From Hell to Sadera: The Bizzare Odyssey of Bravo Co, 1st Recon Btn

by dayanII

A Generation of Marines, growing up with video games, music videos, internet porn, anime and political division, is sent into Falmart. They are unrecognizable from their forefathers in previous generations, behaving differently from their ancestors in the Marine Corps. For some, they're more intimate with porn than with their own parents, and now, they will be the tip of the spear.

22. Chapter 19, Night Shift

A/N : Well boys, I'm back after a 3 month long hiatus. Sorry for not posting for a while, life has been incredibly busy and school has started again, both factors which ultimately led to my burnout and lack of motivation to write the story for a while. But here you go, a pretty thicc chapter and I'll apologize in advance for the lack of action, as I try going for a more military slice-of-life route instead of the usual curbstomp.

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Outskirts of Arafa, Duma Mountain Pass. 8th April 2021 (0832).

The heavy torrential rain lasted all night long together with the looming fog, wetting every piece of equipment used by the Marines and covering them in thick mud and dust. As a result, the terrific weather had severely stalled their advance and forced the entirety of the 1st Marine Division to crawl to a halt to wait out the seemingly never-ending drizzle of rainwater. But by the morning of April 8th, the previously raging storm had now ushered into a sunny, yet understandably chilly morning for the men of Regimental Combat Team-5 and the much smaller but elite 1st Reconnaissance Battalion. The 6500-men strong battleforce of M1A1 tanks, LARs, mechanized infantry, anti-tank units, and combat engineers, along with the Recon Marines, would be the first Americans to invade this portion of Falmart.

For a certain commander of Bravo Company's Second Platoon, however, the whole ordeal had felt more like a glorified adrenaline rush. In the past 24 hours alone, his platoon had witnessed first-hand the destruction of an entire Elven settlement at the hands of nervous reservists; cruised past a variety of mangled bodies on the road, civilians and enemy alike which had been blasted to bits by the Marines devastating fire; made a dangerous gamble as a result of the battalion's CO hunger for medal and commendations as they proceeded to dash through a town crawling with hostile legionnaires and littered with horribly mangled corpses under a heavy rainstorm, before finally ending the day nearly being killed gruesomely by friendly fires.

Accordingly enough, the Lieutenant's complexion had also changed along the way. Constant foul-ups and incompetence within the battalion, lack of sleep, and the stress that came with leading a platoon of Recon Marines in an interstellar war had made him numb to the presence of dead bodies and smoldering corpses littering what would have been otherwise a mesmerizing Alps-like fantastical landscape. Dark circles had, by now, begun to form under Lt. Mistral's oceanic blue eyes as a result of the precious naps and sleep deprived of him since the start of the invasion. His pale white face had become dusty from the previous night's rain and the ensuing muddy hell that followed in the storm's wake while he was sitting in his dug-in position, lightly shivering from the cold winds blasting all over the place.

Now, the brown-haired officer sat tiredly on the front passenger seat of his command Humvee, with a dusty SINCGARS handset leisurely sitting within his dried grip as this was his turn for the radio watch. Standing in front of him, lies the town of Arafa. Greasy smoke continues to curl out of the structures collapsed by continuous shelling from Marine artillery batteries yesterday. Smashed, blackened bricks were scattered haphazardly on the ground while dirty brown waters – as a result of the town's destroyed sewers and the heavy torrential rain, flooded the sprawling craters created by impacting high explosive shells on the main street moving through the settlement, and into the Appia Highway ahead. Dead bodies from the skirmishes the day before dotted the outskirts and within the metropolis, slowly rotting under the morning sun as dozens of flies and packs worth of wild dogs had now descended upon the corpses to maul and feast on them.

For wild lives out here… War is just an over-glorified feast.

When the forward armors of Colonel Brady's main RCT-5 forces took a detour and looped around the city before temporarily settling in the grassy meadows just outside the outskirts of Arafa, waves of Saderan legionnaires and conscripted militias began to come out of the nearby bushes and vegetations en-masse while they were waiting for the company-sized armor detachment and the 1st Recon to catch up with them at the town's exit route. The Saderans appeared to have tried to take advantage of the swirling storm and thick fog in an attempt to conduct a sneak attack. Few of them lived long enough to even fire a single arrow at the Marines standing by. Despite the wafting mist severely disrupting their visibility, the attackers were, unsurprisingly, spotted by the armors' high-powered thermal sights. Naturally and just like in training, the combined unit of M1A1 tanks and LAVs ruthlessly decimated the advancing hostiles.

Because of the limited visibility that had conveniently come together with the rain, many of the Saderans and their fellow collaborators simply kept advancing out of the treelines, seemingly unaware of the fact that their comrades were being decimated in vast numbers next to them. They were blind as a bat when the skirmish violently unfolds.

And by the early morning light, the charred corpses of the attackers, their shredded intestines, and the bloody pieces of their perforated body straddling across the highway's pavement was all that remained from yesterday's ambush. Accompanying them were the fallen swords, bows, and other weapons of the "wannabe Romans" littering the green landscape alongside the lifeless bodies of their owners. To further remind and warn any brave daredevils from trying to even entertain the idea of attacking the Marines parked on the fields outside the town, a platoon-sized element of M1A1 tanks idly stood on both sides of the road, with their protruding barrel firmly pointed toward the route exiting the town. Smoldering chunks and heaps of destroyed ballistae, trebuchets, and other Romanesque war machines laid scattered next to the idle Abrams in an arbitrary manner.

But what caught the Lieutenant's attention, however, wasn't the presence of shot-up corpses grotesquely dotting the perimeter of their temporary camp and neither were the destructions left behind in the wake of their mad dash through the town yesterday. Despite the sprawling dead bodies ridden with bullet holes of differing calibers, homes wrecked and blown away by artillery and tank fires, sewers blasted by stray shells, and several other gruesome sights that rose together with the shiny morning sun, life continued for the people living inside the town.

Women scurried about, carrying varying types of groceries on their respective baskets as they battled through the ankle-deep mud that had materialized as a result of the rainstorm with seemingly no effort at all. Children moved back and forth between the town and the fields on the outskirts. Their filthy face covered in brown dust – a common feature throughout the lower classes of the Empire – did little to hide their bright, shining smiles. The kids walked around in the fields, their small bodies swaying the majestic emerald-like grasses covered in morning dew. Their eyes meanwhile, were keenly hunting for any valuable souvenirs and trophies to be looted from the mangled corpses littering the ground. It was a pretty good way to make a living in such a depressing part of the world but despite that, they didn't think much of it and continued, shuffling their little hands through the charred and burned remains of the legionnaires in anticipation of a prize.

The Lieutenant merely contorted a grim yet warm, slight smile as he stared ahead towards the town's hard-working little children trying to make a living. Some of the adults too, seem to be joining in the fray of looting and lawlessness in the wake of the Saderan losing control over this particular town. Men and women, both human and demi-humans, scurried around carrying a variety of things that had been recently pillaged by the townsfolk. The Marines sitting on the outskirts and other elements traveling through seemed to have held no interest at all in stopping the anarchy from unfolding, too preoccupied with their respective tasks and missions perhaps to even meddle in such affairs – even though it's still early in the day. Immediately, such sights deformed Lt. Mistral's complexion into a disapproving frown. Then, his black digital arm watches alarm beeped faintly. The screen's dusty surface showed the officer that the time was 0900.

As if on cue with the alarm, several loud bangs resounded from the cab of his Humvee which swiftly prompted the officer to react and turn his head swiftly towards the source of the sudden metallic noises. He was immediately met with Gunny Mays sitting in the driver's seat, his face plastered with a faint smile. Without any delay, the Platoon Sergeant slightly nods towards the SINCGARS radio handset currently in Lt. Mistral's firm grip.

"Your radiowatch's over, El-tee." Then, Gunny Mays spoke up just as he methodically tapped his gloved fingers multiple times on the Humvee's dashboard to gain the attention of his weary Platoon Commander. Immediately, the Lieutenant swept a glance to the Gunnery Sergeant with a seemingly blank face. "It's my shift now."

It took several, unusually long seconds for the blank-faced Lieutenant to process what had come out of his loyal second in command's mouth. Realizing what had just been said, Lt. Mistral immediately moved to take another look at his watch, before shifting his attention back to the patient Gunnery Sergeant. His face lit up just as realized what it meant: the daily morning meeting of platoon commanders at the Company's Headquarters.

"Ah fuck, I nearly forgot." Lt. Mistral suddenly spoke, his voice clearly annoyed and tired with the fatigue ravaging his body. The exasperated remark was promptly followed by the officer slowly leaning his face closer to Gunny Mays', his previously blank complexion had been swept away by an urgent look. "Looks like I'll be gone for a while, in the meantime, watch the platoon for me."

"Roger that." The Gunnery Sergeant casually replied, waving off his superior's concern without much thought given.

"Alright then," Lt. Mistral merely nods in affirmation at the remark just as he frantically gathers his gear placed inside the cramped insides of the platoon's command Humvee. He then swept one last glance at his loyal assistant, before contorting his lips into a smile as he threw his M4A1 over his shoulder. "glad to have you in my platoon."

Gunny Mays did not reply, instead nodding his head slightly at the approving statement that had come out of his superior's mouth. Not wasting any time, Lt. Mistral proceeded to go on with his journey to the HQ of Bravo Company several dozen meters away. Though, the soil, dirt, and meadows leading towards the Captain's Humvee ahead are covered in puddles of rainwater and mud, smearing the sides, tracks, and wheels of Marines' variety of vehicles parked on, by, and off the highway's pavement.

The Lieutenant let off one final sigh of exasperation, before setting off. With his ankle and tan-colored boots deep within the moist soil, the officer arduously battled through the fields of mud, and occasionally, blood and body parts from the corpses dotted the scenery around them. His journey was noticed by a certain brunette non-commissioned officer of Hitman 2-1, simply earning a flash of thumbs up and a slight, hearty grin from the usually stoic Simon.

"Thanks for the motivation, gay-ass." The Lieutenant jokingly murmured under his breath, simply responding to the cheeky action of his leading team leader with a smile as he fought through the puddles of mud blocking his way to the Company HQ. It was a good thing that despite such shitty living conditions during the coalition's lightning-quick blitzkrieg to Sadera, morale was at least, bearable enough.

For the men of RCT-5 parked nearby, the routine of the Corps continued on as usual despite temporarily spending the night in a muddy grassy field, with them cleaning weapons, jacking their dick off, maintaining radio watch, and other variety of things usually done out of boredom. Tanks and Amtracs were scattered all over the fields along Lt. Mistral's route, with several dozen others, stopped in a herringbone fashion by the roadside. All of them have one thing in common, that is their turrets keenly scanning either side of the verdant meadows and lush treelines flanking both sides for any signs of potential attackers.

As Lt. Mistral continued on with his journey through the muddy soil, the relatively small tent that made up the HQ of Bravo Company began to appear in the distance. Men walked in and out of tents, carrying administration and communication tools along with weapons, either gripping tightly on their hands or casually slung over their shoulders. However, one Marine, standing just outside the entrance in a seemingly exasperated way caught the Lieutenant's attention as he approached closer to the perimeter around half-assed headquarters.

It was Captain Walt, and it seems from the dark circles under his eyes, that he too hasn't slept just like the Lieutenant and is currently preoccupied with a much-needed cigarette break. His dusty face merely stared ahead into the town behind, silently spectating in quiet dismay as the residents looted and plundered their own settlement. It seemed to be that anarchy had become the status quo in Arafa. The situation further adds to the surrealism that had already been felt in the morning, from the heavy rain leading to a series of muddy puddles; the colorfully mashed up dead bodies lying around in such majestic viridescent grassy fields and now the lawlessness unfolding in the sprawling metropolis in front of them.

The splish splash and thumping sounds of Lt. Mistral's boot resounding through the muddy ground had by now, gained the attention of their company commander. The Captain merely greeted the presence of one of his lieutenants with an affirming nod, beckoning his subordinate to enter the relatively small tent. The Lieutenant simply followed in his superior's footsteps, gently pushing away the dusty entrance flaps of the tent as he entered.

The unsightly image that immediately greeted him are the filthy insides of the tent. It looked to be as if somebody had detonated an explosive inside, as dirt and mud were thrown haphazardly all around, appropriately accompanying exasperated, red-eyed Marines working round the clock on the communications, navigation, and other variety of vital equipment. Flies weaved around, shushed away by tired men preoccupied with fixing the radios and cleaning their respective weapons, most of them mottled and stained by mud and rainwater.

"Damn, looks like y'all had some sort of fucking ITX party going on last night." Sarcastic snickering can be heard coming from Lt. Mistral, walking just behind his superior as the duo navigated through the tent. "I'm not invited?"

"Obviously the answer is no." Similarly, Captain Walt merely snorted back at the quip of his subordinate. "Don't mind the shitty clusterfuck insides though, blame the mud for it."

"Aye-aye." The Lieutenant jokingly puts up his hand in the air, feigning defeat. His little action promptly earned him a slight snicker from the weary Captain, whose dirty MARPAT cammies mirrored those belonging to Lt. Mistral and other Marines inside the company headquarters tent.

The two men continued navigating through the muddy ground, heading towards the Captain's command Humvee – several dozen meters away from the filthy, mud-ridden tent – in anticipation of the daily meetings of the various personalities who happen to make up the platoon commanders of Bravo Company. Soon enough, a sudden, out-of-the-blue greeting signaled their arrival.

"Skipper, all of the company's platoon commanders are here." A voice suddenly announced from behind just as the canvas-covered Humvee came into the duo's line of sight. "Should we start now?"

Immediately, both men cocked their respective heads backward and diverted their attention to the man speaking. There, standing casually in the mud, with his ankles deep in the brown muck below and a similarly brownish-mottled MARPAT, is the bespectacled XO – second in command – of Bravo Company, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion: First Lieutenant Patrick Guthrie.

"Guthrie? What the fuck are you doing here?" Captain Walt promptly spoke without a moment's delay, his voice laced with tones indicative of confusion and bewilderment. Strangely enough, the officer's facial expression had also suddenly changed from tired casualness to slight hostility after the appearance of his XO. "Didn't expect to see ya here. I thought you were busy tactically acquiring shit in the H&S."

"I literally gathered every fuckin' officer in the company while you were gone at the battalion's daily OPORD so we can get this over quick," The XO casually shot back with a leisurely voice, before promptly extending his hand towards the small crowd that had gathered around the familiar silhouette of the command Humvee. "let's start now shall we."

"Sure." The Captain uncaringly shrugs at the proposal, before promptly returning to his journey of walking back towards the command Humvee. One that'd be over pretty quickly as the previously faint silhouettes of platoon commanders and other officers in their company gathering around the vehicle, was now replaced by a moderately-sized crowd of Marines patiently waiting for their commander.

Soon enough, Captain Walt and a certain Lieutenant trailing behind would make his presence known as he audibly tapped multiple times on the hood of the Humvee with his gloved hands, to which the several metal bangs that followed immediately afterward promptly attracted the crucial attention of the chattering crowds of Bravo Company's officers that had gathered nearby. With all eyes on him, he beckoned over to everyone with his hand to move over to the side of the vehicle, as he began laying down a sizable map for his subordinates to study on.

By now, a small circle had materialized around him as platoon commanders and company staff stole several glances at the map in curiosity. The Captain, finally done with laying down the sheet on the ground, promptly got up and swept his eyes throughout the crowd. Satisfied that everyone important attended the meeting, he clasped his hands audibly to signal the start of the daily company briefing.

"I'll be going over this quickly, so I'm going to be straight to the point." With his hands pointing to the map sheet of their AO placed sluggishly on the ground, the Captain explained with a firm tone. "At the morning OPORD today, Godfather told me that our mission for today is to conduct a screening mission for the advancing main body of RCT-5."

Clicking his tongue lightly, Captain Walt then swiftly drifted his gloved fingers across the map of the mountain valley several kilometers north from their current position. He continued dragging it across the sheet, before abruptly stopping at what seemed to indicate a small stream and a bridge. To the east – or right – of the aquatic body paralleling it, ran the Appia Highway, otherwise known as MSR Tijuana to the crowd of officers standing next to the Captain's Humvee. Most within the circle had already known what Bravo Company's next assignment would be. As he looked back towards his subordinates for emphasis, the CO then grabbed his pen before promptly sketching a small circle on the banks of the river.

"This will be the screen for the battalion. In five-zero mikes, Bravo and Alpha Company of 1st Recon will maneuver towards our assigned objective to be the main units conducting the screen for the division that'll be rolling on the main road parallel east of our position. Charlie Company, as dictated by Godfather at the meeting several hours ago, will be reserved just in case shit goes wrong. To put it simply, our job is to watch over the stream, and the bridge crossing for any enemies that might try to disrupt RCT-5 and 1 advance behind our position."

"And if shit does go wrong?" With a hand raised high in the air, an inquisitive Lt. Superman suddenly questioned his superior with a seemingly apprehensive voice accompanying his action.

"Then we'll fuck the Saderans shit up." Not putting any moment to waste, the FAC Officer immediately moved to reply. The blonde man did very little to hide his annoyance at the obviousness of the Third Platoon's CO question. "Simple enough."

"Alrighty."

"Right, if nothing serious happens then we'll just link up with the RCT on the road and continue our advance northward?" Now, it was Lt. Mistral's turn to ask. The Lieutenant casually inquired, his voice composed and his complexion relaxed as he leisurely tapped his notebook against dirty mottled pants, patiently awaiting the reply from his superior.

"Correct," Captain Walt affirmingly nods at the Lieutenant's observation. "but the stream's too shallow to be ignored. Word around the smoke pit says that an Army Green Beret ODA yesterday crossed the stream all by themselves without even using the bridge. Apparently, Godfather thinks that the body of water is too strategic to be ignored by the Saderans, hence the mission. So endstate : Bravo Company together with the rest of 1st Recon, establish a screen paralleling the MSR, allowing freedom of movement for follow-in main forces to move without threats of enemy actions."

"Alright, that'll conclude the meeting." The Captain audibly clasped his hands, signaling the swift end of their relatively short meeting. "Any questions?"

"Sir, why does it seem that we don't have enough details for this fucking mission?" Immediately, a certain Second Platoon's Commander spoke with a voice that was clearly alarmed as Lt. Mistral's inquiry promptly attracted some glances from several other officers, all of whom merely nodded in agreement at the remark of their fellow compatriot.

"Yeah, Skipper, what's up with the short meeting?" The XO, slightly concerned by the length and lack of details, can't help but question the Captain's briefing. "I mean, is this another case of fucking snafu or what?"

"Fucking Godfather, man. This got to be one of his newer shenanigans to get brownie points and shit from the fucking Division CG."

"You're way out of the line, squid."

"What? Am I wrong First Sarn't? Will you just fucking stop sucking up on the CO's green weenie dick?"

"God fucking damn it, stop it you two!" Not wanting his meeting to deteriorate any further, the Captain banged loudly on the door of his vehicle as he shot a death glare at both the Navy FAC Officer and the Company's despised First Sergeant. Immediately, both sides of the bickering men quieten down, allowing Captain Walt to speak up once again.

For several dozen minutes, Captain Walt had keenly listened to the complaints of his subordinates, all of whom had a clear point. Lately, it has felt as if they're all simply making decisions blindly and most of the time, almost killed by their reckless battalion commander. Unsurprisingly, morale had begun to take a hit from the series of seemingly never-ending incompetency within the 1st Recon.

"Unfortunately gents, this is all I have right now, nothing more." The Captain can only afford to heave out an exasperated sigh, before solemnly murmuring one last time. "For now, we'll have to get used to the lack of details and information that seemed to run rampant in the whole fucking battalion and make do with anything available. Also, a reminder, FRAGO will be issued on the move so keep your radio open and the channels clear."

---

"Fucking muds, man." Fatigued from enduring a night-long rain, Evan quietly grumbled under his breath. His voice clearly indicates one of mild annoyance as the sounds of pickaxe and E-tools hacking into the moistened ground below, along with the mechanical clanking of weapons being stripped and cleaned filled the air all around him.

The morning air and the lush countryside would've looked better without all the smoky corpses lying around in the company of smoldering remains of ancient war machines – ballistae and other sorts within the category. But such is the reality of war, and the boisterous driver seemed to have paid no heed to the destruction that had by now, become a daily occurrence for him and his fellow Reconnaissance Marines. To his left, crouched a certain red-haired Corpsman that rode in the same Humvee as him, whose sapphire blue eyes keenly peered through the jutted RCO – ACOG – scopes on his rifle as Clancy intently surveilled the foliage nearby.

Behind the duo, the small perimeter of 1st Recon within the much bigger camp of Colonel Brady's RCT-5 had come to life abruptly amid the chilly morning, as frenzied crowds of H&S POGs and grunts alike moved about, traveling between holes that had been dug on the soft muddy ground and their respective vehicles nearby as everyone began preparation for yet another mission today. However, lack of intel and the pretty much unclear objective seemed to have added itself like burrowing parasite into the growing list of problems for the Marines preoccupied with the forthcoming task of having to act as the screening force for the main advance of the Regimental Combat Team and the rest of the 1st Marine Division.

The fact was not lost to the boisterous driver and the friendly medical Corpsman duo, as they silently watched the procession of vital materials being loaded into supply trucks of the H&S – driven by the usually derided POGs – and weapons being checked and cleaned one last time before the resumption of their advance. Still, Evan is livid about yesterday's push through the town of Arafa. At least Italica had clear weather when they blitzed through it, he thought. If there's anything similar, it'd be the scattered dead bodies, grotesquely mangled and brutally charred, along with the usual accompanying smell of overwhelming filthiness.

"This is straight up fucking retarded." Evan merely snorted in a wild mix of amusement and disappointment, the cheery smile on his face never seemed to fade away as he silently shook his head.

"Bro, you're still mad about yesterday's shenanigans?" Clancy, noticing Evan and his livid remarks, immediately moved to ask with an inquisitive tone as he shifted his attention away from the badly ruined treelines nearby, the bushes still smoldering and cackling from the number of autocannon rounds poured into the area from yesterday's violent but curt skirmish.

"I mean, wouldn't you be? That shit was some fucking bullshit cancer." Evan growled, his voice constantly alternating between the tones of anger and slight amusement at the wild situation they'd gotten into. The nose-scorching smell of human shit flooding out of the blasted sewers and the deathly smell of the smoldering corpses emanating nearby seems to further emphasize his remark.

"Of course I am, just asking you, bro." Clancy thought curtly for a moment, before replying to the boisterous Evan, his tone chippier than before as he quickly flashes a smile at the driver.

"If that's so…" Hearing this, Evan promptly played along with Clancy, throwing both his hands into the air in a rather unconvincing faux-surrender as he spoke. "If there's anything that I learned from being in this fucking battalion, it's that we'll always have to follow Godfather wherever the fuck he pleases to go. No matter how fucked up the whole place is."

"Yeah, no shit." Clancy merely nodded at the remark, resonating with it as he chuckled for a moment. "It's pretty much the conclusion at this point. Motherfucker can't go a day without sucking General Kelly's dick."

"Where's Sai anyway?" Clancy continued, as he promptly followed by shooting a glance at Evan, which was immediately met with a brief shrug. Just then, a mischievous, teasing voice chipped into the duo's conversation.

"Looks like someone's getting his shitpipe filled with semen tonight." Like a light switch being turned on, both Clancy and Evan stopped their little sessions of chit-chats and moved their heads at breakneck speed towards the voice – who happened to be, speak of the devil, their brunette team leader. It didn't take long for the usually stoic-faced Simon to start speaking again with a mischievous smirk plastered. "Look, when we return home I'll get you two fucking lovebirds a room to fuck the shit out of you guys' brain but as of right now, we got other things to do."

Without taking a break from his previous remark, the Sergeant beckoned over towards the duo in the direction of their beat-up, cramped Humvee. Unsurprisingly, being the driver of said half-assed vehicle, Evan was first out of the two men that were previously surveilling the smoking and incredibly blackened treelines to heed the brunette's signal to move as he immediately got up and gently pushed away some dirt and soil from his kevlar vest, gave Simon an affirming nod before walking back to the team's Humvee. However, he's not done yet, not before playing along with Simon's quip as he cheekily blurted out a flying kiss towards Clancy, to which the red-haired Corpsman replied by physically recoiling at the homoerotic implication.

"Hey, Evan," Simon, who, despite the stoicism and cool-headedness usually associated with him, called over to the still grinning Evan with a playful tone, a contrast to his usual blank emotionless voice. "you think your twink sailor boyfriend likes that?"

"Oh, he'll fucking like it alright." Staying true to his laid-back attitude, the driver merely waved off the smart-ass remark with his right hand as he continued marching towards the Humvee, leaving behind in his wake an incredibly unamused and flustered Clancy who merely reacted to the jokes with a facepalm on his pale face, now covered and caked in the dust – just like everyone else after enduring days advancing non-stop on the road, taking part in the mass blitzkrieg toward the Heart and Capital of the Saderans.

The Humvee came to life just as quickly as he got up from his surveilling position before, as Evan entered and turned on the on/off switch of the vehicle, and in response came obnoxious rocking as the rusty age-old engine came to life. Everyone else packed their respective gears immediately and reunited with the ever-talkative driver as they sat inside the cramped confines of their venerable ride. Behind the newly awakened Humvee, the rest of the platoon and battalion moved out of their temporary slumber and maneuvered onto the pavement, one by one in a single column. Standing by the roadsides and happily dancing across the fields filled with RCT-5's armada of metal machines are the children and some looked to be teenagers from the nearby Arafa.

Jogging through waves upon waves of native looters pillaging their town, the kids, of different races and species, cheerily waved at the passing convoy as their parents were nowhere to be seen, perhaps too busy breaking into houses and looting shops and passing merchants unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire between the Marines and the hopelessly out-classed Saderans. Their filthy faces, blackened bare feet with disease-inducing excrements, and badly ridden and dirty robes acting as clothes, were unfittingly accompanied by a series of bright, innocent smiles as they raced down the roadsides, cheerily waving left and right in the direction of the battalion's passing convoy. Noticing this, Evan took the initiative and started banging the driver's door loudly, waving and hollering at the children with an amused grin accompanying his Rip-Its-induced blabberings.

"Hey, kids! Vote for the fucking Republicans!" The driver audibly called out towards the sea of children abreast, waving and hollering all while maintaining a fair amount of attention on the road ahead. The kids outside, not understanding even a word of what had just come out of Evan's mouth, simply responded with a series of cheers and dances.

The unusually cheery occurrences coupled with the smoking, destroyed remains of human organs and limbs straddled all over the place felt surreal for a certain albino reporter riding in 2-1's Humvee, who by now had whipped out his trusty cameras and began snapping pictures at the gathering crowds outside, occasionally alternating between flashy grins and mangled corpses.

"Heh, these motherfuckers fit into the checkboxes of the party demographic. Filthy, fucking illiterate, and extremely retarded too." Evan casually quipped with a deadpanned, while his eyes and hand alternated between the crowds and the road ahead.

"You know what Evan?" Suddenly, Simon, who had been busy eyeing the seas of humans with intent, spoke up as he shot a glance at the driver. "That's pretty ironic coming from you."

"Man, fuck you, you faggy-ass twink. Last time I checked I don't have a pair of cat ears poking outta my fucking head like a dick-sucking cosplaying dude." With a snicker accompanying his retort, Evan promptly shot back at his team leader which promptly earned him a gentle slap right on top of his LWH helmet from the brunette in question.

---

1st Recon's Screening Position, 26 Klicks North of Arafa (1834)

The ground trembled as if it were being struck by an earthquake and pieces of dirt were thrown skywards towards the sinking sun of the dust, as the 4 tanks of Centurion-1 rumbled through the hilly yet relatively green and flat countryside of the Duma Mountains Pass. The roars of their gas turbine engine and the turret hydraulics' similarly audible whirrs rudely disturbed the picturesque scenery all around the convoy and yet another ongoing procession mid-air as several dozens of flocks of birds weaved their way through the orange sky, returning to their respective nest under the fading dusk that'd eventually ushered in yet another sleepless night for the men of 1st Recon.

Steadily, one by one, the convoy unceremoniously screeched to a halt just short of a small stream standing ahead. Behind them to the east, lies the main highway pavement of the Appia Highway, which it'll be used by the RCT-5 currently following behind the footsteps of the Recon Marines. As of right now, their only order is to establish a temporary screen to the west of the main advancing forces – the area around the stream – and for some inexplicable fuck-up – which by now had become a routine for the battalion, nothing else was given to them.

As the leading tank of the column crawled to a halt by the stream, the commander, a certain Second Lieutenant Tom Connolly, slowly poked his head up as he slowly pushed the tank commander's steely hatch open, letting in a breeze of fresh air to rush into his unbelievably cramped monster of a war machine – a nice addition after hours spent inside with the air contained with the filthy smell of 4 men who haven't showered in weeks. As if on cue, the radio chirped to life just as the rest of the officer's platoon and the Recon Battalion he's attached to, stopped in their designated battle positions. Immediately thereafter, multiple Marines began coming out of their respective rides as they flooded the fields en-masse in a leisurely fashion, securing the area around them swiftly. Soon enough, the grassy meadows that'd be their resting place for the night would be dotted with the battalion's mostly broken down age-old Humvee.

Keenly eyeing the grassy ridges across the stream with intent, Lt. Connolly slid back into the tank before popping back up as he brought out his pen and a quite sizable map board as he began plotting up his fire plans for the night. Continuously, he clicked on his pen as thoughts continue to flood his mind regarding his next move.

"Hey Park, can ya get me a laze on that ridge over there." The officer called over to his gunner burrowed inside the tank, before pointing his pen towards the ridge just across the stream. Spherical rock boulders, age-old conifer trees, and tall grasses shrouded the hilly horizon in front of him, which limited their line of sight. It wasn't helped by the fact that a small, localized mist had seemingly swirled from the stream ahead, which made their job of screening the flanks of RCT-5 all harder than it needed to be.

Just then, a voice promptly replied from inside the war machine, his tone raspy and exasperated from all the nicotine products that had been consumed by the gunner. Answering the request of the tank commander, Sergeant Juarez Park leisurely slid his head up by the relaxed Lieutenant – lying down on his back on the tank's cumbersome turret, a pen in his right hand, and a map board neatly placed on top of his protective vest.

"The one littered with those rocky things and some foliage at the bottom?" The gunner casually asked with a bland tone. Simultaneously at the same time, the turret of the tank expectedly swerved towards the ridge in question as Park popped down and pressed his eyes into the GPSE.

"Yeah"

"Aye," The gunner replied almost immediately, before once again pushing himself out of the tank commander's hatch to face the pondering officer yet again. "the shit's at around 995."

"Alrighty." Quickly nodding at his gunner in an affirming manner, the Lieutenant quickly jotted down the range just as Park pushed himself out of the tank before promptly settling down right next to the tank's commander, a cigarette dangling from the edge of his lips.

"So," Park spoke as he lit up the dangling piece of cigarette in his mouth with an issued lighter, before stealing a glance in the direction of the keen Lieutenant. "What's the plan El-tee? I mean if I were the Romans and my superior gave me a pass to abandon all those retard honor group marching shit and go full guerilla, I'd be using those thick foliages and treelines across to start lobbing arrows towards our screen, just to put some distances away from all the firepower."

"Well yeah no shit, that's exactly it." Lt. Connolly simply rolled his eyes at the remark as a response, snorting lightly at the eerily similar idea he had in mind. A faint chuckle followed suit, emanating from their driver.

"Too bad we got thermals." Extending his hands towards the sinking sun of the dusk and the ever-growing shadows of the night, Park casually snickered as he puffed out several clouds of smoke out of his nostrils. "Sucks to be the other guy."

"No shit. On a side note, Captain Wileman granted my request for priority fires to be provided around our battle positions because fuck why not." Leaping back onto his feet, the black-haired officer uncaringly shrugs at his remark before sliding back into his tank, as much-needed rest and sleep await inside. "Let the arty deal with those fucking Roman wannabes, I wanna sleep. But still, if shit does go down, wake me up."

"Roger that." Park immediately responded without much hesitation on his side before sliding down the massive, curvy turret of the tank and onto the viridescent grassy ground below. For some reason, he had spat his cigarette on his lips.

All around the temporarily assigned tank platoon, Marines from 1st Recon's Alpha Company were preoccupied with quite a several tasks at hand in preparation for their screening mission, most of whom were busy with hacking and digging into the fields of grass below to create some resting place for the night. Others laid down on their stomach at the edge of the river's bank, their night vision lowered and weapons of several varieties pointed across towards the majestic countryside. Some meanwhile, were more preoccupied with the task of tying up IFF infrared chemlights – to mark themselves as a friendly force to other coalition and Marine units – onto their respective Humvees and trucks.

Unlike Alpha Company and their accompanying tank platoon attached from the 1st Tank Battalion – whose designated screening responsibility covered the stream's tranquil yet nevertheless strategic shallow banks and bottom, Bravo Company was positioned around 200 meters left of their sister company by their appropriate battle position close to the venerable stone bridge that served as the main crossing point for the small body of water in front of them. Naturally, it was promptly marked as Bravo's screening position by Godfather himself. Both of these temporary lines acted as the flank protector of the RCT-5 and the entire 1st Marine Division itself, who will be rolling northwards directly to the right of the stream through the main Appia Highway route.

Quickly, Bravo Company worked under the ever-increasing veil of darkness that had followed in the wake of the sunset as coils of barbed concertina wires were laid and arrayed across the small, masonry stone bridge by the laboring men of Second Platoon. A bit further back from the bridge and back on the muddy road of the countryside stood a line of Hitman-2's Humvees idling by the pavement as they spread out across the route leading up to the crossing in a herringbone fashion, their 50 cal heavy machine guns and Mark-19 grenade launchers meanwhile were oriented directly over to the other side of the scenic stream.

After a long day maneuvering through a series of lively towns, fantastical villages, verdant fields, and mountainous forests filled with either cheering crowds or die-hard loyalists of the empire that ultimately, proved to be harmless, a flurry of machine gun rounds and a much appreciated lobbing of artillery and guided bombs quickly dealt with the sword-wielding attackers and deterred others from doing the same. And now, they've made it to their designated screening position just in time for nightfall and the first thing that greeted them wasn't the usual images of blown-up remains of Saderan Legionnaire's strongholds nor was it the charred, mangled corpses of civilians and enemies alike laying around, dead, from the Marines' volleys of fire and the atrocities committed by the retreating Imperials itself.

They were instead met by a bucolic melody of frogs croaking and crickets chirping in the darkness, shyly hiding behind the lush grasses and treelines that continuously lined the banks of a stream they were supposed to observe. Reflecting the faint lights of the stars high in the heavens, the stream's water sparkled like a line of jewelry. It seemed, as if, the place itself wasn't even touched at all by the war raging all around them. And despite the warm sun of the continent – much appreciated after the recent, cold storm – already sinking into the horizon beyond, nature made up for it by ushering in a scenic, starry night for the Marines lounging around the fields.

"Man," A seemingly stoic yet mesmerizing voice drifted through the air of the night, the chilly breeze of the mountains carrying it away. "look at all those fucking trees."

Now that he's standing on the age-old masonry bridge, shrouded under the veils of the dark, a certain team leader of Hitman 2-1 can't help but feel mesmerized by the sights around him, which certainly is a much-needed breath of fresh air after witnessing series of death and destructions along the way in the passing days. The only blemishes that somewhat ruined the chilly view of the countryside were the coils of razor-sharp barbed wires and claymore mines that were placed in the middle of the bridge, facing into the darkness of the night on the other side of the stream. Yet, it didn't seem to have bothered Simon that much, at least not before a familiar, noticeably boisterous voice brought the usually stoic brunette out of his thoughts.

"Uh-oh Sai," The voice of his Humvee's driver and RTO, the perpetually upbeat Evan, assailed the quiet tranquility of the stream, as he cheerily snickered in an attempt to gain the attention of his young team leader. "looks like your hippie tree-loving side's rearing its fucking head."

Not even letting his driver finish his snide yet ultimately friendly remark, Simon promptly shot a glare towards the chippy driver, who's currently crouching just behind the frantically established barricade of wires, the platoon's own Humvees and claymores on the bridge. Through the grainy green vision of his PVS-31, the brunette could barely make out the mischievous smirk that's written across Evan's complexion, as their eyes – now simply personified as the viridescent hue of the NVG nodes – met in the darkness. The Sergeant wasted no time in replying with his retortion.

"Evan, as much as I appreciate the obviously retarded, mentally-handicapped input courtesy of your fucking inbred lineage of savages, can I just have a fucking moment to enjoy this beautiful sight without having your cum-filled mouth spewing some Epstein bullshit out?"

"You wanna know what else is beautiful?" With a deadpan tone, Evan promptly howled back at Simon, his voice meanwhile laced with bits of suppressed snicker and slight exasperation, powered simply by morbid, depraved humor and cans after cans of Rip-Its energy drinks. "My 3 hours of precious sleep that was robbed away by that fucking Italian asshole and his bullshit screening mission."

Not quite seeing the quip poking fun at the bloodlines of their Battalion CO coming, the Sergeant can only snort slightly in amusement as a response to that remark.

"Not like we can do anything to change his goddamn mind." The composed complexion of the brunette accompanied his stoic reply to the quite upbeat Evan, an action that was followed by the team leader slightly shaking his head, the silhouette of the LWH helmet barely visible under the cover of the night and hardly discernible through the grainy-green hues of their half-powered NVG. Just then, a torrent of buzzes and chirrups suddenly intruded through the chilly air and put up a stop to their little chat, as their PRR headsets and SINCGARS vehicle radio came to life in a flurry of continuous chatter.

"All Victors this is Godfather, be advised we have a friendly armored convoy approaching from the south, northbound, break."

The raspy, hoarse voice courtesy of their battalion commander continued, just as flashes of faint but fairly visible hues of yellow and white intermittently blinked and faded in the horizon to their south. It was the forward unit of the RCT-5. However, the little sparks of vermillions in the distance were only visible through their respective NVGs, as the IFF chemlights were infrared in nature and thus invisible to the naked human eyes.

One by one, they steadily flashed their hues as they rolled on the pavement of the Appia Highway situated parallel to the screen of 1st Recon. Ignoring the ongoing procession of AAVs and Abrams tanks as if they were never there in the first place, Simon once again shifted his gaze back on Evan, who, during the several dozen seconds while everyone else was stealing slight glances at the passing convoy of mechanized infantry Marines, the driver took the momentary distraction to bring out a brown pack of MRE milkshake and swiftly dug in.

"Because you came from whatever backwoods redneck shithole down there," Simon howled over to his currently preoccupied compatriot, his voice unfittingly calm and composed for such snide banter between the duo. "wouldn't this place remind you of home? Or are there not enough mentally-handicapped inbred kids running around?"

"Those hot chicks by the roadsides were inbred?" With the shrieking noise of armored vehicles rolling past bellowing through the previously tranquil air of the night, his much-needed milkshake break and the hazy green vision of his half powered NVGs essentially distracting him from the brunette's sudden remark, Evan sarcastically shot back with a similarly deadpanned voice. "Cool but I'd still rail them."

"Yeah, clearly they're an upgrade from all those overweight and illiterate land whale cousins you found at the local NASCAR event."

"Dude NASCAR rocks!" Evan, not tolerating such insult to his southern self, immediately hollered back as a response with a somewhat half-serious voice. "I mean, shit, dude, I lost my fucking virginity there.'

"That'll explain everything." Taken slightly aback by the remark, Simon can't help but flash out an amused grin under the bulky night vision goggles. As if on cue, a mocking cheer bellowed through the night, the guy hollering it over none other than the red-haired Corpsman of the Platoon, Clancy.

By then, the column of RCT-5's forward element's plethora of vehicles had long passed by and disappeared into the cloak of the night as they head off towards their next objective : a town in the valley's plateau that goes by the name Knivari, nothing significant about it that distinguishes it from other towns they've steamrolled before, other than the fact it stands on their way to Sadera. Immediately thereafter, as if to accompany the already existing blinks of chemlights ominously drifting through the darkness, the horizon to the north of the battalion's position lit up as if the sunrise had risen earlier than usual. Up in the heavens, Pegasuses shot past at astonishing pace and dazzling meteorites rained down in a choir of shrieks and booms.

As dazzling as the supposed pegasus and meteorites might be, they're the representatives of death itself. Verdant greens and ominous crimsons, the only identifying mark of the swarm of coalition fighter jets in the starry sky, criss-crossed paths with the views of unknown galaxies, their payload meanwhile loaded to brim with a variety of guided bombs and air-to-ground missiles. Materializing out of the shadow, the contraptions weaved past the clear sky of the night, and in their wake, horizons lit up in brilliant series of oranges, flickering like a broken lamp as Paveway bombs relentlessly pounded the defenseless Saderans to pieces, as the only single thing reminding others of their horrible fate of mangled organs and charred corpses were the glowing flashes of vermillions, faintly blinking as they effortlessly lighten the darkened horizon.

Alongside the fighter jets and their variety of destructive payloads, cluster rocket munitions and high explosive artillery rounds flew over the static battle positions of the Recon Marines and rained down on the horizon ahead, presumably on some stubborn Saderans putting up some resistance ahead. The men of Bravo's Second Platoon, spared from the horrific aftermaths of busted intestines, perforated organs and smoldering corpses, simply responded to the commotions happening far-away with an orchestra of hushed cheers and whistles casually.

Mesmerized and captivated by the radiant show of light in the distance, Evan exhilaratingly whistled as the fiery orange in the horizon flashed and cascaded just as quickly as it began, the ominous red and green swiftly zoomed past their wake.

"Those guys over there sure knows how to party like fucking crazy."

"No shit bro." Shortly thereafter, came the quippy reply of their red-haired Corpsman as he promptly hollered back his sarcastic response towards Evan. Despite the dark of night shrouding their screening area and the fact that their half-powered NVGs did very little to improve the visibility of the darkness, it was obvious to anyone close that the voice was Clancy's, his distinct Brooklyn accent slipping out amidst the faint, continuous booms of munitions raining down on the noticeably brightened horizon ahead.

"Oh look," Evan cheekily shot back with a grin contorting on his complexion, his sarcastic tone not lost on the Corpsman currently gazing upon the other side of the stream. "he finally speaks."

"Fuck off gay-ass."

"Said the sailor to the Marine."

Clancy merely chuckled as a response, before hitting back at the driver once again in an obvious voice that's feigning defeat.

"Yeah, yeah whatever." The Corpsman simply grumbled in reply, before returning his attention back on the seemingly empty but nevertheless tranquil banks across the stream and the small, masonry stone bridge crossing it.

Shortly thereafter and once again, the radios, all kinds of them, buzzed yet again – twice, already – in the dead of night and abruptly ended whatever conversation they were having and blasted away the tranquility of the night as the cackles and buzzes continued on until a voice on the other end spoke up. It was their platoon commander.

"All Hitman-2 Victors, radio check, over."

Nothing significant, just a routine radio check by the clearly bored but still keenly focused Lt. Mistral. Pushing the mic of his headset closer to his mouth to speak, Simon stoically replied, and soon, other team leaders in the platoon followed.

"This is Hitman 2-1 to Hitman-2, we read you loud and clear."

Then, came the response from Dow's 2-1 Bravo.

"Hitman-2, this is Hitman 2-1 Bravo, we read you loud and clear, over."

"Hitman 2-2 to Hitman-2, loud and clear, over."

Finally, came the turn for the final team in line, Hitman 2-3.

"Loud and clear, Hitman-2. Hitman 2-3 out."

"Hitman-2 to all Hitman-2 Victors, copy all, out."

Slowly, the particular buzzes of radio chattering in the dead of night died out, steadily replaced by the torrents of crickets chirping and somewhere in the distance, the sounds of artillery rounds and guided bombs blowing their targets to pieces. Just before anything could return to the previous state of tranquility, the device promptly interrupted the night with its chatter once again. This time though, the voice on the other side sounded concerned and panicky.

"Hitman-3 Actual to all Hitman Victors, be advised we have possible silhouettes of enemy scout teams on the other side of the stream, break!" From everyone's radio, the chippy voice of Lt. Richman, the Third Platoon commander broke the temporary silence, and as usual, it was immediately met with a barrage of sneers, groans and sighs.

"They could be trying to scout us for a massed suicide attack!" By now, the annoying chatter reverberating through their assigned position for reconnaissance had unsurprisingly provoked a certain, irritated Sergeant Christopher Sutherby – the bespectacled team leader of Hitman 2-2 – to immediately change the channel of his radio headset without much thought given, knowing full-well that whatever that comes out of Lt. Richman's mouth is complete bullshit much to the amusement of his spotter, Sebastian.

"Can't this fucking idiot shut the fuck up or something." Shortly thereafter, Sebastian promptly grumbled in disbelief as he heaved out a sigh out of his mouth. Sutherby, crouched nearby with his eyes keenly peering through the RCO scopes of his rifles scanning across, immediately hollered back a faint chuckle audible enough for his spotter to hear.

The bespectacled Sergeant curtly spat out a mouthful of chewing tobacco out of his mouth, and into the pristine waters of the stream before calmly speaking to the incredulous Sebastian.

"You've barely been in this battalion for like what?" Sutherby casually spoke, promptly earning him a perplexed glance from the younger spotter. "3 or 4 months? And that guy is already on his way to make you lose your fucking mind."

"I mean, wouldn't you?" Sebastian merely shrugged as a response, an action that's quickly met by an affirming nod by the other side. "I just can't believe that John and his buddies under that motherfucker manage to keep their cool with all his shenanigans."

"Eh, they probably got used to his bullshit." Commented Sutherby, swiftly replying with the most logical assumption as he clicked his mouth in a quizzical manner. While cold and quiet usually, the bespectacled team leader seems to be significantly more talkative and friendlier with his spotter.

The duo merely chuckled within the cloak of the night without much care for whatever's across the stream. So far, besides the panicky Lt. Richman mistaking a rocky boulder for an enemy scout team, nothing really interesting has happened so far during this mind-numbingly boring surveillance watch.

But then, as he was about to return his attention back towards the stream's unremarkable but nevertheless grassy and tranquil banks across, a burning sensation of heat suddenly pierced through his dusty glasses and assailed itself into his brown eyes. It seemed insignificant at first, provoking the bespectacled Sergeant to merely wave it off as one of the many side-effect that had caught up with him for the lack of sleep he had so far in the campaign, but before long, the intensity of pain within his eyes increased instead of cascading like usual just as he figured out what just happened : someone out of his sight, is shining an infrared targeting laser right on his face, and the long streak of green laser brightly sparkling within the hazy green of his NVGs further proofs his suspicion.

Both him and his spotter, who by now had noticed the similar pain, immediately reacted to the action violently. In a heartbeat, their body frantically recoiled up into a squat as the two men swiftly replied to the unknown assailant's sudden laser-pointing by directing both of their M4A1 rifles on a dark, faint silhouette several dozen meters ahead, their barely functioning NVGs not helping in making the assailant's body more discernible as the figure continues to assail the duo with his IR targeting device, seemingly unfazed. Before long, Sutherby boldly decided to break the eerie silence with an inquisitive yell.

"Halt!" The bespectacled man shouted, his grip on the sleek frame of his rifle becoming tighter every second. "Who goes there!"

Hearing those words that had been hollered towards him, the assailant, cloaked beneath the darkness, slowly lowered his rifle as a response.

"Its First Sergeant Fellows." The dark figure, now revealed to be Bravo Company's distrusted First Sergeant, immediately moved to reply with an authoritative tone, his arms meanwhile shot up into the air as a gesture indicating he's a friendly.

"Advanced and be recognized." Finally ending the little back and forth, Sutherby promptly lowered his voice to its normal, calmed state in the face of the much-disliked SNCO approaching.

"Jesus," Merely waving the awkward ordeal off with a slight laugh, the First Sergeant audibly exclaimed as he approached Sutherby and his spotter. "I almost thought you devil dogs were the enemy, almost shot y'all."

"First Sergeant, we clearly aren't." Immediately, Sutherby and Sebastian promptly shot each other a glance as he quipply spoke, a perplexed expression meanwhile written across his face. "How the fuck did you mistake us for the enemy, First Sergeant. Were you even using a fuckin' NVG?"

"I wasn't." The man chuckled lightly as he waved the remark off without much care on his side. Sutherby promptly furrowed his brows in response to the admittance by the SNCO, his face growing redder every second in suppressed anger.

"No shit," Sutherby chided back to the First Sergeant followed by him exasperatedly sighing in clear frustration. "maybe those shit could at least properly function if you brought enough batteries to power them in the fuckin' invasion."

"Now Sergeant, you're getting way out of line." Slowly, the SNCO's face contorted into one that indicates clear lividness as he shot back at the bespectacled Sergeant. "Its not my fault that those POGs in the H&S that's carrying vital shit fucked those shit up beyond repair."

Not seeing any use attempting to form up a response to retort back to the Company First Sergeant, Sutherby and Sebastian merely sighed in resignation.

"Aye aye First Sergeant."

"You motherfuckers sure are a bunch of undisciplined cowboys who don't trust what the Marine Corps provides." The First Sergeant contempt sneered at the duo, his darkened face and the sparkling stream nearby occasionally lit up by the flickering lights of bombs and artillery shells bursting in the distance. Immediately and without being seen by the scornful gaze of the senior enlisted Marine, the two men irritatedly rolled their eyes in disdain just as the SNCO spat out a long, brown stream of dusty saliva onto the picturesque green grasses close by.

In the seemingly never-ending layers of incompetence Recon Marines feel they labor under in the battalion, the Bravo Company's senior enlisted man is nearly at the top with both the perpetually paranoid and borderline trigger happy Lt. Richman and their reckless commander of the 1st Recon, Godfather. Before the duo could finish their morbid imagination of choking the First Sergeant to death with their rifle's sling, the man in question suddenly breaks the momentary silence as he shifts his gaze away from the two men and right towards smudgy countryside across the stream.

"Look, over there," The First Sergeant excitedly pointed out as he stretched out his hands across the flowing water of the stream close by, his gloved fingers oriented towards the darkened horizon beyond without much light for them to see, not even through their barely functioning thermal optics and night vision goggles. "enemy infiltrators."

Both Sutherby and his similarly perplexed spotter swiftly weaved their scopes through the bushes lining their side of the stream's bank, gazing through the lush vegetation with their night vision nodes as faint rays of moonlight and lights from distant stars above barely lit the other side enough for them to see with the hazy, indiscernible view of their PVS-31 NVGs.

Just as swift as their heads shifting direction to face the other side at breakneck speed, their eyebrows were promptly raised in confusion. The supposedly "enemy scouts", seems to look more like a dozen worth of rocky boulders in the middle of a rolling field instead as it were discernible enough to be seen from their respective night visions. Immediately, the young Sebastian broke the silence with a clearly perplexed remark.

"That's a fucking rock, that shit ain't even moving." The tone of clear bewilderment quickly seeped itself into the young Corporal's word as he turned to face the unusually focused First Sergeant, whose face were keenly gazing upon the scarcely illuminated fields across – the lights of the starry heavens above notwithstanding.

"No, no." The First Sergeant swiftly interjected harshly, an action followed by him casually extending his hands towards a moderately-sized treeline on the other side, the characteristic conifer trees making it at least visible in the dark of night. "That's because they're the most disciplined Saderans we've ever met so far."

"Motherfucker…" Both men can't help but sigh at the stubborn remark, their heads lowered in frustration and their complexion clearly exasperated from the man's antics. Shortly thereafter, Sutherby turned and audibly shouted towards a certain figure occupying the gunner's position on his team's Humvee.

"Hey Wolcott," The bespectacled man hurriedly called over with a whistle, an action swiftly followed by the M2 Browning operator curiously popping his head up from the circular cupola on the vehicle's dusty roof. "check out that thing over there across the stream, 'bout 10 o'clock from your current line of sight. Apparently our First Sergeant thinks that the rock is a fucking enemy scout."

Not wasting a time after taking in what had just been told by his team leader, the vehicle's gunner, Lance Corporal Seth Wolcott – who had been aware of the commotion nearby before – immediately heeded to his superior's word and went to work as he pressed his eyes closer to the cumbersome PAS-13 thermal sight mounted on the Humvee's already bulky 50 cal machine gun. Unlike their barely functioning night vision devices, which makes the process of spotting enemies in the distance at night unnecessarily hard, their thermals thankfully made up for all those mind-numbingly irritating problems – the lack of batteries to power the thermals itself notwithstanding, once again attributed to H&S' ever-growing list of continuous supply snafus.

"Uhhh Sergeant, that's not a rock!" Pulling back from the cumbersome sight, the gunner leisurely shouted back after a moment taken to spy out of the thermals as he observed the seemingly darkened horizon beyond, a half smile slowly creeping out of his dust-caked face in the meantime as he fumbled around with his NVGs, pulling it away from his eyes in disbelief. "No fucking way I'm seein' this shit."

"Then what is it?" Sutherby, having had time to cool down from the technically, near-death confrontation with the senior enlisted man of the company, calmly inquired with a somewhat perplexed tone. His eyebrows, together with ones of his spotter and the First Sergeant, promptly furrowed upon receiving the gunner's remark.

"It's a fucking teen busy playing hunter, Sergeant."

"Well shit." The First Sergeant scoffed at the remark, clearly incredulous at the revelation that neither he or Sutherby were right about whether it was an enemy scout or a large boulder. Nobody could blame them though, lack of sleep coupled with their hazy, barely functioning NVGs had contributed to the wrong series of guessing earlier but still, the SNCO weren't willing to give up.

"That's because you undisciplined cowboys thought that Roman's a fucking hunter!" He chided, audibly scoffing at the gunner's finding as he turned off the safety on his weapon, ready to fire on his own. "For all we know he could've been disguising as a fucking civvie!"

But before the paranoid SNCO could act on his own, his radio buzzed. The voice on the side immediately announced in a hushed manner. It was the company commander and by the sound of it, it seems to be that he's clearly aware of the commotion unfolding near the Second Platoon's position that's situated by the stream's masonry bridge.

"Hitman-7, this is Hitman Actual, lower your gun and do not engage, over."

The First Sergeant, not expecting the Captain to meddle with their current ordeal, immediately moved to interject but was promptly cut off before he could remark any further.

"Bu-"

"I say again, do not engage, that is a civilian." It's obvious that Captain Walt too, had been monitoring the figure in the distance for quite some time now and luckily for the men of Hitman 2-2, he had sided with them and their findings indicating that the supposed enemy scouts, was simply a lone teen playing hunter in the dead of night who just happens to run into the sight of the sleep deprived Recon Marines. Left with no choice but to obey his superior, the First Sergeant begrudgingly complied with heavy heart, but not without shooting a death glare at the sniper and spotter duo first.

"You two fucks are lucky I get you off easy." The First Sergeant remarked, his statement absolutely laced with poison and his eyes glaring straight into the two men's faces. Sutherby and Sebastian merely shot each other a confused glance, before slowly returning their gaze back to the SNCO, who by now had taken off and minded his own business away from the duo, embarrassed by the Captain's timely intervention.

"Dawg what the fuck is that goofy-ass threat supposed to mean?!" Just then, a certain quizzical voice resounded throughout the night and quickly gained the attention of the duo, still in shock. The voice belonged to Dow, who, together with his team nearby, had been eavesdropping on the little back and forth between them and the whiny SNCO in clear amusement, as evidenced by the wide grin plastered on the black man's complexion in clear bemusement at the conversation earlier.

---

"Bro what the hell just fucking happened?" Amused snorts and hearty snickers quickie filled the air around them like an enveloping storm, as the clearly puzzled Clancy inquisitively questioned with a suppressed laughter not even a moment after the radio ceased its obnoxiously loud buzzes, and in its wake, poisonous sneers and quizzical wheezes were casually heaved out en-masse like a mental ward full of hysterics.

"This idiot's just another king-size retard making life harder for us out here in the shit." Slightly shaking his head in apparent dismay at the behavior of their Company First Sergeant, Simon casually snorted with a clear frown displayed on his complexion as he swiftly unplugged his headset in annoyance. "What a fucking retard."

Trying to distract himself from the ordeal on the transmission net, Simon stoically looked away from the commotion happening nearby and turned towards the seemingly uninteresting but nevertheless tranquil mix of grassy fields and lush treelines. Showered with the lights of the stars high above and the orange hues of the bursting munitions from the air and artillery bombardment away in the distance, the scenery appeared peaceful and would have certainly stayed that way if it weren't for the still grinning Evan and in his hands, a radio telephone handset.

"And to this day," Evan bemusedly snickered with a wide grin, as he curtly placed down the radio handset onto the dusty center console of their Humvee. "the biggest fucking mystery in the whole United States Marines is, how the fuck did 1st Recon attract so many fucking retards to join the unit, Jesus."

"Like-minded people attract like-minded people or some shit. That'll explain how a fucking hick like you ended up here bro."

"Doc, at least I wasn't sexually violated in the ass like you in your gay-ass dick-sucking all-boys school." Not even letting the Corpsman finish off his sentence, Evan promptly shot back with a deadpan expression just as their team leader chipped in.

"Hey Evan," Simon called out from the darkness, instantly earning the needed attention of his driver. "here's a tip - shut the fuck up, I just want to enjoy the scenery."

"Roger that Sergeant." Clearly not taking the stoic Simon's remark seriously, Evan promptly quipped about like usual, his tone deadpanned and obviously sarcastic. "Although be careful buddy, you seem to be edging pretty close into the fucking cesspool that is the Marines' senior enlisted dudes. Don't wanna see my favorite gay-ass going down that rabbit hole."

"As if I'm going to ever get past my current rank before I EAS'd out of this fucking mess." Simon merely snorted bemusedly in reply. "I'm too smart to be one of those brain-damaged, sub-human dicksucking Staff NCOs anyway."

"As the Great Poet Philosopher Dante says, 'abandon all ye common sense all those who enter the Marines'." Evan sarcastically snickered in an apparent boisterous, mocking voice. Promptly, it instantly gained the driver some amused wheezes and half-smile from both the Corpsman and his team leader respectively. "Jesus, all these motherfuckers should probably make that shit as their motto."

"You know, maybe you're right for once you fucking moon-shining redneck." Barked the brunette, whose face by now had a half smile written across – in the process of being suppressed by the slightly amused team leader in an attempt to maintain his keen gaze and stoic persona as he stared into the darkness ahead.

"Aww, that's so sweet of you, Sai."

"That sounds pretty fucking gay." Clancy audibly interjected and snidely snickered afterwards, amused by the little back and forth currently in progress between the team leader and the driver.

"Of course that's the first thing that came outta your faggy navy brains." Evan instantly shot back as his eyes peeled away from the half-smiling Simon and towards the quizzical Corpsman, slowly narrowing in a joking manner as he barked with a grin. "Hey dude, still thinkin' about all those unsucked dicks and unaccompanied twinks back in Pendleton like that Epstein motherfucker when he sees a kid?"

"Evan, you know how gay you have to be to pull off that sentence at the top of your fucking head right?" Not quite fazed by his compatriot's banter, Clancy simply retorted light-heartedly as he exaggeratedly moved his hands around in a joking manner. Suddenly, Simon chipped in, his voice as stoic and deadpanned as ever.

"You seriously think a fucking illiterate redneck fuck like him to have enough mental capacity to realize that?" Simon sarcastically pointed out as he quickly swept a glance in the driver's direction. Suddenly, before Evan could do anything to retort any further to the remark, the radio barked and hissed with the reverberating voice of their platoon commander accompanying it in the background.

"Hitman 2-1, 2-1 Bravo, 2-2 and 2-3 Actuals, request to rally at my Victor immediately, over." The transmission is over as quickly as it had begun, promptly leaving the stoic Simon in a state of apparent perplexity as he clearly didn't expect for his radio – or his platoon commander, for that matter – to ring up and call for a team leader meeting anytime soon. Slowly, he leaned closer to his headset's receiver before softly speaking, his composed tone mirroring his similarly serenely stoic face.

"This is Hitman 2-1 Actual, roger that." He released his grip on the receiver, and promptly got up from his previous crouching position. His mind was still in a state of guessing and slight confusion when a sudden boisterous voice remarked out of the blue, snapping him out of his earlier daze.

"Well shit, looks like you guys are going to be briefed on some fucking gay bullshit, and our Lieutenant knows that too." Evan snidely remarked as a smirk subconsciously surfaced on his dusty face. "Goodluck dude, try not to lose your motherfucking brain cells in the process like those brain-dead SNCOs retards."

"Yeah, yeah." Simon simply coughed it off casually as he walked away from his team's idle Humvee, mostly ignoring what words and whatnot that had come out of the driver's mouth. But still, he can't seem to shake out the foreboding feeling about the meeting, freely swelling within his stomach as he continues walking away from his earlier position on the ridge.

For a minute or so, Simon – together with the Platoon's Corpsman, Clancy following close behind– serenely walked through the platoon battle position with his night vision nodes pulled upwards and his eyes not focused on anything in particular as lines of Humvees and fighting holes, surrounded by lush vegetation slowly swaying gracefully by his hips as the nightly breeze swept through as he passed by as he neared closer to the Lieutenant's command Humvee, idly parked in middle of the narrow countryside road leading up to the bridge ahead. Lit up in the distance simply with the faintly visible hues of red from the their issued flashlight, neatly held together by a parachute cord hung on the vehicle's hood, the brunette could barely make out its silhouette in the darkness of the night – and the tight circle of team leaders steadily forming around it and a certain Lt. Mistral – even with his NVGs.

Emerging out of the sea of grasses nearby and into the roadside, the brunette steadily closed his distance to the Humvee closer and with it, more and more of the barely lit silhouettes of the platoon's team leader began to make themselves visible enough to be seen in both Simon and Clancy's line of sight. Eyeing the two figures approaching steadily towards the hood of his vehicle, the Lieutenant quickly acknowledges the duo's presence with a simple, short glance and a curt nod before swiftly shifting his eyes and attention back on a map laid out on the dusty surface of the hood.

"Let me guess," Arriving and swiftly merging themselves into the crowd gathered around Lieutenant and his unveiled map, Simon sarcastically barked as he curtly leaned on the front bumper of the Humvee alongside his fellow team leaders. "Godfather's infinite wisdom is gonna make us do some stupid shit again?"

The immediate reception responding to the quippy remark were a series of snickers and wheezes, appropriately followed with a frown. Everyone knew what he meant and the worst part is, he's probably right. Just then, the young Lieutenant smiled grimly.

"Sai, as much as I hate to say this," He grimly pointed out with a grave smile, his hands meanwhile caressing his forehead in clear exasperation. "you're right. Because around 20 mikes ago the Captain passed down an order from Godfather to all platoon commanders, indicating that our screening mission is over."

"Well that's good, my boys can finally get some sleep after a day and a half staying awake trying to spot some fucking Romans creeping around RCT-5's flank." Heaving out a sigh, Dow leisurely remarked just as both his and Simon's complexion darkened and his tone turned grimmer, before glancing towards their leader. "There's a catch ain't it sir?"

"You two know how it is with Godfather, of course there'll be a catch." The Lieutenant merely shrugged in response, before laying his hands on the jumbled mess of maps, compass, rifles and LWH helmets on the hood as he shifted through it, before robotically reciting the received OPORD with a seemingly composed face. "In an hour or so, the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, in support of 1st Marine Division's advance, will conduct an assault on a Saderan fort situated 13 klicks west of RCT-5's objective, the town of Knivari, in an effort to secure the screen of the regimental combat team and the division as a whole from any hostile attacks coming from their western flank."

The Lieutenant paused for a moment, letting what had just been said to sink in into the minds of his subordinates gathered around. For a reason, he had wholly expected for his statement to be immediately met by a barrage of dismayed grumbles and tired groans, but instead, none of it even came. The tight circle of team leaders plus one corpsman, either standing tall by the hood or leaning on the vehicle's front bumper, merely gave Lt. Mistral a curt nod as a response. Their face however had significantly darkened under the glowing infrared light and their frown noticeably widened under the infrared crimson hues of the flashlight.

"We would have limited air support, practically no ground support besides Lt. Connolly's tanks and some artillery that'd eventually get out of our range later on." Shifting his face downwards towards the newly received map once again with a composed complexion, the Lieutenant continued on with his explanation. "We are pretty much on our own as we operate on the RCT's flank."

"Talk about from bad to down horrendous. We're going up against a whole-ass fucking fort now?" Dow bleakly snickered as he intently listened to the briefing, his eyes occasionally averting between his fellow NCOs and the young officer. "Dawg, this is completely batshit."

"Yeah, I know." Immediately, Lt. Mistral shot his head back upwards and glanced at the black man ghastly. Swiftly thereafter, he turned his head left and right, keenly studying the facial expression of his Marines. Their complexion appeared grim and had turned significantly glum throughout the course of the relatively short meeting. Sighing in exasperation, at the prospect of being the one likely to be held responsible in the event the assault went wrong, he ended the briefing for now and beckoned towards the team leaders that it's time to return to their respective teams. "That should be it for now. Load up, we're Oscar Mike in 30. Bravo Company will be on-point leading the battalion and our platoon will be the one leading the company, Tanks will be with our friends in Alpha."

Nodding affirmingly towards the young, similarly grim Lieutenant at the end of the briefing without a word, everyone picked up their gears that had been previously placed by them around the command vehicle's vicinity and left as they took off for their respective team waiting in the distance. The red-haired Corpsman, silently walking shoulder by shoulder with the seemingly aloof and stoic Simon, finally broke the silence between the two as he spat into the filthy dirt ground below.

"This is such bullshit." Clancy softly spat towards the ground below, shaking his head slightly in dismay just as Simon glanced towards his incredulous partner to his right. He did not speak a word, merely agreeing with the Corpsman's words in deafening silence as his shining emerald-green eyes continued gazing at his compatriot just as he remarked again, glumly. "Fucking Evan won't like this a bit."

"Alright, who's the fucking retard that decided to send us to assault a fucking fort away from the friendly lines that's occupied by a legion-sized elements?" Mirroring the same, earlier actions of his red-haired buddy upon hearing their newly-received order, Evan audibly grumbled as he reluctantly entered the driver's cab of the team's Humvee in anticipation of their upcoming assault. "This for sure tops my list of retarded shit we've done so far in this fucking war."

Just before closing the door however, he quickly spat out a long stream of brown, Rip-Its liquid out of his mouth and into the grassy wilderness outside, promptly gouging out amused chuckles from both the by now, desensitized albino journalist riding along and the red-haired Clancy. Evan merely whistled in exasperation, his grip on the steering wheel slowly becoming tighter as he swept a quick glance to the right towards the seemingly quiet and composed brunette, his face glued to the BLUFOR tracker device and its glowing screen as he intently studied the map lay out and the route for their eventual assault on the fort later and stowed tightly between both his thighs in case of emergency use, is his M4A1 carbine.

"Man, y'all wanna know why the fuck are we even assaulting that shithole in the first place? I'll tell you why, it's the fucking Clinton Foundation and their hunt for reincarnated Epstein." With a slight grin plastered on his complexion, Evan sarcastically explained with a cheeky tone as he quickly glanced over towards the keen brunette, whose face is still apparently glued to the BLUFOR tracker's screen. Though, he did manage to gouge out some reactions in the form of curt snickers and audible snorts from his other compatriots sitting at the back of the venerable vehicle. "You'd think that motherfucker is gone for good and there's no more snitch for the Clintons, but no. You see, through the universe law of bullshit, he was fucking reincarnated in this Falmart shithole and got himself a harem of underaged kids. Of course, the Clintons that he still has some fucking business with them, so this is why they opened the porta-"

"Evan please," Suddenly, the previously silent and stoic brunette spoke up as his head rose up to face his compatriot, abruptly interrupting his Rip-Its induced babbling with an unamused glare. "I'm trying to figure out the route for our mission."

"Right, because we are gonna cross over 13 km of empty countryside with absolutely shit road instead of the main highway, so we can assault and capture a fucking fort with Legions worth of men on it." Evan merely scoffed at the remark with a sarcastic quip, his voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and glum exasperation as he pointed his gloved hands towards the dark wilderness outside – something that they'd likely be seeing a lot in the next couple of hours in their forthcoming journey. "Yet they say I did too much battery acid in high school to be accepted into the basic training."

Simon continued intently glaring at Evan, who in turn merely snickered in resigned amusement as the brunette averted his attention back in the glowing device on the vehicle's center console.

"Jesus, the business end of Godfather and General Kelly's crack pipe must've been hot as fucking shit." Casually shrugging off the previous glare without much care on his part, Evan continued on with his disembodied rambles just as the radio came to life.

"All Victors this is Godfather, be advised we have a logistics convoy approaching from the south, over."

Just as the two continued on with their little back and forth under the cloak of the night, a staccato of machine gun fires erupted in the distance, their shrills and tracers sounded and looked faint as the continuous pops and the strings of tracer ripped through blanket of the darkness in a wild interval. At first, the brunette didn't pay much attention to the noises outside as he was mainly preoccupied with engaging with their approach to the fort. But the more he ignored the rattling symphony in the distance, the louder and more intense it became as the orchestra of the seemingly continuous rattles steadily increased in the distance.

He looked up just in time to be met by a horrifying image, as the horizon in his line of sight was swiftly illuminated by hundreds upon hundreds of red and orange streaks of tracers as their incoming lights and the accompanying, unnerving rattlings woke up the night and engulfed it in a temporary state of twilight. It barely took a second for the unusually composed Simon to figure out what the approaching strings of dazzling lights meant : they had accidentally become the victims of friendly fire. Not wasting any moment dwelling in shock, Simon appropriately shouted towards his fellow teammates.

"Get down!"

"Why?!" His orders were immediately met by a confused look from Evan, who apparently hadn't been aware of the rattling of machine guns steadily becoming louder in the distance. Though, still trusting their team leader enough, everyone promptly curled into a ball just as Simon replied with a hushed voice.

"Just get down!" Simon shouted back hushedly just in time as the first round struck their thinly armored Humvee. The whole chassis of the venerable vehicle shook, alongside other rides in the battalion, as it came under unrelenting but strangely inaccurate fires from the division's logistic convoy rolling past.

Hundreds of machine gun rounds penetrated and sliced through their exposed gears hanging outside their vehicles like knife through hot butter, the accompanying zippings of bullets flying past gradually decreasing as it luckily hit either the dirt, or simply over their heads by mere meters. Those that managed to strike the age-old Humvees, sent the occupants ducking for cover and curling into a ball as the whole ride shook like a high magnitude earthquake as dozens of heavy caliber bullets passed through. But before long, the intensity of rattling staccato steadily decreased before it completely disappear along with the lumbering trucks full of nervous logisticians into the night, and leaving in its wake, a whole crowd of Marines shaken with their jitters barely under control and their facial expression, reeks off confusion and perplexity from the ordeal that had ended abruptly just as it started.

Deducing that it's safe to uncurl from his frantic ball position, Simon slowly rose from his seat and as if on cue, the radio immediately came to life and were promptly clogged with a wide variety of traffic from the perplexed Marines of 1st Recon inquiring about what had just happened earlier. Whistling at such little destruction in the wake of such intense barrage of fires, the brunette simply came to a conclusion, that the relatively inexperienced logistic POGs driving the supply trucks from which the torrent of fires originated from, had mistakenly assumed that the faint glow of the Recon Marines' IFF infrared chemlight to be bonfires of an enemy encampment and thus, they swiftly raked the area with a barrage of unrelenting heavy caliber rounds.

"Holy fuck…" Rising slowly from his seat, Clancy immediately spoke with a stuttering voice, still shaken by the near death ordeal not even a minute earlier. "What the fuck was that."

"Fuckers thought that our IR chemlights are fucking enemy bonfires." Simon casually concluded as he shook his head in disbelief with an accompanying nervous snicker before averting his attention towards his fellow subordinates. "You guys alright?"

Much to the Sergeant's relief, one by one, the answer came

"Yeah." Came Clancy's reply, as he leaned to his right to check on the reporter, who in turn merely responded with an affirming nod indicating he is fine. Though, the team's supply of MRE had been shredded to chunky pieces and scattered throughout the cramped insides of the Humvee in a series of mushy mess of brown and yellow. "But Sai, I'm fucking covered in omelettes and dollar-store pastas."

"Yup, I'm good up here!" Kirito quickly heaved out a chuckle as a reply, an action promptly followed by the Mark-19 gunner audibly tapping the roof of the Humvee as an "OK" gesture.

"Yeah, yeah." Evan simply grumbled as a reply, his face stricken with disbelief and his tone wildly amused by the bizarre ordeal that had just unfolded. "Those motherfuckers are fucking reservists, I saw their markings!"

Not wasting any time dwelling more on what had just happened, Simon immediately gripped onto his headset and swiftly spoke with a cool-headed tone.

"Hitman-2 this is 2-1, that's a friendly unit northbound on the MSR firing on our position. I say again that's a blue on blue. They're now northbound approaching Ajax and Centurion-1's position." The brunette glanced out of his seat towards the rest of the platoon's Humvee outside only to be met by a relieving sight, as most of their fellow Recon Marines appeared fine along with their vehicles, some negligible holes notwithstanding. Before long, the radio replied black with the voice of his superior unflappably responding, as if they weren't even caught in a blue on blue incident just minutes earlier.

"Roger that 2-1, I'll pass the news to Ajax, over." However, the transmission was quickly cut off by another one, much more important than the two chatter currently going on. It was the order to move by their company CO.

"All Hitman-Victors, we are Oscar Mike."

"Sai, look, they just shot our fucking food to shit!" Evan audibly exclaimed in clear dismay as he turned towards his team leader with a flabbergasted smile of disbelief, almost bemused expression. However, the brunette spoke first before the driver could say anything.

"We are Oscar Mike, start it up." Simon ordered calmly, beckoning towards Evan and the steering wheel of the vehicle. Almost immediately, Evan's complexion changed drastically and his face darkened in absolute disappointment as he weaved his hands around the cab, starting the venerable Humvee with a roar.

"Damn it." He cursed under his breath, lividly slamming his hands several times on the roaring dashboard as his grumbling continued much to the concern of his stoic-faced brunette companion, who merely shot him a look of understanding. "13 klicks in complete fuckin' darkness, no fucking chow!"

But before they could move any further than several dozen meters ahead, the radio buzzed again annoyingly much to the disdain of the startled Marines inside the Humvee.

"All Victors this is Godfather, be advised H&S had two trucks down from the blue on blue, ordering a temporary halt."

"Start! But no! Stop! Then Start again! What the fuck is Godfather even doing here dude, he's just being a petty fucking cocktease." By now, Evan couldn't take the bullshit from the battalion any further as he slammed his hands multiple times against the dashboard in anger, before a slight force holding back his shoulder and arms in a tight grip stopped him. It's Simon, whose eyes had concern written across it as he held his gaze long enough, attempting to cool the driver down.

"I'm gonna go check on those trucks for a minute." The brunette beckoned over his head towards the pair of MTVR trucks laying outside, immobile from the amount of 50 cal rounds poured on it by the nervous, relatively inexperienced reserve logisticians. Evan, cooling down, merely nodded in affirmation as he fixed his helmet strap before returning his vision back to the steering wheel. "Doc, Evan, make sure every single thing we carry is fine and not perforated with all kinds of holes."

"Roger that, Sergeant." Came the reply from the Corpsman, and before long Simon had jogged out of his vehicle and slowly approached towards the two trucks lying immobile in the vibrant grasses ahead. Marines from the battalion's H&S moved about, attempting their best to bring their ride back to life.

He can only watch the jumbled mess unfold as he walks closer to the men with a dismayed complexion. Shouts and yells filled the air as the disarrayed rag-tag group of POGs moved around frantically with repair tools just as the brunette strided closer to them and their damaged, immobilized trucks silently lying in the patch of grassy meadow by the roadside, several dozens meter away from the gleaming stream.

"You guys alright?" Simon concernedly asked as he approached the H&S Marines, before coming to a stop adjacent to a group of men rolling around spare wheels and parts around the immobilized truck. A Marine in the battalion's supply unit, whom he knew simply by his nickname Mac, swiftly greeted him with a dazed smile as he acknowledged his arrival with a grumble.

"Yeah, yeah. We good." Mac responded as he laid on his back, working on the perforated tires of his similarly perforated truck and nearby, lies dozens of metal splinters and potentially hazardous shrapnels in disarray. It's clearly a miracle that no one were hurted or the fact that none of the vital ammunition carried in the truck's back was cooked off by the intensity of the earlier machine gun barrages. "Fucking acid-sniffing fucks, can you believe those goddamn reservist weekend-warriors opened fire on us?"

"Those guys are shock trauma and supply haulers, bunch of fuckin' doctors and trigger-happy LAPD cops." Another Marine, jumping out of the back of the truck shakenly, exclaimed in disbelief. "Didn't those motherfucker have to recite some sort of oath to not randomly fuck people's shit up?"

Suddenly, a familiar voice chipped in along with a curt chuckle as a figure strided closer to the truck. He eyed the damages done by the torrent of unrelenting fires earlier, before turning towards the two, currently laboring H&S Marines, revealing himself to be a wildly disbelieved Dow.

"There's probably too many blacks in our units and shit for those LAPD cops to start blasting at us like it's the fucking '60s again." Dow can't help but chip in into the conversation with a dazed half-smile written across his complexion as he greeted the unfazed Simon, his team leader, with a light tap on his shoulder.

Ignoring the light-hearted quip and back and forth from his fellow compatriots in the H&S, Simon once again remarked with a composed expression as he keenly studies the damage dealt to the MTVR supply truck by the wildly inaccurate but still intense fires earlier. It's a blessing in disguise, that the reservists that had just blasted away at them, barely knew how to aim and shoot their machine guns properly as besides some holes right in and there, the vehicle was mostly fine besides its shredded tires ripped apart by the few rounds that managed to actually hit.

"You guys may need some security doing these things," He said before beckoning over towards Mac and his fellow companions busily working on the mangled tires of their truck, before averting his gaze to Dow, urging him to help them out with a mere beckoning of his head. "I'll try my best to get what our platoon commander has to offe-"

"Belay that devil dogs!" However, before the brunette's assistant team leader and the H&S Marines gathered around the idle truck could do anything to bring it back to working condition, a loud, authoritative shout abruptly interrupted their session of repairs and bullshitting as a short yet relatively burly figure marched decisively towards their position with his stocky hands neatly on his hips. "Godfather got a mission! And the mission is now!"

The figure, now revealed to be their obnoxious Sergeant Major that went by the name John Ackermann, quickly pointed his finger towards the two immobilized MTVR trucks before shifting it towards the several dozen spare tires lying about on the ground in front of him.

"Abandon this vehicle," He loudly ordered as he pointed towards the damaged vehicles to his left before shifting his attention to the tires on the ground along with the small gathering of Marines nearby. "and put these tires on another vehicle, let's get moving!"

Perplexed by the sudden orders urging them to abandon the trucks and the vital pieces of equipment and supplies necessary to keep the Recon Marines going, Simon immediately called out the orders with a flabbergasted tone.

"But Sergeant Maj-" But before he could even finish his sentence, the short and stocky Sergeant Major angrily hollered back with a sneering complexion, sending a barrage of little saliva flying towards the brunette.

"No buts!" The Sergeant Major shouted back with a sneering voice, his veins popping out visibly even under the cloak of night as he loudly yelled and sneered with a somewhat unintelligible southern accent, before stretching his hands out in the direction of the Marines gathered nearby as he pointed out with a livid expression. "These asses ain't in gear or yo' vehicles 10 minutes ago, you're in direct disobedience of order from Godfather hisself!"

Not seeing any way arguing back with the thick-headed, unbelievably dense Sergeant Major, Simon reluctantly caved in with a heavy heart.

"...Yes Sergeant Major." In a one night alone, they had to endure the incompetence of the two most prominent SNCOs in their company and battalion respectively as he barely kept his usual straight, stoic facial expression before a glance to the left and beckoned towards the similarly disappointed Dow to cease his attempts to repair the damaged vital supply truck belonging to the Battalion's H&S.

The Battalion Sergeant Major merely nodded in affirmation, before promptly taking off towards the rest of the slightly clogged convoy as he continued hollering obnoxious loud shouts at the logisticians and Motor-T Marines of the H&S. Still stricken with wild disbelief, Dow merely shook his head in disappointment at the order uttered by the Sergeant Major, which apparently came straight from their battalion commander itself. He swiftly got up to his feet from his previous squatting posture as he slowly approached the seemingly stoic-faced Simon in dismay.

Now seeing that the obnoxiously loud, approval-hungry Sergeant Major is gone, Simon promptly took the opportunity to inquire about the cargo and supplies carried in the back of the damaged trucks, soon to be willingly abandoned in the grassy wilderness right here, by orders straight from their reckless Battalion Commander.

"What are you guys carrying?" Simon inquisitively asked his H&S buddy with an aloof tone, before slightly beckoning towards the trucks in question – currently in the process of being abandoned, as its occupant had long left it to its fate under the exaggerated threat of NJP from their boot-licking, borderline incompetent Sergeant Major – for emphasis.

"Uhh-uh a lot?" Mac stuttered for a moment, before answering truthfully as he counted the numbers of vital supplies and cargoes carried on his vehicle with his own fingers. "Battalion's chow and MREs, ammos, couples of crates carrying M4s and grenades, NVGs and thermal along with their fuckin' batteries, spare parts and all kind of vital shit. You know what I'm sayin' right bud?"

"And we are abandoning all this because fucking Godfather doesn't have time to fix this truck? So he can continue on with his reckless-ass mission to that fort?" Dow, already stricken with disbelief by the fact that they're abandoning the trucks, was further disheartened upon hearing the wide variety of critical supplies carried on those vehicles about to be abandoned. He slowly turned towards the silent, perhaps numb Simon with an exasperated sigh "Nigga, this is some bullshit, Sai."

Simon stayed silent as he merely nodded in resignation upon hearing Mac's truthful recollection of the cargoes carried. He had become numb to the layers upon layers of incompetence plaguing their entire battalion, as he merely gazed at the immobilized pair of trucks sitting idly on the grassy patch of the lushy meadow ahead just off the roadside.

Deep inside, beyond the masking layers of stoicism and cool-headedness displayed on the outside, the brunette couldn't believe it. He can't fucking believe that they'll abandoning those two vital trucks carrying a whole lot of supplies critical to the entire battalion because apparently, their medal-hungry glory-hound Battalion Commander doesn't have the time needed to repair the damaged trucks as he was intensely preoccupied with the forthcoming reckless assault on the Saderan fort situated dozen of miles away from their current position.

The brunette, alongside his assistant team leader companion, took one final, resigned look at the immobilized trucks dimly lit by the starry night sky and the half-moon before returning back to their respective team and Humvee, reluctantly leaving the trucks – and its critical supplies carried in the back – to an unknown fate on the grassy wilderness of Duma Mountains' plateau.

---

Acronym and slang notes :

Radiowatch - Like the name implies, it's a constantly rotating shift of Marines watching the radio in case any useful radio traffic suddenly pops out of nowhere.

SNCO - I already explained it a couple of chapters back, but here it is in case you guys forgot : Staff Non-commissioned officer.

POGs - Also have explained before, Persons Other Than Grunts, basically non-combat Marines that's usually derided and seen as pussies by the much more experienced combat Marines.

Tactically acquiring - Fancy way of saying you steal something in the Marines.

EAS - End of Active Service which is basically the military way of saying your service time is over and you can now leave (or reenlist for another couple of years, but most will just quit due to bullshits thrown at them).

IR - Infrared.

Red Flashlight - Basically flashlight, with red lights because it isn't as bright or revealing as normal ones. Standard issue throughout all branches iirc.

Mikes - Minutes but in military terms (for example five-zero mikes is 50 min and so on).

IFF - Identification Friend or Foe, which is basically a device that shows that you're a friendly unit and not the enemy.

Screening - A type of military operation, to put it simply in layman's terms, is about guarding the flanks of a much bigger, advancing main forces. Usually executed by smaller reconnaissance or cavalry units within artillery range.

GPSE - Gunner Primary Extension Sight, basically an extension of the primary sight which conveniently allows the tank commander (TC) to see the same thing as the gunner.

Fire plan - As it sounds, planning for your fires and where it should be directed.

Priority fires - Basically a place where artillery fire is prioritized over that certain area.

PAS-13 - A thermal sight as explained above. Pretty bulky, so it's usually seen on machine guns of heavy and general-purpose types. Eats battery like a bitch.

Chow - food.

Belay - Stop.

ITX - Integrated Training Exercise, which is just an exercise meant to create a challenging, realistic training environment that produces combat-ready forces capable of operating as a Marine Air-Ground Task Force (MAGTF).

Operations Order/OPORD - Well, you guys get what it meant just by its name.