'Challenge'

17-Nov-2030, 1313U

LCDR Percy Jackson, US Navy, Son of Neptune

Legio XII Fulminata (TDY)

Oakland Hills, California, USA

After the attack, there had been something of a shift in the instruction. Now, there were always at least two cohorts, plus engineer, artillery, cavalry, medical, and logistics detachments, on security duty. They didn't leave a single square inch of land unchecked: Camp Jupiter, New Rome, the aqueduct, the Little Tiber, the surrounding hills—everything had at least one legionary guarding it. Moreover, Legate Reed had mobilized all available auxiliaries and reservists, including retired personnel, resulting in a surge to fortify the camp and lock down all points of ingress.

Specifically, we bolstered our screening forces. Not only did we have more personnel guarding Caldecott Tunnel, but there was also an increased presence of lares and Lupa's wolves throughout the hills north and south of us. Bolstering the wolves and lares were speculatores and venatores—scouts and hunters—who patrolled while remaining as stealthy as possible. The aqueduct running secret springs of the Berkeley Hills naiads, along with the springs themselves, were also kept under watch to ensure the valley's water supply was not tainted. Oh, and all personnel were equipped with modern radios (the ones that didn't attract monsters, like what I had), and we'd set up a little TOC inside the Principia, ensuring commanders could keep in touch with even the furthest screening forces (providing they weren't lares or wolves, obviously).

These forces were not meant to stop any large-scale assault by any means, but they at least improved our early warning capabilities and would be able to slow down anything too strong for them to kill. And the radios and TOC just improved comms all around.

There were also a few structures being built in the past day-and-a-half: pillboxes with scorpios and ballistae facing the Caldecott Tunnel; security checkpoints on the hidden dirt roads though the Oakland/Berkeley Hills, complete with heavy weapons (I didn't even know the second one existed); camouflaged observation posts, manned by speculatores and venatores throughout the hills; beefed up watchtowers, with two flanking each gate and one at each corner, the towers containing heavy weapons and ammo; reinforced defensive walls around the camp; wall-walks, allowing additional defenders to get in the fight while remaining in safety; and a few other items which were too architectural for me to understand.

Damn, I wish Annabeth were here right now to break this bullshit down...

Oh, and just for good measure, we were setting up a few firebases throughout Camp Jupiter. Remember those onagers that nearly destroyed CHB two decades back? Well, the legion still had them, so we decided to focus them on certain points: namely the exit from Caldecott Tunnel and choke points along the hidden dirt roads. In short, all routes of ingress could be quickly hit by our ancient indirect fire.

Meanwhile, personnel still undergoing training underwent instruction as normal—with a focus on rucking, swimming, continued practice of basic combat skills, and initiation of advanced combat training—but there were two changes. Firstly, my Minions and I had the troops contribute to construction efforts and general security of the camp, in support of personnel on guard duty. Secondly, there was a major shift in the overall mood: despite the camp having just come under attack, the legion had become somewhat more relaxed in the face of the cadre's instruction. From what I'd heard from Dakota, the legionaries and probationes were much more willing to learn after seeing the effects of both complacency and ramped-up training on the night the monsters breached the camp. It seemed as though just about everyone, even the more rebellious, undisciplined weirdos, wanted to unfuck themselves.

Well, not everyone...

"Probatio Joker, what the absolute fuck is that trench of yours?" I asked the insubordinate young man—who had dug a trench shallower than the Kardashians for the construction of the firebase focused on Berkeley Hills.

"Sir, it's a trench for this artillery post, sir," Joker replied mockingly.

"That's not how you dig a goddamn trench. You're not stopping anything, 'cept for maybe a guy in a wheelchair. Prefect Sanders, please correct him."

"Yessir," Dakota said, about to unfuck the situation before Joker decided to open his mouth again.

"Oh, big talk, coming from some fucking old man."

"Old man?" I asked, stopping and turning around, keeping my voice level. "What do you mean?"

"Look at your face! All those random gray hairs on your head! You've gotta be, what, fifty? How the fuck are you qualified to provide any sort of training?"

"That's enough, Prob—" Dakota began, stopping when I held up my hand. I was genuinely curious as to where Joker was going with this.

"And you've got the fucking praefectus castrorum as your attack dog, because he's just as old and cranky as you!" Joker continued. "So you can run a marathon. Big whoop. You can't even swing a sword, so you run around with that crap."

I've never actually run a marathon, but Joker wasn't entirely wrong: the last time I swung a sword was during my oh-so-dramatic "last stand" in North Dakota, in which my dumb ass swung Riptide around like an idiot. Luke Castellan was probably rolling over in his nonexistent grave—and I know he was technically a bad guy, but the motherfucker still was my first swordsmanship teacher... he'd still find a way to be disappointed. Even if he was a good guy, he probably would've used Annabeth's patented Yell-At-Percy technique and Grover's copyrighted Beat-Up-Percy technique on me after seeing my horrendous form.

And now? Rather than some epic Greco-Roman swordsman of yore, I was walking around looking like a kitted-out dude at the range, a plainclothes SWAT operator, or a super secret black ops ninja squirrel (complete with burn scars on the left side of my face and left arm): sunglasses, jeans, T-shirt, ballcap (repping NYPD this time), hiking shoes, war belt with holstered Glock 19, plate carrier, and my Noveske. For all you geardos out there, my kit was fairly minimal (at least, I thought it was): three extra mags of 5.56, one extra mag of 9-mm, one frag, two nine-bangs, and a smoke. Miscellaneous shit like a radio, multitool, blowout kit, waterproof notebook with pen, etcetera (of course), but it was overall lightweight and simple.

"So I shoot instead of stab and slash. What's your point, Probatio Joker?" I asked, curious. Dakota raised an eyebrow, seeming to try and figure out what the hell was going on, while Gwen walked up to investigate the commotion.

"You're in no place to give orders, let alone teach a single fucking class, sir," he replied, adding as much sarcasm as possible to the honorific as possible. "You say you're here because the legion's weak and gotten soft. So what exactly are you supposed to teach us? You need a gun because you're weak!"

"Probatio Stuart Melvin Jones the Second, you stand the fuck down right now," Gwen ordered, not quite raising her voice, but sounding annoyed—as if she'd dealt with this young jackass before.

"Too scared to get up close and personal, sir? So you'd rather just shoot them from a nice safe spot? C'mon, get real. Lose the guns and what are you? An old man trying to feel relevant," Joker scoffed. I couldn't tell whether he was trying to get a rise out of me or he was speaking his mind, but I was amused more than anything else—even though I couldn't show it.

"Joker, Joker, Joker... what makes you think I need guns to be deadly?" I asked, trying to hold in my laughter.

"You need the guns 'cause you're weak, sir," he replied, now looking even more pissed as he dropped his E-tool and stepped towards me. "You don't even have the balls to teach combat yourself, let alone face me with a sword."

"Is that a challenge, Probatio Joker?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"... Sanders, both of you."

"Yes?" Dakota and Gwen replied simultaneously.

"Get Kahale, would you? Joker wants a fight, he'll get one. But Kahale's the subject matter expert on everything, so he'll ref," I answered. "And get me some legionary kit."

Several minutes later, right there in the Field of Mars, Joker and I faced off from one another, preparing to do battle. The rest of Joker's cohort, Cohort V, was having a water break, so they were spectating. Standing between us was Praefectus Castrorum Kahale himself, his trademark notebook in one hand, my rifle (on safe) slung over the opposite shoulder, and my plate carrier and war belt secured under in the backpack on his back. Across from him were Gwen and Dakota, providing extra sets of eyes for the match.

"Ready, gentlemen?" Kahale asked.

"Ready!" we replied simultaneously, stepping forward in our Roman legionary kit.

"Best of three rounds, gents. The first will consist of you combating one another with the standard loadout: pilum, gladius, scutum. The second round will consist of gladiator combat. And the third will be hand-to-hand. First blood or a willing surrender winds the round. No second chances."

"If you win, I'll leave and never return," I told Joker. "Black Hats will go home, and my work is over. If I win, the training continues, you'll be charged with insubordination, and you'll take your punishment like a man. Clear?"

"Don't worry, sir," Joker scoffed, somehow managing to sound both cocky and confident.

"Alright, back up to your starting positions," Kahale ordered, with the two of us walking backwards until we were around 50 feet apart. The scutum was uncomfortable, the pilum felt unwieldy, and my confidence level with the gladius was that of my 11-year-old ass during my first swordsmanship lesson at CHB.

"Evocatus Jackson, are you ready?" Dakota asked.

"I'm ready," I replied.

"Probatio Joker, are you ready?"

"Fuck, yes," the young man replied.

All balls, no brains, as it seems...

"Three, two, one, begin!" Kahale commanded. Immediately, I decided to get rid of the damned pilum by chucking it at Joker... missing him entirely and nearly skewering Optio Carter on the sidelines.

"Sorry, Ethan!" I called, hearing the optio's loud curses. Shrugging to myself, I drew my gladius and advanced, feeling like a clumsy motherfucker. Rather than throw it, Joker seemed to want to use his pilum as a thrusting implement as if it were a regular old spear... unconventional, but not necessarily out of the question (at least, if I was remembering Frederick Chase's lessons correctly).

Joker was aggressive with his thrusts, and he had the range advantage. I kept my shield up, but the probatio was relentless. When he finally managed to wedge the tip of his pilum in my scutum, the damn thing was so unwieldy I had to drop it. Now, I had no defense except for my feet, and Joker had drawn his gladius.

I'm not winning this one... not by a long shot. The little fucker's good. Better make it a convincing loss.

So I did. I decided to play to his advantage, attacking him. I slashed and stabbed at his shield and shuffled around him, trying to hit an exposed spot. But Joker was a damned good swordsman, and he knew how to use his shield to his advantage. At the perfect time, he surged forward, shield-bashing and disorienting me. He saw a window and took it, stabbing me in the shoulder—not enough to cause serious damage, but he'd drawn blood. A shrill whistle filled the air and Joker was yanked off of me before he could do any further damage.

"Point to Joker!" Kahale declared emotionlessly. "Medic!"

"Sir, yes sir!" a very familiar voice replied. I sat up to find myself looking up at two very familiar women: a tall redhead and a ridiculously small, but slightly less underweight girl.

"Probatio Twig? Legionary Carrot? What are you two doing here?" I asked as they got to work patching me up.

"Sir, I was transferred to the central field hospital group to learn some field medicine, sir! And my battle buddy came with, sir!" Twig replied.

"Sir, please eat the ambrosia, sir!" Carrot requested, breaking off a small square of the godly food and handing it to me.

"You're getting med training too, Carrot?" I asked.

"Sir, yes sir! I was sticking with my battle buddy and decided to widen my skill set, sir!"

"... attagirl, Carrot," I replied as I took a bite—and it tasted like some of Mom's blue chocolate chip cookies, fresh out of the oven. "Oh, hell yeah."

"Hold still please, sir," Twig requested as she poured what looked like unicorn draught on my shoulder wound—which acted like something of an antiseptic—before quickly bandaging it up. The pain was mostly gone thanks to Twig's fast work, but there was definitely a bit of a throb. But nonetheless, I was just about full strength. I'd lost a round, but Joker was huffing and puffing a short distance away, quickly throwing on gladiator kit and desperate to beat me again.

"Thank you, Twig and Carrot. Twig, how's your fitness coming?"

"Sir, in the two weeks since you assigned Legionary Carrot as my battle buddy, I've... become less underweight, sir!" Twig replied, her expression honest yet guarded. And it was true: she was still 4' 6", but she didn't look as morbidly skinny as she used to be... what was she, at least 85 pounds now?

Actually, better stop thinking... never discuss a woman's weight right? Or her age, for that matter... I wonder if we're allowed to discuss height.

"Glad you're eating, Twig. Carrot, keep her eating and exercising. Both of you, dismissed," I said, brushing off my not-in-the-shower thoughts

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Jackson!" Kahale called as the medics walked away. "We've made some random choices. You're going to be a retiarius!"

"... I'm going to be a retard?"

"That, and you're also a net fighter."

"Basically," Dakota explained, stifling his laughter as he brought forward my kit for the gladiator round. "You get a trident, net, and manica—an arm guard for your left—and you also gotta lose the shirt."

"Great. So I gotta cover myself in olive oil too?" I sarcastically asked.

"Mmm, nah. I don't think you need to go full retard."

"Fuck you, Sanders."

"Joker! You're a secutor!" Kahale announced.

"I know, I know, let's get this shit started!" the probatio replied impatiently, having already thrown off his shirt and donned his gladiator gear: a manica on his right arm, a thing on his left leg (I think Dakota called it an "ocrea"), and wielded a gladius and scutum.

"Jackson, are you ready?" Kahale asked after we were both fully geared up.

"Yup," I replied, cracking my neck.

"Joker, are you ready?"

"Yes, yes, c'mon!" the impatient probatio replied. "Prepare to get skewered, sir! My gladiator skills are twice that of my legionary skills!"

"Good... twice the pride, double the fall," I retorted.

"Three, two, one, BEGIN!" Kahale barked.

Despite being in a good position for defense, Joker decided to get aggressive and rush me... at least, as much as he could rush me with a big-ass shield to carry. I was a little lighter on my feet and had a bit more energy in me, so while I didn't know jack about net fighting and my gear was absolutely ancient, I could certainly improvise.

Ancient gear, constant improvisation in the face of sweet fuck-all... I wonder if this is what Marines feel like.

But while the trident was effectively a spear with extra steps (DON'T TELL FATHER I SAID THAT), there was a major elephant in the room—er, field—and it wasn't Hannibal: how the fuck was the net in my left hand supposed to help me? What was I, a fisherman? Did I have to catch Probatio Joker like a fish? Well, if he was going to keep charging at me like a jackass with his heavy shield, I could probably chuck the net over him.

But he could cut through it... I wonder if I could use the net like Spider-Man uses his webs?

It was a jackassed thought—or maybe not, since I didn't know shit about gladiators—but hey, what did I have to lose? I had speed on my side... now I just had to bring surprise and violence of action into play.

Making a guess, I bent back my left arm before quickly extending out, almost like I was using a whip. And like a fisherman Indiana Jones, I ensured his gladius in my net. And with a quick, hard tug, the sword was yoinked away, flung several yards behind me. Joker's eyes widened in surprise: he didn't see that coming. And then I did what you would expect: I chucked the net at him with all my might.

In his hasty desire to dodge the net, he tripped over himself backwards and was subsequently entangled. And with an aggressive thrust of the trident on my part, I knocked him back flat on his ass. Now, in what I could only call a game of Stab-a-Mole, I gripped my trident with both hands and kept stabbing downwards to finish him off. Most of my strikes impacted his shield, while a few outright missed.

But finally, one Poseidon pitchfork poke (AGAIN, DO NOT TELL FATHER I SAID THAT) drew blood from his stomach. It didn't hit his vitals, but it did secure my victory in the gladiator round.

"Point to Jackson!" Kahale declared. "Medic!"

"Gods-dayum, Perce!" Dakota laughed as he helped untangle an infuriated Joker from the net. "Now that's how you catch a fish!"

"Easy, deputy umpire," I joked. "Can't show any bias."

"There's no such thing as impartiality... change my mind."

"Fight match now, philosophy talk later, Kota!" Gwen called as she recovered my gear.

"Yes dear."

"Whipped," I stage-whispered, receiving an eye-roll and elbow to the side from Dakota in return.

"Alright, boys. Shirts on for the final round: hand-to-hand. If you tap, you lose. If you get knocked unconscious or are otherwise incapacitated, you lose. Pretty simple," Gwen announced. "One to one... winner takes all."

"How're we doing this? MMA-style or some BJJ shit?" I asked.

"Eh... let's do it MMA-style," Kahale replied, pulling a roll of athletic tape from his pocket and tossing it to me. "Tape up. Strikes are allowed. Just about everything's clear, but to ensure we all can avoid some paperwork, don't kill each other... and because we're all gentlemen, don't aim for the dick and balls either, okay?"

Nodding assent, I went ahead and taped up my knuckles, before tossing the roll to the pissed Joker. He anticipated a second easy win and didn't get it... but that meant this round was going to be harder. Joker was a weirdo, but I didn't think he was an idiot. He wouldn't be overconfident again, and he sure as hell wouldn't engage in any sort of underestimation. Plus, making this round even more difficult was the fact that Joker was a damn good hand-to-hand combatant. He put up one of the best fights against Kahale, after all.

"Jackson, are you ready?" Kahale asked after we were both prepped.

"Yeah," I replied, cracking my knuckles.

"Joker, are you ready?"

"Fuck, yes!" the angry probatio replied, looking as though he wanted to actually kill me.

Hm, he's pissed... wonder if that's going to be significant later on.

"Three, two, one, FIGHT!"

It started off about what you'd expect: two guys squaring up and facing off, staying on our toes as we waited for the other to make the first move. Right when I had an idea, Joker threw a left jab at my head, missing entirely. In response, I put a right hook when connected perfectly with his face. But of course, since we only had tape instead of proper gloves, that punch did hurt.

Alrighty, hornets' nest has been kicked.

Joker started whaling me with punches: jabs, crosses, and hooks. I took at least one to the chest, a dozen to my blocking arms, and a hook to my armpit that I'm pretty sure was aimed towards the kidney. I wasn't down yet, but the kid could fight.

I decided to get up close and personal with a high crotch single leg takedown. But Joker knew how to evade, creating space between us. However, I did see another opportunity from my short-lived kneeling position: a body lock takedown. So I shot forward, taking away all the space he created and getting both my arms under his shoulders. With my hands locked toghether and my head and shoulder pressed against his torso, I pulled with my arms and pushed with my head, severely imbalancing him. To complete the takedown, I tapped the back of his knee with mine, and he dropped back-first with me in side control.

But Joker was something of a grappler himself, and escaped the side control to try and put me in an arm bar. But because we were both so sweaty, I actually managed to slip my arm away without any actual technique. Looking and sounding frustrated (based on the caveman noises he was making), Joker grabbed my shirt and left leg, putting us in a weird position.

Suddenly, my mind flashed back to a BJJ lesson I'd once received: it was an advanced kind of choke, one we would really only do with one of those martials arts bathrobes (a gi or something?). What was it called, the archer's choke?

Bow and arrow. FUCK.

Yeah, I'd been on the receiving end of that one, and the little dipshit was trying to use it on me. But he'd forgotten one critical thing: we were doing this MMA-style. As such, I punched him in the face, my knuckles impacting the underside of his chin like a deranged uppercut. It wasn't my best punch, but it was enough to get Joker to release me, allowing me to go on the offensive.

But Joker still had enough sense to trap me in his legs when I shot towards him—he had me in "guard," I think—so while I was above him and he was flat on his back, he still was overall in control of the situation. And based on the way he was grabbing at my arms, he wanted to knock me out Black Widow-style or something. Remembering what the BJJ instructor said, I attempted driving my elbows into his thighs to try and break the guard. Hell, I even tried putting pressure on the femoral artery to make Joker feel woozy.

But while the arterial pressure trick was ineffective, his guard was broken. But Joker still had energy to spare, and the dry November day ensured that I didn't have any humidity to use to my advantage. So rather than try and choke me with his legs, he used a sweep to flip our positions, leaving him on top and me on the bottom. And now, it was ground-and-pound time as he sat on my ribcage and threw punches at my face.

Now this was a bad position, and probably one of the worst apart from an outright submission. I was able to block some of his punches, but I wasn't in a good place to get him off. And if they started connecting with my head more often, Joker could probably knock me out—hell, I think I already had a bloody nose. From a practical standpoint, there were only two ways out: one, if I had a sidearm on my belt to draw and shoot his ass; two, if I had a buddy nearby who could throw a knife into the fucker's eye.

Hold on a minute, what was it that the instructor said? "Mount escape," or some shit like that? Okay, now how did that work? Bump, thrust, hips, elbows, shrimp... wait, GOT IT!

Ensuring I maintained a defense, I engaged in the "foot drag escape": putting my weight towards my hip, stepping my foot towards Joker's outside foot, keeping my heel near the top of the foot, and dragging it across my other leg while gathering the knee of my opponent. Having trapped his left leg, I now had him in a "half guard," which still left me on the bottom.

However, I remembered one trick from my BJJ instructor: the "arm triangle," a ridiculously powerful blood choke. But Joker was still trying to punch my face in, so I had to hold the half guard and wait for an opportunity. My arms managed to block most of his blows, but I felt a punch to my temple, my nose, and even my teeth. Nothing broke, but I felt like I was getting bashed by a hammer.

But finally, an opportunity came. I reached up with my left arm and looped it around his neck, before tightening the grip by grabbing my right arm with my left and and grabbing his head with my right. Joker couldn't punch anymore and based on all his squirming, he didn't seem too happy about it. I rolled him to my left and repositioned my right leg so I now had both of his legs controlled. And after that, all I had to do was tighten up and keep the pressure on both sides of his neck until he tapped.

But he didn't, preferring to squirm and fight as he tried to escape. But he'd spent so much energy, he was running out. I tightened the grip, trying to force him to surrender. But Joker wasn't giving in.

C'mon, dipshit... you ain't gettin' out, so just fuckin' quit!

But the fucker decided to go down fighting instead. Until finally, not an ounce of fight remained as his body went limp. And it wasn't a trick.

"Jackson, off! Medic!" Kahale ordered as I released the unconscious Probatio Joker. Dakota helped me to my feet and Probatio Twig started helping me out with my bloody nose and bruises. Meanwhile, Legionary Carrot and a few personnel from the central field hospital group were working on taking care of the downed Joker. But after a few moments, my opponent was awake again, flat on his back and looking as though he just saw God... or maybe the Devil. But it wasn't fear that appeared to consume him. It was something else.

The Field of Mars had gone silent as I stared down at my defeated opponent, trying to read his expression. I was never too good at this sort of thing, so I decided to go the tough-but-fair route... I guess.

"No shame, son. Get up," I said after taking a breath, keeping my tone as even as possible. But Joker didn't budge, just staring at me... almost like he was lifeless. "Probatio Joker, get up!"

Finally, he slowly sat up before moving to a kneeling position, at which point he looked up again. What looked like tiny tears glistened in the corners of his eyes—anger and embarrassment, if I were a betting man. But when I saw his eyes, my mind suddenly flashed back by 15 years, during my deployment to Iraq with Task Unit Odin...

Based on what the commander said, we were looking at just another nighttime raid: go in, capture or kill the high-value target, do sensitive site exploitation, then leave. We were going after the leader of an ISIS cell by the name of Adil Habib Tawfiq, who had masterminded dozens of attacks on Coalition forces and seemed to get off on bullying and intimidating the populace. A woman not having an inch of her ankles covered? She was murdered. A farmer that wanted nothing to do with ISIS and just wanted to be left alone? He was murdered and his children became victims of human trafficking.

Plus, Tawfiq used children as suicide bombers, knowing we would be less wary of random kids. Some intel reports suggested that he even specifically used mentally retarded children, putting explosive vests and belts under their clothing and telling the kids to go towards us or towards dissident civilian centers for whatever reason: there was food, candy, etc. He managed to kill a decent few troops and civilians that way.

Hell, I heard it through the grapevine that an 82nd Airborne soldier ended up shooting one of these children—he saw the vest, he raised his gun and shouted for the kid to stop and go away, but the kid didn't stop... so the soldier stopped him. The vest, which was apparently timed, blew up. The soldier and some other guys from his platoon sustained injuries, but nobody died. Rumor had it that the soldier ended up eating his own gun a few days before his unit was heading stateside.

All in all, Adil Habib Tawfiq was a rabid dog that needed to be put down. And it was up to SEAL Team 2's Echo Platoon to bring him in, warm or cold.

We used indigenous vehicles for the stealthiest infiltration possible, and we had a QRF in the form of Army infantrymen, Tactical Air Control Party operators, and pararescuemen loaded up in Black Hawks back at the forward operating base. Unfortunately, we had to roll with Iraqi commandos, who weren't as bad as their conventional counterparts, but HOLY SHIT were some of their fuckups legendary. But on the bright side, this particular commando team was eager to kick some ISIS ass, so at least we could count on them to stick with us in a firefight—or if nothing else, serve as our drivers to get us in and out. Plus our combat interpreter, Jamsheed, was a spectacular shooter and all-around great guy, so we knew we could count on him.

Anyways, we had intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance plus limited close air support in the form of an armed Reaper drone orbiting overheads, but there were some Apaches back at the FOB ready to respond and provide further CAS if needed. We rolled through the town without issue, finally arriving at the drop-off point. We left six commandos and two SEALs with the vehicles. Four other guys, including our platoon chief, entered an abandoned building to establish sniper overwatch. Finally, our platoon officer-in-charge led the assault element: himself, four Iraqi commandos, Jamsheed the terp, the platoon leading petty officer, and the last eight SEALs of Echo Platoon—including myself and Kayak.

We advanced quietly through the dark streets, our NODs lighting our way while fucking up our depth perception. It was only thanks to a shitload of practice that I was able to run and gun with NODs without tripping. And a good thing too, considering I was the point-man. Right behind me was the platoon assistant officer-in-charge, then the OIC, then Jamsheed, then Kayak, then the rest of the 15-man assault element.

"Echo 1-1, Echo 3-1," the chief called over the platoon net. "Overwatch established, over."

"Roger," the OIC replied simply. "4-3, SITREP."

"All clear, 1-1. No movement anywhere," one of the SEALs sticking with the vehicles replied. "Our boys are doing fine, over."

"Check. Stay safe. Out."

And forward we went, with me leading the way. I was the main guy for planning the route, so while I had some backup plans, I didn't want to have to use them. And we didn't, because we arrived at the HVT's house with no issue. But the door was reinforced and there were no other ingress points, not even from the rooftop of another building. So instead, we'd have to go loud. I brought my left fist to my helmet: breacher up.

"All stations, stand by for breach," the OIC quietly warned on the net while our breacher, a big tough frogman straight out of Compton, came up and stuck a slap charge on the door. Once it was set, he pulled the fuse and we stepped back to the minimum safe distance.

BOOM!

It was short and sweet, obliterating the knocking mechanism with the blast and forcing the door inward—not off the hinges, but it sure was stuck. The AOIC tossed a 9-bang in, then we flowed in. The entire raid was CQB 101: breach, sweep, and clear. Nothing we hadn't done a million times before. Hell, I'd say it was a good raid: our Iraqis had exactly zero clusterfucks. They were getting better, and did an excellent job in securing the women and children in the house, ensuring none of them had vests, belts, detonators, or any other weapon.

There were three men in the house that did get smoked, however: two guys with AKs and a third with a shotgun, funnily enough—I got the shotgunner, and while Kayak and one of the Iraqis killed the guys with AKs. And when things went quiet (approximately seven minutes and thirty seconds after we blew the door open) and it was time for SSE, we confirmed it: Mr. Shotgun was Adil Habib Tawfiq himself.

"All stations, I pass Jackpot, EKIA. Say again, Jackpot, EKIA," the OIC announced on the radio.

"Solid copy, 1-1. No movement outside. Button up the target and let's egress," the chief replied.

I searched Tawfiq's body, finding a cell phone, radio, and a notebook. I stuffed it in a Ziploc and secured it. But as I stepped away, I noticed something: among the screaming and crying women and children, there was a teenage boy that didn't look older than 15. He just stared at us, his eyes dark... reminding me of the darkness I saw in Tartarus. Reminding me of Nyx.

If I were a betting man, that boy and the other children were Tawfiq's kids. The women were his wives while the two other gunmen were either subordinate fighters or family members... hell, maybe even both. And we'd just blown down the door, stormed in, tossed 9-bangs everywhere, and killed Tawfiq and the other two men right in front of them. We cracked some chemlights in an effort to try and calm the kids down, and our Iraqis were doing their best—they knew the local tongue after all. And it seemed to work, however slightly.

Except for that teenage boy. Everything about him, his intense glare, his dark eyes, his expression... it felt like I was staring at something evil, or at least the start of it. He didn't choose that life. He inherited it, thanks to the sins of his father, and while we tried our best to pacify him, he was already gone. I wouldn't be surprised if he picked up an AK and started targeting Coalition forces the next day.

The LPO was among the ones who tried to soothe the boy, similarly using a chemlight and showing his otherwise empty hands, but it didn't change anything. Once the target buttoned up, we moved to exfil. Our vehicles quickly drove up, picked us up, and we drove back to the FOB. The LPO, who doubled as the platoon clown, didn't have anything to say to try and take our minds off the disturbing sight we saw. It didn't help that he was a father-to-be himself, with his wife set to give birth a month before our six-month deployment ended—so he was probably rattled to some extent.

My memory had gotten exponentially stronger with the blessing of partial immortality. But even without it, I don't think I would ever be able to forget that boy and those haunting eyes of his.

And now, they were back, but this time in Probatio Joker, who looked around 18-19. He wasn't just humiliated from having gotten his ass beaten by an "old man" who was "weak..." there was something seriously wrong with him at his core. There was a deep-rooted rage.I didn't know fuck-all about psychology (or psychiatry, whatever), but Joker was multiple levels of fucked up.

"Well, congratulations, Fifth Cohort! This imbecile of a probatio demonstrates that you have failed to maintain discipline within your own ranks!" Napoleon suddenly announced, the 5' 5" veteran tesserarius having apparently shown up while my back was turned. And his eyes were set on the nervous-looking Cohort V, who appeared to be bracing themselves for yet another mass punishment for Joker's dumbassery.

"Stand fast, Napoleon!" I called before he could go any further. "I'll handle Joker solo. Fifth Cohort goes back to its normal activities. Everyone understand?"

"SIR, YES SIR!!" Napoleon, Gwen, Dakota, and Cohort V replied simultaneously. Kahale looked at me with a raised eyebrow, his expression quizzical. I gave him a thumbs-up: he didn't need to worry. Understanding, he nodded, walking over and returning my kit to me.

"That's a nice shiner," he commented. Smirking, I realized that Joker had given me a black eye. And while the bloody nose wasn't leaking anymore, I don't think I was any prettier than I used to be. I'd gone from half-barbecued zombie to half-barbecued zombie in a bad neighborhood. "So you're running Joker. Anything you can tell me?"

"We'll be back eventually. You got everything locked down here?" I asked as I put on my war belt, plate carrier, sunglasses, and ballcap, before finally recovering my Noveske.

"You kiddin'?"

"Have a good one, Prefect."

We shared a fist-bump before the massive camp prefect lumbered off. And with everyone else having left too, there was just me and Joker, who still looked incredibly pissed off. And he'd wiped at his eyes, seeming to try and put on a tough guy front. He was a real piece of work... but I wasn't a psychiatrist (psychologist, whatever). Now, it was time to be his instructor.

"Probatio, from this moment on, you will not speak unless spoken to. You will follow every instruction to the letter, or I swear to God, you're going home in a bag with a note that says 'some assembly required.' I'd rather not lay you the fuck out again... clear?"

He stared at me for a few moments silently, as if he was trying to search for something smart-alecky to say. But to my surprise, he didn't.

"Sir, yes sir."

I smiled.

"Welcome to hell, Joker."

Again, I have to stress that I don't know jack shit about Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Mixed Martial Arts, and so on. I found some YouTube videos and websites on the Internet, and am trying to make myself sound educated by imitating the way they spoke. Any BJJ/MMA lovers who catch any mistakes, feel free to drop a comment explaining how stupid I am.

We're at an interesting point in the story where I'm trying to fill some gaps, but I don't know how to fill them. If the updates seem slow, that's because they're tricky to write. So if any of you are also reading Killed in Action - A Spy School Story right now, you know what I mean. But I'll get there, don't worry. Sorry for a relatively brief update.

Nonetheless, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. If you like it, tell me why. If you dislike it, tell me why. Comment your thoughts, memes, stories, and everything else. Hell, I'm no communist, so I won't try and control you. Get down in the comments section, go berserk.

Oh, and here's a declassified image of "Jolly Actual," commander of the North Pole's Special Operations Brigade.  After nearly a year of his recon teams and spies scouring the world to see who's naughty and who's nice, NPSOB's CO kitted up and initiated Operation Christmas-2023.

But sometimes, in places like Chicago, Baltimore, New York City, and San Francisco (where, *gasp*, criminals don't obey the law!), he's going to need some backup from the local SWAT team:

MERRY CHRISTMAS, YA FILTHY ANIMALS!

Until next time,

- ADF-2

[Author's Note: I was unable to determine who created the Operator Santa image, so I have nobody to credit it to... if anyone knows, let me know.]