Bad Company

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Dawn came.

The fighting has ceased. Bodies by the thousands, belonging to both sides of the fight, laid upon the ground, frigid and cold. Recon aircraft slowly soared above the barren desert wasteland, monitoring what life there might be. A minute amount of radio chatter arose from a few corpses. Bullet chamberings rested in the bloody ground, the golden sheen embossed by the scarlet of the blood.

Footsteps came into the silent scene, and four men walked into the improvised graveyard. Armed to the teeth, they surveyed the area like a lion looking upon his kingdom. They had orders to check out this epidemic, and they were reluctant to do this task. They were all sickened by the goriness of the battle. Off to the side, a group of bodies had a mass of flak, dust and blood around them.

"Why did we get sent to do this shit?" The corporal spoke with a despising tone. "Well Delta, who else is going to do it? It's a fucking wasteland, and we're the best damn team available," the proud squad leader announced. "Eh, wouldn't say that Cap'n, Squadron 11 has us in a headlock at the moment."

"Beta, if I wanted one of your signature pep talks, I would have asked for it."

The fourth man was an inspector. He was instructed to record any observations and judgements he made of the team.So far, he had listed:

- Excessive firing at enemies

- Trash talking each other.

- Foul language common

And the list grew. One hand covering his nose as he tried to repel the stench of many a rotting flesh piles, and one hand on a digital clipboard. He disliked his job tenfold, no, ONE-HUNDRED fold more than Squadron 7.

"These sons of bitches are as dead as my great-aunt Sally. There aren't any surviv--" As he spoke, a hostile entity arose from a pile of dead bodies. He screamed with all his might and charged Alpha, the captain of the squad, with a knife. Alpha stood motionless as the foe made confident strides towards him. The blade made clean contact with his armor plating and shattered. The fear-stricken terrorist looked at the shaft and cringed. 

"Your turn." said Alpha with a sly tone.

As much time as it took for the terrorist to breathe, he held a handgun to his stomach and pulled the trigger. Fifty calibers of pure destroying firepower overwhelmed his entire body. The downed foe took three or four gasps of air and fell to the ground along with the other rotting corpses.

"He had it coming, he really did."

 As they finished the search and destroy mission, Delta, one of the senority members, approached Alpha and discussed what had just transpired.

"Alpha, there is no doubt you're one of the best troops out there."

"You seriously think that, Delta?"

"Who doesn't think that? You executed that filth with so much ease."

"I'm sure I'm not the only one who has that skill."

"If so, they sure as hell don't utilize it."

"Well shit, I'll keep it up then Delta."

They parted ways and executed part two of the mission. Or, as Squadron 7 calls it, their "happy time."

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