Mission Report

28th day of Frost

(Baird's Testimony)

There's nothing like the threat of dismemberment to get you moving, I'll tell you that much. So even after witnessing the oh-so tragic passing of Sergeant Jacob Bower and his squad, I still put together the quickest escape plan of my life, followed it to a minimal extent, and got the hell out of dodge.

The following hours turned out to be problematic for a few people. Those problems include (but are not limited to) a high-speed collision, rampant dishonesty, anxiety for a friend, a preventable skull fracture, two injuries to the same arm and one very pissed off little girl.

While I will be the first to admit that poor choices were made, not all of them were mine. So how is it fair that five of those six problems fell on my shoulders?

You're probably wondering what you've just gotten yourself into by reading this. Well tough shit. It's not my idea to give written statements every time something goes wrong out on the battlefield. Hell, it's no wonder you have so many of these things sitting on your desk; everything goes wrong nowadays, be it a little or a lot.

Also, there's really no point in keeping paper records; the building across the street went up in flames two weeks ago. I'm pretty sure this one doesn't have much longer. Not to mention our very real paper shortage; starting out, I thought I'd try to write as small as possible, but screw it-I'm doing this with my non-dominant arm, and coming down off morphine. You get what you get.

I digress.

For the (apparently precious) record, my name is Corporal Damon S. Baird. Delta Squad. The following statement chronicles the events of the 28th day of Frost.

Spoiler Alert: It sucked.

Was I supposed to say no to a superior officer who requested help? I didn't think I had a choice. Shit, if it was as simple as making up an excuse every time I didn't feel like doing something, trust me, I'd be on my own private island by now. But a long time ago, I was given an angry lecture by an angry man about 'Gears following orders', and I was trying to do just that when Sergeant Jacob Bower of Theta Squad came to me for help that morning.

A few things on Ol' Jacob. He was a cobweb of a man in looks and old age temperament. You know the type; wispy white hair and fragile composure, all bark and plenty of bite.

Had I heard things about him that were questionable? Yes. Did his squad have a reputation for being morally flexible? Yes. Did that make me apprehensive about getting in a vehicle with them and traveling miles away on assignment? No, and for two reasons:

Said assignment did not, in any way, contradict my own internalized code of conduct. I'm a mechanic. They wanted me to fix a truck. How could they, right?

2. I was bored, and the prospect of getting away from the congested shithole this little city of ours has turned out to be seemed like a blessing. That I could get my hands dirty under the hood of a truck was an added bonus, not that anyone reading this cares what a forgettable soldier like me actually enjoys doing. You know, what he's especially good at, what makes him feel fulfilled. Not to point fingers or anything, (I'm actually only pointing one; front and center) but if I'd been allowed to help more often in departments that actually applied to me, maybe this whole mess wouldn't have happened. I'm aware of the fact that I'm in demand, but forgive me for not seeing "fixing a civilian washing machine and/or toaster oven" as my one true calling.

So yes, I was easy to the guy who offered me the possibility of grease under my fingernails. Funny how no one argues about you all sitting with your thumbs up your asses all day long. I guess we're good at what we're good at, and we like what we like. Let's laugh collectively. Let's move on.

Here was the plan: the five of us take a Pack Horse to the city of Hale. I'd fix a downed Centaur that had, according to them, been grounded for a few weeks now. They'd scavenge for other supplies, and we'd be back in lovely Jacinto before dinner. Easy-peasy, if only it went that way.

Some of you will remember Hale as being the city everyone wanted to see before they died; lights, cameras, and movie star shit making the place a gimmicky tourist trap that brought in crazies from all over Tyrus. Today, you can visit for the affordable price of your sanity, and bring back such souvenirs as lice and tetanus.

In other words, it's run by Stranded-above-mentioned crazies who never left.

I wasn't thrilled to hear that that's where we'd be heading, but like I said, I had a bad case of cabin fever that week. You might be rolling your eyes or shaking your head at the mechanic who wanted a change of scenery during the end of the world, but guess what? I stopped giving a fuck in grade school.

I didn't tell anyone where I was going because I assumed Bower had that covered. Grizzled officers like him usually like to feel in charge, and-believe it or not-I wasn't in the mood for a pissing contest. He was the sergeant. I was the private; best behavior, stiff upper lip, all that jazz. Figures, the one day that I try on a sheep costume, the wolves of the world were wearing theirs too.

I got in a Pack Horse with Bower and his crew; three male Gears named Miles, Lester, and Castle. We were at Jacinto's limits by 0800, and entered Hale maybe two hours after that. The ride there, however uneventful, was punctuated by nervous energy. Bower's people were loud and twitchy, and even with their helmets on I could guess their ages by conversation and body language alone: Rookies, all of them, which kind of made me wonder more about Bower.

Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but he seemed like the type of potato-faced old guy that would have an established group of lackeys more his age. God knows Hoffman plays favorites.

(Kidding!)

So the fact that Theta Squad consisted of individuals mostly under the age of twenty-five had me questioning; was Jacob Bower a wanna-be desk jockey vying for promotion by looking after the little ones? Had he lost his own crew through tragic circumstance, and was trying to redeem himself by teaching the younger generation? Was this some sort of late-life crisis?

I was thinking of a way to ask him these completely appropriate questions right as we made it to Hale. At that point, my attention was pulled elsewhere.

To put it bluntly, "The City of a Thousand Possibilities" was looking more like "Hell Froze Over, Twice." Not that war had been kind to it these past twelve years. And the Stranded certainly weren't employing sanitation workers regularly. Or ever. But when I say we drove up to a shit-show that day, I mean a complete and utter ShitExtravaganza. They rolled out the red carpet alright, but it wasn't made of polyester.

What I saw was Stranded men and women fighting for their lives and losing quickly against a melting pot of Locust, Wretches and Tickers under a Nemycist-riddled sky. They were along the outskirts of the city, on the freeway. Their blood looked dark, reflecting the inkspot clouds.

Bower made a sharp turn, taking us on the ramp into downtown. Through the back of the truck, I watched a Stranded woman get blown to pieces by a Boomer and suddenly wondered what the fuck was going on. We were still driving? While humans were still dying? I'm hardly an advocate for people of the Stranded variety-I have lots of colorful nicknames for them, actually-but turning our backs on admittedly preventable death seemed...inhuman. Maybe I've been hanging around Marcus "Mother-Hen" Fenix too much for my own good, but at the end of the day, humanity is endangered, and it seemed ignorant to act like we didn't notice.

At that point, Bower wasn't being very communicative, and his kids' nervous chatter had died down to jagged breathing at the sight of the grubs. I opened my mouth but he cut me off, using the rearview mirror to look at me instead of the carnage behind us.

"They've been offered help, Private. We're here for a cause that wants saving."

I couldn't argue with something I knew was right. The Stranded population see us as monsters no better than Locust. And twelve years ago, they might've had a point; the government hasn't always made the best choices when it comes to things like basic human decency. I was there when the hammer strikes sent millions into an ashy grave. So they're angry, I get it. But holding a grudge isn't exactly solving anything. If it's an apology they want, it might be a good idea to survive long enough to hear it.

Several blocks in, the sound of battle diminished. By the time we got to the inner city, the gunfire sounded like morse code in a padded cell. Only particularly loud screams were heard. The sky was still inked to shit, though, and maybe it was those dark clouds above our heads that made my next exchange with Bower so problematic.

It's at this point I'd like to remind you about my list of problems, specifically 'Rampant Dishonesty'.

We parked. I didn't see a Centaur. The only things in that town center were a few dirty tents and sleeping bags, empty food crates, five emaciated Stranded, and string lights connected to generators, illuminating the whole ugly picture for us.

Do you know which of those things Bower made a beeline for?

With the rest of Theta suddenly pointing their guns and barking orders like they weren't scared shitless, he ushered me over to the generators.

(Gold star if you guessed correctly.)

"Get them safe for travel," he'd said.

"Sorry, what?" I'd said.

"Those don't belong to you!" a woman said, and the desperation in her voice outweighed the anger. I turned to look at her. She was probably younger than the fifty or so years her face painted. All of the people in that group looked particularly unwell, too pale or too old or too skinny. but they were the only one's there to protest.

It was classic urban militia; take the fight to the threat, and leave home base defenseless. It's definitely a strategy more stupid than noble, but I still felt like a dick to take advantage of a mistake like that. Yeah, 'all's fair' etcetera, but let's remember that this war isn't against people.

A pang of unease settled in my chest. Bower, on the other hand, seemed pleased-like he couldn't have planned this to happen any better. I say again, planned.

"So you want me to steal them?" I asked, incredulous. We haven't seen Krill in months, but don't tell me that you don't still sleep with a light next to your bed. The idea of leaving those people in the dark made my skin crawl.

"They're for a cause, Private. Something more important than you or me, or them."

"So, what, you're Robin Hood now? Stealing from the poor to give to the rich? Oh, wait…"

"I'd hardly call the COG rich."

"Yeah, but we're better off than this." I gestured to the skeletal individuals in the corner, who flinched at the movement. Eyes wide, faces dirty and desperate. "You're asking me to take everything they have."

"No private. Not asking."

I swallowed. "Are you serious?"

And Bower leveled his pistol at me. "Quite so, I'm afraid."

I should have seen this coming.

Blah, blah, blah.