"I'd rather take my chances digging a foxhole out of the frozen ground with my bare hands than finding myself surrounded by more enemies than I can count. At least in a foxhole you've got cover."
- Chorąży Kazik Sitarski, 6th Airborne Brigade, during the Battle of Warsaw, c.2025
0900 Hours
September 13th, 2026
Pontiff's Prairie, 12 km South of Italica
The company was on the move again.
Along with their newfound allies, the entire company washed up, got dressed, and respectfully cleaned up after themselves from last night's bivouac. Sure, they were trained killers and damn good ones too, but they weren't disrespectful assholes with no appreciation for the environment whatsoever. Due to last night's resounding operational success, most of the Company was sitting on the top of the carriers, in a relaxed state for lack of Saderans in the area. At the front of the convoy, Yarek was sitting near the front of the Rosomak with a few other members of Company V, including two members of the 3rd Recon Team, Itami and Kuribayashi. They had no orders other than to head North, deeper and deeper into Saderan territory, while waiting for probable orders for a "search and destroy" mission.
After linking up with four resupply helicopters, the troops rearmed, fueled up the Rosomaks, and grabbed extra MREs. In addition to receiving a resupply, a helicopter dropped four light mortars and extra ammunition for their allies, whom were more than happy for the extra ammo. He was reviewing a map, his eyes scanning what has already been plotted out, and the landmarks that corresponded to the ones on the map. He took a sip of coffee from a thermos on his belt, and pulled out a pencil, marking waypoints and possible areas for a temporary camp. He frowned, flipping the map upside down, then turning it over. It just didn't make sense. They should have been passing a village marked on the map just n-
Lo and behold, the rooftops of a village appeared just as they crested the ridgeline.
Something was wrong, though. The houses were smoking, burnt out from a previous fire, no doubt set there by Saderan troops.
There were bodies, inside the houses. Some had their throats cut, and some were charred after being caught in the fire. Behind Yarek, a soldier retched, and Yarek nodded, his lips forming a grim line. An understandable reaction after witnessing something like this. However, he witnessed too much of this, enough to dull his natural reaction to seeing a corpse. He shook his head, and continued reading a map, his conscience screaming like a bat out of hell. "Wish we could stop and bury them. They did not deserve such treatment." He thought, his eyes passing over the ruins.
The convoy continued rolling through the prairie, kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. Yarek's gaze stayed on the devastation, even as the village began to fade into the distance. His grip on the thermos tightened involuntarily, the bitter coffee a poor distraction from the bitter truth. This was not a battlefield, they hadn't even been here yet. This was deliberate cruelty, an attempt to erase not just lives, but the humanity tied to them. "Eyes up," Yarek called back to the soldiers perched atop the vehicles. His voice was steady, but the tension in it was palpable. "No telling if the bastards who did this are still around."
Yarek's gaze flicked back to the map, but his focus drifted. His conscience warred with his training. The atrocities they'd just seen were a brutal reminder of the enemy they were facing, and his jaw clenched as he resolved to ensure such brutality wouldn't go unanswered. The Saderans had drawn a line in the sand, and Yarek was determined to meet it head-on. As the convoy crested another rise, the rolling prairie stretched endlessly before them, a canvas of gold and green under the midday sun. But Yarek couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched.
The feeling of unease gnawed at his stomach. Something was off, but he just couldn't place his finger on what. His eyes scanned the treeline to the east, and the burnt-out village that they just passed. He pulled up the binoculars, trying to get a proper visual. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He leaned back, opening the commanders hatch, and poked his head in, looking for the gunner. "Lieutenant, do me a favor and use the thermals."
The gunner, a recently commissioned officer named Kasia, turned her head slightly at Yarek's voice and gave a quick nod. Her hands moved with practiced precision as she adjusted the Rosomak's turret controls, activating the thermal imaging system. "Thermals coming online," Kasia confirmed, her voice calm but carrying a professional edge. The display flickered to life on her monitor, and she swept the gunner's sight across the treeline to the east, then back toward the village ruins. The landscape was a mix of muted cool tones, with occasional bursts of orange and white heat signatures from the still-smoldering remains of the village.
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Kasia reported after a moment, her gaze fixed on the monitor. She expanded the sweep, panning across the prairie. "No hot signatures outside the usual. Grass is warm from the sun, but no movement. Could just be nerves, Captain." Yarek exhaled through his nose, unconvinced. "Could be," he muttered. But that nagging feeling persisted, like a pebble in his boot. It wasn't just nerves, it was something else. He'd been in too many similar situations to slap a "maybe just nerves" label on it so easily.
He frowned even more, and motioned for Kasia to give him the receiver. "CO to convoy, sound off on fuel." One by one, the carriers reported back, their fuel status in the 70%-90% area. "Lets see… Lead carrier has 90% left… Then the 2nd one has 87%..." He pulled out a small notebook and began furiously scribbling away, fuel percentages for every carrier, and then putting them in order of least fueled to most fueled. "We're going to have to halt and siphon gas." He turned to Itami, and showed him the notebook. "I trust that your vehicles have enough petrol, yes?"
Itami looked for words, then sheepishly he admitted that, "Erm, we may or may not have taken on less fuel than needed… We thought this would be a quick patrol and-" He was cut off by Yarek slamming his fist against the hull of the carrier. "Pieprzyć! Why did you did not think of telling me sooner?" He grabbed the radio receiver, and flipped the switch to "Transmit All Frq" He looked around again, scanning the treeline, now annoyed by the predicament they were in.
"CO to Company. We've just discovered that some vehicles in the convoy are lacking fuel. Be prepared to stop at the ridgeline up ahead to siphon fuel. I want everybody to watch the surrounding area while refueling operations take place. We do not know when or where they'll pop out of, so for gods sake, don't miss. CO out." The vehicle shook slightly as it crested the ridgeline, so some of them grabbed onto the sides to not fall off as it lurched over and to a stop. The troops quickly disembarked and began to set up a picket of light machine guns, the four M-98 mortars they received earlier, and covert sniper positions under the vehicles. After about 10 minutes of setting themselves up, they began the transfer of fuel into the 3rd Recon Team's vehicles. Little did they know, that quiet wouldn't last for long.
Soon, they'd have to face more than what they'd bargained for.
As per Yarek's orders, every Rosomak had their IR systems running, and to cover as much area as possible, they had their turrets offset by a few degrees, then the next, and the next, in order to cover as much area as possible. Yarek, meanwhile, was still frowning as if someone had woken him up too early for a surprise barracks inspection. Too damn quiet, and with the treeline really closeby, it made him very, very paranoid. He raise the binoculars to his eyes, as if trying to look over every single leaf on the bushes, every single crack and bump on the tree bark, and every stone stuck in the ground. Deep down, he knew that this wasn't plain old paranoia fueled by being in this sort of situation too many times before. He reached for his canteen, drinking the water from it to calm his frazzled nerves.
His suspicions were confirmed when he heard Kasia barking orders to her crew. "Contact, 1 oclock! Multiple heat signatures, moving fast!" She went silent, and he could tell that she was silently counting them, every estimated file making her blood run cold, her face growing paler and paler. "One hundred… Two hundred… Three hundred… Jesus, there must be thousands of them!" Yarek silently swore, and hopped off the tank, tightening his helmet's straps. Most of Company V was unaware, so Yarek raised his voice in an attempt to get their attention. "We've got incoming! Sergeant get your men to arms, man your positions!" he bellowed, coming to a grinding halt in front of a crevice between two carriers. He hit the deck, and aimed downrange, the red triangle of the ACOG sweeping the road.
He raised his head so that Kasia could hear him, the poor Lieutenant no doubt scared out of her mind. He knew her well, this was her first combat deployment. "HOW MANY?" He could practically picture her making a mental calculation, and getting lost in the heat signatures in the process. "I-I don't know, sir! I lost count at three thousand." She stammered, her left hand gripping the turret's joystick. Yarek thought for a second. Thousands of troops, brigade-strength, and spread out, compared to the previous Saderan tactic of marching and charging in tight-fitting columns. To top it all off, they knew that they were coming, and were goading them into an ambush from the get go.
Then, he came to a realization. They were rapidly adapting. Gone were they previous engagements against them where every single situation was a turkey shoot.
This, this was the real deal. "Carriers, take out the front files. Snipers, take out the officers. Machine gunners, pick off anything that looks like it should belong in a museum. Everybody else, keep your eyes peeled!" He shouted as the Saderans drew closer and closer, cutting off any chance of escape. However, despite having an obvious technological advantage over the enemy, a substantial enemy force could overwhelm them. Reaching for his radio, he tuned it to the QRF frequency, wiping sweat from his brow. "This is Charlie, Victor, Tango, on the emergency channel. We are surrounded by enemy forces and we'll be engaged momentarily. Please, tell me you've got anything in the area, over." The radio static slowly ate away at his patience, until finally, he was answered by an operator.
"Charlie, Victor, Tango, negative on that. You're way too far for any allied air support units. You're on your own." Yarek's grip around the radio tightened, his blood practically boiling. "God damn it, do you not realize that we require assistance? You're hanging us out to dry!" The line stayed silent for a long while, until he heard the operator take a deep breath, finally complying with his request. "I've got a flight of two helicopters orbiting the AO. However, they're lightly armed, since they just got here." Yarek exhaled, putting the receiver up to his mouth. "Thank god. I'll contact the pilots when they get there. Out."
He turned the radio off, stowing it near his body. He couldn't see the Saderans yet, but he could practically feel their anger, their contempt, but also their reluctance at coming here. Then, he saw it. A tuft of peacock feathers poked out from his line of sight, the little red streamer fluttering in the wind. "Engage, engage, engage!" He yelled, tightening his grip on his rifle. He heard the simultaneous sound of charging handles, bolts and the faint clunk of a underbarrel grenade launcher being reloaded. He flicked the safety off, pulled back the handle, and upon lining up for a shot, began firing. The first two Saderans dropped, and it took a split second for the rest of the Company to react. The rapid pak pak pak of the Rosomak's 30mm going off, shredding medium and long range targets, the crack of sniper rifles picking off the officers and senior NCOs, and the chatter of M240s cutting down clustered targets.
This, however, didn't solve all of their problems. The Saderans just kept coming and coming, weapons poised to strike. "Mortars, keep firing! I want rounds offset after every shot. And then to the right, and to the left." He kept firing, the staccato of the rifle's pop pop pop semi automatic fire soothing his nerves a little bit. Round in, one dead Saderan. Round in, another dead Saderan, and then continuing on. Meanwhile, the mortars behind him were setting up for a long distance shot, crews working overtime to get their pieces to bear.
The Sergeant in charge of the mortars looked out towards the lines of Saderans headed towards them, and quickly began to yell out orders to the crews. "Target, X-Ray Four. 2,200 yards. Clear the tubes." The loaders removed the cover lids from the barrels, and grabbed a round of HE(F) from the ammunitions box. While the loader worked to set the timer for the shell, the gunner looked down into the sight, lining up the crosshair just below the ridge. The loader inserted the round, just half of it protruding from the barrel. "HANGING!" he yelled, his hands growing tired of holding onto it. "FIRE ONE!" The sergeant yelled, and simultaneously, the mortar crews dropped their rounds into the barrels, each one firing out almost at the same rate. Then, they repeated the process. "HANGING!" Again. "FIRE ONE!" WHOMP. The rounds exploded just inches above the Saderans, the shrapnel instantly killing the ones whom had been unlucky to be right next to them. Yet they kept going. They were coming way too close, despite the fact that the prairie was now littered with the bodies of their brothers in arms.
Skorupka kept up firing, five second bursts in between each stop. He had lost count at about 50. Or was it 60? 70? Never mind that. Focusing on the glory of the kill instead of fighting was grounds for a Section 8 and a kick in the ass by a military court. Due to the amount of times that he has reloaded in the past hour and a half, the barrel was growing hot, so he reached down to his canteen, and doused the barrel with water. The recommended rate at which a machine-gunner should fire was usually sustained, but due to the dire situation, he chose to kick it up to rapid. Steam poured off of the barrel, dissipating as soon as it appeared. He was getting up to get another few boxes of 7.62, when he was hit square in the shoulder by an arrow. He staggered backwards, the telltale thin rod of wood sticking out.
Despite being a big, burly man, the sheer surprise of being shot by an arrow made him fall over, alerting the 3rd Recon Team's medic, Mari Kurokawa. "Crap- hang on, I've got you." She yelped, running over to him with a concerned look on her face. She unzipped her bag, and took out a roll of gauze, which she wrapped around the wound. Without pulling the arrow out, she snapped most of the wooden shaft off, and made sure the gauze was secured properly. Skorupka was groaning in pain, his hand clasped near the area where the arrow was sticking out. He looked up at Mari, his eyes squinting in pain. "Damn it… I didn't even hear it coming," he muttered through gritted teeth, his breathing ragged. Mari didn't look up as she tightened the gauze, her hands moving with practiced precision. "Yeah, well, welcome to the Special Region. Arrows don't come with warning bells." She glanced around quickly, scanning for any other incoming threats. "We need to get you to cover before they start using you for target practice."
Skorupka nodded, wincing as he tried to move. "Not gonna argue with that." He sucked in a sharp breath as Mari grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet, keeping pressure on his wound. Mari glanced around, her sharp eyes scanning the treeline for movement. The dense undergrowth of the Special Region provided ample cover for their unseen attackers. She could hear the distant shouts in a foreign tongue, likely the archers repositioning. Time was running out. "Come on, big guy, move," she urged, gripping Skorupka's arm tightly as she helped him stagger toward the flat ridge that the rest of Company V and the 3rd Recon Team was using for cover.
A sharp whistle tore through the air. A second arrow hit the tree behind them, then another, and another, giving Mari and Skorupka barely enough time to get out of it's way. "Down!" She yelled, making sure that Skorupka was safely leaning against a Rosomak, then she hit the dirt, shouldering her rifle to scan the treeline for any activity. Then she saw it, a barely concealed autobow, it's operator loading more thick arrows. She wasted no time. She adjusted her aim and squeezed the trigger, sending a burst of rounds into the treeline. The autobow operator barely had time to react before their cover was shredded by the incoming fire. A pained scream echoed through the dense foliage, followed by the distinct sound of a body hitting the ground.
"One down," Mari muttered, scanning for more threats.
Meanwhile, Skorupka clenched his jaw, shifting his weight against the Rosomak's armored frame. His wound throbbed, but the adrenaline kept him upright. "Kurokawa, we need to move before they box us in," he grunted, gripping his side. "Yeah, no shit, Shishio." Mari snapped, still hyper-focused on the treeline. She spotted another Saderan moving towards the still-standing autobow, carefully looking around. Too late for him, as Kurokawa raised her Type 20 and fired off a burst, the rounds stitching the soon-to-be operator across the chest. She looked back to Skorupka, patting his shoulder in a sympathetic manner. "Don't worry, you're safe. We'll get you patched up later in no time."
Meanwhile, further down the line, Yarek continued to fire downrange, multiple arrows striking the ground next to him. He had to change positions multiple times, either on top of the Rosomak, or under and between its' wheels. He started popping in a fresh mag and began to reconsider his life choices when he heard the faint whipping noise of a helicopter in the distance. He squinted towards the sky, and reached for his binoculars. He finally saw them, but couldn't recognize their origin. Definitely not Apaches, nor were they Cobras or Vipers. When they turned, however, he finally understood. The rearmost part of their tail had a small South African flag, as well as what looked to be like their squadron's tail number.
He switched the radio on, and spoke into the microphone, his binoculars still tracking the flight of three helos. "This is Captain Fabian of Company V, 2nd BPLeg. We need you to lay down cover fire on that treeline and the field directly ahead of us, over." The radio crackled for a few seconds before a heavily accented voice responded. "Copy that, Captain. This is Lieutenant Redeker, Ratel-1 of 16 Squadron. We see your position. Stand by, we've got you covered."
He watched as the helicopters split up, and then swung around to face the Saderans. Each hardpoint was kitted with a a cylinder full of FZ90 rockets, and in total, every rocket was aimed at the incoming legionnaires. "Ratel 1, 2, and 3, starting our run. Fan out, mi boets." Redeker's helo lined up with a semi-clustered pack of Saderans and released a quick burst of seven rockets, making sure to slightly tip the nose as to fan out the effect area.
"Hier kom groot kak!" The pilot of the second Rooivalk whooped as his burst of rockets vaporized a few Saderans hiding out near a treeline, the blast sending a few nearby flying. The ground forces watched in awe as the helicopters continued to pound away at the remaining Saderans, moving in turns like a well-oiled machine. Suddenly, he noticed that Kurokawa was dragging his company sergeant, straining to prop him up against a Rosomak's wheel. Yarek ran over to them, kneeling down next to Skorupka. "What the hell happened?" He asked, looking over Skorupka with a concerned look.
"Autobow got him in the shoulder. I did what I could, but there could be more." Skorupka looked unaffected by the pain due to the morphine injection that Kurokawa gave him earlier. "Hang tight, buddy. You'll be alright." He told Skorupka, getting up to loom towards the bottom of the ridge. He saw the Saderans coming, saw that they were still not letting up, swore, and quickly connected to Ratel-1's frequency, and held the mic up to his mouth.
"Victor Actual to Ratel-1. Possible enemy activity to our northeast position. Please send any remaining ordnance at the treeline, over." The line went silent for a while, and he heard Redeker answer. "Copy Victor, will do." The three helicopters wheeled around, and lined up the treeline with their HUDs, like a firing squad facing a to-be-executed enemy.
"Eet kak!" whooped Ratel-3, with the other pilots joining him in whistling, the rockets tearing up dirt, trees, and soldiers, fully eliminating any Saderans at the treeline. The smoke and debris from the rocket strike lingered in the air, the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh mixing into a hellish fog. The remaining Saderans were caught between pressing forward and the reality of their rapidly dwindling numbers. Some faltered, hesitating at the carnage laid before them. Others, perhaps driven by fear or desperation, continued charging, their war cries drowned out by the thundering rotors of the Rooivalks circling above. Yarek swore under his breath as he watched the more disciplined Saderans reform their shield wall. The last thing they needed was another concerted push while their lines were still repositioning. He turned back toward the Rosomaks. "We need covering fire, now! Suppressing pattern on my mark—"
Before he could finish, the unmistakable crack-crack-crack of heavy machine guns echoed across the battlefield. The lead Rosomak opened up with its 30mm Bushmaster, sending a stream of high-explosive rounds into the advancing Saderans. The first rank crumpled like rag dolls, shields splintering under the kinetic force. The rounds didn't just kill—they mutilated, tearing men apart in a grotesque display of modern firepower against antiquated armor. A few javelins and pila were lobbed in retaliation, clattering harmlessly against the armored hulls of the IFVs. One lucky throw managed to wedge itself between the slats of an active protection system, but it didn't detonate anything critical. The Romans had no answer to this level of firepower. They were like ants charging a furnace.
Up above, their rocket pods expended, the South African helicopters circled like vultures, an occasional burst of 20mm gunfire cutting down a rabble of Saderans attempting to reform. "Courtesy of the SAAF, you twats!" Redeker yelled, the concentrated gunfire fueling his adrenaline. The Saderans pressed on, but their charge had lost all cohesion. The initial, disciplined shield wall had shattered under the relentless barrage, and now they surged forward as scattered clusters of desperate men, some trying to find cover where none existed, others screaming defiant war cries that were immediately silenced by bursts of gunfire.
"Ratel-1, mop up any stragglers before they can regroup," Yarek barked into his radio, eyes scanning the chaos below. "Ground forces, push forward, keep the pressure on!" Above, the Rooivalks dipped low, their chin-mounted cannons stitching lines of death through the scattered ranks of Saderan survivors. The gunships moved in perfect sync, clearing out any pockets of resistance that tried to reform. Each short burst from their autocannons ripped through the unarmored flesh of the ancient warriors, reducing men to little more than red mist.
One of the last remaining centurions, his ornate crest still visible even through the smoke, raised his sword and shouted something—perhaps a last rallying cry, or a final insult to his gods for abandoning him. It didn't matter. The next second, the Rosomak's Bushmaster put a round through his chest, sending what remained of his torso flying backward.
It was over.
The remaining Saderans broke. Some threw down their weapons and ran for their lives, stumbling over the corpses of their fallen comrades. Others fell to their knees, too terrified or wounded to flee. The battlefield, which had moments ago been a maelstrom of screaming men and deafening gunfire, fell eerily silent save for the dull roar of the idling IFVs and the steady thrum of the helicopters circling overhead.
Yarek lowered his rifle, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He scanned the aftermath—the smoldering treeline, the gory piles of what once were Saderans, the ragged cheers of his own troops who had survived another engagement. "Kurokawa, status on Skorupka?" he asked, stepping toward the Rosomak where the wounded sergeant had been propped up. Kurokawa looked up from her crouch, her face streaked with dirt and sweat. "Still with us. I think the morphine's keeping him stable, but we need to get him to a proper hospital at Alnus."
"Alright." Yarek turned back to his men. "Secure the prisoners. If they don't resist, don't shoot them. We're not butchers." He gestured at the wreckage ahead. "We've made our point." The battered remnants of the Saderan force either lay dead or knelt in surrender, their weapons discarded in the mud. The acrid scent of gunpowder and blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the burning stench of ruined siege engines and shattered cavalry. The battle had lasted mere hours. The slaughter, even less. Yarek turned away from the scene, keying his radio once more. "TF-Wojtek, this is Victor Actual. Enemy routed. We will be driving to Alnus Hill in a few minutes, over."
A burst of static crackled through the radio before the response came. "Victor Actual, this is TF-Wojtek. Acknowledged. Be advised, recon elements report no additional enemy presence within your immediate AO. Route to Alnus is clear, over." Yarek keyed his radio again, exhaling before he did so. "Understood, Wojtek. Victor Actual out." Yarek clipped his radio back onto his vest, watching as his troops moved with quiet efficiency. The battlefield was theirs, and the remnants of the Saderan force had either surrendered or been wiped out. The mission was a success, but there was no celebration, only the methodical work of securing the prisoners, tending to the wounded, and preparing to move.
The medics worked quickly, lifting Skorupka onto a stretcher and securing him inside the vehicle. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, but the medics gave a reassuring nod, he'd make it, for now. Other wounded soldiers, those who had taken glancing blows from arrows or shrapnel, were patched up and helped aboard. Gwiezda approached, tightening the straps on his gear. "Prisoners are secured. No resistance so far." Yarek nodded. "Good. Last thing we need is some idiot thinking he can earn his gods' favor by rushing a gun."
A commotion near the prisoner line drew his attention. A group of soldiers had circled around a kneeling Saderan officer, his hands bound behind his back. His gilded armor, once pristine, was now battered and stained with blood. One of the soldiers gave him a shove, forcing him to sit back on his heels. Yarek grumbled, flicking his rifle off the "Safe" setting, and he and Gwiezda approached, looking down at the captured man. "Name?" Gwiezda asked him in Latin, his hand resting above the trigger guard of his rifle. The officer spat, his lip curling in disgust. In broken English, he muttered. "I do not speak to barbarians."
Yarek sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You lot really need a new insult." He crouched down, resting his rifle across his knee. "You lost. Your gods didn't save you. Your legions are either dead or running. If you want to keep breathing, you'll cooperate." The officer sneered. "Do what you will. My Empire endures." Yarek rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah," he said, standing back up. "So did the last ragtag band of Saderans say that. Look where they are now." Unbeknownst to him, the Saderan had a knife in his hand, concealed behind his back.
The officer lunged.
A glint of steel flashed in the dimming light as the Saderan whipped his concealed dagger forward, aiming for Yarek's throat. But before the blade could find its mark, a gunshot rang out. The officer's body jerked violently as a round tore through his wrist, the dagger clattering to the ground. He barely had time to scream before Gwiezda stepped forward and delivered a brutal kick to his chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. "Idiot," Gwiezda muttered, lowering his rifle.
The Saderan officer clutched his mangled wrist, roaring in pain, blood seeping between his fingers as he gasped in pain. His face twisted in agony and shock. Yarek exhaled slowly, regaining his balance. His heart pounded in his chest, the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you?" Yarek said, staring down at the writhing man. "You had one chance. One." He turned to the soldiers standing by. "Get him patched up just enough so he doesn't die. Then strap him down in the Rosomak. If he tries that again, don't bother with warnings."
A pair of soldiers moved in, roughly hauling the officer to his knees. One bound his wounded arm while the other secured his legs with a strip of thick zip ties. The officer groaned but no longer had the strength to resist. Itami and Kuribayashi approached him and Gwiezda, shaking their heads. Kuribayashi looked back at the men lugging the Saderan to the IFV, a small trail of blood following them. "They really don't learn, do they?" Yarek let out a humorless chuckle. "No, they don't. They'll likely keep stepping on the same damn rakes, over and over again before they think of changing their doctrine at least a little bit."
Itami chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. "Isn't this a little bit overkill? Y'know, the helicopters and using mortars against the Saderans…" Yarek scoffed, shaking his head. "Nothing's too overkill when your enemy aims to enslave you and their neighbors." He looked around, his nose wrinkling at the smell of burnt grass and foliage. "So no, it's not overkill." He looked around again, his mouth upturning into a slight smile. In perfect Japanese, much to Kuribayashi and Itami's surprise, he recited, "A brilliant man would find a way to not fight a war."
Kuribayashi blinked, taken aback by Yarek's flawless Japanese. She exchanged a glance with Itami, who looked equally surprised. Kuribayashi crossed her arms, scrutinizing Yarek with newfound curiosity. "Alright, spill it. Since when did you speak Japanese that well?" Itami chuckled nervously. "Yeah, that wasn't just 'I studied some anime subtitles' level. That was native-level." Yarek smirked, folding his arms as he started to help his men put the mortars away into the Rosomak. "Studied it for a few years, as most GROM guys do, spent some time in the country, and let's just say I had good teachers." Kuribayashi raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Didn't take you for the type to bother with another language unless you had a reason."
Yarek chuckled, lifting a mortar tube and securing it in its storage rack. "Languages are like rifles, or weapons in general. You never know when you'll need one, and when you do, it's better to already have it loaded and ready to go." Kuribayashi huffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, yeah. Still, most people don't go that deep into a foreign language unless they have a real reason. You got family in Japan or something?"
Yarek shook his head. "No family, just work. Special operations demands flexibility. You never know where you'll end up, and Japan has been a major partner for a long time. Plus, it's an island nation with a long warrior tradition." He smirked slightly. "Figured it'd be good to learn from people who know a thing or two about fighting." Itami blinked, his interest piqued. "Wait, so you actually trained in Japan?"
Yarek nodded as he dusted off his gloves. "Spent some time with the JGSDF's Special Forces Group. Did joint drills, close-quarters combat training, cultural immersion, the whole deal. You work with another country's military, you learn how they think. Language is part of that." Kuribayashi let out a low whistle. "Damn. That explains why you sound like a native. What, did they make you do keigo lessons, too?"
"From time to time, yes. I was also an instructor. Krav Maga, mostly, but boxing as well." Itami let out a whistle. "No wonder you carry yourself like a guy who knows how to throw a punch." Kuribayashi smirked, looking at Yarek with a sly grin, cracking her knuckles. "Sounds like a challenge. You think you could take me in a spar?" Yarek chuckled, slinging his rifle. "Sure, as long as Alnus Hill has a sparring ring, then sure, I'm sure I can kick your ass a few times." Yarek's remark earned him a sharp-toothed grin from Kuribayashi, her fingers flexing as if she were already warming up for a fight. "Big words, Polish boy. I'll make sure you regret 'em." Itami sighed, shaking his head. "Please don't break each other before we even get back to base."
"Can't make promises," Kuribayashi said, cracking her knuckles. "I need some entertainment after this mess."
Minutes later…
The ride back to Alnus was mostly quiet, save for the hum of engines and the occasional crackle of the radio. Yarek sat in the Rosomak, checking over his gear in a familiar, meditative routine. The scent of gunpowder and blood still clung to his uniform, but he had long since learned to ignore it. Across from him, Kuribayashi sat with her arms crossed, eyes locked on him with an intensity that might have unnerved someone less accustomed to her presence.
Yarek smirked, recognizing the look. "Something on your mind, Kuribayashi?"
She leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. "That spar we talked about, don't you go thinking that I forgot. You're not backing out, are you?" Yarek chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn't plan to. Just wondering if you'll be able to walk afterward." Kuribayashi's eyes gleamed with excitement. "You've got a hell of a mouth on you for someone who doesn't know what he's in for."
Itami, sitting nearby, groaned. "Oh great, she's doing it again…" Yarek raised a brow. "Doing what?" Itami sighed, rubbing his temple. "You don't know, do you? Kuribayashi doesn't date. At least, not like normal people. She only picks guys who can fight her and well, let's just say there's a reason she's still single." Yarek glanced back at Kuribayashi, amused. "That true?" Kuribayashi didn't deny it. Instead, she smirked, leaning back against the wall of the carrier. "I've tried dating before, but none of them lasted long. Turns out most guys don't like getting thrown across a dojo floor on their first date."
Yarek laughed. "Sounds like they weren't worth your time." She shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just waiting for someone who won't go down so easily." Her gaze locked onto him again, this time with a different kind of interest. "So, think you can handle me?" Yarek smirked, resting his arms on his knees. "Guess we'll find out soon enough." The Rosomak hit a slight bump, jolting everyone inside. Next to him, Gwiezda groaned, rubbing his face. "I swear, if this turns into some weird battlefield romance thing, I'm walking back to base." The convoy pressed on toward Alnus, but in the back of his mind, Yarek was already planning. The fight would come soon enough, and he wasn't the type to lose easily. And judging by the look in Kuribayashi's eyes, neither was she.
A couple hours later…
The convoy rolled up to the gate, and after ten minutes of waiting for the guards at the gate to verify that they were in fact, allied troops entering to stay for the foreseeable week, they went through, the dirt road leading to a paved cobblestone. The spectacle drew a crowd of both Japanese soldiers, tourists, and the Special Region's civilians living in Alnus. They were somewhat confused, but they soon lost interest after the convoy disappeared further into the fortress. They first rolled up to the vehicle garage, and the carriers parked next to each other, opening their rear doors to disembark troops. Yarek was the first one off, walking with Skorupka's stretcher, making sure his company sergeant was okay.
Once he got back from the hospital, his company was separated into multiple drużynas, sorting equipment and checking their personal belongings over. He went back to his own equipment, and unzipped his rucksack and began rummaging, flipping over some of the contents to make sure he didn't forget anything. Dress uniform? Check. Camouflage shirts and pants? Check. Accordion? Check. Everything else seemed to be in place, so with that, he closed the rucksack and took position in front of the company.
Gwiezda, taking the role of both his XO and CS, bellowed. "Kompania, Uwa-GA!" The rows of troops straightened out, the collective sound of heels clicking sending an echo through the square. "At ease." Yarek said, addressing them directly. "You've done well. Remarkably well, I'd say. We were outnumbered 1 to 20, but with the assistance of our allies, we overcame the odds. You all should be proud of what you did today, and I sure as hell am proud of you." He smiled, straightening his helmet. "Get some rest, everyone. We've got a week before we head out again, so you'll need it."
A murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the formation before they dispersed, eager to clean up and unwind. Yarek sighed, rolling his shoulders as Gwiezda stepped up beside him. "You should take your own advice, sir," Gwiezda remarked. "You haven't slept properly in days." Yarek smirked. "I'll rest when I know everything's in order." Gwiezda chuckled. "Right. And when's that?" Yarek chuckled, putting a finger against his lips, pretending to think. "Hmm… probably never." They both laughed before Yarek turned his gaze toward the barracks. He had a week before the next deployment, but knowing himself, it wouldn't be a quiet one. There was still a sparring match to settle, after all.
Before he could get to taking a rest, he was directed to Alnus Hill's administrative building, and after finding his way to the third floor, he was face to face with General Hazama, the commanding officer of JSDF forces inside the Special Region. Hazama studied him for a moment before gesturing to a chair. "Captain Fabian, take a seat." Yarek complied, lowering himself into the chair across from Hazama's desk. The General folded his hands on the table, his expression unreadable. "Itami tells me that your unit performed well in the last engagement. Your tactics were… effective."
Yarek nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Hazama leaned forward. "However, the level of force used has raised some concerns. Some in the coalition believe a more restrained approach would be preferable." Yarek exhaled, already expecting this conversation. "Sir, with all due respect, restraint doesn't work against an enemy that sees anything less than absolute force as a sign of weakness." Hazama nodded slowly. "I understand. But we also have to consider political ramifications. You're not just fighting a war, Captain. You're representing an alliance."
Yarek met his gaze. "Understood, sir. We'll coordinate more closely with JSDF leadership moving forward." Hazama gave a slight nod. "Good. That will be all. Get some rest, Captain." As Yarek saluted and walked out, Hazama pressed a button on the landline phone, and spoke into it. "Nakayama?" He said, pulling out a manila folder from his desk. "Yes sir?" was the response as he opened it. "Start a file on this… Captain Fabian. I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of him." The phone buzzed, Nakayama responding. "Yes, sir. I'll begin immediately." Hazama exhaled and closed the folder. Things were about to get interesting.
A few hours later
As the day went on, Company V was settling into their barracks. Yarek was offered a room in the officers' quarters multiple times, but declined on the grounds of "understanding the enlisted men". The barracks were alive with the sounds of men unpacking, joking, and unwinding after the grueling campaign. Yarek found a quiet spot, sitting on his cot and pulling out his accordion. He ran his fingers over the keys for a moment before launching into "Czerwone Maki na Monte Cassino."
The solemn melody drifted through the barracks, carried by the evening air and slipping through thin walls into the adjacent quarters where the 3rd Recon Team was stationed. Itami, reclining on his bunk, frowned slightly as the unfamiliar tune reached his ears. Kuribayashi, loosening the straps on her gear, glanced at the ceiling. "What's that sound?" Kurokawa, seated on a crate while checking her sidearm, paused. "It's Polish, I think."
"It's definitely old," Itami muttered, listening to the mournful rise and fall of the tune. He didn't understand a word of it, but the weight in the melody was unmistakable. "Sounds like something you'd hear in a war movie." Kuribayashi scoffed lightly. "Fits, doesn't it?" As the song continued, more of Company V's soldiers joined in, their voices low but firm, carrying the weight of memory and history. The sound carried further, drawing the quiet attention of nearby JSDF personnel and some Special Region civilians outside. They didn't understand the words, but the melody, filled with sorrow and resilience, spoke for itself.
For a moment, the whole base seemed to listen, the usual hum of evening life slowing to acknowledge something deeper—something beyond language, beyond time, a quiet tribute to wars long past and the soldiers who had fought them. Then, as the last note faded into the night air, Yarek let out a quiet breath, fingers resting on the keys. He glanced around at his men, the silence in the barracks heavy yet comforting. Then, with a small smile, he stretched his arms and leaned back.
"Alright," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Who's buying the first round?"