GATE — Thus, the CARAVEL sailed into uncharted waters…

Mas um velho, de aspecto venerando,
Que ficava nas praias, entre a gente,
Postos em nós os olhos, meneando
Três vezes a cabeça, descontente,
A voz pesada um pouco alevantando,
Que nós no mar ouvimos claramente,
C'um saber só de experiências feito,
Tais palavras tirou do experto peito:

Gil hated the sea.

One would ask then why, in God's blue Earth, had he gone and sign up in the Fuzileiros, whose job, by the patent definition of naval infantry, required that he came in contact with the salt water in some way, shape or form. The young man (30 is considered young, go figure) would tell those people, usually meaning either family, friends or the occasional bunch of random forum dwellers, that his distaste was an acquired one, not one he had been born with. Had 18-year old Gil known how much he would grow to despise that giant greenish puddle – the tedium, the dampness, the seasickness, the food, the cramped spaces, the bump-inducing bunks, the sunburns, the sunny weather, the really crappy Internet reception – he would've probably enlisted in the paratroopers or Army commandos. Or perhaps gone to university as the old man had insisted. Alas, by virtue of living in Lisbon, he had to attend a Government-mandated tour of the nearby naval/marine base, and his prospectively jobless self got suckered in by all the Spartan glamour and attached prestige of the profession. A stable paycheck wasn't bad either, seeing he had hobbies to pay for and over a quarter of his extended demographic group was wasting their early adult years stuck on unemployment queues. Stupid economy.

Still, his disdain could prove useful, he figured. Should he ever find himself assaulting a beach in some Cu de Judas, maybe his aversion would compel him to charge forward through the sands with more vigor, away from the damn dank brine. The two hour or so helicopter ride to the Savages had been nice and relaxing at least, a rare chance to be alone with his thoughts given the commotion that where his last few weeks. And it definitely beat travelling by boat. Sadly, this brief period of peace was coming to an end, as the Lynx began its approach towards the largest of the islands, where the ground contingent had set up shop in preparation for the expedition. Gil couldn't help but to ponder if his descent from the blissful heavens above into the, quite fittingly named, Ponta do Inferno was somehow symbolic of his coming fortunes. (Neither could he decide if he envied or pitied the linguistic ignorance of the non-Portuguese for not realizing they were quite literally standing in the Tip of Hell.)

The career soldier had an increasing gut feeling that he had somehow offended the Big Guy upstairs in some manner. Afterall, what other explanation could there be for his sequential bouts of monumental bad luck, if not divine punishment? Through the side window of the cabin, he could spot the hurricane of steel grey surrounding a colossal orange eye that stuck out like a sore thumb, even at that distance. The dome (which was actually a sphere with the bottom half underwater) covering the Almighty's ultimate mockery of his free will. For God had truly deemed him his private play-toy the past few days.

First it was engine malfunction.

Then the air controllers decided to go on a spontaneous strike.

Followed by the ground operators the day after.

A false bomb threat shutting down the airport for good measure.

His flight being diverted to Madeira due to heavy turbulence.

Subsequently grounded for three days due to the aforementioned bad weather.

And then, the big bearded bastard pulls out his coup-de-grace. Opening up some magical portal to a new world that spews out a bunch of medieval nutjobs hell-bent of pillaging and burning the one city his string of ill-timed misfortunes had brought him to, that fateful 19th of July day, which was also incidentally 19 days ago. His year-long planned, two week vacation to Comic-Con ruined. Ruined. His mind kept weeping. It was like one of those Greek tragedies where the Gods in Olympus kept screwing with a poor man's life for shits and giggles.

As he pondered on what exactly had he done to earn the contempt of the Fates, the Navy Lynx touched down in one of the clearings near the shore, and quickly took off again after dropping off his sole passenger.

The first thing to greet him on the island was a banner sign that read 'Restelo', the name given to the base in a yet another attempt to draw a parallel to the Age of Discovery. Of course, for the non-Portuguese speaking crowd the staging area had another moniker. Some wise guy, a Brit if Gil had to make an educated guess, had painted the words 'Last' and 'Stop' precisely above and below the 'Rest' of 'Restelo'. The Rest-Stop was now how most referred to it as, and frankly it was a better designation, in the soldier's humble opinion. He supposed however came up with the original label was trying to be symbolic or whatnot, naming it after the place from which Portuguese ships would leave for the Indies, but that whole thing with making references to the 15th century was already tiresome and annoying. Ignoring his grievances, Gil made his way to the Portuguese section of the camp with some haste, particularly towards his CO's main office. Knocking on the door of the officer's barrack, he stepped inside when prompted by a voice from the inside.

"Soldier Eanes presenting himself to service, Senhor." — he was swift to declare while saluting the senior officer.

There was an uncomfortably long pause, as the rugged old man kept his eyes on the pile of documents atop his desk, leaving his subordinate to stand with his arm raised for the better part of a minute.

"…at ease." — he finally replied, prompting Gil to shift his stance — "You're late."

"I apologize. Though, in all honesty, I feel I can't really be held in blame for my tardiness, sir." — he argued in his defense.

"Where it any other occasion, anyone else, I would be very much inclined to call that a bunch of bull, soldado." — the Commodore commented, continuing to peruse through file holders to his left.

"You believe me then…?"

"Naturally. Heroes tend to have busy schedules. It tends to come with a propensity to arrive tardy."

"That's a bit of an overstatement, sir. I'm no hero…" — there was just something about that word that rubbed Gil the wrong way.

"Don't! Don't come to me with such modesties, rapaz." — the old grizzly snapped, his gaze finally raising to meet the young man's — "Save the humility for the blasted press. In my presence you're to be proud of yourself! The stuff you manage to pull off in Funchal…"

"…has been greatly exaggerated, and not by my doing." — he cut in, scratching the budding itch in the back of his neck — "The way the media speaks of it, you'd swear I single-handedly killed a thousand of those weirdos and drove them back to the sea."

"But you did save several thousand civilians. Equally as impressive from my point of view." — his CO pointed out — "Did you not, Eanes?"

"Yes…" — he had to admit — "...but that was merely directing traffic. Any cop could've done what I did."

"But no cop did, now did they!? That's point!" — he again pointed out, wagging his calloused index — "Regardless of your training and aptitude, you were a mere civilian at the time. One amid countless panicking noncombatants and an entire platoon of police officers. Yet, it was you who took charge of the situation and, from what I understand, devised the winning the strategy that broke the siege of Pico. You saved those people's lives, when those Army rejects would be otherwise be running around headless!"

"That's a bit unfair, don't you think? Hardly anyone could expect a bunch of hardcore larpers and those creepy sea monsters to suddenly pop up out of the fog. Not to mention, at the end of the day, the cops were the ones who did the lion's share of the work protecting and retaking the city. If anything, the Navy is the one who dropped the ball, what with not detecting the massive fleet heading towards the island at a snail's pace." — the wrinkles on the Commodore's forehead got all the more pronounced at the accusation — "How did they miss them anyway?"

"Bad weather hampering our surveillance mostly, among other factors that happen to strike at an inopportune time. It was a near perfect storm that left us blind, I'm told."

"Sounds like a weak excuse to me."

"Then I guess it's fortunate for the Navy General Staff that it's not up to you to decide whether it's a good enough of a justification or not."

"Given the number of people that died due to their little slip up..."

"End of discussion, Eanes. You're enough of a headache without pissing off the rest of the Admiralty. Here's your documentation... and the requisition forms to deliver in the arsenal." — approaching the CO's desk, Gil picked up the papers as he handed them over one by one — "And, finally... there's also that other important topic to discuss between us, soldado."

"That being?" — he knew immediately by the way that last phrase was articulated that it was going to be anything but pleasant.

"Your promotion." — the Commodore placed two brand new shoulder marks on the table's edge.

"Oh… that." — the promotee sighed — "Any chance I can-?"

"No. Not this time, soldado." — his fleeting hopes were swiftly dashed — "How in HELL did you manage to go on for 12 years and still be a goddamn Corporal is beyond me... but that's not going to fly anymore. I'm astounded that they didn't kick you out of the Corps... or the whole Armed Forces for that matter."

"You could say I have connections." — he mentioned.

"Whatever the reason is, it's not important now. The Ministry of National Defense is having a hard time concealing the tiny matter of fact that their new hero is a bonafide first class slacker. It's a potential nationwide embarrassment." — Gil wasn't aware if that was his CO's opinion or the politicians'. Either way, 'embarrassment' felt a bit too strong of a word — "So the boys upstairs are pushing you over for a promotion, Don Corleone style. Whether you want it to or not, rapaz. Straight to officer."

"They can do that?"

"Oh, they can... and they shouldn't have to, given your bloody track sheet. You're now in the OF-1 grade. Congratulations, Sub-Lieutenant Eanes." — he placed the epaulettes on his free hand, a single looping gold line in each, that were to replace the two red chevrons on black he had on his shoulder sleeve.

"Thank you... not like I have a choice at this point."

"The pleasure is all mine." — the Commodore added with savory schadenfreude — "Pick up your equipment, and be present at nineteen-hundred for departure. Dismissed."

"Yes, Sir." — honed by years of drills, Gil readily saluted his CO. However, he still needed to acquire an important piece of information before leaving — "...just one more question, if I may?"

"Yes." — the old officer answered, knowing exactly which issue was on his (and everybody else's) mind — "There's going to be a connection on the other side. You lot will get your precious Internet."

"Hmmm... is it going to be decent at least? Usually the speed we get at sea is so crappy, it would almost be better if we just hadn't any and…" — why his brain decided to momentarily shut down and ask such a stupid question, the newly promoted sub-lieutenant would never know.

"Rapaz! I swear, if you make me utter the words 'back in my day'..." — the veteran's weary eyes burned with an ire befitting an angry father — "We are heading into a potential warzone! On uncharted territory, no less! Be thankful that the people in charge have decided to indulge this... obsession of yours! God knows none of you kids cannot function without it! Malditos pirralhos!"

"Being on par with news back home is a good way to keep moral up and..." — his subordinate's attempt to justify himself akin throwing a bucket-full of water against a forest fire — "...I'll be quiet now."

"Head to the armory, grab your gear, and be sure not to arrive late when we're to leave." — he commanded in a significantly more curt tone of voice — "Dis-pen-sa-do!"

"Sim, Senhor."

— "Ó glória de mandar! Ó vã cobiça
Desta vaidade, a quem chamamos Fama!
Ó fraudulento gosto, que se atiça
C'uma aura popular, que honra se chama!
Que castigo tamanho e que justiça
Fazes no peito vão que muito te ama!
Que mortes, que perigos, que tormentas,
Que crueldades neles experimentas!

It was only when Gil turned over the requisition papers to the on-duty armory sergeant, that he noticed the conspicuously longer list of materiel catalogued in them. Beyond the expected standard equipment, Gil was handed an assortment of tactical gear such as a pocketed Kevlar vest, pads for every limb, a riot helmet, combat goggles, a night vision monocle, and even a gas mask among the all the paraphernalia. Given the anticipated nature of the forces they were to encounter on the other side of the Gate, perhaps it was only normal that Command opted to gear up the troops in a way more reminiscent of the Police's Intervention Corps than a Fuzileiro. If anything, he had seen first-hand how effective that kind of armor proved against the foreigner's blades and arrows, so their logic was sound in that regard.

However, though the extra protection it conferred was appreciated, actually having the entire equipment in front of him only made him think of how cumbersome it would be to wear (and haul) it around. The insufferable tropical heat bearing down outside only made that prospect all the worse. Never the most positive of individuals, the newly minted officer couldn't help but to think that they would stand to lose more men to heat exhaustion than enemy attack, due to this lack of foresight. How he wished the enemy had decided to attack during winter instead, or the Gate showed up someplace closer to the Arctic. (Or better yet, not at all.) The cold he could fight, but against the heat there was only so much a man could do, especially if he wanted to keep himself within the limits of public decency. But aside from his grievances with the weather, one other detail in particular about the apparel was pestering him.

"Blue?" — that being the choice for camo, patterned mostly in tones of light grey and teal.

"Not a Dragon, I suppose?" — the sergeant speculated, noting his patent distaste.

"Heavens, no. The old man would've pecked my face off."

"Eagle or Lion?"

"Just the national team. I like keep my distance from that blasted quagmire." — Gil clarified in stance on the sport/pseudo-religion of football — "I'm just not a fan of the color."

And even if he was, the choice was utterly stupid. Really, where exactly was blue camouflage meant to come in handy anyway? Naval infantry wasn't supposed to fight on the actual water. Perhaps it was like the UN blue helmets, meant to make the soldiers stand out among the natives. Perhaps it was suppose to instill fear instead, showing off that their soldiers were too brave to mask themselves in the background. Perhaps the brass thought the technological gap justified forgoing the need to be stealthy or subtle…

Or perhaps someone needed to ditch a bunch of otherwise useless uniforms somewhere. Gil figured that was it.

Besides the color and excess quantity of, the other aspect the stood out from the presented equipment was its embellishment. Stamped right above the heart on the chest-piece and battledress, on both sides of the helmet and sown into the left sleeve just above the national flag, was the official insignia of Task Force CARAVEL. A plain rectangle, cut diagonally from top-right to bottom-left, left side royal blue, right side white, with the latter section having the hollowed red Order of Christ Cross emblazed on it. Classy. A nice simplistic touch he had to admit, meant to represent the iconic triangular sail of a caravel against the blue of the ocean, ignoring that corner of his brain pointing out that that would mean that the boat either lost its main mast or tipped over to the side. Never a good omen.

"This may seem an odd request, but… I don't suppose you have a G3 tucked away somewhere back there, do ya?" — Gil inquired the requisition officer while packing away his gear.

"Can't say I do." — retying her hazelnut hair into a bun, the sergeant replied with a modicum of mischief — "Although… if I were to acquire, oh I don't know, an autograph from a certain Mr. Hero, then perhaps…"

"So… you do have one stashed away somewhere?" — he persisted.

"Still no…" — she put it to rest — "…but you'd make this armory sergeant's day, at least. I say a small effort to make someone else truly happy."

"I've to sign these requisition documents anyway. Can't it count as an autograph?" — the subaltern officer mentioned, filling out the choresome bureaucracy in rapid succession.

"But you can't write a dedicatory in those." — she did her best to heighten the cute features of her egg-shaped face, in the hopes her crying puppy eyes would make him change his mind — "Come on, the pen's in your hand already. Is it really that much of a hassle to write your name on an extra piece of paper?"

"After doing so ad nauseam for the past three weeks, it kinda is. You'd be surprised how quickly you can grow to hate writing your own name." — Gil sighed, scribbling it down on blank piece of paper nevertheless. A decade or so in the Armed Forces had thought him that it was always better to be in the good graces of the person responsible for supplying you with your equipment. And if a small gesture would bring her that much joy, then he could swallow his disinclination and accede to her wish.

"To Ana Esteves. Be sure to put in my full name." — but for every good deed done, soon greed started rearing its ugly head.

"Fine…"

"My number one fan…"

"Sure…"

"A mais bela de toda a Marinha…"

"Don't push it."

"Oh, come on. It's not like you'd be lying." — with vanity following closely behind.

"Well, I don't know for a fact if you're indeed 'the fairest in all the Navy', and I don't like to indulge other people's illusions of grandeur, Sergeant. You learn it's rather dangerous on a battlefield." — Gil lectured in a manner befitting his new rank.

"Real charmer." — though one could easily make out her comment to be sarcastic, her eyes were bit too lecherous to comfort — "But I happen to like that kind of honesty."

"Glad you think so." — the Sub-Lieutenant added, ignoring her flirting — "Still, getting back on track..."

"Don't hold your breath, Mr. Hero. Much as I would love to trade a kiss in return, all of the equipment we have in store here was graciously provided by the Americans. Straight from the US Marines. Aren't they nice?" — it explained were the uniforms came from. Those guys aren't stupid enough to actually use the blueberry camo — "So… no G3 for you, I'm afraid. You'll have to make do with the M16."

"Yeah, I've heard. They're dumping their outdated surplus on us. Most of this stuff is being phased out from their military and shipped directly to their beggared allies." — their country certainly fit the 'beggar' status.

"Gratis at least."

"No such thing as a free lunch, Sergeant. I sincerely doubt that any this doesn't have any strings attached." — one should always mistrust the honesty in others' generosity, politicians' especially — "If anything, I think they're just making sure their bullet sponges are well-armed."

"And we should be thankful for that." — she countered — "Given the budget we had, if it weren't for them, we'd soon be breaking out pieces from the Colonial War."

"That's a bit much."

"Says the man who wants a grandpa rifle."

"I want quality and reliability." — Gil clarified his preference — "In Vietnam, they used to ditch these M16s for AKs with good reason."

"Those were the early models, and those soldiers weren't instructed with proper maintenance discipline." — to have his justification thrown back at him by the more gun-educated Sergeant — "Why so adamant about this anyway?"

"Familiarity. I'm more used to the G3, so I would rather stick with something I'm already well acclimated with, seeing that the battlefield were are heading into is foreign as it is." — he further expounded — "That, and I never really trusted the standards of anything 'Made in USA'. If it ain't German or Japanese, I ain't putting my faith in it."

"Well… can't do anything about that, soldier." — her lean figure shrugged — "Adapt or perish, as they say."

"Guess, I'll have to, won't I? Thanks for everything, Sergeant. See you soon on the other side." — Gil waved his goodbyes, making for the armory's exit with his encumbering baggage in tow.

"Até breve, Mr. Hero."

With just a few hours left till they were to present themselves for boarding, it was pointless to find a bunk, so Gil was stuck sauntering through the base whilst having to haul his gear and luggage around. It was hard to imagine that a month ago the whole island was just deserted shrubland, now morphed into an overpopulated hive of human hubbub, much to the dismay of several environmental associations. Designated staging ground for CARAVEL, seeing that the smaller islands near the Gate were fully occupied by security and scientific personnel, Selvagem Grande now housed its initial ground contingent and its logistic structure, rounding about half a dozen thousand individuals. A thick multinational jungle of prefab barracks and warehouses, its horizon dominated by the constant sight of steel grey ships and passing aircraft.

Fellow marines and off-duty Navy staff, from every nation that had gotten themselves involved with the Task Force, were enjoying their last moments of R&R before departure. A large portion did so by congregating around improvised football fields, either taking turns playing ball or cheering those that were. All in all, too few seemed anxious about the upcoming voyage they were to embark on. It was always good to see that spirits were high, the (contrasting) grouch supposed, but he felt the overall mood to be too light on the cusp of a major military operation, likely a part of a much longer conflict. There was a very thin line between leisure and laxity.

Nevertheless, God was feeling generous that afternoon it seemed, deciding to lighten his mood by throwing the worrywart soldier a bone.

"Eanes, meu ganda doido!" — was all he heard before the skin on his left shoulder was left simmering via an open hand slap — "Starting to think you were going to miss out on the trip."

"Nice to see you too, Cruz." — recovering from the surprise, Gil turned around and greeted back, exchanging a flexing handshake with the familiar face. The grin plastered on his rugged square mug was a welcome sight in the middle of his custom-made torment — "Figures they'd call you to… seu judeu dum raio."

1st Lieutenant Isaque Cruz and him had been friends ever since they both attended boot camp, at Escola de Fuzileiros, over a decade ago. Though they rarely got to see each that often, seeing they were both assign to different units, they had been keeping in touch online. Afterall, second to an actual field of battle, no bond was stronger than that forged in the midst of mud, sweat and the constant shouts of a drill instructor calling into question the repute of one's parentage.

"Ah! Me, you, nearly everybody in the Corps is getting involved in this, crazy man! Navy's been busy putting dibs over the fellows in the Army and Air Force. All aboard the caravel, destination… whatever pisshole shat out those nutjobs. Choo-Choo!" — the brute of a blond pulled an invisible cord, sounding off the train whistle.

"I don't recall caravels having steam engines." — he pointed out, biting his tongue to avoid sounding more of a sourpuss by mentioning that a 'pisshole' was technically incapable of defecating.

"Figure of speech, my sullen chap." — his friend cleared up — "As in: get the out of our way, or get run over by the implacable cavalcade of fire-fed steel."

"You've have a knack to make things sound more epic than have any right to be." — Gil reckoned all those religious texts Cruz had to read growing up provided a good source for inspiration.

"Usually I would probably end up agreeing with you… but in this case I don't believe I'm exaggerating. I mean, look at us. A month ago, we were discussing trivial stuff like movies, video games, wrestling, Internet fads, and whatever's the latest weird stuff Japan pulled out its collective ass, planning our summer vacations…" — how the former Corporal wished it was still like that — "Now, there's a whole new world out there to explore! And best of all, we get the distinction to be the ones to adventure into it first! Do our ancestors proud!"

"Yeah. Us, and the rest of the foreigners." — both glanced over a squad of nearby brits, loudly discussing the upcoming World Cup over tea and a game of cards.

"Don't worry about it, man. I know for a fact us Tugas we'll be firsts passing through the Gate later this evening. They ain't stealin' our thunder." — being upstaged really wasn't his main concern.

"First into the fray." — first into bodybags, Gil left to say — "Lovely."

"Lighten up! This is a once in a lifetime… hell, once in History opportunity! Getting a chance to repeat what our forbearers did half a millennium ago. Our fathers, their fathers, and their fathers… think of how many generations before ours would've killed to have the possibility to relive Os Descobrimentos in person." — hopeless as it was to change his stubborn outlook on the matter, his buddy tried nonetheless. That's what a friend was for.

"Jesus, been drinking much of the Kool-Aid too, Cruz? Would explain the jolly mood, yours and the rest." — the whimsical adventure-filled levity with which everyone was taking in everything came off as downright foreboding, at best — "Honestly. Everybody's acting like a bunch of 4th graders going on a field trip, not marching into bloody war."

"Hmpf, some war is going to be. You were at Funchal, Eanes, you got to see those guys in action first hand. Once the cops got their shit together, it was a massacre. Hell, you saw the news from the battle here, where we stand. See those?" — Cruz directed his sight towards some grooves on the stony soil — "That's all that's left of the earthworks their soldiers were digging up, before two special forces platoons wiped them out. A whole regiment of them, clean, dead. I was here during the cleanup, man. Those bastards were butchered like hogs."

"I fail to see how knowing that I can potentially mow down an entire maniple singlehandedly is suppose to make me feel better about the endeavor our esteemed Government volunteered us for." — Gil had certainly got to witness such carnage in the flesh.

He could only imagine the horror going through the invader's heads, as the tear gas burned their eyes and lungs, as the fusillade of a squad of gas-masked policemen mercilessly (and gleefully) fell their comrades by the dozen. Some tried to flee back to their ships, dragging away their bullet-ridden companions. Many begged for mercy in their unintelligible tongue, getting on their knees in an universal sign of submission. Others, out of desperation or wishing for a more dignified end, charged hopelessly against a wall of lead. Lives forfeited, regardless of choice. Restraint became a rare commodity that day. Law enforcement officers turned into street judges, agents of punishment, the deeper they ventured into the desolation the attackers had left in their wake. Summary execution was often the given sentence.

"Que outro os prenda." (Let some other arrest them.)

Gil remembered some saying. Hardly anyone did. Hardly anyone cared afterward.

"Nevermind the fact that this time we are the ones who're sailing into the other's home turf, not knowing what to expect when we get to the next side." — in some way, Gil almost felt bad for the anachronistic louts for those same reasons. Almost…

"Yes, yes. Hubris begets the fall, and all that. Blah, blah, blah." — Cruz derided in good humor — "Still, given what they've shown so far, I don't think we're going to encounter that much trouble. And even if we were, that's what you and I have been trained for. To be soldiers, Fuzileiros, to overcome whatever odds they throw at us! We've been honing our skill for the past decade or so for these precise moments! Of course most of us are going to be excited!"

"A soldier should be content with living out the rest of his career as a breathing deterrent, not actually pine for a chance to test his capabilities. It's like one of those martial arts mantra: teach these techniques so you may never have to use them." — granted there were always that base temptation was lurking within. He certainly felt it nineteen days ago.

"Twelve years, and still the same pessimistic killjoy you were back at boot camp." — pessimist was what an optimist called a realist, Gil liked to think — "Some Velho do Restelo you turning out to be. Kinda fitting given the place."

"I'm hardly some old fart."

"No, but you certainly have the disposition of one. That's what counts." — his friend retorted — "Keep up with the despondent attitude you'll soon turn into a wrinkled codger anyway. I'm starting to see some gray hairs here and there already."

"You sound like a mother." — he grumbled just as his growling gut rudely asked for the floor — "Urgh. Can we take it to the cantina. Haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and I'm kinda feeling peckish."

"Sure, wouldn't want you to go to warzone with an empty stomach. Be bad for the cameras if our new national hero faints from hunger in the battlefield. For your health too. We'll catch up there." — aware where the mess hall was located, Cruz took the lead — "You ever managed to go to Comic-Con after all the heroism?"

"Nah. I tried, man. Believe me, I tried." — Gil sighed, almost sobbing — "I managed to get off the island by catching one of those emergency flights back to Lisbon, but by then word got out on what I 'did'. As soon as I landed, the brass dragged me off of the plane, passing me around like I was some cool new action figure during recess. Town halls, meeting whatever big dog was interested in me, award ceremonies, memorials to attend, TV interviews to send off. The whole VIP treatment. I swear, someone upstairs must truly hate me."

"I feel ya. It was a tough break. I even heard Martin gave out advanced copies of the new book to all attendants. Autographed and everything. You missed out big time."

"Rub it in some more, why won't you?"

— "Dura inquietação d'alma e da vida,
Fonte de desamparos e adultérios,
Sagaz consumidora conhecida
De fazendas, de reinos e de impérios:
Chamam-te ilustre, chamam-te subida,
Sendo digna de infames vitupérios;
Chamam-te Fama e Glória soberana,
Nomes com quem se o povo néscio engana!

"SEN-TI-DO!-!-!"

As the voice of the senior officer boomed throughout the upper deck of the NRP Adamastor, several hundred pairs feet clicked together in perfect synchrony, and an equal multitude of left hands rose to their respective foreheads. The Commodore, in full combat uniform, soon emerged from the NAVPOL's bridge, perusing down from the scaffolds the half a thousand strong contingent of Fuzileiros under his command, standing at attention in the rear helipad. Gil was naturally among them, geared up from head to toe in riot armor grasping the barrel of a M16 (grrr) with his free hand. Fortunately, that late afternoon's mild weather and the gentle breeze that ran through the ship as it sailed south made the outfit somewhat more bearable to wear.

"At ease!" — again in unison, the soldiers shifted their stances, this time at their CO's prompt — "Those of you that had the displeasure of meeting me in person know that I'm not much for long winded words and speeches. Quite frankly, I fail to see the need for any. Into each of us Fuzileiros is instill the discipline to give nothing but total commitment to any the mission that may lie ahead. Pep talks are for those whose such conviction is lacking, so expect none from me. Nevertheless, owing to the historic nature of our latest assignment, a few words ought to be said. Luckily, you won't have to hear them from me. Admiral Albuquerque, acting commander for Task Force CARAVEL, wishes to address his sailors, the men and women under his authority. Standby…"

The Commodore and his staff adopted the same waiting posture as the rest of his men, as the entire crew patiently awaited for the announcement. Before long, the ship's speakers crackled and came to life…

"As armas e os barões assinalados,
Que da ocidental praia Lusitana,
Por mares nunca de antes navegados,
Passaram ainda além da Taprobana,
Em perigos e guerras esforçados,
Mais do que prometia a força humana,
E entre gente remota edificaram
Novo Reino, que tanto sublimaram;"

Quoting Camões right from the get-go. This oughta be good. Gil thought to himself as the Admiral's gruff voice recited the first stanza of the national epic.

"Thus begins Os Lusíadas. Words that are to you all well known, I'm sure. Of the poem that so masterfully retells the story of our people, their voyage through the oceans of time, and that of our single greatest contribution towards the betterment of the human race. Of our people's quest for the legendary Path to the Indies, to the sublime Orient. The founding of the first of the great maritime empires. A fantastical narrative, a profound sensationalism some may disparage… but make no mistake. The feats of our forefathers, the greatest undertaking of our nation has ever gone through, were so unthinkable, so unfathomable to the minds of the era, that they could only evoke to memory the great myths of ancient Greece. Of the tales told by the likes of Homer or Virgil. Our navigators, explorers, sailors on par with Ulysses, Jason and Heracles. When they write sorties about the events the coming days, they will seem just as exaggerated to the generations to come as well. We shall make our fantastical their mundane."

"Marinheiros! Heróis do Mar! Portugueses!"

"A momentaneous occasion stands before us all! There, on the horizon towards which we now sail! There, the fortunes of our beloved Fatherland await! There, we shall shape our world's history once more! There, we shall turn legend to reality, fable to truth! Today, on this solemn August day, we, as a people, embark on the most important journey since the Infante left with his host for the War in Ceuta! Today, six centuries after the exalted patron of our beloved Navy, of every ship that flies our flag invicta, launched the nation for the shores of Africa, we stand at the cusp of concretizing a comparable feat! Today, we sail past the Gate, into the unknown once again, as the most illustrious of our ancestors did! To waters where no brave soul has yet dared to thread! At long last!"

"Times may have changed since, our station in the world stage may be different that it was before, but it matters not. Providence has dictated that the task would fall unto us, first and foremost. A doorway on the very edge of our country's borders, that we are tasked with to cross. Trusted to be the old world's audacious vanguard, as we once were, as the Fados foretold, as our heritage impels us. An endeavor we have the utmost honor to emulate. On the other side of that threshold… therein lies our Orient. A land never trekked, of folk never met. Yet, as with all of Man, violence is no stranger to them."

"They arrived at our shore not an olive branch and an open hand, but with blades and a closed fist. As invaders. Great conquerors they herald themselves when they landed in Funchal, when they shed the blood of our fellow compatriots and those enjoying our hospitality. On the 19th of July 2022, we bore witness to an act of wanton barbarism, an atrocity the likes of which we thought it would be forever distant from our nation's memory. Marauding, robbing our home from its substance. Desecrating, smearing its soil red. Slaughtering, massacring the innocent that inhabit it. Savages, in equal parts beast to the monstrosities their accomplices. Never forget! Do not ever consent a moment of respite from your memory! Always carry the remembrance of their vile crime throughout your journey!"

"For you, each man and woman aboard these ships, are the righteous sword that will bring justice to those they wronged. We cross the Gate, we take this journey, not as harbingers of conquest, but as the righteous castigation that is to befall the ringleaders behind such depravity. Torchbearers that shall bring forth, that shall shine the light of civilization's law upon them, forcing them to gaze it if needed be. A culture so evidently governed by the laws of the jungle, Vae victis. Assured that in their might lies the vindication to prey on those weaker. Such attitude deserves nothing but our contempt and, ultimately, our enlightenment. So steel your minds and gather your strength, for the task ahead will be undoubtedly an arduous one."

"Because there's no greater danger than that which we know nothing of. Think of the daunting seas of yore, the capes insuperable, the lands strange and the denizens mystifying. At our present, they stand as our gentle seas, the capes navigated, the lands familiar and the denizens well met. The lingering fear behind those concepts… defeated, subdued. It is to us, the pioneers, that falls the burden to lay down the road for those, in generations to come, to safely transverse. Carved and paved with the blood, sweat and tears of our toil, an inextinguishable mark we shall leave upon the trail, forever travelled. The symbol , the name we carry near our hearts as a badge of honor."

"CARAVEL."

"We've taken for ourselves the name of the vessel that carried our exalted forerunners beyond the boundaries of their earthly perception. Sailors and ships. Man and machine. Flesh and steel. We are the engine that expands the world. And it is in that endeavor that we'll build the cornerstone of our lasting legacy anew. Where each and every one of our names will be recorded in annals of History, ours and theirs. As many was the blood spilled over sea, that of the daring, as many were the tears cried over land, those of their beloved, and as many were the sacrifices and hardships suffered in centuries past, so too we shall surmount them. So too is our duty, for our people, the Lusitanian race, and for the nation they've built, our grandiose Fatherland. So too is our right, after Greece, after Rome, after Christ, after Europe, to lay the foundations for the new era, the fifth, molding it after our image."

"For on the 19th of July, in the year of our Lord 2022… through the morning's fog, journeying from an island faraway atop a white horse, the Encoberto has finally revealed himself to us! Crying out, at last!"

"Ergue-te! Ergue-te de novo, Portugal!"

Wow…

Pretty much summed up Gil's reaction, a silent incredulity after having to endure through the totality of that overblown sermon.

Wow, this guy didn't just drink the Kool-Aid. He outright replaced the blood in his veins for the stuff.

It was no wonder then that the punch-maker general that was their President handpicked the man for the position. His overly patriotic jive had certainly got the spirits rousing however, much to his consternation. Some of his fellow brothers-in-arms were even stoically crying. Part of him wish it was due to the cringe, but he doubted it. After the Admiral was finished, the opening fanfare of the national anthem started blaring, prompting every soul aboard to carry their hand to their chest, Gil included. Despite his patent distaste for the nationalistic rhetoric the mission was being imbued with, he was not completely estranged towards all notions of patriotism. An anthem happen to be just the right amount for him and, if nothing else, it was still a good song in his opinion.

Heróis do mar, nobre povo,
Nação valente, imortal,
Levantai hoje de novo
O esplendor de Portugal!

Every soul aboard chanted with fervor, their cries carried by the crashing waves.

Entre as brumas da memória,
Ó Pátria, sente-se a voz
Dos teus egrégios avós,
Que há-de guiar-te à vitória!

Toning down for the more solemn verses.

Às armas, às armas!
Sobre a terra, sobre o mar,

Exploding again for the crescent chorus.

Às armas, às armas!
Pela Pátria lutar!

The air resonated with cries of war.

Contra os canhões, marchar, marchar!

Ending with a climatic call to march forward, to charge against the cannons...

Uh?

…or at least with would've, hadn't the song kept playing pass it, much to everyone's confusion. Gil was quick to realize that some moron had decided it was would be a great idea to play the whole damn song, past the first stanza and chorus. He figured this was to hype up the patriotic flair even higher, and pass the time while the armada was still far from the Gate. Problem was, nobody knew the lyrics past what was typically sang during the official anthem, so a bunch of soldiers and sailors were left awkwardly opening and closing their mouths like a school of fish for the next two minutes, humming garbled nonsense in lieu of words. The only part anyone managed to sing was the chorus, because of the familiar melody, and even that was off-key.

They just HAD to ruin this too. Please, don't let anyone be filming this misery.

As the pitiful show came to its merciful conclusion, familiar klaxons began to ring, signaling that the ship was entering combat operations. While most Fuzileiros headed below deck to the awaiting amphibian transports, Gil stayed above the hull, having been assigned to one of the airlifted teams. Seated by the edge of one of the helicopters' passenger cabin, preemptively starting their engines, he had a first class view of the looming the giant orange dome, growing larger by the minute. It was not long before he noticed its frontage splitting in half and opening sideways, not unlike the maw of a gigantic sea abomination about to swallow an entire fleet whole, to reveal the Greek-like temple within. Though Gil had seen the pictures, having the real deal up drifting ever closer tied his stomach into an increasingly tighter knot. The utter bizarreness and otherworldliness of it all did not bode well, and the setting sun only served to further punctuate the ominous dread perspiring onto his skin.

First in queue to pass through the portal were the frigates NRP Bartolomeu Dias, NRP Vasco da Gama and the NRP Alvares Cabral, because, even in the order of battle, the heads of the Navy felt the need to make historic allusions. The Adamastor came next in the lengthy linear formation, followed by the rest of the Portuguese naval vessels, with the other nations' tailing shortly behind them. Cruz had been right. The brass had pull all the stops to make sure their nation would be the one to claim bragging rights as the first into battle, first to step into the unknown land beyond. With the three front ships melting into the black void, the time came for the ominous structure devour its next victim, their ship, much like a whale would gulp down a small paddle boat. On the suspended walkways covering inner surface of the dome, Gil could spot the surveillance personnel, responsible for monitoring the exotic portal, cheering them onward, as a wall of darkness gradually enveloped them.

The interior of the Gate could be described with two words: windy and trippy. The former was self-explanatory: it was like standing inside a damn air tunnel. The latter was much, much harder to convey into proper words. Perhaps fittingly, the whole ambient around him was reminiscent of the star-gate sequence from 2001: A Space Odyssey to the mesmerized officer. Through the slow spinning chopper rotors, a passing miscellany of vivid colors on the empty ceiling above, on the walls to the side, reflecting on the turbulent waters below, with the swooshing drone of the engines providing the eerie wails. An universe, a reality too immense and unfathomable for the feeble human mind to muster a comprehensive understanding of.

And then, just like that, it all ended… with a blink… and him staring at the foreign stars above.

So entranced was he by the alien sky, that Gil barely noticed the Lynx he was hanging onto taking off, nor the flashes and blasts rocking in the background.

— "A que novos desastres determinas
De levar estes reinos e esta gente?
Que perigos, que mortes lhe destinas
Debaixo dalgum nome preminente?
Que promessas de reinos, e de minas
D'ouro, que lhe farás tão facilmente?
Que famas lhe prometerás? que histórias?
Que triunfos, que palmas, que vitórias?

GATE — …and gave new worlds to the World.

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Guess it won't be a sole child afterall…

Anyway… meet our 'tragic' hero, not-Itami.

Like I said, the general premise of the story is more of a scenario-centric AU retelling of GATE than simply different protagonists and a different starting location. Gil is basically what Itami would be like if he was born on the other side of the world, or at least that's what I'm trying to portray. Nevertheless, I'll try avoiding making a western carbon-copy of our favorite otaku lieutenant, and the same goes for the rest of the cast. Different circumstances, even if only geographical, can shape a person character in a multitude of different ways. So expect more not-X characters showing up in the future. I can say for now that the changes will be more pronounced with the Gate-worlders, as we'll get a glimpse in the next chapter.

The title Velho do Restelo (Old Man of Restelo) is a reference to Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads), Portugal's national epic by Luis Vaz de Camões. Like the Admiral mentioned in his long speech, the whole thing is basically a fantasy retelling of the country's history up to the 15th century (when it was written) that included many references to Greek mythology, in the same style of narrative as the Iliad or the Odyssey. Part of the inspiration for this take on Gate comes from those elements, so be fully prepared for more allusions (in-universe or otherwise).

The titular Old Man was the personification of the pessimists, those who equated the voyages of discovery to a doomed enterprise undertaken by reckless glory hounds and driven by greed for riches, that would only bring ruin for the country. He appears as Vasco de Gama (the epic's protagonist) and co are about to leave to India, calling into question the validity of his historic voyage in the grand scheme of things. Basically, that archetypical grumpy old fart you see in every movie/TV show, always complaining about whatever those 'dang-darn youngsters' are up to this time around. The intermitting stanzas were taken from that part of the poem.

I could bore you with more details about the poem, not to mention the ideas of Sebastianism and the Fifth Empire, but I feel that, if any of this interests you, its best you go check out the information yourself from more detailed sources rather than listening to some amateur author on FF. Also, seeing I'm apparently continuing this story, I'll be posting the next chapter status on my profile, so check that out if you want to know. Again, not go expecting an update any time soon, seeing that I'm about to attend a work academy that will eat up most of my free time and I want to go back to write my other main fic for the time.

As always, leave a review and/or send me a PM if you liked the story so far or want to share your opinions and criticisms.

Many thanks.