Richards Daniel checked the power pack of his EMG-12 coilgun with a bitter chuckle as he got in the pickup truck along with the rest of the squad. Funny how the marines are still using those ancient ass M27 rifles, which he would have been as well had the corps not kicked his ass out for doing what needed to be done.
And now they need him, all of them whom they kicked out before, again. But in a more politically acceptable form. Hence their civilian clothing and kit as befitting of a PMC group, in this case the Ninja Punched. In this group, the NJP is the resume, proof that there are times where morals were above the code of paper.
Hypocritical paper codes that no longer apply to them, which suits everyone fine enough.
It’s time to get their hands dirty. Just like the filthy mercenaries that the public perceive them as. The same public that believed in fairy tales of pacifist runs and the power of love.
As his operational manager Tim Muller quipped once: “Pacifism is preached on the mountain of bodies stacked by warriors willing to do violence.”. Or as his now squad buddy and coworker James Goldberg translated into understandable speech: “Let’s see them furry twinks do a pacifist run out here!”
“Yo shanker, ready to poke some holes in them cunts?” Goldberg smirked as he gunned the engine and began driving.
“For the last time, I only stabbed that one sonofabitch…” Daniel rolled his eyes. It’s not that he hated his current callsign/nickname, but to have a reputation from just that one time… is kinda cringe. It makes him way more badass sounding than he actually was. Is.
“Hey, that’s one more than most guys.” Carlos Lopez, who was checking his comms rig, pointed out.
“And also why we’re here.” Daniel muttered, wanting to move away from the topic. They might all be disgraced in the eyes of society, and the leaky nature of vetting in the government allowed them to do what they’re currently doing, but it’s still not something he wants to be reminded of constantly. It’s not that he’s ashamed of what he has done, rather it’s the others’ perception of his motivations of doing what he did that he finds mildly uncomfortable.
It wasn’t the killing itself that’s enjoyable, but the wicked getting what they deserved. Thus the ‘who’ that gets stabbed is far more relevant than the act of stabbing itself. Hence their current mission-, no, task.
Missions are for military service members, mercenaries get tasks.
……
It didn’t take long to find trouble, in a world that for the most part still predominantly thought distances in terms of a human’s ability to walk. In a handful of minutes the mercs could see the telltale plumes of smoke in the distance, the signs of unimaginable power… yet still slaved to the meager senses of the humans possessing them.
Quite the opposite of what they are, as the EMG-12 is a pretty mid weapon despite the high tech aura surrounding the mere name of ‘coilgun’ in the popular imagination. It does have a few things in its favor in this other world though: it’s battery powered (thus rechargeable by solar, not that it matters), relatively quiet, and most of all, too damn complicated to be maintained for long if fallen in the wrong hands, unlike the countless thousands of old fashion bolt action rifles in the hands of anyone and everyone unsavory these days around these parts.
But really, it’s because it’s becoming a common site back on earth, nothing really that complicated. They’re not special, and neither is their kit.
As the squad of mercs got out of the truck and into position, an otherwise nondescript outcropping, where through the sights on their guns they saw them: a small group of people, picking through hundreds of burnt and shredded corpses. A sight as common as the endless fields of amber grain.
“Targets in sight.” Goldberg said, as he looked at the suspected enemies through his scope. Suspected being a nominal category as it’s all but confirmed, even at that range.
“Same.” Lopez said, doing the same.
“Fire when ready.” Daniel simply said as he pulled the trigger of his gun.
The shots rang true, at least some of it. But when it’s over 90 rounds in the span of a handful of seconds it’s only a matter of a number game for enough to find their targets. The lack of recoil and the fin-stabilized nature of the rounds also didn’t hurt accuracy. Before they knew it the targets all fell, not enough time for them to even let loose cries of pain.
“Targets neutralized. Over.” Daniel spoke, mainly through the radio. More for the remaining passengers in the vehicle than for the rest of the fireteam. Those guys. The guys who haven’t muttered a single word so far besides idle greetings and other formalities. The guys who are effectively invisible by their trade.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Assholes. But necessary ones. According to the government anyways.
“Acknowledged. Over.” Came the response from Tobis, whose job could be best described as ‘liaison of the miscellaneous’, “Proceed as usual.”
“Of course. Over and out.” Daniel replied with a sigh as he got up, glad as always to get that little part over with. They might all be scumbags of various flavors in this outfit, but Tobis, that dude, gives everyone else the creeps. “Let’s go fuckers.” He said as he waved the rest of the fireteam, who promptly followed suit like the well oiled killing machine that they are.
……
“Looks like another lucky day for us.” Lopez said grimly, something he tends to do under distasteful circumstances such as the present, as he picked through the corpses of what probably was an otherwise unremarkable adventuring/heroing party. Not that hard to tell, them being wearing mostly clothing that wouldn’t look out of place in any developed country back on earth.
And easy though, to fish out any forms of identifications as to who they are. And as confirmed like most of the times before, a trend was beginning to form.
“From earth, figures.” Goldberg muttered as he put a pack of miscellaneous id cards into a ziplock bag. “A mix of Americans, Japanese, Korean, and even a Filipino I think.”
“Sounds about right.” Danial acknowledged as he surveyed the bodies: Not that he’s that racist, but just from the ethnic features of the corpses he concluded that they’re at least directly from earth, as in didn’t get transmutated or reincarnated or whatever the fuck beforehand.
Which of course is a rather worrying development.
“Fuck, they’re young.” Lopez mused as got up from his ID scavenger hunt, his attention having finished with the task, now dragged back to the reality of what they have done, are doing, and will be doing.
“They shot first.” Danial countered, convincing no one, not even himself. They are young, young adults at most, possibly-. He cut the thought off. He knew. They all knew for a while now.
It doesn’t make it any easier. They’re getting some alright, for anyone who runs is a hero, anyone who stands still is a well disciplined hero. The last guys who didn’t heed the advice are now 6 feet under- no, their ashes now dust to the wind.
Physically, it was simple, and mainly down to luck. They all knew that physically they aren’t that much sturdier from the hundreds of corpses lying around, and certainly far weaker than the isekaied ones. They’re just bog standard mercenaries.
Mercenary, PMC. Dirty words for those who partake in dirty work with impure intentions, as if transferring those same tasks under direct governmental purview somehow purifies it. Muller might style this outfit as some real life Dorsai, whatever the fuck that even means.
But then, there’s the other end, represented by those still warm corpses and soon to be corpses lying about. Adventurers, heroes, saviors. … Scumbags, power hungry scumbags dunk on undeserved credit and unearned prowess. That’s what they are really. Losers who failed in life back on earth, drawn to here by a story and a wish, now grounded to the dirt and bodies to be carted back to earth.
Their musings were truncated by the sudden screams nearby, and a crack over their radios.
“Potential hostiles nearby. One neutralized, three remaining.” Tim Burns, the old man who had remained behind for the role of overwatch, said over the comms. His voice is as cold as a machine. That was the first words he had spoken outside of simple acknowledgements all day. Rumor has it that he was a normal man once, but something within him snapped when his step son Josh or whatshisname died two deaths in two worlds. And now he’s taking out his anger, or something, on this other world. No one really knows and no one really cared enough to ask.
“Acknowledged, thanks.” Danial replied curtly before the group turned towards the direction where the screams came from, guns at the ready.
“Please, no! We surrender!” a voice cried out, as a group of disheveled young adults moved out of a clump of nearby bushes, their hands up in the air in the universal sign of surrender…
… or a trick. Wouldn’t be the first time either.
“GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND NOW!” Goldberg shouted forcefully as he strode forward, buttstroking his gun at the first person within range, a nondescript thin male of young adult age with black hair (a feature that certainly narrows down things). The dude fell promptly, and the rest of that party followed suit with a little more grace as the others in the squad quickly moved forward to cuff the suspects as well as sift through their pockets.
“Would you believe me if I told you they’re also from earth?” Lopez asked rhetorically as he looked at the handful of worn ID cards of various flavors.
“Shocking.” Danial replied in a deadpanned tone of voice as he dragged one of the suspects out. “Get them back to the truck, and call in the locals to haul the corpses.”
……
“Why?” Tobis asked with the fake bewilderment that could only fool those who lacked experience in touching grass… which aptly described those three cuffed prisoners in the bed of the pickup truck as it rumbled down the meandering dirt path back to the nearest dot of civilization.
Danial snorted in disdain from his position at the front left corner, though he knew it would work. It always does on those dumbasses, who either still delude themselves as to their status, or grasping onto any straws to such.
And of course it worked, as a flood of information came forth from those three as to their motivations, their rationalizations, their justifications, their asscovering. It was someone else’s fault: their parents or lack of, those around them, the internet radicalization, the false promises by anyone and everyone.
Nothing that any of them haven’t heard a million times already, but all the same. This time, and next time, and next…
Won’t be much longer. Danial thought to himself, thinking of the end of his current contract and his homie hookup for a job at a local marijuanas dispensary back in his hometown. The luster of combat had long since washed away, the fires of justice long burnt out.
Wu was right, as always. That slant eye banana bastard was right. Nothing’s gonna change, they’re just fighting the symptoms rather than the cause of the problems, and they don’t have what it takes to face those causes head on.