Scouts in Blue"
The humid jungle hung like a thick curtain over the American outpost, where the air was heavy with tension. Corporal Davis, an older, battle-hardened soldier with weathered skin and a graying beard, scanned the tree line through his binoculars. Beside him, Private Murphy—a fresh-faced recruit with wide eyes and a nervous grip on his rifle—fidgeted anxiously.
"See anything?" Murphy asked, voice tight with anticipation.
"Not yet," Davis muttered, lowering the binoculars slightly. "But they're out there."
Murphy shifted. "I heard some guys talking... they said we're up against... majorettes or something? Scouts in uniforms, right? Sounds insane."
Davis sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Yeah, scouts. They dress them up like they're part of a school parade. Short blue blazers, ties, skirts that barely cover anything. Boots laced up to their knees." He turned to Murphy, his eyes hard. "They’re not armed, but don’t be fooled. They’re here to make you hesitate."
Murphy’s brow furrowed in disbelief. "That doesn’t make sense. Why would they send unarmed girls into a warzone? In uniforms like that?"
Davis kept his eyes on the tree line. "Because it works. Those uniforms—short skirts, ties, those shiny damn boots—they're meant to mess with your head. You see them, and you pause, thinking it’s some kind of joke. But that pause? That’s all they need to mark us out. Then the real soldiers, the ones with guns, light us up."
Murphy blinked, staring out into the thick jungle. "But... they're not even a real threat. How are we supposed to—?"
Davis cut him off, his tone colder. "You shoot them. In the stomach."
Murphy recoiled, eyes wide. "In the stomach? Why there?"
Davis glanced at him briefly before raising the binoculars again. "Because it's slow. Painful. The others see it, and maybe they think twice before charging. It's how you stop them from coming back."
Murphy's grip on his rifle tightened, his knuckles going white. "That's... that’s brutal. They're just girls. In skirts and ties. How can you justify that?"
Davis gave a low grunt. "Brutal is war, Murphy. They're not innocent. They're soldiers, even if they don’t have guns. Their job is to lead the enemy to us. Our job is to stop them."
Suddenly, Davis froze, his binoculars fixed on a break in the trees. "There," he said quietly.
Through the dense underbrush, figures began to emerge. Young women, barely older than Murphy, stepped forward in eerie silence. Their uniforms were crisp and striking: short blue blazers over white shirts with ties, pleated skirts swaying slightly with each step, and knee-high lace-up boots that glistened in the dim light. Their expressions were blank, almost serene, as they moved together in perfect unison.
"They're here," Davis muttered, lowering the binoculars. "Scouts."
Murphy’s mouth fell open. "Jesus… they look like they just walked out of a high school. What the hell are they doing here?"
The girls stood in formation, their presence surreal against the jungle backdrop. No weapons, no batons—just those sharp blue uniforms, as if they had stepped into the wrong reality. Their blazers hugged tightly to their bodies, and the skirts barely skimmed their thighs, making them look more like performers than soldiers. And yet, there was something unnerving about how calm they were, how out of place they seemed.
"They're just standing there," Murphy said, almost to himself. "What the hell are they waiting for?"
Davis’s jaw tightened. "They're daring us to shoot. They’re showing us they’re not afraid. But we’ve got to fire first. Don't wait."
Murphy shook his head. "But they’re just... how can you—"
A single shot rang out. Davis fired without hesitation. One of the girls, her blazer a vivid flash of blue in the trees, crumpled to the ground, clutching her stomach. The others didn’t move. They stood there, eyes still fixed forward, their faces unreadable.
Murphy’s stomach lurched. "Jesus... she's... they're not even running!"
"They won’t," Davis said, his voice steady, almost cold. "Not yet."
Murphy stared at the fallen girl, her body twisted on the ground, blood staining her white shirt and tie. She was still alive, writhing in pain, but none of her companions flinched. They remained motionless, watching their fallen comrade with cold detachment.
Murphy's voice wavered. "They're not even helping her… why are they just standing there?"
Davis’s grip on his rifle tightened. "They want to prove they’re not afraid. They want us to see it. Show their courage before they retreat. But they’ll break when the second one falls."
Another shot echoed through the air. Another girl went down, her blazer flaring out as she collapsed, this time with no sound. The others watched for only a moment before, as if on cue, they turned and melted back into the jungle, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Murphy stood frozen, his eyes locked on the spot where the girls had fallen. The second girl lay still, but the first one was still gasping, her hands clutching her stomach. Her short blazer had ridden up, exposing more of her blood-soaked shirt.
Murphy felt bile rise in his throat. "They didn’t even… they just left her."
Davis exhaled sharply, lowering his rifle. "That’s the game, kid. They show they’re willing to die. Prove their loyalty, their courage. Then they leave the bodies for us to deal with. It’s all about making us think twice."
Murphy shook his head, his hands trembling. "But why the stomach? Why not just... finish it quick?"
Davis looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Because this isn’t just about killing. It’s about sending a message. To them. To us. You make them hurt, make it visible. It keeps the rest from coming back."
Murphy’s gaze lingered on the fallen scouts. The way their uniforms, so polished and perfect just moments ago, now lay in tatters on the ground, stained with blood, filled him with a deep, unsettling nausea.
"Those uniforms," he muttered. "It’s like they were trying to make us hesitate. Like they wanted us to see them like... like people, not soldiers."
Davis turned away, scanning the jungle again. "That’s exactly what they want. And that’s why they’re dangerous. They make you second-guess yourself. But in the end, they’re just another enemy trying to kill us. Don’t ever forget that."
Murphy stared at the trees where the remaining scouts had vanished. Their blue blazers and skirts were gone, swallowed by the jungle, but the image burned in his mind. The absurdity of it all—the uniforms, the silent defiance, the calculated cruelty of the shots—left him shaken.
"I’ll never forget," he whispered, more to himself than to Davis.
