I’m sick and tired of talking about the past even if the present is even more annoying. If you want to learn more about History 101, fucking Google it. I’m not paid enough to teach you this shit. What I have to do is write about my daily dumb struggles incredible adventures.
I should clarify that we in the Delta 413th are actually the dregs of Earth, mostly people with little or no previous military experience. Many of our more hardcore operators and soldiers were spread out through other Unity’s armies to gain experience. Few elite units are here with us on this shithole of a planet.
And I’d like to present to you now is a good part of the menagerie we have here at Freedom Division’s (fucking Americans) Pantera Forward Operating Base (FOB). But let me tell you about our operation theater a bit before.
There are others FOBs parallel to us (which we’re supposed to support), making one of our first defense lines through this planet (no, I’ll never dignify it with a name). Ours is a small FOB, manned only by the 2nd Brazilian regiment. We cover a small gap between Stonewall FOB, guarded by the 3rd American Penal Regiment (all with civility collars), and the often attacked Cholula FOB, guarded by the unyielding Quinametzin from Mexico. The Quinametzin’s lightest unit is probably close to our heaviest, and they are an elite unit.
To the menagerie then, or at least part of it. I’ve mentioned the Kurupiras at the beginning of this report. They are grunts like most humans, only with red-hair. They are bane of every single tracker in existence. The amount of ambushes we prepared just by using these fella’s natural traits is incredible. The xenos here absolutely hate them. I say xenos not because a nerdy trooper read Warhammer 40k and decided to feel like a Space Marine, of course not. We call then xenos to differentiate between them and our good alien Overlords' leaders and subordinate allied alien races.
Then there are the Mapinguaris like young ensign Tom, he serves as my assistant, remember? I’ve mentioned them before. To be blunt, they are like bipedal giant sloths that forgot to go extinct. Most of them have too gentle temperament, so they rarely become grunts; they are fine administrative and support personnel though. I use and abuse their prodigious strength to load and unload my cargo. I’ve never seen one of them enter into fight mode, but that would probably be pants-shitting terrifying; I did mention their thick, resistant skin and their wicked claws, didn’t I?
You’ve definitely heard about the Caiporas if you were paying attention. Do not confuse them with the Kurupiras, they get really mad. Trust me, you don’t want to get one of these midg- BZZZZT - one of these short fellas mad(der). Many mythics have the reputation to be tricksters, which is not surprising as that was their way to subtly tell humans to fuck off. But these short, dusky skinned psychos are the worse. Energetic, they can’t just stand still; if you don’t find something for they to do, they will make something up themselves - and I assure you will not like it. Nobody ever does. A few of them are on our “cavalry”. But who thought it was a good idea to put so many of them in the Demolition squads? As long as it isn’t their trees, they’re happy to put everything on fire; the bastards just love smoke.
Like yesterday, I always have to keep my eyes open to keep the little kleptos - **BZZZT**. Fuck you, VI, I stand by my words. As I was saying, I try to keep them away from my stuff.
Half our engineer corps are Trasgos, gnomes very proud of their portuguese heritage, which is weird because most mythics don’t give a shit about countries. As long as they aren’t having Inquisitions, that is. The Trasgos are often short, rotund, and grumpy; always very efficient at their trades. They look really close to the stereotypical Portuguese baker enshrined in the Brazilian people’s cultural memory to be honest.
Believe me, there are maaany more spread out through this xeno planet and back home. I’m sure more of them will come up along the report. The weird characters I have to deal with are unbelievable. Of course that there are far more humans, but their complaints are far more mundane. The mythics make up about one fifth of the Freedom Division. As their people were signatories of the Grand Treaty, they each had to send a minimum number of people to join the Unity’s armies. Mankind’s reception to the breaking of the Veil made many more enlist in fear of persecution back home; our noble AI overlords (editor’s note: fuck it, we’ll erase them all later) assured they would enforce equality. But would you trust your safety to these talking toasters - **BZZZT?**.
Yeah, you should feel offended, your sorry excuse of a VI.
Our forward base is placed in a hill with a commanding vision of its surroundings, very defensible - and a gigantic pain in my ass. I’m sure you’ve heard great things about our AI Overlords’ fully automated luxury communism, and I’m sure it’s great. It’s a shame that the civilians across the allied worlds hog so much resources that only the battlefronts that actually matter get real, reliable technology. So, there I was, during the whole afternoon under the grueling sun to help push a broken g-cart up the hill. The things are so unreliable that our engineers just tack on wheels on it, knowing that failure is imminent.
Tom was already breathing hard, the harness around his chest digging painfully on his shoulders as he tried to push the cart up. Behind him, me and a couple of engineers pull with all our exhausted might, probably contributing with less than half of Tom’s strength between the three of us. That’s when one familiar voice sounds up from behind me. Good old Diego, still strapped with his exo-armor; just back from the front.
“Seems kinda heavy. Is it heavy, Lieutenant Barro?” the cocky werewolf corporal asks, whistling and stretching without a care in the world.
I stop pushing to turn around and glare at him, but his wide and predatory grin greets me. The suddenly (even more) overburdened engineers curse me, saying awful things about my parentage. I’ll have to get even later.
“Get behind that cart, you lazy mutt,” I command, imperiously pointing at the g-cart. You might think I was suicidal to say that to the caramel-furred mythic two heads taller than I, twice as heavy, and with canines the size of my fingers. Not to mention his strength-multiplying exo-gear. Luckily, he’s a good friend from back in Basic training - the one in Rio, I shit you not. It was really surprising to meet him again at the Unity’s training world.
“That’s exalted loup garou to you, vanilla boy,” he replied with all the calm in the world - not even caring I outrank him. You just can’t find good help, you know?
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“I think I’ll head for chow if you can’t treat your betters politely.” He adds, sniffing dismissively. Vanilla is how the mythics refer to us when they want to be offensive. And write it down, there was no reverse racism for white people, and neither there is reverse racism for ordinary people.
“Might be we’ll give up on the cargo then. It’s a shame your new toy won’t make it to the camp,” I replied, shaking my head with genuine sadness.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cart go up the hill so fast; poor Tom was nearly run over in Diego’s exo-armor-helped haste. I follow along sedately, ignoring the dark stares the foul-mouthed engineers threw at my back. When I reach the base entrance, Tom is already out of the harness and doubled over, panting. Diego, on the other hand, is lovingly caressing one particular gun crate.
Now, you might ask to me how the hell I know a Francophiliac werewolf from basic training back in Brazil, and I have to say that’s a valid question. The answer is that the fool was visiting his mother, a Brazilian lycantrophe (Lobisomen is misogynistic), when they started conscripting people. Diego lived for the most part with his Loup-garou father back in France, but he was just unlucky to be caught in the draft. And yes, werewolves can marry, have sons and then divorce. They are not beasts, nor do they spread lycantrophy by biting people - it’s not a disease. You have to remember that even the weirdest mythic is a person like you and I.
Anyway, I actually got to know him before the Veil broke. It was damn unsettling to come back to the training camp in Rio to discover that the cocky conscript who stood at my side during some hellish weeks was a goddamned werewolf. It didn’t affect our friendship much, though. I had already had to reckon with similar things with friends I’d known for a lot longer.
“You’re the best, Barro!” he says to me before going back too cooing and fondling his new toy.
“Let’s go to the mess, having chow was a good idea. The gun won’t grow legs and run away, Diego,” I say.
He glared at me and growled, which nearly made me need a change of pants. But hell if I’m letting him know. I just stared the bastard down until he relented.
“Okay, okay, sorry, Barro,” he let go of the crate, sheepish. “How did you get your hands in a refurbished Mk II anyway?” he asked me as we began walking towards the mess.
I zoomed out a bit as I thought about it; I actually had to threaten the AI commander, Valiant Leader, saying I would ask for a transfer. That would have meant a green quartermaster arriving; trust me, you don’t want to have a rookie in the position in charge of managing the supplies. Imagine if he/she forgot to order toilet paper? (Yes, we still use, no one is willing to trust a vacuum bidet)
“Ah, you know, trading this and that,” I answered him belatedly as we entered the large mess tent. He looked dubious at my reply, but wisely didn’t challenge it. We stopped for a second to enjoy the cool air and the absence of dust, both ensured by the high-tech, transparent air barrier of the tent.
Ah, I should talk about that. I think the tents they sent us to prepare the forward base are the most advanced piece of tech we have; they’re even greater than Diego’s (not so) new laser shotgun. I’m convinced someone screwed up orders and sent us tents meant for some place that actually matters. Their loss, our blissfully chilly gain. No doubt there is another innocent Unity’s quartermaster being blamed by the fuck-up by his troopers. Tough. I’m tired of dealing with that shit all the time; it’s hard for me to get anything but the bottom of the barrel, third or fourth hand Unity gear. The shotgun that got Diego so happy, for example? Shitty manufacturer, unreliable and used in at least three previous conflicts. And the damn scattergun is still the best weapon I’ve ever managed to lay my hands on.
We join the food line, getting trays and plates; only a couple of Caiporas are ahead of us.
“Shit, Diego, don’t they feed you at the frontline,” I rib him as I notice he has three soup plates stacked at his tray. If a couple more meat-gorging bastards like him come by this week, I’ll have to ask for more from the Headquarters.
“Command ordered us to take their forward base. We did, but the bastards trapped us in there for a week before reinforcements arrived and we could retreat,” he explained, shrugging. Their prodigious appetite is actually the reason why there are legends of lycantrophes eating human flesh; werewolves pushed out of their villages often returned maddened by hunger. At least one Brazilian legend had to do with that in reality: the Quibungo.
“Shit, that sounds bad! Is everyone alright?” I ask, referring to his fire-team, whom I have gotten familiar with for the couple of months they have been stationed here at the FOB; they’re assault troopers. There’s Sergeant Geni, a lady Mapinguari and one of the scariest troopers I’ve ever met - I think Tom has a thing for her; and a couple of vanillas, like me, Vadinho and JC.
“Oh, the lads are alright, just flesh wounds. They’ll be back soon. And I don’t think anything can hurt Geni. But I do hope you have a good stock of coffins; there were a lot of casualties.”
“Hell, what’s the point of pushing the Barkers back anyway?” I ask, exasperated, as we sit on an empty table.
“Keep them on their toes? I don’t know, it’s not my job to think this shit through,” Diego replies, throwing his hands to the air. I have to give him that. No sense in questioning orders you can’t change. As we start to eat, I notice he winces a bit when he has to bite harder into something. Before I can ask, he raises the subject himself.
“Do you know if the dentist is set to come by anytime soon, Barro?” he asks.
“Next week, I think. Why?”
“I was so hungry I tried to eat the damn Barkers… Turns out that’s not a good idea before breaking the bark,” he answers, embarrassed.
I facepalm. I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard today - and I have talked with Dense Artificer today, that lousy, lazy AI. Ah, I should expand on the Barkers, shouldn’t I? We’re fighting a war with them after all, and this is what the report is supposed to be about partly. Well, don’t blame me, the most I’ve ever done is trade long potshots with raiding parties who slipped through our patrols. Someone who has experience and should know better is Diego himself.
From what I could observe from Barkers’ dead bodies - who passed through here to go to scientists - and from various conversations with grunts who have actually faced them in battle, this is what I have gathered: they bark and have a incredibly hard bark layer on their skins (I shit you not, where do you think the name came from?), they are not the sharpest tools in the shed, but are courageous and stubborn. Ah, that, and they have also been pushed to invade this shitty world by their own AI overlords.
What, you thought that organics had some kind of control over the galactic scenario? Dream on. All the big players in the galaxy are constructs; the common races and the mythics they came across just become their pawns (editor’s note: I give up). Sometimes I think that life is a big old 3x Strategy game for the AIs (3x as in Explore, Expand, Exploit - we were very happy to learn they don’t practice the fourth ‘X’, Exterminate).
I should mention that AIs come in two types: science based or magical based. Civilizations take different paths depending on their degree of integration with mana and the mythics. Earth, obviously, had a really low amount of mana, and our mythics suffered while the humans thrived. Anytime a common race has completely exterminated their mythics, mana dries up and spells (pun intended) their doom. The reverse is also true, mana is a lot more lethal than oxygen. They don’t call it Primal Balance for shits and giggles. Who would have imagined that being a total dick had so serious consequences?
I’m one hundred percent sure that mankind would have gone down that route. We persecuted and extinguished quite a few mythics in our time, provoking imbalance and making the Earth mana-dry in the process. If the survivors and a few noble human mages hadn’t thought to use most of the remaining mana on the planet to create the Veil in a maddening complicated world-ranging ritual… We’re too goddamned stupid.
Ah, I will just go play cards with Diego when he finally finishes his third plate. Screw this report.