The debriefing room was always an oppressive place, in Harry’s opinion. There was no such thing as a good debrief. The officers were always displeased, always wanted better performances. And the design of the room itself was dull and restrictive. Grey featureless walls, poor lighting, and uncomfortable chairs rules supreme here.

Harry, and the rest of the squad were sitting in the front row, either sleeping or casting their gaze around while waiting for everybody else to return. Time inched onwards slowly, every second stretching into minutes. The only clock in the room was moving unimaginably slow, so slow Harry swore it was broken. It claimed they had only been there for five minutes. It had to be lying.

Harry’s hateful thoughts in the direction of the clock were brought to an end when the clattering and clanging of metal were heard. His head snapped around, and he saw Jack and Thomas dueling with their chairs. Parrying and thrusting the two soldiers had wide smiles splitting their faces as they did so.

A high-pitched screech of “Engard, Engard! Onwards, to free chairs for all!” came from Thomas, with laughter following the ridiculous statement. He followed this statement with the thrust of his chair, it loudly clanging as it bounced of his opponent’s. Making small circles with his chair, Jack backed into the wall.

“Never! I shall never permit the peasants to own chairs!” Jack’s reply was interrupted with spurs of giggling, as he waved his chair at the ceiling. The chair climbed to high, and the ceiling swatted it to the ground. Without a chair to defend himself, Jack was wide open for attack. Thomas pressed his advantage, pinning jack to the wall by surrounding him with chair legs.

Or that was his plan, had he not tripped over Jack’s discarded chair on the way over. The fall brought his chair down on Jack’s head, bouncing away and clattering on a disused table. Thomas’s stomach became aquatinted with the seat of a chair. His impact knocked air out of him, and caused Thomas to groan.

“What a couple of idiots.” Harry said, albeit a smile and hint of playfulness in his voice. He turned to Watson, who returned the smile before standing. He pulled Thomas off the floor, setting him in a righted seat. Jax was pulled up and straightened out, before being sent to sit beside Thomas.

Harry stood and picked up the chair on the table, returning it to it’s proper place. Watson did the same with the one Thomas tripped on. With the two’s shenanigans cleaned up from, Watson and Harry returned to their seats. Boredom slowly returned to the room, inching in minute by minute.

The boredom again became unbearable, the silence absolute. So heavy was the silence that a light tone filled Harry’s ears. It rang with high intensity. The silence pressed in, throbbing, pulsing. It battered his eardrums, making the silence deafeningly loud. When it became to much for Harry he rubbed his ears, the quiet scratching resetting the silence. And it would be silent. For a time, then the cycle began again.

The cycle repeated eight times before the rest of the platoon arrived. They wandered in behind the same captain as before, each squad taking a row of seats, with the platoon command sitting up front. Harry noted all the lightly wounded individuals were not present, likely in the infirmary. Once everybody was seated the captain began to speak.

“Alright, I’m going to need to know everything. The Lieutenant and Squad leaders will be providing reports on what they saw and did. I want nothing left out. Now, for the object of this mission. Yorkshire told me a Sergeant Theodore Watson has it?”

“Yes sir, I have the stick. Several, actually. Corporal Harry Trust collected them.”

“And… what are on the other USBs?”

“I don’t know sir, I didn’t look at any of the USBs. Harry could tell you.”

Both the sergeant and the captain turned to look at Harry. For a moment Harry paused, gathering this thoughts before speaking. “Yes, well. Three of the USBs were unlabeled, and the rest had what looked like game titles on them. I didn’t know what the USB looked like so I just grabbed them all and handed them over.”

“…I see. If the investigated USBs are not hostile information and are, in fact, game titles, they will be returned to you in accordance with our looting regulations. Assume that if within two weeks they aren’t returned you aren’t getting them back.

“For now, I want an overall summary from Lieutenant Yorkshire. The rest of you will reports latter to be read. If individual evaluations are deemed necessary you will hear from me. I want casualties included, engagements and prisoners taken. I want it all. I’m sure you guys are tired, so once that is dealt with I’ll ask just a few more questions then you’ll be free to go.”

And Yorkshire did recount everything that happened. From the scorpibig, to the blood eagle. The insurgent outpost. In detail he described the ambush and assault of the ruins. Everything. Specific details may have been excluded, but the reports would add those in. And there would be lot’s of reports. Every NCO and officer had to file them, with individual soldiers having to file additional if their actions were considered exemplary or ornery.

“Thank you Yorkshire. Anything sergeants would like to add?”

Silence followed.

“I’d like to ask Berisho’s squad about the captured insurgents…” The captains questions droned on, filling the silent room with dull, unappetizing sound. The ‘few more questions’ dragged on for nearly an hour, a dull slog through the necessary protocols. Questions on the number of breaks, estimated bullets fired, anything. The boredom filled the room, pressing in and filling every nook and cranny.

When Harry had finally decided to start day dreaming, the captain said; “Alright, that’s all I have for you. Go get some rest and sleep. You are going to be remarkably busy in the coming weeks.”

With that, the briefing was over. The platoon filed out of the room, back into the well lit corridor. They retraced their steps from earlier that day, heading back into the elevators. Once again they crammed as many as possible into the elevators, everybody wanting to get rest. Once the doors slid shut with jpeunimic hiss, the stench of blood and sweat began to fill the compact room. Several soldiers reached for their masks, pulling the rebreather over their face in an attempt to avoid the odor.

When the doors dinged open, everybody practically fell out of the elevator and grasped for fresh air. Everybody then proceeded to the quartermaster, returning their unseated meals in one box, the waste from the others going a second. Several soldiers had also collected their shell casings, discarding them in a third box for recycling.

Once the easy things were returned everybody obtained paperwork to fill out and file claims on their loot, as well as captured enemy equipment. Loot a soldier could use as he pleased, things like individual modifications and books and entertainment falling under that category. It would be the soldier’s responsibility to maintain them and keep them operable. Captured equipment would be turned into either the armory and quartermasters, for integration to Nevexico’s own item pool or melting down and recycling. Thing such as weapons, gas masks from post Gas, and vehicles fell under this purview.

When the platoon tread it’s path out of the requisitions room they made their way to the armory. The cool, air conditioned halls were full of personnel at this time of day. Even so, everybody parted and allowed a path directly through to the armory. The smell probably is what did it. When the platoon entered the armory they checked out weapon cleaning equipment, and made their way back to their bunk room. The soldiers flooded into the room, tossing their bags and equipment roughly onto their beds. Everybody sat on their respective bunk, and began cleaning their equipment. The room was mostly quiet, the empty bunks emphasize the losses they had taken during their mission. Gas masks came first, nobody quite knowing when they would have to use them again.

A drop of dish soap and water were used, a rag and plastic brush being used to scrub them out thoroughly. Once all dirt and grime were removed they placed them into a UV light machine. It would kill any of the Gas inside, the little microbes that attacked the nervous system being destroyed. Once their field masks were in the UV container they all removed their city masks from their lockers and set them beside themselves.

Next, the rifles were disassembled and cleaned. Any carbon was scrubbed away, with a thin sheen of oil being applied over the metal parts. Individual parts were inspected, any fractures and warping noted and removed, with new pieces ready to be ordered. Next came the pistol, everybody repeated the same process. Then individual magazines were checked, springs confirmed to be operating and springy.

Everybody then removed their plate carrier, removing the ceramic plate and checking it over. Fractures and damage would mean they needed replacing. The kevlar woven into the vests were checked as well, holes needing patching and stitching. The helmets were also checked over, Harry looking for the same issues as in the vest’s kevlar.

When Harry finished checking over his equipment, he stood and strode to the door. Stepping to the hall, he navigated to the armory. There he submitted a report on how much ammo he used and the loot he acquired for his weapon. He handed his weapons and equipment over for a look over by the armorers, before proceeding to the storage zone. There he found his locker and replaced them in his locker, a new grip clutching onto his rail system.

With the locker closed he made his way back to the bunk room, passing several members of his platoon on the way. When he returned, he opened his bunk locker, pulling out the soap and shampoo. The shower in the bunk was communal, eight shower heads out in the open. Behind a dividing wall four dozen towels were stacked, free to use for any soldier. A wheeled basket was divided into two sections, one for jumpsuits and the other used towels.

Harry unzipped his jumpsuit and stepped out of it, tossing it into the basket. His underwear and socks were peeled away and followed the suit. Harry proceeded to shower, turning the water to scalding. As the steam wafted away from the water Harry scrubbed himself vigorously, rubbing it red raw. While he was showing private Borris and Mcnab took positions on either side, washing themselves as well. Both were members of Berisho squad.

An awkward silence began to permeate the shower, nobody making eye contact or speaking while showering. The only sound was water cascading from shower heads and crashing into the floor, bouncing and winding towards a drain in the middle of room. Dirt and mud, and bits of blood, wound down the drain, mixed into the water as streaks of red, brown, and grey.

Harry scrubbed away dirt and blood from a stubbed tow, sending streaks of red into the water. His feet, which were once dusted brown and matted red now were a pink and peach color, scrubbed raw and clean. His legs were no longer covered in gritty sand, instead were smooth flat. His chest lacked sweat stains and sweat foam, just left over water.

He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel from a rack. He quickly dried off, rubbing the course brown towel over his entire body before pulling a pair of clean underwear over his naked body. Once he had it pulled up and over his toned legs he made his way to his locker, and pulled out and put on his casual attire. He checked the clock, and noted he had an hour before dinner, and decided to head down to the library and read for a bit.

Harry made his way down to the military library in casual attire. While he held the posture of a soldier, his clothes were anything but. Non-regulation grey jumpsuit, far fewer pockets than the military version. It lacked any emblems, and its gas mask pouch was smaller, designed for rubber and soft plastic, rather than metal and rigid plastic.

The library was several corridors down, through a checkpoint, and past at least two secondary filtering systems. In the library, Harry made his way to one of the reading tablets set on a table. He switched it on, pulling up the log in information.

After logging in Harry began to search for a fictional book to read. He scrolled past his recently read, filled with short stories of surviving accidents, settling onto farms, and starting new lives. Harry sluggishly scrolled through the ‘suggested based on what you recently read’ tab, reading the synopsis of each story before moving on. His scrolling eventual settled him on To Skin a Skinrat, a story written by a former Nevexican Senator that represented Harry’s hometown, Turnop. The story was about a family finding ways to survive in the wasteland a few short years after the first spreading of the Gas, gong up against food shortages, raiders, and worst of all, politicians claiming to want to help.

Harry settled in and began reading, his posture relaxing a bit as he softened out and sank into his chair. His back slid down to rest at a angle against both the seat and head of the chair, his head bent, like pulled by a magnet, towards the reading tablet rested firmly between his legs, which were resting against the edge of the table.

Harry was enjoying the story, when he glanced at the time and noticed it was five minutes before supper started. Hurriedly logging out and powering down the device, Harry tossed it onto the table, where it skidded to a stop noisily. As he made his way out, one of the librarians glared at him, burning holes in Harry’s head.

Harry quickly rushed up to the mess hall, leaving streaks of fire behind him as he speed walked. The majority of the corridors and rooms he passed were empty, filling him with dread. His speed increased, and the air pressure behind him decreased. Soon he would take flight with the down draft his rushed speed walk brought.

Harry’s panicked walk through the empty halls of Foba City’s military levels came to an end. At the back of the food line. Harry would have to wait. And wait. And wait. Perhaps he could- no, if he was caught he’d be sent to the back. So waiting was the option. And maybe some more waiting. And- oh! Harry was finally able to grab his soup. What a tasty soup, if only because it was all the military could make.

He grabbed the accompanying glass of milk, and made his way into the seating area. He spent a moment scanning the room, before pacing over to where his platoon was gathered, for the most part. His officer was obviously absent, off eating the officer’s mess. A couple of members of Berisho’s squad were sitting elsewhere, talking with members of the 3rd platoon in their company. A dull roar from dozens, if not hundreds, of conversations bounced off the walls and filled the entirety of the cavernous room.

When Harry sat, everybody temporarily paused and glanced at him. Jack, who was sat next to Harry, grinned a little and asked, “Well Mr. Trust, what took you so long? Surely you’ve learned by now that the line gets long far to fast.”

“I lost track of the time again.” Harry muttered, sounding sullen. He began spooning the warm soup into his mouth, while listening to the conversation his appearance interrupted. Boris and Mcnab were leading the talks, acting like friendly diplomats negotiating a treaty with a hostile warmonger.

“Alright, if we all go drinking, Boris and I will both get it okayed with the captain, and buy the first four drinks.”

“First five, otherwise we ain’t going.”

“Fine. First five. We’ll buy the first five, and get the green light. All you guys have to do is come along. Good?”

“I’m fine with it, how about the rest of you?” At this several soldiers along the table gave confirmation, leaving Harry mildly puzzled.

“Hold on, Mcnab, Thomas. What’s this about?”

“Mcnab and Borris here suggested we all go drinking. I wasn’t gonna, unless they agreed to get us cleared to leave and buy the drinks. Managed to convince everybody else that they also wouldn’t go unless those terms were met. We’ve been debating all of supper.”

“Until now. I finally relented. Harry, would you like to come with? An extra drink wouldn’t be too much more.”

Harry grinned, momentarily, before speaking, “Only if you buy the first five.”

“For fu-. You know what? Fine. I’ll buy the first five.”

“We have a deal.”

After this the talking died down for a bit, the members of 2nd platoon shoveling soup into their mouths. Bite after bite, until their carefully measured and rationed food was out. They all, as one, began to chug their milk. It was a short standing tradition at that point, to race each other to finish their milk. It almost always ended in a victory for Jean, but with him cooking under the sun in the desert the victory went to Freeman. At his victory he raised his arms up in a victory flex, before quickly dropping them and gathering up his plate. The all gathered their messes afterwords and took them to the dirty dishes station, neatly stacking and organizing them into dividers. After that they gathered just outside the mess for a moment.

Mcnab turned and began speaking to the group, “Alright, we meet here at ten, just after we get the schedule for tomorrow. We’ll go out and get drinks, fool around for a short while, and then return to the military levels and get some sleep.”

“Like you and Boris will be getting any rest afte-” Laughter erupted right before whom ever shot the crass joke out could finish, cutting them off. Harry joined in, glancing at those two as he did so. Borris flushed slightly, while Mcnab gave everyone a look of boredom.

“Yes, ribbing Borris and I is still funny. Even after four months. Where it’s almost daily. Hilarious in fact.” Mcnab’s sarcasm could have melted steel. It just bounced off everybody else, too busy laughing at the admittedly over used joke.

“Hey man, we’ll stop after Borris stops getting beet root red every time.”

“Shut it Alexander.”

As the laughter subsided, everybody parted ways and began to head towards what ever they would do before meeting for their schedule took place. Harry made his way back towards the library, noting he had three hours to kill now that supper was over.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

As the soldiers all parted ways, officers rushed about a planning room in center of the military levels. Shoddily drawn maps of a compound were projected on screen, being annotated by an aide at his officer’s command. Plans were drawn up, and platoons were pushed about on maps. Contingencies were drawn up and planes were given orders to be armed.

The first stage of retaliation was complete. In no small part thanks to the 2nd platoon of the air assault company station at Foba City.