Argyll's Odyssey: Aboard the Irkalla Warship

The powerful Irkalla class warship cruised easily through the vacuum of space, passing by a nearby White dwarf, the glaring white paint upon its blackened hull bearing the words ‘The Sutherland’ came into view as the weaponry along the beaten and bruised craft bristled menacingly yet at the same time with a deadly beauty. As it passed the star, light began to shine through the darkened, grimy windows into large empty halls. Inside, Argyll stirred uneasily in his bed, knocking the sheets off and jolting upright while panting heavily as a cold sweat ran across his body. Argyll was a tall and well-structured male, who looked around uneasily as he slowly let out a sigh before closing his eyes as he slowly rested his head on his hands, shaking violently. He began to run his hands through his long, unkempt hair breathing in the, metallic air as he kept his eyes shut tight. Hell. This is the one word the marine

could think of to describe what he had witnessed. It was as if the horrors he had seen were never going to leave him, his own personal demons come to haunt him. Argyll gave a groan, holding his damaged side, feeling almost as beaten as the ship which housed him. He remembered what he felt was just a few days ago, when he wasn’t alone. A time when his friends were still alive…
* * *
Shrapnel fell into the tiny trench as the five soldiers sprinted for their lives, plasma rounds whizzing above them, sizzling through the air as more shrapnel fell on the retreating friends, caused by a nearby shell going off on the land above them and as they shook off the dust and dirt they could hear the familiar hum of enemy cannons preparing to fire.

Certainly, it seemed, someone wanted them dead. As the leader of the team managed to get them into relative safety, they felt the ground below them shudder as the enemy cannons let out a volley of energy rounds on their position, creating a familiar whooshing noise as they soared through the air to punish the trench they had just vacated. They kept sprinting as they finally made it back to the safety of their camp, shrouded beneath a stealth generator which rendered them invisible against the backdrop of the ruined land. As they sat down, they all began to laugh with nerves, sighing with relief. The leader sat down, taking off his helmet as he shook his head to get the dirt out of his hair before sighing

softly.
“Christ that was close…” he muttered, as the rest of the squad chuckled and murmured in agreement. The leader looked at each of his men in turn, making sure they were all there as he frowned a bit before asking “Where’s Pip?” As the smallest of the squad was lying down and raised a shaky hand, panting heavily as he spoke in a quiet tone “P-present s-sir…” he said, dropping his hand back down as the leader chuckled.
“Just checking, Pip,” he said with a smile.
“Get some rest, which applies to all of you, especially you Trig,” he said, pointing to the sniper of the group as he smiled, nodding
“Sure thing Hartman…” he replied, standing up and stretching before moving off to go to find a comfortable place to rest.
* * *
Argyll sighed, clutching his illegally marked dog-tags tightly in his fist, running the worn chain between his fingers as he looked down at them. His real name had long worn off, and as he read his nickname which they had given him he felt a strange combination of grief and rage. He blamed himself for his team being killed in that firefight. He blamed himself for not being a strong enough soldier. He blamed himself for not preventing the unpreventable. He blamed himself for not knowing the unknowable. As the dog tags fell from his grip, he caught the chain and lifted the tags up to his eye level, giving an almost animal like growl as he read that accursed name again and again. The name which was given to him by his friends, the name given to him by those he felt he had betrayed the trust of. He looked at the name with loathing, a seething hatred for what that name meant and what it had cost. This name had cost the life of his friends. He blamed himself for this name. This name was his fault. “Trig”. The name which would haunt the marine for the rest of his life. The name which he would loathe forever more. But the name he would continue to go by, in memory of his fallen compatriots and because he now had no other name, as he was no longer Argyll. After all he had seen, he had long become Trig. Argyll perished on the same day as his comrades.
* * *
As the squad set about their duties under the safety of their stealth generator, they all sat together around a small fire one of them had made to cook the squad’s rations on as they talked about the war and what it meant to them. They then began to share stories of their adventures from before they met. Trig described how he became so efficient with his sniper rifle, mentioning how he had shot beforehand and was naturally good at it, and just practiced occasionally before joining the military. Pip described how he had gotten into the military, despite being so small and seemingly fragile as he went into detail about how he was seen as a good scout and spotter, hence why he was usually paired with Trig. And Hartman told of the time he dropped a tank on enemy forces. “…And they just went SMOOSH!” Hartman said with a chuckle as tears rolled down the others faces as they laughed “And then, and then get this, the blighters mate turns and looks up with this confused expression as the tank toppled onto him!” He said as the squad roared with laughter, as it was the funniest story they had heard for a while, being stuck out there for so long. Then the humming began. They all stopped laughing, standing up and collecting their kit as fast as they could as an energy round hit the stealth generator directly in the power core as Hartman cursed, watching with futility as their forms became visible to all as a hail of plasma began to fall down upon them, striking down the two sentries almost instantly. As Trig hid behind a section of rubble he cocked his rifle, glancing round the corner before darting back to his cover as he felt the heat of a round flying past his face as he shook his head, turning round just in time to see a large section of one of the few remaining buildings falling, directly on top of the youngest of the group. It was just as Hartman had described with the enemies in his story. Smoosh. Gone in an instant. As the blood of Pip splattered against Trigs’ front he stared on in horror as Hartman fell to the ground, groaning as the enemy forces closed in on the marines.
* * *
These memories would haunt the marine for the rest of his life, and he knew full well they would. He didn’t want to let them go. He wanted to remember every detail of his friends, even if that meant their deaths. Death is a part of War, and there are no exceptions. There are no guilty people in war; there are only misguided innocents and civilians. Trig could never find words to describe what occurred that day, apart from one.
“Hell.”