Prologue: Mad Dogs and Atlesians
Central Patch, Peacekeeping Zone 3, June 14, 20 AGW, late afternoon. (Four Hours Ago)
The Atlesian sergeant leant back in his seat. He was tired, and his aura was low. 1st Platoon, Berta company was running itself into the ground. In fact the whole regiment was. There simply weren't enough bodies to patrol, much less secure, the dozens of villes and hundreds of square kilometers of thick forest which blanketed the island's hills.
He closed his eyes, letting his mind take flight. He pictured himself, khaki fatigues rumpled and sweat stained. Inside the troop compartment was hot, cramped, dirty, reeked of sweat and a dozen colors of dust as the personnel carrier lurched over every hole and rock. The 8 dismounts inside were a rag-tag bunch. Coming from all over Atlas their accents and features were as varied as their clothes, though dulled by months in the field. Young and old, men and women, their faces bore the blank stare of somebody who's been in the shit too long. They had all seen the elephant. They came for different reasons, some for the money, some for the adventure, some because it was all that was left for them. They were the flotsam and jetsam of society. But they owned him.
Pulling back higher he saw 122, his personnel carrier, stained red by the road's packed clay surface. Atop the hull sat a small turret. Behind that, a clutter of personal effects, ammunition crates, camo netting, and spare wheels. Up higher and the rest of the platoon entered frame. He knew that each PC would be separated by exactly 25 meters. 1st Plt/B Coy. scored best in the battalion over the past three exercises. Everything was by the book. Sadly, the savages hadn't read the same book.
The last ville had been a real shitshow. The platoon sergeant had bit it when a booby trapped box blew up in his face. Their reprisal had left few survivors. Since then apathy enshrouded the platoon like a fog bank. The soldiers moved automatically, their faces blank, their minds in a haze.
They rounded a bend in the road. There was a muffled crump.
"Scheisse! 121's down. Driver back quick! Berta actual, 122, ambush at KP-14 on MSR Madchen, heavy casualties, out"
The PC lurched backwards, another crump. Bits of 123 pinged off the hull roof.
Pvt. Groene Ritter awoke with a shock. He heard a strange noise, nothing good, from the rear of 122, not quite something ricocheting off the armor, but in that neighborhood. As he turned to look back the vehicle ground to a stop with a shriek from the power-pack. Turning back to alert the Sergeant he heard the sound again, louder from forwards, and from the corner of his eye saw the turret gunner's head flop down onto what remained of his lap, rolling off into the cabin floor. As quick as anything two more of the heavy armor-piercing rounds sliced through the hull leaving more torn and broken bodies in their wake. To his right a woman called out about her arm, called for a medic, asked how bad she was hit. What was left of the medic was burning along with the rest of 121.
In seconds the cramped, dirty cabin that for the past months had served as Groene's refuge from the mud and rain and the looks those filthy animals gave him as they patrolled ville after ville, (don't they know we're here to help them?), was now a charnel house, the floor slick with blood and god knows what else.
On reflex the young private turned away, a part of his mind noting how peacefully specks of dirt floated in the neat beams of light shining through the new holes in the armor. He unbuckled his seatbelt with his left hand, rifle in his right, and shifted around, reaching for the latch to open the spring loaded side doors. In a well rehearsed action Ritter stepped forward and pivoted, shifting his weight on to what had been an arm until it had a disagreement with a high caliber bullet. Landing squarely on his face his broken nose only added to the rapidly pooling blood on the floor. Groene scrabbled for the hatch release and the doors flew open. He was greeted with a blocky submachine gun held by a figure in a green cloak. A short burst of the gun pulped his face.
Zelenii threw a grenade over the Atlesian soldier who nearly ambushed him. He pressed himself against the side of the vehicle, to the right of the door. After a few seconds came the crack of the grenade and he spun with preternatural speed, sending a long burst in through the door.
A growing flow of blood trickled out the open hatch, staining the clay a deeper crimson. Zelenii stepped in, taking the dog tags off of what had once been 10 human beings. It had been two minutes since the first bomb had gone off.
Tags retrieved he stepped out and looked at the mess where a young boy's face had been. Leaning down to take the corpse's tags he supposed it was a shame to end this life. Or any of them really. But so long as young men and women were dumb enough to fight to oppress, rather than for their and others freedom, he figured he wouldn't have a problem. However noble the cause wars of liberation have just as high a butcher's bill as any other. Though he had survived long years of fighting all across Remanent his remorse hadn't. The hunter wondered if he had killed it, or the enemy had. No matter, there was work to be done.
Pushing those thoughts aside Zelenii turned to his apprentice, showing her their route on the map as the first heavy drops of rain fell. It was still kilometres to the rendez-vous and ambushing this patrol had slowed them down. It would be dark before they arrived. She grumbled, he simply smiled and responded that he thought she liked a wet pussy. She sighed and called him a motherfucker as the two melted back into the woods.