Some undistinct day late in 2016. You find yourself in front of a computer again, switching tabs to a 4chan thread that you have been following for the past few days, then back to a singleplayer bot gameplay of Battlefield 2.

Rainfall has forced you to seek the relative comfort of an airconditioned internet cafe, an escape from the humidity and the surreal imagery of neon lights amidst the precipitation. It was past ten, having gone on two hours browsing the computer's single player game catalog. The thread just reached the post limit, and it went right to the archive. You decided to call it a day for shitposting, and so you started up GTASA for old time's sake.

Halfway through the loading screen, you hear an unfamiliar staccato. Pop pop pop, then you hear car horns, screaming, and the characteristic sound of bursts of 5.56. Curious, you decided to head down the first floor to make sure that it wasn't just another customer playing an FPS too loud on speakers. A few steps, and you see the security guard aim his service revolver at the door.

>blam blam

>tacatacatac

He goes down as a man in full tac gear enters the door and screams in broken english for everyone to get down on the floor.

Fuck. This was it. /k/ warned you, and you didn't listen. Or was it?

You know that shit's fucked, but you know that it is not the time for fear, even though you are near pissing yourself from the cold air and the shock of what you just seen. Up back you went, and you proceeded to tear out of your bag the thing you have worked on for the past four months.

Well, actually it was parts of it. It was a takedown .32 caliber bullpup Caselman air machine gun. Sure you have endured two weeks of carrying it around in your bag, and you almost decided to leave it home earlier in the morning, but those thoughts were soon replaced by the frantic screwing down of the barrel nut and the hissing of an open gas regulator. All 1800 psi of air goodness.

You soon notice footsteps heading up the stairs as you stare at a fellow patron whose gaze froze at the man who was done assembling a 20-inch lead slinger. Fuck it, you murmured under the blare of a pair of speakers playing a certain Macintosh Plus track. You raised your creation at the assailant's face, who never expected he would face demise on such a puny device.

>chic chic chic

The sound of the air regulator went along the familiar rhythm of the best of vaporwave, as lead flew over several stalls and into the man's relatively uncovered face.

>make a move...

The song went as you went closer at the man's body. You thought it was a miracle that your gun did not only manage to penetrate, but also dealt a swift death.

Your view shifted over the man's shoulder, a glance on his patch confirmed your fears.

Emblazoned on his uniform were yellow stars on the upper left corner of a red field.

You had an irrational hate for everything Mainland Chinese, yet you do find yourself using their shit most of the time, like the cheap micro mill you picked up a junk shop for a few bills for it did not not work. That's how you got yourself to finish Serial No. 1, your personal air-powered contraption.

Reality snaps back as you find yourself staring at your automatic air rifle, admiring at your handiwork, at the file marks and the rough welding. You just killed a man, and the thought was somewhat a bit off-putting albeit it made you feel a little better that you made it alive. You look at his gear and you grab the QBZ-95 and a few mags. You sling Serial 1 on your back, knowing full well that only 15 more rounds remain. The gunshots still continue, though it was more sporadic now.

You took the leased computer's webcam and took a picture of a 5.8×42mm round off a magazine. You were sure that the net is going down in a few hours, might as well do a final shitpost on 4chan.

Down the stairs you went as the shop's horrified employees cover up the security guard's body. You tell them that there is another body upstairs before you made a mad dash for the fire exit. You emerge in a somewhat damp alley right at the side of the building. A glance at your old Casio shows that it was near 12 midnight already. Rain was still falling on the same green neon-flooded street you was escaping from, but now it was gridlocked with cars, some of which was abandoned after the first of the paratroopers landed and the owners ran off in fear.

You peeked through the alley corner and up the street you see more of the paratroopers in the same uniform as the man you shot in the building. They are standing over civilians on their knees. You can do nothing, but you are sure that they would not be harmed for now.

You hear whispering from behind you, but it was too fast for you to understand. You were petrified at the thought that someone would follow you and end up having yourself revealed to the invaders. You just swallowed the lump in your throat and looked behind you as quietly yet as swift as you can.

A girl was standing closely behind you, too close for comfort actually. She was shorter than you, hair draping on her shoulders, with the kind of eyes that convey fearlessness, crudeness with a hint of intrigue.

To avoid detection, you hushed yourself as you asked her who was she.

>Excuse me miss, but who are you? And why are you following me?

>"You made me, don't you remember?"

>What? What do you mean...

You begin to question yourself whether you have ever came about to be the father of any child, then the thought hit you like a truck.

There were a lot of stories on /k/ that go about spirits that dwell in weapons, usually taking the form of young girls. You dismissed the tales as quality entertainment written by creative individuals, an escape to allow your mind to enjoy things that would never come to be.
 
You found a better escape in building Serial 1.
Serial 1 was like the girl you never had, full of rough edges, and flaws that made her even perfect. A true labor of love, in reality it actually took you more than four months to finish the device. She was a product of blood, sweat and tears. Literal blood, sweat and tears. You nicked your finger while filing down parts of the trigger group as you cried over how you were doing life wrong. That is what happens when you let the >tfw no gf posts get you.

The sound of more jet turbines fill the air as heavy transports were air dropping APCs into the city to help them maintain their stronghold.

It was already been two minutes and you were still staring at the girl, still full of doubt that she was your Serial 1. Your eyes were still fixed on her face, and you notice more and more of the little details that reinforce the reality. She has a tiny birthmark just under her right eye, a perfect facsimile of the bloodstain you left on the receiver that somehow doesn't get removed. 

Unlike the stories though, she was not in camouflage. Being a civilan weapon, her clothing were pretty spartan, a black polo shirt with the rough rollmark you etched on the receiver and a fairly loose pair of tactical pants. Then you see the M-16 sling that you grabbed off the local surplus warehouse to be used to suspend the rifle, now being used as a belt.

>kablam!

You were now seemingly woken up from the trance due to the blast wave that you felt pound on your chest. You were sure it was just a few blocks away, and you peeked on the corner again to check. An APC landed on the edge of a building and fell off, setting off many of the rounds it has as it slammed the concrete.

You have to get out of here, you thought.
Out of here, fast.

Out of instinct, you just grabbed the girl's hand and made a mad dash for one of the abandoned cars that still has a clear path through a side road. It was a white Suzuki Carry kei truck, keys still in the ignition. You guide her on the front seat, then you went around as fast as you could to the driver's seat. 

You depress the clutch, threw the shifter to first, and off you went. You have never driven such a small vehicle before, and it was surprisingly nimble and really goes fast. You were surprised, but so were the paratroopers.

>taktaktaktak

went their rifles as they tried to fire upon the little swerving truck.

One of the rounds actually managed to get through the rear window, lodging itself right at the rear-view mirror, making you to slightly jerk on the wheel. The little swerve was corrected, and the paratroopers have now seemed to give up at firing at you.

The nimble little car can go through seemingly convenient holes on the gridlocked traffic, the growling of the engine masked by the drone of many of the abandoned cars.

She holds her hand out, without any sound, reaching out for the stereo.

You were too busy driving, but she nonchalantly turned the device on, setting it to that one radio station that you recognize as the only station you listen to most of the time in the shop. It was a pop music station that transmits even late at night, though it was an automatic playlist from midnight until the daybreak. 

You drive past more cars that stood still, catching attention of another set of the paratroopers on a street corner.

Fuck it, not again. That was what you said as you went skidding through the corner, Starboy blaring out of the speakers.

You swear that you have been to this place before, as you recover from the skidding and back to racing up the empty street. You look at her again, expecting a face of someone who was shocked, but she just plainly didn't give a fuck. She was just staring over the road, like that certain person on a class that does calculations in their heads.

A Calvin Harris song was next to play on the radio.

Once you were out of the city proper and on the boonies did you only dump the vehicle on the side of the road to proceed on foot through the dense forest below. You still have Serial 1 by the hand, her presence barely felt, yet it was distinct. She haven't said a word since you departed from the city, and so you decided to sit on a convenient rock just behind a tree. You had her sit beside you, only then did she decided to speak, though it was hushed.

>"Do you have something to eat?"

>Uhh...yeah.

You dig in your bag, the previously unseen moon illuminating the foil cover of a nougat bar.

You hand it over to her, who then proceeds to say a muffled "thanks", grabbed the bar and tore it open. She was too busy taking bites out of the chewy confection for her to notice that you are staring at her face the whole time.

She was cute, you must admit.

The sky begins to change to a lighter blue. Day is about to break soon. You then remember about the QBZ you took off the paratrooper. You look at the rifle's polymer body, full of dents and minute scratches. It may have gave the rifle a personality, but you know that this one has got no soul. It was made in a factory line, where no one genuinely cared about the workmanship, with the exception of quality control. It never had blood, sweat and tears put into it.
The sun now peeped up, gunshots re-emerge, and you load a new magazine on the QBZ.

You have been walking for two straight hours in broad daylight, rifle in hand, and a girl in tow. How you haven't been spotted by the enemy is a question left unanswered. Was it luck? 

You once again look at her, then you wondered to yourself at why do you insist at tugging her along when you think she can walk all by herself? Fuck it, better not say anything for you are actually enjoying having to hold a girl's hand, even though it was as rough as a metalworker's.

As your left hand was occupied with tugging her along, the QBZ was held on your right hand. You look at the safety selector, making sure that it was on the fire position. You know that it would be hard to switch it if it was on safe, being on the rear of the rifle.

The forest floor is littered with decomposing leaves, damped by last night's heavy rain. You took care not to make much noise, so as not to alert an unseen patrol. To be fair, you have no idea on where are you supposed to be heading.

Fuck, what a careless move, you thought to yourself.
You pulled out a touchscreen phone, glass spider-webbed with cracks, with two of it's four buttons not working. You launched a map application, loaded a saved map, and looked up on where you are now. It just showed a field of gray, and a road.

Up the road was marked "10th ID checkpoint".

15 minutes later and you arrived just behind the checkpoint, which was just a little shack right beside the road. You had her stick close to your rear while hiding behind the trunks of a banana tree. Even though it was already nearing 12 noon, it was still eerily quiet on this diversion road. It served as a path for container trailers and their tractors to trundle upon, but not on this day.

The invasion has essentially put the city to a standstill, you thought, but without any real means to know what is happening, you have no true idea.

You had Serial 1 stand on where she is before you went ahead and held your rifle at high ready. The shack has plywood walls, and an opening served as a rear door to a relaxation area, which has a wooden table and four plastic chairs. A wood stove was there too, so is a hammock that you had to duck under to get through. You can hear radio static emanating from inside the shack.

This is it. 

You really have to clear a room.

You are not that well versed in tactical actions, and the closest thing you had for instruction was the time you re-watched John Wick. Still holding up your rifle, you begin by slicing the pie on the door, scanning for any movement.

There was no one inside, you are sure. A lone handheld radio was laying on the ground, so was an acoustic guitar. A flashlight is left on a shelf inside.

No one is there, you assure yourself, must have left the post when the inva...

>THUD

"Fucking hell", you thought when you realized that you tripped over a wooden post that forms the base of the shack, hitting your head on the shelf on the way down, before slamming on to the ground on top of your rifle.

"Fucking fucking fuck shit", you muttered to yourself as you slam your fist on the brown soil that served as the shack's floor. Your chest hurts so much from the surprisingly tough stock of the rifle. You struggled to stand back up again due to the backpack still slung on your back, the aforementioned pain, and the shame of falling down due to negligence in the first place.

You now have stood back up, covered in brown, dusty soil, looking at the QBZ magazines and your pride laying down on the floor. You looked out through the door while you pat the dust off what used to be a black polo shirt, and there was Serial 1, still standing right behind the tree you had her stand still on.

Her hand covering up her mouth, index finger on top of her nose, seemingly amused at her creator's blunder.

Calling her Serial 1 seemed a bit unusual, even a bit retarded, considering that you are now talking at a living, breathing, and thinking being, but you can't quite give her a real name just yet.

That might be a thing better thought of later, you said as you opened up a can of sardines for you two to have for lunch. On the table was a metal pot, darkened by soot, containing rice that was cooked last night. It was still perfectly edible though, having been left undisturbed on the table by whoever used to man this checkpoint.

You had her sit on one of the plastic chairs, and you also sat down on another, when you thought of something of urgent need. You stood up, carefully going into the checkpoint making sure you do not trip over again, and out through the front. Standing on the side of the road were two signs, one of which that said "STOP, SECURITY CHECKPOINT" and another that emblazoned the division's logo, name, and who you presume to be the soldiers who used to be stationed here. You drag the two signs inside, making sure that they were not visible to any passing vehicle. Now satisfied at your handiwork, you proceed to go out the back so that you can finally get to fill yourself up.

You went up the table and sat down on one of the chairs. She was already eating, using her hands as utensils as she scooped out rice on her plate, breaking off a bit of a sardine to go with it, and putting it all in her mouth. You look into the pot which only had roughly one thirds of it's original contents, and the can now only contained a single fish.

You joined her in, dumping out what rice remained in the pot on your plate and drenching it in the rich tomato sauce the sardines were bathed in.

Life's good, that's what you thought for now.

Oddly for an invasion, it was relatively uneventful for this road even though the city was completely visible from here. It was already nearing four in the afternoon as you begin to sort out the things in the shack worth carrying. You laid them all out on the table, including your rifle, making sure of your inventory. There is a handheld radio, a spare battery and a charger for it, a pair of binoculars, two STANAG mags that you filled up with ammunition you found scattered in a drawer, a cheap lighter, and a classic M-61 jacket that was too small for you. The radio was clipped on your belt, and the associated gear placed inside your bag. Lighter went into one of the pockets of your pants. You almost decided to chuck the jacket to the side when you notice Serial 1 peeking in through the rear door.

You gave it to her, who immediately donned it. It was a perfect fit, though it was a bit long for her. 

Never mind, you thought to yourself.

It looks good on her.

A can of corned beef and of meatloaf went in the bag, and so does the hammock that you untied from the trees it was suspended on.

Night will come soon, and night time is the best time to move around.

There are many perks in living in a tropical country, but mosquitoes are certainly not one of them. It was already quarter to seven, and you and Serial 1 have already covered roughly 2 kilometers from your origin. You made sure that the Fulton flashlight is still clipped on your backpack strap, checking that the switch is fully down so as not to alert anyone of a flash if the top button was accidentally depressed.

Your Merrells are crunching the forest floor littered with leaves, seemingly in unison with Serial 1's steps. You reminded yourself again that the last time you have talked with her was that time she asked for something to eat, and nothing else. You even missed the opportunity of talking to her as you were eating lunch, or the pre-departure heavy snack you both had. A certain degree of social ineptitude still remained, you admit. A look at her shows that she seemed to be really observant, her head cocking around for even the faintest of movements. Her hands are in the jacket pockets, seemingly supporting the weight of her relaxed arms.

You paused from walking after you have realized the answer to the question you have asked yourself seven hours prior. You set down your backpack and pulled out your phone and a pair of headphones. How the idea of using the radio application went over your head, you had no idea. You tuned to many of the stations, which merely presented you recordings of how the Chinese are not the enemy, yada yada. 

Save for one.

It was the same station that you listened in the shop, the one Serial 1 tuned to in the car ride. Somehow it was not taken over by the invaders, which was clear as it was still playing Mike Posner's I Took a Pill in Ibiza over your headphones. You thought it was good to having to listen to some music while walking, so you just dislodged the earphone on your right ear, and grabbed Serial 1's hand again.

Just a few more meters, and you will be at the base of Shrine Hills.

Shrine Hills is a ridge topped with transmission towers owned by various media companies. It served as the center of transmission for radio and television in the city. It was the nearest good vantage point that you could have, providing a premier lookout that allows a view of the city, the shoreline, and the airport. 

You are also pretty damn sure that the hill would be crawling with the Chinese, considering that most of the radio stations are already controlled. It doesn't seem to be that bad of an idea though, the clouds obscured the moon and stars, making it a perfect dark night.

About two-thirds of the way up and you come across a drainage pipe outflow. It was dry as it was connected only to the road gutters above, and it has not rained in the past day. You had Serial 1 go in first, then you followed suit. It was nearing midnight and you have been deprived of sleep for at least a day, so you just leaned on the inside of the pipe so you could retire for the night. 

You are almost falling asleep when you felt Serial 1 snuggle up your back, her arms on your shoulder. A reminder of her presence, which even though was silent, was genuinely warm and cozy.

You are awakened by the crowing of multiple roosters, and also by the fact that the sunlight shone through the pipe and to your face. Serial 1's hand is now on top of your hair. Taking care not to disturb her as she still is in deep slumber, you put her hand aside, setting it down on the rough concrete surface. 

It miraculously did not rain in the time you were asleep, as what served as the floor of the pipe is still dry. You sat upright, legs crossed, as you thought of what the fuck you have gotten in the the past few days. You wonder if Moms and Pops have gone up the boonies to the old house as you have planned in the past if something like this happens. A quick look at your watch shows that it is now 6:17 in the morning. Your old Nokia, the phone you actually use for communication, vibrated to signal that it's battery is running on the last legs of it's charge. No messages or missed calls can be seen on the home screen, probably because that the telcomms were the first to go down, or simply that no one really cares for you.

The radio you have snagged off the checkpoint still has no signs of life, only emitting static. You turn it back off to avoid calling attention. Your backpack lay upon where your feet used to be, and you pulled it up to you, dragging it a short way. A look inside reveals the things you put in it from the shack. You grab the tin of corned beef and the binoculars and set them out on the pipe floor. A miniature stove you made was also grabbed out of the front compartment, and also a pair of pliers. You fumbled around with the tin with the can opening attachment of your multitool, making sure you do not make too much noise, and actually managed to open the can without the horrible jagged edges. You light up the alcohol fueled stove, grabbed the peeled-back top of the can with the jaws of your pliers, and held it up the flame to heat.

You steal a glimpse at Serial 1, who is still curled up and asleep. Her field jacket is still on, with her dark hair flowing down the shoulders, seemingly becoming one with the woodland camouflage print. Her face seemed relaxed and at peace. 

You turn your attention back at the meal you are cooking. It's all protein and preservative, but without anything to pair with it, you just accept what you have in hand. Just wash it down with the half liter of water you still have in your flask, you thought. This is where the combination spoon and fork thing you bought came in handy. You took it out of the flame, shoveled some of it with the spoon end for it to cool, and down it went. You plan to leave half of it for Serial 1, who you thought would be disappointed at the meager amount of chow that is served. 

The aroma might be really that overwhelming, for it awakened Serial 1 from her slumber.

>Good morning
you said to her, who replied only with a slight smile.

Surprisingly, she was content with what you have served for breakfast. Good, for there would be no good reason to have someone that is choosy. Dead weight is what they would serve for you. You grab the binoculars you took out of your bag and began scanning the visible area out of the pipe. You look out to the city and you see that the Magellan Hotel rooftop was set on fire, so is the 14th floor of the Verde Tower 2. Out on the bay are several gray ships, still unloading what seems to be amphibious vehicles, landing boats and RIBs. 

You then decided to check what the airfield has come up to and so you turn your binoculars up onto the area. There are multiple heavy lift aircraft sitting on the tarmac, offloading what seems to be MBTs, containers, and other vehicles. The wreckage of an overturned airliner is left on the end of the runway after it overshot on what seemed to be a panicked landing, fuselage burned out. You thought that there might be no survivors on that one. The tiny airforce station on the airport was tattered with holes and outside sat two Hueys, one whose tail was broken off, and the other got it's nose burnt out. Two attack helicopters are orbiting above like vultures on a carcass. As much as you like aircraft, especially military ones, you have a hard time identifying Chinese ones by name. 

While still observing what was left of your airforce on the binoculars, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You were sure that it was just her and told her to wait in the local language. The tap then tightened to a grip, and you felt something cold touch the back of your head.

You raise your hands, binoculars still on your right hand, as a chill began to crawl on your spine. 

Why would Serial 1 do this to her creator? Did she held anything back against you? What did you do to her to make her do this to you? Why did you leave the QBZ in her reach?

All these thoughts went through your head, as what you know to be the cold muzzle of a gun is still pressed up the back of your head.

>"Turn around slowly, you filthy gook. No sudden moves or I'd fucking spill your thoughts all over the fucking place."

Though it could be included to be some of the most colorful lines you have heard in your life, it could never be delivered as smoothly as you have heard it now. 

It came from the mouth of a man. The chill on your spine just got a degree Celsius warmer. At least you now know it was not the person you were warm on the whole time.

As you turn around to meet the demands of your captor, you would see a man nearly in his forties, his lightly curling hair going down from a point of his hairline down to just an inch above his right eye. He has a rough stubble, highlighting the kind of smug grin you would Sean Connery do while meeting the villain in a luncheon party.

You would then notice Serial 1, slumped over sideways on your backpack, but there is no visible wound or blood pooling out. Concern now filled in for what used to be doubt you had for her in the past long minutes.

>>31658819
The man's suppressed USP is still pointed at you, the rifled bore presenting you with a hollow point bullet on the other end. You notice the loosely fitting blue windbreaker over a light blue polo shirt, his pair of khaki 5.11s going so well with it. He then proceeds to snatch the binoculars from your hand.

>"Ah, so you now use captured American equipment now. Chinese shit not working out for you as well?"

He still has no idea that you are not Chinese, but you fear that speaking out on a hothead like this might get your brain blown to bits. 

Fuck it, you are genuinely concerned on what he did to Serial 1.

>That would be the last fucking time you would fucking implicate that I am Chinese.
You said in what is the most best sounding accent you can muster, or what you thought would be.

The man seemed a little surprised, but just enough for him to lower his handgun to just chest level.

>"I know Chinese spies that could certainly pull that off, but a light scout probably would not. Who the fuck are you two anyway?"

>"It doesn't matter who we are, but I can assure you that we are citizens of this country."

You glance past him, and at Serial 1, still seemingly unmoved in the past hour.

You certainly hope this asshole did not kill her. He better hadn't.

>What did you do do her. What the fuck did you do to her?!
you angrily asked him, tears misting your eyes.
>You better answer me, you son of a bitch!

>"Well, good for you, I only sedated her. I thought she might be a person of importance given the camouflaged jacket and because she tugged along by what I assume to be a scout. Don't want any more unforeseen hindrances in my path, so she has to sleep."
He said without even batting an eye, hawking over the assorted gear he took off you at gunpoint.
>"You seemed to be the person in charge in what I assumed to be a two-person mission, so you would have gone first after I would have persuaded you to answer the questions. Lucky that you spoke what I would consider in my book good English, else you would have been a cold, broken corpse by now."
>How long does the sedative work? Any side effects? Could you please bring her back now?
>"Used a dose for two hours knockdown. None. Yes, with the use of what is called a return trigger."
with the same damn smooth tone as he had before.

You are certainly not sure if he really trusts people by what they say to him, but you are certainly a bit comforted that now he is now less threatening to you, or at least not kill you right now.
The man takes out an unmarked metallic aerosol container with a nozzle, almost not that different from that of WD40, and inserted the tip of the nozzle into one of Serial 1's nostrils before he depressed the plunger. Whatever that substance is, it seemed to be very efficient in its purpose, for Serial 1 immediately gagged and choked back to life.

As she opens her eyes once again, the first face he sees is an unfamiliar one. She might have feared for her life that she immediately grabbed the multitool that was lying right behind her, and in one fast motion, has the knife unfolded and bearing down on the man's neck. He did not let his guard down, because as fast as she swung the knife, he has also raised his left arm to block. The knife ended up hitting his leather-strapped watch, and her grip slipped off it, throwing it well clear of her reach. She was then welcomed with the same damn view of a handgun muzzle aimed at her face.

>"Seems like no one really likes rude awakenings."
you heard him say as you try to calm her down.

It seemed like your attempt has worked, for she immediately calmed down and lowered her hand. Like gentlemen after a duel where no one was killed, they lowered their arms in mutual respect.

>"Tough little woman you got there, son."
he quipped as you move over to her side, taking care to be clear of the top of the pipe, and put your arms around her to say that its okay and that this man is not the enemy.

>"Pretty ungentlemanly for me to be an uninvited guest in your tiny home, and I didn't even bother to know who my hosts are until now. May I know your name, and also of your companion?"

Fuck, now it really seems like Serial 1 is a bad idea for a woman's name.

>I go by Chuck
you said, him not knowing that it is just a pen name, a reference to the tool.

>"Just Chuck?"
>Yes, just Chuck, like that guy in the TV show.
>"Nice to meet you Chuck, I am Bill. Bill Wilson."

Name seemed familiar, but you can't quite remember. You never had foreign friends or even acquaintances that bore the name Bill. Was it from many of the greentexts and shitposting on 4chan? Nah, no known shitpost ever had the name Bill on it. Not even that long-running trainposting meme that originated from that damn Marvel movie. 

Your arms still wrapped around Serial 1, you asked him how did he get here.

His answer would be the most entertaining that you ever heard, though you are still aware that he might have made shit up.

>"I used to work for Cebu International Airways as a pilot, seeking to gather more flight hours, well until the damn Chinese overran Mactan Airport. There was a lone A319 that was fueled up and ready to go for the next flight, but there is no ladder to get up to, no tow tractor to pull it out the runway."
>"So I just climbed up the gear compartment, up through a hatch to the cockpit, and started it up. Checklists be damned. The noise the spooling up turbine caused alerted the Chinese forces already in the airport. The dumb fuckers gathered on the glass windows on the terminal behind the plane, shooting at it with their rifles."
>"I jammed the throttle up, and sure as fuck those engines dumped tons of force on those windows, sending glass, metal, and soldiers flying back into the building."

Serial 1, now seemingly calmed, has listened in to what he has to say.

>"I pulled it back then just tried my best to at least line up with the taxiway, extending the flaps at the same time. Throttle full, a few minutes later, I was airborne."
>"They aren't to happy with that, so they tried to send up two fighters to bring me down. Luck must be really on my side, for a lumbering cargo plane of theirs is coming in for a landing. That, and given the fact that the plane is empty, gave me a few minutes to gain altitude to 25,000 feet."
>"Man, those jets are fast! They were closing in, armed with what I assume would be enough to shoot me down about six times over. They didn't even bother to contact me or attempted IFF, they just fired off a missile. The resultant explosion rang the empty plane like a bell!"
>"Without thinking, I just yanked the stick down and right, sending the plane on what appears to be a death spiral. That worked, for the immediately fucked off my position. I then recovered at a really low altitude."
>"I then began to head to what I assume to be still a safe area to land to, Bangoy international. Rudder is fucked, elevator sluggish, so I just went and lined up with the runway. Only a few meters off the end did I only see that the damn place is full of them too. They began peppering the plane with small arms fire, then this tank with wheels began blasting a big gun on my plane."
>"Port side engine lost power immediately after being hit several times while I was barreling down the runway with three-fourths left in the tank. Plane is too heavy to stop, and so it went past the runway, turning over to the left and going inverted, sending debris and burning fuel all over the place."

>"I hanged upside down from my chair, held up by my seatbelt. Opened a console and the gun fell out. As to why it was suppressed, I don't know. Smoke is already filling the cockpit, so I unlatched the belt and fell on the overhead console. Ever tried walking on a Lego brick? Now imagine having your entire back feel that shit."
>"It was extremely painful, but I preferred not dying to smoke inhalation, so I grabbed the handgun and went out through the sliding window."
>"I was already through the fence when I looked back at the plane. They were already crawling all over it, looking for whoever that flew the vehicle. I then heard a loud creaking sound, then a thud, then I felt the heat all over as the plane was engulfed in an inferno of burning Jet-A."
,he said as he pointed at the wreck at the airport you have seen earlier.

>"Well, it seems like I got too carried away with telling on my misadventures that I forgot to know who she is."
,he quipped while gesturing at Serial 1 with an open palm.

You have to think fast. A good name, something she wouldn't balk at.
Come on...come on...

>Uhh...she's...
>"Amelia. Amelia Caselman."
You heard her say with authority, of such pride you would not think would come out of her mouth at any point of time.
>"Nice to meet you, Bill."
>"I could say the same for you, Miss Amelia."

>We might have made too much noise, it must be time for us to move again.
That was what you said, expressing the concern of being discovered.

What a damn good name she has, and you were calling her just Serial 1 the whole time. What a shame, you said, as you begin putting the things Bill has took off you earlier on to your belt and in your bag that you immediately slung up on your back. You also took care to make sure that the QBZ is on your hand.

It was already nearing two in the afternoon, and all thoughts of lunch was out of the question. You could just deal with the hunger later in supper, you thought.

You then hear the crunching of grass just outside the end of the pipe, along with the metallic clinking of a flash grenade.

You just managed to turn Serial 1 away from the blast, and so did Bill. The next second was then filled with the ringing of ears and having your vision washed out with white. You thought no more as you just turned to the entrace of the pipe and ripped away with your rifle at the poor sucker that went in first.

>Run! 
you said to Serial 1, who took off to hide in the intersection of pipes ahead of you. Bill also fired back with his USP, whose suppressed reports you cannot hear over the ringing of your ears. He seemed to have nicked a bastard or two before he got shot on his right shoulder. 

Not minding his injury, he moved the pistol to his left hand, still dumping what was left in his magazine at the entry point, making sure that the enemy would keep their heads down as you reloaded your QBZ. 

As his handgun's slide locked back, you replace him in the role he played by firing at the entrance to cover his retreat to the intersection. 

>*click*
It was a really tiny sound, but it seemed to be as loud as rolling thunder to you.

You tugged back at the charging handle, but it would not budge any further back. It was stuck. You looked at Bill in the eye, sending him the message that you two are certainly fucked six ways from Sunday. 

You hear the scampering of footsteps outside, they are now climbing in. You two are dead men, might as well accept it.

They are closing in guns drawn, fingers on the trigger. They are speaking a language you cannot understand. One of them pulls out a pistol and aims it at your head.

>Do I really have to look down barrels twice today?
you said, because if all those movies thought you, you need at least a cheesy one-liner before you die.

The clicking of an air-release valve filled the air, sending lead all over the length of the pipe, hitting your executor at the temple and twice at the chest. What you assume to be his subordinates also meet the same fate. 

There she was.

Serial 1.

She held up two Caselmans from the hip, sending more lead downrange with the fury of a hailstorm. They had no time to fire back, meeting their air-dropped demise instantly. She didn't mind it too, madly laughing at the sheer ignorance they displayed over her power. She is now in front of you, like a wall guarding against the horde, with seemingly unlimited ammunition. 

>"Head to the bend, NOW!"
she barked, still covering your retreat.

You pull Bill along to the cover she pointed out.

You now know that you underestimated her too much.

The valves stopped clattering and was then replaced by a hiss. She then grabbed a fallen QBZ to continue her rampage, making sure that no one shall enter the passage by suppressive fire. It was like falling dominoes, she was moving forward and suppressing, picking up another rifle as the previous on ran dry.

She is moving too far forward.

Too far to be safe.

Bill, still bleeding, offers you his USP. You promptly accept it and head up to her. She was already on her fifth rifle, firing on the entryway. You put your hand to her shoulder, telling her to stop as you are now too dangerously close to the end of the pipe. She seemed to understand, as her magdumping has stopped.

It was eerily quiet, perhaps too quiet for what was a bloodbath minutes ago. You wrap your hand around her to escort her back to Bill's position as fast as you can while your right is pointing the handgun at the entryway. 

She looks really pale now, not something you would expect from someone who emptied magazines on and on.

She then fell down on her knees, putting her weight on the rifle. You immediately went up to her to try and prop her up.

She looks anemic. You check her all over, making sure that he has no wounds. You look at Bill, also seemingly confused with the situation.

She then holds up her other hand, the one where the air guns used to be hanging from the strap. There is a marble-sized ball of metal sitting on her palm.

>"I had incurred too much material debt."
She said, her voice weakened by her condition.
>"I had pulled out more iron from my body just to sustain the materialization of ethereal weaponry."

>"I should only sustain five seconds of continuous use of an ethereal weapon, and I went past 15 using two."

>"If I do this again before I reabsorb enough iron in my body, I..."

You hushed her down before she can say anything more.

>Just stop talking Seri...Amelia, just slow down.
>All you need is a little rest, just stop talking okay?

You hug her much longer than you ever have hugged someone.

A massive explosion then rocked the pipe, and the ambient afternoon light that filled it with an orange glow was gone.

Dust filled the pipe as everyone began to cough, yourself included. Visibility is virtually zero, so you turn the crookneck flashlight on to check if everybody is alright. You set down Amelia on what you think is a relatively comfortable spot for now, then you head out to see what happened around the corner.

>"The motherfuckers sealed us in!"

>"They blew up the exit!"

Bill said, having managed to crawl up the corner of the pipe intersection, flashing a penlight up what used to be the end of the pipe. 

Your flashlight beam strayed over to his mangled shoulder. His blue windbreaker is now stained by the distinct rust color of dried blood, and so was his handgun. 

>Your shoulder's real fucked, man.

>"No worries Chuck, bleeding has already stopped. Only downside is that I could only do the deed with my left hand now."

He then bites on to the penlight, shining it upon his USP. He drops the magazine, which still has a round on top visible, on the floor. He sets it back down, pulling out another magazine from his pocket, then slams it home on the pistol.

>ka-chak

He pulled the slide back one-handed, sending the previously chambered round flying through the air.

You know damn well now that the hill was crawling with Chinese patrols.

The sound of thunder echoed inside the culvert as you are once again cooking the can of meatloaf you snagged from the checkpoint on your alcohol stove.

You worry on how it would rain and flood the canal, drowning you three poor souls. 

You better have to move to find an exit as soon as you finish your meal.

Amelia is asleep from exhaustion, leaning on your backpack that you placed for her comfort, her face slightly illuminated by crookneck flashlight that you pointed upwards to give your space a little light.

Bill, on the other hand, is trying to rig up a sling from his windbreaker to support his shoulder. He knows that he must get proper medical attention or the wound might get infected.

The can of processed meat appears to be cooked. You take out the same spoon from earlier and just snag out just enough for you to eat in one pass.

You try giving some to Bill, who just politely nodded and said that you should just give it to her.

You put your hand on her shoulder to wake her up, telling her that she needs to eat to regain her strength as you hand over the can to her.

She immediately began to devour it's contents, scraping off every last morsel, yet taking care that she wouldn't make too much noise.

As you began to put your things back in the bag, you thought for yourself as of why this pipe is immaculately clean and free of any vermin.

Thunder once again rocked your little refuge, and along with it came the sound of rain.

That is your signal to move, to get out as soon as possible.

You slung your backpack and clipped on the flashlight on the strap to light up the path ahead.

You put Amelia's arm around your neck, so as to support her as you walk. 

The QBZ she grabbed during her rampage is now on your hand.

Bill followed closely behind, USP at the ready.

Water is beginning to pool on the floor of the pipework, your Merrells splashing on it continuously.

They wouldn't hear you no more, the sound of rain would be overwhelming.

Amelia has now seemingly mustered enough strength to move all by herself, but you still keep yourself by her in case she needs help.

The three of you come across a square chamber, roughly 1 meter by 1 meter, leading up to a slit in the gutter where water is rushing in.

None of you can pass through it though, unless Amelia turns back to weapon form, and so you and Bill just peeks out of it.

An APC is parked right across it, with some poor sod getting wet guarding the machine. You just look at it with contempt.

Lightning drew an angry line on the sky, illuminating the outside scenery.

As thunder began to follow suit, Bill has already aimed his USP at the wet soul and shot the guy right at the foot, timing the shot as it roared.

The man began to scream out, desperately grabbing his radio to call for help. Two men then came out of the APC and grabbed him in.

You two are now drenched in rainwater as you stepped down the storm drain slit.

>What was that for? You could have gotten us all killed!
You asked him, the annoyance seething though your teeth.

He does his best smug Bond impression at you again.
>"Just tried out if my aim is good with my other hand. That proved to be the case. Let's move along now, shall we?"

He then proceeds to step out into the other pipe that is connected to the chamber, now knee-deep in water.

You acknowledge that he is right, as you and Amelia followed suit.

You still had doubts for him though.

It seems that there is more to him than just a simple pilot who sought to get a job here.

He seemed to have other intentions.

You three then went on further in the pipework.

Wading in chest deep water, you and Amelia followed Bill closely. It seemed that following his lead would be your best bet for survival right now.

You have passed more of the chambers you have encountered earlier, each one seemingly echoing more and more of the voices of the troops above who are now looking for who they thought to be a sniper that attacked one of their comrades.

After a few minutes of traversing the water, Bill has now stopped, pointing up to a ladder that leads to a manhole cover. It seems to be a bad idea to just climb and pop out in the middle of the road considering that the Chinese forces are on high alert on what Bill did, but between that or drowning, it does seem to be the better option.

You decide to come up first, considering that Bill could better guard Amelia while you are up there due to his skill.

The manhole cover is heavy but you managed to slide it away, the rain peppering your face as you looked up.

A peek around shows that the Chinese are down the road, flashlights glowing in search of the non-existent sniper. You climbed out so as to help Amelia get up.

As Bill is climbing up, you hear the shrill whistle of a sentry you haven't seen earlier, and floodlights began to turn on and encroach toward your position.

In that moment, you froze.

Bill has to get out of there.

Your hands are still reaching down to him, seeking to pull him out, for him to escape.

You feel the grip of his USP on your hand as he held it up to you by the suppressor.

>"Just grab it! Grab it and run!"
>"Leave me now! Go!"

You don't know what other thoughts would have come to your mind in that moment, but you just did as what he has said and ran towards the tall bush, towing Amelia and the handgun along.

You peek out of it, seeing that the soldiers have now surrounded the opening, guns pointed in, dragging Bill out of it.

A tall man wearing a slightly different uniform as to the others went up to him. He seemed both amused and irritated.

>"Ah, we meet again Mr. Wilson."
You are surprised as to what you hear. A man with heavy Chinese features just spoke perfect English, without any noticeable accent.

>"So am I, Mr. Chang."
Bill nonchalantly responded, as if they we're associates who haven't seen each other for a while.

>"I didn't imagine that of all the places we meet again, it would be here. Business surely brings us around the world huh, Bill?"
>"Yeah, business."
>"So what brought you here? The big guys at the CIA sent you down here to do the dirty laundry again?"

Bill just stood there, seemingly awaiting for more to come out of his mouth.

>"Ah...I'll take that as a yes. And who are those two you had with you earlier?"

The moment he talked about that, it felt like brick just fell out of your ass. 

They knew that there are two of you with him.

Even in the rain, you could see Bill put up a smug smile, putting up his hands in the "I don't know" gesture.

>"Well, too bad Bill. I do like agents who have a lot of loyalty, but I do also have no time to deal with this bullshit. See you around."

You look at him as he walks away.

He then pauses.

>"Oh, by the way, you forgot my calling card."

The sound of a pistol cracks through the rainstorm, lingering longer and louder that the thunder.

Bill stood still for a second before his legs gave way and he plops down on the wet pavement.

"Find those two, I need them alive."

The urge to run is now pushing you too hard and you gave in, towing Amelia along.

You know that they are closing in, fast.


The rain still continued to pour, battering your face with the sting of what seemed to be a million drops.

Amelia is right behind you, your hands holding her's as you ran across empty lots, tall grasss and barren streets on the hill.

You still remember how Bill was shot in the face. There was no surviving that one. 

The gunshot still echoed through your mind, so did how his body fell on the surface.

Your pursuers seem to have not caught up with where you two have run off to now, presumably having lost you in the tall grass on the hillside, but you still not put too much confidence on that one.

The QBZ on your back made a flopping sound as it repeatedly hit your drenched clothing.

A few meters ahead, an opened gate to a tiny building with a high tower presented itself to you as refuge. 

Out of options, you dash right into it, making sure that Amelia is well inside before you locked the gate.

A door was up front, along with a sign that is slightly illuminated by a spotlight.

"91.8 Sorcery FM", it displayed.

The same station that you listened to in the shop, the one that Amelia tuned to during your escape, the one that didn't went down when they invaded.

You put up your USP in Center Axis Relock, emulating what you saw Keanu do in John Wick, before you opened up the strangely unlocked door.

The sound of rain is now slightly muffled by the humming of electronic equipment. A lone fluorescent lamp illuminated the room with a soft white glow.

A microphone lay broken on the floor, and many of the equipment show signs of tampering with, bullet holes peppering through many of what you assume to be transmission equipment.

You look out through the the door to make sure no one is still in pursuit before you swung it closed.

You and Amelia are soggy from running through the rain, making tiny puddles of water across the station floor. 

It would be best if you change to dry clothes immediately.

You notice an open drawer, seemingly ransacked. You set down the USP on the nearby desk.

Luckily, it contained two white polo shirts still in a plastic packaging. It bore the logo of the station, and below that was "90% hottest music, 6% crap, and 4% ads!". 

You took two of them out, with one for you to wear, and the other for her.

As you turned around to give the clothing to her, you realized that she took initiative for herself and has stripped down to her skin as she hung her polo, jacket and pants up to dry, exposing her bare back to you.

You especially took notice of the men's flecktarn patterned boxer shorts that somehow remained dry underneath all her layers.

She put out her arms over the top and backwards, signifying that you give the article of clothing to her, which you just went ahead and did.

You are rather unfazed by the display, or at least lied to yourself that you aren't, as you pull off your top garments and slipped on the dry ones.

Your two-day old underwear still seemed to be good, or so you think, so you just pulled out a pair of cargo shorts that you kept in the backpack for you to wear "for a rainy day". 

As you finish wrangling into your clothing, you decide that you steal a look at her.

She must be really tired, for she just took an office chair to sit on and propped her short and slightly muscular legs up the transmission control panel, and dozed off.

The rain has now gone to a slight drizzle, with the crickets now singing their tunes outside.

You just sat on another chair, inspecting the blood-stained finish of Bill's weapon of choice.

Why did it seem to be of utmost importance that his handgun needs to escape, more important than his capture and death?

Is he really a CIA agent? What does he need in your country?

Your eyes stray over to a desktop calendar, one that featured a dark blue A320 for the page.

Cebu International Airways, it said.

You remember that Bill was a pilot for that company.

CIA.

You remember on how an Air America was formed by the US government for covert operations back in the 60's.

Doubt then filled your mind, thinking how dumb would it be to name a cover organization in a way that the acronym would be similar to the agency, but still your interest is piqued by the idea.

You have seen some of their aircraft before, all in the same blue coloration, during the times when you had to go to the school hangar. There was nothing unusual with the aircraft as they came and went with the same purpose.

Another look at the handgun yielded nothing for your theories, as stains notwithstanding, it appeared to be a regular USP nine millimeter with a plain old suppressor.

You take a look down the sights of the gun, and then you notice something odd with the target.

It was a flip clock that suffered the same fate as the other electronics in the room.

It showed 10:15 PM.

Two days previous.

You still have listened to the station after that period, and it was uninterrupted transmission without any advertisement or DJs.

Something was up.

There would be no way that the transmitter would be actually functional in that condition, you thought. Your two phones and the handheld radio are charging off several wall outlets, so you grabbed the trusty old Dell smartphone to use as a FM receiver.

You put down the USP on your hand on the desk so as you can plug in the headphones in the jack. You turn on the radio application and lo and behold, ignoring the occasional static, the station is still transmitting.

A look at the screen confirms that it is indeed tuned at 91.8 FM, Sublime's Santeria blaring out of the earphones, being part of the station's Friday Freakout program. Confusion and disbelief began to cloud your mind. 

Your eyes began to roam around the inside of the station before you noticed the little legroom underneath the console. You lower the volume, and for what seemed to be a good idea at that time, placed the pair of earphones on Amelia's ears. She seems not to be disturbed by this, and so you went on to crawl under the console.

You turned the crookneck flashlight once again to take a look underneath. There was something that appeared to be an access panel, secured by two screws. You grabbed a multitool to turn them both loose, then eased the panel open, only to reveal a solid metallic block with a donut-shaped hole roughly two inches in diameter.

A safe of some sort? What could it possibly contain?

A safe you cannot open would be useless, so you went back out and up in search of a key. It would be common sense not to keep the key on the same room as a safe, but you are desperate to know what it contains.

Then it strikes you.

The USP has a suppressor, and it seemed like it would fit right in. It would be the perfect thing to jimmy it open.

You snatched the USP off the table on what possibly be the dumbest idea you could think of and went back under the console.

The suppressor's hole, as expected lined up, lined up with the bar in the middle of the hole. You eased it in until it stopped right at where the slide is at. Nothing happens. 

Might as well turn it like a key right? Wrong.

Halfway counterclockwise, the gun stopped turning and began to glow. Blue lines began to draw across the handgun's slide and frame, then it travelled up the grips.

You cannot let go of it, like it was stuck to your hand with glue.

Suddenly, all vision recedes to a central point, leaving you in a void of darkness.

Static began to fill your vision as glowing numbers began to rush towards you, being displayed in sequences you don't understand. Wherever you looked, it's all numbers. 

All in a sudden, you are now in the middle of a white room. Entirely barren. 

The floor began to shake. 

You are lifted high in the air on what seemed to be a pedestal. As you look down below, the barren wasteland has now transformed into a massive library, but instead of books it was guns.

Guns for miles, it was. 

From what appeared to be the earliest handgonnes and Chinese cannons, to the newest rifles you have seen on the Internet, to several homemade firearms of varying workmanship.

This must be the best trip to be had, you thought.

You went back down through a series of steps, browsing the first row. There was a Steyr AUG, that Swiss battle rifle whose name began with an Stgw, and several Tec-9s. Your eyes now strayed over to a G11, and beside it was a full-length Caselman air SMG. The rack behind this one contained what you believe to be a Brazilian homemade SMG along with a Lewis gun. An AR-15 was beside it. 

As you stroll past several other guns, you come across a slambang shotgun. You were certain that it was the same one that Youtube guy built, having that M4 style stock and duct tape on it. As you try to touch it however, it was not solid, so was all the guns you have tried to touch.

They were merely manifestations of all waffegeists.

This would be quite a literal astral gun armory, you thought. All waffegeists eventually return here to be renewed in form, to become another weapon. A reconditioning center.

A realization then struck your mind. What would waffegeists have to do with a radio station?

As the thought played around your mind, it felt like you tripped on something and began to fall through a nonexistent hole on the floor.

It was all red down here, as scenes of combat began to flash through. Chinese and the Mongols, muskets in a field, aircooled MGs on a biplane, Omaha, Vietnam, Iraq. You could only understand the glimpses, but these are all battles where waffegeists could have participated in and died to. Then the scenes of cutting and melting of rifles, the screams echoing in your ear as they plead for an end in the suffering.

Too much information, you are seeing too much.

Hearing too much.

Knowing too much.

It began to feel as if your head is being compressed, of pain you cannot comprehend as you continued to fall through the abyss.

You can't take it anymore, your head can't...

Someone snags you right out through the wall of darkness.

A distant scenario from the previous, you are now sitting on what appeared to be an office chair in the middle of a lighted room.

Like a VR display, leeter began to show up in your vision. 

PROJECT NEUWAFFE

STATUS:ACTIVE

AGENT: WILSON, BILL S.

It then displays a simulated map right in front of you.

A map of your city.

Multiple blue dots show up on it, with one solid and one blinking up in the hills you were staying in.

On the lower right corner of the map it said:

ACTIVATED WAFFEGEISTS: 174

DORMANT WAFFEGEISTS: 205

As you analyze the map more and more, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

A familiar feeling.

You turn around, showing you that same damn smug smile.

It was Bill.

Why he is here, you don't know.

"Had to drag you out of that cascade, can't I get a little thanks?"

His smug smile began to fade as he began to speak out again.

>"You could only stay here for a while before you go into another cascade, so listen carefully. You made it here, as I expected. I am now permanently embedded to the system like a waffegeist. All you see is just a visual interface of the astral environment. It's like magic being displayed in an LCD screen. The station is a CIA numbers station to activate 'geists for a rebellion. Codes are embedded on music so as to appear as static to normal hearing. Humans hear nothing, 'geists understand it."

>"I have no problem staying here, but now my blood, sweat and tears have contacted the handgun, it would function as my connection to the tangible world. I can give directions, an occasional joke, but nothing else. I took over the USP's waffegeist."

>"Do not mind the equipment being broken, or even the tower. We transmit via the ground. It sounds unscientific, but it works. You are running out of time and about to go into another cascade. Code 241 Amelia reel him in, NOW!"

The scene goes out to black.

You are now hearing the tweeting of birds.

>"Welcome back sir."

As you open your eyes, Amelia is now standing over you, headphones still on her ears.

>"Must say that you look ridiculous while in a trance, drooling and all that."

She drags you out from underneath the console and helps you to stand up.

The sun has already well risen, showing the city as if nothing happened in the past few days.

Amelia pulled out the USP from the keyhole and lays it down on the desk. She then takes down the now dry clothes she had hung last night.

>Amelia, I must say thanks.
>"Nah, no need to be grateful, you being my creator and shit."

Well, her vocabulary seemed to have gotten more colorful each day.

You are now certainly hungry, so you just certainly opened up the minifridge that went unnoticed last night.

Only two bottles of beer and a ham sandwich are inside.

You decided to split the sandwich among the two of you, and so was the beer.

It was a relatively welcome change from what you considered as meals in the last few days, you thought as you gobbled down the last of the sandwich.

You open up the bottles with your multitool and passed one of them to Amelia.

>For Bill and for Waffegeists!

You said as you had an informal toast with her.

She downed the bottle in one go as if she was a drain.

After a few minutes, you have finished yours, and you went to look out of one of the windows.

You two need a ride out of this hill. The station is self sustaining, and you need to get down on the city to know what's up. You are also sure that the hill would be chock full of checkpoints looking for you two.

Out of the corner of your vision, you spot something.

A lone helicopter was perched on a helipad of a TV station.

Years of playing FSX is finally going to pay off.

Reality then shot your plans down. The Chinese are not going to just let civilian aircraft fly around unharmed. It would be suicidal to do so.

That was until you notice the roll of yellow packaging tape that laid on the table. A quick check on a drawer revealed some glossy red gift wrapping paper.

You hold the USP up your head as if it was a phone.

>"Hey Bill, do you have a Helicopter Certification?"

You began to chuckle.

This has to be the most ridiculous escape plan you have ever conjured of.

Sun is now halfway through the sky, and the bumbling about of the Chinese can be heard as the sound of vehicles began to fill the air.

You place your things in your bag in an organized manner, charger and all that. The Nokia showed no signal bar, confirming your suspicions that the towers are down.

Amelia still has your earphones on, listening to whatever is being broadcasted on the station. You just let her keep it.

She has already put back on the field jacket she has hung up and dried last night.

>Hey, I would prefer that you would take that off. It would be really...

She displays a somewhat ridiculous grin at you, like how a dog displays their teeth in aggression.

She must be really that attached to that jacket.

You just let out a sigh and tell her it's fine, she could wear it all she want.

Women are weird, weapon women even more so.

You put your thought back on your method of escape. The tape and wrapping paper might buy you some time, and you are fairly good at flying helicopters in the simulator, but at the end of a day a simulator is just a simulator.

Fuck it, you thought.

You really want off this hill.

As you are all packed up to leave, you hand over the roll of tape and wrapping paper to Amelia, who just takes it with no problem. You then take a look at the two weapons you have.

The QBZ and the USP lay on the table.

You just handed the QBZ to Amelia, along with two spare mags you kept in the bag. She jams them in the mag pocket of her cargo pants.

The USP went to you. It only had the magazine inserted as it's ammunition.

One mag is enough, you thought.

You make sure that the building appears undisturbed before you went out the door.


You began hiking up the incline, making sure that nobody sees you in doing so. In broad daylight. This part does seem a bit too silent, no cars ever pass through here.

>Hey Amelia, isn't it a bit odd for a weapon spirit to carry another weapon?
>"It is, yes, but I had done this earlier in the sewers right?"

As quickly the conversation started did it die down too.

You really hope no one sees you two right now, because people carrying weapons up a hill with no proper uniform is suspicious as hell.

After what seemed to be hours, the two of you finally reached the chain-link fence of the station. This is where your handy pliers come in, to snip off sections of the fencing material to allow rhe two of you to get in and up the helipad.

After an hour of snipping, you two finally manage to slip through unnoticed. The helicopter, a white Eurocopter AS350 sat on the pad like it was a trophy for you to get. 

Time to get down to work, you thought as the two of you began to walk up the helipad and to the helicopter.

You began to doubt yourself as you peeked in the cockpit. You recognize bits here and there, like the cyclic and the collective, but to start the helicopter?

>Ah, there's a checklist for that.

You and Amelia began to get down to work. You gave her the scissors from the multitool and showed her a photo of the Chinese roundel on the phone.

She was a fast learner, for she immediately went to work on the shapes on the wrapping paper.

You left her to the pad as you went inside a tiny shack to get the keys for the helicopter. The door was unlocked, luckily, and inside you went.

The keys hung from an organizer, with the fob emblazoned with the Eurocopter text. You just unhooked it from there and back outside you went.

You then hear something.

It was the sound of a gate opening.

The drone of a car engine then filled the air with a lowly growl, then it stopped.

You throw your bag and handgun into the helicopter's cabin and then run up to Amelia and helped her to tape up the shapes on to the sides of the helicopter, pulling off a rather convincing roundel.

As you finish taping the one up the other side, something on the helicopter began to wind up, then it was followed by the characteristic whir of the turbine that progressively went louder.

A peek on the cockpit gives you the sight of a young girl on one of the seats, pressing and flipping switches.

You had Amelia go in the rear door as you went up front to gain entry to the cockpit.

>"You see Chuck, I certainly do have a Helicopter Certification, but it would take some time adjusting to this body."
The girl said in a serious tone, yet it sounded so cute.

You just laugh at on how your plan went past ridiculous and now borderline cuckoo. 

>"Alright everyone fasten your belts, we are now taking-off."

The little girl spoke through her headset as the turbine now spooled up to full power and the blades spun with a fury.

The helicopter threw up dust as it began to rise in the air.


You turn your head towards the back, where Amelia is sitting on one of the seats. She seemed really doubtful whether the whole scenario was actually real.

The intercom crackled up once again.

>"So, where do you two want to go?"

Your attention returns to the little girl that served as your pilot. She appears to be barely 14 and does appear to be European, yet she sports a pair of aviators like a champ.

>"Hey Chuck, don't eye me like that. It would be illegal to do anything to me, and even though I look like this I am a man.

>Well Bill, like the new body you have?

>"It does feel ridiculous to be in control of a female body, but this would serve the purpose."

She (or he) tunes the radio to some frequency you have no idea existed. 

>"Uh, looks like we've got company."
Amelia said as she looked out of the window.

Two Chinese attack helicopters are tailing you, each seemingly armed to the brim with missiles.

>"Just keep calm, everyone."

The girl said, holding the helicopter on a straight heading so as to allow the pursuers to catch up.

Amelia is now gripping her rifle, ready to fire at moment's notice.

It seemed like the helicopters are not convinced with your markings and their nose guns began to turn toward you.

>"Well, they don't seem to be too happy with having us, everybody hang on!"

The helicopter then entered a steep dive, plummeting down onto the ground. She then pulls up 10 feet above ground. 

The helicopter then weaved through houses in a subdivision as the two followed suit. The two helicopters fired off their autocannons at you.

Despite the maneuvering, a few rounds actually manage to hit the helicopter, boring a few holes here and there. The machine is now barreling down an empty road with a bridge up ahead.

>Uh Bill, I know that you are a bit busy right now, but can I take over the controls?

He acknowledges this and allows you to take over.

>I now have control.

You said over the intercom as the helicopter pitched up.

The helicopter then dove down into the shallow dip in terrain carved by the river, skids skimming on the surface of the water.

One of the pursuers overshot and went over the treeline on the other side, while the other maintained pursuit. Now without obstacles, it fires off an inaccurate barrage of rockets on your general direction, which harmlessly splash on the river below.

Out of nowhere, you then decide to yank on the stick to send the helicopter crabbing around a bend.

You then hear the squeaking of a hinge from your rear.

Amelia has swung the door open and began to shoot at your pursuers, seatbelt wrapped around her left arm and the rifle on the other, peppering your pursuers with bullets. They were seemingly not amused by this as they fired off salvoes and salvoes of autocannon fire that continuously missed.

Those rounds may not penetrate the windshield, but for sure it would reduce their visibility from the cracking, you thought.

They are firing and flying blind.

The exchange of fire went on for a few minutes, each side getting fired on, stopping, then resuming as an opportunity is seen. Amelia finally has ran out of ammunition.

She just chucks them at your pursuers. One mag, two mag, then she just threw the damn gun outside.

A crack then followed this, then the sound of thrashing and metal creaking.

The attack helicopter flew right into the outcrop on the side of the river, sending metal and composite debris up on the air.

The helicopter clinked and clanked as it was peppered with assorted parts, nuts and bolts from the wreckage.

>*ka-chunk!*

You look at Bill.

An entire turbine compressor wheel embedded itself on his window, only narrowly missing (his?) face.

>"You continue flying, visibility on my side is reduced to an inch."

You just heed his instructions and continued around another bend.

The other helicopter pops up from above the treeline, positioning itself right at your 7 o' clock low.

A loud whack then emanated from the rear.

You don't know how she did it, but Amelia has kicked the left-side door free from the helicopter. The absolute madman. She will tear up the entire helicopter before the enemy does.

Luckily, the metal component probably hit the helicopter on it's rotor disc, as it sent the vehicle wobbling before it splashed onto the river.

You look at her, giving her the thumbs up. She does the same with a huge grin on her face.

Two air-to-air kills with thrown objects. Clever girl.

You then feel the helicopter suddenly lose altitude.

>"Come on Chuck, can't you keep your eyes on where we are going? We narrowly missed a bridge!"

> I thought that you can't see out front? Better fly it then.

>"To be clear, I am not your autopilot. It's all yours, I have to get coffee at the office."

>Office? What office...oh.

Bill promptly disappears, the USP now comfortably sitting on what used to be his pilot seat. That bastard, leaving you to pilot a half-working parts collection of a helicopter all alone.

>"Well, now that he's gone back, I better take up the front seat. It's all noisy back here now the door's gone and all that."

Amelia then moves up front, comfortably seating herself up on the soft seat.

>Must say it again, really good job with disposing of those two.

>"Nah, might have been just pure luck and coincidence."

>Well yeah, there's that too. Still, thank you Amelia. Probably a dead man in a stolen helicopter by now if not for you.

>"You're welcome. Also, stop calling me Amelia. Too formal."

>Oh okay... how about just Mel?

>Good enoug...wait, I know her!

You just pretend you didn't hear her as you maintain a straight heading towards your home, weaving through the dips and hills of the terrain.

>"Mel...that girl who really wanted so badly! Mel, Mel, Mel...

You don't know if you could really make the 6 kilometers with this amount of banter.

Well, at least the two of you have held something close enough to a coherent conversation.


After 5 and a half kilometers of her constant bugging, a red light began to blink on and off on the panel.

The helicopter is woefully low on fuel.

You just decide to land it on a former coconut plantation that has been cleared of trees.You knew of it when you used to take your bike around the neighborhood. It had a dilapidated barn so you could hide the helicopter if you somehow managed to pull it in.

You eased it down on the fairly overgrown area fronting the barn door, the three blades throwing up grass and dust from the ground.

The turbine are still up and running idle when she grabbed the handgun and went out to get the bag from the rear cabin. Her hair billowed from the rotor wash as she went straight to the decaying structure.

You just raise your shoulders as you turn off the turbine. How you are supposed to hide the helicopter in the barn is not so clear now.

You get out of the helicopter to find anything to cover it up.

Ah fuck it, too tired anyway, and so you just went up and into the barn.

>"Uh, Chuck, found ourselves some coo..."

Pretty sure that was the last thing you hear before your hunger and sleep-deprived brain decided that a pile of coconut shells would be a good bed for now.

*pop-pop-pop*

*taktaktaktak*

It was a dark night. You find yourself, alone, under a light layer of soot and debris.

Gunfire was erupting all around you.

You can hear a mortar as it whistles in the air before it explodes, churning up dust in the air.

>Wh...where are you Amelia!? Mel?! Answer me!

You see a dark figure in the dust cloud ahead of you.

>A...Amelia?

It was a man, wearing what seems to be a gas mask. He wore what appeared to be a modern uniform, yet he was oddly carrying a spear.

>"Hayop ka! Bwisit ka!"*

>"A...anong..."**

Before you could even finish whatever you wanted to say, he has already thrust the spear on your chest.

You could feel the cold metal as it lodged itself deeper on your body.

It felt surreal, chilling.

Then panic overcame the silence.

>"I-I'm here!"
>"Wake up!"

You then hear another whistle. Another mortar.
It's red nose bearing down directly on your face.

>"WAKE U..."


*THUD*

*roughly translates to "You animal! Piece of shit/bullshit!"
*translates to "W...what..."


>"Putragis..."

Amelia was down on the floor, rubbing her forehead.

Your head is still ringing like a bell after what just happened, still trying to make sense of what just happened, and also because of something has hit your head as you woke up.

Oh.

You just decked her in the head with your own.

Fuck.

>"Ow...fucking...Are you okay?"

The sound of crickets filled the otherwise dreary barn which was lighted up by the mellow light emanating from a tiny fire in the middle.

>"Are you okay? Seems like you got yourself a nightmare there."

>Yes Amel...

She puts up her index finger up your lip.

>"I told you to not call me Amelia."

>Okay, okay, Mel.

>"Good. Now you are awake, I'm going back to cooking, okay?"

You too began to rub the point of contact on your forehead as you prop yourself to lean against the wall.

What a fucking dream.

You look over to Amelia, her short stature casting a shadow on the inside of the barn as she stirs around something in a steel pot.

A delectably sour smell wafted up your ears.

You could get full from the scent alone.

Wait...where did she get a pot?

Whatever she must be cooking might be done, for she snagged it off the fire and brought it up to you.

>"Here, eat. It's my idea of sinigang, but I don't think they made it with chicken."

A look inside shows that it indeed contains chicken, a leg jutting out among vegetables. It even included some taro corms.

You just went ahead and ate out of it, using the opened knife from the multi tool she has fished out of your pack.

It has to be some of the best cooking you have ever tasted, and it was improvised to boot.

Halfway through the meal you decided to ask her where the ingredients came from.

>"Oh, I found the taro and tamarind on the other end of the clearing, the other vegetable came from the pond."

>How about the pot?

>"That one I snagged off the fence of a wooden hut. I took one of the chickens inside too."

>You what?!

She just laughs it off and stands up.

You are still chastising her actions as she turns over the smoldering coals of the fire and begins to walk back to you so as to sit by your side.

>"Just stop complaining and eat. I know that we are both running on fumes since yesterday. Besides, there was nobody home at that time."

She's got a point, you must admit. The two of you haven't eaten for a day and a half.

After a short while, all that was left in the pot were bones. She has put her head on your shoulder, her dark hair seemingly flowing down to meet the filthy polo that you wore from the station.

She looks up to your face, her wonderful eyes reflecting the light from the fire.

>"May I ask you a question?"

>Yes, go ahead.

>"Why did you introduce yourself to Bill as Chuck and not as Anon?"

>It was just a precaution, Mel.

>"You don't trust him?"

>No, it's not like that, it's just like I felt odd the first time we met.

Rain began to fall upon the tin roofing, the sound gradually increasing in volume as time went.

>Mel?

>"Yes?"

>You know the night at the station, the one where I went in the giant gun safe in the sky, what's with it?

>"That's our other plane of existence. A great hall for us to gather after our work is done here, get renewed, and reassigned."

>"We have been around in this world since man first wielded a weapon. It all started with the Great Rock, a mere stone that the first man obtained the first known weapon. He got proficient with it, carving the both of them to be more efficient weapons."

>Eventually, the Great Rock increased in number as it was shaped into a myriad of other weapons, the Forerunners we call them. They, too eventually evolved through the ages, to die and be reborn into another weapon."

>"Men then eventually learned to create us for themselves. They made incantations, enchantments, spells so as to bind us to their weapons."

>Blood, sweat and tears?

>"Yes, that was an example of them. I am the product of such an event."

>"It even went further when man discovered places where our world and yours did converge. Many were found around the world, and these became the centers of weapon development. We occupied all kinds of weapons, from the tiniest of handguns, tanks, aircraft, up to the largest of missiles. Even what you call as the Internet has a weapon spirit.

>"Even then, man even wanted more, seeking to enter our dimension. The Bubonic Plague happened because of a summoning gone wrong, unleashing a bioweapon on the unsuspecting populace. Nazi Germany did it to limited success, their team having managed to stay alive for five minutes before they descended to madness in the Cascade."

>"Some managed to enter with no consequence, some of them even chose to leave humanity behind and become a lesser ethereal being to stay among us."

You have been agape for the past few minutes.

>"Well, that's as far as I know. Happy?"

>Yes, but wait, I have yet another question.

>"Okay, throw it."

>Why did Bill become one of you, and why does he know who you are?

>"I don't really know, aside from the fact that he shouted at me through the headphones that night. To put it simply, shit's complex.

The rain continued to fall as the night got deeper. She yawned, she got tired from saying her bedtime story.

>"To be fair Anon, I'm tired too. I want to rest. Good night, Anon."

She snuggles herself up your side even closer.
You kiss her on the forehead, then you give her a light tapping on her hair.

>Good night too, Mel.

You see her smile for a bit before she dozed off.

You felt something repeatedly hitting your cheek.

>Go away, just 10 more minutes.

Whoever it is, they persist, and the cheek-tapping increased in tempo.

>"Rise and shine, you lying bastard!"

A pair of aviator shades greet you as you open your eyes. Bill has returned in his female form.

>"Had a good night with your sweetheart, Chuck...or shall I say Anon?"
He tauntingly said while doing that certain gesture with the eyebrows.

You just ignored his statement, waving him off to the side as you stood up. Your body made all sorts of cracking and groaning sounds as you stretch yourself while inhaling the frigid morning air.

Amelia has turned back to her air rifle form, lying on the floor. It has been a long time since you have saw her in that shape, you might have even forgot that she is a weapon in the first place. You pick her up, checking valves and training her sights at imaginary targets, then you set her back down to lean on the wall. You wrap her with the field jacket she wore so that she won't get cold.

>"I am really getting used to this body, because if I'm using it, I'm a girl!"

You look down at Bill, who is a foot and a half shorter, with a somewhat disappointed look in your face.

>"N...no, certainly didn't mean it that way. I'll just go out to check out the helicopter, okay?"

He then showed himelf out in a brisk pace. That man really has hidden issues, maybe because of his demanding job? He's right though, the USP's human form does indeed look good, in a cute way.

A look at the display of your watch shows that it is six in the morning. Amelia did her job of gathering food last night, and so you put it to yourself to do the same in the morning. You grab your trusty multi-tool on your way out to search for anything edible.

You take a look at the parked AS350, windshield coated with drops of rain from last night. Bill/USP is sitting on where the rear left door used to be, probably contemplating on what he just said earlier.

You leave him alone on his own and off you went to venture for edible plants, or if you are lucky, any form of meat. 

As you are digging out some sweet potatoes from the ground, you began to think about what Amelia told you about her origin last night. To live, die, and live again seems like a bit surreal.

Wait, are those chicken eggs?

Happy with your find, you walk back to your encampment with the items. Just boil them all on the pot, it would be good enough for breakfast. 

Bill is still on the helicopter, doing some things you don't really know. You just let him be, he knows his shit anyway. Amelia is now lying on the floor, but she is now back to her human form.

Fire has been restarted, water boiling, and food is cooking.

You could hear Amelia snore in the background.

It was oddly comforting, a bit homely even.

It does makes you forget that the country is under foreign occupation.

The three of you are gathered around the the fire, having finished your meal that you have gathered and prepared.

Bill moves around his oversized blue windbreaker so as to attain maximum comfort in his small female frame. The pair of aviators he wore is now sitting on his hair as if it was a headband.

>"So Anon, got any plans? We can't stay here forever, and that helicopter out in the open would gather unwarranted attention. A UAV would see it, or even just a snitch would bring an end to our happy days."

>We are moving out from here to my place, there is a vehicle there with a winch. If it is still there, we are to use that to pull the heli in.

>"Can't we just push it in?"
Amelia said as she brushes her slightly messy hair with her fingers.

>It would be too heavy even for the three of us. We are using the winch.

>"What if we don't make it back in time and someone sees it?"

>Well, we pretend we don't know about it.

Bill seemingly approves of your last statement, pointing his two index fingers to you in a "you're the man" gesture.

>"I like how you think Anon. Let's go, shall we?"

He immediately stands up, peeks around the door, and walks out.

Amelia puts out the fire, smothering the last remaining embers with water. She then walks out to the door Bill has left ajar and waits for you.

>"Come on Anon, we do not have all day!"

You smile at her as put your bag on and went out with her.

You sought to avoid the dirt path, and so the three of you are now walking along the coconut plantation under the shade of the towering trees. 

Amelia has put her headphones back on, probably listening to the numbers station that you assume the CIA has put up. Bill seems to be not minding anything, following your lead with his hands on his waist, thumbs hooked on the belt loops. 

>Uh, Bill, can I ask you a question?

>"Yes, as long as it doesn't go too deep."

>The USP's geist is actually a girl, right?

>"Of course. Female geists outnumber male ones by a ratio of 35:1."

Now intrigued, Amelia pops one of the earphones off.

>"See, Bill has left his human form already, but he has a connection with his pistol because of the blood he spilled on it. The process is incomplete, but because he died, his life force could complete the equation and he could manifest as a waffegeist."

She pauses for air, then goes back to continue the explanation.

>"Though, as he said that there are more female geists than male ones, his handgun got assigned with a young girl. Through some complex shit their mind would fuse into one somehow and they end up controlling a single physical form."

>"Fuck it, since you know too much already, why should I keep it secret to you anymore?"
Bill said, then he sighs.

>"What she called as "complex shit" is what we call as the Office. Do you know about the Astranuclear theory?"

You just shake your head to tell him that you are entireley clueless.

>"Good, let's keep it that way. To say it again, the Office is just a virtual render of uninterpretable information in the waffegeist plane of existence. That's it."

>Okay, so the USP waffegeist can't manifest by herself because she lacks some elements, but if you merge with her she can?

>"Bingo."

>If that's the case, who am I talking to right now?

>"It would be me, but with a sprinkling of her."

You squint your eyes as you look at him, then you turn your attention back on the path forward. A wall stretched from one end to another, and behind this is the subdivision you live in.

>Come on, let's go faster.

Soon, you all reach a seemingly convenient hole on the base. You remove the bag from your body so as to better fit through the hole. The two of them followed suit. 

As you stand up to brush away the dust and grime, you would notice that many of the houses have been abandoned, while some have been smashed to pieces by what you assume to be artillery. The wrecks of a Simba APC and a Humvee remained on a street corner. Red streaks emanate from the wreckage, terminating on what appears to be tire marks left on the pavement by a truck. 

Many of the houses appear to be looted, your lowly bungalow included. The steel gate has been blown away a few feet, the entrance now replaced by a crater. The Pajero is gone, but the Nissan Hardbody remained with a flat rear tire. The main door was also blown open outward, revealing that the living room floor now has a pond and that the air-dropped quick-install skylight replaced what used to be a roof.

What a homecoming.

Mom and Pop's things seem to be gone, and so does the Luger that he bought from the "special catalog" of a German who smuggled quality tools into the country. They followed the plan, you thought.

Amelia and Bill are walking about the room, the two picking up things in curiosity before putting them back on where they assume are supposed to be.

>"It would have been a nice house if not for the giant hole on the roof. It's entirely yours, right Anon?"
Bill asks with an inquisitive tone.

>Nah, not really, I live with Mom and Pop here. Not freeloading though, I pay for the utilities by getting on odd jobs.

He nods his head as if to approve.

>Come on, no time for hawking around, follow me.

You opened the door to a tiny room. It has several cabinets whose contents have been strewn about on the floor, while a single bed occupied the corner. Underneath it was a drawer that has been emptied and left open.

You put your hand in the open drawer and began to grope around on the gap. A lever found itself in your hand, and so you tug it, allowing you to pull out the drawer compartment entirely free. A peek inside reveals what appears to be a dark room.

You were the first to crawl in, feeling around in the dark so as to actuate a switch for the light. It's lever snags on your finger, turning on a single bulb that hung on the ceiling of the room, giving the room a white glow. A myriad of tools hung from the wall opposite the little entryway.

Now recognizing the room, Amelia immediately creeps inside.

>Come on in to my humble estate, Bill. It's much more comfortable here than there!

He kneeled down, looked around, and seeing that it is indeed safe, follows suit.

Dust has already formed a layer around the various wrenches, pliers and screwdrivers that lay about on the worktable. A mini-mill sat near the edge, cobwebs veiling it as it was unused for some time. 

>Sorry about the mess, I am not really that much of an organized person
You say as you move aside various things on the table as if to make some room.

>"Anon, that's an AK receiver, right?"
Bill points out with his small hand a piece of bent metal with holes on it.

>Yes, it is. It should be Serial 2-1 if completed. Here, meet the rest of the gang.

You unlatch the cover of a plastic box, revealing assorted receivers of various types and states of completion.

>Just things I do to pass the time. Serial 1 is the only one that got completed. 

As soon she hears her other name, she turns to you with a face of disapproval.

>Oh sorry, mean Ameli...

She then displays a somewhat smug face to remind you of something.

>...Mel, yeah, just Mel.

She smiles as if in approval then heads out to plop on the bunk bed that nestle on the far left corner of the room. 

You check out a panel with various lights and switches on it, a digital voltage gauge reading out at 24.7 volts. As you have guessed, electrical utility has been cut from the area. The bunker has it's own battery backup just to provide lighting. A miniature generator should be used to power the tools.

You flick on a toggle switch with a taped on label that reads "Ventilation". The light whir of a fan then filled the tiny room.

It has been an hour and lunch went on without incident, the three of you content from what you dug up from the pantry, namely cans of tuna and a packet of rice that you cooked in a converted rice cooker. Amelia was mindful of the old Dell she has taken for herself, having it charging on a power supply before she went off to take a nap on your bunk bed. 

Bill immediately takes notice of the radio that laid on the table.
>"Does this still work?"

You grab it off the surface so as to check the batteries on the rear hatch before turning it on. Music then emanated from the speakers, namely The Ocean by Mike Perry. You are such a sucker for modern music.

>"Not really a huge fan of these, I am more of an oldies guy actually, but tracks like these are good to hide messages with. All you hear are those beats, but hidden among those are coded commands. Switch it over to a news station."

You heed his request and turned the knobs until the music was gone and another station crackled in it's place.

>"...eports of terrorists attacking the People's Liberation Army of the Islands has been met with criticism, with the citizens calling out for an end of such activities. Wait...we have breaking news, it appears that the leadership of a terrorist group that calls itself "Commandoes of the Cube" has been captured."

The report then cuts out to what appears to be an on site coverage.

>"This man has been sentenced with rebellion, terrorism and the violation of the Indecent Media Act of 2016 of the People's Island Republic by using banned Japanese Animation in propaganda. He is hereby sentenced to death by public execution. Any last words?"

You put up your ears on the speakers so as to hear his words better.

>"I am a proud follower of the cube until death. Ave Browning, ave Kalashnikov, ave Stoner. My best girl is..."

A lone gunshot then punctuates his unfinished statement, then the transmission returns to the news center.

>"Said terror group is responsible for the massacre of brave soldiers of the People's Liberation Army yesterday and the theft of our helicopter which was promptly shot down by the elite pilots of the People's Liberation Air Force. They recently released a propaganda video, which we cannot show on air due to law." 

Bill had you switch it back to the numbers station.

>"Now that is some propaganda."

>"You're CIA, you do that shit for a living."

>"That would be the cubicle next to mine, but yeah, kind of."

>At least it seems like my last post really has done something.

>"What do you mean by last post?"

>Let's just say I accessed the internet just as the first paratroopers fell. I posted on 4chan about the invasion.

>"Hmm...wait, I should return to the Office, looks like I'm on to something here. Keep the radio on." 

In an instant, his petite female frame disappeared in thin air, a USP now in his place.

>That fucking spook...
You say as you stand up from the stool.

The music is then interrupted by what seems to be the small talk of a DJ.

>I hear you, my boy. Remember to send in your requests, we are still out there! DJ Bill playing the best of today's music on the Sorcery, 91.8.

You smile at his little remark as you bob your head to some Swedish House Mafia.

You then realized that there is still a truck that needs some working. Amelia is still fast asleep, so you didn't bother waking her up so as you could work alone. Besides, one person working on a vehicle is less suspicious than two, right? 

After retrieving a duplicate key from a drawer that contained assorted ammunition and casings, you went out through the same drawer, taking care so as to close it back up in case something happens. You didn't bother to bring any tools, save for the USP, as there should be a tire wrench in the back seat compartment. 

The truck leaned onto the flat tire. Closer inspection shows that a bullet found it's way through it, a large gash tearing across the top. A peek under the chassis shows that the spare is still good. Time to get to work, then. 

You opened up the door to the cabin with the key. Oddly, it seems like nobody actually bothered to break into the vehicle, its contents remaining undisturbed. You retrieve the jack and the familiar cross-shaped tire wrench from the rear seat.

Two hours have passed and it's now 5 in the afternoon. The flat tire has been stowed underneath in the compartment, while the spare tire is now in its place. You place the tools back on where they were kept, made sure that the three toggle switches underneath the dashboard has been scrambled, and locked the doors.

You check out for anything of potential use around the house, which yielded nothing, so you crawl back under to your little workshop.

You are immediately met with a form sitting on the edge of the bed.
It was Amelia, her face looking somewhat disappointed.

>"Anon, why did you leave me all alone down here?"

>Had to fix the truck we are going to use to pull the helicopter in, if it was still there.

She scratches her head irritatingly. You didn't do anything but she was clearly annoyed at something. As the old saying goes:

>Better fool a drunk than someone who just woke up.

She again winces, somewhat groaning in irritation. 

>"You promised to never leave me!"

>Wait, I didn't promise you anything, not even anything remotely close to that!

Her face looks up as if to look at an imaginary list, then she looks at you with a devious smile.

>"That means nothing now, you have to make up and do something for me."

>I don't have time for this sh...wait, don't!

The woodland jacket lands on your face as she takes it off.

>"Yes, yes, down there, that's it!"
>Like this?
>"Yes, just go on"

Her skin is somewhat rough, reminiscent of the rough tool marks of her receiver. 

>"Stop looking at my back, you perv."

Your fingers glide across her back, placing pressure at some points where she winces.

>Okay, that's enough. I'm just a shitty machinist, not a fucking chiropractor.

>"The massage says otherwise."

You just wave her off as you stand from the edge of the bed. She breathes out a sigh of relief and begins to swing her neck and shoulders, as if to break in new parts.

>Can you at least get dressed while doing that?

Something then suddenly crashes down from your table.

>"You dumbass, you set me down too close to the fucking...wait, did you two do something like..."
,Bill says, pointing fingers alternately between you in a suggestive manner.

You stare down at him and his petite figure, then you look back at Amelia who returns the stare at you.

>"Ah, whatever, what happens between a shooter and his 'geist remains between them. So here's the catch, there is indeed a shit-ton of replies on your thread. A quarter of it called bullshit, while some others just bought tickets for the last flights to here."

>Would it be a good idea to contact them?
You ask him with a somewhat excited, yet worried look.

>"Maybe yes, maybe no, but we don't have a way of communication with them from here."

>Well, fuck me sideways with a telephone pole. Let's just hope we come across them some day and not get shot.

>"Sure is our best hope."

He then swings down the pair of aviators that rested on top of his hair down to his eyes.

It was already late in the afternoon and darkness is beginning to settle down on the land. You just toss the two of them packets of crackers from the pantry before you led them out of the bunker. The truck is ready to do, and it only took a turn of a key and the clicking of safe switches to get that reliable TD27 engine humming in the night.

A horrible grinding sound then filled the air.

>Sorry, my bad.

Another attempt at reversing was more successful, and you are now on your merry way to the barn.

It appears that the place was still untouched, the chopper sitting out in the cold like an abandoned dog. Time to bring in the pooch back in the doghouse. A convenient hole in the back wall serves as a good point to pass the cable through to Amelia, who will hook it to the helicopter under Bill's direction and guidance.

A few agonizing hours later, the helicopter has completely gone inside the doors, leaving only a pair of troughs in the soft ground from the skids.

>"Well, there goes our problem."
Bill says as he wipes off non-existent sweat from his forehead.

The truck went in next, then the barn doors are closed. 

>We can just sleep in the truck, seats would be comfortable enough.

The two are still chipping off what was left of the crackers that they haven't eaten yet.

>Ah, you two are old enough to decide for your own, I'm sleeping.

You thought that would be an odd thing to say to a CIA agent as you went in the driver's seat to fuck around with the three toggle switch combination lock before you go to sleep.

Such a fucking long day.
A long day indeed.

You lull yourself to sleep with the promise of a new tomorrow.

``````

*pop pop pop*

*tactactac*

>"Anon, anon, sonething's up."
Bill taps you out of your groggy state. 

You have even barely rubbed the gunk off your eyes and there's a firefight already? This early in the morning? Really? Oh yeah right, the invasion.

>"Anon, they are about 500 meters away. They have geists, I sense their presence."

Amelia is still lying on the rear bench seat, still deeply asleep to be aware of the ruckus rocking the world beyond the closed doors of the barn.

>Hey, hey, Mel. Wake up, I need you.

She swats her hand lazily, as if you were an insect bothering you.

>"Naawwww...."
is all she mutters before going back to dreamland.

The gunfire seems to be creeping closer and closer in every second. You decide to take the more desperate approach and shook the living daylights out of her.

>"ANON WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK ARE YOU..."

She pauses, listening to the cracks and pops in the air. 

>"...oh."

That was all she muttered before turning into her rifle form. You readily grabbed her off the rear seat, unfolded her AUG-style foregrip, and checked for air.

>"Grab that handheld radio of yours and set it to 91.8 in FM radio. I will serve as dispatch back at the Office. Better put me in good use while I'm gone."

He waves you off before vanishing into his USP form.

You pick up the handgun from the earthen floor of the barn, tucking it in the waistline of your good old cargo pants. You then check Amelia up again, looking around the valves and gauges all over her. Air pressure still shows a good 1800 psi, right on the money. Mag still has the same 15 solid tin-lead alloy bullets left.

The commotion is getting closer than ever, and you are alone to take your chances with a full-automatic airgun and a pistol.

Fair gamble.

The radio crackles to life and Bill's actual voice can be heard out of it. 

>"Anon, we have roughly 3 'geists in the area, tightly clustered, probably on the same team."

>Anything else?

>"Nothing more, I will commit to radio silence in the duration while observing their movement."

The radio once again falls silent. The cracks and the pops now seem to get even louder. An occasional boom punctuates the staccato. 

>ZIP

Wooden splinters fly through the air as a bullet penetrates the wooden wall, zooms past you, and embeds itself on the pick-up truck.

The battle might be getting too close for your comfort. You grip Amelia even harder as you tense up at every pop and zip. The realities of war settles back in to you. It ain't as easy as running and gunning, taking out an endless flood of enemies. You decide that it would be better to crawl underneath the truck, sights lined up at the double door up front.

The firing ceased for a while, only the rustling of the tall grass outside was audible, a welcome contrast from the pandemonium. The smell of burnt propellant seeped inside the barn.

A deafening boom broke the silence, and the battle resumes. Screaming and shouting of languages you do not understand are drowned out by the sounds of the guns.

You are hoping none of the bullets damage the helicopter that sat inside with you. If a single round lands on it, just one bul...

>*PLINK*

Fucking...

A single person pops through the double door, sweeping his QBZ across the room in search of something. He looks at the machine as if it was a giant ready to eat him, shouting out in some language to probably call out to his superiors.

Six more of them crawl in into the barn, still taking fire from an unseen force. Two of them bleeding, while one has his hand blown off. He is a young man, you presume to be just 20 years in age, groaning and speaking in what you assume to be Chinese. One of them tended to his wound with a tourniquet.

>*CRACK*

A fist-sized hole is torn out of the double door, prompting the soldiers inside to duck down. Wooden splinters flew all over, hitting the hood and body of the truck with a clinking sound. 

Two of the soldiers, the only ones you deem still fit enough to fight, aim outside of the door. Sweat has already washed away their face camo paint to a mess.

You hold Amelia even harder than ever. They still haven't seen you under the truck.

>"CEASEFIRE! CEASEFIRE!"

A voice bellowed out from the outside.

>"You are now surrounded. There is nowhere left to run. Surrender!"

A soldier, the one who first entered the doors, crawls over to the door. He gestures over to the two remaining fit met for them to lower their weapons.

>"We need medical attention! We surrender, you give medical attention!"
He shouts out with an accent.

The same voice bellowed out from the outside.
>"Yes, yes. You surrender, we give medical attention."

The soldier shouts out an okay, ordering his men to stand down. One of them follows this quickly, but the other pointed his rifle at him in protest, which was quickly met by a punch.

He then speaks out in Chinese angrily while pointing out to the other wounded men and at the guy whose hand has been removed. It quickly devolves to a finger-pointing match. 

>"Drop your weapons, now!"
A man wearing a flecktarn-patterned jacket pops through the door, aiming an AKM at the two. They all quickly follow this instruction, throwing their plastic fantastic bullpups in a haphazard pile right in front of your helicopter.

Two more men in mismatched gear enter the room, searching the soldiers for more items, while the first one who entered looks over them.

A fairly large man then enters, sporting web-gear over a dress shirt. He points over for the man in flecktarn to come over.

>"Pretty nice fucking haul in this place, just as we need. Search the place for anything of interest."

Shit.

The man in flecktarn quickly goes over to the open rear door of the Nissan, looking for things of interest.

>"Sir, we have a woodland field jacket in here."

Amelia's jacket. She left it up there.

>"A jacket? What would we do with a jacket? Find more important things like ammunition or weapons."

The truck's suspension creaks as the man climbs in to rummage through the things inside.

You let him be for now, your attention diverted to another man in a vest, doing things on the injured men. Another one is squatting in front of the prisoners, probably asking them things like name, rank, all that jazz. 

But what really captivates you is the patch on his shoulder. It is a simple shield device, with what appears to be a stylized monolith. Oh, it's the /k/ube! They must be the "Commandoes of the Cube" the radio was talking about.

In your excitement, Amelia's barrel smacks on the chassis, sending crusted mud and rust all over your face. The resultant clanking sound alerted the men.

>"It came from under the truck, check it out!"

Two pairs of boots then appear in your peripheral, and in a flash, you get dragged out into the open.

Two muzzles immediately greet you.
>"You fucking bastard, what are you doing under there!"
>"Show us your hands!"
>"He's got a gun, he's got a gun!"

You are then treated to a good beating, a kick throws Amelia off your hand, sending her a good two feet slightly underneath the truck.

>"WHO THE FUCK DI..."

>*THUNK*

The truck rocks as Amelia smacks her head on the running board when she tries to sit up. She slams back to the ground.

One of the rifles pointed at you, turns into a somewhat burly woman. More woe is bound for you as she steps right on your arm, causing you pain, then she loses balance and smacks her head on the side mirror of the pick-up before going face-down onto the ground.

The last thing you remember is the man in the plain dress shirt standing over you before face-palming, then your vision fades out to black.

Everything seems to be a blur when you come back to consciousness, as if you are in a watercolour painting. There are figures moving about, but you cannot make out their faces. All attempts to right yourself up is futile as your arms seem to be bound behind you and your legs are fastened together. 

An individual with what you assume to be long hair stands over you, as if to observe your condition.

>"Hey, looks like he's up. You alright?"
The individual speaks up, verifying your thoughts that she is indeed female.

>Yeah, a person would be okay after getting beat up like that, no?

No reply can be heard from her. The man in the button-up shirt comes over in front of you, taking over her place.

>"Well, I didn't expect to find other 'geists around here aside from us. Why are you here? Who do you work for?"

>Come on, couldn't you at least prop me upright before asking me anything?

>"Uh, yeah, of course, sorry."

He isn't really the assertive, "in-charge" type you would expect to be head honcho of anything, but here we are. You are expecting too much for a /k/ommando.

>"Better?"

You just give him a slight nod.
>I am just a regular citizen, and unless you are asking for my day job, I work for nobody.

>You have a HK USP Compact nine-millimeter and a helicopter with multiple bullet holes on it. I may be an idiot, but don't tell me you are not on the payroll of any of the spook agencies. Who do you work for? CIA? MI6? Moscow? Beijing? Answer me!"

This man is a little bit off the rockers, to say. A bit too paranoid for such a relatively normal looking guy.

>Aw, come on. We both know that's bullshit. I'm just a regular citizen of this country!
, you balk out.

>"Lies! You government types like to meddle with everything! International affairs, individual rights, even the affairs of waffegeists! 

You just roll your eyes, not knowing anything more on how to deal with this crap. He babbles on and on about some shit. It's just a matter of hoping that this wouldn't go on any longer...

>"Well, looks like I missed half the party. What do we have here?"

...well, seems like it's just the beginning.

Bill raises the frame of his aviators, moving aside his 'geist form's braided hair in the process, as if to take a better look at the man interrogating you.

>"Oh yeah. Mark Andrews, 27 years of age, College undergraduate. Didn't pursue and ended up getting employed in a Cabela's in Sibley, Iowa. Frequently visits several conspiracy websites with multiple identities, notorious 4chan tripcode-user."

His jaw sagged, displaying his surprise and disbelief that this is actually happening.

Bill then points out at the female individual who stood beside "Mark".

>"Natalie Peterson, 28, nurse at a small-town hospital in Oregon. Lives in a Ford Festiva with a safe bolted on in the trunk. Owns 21 guns, along with a waffegeist Desert Eagle. Said gun is the only one left in the aftermath of a car break-in. Posted it all in 4chan and was met with incessant comments questioning her actual gender."

>"How zhe...how does he..."
A man spoke up from the corner with a distinguished accent.

Bill turns his face to him as if to tell him his fate.

>"Hans Stein. German citizen. Bragged about an STG-44 online which, luckily, promptly got deleted by a mod. Lucky bastard."

He then looks over to the seven Chinese soldiers, staring at one of them. The one who pointed the QBZ at his officer.

>"Zhang Wang Xu, Chinese reservist and notorious 50 center. Overtly patriotic and spams on 4chan like clockwork. Volunteered to get deployed here first. Seriously, fuck you. I browse the site at work for the humor, not another set of technical data on the WU-14. It broke up as it attempted to destroy the USS Ford, and the ship was broken down in the Pacific and not even running. Get fucking good."

Bill tugs on his loose windbreaker's collar before he lets his hands settle on the belt loops of his khaki cargo skirt.

The barn is so silent that you could hear a rat take a piss on a sponge.

You cannot believe that there could be such a concentration of /k/ users inside a single building of multiple nationalities, motives, and purposes. 

And in the middle of a war, nonetheless.

4chan does really bring people together, just like that banner with /o/ and /n/.


Silence filled the room for what seemed to be a full minute. A large amount of spaghetti, sauerkraut and rice were spilled on the floor in one go. Bill sure does know how to administer shock treatment.

"Mark" then points his handgun down at him.

>"W...who are you?!"

Bill twiddles the braids of his waffegeist form's chestnut hair, smiling deviantly as he looks into the bore of the handgun. He then looks at him straight up on his eyes.

>"You don't point a gun at your host. That would be bad etiquette."

In a swift move, he has grabbed the 1911 by the muzzle to yank it off his face, followed by a swift kick to the gut, sending him down back-first. Bill then pins him down with a knee on his chest, left hand on the ground, and the other holding the commandeered pistol over Mark's head.

>"Now, to answer your question, I'm CIA. What a lovely job. Good pay, free travel, and you get to destabilize countries. Dropping false data to spies, fudging up terror plots, all that jazz. Not a work for clean hands, I assure you. All fun and games until someone blows up half of Los Angeles over a shitty Hollywood movie, which was luckily stopped under the disguise of a film shoot. Remember the Knob Creek tragedy? "White-van Texan"? Shit goes deeper than you imagine, all cover-ups. You don't want to know everything."

Bill draws his face even closer at Mark, chestnut braids now hanging straight down.

>"You don't want to know everything. I swear."

>"The screams, the cries, I keep hearing them as I sleep. The eyes that plead, of people you cannot do anything for, they stick around to haunt you. All the horrible things I have witnessed, or even done myself. Lives lost, all of it. They stow themselves away at the attic of your mind, showing themselves when you are at your weakest. A fucking show of taunting and jeering, it never ends. The clinking and clanking, the bells, oh God, the bells, they won't stop ringing. The cabin in Sweden, please no, no, please stop! I beg you, stop!"

Bill's tears began to splash on Mark, who is now thoroughly confused and afraid.

>"Uh...kid, you are really creeping me out right now..."

He now appear to be detached from reality, murmuring some odd things as he stares down right through him. 

>"...the bees! No, not the bees! The poor girl, I couldn't save her, I can't do anything! Her cry repeats itself like a broken record on my mind, a broken record! There is no end to this..."

He then points the 1911 on his head, holding it up by the rail and slide, his face is now just an inch off Mark's.

>"...no end to be seen. You want to pull it? Right?! Pull the trigger for me, end it all, end the years of agony so that I may find peace from the horrors! Please! End it all for me!"

Bill is now a sobbing mess, his little female frame in tremors from sheer terror and all the crying. Eventually, his left arm gave way, dropping himself right at Mark. It was like the blasting of a dam, all of it just went in one go. A total breakdown.

Mark, not knowing on how to deal with such a harrowing experience, just wraps his arms cautiously around him.

>Wait, where is she? 
You cry out her name as you begin to swivel your head around in search of her. She must've hurt herself so bad after smacking her head on the metal structure.

It became apparent that your suspicions are true as you see her lying on what appears to be a sleeping bag, her head wrapped in some sort of bandage. A lone girl with glasses sat beside her, seemingly monitoring her condition. 

You try and wiggle so as to reach Amelia, but you sense a presence standing over.

>"Don't worry, she is going to be OK. Anne is Israeli, many doctors Israeli."
,a tall woman spoke out.

You haven't seen much examples of such people in person, but she appears to be Slavic in origin. She is in a greatcoat and an ushanka topped her long dark hair, which would be extremely uncomfortable in a tropical country like this.

Wait...isn't she the one who stepped on your arm?

>"I am so sorry after I stepped on your arm earlier, OK? Now, just stay there. She is alright."

Nothing seems to be a better option at the moment, so you just stay put.

>"That is better. I am Strela."

She then puts out her hand, expecting yours to reach out and shake it.

You just stare at her as if she just told you a badly-written joke.

She looks over to your bondage, then her eyes slowly make their way back to meet yours. Borscht is clearly spilling out.

>"Oh. I am so sorry, did not mean it. Who are you?"

>I am Anon.

>"Okay, okay."

She just then turns away to face the other direction, her right palm meeting her temple in what you believe to be a gesture of self-disappointment.

Your thoughts now returned to Bill. Did he really just broke apart that fast? What were those things that he said? What's with Sweden?

His stare goes past the walls of the building. 

Natalie sat alongside him, holding his hand so as to comfort him in his darkest hour.

The Russian now gone, you lay yourself against the wall, making sure you do not end up sitting on your tied-up arms. A comfortable position to re-align your senses on what shit you got yourself into. 

So, we have this guy named Mark, leading a group of people under the banner of a Polenesian sweet potato harvesting forum.

On the other hand, we have a bunch of Chinese soldiers held as prisoners. You have no idea how are they going to deal with them after this, but it seems like they ain't going to kill them. They even patched that one guy whose arm got blown off.

Bill, on the other hand, seems to have even deeper problems. You are really not sure on what shit has he seen, and you don't want to know. At least he's asleep for now, Natalie stroking down his hair. The face his 'geist has is a far cry from the hysteria earlier.

>"Uh, guys, she's awake! Hey, are you OK?"
The girl with the glasses cries out. Seems like sleeping beauty is up. You try to make your way to her, but you are quickly reminded of your plight as you fall over due to your legs being tied up.

>"You cannot move, let me help you."
Strela helps you back up and drags you up to where Amelia is, slowly lowering you down to the ground...

...then suddenly, on the last few inches, drops you down hard. You only wince at the pain your rear end felt.

>"S...sorry, sticky bolt. Still many cosmoline."

As fast as she came, she immediately bolts away. She is certainly an awkward individual. 

Well, you still have someone to attend to.
She still appears to be a bit woozy, seemingly trying to gather her bearings.

>Glad you are now awake, Amelia.

Her eyes then lit up.

>"Come on Anon, how many times do I have to..."

You quickly put your index finger up to her lip, cutting her tirade short.

A ruckus then began to fill the dreary air of the barn, but the /k/ommandos seem to be unfazed. Perhaps it might be one of theirs, a support vehicle or something.

>"Trundler One, nearing exfiltration point."
Mark's radio crackled.

>"Trundler One, you have the go ahead."
He replied.

The groaning and creaking of metal grew louder, then a loud hiss emanated as the vehicle's brakes released air. You try your best to catch a glimpse of the vehicle and it's operator, but your bondages prevent you from moving too far.

Mark then goes out of the building, taking a bit too long to return back inside. Maybe they had a talk or something?

>"Alright, load them all up. Leave two people to guard the heli and the truck. Probable assets to our cause."
He mumbles.

His men first began to guide the Chinese soldiers out of the barn's enormous double doors, then they went ahead to take you and Serial-one up. You just told her to do as they say and offer no resistance.

You would surely miss the good old Squirrel. May they guard her and the truck well.

As you go beyond the doors, a behemoth of a vehicle presents itself to you. It is an Isuzu ten-wheeler aluminum wing van, the logo of a local grocery store emblazoned on the ribbed paneling. A perfect disguise for a resistance transport vehicle.

The rear doors are swung open, revealing full sacks stacked neatly along the sides. Amidst all these is another door, of metal plate construction roughly five inches thick, leading to a well lit room. Upholstered benches lined the sides, one side already occupied by the captives and their guards. 

The space now fully occupied, a lone man closed the heavy door. The muffled grumbling of the diesel engine can be felt.

There is an odd unseen tension between everyone inside. Everyone seems to awkwardly stare at each other with nothing in mind. 

This is going to be one long trip.

~~~~~~~~~~

The little Cessna 162 creaked and jolted as turbulence shook it.

>"Uh, Biak-Bato, we have...uh...three, no, four mobile gun systems over the ridge. Requesting permission to engage. Over."

>"This is Biak-Bato, fire at will. Give 'em Chinks hell. Over."

The aircraft's pilot grinned as he heard the transmission. 

>"Alright Marv, hold on tight. We're coming in hot."

The aircraft began to bank hard to the right before hurtling down on the four sitting ducks. 

>"Your aircraft, Marv."

>"My aircraft. Selecting the one by the palm. Lining up with the dot."

The wind howled as the little plane bore down on the gun-truck, the metallic behemoth finding it's way on the sight's little illuminated dot. Marv's fingers twiddled on the little push-button switches haphazardly mounted on the yoke.

Waiting...

*click*

Suddenly, a thunderous roar and the most obnoxious of smoke filled the tight cabin. Six three-inch rockets beelined towards the target, in which five made it's mark. 

The truck bursted into a flaming heap of metal, smithereens clinking off the plane's aluminum skin as it pulled away from the dive.

>"Wow! What a show! It's gon...FUCK THEY HAVE MANPADS!"

In a blink of an eye, the plane is peppered with fragments. Glass instruments broke, foam particles flew up, and blood splattered everywhere. 

The engine sputtered before cutting out, the splintered propeller windmilling in the air. Marv tried to take control of the aircraft, but the pedals are limp, so are the elevators. Cables must have been severed by that missile.

The ground is closing in fast. All he could do is to try and level out the plane by the ailerons before impact.

The airframe smashed on the ground, sending soil, metal, and expensive bolts in the air.

The Plexiglas window cracked and spiderwebbed as the wreckage smashed into vegetation and outcrops.

One tree.

Two trees.

It then slams on a shallow cliff-face.
That is where it all goes blank.

It's dark. Nothing visible but a little red light amidst the fog.
>A dying star? What used to be this place's sun?
>What is this place? Some kind of hell? What have I done to deserve such punishment?

Eventually, the fog began to dissolve, and the dying star further solidified into the red warning light on the aircraft's instrument panel. Rain is falling through where the windshield used to be, water forming a puddle on the cabin floor. 

The clock on the panel read out 7:36 PM.

Marv reached out over to the cabin light switch. Miraculously, it worked, illuminating the otherwise dark interior of what used to be a Cessna. He depressed the workings of the seatbelt latch, which came off easily.

Martin, the poor guy, is slumped over the controls. His back is peppered with holes, marked with the now dried blood on his shirt. 

The rain grew even stronger. Marv took this as a signal to stay in the wreckage to take inventory. He took a glance on his Jericho 941, neatly inserted on it's holster, accompanied by two spare magazines on a pouch. 

Looking behind the seat, there are two spare rockets for the launchers in the cargo space, along with a bug-out bag containing some food, bottled water, an Orion flare gun, and a first-aid kit. A machete in it's sheath protruded from the side of the bag.

A look back at Martin's body, he carried on a custom shoulder rig system an Armscor 1911, along with a pair of spare magazines. He once said back in the base that he would not want your greasy hands on his baby, unless he expires, in which you get a pass. 

>"Just make sure you take care of her, okay? She only likes ball ammunition for some reason."
He said back then.

The rain has long stopped, giving Marv ample time to dig a deep hole on the soft ground to place Martin in. Leaving him in the wreckage is a bit unceremonial, the thoughts on scavengers ripping his corpse to shreds disturbed him. Might as well have the ground have a go on his body.

A crude cross made from wiring and wing ribs marked his grave, the aircraft's keys dangling at the middle. 

>May you rest in peace, my man. We had a good run. I promise to take care of her.
Marv said as he paid his final respects for his fallen comrade.

He turned on the wreckage once again, looking at the rocket launchers attached to the wings. Six Airtronic RPG-7s, each with a servo attached to their triggers, served as the primary armament of the aircraft. He himself had 7 confirmed ground vehicle kills with the weapon system, the last one should be the eighth for him.

Marv took down one of the launchers and performed a test on the firing mechanism. He then went on to cut a section of seatbelt to be fashioned into a sling for it.

With all the items recovered from the aircraft laid neatly on the ground, he paused to look at his handiwork. 

>These should be good enough. Enough to finish the mission we were given. Enough to crush them.
He muttered to himself.

He put Martin's shoulder rig on him, along with the bug-out bag. A press check confirms the Jericho and the 1911's load statuses, and they slipped in their respective holsters. 

With a swing and some groaning, he slung the launcher on his back. The device's weight mirrored its destructive capability.

Four gun-trucks. One down. Three to go.