Author's Note : I'm back.
Outskirts of the town of Knivari, Regimental Combat Team-5's Tactical Assembly Area (TAA). (0705) April 13th, 2021.
The brilliant, idyllic morning sky seemingly paled in comparison to the bright, buoyant disposition of the Recon Marines. Their convoy of eighty-something venerable and rusty vehicles of the Recon Battalion bumbled down the vaguely-paved countryside road snaking east, the golden sun ahead arising over the mountainous horizon illuminating the cool plateau, and casting its dazzling orange touch upon the windshield of the keenly traveling Humvees, the grunts inside exhilarated to be on the move again after an eternity spent at the long forgotten forlorn fortress that they have just left behind.
The sunrise over the horizon also casted its golden light on trails left behind by the new, other-worldly invasion force of steel on either side of the road. The further east they went, creeping closer to the occupied Knivari, more of it seemed to have appeared and tainted the picturesque view of the fantastical countryside. Evan stared out of the window in awe, gazing cheerily, with sunglasses over his eyes shielding it from the brilliant sunlight, at the scattered remains of modern-day garbages straddling the roadside – browned toilet papers, torn packs of MREs, some incongruous pieces of condoms right there and here, and seldomly, pulped corpses with their viscera and intestines spilling out. Most were completely destroyed to pieces, and one was completely blackened, its lower half missing. One could only imagine the anguish in their final moments on this realm. They couldn't make out whether they were some unfortunate civilians, or deserting Imperial Legionnaires. What the grunts were sure of were that they were probably sawed apart by Marine autocannon fires. What a surreal start to the day, sure was a strange way of welcoming friendly forces into their TAA by the mechanized Regimental Combat Team, Evan thought.
"The fuckin' RCT sure had some fun out in this shit." Evan sardonically remarked, eyeing the out-of-place pieces of condoms lying aside a headless, blackened body in amusement. Essentially a black skeleton, its skin melted and insides oozing. Simon merely grunted, sighing at the hick driver's fucked-up, sleep-deprived babblings. The driver continued, his hands gripping casually on the steering wheel, the sunglasses hiding the darkened bags blemishing his eyes – held open only by a can of Red Bull. He gestured at a condom and the many scattered torn MRE packs and its candies straddling the roadsides. "Sai, Doc, look at all this shit on the hardball. The fuckin' Regimental Combat Team got so much fuckin' chow and shit, that they're just throwing them out into the roadsides. We've ought to halt and ratfuck the shit outta all these loots like it's a treasure hunt. Snatch some of those unused condoms too, don't wanna be catching dick-rotting alien STDs when we meet some of them fantasy-girl whores."
Doc Clancy and Kirito merely shook their head, bewildered and evidently bemused by the seemingly irreverent humor of their teammate. The Traveler, merely mouthed a huge "wow", taken aback by the wild remarks of the driver responsible for this Humvee's movement, amused and still lightly shaken despite already having spent two weeks or so, crammed inside the rusty confines of this broken-down vehicle together. Simon snorted then sighed once again, wearily so in spite of the team's rather buoyant mood.
"Evan, you gotta shut your fucking piehole once in a while," The brunette turned slowly and methodically away from the pretty world of plateau greenery outside and the M4A1 rifle resting on the frame of the window, and towards his boisterous driver, eyeing him with a jaded stare, the grip on his carbine unmoving. His tone sounded stoic, almost mocking even as he spoke with nonchalance. "don't you think so, dear?"
"I can't help it, dude." Evan snickered indifferently, a bemused grin stretched throughout his face, grimy with dust and filth accumulated throughout the weeks of constant movement and blitzkrieg, violent skirmishes, energy drinks, no sleep and no showers. He glanced slightly at the annoyed brunette, a smirk flashing, then returned his gaze back to the somewhat paved road ahead. "I'm running solely on energy drinks, cigarettes and some other shit ever since we got here."
"Of course you would be," Clancy added out of the blue, snickering in amusement as he snorted out the words out of his smirking mouth. "you stupid hick fuck."
"At least I don't look, and dress like a faggot while invading a whole-ass ancient empire."
Trashes and litteres from the invading Marines bivouacked here littered the vibrantly verdant fields around Knivari, used MRE trashes, torn candy wrappers, smashed pellets of ammunitions and rations along with some scores of crusted porno magazines scattered about throughout the once, untouched other-worldly wilderness. Plus, some destroyed, completely pulped blackened bodies. Though the Marines tried pushing such a sickening image out of their mind, they greeted the convoying recon grunts, and their forlorn-looking beaten Humvees as they rolled down the road into RCT-5's assembly area in the town's vicinity. The chipper Recon Marines gazed dreamily out of their Humvees' filthy windows and windshields, snickering snidely at the surreal mark of the modern world left in this ancient land, a grave reminder of the world's new masters now encroaching on the holy lands of the Empire.
By now, signs of the battalion convoy creeping ever closer to their destination at the Regimental Combat Team's TAA had already shown itself. Sporadic, but thick, ominous black smoke billowed out from the unseen horizon ahead and beyond, certainly one of the many blemishing marks left behind by the brief but violent skirmishes between the advancing RCT, and whatever pitiful defenders the Empire had left behind to die to guard such insignificant town. Far to front, like distant mirages in an oppressively hot desert, the Recon Marines barreling down the road could barely make out through their filthy windshields the far-away silhouettes of long, protruding barrel of the M777 artillery guns of RCT-5's artillery battalion, forlornly dug in the muddy fields around Knivari with their prime-mover MTVR trucks halted close by, their snouts of death silent and pointing resolutely at the cloudy skies to the north, as if to dare any brave enough Saderan attackers to make their move. 1st Recon were close to arriving at their destination for the morning, without any bloodshed to taint such tranquil morning hours.
"Damn, dawg," Dow whistled and hollered, gesturing from 2-1 Bravo's open top Humvee at the lines of heaving warmachines cluttered in the mud, lying silent. He nudged at the Brazilian driver of his, Allie, eyes keenly on the road ahead, at the armor crewmen lounging atop their woodland-schemed M1A1 tanks, black beanies worn casually over their heads in place of the usual CVC armor helmet, cigarettes and vapes hanging off their dried lips, and energy drinks and caffeine within the grasp of their hands. The assistant team leader marveled bemusedly at their leisurely morning routine, no different than the Recon's back when they were at the damned fortress. "would y'all look at these hard-dicked motherfuckers just chillin' and shit after slaughtering an one-third of a legion in that town ahead yesterday?"
He snickered in disbelief, and the battalion convoy, of rusting and broken-down wheeled vehicles, meekly continued on past the gauntly-looking tanks and their escorting infantry amphibious assault vehicles, mean and beastly after an one-sided slaughter.
They cruised closer to their destination, the silent silhouettes of the Regimental Combat Team's artillery batteries growing clearer with clarity as the battalion convoy crept towards the town, the fighting holes in those grassy fields dug up by the gunners for their bivouac sites visibly faintly through the grimy windshields and sights of their rifles, their big guns idling nearby, only the long barrels protruding out of the leafy cammie nettings veiling the rest of their mighty bodies. The cannon-cockers were just about to start their day in those muddy holes all along the gun lines with some C-4-brewed coffee and nicotine, when the column of the Recon Battalion's eighty-something venerable Humvees and trucks rolled down the countryside road nearby, the reconnaissance grunts gazing at the wearily aloof artillerymen with cheerful grins and waves, the tone sarcastic and almost mocking. Sucks for them to still be stuck in their miserable fighting positions, knee-deep in filthy, garbage-ridden mud and melted snow of the mountains.
The Recon Battalion's convoy rolled further down the road in a leisurely convoy, now racing smartly past infantry-carrying amphibious amtracs, and a score of M1A1 tanks of an infantry battalion sitting idly by the roadside fields, neatly dispersed and quiet beneath the shoddy leafy canvas of camouflage and scattered tree branches, the warmachines' refueling MTVR trucks moving about through the grassy plains, quenching the thirst of their turbine engines. 155mm artillery batteries were parked off on either side of the Romanesque highway with their gauntly prime-mover trucks, their mighty barrels silent and forlorn, but ready to sing the orchestra of destruction to their unseen prey to the north, and beyond. Close and side by side, the idle mighty chassis of the Abrams and the silent batteries of M777 guns complimented each other well, looking mean and ready to hunt for any pitiful prey if they were to be called upon. They stood there, idling by, as if to proudly welcome the journeying battalion to the RCT's assembly area in the Romanesque town that they had assaulted with ease, its classical low-rise buildings rising over the horizon, the panorama veiled beneath hazy clouds of baleful black gloom – billowing menacingly out of buildings on fire, pummeled, blasted and blackened by Marines' heavy weapons.
More and more combat vehicles of the Regimental Combat Team, similarly idle in the grassy fields by either side of the road, soon appeared as they rolled down closer towards the assembly area, the chassis filthy with soil and dust after weeks of running gun battles and journey through the fantastical realm, their fellow Marines outside just beginning their day from within the pitiful holes they had dug on the muddy roadsides wearily, bipod-mounted M240 general-purpose machine guns pointed downrange at the highway, their salty MARPATs pocked and smeared with dirt and grass after an expected sleepless night. Scores of mighty Abrams tanks, in schemes of brown-green woodland and desert, Light Armored Recon's LAV-25s and its numerous variants, the infantry-carrying Amtracs, artillery batteries and mortar infantry, supply Humvees and trucks among innumerous seas of other-worldly warmachines lined both side of the highway nearing Knivari and the junction into the Appia Highway, the muddied grunts who rode in these steely pegasuses lounging about mindlessly ; smoking, conversing, combat jacking, cleaning their weapons, reflecting. Alongside the ferocious killing machines, their waste; mashed ammunition pellets, MRE trashes, torn candy wrappers, leaking tranny fluid and diesel tainted, what was mere minutes ago, the ethereal picture of the world untouched by modern-day wonders.
The Recon Marines gazed longingly at the unending seas of fearsome combat vehicles idling nearby, silent but ready to reap souls and sow seeds of devastation. They were in awe the whole time they cruised towards the junction of Appia Highway past lines of parked tanks, AAVs, LAVs and Humvees, exactly like theirs, but with the mighty wire-guided TOW anti-tank guided missiles mounted on the cupola. Hundreds of them stretched down either side of the countryside road all the way up to the junction of Knivari ahead, blocking the panorama of the picturesque mountainous countryside all around, and thousands of infantry Marines wandered past fields of antennas and lines of muddy fighting holes. That was all they needed to see to know that they had arrived at the RCT assembly area on the outskirts. After so much time the 1st Recon had spent alone at the abandoned, forlorn fortress away from any sizable friendly battle force, the Regimental Combat Team's TAA looked pretty much like a bustling metropolis, with all the ceaseless activity going on.
The radio blared suddenly, the voice chirping and buzzing from the boxy device none other than the one of Lieutenant Mistral. Just in time, for they had finally arrived at their very much, bustling destination. Second Platoon's Humvees, leading the battalion's bumbling convoy, continued on cruising down the road, gradually slowing down as it grew more and more cluttered with fearsome-looking tanks and other combat vehicles lining either side of the small Romanesque, the outrageous and incongruous names stenciled on the bore evacuators of their turrets by the crews of these warmachines surreally amusing to the Recon Marines driving past – "Sodomizer", "President Pierce's Peacemaker" and the strangest of them all, "Give Peace a Chance".
The radio continued on buzzing and blaring, unceasing with the voice of their youthful platoon commander.
"All Hitman-2 Victors, this is 2 Actual, maintain the speed of 25 kph while we roll down this route, break, we should find the place for us to halt and await further orders in this crowded mess of an assembly area soon, the battalion is working on it, over."
Not even a minute of mindless convoying later, another transmission came buzzing out of the PRC-119 radios within each of Hitman-2's Humvees, still coming from their Lieutenant, his usually professional-sounding voice buoyant and no doubt joyous.
"Hitman-2 Victors, swerve over into the fields to our right and halt, break, that's our place, the rest of the battalion will follow in our trace, over."
One by one, the team leaders of the Second Platoon sounded off, acknowledging the Lieutenant's order.
"This is Hitman 2-1, roger that Hitman-2."
"2-1 Bravo to Hitman-2, roger."
"Hitman-2 this is 2-2, roger all."
"Hitman 2-3, roger."
Done with his reply through the radio headset, Simon turned towards the driver, gesturing at the empty patch of field ahead amidst the cluttered mess of RCT's combat vehicles.
"Alright, Evan, you heard the L-T," The brunette ordered nonchalantly, nodding towards the patch of field ahead, hunched over the sight of his rifle as he scanned the empty meadow. His next words were somewhat sarcastic. "Pull over to that field over there to the right. That should be the place where we are going to stand-by to stand-by."
"Aye-aye, babe." Evan promptly replied, his eyes on the road keen and unmoving in spite of his usual sing-song, sarcastic tone of reply. Doc Clancy merely snickered, albeit lightly, at the sarcastic exchange. "Comin' right-fuckin'-up."
"Thank you, Corporal."
The battalion's place within the RCT's mighty assembly area was a grassy meadow, just enough to fit the entire Recon Battalion, now sandwiched between a mechanized infantry company in venerable AAVs with massive identification letters painted on its side – K/3/3, Kilo Company 3rd Battalion 3rd Marines, and an entire tank battalion resting after days of unceasing blitzkrieg. Ethereal flowers of the spring bloomed in the gaps between the many dozen idle armored vehicles and manned fighting holes cluttered about, an entire Garden of Eden spurting from the fertile soil amidst blood-thirsty warmachines of steel and filthy grunts. Stuck with mighty combat vehicles all around their flanks, the meekly Humvees and supply trucks of 1st Recon paled in comparison as they pulled over into their sector of the TAA, and halted within the protective cradle of the resting armors.
Surrounded by mean combat vehicles bigger than theirs and dozens of idle artillery gun lines, Evan felt completely safe, for the first time since god knows when, within their protective cradle. He whistled, feeling content with the outer security cordon of infantry Marines and satisfied that fighting holes during their indefinite stay there, the team's Humvee screeching to a methodical halt – the rest of the battalion following in his trace behind as they all crammed their bumbling rusting vehicles into the barely-sizable space they had.
"Wouldn't y'all look at the gathering of all these big-dicked grunts?" Evan spoke in amused disbelief, nodding at the tankers playing spades and simply lounging about around the gunner and loader hatch of their tanks to their right.
"Well gents, as a profound 'fuck you' to the Empire that decided to stir up trouble in San Diego," The brunette took in the sight of innumerous, varying armored vehicles and artillery batteries of the Regimental Combat Team parked idle all around them, remarking nonchalantly, and almost smugly too, his eyes unmoving as he scanned around, hunched over his rifle, his teammates merely eyeing him amidst his prideful boast. "the big green weenie has decided, by the fate of the mighty cosmos, to park an entire regiment of Marines in tanks and Amtracs half-way on the highway leading to Molt's wannabe Rome."
Some of the Recon Marines clambered their way out of the cramped insides of their Humvees, their rifles and light machine guns hanging off their shoulders from its slings casually, fumbling for they were burdened down by the clunky weight of their gears, their tired faces tranquil, taking in the fresh air – tainted by the tang of diesel, kerosene and aviation fuel, nicotine and vapes, shit, piss, ejaculate, cordites, rotting bodies and generally, the mild stench of death billowing out from the half-smoldering town of Knivari a couple of klicks ahead blasted by tank and artillery fires. Still, the breeze was certainly an improvement from the unventilated, claustrophobic confines of their battle rides – something those who rode in open-top vehicles lucked out on. Immediately, Simon and his teammates could already see, be it fellow reconnaissance team leaders like him or simply the average recon grunts, breaking out, smoking and trading cigarettes, and blurting out profane fun alongside the infantrymen and tankers of the RCT, nagging sleep-deprivation notwithstanding. Semper Fidelis
Same topic as always; pornography, and the best one has out here in this other-worldly warzone; the hags and hotties of Falmart they had encountered during their lightning advance all the way here; geeky hobbies; the natural beauty of an entire world untouched by the modern-day wonders; big-picture news of the war; home; reunions with friends from different combat units; mindless babblings, bitching of incompetence plaguing the command of grunt units and the growing lack of trust in their own officers, conspiracy theories, profane jokes and friendly insults thrown at each other's expense. Semper Fidelis.
Simon and his teammates followed suit, clambering out of their Humvees after the platoon had halted and found their place within the mess of a vague-looking 360-degree coil formation of the battalion, satisfied that they are pretty much invulnerable to any attacks by the outer security of heavy armors and infantry grunts. They got out of the cramped, rusting, and somewhat moldy vehicle, huffing and heaving for some fresh air. Feeling content with the presence of innumerous tanks, AAVs, LAVs and the dozens of artillery batteries all around, they promptly lounged around, doing nothing in particular as they awaited for further orders from Lieutenant Mistral, taking in the dazzling scent of the spring's blooming, colorful flowers, and the chilly winds after a rocky road march through the hilly country.
Verdant grass and colorful flowers, blooming vibrantly in the spring, swayed gently beneath their feet, touched gingerly by distant breeze traveling down the distant mountains. Mildly cloudy up in the goldish-blue canvas of the heaven above, the golden touch of the other-worldly sun shone clear through the ghostly white, snow-capped peaks of the fantastical Alps, and the dusty windshield of their forlorn Humvees flickered gently with its light. Simon looked on, towards the misty horizon ahead, the rocky path they had traveled on gradually blending in with Knivari, his sunken eyes – green and vibrant – heavy from sleep-deprivation as he gazed out mindlessly, wearily stoic and unperturbed by the crude banters of his fellow teammate all around. Amidst the backdrop of the majestic countryside of the plateau, the town down the semi-paved road ahead smoldered lightly from beneath the curtains of the mild fog, black smoke foretelling past devastation and destruction brought forth by the steely march of the 1st MARDIV's Regimental Combat Team-5 billowing heavily out of homes and buildings – and its unfortunate occupants within – pounded out of existence by guided bombs and artillery in a gory maelstrom of fire and smoke.
The brunette watched as two M1A1 tanks on the mucky roadside, some distance away from the Recon Battalion's assembly area, their rowdy turbine engines silent as the dogs of war moved their steely turrets back and forth between left and right, their guns pointed straight ahead, their thermals no doubt staring coldly through the light mist, and straight at the heart of the smoldering Knivari. Disfigured buildings, which they had lit up and knocked down through merciless barrages of heavy 120mm and artillery fires, and mangled corpses, some missing their heads, some still attached but blown apart, brains and skull matter pouring out faintly visible to the keen-eyed tank gunners, many of whom cut down by accurate rifle shots of the infantry, or sawed apart by quick machine gun bursts, the grave aftermath visible through the grim black-and-white world of the thermal daysight.
The sound of Dow hollering cheerily from the lines did not break Simon away from his unflinching gaze, but a quick, forceful pat on the brunette's relaxed shoulder by the ever-boisterous Evan did so without any difficulty. He swung around, turning his attention from the misty smoldering town ahead to face the driver of his team's Humvee, the loud-mouthed grinning boy from Mississippi as cheerful as ever.
"Man, wouldn't you fuckin' look at these poor stone-aged motherfuckers." Evan nodded snidely at the smoldering town of Knivari ahead, nonchalantly grinning in amusement at the heavy smoke billowing out from within the veils of the mountainous mist, incongruous and haunting amidst the ethereal backdrop of the Alpine-like countryside. Simon merely eyed his driver, his face stolid and blank, eyeing the boisterous hick Corporal, a burning cigarette hanging at the edge of his dried lips as he continued. "Every single time we came across one of their little, old-ass town, it always ended up similarly fucked-up just like every other town we convoyed. The poor motherfuckers don't even get to shoot back with their stone and arrows and some other medieval shit."
He held the burning cigarette with his gloved fingers, heaving out the nicotine-rich smoke through his somewhat clogged nose as he spat on the ground below. His energy-drink-fueled gaze ahead was unmoving and unusually thoughtful for the ever-unserious hick, and the team leader continued on eyeing the nonchalant Evan, the brunette's complexion impassive and blank.
"I wonder when Epstein's second coming and his personal legion of gay-ass pedophiliac wannabe Roman army fuckers gonna show up and save the motherfuckin' day for Molt like in 'em Hollywood movies."
"I thought you were going to shut the fuck up for once."
"You know I won't. I'm high on all these nicotine and energy-drink products." Evan shrugged, the boyish smirk on his face unflinching as he turned to face his brunette friend, his voice cheerful. The brunette merely flashed his eyebrows in disbelief, already expecting yet another barrage of incoherent rambling from his dear friend. "Industrial Revolution and its consequences, yo."
"Sweet Jesus, Evan." Simon merely shook his head lightly at the insane babbling, his stoic mask breaking as he flashed a faint smirk.
"I thought you were like a faggot atheist or some shit." Evan promptly retorted, his eyebrows arched mildly in slight puzzlement. The brunette merely sighed, visibly in exasperation at the antics of his hick friend.
"Just shut it the fuck up, 'rah Evan?" The brunette team leader heaved out the half-sarcastic words in exasperation, spelling each of it slowly and concisely, as if he wasn't clear enough. With that done, Simon promptly turned, slightly so, away from Evan, perhaps finally noticing Dow's unceasing hollering. "Go check on the prick radios in the Humvee, radio-boy, and take a look at the engine too. Certainly wouldn't want it to be fucked while busting north."
" 'rah Sarn't. I'm goin' to jerk off first." The driver promptly flashed a thumbs-up, his dusty face grinning as he immediately took the cue, and wandered off towards their rusting Humvee, mumbling off along the way nonchalantly – faintly heard by the brunette amidst the incessant noises of steel machinery and Marines bullshitting about. "Damn, this shit muddy as hell."
Simon paid no heed to the distant mumbling of his hick buddy, his attention now wholly on the incessant hollering stirred up by Dow, now steadily approaching him, seemingly unfazed by the heavy, cumbersome gears mounted all around his body. The brunette acknowledged the heaving assistant team leader's presence with a terse nod, and the black man promptly responded with his own.
"You seen the L-T, Sai?" Finally within earshot, Dow spoke first with an inquisitive inquiry to the brunette. The young team leader shook his head lightly, similarly clueless on the whereabouts of their platoon commander, and Dow merely sighed in mild exasperation as he stood by Simon's side, puzzled, his M4A1 rifle slung over his cumbersome PC Gen III's chest rig. "Dawg, I thought we were supposed to be fuckin' halted to await further orders?"
Simon shrugged, knowing nothing of Lieutenant Mistral's current whereabouts – he could only guess, based on his own logical reasoning. Last he was seen was mere minutes earlier, clambering out of his cramped command Humvee, and jogging out of sight alongside Gunny Mays as they disappeared into the crowd of lounging Reconnaissance Marines, perhaps heading for the Company CP for a briefing with Captain Walt – where they'd no doubt be receiving further fragmentary orders.
"I don't know Dow, I think the Lieutenant and the Gunny are at the Company CP with the Skipper." The brunette shrugged, only assuming to the best of his knowledge as he nonchalantly replied to the inquisitive assistant team leader of his. "The two are supposed to get the FRAGOs that the battalion passed down at the Company. He'll probably pass it down to us team leaders once L-T and Gunny come back."
"That's cool, sure hope it won't end up all fucked-up retarded like all the previous orders the battalion passed down." Dow merely replied with a grim response, no doubt cynical about the orders about to be briefed to them team leaders sooner or later. "The last time niggas passed down a frag order, 'em bullshit either sent us smashing our way through a fuck-ass blown-up town in a storm and nearly killed us in a blue-on-blue fire, or had us waste a bunch of furry kids just 'cause the battalion commander think there's a whole-ass legion chillin' up in that ancient, deserted fortress."
"Dow, come on," The brunette groaned lightly, not having any of Dow's cynical episode as he spoke. The team leader reassured his assistant nonchalantly. "have a break. Have some faith, buddy. Maybe we'll get to follow in the trace of these armors, and maybe sit back at their rear this time while the RCT push through these towns and villages instead of us being driving in as some unglorified bait."
"That's what the motherfuckers said too before they sent us blasting our way through Italica and Arafa." Dow simply shrugged, his expression grimly dark and no doubt, skeptical of the incoming orders. He eyed the world around him, glancing curtly at the grunts cheerily bantering and bullshitting between themselves, totally obvious to the well-justified concerns of the assistant team leader. "We all seen how these fuck-ass medieval towns look like after we drove through, guns-blazing and shit like a drive-by."
"Oh Dow, just maybe if you had put as much thought into the wellbeing of your victor as much as you had put dwelling on this shit, maybe y'all gents woulda have a fucking roof over your head instead of looking like a demolition derby's experiment." Simon merely snorted at his grim-sounding companion, his purposefully boastful words sounding sarcastic.
"Yeah, dawg," The assistant team leader shrugged nonchalantly, eyeing the myriads of heavy combat vehicles, and even Humvees of the battalion – the ones with a roof over their heads, that is – in ponderous silence for a moment, his gloved hands fixing his mottled helmet crooked slightly to the front. "maybe you got a point, Sai. Maybe you do."
"See?" The vindicated brunette threw his hands in the air casually, his blankly stoic face unchanging as he continued, the sarcastic undertone laced throughout his voice. "I knew you would agree with me. Can't we all just, you know, get along?"
"You do got a point, nigga."
"At least we don't have to suffer like John and the rest of Hitman-3 right now." Simon shrugged once again, nodding off towards their sister platoon further back in the lines of many vehicles of the battalions packed idly in this patch of flowery meadow. Further back, veiled within the seas of forlorn Humvees and MTVR trucks, stood the Recon Battalion's COC."Having to hear a bunch of fucking travesty."
"Huh? What's up with them, Sai?" Dow appeared puzzled, his eyebrows arching in mild curiosity, his deep set eyes squinting at the aloof team leader.
"You haven't heard?" The brunette furrowed his brows, somewhat shocked that Dow hadn't heard of the horrible fate befalling Bravo Company's Third Platoon. He snorted, letting a crack of snicker out from his stoic demeanor. "Lieutenant Superman's giving a fucking rousing battle speech."
"Marines!" The Lieutenant hollered out smugly at his Marines standing before him in attention, eyeing them keenly as he gave out his rousing speech. "I know you men are angry at the battalion and the officers; our chow situation is worsening, and essential supplies are scarce and diminishing. I can understand that!"
Further back in the crowd of Marines standing at attention, John's ever-morose team driver grumbled in a sneaky whisper, his eyes narrowing, the sun above oppressive to his vision and the air, as if to compliment the shitty nature of their inept commander's pitiful attempt at rousing speech, inexplicably heavy with the tang of diesel and kerosene from nearby armored vehicles – its crews and the mechanized infantry lounging nearby watching the comical scene unfolding with shit-eating grins stretched across their faces.
"Un-fucking-believable, bro."
"Look at these poor recon motherfuckers having to listen to this motard."
The platoon commander, riding high on his own pride and ego, and certainly unaware of the snide sneering behind his back by his very own men, and the nearby RCT-5 grunts and armor crews lounging nearby, eyeing the anguishing-ly strange sight with pity on their faces.
"I want you all to know, and remember, who's responsible for this!" The man continued boastfully, completely oblivious to the barrage of insult heaved out beneath the breath of his Marines, and the darkened frowns blemishing their already grimy complexion. Already, those at the back of the formation were cursing out profanities, just as their platoon commander continued, oblivious. "It's the enemy that you should be mad at! It's the enemy that burned your chow and ammo on those supply trucks. It's the enemy that started this war, you should be really, really mad at the enemy!"
"No shit, retard." Doc Miles grumbled begrudgingly beneath his breath. He could barely hold back his nonchalant face from contorting into a sour frown, eyeing the boasting platoon commander keenly with such hatred.
"Gentlemen, I hope we don't lose sight of our real enemy; ones we should be directing our anger on." The platoon commander concluded smugly, finally deciding that he had lectured his weary, demoralized men enough for the day. "That should be it for today. Dismissed."
The small, somewhat-linear crowd dispersed promptly without any preamble, no doubt relieved that the unforgiving psychological torture is over – for now. Looking disheveled, their faces dusty, rifle hanging off their shoulders in slings, derisive whispers and grumbling in regards to Lieutenant Superman ensued silently beneath their breaths. Miles particularly had a hell of a time spitting out the suppressed frustration to a keenly listening John, their eyes red from the dust and hollow from the sleep deprivation.
The lounging grunts and armor crewmen of the RCT-5 nearby merely looked on with pity at their fellow Marines from the Recon Battalion, lazing comfortably around the imposing silhouettes of their tanks, LAVs and Amtracs. From afar, leaning by the side of their now idle forlorn-looking Humvees, the enlisted men of Second Platoon gazed silently, and mindlessly at the ordeal of their sister platoon, bewildered but evidently wordless as they looked on, their heads shaking in visible distraught at the unceasing wrath of bullshit, all while snacking casually on their horrendously tasteless but reasonably fulfilling MRE rations. Clancy's unceasing streak of consuming rations that came only with M&Ms had finally ended – mostly due to the fact that the battalion had lost two supply trucks carrying supplies necessary to keep the warmachine running properly. The red-haired Corpsman had to resort to ratfucking his compatriot's discarded MRE trash in search of his beloved sweets. So far, he had only retrieved Skittles.
Clancy grumbled grimly. He despised Skittles. But he hated going on a day without consuming anything sugary so much more. So much for being the platoon's "Doc". With some hesitation lingering, the Corpsman began to chug down the ripped-out Skittles package with a rather displeased complexion, Evan simply watching in amusement from his driver seat with a radio handset within his hands.
"Doc, you being mad looks sorta cute."
"Whoa, bro." The red-haired young Doc, taken aback by the sudden, obviously sarcastic compliment of the team's driver, immediately moved to retort. His Brooklyn drawl became painfully obvious, glaring at the no doubt nonchalant Evan. "I thought they hang gays and shit from whatever redneck hole you came from?"
"The Civil Rights Movement sure has its perks down South." Evan merely shrugged, face and tone sardonically nonchalant. He pursed his lips boredly, gazing out into the distance at the rows of RCT-5's tanks and AAVs idling by the roadside, the horizon ahead hazed by the smoking, blasted buildings of Knivari ahead. "Man, these dudes get to ride in fucking armors and shit while blowing away these cavemen. That musta been hella cool instead of joyriding around in Iraqi Freedom-era Humvees – and I wonder where the fuck Sai's at."
"Beats me bro, who knows?" Clancy promptly snorted, his voice nonchalant as he downed an entire canteen-worth of kool-aid down his throat. His face had now looked like a kindergartener who had cheerfully played with watercolors, and less like a stone-cold killer stereotype of a Recon Marine with the colorful stains from the Skittles and the kool-aids all over his youthful face.
Kirito grinned at the amusing sight, halting his work of tending upon the overworked Mark-19 of the Humvee to heave out a comment.
"Fucking Doc, you're really becoming like Evan now huh? Eating shit sloppily? What's next? Is it gonna be the hick's jizz on yo lips next ay?"
Doc Clancy flipped a quick middle finger at the gunner on the vehicle's roof.
"Fuck off you chink fuck."
By 0930, most of the battalion officers had found themselves gathered in a small but still sizable cluster of people around the makeshift command post Godfather had used to lead the Recon Battalion's charge through the Empire, their weary, dirty faces covered in grime nonchalant and their eyes red from the countless sleepless nights as they awaited, impatience suppressed deep within, for the CO to pop out of his shoddy tent and hand out the OPORDs as needed. What's the fucker doing anyway? Jerking off to his staff's porn mags? Lieutenant Mistral pushed away any grimacing thoughts. With most of his team leaders gathered around his Humvees at the platoon area, there'd be no time to waste – he didn't want to leave those jaded, very young Sergeants hanging. Besides, it'd no doubt be Godfather's SOP to be on the move once again for another mission, based on some totally thoughtful order he got from the top dog colonels and generals from either the regiment nearby or the Marine Division itself. No time to waste, glory's awaiting, was probably what the battalion commander had in his mind, the youthful First Lieutenant thought. Alongside him, stood Gunny Mays unmoving, deep in thought no doubt.
"You think he's gonna let the guys at least recuperate? You know? After all the fucked-up shit?" He finally spoke, his tone one of evident worry for the men of Second Platoon. Lieutenant Mistral shrugged, resigned at this point at the seemingly never-ending streak of inane mission passed on to the Recon Battalion.
"I doubt he would, Gunny." The Lieutenant replied wearily, his eyes eyeing the entrance flaps of the shoddy command tent just as the Lieutenant Colonel popped out, the S-3 Major alongside with a small board. Fuck it, it's on, now. "He's got to maintain the damn tempo for General Kelly, you know?"
Without much time left lingering on personal notions and grievances, Lieutenant Mistral his head and refocused his sights on the unfolding briefing nearby, the battalion commander taking a seat on a stacked cardboards box of MRE rations.
"Gentlemen…"
"Here's the gist of what we're gonna do gents," The Lieutenant threw his map board on the hood of his command Humvee, the eyes of his sleep-deprived team leaders all on him. Doc Clancy is also present. He pointed at the laminated sheet with a grease pencil, on a stretch of road snaking dozens of klicks north from here, in RCT-5's crib in Knivari, to another unfortunate town in line for the guillotine that is the Marine Division. "In three-zero mikes, the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, reinforced, will bust north and attack up the Appia Highway as a screen force for the RCT-5. We'll then turn into an ASR adjacent to the highway and conduct a movement-to-contact as we bust north all the way up to Fangere. We'd have no armor accompanying, besides the ones already attached to us, air would be on and off because the MAG dudes are still putting the final touches on their helo FARP on that fortress. So gents, once again, artillery would probably be our only saving grace."
The team leaders and the singular Corpsman looked on keenly as the young platoon commander tapped at the next town to their north with resigned looks on their faces. Same shit as before. They're gonna be driving through a hostile backcountry trail in their Humvees and screen the advance of the clunkier, armored force of the regiment. Without the promised escort of tanks and other game-changing armors as promised. All while soaking up attacks from whatever magical wunderwaffe the Romans have for surprise.
"Well, that's some rather combat-savvy plan from our ever-enlightened battalion commander." Simon could only remark sarcastically to the hopelessly thoughtless plan. He thought maybe during the days-worth of rest the battalion had in that deserted fortress would bring back the brain function of the senior officers. Apparently not. He can't complain about the mission though, that's up to Dow.
"So we gon' rehash our previous, stupid fuckin' shenanigans, and continue driving around ahead of the RCT as a screen till we start taking arrow fires and stones from slingshots from these cavemen? This time without any tanks? We all knew what happened to those POGs in that RCT-5 supply unit that got fuckin' smoked by these irregulars?"
"Shit, Dow," Clancy bellowed out a soft snicker, snidely sarcastic, his boyish blue eyes squinted. Evidently, he's similarly fed-up by the battalion commander's unceasing attempts at pushing their luck by throwing them, once again, into the hornet's nest. "you really thought the son of motherfuckers gonna learn and improvise? Shit, if you think they couldn't get any lower, they'll get a shovel and dig down just for them Navy Crosses."
"The usual." The Lieutenant nonchalantly answered the inquiry of the obviously incredulous Dow. "It's a movement to contact, Dow, you know how it is. We're still gonna hand their asses to 'em like the usual."
"If you say so, sir." Dow merely shrugged, his deep-set eyes, reddened by the overconsumption of tobacco products working in hand with the company-wide sleep deprivation, keen as he gazed at the young-faced L-T. Simon, Sutherby and Schmidt stayed silent, letting the assistant team leader speak for them. "It's just I been feelin' that sooner or later, we might run out of luck doing these stupid-ass shit, runnin' the gauntlet around their backyard all by ourselves far-away from any friendly elements."
"We'll have air support," The Lieutenant spoke quickly and precisely, an attempt to reassure the weary, but evidently young Sergeants of his. He glanced at the Gunny. "We'll be fine."
"The Sir's right, gents," Gunny Mays chimed in, his Texan drawl calming the slowly worsening nerves of the NCOs, doing their absolute best to keep the morale of their men intact for the fight ahead. "we'll be just alright, ay? What can these primitive people do against us anyway? They have stones and sticks. We have tanks and shit. I assure y'all be fine, as long as we don't hold into the kind of thinking a certain officer has in this company."
He made his jab at Lieutenant Superman thinly-veiled, and snorts emerged from the small group of young team leaders gathered for the impromptu brief. They all look grimy, tired and positively gaunt, fittingly so for men who hadn't showered ever since crossed the line of departure all the way back in Alnus for the invasion. They hadn't even seen their own faces in weeks, much less shower. Most they have done is wipe the grime off their faces with baby wipes. The bullshittery of the war and the Marine Corps had already taken a visible toll on them.
As to not let them ponder deeply any further on the sheer reality of their current predicament, the Lieutenant saw it fit to dismiss the congregation right now.
"Alright gents, if you guys have no more grievances to voice," Lieutenant Mistral cleared his throat, and spoke with an authoritative tone incongruous to his boyish complexion to the gloomy congregation of team leaders and Corpsman. "I think it'd be fitting for us to mount up."
"Sure hopes we won't end up like those POGs." Clancy grimaced beneath his breath, unaware of the eavesdropping Simon as they both walked back to their team's Humvee for the mission ahead. The brunette team leader could only sigh in exasperation, trying to be optimistic and as reassuring as possible for the sake of his team's morale.
"We won't," Simon reassured optimistically, but even then, hinges of doubt hung in his voice, evident that even he held little faith in whatever luck the battalion had left before it ran out completely. He still did his best to be optimistic of the mission ahead, reminding himself of the innumerous times they had sent the primitive Saderans running in every encounter with them without any losses. "we'll kick ass and take names, like we always do."
And mount up, they sure did soon enough, without any hassle that usually comes with having the entire battalion moving after resting barely enough. Simon looked at his digital watch, the screen tainted with two weeks' worth of grime and dirt. He narrowed his eyes, scanning it intently to see the time – it's 1005 hours. The main force of the regiment were still taking their turn waking up their armored units from its slumber when Evan started the Humvee over, its dormant engine now roaring fiercely. The reporter already had his notebooks and pens out. It's finally time to move out.
At once, the battalion's 80-something force of aging Humvees and supply trucks hummed to life, their drivers struggling to maneuver them out of the maze of the regimental combat team's parked armored vehicles. Soon enough, after some delays caused by bad communications, AAVs and tanks blocking the way, and a bunch of POG truckers getting stuck in the mud, all while honking and yelling at the RCT's grunts – who themselves, are prepping their vehicles for the upcoming movement north – to get out of the way, the battalion is at last, rolling down the Appia Highway as they busted north. Up the road ahead, the bombed-out town of Knivari gloomily rose out of the thick, blackened smoke billowing out of buildings demolished by Marine artillery and heavy weapons.
A deathly silence enveloped the small, Romanesque metropolis as 1st Recon trundled through its empty streets, RCT-5 following in their trace. The shops and houses along the forlorn-looking road were closed, its doors locked, and stalls stood abandoned, the plethora of exotic fruits and vegetables of Falmart rotting – no one dared to go out to buy them, especially after seeing the god-like firepower the other-worlders had brought down and its effects. Charred, mangled bodies of militia and legionnaires laid idle on the entrance to Knivari, ripped apart to pieces of colorfully mashed-up rotting meat and organs by 25mm autocannon fires from the regiment's attached LAVs and the hundreds of artillery and mortar rounds the regimental combat team had lobbed towards the defenders. No doubt, innocent lay among the horrifyingly dismembered dead. Some of the blackened corpses looked no older than 15, their faces gored with brain, skull matter and left unrecognizable. Buildings, struck by heavy howitzer shells, burned and scorched in the morning light, acrid smoke of destruction hovering over the town. Half-collapsed, their stony rubbles clogged the darkened alleys, blocking any potshots from any brave archers. Simon did not take any chances, his eyes keenly spying through the sights of his M4A1 rifle, scanning every window and doors in his sector of fire for any signs of sudden ambush.
Only spying eyes of its terrified residents peeked out of the darkened abyss beyond the closed windows of their homes, scanning as the strange barbarians, in their unusually fast iron wagons – followed by even more imposing iron wagons with long, protruding snouts, rolled down their insignificant mountain town prior to rejoining the main Appia Highway heading north, all of it happening too quickly for them to process. Relief, they all felt. At least they didn't stop to pillage for wealth and rape for pleasure, like any invading army would.
The Recon Marines too, breathed out a deep sigh of relief. At least they didn't have to re-experience the same, thunder run bullshit they had to go through in previous cities and towns like Italica and Arafa.
"Fuck, man, that town was fuckin' creepy." Evan spat out juices of his chewing tobacco into the wind outside, his gloved hands still firmly gripping on the steering wheel of the Humvee.
"Yeah, and smelly as hell too." The reporter chimed in, somewhat gagging despite already being used to the grim images of the dead lying along the highway. Ever since the battalion and the RCT-5 violently blasted their way out of Italica and made their way into the Duma Plateau, widespread devastation and killings and stumbling upon innumerous dead, be it enemy or innocent civilian, bodies – usually dismembered and violently mangled by Marine fires – had become pretty much an everyday sight for the Recon Marines cruising north on the highway. "Must've been from all the goddamn bodies."
"Well, no shit?" Clancy furrowed his brows and snorted, mildly bewildered at the sheer obviousness of the reporter's words. He glanced at Simon, hoping for the team leader to join in on their little bashing session, but the brunette could only gaze aloofly out into the countryside outside, unmoving, his M4A1 mounted on the windowless door of the vehicle.. He was fully taken in by the idyllic sight of the morning fog parting away, majestically revealing snow-capped mountains veiled beneath in the distance, golden rays of the sun peaking through. "Then again we all could've assumed it came from Evan's cock instead."
"How'd you know how his cock would smell like though, Doc?" This time, it would be the journalist's turn to furrowed his brows in bewilderment. The words of the journalist finally made the brunette snap away from gazing at the verdant plateau flashing past outside, now somewhat eyeing the innocent-looking Corpsman.
"What-"
"I thought you're already aware what Doc's hobby is?" Evan merely shook his head, sarcastically disappointed at the reporter's inquiry before eyeing the red-haired Corpsman, now the main target for the bashing. "He's our resident cock-sniffer. Every night, he'd go around holes and ranger graves, unzip pants of dudes that's not on watch, and sniff 'em. He's a walking library of dick stench now – you could tell him to smell someone's dick while blindfolded and motherfucker here could tell you, with one hundred percent accuracy, who that dude was."
"Fuck you, Evan." The Corpsman giggled slightly, throwing up his gloved hands, its middle fingers popped up and pointed resolutely at the driver hunched on the steering wheel. The driver returned his gaze back to the road up ahead, grinning. By now, they had long left Knivari and the town's eerie quietness behind, their view now totally consumed by the panorama of the mountainous countryside, the stream they shall cross later on to their left hidden beneath covers of conifer treelines.
Their journey continued on mindlessly through the countryside, RCT-5 following behind in the trace of the battalion the silence in the vehicle broken occasionally by attempts at singing capella covers of their favorite pop songs. They broke out hollering musical lyrics, from the techno-like Heidi Montag's I'll Do It, Ghost's Mary On A Cross to classics like Dido's Thank You, among many others. Smoke, dark, thick and very much ominous, billowed ahead, the Recon Battalion rolling straight towards the mist of death ahead grabbed their focus firmly, their singing subsiding eventually. Simon would be the first one to point it out, eyeing the peculiar scene keenly through the Humvee's filthy windshield.
"Smoke, 12 o'clock up ahead on the highway."
"Yeah, yeah," Evan nonchalantly replied, now hunched over the steering wheel, his hands gripping casually on it as his eyes scanned the road ahead for any hidden assailants. The reporter spied out from behind Simon's seat, taking a peek to view the situation up ahead. The Humvee slowed, and they could hear Doc Clancy's M4A1 rifle grating against the frame of his door's window as the Corpsman placed the carbine on it, pointing outside towards his sector of fire. The driver keenly eyed the highway. "I seen it."
"All Hitman Victors, this is Hitman-2 Actual, we have thick smoke up ahead – proceed with caution, break, Hitman-2 will be investigating, over."
The Recon Battalion continued on with their journey tensely, rolling ever-closer to the ominous source of the billowing dark smoke up on the highway ahead, everyone inside their vehicles in a state of. Then it happened. They saw the gut-wrenching images of mangled, smoldering remains of a Marine MTVR supply truck when the Simon's leading Humvee drove up an elevated rise on the road, watching and silently aghast by the jarring scenes of friendly POG vehicles burning slowly just off the highway. A platoon of LAVs were halted on the highway in a herringbone formation, the LAR scouts grunts spreaded out all around, pushing out security and forming up a perimeter around the grim scene. Corpsmen tended to the wounded truckers by an LAV on a makeshift aid station, and a black body bag lay amidst the rows of burned-down truck skeletons. A dead Marine.
Lying lifeless on the grassy meadows by the ambush site, were the mangled, bullet-riddled corpses of the daring attackers, all crumpled in awkward postures. Some were missing their limbs, some had their head and skulls blown all over the dandelions in a bloody paint, and some shredded to unrecognizable meaty and bone pastes by machine gun fires, its sticky hue crimson and swarmed by flies in the golden sunlight. The LAR Scouts strolled through the fields of death and devastation with seeming indifference, rummaging the mutilated dead for any valuable intelligences – and souvenirs. They knelt besides the bodies, paying no heed to the gruesome state of the suicidal ambushers, spying the lush horizon of pine woods and grasses ahead for any second waves, pulling security for the Corpsmen and other Marines hard at work behind them.
The Recon Battalion continued rolling north, passing abreast the burned-up truck skeletons and the LAV Platoon with slow, almost-halting speed, the Marines within the Humvee eyeing the unbelievable scene by the highway with immense dismay. The POG's supply victors had been charred beyond recognition, their occupants lying all around, wounded, treated by the sole overworked Navy Corpsman of the LAR Platoon, a half-burnt cigarette lighting up his exasperated, youthful face beneath his grimy helmet. For Doc Clancy, the young sailor looked eerily similar to his fellow Doc in Hitman-3, Miles.
"They smoked one of ours," Kirito grumbled audibly from his turret cupola, eyeing the passing scene of devastation in disbelief. Doc Clancy stayed mute, his eyes unmoving, set solely on the tired Corpsman handling the small, forlorn aid station treating the wounded POGs. "actually unbelievable."