A revolution is an idea which has found its bayonets."
-Napoleon Bonaparte
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-Napoleon Bonaparte
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"Ax, ебать."
This was Velichyi Avdeyev's first words, literally, "Oh, fuck" in Russian, upon waking up from his period of unconsciousness. His words were barely audible and slurred, but they were words nonetheless. He immediately looked down at his body, laying on the floor, limp, barely able to see himself because of his blood-caked eyes. He had a constant throbbing in his neck, getting more pronounced as he looked around the area in which he found himself. Brick walls, nothing more. As he found the strength to sit up, he looked farther down the corridor. It seemed to not end, merely extending into and fading into dark shadows, which his weak, bloody eyes could not penetrate. He tried to push himself up off the floor, but instantly felt an intense pain in his right upper arm. He unbuttoned his camoflage army jacket a bit, proceded to peel part of it off to examine it, looked at his arm, and sure enough, found a deep cut on the muscle near his shoulder blade. Upon closer inspection, he saw a somewhat cloudy pus, tinged in light green oozing out, and a yellow crust, mixed with dried red starting to show at the edge of his gash. Infection had just begun to set into it, and he needed medical attention soon. He pushed up onto his feet with his left arm, feeling a bit faint upon standing, but soon became accustom to it. He gave himself a quick patdown to see if any of this made him grimace at the touch. After making sure there were no other huge wounds on him, he started checking to make sure he had everything he had before this happened-- whatever it was.
He still couldn't remember what exactly happened. Merely a simple peacekeeping mission on a troublesome village in the Keppean Plains region, and then a massive explosion next to his vehicle. Gunshots, it was all a giant haze. Insect repellent, a dehydrated meal, water pack, and trusty "Vodka", his nickname for his HK45 handgun, given for being strong, and leaving a strong sting after it has done its job. He then check his ranks to make sure they were still on. Yep, his single golden bar, signifying 3rd Ensign, jokingly called "the Butterfinger" among the guys in his Special Tasking Corps unit. Smiling, he caresses "Vodka" and said in his head, "You're all I need to survive this, this-- whatever shit I'm in. Long as I've got you in my hands and you gotta mag, I know I'll be ho-"
He'd never get the chance to finish his delusional speech. He felt a strong blow hit the side of his face, planting him on the floor, landing on the cut on his right arm. Screaming in unadultered agony as the searing pain shot throughout the right side of his body, he unwillingly sent his 45 sliding across the floor. With every last bit of strength he had, he crawled at a remarkable speed, regarding the circumstances, to his gun, his lifeline, his very life at this point. As he reached to get it, a gleaming, shined black boot stomped on the gun. Velichyi looked up at the man with a mix of fear and curiosity, but mostly hatred for all that the pain he was feeling, the uncertainty of his fate, and the unknowing of where he was. The man kicked Velichyi in the ribs with blunt force, and he could hear the snapping of his ribs, the sound seeming like multiple broke like twigs. He gasped harshly, his voice being unable to scream at this point. The unknown man slowly picked up the gun, chuckling oh so diabolically at Velichyi as he did so.
"Oh, the strong 3rd Ensign, believing he's so powerful as to raid the lands he has no right to. You, good sir, are an impertinent fool."
The poor man managed to gasp, "Who are you, you cocky bastard?! I demand your name!!"
This demand was met by a hard, swift roundhouse kick to the poor man's throat. Velichyi gagged and gasped for air, but could only taste his own blood, slushing around in his esophagus.
"You are so utterly stupid, as most of your despicable soldiers are. You're the weakest man on the face of Judea, perhaps in fact the world at this moment. Yet you demand me as if you are a king. My friend, that is not going to work here."
"Go to Hell, you bigoted piece of shit!" he barely breathed out.
"I think we both share that fate. But I will decide who goes first."
Before Velichyi could think of a response, he felt a strong choking force come from his throat. Not the blood. He looked down, seeing a typical cattle rope. He gasped and fought for air, but none came. Then the unidentified fiend kicked him in the face.
Suddenly, the world went black.
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"Goddammit, where the fuck is our evac?!"
The waves of men just didn't seem to stop. You kill one Keppean, three would come in to take his place. Master Colonel Vladimir Gorborov was getting frustrated.
"It's like they're appearing out of thin fucking air!!"
"Men, relax. Doubt is the key to failure!" the Colonel said through his radio from his base.
Perhaps he's underestimating the severity of the situation, thought Brigadier Sergeant Alekz Malinchi. I saw them drag Velichyi away. They shouldn't be pussy footed around with.
Suddenly, a rumble in the sky. An A-10 Thunderbolt roared overhead. From the aircraft, you could see what from the distance looked like small boulders hitting the ground, causing massive explosions behind enemy lines. Malinchi could hear the screams of one particular Keppean rebel, screaming in agony, his left leg blown off, his right leg impaled with sharpnel from a bomb. This hurt him. He took his AK103, and shot the man in the head. The red mist spewed out, like a small geyser. How far is one man willing to go to stay alive?
Behind him, he heard a choppy sound of a propeller. Looking behind him, he saw a standard Hind helicopter, dropping down. The man inside opened the door.
"Nice shithole we got here," the man chuckled, obviously trying to merely make light of a harsh situation.
One by one, the 4 remaining men of Rodeo Company filed into the chopper. As it begun its ascent into the air, they began to sigh, the Brigadier Sergeant the heaviest.
"98 men, sent to peacekeep a village in the middle of nowhere. We find an empty village, rigged with fucking dynamite. Next thing we know, only 4 men stand. What a shithol-"
An explosion, a rapid descent, a crash. And then silence. Dead, fucking silence.
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Cut from the Vangrift Times, newspaper for the capital of Huntertopia
Cut from the Vangrift Times, newspaper for the capital of Huntertopia
