Normally, AAHW squads would have ten men per squad: five combat agents, and five specialist agents. Alpha squad was different. The best men from the entire Division were hand-picked by the Divisional TacStrat section to form a sort of rapid response team to deal with the lethality of Anti-AAHW agents. It made sense that only way to become a full member of Alpha squad was to slay an Anti-AAHW Agent in battle. Needless to say, there were very few AAHW agents who filled these criteria, most certainly not enough to make a ten-person squad.
Alone, an Alpha squad member, despite access to the best gear and weaponry in the AAHW armory, could not even hold a match to a lone Anti-Agent. However, if Alpha squad were placed in ambush...as a team, they might, just might be able to do their job.
Quincy Ogden made a set of crisp, practiced hand gestures, then pointed towards the door. His squad members nodded, acknowledging the order. Ogden flashed the "go" signal, then took position behind a large cardboard box labelled "fragile," his finger resting lightly on the trigger of his AR-15. Even though his official role within the squad was that of a "field tactician," Ogden often had to oversee front-line operations to get a better tactical assessment, though he himself was a liability in combat.
Tyler Locke was the first to reach his firing position; after all, his overblown ego and cockiness compelled him to be the first in everything. Quincy snapped his fingers to get Tyler's attention and made a quick circle in the air with his index finger - he was to use stun grenades. Tyler sighed, defiantly flipped Quincy the bird, and deftly swapped out his fragmentation grenade for a flashbang.
Quincy wondered to himself how Tyler was still alive, given Tyler's reputation for reckless action and equally, if not even more, reckless improvisation. Still, the fighter had a consummate knowledge of explosives, sharp reflexes, and a kickass 100-meter-sprint. At the moment, Agent Locke wore a confident smirk as he hefted the stun grenade, tossing the cylinder up and down as if the weapon were a harmless toy.
Standing watch at the other side of the door was John Smith, a childhood friend. He grinned at Quincy, raising a hand in a thumbs up gesture with optimistic confidence. Smith was likely the only reason the squad members hadn't killed each other yet: He had an easy smile, a cordial disposition, and a friendly voice. People flocked to him; he was a natural-born leader. But under that affable face of his was a deep, burning conviction: a fanaticism that bordered on naive blindness.
Dominic Akecheta, the silent warrior, lumbered forth, a heavily armed and armored juggernaut. Upon his torso sat a thick layer of kevlar, and in his powerful grip was a powerful FN-Minimi Light Machine Gun.
Nobody knew Dominic's past. Nobody bothered asking, either. People did know, however, that he followed orders to the dot, that he took an inhuman amount of punishment to bring down, and that those rippling biceps of his could rip limbs from their sockets. His dark eyes seemed to stare into infinity as he obediently took up position right in front of the door.
Rounding out the team was Victor Norfolk, drafted in from Theta Squad, Class XXIV a mere week ago. Quincy didn't have much of a chance to gauge Victor's combat abilities, but Victor seemed loyal enough, it not a bit shy and introverted. His marksmanship skills were impressive, though he professed afterwards that he had "only fired a gun at a human being once before."
"I, uh, only fired a gun at a human once before...sir." Victor's voice was quiet as he replied to Quincy's question.
"Whaat?!" Tyler spat in disgust. He began to sneer. "Damnit! Our reinforcements just get more and more incompetent, don't they? Don't tell me we have this little dipshit rookie replacing Jacob? Fuckin' Hell!"
"Jacob was incompetent, too. So he died." Dominic spoke.
"That makes no goddamned sen-" Tyler started.
"Shut it, Tyler!" Quincy barked. Antagonizing the rookie was the last thing he wanted. To work effectively as a team, they needed to foster mutual trust and cooperation.
Tyler stood and cracked his knuckles. "No, you shut the fuck up, Quincy. I've personally saved your sorry ass at least five times by now. So why don'tcha go back in your little closet and-"
"Now, now, gentlemen."
John Smith sidled into the room, and his mere presence seemed to calm Tyler down somewhat. Smith wore his friendliest, most welcoming grin and spoke, his voice smooth and resonant.
"Welcome to the death factory, rook. Hey, don't worry 'bout being nervous and stuff, we've all been new to this game at some point. So just follow Quinny's lead and you'll get promoted just fine, yeah?"
Victor still looked confused, but accepted John's hand, making a weak smile.
John firmly shook. "Welcome to Alpha Squad. You'll do great."
Victor took position alongside Quincy, a scoped M14 gripped in his hands. Victor would be their designated marksman, and Quincy sorely hoped that he would be able to deliver accurate shots. If Victor was capable squeezing that trigger when it mattered, then he would make their tactical stance much more flexible.
It was suicide. Complete utter suicide.
For the ten millionth billionth trillionth time, Harold wished that he had stayed at college. "Don't listen to those AAHW rascals!" His grandmother had told him. "They're up to no good! No good, I tell you!"
But he had needed the money so badly, after his father got in that car accident and his mother was diagnosed with-
Harold ducked his head even lower as bullets streaked over his cover. A round pinged off the steel oil drum he cowered behind, striking sparks as it ricocheted off the cylinder..
Where did the squad go wrong anyways?
Harold and his men had warnings! They set up in front of the door, by the book: two guys flanking at each side, a bunch of guys in front, behind cover. They all knew that some intruder was coming in. Just one man, Frank had said, laughing confidently.
And now Frank was dead.
Just one man… should've known something was up. How did "just one man" get through the other five layers of security? Why didn't they get their hourly check-up from Gamma Squad?
They were all dead, Harold realized, and his heart grew cold and heavy as the realization sunk in.
"Just one man." That man… no, that thing was a blur of motion and death. That thing was among them before Harold could blink. By the time he did finish blinking, three of his friends were dead or dying. That was when Harold shat bricks and ran for his goddamned life.
And now his friends laid disemboweled on the floor, or with bullets in their brains and intestines, or moaning and twitching in pain as they rolled about, mortally wounded.
Jebus…
T minus Six seconds
Quincy had evaluated the situation beforehand. Judging from the intel, the Anti-Agent they were hunting was a novice, so the prognosis was good. He lifted his hand, counting down with his fingers.
Five.
Smith racked the slide on his Desert Eagle and closed his eyes in silent prayer.
Four.
Victor took a nervous, deep breath. The man shifted nervously, but his hands were steady.
Three.
Quincy pressed the stock of his AR-15 against his shoulder, ready to fire. He tried in vain to lessen his pounding heartbeat.
Two.
Tyler flicked the pin off of his flash grenade with a cheerful-sounding "ping!"
One.
"Breach! Go, go, GO!"
Dominic slammed the button with a gloved fist, and the door whooshed open; Tyler slung the flashbang into the room and stepped in, covering his eyes.
Harold could feel himself breaking. Every time there was even an imperceptible sound, his heart skipped a beat. He erupted into a cold, clammy sweat; his only weapon, a small switchblade, began to slip from his grip as he whimpered in terror. A door streaked open, and Harold squeezed his eyes shut.
Was this it? Is this the end?
"I don't wanna die! I don't wanna dieee!" Harold found himself crying, as he rocked back and forth, tucked into a whimpering, helpless ball.
All Harold heard was a high-pitched ringing in his ear and his thundering heartbeats and there was blood and it was chaotic and Harold didn't know what to do other than stand from behind his oil drum, hands raised in surrender.
It was only half-seconds in when Quincy realized there were complications.
The room was a killzone. Most of the cover, save a few scattered storage containers, was set up into a defensive bastion on the other side of the room. The agent was undoubtedly holed up there, so the flashbang probably had no effect on him. Worse, the ground was slick with blood, making quick movement or a frontal assault much more difficult.
Quincy tried to ignore the gruesome corpses strewn across the ground. Poor bastards.
To add to his worries, there were survivors. A lone grunt stood in the middle of the room, dazed from the flashbang, raising his hands in surrender. He would be in Dominic's line of fire, and Quincy needed Dominic's firepower to suppress whoever was behind those crates on the other side of the room. At least Tyler was safely tucked behind some boxes to the right, and already firing bursts of suppressive fire. But Tyler would run out of ammunition in a matter of seconds.
Quincy could see Dominic hesitate. They both had realized the grunt was in his line of fire, then. This was bad. If Tyler stopped to reload, that would give the agent time to react. They needed to be running in, guns blazing. The orders were clear: By any means necessary.
It's just a grunt. Why even hesitate?
"Fire at those crates!" Quincy yelled, his ears still ringing from the flashbang. "We can't take the risk!"
Dominic read Quincy's lips and wordlessly complied, opening up with his LMG. The high-caliber rounds spewed from the barrel at almost 20 rounds per second, and the air was filled with a stream of lead. The grunt clumsily tried to step away, but the bullets were faster; he fell to the floor, mangled beyond recognition.
Quincy averted his eyes.
With Dominic's suppressive fire, it was safe to move up. Quincy waved to Smith and vaulted over his cover.
Victor was still as a stone: transfixed, clearly in shock. "Come on, let's move!" Quincy ordered. He remained deaf to his pleas, staring in wide-eyed horror.
Great. Another complication: their designated marksman was a nutcase. Quincy ignored him. They would have to do without a DM this mission.
Tyler leapfrogged from cover to cover, narrowly skirting the edges of Dominic's bullet stream. Smith's face was set in grim determination as he aimed his pistol with both hands, waiting for the target to present itself.
"Frag, up and over that cover!" Quincy barked. Tyler lobbed a pineapple over the indicated crates; the cover, and whoever might have been hiding behind it, was blown to bits.
Quincy prepared to give his next order, but his thoughts were interrupted by searing lances of pain in his lower back. He staggered, then fell to the blood-soaked ground, realizing that the blood was his own.
The hostile agent was hiding above the point of entrance!
"HE'S BEHIND US!" Quincy screamed, his voice high pitched in surprise and pain.
Tyler was the first to react, nimbly vaulting over his cover and shooting from the other side. His rifle stopped firing, and though Quincy's hearing was failing, he could see that Tyler was cussing profusely as he reloaded.
Dominic took a few shots to the chest. He grunted with each bullet impact, but his fire did not cease.
Darkness closed in from the corners of Quincy's vision. He realized, with a deep bitterness, that the agent had outsmarted them...
He saw Dominic struggle against the Anti-AAHW Agent in close combat. Dominic swung his billy club at the Agent, who parried with a combat knife and absorbed the immense blow, a blow that would have pulverized any ordinary human being. The agent closed in and stabbed Dominic once, twice, three times; Dominic fell backwards with a massive thud, eyes wide in surprise as his weapon fell to the floor with a clatter.
… The agent was stronger than them...
Smith fired a duet of shots from his Desert Eagle; both shots went wide. The Agent, in one motion, spun and sent his bloodied knife flying. It gouged a deep trench in Smith's shoulder, and his expression collapsed into one of confused pain as he fell to the floor, writhing, clutching at his bleeding wound.
Seeing that the agent had no melee weapon, Tyler dashed in, sending some of his quickest jabs and punches at the elusive shadow. The Agent seemed to effortlessly dodge each strike, and countered with a punch of his own. Tyler wasn't fast enough to evade it, and he was sent flying across the room, already unconscious by the time his body hit the wall.
… The agent was faster than them, too.
The Agent...no, the demon, that inhuman thing, stepped forward, with almost a nonchalant swagger. He picked up Smith's Desert Eagle and prepared to finish off Quincy's friend with his own gun.
Alpha squad was comprised of the "best men the AAHW could muster," and this novice Agent had wiped them out in a matter of seconds, with no effort whatsoever.
The agent raised the gun… his head disappeared in a shower of gore, and his decapitated corpse fell to the ground with a dull smack.
Quincy whispered praise to the Auditor for adding Victor to his team before closing his eyes and lapsing into blissful unconsciousness.
The Anti-AAHW Agent is always stronger, faster, and smarter than the AAHW agent; However, us AAHW agents, we have numbers, we have guns, we have zeal. We shall fight, and hundreds shall die...but to repel these cursed terrorists, this heavy price must be paid.
Thus begin the Chronicles.