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Chapter Text

Credenhill, Herefordshire, South West England.

The room was hot. Major Armstrong had a brisk voice but the weekly update had already run an hour overtime. Even the keenest soldiers in the squadron had long stopped taking notes in order to repeatedly pinch themselves awake. Finally, the Major moved on from another reminder to not prop open fire doors to something a little more exciting. As he lay out the issue, the men perked up, coming awake with interest like prairie dogs.

‘Alright lads, we’ve got an infiltrator somewhere in the ranks, he could be anyone. All we know is that he was trained in the U.S. by a terrorist group called C.H.U.D., most likely an American native who replaced someone during or just after selection, so look out for American accents slipping out and keep tight on opsec.’

In the audience of seated men, the American radical C.H.U.D. agent, Braxton Hicks, currently known as Charlie Smith raised a hand to his face to hide a wicked smirk. They didn’t know! He had been picked for his flawless imitation of a British accent learned during his earliest years when his family had been stationed here. He thought now of his family’s horror, should they find out about his radicalisation at the hands of Al Qatala via C.H.U.D. but his family’s faith in the individual had always been weak. The history of real change was written in blood.

The Major at the front shut down his power point and someone at the back turned on the lights. Ah, the update appeared to be ending. After only 45 minutes more of further memos they were allowed to leave.

His standing orders were to infiltrate the team hunting down C.H.U.D. cells, which he’d discovered was the 141, so he caught up to its nearest member through the stream of departing men, Sergeant MacTavish, and brought out the charm.

“Hey Buddy! How you doing?”

Mactavish almost seemed to cringe away at the friendly greeting but responded amiably enough. ‘Yeah, alright Sergeant.. err.. , not bad. You?’ Maybe he had been surprised by the greeting, real ADHD behaviour, and to think, these foolish imperialists trusted this man with explosives.

“It’s Smith. Oh I’m just great. Except for the food. Am I right? Ha ha! I’ve not had anything that bad since grade school. Although I was hoping to ask a favour, my captain says my mission reports are lacking, could I look at a few of your old ones to get an idea of where to improve?” Might as well multitask, any information could be useful, although it was a shame to lie about his mission reports after all the work he put in to them.

By this point they had walked outside into the rain. Why was it always raining here? He hoped that the drowned puppy look might make the sergeant more receptive but MacTavish was already shaking his head. As MacTavish opened his mouth to reply, he was interrupted by one of his COs calling. The giant. Clearly an ex-theatre kid with the way he wore that mask. What a drama queen. Broad with showy muscle, all shoulders and ass. Braxton’s lip twitched in a sneer. Looking like that with those blonde eyelashes and that trim waist. Real queer stuff. Slutty. Hicks did his best to keep his face in check. Friendly. Polite. Greeter at Walmart sort of thing.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your lieutenant. My pants are getting soaked anyway, the rain just bounces right off the sidewalk.”

So saying, he walked away, congratulating himself on remembering to pronounce lieutenant incorrectly. Lef-ten-ant, Leftenant, wouldn’t do to forget that. He could find some other way to get friendly with the team.

When he looked back, the two men had their heads close as though they were discussing something private, the giant glanced his way. Probably jealous that someone dared approach his little friend. Hey now there was an idea, catch them fraternising, or just make it look like they were somehow. Shouldn’t be too hard, he’d heard one of them ask the other for a fag the other day.

Later that afternoon Sergeant MacTavish caught up to him in the mess, waving a pile of paper forms covered in blocky handwriting. Hicks gestured to the seat opposite on the long table and shifted his tray to make room.

‘Ey, Smith. I spoke to your captain, sorry, just had to confirm, but he says your mission reports are proper wank’. He couldn’t help but wince. Rude. Fuck Captain Briggs anyway, the C.H.U.D.s were always happy with his reports; effusive, even. ‘Have a flick through mate and I’ll meet you at seven in the East barracks rec room. We can re-write one of yours together.

Hicks thanked him and did as he was told, already skimming the reports right there at the table. Something caught his eye, a line had been redacted, covered with corrective fluid. It was related to the intel the mission had been sent to retrieve, suggesting the date and location of the next target in the chain of missions, one which was just about to occur. All he had to do was scratch it off to read it, but only if it could be concealed again, he’d have to ask around for some White-out.

At 18.45 Hicks made his way to the rec room, MacTavish was already there, seated in one of the kitchenette chairs. The rest of the 141 was also there, occupying the couches, a soccer match playing quietly on the TV. The friendly sergeant teased him ‘thought you’d never turn up’.

“Ah, it’s still a quarter ‘til seven” Hicks replied.

‘Hmmm’ said MacTavish, eyebrow raised. Hicks caught the edge of the conversation on the couch as Captain Price turned to the Lieutenant and said ‘I see what you mean.’

“Well, anyway, here’s a couple paragraphs I did already, and here’s your reports back” he placed the mission reports down on the table (copies already hidden under his bunk, although people had looked at him funny when he’d asked to xerox them).

MacTavish took the form, the other eyebrow joining the raised one ‘Ignore that lot, got nothing better to do than lounge around on uncomfortable sofas. This is more than a couple of paragraphs. How did you have time for this? And why is it all in the present tense? Jesus’ His eyes traced down the page rapidly. ‘Heh, you don’t have to copy my handwriting as well’

“Oh I didn’t, I just never learned cursive.” Hicks chuckled. Who had time for that nowadays? He looked around at the others in the room who all blinked at him with wide eyes. Ok, obviously these guys.

As they worked on the report together, Hicks asked friendly questions of the get-to-know-you type. He found he liked John, or Soap as he requested to be called and was surprised to find out that despite being Scottish he didn’t speak a word of Gaelic.

‘Oh aye, no one does, the bastard colonial English wiped that out.’ Soap said, to groans from the couches. There really was something likeable about him. ‘There’re people trying to keep it alive but it’s less than two percent that know even a little. We did German in school. Five years of German and I canna speak a lick past Ich bin auf Coatbridge in der ner von Glasgow.’

Hmm, maybe the initial assessment of imperialist idiot was closer to the mark. Hicks had gone to a terrible school and done Spanish as a second language. Even with Sr. Roberto who had shown up drunk nine times out of ten and taught them all that the best way to address a lady was Puta madre (como mi exesposa zorra), Hicks was reasonably fluent, if somewhat slurry. These guys though, Soap said he’d left school at sixteen but had somehow managed to spend some time at college, he must have been some sort of idiot-savant. The opinion was confirmed when Hicks asked what Soap had majored in and received nothing but a blank stare in response.

The rest of the session went well. At one point the African American soldier – ‘Call me Gaz, mate’ – had offered to make everyone tea. Hicks had only had iced tea before and wracked his brains for the correct thing to ask for. After a tiny pause, he requested his with lemon, or failing that, honey. There had been quite some delay as Gaz poked around the little kitchen for one or the other, eventually admitting defeat. Instead he was given “builder’s tea” stewed with a few teaspoonfuls of sugar and enough milk to turn it beige. It was oddly refreshing, he’d have to check at the grocery for it.

Hicks even managed to squeeze a little more information out of Soap. The taskforce were scheduled to deploy again soon, it must be to take care of that whited out mission. This time next week they’d be in the field, making observations, preparing to arrest some hard working freedom fighters in a farmhouse just outside of Winchester. What’s more, Price was apparently toying with the idea of bringing along an extra man on these short jobs, just to get an idea of the local resources.

‘That’ll probably be you, now that we’ve half debriefed you anyway’ Soap added.

Amazing, this was the perfect opportunity. Hicks couldn’t wait to get back to the secret cell phone he kept hidden under his bed to write up his real report.

By the time the practise report was complete, he’d managed to ingratiate himself fully. He’d hit the jackpot by asking about soccer teams, Lieutenant Riley had strong opinions about Manchester City football club’s poor line up this year and the others mocked him cruelly for his support. Soap was a Celtics fan, which apparently was something to do with religion and couldn’t be changed but if he could have picked any other team it would be Man. United. There was another round of jeering laughter for some reason and the Lieutenant threw a book at Soap’s head.

Sensing that the conversation was veering into the unknown, Hicks took his leave to write his real report in private. The C.H.U.D.s must be informed that their secret operation would be attacked on the seventh of June, to be sure he remembered correctly, he had written the date surreptitiously on his hand – 06.07.25.

Over the next few days Hicks continued to run drills and participate in training with the rest of his squad. He had in fact passed selection on his own merits. The real Charlie Smith had been chosen and kidnapped for his lack of connections (dead parents, no siblings) prior to the intensely competitive selection process. After which, Hicks had avoided contact with Smith’s old team by faking a variety of illnesses, mostly food poisoning.

That was something actually; he’d have to come up with a different excuse, nobody else ever seemed to get food poisoning. Maybe the British army knocked out anyone without a strong stomach, or maybe food packaging, processing, additive and pesticide standards were significantly higher here than in the U.S. What a ridiculous way to create a country of weaklings, and it was so expensive! Takeaway food cost even more than fresh fruit and veg. What a crazy backward country. People were certainly different about illnesses, he’d tried telling Captain Briggs that he was staying in bed with a cold and Briggs had laughed! And, worse than that, they hadn’t even given him any antibiotics for it when he’d gone to the first aid station. Even when he’d complained and threatened to tell their superiors. At least painkillers were dirt cheap. If all else failed he could at the last minute grind up a hundred packs of “Paracetamol” into the mess hall’s cottage pie[1].

Soap’s prediction proved correct. Hicks, or rather Smith was indeed chosen to accompany the taskforce on the mission to Winchester. As one of the new intake that year Hicks had been looking forward to the cyclical training that his squad went through. Old hat for them, but new to him; today would have been the classroom part of Cold Survival Training with a trip to the artic circle scheduled in a few days which he might have to go on without the training. A mental image struck him, of his future self struggling to keep up with his squad as his toes and fingers turned black and fell off. He sure hoped this mission ran long.

Hicks briefly wondered why Captain Briggs didn’t mind him missing it but was distracted by the urgent need to tell the C.H.UD. leadership that he would be in the firing line. Hopefully they had no plans to simply leave the site and boobytrap it.

The day came. Hicks nearly mustered at the wrong point, expecting to take a flight to the other city but made it - only just in time - to the canvas sided truck which was to transport them all instead. He sat next to Gaz who was talking about some fancy clothes he’d just bought. Gaz turned to him, including him in the conversation.

‘The correct term for them is actually knickerbockers’ he said very casually, lip twitching at though he was trying not to smile[2]. Why were the Brits so bad at controlling their faces? Hicks must have joined too late to hear the joke so he just nodded along. Gaz continued ‘you know, those smart trousers, the ones cut tighter at the lower leg. Back in the twenties you did sports like golf in a suit, the trousers were called knickerbockers, well they evolved into the suit trousers you see today, but also the tracksuit bottoms you see everywhere, and that’s why everyone calls both types of trousers “knickers”.

“Ooooh, so it’s also a type of sweatpants?” said Hicks, that made a lot of sense, he’d once heard his own lieutenant telling another soldier sleeping off a hangover to “Get yer knickers on and get to the canteen before they stop serving breakfast”. He’d have to remember to do a search/replace on his mission reports to swap out “pants” for “knickers”. He tried to fight down a smirk but had to cover it by pretending to scratch his nose. His enemy didn’t even know that they were helping him to hide, to flawlessly integrate. The mission was going perfectly.

[1] HAHAHAHAHA  https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/media/67e69e9e085277e9961b201b/Best_practice_guidance_on_the_sale_of_medicines_2025.pdf

[2] https://giphy.com/gifs/SkyTV-game-of-thrones-got-littlefinger-55vKevVF7T07l0jst5

Chapter Text

Mission report: LCpl. Charlie Smith

Events of: 06.07.25, 05.00 to 06.07.25, 07.40

51.132553, -1.406025 (SO20 6BU) Access via A30. Stonecroft Farm, Chilbolton Down, Winchester, England.

Foot-chase also breached neighbouring property: Brockley Warren SSSI to South. No damage to SSSI 

Building breached at two points. Team Alpha (Cpt. JP, Sg. KG, LCpl. CS) entered through south door into room 3. Hostile detained here (arrested by Sergeant Kyle Garrick). Disturbance from Bravo (Lt. SR, Sg. JM). Noise and smoke from room 1. Moved forward with assumption of enemy on alert.

Room 2 cleared by Capt. Price and Sergeant Garrick (no contact). I covered the hallway, room 3 prisoner and checked pantry.

Myself and Sergeant Garrick relocated room 3 prisoner to room 1 to efficiently guard both prisoners.

Captain Price declared the floor clear. Sergeant Garrick took rappelling rope and exited through the south door to aid Bravo team in clearing the upstairs. We (Cpt. JP, LCpl. CS) searched then guarded the prisoners until the end of the mission. I aided in the arrest of prisoner 4 (arrested by lieutenant Riley) and the release of the hostage once the threats had been neutralised by Bravo team.

Prisoner 1 possessions: electronic device labelled "detonator", paper labelled "HQ contact details" (otherwise blank), mobile phone (Volla X23), £24.02 change, I.D. card with name "Chav Minger" (low quality fake), Glock 17 pistol, L3A1 bayonet knife.

Prisoner 2 possessions: mobile phone (Volla X23), paper labelled "HQ contact details" (otherwise blank), file folders labelled "bomb schematics" and "evidence" (both blank inside), I.D. card with name "Bev Toff" (low quality fake), Glock 17 pistol, L3A1 bayonet knife.

Prisoners were arrested at 05.10 and transferred to the observation team (Cpt. AS, LCpl. HP) for processing at 07.20.

Hostage RTB in personnel carrier with taskforce.

 

Hicks sat in the personnel carrier, listening to the 'canvas' sides flap, humming the Jaws theme idly to himself.

Through the open back of the van he could see the sky beginning to brighten and looked at his watch, it was nearly 4am. The others had talked back and forth over him about their local slang terms for about thirty minutes, after which, they'd invited him to play slaps. He'd not wanted to show his ignorance of the game and had agreed and now sat pressing into the red swelling not-quite-bruises which covered the tops of his thighs and backs of his hands. He hadn't known it would be three against one.

Afterwards, he'd muttered something about them all being kindergartners.

'Not me' replied lieutenant Riley, 'I'm a somophore.' 

Soap had chimed in as well 'I'm a freshman.' 

Then Gaz had added 'me, I'm a valedictorian. I've got a five point oh G.P.A.' Then they'd laughed despite Gaz saying the wrong number on accident and the lack of punchline.

He'd never wrap his head around the strange English sense of humour. Well, they'd all be dead soon enough and he could laugh at them all he wanted. The idea was a tremendous comfort.

Soon the two sergeants were napping and Hicks pretended to sleep alongside; it was amazing how soldiers seemed to grab any opportunity to sleep; except for the lieutenant who was peering closely through reading glasses at a folded up newspaper. Occasionally, he wrote something down. He must be doing the crossword. At the top of the page, Hicks could make out "The Sun" in fat red letters. Soap had mocked the brooding colossus earlier for reading it and been told it was the only one left in the officer's mess. He'd laughed and asked him what the biography on page three said[1].

Hicks was lost but the lieutenant had understood. The 6'4" man had replied in a rising nasal lisping falsetto.

'I'm Nikki, eighteen, from Essex, I wanna be a model. My measurements are thirty four double G. I have four kids with five different fathers'.

Hicks had stared at the skull mask in horror.  It was probably why he couldn't sleep now.  

Eventually they'd arrived to the site. The A30 turned out to be a single lane, busy road with no parking allowed. Price muttered bitterly about it from the driving seat so Hicks asked, "did the inconsiderate terrorists not provide a parking lot?"

'No Smith', said Price through gritted teeth 'there's no car park. We'll have to block some poor farmer's access for the day and hope he doesn't bring out the telehandler before we get back.'

He turned the van down the next country lane at the last second as it appeared through the hedges. Even from the high vantage point of the cab it looked like Price had veered them into a solid wall of green until they were upon it and the dirt track became apparent. Then they bounced over the potholes until they had to stop, coming to a rest behind another identical green army van blocking the track. 

'Fuck's sake' Price muttered then shook off his irritation and added 'that'll be the... uh... observation team. I'll contact them now.' He stepped out of the vehicle fiddling with his radio. As soon as the cab door slammed shut the Captain was laying into someone at the other end of the radio in hushed angry tones.

After standing around in the chill pre-dawn for a while (Soap had napped again) they'd met up with the weirdly small observation team (a Captain and a Sergeant) - why they'd need an entire large personnel carrier Hicks had no idea - and been briefed on the layout and entry points. Sentries were expected in open windows on the first floor.

"Lets take them out first then" Hicks had contributed, imagining sneaking under windowsills and silently dealing with the sentries one at a time. The idea had not been well received.

'You and what ladder, sonny Jim' Price had snapped. Jeez. The windows weren't that high.

The mission officially began at 05.00. After an ammo check more involved than any other Hicks had ever done, as bad as the inter-team training days where everyone had to dry fire before loading with blanks, the captain reminded them of the strict briefing. 

'We are working on behalf of the police in this scenario. You do not have permission to take kill shots, live capture and incapacitation of this C.H.U.D. group only.' Oh thank God. Hicks had heard nothing back from his secret commander recently. He hoped desperately that they'd received his warning and were just unable to reply for some reason. After this, he'd have to follow the burn protocol he'd been taught and start reporting to his next memorised number. Another rank up the C.H.U.D. chain of command. 

Hicks stood to attention giving every sign of listening carefully, behind him, the others moved around checking gear on themselves and even on Hicks, he felt his holstered knife taken out and replaced. Gaz even prepared and ate some sort of protein shake. Hicks was annoyed that they didn't seem to be paying attention but when he turned to see what they were doing Price captured his attention again.

'Look sharp lad. You're part of Alpha team, with me and Sergeant Garrick, we're breaching from the back door. Meet in the middle with team Bravo, clear the downstairs while they hold the stairs.' He then addressed the rest of the team. 'When the downstairs is confirmed clear, Gaz you're on distraction duty while Bravo clears the upstairs. Got your abseiling rope? Good. I'm carer for the chancer. Any questions?'

Actually yes, Hicks thought -

'None? Good. Beat twenty one minutes and I'll stop at a greasy spoon for a fry-up. Right. Off we fuck.'

As Price led them closer to the site before the teams split, Hicks eyed the ivy covered farmhouse with its crumbling mortar. He whispered to Soap, "what're the odds the building falls apart when we go in?"

Soap looked carefully at the old stone farmhouse. It had probably once been part barn, or malthouse, the lights coming from the downstairs glowed warm gold, the painted green barn doors on the upper floor where barley had once been hoisted to sprout. Soap tilted his head slightly as he observed it, looking a little wistful. 'It's only a few hundred years old. Nae worry love.'

The Captain from the observation team met them a few hundred yards out, he was holding a stopwatch and looked on expectantly. They took their positions and Price signaled him.

After a tense period of running forward and hiding on command, they breached the building simultaneously with Bravo. Hicks had expected to break the door in but the doorjamb was already damaged, as though it had been broken and mended before. He stared, but Price simply put out a hand and opened it with the handle. 

Hicks' worst scores across the board was CQT. That's not to say that he was ashamed of them, in fact, he was quite proud as it was something he'd never actually been trained in. He'd been mocked by his family as a child for being the slow one, quite unfairly. There were things he picked up extremely quickly, track and field events for example, but as a result of being torn down he'd learned to keep quiet and mimic body language and behaviour. Often he didn't even know he was doing it until afterwards. He realised now that he was shadowing Gaz as they breached the back door and moved aside to cover him.

They had entered the house through the kitchen, wherein a man had his back to them showing off his t-shirt which said "Terrorist" on it in large letters. He was preoccupied with a bag of coffee beans and a french press.

Price kept his gun trained on the man while Gaz and Hicks crept forward to grab him, one high and one low and put him on the floor, arms twisted behind his back. The man had time for a curtailed squawk of alarm before Gaz shoved his face into his thigh.

'Sshhh man, we got you fair and square.'

Hicks looked up from where he was sat on the man's legs. Price had already moved to the door into the hallway, boots carefully silent on the red ceramic quarry tiles. 

There was a low crash from one of the other rooms then thick smoke wafted through the open doorway into the hall. Price and Gaz had gone through the only other door that wasn't an understairs pantry leaving Hicks to guard the hallway and check that for hidden hostiles as well. He'd already decided not to try anything funny and risk jeopardising his valuable position. From the living room, quiet voices floated out with the smoke.

'So much for stealth Sergeant'

It was answered by hushed angry gibberish. After a moment's silence the Scottish voice started up again, still riled but much more measured.

'Beige and pastel green, with a brown sofa. It's new and all, the tag's still on it from DFS. Someone's sat down and chosen this.'

'Your style isn't any better johnny.' Johnny? Hicks had read How to make Friends and Influence People, he'd be using that name ASAP.

'Yeah but that's an accumulation of quality items from freecycle.'

'And they say the Scots are cheapskates.' 

'Could be worse, I could've committed to a look at thirteen and never grown out of it.' That sounded incredibly pointed, was he talking about the Lieutenant? Hicks tried to remember what he'd thought was cool at thirteen, which was black t-shirts with skeletons riding motorcycles, and the skeletons were on fire[2].

He edged towards the door, any opportunity to listen to candid speech could bear fruit and the lieutenant was talking again in his low growl.

'Clean white for a kitchen never looks dated, and red and black features look dead smart.

'Aye of course, that's why the nazis picked it. Get a great big swastika flag too while we're at it. Bright white! Like a hospital. You want a disinfectant flavoured Airglade as well?' His voice became conciliatory 'What about a soft grey with deep greens or blues. Or vibrant red cabinets with pale yellow and white walls, light blue highlights? It would go with the granite countertops.'

Hicks heard nothing more because at this point Price came out of the room he'd been in and with silent hand signals directed Hicks and Gaz to move the kitchen prisoner to the living room. They picked him up between them and laid him on the beige couch next to the other prisoner. Soap was right. It truly was a hideous thing, low backed and blocky, too deep to sit back and keep your feet on the floor. The prisoners squirmed uncomfortably.

Hicks examined the faces before him, glad he didn't recognise either of them. He'd thought the C.H.U.D leadership wasn't recruited from military circles but these guys were totally built, and moved in a familiar way, the impression was amplified by the matching t-shirts and combat knickers tucked into their boots. Maybe C.H.U.D had left behind some invaluable members. Hicks sure hoped he was valuable enough to stick around, they'd promised him four walls, three meals a day and free healthcare for life whether he was successful or not. The irony struck him and he had to fight down a laugh. That's just what these guys were getting. Although, did British prisons have healthcare? Probably not. They certainly wouldn't if Hicks was in charge.

Looking around now, he noticed that the room, like the house in general was strangely empty, it made their footsteps echo strangely. There were prints from boots everywhere on the new looking beige carpet. There were pictures hanging on the pastel green walls but where one had fallen off, it sat on the floor, propped against the wall.

Price directed Gaz out through the back door and set Bravo team at the bottom of the stairs, then indicated that Hicks should search the prisoners while he trained his gun on them. Hicks did so, making two piles on the carpet out of their reach alongside the weapons they'd already been disarmed of. There was a quiet noise outside and up high, like maybe a chipmunk had got in to the roof.

Their radios clicked once and the captain gave the team at the bottom of the stairs a single nod. It was thrilling to see them move in tandem, stepping on the edges of the carpeted stairs as they silently ascended.

Above them, footsteps went from East to West, floor boards squeaking intermittently. There was a pause, a door creaking? The steps went South. Bravo team hunched below the cover of the banister, barely out of sight of the upper landing. Another set of steps followed the same route, then there was silence. He'd followed their route with his eyes on the ceiling, as though he could will himself to see through the plasterboard and beams.

When Hicks checked the top of the stairs again, both members of Bravo team were gone. The floorboards hadn't made a single sound. Did they fucking hover? 

Captain Price squatted next to the confiscated piles checking through them, Hicks blinked in surprise, he'd detected no trace of a Slavic accent from him. He thought those were the only people who could squat. The captain searched both prisoners again. People had the strangest reactions to stress, Hick's figured, because that sure sounded like one of them had giggled when Price checked his inner leg. Either way, Price forced him to remove whatever had crinkled from his underwear and added it to the pile. Another scrap of paper.

Above them there was a creak, two thuds in quick succession, and heavy footsteps, then another thud. Price ordered him upstairs where Hicks found Soap leaning over a prisoner in the south bedroom, the barn doors wide open, a rope hanging down from an external beam sticking out of the outside of the building. Soap waved him on, already searching through the man's pockets.

The small boxroom was empty, but the final door revealed the lieutenant, likewise squatting by a prisoner, knee firmly in his back. To his left was a hostage who Hicks was directed to cut loose. He leapt to obey, pulling out his knife, only to find it had been replaced with a Halloween prop.

'Ah' said Lieutenant Riley. 'Gaz thinks he's funny.' 

Hicks checked his pockets for his switchblade. It had also been replaced with a toy, this time a small rubber kitchen knife. He stared down at it, momentarily frozen. Should he reveal the secret blade he always wore strapped to his left inner calf? No. Keep it for later. Just in case.

He showed his CO the toy. "Guess I'll have to borrow one sir." Dark eyes behind the mask watched him thoughtfully.

Please, by all the saints, let it be the one strapped to his chest. It looked like a custom Bowie Hunter and Hicks had been dying to see it up close. Instead, the lieutenant handed him what might have been the smallest Swiss army knife ever made.

At least it was incredibly sharp, cutting through the thick cable ties to let the hostage sit forward and rub his wrists. Hicks marveled at the bizarre fashion choices today. He was literally wearing a t-shirt that said hostage on it, in big capital letters.

Soap came in, pushing his arrestee in front of him, rifle slung low on it's strap.

'Where's Gaz?' the lieutenant asked.

Soap grinned. 'These mad cunts thought they could eke out the mission a little more if one of them legged it. Jumped out the upstairs door and did a runner into the woods. Gaz'll have him by now. He's a nippy fuck, in' he?' He bounced on the balls of his feet as he spoke.

'Anyway I looked it up before we came, it's pure boggin' in there, literally. Great crested newts an' all. It's a SSSI!' He pronounced it triple ess eye which meant nothing to Hicks except maybe he'd once had an aunt who referred to it as something to do with disability payments. She'd been a bitter old hag[3]. Whatever.

They took the prisoners downstairs to the living room, the hostage led the way and sat between the two prisoners on the couch stretching out his hands and digging into the pocket of his knickers for a cigarette packet. Soap and lieutenant Riley directed their prisoners to sit against the wall, then they all squatted around the evidence piles until they'd satisfied some sort of checklist. Hicks tried to look busy elsewhere in case they asked him to join them.

He was saved from the awkward awareness of not matching by their radios crackling. Gaz had caught the final hostile. Price confirmed his receipt of the information and in the same sentence spoke to the observation team, clearly listening in on the same channel. 

After that everyone slowed down and relaxed, including those in "Terrorist" t-shirts. The hostage, ('call me Hobbs. Y'alright mate?') was downright chatty, nodding along in a friendly manner when the observation team captain joined them and explained that Hobbs would be returning to base in the same vehicle as them.

Gaz returned with a very bedraggled looking prisoner covered in stinking wet black mud who sat in the corner morosely. Apparently he'd chased him all the way through the woods and nearly out the other side. Hicks made a mental note never to try and outrun Gaz if he could run through an entire woodland in five minutes[4].

While they bagged the evidence into tamper proof bags, Captain Sachs from the observation term talked them through the proper procedure. He congratulated them on their technique, then he talked them through the transfer paperwork for the prisoners making the lieutenant and the sergeants all complete the forms, checking that they were correct afterwards.

Apparently their time had been 19:41 which Price was extremely pleased about.

On the ride back, a "greasy spoon" turned out to be a diner situated in someone's house. It was the end property of a terrace, the only sign that it served food aside from the literal sign proclaiming it to be "Kumar's Cob Shop" was the distinctive gingham curtains in the shop sized windows and the open door with beaded curtain. Inside the floor was tiled white and black, there were red seats fixed to the floor and formica tables and a sleek modern glass and stainless steel counter. A green and black sticker on the door, propped open read

"Food Standards Agency.

Food Hygeine Rating

0  1  2  3  4  5 ".

He paused looking at it. "Is five good?"

Soap pushed into the back of him 'Get on with you. Three is good. Five is excellent.'

He'd seen something similar in Georgia and thought it was a pretty good idea. The furniture was old but clean and he was reluctantly charmed into eating the brownest pile of fried meat and carbs he'd ever seen. Price had ordered the large full English for everyone, they must have come here often before because the staff didn't even ask how they'd like their eggs. Hicks had requested his over-easy to which the woman at the till had looked questioningly at the Union Jack flag on his sleeve then side eyed Price.

'They come scrambled and fried luv.'

He'd slunk back to their table where the hostage, Hobbs was asking Soap something.

'So what's with the dodgy bloke?'

Soap said. 'Sod off ye cheeky cunt. That's our new bessie mate. Quality geeza.' He looked to Hicks sideways and must have seen his blank incomprehension because he explained in a much more reasonable accent. 'The man wants a bit of a chat to calm his nerves. I'm doing an informal debrief.'

He returned his too intense gaze to Hobbs and the accent returned in full force. 'No seen ye in Donkeys. Hows the sprog?'

Hobbs rubbed his face in his hands. 'You have, you were just hammered, and he's well gobby, the little shite. Anyways I'm proper minging. Giz'a rag.' 

Soap said 'Here.' and handed over some napkins from the counter. 'Have a butcher's at 'im' his head twitched towards Hicks. 'Few sandwiches short of a picnic. Suits the fancy dress though.'

'Fancy dress?' He must have seen some explanation on Soap face. 'Ooooh!' Hobbs eyes went wide. 'Well he's cack-handed.' He rubbed the bruise from where Hicks had pulled on the ties to cut them. 'Dibs on the eventual.'

'We've got bagsies.' Soap answered. 'It'll be a doddle. Are ye getting the bevvies in the day? Your round with the plonk. I'll cover nosh.'

'No time to get lairy, I'm straight to Bedfordshire, thought this was meant to be a skive so I got trollied last night, I've had no proper kip for a fortnight and I'm proper cheesed off with this load a tosh.' He'd finished cleaning his face but continued to rub his eyes with the napkins. 'Sod's law I'm gettin' the lurgy now. Fuckin' naff op this was.'

'Ah, ye're tellin' porkies, ye'll be out on the lash in no time.' He offered the other a bottle of water. 'Council Pop?' 

Nah, cuppa might sort me though.' he said, watching the server bring a tray of mugs over. 'Giz'it 'ere duck' he addressed her, smiling beatifically as she passed around the mugs of tea and coffee. 

Soap necked most of his in giant gulps then returned his gaze to Hobbs. 'Alright?' His tone indicated their chat was coming to an end.

Hobbs' inhaled deeply from the steam, hands tight around the large mug. 'Hunky Dory.' Was that even English? Half of that conversation might as well have been in Greek. Hicks couldn't help himself.

"Where are you from Hobbs?" 

Thankfully Hobbs brought his accent back into understandable range to answer. 'I'm from Elswick but I live in Ouseburn Valley now.' Unfortunately the answer left Hicks none the wiser. Seeing this Hobbs added 'Why aye man, I'm a Geordie. Newcastle.'

Ok, he knew this one, that was somewhere in the North near Manchester but not in Scotland, he'd studied a UK map as part of his training. He wondered how the hostage and Lieutenant came from such close cities but had such different accents, they were only a couple of hundred miles from each other. Weird. 

The van pulled back in to the base by half ten and Hicks was given the rest of the day to himself. He left the others behind (Price had asked them for a quick word), planning to catch up on sleep.

He entered his barrack, dumping his kit bag on the trunk at the foot of his bunk. Hicks didn't remember leaving his bunk in such a mess before he left, although he did get dressed in the dark. He de-kitted; removing his remaining tactical gear, his clothes and the secret knife hidden on his inner calf. What the f-!? How had they managed to replace even this one with a rubber fake[5]? These guys sure committed to their practical jokes.

Hicks checked in his secret hiding spot for his phone in it's little Faraday cage envelope. He was so tired even the phone felt heavier than normal. It turned on sluggishly making Hicks sigh with annoyance, must have updated automatically with more bloatware at some point.

Despite his fatigue, now, with no one else around was the perfect time to make his report, but he was just so tired. He had two more numbers memorised, one of which was only for the worst emergencies, in fact C.H.U.D. command had made it clear that they'd only given him the number so that he could warn them of anything coming. 

Sensing that sleep was on the way, struggling to focus on the screen through his yawns, he typed out a quick introductory message and apologised in advance for how late his report on the takedown of the C.H.U.D. base raid would be.

[1] The Sun newspaper is aimed at right-leaning working class white men. Page three was a long running institution of softcore porn. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Page_3) 

[2] https://www.tumblr.com/yooo-lets-go It's not letting me link to the specific post for some reason but they are an excellent artist and extremely funny. This is the comic I am referring to. I consider this canon. 

[3] She was in Pain, Hicks!

[4] I want you to know that I measured the longest route through this wood, it was 582m (or 1989 ft) and nearly half of that was grassland. I used to survey woodlands. Some of the most ecologically important sites in the UK are tiny and our woodlands in general are miniscule. American national parks are amazing and Roosevelt was an absolute hero. The Brookley Warren Site of Special Scientific Interest is a real place btw, it measures 0.19 sq km (0.07 sq mi), measured on bing maps. It probably has some ancient woodland indicator species or rare beetles, no chipmunks though. Sorry Hicks.  

[5] It was during the slaps game. They also dry fired his gun when they replaced the ammo with blanks.