Chapter 3: The 3rd Joint Reconnaissance Unit

The White House Cabinet Room, August 2, 2012 – 10:00 AM

The Cabinet Room of the White House carried the scent of history—of polished mahogany worn smooth by decades of deliberation, of stale coffee left too long in carafes, and a faint, acrid tang of desperation that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. Sunlight poured through the tall, arched windows, its golden beams slicing through the late summer haze that cloaked Washington, D.C., and glinting off the long, oval table at the room's center. The table was a battlefield of its own, strewn with the detritus of crisis: intelligence briefs stamped "TOP SECRET" in bold red ink, casualty lists from Honolulu scrawled with grim numbers, and a single, glossy photograph of a violet fruit that pulsed faintly under lab lights, its alien glow captured in unsettling stillness. A projector hummed low and steady, its beam casting a map of Falmart across the far wall—an expansive, alien continent rendered in shades of green and brown, its contours mocking their terrestrial understanding of geography. Outside, the city sweltered under a humid shroud, but within these walls, the air was frigid, chilled by the gravity of the decision that loomed over the eight figures seated around the table.

The Gang of Eight—the bipartisan leaders of Congress and the intelligence committees—sat in a tense tableau, their faces a gallery of exhaustion, suspicion, and barely veiled agendas. The low buzz of the projector mingled with the rustle of papers and the occasional creak of a chair, a soundtrack to the unease that thickened the room. This wasn't a routine briefing; it was a reckoning, a collision of power and fear in the wake of the Saderan invasion that had turned Honolulu into a slaughterhouse and thrust the United States into a war with a world beyond their own.

President Obama stood at the head of the table, his suit jacket discarded on the chair behind him, tie loosened, and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His lean frame was taut, shoulders squared with the kind of tension that comes from staring down a nightmare you can't escape. At 50, his hair was streaked with more gray than it had been a month ago, a testament to sleepless nights and the relentless drumbeat of crisis. His voice, when he spoke, was steady, but there was a raw edge to it, like a blade honed too often against stone. "We're not here to rehash what happened in Honolulu," he began, his dark eyes sweeping the room, locking briefly with each of the eight before moving on. "We're here because 50,000 people—10,000 of them foreigners—are on the other side of that fucking Gate, and the world's watching us. We've got the most powerful military on Earth, the Gate's in our backyard, and we're the ones who can lead this fight. But we don't do it alone—not when Japan, South Korea, Australia, and half a dozen others have skin in the game. I'm proposing a coalition of the willing to go through that portal, burn that World Tree to the ground, and bring our people back. That's the play."

Across from him, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell slouched in his high-backed chair, his jowly face creased with a smirk that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes. The Kentucky Republican, at 70, resembled a turtle plotting a quiet coup, his thin lips pursed as he steepled his fingers over a stack of briefing papers he hadn't bothered to open. He let Obama's words hang in the air, a deliberate pause that stretched the silence taut before he cut in, his drawl sharp with disdain. "Mr. President, with all due respect—and I mean that as much as I ever do—you're out of your goddamn mind if you think this is that simple. You're talking about marching into a world we don't understand, chasing a tree that shits out fruit that turns people into fucking Terminators. Super strength, near-immortality—do you have any idea what that does to the planet? To medicine? To war? You're playing with a Pandora's box so big it makes Iraq look like a sandbox scuffle, and your naive ass thinks we can just waltz in and control it?"

Obama's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his skin, but he didn't flinch. He leaned forward, palms pressing into the table's edge, his voice low and deliberate. "Mitch, I get it. This fruit's a game-changer—dangerous as hell. I'm not blind to that. But we can't hide it. The cat's out of the bag—soldiers saw it in Honolulu, prisoners are screaming for it in our cells, and the internet's already buzzing with blurry cell phone pics from the attack. Right now, we've got goodwill—nations are pissed, scared, and looking to us for answers. We lead this coalition, we set the terms, we keep some fucking influence over what happens next. Or we hoard it, lock it down, and watch the world turn on us—alone, distrusted, and holding a weapon we can't even fully grasp."

House Speaker John Boehner, a tan Ohioan with a smoker's rasp, leaned forward in his seat, his bloodshot eyes narrowing beneath heavy brows. At 62, his face bore the weathered lines of too many late nights and too much bourbon, and his fingers twitched toward the cigarette pack in his pocket. "Goodwill? Barack, you're banking on a fairy tale," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "The second we go through that Gate, every nation with a pulse is gonna want a piece of that fruit. Japan's got 2,000 missing; South Korea's got 1,500. They're not joining us out of love—they want their people back and a slice of the pie. And what about Russia? China? They're not in RIMPAC, but you think they'll sit on their asses while we play conquistador in Falmart? This isn't a coalition—it's a goddamn feeding frenzy waiting to happen."

Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid, a wiry Nevadan with a boxer's squint and a perpetual scowl, snorted from the opposite side of the table. At 72, his frame was lean and coiled, his hands resting on the table like a fighter ready to strike. "John, you're acting like we've got a choice," he snapped, his voice rising with a hint of impatience. "Fifty thousand people—Americans, allies, tourists—are over there, probably getting their throats slit or turned into slaves by these medieval psychos. We don't act, we're not just losing them—we're losing any shred of credibility we've got left. The Dow's already in the shitter—down 3,000 points since last week. You want to see what happens when the world thinks we're too chickenshit to fight back?"

McConnell's smirk widened, venom dripping from his slow, deliberate drawl as he leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. "Credibility's cute, Harry, but let's talk reality. That fruit's not just a weapon—it's a fucking plague. Clapper's boys say it's addictive, turns rats into regenerating freaks—headless bodies clawing at cages. What happens when some grunt sneaks a crate back here? Or when a lab leaks it? You think Big Pharma's gonna sit quiet while we burn the source? They'll be jizzing themselves to synthesize it—eternal life in a pill, and every billionaire from Bezos to Buffett will be lining up with cash in hand. Meanwhile, every soldier who eats it turns into a junkie who can't die—ripping through bases, cities, you name it. You want that on our streets? In our wars?"

House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi, her sharp features framed by a sleek bob, tapped a manicured nail on the table, the sound a precise, cutting rhythm that silenced the room for a moment. At 72, her posture was ramrod straight, her eyes piercing as she fixed McConnell with a glare that could've melted steel. "Mitch, you're not wrong—it's a shitstorm waiting to happen," she said, her voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel. "But doing nothing's worse. We've got the Gate locked down now—Marines, barbed wire, the works—but how long before someone else cracks it open? The Saderans came to us—what's stopping them from hitting Tokyo next? Or Seoul? We lead this coalition, we control the narrative, the tech, the fallout. We sit on our hands, and we're begging for chaos—here and abroad."

Senate Intelligence Committee Chair Dianne Feinstein, her silver hair pulled tight into a severe bun, leaned forward, her voice low and measured, each word deliberate as if carved from stone. At 79, her presence carried the weight of decades in power, her hands resting lightly on a folder of intel summaries. "Let's talk practicalities," she said, her gaze sweeping the room. "We've got intel—patchy, but it's something. The World Tree's the key; it's their fuel, their religion, their whole damn system. We take it out, we gut them. But we don't know what's waiting on the other side—armies, dragons, magic, this Wareharun bitch Clapper's briefed us on. We go in blind, we're risking everything. I say we send drones first, recon teams, get a map of the terrain. Then we hit it with everything—B-52s, napalm, MOABs. No half-measures."

House Intelligence Committee Chair Mike Rogers, a burly ex-FBI agent from Michigan, nodded, his gruff tone matching his bulldog demeanor. At 49, his broad shoulders strained against his suit jacket, his hands clasped tightly on the table. "Dianne's right—we can't fuck around," he said, his voice a low growl. "But this coalition idea's a mess. Japan's got ships, sure, but their constitution's a straitjacket—no offensive wars without jumping through hoops. South Korea's got balls, but they're eyeballing North Korea, not Falmart. Australia's game, but they're stretched thin after Afghanistan. And the Brits? They'll bitch about budgets while sipping tea. We're the muscle here—90% of the firepower's ours. Why share the glory—or the fruit—with anyone?"

Senate Intelligence Ranking Member Saxby Chambliss, a Georgia Republican with a drawl thick as molasses, chuckled darkly, his round face creasing with amusement. At 68, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed casually over his chest. "Mike, you're missing the point," he said, his voice slow and deliberate. "We don't share, we're the bad guys. Ten thousand foreigners missing—Japanese kids, Korean businessmen, Aussie surfers. Their governments are howling; their people are rioting in the streets. We go solo, they'll say we're hoarding the fruit, building a super-soldier army while their citizens rot in some Falmart dungeon. Next thing you know, we've got sanctions, trade wars, maybe worse—Russia and China poking around for leverage. Coalition's a pain in the ass, but it's cover—lets us look noble while we blow that tree to hell."

House Intelligence Ranking Member Dutch Ruppersberger, a Marylander with a linebacker's build, rubbed his jaw with a meaty hand, his voice a low rumble that carried the weight of his 65 years. "Cover's nice, but let's not kid ourselves—this is war, not a PR stunt," he said, leaning forward, his bulk shifting the chair beneath him. "The Saderans hit us with rhino things and fucking dragons; they're not playing by Geneva rules. We go in, it's not just the tree we're fighting—it's an empire the size of Asia, with tech and magic we barely understand. That fruit's their edge, but it could be ours too. Why burn it all? Grab some, study it, weaponize it. We're the U.S.—we don't just react; we dominate."

Obama's eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening as he stepped away from the table, pacing a tight line along its edge. "Dutch, I hear you, but that's a slippery fucking slope," he said, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. "Clapper's team says it's a drug—addictive, transformative, uncontrollable. We bring it back, we're not just fighting Saderans—we're fighting ourselves. One leak, and we've got junkies tearing through cities, militias eating it to play God, cartels turning it into the next meth. We've got enough problems—unemployment's at 8%, the Middle East is a powder keg—without unleashing that shit here."

McConnell leaned back further, his smirk fading into a cold, predatory stare, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the armrest. "And that's the rub, Barack," he said, his voice a low growl. "You're betting on control—control the Gate, control the coalition, control the fruit. But you can't. Nobody can. This isn't Iraq or Afghanistan—this is a world with gods and monsters, and we're the idiots poking it with a stick. You think Japan's gonna play nice when their PM's on TV promising to bring their people home? Or South Korea, with their chaebols salivating over immortality juice? They'll stab us in the back the second they get a chance. And don't get me started on the ethics—Pelosi's bleeding heart aside, you think Congress is gonna greenlight a war where we turn our boys into fruit-addicted freaks?"

Pelosi's glare intensified, her nail tapping faster as she leaned toward McConnell, her voice icy and unyielding. "Don't patronize me, Mitch," she snapped. "Ethics matter—50,000 people are suffering, and we've got a duty to act. But I'm not naive. This fruit's a double-edged sword—save lives, sure, but it could ruin us too. We need rules, oversight, a plan. Coalition's the only way to spread the risk—let Japan, NATO, whoever, share the burden. We lead, but we don't own it."

Boehner snorted, fishing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it despite the no-smoking sign, the flame flaring briefly as he inhaled. Smoke curled upward like a defiant gesture, drifting toward the chandelier above. "Rules? Oversight? Nancy, this ain't a budget debate," he rasped, exhaling a plume that clouded the air. "We're talking about a war with shit we can't even name—ogres, wyverns, magic staffs that blow up Humvees. You think the UN's gonna draft a treaty for that? We go in, it's kill or be killed. Coalition's a liability—too many cooks, too many leaks. I say we hit hard, hit fast, and fuck the rest."

Reid's fists clenched on the table, his knuckles whitening as his voice rose, cutting through the smoke. "John, you're a goddamn dinosaur," he barked. "We're not the lone cowboy anymore—10,000 foreigners means this is global. Japan's got ships in the Pacific; South Korea's got troops itching to fight. They're RIMPAC nations—they lost people too. We don't bring them in, they'll go rogue, try to crack the Gate themselves. Then we've got a clusterfuck on both sides of the portal."

Feinstein nodded, her steely gaze unwavering as she tapped her folder. "Harry's right," she said. "We've got allies begging to join—Japan's PM called me yesterday, practically crying about their missing citizens. South Korea's president's ready to send their K2 tanks through tomorrow. They're not asking for fruit—they want their people. We channel that, we've got a force multiplier. But we need intel first—drones, satellites if we can get 'em through. No blind charges."

Rogers crossed his arms, his broad chest heaving slightly as he spoke. "Intel's fine, but speed's the killer," he said, his tone gruff. "Every day we wait, those 50,000 are deeper in Falmart—dead, enslaved, or worse. The Saderans aren't fucking around—they hit us like a tsunami. We've got the firepower—carriers, bombers, SEALs. Coalition's a nice word, but it's our show. Let's move before Russia or China sniff around and complicate shit."

Chambliss tilted his head, his drawl slow and deliberate, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Speed's good, Mike, but caution's better," he said. "We don't know Wareharun—goddess, demon, whatever. She's tied to that tree, and if Clapper's right, she's got power we can't match. We rush in, burn it, and she shows up pissed? We're fucked. Coalition buys us bodies—cannon fodder if it goes south. Japan, Australia, they're in—use 'em."

Ruppersberger grunted, leaning forward, his bulk shifting the table slightly. "Bodies are great, but firepower wins," he said. "We've got the Nimitz, B-52s, napalm stockpiles. Saderans bleed—fire proves it. Hit the tree, hit their supply, and we've got leverage. Fruit's a risk, but it's also a prize—imagine our SEALs with that strength, that healing. We don't burn it all; we take some, lock it down, figure it out."

Obama stopped pacing, his silhouette stark against the window's glow as he turned to face them, his voice cutting through the clamor like a blade. "Listen up—all of you," he said, his tone a blend of steel and exhaustion. "We've got a hole in our world leaking monsters, and 50,000 people are paying for it. The fruit's a nightmare—I won't lie. But we can't bury it; it's out there, and someone's gonna grab it if we don't. Coalition's not charity—it's strategy. Japan, South Korea, Australia—they've got assets, they've got stakes, and they keep Russia and China from turning this into a free-for-all. We lead, we set the rules, we hit that tree with everything we've got. But Dutch is right—we don't burn it all blind. We take samples, study it, control it. Mitch, you're scared of the chaos? Doing nothing's chaos. We act, or we're fucked."

McConnell's eyes glinted, his voice a low, menacing growl as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You're still dreaming, Barack," he said. "You think you can leash this? Fine—lead your coalition, bomb your tree, play hero. But when that fruit hits the black market, when some dictator's got an army of immortals, don't say I didn't warn you. This isn't a rescue mission—it's a shitshow with extra steps."

Boehner exhaled a plume of smoke, his rasp bitter as he stubbed out his cigarette on a saucer. "He's not wrong," he said. "But I'm in—hit 'em hard, get our people. Just don't expect me to cheer when it blows up in our faces."

Pelosi's lips thinned, her tone resolute as she folded her hands. "It's a risk worth taking," she said. "We move, we save who we can, we contain what we must. Coalition's the only way."

The room fell silent, the weight of the decision settling over them like ash after a fire. Obama nodded, his voice firm despite the exhaustion etching his features. "Then it's settled," he said. "We build the coalition—Japan, South Korea, NATO if they'll bite. Recon first, then we strike. Get me the Joint Chiefs, the allies, and a plan by tomorrow. We're going through that Gate, and we're ending this."

The Gang of Eight rose, their chairs scraping against the hardwood floor, voices trailing into the hall—some defiant, some resigned, all shadowed by the specter of a world unmade. Beyond the Gate, Falmart waited, its secrets coiled like a serpent poised to strike. The war was coming, and no one—not Obama, not McConnell, not the coalition—could predict the hell it would unleash.

Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, Hawaii, August 9, 2012 – 0600 Hours

The pre-dawn sky over Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam hung heavy with humidity, a thick, wet blanket that clung to the skin and carried the faint tang of jet fuel and salt from the nearby Pacific. The training ground—a sprawling expanse of scorched earth, mock urban ruins, and dense wooded patches near the base's western edge—hummed with anticipation. Diesel engines growled as technicians prepped simulation gear, and the sharp clatter of weapons being checked echoed through the stillness. The 3rd Joint Reconnaissance Unit (JRU-3), a tight-knit crew of 12 American operatives and 8 Japanese specialists, stood in a ragged semicircle, their silhouettes stark against the fading violet of the horizon. This wasn't just another drill—it was their final crucible, the last chance to weld themselves into a seamless unit before stepping through the Gate into Falmart, a brutal world of regenerating Saderan warriors, fire-breathing wyverns, and gods-knew-what-else. The stakes were a cold, unyielding bitch, and every soul present felt the weight pressing down on their shoulders.

Captain Samuel "Sam" Rodriguez paced before the team, his combat boots kicking up plumes of dust from the cracked, sun-baked ground. At 35, the Hispanic-American Green Beret from San Antonio carried himself with the quiet swagger of a man who'd stared into hell and walked away with a grin. His dark eyes, framed by a weathered face, flicked over the unit—his unit—taking in the eclectic mix of hardened killers, tech-savvy geeks, and quirky misfits. His cropped black hair glistened with sweat under the brim of his cap, and his broad shoulders strained against his tactical vest. "Alright, listen up," he barked, his voice slicing through the morning hush like a gunshot. "In 14 days, we're crossing into Falmart. That means today, we train like our lives depend on it—because they fucking do. Saderans don't die easy—bullets tickle 'em, grenades just piss 'em off. Fire's our edge, so we're drilling incendiaries 'til you're dreaming of napalm and shitting sparks. Questions?"

Lieutenant Yoji Itami, the Japanese deputy leader, slouched beside him, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his fatigues, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. At 33, the otaku-turned-soldier looked like he'd wandered off a convention floor into a warzone, his lanky frame dwarfed by Rodriguez's muscular build. His dark hair flopped over one eye, and his casual posture screamed indifference—an act that fooled no one who'd seen him in a fight. "Yeah, Cap," he drawled in accented English, scratching the back of his neck with a theatrical yawn. "Any chance we get a snack break? I've got a stash of Pocky in my kit—strawberry flavor. Limited edition."

A ripple of chuckles broke the tension, mostly from the Japanese contingent—Sergeant Akane "Kitsune" Yamamoto stifled a laugh behind her hand, while Private First Class Haruto "Haru" Kato smirked—but Rodriguez's glare could've melted steel. "Itami, stow the bullshit," he snapped, stepping closer until he loomed over the lieutenant. "You're my second, not my goddamn comedian. We've got 20 bodies here, half don't know each other's callsigns, and we're about to face an empire that eats bullets for breakfast and spits 'em back. Focus."

Itami shrugged, unfazed, his grin widening just enough to show he enjoyed the jab. "Fair point, Cap. Just saying—happy troops fight better. Studies prove it."

Rodriguez ignored him, turning to the team with a sharp gesture. "Pair up, mixed nationalities. We're running three sims—urban breach, recon sweep, ambush response. Saderan stand-ins are bots rigged with sensors; they'll take hits but keep coming 'til you torch 'em. Incendiaries only—traditional rounds are for pissing in the wind. Move!"

The unit scattered, gear clanking as they formed pairs, their movements a chaotic ballet of purpose. Master Sergeant Liam "Wolf" O'Connor, a grizzled American with a salt-and-pepper beard and a perpetual scowl, sidled up to Sergeant Major Takeshi "Taka" Sato, Japan's senior enlisted advisor. Wolf, a 42-year-old Ranger vet with forearms like steel cables, hefted his M202A1 FLASH rocket launcher, its four barrels gleaming dully in the dim light. Taka, a wiry 45-year-old Special Forces Group (SFGp) legend with a face carved from stone, cradled a Howa Type 96 grenade launcher like an extension of his arm. "You ever burn a dragon, Sato?" Wolf asked, his voice a low growl, roughened by years of shouting over gunfire.

Taka's dark eyes glinted, his weathered face cracking into a rare, razor-thin smirk. "Not yet, O'Connor. Closest was a training dummy at SFGp camp—flamethrower drill. Smelled like victory and charred rubber."

Nearby, Staff Sergeant Aiden "Ghost" Kim, a Marine sniper with the stillness of a predator stalking prey, paired with Staff Sergeant Hiroshi "Hiro" Tanaka, a lean Japanese marksman whose wiry frame belied his deadly precision. Ghost, 29, adjusted the scope on his M40A5, its magazine loaded with custom incendiary rounds, his pale hands steady as stone. Hiro, 31, checked his Type 89-F rifle, his sharp features set in quiet focus. "You good for headshots at 500 meters?" Ghost asked, his tone clipped, barely above a whisper.

Hiro nodded, his gaze steady and unblinking. "If it's got a head, I'll light it up. You?"

"Same," Ghost replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips—the closest he got to a smile.

The first simulation kicked off in the urban mock-up—a labyrinth of concrete husks, twisted rebar, and shattered glass meant to mimic the war-torn streets of Falmart's cities, or maybe Honolulu after an apocalypse. The air smelled of burnt metal and diesel, and the distant hum of generators underscored the tension. Rodriguez split the team into three fireteams to clear the maze, each facing waves of "Saderan" bots—hulking machines clad in steel plates, programmed to regenerate unless hit with fire.

Rodriguez led Sergeant Mia "Viper" Chen, Corporal Dylan "Boomer" Lee, and Corporal Elijah "Scout" Patel. Viper, a 27-year-old demolitions expert with a wild grin and a mane of black hair tied back in a messy bun, moved with a predator's grace, her M4 slung low and a satchel of incendiary grenades bouncing against her hip. "Let's blow some shit up," she muttered, kneeling to prep a breaching charge on a reinforced steel door, her fingers dancing over the wiring with practiced ease. Boomer, a 25-year-old weapons sergeant with a cocky grin and a buzzcut, covered her with his M202A1, his broad frame steady as he scanned the shadows. "I've got your six, Viper—light 'em up," he said, his voice dripping with bravado. Scout, a wiry 24-year-old navigator with sharp eyes and a map annotated in three colors, clutched his tablet, plotting their route. "Left turn in 20 meters, Captain," he called, his voice calm despite the chaos brewing.

A "Saderan knight" bot—seven feet of steel with a mock longsword—lurched from a shadowed alley, its servos whining. Rodriguez raised his M202A1, sighting the charging figure through the haze. "Engage!" he roared, squeezing the trigger. A 66mm incendiary rocket streaked out, a comet of fire that slammed into the bot's chest with a deafening whoosh. Flames erupted, metal melted, and the bot's sensors shrieked as it collapsed into a heap of slag, tendrils of smoke curling skyward. "One down!" Rodriguez shouted, pivoting to check his team.

Viper's charge blew the door inward with a concussive boom, showering the alley with debris. She darted through, her M4 spitting incendiary rounds into a pair of "soldier" bots—smaller, faster, with spear-like arms. One caught fire, staggering as its plating bubbled and popped, but the other lunged. "Fuck you!" Viper snarled, yanking an incendiary grenade from her vest and hurling it with a pitcher's arm. The explosion painted the alley orange, a roaring inferno that swallowed both bots, their circuits frying in a symphony of sparks. She fist-pumped the air, grinning like a maniac. "Fuck yeah!"

Boomer followed, his M202A1 barking as he launched a rocket into a "troll" bot—a hulking mass with a club arm. The projectile hit its torso, igniting a fireball that sent shrapnel flying. "Eat that, asshole!" he yelled, ducking as Scout fired his flamethrower at a straggler, turning it into a molten wreck. "Clear!" Scout called, wiping sweat from his brow.

Itami led Sergeant Oliver "Sparks" Wilson, Staff Sergeant Noah "Doc" Martinez, and Corporal Ryota "Ryuu" Suzuki. Sparks, a 28-year-old comms specialist with a mop of red hair and a quick laugh, patched into the squad's network, his headset crackling. "Cap, we've got movement—three bots, north side," he reported, fingers flying over his radio controls. Doc, a 30-year-old medic with a stocky build and a perpetual frown, hovered nearby, his medkit slung over one shoulder and his M4 loaded with incendiary rounds. Ryuu, a 26-year-old paratrooper with a lean frame and cat-like agility, moved ahead, his Type 89-F at the ready.

Itami fumbled with his own Type 89-F, muttering, "Where the hell's the safety on this thing?" A "knight" bot swung a blunt blade at him, its steel arm whistling through the air. He yelped, dodging by dumb luck—a stumble that turned into a roll—and fired a wild burst of incendiary rounds point-blank. The bot's head erupted in a fireball, molten metal dripping onto the concrete, and Itami stumbled back, grinning like an idiot. "See? I've got this under control."

Rodriguez's voice crackled over the comms. "Barely, Itami. Stay sharp, otaku."

Sparks smirked, relaying coords. "He's alive, Cap—sloppy, but alive." A "soldier" bot charged, and Ryuu vaulted over a crumbled wall, his Type 89-F blazing. The bot swiped, missing by inches, and he rolled, coming up with a flamethrower he'd grabbed from the armory. A jet of fire roared out, turning the bot into a torch, its steel skin dripping like wax. "Not bad, huh?" he called to Itami, his voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through him.

Doc fired a burst into a "troll" bot, the incendiary rounds chewing through its armor. "Keep moving, Lieutenant!" he barked, dragging Sparks clear as the bot collapsed in flames.

Wolf and Taka commanded Ghost, Hiro, and Haru. The trio faced a "Saderan ogre"—a towering bot with a cannon arm and reinforced plating. Wolf's M202A1 rocket blasted its shoulder, shearing it off in a shower of sparks, while Taka's Type 96 launcher pumped incendiary grenades into its legs, each explosion a burst of fire and shrapnel. The bot toppled, thrashing in the dirt, until Wolf finished it with a flamethrower, the flames licking up its frame like a funeral pyre. "Teamwork makes the dream work," he grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a gloved hand.

Ghost and Hiro took an elevated perch on a ruined rooftop, their sniper rifles humming with purpose. Ghost's M40A5 punched an incendiary round through a "knight" bot's visor, the shot igniting its head in a gout of flame that sent it reeling. Hiro's Type 89-F tracked a "wyvern" bot—suspended from a crane to simulate flight—his single shot striking its "wing" and setting it ablaze. The bot crashed, a smoking wreck. "Two for two," Hiro muttered, reloading with mechanical precision.

Haru, a 22-year-old rifleman with wide eyes and a nervous energy, hesitated as a "soldier" bot charged. His Type 89-F trembled in his hands. "Torch it, kid!" Ghost barked from above. Haru squeezed the trigger on his flamethrower, engulfing the bot in a wave of fire. It shrieked, collapsing into a puddle of molten steel. "Got it!" he shouted, earning a curt nod from Taka.

The sim ended with the squad panting amidst a field of smoking wrecks, the air thick with the stench of burnt circuits and gasoline. Rodriguez checked his watch—15 minutes flat. "Not bad," he said, his voice hard but approving, "but sloppy as hell. Itami, you're a liability if you don't get your head out of your ass. Viper, tone down the cowboy shit—save it for the real fight. Next round—recon sweep."

The team relocated to a wooded patch on the training ground, a dense tangle of trees and underbrush meant to simulate Falmart's wild forests. The air cooled slightly under the canopy, but the humidity clung like a second skin. Technical Sergeant Zoe "Eyes" Nguyen, a 26-year-old drone operator with a sharp mind and sharper tongue, deployed her RQ-11 Raven, its propellers buzzing as it lifted off. The feed streamed to her tablet, revealing "Saderan" patrols—bots mounted on mock "rhinoraptors," lumbering through the brush with mechanical snarls. Staff Sergeant Jackson "Tech" Brown, a 29-year-old gearhead with a buzzcut and a love for gadgets, set up motion sensors along the perimeter, their faint beeps blending with the rustle of leaves.

Sergeant First Class Ethan "Hawk" Thompson, a 32-year-old intel specialist with a lean build and a hawkish stare, paired with Sergeant First Class Kenji "Kage" Nakamura, a 34-year-old SFGp operative who moved like a shadow. Hawk's M4 tracked a "rider" bot, his initial burst of standard rounds pinging off its armor uselessly. "Shit," he muttered, switching to incendiaries and firing again. The shot ignited the "beast" in a roaring blaze, its rider tumbling into the dirt. Kage slipped ahead, his Type 89-F spitting silenced incendiary rounds into a second rider, dropping it before it could react. "Clean kill," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of flames.

Eyes' voice cut through the comms. "Six bots, 200 meters north—moving fast." Hawk and Kage signaled Viper and Ryuu, who'd joined the sweep. Viper lobbed an incendiary grenade, the explosion scattering the patrol in a fireball, while Ryuu flanked with his flamethrower, turning a straggler into ash. "Engage or evade?" Kage asked, his tone cool.

"Engage," Hawk replied, eyes narrowing. "Test our stealth."

Back at the staging area, Rodriguez watched the drone feed with Itami, who leaned against a crate, yawning. "You see that?" Rodriguez snapped, pointing to a bot slipping past Hawk's flank. "That's a fuck-up we can't afford."

Itami squinted at the screen, then shrugged. "They got it, Cap. Relax—I'm saving my energy for the real shit."

Rodriguez's jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. "Your 'energy' better show when wyverns are chewing our asses, Lieutenant."

Kitsune, monitoring comms, patched in. "Hawk's team has it locked down, sir. Patrol's toast." Her voice was steady, a counterpoint to Itami's nonchalance.

The final sim hit like a freight train. The team entrenched in a mock village—sandbags, rubble, and wooden shacks their only cover—when "Saderan" bots swarmed from all sides: "knights" on foot with swords, "wyverns" dropping from cranes with screeching hydraulics, and "ogres" pounding the earth with cannon arms. The air filled with the roar of engines and the metallic clang of steel on steel.

Gunnery Sergeant Lucas "Tank" Ramirez, a 33-year-old Marine Recon bull with a shaved head and a linebacker's build, teamed with Haru. Tank's M202A1 roared, rockets slamming into a "wyvern" mid-flight, turning it into a fireball that rained sparks onto the dirt. "Stay tight, kid!" he bellowed, shoving Haru behind a sandbag. Haru's Type 96 launcher peppered the ground with incendiary grenades, scattering "knights" in flaming chaos, his hands shaking but steadying with each shot.

Sparks patched into SATCOM, shouting coords to Eyes' drone. "Drop it now!" he yelled. The Raven swooped, releasing a marker that triggered a mock napalm blast—red smoke billowing over the "ogre" line, silencing their advance. "Boom, bitches!" Sparks grinned, fist-bumping Tech, who'd joined to rig a sensor trap that fried two "knights" in a burst of fire.

Doc patched up Boomer, who'd taken a mock blade to the leg from a bot that slipped through. "Hold still, dumbass," Doc growled, slapping a bandage on with rough efficiency. Boomer winced, clutching his M4. "Fucker came outta nowhere—owe you one, Doc."

Ghost and Hiro held a rooftop, sniping with lethal calm. Ghost's M40A5 punched incendiary rounds through a "knight's" visor, the bot's head exploding in a gout of flame. Hiro's Type 89-F tracked a "wyvern," a single shot igniting its "wings" and sending it crashing into a shack. "Three for three," Hiro muttered, his breath even.

Kitsune and Scout anchored the flank, her PM-9 submachine gun spitting incendiary rounds to slow a charging "ogre," while Scout's flamethrower finished it, the flames reflecting in his dark eyes. "Burn, motherfucker," he hissed, adrenaline surging.

Rodriguez and Itami held the center, an "ogre" bot bearing down with a cannon raised. Rodriguez's rocket hit its chest, staggering it, but Itami's rifle jammed mid-burst. "Shit, shit, shit!" he yelped, ducking as the bot swung. Rodriguez tackled him, firing his M9 pistol point-blank with incendiary rounds, the bot's face melting into slag. "Get your ass up!" he snarled, hauling Itami to his feet.

The sim ended with the team battered but standing, the village a smoldering ruin of twisted metal and ash. Rodriguez gathered them, sweat streaking his face, his chest heaving. "We survived—barely. Strengths: fire discipline, comms, snipers. Weaknesses: cohesion, and Itami's goddamn daydreaming. Fix it, or Falmart'll eat us alive."

Itami rubbed his neck, sheepish but earnest. "I'll step up, Cap. Promise—no Pocky 'til we're done."

Rodriguez smirked despite himself. "Better not, Lieutenant. Rest up—tomorrow's live fire. Dismissed."

The team trudged to a fire pit near the barracks, the sun now a blazing disk above the Pacific. MREs cracked open, and stories flowed—Wolf and Taka swapping war tales over coffee, their mutual respect a quiet undercurrent. Viper and Boomer staged a grenade-tossing contest, their laughter echoing as Ryuu refereed. Doc taught Haru a field suture trick, while Sparks and Kitsune debated Gundam versus Evangelion. Ghost and Hiro sat apart, cleaning their rifles in companionable silence—a sniper's bond.

Rodriguez and Itami lingered by the fire, watching. "They're coming together," Rodriguez said, his voice softening for the first time all day.

"Yeah," Itami agreed, pulling a Pocky stick from his pocket and offering it. "Peace offering?"

Rodriguez took it, chuckling—a rare sound. "Don't push it, otaku."

Under the Hawaiian stars, JRU-3 was forging into a weapon—rough around the edges, but hardening fast. Four days until Falmart. Four days to sharpen the blade.

August 23, 2012 – 0700 Hours

Fourteen days had passed since the brutal training session at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, and the 3rd Joint Reconnaissance Unit (JRU-3) was ready—or as ready as they'd ever be—to step into the unknown. The morning sun blazed over the Pacific, casting long shadows across the tarmac as the team loaded into three Humvees, their engines growling like restless beasts. The air was thick with humidity and the sharp bite of diesel fumes, but beneath it all lingered a tension that no amount of bravado could mask. Twenty operatives—12 Americans and 8 Japanese—strapped into their gear, incendiary weapons slung across their backs, faces set with a mix of determination and unease. They were heading through the Gate to Alnus Base, the forward operating hub on the other side, and whatever lay beyond was about to become their reality.

Captain Samuel "Sam" Rodriguez sat in the lead Humvee's passenger seat, his M202A1 FLASH rocket launcher propped between his knees. At 35, the Hispanic-American Green Beret exuded a calm that belied the storm brewing in his gut. His dark eyes flicked to the driver, Staff Sergeant Jackson "Tech" Brown, a wiry 29-year-old sensor specialist whose fingers danced nervously on the wheel. "Keep it steady, Tech," Rodriguez said, his voice a low rumble. "First impressions matter—even in hell."

Tech grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Roger that, Cap. Just hope this ride doesn't shit itself crossing dimensions."

Lieutenant Yoji Itami lounged in the second Humvee, his lanky frame sprawled across the backseat, a Pocky stick dangling from his lips like a cigarette. The 33-year-old otaku-turned-officer had his Type 89-F rifle resting lazily across his lap, his glasses reflecting the morning light. Beside him, Sergeant Akane "Kitsune" Yamamoto, the Japanese comms specialist, adjusted her radio headset, her fox-like grin sharp and alert. "You gonna eat that whole box before we get there, Lieutenant?" she teased, her voice crackling with energy.

Itami smirked, popping the Pocky into his mouth. "Gotta fuel up, Kitsune. World-saving's hungry work."

In the third Humvee, Master Sergeant Liam "Wolf" O'Connor rode shotgun, his grizzled beard bristling as he scanned the horizon. The 42-year-old operations sergeant gripped his M202A1 like an old friend, his knuckles white. "Fuckin' gate better not zap us into goo," he muttered to Gunnery Sergeant Lucas "Tank" Ramirez, the massive Marine Recon driver who filled the seat like a tank himself.

Tank chuckled, his deep voice rumbling. "If it does, Wolf, I'll haunt your ass first."

The convoy rolled toward the Gate—a jagged archway of stone and violet energy, fifteen meters tall and humming with an otherworldly menace. Its edges crackled with arcs of electricity, spitting ozone into the air, and the ground beneath it trembled faintly, as if the earth itself recoiled. Rodriguez keyed his comms as they approached. "JRU-3, eyes up. We're crossing now. Stay tight."

The Humvees lurched through the portal, the world warping around them in a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. For a heartbeat, gravity seemed to vanish—Tech swore under his breath, Itami clutched his Pocky box, and Wolf's beard bristled like a startled cat's fur. Then, with a jolt that rattled their teeth, they emerged on the other side.

Alnus Base, Falmart – 0710 Hours

The Humvees emerged onto the packed dirt of Alnus Base, a rugged outpost etched into the undulating hills of this alien world. Tents and prefabricated structures sprawled across the terrain, fortified by sandbags and razor wire, while M1A2 Abrams tanks and AH-64 Apache helicopters stood as silent sentinels beneath a sky streaked with unfamiliar hues. The air was crisp, saturated with the scent of grass and an ancient, indefinable vitality. Yet it wasn't the base that seized JRU-3's attention and held it captive.

It was the World Tree.

Rising from the horizon like a deity incarnate, the World Tree commanded the landscape—an emerald titan soaring three kilometers into the heavens, its pale green trunk a monolith of natural majesty, its canopy an expansive ocean of verdure that eclipsed the sun. Its roots radiated across the continent like the arteries of a living god, thick as highways, their surfaces aglow with a faint, pulsing luminescence that defied earthly logic. The sheer immensity of it struck like a physical blow, rendering the team mute, their Humvees idling in reverent stillness.

Rodriguez leaned forward, his breath snagging in his throat as he gazed at the colossal entity. "Jesus fucking Christ," he murmured, the words escaping unbidden.

Itami's Pocky slipped from his lips, tumbling into his lap. "Holy shit… it's straight out of Evangelion," he breathed, his usual levity replaced by unguarded awe.

Wolf's jaw clenched, his voice a rough rasp. "That ain't no tree. That's a goddamn mountain."

The World Tree's presence was overwhelming, its form a symphony of alien beauty and incomprehensible power. Its trunk, a towering edifice of pale green, stretched upward with a graceful taper, its surface not rugged like terrestrial trees but smooth as polished stone, imbued with a subtle sheen that caught the light in mesmerizing patterns. The bark shimmered faintly, its texture almost liquid under the sun's caress, revealing intricate networks of golden veins that wove across it like threads of molten light. These veins pulsed rhythmically, a heartbeat of energy that seemed to resonate with the very air, sending faint vibrations through the ground beneath their feet.

The canopy was a marvel unto itself, a sprawling expanse of leaves that stretched for miles in every direction, forming a verdant ceiling that filtered the sunlight into a soft, emerald glow. Each leaf was enormous—easily the size of a man—its surface a deep green with edges rimmed in silver, glinting like blades in the breeze. The foliage rustled with a sound both soothing and ominous, a whisper that carried the weight of millennia, as if the Tree spoke in a tongue too vast for human ears to decipher. Its uppermost branches pierced the clouds, their tips vanishing into a swirling mist that clung to the Tree's crown, lending it an ethereal, almost divine aura.

Closer inspection revealed the roots—gargantuan tendrils that erupted from the earth in a chaotic sprawl, each as wide as a city street and twice as tall. Their surfaces mirrored the trunk's pale green hue, smooth and luminous, with the same golden veins threading through them, pulsing in unison with the Tree's core. These roots didn't merely anchor the World Tree; they dominated the landscape, snaking across hills and valleys, burrowing into the soil like the fingers of a giant clutching the continent in its grasp. The air around them thrummed with energy, a palpable force that set the team's nerves on edge.

A wiry Major with a sun-weathered face approached, clipboard in hand, his boots crunching against the dirt. He smirked at their stunned expressions, a veteran of such reactions. "Everyone's the same when they see it," he said, his tone dry as dust. "First timers gawk like it's God Himself. You'll adjust—eventually."

Rodriguez snapped out of his reverie, stepping from the Humvee to meet the officer. "Captain Rodriguez, JRU-3. That thing's… overwhelming."

"Major Hensley," the officer replied with a curt nod. "Overwhelming's putting it mildly. Wait 'til you hear what it's made of."

Before Rodriguez could press further, a commotion broke out nearby. An older man—mid-60s, with wild white hair and a tweed jacket—gesticulated wildly beside an M1A2 Abrams tank parked near one of the World Tree's massive roots. The root, a behemoth the size of a small house, jutted from the earth like a fortress wall, its surface aglow with that same faint shimmer. Two colleagues flanked him: a stern Korean woman in a lab coat and a wiry Australian with a sunburned face, both scribbling furiously as the professor flailed his arms like a frenzied maestro.

"Fire it up!" the professor bellowed, his voice cracking with exhilaration. "Hit the root—now!"

The tank's turret whirred, its 120mm smoothbore cannon aligning with the root. The crew hesitated, glancing at Hensley, who shrugged. "Go ahead. Professor Kimble's been dying for this."

The cannon roared, a deafening BOOM that shook the valley as the round streaked toward the root. A plume of dirt erupted on impact, the echo reverberating through the hills—but when the dust settled, the shell had embedded itself deep within the wood, leaving only a splintered crater the size of a basketball. No fracture, no collapse—just a superficial wound in the root's impervious surface.

Kimble whooped, clapping like a child on Christmas morning, while his Korean colleague—Dr. Park—shouted something in rapid Korean, her tone laced with disbelief. The Australian, Dr. Evans, shook his head, muttering, "Bloody hell, that's not right."

Rodriguez and JRU-3 watched, mouths agape, as Kimble pointed to a "normal" Falmart tree nearby—a 30-meter giant with a trunk as thick as a semi-truck. Its bark was darker, rougher, lacking the World Tree's luminescence, yet it exuded a similar aura of resilience. "Again!" Kimble yelled. "Same test!"

The Abrams fired once more, the round tearing into the tree with another earth-shaking BOOM. Splinters flew, a deep gouge marred its trunk, yet it stood resolute, swaying only slightly. Kimble whirled to his team, his face flushed with manic glee. "Unbelievable! Fucking unbelievable! The trees here—they're stronger than anything on Earth! Steel's a joke next to this!"

Itami slid from his Humvee, joining Rodriguez, his eyes flicking between the root and the tree. "What's he ranting about, Cap?"

Rodriguez nodded to Hensley. "Major, what's the deal?"

Hensley sighed, rubbing his neck. "That's Professor Kimble—MIT materials science whiz. Been here a week testing the local flora. Prisoners claim the World Tree absorbs all life on the continent, remakes it in its image. Sounds crazy, but…" He gestured to the root. "That's 'divine wood.' Tougher than steel, lighter than pine. Kimble's obsessed."

Kimble overheard, storming over with Dr. Park and Dr. Evans in tow. "Not obsessed—enlightened!" he snapped, his voice a high-pitched tirade. "This wood—density of 700 kg per cubic meter, modulus of rupture at 1000 MPa—it's a miracle! Steel's 7850 kg per cubic meter, bends at 400 MPa. This is eleven times lighter, twice as strong! And that's just the beginning!"

Dr. Park adjusted her glasses, her tone precise yet fervent. "Compression strength—500 MPa. Steel peaks at 350. Specific strength per unit mass—it's absurd. Skyscrapers half the weight, planes sipping fuel—it's revolutionary."

Evans added, his Aussie drawl thick with wonder, "Hardness—60,000 Newtons on the Janka scale. Mild steel doesn't touch that for wear resistance. Takes 800°C to burn—800! Normal wood's toast at 300."

Rodriguez crossed his arms, mind racing. "So it's tough as hell and light as fuck. What's that mean for us?"

Kimble's grin was feral. "Means your Humvees could wear this and outpace a tank. Means Saderan shields and tools—carved from this—shrug off our bullets. Means that Tree's a fortress we can't just blast apart."

Itami whistled, popping another Pocky into his mouth. "So we're screwed, huh?"

"Not screwed," Kimble countered. "Challenged. Fire's your ace—800°C is steep, but napalm hits 1200. Burn it, and it's ash."

Wolf lumbered over, M202A1 slung across his shoulder. "So we're lighting a continent-sized bonfire. What about the fruit?"

Kimble's grin faded, his tone dropping. "That's the twist. Prisoners say the Tree's fruit—violet orbs born of its essence—remake you. Stronger, tougher, near-immortal. But it's linked to her—Wareharun. The Tree's her heart."

Rodriguez's jaw tightened. "Her heart? Then we carve it out."

The team clustered around the Humvees, gear clanking as they digested the spectacle and science. Sergeant First Class Ethan "Hawk" Thompson, the lean intel specialist, hunched over his tablet, sketching the Tree's silhouette from drone data Zoe "Eyes" Nguyen had captured. "Three kilometers high, roots spanning thousands of klicks," he muttered. "It's a logistical nightmare."

Staff Sergeant Noah "Doc" Martinez, the medic, hefted his kit, his stocky frame rigid. "If it remakes life, what about us? Breathing this air, eating their food—do we turn into freaks too?"

Kimble shrugged, maddeningly vague. "No clue. Need more data. Just avoid the fruit, and you're likely fine."

Sergeant Oliver "Sparks" Wilson, the comms expert, patched into the base's network, sweat plastering his red hair. "Cap, SATCOM's up—barely. Signal's shaky through the Gate."

"Good," Rodriguez said. "Keep it live."

Corporal Dylan "Boomer" Lee, the brash weapons sergeant, leaned against his Humvee, M202A1 propped beside him. "We blow the roots, right? Rocket the shit outta this thing?"

Kimble's laugh was sharp and barking. "Good luck. That root ate 120mm rounds like candy. You'd need a tank brigade to dent it."

Rodriguez approached the root, boots sinking into the soft earth. Up close, the divine wood was hypnotic. Its pale green surface was warm to the touch, almost alive, with golden veins weaving patterns that shifted like liquid gold. He pressed a hand against it, feeling a subtle pulse, a rhythm that synced with the Tree's glow. The texture was flawless—no cracks, no blemishes—just a seamless expanse that radiated vitality.

"It's… breathing," Viper whispered, her usual swagger softened by awe.

"It is," Kimble confirmed, his voice hushed with reverence. "Prisoners say the Tree is Wareharun's avatar—her body in this world. Every root, every leaf—it's her. That's why it's so tough. It's not just wood; it's divine essence."

Itami tilted his head, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "So hurting her means hurting the Tree. But if it's this strong…"

"We find a way," Rodriguez said, voice like iron. "We're not here to gawk. We're here to win."

As they unloaded gear and set up camp, the World Tree loomed, its shadow a constant companion. The air hummed with its energy, leaves whispering secrets in the wind. By dusk, its golden veins glowed brighter, bathing the landscape in an ethereal light, a beacon in the alien night.

Rodriguez stood alone, staring up at the Tree, its grandeur a challenge he couldn't ignore. They'd come to fight, to shield Earth from Falmart's threats. If that meant felling a goddess and her titan tree, so be it.