Irregulaire

Prologue

It was July 31st, 2015—my birthday. Election results are coming out, and people are dissatisfied with these results. Incumbent government led by President James Widows won against Dennis Pieterzoon’s opposition by a tiny margin. Less than 3%, even. Still, Jacktown became very unstable in just a week.

The whole country then turned unstable in just days. This situation was then taken as an opportunity by our neighboring country, Broenland, to retake what they had. They launched an invasion from the North with two prongs meant to encircle the capital city of Jacktown, a mere month since the election ended.

This country, Griesia, was once part of Broenland before we decided to split up. Back in the 1980’s, we had a civil war which then had an impact on how we came to be. It was short, but effective. We stated that we wanted independence and would fight for it. Then we did it. With UN assistance, we established independence from Broenland in 1986. Tension never ceased, however. We still had border clashes every now and again. Our respective diplomatic representatives even once got caught in a fistfight.

A portion—more than 10 percent—of our population were of Broeni origin. This would prove to be a little hassle, as they would be potential guerillas aiding Broenland Invaders. Speculations floated around whether or not this could happen, and it eventually showed. These collaborators, called the Liberators, poured on to the streets on mid-August—a week after the invasion.

Some people would speculate that they were actually plain-clothed Broeni soldiers who infiltrated our borders. Armed with anything they could’ve found, they started opening fire at military outposts. It was rush-hour on a Monday morning, where chirping birds were made fleeing by loud bangs out of AK-47s and M16s. Big, crowded cities like Jacktown, Haier, Sauerchar, and Goodwill were attacked by armed guerillas. These skirmishes happened most frequently in Seedland Provinces, but were a bit bigger in Cleavess, where the enemy already took half the province by late August. And as it turned out, some armed forces personnel had joined them, making them even deadlier.

They basically pounded us up inside and out. ANB—Armee Nationale Broenland—invaded, while Diorne’s Liberators stirred us up from the inside. If the Liberators were professional army, we’d be dead by now. These two happened almost simultaneously, with the Liberators started opening fire on civilians and law enforcement alike only two days after the start of the invasion. The Army got pretty busy that week.

But here in Prawndale—a small town just south of the city of Haier—things were not that bad. Haier even got the best defense anyone around here can offer—a Navy Headquarters. These bases proved to be one tough nut to crack. Problem is, there is this big airport laying right in-between our city border with Haier. Even though the Navy has an airbase there, airports are usually a target of high value. The Marines and the Navy ground personnel were spread thin on urban combat, making the defense of the airport harder. Don’t get me wrong, these men fought hard, but there are concerns about the Liberators’ ability to take on the Navy and the Marines, as they grew stronger.

My parents moved out of town when things got sour, right around early September. They moved out to Windfeld, my father’s birthplace. That town was relatively safe at that time. They told me they’d stay there until things get better—or worse. I was still in Pouvre at that time—I was getting out of college, for God’s sake—and they wanted to take me with them. I didn’t want to come, told them I stayed with some friends. I maintained contact with anyone I know, especially old friends outside Pouvre, to keep me fed about occurring events. Until one day somehow, I was moved to go home to that abandoned house. There was a little surprise for me, though.

As things got worse, some civilians had these ideas of helping the armed forces by forming their own security wing. They wanted to be able to protect themselves, repelling any harassment from the Liberators. They formed small, local pockets of militia, using the army’s outdated weapons at first, then looting any Liberator member they manage to eliminate. I joined them in just two days after finding out. Armed with just a .38 caliber revolver I got from a neighbor, I made my way, joined patrols and hit-n-runs where I finally made my first kill.

Pulling the trigger was quite hard as I was shaking. Had to do it with both hands to make it steadier. “BANG!” I let out a shot. He fell on his butt. I pulled the trigger again on double action. “BANG!”, and there he was, like having a little seizure that stops after just 2 seconds. That was it. I killed a man. I finally got to taste blood.

A short firefight ensued. We managed to kill three of them, fending off the Liberators from our neighborhood with just old rifles and a handgun. I figured those were low level fighters, new to the organization—they couldn’t stand a chance, even against us. We then took their weapons and ammo, putting them for our own use against their previous owners.

I then proceeded to take the rifle and ammunition from the guy I killed and made it my primary weapon. Its steel construction was stained by the man’s blood. It will function, though, and 7.62mm lead ball with copper jacket sure will go through almost anything the Liberators had. But it was heavy. Not my favorite rifle either, mind you, but it was enough.

I could hear pops and bangs every night, making sleep a little harder. Eerie, sometimes. I reckon some of my friends would, too. It was kilometers away, but it felt like mere 50 yards. I’m telling you, though, when you started to get the hang of it, it began to sound like those ASMR podcast that can bring you down to sleep. If that happens to you, then you started to not care. It’s actually kind of good to feel that way, as it left no burden. But not to be careless, still.

Within these days, I joined several anti-raid ambushes afterwards and scored a handful more kills myself. As it started growing on me, killing suddenly feels... not wrong. If a kill made me uneasy about it, the distant battle sound calms me down every night. Sometimes, I wonder how Mom and Pop are doing just before falling asleep. I was out of their sight, but probably not out of their mind. Hopefully not.

---

A few weeks later, on early October, a Colonel, who was the father of someone I was fond of, contacted me and offered me a job as a part of a security team. The team, however, has yet to be assembled, and I was given the honor to do it. It would have to consist of at most 13 men, with various roles mirroring a squad. Promised with new equipment and a somewhat large pay, I set out to do just that. The team would then have to assemble at the Colonel’s house, which would be their staging area. But first, they would gather at my place.

---