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Post by VoxApocrypha on Oct 24, 2022 8:55:06 GMT -5
1902, 8 months after the overthrow.
"Fucking stop, god damn it!" Adashenko shuted, before two more bullets blew chunks out of the bricks above his head. He'd been ducking his head again, trying to shout at the rebels, to tell them to surrender. But he'd been told to do that every fucking day for two months. He'd sigh, and slowly slide down into a crouch, staring across to the other Festria man standing at his side, an Aldenite national guardsman. He was slowly loading more 30.06 into his rifle, pushing the bullets with his gloved finger slowly down into his rifle, as more bullets flew through the hole in the wall, and smacked into the back wall behind them.
"..We should just shoot them." The Festria said, looking up at Adashenko.
"We can't just shoot them, they're our-" The other festria made a 'silence' motion. "Enough."
He lowered his rifle, aiming it away to not flag Adashenko. "They're not listening. They don't care." He'd tell them. "We can't convince them, we have to just fucking kill the ones who grabbed rifles."
"I'm not going to let you shoot them." He'd say, staring up at them, an angry expression rising on his muzzle.
The Festria stared at them, and a moment later, he threw a brick through the hole in the wall.
Immediately nine bullets came through the hole, slamming into the wall behind them.
"You see that shit?" The Aldenite said.
"..."
A moment later, they turned, and fired another bullet downrange. In the distance, a shadowy head snapped back as half their skull was blown away, and more return fire came their way, blowing a brick out of the wall they were using as cover.
A moment later, more bullets, from their side this time came down range, firing from a house not far away, blowing two more rebels away. The rest of the silhouttes would leave cover, racing down the road, one dropping their rifle.
"This isn't a game." The Aldenite said quietly. "We're fighting an enemy. A real, breathing enemy. It's not tsarists who're giving up. These are different." He'd step into the open, and out of the hole, as more Aldenites followed behind, Festria and Kithium-Festria hybrids in a squad.
"Let's move!" He'd shout, sprinting quickly down the pile of rubble and into the snowy field ahead, racing across towards the house they'd just been firing at. More gunshots came from the house, but more rounds were sent back from the squad, ending a moment later. Adashenko starred at the house for a moment, before then gesturing for his squad to follow. He made his way to another house, sprinting into another building. He would jump through a window, the others doing the same, quickly getting into the cover while part of his squad swept the house. It was empty, had been for awhile.
He'd look into the distance, able to see the distant smoke plumes and orange glow of raging fires in the city of Omega.
They were making their way there to retake it entirely, and to suppress the uprising. The republic of Kiria, or just the Kiralian Republic. The islands were subdued. But the mainland portion had held off an assault for a few weeks, but been broken, and now they were racing to join the loyalist army fighting in the city, the last major Kirialian major city. He'd been there once. It was beautiful. He could only imagine that it was being gradually reduced to rubble.
He'd wait, and start to move across the road. More gunshots were heard, and he watched as from the alley between two homes, two Kiralian men raced out into the street, one with their chest exploding as a bullet tore through it - the other being shot in the kneecap, and then through the shoulder, and another round the cranium, spraying brain matter across the ground. Adashenko would stare for a moment longer, and then leave his cover, racing to the next building. But they were basically done here.. it was clear. They'd killed the last two rebels.. well, the Aldenites had.
He sighed quietly.
If there was a sensation that truly resembled deep, terrible misery, then the Kiralian war was it.
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Post by VoxApocrypha on Nov 6, 2022 21:30:05 GMT -5
1902, 8 months after the overthrow.
City of Omega - Kirialian Republic Territory of Roskana / Breakaway Republic of Kiralia.
Entry - Lower New-Town
Flakes of a crystal white fell from a grey sky, dark clouds heralding the long winter. The worst winter in generations.
The falling snow casted a haze across the skyline of the largest city in Northern Roskana, with much of its distant building-clusters only ever seen by the onlookers from distant rooftops by the flashes of ordinance launched from artillery guns or warships in the harbor. Every thunderous boom echoed across the skyline of traditional marble and stone buildings, many reduced to rubble. Offices, homes, some palaces, stores, businesses.. so many of them were ruins now. Victim to a heavy handed response, born out of economic and political neccessity, and ideological hypocrisy alike.
Adashenko starred out into the distance from atop of the remains of one of the city's few large office blocks, belonging to a company that'd by and large collapsed during the overthrow. Out of business had been plastered across much of its front when they'd arrived, but now with half of it now a collapsed ruin, it would only be a relic of this short war, and the probably torn down and recycled. There'd be no monuments to this war.
This was a tragedy playing out before him, and he had a role in it.
As the fires in the distance raged, providing a orange glare to the snows haze, his eyes unfocused.
Images of suffering and pain dripped through his mind, clear as day and always at the forefront of his mind. Especially so when he'd be on the street.
Women, children. Freezing in the snow because there was no firewood. Starving because there was no food. The rebels had taken it all, or the Republicans - his own side for fucks sake - had destroyed it with incendiarys and artillery.
The devastation was immense. He couldn't help but feel he was watching the start of the apocalypse in real time.
And every night he was haunted by the images of dead children, men, women, people.
Pilled up out in the street after they'd frozen to death in the night. Or starved. Some stabbed, others.. unidentifiable.
Pulled from rubble or the burnt remains of houses, buildings and wrecked and scorched wagons.
In moments like this he didn't use the lull in the fighting as a source of self reflection. He couldn't.
If he did he feared he might take his own life when the real misery of this all set in. Already he wasn't sure if he could take much more of what he'd been forced to endure and see over the past two years, and longer really.
But lingering deeper was a more rational fear, that he'd get so desensitized to the suffering he was witnessing, helping inflict.. that he'd become numb to it.
He didn't want to end up like that.
Numb to suffering. He feared he could become..
Worse than that, if he did.
The things he'd seen Festria his age do after coming back home from war, only to be thrust into the overthrow and now into this had left haunting pictures in his mind, and to think that they were simply just numb and broken, emotionally detached from their actions was both an acknowledgement of the truth that, yes they were - and a frightening image of what he could become if he let himself devolve like that. Slowly Adashenko clsoed his eyes, trying to refocus, blinking a few times as he brought his hands up to cover his face, breathing into them to warm the fur. He reached down to the ground with a gloved hand and slowly pushed himself back to his feet, and turned to look around again. A couple of marksmen and a pair of looks outs were up with him, and if he were to look down the exposed rubble of the office, all five floors of it, he'd be able to see at leasts two more groups watching the roads and buildings around them.
Small groups of people were roaming the area.
Collecting scraps and digging through rubble. Some few were all hanging around a number of fires by a apartment building.
This area was for the time being, quiet and clear. The real fighting was still raging further in the city proper, towards Old-Town where the five castles that made the core of the city and surrounded the Palace, the area where the Kiralians were at their strongest, and where they'd held out against repeated attempts to dislodge them and to break into the Palace, the new presidential palace. He'd been told that his unit would be moving in support of another push against it, as well there'd be units clearing the harbor area of the last strongpoints of enemy resistance.
As he turned to make his way back to the stairwell, he would sling his rifle over his shoulder, and brush some snow off of his rank patches.
His promotion wasn't a wanted one, but a neccessary one, and he'd been pushed to acting as a specialist. He had extensive expertise with rifles and was a expert marksman, so he was picked out of natural need. A lot of this had been street by street fighting and clearing houses required people who knew how best to use rifles and grenades, and he had become the main trainer for the group - not that it was neccessary now. Everyone was experienced, and those who did not learn were killed as they made there way here.
War was brutal, it wasn't simple and at the best of times it was a gamble still.
In this weather, with falling snow, it'd be a difficult slog up to Old Town, and they only had a couple of blocks secured before they entered 'Gambit Way', the path that they'd have to take.
Full of civilians, roaming patrols from both sides, and as well, a lot of house-to-house street fights had taken place in that area. Worse still, gangs. A lot of small gangs and then.. the fucking Grey-Suns.
Mercenary militiamen who'd simply become their own government of a sort.
They'd been getting slaughtered in a lot of places but the mercs and their grey tunics were becoming a lot better at fighting now that they'd been regularly mauled by both the Rebels, of whom sometimes helped them and sometimes slaughtered them out of spite and for.. likely well, a variety of good reasons - and the Republican Army of which was actively trying to secure the city to the best of its ability, but was consistently forced to have to focus its attentions in theatre on specific areas, and leave only combat patrols to search and destroy the enemy.
He descended the stairs, floor by floor until he was at the bottom level, and then he would make his way through the lobby, the only part of the building still mostly intact.
He could hear a pair of couriers exchanging information with the commander adjuntant, and see a pair of runners race inside of the building, heading to the basement where the commander was plotting the next part of their action.
Adashenko's boots left imprints in the snow as he walked to join his squad, of which was sitting in a pothole around a fire. He opened his mouth to speak, but heard the shouting voice of a runner ordering everyone to their feet, with the sergeants racing out and doing the same. Quickly, he and the rest of the 9 man squad were quickly loading their rifles and standing ready. They were about to jump off.
He pushed his thoughts away, replacing it with stoicism.
As they would push the makeshift gate from around their little FOB, he and they would be the first to advance out and to secure the street outside of the office building, gathering up and huddling against the cobblestone walls, using old crates for cover. This area was where a lot of sniper attacks had happened, but streets in general were dangerous like that and the worry was more so about getting tagged from further down by rebel sharpshooters. They watched the streets at either end, and then squads began to move after them, advancing down the road in a leepfrog fashion - one group stood watch, the others would advance, leaving a group for watch while the prior watchmen would advance too, keeping a constant field of fire on the likely avenues of attack.
They kept moving like this, some of their number directed to clear civilians away, shouting at them to get into their homes or out of the street, and to leave.
More of them began to move, the sergeants directing the men to follow quickly behind them, starting to move more quickly. The building at the other side of the road appeared clear and no shots were fired. A team entered it as they got close, and they'd be able to see them take positions in the windows to provide overwatch to the advancing force, protecting them and allow the remainder of the watchmen to focus on grouping back up with their main force. They were on the move now, and he and the rest of the men knew what was about to begin.
Gambit Way
"Check Right!" Adashenko shouted. The other man in his fireteam replied after sweeping the right side of the alley with his rifle, "Clear!"
"Move!" He'd order, the group moving down the alley while others followed behind, going down the narrow side-street until they reached the main road, a four lane passage of cobblestone with solid stone bricks for sidewalks. This road was lined with patches of rubble, turned wagons, and a lot of barrels of burning rubbish, giving warmth to groups of civilians of whom had largely dispersed, though a few lingered.
A few corpses lay in the road, Grey coated men with rifles. Further off, more bodies, wearing the green rag on the shoulder and a golden hat.
Rebel bodies. There'd been a firefight and not that long ago, clearly. Still he wasn't sure where more of the enemy might be. As they emerged onto another sidestreet connecting to the main road, they would take cover behind some crates and debris, waiting for a moment before a whistle was blown from behind them. They went forwards, rifles raised, making their way to a patch of sandbags and debris in the middle of the road and quickly getting into cover inside of it. As Adashenko's back hit the sandbags, he saw the round punch through one of his squadmate's arm buttocks before he actually heard the rifle report.
With a yelp, muffled by the crack of a gun, he watched them hit the ground grabbing their ass with their hands, screaming.
He reached out, grabbing them and yanking them over to him and into cover, their face against the sandbags while the squad's medic crawled over, and more rifle fire began to dig into the sandbags, while others further down the street began to fire back. It was coming from another building overlooking the road, down at a bend that'd take them into Old town itself. He could see what looked to be piled up crates, and more rifle fire could be seen coming from it as puffs of snow were sent high, and muzzle flashes made vapor from snow.
"Shit." Adashenko said, as more rifle fire began to erupt from both ends of the road. Turning himself, he pushed a sandbag out of the way, and propped his rifle up.
He rolled into position and pulled the bolt back just slightly, enough to see the round in the chamber, before he pushed it forward again and would sight in on the barricade. He watched for a puff of snow, and then focused in on it, aiming towards it before he fired again, blowing a chunk out of a wooden box, before another puff of snow and smoke gave way to dirt blasting his face, as a sandbag next to him was shot.
"Fucks sake!" Adashenko said, rolling back and brushing the dirt from his face, tears welling up in his eyes as he struggled to get the dirt out. "Motherfuckers!"
He would shake his head, the rest of the dirt gone, before he would push another sandbag down, and sight in with his rifle. He took a shot at the same place as before, and another greeted him, him and his opponent going back and forth as the rest of the squad kept firing back at the barricade. But it seemed they were getting nowhere, no matter how much they shot. After a moment he sighed and went back to laying on the snowy ground, upper back and head propped against the sandbag wall, watching as more troops began to enter the street.
Being pushed by a group of Festria, was a new artillery gun, moved by wheels and the physical force of the group of large men and women. They rolled it into position, and before long he could see sparks blowing off of the metal shielding that covered the artillery gun and its crew.
"Cover your ears!" He shouted, Adashenko doing the same as the rest of his squad would as well. He opened his mouth, waiting for a moment, as the Festria gunner and loader aimed and loaded the gun. A moment later, it was pointed at its intended target, the building down the road. The gunner waited a moment, and yanked on the firing cord, sending a high explosive shell straight into the building, blowing off its front face and sending it collapsing down into the barricade. Apollo took a breath as the puffy cloud of snow and steam fell around him, enveloping their position. The crew of the artillery gun would lower the barrel, and then a moment later as a new shell was entered into the breach, they'd once again fire.
The barricade was obltierated by another high explosive shell, sending bits of crates, sandbags, ruined wagon wreckage and body parts flying for meters in every direction.
"By Razina!" Adashenko shouted as a arm and mangled rifle landed near him, with bits of crate and wooden splinters falling around them as well. The gunfire had stopped, though he could hardly make the difference out, his ears still ringing. He and the rest of his squad, minus one of whom had to be taken back to the FOB on a stretcher, would pull themselves up from the sandbags, and begin to advance down the street.
There was no more fire coming from the barricade. Not that there even really was much of a barricade left.
They made their way towards it, rifles at the ready just in case as they approached the smoldering wreck, and began to pick over it. The advancing element continued on, but Adashenko and his squad stopped, joining another group as they began to clear the remains of the structure they'd blown apart. It's entire front was gone, and the people inside were similarly so eviscerated. Only a few bodies were intact, the rest were bits and pieces, shredded by wooden shrapnel, metal shards, pulped by concussive forces or otherwise incapacitated, which meant that the two they found alive were arrested after receiving the most brutal beating he'd seen someone dish out to another living person in his life.
And having been through boot, that was saying something, because the ass kickings in boot were notorious for leaving someone with scars, not just bruises.
He would be back in the street before too long, watching as more men were sent along. The area seemed mostly clear, but they had miles more to cover along Gambit Road.
And as they went, they came into more firefights, bullets and small handbombs lobbed between one end of the street and another, this barricade easily circumvented by a squad of men coming in from an alley.
They ripped through it, and destroyed the barricade a minute later with the rolling field gun they'd brought up with them.. more so really fit to be used by a small warship, but the Festria were known for innovating in combat often, and this was another innovation.
This was also navy bullshitting at its finest - use what you can, salvage what you can - and he was glad it was serving them, and him, so well now.
They continued to move.
They were closing in on the city center, and he could see in the haze, one of the castles.
And hear the fighting too, as other forces advanced along other lanes of Gambit Road towards the city center, battling rebel and gang resistance, breaking through bit by bit.
Soon they'd be within sight of their ultimate objective. They'd be able to end this.
And he hoped that it'd be soon, before putting his thoughts aside again - and moving forward with his squad, as more bullets tore through the air around him.
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