, with zero backup, zero reinforcements, no way to communicate back to Earth, and no way of returning to it! The only thing we have from them is an ammo cache, our gears, some radios and some guns, and we've been using said gears and equipment to pull a Robin Hood and his Merry Men of Fucking Lunatics to go and isolate ourselves from the Imperium of Assfuckers, the Theocracy of Edgelord Worshipers, the wet dream of a Khan/Barbarian hybrid, and a corrupt crapsaccharine kingdom all at once! And we're just a few minutes until the midnight, and you're here smoking weed?!"
He knows he's overreacting, the Outrealm Gate in the northern island may be a great way to get the fuck out of the coming hellhole - if it exists in the first place. The only solid intel they have on the subject is in some file they got from a long dead noble, and it's just a bunch of poorly-made riddle that the entire squad is sure that someone wrote it after experiencing a spiritual experience while drinking tough wine and snorting this place's equivalent of cocaine. But hey, he's here to wake Stoner up from his trip, not to plan out escape routes - yet.
God knows just how many escape plans they had and need.
"C'mon, man."
Apparently he failed. Again.
"The thing you've jus' said, they're just unavoidable, gunny. I don't need a joint to know that shit went pear-shaped, but what we've do-"
"Sergeant? Stoner? This is Private Wilson, do you guys copy? We got a situation here."
"Wilson, what's your status?" The NCO of the squad keys up the mic, wanting to stop the crumbling talk with the corporal and holding his relieved sigh while at it.
"One, we got the HVT. Intel was right, he's here."
"Well, that's good news for us. That Guardsman motherfucker gave us too much problem, it's nice to see he's now been six-feet under. What else?"
"Yeah, bossman," Crown suddenly takes his own turn, "But,... you gotta see this. The package is... let's just say we've been here for fuck-all."
Oh, shit.
"...copy. Hold your position." Dawson then turn back to the crackhead. "With me."
"Alright man."
He's still not used to the slurred drugged accent of Stoner, and he bet that he will never be.
And as he walks closer to the carriage, with his rifle ready to fire, and he is sure that Stoner is too, although how he still knows how to use a gun while still high as fuck is above God's pay grade.
And when he gets there, he sees Crown waiting for him, with his machine gun slinging and his kevlar in his hand, and he stays quiet, motioning the two to move in.
And when they did...
...
"...search the rest of the bodies. I want everything about this."
The mansion of General Mustafa, near the capital of Plegia...
Mustafa waits outside the border of the castle, waiting for the news of the outer region to come back. The guardsmen and the regiment is supposed to be here a few days ago.
This is supposed to be great news. They have finally done it. From villages being plunged by bandits, to many political moves, they had finally had an excuse to attack Ylisse and her now new ally, Regna Ferox. He personally saw the King laughing manically, living up to his moniker, the Mad King, while rambling that this is finally the key to justice, and how this will satisfy the God, Grima, by the pool of blood.
"Lord Mustafa."
He turns back to see a courier standing still, holding a package. This courier has no allegiance, as he can tell. He may works for the highest bidder.
A hired sword.
His face hardens at the sight of him, his fist tries to relax and not immediately lashes to his sword.
"This package is for you."
He handles the item to the general, who tries his best to hold his composure.
"And I also have a message for you. The Forth of July is a waste of tax-paying dollars."
His eyes widens.
"Thank you, courier. You may leave."
"At once, sire."
He watches the courier to leave his sight, away from his presence, until the shadow of darkness covers the silhouette away. And when he confirms that there is no single soul around him, he opens the package.
CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION.
That is the first line he read from a piece of paper. This is par the course of the source, but the message says that this is important.
MARCH 29th: CONVOY INTERCEPTED.
HOSTILE CASUALTIES: 26 KILLED IN ACTION, 0 MISSING IN ACTION.
FRIENDLY CASUALTIES: 0 KIA, 0 MIA
HIGH VALUE TARGET ELIMINATED.
The messages are always the same. Short, to the point, and easy to understand. Even with the... flowery languages, he could always know what it means.
VIP SECURED.
Wait, what? VIP? They have a hostage?
STATE OF VIP: WOUNDED, DEHYDRATED, STARVED, SURVIVING.
ADDITIONAL INTEL IS ATTACHED.
WAR IS IMMINENT.
ADVISED ACTION: RENDEZVOUS TO MARKED POSITION.
DELTA.
And that is the end of the message. But one of the last lines has stated what he is worried about.
WAR IS IMMINENT.
That means that the Mad King is right. He does has a way to instigate war against Ylisse now. But to solidify the currently baseless rumors, he quickly searches the rest of the package. He finds another piece of paper, and multiple paintings, which is extremely realistic and par the course of Delta. Sometimes he wonders just what kind of magic spell did they use to capture so much detail, but given their relationship with each other, it is hard to ask something.
The painting depicts a young woman. A beautiful woman, with blonde hair and with pigtails tied around the sides and behind her. Said pigtails, however, are covered in dried blood that comes from an unchecked wound on her forehead. Her eyes are black, solidifying the fact that someone attacked her and kidnapped her. Her clothes also look torn and worn, being slowly destroyed due to the little care it saw to her or her captors. But her face makes him remembers something...
...
Wait...
...
She's a Ylissean noble!
Her name is Maribelle! He talked to her once!
By the gods, what have she done?
And so he checks the remaining content in the packages. It shows him more paintings of her, now being bandaged and cared for, but he sees no signs of anyone else. Delta must be that careful. There are also more paintings of the disappeared Guardsmen, the King's finest, and they show how their faces locked into misery as they were killed. But the last content makes his heart sank into the ground.
It was an order. From the Mad King himself.
He ordered many bandit attacks on Ylisse, hoping to instigate war, to create aggression within the Ylissian court to finally overrule the Exalt and attack Plegia, so he can finally make an excuse of a defensive invasion. However, the next letter shows his great fear.
She was supposed to be a hostage. She was supposed to be brought back for a deal.
The King is to bring her to the border and to make a staged deal. He must be. For the prince, Chrom? For the Exalt, Emmeryn? For the Argent? Only the gods knows.
And so he checks the last piece of item inside the package.
It is a map. And there is a red cross in the Plegian side of the southern border. There is also a note there.
RENDEZVOUS POINT. MOVE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
ZERO HOUR IS COMING.
And so he runs back to his mansion.
If he cannot stop the coming storm, he must do the right action.
He must not allow the fall of Ylisse.
The Shepherd's Camp, near the Arena Ferox...
Robin has just return to his bed.
It has been a tiring party. The moment the West-Khan said his counterpart always jump at any moment for party, he has half the brain to trust him. However, when she did throw a party, he thinks that it's actually good that he serves under Chrom. Otherwise, he would be drunk forever if he serves the East-Khan.
To be honest, he does not like crowded place. Too many people around makes him nervous. Even with his... friends around, he never feel he is fit. That's why he just want to go to sleep.
But the outside keeps denying him of his beautiful sleep. The sounds of music, yelling, cheering, and the occasional crashing of furniture. He does not care anymore. Oh, gods give him sleep.
...
...
...
"...no rest for the wicked, I guess."
He stands up, wanting to do something to get rid of his boredom. maybe read through something again? He may need to hone on his magic skills, but it takes time. He had read every single book the Shepherd has brought with in the journey to Regna Ferox, and he cannot remember just how many times he had read with Lissa. Maybe he can read the roster again? He thinks the roster of the Shepherd does not bring anything that a conversation can do, so he just left it there.
Yeah. He's bored anyway. He neatly fold the blanket, and move to the main tent of the Shepherd, and try to find a familiar book.
However, once he sees the roster, he also sees another thing.
A few pieces of paper with what seems to be dossiers of someone.
Someone has left them here. It is evident that someone has purposefully put the papers there because he finds a note that reads:
Read the dossier. You'll need more backup in your quest. And I fucking mean it.
Sincerely,
Golf.
He grab the papers, and he starts skimming through the text.
He can see an emblem of a faction that he does not recognize. It is a picture of a shield, with a knife lying vertically and in the middle of that shield, with blue wings sprouting from the blade of the knife. It does not look like wings of an angel, it looks more like it belongs to a harpy.
And he can see the name of this faction. They are called the Middle East Security Coalition, or Security for short. Formed in 2004 (of what?), in the aftermath of an incident called 911, in a place called New York, the United States of America (the first thing in his mind is Is this United States a powerful empire?), and the aftermath of something called Operation Iraqi Freedom, this group has been created to protect the common man from the coming calamity. But that is the only noticeable thing he sees in the paper, aside from this names.
William Dawson, Gunnery Sergeant, Squad Leader. Preferred weapon: M16A4.
James Bailey, Corporal, Specialist. Preferred weapon: Mk18.
Jacob Wilson, Private First Class, Rifleman. Preferred weapon: HK416 (note: rifle given and authorized by [REDACTED])
David McCrown, Private Second Class, Gunner. Preferred weapon: M249.
Azura, Specialist, Designated Marksman. Preferred weapon: M14 EBR.
Doug Walker, Staff Sergeant, Observer. Preferred weapon: Mk17 Mod 0.
And in Robin's eyes, none of this makes any sense. At all. What's a Rifleman, or Specialist, or Designated Marksman? Why are the papers depicting them here? And the weapons' name? Are these legendary weapons? He looks at the picture depicting the weapons, they look absolutely nothing like what he has seen. And what can they do? There is nothing that shows him what they are capable of at the moment. Moreover, where can he find them? He certainly cannot find them wandering in the party anyway!
He closes his eyes, suddenly he has an urge to go to sleep now. Maybe he is right. Reading the roster (or rather, some weird files) does wonders for a bored man.
Maybe the mysteries will be solved at a later date.
Now, he just need some sleep.