Sergeant Kepler, or as his squad called him, “Sarge”, had been having a rough day. It had all started about a month ago when he heard news of an outbreak of the Apollyon Virus in Troy. At first, he hadn't thought much about the news other than sorrow. He had been to the southern city of Troy, and while it wasn’t the nicest city he had been to, it was still an imperial city. He was saddened to hear the highly contagious and destructive virus had taken root there.

The Apollyon virus was a brutal infection brought back from the edges of Endenheim. Though no one knew for sure who the original carrier was, there were rumors that the virus came from at least a tier-six contamination zone. The virus's true danger came from its rather unique symptoms and spreading conditions.

Those who contracted the Apollyon virus would at first experience mild irritation throughout their body like a bad case of the flu. Then they would feel intense pain that would make even the most stalwart person suicidal. They would turn manic, attacking anything and everything around them with increasing fury as the virus progressed throughout their system. Interestingly enough, victims seemed to be able to recognize each other and wouldn't attack those under the Apollyon virus's influence.

A week after the initial infection, they would start to mutate, growing less and less human with each passing day. The victims would grow bony protrusions and their hair would cover them in thick fur. Their bones would grow through their skin and harden into an iron-like carapace. Distorted limbs grew from their bodies as they mutated into creatures that couldn't even be called human. After about five months, their last flickering of humanity would finally fade as the virus reached its final forms and the victims grew scorpion-like tails from their wretched bodies.

The spread condition of the virus came in two parts. Before the growth of the scorpion tails, the virus spread through contact. Someone would have to be weakened into a near-death state, usually through being torn apart by other victims, before the mutations would truly start to take shape. If someone were simply infected but remained in good health, they could fight off the infection after a few weeks assuming they remained healthy. After the growth of the tails, a single sting could cause initial bursts of mutations and manic behavior. It was of the utmost importance to put down Apollyon outbreaks within the first five months.

A week after that his entire Gleam Legion was ordered to march on the city of Troy and purge it. Such a thing wasn’t uncommon when the Apollyon virus popped up every few years. Purging an entire city was far better than the virus potentially getting into the rest of the empire. It was common protocol to wipe the city off the map rather than risk the spread of the infection.

After a couple of weeks of blockading the city, the legate of the Gleam Legion had decided that all civilians had been evacuated and the rest of the city was ready to be cleaned out. No matter who or what they had originally been, the Gleam Legion’s squads would move through the streets and execute the virus victims with extreme prejudice. Nothing was to be left standing by the time they were done.

Sergeant Kepler had hoped and prayed his cohort would remain on blockade duty, but the legate had dictated that his and two others would be sent into the city. The three cohort’s three thousand legionnaires would face mortal danger cleansing the city of its remaining inhabitants while the other seven thousand got the cushy job sitting around and taking potshots at anything that moved. It was truly unlucky.

If he listened to the rumors going about his squad, they weren’t being sent in purely off of bad luck. Apparently, the Primus of their cohort had offended the legate, so the legate was taking advantage of the situation to kill the Primus. The loss of nine hundred ninety-nine other troops was just collateral damage. Sarge wasn’t too sure about that rumor, though it certainly had a chance to be true.

Not that any of that mattered. The call had already been made and there was no chance short of treason that he could get out of it. In fact, he had already thought about deserting the legion as soon as he got the news. He would’ve gone through with it if not for the very public and very brutal show of the legate executing captured deserters. Going into battle with a one percent chance of survival was far better than the zero percent chance of deserting.

As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, he learned that the decanus of their squad was one such executed deserter. That left him, a mere sergeant who definitely didn’t have the qualifications, to lead their squad of ten- nine now. Sure he was technically the second in charge since his promotion to sergeant, but that meant little considering the differences between sergeant and base legionaire. He didn't even have a relic like a true officer of the legion.

And so he had been having a bad month all leading up to this very bad day. He and his other eight squadmates were standing shoulder to shoulder just outside of the city. Already the sounds of fighting were evident from the wrecked streets of the city. The occasional explosion and plume of smoke chewed at his already frayed nerves. Thankfully, he had his trusty liquid courage with him.

“It was nice knowing you, Sarge.” A Weasley-looking man with more grease than hair said from his side. He looked like a poor man’s lawyer who spent more money on faulty hair-growth products than anything.

“Oi! It ain’t over yet! We might ain’t have a chance ‘ere!” A man with a diminutive stature said as he nervously rubbed at his uniform. His uniform was as messy as could be and he reeked to the high heavens. Sarge truly didn’t know the last time the small man had bathed in anything other than stolen- “acquired” goods.

An ogre of a man nodded along with the small person. He was well known throughout the cohort for his strength, though not his brain. Sarge had known the man, nicknamed ‘Grin’ thanks to the stupid grin he usually had, for far longer than anyone in the squad. They had both been assigned to the same squad straight out of boot camp and had been moved around together ever since. “Truce is right. Clean street, go home safe.”

Another of his squad nodded along, though he didn’t look near as energetic as he usually did. It was almost sad to see the man Sarge had known to be a pretty boy and a notorious flirt look so down. “Against the abominations of the Apollyon Virus? Fat chance we even clear one building!”

Grin’s goofy smile dropped as he tossed the word about his mouth. “A bomb nation?” He scratched his helmeted head. He was one of the few people in the squad who wore his helmet even though they weren’t in the city yet. In fact, Grin almost always wore his helmet. There were jokes among the squad that it was to protect his already micro-sized brain. Sarge knew it was actually because the big guy was surprisingly self-conscious about his hair. “Why bomb nation?”

“‘E means beasty, Grin. Ya’ know how Face is with ‘is big words.” Truce, the man with the small stature, said. He stroked his non-existent facial hair as if to seem wise.

The joke, like all his jokes were, was quite bad, though it did ease up some of the tension and cause Face to return the joke with equal viciousness. “And yet none of my ‘big words’ can even compare to the cow you call a mother!”

He idly listened to his squadmates bicker back and forth amongst themselves as he drank some ‘water’ from his canteen. He knew drinking would get to him one day, but it was realistically the only way he could get through the military without growing insane. His psychiatrist, whom he legally had to see once every three months, had strongly recommended he seek more help for his dependence. Sarge simply ignored such foolishness like he always did. Better to be drunk than to face the horrors in his memory, in his opinion.

After Sarge felt the burn of his ‘water’, he put away his canteen. He was going into battle soon, so he didn’t drink enough to get tipsy no matter how much he wanted to. Sarge then took charge of the miscreants in his squad before Truce could stab the pretty boy. “Alright, listen up! Stick to the formation, and we’ll get out of this fine! All we have to do is clear out our assigned block!”

Another of his squadmates, this one the only one to be wearing his uniform in the proper fashion without any stains, spoke up. “Sir, our formation relied on the former decanus’s relic.”

That reminder lowered morale to another level, which he didn’t even know was possible. They were already going on a suicide mission, and everyone but maybe Grin knew that. Then came the reminder that their most powerful member, the deceased decanus and leader of their squad, may his soul rest in hell along with the rest of the deserters, was dead. What's next, an order to charge into the fray?

A whistle blew somewhere down the line, soon followed by several others. Sarge sighed as he realized thinking about what could go wrong probably wasn’t the best idea. Really, he should’ve known by now; when life gives you lemons, you run away since it's most likely an ambush. “Alright, let's get a move on before we get the same treatment as our dear decanus. Stay close and shoot anything that twitches! We’ll pull through this! How much resistance can a few plague victims really be?”