Cloner4000: Nah, I can keep the 3 day thing. Just check out today's update. Right now, the program has loosened a bit - but two of these four weeks are going to be hellish, and another two are going to be relatively easy. I got an easy week first, but the other three have no particular order. So yeah. :/ As for the content, well, I had the flashback anyways. The explanation is still there, however... next blurb.
DC20: Mmmmm, applied phlebotinum. I love playing with it. And yeah, wallbanger indeed.
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Bruhl: the first push into Gallia, freshly manned with units moved from the Federation front, units that included Lieutenant Karst's 29-4.
It was only a few hours after the operation had begun; only the scouts and a few of the vanguard had begun to enter the outskirts.
Unit 29-4 was in the vanguard, along with 32-5 and 38-1. Lieutenant Karst had requested the position personally.
They had split into ten man sections, further divided into two or three man fireteams. Celes found himself paired up with Nero. Nero was a jolly sort, although Celes would have preferred to have been assigned with someone a little more serious; he was overweight, a cardinal sin for a soldier, and pridefully sported a ridiculous (and most certainly regulation breaking) mustache. It was overgrown to the point where wearing his faceplate became uncomfortably stifling for him, and so it was that the moment the two of them split from their section to raid the nearest house, he detached the armored plate to give himself more breathing room.
Still, Nero had a happy family back home – and thus was extremely inclined to avoid killing civilians. For that, Celes was grateful.
Their orders had been to disrupt and harass, to take the fighting spirit out of the townspeople – in other words, to massacre them. Celes's fireteam had already passed another from 32-5 bomb a passing truck, and mow down the civilians – including women and children – that fled the scene.
The only thing they could do was push forward, ahead of the "loyal" – bloodthirsty – units. If they could confront the Gallians first, Lieutenant Karst could have wishes fulfilled.
And so it was that the two Imperials found themselves in front of a grand house, larger than any of those they'd seen in the distance – it even had a white picket fence. It seemed relatively empty though – all Celes could hear were the gentle sounds of packing, from a single room.
"You ready?" he asked, softly and lowly, to Nero.
The rotund man nodded. "Shoot your weapon, and you're buying." It was spoken with a smile, though. They both knew that each of them was going to be trying their hardest to not be the first to pull the trigger.
"Ghosts?" Celes offered, referring to one of many scare tactics they had.
"Ghosts," Nero confirmed. They'd sneak in as close as possible, only to pop up when at an advantage to surprise whoever was inside into surrender. Hopefully.
Quietly jumping over the fence – no mean feat in full armor – they approached a side door, closest to where they heard the sounds of packing. Celes tried the door – locked. Behind the armored faceplate, his mouth twisted into a disappointed frown. So much for "ghosts"; neither of them had a lockpicking kit, and any other methods would most likely generate a huge amount of noise, making stealth a moot point.
Just then, there was a muffled exclamation, followed by the sound of falling objects and a tripping person. Nero raised an eyebrow, mustache twitching humorously. The younger Imperial could only shrug in response. "Shock?"
"Shock," Nero agreed.
With that, they arranged themselves in front of the door. Celes glanced over to the mustached man again – smiling, Nero slid his hand away from the grip of his rifle. Blast. He'd have to buy the drinks.
He stood at a forty-five degree angle to the doorknob – Nero shifted behind him. Bracing his rifle against his shoulder, he fired a single shot.
Crack. The heavy round smashed into the flimsy mechanism, shattering it, ripping the bolt out of the frame. A solid kick later, they were in, and the armored figures barreled into the room – a kitchen – like a herd of stampeding bison, except with guns.
Leather soles came to a screeching halt on the stone floor. Boxes, crates, and other packing containers were strewn all around what appeared to be a kitchen. In the middle of the mess were two women, an older round – pregnant? – one, and a young Darcsen, who was pointedly ignoring them, choosing to instead continue to worry over the first woman. That was troublesome; "shock" meant doing everything to keep their targets' attention on them.
Nero was the one to try for that. "What's her problem? She pregnant, or just fat?" Inwardly, Celes cringed; both words and tone were heartlessly callous. The comment got the Darcsen's attention – she jerked her head to glare at them.
The younger Darcsen felt compelled to add his own comment. Following Nero's example, he purposefully filled his mouth with figurative nails before speaking. "Who cares? Not gonna make any difference when she's dead." Wonderful – and spine tingling.
But it had no visible effect on his target; instead, she stood up and faced him off. "Stop this now." Bad, bad, very bad – she wasn't backing down.
Show the target you have confidence. Nero dropped his rifle's end to the ground for a bit, commenting on her clothing. "She's a Darcsen." Despite the gravity of the situation, Celes wanted to smile – as if he wouldn't know that fact. Sure, he may not have been raised as one, but he'd done enough reading on his own time to know about them.
He only gave Nero a nod. "Then that explains it," he bandied. "I thought this place stunk. Now I know it does. So, we got ourselves a fat one, and a stinky one," he improvised, referrging to the stereotypical Darcsen stink after working in ragnite mines and processing. His composure almost shattered – the fat one and the stinky one? That could apply to the two of them almost as well as their targets. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't let the humor completely stay separate from his speech. "Pee-eew, it's a regular pig farm in here," he added.
She glanced away, but it wasn't a look of desperation but a look of steel. Before he could stop her, she'd flipped in an impressive cartwheel and ended in a crouch – and suddenly the barrel of another rifle was pointing into his stomach. It took him great effort to avoid flinching, and even more to not shoot her in self-defense on the spot. At this close range, the bullet would almost be guaranteed to penetrate – but he'd definitely survive to retaliate. All he had to do was not provoke her any further…
"I will thank you to watch your tongue in this house." His estimation of Gallia rose several notches. Here she was with two trained soldiers who were apparently going to kill her and her friend, and all she cared about was the language they were using? "You have to leave. NOW."
He almost wanted to comply, to give it up and leave, but the medical student stayed himself. If they ran into any other units of the vanguard, they'd be mown down on the spot, and no amount of spunk could block a bullet. It seemed like such an easy thing to simply tell the truth – but he already knew that she'd only consider that as a ploy, and deny it vehemently.
"That's a big gun for such a little girl." Inside his own head, he meant it as a complement, but he forced himself to turn it into yet another insult – he felt his composure slipping, knew that sooner or later the situation would collapse. "Drop it," he barked. This girl was right. Something had to happen – NOW.
But she only stared knives at him, not at all intimidated. Nero moved aside to cover the fallen woman – his face was a bored look, the look that Celes knew Nero faked whenever he was under duress. His grip tightened on his rifle, and he began to brace himself for a shot –
CRASH. "ISARA!" a male voice screamed behind them.
Failure. They'd missed a man. He smiled as benevolently as he could, tipped the rifle up, and turned –
The white of impact. His head, then. Webbings snapped underneath the pressure of his skull, but it was enough to save him from lethal concussion. His armored form was thrown to the side, and he let himself land heavily onto the stone. Don't fight it… act dead…
There was a rifle shot – only one. So Nero was down as well. People scrambled around, called to each other, and there was the sound of a vehicle driving away – what vehicle? – but soon it was silent once more.
He rolled over, wincing at the angle of his crumpled body. The broken webbings in his helmet meant the thing no longer fit on his head, and so the first thing he did was dump the metal bucket off of his cranium. After sitting a moment, he bent his head between his knees, feeling the blood pulse within his skull. Hurt. So. Much.
And then he was scrambling up, swinging his duffel to the ground, flinging out bandages and ragnaid. Gauntlets clattered to the ground as he worked his fingers into Nero's bloody armor, popping off the backplate of the cuirass.
His unconscious form stirred, but Celes sighed in relief. A right shoulder wound. A few hours later and he'd have bled to death, but that wasn't going to happen while he was here.
When Nero finally woke up a few hours later, Celes dragged him back to the post-operation rendezvous. He grumbled the entire way, but at least they were alive.
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And the two of them will wrap up their conversation next.
No pithy end quotes for now, I've got to run… ack! But leave me some input! Please!