Summary: Staff Sergeant Kafka is an old man who dreamt of being a Huntsman. Private Arc is a kid dreaming of becoming one today. In lieu of combat school training, Beacon Academy accepts service in the Royal Army of Vale, but the road to Beacon is hellish and incredibly stupid.

Basically Generation Kill meets RWBY, inspired by the emotional core of the first part of Kaiju No. 8.

Volume 1: Teenage Dirtbag

"For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Chuck him out, the brute!"

But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot"

Chapter 1: Hetman Doctrine

"A man in his late 30s is considered old if he experienced very little over the last decade; conversely, he'd be considered young if he achieved a lot over that same decade, and still has plans to do even more over the next decade. Youth is momentum."

— 1 —

Funerals always mean paperwork.

You die in this line of work. That's a given. There's even a formula for it somewhere. "Acceptable rates of attrition" above which any deployment across the highveldt is considered a success. They brief you on this before ranging.

That's just the way it is.

Most of us aren't here by choice anyhow.

The witchdoctor provides a non-denominational service for the dead. Anyone who wants gets a chance to speak their piece. And then it's back to work.

I kick the generator to life until my toes hurt, and give my radiocomputer in the tent ten minutes to boot up. We've got two days to pack up the camp and range out to our next stop, and I have paperwork to do.

They don't tell you about this when you join the Royal Army. And you're never truly ready for it.

Time was, an army marched on its stomach. Now it marches at the mercy of printer ink and how many pens you can go through before you can convince the medic you're deserving of some heavy duty painkillers for that carpal tunnel.

Speaking of.

Specialist Cojoc tosses a field ration onto my folding desk-table thing as she enters the tent. She removes her hat and makes a disgusted face as she frees her fox ears from a day under a combat helmet.

"Figured you'd be here, big sarn't," she says, taking her own ration to her cot in the corner of the tent. "Got you your dinner, too." She tries to bite open at the fibre-plastique holding her rations together. When that fails, Cojoc takes out a knife from the medic-pack tied to her leg.

"Keep it, Specialist," I say mildly, rapidly poking the same loud key on the radiocomputer over and over again until it realized I was trying to make it print something. "It's Wednesday."

One of her ears stands at attention as she's biting open an energy bar packet. "And?"

I shake my head. "Can't eat today. Against my religion, you barbarian."

Cojoc pantomimes something with her hands. "Ooh, look at me, I pay taxes, I can vote, my weird cult should be public knowledge. Ce minunat!"

My hands come up and I make a pushing motion.

"Really, sarn't? I just washed my hands."

"Don't disrespect peoples' religions in this Army, Cojoc. What would the witchdoctor say if I told him my soldiers were doing that? Rules is rules for a reason."

She groans and gets down. I go down with her from across the tent.

"Zero," I say, doing push-ups with her. "Get lower. Zero. Zero. C'mon, I thought you were good at PT. Doesn't count. Zero."

Cojoc starts to laugh. Enough that her core breaks and she can't keep her form anymore.

"Negative one. We're in push-up debt now. Ah, fuck!"

The fax machine sputters and spurs to life. I get up in a quick motion to go over to the box. Instead of sending up my report to the platoon leader, instead it's trying to print something out locally. I slap a hand on it.

"No, don't waste my ink!" I say.

There's more voices from outside. More of my squad trickles into our tent for the evening. The thought of my soldiers watching me fist-fight a fax machine starts to grate on my dignity.

A squad here in the 3rd Mountain "Godshield" is nine soldiers. Two four-man rifle teams and a staff sergeant at the head under ideal "no one is dead and we have enough sergeants" scenarios. Four squads is a platoon. Four platoons is a company. This is supposed to scale up to a division, though in practice only goes up to a brigade-sized element of five-thousand. Something with how the House of Commons back in Vale City refuses to grant commissions above the rank of Colonel during peacetime.

3rd Mountain is currently stretched upon a standard range, spaced out as we make the routine deep patrol to the northern railhead at Novovalsk. We're on the worst part of the highveldt. Endless grasslands as far as the eye can see with the occasional river or, if you're unlucky, the supernatural Grimm that wander around. Without a map, everything looks exactly the same bar the occasional bit of infrastructure.

The only way across the highveldt is horse, railroad, or gunship. And when the Royal Army ranges, we prefer to fly in style. We stop here and there. I know our Captain and other higher officers are meeting with the local village Ataman, seeing if they have any Grimm problems, or any engineering work the Army can provide for loyal subjects of the crown of Vale. If we're not shooting things, we're usually digging wells and ditches. Your shovel is an inspectable item a superior can always demand you produce and show him.

And don't even get me started on dealing with radio communications.

Because Private Stellenbosch sure will.

He's practically vibrating in place as he stands on the other side of my desk. "Sarn't, sarn't," he says. "Don't punch the fax machine. It'll get mad and withhold all of the red ink again."

"I print in black and white," I tell him.

Stellenbosch nods eagerly. "Fax machines are color blind and don't know that. Here, lemme see what's up. If something is wrong, I can use the console to check things."

I gesture at the fax. "I was trying to send the lieutenant something, and accidentally printed this."

"Did you select local printer or the LT's printer?"

"I just pressed the button until it worked. I didn't get any options," I say, gesturing at the radiocomputer. "It took forever to work."

"Can I see?" he asks eagerly, smiling a little too wide. His eye twitches.

"Go ahead, pri."

He scoots around the desk and leans over my radiocomputer. Stellenbosch presses keys and brings up blotchy gray windows I can't make any sense of. Then he frowns. "You have faxed Lieutenant Kornilov five copies of the same document. And you are currently receiving a print order. So, aside from wasting his paper, you actually pressed the right button."

I look doubtfully at my printer. It buzzes arrogantly, and I'm tempted to smack a bitch back into its place. "So I'm supposed to be getting this? Who's sending?"

"Coming from the LT, Sergeant." Stellenbosch's face twitches again. It just does that sometimes.

I lean forwards, watching the fax come out. When it finishes, I tug the hot paper out and give it a look. "Oh. Well. Shit. It's a gaining roster."

"New blood?" Cojoc asks from across the room. She's removed her blouse and is sitting there in her undershirt, gnawing on a completely inedible energy bar from our rations. It's the red one; cranberry-inspired flavor.

One of my sergeants, an Eranstani sitting on his cot and cleaning his turban, says, "Oh great, someone else to sweep the landing pad."

I nod. "Yeah. When the bird takes away the corpses, the replacement is bringing in fresh troops. We're getting one of them assigned to our squad. Got some info on him."

"Nieuwe vriend!" Stellenbosch declares, poking the keyboard. "I call dibs on showing him around."

"You'll scare the new guy," the sergeant says mildly. "Get away from the computer before you set it on fire."

"Hm," I grunt, examining the gaining roster. "New kid. About seventeen. First tour out of basic."

Cojoc groans. "Oh, that kinda of newbie."

"We'll need to get him added to our rotations. Set him up in the second fireteam. I'll get him squared away."

The sergeant takes a pen from his sleeve to add him to our lists. "Gotcha. What's his name?"

"Private Arc."

— 2 —

New gunships are like a holiday. Hopeful soldiers crowd the landing pads. Once you're done mourning the dead, you know the replacement bird is coming in with luxuries, new faces, and your mail if you're lucky. Things that are hard to come by on a range.

"Make a hole," I tell the junior enlisted, forcing them out of the way. I'm here for work.

The bullhead gunship is setting down, doors open. Soldiers volunteer themselves to help unload the boxes and the duffel bags of the new soldiers. I try to look for faces I don't recognize, or a nametape on someone's uniform that says they are Arc.

You can usually pick out new soldiers from a crowd because their fresh indoctrination is a little too overtuned, lacking the refinement that time in a real unit usually gives them. The Army has a very delicate job it never gets right the first time. That is, it tries to turn boys into men while somehow preserving that adolescent sense of invulnerability necessary to do the job of soldiering, a typically lethal mix when you get it right, and pants-shitting stupid when you don't.

I bump into someone and am about to yell at them for pushing, when I realize who exactly it is.

"Don't," Chief Warrant Officer Mohammed DuCaine says before I can even raise my hand to salute.

"Understood, Chief," I say quickly, snapping my arms to my side. "What are you waiting on here?"

He gets a private to open a wooden crate for him. Reaching in, he pulls out a fibre-plastique wrapped carton of cigarettes and a stack of envelopes. Instead of answering, he shakes out a cigarette and places the end against the packet's ignition patch, lighting it up in a perfect cherry as he looks over his envelopes.

Chief DuCaine points without looking. "Your soldier is over there."

"Private Arc?"

He exhales smoke. "Yes, Sergeant. We figured he'd be a good fit in your squad. And be as respectfully hard on him as you can."

"Chief?"

"The Army's got their eye on that one."

"On some random private?"

"You'll see," he says lazily, taking his carton under his arm.

"Roger," I say.

Chief DuCaine pauses. Then tosses me a packet of cigarettes. "Here. You'll thank me later."

I watch him vanish into the crowd to go off to do whatever it is warrant officers do.

Turning around, I follow where the Chief pointed me and find my man. He's human. Little more than a kid, his blue eyes silently, almost harshly regarding the feeding frenzy around him; short-cropped blond hair barely recovered from a basic training buzzcut. His uniform is fresh and sharp, with a duffel back strapped to his back and another one held in one hand.

For the life of me I can't figure what makes him so important. From his surname, Arc, odds are he's a rare ethnic Valean or Valais in the Royal Army. Big Army doesn't care about racial politics like the civilian government does for that to matter. Is he some big shot's kid? Doubtful. Maybe he's a penal legionnaire who did some really messed up crime, and only got the option to enlist as his punishment because the judge figured he was just a (human) kid who wouldn't make it at a labor camp.

"Private Arc," I say, approaching him.

He glances to the side and drops his bag, snapping to parade rest. His arms and hands lock behind his back, feet perfectly shoulder-width apart like the living embodiment of something from a training manual. "Staff Sergeant Kafka."

I nod at his discipline, but still hold out my hand. "Relax, Private. As of today, I'm your squad leader. Welcome to Alpha Company. We'll get you in-processed."

"What does that entail, Sergeant?"

"Making sure the company has all your records on hand and you have gear. Oh, and give you your initial counseling so you know your roles and expectations. Standard stuff everyone does."

"Brigade HQ issued me armor before I left." He picks up his bag for emphasis. "Said they didn't issue it in the field."

"You still need a rifle," I say, motioning from him to follow me. "How good of a shot are you with a Volikov?"

Arc reluctantly lets his arms go to a neutral position. "I shot expert. When do we go on patrol, Sergeant?"

I make my way through the forward operating base with Arc in tow. "You came on a bad day for that. We're prepping to leave today. Tomorrow we go airborne and move to the next leg of the range."

"That soon?"

"Yeah. Hetman Doctrine. Royal Army has to stay highly mobile. You move out in little leaps across the frontier on deep patrol in case people need us."

"That's a range, right, Sergeant?

"Yeah. Nothing unusual. A range is just a series of garrison duties with the occasional bit of action. Depending on your unit, you could be ranging all over the Commonwealth. Up from Vytalstad to as far southwest as Eranstan."

"That's a lot of Vale."

I shrug. "She's a big country. But don't worry. This deployment ends in Novovalsk where we'll be on garrison duty till our next range. Should be there in a month in time for some R&R."

"Do I have to take it, Sergeant?"

"Excuse me?"

"Sergeant, am I required to take leave when the brigade gets to Novovalsk?"

"No. You can always sit in Fort Zamoyski and sweep the floors if you'd like when we get there."

He makes a noise of displeasure.

I take Arc through the tents, getting him assigned to the proper rosters and making sure the doctors have his medical records. It takes a few hours.

"Oh, and we need to stop by legal," I say, stepping out of a tent into the oppressive sunlight of the highveldt.

"Why, Sergeant?" Arc asks, adjusting the rear sights on his new and somewhat dusty rifle.

"So we have on file whatever you did to get here and know how long your sentence is."

Arc's brow furrows. "Don't have one."

I side-eye him. "Then why are you in the Royal Army? You're a Valean kid, ain't you?"

"I volunteered. Two year contract and I'm done."

Squinting, I slowly shake my head. "That's hard to believe, Private."

"Did you not, Sergeant?"

"Not originally," I say. "I'm from Ostrawa."

"Your Valean is very good, Sergeant. I wouldn't have known."

"Had to learn good and quick. At your age my name came up in that year's conscription list." I tap on the Simurgh patch on my right shoulder. It sits below my flag patch, depicting the twin-axes of Vale guarding the Torch of Liberty. "Saw combat with the 7th Motor Rifles in Eranstan. Saw actual Huntsmen, too. A combined defense of Khosrowjerd from a massive swarm of Grimm. Didn't want to go back to being a farmer after that. After that, I chose to re-up, and I've been in 3rd Mountain since then."

"Huntsmen?" he says evenly, something dark in his blue eyes.

I nod. "Yeah. Like, you ever see a five-nothing girl with a sword bigger than her flip through the air, cut a giant monster in half, and then the pommel is also a gun that blows another Grimm through the head with a ray of thunder? Meanwhile, you're just some normal kid, trying to escort and protect refugees while those supernatural heroes really save the day?"

"Something like that, yes," he says tensely.

I sigh at the memory, and before I know what I'm doing I'm pulling out a cigarette. The ignition patch lights it up and it's in my mouth. I hold the packet out to Arc, and he just stares at it for a long time before shaking his head.

Smoke exhales from the bottom of my lungs. "Never went to any real school. Couldn't make it as an officer. But even back then I knew those Huntsmen Academies accepted military service as appropriate transcripts if you ain't educated. You know that?"

Arc nods seriously.

"So I stayed in. And signed a third contract after that."

He stares at me.

I ash the cigarette. "Only learned how to read and use a radiocomputer so I could put in an application to Beacon. Year after year. Service record keeps growing."

Arc's expression is sour, almost hostile. "You gave up."

I scowl. "It's complicated."

"Why?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask why, Sergeant?"

I lick my gums, tasting the cigarette on my teeth. "Sometimes dreams don't survive contact with the enemy. And trying to get in when it's my service record against kids with supernatural powers training for it all their lives? Comes a point where you gotta grow up and get old. Hit your limits, y'know?"

"No. I don't know, Sergeant," he says, meeting my eyes coldly. "Giving up isn't an option. For as long as I live, I'll never understand. Not that I would want to."

"Don't take that tone with me, Private."

He snaps to parade rest. "Roger that, Sergeant."

"You're young. You're from Vale itself. Your world is different. You come from a safe place with walls. You get to vote and make choices. You don't even have to serve in the military unless you break the law or you're stupid. Dreams don't get crushed for people like you."

Arc takes this all silently, expression frustratingly neutral. So detached it's almost mocking me.

"Why are you even in the Army, city boy?" I ask sharply.

"Sergeant?"

"I asked you a question, Private."

Arc meets my eyes evenly, no reaction, hardly any emotion but some detached sense of disgust. "To build a resumé."

"What?"

"I said—"

Sirens blare suddenly across the camp. We snap our heads to the nearest one.

"Shit," I hiss.

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"Grimm. Put on your battle rattle. We're about to see combat."