Tears streamed down the young girl's face as she kneeled beside the smouldering corpse, her sobs muffled by the crackling of fire and the acrid stench of burnt flesh. The haze of the flames cast flickering shadows across the ruined landscape, turning everything into a nightmarish tableau. I followed her gaze to the charred body lying in the dirt—twisted, dried, and blackened beyond recognition.
The girl wailed incoherently in a language I couldn't understand. Her words were lost to me, but the grief, the raw, unfiltered agony in her cries, needed no translation. It hit me harder than I wanted to admit. Language was a barrier, but suffering wasn't.
The smell was unbearable. My stomach churned as I fought to keep my composure, the acrid stench clinging to the air like a curse. Jesus Christ. I thought I’d seen the worst back in Iraq and Afghanistan during the GWOT—bombed-out buildings, mutilated bodies, and the aftermath of airstrikes. But this? This was a different kind of horror—a deliberate, calculated act of cruelty. The body looked frozen in its last moments, every muscle locked in agony, a testament to a death that was anything but quick or merciful.
No one should have to die like this. Not man, not an elf, no one. The person who had ordered it was no warrior; he was far worse than that. Keeping power should not be something like this, but history has repeatedly proved this. This was beyond war. This was annihilation.
I looked again at the elf girl, her fine features smeared with soot and tears, her ears quivering as she wept out her sorrow. Her people had summoned us here to end this war because they could not face horrors like these alone.
Lowering my M27 Automatic Rifle, I let out a slow, shaky breath. The futility of it all weighed heavy. As one of my guys from 2nd Platoon approached, his expression mirrored my own—hard, hollowed out, and sickened by the scene.
"Looks like we're getting closer to the front lines," he muttered, his voice low as his eyes swept over the carnage.
I nodded grimly. This wasn't just a war. It was something darker, something far more insidious. And we were walking straight into it.
…..
Fox Company, 2nd platoon.
September 17, 2021.
| 8:21 | 0:8:21:00 | Hours.
Michael stepped into view, his boots crunching in the ash-strewn ground as he took in the grotesque sight before him. His face curled into a grimace of distaste, the stench of charred flesh striking him like a wall. His gaze fell to the burnt corpse, then transferred to the sobbing elf girl beside me, her slender frame shaking with every anguished sob.
For a second, he said nothing. The weight of the scene was just sinking in, and then, with a low, biting tone, he broke the silence.
"Goddamn," Michael muttered, his voice laced with both disgust and anger. "What in the name of God does this sort of monster do? These bastards do not just kill—they make a damn show of it."
He knelt for a moment, surveying the burnt remains with a soldier's trained eye but a human's unwilling revulsion. His hand hovered above the ground near the body, the heat still radiating off it, making him recoil slightly.
"This isn't war," he said, standing up. "This is a message. A God-fucking warning for us."
He turned his attention to the elf girl, her grief cutting through the hardened exterior he tried to maintain. His brow furrowed as he glanced at me, his voice softening just a fraction.
“Does she know them?” he asked, nodding toward the corpse.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Language barrier. But she feels it, same as we do.”
Michael let out a deep breath, running a hand over his face as though to wipe away the view in front of him. "Fucking hell," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. And then, looking back at me, his jaw set hard. "We are in for it, Lieutenant. If this is what they are willing to do, you can bet it only gets worse the closer we get.
His words hung in the air like the smoke around us, a haunting echo of what we all knew was waiting ahead.
"Got word from sister company," Michael said, breaking the silence. "They picked up intel that the bastards fled the area last night. Battalion translator's been working overtime—doing us a hell of a favour.”
“Yeah," I mumbled. "Even in a different world, we're fighting the same damn battles. Makes you wonder if these people are the ‘primitive’ reincarnation of the Iraqis." I shook my head. "Not gonna lie—I'd take on insurgents back home rather than having to deal with last night's clusterfuck. Shit burnt into my head.”
Michael smirked, but his tone turned mockingly serious. "Hound's gonna have your ass for getting our platoon stuck on that fortification. That 'easy route' you thought we could clear with the Humvees? Yeah, that went well."
"Don't start busting my balls over that," I snapped. "I already debriefed with the old man. He didn't care, as long as we got to the meet-up point.
Michael raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough."
The exchange pulled my mind away from the girl for a moment, but her quiet sobbing brought me back. I turned to Michael again, focusing on the matter at hand.
"Get a corpsman to check on the kid," I said. "And find that translator. We need to figure out what to do with her."
Michael nodded. "Aye aye, sir." With that, he jogged off toward the Humvees to radio the battalion translator.
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I turned back once more to the elf girl. Her tears continued falling, smearing her blackened face. I felt a pause, unsure what to say. Finally, I said, "I'll be back." It was a meaningless phrase. She'd never understand what I said, but saying something seemed better than saying nothing. Her sobs didn't abate; I walked away, striding a few steps back to the squad.
When I reached the Humvees, Fox Company and the rest of the battalion had been waiting for hours, stalled on the next move. Most of the guys were lounging around, eating their MREs and trying to kill time. Corporal Antonio Rodriguez spotted me trudging back and grinned.
“Lieutenant’s back!” he called out with exaggerated enthusiasm, earning a few chuckles from the others.
I turned away, scanning the room for Michael Wills. He was by the radio, fiddling with the comms as static hissed through the speaker. His expression shifted from neutral to sheepish as he saw me approach.
"Battalion HQ's not responding yet," he said, preempting my question. "You're gonna have to go up there in person."
"Of course I am," I said dryly, my sarcasm not lost on him.
Michael grinned stupidly. "Good luck with that, sir."
I headed toward battalion HQ, my head shaking in dismay as I spoke under my breath. This haze of uncertainty that hung in the air was starting to feel like a bad dream we couldn't wake ourselves up from. But then again, there was no time to sit around thinking. There was work to be done.
With my battle board clutched in my hand, I was accompanied by Staff Sergeant Samuel Kenn and Sergeant Peter James. Both of them gave me a look as I approached, the unspoken weight of last night's disaster hanging between us. Their expressions said it all—disappointment mixed with grudging acceptance. I let out a sigh, bracing myself for the inevitable conversation.
Hound was fine about it," I began, addressing the elephant in the room. "But we're not pulling that stunt again, even if we're rushing. I gave my justification, and the HAMS are working on fixing the front of the Humvee.
"Might be lucky if we get a replacement," Staff Sergeant Kenn said, with just enough hope in his voice to hang onto. "Heard from a buddy in 2nd Battalion—they trashed their Humvee during a midnight raid, and the Army's giving them a JLTV as a replacement."
"Bullshit," Peter James interjected, drawing on his reservoir of experience.
Kenn smirked, angling forward a little. "Not capping, dawg. If we get something better than these rolling coffins, we could run through that damn cover without breaking a sweat.
"That's the Marines for you," James said, shaking his head. "We just sit around waiting for the Army to hand us their leftovers. Meanwhile, this world doesn't even know what modern warfare looks like. Those rats were chucking sticks and stones last night, and now they want us to help them? What a joke."
I turned to James, levelling him with a glance. “It’s not about that. Congress greenlit this because a portal to a new world is a game-changer. Better than wasting time on some third-world shithole. Mark my words—we’re here for strategic dominance. Wouldn’t surprise me if, down the line, we’re fighting the same people we’re helping right now. All for the sake of giving the U.S. a foothold.”
"Exactly," Kenn said, nodding. "Once this war is over—and it will be over fast—the brass will start setting up permanent positions. Mark my words: they'll find some local leader, turn him pro-American, and make him king or whatever the hell they do here. All to secure control."
The grim pragmatism of their words hung in the air. I glanced at James, noting the flicker of unease in his eyes. He didn't say it outright, but it was clear he didn't like where this conversation was going. Political debates weren't his thing—or mine. We were all cogs in a much bigger machine, soldiers carrying out orders we didn't write. Pawns on a board we couldn't see.
As we approached the HQ, our chatter faded. The imposing figure of Hound (Lt. Colonel Theodore Ross) came into view. He was standing at the centre of the briefing area, surrounded by higher-ranking officers, his voice commanding attention even at a distance.
The sight of him brought an abrupt end to our musings. Whatever the future held, we’d find out soon enough. For now, there were orders to follow and a war to win—one battle at a time.
Lt. Colonel Theodore Ross stood at the centre of the briefing area, his commanding presence amplified by the deep, raspy tone of his voice as it carried over the assembled company COs. In front of him was a makeshift billboard displaying the country's map, overlaid with detailed American-made battle maps. Using his finger to trace lines and mark key positions, he laid out the situation with precision.
"The 2nd Battalion has been pinned down in this sector,” he said, pointing to a spot on the map roughly ten clicks east of our position. “Got word from the Popstar that locals are hiring mercenaries—what we’ve been calling ‘rats’—to fight against us. It won’t take long before they start applying the same tactics here.”
The room fell silent as everyone processed the implications. Then Hound continued, his voice steady, deliberate.
“RCT-1 has been moving north rapidly. Word just came down the wire—we’re shifting northeast. And here’s the good news: MATCS will be joining us shortly. That means full-range support from Vipers and Harriers. Air superiority is about to get a hell of a lot better.”
It cracked at that point as the cheers went up from the COs. Murmurs of "Get some" and "Fucking finally" made their way through the rank and file. The last couple of days, with air cover stretched thin and logistically managing a hostile, almost savage environment, appeared to weigh a little lighter on them all. The Sergeant Major even allowed himself a slight smile as he looked out at the assembled ranks.
Hound held up a hand, calling for order. “Settle down,” he said gruffly. “We’re not done yet.”
The room fell silent quickly as he continued to speak. "Higher-ups have changed our marching orders. Civilians aren't our problem anymore—leave them for the rear echelon. General Douglas has assigned to our battalion a very important mission. Up northeast, there's a small fortress blocking the advance of the Elijah forces. Our job is to destroy it, or clear it, and once that's accomplished, link up with the 2nd Battalion from the 4th Regiment and keep pushing north.
He paused, the weight of the mission settling in for a moment. "Now, as we take down the fortress, RCT-1, 3rd Battalion, and 1st Battalion will be releasing the city of Juju. When they secure the place, it will present us with a cleaner environment to establish ourselves. Of course, this is on the back of timing and coordination. We do ours, they do theirs.
There was a silent whisper among the COs as they glanced at each other, sizing up the mission ahead. Hound's tone shifted ever so slightly, taking on a more urgent tone. "This is not going to be easy. That fortress is reinforced, and you can bet your ass they're expecting us. But we've got the tools, the training, and now, the air support. Get your squads prepped and briefed. We move out at 1500.
And so the briefing concluded. The officers began to file out, mumbling strategies and orders to each other. I stood back for a moment, watching Hound as he studied the map, his face unreadable but focused.
Just when I turned to leave, he was under his breath, yet at a volume that came my way, "Fortress duty, huh? Guess they're testing whether or not we're ready to play kingmakers in this new world.
I didn't respond but nodded. Kenn wasn't wrong—this wasn't just a mission. It was a chess move in a game far bigger than any of us. And like it or not, we were the pieces being pushed across the board.
With little time to leave the briefing, Hound called us over. He whispered a few words to the Sergeant Major and motioned toward us. We turned, curiosity mixed with a bit of dread. He rustled through a few pieces of paper, mumbling to himself before looking up and pinning me under a sharp gaze.
"Vehicle?" he asked directly.
I straightened up, offering a smile to soften the reply. “Going well, sir. Minor damage, but it’s still combat capable.”
“Good,” he muttered, his tone flat but purposeful. “Because I’ve got a job for you.”
That little burst of words gave me flickering hopes—or maybe dreads—it seemed as we stepped in closer. Staff Sergeant Kenn and Sergeant James followed since Hound turned back into the large map pinned into the board. His long finger moved across the topography, stopping on marked town along our path for the fortress.
"Sylvalis," he said, tapping the spot. "This town sits on a critical route we need to pass through to reach the fortress. It's been sieged several times by these invaders but has held firm. Reports suggest it's been cleared out, but I'm not taking any chances. Your unit is going to recon Sylvalis, secure the area, and assess its viability as a forward operating base."
Kenn looked at the map and then back to Hound. "It would seem more sensible to send a sister company in to support this, sir?
Hound's head snapped towards him, his eyes narrowing. "No," he said flatly. "While your company handles this recon, the rest will wait for the MATCS attachment to arrive. This is also your chance to redeem yourselves after last night's little *incident*. We had to wait for your asses, and higher-ups wouldn't be too thrilled to hear about that clusterfuck. Consider this your chance to show you can get the job done.
I remained silent, my jaw clamped tight, nodding curtly. This wasn't the time for arguments. Hound's scowl softened ever so slightly, a small, sardonic smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"All right, gentlemen," he said, sweeping us off with a wave. "I'll catch you at Sylvalis."
We filed out of the briefing, the weight of the mission sinking in. As we headed back toward our unit, Kenn was the first to break the silence.
"What the fuck," he muttered, half-laughing. "Our very own mission? Jesus Christ, this is really good."
I smirked, shaking my head. “Yeah, Apostle’s going to love this. He’d probably rather sit tight and wait than head out to scope some unknown town.”
Kenn snorted. “Can’t say I blame him. But hey, a mission’s a mission. Let’s make it count.”
I nodded, the flicker of doubt gnawing at the back of my mind. Sylvalis might be “cleared out,” but nothing about this world had been straightforward so far. If the colonel wanted redemption, we’d give it to him. One way or another.