Hotston swayed with the rest of his squad as their armoured fighting vehicle – AFV - bounced its way through the ruined streets of Amiens. The European Combined Armed Forces had managed to halt the ChinKor advance, with Amiens becoming a salient, surrounded on three sides by a determined and well-trained army.
The AFV bounced to a stop, the thud-thud-thud of its main 25mm cannon thrumming through the crew compartment.
'Out! Out! Out!' The cry came over their comma channel, the rear hatches clanging open. The stench of the battlefield washed over them. Rotten flesh, smoke and powdered rubble making him reach quickly for the button that sealed his helmet.
He was up and following his comrades before he even realised it. Drill after drill had hammered home such obedience until it was second nature. His fitness had also improved. Now, he barely felt the weight of his combat armour, weapons, ammunition, and everything else that the ECAP high command had thought all of their soldiers needed to carry out their duties.
Enemy tracer and pulse rounds zipped through the air, brick and cement dust blown in all directions as the buildings and walls around them took hit after hit.
'This way! To the marker!' ordered Genius, who was still their squad leader even since they’d graduated. A marker appeared on his HUD indicating the location of their objective, a counter showing how far they had to go. Fifty metres. In times of peace it wouldn't even be considered a stroll. Now, it could literally be a lifelong journey.
A mortar round crashed into a building to his left, shrapnel whickering through the air. Fuck me!
His squad leader suddenly cut right and then dropped out of sight. Chest heaving, Hotston followed, dropping into a trench that – by what he could see on his tacmap – formed a horseshoe around the position. Fortunately the curve pointed towards the enemy positions. If the open-ended trenches had faced the enemy it would have made their mission a lot harder.
'Remember, this is a HOLD AT ALL COSTS mission. There's a respawn point twenty metres behind us. You can lose ALL your lives in one battle if you're not careful. Call your shots. Tag the enemy. Medics, work your fucking arses off; gunners, lay down so much fucking fire their mums feel it. Okay?'
Horston chinned a thumbs up response, still out of breath due to the run and the adrenaline coursing through his body.
'Gonzales, Stupid, move to the left flank. Gobbo, Pingu, Chalky, take the centre and the heavy machine gun. Angel, go high. Me and Smiffy will go right. Drones up.'
'What about the AFV?' asked Hotston.
'At the rear for now. We'll bring it forward only when we really need it. Move!'
Hotston wasn’t too sure that they didn’t need the armoured vehicle’s support just now. There was even a good set of ruins it could set up in and lay down defensive fire. Still, he knew better than to argue with Genius.
They moved, running along the wood-walled trench as enemy bullets continued to hammer into the ruins. Shards of brick and concrete filled the air as the enemy bullets punched through the ruin walls.
'Christ on a bike. When they stuck us in the Coldstream Guards, I thought we'd be well sorted guarding a virtual Bucks Palace,' groaned Stupid as he dropped his squad support weapon into place, 'put the ammo here.' He patted a sandbag.
Hotston groaned himself as his dropped the two pulser batteries where Stupid had told him to. A gunner's mate, it was his role to carry extra ammunition, tag targets and make sure he looked out for the gunner's back. His secondary mission was to take over the weapon himself if Stupid was wounded or killed.
'I've never needed a piss more, mate,' he said, tucking his rifle into position and making sure that he had as clear a field of fire as possible. Satisfied, he pulled a couple of grenades from his webbing and placed them next to him.
'So go. I have. Pissed myself as soon as we left the fucking AFV.'
Hotston looked down, unsure if Stupid was winding him up. A dark stain on his friend's combat trousers showed he wasn't.
MISSION COUNTDOWN BEGUN - 300 SECONDS REMAINING
Five minutes. Five minutes where the enemy would no doubt throw everything, and everyone, they had. And the rules applied to the attacking force as well. Every person attacking could lose every life they had remaining in the one battle. And it was rumoured that the ChinKor executed soldiers who refused orders.
'Contact!' Screamed Stupid, opening fire with a long burst, pulses zipping away from his weapon at a rate of 1800 pulses per minute. The energy rounds struck their targets, a squad of ChinKor soldiers attempting to cross the rubble-filled street before them. Humans, when hit by so many energy shots, were blown apart, their cooked and smoking flesh flying in all directions. In less than two seconds, all eight of them were dead.
Dead before they even knew it, thought Hotston. From the training deaths he’d suffered, he knew that it was the way to go. Lying on the ground with your guts falling out was not something he wanted to repeat.
'Fuck me. Fuck,' giggled Stupid, adrenaline clearly coursing through his veins, 'I fucking got them!'
A series of shouts of 'contact' filled the comms as more enemy troops were tagged and marked on their HUDs. A gaggle appeared behind a low wall, all that remained of a once historical building. Snatching up one of his grenade, Hotston primed it, then lobbed it over the wall.
The ChinKor soldiers reacted the only way they could. They charged from cover. Stupid's first burst blew the legs out from under the lead two soldiers. The eruption of flesh and bone made those behind them visibly flinch. That one second pause signalled their death knell. Hotston's grenade went off, the corpse of one of the soldiers still trapped behind the wall flung cartwheeling into the air.
MULTI-KILL! - 50DP - GRENADE KILL - 5SP
Ten Development Points and one Skill Point per kill. He’d just killed five people. His first kills ever. All privates, not that that mattered. And there was no knowing if those soldiers were as green as him, or on their last lives. Which didn’t make it easier. Another 950 points, and he’d be automatically promoted to Lance Corporal. Not that he couldn’t just be promoted anyway, but the DPs were a legacy stat from when the game had still been a game.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Hotston blinked the notification away, staring in horror at the two wounded ChinKor soldiers who had led the charge. Both were rolling on the floor, screaming as they clutched at their amputated limbs, flopping in agony.
'Fuck that,' said Stupid. He fired twice, pulses blowing the two wounded ChinKor's heads apart, silencing them once and for all. If he’d left them, and they hadn’t bled out during the battle, or killed themselves if they had enough lives to waste, they would have lived with those scars, even if they later on died.
'We need to move, the bastards are going to respawn and they'll no where we are,' said Stupid, lifting his weapon from its position. He’d got a lot less stupid during training, Hotston knowing it had been first day nerves getting the best of him rather than any lack of intelligence.
'No point. They know where we are anyway. We're on a bloody capture point. This is as good a place as any to hold for now.' Hotston coughed as he finished talking, surprised at how dry his mouth was. A quick suck on his KamelBak gave him a mouthful of ice-cold water.
Gunfire erupted to their right. Grenades exploded, showering the entire position with rubble and dust. Enemy soldiers started to be tagged once more on their HUDs. There was at least a platoon of them against their 8-strong squad.
'Shit, those five, they're headed this way,' said Stupid, tucking his weapon back into his shoulder and moving slightly so that he could engage the enemy as soon as possible.
Hotston shifted position, moving a couple of metres to Stupid's right.
Where the hell are they? And why haven’t they taken out our drones? he thought as he scanned the ruined landscape before them. There were still far too many buildings standing, all offering snipers and machine gunners perfect hiding spaces. A head popped out from behind the corner of a building, popping back before he could shoot. Slowing his breath, he laid his sights over where he'd seen the movement. Stupid started to shout out, his heavy pulser firing burst after burst.
The head came out again. This time Hotston was ready for it. A quick squeeze on his trigger sent a bullet through the air and into his target in less than a second. Blood puffed into the air, the ChinKor trooper clutching at the remains of their throat, arterial blood pumping feet into the air.
KILL!
+10DP
+1SP - BATTLE RIFLE
A hail of gunfire sent him ducking down into his trench, screaming at the sudden onslaught. He barely caught the SUPPRESSED effect glyph appearing over his head.
'They're charging! Two squads at least! Hotston, up and fire you twat!' Stupid's voice screamed over his comms channel. The heavy machine gun in the centre opened fire, Gobbo, Pingu and Chalky joining the battle, and the comms channel filled with the shouts of the rest of his squad mates.
Legs shaking, bile in his mouth, tears blurring his vision, Hotston rose and pointed his weapon over the lip of the trench. He gasped as he saw that the enemy were less than ten metres from his position. Thumbing his rifle to fully automatic, he let rip, raking the weapon back and forth, scything down the nearest enemy troopers, DPs popping up with every kill.
MULTI-KILL!
+40DP
+3SP - BATTLE RIFLE
He’d killed three enemy soldiers. On the Development Point Award Matrix, A private, such as himself, killing a private gained 10DP. It was 20DP for a Lance Corporal, the next rank up. Which meant that he’d killed two privates, and a lance corporal. Or the ChinKor equivalent. If he ever managed to kill a Field Marshall, he’d earn himself a whopping 850DP. Which, in the legacy game, would have meant a rapid rise through the ranks, as battles could have had two teams filled with high-ranking players purely due to the amount of time they’d played. Now, it would be nearly impossible for a private such as himself to get anywhere near to a Field Marshall. There were also considerably fewer Field Marshalls. Just to get the 1000 points originally needed to progress to lance corporal he’d need to kill 100 privates.
The rest of the enemy went to ground, dropping into a shell crater for shelter. Hotston primed a grenade, counted to three, then pitched it into the crater. It was an easy throw, less than five metres. With only two seconds left on the timer, the enemy had no change to react.
MULTI-KILL!
SQUAD WIPED - 50DP
+5SP - GRENADE
Hotston looked at the mission counter. 135 seconds to mission end. He popped the magazine from his rifle and slammed another one home as quickly as possible.
Thank God I spent so much time practicing! Doing so had meant that he was able to shave hundredths of a second off the time it took to reload. He had less chance of FUMBLING as well.
The speed increase of the reload might not have seemed that large, but when life or death could be decided by hundredths of a second, even the slightest advantage was a life saver. Magazine seated, he raised his rifle in time to engage a cluster of ChinKor that had taken cover behind a low wall and were trading shots with Stupid.
One slipped out of cover just long enough. Hotston sent a three-round burst into the soldier's side, knocking them into their comrades. Another burst took a second soldier in the chest, knocking them back. No DPs appeared on his HUD, meaning that they were alive, for now. Incoming fire forced him to duck back down.
90 seconds remaining. Bugles sounded, the ChinKor's traditional method of sounding an all-out charge. Standard doctrine for assaulting a fortified position was that the attacking force would need to have a minimum of three soldiers to every enemy soldier. Add machine guns and heavy pulsers into the defensive mix and that quickly rose to at least 6:1.
Raising his rifle's sight over the lip of the trench, Hotston's mouth went dry as he saw that the odds were higher than that. Much higher.
'Estimate one company ChinKor troops attacking!' Approximately one hundred enemy soldiers were charging towards them, their battle cries ringing out as they used their helmet's external speakers to amplify their shrieks and whoops. It was utterly terrifying. And by the look on Stupid’s face, he could see the gunner was just as scared.
The ground vibrated beneath his feet, so much so that dust and pebbles started to fall from the lip of the trench. With a huge animal-like roar, his squad's IFV charged into the fray. Skidding to a halt within the horseshoe, it showered him with debris. The main cannon opened fire, as did both of the secondary weapons, high velocity .22 calibre miniguns. To Hotston, who had been starting death in the face, it was utterly glorious. Snatching his remaining grenades from his chest, he primed and threw them as quickly as he could before lifting his rifle and spraying wildly.
MISSION HOLD AT ALL COSTS COMPLETED - 100DP
He kept firing. It didn't matter that they held the objective, and that the battlefield would now shift away from them. The enemy were still before him and every life he took now brought each of his victims closer to permanent death whilst saving himself and his squad mates from a similar fate. Relief at surviving the mission flooded through him. Retreating armies also suffered high casualties. Backs to their enemy, the ChinKor troops were helpless. Time and time again he shot one in the back. Some would turn to provide covering fire, only to be blown apart by the 25mm cannon, or the HV minigun. The retreat turned into a rout. And then it was over.
Taking a look at his post mission stats, he saw that he’d gained another 15SP for his BATTLE RIFLE skill, 3SP for his GRENADE skill and 240DP. The breakdown even told him he’d killed 12 privates, 2 lance corporals and a sergeant.
'Fucking hell, that was proper intense!' Stupid slapped him on the back, the barrel of his pulser smoking. Bodies littered the ground in front of their position and Hotston gulped as he saw that the nearest was only a metre or so away. Reaching out, he pushed their head to make sure that they were truly dead.
'Okay people, bloody stellar job!” Genius commed over the squad channel. “Orders are to take any of the bastards still alive and process them as POWs. Command don't want them to get back into the battle. Up and out!'
And that was one way of surviving the war. Get taken prisoner and you’d never have to fight again. Although standing orders were to always attempt to escape. Which would no doubt see you dying. And respawning in the prisoner of war camp. Hotston rather thought that if he was captured, that staying put would be preferable to being gunned down or ripped apart by cyber hounds.
Groaning together, Stupid and Hotston clambered out of their position and set about the grisly task of finding survivors, the heavy 25mm cannon of the IFV protecting their every move.