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Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
DeviantID picture is Benedict Cumberbatch as the famous Sherlock Holmes from the BBC series, Sherlock.

I have dreams and goals to become a writer, for words put into good writing are formed in its odd and fascinating complexity. And I have a passion for literature and Shakespeare. Do hope that my future contains at least a successful career in writing.

Journal History


The Factions
June 3, 2067
Wednesday, 1:57 pm
Trent Street, New Olympia

"Hello Mr. Terry." 

Strix said, smiling with as much pretense as possible.

Mr. Adam Terry stood at his door, staring at the two men adorned in uniform coats. He had hoped he was clear from their suspicions. 

"I know who you are, and I know what you do to people." said Mr. Terry.

Before Mr. Terry continued, Raymond Atlas raised his hand, silently ordering the man to stop.

"We are not here to kill you or torture you, Mr. Terry." Strix continued.

" aren't?" he sighed.

"Of course not. Would you be so kind as to let us in? We're a bit tired and we'd like to sit." 

"Yes. Yes of course, come right in." Mr. Terry swung the door wide open, stepping to the side. 

The two men smiled and stepped inside, while Mr. Terry looked about outside. Where was he?

"So." Strix said as he seated himself at the dining table. Atlas stood behind Strix, his gloved hands crossed in front of him.

"You two gentlemen would not prefer to sit on the couch? Much more comfortable than the dining area." Mr. Terry politely asked.

"Well, we would if it was a casual visit. This, Mr. Terry, is not a casual matter." Strix says, motioning towards the chair to the opposite of the table.

Mr. Terry silently cursed himself but smiled. He did as he was told. In his own home. His own property.

"So," Strix repeated. "Let's start with the basics, Mr. Terry-"

"Yes, I believe introductions are in order." Mr. Terry crossed his arms.

Strix smiled, "Well, if you insist. I am Arch Vindicator Strix."

"Arch Vindicator Atlas." said Atlas, placing his hand on his chest before returning to his original stance. 

"As I was saying," Strix cleared his throat. "Let's start with the basics. Your place of occupation is at the border wall, if I am correct. You work as a BOD operator."

Mr. Terry nodded.

"From what I have been informed, the BOD has been under pressure from the higher-ups due to the new laws. The BOD is in charge of preventing irregulars from entering the city." Strix continued.

Mr. Terry's jaw clenched.

Strix motioned his hands to him, "I'm assumed you've heard about this."

"Yes, I have."

Strix smiled once more, "Now, the crime of harboring irregulars applies to everyone. Including you, Mr. Terry."

"Yes...I am aware." said Mr. Terry.

"Then why...Mr. Terry," Strix leaned in, intertwining his fingers, "Are you harboring irregulars who seek refuge?"

Mr. Terry remained silent.

"Like I said, this isn't a casual matter. It's very important," Strix explained. "Anyways, that was a question I want answered."

"...Because they're not monsters. They are people who lead normal lives, and they are good people." Mr. Terry replied, his knuckles turning white.

Mr. Strix chuckled, "That's the answer we always get, Mr. Terry. I have heard it a thousand times, which means I have seen a thousand people shot in the head."

"Is...Is that supposed to scare me?" scoffed Mr. Terry.

"Of course not, Mr. Terry," Strix smiled. "This, however, is supposed to." 

Strix reached inside his coat and pulled out a gleaming, black APP-13 pistol. Adam Terry immediately kept his mouth shut, his eyes focused on the pistol. Strix placed the pistol on the table and leaned forward, placing his arms on the table.

"Now I'm not going to kill you, Mr. Terry. In fact I just want you to do a very simple thing," said Strix, clasping his hands together. "Give me the irregulars, however many you possess, and I will go. You will be untouched, and we'll even pretend it never happened."

Mr. Terry looked away, obviously contemplating the order he received. He sighed and gazed at Strix, "I'd rather die first."

Strix chuckled softly to himself, "No...Mr. Terry. You won't be the first to die."

"No, see, I believe your wife Agnes would be the first," Strix continued. "Then I'd go after your son Tom, and his wife and children. I'd go after everyone you ever loved or cared about. After that, when you have nothing else to live for...then I will come for you."

Terry's expression of fright brought a smirk to Atlas. It was always nice to see Strix handle interrogation. 

"Am I clear?" said Strix, his tone changing to low drawl. He wasn't smiling anymore.

It was at that moment that Terry had almost given in, but when the shape of a figure ran past outside the window, Terry smiled. He was here.

"I don't know where the irregulars are." said Terry, crossing his arms once more.

"Pardon?" said Strix. He hadn't anticipated this.

"I don't know. They're gone. I mean, they were hiding in my cellar, but now they're gone."

Strix had had enough. It was taking too long. Strix rose from his seat.

"Mr. Terry-"

The window beside Strix shattered, followed by Strix collapsing to the ground. As soon as the bullet had entered the room, Adam Terry ran towards the back door. Atlas removed his pistol and fired towards Terry, but he had already escaped. 

"Damn it!" Atlas exclaimed, slamming himself against the wall. 

Strix grunted as he rolled under the window, away from the sniper's view. 

"Where is he?" Atlas spoke.

"Sniper's gone. A shot like that was to warn us, not to kill." Strix muttered. 

His removed the splattered bullet from his protected chest.

"I can see why everyone likes this coat now." Strix groaned as he sat up.

Atlas shook his head, and activated his earpiece, "All units, I want a sweep of every building in a 2 mile radius around Trent Street."

As Atlas spit more orders to his troops, Strix stood up, taking the bullet with him. He lifted it to his eye level, turning and twisting the bullet as he observed it. It was a .577 caliber, a particular ammunition that not many people used nowadays. 

"That a .577?" asked Atlas. Strix placed it in Atlas' hand, allowing him to observe it.

"I thought production for this ammunition line stopped." Atlas murmured.

"It did. Doesn't mean it can't resume," Strix snatched his pistol from the table, placing it back into his holster. "Even then, the .577 doesn't fit with any modern weaponry. Whoever fired that shot is using a very old rifle."

"And they know how to bring a man down without killing them." Atlas added.

"Well hey, let's see if the Overseers can identify what gun was used." said Strix. He already had a cigarette in his mouth, and was busy lighting it.

"Alright, cancer-teapot, let's go. My team will take care of the house." said Atlas as he walked to the front door.

Strix pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaling a long whisp of smoke. He walked past the Vindicator team barging in, watching them before leaving the house himself.


"This...this is a customized rifle."

Strix stood staring at the Overseer Forensics member. Strix was surprised that anyone as young as the woman would make it to the division. If she was here, the Overseers must be stacked with the brilliant minds of the century.

"A Martini-Henry 'Sporter'. Lever-action. It's from London, back before the...well, incident. You are right, it is indeed a .577 caliber round. You said that you heard no gunshot?" the woman inquired.

"Yes, I heard nothing, but hold on. How do you know what gun fired this?" said Strix, motioning to the bullet. 

"Well, I'd tell you, Arch Vindicator, but that'd be exposing the Overseers. And even though we work under the same organization, it doesn't mean we are in the same division, and it certainly doesn't mean that we are friends." the woman smiled.

"...Quite right." Strix muttered. 

"Anyways," the woman continued. "If you heard no shot, obviously it was suppressed. Although, I do know that the Sporter rifle is very difficult to fire without a scope, and it is very difficult to fire in itself. So in conclusion.."

She took a breath.

"You have a professional sniper on your hands. Good day."

Strix didn't move from his position. Instead, he crossed his arms.

The woman blinked, "I said 'Good day'. I am rather busy and I need to place this bullet in storage. So, if you don't mind, scurry along." She made a shoo-ing motion with her hands.

Strix took a deep breath.


"Strix, you have to cooperate with the Overseers."

Strix crossed his arms, glaring at Aclimus across the desk. Aclimus sighed, and rose from his chair. He walked towards the glass wall of his office, and stared out at the busy activities below. 

"I brought you in because you could bring perspective and something great to Aedepex," Aclimus turned to Strix. "And I did make the right choice. We've made more progress than I could have imagined. Than the Directors could have imagined."

Strix scoffed, "I could care less about the head of Aedepex's satisfaction. You brought me in. I expect respect. I give none if I receive none." 

Aclimus rubbed his chin, thinking. He turned his attention back towards the view, and spoke: "You're right. I'll speak with the Overseers, but you make this stop."

He turned and walked toward Strix. Strix narrowed his eyes, "What, me demanding what I want?"

"No. The irregulars." Aclimus took a deep breath.

"We're going to war. Well, we're going to declare it," Aclimus rubbed the back of his head. "It is long past time. Oasis will be brought down. Directors have given us the go."

Strix nodded, "Do we have any allies?"

"Well, we have the entire Federation," Aclimus laughed. "What we're going to do, however, is dismantle Oasis from within. You and I both know the minds behind Oasis."

"Right.." Strix said with an unsure tone, turning and beginning to walk out of the office.

"Oh, come on Strix. It's over for them!" Aclimus smiled.

Strix opened the door and faced Aclimus, "Of that, you can't be sure."


Strix stared at the civilian jeeps and trucks that were parked in the New Olympian Army hangar. Soldiers were yelling and running about, often transporting weaponry and equipment into the trucks.

"Sad we can't use any of our 'high-tech' material." Atlas' voice spoke with a sigh.

"If we don't want to get caught, we have to blend in," Strix said. "Hundreds of irregulars and supporters are trying to get into Oasis to seek refuge."

"Not for looonng.." Atlas said in a amusing tone.

"Yes," Strix smiled. "However, we do get to keep our uniforms. Border of Defense won't be able to detect them."

"Oh thank god," Atlas muttered, climbing into a jeep. "This'll be even more fun then."


Strix's hand continuously reached for his APP-13 pistol. He was having second thoughts about this sudden invasion. Having witnessed first hand what irregulars like Sinis, Lucas, Obsidian, and the whole club could do. Of course, many in the convoy did too, yet they were confident about their mission. 

"Sir, take a look out the window," The driver said. "There's no other vehicle in sight..."

Strix shook Atlas awake from his light slumber, and both of them stared out their windows. Indeed, there were no other cars besides their own set of trucks and jeeps.

Strix turned to Atlas, who was already contacting Aclimus of the mysteriously empty highway. Ahead was the shining city of Oasis, and Sinisadel could be clearly seen, gleaming with the light of the sun.

Suddenly, the reflection of the light on the Sinisadel windows wavered slightly. Strix blinked and stared for a bit longer before leaning back in his seat. His eyes never failed him, as he was always the most watchful and quickest at catching even the slightest detail in the Owls.

Strix lowered down the window, and leaned towards the opening. He shut his eyes and drowned out the engines of the convoy, the crackling of dust beneath the jeep's wheels, and the sharp wind that cut along the swift vehicles. There was small, high-pitched whirring sound above all the distracting noise that resided near Strix.

Strix's eyes flashed open and he leaned forward, yelling: "PULL THE CAR OVER. NOW!"

Bullets rained from the sky, seemingly attacking the convoy at all sides. As soon as the shooting began, Strix grabbed Atlas and ripped open the car door. He and Atlas jumped out, slamming hard against the asphalt at a painfully quick speed. As soon as they had jumped out, their jeep was riddled with bullets. The driver lost control, and slammed into a highway sign. The entire convoy stopped, and soldiers began to pour out, screaming on the whereabouts of their attacker.

Strix grunted as he slowly pushed himself up. He lifted his head and gazed about the sky. Since when did he have turrets...?

Once more, the invisible guns began firing, this time aiming specifically at the trucks.

Strix turned to a squad of soldiers taking cover behind a jeep, and he yelled: "YOU THREE! SET AN EMP KIT!"

With no hesitation, one of the soldiers removed a mechanical device from his person, and threw it onto the ground. The EMP device gave a loud hissing sound, before bursting its pulse throughout the area.

Strix turned his eyes toward the sky, and began to see the shape of a black jet take form. The New Olympian soldiers yelled and fired their guns at the jet, which was coming back for a second volley of fire. Atlas had gotten up and ran towards another jeep to take cover. Strix followed him, sliding two of his pistols from his holsters. 

"EVERYONE DOWN!" Atlas shouted.

However, the jet's turrets never fired. Instead, a bay door opened below the jet, and three figures fell through, slamming onto a truck and immediately attacking the soldiers around it.

Strix had not seen, but heard the commotion, and proceeded to run towards the truck. Suddenly, flames erupted around the entire convoy, and there was the sound of a plasma rifle firing in the distance. Strix's eyes darted around, trying to pinpoint its owner. Behind him, gunshots suddenly filled the air. Strix gritted his teeth and began running back. As he ran past a destroyed jeep, he slid to a stop. He turned, and quickly knelt to observe the corpse of a young soldier. A long gash was running down his face, and several more were spotted all around his chest. 

"No...can't be," Strix was appalled. "He wouldn't."

Strix's anger grew higher than the flames, and he continued down towards his jeep. As soon as he approached the jeep, a soldier was thrown back against the side of the jeep, and Strix could blatantly see the fear in his eyes as a looming figure raised its curved blades and slashed him until his screaming had ceased. Strix raised his pistols, aiming them towards the tall figure. 

As if sensing Strix's presence, the figure turned round, and Strix's hands quivered. The owl-like figure began to walk towards Strix, the mask retracting back into its dark armor. The figure's hands gripped the bloody blades firmly and stopped a few meters away from Strix.

Lucas Ragen stood tall and terrifying. His lips formed a half-cocked smile, and he began to laugh. 

"Oh...I should have figured you'd be part of this, Strix," Lucas spoke in his rumbling monotone. "I didn't think you'd be this stupid. Leave the Owls. Leave Oasis....And then join people who resent people like you?" 

Strix didn't respond to Lucas but continued to aim his pistols at Lucas. His hands had stopped shaking, and his expression was of nothing but cold and relaxed. His aim moved towards Lucas' unprotected head. Before he could fire, a battle-like cry suddenly rose behind Lucas.

Lucas growled and turned around, reaching for his sickles. However, a volley of bullets slammed against his armored chest before he could do so. Atlas was running towards Lucas, continuously firing his assault rifle. When he ran out of ammunition, Atlas threw the rifle onto the ground and slid his pistol from his leg holster in one smooth motion. He continued to fire, pushing Lucas back. Lucas' mask had quickly formed over his face, and was now embracing against the lethal headshots that Atlas was renowned for. Without a single bit of hesitation, Strix also began to fire at Lucas, who was now caught in the middle. 

Atlas threw down his empty pistol and jumped, using his momentum to airkick Lucas. Instead, his leg was caught by Lucas' strong hands, and he was thrown onto the ground. Practically knocking Atlas unconscious, Lucas focused on Strix, and began throwing sickles at him. Strix slid beneath a truck and began calling for reinforcements. He was cut short, however, when a stream of fire slammed into him, throwing him back a good few yards. 

His suit, also designed with flameproof capabilities, had prevented Strix from burning to a crisp. He quickly recuperated and picked himself up, running cover from cover to avoid taking another fire blast. Before he could make it to the next cover, a plasma rifle was fired, and its thick laser tore through Strix's gut, causing him to yell out in pain. He fell down, grabbing his side as he backed up against the wreckage of a truck. He waved his pistol about, aiming at his attacker. 

"I would have shot you through the head if it wasn't for Mr. Firecunt." 

Strix turned toward the voice, and watched as an even taller figure slowly settled onto the ground. Her rocket boots switched off, the ground thudding as soon as her boots hit the ground. 

Obsidian stood clad in her symbiotic armor, which was moving about, healing itself from the firefight before. Her clear eyepiece flashed with information, obviously reading Strix's signatures. The sun emphasized her yellow, cat-like eyes, and they followed every single bit of Strix's movement. Her dark brown hair was tied up in a ponytail, showing her elf-like ears. In her hand was a fire-ready Plasma Kalashiknov, and it was now being aimed at Strix.

"I'd love to kill you right now," Obi growled. "And honestly, I am a hundred percent sure I am going to right now. My husband would have no problem with it. Not anymore." 

Strix had not lowered his pistol, and more focused on keeping himself conscious than Obsidian's words.


Obsidian didn't turn, and kept her Kalashiknov aimed at Strix. It was a while before any sound or movement was made.

Finally, she began to walk back, keeping her gun aimed at Strix.

"He's about to pass out anyways," Obsidian growled.

A gloved hand fell onto her rifle, and pushed it down. Sinis glared at Obsidian, who in turn, glared down at Sinis. Immediately breaking eye contact, Sinis turned to Sinis and snapped his fingers. The gun in Strix's hand caught on fire, causing him to release the now smoldering hunk of flaming metal.

"We'll take him back," Sinis lowered his hand. "I heard him calling for reinforcements. Best we get back anyhow." 

Obsidian slid her Kalashiknov onto her back, and walked toward Strix to pick him up. Strix didn't say anything, and he was attempting to crawl away from the only one who scared him. Obsidian growled in an annoyed tone. Black claws retracted from her armor, and she stopped Strix from crawling by embedding her claws into his calf. Strix screamed, but he was soon cut off when Obsidian's other hand enclosed into a fist and began punching his face. 

She didn't stop until Strix was completely unconscious. She stood up straight and dragged Strix toward Lucas' jet, her claws still embedded in his leg.


Upon seeing Lucas' jet take off, a bleeding Atlas laid back against his cover. He panted heavily and reached for his earpiece.

"Arch Vindicator Strix has been captured. The invasion will go as planned, and hopefully, the navy is prepared to use their newest missiles."

"Copy that, Arch Vindicator Atlas. What is the status of the convoy?" Aclimus' voice slipped through the earpiece.

"Heavy casualties," Atlas looked about him. "I've been wounded and have a few broken bones. Other than that, I have no further knowledge whether anyone else is alive or not."

"Copy. Hang in there, I'm sending reinforcements." Aclimus said.

"No, sir. I think.." Atlas sighed. "I think we should send in Celador."

Aclimus was silent, but soon responded: "Is there a particular reason why this is necessary?"

"The irregulars have.." Atlas grunted as he pushed himself up. "Upped their game. They've upgraded heavily, with new weaponry and equipment. We'll need all the help we can get, beside the entirety of New Olympia."



"Ten minutes. They're on their way."

Atlas sighed and switched his earpiece off. He turned towards the city of Oasis, and leaned against the wreckage. 

"Oh..." he smiled. "This city is going to burn."
The Business of War
I am not too fond of this entry, since I've been constantly putting it off whenever I have the time to do it. I apologize for it, and I plan to change up some writing styles in the future. 

Anyways, there is going to be a new character introduced, but not too soon. The character is yet to come, toward the middle of the war between NO and Oasis. 

 "All the world’s a stage,
        And all the men and women merely players;
        They have their exits and their entrances,
        And one man in his time plays many parts,                       
       His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
        Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
        And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
        And shining morning face, creeping like snail
        Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,  
      Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
        Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
        Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
        Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
        Seeking the bubble reputation
      Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
        In fair round belly with good capon lined,
        With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, 
        Full of wise saws and modern instances;
        And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
      Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
        With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
        His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
        For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
        Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
      And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
        That ends this strange eventful history,
        Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
        Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

                  - Jacques, As You Like It (written by William Shakespeare)

    There was a stillness in the sharp wind that he didn't like. Then again, he didn't like many things. He didn't like the way his mailman delivered the Costco sale pamphlet that he should have unsubscribed long ago. He didn't like the way his elbow cracked every so often. He didn't like the way the traffic moved below him. He didn't like the way the contractors and engineers built the building he stood upon. 

    It just wasn't high enough, but it'll have to do.

    He leaned back from the edge, and cleared his throat. He wished the edge of the building had no railings whatsoever. He'd have to take another step in order to...well, to just fall.

    How ironic. Another step up before he'd fall all the way down.

        "Look, it's a perfect summary of your life."

    He could hear the voice sweep through his mind, with numerous amounts of laughter tailing behind the echoing murmur. Yes, Riley would have said that.
    He placed his wrinkly hands onto the chill, rusting railing. Were those his hands? He didn't recognize them. Now, he wished there was someone here he could ask: "Are these your hands? Surely, they are not mine." They shook with frailness, and no matter how much he attempted to hide the trembling fingers, his hands still shook furiously. He was old. His once sturdy hands were now reduced to small, rough hands that he did not wish to possess. He lifted one hand up to his hair, and pulled a lock of hair down his forehead until he was able to barely see it. Grey. He'd have to blame the stress and worry throughout his life. Practically the entirety of his hair was grey or white, and he hated it. He lowered his hand.

    He sighed and looked down at his feet. He really was about to do it, wasn't he? Were his feet working? Testing, one, two, three. Testing. They worked fine. As a result, he lifted one foot, attempting to heave it over the railing. He grunted and inhaled, eventually placing his feet over and onto the small ledge that only gave support to the heels of his feet. He gripped the railing even tighter as he lifted his other leg over, eventually passing the metal barrier. He stood up straight, cringing a bit as the soles of his shoes scraped against the stone ledge. 

    Somehow, being right on the edge of the roof was much more different than being a few inches away from the edge. The traffic below bellowed with even louder noises. He almost wanted to hold his hands up to his ears and cover them, but he'd fall. He didn't want to fall just yet. He wanted to think for a little bit first, at least, until someone spots him and contacts the police and fire department.

    Now that he actually faced the Step From Death, he couldn't think of anything. He regretted many things; that he knew. Did he want to phone anyone? Leave a note? Perhaps rethink this situation? 

        "Listen to me, baby, don't do this. Think about it."

    Once again, the voice of concern poured through his ears, and eventually spread through his entire body. His aged heart felt a bit warmer, but was instantly replaced with a pang of tingling sensation in his chest. Old memories. They'd always want to make him break down and cry. 

    He shut his eyes, and drowned out the voice. He thought to himself: "Alright. I'm going to do it. Right now. No stopping myself."

    He took the deepest breath he could take in his donated lungs. He lowered his head until he faced death. The noise was of no bother to him anymore. He wanted to walk forward, but he was glued to the ledge. Why was he paralyzed? Was he afraid? 

    He closed his eyes once more, and tried to will himself to move forward. He remembered seeing brilliant artwork on the park. The artist had painted the ground similarly to the image he faced. He remembered standing upon the dried masterpiece, and looking down the same way he did here. He remembered walking off the artwork, half-scared that he'd actually fall.

        "Just imagine yourself walking off of that art piece..." He muttered to himself.

    He took several more deep breaths. 

    The air was crisp and silent.

    He felt many eyes on him, and he wanted the entire world to watch him. Some would cheer. Some would boo.


    And so he did.
The Seven Ages of Man
"The Seven Ages of Man" is a series of seven stories regarding the life of the main character. Excluding this intro and perhaps the final conclusion, the seven stories will depict the man's life according to a monologue within William Shakespeare's play: As You Like It.

This is an independent project, with no relations to the Wasteland Chronicles. I will continue working on the Unit Classified series with my partner while writing several more stories for WC.


Unit Classified
Region: Coast of the Gulf Of California, New Olympia.
Faction: Special Situations Response Detachment Alpha.
Date: February 19, 2059
Co-Authored with: HomestuckIsShit

Day 1

    “Hello, my name is Lieutenant Raymond Atlas, New Olympian Navy, 33rd Underwater Demolition Brigade. I’m here for the selections.”

    An average looking man of tan complexion and fit physique carrying a load of heavy-looking duffel bags and wearing a backpack filled with clothes and supplies stood in front of a man, who wore his hair long and dressed in unpatched fatigues, seated at a desk in a drab white concrete room.

    A month ago Raymond received a letter telling him that he would be selected for a new kind of first-tier special forces group that was addressed as “Special Situations Response Detachment Alpha”. After he signed the contract he spent the next month going through physical and psychological testing from shrinks and doctors of all sorts. He’d heard that only a few people who signed the contract made it through the physical and even fewer through the psych test.

    “Alright, check for your name on the sign-in sheet and head outside; training begins at 1700 hours.”

    Raymond’s eyes scoured the list for his name, wrote down his signature on the dotted line and proceeded through a door on the upper left side of the room. Outside was a small-dirt floored courtyard that was lined with grey concrete buildings with signs identifying them as barracks for separate squadrons over the metal doors to the Northwest.  A notice board sat in  the center of the sun-baked dirt courtyard. On the porches of the barracks sat people in unmarked fatigues smoking and drinking on duty and wearing civilian haircuts. An older looking man, who looked of asian descent, was standing by them, probably a CO, and didn’t even chastise them. In fact he was holding a beer bottle too. Already Raymond was perplexed, this couldn’t be the real military. Maybe this was all a big joke?

    First priority was checking out the notice board. It simply said:

    “Boots, Fatigues, Soft cover and 120 lb pack. Report to track at 1700.”

    “Simple enough” thought Raymond

    After checking the notice board Raymond decided to approach the people on the porch and see exactly what was happening. His good pair of boots scraped across the dusty path towards the concrete barracks, labelled A squadron.

    “Hello, Lieutenant Raymond Atlas, New Olympian Navy, 33rd Underwater Demolition Brigade” He said, saluting the man that looked like a CO.

    “Holy shit, he really is from the Navy.” The old one said, taking a swig of beer.

    “Listen kid cut the formalities, you’re gonna wear me out,” he added, smiling, “I’m General Augo, welcome to SSRD-A tryouts.”

    Raymond was stunned, and assumed the more casual at ease position.

    “You’re General Augo Kalaat?”

    “Did someone say I wasn’t?” He remarked, taking a cigarette that was passed to him He took a puff before passing it over to another man in unmarked fatigues.

    “No sir, it’s just that this place seems a little bit more…” Raymond tried to think of the right word to say without offending Augo.

    “Casual than I’m used to, sir.” He finally said.

    “Boy, we’re all already trained killers here, just prove that you meet our requirements and you can be with us. No need to stress out too much about formalities. Sit down, have a beer. Just don’t get drunk before the course. After is fine though.”

    The other unidentified soldiers let out a light chuckle, some of them clinking their beer bottles to one another.

    “You a lightweight?”

    “Yes sir.” Raymond said frankly.

    “I like this applicant already” Augo said turning to the training cadre, each of them giving a smirk

    “He’s truthful.”

    “Shit bro, don’t give him any booze!” One of them said, snickering at his own comment.

    “General, If you don’t mind me asking… Why don’t your fatigues have tabs on them?” Raymond asked, remaining at ease and trying to be as polite as possible. After all there is no point in failing now due to impoliteness if that was even a way to be failed.

    “Don’t need ‘em.” Augo replied curtly. Raymond decided not to ask any further on that topic.

    “Lieutenant, go meet with the other trainees, I bet they are dying to see the radiation sponge.” One of the training cadre said, a black woman wearing a baseball cap over her bald head with some pre-war sports team’s logo on it.

    “Corporal Ambrose is right, you’re B Squadron, Barracks 2, so go a few barracks down and meet with your crew, and make nice. Have a good one.” Augo said, and then the other members of the training cadre said almost in unison “Have a good one” and went back to their conversation.

    “Have a good one” must’ve been a local term. Raymond imagined that one of the people involved in creating SSRD-A must have said that a lot.

    Raymond met with his Squadron in his barracks. Everybody in it was busy with something, whether it be talking, smoking, or cleaning their rifles.

    “Oh hey, those cammies Radiation Sponge issue?” One of them said. He was wearing plain olive fatigues, Army issue. His tab read that he was from the Army 77th Armored Cavalry Division.

    His name was Isaac Jarrett.

    Raised in the suburbs of New Emporea, Isaac Jarrett grew up to be a humorous and a little insane individual. When he was barely into his adolescent years, Isaac proved to his friends that he was the bravest of them all, by entering the sewer system and drinking several cups of fetid sewer water. His exhausted parents had enough of his screwing around, and enrolled him into the Army 77th Armored Cavalry Division. After several months of training, Isaac was deployed to Guantanamo, where the rebel group True Cuban State had overthrew the collapsing government. Earning a valor medal for his outstanding conduct on the field as a demolitions expert, Isaac Jarrett was the sole survivor of his brigade.

    Raymond knew none of this. All he knew was that some smarmy-looking Bullet Sponge was asking him a question.

“Navy issue. Underwater Demolition Brigade to be exact.” Raymond calmly said, taking a seat on one of the bunks beside the door.

    “Well, aren’t you special. Got any interesting mutations yet?”

    “None that I know of.”

    “Did you check?”

    “I don’t know, maybe you should check for me.” Raymond replied, smirking.

    “So did you guys see General Augo at A squadron’s barracks? He’s sitting on the porch drinking on duty with the other Cadres.” Raymond asked, pushing a new subject onto the table.

    “Shit, I did man, Who said he could do that?”

    “Probably Madame Arch Senator Ochoe or some bullshit.” One of the trainees in blue Naval cammies said. The Navy fatigues seemed grouped in that area, so Raymond headed to the side of the barracks that man was in as he saw that a lot of the Squadron Barracks seemed to segregate themselves by branch, with no two colors of fatigue mixing into one section of the barracks the other branches lived in.

    Raymond and the other trainees conversed until 1700 arrived. When it was time to go, each trainee went to the notice board. In front of it stood the training cadre and a scale, as well as a distinctly large pile of rocks and debris.

    “Each of you are to fill your backpacks until they weigh exactly 120 pounds, no more no less.” Corporal Ambrose stated clearly as she paced in front of the trainees.

    “You will then run for 4 miles, and at each mile marker, you will speak with one of us. We will be along the track marked with green chemlights. You will report in with your name and number and return to the track”

    “To those of you who wish to drop out, you will approach one of the training cadre and say ‘I voluntarily withdrawal’. No questions will be asked after that point and you will be returned to your duty station. The time limit is 2 minutes. Am I clear?”

    Isaac’s hand shot up into the air. He smirked as Corporal Ambrose nodded in his direction.

    “Will there be water stations for us marathon runners?” He lowered his hand.

    Immediately Ambrose marched over to Isaac, and all the blood instantly retreated from Isaac’s face.

    “What is your name?!” Ambrose shouted a mere inch from Isaac’s face

    “Corporal Isaac Jarrett, m’am! Army 77th Armored Cavalry Division.” Isaac did not dare blink.

    “Did I fucking ask for your division, you pussy?!”

    “No, ma’am!”

    “If I see your hand shoot up one more time during the next week I will smash it with a fucking hammer, aye aye?”

    “Aye, aye, ma’am!”

    “Now shut up and fill your backpack. You get an extra ten pounds.”

“Yes ma’am!”

    And so each trainee filled their pack with the rocks until each pack weighed 120 pounds, except for Isaac, who now had the burden of 130 pounds.

    As she walked away, Ambrose quietly thought to herself how this asshole got into SSRD-A applications in the first place.

    Raymond heaved the backpack onto his shoulders with a grunt, and watched Isaac struggle with his heavier backpack.

    Watching the Cadre crowd around Isaac as he hefted the backpack onto his back was like watching a swarm of hornets sting a man to death, it was horrifying to watch but in the end it must’ve been because the person had been dumb enough to beat the hive.

    Each of the two hundred trainees proceeded onto the dirt pathed track that lead through an open field of blistering, desert sun. Each trainee carried a canteen of water, and wore a Cadre-issued headscarf, which covered their head and back of the neck.

    As soon as all the trainees were ready, one of the Cadre fired his pistol into the air on the count of three, and each trainee took off, each of them at a hastened walk, but some of the more ambitious ones took off in a run. Augo was beside the track, running unburdened with them and keeping track of everyone.

    At the first mile Raymond saw many voluntarily withdrawal, while others passed out from exhaustion. But a few, including him, kept going. In fact, Raymond was going faster now.

    The cadre waited at the end of the track with water cans. Augo was shouting and encouraging people to sing as they ran, running back and forth between recruits, and screaming at people falling behind, namely the ones at a hastened walking pace. Judging from the sweat on his face, it was obvious he was working twice as hard as the trainees. Raymond was surprised Augo didn’t die from exhaustion, and was even more surprised when he stopped after having run 4 miles straight.

    After they ran the track, the remaining 189 applicants took a quick shower and proceeded to put their newly issued, tabless cammies on. The cammies did not change the situation in the barracks, for everything was segregated by branch, and the same structure was applied in the mess hall, where tables would be full of Navy or Army, with no intermixing.

    After chow, each trainee dutifully reported back to the notice board. it now read in white chalk:

    “Front face, Firing range, 0500 tomorrow: Fatigues, boots, Soft cover, Rifle, Sidearm.”

    Again, simple enough.

    On-base regulation was strange here. More responsibility was placed in the trainees’ hands. The cadre said that they were allowed to leave the base after training, and go to the base club. Raymond expected many people to end up hungover the next day.

Day 2

    The next morning, the trainees rose from their bunks and prepared themselves in the proper attire and equipment. Hungover or not, each trainee made their way to the firing range, where the Cadre was already waiting. Augo stood in front of the firing range, a long concrete building with only small windows.

    “Each of you will be firing your standard issue rifles at these targets at various ranges. At 90 meters you are expected to have an accuracy of 100 percent without aiming. At 100 meters, you will be expected to have accuracy of 90 percent without aiming. You will then practice firing from various positions without aiming, and firing while moving without aiming. By the end of this course, you are expected to have complete accuracy without using your sights.”

    He continued on, “After this course you will be placed on a moving platform on the range outside and fire on static targets and are expected to have at least 80 percent accuracy, without using your sights.”

    “Any questions that are not from Isaac?” Augo asked.

    Isaac gritted his teeth and continued to stare straight ahead. No hand rose up this time, and as Augo scanned the trainees, he continued:

    “The weapon you will be given is a reproduction model of the standard issue rifle from the Pre-War United States Marine Corps. It has been chosen due to its durability and accuracy, and is referred to by our military as the Standard Infantry Rifle Model 22. You will possess the ability to use this weapon on reflex, and know this weapon as well as you know your own body. Now, trainees, begin the course.”

    Each trainee took a booth at the range and loaded their rifles and began taking shots at the targets as they moved back and forth from their hips. Raymond’s grouping was poor at first, as were the other trainees’. Of course, Augo was sure to remind them of this vigorously.

    “Why are you here if you can’t even hit a target?!” he shouted, usually into the ears of trainees.

    Nevertheless, Raymond continued until his grouping improved. It was slow and uncomfortable to not use his sights, but with each shot, his hands steadied and began firing monotonously at the target.

    Eventually the bangs of gunshots ceased as Augo screamed, “Clear the range! Stow your guns, take out the magazines, and place the rifle on the counter in front of you!”

    Instantly, the recruits did what they were ordered to, and were instructed to step aside so Augo and the Cadre could analyze the shots.

“Raymond, good grouping, keep practicing.” One of the Cadre said as she looked upon the bullet hole covered target paper.

    “Yes ma’am.”

    Bad shots were reprimanded, and told to leave the course immediately. There was no question that the five trainees were being failed. Again to Raymond’s surprise, Isaac was given an average rating, and each trainee was placed in groups depending upon their grouping. Raymond was placed in the Above Average group. Afterwards, Raymond and his group of 50 were sent to the next course, and the others were sent to continue practicing on stationary targets.

    The next course was in a different room, this time with moving targets. Raymond did equally well, and moved on to the next course.

    A small and fenced-off makeshift town had been set up Northwest of the courtyard. After the trainees were led inside, Augo stood in front of them again.

“All of you will now practice firing from different positions, such as climbing up a wall, laying on your side, and rappelling down the side of the building while you fire at the targets.”

    In the end, Raymond was placed in the “Average” group this time, and his group was told to practice on this course whenever they had spare time to increase their marksmanship ability. As the day went on, the courses got more and more demanding, and the accuracy percentages fluctuated. Fewer and fewer people were passing and more were voluntarily withdrawing. It was down to thirty-five trainees in Raymond’s course group.

When the day was done, only 178 trainees remained out of the 200.
Unit Classified Part 1
This is the first entry of a new series I am writing and collaborating with :iconhomestuckisshit: (nuclearrainboII)

The setting of the series will be based during the times after the Arch Senator Archer, and before the existence of Aedepex. Mainly focusing around the perspective of the character Raymond Atlas, we will be writing and uploading more entries in the future.


Unit Classified
Region: Coast of the Gulf Of California, New Olympia.
Faction: Special Situations Response Detachment Alpha.
Date: March 11th, 2059
Co-Authored with: HomestuckIsShit

Day 7: Hell Week.

    Every day was hell week. The trainees were becoming used to a form of living that they had never known existed. It had been twenty days of insanity that only intensified by the hour and to survive each applicant had to become accustomed to insanity. The PT sessions had grown more intense after Day 2, and 160 more of the trainees had dropped out due to the sheer ferocity of the Cadre and their regimen. It became clear that if trainees did not learn to tune out physical discomfort they would not make the cut.

    So far they had made them run 4 miles each day with a 120 pound pack, do pushups in the mud, and do any form of work in the most brutal conditions the Cadre could think of, including having live ammunition fired near them, climbing ten story walls in full combat gear and wearing seventy-five pound packs whilst having blanks fired below them and from above them. If they weren’t covered in dirt by the end of the PT then the Cadre made sure to dump dirt on them from head to toe. No trainee was allowed to be clean. Even if they were allowed to clean off, the Cadre had shut off the hot water in the showers. Everything was made torturous down to the psyche evaluations they did each day.

    This didn’t even cover the drills. Each day at least one live fire drill happened. They had learned to shoot while riding helicopters, while driving, and a myriad of other situations. Now they spent much of the day practicing in the Kill House or on the PT courses, nicknamed “Meat Grinder Valley” by the trainees.

    The Kill House held a sacred place in the hearts of the Cadre. It was a large hangar, and inside they constructed rooms for each trainee to go in as teams and clear. There were paper targets and other trainees being used as hostages while the other trainees used live ammunition to shoot the paper hostage takers in the room. No matter how quickly and efficiently each trainee cleared the course, the Cadre would still shout at them for not being good enough. Even though they were able to clear rooms while dazzler grenades were going off they were never good enough. No matter how many targets they could shoot in a half second, they were still not good enough. No matter what they were able to adapt to during a firefight, down to the Cadre throwing dazzler grenades and smoke grenades down on them from the scaffolds above the course, they were not good enough.

    Each day, from navigation exercises to scavenging exercises, was designed to retrain, break down, and destroy trainees.  

    Normally hell week should’ve passed at this point. At least they got to leave the base.

    Raymond hadn’t quit yet, but he could feel himself being pushed to his limits; his muscles were tired all the time, and he was sore all over. He had considered quitting before; the Cadre’s mind games were specifically designed to make sure he thought about it. He knew that he was too far in to quit now. It was a fight against himself.

    The Trainees were awoken at 0300 hours by the Cadre, who stormed into the barracks shouting and tossing things out of people’s trunks and throwing the mattresses off the bed frames. Today they were all wearing black balaclavas, identical clothes, sunglasses, gloves, and shemaghs. Raymond and the other trainees couldn’t figure out who they were, but they followed their orders nonetheless. They were told to report to the notice board as usual after the Cadre tore the room apart, leaving clothes and trunks strewn violently around the room as though a tornado had rolled through the barracks.

    “Someone from C squadron said we were gonna have a hell week.” One of the trainees -Raymond thought his name was Jeffrey Chan- said as they put the room back together. Raymond sure hoped that was a rumor; if this was just the standard tryouts, then the hell week would be impossible.

    “That’s bullshit, man. Well, good luck to you guys if it happens.” Raymond said to Jeffrey.

    Another one of the trainees - his name was Admiral Landon G. Lack - was helping his bunkmate, Benjamin Olein, lift the bunk bed from the ground. Benjamin was unfortunate to get up from bed late when the Cadre barged into their barracks. A member of the Cadre had kicked the bunk over while Benjamin was still getting up.

    “If anything, this is Hell week..” Landon grunted as he set another bunk bed in its place.

    “Well, if it is..” Jeffrey sighed. “We bloody well hope that no one will die during it.”

    “Nah, they wouldn’t do that.” Raymond shook his head, “If anything, someone’ll get a heart attack, or maybe dehydration.”

    “Yeah, well, we got Mr. Marathon-Man here.” Benjamin referred to Isaac, followed by the chuckles of the rest of the trainees in the barracks.

    Isaac silently continued to clean his own mess. He’d gotten the worst of it when the Cadre went on the chaos spree. They had torn up his pillow and ripped his blankets, stomped on all of his recently cleaned clothing with muddied boots, and took apart his gun. He couldn’t find some of the parts to his gun, for the Cadre members had thrown them across the room.

    “Hey, let’s let it off with that joke, guys.” Landon spoke, “Isaac’s getting hounded by the Cadre. We best be helping him instead of shitting around him.”

    Raymond nodded in agreement. Isaac had completely changed his attitude since the day Raymond met him. Once the witty, humorous one of the group, he was now the most silent and sullen.


    Raymond blinked, and turned to whoever had interrupted his thoughts.

    “Who’s this hottie?”

    Everyone, including Isaac, dropped whatever they were doing and hastened to Danny Webster, who was Isaac’s bunkmate. Danny was gazing at a picture of a smiling brunette-haired girl. As everyone crowded around him, Benjamin smirked and said:

    “Meet the future Mrs. Olein, boys.”

    “Bullshit, man. You? With this?” Danny snorted.

    Benjamin punched Danny on the shoulder. “Yeah, I ain’t kidding. After I get back, we’re getting married.”

    Landon smacked his hand on Benjamin’s back. “Damn, congratulations, Olein. Landed yourself a dream, that’s what.”

    “Might want to keep that hidden somewhere, Benjie.” Raymond stated, “You don’t want the Cadre ripping it up, or worse, yelling at it.”

    A light chuckle filled the room as the group dispersed, going back to cleaning up their things.

    “Hey, how about after training today we hit the bar? I need some alcohol in me after that goddamn log lifting.” Landon said as he began picking up his clothes.

    “Yeah, besides, we should celebrate this asshole’s engagement.” Danny punched Benjamin in the arm as payback.

    “Definitely.” Jeffrey sighed as he made his bed, “I think if we’ve survived this long, a lot of us will still be here after Hell Week.”

    That day they did extreme PT, a swim course in full gear, an obstacle course, a parachute course, and a boat course. Raymond heard his name shouted by the Cadre a lot today, and that was never a good thing; that meant tonight he would be sent in for psyche examinations. And then at 1900 the Cadre stood in front of the formation of Trainees. Nobody in the formation knew who was standing in front of them, for all they knew it could be some people outside the Cadre.

    “Gentlemen, today is where the real shit begins” The masked person at the center of the Cadre said.

    “Welcome to Hell Week, good luck.” he continued.

    Another member of the Cadre walked forwards and paced in front of the recruits silently and suddenly stopped once they were at the center of the formation. They then proceeded to stare directly into the eyes of each applicant for a full minute. Raymond froze and tried not to think about the masked person that seemed to be reading every single thought he’d ever had through his tired and bloodshot eyes.

    “We will end today with a 30 mile hike! Put your backpacks on and follow me to the beach!”  the Cadre member said.

    “Once we are finished you will report back to your barracks and bring your footlockers outside and set up camp in the courtyard. You will be provided with three blankets.”

    And so they performed the hike along the coast of the beach, and occasionally the instructors would order every trainee to run into the water, swim for a few yards, and then swim back, do a few pushups in the sand, and then cover themselves head to toe in sand.

    One of the Cadre must have noticed Raymond wasn’t fully sandy because as soon as they looked in his direction, they ordered him to get on his face in the sand, and then told every single trainee to walk over.

    “Do all of you see this man? He is not sandy! He should be sandy! You will all make him sandy! Get him sandy and get him sweaty right now! Start drilling him! He is your responsibility!”

    In half a second the entire applicant group was bearing down on, throwing sand on him and some trying to get it in his eyes, screaming at him and some even kicked him. All of this wasn’t much of a big deal to Raymond. What really got to him was his group. The members of his group were part of it. Benjamin had grabbed Raymond by the hair and thrown him back into the sand; Danny was yelling so close to Raymond that spit on his face was starting to feel normal; Jeffrey mentioned that his face wasn’t covered with much sand, and proceeded to shove sand on Raymond’s face until his mouth was filled with sand; and Landon was purposely pushing Raymond down with his foot. Whilst Raymond was facing all of these punishments while trying to do push-ups, Isaac pushed past the crowd. Seeing Isaac attempting to save him was a relief to Raymond, but it was nothing of the sort. Instead, Isaac grabbed Raymond, dragged him away from the trainees, and threw him back into the water. All the sand that Raymond “worked hard” to get on him had dispersed into the water.

    “Now, he has no sand on him!” Isaac screamed. The Cadre’s words were coming out of Isaac’s mouth.

Some of the trainees booed and jeered at Isaac. It took an extreme amount of work to have sand covering Raymond head to toe; and now they had to do it all over again.

Later that night, Raymond’s group slept next to each other under the cover of their boat. The Cadre had ordered the trainees to use what they had to provide a necessary resting area without the use of tents.

Raymond was sleeping on the farthest right of the group, and was facing the water, away from his comrades. The first thing was the smell of sweat, then as he was about to fall into slumber he received a tap on the back. At first, Raymond dismissed it. But then a voice followed:

“Hey, Ray. You awake?”

Raymond sighed and turned around, coming face to face with Landon. It was dark, but the moon’s reflection on the water provided some lighting under the boat.

“Yeah? What is it, Landon?”

“I just wanted to apologize on behalf of the group.” Landon stated, “That was some fucked up shit we did today. I hope you realize that no one in our group enjoyed that shit. We did what we were ordered.”

Raymond said nothing. He only listened.

“Anyways, I was thinking about how to make it up to you. I was saving up some rations of mine, but I think you need it more than ever after today. So you can have them.”

Raymond was a bit surprised. He always knew Landon G. Lack was a respectable man. He never knew him personally in the navy, but he had heard of his courageous expeditions into the irradiated waters. It always went without saying that what Landon says goes.

“That was some pretty fucked up shit the Cadre pulled.” Raymond finally replied.

“Yeah,” Landon scoffed, glad that his friend finally replied, “But anyway, you can have my rations.”

“Nah, man.” Raymond shook his head, “I have a feeling that we’re all going to need our own rations. I have a bad feeling about tomorrow.”

“You kidding, Ray?” Landon adjusted his position, “Everyday is a bad feeling.”

Day 16

    “Come on Isaac pick up your slack!” Raymond shouted resentfully as he and his other fellow sopping wet trainees hefted an inflatable rubber boat over their heads and lifted it towards the waters of the gulf. The boat was filled with ammo cans, which the Cadre had made a point of declaring that they made the boat weigh one hundred pounds and that none of them were strong enough to lift them because they were not good enough.

    Isaac was just finished getting slaughtered by the Cadre, who had caught him slacking off during the log lift and having his other teammates do the lifting for him. Benjamin and Raymond lifted the boat together along with the rest of his crew. As they did so, a masked Cadre member shouted in their faces.

    “You are all pathetic, why aren’t you able to lift this faster!?” they shouted as they punched Benjamin in the side.

    Benjamin buckled, but did not let go of the boat. An ammo can spilled off as the boat tipped.

    “Pick it up now! Pick it up now! Pick it up now! Why aren’t you picking that ammo can up right now!?” the Cadre member shouted a mere millimeter from Benjamin’s face.

Benjamin scrambled, and other trainees tried to pick up for their lost lifter. Then, Benjamin dutifully hefted the ammo can back inside the boat and went back to lifting.

    “First crew into the water within 2 minutes gets to rest for 2 minutes whilst standing with eyes closed beside a warm fire! The losers will do this again and then continue to PT!”

    “Come on guys, let’s get that fucking rest!” Landon said. Nobody disagreed; Raymond and his crew were PT’d hardest for missing a formation a few days back, causing them to lose their rest with the exception of one hour of sleep a day during the entirety of Hell Week.

    Every single crew was rushing as hard as possible to the coastline and Landon was shouting at the crew to push themselves further, motivating them for that precious resting time. As the highest ranking enlisted man Landon was pushed to pull the other trainees forward and encourage them and right now he was encouraging them so that they could rest for once. Rest was now a valuable commodity during Hell Week. Every team competed with each other in order to get rest time, and each member of the selections course would be willing to kill the other team if it meant rest time.

    Raymond was in the middle of the boat, so he bore less weight but tried to give it all he had. Raymond’s team had finished as the fastest group; and so, as they made their way to the fire, the other teams looked at them with envious glares as they continued onto the track. A single member of the Cadre stood near them, instructing them to visualize a warm bed as they all stood in formation by the fire with their eyes closed and ramrod straight.

    After their two minutes, the crew, known as Landon’s Lack now due to their persistence in the course, was directed to a new course that the others were still running. They could see flares and red smoke being popped off right beside the heads of the trainees. All the while the Cadre was running around firing live ammunition over the trainees. Even in Raymond’s division they never did this with live ammo.

Landon’s Lack was instructed to run the course with the other trainees, and to be careful because live ammunition was being used. Thankfully medical staff were on standby.

    Isaac and Raymond were crawling underneath barbed wire, their throats dry from inhaling too much smoke from the smoke grenades and their eyes sore from the Dazzlers. Nevertheless the two were at the front of the group. One of the Cadre fired a flare beside them, and Raymond saw it fly right over his head and then he heard a loud scream.

    The flare had landed on Isaac’s arm, burning it and leaving blistering and scorching. He lay there under the barbed wire, groaning and Raymond could see pained tears welling up in his bloodshot eyes. Without a thought, Raymond quickly crawled next to Isaac, and offered his hand to Isaac as he rolled over onto his back. The barbed wire was just high enough for him to lift Isaac onto him and shimmy on his back out of the barbed wire. Meanwhile more bullets were being fired over them and Isaac was still groaning in pain from the burns. After they made it through the barbed wire and lay in relative safety on the muddy ground, Isaac looked at Raymond.

    “I can’t do it!” Isaac shouted

    “You’ve already made it this far it’s useless to quit now!” Raymond shouted over the gunshot sounds as he rolled back over onto his stomach to crawl through the concrete pipe in front of them.

    “I- I can’t...too much.” Isaac panted, lying his head back as he shut his eyes.

    “I voluntarily withdrawal!” Isaac shouted over his panting.

    One of the Cadre signaled for the others to stop firing and rushed in to Isaac.

    “You wanna quit now you big baby?”

    “I’m injured! I have burns!”

    “Bullshit, you don’t look injured to me. Get back on the course!”

    “I can’t…” Isaac panted through his dry, smoked out throat as he held his burned arm.

    Without another word the Cadre member put Isaac in a fireman’s carry and carried him off. Raymond would never see him again. Landon’s Lack had lost another member and it wasn’t even the last half of selections. As he watched Isaac pass out on the Cadre member’s shoulders, Raymond wondered to himself: how many people would be left at the end, and when was the end?

    The rest of hell week was a blur to Raymond, every day was the most intense PT he had ever done with little to no respite afterwards. Whatever rest and sleep in the tiny shelters that were set up on the beach they got they had they earned with blood and sweat as the currency they used to pay for it. Only 100 people were left now.
Unit Classified Part 2
Part 2 of the Unit Classified series. 

This is the second-last part of the series. The next part is currently in the process of being written. 

Soul is freedom.
Love is power.
Hope is love.
Dreams are revolutions…

I am a person. People were made to be loved. Things were made to be used. The reason why the world is in chaos is because people are being used and things are being loved.

But I am me. Just because someone doesn't like who I am, doesn't mean I should sacrifice myself. Sometimes I think I want to disappear, but really, I just want to be found. In solitude, we are least alone. Maybe it's not always about trying to fix something that broke. Maybe it's about starting over and creating something better. But I was born with flaws. Who isn't? I'd like to see someone give me an honest and serious answer on that. Just be who you are around people. Speak the truth, even if your voice hurts.

Love is what makes you smile when you're tired. Love is when someone says your name, the way they say it, it makes you feel as if your name is safe in their mouth. Your heart belongs to someone you have yet to meet. Don't give up in love because there is always someone that loves you. Even if it's not the person you were hoping for. You are more important than you realize. You were born because you are going to be important to someone. You deserve to be with somebody that makes you happy, somebody who won't complicate your life and somebody who won't hurt you. But remember, when you say "I love you", it means that you're promising someone else's heart. Try to honor it.

The happiest people don't have the best of things; they make the best of things. I don't believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of feeling alive. Everybody wants happiness, no one wants pain. But you can't have a rainbow without a little rain. And pain makes people change. You need a reason to be sad, not a reason to be happy.

And in the endless pause, there came the sound of what it once was. The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper. We must try to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Exploration is the essence of the human spirit. Plunge boldly into the thick of life, and seize it where you will, it is always interesting. Energy and persistence allow you to conquer all things. I don't believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of feeling alive. Who dares nothing, need hope for nothing. Take every chance. Drop every fear. What is the point of being alive if you don't at least try to do something remarkable? What's stopping you?
                                                               That's right, nothing.

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Add a Comment:
ThatDudeChrom Featured By Owner Jan 3, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Still alive?
SeverMarec Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Can you RP sometime today?
FlickingFire Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hey we already made the chatroom. We're waiting on you.
SeverMarec Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
I'm getting on right now. I got on earlier, but no one was on?
FlickingFire Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Well we tend to be on when you're offline, and vice versa. We need to set up a schedule of some sort.
SeverMarec Featured By Owner Sep 27, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist…

Just started the Sev returning arc out of sheer boredom. Don't worry about that whole mutation thing I came up with, I'm scrapping that. Anyway, what do you think so far?
SeverMarec Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
On another note, what is the status of Oasis in the Chronicles lore? I plan on writing up some fresh entries, if there's no issue with you or the rest of the lot. Is the city still standing? Is Sev dead? o3o 
SeverMarec Featured By Owner Jun 27, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Is Chronicles still chugging along?
FlickingFire Featured By Owner Jun 28, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Yeah it still is somewhat. Only a few people keeping it up. How are you?
SeverMarec Featured By Owner Jun 28, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Decent. I sent Holmes (hehe) a note too. I started participating and creating some projects on Nation-States. Here's a current one:…

I figured the lot of us could start going on there, if you're up for it.
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