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The AdvAnTAGE Project: AdvAnTAGE Commando Catechism

By Mantrid Brizon

(06/20/2021)

All alone and shrouded in darkness, the weary soldier clings tightly to his M4. The batteries of his EOTech holographic sight have long since died. If only he hadn’t lost the spares during their previous raid. Glancing at his worn rucksack, he wishes it had even the tiniest crumb of food, but he’d eaten the last of his rations nearly three days ago. He’s almost as hungry as he is tired. Exhaustion doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels. In the past three days, he’s enjoyed as much as three hours of sleep. When was the last time he’d dreamed?

Compared to the severity of his hunger, the thirst is even worse. He’s resorted to filtering muddy water through a torn piece of his BDU, whenever he can find it; for the past two days he’s had nothing but dew to collect from leaves. His entire body feels as though it is slowly turning to dust. His tired eyes blink one after the other, his body subtly trembling as it runs on empty. If he can just make it across the line, he’ll be safe and this will all be over. The thought of being able to eat a real meal, to take a drink and then lie down in a warm, soft bed is all the motivation he needs to press on.

Using the butt of his rifle to push himself up, he makes his way toward the line. Gunfire echoes in the distance so he must keep himself low. Creeping through the shrub, he glances at his hands. He’s light enough to be easily seen in the dark, and so he sets his weapon aside and digs his fingers into the muck, which he then smears over every part of his exposed body. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done this. The unfortunate reality is that genetics and biology matter, especially in such a life-or-death struggle as this; he cannot afford to take any chances.

Collecting his M4, he keeps it close to his chest, resting it on his forearms as he crawls on his elbows and knees. Slowly but surely, he inches his way toward the last of the enemy lines. He’s already traversed several trenches and covered much of No Man’s Land, sleeping rough in the craters left by the bombs. This was only after a month-long campaign with his platoon, deep in the jungles and behind enemy lines, raiding encampments and villages and destroying all that came in their path. As he crawls, his empty canteen shifts, pulled down by the weight of a pouch holding his last loaded magazine.

Startled by the sudden sensation, he twists his torso and glances down, snapping a twig. With eyes wide and teeth clenched, he freezes in place, listening for any enemy combatants who might’ve heard the subtle but distinct noise. Just when he’s certain he remains undetected, a shadowy figure passes by, only feet away. There’s no use hiding now, not when they’re on the hunt, as he knows they are. The fear is palpable, but succumbing to fear does not a survivor make. Lifting his rifle, his finger caresses the trigger. Just come a little closer...

BANG! The muzzle flash lights up the night as the round just barely grazes his target. He lets out a frustrated growl as he pushes himself to his feet. Why did the batteries on his only sight have to die? He has only his skill and his natural night vision to aid him. Hastily taking aim, he fires two more rounds, striking his target in the upper right chest and grazing the neck. Falling backward and disappearing behind some brush, the young soldier has no time for pride in his marksmanship. He dashes through the darkness as the gunshots ring out.

Making out a faint outline in the distance, he realizes he’s found the line. Barbed wire runs across the ground before him, vestiges of the farmland that once was, before the great war. Hastily diving into the muck, it splashes, giving away his location. With an enemy in the midst, the rival soldiers open fire. Machineguns let loose, spraying hot lead downrange like a firehose. They whiz and snap as they stream over the barbed wire, which is just barely high enough for the poor soldier to crawl under. His heart races almost as fast as the streams of lead.

As he wriggles, shoving his way through and toward the line, a barb catches him. He’s stuck! Glancing back, he pants as he feels the panic setting in. No. Control yourself, soldier! He examines himself, quickly but carefully. He’s snagged on the pouch that contains his empty canteen, which has slid around to the small of his back. Lying flat on his belly, he yanks a hand away from beneath his rifle, nearly snapping his own finger, and reaches for the buckle of his pistol belt. The shouting voices of his enemies are drowned out by the ear-splitting sounds of their machineguns and rifles.

A whistling draws his attention. Mortars are incoming! BOOM! The shell explodes only a few meters away. The debris lands on his back, falling into his ears and over his eyes. Trying to control the overwhelming fear, his shaky hand finally manages to remove the clasp of his military issued pistol belt. He crawls away from the fallen pouch, only to realize too late that he’s just abandoned his last magazine! Hopefully, he won’t be needing it. After crawling beneath the volley of bullets, around the craters and through the swampy, fetid water of a seemingly endless battlefield, the ground gives way.

The soldier and his M4 tumble into a trench. Even his night vision couldn’t reveal the well-hidden trench between the broken and battered earth. He looks to and fro, hastily collecting his trusty weapon. Seeing a shadowy figure to his left, he takes aim and fires. The round strikes their shoulder, sending the enemy soldier to the ground. Turning to the right, he races down the trench. He’s so close now! Seeing an opening to his left, he pokes his head inside and finds a small room. Two figures await him. Bang, bang, bang, click! Though he’d taken care of his enemies, his rifle has run dry.

Closing the bolt and slinging it over his shoulder, he dashes through the trench, only to see a junction. Trying to take the shortest possible route to reach his platoon, he makes a left, but after only a few dozen meters, the trench turns into a tunnel. Opening up into an old, half-ruined pillbox, he finds the door that separates him from his platoon, who should be just across the line, in their own territory, just beyond this fortification. The sliding steel door is controlled by a single, red button, mounted to the concrete wall.

He slams his palm against the button and the door begins to rise. His heart sinks, however, when the dim lights flicker and sparks fly from the control box; the door ceases to function. The gap is barely five inches tall! He looks back at the door. He can’t allow himself to be caught unarmed by his enemies. Their voices are clearly heard as they search for the lost soldier. Turning back toward the door, it slowly slides shut. Perhaps it’s not locked into place by the damaged motor? Perhaps he can lift it?

Approaching the door and squatting down, he tries to keep his back straight as he struggles with the door. At first, all he can do is hold it in place, but tapping into his adrenaline, he feels a burst of energy. For that brief moment, he gains superhuman strength. Gritting his teeth and grunting as he lifts with all of his might, he moves the twelve-hundred-pound steel door until he has a nearly four-foot gap. With the voices extremely close, possibly even right around the corner, he lets go of the door and dives under.

He turns to push it down but abandons this plan when more gunfire erupts, chipping away at the concrete interior of the pillbox. Dashing in a zig-zag pattern, past what was once a machinegun mount, he dives into the muck of a small river. It runs brown and red, filled with the muck of war and the blood of the wounded. The original dividing line of the battlefield, the little river is but a shell of its former self. Ripping down some cat-tail plants, he holds them out to his right, making larger waves before moving to his left. It draws the attention of the enemies, allowing him those precious seconds to slip into the darkness.

He crawls for what feels like hours, before finally finding a new trench. It’s empty. How did this happen? Did the company leave him behind after his platoon returned without him? Was he the first to make it back? Could he be the lone survivor?! Walking carefully through the trench, he worries that perhaps the enemy has taken more ground. This could be their trench, now. Finding a magazine lying in the dirt, he examines it. It matches his weapon, and contains at least three rounds. Promptly reloading, he holds the weapon close to his shoulder, keeping it in the low-ready position as he scans the darkened trench for any signs of an impending attack.

Reaching the command center, he pokes his head inside. It’s empty and dark. Moving toward the final door, the entrance to their barracks, he reaches out with a shaky hand and presses it against the large, red button. This time, it’s not from fear that he tremors but the total lack of energy. As the door slides open, he’s met by two men, neither of them armed.

“Congratulations. You made it.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, the soldier lowers his weapon.

“Tags.” One of the men in a clean, olive drab BDU asks, holding out his hand.

Taking the disc-shaped pendant from around his neck, the soldier presents it to the stranger, who he assumes is a superior.

“Adrian, eh? Well, let’s get you inside.” The man begins.

“And try not to track mud on our clean floor.” The other jests, smirking at the soldier.

Taking his rifle away, they lead him through the tunnel and into the main room of the command center. He hasn’t seen it in well over a month, and though he wasn’t fond of it when he left, now it’s the most beautiful place he’s ever seen. Passing his weapon to the quartermaster, he looks at it with shock.

“Damn, son! Looks like you took this thing through the fires of hell!”

“Heh...” The soldier nods.

Continuing through the complex, the soldier finds himself entering a briefing room. There sits the highest-ranking officer, at a relatively simple desk. An opened laptop sits just to his right.

“General Davis, sir!” The two men stand at attention.

“At ease.”

With a wave of his hand, the General brings the soldier closer, before directing him toward a chair. It’s a simple chair constructed of molded plastic and steel tubing, like those often seen in public schools, though this one is caked in the muck of many others who’ve returned before him. Only now does it begin to sink in.

“Well, well... Adrian... We were worried we’d have to send a team in there to get you.” General Davis begins, a sternness in his voice.

He stares at the soldier with the look of a father who’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“All of your peers finished ahead of you. The last one was oh-eight-thirty, yesterday. It’s twenty-three-fourteen...” The General continues.

The soldier can only bow his head, both out of respect and shame. Taking out a manilla folder, General Davis flips through the pages.

“According to this, your scores are also rather low. You allowed yourself to run out of rations before moving from the camp, you dropped several important tools, the least of which was the spare batteries for your weapon, and then you ran out of ammo without clearing the trenches of every enemy. That negates 50 points, right there! Your last few targets were also not clean kills. The others faired better... Overall, you scored on the low side: 934 out of 1,000 targets cleared, and an average of 1.4 rounds per kill, when you made kills, that is. About the only thing impressive is the fact that you made it through alive and that you lifted the door in your current state. You AdvAnimals are certainly resilient.”

Glancing over the paperwork for a moment, the pair sit in silence. Turning his attention toward the small laptop sitting at an angle near the right side of his desk, General Davis presses a few keys. He moves slowly and methodically.

“Heh... I don’t mean to be so harsh on you, all things considered, but your just about at the bottom of the list.” He finally remarks.

Turning the laptop to face the rabbit AdvAnimal, Adrian’s tall, perky ears droop. There he sits, soaked through his fur and nearly down to his bones, caked in putrid muck and smelling like a beast who hasn’t seen a shower in a year, and yet somehow, he’s failed to measure up. His peers all left the camp after failing to receive orders, while he stayed and waited, loyal to the commander who they waited for and never arrived. He had no idea that this was the final test. Only when faced with death from starvation or dehydration did he even consider the possibility of leaving, nearly a day after the last of his platoon had already gone.

Now he looks at his photo, next to his name and identification number, in a spreadsheet that tallies his results in ‘The Catechism’, their name for the final test. Those who past The Catechism with high marks are given positions in the standing military and paired with human platoon leaders. They occupy their time with more training, while waiting to be sent to Welcome centers, where they’ll finally be allowed to partake in the world of the humans. Adrian, however, may never enjoy such comforts.

Those with the lowest scores, he’s heard, receive menial jobs and are not immediately considered for Welcoming. The rumor is that they’re saved for any potential shortages, should Phase Two be more successful than Sovereign Six had anticipated. That doesn’t exactly instill him with confidence.

“I’m sorry, son, but with scores like this, I’ll have to relegate you to the maintenance crew. Your IQ test was incredibly high, one of the highest for males, so you’ll probably end up with a tech position. No guarantees, though.”

Adrian closes his sapphire eyes and leans back in the chair, the caked mud chipping away as he cranes his neck and stares at the ceiling. The females, who consistently score much higher than their male counterparts, often receive guard duty or maintenance as well, but they’re paired with human partners and allowed to mate, to bond themselves to their humans. Adrian knows that won’t be his fate. It’s one thing to be granted a mate and live on-base, in a private house which you share with said mate, and performing a simple, downright menial job. It’s another thing entirely to be kept in a barracks, denied any real privileges and be barred from being Welcomed into a human citizen’s home.

“Maybe if you train harder, you can join up with the next batch and see if you improve. If you can wait six months, we’ll fast-track you into the Welcoming program. By then, Phase Two will be well on the way.” General Davis speaks in a startlingly soft, fatherly voice.

Lifting his head, Adrian looks to the old human in the fancy uniform, his chest covered in medals and badges. Unable to answer in words, much like the others of his kind, the rabbit man merely nods his head. It’s clear to General Davis that the AdvAnimal is disappointed. Just because they were created with the spliced DNA of humans and animals doesn’t mean that they don’t comprehend and understand as well as any human; Adrian regrets but fully accepts his failure. With a motion of the General’s fingers, the two men collect the weary soldier-in-training and stand him to his feet.

“I don’t know which you’re going to get, but due to these scores, prepare yourself for either the maintenance crew or guard duty...”

“Ugh...” Adrian grumbles.

“I know. I’ll try to see that you land alright, son... Better luck next time.”

With a rather dismissive wave of his hand, General Davis sends them away. The human soldiers don’t bother to taunt or berate the AdvAnimal. They’ve grown rather close to their pupils, and seeing one of them failing is always hard. Instead, one pats him on the back, while the other tells him, quietly, that everything will be alright. General Davis, though an older man, is still quite spry and has all of his senses. He overhears them as they make their way to the door.

“Make sure Adrian gets some R&R before you send him back, okay?” He remarks.

“Yes, sir.”

Only moments later, the AdvAnimal and his escorts leave the room. Sitting back in his chair, General Davis sighs and slowly shakes his head. If only he could tweak these scores, but he cannot alter the spreadsheet; his computer doesn’t have access. With the final participant of ‘The Catechism’ now accounted for, the General reaches into a pocket of his jacket and pulls out a cell phone. It’s time to report in.

“Hello, General. How did it go?” The Old Man asks.