Fleer stood before the group, sweating in his fatigues. He knew he looked odd, out of a suit, and he felt odd and out of place. The swamp did not welcome him.

He stood on Daugereaux' porch with all the Riotfish except for Roger spread out before him. Old man Daugereaux himself was in a rocking chair off to one side, with his eyes closed and his ball cap pulled down, apparently sleeping.

"Well men, as far as we can figure, today is the day. Activity is on the upswing, and they've cleared as much of the gash as they're likely to. Roger's keeping an eye on the Ready/Impact soldiers, and he'll notify us when they start to move out."

"I want to thank everyone for scouting. Most of the intel we've captured confirms exactly what we thought-- they're planning on hitting the Cryocorp facility and cleaning out the gold. Troops will open up the last of the gash as the attack starts. Empty cargo trucks will be coming in to the Cryocorp facility from the small road to the east, and should arrive right after they've captured the facility. They'll load the trucks up, and drive out through the swamp. Right into our trap."

"Any troops that don't break and run, we'll pick at from the trees. Lots of movement, cover to cover, don't stay still. Remember that these guys are undisciplined and poorly trained, they'll probably focus fire on the last known hostile location and fall back to the trucks, which are going to be pretty poor defense. Hopefully that harassing fire will cause more to peel off. Once the rout starts toward the west they should all panic and run."

"We've got a solid plan. We're outnumbered, but they're expecting an easy smash-and-grab operation. They won't be expecting us at all. We'll hit them hard, and shock them into running away, and leaving behind--" Fleer faltered for a second-- "--their cargo. The gold. We all know what it would mean to pull this off perfectly. This will remake the Riotfish. We'll get more people in, better facilities, modern equipment, and make a real company out of ourselves. Everything we've been wanting for so long will come together. All we have to do is reach out and take it."

Fleer's radio crackled, and Roger's voice came through flat and distorted.

"Pumpkin lollipops! Breathing all with funk and nonsense."

Fleer nodded.

"That's it then. They've started to move out. Let's get into position and put our plan into action! Break!"

The Riotfish scattered to check on the Ready/Impact camps, to verify that all the soldiers were evacuating. After that, they would converge on the line of ambush, spreading themselves out across hundreds of yards, with Roger near Cryocorp to report when the troops started to come back through with the gold.

Oliver loped off with a worried frown, D'khara with taut determination. Little Timmy sauntered away, realized he was going the wrong direction, and changed course to another direction, also wrong. Fleer watched them go, then picked up his Borka.

Guns in general weren't really his style, and rifles even less so-- knifework was his preference-- but choosing the right tool for the job was important, and this was rifle work.

"You love dem boys?" Daugereaux asked without opening his eyes.

Fleer started and looked over. Daugereaux appeared to be fast asleep.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said, do you love dem boys? You puttin' a awful lot out dere for dem."

"I'm... not quite sure what you mean."

"Chief, I live me in de swamp, but dat don't mean I'm dumb and blind. I see what kinda mix you all in. Why you sticking dat neck out for dem? Dey ain't great soldiers. Dey ain't makin' you lots of money. Dey sure ain't pleasant to chat wit'. Why you stick wit' dem?"

Fleer stood on the porch, rifle in one hand, staring awkwardly off into space.

"That's... a good question. I suppose that none of them really fit anywhere else."

"Dat ain't a reason. Dat's just why dey ain't anywhere else."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"True. But I don't fit anywhere else either."

"You don't? Dat is a surprise to me, I had you figured for smoothin' right into one of dem corprotations."

"I used to. I spent a lot of my life trying very hard to fit into a corpro-- a corporation. But I couldn't get over my conscience."

A tiny smile pressed itself on Daugereaux' otherwise still features.

"So you all is just kinda broken and you fit together den?"

"Not really. But they all need the Riotfish. I know what it is to need the Riotfish. And they're all important to me. And yes, I love them.

Daugereaux sat in silence, his ball cap still pulled low, his expression slack. He was silent for so long that Fleer was wondering whether to leave, when Daugereaux spoke again.

"You is a odd duck, Mr. Fleer. I think I like you alright."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now don't you start 'sir'in' all at me. Go do your bidness you got to do. And good luck."

Fleer paused, nodded, and moved out.

----------------------------------------

The sun beat down through the gaps in the trees, and the air sizzled. The heat pressed relentlessly into every pore and crevice, pushing sweat out, sweat that rolled uselessly away, unable to evaporate in the heavy, humid air.

"Where are they?" D'khara growled, rubbing the rune on his shotgun. His thumb was almost raw now with how long and hard he'd been running it over the sharp engraving. "How long could it take to rob the place? And shouldn't you be in your position?"

Oliver shot a guilty glance at D'khara, then worriedly scanned the ambush site.

"I haven't heard anybody coming. Those cargo trucks would make a lot of noise. I was coming to see if you'd heard anything."

"No," D'khara rasped, his voice thick with irritation. "I haven't heard anything. Radio silence, remember? Until the operation starts?"

"Little Timmy and Roger have gone to scout things out," Oliver said. "I'm sure they'll be back soon with news."

The operation had begun more or less as expected. D'khara had gone to his assigned position and watched as the Ready/Impact soldiers had moved out. Watching from the shadows, it was clearer than ever that the Ready/Impact mercenaries were undisciplined, quarrelsome, and minimally supervised. It had taken nearly three hours for the soldiers to get on their way, with many disagreements about who should be where, what gear was whose, and all the general cuss and scufflery that accompanies a large group of indifferent soldiers scraping up against each other. Sergeants swore and slapped and tried to keep the men in line, with limited success.

After they'd all tromped off into the brightening heat of the swamp, not even leaving a rearguard, D'khara had moved quietly to the ambush site and settled in behind a pile of weapons crates to wait for their return.

The sun had climbed, peaked, and begun to sink while he waited and sweated. The tension had eased a couple hours in as boredom took over, then slowly crept back up as time passed.

"It's been way too long," D'khara said, peeking over the crates. "Do you think they took the east road back out?"

"Surely not. Their op should be over soon. Maybe they got stuck further up the gash?"

"I don't know. I can't shake the feeling that something's gone very wr-- who's that?" D'khara hissed, snapping his shotgun up.

He brought his sights to bear on a figure in dull camo that stumbled into the ambush zone fifty yards away.

The man tripped, fell full-length into a patch of cattails, and stopped moving.

"Oliver, you need to get back to your station! The soldiers are on their way in!"

"No, he's hurt," Oliver said, mantling the crates they were hiding behind and running toward the man. D'khara hesitated for a second, then followed. As he drew near, a couple of things became clear. One, this was definitely one of the Ready/Impact soldiers. Two, he was no threat to anybody, not with that big, oozing hole in his side. Three... well, D'khara's instincts were right. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Oliver scanned the surrounding woods on high alert as D'khara began to work on the soldier.

"They're killing us," the soldier rasped quietly as D'khara pulled bandages out of his belt pack. "Trap. Trap."

"Don't talk," D'khara said, applying pressure to the wound. Blood immediately soaked through the thick wad of bandages as the soldier grunted in pain. "Just rest, you're okay now."

Oliver keyed his radio. "David, we've got a problem. Something's gone wrong with their operation." A sharp squeal pierced his radio as he let off the key, and he winced. "What on earth? Are we being jammed?" He experimentally keyed his radio a few more times, causing the ear-piercing squeal to ring out each time. "We're being jammed! Who's jamming us?"

"Trap, trap, trap," the soldier repeated quietly, his voice fading.

"Quiet, you. Unless you have something useful to say," D'khara groused, packing the wound.

"Should I go find David?" Oliver fretted.

"There's no guarantee he's still in his position, either," D'khara said, glaring at Oliver. "There's no telling where anybody is, and with no radio, we have no way of finding out."

"Maybe this guy can tell us something."

D'khara moved his glare to the soldier.

"I don't think he's telling anybody anything," D'khara said. "He must have run the whole way back bleeding like that."

The soldier's face was locked in an anguished rictus, gazing unseeingly into the sky. Oliver gently closed the man's eyes.

"What now?" Oliver asked.

"I don't know. You're the strategist. What now?"

Oliver worried at a thumbnail.

"Let's sit tight. Everyone knows this is the ambush zone. It's central to our plan. I'll bet the others will make their way here before too long."