Well here is Chapter Two, don't expect updates to be this fast. This will be the last immediate update. Everything else will be up to my convenience.
Now to make the proposition, there will be times where other members of the Roleplay will write scenes or even entire chapters in the place of me. That will be decided at a later date. I'd like to say, thank you for all the support, from both the community and the members of the Roleplay. Kilo 6, SOCOM-1, Karaya 2 from in the forum. Please keep giving feedback, though, I would really appreciate some constructive criticism on certain aspects. This current style will change from here on out – the scenes won't be as hectic since this was kind of a mess when we were working on it.
To answer some questions, about the title, no I will not be changing it. Not unless someone in the forum can convince me otherwise. I don't feel the necessity, especially if someone feels that it's wrong – there are a number of names that could be used to describe this behavior but in all context, that would be Political Correctness. We shouldn't feel bad about history, we shouldn't ignore it our attempt to cover it up. Genocide happens, Death happens, war crimes happen. It's a part of the Human Condition. An example would be the takedown of the Confederate Flag, I'm no fan but removing a piece of history is a mistake. Just like the ban on My Struggle by Adolf Hitler – he was an evil guy and so was his followers like Heinrich Himmler, we're not going to ignore who they were or what they believe because that's history. The term crusade, in this case, is generalized but I will keep it since this is a sort of Crusade, a Campaign with a Motivation.
We'll try to consolidate the work and try to make it less cluttered later. SOCOM, you know how this goes later.
I really doubt I didn't make mistakes but we move forward. At the request of Faust1812, on the note that Here We Go Again is entering some difficult territory and rewrites are being done, he has asked me to redact his work so any mentions of his work from here on out are rewritten, replaced, or ignored. Any references to Here We Go Again will also be removed. If you wish to see his original work, you may take a look at the forum itself at: "Tales from the Special Region Troops."
Now we move forward, this marks the end of the first Roleplay Topic and we move on to the next, Roleplay Topic Two: "The Coming Storm."
Please Read and Review and please give support or feedback for the contributors found at the bottom of the page.
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["No Easy Day"]
[Summer 2016]
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"The only easy day was yesterday." – United States Navy SEAL Motto, Unknown Motivation, Unknown Year
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The response by the Japanese Defense Force had been quick and efficient as usual and as expected. It was their job to defend their island nation and they did it to the best of their ability, sometimes even going above and beyond what was needed of them. They took care of the wounded. Pushed back the enemy forces and ended the slaughter of their citizens.
The military had done their job but even then, tragedy had already struck. Death had already claimed its fill. War, war never changes.
For the civilian defenders at the Freeway Chokepoint, a different variation of Thermopylae had been fought. It had taken hours for the Calvary to arrive. Not the enemy horsemen, but the air support in the form of JGSDF Air Cav and Attack Helicopters. The damage had already been done, as Toshiro Kenja, one of the Chokepoint's survivors, had known best.
Among the initial defenders taken from the halls of the Toshiro Clan, sixteen at the beginning of contact with their unknown enemy, ten had fallen in battle. Seven were easily found – dead and killed where they stood, surrounded by dozens of their inhuman foes. Toshiro knew nothing of their enemy, but the casualties taken by the Clan had proven that years of tradition and practice were important allies on the battlefield – just as useful as experience and strategy.
Another three bodies had been lost during the fighting, either lost in the piles of the dead or covered by the swarms of unknowns. They're identities and their causes of death would have to be gathered later, post-mortem and after the cleanup. The streets of Tokyo had seen better days.
There had been at least thirty civilians, faces and names that the young man would never know but honored their sacrifice nonetheless. There were few that had the willingness and the strength to stand up to impossible odds and certain death to fight for a cause greater than themselves. A nation above an individual – nationalism for the soul. A relationship that every citizen had with their homeland, not too different from the relationship between a man and his God.
The air was gray with the dust of disturbed asphalt and cement, the streets and walls were caked in dry blood and running red with the essence of the fallen. Corroding bodies lay everywhere, between cars and in open spaces – under signs and hidden in the nearby stores. Here at the Chokepoint, the bridge between Districts, men and women had stood their ground.
At some point during the battle, the enemy had retreated to regroup – out of sight and out of mind. The defenders had acquired a working vehicle and managed to raid the abandoned District Police Precinct, not one of those small police booths, the Koban, but the actual police headquarters where the Police armory could be found.
Shotguns, small pistol-carbine hybrids, and handguns had been confiscated from the armory and repurposed for the defense of the bridge and chokepoint. Only eleven individuals remained from those that had stood from the start – only six of them remained from the Toshiro Family defenders.
They had done their job and now as the civilian workers and military personnel searched through the streets looking for survivors and hidden enemies. In the distance, gunfire could be heard in sporadic patterns – coming in and out of existence.
The Japanese Defense Force with help from American advisors were doing counter operations back toward Ginza Plaza and the Chou Ward. Enemies had taken refuge in the buildings and were only prolonging the conflict.
For Toshiro, that had been hours ago as he stood, meditating over the day's events in darkness and silence.
So many dead – he couldn't get the images out of his head.
The young man opened his eyes and gazed upon the naturally-lit Family Dojo. The sun still flew high in the sky and bathed the world in an amber yellow. To others, it might have been a beautiful display but to Toshiro, it was a sick reminder of how insignificant life was in the face of Father Time.
He had spotlessly cleaned the entire Dojo in an attempt to find some normalcy, to work away his distress and find calm in menial labor.
It didn't work.
Toshiro stared off into the dimly-lit corners of the room and at specific spots on the floor with an intense glare. In the last few hours of his cleaning spree, he had become hypersensitive to the growing dust particles spread out through the building. He couldn't find any rest, no peace of mind.
By himself, the young man struggled with himself in frustration. His family members had fallen in battle, his father and his sensei, leaving the world permanently.
Toshiro looked out the window and watched the silent houses and buildings that made up the Toshiro Family compound. He turned back to observe the Dojo.
At the center of the room lay the remnants and tattered remains of his father's samurai armor. Toshiro had scavenged it off his dead body where he had fallen in battle. The blades and spears of his fellow clansmen had been gathered too, still red with the blood of their slain foes.
He remembered the battle, his clansmen standing united against the barbarians, like them, their weathered blades stood gallantly in the folly of a cleaned estate, where the lives of the fallen had once thrived. The jeers and playful hollering of younger men and the older men's low chuckles. Those echoes were empty now, long gone.
Their death weighed heavily on Toshiro, his family had lost some of its dearest sons, and yet, he found himself still lost and somewhat indifferent to his loss – a lack of emotion.
Their deaths didn't feel as meaningful as he had expected, the supportive words of his commanding officer from the military only dug Toshiro into a deeper hole. The commendations, the medals, the honors from the government. The statements made: "How many would have died if the family hadn't been so quick to react?
Toshiro Kenja was more than just a practitioner of Kendo or a young clansman. He was a soldier in the Self-Defense Force and yet the lives of his dead clansman felt more like literal obstacles on a battlefield, a statistic among the nation's killed-in-action.
The young clansman felt frustrated with himself for not feeling more to the loss of many of his closest friends and father figures.
Then there was the United Nations.
There was word going around that the Security Council was working on a response to the Attack on Ginza. The JSDF was already mobilizing and according to some of Toshiro's military buddies, even the Americans were getting antsy – arming up and suddenly ending off-base passes. Joint-training operations were at an all-time high.
While the choice to go or to stay had been certainly asked by many, Toshiro was confused by the aftermath. Whatever happened after this fight, he decided, he would fight to find justice for the dead and to honor the death of his family, but most of all – he would protect his country at all costs. Just as his family had done hours earlier.
He made his decision, if he was sent to war, he would go to war. He would be remised if he didn't.
The next few days would be spent collecting himself, then, he would be there – when Japan would come calling, "to arms, to arms."
To war, Toshiro would go.
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"I love the Navy. I really do…Except for all the damn sailors." – Anonymous Green Beret, Callsign: "Thirty-K," after a joint combat operation with Frogmen, Unknown Year
…
In Misawa, the Americans were as antsy as Toshiro had guessed.
Far north of Tokyo, a pair of Navy pilots discussed their situation – the Ginza Attack had changed things a lot. For some, it was the end of a deployment-old partnership.
Deployments in any service branch tended to end around two-year rotations. For one Ensign Adrian Wallace, a graduate of America's prestigious Naval Academy, leaving the Thirty-Fifth Fighter Wing to join operations down south was a new experience. Flying combat tours would be new to him, but as Ginza had changed many, it had changed Adrian for sure.
"So, you're leaving us?" Adrian's WSO asked as he walked into the pilot's dorm.
Wallace looked out the window toward Security Hill where radio dishes tracked satellites and foreign radio frequencies.
"Yeah. My papers came through, I'm definitely being reassigned. Still in this theater but different op, I don't know."
The WSO looked at the pilot curiously.
"What's the assignment?"
"USS Reagan, Fifth Carrier Fighter Wing."
"Reagan, huh? You're a lucky bastard, you know? Fighters are the bomb." The WSO replied. He was grinning, knowing his buddy would do fine. "Well, either way. Good luck."
"Thanks," Adrian replied as the two shook hands.
"You think this is for Ginza?"
Adrian nodded in affirmation.
"You make sure you make those asses pay for what they did to Willy. Take care of yourself!"
The two fist-bumped and broke off into silence. The WSO shuffled out of the room as Adrian put some finishing touches to his duffel bag.
For a moment, Adrian paused and remembered the face of his friend "Wild Weasel" Willy. Named after the old, modified F4 Phantom from the Gulf War. Adrian knew as he marched out of the room he would find retribution for Willy and all the other dead in Tokyo. He still remembered the post-mortem report, bisected by a claymore and had his arms devoured by the monsters.
There would be Hell to pay.
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"No bastard won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor bastard die for his country." – General George S. Patton, speech to United States Third Army, 1944
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In his living room, First Sergeant Michael Dragoon was nursing a cold beer while staring down at a pair of papers with significant interest. These papers could define his immediate future.
One paper was marked by a potential transfer out of active duty to become a drill sergeant for the United States Army.
The other paper was a letter of resignation.
In all realistic analysis of this situation, Mickey, as he was called by his colleagues, his entire future would be decided by his own admission. He was his own man but many potential careers and victories in the military service had been denied to him. An unfair situation unless you considered the circumstances.
Mickey wasn't sure whether to be pissed or regretful about his predicament, much of it was his fault. Ever since he had attacked that one officer, he had been denied promotions and chances to change his karma as a part of the most badass military on the planet.
The service had never been fun for the Sergeant, but it had gotten unbearable with time. He sometimes wondered why he even decided to stick with the Army.
Even if he had screwed up once, the man knew he was better suited than others for a promotion. The promotion boards continued to look over him to those that didn't seek promotion or weren't ready for the job. It was an ironic and an impossible situation – the man didn't know what to do.
His own life was kind of a fuck up. It was easier to ignore his circumstances and just drink away the woes and to go with the flow. Now, though, the CNN report on television was speaking about a recent development in Tokyo.
With the television in the background, the Sergeant was caught by the sound of his smartphone ringing in his pocket. He checked the caller ID to find a fellow sergeant, an individual he shared a business relationship with, not an individual he could call a friend.
"Yellow?" Dragoon asked sarcastically to the said Sergeant.
"Mickey! You watching the news?" The man on the other end sounded anxious and breathless. In response, Dragoon took another swig of alcohol only to find a few drips dangling down into his throat with difficulty. His bottle seemed to be out again.
"I got it playing if that is what you mean."
"What do you mean?"
"It's on."
"You actually watching?"
"Well… no." Dragoon replied awkwardly as he moved into the kitchen to grab another beer from the refrigerator.
The man seemed pissed and panicking on the phone. "Well, you fucking better be watching now! Shit is going down!" That was never a good sign but for the half-drunk Dragoon, he took it in stride.
"Uh," Dragoon turned to look at the television. It took some concentration but he made the images and the noises out clearly enough. "Baker, am I seeing this shit right? CNN?"
"Yeah. Definitely! What do you think we do man?" The Sergeant asked his fellow NCO.
"Nothing. Let the head-honchos handle this. Just go and inform anyone in your chain of the development, better everyone knew rather than it be us walking into this blind if it blows up."
The Sergeant sounded a little calmer on his end. He started to adapt and calm himself.
"Thanks. Yeah, I'll try man – you take care…Jesus Christ, this is really happening…" The Sergeant closed the call and let Dragoon have his peace, what little that actual was as the man stared intently at the screen, beer or no beer.
The coverage would continue all night. American and Japanese troops breaching into enemy holdouts. Helicopters chewing up enemy armies. Unknown monsters slaughtering Japanese civilians. Ambulances and cop cars everywhere. It was a nightmare come to life. It was a Frankenstein of a situation.
The bottom of the CNN report left little to the imagination. The title was clear: "Ginza District, Tokyo under Attack? Monsters from Fairy Tales? Thousands Dead?"
For Dragoon, his situation was clear. He looked at the two pieces of paper on his desk in front of him.
He took the resignation and balled it up and tossed it toward the other side of the room, entirely missing the waste bin. The second transfer paper was shoved into a drawer off to the side.
He would wait and see, Mickey would see this through. There might actually be a place for him in the military after all. He knew it as every man, woman, and child knew when they saw the news report. This was the beginning of a war.
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"Yes! Because this is how I wanted to spend my week – stuck in a god-forsaken foxhole." – Anonymous South Korean UDT, Two Weeks into Joint Training Operations, 2016
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Newly promoted Army Sergeant Geoffrey Kuribayashi shook his head in disgust at the sights being presented on the television he was watching, the creatures in Ginza were more reminiscent to the dragons and creatures from Dungeons and Dragons, the tabletop game he used to play back in his high school days.
Nearby, a group of Eleven-Bravos was discussing the Ginza Incident around a table in somewhat hushed voices. Geoffrey's above-average hearing picked up on their chatter, however, discussions on how they were going to love killing these new "terrorists" only made the Sergeant shake his head once more. They were too eager, too green. They didn't even understand what they were getting into – something still beyond any of their comprehension.
Geoffrey was annoyed with their apparent stupidity and at his own.
He had just signed his life away for another four years. Then this happens, it seemed almost like the Universe was out to get him. He had been dumb enough to raise his hand and volunteer to extend his contract – just an hour ago and already it was binding as all contracts were. Just in the face of this emergency situation, he really had no idea what he was getting himself into. Combine that fact with the situation that he was one of the non-commissioned, hell, a POG, to sign up for this kind of a mess.
His First Sergeant had been a bit giddy, even supportive and appreciative that he had signed away his life. Geoffrey had figuratively shot himself in the foot by going with this bullshit. Peer pressure or whatever the cause.
At the same time, the nerd within the Sergeant was jeering in happiness. He got to be at the center of Mankind's next step in advancement, to go where no man has gone before. The next frontier almost. He snickered to himself, under his breath, "Congrats, instead of becoming a level nine Paladin in the realm of Never-winter, you now get to be a goddamn radio operator with an assault rifle in bum-fuck nowhere unleashing the power of Gods on the heathen with dragons and magic and swords! Oh-fucking-boy!"
In many ways, this was any so-called, Otaku's, wet dream.
The NCO downed another shot of sake before getting up and grabbing his duffel off a nearby chair and walking out the door of the metropolitan pub, a regular for American GIs. He had a Blackhawk to catch in two hours and he needed to have his battle rattle gear altogether before he even considered getting closer to this bullshit. Really, it was bullshit.
Somehow he managed to love and hate himself at the exact same time as he made his way down the street back to the nearby Air Base.
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"Better get as much ass as you can now. Things are about to go downhill." – Anonymous Marine, Hours following Attack on Ginza, 2016
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Within the dark recesses of a dim nightclub among the countless structures that made up the Buenos Aires skyline, a couple held each other as loud music and flashing lights danced across the building's walls. This was the pair's first meeting, but when alcohol was involved, none of that matter. Hugs led to sloppy, unhinged kisses, utterly unhindered by the constant darkness.
The man of the pair, known as Augustin, didn't even know the woman's name. This was the couple's first meeting, but, in the end, it didn't matter. The Argentinian was looking for a bit of night fun and the halls of Pacha Nightclub suited his need contently. After so much work and business, it was nice to let himself go a bit. Time was of the essence this night; time was running short.
The kissing pair broke apart. Augustin looked down at those piercing brown eyes staring back at him in a playful but searching manner. It was clear that she, like Augustin, was heavily invested in their little partnership but the man knew it couldn't last forever. For a second he considered throwing all logic to hell and taking what they both wanted; the point of no return was never crossed. The Argentinian man reeled back in disappointment as he glanced at his watch.
It was easily five in the morning. He still had twenty minutes, but twenty was much shorter than he realized. He couldn't risk it.
"Che…what's wrong? Where are you going?" The unnamed woman asked in sudden worry as the man she had been so invested in began to stand up and unwrinkled his clothes.
"I'm sorry," Augustin muttered to her, he didn't want to disappoint her but it had to be done, "I have to go."
"Why? Dale, stay a bit longer."
"I can't. I have to leave soon."
"Why?" The woman held onto the man trying to get closer. "What is so important?"
Augustin wasn't sure whether to tell her. She'd probably figure it out eventually given the month's crazy events. It was a mess, one reminiscent to the attack on the United States in two-thousand-one. He looked back at those eyes and found he couldn't deny her simple curiosity.
"Do you remember what happened? In Japan?"
"Japan…last month right? A terrorist attack or something? With the knights and stuff?" The girl asked her voice remained soft now but it had an edge to it. Maybe she was regretting the question.
"Yeah…I uh, I'm going in there."
"What? Wait…so you're like?" Her eyes bugged out at him as a rush of emotions graced her face – the flare of her cheeks and the scrunch to her eyebrows. It was cute but ultimately worthless, Augustin couldn't keep this up forever.
"Yep," the man nodded. "I'll be leaving in a couple of hours. I must get back to base." Augustin got up from his chair and grabbed his coat off a nearby chair. He nodded to the woman as he began to retreat to the club's exit.
"Can…can I at least get your name?"
He considered her request for a moment. He turned around and walked back up to her and got down in a crouching position so they were at eye level.
The woman leaned in once more, not for a kiss but out of curiosity. The soldier slowly approached her, the woman's docile nature allowed him this one last respect. Je planted a light kiss on her forehead – a move she nodded softly to in appreciation.
"Teniente Agustin Köller. Cruz del Sur."
With a final glance, he walked out of the nightclub and out into the warm night of Argentina. Soon, the soldier would be an ocean away, preparing for a war. There could never be an easy day.
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[Participants]
"James Koach, TrueForgiveness, ChaoticCrazy, Karaya 2, coyote16abel"
