The Major and The Rival [STW Short Story]

FortniteBattleRoyale4 - The Major and The Rival [STW Short Story]

Jonesy isn't really a character in the STW story, so I gave him and the Major a backstory, along with "Stoneheart" Farrah.

The Major was out in the firing range, working on improving his aim with his impairment. Blam. Blam. Tink! Ugh. How could he miss those first two shots towards that can? He grumbled silently, walking over to go pick the fallen can from off of the ground, bending over before noticing booted footsteps stepping behind him. "Announce your presence, soldier!" the man immediately yelled out, standing at attention in a moment's notice and turning to the figure, raising his rifle slightly. "You really never calmed down, did you?" Ah, for Christ's sake. The Major's expression soured even more as he realized who he was. About the same height as him, with the same muscular build, albeit the Major was a bit thinner, Jonesy stood there, pulling his golden-blonde hair back with one hand as he held an M16 in the other.

Standing in a barrack, wrapping a bandage around his left hand from an earlier wound in the battlefield, a younger Major, hair shorter and beard trimmed, with brown-bear colored hair, speckled with a few grays and whites. He slowly took a seat, wincing in pain as the wound sharpened in intensity for a moment before settling down. As his nickname suggested, he was a Major at the time, having only been in the military five years- a wonderful feat for others, but not so for him. His last name, shown on a patch on his uniform's jacket (which was neatly hung up on a coatrack by the entrance) was Mitchells. Just as he finished wrapping the bandage, tying it tight as he could, the door opened, to which he turned his head quickly, always attentive. It was a Sergeant, identified by his patch as "Jones." The man took a seat on a bed across from the Major, not paying attention to him as he got to work on customizing his M16- so far, he had only gotten a third done with painting a white skull on the side above the magazine.
"Sergeant Jones," the Major suddenly called out, keeping his gaze on the man and narrowing his eyes slightly, looking into his. Jones looked up from his rifle, a small grin growing on his face as he realized who was talking to him. He stood up, neatly putting a hand out. The man was about as well-built as the Major, though a bit thinner and less muscular. Still suspicious, he stood up as well, shaking the Sergeant's hand and putting both of his hands behind his back, tightly grabbing ahold of each other. Jones shook his head with a smile, in a bout of disbelief. "Well, well! If it isn't the legendary Major Mitchells himself, my bunkmate! Your work in the Middle East is mythical where I come from, sir!" Was he just trying to flatter him? Hmph. Nonetheless, the Major gave him a hardened smile and a nod. Skipping the question, he asked, "How long've you been in, son? We pulled out of the Middle East quite a bit ago, back in 2023," a smirk giving way as he remembered his old war days. The Sergeant gave a small laugh, putting his hands on his hips as he shook his head softly. "Only a year, sir. Hoping to make it much longer." A year and Sergeant, huh? Quite reminded the Major of himself. He gave him a strong pat on the shoulder, keeping his hand there and his grip tight. "Well done, son. With that type'a work force, I'm sure you'll be going places."

An alarm blared across Fort Danika, the military base in North Carolina where Jones and the Major were stationed. Over the P.A, a somewhat-panicked woman began to talk: "All hands on deck! Ultranationalist forces have attacked the coast of South Carolina! All troops are ordered to pack up and get moving within the next ten minutes!" The phone for the P.A clicked neatly against its handle, and the two stood up hurriedly, both going for their belongings. "You ready for a real battle, son?" the grizzled man yelled over the siren as he collected his items, digging through his duffle bag and making sure he had everything. For a simple response, Jones just yelled a "Yeah!" back to him, taking his bag and strapping the M16, now affectionately named "Rebecca" with a dog-tag around its barrel, over his shoulder and running out, the Major following after. Quite quickly, they reached a transport truck, hopping into the bag and sitting hastily among other soldiers, all geared for battle.

It was quite brutal on both sides, the ultranationalists having taken over a large portion of land in Charleston and advancing into Berkeley. The two's infantry division had taken back an area in northern Charleston, defending the spot from the rubble of a hardware store, fortified with sandbags and whatever items they could find from the remains of the store. Peaking over cover for a moment, the Major shot twice with his SCAR-H rifle, eliminating two ultranationalists before covering himself once more. Jones peaked as well, firing three shots and only hitting one. "Call me a sharpshooter!" Mitchells laughed slightly as he stood up, hitting two headshots on another two targets. Back in cover, he took out his radio, speaking into it as well as to his group. "This is the Major- we're about to advance about twenty meters under my command!" Motioning for his group to follow him, he reloaded his magazine once more before standing up and moving forwards, taking out any targets that were out in the open. They moved quickly and strategically, taking cover whenever they could and firing at those that weren't.


In a flash of red, the Major, along with a large portion of his group, was launched backwards from an explosion. The ultranationalists had gathered enough time to set up a mortar. The grizzled soldier yelled out in anguish, clutching his chest momentarily, noticing blood pulling up under his chest's vest. Jones was left unaffected, behind cover on the other side of the battlefield as he watched in horror. The Hell had just happened? With a shake of the head, he took advantage of their targetting of the wounded soldiers, shooting all of those that peaked out and taking out eleven of their soldiers. Counting in his head, Jones realized they had a short force- only about twenty five left. He radioed in to tell his group: "This is Sergeant Jones! Looks like we've got about twenty-five, team. I'm going ahead." The Major nodded towards Jones, standing up and running as fast as he could to a shooting position, eliminating another five soldiers. Looking back, he came to a horrifying realization. The rest of his platoon was dead from the mortar blast.

Another one came hurling towards him, and he just barely managed to move past it, rolling forth and ducking behind a burning car shell. Looking through the window, he saw the two-man team operating the mortar, carelessly loading the shells into it and firing indiscriminately. He knew what he had to do, and what it would cost- but Mitchells didn't care. All he wanted was for them to regain the area, at any cost. Without any warning to his team, the Major ran forth, firing his rifle as he ran, hitting all of his shots on those that shot towards him and amassing another four kills. Reaching the mortar's position, he shot and killed one of the team before the other pushed the SCAR out of his hands. The soldier shot towards the Major, who instinctively dodged and weaved, punching the man in the face before being kicked in the chest. He went to go pick his pistol back up before Mitchells tackled him, the two participating in a wrestling match for dominance. Being a strong man, the Major easily gained his position on the top, elbowing the man in-between the eyes and holding his neck tight in his right hand, raising his left hand as to punch him. "Die in honor, soldier! Tell me your last words." The dying soldier laughed for a moment, moving his hand quickly as to not give the Major any time to react and pulling out a combat knife, slicing his right hand clean off.

Crying out in anguish, the Major punched him once more across the face with his left hand before unloading a flurry. In the end, all that remained was a bruised and bloodied mess, blood slowly pooling behind the man's head. However, what he wanted was done; Mitchells fell backwards, flipping over onto his chest as to grip better and started crawling with his left hand weakly towards his radio. Everything was starting to get slower and slower, barely able to make it, and the Major reached towards his radio..

..only to have it kicked away by Jones, uninjured and holding his M16.

"I never did like you myself, old man," he scoffed, kicking Mitchells across the face and wounding him even more than he already was. A cough came from him, his consciousness slowly fading away as the Sergeant squatted down, grinning evilly as he tapped his peer on the head. "I better get going. Just took out several of 'em- can't wait for my reward. At least you'll get your Purple Heart posthumously." All that the Major could muster up was a grumble before Jones laughed once more, sprinting off to an enemy transport that he planned to take back to his base, coming up with a story that the Major was killed in front of him. He knew he had been beat- with no hand, and an explosive wound in his chest, the Major was sure to die soon. Yet.. he didn't want to give up. No matter what, he told himself, he would punch Death in the face with his one hand and get back up. Farrah sure was gonna need to do a lot of work, he laughed in his head, too weak to laugh externally. That combat medic sure was a special gal- perhaps he should ask her to dance sometime. That was, well, if he made it out alive.

Just barely managing to hold out for around an hour, he heard a familiar sound- a Jeep driving through, looking for any survivors. He coughed up a bit of blood, wiping his mouth barely, trying to use his hand to move his body towards the car. It wasn't needed, though, as the people inside noticed him, instantly recognizing him and hurriedly grabbing a stretcher. From there on, he returned home safely, back to his base and touched up by Farrah.

"You really screwed up this time, didn't you, Major?" her voice spoke from inside the office, door closed as she checked up on him. The door had a plaque simply reading "Hart," and a tiny sign hanging off of the handle that read "come back later." She held her hand to her chin, looking his injured self up and down as she thought about what to do. Farrah grabbed her clipboard, reading over a previous analysis she had written about his conditions, then back to him. "We'll patch up that stub ya got, but we're afraid we have no pros-" "I won't need one." Astonished, she looked to the Major, leaning up with a determined look in his eye as he stared towards her. "B-but your hand! Don't you realize-?" "I'll make it. Just patch it up." Sigh. What a strong man, she thought to herself, shaking her head in denial of what she had just thought up. "I'll bandage it up. As for that hole in your chest, well, we'll extract the shrapnel and make sure that's cleared up as well." Going over to her cabinet, she opened it up, digging inside and looking for any materials she'd need. "Thanks, doc. I could always count on you." Pausing in her search for a moment, she called back from inside of the cabinet, "Call me Farrah." The Major nodded to himself, mumbling, "Call her Farrah," smiling before he lost consciousness once more.

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