Purgatory, 1: Bootcamp
31 Dec 2023Meowers
Hello and welcome to my next experimental story which I wanted to create for a long while. And now it's the time to publish it. The story is mostly written by me, with some text pieces generously provided by J-Dog162 and her amazing skill of writing those truly special moments.
A word of warning: this story contains a lot of gruesome graphic descriptions and episodes of violence, therefore it may not be suitable for younger, emotional or impressionable readers.
"Everything seemed so straightforward back then. We had coordinates, briefing and instructions to follow. Go in, grab whatever you need, go out. Now it feels like it was an eternity ago."
It started once I received an unusual message from George Douglas, my superior on AXDF Atlas, the carrier I'm assigned to. He wanted me to be the leader of a landing party on a, kind of, data-retrieving and reconnaissance covert ground operation. Not the sort of thing I'm used to, but it was a change of pace. And I didn't want to decline and let him down, he trusts me and knows what I'm capable of, so if that's something that needs doing by my hands, then I should go and get it done, honestly.
Yeah, I've been officially promoted to a Flight Leader after that massive shit in HIP 29991, thus made a senior commanding officer for the group, everyone who does flying, and I fly with them regularly too. Once the shift ends, we land, I do debriefing, they listen, then they go spend time on any funny stuff they like, and I go spend time on patrol-planning, roster-shuffling and training-sim-reviewing. At least Mion suffers the same with her militia folks, phah. Anyway, our camp is almost a hundred lightyears from where the bugs are being spotted regularly, and the war itself, once again, has turned into a slow soup of skirmishes and distress calls. So I have nothing thrilling going on, maybe except for the recent rescue operation.
So, day by day, mostly gazing at rookies punching Cyclopes, helping a bit with Basilisks and turning a blind eye on their little betting game of how quick would that Medusa end up cracked in half once met by a full AXDF wing. Hydra encounters are super rare, and they watch it on video only, better safe than sorry. From time to time some newcomers ask me what the heck happened to the original settlement in HIP 29991, and I always reply that it was a bloody hell. Without mentioning how much bloody and how much hell it actually was.
And the camp is now a town of its own, almost three times the size than it was originally, for the lack of better options I'd say. Good old '91 is in the stinking thick of bug-controlled space, they aren't going anywhere, we still don't have enough forces to whoop their arse, more refugees are coming, they need protection, some of them are willing to fight too, everything grows larger, folks from the first wave are restarting their daily business to keep the thing self-sustainable... And so on. And we still live in those godsdamned evac prefab apartment-blocks and they're really friggin small. At least not the tents, thank you a lot. Mion and I are trying to get a thing fit for two but the paperwork and planning are a pain in the arse. Every damn time there's a refugee family who needs it more, we don't argue, they really need it, but for heck knows what reason local authorities just can't order and receive enough of those bigger blocks. Idiots.
Pffff... I'm ranting again. Anyway. That's all the news for today. Now, the ground-hugging stuff.
An independent yet reliable source, to say, an investigation agency, reported that a bunch of godsdamned Far God cultists are up to something interesting. What is it? No idea, intercepted transmissions were full of nonsense babbling without any solid clues, except for a 'place of great connection blah blah blah' of sorts, some kind of pilgrimage for initiates, but no Thargoid activity has been spotted there, at all, and the place is distant, much likely uninhabited, and frankly speaking, empty. So that's interesting.
They purchased a shabby T-7 transporter, planning to sardine as many of their flock as possible into that brick and, trying not to fart, travel to... Some exact coordinates, encoded, but we are supposed to get them on the briefing. Security measures, in order not to scare them off if they manage to eavesdrop on us somehow. And, it happened that way, thanks to my old paramilitary training, plus experience in order-yelling, plus shooting range and obstacle course results maybe... I was the closest candidate for the leading role, even being officially a pilot. Intensive gunfights weren't necessary although were expected.
Like, why should I refuse?
My squad, a platoon of thirty six marines, a joint force of AXDF, Aegis and other cooperating formations, arrived in a couple of days, field agents spread their nets, planted their tracking devices on the ship... The whole thing received a fancy-pansy codename 'Operation Shadowhand'. Phah, so silly. Those agent folks had forgotten to spy out a bit of imagination. So we have to follow their T-7 one-two jumps behind, which isn't a challenge certainly, and land shortly after them, once they turn their engines off and start unloading their 'cargo'. Two arses, one boot: arresting them if they're from any terrorist branch and grabbing all the data they have both on the ship and on the ground. They're civilians after all, so only return fire is authorised, but that Far God cult itself could be a source of trouble.
Thing is, the destination planet, whilst having a breathable oxygen-rich atmosphere and pleasant zero point nine gravity, is mostly covered in thick lush jungle under a dense layer of clouds. So thick that there's literally no data more detailed than your basic stellar body infochart and atmosphere composition, and it's a, kind of, distant place, Col-285-Sector-numbers-numbers-blah-blah-blah. We need the coordinates marker to drop onto without alerting the cultists by following them up close, so, only the tracking device. Even our dropship has to leave the place and hide on a different orbit until it's over. And, well, I'll be in the belly of that ship, literally a Fed Dropship, with the marines, leaving Marshmallow waiting for me in the camp. There might be no place for two ships to land. And I, kind of, should lead them, not search for a cosy parking spot while they're dropping themselves knee-deep into the mud. And, phah, we were given machetes. So classic.
Okay, let it be a run through the jungle.
Also, an interesting request sent to me personally: that I should record a more or less formal audio log of that entire shadowhand thing. For what exactly? Ah, I don't care. Every suit has a personal recorder and you could comfortably kick arse while reading classic poetry aloud or doing some freestyle rhyming on the topic of kicking arse. Which is, itself, a form of poetry.
I should get to doing it, I guess. Why not right now?
T - something-something. Going to drop my tired arse onto the bed after a shift of patrolling and a late evening briefing on the operation. Hell knows when those cultists fire up their engines, so we're waiting for a signal, and that also means no flying for me until the end of that shadowhand whatever fancy party. Going to check the rifle ammo and shield batteries tomorrow, some of them may carry pew pew sticks, and that should quickly turn into a bad idea of theirs. Also, medpacks, MREs for two days, ammo and other stuff for my squad. But first, face meets pillow. Signing off.
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Next part: #2: Leap of Faith
Next part: #2: Leap of Faith