'Sixteen'

22-Nov-2030, 1915U

Probatio Stuart "Joker" Jones II, Descendant of Pietas

Legio XII Fulminata, Joint Operation with Task Force 101

Oakland, California, USA

"Wait, wait, wait... you did what now?"

"We stole literally two-thirds of it."

"Over the course of the past week?"

"When we weren't doing tactical training... you know, Tyson and his Torrent Troopers can be pretty fuckin'sneaky when they want to. How else do you think they were able to acquire so many vehicles and weapons from US Army armories and bases? Plus, it helps that we don't really need to sleep... y'know, with us bein' gods and all."

"And how many gallons do we have in total?"

"I... don't actually know, man."

This was the conversation as Dux Alexios—who also called himself the "Supreme Commander of the Argo II..." whatever the hell that meant—explained just how exactly they were fueling the vehicles of Task Force 101. We were inside the One-Oh-One's massive staging area, the dark cool night lit up by the massive tripod-mounted lights and miscellaneous lanterns. The valley was chock-full of activity as the legion readied for war alongside our allies from Camp Half-Blood, nature, the sea, and fucking Olympus. I was standing just away from the god and cadre commander, waiting for the "others" to arrive.

For the past two nights, we had been training long and hard from dusk to dawn, with the legion working on integrating with the warriors of TF 101—with reservists and recalled veterans of the legions, along with a shitload of nature spirits, handling security of the valley in the daytime. Not only did we help TF 101 familiarize themselves with the valley and surrounding mountains for the sake of defense, but they (mainly the cyclopes) were teaching us about the modern-looking equipment they brought with them: trucks that looked like rolling shoeboxes, fucking tanks (sorry, "infantry fighting vehicles"), and guns... so many fucking guns.

I had to admit, I could certainly see the appeal: why stab a motherfucker or nail him with a sling/bow when you could just put a bullet in him from 800 yards away? And when you threw modern artillery into the mix, you could remove the motherfucker and his entire house from the land with just one decently-placed shot.

But at morning muster, Evocatus Jackson dropped by Cohort V's formation to tell me to get my ass over to meet him after breakfast (er, dinner?). And so, there I was, standing and waiting on some "others" to arrive... and all the while, listening to the crazy tale from Alexios, the crazy motherfucker who allegedly died and came back to life.

"So, a third of the fuel was acquired in a legit fashion. Hazel provided the precious metals—and before you ask, she can now actually control whether or not they're cursed—and Annabeth did the rest. She liquidated that shit, set up some shell companies practically overnight, and made several purchases from ExxonMobil, Chevron, Shell, etcetera. Diesel, aviation turbine fuel, it's all bought and paid for," Alexios explained.

"Okay... but the stealing?" Jackson asked.

"To quote Tyson: you mean the 'strategic transfer of equipment to alternate locations...'" And at that moment, the god's face morphed into an evil expression, like the Grinch preparing to steal Christmas. "Oh, buddy... this is where the fun begins. So Jason and Frank's team got about a sixth of the fuel supply. They ended up stealing a lot from the Canadian government."

"The... Canadian government?"

"Yeah. Specifically, the electricity and security apparatuses of the Canadian government. The Prime Minister, Parliament, Supreme Court, and several other politicians are basically stuck without power for their homes and workplaces, fuel for their vehicles, fuel for their security motorcades, and so on... plus, there's a certain section of the RCMP that no longer has any diesel... something about corruption and government overreach. Believe it or not, it was Frank's idea."

"Frank?"

"He doesn't like the Canadian Prime Minister for a number of reasons... something about him being a dictatorial Nazi-praiser? Whatever the case, our favorite neighborhood Based Chinese-Canadian Baby-Man used his sick skills to steal a shitload of fuel."

"Good Lord, Frank's really changed since I last saw him."

"Nico and Piper's team were actually here in California most of the time."

"And they stole it from...?"

"CAL FIRE."

"What?" Jackson exclaimed, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"So... as it turns out, corruption exists in fire departments too," Alexios began. "And as it turns out, there have been a few scandals here in the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection. And there was this whole section of CAL FIRE complicit in it. So they stole all of the section's fuel stores. And they didn't stop at CAL FIRE. They also stole a bunch of fuel from the Californian Governor's Office."

"The Californian Governor's Office has its own fuel? The same motherfucker who's all about electric vehicles?"

"Yup-yup."

"The fuck?"

"Yeah... but lemme tell you, Rey-Rey and I had the best story of all!"

"Good Lord, this can't get any weirder."

"We took a team into Mexico!"

"You what?!" Jackson and I exclaimed at the same time.

"Yup!"

"Who'd you steal fuel from, the government or cartel?" the evocatus asked, grinning like a fool.

"Yes!" Alexios replied proudly. "We stole fuel from bureaucrats making the narcos untouchable, cops taking bribes, firefighters helping move drugs—because who'd suspect 'em?—and Army soldiers actively acting as cartel enforcers! And we also lifted a shitload of diesel from some supply depots and gas stations belonging to the Sinaloas, Golfos, and Zetas!"

Jackson absolutely lost it at that explanation, howling with laughter as Alexios continued to explain how he, the woman "Rey-Rey" who I could only assume to be Marcella, and the other Torrent Troopers were running around Mexico and stealing gasoline, diesel, and aircraft fuel from government and cartel subdivisions. Alexios even told a story in which he and Marcella provided a distraction on the ground while the Torrent Troopers came in with "Chinooks" (helicopters, by the sounds of it) and made off with two giant tanks of diesel. But mid-laughter, the evocatus stopped and went silent—I guess something came in on his radio headset.

"Roger that. Send 'em over. Out," he said on the radio before turning towards Alexios. "Looks like Hazel's team is back. She's on her way. Where's the rest of our crew?"

"Uh, Piper's helping Annabeth with wrangling our friends from Olympus, Jason's helping Frank n' Reyna with the management of the legion... of course, Mister Emo Man is out doing some recon," Alexios rattled off. "Say, how the hell did you get ole Death Breath to listen to you?"

"Hell if I know. But he took his team out all the same. Tyson's team hasn't reported back in either."

"Tyson?"

"He's got Mrs. O'Leary with him."

"Ah, that'd do it."

"Prince Perseus!" a deep voice boomed behind me, its owner being one of the relatively shorter cyclops, who was accompanied by maybe three or four dozen others. "The XO sent us! We're at your disposal, sir!"

"Cassius. Good to see you again. Men," Jackson greeted the Torrent Troopers, his tone friendly and easygoing—something I don't think I'd ever heard in the weeks he'd been training us. "Skillsets?"

"Radiomen, riflemen, machine gunners, mortarmen, and snipers, as ordered. We all have experience in SR and combat tracking. All radiomen are qualified as forward observers, forward air controllers, and have limited air traffic control capabilities. We're still working on the last one."

"Ah, excellent. We've got something good, then."

"Sir, Probatio Chico reporting as ordered, sir!" a skinny Chicano dude around the same age as me declared as he arrived, all decked out and ready for war (er, ancient war).

"At ease, Chico," Jackson replied, his tone toughening. Though Chico wasn't alone, with fourteen other men right behind him.

"Sir, Probatio Knoxville reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Venator Cowboy reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Ballistarius Stooge reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Probatio Oddball reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Legionarius Donkey reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Probatio Pinkeye reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Probatio Compton reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Probatio Einstein reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Exactus Egghead reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Probatio Assblast reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Probatio Sister reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Legionarius Hans reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Faber Luigi reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Sir, Probatio Casanova reporting as ordered, sir!"

"At ease, ladies!" Jackson greeted, back to his general hardass attitude, but still grinning. "Go ahead and rest a spell, Sinful Sixteen. We're waitin' on the rest."

"Sinful Sixteen? That's a new one," Knoxville, my fellow Cohort V slackman—so called because of him being a jackass—murmured.

"Hold on a sec, you Joker?" Cowboy asked me in a distinct Texan accent, outstretching his hand. "Nice to finally put a face to the name I keep hearin' about. Heard you challenged the Big Guy... in front o' Percy's Minions, at that. You get yer ass whooped?"

"Well, not any more than if you fought him, Texas boy," I snarked as I shook his hand, making the solidly built probatio laugh.

"Yo, what does 'Stooge' mean?" Compton asked.

"Well... he kept calling me 'Stupid Giant' before finally switching to 'Stooge,'" the massive probatio grumbled. And it made sense: the guy looked only slightly smaller than Praefectus Castrorum Kahale.

"Shiiit, man. The fuck did you do?"

"I shit-talked one of the Minions."

"You dumb motherfucker."

"Prince Perseus! Ghost 3 reporting as ordered," a Torrent Trooper said as he walked into our meeting area, followed closely by Ecaterina and a second Torrent Trooper.

"Gents. Hazel. Whatcha got?" Jackson asked.

"We shadow-traveled all throughout Baja California. Nothing," Ecaterina replied as she took off her helmet and undid her bun, letting her hair down. "Is Nico's team back yet?"

"Nope, Ghost 2 is still outside the wire. So's Ghost 1."

Hmm... so the heroes of the Great Prophecy and Torrent Troopers are shadow-traveling around and doing recon as "Ghost" teams... maybe they're trying to find the enemy?

"Okay, we're here!" the blonde goddess—I think her name was Sofia—said as she arrived with four of the Great Prophecy heroes in tow. "What imbecilic plan do you have this time? Do you know how much effort it took to ensure my mother didn't kill you? I had to make sure she was so focused on working with Tyson's command staff and handling the analysis and dissemination of information that she would be too preoccupied to murder you. Shit, she'll probably find a way to ruin your life nonlethally!"

"Oh please, I'm not concerned about the 2-Bitch... or would she technically be the 5-Bitch?" Jackson wondered aloud.

"I'm not sure what you're referring to, and I don't think I want to know."

"So the '2' refers to intelligence and the '5' refers to plans—"

"I SAID I DON'T WANT TO KNOW, PERCY."

"Damn, woman. Settle down!"

"Settle down? SETTLE DOWN?! SEAWEED BRAIN—"

"ANYWAYS!" Krateros intervened, the blond stepping between the pissed-off blonde goddess and utterly relaxed evocatus. "Percy, why are we all here?"

"Simple: we're the AFO unit."

"English please, Perce."

"Advanced force operations. Long story short, we go in and prepare the battlespace. We're the needle and scalpel before the big fuckin' sledgehammer."

"So... reconnaissance? Pathfinders?" Trajan asked.

"In essence, yeah. Not as much pathfinder shit, but we'll need to be ready for that."

"Alright, what exactly are you thinking? Because I'm curious as to why us, these sixteen men, and these Torrent Troopers are all here."

"Simple: the power of combinations—the Sinful Sixteen here provide the audacity, sneakiness, and their own skillsets, and we provide the guns, magic, and even more audacity."

"You want us to do what now?" I jumped in, with all eyes locking onto me. "Er... sir, this is a weird thing to ask of us, considering you call us the legion's 'Tier One Shitbirds... sir.'"

"Precisely, Joker. But you're no ordinary shitbirds... you're special shitbirds."

"Okay, why does that make me feel like I have some disorder, sir?"

"Do you really want me to answer that, Joker?"

"Sir, no sir."

"Nonetheless, all sixteen of you are highly skilled. You just don't work well in the normal ranks of the legion... you're restless. You can't handle the Big Legion shit. You need a mission, an enemy to find and kill, and don't want to deal with the regimented life or the Big Purple Weenie. So I'm giving you that enemy."

My mind suddenly flashed back to a few nights ago, when Evocatus Jackson PT'd me to near death, made me wreck that shack (for reasons still unknown), and kicked/choked my ass out.

"... you're a helluva fighter, and you've got the spirit. But you've got the same problem a lot of fighting men have: you don't have a mission."

It couldn't be that simple, could it? Was that seriously the reason why all sixteen of us were here? We didn't have the discipline for the "Big Legion," but we were still skilled enough to be a viable tool for the commander? But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to be true. I was certainly at my best when I was fighting someone, and while I couldn't speak for the other fifteen guys, I'd heard about them all at one point or another. They'd gotten in trouble for mouthing off, slacking, and dumb shit... which I am also guilty of, given my episode of catcalling the W.L.s—surprise surprise, Casanova was also involved.

And before you ask, I regret absolutely nothing. If it looks stupid, but gets a girl in your bed (legally, of course), it ain't stupid. Hey, that super-hot blondie liked me... I know it... seriously. I'M BEING SERIOUS, I SAW HER GIGGLING... NO, SHE DIDN'T THINK I WAS A HORNY TEENAGED BUFFOON! STOP LAUGHING AT ME, MOTHERFUCKER!!

Anyways, barring the moment that Praefectus Castrorum Kahale referred to as "fatherless behavior" (right on the money for me, at least), my point still stood: all of us in the "Sinful Sixteen" were the loose cannons—we were capable, but uncontrollable... at least, by conventional commanders.

"We'll split into nine-man teams. Two of us old dogs, three Torrent Troopers, and four shitbirds. That's the max the DAGOR'll carry. We're not trying to get into gunfights, but we sure as hell are gonna be ready for 'em."

"Sir, what do you mean by gunfights, sir?" Stooge asked.

"It means every last man here is going to be ready to kill a motherfucker from a hundred yards out."

" ... sir, oh fuck, sir."

"Yep."

"My Prince, what will you have the remainder of us do?" one of the bigger Torrent Troopers asked.

"You men will actually be bringing the hate," Jackson explained. "Tyson informed me that he's acquiring some LSVs and additional ground vehicles for you to shoot and scoot. There's a lot of ground to cover, so we'll have to play hunter-killer: we find the bad guys, you kill 'em."

"If I may recommend, sir, we should bring mortars with us. It will provide additional fire support, as the task force-level fires will likely be occupied with supporting the main force," another Torrent Trooper rumbled.

"Good idea," Jackson agreed. "What can you carry?"

"Unlike the average mortarman, we can easily carry the 81- and 120-mike-mikes, allowing us to bring more ammunition to the front."

"Attaboy. Do that. Sinful Sixteen, you ladies ready for ballet class?"

"Sir, yes sir!" we replied.

"IIIII CAAAAAAN'T HEEEEEAAAR YOOOOOOUUUUU!!"

"SIR, YES SIR!!"

We were then split up into our teams, "Yankee 1" through "4." Of course, I got stuck with Jackson in Yankee 1. It was further rounded out by Torrent Troopers Cassius, Titus, and Nestor; the young lightning god Krateros; and fellow Sinful Sixteen members Chico, Knoxville, and Casanova. And to start out the night of training, we received some equipment from one of TF 101's armorers: camouflage fatigues, armor, helmets, guns, and more.

After fifteen minutes of learning and changing, Chico, Knoxville, Casanova, and I walked out from behind a Stryker in "UCP-Deltas," as Jackson called them. We had some old-looking "M16A4s"—apparently because they were expecting long-range engagements and it was all they had—but it still felt useful, along with the "M9A1s" holstered on our belts. We met Jackson, Krateros, and the Torrent Troopers at a little makeshift range away from the One-Oh-One's staging area.

"Alright, here's the deal! No mags in your weapons just yet. We'll start off with the basic rules. Understood?" Jackson said.

"Sir, yes sir!" we replied.

"Repeat after me: treat all firearms like they are loaded!"

"Treat all firearms like they are loaded, sir!"

"Don't point the muzzle at anything you aren't willing to destroy!"

"Don't point the muzzle at anything you aren't willing to destroy, sir!"

"Finger off the trigger until ready to shoot!"

"Finger off the trigger until ready to shoot, sir!"

"Know your target and what's behind it!"

"Know your target and what's behind it, sir!"

We did this for about an hour, with him drilling the rules into our heads and making us recite them from memory. Even Krateros, who apparently had a week of training prior to this, was getting dragged by Jackson and the Torrent Troopers. The evocatus and cyclopes also drilled us on the anatomy of our guns, making it very clear with PT punishments that anything less than perfection was unacceptable—and yes, we got PT'd... a lot. Following up on our anatomy lesson was field-stripping, maintenance, and assembly of our M16s, which went on for maybe two hours. We couldn't disassemble or reassemble them blindfolded by any means, but we were somewhat getting the hang of it.

Eventually, we were allowed to step up to the firing line... no magazines in our M16s, however. Jackson and the Torrent Troopers ran us through firing positions: lying on the back, prone, sitting, kneeling, and standing. We "dry-fired" at each position and practiced switching between said positions. We'd go through the positions forward and backwards, and he even made us randomly shift from the back to prone to standing to sitting to standing to the back to kneeling to prone to standing to sitting to—ah, what the hell? You know what I mean. And of course, the four kept drilling us on the anatomy and safe handling of our firearms, only letting us briefly stop for water every hour.

Six hours since we first started our training, and we were yet to fire a single round from our M16s... only for us to repeat the exact same tortuous process with our M9s after a midnight meal (the nocturnal version of lunch). Safety, anatomy, field-stripping, maintenance, reassembly, and the same fucking firing positions... just this time with a pistol. And not a single bullet came out of our guns.

"Shit, they're fuckin' crazy," Chico grumbled when we were allowed to take a knee and drink water.

"Well, it makes sense," I admitted. "If we can't kill the bad guys, then all this hammering'll make sure we don't kill the good guys by accident."

"Man... that ass-kicking really did something to you, huh?" Casanova joked, recalling when Evocatus Jackson beat me up a few nights ago.

"Ah shaddap, you stupid fuck."

Now, after nine hours of safety, anatomy, maintenance, and dry-firing, you'd think we'd start shooting at this point... but we didn't. We began learning how to transition between rifle and pistol—because "switching to your pistol is faster than reloading," as Jackson put it. And of course, we did it in all the firing positions, while Jackson and the Torrent Troopers kept testing our knowledge of gun safety/anatomy, but focusing more on the safety aspect.

At long last, daybreak came, but we weren't done yet. Jackson ran us through one final hour of weapons maintenance and firearms safety, even having us field-strip both guns, mix up the parts, and make us put them back together. I mean sure, it was probably pretty obvious to an experienced shooter like him, but we were physically and mentally exhausted after so much training, we had some issues.

"Almighty help us, you five are still shit," Jackson sighed, staring down at us inexperienced riflemen. The Torrent Troopers looked equally disappointed, but gave a thumbs-up to the evocatus. "However... you've improved a lot, going from nothing to extremely proficient in the rules of firearm safety. And you're not half bad at maintenance or positioning. You've exceeded my expectations. Now, you four go rack out. Sparky, my old friend, we've still got work to do."

"Sir, yes sir," my fellow Romans and I acknowledged, trudging off in silence while Krateros—the poor blond bespectacled bastard—was stuck with the four crazy gunslingers. Though, he was a god, so I didn't have too much sympathy for the guy.

Besides, according to legend, the guy's fatal weakness was a fucking brick, so he could probably use the training.

We turned in our gear and went our separate ways, returning to our units to shit, shower, and sleep. I got a few questions from my fellow Cohort V troops about where I'd been, but I was just too fucking exhausted to answer. I was just hoping that whatever enemy we were going after was going to show up soon... because it sure as hell sounded like a vacation compared to the mindfuck and body-wrangling that was Evocatus Jackson's training.

Pietas... I know I've never prayed to you much... but for the love of fuck, please make us go to war already.

Hopefully she'd listen.

Keep in mind, after becoming gods, the eight heroes of the Great Prophecy (if we're including Reyna and Nico) have their new godly mononyms, which is what most people know them by:

Eleni = Piper

Krateros = Jason

Sofia = Annabeth

Autodikos = Nico

Marcella = Reyna

Trajan = Frank

Leo = Alexios

Ecaterina = Hazel

This chapter was mostly intended to be humorous, since I'm bringing out the big guns pretty soon... it's going to get hot eventually. But in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed the training and preparations of Joint Task Force 12's AFO teams (at least, for Yankee 1).

I'm not sure how I missed this (I don't keep up with the news all that well), but ten servicemembers were tragically lost over the past two months.

On January 11th, during a VBSS operation to interdict Iranian-made weapons inbound to Yemen, SO1 Christopher J. Chambers (left) slipped while boarding the target vessel, falling into a gap between the vessel and the SWCC boat. Without hesitation, SO2 Nathan Gage Ingram (right) jumped into the gap to save his brother-in-arms. Both operators of SEAL Team 3, Naval Special Warfare Group 1, were lost to the depths of the Arabian Sea, declared dead after a fruitless 11-day search-and-rescue mission.

On January 28th, an suicide drone struck Tower 22, a Jordanian military base. The attack was carried out by an Iran-backed militia, and one report suggests that the suicide drone was mistaken for an American UAV. More than forty were wounded and SGT William Jerome Rivers (left), SPC Kennedy Ladon Sanders (middle), and SPC Breonna Alexsondria Moffet (right) of the 718th Engineer Company, 926th Engineer Battalion, 926th Engineer Brigade were killed.

On February 6th, during a routine training flight from Creech AFB, Nevada to MCAS Miramar, California—coincidentally when San Diego County and much of southern California was battered by a "atmospheric river" storm—a USMC CH-53E Super Stallion went down, with the five men aboard killed in the crash. The men of the 3rd Marine Aircraft Wing's Marine Heavy Helicopter Squadron 361 were crew chief LCpl Donovan Davis (bottom middle), pilot Capt Benjamin Moulton (top left), pilot Capt Miguel Nava (top right), pilot Capt Jack Casey (bottom left), and crew chief Sgt Alec Langen (bottom right).

I know my words don't mean much, but I'm hoping and praying that these fallen souls will rest peacefully, and that their families, friends, and comrades may find some semblance of comfort in their grief: whether it be from spirituality, each other, or the fraternal bond that keeps troops together.

"It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather, we should thank God that such men lived." - General George S. Patton