1 A.K (After-Khan): A Post-Apocalyptic Military Roleplay IC
“Alright, you bunch of sorry, decrepit, mewling, saint-worshippin’ maggots, listen up! Because this is important! You are now part of the Phoenix Expeditionary Company! ‘Congratulations’. So, you may be wondering: What the hell is it that we do? I’m only going to say this once, so open up your stinking, unwashed, dust-filled ears and hear it! We, as part of the Phoenix Expeditionary Company, are tasked with the duty of contacting rallying isolated communities and forces of the U.S and reminding those god-forsaken sons of bitches which flag they are supposed to fly!”
“Your asses belong to 1st Company, 3rd Squad. Our mission objective lies towards the east. Our route takes us along John Hanson Highway. We are to contact the communities along the highway, and reach the Naval Academy at Chesapeake Bay. Write it down if you can’t remember with your shellshocked, regressed, piece of shit monkey brain!”
“The federal government, YOUR U.S government for the record, in case you don’t happen to remember, is low on supplies, so that means no air support, no vehicles, limited food and ammunition, no intel. We will have no god-damn allies except for those we make along the way, so don’t you dare hold up your hopes for a resupply. It will be a gruelling 50km if you’re lucky. Teams of signallers will trail behind us and set up communication hubs, and reinforcement will follow a day behind us in case any of you got your weak-kneed, cowardly, chicken-shit butts slaughtered!”
“The time now is zero seven hundred hours. We will move out at zero seven thirty hours. Briefing over! Now get your pathetic, skinny, flabby-hipped asses out into the square! If you’ve forgotten anything about the organization, you’d better read it up in your little handbook before I quiz your grade six, ape-brained head about it! Dismissed!”
Captain Jake Colbourne's own words in the briefing was still ringing in his own ears as he sat in a corner of the makeshift square that had been cleared for military assembly. There were still rubble here and there, but enough for a squad or two to form up... More or less. The 'briefing room' he was giving his little speech was little more than the hollow insides of a burned-out Post-Khan shack, partially damaged from a raider retaliation some days ago, back when he was still wondering what the Phoenix Expeditionary Unit was. His own words ringed in his ears-he felt that he wasn't harsh enough, that the seething hatred and rage inside of him wasn't adequately expressed. He clenched his fist, his gloves squeaking under the strain. He took a look around, observing his squad- a motley crew of mismatched soldiers, though not all of them were soldiers. Disgust was written all over his tense face as he saw in them everything he hate- how far down the country has sunk, and what accompanied that fall when the shit hits the fan. He remembered the riots, the looting, the steadily demoralised and unequipped forces that he had to command back before the meteorites struck. He was threatening to explode on the inside, but he held it down. The veteran soldier took a sip of stale river water- clean water was a premium these days, but he did not care. It helped somewhat.
The dusty winds picked up somewhat as he looked at his soldiers talking, milling about, worrying. His eyes went over to his second-in-command, Lieutenant John Khalid Shaheen. Old prejudices immediately well up in his heart, but he reminded himself that it was all past, buried away in the sands of a far away, middle-eastern country that probably did not exist anymore. He appeared capable enough. Any pre-Khan soldier beyond 30 years of age would be considered an asset worth his weight in gold now these days, if gold still exist. However, he has yet to prove himself to him.
Then there was Sid Pleasants, a marine medic of sorts, young and likely incompetent. His old prejudices welled up again, the kind that he gained after seeing gangs of looters and pillagers who went around doing their thing with a little bit of rape and murder thrown in, even as the world around them crumbled. Again, he swallowed his guilty biasness, hoping that the near-end of the world would be enough to knock some sense in kids his age.
Other than that young medic, his specialists consists of David Carwell, Trake Havers and Michael Geary. Again, he had prejudices for them too. These days, there was always something he hate in every single sentient being on the planet, ever since he saw how low humans could be, how disgusting, how insectoid, how vile they could be. He used to love working with soldiers of foreign armies, but now he could no longer trust them. Towards the end of the world, foreign relations had a crisis of its own. China was asserting itself once again as some 'Middle Kingdom', and was threatening every country around it. North Korea certainly did not help. Due to the economic crisis in the western sphere, everyone started asking handouts from each other, and everyone started rejecting each other. Cooperation was at a minimal. The EU got pissed with the US for pulling out, and the US got pissed with the EU for being insensitive to the former superpower's domestic needs. Rising economic powers in South America, Africa and Southeast Asia were more or less turning a blind eye to the sorry state the world was in, riding on reasons such as the need for them to build up their 'economic momentum before unleashing a wave of humanitarian support across the world', and there being too many countries that were reduced to poverty in too short a time.
As for Trake Havers and Michael Geary, well, they completed the picture by being members of a U.S Army that was sliding ever so slowly into incompetence, corruption and desperation. They reminded him of that, even if it was no fault of their own, and even if they were soldiers of the old pre-crisis order. Still, he could not help that he had prejudices for them as well. He did his best to swallow that, but his face was still pretty much showing the anger he had against the world.
Then there was Kaylin, Joe and James Wolf. Civilians. The word struck him as a synonym for 'whiners', 'childish babies' and 'idlers'. He remembered how civilians behave as the great United States started decaying. They weren't helping. For civilians, he knew not where to start hating from. He saw the drafted civilians as a last resort, while James Wolf was a special case... A civilian advisor who appears to be a capable businessman of sorts. He still hated James. He knew the businessman types. The few who were still wealthy enough to fit with the term 'businessmen', to him, were the most selfish sort of people who would hoard money to themselves rather than to spend their time, effort and money in trying to revitalise the nation. Those with money were always the ones with power, considering that the U.S was always analogous to capitalism.
He was drowning in hatred. It had been like this for close to a decade now. It was 0720 hours. He still had 10 more minutes before he had to make contact again with his irredeemable subordinates. In 10 minutes time, he would have to call for his squad to fall in and make a secondary briefing. He sighed angrily before taking another sip of stale river water, trying to listen to the faint music coming from a nearby building, which angers him even more, as it forcibly reminds him of everything he HATES. Out in the distance, there was always the sound of gunshots and explosions, soldiers or criminals shouting. He doesn't know which one was better- that or the faint music.
In the meantime, Recruit Billy Johannesburg was sitting on the sandy floor, eating from a lunch box- he was always either eating or smiling at one good memory or the other, reading his Phoenix Expeditionary Unit handbook as his new commander suggested. CPL Lulu Faust, a solitary mountain of steel and gun barrels, had her powered armour helmet folded so that it reveals her face. She was leaning against the wall of the burned-out briefing shack, nursing a rare cigarette stuck between a pair of steel-shelled fingers-the stress was getting to her, and she picked up the habit in her fallout shelter, a vault. She was quietly observing Sergeant David Carwell, a weird British who was supposed to be her fireteam leader, wondering what sort of a sergeant he was. Thankfully, she doesn't have the same prejudices as the Captain. PFC Li Xiao Lie was sitting against the wall near Lulu- unlike her, he doesn't even know which sergeant was his. He had been diligently learning English ever since he was trapped on U.S soil, but he was more of a monolingual person. He was proud enough that he could already converse in some English, however simple and broken it may be. Lastly, another foreigner, an Indian with the name of Chandra Singh, was fiddling with his manpack radio set, calibrating it. He was a natural with that machine.