Thursday, 24 December 2015

Saga III Chapter X - Not The Christmas Special You Were Looking For


The scene opens in Akihabara in Tokyo, Japan. A maid café, to be precise, decorated whimsically and staffed by young Japanese girls in French maid outfits. Out of place amongst the patron are the pale Scotsman Billy Wallace and his associate Sal Memeh-Porpington, the Hawaiian-slash-Englishman with a vibrant heritage. Sitting at a lone circular table, Sal is busy picking at an omelette decorated in ketchup with a cartoon bird and kanji, served with rice and a small salad. Sal grins, taking a mouthful of rice and chewing greedily.

Sal: Well, we’re here in Akihabara! May as well enjoy it!

Billy: So, Vince is here?

Sal [Shrugging]: He might be: All weeaboos end up in…..maid cafés!

Ominous music blares out. Billy reaches into his pocket, quickly checking his mobile phone.

Billy: Huh, Dad just sent me a text: Looks like him and Keenan are getting on well.

Sal: How well?

Billy: They’re drinking with the Irish in the Lamb and Flag.

Sal: I didn’t know your father was a Celtic fan.

Billy [Laughing]: He’s not, he’s just usually too drunk to care.

Sal: Well, that’s good to know!

Billy: Yeah, at least he’s not stuck in a maid café.

Sal: What the hell is wrong with you?!

Billy: I don’t like this.

Sal: Why? Being waited on by cute tiny Japanese women isn’t your thing?

Billy; I have the overwhelming urge to stab something. That and Vince clearly isn’t here.

Sal: Well….let’s just enjoy it!

Billy: We came here to find Vince and ruin his holiday. I have a feeling all we’re doing is treating you to a holiday.

Sal: Well, that’s a good thing, right?

Billy [Coldly]: No.

Sal: Just enjoy it.

Billy; No.

Sal: For me?

Billy: Well, when you put it like that………………..No.

Sal [Sighing]: Well, whatever, let me enjoy my Omurice in peace.

Billy: Omelette and rice: What the fuck? It’s something a drunk Scot would cook up.

Sal [Laughing]: As if Scots eat rice!

Billy; Get rid of the fucking rice and it’s basically the same!

Sal: But it’s cute here!

Billy [Coldly]: I want to murder you and everything in this room.

Sal [Chuckling]: I know what it is, Scot: Being from the Highlands, you’re used to dourness, depression, grey skies and a people so inhospitable that even the Romans, after conquering the known world, built a wall just so they wouldn’t have to deal with you. The slightest bit of cuteness or even happiness and you put up your internal defences! It’s quite sad, really.

Billy: Are you done playing armchair psychologist?

Sal: Yep.

Billy: Then shut the fuck up and eat yeh shite.

Sal sighs, continuing to eat his meal.

Sal [Quietly]: I just wish I could have an edifying conversation.

Billy: I wish you’d shut the fuck up.

Sal: Why can’t you just be nice?!

Billy [Growing impatient]: I could be if you weren’t a completely insufferable cunt!

Sal: Just enjoy it!

Billy: This. Isn’t. My. Idea. Of. Fun. Do you think I want to spend Christmas in Japan?!

Sal: KFC’s a big thing for Christmas in Japan.

Billy [Suddenly brightening]: So we can--

Sal: Most restaurants were booked in advance months ago.

Billy [Angrily]: MOTHERFUCKER!!!

Billy looks around before watching, somewhat bemused, as a maid makes the shape of a heart with her thumbs and forefingers over a patrons plate of food, doing a small dance before saying “Moe moe mune kyun!”

Billy: Moe moe mune kyun? Isn’t that the shit they made you say when you ordered that crap?

Sal: Yep.

Billy: What does it even mean?!

Sal: I dunno, I don’t speak Japanese. It was just cute.

Billy: Didn’t we come into a maid café that specialises in English language serving?

Sal: You’re Scottish, you have no real command of the English language.

Billy: I have enough!

Sal [Sighing and shaking his head]: Why are we stuck in this inane, pointless conversation? I’m just here to look at cute Japanese girls and eat Omurice.

Billy: I don’t even know why I came along.

Sal: To torment Vince—


Sal: Well, I would’ve thought that, of all places, he’d be here. Well, no loss.

Billy: I lost six hundred yen coming into this fucking place.

Sal: Well then, try and fucking enjoy it you goddamn cow anus.

Billy [Bluntly]: No.

Sal sighs, setting down his chopsticks onto his now-empty plate.

Sal: Well, that was a good meal, aside from the banal conversation.

Billy: For you it was.

Sal: I could stay here all day..

Billy: We're in this damned country for Christmas, isn't that good enough?

Sal: I'd like to stay here for Christmas--

Billy: You do that. I’ll find Vince myself, then.

Sal: What do you mean?

Billy spins around, grabbing Sal by the lapels of his suit and throwing forth a vicious headbutt, slamming his forehead into Sals before throwing him backwards and sending him toppling off over his chair, legs stuck in the air as he lays there.

Billy [Turning around and stomping off]: Yeh feckin’ wee cunt..


Over in London, Moe and Maurice remain cornered in their pie shop, which is now under attack by Vegan protestors. Despite their attestations that “meat is murder”, they are clearly attempting to either murder Moe and Maurice or destroy their livelihood. Eitherway, Maurice and Moe are in trouble as they attempt to bar the doors with their bodies.

Maurice: I cannae believe that Pie Aye Man is under attack!

Moe: By Vegans, no less.


Moe: Please don’t do it.


Moe: Vegans, Maur. We already know who it is: It’s Vegans. Vegans are attacking us.

Maurice [Shrugging]: I thought that I’d get the MGSV references out of the way early.

Moe: Metallic archaea?

Maurice: Like that.

Moe: So, alright, how do we get out of this mess? We can’t exactly massacre protestors.

Maurice: Why not?

Moe: We’re British, Maur.

Maurice; So, we kettle them and beat them, killing them ‘accidentally’?

Moe: Precisely. However, what I’m thinking is that we combine this with an insurance scam!

Maurice: Wait, what?

Moe: Go into the kitchens, turn on the gas and sneak out of the back. We rig up our gas canister, leave the oven on and BOOM! Explosion wipes out protestors and insurance company pays up when we pin it on the protestors themselves!

Maurice: Magnificent!

Moe: Shall we get going?

Maurice: We’ll have to make it quick. The moment we move away from these doors, the Vegans will begin their assault!

Moe: You’d have thought that the goddamn Praying Mantis PMC would help us!

Maurice: They don’t do anything except stand around and hold their guns.

Moe: Anyway, let’s rig up the gas!

Maurice: Why aye!

Moe and Maurice bundle behind the counter, charging through a door directly behind it and into a small and cramped kitchen. The oven is fed by a gas canister, which they quickly detach and leave on. The fires that were on the hob are extinguished almost immediately.

Moe: So much for that plan.

Maurice: I could light a match, drop it and run really fast.

Moe: Is that really our best plan?

Moe and Maurice listen carefully as glass shatters, the roaring sound of the crowd now clearly audible.

Maurice: It is now!

Maurice reaches into a drawer beside the oven, fumbling with a box of matches and lighting one, dropping it on the floor. Moe and Maurice turn to their right, quickly rushing through a fire exit and out into the alleyway beside the shop. They make it out into the main street just as the majority of the crowd begin to rush into the shop, breaking the windows and throwing out broken chunks of furniture.

Maurice: Huh, did it work?

Moe: I don’t see an explosion. They’re just ripping the fucking shop apart.

Maurice sighs, scratching his head.

Maurice: Well, we’ll still get some insurance money for it, won’t we?

Moe: Hopefully. Just kinda sucks that we put in all this work and now these hippy fucks are destroying it.

Maurice: Yeah…

A hissing sound is heard nearby. Maurice and Moe look to their left, watching as a trail of smoke hurtles towards Pie Aye Man.

Moe: Run really fast, Maurice.

Moe and Maurice scream, running down the street as an RPG collides with Pie Aye Man. Thanks to the gas, the explosion is catastrophic, ripping through the building and shredding brick and mortar to pieces. Moe and Maurice dive forward, hitting the ground as shards of brick and mortar, as well as dust, spray over them. Maurice rolls onto his back, raising his head and looking up at the now-charred shell of Pie Aye Man, flames smouldering in the blown-out windows as sirens are heard in the distance.

Maurice: GODDAMN!!

Walking down the street towards them is That Other Random Guy, an RPG-7 on his right shoulder, flanked by his wife Melissa.

That Other Random Guy [Looking down at Maurice]: I’ll be taking some of that insurance money.

Maurice [Wide-eyed]: You fuckin’ blew it up!!

That Other Random Guy: That was your plan, right? Lure protestors in and blow them up?

Maurice: ….Part of it!

Melissa: Where did you even get that RPG?

That Other Random Guy: Everybody needs a secret, my dear.

Maurice: I did’nae realise that secrets meant killing people.

That Other Random Guy: They do, Maur. They do.

Maurice: Where are your mates anyway?

That Other Random Guy: Fucking around in Mexico somewhere. Anyway: Let’s get going.

Maurice: What? You’re taking your wife with you?

That Other Random Guy: I’d like the company, that’s for sure.

Melissa: While I appreciate the offer, absence does make the heart grow fonder. That and I do not like the sound of the people who you work with.

That Other Random Guy: Neither do I, but it brings home the bacon.

Maurice: We work with you.

That Other Random Guys: I like you guys! It’s just those I work directly with—the mechanics—that I have issues with.

Melissa: I shall miss you.

That Other Random Guy: I’ll miss you too, dear.

Maurice: Y’know, this could be the start of a beautiful frie--

That Other Random Guy: Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. It’s almost Christmas and we need to return to Beale and Walker Street.

Moe: Good point. Any idea how we can get home?

That Other Random Guy: Yeah: It’s called buying plane tickets.

Maurice [Sighing]: Well, we may as well.

Moe: Hey, maybe we can open a new Pie Aye Man in Beale Street!

Maurice: Won’t Dick kill us?

Moe: Who cares? We’ll just pay the Irish to plant a car bomb outside of the Lamb and Flag if he does!

Maurice: Bloody genius, lad!

Maurice and Moe quickly run off down the street.

Melissa: ….Where are they going?

That Other Random Guy: ….Not a bloody clue, love.

Melissa: Shall we just stay in London for Christmas?

That Other Random Guy: May as well. Not like we have anything better to do.

Melissa: Aside from ducking as a secondary explosion goes off?

That Other Random Guy: Wha--

One of the gas canisters in Pie Aye Man explodes violently, causing That Other Random Guy and Melissa to dive to the floor to avoid incoming shrapnel.

Melissa [Rolling onto her back]: We really need to get out of here..

That Other Random Guy: Cairo?

Melissa: Cairo, but first, a doctor for my fucking ears..

That Other Random Guy: Hey, the ringing lulls me to sleep sometimes!

Melissa smirks, slapping That Other Random Guy's shoulder teasingly..


In Chicago, the team of Dean, Samuel and Karab are together once more. Quite why they have left the safety of Beale Street for the mean streets of Chicago is anyones guess, and why they have left Bobby behind is also a mystery. Irregardless, their trip away seems to be to feed Sam and Dean’s fetish of exploring abandoned, creepy buildings.

Walking up four wooden stairs and pushing open a creaking wooden door of an old, abandoned house, Dean Chevrolet slowly walks into a small room, with only one door ahead of them. Following him are Samuel and Karab, both men shutting the door behind them. Karab walks over to a small window to the left of the door, glancing out of it before repeating the procedure with a window to the right of the door.

Karab [Quietly]: I can’t see anything outside.

Samuel: Something was making a noise in here. Groaning, screaming, crying: Classic spooky trifecta.

Karab: Better not be skeletons.

Samuel: Karab, don’t be stupid: Everybody knows that skeletons shriek.

Karab: Spooky!

Dean: Well, this shotgun will take care of whatever it is.

Karab walks over to a small, dusty endtable against the western wall, pulling open a drawer and examining the empty insides before watching as Dean slowly approaches the door.

Dean [Quietly]: Are we ready?

Karab [Checking out a small painting above the endtable]: No.

Samuel: I am.

Dean, Samuel and Karab fall silent as they hear a metallic rattling behind the door.

Dean [Stepping forward]: Sammy, open the door and I’ll blast it.

Samuel: Rock salt?

Dean [Grasping his Sawn-Off Shotgun]: Rock salt and iron shavings, baby.

Samuel grasps the right door,             quickly pulling it open. Dean charges forward, aiming down his shotgun. He stops, screaming loudly. As does Phil Nolastname, who is on the other side of the door holding a cast iron teapot and a white porcelain mug. Samuel quickly sweeps around the door, stopping when he sees Phil.

Samuel [Taken aback]: Phil? You’re the one making all the noise?

Phil and Dean stop screaming. Phil looks at Samuel cautiously.

Phil: Nope.

Dean: Phil, what the fuck are you doing?

Phil: I'll be honest..........................Selling tea.

Dean [Sighing]: If I buy a cup, will you stop stalking everyone?

Phil: No.

Samuel: Why?

Phil: I need to make some money on our off period.

Dean: What's with the bulldog?

The bulldog turns its head slightly, panting and tilting its head.

Phil: Winston, Born of Winstons. Lovely dog, great company, keeps me company on these cold nights.

Dean: Phil, are you high?

Phil: No, just lonely.

Samuel: And insane.

Phil: That too.

Samuel: So if you’re NOT the one making the noise, who is?

Phil: That’s what I came to see. Was hoping they’d buy some tea.

Karab: I doubt they want tea.

Phil: Maybe it’d calm them down and shut them up.

Dean: But seriously, what are you doing in Chicago? Of all the places you could go to, you magically show up at the place WE’RE at?

Phil: I was selling tea to CM Punk.

Dean: Really?

Phil: Nah, I was just following you dumbasses. Hey, It’s awfully lonely on the road. And I like Karab: He smells of spices.

Karab [Taken aback]: Uh, thanks?

Samuel: So we don’t know what’s been making the noise?

Phil: Maybe it’s the house settling.

A huge crashing sound is heard and the mercenaries glance over at the front door, which has since slammed shut.

Dean: Hey, somebody shut the door.

Karab walks towards the door, grasping the handle and pulling it tightly: The door doesn’t budge a single inch.

Karab: Somebody has locked the door.

Phil: Thank goodness there are perfectly good windows that we can exit from.

Karab walks back towards the group, looking around the interior of the house.

Karab: Y’know what? I think we should follow Phil’s advice.

Samuel: Buy some t--

Karab: No! We should jump out of a window and get the fuck out of here.

Dean: Sure thing, Ava--

Karab [Unsheathing his kirpan and pointing it towards Dean’s throat]: Finish that sentence and I’ll bleed you fucking dry.

Phil: Ava what?

Karab [Quickly]: Nothing. He said nothing.

Samuel: To be honest, I think we should leave. Right now.

Karab: Well, we can’t use the door. Somebody’s standing in front of it.

Dean, Samuel, Karab and Phil look towards the door: Standing in front of it is the graceful, naked form of what appears to be a young woman with shocking pink hair, her face obscured by a sleek metal mask. She faces towards the mercenaries, arms hanging by her sides. Dean gasps loudly, pointing at the woman.


Samuel: ….A what?


Karab: Gesundheit.

Samuel: The what?

Dean: The Diclonius are a newly evolved species: Similar to average humans, but possessing insane psychokinetic abilities, with an inbuilt desire to kill and replace the human race as the Earth’s dominant sentient spaces!

Samuel: …..I see. Well, we are so getting fucking sued for this.

Karab: No breaking the fourth wall, Sammy.

Phil: Well, guys, I’d love to stick around but I think the lawyers are calling and I don’t want my head ripped off by invisible hands.

Dean: Well, good luck with that, because she’s standing in front of the only exit.

Phil sighs, hanging his head.

Phil: Fuck this stupid world..


In Karelia, Finland, a top-secret operation is occurring. Having lasted for roughly a week, today is presumably the final day

Father’s First Company, one of three companies consisting of soldiers handpicked by Mother and Father Mercenary for their sheer dedication, talent and ruthlessness, is the Company assigned to scour the compound, hidden within the snowy wastes of Karelia. Leading this company is Captain Aaron Randolph, born to a German mother and an American father and a former member of GSG-9. Highly talented with a natural knack for command, Captain Randolph is now stood in the middle of a room within this titanic compound.

The laboratory in which Father’s First Company now stands is well lit, with light tubes on the metal ceiling providing adequate lighting for their surroundings. A desk with several computer terminals sits against the Eastern wall, at which three soldiers are sitting, tapping away rhythmically at the keys as they extract all of the information that they possibly can. Three desks, arranged in a triangle, sit in the middle of the room, with a wastepaper basket situated in the middle of it. Perhaps most disturbingly of all are five large containment chambers, constructed of glass and metal to allow maximum visibility. Filled with a clear liquid and with wires and pads hanging loosely within them, it is clear that what they contained has since escaped. With various biological waste disposal containers near them, as well as a large desk slightly askew in front of the second chamber, covered in surgical instruments which are soiled to a varying degree, one can only imagine what happened within this laboratory.

A rattling sound cuts through the room as Randolph cranes his head, looking at a ventilation shaft which goes from North to South across them. He looks across at the Northern side of the room where a large pair of metal doors are being held tightly shut by two soldiers, the sound of banging audible to their ears as the soldiers shake slightly with each thud. Randolph looks behind him at another metal door, which is slightly askew to reveal a corridor bathed in red emergency lighting, with blood spatters visible on the walls. A gnarled, clawed hand, covered in black fur and clotted blood, visibly lays on the floor, just peering out from behind the door.

The laboratory itself is covered in various blood spatters, the thirty soldiers within the room appearing exhausted and covered in dried blood. Oddly enough, there is little sign of the laboratory’s previous inhabitants: The only evidence that there was ever any scientists within the compound being a lab coat, stained with blood, hanging from the vent above them and a human tibia, picked clean aside from a few errant scraps of flesh, lying on the floor at the foot of the table holding the surgical instruments.

Randolph walks over to the soldiers at the computer terminals, glancing over them.

Captain Randolph: Men, hurry it up. I want to be out of here shortly.

Soldier: Yes, sir.

Captain Randolph: Any encrypted files?

Soldier: Well, that’s the strangest thing: There is none.

Captain Randolph: Why is that strange?

Soldier: Well, since they performed horrific genetic experiments performed on our own kind, I can only assume that they’d want to protect the more sensitive information.

Second Soldier: It was probably all deleted, sir.

Captain Randolph: Before they were slaughtered, they deleted everything?

Second Soldier: It’s certainly a possibility. Why let sensitive information fall into the hands of others when you can delete it all? I mean, who would be stupid enough to just leave that information in the open?

Captain Randolph [Sighing]: Yes, Thompson, I know that. [Looking at the first soldier] Dillon, you master hacker, have you managed to get any information?

Dillon: A lot, sir, but how many times do I have to tell you that I found the password for the computer written on a scrap of paper?

Captain Randolph: Nonsense, you’re good with computers!

Dillon: Well, I’ve ran into the same problem as Lieutenant Thompson: No encrypted files at all. Probably deleted.

Captain Randolph: Can we un-delete them?

Dillon: The first thing I tried was to recover any remnants of files, but from what I can tell: They’re gone. Somebody really wanted them gone.

Lieutenant Thompson: Assuming there were encrypted files. Maybe they stored details somewhere else?

Captain Randolph: Where?

Dillon: Well, on paper. To stop any potential hackers or intrusion attempts spotting the violation of human rights?

Captain Randolph: Well then, I shall keep my eyes open.

Captain Randolph walks over to the door where the two soldiers are keeping it shut. To their right are a huddle of four soldiers, one of whom is sat on the floor with another kneeling beside him. The soldier sat on the floor is missing his right leg, which he is cradling in his arms and a combat medic is knelt beside him, tending to the dressings of the wound to ensure that blood loss is kept minimal and that the dressing does not go dirty.

Captain Randolph [Looking down at the combat medic]: Sanborn, how’s Johansson doing?

Medic Sanborn: He’s doing well.

Johansson [Looking down at his dismembered leg]: Can’t believe they slashed it off. Those things are violent.

Captain Randolph: Indeed, they are.

Johansson [Swinging the leg slightly and watching the tattered ribbons of flesh sway]: Not like anybody can sew this back on.

Captain Randolph [Turning to the soldiers at the door]: Alright, men, how is everything?

Soldier Barring Door: Well, sir, the inhabitants appear to be…………restless.

Captain Randolph: Keep that door shut, Private Theys, we’ll take care of them later.

Private Theys [Straining slightly]: Very well, Captain!

Captain Randolph walks over to a blonde-haired female who is busy working on a small laptop, sitting at a metal desk in the middle of the room, which is spattered with blood and gore.

Captain Randolph: Alright Jameson, do we have any information?

Jameson: It was very nice of them to put their findings and research onto memory sticks, that’s for sure. I’m seeing a lot of information in regards to the Perfect Soldier Project and the Genome Soldiers, as well as SOP. Seems like our furry friends were the next logical step, attempting to turn common animals into humanoid soldiers, essentially providing a private military company with a constant stream of extraordinarily powerful soldiers.

Captain Randolph: And what happened?

Jameson [Waving her hand around]: Well, just look around and see. It was a massive failure. Aside from a few successful soldiers, who weren’t exactly the bloodthirsty savages they wanted but rather empathetic individuals, it seems as if genetic tinkering and constant testing and exposure to violence turned most of the experiments rabid. Alas, it was their demise.

Captain Randolph: So, they tore the scientists apart..

Jameson: Well, from what I can glean from this information, they did.

Private Theys [Straining]: Sir, permission to open doors and shoot the feral bastards!

Captain Randolph [Sighing]: Yes, yes, very well!

Private Theys and a second Private pull open the doors, screaming and running into the hallway, shutting the doors behind them. Several gunshots, as well as pained howling and the sounds of flesh being hacked from bone are audible as Captain Randolph places his hands on his hips.

Captain Randolph: Well, let us wait for them.

After a few seconds, Theys and the second Private walk back through the doors, covered in blood splatter and small shards of gore.

Private Theys: Done.

Captain Randolph: Good…….All clear, Mother.

Mother’s Voice: Did you find anything?

Captain Randolph: Scientists. In many, many pieces.

Mother’s Voice [Quietly]: The soldiers?

Captain Randolph: These boys were cut apart, bitten and slashed to ribbons: I think it’s safe to say that not all soldiers are like our friend in the sugar glider.

Mother’s Voice: I see. Well then, Aaron, I give you full permission to engage the enemy with lethal force if necessary.

Captain Randolph: We may not have a choice, Mother. I believe these soldiers to be…….feral.

Mother’s Voice: Feral??

Captain Randolph: Whereas our own soldiers appear to have sentience and intelligence, these soldiers appear brutish and able to communicate only in grunts. That alongside the fact that they have a raging, unquenchable bloodlust.

Mother’s Voice: How many have you killed so far?

Captain Randolph: Ten—

Private Theys: Fourteen.

Captain Randolph: --Fourteen…With no casualties! Although Johansson has been wounded.

From nearby, the wounded soldier raises his leg in the air.


Captain Randolph: He’s going to need a prosthesis for his right leg.

Mother’s Voice: We’ll sort it out as soon as possible.

Johansson: THANKS MOTHER!!

Mother’s Voice [Quietly]: Is he alright?

Captain Randolph: Somewhat pissed off that he’s missing a leg.

Mother’s Voice: ‘Somewhat’?

Captain Randolph: Well, in his words, “God saw fit to provide me with a spare”.


Mother’s Voice [Chuckling]: Very well. I will leave you to finish the job: Contact me when you are done and I will ensure that our air force annihilates the compound.

Captain Randolph: Thy will be done, Mother.

Captain Randolph turns off his walkie-talkie, looking around the room.

Captain Randolph: Well, I see death and despair everywhere.

Private Theys: And there’s more in the corridor, sir.

Captain Randolph: Human soldiers?

Private Theys: No, sir, more of the same: Big, ugly, furry motherfuckers.

Captain Randolph: It could be worse: There could be monster girls.

Private Theys: Do you mean that horrendously insipid and cliché-filled anime series?

Captain Randolph: No, I mean actual monster girls who are ready to rip your cock off.

Private Theys: Sounds painful.

Captain Randolph: It certainly is.

Nearby Soldier: I have found something, sir!

Captain Randolph looks over to his right, where a soldier walks over from the containment chambers, holding several blood-covered files in his hand, flicking through one and reading the contents.

Captain Randolph: What is it, Warszawski?

Warszawski: Sir, it appears to be paperwork.

Captain Randolph: Well, file it away. I’m sure it’ll be important when we take it home and let the geeks read it.

Warszawski: Well, sir, I’m seeing a lot of diagrams involving the body and DNA of a human, as well as the body and DNA of a cat.

Captain Randolph: They’re making cat-people?

Warszawski: Yes, sir.

Captain Randolph: And we just missed the goddamn scientists. Man, I could interrogate one of those sons of bitches right now!

Warszawski: Indeed, sir, I guess you could say that we missed them by a whisker.

Captain Randolph [Bluntly]: Somebody kick Warszawski for that shit joke.

Johansson pushes himself up the wall, slowly hopping over to Warszawski before jumping up and dropkicking him in the chest, causing Warszawski to stumble back.

Warszawski: Hey!

Captain Randolph; Good work, Johansson, there’ll be an extra doughnut for you when we get back to base.

Johansson: I’d prefer a prosthetic leg, sir!

Captain Randolph: We’ll see to that too. For now, however, we must prepare to leave, so that we can call the Poles and have them bomb this fucking shithole to oblivion. MOVE OUT!!

Father’s First Company [In Unison]: YES, SIR!!!

Captain Randolph: Follow me!

Captain Randolph spins around on the balls of his heels, taking two steps towards the metal door from which the company entered. The door fully opens as Randolph is several feet away, revealing a hulking hybrid covered in loose patches of black fur, revealing ashen grey, clammy skin. The head of the hybrid is deformed, almost human in appearance but with a twisted and muscular muzzle which is parted roughly, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth which are glistening with saliva, the amber eyes baring down angrily on Captain Randolph. The hybrid stomps forward, revealing that it is digitigrade: Walking on its toes and not on its heels like an ordinary human would.

Johansson: Sir, we appear to have an intruder.

Captain Randolph: Awfully astute of you, Johansson.

Johansson: Thank you, si--

Captain Randolph: Remind me to teach you about sarcasm when we get back to base, Johansson.

In mere moments, Randolph manages to sweep his Remington 870 up, aiming at the creature. The hybrid charges forward, letting loose a horrible scream as it does, almost sounding as if it was in sheer pain. Randolph simply aims down the sights of his shotgun, pulling the trigger. The hybrid is immediately blown backwards, a cavernous hole shot into its sternum as it hits the rear wall, sliding down it and leaving a bloody smear as it does.

Captain Randolph [Standing up straight and turning to his company]: ANY MORE FUCKING SURPRISES?!?!?

A growl is heard from behind Randolph. He swiftly turns around, but several pistol shots fire out, cutting down an advancing German Shepherd-human hybrid which shudders violently, collapsing to the ground mere feet away from Randolph.

Captain Randolph [Looking over his shoulder]: Well, boys, I hope you like cake, cause you’re getting second servings back at the Academy for that one.

The squad, who all unholstered their pistols and fired in unison, holster their pistols in unison.

Soldier: Sir, shall I summon the other squads?

Captain Randolph: Yes, Kowalski: We’re done here. We need to leave right now.

Kowalski: Indeed, sir. Let’s move out.

Father’s First Company marches forward once again, towards the open door and stepping over the bodies of the hybrids.

Thankfully, the long march outside isn’t hampered by the appearance of any more hybrids. It only takes a few moments for Captain Randolph to lead his Company out into the snowy plains of Karelia, the metal door and concrete front wall of the bunker visible behind them as flakes of snow begin to fall. Despite the snow measuring mid-way up their shins, the Company wades forward, away from the bunker. Captain Randolph, the last man to exit, turns on his walkie-talkie, looking over his shoulder.

Captain Randolph: Mother, get those Polish boys out here to level this hellhole: We’ve taken everything and anything of value.

Mother’s Voice: They’re already on their way.

Captain Randolph: Good, any idea when they’ll--

Captain Randolph is silenced as he hears the familiar roar of jets in the distance. He looks up and to his right, spotting the distinctive shapes in the distance.

Captain Randolph [Laughing, into the radio]: Wyrzyk, you sure are fast.

Captain Wyrzyk’s Voice [Laughing]: When you want something doing right and doing fast, you call in the Polish!

Captain Randolph: Don’t get too cocky: Let me see you and your boys turn this base into a pile of fucking smoke and rubble.

Captain Wyrzyk’s Voice: Understood.

The jets encroach closer before sweeping over the compound. Father’s First Company stops, turning around to watch the fruits of the Squadrons labour. Within seconds, several bombs detonate, fiery explosions rolling from the ground as the jets payloads completely obliterate the compound, sending concrete and metal sinking into the snow.

Captain Randolph [Laughing and dancing slightly on the spot]: HOTDAMN! THAT WENT UP LIKE A GODDAMN BONFIRE!!!

Captain Wyrzyk’s Voice [Laughing]: They have been crushed and buried! Farewell, abominations! Let us return to base for drinking and food!

Captain Randolph: Wyrzyk, I know you speak English well, stop sounding as if you have very little command of the language.

Captain Wyrzyk’s Voice: ….Well, then, let’s return to base for booze and pies.

Captain Randolph [Laughing]: Never gets old!


Captain Randolph [Switching off the radio]: Aaaand shut up.

Private Theys: Is it over, sir?

Captain Randolph [Taking a deep breath and gazing over the destroyed compound]: No. If the intelligence that we have gathered is to be trusted, then you will pardon me spouting a tired old cliché when I say that it’s only just begun.

Private Theys: I don’t forgive clichés, sir.


Coach Lynch, away from the Middle East, finds himself in France at Mother’s orders. Disembarking from a Cessna 172 Skyhawk with a large rucksack on his back, Lynch walks down the stairs and steps out onto the gravel of a private airfield, looking around as he does. Ahead of him is a Renault TRM 10000 truck, painted entirely in black with a red Lambda painted on the drivers door. Standing in front of the door, with her arms folded, is a woman wearing urban camouflage, the sleeves on her jacket rolled up and her pants stuffed into her boots. With short brown hair stylized and feathered into a pixie cut, with glowering green eyes, the woman manages to cut an impressive and commanding appearance as she glares ahead at Lynch who slowly approaches.

Lynch: Antiope.

Antiope: Marcus.

Lynch: Nice to see that I have my own chauffeur.

Antiope: Well, Mother wanted to drive you straight to the mission.

Lynch: What? I can’t even rest first?

Antiope: Nope, we’re heading straight for the Belledonne in the Alps!

Lynch [Angrily]: GODDAMMIT!!!

Antiope: Climb in, Lynch. It’s going to be a long ride.

Lynch sighs, pulling open the passenger door and climbing into the truck beside Antiope, slamming the door shut.

Lynch: Just drive. Let’s get this shit over with.

Antiope begins to drive out of the airfield, glancing at Lynch.

Antiope: Not very nice, are you?

Lynch: Nope.

Antiope: Maybe if you led a company that--

Lynch: Shut the fuck up, Antiope. I can actually tolerate my company.

Antiope: And can you tolerate mine?

Lynch: Why should I?

Antiope: Spartan Company is a strong company designed to counter-attack Mother’s enemies and demolish any enemy buildings of importance. As such, leading this company is something that only a woman can do, because we can multi-task and do it correctly.

Lynch: Alright then: Why should I care?

Antiope: I’m explaining this company to you. Would you like to explain yours to me? I assume a single word would do, such as “Derp”.

Lynch [Coldly]: You’re such a friendly motherfucker, aren’t you?

Antiope [Smiling brightly]: I AM! Just not to idiots.

Lynch: Alright then: My company is designed to completely annihilate any fucking living thing that so much as dares to breathe in its general direction in a way that could be considered hostile.

Antiope [Chuckling]: Really? I’m surprised they haven’t annihilated themselves.

Driving out of the airfield, Antiope pulls out onto a busy motorway, beginning to drive with the flow of the traffic as they make their way towards the mountains, just visible on the horizon.

Lynch [Sighing darkly]: There is nothing wrong with my men.

Antiope: Do you want me to start with their dishonourable discharges or before them?

Lynch: It makes them unique—

Antiope: It makes them dangerous and untrustworthy.

Lynch: I’d trust my men with my life—Hell, I HAVE. I don’t trust Spartan Company.

Antiope: You should: We are disciplined, strong and well-trained. We are revered across the--

Lynch: I don’t give a shit!

Antiope [Scowling]: Maybe you should! Maybe that’s why Mother made you create that fucking company!

Lynch: She made me create it because those boys and girls have potential and she needed to harness it!

Antiope: They will have never the skill of Spartan Company!

Lynch: Good, cause then they’d be as big-headed as you rotten fucks too!

Antiope and Lynch fall silent, glowering at the road ahead. After a few moments, Antiope glances at Lynch, who sighs quietly and shakes his head.

Lynch [Mumbling under his breath]: At least it’s not fucking Reaper Company..

Antiope: Mm. Even if there is only one small piece of common ground between us, it’s that we can agree that Callahay is a complete bastard.

Lynch: Oh, I do fucking hate him.

Antope: Me too!

Lynch: And Gutenberg, the guy who leads Ghost Company? He freaks me out.

Antiope: Me as well!

Lynch: Well, at least we do have something in common.

Antiope: I do like Wyrzyk, though.

Lynch: Me too!

Antiope: Well, we may need to keep in contact with him.

Lynch: Hm. So, we’re expecting company?

Antiope: Apparently, Captain Randolph came across some trouble in Karelia.

Lynch: And by trouble, you mean he was attacked by super soldiers?

Antiope: With fur, apparently.

Lynch [Sighing]: Great: We’re fighting furries.

Antiope: Mutated furries, apparently.

Lynch [Sighing darkly]: Oh goddammit.

Antiope: Indeed. However, you will be helping to lead a very proud, very dangerous and very effective company, so take comfort in knowing that you will be leaving France alive.

Lynch: If I was with Reject Company, I’d be leaving alive too.

Antiope [Snorting derisively]: I find that hard to believe..

Lynch: You’d be surprised by my men.

Antiope: Oh?

Lynch: Yeah: They can be quite smart and resourceful when they need to be. And their survival instincts are second to none, especially with that time that we spent in Aokigahara. Man, that was nuts. Don’t doubt my men: They may seem stupid and untrained, but they possess a finely honed set of skills that make them dangerous to those who oppose them.


Across the Atlantic, still in Chicago, the team of Dean, Samuel, Karab and Phil are hiding in the rafters of the attic of the abandoned house, having since ran away from the figure who barred their exit.

Dean [Sighing]: How did it all come to this?

Phil: We ran to the one place where she couldn’t find us.

The hatch to the attic slowly creeps open, a set of wooden ladders sliding down onto the floor below it.

Karab: Well, fuck.

Samuel: So, what do we do now? Do we even have a plan to deal with this crazy bitch?

Phil: I do.

Samuel [Sighing]: Of course you do. Well, let’s hear it.

Phil holds a stick, topped with a twisted, circular loop of wire, towards Samuel whose face falls significantly.

Samuel: Really?

Phil: Right, what I’m going to do is lay here in the rafters. Now, when she walks past, she won’t sense me. So, when she walks under me, I lower the stick and string, snag her around her neck and boom! Captured.

Karab: Phil, I can’t help but point out one very obvious flaw in your pla--

Phil [Quickly]: Shut up, I hear footsteps!!

Karab: Phil, seriously, this is stupid.

Samuel: Not to mention that the wire is far too small.

Karab: It won’t work!

The feathered pink hair of the woman comes into view as she ascends the ladder. Phil leans forwards slightly, watching as she enters the attic and begins to stroll under the rafters in which they are hiding.

Phil: Watch this!

Phil swoops the stick down as the woman raises her head. Though she would probably be offended had the string looped around her neck, it thankfully misses her completely, the force of the swing causing Phil to fall off of the rafter and land behind her with a sickening crash. The woman slowly turns around, looking down at Phil who simply lays there, dazed.

Phil: Hey, Karab, were formulae regarding the momentum of a swing a part of the flaw that you had in mind in regards to my plan?

Karab [Leaning over the rafter and looking down]: Admittedly not.

Phil: Hey, Karab.

Karab: Yes?

Phil: There was a flaw in the momentum of my swing.

Karab: You don’t say, Phil.

Phil: Man, this hurts.

The woman turns back around, walking down the ladder.

Dean: Huh. She’s not killing us violently.

Samuel: She must be sensing more dangerous prey elsewhere! We cannot let her escape into the open world!

Dean: Why?

Samuel: She’s a murderous animal! She’ll fucking slaughter everything in her path!

Dean: It’s only Chicago. Father Time has already slaughtered most of it and she’ll just mop up the rest. Besides, after Chicago, who gives a shit about Illinois? It’s just like Maryland: Shit, pointless and only there to make up the numbers.

Samuel: What about Iowa?

Dean: What’s that?

Samuel [Sighing]: One of the American states, Dean.

Dean [Laughing]: Come on, you just made that shit up. Seriously, what is Iowa?

Karab: It’s an American state, Dean. An unimportant one, but a state all the same.

Dean [Laughing]: Iowa. Sounds like a noise you make during a sneeze.

Samuel leans over the rafters, grasping onto the wooden beam and dropping to the floor, quickly rushing down the wooden ladder. Karab follows him, leaving Dean and Phil in the attic.

Phil: We should probably follow them.

Dean: Hey, if he wants to die, we should let him!

Phil: Come on, Dean. I mean, surely one of us must have a plan to stop this psychotic woman?

Dean’s eyes suddenly brighten as he scrambles down from the rafters, dropping to the floor and jogging down the wooden stairs.


Phil: Aw shit.

Phil climbs down from the rafters, walking down the wooden ladder. Straight to his left is an old staircase, leading straight into a fairly large room. Phil rushes down the staircase where, to his right against the wall, sits an armoire which Samuel and Karab are now stood outside.

Karab: What does he want? Where the hell is he?

Phil: He said he had a plan.

Samuel: Oh. Fuck.

Karab: Why? Just….why?

Across from them, a small wooden door opens, revealing a kitchen consisting of little more than a dusty wrought iron stove and a few threadbare cabinets. Dean rushes through the door, slamming it shut behind him and barging past the others, climbing into the armoire.

Samuel: What the fuck is he doi—Fuck it, let’s just amuse him.

Samuel, Karab and Phil climb into the cramped armoire, crushed together as Dean reaches forward and shuts the doors slightly, leaving a small gap which the light can filter through.

Samuel: Why are we in here, Dean?

Dean: To discuss MY plan!

Samuel: Well, go on. It can’t be worse than Phil’s.

Dean holds up a tin can without a label before tapping the box underneath him.

Karab: I can already tell that it’s going to be worse.

Dean: I snagged this tin from the kitchen we came through. And this empty box will form the main part of my plan! All I need now is a ruler and some string!

Samuel [Hanging his head]: Oh God, no. You’re not serious.

Dean pushes the doors open, walking outside of the armoire and looking around. Opposite the armoire, he notices an antique set of drawers which he rushes towards, pulling open all three: Although there is nothing there, he pulls out one drawer before rushing back towards the armoire, grasping the box and pulling it into the middle of the floor. He uses the drawer to prop open the box, placing the tin underneath the box. He reaches down into his left boot, grasping his sock and tugging at a piece of loose thread, snapping it from his sock and tying it around the brass handle of the drawer before rushing back towards the armoire.

Phil: Hey, look: Looney Tunes!

Samuel: Just, don’t bother--

Dean: So, she comes along and sees the tin under the box. She likes the sandwich and she’s hungry, so she comes along and eats whatever’s in the tin. When she eats it, we pull the ruler away and the box comes down, trapping her!

Samuel [Sighing and hanging his head]: I feel like I’m in a Saturday morning cartoon.

Phil: What’s even in the tin? Mystery meat?

Dean: Nobody knows, hence the mystery will be too much for her to ignore!

Phil: Good grief, you’ve thought this through!

Karab: He hasn’t. He really fucking hasn’t.

Dean: Now, be quiet! She’s approaching!

The door slowly creaks open. The mercenaries stand in front of the armoire, watching as Dean clutches the string tightly. The woman slowly walks forward into the room, looking at the mercenaries before looking at the box and tin. She stops, standing still for a few seconds before raising her head and walking forward, past the pathetic trap.

Dean [Crestfallen]: Shit.

Phil: She’s ignoring the trap, Dean.


The woman slowly turns to them, watching as Dean, Karab, Samuel and Phil quickly walk backwards into the armoire and slam the doors shut.

Samuel [Muffled]: Can’t we find a better meeting pla--

Dean [Angrily]: SHUT UP!!


Lynch and Antiope are busy walking up the path within the Belledonne. Having already breached the Alpine level, the going is somewhat slow for Spartan Company as the oxygen grows slightly thinner and the ground rougher with coverings of snow. Lynch remains somewhat glum, which causes Antiope to clear her throat.

Antiope: What is wrong now, Lynch?

Lynch [Reaching onto his chest and activating his walkie-talkie]: Mother, she’s talking to me again.

Mother’s Voice [Sighing]: For God’s sake, Marcus, why can’t you just enjoy her company?

Lynch: Mother, you know I prefer to command my own men.

Mother’s Voice [Calmly]: And here I thought you would relish the opportunity to lead Spartan Company alongside Antiope.

Antiope: I hate him.

Lynch: Feeling’s fucking mutual.

Antiope: Mother, I must object, my men much prefer my command to the command of this simpleton!


Antiope [Laughing]: Little boy, you could never even lay a finger on me!

Mother’s Voice [Growing impatient]: Both of you are to work together to scour and destroy this compound. Failure will not be tolerated. May I remind both of you that I take an exceedingly dim view on failure?

Lynch: Yes, Mother.

Mother’s Voice: Good. Now, if you contact me again whilst you are arguing, I will have both of you disciplined.

Antiope [Quickly]: We will work together, Mother.

Mother’s Voice: Good, Antiope. Good. Mother out.

The radio goes silent as Antiope, Lynch and Spartan Company continue their trek forward.

Antiope: Why are you angry, anyway?

Lynch [Gritting his teeth]: I am not angry.

Antiope: You clearly are: Aren’t you glad to be commanding soldiers who complete the objective so, so quickly?

Lynch: I like my company. They’re always cracking jokes, laughing and occasionally they do something very stupid that’s actually hilarious. I mean, yeah, they’re fucking imbeciles and it’s a miracle that they’ve all survived, and they’ve never actually done anything as fast as this, but still…they have their quirks. You should visit us sometime.

Antiope [Quietly]: I prefer Cairo to some dinghy street out in the Sinai where they leave camels to die.

Lynch: Well, I guess my soldiers are stronger than camels. Why the fuck didn’t you guys build your own streets? Could’ve made our own town by now.

Antiope: Only your company has done that, and that’s only because they were meant to be cannon fodder replaced on a monthly basis which meant that we didn’t want their corpses stinking up Cairo. You surprised everyone just by surviving for so long.

Lynch: So we could’ve been staying in Cairo?

Antiope: Or the Academy.

Lynch [Bitterly]: For fucks sake……Is it just me or this air getting difficult to breathe?!

Antiope: Of course it is, Lynch.

Lynch: Woah, hold on, hold on…

Antiope throws her right arm up as Lynch and her come to a stop, forcing Spartan Company to stop marching. To their left, snow covers a rock-face, which in of itself has been spattered with blood, revealing somewhat unusual grooves beneath it. Lynch walks over to the snow, using his arms to quickly swipe and brush away the snow. After a few minutes, Lynch has managed to brush away most of the snow to reveal a blastproof door, sealed tightly shut with a circular handle in the middle of it.

Female Soldier [Craning her head]: How the hell did they hide that?!

Antiope: Robertson, if you saw a random door in a mountain, would YOU open it?

Private Robertson: Personally, ma’am?.....You won’t like the answer.

Second Female Soldier: In her defence, I would too--

Antiope: Nobody asked you, Lieutenant Adler. Fetch Private Valdez, we’re going to need her to breach the door.

Lynch: This thing is solid steel, Antiope, what the fuck are you carrying that can breach it?

Antiope: Heard of Thermate TH-Three?

Lynch: Isn’t that just thermite, but nastier?

Antiope: Exactly: MOVE IT, ADLER!!       

Lieutenant Adler [Quickly running through the soldiers]: YES MA’AM!!!

Lynch: Can it burn through the door, though?

Antiope: We have our own specialist composition, Lynch. Should make quick work of this damned door.

A young Mexican female, with long flowing black hair beneath her beret, rushes forward, carrying a satchel charge. She kneels in front of the door, beginning the process of attaching the satchel to the door and setting up the wires and equipment necessary for ignition.

Lynch: I’ve noticed that there’s an awful lot of women in Spartan Company..

Antiope: Never send a man to do a job that a woman can do perfectly well: She’ll get it done quicker and easier.

Lynch: We’ll see--



Lynch: …..Well, that was quick.

Antiope: I told you so.

Valdez unrolls two wires from the satchel, taking several steps back before rigging them to a detonator. Antiope and Lynch step back, watching as Valdez prepares the detonation. Valdez flicks a few switches on the controller and the satchel ignites, a flood of white hot fire visible against the door and the circular handle. Within mere seconds, a blackened hole has been scorched against the handle and the locking mechanisms of the door, causing it to slide open slightly. After a few moments, a male soldier walks forward, grasps the door using gloved hands and pulls it open, revealing a clean, white metal corridor dotted with lights above.

Soldier: We have breached their defences, Ms. Antiope.

Antiope: Very good, Private Maguire. Fall back.

Private Maguire takes a few steps back as Lynch and Antiope take point, walking straight into the corridor and marching forward. The surrounding cold metal, as well as the silence, creates an eerie scene. Lynch grasps the M4 Assault Rifle, hanging from a lanyard across his body, and sweeps it up, turning the safety off.

Lynch: Get ready, Antiope.

Antiope [Quietly]: You feel uneasy too, huh?

Lynch: Yeah, I don’t like this.

Antiope; I don’t, either.

Lynch: Far too quiet.

Private Valdez: No corridors. No doors. Nothing. What could it be, ma’am?

Antiope: We’re breaching deeper into the mountain, I assume.

Lynch: But there was no room before this corridor: No processing facilities, no decontamination, nothing. Not even a lone goddamn guard post. If you’re in charge of a facility creating super soldier abominations, surely you have at least one guard post?

Antiope: Maybe it was a………Hm. Y’know, I don’t know.

Lynch and Antiope come to a hydraulic door, which slides open as soon as they move near it. Antiope readies her MP5, rushing forward and followed by Lynch who grasps his M4 Assault Rifle tightly.

Breaching the door, they are met by a fairly large room, appearing somewhat pristine aside from the fact that several filing cabinets, against the wall to their left, have been ransacked. Two computer terminals against the wall ahead of them have also been noticeably set alight and charred. To their right are five vats, filled with a clear liquid, empty and abandoned against the wall, without any tools or desks nearby. In the middle of the room is a single wooden desk with a laptop atop of it, although the laptop’s screen has been shattered, the HDD sitting to its right with several magnets near it, indicating a hasty attempt to erase its contents. Lynch and Antiope walk into the room, looking around: The same clean, white metal decorates the walls and floors, with the ceiling painted a mottled grey and covered with dust, the light-tubes hosting a variety of cobwebs. This, strangely enough, is the only sign of any disturbance within the room.

Antiope: It’s empty.

Lynch: ………It’s clean. No blood or anything.

Lieutenant Adler: Ma’am, this is nothing like Randolph encountered.

Lynch: Yeah, they knew we were coming. Notice how the computers are charred? Probably used thermite themselves to ruin it. Looks like they’ve removed all of the files as well.

Antiope: Spartan Company! Try and find everything and anything!

Spartan Company [In unison]: YES MA’AM!

Several soldiers quickly rush into the room, moving around the perimeter and scanning from floor to ceiling as they search for anything that could be used to find out what the laboratory was explicitly being used for. Lynch walks over to the vats, one of which reaches up to only his knee: He squats down, looking at it as Antiope stands beside him.

Lynch: It’s a vat of clear liquid.

Antiope: Yes, it is.

Lynch: What do you think was stored inside it?

Antiope: An anthropomorphic super soldier.

Lynch: Hang on, this vat is way too small for that….right?

Antiope: Maybe a hamster.

Lynch: A hamster-slash-human super soldier? That is..fucking terrifying.

Antiope: These vats are empty, though. But the wiring, the systems…it looks like they were in use until fairly recently.

Private Valdez: …Ma’am…What if they escaped…WITH the test subjects?

Antiope: That’s certainly a conclusion we may have to accept.

Lynch [Standing up]: Did they even stow them here? Looks awfully clean. I mean, I trust Randolph, and he said that it looked like a meat grinder had hit the place….so…what’s the deal?

Antiope: I don’t even see any medical equipment here. Maybe they escaped successfully.

Lynch: How could they have known? There isn’t a mole in the Academy, is there?

Antiope: I…..doubt it. But it’s something we may have to look into..

Lynch [Bitterly]: Well, that’s just fucking great….


Private Maguire: Nothing, ma’am. Everything has been picked clean: The only thing we have is this damaged hard drive.

Private Maguire walks over to Antiope, holding up a hard drive which looks to have been scorched and smashed. Antiope sighs, nodding.

Antiope: Very well then…Spartan Company! On me! We’re moving out!......Maguire, hold onto that.

Private Maguire: Right, ma’am.

Maguire stows the damaged hard drive into a pouch on her tactical vest as Lynch walks over to Antiope, who is walking towards the door.

Lynch: Nothing but empty vats, huh?

Antiope: Mm. How suspicious. It’s much too clean here.

Lynch: What do you suggest we do now?

Antiope: ….Well, these mountains are vast. We’re going to need to do some more exploring. I don’t believe for a second that whoever abandoned this base has made their way down into Grenoble or even out of the country.

Lynch: Do you really think there are more bases around?

Antiope: I honestly do. It makes sense to have multiple bases in a single mountain range. Bad news for us to have to explore, but good news for them….I’ll have Valdez analyse electrical signals and interference, maybe we can pick something up.

Lynch: There’s an app for that?

Antiope [Smirking]: There’s good equipment for that.

Lynch: And this base?

Antiope: The Polish will take care of it. Until then, let’s go down into Grenoble. Maybe we can spend Christmas in some comfort.

Lynch: I can’t shake the feeling that something ain’t right. This compound was way too small.

Antiope: I guess we will have to wait and see. C’mon.

Antiope walks through the door, followed by Lynch..


In Chicago, Illinois: Phil, Dean, Karab and Samuel are huddled inside the cramped armoire. Dean slaps a hand on Phil’s shoulder, nodding.

Dean: And that’s the plan.

Phil: That’s the plan?

Dean: That’s the plan.

Phil: And why am I the distraction?

Dean: So that your potentially violent and humorous death will one day make for a touching movie.

Phil: Sweet!

Dean: A straight-to-television movie on a channel like PBS or something.

Phil: Just be grateful that I am seeking a sudden, violent death.

Dean: If you’re lucky it’ll be sudden. I’m thinking it’ll be horrendously drawn out.

Phil: Hey, death is death. Just give it to me and let me shuffle off of this mortal coil for once.

Dean: Y’know, you shouldn’t be allowed near guns if you’re that depressed.

Phil: Why not?

Dean: You’d kill us!

Phil: Bullshit! Why waste a perfectly good bullet on someone like you?

Dean: Thanks!......I…..think?

Phil [Climbing out of the armoire]: Whatever, just get ready to kill her.

Phil turns to the door, pushing it open. Standing in the entrance hallway is the woman, walking towards the front door. Sensing Phil, she stops and turns around.

Phil: Hello.

The woman simply stares at Phil.

Phil: I’m supposed to be a distraction.

The woman keeps staring at Phil.

Phil: Do you know what I find strange? Fingers. I mean, look at these weird appendages.

Phil flexes his fingers.

Phil: Weird little sausage-like appendages on the end of our hands. Used to touch things and feel things. And stroke things. And…do things….Do you know what else I find strange?.,,,Uhh…..Teeth. Aren’t teeth strange?

Samuel: The man’s a natural when it comes to pointless, time-wasting filler.

Karab: How do you think this blog has gone on for so long?

Samuel: Not as long as the Naruto television series!

Karab: And the filler isn’t nearly half as pointless!

Both men laugh in unison.

Phil: And I really do think that fingernails are strange too. I mean, who thought of putting weird scratchy things on the end of these appendages?

The woman remains silent.

Phil: Whatever Dean’s plan is, I hope he does it soon, because I’m running out of shit to say! Hm…Say…What do you think of…tongues! Tongues are weird! Big meaty things sitting in your mouth that you can use to taste things! But you never taste yourself, isn’t that weird?

Samuel: So, Dean, what are you going to do?

Dean grasps his sawed-off shotgun, stepping out of the armoire.

Dean: Shoot it.

Samuel: A simple plan with almost no thought put into it: Definitely one of your plans, then.

Dean steps forward, raising his shotgun and aiming over Phil’s shoulder at the woman. Dean hesitates slightly as the woman raises her head, quickly lowering his gun as she slowly turns around and walks towards the front door.

Samuel [Hesitantly]: Dean.

Dean: I’m not even going to bother.

Samuel [Angrily]: DEAN!!

Dean: Fuck this!

The woman opens the door, walking outside and down the wooden stairs on the porch before disappearing from view as she walks away.

Phil: This is it, huh? We’re going to let a monster get away? I had so much more material, too..

Dean: Phil, I don’t want to die. I know that we’re all supposed to brave and virile young men who can conquer the world as lone wolves, but…I don’t wanna fucking die here. In some fucking abandoned house. In the middle of fucking nowhere. To this…thing.

Phil: What about all of the monsters you’ve stood up to? Like ghosts and shit?

Dean: ….Fuck it, I’m not dying here.

Phil: And if she kills again?

Dean: Who am I to judge? I’m a mercenary, baby, I kill for profit!!

Dean pushes the doors open, walking down the wooden steps and towards the Impala.

Samuel [Following Dean]: Dean, you can’t be serious?!

Dean: Very serious, Sammy: We’re getting out of here. Fast.

Dean climbs into the driver’s seat of the Impala. Samuel, somewhat reluctantly, climbs into the passengers seat. Karab climbs into the back, followed by Phil and Winston, Born Of Winstons.

Samuel: Phil, why are you and your dog here?

Phil: No reason.

Samuel: But don’t you have a van that you travel in?!

Phil [Quietly]: Mother had the Academy tow it away. Turns out that harassing your squadmates into buying tea isn’t the best thing to do.

Dean: How did she know?!

Phil: Somebody…ratted me out.

Ominous music. Dean quickly turns off the radio, looking over his shoulder at Phil.

Dean: Well….Whatever, if that thing ruins the seats, you’ll be paying for repairs and cleaning.

Phil: Just drive, little man.

Dean fires up the engine, turning left on the driveway and driving off.

Dean: And so ended the exciting hunting trip that Dean, Samuel and Karab took. Though they have not yet hung up their hunting shotguns, they will certainly think twice about attacking something that doesn’t have a clear weakness and that could kill them instantly.

Karab: Shut up, Dean. You’ve just doomed the entire city of Chicago.

Dean: Good. Nobody’ll miss Chicago. I wouldn’t sentence necrophiliac sex offenders to living in Chicago.

Samuel: That’s no excuse to see hundreds of thousands of people slaughtered, Dean.

Dean: It’s good enough for me. It’s almost Christmas and this is my present to the world: Chicago dies tonight.

Samuel: We can go home and have presents, eh?

Dean: We certainly can.

As they drive down the street, they slow down as they notice that, at a crosswalk, a nude young woman with feathered pink hair stands there, her red eyes glistening as she appears extremely confused.

Phil: Huh. Kinda looks like the murderous lass.

Dean: Huh, it does.

Girl [Beaming brightly at the Impala]: Myu!

Karab: Drive quickly, Dean, or we’re going to get sued.

Dean: Shit, I can’t afford lawyer fees!

Dean slams his foot down onto the accelerator, speeding down the road as the scene fades to black.

Saturday, 31 October 2015

Saga III Chapter IX - Family Misfortune


The scene opens in Fort William, Scotland. A sleepy town in the Highlands of Scotland, there is little noticeable PMC presence based in the town and surrounding villages, presumably due to how relatively isolated the town is. Sitting in a Ford Focus in the parking lot of an Aldi, Billy is sitting in the passenger’s seat next to his father, the grizzled James Wallace who is busy polishing what appears to be a loaf of French bread with shoe polish whilst wearing a thick olive green parka. Billy sighs, watching as he does.

Billy [Quietly]: What are you planning now, Dad? Didn’t you get enough money raiding tourist boats that you destroyed on the Firth?

James: Nah, this is something I need to sort out.

Billy: What could that possibly be? You have nothing to sort out.

James: I want my dole, goddammit!

Billy [In disbelief]: Wait a minute: You’re going to go and rob somebody for your dole?

James: Aye. Well, I’m gonna hold up the job centre.

Billy: You are going to hold up the job centre in order to have your seventy three pounds a week reinstated.

James: Aye.

Billy: Are you fucking drunk?! Why not just rob a bank?!

James: Too high risk.


James: Hey, I know, I just want them to unsanction me so I can get my fortnightly payments.

Billy: And you seriously, seriously think that holding them up at gunpoint will make them do that.

James: Aye.

Billy [Scoffing]: I mean, I don’t even know why I’m saying gunpoint: You’re using a fucking baguette that you’re polishing black and hoping that it resembles a gun at a distance.

James: Aye.

Billy; You must be fucking retarded.

James: Just trust me, my son.

Billy: No.

James sighs, shooting a sideways glance at Billy before firing up the engine.

James: Just trust me.

Billy: Stop saying that! Why should I?! You’re sitting there, polishing bread, wearing a trainspotting coat. I would say that you’ve hit rock bottom but I honestly think that you hit it years ago.

James: Shut up.

Billy: Then stop saying ‘trust me’!

The car reverses out of the Aldi, beginning to drive down the A82 towards its destination.

James: Trust m--

Billy: Why?! Why should I?! Give me one good reason!

James: When we eat hot food tonight, you will see the light.

Billy: Oh please, you’ll just buy a tin of baked beans and eat ‘em from the can.

James: Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, son.

Billy: It’s pathetic. It really is.

James: I don’t have anything else--

Billy: You’ve got the Moray Firth. Or have the gunboats started appearing to tell you to stop robbing tourists?

James [Coldly]: Shut up.

Billy: So they have!

James sighs, stopping beside a pavement and cutting off the engine, climbing out of the car and walking across the street towards a building with a lurid green sign reading “Jobcentre Plus” above it. Billy sighs loudly, stepping out of the car and following his father.

Billy: Dad, for fucks sake, think about this.

James: Are you ready, son?

Billy; No, but--

James barges through the door, pointing the blackened baguette at two PMC soldiers standing to the left and right of a small reception desk.


The two PMC soldiers standing beside the reception desk quickly raise their rifles, pointing them directly at James. James responds by ripping open his parka, revealing a homemade ‘bomb’. The bomb is actually several tins of ready-cooked mince in gravy with black fuzzy pipe cleaners haphazardly glued onto the top of them. Upon seeing this, the soldiers lower their rifles, with the one standing to the right stepping forward.

PMC Soldier [Sighing]: James Wallace, you have got to stop doing this.


PMC Soldier: Only one man is stupid enough to get sanctioned in Fort William: You. Only one man is stupid enough to even try and rob a Jobcentre, knowing that we don’t keep any money on the premises: You.

James [Angrily]: HOW ABOUT I SHOOT YOU?!?!

Billy [Walking through the door]: It’s not even a feckin’ gun, it’s a loaf of French bread covered in shoe polish.

James: Betrayed by my only son!!

PMC Soldier [Impatiently]: We knew it was fucking bread when we saw it.

James: YOU LIE!!!

PMC Soldier [Sighing]: Look, James, this is the third time we’re going to have to sanction you. If you do it again, you know that we have to inject you with SoP, right?

James: Seriously?

PMC Soldier: Seriously. Just….leave and accept your one hundred and twenty month sanction.

James: One hundred and twenty—THAT’S TEN YEARS!!!

PMC Soldier: Yep.


PMC Soldier: Rob a bank. Mug somebody. Steal candy from a baby and sell it on—Just do something.

James [in disbelief]: So you’re telling me that the British government would rather that I turn to a life of crime than claim benefits?!!

PMC Soldier: The British public would rather you do that too, thanks to the brainwashing of the Daily Mail.

James [Angrily]: How the feck is that rag still in circulation after Rupert Murdoch got literally crucified by the Australian government?

PMC Soldier: Ocelot bought it.

Billy: An angry, reactionary and bigoted newspaper aimed at sociopaths bought by Ocelot: Well, that makes sense.


PMC Soldier: Honestly, James, you look like a heroin addict. I’m surprised you haven’t died already.

Billy: He’s right, Dad.


PMC Soldier [Sighing and stepping forward]: Right, James Wallace, I will… [Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bundle of notes and pennies, looking through them]…hmm…..give you twenty two pounds and fifty six pence if you just fuck off and don’t come back for another ten years.

James: Sold.

The PMC Soldier walks over and hands James Wallace the money, which he quickly snatches and shoves into his pocket.

Billy: Can we leave now? This is just embarrassing.

James: Alright.

James turns around, walking out of the Jobcentre. Billy follows with his hands on his hips, sighing and shaking his head.

Billy: Well done, Dad: You have twenty two pounds to last you ten years.

James: And fifty six pence.


James shrugs.

James: I can shoot a gun. I can…………………..Hey, I can shoot a gun.

Billy: And?

James: I can shoot things.

Billy [Sighing darkly]: I don’t like where this is going.

James: Son, can I…tag along with you?

Billy: …You want to be a mercenary?

James: Aye. I can shoot things.

Billy: So you’ve said, but I was really fucking hoping you were just going to turn to a life of crime and not join us.

James: But son--

Billy [Bitterly]: Can you defend a house?

James: I can bloody try.

Billy: …..Then…..Ah, fuck it…..Well, I SUPPOSE we could use a guard for our house…..Come on…

James: Seriously??

Billy: The pay’s shit, the company you keep is alright and the location is shit. You get free food and lodging in the middle of a hot hellhole, and that’s it.

James: Better than staying here. Let me grab my shit and we can hit the road, my son!

Billy: And here I thought that you were wearing everything you owned.

James: The divorce was very tough on me and your mother--

Billy; Divorce? She smashed your knees in with a baseball bat, stole your shit and ran away.

James: Aye. I still wonder what happened to her.

Billy: She could have went to Siberia and it still would’ve been better than staying with you.

James [Coldly]: Mouthy little bawheid, aren’t yeh?

Billy: If you want to come along with me, then let’s go.

Billy turns around, walking over to the car and climbing into the drivers seat.

James: Hang on--

Billy: Shut up and give me the keys. If you want to tag along with me, you ANSWER to me. Papa.

James [Sighing]: Fine, whatever, anything for a hot meal.

James trudges forward, climbing into the rear seat behind Billy and sitting there, sulking slightly as Billy fires up the engine and drives away..


Moscow. Home of Liquid Ocelot and the Otselotovaya Khvatka PMC, one of the five strongest PMC’s currently operating. The Kremlin looms over the large square, standing tall over residents and tourists alike.

Standing in the centre of the square are Johnny and Tim, filmmakers-cum-mercenaries who are clearly enjoying their holiday more than others. Wearing black fur ushanka hats and thick woollen overcoats, both men gaze ahead at the Kremlin, with Tim appearing more in awe than Johnny, as Tim clutches his camera and snaps several pictures of the Kremlin.

Johnny: Haven’t you got enough pictures?

Tim: Not of this amazing landmark! And after this, we visit Lenin’s Mausoleum!

Johnny [Sarcastically]: Wow, the embalmed corpse of an old guy who championed the political leaning of choice for lunatics.

Tim: So, what would interest you?

Johnny: Mongolia. I want to explore the Steppes, dammit.

Tim: Well, we’re here now, so we should bask in the amazing sights of Russia..

Tim and Johnny turn around, watching as several female troopers wearing full face helmets and skin-tight armour walk out of the GUM Department Store.

Johnny: Huh. Haven Troopers.

Tim: Yeah. Haven Troopers.

Johnny and Tim stand still for a moment before Tim raises his camera and takes a picture of the soldier.

Johnny: What the fuck was that for?

Tim: I haven’t seen them in a while. Besides, here they are in their natural habitat.

Johnny: Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the Beauty and the Beast Unit in a fair while either.

Tim: I haven’t seen “Brew On The Mo’e” for a--

Johnny [Quickly]: Don’t. Just…don’t.

A young woman, with short and feathered blonde hair, wearing a skintight grey catsuit, strolls out of the GUM Department Store, following the Haven Troopers.

Johnny [Taken aback]: What the fuck?

Tim: Who’s the blonde chick?

Johnny: I have no idea.

Tim raises his camera, taking a picture of the blonde woman.

Johnny [Scowling]: Will you stop that?! You’re going to look like a bloody creep!

Tim: How can I be a creep? I’m just a tourist!

Woman [Beaming brightly and sprinting over, skidding to a halt in front of them]: TOURISTS?!?!

Johnny [Taken aback]: Uh…yeah.

Tim [Looking cautiously at Johnny]: Just here to see the sights…


Tim [Laughing nervously]: We certainly do.

Woman: HAVE FUN!!

Johnny: Uh..sure..

The woman twists around and skips away as Johnny and Tim quickly shoot eachother nervous looks.

Tim: What was that about?

Johnny: Just..don’t photograph that crazy bitch again.

Tim: Agreed.

Johnny: So, can we go to Mongolia now?

Familiar Voice: I’ve just come back from Mongolia. It’s a wonderful place.

Johnny and Tim turn around: Steve is standing there, now wearing a black fur ushanka alongside his tan trenchcoat, is also sporting a thick and wiry black beard, giving him the appearance of a rugged mountain man. Steve gives a tired smile and walks over, pulling his bulging rucksack further onto his back.

Tim: Hey, Steve!

Steve: Hey guys. So, how about this weather, huh?

Johnny: And these PMC’s, huh?

Steve: Yeah. PMC’s.

Tim: It’s all insane around here.

Steve: So why are you here?

Johnny: We’re tourists.

Steve: Enjoying the sights, smells and sounds of Moscow, eh?

Tim: Sights, smells, sounds and squatting Slavs!

Steve: And Ocelot.

Tim: LIQUID Ocelot.

Steve: Yeah, him.

Tim: Where?

Steve points across the Red Square, where Ocelot is slowly marching across a line of PMC’s, hands clasped firmly behind his back as his trenchcoat flows in the bitter October wind.

Johnny: Huh, we could probably kill him.

Steve: Did anybody bring their guns?

Steve looks at Johnny and Tim. Tim responds by lifting his camera and taking a photograph of Liquid Ocelot.

Tim: Well, the jokes on him: This camera has a shitty exposure.

Steve [Sarcastically]: Oh yeah, that’ll show him.

Johnny: No covert assassination this time, Steve, we’re just here on holiday.

Steve: Well, thank goodness he doesn’t know we’re here.

Tim: Haven’t you worked with him before, though?

Steve: This is why I grew the beard.

Johnny: Ah, so that’s why! I thought Phil had infected you somehow.

Steve: Nope, just disguising myself so I don’t get captured and potentially tortured to death.

Johnny: That’s a good plan.

Steve: Thanks.

Tim raises his camera, taking a second photograph of Liquid Ocelot.

Johnny [Sighing]: Will you stop that?

Tim: No.

The young blonde woman quickly bounces over, grinning at Tim.


Tim: Oh God, help…..Hel—HEY!!

Tim spins around, watching as Johnny and Steve quickly sprint away from the clearly deranged woman. The woman clasps her hands on his shoulders, quickly snatching his camera and pulling it from around his neck.

Tim: HEY!

Woman [Deathly quiet]: What?

Tim [Nervously]: Why are you taking my camera?

Woman [Quietly]: You’ve taken photos.

Tim: What? I can’t take photos?

Woman [Quietly]: No….Not unless you’re willing….to pay…the pri--

The woman looks up, watching as Tim sprints away. The woman chuckles quietly before bursting out into a fit of hysteric laughter…


In London, England, Maurice and Moe are still in charge of Pie Aye, Man, their pie and mash shop venture which doesn’t appear to be doing too well. Only one person walks out of the door with a paper bag in his hand, and that person is a Praying Mantis PMC soldier. Maurice sighs, watching as the door shuts behind him and a small bell rings in the distance. Moe walks in from the kitchen, wearing an apron and using it to clean his hands free from flour.

Moe: Gotta love it.

Maurice: Love what?

Moe: Business!

Maurice: Well, I don’t. The only customers we’re getting are bloody PMC soldiers.

Moe: Money is money, Wor Maur.

Maurice: I’m a bloody Geordie, I’m sure they shoot my kind here!

Moe: They’re our only customers, Maur….If they want to shoot, you’re going to have to let them.

Maurice [Sighing bitterly]: Why, man..why…

Moe: Why AYE, man.

Maurice: I miss Dick.

Moe: Why?

Maurice: Well, I miss Dick doing all the work.

Moe: Ah.

Maurice: But, still, business is good, at least.

Moe: We’ve only had four customers today.

Maurice [Stroking his chin]: Aye, I wonder if it’s tae do with that crowd we saw earlier..

Moe: You mean those protestors?

Maurice: Aye.

Moe: …The Vegan protestors?

Maurice: Vegan?

Moe: Yeah, they don’t like how London is still omnivorous. They want all butchers to be firebombed and all shops selling meat to convert into allotments for them to grow fruit and vegetables with names like zucchini and Satsuma.

Maurice: How horrifying.

Moe: It sure is.

Maurice: Still, lad, it’s not like they’re targeting us.

Moe: And why wouldn’t they?

Maurice: Cause our pies are pure class, mate.

Moe: Somehow, I don’t think that will stop vegans with a grudge.

Maurice: But once they get a taste of our macaroni and cheese pie, they’ll love it!

Moe: They’re vegans, they can’t eat cheese.


Moe; Now now, Maur, let’s not challenge people’s opposing viewpoints.

Maurice: I’ll fucking do it if I want to! Besides which, it’s not like we can challenge vegans because the only goddamn argument they have about anything IS THAT THEY’RE FUCKIN’ VEGAN. IT’S ALL THEY EVER SAY!!! Talking about chia seeds and flax and how they’re saving the planet. I’M saving the planet because it’s fuckin’ overcrowded and I’m killing off God’s creatures to make room for more humans and more food for them. Where’s my fucking medal?!

Moe: We got one for Shadow Moses, remember?

Maurice: Why did we nae get one for Big Shell and the Tanker?

Moe [Shrugging]: I guess being heroic is expected of us now.

Maurice: Well…fuck the wee bastards. What are they gonna do, firebomb the store?

Almost on cue, a mob of protestors, wielding placards with witty slogans such as “Turn butchers into vegetables (And by that I mean hit them so hard they enter a vegetative state)” and “The only bacon we like is ‘bacon’ with flour and egg substitutes”. The crowd began amassing outside of Pie Aye Man, shouting angrily and thumping their placards against the door and the windows to the left and right of it. Maurice and Moe simply watch, bemused.

Moe [Sighing]: You had to say it, didn’t you?

Maurice: Aw, fuck, it’s the vegans.

Moe: And we’re about to be attacked by vegans.

Maurice: All we want to do is sell pies, dammit!

Moe: I told you that we should’ve offered a vegetarian option!

Maurice: Who would have thought that they’d mobilise a fucking army?!

The mob begins to grow larger as several thuds are heard. Maurice and Moe watch as vegetables hit their windows, exploding and spraying the glass with rotten flesh and juices.

Moe [Panicking slightly]: Shit, they’re throwing vegetables!

Maurice: And here I thought they’d throw eggs!

Several of the group begin barging into the door. Moe rushes forward, grasping a wooden chair and holding it against the door as Maurice rolls clumsily over the counter, waddling forward and pressing his entire weight against the doors.

Mob Soldier One [Angrily]: MEAT IS MURDER!!!



Moe: These people are insane!

The doors continue to bow to the pressure as the mob do all that they can to try and force the doors open.

Maurice [Laughing in disbelief]: They want peace for animals and yet they’re willing to kill two lads for it!

Moe: Or feed us vegetables!


Moe: I can’t hold it for much longer!


Moe [Straining]: FUCKING HELP ME!!!

Several of the mob begin to slam sticks of celery against the door in a feeble attempt to break through the glass. A potato is thrown, however, and this proves enough to cause a tiny crack in the glass.


Moe: Don’t Brits love pie and mash?

Maurice [Bitterly]: Apparently they love bloody rabbit food now, lad!

Moe: So what do we do?


Maurice roars loudly, leaping straight through the window and shattering it, landing onto the Vegan horde…


Back in Mexico City, the red Mini Cooper holding Marcos, Melvin, Eligio and Bobby is awaiting its violent fate at the hands of Los Zetas. Staring down a Panhard armoured vehicle, as well as several armed cartel members, the mercenaries simply sit there, waiting for the end of their lives.

Eligio: Well, we’re doomed.

Bobby [Sighing]: Can’t you use your government contacts to come to our aid?

Eligio: Que?

Bobby: I thought you were with the PFM.

Eligio: They won’t help me! They’re fucking scared of Los Zetas! Nobody in their right mind fucks with Los Zetas EXCEPT THIS STUPID FUCK!!!

Melvin chuckles nervously. Eligio twists around, lunging over the seat and strangling Melvin violently.

Eligio [Angrily]: I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU MYSELF!!!!!!!

Bobby [Quickly]: For fucks sake, lads, calm down! Calm down!

Eligio [Hysterically]: WE’RE STARING DEATH IN THE FUCKING FACE!!!!!!

Marcos: Why haven’t they shot us yet?

Bobby: It’s Los Zetas: They’re probably going to hold us up, then drag us from the car and behead us.

Marcos: Great.

Bobby sighs, drumming his hands against the steering wheel before suddenly looking up.

Bobby: Oh, hey, it’s Halloween.

Eligio: Halloween.

The car falls silent. Suddenly, an ethereal whooping and hollering is heard far in the distance.

Bobby: It’s Halloween.

Marcos [Sighing in relief]: Thank goodness.

Eligio: IT IS HIM!!! IT IS—

Bobby: The Man in the Banana Suit! Or his non-union Mexican equivalent.

The mercenaries look ahead: Suddenly appearing behind Los Zetas stands the titanic form of a hulking figure wearing solid plate armor coloured yellow, with a green welders helmet and a green flamethrower tank strapped to his back. However, on top of his usual attire is a garish black and silver sombrero atop his welding helmet and a blue fanny pack around his waist.

Eligio: No, it’s just him on holiday.

The Man In The Banana Suit [Hollering]: I’MMA KILL Y’ALL!!!

Bobby: Even us?!

The Man In The Banana Suit: MAYBE!!!!!!!

Melvin: We should definitely get out of here.

The Man In The Banana Suit reaches behind him, grasping the nozzle of his flamethrower and turning to the group of cartel members to the left of Panhard, spraying them with flames. The cartel members quickly spin around, opening fire on the Man in the Banana Suit who doesn’t even reel from the shots, simply smothering several cartel members in flames. The Panhard’s turret spins around but the Man in the Banana Suit stomps over to it, shoving the nozzle of the flamethrower directly into the turret and firing flames into it.

Bobby [Laughing]: Look at the mad bastard go!

Marcos: Do you guys hear that?

The mercenaries listen closely, hearing the sounds of a helicopters blades slicing through the air.

Eligio [Sighing]: Ah shit, what now?

Over the horizon, peering over the tops of the rural buildings, a UH-60 Blackhawk flies over, hovering slightly in the distance.

Melvin: Aw, shit.


Bobby [Laughing]: I know that voice: It’s Mustafa!

Marcos: Goddamn, at least we’re safe now..

Eligio: I think we were safe when the Man in the Banana Suit showed up. Oh, and Bobby?

Bobby: Yeah?


Bobby: Hold on, then!

Bobby slams his foot onto the accelerator, the engine of the Mini roaring violently before speeding forward. Bobby jolts the Mini to the left, driving over the charred corpses of several cartel members as he dodges the Panhard, which now has the Man in the Banana Suit atop of it as he sprays flames down on top of it.

Melvin: Look at him go!

Bobby speeds towards the Blackhawk as it slowly lowers itself. With the cartel members and Panhard disappearing behind them, they speed into a small field where the Blackhawk is hovering inches above the ground. The side door slides open and out hops the hulking form of Johan, yet another mechanic from Beale Street. The Mini Cooper brakes, skidding to a halt beside the Blackhawk as the mercenaries climb out.

Eligio: JOHAN?!

Johan: Here to save you all.

Bobby: Man, are we glad to see you!

Johan: Hop in, hombre!

Bobby: What about my car?!

Johan hops out of the Blackhawk, rushing over to the Mini Cooper. In his hands he clutches a large circular magnet attached to several large, white squares of fabric by thick fabric. Johan sticks the magnet to the boot and the car, without warning, shoots straight into the air, the squares inflating almost immediately into balloons as Bobby watches, horrified.


Johan: Fulton recovery, hombre. We have a MC-130E Combat Talon flying over, and it’ll pick it up.

Bobby: How the fuck does that even work?! I’m literally watching my fucking car enter space!!

Johan: It’s complicated, but trust me: It works.

Bobby: If it doesn’t, you’re buying me a new fucking car.

Marcos: And hopefully not a Mini.

Bobby: Stop complaining, damn you! It’s a damn fine car!

Mustafa’s head peers from around the side of the door.

Mustafa: Come on! Hurry up!

Bobby: MUSTAFA!!

Mustafa: Get in the Blackhawk.

Eligio: But--

Mustafa [Firmly]: GET. IN. THE. BLACKHAWK.

Eligio: Alright.

Mustafa: Hurry! Los Zetas have anti-air weapons and I just polished this damn thing!


Mustafa: Not yet, motherfucker.

Eligio: Why?


Eligio, Bobby, Melvin and Marcos quickly climb in, followed by Johan who grasps the door and slides it shut. All four men quickly take seats, strapping themselves in as Johan sits next to the pilot, with Mustafa lying down on seats against the left side of the Blackhawk, placing his arms behind his head.

Johan: Let’s go, hombre!

The Blackhawk ascends into the air, beginning to fly forward.

Pilot: Sir, there appears to be a man in bright yellow armour firing his flamethrower into the air.

Johan: That’s just the Man in the Banana Suit. We won’t see him for another year yet.

Pilot: Alright sir. Where are we heading?

Johan: Cairo, Egypt.

The pilot goes quiet, examining his equipment and changing course as the mechanics begin their journey back home to Egypt.

Melvin: Man, what an adventure!

Eligio [Coldly]: Shut the fuck up. We just pulled your fat from the fryer. AGAIN.

Melvin: But it was enjoyable, right?

The Blackhawk falls silent as it continues to fly across Mexico. Melvin simply sits there and grins before the grin slowly melts away from his face, replaced by a somewhat fearful look as he simply looks ahead, falling silent with the others..


Back in Beale Street, Lynch is busy walking down the sand-covered road, his hands clasped behind his back. To his left, Mother walks beside him as they chat between themselves. Lynch looks up, glancing over at ReLoaded before looking at Mother.

Lynch [Calmly]: I’ve heard no complaints about Stephen. Which is worrying.

Mother: Why?

Lynch: This entire company is built on friendly hatred. I think he’s shutting himself away with the sugar glider. Or trying to, at least.

Mother: Well, it is natural to be wary of new company.

Lynch: And why the fuck haven’t you dismissed those Irish wankers yet? They’ve practically taken over the Lamb and Flag: You’d think it was Belfast.

Mother: The Irish work of their own accord. They are a PMC, after all, and I have no authority over them. I can merely invite them and do business with them: If you want rid of them, you know what you have to do…

Lynch: Kill the Irish? Alright then--

Mother [Sighing]: I wasn’t being serious, Lynch.

Lynch: Well, I was.

Mother: Lynch, we need to talk.

Lynch suddenly stops. Mother stops as well.

Lynch: That’s never a good set of words to hear from you….Just…what is it?

Mother: Lynch, please prepare yourself: We’re sending you out on a mission.

Lynch: What about the rest of the company? Most of them are still away.

Mother: You’re going to be attached to Spartan Company as a co-commander.

Lynch [Taken aback]: What? Why?! You know I prefer--

Mother: I know you have grown used to leading Reject Company but, right now, I need somebody of your expertise to help lead the company in Grenoble--

Lynch: France. You’re sending me to fucking France.

Mother: It is an operation that requires expert guidance and precision. I believe that you can provide it.

Lynch: With fucking Spartan Company?

Mother: Yes. With SpartanCompany.

Lynch sighs, putting his hands on his hips and clicking his tongue irritably against the roof of his mouth.

Lynch: Fucking Spartan Company..

Mother [Calmly]: Well, on the plus side, the children are beginning to return. Your Company may be here for your return.

Lynch: Great. Still going to fucking France though.

Mother: You will enjoy the mission.

Lynch: No, I won’t.

Mother: We will see.

Lynch sighs, putting his hands on his hips and gazing idly up the street, towards the smoke stack that rises in the distance. That smoke stack, little does he know, is being emitted from the Memeh-Porpington Manor, which once resided in Oxford but is now placed on a flattened sand dune. Within the main, grandiose living room of the manor, the brick fireplace is lit and on a leather sofa opposite of it sits James Wallace in nothing but his underwear and a vest, drinking from a can of Tennant’s lager as he gazes blankly ahead, with Billy sitting next to him wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. A door on the wall behind the sofa opens and Sal walks in, his nose wrinkling as soon as he looks at James.

Sal [Calmly]: Billy.

Billy: Aye, Sal. What’s wrong?

Sal: There’s a man who smells of alcohol sitting on the couch and for once, I don’t believe it’s you.

Billy: There’s a strange man who keeps hitting my shins with a cane when he walks past me.

Sal: That’s just my Grandfather.

Billy: And this is my father.

James belches loudly.

Sal: Nice to see that he’s just as housebroken as you.

Billy: Be grateful that he’s not shitting in the dishwasher. He’s done that before.

sal [Sighing]: Is he useful for ANYTHING?

Billy: Well……He can shoot things.

Sal: So you got me a paperweight that curses, drinks and shoots. He really IS your father!

Billy [Coldly]: Fuck you.

Sal: Anyway, where’s Vince? I haven’t seen that ugly son of a bitch for a while. Did he even go on holiday?

Billy: Let’s be real here, Sal: There’s only one place that Vince could ever have gone on holiday.

Sal and Billy [In unison]: Japan.

Sal: So, now that we know that: This guy’s your father.

Billy: Aye. James Wallace.

Sal: Is he useful for ANYTHING?

Billy: Paperweight.

Sal sighs, shaking his head.

Sal: But we’ve got Vince for that.

Billy: Anyway, speaking of useless things: How the fuck did you even get water and electricity to work here?

Sal: A lot of work. A lot of money.

Billy: Are there even any cables that you can tap into? And water….and gas--

Sal: I have my ways. Ways which are too boring to explain but which, you can be assured, work without any fuss. Quite magically so, in fact. In fact, you could even say that it is a miracle that it works.

Billy: But everything works? I’m not going to try and turn on the oven and blow us both to kingdom come?

Sal: I haven’t tried everything yet, but the shower works fine.

Billy: Well, at least something works….speaking of which….Dad, ready to defend the house?

James: Aye.

Sal: This thing can defend my house?

Billy: It certainly can. Just fill him with cheap booze and he becomes angrier than a neo-Nazi in a Chinese restaurant in America on Christmas Day.

Sal: That was a long winded metaphor, Billy..

Billy: Well, the fumes coming off of me pa are getting to my head.

Sal [Sighing and placing his hands on his hips]: Well, that’s no good..

Billy: I need a bloody vacation..

Sal: Haven’t you just had one?!

Billy [Angrily]: I’ve been babysittin’ this feckin’ drunk!!

Sal: Point taken…so…

Billy: C’mon mate, let’s just do SOMETHING. Hell, show me how you rich bastards live!

Sal: You’re already looking at how we live: Look upon it, ye mighty, and despair.

Billy: Seriously, Sal--

Sal: Alright, alright….Where can we go on a whim……..Right….Okay, yeah, yeah, YEAH! You know what? Let’s go to Japan and piss that son of a bitch Vince off.

Billy [Grinning]: Finally, a REAL holiday!

Sal and Billy walk out of the door in the living room as James simply sits there, drinking. Keenan, Sal’s grandfather, strolls into the living room, looking over at James.

Keenan: Have they left?

James: Aye.

Keenan breathes a sigh of relief, throwing his cane aside and walking over to the couch, jumping onto it and laying down.

Keenan: You look like a man who can hold his drink: Do you want to visit the pub?

James looks at Keenan, then his sandwich, then at Keenan again.

James: Pub?

Keenan: Pub.

James [Nodding]: Pub.

Keenan and James get to their feet, giving a mutual nod of respect for eachother before walking out of the mansion and slamming the door shut behind them as the scene fades to black..


I have posted something quite important on the News and Updates page. I recommend visiting it and reading it if you have a few moments to spare.