Hotston never ceased to be amazed at Windsor's strength. The Heavy Pulser was roughly two metres long and weighed at least 20 kilos. With a battery attached, that weight went up to 30 kilos. Add the tripod and you were looking at 40kg.

And she's carrying it one-handed whilst helping Schmidt walk and talking all the way, he thought, wishing he had just half her strength. Then again, I'm not prepared to lose myself like that.

He was struggling with just two batteries and his own equipment. There were a couple of other Gorillas mixed in to the ad-hoc platoon he and Windsor had created. Drawn like moths to a flame, lost troopers had come out of the darkness to join them. Every one of them had seen the missile hit the command platoon.

Just wish there was a bloody NCO amongst them, he thought. Because of his actions at the enemy command centre, the others had picked him to be their leader. Most had yet to even see an enemy soldier, let alone wipe out an entire platoon and none seemed eager to take on the responsibility of command.

I just hope we find someone that can take these mugs off my hands and let me get back to being a normal grunt, he thought as they raced towards the orange glow on the horizon. Every now and then the sky would light up with an explosion and they would pick up the already punishing pace. Every step was pain, his thighs burning. No matter how many forced marches they’d carried out in training,

'Time to split up people, form the line as displayed on your maps, listen to your squad commanders and whatever you do, make sure you don't kill any of our guys. Get your Friend or Foe beacons on now.'

He keyed his own. Despite increasing the risk of being spotted by the enemy and identified as a valid target it was, in his mind at least, worth the risk if it meant that they didn't kill any of their own. Blue-coloured icons popped up onto his screen, replacing the generic yellow ones that had been there previously.

'Five metre gap people, don't cluster up, expect mortar fire.' Too often soldiers would bunch together if they came under heavy fire, almost like fish in a shoal. Unfortunately this just added to the casualties, something that he was keen to avoid. He didn’t want to be their commander, and he certainly didn’t want their deaths

The objective came into view. Throughout the village buildings were on fire, and the fields surrounding it were filled with locals trying to take cover. Some called out to his people as they ran past, begging them to help find a lost child, parent, or pet. No-one stopped, no matter how good the sub-mission rewards were. And no matter how much the missions tugged at the heartstrings. The reality settings of Duty Calls Online were so high, that no matter how much a soldier knew they were in a simulation, the brain was utterly convinced that the NPCs were real people.

Thank God they believed me when I said I would kill anyone that tried to help the locals. The threat was empty, he could no more kill a member of his own team than he could a local for the odd DP like he had seen others do at the start of the war. Murdering them to skill up. As if Duty Calls Online was still actually a game, rather than the fully immersive military simulation it now was.

Thank God the 'scripts started fighting back after the first few murders. It didn't matter that he knew he was in an immersion tank, buried deep in a bunker somewhere in North Korea, everything about this so called game was real to him, including the 'scripts. And he didn’t like the way casual murder was viewed as acceptable by some of his fellow troops. Although, given how long ago that was, at least five seasons ago, those soldiers were either dead, or had had returned back to real life.

There was a series of buildings just before him marked as some sort of museum. Tagging them on his map he assigned positions to his squads. The church tower offered a good vantage point for the Heavy Pulser.

'Winnie, we need to get into that tower. With a wide arc of fire we can provide support for our lot as well any other friendlies we find.' He didn't know when he had started calling her that, sometime after the command attack and, strangely, it seemed natural.

Friendly icons suddenly populated the map on his visor. Keying his mic to general broadcast, he metaphorically crossed his fingers and spoke, 'This is Hotston, 49ers, coming into the museum with ad-hoc platoon. FOF is on. How copy over?'

There was a moment of silence which he itched to fill, then the voice of Clark came through loud and clear, 'Copy that Hotston. Have marked our true objective. Be aware that the asset is believed to be in there. We're pinned. Meet up with RSM Menefee at this location,' the building he was headed to flashed red, 'and assist in assaulting. Over.'

'Acknowledged. Oscar Mike.' As quickly as he could he altered his platoon's angle of approach using the tower as a pivot. From the angle they were taking, they would be assaulting the building from behind relative to Clark's position.

*

It took them another five minutes to get into position and Hotston had practically hugged Menefee when the senior NCO appeared. The fear of being killed on the spot by the NCO held him back however. It didn’t mean he kept an idiotic grin off his face as the two shook hands.

'Good job Hotston, looks like you've held things together well in the absence of a commander. Maybe we'll have to make it a permanent thing.' Menefee grinned as Hotston felt his jaw drop. He had never considered any command position, firmly believing that he would be returning to his role in a popular soap in no time at all since basic. Although that belief had become less and less a hope and more of a dream. Even so, him, commanding?

'Thank ...,' he cleared his throat, hoping he wouldn't squeak again, 'thank you RSM, just wanted to make sure everyone got home safely. Any sign of iSergeant Major Patterson?'

'He should be doing a sweep of the town looking for the asset. We lost contact with him when we entered the town so he's unaware that we think we've located the asset. Man is he going to be pissed off.' Menefee laughed. Hotston settled for a half-hearted smile, it never paid to be seen to be mocking an NCO as they had an unlimited imagination when it came to thinking up punishments. And Patterson scared him. So much so, that he would do nothing that the man could take as a slight.

The last of the squads pinged a ready status. Menefee told him his squad was going to act as fire support, preventing any enemy troops from entering either side of the building, whilst the other two squads would enter, sweep through, and pick up the asset. From their position in the tower, he and Windsor would be able to control the whole of the square. Looking up, Hotston momentarily regretted the decision. It was at least 30 metres tall and hauling the heavy pulser up was not going to be fun. Even if Winston was going to be doing the majority of the hauling.

'Bloody glad we found you up here French,' he smiled at the sniper who smiled weakly back once they were at the top of the tower. That was another reason he hadn't shared Menefee's mirth. French and Patterson went back a long way and were clearly friends. And therefore, French couldn’t be trusted. Trying to catch his breath, Hotston looked out over the town. Markers had already been laid where targets had been spotted, and he added his own as he caught sight of more enemy troops.

Why Patterson puts up with such a coward I don't know, he thought. French might have done a good job in destroying the IFV and securing himself a bot, but the act had clearly been self-centred.

There was no fucking need for him to do anything but sit tight, make notes, and wait for the rest of us to arrive. Hotston would much rather have completed the mission using stealth instead of brute force.

'Yeah, well, 'bout time you lot showed up innit,' snapped French, hand shaking as he reloaded his rifle.

'Shift over Froggy,' said Windsor as she deployed the bipod on her monstrous weapon and settled it between two crenelations, shoving the much smaller man aside. He gave a squawk of indignation as he went sprawling, 'Hotty, slap a pack in and let's get busy.'

Hotston smiled as he set to, fixing the battery pack to the left side of the weapon, and switching the charge on, 'Up!' He yelled, slapping her on the shoulder to make sure she knew the gun was ready to fire.

'It's French you fucking lump of urrrkkkk,' whatever French had been about to call her died as Hotston's hand closed about his throat.

'You ever fucking talk to her like that again, I'll fucking do more than throat mic you, understand you snivelling little prick?' French's eyes widened in surprise, something that Hotston himself felt.

I never thought I'd be sticking up for a Gorilla, he thought, letting go of the scout and stepping away.

'Sure, sure, whatever you say,' French massaged his throat, backing away from the two of them to take up a position as far away as possible.

'Firing!' Windsor's heavy Pulser opened up, Menefee keyed the 'Go' command and the battle of Pinky Mansion began.

*

Well, well, well, what have we got here? Thought Hoffmeister as he watched two ChinKor soldiers pace idly around a slightly raised area of ground. Raising his auto-shotgun, he used its somewhat limited scope to get a better view of what they were doing.

The raised ground looked to be too regular to be natural, and the soldiers confirmed it. Putting his weapon aside, he zoomed in on his tacmap. There were no buildings showing up, and no bunkers either. And to his trained eye, that definitely looked like a bunker.

He lay there, watching the guards, making note of their movement, waiting to see if they would be joined by any others. Finally, after 15 minutes, he made his move.

Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, he made his way towards the bunker. It was only a couple of hundred metres, but he was still huffing and puffing slightly as he reached his objective, a small fold in the ground that would let someone with his bulk go prone and be hidden from the ChinKor guards.

They weren’t exactly the most diligent of guards, probably rear-echelon troops who thought that they were miles away from any danger, even if conquered countries still had the ability to spend command points on resistance groups. That, and the fact that Hoffmeister and the rest of the 49ers were on a raid should have had them on their guard more.

Still, he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Taking a couple of minutes to get his breathing under control, he made doubly certain that there weren’t any other guards outside of the bunker. Once he felt there were no other risks, he reached back and carefully unclipped his go-to close quarter weapon, a vicious tomahawk.

The guard’s patrol route meant that when one was in sight, the other was on the opposite side of the bunker. It took each one of them a minute to traverse the side he was in front of.

Plenty of time, he thought as he surged forward. His target was roughly 15 metres away. From kneeling to running he was at full sprint in less than a second, his bio-engineered muscles powering him forward. The guard had barely even noticed his approach before Hoffmeister’s tomahawk was buried in his skull.

+4DP

+1SP - TOMAHAWK

Ripping the axe from the guard’s head, he quickly made his way to the corner where the next guard would appear.

Just hope they don’t have FOF on, or this bugger’s going to know his mate is down. He crouched as the sound of the guard approaching grew louder. Flexing his fingers, he raised the axe. As soon as the guard’s lead foot appeared, he swung it in an uppercut, putting his entire weight behind the blow. His axe’s blade carved through the guard’s chin, opening their face up to their nose.

Mewling, hands clasped to their face as blood poured like water through their fingers, the guard staggered back. Frowning, having expected the blow to kill his opponent outright, Hoffmeister stepped forward, raised the axe, and brought it crashing down onto the guard’s head. Powerful muscles smashed the blade through the guard’s helmet, cracking their skull with a sound like a cracking egg.

KILL!

+4DP

+1SP TOMAHAWK

Letting the body fall, Hoffmeister switched to his auto-shotgun, tucking the stock tight into his shoulder. He didn’t need to, as he was strong enough to over ride its kick, but he’d always found it comforting to have the weapon snugged tightly to him. Stepping carefully he moved around the corner, never leaving more of his body showing than he needed to. It was called Slicing the Pie, and allowed him to get a good target picture, whilst minimising the profile of his body.

Seeing it was clear, he moved towards a bank projecting out of the bunker. Every step he took, he paused, straining his ears for the slightest sound. By the time he had covered the 10 metres to the bank, he was sweating. The tension was unbearable. Leaning against the bank, he took a moment. Gathering his wits, he turned, and made his way to the end of the bank. It was a covered entrance.

Peeking around, he saw that the bunker door was wide open. Light shone in the stair corridor as it dropped away into the ground, at least a good 15 metres down. Voices drifted up. Conversational. No alarm in their tone. Not hushed orders. Just soldiers chatting shit as usual.

He paused, thinking through his options. The mission was still going ahead, and his unit needed him. However, this bunker was clearly important to the enemy. And whoever built it.

Bunker’s too old to have been built recently by the ChinKor, which means it was French. Or ECAF. Either way, if I don’t go down, I’ll go mad not knowing what was in it.

Decision made, he moved forward.

*

Nobody caught wind of him descending the stairs. Thankfully they were solid concrete, not metal, so his footsteps were quieter than they might have been. Laughter drifted from a room ahead. It was around a corner, so he didn’t need to worry about any of the occupants spotting him. Reaching the corner, he poked his weapon around it, using the sight’s optical link to scout out what was ahead. There was an open door on the left at the far end of the corridor. It was the only room.

What is this place? He thought as he pulled his weapon back. Shotgun raised, he moved around the corner. Moving slowly, he pulled a grenade from his combat vest. Now wasn’t the time for stealth. Outnumbered, he needed to use shock and awe to keep the enemy soldiers on the back foot. They were clearly not expecting trouble, and the switch from green state to black was going to take valuable time. Time that they wouldn’t have.

He waited until there was another burst of laughter before pulling the pin. The spoon flew through the air, and he waited until it hit the ground with a distinctive tink before throwing it into the room. There was a moment of near silence, broken only by the sound of the grenade bouncing on the hard concrete floor. Then, shouts of alarm, swiftly followed by a blast. Dust, debris, and human body parts shot out of the door.

MULTIKILL!

+32DP

+7SP – GRENADE

Close on the heels of the explosion, Hoffmeister entered the room. Bodies littered the floor. At the opposite end of the room a ChinKor soldier staggered to their feet, armour pockmarked and ragged, blood starting to seep through. Hoffmeister’s muzzle tracked towards the enemy soldier. Just as he was about to fire, his weapon was smashed from his hands. Two ChinKor troopers lunged from the side. His brain had just enough time to register his mistake in not sweeping the room carefully, the third trooper having distracted him.

Fending off their attacks, he reached up and snatched his tomahawk from its magnetic plate. Spinning, he gained himself some extra space. One of the soldiers lunged forward with a bayonet.

Stepping aside, Hoffmeister swung his close-quarter tomahawk, burying the vibro-blade deep into his opponent's skull with a sound like the cracking of an egg. Letting go of the handle, he caught the incoming stock of another rifle in his huge hand and punched with his other. His opponent's face caved in under the monstrous blow and Hoffmeister grimaced as he felt bone enter his knuckles.

DOUBLE KILL!

+8DP

+1SP TOMAHAWK

+1SP UNARMED COMBAT

Killing the two enemy soldiers had taken less than a couple of seconds. Covered in gore that dripped from him as if a can of paint had exploded, he beckoned to the next enemy soldier who was in the process of backing away from him.

'Come here you fucking pusillanimous fart!' Bending down he snatched his tomahawk from his victim's skull and in one smooth motion threw it. The axe blurred through the air, moving so fast that the soldier didn't have time to flinch before the deadly head buried itself in his face.

KILL!

+4DP

+1SP TOMAHAWK

NEW TITLE! – MASTER OF CLOSE COMBAT!

'That settles that then,' Hoffmeister said to the corpses that littered the bunker room.

Opening up his new title of Master of Close Quarter Combat he saw that he had option to upgrade his tomahawk to a wicked-looking two handed vibro-axe that could cleave through the armour of a bot and probably a small battle suit with ease given his strength bonuses. 'Fuck yes.'

Scrolling through the options he toyed about a bit with the configuration, personalising the weapon, smiling when he had completed the job.

As the tomahawk morphed into his new weapon, he slipped it onto a magnetic back plate and picked up his twin-barrelled automatic battle shotgun. Making sure it was loaded, he moved towards a heavy iron door at the opposite side of the room.

If it was this heavily guarded, there's a reason, he thought as he looked at the barrier. The hinges were on the other side and the only visible lock was a digital one on the wall.

Bollocks, wish I'd paid more attention to hacking, he thought. Ever since the drop he'd been on his own, only finding dead members of the battalion as he trudged towards the objective. This bunker had been the first thing of interest that he'd come across and the temptation to see what it guarded had been too much.

He shrugged. He'd never been the most cerebral of people when he was a civilian and he was happy to admit it. He liked to work with his hands, crafting parks and landscaping gardens rather than messing about with computers or sitting around in an office. As soon as the chance came to upgrade to a Gorilla class had come, he had taken it, revelling in the extra strength and perks that it gave him as well as the notoriety.

And when he made it back to real life, his new physique would be more than helpful when he returned to his craft. Even if he did have to face fear and discrimination from people like Patterson. The world had changed so much since The Last Gasp, but people hadn’t. Duty Calls Online was supposed to replace war, but all it had done was create an ever-war. With no real-life effects, war could be fought time and time again. Something that the ChinKor had grasped very early on.

Stripping the dead enemy soldiers of all their grenades and charge packs he placed the munitions at the foot of the door. Moving until he was at the entrance of the room, he pulled the pin from one of his own grenades and gently bowled it along the floor before stepping out of the room.

The explosion was far greater than he expected, dust showering down from the ceiling and a huge portion of the wall nearest to the explosion collapsing. Chuckling to himself he stepped back in, laughing ever harder at what had become of the dead enemy soldiers.

Looks like some modern art piece of shit, thought Hoffmeister.

MULTIKILL!

+31DP

+7SP - DEMOLITIONS

Where there had once been a thick metal door, there was still a thick metal door, only the blast had completely destroyed part of the wall it was mounted on. More enemy soldiers lay sprawled about, some moving feebly, others still in the way only the dead could be. Stepping through the residual smoke he set about killing any survivors by crushing their skulls with vicious stamps from his huge feet.

MULTIKILL!

+25DP

+5SP – UNARMED COMBAT

What the bloody hell was so important about this room? He thought. Looking around he examined the room, flicking between IR, UV and Norma, vision. There was nothing. Frowning, he moved over to where a couple of computers sat, smoke rising from shattered holoprojectors. More in vain hope than due to any reasoning he pressed on all the data card release buttons. To his great surprise a card popped out.

'What have we got here?' A message flashed up onto his visor, congratulating him on completing a secrete side mission. He’d earned an additional 3500 DP for completing it. Secret missions only made themselves known once the mission was completed. At no other time was there any indication that they even existed. The card was simply listed as 'unknown data', with a cypher far more powerful than his battle-pack could deal with.

NEW RANK – SERGEANT MAJOR

NEW RANK – REGIMENTAL SERGEANT MAJOR

NEW RANK – 1st LIEUTENANT

Eggheads are going to love getting their hands on this, he thought.

'Warning, self-destruct activated, evacuate the premises immediately.' The voice was feminine, calm, and completely at odds with the message. Just as calmly she started counting down from 180. Without a second thought, Hoffmeister legged it, praying that he could get out before the research bunker was blown to kingdom come.

*

'Fuck me!' Patterson's visor blackened momentarily as the night sky lit up with the flash of what could only be a mini nuke, 'What the fuck are our people playing at?' Looking around at his small team, smaller than ever since the ambush, he made a snap decision. 'Fuck it, we're nixing the search and heading into the town. There’s where the contact’s going to be. Bollocks to tramping about the Froggy countryside.’

Decision made, he ran as quickly as he could down the road, refreshing his visor map as quickly as he could in the hope that he would start to see friendly units appear. The already thunderous sound of battle reached a new high and without a doubt he knew that his battalion was making an assault.

'Leg it! We've got to get inside the town perimeter to get the points!' Not waiting for an answer, nor sparing a thought for the walking wounded who would be left behind he sprinted for the village.

Reaching 20 kilometres per hour, he zipped past a side road, too fast for the enemy tank waiting there to engage him, and too fast to see it himself. It was only when he heard the roar of its engine and the cries of what was left of his command that the knowledge of his blunder sunk in.

Diving to the ground he flipped onto his back as he skidded along the asphalt, desperately trying to get a handle on the chaos that had erupted behind him. It was too little, too late. The four-wheeled Anti-Personnel Tank was armed with four, twin-linked tri-barrel pulsers. Opening up with all 12 barrels at the same time, the gunner vaporised Patterson's people in a blaze of light and a cloud of blood and body parts. Trapped between the tight confines of the high hedges, they had nowhere to go and no chance of survival.

'No!' He screamed, seeing every horrendous death. Flipping himself back onto his stomach and then back onto his feet, he ran for his life, sobbing with fear.

*

Windsor's barrel was glowing white hot in the light of dawn. A chime sounded, soft like a bird, and the weapon shut down.

'Damn, it's too hot. Going to have to wait for the cool down period. It's the last barrel we have too.'

'Don't worry Winnie, you've done a bloody good job,' Hotston said as he deployed his helmet's periscope, using it to look over the shattered remains of the crenelations. Enemy dead lay strewn around the wreckage of the IFVs they'd destroyed earlier, as well as at various points on the square. Every pile and line of dead marked a failed charge. The buildings around the square were pockmarked, blackened, some damaged beyond repair.

They’d been joined by Menefee who had directed the attack from the tower. It was a good vantage point, but because of that it was also a bullet and pulse magnet. Far too dangerous for an officer like Clark to inhabit, but just right for a senior NCO. Hotston understood the reasoning but didn’t like how he and his comrades were deemed to be suitable losses.

'I don't give a fucking shit if there's heavy resistance, get into the bastard building!' Screamed Menefee over his comms channel as another attack failed, punching the crenelation in frustration. 'Hotston, take Windsor and get your people into that building now!'

'They're n...' Began Hotston.

'If you tell me one more time that they're not your people, I will order Windsor to dick punch you,' snarled Menefee as he leaned in so closely that Hotston could feel hot breath on his face,

'Orders. Get your people into that building. Find the asset. Now, fuck off. Understood?'

'Perfectly RSM.' Nodding to Windsor to follow him, Hotston fucked off.

*

'What the fucking hell are you doing in that ditch?' Hands on hips, Hotston stared down furiously at the men and women of his ad-hoc platoon as they cowered in a shallow ditch running alongside the road. Pulsers and bullets cracked past him, some kicking up spurts of dirt and asphalt. Whether or not he felt like a leader, he could act like a leader. No matter whether doing so made his belly churn and his legs feel like jelly.

Fake it until you make it, he thought. Trying not flinch as a bullet zipped past far too closely to be comfortable. Seeing him dive for cover, would not encourage the platoon to get out of the ditch. Most of them were showing as SUPPRESSED, a couple were showing as INTIMIDATED, and he could see at least one that was close to PANIC.

'They're dug-in up the road. Every time we try to cross they let rip. It's too dangerous!' shouted a trooper.

Hotston turned to look in the direction of the enemy position, then to the pink house, then back to the troops in the ditch. All the time enemy fire whipped and cracked past him. A shot hit, scarring his shoulder plate. 'They can't even kill a man stood in the open.' Still they looked up at him, none willing to risk their last life.

'I reckon,' he pulled a grenade from his combat vest, 'that you have about,' he pulled the pin and threw the grenade into the ditch at the feet of the troops, 'five seconds to get up and into that building.' And with that he turned and walked towards the building, smiling as he heard a sudden scrabble of movement.

Poor sods are so scared they weren't able to realise what type of grenade I threw.

Still walking, he let the suddenly enthused troops run past him as the road filled with red clouds of smoke from the grenade he had thrown. His troops smashed down the back door, tossed through a flash-bang, and stormed in, all without taking a single casualty.

'That was well funny, Hotty. I think a couple pissed their pants.' Windsor laughed as she slapped him on the back.