The air was cool and gentle upon the nape of his neck, clean and untainted. The pine trees rustled calmly in the wind, dropping several pinecones that hit a soft bed of pine needles and undergrowth. Nature was tiptoeing around the unconscious man, waking him up gently opposed to the sudden and violent wake up he had grown far too accustomed to over the past few months.
The man stirred lightly, emitting a soft groan. His head felt like the night after leave, when he and his friends had one drink too many. There was a dull, throbbing ache in each of his muscles and his ears rang with this foreign serenity. Warm brown eyes forced their way open amongst a layer of blood, sweat, and grime that had sown the lids shut. There was a sharp inhale before a lengthy exhale as the man sunk deeper into the soft bed of pine.
His eyes closed, content to remain so as his body soaked up the soothing atmosphere. It was a far cry from the constant action he had known for longer than he cared for. Peace as opposed to violence.
A moment passed.
The man's eyes violently shot open with an audible gasp, pained muscles injected with adrenaline and forcing themselves up. He rallied himself and pushed upwards, wiping off a layer of blood and grime from his face with a shaky hand.
Standing up, the man looked around in a panic. He was not where he should be. Gone was the gravel road littered with the bodies of his comrades, the smoking wrecks of blackened vehicles, and the distant explosions. It was instead replaced by a deafening quiet unlike no other. The serenity of nature encompassed and the man was powerless to understand why. Such peace was almost as frightening as not knowing how he got here.
It was difficult to fight back the disquieting feelings that were threatening to take over, but he did. While a deep and shaky inhale, he mentally plotted out his next course of action. A quick pat down revealed that his wounds were superficial, though the throbbing in his temple had yet to cease. Devoid of a rifle and helmet, but still holding on to his knife, a few bandages, and his canteen. The canteen was empty because of the piece of shrapnel lodged two inches deep in it. The thing had likely saved him from traumatic injury.
With no communication equipment or notion of where he was, his next course of action was to attempt to find any sort of landmarks or signs of civilization. Failing that, he would find a shelter and some water. He would allow himself to panic then, but not yet.
He forced one foot in front of the other, picking a direction and sticking to it. He was in no shape to climb any of the trees, and these ones did not offer an easy climb. Establishing where North lay was crucial to understanding his surroundings. Through the trees he could make out what looked to be a decent vantage point.
After two minutes of walking, the man stopped, crouching low to the ground. He lifted his ear to the wind, needing to verify whether or not those were voices that he heard. They were, but he could not tell the language or dialect. Still, he decided to get closer until he could pick up on the words. He knew a little bit of Korean, but virtually no Mandarin or Russian. With any luck, these voices would belong to friends instead of enemies.
Creeping closer, he could not hear the entirety of the conversation, he was near certain that it was English. He breathed a huge sigh of relief, eager to see his comrades and get to a medical tent ASAP. Figuring out how the hell he got here was secondary.
The man cleared his throat.
"Lieutenant Colin McGunn, United States Army!" He shouted, enunciating each word so there was no confusion. Getting a friendly round in him would really suck. He heard the drawing of steel, rapid movement, and hushed voices.
Stepping out from the tree, Colin was not met with the scene he expected. Not even remotely. Instead of fellow Americans, or even some NATO soldiers, he was greeted by what looked to be roman cosplayers. They were tressed in tunics of leather and steel, heavily accented by red cloth, with helmets that seemed to be taken right out of a museum. Several had swords out, whilst others had bows pointed directly at him. Behind them was a card loaded with what looked to be prisoners, but they were dressed in blue.
"Hands up, Stormcloak!" One of them, a muscular and well built woman shouted. She had a face to which a smile was foreign and a scowl native.
Colin was too stunned. Christ, how hard did he hit his head?
"I said, hands up!" The woman commanded.
These people did not look friendly. They looked like they wanted to inflict grievous bodily harm upon him, which wasn't good. He should probably run.
He made it about five steps before something flew out from behind a tree and everything went black.