Title: Sergeant Anon Pt1 Author: Anonymous Pastebin link: http://pastebin.com/NeNUpWY9 First Edit: Monday 4th of August 2014 10:19:51 PM CDT Last Edit: Monday 4th of August 2014 10:19:51 PM CDT > Be sergeant anon > Soldier of the Allied Planetary Expeditionary Force > Currently staring at the saddest sight you've ever seen. > No less than seventy of these fucking little horses just walked into your platoon's kill zone. > At least 26 of them the horned fuckers. > And they just sat down. > Sat down in full view of two machine gun nests, four SAWs, and 30-some assault rifles. > You're fairly sure one of them is sitting ON a claymore that 3rd squad planted last night. > They know you're here. Brought down two of the bat-winged kind scouting your lines at night over the past 3 days. SERGEANT ANON > Shit that's the LT. Get your squad up there and see what they're up to. > FFS why always us. > You and your squad climb out of your sandbagged position and start climbing up towards them. > 300 meters > 200 meters > At 150 meters, they notice you at last. > One of them in fancy gold armor stands up in front. A royal guard, officer material. > The rest still do nothing. > 75 meters > 50 meters > Your men are getting antsy. > Nobody wants to be captured by something that can do magic. > You comfort yourself with the fact that there are at least 2 .50cals aimed at them if they try any shit. > 5 meters. You stop. > Gold-armor horse is staring at you. > At this range you can see that they're a mess. > Ribs protruding everywhere, not many with complete sets of armor, lots of bandages, and the eyes. > The empty fucking eyes. > Those huge eyes are even more expressive when they're not seeing anything.   > You point your rifle at the gold-armored one. > He doesn't flinch. "What do you want?" "Surrender." > They dragged you out of your line to demand that again? "Ours." > Wat.   "Why? Where the fuck are the rest of you, we know there's at least three battalions holding this area." "Not anymore. We tried pushing your lines near Trottingham last night. Your armored vehicles were there. Our lines are gone." "We've had no word from anyone else for hours. Last group that tried to retreat got run down by your hell-coptor things." > His mistake would be funnier if they weren't all so sad looking.   > Shit. > You heard artillery and tank fire yesterday evening, but this? > Briefing said around 5,000 enemy regulars plus militia. > There's not more than 90 here. > You look at him again. "You took this long to figure out that surrender was a good idea, asshole? I haven't seen my home in six fucking months, I'm stuck in an alien hellhole listening to my buddies get fried by lightning or burned by your fucking horns, and NOW YOU FIGURE THIS OUT? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU WANT?"   > You expect him to get angry. > You want him to get angry. > Instead he falls on his stomach sobbing. "I just want to go home too!" "I'm not even a royal guard, the last one died and I'd done some patrol duty years ago so they threw!" "I just want to go home." "I want my job in the weather factory back." "I want my wife." "I want to see my kids go to school every day." > You look at his backside. > Mark is a bird carrying a raindrop. Whatever that means. > Not a blade. > Not a shield. > Not a burning human. > You look at the others. They're all either staring at you with some level of sad desperation or to shocked out to see you at all. "I just want to go home too."   > Fuck this war.     ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------   > Get on the radio with your LT. > He doesn't believe you at first. > Makes you go through all the code phrases for confirming you aren't being brainwashed or some shit. > Long silence. Bring 'em back, Sergeant. > You turn to the ex-royal guard again. Right, get your people moving. You're coming in. > He doesn't bother correcting you to ponies. > He just pushes himself up and starts getting his miserable little herd moving towards your position. > Your squad follos them back across the muddy field, watching for any that try to bolt. > At one point a couple of jets go roaring overhead. > The ponies all freeze or look ready to split out of here like the Flash on crack. > Jesus, what have these things been through? > You find the guy in Royal Guard armor again. "You the ranking officer? For this..." Look at the mismatched group of shellshocked horses again. "...company?" "I'm the only officer. And this is the remnants of four companies." "Right. You got a name?" "Swift Mist." Fucking pony names. "Right. I'm Sergeant Anon. Here's how it's going to work: You keep your group in line until we find somewhere to put you, you'll be alright." > You're falling back into by-the-book stuff from Basic now. "Under our conventions of war, you are protected from any further harm so long as you do not attempt escape. You will be given food, shelter, and medical treatment. You will not be mistreated or tortured." "We will have to hobble wings and cap horns, though. Make sure they know this, we don't want any trouble." > He nods. "Yeah. Um, listen... Sergeant Anon. Back, uh, back where our lines were... there's more. Some we couldn't move. Can you... can you send some of your vehicle things to go get them?" "I promised I'd try and come back for them." > You can't help but feel a bit of respect for this guy. > Officer looking after his guys. Ponies. Whatever. "Gonna have to talk to the LT about that. I'll take you to him soon as we get you all rounded up."   > Turns out the LT is waiting at your lines. > He takes Swift Mist aside and puts your squad back on the sandbags. > Over the next couple hours a few more surrendering ponies trickle out of the treeline as well. > They're sent in after the first bunch. > You pass the time bullshitting with your squad and listening to artillery fire in the distance. > Some of it's fairly close. > Was Swift Wind lieing about no others still fighting?   SERGEANT ANON. > Fuck that's the LT again. > You go find out what he wants. > He's with Swift Mist again. > Mist's wings are hobbled with a ziptie now, but he actually looks a little better. "Go grab second and third squad. Find the rest of them at their position and get 'em back here. You'll get 4th and 7th's HMMWVs and three 5-tonners to move them." > This turns out to mean six humvees and three 5-ton trucks. > Should be enough. > You end up taking Swift Mist and a couple other ponies he says were noncoms to help getting the others to surrender.   > You're riding with Mist in one of the humvees. > Been driving for ten minutes. > He points up over the next ridge. "They're back behind there." "Better not be a trap, asshole." > That's the corporal in the seat next to you. > You're about to tell him to shove it, but Mist gets there first. "If it's a trap, I'm in one of your vehicles. I'm dead too." > Your military-standard sergeant deathglare keeps the Corporal from starting anything again.   > Crest the hill.   > ...   > There is no position here. > Just a ton of 155mm craters. > That arty you were hearing earlier. > FUCK. > You look over. > Swift Mist looks like he's just been shot in the chest. > You get on the radio. "Okay, 1st and 2nd squad, let's go look for survivors. Get the 5-tons down here." "3rd squad, hang back a bit and cover us." > The closer you get the worse it looks. > They must've had an aircraft spotter or something, walked the shellfire right up the ponies' line. > You get out anyway. > Spread out and search. > Some bodies aren't even recognizable. Others look like they bled out of some tiny shrapnel wound. > You realize Swift Mist isn't following you. > Look back. > He's fallen to the ground to your HMMWV. > Looks dead inside again. > Probably is.   *Cough* *Coughcough* "SARGE! Got a survivor!" > You follow your soldier over. > Tiny little pink-and-blue thing, couldn't have stood more than four, five feet high. > Won't be standing soon, though. One leg is gone, another looks shattered. > They've been banaged, though. > She's alive. "MEDIC."   > You ultimately find four more. > There were nineteen left behind. > The four little bodies don't even fill one of your 5-ton trucks.   > You climb back into your HMMWV and start back towards your position. > Swift Mist is next to you again. > Still looks dead inside. > You put a gloved hand on his shoulder. > He flinches. "Shit, Mist. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." > He doesn't respond.   Fuck this war.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------   > You end up stuffing the ponies in a barbed wire enclosure for the night. > Put their worst wounded in some spare tents. > Not really good shelter, but it's not like you guys are sleeping in luxury. > In fact, you spend most of the night curled up against a sandbag. > Sometime around noon tomorrow your relief arrives. A couple more platoons of Army guys, different unit than yours though. > Judging from the chats you have with them, they aren't going to be sticking around with you for much longer anyhow. > Your new orders come soon enough as well. > You're relieving the units in Trottingham, freeing them up to keep pushing the line. > Also, you're bringing the surrendered ponies with you. > Loading them in to the trucks takes longer than you'd like. They're not to keen on getting into a human truck. > Swift Mist is still staring into nowhere, he's no help. > End up having to just toss a fair few in.   > Ride is supposed to be about a hour and a half. > That was before the state of their roads was considered. > After two hours, you're reduced to staring out of the back of the truck. > You wonder if you look anything like Swift Mist.   > The soldier next to you makes a wierd choking noise. "What?" > That noise again. > You turn to look at him. > There's a dart of some kind in his neck. > Well, shit. > "AMBUSH AMBUSH AMBUSH DISMOUNT" > SHITSHITSHITSHIT > You hop out just in time to see a fireball crash into the truck you just hopped out of. > The canvas covering catches fairly quickly. > The screaming from inside starts up. The wounded ponies still inside. > MOTHERFUCKER   > You grab the nearest pony's hind legs and drag it Clear of the truck. > It's screaming its poor little throat out, but it's not burning to death. > You turn back to see the rest of your squad emptying the other ponies out of the truck as well. > Arrows and darts of some kind are starting to fall with alarming regularity. > You take sprint to the next truck, find them dismounting as well. Good. > Somewhere down the line someone opens up with a .50cal. Probably blind firing. > "SARGE!" > One of your squad. > "Where the fuck are they?" > What do you look like, a walking radar array? "Fuck if I know. Uh, find Deckard, he's got good eyes." > You squad's marksman. > Around you the crack-pop of further rifle fire and thud-thud of .50s is increasing. > Someone must see them. > You crawl back alongside your burning truck to find Deckard. > You find him, alright. > He's cradling a shattered arm, hit by a unicorn's bolt. > Fucking pinheads. > The pony prisoners are still screaming their brains out. > Someone taps you on your shoulder. > He points down a slight slope from the road you're on. > Sure enough, a bunch of little technicolor blobs hidden by scrub. > The ponies never did quite get the idea of camouflage for general operations. "OKAY RIFLES UP, TARGETS 80 METERS OUT, ALTERNATING FIRE, HE-FRAGS IN YOUR 203s, READY ON MY MARK!" > Your squad adds its fire to the increasing stream of lead heading out. > Staring down your scope, you see something odd and flickering behind the first line of ponies. > A shield. > There's a second line of unicorns.   "Patuzzi, Carrero, Dickinson. You see that pinhead shield at one-fifty meters?" > A chorus of yessirs. "I want a barrage of forty mike-mike on it on my call. HE-DP followed by fragmentation. See if we can't flush them out." > You wait while they load their grenade launchers. "Fire!" > Three grenades burst against the shield. It deflects the first two but shatters before the third impacts. > The frag rounds sail right in, and moments later a bunch of multicolored blobs burst from their former line, fleeing. > They're rapidly boxed in by rifle and machine-gun fire. > You turn to check on your squad, but before you can an arrows slams into your body armor. > It doesn't penetrate your body armor, but it still feels like a boxer just suckerpunched you. > You fall back wounded, sucking breath in. > A second later, you realize you're in the open. > An arrow landing near one of your unarmored legs reinforces this. > Try to get up, can't move from that arrow hit. > You feel something grab your shoudler and drag you back behind the remains of your truck. > After a moment you turn to face your savior. "Thanks, Priv-" > It's Swift Mist. > A fucking pony just dragged you out from under fire. > His own allies fire. > Whatthefuck.jpg > "SARGE." > The moment is broken. > You get back to shooting.   > Twenty minutes later the last of the pony ambushers have fled. > You don't chase them. That's not your orders. > You've lost two trucks. > You were lucky. Your squad mostly got out of yours. > The lead truck took three telekinetic rocks dead-on, followed by pegasi-driven lighting. > Seven guys trapped in it when it burned. > Seven guys and three wounded ponies. > Did they know their own kind were in those trucks?   > You hold position until a reserve patrol is called out to escort you. > As you crawl into your truck, Swift Wind collapses beside you. > You look down at him. "Why?" > He looks up at you. > His eyes are still empty. > But not as empty as before. > "You tried to save the ponies relying on me." > "Ponies know that the first step to friendship is reciprocity." > You ignore the implication that humans don't know. > You're to tired and to confused to bother. > Ponies killing ponies, and you getting your ass saved by a royal guard. > Whatthefuck.   Fuck this war.