Chapter 1: Introduction
The rear supply lines stretched out like a serpentine ribbon of activity, a labyrinth of tents, crates, and bustling soldiers.
Jager had been rotated out from the front lines for a three day rest period which ment he was in limbo for a soldier in the rear, but someone above made sure that Jager was better off busying himself with something then doing nothing
jager walked into the administration tent stopping before a desk where a high ranking officer sat buried in paper work
“You wanted to see me, sir,” said Jager
"I heard you showed some initiative recently, well done, soldier, you're a rising star among the ranks of the troop," the officer praised Jager
"Uh, thank you, sir, but I believe the incident report from my superiors may have been embellished, sir." ---
The officer waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. "Modesty doesn’t suit you, Jager. You’re getting a promotion—sort of. You’ve been assigned to mentor a new replacement coming in today, and the brass thinks you'd be perfect for the job. You’re the best grenadier in the unit, so it’s only fitting you pass on your expertise.”
Jager blinked. A rookie? He’d barely had time to process his own orders, let alone take on a fresh-faced recruit. "You want me to be their mentor?, " Jager asked, his voice flat. "Uh I really don’t know what to say” Jager said
The officer chuckled. "You don’t have to say anything. Just make sure the kid doesn’t get himself killed before he even gets his boots dirty. He’s green, but he’s eager. That’s half the battle." He slid a file across the desk. "Here’s his record. Name’s Folly. Nineteen. Fresh out of basic. They say he’s got potential, but you know how that goes."
Jager picked up the file, flipping it open with a sigh. A photograph stared back at him—a kid with wide, earnest eyes and a smile that looked like it had never known war. Too young. Too damn hopeful.
Jager thought as he stared at the photo. He snapped the file shut and tucked it under his arm. "Anything else, sir?"
The officer shook his head. "Just don’t let him slow you down. You’re still expected to keep up with your duties."
Jager nodded and turned to leave, the tent flap rustling behind him as he stepped back into the chaos of the supply lines. The air was thick with the scent of diesel and sweat, the distant clatter of crates being loaded onto trucks. He adjusted the strap of his M16A1, the weight of the M203 grenade launcher beneath it a familiar comfort.
“Am I really ready to be a mentor” jager asked himself, his mind drifting back to his own first days in the field, the way the weight of his gear had felt like a second skin before it became natural.
The way every order had been a puzzle to solve, every movement a lesson to learn. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. No use dwelling on it. The kid was coming whether he liked it or not.
Jager made his way through the supply lines, weaving between soldiers hauling crates and mechanics crouched over engine blocks. The sun hung high, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the dirt. He spotted a group of new arrivals near the processing tent, their uniforms still crisp, their faces still unmarked by the grind of war. Among them was a slight figure with tousled brown hair, his eyes darting between the veterans like a bird watching for predators.
Folly.
That was the name on the file. Jager watched the kid from a distance, studying him like a problem to be solved. The rookie stood a little too straight, his posture rigid with nerves, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He was smaller than Jager had expected—lean, almost wiry, with a face that still carried the softness of youth. His uniform was immaculate, the creases sharp enough to cut glass.
Jager approached slowly, boots kicking up little puffs of dust with each step. The kid’s head snapped toward him, eyes widening.
“You Folly?” Jager asked, voice low.
The kid blinked, then nodded.
"Yes, sir! Private Folly, reporting as ordered!" His voice was too loud, too eager, like a puppy who’d just been handed a stick.
Jager exhaled through his nose, studying the rookie’s face. No scars. No shadows under those wide, bright eyes. Just raw, unfiltered enthusiasm. It was almost painful to look at.
"Relax," Jager said. "You’re not in basic anymore. No one’s going to yell at you for breathing wrong."
Folly’s shoulders dropped a fraction, but his grip on his rifle tightened. "Yes, sir. I mean—uh—Jager, sir?"
Jager smirked. "Just Jager.
No 'sir' necessary." Jager adjusted the strap of his M16A1, the weight of the M203 grenade launcher beneath it a familiar comfort. "You’re with me now. And if you call me 'sir' one more time, I’m going to assume you’re mocking me."
Folly’s cheeks flushed. "Sorry—I mean, yes—uh, Jager." He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "I’m just… really excited to be here. I’ve heard so much about you."
Jager raised an eyebrow.
"Heard what, exactly?" He kept his tone light, but there was an edge to it, a warning. The last thing he needed was a rookie with a hero complex.
Folly hesitated, then blurted, "That you’re the best grenadier in the unit. That you’ve pulled off some insane missions. That you—" He cut himself off, realizing he was rambling. "I mean, I don’t want to sound like a fanboy or anything. I just… I want to learn." Folly’s voice softened, his earlier enthusiasm tempered by something more sincere. "I just want to learn. I don’t want to be a burden."
Jager studied him for a long moment. The kid’s eagerness was almost embarrassing, but there was something else beneath it—determination. The kind that didn’t fade when things got hard.
Jager had seen that look before—in his own reflection, not too long ago. The kind of determination that burned brighter the more it was tested.
"listen you've done nothing to make me think you are a burden, Folly," Jager said, his voice steady. "There's no secret to it, Folly, just keep moving and pay attention to what's around, and you'll do just fine," Jager said, his voice steady. "You're not going to learn everything in a day, but you'll get there," Jager said, his voice steady.
"Let's get your gear sorted out first."
Jager said, his voice low but firm. "You can't be a grenadier if you're not properly equipped."
"so where going to the CIF armory ?" Folly asked
Jager shook his head. "No, we're going to the SOG FOB. They’ve got the best gear, and they’ll modify it for you. Standard-issue won’t cut it in the field."
Folly’s eyes widened. "SOG? Like, the Studies and Observation Group?"
"Yeah. They don’t hand out that kind of gear to just anyone since it's not standard issue." Jager said, his voice low. "But since you’re with me, they’ll make an exception."
timeskip
at the SOG FOB armory, the air smelled of gun oil and polished leather. The walls were lined with racks of weapons, each one more lethal than the last. A few soldiers in black uniforms moved between the shelves, their movements efficient, their expressions unreadable.
Jager led folly to a counter where a man in a dark green uniform stood, his arms crossed over his chest. The man’s eyes flicked over Folly, assessing him in a way that made the rookie shift uncomfortably.
"Jager," the man greeted, his voice low and gravelly. "Back again?"
Jager nodded. "Need some gear adjusted for the rookie."
The man’s gaze lingered on Folly a moment longer before he turned to a nearby workbench. "What do you need?"
Jager gestured to Folly. "He’s new . Needs a harness that fits, and we’ll need to modify his rifle for grenadier work."
The SOG armorer, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek, nodded. "You always bring in the green ones, don’t you?" He turned to Folly, his expression unreadable. "You ever handled a grenade launcher before, kid?"
Folly swallowed. "No, sir. But I’m a quick learner."
The armorer snorted. "We’ll see about that." He disappeared into the vast shelves of equipment, and the sound of the metal door opened and closed behind him.
Jager turned to Folly, who was still staring at the armorer’s retreating back with wide, nervous eyes.
"Relax," Jager said, keeping his voice low. "He’s not going to bite. Just answer his questions honestly, and don’t touch anything unless he tells you to."
Folly nodded, but his fingers twitched at his sides, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. "I just don’t want to mess anything up," he admitted. "I know this is important." "You’re not going to mess anything up. You’re with me, remember?
Folly exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Right. Sorry. I just—I don’t want to let you down." "You won’t. Just follow my lead, and we’ll get you set up." Jager reassured him,
“Jager” a familiar voice called out from behind them.
Jager turned to see Liz standing there, her M14 battle rifle slung casually over her shoulder. Her long black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her dark eyes were cold as ever
“Liz” Jager said, his voice betraying a hint of genuine warmth. “What are you doing here?”
Liz smirked, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Same as you, I assume. Getting gear sorted. Though I didn’t expect to see you slumming it in the rear.” Her gaze flicked to Folly, and her smirk deepened. “And who’s the rookie?”
Folly stiffened, his fingers tightening around the strap of his rifle. “Private Folly, ma’am,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Just here to—uh—get my gear adjusted.”
Liz’s smirk turned into a full grin. “At ease, Private.
You’re not in a parade.” Liz’s voice was smooth, almost amused, as she stepped closer. Her boots barely made a sound on the concrete floor, but her presence filled the space. She was taller than Folly by at least half a head, her frame lean but strong, her uniform fitting like a second skin. The way she carried herself—confident, unshakable—made Folly’s throat go dry.
“This is Liz, she’s a member of the SOG,” Jager said, his tone casual, but there was something in his voice that Folly couldn’t quite place. Respect? Affection? Folly couldn’t figure it out.
"Is he up to the task?" Liz asked, her voice low, her eyes still fixed on Folly. There was something in her gaze that made him feel like he was being measured, weighed, and found wanting.
Jager shrugged. "He’s green, but he’s got potential. Just needs the right gear and a little guidance."
Liz’s smirk deepened. "Well then, I guess it's up to you to train him." Liz said, her voice smooth as she turned her attention back to Jager. "im headed back to the front." she said "wanted to see you before i left" she said
Jager nodded, his expression unreadable. "You taking point again?"
Liz smirked, her dark eyes glinting. "Someone has to. And you know I don’t like leaving things to chance."
"Take care," Jager said in almost a whisper
. "You know how it goes out there."
Liz’s smirk softened just a fraction, her dark eyes flicking to Folly before returning to Jager. "Always do. You too, Jager." Her voice was low, almost intimate, before she turned on her heel and strode away, her boots clicking against the concrete floor. The sound echoed through the armory, fading as she disappeared through the door.
Jager watched her go, his expression unreadable. Folly shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. The tension in the air was thick, like the humidity before a storm.
The armorer returned, carrying a modified LC-2 harness and a set of grenades.
He tossed them onto the counter with a heavy *clunk*.
"Here," he grunted. "This should fit him. The straps are adjustable, so make sure he tightens them right. Loose gear gets you killed."
Folly swallowed hard, his fingers twitching as he reached for the harness. It was heavier than he expected, the webbing rough against his palms. He hesitated, glancing at Jager for approval. "Go ahead. It’s yours now."
Folly carefully slipped his arms through the straps, adjusting them until they sat snug against his shoulders. The weight settled over him like a second skin, unfamiliar but not uncomfortable.
He adjusted the straps, his fingers fumbling slightly with the buckles. "Like this?" he asked, turning to Jager for confirmation.
Jager nodded, watching him with a critical eye. "Good. Now the rifle." He reached for Folly's M16, his hands moving with practiced ease as he detached the stock and replaced it with a shorter, more compact version. "This'll make it easier to handle in tight spaces. And this—" He attached a modified handguard heatsheild to the barrel, then slid the M203 grenade launcher beneath it. "This is your best friend now. Treat it like one."
Folly nodded, his fingers tracing the unfamiliar contours of the weapon. "It's heavier than I expected." "That's because you're not used to carrying it yet. But you will be." He adjusted the sling, making sure it sat properly against Folly's shoulder. "The balance is different now. You'll have to get used to the weight distribution."
Folly swung the rifle experimentally, testing its new heft. The grenade launcher felt like an extension of the weapon, not an afterthought. "It's...
heavier than I thought it would be," Folly admitted, adjusting his grip. "But I like it. It feels... right." Because you're going to be carrying it a lot. And if you drop it, I'm not picking it up for you."
Folly nodded eagerly. "I won't. I promise."
The armorer grunted, tossing a pouch of 40mm grenades onto the counter. "Don't promise what you can't deliver. Just do your job."
Jager picked up the pouch, weighing it in his hand before handing it to Folly. "This is your ammo.
M406 high explosive, M433 HEDP, and M583 white star clusters. You’ll use most of the HE rounds, but the others are for special circumstances." Jager’s voice was low, almost clinical as he rattled off the details. "Understood?"
Folly nodded quickly, his fingers brushing against the grenades inside the pouch. The weight was just enough to make his palm tingle. "I won’t waste rounds. I’ll make every shot count."
Jager almost smiled. Almost. Memorize the colors and what they do." He tapped the pouch. "The armorer’s right—don’t treat this like some kind of toy.
This is your last stop before real combat. You make a mistake here, it’ll bite you in the ass."
Folly swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He looked down at the grenade pouch in his hands, the faint imprint of the pouches ridges pressing into his skin.
“Got it,” he said, his voice firmer this time. “M406 for direct hits, M433 for armor or reinforced targets—”
“And the white star,” Jager cut in, nodding slightly. He reached into the pouch and pulled out one of the glowing green rounds, rolling it between his fingers. “Flare round. Useful when you need to mark a position or send a signal.