Hello, this is my first time writing a Highschool of the Dead fanfic, so hopefully you fellas

don't mind me giving it a go. Anyhow, if you do find some mistakes here, please, don't hesitate

to point it out. With that out of the way, here is the prologue to my story. :)

"Admit it." The man sitting next to him said out loud, in a tone filled with utmost conviction.

"Never." He replied in kind.

"Admit it, damn you!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because," he reasonably started as he finally looked the man straight in his eyes, all serious-like. "there is no way in hell her jugs are better than Scarlett Johansson's. There's just no fucking way. Period."

"That's a crock of steaming horseshit, and you know it!"

"Jack, give it a rest. Her rack isn't even bigger than ScarJo's, nor is it even close to that level of godly perfection. I mean, even calling those pair of headlights she has as 'boobs' is a pretty generous assumption."

"You take that back!" Jack, also known in the service as Warrant Officer One John Geller most of the time, stood up in his chair in righteous indignation. "Those tits of hers are way more fucking perfect than ScarJo's will ever be!"

"I admit, they do seem somewhat insanely perky," he conceded, as way to placate the other guy, "but in this case alone, size does matter. Not to mention that deity of yours looks like she's going to topple over from a slight breeze."

That seemed to have struck a nerve, as Jack's eyes started to bulge.

"Yeah? Well, at least she's not fat and huge like a fucking cow!"

"Okay, now it's your turn to take it back." He slowly stood up in his seat and pointed a heated finger at his subordinate. "Scarlett Johansson is not fat, nor is she huge. She's curvy. As in, those fucking curves of hers are hot as all hell, and au naturale. Not like that fucking stick you're currently obsessing over."'

"She is not a stick!" Jack roared as he increased his voice's volume. "Gisele Bündchen is the picturesque essence of grace, and the epitome of sophistication!"

"No, she's not."

"She is! Not to mention she's also fit, and chic, and supremely classy and elegant."

"And also a fucking stick."

"Why, you disrespectful motherfu—!"

"Can it, both of you!" a booming voice in front of them instantly ended their asinine argument, and made both of them look in that direction.

Where they were immediately rewarded with the sight of their company commander, eventually entering the briefing room after a momentary wait, with a not-so-amused look on his face pointed at them.

"Atten-hut!"

They were so busy arguing about who's breasts were better that they didn't notice the guy finally coming over to preside this particular brief. Naturally, everyone in the room including the arguing pair stood up at attention to greet the newly-arrived man.

"At ease," the older man, Captain Desmond Conklin, casually waved them off to relax and be seated once again, as he took his place behind the podium in front of the gathered group of pilots. "Before we start, what the hell were you two idiots arguing about?"

He and Jack both looked at the floor at the same time, as subdued snickers and amused chuckles from their fellow Army pilots colored them with sheer embarrassment.

He knew that arguing like an idiot with Jack was as childish as one could ever usually get, but goddamn it, that insult about Scarlett Johansson being fat was the last straw. A curvy woman, like that of his blonde goddess, doesn't necessarily equate to being fat. That's just common sense right there. Why couldn't that hardheaded jackass see that?

"Come on, I ain't got forever, damn it."

"Well," someone in the group spoke up, "I do believe that Geller and Wilkinson were arguing about whose particular set of breasts were better, sir."

That got another round of laughter from the congregated collection of aviators inside the room.

"What?" Conklin asked in bewilderment. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I shit you not, Cap."

"Jesus Christ, the shit I have to deal with." The captain breathed out in resignation, as everyone started laughing once more, not even bothering to be subtle about it; all while he was purposely keeping his gaze downwards, without looking at anything else in particular other than the shiny floor. He was sure that Jack was perfectly mimicking this particular act right beside him.

"Do you fellas want to finish that particular thought?" The captain mockingly asked with an annoyed tone. "Geller?"

"No, sir." Jack quietly replied.

"What about you, Wilkinson?"

Chief Warrant Officer Four Michael Wilkinson sighed in frustration, as he looked up to face his commanding officer. The man did not look entertained, at all. For one thing, the captain's facial features looked as if he was forced to babysit a bunch of immature and impertinent man-children, naturally masquerading as professional soldiers and pilots in the United States Arm—

Well yeah, okay, that does sound just about the gist of his job description. If anything else, he really couldn't blame the guy for looking this irritated at the both of them, or at this particular army aviation company in general.

He and the rest of them really did need to work on not pissing off their CO so much, if they ever wanted to marginally advance their respective careers in the military. Somewhat.

"No, sir."

"Good. Now that that's out of the way, let's get this over with then. XO, hit the lights!"

The room's overall lighting instantly died down, blanketing them in complete darkness for the briefest of moments until the LCD projector above them finally turned on, showing all of them an overhead reconnaissance capture of a large sizeable metropolis residing near the ocean.

"Gentlemen, as most of you already know, this is Tokonosu City." Conklin began the briefing as he looked at the projection screening behind him. "It's about a hundred klicks west of here, and is one of the country of Japan's leading industrialized sites, and a major population center to boot. Overall, it's basically on par with many other well-developed cities in the Western Hemisphere, like those of New York, Los Angeles…blah, blah, blah, nobody really gives a fuck. In other words, let's just assume that this place is pretty much a big fucking deal and move on."

There were murmurs of agreement going around in the group.

"Anyways, as of today though, said city is in a state of near panic." the captain continued indifferently. "According to a few unconfirmed reports, some kind of unidentified problem is rapidly causing conditions there to deteriorate, to the point where local authorities are at their breaking point trying to contain the situation from escalating even further."

In front of Wilkinson, a hand was raised to signify that someone wanted to ask a question. He was thoroughly ignored by Conklin though, as the man continued on with his briefing.

"And because those poor fuckers are at their wits end attempting to unfuck this particular dilemma, the national government in Tokyo has finally realized that they really can't do shit anymore, and as such is asking Uncle Sam for help accordingly in pacifying this rather tricky snafu. This is where we come in, boys.

"As part of the President's commitment to the Japanese government, elements of the First Cav's aviation support component here, in FOB Pocky, is being tasked with providing limited C-Three upkeep and air movement. Where the Japs ask us to move some really important looking stuff, we deliver it no questions asked; and if they have a problem trying to reach someone on comms, and they're also struggling to coordinate a joint effort, we fix their shit without a moment's hesitation and so on and so forth. You get the gist of it.

"The regiment, or more specifically our battalion, is leading this certain endeavor. And since our battalion is front and center on this fucking thing, the lieutenant colonel wants us to do this by the book, and without hitting any snags whatsoever. So, without further ado ladies and gentlemen, here's our tasker he assigned us to do…"

The projected picture shifted to another one, this time it was zoomed in to a part of the city that was a bit far away from the coast. Large skyscrapers dominated the area, and everything in between them was jam-packed with even minor buildings that weren't necessarily lacking in scope, but just wasn't as tall as the former. Wilkinson could only warrant a guess as to say that this was the city's downtown area.

"Bravo Company has been assigned to transport critical non-essential personnel awaiting evac on various rooftops here, as shown in this picture. The Japs want these people airlifted, so we'll do just that. And since it's all hands on deck for this one, that means all of our eight Black Hawks in our outfit will participate in this operation, along with full aircrews. So make damn sure that you get all of your crew chiefs accounted for and ready for transpo when the time comes. We're going to need them a helluva lot in this mission, now more than ever.

"As you can see here, our AO is a tad bit tricky. Seeing as there's not a lot of sustainable landing zones that can fully support the weight of a helicopter touching down, evac sectors are being divided into four reasonable areas that's already been assessed by nearby friendlies, with two choppers each assigned to it. Here are the specified LZ's."

On the same projected picture, two skyscraper rooftops and two other buildings that weren't essentially tall, but had sufficient size placement, were highlighted in bright red circles; numbered from LZ One to LZ Four respectively.

"I don't need to remind you fellas that those LZ's can barely support one Black Hawk, so each pair will land in turns. When the first ones land, the second choppers will provide limited overwatch until the other bird is full and is heading back to base. And once the second bird is done with their thing, they will do the same, etcetera, etcetera. Remember, just haul ass and get back here on the double. There's no telling when the company is going to be assigned a new set of orders, and it'll probably help a lot if you're back here, already being refueled and fully prepped once more before we go out again.

"As for LZ security, don't you guys worry none. Some groundside SDF forces have already secured the rooftops and the surrounding areas, so there's pretty much no trouble at all once you get there to exfil the civvies into safety.

"Alright well, that's pretty much it, I suppose." The captain concluded the briefing just as someone turned the lights back on. "Wheels up on eleven-hundred, so I suggest you fellas do some last-minute maintenance checks on your respective birds before the op begins. As for questions, uh, let's see…you were raising your hand earlier Studemeyer? What the fuck did you want to ask?"

"Well, uh," the man who wanted to inquire something but couldn't earlier, spoke up, "it was about this 'unidentified problem' thing, sir."

"What about it?"

"You have any idea as to what it is?"

"Hell if I know," their commanding officer said offhandedly, "it was pretty fucking conflicted, so the intel guys don't particularly know what to make of it. Those reports from earlier were mentioning all kinds of crazy shit, like apparently there's some sort of killing frenzy sweeping all over town, that random folks were going nuts or something, trying to slaughter each other by biting into other people's limbs for no specific reason or anything. Sounds like complete and utter bullshit, I know, but I don't really give a damn regardless. As it stands, we got enough shit on our plate as it is, so it's definitely not our problem."

"Good Lord," another person in the group spoke up, "kinda sounds like the setting of a really crappy Jap anime."

"No kidding." a third voice agreed.

"Alright, alright, enough fucking around. We're not getting paid by the hour here, so let's get on with it. Dismissed!"

The floors grated with noise, as the occupants of the room's chairs stood up and moved in disjointed symphony to quickly exit the room.

"Can you believe that shit the Cap just said?" Jack wondered aloud, as they and the other aviators of the company suited up in the makeshift locker room. "I mean, 'biting into other people's limbs'? That's just fucking insane, man."

"There is no way in hell that's actually for real," a fellow pilot, an average white guy by the name of Forster, piped in, "Hernandez is right, that does sound like the setting of some fucking Jap cartoon."

"Not cartoon, bro. Anime." Hernandez sagely corrected. "But yeah, you're right, it does seem a little far-fetched."

"Anime, cartoon, potato, po-tah-to, same damn difference." Forster said.

"There's actually a shit-ton of differences, bro."

"Whatever, I don't really fucking care anyways. They all look the same to me."

"That's what everyone says. Actually, it's kind of a popular misconception."

"Anime?" Another pilot, a hulking black guy named DeMarcus, joined in on the conversation. "Ain't that some really weird porno cartoons those pervy Japs watch and jerk off to? Like, you know, with them freaky-ass tentacles violating some cute chick's ass and all that bunch of shit?"

"Jesus, man," the Latino spoke out in a combination of horror and disbelief, "that's hentai. Well yeah, technically it is some form of anime, but there's more to it than that. Anime is actually a really good medium for entertainment, more so than cartoons. And, it's on a whole league of its own, since there's just some things that live-action movies and traditional animation elsewhere just can't seem to capture."

There was a brief moment of silence in their part of the lockers, as no one said anything after Hernandez's enlightened lecture. Those didn't really last long.

"So…uh, does this mean you also like to watch them pervy tentacle cartoons, too?"

"What? No, you fucking dumbass! Haven't you been paying attention to what I've been saying? You're completely missing the goddamned point!"

"Don't be getting all flustered, now. I ain't gonna judge." the African-American pilot said in amusement. "If you get your rocks off watching some poor bitch getting hammered with a space squid's slimy tentacle, then hey, you go for it. It's only natural for people to have some weird ass fetish. We only human, after all."

"For the love of God, man! I do not watch fucking hentai!"

"Ohhh, someone's getting a wee bit defensive." DeMarcus's co-pilot, O'Connor, sounded off next to the guy. "Come on, Julio. It's okay to admit to us that you actually get turned on by tentacles being shoved up women's asses. Like what my man said, there's no judgments here, brother."

"Yeah, no judgements whatsoever…you weird ass tentacle fucker!"

A bunch of the guys in the room laughed at Hernandez's expense, with said pilot's ears and cheeks turning beet red with silent indignation and embarrassment.

"I swear to God, you guys are complete fucking idiots sometimes…" the guy grumbled with annoyance as he proceeded to strap on some of his flight gear.

"Whatever you say, tentacle fucker."

Hernandez zipped his mouth shut after that.

"Seriously, though," Jack went on, all thoughtful, "Julio's weird tentacle fetish aside—" that earned the man a scathing look from the Latino pilot across from him, which he was completely oblivious to, "—why the hell did they pick us for this shit?"

"What do you mean?" Forster asked.

"Think about it, this place has already a shit-ton of guys already posted here, right? What, with those dumbass jarheads based in Okinawa, and a couple of Air Force fighters jocks stationed in air bases all over. Why send us here instead?"

"Does it really matter?"

"That's beside the point. Still, it kinda makes you think, don't it?"

"Hmmm…" Forster stopped whatever he was doing to ponder on Jack's query.

You could see the man's facial expressions work in overtime, as he seriously thought long and hard about what Jack had mentioned.

Time seemed to stand completely still, as the man himself looked up to the overhead lighting to gather some brief form of impetus. It was like a watching a prime genius in his element, valiantly congregating his precious game-changing thoughts for the next great breakthrough on whatever it was they were trying their damnedest to solve.

Or even that of a great master during the fledging age of the Renaissance, who was just waiting patiently for that exact 'Eureka!' moment for inspiration to take hold of their very essence, just letting it take control from there as primal artisanal instincts took over and let their hands move as if they had a life of its own.

It was a fascinating thing to watch, for whatever that was worth.

Though, in reality, Forster's supposedly deep contemplation on the matter lasted for the better part of no less than two seconds, before finally deciding to go with a simple, "meh" and quickly moved on from that topic.

Which, of course, made Wilkinson laugh quietly in delight.

In hindsight, the guy wasn't really that well-known as a deep thinker anyway. He was simple, like that.

"It ain't funny, damn it." His co-pilot, Jack, complained when he saw him laugh. "I'm being totally serious here. Doesn't it strike you as odd, at all, that they build a forward operating base in the boonies out from scratch—in the middle of fucking nowhere, mind you—with the nearest settlement a hundred klicks west of here, with said FOB garrisoned by a unit that's totally not near this place. Ever. For God's sakes, we're based in Texas for crying out loud. Texaaas. And we're just supposed to be okay with all of this?"

The CWO4 groaned audibly as he finally put on the finishing touches of the flight gear he was putting on, and grabbed his standard-issue HGU-56/P flight helmet from inside the locker.

"Jack," he said as he closed the compartment's metal door. "do you really want to know what I think that badly?"

"Yes!"

"Alrighty then, here's what I think." He faced his co-pilot. "I think, that I don't particularly give a shit why they sent us here, or our regiment in general."

"Seriously…?"

"Let me finish."

"Sorry." His co-pilot sheepishly said.

"As I said, I don't particularly care that they sent us here, no matter how much it absolutely makes no sense whatsoever. But," He added, before Jack could interject. "you do seem to bring out a few solid points. That deserves to be commended."

Jack's face lit up from the praise. Seriously, it really didn't take much to please this guy.

"Although, to quote one of our esteemed comrades-in-arms, Chief Forster," Wilkinson nodded his head on the aforementioned guy's direction, who just grunted from having his name called, "does it really matter?"

"Well, uh…"

"Exactly. You brought out a lot of really compelling points there, Jack 'ole boy, you really did. And I'm impressed as all hell at how astute your observations were. But, though logical it may be, at the end of the day it doesn't really matter a helluva whole lot. Because we're already here, six thousand and five hundred miles away from Fort Hood to be exact, inside a hastily constructed FOB that was built in less than a week by disgruntled Marine and Army engineers, and to top it all off, we're in a country where we do not know any actual shit that's of importance. Language, customs, manners, laws, fuck dude, you name it. You've really hit the jackpot as to how fucked up this all is. And at this point, there's not really much we can do about it.

"So, I ask you again," he added as an afterthought. "in the end, does it really matter what we think?"

Jack's shoulder's stooped in defeat as his concerns about their unexpected deployment here was utterly shot down. By him, no less.

In fairness, he wasn't being a total dick just so he can get a laugh out of this.

He wanted to let his co-pilot fully understand that this was the Army. Most of the time, not everything it did made a helluva lot of sense, and going about it questioning everything wasn't going to get you anywhere as long as you were still here. Usually, the only thing one could do in a helpless situation like this was just go wholeheartedly with the flow and do as you were ordered to.

Nothing more, nothing less.

And, if they played their cards right and everything went off perfectly without a fucking hitch, only then could they all pack up and leave; blissfully forgetting everything that's ever happened here, where they were being shipped off to a random land with barely only twenty-four hours' notice, and told to perform GS missions without any clear heads up or prior knowledge as to what they were doing in the first place at all.

Such was the life of a professional military serviceman in the United States Army.

He really should've just went to law school and become a fucking lawyer, just like his dad had wanted him to.

"…no…"

"What was that?" Wilkinson asked, not quite hearing his subordinate.

"No, sir."

"Attaboy." He clasped Jack's shoulder warmly. "Don't be so fucking grim, my man. Trust me, in a few more tours, you'll get used to all this shit eventually and be as gung-ho as can be. So to speak."

Jack just sighed.

"Let's just get on with this and go home."

"I couldn't agree with you more, buddy. Let's go."

Officially, the forward operating base that was constructed here in the middle of the peaceful Japanese countryside didn't necessarily have a name. For one, the combat engineers from the Army and the Marine Corps, who had been unfortunately tasked with building such a ridiculously large facility in an insanely brief amount of time—even by military standards—didn't really give a fuck as to what the place was to be called. Wilkinson just knew the shit based on what he was told. Ostensibly, an hour after they finished building the place, the combat engineers just went up and left and didn't bother looking back, dead tired and discontented to the point where they actually made record time in going back to their respective bases.

The only reason this place even had a name to begin with was because some Jap school kids, who were out on a field trip nearby and had seen the newly-arrived soldiers from the 227th Aviation Regiment, suddenly became curious, and visited the supremely jetlagged sons-of-bitches just waiting at the outskirts of the base's perimeter.

He wasn't there when it actually happened. But according to a few people he knew who were there, the little kodomo, as the Japs called their kids, started to hand out their extra snacks to the poor and beleaguered soldiers waiting for hours on end trying to get in; just about exhausted and extremely cranky, from having little to no sleep, and who's only form of sustenance during that day were questionable MREs and jaded willpower.

One of the snacks that the gracious little bastards had given them were these thin, chocolate-covered biscuit sticks that were named Pocky.

And once they had a taste of that stuff, the soldiers who ate it went insane with glee. As in, they actually broke out wild smiles and started to profusely thank the little kids, momentarily forgetting how worn-out and hungry they were as they asked for more. With a few enterprising servicemen even trading in a couple of contraband souvenirs to get the last of the biscuit sticks.

Naturally, the guardians of said kids weren't exactly pleased when they found out that a couple of the children possessed deactivated frag grenades and a vintage AKM bayonet.

Two days after they finally settled down, the insatiable demand for the product was so ludicrously high, that the brass eventually had no choice but to contract a local retail chain nearby to supply the hooked fuckers with an immense crapload of the stuff. Kinda like a reluctant drug dealer finally coming to grips with the fact, that they can't really stop a dear friend from getting wasted on their fine and addictive product.

Thus, with unanimous and overwhelming consent, the hastily constructed garrison, which was built from the ground up by its makers with nothing more but military ingenuity, speed, and immense apathy, was lovingly christened by its new tenants as Forward Operating Base Pocky from here on out. Unofficially, that is, as to not greatly burden the admin staff in the Headquarters and Headquarters Company with copious amounts of paperwork.

Yes, it was as ridiculous as it actually sounded.

And no, most of the people stationed here didn't seem to think so.

Just another fine example of one being all that they can be in the Army, he supposed.

Sometimes, it was hard to believe how ridiculous these people would ever truly be, and they're actually being charged with defending the free world from ever constant harm, too. The irony was seriously not lost upon him.

Wilkinson just shrugged it all off, as he neared the rows of numerous utility helicopters belonging to his company, which were evenly being arrayed in an impressive flight line and just about ready to take off at a moment's notice.

Even though he had some reservations about how silly the service can be at most times, he couldn't help but be fascinated at how orderly everything was and just how symmetrical everything looked before him. With a place for just about everything, and everything finely in its place.

It really was a sight to behold, if he did say so himself.

With his co-pilot in tow he ignored the other notable choppers, as both of them calmly walked down the line, and headed straight for their beloved bird at the other end of the clear-cut formation.

And just like the last time he saw her three days ago, she was still as beautiful as ever.

'Her', being in this case, a Sikorsky UH-60M Black Hawk helicopter.

And like all beautiful things that were of this world, 'she', of course, had a proper and befitting name. And her name was Betty.

And there was absolutely none like her.

With four wide chord blades on its main and tail rotors, she was powered by two T700-GE-701D engines that could just about make a maximum of 2,000 shp, or about 1,500 kilowatts generated on each powerplant. Which translated to a lot of raw power housed in a long, low profile shape that gave it sleek lines and drop-dead gorgeous curves in all the right places. Equipped with a highly advanced, state-of-the-art avionics package, and durable electronics, she was damn-near unstoppable to do whatever she so well pleased. Aside from all that remarkable features, Betty also had an improved durability gearbox, an Integrated Vehicle Management System computer, and a new glass cockpit that gave her pilots a supremely gorgeous view all around.

She really was a dream to fly.

And, if you treat her just about right, she was more than capable of whatever was thrown her way.

From carrying eleven heavily armed troops, lifting 2,600 pounds of internal cargo—9,000 if you carried it outside with a sling—to even a fucking 105mm M119 howitzer, along with thirty of its heavy duty artillery shells and it's four-man crew!

You name it, she does it. And if you were dumb enough to even remotely doubt what she could do, he and she would be more than happy to prove your dumbass wrong.

Betty was everything an Army aviator could ask for in combat utility helicopter. That, and quite possibly even more.

And she was his baby.

Wilkinson affectionately ran a hand through her nose and eyed her dotingly, like a father would looking after his only daughter on her first prom night, or a husband adoringly embracing his wife on the night of their honeymoon. Their relationship was built upon mutual respect, trust, skill, and a healthy dose of blind faith. The CWO4 lost count on how many times Betty has saved him and his crew from total destruction.

Be it from hostile ground fire, adverse weather conditions, or even freak accidents; on all separate occurrences, she's never failed to bring all of them home in one piece.

He patted the nose with a knowing smile.

"Do you want me to get you guys a room?" Jack spoke out as he observed his gestures.

"That joke got old the first twenty times you've said it."

"And I'll keep on saying it, until you finally lose the urge to make sweet, sweet love on this here piece of Army equipment."

"Jack," he craned his head to the guy beside him, "how long have you been my co-pilot? Two, maybe three months max?"

"More or less, yeah."

"And how many times do I have to tell you to stop badmouthing Betty?"

"I think this makes it thirty-two times now. No, no wait!" the younger aviator paused to faux-tap his chin as if he was trying to consider something relevant. "Thirty-three times. Yes, let's go with number thirty-three. I'll probably take what you said into consideration after the thirty-fourth time you reprimand me, for not approving of your indecent fraternization with a Black Hawk. Sir."

With an insufferable sigh, Wilkinson wordlessly outstretched a hand and smacked the WO1 from behind his head without warning. The other pilot didn't like it one bit.

"Ow!" His co-pilot put a hand on the affected spot, more so out of his dignity being shattered than actual injury "What the hell, boss?"

"That's for badmouthing Betty." He casually remarked. "Again."

"You never usually hit me when I start talking smack about your precious bird, why now?"

"Because I can."

"Oh. That wasn't what I expected."

"Anyway, didn't they ever tell you at Fort Rucker not to doubt the bird that you're flying? That's like, Army Aviation One-Oh-One right fucking there. Not to mention its bad juju to be tempting fate."

"They did." Jack rubbed the spot where he got smacked with a hand. "I never usually believe in all that shit, anyhow. Seeing as superstition is just for uneducated idiots who don't know their ass from their hole."

"Are you calling me an uneducated idiot, Jack?"

"Well…you know, if the shoe fits…"

He gave his subordinate a certain pointed look, which was instantly received by the other end with clear understanding and intent.

Naturally, the other guy took a step back as a precaution.

"Alright, alright," the WO1 raised a hand in surrender, "I'll stop now."

"Good call." Wilkinson mentioned as he started to look around the Black Hawk's interior compartment to look for someone. "Speaking of, where in the hell is Chief Mendez?"

"Huh. Now that you mention it," Jack also looked around to help find their bird's crew chief, "I haven't seen him around since we went to that pre-op brief earlier this morning. He tell you anything before we left?"

"Yeah, something about looking for a temporary stand-in for Chief Vernon since he ain't here. Thought he'd be back by now."

"Hmph! That lucky fucker." the co-pilot scoffed with mild contempt. "Vernon asks for leave two days before we shipped out and got it. How in the hell is that even possible? Nothing ever works that fast in the Army."

"Uh huh."

"Now he's probably off somewhere, sipping fruity umbrella drinks and banging hot tropical chicks, all while laughing his Midwestern ass off at how fucked we are for not following his lead."

"You do realize that he's visiting his family in Cleveland, right?"

"Whatever, it could still happen." his subordinate commented. "He has, like, forty-five days of unused leave. Best guess is, he'll probably use five of it to reconnect with his folks, then spend the rest of it in said tropical country. Hot chicks and umbrella drinks and all. Hell, that's what I'd do."

"And that's why you're such a perfect example to us all, Jack." He observed dryly. "Because nothing says family like ditching them for an overpriced drink, and a floozy whore drunk outta her mind."

"Okay, if you put it way, then—"

The sound of someone loudly clearing their throat from behind made them stop whatever it was they were talking about, and as one, both aviators slowly turned their head to look at the source of the noise.

And were quickly head-on with the old, grizzled features of one Chief Warrant Officer Five Hector Mendez, who wore a neutral expression on his face along with his hands jutted authoritatively along his hips. All business-like and serious.

It promptly made both of them forget what they were talking about.

As the main crew chief of their helicopter, Mendez was responsible for everything that happens in or to said chopper. And since he was the main crew chief, he was basically God in all but name, having the authority to tell anyone getting on the Black Hawk where to sit and where their cargo should be loaded. Aside from his customary duties, which usually included navigation, direct combat, and crew management, he also gave crucial instructions to the pilots, operated the pintle mounted machine guns near the doors, drop smoke grenades to mark designated landing zones, and likewise help in the maintenance of the bird they were assigned to.

Though most members of a helicopter crew work for no longer than twelve hours at a stretch, to reduce the risks of fatal accidents, Mendez often stays a tad bit longer than most, frequently working for a few more hours before and after the mission. Which, more often than not, meant that he did constant safety inspections of their Black Hawk, made updates to the logbook of any operational matters, and organize any piece of gear that needed to be taken care of; making damn sure that they were good for the day's mission, and was more than ready to tackle on the next one.

A consummate professional through and through. He was just that good. And needless to say, Wilkinson was more than glad that he was assigned as this man's primary pilot. Not the other way around, as one would most likely assume. With this man's collective knowledge and practical experience over the years, he could pretty much do whatever he wanted, and both pilots that were with him were just along for the ride.

But the man's face though…it kinda half-way looked like it was locked in a permanent state of scowling. Like everything around him pissed him off so damn much, that he couldn't express any additional sentiments, other than neutral or just plain pissed. And he wasn't necessarily proud of this either, but the first time he met the forty-year old crew chief eleven months ago, he was pretty much scared shitless.

At least now he got to understand some parts of Mendez's existence, and he got to know the man a little bit more on the personal level other than his professional life as his crew chief.

He was still afraid of him sometimes, though. That really couldn't be helped, as much he tried to.

Nevertheless, said man in front of them wasn't alone.

Behind him, a much shorter and clearly younger looking Asian, wearing the same flight gear as them, meekly popped his head sideways to take a look at both pilots.

"Hiya, Chief." Wilkinson greeted the much older man. "What'cha got there?"

"Gentlemen," Mendez gruffly spoke as he stepped aside to introduce the Asian. "This here is Specialist Nishioka. He's Vernon's replacement for the time being, and from here on out, will take the right door gun and assist me in whatever duties I will undertake."

"Splendid. Though, I gotta ask, where'd you find him?"

"HHC."

"Wait, what?" Jack did a double take.

"You heard me."

"So," Betty's main aviator dipped his head into thoughtful deliberation. "you're telling me, that you somewhat…'acquired', this little fella from the regiment's Headquarters Company, and no one there batted an eye?"

"That's exactly right."

"How?"

"I just requested for an additional crew man." the crew chief said simply. "And they gave me him. No questions asked."

"Jesus," his co-pilot puffed out in exasperation, "Chief, that's fucking crazy."

"Is it? I merely wanted for us to be at full-strength when we lift off at eleven hundred."

'How the hell'd you know about the op's kickoff time?"

Without a word, Mendez zipped open the sizable compartment he had on his flight suit and extracted two sets of map cases, which he then gave to both of his pilots.

Wilkinson gingerly grabbed for one and flipped open the chart to critically assess its contents.

In it were several printouts, one with an overhead recon cap of Tokonosu City, complete with verified initial air control points, for them to use in getting there and then going home to later; followed by a normal map of the area with the standard grid reference system attached; and then finally another picture of an extremely zoomed in section of the city, specifically highlighting a tall office building with a flat surface, where he and another bird he was supposed to be flying alongside with were assigned to land, with the caption 'LZ Four' underlined in bright blue letters.

Basically, it was their flight plan. Which were usually given at briefings, but for some peculiar reason, wasn't handed out by their CO when they were there earlier. He found it initially odd at first, but he didn't outright question it when he and the rest of the pilots there ultimately left after the brief was concluded. He knew there was a reason why the flight plans weren't given out, but he just really didn't care all that much at all and decided to just wait it out.

And here it was now in all its glory.

He looked up at the older man in astonishment.

"Chief, where the hell did you get these?"

"Went to Central Ops myself and got us a few copies."

"How, though? Do the other crews have these as well?"

"They'll be getting it in about thirty minutes or so." Mendez coolly replied. "Let's just say…we got the advanced copies."

"Christ Almighty." Wilkinson breathed out in amazement as he closed the map case. "You never did fail to impress me, Chief. Whatever it is that you're doing, by all means just keep on doing it."

"Hmmm…"

The CWO4 looked at the man again, this time, it kinda seemed that there was something troubling him on his mind, to say the least. Although, he wasn't rightly sure. The way his face kept on contorting its features right now could pretty much mean a dozen different things entirely.

So he elected to ask instead.

"Chief?"

"Hmmm…?"

"You alright there?"

Mendez stared at him for the briefest of moments, before opening his mouth to try and tell him something.

But the words he was expecting to come out of never came, as the crew chief just stared at him slack-jawed with an obviously conflicted gaze.

The older man just slowly closed his mouth to signify an end to the matter.

"Yeah, I'm fine." The crew chief responded after about a few seconds' worth of silence.

"You sure?" Wilkinson earnestly inquired. "Because if you got some concerns, I don't mind hearing them out."

"Don't worry about it, kiddo. I'm sure it's nothing. We should probably do preflight before the company's Oscar Mike." Mendez said before finally walking away to perform his preflight duties.

As the older CWO5 started putting some distance between them, the young pilot just stood there, stunned and not knowing what to do.

What the hell was that all about?

And that's the prologue right there. Anyways, hope you guys actually enjoyed it. If there are some things

you want me to know about, do leave them in the review. I'd happily go over it. Later, fellas.

-Rookie571