The Federation's Bad Company
Welcome to Bad Company
Dear Colin Marlowe
Hey, little bro, you probably couldn't even recognize me right now, with my uniform and all. Just like dad, eh? Hey, don't tell mom about this, but I sort of messed up a bit. There was this thing with a jeep and well, I don't really want to get into it. Anyways, I'm off the hook, so there's not going to be any disciplinary action or anything like that. The thing is, I'm being transferred to B-Company. They call it Bad Company. But that could means lots of different things though. Anyways, I'm being transferred over there next week and I'll probably get to see some action right away. I'm looking forwards to meeting my new squad, doing my duty. So tell mom not to worry because I'm going to play it by the book and stay ought of trouble. This time.
Anyways, there's over a hundred thousand of us over there. It's not like I'm going to go off on some stupid adventure looking for gold treasure or anything. I'm not going to play the hero, not going to take on the Imperial Army on my own. I'm not going to discover some sort of massive secret. The army's a great big machine little bro and I'm just this tiny little cog. You're probably not going to be reading about me in the paper. Anyways, I hope to see you guys really soon.
Yours truly, Preston Marlowe.
Welcome to the 222nd Army Battalion, to B-Company. Where they rake together all the leftovers and troublemakers deemed... expendable by the army. They call it... Bad Company, a mismatched bunch of rejects placed to serve the Atlantic Federation as cannon fodder. My name is Preston Marlowe. I'm a healthy, 18 year old male from Iberia, my eyes are dark brown, as is my hair which is cut to my short but still long enough to be messy. But that's enough about my appearance. They could have thrown me in jail for what I did. But instead, they transferred me here. This... is my story.
"Private Preston Marlowe, reporting for duty, sir!" I salute a man whom I recognize as a sergeant. He has dark skin and look about thirty years old. He turns to face me and salutes in kind, but asks a question.
"You sure you in the right place?"
"I believe so, sir," I respond, he turns back towards the radio he is at with a young girl, maybe about sixteen years old with blonde pigtails, and listens in as two others are chattering away behind him. One is a squirrely looking fellow, maybe about twenty, with glasses and light brown hair. The other is a darcsen girl with long hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing a darcsen bandanna on her head. She looked to be in her early twenties. They were chattering about the death count or something. I tune them out.
"This is... B-Company... right?" the sergeant is still listening to the radio and takes a moment before turning to me again.
"Sure is," he confirms, "But you wanna cut out that sir, yes sir crap? I'm a sergeant, not the goddamn president."
"Ok, sorry sir!" I reply, leaning down to adjust my carbine and bring it up before realizing what I just said. "I mean, sergeant."
"Yeah whatever," he replies, lazily, turning to face the two chattering away in the back. "That one over there, his name is Sweetwater," he nods to the male who gives a quick wave back.
"Hey... welcome to the front lines," he says jokingly, coming closer.
"That's Haggard," the Sergeant continues as the darcsen girl wanders over too.
"Hey, how you doin'?" She asks, lifting her lance to rest against her shoulder. She leans in and sniffs, making me kind of uncomfortable. "You smell very clean."
"That's Michelle, our new radio girl, she came just a few days before you," He points to the blonde girl with the radio. She just nods, "She usually goes by Mikey." Another nod.
"And you can call me Sergeant Redford," he finishes, "Or just Sarge. We're all in this mess together now."
"Alright sarge..." I watch as Mikey picks up the radio and carries it with her and the four of them head over to a truck, "Do you know what squad I'm supposed to belong to?"
They ignore me and keep going so I look around awkwardly to see if anyone else was there.
"A new guy kinda smells like..." I hear Haggard say, "A brand new toy."
"Eh..." I hear Sweetwater reply to her, "I give you three to two he's dead by Friday."
"Sarge?" I ask awkwardly.
"You can ride with us," he replies, not even glancing back, "New guy."
"New guy?" I repeat my new nickname, "Ok..."
We ride on the truck in relative silence, making it feel a little awkward until I ask how everyone was doing.
"Me?" Sarge motions to himself, "I'm due to go home in three days, but you best get to know the others. Haggard over here? She's a natural born Demolition expert-"
"What?" she turns to face us, with an incredulous look on her face, "Nah, I just like it when stuff blows up, ehehe." She turns back to face the countryside.
"Yeah," Sweetwater comments, "And that's just fine as long as it's the enemy's stuff."
"And Sweetwater?" The Sarge interjects. "If you ever need someone to talk a hole in your head, he's got that covered."
"That's a cheap shot," Sweetwater replies, "I don't really talk that much."
"Shut up," Sarge orders as Mikey starts saying something.
"We're to move up to the front of the convoy and scout the terrain. They have orders for later but they'll get back to us with those."
"Ah check it out," Haggard points to some armored jeeps and light tanks rolling back to camp, "It's the Calvary."
"Isn't it amazing how we always go towards the fighting and they're always headed in the opposite direct-" Sweetwater says sarcastically but gets suddenly cut off by the sound of explosions, "I hope those are our guns."
"It's a beautiful sound in a way," Haggard smiles.
"It's an ambush!" Sarge shouts.
"It's about time we got some action! Look at the new guy, he's-!"
And then the world went dark.
"Oh look, new guy's dead," I hear someone say. Am I really? And to think that I was planning on heading home after the war.
"Already? I was just about to learn his name."
"I think it was probably Joe," the rough woman's voice must be Haggard's, "Usually is."
"His name's Preston," Sarge's gruff, male voice pops into my head, "Preston Marlowe. He's not dead, right soldier?"
I open my eyes and a wave of light and pain assault me. I'm in a ditch and the others are looking down at me. I nod, "Yeah, everything hurts but I think I'm fine."
"Hey, new guy," Sweetwater calls out. God that nickname is starting to bug me, "Get your ass over here."
I climb out of the ditch and Mikey hands me some painkillers. I say thanks and take them, washing the pills down with my canteen.
"Well, you sure don't smell so good anymore," Sweetwater comments on my appearance. My Federation uniform was muddy and I was bleeding a bit.
"Welcome to Bad Company."
AN: Welcome to another crossover fic I'll never finish. This first chap is pretty much plagiarism of the first part of Battlefield: Bad Company but that'll change real soon. The Members of Bad Company get thrown into the second Europa War of Valkyrie Chronicles. What could possibly go wrong?