NationStates Jolt Archive

The Scars Of War
A Complete Oral History of the Circum-Havenic War

Foreword

In the history of human warfare, there has never been a confrontation greater in scale and intensity. Massive war machines, colliding over entire continents and oceans, tearing once peaceful and virgin atmospheres into the very earthly vision of Hell itself. A conflict so immense and engulfing, it dwarfs any other in history. To this day, the human animal has yet to replicate both the bottomless evil and the enduring righteousness that is the Circum-Havenic War. But to whom will listen. Even a conflict of such dire scope and intensity has been reduced to a simple collection of fact. Munitions expenditures, financial outcomes, and casualty reports. Children today learn the cold hard mathematics of one of the greatest wars in human history, not the real, brutal reality of what occurred during those fateful four years. We sought to change that. ‘We’, being a collection of every profession you could imagine, from a rainbow of different nationalities and backgrounds. We were everyone, from university professors to professional mercenaries, from that unsuspecting coffee shop regular tapping away on his laptop, to that lone veteran musing to himself in the corner. Banding together, to rekindle this fire that is the on the verge of dying out forever. This tale, this legacy, is our gift to our descendents, so that true meaning of this story may live on, so long as that blue and white banner flies over our sovereign home.

- Jarvis Zachariah, editor in chief.

Table Of Contents: The Story So Far

Act One


The Curtain Rises (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12383358&postcount=2)
The Honorable Warrior (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12390554&postcount=3)
The Silent Servant (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12396811&postcount=8)
The Hell Diver (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12412753&postcount=11)
The Burning Horizon
The Hollowed Fortress (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12438093&postcount=13)

Act Two

The Wayward Rebel (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12479973&postcount=15)

(OOC: This is not an RP, this a pet project myself and several members of the NationStates Draftroom are undertaking. Comments are welcome, but please stick to the topic and limit them. I'll try to keep the installments coming at a reasonable time, but remember, I'm only human. Much love, Velkie.)

The Curtain Rises

Directus, the Allied Union of Velkya

[My subject, Gavin Rockwell Sr., works diligently in his air conditioned private office in the headquarters of the Office of Military Intelligence, located outside of the city of Directus. Antique small arms and flags adorn this cozy yet functional office space, hanging in rows on the aged mahogany walls. Gavin places the likely sensitive information he is examining in a locked security box when I enter. He casts an icy glaze at me before offering a seat at his desk, which is strewn with papers and an empty bottle of cognac. I glance at my surroundings before we begin. When taking in this room, it’s hard to imagine that the first shots of the war were fired not in some distant battlefield, but right here at home, in this very building.]

You would understand, of course, that my, and our (meaning my comrades’) job in naturally secretive in nature. Now, we don’t go around seducing OPFOR1 women or cruising around underwater bases in supercars, but, we are the unrivalled masters of espionage. At least, that’s what we were convinced of. Smugly sitting on top of our black operations mountaintop of eyewitness reports, spy-bird data2, and smuggled documents, we really thought we could see any possible threat coming. Together with the data from our friends up north and to the east, we could see it all clear as day.

We never saw this coming.

Saw what?

What do you think, the bloody Easter Bunny? Millions of peeved fanatics just streaming across the Aralonian border, baying for blood like something out of a Tolkien novel! It was so damn perfect, so well executed. They didn’t catch us our pants down, no; they caught us bending over in the opposite direction!

[Gavin pauses for a moment to regain his composure. He sighs before continuing.]

Christ, I need to switch providers. Regardless, like I said, we screwed up, big time. It would explain what I’m doing in this nine to five dump, wasting away in a wood prison with useless theater information for the occupation of Fuckoffistan and the like. I was once a big guy, a hotshot in the intelligence community. I know civvies like to joke about how the phrase military intelligence is an oxymoron. It’s typical of the fact that Civilian Joe hasn’t the foggiest of the difficulties in running a simple paramilitary outfit like a police department or hometown militia, let alone the immense powerhouse of the Allied Union Defense Force. It’s all contrived bullshit, yuppie liberal hemp bags cruising every coffee joint in town bitching about how bad our imperialist scumbag leaders are while sucking down on overpriced organic foods produced by undocumented workers in some tropical mud hole. But the military, especially today’s military, is more intelligent and omnipotent than the most brainy ‘independent research team’. We need to be. A modern military is one of the most complicated machines on this blue green earth.

[He points to a picture of an IF-13B Super Phoenix naval air superiority fighter on his desk.]

You see this Super Fire3 here? For every hour she’s up kicking ass for the home team, she’s spending almost a day’s worth of man hours with the ground crew getting ready for her next sortie. And that’s just one fighter. A Longinus class aircraft carrier carries sixty of them, and almost a hundred other aircraft, all also needing serious downtime. Now, something you didn’t plan for comes up, and fucks it all up. You expend your ammunition too fast, or perhaps an attack kills lots of skilled maintenance crew. Those one hundred sixty aircraft and their carrier are operationally useless.

Now you understand the important of forethought.

As you can tell, planning and foresight are valued assets in a modern militarty. It isn’t capable of just making a one eighty without serious and dire consequences. That’s where we come in. We tell the guys in green which way to look, which way to watch for whatever sad motherfucker decides it’s a good day to storm the motherland, and they do the rest. As I said before, we failed. We failed because Velkyan Vincent was looking in the exact wrong direction when Generian George snuck up behind him and kicked him in the ass. We failed our country, we failed our comrades, and we failed ourselves.
I suppose you want to know the details of our failure, correct?

[Before I can respond, Gavin sighs again and leans back in his chair, sipping a cup of coffee while locking gaze with the ceiling.]

The territory to the south of Aralonia’s southern half has been a colony of the Generian Empire for as long as we can remember. It’s a fairly large stretch of turf, about the size of the two provinces of Osea4. Relations were pretty amicable; they had some nice natural resource deposits that they shipped around Haven, providing us with rare metals while northern oil flowed through their veins. Pretty decent tradeoff, right? We thought so, and for decades and decades it was a pretty nice deal, with merchant vessels swelling every major harbor west of London.

Ran real smooth, too, right up until that fateful November. I was on the satellite line with a pilot with the Questerian task force headed to Doomingsland. That was the big kickoff, the Battle of Arretium.

[Sighs.]

Everything was just one giant fucking snowball from there.

1: Military acronym for 'Opposing Forces'.
2: Military nickname for a surveillance satellite.
3: Military nickname for the Space Union produced IF-13B naval interceptor aircraft used by many Havenic nations.
4: Approximately the size of the western United States west of the Rocky Mountains

The Honorable Warrior

H.M.S. Illustrious, Haven Straits

[Hijo Baraka sips a cup of tea patiently as he waits for me to set my recording equipment up. His uniform denotes that he hold the rank of Rear Admiral in the massive and prestigious Questarian Navy. He consents to this
interview during his off duty time on the Illustrious, an aircraft carrier of the Navy and flagship of the multinational fleet we are sailing alongside. The waters close to the Questarian mainland are relatively quiet, as no pirate or undesirable in his right mind would dare venture this close to the lion’s den. Although he is genial and cordial, his well toned body and sheathed naval cutlass give the impression of a predator at rest. The Questarian naval jack flutters gently in the breeze as he begins his tale.]

I was young, and a bit naïve, I must say. [Laughs]

‘Serve your King and Country!’ they said, and I bought every word. Since growing up as a young boy in the innards of Dover, I’d watch the airliners take off from our local aerodrome, filling me with a sense of longing and adventure. I came from a simple working class family, my father a factory worker and my mother a schoolteacher. We weren’t wealthy by any means, but, we didn’t scrape the bottom, either. My brothers and I worked at a local pub on our off duty time, a local one frequented by Navy sailors on shore leave1. I would often help my brother Senji with cleaning the tables after school, always sneaking off to listen to their stories with nothing short of absolute reverence. Tales of beautiful women, titanic naval engagements, faraway lands, it was more than I could bear.

Is that when you decided to enlist?

[Laughs] Even our own Navy doesn’t allow ten year olds to enlist, my friend1. My father had served in the military due to his parent’s lack of financial fortune, and he vehemently wished us to not follow his path. Some misguided loyalists might call that cowardice, but he was a hero in his own path. He worked so we didn’t have to scurry across the decks of a battleship with shells falling down around us like wicked steel rain. So, arrogantly, after a few more years of clearing empty bottles of liquor and ale off of tables, I told him of my wish to join the Navy when I was old enough.

I can imagine he wasn’t pleased.

He exploded like, well, a bomb. He told me that no son of his was going to enlist in the “god forsaken navy” on his watch, and that if I didn’t push my simplistic desires for action out of my mind, I wouldn’t leave that kitchen alive. I don’t know what raging tiger had replaced my formerly gentle parental figure, but he tried me swear on the cross of our savior (he was a devout Christian, despite coming from a Shinto background2) that I would not join the service while under his roof. “If you want to get yourself killed at eighteen, go right ahead. I’ve seen enough death and destruction for king and country for one lifetime.” I wouldn’t hear it. I was so damned sure of myself. I ran, nay, I fled. Fled from my only home like the ungrateful little scion I once was.

[He pauses momentarily, sighing.]

I was on the streets of Dover for about two weeks. There was a spot of rioting over a steel strike2, so the police were too busy to search for a fourteen year old runaway. It was then that they found me. I was rummaging through a crate on the harbor front (which we lived near) when a gruff voice ordered me to stop. I hoarded a few cans of beef rations in my hands and attempted to sprint away, but before I knew what was going on, two strong hands had grabbed my shoulders, causing my feet to almost go out from under me. I turned my head as best I could, and looked into the face I’ll never forget.

He was quite menacing, a scarred face with an eye patch, and a still smoldering pipe. His bloodshot blue eyes bored into my skull as he pulled me away from the warehouse I had broken into repeatedly before, my dirty feet dragging behind me. Ten minutes later, I was onboard an Imperial Navy vessel, judging from the group of uniformed men standing around my restrained body, and the barely noticeable swaying of my surroundings. The first one, he was their commander, a Captain, stepped forward. His voice was official and dutiful, as was his message.

“Young man, you have been captured pilfering the supplies of His Majesty’s navy. You now have two options. The first, of course, is submission to a court martial in which you will be judged by a military officer and subject to military law.”

[Hijo pauses for dramatic effect.]

“The second, and arguably more lenient, is to enlist in His Majesty’s Imperial Armed Forces, and work off the debt you no doubt have accumulated.”

I didn’t hesitate, and I’m sure you know which one I chose.

[He grins at the memory, before returning to his duty as storyteller.]

But isn’t the legal enlistment age for the Questarian Navy seventeen?

Perhaps nowadays, but in those years, we took all the aid we could receive. I was enlisted as a rating in name only. I was, in reality, an officer’s servant, at least for the first year. I was unashamedly proud of finally being a member of the service, but a part of me wanted to see my family again, to tell my father what I had become in my own eyes.

Did you ever see them afterwards?

[He skirts the question.]

After about two years, I had become a full member of the crew at sixteen. My ship, the Arduous, was an escort carrier, and I served as a sort of apprentice to the flight maintenance crew. We journeyed around the world, sailing from our motherland to the Bahamas, India, and Borneo and everywhere in between. It was while we were in dry dock at a joint naval facility where I first heard the call. Pilots were needed, and lots of them. It was a dream come true, an opportunity I could not let slip. It had been my seventeenth birthday that past week, so I spoke to my commanding officer about officially joining the Naval Air Service3. He smiled at me, extending his hand. I shook it firmly, and his other hand opened, revealing a petty officer’s stripes. He told me that I had become a man, and that I should pursue my dreams. I could have hugged him, but I vehemently thanked him, and by the next day I was on a boat to flight school back home. We trained in all sorts of aircraft back then, I myself first entered the cockpit of a SA-203 Vixen turbofan trainer aircraft, produced by your own State Aeronautics Corporation. By my first year, I had been selected to fly a B4M2 Amatake torpedo bomber.

A torpedo bomber?

Some would call it anachronistic, but the Imperial Armed Forces recognizes the proliferation of gun and missile based point defense systems onboard modern warships, and notes that guided anti-shipping missiles are too expensive to be hurled at the enemy in attacks of pure attrition. Thus our doctrine encourages the use of air launched torpedoes in a surface warfare role.

Were you worried of this assignment?

[Laughs] Worried wasn’t the emotion I was feeling at that moment. It was something more akin to disappointment and frustration. You must think like a pilot, a military one. Nobody wants to be piloting the bomb truck; everyone wants to be in the seat of a Mach 2 aerial hotrod, howling at the ground below like a banshee. But, regardless of the assignment, it was my duty, and I served my country in my chosen role with pride and distinction, eventually rising to command my own section of four bombers based off a nearby airfield. It was then that I was reassigned, yet again.

To where?

By this time, the Navy had embarked on a massive expansion campaign. In a country used to ruling the waves, this was nothing new, but the directive of the expansion was very unique. For years, the motherland’s great shipyards sent dozens of gargantuan battleships into the waves, their grey superstructures and turrets screaming of our naval superiority. Now, a more flat-topped variety of warship reared itself, the aircraft carrier. The first of these new vessels, the HMS Soryu, was my new home. We arrived a dim early autumn morning, just as the mighty warship was beginning to pull out of her berth at Dover.

Dover? Wasn’t that your home-

[A loud bang interrupts my question, and our heads snap instinctively to the direction of the noise. A rush of steam rises from one of the forward aircraft launching catapults, and several deckhands have been knocked off their feet. An angry lieutenant can be seen screaming at the men as he runs over. I see Hijo attempt to hide an amused smile, but fail. He turns back to me softly, and begins speaking again.]

We were immediately put out to sea after arriving. It was just routine exercises, or so we were told. On our fourth week out on “patrol”, we were informed as to the true nature of our mission.

The attack on Arretium.

Precisely. I can remember, clear as day, the feeling as we sat on one of our bombers against that night sky. There were still twelve of us that night. Not a word was said among us. The recruitment slogans, the patriotic fervor, the fiery rhetoric, all gave way to this deep feeling of anxiousness and cold fear. Even I, in my perceived strength and fortitude, were susceptible. But, alas, I could not show it. I was an officer, and my men needed me. I remember one young man, the navigator on my number three aircraft, looking up at me with pleading eyes. He asked if he would survive. I remember being lost for words. Would I lie to this young man only a few years younger than myself, or would I tell him the truth, the horrible truth? I choose the former. I placed my hand on the shoulder of his jumpsuit and told him that not only would he survive, but he would grow up and have roomfuls of children and live to a ripe old age. I believed it myself, for God’s sake. The next two weeks were spent in constant drill, with regular fully-loaded practice flights and briefing room simulations until every detail of the operation was hammered into our heads by the command like a scribe on a tablet.

March 1st, 1944 by our calendar.

We arose early in the morning that day. Preflight checks, briefings, it was all routine. We thought it another practice run, until we spotted live munitions being loaded onto our aircraft. The thought swept over us like a thunderhead. This was the real thing, what we had spent our time preparing for. Our takeoff was smooth; we were first on the flight line. My group rose into the air, joining the white and red clouds of aircraft hovering above the armada named Kido Butai by our command staff. Soon, our journey began, as a somehow possible radio silence loomed over the first wave. We could still monitor the broadcasts of the second wave preparing to launch, and soon garbled civilian transmissions from the mainland. Soon, they died down in a similar radio blackout, as a preplanned ballistic missile strike disabled the air search RADAR network over the targeted city. We figured they had been neutered.

How wrong we were.

Our force’s vanguard immediately began taking losses from enemy surface-to-air fire, but we continued on our course. Without proper long range sensory advantage, they inflicted minor damage to the strike force at best. The real hell became certain when we entered their targeting RADAR range. At around the same time, our missile bombers loosed their payloads off, producing white smoke trails that fingered out towards the enemy harbor. The lightened aircraft pulled back for home, as we continued on our date with destiny. She’s a fickle woman, but today, her punctuality was deadly. The first to break radio silence was a flight of level bombers a kilometer ahead of us. They broadcasted that enemy fighters were inbound at seven hundred knots, and that they had already launched missiles. Before he could finish, a loud boom and static filled our headsets, and we immediately proceeded to combat altitudes, below the thick cloud layer.

We descended into hell itself. A quarter of our formation was lost in five minutes. The oceans that had doubtlessly been peaceful an hour ago were now ripped and tortured, the blue seascape penetrated by pillars of fiery smoke and splashes, as the docked Doomanis began their vicious defense. Fighters, both friendly and enemy, were locked in deadly dances among the clouds, spewing red hot death from their cannon ports. Missile trails crisscrossed the skies like white threads, causing aircraft to detonate in brilliant fiery blossoms. All of this hell amidst of storm of yellow tracers of all sizes, from small arms fire to the unending storm of lead produced by close in warfare systems. I kept my formation on course, inching towards our looming target, the Doomani dreadnought Romulus. Our rocket propelled torpedoes separated cleanly, spreading out like water-borne scatter guns towards their target. I had held my airmen together for this long, and fate allowed no more. My number two plane, barely one hundred feet away from my left side, exploded in a fireball as a Doomani fighter streaked by. My three remaining bombers couldn’t hope to content with the graceful and deadly Aquila, so we turned tail and ran. Unfortunately, our guest followed us. One by one, my subordinates fell, and I watched the remains of number three plunge into the sea with a deep cringe of guilt.

How did you escape?

By the grace of God. A level bomber attracted the Doomani’s attention with his rear firing defensive cannon as he wedged his aircraft between the predator and prey. The Aquila’s pilot change course and followed the second plane in a rage, leaving me to push full throttle out of the combat zone. We were about fifty kilometers away from our fleet when the number two engine failed. It was no surprise, we had taken an endless amount of flak during our flight, and soon its counterpart on the left failed as well. Left with no alternative, we abandoned our aircraft, bailing out at three thousand feet into the relatively calm seas near our escort picket.

How were you rescued?

A nearby attack submarine had heard our distress call, and surfaced to pluck us out of the goddess of the ocean’s fickle hands. Strong hands pulled us aboard the pitching sub, and that was when the first impact rang our ears. The Warspite, a fellow carrier of ours, exploded from an invisible thunderbolt4, momentarily flung out of the water like a child’s bath toy. The watch commander on the surface of our submarine screamed out unintelligible orders as the din of the Doomani counterattack filled out ears. Soon we were locked below decks, as the sea darkly embraced the ship as she slipped beneath her grasp. I collapsed onto a bulkhead, closing my eyes and shutting out the cries of my comrades. I felt a hand grasp my shoulder, and I opened my bloodshot eyes, and stared into those of my father.

1: The Imperial Questarian Navy has been known to enlist children volunteers as young as fifteen during wartime.
2: Questaria is unique in that its culture blends both Britannic and Asiatic elements.
3: The arm of the IQN responsible for aerial operations based off carrier decks and naval air stations.
4: The Doomani armed forces responded to the Questarian attack by firing off salvos from nuclear pulse artillery based on their mainland. Such salvos destroyed many warships of the Kido Butai task force.

(OOC: Special thanks to Questers and Doomingsland for providing information for this piece.)

OOC: Looks good thus far

pwnpwnpwn

I'm still waiting for my installment.... :p

Good stuff.

Made of win.

The Silent Servant

Arretium, the Holy Empire of Doomingsland

[I stroll alone along one of the many harbor fronts of Arretium. Despite many foreign warnings, the dark alleyways of this gargantuan lair of concrete and steel are surprisingly safe and peaceful, a testament to the Holy Empire’s claim of one of the most crime-free nations of APOC1. I pass rows of military and civilian vessels, including a Questarian destroyer leader, an ironic monument to the bloodshed that occurred on this very spot only a decade prior. After a half an hour of this odd inspection, I reach my home for the next few weeks, a sleek new vessel known as the Pegasus. Though the flag is the somewhat familiar (and welcome, truth be told) civilian naval ensign of Aralonia, sailors and scientists of all nationalities laugh and carouse on the deck. This is the vessel’s maiden voyage, after all. My familiarity with the ship’s origin and her crew fades slightly, as I spot my assumed guide for the duration of the voyage. His dark blue jumpsuit covers a giant toned and tanned body decorated with a large black tattoo of god knows what creature rising up his upper torso. His voice is gruff and low, but dutiful.]

Good evening, sister. I will accompany you to your living quarters. Follow me.

[We climb the gangplank, and several of the men on deck cheer my guide on. I swear to myself I see his own face crack into a sly grin as we enter a hatch. After several minutes of wandering through sterile metallic passageways, we reach a meeting room, Spartan in appearance and slightly chilly.]

Have a seat, comrade.

[I do so, and he welcomes me aboard the Pegasus in an indifferent seeming way. He explains that his name is Avitus Tranquilus Vespasianus and that he is a former submarine driver for Classis Imperium Doomanum (the Imperial Doomani Navy), a position which qualifies him as the commander of one of the “Peg’s” submersibles, Vostok One. His manner and temperament are visibly making me uncomfortable, and he notices, letting out a hearty, if slightly maniacal laugh.]

Do I frighten you?

[My next few words stammer something to the affirmative. He is fifteen years my senior, and he gently messes my hair up with his calloused right hand before continuing his lecture. He’s Doomani, yes, but a pleasant Doomani, if that makes sense.]

Make yourself at home, sister; we have a busy time ahead of us.

[The next week sees us sailing through relatively calm weather to our destination, a sunken battleship from the many naval battles around Paralentum1. The crew’s task is to remove the hazardous nuclear fuel rods from the target wreck that seek to endanger local biologics in the area. Finally, the day, or night, more accurately, comes, and a night crew stands assembled on the deck in ponchos as a light rain smacks into the deck peacefully. The Vostok, along with her pilot and passenger, myself, are lowered into the gently pitching seas. As Avitus stands to close the hatch, the rain begins to come in slightly harder, and a crack of thunder flashes across the sky. Avitus stares out of one of the viewports.]

A poor omen from God, I believe.

[I can’t help but agree as the dark seas soon grasp our tiny sub and pull it under. A slight hum and rush of water indicates that we have attained control of our course. Avitus informs me the plight to the bottom will be a long journey and that I may get some sleep if I wish. This Doomani, despite his nation’s persona, is quite the gentleman. But, I resist the urge to go to bed, and look around the cabin. Unlike most deep sea submersibles, the life support hull is decently roomy, with the pilot’s seat in the front and two passenger seats in the rear. A small APOC flag hangs near the pilot’s viewport, along with a red patch that reads SSN-913 Longinus. I work up the courage to begin my interview.]

Was that your ship?

[He nods, not taking his eyes away from his control console.]

She was an attack boat, a beauty, the first of her class. Spinal vertical launch cells2, a sleek stealthy coating, and even an escape pod for the crew. She was my responsibility, and I loved working the control stick on her, it was like one of your video games. Like an angel of the seas, till she was scraped.

Was that why you retired?

Retired, well, a pleasant euphemism. I was asked to leave, little one. I am a veteran, you see, a veteran of many wars, and apparently my combat experience has made me less of an ideal soldier. Makes no sense, correct?

[I nod fervently, and continue.]

Where was your first battle?

Where, you say? Well, you’re not far off from it.

Paralentum.

Indeed, she was my first, but she was not gentle. I remember the day like it was just passed. A righteous anger spilling over our fleet, the image of the Romulus sinking into the harbor at Arretium burned into our minds and retina like a great fire. A rising tide, a tide of death and destruction. We were one of the first groups put out to sea, a force of five Longinus class attack boats with the class leader at the head. Like a pack of hungry wolves, we slipped into the eternal night to stalk our prey. Our orders were to shadow the damaged Questarian fleet as they ran for their lives from the might of our forces.

[His tone becomes noticeably darker as he goes on.]

For three days we stalked them, UAVs tracking their every move as our own surface assets closed on our quarry. Big fat juicy carriers, ripe for the taking. But, they pulled something we didn’t expect. Surely, these cowardly scums wouldn’t dare commit an act of honor such as this. Sure as hell, they did. We received first line reports that a contingent of Questarian battleships and escorts, lead by a Hood class command ship, had broken formation, covering the escape of their carrier brethren. We knew it, and they knew it, it would be a clash of the titans, and several of my crewmates cringed at the sound of a Hood class battleship. The Hood that had bested hundreds of Pwnagian warships3 before meeting her own demise, and now her sister was coming to deliver the same punishment upon us. But we weren’t fucking drug and sex crazed infidels, we were true warriors, an efficient military machine that would crush all opposition in its path. We carried those confident and smug thoughts into battle. March 14th, almost two weeks after the devastating attack on Arretium. This time we would have the element of surprise, and not a single Questarian sailor would live to tell of his shameful defeat. All the better, we thought. That morning, Questarian recon aircraft crossed into our long range surface-to-air screens. From radio traffic from allied ships nearby, we could tell several had been downed, and the rest were retreating, giving us an exact bead on the location of the enemy naval forces. A handful of escort carriers steamed alongside the Remus, the brother-ship of the destroyed Romulus. They were hungrier for vengeance than any others in the fleet, and we would exact it today.

Sea launched Aquilas stalked the Questarian recon aircraft, an encrypted data link sending up-to-date to intelligence about the possible enemy fleet positions, but it was too late before we realized our error. The enemy had expected us to launch alert fighters, and they used their courses to determine our positions for an accurate firing solution. The chaos we could hear our the radios betrayed the existence of thousands of Questarian long range-anti shipping missiles, and our search scope/RADAR mast painted a vivid picture eerily reminiscent of Arretium, with tracers and missile trails lighting up the sky as our escorts and capital ships attempted to fend off the massive attack, and several large battleships keeled over, mortally wounded, suddenly appearing as massive SONAR contacts slipping into the abyss. We launched in return, a constant stream of missiles between the two fleets as they closed one another. It wasn’t long before we were close enough to enact true revenge.

Gun to gun combat?

I believe the first warship sighted by our fleet was the enemy battlecruiser Northshire. She had been crippled by two missile hits to the engine room, and was dead in the water. Her guns, however, were not so lucky. Two destroyers sunk beneath the waves before the immense firepower of a broadside of the Remus’ twenty seven and a half inch guns smashed her infidel hull into the waves. Enemy warships soon appeared, too late to rescue their fallen comrades, but not so much to martyr us. They immediately began to duel our ships, small hints of splashes visible on our SONAR scopes as well the occasional detonating escort or sinking battleship. Our minimal carrier cover launched fighters, bravely strafing the enemy warships with their cannons while launching anti-shipping weapons. It was an hour into the epic gun duel when we received the order to flank the enemy. My first thought was suicide.

Why?

Even in the midst of the hellish nightmare of close range combat, the infidel destroyer groups managed to maintain an effective escort screen around their larger cousins. In the confusion of the battle, I cannot blame our commanders for ordering such a dangerous order. If only they knew, if only they had anticipate the infidel’s tenacity, if on-

[Before he can stop, his rant is replaced by an unexpectedly triumphant chuckle. I move up to the pilot’s seat and my jaw drops, allowing a rather girlish gasp to escape me. For over a half mile in either direction, a line of rusty metal comes into view, lit by self-supporting lighting platforms above us. The water is clear enough to make out the massive superstructure of a Hood class battleship. This is the final resting place of the HMS Mountbatten.]

She’s impressive, even in this state, isn’t she . They might be infidels, but they cannot have built a more beautiful vessel. Or a resilient one. It took thousands of tons of explosive force to send her to the bottom, hear, observe.

[I][A camera display is projected onto his HUD. It slowly pans the wreck, revealing numerous pockmarks and shell holes. A particularly large one can be seen towards the broken bow. He sees my eyes glance to it.]

Direct hit on the forward magazine by the Remus’ A turret. The lucky gunner4 probably got some from the Empress herself for that shot, ha-ha. Killed off about twenty percent of the crew and knocked out her A and B turrets to boot. But, she didn’t quit. Took several hits on her fire control stations to pin her down long enough to deal the real coup-de-grad. You see, a ship of this size must be immensely well constructed and supported to stay afloat. As a result, they can take a lot of firepower. Add up to three meters of that insane armor the IQN uses, and you’ve got yourself a virtual floating fortress. As for that final blow…

[The HUD display focuses on a relatively small hole near the center of the ship just above the ship’s designated waterline. Though the penetration hole is small, the entire hull seems to explode outward. Sheets of armor are seen to be shredded by paper, and the entire affected area is a scorched mess.]

Augustus-class tactical nuclear warhead, delivered on a sub-launched hypersonic penetrator missile. Blew the superstructure around it to pieces and snapped the keel, the sling that killed Goliath. But, thankfully, that’s not the reason we’re down here. Now, to get to work, shall we.

[The work is exhausting, even if all I do is watch. Explosives are carefully planted to loosen the structural supports around the reactor core. One by one, specially shielded submarines store the fuel rods in their stomachs and return to the surface. After three hours, it’s our turn. As we pull along our guided return path, something catches Avitus’ eye. He steers the sub away, and I can hear the enquiring voices of his colleagues over the Gertrude. Soon, the lights on the Vostok shine upon a sleek but broken black cylinder lying about one hundred meters ahead of us. It’s a submarine. A large uniform hole ten meters aft of the streamlined conning tower indicates the launching point of an escape pod, and single VLS tube is expended, its open hatch covered in rust and kelp. Avitus freezes in his command chair. I rush across the suddenly cramped interior to his side. A chipped white label on the port bow of the broken vessel. I can barely make it out as a single tear runs down the face of my stricken pilot and friend. The letters come all at once, and then one at a time as my own eyes begin to fill.]

[Longinus.]

1: Alliance for the Preservation of Civilization
2: Missile launching system which mounts missiles below decks with a hatch that opens to expose the missile for launching.
3: Battle of the Gibraltar Straits.
4: Gunner’s Mate (western naval equivalent) Brutus Novanus

(OOC: Special thanks to Questers, Doomingsland, and Czardas for providing information for this piece.)

pwnpwnpwnpwnpwn

[OOC: Excellent job so far Velkya, keep it up! Kudos to the #draftroom crew on mIRC as well!]

The Hell Diver

Los Canas, the Armed Capitalist Republic of the Silver Sky

[My guest looks both comfortable and slightly anxious in his seat at a local café. A cup of rich black coffee, grown from local Skyian plantations, steams away in the crisp morning air as he begins to relate his story to me. He seems to blend in to the local surroundings quite well in his business attire and mannerisms; however, this man is no office mouse. He is a soldier of fortune, with a loyalty priced not by devotion, but by the almighty monetary unit. He leans forward, his gray eyes piercing my own emerald ones. I notice his torso's skin is a different shade than the rest of his body, and his neck is scarred. As he begins to speak, my eyes dart back up to his.]

I am, for lack of a more politically correct term, a mercenary. Not a ‘private contractor’ or a ‘security consultant’ protecting some pop diva from crazed fans or guarding a millionaire’s estate from punk teenagers. I am a trained warrior, adept in the art of the taking of life. It is this skill set that sets me apart from the bodyguards and security personnel whose roles are sometimes confused to mine. It is this adeptness that allows me to stay calm in the face of great danger and risk, and still complete my task. It is for this purpose that my company selected me for one of their clients. This client was none other than the Armed Forces of the United Kingdom of Questaria. Their army, lacking the same luster and prestige as their comrades on the ocean, needed experienced soldiers, and fast. I was at that point a veteran of a significant number of ‘conflicts of interest’, and my name was one of the first pulled.

Conflicts of interest?

[He smirks.] Sorry, business secret.

Ah.

I arrived onboard an Questarian Aiways1 liner at London International Aerodrome, and was escorted by two uniformed men to a waiting motorcade. After a few hours driving into the countryside, I was on station at a rather large military installation, where a platoon of soldiers, mostly enlisted, was standing at attention waiting for my arrival. An officer on duty introduced me by my call sign, informing them that I was a civilian contractor assigned to help train them. A few scoffed, but they were quickly silenced by their superiors. See, these weren’t ordinary grunts, they were Airborne, or at least they were attempting to be. That was where I came in. I was a specialized airborne soldier, with ten years experience with the Skyian Republican Army on several major combat tours.

This group of soldiers in front of me would be going on a intense training regimen until only the top fifty remained, from which I would form five sticks of elite parachutist infantry. I pushed these men like dogs, thinning their ranks and toughening them up. They needed to be. An enemy shell was far less forgiving then a jump instructor. After their fitness and physical regimen had culled the weak from the herd, it was time to begin the true training of these men into airborne operatives. For this, we flew overseas to the Allied Union’s Ft. Mass, a massive multinational airborne training center. As we landed at the fort’s airstrip, we spotted the towering jump training platform rising from the twilight like skeletal monoliths. For two months, I trained these men to their fullest, and eventually came out with forty-two Airborne Infantry. It was not a moment too soon. We completed our graduation ceremonies on the 16th of March, and as we were celebrating in a local bar, the news came like a speeding bullet.

Arretium?

We were on the next Stormbringer2 out of there. I remember the mood inside that massive cargo hull was the most sobering experience one could imagine. These men and their country were going to war, and I was being sucked right along with them. We arrived the next day in the middle of the afternoon, and they began rehearsing for the first, and perhaps, last combat mission of their lives. The exact location of our drop was concealed from us until the night before the drop, when it was revealed to be Ignatius, an island five hundred kilometers from the main island of Paralentum. It held a fairly major Doomani air base, a staging point for the eventual assault on Paralentum itself. That night, I collected all my gear into my jump bag, and cleaned and oiled my Questarian carbine. The weapon itself was standard issue grunt material, but the bells and whistles were all my own. An under-barrel forty millimeter grenade launcher, a five times magnification tritium reflex sight, and a customized professional trigger group, all tucked into this once simple grunt rifle. I remembered just looking at it, rehearsing the steps of the operation in my head as I stared at my implement of battle. This would be a long, hard fight, and already my nerves and training were starting to replace my emotional forecast for the upcoming operation.

When did you launch?

Our aircraft, the lead Outback, took off at about twenty-two hundred hours local time. It was painted jet black with only the most minimal of markings, and must have disappeared into the night, followed closely by its flock of abyss-colored geese. There were two sticks of ten men each, with myself and a Questarian sergeant leading them, respectively. The ride was a tedious and long one, with the silence broken only by the low drone of the twin turboprops whirling in the evening air outside of us. Soon, however, we began to near our jump target, and the pilot called out the code word ‘Banzai’, meaning that the SSBN strike on Ignatius’ surface-to-air and early warning RADAR systems was successful. Sparrowhawks tangled with Aquilas in the everlasting night over the small archipelago, and, despite ACID’s3 proclaimed superiority, the former soon commanded the skies over the drop zone. Our senses awakened as the red light dimmed on. I was in front, standing in the front of nine quivering Questarian soldiers as the doors opened to the outside. It was strangely peaceful, a far cry from old war movies where a sea of flak and tracer fire seem to light up the night sky like some perverted Christmas tree. The light shifted to yellow, and then, finally, the strangely welcoming tinge of green.

With a breath and a heave, I catapulted myself into the cold night sky, the wind howling by ears despite the Kevlar covering placed on them. I fell several hundred feet before I assumed my position. Typical High Altitude Low Opening (HALO) jump procedure. My arms and legs went spread eagle, my oxygen mask pumping life into my lungs as I screamed down at terminal velocity to the hard-deck. I pulled my ripcord at four thousand feet, and my digital forest pattern chute bloomed above me like a flower. Small plumes of small arms fire went skyward, but they were obviously just spray-and-pray, and presented minimal danger. That is, until punched a hole in the top of my canopy. I looked up with dread, and realizing she had held, I regained my composure. Several minutes later, I hit the ground rolling, detaching my chute bag and bringing my weapon to bear in one fell motion. While many islands in this chain were lush jungles, this particular rock was naught but a desolate sandscape. I checked my helmet mounted HUD, and prayed for such a nice utility. Unlike in other armies, the Questarians couldn’t afford such luxuries for all of their combat soldiers, so they were shuffled out to elite units like my own. I had landed on a hill overlooking an enemy airfield, several kilometers away from the main bastion.

I checked my HUD again and whispered a prayer of thanks to whoever might be watching this little dispute from above. Nine green dots, indicating my nine soldiers, had deployed successfully and were now closing on my position. I knelt and held my ground until they reached it a few seconds later. I ordered them to form a line of six including myself on the hill’s summit while the remaining four guarded our flanks and rear. We were down as low as possible, our infrared-proofed clothing and stance allowing us to present a minuscule target to the enemy. It would be needed, as the purported skill of Doomani marksmen was legendary.

What of the other four units?

The successfully landed with but a handful of casualties, all of them in jump. The Doomanis had not been alerted to the serious possibility of enemy soldiers, at least not yet. It was this thought that was running through my head when I peered through my electronic binoculars and spotted an enemy self propelled anti-aircraft carrier chugging along the tarmac, spewing red hot death into the sky. The sight of it gave me chills, as had known what such a vehicle can do to an infantry squad. But the chill was soon replaced with a logical problem. If I knocked it out, the rest of the base would go on alert and possibly begin putting fire on our position. If I stayed my hand, the vehicle’s advanced optics could spot us and turn us into mincemeat rather quickly. I consulted my four other commanders, allowing them to get into position before beginning the attack.

A ten-minute long infinity stretched on before our designated attack time began. Each squad was assigned a light mortar and two reloadable rocket launchers, as well as a pair of light machine guns. That meant five heavy weapons, and eight battle rifles. Our firepower was the exact thought running through my head as the back blast from one of my launchers shot into the night. Seconds later, a streak of horizontal lightning struck its target, causing it to careen forward and explode. Moments later, the other five units opened up from their firing position, pinning down the Doomani first response troops. Explosions peppered the base, denoting that the allied mortars had found their mark. I replaced my binoculars with my rifle, peppering the guard’s positions with 7.62mm hell. The Questarian SLR, Self Loading Rifle, was a beast on automatic, and its folding stock variant was no different. Behind me, my two light machine guns were roaring into the night, their red tracers joining with those of the rest of their brethren, bathing the airfield in red lightning as the Doomanis put up a futile resistance.

The firefight of sorts was over within a half hour. Slowly, one by one, we advanced into the defeated base. Bullet holes and scorch marks dotted the area, giving sharp contrast to the broken bodies of our enemies. My squad entered the communications building, killing a few Doomie stragglers before reaching the radio room. Just before we broadcasted the message to the waiting infantry transport craft, I looked out of the broken window to the central barracks of the base.

The yellow and black Doomani banner lay broken and destroyed on the sands of this desolate hellhole, and in its place, so far from home, the Union Jack fluttered over what had been foreign lands.

This fight was ours, or so we thought.

1: Questarian Airways, the national Questarian civilian air carrier.
2: Space Union Defense Industries Stormbringer heavy transport aircraft
3: ACID: Doomani Air Force

(OOC: Special thanks to Questers, Doomingsland, and The Silver Sky for providing information for this piece.)

more pwn

The Burning Horizon


North Point, the Armed Capitalist Republic of the Silver Sky

[This is by no means an interview by appointment. My plane from Los Canas International has just touched down in the autumn touched streets of the somewhat familiar North Point. Fall is in the air, as the five’ o ’clock rush hour hits the streets of this beautiful city. I duck inside of a local bar to escape from both the world and the sounds of angry motorists. Inside, the local crowd seems to barely acknowledge my presence. I seat myself at the counter and order a local brew. A man sitting next to me with bloodshot eyes and a marijuana cigarette burning away between his lips nods his head in my direction. We soon strike up a conversation. His eyes glance at my identification card displaying the twin hammers and raised fist of the Velkyan Coat of Arms.]

A Velkie, eh? What brings you to this burb?



I happen to fit the bill, my friend.

[He reveals no name or nationality. He offers a blunt to me, revealing a heavily tattooed arm. I politely refuse. He shrugs his shoulders, and begins recalling his story. His voice increases in volume, but remains raspy and gruff.]

We were volunteers, you see. And no, not mercs, they’re independent of the military-industrial complex. I was still a normal marine, with all the constraints of belonging to an organized military system. At least, I was back then, anyways.

[He takes a long drag on his cigarette and motions to the door.]

Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?

[This part of town is slightly seedy and dirty, but between our combined military experience, no criminal is going to get much luck. We stroll down the sidewalk, and he begins speaking.]

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m Pwnagian. Yeah, we were at Paralentum with the Doomies, mixin’ it up with the slackjaws1. See, I was a Basilisk2, one of MassPwange’s elite warriors. We got the word that the Questarians had started some shit with our good Doomie buds, and that shit just wasn’t going to stand. But, we had other concerns, and couldn’t deploy an official expeditionary force just yet. What we could send, however, was arms and ammunition, and hours after the first big fistfight off the coast of Paralentum, the first transport bird landed there, complete with lots of toys for our friends to kick ass with. And they were delivering one more thing, you know what that is?

[I shrug, patiently waiting for the answer.]

Men. Not official, of course, and not just a bunch of zerkers2. We were Marine DMRs, the best marksmen in the whole goddamn fleet. Fifty of us, mostly rifleman with a few DMRs and sniper teams mixed in. We were a bunch of raging psychopaths, my friend, and the Doomanis loved every bit of it. We were now a part of their military, having, at least on paper, resigned from the Pwnage Marine Corps and joined the Doomani army garrison defending the Paralentum island chain, sort of like the Flying Tigers.

[He produces another joint from his leather jacket as we turn a corner. I turn it down yet again, and he shrugs.]

Your loss, bud.

Anyways, for the next few months, it was pretty quiet. Me and my volunteer unit surveyed vantage points and escape routes throughout the islands, and I eventually ended up on Ignatius, attached to a Doomie infantry platoon. We were anticipating an attack sooner or later, as that pussy carrier fleet darted around the ocean trying to avoid destruction. It would seem to us that eventually the Doomani Navy would send ‘em to the big scrap yard in the sky, but, hey, life has a funny way of fucking up your plans real good.

The airborne landings?

Bingo. I was sitting in the sack, reading some Hustler from back home. [He grins.] It was about eleven thirty when that fucking siren went off, snappin’ me from my reverie like a twig. There was shuffling, and loud footsteps. I could hear yelling in Latin and Pwnage as the triple-a gun near our barracks began spewing shit into the sky, shaking all the walls like a fine piece of ass. I ducked as loud boom shook the floor below me, probably a bomb from one of the Sparrowhawks. I slid into my boots and threw on a flak jacket, dashing out of the door of my quarters to the barracks armory. I spied a lone Doomie eighty three-two battle rifle sittin’ all lonely by itself on the rack, so I grabbed it and a few clips of six point seven mil and dashed out of the door.

By the time I got to a firing position, the enemy airborne had already taken the first airstrip on the southern tip of Iggie, and they were advancing on us like fuckin’ army ants. I could see random tracer fire, both red and green, going off into the haze, and soon they became directed at us. The sandbags around my fighting hole shook a bit as a random bullet smacked into them, but I remained calm, keeping my head low until my reinforcements could come. And, damn, they came like a bitch on a cock. This big hulkin’ monster of a tread-job, an Imperator MBT, rolled up about ten meters away from me, and I had just covered my ears when it let loose with that one twenty five gun, the muzzle flash turning midnight to high noon for a split second. The enemy fire quieted for a minute or two, and I took my chance. The tank had pulled back slightly, allowing nearby infantry to link up with it, its twenty three coax blasting into the line of rocks ahead, blowing chunks of granite and Questarians out like a meat grinder. Then, one of them came out with a large tube on his shoulder. I could barely mutter a curse when my instinct took over.

Ten years of sloggin’ it out through everywhere from ViZion City to the Negev3 will give you the precision of a heart surgeon. And sure enough, within a heartbeat, I had raised my BR, sighting the target with the mounted reflex sight. No wind, the smoke rising from the hole where an enemy squad used to be telling me that much. The red dot rested a bit over his head, adjusting for distance. I must’ve pulled the trigger as he did, as my gun barked and the round blew his melon to bits just as the rocket left the tube. It streaked above my head, striking and annihilating a nearby tree. I remembered grinning widely as the Doomanis let out a fearsome battle cry, which must have scared the shit out of the bits of Questarians left out there. Just a war whoop, and then a thunderous roar, and blackness.

…?

I’ve got no idea, bro. I never got a straight answer. Just that I woke up in the back of a gee-pee, the sounds of a hellhole fading behind me. The guy standing over me was Doomie, I could tell by his voice, telling me I should thank the Lord I’ve still got my balls. I kinda had to agree with him, ya know?

How’d you escape Ignatius?

The meds told me I was just in shock, and I eventually removed myself from the makeshift stretcher and pointed a nearby rifle down one of the rear, watching the jungles for imaginary enemies as we closed on the still-safe heliport on the north end of the island. It was on a hill, and a few Doomie artillery guns were still pounding the hell out of the newly lost positions. Soon, however, the remaining troops, maybe a platoon left, fell back to the port, their rifles buzzing with fire the whole time. Ignatius was a lost cause, and even those proud Doomies had to admit it, you could see it in their faces. As I climbed into an Army VTOL, I heard a Doomie officer speak into a wireless unit, with a slight grin on his face. I kinda felt myself wondering what he had said as he climbed into the cargo bay with us. The rear door didn’t close, and the door gunner began to send the Questarians a nice goodbye gift. But, comparing his little strafing run to what came next was like comparing a party popper to a block of fucking C4. Five Aquilas came screaming in over our sea skimming VTOLs, cannons blazing. Sporadic machine gun fire greeted them, but their internal bays opened and they pulled up before the enemy could put up a serious fight. I half stood up, holding on to a bar above me for support, waiting for something, anything.

The whole island erupted in the flames a half second later. Must have been thermobarics4, 'cause a huge fucking fireball just engulfed the place, cremating the enemy like a fucking barbeque. I guess it was a scorched earth policy, you know, deny the enemy use of your own resources. I figured it was a pretty damn literal message as the now scorched isle grew fainter and fainter in the distance.

Within an hour, we had arrived at Paralentum. The drop ship stayed glued to the ground long enough for us to shove ourselves off before it dusted back off to pick up survivors from nearby Divium. After a few hours of processing, I was, along with the other survivors, reassigned to the fifteen thousand strong garrison of Paralentum, the last bastion of Doomie power on this island chain. Within two weeks, the Questarians and Czardians had landed hundreds of thousands of soldiers and tens of thousands of pieces of equipment on the outlying islands, in preparation for the eventual onslaught. Looking back on it, our chances were pretty damn slim, with the Navy trying to lift the IQN blockade long enough to resupply the island and possibly dislodge the crumpet-stuffers from their turf. ACID wasn't fairing too well either, with the Questarians contesting every space of sky where they didn't have complete dominance with a limitless flow of replacement fighters and crews, while our own local air force was depleting pretty fucking fast. Despite all this, the Doomies maintained that righteous, dangerous attitude that they're famous for, and faced down the approaching hordes of numb-nuts with something approaching murderous glee.

[I]When did they finally come?

The First of July. There were four of us, two Pwnagians and two Doomies, jaw-jacking on the inside of this camouflaged coastal bunker with a fifty cal mounted in the slit when the air raid siren went off, again. We had gotten used to this as an almost daily occurrence, as the Questarians were mounting SEAD5 operations on us like mad by this time. We didn’t even move from our positions, and we listened to the roar of nearby jets as they tangled. Then, a voice in Latin came on the speaker system, calmly stating that this was the day we had all been waiting for, and the enemy was conducting a massed landing on our shores. It was pretty fucking funny, four of us jerk-offs suddenly reverted back to warriors, grabbing our weapons and taking up firing positions.

Now, personally, I don’t like bunkers too much, and me and my Marine brother left the bunker as a squad of Doomies entered, and we took up firing positions on a nearby rock outcropping, our BDUs more or less matching the terrain. My rifle was the same one I’d shipped out with, and she was a beauty, the designated marksman version of the standard eighty three rifle used by the Doomies, complete with a ten times magnification fixed power scope. That was my window to the world, an ocean viewed through a mil-dot lens, one that would probably be filled with blood and fire soon enough. I steeled myself, yet I couldn’t shake this one memory, from back on the evac flight from Ignatius. It was burned into my memory, and the scene kept repeating itself, over and over again.

Everyone else on that bird was going nuts, screaming patriotic shit into their helmet mikes as some island in the middle of a huge fucking ocean simmered away. Everybody except me. I sat there, watching mile after miles of jet-black water pass us by and a single thought pierced my mind.

What?

That this shit wasn’t over. Yeah, we had managed to burn a victory into what used to be an island, but what nobody realized is that soon, the whole goddamn world would be in flames.

[He takes one final drag on his blunt, letting the sweet opiate sift through his lungs, and then tosses it to the floor. He sighs, and stamps the embers out forever.]


1: Derogatory slang for Questarians.
2: Affectionate inter-service slang words for members of the Pwnagian Marine Corps.
3: Negev Desert, located in former Kahanistan.
4: Weapon system involving the detonation of volatile fuel compounds which are spread over a wide area as a mist.
5: Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses; An air mission involving the direct attack of enemy surface-to-air assets.

(OOC: Special thanks to Questers, MassPwnage, and Doomingsland for providing information for this piece.)

The Hollowed Fortress
The Necropolis, the Holy Empire of Doomingsland

[As I walk along the city walls, it’s like stepping back in time. The floor beneath me is solid stone, and it flows like a giant serpent along the outer edge of this desert colossus. To my right, the massive citadel of the Necropolis sprawls on forever, the closest thing to an oasis for thousands of miles, and to my left, the vast expanse of sand and death known as the Inculta Crematoria. The stone wall gleams along the moonlight, and rows of skulls on pikes line the outer edge as far as I can see. As I tread, lightly of course, I pass a mounted Doomani machine gun, and the three Doomani Imperial Guardsmen bore into me with a look that is near-impossible to forget. Not the look of lust and power that every woman fears, but of pure superiority and of smoldering intensity. Nevertheless, I quicken my pace, rapidly approaching my designated meeting point. As I reach the rampart, I spy a lone man leaning against the railing, staring out into the desert. The wind gently picks his coat up, and he stares at me with jet black eyes. He introduces himself as Brutus Copulas, and turns around to face me. I see a sheathed sword, likely a feared gladius, hanging by his right hip. His voice is low, almost like a growl, although, like my previous charge Avitus, he has a strange air of hospitality about him while maintaining that air of condescension his people are famed for.]

Welcome to the gates of hell, sister. You are well received.

[We begin to walk together along the parapet. The wind picks up slightly, and the banners flying from the pikes begin to rise, dancing to a silent melody in an invisible current.]

These sands were once soaked with blood, sister. The blood of hundreds of thousands of fallen. Their bones still litter the plains of damnation which lie beyond this fortress, a grim reminder of all who dare cross the Imperium Doomanum. These battle scarred plains are now peaceful, sister, and it is though our efforts that they are.

[We stop at a raised watchtower. The Doomani banner flies over the tower, raising above all those in view.]

Over those ramparts and through our streets, we mobilized and devastated the infidel invaders. From here, I watched their final assault.

The Siege of the Necropolis?

To call it a siege gives them too much credit, my dear. General Maximus, like a desert wolf, circled around the so called ‘besiegers’, making our streets run red with the blood of infidels as we baptized them with fire and lead. This, ‘siege’, was but the final act in a long campaign of desolation and bloodshed, starting with, of course, Arretium. After their attack on our beautiful harbor, it was a massive bout across the oceans, beginning with their narrow at the First Battle1 and utter humiliation at the Second Battle of Paralentum1. As our fighters decimated their adversaries in open combat, their troops on the island itself languished and starved, abandoned by their shadow of a Navy to die by our hand. As their last soldiers perished in our lethal jungles, their forces marshaled around the desert oasis of Aqueous, a few hundred miles from where we stand. Their invasion of the motherland had been a massive folly equaled only by their desire to do battle with us, and their army was picked clean by both man and beast during their “advance” on the Necropolis. Now, three quarters of a million Questarian soldiers, along with whatever artillery and vehicles survived the scorching heat, massed on the five mountain passes, through which lead to the Valley Of The Dead, where this city stands. A fierce sandstorm had swept through the area, denying us the ability to wipe this scum from the face of our land with fire from the sky. This conflict would settled by men, on the field of battle.

I still remember it, clear as day. Not a cloud in the sky, as usual in this desert. On the five entrances to the valley they sat, massed like an army of yore. There outnumbered our defenders six to one, but we were well fortified, with everything from twelve inch naval guns to thousands of machine guns and auto-cannons staring down the Questarian hordes, waiting joyfully for the slaughter. I was on this very watchtower, my spotter and I staring them down through range-finders and scopes. At the head of this horde, an officer stood on the outer perimeter, rallying the troops who still carried tattered and broken banners among their ranks. The smoke from the knocked out canyon defenses billowed into the bright blue sky, shrouding the massed armies in a grey and black haze. The officer’s fist shot into the air, and an unintelligible battle-cry swept through their rank and file. As this occurred, an iron wave broke through pathways in their forces. I stared in disbelief at this display, removing my eye from the sight and replacing, just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.

A line, almost a mile long, was forming, kicking up dust and dirt in its wake. A line of every imaginable vehicle from armed general purpose vehicles to a few lucky battle tanks that had somehow survived the desert even a huge tank carrier with artillery guns mounted up top. They were baying for blood, their makeshift artillery batteries, positioned on the canyon tops for greater effect, firing an intense roar, which, seconds later, manifested in our lines. A few explosions reached the walls, taking with them a gun emplacement or two, but failing to make much of an impression. Our own artillery, however, answered them back ten-fold. Rocket artillery batteries sent their payloads streaking into the sky, an infinite number of screaming smoke trails arching their way forward high above our heads, only to be drowned out by the thunder of mounted naval batteries, their massive muzzle flashes sending huge payloads of explosives into the oncoming hordes. Many were wrecked substantially, but hundreds more poured forth, their makeshift turrets and weapons racks returning the favor once more. The fire was more consistent than their sporadic indirect barrages, knocking out a sufficient number of gun emplacements to send us into high alert. My spotter immediately snapped into action, sighting and identifying an enemy ‘technical’2 which sported a recoilless rifle on its cargo bed. Seconds later, my seven point eight round ripped through the driver’s useless helmet and by extension his skull, causing the vehicle to careen to the side and flip, detonating the poorly stored ammunition. As the former combatant exploded in a fiery-red plume, I switched to another target when my spotter alerted me to another variety of contacts, soft ones.

Soft ones?

Dismounted soldiers, hundreds of thousands of them, pouring from the passes. Many were mounted on makeshift metal sleds, crossing the sloping terrain at quite a fast pace, making those tough targets for my kind. I simultaneously praised and cursed their ingenuity, and then grinned.

Why?

Even if they were moving too fast to efficiently kill with rifles, our auto-cannons didn’t have the same trouble. A twenty millimeter Gatling-style weapon opened fire below me, a loud drone and puff of gas spewing forth from the gun-port. Five hundred meters down-range, a line of kicked up sand signaled the maximum aiming point, and the gunners brought their charge down with extreme prejudice, cutting down entire rows of ‘skiing’ infidels in one fell swoop. I watched this with happiness, almost forgetting my own mission. My spotter was not so lazy, he refocused me with a slap, and [he chuckles] calling me back to this world. Slowly, I trained my rifle on more vehicles, their blackish silhouettes growing larger by the second, the clatter from their weapons growing louder and louder. One, two, three infidel vehicles disappeared in the desert sands, only to be drowned out dozens of comrades. I was growing frustrated that our supposedly overwhelming firepower was not stopping these unbelievers fast enough. Then, an ungodly rumble echoed throughout our lines. My head instinctively shot back up and my heart sank in response. Questarian vehicles were making suicide runs against the outer veil wall, which we were positioned on. In some sections, the wall, over fifty feet tall, had been breached by the suicidal infidels, as more of their comrades hit the wall, exploding into balls of fury, fire, and granite. I, like an idiot, stood up, and my spotter pulled me back down to the floor, almost nicked by an enemy bullet. He spat out a very clear set of words to my face. “If we do not leave this place, we will die.” Instantly, he rose to kneeling position, his assault rifle pouring a merciless hail of lead out, while his under-barrel grenade launcher struck home, causing an enemy ‘technical’ to explode in a violent conflagration. We mounted a fighting retreat, and no sooner had we stepped down from the outer wall than our section collapsed, taking with it several men still firing.

Where did you go next?

There was an inner wall, shorter but sturdier and thicker, with more modern defenses. Unfortunately, even this had begun to fall, as its fixed defenses weren’t quite as encompassing as its forward counterpart. Questarian foot soldiers armed with everything from assault rifles to sabers swarmed in through the broken forward wall, greeted by the sharp aim of the inner defenders. Many fell, but those of our brothers outside suffered a grim fate, oft felled in the process of drawing their gladii3. We were sufficiently luckier, having passed through a still open sally port before it closed to the rapidly approaching attackers.

[He sighs.]

No Doomani battle-brother worth his salt will ever admit to this, but we were terrified. The enemy we had scorned and laughed at as pathetic and weak for so long was now baying for our blood, eroding the walls of both our conscience and fortress like a raging river. Soldiers hacked and slashed like madmen, eager to avenge the loss of their comrades, finally able to see the desert ghosts that had stranded them in the wastelands. Finally able to revisit them for the pain they had been dealt. They had taken fewer casualties from our barrage then we had anticipated. Of the estimated seven hundred thousand survivors, at least half this number now closed on our position, too close to our own lines to effectively bombard. Their own pathetic artillery was now coordinated, and our warriors behind their lines were being pinned down by the fanatical crews of the guns, intent on holding to the last man. Buildings behind us exploded in showers of plaster and concrete, covered us with grey dust as the enemy surged through our sally ports, engaging in fierce and brutal hand to hand combat with our soldiers and battle-cries of both Latin and English echoed through the blood-stained halls of the fortress city.

The two of us quickly attempted to gain more ground for a vantage point, reaching a bombed out building on the outskirts of the city, overlooking an embattled section of the city wall. My spotter, a bulky and robust man, kicked the door in, causing it to skid. Sporadic machine gun fire greeted us, and a bullet narrowly missed me, instead clipping the barrel of my rifle. I stared down at the barrel, bent to a useless angle. I threw the scrap to the floor and aimed my pistol at my attackers. The faces of six bloody and beaten Doomani soldiers greeted us. We berated them for their idiocy and cowardice as the shells fell around us, for what seems like an eternity. They sat there and took it, as they knew what the price of desertion was.

[He sighs loudly again, staring off into the desert night beyond the walls.]

I was about to ‘finish my sermon’ when my spotter fell beside me. I ducked and looked down. His eye had been punctured, and he lay motionless in a pool of wine-red blood. This man, whom I had known since basic training, with a wife and children, now lay dead in a pool of his own depleted life in the middle of a hellscape. In a display of anger directed towards both everything and nothing, I emptied my pistol clip at the distant inner wall, where the bloodshed was still freshly raging. After expending my ammunition, I turned to the men and myself, seven would-be cowards and drew my gladius with a fire I had not known before, screaming a creed I had forgotten until this day, one of honor and bloodlust, of courage and fearlessness. This timid squad stared me down with disbelief, until one drew his own weapon, screaming the creed with me. Soon, the whole entirety of them joined it, and there we stood, seven warriors with the true weapons of battle drawn into the azure sky, shouting promises and prayers to both our ancestors and descendants as we charged the unending hordes of barbarians.

That day we would fight as not men, but as true Doomanis.

1: A series of naval battles in which the Doomani Navy gradually gains local maritime superiority over their Questarian adversaries.
2: Military slang for an armed civilian or utility vehicle.
3: Broadsword used by Doomani soldiers for close combat use.

(OOC: Special thanks to Questers and Doomingsland for the information on this piece.)

The Wayward Rebel
Gennadiya, the Constitutional Republic of Willink

[The report of gunfire and shells are seemingly never far away in this distant land. Ethnic infighting and the still-burning fires of revolution echo through this once quiet land. I sit in a dugout of sorts, with worn maps and sand tables strewn across tables which sit on a crude floor of wooden planks. In the distance, I can see an outdated tank of the Balgrev National Army clamber across the muddy earth, its exhaust ports spewing thick acrid black smoke into the crisp morning air, followed by a rabble of rugged looking militiamen. The grim specter of war looms over pro-government and separatist forces in the broken plains of Balgrevonsk Province, and the embattled land forever reeks of bloodshed and conflict. My host, infamous BNA Captain Vjekoslav Elimir, matches this desolate scenery perfectly, his faded camouflage fatigues easily matching his meager surroundings. His infamously sarcastic and crude manner is evident almost immediately. His Kalashnikov knock-off sits in his lap as he relates his story, remaining ever vigilant for the omnipresent enemy as he speaks.]

Many decades ago, I myself was a part of the Government Forces, a servant of the devil himself. Yes, I, the great Captain Elimir, the lauded hero, the butcher of hundreds, once served the republican swine. I was a part of their machine, proud of the hawk1 emblazoned on my shoulder. [He sighs]. Those same hawks now assault our positions daily, using the same implements of battle that I used to fight alongside, back when I was young and foolish. The rumble of helicopter blades once announced our salvation and hope. Today all they bring is death and chaos for my warriors, allowing for the piercing of our sacred soil with yet another grave marker. These men, some no other than sixteen, fight and die for a nation that exists only in our dreams. Balgrevonsk, our sovereign home, and I once battled against everything we stand for.

As much as I tire of watching young men cut down in their prime, I confess I was once as rash and restless as they were. I was but eighteen when I enlisted in the Armed Forces of the Sovereign Republic against the wishes of those I loved, completing basis training in 2014, assigned to the Fourth Infantry Division based out of Fort Kazak near Salisbury, the capital of the government scum. As I cleaned my battle rifle’s barrel under the warm sun of my supposed country, I never had contemplated the idea of warfare. The military was hardly deployed by this time, and my squad-mates and I were shocked to be awoken by the harsh and demanding voice of our sergeant demanding that we stand at attention on the parade grounds outside of our barracks. I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was early, around one thirty AM, and that devil’s voice screamed quite clearly that we were being readied for immediate deployment to a combat zone, and to “pack our tampons and thongs”, because we wouldn’t be back soon. Where, how, and when would be conveniently held from us until further notice. I was busy packing said feminine products in my empty barracks when there was a fierce pounding at the door. I cursed and opened the door, suddenly reeling from the fist that emerged and made contact with my face. I was knocked backwards, falling onto the stone floor with a loud thud. My head was dizzy with pain and confusion, and my blurred sight revealed three masked men standing over me, yelling insults and slurs as they kicked and punched my helpless body.

[He spits, and curses.]

Fucking scum. For several minutes they beat me, careful not to leave scarring or bleeding. Their voices as concealed and masked as their visages, telling me quite eloquently to keep my mouth shut or face even more consequences. I spent the rest of that night cursing God, the army, and my own fists for not fighting back against these pussies.

Was it that bad?

[He stares me down.]

Worse. There were a few murders, but the Army didn’t tolerate that far of “punishment” for “our kind”, although many a Balgrevonski officer would be accused of trading secrets with foreign powers, promptly stripped of rank and sent to a maximum security stockade. Oh God, those fucking judges loved to spew the duty and honor crap on us, and that was their time to shine, once again. With nothing else on my mind, I boarded the first Air Force transport out to our deployment zone, the border between Aralonia and Nadixel2. The area had seen several minor skirmishes as communist Nadixelian raiders darted across gaps in the fortified line to pillage and attack Aralonian cities on the northern side. The Aralonian army was undergoing major reforms, and an international task force was assembled to quell the insurrection before it could begin costing innocent lives on both sides of the border.

Innocents, ha-ha. In war, one learns that there are never truly innocents, only brothers and enemies. Still, the façade of stability must go on, and soon we were on our way to some so-called noble endeavor. An officer dressed in full body armor with a marksman’s rifle slung on his shoulder “greeted” my squad as we exited the belly of the airborne beast we had just arrived in. He was a Velkyan lieutenant, an Air Force forward air controller or something and his unshaven chin and gruff demeanor immediately caught our attention. This man had been on the frontlines for several days, and his appearance reflected that. He eyed us up and down, mentally determining our chances for survival before passing on without uttering a single sound. This chance silent encounter spoke volumes to us, coupled with the sights of smoldering vehicles and direly wounded men. Soon, we got our fill of it. The firebase we were assigned to was nestled on mountainside overlooking a major pass directly on the border, and hit-and-run assaults by Nadixelian light infantry was as common as the staring of my so called comrades. We spent two weeks familiarizing ourselves with the area, learning the lay of land as well as the tactics of our adversaries, at least, the openly acknowledged ones. Soon enough, we were assigned to a firebase ten miles to the south of our airstrip, in a mixed unit known as the Rainbow Brigade.

The first night we spent was uneventful, with little to do but wait for my friends from back home to come “cheer me up” as they kept promising they would do. Then, one night in March, right before the battle of Arretium, they came. Not the soldiers whose boots and fists I had become familiar with, but the supposedly real enemy. A rocket propelled grenade flashed over my position, striking a nearby guard tower, its occupants falling screaming to the cold hard earth below them. As our training dictated, massive volumes of suppressive fire pierced the tree line, with everything from our battle rifle rounds to one hundred twenty millimeter canister shot acting like a giant lawnmower, churning the sea of green into little more than a shit-brown hellscape within mere minutes. We must have felt like big men, attempting to send an enemy to hell when he had probably already slipped up into his enclave, laughing and joking with his comrades about his victory.

Was that the first attack?

Hardly, the outlying firebases had all been receiving random rifle and grenade attacks from “rogue” Nadixelian units hiding in the border’s forests, but no direct assaults against foreign position until that day. The enemy was content raiding nearly defenseless Aralonian settlements, but before this has not had the balls to touch the foreign soldiers now sitting north of their lairs. Not until this rocket attack, anyways. The directness and pure gall of this assault galvanized command into actions. Two days after the slack jaw harbor assault, I was a part of an advance recon patrol, penetrating the Nadixelian border to located enemy staging areas and command stations. We cut through the thick underbrush with machetes and knives, the random sounds of wildlife and the distant drones of combat all around. I felt violated, like cold dark eyes bored into me the whole time. The trees and brush blocked our view, and, in retrospect, we were just fucking asking for an ambush. I should have predicted it, seen the commander’s head explode and figured it out, but alas, I was a young idiot, clinging to our technological superiority like a babe to a breast.

His brains splattered on my armored sternum, and then the boom reached us. A supersonic round, probably a fifty caliber anti-material rifle, judging by the difference between the impact and the firing’s aural detection. We dropped to our feet when the whole forest exploded into fire and chaos. We were “suppressing” our unseen enemy yet again, firing and wasting entire clips of ammunition into the green shroud that surrounded us, while the opposing fire intensified, their own aim much closer and deadlier than ours. Half of my unit was obliterated, including the most senior of my “friends”, a sight which couldn’t help but bring a smile to my face, and bring me farther from being a loyal Willinkian soldier. My Mark X3 began to slow down, the bright muzzle flash growing less and less frequent in the general fog of war that surrounded me. I turned to search for my squad mates, when a bright light surrounded me, accompanied by a deafening blast.

I was in a sea of white noise, thin slivers of perception reaching my stunned mind. My head must have drifted from side to side, dazed and confused from the blast of the flashbang. For what seemed like an eternity, I drifted about, a corporal ghost in this world that slowly but surely returned to being. My return was only long enough, however, to see the rifle butt collide with my forehead.

You were captured?

So says the official army report. Or, better yet, I was ‘Missing-in-Action’, another half-assed lie by a military that wished to wash its hands of the matter. I awoke in the middle of night, so it seemed, until I opened my eyes, revealing the damp rocky interior of a cave. My ears were quicker. “He’s a live one.” I heard one say in an oddly recognizable tongue. Another voice, of a woman, noticed my awakening, and called for a superior. I had fully regained my senses when this gaunt, determined specter appeared over my restrained body. He pulled a knife from his belt, causing a deep spike of fear in my heart. Nevertheless, I closed my eyes again, and braced myself for the final blow. It never came. I suddenly felt the ropes around my hands loosen, as did those around my feet. The duct tape over my mouth was slowly pulled off, and I reopened my eyes. The figure extended his gloved hand, and smiled. He said in our native language, “Welcome, my brother, welcome to your true home.” I was puzzled for but a moment, then I realized it. These rebels were no communist scum, but revolutionaries for the great motherland, Balgrevonsk! They helped me to my feet, and I scanned my surroundings. Weapons and supplies were stored under cheap portable electrical lanterns, and around a dozen militiamen lounged on wooden crates and rock outcroppings, almost oblivious to my newfound revelation. The cave smelt of sweat and gunpowder, but even that smell was that of home. After so long in Hell, I was now prepared to secure our Heaven with my brothers and sisters in arms!

What were they doing in Nadixel?

Fighting the imperialist scum that came from the north. As the Sovereign Republic4 bleeds our people, we would bleed their so-called warriors until they released their stranglehold on our homeland. And, as my new hosts explained, we had friends. Top of the line foreign weapons, from knives to shoulder fired missiles armed our militias who took great care in destroying as many fucking scum as possible.

From where did they come?

They were sworn to silence, and we never spoke of it, though we all recognized the nations of origin. Still, today’s world is one of violence and bloodshed, and such weapons are easily acquired, and apparently the devil himself wanted us to succeed.

[He sighs.]

All these weapons were the price of our true souls. I realized this in a rush, during one of our darkest hours. It was an enemy reprisal for an assault on one of their firebases, and three of our strong men took to a weapons crate with crowbars. As I passed the crate, weapon in hand, my eyes glanced down at the depths of death located in this small container. An inscription in Latin, one that made me cold with fear, one that would soon bring the world down.

1: The Screaming Hawk, a symbol of a 12th Company in the Willinkian Fourth Infantry Division.
2: A communist dictatorship located to the south of Southern Aralonia.
3: Battle rifle of Mekugian design, used as the official standard infantry rifle of the Willinkian military.
4: The former title of the Constitutional Republic of Willink.

(OOC: Special thanks to Willink for the information used in this piece.)