The Battle of Southtown
or
The Gaia Project

A King of Fighters story

Prologue, part 1- Soldiers of Fortune

War is an ugly, inevitable thing. War is what happens when disputes can never be settled. It happens when two sides feel so strongly about a matter that they feel that they have to die for their cause. It is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, perhaps second in dread only to death. One can argue that war should probably be before death among the horseman. After all, war begets death. War also begets famine and pestilence, which in turn beget death. It is the nadir of human civilization, but sometimes, the nadir must be reached before the zenith can be sighted. Most of the time, the zenith will never be in sight. War destroys lives, families, homes, and sanity. It will always bring out the blackest aspect of humanity, with very few exceptions. One of the exceptions was riding in a Russian-made Hind troop transport helicopter, ready to enter into the jaws of hell itself, for a cause he didn't care about. It was war, and it was paying Ralf Jones.
He was currently adjusting the sights on his AKS-74U assault rifle, perched precariously in the open pod door bay of the helicopter as it sped from an inky night into a man-made nightmare. He was following a ritual he had maintained for the last 15 years before he would ever go into combat. As he looked around the interior of the Hind, he could see two other soldiers like himself readying for the imminent dip into the inferno.
Blue-haired Leona Heidern would always sit in a corner, staring blankly ahead and draw her knees up into her chest, all the while fiddling with a blade on a ribbon. She would stay in that same position without so much as blinking an eye for 10 minutes before she would finally gather her long, thick hair into a rugged ponytail and tie it back with the ribbon. After that, she'd take a small black wool-knit cap and tuck her giveaway hair underneath. It never changed for as long as he, Ralf, and Leona had fought together.
His blood brother Clark Steel had a ritual that was a little simpler. He would simply take his prized sunglasses and pour water over the lenses. Then, he would wipe the water clean and either put the sunglasses on his face or put them in his right chest pocket. This was determinant on whether or not it was dark. If it was dark, the sunglasses always went into the chest pocket.
Ralf had the complex ritual. He would take all of his weapons and lay them out in front of him. Then he would take whatever blade weapons he had and put them in a specific order into their sheaths. He always kept one on his right hip, another on his left ankle, and a butterfly knife in his back pocket. He would then take whatever guns he had; always two side arms and a primary weapon and methodically adjust the sights. Then he would load bullets slowly into each magazine before sticking them into his ammo belt. Finally, he would remove his familiar red and green bandanna, fold it neatly, and put it into one of his pockets. In its place, he would don a jet-black bandanna.
This mission would be carried out in the dead of night, amid a background concerto of sporadic artillery fire coming from in and around the Chechen city of Grozny, going back and forth between the Russian Army that encircled and held parts of the city, and the Chechen rebels that were holding out in the very heart. Even against the loud whirring helicopter blades, Ralf could still hear the small arms fire reverberating on the ground level, a reminder of the ferocious fighting going on. Within a few minutes, Ralf knew the gunfire would become even more furious. It was all part of the plan.
Ralf stood, fully decked out in black camouflage, his rifle strapped to his chest; night vision goggles perched on his head. Leona and Clark, equipped identically to Ralf, stood too, knowing what was about to happen.
"Alright, circle up," he said authoritatively. Leona and Clark complied. Right as they crouched in the center of the passenger bay, the pilot stuck his head back.
"ETA 5 minutes," said the pilot, before disappearing into the cockpit. Ralf nodded.
"Right, this'll be comprehensive and educational," said Ralf dryly. "You know exactly why we're here." Ralf looked at Leona, expecting some sort of response.
Leona began. "We came here with a company of 100 by request of the Russians to be of further help to liquidate the Chechen threat in Grozny. As of right now, we have lost 17 dead and 60 wounded, not to mention the 9 that were captured by the insurgents three days ago. The Ikari Mercenary Agency never leaves a comrade behind."
"We know that the insurgents hold a perimeter around the city center about 6 square kilometers," added Clark in his gruff midwestern twang. "Our allies, well, they haven't been able to crack through the Chechen defenses."
"The Chechen perimeter hinges on four points," continued Leona in her cold, husky tone. "In the southwest they hold the police station. East, they hold a stadium. In the northeast, they have the town square. However, the strongpoint lies in the center of the perimeter, the courthouse. It is there that the captives are being held."
"So," interjected Ralf, "we're gonna fast rope about a quarter click from the stadium and bypass it toward the south. From there, we double time into the center, avoiding any opposition along the way. We can't afford to get into a firefight; their reinforcements would overwhelm us. Stealth is the key then."
Ralf pulled a small blueprint from his chest pocket. This was the lay out for the courthouse. "The courthouse is heavily guarded by machine gun nests in the streets and snipers from apartment buildings close by. Still, every defense has a weak point, and this is no exception." He pointed to the sub-level section of the blue print, and then pointed to a long, narrow tunnel running north south that ended in the bowels of the sub- level.
"This is a service tunnel that runs a kilometer underground that links the courthouse and the police station," continued Ralf. He pulled another folded paper from his chest pocket, but this was a municipal map of Grozny. "There are three ways to access the tunnel, either from the station, the courthouse, or from a small checkpoint halfway between. We'll infiltrate the tunnel through that checkpoint and from there we can proceed into the courthouse. We have a 3-hour window to infiltrate the courthouse, rescue the hostages, and triple time to the EZ, which is this building about three blocks away. At that point, the Russians are launching a full assault against the perimeter, which will make it even harder for us to get to the EZ with scrambling insurgents heading to their positions. We'll hold the EZ at all costs until the evac copter comes."
He looked around at his teammates and saw the looks of resignation on their faces. It wasn't resignation to death, but to duty. This wasn't the first time the three warriors carried out a rescue mission, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. However, there was a sense of dread that hung over all three of them like a storm cloud ready to spill its contents onto an unsuspecting world.
"ETA minus 30 seconds!" barked the pilot once again. "God be with you!"
Ralf sighed heavily, then threw on a huge smile and flashed thumbs up to his compatriots. Clark grinned back and flashed his own thumb up. Leona, ever the stoic member of the team, maintained her stony face, but her eyes flashed bemusedly. She, unlike Ralf and Clark, never seemed to have any time for humor, however small it may be, before a mission. She knew it was their way to deal with pressure, unlike hers, which was to become a virtual gargoyle. Still, since she joined the two, humor seemed to leak into her otherwise stern demeanor.
All three fixed their NVGs in front of their eyes and took positions by the pod bay doors. Ralf stood alone on one side, Leona and Clark on the other. Three lines of rope spooled downwards towards a dark abyss from the top of the pod bay door. All three adjusted their rope gloves before awaiting their signal.
It was a tense 30 seconds that seemed to them to take longer. Neither of them was rushing to taste combat, but they were all anxious to get out of the steel trap that was transporting them to work. They looked to their right, at a red and green light. The red part was currently lit; anytime, the green would come, and that would enable the Ikari Warriors to slide down the rope and to begin their mission.
The light came on and Ralf, Clark, and Leona promptly began another night at the office.
They hit the ground sooner than they expected; the pilot was considerate enough to show some backbone and get close to ground level. As soon as they were down, they could hear the Hind speeding away before it had a chance of getting shot down. Ralf couldn't blame the pilot, seeing as how the Russians had already lost 30 gun ships to anti-air missiles. In fact, Ralf could actually see the twisted, burned remains of what had once been a transport helicopter just beyond the sights of his rifle. He motioned to his left, and his partners immediately followed his lead. They leaned against a building wall, with Leona in between her two massive teammates.
Leona was good at concealing her emotions, which was a good thing at the moment. Inside, she was absolutely quaking and she only knew one reason why. Despite the countless missions she had completed, this was to be only her third taste of urban combat, and she was dreading it. Her very first time had been one of her first missions as an Ikari Warrior, and it almost resulted in her death from a sniper's bullet. The second time, she had been cut off and surrounded on the ground level. Ralf and Clark had to fight their way to the beleaguered Leona, who had suffered two wounds to her left leg and another that went through her neck, miraculously missing her vital blood vessels and her spinal cord somehow.
However, there was something else about the shattered remnants of the Chechen city that frightened her. She sensed something would happen, but couldn't figure out what. And not knowing was galling.
The team had been using walls as cover and guides while they traversed the ghost town. They advanced in absolute silence, responding only to the different hand signals from Clark, the point man. Every once and a while, they circled up so Ralf could navigate.
He took out a tiny compass and gazed hard at it. He uttered a nearly inaudible "Shit!" before he motioned to Clark to take the rear. At once, their steady pace increased into a silent jog, and then into sporadic sprints from cover to cover. They had gone to far south and they were behind their timetable.
He led them through an alleyway and into a wide boulevard, where he made a dead stop. He turned and held up four fingers before pointing to Leona. To her, he made a strangling gesture. Leona knew exactly what he meant. She traded places with her leader and took position at the corner, peering cautiously around.
She saw four guerillas patrolling either side of the boulevard, heading away from her position. If she kept as quiet as the grave, the patrol would never know that a killer was about to strike them from behind. And for Leona, there was never any "if". Leona was an expert at stalking. Quiet was her specialty.
Leona went around the corner, while Ralf immediately took up a prone covering position. Clark stood and provided his cover. Should Leona alert any of the patrol to her being there, they were standing by to provide four well-aimed bullets.
She stole quietly after the nearest guerilla, drawing her combat knife from her ankle. She held it tightly in her right hand, ready to slice through anyone's throat. Leona took extremely careful steps, forcing herself to breathe as quietly as possible. In a few seconds, she was right behind her target.
Leona stood up and with her left hand, covered her target's mouth and nose. In one merciful motion, she sliced through his throat as easily as she was cutting steak. The man died instantly, and Leona quietly laid him on the pavement. She repeated this process once more before dashing across the street to eliminate the other two.
Ralf and Clark moved from their positions and trained their silenced rifles on the guerillas. Ideally, Leona would kill them as well, but they knew that there was every possibility that the patrol would turn around and end up facing a knife-wielding Leona.
As Leona approached her next target, she heard the ominous crunching of broken glass behind her. Her eyes were fixed on the guerillas in front of her, who whipped around and pointed their Kalashnikovs at her. In a split-second, she saw them fall dead, and she didn't need to figure out who had shot them. She immediately dropped her knife and spun around, drawing her rifle in the process. Ralf and Clark were on her left, rifles trained in the same direction as hers.
They heard more glass crunching ahead of them. Clark's finger was getting uncomfortably itchy. Despite the obvious sounds of war all around, the crunching glass dominated the ears. Ralf began to see what was making the sound.
It was a man walking slowly up the middle of the boulevard. He appeared to be unarmed, but the trio was taking no chances. They advanced slowly towards him, rifles trained at his chest. There was too much risk of missing a headshot. A shot to the chest was much safer.
The man stopped about 20 meters from Ralf, who was in front. Clark was behind him a few paces, but to the right of Ralf. Leona was on the other side of the street. The man was still too far away to be able to make out what he looked like, but he appeared to be a monster of a man. He stood with his massive arms sticking out slightly as if he was purposely trying to flex them. He appeared to be wearing a long, flowing coat of some sort, and on his head was a wide-brimmed hat. Through the goggles, he appeared to be even whiter than how most people looked. Ralf thought back to the sense of foreboding he had on the helicopter. Was this it?
For an agonizingly long time, the man stood his ground menacingly. Sweat rolled down Ralf's face. Leona's gun quavered a bit. Clark's finger was on the trigger.
The man suddenly threw his coat open and reached for something. The mercenaries instantly opened fire.
Ralf grinned. 'What sort of moron tries to pull something on three people who're already aiming something at him?'
The man staggered a bit, but didn't fall. Instead, he finished pulling out whatever he had and aimed.
Three rifles immediately fell to the ground. The mercenaries stood, shocked and still. The man put back his weapon, closed his coat, and proceeded to walk menacingly towards the mercenaries. He stopped after 5 paces, threw his head back, and laughed out loud with a deep, booming voice.
Ralf tore his goggles off; he figured he could see the man by now. He couldn't. The man looked even more menacing when not covered in the spectral light seen through the goggles.
The man ceased to laugh, and threw his fists up towards his face. He motioned with one hand: come here. Discipline was thrown out the window, and three Ikari

Warriors rushed forward.