Deviation Actions
Literature Text
The jungle was nearly pitch black, yet filled with the noise of indescribable insects. A formation of three man-sized mechanized guns traversed the chaotic terrain of gnarled roots and vines between puddles of muck with ease using their four spider legs, forging a path for several men. These were no ordinary men. They did happen to be very desirably-abled or highly trained, but there was something... abnormal about nearly every one.
Pops could be heard up ahead. Immediately the men assumed aiming stances and scanned the foliage. Their focus was repeatedly jarred when the triad of arachnid mechs quickly paused mid-stride to release volleys of radioactive green plasma bolts, cleaving burning holes in the jungle as the dense globules of ionized fluid flashed through the steamy air. The men began to wonder why these machines were granted such destructive capacity as the bolts exploded into electrically charged green fireballs, but the sounds of sizzling meat and heavy splashes in the swamp gave the definite impression their enemies were being pushed back. That was all that was truly important right now.
The squadron's leader, a high sergeant, struggled to keep up with the giant metal spiders. Not only were flashes of light overtaking his vision each time a mech paused and fired, the earpiece connecting him to his superior wouldn't shut up. It was a voice screaming in his head as he watched dark figures leap or lifelessly stumble into the foliage when streaks of yellow-green plasma ripped by them. Only once the jungle ended and they all came upon a decrepit concrete military complex did all hell truly break loose.
Guerrilla fighters perched on high-up encampments, cliffs of debris, and roofs of squat buildings tossed down glass bottles with flaming leads of cloth in the neck. The mechs formed an orbiting wall around the several men while they unleashed timed bursts at where these people were hiding, ignoring the casting of fire all around. As the men wearing UAC-embroidered armored uniforms crouched their way near patches of homemade napalm with debris and bits of concrete raining down on them, they were making rapid progress towards their goal without having to fire a killing shot during this final stretch in the unholiest hour of the night. The center barracks contained their ultimate objective, according to the screaming voice in the silent sergeant's radio.
The sergeant braced his foot within one of a pair of mechanically impact-reducing boots and kicked in the wooden door. It was at that moment the sergeant found what his superior wanted was not paper, metal, nor even data, but a simple man. The other soldiers barged into the barracks as the lock that was flung from the broken door clanged on the floor. The sergeant yanked the earpiece from his head and addressed the man sitting at a quaint table.
"Who are you?" He gruffly asked. He noticed the man was wet with some discolored liquid.
The man, aging and his rough clothes reeking of petrol fumes, sternly replied, "That is not a question I wish to answer of an American -- no wait..." He raised his clenched hands onto the table, prompting the anxious men behind the sergeant to take cautionary aim. He continued, "...I should have said, 'an employee of the Union Aerospace Corporation.'"
The sergeant raised his arm against his men to lower their rifles. The killing machines outside were silent now, their job completed. He announced while stepping on the earpiece on the floor and crushing it, "I'm willing to listen to what you have to say. Perhaps you may tell me why civilians are attacking us?"
"They attack you because all you represent is a monster that thinks it can rule the entire world. Several monsters, all wearing dark suits in a room far from here who designed those metal spiders."
"I'm going to ask you again, who are you?" The sergeant's eyes were glinting with welling frustration, wishing to find out what the right thing to do was. At that moment an even more obviously fuming man in a suit walked to the building. The businessman was just brushing hot coals and shredded foliage from his coat when the older man sitting at the table opened his fist to reveal a lighter, which he flicked.
In an instant the man wearing the gasoline-soaked clothes was consumed in flames, and it was all over even before then. There was nothing anybody could have done to stop the death of the man.
The businessman frothed at the sergeant like he did through the ear-radio, "The fuck happened to your training? You were supposed to shoot him!"
The sergeant replied with forced reserve as the body continued to burn in its flaming seat, filling the room with the acrid smell of charred death, "He appeared to be a danger to himself. It was an unusual situation, sir."
"You do what you are told, don't you? That was the leader of the People's Resistance of Jakarta. Your assignment was to overreact like you usually do, shoot him, and then place one of the guns you undoubtedly stole off a grunt on the way up here for ammo into his hand for the media."
The sergeant took a deep breath in the room filling with crematory smoke and dropped his gun. He stepped closer to the businessman to size him up, quietly interrogating and building in anger, "I'll ignore the guerilla fighters, but answer me now: just how many unarmed people did you want me to shoot today?"
The shorter man rapidly calmed himself, yet jumped when the burned body fell out of its chair. He patronizingly took on an almost parental tone, “Okay, Will. Modern PR 101, it's better to have even a shitty explanation than none. Thanks to volunteers spreading conspiracy theories like lunatics, it's easier for the public to take you shooting a civilian for the UAC as a genuine accident.”
The sergeant screamed in frustration, “Do you even get it? I don't want to fucking kill innocent men!”
"And you didn't! You did what you wanted! You violated a direct order from a superior officer, and the bastard set himself on fire like a Tibetan!"
The sergeant stood silently... like a statue. The businessman didn't get the reaction he wanted and continued, "Do you even know what's going to happen to you now? Do you know what it means to be fired from a company that built your entire life, inside and out?"
The sergeant took another breath to prepare himself and replied, "I’d guess it's only half as bad as what I'm about to do to you."
The screams of a single man were the last sounds that rang through the forest, punctuated by a series of thuds and crashes within a smoking building. Others would arrive soon, people who would have been generous had events occurred more fortunately.
* * *
A man was led into a grungy courtroom, humming and breathing with machines behind the metal walls and above the unnaturally shining fluorescent lights. The bailiffs were, with their muscles bulging through their uniforms, picked due to the severity of the man's infraction. He, however, appeared to be consumed by guilt as he stood before the judge. Nobody wanted to be here today.
"Do you understand the charges that bring you here," the aging judge said without bothering to clear his throat, "...Staff Sergeant William Blazcowicz, the Second?"
"I do, sir." Just as he was told to say. He knew what to speak to prevent any further infractions from lengthening his rapsheet, all that mattered now was remaining calm.
"Will you please repeat them to the court?"
The man gathered himself for a moment as he remembered. He uttered, in a specific order, "Disobeying orders. Assault of a superior officer. Resisting arrest, twice."
The judge was satisfied in what he heard. As he was about to pick up his gavel to close this open-and-shut case, the man spoke up once again -- but out of his place.
"If it pleases the court," William Blazcowicz II announced, "I would like to further explain the context to my arraignment. The order I had disobeyed was to open fire on a civilian."
Eyes turned down across the large and dim room. Blazcowicz took advantage of the silence he had shocked out of the others, and pointed at the insignia of the Union Aerospace Corporation emblazoned on the face of the judge's desk. The man continued, "...A civilian protesting the UAC."
"Sergeant," the judge began in a lecturing tone, "This case is not about your superior officer's orders. Your superior officer cannot even participate in your prosecution due to the severity of the injuries you inflicted upon him when you flew into a rage due to, and I quote your military psychologist, 'a rare yet pertinent tendency to encounter violent episodes.'"
"I apologize," the man quietly said.
The aging judge did not appear to hear him. He continued in his dialogue, "If you would like to preserve your status as Staff Sergeant, I suggest you remember how critical a condition your superior is in before speaking out of your position. Do you have any final opinions you would like to speak before we are done here? I will grant you permission now."
"Do you know what I want?" William asked.
The judge rubbed the bridge of his nose before entertaining the Sergeant before him and allowing him to explain. The man answered, "I want the Marines back. I want this country back, I want the world we had before this corporate takeover bullshit happened."
Eyes again turned away from the man as he stood defiantly before the judge, who simply sighed before replying, "You know that not I nor anyone else can give you that. Please, do not force me to increase the severity of your punishment."
His heart began to race. He was going even further off-script. William immediately retorted, "It's exactly that kind of fucking attitude that makes me hate the UAC's guts." The bailiffs began holding the Sergeant to prevent him from flying again into a rage, but instead caused him to become physically defensive. He yelled, "You can't throw me away! You can't shove the shit you've all done into the closet!"
"Just take him out of here," the judge calmly ordered as he banged his gavel.
William refused to be budged from his place. He began his offensive by grabbing the bailiff to his left and shoving his head into the metal railing of the defendant's box, knocking the man out cold and possibly mortally injuring him. More bailiffs entered at the yell of the judge, and eventually subdued the raging Sergeant by collectively hauling him off the floor.
After continued banging of a gavel ushered silence into the courtroom, a very angered though very collected judge fumed. "You are no longer a Staff Sergeant of the UAC, William Blazcowicz. You are hereby incorporated into the Space Marine project on Mars, following a sentence of fourteen weeks at Deimos' intensive penal colony processing barrels of nuclear waste and hauling boxes of cargo for twelve hours a day every day of the week -- starting as soon as you arrive from interplanetary travel. Perhaps all the physical labor will help you deal with your thirst for violence."
With that, William knew he fucked up again. He no longer tried to fight back, instead resorting to somberly shuffling along with the crowd of men holding him in preparation for if he were to explode once more. One of the bailiffs laughed at him, his UAC badge that seemed to be on everything visible, "You're a Space Marine now."
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