Security Checkpoint, 1 mile from Camp Charlie
Corporal Randy sat on the Humvee's gunner seat, manning the M2 machine gun. Two Humvees sat on the dirt road, each located at opposite sides. The field around the road was practically plain and flat as it could possibly be, with no large vegetation or trees for at least a mile. For the past few hours, Randy sat on his ass and watched as the other troops in front checked the civilian convoys moving through. To call them convoys would be an insult to actual convoys. Most of them were just groups of carriages and wagons who traveled together, seeking passage through the road to their village or town. It was extremely tedious and boring to sit for hours on end, not doing anything.
Why did I even enlist...
His thoughts were interrupted as he saw a large plume of smoke on the road in front of him. From behind the smoke, he could clearly make out the silhouettes of what appeared to be a horse and a wagon, while a dark human-shaped shadow sat on the horse. They were trodding along, slowly but surely to the checkpoint, likely arriving with a few dozen seconds.
A few meters away, Private Allen gripped his jet-black carbine, finger rested away from the trigger. He dug his free hand in his combat fatigue's pocket, rapidly pulling out a Saderan translation book. His eyes scanned through the common phrases, written in dark ink on the first page, and Allen began reciting it over and over to himself.
"Trying to learn some words at the last minute, Private?" questioned a voice from behind him. His squad sergeant, Alexander Dylan, had peered over Allen's shoulders and saw that he was reading the translation book.
"Yes, Sergeant. Saderan ain't exactly easy to remember," replied Allen, still browsing over the pages.
"Well, Private, you better be quick, 'cause that wagon's coming any second now." Sgt. Dylan slung his carbine over his shoulder as he gripped a binocular with one hand, looking at the rapidly advancing convoy.
"Sergeant-" Allen was cut off as a Humvee on the left side played a loudspeaker, telling them to stop the convoy and be searched, in the Saderan language. The convoy immediately stopped, the horses and wagons stopping. Dylan noticed through his binoculars that one of the riders had begun to sweat profusely, alarming Dylan.
"Vasquez! You, me, and Allen are going to search it!" Vasquez paced towards the 2 other soldiers, carbine in hand. Vasquez was chosen for his knowledge of the Saderan language and was the squad's only linguistic expert. Similar to all the other Army soldiers, Vasquez had a ballistic vest on, as well as camouflaged fatigues and a protective helmet with a built-in communications eyepiece. This eyepiece was a key component of the Army's Infantry Communication System*, networking and linking all soldiers together. It was revolutionary, as soldiers could now receive mountains worth of important information while on the battlefield.
"Vasquez, ask them where they're going!"
Vasquez complied with Dylan's orders, striding towards the lead horse and wagon. The convoy itself was about 3 wagons, all in all.
"Where are you going?" queried Vasquez to the man sitting on the wagon.
"We are going to..." the man paused in uneasy hesitation, clearly trying to think of a suitable answer the question. Dylan became increasingly uneasy, as he saw sweat pouring out of the man's brows.
"Like I said, where are you going to?" replied an impatient Vasquez.
"Uhh... Tarsha Village, not far from here."
"What is the purpose of your trip?"
"We are delivering... goods."
Vasquez and Dylan both noted the man's hesitation in answering the questions. Allen kept watch, glancing over the wagon on the dirt road, while Randy lethargically locked back the .50 cal. That man had a look similar to the ones had been seen on the German rebels in Stettin.
"Alright, thank you for your answer. We are going to conduct a search of your wagon, if you don't mind, for security purposes."
The man perked up at that, giving a face of panic.
"No, that won't be necessary-" The rider was interrupted as a scream of panic came from the lead wagon.
"PLEASE SAVE US!" yelled a high-pitched, feminine voice. This was followed by a scantily-dressed woman with cat ears leaping out of the front of the wagon, past the man.
The cat-woman ran into Vasquez's arms, tears streaming down her face as she did.
"Okay, what the fuck's going on?" asked Vasquez.
"He's going to sell us at the markets!
"I... I demand that you return my goods at once!" yelled the man on the wagon.
Vasquez ignored the man's yelling and looked down at the cat-woman. She was quite a beautiful thing, but she was clearly roughed up, as scratches and bruises marked her face. Her face dug into his chest, the warmth of it surprising Vasquez.
Up ahead, Randy locked back the .50 cal on the Humvee.
"RELEASE THE FUCKING SLAVES OR I'LL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!" roared an enraged Dylan, pointing the carbine at the man sitting on the wagon. It didn't matter to him that the people he were rescuing weren't human. A long time ago, his own ancestors had been enslaved as well, with nearly all of them dying in SS labor camps. He would not let it happen to these people.
"THEY ARE BEASTMEN! THEY DON'T DESERVE ANYTHING!"
Covertly, the man began taking a bow and arrow from his side and loaded it. He aimed at one of the Americans for a brief second. He pulled back on the string and released it, all in under a second. The arrow whirred past Vasquez's head, blowing air past him, and reached its final destination: Allen's right shoulder.
This will show those stupid upstarts...
Allen collapsed in pain as it shattered his scapula bone.
"FUCK!"
"ENGAGE!"
"LET ME THROUGH OR I'LL-" He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence.
The man sitting on the wagon was pumped chock-full with lead, with holes spewing out blood by the second. After a second of sustained fire, his lifeless body slumped to the ground.
"MOTHERFUCKER!"
"CEASE FIRE!"
"SECURE THE WAGON!" hollered Dylan, dragging a writhing Allen behind a Humvee.
Vasquez pushed the cat-woman off his chest and sprinted to the back of the wagon, accompanied by another soldier. As he opened the flap of the wagon, he saw something too... too horrible to describe. In the back of the wagon were twelve individuals, all of them female. Four had cat-ears on the top of their heads, while the other eight were regular humans, from what he could tell. At least three of them looked like they were under the age of twelve, disgusting Vasquez. All of them had open cuts on their face, bruises on their necks, and whip marks on their arms. Worst of all, they all wore brown linen rags, each stained with fluids that he did not want to think about.
Then, it dawned on him.
These people were being sold as sex slaves, even the younger ones. Vasquez felt a hot fluid making its up way up his throat.
"WE NEED A MEDIC OVER HERE!" The other soldier accompanying him shouted.
30 miles from Bellnahgo
"The sky's so blue," Johnson muttered to himself. The sky had not been blocked by constant streams of pollution coming from factories. It was a marvel to see, with nothing blocking his view.
He rested his head on the hard, cold chassis of the HMV. It wasn't comfortable, but it would do for a few hours. Sitting to next him was the Australian corporal, Irving, while Darris's feet was lodged right in the middle of them, as he was the .50 cal gunner.
"Meh," Corporal Irving spoke, "just another day in the outback."
On the dirt road were two High Mobility Vehicles, a supply truck, and an LAV-25 APC.
Their dark green vehicles contrasted against the bright surroundings. A world gone to hell and back met a world not yet gone to hell. Meanwhile, the monotonous hum of the wheels slowly tired everyone out.
"Sergeant, we got a village up ahead, 12 o' clock, 400 meters," The driver, PFC Larry, called from the front seat. Next to him in the front passenger seat was Alexandra, the squad's combat medic.
Johnson budged himself up to the front seats, looking through the window. Sure enough, a mass of stone and wooden huts had stood before them.
As he stared out the window of the Humvee, the radio came to life.
"Hunter Two-One Actual, what do you see? Over."
Johnson grabbed the radio's microphone and began to speak into it.
"Warlord Six, this is Hunter Two-One Actual, we have a village in front of us, 12 o'clock, 100 meters. Over."
While speaking into the radio, Johnson observed that most of the buildings looked charcoal black. Not a soul was seen in the village yet, alarming Johnson.
"Looks awfully suspicious..."
He reached his hand for a pair of binoculars on a ledge in the driver's compartment. Johnson peered through them and was mortified by what he saw.
He saw the silhouette of what appeared to be a burnt corpse hanging from a tree in the village, a hastily tied noose around his neck.
"Oh my god..." He muttered to himself.
"What is it, Sergeant?" Larry asked while squinting out the window.
He handed over the binoculars to Larry. Larry's right hand reached for them while his other hand was still on the steering wheel.
"Jesus..."
Right after that, their comms came to life again/
"Hunter Two-One Actual, what do you see? Over."
"Warlord Six, the whole fucking village is burnt to smithereens. I got a hanging body in my sight. Over."
There was a brief pause.
"R-roger that, Hunter Two-One Actual. Over and out."
xxx
Johnson looked at the hanging villager, his eyes fixated on the corpse's open mouth. It sent shivers down Johnson's spine, sending a primal terror to his brain. All he wanted to do was get the fuck out of there. Nevertheless, he had been the one who had given the order to exit the vehicles and search for survivors in the town. If he left now, he'd be a coward in the eyes of his squad.
Around the tree that the villager had been hung on were the remains of two wooden huts. Black, soot-stained planks made up the space that was formerly occupied by the huts. From the corner of his eye, Johnson saw the blackened corpse of a child, face-up.
Who the fuck did this?
Behind Johnson, a shaken Alberts held his assault rifle with an iron grip, terror present in his eyes. In a way, he looked a lot similar to the Filipino soldiers who had been sent into Stettin the days after the orbital bombardment.
Next to them was Irving, who turned his head and scouted out the ruins of the town.
As they trekked through the ruins, an eerie silence had dawned on them. No one had anything to say.
After a few minutes, they were done scouting around the town. No survivors were found. The rest of the soldiers regrouped at the edge of the town, next to their vehicles.
Johnson's helmet comms flared up, as he was sitting on a rock with his squad.
"Hunter Two-One Actual, any survivors? Over."
"Roger, Warlord Six, no survivors. Over and out."
"You think a dragon could of done this, Sarge?" asked Larry. His voice was trembling a bit. After all, it was his first time seeing dead bodies.
"I don't know, Private. Anything could happen here."
"It it is a dragon, we're fucked," Darris spoke, his usual polite English accent gone.
"The ones at New York could only be killed by .50 cal armor piercing rounds. The spooks at home are saying that their scales are as durable as tungsten."
Johnson merely sighed at that.
"If anything goes wrong, we got the Bushmaster on the LAV."
Nearby, Alexandra held a clipboard with a single piece of paper attached to it. She paced up to her squad sergeant, her face clearly alarmed.
"Sergeant, I've-I've noticed something very wrong."
Johnson's eyes flickered up as he took a swig from his water bottle.
"What is it, Corporal?"
"All the bodies that we've recovered so far are male. We haven't found any female bodies at all. Additionally, the bodies that we did find, those that weren't already burnt to smithereens, had stab wounds in them." Alexandra spoke with a flat, almost robotic voice, boring Johnson out.
"What's your point, Corporal?" He said with a disinterested tone.
"My point is that this wasn't a natural occurrence. Women don't just disappear from villages and villagers don't get stabbed during fires."
Johnson tapped his head on his helmet a few times while thinking.
"You think it was a bandit raid?"
"Possibly."
"That doesn't explain the hanging villager. Why hang someone then stab everyone in the town?"
"Maybe-" Alexandra was interrupted as a Polish Army private a few feet away yelled out something which he couldn't understand. Fortunately, he repeated it in English.
"I got a civilian at my 3 o' clock!"
Johnson stood up from the rock while gripping his 7.62x51mm battle rifle. He paced up to the soldier's position and turned his head roughly 90 degrees to the right.
A woman with bunny ears, her pale face and clothes stained black with soot, stood in front of the blackened, charred remains of a wooden hut.
She was shaking rather visibly, her hands trembling as she saw them. After a few seconds, she closed her eyes and fell on the burnt grass below her.
She had fainted.
"MEDIC!" hollered Johnson.
Camp Charlie
"Gentlemen, what I am about to show to you may be alarming," stated General Mattis, supreme commander of all operations in Falmart.
In the room was a table with 5 chairs, each occupied by an officer in dull green BDUs decked with dozens of pins and medals. The commanders of the UN task force were there, each paying close attention to what the General was about to say. Behind them was a wooden door and behind that were two guards, each holding submachine guns. Stacks of papers and folders occupied the space on the table, along with a single laptop, which Mattis was currently viewing.
Mattis turned the laptop towards the men. Aerial images of Humvees and Asian-looking men, and a star-shaped fort surrounding a Gate complex had taken up most of the screen.
"General, what exactly are we looking at?" queried Colonel Davidson, the Canadian commander of the UN task force.
"These images were taken by our drones at 2:00 Zulu this morning."
"Have the Chinese sent forces through the Gate?" asked Lt. Colonel Singh, Indian liaison to Falmart.
"Colonel, no. In fact, these forces aren't even Chinese at all. They have the Japanese flag hoisted up."
"That's impossible," said Davidson. "The Japanese would have told us if a Gate opened up."
"Our intelligence units back home in Japan have been flying drones over every square inch of the islands for at least a week now. They've gotten nothing. Additionally, the Japanese government denies that there is a Gate."
Lt. Colonel Singh narrowed his eyes as he examined the screen.
"Wait, the Japanese don't even have an armored platoon. How the hell are there main battle tanks in that picture?" Singh pointed out the discrepancy.
"And that's what I was going to get to. For all intents and purposes, most of the equipment that we have taken pictures of don't exist. Those main battle tanks they're using, we don't know what they are. Hell, even their damn construction vehicles are unknown to us," said Mattis.
"Perhaps, we are not the only world that the Gate has opened up to," suggested Colonel Williams from across the table.
"What do you mean, Colonel?"
"I mean that those Japs are not of this world. Think about it. You really think that a Gate would only open up to our world?"
"That's simply preposterous," remarked Davidson.
"Yeah, and a year ago it would have been preposterous for a portal to a fantasy world to open up in New York, wouldn't it?"
Davidson stayed silent.
"Whatever the matter, I fully intend on making contact with them. They're essentially doing the same as us, winning over hearts and minds. Their FOB is located roughly 400 miles from here, at an area that we have identified as Alnus Hill, a holy site for the Falmartians. The Sixth Recon is the closest to them, correct?"
"Yes, General."
"Good. Tell them to scout down to Alnus after they've reached Rondel. Get a drone to resupply them."
Imperial Capital - Akusho / Red Light District
Corporal Diaz peered through her scope from atop the mason building's rooftop. In her crosshair reticle was a man with a rather square face, with sideburns that ran from the bottom of his face to his hair. Bessara. The creme de la creme of the worst criminals in Falmart. This man did it all: rape, slavery, extortion, kidnappings. Think of the most fucked up thing and Bessara's guaranteed to have done it at one point. For the past few days, Diaz and the rest of her squad had monitored Bessara, after one of their squad members was assaulted by his men. Of course, they all failed miserably when trying to kill him. For their bravery, they were rewarded with a 9mm headache.
Bessara poked his head out of a window on the third story of the building he was on and yelled an order to his henchmen.
"Teach those outsiders a lesson!" Bessara gestured to a building to his left.
As he ordered, several elven archers fired flaming arrows at the building, saturating it with flames within a fraction of a second.
No way anyone could have survived that.
After the saturation attack, a man with four arms raced towards the door of the building, mace in hand.
I feel sorry for those poor bastards in there.
Just as the four-armed man was sprinting down the street into the building, a door opened. Diaz would faintly see what appeared to be a black cylinder in the shadows.
Then, the four-armed man's head was blown off with a shotgun. He died instantly, his body collapsing onto the ground in front of the door.
An eerie silence dawned on the henchmen standing in the street, as they saw him collapse onto the ground.
What the fuck?
"What?" Bessara's voice had a trace of growing panic in it, mixed with confusion.
Suddenly, a wolfman fell face-first into the dirt street, attracting even more panic. On his back, a slowly emanating bloodstain had appeared.
All of the windows on the building opened up.
Then all hell broke loose.
The automatic fire raked from side-to-side, killing dozens in the blink of an eye. From the rooftops, Diaz could make out the silhouettes of men in green, firing downwards at the crowd in the street. She took cover, fearing for her life.
Diaz activated the mic on her ICS helmet.
"ASSASSIN 5, WE HAVE CONFIRMED GUNFIRE AT MY LOCATION, OVER!"
* - Infantry Communication System: similar to a real-life Land-Warrior helmet.