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Author Topic: The Coming Storm  (Read 3758 times)

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Offline Operative13

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The Coming Storm
« on: August 01, 2017, 10:50:39 AM »
Total Word Count: 20,807

Synopsis: Seven years ago, a terrible war was waged in the Geioic Seas that left the once-prosperous island nation of Mariana in ruins. Although they left the war as victors against their Elsian invaders, the scars of battle has yet to heal the people's hearts and minds. Now, invigorated by a charismatic and staunch leader, Mariana has turned from a quiet, isolated republic, into an authoritarian military-state. With war brewing in the air once again, it seems the peaceful life that Allen Touler knew will come crashing down on him once more.

Prologue (Radio Interview)
A crackle. A wisp. A knob turned slowly, emitting a slight buzzing sound as static and choppy words broke through the machine, until the clear voice of a young woman spoke across.

“Governor Oliver, I understand it has been a rough and challenging race so far, and that we are only a few days away from Election Day...”

“Indeed it has,” a mild, husky voice replied.

“...and that you are in a close lead against the incumbent President Hartford.”

“He has been quite a pain, I’ll give him that!”

The crowd broke into chuckles.

“If he wasn’t so good, I wouldn’t have put forth the effort to do so much campaigning!” the man continued. “Most others I’ve ran against during the Governor's Elections lost outright to me! But that’s not fair for me to say that. They were fighting outside of their weight class to start with.”

Again, the crowd laughed, bellowing into the microphones as they did.

“You two have been quite friendly with each other during this race, despite the obvious differences in ideas,” said the woman. “You are well known to be a vocal opponent of President Hartford and his policies, at one time calling him, and I quote, ‘Weak, Misguided, and Indecisive.’ What are your thoughts on your opponent, Governor?”

“Lily, let me set the record straight here: I do not hate President Hartford. Personally, at least. I’ve known him back before he became the Vice President, and yes, I still hold some inkling of jealousy then too...”

Another bout of laughter.

“...but understand that what I say has nothing to do with the man personally. His personality is the least of my problems. What I do have problems with are his policies, and it is those policies that I must call him out for: Weak, Misguided, and Indecisive.”

A round of applause filled the air, drowning out the words of the speakers.

“You were once a member of the Nationalist Party, Governor, before you broke off to become part of the Patriot Party,” the woman continued.

“That is correct,” Oliver said.

“What was the decision behind this breakoff? What did you believe was the turning point, when you chose to leave the Nationalists?”

“Well, if I had to recall... it had to be shortly after... Hartford’s swearing in as President.”

A moment of silence washed over.

“Hartford... was never the kind of man to take charge. To my experience, that is the case. He’s more comfortable standing in Second, giving advice and letting others go first, quietly observing everything around him. While I never entirely agreed with President Willver during his time, President Willver knew what he was doing. In two years, President Willver has managed to save this country from utter ruin, and even after his death, he still managed to save us from that terrible war. But when it was Hartford’s turn... it was nothing but dread. Every waking day, we had to debate with him over the most obvious of things. Hartford was comfortable not taking the blame for anything that happened when Willver was around. After all... he wasn’t the one making the final decision. However, the moment he needed to take charge, he froze. He froze, and because of that, countless lives were needlessly lost. Sure, he does well in peacetime. Sure, our economy is thriving as it stands. But if it not were for Kondor, we would all be Elsians by now. It was not Hartford that saved us from the Elsians...!”

The crowd erupted into standing ovation, their mighty cheers crackling the radio speaker.

“...it was Kondor! The only friend in this world we can truly depend on!”

Deafening was the roar of the crowd, not a single break to be heard.

“Governor...” the woman interrupted.

The applause slowly faded out.

“...if I may, continuing on your line of thought, you mention a lot during the campaign the threat of war breaking out again and the ‘Need to be Prepared.’ Can you elaborate on this and why this seems to be a central issue in this day and age?”

“Of course.”

The Governor cleared his throat and paused for a brief moment, collecting his thoughts, rearranging his words, until his vision became clear.

“We all know of the tragedy that is the Geioic War. We all know the cost we had to pay. The suffering we endured, and the agony we felt... losing our homes, our friends, our families... Many of us have felt that personally, myself included. We all know how War is. Terrible. Our enemy was more than happy to oblige our suffering, showing little mercy for our own. The Nationalists believed that if we left everyone alone and minded our own business, everything would be fine. We could quietly sit by ourselves, in our corner of the world, and not care about anything but us. But that’s not how Reality works. There are people out there who will hurt you. There are people out there who will enslave you. There are people, who by no fault of your own, will do to you the most unspeakable of crimes, and you, who have stayed ignorant of the world, lay powerless to stop it. I say, enough of this ignorance. Enough of this passive isolationism. We cannot stand by and let the world pass us by, while we craddle ourselves in our little corner, daddling in our fancy toys and gimmicks! We may think we are safe when we do nothing to others, but little do we know, there are those who gaze upon us with eyes of envy! They look upon us and see nothing more but a weak, pathetic nation who can do nothing but cry for help whenever trouble arrives! And once they come, seeking to steal our beloved country, we cry... and no one comes to help. This was precisely the mentality that almost lost us the war, precisely the mentality that made us bury our loved ones, and precisely the mentality the Nationalists has promoted to this very day! We were that child in the Geioic War, and I’ll be damned if we do not learn that lesson now! It is time for Mariana to grow up, and learn to take action ourselves!”

The crowd exploded, their cries and applause greater than ever, lasting far as the woman ushered the crowd to a steady ease.

“Governor Oliver, your opponent has criticized you on what he calls ‘Dangerous and Irresponsible’ proposals. I quote from a speech earlier this week... ‘I do not believe beyond a shred of a doubt that Governor Oliver will lead us down a path of destruction if given the opportunity. He has no regard for fair and due process of the law, and lacks the empathy or level-headedness to deal with others in this shrinking world of ours. It has never been our policy to assert our demands through force. That is not who we are, and never shall be. In a world full of hate and violence, more violence is not the answer. We must learn to accept the past and foster forgiveness and understanding between our former enemies so that we may never hope to repeat the same mistakes again.’ One of the major issues you’ve campaigned on regards the Treaty of 1897. You have often lambasted Hartford for failing to enforce the terms set by the Treaty, citing Saint Else’s recent failure to cover their due this year.”

“Rightfully so,” he added.

“What would you do in regards to Saint Else, then?”

“Make them pay. By force if necessary.”

“Don’t you fear that by sending troops to Saint Else, you could be instigating another war?”

“If anyone is instigating war, it would be the Elsians. We are simply enforcing the terms set by the Treaty, and nothing more. Is it not too much to ask? We have to be firm and uncompromising with these people. To protect our sovereignty! We cannot allow ourselves to be seen as yet another victim of war! Have you any sense to what our predicament is? In this day and age? Czirza is already mobilizing their armed forces, just over the horizon! Kondor is too occupied with Dunmar and Sardania as it is. And Saint Else, our bitter foe, just so happens to have gone broke?”

“If I can interrupt...” the woman gestured. “...Czirza is in the midst of a civil war at the moment, and it has been verified by numerous sources that Saint Else did file for bankruptcy at the start of this year. It seems highly unlikely that Mariana is under any threat right now.”

“Right now. But what about four, five, ten years down the line? Are we simply going to Wait for something to happen? It takes time. Time and energy, to make our nation stronger. Can we truly expect our military to defend ourselves against a great threat, standing as it is now? Can we truly expect our ally to come to our aid at a moment’s notice, even as they have more pressing matters as of late? To me the answer is clear. We cannot. No one can reasonably assure that nothing will happen in the near future! No one! We must come to terms with this Reality if we are to survive this new world. We must. Take. Action.”

Part 1 (A Small Visit)
The brisk, clear waves crashed onto the jutted rocks of the beach. The seagulls squawked in the air, flying just above the white fishing boats coming back from sea, eyeing the great catch. The sky shone a brilliant blue with the sun’s radiant rays shining above the town, not a single cloud in sight. The wind blew gently onto the land, the grass bending to its caress, then back again as the waves roll back.

From a little distance behind the beach stood a small, peach wooden house. Old, chipped, and dirty, bits of sand had found their way onto the window sills, covering the panels with a layer of fine yellow dust. A clear circle had been wiped from this window. Behind the window, an old, ragged face with a dark tan and gray crewcut stared out into the street, a grumbled frown drooping down his chin. He watched the heat-hazed street with a stubborn eye, the radio buzzing off in the background.

“...President Oliver has to vowed to take whatever measures to ensure the terms of the Treaty of 1897 are enforced to its fullest, even as Saint Else is reeling from an economic recession that has devastated its trade and mining sectors. Suffering from a shortage of basic necessities, Saint Else has pressed Mariana to retract the sanctions levied against them, however the President...”

A bicycle came riding from a distance at the far end of the street. Trudging up the small slope before veering swiftly down the hill, the young man rode his bicycle all the way through the neighborhood, until he grinded to a steady halt in front of the peach house, the rusty brakes squeaking as it did. The old man watched from his window the young man, dressed in a fine azure tunic, unload the large basket from the back of his bicycle, his rifle swinging haphazardly behind his back. A ravenous growl grew at the door, then a squeaking bark.

The old man looked over to see his short, stubby terrier yelling at the front door.

“Hush, Shelby!” the man snapped. The little dog quieted, her tail wagging excitedly as she sat upon the door’s rug.

The man looked back to see the young man approaching the house, his long fallow-coloured boots treading across the barren front lawn. Letting out an irritated sigh, the old man reached for his crutch and trotted towards the door.

The young man set aside the basket on the front porch and took a deep, solemn breath. He straightened his uniform, patting it down for any bits of dust he gathered along the way, and pushed down on the slightly-curved garrison cap he wore.

With the rifle resting easily behind his back, the young man muttered.

“Okay...”

Before he could reach out and knock, the door creaked open. The terrier suddenly came scampering out from under the old man’s legs and headed straight for the basket.

“No, Shelby, no!” The young man cried, reaching out to stop the energetic dog, only to have the rifle clumsily slide down his back. He reached back to keep the rifle from falling off, but by then the dog had already begun to bury her head into the basket.

“H-Hey Uncle Jeff...” the young man greeted, an uneasy smile on his face.

The old man beamed at the kneeling man before him, the dog now digging her face into whatever food was in the basket. A moment passed before he let open the door and stepped aside.

“You gonna sit there all day or you gonna come in?”

“R-Right!” The young man bumbled. He picked up the basket as he stood back up and hustled his rifle back comfortably atop his shoulder. Shelby whined as her snack was robbed before her, jumping obsessively onto the young man’s boots, her head geared toward the basket as they all went inside.

The interior laid just as dreary and worn-down as the outside, with little, if any, care done to tidy the place up. The green wallpaper stayed torn in some areas of the house, wilting down into the dusty, creaking wooden boards. A large family couch sat to the side of the living room, stuffed with an assortment of boxes and empty beer bottles, and the kitchen, just off to the left where the cloudy window panes were, had loads of unwashed dishes sitting in the tray. The glass cupboards were practically empty, save for one or two cups and plates, and the sink itself was grimy and spotted.

Uncle Jeff limped his way across the living room and toward a maroon reclining sofa chair facing the doorway. He leaned the crutch onto the sofa’s armrest, and with a hefty grunt, the old man tilted the sofa backwards, springing up the stiff legrests.

“You want me to grab you a seat? The couch is a bit occupied...” Jeff asked.

“No, no. That’s fine,” the young man assured. “Uh...” He lifted the straw basket. “...where should I...?”

“Just put it on the kitchen counter. I’ll handle it later,” Uncle Jeff answered.

The young man walked over and set the basket upon the open counter. With the refridgerator nearby, the young man glanced behind the shoulder at his uncle, leaning back with his legs perched upon their rests in the living room. Carefully, he pulled the refrigerator handle open and peered inside to find that it was empty. Empty except for a case of beer at the bottom shelf. He sighed and slowly closed it shut. The young man gazed around this desolate house. The floors were piling with dirt and dust, the walls were falling apart, and bottles of empty beer laid all around the place. The young man worried for his uncle, for he knew no other was willing to look after such a wreck of a man.

Shelby nudged the neck of his boot, her tail wagging, tongue drooping down, panting and eyeing him with great enthusiasm. Deciding she had waited long enough, the young man shuffled through the basket and picked out a small slice of ham.

“Shelby, sit,” he ordered.

The dog stopped and immediately tucked her hind legs. After a brief moment, he handed the slice of ham, which she gladly took hold off and gnawed on.

“Good girl,” the young man said.

He glanced back again at his uncle, who seemed to had already dozed off in his chair. As Shelby chomped down on the meaty slice, the young man could hear the buzz of a radio in the background. The sound of metallic voices echoing from the speakers were unmistakable. He crept into the hallways where the sound reverberated from, his heavy boots creaking the rickety floorboards beneath, until he found the large radio set perched atop a heavy auburn table. A mild, husky voice spoke through. An unmistakable voice.

“...We must be Firm! We must be Strict! Not a single inch shall be given to the Elsians until they understand that they cannot cheat or weasel their way out of the terms of the Treaty! We Marianans are honest people. We stick to our words, and by no means do we intend to go back on any of it! We agreed to the terms of the Treaty just as the Elsians did, and we will uphold our end of the Treaty, through any means necessary...!”

“That the President?” a deep, gruff voice from behind said.

The young man turned around to see Uncle Jeff standing with his crutch.

“Yeah,” the young man replied. “Looks like another speech.”

The two stood there at the radio, quietly listening to the President’s vigorous voice. For what seemed like ages, the only noise that filled the house was that of the President, blasting away at the Elsians and reiterating the need for Mariana to become strong and unyielding. It was not uncommon for President Oliver to work his campaign promises into his speeches, even if at times it sounded more like a broken record than a genuine oration. Yet despite how broken his speeches may sound, President Oliver’s ideas were not just mere speculation and idealism: It was becoming Reality.

“He’s right, you know?” Uncle Jeff suddenly said. “Those Elsians don’t care for anything else. You give ‘em an inch, they’ll take a mile! Heck, maybe an island or two if they felt like it...”

“They say the Elsians are gearing for war again,” mentioned the young man.

The old man scoffed. “I bet they are. No reason for the King to just shut up and act all goody-goody two-shoes after losing a war. He’d want to get back at us, one way or another.”

Uncle Jeff started waddling back to the kitchen.

“You’re not gonna grab another beer bottle, are you Uncle?”

“Don’t worry...” Jeff groaned. “...I’m not gonna get wasted on you.”

The young man glared at him intently, clearly not believing his words.

“Really! God’s sake, kid... I’m just gonna grab a sandwich from your basket.”

The young man sighed as his uncle trodden off into the kitchen.

“And for the last time! I’m not your Uncle!” Jeff hollered.

The young man continued to listen in on the radio, his mind tuned and focused to the words of the President, digesting and conceiving every bite of sound that left the radio. That was until he noticed the large warship rolling into the harbour just outside the house.

The young man’s eyes widened. Just through the back window, overlooking the beach, a massive warship steamed into the harbour, the black pillars of smoke billowing out from its towering smokestacks. Three large turrets, each with twin guns, sat upon its large deck. An array of much smaller anti-aircraft guns of varying caliber lined the sides of the ship, all the way from one end to the other.

The young man approached the back door and unbolted the lock, swinging the rather loose doorframe out. Immediately, the rich, humid air of the beach swept over him. He could feel his closed-neck collar tighten around him, his uniform becoming noticeably more irritating. Outside, the entire harbour bay lied in view. And with it, the warship. Two white chairs stood at the back porch, one of which the young man grabbed and seated himself in. He watched as the warship rolled into the open harbour, the sailors walking briskly across its decks as the warship turned to face the docks before it.

“Sandwich?”

The young man peered over his shoulder to see Jeff offering a cut of ham sandwich.

“Thanks,” the young man said, taking hold of the sandwich.

Jeff grunted back and slumped down himself down on the other chair before taking a large bite out of his own piece. The two casually watched the warship go by, the cool breeze flowing past them and through the house, until the warship finally anchored at one of the docks ahead.

“Everyday, I see more and more of those ships come into the docks,” Uncle Jeff told. “All brand-spanking new. We certainly didn’t built them ourselves...”

The young man quietly listened, chowing away at his ham sandwich.

“...those are foreign. Bought straight from Kondor. The shape, the size, the architecture... very different from our own. Ten years ago, I couldn’t even imagine our country owning even a single one of those beasts.”

Still, the young man sat silent, eating his sandwich.

“You’re not much of a ship guy, are ya?”

The young man swallowed before he spoke. “I’m in the Citizens Militia, not the Navy. How am I supposed to know anything about ships?”

Jeff gave a heavy sigh. “You’re a Marianan, kid. Everyone should know about sailing. You live on an island your whole life and you tell me you don’t know anything about that?”

“It’s not that I don’t know anything about sailing, I just don’t know about warships in general. It’s not my job to learn about them. That’s the Navy’s job.”

The old man scoffed. “Youth Club for the Army’s more like it...”

They both sat in silence, eating their sandwiches and watching the ships go by, and for a long time said nothing. For a brief moment, they sat. Staring out into the sea, gazing upon the scenery around them, until at last one spoke up.

“They’re saying a war’s coming soon,” the young man said. “Things might get ugly in the next few weeks if nothing is done.”

Uncle Jeff took another bite into his sandwich.

“On the chance...” the young man continued. “...on the chance that I get deployed, I won’t be around to take care of you like I’m doing now.”

Jeff sat. Gnawing on the sandwich bit.

“Do you think... you can take care of yourself while I’m gone? Get yourself cleaned up and maybe start fresh somewhere?”

Jeff swished the sandwich one last time before gulping it down.

“Allen, if this is your mother speaking, tell her I don’t need her pity,” he shot. “I’ve already had a long life of people telling me what to do. I don’t need it from her too.”

“I’m serious,” Allen retorted. “No one else is taking care of you like I am. Mom’s given up on you a long time ago, my sister doesn’t even want to step foot in this house, and my Dad...”

“I get it, kid,” Jeff answered. “I can take care of myself.”

“Can you though?”

Jeff sighed once more. He reached with his crutch and tapped the knee of his right leg. A hard thud.

“You remember how I got this leg?”

Allen stood silent.

“Just like you, I was a soldier. It was the first day of the Geioic War. Now, you’d think that on the first day, I’d get to see some action and... be a hero or something, right? No, instead I get hit by a shell from one of their ships. Very first day. The blast threw me into the air and tore off one of my legs. It’s a miracle I even lived through that. But right then and there, the war was over for me. And I didn’t even get to fire a single bullet. All throughout the war, the only thing I could do was sit and watch. And the only thing I had to show for it was a Golden Heart. A freakin’ heart...”

Jeff leaned in toward Allen, his chair just barely tilting over.

“Don’t be that guy, kid.”

He leaned back in and took a hefty bite of his sandwich, his eyes cocked toward the green soldier.

“Take care of yourself first,” Jeff continued. “I can live with myself just fine...”

Shelby had snuck herself in beside the old man, her mouth watering as she lied beside the chair, watching Jeff’s sandwich. Just before Jeff put the last piece of sandwich in his mouth, he caught her envious glimpse and stopped right there. Smiling, he tossed the bit down to Shelby, to which she happily gulped down. Jeff reached down and playfully rubbed the back of Shelby’s ears as he continued to watch the wide open sea.

“I sure hope so...” Allen said.

“...Uncle.”

Part 2 (Family Dinner)
“How’s the pasta?” the father said to his daughter, twirling another steamy roll of pasta before lifting the silver fork up.

“It’s good,” the little girl said, brushing away her long, dark hair. She had tied it into a pair of short twin-tails at the back, lightly dangling behind her back against the soft, green chair.

“I think you’ve outdone yourself this time,” mentioned his wife sitting beside him, playfully snapping another bite. The two adults meekly laughed as the girl rolled her eyes in anguish.

“I went to Lander’s Market today. Cheese imported straight from Selva! And the shrimp I got from the local fisheries, fresh and sweet.”

“Lander’s?” the wife asked. “That place is expensive...”

“Ah, it’s fine!” Her husband assured. “Every once in awhile, we could use a treat like this.”

“When is Allen coming home?” The girl asked.

“He’ll be back soon,” the girl’s mother replied. “He’s at Uncle Jeff’s place right now, but he told us to get started without him.”

The girl brooded, lips pouting and sinking down into her chair.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” the mother asked.

“Why does he always have to go to Uncle Jeff’s house? Why can’t he just stay home for once?” The girl replied.

“If you really want to see him, you can always visit...”

“No. I hate that place,” she shot. “It stinks. And it’s filthy everywhere.”

“Well, what else can we do?” Her father said. “Your brother wants to visit your uncle. Let him do so.”

“I don’t understand what he finds in him,” the girl bemoaned. “All he does is sit around on his couch all day.”

“Well, if he wants to go to Uncle Jeff’s house, that’s up to him,” the father said.

“Yeah, but...” The girl sighed. “...he’s been doing it for ages. And now when he’s out on duty, he doesn’t even come to our house anymore. He just stays cooped up in that drunk man’s house all day.”

The two parents stopped.

“Marlene, we’ve talked about this,” the mother sternly said.

“What’s wrong with me saying that? You two talk about him like that and you don’t have a problem.”

“Dear, we only talk about his problem because we’re concerned for your Uncle,” the father explained. “It’s not appropriate to put labels on people.”

“But still, why can’t I say...”

A sharp stare from the two of them.

Marlene exhaled. “I guess...”

“Come on. Eat your food,” her father gestured. “Have you tried the potato soup yet? It’s really good.”

A knock on the door. Three taps.

“That must be Allen,” the mother said.

“I got it,” Marlene raised.

She wiped her lips and dropped the white cloth napkin onto the table before ushering to the door. With a mild push, the door swung open, and behind stood a young soldier in an azure tunic, chestnut hair and bright eyes smiling down on her.

“I’m back,” Allen greeted.

“Oh, finally...” Marlene sighed in relief. “I swear, any longer and Mom and Dad will start flirting with each other.”

Allen stepped inside, his boots pounding the solid floorboard. A quick whiff, and a strong aroma of creamy cheese and simmering shrimp came sauntering through his senses.

“What’s for dinner?” He asked, setting aside his rifle.

“Some Selvan pasta, potato soup, homemade salad, and toast! All made by yours truly,” his father listed.

“Looks amazing...” Allen replied, his feet drifting to his seat.

“Allen,” his mother mentioned, pointing at Allen’s boots.

“Ah, right!”

Quickly tugging off his large boots and tossing them into the corner, Allen and Marlene headed back to the loin-cloth table and proceeded to dig in.

“Help yourself,” Dad said. “While it’s still warm.”

Allen rubbed his hands together and grabbed hold of the large dish of pasta at the center of the table. With a plate before him, Allen combed through the dish with his fork, emptying just the right amount onto his plate before setting the dish back.

“So how was your visit?” Mom asked.

“Nothing much,” Allen said, chucking a fork of dripping pasta into his mouth. “We just sat around and talked most of the day. I actually went to grab groceries for him a bit later. His fridge was completely empty.”

A worried look slipped her gaze.

“I hope he’s taking care of himself well...”

“I talked with him about that, actually,” Allen pointed out. “He’s says he’s okay.”

“He says a lot of things, Allen.” Mom’s tone softened.

“No, no, he gets it,” Allen waved. “I’m in the Militia now, so I don’t have the time to take care of him like I used to. New responsibilities.”

“I can see that’s done you well,” Dad mentioned.

“I’m supposed to go back to Fort Kressel tomorrow. The Sergeant’s been saying they got some new gear back at the Armoury, and they want everyone to get up to speed with it as soon as possible.”

“Tomorrow’s a Sunday, isn’t it?” Mom worried. “You won’t miss Church, would you?”

“Don’t worry. The training doesn’t start until afternoon. We’ll have plenty of time to go to Church together.”

“That’s good to hear...” Mom said, a breath of relief. “Hear that Marlene? You can spend a little more time with your Big Brother now.” She grinned with a playful cheeriness.

“W-What?” Marlene asked, a bit flustered.

“Oh? Did you miss me that much?” Allen said, sharing the same silly grin. “I’ve only been been gone for six months, you know?”

Marlene punched the side of Allen’s flimsy arm.

“Ow! What’d you do that for!?” He exclaimed.

“Don’t be silly, you doofus,” Marlene scoffed.

“Hey now, be nice you two,” reminded Dad.

“Sorry, Dad...” the two siblings said in unison.

Everyone sat around the small hanging light, illuminating the modest square table that encompassed the whole dining area. The cool, salty air floated through the open windows nearby, gently tugging at the blank, silk curtains, swaying to-and-fro, as the family’s peaceful, loving talks and laughter filled the air, the sweet scent of gentle cream and cheese swirling around the table until the last meal had finally vanished. The plates were set, the table wiped and the crumbs swept, until the lights turned and all life dissipated into the dark silence of the night, in this small, quaint house of theirs.

Part 3 (Late-Night Invitation)
Quick taps on the door. Three of them.

“Who is it?” Allen called out, unbuttoning his stiff tunic. He had just begun settling in for the night, tired as he was from the long day running between the town and his uncle’s house. The lamp light mellowed in the corner, illuminating the navy-blue walls around, and the empty darkness open from the window to his bedroom’s side. It was already midnight, and the town stood in stark silence outside, with only the whispers of the sea breeze calling nearby.

“It’s me,” a soft, tender voice replied. Marlene.

Allen marched over to the door and turned the knob. His lofty figure towered over the delicate young girl as her eyes ran upwards to his.

“What’s up?” Allen plainly asked, leaning against the doorway.

“I...” she began, but seemed to have lost her thought upon staring at her big brother, his plain-white undershirt visible behind the unbuttoned tunic.

Puzzled, Allen pressed. “Do you wanna come in?”

Marlene nodded.

“Alright,” he replied. He stepped to the side, giving Marlene room to pass through the door. As Allen closed the door behind her, Marlene circled her eyes all across the plain, featureless room. Nothing more but Allen’s study desk, his heavy steel chest in front of the old bed, and his bookcase sitting across it. She patted the bed covers and seated herself comfortably at its side, straightening her dress as she did so, while Allen took off his tunic and wrapped it behind his chair, revealing his arms’ tender muscles. The military’s strict training regime tends to do that to people.

Allen turned and stood faced towards Marlene, hands on his hips.

“So? What was it you wanted to say?”

“I...” Marlene began again, before taking a deep breathe. “When will you be off again?”

The question struck Allen unexpectedly. He never considered how long he had been away from his family all this time, and now that Marlene had brought it to the forefront, it dawned on him that he too did not know the answer to that.

“I wouldn’t know,” he shrugged. “Could be next week. Could be a month from now. I’d have to check with the Quartermaster for that. Why?”

Marlene hesitated, a strained look on her face.

“There’s nothing serious going on, is there?” Allen asked.

“No, no...” Marlene shook. “...it’s not that. It’s just...” She stopped for a brief moment before mustering her lungs. “...do you think you can go sailing with me next week?”

Allen raised a brow.

“Sailing?”

“Yeah...” she said. “Just like before.”

“I’m not that good with sailing you know,” Allen pointed out.

“I know that. I just think we could... do something together.”

Allen sighed and gazed up into the ceiling with thought.

“Maybe I could,” he answered.

“So, is that a yes?” she asked.

“It’s a maybe,” Allen reaffirmed. “The Militia has weird scheduling. Some days, I could be off, and others I could be out. All depends on what’s happening around the islands.”

“Don’t make me regret asking you...” Marlene pouted.

Allen exhaled a deep breath. “Fine...” he conceded. “I’ll see if they can make an exception for me next week.”

“Next week, then?” she asked, once more.

“Next week...” he replied once again.

“Okay,” Marlene said, before nonchalantly getting off Allen’s bed and heading back to the doorway.

“That’s it?” Allen questioned, perturbed by Marlene’s sudden exit.

“That’s it,” Marlene repeated. “I just wanted to ask about the sailing is all.”

“Oh...” Allen muttered. “Well, if that’s all you wanted.” He walked over to his bedside and seated himself in the same spot Marlene had occupied, before lifting one of his foot and tugging at the long, brown sock he wore.

Marlene reached out for the doorknob, but stopped and raised her eyes back to her brother, still undressing his sweaty uniform. Beside him, the rifle he carried, leaning against the table. Allen must’ve caught her gaze, because he looked up and asked. “What?”

“Why’d you have to join the Army?” she said.

“I told you already, didn’t I?” Allen replied, tugging at the other sock.

“Why though?” she repeated. “All you do is march around up and down the streets with that gun of yours every day and stay cooped up in that awful fort.”

“As long as it pays for my tuition, I couldn’t care less.”

“You could pay for your tuition elsewhere!” Marlene shot. “Help Mom and Dad out with their business, find work in the city, I don’t know! Instead you just up and convinced them to let you join the Army.”

“Why is it any of your business what I choose to do?” he retorted. “I don’t go telling you what you should do. Besides, it’s easy money. I enjoy it.”

“It’s the Military, Allen,” she sternly said. “You risk your life just to get a paycheck. It isn’t something you should be doing.”

“I’m in the Militia. I’m not going crazy joining the Marines or Territorials. If anything happens, then I stay on the islands here with you. Isn’t that what you want?”

“That’s not the point...”

“Then what is? I don’t know why this is such an issue,” he insisted.

“It’s Jeff, isn’t it?” Marlene said, cross-armed

“What?”

“He put you up to this.”

“Where in the---, no he did not. What does he have to do with this?”

“All you ever do is go to that crooked man’s house. You never spend any time with me!”

“I’m spending time with you next weekend, aren’t I?

“No! I mean---!,” Marlene stuttered. She tossed and groaned in frustration. “Why is it impossible for me to get it through to you!? I care about you, Allen! You and your obsessions are hurting you. It’s been hurting me for a long time. Don’t think I won’t tell Mom and Dad you have no intentions of going out to college.”

“You’re just being silly now,” Allen waved.

“Am I?” Marlene beamed. “Everyone’s talking about war again, Allen. This isn’t a game.”

“I know.”

“You remember how scary it was back then?”

“I do.”

“Then you know how I feel about all this.”

“I do,” Allen said once more. “That’s why I’ve been very careful.” He stood up and stepped towards Marlene, reaching out with both arms and placing his hands upon her shoulders.

“Listen... I may have my own interests, my own way of doing things... some of those things you may not approve of. But know that whatever happens, I would never do anything to upset you. I care about all of you the same. That’s part of the reason why I joined. So that if anything ever happens us, I can be there for you.”

Marlene grumbled, her head cocked away from his shimmering eyes, still unconvinced of Allen’s words. “Still...”

“Tell you what. How about we go out together from now on? Whenever I come on break, we can take a trip downtown or go sailing again. Whatever you want.”

“Really?” Her eyes lit up.

“That’s a promise,” Allen smiled.

The two embraced, her small head buried deep within his chest for a brief moment.

“You smell, you know that?” Marlene said.

“It’s what you get for not letting me change,” Allen replied. A slight recollection of his thoughts suddenly turned his face red. “Geez, I sounded like I was asking you out or something just there...”

“Well, actually...” Marlene raised. “...there’s something I probably should’ve told you about.”

Part 4 (Troubling Reports)
“Thank you, Manter,” Prince Arlent nodded.

His servant bowed, and closed the huge, engraved wooden doors before him. The young prince turned and presented himself to the staunch, gray-haired general behind.

“Christ...” Arlent cursed. “What is my father doing? If nothing is done soon, that madman will have no qualms sending the whole armada down our shores.”

“Kondor has yet to issue a statement of support for Mariana’s threat of occupation,” General Kinston mentioned. “They’d be hard-pressed to continue any further if their invasion fails.”

“Kondor is already sending them arms and armour,” Arlent remarked. “I’d say that’s more than a statement of support...”

“The International Community will not stand for an invasion of our islands. Even if it is part of the Treaty agreements. That is why we sued for peace, Your Highness.”

“They’ll wring their hands, then what? Wring it again once they seize our home? All of our allies withdrew their support after the war. They bear no investment into our lands as they once did. One is in the midst of a civil war! Another is in bed with our former enemy! The rest have merely abandoned their prospects and taken their business elsewhere. I’d say everyone would be more than happy if Mariana took our lands this instant. One less competitor for them to deal with...”

“We still possess the majority of our Iron Fortresses, Your Highness,” Kinston noted. “So long as they remain standing, Mariana cannot truly hope to break through to our capital. A siege won’t work: the fortresses are equipped to last through years without supply. And the fortifications are strong enough to endure any prolonged bombardments. They’ll be forced to undergo shore landings, and in the process drain their numbers. Sooner or later, Kondor will have to step in if Mariana hopes to claim victory against us, and that act alone is enough to provoke the others to action.”

“How can you be certain?” Arlent inquired. “President Oliver has made it very clear he has no intentions of backing down from this. We have two weeks. Two weeks, General. Before he carries out his threat. Boasting the kind of confidence he has, I’m willing to suggest he has other means of circumventing our defenses.”

“At the moment, we have no means of knowing,” Kinston said. “Our spies have reported an accelerated amount of military ships and equipment entering their docks, nothing unexpected... but as to any plans outside of shore landings, we cannot know for certain.”

“How is the progress on our war preparations?”

“We’re ramping up arms and ship production as it stands. That... has provoked anger in Mariana for our Treaty violations, but that is to be expected. We won’t be able to arm everyone before the war starts, but if we manage to stall them for a few more months, we should be ready for a counter-offensive if needed.”

“Good. What about manpower? Do we have the reserves?”

“A quarter-million, ready at our disposal, and a half-million on standby.”

“Is that sufficient?”

“For the time being,” Kinston humbly replied. “However, I suggest we move to recruit outsiders to our cause.”

“Mercenaries?”

“Their experience can be invaluable to our war effort, keeping us informed of the latest in tactics and weaponry. I have a few in mind that could be of service.”

“That’ll be fine, General. But we’ll come back for that at a later time... I have a meeting with the Kondorian Royal Family,” the Prince mentioned.

“The Kondorians?” a stunned Kinston said. “What do you suppose you mean to accomplish with them?”

“Some sort of understanding. I hope that will be the case...” a shred of doubt unsettling Arlent’s voice.

“Your Highness, you know very well the Royal Family does not dabble in politics. You could be causing them great insult simply by the act of inviting them.”

“Even if nothing is accomplished, the move is symbolic. The Senate will be hesitant to support a war against a nation the Royal Family is on good terms with. They would be the ones marked as the wrongdoers instead of us.”

“You do not intend to speak with them about this crisis?”

“If I must, I will. But it hinges on them making the first move. After all, Father has yet to given me authority on the matter.”

“Authority? You mean to tell me this now?”

“Father has not been engaging with his counselors as of late. Even the High Priestess is worried about his state. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since President Oliver threatened to invade Saint Else.”

Kinston let out a deep grumble. “His Grace has not been well since the war ended. It was his idea to invade Mariana, after all. Now I fear his choices are coming back to haunt him.”

A knock on the door.

“His Highness, Prince Eric of Kondor is here to see you,” Manter announced.

“Send him in,” Arlent called, before facing back to the general. “If you excuse us...”

“My lord...” General Kinston bowed.

As the double-doors swung open once more, in stepped a tall, young man with sleek, combed, chestnut hair, donned with a fine white tailcoat embroidered with golden lacings and black trousers. With a kind smile, he strolled towards Prince Arlent with open arms as the General made his exit.

“Cousin!” Prince Eric hollered. “It’s been too long!”

“Eric,” Arlent obliged.

They both shared a friendly embrace, patting one another’s back as they locked before separating.

“Well then, what heeds your call? Perhaps a... suggestion for one of your many lovers?” Eric joked.

“If only I indulged in as much frivolities as you do... but unfortunately that is not why we’re here.”

“Then perhaps we can get straight to business, Your Highnesses...” a stark, hoarse voice spoke behind them.

They turned to see a lanky man in a long blue padded dress-coat, his round spectacles and hollow, gray beard shadowed by the peaked cap he wore. A blue armband containing a white star and circle wrapped around his right side.

“I don’t recall inviting you, good Sir,” told Arlent.

“Oh no, he’s with me, Cousin,” Eric said.

“What?”

Eric smiled. “Did you honestly expect you’d invite me all the way here just to drink tea and chat?” He leaned in closer to Arlent’s ear and whispered. “I understand the predicament you and your father are in right now. Allow me to offer some assistance with your troubles...”

Arlent soured. “Do you realize who you’ve brung here!?” He hissed. “That man’s with the enemy!”

“All the more reason to talk with him. And to be fair, he isn’t... exactly your enemy. Not yet, anyway.”

“Eric, you damned fool...”

They both turned to gaze upon the bewildering man once again, to which the humble man lifted his peaked cap and bowed.

“When you are ready,” the man spoke.
« Last Edit: November 17, 2017, 08:20:09 PM by Operative13 »
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Offline Operative13

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Re: The Coming Storm
« Reply #1 on: August 13, 2017, 06:19:20 AM »
Part 5 (Church Gathering)
The sun had just broken off the blue horizon, shimmering the sky with a cool, turquoise blue as the first rays of light glossed over the sleepy island, signaling the dawn of a new day. The morning seagulls hawked and spurted their raucous cries as the fishing boats hauled off from the crowded docks and into the open sea, a light breeze behind their backs. Slowly, the shops opened their doors, turning the signs and lighting their interiors while the markets outside unpacked their goods from the lumbering crates and settled them onto tables before their stalls. It wasn’t long before chatter filled the streets and the radios buzzed with the latest news.

“Tensions between the two island nations simmer to an all-time high as President Oliver moves Congress to enact a Declaration of War against Saint Else for violations of the 1897 Treaty, the peace agreement that ended the Geioic War seven years ago. Under the terms of the Treaty, Saint Else is prohibited from maintaining a force that exceeds a hundred-thousand troops as well as conceding several islands within the Geioic Sea, paying reparations for war damages, and other smaller concessions. A report from the Office of the Armed Forces...”

“Shut the radio off, Allen,” Dad called out from the front door.

“Just a moment!” Allen hollered back. With a steady ear, he tuned into the radio, absorbing every word it spoke.

“Mama!” Marlene yelled down the hall. “I can’t find my necklace!”

“What necklace, Sweetie?” her mother said back, combing back her long, deep-bistre hair in front of the bedroom mirror. She donned a pitch-black dress with matching flat heels for the occasion, contrasting her polished white face and bright-red lips that exuded her naturally graceful beauty.

“The one with the emerald locket!” Marlene answered. “I can’t find...” She paused. “Nevermind! I found it!”

Marlene strolled out of her room, latching the necklace behind her neck as she veered into the hall to find Allen staring blankly at the radio, his rifle sagging behind his tunic and soldiering gear leaning against the side of his trousers.

“How much longer are you gonna drool over that thing?” she irked, hand to her hip.

“Don’t you listen to the news?” Allen asked, eyes still propping against the radio.

“Not everyday like this,” she replied. ”Let’s go. Mom and Dad will be waiting.”

“Yeah yeah...” he waved. “Just a bit longer...”

Marlene sighed. She stepped over to Allen and reached for the knob.

“...we must act! We must. Take...!” Oliver’s voice cried out, before it was silenced.

“Hey!” Allen yelled.

“I swear, if I have to hear that guy one more time, I’m tossing the radio out the window,” Marlene said, a detested look on her face.

Allen averted his gaze to his younger sister, almost raising his hand in protest before her stunning outfit froze him in place. Marlene’s silken, faded-black dress accentuated her slim figure, with long, tight sleeves and a small cutout just between her upper chest and the ribboned neck collar. The locket hung just center of that cutout, drawing Allen’s eyes in.

“What?” Marlene asked, noticing his downward gaze.

“New dress?” he asked.

“Mom picked it out for me,” she answered, lifting the locket with the tip of her fingers. “What do you think?”

“It looks good.”

“That’s it?” Marlene pouted. “You’re lame...”

“You expect me to lavish praise on you? I’m not your boyfriend, Mar.”

Marlene’s face flushed. “What a worthless brother you are...” She stepped to the side and trod out to the front door.

“Let’s go, everyone!” Their father called out once more. “We’re burning daylight out here!”

Allen sighed and lumbered his heavy backpack up before sauntering out to the car.

“Where’s Mom?” Dad asked, peeking his head in the doorway as Allen past by.

“Still dressing up,” Allen said. He lugged his backpack and rifle to the rear of the car and proceeded to shove them in the trunk. Behind the car’s ajar rear door, Marlene sat impatiently in the back, staring out into the clear skies, face sagging and eyes wandering.

“Honey! We need to go!” Dad hollered.

“In a minute, Sweetie!” she cheerfully replied.

It took the family nearly a half hour before they could get everyone in the car. The morning still light, the streets would normally be calm at this hour. However, it was Sunday. The Day of Solace. On this particular day, the streets packed with churchgoers all waiting to see their priest and pray to their Lord, all dressed in monotonic colours of black, gray, and white. The elders, the adults, the children, fancy and elegant, plain and simple, the colour scheme remained the same. All except for the soldiers that showed up on this particular day. Donning their stark, azure-blue uniforms and garrison caps, they washed over the sullen crowd like an ocean wave across a blackened shore, encroaching on the Holy Temple of God that was the shining-white church before them.

The gated church was surrounded on all sides by the bustling town, the high-storey buildings gazing down upon the church grounds. Though while outside its fences lied the crowded and chaotic streets of merchants and peddlers, within the grounds itself it remained relatively calm and peaceful. Vast, grassy areas covered the soft soil, with groves of trees with large, outgrowing branches shielding the visitors from the harsh sun’s beams. The church itself held nothing of significance. Aesthetically at least. Little more than a giant, boxy structure with a sizable bell tower in the center, the church conveyed the same monotone colours as the visitors before it: white walls and black roofing. The only remarkable feature from this dull and drab church was the large six-pointed cross hovering above the double-doors. A symbol of Faith and Piety.

Everyone gathered together at the front gates of the church, patiently awaiting the Priest and his acolytes to permit them in. Allen and Marlene strolled ahead of their parents, Marlene clinging onto her brother’s arm as the crowd thickened around them.

“It’s more crowded than usual...” mentioned Marlene.

“Probably because the Militia’s here. It’s not often we get to go on leave,” Allen explained.

A commotion broke out from the crowd. People began shuffling their way through, pushing their way through the masses.

“Step aside, good citizens! Militia coming through!” a young, rowdy voice announced.

Allen twitched.

“Oh no...” He muttered.

“What? Someone you know?” Marlene asked.

“Wallace,” Allen replied.

As the crowd parted, a freckled boy in Militia uniform waved at them from afar, his dark-brown hair poking unevenly out from underneath his garrison cap. He and a few other fellow troopers, lugging their gear, rifles swinging beside them, marched straight up to Allen and Marlene.

“Try not to say much,” told Allen. “I’ll handle this.”

“What? Why?” Marlene wondered. “Is there...” She began, only to be interrupted by Wallace’s bold announcement.

“Allen!” Wallace greeted, a big grin on his face. “Nice to see you here! Enjoying your leave?”

“I was,” Allen remarked, an annoyed curt in his voice.

Wallace then noticed the young girl in the pretty dress clinging to Allen. “And who’s this? Your girlfriend?”

“My sister, you jackass,” Allen sneered.

“Woops! My bad...” Wallace whistled. “Wouldn’t want to leave a wrong impression around here, am I right?” He chuckled, before bowing to Marlene. “Private Wallace Mackard, at your service, My Lady.”

Allen shuttered under Wallace’s extravagant eccentrics.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” Wallace gracefully continued.

“Christ, do you really need to put up the gentleman act?” Allen shook.

“Haven’t you heard? The ladies Love a good first impression. Especially when you treat them all sweet and gentleman-like!”

Marlene’s face flustered red, not knowing how to respond.

“She’s fourteen, Wall. You’re not getting anywhere near her with me.”

“Oh? She’s fourteen?” Wallace blinked. “Well, to be fair, I did think she’d be younger than that.”

A nerve snapped. “I’m not that little!” Marlene stomped, all pouty-faced.

“Woah there, Little Missy! No need to be upset! I was just playin’ with ya! No harm done,” Wallace assured.

“I just said!” Marlene hollered, before tugging at Allen’s sleeve. “I don’t like this guy... can we go?”

“Mom and Dad will be here,” said Allen.

Marlene sighed, resigning herself to standing beside Allen as he and Wallace continued their conversation.

“Say Allen, me and the guys here are planning a little outing next week. Just out around the bay here. You interested in coming?” Wallace suggested.

“Sorry. I got my own plans,” Allen said.

“Really? That’s a shame... we’re gonna be out sailing with a bunch of cute girls together! Too bad you’ll be missing out.”

“...what?” Allen uttered.

“And listen to this! You won’t believe how I managed to get this sort of swig! Some girl decided to up and...”

The crowd suddenly ruptured as the gates creaked open, the acolytes directing the people inward to the church as everyone furrowed in.

“Talk to me about it when we’re in the church,” Allen told Wallace. “Let’s go, Mar.” Taking hold of Marlene’s hand, he ushered into the churchyard, disappearing into the shades of gray.

“Sure... I’ll do that...” Wallace said, lowering his enthusiasm as the acolytes called out in the distance.

“All Citizens Militia, please place your belongings in the designated areas! No weapons of any kind are allowed within the Church!” One of the acolytes hollered, ringing a brass bell high in the air.

Part 6 (The Ceremony)
“Is that why?” Wallace answered in shock.

“For God’s Sake, Wallace... really? A bunch of schoolgirls?”

“It was tempting!” he quipped.

“And with my sister!?” Allen fumed.

“How was I supposed to know you two were tagging along?” Wallace shrugged. “Some girls invite us for an outing, we take it! No questions asked.”

“Schoolgirls, Wall! Some common sense would tell you to turn them down.”

“Not according to my common sense.”

Allen peered over his shoulder to his parents and sister sitting at the back of the church. His parents caught his glance and happily waved. He and the other Militia members were allocated a special section of the benches to themselves: a big blob of blue staining the colourless interior, just in front of the marble altar draped with a red cloth lined with golden trims. A large marble baptismal font sat offside the altar, chiseled with the six-pointed cross all across the rim.

Allen faced back to Wallace. “You need to call it off.”

“And miss out on some action? Oh no, I’m not doing that!” rejected Wllance.

“Do you have any sense of decency with you? They’re way too young!”

“In my defense, they looked a bit older than they were.”

“Do I look like I’m fooling around!?” Allen spat. “This is completely unheard of!”

“Alright, so assume you get me off. Then what? You gonna come talk to everyone else and convince them to call it off too? They wanna do things, I wanna do things... ‘s not right for one person to ruin it for everyone.”

“It’s not about one person ruining things, it’s about having some decent morals.”

“Just go with us, then,” said Wallace. “If you’re so worried about someone screwing around, at least you’ll be there to stop it when it happens... not that I mind.”

Allen gared.

“Don’t worry! I won’t do anything stupid!” he promised.

“...just this once. And no more picking up schoolgirls,” Allen shot.

“No promises,” Wallace replied, a smirk on his face.

The church doors opened, and the acolytes donning their signature red-white robes, strolled in atop the black carpet through the candle-lit aisles, chiming their bells, chanting the hymns of ancient times as their melodious song reverberated through the great, spacious hall. Everyone fell silent as the acolytes slowly approached the altar and lined its sides, the bright, colourful lights of the stained glass windows painting their plain attire, watching their calm, steady movements and listening to their soft, soothing voices. The deep, rumbling voices of the men switched to the women’s high, piercing tones, then back, all ringing their bells in unison to the awed spectators before them.

As the last acolyte took their place at the altar, a man in a black dress slowly walked up to the altar, head down and hands together in prayer. He chanted alongside the tune of the acolytes before him, slowly approaching the shining altar, before taking his place at the front. He turned and swiveled back to the gathering before him, keeping in pace with the acolytes’ chants. The attendees joined in prayer, clasping their hands together and closing their eyes, taking in the ancient words of the hymn. As the song drew to a close, the priest opened his arms, palms forward, and spoke.

“Brothers. Sisters. Children of God, Our Lord in the Heavens. We, Disciples of Marian the Holy Spirit, welcome all of you to our Blessed Sanctuary. On this Day of Solace, we come together to heed the Word of God and to give thanks in Its Divine Creations, all of which we humbly and gracefully accept, in that we too may join It and our ancestors in the Heavens Above. Now today is a special day for us. We have the privilege... and honour of hosting the Citizens Militia of Fort Kressel!”

Everyone applauded as the Militia members sat in glee over their resounding praise. As the clapping faded out, the priest continued his opening.

“Now I realize that hosting such people under our roof may cause concern for some. As the Holy Text states, ‘Thou who seeks harm upon others permits Oneself to fall before the Lord and bear Eternal Judgement.’ It is not within our nature to seek the destruction of our fellow Brothers and Sisters. Rather it is the forces of those outside of our own control that conjure us to commit such cruelty. But when one takes up arms to protect those that would befall upon those malevolent forces, one does not sin, but instead carries out the Rightful Judgement of God in Heaven. As the Holy Scriptures state, ‘An Idle Hand bearing witness to Sin is no less Sinful than the One Before It.’ Thus, on behalf of our people, we thank you for your service.”

The mass clapped once more in abundance, resonating across the immense stone arches clasping the ceiling above.

“That’s a laugh,” Wallace uttered. “Commit a sin and they’ll forgive your other sins. A bunch of sinners we are, eh?” He nudged.

“Hush!” Allen hissed.

“Before we begin today’s service, we must first welcome a new life into this world. A gift from God and the Heavens Itself!” The priest proclaimed. “Mr. and Mrs. Dorvell, your daughter if you will.”

The young couple stood up from the benches and approached the priest and his acolytes, the young, quiet infant wrapped snug in its wool blanket. The acolytes began chanting as the couple presented the priest their young.

“The child’s name?” the priest asked.

“Sarah, Father Jerome,” the mother replied.

Father Jerome nodded in reply. Then, taking the infant out from its warm cover into his arms, he held it over the water font as one of the acolytes, the Holy Text in his hand, began reciting verses. The infant began to cry as the priest held it aloft between his hand.

“In the name of God, Our Lord in the Heavens, and by the Blessings of Marian the Holy Spirit, I hereby baptize Sarah Dorvell!”

In one swift motion, he dunked the infant straight into the font, and a few seconds after, pulled her straight out, splashing water all across. No longer was this infant merely a creation, but a Child of God. A creature with a burning soul. Now to be watched over and cared for by those around her as a fellow Sister.

“I wish you and your daughter great happiness in the years to come,” Father Jerome congratulated.

Allen gazed in wonder at the newly baptized girl, her parents now taking her into their fold, wiping away her tears with the blanket they carried her in, caressing her bald, shiny head as they turned toward the audience’s loud praise. He had witnessed such events in the past before. Indeed his most fond memory was the baptism of his own sister so many years ago, how his father and stepmother took Marlene’s frail body to Father Jerome and dunked her into the font just as he did now. Yet all those times he had not put much thought into the act. To Allen, it was merely a ceremony, meant to foster community among the people. But having gone away for so long, never having to spectate such an event for the six months he had been away at the Fort, Allen began to ponder. In the eighteen years he had been in this world, here lied a newborn girl brought into this world with all the innocence of his past self. What would she experience? What would she learn? What things to discover and explore? And what will she become in the world his generation will build for her? The thought quickly brought him back to Marlene, to which he turned to see her inattentive and gazing blankly at the couple walking back to their seating. For some reason, Allen felt uneasy. He had no reason to be, but the sudden thought struck him odd, and now he could not shake this queasy feeling. He did not know why he felt so, as if something terrible was unfolding. Wanting to ease himself of this disturbing thought, he shook his head and returned his attention to Father Jerome.

“Now, Brothers and Sisters... Let us pray.”

Part 7 (Departure to Fort Kressel)
The church’s belltower rung high above the crowd that had now gathered out front, rumbling the air with its powerful tone, signalling the end of the Service. The people flocked together and conversed among themselves the many topics of the day: the weather, the family, work, church... and the soldiers they were leaving behind.

“Your son is heading out today?” a mother asked.

“He is,” the man replied.

“It’s a shame they have to leave so early. I was hoping to spend a little longer with him.”

“I was hoping they’d take mine sooner! One less kid to worry about, eh?” he joked.

“I hope they’re taking care of themselves out there,” another woman replied. “Six months is a long time to be away...”

Others did not take kindly to the troops’ appearance however.

“Good riddance, they’re leaving...” the first man cursed. “Those youngsters have been nothing but trouble around here. Thinking they own the town just because they wear a uniform.”

“They’re not even real soldiers,” the second one mentioned. “They’re just a bunch of self-entitled wannabes leeching off the hard work of others! Who are they to get special treatment for sitting around all day in a cozy bunk?”

“The real heroes died in that war a long time ago,” the third man. “Just look at how carefree they are...” The men stared at Allen and Wallace walking out of the church, Wallace chatting away with glee to his annoyed friend. “...they don’t care a smidget about what happens to us. You can tell the difference just by their attitudes. Territorials never have the same look.”

“‘Baptism by Fire’ is what they call it. The ones who ride through Hell and back, and live to tell the tale,” the fourth man said. “They could do with some of that... see how the Real World is, for once. I think our President’s doing a fine job cutting down on the Militia. Put some Real Men behind those guns instead of these boys.”

While everyone indulged in their sharing of opinions, Allen and Wallace had their own conversation going as they walked back to their gear.

“Is Church always that boring?” Wallace asked, an arm across Allen’s shoulder. “I swear, I fell asleep about halfway in.”

“You learn something important everyday,” Allen explained. “That’s why we go to school. That’s why we attend Church. That’s why we do the damn drills the Sergeant gives us.”

Wallace scoffed. “Learning is boring. The only learning I’m willing to do are things I do for fun.”

“It’s also the reason the Sergeant likes to pick on you so much.”

“Only because he knows I’m better than him!”

“In what world does that even apply?” Allen said with a flat face.

“Whichever world I’d like,” Wallace smirked. “I could do the world where I go out with your sister, for example.”

Allen rolled his arm around Wallace’s neck and tugged him down between his armpit, before rubbing Wallace’s head with his bare knuckles. “Then I’ll have to kill you if that ever happens!” He grinned.

“In another world, you already did!” told Wallace.

Allen released his grip from Wallace as the two young men approached their gear, lying on the plain-white cloth in the open. Wallace rubbed his sore head as he reached for his backpack.

“Why do you even attend church?” Allen asked. “If you hate it so much, why don’t you skip out?”

“Everyone said they’d be here,” Wallace answered, tugging the backpack up his shoulders. “Figured it’d be more fun going together than walking around town all by myself.”

“And not for the Service itself.”

“I could care less! Sin this, sin that, it gets old hearing it from so many people. I used to live in an orphanage, remember?”

“Yes, you told me about that the first day at camp,” reminded Allen.

“Well, the nuns loved to lecture about that just about every waking day. I swear, they were obsessed! Every time I did something, they’d come stop me and give me a long lecture about Sin and the Almighty Lord.”

“Maybe if you paid attention and learned for once in your life, you wouldn’t have to deal with people lecturing you all day.”

“As if!” he exclaimed. “The life I have now is all I need. Just ride it easy until my service is up, and then leech off the government’s pension until the end!”

“That’s your brilliant plan?” Allen said, tightening his backpack straps.

“Yup! Easy and simple. Just the way I like it.”

Wallace paused as Allen grabbed hold of his rifle.

“What about you? Any plans after you’re done?” he asked.

Allen slid the rifle over his shoulder and gazed back.

“College is what Mom and Dad wants. Learn a trade, earn a stable living. Mar’s starting to nag about it too.”

“Are you?” Wallace asked.

Allen stopped for a brief moment. “Probably not... to be honest I just don’t see myself just ‘being’ like everyone else. I want to do something. Something great. But just staying here living a normal life is not something I’d want for myself.”

“You know what they say... ‘To each their own!’” Wallace proclaimed. “No point in living life if you can’t live it the way you want to.”

“For once... I agree with you,” Allen nodded.

Allen’s family appeared out of the crowd and approached him and Wallace, his stepmother clinging onto his father’s arm while Marlene followed behind. His parents waved at him with wide smiles on their face, to which Allen raised his arm back.

“Hi Mom. Hi Dad,” Allen greeted.

“Having fun you two?” Mom asked. “You boys seemed quite chatty together.”

“Yes we are, ma’am,” Wallace nodded.

“This is Wallace. He’s one of my bunkmates at the fort,” said Allen.

Wallace grinned and saluted.

“Wallace, is it?” Mom said. She reached out and offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Wallace.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” thanked Wallace, obliging her offer by returning a handshake, then returning one to Dad’s afterward.

“Marlene, come say hello to Allen’s friend,” said Mom.

“I’ve already met him,” Marlene replied.

“She’s already met him,” Allen reiterated.

“Oh...” Mom paused.  “So do you two...”

“Just this morning, Mom,” Allen answered.

“It’s good to see you made friends over there,” Dad said. “It’s nice to have someone watching your back.”

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Touler. I watch over him in his sleep!” Wallace thumbed. “Nothing gets past him without my notice!”

Allen could only struggle to hold his smile at the awful jokes Wallace was pulling.

Mr. Touler, however, laughed it off with ease. “That’s good to know. You take care of him and  let us know if anything happens to him over there, alright?”

“Will do!” he obliged.

“Say Wallace, where are your parents? You came to the church with them, right?” Mrs. Touler asked.

“He doesn’t have any,” said Allen .

“Oh?” She pondered.

“I’m an orphan, Ma’am,” Wallace explained. “The war took ‘em.”

“Oh dear...” a saddened tone in her voice. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s no biggie,” Wallace waved. “I’ve got other people.”

“I’m glad that’s the case,” Mrs. Touler said relieved. “Say, did you boys see the cute baby the Dorvells had? She’s such the sweetest thing!”

The honking horns of buses sounded at the gates.

“Looks like that’s our ride,” said Allen. “We better get going.”

“Alright, well it’s been nice meeting you Wallace,” Mr. Touler nodded. “Good luck to you and the others.”

“Thanks, Mr. Touler,” said Wallace.

“I’ll miss you Sweetie,” Mom said.

“I’ll miss you too,” Allen replied. He and his parents gave a warm hug, patting their son’s back as he began his departure back to Fort Kressel.

“Don’t do anything reckless over there, okay?” said Dad .

“I won’t,” he answered.

“Take good care of yourself, and don’t forget to write to us!” told Mom.

“I won’t,” Allen said again.

Mom turned to Marlene in the back and ushered her in.

“Marlene, go say goodbye to your brother.”

Marlene sighed and slowly walked up to her big brother in uniform, his heavy gear lugging behind his back and his long, wooden rifle hanging off his shoulder. Allen, with a gentle smile, opened his arms to his younger sister. Hesitantly, Marlene conceded, and dug herself into his chest. After a brief moment, they release, and Marlene with a stern gaze looked up to her brother and told him.

“Don’t forget. Next week,” she stated, gesturing a finger up at him.

“I won’t...” Allen said once more. Only softer, and more sincere than the last two.

Marlene stepped away from him and stood back together with Mom and Dad. She repeated once more: “Don’t forget.”

The gray, metallic buses lined themselves en-masse at the front of the church, the Militia already filing themselves into the buses one-by-one in large, single-file lines, their garrison caps on, their rifles to their side, and the tons of gear they were made to carry on leave tugging at their backs. The lead sergeants stood by the door entrances, checking off the list as the soldiers went.

“Fourth Platoon, over to Bus Four!” a rough, orotund voice called out.

“Look, it’s Sergeant Pilleck...” Wallace uttered to Allen.

“Did he come to church with us?” Allen asked. “I don’t think I ever saw him around here.”

“Me neither...” Wallace replied. “Guy gives me the creeps, honestly. Shows up out of nowhere and you have no idea how or why.”

Allen turned and gazed back at Wallace. “Well... ready to go back?”

Wallace scoffed. “Ready when you are.”


Part 8 (Arrival at Fort Kressel)
The trip back to the fort went uneventful. The soldiers sat relatively quiet for much of the trip, save for the few chatters sprawled out along the bus. For the six months these men had trained at Fort Kressel, sleep was in constant shortage. Late night marching, patrols, and physical training exhausted them to the brink of collapse, always alert, and always prepared. Guard Duty especially took a heavy toll. The night hours were the worst times for such assignment. One would carry out the duties required of him throughout the day, from the break of dawn until sunset, and if one were given Night Watch for that day, he would be required to stand guard until the next morning. He would attend to his regular duties once more, sleepless and inattentive, struggling to keep standing, until at last he could collapse upon his bunk, finally at peace in blissful slumber.

Sleep, the rare commodity it was, never went without notice. The soldiers had learnt from their gruelling training regime to savour every ounce of it they could get. Even five minutes was enough to keep them going for the next hour of duty. Thus, as soon as the buses took off for Fort Kressel, the high and boisterous energy the soldiers displayed at the church had suddenly disappeared, seeping into the drowning sounds of the rumbling engines. With their heads cocked back and their eyes closed shut, the Citizens Militia fell silent.

As Wallace snored away, struggling to keep himself from falling off his seat as he slowly slid from the stock of his rifle, Allen quietly watched the bright, busy streets of his hometown fade into sight, the packed, high-storey brick-and-wood buildings giving way to rich, forest greenery, the heat of summer beating down upon the fresh leaves. The buses drove along the main road until they came to a small, earthen crossroad that led deeper into the island. Veering to the right, the buses turned, continuing along the dirt path as the trees grew thicker and the forest surrounded them from all sides, the uneven terrain jutting the tires up-and-down, shaking the half-asleep men awake from their quick naps. Soon enough, the once-quiet atmosphere rose into hearty chatter: Fort Kressel.

A checkpoint lied just outside the gatehouse, complete with the standard white guard booth and Military Police in their sturdy green tunics keeping watch. They stopped the lead bus, rifles at the ready, before the driver handed signed papers to the guard. The man, staring it over under his flat, blue field cap, then strolled over to the booth as he took hold of a radio handset and briefly spoke. After a few moments, the man stepped out of the booth and returned the papers back, gesturing the buses in as the iron gates swung open.

Allen shook Wallace’s shoulder.

“We’re here,” he said.

“Uh... whut?” Wallace grumbled as he slowly picked himself up from his slanted position.

The two gazed outside the window to see a mass of blue-uniformed troops standing out on the dry, biege field before them. Some of the Citizens Militia had arrived early, waiting around with their heavy gear sagging on the ground and their rifles behind their shoulders, eagerly talking with one another.

The buses grinded to a halt, a neat line before the assembled men. The steam hissed as the doors slid open, and one of the sergeants sitting at the front got up and faced the men.

“Third Platoon will exit the vehicle starting from the front row, down!” the sergeant hollered. “Fourth Platoon, you will stay in here until all of Third Platoon has cleared out and First Sergeant Pilleck has given you permission to leave. Take all your belongings with you. The buses will not be coming back!”

Third Platoon’s sergeant left the bus, and soon everyone started scrambling to grab their gear and head out. Wallace sighed.

“Just a few more seconds of shut-eye...” he moaned as he began to doze off again.

“What in the world did you do yesterday to wear you out like this?” Allen asked.

“Enjoying the Life,” he plainly said.

Allen shook his head. By ‘Enjoying the Life,’ he figured Wallace went out for a long time last night partying with the other guys. He couldn’t condemn it, however: it wasn’t everyday that a soldier could spend leisure time outside his own fort, if relaxing in the fort could be considered leisure time at all. If given the opportunity, Allen would do the same. But he couldn’t. He had responsibilities. And he was intent on upholding those responsibilities to the end, even if it meant suffering through most of it.

As Allen glared bleakly out the window, an unusual sight caught his eyes. Men in creamy-white uniforms and large, wide-brimmed hats with neck covers and face curtains that hid their appearance. Only the deathly eyes brimming out from underneath remained visible.

Allen shook Wallace awake again.

“What is it...?” Wallace asked. “Is it time to go already?”

“Territorials,” Allen uttered.

Wallace’s eyes suddenly widened. He lifted back up and immediately sprung to Allen’s side, watching the Territorials walk past the busy field in the direction of the administration offices, rifles shouldered.

“What are those guys doing here?” Wallace said. “Something big must’ve happened to have them to show up back home.”

“Maybe they’re on leave,” Allen remarked.

“Leave?” Wallace shook. “When was the last time you heard a Territorial getting leave? Territorials never stop until the job’s done. It’s in the bloody motto!”

“We’ll see when we get back on the radio. They’ll probably have something to say.”

Just then, Sergeant Pilleck cried out to the troops.

“Fourth Platoon will now exit the vehicle! Once you exit the vehicle, you will form up with Eagle Company and we will conduct a final roll-call. Move out!”

Everyone began to stand up from their seats as they readied to depart the bus. Wallace tugged on his gear, wedged tightly behind the seats as it was, before finally managing to pull it out, and heaving himself into the line. Allen followed close behind, and as he did, Allen took one last glance out the window to find that the Territorials they had been observing just moments before were nowhere to be seen.

Part 9 (A New Weapon)
“Atten-shun!” First Lieutenant Albert Motley hollered out to the assembled men. In neat rows and columns stretching out across barren field, the Militia stood, feet clasped together, arms down, rifles shouldered, and eyes front. Like statues, the men stood motionless as their company commander Captain Jones Rante appeared, his lowly gaze behind the shadow of his field cap eyeing the frozen bodies before him.

Lieutenant Motley turned face and saluted to his superior. The commander stopped and saluted back with a stern face.

“E. Company, Fourth Platoon, all present and accounted for, Captain,” Motley said.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Rante bluntly replied, his bushy mustache quivering behind his frown.

Before the company stood a large, open target range that extended up to two-hundred meters. Thick, white-painted lines across the range marked the distance between each target, each line representing fifty meters. During normal operations, the range would be filled with targets of different assortments, each placed at separate intervals for the shooters to practice on: bottles, cans, metal plates, paper bullseyes, dishes, whatever the range operators could get their hands on to fill the field. On this occasion, however, the field had been completely stripped naked of those assets. The only thing that remained was a thick metal cylinder buried around sandbags placed halfway across the range. And a pair of Territorials setting up a large gun at the firing line.

Allen and Wallace held their stance at the front row, keeping their stares forward as Rante faced the fifty-man platoon before him.

“Gentlemen... you may wondering why I have called you here on such short notice,” Rante began. “After all, your scheduled leave was just yesterday! However as our duty states, the Citizens Militia must always be prepared! Just recently, our friends in Congress had allowed our fine military to acquire some much-needed hardware from our fellow Kondorians. Gentlemen...”

Captain Rante nodded to the Territorials preparing the new weapon.

“Load!” One of the Territorials shouted, prone beside the gun’s left.

Opening the tube at the rear, the other Territorial placed a round inside and shut the capsule back, locking the chamber in place.

“Ready!” He shouted.

“...allow me to introduce the 25mm Model 1904 Infantry Lance Rifle,” Rante continued.

With a binocular in one hand, the Territorial lifted it up and gauged the distance to the target.

“Bunker, One-Hundred Meters! Twelve O’Clock!” The Territorial called out.

“...or what I like to call...” said Rante.

“Firing!” the prone Territorial announced.

“...the Fire Wasp!”

With a pull of the trigger, the gun erupted, spurring back the tube and emitting a large, fiery blast at the barrel’s end, blasting clouds of dust all around. A second later, a piercing shriek punctured the metal cylinder, and in just moments, the entire structure became engulfed in a giant fireball, seering the metal red-hot and lighting the sandbags around it. The fireball quickly dissipated as fast as it appeared, leaving a badly-deformed cylinder in its wake, the insides thoroughly scorched as a repugnant smell of burning metal fumed into the air. Even from the distance the men stood, it was difficult to ignore the burnt stench.

Wallace stifled a cough as the scent entered his lungs. Lieutenant Motley peered over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

“Pure, destructive power...” Rante quipped, gazing pridefully at the weapon’s handiwork. The captain turned and faced back to the platoon, hands above his hips. “This weapon is designed to punch through enemy defenses and provide a mobile, lightweight, anti-personnel gun that can be carried by a team of two: a gunner and a loader. In the coming week, you will all be trained with the use and handling of such a weapon. You will learn how to set up the Fire Wasp! You will learn how to maintain the Fire Wasp! You will learn how to shoot the Fire Wasp! And most importantly, you will learn how to not kill yourselves with the Fire Wasp! I would count killing the enemy as the most important, but idiocy tends to trump that!”

The platoon let out a sight chuckle.

“Lieutenant Motley!” Captain Rante shouted.

“Yes, Captain Rante!” Motley answered.

“Run down the schedule for these boys.”

“Yes, Sir!” Motley relied. He stepped forth, hands behind his back and legs firmly placed, and exhaled his lungs. “Starting today, you will perform drills that will help familiarize yourself with the weapon. I will go over safety instructions as clearly and precisely as can be to ensure you do not end up in a casket after we are done! The Territorials we have with us here today will be assisting us in our training. They’ve had plenty of experience handling the weapon in Czirza, so do not hesitate to ask for help when you need it. Gentlemen?”

The Territorials shortly joined Motley at his side, continuing the Lieutenant’s announcement.

The larger of the two spoke first. “I am Sergeant Hugh Dunne of the Fifth Territorial Battalion, and my partner here is Corporal Garrett Braton, also of the Fifth Battalion.”

Corporal Braton nodded behind the thick, metal mask he wore, resembling that of a heavy grill plate, complete with a round helmet with a chainmail neck-cover behind. Although he still donned the Territorial signature white tunic, his legs and torso were covered with a tough leather vest and matching gloves. His partner Sergeant Dunne similarly wore the same.

“Along with your commanding officers, we will be supervising you with weapons safety and handling,” Dunne continued. ”Despite appearances, the Fire Wasp is not an easy weapon to handle. It takes time and practice to properly use the weapon, but once you get used to it, you’ll come to appreciate its versatility.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Motley. “In teams of two, you will head down to the armoury and obtain one of these weapons, along with the necessary gear you will need for this exercise. Once you have your gear, you will report to Track Four where the Territorials and I will be waiting. Do not open the bags you will be provided with until we have explicitly ordered you to. Is that understood!?”

“Yes Sir!” the platoon yelled.

“Dismissed!” Motley shouted.

As Fourth Platoon began to disperse for the armoury, Allen and Wallace exchanged glances.

“Gunner,” they both said.

“We’ll roshambo for it,” Allen suggested.

“Not if I get there first!” Wallace said, before taking off with the rest of the platoon.

“Hey!” Allen exclaimed as he dashed after him, holding tight onto his cap.
« Last Edit: August 22, 2017, 07:59:18 AM by Operative13 »
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Re: The Coming Storm
« Reply #2 on: August 20, 2017, 06:16:50 AM »
Part 10 (First Day of Training)
A heavy thud on the ground, surrounded by the rambunctious chatter of fellow colleagues.

“Next in line!” The Military Police shouted behind the booth, checking off the equipment on a clipboard as the other MPs scrambled to lug out the next bag from the armoury.

The large, rough leather bag was the size of a person, the round edges of the metal tube jutting out from the ends. Wallace glared at it for some time, an uneasy look on his face.

“What’s the matter?” asked Allen.

“I have no idea how to carry this...” Wallace muttered.

“Move it, trooper!” One of the MPs hollered at Wallace, another bag getting shoved past him.

Panicked, Wallace immediately reached for one of the bag handles and pulled as hard as he could. With a loud screech, he dragged the hefty bag across the floor, drawing attention from the other soldiers. They glared and stifled their chuckles at the silly young man making a scene.

“Christ!” Wallace cursed. “What the hell’s in this thing!?”

Allen sighed and waltzed over to the other side of the bag and lifted. The screeching stopped as soon as the bag hovered between them.

“Hopeless as ever, aren’t you?” Allen remarked.

“You say something?” Wallace asked, his hearing muffled by the loud chatter around them.

“Nothing,” he waved. “Let’s get going.”

After obtaining the bulky leather bags from the armoury, Fourth Platoon assembled at the track as their lieutenant had instructed. It was midday already. The scorching sun glared across the baked field with no shade in sight. Officers could be heard shouting orders in the distance, the other companies attending to their drills and duties in the background as Fourth Platoon stood in the heat, sweating beading down from underneath their caps. Lieutenant Motley and the Territorials waited patiently at the front of the formation, keeping watch on the time as the last platoon members arrived with their bags.

“When are we starting?” Wallace groaned, tugging at his moist collar. “The heat is killing me!”

“Just a bit longer...” told Allen, a drop of sweat seeping down his face as he kept his composure.

Finally, the last pair took their place among the column, dropping their bag and assuming a readied stance at the back. Lieutenant Motley then peered back at his wristwatch.

“This all of them?” Sergeant Dunne asked.

“It appears so,” Motley replied. “And not a minute too soon.” Placing his feet spreading across the ground and his hands behind his back, Motley lifted his chin and gave out his command.

“Atten-shun!”

Everyone clasped their feet together, arms down and eyes straight. A motionless block.

“Fourth Platoon will now commence weapons training for the Model 1904 Infantry Lance Rifle!” Motley announced. “Sergeant Dunne.”

Dunne stepped forth and presented the metal facemask worn during the presentation earlier. He held it up high and paced himself back and forth across the platoon for all to see as he began his lecture.

“When it comes to weapons, safety is the first priority!” he shouted. “You learned that on Day One. You will continue to learn it now. As you have seen from our demonstration earlier, the Fire Wasp handles much like a typical field gun. However, there are some differences that you need to keep in mind when using such a weapon. Number One: It does not have a blast shield. When you fire the weapon, a lot of debris will kick up around you. This is certainly the case with how close you are to the gun’s muzzle, and if you do not have the proper safety equipment, you will blind and injure yourself.” Dunne shook the metal mask. “This Lance Helmet is meant to protect you from that. Always keep it on when operating the weapon. Even if you are not the gunner, all crewmembers must wear this helmet. It is for your own safety that you follow this rule at all times. Corporal Braton will now demonstrate how to put your helmet on.”

Taking ahold of the helmet he kept between his arm, Corporal Braton held the helmet at his chest and spoke. “You all were provided with a set of helmets for each bag. Take your helmets now and hold it between your chest.”

Everyone scuffled for their helmets, following the corporal’s command.

“Here,” Allen said, holding a helmet out to Wallace by its straps.

“Thanks,” Wallace said, and instinctively went to put it on before realizing his mistake and stopping halfway.

Braton paused for a moment, eyeing the soldiers before continuing.

“Lift the visor up.”

The sound of squeaking metal reverberated across the field.

“Now place it atop your head, like so.” With both his hands, Braton firmly placed the metal helm atop his head, tugging out the chainmail neck-cover from behind.

Everyone followed suit, adjusting their helmets appropriately to watch the corporal.

“Now, regarding your straps, pay close attention.” Braton took hold of the two loose straps and held them up with his fingers. “When you tighten the strap underneath your chin, you want to leave enough room that you could breathe through your neck. It’s just like wearing any other helmet. At the minimum, you should be able to stick your thumb in the gap between your helmet straps and your chin. When you tug on your helmet at the front and back, it should not choke you. Do it now.”

The platoon began buckling the leather straps together and tightening it, checking the fit as they bobbed their heads back and forth.

“I want every one of you to check your partner. Make sure the straps fit well and the helmet wraps comfortably around your head.”

Allen and Wallace finished tightening their straps and turned towards one another.

“Did I do it right?” Wallace asked, peering up and down Allen’s helmet.

“Hold on...” said Allen. Taking the two ends of the helmet, he tugged at Wallace's helmet. He choked. “Yeah, it’s a bit tight. Loosen it up a bit.”

Wallace grumbled and began fidgeting with the strap buckle. Sticking his thumb in, Wallace tried once more.

“How ‘bout now?” he asked.

Allen tugged at it once again, and this time Wallace doesn’t seem to feel much.

“You okay when I pull?” Allen asked.

“I don’t feel much,” he plainly answered.

“Alright. Do mine, then.”

With one hard pull, Wallace tugged at the back of the Allen’s helmet, gagging his throat.

“Christ, Wall! Not so hard!” Allen coughed.

“My bad,” said Wallace. He tried once more, this time more softly. Nothing. “Yeah, I think it’s fine,” he told.

“When you are ready, push down your visor,” Braton hollered. “We will move on to the next item!”

The platoon began shoving their visors down, followed by a heavy clunk. With their heads now fully encased with metal, the searing heat began to well-up inside the helmet. While the openings at the face provided some factor of ventilation, the summer heat made it all the more suffocating.

“I don’t know about you...” Wallace said. “...but I feel like I’m getting roasted in here.”

“It’s the weather,” Allen pointed out. “Doesn’t mix well with things like this.”

As the last people finished adjusting their helmets, the platoon turned and faced back to Corporal Braton who inspected the platoon one last time before speaking.

“Does anyone have any questions before we move on?” he asked.

Wallace raised his hand.

“Yes, Private,” Braton nodded.

“Sir, when do we start shooting, Sir?” Wallace asked.

“Not today, Private,” he sternly replied. “Today is all about safety gear and equipment. Until every one of you has mastered safety protocols, we won’t even let you go near the weapon. Which brings us to our next point... Open Your Bags.”

Everyone began to unzip the leather bags. To their shock, all that was inside were weighted pipes and the leather gloves and vests from the demonstration.

“Sir, these are just weights,” one of the soldiers said.

“You’d be right, Private!” Sergeant Donne exclaimed. “Lieutenant Motley. Care to explain to your men why they have weights?”

“Those are your training gear,” Motley explained. “For the next three days, you will be training with these dummies until you are prepared to handle the real item.”

“Sir, why aren’t we handed the weapon now? We’ve never had to use dummies before, Sir,” another soldier asked.

“Good question, Private,” said Motley. “As Sergeant Dunne and Corporal Braton had stated earlier, the Fire Wasp is not a beginner’s weapon. It is a very volatile weapon, and it is in the best interest of your fellow colleagues and our own budget that you do not blow yourself up on the very first day. Any more questions?”

The platoon stayed silent.

“You may continue, Corporal,” Motley gestured.

Corporal Braton nodded. “The Fire Wasp is a two-man weapon, consisting of the gunner and the loader. The gunner carries the weapon while the loader is responsible for the weapon’s tripod and ammunition. The helmets, as I’ve said, are required for both roles. Gloves are also required to prevent burning yourself during operation.” He gestured to the leather gloves already on his hands. “They’re about as self-explanatory as they can get. The leather vest on the other hand, is optional.”

Braton reached back and unbuckled the vest straps. He then took hold of the vest on its sides and held it out for the platoon to see.

“Very useful when you need to get down quick and easy. You don’t have to worry about any sharp or jagged objects jabbing at you while you’re on the ground firing the Wasp. It’s very simple to put on.” Braton turned sideways for a better view. “Just slide your arms into the opening, then lock the straps together. Tighten it so that it fits snug against your body. Again, you don’t want it choking the life out of you, so be sure to leave some room. Any questions?”

“That looks uncomfortable...” Wallace muttered.

“Good. Then we’ll move on to our first exercise of the day,” Braton announced. “Sergeant Dunne.”

Sergeant Dunne cleared his throat. “Among your pair, you will decide who shall be the gunner and who shall be the loader. The gunner carries the tube while the loader carries the tripod and ammo. The weights are labeled accordingly to reflect those roles. Now, as an added requirement to this training exercise, each and every one of you will be required to run with full gear. That means vest. That means helmets. That means everything you have on you now. Including. The Weights.”

The platoon stood in shock. The whole setup easily weighed thirty pounds. Perhaps even more.

“Are you kidding?” Wallace swore. “I’m gonna bake with all that gear on!”

“You still want to be the gunner?” Allen uttered.

“Very funny, Allen,” Wallace groaned.

“Get your gear and move out!” Sergeant Dunne hollered. “Five miles around the track! Let’s move it!”

Everyone scrambled to put their vests on, pulling out the weights as people argued over their roles, the clanking and thuds of heavy weights piling around the ground.

Part 11 (Friends at the Barracks)
“That’s it,” bemoaned Wallace, plopping onto the bunk. “I’m done.”

All around him and Allen, their fellow platoon mates undressed for the evening. Buttoning down their tunics and pulling off their black leather boots, the day ended on an exhausted exercise regime. For six hours straight, the Territorials drilled them endlessly. With their heavy loads, thick vests and helmet, the men ran in the dry, blistering heat, sweating out whatever fluids they had left in their system for a full hour. For another hour, they ran obstacle courses with those same weights, diving down into the wet mud and hauling up high walls as their gear dragged them behind. An hour after that, they trekked across the forest restless and aching, still lugging the same equipment with them as they marched off the rest of the day.

The soreness in Wallace’s back and legs began to swell up. So much so that he could not bear to be reminded of the bag of weights that sat beside his trunk. A constant reminder of the pain to come in the following days.

Wallace buried his head inside his pillow, groaning in agony as Allen lied peacefully on the top bunk, indulging in a small book.

“I can’t take another day of those guys drilling us,” Wallace complained. “Anymore and my back will give in!”

“You’ve had worse, Wall,” Allen said offhanded. “It’s just another week, and we’ll be done.”

“A week feels like years...” he pouted.

Just then, a pair of shadows loomed over Wallace. Wallace peered out from underneath the pillow buried in his face to see two young men hovering over him. A slightly chubby fellow with a round nose and light-brown hair and his glasses-wearing partner with a dark groom.

“Aching too, eh?” the chubby fellow said with a gruff voice.

“Just as bad,” Wallace replied.

“Is that Bill?” Allen asked, his head cocked to the edge of the bunk.

“Zack’s here too,” Wallace added.

Allen leaned over, peering just above the bunk’s railing. Bill smiled and gave a friendly salute.

“What’s hanging?” Bill asked.

“Nothing,” Allen replied. “Just the usual.”

“What book are you reading this time around?”

Allen folded the corner of the page and shut the book closed before reaching down and offered it. Bill took of the deep-green book and gazed upon its cover.

“‘Basking in the Summer Dew,’ Bill murmured. “That’s a popular book, isn’t it?” He handed the book back to Allen, who flipped back to the folded page.

“I wouldn’t know,” Allen replied, scanning the text for his last read part. “I was told by the librarian it was good, so I went with it.”

“I’ve already read the book myself,” Zack mentioned in his shrewd, collected voice. “How far are you in?”

“The part where Desmond is treading across the mountains with a prisoner.”

“Ah,” Zack nodded. “It gets better after the bear shows up.”

Allen froze.

“Bear?” he asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Zack told.

Wallace rolled around and gazed up at Allen’s bunk, his hands tucked behind the thin pillow.

“What’s this thing I hear about a book?” he curiously asked.

“What would you like to know…” Allen grumbled. “You don’t even read.”

“I’m only wondering,” said Wallace. “So… what’s it about?”

Allen flipped the page. “It’s about a soldier fighting in Hadia during the War of the Two Unions.”

“Two Unions?” Wallace said, a puzzled look on his face. “Never heard of it.”

“If you paid attention in school, maybe you would,” Allen remarked.

“Hard to pay attention when the teacher is as dry as stale bread and the girls are as wet as fresh fish.”

Allen rolled his eyes before trudging back through the book.

“Say you guys…” Bill interrupted. “...me and Zack are heading to the mess hall to grab ourselves a meal. We could sit back and relax before we call it a day.”

“No thanks…” Wallace moaned. “I’d go and chow down if I could, but I think my legs would object to that idea.”

“What about you, Al?”

“Same here,” Allen responded.

“That’s a shame…” Bill drooped. “Well, suit yourselves! More food for me.”

“Personally, I’m not a fan of the grub,” Zack mentioned. “I prefer listening to the radio they have out in the open.”

Wallace shot up from his bunk.

“That’s right!” Wallace exclaimed. “Allen, we gotta go check out the radio! They might have something interesting to tell us!”

“Eh?” Allen grunted.

“We said we’d check out the radio sometime today,” reminded Wallace. “So let’s go!”

“Can’t we save that for tomorrow?”

“Aren’t you curious about why those Territorials are here?”

“The training itself was about all the explanation I need.”

Wallace exchanged glances with Bill and Zack. With a definite nod, they each took to the sides of Allen’s bunk. As Allen quietly indulged himself in the book’s fascinating world, Wallace gestured to the other two men. Three. Two. One.

With a single heave, they flung Allen out of his bunk as he crashed into the wooden boards of the barracks. Allen groaned, his face flat against the ground as Bill and Wallace came over to pick him off.

“Come along, now,” Bill said, grabbing ahold of Allen’s right arm. “We’re off to the mess hall with you.”

“No man left behind, right!?” Wallace said with a wide grin across his face.

Zack stepped across the bunk and picked up the book lying across the floor with its fine cream-white pages open. Flipping across the pages, Zack adjusted his glasses to one of his favourite scenes in the book. He chuckled.

“...and Keith calls out to the bear,” Zack muttered, before walking off behind the others.

Part 12 (Mess Hall's Radio)
The cool, ocean air had begun to flow inland at this hour. The bright, red dusk of the setting sun overtaken by the dark, blissful night from the distant horizon. Lights began to flicker across Fort Kressel, the towering lanterns guiding the four men making their way to the large mess hall at the camp’s center. The endless shouting of orders and the barrage of bombs and bullets that had gone off around them had given way to whispering winds and chirping crickets, with only the hushed voices and crackling of footsteps filling the empty void.

The mess hall itself was as silent as the rest of the fort. Most of the garrison had packed up for tonight and stayed cozy inside their barracks, resting their fatigued, worn-out bodies for the next coming day. At this late hour few ventured out of their quarters, mostly officers and guardsmen preparing work and inspecting facilities for anything suspicious. Of the soldiers that did travel out at night, most of them would find their way to mess hall in search of a quick bite or a place away from the cramped quarters of the barracks. Little was provided in the way of entertainment. The duties of a soldier meant for an austere life behind these plain, stark wooden walls, working only to serve the interest of Mariana and whatever orders their superiors hand to them. As such, the troops tend to bring their own forms of entertainment to busy themselves during the idle hours. Cards, books, newspapers… anything but appliances. Appliances were strictly forbidden by the fort rules. No television. No radio. No flashlights or portable stoves. Those were provided by the Fort staff themselves, but even they were few and far inbetween. This certainly was the case at the mess hall. Only a single radio in the corner of the cafeteria provided for the leisurely comfort of its occupants.

“Here we are!” Wallace announced, pushing the front door open to the sight of a rather vast, empty room. For a place that could sit a thousand or so men at a single time, perhaps only a handful of them were there at this late hour. A pair of officers conversed about a troublesome recruit. A group of MPs hunkered a table, quietly gouging at bread and clam chowder. And near the radio itself, the two Territorials that had drilled them earlier that day. Their glistening-white tunics and black trousers were hard to miss. Sergeant Dunne glossed over a stack of papers, dutifully reading out details to his partner Corporal Braton, who sat callously with his arms folded, nodding away at his superior’s inquiries.

“You guys do that again…” Allen scolded. “...and I swear, I’ll have the Lieutenant on your asses before you can…” As Allen stepped inside, everyone froze. “What is it?” he asked.

“It’s them,” Wallace whispered.

Allen peered over the men’s shoulders to where everyone was staring, and upon laying eyes on the men-in-white, immediately understood their concern.

“We could try and ask them if we could use the radio,” Allen suggested.

“Yeah right...” Bill gulped. “...the last thing I wanna do is get on their bad side.”

“We’re off-duty right now,” Allen brought up. “They may be our instructors, but at the moment they’re just another pair of soldiers.”

“Still, they’re our instructors,” Zack iterated. “You leave an impression, they’re going to be hounding you for the rest of the week. Especially if you screw up.”

“They probably don’t even remember us. For all they care, we’re just a group that happens to want the radio,” said Allen.

“I’d rather not take that chance,” Zack said, adjusting his specs. Wallace nodded in agreement.

Allen turned his gaze back to Bill.

Bill shook his head. “Don’t look at me! I’m not going anywhere near those guys!”

Allen exhaled in frustration, dragging his palm down his tired face. “Fine. You all go ahead and grab something from the kitchen. I’ll go see about that radio.”

“Really!?” Wallace exclaimed. “You’re a lifesaver, bud!”

“Don’t bet your life on it,” Allen muttered. “And Zack, hand me back my book. I’m not leaving it with you.”

“Oh, right...” Zack said. He shuffled through his trouser pockets and pulled out Allen’s book, to which Allen promptly snatched out.

“Why’d you even bring it?”

“I thought you might wanted to read it here.”

“I’d rather be in my bed, to be honest,” he complained.

Allen marched off to meet the Territorials, a book in one hand and a stuffed pocket in the other as his friends watched in the distance.

Wallace clapped his hands together. “Rest in peace, you damned fool.”

Bill teared up and gave a firm salute. “It’s been honour serving with you.”

Zack gave a lighthearted chuckle. “Christ, you two are awful...”

As the group went out to the kitchen front, scouring for whatever meals the cooks had prepared, the two Territorials sat in their peaceful corner, hearing the dry, expressionless tones of the radio’s jabber in the background. Hugh flipped to another page and began to read aloud as Garrett listened intently to his words.

“...Day Four, assuming all goes well, will be when we assign the guns to them. As always, go over the proper safety procedures and double-check their protective gear to ensure everything is in working order. You and I will be checking them personally at the beginning of each day starting from then-on...”


As Hugh briefed Garrett on the upcoming schedule, a rather young soldier in an azure tunic, chestnut hair and bright eyes came up to them.

“Pardon me, Sergeant Dunne?” the young man asked with a blank expression.

The large man stopped and turned to look. “Yes?” Hugh answered with a low, husky voice. Although he remained seated, Hugh’s upper half almost towered to the young man’s height, just enough to make leveled eye contact. “What is it?”

Startled by Hugh’s intimidating figure and stark reply, the man gulped and continued.

“I was wondering if you were busy with the radio over there.” He gestured over to the buzzing radio in the corner. “My colleagues and I would like to use it, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, go knock yourself...”

“We’re busy,” interrupted Garrett.

Dunne and the young man turned to him in bewilderment.

“It’s not a big deal, Gare...”

“I said we’re busy,” he asserted once more.

The Sergeant turned back to the soldier and shrugged.

“Sorry kid,” Hugh said. “You’ll just have to wait.”

“Oh...” uttered the young man. “Sorry to bother you then, Sir.” He saluted.

Just before he could walk away, Hugh called out.

“Hey, what’s your name?” he asked.

The man stopped and answered. “Private Allen Touler, Sir,” he replied. “E. Company, First Battalion.”

“You look familiar...” Hugh stated. He couldn’t quite put it together, but judging from the kid’s unit, it was possible he was in the same platoon he drilled. “You happen to be in Fourth Platoon?”

“Yes Sir,” Touler said.

Hugh nodded to himself in acknowledgement. “Good to know.”

“Sergeant. Corporal,” Private Touler saluted.

“Private,” Hugh saluted back, before Touler touted off in the other direction back toward his friends, who all collectively sunk into their seats upon hearing the news. Hugh turned and gazed back at Garrett, who had now turned his attention to the radio babbling about. Hugh didn’t pay much attention to the radio’s noise all throughout their meeting: he was focused more on getting his job done than anything else. But now that they’ve stopped, the constant mumbling that had been going on suddenly turned into intelligible words. It became clear to him now why Garrett had shooed the Private away.”

“...fighting in Alva has intensified over the past few days as the Nationalist Brownshirts pushed deeper into the heart of the city, bolstered by reinforcements from nearby Miandre to the south. The Republican Blackshirts and their allied forces have given stiff opposition to the rebel forces, however with supplies quickly dwindling...”

“The hell’s wrong with you Gar?” Hugh scolded. “A Private just gave you a salute. You should return it back.”

“A Private’s not that far down a Corporal, Hugh...” Garrett plainly said. “Besides, we’re not even part of the official military. We’re not obligated to the same practices as they are.”

“A soldier is still a soldier,” Hugh countered. “Doesn’t matter where he comes from, you respect a Soldier’s Honour.”

Garrett paid no mind to Hugh’s lectures. Instead, the radio was all he devoted his mind to, already deep in trance to the words strung together by the device.

Hugh sighed. “Let it go, Garrett. Obsessing about it won’t make them send you back.”

“You don’t find anything wrong with this picture?” Garrett shot. “Just look at us. Professional soldiers. The Cream of the Crop. We’ve spent years working our asses off to go out and fight, and what do they do? Send us back home before we’ve even finished. As glorified drill instructors.”

“It was bound to happen,” said Hugh, collecting the sheets of paper. “Sooner or later, they’d have come for us too.”

“What kind of person goes in to do a job, then quits halfway through, huh?” he blasted. “Women, children... innocent people. We were supposed to get them out, but we didn’t even so much as saved a single soul. They called us back before we could do any of that.”

“They’re the Kondorians’ responsibility now. Not ours anymore.” Hugh lowered his head and stared straight through Garrett. “Whatever happens to them now, it’s on them. Not us. Them. Have some hope for once, Garrett.”

Garrett chuckled. “Hope? Hope went out the window the moment we put too much trust in hope. Instead of hope, they insulted us. They send us back and you get a promotion for what? Acting like a hero?” Garrett shook his head. “It’s all just a big show to them... as long as they get to keep their special little bubbles, they don’t give a damn what happens anywhere else.”

The two Territorials sat silent, watching the radio as it drowned out the hall’s background with its long tales and stories.

“Take my advice,” told Hugh. “There’s nothing left to do but take what’s given to us and make the best of it. No use wallowing in the past for so long...”

With a light tap, he straightened the stacks of paper and took them underneath his arm. Hugh stood up from the table, his shadow overhanging Garrett’s sleek figure.

“I’ll go ahead and call it a night. We’ll talk about the rest of the schedule tomorrow.”

As Hugh strolled out and left the mess hall, Garrett continued to listen. Lending his ears to every spoken word that came out of the radio, holding it in as if it were a sacred object. An object that would forever be lost in time should he ever forget. In the back of his mind, Garrett knew no good would ever come out of listening to the sordid stories the radio had in store. The more he listened, the more obsessed he became. The more obsessed he became, the more his disdain grew for the world, and subsequently his rising anger at his inability to do anything about it. He had spent the entirety of last year becoming the hero he had always sought to be. Becoming the man of action, and changing the course of the story. Yet now he sat. In an empty hall of lesser names, merely a spectator to the very world he was in. Deep down, he knew it was no good, yet it was addictive. It was a constant reminder of his failures. His failures to do anything of value. Yet he listened not as something of comfort, but rather in hopes of relief. It didn’t matter what kind, as long as some kind of closure came to him. He wanted the story to end. To become shut and be thrown into the trash bin of history, never to be seen again. But no matter how long he listened, or how much he paid attention, no end seemed to appear. The story only grew, further and further as it went on.

To Garrett, the end of his chapter in Czirza only seemed to be the beginning of yet another chapter in the endless book of history itself.

Part 13 (Defending the Sanctuary)
Stifled cries and moans echoed the dry, dusty room, the gleams of bright sunlight etching through the jagged cracks and thin slits of the mudbrick building’s walls. A large mass of people, largely women, children, and the elderly, huddling in the back, all clinging to one another in fear and prayer as yet another shell dropped near the exterior. With a deafening blast, the ground shook, shifting the loose dirt off the ceiling, drifting down onto their frightened heads.

Battle of Alva. July 17th, 1904. Three Days Prior to Departure.

“Brownshirts in the open!” Second Lieutenant Oakirk hollered. A trio of armed men in khaki uniforms dashed hunchback across to the other side of the barren, sandy street, rifles in hand and gripping their caps. At the street’s far end, a Territorial turned his machine-gun’s sights toward them and opened fired. Like a stamping machine, the gun bolted back-and-forth as shots spewed out towards the men, the bullets whizzing close by as they lunged for the pile of rubble at the other side. The first one made it to safety intact, however the second man took a wound to his leg, felling him to the ground as he dropped his rifle. The third man behind him came to pick his injured comrade up, only to be gunned down by the Territorials’ rifles shooting out above the building’s exterior walls that covered the length of its front.

The Brownshirts popped out from their makeshift cover in the streets and returned fire, battering holes into the low dry-mud walls as the Territorials dropped back down into safety. The machine-gunner then cocked back the feed lever and ducked his head.

“Reload!” the machine-gunner shouted.

His partner on the right scrambled for the ammo box next to them and pulled out another magazine. He quickly jammed it into the gun’s side port before the machine-gunner cocked the gun forward and resumed firing.

“Lieutenant, we cannot stay here!”  First Sergeant Kesvy hollered back. A bullet crackled just atop the wall, sending a puff of dust into his face. Kesvy reeled back, wiping off the dust around his eyes before lifting his rifle back up and popping another shot out. One of the Brownshirts dropped straight down, his legs giving way. “Those guys are hounding us all over! We’re sitting ducks as it is! We have to move, Lieutenant!”

“Our orders are stay here and hold this ground!” the young Oakirk retorted. “We are not moving an inch otherwise!”

“You expect us to stop an entire company by ourselves!?” Kesvy screamed. “We don’t have the men to do that!”

A nearby blast punctured a hole through one of the walls, sending a cloud of debris all across. The men shrieked, blood splattered across the yellow ground, staining their white tunics in a deep red. A blank, longing gaze some those men had, their motionless bodies filled with puncture wounds.

“Medic!” A Territorial shouted as others rushed to their aid.

“The Kondorians said they’d be here, so we’re gonna hold for as long as it takes until they do!” Lieutenant Oakirk asserted. “We are not moving an inch!”

Another explosion, only this one fell short of the wall.

“Lieutenant, with all due respect, Sir, you are an idiot!” old Kesvy shot back. “They won’t make it in time! In a few minutes, those bastards will storm this place and there’ll be no one around to stop them! We have to fall back!”

“And risk getting cut off? I don’t think so!”

“Look out!” One of the Territorials shouted.

A massive boom erupted in the center of the yard, knocking Oakirk and Kesvy down. Covered completely in dust, they coughed and wheezed as they picked themselves up and patted themselves down with their large, brimmed hats. The two men then exchanged hard glances at one another, a fire burning in their eyes.

“Sir…” Kesvy uttered.

Oakirk gazed out with weary eyes at the swathe of Brownshirts burrowing down the street, peppering their lines with their bolt-action rifles, the hot brass clinking the ground as both sides exchanged fire, bolting their guns and popping out shots with every volley. The Brownshirts, while numerous, lacked the proper skills to reliably shoot straight. Their well-dressed and orderly appearance, with their fine khaki tunics, pressed shorts, and matching field caps, deceived those into believing they were a disciplined and professional force. In reality, they were little more than overzealous fanatics, possessing the spirit of a fearless warrior yet void of any real combat training. Their shots often fell short of hitting its mark, the whistling sounds of bullets flashing by the Territorials as they fired, worrying more about sheer bullet output than controlled firing. The Territorials on the other hand, dirtied and battered by the endless fighting, their once-pristine uniforms stained by blood and sweat, their eyes low and faces gritty, showed no signs of rest or hesitation. With every shot they took, the Territorials made sure to deliver. The reckless and overconfident advances of the Brownshirts made easy pickings for the Territorials. As they fell a handful or so with every volley, more Brownshirts propped up to take their place. The bodies piled, and the fighting grew more intense as the shouts and hollers of the Brownshirts pierced the fighting men’s ears. It all became much too dangerous to retaliate. Lieutenant Oakirk swiveled around and yelled.

“Sergeant Widderlon!” Oakirk cried out. “Sergeant Widderlon! Get yourself over here now!”

One of the Territorials donning a white face curtain came trodding Oakirk’s way, a scar across his left eye. He stopped just short of the lieutenant and saluted.

“Go tell the men inside to pack up. We are leaving.”

“Yes Sir,” Widderlon replied.

Oakirk nodded as Widderlon ran off inside to inform the troops. He then set his gaze back onto Sergeant Kesvy, a slight smile of approval behind his thick mustache.

“You got your wish, Sergeant.”

Part 14 (An Unnerving Call)
The shrieking cries and deathly moans of wounded men lining the dull, beige walls on thin, green sheets echoed across the domed inner hall of the building. Medics rushed in-and-out of the double-doors with stretchers, hurrying along past Sergeant Widderlon as he marched his way across the sanctuary. Around the entire base, huge stone pillars held the second-storey walkways that overlooked the interior, the towering turquoise dome decorated with golden, symmetrical patterns hanging overhead gazing down at the marble floor.

The building rumbled as another shell blasted nearby, Widderlon hustling towards the radioman propped up with his equipment at the front desk.

“...how copy, over?” the radioman clicked. The buzzing of the radio instruments overwhelmed the shouting and gunfire outside.

The radio crackled before a distinct voice came through.

“Dog Four, we are taking heavy fire just east your vicinity. We’re going to try to circle around and see if we can get to you, but I doubt we’ll get there anytime soon. Over.”

Widderlon interrupted the radioman before he could properly respond. “Inform the Ketts that we’re evacuating the sanctuary and heading to them. Tell everyone else to pack it up and be ready to move.”

The radioman nodded and lifted the receiver back up.

“Gold Nine, we can no longer hold position. We’re evacuating the sanctuary at this time and heading to your location. Can you hold your position? Over.”

A brief silence.

“Copy that, Dog Four. We will hold position and await your arrival. Over.”

“Roger that, Gold Nine. We’re on our way. Over and Out.”

“Pack it up, men!” Widderlon hollered. “We are leaving! Get the wounded and civilians out now!”

Everyone began scrambling to load whatever necessity they could carry. Ammo, medicine, bandages, water. Just about anything left sitting around. Still, there were some that continued to stand their ground. Up at the walkways, two men fired a machine-gun out from one of the holes in the wall.

Three bursts.

“Almost done,” Corporal Braton said.

Corporal Dunne adjusted his shoulder and peered back down the sights. Through the small, gaping hole, he could see the entire Brownshirt force descending upon their location. The khaki they bore blended well with the monotone surroundings, yet their red armbands blared strong against the plain yellow. Dunne focused his sights down on a man peering out from the cover of rubble, his cap just visible from the top, and held the gun steady.

Two pecks.

The cap ripped off, a trail of red following its flight. The trigger clicked, only no more shots came out. Dunne pulled back the bolt in an instant as Braton unhinged the empty box magazine from its slot and began reaching down for another, only to be interrupted by Sergeant Widderlon’s holler.

“Everyone pack it up! We are leaving!” he sounded from the bottom base.

Dunne, Braton, and the other members of their squad occupying the second storey glanced over their shoulders to the masked man yelling up to them.

“First Squad, move it out! You’re on point!” Widderlon promptly swiveled back and marched further down into the back, all while calling out and gesturing the new orders. “Let’s go! We’ve no time to waste!”

Without wasting a moment, everyone rushed to bag their equipment and clear out the sanctuary. Dunne lifted the machine-gun off the hole and jostled his way to the stairs with the others while Braton quickly stacked the magazines back into the ammo box. A shell suddenly went off, but this time it hit the sanctuary. Right where Corporal Braton sat.

“...aton!” said a muffled cry.

The blast had tore a huge gap in the wall, sending a thick dust cloud into the building. Pieces of brick and mortar scattered across the floor, covering Corporal Braton’s fallen body with pieces of cartridges and magazines strung out around the ammo box next to him.

Everywhere, his body ached. His ears rang deaf, the voices of his comrades mute, save for the faint muffles their mouths expelled as they ran to his aid.

“...raton!”

He could faintly hear the voice of his comrade calling out to him.

[] [] [] [] []

“Braton.”

Garrett jostled awake at Hugh shaking his shoulder from the bedside.

“...what?” he groaned. He lifted his stiff body up and rubbed his crusty eyes open. His entire body was sweating.

“You ok?” Hugh asked. “You were moaning in your sleep.”

“Just a bad dream. Nearly thought I’d die there...”

“And here I am thinking we should’ve been dead already,” Hugh remarked. “Yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Garrett echoed.

“You good for today?”

“Yeah... just give me a minute.”

Garrett threw the bedsheets open and threw his legs onto the solid floor below him, squeezing his toes together. It felt good to be in Reality again.

“Alright,” Hugh nodded. “I’ll be waiting outside. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

Hugh straightened his cap and headed outside, leaving Garrett alone inside the empty barracks, with only the soft rumbling of the vents above to accompany him. He stared at the large, olive-green chest. Bleakly. Motionless. The whirring of the vents occupying the stale air. He then raised his palm and grasped.

“I’m still here...” he muttered.

Conjuring himself back into the world, with a heavy breath he set his mind forward and flung the chest open.
« Last Edit: November 17, 2017, 08:12:06 PM by Operative13 »
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