Tea and Phalanxes

[Shroom Man 777]

Fallback




The GU forces were in disarray. All over Connoltia Segundus, Cunts were withdrawing towards their last stronghold at the northern pole. The general leading the world’s defense had issued a Kinsmet, a strategic retreat wherein they would consolidate their forces and arm all the civilians – men, women and children – for one last stand, an honorable battle to the death.

To avoid exactly that, the GU forces pounced on the retreating Connoltians. Naturally, the Rhineworlders were leading the way.

Unnaturally, however, the Connoltian general wasn’t as stupid as most Connoltians. The Kinsmet was a ruse, and when the GU forces rushed forward, they were met by Cunts who weren’t retreating, but preparing to take the unwitting GU head on.

Naturally leading the way, the Rhineworlders took the brunt of this.




“Shit!” Major Jurgen hissed in his respirator as a machinegun round pinged off his helmet. Two more rounds zipped past his head before the pseudocrete barrier that was his cover was literally pulverized by a stream of machinegun fire. He cursed again as he rolled into a mud-soaked foxhole, just in time as his previous cover disappeared under a magenta explosion.

Rock and debris rained down on him as he got up and fired several bursts from his HK G-63 plasma rifle. He didn’t even bother aiming as he ducked down to avoid another magenta airburst. This time, he was showered in boiled mud. He hissed a string of curses in Deutsch before crawling out of the hole and into another hole.

Far behind him were at least a dozen Connoltians, clad in dark brown armor, all armed to the teeth with machineguns and one-hand rocket launchers. They were all angry, and were screaming in their barbaric tongue. Cursing at the top of their lungs while shooting at Jurgen and the other retreating GU forces.

As the Cunts fired their chainguns and rockets, they were met by return fire. From where, Jurgen couldn’t see, but as the Cunts ducked for cover and screamed in anguish over severed limbs, he took this reprieve to get out of his hole and run like hell for more adequate cover. As he ran, he passed by a squad of Ispanyard Conquistadores, they were shooting with their semiautomatic long-rifles while their capitan blasted away with his handgun while waving a saber threateningly. The other Conquistadores began putting bayonets on their weapons. Above a nearby hill Jurgen happened to be running towards, quadguns were providing cover fire for the retreating GU forces.

As Jurgen ducked behind a bigger chunk of pseudocrete, he wondered where his squad was. But before he could come up with an answer, his cover was once more besieged by a flurry of machinegun and rockets fire. This time, the pseudocrete didn’t disintegrate. The barrage ceased, and Jurgen once more poked his head out to see what was going on.

It wasn’t good.

The Conquistadores were getting swamped by the Connoltians. Half the Conquistadores were shooting and falling back while the other half were in a melee with the Cunts, stabbing them with bayonets and viciously mashing them with rifle-butts. The capitan was screaming profanities while shooting Cunts in their faces with one hand and decapitating others with his saber. In return, the Cunts viciously tackled some of the Conquistadores while howling madly, unafraid of impaling themselves on the Ispanyards’ bayonets.

In front of the faltering Ispanyards were two dozen more Connoltians.

Jurgen cursed and looked at his rifle. The power cell was nearly out. He took it out and loaded a half-full one and aimed at the mess of grabbling Ispanyards and Cunts. His HUD zoomed in and designated a Cunt and he squeezed the trigger. A nanosecond later, the Cunt’s face, along with his upper torso, disappeared in a white-hot flash of hyperimmolated flesh. Jurgen switched to another target and vaped him, and then he vaped another, and another – one Cunt fell to the mud without his lower body, and he made a bloodcurdling cry while shooting his weapon blindly into the air.

Sniping wasn’t doing any good, Jurgen determined. And the quadguns weren’t firing anymore, for some reason. He cursed, and got a handgrenade from his utility belt. He pressed the pin and tossed it upwards.

The grenade was midair when rotor-blades snapped out of its sides and began spinning wildly. Jurgen designated a target and the grenade fluttered before zipping away with amazing speed. The warhead flew to a Cunt formation advancing on the retreating Ispanyards. It hovered for a few seconds before detonating in an incandescent explosion of blue fire that literally cremated the Cunt squad. All that was left of them was a pillar of thick black smoke that doubled as a smokescreen.

“Heh, take that! Mongrel untermenschen,” Jurgen muttered. He got up and fired several shots at straggling Cunts who were disoriented from the blast and quickly vaporized. Several of the Ispanyards, including the capitan who was now soaked in blood, waved at him. He waved back.

But then, something caught his eye. He zoomed his HUD into the plume of smoke, turned on the x-ray, and saw at least fifty Connoltians making their way past the craters and monofilament wire. He cursed, and decided to get the hell out of dodge. The Conquistadores saw this and decided it was a good idea worth following.

The run up-hill was not an easy one, with ionized monofilament wire, trenches, foxholes and blocks of pseudocrete blocking the way. It was muddy, too. Jurgen wondered why the quadguns had stopped, and asked himself why the rhinekamphers didn’t bother saturating the field with toxic gas – for that matter, where was artillery and air support?

But his thoughts were derailed by a sudden sharp pain. He yelped, fell face-first into the mud and gritted his teeth as his HUD told him that a twenty-caliber bullet had perforated his thigh – no shit!

Painkillers and enriched caffeine were injected to his system as his undersuit tightened its grip on his thigh, making a pressurized tourniquet that also bandaged the wound. And so, with the aid of his suit’s artificial musculature, he trudged on. Behind him, the Conquistadores began falling down one by one, machinegunned from the rear. One ate a rocket and was reduced to a bloody explosion. They screamed, and the drugged-up Connoltians behind them bellowed out incoherent warcries.

“Shite!” Jurgen cussed, limping towards the peak of the hill. He was near now. More machinegun fire was directed his way, and so he spun and reciprocated, firing blindly towards the angry horde.

And then, as if by divine intervention, an artillery round landed in the middle of the Cunts, and the screaming Connoltians disappeared under a massive explosion that covered the entire area with dust and shrapnel. But Jurgen didn’t bother cheering, he moved on. He knew there would be more of them –

And more artillery too. A shell landed less than ten feet away from him, and the resulting blast sent him sailing through the air. Shrapnel peppered his suit, cracking his goggles and slicing through the weak spots of his armor, cutting into his joints. He screamed, but more ‘medication’ was pumped into his bloodstream, and by the time he landed on the blood-soaked mud, he was as numb as a brick. He was still able to move, either by his own muscles or through the powered-armor, he wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter, he crawled towards the top of the hill, feebly gasping in his respirator while desperately clawing at the mud and rock. He tasted his own blood in his mouth, and his nostrils were bleeding too.

Behind him, the ranks of the Cunts were further decimated by artillery. But, like last time, Jurgen didn’t bother cheering at their demise – getting up the hill was top priority. And through some form of retarded luck, he was actually on top of the hill, thanks to the blast that nearly killed him and threw him into the air like a rag doll.

Jurgen cursed and dragged himself into a trench. Poking out of the ditch was a quadgun. Its barrels were smoking, as was the rest of it, for some reason. Jurgen looked around, and found several corpses around him that weren’t there before when he crawled in. He checked the nearest one, a Saracen in black robes, and his HUD indicated that the man was dead. Shit. He checked another body, an Oriental, also K.I.A. The third corpse was a young man, who looked Ispanic but did not have a Conquistador chest-plate. He was in fatigues, and he was alive.

“Shit,” Jurgen cursed, throwing away his rifle and pulling out his laspistol as he grabbed the kid with a perforated arm and started hauling both of their asses through the mud. He was no longer capable of standing, and his wake left behind a trail of blood.

Safety was just six kilometers away.

[Mr. Coffee]

Jaded Chronicles back story or is this going to be a stand-alone in the same universe, Shroomy? Either way, it rocks. Finally get a bit of idea who the Cunts are.

[Shroom Man 777]

Its backstory

Thanks for the supportive comments, btw. Anyway, I've made a shitload of stuff. You can check it in my sig (Omniverse Zero)

[Shroom Man 777]

Tea and Phalanxes




“Bollocks!” Antonius Agrippa cursed. They messed up, and now the Cunts were the ones kicking ass and driving everyone back. Again. And after they practically pushed the Cunts back to their home system. What a crock of shite! Antonius sighed. “Complete and utter crap!”

Really. Just a while ago, at least a thousand Ispanyards, krauts, Saracens, Marines, Imperiat cannon fodder, and other GU guys came running back to the trenches. The Cunts tricked ‘em bloody good, and now they were getting the hell out of dodge – with the Cunts right behind them, too.

“Oh shut up, Tony,” Sergeant O’Connor, his CO, barked. “Don’t worry too much. By the time the Cunts reach this line, the guns would’ve blown their barbarian arses to kingdom come. If they do make it, they’ll be too splattered to even put up a fight! So, relax, ok?”

“Eh, right,” Antonius muttered. He took off his helmet, placed it on an ammo crate, and got a pint of beer.

As usual, it would be the Galactic Legionnaires cleaning up the mess. So much for the Sovereignty’s finest, the Marines and their rah-rah ‘Hooah!’ shtick. Same for the krauts and their bloody Blitzpanzers. Antonius sighed, took a sip, tasted the concoction in his mouth, and spat it out onto a nearby puddle of mud. “What is this?!”

“Its tea, Tony,” O’Connor said.

“Ah, fuck!”



They were all huddled up in trenches. The muddy, mud-filled, mud-stained, mud-puddled trenches that served as their homes. Muddy trenches that were ornamented by the usual yuletide decorations, such as monofilament wire, IFF landmines, claymores, flamethrowers, machineguns, and other such shtick. Happy days for the Sovereign Legionnaires, for theirs were additionally decorated with sticks. Sticks with flags and insignias and numerals on them that served to help enemy artillery find out their locations. As well as plates, tall rectangular shields that would be energized to protect the Legionnaires who’d stick their longrifles out of the sides like spears in some kind of shield phalanx. For some reason, these shields were also inscribed with fancy shtick like ‘Semper Fidelis’ and ‘Quid Quid Latine Dictum Sit, Altum Videtur', whatever the hell those meant.

In one particularly lonely trench were two men, clad in now-visored helms, cuirasses with the numerals ‘XIII’ engraved into them, leather-like belt-spats and depressed faces. They held their longrifles tightly in preparation for the inevitable.

“Great!” Antonius exclaimed sardonically. “No fucking beer!”

“Sod off, Tony,” O’Connor muttered.

Antonius rolled his eyes and began obnoxiously cheering: “Huzzah! Hip-hip, huzzah!”

“For the love of the fucking Maker, shut up!” O’Connor shouted.

“Why?” Antonius asked, exasperated. And wet. It was raining, which made things rather depressing.

“Because I can’t hear the artillery!” O’Connor replied, wittily.

“Oh, bollocks,” Antonius muttered, mouthing what O’Connor just said while gesturing ludicrously. “Because I can’t hear the artillery, what kind of shite is that? That is so fucking witty, you know?”

“Fuck you! Why did General Melchett stick me in this rathole with a wanker like you?” O’Connor asked nobody in particular. He felt like taking off his helmet, ripping off his hair and asking the sky for some sort of deliverance. Too bad removing one’s helmet during bad times was a fast way to get oneself killed, and too bad the sky was sniveling acidic rainwater at the moment.

“Because old walrus face doesn’t give a shite about you, you git! And because he’s a deranged lunatic who’s as green as my grandaunt Gertrude’s corpse, Maker bless her, straight out of his stately family manor at Elysium with zero combat experience, out here to gain family glory at the expensive of our lives!” Antonius blurted out as he waved his arms frantically. “If his great-grand uncle wasn’t in the Senate, that git would practically be in this trench with us, waiting for some ten thousand very hairy and very angry inbred Connoltians to waltz over here across that minefield and lop our heads off before proceeding to honorably urinate on our corpses while singing ‘rah-rah, watch me urinate on these stupid arses’ corpses’! And to think we made it all the way to Segundus!”

O’Connor desperately attempted to retort Antonius’ incessant ramblings, but a ringing holophone signaled that he ran out of retorting time that rendered any comeback decisively unwitty and rather droll. Every trench had a holophone, so all trenchers could complain at the abhorrent conditions of their living quarters and have their complaints ignored by their superiors who were hunkered down in fortified brothels deep in the heart of liberated Cunt territory. Literally.

To distract himself from Antonius’ further ramblings and arm-wavings, O’Connor desperately grabbed the phone and listened to the transmission. For a minute he listened, nodded, said ‘yes’ a couple of times, nodded again and then slammed the phone down.

Antonius was still ranting. “And that is why Connoltus Ultimus Exodius whatever-ius Tiberius Assholius in his infinite wisdom, had the gall to-”

“Anthony!” O’Connor yelled joyously, his eyes wide and almost tearful in joyous joy.

“What?! I told you a million times, never to call me that! Antonius is my name, bestowed to me by my noble father, Felix Flavius Agrippa, on the joyous day of my birth! Never, ever-”

Before Antonius could pull out his gladius and stab O’Connor in the nuts, O’Connor ran to him and embraced him in a tight bear-hug.

Antonius screamed, and tried desperately to pull out his gladius. “Gah! What the-?!”

“The Cunts issued a Kinsmet!” O’Connor cried out. “They issued a Kinsmet!”

“No shit!” Antonius grunted as he shoved O’Connor away. “That’s why we’re all going to die! They tricked us with that load of bollocks!”

“No, they issued another one!” O’Connor said giddily. “Cunts from all over are withdrawing back to Connoltia Primus! It’s a galaxy-wide Kinsmet!”

Antonius raised his eyebrow. “And the Cunts here…?”

“Retreating!”

“Holy shit, holy shit…” Antonius said as he sat down on an ammo box and took off his helmet. “So, we really are going to make it after all.”

“Yeah!” O’Connor shouted as he threw his helmet down to the mud.

“So, in that case…” Antonius solemnly muttered. “Huzzah! Hip-hip! Huzzah! Hip-hip!”

O’Connor joined him. “Huzzah!”

“Ha-ha!” Antonius laughed as he grabbed a pint of tea and downed it. “It’s the krauts problem now! We’re going to be stationed here, being shitty auxiliaries and shite. It’s gonna be the problem of the Marines now, those bloody smurfs! And them Conquistadores, and them stupid Imperiat gits! Ha-ha!”

“Damn right, ye are! War’s over for us lot,” O’Connor said. “Hip-hip!”

Both of them shouted in unison. “Huzzah!”