The Replacements.

SSG Simmons listens without interrupting, eyes moving between Caleb Wolfe and Jason Black, giving a slow nod as Wolfe lays it out.

"Yeah… that tracks."

He shifts his stance, watching the volunteers start drifting toward the trucks, gear clattering, small groups forming naturally.

"Couple days isn’t much, but it’s enough if we keep it simple. Set expectations early, keep ‘em tight, and make sure everybody knows who they’re listening to when things go sideways."

His gaze flicks over to the Marine Lance Corporal and Anastasia, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly. "And yeah… that Marine? He’ll either be a problem or exactly what we need. No middle ground there." A faint huff of amusement. "But I’ve seen that type before—they tend to show up when it counts."

Simmons looks around, then nods toward the trucks. "I’m gonna start herding cats before we lose the window." He gestures with his chin toward the group.

"I’ll grab CPL Bledsoe, the Marine, Private MacDonald, and those three Romanian civilians—get ‘em moving and on a truck headed to Charlie Company FOB. At least get some chow in ‘em and start acting like a unit instead of a pickup team."

He looks back to Wolfe and Black. "I suspect you two’ll either catch a ride up front or link in separately—either way, we’ll be there ahead of the briefing." He pauses a beat, then adds: "Sooner we get out of this AO and onto something that looks like a mission, the better."

---

Simmons steps off without waiting, closing the distance to the loose cluster forming near the trucks. His tone shifts—still calm, but more direct, meant to cut through the noise without trying to own the room.

"Alright—listen up a second." He stops just short of the group, eyes moving from face to face—quick assessments, nothing lingering.

"Staff Sergeant Robert Simmons." A short nod follows. "Just making sure I know who I’m working with."

He points lightly as he goes, matching names to faces. "Private MacDonald… Corporal Bledsoe… Lance Corporal McCain... Am I right?" His gaze shifts to the civilians. "Doctor Cristea… Szilagyi—‘Clank,’ right?… and Anastasia Kharchenko."

A brief pause—just long enough to let anyone correct him.

"Good. Appreciate it."

He nods once, more conversational now.

"Looks like we’re all getting pushed over to Charlie Company’s FOB. Figure we might as well roll over together—get some chow and stop standing around this AO." He glances toward the trucks, then back to the group. "If you’ve got gear that needs a hand, speak up. No sense making it harder than it needs to be—those trucks aren’t getting any closer." Simmons smiles at everyone.

"Let’s get your stuff loaded and grab a spot on that truck before it fills up. Stay together for now—easier to figure things out once we’re on the other end." He gives a small nod toward the vehicles. "The chow is getting cold, better to get it while it is still warm" He says with a smile.

With that Simmons will help anyone with their gear and bags. Simmons does not let go of his rifle in his right hand while hosting the bags in the back of the 2.5 ton truck bed. Helps everyone get aboard first and is the last out of the group (except for the senior non-coms) to get on the truck. He makes his way towards the front of the truck bed and takes a seat where ever there is a spot. He smiles at everyone.

"We can get food and armour here or at forward base?" Anastasia asks looking at Simmons.

When she stands her SMG disappears neatly beneath her great coat.

"Also, I would not argue with opportunity to obtain second weapon."

Simmons looks at the young Romanian woman (Anastasia);
"I would be guessing, but since they are getting us chow, I surmise that we can get food at Charlie Company's forward base. On other gear, body armor or weapon or even switching weapons, I am not so sure. If Charlie Company lost people"
Simmons does a quick Catholic crossing over his chest
"Then there should be a M16 or two there. At least in Alpha Company that was true for the replacements."
He quickly adds
"I am not from Charlie, and I know that is not helpful but when we get there I will help you"

Looking at Dr. Doctor Cristea and ‘Clank’
"And of course you two as well." he says matter of fact. "No promises, but lets see what we can do."
Looking back at Anastasia
"Good enough?"

"Pleased t'meetcha Staff Sar'nt. Locals call me Cocosúl or Roosta', I can sprint all day with what I got, but I ain't got but two belts left for Hillary here. Would mightily appreciate one o'them 16s. Hillary is one thirsty slut n'she be better off in reserve 'til we take some heat." Rust patted the stock of his M60 as he referred to Hillary. Obviously he had developed more than a bit of affection for it, though it wasn't uncommon for a marine.

He added a personal request to follow up, and resumed that stupid grin.

"I ain't seen head nor hide of one, but if you could keep a peep fo'a guitar I would be mightily obliged, suh."

Anastasia nods and offers up a smile, "I shall hold my horses."

Simmons looks over at LCPL McCain, eyes dropping briefly to the M60 before coming back up to the Marine’s face. There’s a pause—measured, not unimpressed, just taking the measure.

"Okay....."

He looks into McCain eyes judging the stress that the Marine went through

"But let’s get one thing straight, Lance Corporal—I’m an NCO. I work for a living. So you’ll keep that ‘Sur’ shit sounding like a request, not a negotiation, understood?"

There’s the faintest edge of a grin—professional, not unfriendly. He nods toward the weapon.

"Hillary’s a hungry girl, no argument there. I’ll push the word up when we get to Charlie—see if we can scrounge up some belted 7.62. No promises, but it’s a fair ask."

Simmons studies him another second, then tilts his head slightly. "You an O-Three-thirty-one? Or are you just a plain jane 0311 carrying something bigger than usual?"

A beat.

"Be good to know your card carrying graduate of SOI before we start leaning on you. Last thing I need is finding out you’re an O-one-eleven Admin Marine when things kick off."

He shifts his weight, thinking for a second, then adds: "How are you with a SAW? Just in case." It’s matter-of-fact—no judgment, just planning ahead.

His gaze drops briefly back to the M60, then back up. "You’ve been through it—I can see that. That counts. We’ll make it work."

A short nod toward the truck. "Now let’s get you and Hillary on that vehicle before someone else claims the space—and I’ll keep an ear out for your guitar, but ammo’s gonna win that fight every time."

@muns

"No disrespect intended Staff Sar'nt!" Rust snapped to as Muns dressed him down. "Merely attemptin' optimization. Previous MOS was 0321 where I cut my teeth in Mogadishu. 8156 now."

"Staff Sar'nt, I *might* be the strongest human who has ever lived. But I *have* been given the Divine Function of Killin'. Put any implement of violence in these hands, n'I will stack bodies like you neva'seen." He replied when asked how he was with a SAW. There was a special eagerness in McCain eyes. It was not just that he liked killing, there was a deeply personal reason why he had too. A hunger for it and a natural disposition towards violence. "Sho'is a pity I am already dead." Rust's grin twisted it wasn't that stupid country grin, but something wicked, the prospect of his impending death was actually funny to him.

@Jomsviking

You caught me, Elvis smiled. Names Elvis Bledsoe. I’m no stranger to getting my hands dirty, but only so far as gettin’ ‘em into engines. More grease than guts, you know? No stranger to guns though. I been huntin’ since I was old enough to keep up with my old man. I won’t slow you high speed fellers down, don’t you worry, he gave a friendly wink.

@Honor_Over_All

Rust tried his very best to sound motivational, but he was just too socially aggressive to come off as such. "Mobiks make good target practice. Sho'nuff I never killt noone 'til three months back. Now..." Rust nods to the scores of notches on the barrel. "Have not had a day I ain't killt a man since this all started. Maybe today? Got eight last night." Rooster scratched his beard thoughtfully. "You think Saint Peter eva gon'forgive me all that paperwork?" Rust was careful not to exhale in Elvis' direction as he puffed the cigarette.

What do I think? Elvis scratched the back of his neck. He figured the marine was being at least halfway facetious, but Elvis was too earnest not to give an honest answer. It was one of his many faults.

Well, mostly that I’m glad I ain’t in charge of St. Peter’s list I guess. But also that a lotta times they ain’t no good choice—kill or be killed, I think most people know which they’d choose. Ain’t nobody’s fault. Jes’ the way it is. I think so long as you keep your eyes on the cross you gonna be just fine.

Anastasia looks at the two American's talking about god, good and evil and shrugs. "I be sure to save you a seat by the fire."

With that she climbs into the back of the truck and waits to head out.

"Why thank you, Sugah." Rust replies looking Ana in the eyes. His gaze lingered taking the time to appreciate her form as she departed.

"Angels seem real enough..." Rust muttered under his breath.

He started a horse laugh when Elvis responded, not at Elvis' response but because of it. "You Awrite Bledsoe, but I'ma be a bit less subtle the next time I pull yo'leg." Rust stood up and followed after. He was also famished.

@Jomsviking

Simmons watches LCPL McCain through the whole reply without interrupting, expression flattening just a notch as the tone shifts from joking to something a little darker. "Yeah—no disrespect taken. Just making sure we’re speaking the same language."

He nods once at the mention of Marine Security Guard duty. "8156, got it. Embassy work—means you’ve dealt with people, pressure, and bad days that don’t come with warning. That tracks."

The rest of it—the grin, the edge in his voice—Simmons lets hang for a second before he answers. No reaction to the bravado, no challenge either. "Alright. We’ll put that ‘Divine Function’ to work when it’s time. Until then, you keep it controlled." His tone is even—firm, grounded.

Then he shifts gears, practical. "Let me ask you something more important—how much radiation exposure you’ve had recently?" His eyes narrow slightly, not suspicious—calculating. "Area we’re in, what you’ve probably come through… I don’t need anyone dropping from something we could’ve caught early."

He jerks his chin toward the direction of Charlie Company. "When we get there, you’re checking in with the Company medic. That’s not optional—it’s maintenance."

His gaze drops to the M60, studying it for a moment. "Hillary come through the same environment with you?"

A small pause. "Metal holds contamination. Dust gets in seams, feed trays, everywhere. If she’s been exposed, we need to know before we start feeding rounds through her and spreading it around."

He looks back up at McCain, tone steady. "We’ll get you ammo. But first—we make sure you, and that weapon, aren’t carrying something that’ll take you out before the fight does."

A short nod toward the truck. "Let’s move. We’ll sort the rest at Charlie."

@Honor_Over_All
Looking at CPL Bledsoe with a smile
"Time to get a move on Corporal. Make sure McDonald also gets on, I don't want to lose anymore personnel"

Once on the Deuce and a half, Simmons looks around and gets a headcount and once satisfied goes to the front and tap on the back cab window (or if there is no cab window just stick his head in to be heard)
"Were all accounted for and ready to go."

@muns

"Well, I s'pose I been MIA long enough to have lost my decorum. Rust pushed the dosimeter into Simmons hands. Trying on instinct to rid himself of the exposed film. It wasn't coal black, Rust might have survived if he had recieved immediate treatment. "I tripped the radiation alarm when I carried Kingfisher into the medbay last night. We uh... well anyway..." He very clearly did not want to talk about that.

But he did need to talk. He had been lost and alone for months. It showed, Rust alternated between far too much eye contact, and not enough. Not like shell shock, perhaps some kind of developmental disability that hadn't been diagnosed. He was actively listening to the conversations around him, seeing the environment, processing it all while speaking in depth.

"'Member, back a few weeks ago when the sky was glowin'? It rained really heavy that night n'me an the boys had no cover. One thing I am sure, Hillary, is clean, one o'the things I stocked up most on was action blasta', lube, sponges, n'wire brushes. Humped her allaway from Bucharest over these last three months. You are the first Americans I seen. That's fo'hundret sixty klicks through the Russian line. She didn't set off no sieverts when our bus pulled into yo'station. But Staff Sar'nt, when I said I was already dead, well the Ruskies done killt me. Doc here said ten months, maybe a year afore my teeth start fallin' out. Then... well it ain't gon be a pretty sight."

Rooster had a map, the one he had taken from Raven's corpse. It was shot through, and stained with Raven's blood but carried a good bit of intelligence on it. Codified, and written in Romanian. Rust circled Cluj with his index finger and traced along the route he had taken from the south tapping on a gulch some 30 klicks to the south by south east. "'Bout he'ya." He said indicating the where of the incident.

"Hopefully, you find me some other means. And I mean it, I don'wanna die that way. Y'got ample time wit my husk 'til the Devil calls me home, sho'nuff. Not much sense wastin' resources on a lost cause. Only the All-Mighty can save me now, thassa fact Staff Sergeant." He emphasized and enunciated the honorific. "I ain't lost it. Perfectly sane, sober, and still plenty strong."

Rust realized he had overspoken then and contemplated his navel. "Apologies Staff Sar'nt, I ain't had an ear to chew for, a good while."

As Simmons moved off to get the folks inside moving, Wolfe looked to Black and motioned with is thumb, "I'm going to help folks load up. See how quickly we can get on the road."

Caleb reached the first truck and threw his pack in the rear before climbing up and moving it out of the way. As the volunteers began to arrive the SFC caught the belongings passed up before offering a hand to climb aboard. This was where the teamwork started; sergeants set the example.

Amid Simmons' exchange with Rooster, Black focused on Wolfe.

"Irregulars, civilians masquerading as military, yes, a tradition since Vietnam. There, they did it well. Desperation has done amazing things here, too; just look at the resistance to the Ceaușescu Regime. That's been my line of work. Some of it has been by design, but as of recent, what we're doing, now is certainly part of the way the war has turned the way it has and is all part of the contingencies."

Jason also reached the truck and wasted no time in loading up and hopping in. Social hour could wait for later.

Cristea gives Anastasia a small nod of acknowledgement. It is not warm but respectful enough. Whether he hears Rooster's reply about God and the infantry is less clear- if he does, he offers no visible reaction. He climbs into the truck without ceremony, sets the medical bag carefully between his boots, and holds the rifle awkwardly beside him like it's some old umbrella someone insisted he bring. Then he sits back, folds his hands, and watches the others load in. When Clank catches up and takes a place near him, Cristea gives the young man a brief look that says his presence will be tolerated, provided he doesn't make himself tiresome.

He doesn't take out a book - that will just invite conversation. Instead he studies the others. Mentally sorting them - not for fitness in combat but likelihood he'll have to stop them dying. The Marine receives the longest look. Radiation. Overconfidence. Possibly even religious mania...possibly not. His expression remains composed, but there's the slightest pulsing of a vein in his forehead. There will be trouble with this one. Maybe soon.

Justin nodded to Staff Sergeant Simmons when his name was called, then went to collect his gear. As he trailed after the others toward the truck, he glanced at each of their faces, wondering how many of them would return, or if he would be left alone again.

He barely thought about dying himself. Not because he thought he would live through it, but because it had started to feel like his role was to survive and watch other people die.

As he climbed into the truck, his hand brushed the small harp hanging at his side, and he found himself wondering what it had brought him to.