Chapter 1: Introduction
In the bowels of war, where hope withered and the ecstasy of conflict clawed at the throat, Captain Zhatebboww Cook stood imperious, her white feathers gleaming like fresh blood against the charred landscape. The sun hung low in the Mephistophelean sky, casting long, twisted shadows across the desolate battlefield where the remains of buildings smoldered. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the cries of the wounded and dying bled into a symphony of despair.
Cook had no time for sentimentality. She was a military mind, sharp as her beak and steeped in the blood of her enemies. As her gaze swept over the craggy terrain, she is met with a familiar sight: Dismembered limbs, entrails splayed open and viscera steaming, were commonplace in this hell-on-Earth. She had risen through the ranks to Command by embracing the vile acts required to secure her position. A female in this capacity? Unheard of.
Her reputation preceded her: relentless and unforgiving, those who challenged her swiftly found themselves eviscerated, their twitching bodies cast out on the field like so many broken dolls. Fear was a powerful motivator, and for those who served within her company, the mere mention of her name was enough to silence the strongest of them. As she stood there, her iron gaze locked on the decimated remains of the land, the air almost seemed to vibrate with unspoken trepidation.
Despite the brutal chaos of their environment, her regiment moved with precision and poise, a well-oiled machine of death. Their citrine uniforms, relics from a bygone era, were tattered and darkened by the carnage, but their spirits were unbreakable. For even in the face of an enemy that wielded technological superiority, the soldiers of the Triumvirate stood their ground, unyielding and unafraid.
Among her soldiers, the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and fear mingled in the air. Captain Cook's gaze slid to her lieutenant, Awa Scuccath; devoted, if somewhat cowed. Lieutenant Scuccath strutted alongside her, the sharp points of his brown feathers cutting through the smoke as he surveyed their surroundings with a calculating eye. He was cruel, yes, but he worshipped at the altar of efficiency-only a fool would deny the power of his military prowess. His lithe form might have appeared unassuming, but beneath that facade lay a dangerously cunning mind, which Cook knew better than to underestimate.
Fear of her made him useful. She caught him watching her, and he dropped his gaze to the ground, tucking a loose brown feather behind his wing. She knew the real reason for his fear, but others dismissed it as misplaced devotion.
"Sir, the men-"
"They've fought well," she said, interrupting him. "See to it this continues."
He dipped his head, acknowledging his Captain's praise.
"Dispatch a scouting party to the north." She snapped, her voice a thunderous crack cutting through the oppressive silence. "We've got those filthy dogs on the run. As pathetic as they are, it'll be Hell if they manage to get dug in again, so we need to keep this advantage."
"Instruct them to seek out those mutts, and to return with their findings." Scuccath inclined his head in assent, and set forth, swiftly ushering several troops into formation. Amonsgt them, one PFC Skewe Kirko, a brazen, green-feathered youth, his face adorned with that familiar arrogant smirk as the party marched towards the northern edge of the devastation. Cook watched them go, a cruel glint in her eye. A satisfied smile curled the edges of her angled beak as she turned her attention to the troops around her.
"Scuccath, you're with me." She commanded, "I want to check our perimeter. The last thing we need is a surprise attack while we're occupied, and with all the rubble and broken buildings, there's plenty of places for these cowards to hide."
Lieutenant Scuccath nodded, giving a firm "Yes, Captain" as he saluted. "Sergeant," she started as turned to one of the other officers, a bird with black feathers dulled by age and hardship, "Get your men and search these buildings. Grab whatever supplies you can carry, catalogue the rest, and dispose of any stragglers".
"Yes, Captain," he said gruffly, "Right away."
Cook gave a curt nod, satisfied with the execution of her orders. "Good." She turned on her heel, striding toward the edge of the battlefield, her boots crunching on the broken glass, rubble, and metal scattered across the ground. Lieutenant Scuccath fell into step beside her, his rifle held at the ready as he continuously surveyed their surroundings. They marched together through the ruins of shattered homes and businesses, now just jagged heaps of wood, brick, and metal. The area was near silent, the occasional crumbling of rubble or a groan of strained wood permeated the air around them as the two moved through the wreckage.
It appeared to be a residential section, most of the buildings bearing some variation of yellow paint, their vibrant colors now sullied by ash and char. The streets faired no better, riddled with craters filled with murky, tainted rainwater, and mud that seemed to cling like tar.
"Careful, Sir," Scuccath warned, glancing over to the woman by his side. She slowed her pace, following her lieutenant's gaze as he gestured at a nearby vehicle.
It appeared to be a small automobile, the sort people of the Union used in their civilian life. This one, however, had been abandoned, the open doors suggested it was done in a hurry. Her eyes narrowed, an idea forming at the back of her mind. They should destroy the vehicle - an act of defiance, a show that every aspect of these Union mutts was indeed weak. Instead, she moved closer for investigation.
Aside from a busted tire, the vehicle was remarkably unscathed, unlike the surrounding buildings. Captain Cook allowed her fingers to trace the body of the vehicle's polished frame, her touch lingering as she observed the sleek design. Sensing her captain's fixation, Scuccath moved closer, offering a low whistle of interest. "Impressive, huh?" he commented as he eyed the car with mild fascination. Cook, in her usual fashion, simply scoffed at his words.
In truth, she would be lying if she said she didn't find the machine before her impressive. Theirs was a world of iron and fire, but an undeniable advances of the Union lingered between the officers. After all, such machines didn't exist within the Triumvirate - aside from livestock-driven carts, transportation consisted of trains and airships, the later of which being almost exclusively used by the rich and powerful. Even the architecture of the buildings around them spoke of the differences between the two powers. Despite the destruction wrought upon them, each structure spoke of the strength of the people who built them.
They were more than battle-torn and shattered. They spoke of the beauty they once held and the lives that existed within their walls. But as intriguing as these discoveries had been, she continued her mission, tearing herself away from the silent testimonials and pressing onward. Whatever tools these Union dogs devise will be made to serve the Triumvirate in the end, and gawking at their enemy's trinkets won't contribute to the war effort. They needed to tighten their hold on the neighborhood and ensure that every building was secure.
Giving her lieutenant a dismissive grunt in response, she merely shrugs as she lightly kicks one of the car's wheels, her leather boot bouncing off the rubber tire. In doing so, she notices a pool of blood staining the sidewalk on the other side of the vehicle. Stepping around the car's front, she's met with a morbid sight: a Union soldier, deceased, his body slumped against the car's tire. She made no attempt to hide the look of contempt that spread across her face as she approached the lifeless canine. Before her lay a grave reminder of the enemy she fought against every day, the trademark cruelty of her kind etched plainly upon his defeated body. His fur, ash grey with specks of brown, was matted and bloodied, the pallor beneath accentuating the cruelness of the destruction that lay before her.
Lieutenant Scuccath walked up beside her, looking just as repulsed but still, there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. Ever the analytical one, the avian peered at the corpse's mutilated body, observing its cold, vacant stare and the dried blood crusted upon its fur.
"Well, what have we here?" He murmured, "Another filthy mutt put in his place." he noted matter-of-factly, making no effort to hide his satisfaction as he bent closer to inspect the wounds. Captain Cook snorted, her eyes flashing defiantly. "You think?" she cawed, her voice dripping with mockery.
Even in death, the enemy was disgusting. The body lay sprawled against the car, its arms lay slack at its sides in a half-assed attempt to cling to the life that had drained from its form. Blood stained the olive-drab uniform, having emanated from the gaping wound in its abdomen, the damage inflicted indicative of a Triumvirate slug. Assorted pouches and holsters adorned the uniform, no doubt housing provisions and ammunition, all of which bear the same wear-and-tear visible on the uniform itself. Leaning over the fallen soldier, Cook removed his helmet, the weight of which spoke of its construction as she held it in her talons.
It was equal parts heavy and sturdy, having been made of a metal-she surmised to be steel-that had been pressed and cut into shape. It was coated in a dull, rough paint that gave a coarse texture, and was adorned with a hand-painted depiction of the Union's flag - a green square emblazoned with a ring of 8 stars - accompanied by a message she couldn't quite read. A quick glance revealed some additional features, ones that obviously weren't placed intentionally: a hole punched through the front of the helmet, likely also from a Triumvirate shot, along with viscera staining the interior. A grim smile curled her beak as she looked to her lieutenant. "Heh, lot of good this did him." she snarked as she pushed her finger through the hole, earning an amused chuckle from him.
Having finished her examination for the fallen soldier's helmet, she tosses it back to its former owner, not bothering to hide her distain for the fallen being. A faint thunk doesn't escape her notice, as she realizes the helmet hit the soldier's penis upon landing on his groin, this final insult granting her a small-yet sick-sense of satisfaction. Yet, despite the venom and vitriol they give their enemy, both she and her lieutenant know how foolish and fatal it is to underestimate their foe. The being before them is one clear example of this: despite sitting slouched against a vehicle, and being along the smaller side of their enemy's ranks, the soldier was physically big - no doubt being able to stand over both officers were he still alive. Another example was the weapon at the soldier's side: possessing a bipod, long magazine, and a vented barrel, the soldier possessed a veritable killing machine-despite its comparatively short length.
Given the fact that that weapon's magazine holds upwards of 30 bullets, combined with the number of magazines present on the soldier's person, this one soldier could've single-handedly killed a hundred or more of her men if given the chance. Another example lies on the soldier's uniform itself: the three chevrons on his arms indicated him to be a sergeant, meaning that, despite his seemingly young appearance, this canine was likely a deadly combatant. It is perhaps this degree of knowledge that makes officers like Cook and Scuccath amongst the most competent -and dangerous- officers of the Triumvirate's Army: unlike many of those in the Triumvirate's Officer Corps, they understand just how dangerous their enemy is. Cook herself has witnessed this occur first-hand numerous times, having seen commanding officers die from leading charges into Union machine-gun nests, from refusing to move their troops during Union artillery barrages, and from refusing to find cover in the presence of Union snipers.
Considering her forces just laid waste to this city and its forces, its safe to say that her competency has been more than proven. With a snide huff, Cook kicks the body, the force -though minor- near-entirely mitigated by the body's succumbing to rigor. As she glances upon the canine's face, seeing his vacant stare and glazed eyes, she decides its time to move on. "Let's move on," she announces, the disgust in her voice masked by an authoritative tone as she strides away. Lieutenant Scuccath straightens his uniform and casts one last glance at the dead soldier, giving a curt "Yes, Captain." as he hurried to catch up with his captain.
Continuing down the battered street, Cook and Scuccath continue to observe the destruction around them. Buildings lay in ruin, fire slowly eating away at their insides. Blown-out craters plagued the area, a grim reminder that this was once a bustling, lively community. The air was thick with dust, mingling with the scent of gunpowder and burnt flesh. As they searched the neighborhood, they began coming across bodies - some were those of dead soldiers, just like the sergeant they encountered earlier, with others being civilians who had failed to escape the onslaught.
Cook walked up to one such body, laying curled up next to a still intact building, which she surmised to be an eatery of some kind. It was that of a male canine, no doubt a civilian. She scanned the area again for any signs of life, but all was quiet, with death reigning supreme. Standing over the body, the avian couldn't help but feel a tinge of revulsion as she inspected the lifeless form. The male's body lied bare, his large and rather toned form hadn't a single article of clothing to cover him, and his soft-looking golden fur was now matted and stained with blood. A number of wounds were visible on the body,