Champions 1

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All characters that engage in sexual acts are of the legal age of consent. Any similarities between real people are purely coincidental. [Except for the soldiers described in the first few chapters. Those are intentional representations of actual people I served with in Afghanistan. Their heavily altered likenesses are included with the utmost respect as a salute to the sacrifices they made in that distant land, and the honor and heroism they showed at my side under the toughest of conditions. Gentlemen, this one's for all of you.]

Author's Note: The first part of this story contains locations and events that could fall under Operational Security (OPSEC)...if they were real. They are not. All names, dates, and locations have been changed to conceal even the smallest potential detail. However, they were changed to similar locations, names, and dates in order to preserve the feel of the story. The thoughts and opinions voiced by the characters, however, are as real as it comes.

This is a long story (over 130,000 words) and is easily novel length. If you're looking for something short, you may want to pass this by. Also, there is a lead up to every sexual encounter in this work, so if you are looking for instant gratification, skip to chapter 14 and good luck with giving a crap about the participants.

This story contains, in no particular order: sex, groupsex, and mff

I did all my own editing on this work (I have trust issues) so any mistakes are mine...obviously.

Copyright © 2016

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

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.

*** Prelude ***

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 playfully.

Turning to face the unwelcome intruder, the morning sun illuminates 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, Minor 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 than 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 dallying, 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 currently 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 half 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 Ares truce and attacked my realm, killing my Champion."

Enyo's lips curled in distain at Eros' words. But at the mention of the truce 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 weren't able to field another champion before I was powerful enough to issue a challenge. Perhaps if you loved your mortals less, you wouldn't 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 his sight, she left her parting words, 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 Champion. 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 yet 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 [translation of military time into normal people time: 10 March, 2013 at 2:00am] LOCAL

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

The sound of the alarm pierced through the fog of sleep surrounding First Lieutenant (1LT) David Kennisham, 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 chucked 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 how he had taken a nap that afternoon, and his reaction when the C-RAM (automated defensive warning system that alerts the base when rocket, artillery, or mortar fire is detected incoming; pronounced "See-Ram") went off and he reached over to pat his M9, which 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 CRAM 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 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 Security Force Advising and Assistance Team (SFAAT) 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 their overwatch position on the ridgeline next to a valley that the local ANA 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 ANA found a single insurgent he'd call home and buy a lottery ticket.

The Afghan National Army didn't fight insurgents. The insurgents didn't fight the ANA. 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 ANA 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 makes the ANA use M16s now is to make it that much more obvious when the local ANA 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 uses Kalashnikovs, Enfield rifles, and PKMs would want with ten crates of 5.56mm ball ammo, but the fuckers had happily bought it from the last ANA commander. The lieutenant shook his head again; selling ammunition, food, and military supplies to the enemy, and the ANA 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 loaded a magazine in it as well. Slapping the charging handle release, he both heard and felt the bolt ride forward, loading the first round. Walking around the COP with a weapon on Red status (round in the chamber, weapon on safe) was a pretty serious safety violation. But he was going on a hike today, and he wanted to be damn sure his rifle was loaded before he stepped off.

Next he checked his body armor / load carrier. The new IOTV (Improved Outer Tactical Vest) was a better load bearing system, and more comfortable than the old IBA (Interceptor Body Armor), but it was a bitch to get in and out of. Luckily once something was woven into the MOLLE webbing it pretty much stayed there. So he was able to check his IFAK (Individual First Aid Kit), his water source, and his NODs (Night Vision Device, PVS-13) quickly. His vest had his standard load out of six m4 magazines, an M67 fragmentation grenade, a compass, signal mirror, personal Garmin GPS watch (completely against regulation to use for fire missions, front line traces, official communications, and everything else he used it for), survival map, Blood Chit, two Clif Bars, two spare M9 mags and his combat knife. He had pulled the MBITR hand held radio off of his kit in favor of a larger PRC-117F in his rucksack.

The larger radio and enough 5590 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 an extra long range radio with the team, and David agreed with him. As the SFAAT Fires Advising Officer, 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 David's specialty. He was a trained US Army Field Artillery Officer, and a certified Joint Fires Observer (JFO). That meant if it came from somewhere else, and it went boom, he could tell it where to go.

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 he packed his ECWS (Extreme Cold Weather System) fleece jacket and enough MREs and water to last half a week this time (longer if he skipped a few meals). That was the coldest and hungriest he had ever been, and he refused to ever do that again. In addition he had all the other basics; a change of socks, t-shirt, underwear, an extra uniform, sleep system, woobie (poncho liner for anyone not in the Army), neck gaiter, extra ammo, etc. And in the sustainment pouches on the sides he had his wet-weather jacket, poncho, 550 (para) cord, and 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 (the Screaming Eagle on the 101

st

Airborne Division unit patch) was centered with his ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) patch on his left shoulder sleeve pocket. Then he checked to make sure he had his smart phone, ear buds, and commo 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. Next he checked to make sure his nametape and IR flag were still attached to his right shoulder sleeve pocket, making sure his cigarettes were inside, and pulled his 1LT rank patch off.

SFAAT Brigade HQ 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 (MAJ) Deanore allowed any SFAAT personnel that were so inclined to remove their rank insignia 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 ANA. They were greedy, corrupt, and you never really knew whose side they were on.

Throwing on his IOTV, he slung his rucksack on his back, and scooped up his rifle and helmet. Unclipping his custom Viking Tactical Sling, he stowed the sling in his cargo pocket and clipped the rifle to his vest. Shoving his helmet under his arm he backed out of his small room and into the hallway he shared with four other junior officers and one non-commissioned officer on the team.