Chapter 2: First Contact
"Uh, sir? I've got, um… a question. So, this landing… strategy thing. Uh, wha-what is it? You're, like, dropping us off or something?"
— 3 —
I punch the pilot's cabin to let him know we're all here, and the gravity from the jets taking us into the sky nearly sends my knees buckling. The light in the cabin glows bright red. I sit down hard, looking over the gunship's cabin and the eight soldiers with me.
Specialist Cojoc is fussing with Arc's combat helmet, making sure it clearly shows his blood type in case he needs a transfusion. He tries to not look embarrassed by checking and re-checking his new rifle.
The Avtomat Volikova-27 is the Royal Army's premier lightweight, gas operated, air cooled, magazine fed, selective rate, shoulder fired weapon with a collapsible stock. At least per the manual. The Commonwealth builds the Volikov in house in Graad, and builds them to last.
I once took leave in Graad and saw an old man using an antique Volikov and some tape as a broom-handle. Then he used it to shoot at some robbers. Military models fire a round heavy enough to punch through Atlesian body armor or smaller Grimm. Fire it full-auto if you need to break your shoulder to get out of having to sweep the motor pool.
"Thanks, doc," he mumbles.
"What?!" she shouts, pointing at her head. "Too loud."
"I said thanks, doc!"
She bops his helmet and gives him a thumbs-up.
Arc stares aggressively ahead, white-knuckling his rifle.
Private Stellenbosch is the opposite. Genuinely smiling too hard and bouncing in his seat, he leans to the side, his heavy radio communications gear on the floor between his boots. It occasionally bleats with radio chatter from the rest of the platoon. He stares out the window at the gunship fleet. Roaring over the highveldt are dozens of bullhead gunships, loaded for battle with ammo and soldiers, the combustion Dust engines unmistakable from miles away.
"Are there going to be Huntsmen?" Arc asks.
I gesture for him to speak up over the engine roar.
"I said, if there's Grimm, will there be Huntsmen?"
One of the conscripts, Private Fedevik, scoffs. "Command probably put out a radio call for any in the area because we have to, but there's never enough of the bastards, Arc. This is Royal Army work."
"Should we have waited for some to show up?"
"Ha! Who has time to wait? Army is here and Huntsmen aren't."
Arc sits back, readjusting the straps on his armor.
The briefing had been short; we needed to get airborne pronto. Colonel Axel Hoyt had been dealing with the local civilian leader, the ataman of Zhovte, when a riot broke out against the government. Caught in local power struggle, for whatever reason Colonel Hoyt had thrown in his lot with the citizens. The sudden local civil war had caused enough fear and panic to attract a horde of Grimm from the plains. They made an obligatory call for any Huntsmen, but it was up to the Royal Army to restore order and beat back the Grimm.
The gunship jerks, going in for a turn and slowing down. There's a hiss of air before the doors open on either side. The town of Zhovte sits on a bend alongside a river, with a local radio tower in the center by a fancy mansion. That's where the Brigade Commander is, but the ataman's men aren't friendly, and the dark figures of Grimm are on the town's little walls. Smoke and fires rise across the town, with scattered gunfire from its streets.
Coming to a halt above a plaza, with scores of other birds hovering over other parts of the town, the cabin light goes green. This is as close as the birds can get for us to jump down, as close to each other as the town allows. We toss the ropes down and make sure they're tight and good.
There's two ways to jump. Vertical envelopment, the eggheads call it. There's fireforce and air assault. Standard practice in the Royal Army for a quick insertion. How you jump down depends on the context of the operation. This is a dense-ish urban environment. No time for a fireforce parachute drop. That means the air assault rope. Low and fast.
At my signal, Stellenbosch gets on the radio. He spouts radio jargon I've never fully understood without a guide in my hands. "Bravo three-zero jumping, over."
"Good copy, over."
"Roger, out."
I visually inspect my squad one last before giving the go-ahead. I grab the hooks and strap them to the soldiers. Arc is staring at himself, breathing slowly, and lips moving. Saying something no one can hear over the roar of the engines. I tap two soldiers on the shoulders and spread my arms.
They lean back and jump backwards. Stellenbosch whoops and hollers, rappelling down in fits and bounds down to the ground. I tap two more and repeat the gestures, giving them the all-clear to go. And then two more. Until it's just Cojoc and Arc.
I grab Arc by the shoulder, and his blank blue eyes go to me. I smile. "Remember basic training. This is the time to break your leg. Ain't gon' make no dreams come true if you don't know how to fall, Private."
His mouth creaks open, and nothing comes out. I tap him and Cojoc and gesture for them to jump. Cojoc leans back. Arc watches her, and swallows. He takes a hard breath and jumps. I lean out to watch him, and to my mixed emotions he rappels down well enough for the soldiers on the ground to be able to catch him and unhook him.
I attach myself to the rope, pound on the pilot's door, and rappel downwards. My sergeants catch me and unlatch me in time for the bird to bring its ropes up. I give it a salute as its doors close and it climbs to a combat worthy altitude.
"On your feet," I say, unslinging my Volikov into my hands. The soldiers get up from where they'd been securing the landing zone, mostly around the well at the center of the plaza. "Colonel is that way. You see armed Hetties, weapons free if they shoot first. Standard ROE applies. LOA's a park the platoon's rallying at a few blocks up. First team, take point. Second, on the rear."
I gesture with my hand, signaling the direction I want them to go and what formation to hold. Sergeant Pahlavi gets low, rifle up, sticking to the buildings as he moves forwards with his men. I'm in the center of the squad. We've done this so many times I barely need to say anything.
The only exception is Arc, who looks around like his head's spinning off. Especially when I start dropping acronyms, like he doesn't realize using acronyms inherently makes you tactical. But I have faith he'll figure it out. He stares at the other soldiers and adopts their body language, the way they're walking and holding their rifles and falls into with them, mostly where he should belong
"Ease up, Arc," I tell him. "No one dies on my watch. Just don't be stupid and we'll get through this like we always do."
He looks nervously at me and nods. "Roger, Sergeant."
It's a nondescript Hetmanate town. The sun went down just before we jumped; there's still just enough light to mostly see with the naked eye as we walk. We could have stepped into a time portal and wound up three centuries ago, and it'd probably look little different. Unpaved roads and a vague urban design that looks like it was inspired by someone who saw a picture of a real city once and just winged it.
We advance forwards slowly, checking our corners. Trying to make good time and keep safe when we don't know what's around us in any capacity. A window opens up and a local woman looks out, watching us, bouncing a child in her arms. I wave at her and she just ducks down. Stellenbosch's radio is nearly silent, a crackle from his headset just loud enough for him to hear and not give away our position. If anything is important, he'll tell me.
That's half a block covered. Nothing stands out. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
Private Fedevik suddenly drops to his knees at the entrance to an alley, shouldering his SAW machine gun tightly. "Three o'clock, hundred yards."
We all get down and take cover. Arc pokes his head around the corner above Fedevik.
I'm behind an old motor carriage in the alley, pressed against the engine block, squinting down the alley.
"What is it?" Arc asks.
"Sarn't," Fedevik says to me. He pulls down the night vision goggles from his helmet and readjusts the SAW. "Eyes on six, maybe seven Hetties. Armed."
There's gunfire in the distance, the report of Volikovs. A distant fireball as a bullhead launches a missile. Arc flinches. It barely even registers in my mind. It's just something that happens you can almost tune-out from years of overexposure.
"Hostile?" I ask, aiming. I can see the figures in the dim light moving around a little plaza outside a larger house. It's hard to make out what they're doing. Until I see one of them piling something up on a far alley.
"Setting up a barricade," Fedevik says. "Hm."
We keep watching them. It's hard to make out their weapons. One of them has a tall fur cap that makes me think he's in charge. He's shouting something at the others. The air stinks of cordite from poor quality gunpowder.
Arc looks around before getting onto his stomach, laying poking his rifle around the motor carriage. I use my knee and nudge him to the side, trying to ignore him.
"Private Chumak," I say. "You're a Hettie. What are they saying?"
He clicks his tongue. "Just saying 'you, go there' and variants of it. Probably a boyar." A moment later he adds, "And something about his daughter."
We watch them scurrying. I don't really think they're a threat to us. If they had uniforms and I could tell which side of the riots they were on, it would be one thing, but they don't. They seem focused on staying in place and doing their own thing.
"Let's move out," I say, lowering my rifle. "Right now, it's not our concern."
"You sure, sarn't?" Fedevik asks, lifting his goggles. "I got 'em dead to rights."
"Unless proven otherwise, these are good citizens of the Crown same as us."
Fedevik grumbles
"Stellenbosch, call it in," I say. "But we're moving to the LOA—Arc, the fuck are you doing?"
Arc has crawled deeper into the alley, behind a pile of boxes and junk. He jumps at his name. "Sergeant, just getting a better position."
"Get back here, high speed!"
"Roger." He stands up quickly, and knocks something off the boxes. It hits the ground and shatters with a loud explosion of tin cans, which bounce, roll, and echo down the alley.
"Uh!" he goes. "Oops."
The boyar shouts something, pointing at the alley. All at once the Hetties open fire down the alley, the shooting slow, the weapons bolt-action. Arc hits the dirt again. The rest of us are already in good cover, and the shots aren't on point. I don't feel the need to move from where I am.
"Fuck's sake, Arc," Fedevik says, bracing the SAW and firing off a burst.
"That's contact," I say, taking a potshot at the boyar. He ducks behind a wall as his men scramble around to find somewhere to shoot back at us.
Pahlavi and Stellenbosch have good angles on the alley and shoot back too.
"Kydayte zbroyu!" I shout, a half-remembered local phrase demanding they surrender. But from the way they keep shooting, I don't think they heard me or care.
Arc is laying there in cover, eyes wide as the natives dart around. His mouth is moving and nothing is coming out. I ignore him. The Hetties keep shooting, none of the shots even remotely on target. The rest of us return fire off mostly to keep them down.
Fedevik shoots another burst. He coos in awe and looks over his shoulder eagerly. "Sarn't, you see that one? I got him! His knee blew up and everything!"
The Hetties start pointing and screaming at something. They shoot a last volley at us and start to scurry in every direction. They seem to lose interest in us all at once, and there's a sudden pit in my gut.
"Hold fire," I say quietly.
"Sarn't, I can get those two!" Fedevik says, aiming at a Hettie trying to drag away his wounded comrade.
Arc's mouth open, brow knitting together as he stares at Fedevik. "The hell is wrong with you?"
Fedevik frowns. "What?"
"How are you so nonchalant?!"
"The fuck does that mean?"
"Shut it," I say. "Everyone down."
Arc is breathing hard, clutching his rifle hard to his chest. The rest of us get low and watch.
The Hetties keep shooting at something. Keep screaming and running. Someone's voice gets really high pitched before stopping mid-shout, and there's a strange squelching sound. We can't see any of them, but the yelling starts to die down, and there's fewer and fewer gunshots.
Then there's nothing. I feel the sweat on my back. I look up to the roofs of the alley, and all I see is a bullhead roaring up ahead. The plaza ahead of us is silent. Whatever's going on, I take a breath and collect myself. This is my squad, and these are my men. I have to stay grounded and in control for their sakes. It's the only way I can make good calls and get them out alive.
Then comes a deep click noise that I can feel in my intestines.
"Sergeant?" Arc asks.
"Shh!" I hiss.
We watch.
We stare.
Someone moves at the very edge of the alley. It's the boyar. He starts and stops in quick, jerky movements. Like he's just survived an explosion and is trying to get his bearings.
"His feet!" Arc whispers.
I look down and see it too. The boyar is walking, but his feet are backwards, like he's being dragged along on a fishing line. He jerks forwards, zigzagging, bootlaces digging furrows in the dirt.
I pull down my NVGs. Everything lights up in a green hue, the edges of my peripheral vision an indistinct haze. Something massive and black, nearly invisible in the fading light, is sticking out of the boyar's shoulders. It takes me a moment to realize it's the other way around. It's like two massive claws have speared him through, walking him around like a child playing with their fingers. It's attached to something just out of sight from the alley.
Grimm.
The boyar's head turns. He gurgles something, trying to reach up to grab the things sticking out of him. Two massive arms come out of the darkness and pull him apart like papier-mâché. His organs spill out onto the dirt with a wet plop of meat.
Those arms grab the ground and haul the Grimm out into better view. It's an inky mess of black flesh, white bone armor, and corded muscle nearly fifteen feet tall, if it wasn't hunched over like it were in intense pain. Four grotesquely long arms with two elbows and taloned, bird-like legs. Dirty hair grows from its back like dreadlocks, braided with little bones, feathers, and an Army combat helmet. It moves in quick jerks side-to-side, like it's shimmying itself along.
It clicks again. I feel my organs settling uncomfortably.
A woman lets out a sob. It turns its bird-like head towards the noise. She's huddled there on the plaza, partially behind a wall, reaching a hand out to the boyar.
The Grimm's head jerks around. Rotating side-to-side like a screw. Then it reaches out an arm and gingerly takes one of the boyar's organs and extends it across the plaza, offering it to the woman. She stares at it, shaking, reaches out to take it, and then tries to run.
It clicks. Before she can even stand, its hand comes down hard. Her spine snaps in half backwards as it slams her down, her head pulping on impact like a watermelon.
As if curious, it jerks towards her in a zig-zag motion. It grabs her with four hands, holding her body upon its talons, and begins to dissect her with its claws. Cutting and peeling her apart with surgical position. It holds up her skin, freed from her body, and tosses it aside. Then it finds some organ of hers, examining it, and opens its too-wide jaws to eat it.
The Grimm clucks happily, like a carefree hen. Every noise rattles my blood.
I gesture for everyone to fall back. Fall the fuck back!
Everyone sees and tries to move. Everyone except Arc, who's too far in the alley, staring at the demon, to see me. I try to get his attention without making any noise, but he's unable to look away.
While the squad is retreating, I get down and crawl towards Arc. Closer and closer as the Grimm is poking through the remains of the Hetties.
I grab his boot.
Arc gasps and discharges a round into the wall.
The Grimm's head twists around like an owl and looks right at us. It clicks deeply.
"Run!" I say, grabbing Arc by the handle on the back of his armor and hauling him to his feet.
He nearly stumbles trying to find his feet and book it. The Grimm is staring at us, watching us go. Not giving chase. Something on its skin is undulating and sloughing off, and a moment later I realize a smaller Grimm has crawled off and landed on the ground. The giant holds firm, watching the minion catch our scent and go after us.
I don't study the two of them. I just run.
"Sarn't!" Pahlavi calls as we round a corner.
"Back, back now!" I shout.
"Where?!"
I look around desperately. There's no good cover. We're sitting ducks out here for any Grimm. My eyes go to a random house.
"Inside!" I order, hauling ass. I kick the door down and wave my arms for the others.
Someone inside starts to shout as the men rush in.
"Fedevik, with me!" I say, crouching behind a well and opening fire.
He fires with me, shooting longer bursts from the SAW. I realize the Grimm chasing us is a beowolf. Its bone-armor is hard to pierce from the front, but its back is weak. The beowolf raises an arm to protect its wolf-like face and advances on us blind.
"Stupid fucking armor!" Fedevik says, holding down the trigger.
I keep aiming for the face, the heavy bullets ripping chunks of flesh from the monster, sending spews of black-red ichor across the street. It's moving side to side, jumping to avoid bullets.
"Inside!" I order.
We storm the house. I shut the door behind me and Pahlavi helps me throw down a bookcase to barricade the door. The squad has already fallen back, away from any of the shuttered, glassless windows.
I go back into another room and come face-to-face with a family of five. A father holds onto them, the mother rapidly rocking an infant in her eyes. I gesture for them to stay silent. Chumak creeps forwards to try to whisper to them.
Arc is huddled in a corner, standing stock still and holding his rifle for dear life. He lets out a breath as he sees me. "Sergeant, I—"
I grab him and glare, shaking my head. And push him away. He goes silent.
"We lose anyone?"
"No," Cojoc says. "Checked. All here."
"Good." I get behind a couch for cover. "That door's not gonna hold. When it breaks through, we gotta use bait and switch. Only way we're getting this fucker is hitting it where it isn't armored. Just keep your distance and shift fire."
"Roger," Fedevik says.
The beowolf rams the door. Dust falls from the roof of the house.
"Pahlavi, you shoot first. Second fireteam, you switch. And get those civvies out of here, Chumak!"
"Gotcha," Chumak says, returning his attention to corralling and calming the family.
The Grimm hits the door again. Fedevik is trying to reload the machine gun. He pulls on the slide to reset the bolt, and suddenly there's no noises from outside.
We all look around at each other.
The woman's baby begins to stir.
The beowolf grabs the hinges of the window and rips the shutters off, crawling inside the other room. Growling and snarling as it looks around for a target.
"Shoot!" I say.
Pahlavi opens fire as his team falls back. The Grimm snaps towards them and roars, running on all fours.
"Shift!" I say as it turns from us, pulling the trigger. Fedevik's SAW goes off, ripping chunks out of the beowulf's flanks. It trips and stumbles, skidding on its own blood.
It turns its head towards us, mouth wide and slavering.
"Shift!" Pahlavi says, his team opening fire as the Grimm is distracted.
It grabs a bookcase and flings it towards me but goes after Pahlavi, disappearing into the hallway to the next room.
I hit the dirt as it crashes into the sofa I was taking cover behind. I look back to the soldiers with me.
"On me!" I say, rifle raised and chasing the beowolf.
No one is shooting. I round the corner and see Pahlavi's team in cover in the next room, the local family cowering behind Chumak.
I check my corners. "Where the fuck did it go?"
"Not this way," Pahlavi says.
"It's a seven foot tall werewolf; it doesn't just disappear," I say. "Three-sixty. Spread out. Check your corners. You see it, shoot and scoot so someone else can get it."
"Sergeant!" Arc says, holding his rifle tight. Almost shaking.
"What?" I demand.
He points. There's blood on the floor, red-black and viscous. It's in front of a kitchen pantry.
I raise my rifle to the door, backing away from it as far as I can. "In there."
"Do Grimm hide?" Arc asks.
"Guess they do now," I say. "Fedevik, light it up. We're the bait. Everyone else get back."
Fedevik kneels beside me. We turn out a kitchen table just to put something between us and the pantry. He braces the SAW on the wood.
I pat his shoulder.
He holds the trigger down. The pantry door explodes in shrapnel. Flour and food explode out as the rounds hit, brass casings spewing across the floor as he holds down the trigger.
Five solid seconds before he stops.
He lowers the machine gun. "Did I get it?"
I say nothing, just keeping my rifle on the door. The squad are in the hallways and other side of the kitchen, the best they can do to avoid friendly crossfire in this small space.
Nothing happens. No noise. Just the debris setting. Shelves collapsing from inside. The shredded door slowly swings half-open.
There's nothing inside.
"What the?" Cojoc mutters.
"Fedevik, cover me. Arc, with me."
I approach with my rifle out, slowly making way across the kitchen, kicking aside the brass on the floor. I brace myself on one side of the door as Arc takes the other side. With a breath to calm my nerves, I open the door with my foot and swing into the pantry.
There's nothing inside at all. There's hardly any room for me, let alone a beowolf. I hunker down to examine the floor. Beneath a ruined bag of flour are droplets of blood. I stand up and hit my head on a little lantern hanging from the ceiling. When I glance up in annoyance, I see a hole in the ceiling. There's an entrance to the attic here.
I inhale sharply. "Attic. It's in the ceiling!"
Everyone gets down low, weapons pointed to the ceiling.
"Where?" Arc asks.
"Shut up," I hiss. "Listen!"
We keep our eyes to the skies, trying to listen to anything scratching in the walls. But there's nothing. All I can hear is heavy human breathing and the distant sounds of battle from the rest of the town.
I look around again. I gesture at Pahlavi to take his team one way through the house. Then I point at Sergeant Biały and have him come with me to the other side.
Arc sticks close to me, too close, as we stay low and move through the house, eyes to the ceiling. This home circles around with a handful of rooms and a few halls. We make a full circle and return to the same place.
"Maybe it's dead?" Chumak suggests, keeping his voice barely above a whisper.
"No," I say. "It's a Grimm. Tough fuckers."
"Then, what?" Pahlavi asks. "Light up the ceiling?"
Biały shakes his head, but as typical he offers no comment. I don't think he's very confident in his Valean.
I sigh. "We start shooting randomly and we'll run out of ammo without any guarantee we'll get it. We can't advance with that beowulf ready to jump us from behind, and we're not making it to the LOA with that thing stalking us."
"Sergeant?" Arc says.
"Yeah?" I blink, then grab him and pull him. "Saints, get away from that window."
"But Sergeant, out there." He points out the window the beowolf came from.
The giant is outside. It's hanging off the side of a building, limbs sprawled out in all directions as it hangs there like a spider. Its head is backwards, bright red eyes looking around. The Grimm isn't moving, stationary and hunting like an ambush predator. Its head keeps twitching and rotating.
I hold up my hand, gesturing for complete silence.
Stellenbosch's radio buzzes. "Bravo three-zero, this is Bravo Actual, where are you? Over."
No sooner than the LT's radioman call us in does the giant's head twitch towards us. It clicks ass-puckeringly low and deep.
"Actual," Stellenbosch answers for some reason, eyebrows twitching, "Grimm contact. Now's a bad time, out."
The beowolf's long arms punch through the ceiling, grabbing Stellenbosch's shoulder. I turn and shoot into the ceiling. Cojoc grabs his legs and pulls back on him. The Grimm barks and drops him. He lands atop Cojoc and quickly rolls to his feet, unharmed and out of breath.
But Arc keeps shooting into the ceiling.
"Cease fire!" I say as he keeps pulling the trigger. "Goddamnit, I said cease fire and get down!"
He runs out of ammo. Breathing hard, he drops the magazine and fumbles for a new one from his belt. He's standing straight up while everyone else has hit the dirt. I reach out to grab his arm and force him to the ground when the beowolf claws through the ceiling and grabs him by the straps on his armor and rifle.
"No, you don't!" I shout, grabbing onto him and yanking.
The beowolf is stronger. Arc chokes as it hauls him to the ceiling, and I don't let go. Not until he's pulled through the ceiling and into the pitch-black attic. I come along with him, nearly pulling my arm out of the socket to hold onto him.
I roll over on plywood, trying to find where my limbs are. I can't see shit. I pull down my NVGs. They click on and give everything a barely visible green glow and kill any and all depth perception.
Arc is on his back, still trying to fit in a magazine. The beowolf is standing above him, its black-red blood leaking onto him. Two of us alone with the monster. I can't get a good angle on its weak spots from this position at all.
It grabs Arc with a claw and raises the other to kill.
"No you fucking don't!" I shout, ramming the demon with my shoulder and grabbing it.
It freaks out, arms too long to get a good angle as I'm holding it. It rips and cuts at something. I can't feel anything in the moment and try to hold it in place like the world's least comfortable interspecies hug.
"Arc!" I say. "Shoot!"
Arc lays there on the ground, staring at us.
"Goddamnit, Arc!"
The beowolf realizes it can't grab me properly. Bastard opens its mouth and snaps at my face. I headbutt it with my helmet and duck. It tries to knee me in the balls, only to ram the armored plate there into my thighs. It's enough to knock me back. It swipes a claw at me and I go stumbling.
It growls low and pissed, crawling to me on all fours.
"Arc!" I call, raising my rifle. I put it to full auto and fire. The recoil shoves me back into the floor.
The beowolf flinches, bullet ripping chunks of flesh and armor. It protects its face and swats my weapon away. Like it's just really pissed, it grabs me and hauls me towards it, snarling and teeth like steak knives that can crush bone and armor.
"H-hey," Arc says.
The Grimm glances to the side. Arc shoves the barrel of his gun in its eye, right between the bone armor of its skull, and fires full auto.
The roar dies in the Grimm's throat as the heavy bullets bounce around and fragment inside its skull, obliterating the brain into a red-black paste. It spews over us, coating us in the sticky liquid.
It goes limp and collapses onto me.
"Fuck," I groan, getting the wind knocked out of me.
Arc just stands there, shaking, holding the rifle. Before he blinks and is suddenly very still. He looks at me and gasps.
"Sergeant!" he says, trying to help me to my feet.
With two sets of battle rattle, two people, and one dead Grimm, the floor gives out from under us. We scream as the ground gives up and sends us crashing down to the first floor.
"Fuck," I groan tightly. "Damnit. Agh!"
I try to lift my head and can't.
Not until the Grimm starts to ash like they always do when they die. Misting into a fine cloud carried away on an invisible wind.
"Sergeant Kafka, Arc," Cojoc says, sliding on her knees down to us.
"I'm fine," Arc says, taking off his helmet and running his hands over his head.
"Ugh," I groan as Cojoc runs her hands over me, coming away slick with blood. She reaches into my IFAK to grab the first aid supplies I have on my person. You always use the casualty's first aid before you use your own. It's just good practice.
"Chumak," Cojoc says, pointing at the nearest soldier. "Help me get this armor off and check for injuries."
I grab her wrist. "Just some cuts. I can mostly still feel everything. Lots of pain's a good sign, right? Just help me up."
Arc holds out his hand to me, a serious look on his face. I meet his eyes and nod slowly, and take his hand.
My shoulder crackles like rice cereal, but aside from a constant high-pitched ache where I rotate it, it's mostly okay. I can still grab my rifle.
"I need to check for injuries, Sergeant," Cojoc says.
I wave her off. "I can function. Last thing I want is you sticking your fingers into any wounds during a blood sweep. Save that for the MASH."
She frowns hard. "Roger, sarn't."
Arc is just staring at me. He tries to say something, and fails.
I grab his helmet off the floor and put it back on his head. "Told you, Arc. You stick with me, and no one dies on my watch."
He nods.
"Hey, Kafka," Pahlavi says, looking out the window.
I follow his gaze. The giant is out there, crawling away over the building. Lazily feeling towards the outer city walls and the highveldt. We keep watching as it vanishes and flees the city.
"Want me to call it in?" Stellenbosch asks.
I nod. "Yeah. Tell the LT we made it, and we'll be proceeding to the LOA. We've got a city to save or… something. Whatever it is the officers are making us do."
I let out another heavy breath. "And if anyone has any rations on them, offer them to the family whose house we just destroyed."
We take it street by street, slowly checking our corners. And not just because I'm so fucking sore than any sudden movements make my joints pop and crackle in ways that I really don't want to think about right now.
With the giant gone, and the beowolf taken care of, we actually make it through our blocks without any further issue. It even gets quieter. Just more birds in the air and the pop of small arms across the city. And plenty of blood smeared across the walls of the houses.
The LOA has the platoon linking up in a little park. Someone calls out a challenge phrase, and I give the correct one to be let onto the block. There's a row of armored, non-uniformed bodies slumped dead against a building wall covered in bullet holes. Probably the ataman's household guard. Chief DuCaine is sitting on a box near the human corpses, and when he sees us his eyes go to Private Arc.
Arc sees him that close, and automatically tries to snap a salute. The Chief just shakes his head at Arc and says nothing.
"Not in combat," I tell Arc.
"Oh," he says. "Understood, Sergeant."
A senior NCO sees me and points me out to Lieutenant Kornilov, his golden little Second Lieutenant's rank shining in the late day sun. The young officer sees us, confers with the NCOs around him, and points towards the center of town.
I'd be glad someone higher rank was taking the reins of this op, if it wasn't the greenest officer in the entire company. The platoon organizes to spread out street to street, where we can cover each other if needed, and advance towards the ataman's manor. It's not how I'd do it exactly, but orders are orders, and they're fine enough to pass.
There's nothing else to it. The operation goes textbook. Push block by block. Overlap fields of fire if we make hostile contact. And converge the company at the rally point.
Four hours later and Zhovte is in Royal hands. The Colonel turns his hostage ataman over to an emergency citizen's council. The birds strafe beyond the walls, killing stragglers, and the day is over before just after dark.
And I can finally collapse to the ground and relax.
— 4 —
"Voilà!" Stellenbosch says, raising his hands. His face twitches uncontrollably as he smiles.
The platoon whoops and cheers. Platoon Sergeant pats him on the back, and even the Lieutenant says something about putting him in for an award. Not a moment later the television blares a whistle, and the soldiers crowd around it to watch the football match between the Catchfire Millers and FC Argos. If you ignore the time delay through the airwaves, it's a live game.
This late into the day, the Colonel ordered First Company to dig into Zhovte and hold it for the night. We had fortified around the radio tower and the ataman's former manor as Brigade worked to create a local transitional government. Stellenbosch had wrangled up some cables and an old television, hooked them to the tower, and gotten tonight's game illegally broadcast live to the troops.
I'd asked him about it once. He'd claimed "you can't legally charge the Royal Army with piracy," and the brass reasoned it was good for morale.
I check up on my squad. The actual doctors hopped me up with some heavy-duty painkillers and something else that makes me feel great, though they warned me I'll be mostly bruises for the next week. I keep scratching at my gauze. Itchy as shit.
Cojoc is cleaning her fox ears as she sits on a crate of ammo, off in her own little world unless one of the unit doctors grabs her for a surgical assistance on one of the locals again. Arc is crouched next to a window, rifle in hand, silently staring at nothing. Sergeant Pahlavi has his turban back on and is cleaning his rifle. Most of the privates are watching the game. I'm about to join when someone says my name.
"Sergeant Kafka."
"Sir?"
Lieutenant Kornilov nods. "Good work with that beowolf."
"Thank you, sir."
"Your squad has watch at section C-7 along the town's wall. Find Sergeant Danimov if you don't know where that is. Take two and set up a schedule tonight."
"Roger, sir. Anything else?"
He self-consciously adjusts his collar, hesitating "Uh, no. Good night, Sergeant." And off he goes to do whatever platoon leaders do.
I sigh. No rest just yet. I find Pahlavi and relay him the news. "We have watch on C-7 tonight. Whoever gets back from the football game, let them know they're up next."
He grunts, nodding. "Who's going with you?"
I look over our little section of the ataman's manor, my eyes setting on Private Arc. "Him."
"Very good, Sergeant. Movafagh bashi."
"Yeah, yeah, move the gays to you too."
I find Arc and tap his shoulder. "Get your gear back on, soldier. We got watch."
He says nothing. He follows me outside, stepping over the wires Stellenbosch hooked up for the television. Past the soldiers outside the manor enjoying a pick-up game of football against some local kids. Down the streets until we climb a ladder up to the town walls and take position. My shoulder aches like a bitch but I pretend it's fine.
I dangle my legs over the ledge, rifle in my lap. There's nothing in any direction. The high plains of the veldt go on in every direction. A local meandering river is the only that breaks it up. Farmland and prairie grass as far as the eye can see across an endlessly flat expanse. Until somewhere, several horizons to the west, they kick up suddenly in the Hauts Murs mountains, and beyond them the core lands of Vale herself.
So I'm told. I've never seen Vale. Cojoc says she took her first block of leave in Vale, the famous ville lumière, with the endless lights, the stores, and the millions of taxpaying citizens who vote not to give us the money to get something better than our old radiocomputers. Those rat bastards never let her go anywhere. She's not human; she's a faunus. Her kind aren't allowed in the nice, scenic parts of the City of Lights. They might lower the property values.
Army doesn't do that to its soldiers. Makes me want to punch someone, thinking of anyone disrespecting my soldier like that.
Where was I? Right. Your mind wanders like that when you stare out into the highveldt. there's nothing around. No sights to distract yourself with out here. And just the endless void above us.
Arc is just staring at the sky.
"Got the starlight shudders?" I ask.
He blinks. "Sergeant?"
I thumb up to the twinkling ocean in the sky. At a little streak of meteorfire that winks out as soon as it appears.
"I… didn't know it got so bright," he says. "I knew of stars, but I thought the moon was the only thing that…" He squints up at the broken moon and the moonshards in its shattered orbit. "It seems so dull by comparison. There's so many stars; they're so bright."
"No need to perfume fruit, Arc. Cityfolk usually can't handle the real night sky. Drives them insane."
His eyes go eastward. "Yeah. I'll bet. Is it always like this?"
"So long as you're not too close to one of the cities like Novovalsk or Graad, yeah. Most skies are like this in the Army."
"It's beautiful." He sucks on his lips and adjusts the rifle in his hands. He keeps trying to look out across the highveldt, but his eyes always return heavenward. He rubs his own shoulders as the night chill sets in.
"First time seeing a real Grimm, too?"
"I…" He licks his gums. "No, Sergeant. Second time."
"What was the first time?"
"The reason why I joined the Army."
"Felt powerless; wanted to fight back. That about sum it up, kid?"
He clenches and unclenches his fist. "I…"
"You ain't gotta talk about it if you don't want it. I understand what it's like."
"No, it's more…" His expression sours. "I froze today. And you saved me. I messed up a lot today. I made those guys shoot at me, I made the Grimm chase us, and I was frozen in fear when the Grimm was right on me. If you hadn't shoulder-checked it like a complete maniac, I'd be dead right now."
"Yeah," I say. "You're kind of a fuck up."
He grunts unhappily.
I smile. "But, for your very first day in the real Army, you did good. Not everyone can be a high speed low-drag stone-cold baby killing operator like myself, but with some practice, some combat, and maybe a divorce if you really want to promote to staff sergeant ahead of peers, you might actually become just like me some day."
He makes a noise that's almost a laugh. "How are your injuries?"
"Aside from my joints popping a little more than normal, a few cuts that don't need stitches, and a fuckton of bruises? I'll make it. I've had it worse." I nudge him. "What about you, Arc? How do you feel?"
"Does the Army really care about touchy-feely girly feeling crap?"
"I do," I say. "How do you feel right now, Arc?"
He lets out a very long breath, fingers drumming on his rifle. "Angry."
"Yeah."
"And like I made the right choice."
I give him time to collect his thoughts.
Arc starts into his fist. "I'm only here for two years. Sooner, if I can help it."
"One firefight and you already want out of the Army?" I ask with a chuckle.
"Not like that, Sergeant. You said it yourself. Beacon Academy accepts military service in lieu of combat school transcripts. I looked it up. If you qualify while in the service, you get 'cut orders,' and go directly to Beacon. The Army wants me badly, but I know what my destiny is. I won't let them make me helpless ever again. I can't be helpless like I was today. I have to be stronger if I want to become the man I want to be."
I sigh, taking out a cigarette. He refuses like last time and I light up for myself. "I know what you feel. I thought that too. Being a Huntsman ain't easy. Beacon is hard. And they don't let you in without the Shine."
"Shine?"
"That thing Huntsmen do. Makes them more than just people like us. They start to shine, they glow in the dark, and do supernatural shit. I put in packet after packet to apply. I always passed the written pre-exams, but never made it physically. I'm just a normal human. Eventually I just grew up. Had to get real with myself."
"Is that the only reason you couldn't do it? You couldn't glow in the dark or something, Sergeant?"
The cigarette tastes sour in my mouth. "It's nice to be a hero. But then sometimes kids like you come across my life. It makes me wonder who will look out for them if I'm not here to do it? I know I'm not some father or whatever, at least not that I'm aware of, hopefully." I awkwardly roll my shoulders. "But there's something in the ability to care for people with nowhere else left to go that can make this job worth it. It sounds kind of dumb out loud. But it does mean something to me. If I did achieve my dreams, who would look after people like you? Who would make sure the new guys got a good start? Who would keep them from dying?"
"What if they needed you more somewhere else? What if the place you were needed most was as a Huntsman?"
I look up at the sky. "What's the use in fantasy if all it does is make you sad?"
"It should make you angry. Should make you want to make it real."
"I don't Shine. It's all fantasy. I have a real job here with real people to take care of.
"Where does the Shine come from?"
I shrug. "Who knows. Everyone's heard the rumors."
"I haven't."
"Well, our witchdoctor says it means you're godtouched, but I don't think it's really supernatural. I think you just get born with it. Like, some genetic defect, only instead of giving you whatever Stellenbosch has you get superpowers. Those kids know they got Shine, so they go down the Huntsman path."
"What about late bloomers, Sergeant? Those who have to do the military path."
"Are we really using our time on watch to get deep speculation?"
"What else do you do?"
I laugh. "I guess."
"So? What about them? You've been in for a while. You must have seen someone become a Huntsman from the ranks."
"Maybe those late bloomers just never realized they had it." I exhale smoke. "No one knows how Huntsmen work except Huntsmen. I've asked some. They usually look really uncomfortable about it and don't tell me nothing."
"Say you woke up one day with the Shine. Would you still try to go to Beacon?"
I look at my hands. I can feel the years of calluses on my palms. Sometimes if I fall asleep at the wrong angle, I can feel it in my back all the next day. I once nearly shattered my knee during a bad jump into combat. And there's more than a few scars across my skin. One time I sneezed too hard and my neck ended up killing me the entire day; felt like somebody was pinching the tendons.
There were days I spent in the hospital, worrying about being able to heal at all. To return to full service. And whether or not I'd be able to run again, to be a Huntsman. Back during the days I still put in those packets and tried.
"I think…" I exhale a long breath of smoke and ask it over the edge of the wall. "I think I'm too old nowadays. It's for kids your age."
"The cutoff age is thirty-two, Sergeant."
"Since when? Last I heard it was in your twenties."
Arc shrugs. "I read the brochure. And you must have seen things getting worse out here. More Grimm than ever."
"Grimm do this sometimes. I thought maybe the economy was just doing bad. Fear and stress draw them in."
"Sergeant Kafka, if you can be a Huntsman, they want you. I think they're desperate for heroes."
I move the cigarette around in my lips.
"Would you?" he asks again.
"Why does it matter?" I say defensively.
"Because it matters to me if you would or wouldn't. Maybe it's for my own peace of mind."
"Yeah," I say at length. "I know it's stupid to dream anymore. But if I could, and if I never tried, I don't think I could forgive myself, Arc."
He stands up, looking up, stars in his eyes. "I will be a Huntsman. It's the only thing I want. The one thing worth fighting for. To never be weak again, able to be strong for others. And if you can make it too, it'd be nice to have a familiar face with me, old man."
"Old man?" I scoff. "What was your fitness score back in basic? Bet I still got you beat."
"Very good," he says seriously.
"Numbers, Arc."
"Perfect three-hundred."
I snort. "This is the infantry. Three-hundred's the minimum. Next time we do one, I'll set you up on the extended score and set you right."
"Only if you're taking it with me. Be good to have some good competition."
"You got a deal, Private."
Arc does something with his mouth. A little smile, for the first time since I've known him. He holds out his hand to him. "Shake on it."
I grab his hand. And it's there for a moment. The faintest aura of shining golden light about him and in his eyes. He effortlessly pulls me up to my feet.
"I will be a Huntsman, Sergeant."
I'm staring at him, thinking back to what Chief DuCaine said about this kid. And I swallow a lump in my throat.
"But until then," I say, holding his hand firmly, "hit time is still zero-four-hundred; we always got more Grimm and other bad guys to kill."
"Yes, Sergeant," he says brightly.