THIS IS VERY FIRST DRAFT. I allowed the ai to do some grunt work, but I designed the battle plan, stupid as it is. I am about half way through, and say where the battle is being worked on.
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The sky is a flat sheet of gray, the kind that presses down on you, makes you breathe shallow. The air alert this morning has everyone wearing fucking masks, which help a little but... what they were breathing in from the constant smog that made the sun a smudge of glow in the cloud was going to kill them young.
Adam, Maya, Theo, and I stand on the wall overlooking the battlefield. The ground around the road into the prison blends in with the fields around it, the dirt all churned up with the ramparts rising and falling — jagged, improvised, brutal and beautiful. The Sons of Odin built most of them, working day and night, hauling concrete chunks, welding scrap metal, stacking sandbags, shaping the fields around the prison into a series of landmines. When they needed help in the end they allowed the Diablos to enter into a pact I didn't understand.
Back in the blackened trees around the road, hidden by cameo and sophisticated invisibility equipment that blended them into the environment, the National Guard was ready. Their trucks sit on both sides of the road leading to the prison — old Humvees, battered transports, ancient artillery pieces dragged out of storage. They’ve set up firing positions, dug trenches, placed spotters with drones all over the battle field. They look tired, underfed, determined. They know Adam is in charge here, and they follow his orders without hesitation. They're young and have been without officers since the front broke and the wealthy officers took off in helicopters for safer ground. I can tell they are happy to have an authority figure. I read once 80% of people are looking for someone to follow. Not me.
Adam holds a walkie‑talkie in one hand, in the other binoculars. He is scanning the horizon from left to right. Finally stops dead center out from the prison and says, “They’re coming,” he says. “Anyone think they are ready? Time to think again.”
Theo mutters, “May we live to see another day, says Big Chief Who Eats Bear But..” He might be the only one who laughs at his joke but everyone seems glad he tried. Reassured he is just acting like himself..
Maya’s hand finds mine. She squeezes once, hard.
The first tank appears on the ridge — a dark shape against the smoggy brown sky. A distant, blurry motion coming slowly at us. Then another. Three more. .
Adam speaks into the walkie. “Positions. Sons, prepare to charge. Napalm and Moltov's ready. Panthers, left flank, disabling tank in position L-2. . Mongrels, keep them safe.. Diablos, napalm ready to burn some fucking pedo lovers.”
The Sons of Odin line up behind the ramparts, faces painted with ash, tattoos gleaming. They look like warriors from some ancient myth — doomed, ecstatic, hungry for the fight.
Adam looks tired. I doubt he has not slept in days. "Okay kick their asses. Period."
The Sons wait until the tanks hit the ramparts and their machine guns momentarily rise up too high to fire down on them. Then for the first time in a hundred years an infantry charged. They start screaming, and hitting their chests, waving the Napalm wildly in the air. As the tanks hit the ramparts and their machine guns are too high to hit a ground attack, the run... at a dead heat, and one makes it to the steel reinforcement foxhole they have built, another hesitates, then follows.
I hear Adam behind me whisper under his breath, "Fucking idiots."
The Son runs through the dirt and garbage walls, weaving through the path they have made. The tank comes down and machine gun fire rips across the battlefield spinning the Son around and spewing blood in all directions. "Stay. Hold your positions." I hear Jade come through Adam's walkie talkie, head of the Odin's. He comes walking up to us on the wall. I straighten up for some reason and he looks at me and says, "At ease."
"Adam, no matter what a man believes, I judge them by their actions. Right now we are both warriors, we have no color. I am not going to be a slave."
"No fucking way." Adam says as he steps forward and offers his hand. Jake takes it without hesitation, then pulls him in for a hug.
The tanks rise on the Ramparts again. "Charge,"
WHAT I AM DOING HERE IS BELOW IS TELLING AND ABOVE IS SHOWING. GUESS WHICH IS AI?
They are supposed to run up the middle, using the ramparts and various spots with reinforced steel to avoid shots; advancing when the tanks were positioned on the ramparts, so that their machine guns were pointed too high to hit an infantry attack on the ground.
Theo whispers, “They live for this.”
“They’ll die for this.”
He nods. “Valhalla... or karma, we'll see?.”
The tanks fire.
The shells slam into the ramparts, exploding in showers of dust and sparks. The walls hold. The Sons roar — a sound that shakes the yard.
Adam shouts, “Go!”
The Sons of Odin charge through the narrow infantry path — a funnel they carved between the ramparts designed to get them close enough to throw napalm. It’s suicidal, insane, and brilliant. No one expects infantry anymore.
The tanks hesitate — their guns can’t angle down enough to hit the charging men. The Sons weave between the ramparts, using cover, moving fast.
The Diablos rush forward behind them, both groups hurling buckets of homemade napalm. The sticky fire splashes across the tanks, crawling over armor, igniting in thick orange waves.
The tank crews panic. Hatches pop open. Soldiers scramble out, coughing, screaming if it touched their flesh..
The Sons of Odin grab them, pull them to safety, treat their burns, shout at them to surrender as they put zip ties on them. The soldiers look stunned — they weren’t expecting mercy.
One soldier struggles against the zip‑ties, eyes wild. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”
Adam puts down the walkie talkie to tell us, "We found the command post. Behind the old grain silos.”
Theo whistles. “Cowards.”
Adam raises the walkie. “Drone team. Confirm officer location.”
A Mongrel launches a small quad‑drone into the air. It zips over the ridge, camera feed streaming to Adam’s pad. Officers cluster near a makeshift tent, eating from crates the soldiers never saw.
Adam nods once. “Ignite them.”
The drone drops a small napalm charge — precise, controlled. It bursts into flame near the officers, licking at their boots, catching the edge of the tent. They scream, scatter, dive for cover.
Theo mutters, “Now ask nicely.”
Adam speaks into the walkie. “Officers of Ellison’s unit — surrender now or burn.”
The officers freeze. Some drop their weapons. Some raise their hands. One shoots himself in the head. Another tries to run and is tackled by a National Guard sergeant.
They all expect to die.
They don’t.
The National Guard moves in, zip‑tying them, dragging them back toward the yard. The officers look furious, humiliated, terrified.
The captured soldiers kneel in the yard, shaking. The Sons of Odin stand over them, breathing hard, adrenaline still burning in their veins.
Maya steps forward with a group of refugees carrying trays of food — hot stew, bread, water. She kneels beside the first soldier and hands him a bowl.
He stares at it like it’s a hallucination.
“Eat.”
He starts crying as he takes the soup.
Another soldier whispers, “We thought you’d kill us.”
She shakes her head. “Not today.”
Adam points out at the yard — at the prisoners, the soldiers, the officers, the National Guard, the gangs, the refugees. “This,” he says quietly, “is how we win, This is the moment.” she says. “The moment the world sees who we really are.”
I look at the soldiers eating, the Sons of Odin calming down by smashing into each other, thanking their Gods, everything short of ripping open their enemies... the thought brings memories that I fight off before concentrating on the Mongrels tending to the wounded, the National Guard securing the officers.
For the first time, I understand.
This isn’t just a battle. It’s a message.
And Koch is going to hear it.
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