Champions Vol. 01

Champions Volume One: Awakening

Disclaimer: The following version of this novel is a work of erotic fiction. All characters that engage in sexual acts are of the legal age of consent. Any similarities between real people, places, or events are purely coincidental.

Author's Notes:

This is the re-release of the Champions story. The original version is solely the product of my own efforts, published on Literotica without the help of editors. It is also the only extant copy of that original; I don't even have a copy in my own files. As such I have chosen to allow it to remain, both as a record of my first effort at fiction, and also a reminder to myself to never be too proud to accept help.

This version is significantly improved over the original, and incorporates a large number of the recommendations I received from my Literotica commenters. I thank you for those, and encourage you to keep the excellent recommendations flowing. I will solicit your input with the remaining works, and hopefully together we can create a truly marvelous saga.

If you have read the original story, then much of this work will be familiar. If you are just interested in the significant story changes skip to Chapter 38 - 40.

There are a multitude of military terms, equipment, and jargon in this story that may be unfamiliar to many. Any good search engine can be a great asset to readers that are confused by these. To the other veterans reading this work, you may have used different terminology during your time. This is simply what we used during mine.

Time is presented in United States Army 24 hour format of Date, Time, Month, Year, and then Time Zone. Two Time Zones are used for this work. The first is "Local": Which is used to indicate that the time listed is the precise time of the local Time Zone. In the case of the scenes in Afghanistan at the beginning of the book, that is GMT/UTC +4:30 hours. The second is "DW": This is an abbreviation for David's Watch, indicating that there is no other way for the characters to identify what the time really is, so we are forced to use the only available benchmark for measurement...the wristwatch of our protagonist. For example:

100200MAR13 LOCAL is translated into March 10, 2013 at 2:00 AM in the morning of the local time zone.

While 132008MAR13 DW is translated into March 13, 2013 at 8:08 PM in the evening according to the protagonist's wristwatch.

Finally, to my fellow veterans of the United States Armed Services, you above all others understand the messages of sacrifice and loss that this book hopes to convey. This story is for us. I will continue to include how each of the characters struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in the remaining works. As you know, combat changes you, and dealing with those changes is a lifelong struggle. Too many authors who have not experienced combat fail to realize its true cost. PTSD is not a plot device, it is not a character defect, and it is not an excuse for immoral or unethical behavior. It is the inevitable result of a person with a conscience being forced to experience unconscionable things.

-ScreamingEagle101

Copyright © 2016

***************** Volume 1 ****************

*** Prologue ***

As the dawning sun illuminates the sky,

lighting the world before men's eyes,

bringing light to the world once more,

and ending the darkness of the night before.

If only it could banish the darkness from men's hearts.

The morning mist twisted lazily through the tall grass of the field, snaking past the higher ground to slide its way amongst the low areas. But the lowlands were greedy, and they desired more than the mist's gentle caress. They also claimed the morning's dew, last night's anemic rainfall, and the blood of the many fallen.

Looking down upon the blood drenched battlefield, the lone figure sighed in frustration. It seems his Champion was unequal to the task of protecting this realm. As the figure pondered how the battle's outcome would affect the future of his world, a second figure appeared from the mists.

"Eros, why so somber?" the second figure gloated teasingly.

Turning to face the unwelcome intruder, the morning sun illuminated the chiseled jaw and perfect figure of Eros - God of Love, Procreation, and Sexual Desire. "Do you ask because you care for my answer," Eros responded, "or because you genuinely fail to understand what you have done, Enyo?"

Enyo, Goddess of War and Servant of Ares, laughed cruelly. "I'm a Goddess of War, you simpering fool. Do you really think me incapable of understanding battle?"

"No, Eny, but I hoped you had finally put this hatred aside," Eros replied wearily.

"Don't call me that!" She seethed furiously. "Don't you ever dare call me that again! You cast that name aside when you cast me aside, so that you could go off and dally with your precious mortals."

"I apologize, but old habits die hard," he responded with a sigh. "And you know I did not cast you aside. I am responsible for the mortals of my realm, as you are responsible for yours. Just because you refuse to take that responsibility seriously does not mean the same is true of others."

"WAR, you horse's ass. War is my domain, not a bunch of prancing ne'er-do-well lay-abouts fucking dawn till dusk. And my realm is thriving, unlike someone else who seems to be incapable of protecting his mortals for he is too busy playing, cock deep in the locals." She spat.

Eros turned his gaze to the heavens, and took a deep breath to calm himself. He remembered, even these many centuries later, why he fell in love with the beauty before him. But he could no longer remember how he was able to ignore her temper, her immaturity, and her vindictive tantrums (the evidence of which he was apparently surrounded by). Lowering his eyes he looked upon the figure of Enyo, his last immortal love and now the bane of his realm. The form she chose for this confrontation was always his favorite. Standing five and a half feet, with long, dark hair, a slender waist, flared hips, and pert breasts; she was a vision of loveliness that would turn the head of any mortal or god that gazed upon her. If only her face were not marred with a scowl, which seemed almost permanent since their separation a millennia ago.

"I dally with these mortals to show them the power and wonder of Love. I bestow them with my love personally because I refuse to be a puppet master pulling strings in my realm. I do not wish for my mortals to merely worship me, I want them to love me as deeply as I love them. It is through them that I exist, and have my power. How can I not be grateful of their worship, and give back as much as possible?"

At these words Enyo snorts in derision. "Grateful? They are mortals! They should exalt over their good fortune to venerate your name, and grovel in fear at your might. You are a God you fool; your very presence among mortals lowers you."

"And we return to the same old argument, Enyo. You believe The Creator banished us to our own realms because he did not wish to share, and you feel they should be used as toys for our amusement. I believe He did it to teach us the value of those who worship in our names," Eros explained in the tone of one trying to tell a toddler that one plus one equals two for the 300^th time. "Now tell me why you have violated The Ares Conventions and attacked my realm, killing my Champion."

Enyo's lips curled in distain at Eros' words. But at the mention of the Conventions her lips morphed into a cruel smirk. "I merely explained to him that while revenge is certainly not sufficient cause for entering your realm, expanding my worship is. So as soon as enough of your mortals started to venerate War, I was able to tiptoe my way over to your realm and do what I do best. It's too bad your little Champion was caught in the middle of the battle. I'm afraid my faithful are growing quite quickly in this realm, and it would be a shame if you were not able to field another Champion before I am powerful enough to issue a challenge. Perhaps if you loved your mortals less, you would not give them the freedom to betray you."

Eros' eyes narrowed as he realized the magnitude of this attack. This was no mere petty revenge from his former lover. This was an attempt to seize control of his realm; which was now undefended, with his Champion laying slain on the field. Speaking with barely restrained menace, Eros responded, "This is not your realm yet Enyo. So cast yourself from my sight until you have enough faithful to render a proper challenge."

She was unable to resist his command in his own realm, but was unwilling to let him have the last word. As she faded from sight, her parting words were dripping with sarcasm, "I'll see you again soon, my former lover."

Upon Enyo's departure Eros' gaze returned to his Champion. While not a young woman, she had an ageless quality to her that spoke of a life of beauty and importance. He had chosen her because she was a powerful sorceress, a gifted leader, and she loved all life as much as he did. She had given him nearly five centuries of devoted service as his Champion, and had done more to spread love throughout his realm than even he had. He was certain he could never replace her, and after almost half a millennia he was unsure how to even begin.

Tearing his gaze from his beloved Champion, he cast his sight to his realm, searching for his next one. The task seemed nearly impossible. His most devout followers were not tempered enough of spirit to handle the hardships of being a Champion. He began to realize that the realm he had so lovingly doted on for the last two millennia had been weakened by too much prosperity. His mortals knew they were loved, and cared for, so they did not understand hardship, sacrifice, failure, and loss. He now understood the blame for his Champion's death lay squarely on his shoulders. He had coddled his realm for so long his faithful were unable to stand against those that had forsaken his message of Love, and instead chose the path of War.

Turning his gaze to the heavens he called out with his power. Father, I have failed you. I thought it was my duty to love and protect the realm you gave me. But I have only weakened and failed them. Please, tell me what I should do to save them.

Eros received no words in reply, merely an image. It was of a young man, not quite three decades in age, standing on the side of a mountain. He was dressed in strangely colored clothing, and was adorned with weapons and items that did not match anything in Eros' realm, or any other realm under another god's dominion. The God of Love knew that The Creator had heard his plea, and it seems he was sending him a truly unorthodox Champion, from a very far away land.

The god also felt that patience would be needed. This man, this new Champion, would not arrive for some time. Thankfully, Enyo could not amass enough followers in his realm to challenge his dominion overnight. It would take her time, perhaps even a few generations, and Eros would continue to observe his own people as well. He had spent too much time among them, and it was time for them to learn how to stand on their own once again.

Eros remained standing in the field as hours turned to days, weeks, months, and finally years. Watching the bodies of the fallen carried off by loved ones, looters, and carrion animals. None save his Champion were left untouched. She alone would be protected by his power, and his vigil, until the next Champion came to lay her to rest; and to claim her place at his side.

*** Chapter 1: Same Stuff Different Day ***

100200MAR13 LOCAL

Combat Outpost (COP) Able-Main, Kunar Province, Afghanistan

The sound of the alarm pierced through the fog of sleep surrounding David, bringing him out of a pleasant dream involving him, his last girlfriend, and their favorite can of whipped cream. Reaching over he slapped the off switch, then patted his M9 pistol, making sure it was where it should be. Plenty of the older NCOs joked about sleeping with their weapons, but unless he was outside the wire he just couldn't sleep comfortably with a gun in his rack. At that thought he chuckled ruefully; comfortably was a relative term after all. As he sat up and swung his legs off his cot he remembered the time he had signed his pistol over to Doc for a mission.

He smiled at the memory of his reaction when the C-RAM alarm went off while he was taking a rare and badly needed nap that same afternoon. Hearing the warning alert of 'incoming' he reached over to pat his M9 for reassurance, but it was NOT in its customary spot. He had freaked out so badly that it took ten minutes to get his heart rate back to normal.

He had to shake his head at the memory; he was so used to the insurgents lobbing rounds at them he didn't even get out of bed when the alarm went off any more, but he sure as shit jumped out of bed when he couldn't put a hand on his weapon. Since then he made it a habit of leaning his M4 next to the shelf if his M9 was out. I guess we never get too old for security blankets, David thought to himself as he looked at his pistol, they just aren't always blankets.

Getting up he stretched his six foot tall, 185 pound frame, and pulled on his Multi-Cam uniform trousers. He glanced in the small mirror by his desk. His ruggedly handsome face was clean of stubble from shaving the night before, but his dark brown military-cut hair was getting long. Better get a haircut soon, or Top will start flipping his shit he thought to himself. He also noticed that the once piercing blue eyes of his childhood had become flatter, grayer than they once were. He shrugged at his reflection. He wasn't sure when it happened, but sometime in the last few years life had stolen their vibrant luster.

Reminding himself why he was awake at this ungodly hour, he started checking his trouser pockets for mission essential gear. He also double checked that they had been stripped of pocket litter. He was going outside the wire today on an overwatch mission. His team was responsible for teaching and training the local Afghan National Army (ANA) forces. Essentially their job was to convince the local army to not be a bunch of unprofessional, corrupt fuck-ups. Having only been in Afghanistan for six months David already knew they were wasting their time.

Today they were setting up an overwatch position on the ridgeline next to a valley that the local Afghan commander was planning on clearing. Apparently, the villages in the valley were being forced to support insurgents coming over the border from Pakistan, on their way further in to Afghanistan to fight in Helmand Province in the south. He didn't think it mattered. The whole mission was a goat-roping contest, and if the fucking Afghans found a single insurgent he'd call home and buy a lottery ticket.

The Afghan Army didn't fight insurgents. The insurgents didn't fight the Afghan Army. It was a losing proposition for either side. The locals didn't want Afghans killing Afghans, regardless of the uniform, or lack thereof. But insurgents killing Americans worked for both sides. The insurgents could claim they were victoriously defending their homeland from the infidel invaders, while the Afghan Army could show how serious the "insurgent threat" was in their region, and demand more weapons, material, and equipment from the US Army.

He chuckled at that thought. I imagine the only reason the US encourages the Afghan Army use M16s now is to ensure it is that much more obvious when the local Afghan commander sells his weapons and ammo to the insurgents. That had already happened five times in the last six months. He still couldn't understand what the hell an enemy that primarily used Kalashnikovs, Enfield rifles, and PKMs would want with ten crates of 5.56mm NATO standard ammo, but they had happily bought it from the last Afghan commander. David shook his head again; selling ammunition, food, and military supplies to the enemy, and that commander got demoted and reassigned. The fucker should have gotten the firing squad.

Strapping on his drop-leg holster, he checked and secured his M9 and spare magazine. Then he picked up his M4, inspected it, and readied it as well. Next he checked his body armor / load carrier. The new vest was a better load bearing system, and more comfortable than the old one, but it was a bitch to get in and out of. Luckily once something was woven into its webbing it pretty much stayed there. His vest was currently configured to carry his standard load-out, which was six magazines (180 rounds) for the M4, two magazines (30 rounds) for the M9, a single M67 fragmentation grenade, combat knife, and assorted other necessities for an Army forward observer (FO). While David was not actually a true FO, the duties were part of his training as an Artillery Officer and he would be required to fulfill the role on this mission, as he had a number of times before. He had already pulled the MBITR hand held radio off of his vest, in favor of the more powerful PRC-117F backpack radio in his rucksack.

The larger radio and enough batteries to power it for 48 hours were a shit load of extra weight to haul, but it was the only thing that could reliably range other friendly forces from their overwatch position. The captain in charge of this mission wanted this long range radio with the team, and David agreed with him. As a certified Joint Fires Observer (JFO) he made the most sense to carry it. After all, if they were forced to call for help, the first thing they would want is Air or Artillery Support, and that was the JFO's specialty.

Next he moved on to check his rucksack. He would need to do a communications check with the PRC-117F before he stepped off today, but he wanted to make sure everything was secure before then. He had packed what he needed for the two-day mission last night. Unlike his last 48 hour mission, where he under-packed according to higher command's guidance (and spent four days starving and freezing his ass off) he over-packed this time. That was the coldest and hungriest he had ever been, and he refused to ever do that again. This time he had what he wanted, and screw anyone that didn't like it. The only thing he carried that he did not want to was the hygiene kit. He snorted ruefully at that last part. Walking out for a two-day combat mission and he had to take a fucking razor. First Sergeant cares more about us having a clean shave than a hot meal. He thought to himself.

After spot checking his rucksack and radio, he put on his combat shirt, checking that Old Abe was centered with his ISAF patch on his left shoulder sleeve pocket. Then he checked to make sure he had his smart phone, ear buds, and communications card inside. It was an old smart phone, and he had erased any sensitive information off it, but he still carried it to watch movies, listen to music, and as a training aid. It was amazing how much of the language barrier he could overcome when training Afghans just by taking a picture of a target and pointing to it. As far as he knew he was the only trainer to use this technique, but it worked very well. Next he checked to make sure his cigarettes were inside his right shoulder sleeve pocket, and the nametape and IR flag were still attached to the outside. Lastly, he pulled his rank patch off.

Brigade Headquarters had sent down a message last week that Taliban were paying bounties for confirmed US kills by rank. NCOs were worth US $2,000, and Officers paid US $10,000. The next day their team leader, Major Deanore, allowed anyone on the team that wanted to remove their rank insignia to help counter the bounties to do so while on mission. David wasn't sure it would make a difference, but if he was going to die on the side of a mountain, then at least he could try to screw the guy that killed him out of a payday. Plus, he didn't trust the Afghan Army. Most of them were greedy, corrupt, and you never really knew whose side they were on.