Even If You Hate the Military, the Military Likes You - Stop Loss (Part 1)
Any human properly belonging to society ought to procure their own damn food. As the long winter's end finally approached, the patient recovering from full-body muscle tears staggered along.
"Ah, why the hell does a guy with just two months left till discharge and one month till his next leave get dragged into this bullshit?"
Kim Chomo, the young man whose ability was mockingly called Plant Plunder rather than its official name, was no exception.
"Ah, aren't you bitching even though you got work duty snatched away thanks to your short time left? I'm doing this and then pulling night patrol at dawn, fuck."
"Dude, sharing a military number and language with your sky-like father-in-arms, and your mouth looks that fucked up for real?"
It was a pathetic display of military discipline, with a private hurling double curses at the top senior among the platoon grunts. But...
'Good thing the dimensional gate buried it. Gun rampage in a frontline unit? Start an investigation right now!'
'You wanna see me blocked from promotion?! Come line up under me one more time?! The minister said our division...'
This was an era when military normalization was underway, amid the swirling vortex of social issues.1
In a group where you had to peel garlic with telekinesis if the brass ordered it at night, the grunts were naturally the easiest targets.
"Who told you to enlist late and stick around longer? You should've taken leave after a year and come straight back."
"Ah, fuck. Should've beaten the shit out of more people back in society... Kicking him when I was drunk wasn't enough."
"What? That was you who left a footprint on my ass the day after finals?!"
Plus, they were born in the same region, went to the same high school, entered the same university and department, and ended up in the same unit.
What could you do? If you had no intention of staking your life here forever, better to vent privately than lose a friend.
Suddenly, the convenience store owner's scowling face flashed in Kim Chomo's mind—the guy who'd lectured him that 'the world is fucking small, and you never know when you'll run into someone unexpectedly,' only to grovel before a Labor Ministry fine.
And so the two, in rubber gloves and gym clothes, dragged their feet to work as slowly as possible.
"Haa... fuck, how does this bullshit always hit on a golden weekend dawn?"
Loitering near the mobile kitchen trailer had its limits.
To the kitchen staff uninterested in the TMI from the two friends chatting idly in the distance, those support workers looked anything but cute.
"Hey, you old farts! Quit slacking without even smoking and haul those rice sacks over here quick! You wanna skip meals?!"
If rice wasn't ready before mealtime, the cook would get reamed by the mess officer—it was obvious.
With a cold attitude like winter river water barely purified from the nearby stream, he barked orders.
Whoosh...
"Ugh, fuck. Gonna get frostbite like this..."
Sighing, the two started washing rice in the pots atop the mobile trailer today as well.
Thinking back to the hellish 'recon' schedules that had kept them busy lately...
...Yeah, this is better. Cheaper than a power recon that lays you up for a week.
Ice water rice washing? Frostbite risk, sure, but no death risk— that's something.
Sleep a bit less, do some low-intensity labor at the crack of dawn—better for filling out your lifespan before dying.
"Heave-ho..."
Clunk!
"Ehey, uncle, I hear they punch it out with monsters over there! Why's core strength so weak?"
The cook eyed them struggling to lift the cleaned pot but gave a hint.
"That's why you're sick now, you punk—'cause you punched it out. Minus discharge, I've got less than a month in this uniform."
"Oops."
To the soon-to-be-civilian feeling good, that jab bounced right off.
"...But shouldn't you watch him instead of me? Steam's rising from the water— that fucker's using his ability?"
"What? Hey, uncle! Warming the wash water 'cause your hands are cold—how am I supposed to work with this?!"
Jeong Il-hwan, private in the ability unit.
Ability: Heat Conversion.
An power triggered by fueling his body or objects in contact with his extremities.
"Ah, rice gets cooked into food anyway! Protecting my hands in the process is a bonus, right?"
It contributed to dropping the quality of field cooking one notch further for a cook already unskilled outdoors.
That day, the ability unit got skull-three-rated rice for lunch.
...The usual rating was one skull anyway.
"...Damn, I didn't know. Don't look at me like that."
Cooks usually finish first and prep the next meal right after.
They could eat while it was still warm, masking their shortcomings with hot food.
"...Agh, rice feels drier than usual. Am I eating leftover rice or rice flour?"
Even curry couldn't cover the staple—faces soured instantly.
Of course, the one suffering most was...
"Haa... Till dawn patrol, how much of this do I gotta shovel?"
Jeong Il-hwan, torturing himself with the 'diet' he'd brought on.
"Yeah, stuff yourself, Il-hwan. If you plan to light a fire on recon."
He could play living flamethrower, laden with flammables for ability bursts in combat, but today's dawn mission was recon only.
Recon basics: mobility first, second, third—no hauling excess weight in freezing stealth ops.
"Fuck, that's why I gorge, snack, and chug Golden Chariot without gaining weight."
For a firestarter without 250ml dino-oil potion to match human calories...
Only spare body calories left—gotta eat.
"Kitchen uncles, call us when next cook starts. Gonna rest."
"Thanks for your work!"
Lying blankly in an empty container amid busy routines to catch missed sleep wasn't bad.
Better than shivering under a heavy sleeping bag in poor insulation...
"...Agh, this your house?! Now dragging a friend along."
"Ah, nothing beats this spot? TV's out, ditched the old medical fridge for drinks frozen..."
Should sprawl comfy on a warm bunk.
"Hey! Quit crashing my pad so often! Ease up!"
Well, a mud-and-grit-footed intruder wouldn't look cute in his personal paradise.
"Ow, ain't pity-worthy with discharge so close and kitchen duty? Behave."
...Fucking ace asshole...
What could he do? This guy's his lifeboat from hell if shit hits.
Through bloodshot tears, he donated frosty cola from the freezer.
And lost the remote too—tears welled in the medic's eyes.
"Don't worry. Next time he gets hurt, beat him longer."
"Yeah... You're right, Il-hwan. Don't heal quick—make it hurt till he listens."
One private stirring shit for fun as friend-X was bonus.
Then, news hit their ears.
"...What?"
"Whoa, different from our monster-only gates?"
"We're back. How's dinner so tastel... What happened?"
"...Uh, watch this first?"
Handshakes and happy faces? Fairy-tale stuff, absent from this homo sapiens paradise today.
Was it visible decline in monster numbers from humanity's counteroffensive?
'Rifles alone won't cut it forever! If they threaten us, we retaliate!'
...Uh, bad to say we invaded them first, right?
Or brass finally greenlit firepower projection—who knows.
Swapping to monster-protein diets amid victory reports, humanity believed no obstacles to claiming gate-worlds.
Until winter's end, pre-U.S. mainland invasion.
Earth events happen elsewhere too—North America's hegemon learned painfully.
America, bloated by civil war over this, recalled old days.
"Haha, primitive tribe lacking tech?! Labor buffet for our superior race!"
"...Why Tennessee gate to those fuckers? Hoxy...?"
Region, actions, even drafted races problematic in this invasion.
Pointy-eared Dixies returned to Tennessee—Civil War heartland—rewinding to 19th century.
These powered-suit strongmen, embracing otherworld labor for conquest:
"Low natural birth from longevity? Can't fill with citizens? Drag from elsewhere!"
"One energy slug to the brain—you're reserve labor! Bastard... Draft!"
Subduing healthy folks for slow societal rot.
"For our ascension, become labor... Buy time till 'machine ascension'!!"
Bearing 'racial burden' for industry, pure poison.
"Damn, why hesitate to shoot?! Why drag tanks?!"
"Commander, they're holding civilian throats hostage!"
Civilian-protection rules? Earth-internal consensus.
Invaders hear "Geneva"? 'Gene-Bar? Gene-mod bar?'
State Guard watched monsters tank shells, flee behind human shields.
Still, low-kill abductions were gentlemanly by U.S. standards here.
"Grulk...?"
"FUCK! Multiple monster spawns! 3 o'clock!!"
U.S. landmass 3rd/4th largest, fights China on it—but top military unchallenged.
Post-gate monster response faster, thorough than China/India.
But even cyber-arms have limits blocking one-handed.
Ancestors' greedy land-grabs fateful?
"James Moriarty? Real name bullshit?"
"Yeah, from New York for blue-collar. Gimme subsidies."
"...Sigh, this right?"
Vast land aids identity-wash for fugitives.
Big cities strong, rural weak—like everywhere.
Dense pop like India/China sustains midsize; not here.
"Should've taken more immigrants!! No restrictions—more South Americans...!!"
Tracked legal + illegals under 400M on endless plains.
Question: How many monsters crossed empty gates to fill horizons?
Enough to horizon-block.
"...Fuck, retreat! No manpower to save civilians!"
Abducted quick-labor; eaten=dead—priorities clear.
U.S. all-in on ongoing monster-feasts over rescues.
"Right?! At least try!"
"If your state or White House— you'd handle fast. Excuses?!"
Democracy: All your fault. Curses flew.
"We want rescues, prevention—but no admin/manpower?"
Counter: Can't cover everything—cities, farms, resources need troops too.
21st-century alien-slave trade (zero profit)—impossible.
"Use machines! Short-staffed? Program!"
"Teacher, even unmanned weapons need operators..."
Unmanned tech no match for vastness—manpower bottleneck.
Monster-bait worse than abduction—rescue deprioritized naturally.
Humans shrink distant tragedy vs. personal sorrow.
"Tennessee good state. Ours survived? Re-elect me!"
"Change now harms defense! Wartime!"
Governors won on 'mid-crisis shakeup=amateur' frame.
U.S. now polio kid suddenly leg-paralyzed in ice water.
Escape needed phoenix-will like the hardship-elected president.
"Situation good? We'll reclaim citizens later! Enlist for Uncle Sam..."
"Nah, saw Vietnam/Afghan/Iraq vet treatment~ No way~"
No trust in gov returns post-era.
Thrash till regained.
America sank into self-contradictions.
Who said superpower sneeze rocks world?
Global economy wobbled plenty; now security quakes.
Weeeeng...!!
Even a sergeant wrapping weekend routine felt ripples.
"...Ah, what now at dawn..."
"Sergeant Kim! Sergeant Kim! Wake up! Recon squad contacted intellig—"
Half-grinding brain spun full-speed realizing today's recon roster.
"...Oh, fuck. We're screwed! Il-hwan!"
Those slave-revival psychos holding a state hostage—first gate guests.
Friend/comrade on dawn patrol? Personal.
Most combat personnel scrambled gear for search/recover.
"Ugh... uuk...!!"
"Can't... breathe..."
At recon zone: two wrecked squadmates down, and...
A hulking alien twice their height, thrice width—gripping friend's nape.
Melee-only primitive—no civ-tech.
Light armor guarding vitals, single blade.
But sky-high erupting red energy pillar like volcano—no descent.
Menacing aura pillar screamed instinct: Flee blind if life precious. Surviving encounter=legend.
Vrooom...!!
Energy blade freely extending over short sword, aimed their way.
Figure in pillar: "Come again? Warriors, name and fight; weaklings, vanish!"
Grinning, mind-spoke directly.
Unlike unintelligible audio, telepathic hit Kim Chomo's thoughts—stunned.
Ptooey!
Today's smooth? Self-jinxed—spit to ward.
Weekly monsters taxing enough.
"...Bipedal? Fuck, new weapon too. Yeah... not just monsters...!!"
Thud...!!
"...Fucked. Can't win...!!"
Monster gap panicked all but him—morale bottomed.
Layman: 'WTF?' But pros see true.
Elite ability-combat unit: Hearts broke fast.
"Stand! Wanna live? Grab weapons! Fuck, what aggressive shits?!"
Abilities amplify gap; new unit, promo crisis sensed.
Can't ditch downed bro or dangling friend.
Humanity's card-tower final blow?
"Who?! Like U.S. monsters fucking Earth?!"
Men have stand/fight moments.
Kim Chomo's now.
Click! Click!
One steps up—easy for others till death.
Resigned, squad aimed weapons.
Tzzzz...!!
Plundering nearby trees/buds mercilessly.
To buy time, Kim Chomo's toes curled forward—
At mass aim, alien scratched head, deflated.
"...Eh, bust. Ant society? No fun."
Whoosh! Thud!
"Ack!"
Tossed hostage their way, sheathed weapon.
"Spunky one's down; you're key by look/time/condition... Rest posers?"
Hack, ptooey--!!
"Eh, day wasted! Next time, kamikaze-ant strong at least!"
Grading mid-fight? Infuriating nonchalance.
Watched him saunter back to gate, Kim Chomo:
"...What, just leaving? I'm ant? ...Hey! Where... mmph!!"
Mouthed curses at purity-crusher 'big dog bastard'—
"...Agh, body aches everywhere. Shut up! What if tank flips and returns?!"
"Mmph! Mmph!!"
"Shut before I iron lips to palate! Run, psycho!"
One fire-graze no-damage, gut-punched/grabbed youth.
Private Jeong Il-hwan, master feign-dead, blocked exploding human-grenade.
Korea's first intelligent encounter: three victims.
Flail...
"Nope. Beat first, drag to medic for extra. Hey, stomp!"
Thud! Thud! Thud!
"Aaaah, you psychos! Rescue then beat?! Ow! Bone! BONE!!"
Nah, four victims to end.