ZAC 2042, March 27th

D-Day D+9, 1845 hours

Bareshia Bay, Helic Territory of the Central Continent

Thirty-one meters from Aarhem

Warrant Sergeant Matthias Perry wasn't in a particularly cheery situation. Here he was, walking painfully towards Aarhem while he was covered head to toe in his own blood. Behind him was Buto, who for once had decided to shut up and tailed right behind him, his face a sober expression. In Matt's hands were the dog tags of Weibe, Reug, and Ward, all who had died because of his stupidity…his ignorance. If they hadn't had stopped to answer the SOS call, if he had just ignored it…maybe they would have gotten to the bridges before the Zenebas forces…maybe they'd still be alive today?

He shook his head. Dammit, f*** you Warrant f*****' Lieutenant Bryce. F*** you. Matt cursed inside his mind, I wouldn't be stuck in this mess if it wasn't for you. I'm a technician, not a bloody soldier, I don't know s*** about this. I made an error in judgment, and now look where we are. Far as I'm concerned, we'd be lucky if the other tank made it before us.

His thoughts though, were interrupted by a new sound. The sound of the rushing of water in the distance. Immediately, both he and Buto perked up and began pushing forwards, past the shrubbery and trees. They eventually broke through the thick and dense jungle, both of them sweating with exhaustion to find the Wilhelm canal, raging downstream as the waves formed foams when they collided with the bank. Matthias looked down, almost grateful for their discovery before he turned his head around, trying to locate any sign of bridges or Zenebas soldiers.

"There!" Buto said, pointing eagerly at another direction, "Sergeant, there's a bridge there!"

Buto began to run off towards the bridge and through the fog and moonlight, even Matt could slowly make it out. Running after Buto, he felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. At last he could complete his job, and at last he could get some rest. His boots still felt heavy though, but he dragged them along the side of the path with a relentless will to survive. Sweat soaked through the fabric of his clothes and he felt his muscles cry out in pain as he pushed himself to run faster. Damn I'm getting old, he thought in his head bemusingly as Buto arrived at the side of the bridge.

"Sir, I don't see any Zenebas soldiers nearby," Buto reported, "Maybe they're all gone."

"Hmm…" Matt replied with the wave of a hand and rushed onto the bridge. Grabbing the side of the ledge, he twisted his body at a full one-eighty degree turn, a basic maneuver of every sapper as his head reached the underside of the bridge. Sure enough and just as he had predicted, the Zenebas' own combat engineering teams had laced explosives throughout the first half of the bridge, where the Aarhem sentries couldn't spot them due to the fog. They were probably waiting either for Aarhem troops to get on the bridge or extra tanks that might have past the mines to get on it before they blew it up.

"Sir?" Buto asked, "What is it?"

"Explosives, Buto," Matt answered his question as he sat down on the side of the bridge, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, "The Zenebas f*****s were trying to blow the bridge up when we or the Aarhem soldiers came across."

"Hhn," Buto muttered and sat down on the opposite side of the bridge. He took off his tanker's helm, running his hand through his jet black hair before asking, "Sir, what about the other bridge? I thought there were two?"

"What does it matter, anyway?" Matt questioned, "Our job is just to get this to General Kades." He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the VCR tape, a small little black box with two rings of film wrapped within it.

Buto didn't answer. They both sat that for a moment or two, enjoying the sound of the Wilhelm canal and the breeze as the sun fully set in the valley and the two Moons slowly came into place. Finally, Matt somewhat forced a cough and commented,

"You know, Buto," he began, staring down at the tape, "You were right."

Buto looked up and stared back at his NCO. He didn't say a word.

"Right about the whole thing," Matt continued somewhat awkwardly, "If only we hadn't listened to the signal but instead gone straight to Aarhem, then we wouldn't be stuck here like this. We might have gotten there earlier and Weibe…Reug, Ward, they might all still be alive."

A silence fell between the two, now not a calm one but a more tense, forceful atmosphere. Matt took a deep breath, and kept on talking,

"If we…if I hadn't hesitated, we could have driven all the way here, faster than even those Zenebas troops. We'd have gotten to Aarhem and we might even…we might even be there toasting to our victory, getting congratulated by General Kades…maybe even winning the battle. We could have been heroes, written in textbooks as the ones who saved Bareshia Bay."

"We could have." Buto suddenly cut in.

As Matt looked away from the VCR tape and upwards towards Buto, Buto took the chance to spark the conversation, "We could have sir, but we didn't. Not you, we didn't."

"Reug made his choice to drive towards where you wanted to go, Weibe, he was just bound by loyalty," Buto explained, "Ward? Ward was just a pu***."

Matt broke into a small laugh, "Heh. Guess you're right about that one thing. He was a bit of a dork."

Buto chuckled as well, "Yeah, he was a wimp." Then his expression took a more serious tone as he continued, "But sir, I just wanted you to know that it wasn't single-handedly all your fault. Sure you f***** up, but it wasn't all your fault for that."

"Gee, thanks." Matt said with a dry, sarcastic roll of his eyes.

"No I'm serious. Sir," Buto replies, "We all made our own choices when we joined the 187th. Reug wanted to fight, Ward didn't want to be called a coward. Weibe; Weibe was dying from a tumor. In his f*****' head."

Matt stared, his mouth now wordless. Buto glanced at him once before resuming, "Me? I just don't want to die. You probably think, sir, it's because I'm a coward. I'm afraid of dying, all that s*** that I had to take every day from Weibe and Reug. But that's not true, that's not why I don't want to die. Not yet, at least. I've got a wife and two kids at home. Do you have a wife, sir?"

"Um, no actually."

"Then you probably don't know what it feels like, am I right?" Buto answered, "You're fighting for your basic survival instinct, me, I'm fighting for someone else."

"But you're only f*****' eighteen…"

"Sure, we had kids at sixteen," Buto said with a smile as he reached for his breast pocket. Unbuttoning it, he pulled out a wallet and slipped out a photograph from that. Handing it over to Matt, Matt grabbed it gently and stared at it.

It was a photograph of Buto and his wife along with their two children. They all sat together, a typical family photo on a couch. Damn, he looked even younger back then, Matt thought somewhat enviously. He handed the photo back to Buto.

"Got yourself a beautiful wife there." Matt offered.

"Yes," Buto said, staring at the photo dreamily, "Yes I do."

Matt stared at Buto once, looking at him with a whole new perspective before rising to his feet, "Come on, we've got a job to do."

Buto followed him, and they both began walking down the bridge.

"Yes we do."

ZAC 2042, March 27th

D-Day D+9, 1846 hours

Bareshia Bay, Helic Territory of the Central Continent

Forty-four meters from Aarhem

Six…Alan silently thought to himself as he and his troops trudged in the dense woodland, Six of mine and Acartosh's men remaining. Slowly, he turned his head backwards to watch his troops, walking behind him in silence as well.

Of all his men, only two had survived. McVay ran out just as the tank came crashing down whilst Besseus had trailed along with him the instance he gave the order to flee. The other four men were from Acartosh's regiment, the 518th PIR. One of them was injured however, which merely added more to the list of their increasing problems. So far, Backlash seemed to be deteriorating at a rapid pace, a pathetic excuse of uncoordinated logistics and an overconfident approach.

Alan sorted through the list of problems that he had on his hands right now. He'd lost more than half of his squad, and there was a man in dire need of medical attention right now. What he was hoping for was that if the 520th and the rest of their respective regiments had gotten there by now, there might be a chance of a trained combat medic to aid Acartosh's man. If there was no medic or either if they hadn't reached there yet, the chances of the man needing to get his leg amputated were quite likely. And the last thing he needed was the blood of another man on his hands. And knowing well the fact that he had led Acartosh down.

If I don't make it…if we all don't make it, then he would have died in vain, Acartosh pondered bitterly, Overused and corny it might seem, but if we don't make it then all those people who were killed…Barthol, Darms…Alycon, it would all be for nothing.

His thoughts were immediately interrupted by Private Besseus, who took point and was scouting up ahead before he ran back through some shrubbery and cried out, "Sarge! Sergeant Graf! I found the rest of them!"

A surge of hope suddenly sparked within Alan as he turned back once more and gave orders to the rest of the soldiers to help the injured man get to safety. Shuffling stealthily through the dirt and trees, Alan eagerly cleared the way and directed the man, who was carried by McVay and another soldier, his leg contorted in a gruesome fashion. Alan couldn't watch the man's face, laced with sweat as he screamed in agony without feeling sick. There was something miserable about it all, something so morbid and tenebrous that he struggled to maintain his cool. It would all be over soon, once he found the….

"Graf?" a voice gasped, though Alan could tell that it was out of breath, "Graf, by the Moons, is that you?"

A sudden odor hit his nostrils as Alan's eyebrow instinctively raised at the sound of that 'theological name' before his eyes adjusted to the dark. Several men were huddled around, holding their rifles close to them. They looked worn-out, as if they had fought for years and blackened ash and soot covered their uniform and faces. Alan glanced upwards at the direction of the smell. It smelt like burning foliage. Burning trees, or rather, burnt ones. Their barks were scorched and their branches left barely hanging, stripped of their leaves though embers still remained on them, flickering in the evening light.

"Graf!" the voice called out, "Over here!"

McVay and the other man settled the injured soldier down as Alan jogged over to the end of the group of soldiers. The man who was calling out to him raised his hand and before Alan even crouched down to speak to him, he'd recognized who he was.

"Lieutenant?" Alan asked, his sentence shaking with emotion, "Lieutenant En-Cole, is that you?!"

"Yeah son, it's me, En-Cole," the Lieutenant replied, his face an image of relief, "My Moons, you're the first face I recognize since the start of this whole bloody operation! I didn't even know your regiment was participating in Backlash!"

Alan smiled in response. En-Cole was the man who had assigned him to the 517th PIR in the first place, and the only one to truly support him. It was tough being a human in a Zoidian world, but En-Cole was a true believer against segregation like the apartheid between the Wind Muroa and Earth Zenebas tribes in the earlier days. Apparently he was also one of the original men who helped to humans who first crash-landed on the Global 3 starship years ago, but if he was one of them, Alan would have been too young to remember.

"Only a few of us, sir," Alan explained before looking around at the black that had settled into the fabric of Lt. En-Cole's combat vest, "Sir, what happened here? Where's everyone else…and why are all these trees…"

"Burnt?" Lt. En-Cole offered, "The terrible weather and the misconduction of the Reddra PDTs scattered all the regiments into different places. Many of us have banded together in little groups and we still can't find the whole Backlash OP team. There are even rumors of Helics prowling about, and who knows but there could even be some lost soldiers on our side."

"We're sitting ducks out here," the lieutenant continued, "We can't communicate with HQ since they're afraid Aarhem might pick up transmissions, and without the rest of the OP team, we're pretty much stuck out here. We've got a few members from the 8th CED as well, but they collectively only had enough explosives for one bridge."

"Yeah sir," Alan said, his mind wavering back to the tank incident, "They're even beginning to use Earth-based weapons now."

"What, like those stupid tracked vehicles?" the lieutenant asked before resuming, "We got one of those sons of b****** with our mines before one of their surviving crew ran towards the remaining mines. That idiot sent a chain reaction towards the rest of our explosives and before we knew it, half our men were set on fire, our sappers had blown to pieces from the TNT they were wearing, and the whole f*****' forest was blazing light crazy."

"How'd you put it out, sir?" Alan queried.

"We didn't," the lieutenant answered bluntly, "We dug foxholes and waited there till the fire went out by itself. Was pretty fast though, we only waited for about fifteen minutes before the fire died."

Alan leaned back on a ridge before he suddenly remembered the injured man and asked, "Sir? Do you by any chance have a medic in this bunch?"

Lt. En-Cole looked at the rag-tag band of soldiers and his gaze locked-in on the man, his calf bleeding rapidly as the piece of metal remained embedded in him. Turning back to Alan, he replied, "Sorry, Graf, but we don't have a doc in this group, and none of these people have any medical proficiencies as far as I'm aware."

"F***," Alan swore, "We need to get that man medical attention soon, sir. I'm not sure at this rate that his leg will make it at all. What if he dies of blood loss?"

"Don't you worry about that son," En-Cole answered, "He might need to get his leg sawed off, no doubt, but if we just jab in some shots of morphine and pull the piece out, he might make it."

"Pull the….piece out?" Alan asked, his face a dumbfounded expression. En-Cole merely nodded in response as he opened his first-aid pouch. Alan looked down and reached for his pants pocket as well. Unzipping his right one, he pulled out the dog tag and read it.

ACARTOSH, WILBUR.

It was a little burned at the edge, the side was burnt and had slightly melted during the explosion but the words were still intact along with the serial number beneath it. If we don't make it, if we don't all make it, I'd have let him down, Alan reminded himself as he stared at the tags. Six. I'm not going to let it be a five. It's gonna be a six…and it's gonna stay a six.

As he pulled his head up, the lieutenant tossed a syringe of morphine towards him. He grabbed it gracefully, checked that it was the typically administered regulation amount as En-Cole reached into the pouch again. Retracting his hand, the lieutenant revealed a packet of sulfur as well as a roll of bandages. Alan gratefully accepted both and got to his feet. En-Cole kept his eye trained on him as Alan walked unsteadily towards the man, whose jaw was chattering with turmoil. Gingerly, Alan got to his knees and directed McVay and the other man to lean backwards to give him some room.

Come on, Alan… Alan muttered to himself in his head, an action that he generally only did when he was wracking with anxiety, …easy as pie…just jab the needle, pull the thing out, pour the sulfur, and bandage it up.

Slowly and steadily, the staff sergeant rolled the soldier's pants upwards. He moaned in protest but Alan kept pushing the material upwards to his thigh. Then, without warning, he jabbed the morphine's needle deep into the soldier's thigh. The man winced and bit his tongue before letting out a roar of surprise. Alan swiftly pulled it out and fell back on his ass. Sweat was already forming on his brow and he shivered at the thought that he had already caused this man's misery and was only contributing more to it. It was his stupid idea, rolling down the slope and hiding in the pond. It was also his hesitance to give the order to get the hell out of it that led to Acartosh's death. Sure, he had only knew the men for a few hours but when two people go into war together, regardless of whether or not they were human or Zoidian, they were already brothers right there on the spot. Each one was willing to give their lives up for another, each one considering each other worth giving up their own lives for as well. Acartosh had done that…so couldn't Alan do this little surgery for this man?

The man's breathing steadied as the morphine took control. Alan only feared for the side-effects of addiction and withdrawal as he began putting on his field gloves. The padded insides pressed against his hands as he slowly turned the man's mangled leg towards the right. Gripping the piece of embedded shrapnel as firm as he could, Alan gave a mighty tug.

Blood spurted vigorously from the gap as Alan pulled the piece out, his muscles tensing as his forearms began to retract. The man's body trembled violently as he pulled the fragment out and McVay and the other 518th PIR soldier had to hold him down before Alan finally ripped the piece out. A wave of nausea struck him, one far more intense than the fumes of the burnt forest as he recoiled back. His gloves were now muddled with blood and dirt and the piece of fragment still held several strips of flesh, dangling onto it.

Throwing the piece aside, Alan smeared the sulfur packet with his gloves as he clumsily tore the strip apart, spewing yellow powder everywhere. Performing it as agilely as he could, he poured sulfur into the wound of the man, tensing his eyes every now and then as the sulfur flowed into the gaps and caked along with the blood that was still pouring out, mixing to form a creamy, milky substance. He turned the packet back upwards and placed it aside before reaching for the roll of bandages. As he began to unravel them, he spoke to McVay,

"McVay, hold the leg still," Alan ordered before he scolded himself for referring to the leg as though it had already been amputated.

As professionally as he could Alan began to rotate the roll of bandages around the calf, careful not to put too much pressure on the wound as he applied the bandage. McVay held the leg steady as the sulfur came into contact with the bandages, smearing itself and making its yellowish hue visible through the bandages' material. Finally, right after he had covered the wound with three layers and when the sulfur was barely visible, he tied a little knot at the end and sat himself back down on the ground as McVay and the other man slowly put the hurt soldier on his back. McVay administered a shot of medication and the man slowly faded back to a world free of hurt, his eyelids drooping down on his pupils.

Alan didn't realize that his breathing had escalated before McVay put a hand on his shoulder and commented, "Good job, sir." Alan could only nod before he forced himself to his feet. The other soldiers seemed to give off a vibe of acceptance as well and for Alan, it was the first time that he actually felt comfortable with his men. No longer human or Zoidian. They were soldiers, and soldiers of the same side stuck together with one another against all hardships, no matter what.

"Nice handiwork there," En-Cole offered when Alan walked by and handed back his medical supplies, "Ever considered a career as a surgeon?"

Alan didn't even bother answering that obviously stupid question as he dropped his helmet next to the lieutenant along with his Asp-21 rifle before walking further along the forest line. En-Cole merely looked at his fading figure before turning back to the packet of cigarettes in his hand and drew one out, lighted it up, and took an unhealthy, long puff from it.

The trees around Alan seemed to act like candles, the embers on them and the sparks that floated around him providing light for a dreary night. Already the moons seemed to be approaching from the mountains behind them and Alan could feel the chill slowly settling into him, seeping through his smock. He rubbed his eyes once, twice, and felt an urge to sleep…such a strong urge to rest, a sensation that he had not acknowledged for the whole day. He had known that he was already losing focus by the time they had met the tank…and perhaps…

Ironic, isn't it…Alan told himself, It's your memories of Earth that come back to haunt you. Alan fought back a bitter laugh at his predicament as his eyes squinted and spotted a short figure in the distance. From the antenna that dangled from his back, Alan knew it was Besseus.

The private turned around as Alan approached him, "Hey sarge,"

"Hey," Alan answered, his throat feeling quite hoarse.

"You good, sarge?' Bess asked, now concerned.

"Yeah, yeah…I'm…" Alan began before rolling his eyes and contradicting himself, "No. No, f*** no I'm not fine."

"I can tell that." Bess stated as he sat on the soil. The bushes danced with the wind as the private set the portable radio pack in front of him. As he played with the knobs, the private inquired, "You wanna talk about it, sir?"

"You sound like my mom now," Alan said sarcastically, as he sat next to the private.

"Hey, it does help," Bess answered as he picked up a signature, "My mom used to say 'if you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to a man in his language, that goes to his heart.'"

Alan dwelt on the 'quote' for awhile before responding, "I don't get it."

"Neither did I, sir." Bess replied with a hoot of laughter, "But it sure did sound wise coming out of my mom's mouth."

"Ain't you a joker," Alan drily countered.

I see skies of blue…clouds of white… the radio began as static crackled in every now and then.

"Always was, as my mom would attest, sir," Bess haughtily answered.

"I'm sure she would." Alan never really knew his parents, he never got to experience most of the stuff that kids got to do with their parents as they grew up. They were never really there, he only remembered them faintly dropping by their stately mansion every now and then to give him a pat on the head. Some would say when he encountered the war on Zi, he grew up too fast. As far as he knew, they were financially well-off, considering that they had enough money to send him on one of the Global ships.

Bright blessed days…dark sacred nights…

"You sure you don't want to talk about it, sir?" Bess asked again, "You seem pretty distressed."

"Damn it, you really do sound like my mom," Alan mentioned again.

And I think to myself…what a wonderful world…

"Hey, makes sense, doesn't it sir?" Bess continued as the music played in the background.

"What makes sense?"

"We're kinda like your family now."

The colors of a rainbow…so pretty…in the sky…

"Hhn," was Alan's only response, "I guess so."

Are also on the faces…of people…going by,,,

"I mean like…" Bess continued, ignoring his NCO, "Out here, we're the only support we got for one another, ya know? It really got me thinking, right after the whole tank accident…when everyone was so quick to check whether we were each okay sir…so quick…"

I see friends shaking hands…saying how do you do…

"Yeah…" was Alan's wistful answer.

They're really saying…I love you…

I hear babies cry…I watch them grow…

"Out here, we're not on our own," Bess went on, "Cuz out here in the big bad world, we got each other right, sir?" Bess put his fist up, pointing his knuckles at his staff sergeant.

They'll learn much more…than I'll ever know…

Alan grinned, "You've been filling your head with too much of that rap s***," before responding with his own knuckles as the two fists slammed into one another.

Bess grinned back as the two of them sat in silence, the embers floating gently into the air as the radio continued to hum its soft, melodic lullaby.

And I think to myself…what a wonderful world…

ZAC 2042, March 27th

D-Day D+9, 1900 hours

Bareshia Bay, Helic Territory of the Central Continent

Helic Base Camp G4

"Why, Doc?" Felt asked in protest as the doctor dragged him out of the ward.

He still felt rather lofty, and his head had its occasional pangs but aside from a few pangs and cuts here and there, he was actually in a pretty healthy state. Still, it ached his brain when the doctor dragged him out of the ward and it began to ache even more as he saw the swarm of soldiers, technicians, staff, patients, and whoever else that was left in G4 slowly leave in modified Pteras and Salamander units.

"Because apparently the Colonel reasoned that an evacuation in the night to G2 was a smarter tactical move and that G4 wasn't a major tactical objective – I don't know, aren't you suppose to know this s***?!" the doctor abruptly ended in frustration.

"I'm a technical officer, sir," Felt replied, chuckling, "Not a tactician."

"Yeah, I can tell." The doctor grumpily responded as he dragged Felt towards the 'MEDICAL ONLY' sign in front of the line of patients and medical staff boarding a massive Salamander.

"Ain't someone grumpy tonight."

Ain't someone talkative," the doctor retorted, "I liked you better when you were half-drugged with random brain pangs."

"Aren't medical staff suppose to, I don't know, 'promote the well-being and both physical and mental stability of their patients?'" Felt quoted from the Zoidian medical creed, thanking the Moons for his part-time job as a clinic's prescription pharmacist.

"Oh, f*** you," the doctor swore, earning weird stares from several other peers.

"Yup, feeling better already."

Truth be told, Felt was fully aware of the so-called 'reasons' why they were evacuating from the gossiping nurses. Keeping both eyes closed and snoring steadily was child's play for Felt. G1 was already taken it seems and it was only seventy-meters from G1 to G4, easy view for recon and really-powerful binoculars. The top brass didn't see G4 as much of anything really; it was the last base to be constructed and was barely even half way through the whole construction process. Republican recon already informed them that Zenebas forces were crossing the Ruädich canal and they were probably going to arrive at G4 by the morning. Makes sense to run away, I suppose.

The crowd of evacuating people was colossal; Felt could barely make out a single one of them in the wave of chattering Republican staff. Even if Matt was here, finding him would be like finding a needle in a haystack…no scratch that, more like finding a grain of sugar in a beach. Every day Felt still wondered about Matt and where the hell he was. He tended to tell himself that Matt was a tough guy, a strong man and that he'd be able to pull himself out of any situation. Coordination in such dire circumstances was hard and it was easy that it simply got messed up in the midst of multiple battles. The nurse he had asked told him that there was no patient registered as Perry, Matthias, but for all she and Felt knew, there could be.

Still…he could still be alive…Felt kept that little 'fact' in his head as he boarded the Salamander, Still…