07-23-2018, 03:02 AM
First Sergeant Brandon Lau, Laeralian National Security Force, whooped as he caught sight of a ragged squad of Gonhogian soldiers retreating- no, fleeing- northward. "We've got them on the run!" he yelled to his men, riding in the truck alongside him. They cheered, and why wouldn't they? It had stopped raining for the first time in a few days, there had been little enemy opposition, and news had just come in that Maximusian soldiers had liberated Carville. Add that to the news that Slokais Islands would be sending troops, as well, and there was a real celebratory mood. Some barracks fortunetellers were predicting that the war would be over by the Mid-Autumn Festival.
When Lau's squad (minus one member who had been hit by shrapnel a few days back) set up camp for the night with their fellows, those Gonhogians had been the last enemies they'd seen all day. Sure, the enemy was taking a few efforts to slow them down- destroying bridges, removing signposts- but these were only minor inconveniences when it seemed that the majority of Lauchenoirians were more than happy to give directions and point out alternate routes. They were staying for the night in a small town about a quarter of the way from the Costeno-Ulinaria border to the provincial capital of Elopolis, and Brandon had spent his night rather enjoyably at a local pub offering drinks on the house for Coalition soldiers, in the company of some locals who were quite willing to ooh and aah over Brandon's stories of the Battle of Summersea. So he was more than a little tipsy when he walked back to the barracks, a simple set of tents on the outskirts of town. He fell into his cot and went to sleep.
Lying asleep, Brandon was woken by a sound. It was a gurgling sort of sound, and his eyes opened drowsily when he heard it. Then, he heard the slight crunching of gravel under boots outside his tent, and he heard the sounds of the tent zipper being unzipped. He looked around. It was a two-person tent he shared with Junxian, the comm specialist, and there was no one else supposed to be there. He stiffened, lying completely still in bed, as the person outside stepped in.
In the darkness, Brandon couldn't make out much about the person, until they turned and he saw that they grasped a knife tightly in their right hand, the bare blade glimmering slightly in the ambient light. Brandon leapt out of his cot, yelling, and flung his blanket over the assailant. They spun, startled, as the blanket hit them, and then Brandon had grabbed his pack and swung it at them. The pack bounced off their face, and they sprung at him with their knife hand. Brandon danced back, left hand scrabbling in the darkness for his own knife. His hand closed on his heavy metal flashlight, and he swung it like a club. In the darkness, he didn't see the knife until it was too late. The blade slashed into his left arm as he brought it up desperately to defend himself, and bit deep. Brandon jerked backwards, shouting in pain, and swung the flashlight with his right hand into his attacker's temple. They slumped, and Brandon savagely swung again, the flashlight impacting on the attacker's head. They fell, and Brandon swung again until they lay still on the ground. Only then did Brandon turn on the gore-encrusted flashlight, and he almost threw up, seeing the horrible sight in front of him. It was only once he'd recovered his wits that he noticed that the body was in Kerlian uniform.
At that moment, he heard gunfire from outside, and yelling in French. Brandon grabbed his rifle and dashed out the tent door, where he encountered other LNSF soldiers, pulling on clothing and carrying guns. "Kerlians!" Brandon shouted. "They're attacking!"
The fight was brief but bloody, as the Kerlians chose to beat a retreat once the firefight broke out. Brandon once almost shot another LNSF soldier who had come upon him suddenly. It was only once the fight was over that Brandon noticed that the cut on his arm had been bleeding profusely the entire time. After bandaging it up, he couldn't muster up the will to go back into his tent and the body that was there, instead just lying on the ground for a few brief hours of rest until morning. Once light came, he saw, to his surprise, that Lauchenoirians carrying guns and the occasional flak vest or helmet were helping to carry out the Laeralian dead.
"Who are you?" he asked blearily. "And who gave you permission to carry your guns in here?"
"We're the resistance," came the reply. "We've seized the countryside from the enemy, and we're damn glad to see you. Oh, and welcome to Ulinaria."
When Lau's squad (minus one member who had been hit by shrapnel a few days back) set up camp for the night with their fellows, those Gonhogians had been the last enemies they'd seen all day. Sure, the enemy was taking a few efforts to slow them down- destroying bridges, removing signposts- but these were only minor inconveniences when it seemed that the majority of Lauchenoirians were more than happy to give directions and point out alternate routes. They were staying for the night in a small town about a quarter of the way from the Costeno-Ulinaria border to the provincial capital of Elopolis, and Brandon had spent his night rather enjoyably at a local pub offering drinks on the house for Coalition soldiers, in the company of some locals who were quite willing to ooh and aah over Brandon's stories of the Battle of Summersea. So he was more than a little tipsy when he walked back to the barracks, a simple set of tents on the outskirts of town. He fell into his cot and went to sleep.
Lying asleep, Brandon was woken by a sound. It was a gurgling sort of sound, and his eyes opened drowsily when he heard it. Then, he heard the slight crunching of gravel under boots outside his tent, and he heard the sounds of the tent zipper being unzipped. He looked around. It was a two-person tent he shared with Junxian, the comm specialist, and there was no one else supposed to be there. He stiffened, lying completely still in bed, as the person outside stepped in.
In the darkness, Brandon couldn't make out much about the person, until they turned and he saw that they grasped a knife tightly in their right hand, the bare blade glimmering slightly in the ambient light. Brandon leapt out of his cot, yelling, and flung his blanket over the assailant. They spun, startled, as the blanket hit them, and then Brandon had grabbed his pack and swung it at them. The pack bounced off their face, and they sprung at him with their knife hand. Brandon danced back, left hand scrabbling in the darkness for his own knife. His hand closed on his heavy metal flashlight, and he swung it like a club. In the darkness, he didn't see the knife until it was too late. The blade slashed into his left arm as he brought it up desperately to defend himself, and bit deep. Brandon jerked backwards, shouting in pain, and swung the flashlight with his right hand into his attacker's temple. They slumped, and Brandon savagely swung again, the flashlight impacting on the attacker's head. They fell, and Brandon swung again until they lay still on the ground. Only then did Brandon turn on the gore-encrusted flashlight, and he almost threw up, seeing the horrible sight in front of him. It was only once he'd recovered his wits that he noticed that the body was in Kerlian uniform.
At that moment, he heard gunfire from outside, and yelling in French. Brandon grabbed his rifle and dashed out the tent door, where he encountered other LNSF soldiers, pulling on clothing and carrying guns. "Kerlians!" Brandon shouted. "They're attacking!"
The fight was brief but bloody, as the Kerlians chose to beat a retreat once the firefight broke out. Brandon once almost shot another LNSF soldier who had come upon him suddenly. It was only once the fight was over that Brandon noticed that the cut on his arm had been bleeding profusely the entire time. After bandaging it up, he couldn't muster up the will to go back into his tent and the body that was there, instead just lying on the ground for a few brief hours of rest until morning. Once light came, he saw, to his surprise, that Lauchenoirians carrying guns and the occasional flak vest or helmet were helping to carry out the Laeralian dead.
"Who are you?" he asked blearily. "And who gave you permission to carry your guns in here?"
"We're the resistance," came the reply. "We've seized the countryside from the enemy, and we're damn glad to see you. Oh, and welcome to Ulinaria."