28-04-2025, 01:00 AM
Battle of Ketia, April 17th, 5637
Private First Class Mason Kerr kicked in the half-splintered door and rolled into the room, his H8A3 rifle up, heart pounding against his ribs like a drum gone mad.
The air was thick with smoke and burnt plastic. Somewhere a woman screamed, sharp and short, and the crack-crack-crack of gunfire echoed off the broken concrete bones of Ketia.
Kerr’s squad, battered and dust-smeared, spilled in behind him, weapons scanning, nerves razor-wire tight. The city was a goddamn maze — every alley a killbox, every window a whisper of death.
But they were making ground. Inch by goddamn inch. “Clear!” Kerr barked, and his team echoed it, voices harsh and clipped.
He knelt by the broken frame of a window, eyes scanning the smoking street outside, his breath coming hard through his respirator. A pair of Leopard 2H7Es clattered past, turret guns swiveling side to side like angry gods looking for something to punish. Across the ruined plaza, movement. Not Kundrati — no. Kerr felt it before he knew it: the hard, clean movements of allies. A squad of Davostager Coastal Rangers swept through the rubble, their slate-grey battle fatigues smeared with the same dirt and blood as his own. They moved low, tight, fast — professionals. A different flag, but the same look in the eyes: men who knew what it meant to kill, and what it meant to lose friends.
“Coastal Rangers!” someone shouted from Kerr’s squad.
A breathless, honest grin tugged at his face under the sweat and dirt. He pushed out into the open, weapon up but loose, and met them mid-street under the crumbling remains of what used to be a schoolhouse. Their sergeant, tall, blonde, eyes like polished steel, clapped Kerr on the shoulder so hard he nearly staggered.
“You fucking Hutorians take your sweet time!” the Davostager barked, voice rough with smoke and laughter.
Kerr laughed, quick and sharp, clapping him right back. “We’re here to save your sorry asses!”
The Davostagers roared with laughter, even as mortars thudded in the distance. Old enemies once, so very long ago. Back when Davostag and Hutori had clashed in places Kerr only read about in history. But that was dead and buried. Now, side by side. Brothers in all but blood.
“We’re pushing east!” Kerr shouted over the thunder, jabbing a thumb down a narrow alley choked with debris. “Supposed to cut ‘em off at the square!”
The Coastal Ranger sergeant, Anders, Kerr caught the name tag, nodded sharply. “We’ll cover your left! Stack and move!”
No hesitation. No questions. Just trust. Like they'd been fighting together for a lifetime. Kerr motioned his squad forward, heart hammering, sweat slick under his body armor. He could feel Anders’ men flanking them, rifles barking short controlled bursts, clearing windows and side streets with brutal precision. Every step forward was a small victory over fear, over memory, over the ache that said maybe they wouldn’t make it. In the corner of his eye, Kerr saw a Davostager gunner yank a wounded Hutorian corporal out of a collapsed shopfront, slinging the smaller man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, bullets sparking off the broken pavement around him. Brotherhood wasn’t about treaties or papers. It was about shit like that.
"Go!" Kerr bellowed, voice raw, waving his fireteam through a blasted-out storefront. His boots crunched over broken glass and charred children's toys.
They cleared another block, then another. The map burned in his brain: Saint Genevieve Square dead ahead. A machine gun chattered from a rooftop — Kundrati. Close. Kerr dropped flat behind a burnt-out car as rounds chewed the air overhead. And then — an explosion! A Coastal Ranger, cool as hell, lobbed a grenade into a second-story window. A half-second later, the whole building belched smoke and flame, the machine gun falling blessedly silent. Kerr scrambled up, grinning like a madman. He found Anders already sprinting past him, waving his men forward.
“Come on, Hutorian!” Anders roared, laughing, “Slow bastards don’t win wars!”
Kerr whooped and charged after him, the street a blur of motion and gunfire and heart. They hit Saint Genevieve Square like a hammer, crashing through the Kundrati defenders who hadn't even had time to regroup. Side by side. Old enemies, new brothers. Carving a piece of hell out of Ketia, one bloody step at a time.
Private First Class Mason Kerr kicked in the half-splintered door and rolled into the room, his H8A3 rifle up, heart pounding against his ribs like a drum gone mad.
The air was thick with smoke and burnt plastic. Somewhere a woman screamed, sharp and short, and the crack-crack-crack of gunfire echoed off the broken concrete bones of Ketia.
Kerr’s squad, battered and dust-smeared, spilled in behind him, weapons scanning, nerves razor-wire tight. The city was a goddamn maze — every alley a killbox, every window a whisper of death.
But they were making ground. Inch by goddamn inch. “Clear!” Kerr barked, and his team echoed it, voices harsh and clipped.
He knelt by the broken frame of a window, eyes scanning the smoking street outside, his breath coming hard through his respirator. A pair of Leopard 2H7Es clattered past, turret guns swiveling side to side like angry gods looking for something to punish. Across the ruined plaza, movement. Not Kundrati — no. Kerr felt it before he knew it: the hard, clean movements of allies. A squad of Davostager Coastal Rangers swept through the rubble, their slate-grey battle fatigues smeared with the same dirt and blood as his own. They moved low, tight, fast — professionals. A different flag, but the same look in the eyes: men who knew what it meant to kill, and what it meant to lose friends.
“Coastal Rangers!” someone shouted from Kerr’s squad.
A breathless, honest grin tugged at his face under the sweat and dirt. He pushed out into the open, weapon up but loose, and met them mid-street under the crumbling remains of what used to be a schoolhouse. Their sergeant, tall, blonde, eyes like polished steel, clapped Kerr on the shoulder so hard he nearly staggered.
“You fucking Hutorians take your sweet time!” the Davostager barked, voice rough with smoke and laughter.
Kerr laughed, quick and sharp, clapping him right back. “We’re here to save your sorry asses!”
The Davostagers roared with laughter, even as mortars thudded in the distance. Old enemies once, so very long ago. Back when Davostag and Hutori had clashed in places Kerr only read about in history. But that was dead and buried. Now, side by side. Brothers in all but blood.
“We’re pushing east!” Kerr shouted over the thunder, jabbing a thumb down a narrow alley choked with debris. “Supposed to cut ‘em off at the square!”
The Coastal Ranger sergeant, Anders, Kerr caught the name tag, nodded sharply. “We’ll cover your left! Stack and move!”
No hesitation. No questions. Just trust. Like they'd been fighting together for a lifetime. Kerr motioned his squad forward, heart hammering, sweat slick under his body armor. He could feel Anders’ men flanking them, rifles barking short controlled bursts, clearing windows and side streets with brutal precision. Every step forward was a small victory over fear, over memory, over the ache that said maybe they wouldn’t make it. In the corner of his eye, Kerr saw a Davostager gunner yank a wounded Hutorian corporal out of a collapsed shopfront, slinging the smaller man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, bullets sparking off the broken pavement around him. Brotherhood wasn’t about treaties or papers. It was about shit like that.
"Go!" Kerr bellowed, voice raw, waving his fireteam through a blasted-out storefront. His boots crunched over broken glass and charred children's toys.
They cleared another block, then another. The map burned in his brain: Saint Genevieve Square dead ahead. A machine gun chattered from a rooftop — Kundrati. Close. Kerr dropped flat behind a burnt-out car as rounds chewed the air overhead. And then — an explosion! A Coastal Ranger, cool as hell, lobbed a grenade into a second-story window. A half-second later, the whole building belched smoke and flame, the machine gun falling blessedly silent. Kerr scrambled up, grinning like a madman. He found Anders already sprinting past him, waving his men forward.
“Come on, Hutorian!” Anders roared, laughing, “Slow bastards don’t win wars!”
Kerr whooped and charged after him, the street a blur of motion and gunfire and heart. They hit Saint Genevieve Square like a hammer, crashing through the Kundrati defenders who hadn't even had time to regroup. Side by side. Old enemies, new brothers. Carving a piece of hell out of Ketia, one bloody step at a time.