AN: The previous version of this chapter was, in short, terrible. It was rushed before we went out for field training. Well, I'm back out of it, and decided to make it a bit less shitty and substantial. Granted, I'm not entirely satisfied with this, but it's more the full chapter I intended to write.
"Sergeant Pence..."
She had just exited her bath, maids attending to her dress, as she addressed the American who was waiting outside her room behind a thin but closed door.
"What were those things?"
"You'll have to be more specific, sorry."
"Those huge tan things. The one that captured the magician."
"Ah, those," he said under his breath. "Tanks, ma'am. We call them tanks. Imagine a metal carriage that can withstand a dragon's fire from feet away, and can demolish a building with gigantic, exploding arrows."
"That's just impossible," she started, trying to remember what she saw. "How many of those does your nation have?"
"More than enough," he answered. "More than enough to sweep through the entire continent in a month's time."
The dinner was fully underway. Troop command and upwards from the squadron as well as the brigade commander had been invited, as well as their Marine counterparts, and were eagerly sampling the display laid out on the table. The two crews of tankers from Fourth Squadron, Fourth Cavalry Regiment were cleanly dressed considering the conditions. Each were given access to washrooms and had clean sets of uniforms on. The muted tones of the camouflage were a stark contrast to the extravagant clothing of the city's nobility.
For Sergeant Warren and his crew, however, they were sampling something else.
"So those snakes," Nash asked, moving his finger around near her head as a couple of the snakes that sprouted from her head followed his movement, "are they smart?"
The maid chuckled, her cute face blushing, and seeing that, Nash felt a hot flash smack him in the face. She was what, a Medusa?
He certainly wasn't interested in her, although she was interesting. She wasn't, he would say, hot, but she was certainly beautiful and adorable. Big, round eyes took in the sight of his uniform, taking it in with the utmost interest.
Her eyes settled on his weapon, his issued M9 holstered and tethered onto an old ALICE belt he had picked up from a surplus store for a small handful of dollars. Each of the soldiers in the room had their sidearms and a single magazine, albeit unloaded. She then moved her eyes upwards towards the rest of his uniform, especially eying the hourglass-looking patch on his left arm, and then the flag on his right.
She didn't respond to his question. There was also no interpreter nearby so she really couldn't and he didn't know what he was expecting when he spoke.
"Es colube," she said, patting one of the small things with the tip of her finger, which then nibbled on her fingertip with the soft nubs that were its teeth.
Well, he thought, she at least knew I was talking about her… hair?
On the other side of her head, Nash saw one of the other snakes bite at a nearby fly. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he liked it.
Across the hall, Guererro had the benefit of an interpreter. Around him were several of the demi-human maids, who seemed very interested in his words.
"So when it fires," he explained, using his hands to demonstrate his words, "the gun shoots back so fast it can break your bones. What I do is I take another projectile and load it in as fast as possible, which is usually five seconds."
"How heavy are they?" the cat girl maid asked.
"About fifty of our pounds," the tanker answered. "Our pounds are about one and a half times heavier, I think."
A series of 'oohs' came from the small group as they took in the information. They didn't know what he was talking about, but to Guererro they seemed impressed.
"Why do your boots have straps? Most of you others have laces," the bunny girl maid said.
"These are tanker boots. They're traditional for tankers, although some of us don't wear them."
"What is that symbol?" asked the sole human maid, who had previously introduced herself as Momu. She pointed at the small piece of embroidery on the left side of his chest.
"It's an airborne badge," he explained. "I was awarded this for completing a school for jumping out of airplanes, which are huge vehicles that fly."
With that, the maids' questions continued, and they only grew more and more interested in his word.
Steven Murillo eyed the soldier before him in the interrogation tent. There were few others in the room: a couple military police for security, an Army intelligence officer, and a Sergeant with a recording device and notebook. It had been months since entry to the gate, enough time for a dedicated student to grasp a solid understanding of the native tongue, and ample time for a civilian expert like himself to become rather fluent.
"You're an elf," he observed.
"That I am," the captive replied. He spoke with a clean accent, light in tone but every syllable deliberate. He sat shackled to the table, although his hands were not fixed in place, instead resting comfortably on the surface in front of him.
"I had thought the Empire was human centric," he said. "But you were in charge of the force in siege of Italica?"
"Second in command, but I took over when Lord Falmor was killed in battle."
"Could you explain your background then, and why you are in such a position of power?"
"I do not know why you focus on my past so much. I am an Imperial officer. The Legions make no distinction between native and foreign-born. Although my province was only formally annexed a hundred and fifty years ago, my great grandfather was one of the first to earn citizenship by joining the auxiliaries, and my grandfather on have kept the tradition alive through the Legion. My family and region are honored throughout the capital for our service."
"So the Empire is rather pragmatic in its recruiting practices."
"Of course," he said, nodding. "The elf tribes in the deeper forests kill outsiders on sight, and many other groups I do not know about are equally barbaric. The Empire swells with those caught at their spears."
Stevens scratched his chin in thought. "You said great grandfather. How long lived are elves?"
"Average age is around two hundred fifty, but our development isn't much longer than that of humans despite our longevity. Many families start in their late twenties, although we do stay physically and mentally young until a hundred or so years of age."
Steven took a sip from a canteen he had sitting in front of him. "Ok, new topic. For what reason did you attack Italica?"
"In short, we were sent to die. We were on standby to the east of Italica to back up the expedition through Alnus Hill. We were given information that it had been repulsed and were to meet with a second Imperial army, which never arrived."
Steven studied the elf, looking for signs of deceit. As far as he could tell, there were none, but he was also a different species. He continued, regardless. "So you were betrayed because reinforcements never arrived?"
"No," the elf said, "but because after our formation was routed by your men, the Italican garrison attacked us as if we were enemies. I was able to contact sources inside the royal mansion that they were led to believe by men posing as our survivors, that we had killed Count Formar ourselves during the battle in an act of mutiny, and were attempting to capture the city in his absence."
The elf chuckled. "We have a word for that in the elven language, but it does not translate."
Steven thought for a moment. "Self fulfilling prophecy?"
"Perhaps," he said. "Close but not exact."
"So did you not try to explain the situation?"
"I did not learn of this deceit until three days into the siege," the elf answered. He paused, taking a sip of water from a paper cup of water in front of him. "I had to sneak men into the city to meet with contacts. By then, they had killed too many of my men, and we had killed too many of theirs. I am not sure how it may work in your army, but leaders are not just positions. They are roles. I care for my men as dearly as if they were family. A betrayal of them is a knife to my own back."
Steven nodded. To his left, the sergeant was writing down notes. To his right, the Army officer stepped forwards.
"Could you explain why you would have been betrayed?"
"Politics, as always," came the reply. "My scouts had gathered no sign of the Alnus garrison or immediate relief forces aside from patches of corpses your men had not cleaned up yet, so I concluded their deaths. But they were Legionaries, true Imperial citizens, with auxiliary support. Lord Formal and I were Imperial citizens but in charge of allied armies."
He paused. Another sip of water.
"The balance of power was shifted forever simply by your arrival, gentlemen. They needed to re-balance the scales."
Steven spoke up again. "You have been mentioning the Empire. What is the name of this Empire?"
"That is its name," the elf replied. "The Empire. It is eternal and it is in solitude. A name is rather superfluous."
Steven mulled over the native language's actual words. Especially the word for 'Empire'.
Romis.
The din of the party inside the hall penetrated the secure room in which Princess Pina co Lada and the young Countess Formal, as well as Colonel Fitzgerald and Ambassador Evans from the United States. The room was well-furnished with cushioned chairs along the walls, while in the center stood a small drink table, around which sat two flat couches. Tapestry lined the walls, embroidered with battle scenes and images of magnificent cities. To the side of the two pairs sat an interpreter, a short, bespectacled female Specialist.
A ceramic jar, finely decorated with images of what he assumed were the royal family, sat in the center of the table, and next to it were four bronze chalices filled with a weak wine. It was well after the battle; the American soldiers had set up aid stations for the wounded, and engineer assets were assisting with removing rubble from the city.
"I wish to start this meeting with my sincere gratitude for your assistance," Countess Formal said, extending her hand to the Colonel. She was young, extremely young, and he had been told she was in that position because of the death of her father when he led an attack against Alnus Hill.
After a second, he took her small hand and returned the shake. Now that I remember, shaking hands originated from Rome anyway, he thought. Whether or not they are somehow ancient Rome, they might as well copy courtesies as well as aesthetics.
"You speak English, ma'am?"
The interpreter turned to the Countess and translated, before receiving a response and saying, "No, I just wished to say it in your own language."
"I appreciate the effort," Fitzgerald returned.
"To business," she said. "If you don't know already, you would soon find out that we are vassals of the Empire. I want to clear the air on what your army will do to us with your victory."
Evans nodded, thinking for a moment. "It is true that we are currently at war, and that any aggression from your forces will not be tolerated. However, given the vassal position you are in, we will not pursue active hostilities. We will treat you as a separate entity from the Empire. The United States believe that a state of neutrality will prevent a lot of unnecessary bloodshed for both sides."
"So you will leave my city on its own?"
"That is true," Fitzgerald answered. "Occupying your city is not an objective necessary to defeating the Empire in this war." He, of course, didn't mention that the brigade hardly had the resources or manpower to accomplish such a task.
Evans cleared his throat. "Princess co Lada, since is the first time we are sitting for talk, I should also inform you that we are open to peace with the Empire itself, as well. The president and congress of the United States invites you to visit our nation so we can discuss a peaceful conflict resolution."
"Ma'am, believe me," Fitzgerald added, "this war will end at one point and in every scenario the United States maintains dominance. We are giving you a chance that the Empire could benefit from this as well."
Pina co Lada met the officer's eyes. "I accept the invitation."
The tank commander was surrounded by a group of young noblewomen, speaking so fast it was hard for the native interpreter to keep up.
"What is your country like?"
"What do you do?"
"Are you married?"
"What is a 'tank'?"
But one line of question kept popping up, as much as he tried to evade it.
"Mister Warren, do you have any war stories?"
Alright, he thought. They want a damn war story.
"Yes, actually, I do."
As the interpreter spoke the translation, the group grew quiet, hanging on his word.
"I was in a place called 'Iraq' inside a tank, like I am here. I was younger and driving, so I spent days on end looking out a small window the size of my hand. Nothing happened for weeks. Eventually, along a long and featureless road that we had driven down a dozen times before, the tank in front of me was blown into the air by an explosion."
He paused for a second, trying to remember the details he had pushed out of his mind for the past five years, trying to place them in order. Flashes flew by without forming coherent events.
"Enemy soldiers came out of hiding positions and shot special weapons designed to attack tanks. One got very lucky and managed to hit us in the right spot, and it damaged it so that the main weapon couldn't turn. All I could hear was my best friend screaming. All I could smell was the smoke."
He stopped speaking for a second, coughing out the choking feeling he was getting in his throat.
"I was ordered to drive forwards and run some of them over with the tracks since we couldn't turn our main weapon. The tank in front that was blown into the air was able to shoot back, and the tanks behind me fired everything they had. We killed every single fighter that tried to kill us. We weren't attacked in that area again for months."
The young noblewomen around him were silent, staring at him with wide eyes. His blank face offered no further explanation. One eventually bowed and muttered something.
"Thank you for your conversation," the interpreter said as she awkwardly made off to another group in the ballroom. The others quickly following suite, muttering excuses to scamper away.
"What was that about, Sergeant?" Warren heard from behind him. There stood Moreno, idling rather awkwardly at a loose parade rest as he glanced around at the rest of the guests in the vast room.
"The reason I reclassed at first," Warren answered. "And also a lesson on why you shouldn't treat any enemy as a joke. I didn't mention to them, but my TC died from that RPG hit and my gunner was evac'd for shrapnel in his neck. The driver in the tank in front died from having his neck snapped during that explosion."
Moreno eyed him curiously. "You think we might lose then?"
He shook his head. "No, we'd wipe the floor with them any day. But we'd lose way more people than we have to if we don't take them seriously. Don't confuse uneducated for stupid. I can think of a dozen ways they could fuck us up with magic if we start acting like idiots."
"Alright, change of mission," the man said. They were in the ballroom in their conventional military dress, with unassuming insignia on their clothing. "Wooding, your team will be the Princess's liaisons. Follow her around. Play along. You're going to be her showpiece when she tries to convince her friends not to attack us."
"Roger, sir."
The senior officer leaned in closer. "You will be fully autonomous in this. Do not fuck this up."
"Of course, sir."
