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Lacus Curtius / Lima Charlie

The Meadows of Asphodel looked especially hellish tonight. Above the rising palls of smoke, helicopter gunships by the dozen buzzed angrily, spitting fire onto our enemies below.

I ducked as a huge explosion rocked the pillar I was hiding behind, the stonework starting to give under the firepower of the last few minutes. I managed to pop up and have a look at the blasted courtyard we were fighting over.

Once a medium-sized villa, an airstrike had turned it into a large field of shattered masonry. We were trading fire with enemy shades on the other side, mostly World War 2 vets fiercely defending the location of the VIP. Around us, other units had pushed further but resistance was heavy within half a kilometre of the target.

I spotted movement, multiple enemies displacing. I traced their movement with the M27, the bark of automatic fire lost in another apocalyptic explosion on the horizon. They stumbled, one falling, and I popped back down to reload.

One way or another, we’d get our President back.

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