A Cousin's War [IC | OPEN]

[Rodez]

A Cousin's War
OOC



Chapter One: Handwashing

8th May, 2433, 0600
Camp Darmawan, Cordelia Province, 71st Infantry Regiment, 153rd Infantry Division
Hollis

Tepid and halting, the nervous chit-chatter of ten UN Army Captains and some forty of their lieutenants died down in an instant as Colonel James Okyere entered the small auditorium with another man in tow. Okyere himself was instantly recognizable, with nearly jet-black skin and a figure built in much the same way as a cage fighter. The man at his back was small and unremarkable in all respects except for the colonel's eagle he wore on his shoulder patch, making him even in rank to their striking superior. Discrepancies aside, every man stood and saluted their own colonel without a second thought.

"At ease, lads," Okyere boomed, and they were at ease. "Good morning all. Hope everyone enjoyed their very first night on Hollis. As you know, the 91st Infantry Division is nearly finished transferring out of the base here, which means we have to pick up field operations right away. I have here next to me Colonel Markus Granath of Army Intelligence. He's going to shed some more light on the situation here in Cordelia Province."

Granath nodded respectfully to Okyere and launched into his own presentation. "Cordelia is an interesting province. Nine and a half million people, most of them living in farming villages and hamlets spread out over an area the size of Earth's Morocco. The capital of Redmond has consistently been observed to be one of the safest towns on the whole Western Continent. Even casualties in the more tenuously governed hinterlands have always been relatively light. All this while we sit smack in the goddamn middle of Avery territory." He blinked and looked towards the back wall momentarily, as if distracted by some stray thought.

"Anyway, it's a strange phenomenon," Granath continued. "But the people here seem to be pretty apathetic towards the whole war. Camp Darmawan, where we are now? You'll have noticed it isn't as heavily fortified as some of the FOBs you've probably read about. We've never come under attack here except early last year when the base was first installed."

"This doesn't mean we are not to exert the usual cautions and procedures," Okyere added. "Those matter more than ever."

"Indeed," agreed Granath. "What the Colonel and I are trying to get at is that the insurgency is actually relatively weak here in Cordelia. In terms of popular support, available weapons, and the number of fighters Clan Avery can field here - it's not as significant as most neighboring provinces. After fighting and neutralizing the enemy, your next priority here is gaining the trust of the locals. Protect them, engage with them, do nothing whatsoever to infringe on their way of life. These thoughts should be foremost on your minds while in the field." He smiled wanly. "And that's what I came here to say. This falls to you now, gentlemen. Good luck."

Sitting in the back row, Lieutenant Joachim Devalcourt couldn't help but grimace slightly. He really didn't know quite what to expect here on Hollis, but he was pretty sure that this falls to you now was more or less synonymous with And now I wash my hands of this shitshow.

Okyere provided Granath with a sort of forced pat on the back. "Thank you, Colonel," he bellowed, before turning back to his own subordinates. "Alright, I have company-level assignments right here. Let's have my Captains come up now. You can discuss with your lieutenants as soon we're finished."

Everyone stood. Here we go, then, Joachim thought. Time to roll the dice.

---

As Joachim wound his way through the seemingly endless packed-earth corridors between the barrack trailers, he rubbed shoulders with a plethora of the United Nations Armed Forces' finest. Engineers, transport and fighter pilots, officers of varying rank, civilian contractors, corpsmen and nurse droids hauling the bloody and bandaged bodies of soldiers on the edge of death - they all passed one another, on the way to one duty or another.

Well, Joachim reflected, finest probably wasn't the most honest word he could use. They weren't Marines or SpecOps, after all. They were Army. The Ant Hive, as other branches referred to it. They weren't the finest. They were perfectly adequate. They were soldiers. And that was alright with Joachim.

He strode onward, stopping only when he found his own company and platoon. The door slid open with a quiet hiss after the presentation of his military ID.

The inside of the trailer was a typically spartan affair; twenty-eight beds, each with their own ID-sealed gear locker. A common bathroom and shower area at one end - at the other sat a minuscule 'strategy office,' which Joachim was still struggling to find a use for. The shared tables in the middle of the main space sufficed for any planning on the platoon level.

He performed a cursory inspection of the empty beds. There were a handful of things he probably could have griped about as soon as the men returned from breakfast, but Joachim decided against it. Usually he would play hardball, but not today. Not this morning.

Only a handful of minutes passed before his platoon entered. They filed into the trailer in good order, organized along squad lines. Not a word was spoken as each man took up an attentive standing position right in front of his bed. Everyone knew what this would be about. No doubt the endless Army rumor mill had informed them that order were on the way during breakfast.

"Morning lads," Joachim said, repeating Colonel Okyere's well-known morning greeting. Perhaps it sounded strange in Joachim's clipped, clear French accent, but he didn't care. It had become a running joke among the junior commissioned officers to repeat the mannerisms of their well-liked superior.

"I know we all got settled in last night," he began. "I have received our orders from Captain Giang, which means our work here begins today. The company will be airlifted to the town of Wadena, 40 kilometers west of Redmond. From there, the platoon is to take up the abandoned SpecOps outpost in the hills around the town, after which we will proceed on a three-hour patrol route through the villages of Drayton and Pritchard. Objectives along the way will be to make contact with the local aldermen and observe signs of insurgent activity. We roll out at zero nine hundred. That gives you close to ninety minutes of prep time. Any questions?"

[United Human Planets]

Sergeant Valentin Popov

Valentin hummed lightly to himself, his hands stuffed firmly in his pockets in a blatant disregard for military conduct. As far as he was concerned, as long as he maintained the important things like honor and sacrifice, no one could really give him to much hassle for disregarding the little things. It had worked pretty well so far. He was a sergeant after all, and the reciprocate of multiple commendations.

As he wound his way through the tight alleyways of the barrack trailers, Valentin could practically smell the dirt. The dust seemed to be ever rising here, as booted feet kicked it up in the Ant Hives ever present to and fro, soldiers constantly going from here to there, there to here. He stepped out of the way as a group of nurse droids and medics passed quickly through, carrying a wounded soldiers on a stretcher, one of them holding an IV drip above their head as they went. Though they had been told that this was the least conflict prone province on the planet, Valentin couldn't help but feel like there were a lot of wounded being carried through the base at this moment, and it felt like every third or fourth transport he saw come in had medevac identification painted on it. Valentin sighed, and rubbed his nose before continuing onward.

As he came to his platoon tent, he grinned slightly as he watched the LT stand in the middle of the trailer, waiting as the platoon trickled in little by little. Valentin knew that the LT had served in anti pirate actions before, but he still couldn't help but feel that he was a little green around the earns none the less. Valentin like him. The LT was earnest. Valentin took his place in front of his bed, and nodded at his squad with a good natured grin. They were a little understaffed as compared to the rest of the platoon, with only two corporals and two privates, not including Valentin, but he felt confidant about them anyways. They all seemed determined, though Valentin worried some about Hartmann. The kid seemed to have a bit of a chip on his shoulder.

As the rest of the Platoon made their way inside and stood at attention by their beds, the LT launched into a quick rundown of future events. Valentin stood stiff, his hands firmly at his side, his relaxed slouch gone. Outside with no tasks was one thing, but here in a briefing, he made sure to be the picture of military professionalism. As the LT spoke however, Valentins eyes still shifted around, taking in the surroundings and people. He knew everyone in the platoon, in some way or another, but he had not really become friends with any of them. Most were new, and those who weren't had predominantly served against pirates like he had, not in a true war. Valentin gave everyone the side eye, but never moved more than that until the briefing was over. When the LT asked if there were any questions, Valentin spoke up.

"Uh yeah, I have a question," he said, "what kind of danger are we expecting out there? I know that we are technically in the safest province, but there were still a lot of people on stretchers out in the base, so it seems that that doesn't mean we are truly out of the fray here."

[The Holy Empire of Steel]

Private First Class Wolfgang Hartmann

Wolfgang's experience with Hollis, while admittedly short-lived so far, was one of constant annoyances. Almost immediately after taking his first step off the transport shuttle, Wolfgang's Head's Up Display began shorting out, displaying all manner of incorrect data, the worst of which being repeated alarms that his primary weapon's fuel tank had been breached. This was impossible for a glaringly obvious reason; after a particularly gruesome hardware malfunction, it was deemed that no "flamethrower trooper" would be allowed to carry full fuel tanks inside a transport shuttle, unless they were being directly deployed into combat. Instead, all Close Support Rifleman would have to rely on local Quartermasters to provide them with ammunition. So, Wolfgang's first stop inside Camp Darmawan was the armory, where he would spend most of his first day on Hollis assisting the armorer repair his specialized MTCA. After four hours of mind-numbingly re-threading his MTCA's internal wiring, it appeared as if Wolfgang's armor was fully repaired.

Wolfgang, sealed inside his now fully functioning MTCA, pushed aside the armorer's tent flap, exiting to the exterior of the armory, into the chaos that was Camp Darmawan in the early morning. Directly in front lay one of the Camp's many mess halls, it's door constantly opening and closing as stream of soldiers moved inside for breakfast. The fully armored Wolfgang drew a few raised eyebrows from the line of hungry men and women, but none made any further contact. Wolfgang adopted a slow pace, walking back towards his assigned barracks. The inquisitive glances failed to faze him anymore, he had grown tired of explaining the difficulties of getting in and out of his specialized MTCA far too many times to count. Moving farther into the Camp, Wolfgang increasingly began seeing wounded men and women being carted around on stretchers. He grimaced, quickly spotting a number of the dead covered almost head to toe in third degree burns. It was an unfortunate fact that due to a number of costly losses, the Clarion Confederation had begun to increasingly use improvised weapons, a favorite apparently an incendiary IED, which proved incredibly effective in Urban settings. With a pained grimace, Wolfgang walked past the burned bodies, putting aside the fact he would most likely be causing the same damage within a few days.

At approximately 0555 hours, his HUD pinged an alert from 1st Lieutenant Joachim Devalcourt , requesting the platoon to assemble within the barracks for a mission briefing. Wolfgang, ignoring the desire to catch a few winks of sleep beforehand, trudged over to the barracks, following behind a fellow Pfc inside. Flipping an external helmet switch his off-hand, the faceplate of Wolfgang's helmet split horizontally, each side sliging smoothly into built in recesses of his helmet. Blinking a few times to adjust to the new lighting, Wolfgang slowly took his place in front of his assigned bunk, standing at ease. He returned the Sergeant Popov's grin with a faint smile and nod, but otherwise projected a stoic facade.. Within a few minutes, after the rest of the platoon had gathered, Lieutenant Devalcourt began the morning briefing. Wolfgang snapped to attention, his arms firmly at his side, at least to the best of his ability, the MTCA bulged ever-so-slightly around the hips for added protection against heat.

The Sergeant presented a question immediately, seconds before Wolfgang could ask the same. Thinking quickly, Wolfgang added: "Also, what will be the general terrain of the route we'll be patrolling? I've heard that Clan Avery is fond of ambushing patrols from hidden hilltop passageways.." He paused, jutting a thumb towards the empty fuel tank strapped to his back. "I'll be incredibly disadvantaged out in the open.."

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

“I’m just sayin’” Virgínia said, getting as close to Raül’s ear as possible. Raül didn’t look at her, but he could just see her brown hair out of the corner of his eye. She looked suspiciously about her before saying a word, seemingly checking every nook and cranny of the camp they were walking through.

“I’m just sayin’” she repeated, as if she wanted to make it really clear that she was just saying something.

“Don’t you find it very convenient that the Gate ‘suddenly’ disappeared after 12 million people passed through?” She said, immediately looking around her again. Raül sighed. They would have looked less suspicious of Virgínia had been shouting her conspiratory crap across the base with a megaphone.

“No, I actually don’t” Raül replied. He was wondering less about the Gate, and more about why Virgínia would do her best to whisper. They were speaking their peculiar Catalan dialect, and it would take a code breaker to know what they were talking about. Raül and Virgínia were both from New Florida, and they had met on the transport from their home world to Earth, waiting for their deployment. They had taken a liking to one another, if only because they were both from New Florida, and hearing their ancestral language once in a while really kept them grounded in reality. Speaking English all the time was uncanny and made them feel far from home. However, the one thing Raül did not like about her was her inflated ego and her conspiracy theories, everything from why there were Maws on New Florida to whether they were actually in a computer simulation.

“Ow, come on, Ru!” she said, a bit louder than before. She had suddenly forgotten about the need to be discreet, apparently, because just at that moment two UN Spooks came walking by. Of course, they didn’t understand a word of what they were saying, and Raül friendly nodded as they walked past. The Spooks, hidden by their big sunglasses, didn’t seem to notice. Virgínia gave them a quick glance over her shoulder, and then continued.

“It all fits perfectly. Twelve million people go through the Gate, and years later, the UN conveniently finds itself stuck in an endless war there” She said, gesticulating heavily with the one hand that wasn’t holding a rifle. Just at that moment they passed one of the field hospital tents, where doctors were tending to screaming patients. A hovercarrier had crashed a few clicks south of here, and they were busy getting a smouldering piece of rotor blade from the shoulder of one of the pilots. As they walked past one of the nurses rapidly drew a curtain in front of the bleeding mess, but it didn’t do much to stop the screaming.

“Yeah, very convenient…” Raül muttered. Virgínia began to list all the reasons why she thought it was an inside job, but Raül didn’t listen anymore. He just nodded when her mouth stopped moving. His attention was in the distance, where a faint sun was slowly rising above the hills. The sun was a bit more yellow than he was used to at home, and seemingly a bit bigger, but apart from that, it looked just like New Florida. He would sometimes hunt all through the night with his friends, 48 hours without sleep, to watch the dawn bring light back to their lives. Hunting nights were stressful things, and you never knew if you were going to come out alive. To watch a sun rise above the distant marshy hills meant you had daylight at your side again, and you had survived another night. This felt the same, in a sense, but the accent was different. Where the dawn on New Florida meant going on for another day, being able to go home, here it just meant another day in the army. Another day of danger, in the middle of enemy territory, within the grasp of the enemy. With the Maws, you could leave their territory in order not to disturb them. Here, there was not a single clearing that was safe. Crossing a river just meant you were hunted by different people, who wanted you dead for no other reason than that you had a blue-white patch on your arm.

A light began to flash on Raül’s lower arm. A message from the lieutenant popped up on the screen located there, calling for all men to assemble. Raül sighed, and sighed again, this time more deeply.

“What’s the matter?” Virgínia asked, trying to get a glimpse of the screen.

“I’m being called for an assembly. I’m sorry, Vi, but I think we’re beyong deployed.”

“Shit” she said. The two stopped their little stroll through the camp and looked at one another. A manly embrace followed, with enough back-patting to kill a cow. They ended a few seconds later, firmly giving each other a firm handshake.

“Go get the bastards, man. Bona sort” she said. He nodded.

“Bona sort”

Just minutes later he was at his platoon’s trailer. A few men had already assembled there, and after the lieutenant went in the platoon went in as well. It was a quiet affair. Judging from the looks of everyone else, Raül wasn’t the only one who knew what was going on. He took a seat, looking at their French lieutenant.

“No questions, sir” the corporal said, instead looking around himself in anyone else had a question.

[Herador]

Frederik Evans

Breakfast was breakfast. Somehow across every warzone he'd be in, Frederik had never managed to figure out how the UN managed to get the same shit food to every deployment in their space, but the eggs were as runny and trash as ever, and the coffee was the same kind of bitter black swill he'd gulped down in every other deployment he'd ever been on. He was with a few members of the platoon who had chosen a table in the back of the temporary kitchen. They were all chatting about the upcoming operation, what they'd heard from their buddy who'd heard it from a friend. Frederik wasn't interested in most of it, he'd been through this before and for a lot of these kids it was probably their first combat deployment, his LT and Sergeant were boots too. Frederik sighed into his mug as he quickly gulped down the last bits of his cup, hoping that his new officer and squad leader would be solid. Even his team NCO was new. At least he still had Campanal and Hartmann in first team.

Frederik got up, ignoring one of the new boots from Charlie asking him what was up as he dumped his tray in one of the bins and stepped outside for a smoke. Lighting up, he sat down on a crate of some kind of rope, enjoying what he assumed were his last few hours in the relative peace of the camp when his comms unit started to beep and buzz. With a deep sigh, Frederik got back up and started to make his way back to the Platoon's barracks unit, ambling as he did through the warren of makeshift corridors that made up the camp, dodging the POG's as he went, hands in his pockets and relatively unworried about any Staff NCO's. He finally caught up to his squad as they moved into the barracks and Frederik joined them at the back of the line, putting out his cigarette in the dirt before walking inside.

Standing at a parade rest in front of his bed, he listened to some of the questions being passed along before coming up with one of his own. "Sir." He took a step forward. "Can we expect CASEVAC in the AO? With guerilla's and high ground possibly in their hands, I know the air force might be a bit hesitant to fly into dangerous airspace."

[Rodez]

Lieutenant Joachim Devalcourt

Joachim stood at the front of the room as a number of questions began to roll in from the men.

"Uh yeah, I have a question," he said, "what kind of danger are we expecting out there? I know that we are technically in the safest province, but there were still a lot of people on stretchers out in the base, so it seems that that doesn't mean we are truly out of the fray here."

"Sergeant Popov," Joachim acknowledged the man with a nod of his head. Popov was the most experienced of his three sergeants; Joachim had a feeling that he might have to lean on him every so often. "A pertinent question. First of all, I wouldn't call Cordelia the safest province. It's better off than most but there's still our fair share of shit to sling - there's still some fighting to be had. As for today's operation, I would be mildly surprised if there isn't some shooting. The reason we're going where we're going is because our predecessors, the 91st, have well-documented incidents where insurgents either attacked from, or fled to, these two farming hamlets. No Sergeant, we aren't out of the fray here."

Thinking quickly, Wolfgang added: "Also, what will be the general terrain of the route we'll be patrolling? I've heard that Clan Avery is fond of ambushing patrols from hidden hilltop passageways.." He paused, jutting a thumb towards the empty fuel tank strapped to his back. "I'll be incredibly disadvantaged out in the open.."

"Private Hartmann. Your concerns are very much merited. You heard right about the Averys, but like I said, the Wadena region is farm country, which means we'll be moving through pretty open fields, with some forests interspersed throughout. Pritchard and Drayton have about a thousand people each, so they're the kinda towns that don't make the map. Intel is supposed to send us some satellite images soon, so we can take a look at those . . ." Joachim peered behind Hartmann at the Private's fuel tank and grimaced a little. "Can't blame your apprehension there. I'll see about getting you some extra plates on that thing for protection, but apart from that . . ." he shook his head gloomily. "I understand that's a shit hand, but we're just going to have to scrape through."

Standing at a parade rest in front of his bed, he listened to some of the questions being passed along before coming up with one of his own. "Sir." He took a step forward. "Can we expect CASEVAC in the AO? With guerilla's and high ground possibly in their hands, I know the air force might be a bit hesitant to fly into dangerous airspace."

"Private Evans. To put it simply: yes, we'll have full CASEVAC capability in the event that someone goes down. Previous encounters suggest the rebels around here are not particularly well-armed, and since there's little high ground at all where we're going, they've deemed it an acceptable risk. But we do not have any other air support, considering that keeping civilians safe is a top priority, and it's not acceptable to be dropping bombs on densely populated farmland, especially when the rebels make a habit of attacking from buildings where noncombatants are present."

He paused briefly, cleared his throat, and continued. "This brings me to the very last point I want to make. The populace around Wadena is pretty noncommittal towards the war. They're tired of the violence that insurgents invite to their communities. On the other hand, they also want us to get the hell out of here. So it is beyond imperative that no one gets too trigger-happy or too jumpy. Worse yet, no one is to get into their head to go off and smoke civvies. Not only will there be hell to pay for the soldier who does it, but it gives a grieving family and a circle of friends very compelling reasons to take up arms against the United Nations. Every dead civvy on our account is ten steps backward for our mission here." Joachim shook his head. "I can't possibly make that clear enough."

An uneasy silence filled the trailer. Joachim gazed from soldier to soldier. "If everyone stays tight and keeps their head on straight, we'll do just fine out there. Any further questions? No? Alright then. Get to it. One hour."

With that, he turned on his heel, strode to his bunk, opened his locker, and began configuring his armor and other accouterments for the day ahead.

[Herador]

Evan's turned around to his kit, setting about getting it ready. A patrol, less than a day probably, meant that he was supposed to pack light. Not that he planned to. His full pack was going to add on another thirty pounds to his combat load, nothing like what Hartmann or Rollosson were going to have to deal with, but still, shit was heavy. He'd keep some of the kit about his body too. A tourniquet loose around his neck, tape clipped with a carabiner to his belt, bandage packets in his pants cargo pocket. Anywhere he could fit something he might need he did. The end result was that he looked like the exact opposite of the sleek, cool, clean UN Soldier on the recruitment commercials.

Frederik set about getting his armor and weapons in order. His armor was old and well worn, Evan's had managed to keep it in decent care by not taking a direct hit, but some small bits of scoring from stray hits or shrapnel. The dirt and grime had worked it's way into the plates too, he'd avoided cleaning it out for years now, wearing the dirty armor like a badge of honor, he'd survived long enough to get it that way and he wasn't going to let some POG Staff NCO tell him to clean off his record. Dragging his thumb across the writing on the side of his helmet, he set it aside, going over a quick check to ensure everything was there and working. He plugged his comm unit into the back of his helmet and booted up the armors system. Everything seemed to be working fine, the diagnostic ran quickly and buzzed with the bright green "COMBAT READY" then a small buzz as it finished it's second round "MEDICAL READY". His small suite of medical programs was good to go.

Picking up his AS-12 and Gleeson, Frederik checked the barrels and chambers, clean and ready to go. He had seven mags, six on his person and one in the rifle, 180 rounds plus the thirty ready to go. His sidearm had 30 rounds, one mag in the pistol ready and another tucked in his armor. Pulling one of the small windows open he lit another cigarette and put on his bodysuit. Made out of a tough nylon weave it was breathable but tough. It wouldn't stop a bullet, but it wouldn't tear or let brush get to your skin. Next came his sternum plate. Sitting around his waist and coming up to a point below his chin, the staps went over his shoulders and the plate around his waist would help bear some of the load he would carry. Then his main plate went over the sternum plate. It sat on his shoulders and connected to the sternum plate in such a way that the load distributed well enough, combined both plates could stop a pretty hefty round, or so the literature said. Next came the bicep plate and elbow plate, and then the thigh and shin plates. He tugged on the various bar grips, intended to give a soldier grip points to drag another downed trooper down, they were also useful for making sure all your clasps and connectors were working. Frederik roped Chaudhri into helping him test his armor, returning the favor for the rifleman.

Leaning against the window frame he idly finished his smoke while listening to some music he'd picked up on his last deployment, watching the clouds go by and hoping that they'd manage to get through the patrol without anyone getting shot. He'd heard some stories out of Hollis when they had first deployed, and even though this region was supposed to be safe Evan's wouldn't be surprised if that soon ceased being the case. After all, he thought, you don't deploy a whole Infantry Regiment to a pacified location. Putting out the nub of his smoke between two gloved fingers and tossing it out the window, he laid down on his cot watching the others finish their own preparations, nervously playing with the clasp of his sidearms holster strap.

"Hey, Chaudhri," He said to the soldier next to him. "This seem like it's going to be too easy to you?"

Frederik hoped his worry wasn't showing, it wouldn't do to have the new guys see him worried, though the old crew had seen the face time and time again. Worry was what Evan's did best.

[United Human Planets]

Sergeant Valentin Popov

"Of course this shits gonna be easy," said Valentin to Evans, tugging sharply on the shin plates straps to tighten them. "Im here, that aint comfort enough?"

He laughed happily at his humor, though even he knew that it was mediocre at best. As far was Valentin was concerned, this was just another day, only a different planet. He had spent the years since he was 19 years old fighting pirates, and had been quite successful clearing hamlets and villages on the edge of UN space. Though the locale was different and the reason they were fighting was an entirely other can of worms, the basic concept of brush fire warfare was much the same as pirates and smugglers. Valentin still worried though. He kept up a carefree facade simply because it made him feel better, though he understood that he was going into the fire at this moment. Still, now that the briefing was over Valentin's sudden air of professionalism was gone, and in its place stood a kid in a mans body.

Valentin stood, and pulled body armor out of his locker, throwing it over his shoulders, buckling and tightening as need be, before moving on to his arms. He methodically attached the shoulder pauldrons and lower arm bracers, before taking his helmet down from the top shelf along with a sharpie. Valentin sat back onto his bunk, and flipped his helmet so that the left side was facing him. On it, in big black letters was written "BLOOD TYPE O-POSITIVE." He took the cap off his pen with his teeth, and began going over the words on his helmet in a slow, methodical fashion. The letters were only slightly faded, but it was a thing that Valentin did every time he went out into the field. It was at this point a good luck charm. Just as some soldiers had rabbits feet, or a special article of clothing from a lover, or a locket, or some other such item, Valentin made sure his blood type was easily available to any medics who may need to patch him up.

When he finished with the first side, Valentin flipped the helmet in his hands so that the right side was facing him. On this side, in similar writing, was the sentence "GOD ASKED ME IF I WANTED PEACE, I TOLD HIM HE WAS A DIRTY HIPPIE." Valentin smiled at his handy work when he was finished, before tucking his pen into a pocket on the front of his MTCA, along side a pair of scissors and a screwdriver. He had never had to use the screwdriver yet, but Valentin kept it with him anyways. With his hand there, he patted the pocket next to the first, where he kept a rose. It had been gifted to him by a girl, who despite his better judgement Valentin still loved. He had pressed it in one of his many books, and now kept it between the pages of his waterproof notebook, so that it was always with him.

With his good luck taken care of, Valentin stood again to gather up his ammunition. He picked up a bandoleer, slinging it on from right shoulder to left hip and running his hand down the row of 40mm Grenades. When he had the bandoleer secured, he took magazines from the shelf where he kept his helmet, all lined up in a nice row. He put each one in his MTCA's pouches along his waist, shifting it from time to time to get the weight just right. When he had all of the magazines away, Valentin took his last two, the pistol magazines, and placed them in their own respective pouches, before loading one magazine into his rifle and one into his pistol.

Standing in front of his locker, Valentin rifled through a few more of his items, until he pulled out a little dip container that rattled when he moved it, and his guitar. He unscrewed the dip, and took out a pick before putting the container back into his locker and putting the strap of his guitar over his shoulder and sitting back down. Valentin strummed once, grimaced as the chords wobbled and wavered out of tune, and set to work rectifying that situation. He slowly worked his way up the chords, tuning them all before giving a second strum and smiling at the now clear sound that resonated from the instrument.

With that, he put his fingers onto a chord, and began to play a song. He stumbled twice in a row trying to start, but proving the old adage that the third time is always the charm, Valentin was successful on his last attempt. He strummed a few chords, and when he made his way through a single chord progression he started to sing as well. His voice wasnt amazing, but it was solid, and he had the earnestness behind it to carry him anyways. He made no eye contact as he played, but as he sang Valentins face softened. He usually seemed happy, but with music, he appeared more than that. He appeared as if nothing in the world could touch him. When he finished the song, Valentin looked up, glancing around the bunks at his fellow soldiers, before putting his guitar back in the locker and yawning.

"So, tell me, do any of you guys like porn? Because I gotta couple of porno mags, and Im willing to share if you pay me and dont sploodge on the pages." And with that, just as quickly as it had left, the Valentin that most knew returned.

[The Holy Empire of Steel]

Wolfgang Hartmann

"Private Hartmann. Your concerns are very much merited. You heard right about the Averys, but like I said, the Wadena region is farm country, which means we'll be moving through pretty open fields, with some forests interspersed throughout. Pritchard and Drayton have about a thousand people each, so they're the kinda towns that don't make the map. Intel is supposed to send us some satellite images soon, so we can take a look at those . . ." Joachim peered behind Hartmann at the Private's fuel tank and grimaced a little. "Can't blame your apprehension there. I'll see about getting you some extra plates on that thing for protection, but apart from that . . ." he shook his head gloomily. "I understand that's a shit hand, but we're just going to have to scrape through."

Wolfgang managed to suppress a grimace. If that's the case, why was I transferred here? This sounds like a suicide mission.. He thought, bitterly. Yet, his outward appearance remained unchanged, instead giving the Lieutenant a respectable nod after the man had finished answering Wolfgang's question. The Lieutenant soon after finished his briefing, giving the squad only an hour to fully prepare. Wolfgang immediately flipped his visor switch again, resulting in two plates smoothly sliding out from opposite recesses positioned above his cheekbones. The plates joined together seamlessly above Wolfgang's nose, completely hiding his face behind a polarized visor. Wolfgang silently reveled in this, much preferring his face hidden behind a protective screen than presented for all to see. Not more than a second later, his HUD blinked on, displaying the local time and date on the upper right, comm information/statuses in the lower right, a radar/compass system on the lower left, and a currently inactive weapon module on the upper left. With a practiced eye movement, he activated his communication system, pinging the local Quartermaster for an immediate resupply request. Ten seconds later, Wolfgang's comm system displayed a return ping from the Quartermaster, confirming his request. Wolfgang smiled faintly, pleased at the efficiency of the Camp.

Before leaving, Wolfgang jogged over to his locker, his boots clanking louder than normal against the concrete ground. Inside the locker, he snatched up his standard Glesson Semi-auto Handgun, three magazines, two prepacked boxes of MRE's, an unsheathed knife, and a standardized repair kit. The Handgun was loaded with a magazine and placed inside a right hip holster without fanfare, the additional magazines being placed inside a chest bag.The MRE's, now simply referred to rations, were designed to feed an individual for around a week or so, depending on how much you ate at one time. Unfortunately for Wolfgang, having to lug around almost 100 pounds of equipment tended to equate to more food being consumed. From the briefing, it sounded like the patrol would be rather short, so two boxes should more than accommodate his needs. His rations stashed inside a hardened bag attached to his left hip, Wolfgang followed by inserting the combat knife into an open sheathe located on his upper chest. The repair kit, currently unopened, would be locked firmly in place via a magnetic strip located in the small of his back. With the available equipment stashed successfully enough, Wolfgang turned and pushed aside the tent flap, his destination being the armory. He made no attempt at slowing down, sometimes having to nudge aside slower travelers ahead of him. The arduous process of having his main fuel tank filled and pressurized, along with his backup "magazine" tanks, took upwards of forty minutes. Glancing upwards at the timer on his HUD, Wolfgang was dismayed to find out that he only had fifty minutes left before mission start.

Five minutes later, Wolfgang arrived at the armory, immediately spying the Quartermaster standing arms crossed out front. Upon noticing the rapidly approaching Wolfgang, the Quartermaster motioned to one of the few open chairs in a long line of refueling stations.

"What took you so long boy?" The Quartermaster grumbled, tilting his head towards a line of other flamethrower troopers waiting their turn. "Runnin' a tight schedule 'ere!"

Holding his hands up in apology, Wolfgang slid into the presented open seat, quickly selecting a menu option form his HUD. A second later, a pressurized seal located on the large fuel tank strapped to his back opened with a snap-hiss. "Along with the main tank, my mission will require three additional magazine tanks, as well as two foam canisters. Alright?"

The Quartermaster grumbled something in reply, but it's meaning failed to reach Wolfgang. However, he did understand the immediate feeling of unease as a fuel line snapped into place over his tank's open seal. His HUD blinked a green light, confirming that the fuel line had been properly attached and secured. Giving the Qaurtermaster a thumbs up, Wolfgang silently waited for the fueling process to begin.

The fueling process these days was generally quite safe, at least when compared to the process a half decade ago. Back then, there was a very real chance of the fuel accidentally igniting before the tank could be re-pressurized, engulfing both the trooper themselves, as well as the person in charge of filling up the tank. The half liquid/solid mixture of fuel was especially reactive to oxygen, which made it incredible effective in enclosed spaces. However, the mixture required a pressurized seal to be safely transported, which, if broken or damaged, could spontaneously combust. Nowadays, the odds of erroneous combustion were almost at 0%, but the just the thought of failure made each and every one of the crew working the fuel lines incredibly methodical.

After the pre-checks were concluded, Wolfgang began to feel the unmistakable weight of the fuel filling his tank. After all was said and done, the full tank would weigh around 50 pounds, which was distributed somewhat evenly across his MTCA via a system of straps and clips, known informally as a combat harness. Thirty minutes after sitting down, his tank was fully sealed, and the fuel line retracted safely. Wolfgang rose form the chair, turning to find an armorer lifting a M7057/D Flamethrower towards him, which Wolfgang accepted with a thankful nod. The weapon itself could rest comfortably at one's desired hip when not being fired via a set of straps and hooks that attacked to various points of the combat harness. A thick hose wound it's way from the main fuel tank on his back to an opening located above and behind the weapon's trigger assembly. The armorer also handed to him three tanks that were much smaller than the one strapped to his back. "Magazine" tanks, as they were called, operated much like a normal rifle magazine, and were used when the main tank ran out of fuel. Wolfgang attached these tanks at points along his ribs. Finally, he attached two foam canisters over the front of his belt. They were used as a throw-able ordinance to quickly and safely put out fires set by his main weapon.

Wolfgang's HUD timer read that he only had eight minutes to return to the briefing tent, so, after waving to the fueling crew in thanks, he began to jog back form where he came, taking time to get used to the additional weight around his armor. With three minutes to spare, Wolfgang strode into the tent, finding the rest of the squad relatively finished with their preparations. With a flick of a switch, his visor once again separated, revealing his face to the world. A faint smile on his face, Wolfgang returned to standing at attention in front of his bed, his heavy breathing ever so slightly noticeable to those around him.