Brand Story

Session 2.1 A Midnight Assignment Trainers in boot camps loved taking roll calls during wee hours, dragging new recruits from their beds for a surprise drill, either to prepare them to face future emergencies, drill discipline into them, or just for a laugh. In reality, all reasons and justifications behind what one would perceive as injustice were of little significance, for the golden rule in the army was for soldiers to obey the commands of their officers at all times. When the sergeant’s whistle pierced the darkness, it was barely the crack of dawn. Despite the gloom, the recruits left their bunks and assembled without a hassle. The Soil Ghost’s last ambush had occurred a week ago. Two soldiers with minor injuries were back to work, but only three new recruits had reported from the reserve. The team was still short-handed. Although Damien saw his teammates joking around as usual, a sense of discomfort hung in the air. Even Petar’s usual “I don’t give a damn” big city arrogance seemed like an obvious attempt to avoid a point of contention. No one mentioned the incident after coming back from the pub, nor were those who had left spoken of. Damien was nonetheless certain that the same thoughts troubled everyone when the sergeant blew the whistle. He could tell from the expressions on their faces. “Who’ll be the unlucky one this time? Will this be my final mission?” A sudden roll call was never a good sign. “Damn Soil Ghosts! Couldn’t they wait till after sunrise?” A replacement recruit tried to lighten the mood, but no one responded. Not even Petar could fashion a sarcastic comeback. After mumbling something incoherent, the newcomer fell silent. Damien felt bad for the guy, he had no idea what had happened to the team. The kid reminded Damien of his first day in the field. All newcomers knew anxiety, being well aware that their lives could be at risk, but to experience the battle first hand, to watch your comrades fall one after another, their still-warm corpses slipped into bags and carried away, was a whole different matter. The illusion of heroic sacrifices shattered to millions of pieces in an instant. Death transformed into a tangible reality, which descended unannounced and then became just another number on a chart. The shadows of the dead lingered above those who survived, refusing to let go. “Where’s Bob?” Sergeant Han had noticed that a member was missing. Before he could finish his question, the veteran showed up. “Sorry sir. My legs are acting up.” This was the very first time that Bob had ever reported late. It made Damien worry about his health. He feared that Sergeant Han might grab the chance to hand out a punishment to Bob. Much to Damien’s surprise, Han only fixed Bob with a stare. Without further ado, Han commanded the team to depart, informing them nothing about the mission but a location. The soldiers put on their masks and jumped onto their jeeps, setting out in the dark, rainy morning. “Where are we going?” inquired another replacement recruit. “The suburbs beyond Zamaii,” Damien replied in a low voice, making everyone uneasy, for the area lay adjacent to the border. The newcomer was far from satisfied. His true inquiry was about what the mission entailed, which was a question everybody was keeping to themselves. “Is this normal?” Damien was not sure if the novice was complaining about the lack of knowledge about the midnight mission or the team’s hostility towards a newcomer . Either way, it was unusual, but Damien had already lost the sense of normalcy after a short while in the army. Yet, no one acknowledged the newcomer. His frustrated voice echoed through the intercom. “Guys, you may see me and my people as no different from the Soil Ghosts, or a bunch of dirty refugees, but I was a high school teacher in my hometown. Can’t we at least be civil with each other?” Everybody looked more or less the same in their military uniforms. Only his heavy accent distinguished him as a foreigner. But even if he kept his mouth shut, his teammates could tell that he was an outsider. People from another country always felt different. The land of Agurts was among the few less-polluted lands after “The Gray Summer.” It soon became a paradise for refugees wishing to escape the wars in their own countries. Damien, born and raised in Agurts, knew too well that this serene paradise  only existed in the outsiders’ heads. Pollution was a global disaster, and Agurts had not been spared of its consequences. The singing of birds and bloom of flowers in the clean fresh air was a thing of the distant past—it existed only in old photographs. Nonetheless, refugees flocked to Agurts like bees to a honeycomb. Agurts was once an agricultural country dependent on human labor, but with the advancement of machines, manpower was better employed in the army. As Omanga expanded their military forces, Agurts needed to maintain a relatively large army as well. In addition to drafting their nationals, former president Aldaman launched a scheme to encourage the refugees to join the military in exchange for citizenship. The latter were usually assigned the most dangerous and undesirable posts, but the sea of homeless refugees were more than eager to oblige. This foreign replacement recruit in front of Damien was one example. “Are you kidding me? What did you expect? Can you define ‘normal’ in less than a hundred words, teacher?” Petar could not help but tease. Others sniggered. Starting a dispute about refugees at this time was by no means a wise move. Noticing his clenched fist, Damien suspected the teacher’s face had turned red with fury under his mask. “Take it easy. No one gives a damn about your stupid accent. All we care about is the enemies coming our way,” another team member commented calmly. A long silence followed. The foreigner finally gauged the tension.

Session 1.3 Jazz Blues Although the jukebox was playing at the maximum volume, the chatter still drowned out the music. Damien found all the clamor extremely irritating. He tried to find a corner away from the crowd, but it did not really make any difference. He regretted coming. Perhaps he should get a ‘hideout’ like Bob, Damien thought to himself. He knew that Bob always hung around a derelict house near the barracks. It was kind of like the old man’s personal quarters. He would nap there whenever they were off duty. However, it was quite surprising to see the solitary veteran not only come to the bar today, but even chatting with a barmaid in the opposite corner. This roused Damien’s attention, since Bob was one who would brush off any girl and drink on his own on his rare visits to the bar. All the noise gave Damien a headache. He did not want to be at the bar at all. But, he did not dare to turn down his team’s invitation to celebrate at the bar. Even though he was not quite fond of socializing, he knew that it would not be a good idea to be very antisocial in situations like these. On this particular night, however, watching the drunken antics of his companions in this crowded bar would have been more bearable than being alone in the barracks. He actually needed a drink. Damien forcibly gulped down a mouthful of beer. Every time he closed his eyes, the splutter of crimson in the rain would appear in his mind. The image of the bloodshot gaze of the Soil Ghost was fixed in his mind – he was a murderer. No, that could not be right! That Soil Ghost was wearing a skeletal mask, and their encounter only lasted a few seconds at most. Moreover, there was the rain and the mists, there was no way that Damien could have seen those accusing eyes so vividly. It must have been just his imagination. Those eyes looked as if they belonged to a vole. Damien recalled the first time that his father took him vole hunting on the farm – it was the first time that he had killed a living, breathing animal. When the animal was dead, its soft, warm fur gradually turned ice cold in his hands, while its beady, black eyes stared at him, as if saying, “All I wanted was to fill my stomach. Why did you have to kill me? Don’t you want the same thing?” No, the Soil Ghosts were much more vicious than voles. They were deformed lunatics; bandits who seized the fruits of the industrious labor of citizens. The posters that were plastered on the walls were a constant reminder of that and a warning for all to remember. Damien tried to convince himself to not let his emotions get the better of him. He was a soldier now, and not a child. It was his duty to kill the enemy. He had just begun his service in the military – this was only the first of many to come… But it was a person, not a vole. “Cheers to being alive! This round’s on me!” Petar bellowed as he jumped onto the table, raising his glass. His youthful, freckled face was flushed right down to his neck – he was thoroughly drunk. What about the dead? Damien pondered immediately. He understood that everyone was relieved about making it back in one piece. But, turning this goddamned incident into a celebration? He just couldn’t fathom it. All of them obliviously fell into the trap set out by the Soil Ghosts and retreated with their tails in between their legs. Three people died, while two of the four who sustained injuries were so severely wounded that they were immediately relieved from frontline duties… Despite being just a new recruit, even Damien understood that it was a humiliating defeat for them. He could not understand how the others thought that the incident was a courageous victory over the Soil Ghosts? The members of Damien’s squad were showing off in front of the other new recruits, claiming that they trounced the Soil Ghosts and pressured those freaks into retreat. Now that they were in the bar, there was no need to wear gas masks. Not only did they reveal their relieved expressions, they also revealed their naivety. Being dejected, Damien downed another mouthful to prevent himself from blurting out the truth. The truth was that they were the greenest of all rookies; they all had forgotten about their training the moment the shit got real. A red-haired barmaid in a sleeveless dress approached Damien when she saw his that his glass was empty. “Hey handsome, we’ve got a remedy to fix that frown of yours. Want another?” she offered while flashing Damien a flirty smile. Hardly anybody lived in Zamaii anymore. It only had a tiny market that provided the soldiers from the barracks and transiting drivers with the bare necessities. The restaurants and bars made the most money, because anything that tasted remotely like food was better than the military rations that they got to eat. Alcohol, needless to say, had priority over everything else. The owners and the employees of these businesses made up the majority of the civilian population of the town. The bar was staffed entirely by women. Naturally, this was only a ploy to coax the soldiers into drinking more. The shop opposite the bar provided more “direct” services. Girls who wanted to make more money would work there instead. Consequently, the barmaids did not flaunt their “assets” excessively. All they had to do was learn to say the right things to comfort the wounded souls in order to earn some decent tips. Damien put the money for his booze and a small tip on the table. The barmaid took it with a beaming smile and poured some muddy beer into his glass. In outskirts, such

Session 1.2 The First Battle Zamaii was a town situated along the northern border of Agurts. Considering the state that Zamaii was in, perhaps the word “ruins” would be more befitting than “town”. Prior to the World Wars, Zamaii had been a prosperous town, renowned for its timber and textiles. However, the endless conflicts reduced everything to rubble. Although a few drains could occasionally be found along the roads, the original underground drainage system had long been destroyed by demolitions. To add to that, heavy downpours caused serious flooding everywhere, and a month of ceaseless torrential storms made things worse. The deluge of sewage transformed the road into a muddy yellow river. Three jeeps sped past, with a Speeder MK1 in the middle of the group. It was the sergeant’s personal vehicle – a transformable high-speed SA. The eleven other soldiers were crammed into the jeeps. They jostled about as the vehicles jounced wildly while passing over uneven potholes in the muddy river road. To ensure a clear line of sight, they forcibly pulled down the canopies of their jeeps and let the rain pour down on them. Damien, being drenched like the others, clutched his rifle tightly and tried to remain calm. Their squad had been repeatedly carrying out monotonous patrol and guard duties every single day for the past month. Although Damien had complained to Bob about it, he knew that they were as lucky as if they had been winning the lottery for days in a row. However, their luck was not meant to last forever. A moment ago, they had received a distress signal from a truck which had crossed a checkpoint just twenty minutes before. Damien’s squad had been the closest to the distress signal, and that was why they were racing there right now. Their mission, of course, was to save the truck that was under assault and ensure the safety of its contents. However, every soldier in the jeep were probably praying that they would only find the driver’s body in the muddy water when they arrived. If that was not the case, it would mean that they had to engage the Soil Ghosts in combat. It also meant that new recruits like Damien, who were directly dispatched to this outpost from the training camp, would be facing the enemy head-on for the first time. “I’m betting twenty dollars on Adam.” “Fifty on Petar.” “Hey! What about you, hick?” Damien felt a sudden shove. He had not been paying attention to what the others were talking about. Sometimes, the rustling sound of the rain and the drone of the car engine was so loud that even the transmissions coming through inside the gas mask were inaudible. “Jesus! He doesn’t even know what we’re talking about!” “Adam and Petar are having a wager on who will kill a Soil Ghost first.” “Do you really think Petar will beat me to it? He is always second in the races,” boasted Adam. The soldiers in the jeep behind gave a thumbs-down gesture. “Really? Well, someone can’t even remember the steps of assembling a gun in the correct order. Hick, you remember how he almost killed himself last time too, right?” Adam and Petar both hailed from wealthy city states, and they were the ones who bragged the most. However, had their parents been truly wealthy, they could have made arrangements for their sons to be sent to inland supporting units. They would have been able to stay out of harm’s way there for five years and complete their compulsory military service. Their parents might have had decent white-collar jobs in the capital, and they probably lived in a clean and well-lit house. They might have even drank coffee. But, despite all that, they did not have enough power or money to save their sons from being dispatched to the front lines. Despite having riches which they could brag about, they still ended up there, drenched together with Damien. When this thought had crossed his mind, Damien decided that he could do better than deal with them. “I don’t have any spare money for bets,” said Damien, not wanting to be involved in these petty ego trips. “Oh yes, you do! You can scrub our boots if you lose.” “You guys have it all wrong. He thinks he’s better than us. Soil Ghosts don’t even come close to the voles he’s used to shooting in the farms.” Everybody laughed except Bob. The old man, seated in front of Damien, kept looking outside the entire time. “Come on, tell us. Are you Jack or Steel?” The soldiers continued to mock Damien, simply because he was always talking to Bob. There was a squad of legendary elite soldiers in the Agurts military – the Bucks Team. The founder and commander of that group had been hailed as a legend even before the formation of the team. He had four equally renowned lieutenants – King, Jack, Argus, and Steel – all of whom had demonstrated numerous acts of valor in countless battles. However, no one really knew what they looked like or who they actually were – the identities of the members of the Bucks Team were kept strictly confidential. Some people even claimed that those four names were just aliases. The only name that people knew of was “Bob”, the Bucks Team’s legendary commander. While the legends surrounding the man were quite well-known, the people’s actual knowledge of him was limited to this very common name, which too was doubted by many as to whether it was his actual name in the first place. Before Damien was conscripted, the biggest news in Agurts was of this mythical commander, who had saved the nation multiple times, committed treason, and had even been caught misappropriating military firearms. He had been stripped of his ranks by the new president as a result of his irresponsible acts. That bizarre incident became the main topic of discussion for the months that followed. To

Session 1.1 The Taste of Coffee Lush green bushes strewn with strings of red fruit, arranged in rows inside an arched greenhouse. Although Damien had never seen a real coffee tree before, he assumed that the picture on the sticker was that of a coffee plantation, since the cargo was labelled “GDG Coffee”. Actually, the colors on the sticker had faded. Damien, being homesick, must have only imagined those long forgotten colors from his farmstead. Everything here was gray. He picked up the sticker, which had fallen onto the ground, and tried to put it back on the crate. But, it would no longer stick. He would’ve tried harder to paste it had he not heard the driver’s impatient goading. So, he simply stuffed the sticker into his pocket. “Check complete. Everything’s fine!” Damien reported as usual. As he jumped off the truck, he was once again facing the heavy downpour that had been prevailing for days. It almost felt as if he was standing under a waterfall. The rain pelted down like bullets on his helmet and military uniform. It seemed that the world was bent on crushing them with rain. “Let them through!” Upon the sergeant’s order, the convoy passed through the checkpoint and headed for the Agurts border, while Damien returned to his post. The chugging of the engines faded away slowly into the background, but the annoying, rustling sound of the rain remained. These torrential storms had been persisting for an entire month now. From what Damien could recall, it had been raining already on his first day of being dispatched to Zamaii from the training camp—it had never stopped since. The sky remained the same grayish-black no matter the time of the day, making it impossible to tell day from night. Nonetheless, the number of trucks passing through did not diminish despite the downpour. The same was true of the number of Soil Ghosts who encroached on the border. The only thing that the heavy rains were successful at was in making the members of the patrol unit stationed there complain for days on end. Damien sat down against a dilapidated wall beside another soldier. The wall might have belonged to someone’s bedroom or kitchen. It could even have been a church. All that was left now was a fragmented brick wall, which somehow miraculously survived the bombings. Everything else had vanished long ago, and the acid rain washed away any distinctive features which might have provided clues as to what this place used to be. People like Damien, who were born after the Gray Summer, found it hard to believe how others before them had referred to the water droplets that descended from the skies as “nectar”. Nowadays, the acid rains that fell from the gray clouds destroyed much of the environment, leaving behind layers of smog. The long-term inhalation of this smog would result in damage to the cardiovascular and respiratory systems of living beings. They also had that foul smell which the metals give off when they erode. Through his gas mask, Damien could still detect a vile stench—Isn’t it smelling more intense than usual? “I think I smell something strange,” he murmured, adjusting his mask in apprehension. “Didn’t your training instructor teach you anything about light gas masks?” grunted the soldier next to him, “They should only be used as an emergency measure when the readings drop below 2.2.” Damien grew more uneasy by the second. He hesitated over whether he should take off his mask and replace the filter. “Then should we… erm… should we remind the sergeant to distribute combat respirators?” “You could try.” Not getting what the old soldier meant, Damien tuned his radio to the squad channel. The sergeant was just there on the other side of the jeep. But in the environment they were in, one always had to use the radio unless the person one wanted to talk to was right next to you. “Captain, the current EHI (Environmental Hazard Index) reading is 2.1, I think we should change our masks…” Damien voiced his concerns with a serious tone. “Oh! Well done, newbie! Looks like you know how to look after the squad better than I do,” sneered the captain, “Boys, be sure to hand over your masks to this germophobe at the end of today’s shift. Pansy’s volunteered to clean them tonight.” Sneering and laughter from other squad members tittered through the channel before the transmission ended abruptly. “There are never enough gas masks… Or even filters for that matter. The army would never issue quality gas masks to low-ranking soldiers. Forget it,” said the old soldier flatly. Damien’s shoulders sagged in disappointment as he came to realize that he had it coming. He only wondered why the old soldier let him fall into the trap despite knowing what would happen. “Don’t worry, kid. Your mask will just make it to the end of the shift,” the seasoned soldier promised as he patted Damien’s shoulder. “These masks are worn-out, but there’s a way to make the filter last longer. I’ll show you when we clean up.” Damien was grateful. It turned out that the old man was using the opportunity to teach him about life in the camp. Each soldier in the camp looked the same in their masks and military uniforms. Their standard-issue equipment almost erased their identity, making it hard for one to recognize the other. Damien could not see that the soldier in front of him was an old man, whose hair and beard had already turned white. Bob was indeed an experienced veteran, one who willingly taught others the practical skills that could not be learned in the training camps. Damien was not liked by others in his squad and were alienated by them. Even the sergeant was not very fond of him. So, he really enjoyed chatting with his new friend. Their chat was suddenly interrupted by shouting and the sound of gunshots that erupted nearby. Damien nervously

The sandstorm subsided into the night without a single notice. Faint starlight could be seen amidst the different hues of gray in the sky. Bang! The explosion was especially loud in the dead of the night, the echo travelled great distances, but even then, the boundless desert engulfed all of it. The rattle of gunshots, the screaming, the light signals, along with any hope of survival; they were all consumed by an abyss of nothingness. “Tai Mi Pali!” He heard a raspy voice amongst the screams, followed by a few rounds of gunfire, and everything fell into silence. The only sound that remained was the violent beating of his heart. He knelt on the sand with his hands behind his head. Ten minutes must have passed. Reluctant to lay eyes on the corpses of his companions any longer, he looked up at the skies. At this instant, he caught a glimpse of the long forgotten stars. He could not help but think that this may be some kind of omen. He was merely an ordinary merchant trying to make a living. He has been traversing the desert for over a decade, risking every kind of danger in order to provide for his wife and children. Even though he sold overpriced or fake goods on the odd occasion, he had remained a good person at heart. At least he had never harmed another soul while trying to survive in this cruel world. “Tai Mi Pali!” The bandit, wrapped in thick layers of tattered clothing, growled and pointed his rifle at the merchant’s head. Bumps protruded from his swollen calves as if a sack of potatoes were stuffed inside his pants – a Soil Ghost, he and his kind hail from a nation, cursed by nuclear radiation, leading to congenital limb deformities in all newborns. “Damned desert bandits! As if money and goods were not enough, they have recently begun taking lives too. Those deformities must be spreading to their brains!” The merchant thought as he seethed in fear and rage. The barrel of the rifle pressed against the merchant’s forehead. Dark clouds once again consumed the stars in the sky. In this Acid Rain World, even the rain-deprived deserts are covered by clouds laden with nuclear fallout at higher altitudes. Being able to catch a glimpse of the stars before his death was perhaps a good sign. Maybe this meant that he could go to heaven, if such a place indeed existed. The merchant closed his eyes and accepted his inevitable fate. Gunfire suddenly erupted again, but, this time, the source was unexpectedly distant. It sounded like the thundering of heavy machine gunfire. The merchant opened his eyes and saw the Soil Ghosts rushing to their jeeps while returning fire. A strange low-frequency sound closed in amidst the machine gunfire. The merchant put his hands on the back of his head and dove into the sand. Large quantities of sand blew from the direction of the gunfire, causing a mini whirling sandstorm. Something monstrous was approaching fast. More gunshots were fired in the flurry of sand, but the sound of the ensuing gunfire soon dissipated as the rumbling of the jeeps grew increasingly distant. The merchant was pulled out of the sand abruptly by a metal arm. He could feel the cold touch of metal digits on the side of the soldier’s arm, before being abruptly dragged out of the sand. “One survivor found. Over.” “Roger. The Soil Ghosts have retreated to the southwest. RTB. Out.” A soldier equipped with the Omanga Empire’s multi-armored suit and automatic rifle stood in front of a military hovercraft. Their presence felt ever so towering and dependable to the merchant. The trembling merchant stood up and grasped onto the orange prosthetic arm of his savior, expressing his gratitude with tears streaming down his face. He was the sole survivor, the only person in the entire company of merchants and mercenaries to have survived in this infernal world. This incident marked the eighth time this month that the Soil Ghosts engaged in open combat.   Original Story : Kit Lau Author : Perl Grey Translator : Johnny Ko