Welcome To Gridiron (Closed, IC)

[The Mizarian Empire]

Dragonian Arms Caravan in Portside
Later that day...

---

Mikhail had lost count of the casualties on both sides, things were looking grim and he knew if something didn't happen soon the shit was going to hit the fan. The mortar crew was dead, hit by a lucky shell a half hour ago and several armsmen laid dead at their fighting positions, well over that in Portsiders some of whom had tried to run or surrender. One of the cars being used as a barricade took a hit from a rocket and the shit hit the fan, bullets and other munitions in the trunk cooked off firing in nearly every direction, amazingly enough several actually got lucky and hit raiders. Mikhail couldn't tell if this was just his lucky turning though or they were coming in so close to it that it would've been impossible for the over 4000 rounds in the vehicle's trunk to miss before the fuel in the vehicle caught blaze too and exploded. He hurled another grenade out before propping his rifle up in the window of the building he'd taken cover in and fired out the last of his rounds before reloading.

Over the din of the small hell existing around him more gunfire rattled off in the distance but the report seemed too far away to be from the raiders attacking him. Either they were already celebrating their victory early knowing it was soon at hand or the cavalry had arrived, but he wasn't about to guess at either. A ricochet caught him in the leg and he cried out in pain before firing another burst from his AK. My only regret he thought to himself is that I won't have dragged enough of these fuckers with me to hell. The gunfire got closer, in some of the worst cases almost point blank now....

[Camicon]

We have 4 hours of sleep and eating time and then we move out again. Use it wisely."[/i]

Four hours? I thought Thank God. Being told we had four hours of rest time felt like a sort of dam breaking inside me, all the pent up fatigue and exhaustion of the last two days catching up to me in thundering chariots. Dazed, I stumbled to a halt with the other field medics, dropped to the ground with them, and mumbled out the words: "Wake me a quarter to..." To Baxter. His nodding head was the last thing I saw before sleep overtook me. Baxter could never sleep on the eve of battle, no matter how tired he was. He'd just stay up, shuffling and re-shuffling a pack of playing cards.

I don't clearly remember what I dreamt of. Hazy images and half-felt emotions clouded my thoughts, while muted flashes of colour and a pervasive sense of doom swept through my mind's eye from time to time. It felt like I was awake, walking through constantly changing terrain, not observing nor interacting. When I woke, Baxter shaking my shoulder, I felt distinctly uneasy. Perhaps it was just all my doubts and fears catching up with me, but something nagging at the back of my thoughts told me it wasn't. It felt like those half-seen images, the barely known feelings, were both things I had yet to experience. I pushed upright in disgust. I was sleep deprived and scared. My mind was just playing tricks on me, and I was encouraging it.

With only fifteen minutes left in our four hour rest, I started pacing, eating some food (I can't recall what) and drinking some water.

[Escalan Corps-Star Island]

Decuiralis caught Kingston on the shoulder. He snapped his fingers and Derek passed him the map. "I'm sooty if I haven't made any formal introductions. I'm Lieutenant Michael Decuiralis of the Escalan Corps. These are my fellow soldiers, Sgt. Derek Imrahin and Pvt. Paul Lanyaril. We thought you might be interested to see this." He gave Kingston the map. "We are going to attempt to infiltrate the raiders and carry out our mission of gathering intelligence about their operations from the inside. . . One question, though. Doesn't this guy whose name is on the map work for your government?" He waited for a reply.

[Guruda]

Anthony
Portside

Anthony enjoyed the ride over in silence, giving curious glances to the others around the cabin. He kept the stock of his rifle in between his feet, using it for balance as he hunched forward, before looking out the back of the truck alone with his thoughts. Once the truck reached its destination, Anthony promptly dropped out, and held his REC7 assault rifle across his chest as it pointed towards the ground. Taking a few steps towards the side, he saw the mass of Marines standing in front of the headlights, and observed as he awaited instructions. He didn't turn around until he heard Kingston shout the news of the attack on Portside, surprised that the town he slept in overnight no longer retained the peace. Anthony noticed the other mercenary beside him, Red, talking to Kingston and eyed him briefly as they spoke. Even though he was just behind Red he wasn't listening, and most of the conversation just passed over his head. His attention was fully gained however at the next shout.

"We're giving both of these men three pounds of gold and four gallons of water and transportation. We'll need um."

Upon hearing Kingston's yell, Anthony moved besides Red to get in on the conversation. He made a mental note to thank Red soon, as if it weren't for him, his pay would be much less. Rotating the rifle and checking it's magazine, Anthony tapped the side out of the weapon out of habit and to show he was ready.

"We won't disappoint, Captain" Anthony finally began before stepping back and heading towards the back of the truck. Climbing up into the cab he stood and looked out, ready to lend a helping hand to Red when he decided to mount up again.

[-The Desert Rangers]

Portside

Fredrick kept directing highly-accurate single shots at the raiders,typically hitting the head or the chest and always landing the shot,a feat that owed to his training with the Rangers. Soon enough however his weapon clicked as the last round exited the barrel at high velocity and tried to chamber a non-existent round. Without hesitation he reached into his web gear and looked for a 7.62 magazine and found nothing. Then it hit him. During the battle he must have used up all his ammunition. He slapped himself mentally for the second time that day,this time for not paying attention to his ammunition supplies. With that he drew his matte-black M1911A1 from its holster and retreated a couple feet. Now,he had to see if there was any more 7.62 ammunition,and with that he shouted...

"I'm out of goddamn ammunition! does anyone have any more 762 mags!"

[Numer]

Outside Portside

The child wouldn't live if they didn't find help soon. Both his parents had already passed, his father fighting raiders, his mother wasting away in the desert until she finally had collapsed a week back. The child himself was bit by a cobra, and his hand was swollen beyond belief despite the best efforts of the Sorrows' doctors. There simply wasn't enough supplies or medicine to sustain the group any longer, especially in the blazing hot sun. The only constant companions of the travelers were the vultures which circled above, staring at their potential meals below.

"Will they cut off my hand?", the young boy looked at Marcus as they rode on horseback, "Will they cut my hand off?" Marcus sighed, and glanced at the dunes around them. "Let's focus on getting you to a surgeon first." The child looked to the ground, and spoke with a maturity which stunned Marcus. "I think I know what you mean, when you said that we all suffer. That suffering is a part of life. I think I get it." A quiet moment passed, the only sound being the wind and the horses' hooves against the dry wasteland. The small boy stared up at Marcus, who held the child forward on his horse, riding at the head of the Sorrows' massive caravan. "I know why my parents decided to follow you." The boy looked down in contemplation again. Marcus face held a grim stoicism. He could not show his people that he was worried.

Marcus Hershal was the founder and leader of the Sorrows, a new religion sprung from the wastes, from his ideas. Marcus was originally a caravan merchant, but one day, exploring the carcass of a once great city, his companions were massacred and he was taken as a slave by a vicious, brutal tribe called the Sons of Slaughter. They raped, tortured, murdered, and cannibalized, all in front of Marcus' eyes. While in captivity for months, Marcus came to the conclusion that suffering and sorrow were a part of life- that all of us must experience it in one way or the other, over many lifetimes. But one day, once we have taken our burdens with grace and dignity, adding more suffering onto ourselves so that others may not feel our pain, we can break the cycle and finally be at peace. But the road to heaven was filled with sorrow, and in recognition of this he named himself and his followers the Sorrows. The other slaves listened to his message, and he led them to revolt against their savage captors. Once the war was won, Marcus and the Sorrows headed out of the destroyed city and began converting others who wanted hope in the wastes. Soon, the Sorrows grew to a large number, a nomadic group from all walks of life. Marcus was overwhelmed with the many responsibilities he now held.

But it seems that they had traveled too far. Marcus had his people abandon cars and take up horses in order to save gas, which could be traded for the much needed food that the Sorrows consumed. But they had wandered into the desert, with no settlements seen in a month. They lost a great number to the heat, starvation, and thirst. They stopped burying their dead as it took to much time. Marcus' teachings of suffering now held a real meaning for the travelers now, with supplies dwindling. They were on their last legs.

Marcus' mind was so heavy with these thoughts that he didn't notice the excited shouts of his men. In the distance, a black speck of a town could be seen. "A mirage," Marcus muttered, but as the group got closer, he could see that it truly was a town. People began laughing and smiling for the first time in weeks. Yet something was off...there was smoke, and sounds of gunfire. Marcus' eyes widened when he realized what he saw. A raider attack! He pulled the reins of his horse, the animal rising with the sudden force. The entire convoy stopped behind him, all with puzzled faces. Marcus turned around. "They're being assaulted, by raiders. A massive force. Look," he pointed at another distant figure, "It's a tank."

"What should we do?" The child in his saddle questioned. Marcus turned to his entire group, thinking about the consequences of each possible action. Marcus turned to a rough-looking veteran who had "seen the way" after being rehabilitated from an alcohol addiction by the Sorrows. "Rob, what I am about to ask you is a lot. But for the good of us all-" Rob interrupted. "Say no more. I'll ride to the town and see what the hell is going on." Marcus smiled. "Thank you." He looked to the rest of the Sorrows. "For now, we'll all stay at a safe distance. Everyone make sure their guns are loaded and ready to fire. If any raider force notices us, get ready to defend yourselves, maybe even shoot while riding. I don't think there's been a cavalry charge in centuries, and who knows? It might be enough to send them running." He whispered under his breath. "Or they'll laugh and blow us out of the sky."

Meanwhile, Rob darted on horseback through a crack in the raiders' siege. The townspeople were confused to see someone mounted, for many it might've been the first time they had seen a horse. Nonetheless, Rob approached a well-armed guard. The guard gave Rob a look like he had two heads. "Who's in charge here?" Still puzzled, the guard pointed inside a sturdy home. Rob dismounted and walked inside. The man, who wore the uniform of an arms trading company, was busy firing at raiders through a window. Rob thought he recognized the company's name, and remembered a deal the Sorrows had made earlier with some gunsmiths. However, that was some time ago, and it might've been a different branch of the corporation. He hoped they kept good records. "Sir," He grabbed the man's shoulder and pulled him into cover behind a wall. "Have you ever heard of the Sorrows?"

[The Western Reaches]

Red
Portside

Red nodded as Anthony came over and addressed Kingston. The guy really was ready for anything, or at least thought he was. Red wasn't exactly keen on fighting an actual war for the Commonwealth despite the generous offer of pay, but decided that raiders wouldn't be a hard fight.
He also didn't want to see Anthony dead with the rest of the crew being sent to the 800m barricades.
"We'll get it done Captain."

Climbing up into the cab he stood and looked out, ready to lend a helping hand to Red when he decided to mount up again.

He took the hand Anthony offered, clambering in and sitting down next to him in the cab of the truck. Once it had reached its full capacity the vehicle pulled away from the larger group of marines and headed out to where a front was being set up for the next waves of raider vehicles and soldiers.
Red began to casually check his equipment, Sliding the bolt of his assault rifle and inspecting his remaining magazines.
"You got something to prove, friend?" Red asked Anthony without looking up, curious of his motives for joining this operation back in Portside.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

CAPT David Kingston - Love Company, 1st Knights Battalion
Day 3 - Outskirts of Portside

---

Kingston had point in the formation of Marines, his Corpsmen, King and Baxter, Battalion XO, Captain Paredes, and radio operator, Corporal Talbot, trailing close behind. Behind that formation of essentials, bearing the unique emblem of the battalion level soldier (a gold lance), was a wall of 295 other Marines. Riding beside Kingston was the truck, carrying the unit's mortars and machine guns, as well as the mercenaries who had signed up to aid in the defense of Portside. The sun was just coming up now, its orange beams reflecting off the gray clouds and projected its influence into the sea to their left. The road was cracked and its lines were faded, worn down from decades of abuse, whether it be from merchants, cars, or nuclear fallout. The side of the road was littered with a century's worth of trash, broken glass bottles glistening in the sun, while old fast food wrappers acted as parachutes for the breeze as they got caught on the many weeds. Trails of fire ants scavenged for whatever food had been left by the previous civilization, and off in the distance, coyotes could be seen scrambling away from Portside. The town was in sight now. It couldn't be more than a kilometer down the road. The searing hot tarmac warped the air ahead, and dust obscured the figure of Portside, but it was certainly within grasp. Kingston glanced behind him. King and Baxter's figures met his eyes. Their armor was slightly unique, with a red cross painted below their identifier markings on their breast plates and medical bags hanging off their hips, but still bore the same tan and black armor scheme as Kingston and Paredes. Paredes was a prominent man, standing at only 5'11" but with significant muscle mass to make up for it. He carried a battle rifle which had been purchased from some arms dealer at The Citadel, and slung an automatic 25mm grenade launcher from his shoulders. Beginning in weapons company, and after 7 years of service in Love Company, he soon rose with Kingston and became the Battalion XO. Both of the men had seen some sights. Off in the distance, Kingston could see the vehicle of those Escalan fools, breaking the desert and heading northeast to bypass Portside, kicking up sand as they went.

As the warriors walked down the motorway, Kingston pondered about the intel that had been collected at Firebase Phoenix. By the maps and ledgers found by him and those Escalan fellas, the blame for this entire campaign was pointed towards one faction: the High Tory Party of the Commonwealth. The only conservative party in the country with any prominence, they say Gridiron as a nuisance. A little stretch of anarchy that could and should be ignored. But, nevertheless, it is still part of the Commonwealth, and these people needed their help. Even with these ideals, which were shared by military brass and the National Labour Party alike, the Tories had limited involvement to the bare minimum. A single division, known as the 9th Special Forces and Applications Brigade, which was made up of the Knights, the Palladins, and the Spartans. This unit was the butt of the Marine Corps. In any campaign that the Commonwealth was obligated to participate in, but didn't want to commit anything decent to, they sent in the 9th. And thus far, that strategy has been damned effective. However, Gridiron isn't just any hot spot. It was an enormous waste of tax payers money. Providing social programs for a wasteland? Funding a research station whose only objective was to get Gridiron to where the rest of the Commonwealth was 30 years ago? It was a political nightmare. And piece by piece, Kingston began to put the evidence into a single conclusion: the scapegoating of Gridiron to justify its destruction. But even with this epiphany, they had a job to do, and with only 800 meters to the town, Kingston raised his hand swiftly and turned around. The formation halted and crouched, while the men in the truck listened attentively.

Kingston walked back slightly, lowering his weapon and taking off his helmet. The filtered view of his lens transitioned into a nearly blinding desert. The heat splashed his face like a pale of water. In front of him, the men he had fought so proudly with for in excess of two months. Just at a glance, you could tell who was who. Love Company had the unique marks of Kingston's Knights on their shoulders, while George Company, trained by the Rangers of The Western Reaches, were outfitted with their iconic dusters. They waited for Kingston to speak, truly respectful of the man.

"Alright," Kingston wiped the sweat off of his upper lip and squinted as the sun beamed down on him. "Portside is 800 meters down this road. You all know what to do. Weapons, get in this truck and set up 400 meters down. Love Company and Battalion Command, you're following me down the right of the road. George Company, you're on left of the road with Captain Paredes. Weapons, I need you guys to haul ass and set up your machine guns. As soon as he hit weapons platoon's line, we split off, and rush the town. I want mortar teams to dig in and be on station as soon as possible." Kingston looked back towards Portside. Smoke rose through the sky. Gunfire could be heard, and the yelling of combat. "You hired guns, I want you to stick with me. If we get separated in the town, Red will be your commanding officer until you hook up with the Marines. VMA-212 will be on station in 5 minutes. We will be relieved by the rest of the battalion at 1900 hours. Until then, we're alone for the next 10 hours. You all know your objectives. If you see local militia or wounded civilians, they are your first priority. Oh-rah?"

Simultaneously, the formation roared, "Oh-rah!"

Kingston put his helmet over his face, his lens syncing with his rifle, projecting its core temperature and ammunition count. He loaded a magazine into his rifle, and pulled back the charging handle violently. "Let's go!" Kingston turned quickly, leaped to the right of the road over a cement barrier, and began sprinting down the road. The rest of his company did the same, following him to the rally point. Five Vertibirds flew low over the motorway, firing guided rockets to the north of Portside. They reached Portside and veered off, opening fire on what Kingston could only presume were raiders in the town. Suddenly, three jeeps zoomed past Kingston. They were the Palladin Marines. And by the looks of their turrets, they had received some upgrades from the research station. Heavy energy weaponry. They entered the town and rounded a corner towards the center of town, leaving Kingston's sight. Within a minute, the Captain reached the 400 meter mark. Behind him, three men pulled out flare guns and fired into the air, reveling green flares, let down slowly by a parachute. "All units, push, push, push! Regroup in the town!"

Suddenly, rounds impacted the ground in front of Kingston, sending ricochets into his shins. His armor deflected the shrapnel slightly, but the intensity of the situation grew. "All units, you are clear to engage clearly designated enemies. Do not fire on civilians armed with weapons Double check to make sure they are raiders!" On the horizon, Kingston could make out more raider vehicles heading towards the town, but they were perpendicular to the Marine's. Amongst the formation: a tank.

[The Mizarian Empire]

City of Portside
2nd day of the Siege

---

At least half the militia had fled back to their homes or abandoned the city outright by now; a dozen of the 30 armsmen that originally joined Mikhail into the fray were dead or injured. The defenders had been forced to fall back twice now, leaving trip-wired grenades and home-made mines in their wake to buy time for new defenses to be set up. A few of the armsmen, former commonwealth troopers had been quick enough to leave out signs and symbols any incoming reinforcements would be able to notice as an early warning. Mikhail looked over his wounds, the ricochet that had hit his leg yesterday had been treated but he'd since had a close call with a grenade that had riddled his arm with shrapnel, none of which had thankfully broken the skin too deeply. He was sporting a cut on his other arm from a raider with a hatchet that he knew would need attention soon though the gauze he'd bound it with had held for now. Several hours ago a strange man had come up to him in the midst of the firefight, seemingly unaware of what was going on before he yanked the man to the floor of the building. He'd mentioned something about representing sorrows but by that point he'd been running on adrenaline and madder than a shit-house rat and therefore too busy to mind his words. He hadn't seen the man since then but in the back of his mind he'd subconsciously hoped he was alright.

The gunfire reports had come back again. Mikhail had long since given up on reinforcements until one of the Portsiders pointed up, a green flare. Raiders were more for anything that was loud and flashy and a flare didn't seem their type, then he heard it, more vehicles. Mikhail climbed up onto the roof of a building and nearly cried when he saw the commonwealth troops coming over the horizon. For once in his life he was happy to see the sods which he oh-so often had a history of swindling, if he made it out of this there was a bottle of whiskey with their commander's name on it in his RV...where ever the hell it was. The combined Militia and armsmen pushed forward, inspired by their reinforcements; even Mikhail had grabbed his rifle again and was climbing back down to join the fray, paying careful attention to ensure they weren't killed by their own traps in their second wind and first counter-attack.

[Ceannairceach]

PORTSIDE

The seine was going well, all things considered.

People had died or fled, but that was to be expected; Not everyone was trained or skilled to handle this sort of fighting, and thus people would fall to death or cowardice. They would return, surely, when victory was at hand. Yes, the militia had been forced to retreat a time or two due to overwhelming assaults by the bandits, but how else would they lure them deeper in to the maze of buildings and other makeshift defenses, where their superior numbers would be useless? And while food and ammunition was becoming scarcer by the hour, it was rumored that the cavalry would soon be upon them, ready to relieve the town of its responsibilities.

Jezebel wasn't worried. The fight would be over before she knew it, one way or another. If they won, she would gain the right to loot the dead, and would come off richer than before. If they lost, she could still get away with her life, a benefit win or lose, and if she didn't live, death wasn't far off at any given time. It hardly could be that bad.

But now was no time for such thoughts. She had a job to do, and as the fantasy of children across the wastes, she had to do it well. Cracking her neck as if slipping on the persona of Machete Jean, Jezebel flexed her blade hand and moved forward swinging the kukri a few times for show.

She found her target quickly, a raider with two meat cleavers as one would find in a butchers shop. They were rusty and somewhat dull, displaying his barbarism as if to contrast the clean shine and shapely sharpness of her kukri. Advancing, she brought her arm back, making a diagonal line pointing to her shoulder from her blade, preparing for the uppercut that she hoped would slice him across the face and chest.

[-The Desert Rangers]

Portside

After finding not a single round for his FAL,Fredrick had picked up a repeater and fired however many rounds it held until it was empty and then picked up another gun and emptied it on the raiders. He had no idea if he had killed any,but he still kept firing and moving back at a steady pace.Then out of the corner of his eye he saw something ....a tank. Too quickly he realized that the tank was pointing in his general direction. With that motivation he started to run as fast as humanly possible. He was still to slow,and caught in the blast the one of the tanks shells had created. He was thrown a couple meters by the blast and pincushioned by shrapnel. Eventually he hit the ground,mangled but still alive. Slowly he began to slip into unconsciousness from shock and blood loss,despite his best efforts....

While fading into unconsciousness Fredrick swore he saw a green flare fly up into the sky.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

She dove in for the kill, but the Raider pulled his chest in instinctively, causing her to miss her intended target. However, in this process, he launched his right arm forward. Her machete landed home, cutting his bicep deep. He dropped the clever he held in his right, but continued to attack with the left.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

One of the men who had stayed behind at the recruitment office was a field medic. His only job up to that point was to recruit passers by into the Marine Medical Corps, but that career plan was obviously spoiled. His named was Pharmacists Mate Third Class Joshua DeVille. He pulled the wounded man behind a half bombed out wall and propped him up against it. He pulled bandages out of his combat bag and began dressing his wounds. Gunshots to the right abdomen; intermediate rounds so there's probably tearing on the inside from the tumbling. Level 3 blood loss. Passed out. From where they were crouched, they could see the saloon. It was on fire. Raiders were moving down the street horizontal to the main road about 50 meters away from them, kicking up dust and firing randomly towards the direction of a roadblock. And in the sky, as all hope seemed destroyed, three green flares. Marine Corps standard issue.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

The heavy rifle round spun as it cut through the hot, desert air. It was only 9AM it was already about 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The round passed over the heads of several raiders charging towards the town, striking the man mounting a machine gun atop a raider T-34 tank. His scarf, somewhat covering his right arm at the time, got caught in the trigger guard. As he got hit, his body lunged back, causing the machine gun to sway to the right. With the force exerted, the scarf activated the trigger, sending a barrage of bullets into the truck beside the tank, killing its driver and at least wounding a couple of occupants in the bed before the main gunner of the tank realized what had happened and pulled the man down.

[Numer]

Rob could see the man was too busy to talk; bullets whizzed by their heads nearly every couple of seconds. He knew the town needed help, and that was enough; he would convince Marcus to attack. Mounting again, Rob realized that the raiders had entered the town, so he quickly rode back to the Sorrows. However, in sight of Marcus, a bullet flew through Rob's torso, and he fell from his horse. Marcus dismounted, putting the poisoned child down, and ran to a fallen Rob. "I knowed, I knowed I been around too long." Rob said with a bloody smile. Marcus offered a sympathetic smile back. "Don't say that, we'll get you to a doctor-" Rob interrupted. "I been around long enough that I know a death wound when I see one," blood trickled down his mouth, "I won't make it through this, but get the sonofabitch who put me down, ye hear? And don't give me that turn the other cheek bull either."

Marcus' face turned serious. "I promise." With that Marcus, got on to his horse and faced the Sorrows. "Rob has died by the hand of these savage raiders. But they are no Sons of Slaughter; We shall conquer them just as we did our oppressive overlords. It is our duty to lay down our lives so that others may not suffer. It is time to live out this promise!" He faced the town in the distance, upholstering his Walther P99 pistol. "Charge!"

A raider in the process of scalping a fallen townsperson thought he heard something in the distance. Looking up, he was met with a bizarre and terrifying scene. A horde of mounted shooters, riding strange animals he had never seen before, approached the town, firing all sorts of guns. The animals hooves combined with gunfire to create a sound similar to thunder during the worst storm. Those without ranged weapons carried menacing spiked baseball bats, aching to crush the skulls of their foes. As they grew closer, bullets flew past him, and he could hear bloody cries and screams behind him. He noticed that they only aimed for raiders, identifying them from their dirty, disheveled looks. A new stage of the battle had began.

[Ceannairceach]

-snip-

She dove in for the kill, but the Raider pulled his chest in instinctively, causing her to miss her intended target. However, in this process, he launched his right arm forward. Her machete landed home, cutting his bicep deep. He dropped the clever he held in his right, but continued to attack with the left.

Catching a strike in the groove of her kukri, Jezebel struggled to keep it up; She was fit, a good runner and agile, but her strength lacked somewhat. As such, she took the block as an oppurtunity to strike, pulling back her fist and aiming the fist straight at the raider's jaw, digging her feet into the ground as she did so to gain balance and mentally preparing for a followup slash with her blade.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

DeVille, while patching up the fallen civilian, watched as a group of what looked to be tribals or nomads charged down the road carrying all sorts of weapons, ranging from small arms to makeshift melee weapons. It would definitely hold off a raider offensive until the reinforcements got into town, but nevertheless, DeVille thought to himself, "Idiots are gonna get themselves killed."

Disregarding the stupidity of the action for the sake of time, he continued to bandage the man, pulling out his side arm in case the raiders flanked his position.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

Somewhat stumbling after the strike to his arm, he didn't even try to dodge the punch thrown at him. While it did daze him and cause him to fall back a few inches, he still stood tall. However, his right arm, which just so happened to be his dominant hand, was immobile, and he had a hard time judging where his attacker was.

[Camicon]

*snip*

"Oh-rah!" I shouted with everyone else.

And then we were moving.

Flares hanging in the sky cast a haunting green glow over the battle field. The muzzle flash of firearms lit the horizon. There were so many bullets being fired in Portside that it made the place look like it was caught in a blaze. In fact, I was surprised it wasn't. That was the usual tactic employed by raiders; burn and pillage to 'strike fear into the people', or some nonsense like that. The fact that they were trying to preserve infrastructure was an unsettling change of pace. My job wasn't to analyze battle tactics though.

As we drew closer to Portside, the raiders started shooting at us. Bullets were splashing into the concrete barricade to our left, little chips and red-hot bullets bouncing off of our armour. None of the raiders had managed to score a hit, so far, but they would eventually. I saw one man go down in front of me, and stopped to help him. He'd been struck by something high caliber. I wasn't sure exactly what, but the top half of his head had been sheared away, and his helmet was a shattered mess. Unable to do anything else I pushed the body out of the way, so that the troops behind me wouldn't trip over it, and then rejoined the charge.

[North Banrodesia]

Sofia Weston
Portside

I spend about five seconds before checking whether my bullet had found it's Mark and if anyone had discovered my position and had a slightly better aim with a machine gun. Nothing large comes save for the few 50 calibre bullets dancing haphazardly into all directions and occasionally hitting the wall. I swing my gun roud over the sign again to see that the Tank Gunner had caught his arm on the MG just after he caught my bullet in the chest, And in doing so, The machine gun spun around as he went limp, Spewing bullets into the raiders in the truck in front, Killing a decent few. I search for a new target, And find quite an interesting one. In the back of a Truck is a squat, two metre tall makeshift tower with a man wearing next to no attire and clutching a GGH DMR, Scanning to town for targets as they reached 200 metres from the town. I steady the gun and aim for his head, But just as my finger squeezes the trigger, A huge explosion erupts from the sign beside me, Tearing apart the sign and throwing me back onto the roof but not before embedding a fragment of shrapnel in my leg. My gun slides across the roof and my vision blurs, But after a few seconds, I grab my gun and limp with a hunch down the ladder to tend to my wounds.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

CAPT David Kingston - Love Company, 1st Knights Battalion
Day 3 - Portside

---

Kingston sprinted past what looked like a blockade manned by, skimming the wooden planks that made up the wall of someone's residence. Behind him, his company followed him in single file, using the buildings as cover. He kneeled, crawling over to a bit of stone wall that overlooked the main road. Only about ten meters ahead of the wall was a line of militia, opening fire on a wall of raiders marching down the street. The militia were getting torn apart. Every second, another three fell as the raiders' machine guns bombarded them. Kingston looked down the street. George Company was set up, and was waiting for Kingston's okay. He gave the thumbs up, and leaped up. He moved down towards another piece of cover, his men following him. They formed a line behind the civilians and drew their weapons.

"Everyone down!" The civilians looked behind them. Seeing the line of Marines, they hit the ground. George Company which was positioned behind the raiders did something similar, opening up from their rear. Kingston's Marines opened up on the raider formation of maybe 400, tearing it apart as their now panicked emotions threw their accuracy down the toilet. As the raiders' effectiveness deteriorated, the Marines began to walk forward, stepping around the civilians on the ground. Kingston, still firing on the raiders, looked towards the saloon. It was ruins. Past it, he saw a massive raider formation in the thousands advancing towards the town. He acted immediately, pressing the button on his helmet with his left hand. "Mortar teams. We need immediate fire 100 meters north of the town. VMA-212, I need immediate fire 100 meters north of the town. I have eyes on a massive formation of raiders incoming over."

A bullet impacted Kingston's armor, tearing straight through his left shoulder. He was still standing, but could not raise his left arm. He jumped down to a reinforced crate which had been dropped in the middle of the road. He rested his rifle against it, continuing to suppress the raiders. Above him, mortar rounds soared through the air, and two Vertibirds flew past the town, resting in a hovering position north of the town. They opened up with their 20mm cannons, attempting to hold off the attackers while the Marines cleared out the town. The situation seemed better then it had before, and suddenly, a rocket from the west side of town broke the sky, hitting one of the Vertibird's tail, sending it into a spiral. Smoke billowed from the impact, following its descent. Time slowed down as it fell. And as it coughed up its last bit of life, its rotors hit a building only about 50 meters from Kingston, sending the fuselage into the ruins of the saloon. Bits of wood were hurled into the formation of raiders, hitting several.

Kingston stood up, grabbing his sidearm and opening fire, continuing to lead his company to attempt to link up with George. "King! Get over to that fuselage and see if anyone's alive! If there are any survivors, stabilize and get them to civilian blockade back there! Marston, Griggs, go with her! Move it!"

Kingston then saw a civilian climbing down a ladder. She looked wounded and was carrying a sniper rifle. "Baxter! We got a wounded marksman to your left. Go see if she needs assistance."

Thus far, the advance on the raiders wasn't all that gruesome. While the raiders took massive casualties, their poor marksmanship and substandard weapons barely phased Love Company's armor. But Kingston could see what was happening. Deplete the civilian supply of ammunition with a couple waves of grunts and then hit with a tough wave. The tanks mentioned in the intel they found would probably be approaching shortly.

[North Banrodesia]

Sofia Weston
Portside

After hobbling down the ladder I realise the marines arrive, Clad in their body armour with guns blazing towards the line of raiders, Tearing them through and burrowing deep into their courage. Overhead, Two vertibirds swoop over, One taking a rocket and spiralling down towards the desert followed by the crash of mortars into another raider line. I lean against the concrete wall of the prison and remove my scope, Adapting the rifle to a more local range. A marine saunters over to me, Firing off a few vague shots before grabbing my shoulder and holding mr steady. 'Are you OK?' he asks, Slinging his gun. 'Just get me a gauze and some painkillers, I'll handle it from there' I cough out, Bringing my rifle up to fire vaguely at the seemingly impenetrable raider line and firing off a magazine whilst I wait for the first aid supplies.

[Guruda]

Anthony
Portside

Anthony glanced as Red sat down next to him before moving his eyes back to his own equipment. It seemed like they would be jumping right into the thick of it this time, and didn't want to worry about his gear failing him when he needed it most. His attention moved once Red initiated conversation first.

"You got something to prove, friend?"

Anthony chuckled slightly after the question, only taking a second to reply. "No, nothing to prove here," he said with a smile, while leaning forward and resting on his rifle which was fixed to the floor. It was true, he had nothing to prove, as there was no one in Gridiron he expected to know, or notice what he did. Now he spoke in a more serious manner. "To be completely honest, I just need the money." He hated to admit it, but that was the truth. Money was needed to continue the habit, whether he liked it or not. Anthony looked over Red's armor which he noticed earlier, giving him the appearance that exceeded a normal gun for hire. "So what brings you here? You look pretty official for a mercenary." Anthony then leaned back slightly, knowing they would be dismounting soon.

[Camicon]

*snip*

Portside was an absolute mess. Windows and doors were broken out of their frames, walls more closely resembled Swiss cheese, and most of the concrete that was in the town was so pockmarked it no longer retained it's original shape. Kingston led us around the outskirts of the battle until we were square with the raiders, still unseen by them. In one fluid motion, we all rose up, watched the civilians crouch behind cover, and then squeezed our triggers. I watched as a series of bullets spat out of the muzzle of my gun, their quiet hiss drowned out by the sharper rattle of the Marines rifles (field medics are issued silenced weapons, so we can protect ourselves and our patients without giving away our positions immediately). They didn't exactly need my help, but it calmed my nerves the hear the rattle of my gun, and relieved some of my pent up frustrations. I knew I'd hit a number of raiders, but whether or not it was my bullets that killed them, I'm not sure of. It's not like we were taking the time to call targets, so there must have been cases of two people shooting the same raider. It wasn't so much a shoot-out, at that point. More of a slaughterhouse. Still, the bastards deserved every bit of it and then some.

As I exchanged my emptied magazine for a fresh one, a pair of Vertibirds moved in overhead, and started gunning down the raiders lines. I'd just racked a round into the chamber when a rocket broke the skyline, and slammed into the tail rotor of one of our 'birds, which slammed into the shot-up saloon. I'd been looking right at it, and the explosion left a harsh afterimage in my right eye, even through the tinted lenses of my helmet. I was already moving when Kingston ordered me to attend to the crew, but looked back at him when I heard his voice in my earpiece. He was firing his pistol one-handed, not using his left arm for anything. It looked like his uniform had been damaged on the left shoulder.

I flicked over to the field medic channel as I ran. "Kingston's been injured. Ballistic trauma to the left shoulder. He's not using his left arm. Not sure if it's because he can't, or he doesn't want to injure it further. Someone check up on him next chance you get." We'd all be pretty screwed over if we lost Kingston because of a bum shoulder. Griggs and Marston formed up on either side of me, as I led a twisting path through the debris and dead towards the saloon.

I didn't want to crawl through the hole that the Vertibird had made, because it would leave us too exposed to enemy fire, so I found a side entrance. I motioned them to check their rifles before we went in. Both did, and gave affirmative nods. Nosing open the door, the three of us moved through the dark shadows of cramped hallways and storerooms. I paused just before a half opened door. It opened out into the main room, where the Vertibird had gone down. Keeping an eye out for any raiders that may have been lurking around, or been drawn by the chance of scavenging parts and Marines from the wreckage, I opened the door or squeaky hinges, and moved in along the wall.

The tail of the Vertibird was burning, but it was half outside the saloon and didn't pose a fire hazard. The cockpit appeared empty, but I could see a boot-clad foot through the bay door of the 'bird. One last look around, to assure myself that we were all clear, and I moved forwards to the wreckage. With one arm I heaved the bay door open the rest of the way, and found three members of the four-man crew. All were breathing, shallowly, but surely. I started to climb in to attend to them, when the bay door on the other side of the bird was swung open. My head snapped up, followed by the barrel of my rifle. All I caught was a glimpse of leering eyes, blackened teeth, and the bandanna clad head of a raider, before I squeezed the trigger of my gun. A line of bullets spat out of the barrel and knocked me off balance, as I was firing one handed, my one hand still gripping the door. Perched on the edge of the 'bird as I was, I started to fall. Dropping my rifle and letting it hang by it's strap, I used my free hand to grab the leg of the nearest Marine, and pulled him out with me. Griggs managed to catching me just before I tumbled onto my ass, and Marston grabbed the unconscious Marine from me. I'm not certain if I managed to kill the raider.

I regained my feet, and raised my rifle again. With some hurried hand signals, I told Griggs and Marston to move the marine into the back rooms we'd just come from, and then to have Griggs check him over. The two of them grabbed the Marine by his arms and legs, ready to move when I did. I gave them a nod, and they crouched and started for the back rooms. I spun back to the Vertibird, gun raised, ready to fire at any raider I saw.

[Escalan Corps-Star Island]

The three "Observers" had worked feverishly for two hours. Funny, thought Decuiralis, observing had been turned into fighting a goddamn war. Well, such was the madness of life. Decuiralis had stripped the jeep down to its bare frame to conserve their precious gasoline, then tinkered with the engine to repair several holes. He had talked to Derek and Paul, and the three had decided to head to Redwood Cave. They all knew what they might be getting into. They already knew the place to be a dangerous raider hideout. But now, it was almost guaranteed to be a hellhole in an uproar. The rusted vehicle set out across the desert.

Six hours later, the jeep stopped alongside a battered truck in a small encampment. Decuiralis wasn't sure, but a faded bit of paint on the side vaguely resembled the Dragonia Arms insignia. It was worth a try, though. Paul and Michael sauntered over to the driver's side of the truck. Derek stayed to guard the jeep. They had already donned ragged clothes salvaged from dead raiders over their armor.

A man smoking a cigarette leaned out the window. His face was grizzled and lined from years of rough living. He looked the two over curiously. "What does youse lot want, eh?" he said.

"We wondered if you might be a Dragonia dealer with some guns to spare," said Decuiralis. "What do you have?"