"Oui, man." Mark leaned closer to his comrade, a teasing grin on his face. "Who gave you that haircut?" He chuckled, signaling to the rest to take a look.
They all turned, all gasping in astonishment, the twinkle in their eyes not hiding their amusement.
"Man, I didn't even notice earlier. You look like an eighties Japanese high school punk." Another commented, his expression serious, yet the glint in his eyes betrayed his teasing.
"Who did this sh*t to you?" another chimed in, mouth covered in an exaggerated gasp.
"Is it that bad?" Jake, the man in question, finally spoke up, his headgear on his lap, left hand brushing through his slightly cartoonish quiff haircut.
"That bad? It looks like you are wearing a weirdly misshapen hat..." Another chuckled by the side, the whole crew bursting into laughter.
"Don't make fun of our boy Jake. His wife gave him the haircut." Alaric stood to his feet, his tone serious, yet his smile completely ruining the effort.
"Oh, our poor boy Jake, did you cheat on her or something?"
"Ai, this is why I ain't got none. A wife is a problem without solution."
"..."
They all continued to mock their comrade, embarrassed, he had no other choice but to wear his headgear, brows furrowed in annoyance, yet he couldn't retort.
These guys would roast him even more, if he tried to defend himself.
...
"Ok, ok, ok..." Alaric said, his voice hitched between laughter. "That's enough. We got some laughs."
"Let's focus on the mission."
At the attention of the mission, the murmurs completely died down, the cabin, which had moments ago been filled with laughter, now laced with tension.
The weight of the mission sinking in.
They were special forces, the Navy SEALs.
An elite military unit trained to handle almost all situations, and today their mission was an extraction of high-value civilians.
A hostage rescue from the nefarious Sbah Snefer Occult group.
A group who believed death to be salvation from the hell that was life.
Arson, mass murder, suicide operations, kidnapping, and many horrific crimes that ultimately led to death.
As long as death was the final destination, they didn't mind the method.
Their simple goal was to guide people to the afterlife, their primary targets children, some of such children being high-value citizens.
Alaric and his group had already been briefed about what they were going into.
"...Jake's hair needs to be studied more," Alaric joked, his comrades letting out quiet laughter.
The tension slightly elevated.
They had been reminded of the mission, and even though they were the best at what they did, they were still human.
They didn't fear the group, not at all. They were trained to believe each day was their last, dying on the battlefield is a regular Tuesday.
The issue was different.
They were to save high-value citizens, which meant the "less value citizens" would be left behind.
There were sure to be more than fifty hostages, yet their targets were only two.
They were soldiers. They couldn't voice out their thoughts. Though a mission like this always left a bad taste in their mouths, they had no other choice but to do it.
Orders were orders, after all.
"...We all need to get back so we can scold his wife for making him look like Fred Flintstone..." Alaric added to further lighten the mood.
And it worked as they burst into laughter, this time louder, their nerves seemingly under control.
"Well, this is my stop, men..." He smiled to his comrades, wore his gear, and turned to the door.
He opened it, the turbulent winds of the helicopter blades brushing past him, the scene of a giant island below him.
He turned to them. "See you at the bottom," and jumped.
The rest only smiled internally as they all quickly adorned their headgear, each jumping out of the helicopter without an ounce of fear, as they had done this multiple times.
They dived steadily, arms by their sides, bodies leaned downward.
Close enough to the ground, they all let out their parachutes, skillfully gliding through the air, each falling into the large lake below with little to no splash, waves barely stirred.
None of the five men swam up.
Their chutes sinking down with them, the lake's surface regaining its stillness, as if nothing had happened.
After several minutes, they each emerged at the shore, breaths steady, though they had been underwater for more than ten minutes, their bodies lowered, steps slow as they continued their journey, their camouflage uniforms blending with their surroundings.
With Alaric in front, the rest followed as they made it through the forest.
.
.
.
"I have a visual..." Mark reported.
He lay on the ground, vines covering his body and the binoculars he held.
Several metres ahead was what looked to be a village.
Filled with mud huts and wooden sheds, around it were wire fences, guard towers positioned to keep watch for intruders, men with guns patrolling.
"..."
Alaric lightly touched Jake's shoulder, a signal Jake understood.
He took out his sniper rifle and set it, laying in position, breaths slowly regulated.
"We are ready to begin..." Alaric said via his radio.
"Begin..." the response came.
He once again tapped on Jake's shoulder.
Jake nodded.
He was to take the shot.
He leaned closer, waited patiently till the guard on the tower reached a position where, if he fell, he wouldn't fall down the tower, and shot.
Blood splattered, no sound heard, as if the world itself held its breath.
Slowly, the guard leaned on the pillar, a hole in his head as his unconscious body slowly slid down, no noise made.
Jake turned to the next, then the next, each skillfully and quietly sending them to their maker.
He lived up to his nickname, the Silent Reaper.
With the guards taken down, the five quietly slid into the village, steps slow, backs together as they checked their surroundings.
They walked with steady steps, no detour, as they knew where they were going.
A middle-aged woman, one of the villagers, stepped out, her eyes widening in surprise as she noticed the soldiers.
"He..."
Blood sprayed before she could scream.
Her body fell limp on the ground.
They didn't hesitate, as everyone in the village was to be treated as part of the cultists.
Showing mercy would lead to their own death.
They continued moving, surprisingly facing no other obstacles.
The village eerily quiet.
No one else in sight.
Most would have been suspicious, but they knew why this was so.
Today was their usual service, the day they escorted the "chosen" to their goddess Hathor, in other words, to their demise.
Today was the cult's ritual, a day perfectly taken for the mission.
...
"This is the place..." Alaric paused in front of a large wooden cabin, the radar he held in his hand stopping here.
The high-value civilians were in the room.
"Confirm pax..." he inquired via the radio.
"Seventeen stationary, five in motion, sending visuals," the response came, Alaric turning to Mark.
Mark checked his viewer, the feed coming in.
He nodded in confirmation.
He then made hand signs, showing where the moving people were.
"Let's move..."
___________
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A/N
1/5