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[June 14th] —--

CAMP

Sanford Georgia, United States of America - July 2009

Dylan had never expected to find himself sitting by a trash can fire, but here he was. The spring weather had been wet and cold, but now the sun was weakly shining down upon the densely packed collection of tents, huts and shelters that filled the Sanford stadium. It had been six months since the surrender at Rome. Since then, he'd been subject to the POW system of the invaders. Shepherded about Georgia, even into Alabama for a few weeks in a holding camp, before he'd been sent to the Sanford stadium for “filtration". That was nearly three months ago. The overcrowded stadium had been his home since. Filled to the brim with US military personnel of various departments and captured from various battles. He didn't know how many there were, but it was a hell of a lot of them for sure. The POW camp even spilled out into the surrounding grounds of the Athens college. Kilometers squared of misery. He sat in his uniform, which managed to get washed roughly once a month, and watched the fires burn at the fuel stuffed inside the can.

Had he ever pictured this? Living in a relief tent, eating UN food aid out of a mess tin while burning trash for extra warmth? Probably not. Then again he'd not imagined a second US civil war either. He glanced up at the grayish sky, seeing a distant flight of aircraft making their way across. Probably bombers or transports on their way to the fighting east. There was food, but not enough as he'd like. Most of the time he just quelled his aching stomach with watery coffee, like the stuff currently swilling in his metal cup. How did this all get to this? Going from sitting in his own home, wondering about the little things, if he'd be able to go and see his family for the holidays. Thinking about his college going wrong, and how he could have done it differently. He hadn't heard from his family since the war began. No clue if they'd been affected by anything, when the phone lines were a mess and the internet was partially crippled. He hoped they were okay, that they had food. He'd heard something about food riots in California and Portland.

As the sun rose and the warmth returned, he left the trash fire. Everywhere there were uniformed prisoners, sitting around, smoking what cigarettes they could find, or preparing for the food queues at the ration kitchen. That was where he'd go later, for his sickly bowl of porridge and watery coffee. Mud squelched under his laceless boots as he walked down the mucky passage, towards the shipping container that was allocated to him. Inside was dark and musky, with a single bulb giving faint light as the occupants awoke. There were some of his original unit from Rome, mixed in with a bunch from the Alabama National Guard. Camp cots with donated blankets filled the space alongside a few old tables.

“What is it?" Grunted Montes, sitting up from his sleeping bag. His face looked even gaunter, his BDUs faded. Dylan waved the sheet from a newspaper in his arms. Some British rag, from two days earlier.

“They said something about a big fight in Nashville" Dylan reported.

“They're calling it some sort of victory, but it could be some more euro propaganda bullshit. TANG could have wrecked their asses"

Montes lay back down with a resigned sigh “There's nothing in it for you, reading any of that shit"

“Well I gotta keep hope somehow" Dylan felt his anger spike as he sat on one of the tables, looking through the printed words. Mentioning French and German units and towns in Tennessee that had surrendered or been swept up in fighting. Food riots in Memphis. A big air raid in Knoxville. “There's got to be someone still fighting. Still holding out"

“For what? So we can keep fighting amongst ourselves?" Montes half mumbled from his camp cot, staring up at the rusted ceiling.

“You really don't care" Dylan couldn't help but keep the note of disgust out of his voice. “About anything"

“All I care about is getting hot food and drinkable water" the soldier sighed dejectedly. “Everything else can go fuck itself at this moment"

Dylan bit down his anger and turned away. He tossed the newspaper sheet onto the table and gripped the edges. He hated it here. He felt like he was rotting. His stomach growled, his teeth felt loose. And the constant humiliating looks that the French soldiers assigned to their prison have them. The looks of contempt. The smugness of victors. It wasn't supposed to be like that. The land of freedom and democracy shouldn't have succumbed to that sort of thing. Yet it had. The others were getting up now, pulling on boots or civilian shoes to go out and join the queues for food. Some were more enthusiastic than others, believing or knowing they would be processed out soon. Others were dejected and near catatonic. Sleeping their days away in squalor. He saw Butler getting up, shooting him a look of contempt. Most of his temporary squad from Rome hadn't forgiven him for the moment he'd pointed his rifle at them in anger. He roused Moore from her own cot, her eye now bandaged and as silent as ever as she let him lead her out and away for food. Helicopters rumbled overhead as more of the prisoners filled out of their crude accommodation.

He filed out later. The others were talking about attempts at contacting family, some successful, others less so. Reminiscing about sports or discussing what home cuisine they were going to eat as soon as all the supply lines were fully back up and they'd gone home. So he walked by himself through the squalid camp, listening to the buzz of radios and thinking about the state of his country. When he could, he tried to get newspapers or listen to news broadcasts. No chance of TV reports here. There had to be some sign of resistance. Sure there was heavy fighting still and sometimes there would be news of resistance against the enemy. There was the Arkansas quarantine zone after all the fighting there. A French destroyer and two Royal Navy supply ships being sunk in an air attack outside Savannah. Fighting in Alabama and Kentucky. A successful submarine raid on a German-Spanish convoy coming into Virginia Beach. Fuel dumps being hit by artillery fire in Harrisburg.

But they were always outshadowed by the victories of the invaders. There'd been a big engagement at Yonkers the previous week and something about a 3rd UK Division. Seeking out the truth among all the propaganda was hard, but it didn't sound good. Photos of British anthro troops posing on burned out Abrams tanks or by downed F16s. And then there was the ongoing civil conflict. In some places, neither side of the 2nd American Civil War had stopped killing each other once NATO attacked. He passed close to the stadium wall and heard the rumble of buses outside. Likely more prisoners for the processing areas. How many of these camps were there across the occupied states? Probably as many as there were FEMA, REX-84 and refugee camps. He'd seen plenty of those, both on the retreat back to Rome and during his processing by the French Army. Full of despondent and hungry civilians, looking for safety. Of course, that hadn't stopped the refugee camps from burning when the civil war had started.

Dylan dragged his feet, kicking at cigarette ends and clods of mud. It was all so infuriating. What were they even going to do with them here? They were prisoners of war, so surely they'd be released at some point? He didn't believe some of the insane rumours about forced concubinage, sex camps or forced labor in grungy mines. That had to be bullshit. Sure there were always the stories of how hormonal those crazy animal women were, but they never would go that far, right?

He carried on, past one of the metal watchtowers that surveyed the whole prison, the anthro guard within watching through the scope of her rifle. Life was a strange limbo now, waiting to be “processed" or of news about the ongoing war. It was something of an improvement from the start, before the “Police Action" where there had been riots on the TV day after day, bodies and executions all over the internet and empty stores and panic buying as the country reached boiling point and erupted into infighting.

As he passed by a stack of containers, he suddenly felt something seize him and drag him into the shadows behind them. He smacked into the wall with a blur of pain, the wind rushing from his chest. He spun around expecting to see a group of desperate prisoners attempting to shake him down. The attacker was far too big for that, and his blood ran cold at the size of her. It was dark- he couldn't see much. But it was some sort of feline. She grabbed him by the throat and forced him up against the metal container. “Play nice" she hissed in a throaty Gallic voice. There was an animal stink about her- thick and musky, that made his eyes water and his throat itch. Her eyes burned brightly in the low light, teeth shining as she wetly ran her tongue over her lips before she pushed forwards and licked down the side of his face- its barbs scraped roughly against his skin. Dylan's body flooded with panicked andrelaine and he went to yell for help, only for the feline paw to clamp over his mouth.

“I bite your neck- before you finish" the anthro's english was poor, but he got the message. “Now be good boy"

He made out glimpses of her greenish webbing and holstered MAC 50. Large plump breasts straining at a uniform and scruffy unkempt hair. Some sort of large feline- a tiger? No, a lioness. She grabbed at his pants and pulled them down. He groaned, trying to resist, attempting to kick with his legs only for her to pin them down with her lower body. His attacker's hot animal breath grew quicker, excitement filling her. He could feel her claws start to dig into his skin. “Mmmmmm, petit homme pathétique, vous avez besoin d'une bonne pause" she crooned, licking him again before reaching down to forcefully squeeze at his grimy pants.

Oh god, fucking no. It was like he was in a daze, unsure of what was happening to him. His throat was dry and heart was pounding as he realized he was to be violated. Panicked thoughts flooded his mind, thoughts of running, fighting her.

“Bitch!" he hissed back and tried to shove. He squirmed in her hands like a fistful of vipers, attempting to claw himself free to run away. All the lion had to do was start to squeeze his limbs, her muscles flexing. He could feel the sheer power in her leonine limbs that could snap his neck like a twig. In an instant, his surge of defiance and hatred died down, back into terrified fear.

“Please…. Please don't" he managed to beg before she ripped his pants away, exposing his member and balls, the thick fingers cradling his softness- massaging it until it began to grow hard against his will. “I don't….. I can give you anything-"

“Shut up, salope" she hissed, giving his head a backhand slap that sent his ears ringing before he was thrown from the wall onto the ground. “I want you, you little fuck"

He tried to crawl away in a burst of survival panic, she seized him and dragged him back, before pulling down her own trousers about her heavily muscled thighs. He was on his back, looking up as the stink of animal musk washed over him. He felt her legs on top of his own, forcing them apart as his traitorously erect cock was suddenly gripped by an intense force. Dylan tried his best to block it all out, to imagine he was somewhere better. Back home with his family- coming in for dinner to see everyone, all the troubles forgotten. But he was soon dragged back to earth by the clamping grip of her feline cunt, the stink of her fur and the thick drool which splattered onto his face. Her claws cut into his clothing as she began to pound him, his thighs buckling and shaking with the power of her thrusts. She moaned and hissed, relishing the sensation of him inside her. Or was it her relishing the sensation of his terrifed squirming, the fear and horror in his face as she pinned him down with such ease and fucked him.

It was like being attacked. Crushed by her weight, pricked and cut by her claws and battered by her frenzied thrusting. His body absorbed it like a beating as he felt himself approaching some sort of climax. And he despised it. Over and over he managed to curse her, to want nothing more for this stinking animal to stop, to be killed, to be set on fire and cut open. All of them, every single one of the foul beasts, the fleabags who had come to his country to kill his people and burn it to the ground. And he hated himself for what his body was doing against his will. Dylan was never sure exactly how long it was. It felt like hours of humiliating torture. But by the time they had both climaxed- her after him, he was bleeding from cuts and scrapes about his shoulders and hips, his chest was bruised and burned with his constricted breathing. Her juices soaked about his groin, trickling down his legs. Gasping like a fish, he felt her grunt and get up, hoisting her pants back up over her sopping cunt. He couldn't stand. His legs and thighs were too abused to let him. His throat was dry, but he felt ready to vomit. Her stink was all over him. Dylan was nothing - not human - a broken dirty object. He was unclean now, tainted by her. “Bon…" the cat chuckled, before unbuckling the pistol and testing the weight in her hand. “I should really shoot now- put you down." she told him. “But I'll leave you for camps" her mocking laugh sounded through the air as she slipped the handgun back away. “Then you wish I did shoot"

With that, she turned about from her broken victim, tail curling behind her, as Dylan felt his gorge rise. He couldn't help but vomit across the floor. She threw something at him while he stayed down on his knees and elbow, and it skittered across the floor.

"Payment. For good human whore."

It was an MRE.

Queensland, Australia - June 2020

Asche growled, her eyes narrowing into hateful points and she bared her fangs. Her paws balled into fists, her knuckles bleeding as he punched the lithium rock walls hard enough for a few chunks to rain down. She looked down at the shivering human, who was rocking back and forth, and all the hatred she felt faded away.The Aardwolf kneeled down and picked him up, holding him tightly against her.

“Shhh… It's okay, FANG… Everything's alright Maddock… You're safe. I've got you. And no one besides me is ever going to hurt you again."

[June 30th]

TENT / TEXAS

Florida, United States of America - March 2009

Asche sat on her cot, looking over maps of the combat area and their assigned patrols.

"Ma'am, permission to enter?"

The aardwolf hybrid turned towards the flap of her tent, where a short spotted hyena was standing at attention. "Bush? Oh. Yeah, permission granted."

The smaller male hyena stepped inside, looking up at her with those big brown eyes. "Permission to speak freely?"

"Permission granted." Asche said, getting off her cot and making her way to her kettle and pouring herself a styrofoam cup of dark sludge. "Coffee?" She offered.

"I'm good, sergeant."

"Wish I had more condensed milk, this shit's black as tar."

The little hyena perked up and ran out of the tent, returning a few minutes later with an ammo can. He opened it up and pulled out a tube of condensed milk, offering it to her.

"Thanks, private." She said, before looking inside the container. "Gottverdammt, that's quite the haul."

"I'm Lactose intolerant." Bush explained. "Can't eat half the shit in the field rations we get."

"Why didn't you tell me? I'll keep it in mind when we distribute main courses from now on."

"...I didn't want to be a burden."

"Ensuring one of my soldiers has a proper diet isn't a burden, dumbass." She said, sipping on her coffee.

"So... uh..." the hyena nervously stammered.

"Yes, private?"

"...can I sleep on your floor tonight?"

"Aren't you bunking with Struwe?"

"They're uh... 'Fraternizing' with one of your gefrieters right now."

"Ugh. Is that so? Well, atleast it's not the kinda shit I'm hearing out of the French units." She shook her head. "Yeah, you can stay here for now."

"Thanks Sarge. You won't even know I'm here." He said, quietly sitting on the floor and pulling a radio hobbyist magazine out of his ammo box stash.

Asche continued looking over her maps for about a half hour longer, before sighing and reclining on her cot. She looked over to the bored hyena sprawled out on the floor, flipping through his magazine. "You want to do something to pass the time?" She asked, pulling her trunk out from under her bed.

"Uh... sure!"

She looked around to make sure no one was within earshot, then whispered "You know how to play Magic Die Zusammenkunft?" Asche lifted a few deck boxes out of her footlocker, illustrated with Elves, Dwarves, Goblins and Faeries.

"I uh, played a little in secondary school. I remember you have 15... no, 20 life, draw a hand of 7 cards to start, you draw a card each turn except the first, and the goal is to get the other wizard down to 0 life?" The hyena said, looking over the boxes. He picked up the one with an elf on it. “That and you tap the lands for Colored mana to summon your spells, and you can only play one land a turn."

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. Also you can only play stuff on your turn unless the card is an instant..." She said, opening one of the boxes and retrieving a puncture bolt from it. "...like this." She finished explaining the rest of the pertinent rules to him, and sat down on the floor. Asche opened her deck box and began to shuffle up.

"You wanna go first?" Bush asked, taking his own deck and shuffling it.

"We can flip for it." Asche said, taking out an old 5 mark coin.

Bush went first. He had a good hand, and with a few rule clarifications from Asche, he was able to barely edge out a win by preventing the damage from her Puncture Blast with his Barrenton Medic - a card she'd dismissed as 'shitty and overcosted' - and taking her down to zero on the swing-back.

The second and third games, Asche's aggressive Red/White Dwarf and Kithkin deck was able to quickly pummel his Green/White elves. Asche laughed, the two of them having a grand old time. They switched up decks for the next match, Blue/Green Merfolk vs Black/Red goblins. The match was going well, Bush pausing to pick up one of Asche's cards to read the rules text. A Red/Green hybrid goblin she'd pulled from a booster and stuffed in the precon. The name of the card reminded him of something.

"Hey... Sergeant... I..." He nervously looked her up and down, setting his deck down. He sighed before admitting "I... miss my mother."

Asche paused, setting her cards down as well. "That's okay, private. I miss mine too. You'll see her again once you rotate out, Bush." She said, leaning forwards to pat him on the head. Even seated she towered over him. "I'll make sure you get out of this alive. I promise."

"She was... She was in Atlanta with her Family... For Thanksgiving." He said, trying not to tear up. "Dad and I were supposed to come over a week later, but they'd canceled all flights into the US by then."

"Oh." Asche paused, her heart sinking in her chest. She let go of his ears, frowning. "I'm sorry, private."

"Don't apologize Sergeant. It's not your fault." He said. A few moments of awkward silence passed before he spoke up again. "You uh... remind me of her."

"I do? Bush, I'm younger than you." Asche raised a brow at him.

"She was rough around the edges like you. Tough. Aggresive. Hard nut to crack. Everything expected of her. But once you got past all that?" The smaller Hyena was starting to tear up. "Big softy. Never met a gentler soul."

"I'm... honored you think so highly of me, private." She said, offering him a shoulder to cry on. Poor little guy was a wreck... she couldn't have this happening in the field. "Spots like you don't do too well without your matriarch, do you?"

He shook his head.

"That's okay. But this stays here in this tent. I need you to be strong out there for the rest of the squad. For me. Can you be strong for your Matriarch?"

He nodded, drying his eyes.

"That's right. Feldwebel is your pack Matriarch now. And she's gonna need you to hold it together, cub." She sternly told him, patting his back.

"Yes momma." Bush nodded up at her, wrapping his arms around her sides

"...You can't just call me momma in front of everyone else, Bush." She rolled her eyes, though she returned the hug. The little hyena paused for a second, burying himself in her chest tuft.

"Big Mama?" He suggested. "That's your call sign now."

Asche chuckled and shook her head, roughing up his hair. "Heh. Sure, Bush. Big mama."

He dried off his tears on her uniform and smiled at her. "Thanks big mama."

She got up off the floor, towering over him as she scritched behind his ears. "Must be why they assigned you to this unit, huh? Knew the little baby yeen needed a big mama yeen to show him the ropes."

He nodded quietly.

"Come on. It's getting late." Asche said, cleaning up the cards and putting them back in their boxes. She shoved the trunk back under her cot to make more room for him on the floor of the tent. Bush nodded, laying down on the floor.

She laid in bed, still awake. She looked down to the smaller hyena, who'd already curled up on the floor asleep, and shook her head. She really couldn't let him sleep on the floor, that always made her own voice hoarse as hell. He was the squad Comms guy, that wouldn't do. She picked him up and placed him on her chest, wrapping an arm around him. He stirred, but settled in. She waited a few minutes before closing her eyes and drifting off for the night.

When she woke up in the morning, Bush was gone already. It was probably for the best that he was back in his tent. She got up out of the cot, walking over to her coffee pot. There was a neatly stacked pile of condensed milk tubes next to the coffee machine, and another pile of MRE Jalapeno cheese next to it. Asche then picked up her flak armor to strap herself in. She looked over the chest, discovering that 'Big Mama Yeen' had been scrawled on one of the breast plates in paint pen. The aardwolf chuckled and shook her head.

Queensland, Australia - June 2020

"That's it?" FANG raised a brow. "No sex? No pegging? No poker? No kicking the shit out of him?"

"That's all that happened." She said.

"Why... Why don't you just tell people, furball?"

"Because it's just easier to be called a whore or a dyke than to admit that I was emotionally vulnerable. Than it is to remember that the closest thing I've had to a friend since you and Stahl is gone and never coming back." She said, frowning. "Here..." The hyena pulled something out of her footlocker: A faded Polaroid of Asche in a dark tent, smaller hyena curled up on her chest, the both of them passed out. 'SARGE'S A DYKE' is scribbled in sharpie in the white space at the bottom.

"This is what all the fuss is over?" FANG squinted his eyes, then passed the picture back. "You're both fully dressed. I slept in worse positions back in the FEMA camp."

"The rumor mill works overtime when you're deployed." She grumbled.

"Wait... Hold on a second..." FANG realized something. "...is this why you hate the M-word so much?"

"YES." She growled, gritting her teeth at the thought. "BECAUSE EVERY TIME ONE OF THESE SPINELESS LITTLE FAGGOTS UTTERS THAT DEGENERATE PHRASE OUT OF THEIR PSUED-HOLSTER, THEY REMIND ME THAT MY BEST FRIEND BLED OUT IN MY ARMS AND THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO TO STOP IT."

"Down... Easy girl... I'm... sorry he didn't make it..." Dylan ran his fingers through her belly fur, over one of her rough scars. "What happened to him? If you don't mind me asking." He asked.

"Texas offensive. Just two weeks after the Miami incident. Whole fucking police action would have been over in another month." Asche sighed, placing her paw on FANG's hand, squeezing it. "I know you have your own demons... you were so brave for telling me about them... but now I need to get mine off my chest..."

The human nodded up at her. "I'm here for you, fleabag."

Texas - United States of America - November 2010

The roads had been blocked with cars which had been set on fire in turn, creating plumes of smoke. Similar plumes could be seen, rising from Richmond and Houston in the distance. There, the crump of artillery fire and rumble of vehicles could faintly be heard. Most of the Texas Army National Guard and Texas State Guard had been pushed back, out of Galveston. In their place, thousands of Texans had formed irregular militias and insurgent bands. American flags and Texan flags hung from broken windows, in some places vying with Gadsden flags or even swastikas. Texan fighters dug in convenience stores, broke through basements to form tunnel systems, hid explosives in roadside trash cans, posted snipers on the top of apartments and ran sporadic gunfights.

Asche watched as the armored vehicle rattled and puffed exhaust, shoving cars out of the way as it moved down the street. It was a Marder, one of the new Landwehr units who had been moved in to relieve some of the more brutalized German army regulars. The reservists had the stereotypes of being accountants or shopkeepers, thick around the middle and older in age. This driver had already bounced the old vehicle off a few walls as the tracks rumbled across the road. “Madness" Asche muttered, crouching inside a newsstand. “These reservists are getting their asses kicked"

“Chancellor trying to save face" Wernicke muttered, crouched beside her and chewing on some meatballs from a ration pack. “Sending them out here"

“It's barely a stopgap until the frontline units are back in shape" Asche shrugged. “And get the Americans to run their own country again" There was a scramble behind them and Asche smelt the familiar scent of Bush.

“2nd Company is moving through, Big Mama" he informed her, helmet jammed right down over his ears.

“Good. We'll swing around onto their right in a wider flank, get ahead of them and the Landwehr.'' She motioned for them to rise up off their knees and as the MG-148 gunner prepared to cover them, Asche ordered the move across the open street towards a side alley.

They did so, rushing along past burned and looted food trucks. Since the infrastructure had crumbled, trash piled in the streets uncollected and stores lay empty. Bodies could still be found where they had been executed in alleyways or burned to a crisp in torched homes and apartments. Asche didn't even want to imagine how bad the civil disorder could be. They moved through an alley filled to the brim with stinking trash bags, careful to switch on flashlights to look for tripwires and other triggers. Gunfire cracked, before the sound of mortars whistled overhead “Keep tight together and don't get lost" Asche ordered “If you get lost here, you're fucked" “I'm not letting my kids see me on some fucked up internet video getting my guts cut out" Wernicke hissed, patting the grenades affixed to her vest. “No surrender or capture" Even with the mass surrenders after the Miami incident, there was still heavy fighting in pockets across America. The recent video of the boar being beheaded in Colorado was fresh in all their minds. The war was coming to a close, everyone could feel it. But nobody wanted to be the last fatality announced in the history books. Miami had been a watershed moment. When the Ohio class sub, about to be overrun by KSK operatives, had blown their warheads. The death toll had been staggering. Miami was now permanently sealed off behind barbed wire fences- an empty ruin. That had been enough to terrify enough of the enemy into surrender for fear of repeated incidents. But there was still some states open to keep fighting- Texas and Arkansas being among them.-

“These demobilization papers can't come through quickly enough" muttered Remer, no longer a green replacement and as hardened as the rest.

“Knowing your luck you'll get your boat home sunk by a sub or something" one of the others muttered.

“Enough of that shit" Asche ordered “Focus on staying alive first. You can bitch about home later."

They slunk through the streets, past homes burned down in rioting or boarded up and likely still filled with terrified occupants. Every so often Asche would see scared faces peeking through boarded windows at the passing soldiers. Some homes bore large spray painted symbols that they were full of refugees and were not to be targeted. Asche tried her best to abide by those warnings. “Wait" she called a halt and they knelt. “Mortar fire.., it's close"

“Ours or theirs?" Asked Spitz, a new replacement.

“Theirs. You can tell they're too loud and crude for ours" Asche muttered.

“But surely we should have met their front line?" Spoke another replacement.

“We must have slipped through" Asche took stock. She ordered the patrol into an arrowhead formation and moved toward the sounds of battle. If she could hit some of their mobile artillery, then she could relieve pressure on some of the other NATO forces. Passing by a column of stalled or burned out HMMWVs, they approached what seemed to be a medical clinic. Asche ordered the MG148 and sharpshooter into position as they moved in closer. There were a number of militia members, loading and firing crude barrel mortars that had been unloaded from a flatbed truck. The weapons were basic, but the sound was deafening.

Asche keyed her platoon mike. “They're preparing to move, get into position" They took up their places, behind cars, in doorways. Asche peered through the scope of her weapon. She could see them, dressed in a mix of camouflage and bright t-shirts with baseball caps or helmets. No guards or overwatch. Mix of CAR carbines and shotguns. Easy prey. Once in position, the paratroopers opened fire. Their G86 rifles cracked loudly, the 7.92 gauss rounds shredding the fighters when they hit. A burst from the MG148 sprayed across the truck, shattering the windows and punching through the engine as the bodies collapsed to the ground. A few survived the opening shots and took cover behind their mortars, firing a flurry of hasty shots in return. Asche ducked down as a shot hit a few feet from her head, before she popping back up with her butt jammed into her shoulder. She sighted the scope on the shooter, seeing his football shirt and stolen cop helmet. Her finger squeezed the trigger and the G86 kicked. The human fell backwards with a hole in his chest, dropping his rifle. It was over in less than a minute. “Move up"

They stalked forwards, guns at the ready towards the enemy. Most were dead. A few were still dying, bleeding profusely from gaping wounds or trying to crawl away. Asche walked up to one, crawling towards the broken doors of the clinic. She flipped him over with her foot, drawing her Magnum Research M2019.

“Fuck you, mutt" he gasped, his DPM pattern webbing both covered in sewn on patches and soaked in his own gore.

“Request Acknowledged and subsequently declined." she shrugged and cocked the hammer on the revolver.

“Gas the furballs... Race war n.." he'd began to say before her pistol turned the front of his face to a crater with a single loud bang.

“What's the situation?"

“Four mortars with homemade bombs" Wernicke reported.

“I've notified company command that we've neutralized them," Bush added, holding the headset for his radio. “They won't send any counter-battery fire on us"

“Good. The more of these we kill, the less they can hit our troops moving up" Asche nodded, kicking a bloodied cap away.

“It'll be the M777s and M119s we'll have to be worrying about anyway, once we clear out the city" the fox shrugged.

“I bet the girls and boys in the Luftwaffe are seeing to them. Besides, the Pz2000s and M109s arrived yesterday. They'll start pounding them soon"

“What are your orders, Luetnant?"

Asche jabbed her pistol at the barrel mortars. “Blow these and the ammo. Move it away from the med place. I want a cordon in place while we do so"

“Jawohl."

Bodies were dragged about, while the remaining ammunition was moved to be detonated as the unit formed itself into a defensive ring. The bodies were left in place, to be burned or identified later. The mortar bombs were rigged with a grenade to be blown.

Asche moved to and fro, drinking from her canteen to water her parched throat. “We need to get going, someone's going to be wondering where their artillery unit has gone" she muttered to Bush.

“They're moving as fast as they can, Big Mama!" he replied, looking about furtively.

“Battles move faster. They could be surrounding us right as we speak"

Asche heard a loud crack, the gunshot echoing off the street. Asche turned about, to see Bush staring at her.

“Momma…" he said in a small voice, before he staggered to the side. Asche yelled and dived for him. There was a sudden rattle of gunfire as two pickups drove towards their position, the occupants firing off their rifles and captured M249s. She grabbed Bush and clutched him to her chest, another shot rang out, hitting the asphalt close to her head as she dragged the hyena towards the cover of a car.

“Bush! Bush!" She snapped. “Where are you hit? Where did they get you?" She felt her hands starting to grow sticky with blood as Bush trembled and shivered. She propped him against the car and saw his green jacket staining dark about his chest. “Where? Come on Bush!" She demanded, ripping iron a dressing and pulling at his bloodied clothes.

“It doesn't feel good..." he trembled. “It hurts Big Mama"

“Shut up! You'll be okay, just help me here!" She replied, voice turned furious with rage and denial. She grabbed the headset for his radio and started calling in medevac as the firefight grew. “Come on, come on!" She dropped the handset and turned back to him. His head was lolling, eyes growing misty. “Dont you dare!" Asche slapped at his face, anything to keep him awake. “Just keep pressure on it… we'll get you a transfusion"

“Lieutenant…." he mumbled, shaking his head groggily.

“We can get you out here into surgery, just stay with me"

“Lieutenant…. Just leave-“

“Shut up!" She snapped at him. “Don't talk like that!" Was she crying? She couldn't tell if she was crying, things were moving too fast. His bloodied hand weakly grabbed at hers and she clutched it tightly.

“It's okay…. it's okay Lieutenant…" he managed to say. “.... I get to go and see my mom."

His face broke into a smile before his head lolled to the side.

The paratroopers had exchanged fire with the attacking militia, downing one of the trucks with G86 fire. But snipers shot with hunting rifles and DMRs from windows, lobbing grenades or shooting homemade rockets that exploded in clouds of nails or flames. They started to take casualties, moving their wounded into cover and keeping up the fire. Some Jaegers had arrived to support them, joining them in their positions when they heard the scream. A blood curdling expression of pure hatred and anger that cut sharply through the smoke and noise. Asche walked towards the enemy, half blinded by tears, her mouth a slavering rictus of rage and bared fangs. In her hands she hefted the Maschinengewehr Kaliber .50 she had torn from the AGF Serval that had arrived with the Jaegers, the belt curled about her forearm. Bullets exploded about her as her subordinates watched in amazement as she marched towards the enemy, leveling the long dark barrel before firing. The recoil and noise was immense, but she continued to fire, clenching her muscles as she sprayed the enemy vehicles with gunfire- blowing bodies open and shredding the vehicles under the .50 caliber storm. She killed a swathe but they only fired back with more desperation. She shuddered as a bullet tore into her bicep- another shot stabbing into her boot. Shrapnel tore at her skin as she swung the hail of death onto the snipers and other emplaced fighters, blowing them into bloodied spray with screams of rage. More shots hit, a bullet lodging in her lower back, barely stopped by her plate carrier. She fired on anyway, the barrel of the MG .50 glowing with heat. One of the pickups burst into flames and smoke as she staggered yet on, mowing down those who stood in her way. A single round was enough to turn their chest cavity to paste or to cut off entire limbs. Grenades failed to down her, aimed shots missed or were ignored where they landed. Asche's mind was consumed by one singular objective.

Kill them.

Kill every last one of them.

They'd killed Bush. Her best friend. Her baby. And they would pay for it. The MG stopped firing with a click, the belt expended. She dropped it with a crash, limping as she drew her revolver. She could hear yelling behind her, the Germans running to keep up with her advance. But all she could think of was the retreating Texans to her fore. The pistol roared. A running human fell. It roared again. A wounded human helped by his friend cried out as his chest erupted. His friend turned only to drop with another roar of the M2019. Another, then another. They were vanishing into the smoke. Another. One nearly made it to safety before she split his head like a water balloon.

Click. She was firing on an empty cylinder, but continued to pull the trigger, tears staining her cheeks, eyes stinging, body alight with pain.

Click. Click. Click. The firing pin continued to hit spent cartridges.

Queensland, Australia - June 2020

"Shit. I'm sorry..." FANG said.

"Next thing I Remember, I was getting dragged into cover by a bunch of Texan Irregulars on our side. This crazy 50 year old Golden Retriever Air Force Vet was coordinating a squad made up of four of his sons and his two daughters. Probably the biggest group of Furboys I've ever seen in one place." She shook her head. "Kept grumbling about how we should have been working together in the Fulda against the Fucking Commies, not dealing with a bunch of humans acting like ziggers." She took a sip from her flask. "I wonder how he would have reacted if he found out I was East German."

"Asche, you can't just call them the z word."

"What?"

"You can't just call zebras that, it's..."

"No, not that." She looked down at him, running her paw through his hair. "You just called me Asche, Dylan."

Dylan blinked. He had.

“What, you want me to call you a furball?"

Asche shook her head and hugged him tightly to her frame.

[July 4th]

INTERVIEW

Undisclosed FEMA Readiness Exercise 84 Detention Camp, Georgia, United States - February 2011.

Katherina Schüttler had always been a big bunny. Large for her species and helped by her success as a school footballer and gym lover, she'd gravitated towards the armed forces. She'd become an artillery Lieutenant and had started the Police Action in command of a PZH 2000 SPG. Since then she'd overseen the firing of hundreds of live shells, endured American Air attacks, nearly contracted an infection and been promoted up to captain. Her regiment moved off combat duties and into the handling of the many POWs with her to command within it.

Now the war was all but over, and she sat in the featureless room behind one side of the desk.

She had the pistol in her shoulder holster. A weighty SIG P220 that she made sure was visible to all the prisoners she interviewed. That made them think twice. Then, just to be sure, she had the knife tucked into her boot. She'd only ever had to use it once, when a prisoner had managed to get just close enough.

The human sitting before her, head wrapped in a gauze bandage, looked as defiant as all the other thousands of troublemakers they had to process through the POW camps. Potential risks that needed to be stamped out.

She coughed and lifted the paperwork before her.

“Let's see…. Maddock, 8732"

He gave a grunt. She could see the hate in his eyes. The pure simmering anger at his situation. He was thin and gaunt, still wearing the faded uniform of his unit that had been turned filthy and then washed over and over. Scraggly brown hair and a face still cut and bruised. Same as any of the many POWs who'd sat in the plain steel chair, their ankles looped with a chain.

“Florida Army National Guard…. hmmmm…. you've been in three fights this month alone. Been in the sickbay twice" the rabbit folded her muscular arms. “You're not doing well"

He just stared.

“The fact you were put as a prime suspect for the assault of a camp guard in your previous holding area that led to a five day coma did not start you off well. And from what these reports tell me, you're not presenting yourself as someone ready to reintegrate into society"

He spat. “Nothing to prove it was me who got the rapist bitch"

“This mentality is only resulting in your processing taking longer, and is even detrimental to the processing of your fellow inmates"

“You think I'm going to lie back and let you walk all over us you sick perverted fucks? I know what you people do in-“

She cut him off firmly. “You were warned before your previous two fights that such activity would lead to further measures against you, even drastic ones"

“So what, sending me to a supermax? I'd rather go there than let you fucks get in my head"

She sat back and steepled her fingers.

“I'm not here to wish harm upon you" she told him in a hard voice. “I'd personally want all this to be over and for you to be able to go back home to take part in the rebuilding of your country. But with you displaying such resistance to re-education and a refusal to stop your violent measures that have only made your situation worse..?"

He just stared back at her, his mouth tightly clenched shut.

“This interview might be your last chance," she added firmly.

“Before what, you add me to the pile of all the other poor fucks you people murdered when you came here? Take me out back and shoot me? Or are you just going to let more of your mangy mutts try and rape me? Fuck you"

His defiance might have been admirable. But for Schüttler it was just another angry human to be dealt with in a very long day. There were too many of them for her to handle, far too many needed profiling to see if they were fit for release and the ugly truth that there were issues across the NATO force in controlling their soldiers from indulging themselves in the male population. But she was too tired to care. Just another name and number that needed to be sorted.

“Very well, 8732" she took up her pen and started to write on his file. “On the basis of your behavior and resistance to proper re-education, I have deemed it necessary to have you moved abroad…"

The human seemed to pause, his mind computing the news being delivered to him. The fact he was being removed from his homeland to a distant punishment .

“Wha-“

“You will report tomorrow for transport to be embarked on the next ship headed to the Australia facility for menial duties. Before you go, you will be submitted to the usual searches for contraband to ensure proper adherence to the sentence" she clicked the end of the pen. “I shall submit this to our military court within the hour for verification"

“You…. you can't.., "

“8732, this interview is terminated" the artillery bunny leaned over and pressed a button. There was a buzz and a racoon with a baton marched in, grabbing the human by the arm and hauling him up.

“You can't…. I live here!" He repeated, still shocked by the news as Schüttler watched her gunner pull him away towards the door. “This is my country! you can't just send me away!"

At that moment, Schüttler felt pity. She saw the anger of the man wobble, betraying fear and confusion beneath. She locked eyes with him as she shuffled her papers. As he was brought to the door, she couldn't help but call out.

“8732…"

He looked at her.

“I'm sorry"

He paused, then spat on the floor. "No you're not, you fucking mangy f..."

And then he was cut off, pulled away down the corridor as the door shut behind him.

Schüttler took a deep breath. Sometimes she wondered if she'd preferred it when she was firing the 155mm, even as she'd squatted in muck and dirt, the threat of enemy aircraft at every second. Now, she was stuck behind a table, each day grinding her down a little more.

She shuffled the papers. It was time for the next prisoner.

"Madera, 8733!" She called.

[July 15th]

WITHDRAWL

East Virginia, New United American States, January 2011

The port of Virginia was a mass of activity. With the facilities at New Jersey and Carolina in ruin from the earlier civil war, the harbor of Hampton Roads was one of the main sites from which the extensive demobilization was taking place at the end of the long military campaign. Asche stood in a clean, new uniform, the bandages and dressings from her more recent injuries, hidden under the clothing. Her belongings were all stuffed into her pack and grip bag, lying at her feet. The air was full of the smell of oil, sea salt and mud all rolled into one, gulls wheeling overhead. Ships were coming in all the time. New forces for peacekeeping duties coming over from Europe, while the tired and bruised NATO invasion force was pulled back for rest and recuperation. The previous day she'd watched the Spanish Marine Infantry unloading, hefting their packs and crates down ganglines while their M109A2 SPGs rolled out of open container doors onto the dockside to head to the rail lines.

It had been a state of flux for everyone. The Texan government had reached a ceasefire with NATO. The Americans were taking their country back into their own hands. Aside from the subtle underlying threat of some sort of terrorist attack, things were safe. They all knew they were going home, but they didn't know when that trip would happen. Their whole regiment was camped out in warehouses, on bed rolls and cots, waiting out the days for that final message that they were going back across the Atlantic. Day after day as the pen pushers and bean counters sorted it out. Most people she knew were flying back, in chartered flights from America's surviving airports. But not them. They'd be going the slow way, and they'd have to accept it. Massive gantry cranes moved about the terminals as the huge container ships rolled in. Some purely civilian, others flying UN flags and stuffed with food and other aid, most being NATO merchant marine. Occasionally she could see a frigate or two amongst them. A few Oliver Hazard Petty-classes flying Texan flags, here as a show of good faith. Out across the grey water, at Portsmouth, she could see the large mass of the British aircraft carrier “Illustrious", having nearly completed its repairs after surviving a missile raid four months ago. But now there was a frenzied energy. She turned back to the lines of paratroopers sitting by their packs. Many of them sported trophies and other spoils, some were talking with coffee and doughnuts from the support services food truck. Some just stared at the sky or listened to personal music through their headphones. They were going today. It had to be today.

She felt like a different person to the idealistic young paratrooper who had arrived back in Florida. She was sure nobody back home would recognize her. None of her childish innocence remained. It reminded her of what she'd read about in school, when soldiers came back from the Great War to bedrooms still filled with childhood hopes and toys. How much of her original unit was left? She'd lost Schwartz, Petra, Dieter, Groth, Kliest…. And of course, Bush. The nightmares about him had been bad. She'd awoken and forced her pillow into her mouth to silence her sobs, wishing he was there so she could cradle and comfort him, tell him he was a good lad and everything was going to be okay, that she'd look after him.

But she'd failed. And now he was back in Germany in a wooden box. Fresh failures stacked upon herself. Could she even go back to her old life? Everyone had been so proud of her, but she hadn't been the hero they'd thought she was. She dreaded being asked about what she'd done, how it had been. Explaining it to someone would be nearly impossible. And then there was finding a job. Could she stay in…. maybe. Part of her wondered if she should immediately apply for another tour… to get revenge and make up for those she lost. But what if she lost more, and failed more people? She wasn't fit to be a lieutenant. Maybe she'd apply for a transfer, leaving the army right now was something she couldn't do, but there was all sorts of talk about things in the works. Requirements and programs for the new order to stabilize the planet. The Poles might need people on the Belarusian front.

Vehicles were rumbling and revving into the dock, ready to board as a massive Ro-Ro container ship bearing the German flag moved up into position. She looked about again. There was Wernicke by the pay phones, crying as she spoke into the handset. Her shoulders kept shaking and she squeezed at the handset as she talked, most likely to family back home. Asche felt a pang of jealousy, at least she had a reward to go home to. Little kids who were desperate to see their mother come back.

Asche had nothing.

Not even her best friend.

The boredom and anticipation remained with them, and Asche attempted to read the newspaper she'd been given at the service truck. All the positive news about the end of most hostilities in the North American Police Action was being replaced by the usual misgivings of the world. Reports of the fall of the Baltics, the fighting in Ukraine, the mass flooding in China after the Taiwanese war. Unrest and a return to infighting in the Balkans, too. Fucking Grozneans were at it again. She pawed through a few pages, seeing images of burning BMPs at the stabilized Dnieper front. The world kept turning and things kept burning. The doors of the Ro-Ro opened and the lead tank started off. It was a Leopard 2A5, it's armour pitted and scorched from countless rockets and bombs. She watched it meet the steel, tracks clattering as it entered the bowels of the ship, followed by the second Leopard, then a third. High-vis jacketed crew were swarming about, ordering the vehicles but Asche saw a sudden change in the energy of her own troops. She saw the Oberst- a fierce looking husky who's size rivaled even hers, moving about. The orders to embark came soon. She grabbed her pack and slung it over her back, taking the weight as the rest of her unit started to shuffle forwards. She was doing it. Walking the final walk towards the transport. Asche looked about at the troops who had survived with her, the ones who had gone through the same hell as her and come out as unscathed as they could. She saw Wernicke behind her, red eyed and sniffling as she clutched at her bags.

“We made it" the fox managed to say. “We actually made it."

Asche smiled back. “Yes, corporal. We made it…." She looked at the port around her, and smelled the salty air of the sea. As she took her final strides forwards, past the loading tanks and left the land which she had landed so many months ago.

Asche was heading home. The only question remaining was if home was ready for her.