[b]Mbandaka, Congo[/b] The afternoon air felt like a hot bath. The sun throwing down its heat on the jungle city below, simmering from the leaves and from the soil last night's rain. It felt as if the entire city was simmering and broiling in the hot evaporation of last night's storm. There was no respite from the steaming heat cloaking the city, or the airbase. Or anything that would justify remaining in doors. For the temporary accommodations that was the ASN's operations in the north-west Congo had enough holes for the heat and humidity dripping through. Many even claimed to have watched water drip down the mirrors in the bathrooms and shower-rooms, even when the water did not run. What ever comforts the men could manage came in paper-thing umbrellas, and what few industrial fans they could locate and connect to generators. So for the occupants of the Mbandaka there wasn't any reason to be anywhere as they sweated away their free time. “God fucking dammit I miss fucking New York on days like these.” moaned a red-headed woman. Done away with her uniform, she sat slouched in her chair in all but a pair of shorts and a large white tank-top. The sweat wasn't doing and favors and crawled through the fabric; her army-styled sports bra showing through the slowly wetting shirt. “If you're so uncomfortable, you can throw yourself in one of the rivers.” smirked the soldier nearest her. He was a large man. His balding head cut by scars and burns. His widened chin, stubbed nose, and beady eyes made him out to look like some comic-book lizard man. If only he had scales. “Like Hell I'm walking a fucking mile in this fucking shit.” she grunted in protest, lifting her head up and turning to him. The aviator sunglasses she wore caught the sun and flashed brightly in the beating sun. Her physique was thinner and daintier than he, or anyone else in the unit. What fire she had to compete with her contemporaries had drawn out from her limbs and into her strong vernacular and breasts. “Sure princess, whatever you say.” he laughed, turning back to the table. Like the lawn chairs that had been scavenged or brought in for lounging in the extensive lawn of the airport, the table was a sun-cooked hulk of plastic was was already half-way in getting coated over in a layer of mold and mildew that was as hard as stone under the hands. “So what do we say?” he asked. “We could carry Redheart and Fleetfoat to the river and throw them both in.” Flash Sentry smirked as his hands ran nimbly over a disassembled pistol. Quickly clicking the parts back together, and then pulling them apart as he worked over the gun on a mess hall napkin, “I know you and I would like that, wouldn't we Big Mac?” “Like hell the two of you boys will!” Fleetfoot protested. The chocolate-skinned woman crossed her arms over her chest as she frowned at the two men with a bitter expression. Like her companion, she too wore shades. Her medium-length hair combed back across her hair and tied in a small bun. Her narrow angular chin snapped to the side as she clicked her tongue, “If you both do it then I swear on Soarin's mother I'll try to steer that fucking Osprey into the jungle.” “Yer nawt bringin' me mum into this.” the Australian protested as he reclined in his chair, leg thrown over the arm as he looked down at the tablet in his hands, idly flipping through the news; silently hoping the company network wouldn't die at any point. The beaten leather hat he wore to keep the sun out of his eyes only added to the Australian effect. With the chiseled chin and long face he looked almost like a regular Crocodile Dundee. “Well if you had to let Fleet crash that chopper into something, what'd it be?” asked Big Mac, as he leaned over towards the Aussie. An excitable look on his face as he bit the corner of his lip. Looking up at him from under the brim of his hat Soarin couldn't help but feel reminded on how terrifyingly large he was. Somehow outside of that armor he wore he managed to be even more terrifying than he was inside it. Maybe it was something to do with his battle-mutilated face, like a dingo had reached up and tore it to shred, only for him to be kicked by a mule later. “W'uldn't mind seein' it crash into t'e Riechstag me self.” he quipped, lowering his tablet, “W'uld at'lest give us a corke' of a fight befo' we're t'rou. Damn krauts gone ma'wd during t'e War mate.” “Yes well, so did everyone.” a smaller member of the group said. His physical frame was more athletic than it was physical, much like Sentry's. His soft Latino features reminiscent of the former Colombia, or Panama. The man looked to be the youngest of the group, and could have more right to be called a boy between any one of them. He looked between his colleagues as he swatted away a rogue fly from his brown eyes, “So if we're naming shit lists I'd put it down into Moscow. How big of a fire bomb could we make of it?” “Fai'r it coulda bring down'a brick shit 'ouse on its own, mate.” Soarin said, “An' mawbe if t'e awmaments were live we'd 'ave a blazin' good time 'en 'ell.” “You know we'd have no business up there, you know that don't you? Caramel?” Flash asked. “Why would you think I'm serious.” the Latino mercenary laughed, “And when are we going to stop using these names anyways? I didn't think I'd end up in a unit of people still stuck thirty years behind!” “Because when you do damn good on your shit getting in, they stick you with the weird ones!” boomed Big Mac, laughing, “And besides, we're not going to do anything that'd fuck up the decals I painted on. Aryanne ain't fucking worth that shit!” “You know, why do we even have that [i]thing[/i] painted on our helicopter?” Fleetfoot asked with a bite of offensive. “Because Big Mac cheats at cards.” Flash Sentry said plainly. “And you got over it!” Big Mac laughed, “We all do. And what's it worth if we can't have fun anyways. The only people I know that'd get pissy are from what's-that-site and the types that get angry we exist anyways. So it don't matter.” “Gentleman.” a rolling highstrung voice spoke out, calling the assembled squad's attention up to the man approaching him. “Shining.” Sentry greeted, nodding at the still-too-pale Brit walking up to them, hanging by his arms were two long black cases. A smile hung in his round face, and beads of sweat shone like diamonds from the tip of his long hooked nose. A olive-green bandana tied around his head kept his wild sweat-soaked hair from his hair. “You see this, mate?” Shining said, stopping alongside an uncomfortable Caramel. “I find out what goes bloody on here and I say I want to be fukkin' Sombra. And I get the pale cunt.” he added, jabbing into Caramel's shoulders with the back of his wrist. “That's because your vocabulary is too deep for that name.” joked Flash Sentry. “I don't even know what you're fucking talking about.” swore Caramel. “It's not a fucking pre-requisite to fucking know what these three are ever one about.” Redheart moaned as she slouched back in her chair, “It's also Flash's fucking joke anyways.” “In any event, I want to borrow the banana bender.” Shining chirped with a smile. “Y'u w'at, mate?” Soarin said, looking up at his better-blooded distant kinsman. His face was a knot of confusion and frustration for the interruption. “Yeah, I'm fucking bored you aussie wanker. You want to shoot?” “I'm r'adin' 'ere.” Soarin pointed out, baffled. “You can still bloody read when we're done.” Shining sighed, rolling his eyes, “Now get up, we're going over to the river.” “We were just talking about the river!” cheered Big Mac, shooting up from his chair with astonishing speed. “An' I wah's gonna wo'k on t'e 'eelo laet'eh. 'ey g'aht six fookin' hours o' fleight t' catch up on!” “Don't worry mate, I managed to borrow a jeep for the afternoon.” Shining laughed, “I'll get you back, mate.” Soarin sighed, rolling his eyes. Mashing his thumb down on the tablet he threw it onto the table. “A'ight. You win you f'uckin ugh.” “Cor!” Shining cheered, “So where's the rest of us then?” “Last I saw, AJ was trying to nap back in the dorms.” Mumbled Redheart, “If you got that I guess I'll go get something and wake her ass up. The rest of you can find where [i]Braeburn[/i], [i]Lyra[/i], and fucking [i]Elusive[/i] went.” “A'ight, where'd they go then?” “Last I heard Lyra wanted some cold. So they went to see if the Congo heard of ice cream.” Flash Sentry said, “You'll need to call one of them to find out where.” [b]”Irish Alley”, Kampala[/b] If there was a place least likely to find an Gaelic community, than the war-time Irish had found – and settled – it. Through sheer force of pure Irish luck the post-war years had ensured that in the great scramble of defeat that many were left behind. And none were no misplaced than the Irish and Scots who had fought for the United Kingdom. Strewn across the world by their commanding masters, lost in the complexity and length of the war or inturned into the PMC-system that rose at the end of the war entire ethnodemographics had turned up in estranged portions of the world. From Americans to Iran, Russians to China, the Chinese to India, or the Indians to America. The self-proclaimed Irish expat community – from either the Emerald Isles or just mid-town New York – found themselves in darker places without the personal fortunes to find their way to. This is what Irish alley catered to. In other parts of the world where these people may find persecution for being different, the Ugandan people somehow turned that coin again of African identity and showed the comforts of their hospitality to the misplaced white men. The same gifts shown to American truckers who flocked to Africa on some great quest for fortune during the nation's recession in the 2010's were wheeled out again with smiles and booze to the unfortunate victims or war, or their benefactors. Burried in the muddy dark slums of inner Kampala the songs of a cold, wet island mingled with the streams of banana-brewed war gin and between the legs of the local women. Irish Alley itself was a densely packed block of bars and brothels on a muddy street named St Mercy on the north side of Kampala. Perched atop a hill overlooking the new outer construction of Kampala the lights and music of floor-stomping pub music roared into the night and into the chagrin of Bagandan leaders who found room to argue about it while continuing the fight of status Kampala has in the Kingdom of Buganda. But as the aristocrats of Ugandan power looked down on the estranged, alien corner of their city so loomed the headquarters of the ASN. Not far from its hill the mercenary company took residence in range of its glow in its darkened, rented skyscraper in yet another oasis of commerce in urban chaos. “Now there's an ocean between us,” a ginger-haired man sang, holding the center of a stage literally build of soap boxes. He swayed drunkenly to a song carried by accordion and plastic buckets used as make-shift drums. And the singer and band's rosy complexion suggested that all three were inebriated. But the crowd the singer conducted in a slurred chorus did not care, for they were equally drunk. Above his head he waved a mason-jar full of crystal-sparkling gin that he waved back and forth in the air like a conductor's baton as he sung woefully:” Where I am and where I want to be. So you prayers in doubt, doubt not for me!” The crowd followed him only a beat off, the words loosing themselves in the piecemeal chorus of followers. But they loosing themselves did not matter, for their leader belched out the song in such a powerful voice it could have shot out any amplifier he would have had. His drunkenness also did not aide in the song, as a sober man could point out that verse-for-verse the song had been scrambled. Almost in a state of drunken improv: “So you drank with the lost souls for too many years. “Time to be right cause they'll cripple with fear “Never been righteous, though seldom we're wrong “Life's only life with you in this song “ The crowd followed on, almost screaming the verse as they competed with on another to match their master's sway. In the corner of chantey two man sat, swaying all the same to the song sung before them. Gray uniforms made their identities all too clear. And the clarity of their eyes said that they were not drunk enough to partake in the hedonism. Sitting with their respective jars of gin they looked on as a sea of black and white followed the eschewed song. “I remember hearing this the way it should'o be performed once!” one of the two men shouted. Black hair fell along the side of his face in unkempt curtains. Sharp green eyes scanned over the heads of the party goers, trying to see see if any one had some deep, drunken secret they were hiding. His shallow sunken face made him look like a tired man. But years of going hungry for the King's Rifles in service to England has seen to breaking him physically, and his enthusiasm for King and Country. “Was it as slurred as d'is, brotheh'?” laughed his companion. A local by appearance, with his deep dark skin. But his tone was far too foreign and distant compared to the locals. Too American. As he sat and watched the feverish, drunken crowd dance as he smiled. “Oh no.” his English friend laughed, leaning against the ply-wood wall, “And there's more electric guitar, usually.” “Back in N'awleans d'is was pretty regular.” he laughed. “You said once you drove a'cab there.” the white man laughed, “Plenty o' singin' in that yes?” “More d'hen I remembe' hearin' back where I was born in Hai'di.” he laughed, “Somedh'imes I d'hink I should go back to N'awla. D'hen I come here an I d'hink: 'Fuck it'.” “Fuck it is always right!” the Englishborn laughed, raising his jar for a toast. The glass clinked with a soft hallow note and the two both drowned the sweet, burning contents of banana-made gin. It filled them with warmth and good cheer, and they both even began to mouth the words to the song as the crowd sung. As the sung through a third repeat of the butchered song, a rustling in the back pocket of the Haitian brought to his attention something else. Knotting his face he sat up, pulling from his back pocket a thin black smart phone. He looked down at it with a knotted frown, as dashing through the screen he searched for the purpose of the alert. Coming to, his expression dropped. “John my friend,” the Haitian started, “commander wants us.” “The blood'eh fuck does he want, Emmanuel?” John spat, looking at him. Turning the screen to his colleague Emmanuel illuminated his face with the summons. “Oh, I see...” he started, realizing what was wanted of them both.