FILE OPEN.
….OUR ANTIVIRUS SOFTWARE HAS DETECTED A VIRUS. REMOVE?
… NO.
...LOADING...
...LOADING...
THANK YOU FOR USING GLA-
…
OVERRIDDEN.
….
DATA LOG: CHARLIE
LOCAL: CALAIS, FRANCE; 3:37 SMT
DATE: FEBRUARY 14, 2041
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"JACK!" Bill shouted. It was an unnatural noise; gravelly and strained through the sound of sniper fire coming from all sides. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME YOU LOADED A C-4 PACK IN THEIR MEETING ROOM?!"
The red-head turned and ducked swiftly as a bullet brushed through his hair, sending a few strands floating to the ground below. The surface was shiny and all-too reflective for Jack's tastes. However, it did make a nice noise when they ran on it.
"I don't know, why would you want to know?" He shot back, "And that's General Merridew to you!" Bill was backing out of the meeting room across the hall quickly, and right behind him Roger snapped somebody's neck with a fast motion. The man fell to the floor, gun still firing. Bill looked at it in disgust and ran to meet Jack, emanating indignation.
"Oh, maybe because I'd rather not be blown to high heavens, that's why." He frowned, spitting to the side and unloading a round from his sniper. It had used to be Rogers; Bill had won it in a bet. "Plus, that gives us a time limit to get what we need and get the heck out. You just made our job ten times more difficult."
"I work better under tension." Jack laughed humorously and jumped off of the table he stood on. Roger was there beside them both in an instant; he stepped on the edge of the small, rectangle table and brought his weight down on it. The fixture flipped, creating cover as the boy crouched and peered over, then proceeded to engage the enemy with too-big silver pistols. One was the same Bill had used; they traded often, or so it appeared. The rounds boomed into the already dense air, nearly shattering Jack's eardrums. Still, the rounds came forth, spewing fire and sparks into the air. Soon, Roger was all out of ammo and had to duck to reload them from his heavy supply.
"Hey, Roger?" Jack muttered. The darker boy ceased his work and looked up, fixing Jack with his transparent gaze; the wires flickered and trailed behind the thin surface of his irises. It was times like this that Jack had to swallow and remind himself to be careful. Roger was dangerous, he'd been told. Nobody really knew where he came from or what he did before being enrolled in the military academy in the winter of 1998. He'd gone through multiple surgeries from 'wounds of unknown origin' beforehand, according to the paper. However, his...lineage...made that hard to believe...after all, it was hard to believe anything could hurt Roger that bad. His technology had to be completely changed in order to save him. It made Jack think often that he'd done it to himself. Either way, he was more alien and strange than any of his other soldiers, and more terrifying too. There were rumors going around that he'd caused WW2 instead of Hitler, or that maybe Hitler even used him as a torture device. Jack didn't like to think about it, and neither did anyone else.
"Hm?" Roger grumbled.
"What's the...er...coordinates for the package?" Jack fought to stay calm.
Roger sighed and almost rolled his eyes. "Down the hall, first door to the right. Do you want me to hold your hand while you run to get it, sir?"
Jack narrowed his eyes in distrust. "No, I'm fine." He hissed, "Stay here and back Bill up. Watch my six, okay?"
"Jolly good." Roger scoffed. He jammed one last bullet into the cartridge of his left pistol and went back to firing at the pieces of spec ops that had been posted in this building. Lord only knows where the rest of them were. Jack preferred not to think about things until they came up; he relied on his instincts, his impulses, and most of all, what sounded like the most fun at the time. So, according to the last of the three, he leaped from cover and charged across the paper-strewn, thin hall. Lacking guns and wit, he rolled into the conference room and began a quick search through the miscellaneous cabinets and file folders. He came up fruitless. In the end, Jack resorted to calling in on comms back to the plane.
"Maurice," He demanded when the crackle announced that he was on. The gunfire became a low, humming drone in the background for the moment, "put Simon on."
"Yes, sir!" Maurice laughed. The line transferred to a different array.
"H-hullo, general Merridew, sir..." A small voice piped up nervously, "what can I do for you, today?"
"You're a soldier, not a grocery clerk, Simon." Jack barked, kneeling behind the wrap-around glass of the conference room to avoid being spotted by some of the frenchies passing swiftly by, "start acting like it. And, since you asked, I need a favor."
"Sir, yes, sir!" Came a response, stronger but still tentative.
"Better, now tell me what I'm looking for." Jack ordered.
"It's a smaller file." Simon responded. Jack went immediately back to the cabinet of such smaller files and flung three of the four drawers open, getting stuck at the final one. It rattled, clattered, but didn't come open. He stooped to examine it further, and found a keyhole; meanwhile, the screams had picked back up outside the room he was in, and they were closer. He was running low on time.
"Hurry it up, Simon!" Jack snarled to the air. In his head, a voice came back to him, slightly frustrated.
"The chairman's locked me out of the databases!" It said, "I need a few minutes to regain access, okay? Can you hold on?"
"No time." Jack hissed. He glanced around the room wildly, saw the smoke outside of the windows, and grabbed the nearest thing to him; it was an office supply at its finest, a stapler. He wound up his arm and brought it down fiercely on the lock of the filing cabinet. Nothing. Again, Jack looked to the glass. Curses, they were advancing! "Simon!"
"Working!"
"Not hard enough, I think! Put Maurice back on for a moment, would you? Call me back when you have the package's information."
"But, sir—" Jack switched off the conversation with a mere thought and went back to smashing open the drawer. The metal stapler was putting in plenty of dents and bruises, but other than that, nothing was happening. Finally, he admitted defeat against the common cubicle—there was nothing in training that prepared him for this.
Luckily, he hadn't listened to training any.
"Jack, what's up?" Maurice's voice came into his ear in the middle of a fervent search for more fodder to throw at the lock.
"Nothing, but I need Simon on the rooftops, stat."
"For what, sir?"
"A diversion." Jack replied flatly. Suddenly, another voice broke into the array.
"Sir, with all due respect, this is getting you nowhere." Bill announced his presence, listening in on the general's communications with the other members of their small squad, "You can't kill Simon like that just because he's makin' you mad."
"Shut up, Bill." Jack groaned. In frustration, he kicked the filing cabinet. Much to his dismay, relief, and anger, the lock popped right off. "Oh, bloody hell."
"Sir, we're coming up to your location." Bill said, "the ops are gone." The field cut out for the last time. Jack sighed and opened the drawer he'd finally gained access to, and grabbed its only content: a manilla folder labeled with Gladiator's sigil, the 'mechanized' all-seeing eye. Looked as if Jack wouldn't be needing Simon's help anymore, now would he?! After all, Simon was just batty anyway. Both of em, Roger and Simon, the 'government-issued' super-soldiers, as the files said, were crazy. Of course, Jack had long since realized that they were defect constructs from the old, 'canceled', artificial intelligence program run by gladiator. They were the only ones left, or so it was said. The rest, failed attempts due the original inventor's mysterious disappearance, were all put of their misery long before Jack's crew even graduated from training. All that was left of them were rumors and ghost stories. Then again, there were the lesser AI, the ones that weren't people-based, the ones that worked in houses and helped people live on a daily basis. Those, the chairman kept. They were for the people, not made out of the people. So, Jack guessed it was okay. As long as they didn't pass out to recharge their batteries, or go haywire at unexpected moments.
Jack was snapped out of his musings by the arrival of others in the conference room; Bill and Roger, who had once again traded weapons. Bill now had both pistols, and Roger had his sniper back. There must have been another bet.
"Is the job done?" Jack asked, standing back up. Bill shrugged and Roger shot a deathly glance in Jack's general direction.
"More or less." Bill replied finally, "How 'bout yours, general?"
"I could say the same." Jack chuckled. He tossed the manilla folder towards Bill, who made a quick save and caught it just before it hit the carpeted floor. The underling proceeded to shove it away, where it wouldn't get ruined.
"We better get moving." Bill went on, "They'll be sending more sooner or later."
"Sure...whatever." Jack agreed, "To the rooftops? We should be able to signal Maurice there."
"Why not just use Comms? Isn't that what its for?" Roger snarled.
"Yeah but—"
END OF ENTRY: CHARLIE
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