War is a dance,
Always three steps,
Always repeated.
War steps to Peace, Peace steps to Revolution, Revolution steps to War.
An eternal waltz
The wars of the east are done and there is peace.
It’s time for revolution.
Just wait God, we’ll march for Heaven soon enough.
~From the journal of Tatiana Riptooth; 80th leader of the Bloodfur clan
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Somalia, 2020
It was night, pitch black with no stars, lit only by the fires that surrounded the warlord’s camp. They had taken the camp from a group of travelling entertainers, and modified it. Unfortunately the entertainers were quick to argue about giving over the camp, but they were ‘convinced’ eventually.
The camp was set up with wooden walls, laced with barbed wire. Intermitted along the wall, was several lit torches. Several armed pirates, patrolled the wall, looking for anything to shoot. Several tents and a single hut, built in a circle, centered on a large fire. The warlord himself took the hut, which was filled with the money and trophies from brutal victories.
Pirates and mercenaries were dancing, drunk off of cheap booze and bloodlust. They had every right to be celebrating, they had captured and successfully ransomed off a French cargo ship. They got a rather hefty sum for the intact return of the ship and its crew; they only had to kill the captain after he tried to be brave. They even stole a few large crates filled with wine, beer, food, and a large black coffin that looked like it was decorated with gold.
As drunk as the group was, they were unaware of the cold chill that came with the wind. Unaware of the danger that was rapidly approaching the camp, faster that humanly possible; or of the monster that lurked within their midst. They were unaware of the C-130, carrying a group of private soldiers headed their way. However the private soldiers had no idea of what they were walking into.
The scavengers would eat like kings that night.
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Fear is a weapon
You can control men with fear, twist and torture them, turning them into mockeries of their former selves.
I though being afraid of the dark was just an irrational fear,
I was wrong, dead wrong.
~From the journal of Hector ‘Give’em Hell’ Davis
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Six shadows fell through the sky, supported by parachutes designed to mimic the night sky. Quickly detaching the parachutes a foot from the ground, the shadows rolled with their landing and moved toward the camp. Moving like liquid ink, the shadows dashed across the landscape at speeds far eclipsing an Olympic athlete. At their current speed the shadows reached the wall of the camp and paused. Pressing themselves fully against the wall, the shadows looked at each other and nodded.
Leaping up onto the wall, the shadows struck.
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The noise of a C-130 plane, can be very annoying over a long trip, Hector Davis decided. The added noise of three other private contractors engaging in loud conversation; did not help his growing headache. Absently reaching up to scratch his goatee, he proceeded to settle his crew down calmly and quietly. Taking a deep and calming breath, he stood up.
“Shut the hell up!”
Nodding his head, and giving a shark like grin, at the pleasant silence that followed, he began his speech.
“Now, we’re gonna be entering Somalia in ten, so I want all of you listening to this. Several hours ago, a group of pirates captured and successfully ransomed a French cargo ship. The pirates made off with a valuable artefact; more specifically a coffin. I don’t know who or what’s in it and I don’t care. It’s way above my pay grade. In the end all that matters is we grab it and meet at the evac point. Any questions?”
Several moments of silence before two hands were raised. He sighed and closed his eyes trying to count to ten, he should've guessed it would've these two. Breathing in he opened his eyes.
Hector pointed at the only woman on the plane, “Jess, what’s your question?”
The woman shifted, and focused her grey eye on Hector.
“How many pounds of explosives are we allowed to use,” she paused to think, absentmindedly brushing a dark blue bang out of the way, “and what kind of guns do we get to play with.”
Hector wearily rubbed his eyes; he should have expected that from his team, especially from her.
“We’re traveling light, so Combat Shotguns and Uzis. No explosives because we don’t want to damage the coffin. Besides you’re on sniper duty.”
“What?! Why am I on sniper duty?” She sounded affronted, probably due to her explosives fetish.
“Because the last time you had something that went boom, you ended up starting a civil war in Mexico!”
“Oh.” she didn't sound apologetic about the incident. Hector didn't expect her to be, after all guilt was not something she felt often.
“Yeah, Oh.”
Hector sighed and moved on to the other question.
“Carmine, you had a question.” It was a statement, not a question. Hector still had to mentally prepare himself, as Carmine was the rookie. Meaning it was his job to ask obvious and/or stupid questions.
All the time.
Hector had to wonder sometimes what made Carmine, jump into this line of work. With short blond hair and innocent blue eyes, he should have been a gigolo. Still the looks did help the group, with their line of work. Need a group of women or men distracted, you sent Carmine in. Carmine still hadn't figured out why he was always the distraction.
“How is the plane going to land sir?”
“It’s not.”
“Sir?” He sounded worried. Good it was fun scaring the rook. Besides it was all in good fun, if Hector really wanted to embarrass Carmine, he would have told Jess about Carmine's crush on her.
“In the cargo hold, there’s an ATV that will hold us all. It’s in a box that’ll hold us till we hit the ground. We hit ground, the box brakes, we go to the camp. Any problems Carmine.” It was a deceptive tone, hiding any and all sarcasm from Carmine’s ears.
Carmine rapidly shook his head, a relieved smile on his face. Hector stared at Carmine a little bit before shaking his head.
“Let’s move to the vehicle, if we’re lucky we can have this done within the hour.”
Hector could stop the smile from growing on his face as he watched his team, because they weren’t just his team; they were his family. They forged their bonds through blood, death, tears and a bullet wound to the ass. Besides, this was an easy job, for the amount of money being paid, enough for them to retire to a sunny beach somewhere.
Later on in his life, Hector Davis agreed that taking this mission was the dumbest mistake of his life.
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Truth is written by the victor.
You win, you’re the truth,
Your events happened, not his or hers.
The sheep of the world, accept that truth,
Even if they know it is a false truth.
When they learn the Truth,
They act as if they looked for it.
They didn’t.
Someone has to rip their eyes open for them to see.
We have to rip the stitches from their mouths
No matter how much pain it causes,
The truth is all that matters.
~From the journal of Asteria* Blackclaw; blood traitor from the Belladonna clan
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* – Means ‘of the sky’ in Greek.
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