Post by callmedelta on Oct 2, 2022 21:48:47 GMT -5
Fort Douglas, Franerre-Elenria border, Bromsole Province
Private Jean-Marc 'Kick' Favre and the rest of 7th Battalion assembled in the training grounds of Fort Douglas, standing ramrod-straight as they waited for the drill instructor to arrive. Their unit was the last to be redeployed to the Elenrian border, and so was the last to go through this training. Kick didn't really see the point, though. He'd been active duty less than a month ago, so he didn't really need a 'refresher' course. Hell, the longest he'd heard of someone in the unit being out of the army was only seven months. Kick could see some guys being out of shape, but that only required a lot of PT to overcome, not full-on retraining like they were some fresh-faced recruits. 'Once a solider, always a soldier' was practically the motto of every Franerri conscript he'd ever met.
Kick had just started to relax somewhat when the Fort's bugles blew, signaling 0900. As soon as they finished playing, what had to be the most stereotypical drill sergeant stepped out onto the grounds; he was a tall man with an angry face seemingly crafted by God himself to wear the glare and scowl they did now, lighter skinned than most everyone in the unit. The sergeant looked bald, though Kick couldn't tell with the top of his head covered by the officer's cap. "I am Sergeant Władysław Raczkowski," the drill sergeant said, beginning that appraising walk every soldier knew to loathe, sizing up the 7th Battalion, "If you cannot pronounce that, I can and discharge you from this army and send you back first year where you belong so you can be educated on the finer points of the leaning how to speak.” Raczkowski kept up his eagle eyed scan of the formation of soldiers as he continued to walk until he reached the other end of the troop where Kick and a few other soldiers were lined up.
“Tell me soldier,” Sergeant Raczkowski said, walking right in the face of one Jace ‘Whine’ Lachlan, who stood a few spots to the left of Jean-Marc, “Where are you?”
“Fort Douglas sir!” Whine replied, barely missing a beat.
“WRONG!” Sergeant Raczkowski shouted. “Drop and give me 20!” As Whine began to do his push ups, Kick felt his heart begin to sink. This really was a repeat of basic, wasn’t it? There wasn’t even a correct answer to the question, or if there was one it was so out of the box there was no way anyone would get it without being told the answer. The Drill Sergeant made his way through the few soldiers between himself and Favre. “The border?” “In the army?” “Bromsole Province?” “The Franerri-Elenrian border?” All got the same reply. “Drop and give me 20!”
Finally, Sergeant Raczkowski stood in front of Kick. “Tell me soldier, where are you?”
Out of the box it was then, with just a small pinch of sucking up. “The most important place in the world?” Kick half-said half-asked, just barely making sure he didn’t ask it as a question.
Surprisingly, the Drill Sergeant smiled. “Well, it looks like this battalion has at least one brain cell between them.”
‘Holy shit, that worked?’ Kick thought. The Sergeant took a quick note of Jean-Marc’s name then turned, walking towards a more central location to address the entire unit.
“Private Favre is correct. You are in the most important place in Franerre. 15 kilometers from here is the border with Elenria, and in Elenria is Kumosenkan. Kumo’s are natural weapons; they are bigger than you, they naturally generate a deadly toxin, and they can naturally weave a silk so God damn useful we could be here all day talking about it. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they could talk to their smaller spider cousins, so if you see one, squash it. But most importantly, they have no qualms about murdering you and eating your corpse. These spiders may be women, but they are the furthest thing from the girls you are all waiting to go back home to. They are ruthless killers, and any moment of hesitation on your part will see you dead and your corpse filling the gullet of some Kumo bitch. Do you understand?"
“Sir yes sir!” the unit replied in unison.
“Now,” Raczkowski, “Against such an overwhelming foe, only Franerre’s best soldiers could do. You are not those soldiers. Those soldiers are off fighting in the U-S-T to go save the Tafatu.” It was plain to see he was not happy with the situation. “You are a bunch of worthless conscripts who would rather be back home doing whatever cushy job you do. Well, it’s too bad for you. Franerre has called upon you and you must answer her. Think of everybody you have back home. You are all that stands between them and those Kumo bitches I just spoke of. And I am the one who gets to train you so you can make sure Kumosenkan knows Franerre will not bow, and that Franerre will not be conquered again. This will not be the basic training you had before, and this will not be a refresher. You will be put through a very special kind of Hell that will bring you up to the standards Franerre’s best deserve. Now, let’s get to work you worthless maggots!”
~
Fort Douglas, Franerri-Elenrian border, Bromsole Province, one week later
Kick sat his plate down at the mess, his aching body glad for the release. The drill instructor wasn’t lying; the week had been Hell so far. The only breaks they had gotten from training were eating, sleeping, and an hour on Sunday so the Fort’s chaplain could give a short sermon. Jean-Marc never thought he’d wish those boring sermons could go on for longer. Besides, didn’t the Lord give them all a day of rest?
Favre’s thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of Whine’s plate across from him, soon joined by Isaac ‘Eighteen’ Genet. Jace stretched his arms as he sat down, wincing before he got too far along. “What do you two think the odds are on the three of us having died and gone to hell?” Kick asked the two, digging into his food. That was one upside to being deployed to the border, at least; the food was better than what he’d had during his conscription service.
“If this was hell, I was expecting there to be more spiders,” Whine replied.
“What, no demons, pitchforks, pits of fire?” Eighteen asked.
“Personally,” Kick said between bites, “I don’t think we’re in hell, I just think Raczkowski’s a demon who somehow managed to slip out. Sent to torture us God-fearing Franerri by the Devil himself and all that.”
“If he is a demon, think we can get the chaplain to perform an exorcism? Maybe get some holy water?” Whine chuckled.
“What’s this about holy water?” The trio were soon joined by a fourth and fifth, one taller with dark blonde hair and the other shorter with a light brown head and pale skin, filling out the end of the table. Jean-Marc didn’t recognize either of them, and it didn’t look like Jace or Isaac did either.
“Who are you two?” Isaac asked
“I’m Jester,” the first said, only to earn a light smack on the back of the head from his shorter companion.
“That’s Owl and I’m Traveler,” Traveler explained, “We’re from 5th Battalion. You three from 6th?”
“7th,” Whine corrected, “Owl? Traveler? What’s the story behind those?”
“At least introduce yourselves first, then I'll spill the beans,” Owl said.
“I’m Kick, that’s Whine and Eighteen,” Jean-Marc said, pointing to each man in turn. “Now spill it. Need a good story to lift my spirits from all this training.”
“Not too much to the nicknames,” Traveler shrugged. “Owl can’t remember names for shit, so he’s constantly asking ‘Who? Who?’”
“As for Traveler, his dad’s rich,” Owl jumped in, “He’s been all over. Lusatia, Zedonia, Mil’Nor, UKUG proper.” The rest of the table’s mouths dropped further and further with every country listed off. “Diria, Marrlan, Zarich, CMS and Pomaz.”
“Forgot Amali,” Traveler added.
“Jeez, you really are a rich kid,” Whine said, “How the hell did you end up sloggin’ it here with the rest of us conscripts? Daddy not pay enough to get you out of the army?” There was a slight mocking, accusatory edge to the question.
“You’d be surprised how harsh the penalties are for dodging the draft,” Traveler said, “It’s ten times the service length you dodged if they find out, same goes for anyone trying to help you. Besides, I didn’t even want to, believe it or not.” Whine scoffed. “Going around the world, I know from experience there’s no other place in Ourhiri like Franerre. Franerre is a good place, and it’s worth fighting for.”
“Anyway,” Owl interjected, “What’s the story behind you three?”
“They’re a lot funnier than your nicknames, at least,” Kick chuckled. “Whine’s got his nickname cause the first weekend after we started out conscription, he went out drinking. Got absolutely shitfaced on some good wine-“
“-I am a connoisseur,” Whine commented.
“-so the next day he wakes up hungover, and he still has to do basic training. So he’s just whining and whining all day cause of the wine. So the nickname works for both wine and whine.”
“Still think you’ve got a better nickname and a better story, Kick,” Whine said.
“You just think it was better since you weren’t hungover during it,” Eighteen said.
Whine continued. “The first time he ever shot a rifle during basic, I don’t know how badly you had to fuck up holding a rifle, but the thing flew out of his hand and back a meter or two.”
“Nah, I’m pretty sure it was cause he was kicked on the head by a horse as a child,” Eighteen joked.
“So what about you?” Owl asked, raising a fork to Eighteen.
“That nickname you gotta guess,” Kick said, “It’s a tradition. First person to guess it right without being told gets a pack of cigs.”
“Bullshit,” Owl said, “That’s not how this works.”
“How it works here,” Eighteen replied with a smug grin.
“Fine. You’ve got eighteen brothers and sisters, or your the eighteenth kid or something,” Owl guessed. Eighteen shook his head. “You’ve got a tattoo of an 18 somewhere.”
“Wrong again,” Whine said.
“It’s gotta be-“ Owl’s third guess was cut off by the sound of bugles, soon followed by the collective groaning of everyone in the mess. Back to work it was.
~
Franerri defensive trench line on the Franerri-Elenrian border, Bromsole province, three weeks later.
Kick yawned, staring north, cursing his rotten luck. It was his first week out of basic, and those Kumo bitches were doing some sort of artillery drill, by the looks of it. Their shots weren’t hitting over the border, and so Franerre hadn’t returned anything. They just watched and waited. The adrenaline had worn off an hour or two ago, and Kick’s CO still said he was on watch tonight, even though he didn’t get a proper evening’s sleep.
It was still better than Razcowski’s Hell, all things considered.
At the very least, he wasn’t alone. Thomas ‘Squirrel’ Argeaux stood next to him, also yawning. What was that saying about misery and company? “Quit that,” Kick said, giving Squirrel a light punch on the shoulder. “You’re gonna make me yawn.”
“You yawned first, hypocrite,” Squirrel lazily replied, yawning again as he gave Kick his own punch on the shoulder.
“Don’t care,” Kick said, “You’re gonna make us both fall asleep if you keep yawning like that.” Kick just barely fought another one down.
“Blame the Captain for putting us on duty, blame Kumo for that God damn artillery, blame anyone but me. Not like I want to be out here anymore than you.” Squirrel yawned again, nearly bringing Kick’s back to the surface. “Got a cig? They usually help keep me focused."
“You already owe me five,” Kick grumbled, fumbling around in his pocket for his cigs and matches.
“Then now I owe you six,” Squirrel said. Kick withdrew two cigarettes and a matchbook from his pocket, striking the match and lighting the pair’s cigarettes. Squirrel had the bad luck to yawn just as he took his first puff, doubling over in a coughing fit.
Kick chuckled wryly. “Serves you right you bum."
“Fuck you,” Squirrel said, breathless and still coughing, “That sucked.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the feeling.” Literally, in this case, and Kick had done the same thing a few nights earlier. He patted Squirrel on the back. “Go get some rest, man. I’m sure Kumosenkan’s just blowing smoke now that Franerre’s distracted.” Kick wished he could be that gullible, but in Squirrel’s tired state he actually believed it. “Besides, any trouble and I can just fire off Grazyna here, and that’ll wake everyone up in a hurry.” Kick ran his hand over the large Gatling gun lovingly. It took a two man team to operate, but he still had his carbine slung over his shoulder. Besides, they had some pretty light sleepers in the dirt bunker a few meters away. Any gunshots and the whole unit would be up in less than a minute.
“You sure?"
“Just go,” Kick said, waving him off. Squirrel didn’t take any more convincing than that, stumbling towards the dirt bunker.
Now it was just Jean-Marc and his thoughts. He didn’t particularly mind being alone with his thoughts as he scanned the dark landscape in front of him. He enjoyed the peace of the night. Jean hardly got any peace or quiet at home with mom and dad always fighting, and he didn’t make enough to move out. The military usually wasn’t much better. Nights like this, only himself, one other guy to shoot the shit with, and the dull embers of his cigarette were calming. It would have helped if he weren’t tired at shit, but the military tended to make one a master at working while being tired as shi-
Adrenaline coursed through Kick’s veins as he felt something whiz just barely past his ear. He turned around, seeing the plume of dirt from whatever that thing was landing on the other side of the trench line. Was it a bullet? No, no way, Kick would have heard the gunshot. Whatever it was, it came from the other direction. He had just begun to unsling the carbine off his shoulder and turn, taking in a deep breath to yell when the second shot collided with the side of his head.
And everything faded to black.
Private Jean-Marc 'Kick' Favre and the rest of 7th Battalion assembled in the training grounds of Fort Douglas, standing ramrod-straight as they waited for the drill instructor to arrive. Their unit was the last to be redeployed to the Elenrian border, and so was the last to go through this training. Kick didn't really see the point, though. He'd been active duty less than a month ago, so he didn't really need a 'refresher' course. Hell, the longest he'd heard of someone in the unit being out of the army was only seven months. Kick could see some guys being out of shape, but that only required a lot of PT to overcome, not full-on retraining like they were some fresh-faced recruits. 'Once a solider, always a soldier' was practically the motto of every Franerri conscript he'd ever met.
Kick had just started to relax somewhat when the Fort's bugles blew, signaling 0900. As soon as they finished playing, what had to be the most stereotypical drill sergeant stepped out onto the grounds; he was a tall man with an angry face seemingly crafted by God himself to wear the glare and scowl they did now, lighter skinned than most everyone in the unit. The sergeant looked bald, though Kick couldn't tell with the top of his head covered by the officer's cap. "I am Sergeant Władysław Raczkowski," the drill sergeant said, beginning that appraising walk every soldier knew to loathe, sizing up the 7th Battalion, "If you cannot pronounce that, I can and discharge you from this army and send you back first year where you belong so you can be educated on the finer points of the leaning how to speak.” Raczkowski kept up his eagle eyed scan of the formation of soldiers as he continued to walk until he reached the other end of the troop where Kick and a few other soldiers were lined up.
“Tell me soldier,” Sergeant Raczkowski said, walking right in the face of one Jace ‘Whine’ Lachlan, who stood a few spots to the left of Jean-Marc, “Where are you?”
“Fort Douglas sir!” Whine replied, barely missing a beat.
“WRONG!” Sergeant Raczkowski shouted. “Drop and give me 20!” As Whine began to do his push ups, Kick felt his heart begin to sink. This really was a repeat of basic, wasn’t it? There wasn’t even a correct answer to the question, or if there was one it was so out of the box there was no way anyone would get it without being told the answer. The Drill Sergeant made his way through the few soldiers between himself and Favre. “The border?” “In the army?” “Bromsole Province?” “The Franerri-Elenrian border?” All got the same reply. “Drop and give me 20!”
Finally, Sergeant Raczkowski stood in front of Kick. “Tell me soldier, where are you?”
Out of the box it was then, with just a small pinch of sucking up. “The most important place in the world?” Kick half-said half-asked, just barely making sure he didn’t ask it as a question.
Surprisingly, the Drill Sergeant smiled. “Well, it looks like this battalion has at least one brain cell between them.”
‘Holy shit, that worked?’ Kick thought. The Sergeant took a quick note of Jean-Marc’s name then turned, walking towards a more central location to address the entire unit.
“Private Favre is correct. You are in the most important place in Franerre. 15 kilometers from here is the border with Elenria, and in Elenria is Kumosenkan. Kumo’s are natural weapons; they are bigger than you, they naturally generate a deadly toxin, and they can naturally weave a silk so God damn useful we could be here all day talking about it. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they could talk to their smaller spider cousins, so if you see one, squash it. But most importantly, they have no qualms about murdering you and eating your corpse. These spiders may be women, but they are the furthest thing from the girls you are all waiting to go back home to. They are ruthless killers, and any moment of hesitation on your part will see you dead and your corpse filling the gullet of some Kumo bitch. Do you understand?"
“Sir yes sir!” the unit replied in unison.
“Now,” Raczkowski, “Against such an overwhelming foe, only Franerre’s best soldiers could do. You are not those soldiers. Those soldiers are off fighting in the U-S-T to go save the Tafatu.” It was plain to see he was not happy with the situation. “You are a bunch of worthless conscripts who would rather be back home doing whatever cushy job you do. Well, it’s too bad for you. Franerre has called upon you and you must answer her. Think of everybody you have back home. You are all that stands between them and those Kumo bitches I just spoke of. And I am the one who gets to train you so you can make sure Kumosenkan knows Franerre will not bow, and that Franerre will not be conquered again. This will not be the basic training you had before, and this will not be a refresher. You will be put through a very special kind of Hell that will bring you up to the standards Franerre’s best deserve. Now, let’s get to work you worthless maggots!”
~
Fort Douglas, Franerri-Elenrian border, Bromsole Province, one week later
Kick sat his plate down at the mess, his aching body glad for the release. The drill instructor wasn’t lying; the week had been Hell so far. The only breaks they had gotten from training were eating, sleeping, and an hour on Sunday so the Fort’s chaplain could give a short sermon. Jean-Marc never thought he’d wish those boring sermons could go on for longer. Besides, didn’t the Lord give them all a day of rest?
Favre’s thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of Whine’s plate across from him, soon joined by Isaac ‘Eighteen’ Genet. Jace stretched his arms as he sat down, wincing before he got too far along. “What do you two think the odds are on the three of us having died and gone to hell?” Kick asked the two, digging into his food. That was one upside to being deployed to the border, at least; the food was better than what he’d had during his conscription service.
“If this was hell, I was expecting there to be more spiders,” Whine replied.
“What, no demons, pitchforks, pits of fire?” Eighteen asked.
“Personally,” Kick said between bites, “I don’t think we’re in hell, I just think Raczkowski’s a demon who somehow managed to slip out. Sent to torture us God-fearing Franerri by the Devil himself and all that.”
“If he is a demon, think we can get the chaplain to perform an exorcism? Maybe get some holy water?” Whine chuckled.
“What’s this about holy water?” The trio were soon joined by a fourth and fifth, one taller with dark blonde hair and the other shorter with a light brown head and pale skin, filling out the end of the table. Jean-Marc didn’t recognize either of them, and it didn’t look like Jace or Isaac did either.
“Who are you two?” Isaac asked
“I’m Jester,” the first said, only to earn a light smack on the back of the head from his shorter companion.
“That’s Owl and I’m Traveler,” Traveler explained, “We’re from 5th Battalion. You three from 6th?”
“7th,” Whine corrected, “Owl? Traveler? What’s the story behind those?”
“At least introduce yourselves first, then I'll spill the beans,” Owl said.
“I’m Kick, that’s Whine and Eighteen,” Jean-Marc said, pointing to each man in turn. “Now spill it. Need a good story to lift my spirits from all this training.”
“Not too much to the nicknames,” Traveler shrugged. “Owl can’t remember names for shit, so he’s constantly asking ‘Who? Who?’”
“As for Traveler, his dad’s rich,” Owl jumped in, “He’s been all over. Lusatia, Zedonia, Mil’Nor, UKUG proper.” The rest of the table’s mouths dropped further and further with every country listed off. “Diria, Marrlan, Zarich, CMS and Pomaz.”
“Forgot Amali,” Traveler added.
“Jeez, you really are a rich kid,” Whine said, “How the hell did you end up sloggin’ it here with the rest of us conscripts? Daddy not pay enough to get you out of the army?” There was a slight mocking, accusatory edge to the question.
“You’d be surprised how harsh the penalties are for dodging the draft,” Traveler said, “It’s ten times the service length you dodged if they find out, same goes for anyone trying to help you. Besides, I didn’t even want to, believe it or not.” Whine scoffed. “Going around the world, I know from experience there’s no other place in Ourhiri like Franerre. Franerre is a good place, and it’s worth fighting for.”
“Anyway,” Owl interjected, “What’s the story behind you three?”
“They’re a lot funnier than your nicknames, at least,” Kick chuckled. “Whine’s got his nickname cause the first weekend after we started out conscription, he went out drinking. Got absolutely shitfaced on some good wine-“
“-I am a connoisseur,” Whine commented.
“-so the next day he wakes up hungover, and he still has to do basic training. So he’s just whining and whining all day cause of the wine. So the nickname works for both wine and whine.”
“Still think you’ve got a better nickname and a better story, Kick,” Whine said.
“You just think it was better since you weren’t hungover during it,” Eighteen said.
Whine continued. “The first time he ever shot a rifle during basic, I don’t know how badly you had to fuck up holding a rifle, but the thing flew out of his hand and back a meter or two.”
“Nah, I’m pretty sure it was cause he was kicked on the head by a horse as a child,” Eighteen joked.
“So what about you?” Owl asked, raising a fork to Eighteen.
“That nickname you gotta guess,” Kick said, “It’s a tradition. First person to guess it right without being told gets a pack of cigs.”
“Bullshit,” Owl said, “That’s not how this works.”
“How it works here,” Eighteen replied with a smug grin.
“Fine. You’ve got eighteen brothers and sisters, or your the eighteenth kid or something,” Owl guessed. Eighteen shook his head. “You’ve got a tattoo of an 18 somewhere.”
“Wrong again,” Whine said.
“It’s gotta be-“ Owl’s third guess was cut off by the sound of bugles, soon followed by the collective groaning of everyone in the mess. Back to work it was.
~
Franerri defensive trench line on the Franerri-Elenrian border, Bromsole province, three weeks later.
Kick yawned, staring north, cursing his rotten luck. It was his first week out of basic, and those Kumo bitches were doing some sort of artillery drill, by the looks of it. Their shots weren’t hitting over the border, and so Franerre hadn’t returned anything. They just watched and waited. The adrenaline had worn off an hour or two ago, and Kick’s CO still said he was on watch tonight, even though he didn’t get a proper evening’s sleep.
It was still better than Razcowski’s Hell, all things considered.
At the very least, he wasn’t alone. Thomas ‘Squirrel’ Argeaux stood next to him, also yawning. What was that saying about misery and company? “Quit that,” Kick said, giving Squirrel a light punch on the shoulder. “You’re gonna make me yawn.”
“You yawned first, hypocrite,” Squirrel lazily replied, yawning again as he gave Kick his own punch on the shoulder.
“Don’t care,” Kick said, “You’re gonna make us both fall asleep if you keep yawning like that.” Kick just barely fought another one down.
“Blame the Captain for putting us on duty, blame Kumo for that God damn artillery, blame anyone but me. Not like I want to be out here anymore than you.” Squirrel yawned again, nearly bringing Kick’s back to the surface. “Got a cig? They usually help keep me focused."
“You already owe me five,” Kick grumbled, fumbling around in his pocket for his cigs and matches.
“Then now I owe you six,” Squirrel said. Kick withdrew two cigarettes and a matchbook from his pocket, striking the match and lighting the pair’s cigarettes. Squirrel had the bad luck to yawn just as he took his first puff, doubling over in a coughing fit.
Kick chuckled wryly. “Serves you right you bum."
“Fuck you,” Squirrel said, breathless and still coughing, “That sucked.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the feeling.” Literally, in this case, and Kick had done the same thing a few nights earlier. He patted Squirrel on the back. “Go get some rest, man. I’m sure Kumosenkan’s just blowing smoke now that Franerre’s distracted.” Kick wished he could be that gullible, but in Squirrel’s tired state he actually believed it. “Besides, any trouble and I can just fire off Grazyna here, and that’ll wake everyone up in a hurry.” Kick ran his hand over the large Gatling gun lovingly. It took a two man team to operate, but he still had his carbine slung over his shoulder. Besides, they had some pretty light sleepers in the dirt bunker a few meters away. Any gunshots and the whole unit would be up in less than a minute.
“You sure?"
“Just go,” Kick said, waving him off. Squirrel didn’t take any more convincing than that, stumbling towards the dirt bunker.
Now it was just Jean-Marc and his thoughts. He didn’t particularly mind being alone with his thoughts as he scanned the dark landscape in front of him. He enjoyed the peace of the night. Jean hardly got any peace or quiet at home with mom and dad always fighting, and he didn’t make enough to move out. The military usually wasn’t much better. Nights like this, only himself, one other guy to shoot the shit with, and the dull embers of his cigarette were calming. It would have helped if he weren’t tired at shit, but the military tended to make one a master at working while being tired as shi-
Adrenaline coursed through Kick’s veins as he felt something whiz just barely past his ear. He turned around, seeing the plume of dirt from whatever that thing was landing on the other side of the trench line. Was it a bullet? No, no way, Kick would have heard the gunshot. Whatever it was, it came from the other direction. He had just begun to unsling the carbine off his shoulder and turn, taking in a deep breath to yell when the second shot collided with the side of his head.
And everything faded to black.