Chappie no. 3.

So, here I introduce the main cast… well, the rest of it, anyway.

Enjoy.

Chapter Three: Replacements

Tom didn't want to wake up. He just wanted to stay, curled up in his ball with his jacket acting as a temporary blanket, asleep. To forget about yesterday's troubles and stay in his perpetual dream world.

But apparently, Tarkin had other plans for him.

"Hey, wake up," the voice belonging to Sonar, one of the clerks, squeaked, "You're needed."

Tom ignored him like he was the plague and continued to keep his eyes shut.

"Hey, c'mon, Sarge, wake u-"

The minute the word "Sarge" came out of his mouth, Tom immediately whipped the covers off, whipped out his six-shot Revolver pistol, and aimed it right between the short, eighteen-year-old with the geeky glasses' eyes. His eyes looked strangely demonic.

"What the fuck did you just call me?" he growled.

"Um… Sarge?"

"click"

Sonar fell backwards, hands in the air. "Hey, chill out, man," he said nervously, "I guess you didn't hear about your promotion."

Aw hell. That son of a bitch actually did it- made him official squad leader. Perfect. Tom sighed and stuffed his Revolver back in its holster.

"Son of a bitch," he cursed, "Why the fuck did it have to be me?"

"Well, you are next senior in line-"

"That was rhetorical, chickenshit."

"Right. Sorry."

The newly promoted squad leader grudgingly got to his feet and began stretching.

"So, what else was this little morning wake-up for?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, Captain Tarkin wanted to see you. Has some things he wants to go over with you."

Tom sighed. "Alright. Dismissed."

Sonar took his –grateful- leave. Tom grabbed his jacket- the same one he had worn all throughout high school with his days on the track team- and put it on, then grabbed his beloved shotgun and marched off towards the CP.

Today was bustling with activity. Some lucky asshole had scrounged a huge ammo dump, and the supplies were being herded into the weapons cache. Someone else was bragging about the diner he and his squad had "liberated" from a couple of drunken Soviet soldiers and of the food they had gotten. They were now good off for about another month or two, which definitely boosted morale.

Tom finally made it to the CP, where Tarkin and Hubbs were looking over some maps. The captain looked up at the entering sergeant upon his arrival.

"Good morning Sergeant. You look well-"

"Yeah, yeah, cut the shit and let's get on with it," Tom interrupted. Hubbs couldn't help but crack a huge grin at his friend. Tarkin, however, wasn't that cheery about it.

"I see your attitude hasn't changed, despite the fact that you now bear more responsibility," he stated.

"Leopards don't change their spots, Captain," was the response, "and right here is one bitching leopard."

He mocked a leopard impersonation, just to piss the older man off. Hubbs burst out laughing.

Tarkin just sighed. "Juvenile." Then, getting serious, he said, "Reports are coming in that the Russians have begun shipping more men through from the Forgotten Island towards the Main Base at the foot of Manhattan."

"How many?" Tom, also getting serious, asked.

"Some hundreds, but more keep coming every day. Pretty soon, they'll have enough to start an entire invasion of New England."

"What about armor and air support?"

"Reports are saying that enemy armor is indeed becoming active, but we're having trouble identifying positions. It's like they're blending in with the buildings or something."

"Jesus Christ, how hard is it to locate a few fucking T-34's?" demanded the sergeant.

"Hey man, those ones we ran into yesterday weren't exactly expected, right?" Hubbs broke in with.

"Soviet helicopters patrol the skies almost hourly, they have the whole sector wrapped up tight," Tarkin pointed out, "With one exception." His finger hit a spot on the map, "the Hospital. That's where their fuel pad is, and they're not fearing too much of an attack on it, especially since yesterday's hit on your instillation."

"Alright, so whaddya want me to do?" Tom asked. The captain genuinely smiled.

"Well, it won't be easy, but I believe this is a perfect opportunity for you to test your capabilities as squad leader. It's also good training for your replacements."

"…What?"

"Replacements, Sergeant. The people that are usually used to fill the spots left behind by dead or wound-"

"I know what a fucking replacement is! What I don't know is why-" But he stopped himself right there, suddenly knowing why. Of course; how could he have forgotten that Parker and Reeve were gone? And Kig… right. Of course there would be replacements.

"Right… So who are they?" he asked.

"Well, I'm gonna let you decide that," Tarkin answered.

"…What?"

"You and Corporal…um…"

"Hubbs, sir."

"Corporal Hubbs here will go over these files," and to both soldiers' dismay, Tarkin placed a large pile of files and reports onto the desk, most twenty pages thick, "And pick four names. They'll serve as your new squad."

"Um…Sir? There's, like, fifty fucking names in that thing," said Hubbs dismally.

"Yes?"

"We ain't gonna have to go through all of them, are we?"

Tarkin just met them with that same grin that Tom was really starting to hate.

"Start reading."

88888

"Son of a bitch," Hubbs drawled as they sat down at the small table outside of the Mess Section, "This is gonna take all fucking day, it is."

"Well, no use in putting it off, then," Tom opened the first one and ran his fingers through his hair, "Let's get it done."

They flipped through the files, glancing at names, ages, conditions, and judging to see if they had what it took to be a Freedom Fighter.

"Here's a good guy," Hubbs said, "Jefferson. Age 19, mechanic, killed a Soviet with nothin' but a monkey wrench. He looks good."

"Alright, we got a winner. One of four," Tom sarcastically twirled his finger in a victory movement. Hubbs chuckled and added Jefferson's name to the list.

"Ugh, this guy's seventy years old, what use is he gonna be to us? Decaying is the only thing he's good for," Tom stated.

"Jesus Christ, look at this lard-ass," Hubbs pointed out, "Look- ate a hundred and twenty-eight pounds of cheese on a dare in his third grade. I swear to God Almighty, he must've been the gassiest kid in high school."

"Fuck high school, he's probably still the gassiest," the sergeant chucked the file, "Next."

They kept going through them, getting themselves through it no matter how awful this stuff got.

"OK, now these things are starting to get ridiculous," said Hubbs, "This guy's got two prosthetic legs. Two. Is it even possible to lose both your legs in a fucking motorbike accident?"

He tossed it aside. Tom gagged at another.

"Oh my God," he said, "This poor fucker's on twelve kinds of asthmatic meds and lives with his mother still. How in the name of God is the poor bastard gonna have the strength to fight the war?"

"Oh! Hells yeah, I got another winner!" Hubbs whooped, "Paige. Southerner, age 22. His brother got killed last week by a Soviet tank, and he's had a history of violence towards Russian-American immigrants. Only problem is, he's a bit of an arrogant asshole."

"Don't care, as long as he's got fight in him and doesn't use an inhaler. Put him on."

Hubbs wrote him down. They kept at it for a little while longer before Tom found a winner himself.

"Finally," he proclaimed, "Sullivan. Age 38, worked as a security guard for an Ivy League before he settled down here. Looking to keep his family safe from the Reds."

"Good cause. Let's sign him up."

With three names now under their belt, now all they needed was one more. Unfortunately, they had run out of names to pick out of the hat.

"Now what?" Hubbs asked, "Do we ask Tarkin for some more files?"

"No, we did that, he might pick us a name for us," Tom ran his fingers through his hair, "and chances are, he'd give us Cheese-Kid."

His partner shuddered at the memory, even though it had only been mere hours ago.

"Hang tough, man," the sergeant assured him, "There's gotta be someone who-"

"Excuse me."

Both heads turned to the entrance. Emily was standing there, looking kind of nervously at Tom.

"Um… congratulations on making sergeant," she said shyly.

"Oh, thanks," Tom nodded, not really caring much.

"Hey, I made corporal. Don't I get somethin'?" Hubbs mock-whined.

Emily smiled, "Congrats, Hubbs," she said.

"Thanks, kiddo."

"Anything else, Em?" Tom asked, tiredly.

Emily bit her bottom lip. He always acted like this at her- tired, not at all concerned when she was present. Almost like he never really gave a rat's ass about her. She convinced herself that this wasn't true, but she couldn't help feel neglected whenever she was around and trying to talk to him. And yet, despite that, the way she felt around him… let's just say her mother would have some very coarse words about what she was doing in her bedroom.

"Just that Tarkin wants the names in half an hour. Do you have them?" she asked.

"All but one," he answered, "You tell that dickhead I'll get him the names when I get him the names. Clear?"

"Yeah, sure," she left.

Tom leaned back in his chair, stuck his pen in his mouth, and stared up at the ceiling. Just one more name… who would it be? Could it be possible there was someone they had overlooked? Some little thing that-

And suddenly, something inside of him clicked.

"What about her?" he asked aloud.

Hubbs' head came up, surprised. "Em?"

"Yeah," Tom looked at his buddy with a smarmy grin on his face, "She's damn persistent. Hates Tarkin as much as we do. Put a rifle in her hands, we could probably turn her into a killing machine."

"Yeah, but…" The corporal stared in the direction she had left in, "She's so damn innocent, y'know?"

"That's why war's a bitch, man. Or have you forgotten?"

Of course he hadn't; Parker and Reeves' faces flashed through Hubbs' head. He shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess." He looked back at him, grinning, "'Sides, that would be good for you- she'd be combat trained."

"What's that supposed to…?" But then Tom got it.

"You fucking asshole."

88888

At last, the team was assembled. At last, all four names were picked. And Emily found herself in one of the backrooms, with three guys she had never met in her entire life. At last, Tom and Hubbs walked in.

"Aiighty, all four of you have been called here for one simple reason, and I'm only gonna say it once," Tom said to all of them, "You're my squad. You're here because I need you, because I've personally requested each and every one of you. That's it, good-bye, the end. Questions?"

No one spoke up. Emily glanced sideways at Jefferson, a pale, skinny kid from the Bronx. He was about six foot three, with short red hair and a friendly disposition. When the four had gotten together, he was the one who talked the most, always kind words towards the others. She felt a natural friendliness towards him and felt that the two of them could work together on whatever they were paired on.

"Alright, if that's that- specialties. Each one of you'll have one, each one of you had better get your ass familiar with them. Jefferson."

"Yes?" Jefferson piped up eagerly. Tom and Hubbs gave each other a look saying the same thing: This guy ain't gonna make it.

"You're maintenance specialist. You ever drive a tank?"

"Uh, I drove my uncle's eighteen-wheeler once. Didn't kill anybody."

"That'll do. We ever come across anything that has four wheels, two machine guns, and heavy armor, you're the man responsible for getting it up and running. Think you can handle that?"

"Yes, Sergeant. I'll do my best." Ugh. Suck up. Hubbs almost gagged and wondered why again he had picked him.

"Righty, that done; Paige."

"Yeah?"

"We'll put you as fire team expert. You're the one who's gonna help Corporal Hubbs here (Hubbs did a silent two-finger wave) lay down the heavy fire while the rest of us do our stuff."

"Great," Paige dryly and sarcastically said, "Why don't yeh just shoot me in the fuckin' foot while you're at it?"

Now Paige- he was someone Emily didn't want to get stuck with. A stocky, broad-shoulder kid from out west, he seemed to be quite the misanthrope. He stuck alone, not talking much to anyone except in criticism or insult. In short, not a friendly person.

"Hey, Paige? I don't wanna hear you bitch about it. You wanna bitch about it, do it at dinner. Around me, I don't wanna fucking hear it. Clear?" Tom snapped.

Paige just threw his hands in the air. Satisfied, Tom moved on.

"Sullivan."

"Yes, Sergeant?" This came from the tall bald black man sitting in the corner. He was pretty quiet, but when someone did want to talk, he always put up a friendly aura. And he was a family man; Emily must've seen at least five pictures of his wife and daughter in the last hour.

"I'm putting you as demolitions. You'll have the standard C-4 charges, and believe me when I say, we cause a lot of stuff to go BOOM. Can you handle that?" inquired Tom.

"Tell me when and where, Sarge, and I'll do it," Sullivan answered.

"Alright, that's what I like to hear," Tom smirked slickly. He looked down at his list.

Which lead him to-

"Em."

"Yes?" she responded, again nervously. God, why am I so nervous? she asked herself.

"We're placing you as sniper."

She gaped at him. She couldn't have just heard that; He wouldn't do that to her… would he?

"S-Sniper?"

"Yeah, sniper. You know, the guys that stay up on the roof or in some concealed location and take out a few guards to ensure everyone else gets in and out alright without too much trouble?" He spelled it out for her.

"But… snipers are away from the others. They're on solo details and all that," she responded, really scared now.

"Well, way I see it, you've got two options," Tom counted off his fingers, "One: You can hang on the rooftops and do us and America a tremendous service by sniping Russians, or two: You stay here. Your choice."

To Hubbs, this seemed like an irrational thing for the sergeant to be doing. By all rights, she shouldn't even be doing this. To Emily, it was something all together. Here he was, yet again treating her like she was a nuisance. She screwed up her courage.

"Alright, I'll do it," she said finally.

"Excellent," that smug grin was back on Tom's face, "From tonight on, you four are gonna start acting like a tight unit. You'll eat together, sleep together- no pun intended- and learn to live from each other. It's the only way you guys are gonna live through this war. Fail to do that, you're fucked. Got it?"

They all did, thought they didn't say they did. Just a silent tension he felt that told him that everyone got the picture. Paige, as it seemed, just glared at him. Sullivan was nodding, to what, Tom didn't know, he was just bobbing his head up and down. Jefferson kept looking between Tom, Emily, and Hubbs, as if wondering if this was for real or not.

"Aright, everyone get out of here. Get some grub and hang tight 'til tomorrow," Tom ordered.

One by one, they got up and filed out of the room. When they left, Hubbs sighed.

"Your people skills really need work, dude," he said.

"Hubbs, I didn't want this. OK?" snapped Tom, "Do you have any idea how I'd rather Kig be up here instead?"

"It's not fair that you have to drag her into this, man."

"The whole fucking deal isn't fair, man! You think it's fair that we're here and Parker and Reeve aren't? We might as well ring up Russia and tell them to cancel the war due to unfairness! But we can't. We just have to get it done."

Tom glanced at the others' exit. "Hate to say it, but these four Boy Scouts might be America's only hope."

"Uh, dude?"

"Yeah, I know, one of them's a girl."

"OK."

88888

Later, Emily and the other three guys were getting their dinner. After grabbing the night's course- a winner today, real macaroni and cheese with real red sauce and buttered bread- they picked a seat near the center of the Island where the plants were growing and began talking.

"Christ Almighty, can you believe that prick?" Paige was going on about the sergeant, "Actin' like he's so superior to all of us. I wanted this kinda treatment, I'd go join the Commies."

Jefferson laughed a little at this, but Sullivan didn't.

"He's just making sure we know who runs the show. Wants us to know how things are done," he said.

"Great, then just give us the fuckin' handbook. No need to act all rough and tough," the other snapped.

"That's not fair, Paige," Emily broke in, "He lost two of his friends yesterday. He just made squad leader today, he didn't even want it. Wouldn't that make you a little angry?"

He didn't answer. He just sat back and grumbled. Jefferson spoke up next.

"So, you think he'll be alright?" he asked. "I mean, if he's just been promoted, will he be capable of leading us?"

"He knows how to lead. It's just gonna be the first time he has to lead," said Emily.

Paige grumbled something under his breath about dumb micks and shitty leadership. Jefferson and Sullivan soon got themselves engrossed in a card game. Emily took out her journal and began writing.

"Jefferson. Paige. Sullivan. These are the names of the three people that I just met today. Three people that I will have to spend the rest of this war with. Three people who, along with me, were drafted to fight a war we each knew little to nothing about. Three people that I would probably come to know as well as my sister.

"What hell would we endure? How may of us would come through unscathed?

"How many of us would come back alive?"

Finally, I finished this son of a bitch. 11 pages, Jesus.

Yes, I swear. A lot. I'm sorry, but that's who I am.

And yes, Paige is pretty much the Paige from Brothers in Arms: Earned in Blood. I ran out of ideas for characters and I love his character to death, so I drafted him He doesn't belong to me, he belongs to Ubisoft and Gearbox Software.

I like how I used "misanthrope" in there. In case you didn't know, a misanthrope is a person who hates/distrusts other people. My PSATs are coming up soon, I have to get ready for them.

Kinda bland, but I hope you all enjoyed the hunt for the squad.

Review please!