A/N

Faust: Thanks for the in-depth review. I see your point, but I jumped right into it to give a sense of urgency for the characters (OH SHIT gotta go move, no time to prepare), and honestly I don't have the patience/endurance to go write up pure characterization. I do what I can to give a sense of personality within scenes, but when I start writing things outside of plot advancement my writing just grinds to a halt and the chapter takes months to write. Oh, and especially with the snippet at the end, we're going to see "how another branch operates on a more in depth level."

Mcrae: While true, a large part of this is that America is still vulnerable after 15 years of war. We keep terrorists off our back after spending thousands of lives and trillions of dollars, and then some assholes come in and massacre civilians for the hell of it. As well as that even with 9/11, this was an attack by a 'conventional' force in a (failed) attempt to take and hold ground which the public has not experienced for over 100 years.

"Sloppy Joe Hill"

"Jesus," Lieutenant Davis muttered under his breath. The effect of the tanks upon the enemy was devastating. There were few discernible bodies that were in a recognizable shape. They were shredded. There was more blackish-red than there was green grass. Limbs and shredded torsos littered the plains around the hill. The force sent to attack his unit was ineffective: small, poorly led, and hastily pieced together and planned. It was a mad rush to the hill before the tanks had found their sightlines. Canister rounds of over a thousand tungsten balls each were fired one after another, killing or crippling dozens of men in instants. Those not killed by the canisters were killed by the 81mm mortars.

Half of an army lay dead before Davis. The scale of death and suffering was incomprehensible to him. The casualties of the beaches of Iwo Jima were wrought in minutes.

Unfortunately, that meant that the tanks were out of ammunition. Or nearly, he assumed. He hadn't seen any logistical vehicles bringing honeycombs of tank rounds. Their defense against another attack relied on the machine guns and mortars around him. Perhaps the tanks still had a few explosive rounds that could be used against those large monsters. He hoped.

The sound of Sergeant Allen brought his attention back. "Hey, sir, look. More."

Davis squinted his eyes, looking out towards the western horizon. Another army. Another enemy army. Although logpack had brought more munitions for his vehicles and infantry, to include mortars and machine guns, this did not include the tanks. The tanks were in the forefront of their perimeter. Should friendly fire occur, a 7.62mm round would to little against its armor. A canister round, or its casing, would have a much larger impact against a grounded infantry squad to say the least. The 360 degree perimeter was also advanced much farther than it had been last night, giving plenty of room for maneuver. Should retreat be necessary for the tanks, there was little fear of the infantry earning their tanker nickname of "crunchy".

As the enemy column drew closer, they dispersed into battle formations. They maintained marching order, however, moving in neat blocks that reminded him of the Romans of old. In fact, the individual swordsmen themselves reminded him. The ones he fought the previous night had appeared to be Roman soldiers with a medieval twist, designed by some random civilian with no familiarity with the culture he was presenting or its history.

The enemy army squared up, but did not move towards his position. As he looked closer, they seemed to be at odds with his previous observation. "They don't look like the first guys did," Davis said. Allen looked over at his soldier and saw him peering through a set of binoculars.

Allen nudged him on the shoulder, motioning for permission to use them. Davis handed him the optics. As Allen looked through, he noticed the lack of uniformity between the formations. Some formations, he noticed, hardly had uniformity even among themselves. "Yeah," he agreed. "Vassals? Or Auxiliaries or some shit."

No later than he said that did a small group head forwards of the army. He watched them try to avoid the blood, gore, and bodies, but it soon proved impossible. The liberal use of canister rounds had ensured that. Through the binoculars, it looked like a muddy field after a rainstorm. The ground, softened by the blood and impact of munitions, had sucked in the hooves of the horses and made their trot slow and awkward.

As he adjusted his sight, he noticed a humvee leave the perimeter, slowly making its way to the horsemen. Although the wheels occasionally slipped or lost traction, it had a noticeably easier time than the horses.

Captain Pelc eyed the horsemen with suspicion from his passenger seat in the humvee. They were obviously the enemy general and his staff, or at least representatives. "Keep that fifty on them," he ordered. Before exiting the vehicle, he pulled back on the bolt of his rifle slightly, ensuring a round was chambered. He snapped closed the dust cover and stepped out. The two in the rear passenger seats followed, keeping their weapons at the low ready.

"What are they saying?" one of his Marines asked. Pelc stayed silent and relaxed his posture, not trying to aggravate the horsemen. He kept both hands on his weapon, however.

The horseman in front had an imposing posture, he admitted, clad in thick, red plate armor. A white plume on top his helmet moved in the breeze, and the man looked down the Marine, literally and figuratively, whose boots were muddied and bloodied, pressing down half an inch into the earth.

"Adam Pelc," Pelc said, motioning to his chest. Perhaps names were a good place to start.

The man likewise motioned to himself. "Duran."

Pelc considered it pointless to try and communicate verbally. For now, there was no way past the language barrier. He wasn't going to have a week long session with enemy combatants trying to understand each other. He was here to kill them. Or, at least, keep them off the hill.

Going for a wordless approach, he simply bent over and picked up a shredded arm. He held it out in front of him, in plain view of Duran, and held up his rifle with his other hand. He then pointed to the hill, where his Marines were, and at the ground, where the corpses of hundreds if not thousands of men lay. He then pointed at the horsemen. More specifically, at Duran.

"Oh shit," Allen muttered under his breath. "Ha, fuckin' Christ that's hilarious."

"Huh?" Davis asked, turning to his lieutenant.

"CO just told King Jackoff he's fucked," he informed. As he kept watching, the horsemen briskly turned around and headed back to their line. Captain Pelc likewise remounted his vehicle, heading back towards the hill. A few minutes later he arrived at the command post. As the commander exited and stepped inside the tent, Allen handed the binoculars back to Davis as the platoon leader went towards the tent himself.

Night time was beautiful here, Allen thought. No light pollution. No noise pollution. He could clearly see the stars of the alien world. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't. He was inside the turret of his LAV-25, looking through the thermal sights out towards the horizon. The forest was destroyed for hundreds of meters, just jagged tree stumps and fallen trunks to make up the terrain. Luckily the wind was behind him, blowing the stench of the previous day's battle away from him.

The tankers and LAV-25 crews had set up a perimeter around the center of the hill and were manning night watch, one man on each crew being up to monitor the radio and thermals. Throughout the night engines roared as they started up, charging the batteries of the vehicles, before shutting off to save gas. The infantry had dug hasty positions, just deep enough to hide them from view. A squad at a time maintained guard in their sectors. Across the hill, each man was getting around three-hour blocks of sleep.

It was minutes until the end of his shift, eyelids dropping, that he saw a massive signature surface a kilometer out. It stayed in one place, clearly staging itself. Unfortunately for them, that was easily within range of the tanks. Not their deadly canister rounds, but high explosives would ruin their day.

"Hey, Childs! Wake up," he called to the driver. "Start it up."

On his command, the engine started, puffing out black smoke before roaring to life.

Allen turned to the side to make sure he was on the company net. He pressed the button of his Combat Vehicle Crewman helmet in. "Arrow Six, this is Three Two Golf. Enemy spotted, one klick, west. I see two block formations, staging for an attack. Over."

"Three Two Golf this is Arrow Six, copy all. Continue to observe. Over."

"Roger, out," Allen finished. By then the crew was awake, getting out of their sleeping bags or stuffing their field blankets back into assault packs. Though the open hatch above him he heard the whine of tank engines starting and the grumble of other LAVs.

"All stations on this net, this is Professional Six. Do not engage. Inform when the enemy force is within rifle range. Over."

Over the net, Allen heard the commanders of the various elements of the 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit call off their recognition of the order. At least, the ones that had passed through the Gate by then. Even without a full amount of tank munitions, two platoons of LAV-25s, a company of AAV-mounted infantry, mortars, and heavy machine guns were a force to be reckoned with.

It took nearly half an hour for the enemy to approach. They were slow and, judging from the shape of thermal signatures, had no torches to guide them. Allen had to give them some credit; they were at least trying to think and not just charging in broad daylight. The two formations had formed a line, with one in reserve, and several diamonds of cavalry on the flanks. Some real Alexander the Great shit, he thought.

As soon as the riflemen made to to 300 meters of the perimeter, however, the call was made over radio, an all hell broke loose. All weapons opened fire. Machine guns and rifles cut down the first ranks. Mortars devastated the next, and the two tanks that had sectors on this area were unleashing fire from their three machine guns each.

The radio crackled to life. "Professional X-Ray, this is One Four Golf. 5 blocks of infantry, 3 blocks cavalry approaching from the trees. Over."

"This is Professional X-Ray, roger. Same plan. Rifle range, then all weapons. Your discretion, over."

"This is One Four Actual. Roger, out."

"So they're not plain retarded," Allen said to his crew. Their sister platoon, managing the opposite sector of them, were dealing with a much larger force. The men his platoon was slaughtering, which had to be at least two thousand men, was merely a diversion. They were attempting a sneak attack, concealed by the destroyed forest. Unluckily for them, thermal imaging existed.

Not that it mattered. The back of the diversion was broken. The assault was stopped in its tracks. One group of swordsmen had managed to make it near the perimeter, before it was virtually disintegrated by a well-aimed canister round.

To Allen, that was the battle. Thousands of men dead in an hour. Save for one, all enemy casualties. The impersonality through the thermal sight and the easy of lazy Z-patterns were surreal to his gunner, Lance Corporal Spieers, who decided that he would rather not try to contemplate the massive loss of life he caused. It was no different, physically, from playing a video game, and he was trying to keep it no different mentally to ease his mind. When there was finally no enemy left to shoot, he leaned back in his feet, rubbing his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

Allen leaned back in his seat as well. "You know, in Afghanistan, at least they had a chance," he said. "This is just fucked up."

"Better than us getting killed this time though," Childs countered.

"This isn't a fight, man," Allen said. "It's just… Kicking a bunch of half retarded babies in the face."

The next day was a bright one, no clouds in the sky as Lieutenant Davis made his way to the command post from his vehicle. He nodded to a nearby grunt as he passed, the Marine unloading and reloading a magazine out of boredom. He was greeted inside by the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the sight of lower level officers bent over a terrain model. In front of him was Captain Pelc and the other two platoon leaders of the LAV company, First Lieutenant Vaughn and Second Lieutenant Robles.

"Davis, want coffee?" Pelc asked.

"No," Davis declined. "If you have any grounds though. My crew needs it more."

"Right. Ok, they're on the table by the entrance." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "You all know how fucking much I hate these overcomplicated and ritualized op-orders. Here's all the info we have on the area. First, you will be heading north with your platoon to scout and map. Second, west. Third, South, and same deal. If you can make contact with locals, try and get a map, but I want eyes on."

"What about the language barrier, sir?" Vaughn asked.

"Translation books," Pelc answered. They'll be distributed later. Higher S2 got to play around with prisoners taken in LA. Apparently, their language is just a really distorted Latin, so it was easier than we expected."

Robles's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Really? Shit."

Pelc nodded. "Yeah. Roman-looking armor is starting to make more sense."

"Roger. When's SP?" Davis asked.

"Zero-nine-hundred for you guys. Infantry are already moving out for a battalion-sized perimeter and the tanks are staying at Redcon Two for support. You meet anything heavy, you can call in."

"Sounds good," Davis responded. The three platoon leaders took one of the papers from Pelc before heading back to their vehicles.

"Nah dude, I'm telling you, I have the smallest dick."

"Bruh, my dick is so small I confuse it with my pubes."

"My dick is inverted man, you don't even know."

"What the fuck are you guys talking about?" Allen asked, popping his hatch to get a better look around the vehicle as he talked.

"Sounds like something a guy with a big dick would say," Spieers said.

"Hey, you know what," Allen said, "I'm going to do something productive with my life and look out for shit."

Allen took out a pair of binoculars, searching the horizon for items of interest as Spieers and Childs continued their discussion, if one could call it that. There was another large forest to the south, and a lake to the west with a mountain at its side, a stream flowing into the water.

Other than that, untamed grassland. Not even farms. The column was on a faint road; it was long out of use, with no recent signs of use, but at one point it had been used to extensively the previous travelers' rut was still present in the ground. He looked again to the forest when something moving caught his eye. He looked closer but couldn't make it out.

"Spieers," he ordered. "Check out that forest to the north."

On his command, the turret rotated. Once it was near Allen's target he called the gunner to stop and search that area.

"Smoke? The fuck?" Spieers exclaimed, his head poking out of the hatch of the LAV.

"Scorched earth," Allen answered. "Prevents us from utilizing the land with our advance. Sucks for them because we don't need to forage. They're just starving their own people for no reason."

"Fuck, man," Childs said.

As Third Platoon advanced in a dispersed column formation down the road, Lieutenant Davis was studying the English/native translation book. He was writing down quick phrases in a notebook.

"I hope you dismounts are reading that language book," Davis said over his vehicle's intercom, even though he knew there would be no response. Although there was a loudspeaker, there was only a single handset to communicate to the three crewmen.

"Massive heat signature," Brown, his gunner, informed. "Flames behind the trees."

"Where?" Davis asked.

"In the smoke."

"Oh, right. Makes sense." Davis cleared his throat. "Down, take us to that forest. That path at our eleven should go to there. Maybe a village or some shit, I doubt forests here randomly catch fire."

Down complied, leading the four-vehicle convoy through the woods. The path through the trees was brief and open, and Davis soon got a good view of the burnt village as he peered outside of his hatch. He also got a good whiff. The smell was almost overpowering. The smell of burnt bodies was pervasive; even some of the scouts in the crew compartment were complaining of it.

"Platoon coil. TCs and scouts dismount," he said over the net. He grabbed the edges of his hatch and pulled himself up, catching his knees on top of the edges and pushing himself all the way out. He carefully climbed down, making sure the final jump down was as low as possible. His knees were bad enough already. Before he hopped down, he took off his CVC and tossed it on top of the turret, replacing it with a boonie cap he had inside his cargo pocket.

As his boots hit the ground, a loud crunch was heard, and his heart sank. He already knew that there were going to be little to no survivors, but the sound only reinforced that fact.

"I know it's a moot point, but search for survivors."

It was a moot point, as he said. Building after building was burnt to the ground. All trees in the area were burnt to stumps, and collapsed structures led Davis to believe that they had structures built up in the trees themselves. There were other structures, made out of clay and stones or something, that had mostly survived the fires, that sat in melted lumps around the clearing.

He stepped forwards and heard a squelch. He looked down. What he assumed to be a piece of burnt lumber was a charred torso, his boot embedded into it. As he took a closer look around, it was no different. Bodies were strewn about the ground, their color the same ashy black as the earth. He entered a nearby house. Nothing was in a recognizable form. Embers were still lit in ash piles. The heat slapped him in the face like a solid object, his eyes watering and burning like they were splashed with salt water. He backed out quickly; nothing was there for him.

He looked around at his platoon. The dismounts were having similar experiences. The mood had depressed since the second battle the previous day. His experience went from unstoppable killing machines to powerless wannabe heroes squabbling over the rubble of a city they tried to save.

He rubbed his eyes to calm himself. No point in worrying about the past, and the attack likely happened before they even arrived through the Gate anyway. This was certainly not done by the enemy. Even if they torched the town, fire does not flash-sear everything in sight. He was about to call the dismounts back into their vehicles when he thought he heard a woman's voice.

"Quiet!" he yelled, holding up a hand. He heard it again, a bit louder, and in the native language.

Other dismounts had picked up on it too. "The well!" one of the Marines yelled, pulling out a flashlight and sprinting towards the small stone structure in the middle of the clearing. There were two charred stumps sticking out of the ground, presumably the pulley system for a water bucket.

"Get some rappel gear!" Davis ordered, also running to the well. There, at the bottom, he could see a small, young female face, covered in dirtied blonde hair. "Hurry the fuck up!"

A Marine returned with a couple bundles of rope over his shoulders, with the platoon's two corpsmen right behind him.

"You know how to make a ranger harness?" Davis asked.

"I got it," Emerson, one of the corpsmen, answered. "Just set up the ropes."

"No, hold on," Davis said. "Just bring a LAV back here. We'll just tie you up to it and reverse it."

The Marine ran back to his vehicle, climbing up on top and knocking on the driver's hatch. After a second of conversation, he hopped back down. Davis went to a few meters behind the vehicle, motioning to the Marine to signal the driver from the front. Davis backed him up to within fifteen meters of the well and tied one end of the rope to a point on the back of the vehicle.

Emerson tied the rope to the front of his harness, making sure there was little slack in the rope. "Reverse!" he yelled.

Davis turned back to the LAV, signaling for the driver to move back slightly.

After several shouts of "Keep going!" and "Almost!" he finally heard a "Stop!" from the corpsman. Finally an "Up!" was heard. Davis signaled for the LAV to advance. The driver was skilled, it seemed, as he kept a slow but steady pace that didn't disrupt the two on the rope.

Emerson, with the help of a dismount, helped the villager out of the well. She was barely conscious and practically dead weight tot he two. To Davis, she looked incredibly young. No older than twenty or so. And, although he didn't want to seem like he was taking advantage of the situation, she was incredibly beautiful. Objectively speaking, he mentally told himself. He was allowed to make observations.

As her long, blonde, but muddied hair shifted he caught sight of her ears.

"OK so I guess elves exist now," he said half to himself. He stayed back, letting Emerson and the other corpsman get to work.

As she was on her back, Emerson setting up a stretcher next to her, she pointed to his dark skin and muttered something. It was faint, Davis caught it and wrote it down, quickly translating it with his book.

"Dark Elf?" He checked back through his book and re-translated. "The fuck?"

The Marines around him stopped what they were doing and stared at him. "Yo, I think elves are racist here," one of the dismounts said, and everyone save for the corpsmen burst into laughter despite their surroundings, despite the frantic and depressed mood of only a few minutes ago. It was a welcome reprieve, however, and a boost for morale despite the horror they witnessed the aftermath of.

Davis let the laughter die down. He thought it best to let the tension relieve itself. After a minute he caught his platoon's attention. "Fuck it. Let's hit the road again. Continue northwest."

After he settled back into his seat, Davis thought for a second. Whatever destroyed this village was likely still around, or would be back later. Maybe not, but there was a huge risk of it, he felt. He switched the J-Box, the control panel for his CVC, to broadcast on the company net. He wanted to make a call first.

"Woah, shit, we got buildings here," Down said.

"Good spot, driver," Davis praised. "Gunner, sights on." He pressed the button on his helmet to voice to the platoon. "Platoon line. Buildings ahead, some kind of village."

The four vehicles pulled up, about a hundred meters from each other. Once they reached just outside the main village road, they pulled in towards each other and formed a semicircle facing away from the village. As the gunners set up their sectors of fire, the rear ramp was lowered and the scout dismounts, four to each vehicle, slowly stepped outside as villagers began to crowd around in front of them.

Not too smart of them, thought Davis, but he was happy for the break. He really did not want to deal with a bunch of panicked civilians. "Relax, guys," he said to the dismounts as he exited his own vehicle. The commanders of the other three LAVs did likewise. "We don't need to spook them."

He stepped forwards, drawing their attention. As they stared at him, he pulled out his notebook and began reading. "Good morning. I am Lieutenant Davis. I am from America," he said in their language. No need to confuse them with specifying Marines. "We do not want to fight you. We want information about the land."

An old man stepped forwards. He held himself regally, despite his diminutive size, and peered at Davis curiously. He said a few words in his language, pointing at Davis and his Marines. Davis began writing it down in his notebook. Fortunately, the man said it slowly, and he was able to get most of it. He referenced his book.

Why are we here, and how can we be trusted? Davis took a few seconds to find translations. Luckily, the first part he already had written down. "We are here because we were attacked by an army from this land. We are securing this area to protect our citizens. We want to earn your trust. A nearby village was destroyed by flame. We can protect you."

At this, the man's eye went wide with fear. He began yelling in his language to the villagers, and the followed suite. It was too fast for him to decipher, so he went and grabbed the old man, asking what was happening. He spoke slowly and clearly, and the translation Davis wrote down sent a chill down his back. "Fire dragon. One village is not enough to feed it. It will be back."

Thank God the cavalry had just arrived, he thought.

Auburn, California

"So, what do you think?"

Sergeant Warren thought for a minute. "I would like to go across the Gate right now. But I joined the Guard instead of active for a reason."

The Staff Sergeant in front of him scratched his chin for a few seconds before continuing.

"You won't need to worry about that. Judging by your combat patch, I know you can see how long Guard deployments can be."

Warren nodded his head. "Yeah."

"For one, this is technically a non-deployable unit. This is going to be a duty station. Six months out there, six back in California."

"Doesn't sound that bad," Warren admitted. Even if it was more constant, his time away from his family was limited to six months at a time. "So how big is this mobilization?"

"Big," the Staff Sergeant answered. "Two brigades are being reflagged from other divisions, and this offer is being made to all local National Guard units."

Warren let it roll around in his head for a moment. For one, he would be back on a tank, which he honestly missed, despite all the bitching he had done on his last overseas deployment. Two, and most importantly, he would replace those damn Marines. "Ok, deal."

The Staff Sergeant reached across the table to shake his hand. As he sat down, Warren leaned over to get a better look at the soldier's unit patch, a circle bearing an hourglass-looking shape. "Welcome to the Seventh Infantry Division."