The tale of a loyal RED Runner, whose ideals are challenged and destroyed as his world begins to collapse around him...
What secrets lie in the background of the Bitland Wars? And how does a mysterious BLU shape our hero's future?
~~~
Part 1
"Submission approved. Congratulations Mercantile - you have cleared the objectives for the week. Please report at 0745 hours on Sund-"
The static was abruptly cut short as Runner dialed down his transceiver. Hearing the pre-recorded message for the fifth time in a month was beginning to drive him insane; much like having to put up with the broken record that one of the Riflemen seemed to enjoy leaving on of an otherwise quiet evening. With a half hearted toss, Runner flung the transceiver onto his bunker bed - top bunk, naturally - and began to flick through his personal objective checklist.
"16, 17, 18... I guess I am fully up to date in this, huh. Whatever. Sure didn't seem like it."
Satisfied that he wouldn't get cheated out of the full commission put of an error of his own, Runner tidied his belongings and vacated the room, heading downstairs to the longer where his teammates were busy celebrating another victory.
Runner was a mercenary for Respectable Elucidation Division, an organisation which he had considered his employer for some seven or so years. He was quite the battle hardened lad, and certainly on amiable terms with his comrades, whether they were new bloods or old dogs. Runner couldn't quite remember his exact motivations for enlisting in the beginning - money was certainly a major influencing factor, and there was something about helping his family be better off - but that had faded into the background, instead his drive for combat being secondary to maintaining the bonds he formed over the years. Including, interestingly, respect for some of the 'greasy scum' over at the BLU camp. Thanks to the miraculous technology of respawners - which Runner kept kicking himself for not asking Constructor as to how they worked - he often found himself crossing paths with familiar mercs from Bolstered Locks Unlimited in near-death and actual-death scenarios. For some deity-be-known reason, he had become particularly acquainted with an Infiltrator from the other side - and Runner didn't like Infiltrators in general, what with them favouring underhanded techniques to achieve their goals.
"Eyy, young'un! Got ov'r here and party! We bloody showed those BLU devils what for, and it was all you 'gain!" Detonator, as intoxicated as ever. How charming.
A somewhat stout, masked mercenary ran over and tossed Runner in the air before he had time to protest, and then proceeded to dump him straight into the crowd of teammates.
"Ugh! Firebug! Don't do that! You know how much I hate being knocked around!"
The Firebug just giggled, before taking its place besides the rest of the gang. They were a motley bunch all right - Rocketmen who were more interested in playing Rocket Roulette outdoors; Overweights and Runners, loud and at times vulgar, who kept challenging each other in arm wrestling with predictable results; the aforementioned Detonator, whose drunkenness was only ever quelled by his passion for cooking; the Tassie Trio of Riflemen who earned the nickname of the Wavers; and the Healer and Constructor, who in their aura of intellectual superiority chose to mutter between themselves. How any rational human being could envision this as a team was a miracle - but of course, they weren't rational men. And it worked - for some eight campaigns straight, they had exerted paramountcy over the pitiful BLU fools.
"Is great time to be fortunate soldier of RED, da?" An old Overweight comrade had brought over Runner's favourite drink - sarsaparilla, for he was a teetotaller - and sat by his younger teammate. "I hear RED bosses considering bonus incentives for exceptional war performance."
Runner took a swig - ah, that cold refreshment. "Oh? What would that include? Hoping it's monetary - must be like years since they last touched our salaries. I mean, it'd be nice, but I'm not demanding that we get regular pay rises or anything, don't get me wrong."
Haughty laughter. "Overweight forgets you are still young sometimes, even though you old teammate, Runner. Bosses cannot afford money for mercs - is managed solely by Sale. No, we likely receive rations and more supplies. Is all good."
"Ehh, but a man can dream. Still, at least it's something, right?"
"Very good! You not as infant as you look!"
Runner couldn't help but tug on his face. "Am I really that baby faced after all these years? That's... kinda embarrassing."
A raspy Austrian voice interrupted: "Vell if you vanted, I could alvays inject ze aging serum into your bloodstream for you, ahaha!"
Ignoring the Healer's eccentric reply, Runner pondered on this issue of mercenary payments. As much as he made it look like he was fine with everything, in truth he was incredibly disappointed, even slightly angry, at the current state of remuneration. It had been perfectly fine in the early days - mild salary increases with rather minor increases in work hours or demands. However, everything changed when Fredmann Co. came into business. Spearheaded by the Northamericum obsessed tycoon Haxton Sale, that company had muscled its way into being the predominant - actually, make that ONLY - financial planning, marketing and mercenary sponsor of the Wars (which Runner had interestingly found out from the aforementioned BLU Infiltrator). And instead of the small but certain pay rises, instead that money seemed to be redirected into the yearly carnival that was the Annual Haxxies. Promising 'wealth and famousity', 99% of unfortunate mercenaries received nada as a result, while the lucky few - or unlucky, as other mercenaries started to target them specifically owing to jealousy - paraded the battlefields with shimmering, golden Northamericum paraphernalia. Everyone knew how much Northamericum fetched in the free markets, and that the lucky few would even dare continue parading their accolades without so much as using the potential monetary value for more humanitarian means - even if it were simply for their families (very few mercenaries came from the upper class) appalled Runner's instincts. But aside from that, Runner had been allocating a sizeable fraction of his earnings to send to his family - and since the Sale era, he was struggling to make his contributions count for much in a climate of steep hikes in living expenses (which, rumours have it, were orchestrated by Fredmann Co. as well).
Last year, and the climate of the Wars was shaken, as Mr Raymond Bann - CEO of the Bann Mercantile Group - entered the market with his promises of fairness for all. Runner was all too eager to sign up, dreaming of a chance to finally be able to get his family out of the financial turmoil of the preceding three years. The contract and terms were certainly pleasant enough; and Mr Bann himself appeared to be a man of some integrity, and a sharp mind. Not that Runner wanted to cheat his way through the criteria. Having successfully completed Tier 0 (which was quite a feat in itself), he became the recipient of quite a collection of rewards, which naturally he wanted to sell for additional lump sum payments for his family. Disappointingly, the money gibs didn't seem to be collectible by him (and even though his teammates and enemies could, they couldn't use them in any way); the top hats and monocles were specifically packaged as "Not for Sale or private sale / Property of Bann Mercantile Group Pty. Ltd."; and most shockingly of all, the exclusive Canadium scattergun - with a distinct off copper silver lustre - was not at all considered high value despite being made from quite a rare metal. Although set back, Runner wanted to have faith for just another year, and reluctantly signed up again. Of course, the state of affairs with economic crises in the Eurozone, among other places, didn't make the goings back in his hometown any easier. Recent letters from his mom painted a bleak picture of a dysfunctional household, insufficient basic necessities and utilities, younger siblings fighting over the rationed food supplies, violence and bullying at the schools...
"Yo pardner, you lookin' a little down. There's no crime in lettin' your hair down - especially not after a big win, you follow?"
"Oh, hey Constructor! I.. totally didn't notice you there. Yeah, I probably should enjoy myself a bit. ...Thanks."
"Always makes me feel good to see you happy, Runner."
"Hey, nothing like looking out for each other, brother! Man, that was a HORRID rhyme. Constructor, that reminds me, I've been meaning to ask..."
~~~
Part 2
"Okay, uh, what kind of madman would put us in back to back missions on Atalia and Sixties? Freaking SIXTIES? Seriously, it's completely f***ing stupid! No one likes DKOTH, and having two of them in a row...!" A younger Runner, his voice as ear-splitting as a parrot with a tantrum.
"Special orders, sonny. No deserting, or I'll personally blast you off with my rockets! Understood? Good! Now heaaaaaaad LEFT!"
"For real? Ugh, this totally sucks. But whatever, it's a job and we gotta do it. But mark my words: if whoever's sending us wherever decides to play funny tomorrow and send us to DKOTH again, I'm gonna freaking riot!"
"Do YOU not know the policy for complaints, sonny? THERE IS NONE!"
"Don't give me that Rocketman, like there's totally gotta be-"
"If there is, I no NOTHING of it! Now head left, stat!" The helmeted mercenary's intimidation finally appeared to pay off, as the parroting Runner departed without so much as a whimper.
In the corner, Healer was conversing with a close Overweight friend of his.
"Vell, I suppose this vill give me more time for ze superbursts..."
"Is crying mission time. Overweight not impressed in slightest."
Certainly not the happiest start to the day, Runner mused silently. Still preoccupied by the previous night's deliberations, he loosely put on his battlefield garb - a loose fitting branded cap, ragged blood red shirt, and cargo pants - thankfully, not those cheap Hellenic made parachute pants; RED were kind enough to provision top quality garments - and armed himself with his trusty scattergun. This was going to be a long haul.
Healer gestured over to Runner, who looked a little puzzled as he approached.
"What is it, doc?"
A rough clearing of the throat. "Vell, Runner, I'm avare zat zis is sudden, but I'd like you to have a go at leading ze gang today in our campaigns. I know it's usually up to myself, ze Constructor and ze head Overweight, but you're ze next most senior. It'd be a good opportunity."
"S-Seriously? That's a lot of responsibility you're placing on me, and uh..." Runner glanced meekly to the side, watching the others argue on, blissfully unaware of the executive decisions being made. "...I'm not sure if my role is really suited to that."
"Oh, don't vorry, we'll help you out..."
---
Alright, Runner thought. First time for me to lead. He was certainly very nervous - even with another can of sarsaparilla, he couldn't hold his nerves as he shook with increasing frequency, venturing towards the rest of the gang. Their lives were at the mercy of his tactics and command, and that scared Runner.
Despite his lack of confidence at present, he mustered up his determination, and commanded a stable voice.
"Alright crew, team huddle. For today, I'll be leading you guys. I know I'm new to this role, but I've got the support of Healer, Constructor and Overweight. You guys okay with that?"
The RED mercenaries turned out of interest, and surprisingly no-one made a remark or even a suppressed chuckle. Whew, at least they had his trust.
"Firebug, uh, not so close. Okay: so the BLU forces we're facing will be the same across both battlefields. Don't get too friendly with them - both companies know how important the Atalian Exchange Centre and Central Sixties District are to maintaining regional dominance. Constructor, do you think we should have an Overweight on defense duties with you? The core with two Rocketmen and a Runner with Healer? Hey, Wavers, stop waving outside at the civilians, and get over here! You guys need to space apart more today, or else you'll end up as multistab food. Got it?"
As he continued to direct and plan the team's strategy and positioning, Runner found that in actuality, he had quite a knack for this leading thing. While he appeared to handled the position of de facto leader in his stride, in truth he really feared the gang's survival and success, lest he made the wrong calls. Having seen the despair on the faces of leaders who lost the engagements in the past, he knew how important it was to ensure the teams he led would return victorious. He wouldn't let them down today.
"Alright gang, assemble in formation. We got this one in the bag. For RED!"
"For RED!"
The PSA boomed with a mature female voice:
=5, 4, 3, 2, 1, GET GOING!=
---
Among the cacophony of munitions and death screams, a silent whoosh, and a fizzled ping. Points level, 1:03 to 0:58, advantage BLU.
"Healer! Bad news! BLU babies are in final minute of their timer! Need to act NOW!"
"Can't you vait? I have to heal everyvone first before ve can push ze point!"
"Sir, yes Sir! Incoming Firebugs!"
"Mmph mm hudda mmmph!"
"Vhere are ze Runners? Mach schnell, kill ze BLUs und capture zhere point!"
As expected, the battle for Atalia had thus far been protracted and repetitive. However, BLU did have the upper hand. This worried Runner significantly; he didn't want to tarnish the RED streak of victories through carelessness. Hearing the Healer's indignation did little to comfort him, but it at least spurred him to press on. A few meatshots dispatched the advancing Firebugs, their feeble whimpers escaping their corpses as they flung through the air.
An all too familiar decloaking sound roused the Runner - could it be? But now wasn't the time to wonder - there was a point to cap, and distractions would lose the match! Ignoring whatever suspicions he had, Runner pressed on. Narrowly avoiding an autogun's line of sight, he chose to take the underpath to the BLU building, hoping for some backup soon - the Detonator was nearby, but he did seem rather preoccupied. It was usually unoccupied except for those rare instances where mercenaries would retreat for health - now, unfortunately, was one of those times.
"Oh crap, rockets! I wasn't... augh...!"
Far too cramped for jumping to be of any use, an explosion, right by Runner's legs, propelled him backwards and out into autogun range. Those annoying contraptions rarely missed their mark from this angle - trying to exploit its blind spot wasn't possible without risking death. Gritting his teeth, Runner ran back inside, but stopped short of the stairs. A quick primary check - damn, that was a lot of bullet wounds. Clenching his bleeding cavities, Runner enabled his intercom.
"This is Flag-1. Um, I kinda need some assistance. Deto, I know you're around here somewhere; push forward if you can. Bring Healer over if possible too. Over."
The only safe direction was back into the BLU corridor. With it was a risk of death, and an eternity before respawning. But no other option was viable at present - the stairs were guarded by an Overweight, and running away meant the autogun would gun him down. Undeterred, Runner steeled himself, and ran forward again, holding a nervous gulp.
The enemy Rocketman seemed rather taken aback by this charge against him, and panicked, releasing his entire volley of rockets at the walls and ceiling. Here presented a perfect opportunity for Runner to charge in and perform his signature Danse Macabre - a rhythmic assault with jumps and meatshots. The poor conscript stood no chance.
"You know, you might wanna try aiming next time, brudda. Woah!"
Runner backpedalled to dodge an incoming mine - it was too small to tell which team's it was - and inspected this sudden development. Thankfully it was his old buddy, who had also done the favour of destroying that pesky autogun (and its wretched Constructor)."Gud ta see you in high spirits, mate! Oy, Healer, git uver 'ere!"
Beating his chest and signalling in the distance for the Austrian doctor (was he actually registered?), a cocky smirk and thumbs up was more than enough reassurance.
The push had finally arrived, complete with some Overweights, the core Rocketmen, and Healer. There wasn't much resistance - BLU's defences, or what was left of them, fell like dominoes as the bullets and explosives tore through them with lethal precision.
"Alright everyone, let's do this - point will be ours, just keep holding it. Don't let the BLUs dropstab us or do something funny, okay? Awesome. Uh, do you mind if I get some heals Healer...?"
"Vey ahead ov you, haha."
Runner was back to peak strength, and thanked the wily doctor before asserting his place on the metal disc that was the BLU control point. There was a delicate art in capturing in Atalia - too many people on the cap at once, and knife infiltrators would have a field day; too few, and any opposition would dislodge the capper and force an unwanted exchange of ammunition. Runner had decided to keep the cap a simple affair, asking a nearby Rocketman to help out.
It was to remain unchallenged, at least on this occasion.
=WE HAVE CAPTURED THE CONTROL POINT!=
---
In Runner's memory, there had, without any doubt, never been a conflict, DKOTH or not, as long as the one presently occurring. Points were level yet again - not a common occurrence on Atalia by any means - and in a cruel twist of fate, both teams had secured an Overtime. Neither team appeared to really try for a decisive cap, and the attempts at pushing were limited to effectively suicide missions against completely fortified positions. Runner had already found himself on the receiving end of some fatal encounters, but he had recuperated sufficiently, and was awaiting the scheduled roster before he was to attempt the one man siege again.
An enemy Firebug had wandered into the RED territory, and was promptly deflated as one of the Rifleman Wavers pulled the trigger. Nearby birds were jostled by the sudden sonar crack. A comical wave to the blue yonder.
"Heyyy, nice shooting over there!"
"Thanks mate!"
This particular Waver had come from a life of a park ranger, where illegal poachers were taught the meaning of DO NOT TRESPASS in the most terrifying way possible without being injured. Oceanians were scary, and Runner was glad not to be their enemy.
"Say, ain't it your turn to brave the BLU garrison? Good luck out there mate."
"Ehehe, thanks for the support I guess. I'm kinda expecting to respawn a bit though, so..."
"Don't worry mate, you'll be fine. You're doing a good job leading us today - pity you got shafted with DKOTH campaigns. You know what, you want some music to soothe you while you press forward?"
Not that country music, Runner thought. He much preferred the beats of hip hop - they were a far more appropriate complement to his dancing.
"I'm fine. Thanks Waver!"
As Runner dropped down and onto the battlefield proper, he just managed to catch a glimpse of the Waver doing exactly what his namesake was. Time wasn't critical, but it just didn't feel that right for Runner to take it at a slow pace. Urgency drove him forward.
"Okay, so the other guys told me that I should stay high this time. I can probably get over there in 10 seconds. Be damned if I mess up a jump. Alright, here goes."
Runner had an unusual ritual whenever he started a solo mission. Starting with a jog on the spot, he briefly palpated his carotid pulse - which seemed a rather fruitless endeavour as heads weren't tangible - and scanned the surrounds for any suspicious activity. Constructor was having a nap by the autogun, Firebug babysitting the turret and also keeping watch; some Overweights were tossing manviches between each other. Nothing obvious in front. No enemy Riflemen ahead. All good.
Assuming a sprinter's ready position, Runner readied his scattergun. This was his insurance against surprises - of which hopefully there were none.
A few volatile exhalations. As frequently as he'd done these, Runner never felt super confident on these runs. You couldn't blame him for his palpitations and jitters, and they seemed so much louder at the present.
But as much as he wanted his heart to race less, the impetus to get this run over with could not be quelled. With an explosive burst of force, Runner took off from the base of the RED building, leaving a dust cloud in his wake.
"Look at 'im go, that's gotta be a new record for takeoff, whaddya say mates?"
The other Wavers just shrugged, and waved the air again in tandem.
The jumps through the Mid Building, although so familiar, did sometimes play tricks with the mercenaries. Scars of explosions, bullets, and other collateral damage had left the irregular and treacherous contours of the platforms an easy place to trip when approaching them at speed. Thankfully, Runner was an observant fellow, and adapted his approach to ensure a safe transition through the Mid and out to the BLU front yard. Now was where things got dangerous. Riflemen tended to camp high up in the inaccessible perches, shielded from retaliation except from rocketmen or detonators. The bridge and window entrance was the most direct, but usually the most well defended with autoguns or power classes. There was always the option of the corridor and stairs as well, but as per the recent reconnaissance report, attempting to break through a narrow room full of enemies was asking to get killed. Runner settled for a careful but speedy approach via the bridge.
However, he wasn't able to get too far before a gloved hand caught hi shoulder, making him lose balance.
"Peekaboo. I do believe its been a while, Runner."
Tumbling straight into the grassy front - which after recent fighting had become rather muddy - Runner was a little dazed to reply to this wily assailant just at that moment. But no one else would seek him out personally but THAT Infiltrator. He picked himself up and dusted himself as best as he could. It was gonna take a while to get rid of the mud though.
"Oh, hell. I knew it! I had a suspicion that you were here today, Infiltrator. What do you want?"
A smartly dressed European - probably Belgian, but one could never to all without a clear view of the visage - stood before Runner. This Infiltrator cleared his throat as he exchanged his cigarette. Classy or not, Runner never saw the appeal of smoking - the odour, the health risks, the whole act was just off.
"Ahem. Normally I would offer a challenge, but there's something I wanted to tell you in particular. Far too dangerous earlier with the main forces rolling back and forth like clockwork gears. Come with me."
"Uh, you sure this isn't a trick? You're unusually sneaky for what I know of you. Which is like, nothing. Apart from you being quite the master of the revolver."
A puff of smoke.
"Runner, please. When have I ever said something to you that I didn't actually mean?"
Infiltrator did have a point there.
"Alright. But can we do this while we're shooting at each other? I don't want the other BLUs to become suspicious of anything."
"That, I can certainly oblige. Just try not to kill me - not easy to carry a dialogue when half the time we're speaking with cadavers."
It was approaching early afternoon - lunch time, perhaps - but the two lone figures engaging in a shootout at the BLU end of the Mid had far more important things on their mind than food. Whatever Infiltrator had wanted to disclose, Runner was intrigued.
Bang. Not a bad shot, but the young mercenary was too agile to simply get hit by any old bullet.
"Runner. This might come as a bit of a surprise to you, but I actually looked up your background and circumstances. Appreciating a rival's motivations helps one understand how they behave, you know."
"You did WHAT? How could you?" A wave of confusion and anger, as a scattergun round partially hit its mark. "What gives you the right to look up my personal details? That's really low, Infiltrator, LOW!"
Infiltrator glanced at his wounds and shrugged. "I suppose I deserved more than just a few pellets. But I didn't do this for any malicious intent; far from it. I can infer that you're in this mercenary business to keep your family afloat. Certainly an honourable venture, and even more so given these financial crises and economic collapses."
"O-Okay? And? Your point?"
This conversation was making Runner quite uneasy.
"I know you've switched to Bann. I can understand why you chose his ideals. But I've heard unsavoury things about him this year. Desires for shaking the foundations of the financial landscape. Risky ventures for -groan- parachute pants. Wanting to reduce Sale to nothingness. And at whose expense? The mercenaries. No, Bann isn't the emissary of Mercantiles, far from it."
A beat, just enough for Runner to receive a slug in the thigh. Clutching his wound, Runner deliberated on this information.
"So... you mean to say... whatever intentions Bann proclaimed last year have become a lot more corporate driven now? That the dream of financial equality was... ephemeral? A false hope? He's... e-e-?"
"Exploiting? All but in name. The rewards this year are even less than what they were last year, and I understand that you had no way to capitalize on your earnings for meaningful support for your family. But further to that, do you not wonder that Bann's objectives cleverly invite his enlisted mercenaries to act as effectively free labour, to be minimally paid at campaign's end? Is that not equally financially unfair as the Sale initiatives, if not more deceitful? So terribly sorry about the bullet wound, that was careless of me."
Runner wasn't even paying attention to the bleeding in his leg. Was everything he heard actually the state of affairs at Bann Mercantile Group? Had Runner chosen to fight for a cause so contrary to his understanding and belief? Was he really putting in all that effort for nothing...?
"Oh, and one other thing: this is only secondary information, but I have connections with a mole in the top Bann ranks who has top secret access. In order to sustain the Greek parachute pants campaign, Bann has been digging his hands into the funds of his enlisted's family estates. Your family wasn't unscathed by the sound of things."
Runner froze. His grip on the scattergun could not sustain itself in the crushing revelation that had befallen his poor, young mind. If what he heard was true, then... he had, unknowingly, jeopardized his family's wellbeing... ...enlisting in a false cause that claimed to offer equality and better mercenary outcomes, but in fact was the Sale empire with a different coat of paint...?! His efforts had changed nothing for the better. And now, here he had learned that he was harming his family with his actions.
"I-I uh..."
A lengthy pause. There was no reason to continue this. Fighting was pointless if the consequences would only worsen everything. Runner collapsed on to his knees, unarmed.
"Infiltrator. Just kill me. I can't... I can't... anything right now. It's... so much to take in. I can explain it to my teammates as an ambush. Just, please."
"I am sorry Runner. But I felt it necessary to tell you this, lest you continue to walk the poisonous path until it is too late."
"Just... kill me. I don't know what to think. But I guess... I guess I can trust you. You haven't lied to me or anything. Have you?"
Runner's hand was trembling, gesturing towards the sleek gunmetal chambered revolver. Quite a clean and polished firearm, despite its obvious battle wear.
Infiltrator sighed. He was obliged to comply.
"I would never lie to a rival as great as you, Runner. I swear it on this bullet."
Dialling the chamber through his fingers, the balaclava-donning BLU operative raised his weapon, and pointed it squarely at the young RED mercenary's thorax.
"We'll meet again, Runner."
Runner's last thoughts before he was freed by the shot to his heart were of ideals. Ideals of the mercenary life as honourable and pious. Ideals that one day he could bring his family out of darkness. Ideals that shattered like his existence was at that very moment.
~~~
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Topic: [Writing] - [ZaSpai] - [Narrative/Fanfiction] - [The Garrison Runners] (Read 5527 times)
