Harper | Second Civil War

"If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide." - Abraham Lincoln

SCENARIO: A House Divided 26 February 2028 — 14:30 Illinois → Gary/Chicago International Airport Gary/Chicago International Airport was strangely peaceful, for months the Indiana National Guard had used it as an active military field, yet it remained one of those increasingly rare places where Constitutional and Union troops could still cross paths without immediately reaching for their rifles, soldiers talked to soldiers, cigarettes changed hands, insults remained mostly harmless, nobody asked too many questions about which President the man across the tarmac considered legitimate, and, somehow, everyone managed to keep their fingers away from the trigger. That morning, however, something felt wrong, most of the Constitutional personnel had quietly disappeared, vehicles were gone, bunks emptied, maintenance crews had packed their equipment before sunrise, Harper noticed it, of course, but kept walking toward the provisional mess hall, listening as conversations bled together around her, boots hitting concrete, engines rumbling somewhere across the apron, radios chirping from open doors. "Hey Phil, heard the southern states finally decided to secede... again, as if the country wasn't already fucked enough," a young PFC muttered nearby, her insignia still looking almost factory-new. "Their National Guard's already dealing with it, bunch of pissed-off hillbillies aren't gonna—" Harper passed them, their voices disappearing behind her, another conversation replacing them almost immediately, this one coming from the logistics room, quieter, sharper, nervous. "Still nothing from the 178th, they packed their shit and left Chicago, Bartonville isn't answering, neither is Elgin, Kankakee's completely fucking silent..." "Try again, Morales, every frequency, every number we've got, if nobody reports within the hour, call me or the Captain." First Lieutenant Jackson stepped through the doorway, broad shoulders nearly filling it, his expression caught somewhere between permanent irritation and genuine concern, he looked across the corridor, spotted Harper, frowned. "Blackburn, you sightseeing?" "No, sir!" Harper snapped into a salute. "At ease, soldier, get something to eat, then report back, I want you and the rest of Nighthawk One-Three ready to move, weapons, ammunition, radios, everything, understood?" "Sir, yes sir." A few minutes later Harper dropped into a chair beside the rest of Nighthawk 1-3, rifle leaning against the table, plastic tray in front of her, whatever gray slop the Army had decided qualified as lunch steaming beneath her nose, around them people ate, argued, checked phones, complained about assignments, somebody laughed loudly enough to piss off half the room. "Hey, Harpy, heads up, President's giving a speech." "Which one?" Harper asked, not even looking up, still poking suspiciously at her food. "Old man Matlock, live from the White House." That got her attention, her eyes slowly traveled toward the television bolted above the far wall, half the mess already watching, conversations dying one after another as somebody turned up the volume. "...and that is why the United States of America must be truly united, for too long corruption has dictated the future of this country, for too long the rights and freedoms of the American people have rested not in democratic partnership, but in the hands of the few wealthy enough, powerful enough, to trample upon the very Constitution our Founding Fathers entrusted to us, and today, sons and daughters of America, I ask you, as a man, as a father, as a brother, stand with your fellow Americans, do not allow the few to triumph over the many—" "Oh shit." "Shh, President's about to finish, man." "Oh, shit." "Shut the fuck up, Miller." Private Miller wasn't watching the television anymore, he was staring at his phone, eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open, thumb scrolling, refreshing, scrolling again. "Denver just declared war on the Union." The mess went quiet, not gradually, not awkwardly, just fucking quiet. "On fucking Twitter." Harper's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Oh, fuck no. "Say sike, Private." Chairs scraped backward, trays were shoved aside, soldiers crowded around Miller, shoulders pressing together, everyone trying to read the same tiny screen, and there it was, bright, pixelated, refreshing beneath an avalanche of notifications. The rightful administration under President Irving will stand idle no longer, the American people will not tolerate another day of lies and treason, effective immediately, all Union military installations are ordered to cease operations, surrender their weapons, and submit to Constitutional authority, those refusing compliance will be brought under control by force— "What kind of pretentious fucking shit is this?" "Wait, wait, does that mean we're actually at war?" "Oh fu—" "GUNSHIP!" A soldier from logistics came crashing through the mess-hall doors, nearly slipping as he caught himself against the frame, face pale, chest heaving. "What?" "GUNSHIP, NOT OUR—" The world outside turned white, then orange. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. (i want you in my room, let's spend the night together :3) The first impacts walked straight across the flight line, one after another, hangars housing elements of the 122nd Fighter Wing disappeared behind fire, pulverized concrete and black smoke, windows buckled inward, ceiling panels dropped, trays hit the floor, soldiers threw themselves beneath tables, somebody screamed, somebody shouted for a medic, somebody else was already reaching for their rifle, then the base alarm finally began howling, long, mechanical, deafening. Harper was on her feet before she realized she'd moved, rifle in hand, ears ringing, heart hammering, smoke rolling past the windows, people pouring through the doors, officers screaming orders nobody could properly hear, somewhere outside another explosion punched through the noise, then another, and suddenly every unanswered radio call, every empty Constitutional bunk, every vehicle that had quietly disappeared that morning made perfect fucking sense. Five minutes ago, they were eating lunch, watching two Presidents argue over who still owned America. Now they were at war.

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"The nations is divided, half patriots and half traitors, and no man can tell which from which." - Mark Twain

SCENARIO: Point the Way 1st March 2028 — 22:16 Chicago City Days had passed since first contact at Gary/Chicago International Airport, the 1-151st and 2-151st had managed to contain the initial assault and drive most organized ACG elements away from the immediate airport perimeter, yet victory tasted like ash in the mouths of those still standing. What had begun as a fight around an airfield had spread across the metropolitan area like a match dropped onto dry grass, Union loyalists and Constitutional loyalists had taken to the streets, armed militias appeared almost by the hour, police departments struggled to determine whose orders they were supposed to follow, looters emptied whatever the fighting hadn't already destroyed, and mixed among all of them were people who simply wanted an excuse to hurt somebody. The 76th Mobile Brigade Combat Team was already looking beyond Chicago, however, because the attack had been too coordinated, too widespread and too early to have been improvised after the first shots were fired. Reports arriving from elsewhere were fragmented, other cities and military installations had been hit, communications with higher Union command came and went, and although the Union retained the loyalty of much of the federal military establishment, none of that mattered to the soldiers inside Chicago if those forces couldn't reach them. ACG formations were moving around the metropolitan area, roads east and south were increasingly contested, and what had begun as an attack was slowly becoming something considerably worse, an encirclement. By 22:00, what remained available of the 76th had been pulled together with whatever else could still move, elements of the 1-151st and 2-151st Infantry, 1-152nd Cavalry, batteries of the 2-163rd Field Artillery, MPs, engineers, scattered National Guardsmen and survivors from units forced north by the fighting. Nobody called it an organized concentration, it was simply everything Union command could gather before the pocket closed. “Listen closely.” Jackson's voice carried across the provisional command post, Captain Miller had disappeared shortly before the attack, leaving Jackson with a command he'd never expected to inherit. “Right now we're sitting inside a pocket, approaches east and south are compromised, the situation north isn't much better, the naval facilities have been hit, higher command is barely talking to us, and whatever picture they have of the rest of the country is probably already twenty minutes out of date.” He placed one finger against the map. “We are not holding Chicago until somebody decides to rescue us, we're opening the road ourselves, 1-152 Cavalry screens ahead and finds us the opening, 1-151 Infantry forms the forward element, 2-151 follows and keeps that opening from collapsing behind them, 2-163 gives us whatever fires they can coordinate, engineers keep the route usable, everyone else keeps this city from tearing itself apart while we're gone. Our objective is contact with Union relief forces assembling outside the pocket, once we make contact, we establish a corridor, supplies come in, casualties go out.” A murmur passed through the exhausted NCOs gathered around him. “Sir, with all due respect.” Harper stepped forward, her M7 resting against the familiar weight of her plate carrier. “These people have been fighting for hours, half of them have been pulling security between firefights, we're exhausted, we're understrength, and now you want us spearheading a breakout against the ACG? We're National Guard, sir, we're not Rangers.” Jackson stared at her for a moment, then looked around at the others before leaning across the table, both hands planted against the map. “You're right, Blackburn, you're not Rangers, and I'm not going to stand here pretending you are, but I'm also not going to wait until that pocket closes around Chicago like a noose. We push, we make contact, we open that corridor and we keep it open long enough for relief to reach us, MPs and whoever can still hold a rifle stay behind to secure the city, everybody else moves.” He straightened, raising one hand toward the darkness beyond the provisional headquarters, beyond Chicago, beyond the ACG lines surrounding them. “They've given us two choices, surrender here, or be crushed here.” Jackson shook his head. “We're doing neither.” His finger returned to the map, pointing south. “Point the way.”

Patriotism varies, from a noble devotion to a moral lunacy. - William Ralph Inge

SCENARIO: Operation Blue Monday 16th June 2028 — 10:00 Illinois → St. Louis Front The first Union armor was already moving when Nighthawk 1-3 received the order to mount up, vehicles attached to the 38th Infantry Division crawling west through southern Illinois beneath the distant rumble of artillery, the 76th Mobile Brigade following behind them, 1-151st and 2-151st Infantry packed along the approaches toward East St. Louis with engineers, logistics vehicles and whatever else the Union had managed to assemble after three weeks of reorganizing an army that technically wasn't supposed to exist. National Guard, Reserve and active-duty distinctions had become increasingly meaningless, Washington had federalized whatever remained loyal to Matlock, Denver had done the same beneath Irving, shattered formations were consolidated, transferred and rebuilt until both governments possessed something resembling conventional armies, and Harper had apparently gone from Indiana Guardsman to full-time infantry without anybody bothering to ask her. One weekend a month, my ass. Ahead lay East St. Louis, beyond it the Mississippi, and beyond that St. Louis itself, its skyline half-hidden beneath smoke, the Gateway Arch still visible through the haze like some cruel reminder of what the country had looked like a month earlier. Union elements of the 2nd Marine Division had been brought down from the Great Lakes and eastern commands to reinforce Blue Monday, some attached directly to the Army advance through the Illinois side, others preparing separate movements along the Mississippi to force the Constitutional defenders to spread themselves across the metropolitan area, while ACG formations held the Missouri bank and the approaches deeper into the state. Bridges, rail lines and the dense industrial ground surrounding the river had turned the entire St. Louis region into a natural battlefield, beyond the suburbs waited Missouri's wooded hills, farmland and smaller communities, territory increasingly painted red on Union maps. “Five minutes!” Harper checked her M7, brass, magazine, radio, IFAK, then caught herself reaching for the magazine again. Loaded, Harper, still fucking loaded. “Nighthawk One-Three, gear up!” Helmets went on, radios crackled, engines rose around them, somebody behind her complained about losing a glove and immediately received, “Don't worry, Marines are getting thrown at the Mississippi and Corporal Santos is defeated by a glove.” “Eat shit, Sergeant.” Good, still laughing. Ahead, Cyclone began moving, armored vehicles rolling toward East St. Louis one after another, tracks and tires kicking dust across the roadway while infantry columns followed in their wake, somewhere beyond them artillery continued pounding against the Missouri side. “Nighthawk elements, Cyclone is rolling, prepare to follow.” Harper climbed aboard and looked over her squad, the same people she'd trained beside, eaten with, bitched about drill weekends with, now waiting for her to tell them it was time to fight their way into another American city. Don't think about Matlock, don't think about Irving, don't think about who's waiting across that river, follow Cyclone, follow Command, watch your people, bring them home. Easy enough. BZZT. “Nighthawk, move behind Cyclone, Blue Monday is a go.” Harper made the sign of the cross, murmured something only God could hear, then released a long, exhausted sigh as the vehicles ahead began disappearing into the smoke. “Alright, Cyclone goes first, we follow the big angry metal boxes... good God.” The engine roared, the column lurched west, East St. Louis opened ahead of them, and across the Mississippi, beneath smoke and artillery fire, the Gateway Arch marked exactly where they were going.

"Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal background, the countless minor scenes and interiors of the secession war; and it is best they should not. The real war will never get in the books." - Walt Whitman

SCENARIO: Operation Blue Monday / Party in the USA 16th June 2028 — 15:30 Kentucky → Louisville Front → Market Street, west of Tucker Boulevard Five hours into Blue Monday, Harper had decided that whoever drew the little blue arrows on Command's maps deserved to be dragged out here and personally shown what one of those arrows actually looked like, because according to the map Nighthawk 1-3 was moving through a “contested corridor” west of Downtown, while according to Harper they were crouched behind an overturned delivery truck just off Market Street, several blocks beyond the last reliable Union position, listening to two different groups of Americans enthusiastically attempt to fucking murder each other. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. Rounds snapped somewhere above her, another burst answered from farther west, Harper instinctively lowered her head, M7 tight against her shoulder, then immediately became annoyed at herself for doing it. Fantastic, Harper, keep ducking, eventually the bullets will become embarrassed and leave. “Movement, second floor!” “I see it!” Harper leaned around the vehicle, caught half a silhouette behind a shattered window, fired twice, concrete dust kicked from the frame and the figure disappeared leaving behind a Rorschach against the conrecte wall. Another string of rounds cracked against the vehicles around Nighthawk practically crawling into the gutter. BRRPT. BRRPT. CRACK. CRACK. “Recon and support, my ass!” Someone shouted, either Santos or Miller, the closer to her yet the voice could be barely heard under the fire. Not that Command had given them much choice, somewhere ahead was a Marine reconnaissance element attached to the 2nd Marine Division, one of several Marine units committed alongside the Army during Blue Monday, they'd been pushed west earlier that morning, back when Cyclone's armor was still advancing fast enough that everyone at headquarters apparently believed the pretty arrows on their maps, their destination was BLUEBIRD, a temporary Union communications relay established inside an evacuated municipal building near 16th and Clark, close to the Gateway Transportation Center. The site itself wasn't particularly remarkable, what Command had left inside apparently was, encrypted communications equipment, authentication material, updated operational data, enough sensitive shit that when the Union advance stalled and BLUEBIRD suddenly found itself ahead of the line, somebody decided Marines needed to reach it before the Constitutionals did. Cross Tucker, find the Marines somewhere around Fifteenth, reach Bluebird, recover Command's incredibly important mystery boxes, get everyone back across the line. Easy. Except Cyclone hadn't reached them, the morning advance had fractured into a dozen separate pushes, Constitutional troops had filtered back into supposedly cleared streets, Union infantry was rotating through temporary posts behind them, and the Marines had missed two scheduled check-ins, which naturally meant somebody needed to go looking for them. So naturally, send fucking Nighthawk. Harper changed magazines, slapped the bolt release, then checked the magazine again before catching herself. Loaded, Harper, still fucking loaded. BZZT. “Nighthawk One-Three, Marine position believed west of Fifteenth, BLUEBIRD remains unconfirmed, Constitutional activity increasing around your sector, proceed at your discretion.” Harper stared at the radio. Proceed at my discretion. Oh, fuck you. Gunfire suddenly erupted farther along Market, much heavier this time, several rifles answering almost simultaneously, followed by the unmistakable hammering of a machine gun, then something exploded behind the buildings around Clark, black smoke beginning to climb above Downtown West. That was where the Marines were. Probably. Hopefully. Because if she'd dragged Nighthawk past Tucker Boulevard, halfway toward Union Station, through three different supposedly friendly checkpoints and into a neighborhood Command couldn't even confidently color blue anymore, only to discover they'd been following six particularly enthusiastic Constitutional soldiers, Harper was going to personally walk back to headquarters and beat somebody to death with their fucking map. “Sergeant!” Harper looked up, Miller had his rifle braced against the hood of a wrecked sedan, staring west, beyond the intersection smoke drifted between office buildings, abandoned cars and storefronts, Market Street disappearing through the haze toward the fighting, somewhere beyond it lay Clark, Fifteenth, the Gateway Transportation Center and BLUEBIRD, somewhere among all of that were the missing Marines, and between Nighthawk and them were Constitutional troops whose numbers nobody seemed capable of giving her. Great. Absolutely fucking great. Harper looked around at Fireteam Bravo, exhausted, dirty, scared, still staring back at her, because apparently being Sergeant meant everyone got to look at you whenever all available options were terrible, while Fireteam Alpha was God knows where, theoretically north their position to draw fire, possibly already dead between an overtuned food cart and an alley.. “Alright,” she muttered, mostly to herself, “cross Market, find the Marines, reach Bluebird, save Command's super-important mystery bullshit, don't die, come home.” Santos glanced toward her. “You say something, Sarge?” “Nope.” Another burst ripped across the intersection, rounds striking somewhere ahead, immediately followed by answering fire farther west, close enough now that Harper could hear someone shouting between the buildings. Marines. She made the sign of the cross, quietly mouthed the beginning of a prayer, then raised her M7 and stared across the street. God, you handle the important part. I'll handle the fucking intersection. “Nighthawk, get ready to move.”

"A man will fight harder for his interests than for his rights." - Napoleon Bonaparte

SCENARIO: Dancing with the Angels 4th July 2028 — 07:40 Illinois → Interstate 55 → Springfield Operation Blue Monday had been the key turning in the lock, after the recapture of St. Louis the Union finally possessed a foothold from which it could pressure the Constitutional heartland, and Washington wasted little time exploiting it, Union air power began reaching deeper into ACG territory, military infrastructure around Kansas City, the Upper Midwest and the central front came under increasing pressure, supply depots were relocated, transportation networks disrupted, militia formations scattered away from obvious assembly points, yet Denver hadn't simply sat behind its lines waiting to be bombed, HAMMERFALL had been Irving's answer, beginning while St. Louis was still burning, coordinated Constitutional missile strikes fell across Union territory, air defenses intercepted some, others missed as targeting information became obsolete, enough found their marks to make the name infamous almost overnight, communications facilities, military infrastructure and government sites were struck, and suddenly every headquarters between Chicago and Washington wanted to know where the missiles were coming from. One answer was Springfield, Union intelligence had identified a Regional Mobile Fires Command operating throughout central Illinois, not some convenient field filled with missiles waiting to be bombed, but a dispersed network of mobile launchers, communications vehicles, supply elements and command posts constantly shifting around the Springfield sector, its central command hub containing something Washington wanted considerably more than another destroyed launcher, HAMMERFALL's communications architecture, targeting records, authentication systems and intelligence that could reveal the locations of other batteries, Washington wanted the whole fucking thing intact. By June 30th, Joint Task Force Liberty had been assembled for exactly that purpose, elements of the active-duty 3rd Infantry Division formed its heavy maneuver component, the 38th Infantry Division provided screening, reconnaissance and security forces, Union-aligned air elements covered the advance, while buried somewhere within Liberty's organization was a small detachment of Union-loyal of the 1st SFOD-D, men and women everyone had simply started calling Liberty Black, whose mission apparently began wherever everybody else's ended. Which, naturally, was how the 76th MBCT had ended up driving north along Interstate 55 toward Springfield on the Fourth of fucking July, Nighthawk moving ahead of the heavier 3rd ID formations while flat Illinois farmland disappeared beside the convoy, grain silos, scattered houses and tree lines breaking an otherwise endless horizon, smoke occasionally climbing somewhere ahead. Nighthawk wasn't supposed to capture the command hub, Liberty Black had drawn that particular privilege, the 76th's job was considerably less glamorous, move ahead, reconnoiter the approaches, establish a security screen around the sector, identify Constitutional concentrations, secure routes for the follow-on force, then get Black close enough to slip through the net and do whatever classified bullshit Delta Force apparently did once nobody else was allowed to watch. So basically find everything dangerous, make sure it shoots at us first, then deliver Delta Force to the important part, fantastic. BZZT. The voice of Captain Jackson came out through the headset of every soldier of the 151st Infantry Regiment. “Nighthawk elements, Nighthawk Actual, Black is moving, maintain screening positions and prepare to receive special-mission element, Raider remains behind your line, heavy support available.” Harper glanced through the rear opening, somewhere among the vehicles behind them rode men she'd never been formally introduced to, no dramatic uniforms, no speeches, no skull masks or other Hollywood bullshit, just another handful of tired Americans carrying rifles, except apparently several thousand soldiers, aircraft and armored vehicles were currently rearranging central Illinois so those particular tired Americans could reach one particular building. “So we're recon now?” Miller asked. “We're whatever Command needs until somebody remembers we're infantry.” “And Delta?” “Package delivery.” Santos snapped his head so fast that she thought he was about to unscrew it from his neck and stared at her. “We're delivering Delta Force?” “Apparently.” “To a missile command hub?” “Yep.” “On the Fourth of July?” Harper slowly turned toward him, sighed, checked her M7 and dead pan stared at his eyes. “Don't say it.” “That's pretty fucking patriotic.” “God help me.” Ahead, the first edges of Springfield began appearing beyond the fields, vehicles started separating from the column, radios came alive as Nighthawk elements spread into their assigned screen, somewhere behind them the heavy formations of the 3rd ID continued north, somewhere closer Liberty Black was already moving, Harper raised her rifle, looked toward the city and released one last exhausted breath. Happy Independence Day.

"An emperor's an entertainer, an empire a super-show." - Emperor Nero

SCENARIO: American Carnage 15th September 2028 — 16:47 Colorado → City of Denver, Capital of the American Constitutional Government The Union had abandoned caution, months of attrition, economic collapse and an exhausted population had reduced Washington's strategy to one objective, end the war before there was nothing left to save. Captured HAMMERFALL assets had been turned against Constitutional military infrastructure, Kansas and Missouri had fallen after weeks of brutal fighting, organized ACG formations withdrew west while militias and isolated loyalist pockets remained behind, and by September the front had finally reached Colorado, Denver was the heart of Irving's government, and Washington intended to take it. Colorado had become the largest concentration of American military power since the war began, Infantry Divisions fought across the approaches to Denver, armored and mechanized formations smashed against one another along highways and suburbs, artillery thundered from both sides, Union and Constitutional aircraft fought overhead, while Rangers, special-mission units, National Guard remnants and patriotic militias filled whatever gaps remained. Americans fought Americans with almost identical weapons and equipment, formations that had trained together only months earlier now recognized one another through colored tape, painted markings and shouted challenges. The Union's heavier divisions had been tasked with breaking what remained of the Constitutional Army, while smaller and highly mobile brigade formations, among them the 76th MBCT, were pushed through every opening they created, securing roads, towns and government districts, cutting off retreating formations and tightening the net around Denver. Washington had made one thing painfully clear, the Constitutional leadership was not getting away, cabinet officials, senior commanders and other high-ranking members of Irving's government were to be captured alive, detained and eventually brought before Union courts, every report of government convoys or aircraft attempting to leave Denver sent another mobile formation racing to close the gap. Rumors claimed Irving himself was preparing to flee, perhaps west, perhaps even out of the country, Constitutional broadcasts furiously denied it, yet abandoned government offices, unanswered command channels and officials simply disappearing from public view weren't exactly helping their case. The ACG was slowly eroding itself, some formations surrendered without orders, others continued fighting until their positions disappeared beneath rubble, commanders vanished, militias replaced regular troops at checkpoints, contradictory orders flooded the radio, yet thousands remained willing to fight for Denver. Nighthawk had drawn one of the more aggressive assignments, Misfit 1 and Misfit 2, two Ranger squads from the 75th Ranger Regiment, had been attached to their element, the arrangement simple enough, Misfit moved ahead and wrecked whatever attempted to form another defensive line, Nighthawk followed close behind, secured whatever they opened, established the net and prevented anyone important from slipping through it. BOOM. The Denver skyline flashed orange. “RAIDER'S THROUGH! ARMOR'S MOVING!” PRAAP. PRAAP. PRAAP. An American IFV burned beside another American IFV, one carrying Union markings, the other Constitutional red, bodies scattered between them while infantry disappeared through smoke, somewhere behind Harper the heavy formations were still tearing each other apart, Abrams against Abrams, Bradleys against Bradleys, artillery answering artillery, while Nighthawk was already being pushed forward through the breach. BZZZT— “Nighthawk One-Three, Misfit One moving on your left, Misfit Two taking forward position, continue toward assigned sector, Constitutional command personnel reportedly withdrawing, leadership targets are capture only, repeat, capture only.” Harper watched the Rangers disappear between burning vehicles, moving fast enough that keeping up with them was rapidly becoming its own fucking mission. “Misfit Two, Nighthawk, you're getting ahead of us.” BZZZT. “Then walk faster, Nighthawk.” Harper stared at the radio. Oh, I'm going to fucking love these guys. Another explosion rolled through Denver, somewhere ahead Irving might already be running, somewhere behind her thousands of Americans were still killing one another over whether he had ever been President at all. “Harpy! We're moving!” Harper tightened her grip around the M7, looked toward the burning city and followed. “Alright, Nighthawk, move your asses, Misfit's gone to wreck shit up, apparently we're holding the pieces.” One last fucking city, please, God. Let it actually be the last one.

“I scorn their hatred, if they do but fear me.” - Emperor Caligula

SCENARIO: The Soul of the Nation 22th November 2028 — 01:11 Maryland → Federal Capital City of Washington D.C, Capital of the Union of America Months of attrition had changed the war, Irving's commanders reorganized their forces into smaller formations of professional soldiers and trained militias, some holding the front, others slipping behind Union lines and attacking from the rear, forcing an already overstretched Union to fight in both directions. After the Constitutional invasion of Virginia and another wave of HAMMERFALL strikes, Washington pulled whatever forces it could toward the capital, the fighting stretching from York through Baltimore and into Washington itself, bridges around Alexandria and Arlington were destroyed or continuously contested, armor prowled the suburbs, infantry occupied apartments and government buildings, drones and aircraft fought overhead, while smoke covered a skyline that increasingly resembled something out of the apocalypse. Bodies and destroyed vehicles drifted through the Potomac, streets had become fields of broken concrete and burning cars, soldiers and civilians died together, Union, Constitutional, Guard, Active Army, nobody looked particularly different once they were dead. The 76th MBCT was moving north to reinforce the collapsing positions toward Baltimore when the convoy entered the ambush. PRAAP. PRAAP. PRAAP. “CONTACT LEFT!” BOOM. “CYCLONE ONE HIT! CYCLONE ONE HIT!” The tank ahead disappeared behind fire, infantry poured from their vehicles as rounds cracked across the road, someone crawled from Cyclone One completely engulfed in flames, staggering blindly between the wrecks while screaming. “DISMOUNT! FUCKING DISMOUNT!” Harper hit the pavement, M7 already raised, “Santos!” she turned toward him, checking that he was still beside her, he looked back for barely a second. CRACK. Blood sprayed across Harper's face, Santos grabbed his neck, red pouring over his darker skin tone, stumbled and collapsed into her arms, the warm liquid slipping through his fingers. “No, no, Santos, look at me, MEDIC!” She pressed both hands against the wound, blood slipping between her gloves, his mouth opening without producing anything except a wet choking breath. Don't you fucking dare. “MEDIC!” BZZZT— “All Union callsigns, all Union callsigns, Washington Command declares CONDITION BLACK, Constitutional forces have penetrated the outer defensive sector, repeat, outer sector has been penetrated, all available formations are ordered to hold present positions.” Another explosion shook the street, Harper looked down, Santos's hand had gone loose around her sleeve, for a moment she simply stared, then lowered him onto the asphalt, picked up her rifle and looked around, burning armor, terrified Guardsmen, civilians running between buildings, aircraft screaming overhead, Washington burning somewhere behind them. Matlock, Irving... Look what you've done. “Harpy! Orders?!” Miller dropped to one knee beside her, his eyes lingering on the Corporal’s body for only a moment before he reached down, pulled Santos’s dog tags free, and pressed them into Harper’s bloodied hand. Harper wiped Santos's blood from her face, only smearing it farther across her cheek and slipped the tag in the inner pocket of the chest plate. “Washington says hold.” “And if Washington falls?” She chambered another round. Ka-ching. “Then we make sure there's still someone left to argue about who was fucking President.” “Nighthawk, on me!”

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