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Confessions from the Grave

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(OOC, just assume that everything they say is in German).

"This is Dogma 2-1 to Wolfpack 6-1, how copy? Over."

"Wolfpack 6-1 to Dogma 2-1, we copy, over."

Wolfpack 6-1, an NH-90 'Gunny Eagle' multi-role utility helicopter, dipped low into the valley ahead and roared just over the treeline. For the first time in several weeks, it had stopped snowing, allowing for the Army Topographical Corps (ATC), attached to the First Expeditionary Regiment (FER), First Battalion, to continue exploration into unmapped areas south of the Germanian AoI. This valley in particular was located deep in the Black Mountains.

Because the ATC's primary mission was exploration, it has been tasked with communicating with satellites to better map the terrain and mark notable locations for later exploration, namely ruins from pre-Great War/Cataclysm times. However, because of the recent attacks in San Salvacion carried out by tribals, this flight, in particular, had been armed and a small group of infantry belonging to the First Expeditionary Regiment had been assigned to the sortie.

Dogma 2-1 was the C-2 bird, meaning it was the command and control element of the sortie. It was equipped with advanced communications equipment, and relayed most, if not all, information gathered by the other helicopters to their Joint Operations Center (JOC), which was located at Forward Operating Base Misfit, just south of the Germanian AoI. The military base, for all intents and purposes, was situated in 'international territory,' and was home to various units, namely the ATC.

Wolfpack 6-1, on the other hand, was really the only chopper that had been armed for the sortie, and boasted three 7.62mm miniguns, two in the doors and one on the cargo ramp. Additionally, it housed a squad comprised of eight men belonging to the FER. However, their primary job was combat search and rescue should one of the choppers be downed. Other than Wolfpack 6-1 and Dogma 2-1, there were three other helicopters; these were unarmed and utilized advanced GPS and other locating systems. They were Dogma 2-2, 2-3, and 2-4, respectively.

The pilot of Wolfpack 6-1 banked hard right over an opening in the forest before raising away from the forest, meeting altitude restrictions. While the skies were clear, it was still dangerous for helicopters to be flying so low over unknown terrain.

Marine Lance Corporal Stefan Amsel, a rifleman belonging to the FER, took off his helmet and placed it on his lap, securing his G-36K between his knees. Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, he turned up the volume on his MP3 player. He was listening to an industrial metal song in a foreign language called The Fight Song. Smiling to himself, he started gently headbanging, though the rolling chopper was already doing the job for him. The song itself was getting him in the mood to get up and get out, but regrettably, the assignment had been thusfar boring. In the past two weeks they've been stationed at FOB Misfit, they haven't even made contact with any tribals, friendly or hostile. He and the rest of the squad literally had to pass the time either listening to music, working out, or sparring. They weren't able to visit the range that often either, one becuase the weather was often too disagreeable, and two, because they were always low on ammunition. Resupply was rare.

Some time passed before Stefan opened his eyes again. The rest of the squad was in about the same condition he was; discontent and tired. Ensuring that his retention chord was secure on his vest and belt, he put on his helmet and tightened the strap before moving into the doorway and sitting down again, opposite of the gunner. The man only nodded (it was hard to speak over the roar of the engines, and he could only speak with the rest of his squad over the radio) before returning to the minigun. Making sure his feet were on the side rail just under the doorway, Stefan leaned forward and viewed the earth under him as it passed by. The natural world, untouched by the hands of human beings, was an uncommon sight, and it was rare that a person belonging to a civilized nation was able to go this far into the wilds. However, it was difficult to see the forest floor at times, as the snow-covered pine trees blanketed the valley as far as he could see.

"The pilots are having a hard time communicating with the others choppers," a voice cackled over Stefan's headset, "so they-"

The voice was cut off by static. Sergeant Wesly Jordan, the squad leader, had been the one speaking over the radio, the first voice Stefan had heard in hours. The flight had been dead quiet, and for good reason; there was nothing to talk about.

Turning around, Stefan caught Sergeant Jordan motioning with his hands, pointing at his headset. After attempting to speak, Stefan realized that their radios weren't working, and he assumed that the pilots were mute too. But, it wasn't his problem. If someone found a solution, they'd let him know. Turning back around and facing out the doorway, he realized that the forest below was beginning to thin out. In fact, he was looking at open fields, or rather, soft, rolling hills. It was only a second before it dawned on him that these hills were grid-like, like a checkerboard.

The 'hills' weren't natural.

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Lance Corporal Stefan Amsel was bewildered. He had seen pictures of such ruins before, but he had never actually seen any. He was staring forgotten history down her throat.

Turning around, he waved Sergeant Jordan forward, who promptly stood up and stared at the earth below. Stefan couldn't help but laugh at Jordan's expression, but it was short-lived. The NH-90 jumped, throwing Stefan sideways. Turning towards the cockpit, he could see the pilots behaving erratically and realized that there was something wrong with the chopper. To confirm his realization, the engines whined under an unknown strain; they were failing, and the chopper was loosing altitude fast. In seconds, Stefan felt like he could reach out and touch the ground as it quickly drew closer.

The pilots seemed to have been able to regain a degree of control over the chopper, enough to stabilize their descent. Clinging onto his retention chord, Stefan gritted his teeth as the chopper's wheels made contact with the ground below, bringing it to a furious roll. At that point, the engines had given one last guttural roar before dying completely. Save the sound of the onrushing wind, it was quiet. Stefan eased his grip on the chord and leaned back into the chopper, trying to ignore the snow just inches below his feet. Luckily, the snow wasn't too deep, and the wheels had managed to dig into it without getting stuck.

Exhaling, Stefan laughed shakily, watching as the chopper crawled to a stop in a relatively open area. He didn't have to wait long before the roller coaster nightmare was over. Releasing the retention chord, he hopped out of the doorway and into the snow, which only came up to about knee-height. The chopper, however, had plowed a deep path through the snow, and the nose had been buried in the ice. It was a little deeper than Stefan had originally assumed, but he was happy to be alive.

The rest of the squad was beginning to dismount, following Sergeant Jordan. Even the gunner that Stefan had sat beside was on his feet.

Ensuring that he had a fresh magazine in his rifle, Stefan turned to Jordan, waiting for instructions. At the rank of Lance Corporal, he was the third-highest ranking person present, next to Corporal Amy White and Sergeant Wesly Jordan. The squad itself was divided into two fireteams; the first headed by Jordan, and the second headed by White. White had a depressing demeanor, and unfortunately for Stefan, he fell under her command. Even worse, she was in the Army; Stefan was a Marine. There was a stark difference between them, and as fair as Stefan knew, he and her were the only ones in their company with bad blood, namely speaking because she had known Stefan's older brother before he had died in the civil war.

Of course, Stefan didn't consider the pilots as superiors, even though they were officers. They were, after all, pilots, and didn't expect regular enlisted personnel to do their jobs, so why bother doing the jobs of infantrymen?

"Everybody, set up a perimeter. Pop a few flares, Dogma 2-1 should see us in a few seconds. They were only a few minutes behind us." Sergeant Jordan barked before hopping back into the chopper to make sure the pilots were still alive and breathing. Thankfully, they were uninjured, but Stefan hadn't expected them to be hurt anyway. Who gets hurt rolling down a snow runway anyway, right? Right.

Stefan tightened his Germanian flag patterned cold-weather shemagh around his neck to protect himself from the biting cold. He was quite proud of the shemagh; not only had it been a gift from his now-deceased older brother, but he had great pride in his country, and the shemagh made that well-known. Tightening his chin strap for his helmet yet again, he rolled his shoulders and began pacing away from the helicopter.

"Sergeant, contact spotted!" a voice called out from the other side of the chopper. "They're gone now, but there's movement!"

A few seconds passed as Jordan assessed the situation. "Alright, White, take your guys and go check it out."

Corporal Amy White nodded with smug satisfaction. Surprisingly, Stefan agreed, as this entire situation had been the most exciting thing to have happened in weeks. Granted, it wasn't every day you got to make an emergency landing in a helicopter, but Stefan decided he would take whatever comes.

White took off at a jog, followed closely by Stefan and the remaining two members of the fireteam. Deep down, he knew that he was in for a fight.

Edited by Germania

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Yup, I'm about to 'open it up.' Just couldn't finish it in one go.

Stefan jumped off the ledge, landing hard and sinking into the snow. By that time, the chopper was out of view, and the scenery had been replaced by a seemingly endless sea of ice and what appeared to be rubble. To be honest, Stefan was more interested in the ruins beneath his feet than whoever he was busy chasing. Speaking of which, he had discerned that whoever he was in pursuit of wasn't a tribal; the man, or woman, whoever it was, wore a large camouflaged parka and was apparently armed too. Either that, or these were the same tribals that attacked San Salvacion, which seemed unlikely given the remoteness of the valley.

A shot rang out, sending Stefan diving into a snow drift. Thumbing his rifle's safety to off, he peered over the snow in an attempt to see where the shot came from. It was succeeded by a second shot, the bullet slicing into the snow just next to Stefan's head. He ducked down and barely caught a glimpse of Private Oak opening fire at the assailant before a large explosion rang out through the cold air. Immediately, the entire fireteam was on the ground, taking cover.

The gunfire had ceased following the explosion, although Stefan was unsure as to what exactly exploded. Nobody in the vicinity had been gibbed, and nothing was burning, and then it dawned on him; the chopper.

Peering over the snow drift, Stefan raised his rifle and squeezed off a few rounds in the direction of the assailant, who had since disappeared. Waiting a moment to make sure he was clear, Stefan stood and began running in the direction of the chopper, the rest of the fireteam in pursuit. To confirm his fears, an ominous cloud of black smoke began to rise into the gray sky, and gunfire reported across the snow and ice. He had to assume that the chopper had been disabled or destroyed and that whoever had survived was busy getting mopped up.

Climbing up the ledge he had previously jumped from, Stefan spotted the burning chopper. The engines were burning brighter than the sun, and the cockpit appeared to have ceased to exist, though it was hard to see through the smoke. The tail of the once-proud NH-90 lay broken and scorched in the snow, the Germanian flag slagged away by immense heat. What remained of the first fireteam was pinned down and fighting an unseen enemy, or at least, those who were uninjured were. As far as Stefan could tell, the crew of the chopper were dead. The enemy, however, was engaging the Germanian troops from concealed position in the ruins and snow. Stefan could see the muzzle flashes, but no bodies.

Stefan realized that they had been spotted as a few rounds whizzed past his head. Someone's aim was off, and Stefan wasn't about to let them correct their aim. He dove to his right, taking advantage of a small rut in the snow. Private Oak, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky and had been hit square in the chest. He went down with a gasp before being dragged off by the remaining Private. Corporal White, on the other hand, was kneeling behind a large pile of rubble.

Getting to his knees, Stefan raised his rifle and took aim as he peered over the snow. Spotting a muzzle flash, he squeezed off a few rounds before ducking back down, anticipating retaliatory gunfire. None came. Looking back up, he saw what remained of the first fireteam on their feet and charging the enemy. Or at least, they were advancing towards the enemy while taking advantage of the burning wreckage; the enemy couldn't get a clear shot at them but they knew the first fireteam was coming. Realizing their position, the hostile made their first appearance and began to run in the opposite direction. Immediately, both Stefan and White opened fire, providing support for the first fireteam. One of the hostiles dropped face-first into the snow, his arms flailing. His comrades didn't even slow down. One thing was for sure; they were undisciplined, meaning they weren't professionals. They were likely tribals who had been armed again, but they certainly didn't fight as hard as the tribals who attacked San Salvacion. This was a different tribe.

Beyond the wreckage, Stefan spotted Sergeant Jordan coming out from behind cover and cautiously approaching the downed hostile. The man didn't move, and was most likely dead or in shock. Jordan stood over the man, but Stefan didn't wait to see what happened next. He was on his feet and sprinting towards the wreckage of the chopper to tend to the wounded if he could. After several minutes of prodding the various bodies and shifting through bits and pieces of gear, he knew that nobody had survived save those were were on their feet. Private Oak was the only one injured, and he would only have bruised ribs at worst, as the bullet didn't penetrate his vest. In total, they had six men left; the crew of the chopper and two Privates from the first fireteam were all dead.

Sergeant Jordan hauled the tribal to his feet, and to Stefan's surprise, the man was still alive, albeit unconscious or in a coma. The man had been shot in his lower back, and had soiled himself. Stefan's best bet was that the man would never walk again, and it was a miracle that he was alive. The man also appeared to be an RTO, or a radio-telephone operator. He wore one of those oversized radios on his back, which had somehow survived the engagement. Stefan was bewildered at the sight of the large radio, given the fact that such equipment was almost archaic; they hadn't been used in decades. However, it made one thing clear; the tribals were being armed by someone, and maybe now it would become clear who, assuming that they could figure out where the tribal's gear came from.

"We need to get away from here," Sergeant Jordan barked, bringing everyone to attention. "They know we're here, and they'll be back."

"Where do we go?" White inquired. "I thought we were supposed to wait for extraction?"

"They'd be here by now Corporal. Everyone, grab the bodies and let's go. It'll be dark soon."

Indeed, the skies were getting darker, and clouds were beginning to form. The night would be cold, and the morning would probably reveal a fresh blanket of now. Hopefully, however, they would be found before nightfall, but Stefan doubted it. The other helicopters knew their position, or at least where they were last located. They should have been there by now, but the fact of the matter was that they weren't.

Stefan took off his helmet and held it by the strap while wrapping his shemagh around his head. Replacing the helmet, he adjusted his headseat and proceeded to retrieve the body of a Private belonging to the first fireteam. He hadn't known the man personally, even though he belonged to his squad, but the man was still family. They wouldn't leave any bodies behind save those burning in the wreckage. They would have to be retrieved later, if anything remained.

For the next hour or so, the treck was quiet. Nobody spoke for fear of being overheard, either that or everyone was just too shocked to comprehend what had just happened. Either way, the unspoken agreement was that they would make camp somewhere and probably freeze half to death overnight while waiting for extraction. Curiously, their radios still didn't work, and Stefan began to slowly suspect that their equipment was being jammed. It wouldn't surprise him.

It wasn't long before what remained of the squad entered the edge of the forest, where they were lucky to find a large hole in the ground that lead to a small cave. It was relatively dry, and there seemed to be little animal waste within, so it was safe to assume that it was uninhabited by any large wildlife. They would be unable to light a fire, but they would at least be out of the wind and snow overnight. The bodies were left in the far corner of the cave, their parkas and jackets covering their upper bodies, namely their faces. Those who survived, on the other hand, opted to set up a makeshift camp on the opposite wall. Sergeant Jordan sighed and proceeded to shift through their prisoners equipment, who was surprisingly still alive. Stefan guessed who would die soon, though. Even if someone had administered aid from the beginning, it would only have eased his suffering, assuming he woke up.

Finally, Jordan decided to strip the man of his gear, save his boots, pants, and undershirt, before hauling him outside. Jordan promptly killed the man, though Stefan preferred that he didn't know how. Still, it was only fair that the man be put out of his misery, even if he was in a coma.

The man didn't have any particularly interesting gear save his firearm and his radio, namely the latter. After a few minutes of experimentation, Jordan turned the radio on. Funnily enough, all that could be heard was static. Either the cave or what Stefan assumed was an approaching snowstorm was interfering with the radio. That, or it had been jammed too. After taking the radio outside, it was decided that it had also been jammed, or the tribals had changed their frequencies after realizing the Germanians had one of their radios. Either way, they wouldn't be able to listen in on the enemy.

As night enveloped the valley, Stefan snapped a few chem lights, illuminating the cave in a subtle red glow. For the night, the chem lights would provide enough light for the occupants of the cave, while the night itself and the growing storm hid the cave away from patrols in the unlikely event that any be carried out overnight. Taking his gear off and wrapping his parka tightly around himself, Stefan promptly fell asleep. Three others had already agreed to take watch.

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May I come in? :P


The Osean VR-92 "Scythe" transport helicopter was patrolling the area around the tribal HQ that they destroyed, in order to make sure that they did not return.

Sergeant Greg Costa sat in the crude, worn out leather seat in the helicopter. He stared blankly through the window, daydreaming, and thinking about how boring these patrols were. His dream was interrupted by the pilot, Bill Wallace.

"Greg, we got two blimps on the radar. Looks like Germanian birds. Wonder what their doing all the way out here. I wond- wait. What the ********?"

"What now Bill? You forget your wallet at the base or something?" he said with a slight chuckle

"No, Greg, this is for real. The blimps just disappeared. that smoke in the distance? Holy ********! The birds went down! We gotta do something!"


"Almost there, Greg." Wallace said as he noticed how dark it was getting. He checked his fuel- just enough to get back to base. Wallace flipped on his night vision."

"Germainian patrol, Germainian patrol, this is Osean patrol aircraft niner-delta-foxtrot-charlie. We saw your crash. We are almost out of fuel. You seem to be stranded. Radio us if you need assistance. Repeat. You have a 5 minute window to call for assistance due to a lack of fuel. Over."

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The cave exploded with activity. Stefan woke with a start, blinking.

"Helicopters! Get outside, now!"

Stefan blinked once more, clearing his eyes before jumping to his feet in a tangled mess of clothing and gear. Stumbling outside, he watched the helicopter approaching their crash site against the evening sky, silhouetted against the growing dark clouds in the distance.

"Wait, no, ********, they're gonna get downed too!" someone shouted from beside him. "Can you get them on the radio?"

Sergeant Jordan turned and started walking back down into the cave. "No. We can't." He stopped at the mouth of the cave and faced two of the lower ranking personnel. "You two, stay here and watch the cave. Everybody else, get your ******** together; we're going back out there."

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OCC: And here come the tribals... :devil:


Chieftain Braf was overlooking a small cliff, with a of an old pair of binoculars. The binoculars had some writing written in a foreign language on it, which he could not read. But it did not matter, it worked well enough. Through the binocular he could see a small cave. Although he couldn't see any activity inside, he knew his enemies were in there.

He looked around at the sky and saw it was getting darker. This will be fun, thought Chieftain Braf. Chieftain Braf turned around and looked at his group of warriors, 40 in all.

"We will attack the enemy at dark, when they are asleep and cold."

"Chieftain, an enemy flying-bird is approaching. What should we do?"

The chieftain growled.

"Do we have any more of those", he paused, searching for the right word, "RPG's left?"

"Yes Chieftain."

"Then we will attack the flying-bird with RPG, call in our brotheren on the signal-talking device to attack those inside the flying-bird, and then attack our traitorous brotheren that are hiding in a cave, like the weaklings they are."

Two of his warriors picked up the weapons known as RPG. They aimed them at the sky, waiting for the flying-bird. For a few moments, they heard nothing, but then, they heard the sound of the approaching flying-bird, womp-womp.

A few moments later, a helicopter could be seen above the forest and the tribals fired the two RPG's. The first rocket missed the helicopter, the second one hit the tail section of the helicopter, causing it rapidly spin and lose control.

A small victory cry was given off by the warriors. Then the chieftain, Braf, spoke on the signal-talking device.

"Brothers, we have shot down a flying-bird, attacking them from behind and they will be crushed. My group of warriors will attack the first group that has hidden in a cave."

The radio crackled as a group of warriors returned a reply saying they would and then the channel was turned off.

"Brothers, attack our evil, and weak brothers from the North!"

A cry went up as the group of warriors began charging down the cliff, towards their enemy…

Edited by Lord Michael

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Several minutes had passed before they had last seen the helicopter. One thing had been determined though; it wasn't Germanian. But, the situation could go one of two ways; either it was hostile and they laid low, or it was friendly and they hitched a ride. The odds of it being friendly, however, were slim at best.

The team, growing smaller in size, entered a clearing as the sun dipped below the mountains.

"I'd kill for a good pair of NVG's about right now," Stefan muttered. "We won't be able to see anything soon, why are we out here?"

"Shove it, Amsel," Sergeant Jordan snapped. "You want out of here tonight?"

"Yes, Sergeant," Stefan replied, rolling his eyes. At least in the growing darkness, Jordan wouldn't be able to see that. "I hear it, just to our six."

The helicopter became visible over the treeline, lights blinking and sans the body. However, the team barely had the time to examine it before the tail exploded in a brilliant flash of light and fire. The chopper briefly hovered before spinning out of control and dipping low. The ragtag Germanian fireteam scattered, taking cover behind whatever they could find. There was a rumble as the helicopter sunk below the trees and crashed just yards in front of them, followed quickly by a bright flash that illuminated the woods. The rotor continued to spin, shredding trees or being shredded itself. The scene was chaos as burning shrapnel, wood, and snow was kicked into the air.

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Why do the tribals sound like cavemen? lol


"Bill! Bill! Where are you?" Sgt. Costa yelled as he stumbled out of the wreckage. As he wiped the blood off of his face, Costa got his answer. As he looked down at his now-bloodied hand, he saw the burnt and mutilated body of his friend. Costa knelt next to the body and gently cried.

-a couple minutes later-

Costa heard footsteps, and darted back into the now-smoldering wreckage of the Scythe. He picked up his gun, a modified Osean military shotgun, the Standard Infantry Shotgun, usually called "sis" by the soldiers. The gun was outfitted for survival in case of the exact situation he was in. It had a sharp Ka-Bar knife attached to it, along with a side mounted flashlight, fiber-optic beads as sights, a hollow butt with supplies inside, and different type of shot in a side saddle. Costa loaded 4 shells of buckshot and 1 flare shell into his gun, and turned around just as a crazed man wielding a sharp, sleek looking axe pounced on him yelling a fierce battle cry.

Costa rolled out of the way, just in time. The crazed man, whom Costa identified as a tribal, took another swing at him, arcing the war axe in a deadly arc towards his skull. Costa brought his gun up and blocked the axe with the barrel of his gun, then whacked the tribal in the jaw with the butt of his shotgun. The tribal quickly recovered, and swung the axe once more, and once more Costa evaded, this time hitting the tribal in the chest hard with is foot, sending him into the hot metal wall of the helicopter. The tribal yelled in pain, and before he could react, Costa hit him in the face with the butt of his gun with all the strength he could muster.

"You bastards!" he yelled, tears streaming from his eyes. He hit the tribal again and again

"You killed him! You bastard!" he yelled. His blows hitting faster and faster, the tribal's face turning redder and redder, blood pouring from his skull, as he slid down the wall.

Costa stopped and collected himself. He heard more footsteps and pointed his gun at the direction he heard the steps from.

His dirty face, smeared with blood, dirt and tears showed only desperation and anger as he yelled.

"It might have taken only one of you ********s to kill Bill, but I aint going down without a god damned fight!"


I'm gonna try to turn this into a more "behind enemy lines" scenario

Edited by King Steve VII

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OOC, that's kind of what this is now. I hadn't actually expected anyone to RP my tribals, but that works too. Just don't go overboard on them Lord, because I plan on integrating them into my society eventually. King, just follow my lead from here on out; I plan on having Stefan get stranded alone, and I'm thinking maybe Costa could be stuck with him too. Then, I have a big surprise, with the title of this RP hinting towards it... Also, I hope you don't mind that I take slight control of your character; no worries, I won't have him doing anything big, nor will there be much dialogue. I'll try and make whatever he does fit his personality as best as I can.

"It might have taken only one of you ********s to kill Bill, but I aint going down without a god damned fight!" the voice shouted out. "Come on!"

Stefan slowed down, approaching the wreckage of the chopper. Whoever had spoken wasn't Germanian, and it wasn't an accent he recognized. The language itself, however, he knew; the man was speaking 'Basic,' otherwise also known as Engas or 'Globish.' It was an extremely old language, from which its' origins are unknown, and has been commonly accepted as the international language. Stefan was lucky, as Germanians were fluent in two languages, those being Germanian and Basic, even if his Basic was heavily accented and the phrases often confused.

Stefan dropped to his knee and raised his G-36K, aiming down the sight. A man stepped forward from the wreckage, his features hidden away, his frame silhouetted against the flames.

"Stop!" Stefan cried out in Basic, the rest of the fireteam forming up behind him. "Identify yourself!"

The figure snapped towards his direction, raising something in his arms and freezing in place. The man was armed.

"Again, identify yourself or we will engage!" Stefan repeated, tightening his finger on the trigger.

"My name is Sergeant Greg Costa, Osean military. Who the ******** are you?"

Stefan lowered his rifle and shook his head, turning around towards Sergeant Jordan questioningly. As far as he knew, Oseans were friendly, or at least, they weren't supposed to be hostile.

Sergeant Jordan frowned before slowly standing up. "Sergeant Wesly Jordan, Germanian Army. We just saw your chopper get shot down; we're here to help."

Costa didn't flinch. The man was resolute, hesitant to trust the Germanians. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Because if we were tribals, Sergeant, we would have attacked you already." Jordan replied. "Lower your weapon so we can come closer, into the light."

"How about I keep my shotgun aimed at your face while you come closer instead?" Costa replied, his voice filled with anger and uncertainty.

"Fine, but then we get to keep our rifles trained on you too." Jordan barked.

"Fair enough."

Stefan slowly got to his feet, keeping his rifle raised. He had been designated the pointman, and it was his job to lead the fireteam. He took his first tentative step towards the Osean, followed slowly by a second before he gained a little more confidence and stepped into the light. Sure enough, the man wore Osean camouflage. Costa seemed to have recognized his uniform as well, but didn't lower his defense.

"See? Friendly." Jordan growled, his expression stern.

The Osean weighed his options before lowering his shotgun. "You're here to help?" he asked.

Stefan could finally make out his features; the man had either been crying, or his eyes had been dried out by the cold climate or the flames. His face was smeared with dirt, soot, and would could be blood. The man bore an expression of either fear or anger, maybe both. Stefan couldn't tell.

"Like I said before," Jordan started, lowering his rifle, "we saw you go down. Are you the only survivor?"

Edited by Germania

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The group heard tribal yelling getting closer.

"We gotta get out of here. We'll talk later."

The yelling got closer and closer very fast, and the team habitually hid in the darkness and shelter of the downed chopper. Suddenly, it got very quiet. Costa nodded to Stefan, and Stefan stepped out of the chopper gingerly. Almost immediately, a tribal jumped from the chopper and tackled Stefan, while 5 more slid down a hill next to the wreckage and drew thier war axes. Jordan fired, hitting one of the tribals in the chest, who fell into the dark snow with a soft thud. The rest of the tribals ran at them, crude rifles on their backs, ceremonial axes in hand. Costa's shell caught one in the chest, the man buckled. Jordan drew his knife, and after catching the tribal in his knees with a well timed tackle, he buried his knife in his neck. Jordan looked up and saw another tribal bringing his axe down upon his head, when, just in time, another of Costa's shells sent the tribal flying backwards. Jordan glanced at Costa, quickly drew his pistol, and hit a tribal behind Costa 3 times in the chest, the tribal slowly falling to his knees and dropping his weapon as Costa turned around.

The two looked over at Stefan and saw only a tribal lying on top of him, both not moving. As they neared the two, the Stefan pushed the tribal slowly off of him, his own knife glistening with blood in the moonlight.

Each of them looked at each other with mutual respect, and set out, reloading their guns as they walked.

Edited by King Steve VII

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