01-23-2026, 02:47 AM
"The Best Fried Chicken in Lao Sansong"
Tara Chatelain peered down at the quiet stretch of the roadway below. The night was frigid and still, with snowdrifts knee-deep on the rocky ground. This side of the border, only a small handful of kilometers from Laeralian territory, looked no different from the Xueyan hinterlands where she had grown up. Even though their mission tonight was strictly secret, a black ops mission that had been foisted on Tara and her squadmates through Intelligence, the cold and the foreboding pines of the surroundings didn’t bother her. If it hadn’t been for the fence they’d had to cut through at the Sansongian border, it would’ve felt just like one of the many training missions in the Xueyan territory she’d undergone to make Special Forces. Deliver death from afar, and slip back through the fence into the Laeralian side of the border.
Her walkie-talkie clicked.
“Signal Gold, Signal Gold.” That was Cesar, the spotter, confirming the target en route and with the expected escort. Tara’s grip tightened on her rifle, and she flexed her fingers in their nimble shooter’s gloves. A moment later, a road along the empty roadway heralded the arrival of the target. Just as their contact, a disgruntled retainer in the powerful Arkunda clan, had warned them.
“Target confirmed. Signal Green.” That was for Tara. She flicked the switch on the detonation device to power it on. A few heartbeats later: a BOOM from the roadway, as a red-and-orange cloud blossomed to life in the air. The speeding limousine which had been racing down the roadway, the dual-feather crest of the Arkunda clan emblazoned on its side, went tumbling onto its side. One of the motorcycle outriders from behind the car spun off the road and into a tree. There was a moment of silence, and then the gunfire began from the Laeralites’ ambush.
Staccato bursts of gunfire, from cruder assault rifles than those the Laeralites customarily used, raked the overturned car. There was no gunfire in response, and at a signal from the squad’s leader, the Laeralian squad ceased fire. Silence reigned over the woods, apart from the hiss and pop of the small fire guttering on the roadway.
“Dancer Three here, I’m going in,” Tara said over the comm. Grasping her rifle in both hands, she crept towards the roadway, approaching it stealthily. In the ditch by the edge of the road, she took out an empty clip of ammunition, engraved with the quasi-religious Arikata verses common to a local militant clan, and tossed it to the ground with a gloved hand.
“No sign of life here,” she said over the comm. “Report target downed.” Arkunda Hachiro, a lesser member of the region’s dominant Arkunda clan, was the target of the night’s ambush. A shady character, with interests in cross-border gunrunning and narcotics, he was nevertheless too small of a fish to normally merit a special forces hit—even in the frontier regions of Lao Sansong, where Laeralian commandos routinely operated. No, the goal tonight was to stir up the hornet’s nest of Sansongian politics, keeping the local clans and warlords focused on each other rather than venturing across the border into Laeral.
There was a small pop from the road, and Tara froze, scanning the roadway for danger. There was nothing, except for a few trashed fast-food wrappers rustling in the breeze. Then, Tara saw it. Someone from inside the car, desperately wounded, had crawled out, and in his hands he clutched a brace of grenades. Smiling a coarse, bitter smile in Tara’s direction, he chuckled and pulled the pin.
____________________________________________________________
Tara woke up in the darkness. She was cold, uncomfortably clammy, with a pounding head, and she was wearing dark clothing. Where was she? Some kind of ditch, it appeared, next to the road.
The walkie-talkie clipped to her shoulder squawked. “Dancer Three, fall back to reserve extraction point. Hostiles are inbound. Dancer Three, fall back to reserve extraction point.” She didn’t know who was talking to her, but it sounded important. Her head ached in protest at the noise.
There was a burst of gunfire in the distance—not far away, and getting closer. Reserve extraction point. Where was that? It would have been covered in the pre-mission briefing, but Tara couldn’t remember anything about it. She couldn’t remember even going to whichever place—it looked like Lao Sansong—where she was now.
There were a handful of pieces of paper in the ditch and on the road around her. Tara picked one up.
Below, there was a date—tomorrow’s—and an address, in the nearby city of Funashbiru. Something clicked in Tara’s head. Of course. She was in Lao Sansong, on a covert mission gone bad, and that address must be the extraction point. Gathering up her things, she scurried off into the woods, away from the gunfire. Recuperate, make it to the Huenya Fried Chicken, and she’d find her way home.
[To be continued...]
Tara Chatelain peered down at the quiet stretch of the roadway below. The night was frigid and still, with snowdrifts knee-deep on the rocky ground. This side of the border, only a small handful of kilometers from Laeralian territory, looked no different from the Xueyan hinterlands where she had grown up. Even though their mission tonight was strictly secret, a black ops mission that had been foisted on Tara and her squadmates through Intelligence, the cold and the foreboding pines of the surroundings didn’t bother her. If it hadn’t been for the fence they’d had to cut through at the Sansongian border, it would’ve felt just like one of the many training missions in the Xueyan territory she’d undergone to make Special Forces. Deliver death from afar, and slip back through the fence into the Laeralian side of the border.
Her walkie-talkie clicked.
“Signal Gold, Signal Gold.” That was Cesar, the spotter, confirming the target en route and with the expected escort. Tara’s grip tightened on her rifle, and she flexed her fingers in their nimble shooter’s gloves. A moment later, a road along the empty roadway heralded the arrival of the target. Just as their contact, a disgruntled retainer in the powerful Arkunda clan, had warned them.
“Target confirmed. Signal Green.” That was for Tara. She flicked the switch on the detonation device to power it on. A few heartbeats later: a BOOM from the roadway, as a red-and-orange cloud blossomed to life in the air. The speeding limousine which had been racing down the roadway, the dual-feather crest of the Arkunda clan emblazoned on its side, went tumbling onto its side. One of the motorcycle outriders from behind the car spun off the road and into a tree. There was a moment of silence, and then the gunfire began from the Laeralites’ ambush.
Staccato bursts of gunfire, from cruder assault rifles than those the Laeralites customarily used, raked the overturned car. There was no gunfire in response, and at a signal from the squad’s leader, the Laeralian squad ceased fire. Silence reigned over the woods, apart from the hiss and pop of the small fire guttering on the roadway.
“Dancer Three here, I’m going in,” Tara said over the comm. Grasping her rifle in both hands, she crept towards the roadway, approaching it stealthily. In the ditch by the edge of the road, she took out an empty clip of ammunition, engraved with the quasi-religious Arikata verses common to a local militant clan, and tossed it to the ground with a gloved hand.
“No sign of life here,” she said over the comm. “Report target downed.” Arkunda Hachiro, a lesser member of the region’s dominant Arkunda clan, was the target of the night’s ambush. A shady character, with interests in cross-border gunrunning and narcotics, he was nevertheless too small of a fish to normally merit a special forces hit—even in the frontier regions of Lao Sansong, where Laeralian commandos routinely operated. No, the goal tonight was to stir up the hornet’s nest of Sansongian politics, keeping the local clans and warlords focused on each other rather than venturing across the border into Laeral.
There was a small pop from the road, and Tara froze, scanning the roadway for danger. There was nothing, except for a few trashed fast-food wrappers rustling in the breeze. Then, Tara saw it. Someone from inside the car, desperately wounded, had crawled out, and in his hands he clutched a brace of grenades. Smiling a coarse, bitter smile in Tara’s direction, he chuckled and pulled the pin.
____________________________________________________________
Tara woke up in the darkness. She was cold, uncomfortably clammy, with a pounding head, and she was wearing dark clothing. Where was she? Some kind of ditch, it appeared, next to the road.
The walkie-talkie clipped to her shoulder squawked. “Dancer Three, fall back to reserve extraction point. Hostiles are inbound. Dancer Three, fall back to reserve extraction point.” She didn’t know who was talking to her, but it sounded important. Her head ached in protest at the noise.
There was a burst of gunfire in the distance—not far away, and getting closer. Reserve extraction point. Where was that? It would have been covered in the pre-mission briefing, but Tara couldn’t remember anything about it. She couldn’t remember even going to whichever place—it looked like Lao Sansong—where she was now.
There were a handful of pieces of paper in the ditch and on the road around her. Tara picked one up.
Grand Opening: Huenya Fried Chicken!
Join us for the grand opening of Lao Sansong’s first-ever Huenya Fried Chicken.
Enjoy special grand-opening only deals on finger-lickin’ tasty chicken for the whole family!
Below, there was a date—tomorrow’s—and an address, in the nearby city of Funashbiru. Something clicked in Tara’s head. Of course. She was in Lao Sansong, on a covert mission gone bad, and that address must be the extraction point. Gathering up her things, she scurried off into the woods, away from the gunfire. Recuperate, make it to the Huenya Fried Chicken, and she’d find her way home.
[To be continued...]