Ruby approached the trucks of First Company with her weapon at low ready. She had heard fragments of the firefight over the comms — short bursts of screaming, cut transmissions, nothing clear. Now, the silence felt worse.
She stepped over the scattered remains of the enemy, chunks of charred fabric and twisted limbs half-buried in snow and soot. The treeline parted. The trucks came into view.
Something was wrong there were no sentries, no movement, not even any voices. She broke into a sprint, weapon ready, trying to ignore all the blood around the trucks. Even when she saw a severed amphibian arm lying on the ground.
The sweep was fast — muscle memory and rifle discipline guiding her from axle to wheel well, from crate to corpse. Blood coated the snow in streaks.
She moved to the last truck, the one her Corporal had been assigned to. She found him curled in the rear bed, back to the metal wall, holding a bottle of liquor with both hands like it might stop him from shaking. He wore a neck brace, looked up at her with glassy eyes, gore on his boots, and reeking of smoke and bile. “The bastards were smart, pushed us right up into a nest of grim, half the company’s gone.”
The unit would have to retreat, but the information would prove essential to another offensive, Ruby knew this wouldn’t satisfy the soldiers.
Noise came from outside, all that was left of the unit was starting to leave the trucks, Renka and the other snow leopards all had their weapons pointed in every direction, she caught Ruby up on the situation, she had already called a retreat back to the headquarters, and given out orders.
“Sarka will be with Charmaine in the rear trucks, the amphibian goes in the medical truck, everyone else goes with whoever they came with. We’ll leave in an hour. I'll be in front care to join me, Rose?” she nodded,
“Grim huh, I’ll go in the lead truck, how many were you able to get?” she challenged Renka, but she had no interest.
“A few here and there, Charmaine got the lion's share.”
Charmaine looked out for who Sarka was, only to lock eyes with the woman with cauliflower ear as she approached him. His ears flipped back as she placed her hand on his shoulder, massaging it slightly before tightening her grip, “Boy popped his cherry.” She flashed her canine as she spoke.
The guttural mucus filled voice of the amphibian filled the air as much needed break in tension.
“Hell yeah thats my First Corporal, only bastard I know tough enough to survive gettin’ his head blown off.” The boy chuckled, they all did, and he almost let himself relax, remembering what happened last time. “But why is he in the rear?” “We can’t risk losing him if we get attacked again, he’s still just a trainee in this unit.” said Renka. “He is?!” the amphibian looked at Charmaine, eyes darting from his face to his crotch and back again, “That’s uhh, very progressive of ya.”
Renka closed her eyes as she placed her thumb and index on her forehead, “What was your name again?” and the amphibian replied, “Croak-wire Ma’am” he said while attempting to clasp his hands in front of him, failing.
Charmaine sat with his squad and some others from the signal platoon, and watched as the rabbit cut the fingers off of her glove.
“I had the same idea when I first came out here,” “Yeah, shooters gloves,” she made a finger gun as she spoke, and the boy caught something he hadn’t seen before. “You're engaged?” The boy had not seen the ring tattoo around the corresponding finger.
“I thought most people here were?”
“First time I saw it, I don’t think any of the men in the platoon are, I’m not” Charmaine looked around, and the rabbit replied, “You’ll find someone, I’m sure.”
“Don’t be so sure of that missy,” The goat blurted out,
“Coming back from deployment, girls were waiting at the bus stop to meet us, they rushed in to talk to the men, and skipped right over me, anything to avoid talking to the short guy,” the rabbit chuckled,
“Wow, I mean I met my fiance when we were in highschool, it can’t be that bad can it?” The goat spoke again, “I don’t know,” the goat grumbled.
“I gave up when they started adding height filters to the dating apps.
Some even let you pay to bypass ‘em — monthly subscription and everything. Doubt it's gotten any better.”
The cheetah spoke, “It’s gotten worse! Now they got apps for the scroll to measure people out in public, even scroll glasses to make it less obvious.”
Another snow leopard met Charmaine's gaze, she stood right next to Renka, her mouth bore the scar left by an axe blade, and she used a speaker device to communicate anything above a whisper. With the other two Charmaine recognized the pattern, Renka had scars on both her eyes, and was a pathfinder. Sarka Had a cauliflower ear, and was in signals. But this new one, she had a device over her mouth, and worked in interrogation, she wore no name tag, and those around her only referred to her as “Hush.”
Back in Standing Iron, the two old friends briefly spoke about their time in the barracks before the Major was allowed to return to his room. Although it seemed more about regrets, not being in the club, not getting promoted. The Major had more than the Colonel, the memories serving more to explain certain behaviors. The Colonel was in the club, for a time, and did his best to pad the blow, although he knew it wouldn’t be enough. The last thing shared between the two was a bottle of liquor, the cheap kind they would buy at a corner store near the academy. It was an unspoken rule to find a foreigner to buy from, they were less likely to spot a fake ID. Just as he exited, the Colonel spoke again, “There's a service tomorrow night, the report, Williams name will be called, I can’t wear a gas mask in full dress, can you take my place?” “Yeah… sure,” the Major was off put by the idea, he had been in one of these ceremonies before. The amount of crying families, and even the Commandant's own eyes on him, was different discomfort then what he was used to.
The Major sat in his quarters, enjoying the privileges of a heated room and comfortable bed. Next to his door stood his jackboots, and while he unpacked he found once again the glass jar with the honey in it. He opened his door to look both ways in the corridor, and only locked it when he knew no one was present. The odor was strong and metallic as he began to unscrew the jar. Part of his reasoning was to avoid another memory, but he was also a curious individual. He remembered the swarms of kids who partied on the nights he was locked in a barracks building. He took his first spoonful, and was greeted with a taste similar to iron. He once lost a tooth in a barracks fight, and the honey reminded him of the taste of blood that tainted his mouth. There was a spice to it that burned his nose as he exhaled, the only light source in the room was a small candle.
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The minutes went by, and he stared out of the window wondering if there were really any visual effects to the honey. A voice spoke to him, and he turned to see a a man in a black trenchcoat,
“You’ve the look of the devil.” The Major wasn’t startled by his presence, somehow the man was just… there.
“Who are you?”
“Hardly, who are you?” The Major was confused, he started to wonder if talking to a hallucination was worth the words that came out of his mouth, like when a child stops talking to his toys. The man continued to speak.
“There once was a trenchborn boy, who promised the world if he came back clean.
He and his friends did not know where they would end up, but they did as they were told, as there was no choice.
The first day of the march they encountered no enemy, no excitement, they slept in a swamp, and the Captain told them of the old glory days.
The second day, he lost a friend by the very ground he was sent out to liberate, and the Captain said that they would sing of his honor.
The third day brought a rain of sulfur, and he lost another friend to a fiery demise, and the Captain spoke of the glory that awaited.
He prayed for a reason to stay behind — an injury, a pardon, a miracle.
But every morning, the horns still blew, and it was not his to question why, and only his to do and die.
The boots still marched.
And when he looked to the heavens for an answer, all he found was a coin.
Heads: he lived another day.
Tails: he was forgotten.
On the fourth day, he flipped a coin and got heads, but as the boots marched on he lost another friend to a terrible illness, and the Captain could say nothing.
On the fifth day, the boy began to wish for tails, but was afforded no such charity.
He thought the world cruel,
But it was never cruelty nor was it ever mercy.
It was just the coin.
By the time the boy returned, the world was already lost, and none remained for him.
His sweetheart had long forgotten him, his reward, his promise, had moved on.”
The Major wasn’t too impressed with the story, “So what did the boy do about it?”
“The boy searched far and wide for another group to which he could belong, but found no such reward.
The only thing the world could offer him were more coins. He walked day and night, until he found himself in a dark and cold forest.
He didn’t know where his next step would take him, he could not see what lay ahead. He wondered until he couldn’t go on, and stood shivering in the dark.
Looking through his pockets for his matches, he found his coin, he lit a match and flipped it, and this time he saw tails.
He looked about the forest, and still seeing nothing, he lit a fire, and went to sleep.
He awoke to a face staring back at him, not the source of his death, but another boy, with a coin of own.”
“And I guess I’m the boy?” Said the Major, and the man replied to him, “How do you know you're not the coin?”
A painful, guttural scream that he recognized sounded from outside, he looked out the window, and bare witness to the forest. The screams were rhythmic, commands so high pitch one would think they were taken from a horror movie. Some traditions of the Atlas academy were mourned to varying degrees.
“Nude platoon,” was for all the Seniors graduating early. Uniform: nude, wear sword webbing, and those who participated ran through the barracks. It was jokingly called a noble service after its abandonment. The school would not allow it to continue once women were let in.
A critical piece of the uniform was also replaced following a scandal. The sword was done away with, and replaced with a small dagger. Only those who were in a secret society would be allowed to wear a full sword.
Both of these events were protested by alumni, but changes remained in place and haven't changed since. The one he was hearing wasn’t missed or mourned, the tradition that allowed someone to call out such high notes was purged from academy records, but the cadets still knew what it was. Graffiti in the sewers was guarded by unofficial order from upperclassmen, and the stories that he heard kept him awake at night. While the society still went on, they were changed. They were nothing like back in old times, the “old corp”.
He looked out of the window, into the frozen woods. His eyes could only see the white pants, at least until he blew out the candle. His sight adjusted, and he saw only the brass buttons, shined to brilliance, three rows per set of legs.
Other features came into view, the webbing, the brass chest piece. They all walked in perfect sync around a black box.
More came into view, the swords, the shako with the brass crest, he couldn’t see the dark plume, but he knew it was there.
They picked up the coffin, and walked into the forest, same as they came, bicycle stepping, perfectly synced.
On the other side of the conflict, a light infantry unit moved to take an enemy encampment. The formation walked into the enemy camp, they had abandoned the post, and most of the work was about clearing any traps. The engineers took the front line as they creeped past the striped defenses; there were no guns, but the mounts in which they were normally housed lay naked and abandoned. The mine detectors were the primary arm of the first squad, and a sudden hand signal halted their movements. The squad lead pointed to his eye, and then to the top of a creaked open door, where a ceramic mug sat. Another squad member gently took down the mug, an armed grenade lay within, if they opened the door like normal, the mug would break, letting the spoon go…
The bunkers and buildings were a large bomb that risked detonation with every open door, every step taken. Every piece of gear on the ground carried the risk of a trap.
Some carried these unknowingly, they had lost a couple after a boy had picked up an empty magazine. During their down time, he loaded the first round into it, triggering a chemical detonator.
A loud whistle broke their silence, as an engineer laid eyes on what was referred to as a steel hive. The whistle was a signal to stay completely still, as the trap that lay in front of them had eyes. The device was hung from a tree, and the micro drones that it held all around its body would pulse to ward off curious animals, and what's worse, you couldn’t jam it. They moved slowly to try to turn away from the device, each drone had only one bullet, and was programmed to fly straight into an enemy's head, such that accuracy didn’t matter.
One slip or flinch would activate the device, and shortly after, it did.
By the time they laid eyes on it, it was already too late, as the device glowed blue, and the drones activated.
“Run!!” Called out the first man, before he was cut off by the impact of the first drone. The platoon did as they were told, pouring into the woods. Small pops sounded all around the fleeing soldiers, each distant pop meant one less voice in the comms. The last man galloped through the deep powdered snow, hearing the buzzing of the drone blades, but eventually the environment was too restrictive. He fell on his stomach, and turned just in time to see it impact against his helmet. Eyes closed, he felt it tap the steel bowl, and a click sounded. He opened his eyes, seeing the device land next to him. The shot rang out, startling the man, sending the projectile into the snow. Moist powders, or a shitty primer, left him as the sole survivor. No other drones were active, the man opened his flared pouch, rummaging for a red flare.
