108th Combined Fleet Flagship, Imperial Frost Aircraft Carrier, FNS Kestrel
"Grand Admiral's Quarters" 

Grand Admiral Kuribayashi sighed as he read the recent reports from the frontlines while waiting for the reply from his Erinoran and Ryccian counterparts. The Grand Admiral appreciated the prompt Gianlucan reply to his invitation for a strategy meeting between coalition leaders to coordinate a general offensive. The Grand Admiral had heard reports from his daughter, the current foreign minister, of a plan to form a joint general staff office between Gi-Land and the Empire, allowing both militaries to improve their cooperation in joint operations. The Grand Admiral had hoped to replicate the Foreign Minister’s plan for the ad-hoc coalition, installing an Erinoran or Serevan who is loyal to Erinor as the “face” of the coalition. It was also his hope that a more integrated coalition would reign in some of Ryccia’s more brutal and aggressive tendencies, shifting the propaganda war to highlight the brutality of the Bruumans and their puppets the Bafuto Serevai militia.
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Sereva Island
Forward Artillery Outpost November

Major Kusanagi breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the familiar scream of Frost war planes followed by the distinct smell of napalm that drifted in from the west. She grinned as her battalion had finally earned some respite from the fierce fighting by being assigned to escort supplies from the Forward Operating Base to a Forward Artillery Outpost that was hastily established in light of the Bruuman Counteroffensive. Looking around the Outpost she noticed that the Artillery outpost was different from the other outposts. Standard Frost Artillery outposts had the artillery pieces in a shallow trench that was surrounded by a series of fox holes with the dirt collected into sandbags to form makeshift pillboxes. Instead, she was greeted by a complex network of trenches with the artillery pieces separated across the outpost to minimize the likelihood of being knocked out of commission by enemy fire. However, what caught her eye was the presence of a Frost S-90 SAM truck instead of the usual contingent of MANPADs so close to the frontlines. 'It's about damn time the higher ups recognized the Bruumans as a force to reckoned with' thought the Major as she approached the base commander's trench to discuss the transfer of supplies.

(This post was last modified: 01-25-2018, 12:48 PM by Imperial Frost Federation.)

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Epilogue

The roaring noise made Jones woke up suddenly. His hearth started beat faster and cold sweat dripped on his face. He breathed anxiously for a few second, while he regained awareness of the surrounding. He saw his room, revealed intermittently by the flashes of lightings coming from the window. He heard the ticking sound of the rain crashing on the glass and the loud boom of thunders. His muscles relaxed: he was in Bruuma, he was home. He was safe. Less than a week had passed since he had been finally back to his home in the rural hills near the Gator Mathuska river, the coffee-growing region of Bruuma.  After they left Sereva, he had to go through the screening process in New Orleansburg before they released him for his license. But he wasn’t enjoying his vacation: frail nerves forced him to spend most of the days home doing little to nothing, while nightmares marred his sleep.

He had it again, the one that was becoming recurrent: the moment they reached the Ryccian positions after the chemical bombardments. He could remember vividly every detail, every sensation, like he was there again. The heavy breathing through the gas mask, the blurred vision through the lens, the strength-draining temperature under the uniform. In the dream, he could almost feel the soil under his feet, as they cautiously advanced in the hellish landscape.  The worst part was always the unreal silence. He would have never thought before, but that silence had been more nerve-wrecking than the sonic shock of the constant bombardments. There were no voices, not even the chirping of birds, as they all laid dead on the ground along with the humans. Just the wind and the faint crumble of the ground under their boots.  And the bodies… blistered, burned statues forever locked in agony.

Trembling, Jones reached for the potion made for him by the local public bokor and chugged a huge sip. The taste was unpleasantly bitter, but he instantly felt better, the tension melting away from his body. “I’m alive, I made it” he whispered to himself “That’s the only thing that matter” He kept on, just thinking it. Too many of his friends and comrades did not have that luxury. He knew too well: he had seen them dying around him, some even in his arms, on a foreign land in a conflict they didn’t really understand. And not just that. Not even all those who made it had been safe. He was present a prisoner exchange, close enough to clearly see the faces of his comrades being released. Yet, when he watched the parade in Bayougrad in the only TV of the village he did not saw any of them like he would have expected. Actually, there were no prisoners at all in the parade. Maybe the voices were true, maybe they were being sent to camps…
He forced himself to stop the train of thought, rose up, opened the window and lit a cigarette. He gazed at the dark sea of coffee fields in front of him, covering the side of the hill, and listened to the sound of the rain.

“Tomorrow is another day” he reassured himself “Tomorrow will be better”.

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