Reliable Excavation & Demolition: A Rotten World, and Pure Chaos

The battlefield was eerily silent, save for the ragged breathing of those who remained standing. Smoke still hung in the air, the scent of gunpowder and blood mixing with the damp earth beneath their feet. The massive corpse of the Apeman lay motionless, a gruesome testament to the brutal fight that had just unfolded. Its body was riddled with wounds—bullet holes, blade slashes, and deep bruises from the sheer force of the battle. The recruits who had fought mere moments ago were now either gasping for breath, nursing wounds, or lying motionless, waiting to be pulled back from the brink.

Nearby, Medic moved among the wounded recruits, his gloves slick with blood as he worked swiftly. His movements were precise, almost surgical in their efficiency. Some he managed to stabilize, their wounds merely painful reminders of the battle they had survived. Others groaned in pain, their injuries severe but not fatal, their eyes glazed over with exhaustion and shock. A few, however, lay still, their bodies unmoving. Medic's eyes narrowed behind his blood-splattered glasses as he rushed to them, his gloved hands already reaching for his Medigun.

With a flick of his wrist, the device whirred to life, a red glow enveloping the fallen recruits. The soft hum of the Medigun cut through the eerie quiet, its energy flowing through the lifeless bodies. For a moment, there was nothing. Then—gasping breaths, chests heaving as bodies jerked back to life, color rushing to their once-pale faces. One recruit bolted upright, clutching his chest, eyes wide with confusion and fear, as if he had just returned from the abyss. Another staggered as he sat up, blinking rapidly, disoriented by the impossible sensation of being revived.

Medic merely chuckled, adjusting his gloves with a snap. "Velcome back to ze land of ze living. Try not to die again so soon, ja? I can only do zis so many times before it gets boring."

The Imperial soldiers, battered and exhausted, had barely caught their breath when their eyes fell on their unlikely saviors. Recognition dawned like a slow-moving storm. These weren't just any mercenaries—these were the very same villagers they had been ordered to raze to the ground not long ago. The realization was a weight that settled heavily on their shoulders, an unspoken truth none of them wanted to face.

A heavy silence fell upon them as the weight of their orders clashed with the undeniable truth before them. These so-called traitors had just saved them from certain death. What did that make them?

Some of the soldiers hesitated, their grips on their weapons loosening. Could they truly turn their blades on those who had saved their lives? Their hands trembled, doubt creeping in like a cold wind through shattered walls. The recruits, once the targets of their cruelty, had just fought alongside them, had just bled in the same dirt. A debt had been forged in blood, and for some, it was too great to ignore. A few even dared to glance at one another, the conflict evident in their eyes.

But not all were swayed by conscience.

A handful of soldiers held their weapons tighter, their gazes hard and unwavering. The Empire was their duty, their loyalty absolute. Orders were orders, and these villagers—these traitors—had no place in their ranks, no matter what had transpired. A silent understanding passed between them. If they let this slide, what did that make them? If they hesitated now, where would their loyalty lie? Would their commanders ever forgive them for allowing such an act of treachery to go unanswered?

The tension in the air thickened, the silence stretching unbearably.

Then came the sound of metal shifting, boots scuffing against dirt. A slow, deliberate series of clicks echoed through the air.

The recruits, newly recovered and emboldened, had seized the moment. Weapons were drawn, positioning shifted, and suddenly, the tables had turned. The Imperial loyalists found themselves surrounded, the earlier hesitation now a weakness the REDs were more than willing to exploit. The soldiers, once certain of their superiority, now felt the sharp blade of reality press against their throats.

A single step forward, boots pressing into the blood-soaked dirt. Heavy's massive form loomed over the soldiers, his minigun humming with quiet menace. The soft whirr of its barrels spinning sent a chill down their spines, a wordless promise of devastation if they made the wrong move.

The air grew heavier, thick enough to suffocate. The eyes of every recruit, every mercenary, bore into the Imperials with a silent challenge.

Then, Soldier's voice cut through the silence, a manic grin stretched across his face, his helmet gleaming under the dim light. His voice was almost cheerful, but there was an edge to it—a madness that promised violence if given the chance.

"Well, boys! What's it gonna be? You gonna show gratitude, or do I gotta educate you in the art of survival?"

His hands twitched toward his weapon, a barely restrained excitement in his stance. The Imperials gulped, eyes flickering between each other. They had been trained for war, but in this moment, war had never felt so much like a death sentence.

The battlefield was silent save for the crackling embers of fallen torches and the labored breaths of the surviving Imperial soldiers. Their swords trembled in their grips, the weight of their indecision pressing down upon them like a suffocating fog. Across from them stood the recruits—once humble villagers, now bloodied but victorious—flanked by the mercenaries who had led them to this moment. And at the center of it all, standing tall atop the slain Danger Beast, was Soldier.

His chest heaved with exhilaration, his helmet slightly askew from the battle, his war-torn uniform stained with blood that was not his own. He planted his boot against the Apeman's corpse and threw his arms wide, bellowing with the fervor of a man who had just been given an audience with the heavens themselves.

"LOOK AT YOURSELVES!" he roared, his voice booming across the battlefield like a war drum. "You stand here, shaking in your boots, clinging to rusted steel and the scraps of an empire that does not—WILL NOT—care whether you live or die! You call yourselves soldiers? HA! You are not warriors! You are tools! Disposable, replaceable, forgotten the moment you fall!"

His words struck deep, burrowing into the doubts already festering within the minds of the weary Imperials. Some averted their gazes, shame seeping into their expressions, while others gritted their teeth, stubbornly clinging to their conditioning. But Soldier did not let them look away for long. He stomped forward, his boots sinking into the bloodstained dirt, his wild grin widening.

"I have seen war! REAL war! And let me tell you something, ladies: it ain't about serving some fat, sniveling bureaucrat who wouldn't know the weight of a rifle if it landed in his lap! It ain't about licking the boots of a so-called 'noble' who wouldn't so much as spit on you if you were on fire!"

He stopped suddenly, jabbing a gloved finger at the defectors who had already stepped forward. "THESE MEN! They SEE the truth! They understand what it means to fight for something greater than a spineless empire built on the backs of the suffering! THEY are warriors now! And you?"

His gaze swept over the remaining soldiers, those still bound by duty, by fear, by habit. His lips curled into a sneer. "You are cowards."

The word landed like a hammer. Several of the Imperials flinched as though they had been struck. Others bristled with anger, their grips tightening on their weapons. One even took a step forward, mouth opening in protest—

"DO NOT SPEAK!" Soldier cut him off, his voice carrying such authority that even the wind seemed to hesitate. "Cowards do not get to defend their cowardice! You think staying loyal to an empire that bleeds you dry makes you strong? NO! It makes you weak! The strong choose their own fate! The strong forge their own path! The strong do not wait for orders from weak men!"

He turned his back to them briefly, staring up at the moonlit sky, inhaling the crisp night air as though savoring the moment. Then, in an instant, he spun back around, pointing directly at the cowering Imperials. "You want to know what strength looks like?! It looks like a man who will not kneel! A man who spits in the face of tyrants and laughs as they tremble! It looks like a soldier who fights for something greater than his own survival!"

He took a deep breath, then exhaled sharply, his expression shifting from fury to something more intense—conviction. "I offer you a choice. You can throw down your weapons and stand among men—TRUE MEN—who fight for freedom, for justice, for the thrill of battle! Or…"

He reached behind him, yanking his rocket launcher free and leveling it at the soldiers. His grin stretched wide, manic and gleeful. "You can stay right where you are, and I will personally make sure your remains are scattered so far across this land that your own mothers won't recognize what's left of you!"

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

And then, movement. One soldier let his sword slip from his grasp, the weapon clattering against the dirt. Another hesitated, then followed suit. One by one, the defectors stepped forward, some with shame in their eyes, others with a strange, newfound determination.

Half of the Imperial squad had chosen to defect.

Soldier laughed—a loud, triumphant sound that echoed through the night like a battle cry. He shouldered his launcher and leapt down from the Apeman's corpse, clapping a hand on the back of one of the newly turned soldiers. "WELCOME TO THE RESISTANCE, MAGGOTS! FIRST LESSON: SCREAM LOUDER WHEN YOU CHARGE! SECOND LESSON: IF YOU'RE NOT COVERED IN BLOOD BY THE END OF A FIGHT, YOU WEREN'T FIGHTING HARD ENOUGH! THIRD LESSON—"

Spy placed a hand on Soldier's shoulder, shaking his head with an amused smirk. "Perhaps we let them adjust first, non?"

The defectors, still reeling from Soldier's thunderous speech, stood at the threshold of their old lives, caught between the weight of their past and the uncertain promise of their future. But there were still those who had not crossed the line—those who clung stubbornly to the Empire, whether out of duty, fear, or sheer habit. They knelt in the dirt, weapons discarded, staring up at their former comrades with expressions of contempt, defiance, and, in some cases, barely concealed terror.

It was then that Spy stepped forward, silent as a specter, his mere presence demanding attention. Where Soldier had been fire and fury, Spy was ice and precision. He adjusted the cuffs of his pristine gloves, took a slow drag from his cigarette, and exhaled a stream of smoke into the night air before addressing the recruits in a voice as smooth as silk, yet as sharp as a dagger.

"You 'ave done well," he murmured, his accent curling around every syllable like a snake coiling around its prey. "You 'ave seen ze truth. And yet... you still 'esitate. You still feel it, non? Ze weight of uncertainty. A whisper in ze back of your mind zat asks, 'What 'ave I done?'"

A few of the defectors shifted uneasily. Some clenched their fists, their conviction shaken. Spy let the silence stretch, his gaze piercing, until finally, he tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a knowing smirk.

"Let me ease your conscience," he continued, voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "Zey would 'ave done ze same to you. Worse, even. If it were you kneeling in ze dirt, would zey 'esitate? Would zey show you mercy? Non. Zey would slit your throat and laugh while doing it. You know zis to be true."

He flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his heel. "Zis Empire, it does not care for you. It does not reward loyalty. It discards you like a broken blade when you are no longer useful. You, all of you, 'ave seen what happens to those who serve it for too long. Your own officers, your own leaders, 'ow quickly did zey abandon you?" His gaze swept over them, searching, seizing their doubts and twisting them into certainty.

"And now, you stand 'ere, torn between what you were and what you could be. But let me ask you—why stop 'ere? Why simply leave ze Empire behind when you could take from it what it 'as taken from you?" His voice dripped with something sinister now, a promise laced with poison. "Your families, your friends, your comrades, all lost to its corruption. Would you let zose deaths go unanswered? Would you let ze monsters zat did this walk free?"

The recruits tensed, their expressions darkening. Some exchanged glances, fists tightening. Spy saw the shift, saw the fire catch, and he fed it.

"Zis is not just a war. It is retribution. And if you do not strike first, someone else will. Ze Empire does not stop. It does not rest. And so neither must you." He gestured toward the remaining loyalists, still kneeling, still silent, still watching with wide, untrusting eyes. "Zese men… zey would have killed you. Zey still might, given ze chance. Zey are your enemy. Zey are ze disease zat plagues zis world. And what do we do with disease? We cut it out."

The recruits stirred, their hesitation crumbling away. Their anger, their thirst for vengeance, simmering just beneath the surface, finally boiled over. Weapons were drawn, and eyes that had once been filled with doubt now burned with a singular, violent purpose.

Just as the bloodlust reached its peak, Spy raised a gloved hand, halting the recruits in their tracks. His expression remained calm, almost amused, as if he had anticipated this very outcome. A thin stream of smoke curled from the cigarette perched between his fingers, dissipating into the night air. With a slow, deliberate exhale, he turned his gaze upon them, his voice cutting through the tension like a finely honed blade.

"Non, mes amis… let us not waste valuable resources."

The recruits, still trembling with adrenaline, turned to him in confusion. Some hesitated, gripping their weapons tighter, while others shifted uneasily. The Imperial loyalists, kneeling before them, flinched at the reprieve—though their relief was short-lived under Spy's calculating gaze.

"You 'ave fought well," he continued smoothly, stepping between the captives and their would-be executioners. "You 'ave taken ze first step toward vengeance, toward liberation. But tell me, what is vengeance if not a means to an end? Is it enough to simply spill blood and call it justice? Or should we not be more… pragmatic?"

He let the words settle, watching as understanding flickered across some of their faces. His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk before he took another slow drag of his cigarette.

"Ze Empire, for all its arrogance, does not function without information. It thrives on secrecy, on whispers in ze dark. And right 'ere, before you, kneel ze very men who 'ave whispered into its ears, who 'ave carried out its dirty work. Tell me, mes amis… would it not be a greater pleasure to take from ze Empire not just zeir soldiers, but zeir secrets?"

The recruits' expressions shifted from bloodthirsty to contemplative. Some lowered their weapons slightly, others nodded in dawning realization. Spy took another measured step forward, looming over one of the captured loyalists, who stiffened under his piercing gaze.

"Information is power," Spy murmured, his tone dipping into something almost soothing, yet undeniably menacing. "And power, my friends, is what truly wins wars. Ze question is… do you 'ave ze patience for true vengeance? Or will you settle for petty slaughter?"

A murmur rippled through the crowd. The fire in their eyes remained, but it was no longer wild—it was focused, refined. They were listening.

"Let zem speak," Spy continued, exhaling another wisp of smoke. "Let zem beg. Let zem reveal zeir masters, zeir strategies, zeir weaknesses. And when zey 'ave given us all we need?" He flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his polished shoe. "Zen… you may 'ave your justice."

The recruits straightened, their hands no longer trembling with unchecked rage but with newfound purpose. They exchanged glances, silent agreements passing between them. The bloodlust was still there, but now it was controlled, directed. They would not waste their enemies on mindless execution—they would use them.

Spy allowed himself a slow, satisfied nod. "Bon," he murmured, turning on his heel. "Now, let us begin. I will teach you ze art of extracting information… properly."

He turned back to the prisoners, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. With a flick of his wrist, he gestured for them to be taken away. The recruits obeyed swiftly, dragging the captives into the depths of the hideout, their protests muffled against the overwhelming certainty of their fate.

"Ah, but do not be too 'asty," Spy warned, walking alongside the recruits as they moved. "Pain, mes amis, is an effective tool, but fear… ah, fear is an artist's brush. A well-placed word, a carefully timed silence—zese can unravel even ze most stubborn of minds. We will make zem sing before ze night is through."

One of the younger recruits, still flushed with excitement, turned to him. "And what if they refuse to talk?"

Spy chuckled, low and knowing. "Ah, mon garçon, zey always talk. Ze trick is making zem believe it was zeir idea."

As the recruits carried out his orders, Spy took one last glance at the battlefield. The ashes of their past allegiances had settled, and in their place, something sharper, more dangerous, had been forged. Satisfied, he lit another cigarette, his smirk barely visible in the dim glow of the ember.

"Very bon," he murmured to himself, before disappearing into the shadows to oversee the lesson.

The march back to headquarters was anything but quiet. The once-humble villagers, now budding warriors, carried themselves with newfound confidence. The defected Imperials, still adjusting to the shocking turn of their allegiance, marched with a mixture of hesitation and determination. And then there was the carcass—the monstrous body of the Apeman, hoisted atop makeshift wooden supports, dragging behind the group like a grotesque war trophy. It reeked of blood and sweat, a testament to their brutal fight, and the air around it was thick with the iron scent of victory and death.

At the forefront strode Soldier, helmet slightly tilted, his uniform bloodstained but his posture exuding unshaken pride. "MAGGOTS! YOU HAVE TAKEN YOUR FIRST STEP INTO THE REAL WAR! TONIGHT, YOU MARCH AS MEN!" he bellowed, his voice booming like a war drum. The recruits, still riding the high of battle, let out ragged cheers, their voices hoarse from exhaustion. Some lifted their weapons in defiance of the night, while others merely nodded, too drained to match his unrelenting enthusiasm. The defectors, uncertain of their new path, remained mostly silent, still grappling with the weight of their decision.

The path twisted through the dense forests that shielded the Mercs' hideout from unwanted eyes. The canopy above barely let the moonlight filter through, casting eerie shadows on their weary faces. As the ragtag army emerged from the tree line, torches flickered from within their base—a signal that their return had not gone unnoticed. By the time they reached the entrance, a few of the REDs were already waiting.

Medic was the first to step forward, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "Mein Gott," he breathed, his gloved hands twitching in anticipation as he took in the Apeman's corpse. He circled it like a vulture, fingers brushing over its massive muscle structure, the deep wounds inflicted by the recruits, and the raw sinew still clinging to its bones. "Zis is… how do you say… a medical marvel! Oh, ze things I vill learn from you!" He clapped his hands together, an unsettling grin splitting his face. "So much untapped potential... so many new experiments to try!" The defectors shifted uneasily, watching the doctor with wary eyes, while the recruits merely exchanged nervous glances, already growing accustomed to his peculiarities.

One of the defectors leaned toward another, whispering, "Is he... always like this?"

"You'll get used to it," a recruit muttered, though their tone suggested they had yet to do so themselves.

Spy emerged from the shadows, his ever-composed demeanor in stark contrast to Soldier's loud bravado. His sharp eyes flicked over the recruits before settling briefly on the corpse. Unlike Medic, he was uninterested in the beast's biology—his concern lay elsewhere. "A promising start," he said, voice smooth and calculating. "But do not let tonight's victory fool you into thinking you are ready. This was a mere scuffle. The true battle lies ahead, and it will not be kind to those who hesitate." His words cut through the lingering excitement like a knife through silk. The recruits stiffened under his gaze. Some swallowed nervously. Others clenched their fists, steeling themselves for what was to come.

The Imperial captives, bound and silent, were dragged past the group and deeper into the hideout. None resisted. Some held their heads high in defiance, while others kept their gazes fixed on the ground, awaiting their fate. Their uniforms, once symbols of Imperial authority, were now tattered and stained, stripped of their former glory. They knew they were at the mercy of their captors, and for some, that knowledge was heavier than their bindings.

Engineer, leaning against a wooden support beam, exhaled slowly as he watched them disappear inside. "Dunno 'bout this," he muttered, mostly to himself. "War's got a way of turnin' folks into somethin' else. Hope we ain't buildin' monsters instead of soldiers." His voice was steady, but there was a weight to it, a weariness that only years of experience could bring. He had seen it before—good men lost in the fog of war, reshaped into something unrecognizable.

The other mercs trickled in to observe the newcomers. Scout gave the defectors an appraising look, arms crossed. "Huh. So these guys finally grew a spine, huh? Took ya long enough." He smirked, though his usual cockiness lacked real malice. "Guess we'll see if you can actually keep up. 'Cause lemme tell ya, if ya slow me down, I'm leavin' ya in the dust."

Heavy, standing nearby, nodded approvingly. "Strong fighters. But strength is not just muscle. Need strong heart too." He looked over them with a quiet, almost fatherly concern, his massive arms crossed over his chest. "No weak hearts in war. Weak hearts break."

As the night stretched on, the celebratory energy faded, replaced by an air of unease. The recruits had proven themselves in battle, but Spy was right—this was only the beginning. The real test would come soon. And when it did, some of them might not recognize the people they had become. 

In the dim light of the hideout, Spy lingered, watching the recruits settle in. He could see it in their faces—the uncertainty, the anger, the thirst for something more. He knew what came next. He had seen it countless times before, in countless wars.

Tomorrow, they would learn the art of interrogation.

Tomorrow, they would decide just how far they were willing to go.

And once they crossed that line, there would be no turning back.