They regarded the long wall between Yuna on their right and Chris on the left, filled entirely with weapons. To a casual observer the wall would appear to be just another collection of writhing flesh, but to the trained eye it was clear which pieces were detachable from the wall. That is to say, all of the fleshy bits. That is also to say the entire wall was covered for its fifty or hundred foot distance in auto repeaters and heavy augmented ordinance. Exoskeletons and flesh grenades; shrapnel clusters and all manner of explosives; darkness repellants and skinsuits; fleshy writhing tendrils of semi-mobile communications equipment and all manner of new flesh; all of these and more were available at their disposal as one of the few entirely augmented units at the Grand Imperial Military’s disposal. Their entire purpose was to wield semi-functional equipment at the bleeding edge of development. The kind known to be reliable and yet unknown just how much damage it could inflict if wielded full-bore— both for the enemy and its user. Some of the autocannons were known to sap so much strength from their wielder and kick back so hard that the first poor sap of a non-augmented test subject to have the displeasure of firing it had his spine snapped in half and his head wrapped all the way through his legs— or so the rumors said.
But the most powerful weapon of them all by a country mile (that is to say Imperial Standard Unit, in contrast to the Disgusting Heathen Destandardized Measurement System) was the simple and unassuming autorepeater. The backbone of any modern military and standard-issue to all serious armed forces, it had revolutionized the Second Tribulation War and swept the Grand Imperial Military to the dominant position it held in the present. A writhing mass of flesh hidden underneath an often-painted wood or metal cover with a single exposed port connected through its user’s skin, the AR converted life energy into ordinance, then lobbed it at opponents at hypersonic speed.
“If only I’d had one of these…” Anya mused, regarding the wall.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference.” Peter snapped back.
“But I could have done something.”
“Yes, gotten yourself killed.”
“Enough of that.” Raethor interrupted. “We don’t know how it would have gone. There’s no point rehashing what could have been when we have a battle to win.” He continued, ever to the point.
They continued to regard the wall, each trying to decide which weapons to stack in an ever-increasing mound atop their shoulders. Anya was thinking six ACs, two ARs— one for each arm— a skin suit for mobility, a bottle of darkness repellants, a few shrapnel clusters for smoke (turning the flesh monstrosities into a tactically-useful blood mist), and… well, she was interrupted.
“Yo, fucksticks.” Will shouted, hands folded behind his head in an all too relaxed posture for the situation in the brief moments it took him to recognize Raethor was, in fact, not just in the room but also looking directly at him with murderous intent. He quickly adopted a flaccid posture, bent over onto his hands and knees, then opened and lifted his hands like Raethor should give him his big, thick, dark and hard brown jackboot to polish with his tongue. Raethor accepted the gesture, and placed his dirtier right boot in Will’s outstretched hands, pointed to it, and mimed licking his other hand. Will didn’t back down, nor did he even hesitate, opting to almost deepthroat the boot.
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“Enough, “fuckstick.”” Raethor ordered after a measly one or two strokes of the tongue. Maybe Will would watch his mouth next time, or at least check for superiors. Knowing him though… it was unlikely. Anya had seen this scene before and knew it would play out again. That didn’t stop her from almost dying with tears and laughter. Unfortunately, this would mean actual death at Raethor’s hands and so she was forced to remain mute and silent. This didn’t stop her from mentally capturing the scene for later, though. Will would never let this down, though it was kind of hard to with a callsign like “Bootshiner.” They would all remember, she was sure, and the rest would be quite excited for another glorious tale of the adventures of Will, best bootshiner this side of the Imperial Wastes.
Dio’s stomach was twitching, informing Anya he too was on the brink of death or death besides, but like her he managed to escape both fates. Jessica, meanwhile, looked like she had swallowed a lemon, and Jesús… failed.
“Jajajajaja” was the best he could muster, a near-silent plea for only mild torture rather than the full-on eighty-six laps around the base he could ordinarily expect. Raethor, however, said nothing. There was disappointment plainly visible in Anya’s eyes, but none of the others commented on the change either. It was clear to all present that Raethor’s strict discipline but amusing character had been to prepare them for a day like this. To maintain decorum and push them to be better while simultaneously indulging their humanity. Because on a day like today there wasn’t going to be much opportunity to preserve it. There would be blood and there would be death, and as much as they all wanted to relish another brutal punishment… it was better this way. Because as much as Raethor flaunted the rules, the one thing he couldn’t tolerate was disrespect toward your comrades. If he was letting that slide, it meant that something more valuable was at stake, and that whatever cohesion they had would just have to be enough.. whatever it took.
They had all sobered up by the time Henry arrived, and a dour expression had settled on the faces of all in the room. They knew that for all their joking and mutual hatred that this was it. There would be no second score to settle if this one didn’t go in their favor. Whatever the mutual feelings, whatever the personal cost, it would have to be enough because the alternative was too painful to bear. Even still, Anya bit the bullet and greeted Henry like she always did,
“How’d the school shooting go?”
“Very well, the children were cooperative today.” he quickly snapped back.
She tried to wet her tongue in preparation to taste less of Raethor’s boot leather, but the only reaction he had was a light chuckle.
“You people can’t be serious.”
“Deadly, sir.” Henry shot back. Raethor’s uniform did resemble a school swimsuit if you squinted.
“Why can’t we be serious?” Jessica snapped. “There’s an enemy outside and she’s making light of it! You can’t let her get away with that Commander sir!”
“Ok, ok, I have to be fair. Anya, get on with it.” He pointed at his unmolested left boot this time, so she wouldn’t have to share Will’s saliva at least.
It was unfair Henry wouldn’t have to share the taste, but it maybe wasn’t a good idea to talk back to the man with his boot on your tongue.
The tip of her tongue tapped his boot as her sides blew themselves out in the aching pain of bending over unstably, but “You’re going to have to do better than that! Come on, put some back into it!” But right as her mouth opened to provide full contact to the full tasting surface, another party entered and Anya made use of the distraction to drop the topic after, like Will, a measly one or two licks. This did not help the pungent and sour taste of polish that would stain her tongue for at least the next hour.