AN: Fuck it, why not post this thing already? Also, I have absolutely no experience with combat, weapon's handling, or anything military related, so please cut me a bit of slack in that sense. I try to research it like an autist, but I'm sure some erroneous things still got through.

As soon as the tires of the truck made contact with the ground, I turned on my radio. "Squads 2 and 3, this is Squad 1 lead, do you read?"

Static reigned for a second, until I was hailed. The voice sounded familiar to Scars. "Copy, Squad 1 lead, Squad 2 reads you loud and clear."

Another voice pitched in shortly after, feminine and grating. "Yo, bossman! What's the plan?"

I restrained a sigh. "It's a simple plan. Squad 1 will commit a frontal assault on the outpost. During this time, Squads 2 and 3 must position themselves and prepare for a flanking maneuver. When I give the order, you two are to rush in and sweep the area. If resistance is too fierce, fall back and inform the other squads. And remember, do not needlessly waste lives. Mercs may be aplenty, but it helps our employers to keep the casualty rate low."

"Understood."

A scoff sounded over the line. "Whatever you say, bossman."

I turn off comms and instead observe the rest of my squad. As is to be expected, their arms and armor are not the most well kept. Two men hold swords, one rusted and the other one nicked, and their heater shields hold some fractures. Their armor leaves a lot to be desired, with only a face mask and some loosely-hanging elbow pads visible. Five men, all defenders, have long kite shields in only worn condition, and they either use maces, warhammers, or cudgels. They have more armor than the previous two, but it is no more than a breastplate or plate carrier, a helmet, and some greaves. They must be some minor mercenary band, hence their similar equipment.

The other three defenders are a motley lot. One, a broad figure in a suit of slightly-rusted plate, had tall horns pointed to the sky. He did not use a shield, but instead wielded a large two-handed mace. He may be a Gargoyle. Another, a small figure, holds onto an enormous shield, tall and wide enough to completely cover me while crouched. Beyond the shield, they wore no armor, instead wearing a pair of jeans, shoes, a red shirt, and a maroon jacket. Once again, a hood and mask combo hides their face. I wonder why that's trendy, as opposed to a closed helm? Anyways, the last figure was a lean woman, clad in modern tactical gear: combat boots, knee pads, elbow pads, plate carrier, balaclava, and tactical helmet. She holds a large riot shield in her left hand, and her right holds onto a pistol, I believe it's called the Biretta M62. She has a standard pair of black horns, symmetrical in height.

The casters were of little note. Four wore gray robes, four others wore black robes, and the last wore a motley black and white set. Most were the standard set of Sarkaz, with black, red, or generally dark horns. One, however, was a Vampire. A boon, maybe, but also a potential liability. I just hope this one doesn't get blood drunk like the other ones I've met. And they have long hair and a pretty face but a thin frame, so I'm not certain if they are a thin woman or just a very pretty man.

The comms go active once more. This time, a deep and smooth voice sounds out, with a hint of a Victorian accent in it. "Sir, we're almost a klick from the objective. Should we continue, or will you dismount?"

I look at my squad, and some look haggard. Must've had closer calls with the bombardment. "Continue half a klick. As for Squad 2 and 3, take them to a quarter of a klick from the objective."

Another voice butts in, "Oho, is the big bad bossman showing some mercy?"

Before I could respond, Scars stepped in. "W, maintain comms discipline."

Once again, she scoffed. "Hah? Why should I listen to–"

It took me a while, but I responded. "Scars, Roach. Shut it."

The peace held for a while.

"Sir, we've arrived."

I stand up and get off the truck, "Squad 1, dismount." I wait for the rest of them to get off, then, after a quick check to see the transport empty, I set about organizing the team. "Shieldmen, form a rank. Mace, get on their left flank. Casters, stay behind the man in front of you. You don't want to get shot and stranded in the middle of nowhere."

They formed up as ordered, with the five shielders taking center spot, the tactical woman standing guard next to them, and the tower shielder next to Mace. The rust swords stood to my left, and I stood the farthest to the right. The casters stood closely behind us.

"Remember, we just need to march up, distract them, and not fall." A few nodded, but most stood silently. I just decided to tighten my grip on my poleaxe and raise it forwards.

"Squad 1, forward march!"

…..

Tink!

Fuck! Bolts to the head always hurt, even when they don't pierce!

"RAISE SHIELDS!"

The order came stronger than I intended, but the men obeyed, the sound of metal clanking together filling the Barrenlands. Of course, Mace and I had no such luck, but our armor should keep us alive, if a bit bruised.

Few bolts and arrows came, and those that did either hit wood or metal. The casters were unscathed, and the front rank hardly got hurt. In fact, I'd say that the only one that would get a bruise was myself, as it turns out that Mace could make himself a temporary earthen shield, lucky bastard.

We marched on, our casters sometimes exchanging a projectile or two with the outpost guards. At least one casualty was inflicted on the guards during this exchange, as a tower guard was heard screaming along with a dull thud following shortly after. The volume of attacks did increase after that, but by that point we were close to reaching the first wall already. I did get struck a few more times by bolts, but none penetrated and few were as strong as the first, though I did hear my faithless caster moving closer to the rusted swordsmen.

With a few more steps, we reached the front wall, and oh Lord did we get their attention. At least ten Sarkaz vanguards were behind the fortifications, with defenders of equal numbers rushing to assist them. I turned to my section, "Shields, protect the casters! Mace, with me!"

At that, the two of us climbed over the gabions. A sword or two struck me, but my armor held true, as it damn well should have. I stood after, pulling my poleaxe ready, and waited for the certain next attack. Sure enough, a man charged my right, his blade poised for a diagonal slash. I struck him at his right temple, the butt of my poleaxe stained with a bit of blood. Before he could fully recover his wits, I swung the head, and the ax bit into his throat. I kicked him off the blade, and his gurgles were briefly audible.

His allies were not idle, however, and two more came at me, a man to my left with a mace and one to my front with an ax. I turned to deal with the mace wielder, knocking his mace away with the ax head before stabbing him in the neck with the spear point. Then, with the man still stabbed into the point, I moved him in front of me, his ally's ax biting into his back instead of my chest. I kicked the quickly dying man onto the axeman, then crushed the latter's skull with the butt of my weapon.

I turned to look at the other men, and saw them shying from combat. In that brief moment, I turned to Mace, seeing him add a fresh corpse to the two at his feet. I saw that the enemy defenders were picking up their pace, and decided to make quick work of the other two vanguards. I charged a tall spearman, embedding my ax's edge to his skull, and turned to the other man. Turns out that they were turning to flee. Instead of charging, I picked up the dead man's spear, aimed it at the coward, and threw it. It hit his lower back, lower than I aimed for, but it meant he was out for the rest of the fight. I stole another brief glance to Mace, and saw that he let his last opponent flee. An odd choice, but not worth splitting hairs.

I turn and look at the rest of my squad. The shields are holding their ground, though the rusted ones' gear looks as though it may break soon. The casters are also mostly hale, with only one sporting a bolt in the arm. "Mace, keep the dogs busy! Defenders and casters, advance!"

With that, I hear the steady march of my men, and briefly jump back into the fray. Defenders may have weaker offensive capabilities, but their defense makes them a tricky foe to down. I charge the two defenders that have made it in front of me, their armor and riot shields at the ready. I ram my shoulder at the men, knocking one of them down, and then swing my poleaxe low. The standing defender stops my swing by blocking the shaft, but my position leaves me free to push the head of the ax right into his visor, breaking his composure and its visor. I grab his shield in his dazed state, push it out of the way, and stab his right eye with my spearhead, kicking him off with a wet squelch. I turn to the other man, only to see that he's still trying to get to his feet, his armor encumbering him. I run to him and knock him flat on his stomach, then stab through his throat with the spearhead.

I see more defenders making their way to us, but then am hit by a handful of arrows and bolts. None of them pierce, but one or two may leave a nasty bruise. I quickly surveyed the situation while falling back, and came to a quick decision. I quickly turned on comms, "Squad 2, Squad 3, you're clear to assault."

Scars responded immediately, "Copy, Squad 1. Advancing."

Roach gave a curt reply, "Moving."

I reach down, grab the riot shields off my two killed defenders, and move back with the others. I hand the shields to the poorly-equipped men. "Your shields are breaking, so take these." I didn't stick around enough to hear their reply, instead turning to Mace. He was already in the process of taking a third defender down. Problem is, he's too far from the squad. "Mace, fall back!" He moves back slowly, but I focus my attention on the rest of my men. All my defenders are past the gabion wall, with only a handful of casters still climbing. I moved back to the barrier, pulling and pushing the troops over to the rest of the squad, then went to put my men back in formation.

"Mace, get back to our left flank! Shields, form rank and guard! Casters, fire at will!"

With their orders, my men set out to do as they were told. Mace was able to get back, though a lucky shot by a marksman meant that he now held a bolt on his left bicep. Thankfully, the rustmen put the new shields to good use, blocking many bolts and the odd arts attack. Some shielders, like the tactical woman and one of the five, sport some scratches or other minor injuries, while two casters have arrows on them. Fortunately, those wounds are not lethal, but it is worrisome that they were hit in the first place. I can't see the amount of marksmen the enemy has, but their casters must be some other place. A pity, but I'm sure the other squads can deal with them.

"Casters, focus fire on their marksmen! Defenders, hold this position!"

Now, all that's left is to wait and survive.

…..

Damn, the men might need support.

We may have done too good of a job in assaulting the base, as more and more defenders and vanguards flooded the area. If I'd have to guess, some twenty defenders came in total, and ten more vanguards came as reinforcements. That's also ignoring the newly arrived casters taking positions on towers or barrack roofs, whittling away at my defenders. The only good news is that their marksmen must've either repositioned or expired, as few bolts and arrows came down on us. It's not the worst I've worked against, but the men were not prepared for such a response, and they're steadily being worn down.

I turn to see Mace, and it turns out he remade his stone shield, turtling against his foes while taking the odd swing or two in response. I pause to think for a moment, but my opponent - a defender - denies me the chance, thrusting a short sword at my hip. I knock his blade away with my poleaxe, then throw a punch at his face. He was quick and blocked my fist, but it allowed me to hook the axehead on his shield. I pulled down, pulling his shield out of position, and thrust the tip at his throat. Another man, a vanguard this time, charged my right flank. I twisted and pulled the tip out of the gurgling defender, pulled, and swung my poleaxe at the vanguard. He tried to duck, but all it did was make the edge strike his head, and the ax bit halfway through his skull.

A third man, another defender, marched to my front. I shifted my grip on my poleaxe, left hand gripping the end in a reverse grip and the right halfway down the shaft, and I pushed hard. The edge left the skull and the small hammerhead, the one behind the axehead, swung out and struck the defender's shield, letting out a loud crack and causing fractures to form along the shield. He retreated some steps, but before I could ready an attack, a black blob struck his head, making him fall and writhe on the dusty ground.

I quickly turn my head and wave a hand at my aid, the androgynous vampire, and refocus, poleaxe pointed forwards. I assume that their marksmen must've dwindled to a much smaller amount, hence the caster aid. Thankfully, that gives our frontliners more rest. Even now, you can see the odd vanguard or defender fall to the ground, or hear them being hit by arts or hitting the ground violently.

The last enemy defenders - seven in total - formed up and locked shields together, vanguards pooling up behind them. In one last attempt, the formation charged my men, with the vanguards flanking us. With what little time I had left, I turned and yelled, "Focus fire on flanks!"

Their shield wall slammed into ours, but we held fast. A bitter struggle broke out, with each wall trying their damndest to push the other out of formation, the shields too close and packed to allow for much use of their weapons.

I would've assisted them, were it not for the vanguards. Four charged at me, two with spears, one with a sword, and one with a hammer. The hammer was closest to me, earning him a thrust to the stomach, but he dodged just in time. Instead, I received a well-placed strike to my ribs, the blunt weapon's force denting my breastplate a bit.

I lost my focus for a moment, and for that two of the pricks got past me.

In frustration, I turned and slammed the butt of my weapon into the hammerman, breaking his guard. Before he could recover, I swung low, axehead slamming into his ankle and sweeping his legs. Immediately after, I thrust the tip into the bottom of his jaw, then pulled the weapon free. I turn and see a caster get stabbed in the stomach and another grappling with a vanguard. I swing my ax once more, its head burrowing deep into the back of the vanguard charging the other casters, and then grab the other vanguard by his neck. I ignore his struggles, turn to the sound of footsteps behind me, and swing the man in my hold. The last spearman charged at me and landed a strike on my chest plate, but received a boot to the head in return, courtesy of his manhandled ally. I quickly impale the spearman on my weapon, then use both of my hands to crush the neck of the man in my hold, his death throes lasting only a few seconds. Replacing the corpse for my poleaxe, I finally set off to cull some of the enemy shields.

I quickly march my way to the front, a fireball flying past my head. I bury my axehead once more into someone's throat, this time a defender threatening to push one of the rustmen back. He falls limp in front of the rustman, the chopped nape of his neck acting like the cut strings of a puppet. The defender that stood next to him wavers for a moment, knowing all too well that he's next on the chopping block. I stand beside him and raise the poleaxe, only for a black ball to strike my shoulder, coating my paulder in soot and sending the feeling of pins and needles all over my right arm. I still swing my polearm, one handed and with much less force, and it finds purchase at the back of his left knee. I retreat as he kneels, and leave the foe to the mercy of the rustmen while I get out of their casters' range.

I turn to the sound of a pained scream. On the left side of the formation, a caster lost his arm to a vanguard, and cowered at the sight of his attacker lifting their blade again. Mace appears behind the vanguard, weapon already in motion, and the man flies to the gabions, a chunk of his chest caved inwards. Still, some three more vanguards littered the left flank, threatening the casters.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Two of the vanguards fall, bolts or arrows sticking from their heads or backs. Just the same, a couple of opposing defenders are felled by the volley. I see a line of crossbowmen crouching atop the building in front of us, a possible munitions depot, and some vanguards are rushing out from inside the building. Some enemy defenders waver, but others push more fiercely at the possibility that those men are their reinforcements. My radio silence tells me all I need to know.

The feeling in my arm starts to fade, and I hear one more loud crack ring out. Mace had swung his mace at the last vanguard while they were fleeing, and it seems that it broke his spine in the process. Unfortunately, the man wasn't dead, and his pained moans could be heard from where he lay. I can only hope that Mace would be merciful enough to put the man out of his misery.

"Casters! Do not fire on the vanguards! Break their line!"

Only five defenders remain, with one of them owning a new bolt in their shoulder. I flanked around our shield wall, heading for the closest defender, and I could see Mace doing the same. My target looked ready to break, with one of my decently armed defenders pushing him back. Sadly, he took too long to rout, so he took a spear point to the back of his knee. The man kneeled in pain, but didn't have to suffer for too long, as my defender's warhammer caved his helmet into his head.

The enemy defender beside us took his chances and fled, just narrowly escaping a thrust from his opponent. Two more defenders could be seen fleeing, the last fifth man likely crumpled under Mace's weapon. They don't flee for long, as the moment they reach the vanguards they are struck down. The steady and continuous firing also explains the lack of caster or marksmen shots.

I spot good ol' Scars marching towards us, and move to meet him. "Scars, glad to see you could join us." He stood and nodded, and I turned to the other vanguards. "There's some wounded in my section. Go check on them, and help the ones that can't fight back onto the trucks. They won't be of much use now."

Scars moved out of his pose and aimed to the depot. "Conscript, sir, we've located the guns of the barrage behind the munitions cache. I left my demolitionist with W's squad, they took up the task of setting up the explosives." He turned and looked up to me again. "Your orders?"

"Eliminate the last of the casters and archers from the towers, then set up surveillance positions while the explosives are set up. We don't want to be surprised by their reinforcements, after all." He nodded, but before he could move I stopped him. "Quick question, who is W?"

Scars turned to me and tilted his head to the side. What, did I really ask something strange? "Sir, the leader of Squad 3? The girl with the gray hair and red horns?"

"Oh, you mean Roach."

He nods, then turns to look all around him. Odd time to get paranoid. "Yes, sir. W is the name of… 'Roach'."

I nodded at the man. "Thank you Scars, that was all. Dismissed."

He stood there for a second, then shook his head and moved to check with the rest of his men and my casters. An odd fellow, but Scars seems dependable enough, and military training is always valuable when it comes to mercenary work.

I walked to a corpse that wasn't too bloodied and crouched by its side. I took my poleaxe and began cleaning it of blood and gore, wiping it clean enough with the mostly unstained clothes of the corpse. Some splotches still stain it here and there, but I'll have time for a deeper clean back at the base.

I return to my men, only to still hear the moaning of Mace's last victim. I moved over to him, his torso at an odd angle with blood pooling beneath him, and despite his moans he never even twitched. It is a wretched sight, the brain of a living man stuck in a corpse. I flipped him over so that he laid on his back, pulled out a dagger, and, with my one hand firmly placed on his shoulder, plunged the short blade straight through his heart. The man gargled for a bit, shards of spine possibly having pierced his lungs, but grew quiet and still after a few heartbeats. I pulled out the blade, wiped it off a clean portion of his clothes, and continued to my men.

I reached Mace first, fiddling with the bolt stuck at his bicep. "Mace, perfect work out there. But don't pull out the bolt, you'll end up bleeding to death instead. It'd be better treated back at base." The armored man shrugs then nods at me.

I continue past him, to the first rank. Luckily, they all survived, but one of the five and one of the rustmen had a few injuries graver than a bolt or a few. The two sat next to each other, nursing to their wounds. "You two, can you still fight?" Only one of them looks up, and his response is a simple shake of the head. "Very well. Join up with the vanguards, they'll escort you and the rest of the wounded."

I turn to the rest of the defenders. "You six, you can rest once you get to the other side of the building ahead of us. Don't worry, the outpost has been cleared. Just take up defensive positions and take a breather." They nod and march off, their fatigue noticeable from their tired gait. A long day indeed, one that will hopefully come to a close soon.

I pass them to reach the casters, and what awaits me is better than expected. Not good, not in any sense of the word, but a pinch better than what I had in mind. The one stabbed in the stomach expired, and the man that lost an arm survived but definitely won't be continuing their participation. Two more ended up receiving more projectiles than they could handle, and both were deceased now. One more suffers from a survivable case of pincushioning, but he'll be inoperable for the time being.

I turn to the last casters. "You five, follow the others and take up shooting positions. Stay alert, there may be enemy reinforcements coming." They all nod and move on, their movement more tense than tired compared to the defenders. It's not surprising, the flanking attack took out half their number.

Scars stood there, giving orders to the vanguards, who in turn picked up the crippled and wounded casters. The two defenders trailed behind them. "Scars, can your men take the corpses as well? Their equipment ought to still be good, we can lend them to other Babel affiliates."

He turned to look at them, but shook his head. "Sir, they'll be dead weight and drag down the unit. Along with that, their presence on the trucks will likely worsen morale. That's not to mention the possible health hazards they could represent, since we don't have any body bags to keep them in."

I nod, but think of another idea. "I see. Scars, have some men salvage anything they can off the dead, and collect any IDs or dog-tags. Their gear is useful and can be taken without the body, and identifiable objects would help with a casualty count. And don't send the party out just yet, I'll call one of the trucks to get here."

Sarkaz mercenaries may be a dime a dozen, but even they deserve to be known as KIA when they die, not MIA. I suppress a shudder. God forbid that I become an unknown dead soldier.

Scars nods, then orders two of his vanguards to the task. The other vanguards and the wounded rest by the gabions.

I turn on the comms. "Truck 1, do you read me?"

"I read you loud and clear, sir."

"Truck 1, I need you to get to the gabion wall, just ahead of where we dismounted. We've got wounded, and that truck would be the perfect place to keep them for now."

"Understood. Truck 1, heading there now."

Not much goes on now. The wounded and their escorts are lounging on the wall, the two vanguards and Scars are salvaging what they can from our dead, and the enemies on the towers have all been dealt with considering there hasn't been any crossbow fire for a while.

I won't be able to do much other than idle here, so I might as well check on the other squad. I move to the munitions depot, a short square building made of cement and coated with a camouflage net over it. The doors are metallic, with a push bar acting as the handle for the interior. The inside is bereft of any shells - no surprise there, they had to run out sometime - and had a few open crates here and there.

I walk past it, and turning the corner I am greeted to the sight of my section spread around the compound. The 6 guns were present, tall and large as one would expect, and I could already see the two demolitionists setting up the explosives. Once again, everything is progressing on its own, leaving me with nothing to do.

I lean against the wall of the depot and search for the pouch at the left side of my hip. I find it, flip it open, and pull out a long strip of dried meat. As the ol' Corsican said, 'An army marches on its stomach,' so it's always best to carry some extra food even when you don't need it. Of course, sometimes the price hurts more than the hunger, but it is absolutely worth it.

My right hand grabs onto a metal bolt sticking out of the visor, a helpful way of lifting a visor with gauntlets. I lift the visor only slightly, not wanting to expose myself more than necessary, and stick the strip of meat between my teeth. It was hard like the crust of bread, and it had a salty taste to it, and a grin surely made its way onto my face. Most profess their hatred or disgust at dried meat, especially when there are no other options, but my tongue has a fondness for the taste and my teeth enjoy grinding the strips between them.

Now, to find something to distract myself with… What can I even think about? Let's see… Family? No, already did that with Amiya… Friends? Eh, most are dead or in Babel… Actually, I wonder if any one of them survived the purge. They had some good men, those T-

"Oi, cannibal."

Wa-uughh. Fuckin' choking on it now, it ain't fun! "How di- Fukh' wha'?" I can hardly speak.

Roach stands there, a nasty look in her eye. She's also got a little smirk now, courtesy of making me choke, the spiteful tit. "You got antlers yet eat venison jerky. Cannibal much?"

I had to get my flask and drown down the dry meat with water. Fuck, choking on dry meat is a pain. "That's what you meant? I'm a Wendigo, not an Elafia. Besides, this is beef jerky."

She rolls her eyes and holds out a hand, palm facing upwards. "Well, could you at least share?"

"No."

She crosses her arms and looks away with a frown, making a 'tsk' noise. Damn brat.

I sigh and reach into my pouch, breaking a piece off a larger strip, and hold it out. "How's the progress on their guns?"

She took the offered piece, her smirk returning. "Bombs are all set. Just say the word and they'll be scrap metal." She took a bite from the piece, and her brow furrowed. "Shit, you call this jerky? It's like a strip of salt and dirt! It's tough too, like biting into leather."

I just shrug. "To each their own. Any casualties?"

She rolls her eyes. "Just two dead guys. Some casters cooked them."

I grunt. Almost a quarter of our forces become casualties, a number higher than I am comfortable with. "Have a couple of your men salvage what they can from their kit. And ready the men for extraction, I'll call the trucks here now."

She walks away, hand waving over her shoulder. "'kay, cannibal."

I ignore the comment. "Trucks 2 and 3, come in."

A weary voice rings out. "Truck 2 here."

Another voice chimes in, this one a calm woman's. "Truck 3, ready for orders sir."

"Truck 2 and 3, I need both of you to get in the base. Objective close to completion, we'll RTB soon."

The second driver's lilting voice comes back on. "Oh, finally…"

"Copy sir, Truck 3 comin' for evac."

Comms go silent for a last time, and I, once again, don't have much to busy myself with.

AN: If you're wondering, axe often gets autocorrected into ax in Google Docs, so that's why that spelling is used more often here. It's weird, but can't really do anything about it unless I change all of my spelling to the British style (I puke at the thought!). Anyways, that should be a decent length for the story now. Favorite, follow, review, or do whatever else ye'd like. See you guys next week!