Pretty Okay Company (IC)

[Ayreonia]

Out-of Character Thread|Worldbuilding Thread

WELCOME TO 4TH ARMORED!
A Beginner's Guide

Welcome to the front, soldier!

Whether by the guidance of Fate's gentle hand, or by choosing of your own, you're here: the Fourth Armored Division of the Royal Antediluvian Army. In either case, congratulations are in order. You've probably read all the official documents that the postman tried to drown you in. Confusing, weren't they? That's why we, actual soldiers of the 4th, have lovingly prepared this small primer for you. We hope it will answer any and all questions you have. If not, don't be afraid to ask your new brothers in arms. We don't bite. Just steer clear of Major Edrich, he's a jackass.

Let's start by telling you that this introduction will be honest. We won't try to make ourselves look better than we are (you'd find out the truth for yourself anyway, then be angry at us for lying). We're grunts. That's our job. If you joined us for fame or glory, you'd better look elsewhere, and turn back now.

Just kidding! Once you sign up, there's no escape. If you're fond of having a head on your shoulders, that is. And if you want to die, be a sport and do so while catching a bullet for another Fourther, will you?

There, we said it. We're not 1st Para, nor Air Cavalry, nor UNMETA commandos. We're 4th Armored. The Fucking Fourth, they call us, and it's a name we carry with pride. The story behind it has nothing to do with fornication, sadly: legend has it that when our division was first formed as the Royal 4th Infantry, it was thrown into combat without proper training or supplies in an attempt to slow down a major Precambrian assault. When they against all odds not only succeeded, but actually beat the aggressors back, word was sent to HQ, where General Sensus belched out his now-famous line:

"The fucking Fourth!? Those people couldn't hold off my grandma's rotting corpse, may she rest in peace."

Just so. We do have a reputation for doing shitjobs. If it's boring, dirty or just plain suicidal, our motto comes to life: Bring Forth The Fourth! And the Fourth bitches and moans, curses its superiors to nine hells and back, then gathers its crap and does it.

We do these things because that's who we are.

We might complain, but when the sky splits, when the Soil erupts in flames, and when mammoth shit hits the proverbial fan, it's the Fucking Fourth who stand and fight. We might whine about our officers, but we'd follow them to the end of the world and back. We do these things because we understand that glory isn't a title, or a rank, or a medal. Glory isn't prestige or perfect conduct or empty words. In the end, none of that matters. What matters is that one does their job and survives to reap the results. The optimal result would, of course, be victory for Antediluvia, but we'll make do with securing our country for the next generation or so. We're not that ambitious.

So without further ado... welcome to the front, soldier. Welcome home.

Lieutenant Vester Jacomo Rialto scoffed as he read the pamphlet he had confiscated from a Recruit. For an "honest" publication, it was actually surprisingly frank while managing to stay motivational. Writings about the Army were usually either or; he made a mental note to congratulate the assholes who had written it, if he ever caught them.

The leader of 1st Platoon checked his watch. Twenty past twelve. The chow truck from Supply Company should have been there thirty-five minutes ago. Not an unusual delay, but some of the troops under Vester's command were already growing restless. He had had to physically stop some fool from Cravis squad from opening one of his canned rations while delivering a lecture about nutrition discipline. Besides, he was hungry himself, which wasn't exactly doing wonders for his mood.

He thumped his feet idly on Werebear One Eleanor, Altaflor squad's IFV's top armor. He was perched on top of the turret, from where he had a pretty good view of the platoon and the village they occupied. First platoon. Werebear One. The unit had been deployed a couple days ago and everyone was a bit lost and shy. Small wonder. Some of the troops were on their first deployment, and only a few of them knew each other. Vester didn't, not yet. There had been a Rialto-Mensch and a Ricce on the personnel file, both probably related to him in one way or another, but he didn't even remember their first names. Then again, not everyone from Rialtum automatically knew each other, or felt some sort of instant camaraderie with each other... unlike people from Revaalsbandt or Altaflor.

He checked his watch. Twenty-one past. Why did time crawl when one was waiting for something?

I should learn their names, Vester mused. Calling someone by their actual birth-given callsign built a lot more trust than just hailing them as "Private" or "Sergeant." All great Rialto leaders knew their subordinates by name, and by the Eight Hundred, Lieutenant Vester Rialto intended to be one... if it was possible with this mixed bunch.

They should write a motivational text for Army officers, he thought wryly, not really meaning it. Being a third child of another third child, he was ready to show his worth. A measly Knight Elect, his position as a city councilor wasn't one worthy of the name Rialto. He didn't think much of it. "Glorified bureaucrat" was how he usually introduced himself. For someone like him, military prowess was the only realistic way to improve one's social status, which was why he had volunteered to lead a frontline platoon. The risks were greater, but so were the potential benefits, should he survive the deployment.

The now-beautiful wail of a stressed engine woke Vester up from his musings. Fucking finally. Twenty-two past. He looked to the west to see a Zeep sloshing its way through the muddy road. Grabbing his rifle, the Lieutenant dropped down from the IFV and approached the truck.

"You're late," he greeted the driver.

Private Decai killed the engine and climbed down from the truck's cockpit. "Apologies, sir," he mumbled through the foul-smelling cheaptastic cigarette he was smoking. Vester wrinkled his nose and tried to fan the smoke away with his hand. "Roads have gone to hell because of the rains. I came as fast as I could."

Decai was a fat, twenty-something man with the rather unflattering nickname "Bitch Tits." He was also a reliable driver, so if he said he had hurried, Vester knew it wasn't an excuse. "How bad?"

"Real damn bad, sir. I hear they're using Crawlers to transport chow and ammo further down south now."

"Huh. Do you have what I asked for?"

"Yup." The driver ducked into the cockpint, then emerged with a plastic bag. Vester took it and smiled. It was full of new and old newspapers. The troops would surely be happy to know what was going on at the home front.

"Thanks, Private. Hey, are you going anywhere near HQ in the next hour or so?"

Bitch Tits shook his head. "Negative, sir. I've got to get this load to Second and Third, and after that head back to Supply for refill."

"Shame. Hey! You two!" The Lieutenant had sighted two soldiers just kind of wandering around and hollered to them. "Get some people to help Decai unload our chow from this truck, then get me the Staff Sergeant. Oh, and Private Dalca. I know he's slacking around somewhere."

[Cylarn]

It was just another deployment for Staff Sergeant Joseph Mulder, just one deployment out of 4-5 that he had been on in the past 12 years that he had served his nation. He had just turned 30 a month ago, but he looked to be older. He had more wrinkles than the average 30-year-old, and his body was adorned with various scars, with the majority of them being beneath his uniform. The general manager for the upscale tavern known as The Perch didn't have too many friends left in the world, as it was common for the government to needlessly waste the lives of its soldiers. Most of his buddies from Basic were either dead, or they had been injured to the extent that they could no longer be on the frontlines. A few others were NCOs - and there was one guy who was a First Sergeant - but Joe hardly ever saw them. His current assignment was with Werebear 1, and he wasn't surprised that he hardly knew anyone in the unit, being one of the senior guys in the entire unit. However, this was his platoon, and he was content with where he was.

Joe sat in the back of Eleanor, Altaflor Squad's APC. The ramp was down, and the Sergeant was smoking a cigarette as he looked out towards the Great Forest. He had removed his vest and rolled up the sleeves of his blouse, giving him comfort as he chilled out and savored his cigarette, but also revealing a large burn scar on his left forearm. He had been in the field for a few days now, though the squad hadn't really seen the brunt of combat, yet. The night before wasn't as boring as the current day, mainly because Joe had managed to score some coitus with a nurse back at a field hospital. Such an occurrence was rare in the field, and most soldiers only had their hands to please them. Although he was in a leadership role, he had broken many of the rules, save for the more serious ones like rape or treason. Rule-breaking was a part of military life - as much as the brass denied it - and Joe guessed that he would have to play the hypocrite and enforce the rules that he had so liberally broken in the past.

The sound of a Zeep could be heard approaching, and a smile shot up onto Joe's face. The soldier rose to his feet and exited the APC, grabbing the rifle that was propped up against the side of the vehicle and placing the sling of the weapon around his shoulder. The long coat tails unique to the Antediluvian uniform blouses had been removed from Joe's uniform; he knew from firsthand experience that the things were better at getting people killed than covering their legs, and Joe found them to be a bit ridiculous. He walked freely over towards the Zeep, seeing LT Rialto and a portly soldier conversing. The Private was fatter than fuck - at least in Joe's eyes - and had he still been a Drill Sergeant, he would have immediately rushed the Private and forced him to PT until he threw up his fat. He approached from Rialto's side, just as the LT asked for someone to find the Staff Sergeant. Joe didn't like to be called by his full rank; to the LT and his soldiers, he was either Sarge or Sergeant Mulder, and to those people that he considered to be friends, he was either Joe or Mulder. His hands grasp his belt at both sides of the belt buckle, and he gave a nod to the LT.

"Afternoon, LT," he said. "Chow's here?"

[Altito Asmoro]

Lance Corporal.

Such a good promotion for Adam. Especially now that he is in the front, again. War with Precambria had been lasted for how long he can't remember (his job is to be a soldier in front, not to remember what time is it now, although that also need to be remembered, but not very often). The IFV IS the vehicle where he is stationed in right now. There have been times before when he was just a recruit, then private. Those jobs as rifleman keep him on duty, keep him well-experienced on rifles (and pistols, obviously) and well-reserved of the current situation and the command structure.

While his brother is more or less able to achieve a higher position, even at his age, he's stuck with Lance Corporal for the time being. At least, however, it's break now, and all he can does is mingle around. There are some new troops, mostly new men and officers, with few already-known officers here and there. And men. And women. Strangely, he's rarely saw women during his service in the front, but many during his return to the civilization (As in, larger civilization, not smaller ones).

He opened his canteen and drank the water in it. Ah, fresh and warm water went through his throat rather nicely. In any case, though, it needs to be refilled. And he's hungry. Time to look for the Supply Company's food then. Adam went to look for the place of food with his equipments all on his place, ready to be used if anything came up.

[Toishima]

"Fuck!"

The foul cry resounded as the hatch to Werebear One-Eleanor's drivers' compartment was roughly shoved open just seconds after Vester leapt off. From the enclosed compartment rose a few small licks of foul-smelling white smoke, heralding the arrival of one infamous Lance Corporal Derrick Warren, eighth-year serviceman, notorious cannabis smoker and occasional dealer. He was not entirely an unfamiliar sight around here on the frontlines; if the officers did not already know him then the reports and complaints from preceding officers should provide quite a detailed biography of the man, unless all record somehow got scrubbed.

From the hatch emerged a head topped with a mop of messy blonde hair, broken up by oily black streaks and clumped together with sweat. Shaking his head vigorously, the man clambered out of the hatch with surprising speed and nimbleness, and leaned against the turret, tossing a still-glowing blunt some distance away where it fizzled out on the marshy ground. His face was similarly greasy and unwashed, his reddened blue eyes rolled up in his sockets as he gasped for air, all while weakly making a fanning motion with his right arm.

The Lance Corporal was a mess. He was shirtless, his uniform top tied around his waist by the sleeves, while the pant legs were hiked up to his knees. Derrick began coughing wildly as he repeatedly swept his unkempt hair off his face only to have it fall back in place once again, scattering drops of sweat on his body and onto the roof of One-Eleanor. Surprisingly, he was clean-shaven, though the rest of his attire and appearance left much to be desired. And he hadn't even been deployed for a week.

"Shit. Shiiiiiiiiiiiit," Derrick drawled slowly, waving his right arm in front of his face as though he was clearing some kind of imaginary smoke. After coughing a few more times, he broke out in an annoyingly cheerful, yellow grin- his teeth were not brushed either- and gave a thumbs-up to an imaginary audience before leaning back and shaking his head slowly. The food truck, the lieutenant, the sergeant... It was all just a blur to the man.

Simply put, Lance Corporal Derrick Warren was stoned. Again.

[New Zepuha]

Much grumbling could be heard from the inside of Werebear One Godfrey, the commander was once again beating his fists against the hatch of his IFV. The damnable thing had gotten stuck for the millionth time that month, and Staff Sergeant McGundry was pissed off, per the usual attitude. He heard a satisfying creak and his face contorted in whatever semblance of a smile his scarred, grizzly face could muster. The top hatch flew open with a bang slamming backwards hitting the top of the IFV with deadly force. And there, emerged the squat man squeezing his wide frame from the command hatch.

He was wearing his under shirt, coat rumpled making up a cushion on the rough command cupola. The cold air bristled through his cropped gray hair, and he rubbed his stubble ridden face. Leaning one arm on the edge of the hatch lip he jammed a stubby fat cigar into his mouth. Some would say the cigar resembled him, short, fat, and smelly. His reak emanated from the inside of the steaming cabin of One Godfrey.

"Twenty five damned years in this service!" he muttered loudly to himself, "Never had an IFV as moody as thisn'" he said giving the side of Godfrey, affectionately named Melinda, a slap. He sniffed the air and grinned to himself letting out a long growl, "Chow time!" he said pulling his bulky frame up and out of the command hatch sliding off the edge of the IFV. He immediately shivered, his sweaty stocky frame was exposed to the cold. Nonetheless he growled out a large puff of cigar smoke and sloshed his way over to the awaiting Zeep. The 5'5 little man was built like an ox, and angrier than a hornet at all hours of the day. Gurt's face seemed to be in a permanent scowl, as if everything stank, it may be because of his own constant odor. The crew of One Godfrey had probably become accustomed to it by now, but no one else had. Gurt strolled up next to the other Staff Sergeant and nodded to him, "Sergeant." he simply said in his growling voice.

[The Carlisle]

Corporal Maximilian Julian Von Oorburg; Squad leader of Boy; Goes by "Maxie"

Maxie was walking around the place they called camp. Really it was a bunch of tents and parked vehicles, only chosen because it was the least wet. He wondered how the troops were taking the location. Really, they were hardier than to complain about some wet ground, but he always worried about these things, no matter how small. He was a den mother of sorts.

Maxie had just got done doing his noon rounds, checking up on his squad. Always on his mind was how his squad thought of him. He was their leader, and he wanted them to know how they felt about him. It was an important factor to have good squad-leader relations, as it made for a unit cohesion. So far, things are odd. He was always honest to his squad and made sure to tell them important things about him, including his orientation. People were weirded out at first, but it seemed to go under the rug, which he did not like as it meant he did not know what they thought on it. He hoped to bring it up again at the squad meeting.

But things were mostly stable, though there was one problem. Private zu Heltzer. It was quite the surprise to him when he first saw his name on the list. It is well known in the dynastic world that the Von Oorburgs and Zu Heltzers were rivals, and had at best a frosty relationship. At first, he didn't know what to do, but he finally decided to treat him like the rest of the squad. Though he could tell there was a disdain from him. He sighed at the thought. His blood was the reason, nothing else could explain it. He himself was so divergent from his house, yet the Von Oorburg name carries more weight than any words he says. He needed to work extra hard to prove to Alrick that he was unlike his name, unlike his father...

Alrick...Prove himself to him...

He started blushing pink. He realized and shook his head, tossing the thoughts out. No! You can't think of that! He's your subordinate! He rested his hand on his forehead and sighed, shaming himself.

He looked up in surprise when he heard the rumbling of the zeep driving up. He grinned and started towards where it stopped. The driver just got done briefing the lieutenant when he got there. He went to attention, snapping a salute before briefing him. "Sir, Corporal Von Oorburg reporting. Boy squad is all accounted for and is ready for chow," he said to him.

[Cylarn]

To put it simply, McGundry was a goddamn dinosaur. When Joe was a Levy with an ugly buzzcut and no hair on his balls way back when 12 years ago, McGundry and the other dinosaurs were smoking the everlasting shit out of him at Basic; long before the ink dried on the birth certificates of almost every soldier in Werebear 1. The guy had been in the Army for years and unlike the guys of his generation, he was still on the field. Joe couldn't quite ascertain whether or not McGundry was a Staff Sergeant by choice, when so many of his generation were now Sergeants-Major and such. On one hand, Joe felt it was possible that McGundry mouthed off at some point to a senior officer, which can kill any chance of a promotion if you're lucky. The bear of a man was meaner than a junkyard dog , and even Joe was a bit frightened by the guy; McGundry was blunt, honest, and harsh as hell. On the other hand, McGundry could have voluntarily chosen to stay out in the field; for some dinosaurs, they felt that they could only excel on the ground with the men, and deferred their promotions to First Sergeant. Whatever the case, McGundry was here to stay, unless he died of a heart attack.

"Sarge," he said, giving a nod to the scary, scary man.

It was around that moment that an odor seeped through the air. Joe smelled the odor, and gave a slight smile. Plenty of NCOs and soldiers smoked cannabis, much to the chagrin of the noble fucks that ran the military. Joe was right along with them, though he smoked in moderation and for medicinal purposes only. Like most men of his generation, he fought demons in his head, demons created as a result of experiencing extreme traumatic events while on the battlefield. He had taken lives up close and afar, he had been wounded before, he had seen close friends and loved ones die in combat, and he had been alone in enemy territory. No one walks away from events like those unchanged, and he often relived them every time he fell asleep. That plant kept him alive, fighting away the demons that seek to eat away at his sanity and drive him down into a dark pit of despair, and eventually to suicide.

His eyes shifted around, spotting the smoke seeping from the vehicle. He saw Lance Corporal Warren emerging from his IFV with smoke bellowing out from the IFV, as though they had fucked up the radiator. Joe knew full-well about Warren; every NCO did. He was the epitome of the "Terminal Lance;" he was lazy, undisciplined, and uncaring about the rules of regulations of the military. Even Joe - who had once been like Warren - disapproved of the kid's conduct. Also, he guessed that Warren and his mates were going to burn through the rations, as a result of the munchies. Secretly though, he found the kid to be quite comedic, as well as a good source for quality weed.

"WARREN!" he yelled, his knife hand raising up and aiming directly at the stoned soldier. "I swear to fuck, that if you burn through the damn rations and the fucking weed again, I will beat your ass!"

[Agritum]

Recruit Blossom wiped the sweat off her brow, as she finished planting an handful of daisy seeds in a nice little spot she had found a few days before. It was an old Altaflor tradition: the levy-men serving the Barony sowed daisy seeds wherever they went during their campaigns, as a way to testify their passage.

Now, caring for those seedlings in such a territory had been quite a pain in the rear for the recruit, but such was military life. Poppy was still pretty content to have left a trace of her floristry, especially such a cute, delightful presence. While she preferred other flowers, she never denied that daisies were still quite the beauty. Their white petals exhaled purity and innocence like no other flora.

Hearing the rumble of the Zeep engines, Poppy stood up, and paced towards, carrying a small case with some ready-grown daisies in it. "Good morning, Sir." she greeted the Lieutenant, before holding the vase before him, as an offering. Altaflorians thought it was a graceful way to greet someone.

[Ayreonia]

Lieutenant Vester J. Rialto

---

The way Staff Sergeant Mulder addressed Vester made the Lieutenant's lips tighten. He was no stickler for etiquette, but hell, what kind of NCO addresses his commanding officer as "LT" if the two were barely acquainted? Sure, the platoon sergeant might have been a few years older and a lot more experienced as a soldier, but it just wasn't polite.

"Looks like it, Es-es-gee-tee," he quipped, emphasizing the acronym in a passive-aggressive way, realizing all the time how childish it was. Smooth going, Vester. "Look, I have to be at HQ for orders at thirteen hundred, which means I'll leave in a moment. Oversee the meal and make sure everyone's ready for whatever the Captain wants us to do."

The fossil of a man McGundry strolled up. For a moment, Vester considered shooing him a way while he was having a word with his number one henchman, but abandoned the thought. The other Staff Sergeant had seen enough and wouldn't blabber.

The same couldn't be said for the overly-motivated leader of Boy squad, who Vester saw approaching from the corner of his eye. He shot the man a look that said wait, then turned back to Mulder.

"It might be an order for preparing to advance," he went on. "Wouldn't surprise me, knowing the Captain's consideration for giving enough time... at any rate. Make sure the platoon is ready to move when I return, which should be..." a glance at the watch, "fourteen thirty. Fifteen hundred, max. Werebear One will not be late because some schmuck forgot to refill his mags."

Now that it was said, Vester turned to Boy leader. "Yes, Corporal?"

"Sir," the man uttered with a salute, "Corporal Von Oorburg reporting. Boy squad is all accounted for and is ready for chow."

Vester simply nodded. "Thank you, Corporal. Get your troops here and unload the truck."

He would have continued, but Mulder's bellowing cut him short. "What in the goddamn...?"

Warren. Of course. "Who is his commander, Staff Sergeant?" Vester asked Mulder with a sigh.

And where the fuck is Dalca? "Soldier!" he addressed a random member of Boy squad. "Drop what you're doing and get me Private Dalca. Tell him to meet me at Altaflor squad's location ASAP."

The arrival of the Zeep had started to gather attention, among them a most unlikely sight: a young woman - a girl, really - carrying a flower-filled vase. His astonishment only grew when she offered the vase to him with a good-morning.

"Good morning... Recruit," he reciprocated, pausing to check the girl's insignia. "What is this, a proposal?"

Wait, she must have been one of Duke's mortar monkeys. The one with the weird name from Altaflor. Must have been some local custom. "Whether it is or not, thank you," he allowed, taking the vase. What the hell am I going to do with this?

[The Kingdom of Rhamos]

Sergeant Lou Heitzski

Maintenance, every armored crew member pretty much had the word tattooed on their brains from day one of training with their vehicles and it wasn't something easily forgotten.

Pre-op, Post-op, Annual, Weekly, Monthly, and even during operations if they got the chance, it literally almost never ended.

Even now as they occupied the little village Sgt Heitz busied himself doing his pre-operations checks and services inside the turret of Werebear One-Flower having hoped his gunner would be in here working with him but it seemed the little chuckle-fuck thought socializing was more important at the moment and made a note to have serious words of a physical fitness nature with him later behind the IFV.

He hoped his driver at least would be smart enough to comb over the outside of the vehicle checking track tension and wear on the drive socket, but god help the both of them if he was off screwing around as well and with that thought he finally peeked his head out of the hatch to search for his missing crew when he caught sight of his gunner making a beeline for the chow truck.

"Demon of Perkele!" He muttered as he hoisted himself out through the hatch and off the IFV in what seemed like one smooth motion and landed with a splat up to his ankles in mud only adding to his irritation.

Making an over exaggerated -come here- motion Sgt Heitz called out in a almost sarcastic sing song fashion to his carefree gunner "Oooooo Lance Corporal Straaaaangle, if your done doing your own thing could you come here for a moment?"

Obviously it wasn't a question and the none threatening nature of the way it was asked clearly indicated a severe threat of impending physical fitness training if the man didn't beat feet over to him time now.

[Cylarn]

To tell the truth, Joe's opinion of Rialto was favorable, at least for right now. He knew that this wasn't Rialto's first deployment, and even though he was technically a noble, he was all right. He could tell that Rialto took some offense when called "LT," but Joe didn't mean it in a mean way. In fact, plenty of soldiers called their PL "LT," almost as much as they called them sir or ma'am. When he was given his order to oversee the meal and make sure that the squad was ready, he gave a short nod and looked his officer right in the eyes.

"You got it, sir," he said, before his eyes fell upon the young, overly-motivated Corporal, listening silently as Rialto addressed him.

Following Joe's address to Warren, he kept his eyes pinned on the soldier as Rialto asked who the man's commander was. It was time to remind Warren to get back into shape, lest he damages his IFV during the advance.

"WARREN, POST!" he ordered as he motioned towards the ground in front of him with his knife-hand, keeping his eyes pinned. "Sergeant Price, sir."

EDIT: Suddenly, Joe's better judgement kicked in. Why yell at Warren now, when the entire platoon was starving?

"1ST PLATOON, FORM UP!" he bellowed. "GET IN YOUR SQUADS!"

[The Carlisle]

Maxie

Maxie snapped a salute "Yes sir!" he said. He fell out, and walked away a few yards so as not to shout in the Lieutenants ears. He took a deep breath, preparing for his call.

"BOY SQUAD! FALL IN!" He shouted, his booming voice reaching every corner of the camp.

Lillian Skarbeck

Lillian was maintaining the squad's arms, which she always did every morning, noon, and evening. Currently, she was polishing her baby, her LMG, which she named Josie. Just then, she heard the squad leader's booming voice. On his call, she set her LMG on top of a crate in the Squad supply tent. She then dashed out of the tent, to Corporal Von Oorburg. She got in, going straight to attention.

[Agritum]

Poppy clasped her hands together, smiling. "Like the florist carefully tends to his flowers, the officer takes care of the men and women in his unit. This is not a proposal, sir. We usually use vegetables for that, since flowers are quite ubiquitous in Altaflor. But I can understand your shock." Poppy replied, even giving a light blush.

"That said, custom is that a dignified or important person is to be gifted with a vase of daisies, the symbol of Altaflor. However, that's a default choice for when the favourite flower of the receiving person is unknown. May I inquire about it, Sir, if it is permitted?"

[Gvozdevsk]

Private Stefanija Novotna

Stefanija's stint in the military could have been very uneventful, far from the front. When she was drafted, the military wanted to make her an army barber, because of her civilian occupation. But instead of spending her time shaving the heads of new recruits, she demanded that she was placed in a "real" army job. And so she was put through infantry training and assigned to Wearbear company.

This, of course, wasn't Stefanija's first trip to the front. The previous deployment wasn't the most eventful, but with the recent push into Precambrian territory, this deployment was shaping up to be much more eventful for her. Maybe she'd get to see more combat this time than taking pot shots at muzzle flashes in the trees. Not that she really wanted to see combat much more intense than that. As for the rest of Wearbear company, there were a lot of new faces Stefanija didn't recognize from her previous deployment. There were some people that seemed to be from her home region of Slatina, judging by their names, but nobody she really knew from civilian life. She assumed she'd probably make friends with the others from her region fairly quickly.

Currently, Stefanija was sitting in the back of Wearbear One Godfrey, the IFV attached to Cravis squad, drinking tea and reading over a field manual. There wasn't much else for her to do at the moment. She had already cleaned her rifle a couple hours ago, and the chow truck was late, again. If it didn't get here soon, she'd have to eat the food of questionable quality from the ration pack she had opened in order to get her tea bag, and eating food barely fit for human consumption was something she wanted to put off as long as possible.

Soon, she would hear the familiar rumbling of an engine. The chow truck, finally. Or at least, that's what she assumed it to be. It may not even be coming to the companies position for all she knew. But the engine started to get progressively louder, and sure enough it was something coming to their position. Stefanija grabbed her rifle and left the APC, slinging the rifle over her shoulder and still carrying her cup of tea. As she made her way over to wear the truck was parked, she passed Wearbear One Eleanor, the APC attached to Altaflor squad. There was smoke coming from the APC, but before her brain could think that it could be having mechanical problems, the awful smell hit her. The unmistakable smell of weed.

"Blyat, that stinks." Stefanija said as she made her way past the APC. She didn't personally have an issue with weed, she just didn't smoke it herself and absolutely hated the smell. She was more than glad to not be stuck with the weed smoking APC crew.

When she finally made it to the chow truck, the platoon was ordered to form up in their squads. Unfortunately, nobody from Stefanija's squad had yet to arrive so she currently had no idea where she was supposed to go.

[Kriegers]

Benedikt was sitting on a footlocker in the north-eastern corner of the camp. He was finishing up cleaning his anti-tank rifle at the moment.

He was never exactly the kind of person that kept everything cleanly, but of course, this was what he had to do. An unclean weapon could jam, and that could cost him his life, as well as the lives of others that depended upon him. While losing a squad-mate was, of course, horrible, naturally, it didn't strike him so much as the possibility of his own death. He did, in fact, care about the other people in "Boy" squad, but he didn't really know any of them. He knew names, and not much else. This is due to the fact that he hadn't been incredibly social during his time with these people. That may change soon, as he might need friends in such a situation as war. However, he was also concerned about this. If he had friends, he would mourn if they were killed. Mourning would slow him down, as well as anyone else who did. This was how it must be... But it can't, he would be so lonely, no-one to talk to, no-one to share emotions with... But he can't risk it, he knew the consequences of emotional attachment-

Then he heard the squad leader.

Realizing he had "zoned out", he quickly snapped out of it. He got up and jogged toward where the voice came from.

Arriving, he stood at attention with the rest of the squad.

[Mincaldenteans]

Private Alrick zu Heltzer

Alrick (or simply Rick at the Private’s insistence) looked up from where he was and sighed at the call of his squad. Right, the food was finally here and about time it was. He had pondered taking out his rations as the clock ticked past the appointed hour and his medication never said anything about skipping an appointed hour or what effects it would have, but decided against it lest he be yelled at or reprimanded or any other of the mindless things the military conjured up to bark at another person. He was still getting used to the minute details of how a military ran, or at least Alrick had kept telling himself that. One thing that he picked up easily was a schedule: instilled since a young teen, the discipline of taking his dose was second nature and the truck being late as it was had put Alrick on edge. Now that it was here, Alrick got up from his spot made his way to fall to attention with the rest of his team though he could hardly say he was looking forward to it. Typical of his past assignments (none at all glamourous on his file), Alrick had taken measures to distance himself without looking like a complete jack ass, compliments of being part of a noble family – diplomacy and ‘face’ were as important as heated negotiations and political maneuvering. And at this time, especially around von Oorburg, who just happened to also be his squad leader.

It was as if fate couldn’t be any crueler, or it could but it was too busy laughing at Alrick to throw something left field for more shits and giggles. First it was the medication, then it was being conscripted (something his peers and near-peers in the family seemed a little too ecstatic upon hearing of it; such were his current ties to zu Heltzer), and now being led by his family’s rivals. Of all the places in all the shit holes, an Oorburg just had to come in and rain some more upon his life away from the nobility and court politics. Admittedly, Alrick had been icy at times, quiet at most and gave due where it was required and civil whenever it counted – which so far was always, but by no means had the man gone out of the way to instill some measure of comradery. It had been tricky as dealing with an Oorburg wasn’t simple and Alrick had to laugh out loud for a second wondering just what his father would say.

A von Oorburg led the team… and you didn’t? How disappointing, a derisive and mocking laugh could be heard like an echo dancing across Alrick’s mind.

It wasn’t as though I asked for this, Alrick thought bitterly. Having been content to stick in his head in his studies and away from the family as far as possible; the next thing he knew his semester was over and he was being shipped out. They, his esteemed family, immediate and at-large, somehow made sure Alrick would never be a problem again by making him join the military.

It was all pre-planned from the get go. They never wanted me around. Whatever, at least the feeling’s mutual, he concluded. They stayed at their end; he stood at his… now it was dealing with one Oorburg and surely that was doable if he just tended to his duties and nothing more. Falling in line he stood by the rest of his squad at attention, though the itch to take his dose (like an hour ago) was really grinding his nerves.

[Grenartia]

Much grumbling could be heard from the inside of Werebear One Godfrey, the commander was once again beating his fists against the hatch of his IFV. The damnable thing had gotten stuck for the millionth time that month, and Staff Sergeant McGundry was pissed off, per the usual attitude. He heard a satisfying creak and his face contorted in whatever semblance of a smile his scarred, grizzly face could muster. The top hatch flew open with a bang slamming backwards hitting the top of the IFV with deadly force. And there, emerged the squat man squeezing his wide frame from the command hatch.

He was wearing his under shirt, coat rumpled making up a cushion on the rough command cupola. The cold air bristled through his cropped gray hair, and he rubbed his stubble ridden face. Leaning one arm on the edge of the hatch lip he jammed a stubby fat cigar into his mouth. Some would say the cigar resembled him, short, fat, and smelly. His reak emanated from the inside of the steaming cabin of One Godfrey.

"Twenty five damned years in this service!" he muttered loudly to himself, "Never had an IFV as moody as thisn'" he said giving the side of Godfrey, affectionately named Melinda, a slap. He sniffed the air and grinned to himself letting out a long growl, "Chow time!" he said pulling his bulky frame up and out of the command hatch sliding off the edge of the IFV. He immediately shivered, his sweaty stocky frame was exposed to the cold. Nonetheless he growled out a large puff of cigar smoke and sloshed his way over to the awaiting Zeep. The 5'5 little man was built like an ox, and angrier than a hornet at all hours of the day. Gurt's face seemed to be in a permanent scowl, as if everything stank, it may be because of his own constant odor. The crew of One Godfrey had probably become accustomed to it by now, but no one else had. Gurt strolled up next to the other Staff Sergeant and nodded to him, "Sergeant." he simply said in his growling voice.

Private Solana Vionde had been startled awake for the 7th time in at least half as many hours. There wasn't really much for her to do, so she mainly just slept on top of Cravis squad's attached IFV. Besides, she always heard from her dad that when you're in the military, you grab every damn wink you can get. She'd quickly learned from her squadmates not to sleep with any bodyparts near the turret, where the hatch was, because she'd quickly get a rather serious injury from Godfrey squad's commander's...frequent outbursts of anger from Melinda's reluctance to cooperate. Apparently, this is what lead to her being transferred to the Fucking Fourth in the first place, with Cravis's last support gunner having suffered such a fate.

Man, she really lucked out with this assignment. She got to fire a machine gun. Her father always used to say that "Happiness is a belt-fed weapon", and so far, he wasn't wrong. Back in civilian life, she was a mechanic, a gearhead, but she just couldn't be bothered to give a fuck about doing it in the military as well. The military probably saw shit that way, too, seeing as how they assigned her to infantry. Then again, they could've shipped her here figuring that she'd be able to fix the constant problems that kept popping up on this particular IFV. Whatever. Its not like she could do much of anything in the field anyways. She could tell just by hearing the SSgt's near-constant ranting about the problem that she'd need a part they didn't have spares of.

Suddenly, she heard the Sergeant mention something about chow time.

"Fucking finally!" She said, climbing down from Melinda at the same time. "I hope they brought some fucking Brannigan's this time." Though she knew they most likely didn't. They almost never did.

"1ST PLATOON, FORM UP!" he bellowed. "GET IN YOUR SQUADS!"

And with the Platoon Sergeant's orders, she obeyed and ran to formation, the other members of Cravis and Godfrey following behind her.

When she finally made it to the chow truck, the platoon was ordered to form up in their squads. Unfortunately, nobody from Stefanija's squad had yet to arrive so she currently had no idea where she was supposed to go.

When she got there, she was surprised to see one of Cravis's other members had already beaten her to the punch, not that it mattered. Though she certainly seemed to have no idea where she was supposed to be. Solana decided to grab the first arrival by her wrist and pull the soldier she'd not yet acquainted herself with next to her, where she belonged.

[The GAmeTopians]

Sergeant Lou Heitzski

Maintenance, every armored crew member pretty much had the word tattooed on their brains from day one of training with their vehicles and it wasn't something easily forgotten.

Pre-op, Post-op, Annual, Weekly, Monthly, and even during operations if they got the chance, it literally almost never ended.

Even now as they occupied the little village Sgt Heitz busied himself doing his pre-operations checks and services inside the turret of Werebear One-Flower having hoped his gunner would be in here working with him but it seemed the little chuckle-fuck thought socializing was more important at the moment and made a note to have serious words of a physical fitness nature with him later behind the IFV.

He hoped his driver at least would be smart enough to comb over the outside of the vehicle checking track tension and wear on the drive socket, but god help the both of them if he was off screwing around as well and with that thought he finally peeked his head out of the hatch to search for his missing crew when he caught sight of his gunner making a beeline for the chow truck.

"Demon of Perkele!" He muttered as he hoisted himself out through the hatch and off the IFV in what seemed like one smooth motion and landed with a splat up to his ankles in mud only adding to his irritation.

Making an over exaggerated -come here- motion Sgt Heitz called out in a almost sarcastic sing song fashion to his carefree gunner "Oooooo Lance Corporal Straaaaangle, if your done doing your own thing could you come here for a moment?"

Obviously it wasn't a question and the none threatening nature of the way it was asked clearly indicated a severe threat of impending physical fitness training if the man didn't beat feet over to him time now.

Private Sam Patrick popped out from under Werebear One-Flower, and saluted the Sergeant upside-down.
"Hello, Sarge! Just checking the engine before we move out," Sam held a wrench in one hand and a mini oilcan in the other, and noticed the lieutenant with others around him.
"Hallo Sir! Anything special today?"

[New Zepuha]

Hearing the yelling from the platoon sergeant, Gurt made his way towards the marshaling area to stand with the crew of Werebear Godfrey. His acrid cigar burning a slow moving cloud of smoke behind him as he fell in next to Cravis squad, he jammed his meaty hands into his pockets with a sigh. "Cold, damn cold as always." he took a moment to turn towards his bucket, "Godfrey get your sorry butts out here!"

[Toishima]

LC Derrick Warren

The yells of the SSgt somehow roused Derrick from his drug-induced stupor as he lay baking on the IFV roof. He half-raised a middle finger before rethinking his desire for death and quickly concealed it. Derrick shook his head, sucked in great mouthfuls of air and then literally rolled off the roof of the IFV, nimbly landing on his feet and throwing up a small amount of mud to cake his hairy legs. He then began shuffling slowly towards the rally point, slouching. On the way, he uncapped his canteen and dumped some cold water on his face. He then presented himself to his superiors, standing before them and straightening his back somewhat.

"Don't be afraid, sarge, I got my own sources- don't need your weak army grass. Food's finally here, sarge?" He casually asked, giving a half-assed salute and glancing around for the crew of his IFV, "the fuck's everyone?"

---

Rec. Adelaide Orchidia Meadows

Elsewhere, at the supply dump, Adelaide had taken it upon herself to take stock of what medical supplies they had and what they needed. She was satisfied to see that most of the medical supplies she needed were there. Upon hearing the yelling of the SSgt and other officers, she straightened her back further and made her way towards their position as soon as possible.

The short, bespectacled young woman stood at ramrod attention with the rest of One-Altaflor, the squad name highly appropriate. She was indeed from Altaflor, though had lived in Oorburg for some years to study medicine at the university. And now here she was, a general practitioner turned combat medic, serving on the front lines for her nation. To save the lives at home she had to take lives. The irony.

[Republic of Hasgriu]

Private Richard Stanislav Mikuláš Dvorak and Private Dayle Page hurriedly climbed out of IFV Godfrey, though whether it was due to the stench in the vehicle by the damn SSgt. or hearing him yell for them was up for debate. "Yes sir!", Pvt. Richard yelled. It was freezing cold outside, and Page nearly wanted to go back into the warmer IFV, is it didn't stink of flatulence and arrogance. "Fatass," Pvt. Page muttered quietly.

The driver and gunner of Werebear One Godfrey stood at attention in front of their squad leader and saluted him before turning to the platoon sergeant and saluting him as well. "We apologise for our lateness, sir!", Pvt. Richard, enthusiastic and optimistic as ever, said.

[Altito Asmoro]

Sergeant Lou Heitzski

Maintenance, every armored crew member pretty much had the word tattooed on their brains from day one of training with their vehicles and it wasn't something easily forgotten.

Pre-op, Post-op, Annual, Weekly, Monthly, and even during operations if they got the chance, it literally almost never ended.

Even now as they occupied the little village Sgt Heitz busied himself doing his pre-operations checks and services inside the turret of Werebear One-Flower having hoped his gunner would be in here working with him but it seemed the little chuckle-fuck thought socializing was more important at the moment and made a note to have serious words of a physical fitness nature with him later behind the IFV.

He hoped his driver at least would be smart enough to comb over the outside of the vehicle checking track tension and wear on the drive socket, but god help the both of them if he was off screwing around as well and with that thought he finally peeked his head out of the hatch to search for his missing crew when he caught sight of his gunner making a beeline for the chow truck.

"Demon of Perkele!" He muttered as he hoisted himself out through the hatch and off the IFV in what seemed like one smooth motion and landed with a splat up to his ankles in mud only adding to his irritation.

Making an over exaggerated -come here- motion Sgt Heitz called out in a almost sarcastic sing song fashion to his carefree gunner "Oooooo Lance Corporal Straaaaangle, if your done doing your own thing could you come here for a moment?"

Obviously it wasn't a question and the none threatening nature of the way it was asked clearly indicated a severe threat of impending physical fitness training if the man didn't beat feet over to him time now.

Lance Corporal Adam Strangle

Looking back from the place he was standing on, he noticed...that Sgt Heitz is calling on him. Obviously has something to do with him lazying off of now. This is going to be bad.

"Ah fuck. Damn. Aye aye, Sgt. Coming right up." said Lance Corporal as he running back to the IFV he is stationed into. Regarding maintenance, it is a must, but as he recalled, he already did the maintenance, after that he went to looked for the chow truck. Granted, it's more of a quick look and see if anything is broken, but it's maintenance. Still a maintenance. Regardless, he's needed, or else.

"Lance Corporal Adam Strangle, reporting for maintenance, Sir." said Adam. He briefly saluted Sgt Heitz before returning his position to the somewhat ready and prepared position.

[Nature-Spirits]

Wymond Dalca was a gearhead, utterly and completely. As he leaned over the engine of his Jeep, checking over every square inch of metal with his thin, yet unusually strong fingers and sharp brown eyes, he reached up to wipe the sweat off his brow, smearing some black grease on his forehead. He had only had the Jeep -- which was parked under a canvas canopy he'd erected specifically for the purpose -- for a few days, so he felt the need to ensure it was in good condition. Since his recent deployment with this unit he had spent every hour he could spare checking and rechecking every part of the engine for defects and fixing any he found, and had spent the entire morning since waking wiping down the Jeep so that it had not a speck of dirt nor a single fingerprint in sight. Quite simply, he was determined that his Jeep would be perfect.

In the distance, he heard the growl of an engine and stood, turning slightly away from the vehicle and cocking his ear to hear it better. He furrowed his brow. Some kind of truck.... He turned his head back towards the Jeep, staring at the engine while bringing to mind each vehicle the engine could belong to. Every kind of engine had a distinct sound, and said sounds were slightly altered by what kind of vehicle they were attached to. Most people seemed unable to pick up on such fine distinctions, but to Wymond it was almost a language of its own; one that, given the right predisposition, could be understood as easily as Modern Nahumic, even at this distance.

So it was that this sound, as with the sounds of all engines, told a story. Wymond bit his lip and ran a blackened hand through his short, dark brown hair, mussing it and adding a few more grease stains to those already there. Then, abruptly, he broke into a grin. A Zeep. It must be a Zeep. Obviously it was a transport truck, and carrying a lot of supplies -- probably food -- so that fact combined with the particular rumble of the engine didn't make for too much of a leap to that conclusion.

It wasn't long before he began hearing the shouts of the officers as they called their squads, and he took a deep breath. Guess I'd better join up with the rest of the platoon, he thought to himself, shoving his hands in the back pockets of his army-issue camouflage pants and leaning back to survey the Jeep one last time before lowering the hood, using his once-white but now-grease-stained cloth to wipe off the front of the vehicle, and swinging himself into the driver's seat. The one spot besides the tires he didn't particularly mind there being dirt and mud was by the pedals, so as he released the emergency break, pushed the clutch in with his mud-splattered, booted left foot and turned the key in the ignition, he relished the sound the Jeep made as the engine sparked and came to life, grinning. He always found it exhilarating to be behind the steering wheel of a new (to him) vehicle.

Soon enough, he rolled up to where most of the platoon was already gathering, coming to a halt beside the Zeep -- secretly pleased that he had guessed the vehicle correctly -- and turned so that his left leg was dangling out the side of the car. Leaning his left arm -- toned muscles taut beneath his slightly-bronzed skin -- on the back of the seat and bringing his right hand up to his forehead in a lazy salute, Wymond called -- in a surprisingly high-pitched voice --, "Private Dalca reporting for duty, Sir!"

[The Kingdom of Rhamos]

Pvt. Patrick popping out from underneath the IFV had finally managed to put smile albeit a slightly menacing one partly due to the attempt to remain serious on Sgt. Heitz's face.

"That's good shit right there Patrick you're squared the fuck away for a joe." Despite intensity of the statement it was a genuine compliment as far as anyone in the military would be concerned. "Take a break and hop up in the turret and pull guard while we have formation, Lance Corporal over here will bring you some chow before he even touches his own."

By this time Strangle had made it over to him and as Heitz listened he couldn't help but start to contort his face into a questioning glare

"Aye, aye? This isn't the fucking navy Strangle!"

As the man reached up to perform the salute Heitz hand shot out and grabbed Strangle's mid motion.

"Do you fucking hate me Strangle?! Huh!? You trying to get me shot by a sniper or something!?"

Heitz's voice was steadily growing louder as he spoke slowly working it's way up to a yell as his hands formed the dreaded knife hand which he liberally shoved into the personal space around Strangle's face.

"If we didn't have to form up right now I'd smoke the bear piss out of you! NOW GET OUT OF MY FUCKING FACE AND FORM UP!"

Heitz had practically spit the last part in the mans face before finally backing off and storming over to the formation to fall in himself. He hadn't intended to embarrass Strangle in front of the gathering formation like he had and in truth he kind of regretted the action now as it also negatively reflected on him as a leader.

On top of this he was going to have share a cramped IFV turret with the man later and depending on how the man had learned to deal with the ass chewings he'd either have gotten over it by then or would still be exceptionally pissed and Heitz would be in for a long and awkward mission with the man.

At the very least he'd have to pull the Strangle aside later and have a private word with him about setting a positive role model for the younger joes.

[Glorious ReBublic of Alevstan]

Miko Bjali was in a new platoon, and with that, new faces. He hadn't really talked much more than he absolutely needed to, but the platoon seemed to mostly be fresh from the home front. At least there were no levies. He'd heard stories of how levy platoons made surprisingly good cannon fodder. He wasn't acquaintances with any of the soldiers or officers, but he recognised a few of the senior officers. There were two, maybe three from his region of Slatina, but again, nobody he knew. That was probably for the best this close to the front lines, considering a few of his buddies never returned back to Slatina as winter set in each year. Maybe a dozen childhood friends, all dead because of what? Some ancient feud between nobles on either side of the border, their serfs' lives just numbers on a page?

Miko shook away those thoughts. He was inspecting one of the platoon's mortars, which he assumed would be the one he would be operating. There were not any particles or dirt in the tube, so that was good. Miko remembered the first time he operated one of these. One of the previous operators had died from a sniper shot, back when he was in the Seventh. He wasn't exactly a crack rifleman, having served for just one year and only a quarter of that on the front. Since being an operator isn't the toughest job, command transferred him over. After a less than a week of basic training on how to operate a mortar, he was on a team. One of the first shots he had fired nearly had his hand his by the shell flying out of the tube. He turned his focus back to the task at hand, and checked the outside. Everything on the mortar appeared to be secured, and all six of his M174 magazines were fully loaded. Eh. I should probably go socialise with the other soldiers, I suppose.... Miko picked up his assault rifle and started walking over to the centre of camp.

An olive drab vehicle was rolling into camp as soldiers and officers mingled about. It looked like some idiots were smoking in one of the IFVs while an officer was shouting at them and holding a knife. Well, there just had to be a weed smoker in the platoon. Hmm... Miko bet on three days until he was offered some. The vehicle coming in was a Zeep, hopefully carrying food and rations. Better than the shit they kept in their packs. The private started jogging in as Sergeant... Mulder, was it? yelled, "FIRST PLATOON, FORM UP! GET IN YOUR SQUADS!" He jogged into place near the Cravis troops and muttered "Private Bjali here" to no one in particular. Was that recruit who had shoved a vase of flowers into the lieutenant's hands the other mortar operator? Eh, everyone has their quirks, I suppose. He stood awaiting further orders as the rest of the troops assembled. Soon his other squad mates started running towards the rank of soldiers.