The Last of Us: The Splinter (Survival-Horror) - IC/CLOSED

[Kentucky Fried Land]

OOC

Captain Emily Porter

There was something in the air that day. A pervasive filth trudging across the field, the Captain was overcome by dread. Her tongue ran over her teeth, baggy eyes scanning the bugs getting shoved around by her subordinates. The stench of blood still stung her nostrils, and a soft wind had picked up on this fine hot day in June. Her blonde hair blew around in soft strands, falling around her ears. There were nine of the prisoners, each one with their wrists handcuffed snugly behind their backs. After a particularly intense raid on what was once the town hall of Stratford, Tennessee, the few Fireflies who hadn’t taken up arms had been cuffed and shoved through the front doors.

Porter could still hear the beating rhythm of gunfire, the pumping drum of her heart, the singing screams, the dancing bodies falling to the floor. Juliett Squad had taken no casualties; not even a single fucking hit. In fact, this whole operation struck her as a grand stroke of luck. They had encountered the town hall on a whim, the squad having caught some young doe and an older fellow gathering wood just outside of the town. Their trail led back to the town hall, and Juliett Squad reported back as they were supposed to. It had all gone to plan, and even then it had been easier than they thought. Porter accompanied them on this mission as an omnipotent overseer, keeping them in apt shape. Everything was routine and not only that; they had caught the goddamn idiots with their pants down. The Fireflies had not been ready for a fight, which was made even more obvious when Porter saw the amount of bodies dropped.

Which brought her to the ammo counts. Counting her own vest, she figured she had spent only two magazines, leaving her with four. The squad leader, the lugnut leader of Fireteam 1, the radioman, that Polack Team Leader Mulnik, and the chipper Morris gal had been left with two magazines each. Porter supposed that they were itching to kill some Fireflies; something she found a little disconcerting and wasteful, but fuck if she didn’t have to deal with this shitshow of a squad. As far as she knew, the breacher still had about seventeen shells left with him, and Irons had the same mag count as herself, but hell if she hadn’t seen him going insane in their. The psychotic fuck had a grudge with the Fireflies or something; something that needed to be addressed before long. His judgement could be clouded by his demented crusade. How he managed to still be a corporal at age thirty was beyond her fucking clue, and she was going to find the highbinder that put him in this squad. The FNG teenager had spent three of her magazines, something that Porter was putting doubt into even though she saw it with her own two eyes. The girl was too new, and at the youthful age of seventeen, Porter didn’t feel she belonged on Juliett. But hell, what did she know? The Burrell girl was just an ammobearer. Then there was the combat medic and the Farmer boy; Farmer as in his last name, that is. They had only shot out one magazine from their rifles before the carnage had ended. Last but certainly least, was this dumb as a rock kid who didn’t fire a single shot the entire mission. Eric? Eric Winter or something like that? He was a PFC, and Porter wasn’t certain on how he had managed to get promoted to First Class, let alone get put on Juliett Squad. Porter didn’t bother to ask the heavy how much ammo he had left.

As the group trudged up the hill, the violent kicking of helicopter blades burst past the Captain’s pinna and into her eardrums. She frowned, the wrinkled creases at the ends of her lips tightening. These Fireflies were to be taken back in for questioning, simple as that. And FEDRA had ways of making them talk. Even if there were more loyal members among the bunch, they had nine prisoners. Holy hell if at least one of them wouldn’t spill their guts on a silver platter. The Captain shook her head as she approached, hearing the sound of music crooning, only just breaking through the whirring of the helicopter blades.

Of course, it was those idiot crew chiefs in the Chinook blasting music from some portable radio they’d found.



“Alright, get the prisoners on the Chinook! I don’t have all fucking day, so move it.” She cocked an eyebrow, giving the evil eye to the Crew Chiefs. The Chinook hovered just above the ground, and one of the crew members was standing by the door, extending an arm to help pull the soldiers and the prisoners in. Porter squinted, holding her gun up. Let’s just get this over with.

[Arengin Union]

Corporal Scott Irons

“Alright, get the prisoners on the Chinook! I don’t have all fucking day, so move it.”

"Another fucking day at the office." Scott muttered to himself as he inserted a magazine into his M16A4. 4 magazine on backup, including the one he had inserted. The operation had gone rather smoothly with 5 Firefly's dead to add to his count, he had done a bit of double tap, but so what. One's gotta play it safe with the infection after all, at least that was his excuse. Iron's grudge with the Firefly's had create problems for him in the past, which is why he tried to release the hate with small arbitrary actions, it was his inability to set personal feelings aside which had cost him the rank of sergeant this late into his service. He wished that now that they had made this mission without a hitch he could be promoted and reassigned to another squad. But that would have to wait as the helicopter arrived, raging music and all. The corporal stood side to the opened door as he gestured his fireteam to get inside.

"You heard the lady gentlemen. Time to get moving." The corporal said towards Ronan, Farmer, and Burell. A good team so far, effective to a degree. As Ronan got into the Chinook, Irons tapped his shoulder.

"Hey kid, good job out there. 2 kills not that bad for a first." The private simply nodded nervously, giving a slight smile of accomplishment as he then said. "T-thank you sir..."

"Don't call me 'sir' kid. Now get on." The corporal pushed Ronan inside of the helicopter.

Iron's then turned to the prisoners, he was quick to act and get them organized to get on the helicopter and have the day finally end on a good note. As much as he hated Fireflies he was rather gentle in his voice towards them, obviously speaking loud so they could hear him over the blades of the transport, setting his rifle on the strap he used his hands as a loudspeaker of sorts.

"Alright pricks. Orderly fashion get into a straight line and follow me. Now!" He then moved his hands in a "Follow me" gesture, keeping eyes on them as he walked backwards to the inside of the helicopter. He guided them to the entrance of the helicopter and then gesture them to get on.

"Get in. And no sudden moves. Anyone see's these assholes try anything, you know what to do." Scott then took a hold of his rifle, keeping a distance of the prisoners while also ready for anything. He wanted the rest of the day to go as smooth as it had been so far.

[Beiarusia]

Firefly Amy Tallow

The raid had come without warning. An unpleasant surprise, FEDRA soldiers descending upon the Stratford Town Hall which had served as a Firefly outpost for over a year now, gunning down anyone who so much as looked to be reaching for a gun. Once the dust had settled nine revolutionaries were captured. Bound, they were marched single-file to a transport — a functioning helicopter, rare equipment twenty-so years after the pandemic — so as to be taken someplace for interrogation and, ultimately, an execution with no trial. Not that any tribunal would be fair to begin with. The military was judge, jury, and execution.

Amy Tallow followed the others with hands tied behind her back. The sun was high in the sky, and it was hot, and the engines of the Chinook were irritatingly loud, louder almost than the crack of the gunshots. She'd kept low during the raid, and just before capture had managed to snag a PDA loaded with various intel, most of it worthless, but undoubtedly there was something hidden in its files that FEDRA would consider valuable, so the cellphone-sized device had been stashed in an interior pocket with no indication it was there. A thorough search would likely discover the PDA, but Amy was confident that should escape not be forthcoming she could destroy the device with a suitable fall. At the very least FEDRA would have to put the damned thing back together. The teenager took comfort in the fact that she could make someone's job all that more difficult.

As for their escaping, the Fireflies were outnumbered and outgunned, so they would need to be patient and hope that an opportunity would present itself, and maybe then they could make a run or else fight their way to freedom. The switchblade hidden inside her shoe gave small comfort should it come to violence.

"Alright, get the prisoners on the Chinook! I don't have all fucking day, so move it," shouted a woman, no doubt the one in-charge.

Another soldier yelled his orders for them to climb aboard. "Get in. And no sudden moves."

A few soldiers stepped onto the helicopter, and then came the Fireflies. Brooks was the first, followed by Lewis then Cho. Amy looked to the soldiers who stood on either side. A few men, gruff and angry and tired, and a younger girl who looked so out of place. The two teenagers locked eyes, and a moment passed, and then Amy continued with a friendly grin that wasn't as hostile as it should have been. She was passing the man who'd ordered them to move, Irons was his name as evident by the patch sewn onto his chest. Amy was about to step onto the helicopter but stopped suddenly, holding up the slow procession of prisoners, and turned to stare into the man's eyes without a shred of fear or apprehension. The girl could almost look down on him. She looked bored.

"Fucking baboon!" she yelled, raising a leg to bring her foot down onto the soldier's boot. Amy smirked defiantly.

[Arengin Union]

Corporal Scott Irons

"That's good ladies, keep it going." Irons said as he saw one insurrectionist after another go into the helicopter in orderly fashion. Ronan on the back kept his gun aimed at them as they sat down on opposite seats. He was doing at good job to keep them in check in case they tried anything, Irons could see from where he was standing, he nodded with confidence in the kid. Three fireflies got in, all in line and cooperative, keeping their heads down as they sat down. Irons was quick to look at each Firefly's pendant as they passed, making a mental note of their names. He was still amazed this militia kept some sort of ID on their soldiers, fucking ridiculous.

"Make sure they don't try anything Ronan. We don't want a mess in the Chinook." Irons yelled at the private inside the helicopter who just waved at the corporal in acknowledgment.

Then, the next firefly to get into the helicopter stopped right at the door. She was young, very young, Irons calculated no more than 17, 16 perhaps. Fireflies were recruiting them young, what a bunch of animals. She was holding up the line, she then turned to try and stare the corporal down, what a pity attempt. Irons had meet a lot of assholes in his life, both from the military who tried to act like the big shit, and from the Fireflies who tried to paint themselves as opposition to authority.

"You're holding up the line kid. Move or I'll move you." Irons said with little care to what she was trying to say.

"Fucking baboon!" she yelled, raising a leg to bring her foot down onto the soldier's boot. Amy smirked defiantly.

Scott almost laughed at her yelling, even more at her raising her leg to try and step on his foot. Irons then without much effort used his rifle to push the girl down on the ground. It took little to no effort, as much as she tried to paint herself as a badass, she was nothing but a dumbass kid trying to play soldier. He moved up to her, she was lying on the ground, probably not able to get up due to her hands being tied from behind. Irons made her the solid and grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up very harshly.

"Get on the fucking helicopter! Now! I wont ask twice." He yelled, pushing the girl with the butt of his rifle to move her.

[Vacif]

Tristan Ingram
Stratford, Tennessee

---

'What an utter fucking mess.' Tristan thought to himself.

'First someone falls down a flight of god damn stairs, and I have to come across the county to fix the idiot, and they don't even have basic perimeter security set up? What a fucking joke. To boot the guy was fine, and not a single one of them got a kill either!' He mused. 'Though this may have been some kind of top FEDRA unit, what with the helicopter and all that, it wouldn't be too far fetched to assume these guys were just incompetent. The Fireflies are an idealistic semi-organized group of freedom fighters who were consistent as .... fuck what's something that's inconsistent? Like a good an-'

Before he could continue his thought, it was interrupted by the voice of a women, the uniform who seemed to be in charge of this outfit. “Alright, get the prisoners on the Chinook! I don’t have all fucking day, so move it.” Same as him, she didn't want to stay here. Though for probable different if a bit similar reasons. Some other uniform barked out orders, pretty much what he'd expect. Get on, don't be stupid, so on. The air was tense and everyone was pissed. If he was going to get captured, he'd do his best to get to his impending execution/work camp unmolested.

Of course things couldn't go easy, there'd always be that one fighter, that one big mouth. In this case Tristan guessed it would correctly be Tallow's kid. Amy, they'd but heads in the past. It was well known in this branch of the Fireflies that Tristan wasn't a true believer to the cause, which did lead him into hot spots from time to time but he was a means to an end. Amy however was as dedicated as they got, starkly contrasting his attitude towards the Fireflies. Also probably the last person he'd want to get stuck in a room with, let alone a helicopter full of cocked and locked soldiers. He didn't know what her little act of defiance was supposed to accomplish, she'd end up on the helicopter one way or another. 'Maybe this is why I don't get the whole freedom fighter angle? I don't get the symbolism angle of it all?'

Mentally shrugging he did as he was told and moved onto the helicopter after Amy was manhandled by the uniform who radiated contempt despite his voice. What surprised him really wasn't that there were so many soldiers that radiated hate for the fireflies, but rather that there were more than one or two who didn't share the same feelings as their fellow uniform. Also the fact that they sent a helicopter of all things to pick them up. Maybe they were expecting to catch Dick here? That probably would have warranted pulling out probably the only Chinook left in the FEDRA arsenal.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Alicia Rodriguez
Stratford, Tennessee

Alicia cursed at her own bad luck. She'd just returned from her scavenger routine alongside her scavenger fellows, they got themselves a doe. And that's the meat they got. Fruits existed, but those were many in numbers only. They just returned and put those to the stocks when the FEDRA hit the Stratford easily and fast. Most of the Fireflies died, judging from the dead bodies. Alicia was captured, while in her own attempt to hide from the FEDRA. Despite being the closest thing that connects her to her family, they are unnecessarily ruthless to Firefly.

“Alright, get the prisoners on the Chinook! I don’t have all fucking day, so move it.”

The woman on team, seems to be the one with the highest rank on the field, put them on the move. It seemed that there were others beside her. Like that Tallow's daughter, Amy. A zealot. And that doctor, Tristan. He's a good fellow, if you count Firefly as the good side and FEDRA as the bad side. Then again, even if you don't, he is still one good fellow in the sea of bad ones. Alicia kept her mouth shut, and just moved along. There are no chances for a semi-trained civilian like her to escape from these people, a militarily-trained squad of soldiers. Or squads.

[Insaeldor]

Cpl. Kyle Mulnik

It was possibly one of the hottest days I'd ever experienced, it wasn't a scorching heat, it was a wet, muggy heat that got down to your bones and was impossible to escape. My sleeves were rolled up all the way to my mid biceps. It kept me a bit more cool as we trudged through the thicket. The engagement prior had been intense but quick, I used a little more ammo then I was intending to, but a couple in fireflys were able to hold up behind a thick stone wall inside the building. It was clearly decorative back before the outbreak, but now It was as gross and dilapidated as everything else. It took a few mags to crew through the stone and flush them out, not a preferable situation but better than risking getting shot while repositioning. The awkward geometry of the town hall made that to much of a reality for me to take the risk. Although I still had roughly two mags left so I wasn't worried about it, plenty of ammo to handle another minor encountering needed. I kept an eye out on my fire team. Pryz, Morris, and Capella were a good bunch, not to wrapped up in the idea of a soldier, down to earth, and collected. I hadn’t seen a single one cripple in the face of any obstacle and that was reassuring. They were smart enough to be self governing and that made the easy to lead. Pryz was probably the only one I couldn't figure out yet. She was caring and enjoyable enough to be around, but she could also slip into fits of moody snark filled nihilism. She seemed conflicted and could really run someone off if she wanted to. Shit since we started this mission I can count at least 4 times I caught her giving Irons the death look. Not that I was really able to do anything about it, nor did I feel like doing it anyway.

I heard a thumping bassline weave its way through the brush, we had been going on for so long I had gone into auto pilot for awhile. Weirdly enough I noticed the music well before the chopping sound of the helicopter blades. A testament to just how fucking loud these guys had it up and to how tunnel visioned I was throughout the whole walk. Eyes glazed and mouth open as I mindlessly hoofed it. Now my focus was caught and a small smile formed as I saw the helicopter. The chopping of air from the blades and the bass of the music intermingled and once the old fashioned guitar riff echoed out through the air, it blended heavily with the other sounds in the southern woods. I took a quick look around the clearing as a safety check. Nothing seemed to be brushing on the bush or any distortions in the grass to suggest people were hiding in those areas. We were clear so I looked over my shoulder and made a motion to the helicopter for the team behind me.

“Alright guys, let's get the fuck outta here.” I said with a small crooked smile and a slight chuckle. I keep a hand on the back of the last firefly in the line to keep myself connected to the whole thing, my eyes focused down the line and my hand connecting me to the last so I could use that to keep track of them and not worry about shifting my vision constantly to keep track of all of the guys. I wasn't really rough with it like some in the squad. As we made our way up Irons found it necessary to respond to the youngest captives immature insult. I never understood why he could just ignore things, just let the kid be obnoxious, nice to see a man, a grown man, not a man on technicality of his age, but a full grown 30 year old man smacking a girl down to the ground. Scummy and something only a boy would do, not a man. I'd almost have half a mind to call him out on it. But the poor guy was still the same rank as me, it was general common courtesy to not step the toes of others unless it was absolutely needed for the mission. So I just let him be himself, I sat down the prisoners I had in my team's possession.

“How many mags y’all got?” I asked in a gravelly and roughed voice as we waited for everything to get settled in. I was hoping no one fucked off as much ammo as I did at the town hall.

[Beiarusia]

Firefly Amy Tallow

The solider pushed Amy to the ground. She landed a bit hard, on her side, and struggled to right herself so that she was sitting more-or-less the correct way, then he grabbed her by the arm to painfully hoist her up to her feet. She didn't cry out; she wouldn't give the asshole the satisfaction. "Get on the fucking helicopter! Now!" he yelled, the stench of his breath hot against her face, pushing her along with the butt of his rifle. "I won't ask twice."

A few others continued onto the helicopter without saying a word. Amy, however, carried on with her belligerence, intending to waste as much time and fuel as possible if only to spite FEDRA. Her father, wherever he may be at currently, was the sort to defy the enemy until the very end, and no matter the punishment his daughter would do the same, not wanting to be known as having gone willingly when it was this very military that had killed her mother and sister. Perhaps it was a petty act of revenge, but anything to make FEDRA's day that more difficult was a victory no matter how small. Some, like Tristan, would never understand.

Amy paused, but instead of turning to face the soldier (Corporal Irons) she simply went limp, falling into him and then down to the grass, sitting, like deadweight refusing to move. She looked up to the soldier with a shit-eating grin, knowing that she was being childish but not really caring. They'd have to carry her aboard the helicopter.

"I'm not moving," she said, calm and defiant, "and your breath stinks."

[Kentucky Fried Land]

Cpt. Emily Porter

It was going to be one of those days.

Porter was just glad she'd already made up her mind to talk to Irons. He had pushed over a teenage girl because she fucked with his precious toes; if that didn't at least deserve a stern talking to, she didn't know what it needed. "Corporal, quit fucking around." She approached, slinging her rifle around her back. "What's she doing?" Porter asked, squinting down upon the limp girl. Hmph. Be like that, then.

"I see. Give'er here, I got this." She said, before straightening and cracking the joints of her arms. Porter scooped the girl up by her armpits, then drug her to the helicopter. The crew chief, now blasting a new song as he was apt to do, grabbed the girl by the arms and continued to help Porter drag the girl in. Porter lifted her up by her legs, and the girl was dropped into the heli. Porter clambered into the helicopter, awaiting the others now.

[Arengin Union]

Corporal Scott Irons

When the girl went limp on the floor, just like a dead body, Irons simply looked down on her. The rest of the prisoners were moving right along not creating any problem, which was a relief. One little shit was enough. Irons was hesitant on his next move, he thought for a second to use the butt of his rifle and just knock her down, but that would maybe cause issues with questioning. Still his thoughts lasted little as the Captain took notice of what was happening.

"Corporal, quit fucking around."

Irons set his rifle on his side and stood straight as the commanding officer approached. He then explained the situation.

"Ma'am, most prisoners are getting into the helicopter. But this one is being difficult." He kept a straight face as he moved aside to let the Captain see the girl on the floor.

"What's she doing?"

It was quite obvious what she was doing. Trying to cost the unit time with this silly act of rebellion, if you could even call it that. It reminded Irons of those people that use to do things like, "Sit ins" or something and his father used to ramble about them being, "Liberal dipshits" as he used to refer to him. Irons didn't recall exactly what a liberal was, he remember seeing the words back in school but politics had really not been a priority in his childhood nor in his time in military preparatory. Still it was obvious this girl was at the very least a dipshit.

"She's gone limp ma'am. Trying to delay the extraction it seems." Irons replied to the captain's question with a disciplined voice, respecting the women's position of commander.

"I see. Give'er here, I got this."

Irons smirk as he saw the captain grab the girl by her arms and drag her inside the chinook. It made him let out a small nose laugh as he saw the girl being carried by Porter and the crew chief and then left on the floor. She then waited for everyone to get in. Irons shrugged and began to get into the helicopter.

"Thats one way to do it. Let's go people..."

[Sarejo]

PFC. Stephen Rose, aka 'Slamfire'
Stratford, Tennessee

Slamfire looked on at the prisoners being herded to the helicopter, and the obvious reluctance by some to comply with such a simple order. He saw one woman go limp and have to be carried onto the helicopter, and shot a glare to the prisoners.

"I just want it clear that I have seventeen shells and there are only nine of you, almost enough to unload two apiece into your skulls if you guys start to act up. Now get into the helo numbnuts," he said in a tight voice, keeping his shotgun at the ready. He then turned to the Captain and helo pilots in the cabin. "No disrespect Cap'n, but you figure you can put on something actually enjoyable? Hell CCR sounds like a pretty good idea, we cam pretend we're in Viatnang or whatever the hell that was called," he joked, flashing a grin at the Captain to let her know he was kidding, before he climbed aboard the helicopter.

[Riysa]

Fritz Capella
Fireteam 2, Designated Marksman

With a huff and a puff, Fritz trudged his way back to the helo, M39 readied in case some terrorists tried to ambush them - though he doubted any more were still alive in the area, after their raid. Juliett had come down on their hideout like a sledgehammer, wasting any Firefly they found inside in a storm of metal, blood, and sweat. It was a testament to their skill, plus a healthy heaping of sheer luck, that nine of the terrorists were still alive, rather than being stuffed with more holes than a colander. Based on the body count, there had been 45 Fireflies in that building, and three dozen of them had been "liquidated", the remainder - captured. A good count, by anyone's standard, made even sweeter by how none of his buddies had gotten hit.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the prisoner in front of him stumble. "Easy, now." He said, grabbing the prisoner's shoulder and pulling back upright. "Keep moving, don't slow down." He finished, going back to his position.

Fritz's role in this picture was as the squad's marksman. He provided the reach of the squad with his scoped rifle, scouted out the AO, took out unawares, covered infil/exfil, and so on. This meant that, though part of a fireteam, when it came to storming a building, he ended up working separated from the rest. His role was just as vital as anyone else's, if not more so, but that left his team down a man on the inside. It always left him a little anxious, being unable to keep an eye out for his buddies, but it was necessary, and they were experienced soldiers anyways - they could handle themselves.

In a clearing not too far away rested the bird, its rotors whirling, ready for takeoff at a moment's notice. Through the grass and brush flowed the musical notes of the Chinook's twin rotors, overlaid with the tunes of a radio played by the loadmasters. Fritz smiled at its sight, his cold, professional front from the mission beginning to melt away.

"We're headed home, ladies and gents." He said, adding on to their team leader's comments. It felt as if everyone - even the EPWs, to some extent - was invigorated by its presence, and so they pushed the last few steps to it, eager to get on board and away from this place.

...

Arriving at the base of its ramp, Fritz's team held up the rear, as the prisoners were loaded up for transport back to Atlanta. At the front of the line, one of the younger EPWs, a teen named Amy according to her pendant, tried to start a fight with the corporal leading the point team, and caught a hit to the head for her troubles. He mouthed "oooh", and rolled his eyes at both of their behavior, disappointed that their evac out of here was going to be delayed by this stupid charade. Amy obviously didn't know who she was messing with...

Corporal Scott Irons was the second-oldest soldier in the outfit, a real hard charger by anyone's definition. Nobody in FEDRA liked the Fireflies, obviously, and Fritz thought that they were all a bunch of blind idiots, but Scott went a step further - he genuinely hated them. He had heard through the rumor mill that it had something to do with people Scott knew getting offed by some 'flies, but the corporal was never one to talk about the past. That was understandable. Still, Fritz wasn't a fan of his methods.

“How many mags y’all got?”

The distinctive voice of Corporal Kyle Mulnik, his team leader, took his attention away from the unfolding scene. "3 full and 1 partial, corporal." He said. Thanks to his role, his expenditure was quite light. He had taken out one of the guards at the front, another one who hung too close to a window, and then whacked a poor bastard who tried to flank the squad by climbing out a side window on the ground floor. The geyser of skull blood that accompanied that shot gave ample warning to the other two with him not to try the same stunt. Maybe not as much as some in the squad, but a good run nonetheless.

Kyle was a good soldier and NCO, if a bit obsessed with working out. Apparently, he had gotten into some fitness style that was starting to become popular right before the outbreak - "crossfit", if he remembered it correctly. When Fritz had joined the squad, it had took him a couple missions to get used to being led by a guy around his age - a few years younger, even! - but once he got used to it, he realized its advantage. With everyone around the same age, Team 2 felt less like an arbitrary division and more like a group of friends who could understand one another, helping the orders flow down smoother and making it more cohesive.

With a yelp of surprise, the obstruction was swiftly resolved by the brasshat that had accompanied them today and the Sarge, and the line started moving again. They moved up the rest of their prisoners into the helo without any issue, but before he could sit down, Fritz still had one thing left.

"Aye, Sarge!" He flagged down the squad leader, reaching into one of his pant's pockets, and pulling out a notepad. Flipping through several pages of what appeared to be personal writing of some sort, he came to a few with names and numbers listed on them. This was a "kill list", a list of all of the Fireflies they had killed today, with their full name, Firefly ID number, and if applicable, FEDRA ID number. The info they got from this list would help CENTCOM track down other cells, find informants, and more. Every mission involved one, and it had been his turn to do the counts.

"Here you go Sarge, for the Captain." He ripped them out, handing them to Sgt. Singleton, before swinging back and landing in a seat with his team. Home, here they come!

[Hastur]

Brooke Pryzbylewski
Juliett 2-3
Stratford, Tennessee

---

It had been a very one sided gunfight. Juliet squad effortlessly taking out the colony of fireflies that had been unfortunate enough to find themselves in their sights. The fireflies had outnumbered them almost two to one, but Juliet squad had the element of surprise. They didn't have a clue that they had been watching them for almost hours before the team of soldiers made their assault, waiting for the right moment to strike. And when they did, they'd caught the poor bastards with their proverbial pants down, making it nothing short of a massacre. Her fire team was right in amongst the chaos. The new corporal, Kyle Mulnik, leading the fire team into the compound. They had met heavy resistance inside, the poor bastards throwing whatever they could at them to stop them, but they failed. Brooke and the members of her fire team clearing them out with ease, although some of them expended a little more ammunition than necessary. They got the job done however. All of them did. With nine of them being left to tell the tale, nine who couldn't get to their guns in time or just simply didn't want to die fruitlessly. Although they themselves wouldn't be alive for much longer to spread the tale of Stratford.

It had been for all intents and purposes, a good operation. A clear success all the way up the chain. A "game changer." that would be sure to disrupt their command structure and lines of communication, or whatever other bullshit they'd come up with to keep their soldiers motivated. But even to the pessimistic and weary brooke who had seen and heard it all before, it was a success. Although it was for other reasons than command. It wasn't the fact that they had managed to take nine fireflies alive, something that was incredibly rare. Or that they had done nothing short of slaughter thirty of the poor bastards. For her, it was the fact that not a single one of her guys got hit. Not one casualty that would have to be sent home in a body bag or a stretcher to a grieving significant other, at least no one on her side.

Today was one of the better days. Despite the looming stench of death that they had left behind them, overpowering the lingering oder of tobacco from the cigarette that hung from her mouth as she stood with the rest of her squad, awaiting the arrival of their exfil. A rare piece of old world tech, a chinook helicopter, marking its imminent arrival with the howling of rotary blades. Brooke watched as the blip in the sky slowly grew closer, her finger tapping rhythmically against her rifles lower receiver as she kept her head on a swivel, directly in contrast the relaxed nature of most of the other squad. They weren't safe just yet, not until they got airborne at least. It wasn't their position in the open field that worried her, it was the noise. The gunfight that they had was loud, and now the sound of approaching rotary blades and the now droning punk music was only contributing more noise in the airwaves. Something that be preferably avoided when up against an enemy that almost exclusively relied on sound. They hadn't run into too many of them yet, but they'd be coming. They always did. And anyone that wasn't found in the mop up operation would likely be joining them.

The large aircraft slowly descended, kicking up dirt as the cool gusts of wind hit her pale face. Brooke raised her hand, covering her eyes as she looked upwards, watching as the ten ton steel bird finally touched down softly, the ramp lowering itself down, allowing the team to board, and finally get out of here.

“Alright, get the prisoners on the Chinook! I don’t have all fucking day, so move it.” The Captain, Emily Porter, bellowed, her voice barely audible at all over the helicopter. Something seemed to be bothering her slightly, or maybe it was her being her usual self. With the two years of her working under her command, Brooke could safely say that she wasn't the usual FEDRA commander, an up-tight true believer who zealously trusted everything that came out of their mouth. That and she liked her alcohol. Something they could both agree on. She was however, cold and bitter. Bitter in a tired way. Brooke could see pieces of herself within the portrait of the other woman. Something that worried her because of the path she was continuing down.

The first to be loaded onto the helicopter was the prisoners, whom had only been handcuffed but not bagged. A security risk if she'd seen one. The majority of them complied at gunpoint, her squad escorting the stragglers at the back onboard. One tried to protest it. A younger, a rather tall teenager who couldn't be older than eighteen. With the freckle-faced girl screaming something in his face before attempting to stamp Fire team one's squad leaders foot, who reacted predictably. Brooke watched with tried eyes as Irons shoved the handcuffed girl to the floor with the butt of his rifle. An unnecessary action, not that he'd care for her opinion anyway. The man was a hardcore believer in FEDRA and their missions, driven by something else entirely from herself. He was a violent man, and brooke knew well enough to keep her anti FEDRA opinions to herself when around him, unless she wanted to meet an early end through a potential court marshal. The girl acted predictably, refusing to move as she sat on the ground, the teenager giving a defiant look. Like a child throwing a tantrum over not being able to get what they want, maybe she knew what was coming. Maybe she didn't. But she was going to make this as difficult as possible on them.

The captain quickly took charge after that, saying something to the overqualified corporal with an aggressive look before picking the teenager up and carrying her onboard, dumping her on the inside of the helicopter. The rest quickly followed after that. With fire team 2 not wasting anytime climbing aboard, moving past the teenager still plopped down in the center of the bird, taking a seat near where she sat, taking one last drag of her cigarette as she watched the girl, who still remained defiant. Stubbing out the ember of her cigarette on the heel of her boot, Brooke flicked the butt of her cigarette out of the aircraft before turning her attention to the girl.

"You might want to take a seat." She shouted, her voice just audible over the swirling engines, nodding her head towards a free seat with the rest of the prisoners.

"Unless you want to be left out there, handcuffed, when the infected show up." Brooke free hand gestured outside of the ramp and back into the open field where they had just come from. Chances where, she wouldn't last an hour, certainly a worst fate than what she had in store. Or at least that's what she thought. "just something you might want to consider." before she could hear the girls reply, her attention was grabbed by her squad leader, asking a question on how much ammunition every had remaining.

"Four magazines plus the one loaded into my gun." she shouted, giving an easy to series of gestures to indicate that response, raising four fingers before tapping another one that was loaded into her gun. "Plenty remaining."

[Tayner]

Sergeant Matthias Singleton
Stratford, Tennessee
Juliet-7

The mission was going about as textbook as it got, they secured the building in a brilliant display of shock and awe, and after minutes of fighting they had nearly wiped the enemy presence from the building. Only those who threw their hands high enough were spared from Juliet Squad's assault and zipped or handcuffed. A high body count and a high amount of POWs for intelligence officers to deal with. The real zinger was that no one was hurt. Everything was going smooth up until they got to the LZ.

The noise wasn't great, the chinook's rotary blades probably waking up every clicker east of the Mississippi, but it was about the fastest way short of teleportation to get home. Matthias kept watch, while some of the others got on to relaxing. He noticed how Pryzbylewski, a name he was able to properly pronounce correctly the first time much to the young corporal's surprise, also remained vigilant amongst the squad. Matthias was about to speak up to get the squad on alert before the chinook started to land and the Cap started to speak up.

“Alright, get the prisoners on the Chinook! I don’t have all fucking day, so move it.” Porter yelled. Singleton would've spoken up himself, but many others had beat him to the punch, echoing the CO's eagerness to depart the feild.

The prisoners started board the helo until one, a teenage girl, stopped and exchanged some vulgar words with Irons before going to step on his toes, not that it would do much against his standard issue rubber toed boots. However, the corporal wasn't having it, pushing the girl to the deck before righting her and giving her another nudge with the stock of his weapon. The girl found her way back to the ground, this time on her own terms, prompting the CO to intervene. While the prisoner was hefted away, Singleton grabbed Irons' shoulder.

"Stand down and stow that attitude ricky-tic soldier, understand?" He said in a harsh whisper that managed to cut through the sound of the helicopter blades. We're definitely going to get a briefing on the proper escalation of force because of this fucking idiot. Again. He thought to himself, govong the man a long look before he was called away by another subordinate.

"Aye, Sarge!" Someone behind him called. Matthias gave Irons a slight push with his elbow before turning and meeting the owner of the voice who called out to him halfway. "Here you go Sarge, for the Captain." Capella said, handing off a scrap of paper. An official body count. Matthias didn't reply as he pocketed the list. The idea of searching the enemy for identities under the guise of intelligence was a bit morbid to him. Just let the dead rest. He thought as he looked around to the rest of the squad,

Those who hadn't boarded the help were in the process of doing so now, taking their seats and checking over their equipment. Matthias made sure he was the last one aboard, giving the crew chief the 'all aboard' and taking his seat next to the Cap. "Kill counts from Capella." He said, withdrawing the scrap of paper and handing it off the the officer. "We've got to have a talk with Irons about the proper escalation of force when we RTB, that shit is getting old." He said to her, before checking over his own gear.

Out of his 12 total 40mm buckshot rounds he had 8 remaining, and two mags left. He had ditched his partial despite it being mostly full, it was a bad thing to enter combat with a magazine at less than full capacity, not knowing exactly how many rounds you had before you ran dry. And when you didn't run dry on your own terms, that wasn't a good thing. But he still had plenty of ammo for his secondary, and his sidearm, for whatever it mattered. Within the hour they'd be back at the QZ anyway, and the squad had plenty of ammo to deal with rowdy prisoners.

"I'm on the up-and-up, how about you?" He asked Porter.

[Kentucky Fried Land]

Captain Emily Porter

Emily watched as the rest of the squad piled in, their prisoners in tow. The lot of them had made their opinions known, indeed something that Porter was beginning to resent. Their voices grated her ears, the many complaints and jokes tossed around like a basketball. She grimaced, holding onto a pouch sewn on her pack, a silver flash inside. Her mind fluttered to taking it out for just a sip, but she was knocked out of her sick by the remaining soldiers ascending the ramp. Leading the charge was that fuckin’ PFC, Rose or whatever his damn name was. Called himself Slamfire, as if that would fucking stick. She looked at him, motioning her head towards the crew chief. “Ask him about it, I’m not the one playing it.” Porter’s tongue dug into her cheek.

She didn’t even bother with correcting him on the “Viatnang” bullshit or whatever. Or what this dumb kid was doing listening to fucking CCR. He smiled like one of those TV show hosts of old, the ones she barely remembered. Her parents used to watch American Idol in the living room, bored out of their minds but their eyes glazed to the screen. She would play with her toys on the floor, and they’d call out to her and she’d answer with a hazy word or two, and it worked. And now, when the higher-ups would talk to her over the radio with no real intention of an actual answer from her, it was… it was like nothing ever changed.

She was startled from her thoughts by the raspy voice of the Sergeant. Porter glanced over him, eyeing the paper that he had extended towards her. “Hmph.” She replied, ripping the slip from his callused hands. "We've got to have a talk with Irons about the proper escalation of force when we RTB, that shit is getting old." Her ears perked up, but her eyes still refused contact with Singleton’s. She had a problem with that unless her fury was showing. Trust issues, a lack of care, some sort of anxiety crawling over her spine and under her skin, or some other bullshit. It was whatever. She didn’t make eye contact often, and that was that. “Yeah. Far as I’m concerned, he’s back on the fucking wall when we get back. You read his file. Don’t need some emotional pissant on the team, especially one as old as him.”

While Singleton looked over his ammo, Porter took the time to observe the closing ramp. Soon enough, sunlight disappeared in exchange for the inner lights of the Chinook. The Crew Chiefs were fucking around with the pilots and whatever else inside the cabin, and the helicopter turned weightless. It shook a tad bit, causing Emily to plop down in a chair. “Can you wait until we get in our fucking seats?!” She snapped at the cabin, now situated closer to it than any other soldier. She swore to God, every soldier in the entirety of FEDRA was an incompetent shithead. "I'm on the up-and-up, how about you?" Singleton told her again, and the 32-year old woman sighed. “I need a fucking drink.”

The Chinook took flight.

Pvt. Olivia Burrell

This was possibly the scariest thing that had ever happened to her.

The bursts and screams of gunfire, explosions of horror and fire plaguing the inside of the town hall. Olivia still saw their screaming faces, the gore splitting their bodies open like smashed watermelons. She wanted to puke, remembering the bodies crumpling like ragdolls, expressions permanently in shock. Guts and eyes and bone and brains splattered about, and not one soldier had taken a hit. Olivia had fired, of course she had. She had to fire, she needed this job, just looking at all of those goddamn ration cards! But she had aimed high, bullets zipping through insulation instead of flesh.

She remembered how they had gathered up all of the shitty guns the Fireflies had tried to make, then tossed them into a pile and set it alight. Olivia could still see Winter tossing the incendiary into the pile, and the vibrant flames that burned at her skin from so far away. They had put the fire out afterwards, of course, but it took a while and an already hot day got even hotter. Didn’t help that the bodies starting to stink, and Fritz was wandering around taking notes on the corpses. She shuddered at the thought, bile rising in her throat. She was just the ammo bearer; she wasn’t supposed to do this crap.

The young private’s feet fiddled and danced, herself placated in her seat and listening to Ronan shooting shit with Farmers. They were both mostly beyond her, though she could agree with Farmers with his stance on religion. However, she was more of a baptist than a… Catholic? That was it. Catholic. She listened in, catching the tail end of their conversation. “...I’m telling you, she had a dick bigger than mine. Biggest bulge I had ever seen on Porter over there.” Olivia rolled her eyes, Ronan messing about again. He had done stuff like this pretty often, something Olivia had noticed more than the others due to her tenure as ammo bearer. Her main job was to bring ammo for his giant of a rifle, much to the detriment of her hearing. She needed to invest in some earplugs at some point.

It was then that Ronan looked up, glancing over one of the Fireflies. It was the one they had found first-aid on earlier, when they confiscated all of his crap. “Ayo, what’s your name slick?” Ronan threw his hand up, glaring at him. “You can tell me buddy, I ain’t one to bite.” Olivia resisted the urge to roll her eyes again; she had no clue where he picked these sayings up from. So, instead of rolling them around in her sockets, the girl glanced down at her feet, looking over the other girl who had situated herself on the floor. The Firefly. She was around Olivia’s age as well, but a bit of an opposite on many fronts besides the obvious. She was defiant in a way Olivia never could be, and took charge on things that Burrell would never dream of. She supposed that there was an opposite in the red hair opposing the blonde hair as well, but that was lost in irrelevance.

Olivia looked up, noticing the medic talking to the Firefly. She hadn’t really talked to the medic that much, except for that time when they were back in Atlanta and she had a headache. Prez had sort of helped her out; that help being directing her towards the clinic where they stored ibuprofen. At least it had worked, though. Olivia tapped the girl on the shoulder, reinforcing the argument. “Yeah, you probably should get up.” What else was she supposed to say?

[Beiarusia]

Firefly Amy Tallow

Amy lay on the floor of the helicopter, having been dragged inside by the woman-in-charge — the Captain as unamused as the Corporal she'd taken a disliking to — the vibrations of the dual-motors intensifying as they eventually took flight up and away from Stratford, Tennessee. The girl was content to be as in the way as possible even if it meant being uncomfortable on the dirty ground. Most of the soldiers ignored her, even Corporal Irons, at least he said nothing about her being where she was, but another woman warned her to get into a seat alongside the other prisoners, threatening in a lackadaisical way to leave her behind with the Infected who undoubtedly would be attracted to the noise. Amy was going to call Corporal Pryzbylewski's bluff but was then tapped on the shoulder by the cute baby soldier. "Yeah, you probably should get up," she said with a voice lacking in assertiveness.

How could she disagree when asked so kindly? No threats, or pushing, or abusive shouts to belittle her.

"Fine," Amy said after a moment's contemplation. She worked her way up into a sitting position, and then managed to her feet, unsteady, before falling backwards with a soft plop into an unoccupied seat next to Private Burrell. Not exactly where she was directed to sit, and she fully expected someone to take issue with the arrangement, but Amy was off the floor, and she was in a seat, and she was cooperating to some extent.

She looked over to where Corporal Irons was sitting and flashed another grin, smug, trying purposefully to irritate the man, before making herself comfortable as if she and Private Burrell were classmates. They were just about the same age.

"Don't mind me sitting here?" she asked the young soldier, leaning a bit too close, but otherwise friendly despite them being on opposite sides of the conflict. FEDRA uniform aside, Private Burrell looked to be much less hateful than her peers, so Amy could tolerate her presence to some degree, but more importantly she figured it would be an insult to the authority of Corporal Irons — bastard that he was — to comply with the rookie, no difficulties, no being a pain in the ass. A perfectly behaved captive. At least until someone else intervened and she needed to be belligerent once more.

Amy leaned back into her seat. It was just as uncomfortable as the floor. "I'm Amy. You don't seem as much a pain as Corporal Asshole over there." Another glance to Corporal Irons. She would have waved, but her hands were bound behind her back, so instead she stuck out her tongue like the child she was.

[Vacif]

It was then that Ronan looked up, glancing over one of the Fireflies. It was the one they had found first-aid on earlier, when they confiscated all of his crap. “Ayo, what’s your name slick?” Ronan threw his hand up, glaring at him. “You can tell me buddy, I ain’t one to bite.”

After sitting down (rather awkwardly might he had) he spaced out, entering what was called the empty box. The part of a man's mind that was just... empty, which allowed a guy to simply do nothing. For hours on end to just stare ahead and do nothing. When people saw individuals in this state it was often assumed they were in deep thought when in reality it was just indifferent silence. Truly just nothing. So when he was called upon it was like being woken from a trance like state. He shook his head and looked for the source of the voice. It was some uniform glaring at him. He couldn't place it but something felt off about him.

"My name is Tristan," Tristan paused to readjust his position so he wasn't sitting on his hands. "Sorry for the delayed response, nothing box. What's your name?" he asked casually, as if the past few hours had not happened at all. While waiting for the response he scanned over the occupants of the Chinook lazily. Their Captain, despite what he'd consider a very good outcome for FEDRA seemed very.... peeved. Very unhappy. He wondered if it was the heat, or just that they were a prickly character. She looked tired, very stressed. He'd wait for the other guy to respond before making his move.

[Riysa]

Fritz Capella
Fireteam 2, Designated Marksman
FEDRA Chinook

Settled into his seat with paper pad still in hand, Fritz took off his helmet, letting the cool air inside seep through his sweat-drenched short black hair. When various people said war was hell, they didn't only mean the actual combat - there was plenty else that was hellish but didn't involve shooting. For example, today's weather was hell - hot, high humidity, and the sun bearing down on the squad with no clouds to shade them. Absolutely the worst weather Fritz could've wished for. Add to that all the physical exertion from the fighting, and it sucked massively. He, like everyone else was covered in nasty, uncomfortable sweat from head to toe, and he probably stunk, too.

That was another thing that nobody ever spoke about in war - the smell. Everyone stunk - he stunk, the Fireflies they had captured stunk, Brasshat stunk (probably - did officers get perfume allowances?), the loadmasters stunk, and the rest of his team certainly stunk as well. The stench of sweat, propellant, metal, explosives, and much more, all came together to create a unique smell of war, with each person having their own..."blend" of smells. It was just something you dealt with, though he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to completely ignore it.

The girl sitting next to him also had a smell - one heavily tinged with cigarette smoke. That would be Brooke, the squad's medic. Always something of an enigma, he had known her for a couple years on-and-off, dating back to before either had joined the squad. He wasn't entirely sure what their relationship was - she had been even more distant back then - but they talked, and despite being polar opposites, she wasn't one to get too bothered (anymore) by his bantering. Which is what, riding off the energy high of the mission, he planned to do.

"Hey Barton!" He said, using an old nickname he'd given her, while flipping to a page on his pad with the words "Sing Yesterday" visible. "I heard that people who don't smoke have pretty faces. Ever gave that a try?"

[Arengin Union]

Corporal Scott Irons
Fireteam 3, Team Leader
FEDRA Chinook

As he made his way inside the helicopter, Irons was stopped by someone grabbing his shoulder. It was sergeant Singleton, the asshole second in command to Porter of course had to have a fucking opinion in everything.

"Stand down and stow that attitude ricky-tic soldier, understand?"

Those words only made Irons raise a single eyebrow, "Understood. Sir..." His voice speaking with a tone of compliance yet also mockery. Nearing that edge of belligerency. Shrugging off Singleton's hand from his shoulder, making his way inside the helicopter, the prisoners all hauled inside and Irons simply passed over on the firefly that was on the floor and sat down in the opposite seat to private Burrell, Fireteam's 2 ammo bearer. She was a dedicated soldier, as young as she was Irons respected her. Irons looked as Singleton and Porter talked, it was clear at least one topic of conversation was himself.

Why Singleton and Porter had to make a fuzz about him pushing back the girl was a puzzle for him. They were not here to make friends with the insurgents they were fighting, sure he had been a tad bit harsh but that was the language that needed to be heard by these militamen. They were constantly hostile to them, trying to make shit acts of defiance like fuckstick Amy over on the floor, and it was their responsibility to make it clear that shit wouldn't stand. Not Irons's problem Singleton and Porter had to be wimps about it, but it didn't matter, they were in charge so they say goes.

As the helicopter began to fly up, Irons simply watched as the fireteam members talked among themselves, not taking not of much of the topic he simply kept a still face as the helicopter began to take flight. Burrell took the initiative in convincing Amy that staying in the floor may not be a good idea, Irons couldn't care less what she did or did not do, as long as she stopped being a problem.

Amy got up and sat next to Burrell. Irons took little notice of the girls attempt to get on his nerves, he'd dealt with bigger shit heads than her, Singleton included, he wasn't scared of a little girl. He could tell everyone wanted to jump into the conclusion he had pushed the girl out of fear or a wish to harm, but that had not been the case. Irons didn't like hurting people that didn't need hurting, for him it was all simple, obey the rules and shut the fuck up. Amy had to disobey and try to stand up, for some reason, Irons had simply made her know that whoever she was in the fireflies, whatever status she held with them didn't mean shit no more. She was a worthless worm just like the rest of the other fireflies, and she would be treated as such regardless of age. If Singleton, Porter, or anyone in the squad had to take offense to that mindset then they were the ones with the problem. Not Irons.

In the end, Irons simply set his head back on the wall, keeping a still face as he kept a tight hold on his rifle, keeping it against him as the helicopter flew off into the distance. Music playing and nothing really boggling his mind.

"I'm Amy. You don't seem as much a pain as Corporal Asshole over there."

Irons simply gave a slight smile as he kept his same comfortable position.

[Kentucky Fried Land]

Pvt. Olivia Burrell

To Olivia’s surprise, the young Firefly stood up and plopped down on the seat next to her. Burrell blinked, placing her ammo bag where the girl had once lain. It was practically breaking her back out there in the field, not the mention the heat inside this metal death trap roasting her inside out. It was like she was trapped in a giant pot of boiling water, just bubbling up until an overflow of putrid blood vomited from her tight throat, spilling from her nose, red tears staining her cheeks, ears exploding with expanding brain matter and-

The Firefly girl said something; a question. ”Don’t mind me sitting here?” She asked, and Olivia’s face scrunched up. “Well, I…” She started, trailing off into her own thoughts for the time being. She supposed she didn’t really mind the company, did she? The girl answered with a shrug, crossing her legs in her seat. The other girl was getting a bit close, and Olivia’s mouth twitched with a quiver, before she pursed her lips. The fervor of the room had only grown with the newfound companion, discomfort racking Olivia’s brain. What was this girl’s game?

She spoke again. "I'm Amy. You don't seem as much a pain as Corporal Asshole over there." Olivia nodded, looking piteously at her corporal. He wasn’t such a bad guy. Sure, he got rough with the Fireflies and shoved them around, but she hadn’t ever seen him go too far. He was… what was the word? Overzea... Over… overzealous. It clicked in her mind, and she looked back to Amy to speak, her tone one of reluctant disagreement. “I dunno, he’s alright. He’s just, uhm, overzealous.” She mentally patted herself on the back, a grin shining on the inside.

“I’m Olivia. Burrell.” She wanted to extend her hand for a shake, like she’d seen some of the officers do around the prep school, but realized her mistake just in time. So instead, she rested her hands on her knees.

Firefly Outpost, South of Stratford
Terrence Redding

It was just another day. Another goddamn day of shit he could care less about. Couldn’t care less, idiot. That’s the saying. Terrence was leaned back in his old wooden chair, the one that Buddy had crafted for him some time back. With his sun hat over his head, he was content with napping off the rest of this sizzling day in the Tennessee heat. It was sweltering out here, out here on this goddamn watch. The others got to sleep inside the shack, but no! They needed someone to man the MG in case things went haywire or some shit. That was what Marvin had told him, that shithead.

It was then when Terrence was sent sprawling from his chair to the ground, biting into a cake of dirt and grass. The door behind him had slammed open, Marvin standing at attention behind it. “What the fuck man?!” Terrence cried, but stopped questioning further when he noticed the wild look in Marvin’s eyes. Marvin wasn’t one of those who got freaked out easy; nah, he was a cool, calm, and collected kind of man if one were to be cliche about it. But Marvin was frantic now, his hair frizzy and his eyes red. As if he had just woken up.

“Get on the goddamn MG.” He said, breathing heavy. Terrence picked up his sun hat, placing it on his head as he stood up. “What the hell?! What the hell is going on?!” He inquired, eyes shifting about the open door to the shack. Erin and Jake were grabbing their guns, slipping their boots on. The radio on the back table lay there, unmanned for now. “We got a call, from some guy in Stratford. They killed all of’em, except for a few. Tallow’s girl’s one of the ones captured.d They put’em in a fucking heli. A fucking heli.”

Terrence’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Oh, fuck.” He spun around, slipping in the grass and stumbling to the ground. He recovered fast, sprinting to the MG and latching onto the thing. His hand fell to the belt, moving it into the gun. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” He muttered, struggling with the belt, before finally pulling it into the gun. He readied it, aiming the monster at the sky. “Son of a bitch, shit!” He heard Jake behind him, followed by the swearing Erin. “Fucker, motherfucker! Fuuuuckk.”

They sat there for a few minutes, sweating. Jake, Erin, and Marvin all had their M4s aimed at the sky, and Terrence almost didn’t expect it to come. It was too bad for Juliett Squad, then, that their heli could be heard from a mile away.

Terrence snapped to attention, noticing the heli fly over. It was the biggest helicopter he had ever seen, a massive steel beast that somehow flew above the forest with the grace of a bird. And he had his sights set right on it.

Terrence squeezed the trigger, as did the others.

***

Pvt. Olivia Burrell

She had overheard Ronan talking shit over during her conversation with Amy, forcing herself not to rant over his comments in her head. “Whoa, Tristan?” Ronan smirked, bumping Wendell with his elbow. “Can you believe he actually told me his fuckin’ name? None of them have ever told me their fucking name.” He turned back to the Firefly named Tristan, leaning over and slapping him on the arm. “You’re a cool fucking guy, Tristan. Wish you were with us.” Ronan smiled with triumph, mocking the Firefly and leaning back, his arms behind his head.

The distant pop of a gunshot was followed by a bullet tearing through the metal above Olivia’s head, and then another followed by Ronan’s face exploding. “What the fuck?!” Porter screamed, and Olivia flinched as blood spurted over her face. Ronan slumped over, his left eye hanging from its socket, half of his face gone. His hand was twitching, and Olivia’s breaths began to come heavy.

All hell broke loose.

The heli was peppered with bullets, as one went through one of the prisoner’s chests, almost tearing the older man in half. She caught a glimpse of one of his ribs before a sickening tearing screamed through the Chinook from above. Something flew off, as far as Olivia heard, before the heli started spinning. She threw up, hearing only the sound of the helicopter falling, and falling, and falling.

The Bird’s wings were clipped.

***



Cpt. Emily Porter

She had had been knocked unconscious for around three seconds when they landed; landed being a very loose word. Porter got onto her hands and knees, her right arm pinning her rifle to the ground. She looked around, seeing the survivors of the crash getting back up. “Fuck.” Her head was killing her now, and she could almost feel her eyeballs drooling out of their sockets and onto the floor. Nevertheless, the throbbing pain did not cause any liquefaction of her eyes, which was good to notice. She groaned, pulling her rifle to her chest and standing on her knees.

Porter’s head turned, seeing the remains of the crushed cabin. The co-pilot was screaming like nobody’s business, and as far as Porter could tell, it was because of the shattered bone sticking out of his knee. “Fuck.” Porter said, crouching into the crushed cabin. It looked like the pilot had his head smashed in by the console, the poor bastard. His brains were all over the place, wedged in between the chair and the heli’s control. “Jesus fuck.” She swore, barely audible over the echoing screaming. “Hold still, hold still!” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She grabbed onto him, trying to pull him out. The leg only continued to tear, skin stretching and the co-pilot screaming again. “Sorry, fuck! Fuck!”

She took a step away from him, watching the poor man cry. He couldn’t even speak, and that was when Porter noticed the blood pouring from his mouth. He was fading fast, and she shook her head, turning around and emerging from the crushed cabin. “Fuck.” The rest of the helicopter was in chaos. Ronan was dead, his face having gotten blown off in the first shot from whatever the fuck that was. One of the prisoners had gotten their chest blown out, the poor fucking bastard. She saw Fireteam 1’s leader next, his neck twisted unnaturally, crunched up against the Chinook’s wall. Fucking idiot took off his helmet. Porter stumbled, her legs nearly going out from under her. The others were mostly okay; one of the other prisoners had gotten smashed into the Chinook, a chunk of their head replaced with shrapnel.

Blood had flooded the helicopter, pouring from Ronan’s chair like a particularly gruesome waterfall. She could see the light at the end of the tunnel in the form of the back ramp of the Chinook, wide open, its hinges broken and cracked. She looked around, before her eyes fell on the writhing and groaning Singleton. He mentioned something about his leg, and she bent down to him. Fuck. “I’ll be back.”

She pushed through, looking back and seeing Rose clutching his bloodied shoulder, and Farmers breathing a little tighter than usual. She stumbled past all of them, stepping over Braddock’s body and falling out of the Chinook. Porter hit the ground hard, grunting in pain. She moaned, rolling over onto her back. Her entire body was sore, sweat still soaked her face, and now she was probably going to die. What a perfect fucking day this was.

Porter rolled over again, pulling herself up off of the ground. Finally, her legs gained strength and she stood up, her rifle hanging from her right arm. “Oh, shit.” She swore in between breaths, looking up. They had crashed in a field, it appeared. The grass was long, uncut for 20 some years as the wild grass was apt to do nowadays. She wiped at her forehead, scanning the horizon before her eyes fell on a brick farmhouse in the distance, cut off by a decrepit picket fence. A winding gravel driveway led up to the house, and a nice shack sat behind the two story building.

“Shit.” It wasn’t her swearing under her breath this time; she spun around, seeing that private on Fireteam 2 wandering out after her. She was followed by the two crew chiefs; one dragging the other into the tall grass. “Crew chief.” Porter said, but he made no response. He continued dragging the other one off into the grass, drifting towards the forest. The private stood beside of the dearest Captain, staring off at the crew chiefs continuing. The private started towards them, but Porter extended a hand out to stop her.

They were dead anyways, weren’t they? So what did it fucking matter? What did it even fucking matter.

Porter turned around, heading back for the Chinook, when the crack of gunfire spread out again. “Motherfuck!” She cried, bullets spraying at them from the surrounding forest. The crew chiefs were the first to go; the one that wasn’t already dead falling backwards to the ground in a spray of blood. The private popped off a few shots towards them, before one caught her neck. She crumpled onto the broken ramp, clutching her throat, eyes bulging, tongue rolling around in her throat. Porter fell into the Chinook, bullets peppering the remains of the heli. “Goddammit! Irons, Mulnik, uncuff the fucking prisoners, and then we peel towards the farmhouse north of the heli! Grab the wounded if you can, let’s fucking go!” She screamed.

The Burrell girl was hovering over the youngest Firefly, and the rest of the heli was in chaos. But it was now or never.

[Sarejo]

PFC. Stephen Rose, aka 'Slamfire'
Stratford, Tennessee

Stephen lifted his head from the floor of the bird, having been ripped from his harness by the force of the crash, and found himself lying in a pool of Ronan's blood, with a gaping hole where his face should have been. Scrambling to his feet, he barely had time to register what was going on before he heard gunfire from outside, and looked around desperately for his shotgun, finding it at the feet of his team leader, who appeared to have broken his neck in the crash. Feeling a pain in his shoulder, he grabbed it and grimaced, calling out to his other teammates.

"Torres? Winter? You guys alright?" he shouted over the gunfire to them, and barely heard Winter's responses over the din, but saw Torres huddled by his seat, staring at a dead Firefly only a foot or two away. He made his way over to Torres, who appeared to be in shock. "Torres. Torres! Look at me, man!" Stephen shouted, and only got a blank stare, so he slapped him, which still seemed to do nothing. Frustrated, Stephen grabbed for Torres's radio, and tried to call for aid from any nearby patrols or outposts.

"Break, Break! Alpha Quebec Zulu, this is Juliett! Our bird's been shot down, we've taken heavy casualties, and we're under fire. Position unknown, last known coordinates 35 degrees north, 85 degrees west, over!" Stephen said, waiting for a response, but received none. "Alpha Quebec Zulu, you do copy, over?" he asked again, with the same result. "FUCK!" Stephen yelled, and tried once again to shake Torres out of his state of shock, with no result. Winter put a hand on his shoulder, "Hey Flowerboy, we've got bigger problems. Grab'im and go!" he shouted, and Stephen grabbed Torres by the strap of his vest and drug him to his feet, which seemed to shake him back to reality, if only enough to follow Stephen and Winter. They started running to help the Captain, and passed Olivia standing over one of the Fireflies. Stephen motioned for the two others to start firing, and grabbed Olivia by her vest. "Hey Rookie, grab the SAW and get to work, you're our AR now!" he said to her, and made his way to the ramp, and saw Morris, whose throat was blown wide open, and he grabbed her rifle and started firing shots into the grass along with Winter and Torres.

POP. POP. POP POP POP. POP POP. POP.

The attacking forces and Fireteam 1 exchanged fire, and Stephen heard the Captain yell for Irons and Mulnik to uncuff the prisoners and get the squad moving to a nearby farmhouse, and he called out back to her, "Fireteam 1's got your guys covered, ready to put down fire when you're ready to move!"

[Arengin Union]

Corporal Scott Irons
Fireteam 3, Team Leader
FEDRA Chinook

"Fucking great..."

The first words Irons gave as he opened his eyes to reveal the helicopter had crashed and it was all fucked every way he looked. Fireteam 1's Corporal Braddock was dead, Irons didn't know him much, but he was still a comrade gone. Then was Ronan, his face made mush by a bullet as far as Irons could tell, blood dripping from up top since the heli had crashed on its left side. Irons was in shock at the image, he hadn't known the kid for a long time, but he was still just a kid, he didn't deserve to die like that. The rest of the helicopter was in chaos as Irons began to unbuckle from his seat and tried to get up, grabbing his rifle and looking around, some fireflies were dead, pilot dead as well.

"Burrell... Farmer... you guys okay..." He said with grunts of pain in his voice. Not waiting for a response he simply pushed himself up, the body pain haunted him but he had to push through it.

Irons kept in himself in a crouching position as he looked around him, avoiding on stepping on anyone still alive. His body was sore, he could feel the cuts in his face as well as in his back but they were nothing compared to what the others had, his legs were aching as well, but he was strong and could take the pain. He knew that whomever had shot them down they would not take long to arrive, if the infected hadn't done so by then. He inspected his rifle, still functional as far as it seemed. Taking out the magazine, checking it for ammunition, still full he loaded it back into the chamber. They were very fucking lucky, at least most of them were alive, not to say the dead comrades weren't a tragedy. But it was better to lose a few than lose everyone, even for the prisoners that applied. Irons couldn't hold the feeling of sorrow as he saw Ronan's body dangling from the upside of the helicopter, losing people wasn't something he was new to but it was still just not right.

He wasn't sure where they were, but he saw Porter make her way down to the broken ramp of the Heli. Irons began to make his way down back as well, he wasn't sure why but he just wanted to get out this shithole quick, he knew they were sitting ducks if they stayed here. "Everyone, get your shit and lets go quick... Captain's outside already." He said to no one in particular, just anyone with enough common sense that they would care. He saw private Morris also go outside with Porter, the crewmen already out, one dragging a wounded one. As Irons limped his way to Porter he was cut before he could say anything.

"Hey c-"

A rainstorm of bullets began to hit the remains of the helicopter, Irons quickly hit the floor to take cover, covering his head with his hands as the shooting intensified. Irons began to crawl around the sided seats and around anyone still seated or dead. Grabbing a hold of his rifle again. He then heard the words from the Captain.

“Goddammit! Irons, Mulnik, uncuff the fucking prisoners, and then we peel towards the farmhouse north of the heli! Grab the wounded if you can, let’s fucking go!”

"Got it Cap!..." The corporal yelled. He then got up in a crouching position, the sounds of bullet hitting the helicopter didn't make him feel on ease at all, he made sure to try his best to keep as low as possible, but it was hard with what he was ordered to do, uncuffing the prisoners was understandable yet a double edge sword if he had ever heard of one.

Irons heard Private Rose's words.

"Fireteam 1's got your guys covered, ready to put down fire when you're ready to move!"

"Noted Rose... Burrell, get your ass up and grab the CAR and fire back! Farmer get up and help out with the wounded! Mulnik, lets do this shit! Uncuff them, I'll keep taps on them!" Irons yelled at the top of his lungs as he readied his rifle, aimed at the prisoners.

"Get your asses up, make your way to that farmhouse anyone that tries any shit or goes a different direction I'll blow their fucking head off! Rose! Get ready for covering fire! " He said with firmness while also having a tone of frustration at the hectic moment they were all experiencing.

[The Grand Rift]

P.F.C. Wendell Farmers
Stratford, Tennessee


Wendell unlike most of his fellow ops had stayed quiet for all except during live fire, receiving orders, and communicating with his team. This to him was a mighty blessing, for he could avoid the many incidents his colleagues like to involve themselves in. Whether it be Iron's childish cries for attention by beating up on a teenager, or Ronan's fraternizing with terrorists, but then again Wendell thought to himself "Do I have a right to be so moral about Irons...considering the world we live in he's tame, and could we afford to look down upon fratenization with the enemy?". Wendell continued his introspection while beginning to also close his eyes, as his thoughts lulled him into a light sleep. "After all, it may be important to have the attitude of people like Ronan, for how can we afford to hold the divisions in the dire straits humanity constantly sits in now?".

Wendell's sleep was blissful for the 2 minutes it may have lasted. His eyes blasted open to the noticeable sound of his raspy and heavy breathing; Putting his hands to his head he picked up streaks of dirt from all across his face. At that point, he exhaled a struggling breath of annoyance, he thought to himself "Of course we just couldn't have an easy in and out, there always has to be a problem." looking out to his right he saw the expected sight of the ground and debris. Wendell unstrapped himself from the seat and noticed what looked to be a large bullet hole right above where is head was hanging, he chuckled and murmured to himself about how it was a blessing in disguise that he could sleep anywhere. Once stretching himself out, he noticed the captain observing the wreckage, which to be fair was extensive, with several bodies strewn about and everything from twigs to gear littering the floor. Wendell, however, seemed detached, fuming and more concerned with missing dinner with his brothers at the zone than the bloody carnage that sat before him. Picking his bag off the floor and stepping around his incarcerated comrades. It was open. "Goddamnit." Wendell thought and noticed his tobacco was missing, he looked around the Chinook to see if it had caught somewhere. He noticed it finally, with its plastic hanging on a jagged piece of metal. The only problem is that it hung over the blasted open head of Ronan, without much thought he retrieved his bag, but it forced him to address the body. He thought briefly of Ronan's friendliness and idealism before it was interrupted by Stephens hysterical over the rest of the team. He tried desperately for radio contact but to no avail. Stephen demanded Rookie pick up Ronan's AR, but I spoke up over the fray.

"Don't worry Slammie, I'll handle the AR."

Then the grass came alive. Fire from seemingly all directions in the woods, blowing the life out of two more from Juliet. The Captain gave her orders for the squads to move out while fireteam one kept the cover down. I heard Scott's voice come alive as well.

"Noted Rose... Burrell, get your ass up and grab the CAR and fire back! Farmer get up and help out with the wounded! Mulnik, lets do this shit! Uncuff them, I'll keep taps on them!" Irons yelled at the top of his lungs as he readied his rifle, aimed at the prisoners.
.

Wendell shouted back, "CAR is already secured, Irons. But I'm not sure this thing is gonna worked its caked in blood already, not sure adding more to it will help.". Wendell laughed audibly as he moved out of the Chinook.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Alicia Rodriguez
Stratford, Tennessee

She never rode inside a heli, so she should've enjoyed this moment. And yet...she wasn't. Despite the heli being driven by military, it seemed she formed up some sort of guardian-ship. More or less she was wary of their actions to her, even if she claimed she was innocent. She was hardly innocent but she is also definitely not the most justified follower of the Firefly ideology. But they won't accept that kind of answer. Tallow's been punished, while Tristan was asked. She...got nothing. Yep, that's right. She was a lowly scavenger and of low-ranked.

Now she just waited.

But then...POP POP POP, sounds of gunfires were heard, and the next thing she knew, she was blackout. The heli was dropped. All things were chaos, she was bruised a little bit but that's it. She was later uncuffed and were ordered to the farmhouse, which she followed without question.

[Beiarusia]

Firefly Amy Tallow

Everything hurt. A dull and pervasive ache, as if she'd been thrown against an unforgiving wall, which, coincidentally, was indeed the case, tossed unceremoniously about as the FEDRA helicopter came crashing back down to Earth, a screech of metal and panicked shouts and then the inky blackness of sudden impact. Amy lay motionless, in an awkward position with a heavy weight atop her chest, groaning ever slightly as she slowly came to. The weight shifted, and Amy opened her eyes only to see Olivia untangling herself, the two having landed atop one another in tangle of limbs, a bemusing situation that was ruined by the penetrating noise of too-close gunfire.

"We could've gone out for coffee first," Amy joked, voice a bit unsteady as she tried to push herself up.

Olivia said nothing. She didn't have the chance to, a passing corporal dragging her away with orders to get to work. Corporal Irons repeated the order as he came to unbind the surviving prisoners — Skinner and Lewis had died in the crash. "Get your asses up. Anyone that tries any shit or goes a different direction I'll blow their fucking head off," he said, rifle aimed at them.

Amy, uncuffed, rubbed at her wrists, the skin tingling in newfound freedom, more-or-less okay despite the rough landing. "How can I say no to such a pleasant offer," she quipped at Corporal Irons with a pointed look. Then she glanced over to Olivia. Nearby, and with too many captives to divide his attention Amy stepped over, the girl partially between her and the gun. No competent soldier would risk a friendly fire incident. "Helping out my friend," Amy said, making things up as she went. She even sent Corporal Irons a smile complete with a thumbs-up. No threat. Just a teenaged girl latching onto the other teenaged girl. Then, tentatively, she helped Olivia with whatever she could, allowing the baby soldier to dictate what needed doing as they tended to the dead and injured.

Outside the gunfire was intensifying.

There was a Firefly Outpost in the area around Stratford, but Amy could not say if those shooting at the downed helicopter were revolutionaries or bandits. The captives were blind inside the Chinook, so had no tangible way to gauge their prospective heading, so could only assume the worse until proven otherwise. This was either a rescue or an audacious raid. Amy had no clue, and figured she'd stick with the soldiers — oh the irony! — until knowing exactly which way to run.

She couldn't plan with her fellow captives, obviously, so hoped they were thinking the same.

Her back to Corporal Irons, Amy did her best to avoid looking to the still-bleeding lacerations of the injured. Not squeamish, but the sight wasn't pretty, as opposite to pretty as could be, so Amy kept her gaze pointed down, eyes darting up only when absolutely necessary — she looked to Olivia, and then a curt peek over the shoulder to Corporal Irons and the captives, and then back down. Amy made no sudden movements, no hostile gestures, making herself as unthreatening as possible as she helped Olivia. (Regardless of if she actually needed help or not.) The injured soldier carried a decent amount of ammo, and a sidearm, too, but Amy ignored it, knowing that she'd be unable to hide the weapon on her person without being immediately shot by Corporal Irons, and she wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of putting a bullet in her, so she overlooked it, and instead she grabbed for a piece of metal that had worked loose during the crash. No telling what it had been, but it was sharp enough to work as a shiv. Approximately twenty centimeters of knife-like scrap. Easy to hide in her baggy clothing. Another glance at Olivia to see if the girl had taken notice of her sleight-of-hand.

"Are we good?" she asked Olivia, ducking as a stray bullet pinged loudly against the broken fuselage. She smiled, feeling a bit nervous, not that she would admit as such. If Fireflies had come to the rescue then it was likely she'd be shot in the crossfire, and if these were bandits, well, it was likely she'd be shot intentionally. Amy hadn't had much time to contemplate the idea of death, and having just survived a helicopter crash she wasn't eager to delve further into the subject. Peering out the broken hatch the farmhouse could just be seen in the distance. To Corporal Irons she said, "This better not be a stupid plan."