At first, the crowd that had gathered just outside the perimeter of Bravo Company simply started out with a measly three figures emerging inexplicably out of the horizon beyond. The two boys and one aging women, presumably their mother, struggled greatly as they dragged a red-stained bundle through the fields, laboring miserably under the warm sunlight casted upon them, their shoddily-made sandals trudging through the firm yet muddy soil below, their filthy hands determinedly pushing past the tall, vibrantly verdant grasses that had dominated the undulating rolling landscape ahead, the world of never-ending green stretching seemingly out of their visible sight and towards the mountains beyond. The initial group of cat-peoples advancing through the plains would soon balloon up in size, joined by a dozen others assumed by the keenly observing Marines to be their family members and just like the preceding party, they too, had appeared apparently out of nowhere from the grassy expanses that laid wide ahead, their massed movement only spotted by the men on the watch at the last minute through their hardly-functioning thermal imaging sights.
The apparently agitated group of a dozen and a half cat-peoples, men and women, girls and boys, stood still in defiance as they gathered en-masse outside the edge of the company's perimeter, their faces resolute and undeterred by the Marines' rifle currently at ready and the rumors of its other-worldly destructive powers. Soon, the somewhat unnerved Marines of Hitman 2-3, who by now had spent more than fifteen minutes or so of their precious time acting as ad-hoc riot police would be joined by several others of their fellow compatriots inside the platoon, including the relatively young Lieutenant himself. Behind the officer and his similarly agitated Platoon Sergeant, trailed a certain brunette team leader and his ever-loyal black second-in-command, hurriedly jogging across the grassy fields towards the growing commotion. Joining the already alarmed duo were the platoon's sole Hospital Corpsman, Doc Clancy, who had earlier followed the duo on his own accord as they trudged their way through the verdantly green grasses.
As the platoon commander steadily approached the edge of the perimeter and his Marines guarding it perplexedly from the gathering crowds of unknown new arrivals, a puzzled remark was promptly breathed out from the Lieutenant lips, exasperated and certainly confused by the developing situation unfolding here.
"What the hell is going on over there?" He audibly grumbled towards his Platoon Sergeant, his hurried stride across the lush fields steadily bringing him ever-closer towards the brewing commotion and the Marines under his command trying their best to subdue it. His cumbersome gears clanked about and his rifle jiggled in its sling, rhyming with the movement of its puzzled owner.
"I have no fucking idea either, boss." The Gunnery Sergeant merely gave him a dazed shrug as a response, the two continuing on straddling their way past the grassy vegetation growing vibrantly along the way. Their stride continued on for a while, before finally reaching the destination at last, the previously faint commotion now in full display with all its chaotic glory right before their eyes.
Marines formed up in a line gathered around, their respective weaponry at ready and their eyes keeping a keenly watchful gaze on the growing crowds of the cat-peoples slowly increasing in number just outside the perimeter of the company, their faces grim and desperate as several more emerged out of the lush, tall-grasses dominating the scenery beyond, their lean body and pale-white complexion contrasting greatly with the dustied and filthy ones of the various other-worlders blocking their way into the encampment of broken-down Humvees and exasperated reconnaissance troops. They traded quick, curious glances with each other, then towards the bundle of rolled-up cloth carried by a dozen males, its tender exterior painted and mottled everywhere with multitude of brightly red crimson and sizeably large holes, perforating every inch of the smooth fabric gruesomely
The reconnaissance men at the scene manning the ad-hoc lines glanced curiously at the mottled fabric, evidently perplexed by the hidden contents it held within. Was it a dead family? Dead livestock perhaps? Are these natives asking their help to bury their lifeless loved ones? Or could it be an injured person? The questions kept running through their minds, seemingly endless as it assailed their thoughts relentlessly without any clear answers. They kept swinging their heads left and right, intently guarding the loosely defined perimeters of the encampment of Bravo Company with keen, watchful eyes. Soon, the little entourage of their relatively young platoon commander, his seasoned senior enlisted Gunnery Sergeant assistant and a couple other Marines that had trailed behind the duo would arrive right amidst the chaotic commotion. The officer slowly approached his gathered troops, his puzzled expression visible as he authoritatively strided closer to the team leader of Hitman 2-3 and the overall manager of the ad-hoc riot control group, Sergeant Schmidt.
"Mike, what the fuck's happening around here?" His voice came out confused as he spoke, his eyes glancing between the similarly puzzled team leader by his side and the relatively sizable crowd of restless civilian mobs, their perked up, cat-like ears gaining the attention of the perplexed officer instantly without much effort. Some strided ahead, their demeanor frantic and clearly desperate, almost begging amid their hasty attempt to strike up a conversation with the dustied-faced other-worlders. One could say it led to nothing though, for the indifferent men did not understand a single bit of their pitiful cattish gibberish
Schmidt slightly shook his head, just as confused as the men guarding the hastily-established line.
"I don't know a goddamn thing." The team leader grimly pointed out with a resigned voice. He glanced about, nodding and motioning towards the glum-faced mob of cat-eared civilians gathered outside the perimeter, their faces running with determination as they stood still just before the lines of Marines blocking their way in, unyielding and certainly resolute as the gleam of sunlight beamed down on them. In their hands, tightly secured within their grip, hung the astoundingly stained rolled up fabric, its unknown contents curiously hidden away by the smooth exterior. "Fuckers started appearing out of nowhere from beyond the company's perimeters in a group of two or something, then fucking balloned up in size to eight."
Their pale-white, almost angelic complexion contrasted greatly with the wrapped, outwardly stained and cumbersome cloth they had exasperatedly carried throughout their journey from beyond the lushy fields. The men and boys kept up their steely gaze and determined demeanor towards the numbly indifferent Marines, and the women and girls silently sobbed as they lay resting by the clunky fabric they've brought. The Gunnery Sergeant had joined up forces with his fellow men, taking up command of the troops manning the small line in the face of the increasingly worrying situation as their team leader, exasperated by lack of quality sleep and now the unexpected commotion, intently conversed with their platoon commander regarding their next course of action.
"What's in that cloth bundle?"
"Lieutenant, we are still trying to figure the shit out." The Sergeant realistically answered, his head bobbing occasionally in the direction of the rolled fabric grimly. "But these fucking furries wouldn't let us anywhere close near them. All they've tried to do so far is try to talk to my Marines but then again, are you really expecting fucking dudes coming from some backward-ass town in Deep South to understand their furry gibberish bullshit?"
"They look pretty damned frantic and desperate though." Lt. Mistral was swift to point it out, giving the somewhat resigned Schmidt a quick eyebrow flash. He broke off the gaze between the two abruptly, nodding slightly in the direction of the perforated bundle of crimson-mottled cloth. "And those looked like blood."
"Shit, you think we'd fuckin' figure that out by now." The response from the exasperated Sergeant was quite sarcastic, both in terms of his brash delivery and deadpanned tone. He then continued, once again gesturing towards the boys, with an elder amid their company, trying in vain to strike up any semblance of meaningful conversation with his keen-eyed troops. "But point is, as long as we don't get someone who speaks Latin or whatever the hell they used to talk here, we won't understand jack shit from these desperate looking guys. Also, didn't Sai, like, know a thing or two 'bout Latin? He went to some fuckin' fancy school didn't he?"
"Yeah he did." The Lieutenant answered matter-of-factly, brushing off the snidely sardonic remark earlier with a terse snort. He then swung his head away from the exasperated Schmidt, his eyes glancing behind towards the distant three figures approaching from their humble abode set up in the fields beyond, their distance around a football field away. "Here he comes with a couple of his Marines."
"Great." The response that came was somewhat relieved, in spite of the outwardly numbed demeanor that the Sergeant had put up. "We could use his language skills, this shithole's language barrier's an annoying-ass bitch, huh? I couldn't fuckin' understand a single bit of their cattish gibberish."
"Gee, ya fucking think Sergeant?" This time, it was the turn for the much younger officer to reply back with a sarcasm of his own, the team leader reacting merely to the abrupt change of tone by the characteristically composed Lieutenant with a slight smile, slowly emerging out of his outwardly numbed exterior. Immediately then, before the Sergeant could form any kind of reply in appropriate respect to the sardonic remark of his superior, the sound of men yelling in aloud fury, and rifles clattering followed as it readied, standing by to unleash a storm of steel upon the unarmed mob of natives. "Quite an astute observation, anything else you might wanna fucking add Schmidt?"
Everyone's attention was grabbed firmly and swiftly by the sudden outburst of curse words and gibberish shouts, the interrupting hollerings of shoddily-made up remark and crude orders coming from none other the hastily-formed lines of Schmidt's Marines, and the recently arrived Gunnery Sergeant of the Second Platoon. The gazes of everybody lounging nearby immediately swung towards the source, the various rifles and light machine guns of the ad-hoc riot control group clattering and clanking about audibly, their jittered owners readying their weapons, preparing to fire upon the restless, yet unarmed natives. The calm, yet understandably desperate demeanor of the crowd stood unyielding even in the face of the other-worlders' wonder weapons, slowly backing up in grace.
They continued on hollering profanities and threatening insults towards the cat-peoples relentlessly, as if to taunt them to inch closer again, their weapons at ready and evidently loaded with live munitions.
"Back the fuck up and get the fuck outta here!"
"Don't you fucking touch my gears you fucking pussy!"
Adiuva nos!
The cat-people promptly hollered back agitatedly, shouting desperate gibberish in their native tongues lividly towards the seemingly indifferent group of other-worldly troops blocking their way, their faces unyielding and completely resolute as they stared ahead into the men's exasperatedly numbed eyes, their pale-white, graceful angelic complexion contrasting visibly with the dustied ones of the gauntly Marines forming the lines. Their MARPAT fatigues, astoundingly worn-out after days spent in the wilderness of the Dumas and mottled, with brownish dirts and dirtied by the stains of muddied dark soil coming from the ground below, differed greatly from the cleanly crisp, neat robes worn by the newly-arrived crowd, their ethereal silky fabrics worn over their slender figures shining brilliantly from the sun's graceful beam, like a prideful group of archangel descending melancholically upon the unholy mortal land, their sacred job to spread greatness on the wicked and the unfaithful. If anything, the natives that had gathered, is anything but recognizable from the ones they had come across previously throughout their bloody odyssey.
The Lieutenant merely eyed the steadily-growing commotion from afar grimly, his darkened complexion unyieldingly gaunt and filthy. He tersely casted a dazed gaze towards his men ahead, seemingly dazzled by the cascading chaos. His already visible frown widened slightly, the sound of people shouting about and hollering an ungodly amount of profanities towards each other remained audibly heard, hanging glumly in the background along with the metallic clattering of rifles and machine guns being readied and cocked hurriedly by its apprehensive users guarding the perimeter, its chaotic symphony an unforgiving constant reminder of the current situation's severity.
Then, another shout, this time contrasting differently in voice and imperative authoritativeness from the earlier rhymes of harsh insults and impulsive slurs thrown carefreely between the two sides, pierced through the chaotic atmosphere that had hung gloomily over their heads, the one of the person of whom the voice originated from sounding evidently exasperated and irritatedly aloof as he, along with his fellow compatriots strided closer. The group of three soon arrived at the commotion, with Dow in the lead and Simon plus Clancy trailing close behind. Their faces were abundantly confused as they jogged close towards the numbed platoon commander of theirs, yelling and hollering puzzled orders along the way at the hastily-formed lines of ad-hoc riot control Marines, the haggard and fatigued men apparently still stuck in their little standoff between themselves, and the relatively sizable group of native cat-people gathered just outside the perimeter's wire.
"What the fuck? What the fuck are you clowns doing with the fucking natives?" The brunette shouted, his voice clearly livid and understandably concerned as he inched closer towards the commotion ahead. He still couldn't believe, that the only reason why this standoff between his fellow compatriots and the natives, apparently agitated by their treatment by the exasperated Marines, just had to happen, is because of the cursed bane against every heart-and-minds operations done by them : language barrier. Extremely large language barrier. "Why are you idiots lounging around with your dicks in your hands instead of treating these people nicely?"
The lines of men guarding the perimeter promptly swung their heads around, keenly looking for the source of such authoritative words, their harsh handlings of the recently gathered crowd ahead of them abruptly ceasing. Simon silently uttered under his breath, tired and exasperated of everything, yet he hid it beneath the cold, calculating stoic mask he had donned. He wouldn't let the whole facade crumble, not now, especially considering the fact that he is a team leader, and he has to control his emotions in front of his Marines.
"Unbelievable." He subtly sighed in disbelief, and several dozen feet in front of him, hurriedly approached a certain Lt. Mistral. The young, brown-haired Lieutenant steadily strided close towards him, a buoyant half-smile visibly seen on his face as he spoke to his team leader. Evidently, the officer was indeed relieved with the brunette's sudden arrival.
"Never have I been so glad to see your face, Sai." The Lieutenant remarked chippily, promptly gesturing towards the aloof brunette himself with a pointed finger. Simon merely waved his superior's half-sarcastic comment off, his stoic facade unyielding as he slightly snickered, amused even by a bit. "Speaking of you, Sai, you do fucking know how to speak Latin shits, right?"
"Correct, sir." Simon was quite quick to respond to the officer's assumption, sarcasm laid evidently all through his voice. He then continued on with clear wit, stopping abruptly in his tracks, his keen, gazing eyes meanwhile narrowing sarcastically, staring stoically at the officer striding casually ahead. His lips brashly moved in spite of his aloof demeanor, heaving out a mockingly sardonic quip, and his mind flashed back to Italica, along with the hurried thunder run assault through it. "And let me guess, you're going to be using me as some lowly-fucking-terp because of my knowledge in Latin, to compensate for the fact that we forgot to pick up our interpreter outside Italica when Godfather told us to pick our stuff up, and in his infinite, never-ending wisdom, ordered us to blast our way of out of that unholy shithole."
"Well, shit," Lt. Mistral jokingly remarked, the buoyant smile on his face unyielding as he spoke. He promptly began to walk and glanced to the left, beckoning hurriedly towards his subordinating team leader to follow in his trail the beating heart of the unfolding commotion. "it seems like you're indeed correct, Sai."
"Very well, then." Simon snidely shot back, his curt voice sarcastically stoic as it were heaved out matter-of-factly. Tracing the steps of his relatively young platoon commander, he strided casually in the officer's immediate wake, following him closely towards the cascading chaos. The very first sight that greeted him upon the arrival were the group of natives cat-peoples, their resolutely unyielding complexion calm and composed, yet highly agitated, grimly reflecting the one plastered visibly on his. Sighing stoically and with his rifle slung safely around his arm, he slowly started to venture towards the silent, apprehensive crowd, his dusty lips mouthing and grumbling audibly along the way. "And thus, I have become a lowly-fucking-terp."
"Alright Sai, better go score us some fucking extra-sloppers with those catgirl poontangs, motherfucker." Resounding faintly from the lines of Marines behind and accompanied by several dozen more amused snorts of affirmations, the aloofly silent brunette could only make out vaguely the evidently crude, sarcastic words of encouragement his fellow compatriots had thought out keenly and saved just for this occasion. Very much appreciated you retards, he sardonically remarked within his blank mind. "Go get some, Sarn't."
The complexion of each cat-peoples that had gathered just outside the company's wire, smooth and pale, glow faintly under the beam of the sun hanging in the morning sky as slowly and with great caution exercised, he strided ever-closer to the crowd. The rays of light illuminated their faces, revealing in its wake a flurry of worried men, and highly agitated boys and women, awaiting with deep patience for their concerns to at least, be heard reasonably by these other-worlders that had encroached so abruptly into their ancestral lands with the grisly, horrid wonder of the juggernaut of warmachine they had brought along the way.
Finally reaching his destination, he abruptly stopped right in his tracks, his previously stoic stride ceasing before the group of native cat-peoples, their limbs emblazoned with tribal tattoos and their faces visibly agitated. Slowly, they approached this rather, unusually reasonable other-wordler, certainly different and contrasting quite greatly with the much more aggressive, gaunt ones blocking their way earlier. Despite that, cautions are still written across their complexion as they do so. In the moments of awkward silence that had befell the atmosphere between the group, he promptly broke the silence with a single question.
Quomodo te adiuvare possum? The brunette asked stoically, his voice cavalierly calm yet at the same time, sympathetic to the plight from evidently agitated natives. Two men from the perturbed crowd stepped out, one young and the other aging visibly, both their boyish and wrinkly, venerable faces somewhat puzzled as they quickly replied.
The swift response coming from the two didn't come out of their mouth though, unexpectedly enough. Instead, both of their hands swung around to the left, their heads mirroring the action almost on cue, gesturing calmly towards the bloodied bundle of clothes sitting astride without a word spoken. A woman and a boy sat by the stained, mottle fabrics curled into a long cylinder, their eyes, full of youth and innocence, sobbing greatly and their mouths strung wide open, as if to beg assuage from the higher beings above.
Simon silently stared at her, sympathetic to whatever is befalling the poor woman yet puzzled deep inside. What could've happened? His stoic complexion stood unyielding, his eyes though had concerns written across it clearly. Silence lingered for a moment, the two men staying quiet as if to let their gesture earlier sink into the aloof other-worlder, unsure if the brunette standing in front of them would even bother with such insolence bugging him.
Then, they spoke up, their tone grim and making it abundantly clear, that in spite of the unyielding complexion they had put up amid their curtly conversation with the other-worldly brunette, they're here for one, very precise reasoning for help.
Quia illud. Both men remarked, calmly and composedly as they gestured tersely towards the rolled up fabric and clothes, mottled with blood and stained with the dirt of which it was laid onto. Then, they blankly pointed towards the weeping woman sitting by it, the bundle wrapped in her embrace, her tears falling down, wetting it curtly in small drips.
The stoic Simon furrowed his brows promptly, clearly concerned, yet at the same time puzzled evidently by the two's curt gesture and blank, warily grim remark of mere "Because that." – in Latin, of course. His sentiment was shared, visibly so, by his fellow compatriots standing several feet back from him, and the wary conversing locals before him.
"What are those two guys saying, Sai?" Leaning in for a terse whisper, the platoon commander of his inquired about, his tone conveying the sense of wariness evident on his complexion. He then nodded towards the bloodied piece of rolled up clothes, its mottled fabrics resting on the soil and grasses of the verdant fields below, and its stained surface shone with radiance from the sun. "And that shit looked pretty messed-up."
"I think what these two are saying is that," The brunette wasted no time, his mouth moving up and down as he promptly replied calmly, his hands gesturing hurriedly in the direction of the bloodied bundle in question, the action impulsive as he continued on."the fucking thing is the reason why they're here, to get some help from us other-worlders fuckers."
Somewhere down the line, a Marine shouted, his jokingly deadpanned tone faintly heard amid the brunette and the Lieutenant's conversation with the native cat-peoples, their demeanor as agitated as ever.
"Tell them we ain't gonna give them niggas no fucking help if we ain't getting some sloppy-ass blow from them catgirls bitches!"
Both men paid the faint joking remark no heed, save for a vaguely noticeable half-smile that disappeared just as quickly as it had contorted on the duo's calm face. Instead, they opted to give the visibly concerned cat-people the benefit of the doubt, their hands motioning and gesturing promptly towards the red-haired Corpsman standing-by close to make his way swiftly to the two.
Amidst the hurried clankings of his fieldpacks, the audible clatter of his grenade-launcher-equipped rifle banging against his load-bearing vests and the soft, moistened rustling of his gears against the grasses dominating the landscape, Clancy would soon arrive at his two superior with a rather chippy demeanor.
"Yo." The young Corpsman called out to his brunette compatriot upon his prompt arrival. His youthful face, in spite of the dust bespeckling it in its fine soot, smiled brightly as he approached his rather blank-faced superior, the buoyant purposely worn to decrease the chance of him petrifying the young boys and girls gathered outside the perimeter. "What do you need me for, Sergeant?"
Simon, along with the similarly young Lt. Mistral standing beside the brunette, was quick to acknowledge the presence of the platoon's red-haired Corpsman with a mere, tersely nod. Clancy responded swiftly, his curtly actions mirroring the ones of his superiors. Not wasting any time, both men promptly swung their heads around, and motioned hurriedly towards the bloodied, rolled up bundle of fabric sitting idly ahead. Its owners sobbed and wept as they sat by the stained clothes, and the Corpsman soon approached, cautiously but surely. If anything, the dark-red ominously dotting the smooth surface of the blanket was an astoundingly clear indication that this whole ordeal is going to be medical-related of some sorts.
With his M4A1 rifle slung back towards his rather cumbersome field pack over his lean shoulder, the medical kit of which he had carried throughout the campaign tersely replaced the rifle's place, the relatively sizable package of medicines and first aid kit inside at ready as he strided towards the bloodied bundle, cautious in his movement and his demeanor plastered with a buoyantly chippy facade. He slowly advanced towards the rolled-up, bloodied piece of blanket, his compatriot at the back meanwhile guarding his approach with their weapons at ready.
Upon his arrival, he promptly went to work, his hands – with his earlier, olive-green tactical gloves replaced by latex medical ones – unwrapping the bundle of clothes and fabrics piled on top of each other haphazardly in a rather hurried manner, the sobbing cat-people nearby lending a hand to him graciously. The blankets reeked off the visceral stench of injuries, rotting injuries, the grisly air assailing his exposed nose almost immediately. He groaned, exasperated evidently by the fact that this is the second time in the past hour he had been used to deal with some, quite reasonably horrid wounds. He tried putting up a smile in an attempt to reassure the apprehensive natives sitting astride assisting him, an honest attempt that was quickly mirrored by them gratefully.
His mind continued on dwelling on such bemusing fate that had befell upon him, his hands hard at work as he cautiously unfurled the wrapped-up bundle in a hurried manner. Only then, it was almost unceremoniously cut off. What appeared to seemingly appear like bloodied corpses immediately rolled out of the wrapped clothes, greeting the wary Corpsman with the grisly sight. Both young boys in their teens, perforated with holes of varying sizes all throughout their slim figures, ominously red blood trailing in their wake as they twisted out of the fabrics on itself, the force of gravity at work evidently.
Almost immediately, the snide jokes and sarcastic quips stopped streaming out of the Marines lounging nearby, their eyes now caught firmly by the visceral sight that had appeared out of nowhere, a slight frown appearing on their faces in its wake. Their faces betrayed no emotion, and soon enough the Corpsman began to work. Marine gunfires? Stab wounds by raiding marauders? Cluster munitions' payloads pieces? He didn't know, and he felt guilty deep inside for that very reason. He cursed, railing beneath his breath as he started inspecting the bloodied corpses. Close behind him, the eyes of both the brunette team leader, and his platoon commander widened considerably, their stoic demeanor replaced wholly by one of shock and sickening guilt.
"Jesus fucking Christ." Clancy muttered under his breath, livid and angered by such a grisly sight. Worse, as he began to slowly inspect the seemingly deceased corpses, the bloodied wound, rotting and reeking out the horrid stench of death, it soon became clear that this might be yet another, horrible case of collateral damage coming from their very own side. Nothing else in the Imperials' arsenal matched the kids' perforated wounds, not that they know of anyway. "These trigger happy fucking-jackasses."
He continued on railing lividly, his friendly demeanor no more as veins began popping out visibly on his forehead. He hurriedly scissored through the perforated clothes of the boy's corpse, dyed red by the blood streaming out of their slim bodies, studying the wounds keenly with an agitatedly angered eye. He is furious. How could this happen? How could they have done such things to this innocent child? He had a future ahead of him for fuck sakes, he thought. By his side, the mother of the two dead teens wept and cried, her mouth wide open, as if to plead assistance from the gods above. Yet, no voice ever came out of her, already exhausted beyond comprehension after a whole day spent trudging through the seemingly never-ending stretch of rolling fields, her feline instinct as a mother whispering to her to continue on searching for any form of help for her dying children, fatigue and exasperation be damned. Her fluffy ears drooped down, her family members comforting her gingerly.
Clancy had wholly expected her – and her family members – to be angry at them, at the damned other-worlders for killing her only offsprings amidst their hurried blitzkrieg throughout, but her exhausted expression speaks otherwise. She kept on talking in silence, not a word being heaved out of her amidst her pleadings with the heaven, desperation written all over her face. Her pristine, innocent eyes shifted between the sky above, and the Corpsman checking on her sons; not even a hint of anger was on her gaunt, darkened complexion.
Behind them, Marines swiftly jumped into action, their joking and quippy mood lingering through the air no more. They moved about, shouting orders and with two teams hurriedly setting up security around the Corpsman and the corpses upon the mere orders of their platoon commander, supervising the treatment of the corpse nearby with a grimly blank face, betraying no emotions.
The Lieutenant methodically turned towards Schmidt, his unusually calm voice whispering composed orders to the Sergeant evidently stunned by such sight. He shook the man's figure once, snapping him out of his thoughts and swiftly sending him to organize his team, and set up security as ordered. He sighed in slight satisfaction at the sheer speed of which his men had jumped into action, a tinge of pride swelling within.
Yet, he betrayed no emotions, turning his attention immediately back towards the corpses of the boys, the livid Corpsman inspecting it, and the grieving family members sitting astride. They mumbled in between sobs, muttering some sort of prayers in unknown tribal languages of theirs, differing evidently from the Latin Simon had used to converse with their elders earlier. The commotion behind him continued on, with shouts and yellings dominating the atmosphere around. He, along with the brunette by his side, his stoic demeanor shaken visibly by the traumatizing sight, eyed the laboring Clancy grimly as they approached from behind.
Just as they took their first steps of stride leading up to the laboring Corpsman, something unexpected happened. The bloodied corpses flashed their eyes open, the innocence still there as the supposedly dead bodies of the boys gauntly stared back at the still livid Clancy, flinching by a bit from the sudden action of the teens, before quickly composing himself, his anger still visible in all its furious glory.
The kids were alive; and the bad news is, from the way their rotting wounds appeared to have been looking, it is highly likely that they're going to die. The Lieutenant had become too numbed to even react to such revelation, his blank eyes keenly eyeing them as he crouched by the side of one of the boys.
"These fucking retards, arty'ing kids and shit." Clancy cursed his guilty compatriots under his breath, hoping sarcastically deep inside – a coping mechanism, perhaps – that the kids whom he is treating won't pick up what he had just said. He grimly treated the two, his translucent latex gloves already smeared with blood and shredded skins from the boy's perforated chest before he could even start. "Trigger-happy dumb motherfucking baby-killers!"
The Platoon's sole medical Corpsman is visibly overwhelmed, physically and mentally. He is shaken, incredulously so, by the revelation that the two boys – brothers evidently – are indeed alive, and are helpless to give them any kind of treatment. He could barely treat one, let alone two gravely wounded kids with the amount of medicine kits he had in his field pack. He continued on cursing, startled and distraught by the fact that the teen's injuries are likely to have resulted from the destruction their side had brought upon this tranquil patch of land.
Lt. Mistral turned to right, his numbed eyes taking a sweep of Schmidt's sitting abreast by his side just as he spoke, his voice blankly calm and clear of any hints of anger, nor anguish.
"Set up security and get us a stretcher, now." With that, the still shaken Schmidt jumped into action without much hesitation. Ahead, the Corpsman continued on laboring, his hands treating the gravely-wounded kids with skill with the boys' family sitting by their side, watching him work, their eyes weeping and sobbing with tears.
Behind him and the Lieutenant, sobs resounded, barely discernible from the commotion unfolding in the background. It was a rather peculiar cry, a male one differing from the mother trying to comfort her gravely wounded children, the innocence of their souls slowly fading away from their eyes every moment, Clancy's best efforts to save the two from the certain fate awaiting them futile.
Lt. Mistral swung his head back towards the origin of the sobs, the sight greeting him rather unexpected. The brunette, usually defined by his stoic characteristic and cool-headed, steely decision-making abilities, struggled to compose his own self. Tears ran down his pale-white cheeks, bespeckled neatly with fine dust and soot from the soil below, shaken mentally by the imagery of children dying before his very eyes. Worse, to add insult to the wound, the bloodied two very likely to have been maimed by their own side, by an action of a Marine, a reckless one.
He kneeled by the side of one of the bloodied boys, sobbing before the sight, the usually stoic team leader struggling with Herculean effort to compose himself. The weeping brunette gazed glumly ahead, watching as the platoon's Corpsman frantically treated the kid, his eyes had rage written across it subtly, overwhelmed.
"Wh-what can I do here?" Simon subtly stuttered amid inquiring, his sympathetic voice meek and faint as he sobbed audibly, the lithe streams of tears falling down his cheeks breaking away any facade of stoic indifference. For the first time amidst their bizarre odyssey, the ever-stoic brunette had been shaken by the horrors he had just witnessed. This was clearly different from the innumerous corpses they had encountered throughout their mechanized blitzkrieg north, bits of guts splattered all over the Romanesque highway in a gory smear of crimson and torn hearts, shredded entrails that accompanied their lifeless owner.
He stared into the boys' eyes, his own welling with incredulous tears in almost a reverse of the ever-aloof, stoic facade he had donned. The two stared back, a grim reminder to him of the efficient, deathly destruction they had brought here as part of their lightning war. For the first time, the effects that laid before him weren't just some lifeless bodies of civilians lying dull on the towns they blew asunder with bombs, and the highways they blasted with Willy Petes that could easily be waved off with his indifferent demeanor. They were alive, and he is left to witness what's left of their agonizing, wounded little bodies.
The red-haired Corpsman, his messy lush hair as red as the blood staining his MARPAT cammies below, doesn't even gaze away from his dying patient, before answering, anger and hopelessness laced throughout his voice audibly.
"Apparently fucking nothing, Sai." Clancy answered almost immediately with a rather grim tone, before turning promptly towards the numbed Lt. Mistral, his gazing eyes watching upon the bloodied boy like a guardian angel unyielding as he continued on, his voice appropriately lowered. His tone was much more gentle this time as he spoke. "Sir, this is getting out of hand fast– I can't treat them both, I want you to go get the Skipper and have him get me Lieutenant Dr. Anderson."
"The Battalion Surgeon?"
"Yes, sir. These two got their chest cavity and stomach dotted with entry wounds from shrapnels. Their insides are fucked by the arty for all I know." Clancy nodded in affirmation, before continuing, his hands laboring evidently in an attempt to save the dying kids and his attentive gaze held over the bloodied boys unyielding. "Tell 'em guys at the BAS that we have an urgent surgical that needed to be CASEVAC'ed, the kids' gonna fucking die in a half a dozen hour or so if they don't get proper treatment. The two got schwacked by the First Sarn't inaccurate suppression fire mission earlier, fucking dumbfuck missed the fortress by miles and fucking hit these nomad guys instead, Christ."
Clancy's gauntly hands, covered with cyan-hued rubber medical gloves and shrouded beneath its translucent latex embrace, pointed towards the rotting hollow injuries, the piercing bruises befitting the description of someone unfortunate enough to have been felled by a Marine 155mm airburst artillery round and the equally devastative shrapnels it likely bursted away. Saline IV drips continued streaming into the boys, straining with desperation as it tried its best to make up for the losses of blood and liquid trailing out of the holes perforating their body. Their faces appeared calm, almost serene as the red-headed other-worlder and his fellow compatriots continued on treating them two. They show no anger at the gentle invaders, nor any sign of pain at their unbearably horrid wounds that plagued their guts like a horrible pox.
The Lieutenant wasted no time dwelling on the gentle, yet heavy words of his platoon's sole Corpsman. As he got up from his previous low-crouch that had hovered over the boy, the pieces slowly began to fall into place within his mind ; the kid had been maimed by none other than the earlier fire mission called in by their rather, disdained First Sergeant amidst their hurried assault into the fortress. They didn't even get to see where the round had impacted initially, but now, its destructive wake laid in all its horror ahead of the Marines. Worse, it was not the fault of their enemy that this whole collateral ordeal had to happen, but rather, their own. The horrors that their 21st century's mechanized juggernaut of warmachines had brought here; tainting the continent's peaceful tranquility and nature; maiming the inhabitants in it be it hostile Legionnaires and mages or unarmed women and children simply recuperating within their humble, Romanesque abodes; knocking buildings down and blowing people apart at such horrifyingly swift pace and efficiency with their varying arsenals of destruction, had finally caught up with them.
The agonizing sobs of the brunette team leader of his remained audible, his anguished crouch and desperate attempt to lessen the horrifying bleeding of the boys before him a clear, present reminder of the evident effect such grisly sight and revelation had on his Marines, even to the most resolutely stoic and unyieldingly steadfast of them all. He slowly walked away from his laboring men, his frantic strides leading to the Company Headquarters in search of the CO for any semblance of assistance to their treatment of the dying kids accompanied with a heavy heart. Tears began to well in his eyes as he set off, threatening to run freely down his cheeks.
He shook his head, pushing any dwelling of the thoughts out of his mind, anguishing deep inside with regret, intense regret. Behind the striding Lieutenant and away from his anguished perceptions, his platoon, now had joined by a certain Doc Miles of Hitman-3 and the resident albino journalist to lessen the burden, continued on with their straining job resolutely, laboring beneath the sun's warm beam, doing the best they could to save the dying kids in courageous defiance of the horrible fate awaiting them two.
The weeping family members further emboldened him, igniting the internal voice within his minds, its soothing tone whispering and pleading into the last bits of the youthful innocence left within himself to do all he could in his power to assure the survival of the kids, dying kids by all means necessary. Subconsciously, he caressed subtly the ring given to him by his Harvard classmates, the ornate ring hidden beneath his olive-green gloves bespeckled with dust – a mere reminder of his simpler, innocent days.
Captain Walt splashed his face with a torrent of cold water, beyond tired and visibly fatigued as he did so. He sighed in slight satisfaction, embracing the chilly sensation that greeted his exasperated complexion with open arms. His black digital wrist watch on his left hand, mottled and stained with fine dust and soot exactly like how his MARPAT cammies are, displayed clearly the numbers "1200". Noon had just set in, and yet, the overall temperature of the verdant fields his company had camped in remained rather, comfortably chilly in spite of the sun's brilliant radiance, shining upon them continuously.
The peripheral vision to his left was dominated faintly by the sight of his company's somewhat, laid-back executive officer dozing off within his fighting hole, the soft dirt of the rolling plains used by the XO First Lieutenant as an improvised pillow, and the camo nets suspended above Bravo Company's HQ section provided the Marines lounging below with a humble abode from the warm sun. He yawned slightly, evidently sleepy and quite tired after days spent in the fields, the urge to nap very much creeping up on him. Like the morning hours prior, the daylight hours felt very quiet, save for the constant banters thrown towards each of his Marines by themselves out of leisure. They had nestled themselves into a serene and clean-smelling cradle of the Falmartian nature, its bucolic characteristic somehow out of place amidst the turmoil of war
Besides the fact that the verdant scenery laid before him had been rather picturesque – the pristine, sweet-tasting air of the lush countryside untouched by modern day wonders, the wilderness also seemed to have an almost, dream-like fantastical quality in its bucolic beauty. Not even the distant, thundering rumbles of laser-guided bombs combusting, missiles whining and artillery roaring in the far-away background, could do much as to stain the tranquility of the idyllic plateau.
The wilderness would have certainly been dozen times more bucolic in its beauty, hadn't a certain Lt. Mistral of his Second Platoon came storming into his HQ Section's CP, breathless and agitated as the rather young platoon commander approached him.
The Lieutenant's exasperatedly darkened eyes, just as grim and gaunt as his complexion, spoke wordlessly to him that something is terribly wrong. His gut intuition told him that too.
"Mistral, you alright?" He inquired almost immediately with visible concern written across his lips, his sunken gauntly eyes staring merely in bizarre puzzlement as the hectic Lieutenant attempted to catch his breath. "You fine?"
Without even letting a beat pass, Lieutenant quickly replied, the heaved out response breathless and perturbed.
"I ha-have an urgent medical, my platoon's Corpsman called it in." His voice sounded choppily breathless and quite agitated as he answered tersely, the darkened, dusted olive-shaded gloves of his pointing spontaneously towards a distant, vaguely-discernible cluster of the Lieutenant's heavily-armed Marines, and the unknown civilians crowding the company's perimeter with them. The natives, in their silky robes and crisp fabrics, stood out without much effort from the gaunt, sleep-deprived other-worlders laboring nearby. "Sir, the patient's gonna fucking die in two or three hours. My Corpsman said he needed imperative assistance from the Battalion Surgeon."
The Captain's eyes, shockingly incredulous and in a state of sickening disbelief, widened considerably in a heartbeat, not a moment passing after his sleep-deprived mind had processed the distressing news coming from one of his platoon commanders. The Lieutenant sneered and scowled feebly, his livid gaze eyeing the lounging silhouette of the Company's First Sergeant, the man responsible for the tragedy that had just befall him, and his young band of Marines
Captain Walt then turned hurriedly, his head swinging at neckbreak speed to the left, glancing towards an armpit-deep fighting hole dug rather recently beneath the CP's camo nets, and towards the exhausted, fatigued figure of the company's XO dozing off silently within the hollow hole. Captain Walt gazed keenly at the apparently exasperated executive of his for a slight moment, and immediately without hesitation, promptly began to stride frantically towards the sleeping officer. He shook the napping First Lieutenant Guthrie back to the grim reality with his hands, jiggling the bespectacled man's frame hecticly much to his annoyance.
The executive officer's eyes, almost glued shut by accumulating dust and filth coming from the earthen soil he lied on, shot open swiftly half-way through, the first greeting by the still numbed, unresponsive bespectacled XO towards the unknown assailant a mere tersely glance towards two figure that stood steadfastly by his hollow fighting hole. He couldn't even let out not even a single breath of the sweet, dreamy scent of the lushy fields around, let alone a word, before having it promptly cut off by a rather, very familiar voice of his immediate superior; the company commander himself.
"Take care of the company for me, Pat."
"Why?" The Company's XO arched his eyebrows, eyes still tired as he struggled with Herculean effort, under the assailing golds of the sun, to open it to the fullest.
"Some shit just went down, badly." The Captain answered darkly, and not even a moment later he would already be on his way, Lt. Mistral trailing quite closely behind as he turned and spoke one last time to his ever-loyal executive officer, the grimly casual voice of his worth a thousand explanations to the still numbed bespectacled XO.
He nodded towards the far-away silhouettes of Second Platoon's Marines, gathered around some previously unseen – and unknown – figures. The reconnaissance men stood around the mish-mash clusters of native civilians, setting up security and others, desperately treating the distant outlines of wounded children, the bloodied body of the two nearing its gravely fate of death, the sunny rays of gold accompanying their parting as they lied, in silenced anguish, by Bravo Company's perimeter wire.
"I gotta go to BAS right now, bro, take care of the company." He grimly muttered one last time as he set off, the primary look on his face an ill-concealed frown of incredulousness. Gazing darkly into the eyes of his bespectacled fellow, the XO would nod affirmingly, hearing enough information for him to immediately push himself out of the dug-in hollow ground and begin promptly to work.
His clunky assortments of cammies, utility gears, grenades, Camelbaks, 40-mike-mike 'nades jackets, rifle and sidearms jiggled and clanked as he climbed out of the fighting hole, occasionally trading understanding glances with his superior as the latter stalked away. Soon, the two figure would grow faint and fainter, jogging hurriedly away from the company CP and towards the far-away, cluster of dusted tents and grimy camouflage nets that made up the battalion's headquarters and its vibrant assortment of hasty biouvac shelters, and under the sunny, blinding light that had previously made the verdant greenery around them glow bucolically like the biblical Garden of Eden, they would disappear. At around 900 yards to a kilometer to the left, the stretching plains of the Duma Valley – and its grassy plateau – abruptly ended before the grandiose Romanesque fort 1st Recon had recently seized, the violet, crimson and deep-blues of the spring's flower swaying lazily from the mountains' breeze contrasted greatly with the forlorn, aging cobblestone walls of the deserted fortress, and the ant farm of radio antennas and muddied Humvees making up Godfather and Charlie Company's humble sanctuary.
And the officer duo of one First Lieutenant platoon commander, and the escorting Captain of his, are jogging straight towards the very structure, aging and forlornly looking as if it were about to come crumbling down any moments, they had seized half a dozen hour prior and the assortments of camouflage nets and distant outlines tents lying just outside of it. Every second counts for the wounded children under the care of the Marines, and the two promptly made a hurried run for it, closing the distance – nearly a kilometer away – between them, the battalion headquarters and the BAS, breathless as they frantically do so, their boots trudging through muddy, grimy soil below and cutting swiftly past fields upon fields of flowers and lush greenery of a colorfully hued spring.
The two would soon arrive at their destination, breathless as they hurriedly strided towards the beating heart of the battalion. Their abrupt arrival was unceremonious, not greeted even a bit by any of the similarly dusted, sleep-deprived Marines lounging about close by the HQ of 1st Recon, save for several dozen terse, numbed glances towards them. Ahead of the duo, just outside the small city of camouflage nets and grimy supply trucks, lightly-armored Humvees, the executive officer Major Ross sat in silence on a mere stack of filthy metallic boxes of ammunition and MREs. Behind him, the entrance for the command tent of the Battalion COC laid half-open, the flaps grimy and shoddy.
They soon would approach the lounging Major, the man merely sitting in silence as he dug into a pack of half-open MRE, indifferent and seemingly numbed. Their sudden, urgent arrival up the dusty entrance of the Battalion COC did not go unnoticed by the muted executive officer, receiving swiftly a rather curt greeting in the form of a slight, vaguely noticeable glance. The two abruptly halted their hurried strides right before him, breathless and wildly agitated as they stopped.
Captain Walt broke off, wandering away from the young platoon commander and searching hecticly for even the mere silhouettes of the Battalion Surgeon. Amidst that, the Lieutenant was the one to step forward first closer to the executive officer, his face full of urgency and apparent restlessness as he spoke to the seemingly indifferent Major lying ahead.
"Sir, I have two wounded civilians, childrens, in my lines along with their grieving family." Breathless and agitated, the usually composed, consummate professional facade put up by Lt. Mistral slowly crumbles, the hectic officer frantically explaining to the uninterested Major the ordeal befalling his platoon. "We mistakenly blew them up with one of our suppression fire missions during the assault earlier this morning. My Corpsman and some of my Marines are doing the best they can to treat them, but both of them are urgent surgical."
"So?" The Major promptly shrugged, uncaring and seemingly indifferent to the plight of the breathless, young platoon commander standing before him. Such a dismissing tone, ignorantly detached from the horrors he had been forced to confront and witness earlier, angered the pale-faced Lieutenant deep within.
Yet still, he held his face unyielding, maintaining his cool-headed demeanor as he continued talking with the apathetically dismissive Major.
"Sir, please," The Lieutenant pleaded agitatedly, apparently desperate as he gestured towards the direction of his laboring platoon in the distance. "we had just riddled two kids with shrapnels from a bad fire mission that our First Shirt called in, they're going to bleed to death if we don't give them appropriate treatment and CASEVAC them."
The Major, still busy with digging into his recently torn open pack of MREs, snorted dismissively at the explanation. A sickening smirk surfaced on the executive officer's lips – something that he was just about to learn, that the man always had that demonic, facial expression every time he talked to his lower-ranking compatriots, and with Herculean effort, the rather young Lieutenant held back the indomitable urge to lash out, swing his rifle forward and pump the apathetic man's skull with a hail of 5.56.
His entire, composed, cool-headed consummate professional facade was starting to fall apart just as Major Ross, his mouth munching on a shredded barbeque MRE and his back lying casually against the clusters of dusty ammunition boxes behind, shrugged and waved his concerns off dismissively.
"I dunno Lieutenant, but that's none of our business," Major Ross' muffled voice – by the chewing of meals – was brash, sarcastic even. His shoulder moved up faintly and slightly, shrugging uncaringly, his hands cradling softly his 9mm Beretta by his side. To Lt. Mistral, it was clear that the man was completely detached from this ordeal, completely uncaring and apathetic to his platoon's plight. "and oh yeah, the battalion commander's asleep. Just tell the fucking guys to go back to their houses and deal with it, we can't help."
Lt. Mistral gritted his teeth, suppressing the anger and trying to sway away the wave of helplessness threatening to overwhelm him. He stood valiantly before the leisurely executive officer of the entire battalion, veins popping and eyes full of hatred and yet, he hid it well for so long.
"Sir, you can't fucking do this!" His voice was raised considerably, livid yet characteristically concise as he yelled defiantly at the higher-ranking officer, and there was evident helplessness in his exhausted demeanor. It was pointless trying to reason with him, his mind told him. From all of the officer courses he had taken back in TBS and OCS, he was still conditioned to accept senior officers' decisions, regardless of their stupidity, criminality, or inhumanity. "We're Americans, we can't fucking let the kids die in our hands!"
And yet, even with the assurance deep within, his vision narrowed to a tunnel. There was no clean, clinical explanation for what he felt and what he wanted to do. All he wanted to tell the Major, and repeat it ceaselessly, is that they were Americans, that Americans don't blow kids up and let them die, that the Marines in his platoon had to be able to look themselves in the mirror for the rest of their lives and not feel guilty, guilty of letting the kids die before their very eyes. He wanted him to get out there and put his hands in the kid's chest to stop the blood that flowed in rhythmic spurts from the holes torn open by the fire mission.
And he wanted to cradle the Major's head between his arms and twist, just twist.
And before he could execute any of his blood-crazed, raging fantasy, a slight tug from his shoulder brought him out of his angered state, and back into the cool-headed, composed Lieutenant he usually is. He turned at a breakneck speed, and his slightly livid, hopeless demeanor greeted the ones of his company commander, Captain Walt.
The two hadn't even started to converse yet, when the Major abruptly interjected.
"Lieutenant, you better piss outta here like I said before," The Major, with his brash, smirking demeanor scowling at the young platoon commander, tersely warned. Shaking his head at such an outrageous show of insubordination by the Lieutenant in between munches of his meal, he promptly dismissed them curtly. "otherwise you're going to feel the wrath of a field-grade officer."
The Major, with a stern frown replacing his snidely smirk, subtly hissed at the young Lieutenant, his head shaking lividly at the show of defiant insubordination by a lower-ranking officer. Lt. Mistral stayed silent, the disdain in his eyes unyielding. He could feel the austere glare, the foreboding feeling of helplessness swelling within his stomach. He is still sickened by the denial of aid for the mortally wounded children in his platoon's gentle care by Major Ross, the dismissive tone of the man further fueling the urge deep within him to pump the motherfucker full of rifle round point blank.
Another tap on his shoulder from behind would finally snap him out of his disdained thoughts fully, the Captain holding a gaze with him, his eyes sympathetic and pitiful to the ordeal befalling his subordinate unfairly. The company commander shook his head in dead silence, scornfully glancing at the Major sitting on the ammunition and MRE boxes ahead.
"Come on, man," Captain Walt's eyes diverted back to the seemingly helpless ones of his, the man's rugged gloved hands shaking his shoulder keenly. His voice, unusually personal in a stark contrast to his professional persona, was reassuring yet hushed quietly. Nodding slightly towards the dismissive Major, he soothed down his compatriot with a cool-headed conclusion in subtle agreement. "It's not worth dealing with the fucker, we need to head back to the boys."
His eyes followed the Captain's finger as he pointed towards a distant figure, assailed and blinded slightly by the brilliant winks of the sun along the way. Frantic and hurried, the man in question jogged swiftly through the fields of swaying grasses, his gears dangling about, his MTV protective vest hanging open and his M4A1 rifle swung across his shoulder haphazardly. The clunkily-sized medical pack humped on his rather sizable back made it apparent to him that the man, was none other than the Battalion Surgeon himself.
As if on cue with the naval surgeon's abrupt sprint through the verdant greenery, Captain Walt continued.
"I already briefed Doctor Anderson about what the hell happened, let's fucking go back to our guys." For one last time, the Captain held his gaze sympathetically with him, his voice sounding somewhat concerned and intimate, continuing further a heartbeat later. "Mistral, you good?"
"Yeah." He answered numbly, an internal anguish chaining back any hints of emotion in his voice. They began moving back, trailing behind the much more hurried stride of the 27-years-old Battalion Surgeon, a snidely glare to the Major given one last time as they jogged away.
He could feel the snidely sneer, the disapproving frown and the ill-concealed glare of the battalion executive officer as he strode away, blank-faced as he gingerly pushed through the verdant greenery of the continent.
As the trio walked away from the grimy vicinity of the Battalion's COC, and back to the laboring platoon, the Lieutenant's mind fuzzily flashed back, thinking numbly of the untold innocent civilians who must have been killed, maimed or outright vaporized, by the innumerous artillery and air strikes they had called in over the past week of constant, fatigued contact with their primitive adversary. The only defining difference, was that he hadn't stuck around to see the effects those wrought. He lowered his head and shook it slightly, sickened and anguished considerably by the thought.
For the first time throughout their campaign, the effects the Marines and their unstoppable, bloody juggernaut of warmachine had brought to this tranquil patch of lushy plateau, had finally caught up with them.
For what felt like eternity, he felt himself finally agreeing to the sentiment held by the ever-ebullient Corporal Evan Carson of Hitman 2-1; that the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, has a severe case of chronic retardation going on, plaguing everyone like the Black Death itself.
A/N Glossary for Marine terms, jargon and slang would be in the next chapter