Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them.
In a Blaze of Glory (Soldier)
Chapter 7: Four Riders Were Approaching
"He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare, and he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere." - Ali bin Abu-Talib
Sand Island AFB, Osea
14 November 2010
0612 hrs. (all times local)
"Hey, what're you writing there?"
It wasn't often when the skies over Sand Island turned gray, so I tried to savor it whenever they did. Sometimes it was to the point where I stopped paying attention to whatever was happening outside, which often got me a good scolding from the late LTC Ford or my presumably-late instructor.
"...I just can't remember this next phrase..."
Still, it was the sort of weather to relax near a warmth-emitting object and enjoy a story or audiobook. The sort of thing to pass the time while waiting for the damn briefing officers to arrive five minutes later than they were supposed to, even after they woke you up at four in the goddamn morning to get ready.
"Hey, lemme see."
"...the princess couldn't feed the dove that day. She was too sick."
The verse from a famous fairy tale, of all things, diverted my attention toward its reader. Edge had apparently been a fan of older books, and her latest obsession had really captured her - or rather, it had suddenly captured my attention.
"May I have a look?"
"Razgriz. The demon of Razgriz got her, right?"
"You know the story?"
"The demon from the north sea. I remember, my grandmother used to read me bedtime stories about it. And every time she did, I'd be too scared to go the bathroom in the middle of the night."
Definitely not the kind of response expected from a kindergarten reading circle.
"Ugh..."
"How about you, Blaze?" Grimm suddenly asked, "You look like you know a little bit about the legend."
"...hmm?" The next thing I knew I was expecting him to pop quiz me.
"Oh yeah, you got his attention," Chopper added. The three of them were looking at me, sitting alone by the window, like the answer to that pop quiz would determine if I would become an astronaut or dead in prison for petty theft. "So what do you know about the Razgriz?"
"What, from the Blue Dove book?" I asked, turning to face them.
The fact that I knew where it came from perked Edge's attention in such a way that her face seemed to show the first sign of actual emotion witnessed by humankind. Sure, it was probably her eyes opened wider in curiosity, but it was there.
"Yeah. How do you know of the Blue Dove?" she asked.
My first answer was related to the fact that one of the many men my mom courted to replace my biological dad happened to speak Belkan, and he made for quite the audiobook of the original Brothers Grumbacher - grisly original details and all. The Blue Dove tale was probably one of the milder tales he told.
My guess was that Edge wasn't the type to be content with a big book company's translation either.
"Bedtime story." I shrugged. "Like Chopper."
"Heh, you couldn't go the bathroom either, right?" he chuckled.
I didn't laugh though, and that was because my real answer was not too different, but a lot more real.
Sometime before the Belkan War, I'd suddenly woken up one night to what sounded like a bottle breaking in my room.
That "broken bottle" turned out to be a stray bullet passing through my bedroom window on one side of my bed and embedding itself in the wall about a foot up from where I slept on the other side.
I had barely started puberty during the Las Violas Riots, but I ended up sharing the bed with my mother for weeks after the last Humvees left the streets. And it wasn't until I started carpooling with some friends in the 11th grade when my mother didn't escort me out to and from the school bus every day with a concealed WZ75.
I suppose if there would be one thing I could take home from this tour of duty over some hellhole - it would be the ability to escort my mom places around the City of Violets instead of the other way around.
"I guess you could say that." I said, turning away.
"I think what he means to say..." Edge added, "What did your parents tell you about the Razgriz?"
The one thing I vaguely remember my almost-stepdad saying was that the Razgriz was a punisher more than a mere destroyer. And what I got from it after seeing the riots was that it would simply finish what the humans started.
Of course, the one thing that caused me to remember that was how similar it was to my mom's obsession with Rapture literature, which blossomed like the Garden of Motherfucking Eden after Ulysses and Usea's war.
I would never suspect that seven years later I would wonder what other soldiers would tell their kids about us.
"Eh...I-"
"Settle down, people," Captain Hamilton said, as he, Colonel Perrault, and some very-important-looking Army officer with some very-important-handcuffed-briefcase entered the room.
The briefing officers arrived, and we all returned to our designated seats. The way the Very Important Officer carried a solemn expression on his face as he opened and unpacked the briefcase he was attached to easily meant that we had a Very Important mission that only we could somehow do.
As the room darkened and a new briefing map appeared showing what appeared to be Emmeria and Estovakia instead of Yuktobania, the first question going through my head was why it wasn't being assigned to Venom.
Albert Genette
Crew Quarters
One Week Earlier
1424 hrs.
...emergency session of the General Assembly voted to condemn the Osean Federation and Union of Yuktobanian Republics for the terrorist incidents that occurred earlier this week. The resolution expressed 'global sympathy' for the victims of the attacks and condemned the "aggressive reactions based purely on speculation."
The Security Council is now expected to debate on possible economic sanctions against the two superpowers should the war continue into 2011.
Meanwhile, in Osea, opinion polls have showed an increasingly favorable attitude to the war following the terrorist attacks last Thursday...
It had taken a while for the news networks to get settled into aftermath mode after live, non-stop coverage of "Eleven Four," coined by Weazel News to refer to a day that would live in infamy.
"Albert, I can't use this."
"...what?"
But even after both domestic and international news went back to covering the war on the front lines, I continued to keep my eyes peeled on various sites for more blips about another, very related issue.
"I mean I can use the stuff you have about the press conference and Howell, and the photos. Those are perfect. But most of your other stuff is about the contractors."
"...I don't understand."
Finding that Kronus International had been given a no-bid contract had gotten me digging like Mr. Driller. Soon I had a much more comprehensive background of Kronus' operations leading up to the war: from the companies that merged to form Kronus a few years ago to the relationships that the new staff made with Osean government officials at conferences.
And that led to Kronus establishing their new reputation through juicy contracts abroad. That they were awarded a billion-zollar contract would have been no surprise to them with all the friends they made. And that allowed them to run a disturbingly modern military force supplied with weapons from their affiliate - Gründer Industries. That they were also working on projects for the two now-warring superpowers was no surprise, and they were quick to shut down anything that would clearly have registered as a 'conflict of interest.'
"The Army isn't sponsoring your stay so you can write about the security guards that transit through their base, Albert."
"They're a part of this war as much as our troops are."
I had even gone so far as finding out that Grunder Industries' CEO Johann Seiler even held membership in the now-outlawed National Workers' Party until the war ended - though he had been thorough in disavowing himself from it after the South Belka Munitionsfabrik had privatized into the company he led.
As a result, the virtual flow-chart that was supposed to have been investigating how the conflict started now saw the section dedicated to Kronus practically dwarf that of Yuktobania. Yet the yawning gap between the two was still bridged only by the mystery Man In The Tropical Shirt.
That didn't stop me from spending much of my waking hours the next day compiling a draft article on the contractors to send back to the Journal.
"But you're not exactly obligated to investigate the contractors, let alone write about them." In other words, it was a journalistic no-no to deviate from the course.
It was actually quite easy to write the basic article covering the interrupted press conference despite all the times I'd put it off. And I'd been able to send the negatives directly back to Oured, considering how most of the pictures they hadn't censored had the contractors in them. Perhaps they didn't find it too out of the ordinary.
My bureau chief, however, did. At least in the sense that he found them distracting from the war effort.
"Albert, you're going back to Yuktobania," he continued exasperatedly. "The EIC wants some 'day in the life' stuff about the soldiers in the field."
Having gone numb from constant echoes of the obvious tragedy, the idea that I'd be getting that much closer to the front line certainly seemed to erase most of my fatigue all at once.
"...what?!"
"Don't worry, you're still not going to the front lines. They just want you to bring back the 'hearts and minds' stuff. Tag along for patrols, reaching out to the locals, getting patched up, heartwarming stuff like that."
The bureau chief's attempt at relieving the shock and awe he caused instead turned it into suspicion.
"...isn't that propaganda?"
I could hear a long sigh over the smartphone's receiver. "Not gonna lie to you. Some pretty high-up folks read your Four Wings article and they wanna see if you can scout out some more heroes for them."
"That's what it's all about, isn't it?" I bemoaned.
The fallout of the Belkan War hadn't just included radiation poisoning. The military's downsizing as well as the economic crisis caused by Ulysses and the Usean War had left Osean society in need of 'heroes'. While some commentators would say that Harling and Appelrouth's winning campaign played to the meme, it still meant two individuals in high office, out of reach. And volunteers in cities and natural disasters didn't appeal outside their respective regions.
"Yeah. They looked through your previous stuff too. Call it forcing some news meme or something, but he figures you're the kinda guy to really help a story hit home."
That meant they knew I'd set the Wardogs on the path to heroism with my article. Now the land forces were wondering if they could produce the same - at least to keep from developing an inferiority complex.
"And you're sure...no front line stuff?"
I briefly recalled Captain Bartlett, who was now not only missing - but the target of suspicion from base gossip. The fact that he disappeared so suddenly as hostilities began instead of afterward - along with his now-infamous fling with a femme fatale Spetsnaz officer - also started to reflect upon his pilots.
"You want to?"
Apart from Villa, whose increasingly hostile demeanor toward Yuktobania seemed to mollify the Base Commander, their exoneration from the military commission did not alleviate the suspicions placed on them.
"Okay, I'm up for it."
"Good. I'll see if I can get Hamilton to book you on the next plane out. And Albert...thanks."
I hung up and looked at the latest "care package" from the Journal - a small digital camera that starkly contrasted with the big old film one I'd been using since the press conference, as well as a complimentary thumb drive. Maybe they didn't want me to risk such a valuable piece of equipment.
But I knew I was already starting to take a big risk deviating from my assigned job of documenting the lives of these soldiers - let alone the lives of the private armies.
As I began to prepare myself for another foray into the wilderness, I also wondered if the Journal wanted to make me a hero as well - at least so they didn't develop an inferiority complex against Jonas Stromberg.
10 miles SE of KHAZMASH (Khazevsk Manufacturing Plant), Sonza Oblast
7 November 2010
1129 hrs.
"Wardog 1 to wing, break formation and commence attack."
"Geez, now they got us turning back into another battle. And this scenery definitely clashes with my rock and roll."
"I'm just glad they're not ordering us to attack a city in retaliation for their retaliation."
"Yeah, you can say that again. Thank goodness there's nobody around here that we have to attack."
"This is Thunderhead. Cut the chatter."
After getting the first thing I'd had to a good night's sleep in at least a month, the higher-ups quickly threw us back into the fray. And to be honest, considering we'd narrowly botched a terrorist arrest, it was pretty easy getting back into the groove of things. Not that I could say the same about the mood of things.
"Heh...and yet this guy's always here."
"Oh, he'll quiet down soon. It wouldn't be a surprise attack if he came along with us."
"I repeat, cut the chatter. Synchronize your watches before arrival."
Hell, I had every reason to feel good about waking up that morning. We'd been cleared from suspicion of a crime against humanity, and as a bonus Colonel Perrault trusted us - or me at least. We were once again leading the charge, back as a team, moving toward a victory decades in the making one step at a time. Riding and hopefully not dying together for once. All that metaphorical bullshit.
"...5 seconds to 1130 hours...Mark."
"I'll begin the countdown for attack in just a moment. We have to destroy the radars when the countdown reaches zero."
Yet there was one very good reason why I wasn't feeling good about what we were doing.
And that reason was that we were technically no longer leading the charge.
That afternoon we flew into Yuktobania specifically to destroy the radar screens deployed around the KHAZMASH weapons factory - the same one where they invented the AK-47. As a challenge, we had to destroy each layer of radar in damn near perfect sync to avoid tripping the entire net, and our F-16s were packing HARM missiles to make sure that we didn't miss.
All things considered, we were doing a damn good job at it for timing everything on brand-new standard-issue Breitlings instead of some digital display on our HMD.
As funky as that would be though, this still wasn't a video game. And the real heroes of the operation would clean up after us.
"Venom 1 to Wardog Squadron. We're 200 clicks out from the complex and closing fast. That red carpet had better be rolled out soon."
There lay the rub. We were only there to take out the radar sites and a group of transports loaded with bullets for the lucky bastards behind the disposable grunts carrying the empty guns.
"Sure thing, Venom 1. Weather forecast is clear skies for snakes."
"...hey kid, we destroy these things on 3-2-1-zero, right?"
"Yep. Hope you paid attention in physics class. Ready HARM."
Never mind that their F-22s had a radar cross-section the size of a goddamn pincushion, they told us, several coordinated radars would've easily caught six of them flying in at once so we needed to take the network out to be "extra sure."
Maybe we had the bigger responsibility, because what we did would ensure that the weapons facility was vulnerable in the first place. But ultimately, we were still the harbinger. Or rather, we were the grunts up front with the peashooters playing decoy for the lucky bastards behind us with the goddamn bazookas.
"30 seconds to countdown...mark."
The four horsemen preceding the apocalypse.
The idea that it would be Venom getting the rep made adjusting the throttle to reach the radar on schedule feel as shaky as trying to maneuver a bullet train around a mountain ridge.
"10 seconds."
After we took out the transports, we were pretty much clear to do whatever we wanted with the rest of our ammo before we returned to base.
"5, 4, 3-"
"HARM free."
The sight of the active denial of satellite adult television to the Red Army was nowhere near as exciting as it was supposed to be. Then again, we had three more clusters to take out. Three more attempts to relieve me of my disappointment.
"Next cluster, 5 miles." Edge continued, hardly fazed by the stress of precision timing.
"How does she know when to start the countdown, anyway?" Chopper asked curiously.
"Nops do math better than us Grasyanos, that's how," I grumbled.
"That's not a nice thing to say, Captain!" Grimm suddenly exclaimed.
"The hell are you, my mom?" I snapped back. "Fine, I'll take it back. Sorry."
Five miles went too quick for me to take it back, but it was plenty enough time for her to accept my less-than-half-assed attempt at an apology.
"Nothing good comes from unearthing old grudges, Blaze. 30 seconds."
Not knowing how to reply, I simply glared at the oncoming green cluster of dots in my HMD. 30 seconds later my plane heaved from giving the next layer of the radar complex a good High-speed Anti-Radiation Makeover.
"We did it! Our timing was perfect!" Grimm called out to note that none of us had fucked up on the second layer. "The interval between radars is getting shorter and shorter!"
"That's good," I muttered to myself, "I was running short on material."
"Okay, I think I'm finally getting the hang of this," Chopper continued.
Which was also a good thing in itself, or at least it would have been had the gap not been filled by the voice I wasn't dreading.
"Venom Team to Wardog. We're 50 miles out and rolling in hot and heavy," came Vincent 'Scorpion' Ramirez's attempt at being seductive, "You'd better get rid of that Charlie Bravo or it's gonna be a Charlie Foxtrot up in here."
Okay, so perhaps I was merely dreading the inevitable. But the dread was supposed to turn into relief when the inevitable actually did happen, not so much into disappointment.
"Good copy, Venom, should be able to penetrate straight through once we're done," I replied, my enthusiasm clearly lacking. "Edge, gimme an ETA to the second set?"
"30 seconds...mark." If there was one thing that brought back my dread, it was how professional she continued to sound.
"Blaze, are you worried about Venom Squadron again?" Grimm suddenly asked.
Thank you, Captain obvious. "Not really," I replied.
"Just remember what Edge said, man," Chopper consoled. "Just because they got fully-loaded F-22s with- ah, dammit, we're almost here."
"10 seconds."
In those ten seconds before the second-to-last layer of radars received the AGM-88 Treatment, I not only remembered what Chopper was referring to, I also tried forwarding myself through those five psychological stages of however accepting the inevitable went.
I got to about stage three of the process before another of my missiles actively denied the Yukes their pirated Alderney Shore, and was then reminded that we weren't quite done rolling out the red carpet.
"That's three radar layers down, Wardog," Thunderhead confirmed. "The Yukes are routing a fighter patrol inbound to see what's going on, but the factory is still all quiet."
"Well, at least I'll have something to do," I grumbled.
"30 seconds to the final set," Edge confirmed as I geared the throttle up for a running hit, "We can do this."
"But yeah, like I was saying," Chopper continued, "He's just tryin' to break us up and he thinks you're the weak link."
"The fuck's that mean?" I retorted with a raised eyebrow not even I could feel from being pushed back in my seat. Or one that I couldn't feel as compared to suddenly turning my head to face where I thought Chopper was flying for a moment.
"Ah, sorry man, just...keep tryin' not to let it get to you." As the final countdown began, I could at least find some relief that I wasn't the only one taking words back.
"5...4...3..."
"HARM out."
My F-16 heaved once again as the last AGM-88 freed itself from its respective pylon.
"Bayum!" I shouted, as I left my portion of the final layer of radars thoroughly HARMed. Both man and machine seemed to breathe some kind of sigh of relief as the hard part of the mission was pretty much over.
"Last radar cluster confirmed destroyed," was Thunderhead's confirmation. "All planes, you are cleared to attack the weapons facility."
At long, long last, I could put the kangaroo court behind me and revel the satisfaction of another job well done. At least until Scorpion once again reminded me that he was actually part of the mission.
"This is Venom 1, there's our green light." came Scorpion's excited exclamation. "Thanks again, Wardog."
"Copy that, we'll take out the transports and bug out," I replied with a long sigh, before cutting off the radio and adding, "You lucky bastard" under my breath as a half-dozen F-22s suddenly zoomed past us from above, rattling our puny F-16s in their jetwash. I closed my eyes for a second to let the rumble subside, and opened them again to find a nice, neat row of new targets on the HMD - Antonov 125 transport planes plodding their way toward the runway to take off.
"Blaze, if you and your boys wanna hang around and keep some commie flies off our asses, that'd be very much appreciated."
Nope, totally not getting to my head there.
"Just strafe 'em before they can take off, Sidewinders if they do." I added, duly noting that our only other missiles were a pair of Sidewinders for 'self-defense.' That was good in that we also had a nice full stock of cannon ammunition.
"Roooger that, Captain- whoa." Chopper's affirmation was cut off by the surprise we all seemed to share as the actual AK-47 factory came into view.
Or rather, what was left of it. Venom were already doing their dirty work, slashing and burning across warehouses and assembly lines amidst an upward rain of anti-aircraft fire. Although a damn good portion were left standing right now, I could hazard a guess and a couple of zollars there wasn't going to be much left on this lawn after we snipped off those Antonovs.
"Okay guys, same as always. Buddy up and attack together. Chopper's with me this time."
"Hooyeah!" Chopper was clearly celebrating not being paired up with Grimm again.
"What about the fighters?" Edge asked. A quick check of my radar and subsequent visual confirmation revealed a sizable group of Flankers inbound to rescue their factory.
"They'll probably try to save their factory over picking us off. Fuck, I hate to say this..."
"Help Venom out if we can?" Grimm then saved me my answer.
"Yeah, that." I grumbled as I armed the F-16's cannons.
"Don't sweat it, dude," Chopper reassured me, "Just think of it like they're gonna come crying to us!"
I smirked, as if five-and-a-half veterans of one-and-a-half wars would need help. "I gue- Huh, heads up, targets in view. Let's work our way from the one in front, that'll slow up the others."
The Antonov transports weren't exactly easy to miss, despite the looming pillars of smoke and fire as well as our intimate conersations grabbing our attention. And perhaps it helped me concentrate a little more knowing that it would be Venom hollering for help from us, rather than the other way around.
But goddamn did their size make them hard to set alight with only cannon fire. My first salvo might as well have just signed my name with a goddamn marker across a wingspan I could have parked my own F-16 on top of.
"Barely scratched the thing. Good thing I got plenty-" I muttered, before a rather loud rumble cut me off.
As Chopper suddenly found out, all we had to do was find the sweet spot.
"Whoooo! Man, those are what I call fireworks!"
"What the- how'd you-" I quickly banked my F-16 around left, to notice that the plane Chopper and I had strafed was being consumed by flame - and spewing what actually did seem to look like fireworks from its rear. The surviving crew had already climbed out from the cockpit and were running away like ants from a flame.
"Of course, they're loaded with ammo!" Edge observed out loud, before I raced to the far end of the runway to start another run. My team mates whizzed by from below, their attempt at getting the one behind it not nearly as fruitful as ours.
"We have to hit them in the cargo bay," Edge added, "Lead your shots carefully if they're moving."
I could see the Flankers trying to mix in with Venom - no pun intended - as I lined up my cannon reticule with the second Antonov, trying to lurch its way around its burning lead.
And this time, I didn't miss. My own little explosion was barely a spark compared to the raging inferno around me, but this would be something I could personally savor.
"Oh no!"
At least for the few seconds before someone started screaming across my intercom.
"Edge, was that-" I hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that Edge was no longer the only female pilot stationed on the island until Edge herself pointed that out.
"No, it's one of Venom's team," she said almost casually. Almost as if she didn't care.
Then again, apathy could easily have been mixed up with envy. Chase Callender was a looker and goddamn if I didn't suddenly feel the desire to try to make sure that it didn't go to waste. I quickly pulled my plane up and out of the inferno and searched my radar for her.
"Wardog 1 to Husky, I'll get 'em offa you."
"Hey Kid, I don't blame you for wanting to score a date!" Chopper joked. "Hell, lemme tag along here!"
"I can't shake him!" came another of Chase's plea for help, one that clearly revealed how little she noticed my offer. "Where the heck are you guys!? Dee-Jay? Ecto!?"
Unfortunately for her, there was no better way to cockblock a knight-in-shining-armor-to-be than to have a missile fired at you. This I learned when I had finally pointed my F-16 in Chase's general direction only to have my vision go red from an incoming missile alert.
"Spotted your Flanker, hold 'em steady!" Chopper shouted above the missile lock warnings.
I dumped some flares in the general opposite direction of Chase's and instinctively dove toward the inferno.
"I'll do my best, but if you get hit by anything it's your own damn fault!" I replied in between labored breaths.
To which my helper laughed. "Hey, you're the one threading the needle, I'm just following!"
And follow he did - eerily well at that. There was enough space in between individual pillars of smoke that I could creep my plane around without suffocating its vents with soot and ash. That meant whoever was following me could easily get a lock on - as well as Chopper following him. Before long, my stalker had broken his pursuit, and I was free to resume my own rescue.
That was, if someone didn't already take my place while I was busy keeping my ass clean.
"This is Shadow, I'm on my way, Cha- I mean Husky!" Had I not known that was Shadow answering, I might have mistaken him for Sand Island's third female pilot.
Piercing my plane up and through a nearby cloud of smoke to escape the fray, I caught a fairly broad glimpse of what Venom were able to achieve in the few minutes. And although the parallels to my glimpse of the Yukes' destruction of Saint Hewlett were uncannily clear - I was a lot more envious than I was supposed to be angry.
"Chopper, splash one!" At least my own cockblock had been taken care of. "Kid, you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm above the smoke now." I jokingly muttered. "Looks like we're scoring that Husky some other time."
With my ass clean enough for the time being, it was time to get back to work. I pointed my F-16 toward the nearest patch of clear sky. Once out, I literally held my breath out of some instinctive reflex before pointing it back toward the traffic jam just off the runway. It wasn't that hard to spot - it was the pillar of smoke and gigantic transports furthest to the edge of the complex.
It also wasn't hard to spot a gap in the smoke where something got hit and wasn't burning.
"Hey Chopper, that Flanker you bagged punched a hole in that warehouse."
Chopper was especially impressed with his little stroke of luck.
"Heh. Wow, I'm surprised that it didn't explode like the rest of the place. Must've hit an empty one."
Out of sheer curiosity, I decided to have my suspicions checked. "Thunderhead, can you verify the contents of that red warehouse near the northeast side?"
"...appears to be mechanical parts of some sort in the facility. We'll have the ground crews retrieve them later."
"Spare parts, probably," Chopper said, and I could imagine him shrugging.
I put it out of my mind too. We probably hit the warehouse full of empty cartridges or shell casings, neither of which was particularly flammable unless they were magnesium coated. The only targets that I cared about setting alight were the planes up ahead.
But that wouldn't stop Genette from getting me to wonder what was really in that warehouse - especially since he'd been there himself.
Albert Genette
Somewhere SE of KHAZMASH (Khazevsk Manufacturing Plant), Sonza Oblast
10 November 2010
"So what got you to join the Osea Defense Forces?"
It was my second morning after arriving in Yuktobania for the second time, and I was on light dispatch duty, so to speak. My 'driver,' SFC Will Dempsey of the 5th Infantry Division was turning out to be quite a nice character, along with the other members of his fire team. His explanations almost seemed deliberately lighthearted with his Middle Osean drawl.
"I joined for college money," he replied bluntly. "And it's a bit of a family tradition, I s'pose. Didn't think I'd get sent to freaking Yuktobania and all though."
The conversation was actually a welcome distraction from the endless stretches of Sonza Oblast's arid environment. Though autumn did at least bring noticably cooler weather, it only seemed to make the endless stretches of expanse a little more numbing than painful - particularly since we hadn't encountered any "action" since I got here.
"I don't think any of us expected a war," I continued, "Not after the last 15 years."
"Then again, they did kill our sailors and try to assassinate our Prez." There was a sort of half-hearted frustration in his voice as he said that. "Hell I didn't wanna vote for him, but it's like they'd been planning for it all along."
"Looks like they didn't like the idea of peace with the enemy either-" Any chance at further political discussion was interrupted by the sight of what appeared to be the ruins of a town up ahead on the patrol route. "Hey, what happened over there?"
"That... used to be the factory where they invented the AK-47, s'what I heard," SFC Dempsey confidently explained as the Humvee approached the wreckage. "Word's goin' round that your Sand Island guys tore this place apart just a couple days ago."
He smiled a little as he mentioned the Wardogs' exploits. It was the smile of watching a hometown hero win a major sporting event.
"Really..." Mine was the reaction of someone who preferred a different sport than this, after finding out he knew about my article.
The widespread destruction of one of Yuktobania's most famous weapons factories was evident from the moment the first ruins slid into view. Only a few buildings had escaped without major structural damage, the facility's giant smokestacks cut down as if by a giant chainsaw. Yet there was a reason that the road that took us through this former facility was currently all clear.
"Yeah. Only this time there were ten of 'em. Freaking ten!" He held his hands out and spread his fingers for emphasis before returning them to the steering wheel. Of course, to me it looked like he was about to reveal something aptly timed. "Falcons 'n Raptors, s'what I heard."
Sure enough, as he put his hands down, my eyes suddenly widened as the Humvee took us through the center of the facility. It looked as if I shared the soldier's surprise that Venom had accompanied Wardog on this raid, but the truth was literally more down-to-earth, in the form of armored SUVs and operatives in different standard-issue uniforms.
Kronus International's contractors had cleared the road of debris and were appearing to be securing the area for whatever heavy equipment would either dismantle or reconstruct the sprawling facility.
"Cha' lookin' at?" Dempsey asked.
"Just more of the goings on..." I replied.
"Yeah, those contractors are all over the damn place now," he added as if reading my mind. "They get here quick! Can't get from base to the front lines without passing one of their convoys."
The metaphor was apt, it seemed, as one particular warehouse we approached in the far corner of the base was guarded by Kronus contractors with what looked like heavier armor - and several unusual-looking APCs. But what really got my attention wasn't their more expensive and higher-grade equipment than the glorified security guards around Hangar D.
"You know what they're doing out here?"
"Scrounging for secrets to give back to the OCIA 'ersumshit," Dempsey explained. "Probably rendering Yuke POWs too, s'why we haven't seen that many of them."
At the center of all the scrounging going on, a large Nordennavic-made Skaal tractor-trailer with grates over the windows pulled out what looked like several large crates very heavily secured under tarp from one of the surviving hangars.
My body was suddenly filled with the kind of dread that could only be attributed to deja vu as I pulled out the small pocket camera I had been given and started fiddling with the settings. I knew very well that what I was about to do would be a lot more sensitive than it looked outward.
I held the camera to the low corner of the window as we drove by, concealing it with my other arm as I turned my head to face Dempsey.
"How've the locals been treating you?" I asked, trying to keep his attention away from my shots as I pressed down on the shutter switch.
"Lookin' at me funny like a comm'nist looks at a democrat, but I ain't surprised," he continued.
The Humvee took a quick left at a nearby corner, my reflexes tugging the camera back toward myself. I held it close to my lap so Dempsey wouldn't catch it.
"You ever wonder what they think about this whole war, and why they started it?"
As it turned out, our current delivery run had gone off with a disturbing calm that even I was half-considering waiting for an attack to make things more interesting - at least up to now.
"If I could speak the language I would, but I figure they probably don't openly like us liberating them." Dempsey continued, "Probably got the KGB at their throats. And that's fine with me, the fewer they got shootin' back at us, the better."
Our Humvee had stopped at a nearby intersection to let the giant tractor trailer pass, after which we continued only to find the most direct route out blocked by the remains of a fallen smokestack. A Kronus "crossing guard" directed us to the left and an alternate path.
"T'be honest, I'd be happy to come home alive after we get those Politburo punks that tried to kill the Pres," Dempsey concluded with a sigh.
The route we were taking now ran opposite to the trailer's path, taking us out and across to the nearby runway. An unmarked L-100 transport - the civilian version of the army's C-130 - was already waiting on the tarmac by one of the ruined hangars with its rear bay door down, loading a much different kind of cargo. I raised the camera again, concealing it under one arm.
Kronus operatives appeared to be leading people onto that plane.
"Then what happens?" I asked, my tone laced with foreboding as I took shots of the convoy.
My finger seemed to jam down on the button as the Humvee finished crossing the runway, my gaze fixed on the personnel directing the shipment. One of the contractors monitoring the loading appeared to have a different colored uniform covering his upper body, under the body armor covering his chest and joints.
"If we make it outta this? After we win?" Dempsey replied with an eyebrow barely raised above his sunglasses. "College, of course. And maybe it'll inspire my little sis to do something with her life."
It looked like a gaudily-colored shirt underneath the kevlar rather than a uniform, the kind perhaps worn by a person representing what Pops had once referred to me as an OGA or "Other Government Agency."
"Just...uh...don't tell the newspaper I said that, okay? Bout my lil' sis that is."
"Sure, sure." I suddenly replied, before taking the camera and stuffing it back into my vest pocket.
I had to keep reminding myself that my suspicions of what was going on were still just suspicions until I had enough pieces of the puzzle to bridge the gap in my investigation chart, and Kronus finding their way into Yuktobania from Clavistan only filled in a small portion.
I swore to myself that I wouldn't be telling anyone about what I'd seen.
"Oh hey, that's where all the POWs went."
And I wasn't the only one who realized I would break that promise.
1LT Ricardo Villa
Sand Island AFB, Osea
13 November 2010
1120 hrs.
"Um...guys?"
I very nearly suffered my third case of mistaken identity this week when Genette poked his head into the rec room. The way he seemed so reluctant to just come in reminded me too much of Grimm. But our eyes were more focused on the camera he was holding.
"Hey, welcome back, buddy!" Chopper replied, clearly not suffering from that confusion, "How was the trip?"
"Did you catch some kinda KGB assassination or someshit?" I added with a smirk. The guy certainly seemed tense enough that he might as well have caught the Reds red-handed.
"Well, yeah. You guys wanna step out or something? I gotta show you something." Genette replied, gesturing us to follow him.
Chopper and I looked at each other, only slightly worried that he actually did catch a KGB assassination on film as we followed him out. Eventually he led us outside the building to a gap between the rec room building and another office before switching his small camera on and started pulling up the pictures on the display screen.
Chopper's eyes went wide with an almost entertained surprise as he quickly figured out where those pictures were taken.
"Whoa, that's the weapons factory?"
"Yeah, what's left. Look who they've got cleaning up the place now." Genette quickly zoomed in on one of the less blurry photos he'd taken.
"Hey, I know that logo," Chopper replied, as Genette zoomed in. "Those'r the same guys that hung out here after we got back from Saint Hewlett, right?"
I leaned my face in a little and squinted, hoping to see what he did there. I caught a glimpse of a logo on one of the trucks.
"Yeah. Kronus...ain't that some Zagorik mythology thing?" I asked. The name rang a bell, but the lagging effects of the G-forces had somehow forced old history lessons to my frontal lobes instead of current events.
"Yeah. The head god before Zeus and creator of the Titans. But these guys are definitely private military," Genette added, not skipping the beats like his heart was probably doing now. "They're an up-and-coming PMC based a couple hours out from Sudentor. And according to my research they got a no-bid contract to clean up after you guys. As it were."
I shrugged. "PMCs doing everything except shooting bad guys? Isn't that a step back for them after the Demon Lord?"
Fifteen years ago the Belkans obliterated so much of Ustio's air force that they resorted to hiring mercenaries to fight their battles out of desperation. And not one enlisted member of the aviation branch could say they hadn't heard of the flying ace that saved their country - and got filthy fucking rich in the process.
Belka's subsequent disarmament was the true dawn of the mercenary market though. Suddenly every country wanted to hire their talent to ensure they had an edge over their enemy. And them and the Eruseans realized they could also get filthy fucking rich doing what the governments didn't want to get their hands dirty.
"My research says this company's been contracted for pretty much everything that isn't frontline operation. Logistics, security, transportation..."
"...and..." I droned on, as Genette stopped on a photo that appeared to show people being led at gunpoint onto a plane.
"...even rendition."
"Whoa," Chopper replied. "Poor bastards."
Yet while they were was shocked, I simply harumphed. "...yeah, what else is new down there?"
"Dude," he replied with more suspicion than Genette as he leaned toward me. "A no-bid contract for just one company to do everything and...that... in one war is standard doctrine to you?"
Frankly, I didn't know why he was surprised.
Every continent had that one spot that was a great big free-for-all for mercs doing what the OCIA, KGB or their assorted enemies among the many tribal warlords didn't want to be seen doing.
Not six months went by when some video game got released that depicted some post-apocalyptic variant of the wilderness. Maybe it was set in Sotoa or Usea or some Yuktobanian border region, but the cast of characters was always the same. Crazed warlord, shady arms dealer, morally ambiguous spy, and the choose-your-morality protagonist to make you think you were actually genuinely doing something.
If you'd never had a stain on your record bigger than a parking ticket though, the only role open to you was "observer" and maybe "that guy in the air strike plane you couldn't fly."
So Albert's pics of private contractors doing this or that didn't surprise me one bit. It was only 15 years ago when the powers that were realized that they could actually legitimize that sort of thing to exercise their power by a proxy that wasn't governmental.
"Why the hell not? The government can afford it with all the money they've saved up," I grumbled with a smirk. "I bet that one of those goddamn rentacops is making more money than the three of us here combined." That little quip met with a slightly-less-than-friendly elbow in the shoulder from Chopper.
"So?" he then asked, holding his forehead in faux thought, "These guys can't even be held accountable for what they do and you're concerned about how much money they make?"
"That's exactly what I mean, bro," I snarled, my arms crossed. "We put our asses on the line, watch our friends die in front of us, and all we get is chickenscratch, a show-trial and a bad case of PTSD?"
"Naw, you can't really mean that!" Chopper was clearly getting agitated now. "You know all these people care about is their paycheck."
"You know what it's like growin' up where the only real money is illegal?" I pointed an accusing finger at Chopper. "1500 zollars a day for driving a truck? I could get my mom a new fucking house-"
"Oh, come on! I mean..." Chopper cut himself off after cutting me off, and sighed. "You know what happened a few years ago, when we sent PMCs to train the army in Clavistan?"
"Yeah, making sure they don't point the gun sideways when shooting at rebels," I replied, vaguely recalling the last time I actually paid attention to the news. "Too many fuckin' rap videos, then you get an AK for reals and suddenly you gangsta."
Genette had better recollection abilities than I did. "You mean the Atandah village incident. 30 civilians dead in what the Octavian Security contractors called an ambush."
"Exactly, dude!" Chopper confirmed, waving one hand in agreement. "None of those guys were ever prosecuted. They just waited in the Amm Plaza Hotel before the embassy shipped 'em out in the middle of the night."
"But Octavian closed up after that though, didn't they?" I then asked.
Trial by media usually did the trick of damning people or companies when a trial by jury or federal commission couldn't. Of course, PMCs never went out of business after getting shamed. They just changed their name or had themselves "bought out" by some new company that happened to share the same staff.
SSDD.
"Yeah, but I bet half of those mercs are with Kronus now," Chopper replied regretfully. "They can do whatever they want and we pay 'em for it. There's just no ethics there."
"The army's been doing that for decades, they just want someone else to blame, 'sall." I replied with my own hand wave. "Besides, Cap'n Freddy said he was gettin' hired by Kronus."
"No freaking way!" Now he was surprised in his disbelief more than angry. "The old Cap'n had a heart of gold!"
"Yeah, he was gonna tell me the benefits right before you called me back for that beer in Heier-"
My rant was interrupted by the sight of someone's shadow blocking the alleyway.
"Gentlemen?" he began, "I need to speak to Mr. Genette."
Some muscled Veiss City vacationer in kevlar, some kind of sabotage aviators, a tropical shirt under body armor and a nifty new PDW had decided to drop in on our conversation. I turned to face Genette only to find him disturbingly close to losing control of the contents of his lower bodily organs.
"Relax, I'll take care of this..." I said, before facing Mister 80s Throwback and giving my worst smile. "Problem, officer?"
"There'll be no problem if you let me talk to Albert here," he began.
"We don't want any trouble, sir," I continued, acting like the white friend.
"Then get outta my way and let me speak to him," he added, taking one step toward me. "Or I'll have the MPs help me."
I tilted to one side to notice that he had brought an MP as backup. Fortunately, rather than let my inner Las Violas gangsta rapper take control, I remembered that I had just come out of one trial and would rather not end up slipping into another.
"Oh, okay-" I began, but the moment I moved aside, Mister Tropical Shirt immediately sidestepped around me and was practically in Albert's face. That was when Chopper decided to get up in his face.
"That's not cool what you're doing, dude!" he began, only to find a rather hairy fist grabbing his evening dress uniform collar.
"Not nearly as cool as assaulting a government agent, pal, so don't start." came a reply, before he gave Chopper a rather mild shove back. The MP also moved into the alley, sealing our escape and forcing me to move back toward Chopper as Mr. Tropical Shirt made his move.
Soon as he grabbed the camera, his deceptively burly fingers quickly pried open the memory card slot and pinched the storage card. He then proceeded to put the camera down on top of a conveniently placed crate and introduce it to the butt of his PDW at 40 miles an hour before pocketing it.
"Hey man! What the fuck was that!" I shouted, the death crunch of $300 worth of camera causing me to wince.
Mr. Tropical Shirt clearly didn't give one. "I'm only gonna warn you once, Mr. Genette," he growled, pointing another burly finger between Genette's eyes, "Keep your nose out of things that don't concern you."
He then turned his finger toward us and continued, "That goes for the both of you, too."
Without another word, Mr. Tropical Shirt confiscated the twisted hunk of plastic that used to be a camera and left with his MP buddy.
"You just gonna stand here and let him do that, kid!?" Chopper seethed.
"We just came out of a goddamn trial, okay?" I pleaded angrily. "You wanna get us court martialed for real this time?"
"Oh man..." Genette looked like he'd had a heart attack, to which the two of us quickly ran to his sides to keep him from falling. "Oh no..."
"What's wrong, man?" Chopper asked.
Before he answered, he escaped our grasp and bolted out of the alley in the opposite direction, toward the crew quarters. That left the two of us standing in that alley, dumbfounded as fuck.
"...okay, did he actually catch a KGB assassination or someshit?!" I asked after a few seconds of awkward silence had passed.
"I don't like this, kid..." Chopper replied, "If he saw some crazy shit that got that OCIA guy after him..."
"Whatever it was," I concluded, "We're not dead, means they got it before we saw it too."
"Should we catch up with him?"
"Looks like those spooks got what they needed if they didn't detain him," I sighed, "They know they'll never hear the end of it if he gets rendered too. Let's get outta here."
"Ah...hell. Let's go..." Chopper sighed as the two of us started moving. "To be honest, I'm worried about you too, kid."
"S'bout what I said about the money?" I asked with a raised eyebrow, shielding my eyes from the sunlight with one hand.
"Yeah, I mean..." he took a deep breath, "Is this all what it means to you?"
I still hadn't fully bottled up from the last outburst. "I grew up in Las Violas, Chopper. Single mom 'n all. I didn't sign up to leave one warzone for another."
"I don't like how this warzone began either, kid." Chopper said worriedly. "But if all you're thinking about is what you're gonna get out of it, then that ain't a good sign."
"The military's about the only legit way outta the LVO apart from rapping," I replied, my smirk razor sharp. "But what I wanna know now is what you want out of it? I heard what you said over the beachhead."
"Well..." Chopper shook his head and ran a hand through his cowlick. "I guess I gotta prove myself to the folks back home."
"Shit, I didn't know that?" The other side of my mouth caught up with my smirk, turning it into a smile. "Me too, I guess. I wanna be able to walk round there with my head held high that at least one Las Violas boy made something of himself in something other'n movies or rap."
"Yeah, I guess I've got the opposite. Trying to prove myself to mom 'n dad," he replied, looking up at the sky as the two of us stopped before a road to let some Humvees pass. "They kept telling me that I'd never become something in life, so I joined up. Heh...never figured I'd end up in the paper like that."
"With your arm blocking my pretty face? Who'da thunk it," I added, to which we chuckled quietly for a brief moment before I was consumed by regret. "Oh man, now I regret dissing that reporter guy."
"Let's leave 'em alone for a bit," Chopper added as we crossed. "He'll take an apology better when he's not panicking."
I nodded in approval. For all I needed to apologize to him for, I was starting to wonder if it was simply a case of his newfound fame from making us hometown heroes going to his head. There were more than a few wannabe journalists that ended up "discouraged" and/or dead from the siren song of the story to break all stories.
I guess I was starting to know that feeling myself, with all the responsibilities we took and were about to take. The kind we went to trial over.
But as for Albert, I still had no idea what he'd stumbled on that brought a spook to our base.
That, we'd find out much later.
Albert Genette
Crew Quarters
14 November 2010
1121 hrs.
"No, no...it can't be gone...not now!"
If I had reached a journalistic high during my short-lived investigation of Kronus Incorporated, then its consequences were my withdrawal.
I had booted my computer back up to find that it had been reformatted. Everything I had worked on that wasn't what the Journal wanted was deleted. What was left - mainly the articles I'd already written had been transferred to a folder located in the middle of the desktop.
Most of the pictures and negatives I'd taken with my trusty old film camera were there. But anything and everything I wrote or captured about the private contractors had been erased or confiscated. Any mention of them in the draft article for Dempsey simply been deleted.
"Goddammit..." I muttered as I let myself slump onto the keyboard.
"What happened, Albert?"
By now I'd been over-surprised enough that the sound of Pops entering my room was a relief. That didn't mean I wanted to talk about what happened, especially since he had a look on his face like he knew and was disappointed in me over it.
"Nothing..." I groaned.
"Your computer doesn't look that way," Pops continued as he walked up beside me. "You look like you've been up all night, and I know that doesn't simply happen from 'nothing.'"
He was right. I had been up all night searching my computer folder by folder hoping that maybe I had a backup somewhere, but the Man in the Tropical Suit may as well have hit my computer with an electromagnetic pulse.
"I just don't want to talk about it."
"You don't have to. I heard about it from Chopper."
I groaned from my head tinging, as it recalled the exact sound my camera made when the Man In The Tropical Shirt had smashed it his Gründer MP7.
"Yeah, well...I didn't expect it to be so..."
"You shouldn't have let yourself get too engaged in your story," Pops followed up in a sort of stern, reassuring tone, "From my experience, people that get obsessed over something start to lose track of what's around them."
"...but what do I do now?"
"Pause and reflect, perhaps. This war's not going to end in a day." Pops replied, as he removed a small plastic object from one of his chest pockets and plugged it into one of my laptop's side ports. "Maybe you've focused so much on what's out there that you almost forgot what you have here."
I recognized the object as the thumb drive I was given as part of the Journal's care package. And the moment it installed I recognized every thumbnail of every single file I had been missing in all their blurry glory. I'd still lost the negatives and developed photographs of the contractors, but I was never more thankful to find any of what I'd lost at all.
"Holy- that's absolutely everything! How did you-"
"You left your computer on when you went to show my pilots what you found," he chuckled, "And I noticed that our mutual friend returned to Sand Island ahead of you."
"Thank you! I can't..."
"We'll save it for later, along with this." Pops replied cheerily, pulling out the USB drive and causing all the windows I had opened to disappear. "In the meantime, Sergeant Dempsey will want his story."
"Aww man..."
"Don't fret over it," he added, putting a thickly-built hand on my shoulder, "Your articles will be safe from that spook long as they're with me."
I felt like a punished child forced to do his homework - and at the same time, realized that he got his nickname from exhibiting this sort of behavior to those under his wing.
"I just...I just feel like I'm writing propaganda with the Dempsey story."
"The best way to get a message to your audience is to help them relate," Pops explained. His tone seemed to get a lot more serious as he spoke, as if it was the kind of lesson he didn't like to teach. "Like your article on your roommates."
I quickly opened the article on the Wardogs, recalling exactly what it was about them that helped it become the most-read article on the Journal that wasn't about Eleven-Four.
I didn't want to make them heroes, and they certainly didn't choose to be. But I chose to write about them anyway, telling their story to the world from the relationships we developed. Maybe I didn't relate as much to Sergeant Dempsey, but that didn't mean his wasn't a story worth telling.
"...where are the Wardogs anyway?"
"Early morning sortie. That's all I know."
And perhaps, I needed that refinement - and more evidence - before I could reveal the greatest story of my career.
Briefing Room
14 November 2010
Five Hours Earlier
"Ahem, gentlemen."
"...Excuse me, Colonel. This is a very important mission to us. As the staff adviser sent from Central HQ, I'd like to explain it myself."
The Very Important Officer - LTC Mitchell according to his nametags - wasn't lacking in enthusiasm. Or ambition, as was reflected in the mission he began explaining to us.
HQ's new effort to literally win the war by Christmas was put at its first serious risk from the Scinfaxi's long-lost sister megasub, the Hrimfaxi. Her armaments also included cruise missiles that she could launch clear across both Anea and the Verusean continents to strike at our forward operating bases - along with the other "goodies" that we'd experienced firsthand.
That the Yukes had still been prioritizing their military to compensate for their lack of nuclear capability was about as surprising as the fact that they could afford a plan B like this.
Operation Long Harpoon, so appropriately named, would be launched to destroy this other wwhale before the godless pinkos could ruin everyone else's Jesus season. The matter of finding this whale was already done for us.
Like every wwhale, the sub needed to "breathe." The MDF had detected a transport sub leaving a northern Yuktobanian dock to give that wwhale its oxygen. And once it surfaced, we would gore it through with PAVEWAYs and feed it to the horrorterrors underneath.
Even better, neither of us would have handicaps. We still didn't have the Arkbird because the specially-trained engineers they would send up to repair the thing had only docked today. At the same time, they wouldn't have anything more than their Freestyles and burst missiles to back them up.
Mano a mano, a David and Goliath winner take all for the heavyweight combat champion of the world.
This...was gonna be great.
"I want you to turn these icy straits into the Yuke's graveyard. Are there any questions?"
As it happened though, there was that one question.
"...yeah, why were we chosen instead of Venom again?"
LTC Mitchell smiled ambitiously, like I'd asked the question everyone else was too scared to ask.
"Apart from four of you being less conspicuous than six, your have demonstrated the teamwork and precision required to take on missions like these."
Translation: We had taken out the Scinfaxi, making us the only ones with relevant experience to handle her sister sub apart from 'Shadow' Madison.
There was also the matter of the map. I didn't have to be a master geographer to notice we were not only bypassing Yuktobania but the entire Verusean landmass altogether. The Hrimfaxi was hiding out on the other side of Anea, and our route would take us over its satellite-slash-safe-haven.
"Um...isn't that island part of Estovakia?" Grimm asked.
"Officially, yes. And both Emmeria and Estovakia are officially neutral." Mitchell continued, not missing a beat. "Unofficially, however, there are no active air defenses on Hvarci Island at the moment."
"Because they're too busy killing each other off to pay attention," I grumbled, almost intentionally out loud.
"In any case, the destruction of the Hrimfaxi will not only protect our ongoing offensive, but also allow the Emmerians to get a better view of how the Yukes are manipulating the civil war in Estovakia."
I didn't have to be a fan of some spy series to decipher Mitchell's lingo. They didn't want us stoking Estovakia's ongoing civil war more than the Yukes were already doing having their sub lingering near Estovakian waters, among other things.
In fact, we'd be doing the same shit we'd been doing since the first Revolutions against capitalism, backing our own factions against Yuktobania's preferred players. And since nobody really knew which 'Estovakian' faction held that island that day, it's not like they'd actually take time out from killing each other to notice.
SSDD times two.
"Time is of the essence, ladies and gentlemen," Perrault concluded as he switched off the briefing terminal and projector. "The fate of the world rests on your shoulders."
The way he enunciated that last phrase made me wonder when he was going to break into a rousing rendition of God Bless Osea. Either way, as the squadron leader I had to show some enthusiasm for the long flight.
As we got up and left, seemed I was the only one that was gonna do so.
"Oh man, the Razgriz Straits. I wonder if we're gonna slay a real demon there," Chopper asked, almost like he was embarking on some adventure.
"We killed the last one, ain't nothing mystical about it," I replied, emphasizing the matter-of-fact.
"You think we're really gonna make it back?" Grimm asked as I withdrew my helmet. "It's just us against that thing."
I gazed at the old thing for a moment, wondering why I hadn't customized it yet. If I wasn't going to make it back, I would at least have to give it some racing stripes or faux-diamond glitter stickers.
"They ain't flying backup through Emmeria," I explained confidently. "So yeah. We're gonna make it back and our guys are gonna win this thing."
"Unless maybe killing it means we take its place!" Chopper came back with a wide-eyed reply so cliche it actually wasn't funny.
Or rather, as I gave Chopper a friendly jab of appreciation in his side, I didn't think it was funny because it was true.
To Be Continued...