Small twinkling stars shone down upon the troubled world called Ceres. Named for the Roman goddess of life and harvest, the rich fields only have yielded a crop of bodies for the past five years. Most of the rain was not water but rather artillery shells, laser bolts and bullets. Instead of tilling the soil, men reforged their plows into shovels and dig trenches to mar the planet’s surface. The goddess of old would have wept when receiving the sacrifice from the harvest of this world, as was her right.

Sergeant David Wheatfield leaned against the earthen breastworks of the advanced outpost of the Ceres Guards trench lines, a pair of binoculars held against his eyes. He could plainly see into some of the shell holes in the middle of no-mans’ land. One was still fill of water from the rainstorm yesterday, a bloated corpse of an Enforcer floated in the middle, his bodily fluids turning the rain water into a thin soup.

David looked away from the horrid spectacle of the soup man and looked over the place that he had living in and defending for the past month. A circular trench with slightly raised earthen border surrounded a square dugout that the twelve men and women manning the forward watch outpost slept in. They used to have a BDAIGG2 mounted on top but two weeks ago, it had been damaged during a scouting attack by enforcers. A replacement was suppose to have been sent to them but the trench leading to the main lines had been destroyed by artillery and no one wanted to make a run in the open carrying the machine gun.

With a sigh, David turned to look across the field again. The newly fallen night would have cloaked the city of New Enna in shadows but the night vision in his binoculars showed the city and it’s defenses plain in a green light. A parallel line of trenches to match the Guard’s, as well as gun emplacements, bunkers, a half finished and broken wall. If they could just take this city, then the Guard would control both of the only two places a spaceship can land and take off from on Ceres. Then no reinforcements, food, medical supplies or ammunition could reach the remaining corporate strongholds and the war would end shortly after that.



(Want to know more or join up? Please click the link and post a character profile backwater-war-ooc-t10140.html )

Three hundred yards away John Pelgram fumbled in the side pocket of his gray-green overcoat. With a trembling hand he withdrew a cigarette lighter and crumpled pack of smokes, then removed a cigarette and put it between his lips. It took three tries to get it lit, but when at last the end of the cigarette glowed cherry red he sat back with a sigh against the wooden siding of the trench. He'd never smoked before coming to Ceres, but the burning tobacco deadened the smell of death that permeated everything here.

"You're killing yourself doing that, sir," said Sergeant Leighter as he shuffled over to where Pelgram sat.

John blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. "I'll worry about that later, Sergeant," he said, tapping another smoke into Leighter's waiting hand and giving him a light. The two of them sat there on the firestep of the trench, listening to the distant thunder of artillery and watching their smoke dissipate in the cool night air.

"We're going to lose this one," said Leighter at last.

"Yep," Pelgram replied, blowing a shaky smoke ring.

"I hear they're bringing in a special tank," Leighter went on, "One that's got armour that Archers'll just bounce off of."

"Yea, I'll believe it when I see it," said John. The only armor he saw these days was the burned out hulk of an SU-54 fifty feet down the line that the company used as an OP. There certainly hadn't been anything rolling in forever.

"Sure would be nice though," Leighter went on wistfully, "Remember what happened the first time we tried attacking without armor?"

John did remember, only too well. Bloody Friday something the few survivors of that day could hardly forget. The company had had to renegotiate the enforcer's contracts after that. "I certainly wasn't getting paid enough for that," he said drily.

"None of us are," Leighter replied, "You mark my words, there'll be a strike soon enough."

There had been rumors of a strike among the enforcers for better wages ever since Black Friday, but here they were still sitting here with the same wages and benefits discussing its possibility. "I'll believe that when I see it too," John said, shaking his head.

Leighter laughed. "Yes sir." And then, "I'll check the outposts, sir."

He stamped out his cigarette and began shuffling off down the trench. John watched him go, then tossed his smoke into a puddle of muddy water near his feet and pulled his helmet down low over his eyes, trying to get some sleep.

Bill was leaning far back in his chair, so far his great ten-gallon hat looked like it would fall off at any moment. His meager "Boom Kit" sat on a table, unpleasant-looking spheres of nails and tightly-packed explosives. His PAS was shoved in a corner, leaning on a wall that shook occasionally as the artillery mutilated the planet, throwing tiny showers of dirt down on his face. Bill hated nights like these, with nothing interesting to do and artillery raining down like great fat deadly raindrops.

Bill reached up and scratched his forehead, gently brushing away dust and looking around the dingy dugout that was his home. A tiny light swayed overhead like a hypnotists glowing watch. The walls were rough dirt held up by wooden beams. A tiny table, covered in crude grenades, was shoved in a corner.. The chair was metal and stiff.

Ceres was an uncomfortable place.

Bill adjusted his hat and catapulted himself off the chair, doing a little bow to an invisible audience. Grabbing his shotgun, loaded even in this constant standstill, and headed outside, hoping something interesting would happen.

Chelsae stared at David and smirked. "Sir, looking at death only makes it more difficult to deny when it arrives," she coldly spoke, her voice a whisper. She was always quiet.
She gripped her SIR-147 rifle tightly, and wore a special operative uniform. She went through advanced stealth training back when it all started... she was, in other words, a field agent... a spy.
Her eyes glanced out to No Man's Land and she sighed. "Orders, sir?" she questioned as she looked back at the sergeant. She was anxious to get back to the field, her injuries from her last encounter no longer a factor in her ability to aim precisely. The cut on her face was now just a battle scar.

(I apologize if that's not amazing like you can post, I'm only fifteen, and am fairly new to roleplaying.)

David sighed softly, Corporal Secrett was right but then again, he had been staring out at death for month now in this forward outpost, what did a few more nights mean? He scanned the opposing lines again, taking special care to study, what he thought was a blasted shell of an outpost that Guard artillery had knocked out a few days ago. But he thought that he was seeing shovel fulls of dirt came flying from with in the crater but he never caught them in the air.

"You remember that outpost the guns took out a little while ago Chelsae?" asked David, holding out his binoculars, "I get the feeling that their digging it out under cover of night. Feel like taking a look for me? I can't get a good look inside."

The earth rumbled and shook under his feet as shells from the enforcer gun positions rained down on the trenches behind the outpost. A few bright flashes of plasma fire lit burned in the night. Enforcers weren't allowed heavy artillery under their regulations but no one seem to be making a fuss about it yet. Oh sure, news of them getting fined filtered through the lines now and then but nothing to stop them from using the guns. The general infantry of the Guard would just have to be thankful that the corporation didn't break the interstellar laws about gas and nukes, though, there was a wish that they would.

If news footage got out about the corporation using poison gas or nukes, than the armies of the closest half dozen worlds would be landing at New Haven spaceport and deploy to aid the Ceres folk. Not to mention that the CEOs of the corporation would get arrested and the enforcers disbanded. That might be worth having a nuke dropped on Ceres soil.

Sergeant Bernie Leighter slid his stomach slowly up the side of the trench, inching his head closer to the lip of the position. He didn't care if his coat was dirtied; it had been filthy for so long that he'd forgotten what its original color was. When he judged he'd gone far enough, he held the small trench periscope up to his eye and stared across no man's land toward the Guard lines.

It was a quiet night; flashes lit up the sky to the north but there was nothing here, not even flares. The periscope lens was equipped with night vision, and he slowly panned across the enemy lines. Leighter paused; for a moment he could have sworn he saw a faint flash, like the reflection off a binocular lens, but then it was gone and after a moment's hard scrutiny of the spot he sighed and moved on.

A scant few yards away, two soldiers were bowed low, scraping away at the dark earth of the shell hole. It had been an OP until a few days ago, when the direct hit from an artillery round had smashed the emplacement -- and its occupants -- into nothingness.

One of the soldiers paused in his digging and held up his shovel close ot his face, examining the contents of the blade in the faint light. Then he recoiled. "Damn! Think I found a piece of Wilbur here."

His companion joined him in considering the fragment of humanity protruding from the small pile of earth. "Nah, that's Smitty."

"Why do say that?" the first man asked. "Don't reckon I could tell the difference."

"Man, that's gotta be Smitty," replied the second soldier, "He was always falling all to pieces during a barrage."

The first soldier said nothing for a moment, only gaping at the completely deadpan face of his companion. Than the joke set in and he began to laugh hysterically. "Hahahaha falling all to pieces! Haha that's a good one, but damned if you aren't the sickest sonofabitch I ever knew."

"Shut the hell up!" came the furious voice of Sergeant Leighter. "You want to bring mortars down on us? And keep digging, unless you fancy finishing this up after the sun comes up."

The shovels returned to digging.

Chelsae smirked. He knew she was the best qualified to sneak into enemy territory, she was fairly small, yet could easily stand fist to fist with any soldier... if it came to that. He knew she was stealthy, and she was confident she could succeed. "A silencer would help, a lot," she giggled, reflecting her elusive femininity. Chelsae has done countless missions without a silencer, even as far as assassinating key targets, with nothing but a knife, but she, and hopefully her sergeant, would admit that a silencer on her rifle would increase her deadliness on the field by ten fold. She could fire from afar, remain undetected, and retreat before anyone knew she was there... it would make her job as an infiltrator a lot less stressful.

"So would the Roman good Jupiter showing up and throwing lightning bolts at the Enforcers" said David, with a shrug of his shoulders, "But we don't always get the help, so we have to make do with what we have and I don't have a silencer to give you. I send in the paper work for one weeks ago but nothing has come down from HQ about it."

He gave the wooden boards holding the earth back a light kick. HQ never send him anything, save a replacement now and then. They couldn't even get get someone to get him a new machine gun, how on Ceres did they plan for him to hold out against a determined assault on his OP? Hope that the enforcers would get into a few single file line so that they could pick the invaders off one by one?

Chelsae read the trouble in David's movement and she opened her mouh. "Sir, asking permission to sabotage enemy communications and disrupt their supply line," she asked, her tone serious, yet still soft. She had an idea, and if she succeeded, it would greatly affect the enemy's morale and make them rethink strapping up to fight. It would be difficult, but she could do it. "Sir, I'm going even if you refuse. The enemy call me Spectre, and they fear the unknown, and sir. I am the unknown. Only a squad of their soldiers have seen me, and I murdered them all," she explains, leaving out the fact she nearly died. "Besides, our men need a hero. And quite frankly. none of us are being heroes sitting on our asses being cowardly pussies," she spoke quite bluntly. "We won't win unless we try. Vehicles are too slow, too loud, and no charging. Too easy to spot. We'll succeed best with two small task forces of four soldiers. We leave tomorrow at dawn, after I scout tonight, and find ways to get past sentries, and all that jazz," she explains, not giving the sergeant time to refuse, or reply. "We can infiltrate with two teams, have one team take out the main satellite, and the other team take out the main fuel depot."

"I think you're being a bit brash, Secrett, and far too un-respectful of your commanding officer ..." Eleric spoke, cutting the woman short. He was supposed to be in the forward "nest", lying in the dirt and hoping for the Enforcers to flash a light and demand to be shot by his sniper rifle, or so he kept telling himself. How the hell was he going to snipe the enemy without any NVGs ?

In any case, it wasn't a habit he had of disobeying orders, so he'd dutifully stayed low and indeed, hope that a flare came up. True, the burst of light that had occurred for a split second had been helpful, but the image of the enemy positions had not been firmly imprinted in his mind, and frankly, he wasn't paying attention at that time.

"However, we do need to use stealth to our advantage, though miss Secrett here is thinking a bit too much of herself." he declared, his gaze quickly flitting to the woman of whom he'd spoken, before going back to sergeant. "If I can, sir, some night vision, a good team, and luck, would be enough for us to do a little bit of sabotage ... even though the risks are high." No use staying here waiting to be swarmed ... he muttered silently.

Sneaking through No Man's Land would either be stupidly easy, or desperately hard, depending on how many craters they could find to crawl in, and of course, hoping the water hadn't filled them all up. But, those grey barrens had to be crossed one day, and this dark night would be best, he thought.

Idly brushing off some dirt he'd gathered on his blue coat, to little effect, Eleric moved up to the side of the trench, peaking out at the wasteland that their little corporate war had created: once lush fields and plains had been turned over and destroyed, the constant assault of bombs, mortars and other explosives churning the earth to a grey/brown sludge, rendered even more disgusting by the rain they'd been having for the last few days.

Grass had been burnt, trampled and blown away, animals seemed a distant thing of the past, save their delicacy in the trenches, rats ... The stench was horrible, death and smoke all you could smell, and the fresh morning breeze did little to alleviate the feeling that they were stuck in a world of their own making, a world of hurt, and in any case, a battlefield that would not grant anything.

Victory meant little to Eleric now, as to most men, they just wanted to survive, and see Ceres lush again.

"Chelsae" said David, "Even if I said yes to your plan, we would still be deserting our post without orders. Even if we pulled off the biggest victory of the war, toppling the Forth Patrol's capture of the corporations main material progressing plant, I would still get court marshaled and most likely shot and they might throw in you lot as icing on my failure cake."

The bored and tired sergeant lifted the slightly battered MLR-35. "Now" he said, "go be a good girl and scout that blasted Outpost. If there are any enforcers digging in there, feel free to shoot them and cause a little trouble. Me and Eleric will give you cover if they start shooting back.""

Bill wandered through the trenches, whistling absently. He adjusted his hat self-consciously every few seconds, hoping nobody could see his hand over the trench. A bullet in his throwing hand was all he needed...He'd sent in a request for an old single-fire launcher, but even if they did have military hardware like that he doubted they'd send it to him. He could probably hit an enemy trench from here with a good HK single-fire snaploader, but it'd be impossible to aim at anything important...And his little TNT sticks he used for busting the hard stuff wouldn't fit in any kinda nader.

Bill heard metal slicing into Earth ahead and wandered over.

"Jees, what're ya doing?" he asked loudly, looking about in the darkness. A virtual chorus of swearing and "Shut-ups" greeted him. Quietly, he whispered "Don;t ya think this is a little risky? I mean, you're not bein' real quiet here!"

Bill wondered if the noise he heard was just someone in the trenches, or something more sinister.

Reluctantly nodded, knowing he was right. She saluted, "Sir, yes, sir!" she barked in whisper as she lowered her face mask. She was now Spectre, a ghost amongst legends. She began to move through the trenches. She had her rifle sheathed on her left side (she is left handed), and she gripped a six inch knife in her right hand. She slowly, and stealthily moved out, and slowly made her way closer to No Man's Land.
Chelsae used the shadows of the night to her advantage, and poked her head out for a quick glance. She saw nothing. But she heard the distinct noise of rats... she hated rats, such annoying disease ridden pests. She heard the distinct noise of mortar shells dropping and took cover, but once they exploded she realized it wasn't aimed for her. She heart had skipped a beat when the explosion went off and she glanced out. Was the enemy preparing an assault? They couldn't be... it'd be suicide.
She remained still, and quiet, and listened intently for footsteps, but all she heard was the screams of mortar fire as they plummeted to Ceres soil. 'Christ!' she thought, feeling the concussion of a blast. 'The next may hit me,' she thought as she moved out, but slowly. she didn't want to be heard, or seen, and she certainly didn't want to die...

Owen was working furiously on the POS artillery piece as the battle waged on. He had a nasty burn down the left side of his uniform from the left side from a blown power coupling in the engine, and his hands were blister and calloused from working on the damn thing all day. Neverless, he wouldn't be giving up anytime soon... there was still a war to fight, and wars didn't just win themselves.

He cussed loudly as another cloud of sparks flew into the air from the dilapidated engine of the M-3 Terran, with the rather important connotation that the engine also powered the Mag-Rail that kept the 13" Inch gun from tearing itself off when it fired. He grabbed a roll of Reactor-Tape from his belt, and began to wrap it around a sparking bit of wire. This was high-grade steel rolled into adhesive tape, and it made a very good engine fixer-upper if you didn't mind said engine failing three hours later in the middle of combat.

This a simple M-3 Terran Main Battle Tank, something that went out of style with the introduction of the archer missile systems; But Owen still found his use for it, pounding away at the Corporate positions with it's massive 13" Inch gun. Every time that thing fired, you [i]feel ground shake and something snap inside the tank, but none the less, that thing could blow through almost anything; The homebrew shells were just a bonus.

Good... Owen began kicked the Camouflaged engine plating once, and it hummed to life; he slipped off his black, insulated work gloves, and strode over the artillery gun. This was going to be fun; With the engine working again, slightly, the 13" Inch gun could fire...[/i]

BOOM!

[i]There was a massive blast, like that of a battleship gun cannon, and the 13" Inch shell went spiraling into the air, poised to impact with the Corporate Center of Command, which was roughly 14 Kilometers away; The Center of Command had been painted yesterday, but no one had had a working artillery piece that could shoot in the Mutli-Kilometer distances then.

Someone was tapping on John's helmet, an insistent noise that sounded like rain drops on a tin roof. "Lieutenant Pelgram, I've got battalion on the line sir."

John opened his eyes to find Gil Schacter, the company radioman, squatting in front of him. John looked down at the luminescent dials of his watch, then groaned. It had been no more than twenty minutes since he'd fallen asleep.

With a sigh, John took the offered mouthpiece. "This is Dog One, go ahead."

"Dog One, this is Able Six," the gravelly voice of Lt. Colonel Cecere sounded even deeper in the crackling of the earpiece. "You all together, Pelgram?"

"I seem to be sir," John replied, "What's the news?"

"I just got a call from Regiment," Cecere said, "Command took a direct hit a few minutes ago."

"Jesus." John wearily shook his head. "The general?"

"We're still getting information on that," Cecere replied, "Which means no one's got a damn clue. I got phone's ringing off the hook here trying to figure out who's in charge and what the hell is going on. I'm ringing up all my companies to let them know and prepare themselves in case this signals the beginning of a major attack."

"Think I'll be made a general now, Colonel?" John asked.

There was a short bark of laughter on the other end. "You've got a wise ass mouth, Lieutenant."

"Only when I try, sir," John replied, then "But I'll get the men ready."

"Good. Able Six out." The radio went dead.

John looked back down at his watch. It didn't look like he was going to get much sleep tonight.

***

"Don't ya think this is a little risky? I mean, you're not bein' real quiet here!"

Sergeant Leighter peered through the darkness at the man who just spoken. Who was this yahoo wearing a cowboy hat, and what was he doing here? He certainly wasn't a Dog Company man.

"Listen, Tex," He whispered harshly, "You kin grab yourself a shovel, watch for the enemy, or move on down the line. Who the hell are you anyway?" A pistol appeared in the Sergeant's hand.

moving along elroy moved inside the bunker heading towards the officer who was in charge of the trench , he takes a cigar and tells the soldiers that were folowing: keep up with me boys , he than says to himself: those things are gonna kill me before the guards do it .. he smiles a bit, he moves on the long dirty trench that was full of mud and smoke .. he than saw the commander and he was smoking and talking to one of the men , he throws the cigar in the mud than approaches him and says to him while saluting: sgt. elroy cyrodil reporting for duty sir !! what are my orders .

The noisless night air was filled with the sound of the small dune buggy as it rocketed around large rocks, and small fissures in the ground. It was quick, but it was noisy as well. Jack leaned out the side of the buggy, wrapping his left arm around his seat to secure his place as they road over small bumps and dips. It was hot out. No matter how much air he seemed to get, and even though it was night, Jack couldn't seem to keep cool. Perhaps it was his nerves. Sitting back and trying to relax himself, he glanced over at the private driving him around.

The man was young, probably not much older than he was. He had very closely cropped blonde hair and blue eyes. Jack tried recalling his name, but it was very confusing, Koschenof, or something like that, he was only briefly introduced to the man, and that was over 2 hours ago. Talk since then had been sparse. His thoughts turned towards Ed. He was the real reporter. A seasoned vet who had 40 years experience under his belt. When they were in the trenches, interviewing some of the soldiers, Jack had been fortunate enough to be back a ways trying to get a good shot in of the whole scene. It was unfortunate that Ed had been there when the explosion went off. Granted though, Jack did get a good shot, but it wasn't worth it. Surprising how the only thing that survived, that belonged to Ed, was a pocketwatch, and his notebook, now with stained spots of blood, where he jotted down notes to later type up. Ofcourse the pocketwatch was a little damaged, now with a crack down the face, and the second hand no longer working. Sighing, Jack looked back out to the bland landscape.

He was heading to one of the more remote bases. That much he knew. Ed had things very systematically thought out before he died. They would visit certain bases, msotly the ones that were underfed with supplies and in the most trouble. They would then do some quick interviews, snap some photos, then be on their way to the next malnourished group of troups. Propaganda was the best way to get support, Ed always said. Jack realized that the situation was more grave than the way the broadcasted it, but Ed did have a point. Propaganda was what got people caring more.

"So, what can you tell me about this base were going to?" Jack asked the private casually.

The private looked up, seemingly disgruntled by the attempt at conversation, " Sergeant David Wheatfield is in command around there. You'd wanna speak to him when you arrive, obviously. It's out of the way too, one of the more remote operations we have set here, but what can you say?"

Jack watched the man shrug nonchalantly. He didn't seem very enticed to talk more, but Jack had a few more questions. "So are we almost there? We've been riding out here for a while now."

The private grinned slightly and nodded, "Almost there."

Jack sighed. It was like talking to a brick wall, conversation had been like this most of the way. Glancing back at the private, Jack asked, "By the way, this buggy is loud, is it smart to drive it straight up to the base? Won't it like, alert the enemy?"

The private nodded, and began to pull over, "Exactly right, thats why you are walking from here."

"Wait what... walking?"

"Yes walking. We won't endanger any of our men for how comfortable we can make the media. Let me tell you something, we have very real men and women out there dying, things aren't exactly a story. We don't have the means to get you over there in a manner you probably feel worthwhile. So from here, you walk."

Jack stared at him in disbelief, his mouth hanging slightly open. The man neither said anything else, nor moved. He simply waited for Jack to grab his things and get moving. Growling in anger, Jack hefted up his camera and duffel bag, and stepped outside of the buggy.

"So thats it? Well where the hell am I supposed to go from here?"

"Straight that way, about an hours walk", the private said pointing west. He leaned forward and started the buggy back up. "Might wanna keep your head down low as well."

"Well whats your name again?" Jack demanded before the man could take off.

"I'm private Carl Koschenovek. Good luck."

As Carl took off on the buggy, Jack angrily trotted after him dropping his belongigns and throwing his hands in the air, "OH YEAH WELL THANKS FOR NOTHING ASSHOLE!", Jack called after him.

Sighing, he picked up his belongings. He was still hot. And now he had to walk. He slid his brown overcoat off and slung it over his shoulder as he began his trek in the direction that that asshole had pointed him into. Stopping for a moment, he pulled out his pen and notepad, simply jotting down... 'Carl Koschenovek- asshole', before continuing on his way.

Chelsae slowly crept toward the enemy position, making not a sound at all. She finally crossed No Man's Land and she was in the enemy's trench. She quietly began to move out. She heard a voice, and quickly, yet silently, leaned against the wall, using shadow as cover. Two enemy sentries walked by, talking about the possibility of an attack. She let them go, not in the mood to kill them. When they were out of sight she raised her hand to her head and whispered in the comm-link.

"Sarge, this is Spectre, do you copy?" she softly questioned, and waited a bit before she continued. "I just eavesdropped on two soldiers. They were talking about a possible attack. I'm not sure if it's true, but be prepared. Don't cover me, I'll be fine." She lowered her arm, and began moving closer to enemy territory. She was supposed to investigate a destroyed outpost, and report the information back to Sergeant Wheatfield. She would investigate, but at the same time she would sabotage the enemy communications, or at least attempt to. If she couldn't, she could try to prevent any major offensive by eliminating any high ranking officers. She thought about it for a bit but shook her head. She still had a few hundred yards to go in the maze, and then the most difficult part remained...

There had been shelling. The hammering blows of mortar fire were keeping the non-combatant civilians awake, including Cooper Lang. He let out a heavy sigh as he rose from his cot. He missed his own house, and the comforts it afforded him. In this makeshift medical centre, set up in an abandoned school, he was left to sleep in a cot, alongside a dozen others in a modified classroom. The fact that school's were now hospitals filled Cooper with a sense of dread for the future.

If we win the war, the cost will be so high. We'll only have soldiers left, not farmers or anything else.

A nurse rushed in to wake him, but stopped short as the doctor rose from his cot. He looked up and tried to smile at the nurse, a young woman he had never met before. His smile was only on his lips, though; his eyes betrayed his depression. They were blank. He feared he had become numb.

"I'm already up, thank you," Cooper said, "can you send a dispatch to Sgt. Wheatfield? I need to meet whit him at his earliest convenience. It is important, though, make sure he knows that."

Cooper got dressed, wincing at the creaking aches that hid in his joints. Finally dressed, he looked at the plate of meager offerings that nurse had brought. He poked at the powdered eggs, and settled on eating only the toast and hash browns.

Once fed, at least, as much as his temperamental stomach would allow, he headed to the old gymnasium, which now served as both triage and emergency operating room. He noticed a handful of his assistants milling around in a group.

"What's going on here," he shouted, "you hear the mortar fire? That means we'll be busy soon, and I'd like for no one to die because we weren't ready for them. Let their deaths be on someone else's hands. What are you all staring at?"

"It's Bastien, doctor. He's died during the night."

"I know. I've already sent a message to Wheatfield," Lang's voice softened, "come on, let's get everything ready."

As the assistants busied themselves readying for incoming casualties, Cooper looked at Eric Bastien's body, lying on the table. The wounds had been inoperable. Cooper had only given it an effort, knowing the effect it would have on morale. Bastien was a hero. Unfortunately, in the real world, heroes often ended up dying on hospital beds, instead of going out in blazes of glory like the stories would later tell. He wasn't looking forward to telling Wheatfield the consequences.

Once again, Eleric found himself lying low in the dirt, wet mud staining the front of his coat, as he peered through the lens of his sniper rifle, waiting for, again, a sign. People were being way too loud, he thought: shovels scooped dirt and flung around the place, the men at work chattering like they were in a pub. Next to them, soldiers barked orders and salutes, seemingly unaware of the trench war going on. Of course, this came as a distant sound, even to Eleric's trained ear, and the smoky darkness that separated each trench showed no sings of life. All in all, Trancy could not jusr foolow his ear to fire a shot, especially when it could be a trick of the wind, carrying the sounds leagues away from where they originated. And just to crown the lot, their little Specter had waltzed off behind enemy lines. No, they would not win a war like this.

Comm chatter, thank goodness, was sparse, miss Secrett's small tidbit of over-confidence filled info the only thing he'd heard tonight, other than hushed coordinates and the usual wartime comments. Eleric let his eye off the scope for a second, rubbing some dirt out of it and peering around the place. The diggers were now encircled by two higher ranking officers, and the noise had not really relented. The soldiers just glumly paced about the fortification, tight-lipped and a blank expression splayed on their dirtied faces.

Eleric had heard tales, in history books, of WWI, a similar battle to this, over many years, more than a century back. He couldn't help but think of the men who'd died then, and if their fight would be remembered. Probably not, just a corporate war fought for meagre land, nothing worth recording in a book. The dark thought that all their effort, all their loss, and all their pain, would be for naught, that in the end, it would all be due to the foolish wishes of high-placed bureaucrats who knew nothing of the suffering of the proletariat brought a scowl to Trancy's face, and once again, further sunk his resolve that anything good had come out of this war.

No, there had only been killing, and the destruction of the land around them. Why ? he wouldn't help wonder, why did man rage so many wars, unleash so much hate upon each other. Why was there constantly strife and chaos, and why did true peace never exist ? Again, Eleric's bleak views of humanity gained during this war further plummeted. Had he been depressive, the sniper would have taken a more than interested look at his pistol, but he knew that a dead man was no use to Sergeant Wheatfield, he was needed alive and well.

Eye once again meeting the rubber ring of the scope, Eleric proceeded to once again scan the No Man's Land, and hope that any kill he got was well worth it. However, deep in his heart, he knew it wouldn't, and would never be, worthwhile ...