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934706 No. 934706 ID: 30ada4

It's times like these that make someone ask the big questions; is there a God, for example.

You've never really believed in an omnipotent power, especially not now, as you hang from your hands and feel your ribs crack.

Is there a such thing as good and evil, that's another good one.

Probably not.
No. 934714 ID: 30510e

Greetings fleshing, let us begin.
What is your current situation?
No. 934719 ID: 94e908

You're jarred from your deep thoughts by a particularly vicious uppercut to an already broken rib. The immediate sting of the blow recedes, leaving the throbbing pain of bruised muscle and torn tissue.

You cough and expel a mixture of snot and blood, "Jeez, have you been working out Remy?" Through eyes half-blinded by your own blood, you think you see his jaw clench in anger.

"My name isn't Remy, Chloe," he says through gnashed teeth. It's actually Ramirez, which you know. Besides, your name isn't Chloe. Which he knows.

You roll your eyes as best you can in their bruised sockets, "Yeah yeah, don't be so thin skinned. Oh right, meant to ask: what did I do to deserve getting chained up down here? Not that I don't enjoy these special moments we have together." You say. Remy gives you a look of pure hatred in return. He's disgusted by you. That's why it's so much fun to poke at him.

"There's someone here to talk to you, a representative of the War Court." He smiles wickedly as he says this. Small wonder, almost everyone who attracts the attention of the International War Court ends up with a death sentence, and you know Remy would love to see you executed.

"Did this 'representative' want me beaten before our talk?" You pose the question rehotorically, knowing full well that Remy just likes beating you up.

That sadistic smile widens, "Nah, I just wanted to give you something to remember me by." There they are, his true colors. Behind that stoic soldier facade, Remy only really joined the military hurt people, that's how he gets off. Sick fucking bastard. It's not like you're any better though.

You force a smile past your pain, it's not hard, you've experienced so much by now, "That's sweet of you, Remy, but you didn't have to; there's no way I could forget a face as ugly as yours." By reflex, he touches a hand to the burn scaring on the left side of his face, a feature he is deeply self-conscious of, before his wicked smile deforms into a look of absolute anger. It's just too easy to fuck with this guy.

Remy tenses his body, preparing to deliver another strike, when the door to this cosy little interrogation room flies open, and he turns to face the door with an expression akin to a child caught stealing candy.

But who should lean through the door except Corp. Samson, Remy's close friend. He gives you only a cursory, uninterested glance, before addressing Remy, "Hurry it up dude, the Representative is getting tired of waiting."

Remy looks between you and the Corporal, and you can feel him weighing his options. Finally, his self preservation seem to outweigh his lust to inflict pain, and he releases your hands from the chains that bound them, only to handcuff them behind your back. He then gives you a hard, backhanded slap across the face, "now get the fuck out of here, pice of shit," he hisses, pointing at the door being held open.

You shamble forward and through the door, Samson slamming it behind you. These guys are some of the most fucked up soldiers you've ever met, but they're Marines, so what do you expect.

It's a long, painful walk that the Corporal forces you to make. But eventually you arrive at a door on one of the uppermost levels of the ship. It electronically unlocks when the Corporal nears, and he guides you through into the room beyond.

The first thing you notice is the window opposite the door which spans an entire wall, bright light from the setting sun streams through it, stinging your eyes after so long in the darkness of the brig. Then you notice the room's furnishing, all exotic hardwood and fashionable wallpaper, a long table surrounded by chairs to your left, a presentation screen to your left. This isn't an interrogation chamber, it's a meeting room, the kinda place a buncha' rich, suit wearing business types come to discuss stock holdings.

Speaking of suited busses types, fitting perfectly into that classification is the man sitting at one end of a small table parallel the window and directly ahead of you. He stares at you with a cold, calculating glare and flexes his tented fingers, before shifting that shrewd gaze to the Corporal behind you, "remove her handcuffs and close the door behind you as you leave," he says in a monotone. Samson seems about to protest when the suited man gives a hard stare, silencing the corporal who dutifully removes your cuffs and exits, shutting the door behind him.

The suited man turns back to you, no emotion other than the weariness in his eyes shows across his face. "Take a seat, if you want," he says, indicting the chair across from him. You do so, and recline backwards to rest your feet on the table.

A moment of perfect silence passes, as the suited man stares straight into your eyes, noiselessly taping his fingers together.

At last he speaks, "My name is Maynard Dunmire," he says, "I am a representative of the IWC, International War Court. I have been sent here to question you about a breach of the NATO Rules Of Engagement. I ask that you please answer my questions truthfully to the best of your knowledge misses Lynch." Never once does his tone change, his voice rise. Like talking to a machine.

"The name's Karma. But sure, fire away." You reply.

He leans down and pulls a briefcase from under the desk. He then lays it on the table and clicks it open, searching for some particular document. He seems to find it, as he begins quickly reading over a piece of paper. "What can you tell me about the civilian massacre that occurred three years ago in Afghanistan?" He asks, "You witnessed it, correct?" His voice remains perfectly monotone.

You're completely taken aback by the question, you thought that whole shitstorm of a case had been closed years ago.

You really don't want to remember any of that, in fact you tried for years to forget about it completely. As if that was possible; to forget the screams, the smell. You'll never escape it.

You'll never escape the bodies.

And now it's time to face them again.
No. 934721 ID: 6ce595

Just in case you didn't already know, this quest has previous parts,

No. 934767 ID: d4d69a

First off, mention how your ribs are broken so it will be hard to talk.

It seems like you didn't do anything wrong if you have such bad memories, either you were just a witness or you were just following orders. Either way, tell the truth. The blame will be shifted on either way.
No. 934868 ID: 094652

Explain details but do it fast. Get this over with. If he insists on forcing you to relive the worst parts, make commentary on his sanity.
No. 934980 ID: fde5e7

"Quick question first," you say with a tinge of sardonicism, "Did you even notice that I was beaten black and blue?" You shift a bit in your seat to take pressure of your broken rib.

Dunmire gives a long, resigned sigh, "I'm sorry, 'Karma'," he says, giving you a genuinely sympathetic look. "Yes, I know that the practices here on the Misery are no where near legal. And if I could, I would help you. But I, the IWC, we're powerless. America becomes more and more corrupt, it's actions more desperate and depraved by the hour, but no one can do anything about it for fear of becoming an enemy of the U.S. At this point... All I can do is pretend not to notice," he takes a deep breath and regains some composure, "I'm sorry, I mean it, but I'm just doing my job, and I need you to answer my questions."

You give a mournful nod, "I understand, and I don't blame you," you take a deep breath and brace yourself, "Yes, to answer your question. I witnessed the Massacre."

Dunmire retrieves a small tablet and stylus from his briefcase, and appears poised to jot down notes, "Why were you deployed there in the first place?" He asks.

It was the second Russian invasion of Afghanistan, the top brass were panicking, realizing the gravity of the situation. The move had come swift as lighting, as if overnight 20,000 troops had mobilized. But it wasn't unexpected, either.

Just two months before, the Russian army had mobilized and taken control of Kazakhstan, then Kyrgyzstan, then Tajikistan. One of the fastest campaigns in the country's history. They met with no resistance, shear numbers ensuring that each country surrendered before the fighting had even begun.

Three weeks. That's how long it took for the Russian military to march across its southern neighbors, gaining complete control over them.

And then they attacked Afghanistan.

They gave no time to surrender, anticipating the violent reaction of the Afghan militias they simply charged in full force, killing anyone who so much as looked at a gun. Their victory was total, and it was achieved in less than a week.

The U.S. Was all too aware of what was happening, they'd seen it before, after all; it was the same tactic used by the Soviet bloc to capture countries and add them to their power, a self-feeding steamroller that would continue destroying and consuming until it's control was absolute.

The U.S. Wasn't too keen on the rise of a second Soviet Union, so they decided to take action in the form of clandestine operations. The goal to sabotage the invading force until the structure collapsed.

That's where you came in.

Your team's target was Alesiy Chekov, a colonel leading the infantry regiment stationed in Kabul. Without him the soldiers would be thrown into disarray. At least, that's what your superiors thought. And so they sent your squad to kill him.

"It was the second invasion of Afghanistan, my team was sent into Kabul to collect info on the Russians," you say. It's an innocent lie, makes the story simpler to tell, the paperwork look a little less dirty. After all, that is the story the U.S. Choose to write in the files.

Dunmire takes a note on his tablet, "Who was with you on the team?" He asks next, his eyes searching for details in your features.

Four Delta Operators besides yourself: Niceguy the light machine gunner, Brains the sniper, Crunch the medic, and Iceman the squad leader. You knew them all well, you trusted them. Maybe that trust was poorly founded.

"It was a small team, I forget the other guy's names," you shrug nonchalantly, "Didn't know 'em very well."

Dunmire continues to make notes. "What happened? How did things turn out so messy in Kabul?" He asks.

That is a long story.
No. 934982 ID: 094652

Did it end with an ancient mass-slaughter ritual ironically completed by your attempts to stop it?
No. 934985 ID: 0c0f75

Kome, I love you. No-homo.
No. 935035 ID: d4d69a

You know, this would almost fit.

While you should continue to keep the names to yourself, if they ask for them specifically, give them. Same with the mission details.

So withhold info as much as you want, unless they prod you for it.
No. 935427 ID: e35d75

Wind whips violently against the hull of the V-toll, rattling the fuselage, through the double-walled windows you see angry grey clouds form, and streaks of lightning fork across them.

A boom of thunder shakes the whole aircraft, and Brains, sitting across from you, clenches his teeth. He's never liked flying. Makes sense, he was a Marine; would rather travel by sea. But even if his constitution is lacking in the face of air travel, there's no doubt that he's invaluable on the ground. You've seen him nail a three inch target at 500 meters with that prize M14 of his.

He's much different from the rest of your team, who are all Airborne.

Niceguy's closest to the jump-ramp, eager to be the first to fight, as always. And as always, he's sporting that shit eating grin. It's genuine too. There's a reason he's called Niceguy. The name's a bit ironic though, considering he's the fiercest fighter on the team, strongest as well; that's why he carries the LMG, a big old M60 that his grandfather supposedly used in Vietnam. And just like his grandfather, he joined the U.S. Army as a grunt, good'ol MOS 11B. He's one of the only D-force members to be recruited from standard infantry.

Crunch is sitting where he always sits, furthest seat up, behind the copilot. "Safest seat in the aircraft," he claims. That's how he is, scientific method first and foremost. Guy got a doctorate in medicine before he went into the service, first as an Air Force combat medic, then as a U.S. Army combat medic. And much as we like to joke about it, that medical training he got sure does shine when he's patching up bullet holes with that special Medikit of his. I don't even know what all he carries in that thing, but I've seen him get exhausted soldiers up and running in seconds, bring men back from within an inch of death, and even bring them back from death.

Iceman, he isn't sitting. He's standing. No one actually calls him Iceman, that may be his official callsign, but it's only official. In the field we all call him Lead, because he's a leader, through and through. His real name's Scott Mitchell, and every member of this team admires him. He joined the service as a U.S. Army infantrymen, then he joined the Rangers, then the Green berets, and finally ended up in D-force. He's by far the oldest person on the team, and at 50 years of age, he might seem too old to be doing this job. But you've seen him fight; age has not slowed him down. Nor has it messed with his accuracy, making him a formidable Rifleman.

And that's you too, a Rifleman. Well, Riflewoman technically, but that just doesn't sound nearly as cool. You're by far the youngest member of the team, but certainly not green. In fact, you've got so many successful operations under your belt that the others started calling you Karma. Though you're fairly skilled in many forms of warfare, your specialty is as the team's techie, being the only one here even semi-competent with electronics. Drones, computers, surveillance; you name it.

You trust this team, trust it's skills; that's why you're confident this mission will turn up aces.
No. 935513 ID: 664519


Is that a typo of VTOL (V.ertical T.ake O.ff and L.anding)?
No. 935521 ID: 70d5de

Yes, that's a typo. I have no excuse, I can never forgive myself that slip up.
No. 935524 ID: 672eca

"20 seconds to drop!" Comes the pilot's distorted and staticky voice over comms.

And like clockwork, the whole team stands in line and in order: Lead in front, then Niceguy, you, Brains, and bringing up the rear is Crunch. Everyone performing last minute pre-jump checks.

Then the rear ramp opens slowly, like the maw of a beast, the jump light flashes on, and the pilot's voice is heard one last time, "GO FOR JUMP!"

In a maneuver practiced and preformed a hundred times before, the whole team is out of the aircraft and accelerating downward.

1... 2... 3... 4... In a gut-clenching mixture of fear, exhilaration, and meticulously drilled discipline you count the seconds and watch your altimeter.

Then the designated altitude comes, and you yank hard on your pull-cord.

The chute unfurls and your descent is instantly slowed, momentum jerking your whole body downwards and straining your neck.

You slow to a glide and get a moment to take in the scenery: below you spans a valley, cliff faces bordering either side of the ancient city of Kabul. Several fires burn in the streets, illuminating the wrecked buildings and aftermath of the Russian invasion.

Then you see the rest of your team, only barely making out their black parachutes against the darkness of the night, all of them converging on the rendezvous point in the western end of the city.

Quiet as death, you descend on the city. It's inhabitants none the wiser to your presence, nearly invisible against the virtually black sky. You land, and dispose of your parachute. Then, on silent feet, your team sprints across the ramshackle rooftops, all arriving at the designated burned-out church.

One by one, you all slink into the main hall of the church, quiet nods between yourselves the only acknowledgement of mutual presence.

Lead takes a knee, and gives a curt gesture telling everyone to do the same. "Alright people," he says, his voice cold, professional, and strict, "you all read the brief, but I'm going over it one last time so we're all crystal, pay attention; we are currently in the central western district of Kabul, the closest we could land to the target without risking detection. And that target is colonel Alesiy Chekov. At approximately 22:40 he meets with Captain Mikhail Smirnov at the center of the city, Smirnov is NOT the target; when Chekov leaves the meeting we hit him on his way back to his battalion. That is the only time he is exposed. Under no circumstances can the enemy identify us, this is a deniable op. That's why we're using a captured enemy RPG, a typical weapon of Afghan resistance fighters to take out Smirnov's car. With the thunderstorm, we will not be receiving any satellite or airborne support, visual confirmation only. Any questions?"

No questions. Not from anyone. As always.

With a glance at each and every team member, Lead seems satisfied, and nods, "Good. Let's move."

The night is quiet. The grim calm that follows a battle, as victorious soldiers drink themselves into a stupor, trying to forget the horrors they've seen, the things they've done; and the losers, the ones still alive, mourn the death of family and friends.

But quiet works well enough for your intents. And as you accompany your team across this destroyed city, you can't help but be grateful for the quiet. After all, this is war; and in war, you're either being bored to death, or shot to death. You've lived long enough now to always hope for the former.

Throughout the city, you encounter few Russian soldiers, and what of them you do see are drunken, sleeping, or both. None of them come close to detecting you, a flawless stealth approach so far. And something of a bad omen. Murphy's law likes to strike when you least expect it.

The whole team finally arrives at the ambush point: a half-destroyed schoolhouse overlooking the road. This particular section of road being bottlenecked by two wrecked cars and a barricade, forcing vehicles to move slowly through it. Across from you is an apartment complex which spans the whole block, meaning there are no alleys to turn off on. A perfect place to strike. And it just so happens that Chekov's car is scheduled to pass through this very convenient bottleneck.

The team settles in on the roof of the three-story schoolhouse, and is left with nothing to do but wait. Not very long at that.

...Yet something's bothering you. Some fact that's right in front of you, you just know it. Just gnawing at you.

Something isn't right.
No. 935542 ID: 189b8c

The enemy would be insane to send someone through that deathtrap without either re-clearing it out right before as security, or sending multiple decoys and a beefed up escort force.
No. 935796 ID: 8eaf98

This is too nice of an ambush spot, suggesting a setup. With the benefit of hindsight the apartment might still have civies in it they hear the commotion, ID you, you need no witnesses and so end up needing to 'deal' with them.

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