Bad Neighbors

"The Rotisserie of All Evil"

A new day had come, and the morning was unfittingly beautiful for the chaos that would follow it all up. The sky was a light blue, and the sun cast its first rays over the bloodied fields with a warm, golden aura. One mile west of the battlefield were the Horde field encampments. Tents rose up around in circles, with regiments usually having their own set of tents. One set of tents, near the middle, were different, however. This was probably because they were not 'they' but one, large tent: it was the field command center, essentially a more formal table under a canvas cover. Inside stood Lt. Lillybloom, sitting at his table in a crude, wooden chair. Across the desk from him, tied into a raised chair usually used for infants, was Sergeant Cluck. The orcish Lieutenant had one leg crossed over the other, and one shoulder propped on an elevated knee. He was rubbing his eyes.

The interrogation had been fruitless. Lieutenant Dirtwinder had insisted that the chicken was indeed aware of them, and had pushed his comrade to go through with a 'by the books' questioning. After a moment of silent preparation, in which he had forcibly dispelled all thoughts of just eating the chicken and declaring it a Horde victory, Lt. Lillybloom finally looked at his captive closely. Sergeant Cluck wore a drab-green cloth officer's uniform, custom fitted to his 'peculiar' figure. On top of his white-feathered head was a small soldier's cap, a similar color of green. The chicken's eyes seemed to stare out tauntingly at him, as if the he -Lt. Lillybloom had discovered, at least, that the chicken was male- was daring him to ask another question. The orcish Lieutenant opened his mouth and spoke in a low voice. "Now listen, here, you-eh- Sergeant Cluck. I've a mind to throw you on the burners and eat you for my lunch...This doesn't scare you?" To the orc's surprise, the chicken shook his head, the confident, taunting look intensifying.

"Bwak, bw-cluck coo cluck cluck." The chicken stated, it's beak opening to spew that single, confidence-laced line. Lt. Lillybloom -who was not a gentle orc, by any means of your imagination- gaped at the fowl. Was it actually taunting him? He who could send men flying with a single swing of his great mace, was taking taunts from a CHICKEN?!

This wouldn't do... This couldn't be...It was another joke. It didn't change anything that the chicken was -and the Lieutenant was forced to admit it- a Sergeant of the Alliance.

With a growl, the orc turned his back and left his chair to walk over to a chest that had been placed in the tent. Removing a pair of goggles and metal tongs, he turned around and looked with a menacing grin at the chicken. "How about the deep-fryer?"

Sergeant Cluck's confident air dropped, and one could have seen the poultry gulp in fear. With a distressed tone, the chicken gave another, insolent stream of chicken-speak to the orc, hoping it would buy time for what he hoped would come soon...

***

Across the battlefield, past the bloodiest areas of the field, the Alliance artillery entrenchment waited for information to help them begin their newest assignment from Alliance Command: rescue Sergeant Cluck, who was due to receive promotion to Lieutenant if he survived. Gnomes and the single other human stood in a straight line, their backs rigid as Gunnery Sgt. Johnson Ashmane inspected them. The gnomes were clad in simple cloth adornments that had previously been enchanted to resist heat, and the average-sized human, Private Brady, in the lineup merely wore the leather armor that signified him as assistant to the large, mail-clad man checking them over one at a time as they waited for the night elves to return with intel.

"Now listen up, gnomes and -eh- Private Brady," began the harsh, Texan-ish voice. "The enemy has captured one of our faction's greatest military officers, and it is the duty of the 43rd Artillery Unit to handle the diversion while our mercenary enters to retrieve the Sergeant. The operation is called," Ashmane paused to think something up at random. "Operation Flight to Freedom."

Private Brady yawned, and then opened his mouth to speak in his lazy voice "Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Granted, dirtbag." Ashemane snapped without even looking back, having turned around to think of the name of the operation.

"Chickens are flightless, so shouldn't it be called Run to Freedom...Or Jog to Freedom...Or- Walk To Freedom?" Brady yawned again at the end, expressing his own laziness having tired him.

Gunnery Sgt. Ashmane turned around sharply, a grin on his face. "You're flightless too, Private, but if I put you in the cannon over there," He jerked his thumb towards the cannon. "I'm sure you'd at least get, oh," The Sergeant paused. "About a thousand feet off the ground." With a chuckle, the Sergeant walked on and left a pale-faced Brady standing there trembling, even the mop of brown hair on his head seeming to tremble with fear. He walked up and down the line of assorted gnomes -and Brady- a few times before finally stopping near the middle and addressing them all. "It's called Operation Flight to Freedom because we're using this cannon," He snorted. "to launch our operative over there," He pointed off to a distance behind their entrenchment, where a lone gnome in flight gear sat with a large -or what appeared to be- diver's helmet over his small head. "to get back the Sergeant." Hearing himself mentioned, the gnome turned his head and waved, his face hidden by the green lens in the front of the helmet. Ashmane ignored this, and turned back to facing his men. "If this doesn't work, we will make a full-out charge on the Horde camp, with raised weapons and angry looks on our faces! Brady will probably die, so we can use his ragged corpse for cover if necessary. Any questions?"

"Yeah," came Brady's slightly disgruntled, exasperated voice. "Who IS that?" He pointed towards the gnome over behind them.

"That? Oh, that's the diversion!" Ashmane boomed out gleefully. "The mercenary is already inside the Horde camp. We're just providing a distraction!"

"So wait..." Brady's voice came out again, sounding agitated. "We're going to fire a gnome," Ashmane nodded. "out of a cannon,"

"Absolutely." Ashmane responded quickly.

"and then charge a Horde army, just for a distraction for someone who's already in their camp?" Finished the bewildered Brady, who received yet another nod.

"That's exactly right! The enemy should be so shocked by our decisive attacks and brutality that they will have to negotiate a surrender! Meanwhile, our inside-agent can slip out undetected, and we will have defeated the Horde army! It's the perfect plan!"

"We're all going to die, aren't we?" Brady said flatly.

"Only you, but that's because I'm going to need somewhere to stick this flag!" Ashmane reached into a box of assorted ammo and weapons next to him, and withdrew a large, Alliance banner with the 43rd Artillery Unit's patch and motto around the Alliance symbol. "Your corpse will make the perfect flagstand, and you will have done your race a great service by holding it up with your limp, dead body."

"I hate this war." Brady said flatly, turning around and heading over towards his small bedroll. Sergeant Johnson put the flag back in the box with a chuckle, removing a medium-sized, two-handed mace and tossing it in at Brady's back, the weapon spinning slowly in midair although it moved quickly.

"Forgot your weapon, Private!" came the Sergeant's call just as the heavy mace landed flat over Brady's back, sending the man sprawling forward on the ground. As Brady struggled to get up and take the mace with him, muttering darkly, Ashmane turned to look at the gnomes who remained with a deep chuckle rumbling out from him. "Dismissed, and have a good night cannon fod- I mean, soldiers. Heheh." The gnomes left with various disconcerted looks, wandering about in small groups as they made for their own destinations to wait out the time before the battle.