[b]20 October 2077
Portland, Oregon
Morning[/b]

Rainfall pattered against the steel plating of Nate's suit, the rattling sound that it made almost dulling his senses to the two gunshots that rang out a couple of blocks away. On instinct, his grip tightened around his R91 and he snapped his head towards the direction of the noise, scanning the street through his visor for any sign of an assault. Nothing, it seemed, but his gut told him to check on it, prompting him to bring a hand over to his radio and speak with a wearied tone. “Anyone got a sitrep on that noise?” For a few moments, nothing, only the sound of rainfall pinging off his helmet, before eventually another voice answered back. “Just two civvies stirring up trouble a couple of blocks away from the perimeter, we’ve dealt with them.” He knew what he meant when his fellow soldier had used the term ‘dealt’. It was always the same, these days. Some poor bastard would get into a fight over something like groceries or gas, and then wind up being cut down when the cavalry arrived. 

And what did anyone expect? They were soldiers, not cops and after so many years facing the Chinese in the frozen wastes of Alaska, most of them were unable to differentiate between the concept of ‘war’ and ‘martial law’. And the others, well... he’d heard about those who couldn’t overlook what their orders told them to do for the ‘good of America’, especially after what happened in Canada. Sometimes he thought about joining them, or at least heading back home, but what was home? He’d spent so long living out of FOBs and barracks that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a place to call your own. He’d heard plenty of rumours about other deserters headed up north, across the Canadian border, but it would’ve been a long trip and he didn’t even know if there really was a hidden military compound where Uncle Sam’s fighting men could find shelter.

Before he could dwell on it any further, he heard a voice call his name from behind, and when he turned to see who it was he noticed one of the new CO’s that had been assigned to their checkpoint after Captain Morgan had eaten his own gun, unable to cope with what they were doing. “Lieutenant,” he answered, acknowledging the man with a tilt of his T-45d’s helmet. “With me, Sergeant - we’ve got a couple civilians causing some unrest at the other checkpoint.” The Lieutenant, who’s name he couldn’t particularly recall, was a typical ensign fresh out of officer’s school, pushed out onto the streets by the higher ups and willing to follow whatever directives high command passed down to them in a boot-licking effort to earn favour when it came to promotions. When they finally reached the checkpoint, which consisted of a warning sign, a chainlink fence, some haphazardly placed sandbags and the remaining man left behind to watch it, Corporal Quentin, the problem in question became obvious.

A small crowd of civilians, very few of them older than twenty-one at most, had gathered around the other end and started hurling every jarhead insult under the sun at them, alongside the occasional demand for food or gas rations, or an explanation for why their friends or family had been locked up. Reasoning was a pointless effort - the first instances of his fellow american heroes kicking their friends and family down as ‘commies’ before hurling them into the back of a security van had put an end to any chance of reconciliation. Turning to both Nate and Quentin, the Lieutenant quickly spoke up. “Intel reports that we’ve got communist agents that may be trying to stir up more unrest in this area, and to put down any more sign of it - small or large - before it spreads like wildfire, however necessary.” Thing was, it was too late for any of that - sending in Uncle Sam’s finest had just inflamed the passions of the downtrodden. Whilst Quentin was trying to bark orders to disperse over the raging voices of the crowd, the Lieutenant quickly withdrew his sidearm and fired it into the air, intended as a warning shot.

Granted, a few of the crowd’s more timid looking figures quickly fell back, but most of them - young, stubborn and foolish as they were - didn't, instead the volume of the crowd increasing over Corporal Quentin's own shouting voice, stepping further towards the chainlink fence. “Damn civilians, alright - they had their chance. Weapons free, Corporal.” Quentin quickly seemed to balk at the prospect, however - instead voicing his doubts. “Sir, is this necessary? They’re just kids.” From the looks of it however, the Lieutenant didn't like that. Then again, officers like him had tendencies to become defensive whenever their authority - and pride - seemed to be placed into doubt, but he quickly responded with an attempt to reassert his waning authority. “Corporal, don't question my orders.” No dice, however. Quentin seemed to become more fervent with his protest. “Sir, they’re just kids. Do they look like a bunch of fucking commies to you?” Impatiently, the Lieutenant quickly hit back with a “Don’t get insubordinate with me, I can have you court martialed before the week’s over. Now, follow your damn orders.”

A moment passed before the Corporal grimaced, levelled his weapon with the crowd and slipped his hand over the trigger, yet at the last minute, he hesitated and gave the CO a firm glare. “Fuck you, Lieutenant, I’m not gunning down a bunch of fucking kids!” Snorting impatiently, the Lieutenant went to withdraw his own sidearm. “Fine, you can tell your story at the court martial. I’ll handle thi-” The crack of Nate’s R91 putting a round through the Lieutenant’s skull prevented him from finishing off his sentence, whilst Quentin stood there frozen in shock. It took another minute for Nate to realise he was still aiming at where the Lieutenant had been stood. When he looked back towards the street past the confines of the checkpoint, he saw that the crowd had indeed dispersed by this point. ‘However necessary’, was it, Lieutenant? At least he’d be able to say that he never disobeyed orders.