A Day Of Infamy - A short story of SCP-705
rating: +59+x

The field marshal peered through his binoculars at the soon-to-be battlefield laid out before him. His epaulets gleamed in the warm light, a soft breeze tickling his well groomed moustache as he surveyed the advance of two infantry companies below him. His scouting teams had chosen an ideal location, so perfectly situated that he could observe the men creeping towards their rally points, the armor waiting behind them for the breakthrough, and the artillery regiments prepping their tubes for firing. He had waited a lifetime for this exact moment, had been born for it, had lived and wanted it every waking minute of his life. This was the sole purpose of his existence, and he was destined to fulfill it.

Each man, from the marshal to the lowliest private, knew his own role in the grand show to come, operating like a well-trained orchestra about to perform a musical masterpiece for the first time. With the marshal’s simple nod to a nearby lieutenant, radios summoned the fire of dozens of heavy guns, pulverizing today’s target with deadly precision, raining untold destruction upon the unfortunate inhabitants. The muzzles roared and belched great tongues of fire, heaving the earth and splitting the air like thunder on this cloudless day, signaling the beginning of their beautiful, deadly performance.

The din of the heavy guns soon subsided, and was replaced by the guttural screams of his infantry companies surging from their rally points, giving battle to the enemy. They ran headlong, bayonets fixed against an already broken foe, screaming their curses and battle cries as they reached the first defensive lines and tore into the enemy defenders. The ramparts ran awash with blood of the fallen, shining in the light and adding a surreal kind of beauty to the carnage. One by one the defenders collapsed to the weight of the attack, and at last victory was theirs. A tear crept from the marshal’s eye as his men erected a green clay flag atop the brewer, having finally wrested the coffee machine from enemy hands. Mr. Coffee would taunt them no longer.

Their moment of glory was not to last, however. A great shadow abruptly swept over them, sparking fears of an air attack in the Marshal’s subconscious, but he soon realized it was far worse than that: their plans had been compromised-some defeatist traitor had leaked his intentions to the overlords and now they had come for retribution. He barked at his lieutenant to raise the company commanders, but communications were severed when a giant fist left the hastily established forward CP as nothing more than a sorry green smear across the desk. Their only chance at salvation was in a swift and desperate counterattack. Mechanized behemoths (to them, at least) creaked into action, their guns spitting forth a torrent of green fire and smoke that lifted morale until the shells bounced harmlessly from the giantess’s white armor plate. Her gaze turned with annoyance to the advancing armored columns, followed by a cruel backhand that sent men and machine careening to a linoleum deathbed far below.

Their spirits shattered, his men began a frantic withdrawal from the coffee pot, abandoning defensive lines they had just seized no more than ten minutes ago. Some threw down their weapons in a futile attempt to surrender to this unholy queen of the battlefield, only to be flattened like pancakes beneath her clipboard. His binoculars trembled in horror as she deftly plucked the green flag from atop the coffee machine and flicked it nonchalantly into the fleeing mass of soldiers, laughing as their resistance melted before her. The terrified screaming of what was formerly a proud army reached his ears as he lowered himself to the ground and wept.

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