2 Prologue(1) - Revised
Re-edited version by Kyen_Syr and I
It was the same thing for the last few years for me. I start my day by waking up, eating breakfast, gearing up with my guns and spare ammunition magazines, getting into position while waiting for orders, taking a small smoke break with some cigarettes that helped ease the tense nerves, shoot some poor bastard that had the misfortune of pissing off the wrong people, reload my guns with another bullet, and repeat steps five to seven until it's time to end the day again. Sure, I do eat lunch and dinner when appropriate, but this life—with its monotonous tone of rinse and repeat the same things for so very long—was a living hell to those of us here.
Unfortunately, I had no fucking idea how long I've been doing this shit since losing track of what felt like so long ago. The only "real" way I could estimate how long this shitshow has been going on—if I had to guess—would be the number of times the seasons had come and gone. Going by the way the seasons change, I'd roughly estimate it had been eight years.
'Did Germany even have four seasons, though?' I thought to myself.
A quick mental check of everything that had happened would roughly confirm such a notion though it is difficult to tell nowadays compared to before things went to Hell.
Anyways, I'm what other people call a "mob" type character. Neither a protagonist, antagonist or even cannon fodder with how I looked. If I even bothered to look in a mirror, I'd probably look like an average and unassuming background character—although I'm not going to go around and call myself 'Cid Kagenou' since that would be far too on the nose. That fucker actually believed he was some side character in a story when he obviously wasn't.
I mentally clicked my tongue at the thought. 'Damn traitor, you're the fucking final boss more than some random NPC! You have no damn idea how us real background characters feel like!'
"Talking to yourself again, Rex?" a mysterious voice inquired.
This always happened to me, but if this was seven years ago, I'd be mortified. Lost in a mental monologue as if narrating my own story, but I suppose to you (or is it me?), you'd need the exposition. After all, everyone is the star of their own life and our experiences in the past are simply just pages being filled with words. Sadly, everyone present had lost that feeling of being embarrassed to any extent. It was one of many prices we had to pay.
As I refocused my attention a bit, I looked out over my battered and somewhat dysfunctional battalion. In all of this time, I still couldn't fully remember all their names, but their indifferent faces would tell you enough that this shithole robbed them of most semblance of humanity. Not a single person here would show expressions of fear or solemn dread on their faces—unlike seven years ago when they were still green around the gills—and just seemed to wait for orders.
"Rex," the same mysterious voice said—their tone getting a bit more stern as if trying to attract more of my attention.
Let's take a moment to give you (or myself) a bit more exposition before I attempt to respond to this stern voice and initiate a dialogue. All of us here—including myself—are currently in the battleground of World War 3. You (or I) might ask 'What is a world war and why is it the third one?' yet unless you missed your history class teacher teaching you about the first two or you're too damn lazy to remember it from your school days, take a moment to tab out of this story and use whatever popular search engine you prefer (Bing, Google, Weibo, etc) to find it out. You (and I) don't need to go into the whole history lesson schtick.
Tangent aside, the reason why we are in this shithole is because (to literally no one's surprise) some dumbfuck politician in Germany decided to cause an extinction-level event. Yes, a country that—to anyone with a single-digit IQ—had no prior history of violence and was peace-loving suddenly desired to cause such devastation on a global scale. Honestly, I had no idea what the Allied forces were thinking when they let Germany remain autonomous, but that is already a done deal.
"Rex?" the voice asked—their tone getting more irritated from my lack of response.
Perhaps I was far too biased and jumped to conclusions since it might be possible that people had a heart before the Cold War and we—as humans—still had some empathy back then. However, at this point in my life, I don't give a single fuck about it. All I desired now was some hot meals and seeing my family that I hadn't seen in a long time. Sadly, this was not to be since the Germans were secretly able to come up with an entire anti-nuke arsenal along with some unholy combination of SHIELD Heli-carriers and Star Destroyers from the Star Wars original trilogy. This would undoubtedly make anyone fighting on the ground wet themselves in fear, but for people like myself who were in the trenches like their great-grandfathers, all we had to our names was a fucking PISTOL!
I wouldn't be surprised if old Adolf Hitler—aka history's greatest racist scumbag—is smiling down (or is it up?) from wherever he is and mocking everyone still living in this hellhole— —
"REX?!" the voice inquired yet again—their tone more irritated and louder than before.
'Damn, can't a guy yap his life away in peace?' I thought to myself as I was getting ready to sock this fucker in the face for interrupting my inner narration.
Before I could swing my fist right into the fucker's face, I looked back up at them and found out who it was. My whole body went still as if some bastard with a stick casted a full-body binding spell on me as my eyes gave away my shock—which was definitely the biggest outward expression of emotion I've had in recent years—while I relaxed my balled fist. After putting my gun back into its holster, I straightened my posture to salute like a soldier while facing my superior. Remember, kids, don't ever be rude to your superiors unless you want to be punished.
"Sir yes sir!" I responded while still saluting, "Lieutenant Rex, 32nd Battalion, reporting for duty!"
The man in front of me—my previously mentioned superior—wore the same bloodied worn-out gear as the rest of us. It told tales of many battles on the battlefield with a distinction of being armed with a switchblade-rifle gear loadout—although I had long forgotten what kind of model the rifle was—and it had a small pin that could be considered invisible from a long distance hanging on his vest. This very same pin indicated his superior position to my pitiful lieutenant pin.
His short obsidian-black hair was barely visible under his combat helmet as his earth-brown eyes bore into me—that gaze looking slightly downward at me. Compared to me, his six feet and three-inch fit build felt somewhat intimidating.
Unfortunately, in this battlefield of blood and ash, I really couldn't care less about being intimidated by someone's height and body build. Not after going through several years of this hellish torment. The only reason I even bothered to go through saluting him was because he is one of the very few people in my life who are truly worthy of my respect.
After what felt like a few minutes—although it was only five more seconds, not hours like some of you (or I?) expected—his impassive and strict countenance quickly softened as he said "At ease, Captain."
'Captain? When did I become a Captain?' I thought to myself as it seemed like things had gotten slightly out of hand here. 'Wasn't there someone else before me?'
As if sensing—maybe he was secretly a Jedi?—my confusion, my superior then explained to me the situation. Apparently, a guy named Simon did not make it yesterday—for the uneducated, that means he's dead—and I was the next in line behind him for the promotion to the rank of Captain. This situation obviously made me irritated since it meant more responsibility and time away from my family as I'd have to fight longer on the front lines.
"Major," I began to inquire as I was getting even more annoyed with the true weight of the promotion, "with all due respect, but wouldn't fatt—I mean Pat—over there be next in line?"
I then gestured over towards the very man in question who had overheard my conversation with the Major—did I forget to mention that my superior was a Major?—and started to look like he was getting colder than normal.
"Oi brat," Pat began as he started to holler at me, "you were about to call me 'Fatty-Patty' again, weren't you?!"
Another side character—some random person whose name I had long forgotten—then spoke up from where he was sitting. He sat on top of some crates to the far left side of me, in case you (or I) was curious.
"Come on T-Rex! You know Ol' Pat is sensitive about his weight!"
'He acts like a fucking girl in that way,' I thought to myself to finish off that side character's dialogue since it didn't need to be spoken out loud for me to find that out.
As for him calling me T-Rex, it is my nickname among this ragtag group of soldiers on the battlefield despite me being one of the younger guys here. Out of all of us who had registered for this battle, I had been part of the first batch of unfortunate souls deployed to the 32nd battalion under Major Phil. This—somehow—made me treated as a senior officer by most of them, thus giving them inspiration for this nickname although our ranks didn't differ much until today. It felt very cringey—I admit—and I'd rather just be called by my name.
Tuning slightly out of my inner narration yet again, I started to hear Pat call Lanky—the side character previously mentioned—an asshole and begin one of the few pieces of entertainment we had in the trenches: a typical NPC verbal fight. Sadly, out of everyone else here in the battalion, only Fatty and myself were all that was left of the first batch. He is also the only one here who'd call me a 'brat.'
"Alright boys," Major Phil announced, "that's enough. Quiet down."
"YES, SIR!" had been the response of many of my fellow mob characters and thus ended the entertainment before I could truly see it go beyond the exposition.
Soon after a blanket of silence washed over the boys in our battalion, Phil began to explain the situation once more. From his words, Pat had actually turned down the promotion—opting to give it to me instead, the lazy fucker—and further explained that he needed a captain. I had been the best choice out of all the people in the current line of succession and I simply could not refuse when he grasped my right shoulder with a nearly imperceptible tremble in his corresponding arm. I had felt—or was it my latent Jedi senses?—that a rejection of this promotion would really put Phil at the end of his rope since no one else could command more respect and was aware of how things worked around here aside from the lazy Fatty and myself.
Taking into consideration that Fatty's current fitness level was not really up to par with most of us here, it was nearly a literal protagonist-level of bullshit fortune that he hadn't been offed so far. This had made me very annoyed at the obvious plot armor bullshit going on here—making me click my tongue in annoyance at his wannabe NPC nature.
Summarizing the following events, I was pretty much forced into a position I didn't really want by Phil in the end. I then responded in kind by replying more appropriately to my new stature—pleasing Major Phil—and he then reprimanded me for zoning out in the middle of a battlefield. He further warned that any further lack of focus could prove fatal—something he didn't need to tell me since bullets and shit like it were being fired everywhere on a literal battlefield.
Despite not being a fan of David Bowie—let alone even listening to his music currently—I did manage to pick up on his jab when he stated how if he didn't make it, I'd take charge and be called 'Major Tom' by the boys. That made a few soft snickers come out of my fellow mobs but soon quieted down under my gaze
Clicking my tongue in annoyance I muttered "Major, that's not what the song was about."
"I know Rex, I know, but you sure do act like Walter Mitty. I honestly don't even wanna know what goes on in that brain of yours", he rudely replied.
Honestly, my promotion to captain doesn't carry much weight for me. I might not even live long enough to see us granted permission to return home. So, I figure I might as well pursue one of the ambitions of the version of myself that perished years ago and attempt to ascend the daunting corporate hierarchy. On the subject of influence and authority, it's high time I leveraged it to extract the answer to a burning question that I'm certain occupies the thoughts of many among us.
"Major?"
"Yes?"
"Have we been abandoned?"
That captured the undivided attention of the entire group. Our elite squad, consisting of an impressive 13 NPCs along with two recently named characters, turned their gaze toward me and the major, who appeared to be at the heart of a hushed conference. The major's calm exterior faltered briefly before he regained his composure, retorting, "Certainly not! Captain, your remark is highly inappropriate and verges on insubordination. I should consider taking disciplinary action!"
I let out a heavy sigh, addressing the major, "Major, when was the last time we received any supplies? All our ammunition is scraped together from what's left in the barracks and what we can scavenge."
The major attempted to defend the situation, his tone desperate, "We do receive supplies, just not ammunition. Headquarters is strapped for resources at the moment. But we do get food! Where do you think all that meat I cook for you guys every day comes from?" His arguments would have evoked sympathy on any other day, but not today. If I was going to be the captain, these men deserved answers, they deserved the unvarnished truth.
"Major, do you really think we're so oblivious that we haven't noticed the daily disappearance of corpses from the battlefield?" I could hear some stomachs churn and growl, and I saw disgust etch across a few faces as the grim reality sank in. For the first time in a year, the apathy etched into the 32nd's expressions crumbled.
"And the fact that you've banned all personnel from the kitchen under the flimsy excuse of 'inadequate cooking skills' has made people pay closer attention to what's going on."
The major's fist clenched, his nails nearly drawing blood from his skin before he finally relaxed his hand and let out a heavy sigh. He looked at me and the rest of our squad, guilt etched across his face, and confessed, "If you already know, then there's no point in pretending otherwise. It's the truth, BUT I swear on my life that only enemy bodies were used."
"We know," I stated, "or else we would have refused and starved."
As I noticed that no one in the squad held him with hatred or betrayal in their eyes, the major's expression shifted to one of gratitude. While this revelation undoubtedly damaged morale, it was a necessary step to end the lies and build the solidarity and trust required for a battalion to survive in enemy territory. In a Shonen tale, this might have been a fitting point to conclude and march off to battle, united by our newfound trust in the major.
But this isn't that kind of story. The whole truth, what they don't know, still needs to come to light. So, I pressed on.
"Major, I'll ask once more: have we been abandoned?"
"Absolutely not, and I stand by that. HQ wouldn't be so heartless. Remember their orders: stay alive until the extraction team can rescue us from this hellhole!"
My patience, even for this man, was wearing thin. "Major! Those orders came nearly a year ago, and that's the last time we received supplies and reinforcements. It's a miracle we're still breathing. The Germans don't take our little unit seriously; they seem to delight in toying with any shred of hope until they decide to finish us off. Furthermore, Pat and I were informed by Captain Simon that it's been over six months since we last received any communications from HQ!"
The 32nd, already unsettled by the major's admission of cannibalism, grew even more agitated and resigned to their fate after this revelation.
Phil surveyed his battalion, his boys, and came to a decision. "Rex is right, everything he's said is true. We haven't heard a peep from HQ, and all our attempts to send signals have been thwarted or ignored. This is the grim reality of war, where not everyone is treated fairly, especially for an outgunned unit in enemy territory. HQ might have long considered us dead or compromised. For all they know, we could be working for the Germans, masquerading as American troops."
Before anyone could interject, he continued. "Having said that, Simon and I weren't naïve. We realized that a few trucks couldn't get us back across the sea and home. So, we were developing a plan, which we kept hidden, as a last resort. It was selfish of us, I admit. But understand that even if this plan works, we'll be court-martialed for insubordination. In the worst-case scenario, we'll be imprisoned, interrogated, tortured, and silenced out of fear that we'll reveal the injustices we've witnessed or are secretly German agents. And the chances of success are next to nil. Is that clear?"
We received a resounding "Sir, yes, sir!" before I spoke up.
"Major, most of us have given up on ever returning home or seeing American soil again. Even if this plan is a suicide mission, we'll take it because hope is all that's left."
The major's voice rang out with determination. "All right!" he exclaimed. "It's not the most comprehensive plan, but before our last drone was shot down, we managed to confirm the existence of a German outpost located 8 klicks to the north, on Mount Murker. This outpost was originally a wind farm, so it's moderately well-guarded. It serves as a crucial power source for their base, ensuring a steady supply of resources from Berlin and regular maintenance runs. To prevent circuit failures, they shut down the farm on the 8th of each month, allowing electricians to inspect it. Today, as some of you may not know, is the 8th, which explains the lack of action at their base during the day. At night, their vigilance drops considerably. Our plan is to set our camp on fire, creating a diversion to draw as much attention as possible while we slip away in the dead of night through a hidden trail to Mount Murker. There, we will launch a full-scale assault to secure a transport aircraft. That's when our ace pilot, Lanky over here, will fly us out. Any questions?"
The major's words resonated with a sense of urgency. It was far from a foolproof plan, with numerous variables and uncertainties, such as the power not being shut off or the aircraft not being fueled. But it was our only option.
In perfect unison, we all responded, "Sir, no, sir!"
"Very well, boys. Start packing up; we move out at sunset."
Let me know what you think.
