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sappheethefox · 2 months ago

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The Cold Years-Chapter 1 (for real this time)

“After Action Report: Sustained major casualties attempting to delay the Kurchan and Silen advance. At 0523 hours, the 79th Penal Battalion was shelled by enemy artillery with rounds complete at 0626 hours. Straight-leg infantry began to assault the position, enemy forces estimated at seven companies worth. Friendly casualty count: 47 KIA, 149 wounded. Resupply request issued. Previous request for mechanized reinforcements denied. Previous request for armored reinforcements denied.”

Onyx leaned on a tree after reading the report, rubbing his chin as it continued. Another night he hadn’t slept, another night he spent on the battlements, another night of firing at what he hoped was just shadows. But shadows don’t fall and scream for a medic, scream for pain, scream for their mothers. He folded the report and placed it in his pocket, resuming his walk along the lines.

“What a nightmare. It’d be nice if we had some bullets, but all we get is a bunch of greenies with half a brain between thirty men.” he said, shaking his head. He approached the new soldiers meant to fill his ranks after the last battle. 50 new soldiers, untrained, uncooperative, and ultimately unprepared for the coming times. Onyx inspected the new company, looking them up and down, taking a mental checklist of their imperfections, their postures, even the way they breathed. Most of them aren’t even properly at the position of attention, standing stiff like a board or way too relaxed.

Walking up the line, he has to look down to see one of the replacements. It’s a teenage boy, his uniform loosely fitting his body and his weapon not present. His posture is significantly too tense, his legs locked up tight. The markings and patches denoting his job were missing, and his cap sat crooked on his head. Chiefly, he lacked the most basic of necessities for warfare; a firearm.

“You, child.” He snaps to the kid, his eyes fixed on where a gun would be. “You don’t have a rifle. Why?”

The conscript stammers out a response. “T-they didn’t g-give me one at the d-depot…”

The taller, demon-blooded captain steps closer to the boy, his breath condensing in the air.

“Finish that sentence. ‘They didn’t give me one at the depot’ what?” Onyx’s eyes bore straight into the soul of the poor kid.

“S-sir.”

“What’s your specialty? Besides being a rifleman.”

The young lad shakes a bit. “I-I can’t remember, something to do with letters o-or something…O-Oh, courier!”

What a nightmare indeed.

“…Tch.” Onyx shakes his head and mumbles. “I don’t need a courier,” he thought. “They either get shot, captured, or get lost.” He moves along, analyzing and mentally noting. After ten minutes of this inspection, one of them pipes up, groaning.

“Can we move on already? I’m tired of being stared at by some muka son of a bitch.”

The “muka” in question stopped in his tracks, the silence that followed deafening. He turned so slowly you could almost hear his muscles moving. He puts one foot firmly in front of the other, time after time, until he’s face-to-face with the disheveled cretin who blurted out while he was supposed to be deathly silent.

“What’s that, private…?” Onyx glares deep into his eyes, deep into the recesses of his spirit.

“Bruckles, it’s Zhovda Bruckles, now get off my dick before I-”

Before the unruly man could get another word off, he’s slapped across the face.

“Watch your goddamn mouth, do you understand?” Onyx delivers another slap, backhanding him with enough force to knock him to the ground. “I own your ass! While you are under my command, you do not mouth off, you do not burst out, and you do not talk shit!” His face red as a beet. “Get the fuck up, you slimy damned worm, and get back in formation before I strangle the fucking life out of you and toss your crumpled body in a ditch!” The rougher stands up and straight, two massive hand prints across his face and a deep cut in his ego.

The captain, finally calming down from his disciplining, makes his way to the front of the formation. “…Fall out, go find the housing officer, 2nd Lt. Makav, and she’ll assign you your quarters. Don’t expect luxury.”

With some haste, the platoon of criminals, free thinkers, and undesirables dissolved into a loose gaggle, disappearing into the battalion and fitting in just right. But Onyx puts a hand on the young boy’s shoulder.

“You.”

The kid freezes in place, the color draining from his face. He doesn’t know whether to look at his commanding officer or to keep staring at the ground.

“Y-Yes, s-s-sir?” he squeaked.

“You haven’t got a gun. This is a problem. Come with me.” Onyx lets go, motioning the young man to follow him. The young man scurries along quickly, looking anywhere but the eyes of this man. Is this how he dies? Shot within ten minutes of arrival by his captain for being unprepared by the supply staff?

They stop at a tent with a table deployed in front of it, a man sitting behind said table, and a few palettes of empty boxes.

“Quartermaster, I need a rifle. ‘Courier model.’ Ammo, too.”

The gray haired older man looks at Onyx, puts down a clipboard and pen, fetches a gun and tosses it to him. “I’ve got two cartons and the magazine already in it, Captain Maxim, no more. Just about 98% of the 188th’s supply train has been diverted to a priority mission: hauling artillery shells for the 41st Infantry DIVARTY.” The rather old man slides the two cartons over to him.

He picks up the cartons, annoyance slowly filling his face. “What, all of that for artillery? How do we not have any more carbine rounds?” He looks around the stockpile and around the supply area. “Almost all of our guns use the same ammo type, and the courier model uses an ammo type that we haven’t used in a bit since we have a distinct lack of couriers.”

The quartermaster, chuckling, continues. “Well, because we haven’t found a use for the rounds, we’ve sent them down to other units.”

“…What about the other 2% of supply trucks?”

“They’ve been busy, supplying units that’ve been capturing Nook positions all along the southern side of Porlakas, post shelling of course.” He takes a deep breath before adding “…And it seems Silen partisans are ambushing what few trucks try to come our way.”

Press-checking the carbine, Onyx hands-no, rather shoves the gun into the hands of the teenage soldier. “What about aerial resupply?”

The old man shakes his head. “League airpower has the airspace contested, so they’re not flying rotary until dominance in the sky is achieved.”

“When are we getting another supply run?”

The quartermaster shrugs, responding “If we’re lucky, within the next week. If not…Well, you’re great at making do with what you got, Maxim.” Onyx turns around and trots off, seemingly miffed.

“W-Why is he like that? Are a-all commanders like him?” the conscript’s words wobbling out.

The old man, beginning to take an inventory of what’s left, chimes in saying “That boy’s got a bad hand. Or man, I suppose.”

The boy shakes his head. “No, he can’t have a bad hand, h-he…well, he ‘disciplined’ someone earlier with it.” He anxiously fidgets in place.

The quartermaster chuckles. “Not a bad injured hand, but he’s had a tough life, s’what I mean. Can’t blame him.” He shakes his head and looks at the kid. “By the way…” He narrowed his eyes and lifted the boy’s cap, revealing golden strands and small nubs on the sides of his forehead. Before the old man could make a remark, the captain yells from afar to get moving. He covers his head before catching up, struggling to hold the unfamiliar tool he’s been given.

They walk through the woods, with the kid straggling slightly behind out of respect for Onyx’s authority and fear of what may happen should he cross him. He’d never seen someone who commands such a terrifying and intimidating presence.

“What’s your birthplace?”

The conscript mumbles out, “C-C-Chernoy, sir. I-It’s the original home of the d-demonfolk. H-Have you been?”

Oh, he had. “Yes, I have. I was there for a good few years as part of the counter-insurgency.” He looks at the ground, then up at the sky. “My first deployment. Ruinous, that’s what I remember of it. It’s been over a decade since then, it’s probably unrecognizable to me now.”

Onyx takes a deep breath, the cold nipping at the exposed skin on his face. “What’s your name, boy?”

Fiddling with his gun, the young man’s breath hitches. “I-I don’t know, sir. M-My family was taken from me shortly a-after…”

“After what?” He contemplates before continuing. “T-They joined Alebester Curran and the Infernal Meikras Liberation Front…”

Onyx blinks a few times. “The IMLF, right.” The young boy’s words get caught up in his throat.

“C-Curran had moved everyone who was left into the Autonod’s capital building…”

“Mm. The Governor’s Palace.”

The boy nods. “Yeah, the palace. W-When the army finally broke through, they captured us…T-They separated my mother, father, and sister before shipping me off…first they sent me to a prisoner camp, once I-I turned 16, they shipped me here…” The taller man nods, ushering him to continue. A single tear drips down the boy’s face. “I-I never got t-the chance to say g-goodbye…”

Onyx doesn’t flinch, it’s a story he’s all too familiar with. However, this one presented him with a unique twist; this boy was known just as a number or a prisoner or even just an occupation within the system.

“Beryl.”

The boy stops and looks up at his CO, a confused look dawning on his face. “W-What, sir?”

Onyx continues without skipping a beat, “Your name is Beryl. You are old enough for a name.” His cool facade thawed just enough to allow the corner of his mouth to curve slightly and to wipe the tear. “It’s in line with demonic naming customs. I imagine you’re not a beastkin, given that you’re not hairy. Hell, you can’t even grow a beard at your age.” Onyx feels his chin. “Well, neither can I. I suppose demons can’t grow body or facial hair.”

He touches a lock of hair poking out from the bottom of the boy’s cap.

“Also, you suck at trying to hide your features.” He begins to trot off again, saying “Just wear it out with pride. Or don’t. It won’t matter. I will train you to be useful, and you train better if you’re not worrying about your hat coming off.” He looks over his shoulder as the boy looks at the captain with bewilderment. The newly christened Beryl stood there, confused and shocked at what had just unfolded. This is the first instance of kindness he’s been shown in years.

“Are you aware of the nature of your assignment, Beryl? The job of ‘courier?’”

He stands there, in a mix of joy and nerves. “N-No, Captain Maxim. I-I was just assigned the job on lottery.”

“It’s one of the most dangerous jobs for the normal combat units, even more so for the penal units like ours. My last courier accidentally waltzed into enemy lines, we only got a third of his body back.” He stares into the forest for a minute. “Couriers are a prime target for the enemy, second only to commanders. You will be receiving and distributing written orders, dispersing pamphlets in places, and be reporting directly to me outside of combat, think like an assistant or secretary.” He takes a deep breath. “You’ll also occasionally be given saboteur objectives as well, playing into the whole PSYOPS deal. Here, on this front, you’ll be infiltrating Kurchan and Silen positions. Always bring a grenade with you when you go out because…” Onyx looks down at his feet and kicks a stone. “…They will torture you to death. Slowly, painfully. If you’re ever captured, a quick suicide is not cowardice, it’s the better option.”

Beryl nods, listening intently. He knew that he was going to be in grave danger, anyone in a penal unit would be. The position of “courier” is usually quite the title, should one live to see retirement. However, much like Onyx had said, the aspect of infiltration and close-in psychological warfare is something that gets deep under the skin and into the minds of the enemy. How could it not? Someone sneaking up into your camp, all past the sentries on duty and people watching for infiltrators miss it and now things are blowing up and enemy pamphlets are everywhere? That’s truly frightening.

“Oi, stop standing around and report to the housing officer, Makav. Rations are at 1730, don’t be late and get the old tins of stuff.” Onyx reaches into his coat and retrieves a flask, taking a long swig before putting it back in his coat pocket. “If you’re late, you get a can of rotting tinned meat, used-to-be vegetables in water, and a rock posing as bread.”

“Y-Yes, sir!” Beryl scampers away, a nervous yet content smile across his face.

“Heh, that’s never happened.” He takes a deep breath. “Normally, they run in fear with a look of terror scrawled across their faces.” He takes a look around. People huddle together around fires, light up cigarettes and inhale the fumes, bury themselves in whatever layers they can scrounge to cover up, all for the sake of warmth.

“Gods be damned, I’m freezing.” Onyx puts his hands under his arms. He approaches a few soldiers sitting on logs around a burning oil drum. “Move over, share the fire.” The soldiers scoot over just enough to let their CO in.

“Shit, you need to heat yourself up? Damn, it really is gonna be a rough night.”

“Shut up, Fuzzy. You got fur on ya damn legs and chest, the rest of us have hair on our heads and nothing more!”

Onyx puts his head down and closes his eyes.

“Corporal Meklavic, just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I don’t get cold.” He takes a deep breath, the warm air enters his nostrils. “And Staff Sergeant Schauber, you’ve had to loot a few enemy coats to wrap around your breasts to keep warm and to stop yourself from getting frostbite.”

He leans back, finally opening his eyes. “Neither of you have any points, so just shut up and let me get some heat in peace. This fucking brigade’s gonna be the death of me.” He takes the flask out and takes a drink, but the alcohol in his flask has turned into a slush. “Damn it.” He stands up and starts walking towards his rack, passing by the mess tent to get his share of rations for the night.

Getting in line, he waits as the other soldiers waddle up to the serving table, get their slop, and waddle away. Five minutes pass, then five more. Finally it’s his turn. One hand in the pocket, he holds out his mess tin. The cooks ladle in his serving of boiled vegetables in water and hands him a slice of stale bread. He stares at the sad, sad excuse for soup and the hard piece of bread before sitting down in his tent and beginning to eat. He picks up his spoon and dips it into the broth, bringing the clear liquid to his lips.

“…Bland.” He taps the bread on his desk, clacking like a wooden stick. He rolls his eyes, dipping the bread into the soup.

After he finishes eating, he takes the mess kit and puts it aside. He picks up his guitar, tuning it and testing with a few plucks.

“No, that’s not right.” He twists the knobs and plucks once again. “There, that’s fine.” He begins to strum and play a melody from demon culture, singing along in infernal as he goes.

“May she live, may she prosper, long live Alepul; May we live, may we prosper, long live the Meikras-”

“With our blood, the flowers bloom, the Pailan blooms red!”

Onyx stops for a second, standing up and poking his head out from his tent. It’s the first time someone has responded to his singing since he began his time in the army, let alone in the native demon tongue.

“And so long as we live, Alepul is not lost, and we will rejoin the nation!” There, right across from the CO’s tent, Beryl is singing along to the song as he sets up his domicile for the time being.

“Hey.”

“O-Oh, C-Captain, sir! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend!” Beryl drops the shovel and holds his hands up, slightly cowering. “I didn’t realize y-you could speak infernal! I-I mean, it’s k-kinda nice…your singing, I mean, s-sir.”” He wipes his brow and looks down at his feet, picking up the spade. “I-I never met someone else who spoke the language, e-especially considering that it’s illegal…”

“It’s my battalion, I do as I please.” Onyx leaves the tent, the flaps draping over his shoulders before falling away. “My mother taught me growing up. Then I did time in the camps with other demonkin, letting me become proficient, and time in the trenches lent me time to learn to play and to sing in our mother tongue.” Onyx steps forward, holding the instrument in his left hand by the neck. “I imagine, given what you’ve told me, you grew up speaking mostly Meirak, but the humans made you give it up.”

“Y-Yeah…I-I mean, yes s-sir.”

“…That’s the nature of the demonfolk-us Meikras-in this land. The humans invaded our lands, stole it from us, and forced us to pay in slavery and extermination of our people and culture for resisting.” He shakes his head. “You know the stories, yes?”

“No, s-sir. I can’t r-remember.”

“I’ll tell you. See, we tend to pass our history through song.” He takes out the flask and drinks. “I will do as my mother did for me, and I will elucidate on the nature of the Meikras. Find me something to sit on, I’m not sitting on snow.”

Beryl’s young, hopeful face lights up as he goes to find something for his commanding officer to sit down on. He returns with an empty rifle box, almost yelling. “H-Here, sir! I-It’s not much, but it’s something!”

“I will tell you the story of our creation, one of the most important histories of the Meikras.” Onyx puts himself down on the box and begins to strum.

Singing long into the night, a bond would form.

#onyx #oc #creative writing #the cold years #novel writing

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