As the morning light filtered through the blinds, I was in a familiar position: flat on the floor, feet anchored beneath the dresser, ready to tackle my daily sit-up challenge. The record? A formidable 122 in a single session. Yet, as I lifted my torso, each rise was met not just with the strain of exertion but also with the taste of scrambled eggs and sausage, courtesy of the fork I wielded with unwavering determination.

This peculiar ritual of mine, a blend of breakfast and burn, might raise eyebrows. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last, that I'd multitask in such a manner. The Watersons, known for our stubborn streak, often defy conventional wisdom. So, despite the well-known fact that digestion takes a backseat during physical activity, I persisted, driven by sheer will.

The sound of my mother's voice broke through my focus. "Alright Mackenzie, I'm off to work," she called out from the living room, her tone carrying the weight of our strained relationship.

"Alright, see ya," I responded, my reply brief yet laden with unspoken words.

Post workout, and with breakfast still settling, I retrieved the newspaper, a bi-daily ritual that connected me to the world beyond our doorstep. But today, the headlines bore the weight of sorrow. My grand-uncle, President Bill Waterson of Little Bird, had passed away. His tenure, stretching back to 1968, was marked by a legacy of benevolence and progress, earning him the moniker "the male version of Abigail Orange."

Uncle Bill's presidency was a testament to his dedication to the people. He championed initiatives that bolstered mental, sexual, and nutritional health education. His support for trade and vocational schools, along with enhanced training and apprenticeship programs, opened doors for countless individuals, equipping them with skills for a diverse job market. His efforts didn't stop there; he modernized agriculture, empowered entrepreneurs with financial resources, and ensured that even the most isolated communities weren't left behind.

Under his guidance, Little Bird's telecommunications infrastructure flourished, providing reliable internet access to all. He expanded upon President Orange's anti-corruption measures, establishing teams of special agents dedicated to upholding integrity within the government.

President Waterson was a man of the people, advocating for lower taxes and a balanced economy that combined expert planning with free-market principles. He valued media independence, fostering a landscape where state-funded and independent outlets could coexist. Alongside President Orange, he championed an open society, recognizing the right to privacy and advocating for labor laws that protected workers' rights.

As I sat there, absorbing the news of his passing, I couldn't help but feel the loss of a leader who had shaped Little Bird into a nation that cared for its citizens, a true Workers' Paradise. His legacy, like the resolve of the Watersons, would undoubtedly endure.

He just expanded on what the government already had where since its founding the Country of Little Bird’s Voting Rights are: All Citizens Vote where all citizens regardless of wealth or gender can participate in elections, Religion is a Secular State where the country of Little Bird allows all expressions of religion without endorsing one, Armed Forces is a mix of a Professional Army, Conscription and Militia with the Little Bird Armed Forces that are composed of legally recognized career soldiers, who are more effective in battle but also are composed of citizens randomly selected for service, making it so soldiers don't need an education and that the nation's armed forces are composed of both official soldiers and reserves of armed civilians, who will form into additional military squads during an coup or invasion. But Little Bird has always been a Guarded Heaven where the country’s borders even though in the ocean the borders are closed off and regulated making it hard for illegal immigration but President Bill implemented a program to attract skilled workers, making it so only people with at least high school education.

Not adding that he made it where Little Bird it’s internet is free for all even though computers are used in offices not residential for Globalization, President Abigail Orange had it as a Strategic Sector. The nation has laws to protect its strongest and most vital industry, raising the price of the island's top export by 20% while Bill he created where the country of Little Bird is under protectionism to protect it from inflation so with trade with other countries he more or less said that they have to pay this much amount including tax and Little Bird will pay this much amount including tax and if they don’t like it well they’ll find someone else to trade with instead.

The day had dawned with a somber air over Little Bird, a day many had hoped would remain confined to the realm of distant possibilities. Yet, reality has a way of catching up with even the most remote of fears. The nation stood at a crossroads, the Vice Presidency now a seat of power, as the mantle of leadership passed in the wake of President Bill Waterson's departure.

In Little Bird, the selection of a Vice President was never a popularity contest; it was a decision grounded in the potential for leadership and the capacity to steer the nation forward. However, history still whispers of the year 1963, when a Vice President, intelligent and honorable yet unyieldingly brutal, ascended to the presidency. His near-authoritarian rule had teetered on the brink of igniting an uprising. A time when even the most loyal of Veteran Rangers, Marines, Airborne, and Army soldiers found their allegiances tested to the core.

For eleven tumultuous months, the nation grappled with the prospect of betrayal from within its ranks, until a new leader was sought to bridge the gap to the next full election. It was then that Bill Waterson emerged, championed by the Little Bird Militarist party—a party known for its unwavering support of military interests, despite its members' deep-rooted connections to the armed forces.

The newspapers of the time were merciless in their portrayal of the interim President, a man who, in his arrogance, had nearly fractured the nation. His lack of Loyalists, a faction typically easy to rally yet challenging to appease, was a testament to his divisive leadership. Unlike his predecessors and successors, he stood alone, without the support of those who valued honor and service above all else.

Now, as Little Bird navigates this new chapter, the people look to their Vice President with cautious optimism, hoping for a leader who will honor the legacy of President Waterson—a leader who understands the delicate balance between strength and compassion, between the needs of the many and the duties of the few.

The newspaper and the media on the TV talked about how the country of Little Bird has to wait until the year of 2012 for an election unless if the Vice President dies or gets elected out of office then the Little Bird Civilian Congress will have to declare an emergency election to elect a new president until the next primary election. Unless the Little Bird Military Congress can declare a Military Junta or Martial law in place of an election until election season. But the news talked about how Mrs. Abigail Orange was the first president to run for a long time in which she was President for twenty years from 1935-1955 while Bill Waterson was President from 1968-2010.

I settled into my favorite armchair, the day’s newspaper already perused and set aside. My gaze fell upon the spine of a well-worn tome, its pages steeped in the military history of Little Bird—a nation whose very existence hinged on the extraordinary feats of the Rangers.

It was on Able’s day off, a rare respite from the relentless march of time, that I delved into the annals of these fabled warriors. The Rangers, once mere shadows flitting through the wilderness, had risen to prominence through their unparalleled scouting and raiding missions. Their ranks swelled with frontiersmen and women, their spirits forged in the crucible of the wild, and natives whose skills were honed by a lifetime amidst nature’s untamed beauty.

The narrative unfolded, revealing the Rangers as both the Thesis and the Antithesis in the tapestry of Little Bird’s history. As the fledgling nation teetered on the brink of defeat in the war against Blister Canyon, the formation of the Rangers and Marines marked a turning point. These guerrilla fighters, adept in the art of unconventional warfare, became the unsolvable enigma for Blister Canyon’s rigid military hierarchy.

Blister Canyon, in its hubris, sought to emulate the grandeur of Julius Caesar’s Rome, yet failed to grasp the subtleties that had cemented Rome’s legacy. Where Caesar had woven the threads of conquered peoples into the fabric of his empire, allowing them to retain their identities while contributing to Rome’s prosperity, Blister Canyon sought to erase the very essence of those they subdued. This iron-fisted approach sowed seeds of resentment that would inevitably sprout into rebellion, should their military dominance ever falter.

The book spared no detail in chronicling Blister Canyon’s shortcomings: their agricultural practices were lackluster at best, their medical knowledge virtually non-existent. Their architectural endeavors amounted to little more than rudimentary fortifications, a stark contrast to the grand constructions of antiquity. Lacking diplomacy and commerce, they relied solely on the whims of independent traders for resources, stripping conquered lands bare without thought for sustainability.

In its pursuit of military supremacy, Blister Canyon had become a stratocracy, where anti-intellectualism festered, misogyny was rife, and depravity ran rampant. It was a society teetering on the precipice, its foundations eroded by its own corrosive ideologies.

They thrived under the cloak of night, executing raids that struck fear into the hearts of our adversaries. They were not just soldiers; they were the avenging spirits of the night, liberating those shackled by Blister Canyon’s oppressive regime. Their empire, blinded by arrogance, treated all as subordinates, from the slaves they captured to the women they relegated to mere domestic existence—save for the priestesses who alone held a semblance of status.

Blister Canyon’s military, a mirror to their society, was rigid and inflexible. Their musketmen, lined up like tin soldiers, would fire only in succession, a tactic as outdated as their beliefs. In contrast, the Little Bird Army, were fluid like the river, our musketeers firing in a continuous volley, that allowed no respite for the enemy.

Our strategies were manifold; sometimes we encircled them, other times we faced them head-on only to flank them from behind, cutting off any hope of retreat. Our Marines and Rangers, under the shroud of darkness, would set their armories and food stores ablaze, sowing chaos and crippling their war efforts. We struck not just at their bodies but at their morale, their very will to fight.

And in those silent hours, we also struck a blow for freedom, releasing the slaves from their chains, an act that would sow the seeds of Blister Canyon’s downfall. Their leaders, ever so conspicuous in their attire, became easy targets, and their cavalry, armed only with swords, were no match for our carbine-wielding horsemen.

Not adding that one reason why Little Bird won the war was because of the Natives teaching the European settlers how to farm and live off of their land. But the most important one was that they respected and still respect and still love mother earth because to the Native Little Birdens they say that humans are guests of planet earth. So they shouldn’t destroy the soil nor anything else of the planet not adding they also have their own Gods/Goddesses for Agriculture, Fertility and Earth and so on and so fourth but they treat the planet as if it’s their own and they take great respect of their land and believe that Natural Disasters are ways of Planet Earth to get back at humans who ravages the planet and plaques earth with war and fightings and destruction.

So to them whenever there’s a hurricane/cyclone/typhoon, earthquake, tsunamis and other natural disasters it’s Earth getting back at those who take the planet for granted and don’t respect their home planet. That’s why on the country of Little Bird the towns are small and cities aren’t really that big where the biggest city on Little Bird is the city of Empire of it being overall 77 miles with the smallest city on Little Bird being 42 miles overall but that the country has enough farmlands but the rest of the country is all natural land with no human inhabitants.

But another part of the history book noted how Blister Canyon fought the war and remembered how not to fight a war of overextension, supply lines being spread very thin, and overextended that they couldn’t have troops protect their own land. Whenever the Little Bird Marines, elite Marines who specializes in amphibious warfare and beach landings and the Little Bird Rangers of performing nighttime raids of search and destroy missions and freeing both slaves and prisoners of war that it was so bad that Blister Canyon had to issue a direct command to all Army officers and their so called “Legate” of not to take any Little Bird Rangers or Marines as prisoners but if captured the Rangers and Marines should be summarily executed without trial, even if in proper uniforms or if they attempted to surrender. But since this was very long before the Geneva Convention a lot of Little Bird Rangers or Marines would capture Blister Canyon soldiers and take their uniforms and confuse the frontlines for Blister Canyon to redirect their troops back behind the frontlines even though the same thing happened in World War 2 with Operation: Grief when SS Commandos tried to do the same but failed.

It is my strong opinion that a country cannot win a war if it is unable to defend its own homeland without withdrawing troops from the war. This situation would indicate that the country is overextended, has limited supply lines, and lacks the necessary manpower for defense. In such a case, the country may have to pull entire companies or divisions out of the war to send them back home for defense, or even resort to forcing the weak and young into military service to protect their homeland. However, history has repeatedly shown that people do not respond well to being forced to fight for a country or empire that has erased their cultural identity. Blister Canyon failed to adequately defend its land without resorting to such measures, while Little Bird, on the other hand, had a well-trained militia that effectively protected their towns.

Not adding that finally that even the most loyal and battle hardened Blister Canyon soldiers and officers knew they were fighting an unwinnable war. Even history knows that citizens and soldiers won’t fight in a war if they know that they won’t get food if the people are starving so they won’t balk at a leader who keeps his people starving or enslave many and destroy many cultures. But the history book also pointed out how conscripting POWs to fight nations friendly with their homeland or is their homeland is not a good idea. The “Marked Men” consist units fighting for against their homeland or who have extremely low morale where “Marked Men” got their name due to they were marked on their foreheads and were forced to fight against their homeland and their morale was so low that many broke ranks before battles or routed after their being shot at by a first volley fire.

Not adding that Little Bird they tried different weapon designs like making a six shot musket of having six barrels smoothbore muskets or an quad barreled combination musket that would fire all of it’s shots at once but it took a very long time to reload all six or four barrels in which the enemy would’ve been able to get four or six shots off before the Little Birden soldiers could’ve had the time to reload fully with only 20 models for the four shot ones were made and 10 for the six shot ones were made. But another reason why Blister Canyon lost the war was them treating the war as a total war of using up all of their natural, human, and agricultural resources fighting a war not adding that Blister Canyon they cut down many trees and other flora to make way for camps, forts, and training areas so whenever new units were deployed to Little Bird. They had to deal with the lush jungles, and mountainous terrain of the southern half of Little Bird that’s full of lush jungles, flat plains, and a mountain range with an elevation of 6690 ft while the rest of Little Bird is just lush jungles and flat plains with some mountain ranges here and there which the Natives and settlers used to their advantage hence the Natives grew up on the land so they know what’s poisonous, what’s safe to eat and what animals that are safe and what animals that are dangerous and be avoided like snakes and bears.

Not adding another reason why Little Bird won the war was via propaganda and how the few cities had opera houses. Hence, the government used opera plays similar to USO tours. They demonized Blister Canyon soldiers about how they were coming in hordes to come and destroy their cultures and enslave them. Still, their conscription was limited to only 2.5% could be conscripted for military service while for Blister Canyon that all males once they hit the age of 16 they begin military training. Not adding the history book pointed out the contrast between Little Bird and Blister Canyon where on Little Bird children could play around on the banks of rivers, play sports, having fun and do what children do while on the other hand for Blister Canyon the children begin somewhat training of their children practicing loading cannon shells, and close infantry drills before turning 16 and forced into the military.

But Blister Canyon and Little Bird were two sides of different coins where Little Bird was and still is favoring reason, freedom, peace and equality over Blister Canyon’s demagoguery, authoritarianism, warmongering and bigotry. But almost twenty years after the war when Blister Canyon fell due to a power vacuum and multiple uprisings at once well Blister Canyon changed and started to follow Little Bird in favoring reason, freedom, peace and equality.

I then put the history book back and left my apartment before getting into my car.

“Good morning Empire,” the news anchor’s voice cut through the static, a repetitive greeting that grated on my nerves. His tone, dripping with an insincerity that seemed to mock the very words he spoke, tempted a scowl onto my lips.

“Good morning to you too, jackass,” I muttered under my breath, a futile retort to the one-sided conversation.

The anchor droned on, his voice a backdrop to my thoughts. “Military officials at Camp Thunder have expressed relief as the bullet train to Camp Skybolt is once again operational. An anonymous officer has disclosed the extensive use of metals for the war effort. Meanwhile, Little Bird has transitioned from a war economy to a limited mobilization, with plans to further downgrade to a civilian economy. The nation has stepped back from a total war economy, a state not seen since the days of World War 2,” he reported, a hint of pride in his voice for the repaired train. “In other news, Ranger Stations Easy and Fox endured an overnight assault by an unidentified faction. The Rangers repelled the attackers, sustaining minimal casualties. The assailants remain unnamed.”

As I was listening to the car radio I just couldn’t stop thinking about how my dad taught me several good things about how that obsession with wealth and inability to let go can lead to one’s downfall, good intentions can lead to tragic outcomes and poses questions about the morality of violence, and that consequences of one’s actions and the importance of personal responsibility. It shows how our decisions can have far-reaching effects, even if we don’t see them immediately.

________________________________

Last night. Lieutenant Colonel Midnight Waterson's POV

"Attention," I commanded, my voice steady and eyes piercing through the dim light of the command tent. "In the unfortunate event of capture, remember: rank, surname, service number. Nothing more."

A young Ranger, his uniform still crisp and clean, looked up with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "Could you elaborate, ma'am?"

I stood taller, embodying the very essence of the discipline that had been hammered into us. "Observe," I said, and with a voice that brooked no argument, I recited, "**Lieutenant Colonel. Waterson. 193-241-970.**"

This was the code, our unwavering mantra, derived from Article 5 of the Geneva Convention of 1929. It was supposed to be a prisoner's unassailable right to withhold information, save for those three identifiers. But in the grim reality of our world, where the Little Bird nation—a signatory of this convention—had let these ideals fade into obscurity during the Second World War, such rights were a mere fantasy. The Little Bird military had no equivalent article; any captured soldier from the German Fallschirmjäger-Division, Seebataillon, or SS, the Italian Divisione Marina, Divisione Paracadutisti, or the Japanese SNLF and Teishin Shidan, would meet a grim end, far from the honor of war.

In 1938, the Little Bird War Department issued a chilling decree. It stated that all enemy commandos, whether in uniform or not, whether surrendering or not, were to be executed on the spot. The term "commando" was loosely interpreted by the Little Bird Armed Forces, including any specialized infantry skilled in amphibious or airborne operations. Marines, Naval Infantry, Paratroopers—all were deemed Special Forces, a menace to be eliminated without the dignity of a trial.

I shared with them the harsh realities of war, how the Little Bird Army, Marines, and even Rangers would rely on armored support to dispatch captured enemy commandos. The tanks of the Little Bird Military were always equipped with three types of shells: AP (Armour Piercing) for armored targets, HE (High Explosive) for structures and infantry, and White Phosphorus—Willie Pete, as we called it. In World War II, our tanks boasted machine guns akin to the American .30 caliber M1919 and the .50 caliber M2. As the war drew to its brutal close, following the Battle of the Bulge and in retaliation for the Malmedy Massacre, our methods grew more ruthless.

I explained the preference for White Phosphorus over smoke shells. Willie Pete served a dual purpose: smoke screen and incendiary weapon, often the fiery core of tracer rounds. I recounted tactics where our tanks, advancing ahead, would turn their cannons inward, creating a deadly crossfire to thwart any enemy infantry daring enough to climb aboard—while ensuring the safety of our own crew within their steel confines.

Then, I spoke of my grandfather, a veteran of both World Wars and the Korean conflict. A man who treated friend and foe with equal kindness, insisting that even those we fought had families waiting for them. As a Sergeant in the American 1st Infantry Division during the '40s, he held a unique perspective. Despite the widespread disdain for Nazis—a sentiment generally well-founded—he maintained that they, too, were human and deserved respect in death. He had seen the worst of humanity, fighting alongside the British Army in the First World War, then with the American Army in the Second and in Korea. To him, the SS were the true adversaries, yet his compassion remained unchanged, even against the Volkssturm.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the snap of a twig, a branch.

"What took y'all so long?" I called out, expecting another patrol returning to camp.

But instead of friendly footsteps, a hail of gunfire erupted. We scrambled, helmets secured, weapons drawn—my hand instinctively reaching for the carbine version of the X16, similar to the XM177E2, CAR-15/Colt Commando, as we returned fire.

Our armor deflected the incoming rounds, but the enemy—whomever they were—was relentless, threatening to overwhelm us. At that moment, I pressed the hardened communication device at my side and uttered the code "Shattered Spear" twice, calling for immediate support.

____________________________________________________________________________

Inside the Little Bird War Department, the air was thick with tension. A voice cut through the silence, "Shattered Spear?" It was a question laden with urgency.

Another responded, a seasoned tone amidst the chaos, "It's a distress call. It means a Little Birden unit or an ally is being overrun. It calls all combat aircraft for immediate support."

The room fell quiet, the gravity of the situation settling in. The map table lay before us, a sea of toothpicks topped with the proud flag of Little Bird, each one marking the pulse points of our nation's defense: army bases, Marine Corps depots, firebases, training grounds, air force stations, and naval air stations. Among them, the stalwart outposts of the Little Bird Rangers.

________________________

With a steady hand, I unleashed a barrage from my assault carbine, its dual magazines rigged in the jungle style—a testament to the ingenuity of the Little Bird Armed Forces. This configuration, with magazines taped top-to-top, was a tradition dating back to World War II, ensuring that mud or dirt never compromised the spare. Our licensed versions of the BAR and Tommy Gun, equipped with 20 or 30-round stick magazines—never drums—were a legacy of that era.

The enemy closed in, their numbers overwhelming, but they were met with the lethal precision of hand-to-hand combat. The Rangers, alongside our brethren in the Little Bird Marines and Special Forces, were trained of a hundred ways to dispatch a foe. No need for firearms, blades, or blunt instruments—our hands were weapons enough, trained to deliver death with efficiency and fatality.

Through the static of my helmet's earpiece, a voice crackled with urgency. As a Lieutenant Colonel, my gear was top-tier—the hardened commander model, equipped with both an uplink module and a live-feed transmitter to headquarters. The news came swiftly: the 32nd Multirole Fighter Wing would be in position within thirty seconds.

I reached for the LBAFGF (Little Bird Armed Forces Ground Forces)-02 Target Designator, its compact 14-inch frame deceiving in its power. This handheld laser device, emitting a low-power 1mw red beam, was crucial for pinpointing targets for air or artillery strikes. With a steady hand, I aimed the laser, painting the solitary path leading up the mountain—a beacon for the incoming fighters.

The leader of the 32nd confirmed the lock on their end. "Target acquired," they affirmed. The weight of the moment hung heavy; with a simple laser's glow, the tide of battle was about to turn.

Rockets streaked across the sky, their trails marking the path of deliverance. One jet, its 20mm Gatling-style rotary cannon roaring to life, unleashed a torrent of rounds—each 20 mm × 102 mm projectile exiting the barrel at a blistering rate of 6,000 rounds per minute. Beside it, another jet's 30mm counterpart spat out 30x173mm rounds, slightly slower at 3,000 rounds per minute, but with devastating effect.

This was the doctrine of the Little Bird Air Force, a strategy refined since the days of World War II. Ground-based observers, identifiable by the LB AIR FORCE tags on their uniforms, were embedded within regular army and marine units. Their presence ensured pinpoint accuracy for air support, allowing aircraft to provide direct and lethal assistance to the ground forces engaged in the thick of combat. These Multirole Aircraft, formerly known as Attack Aircraft, operated with a degree of autonomy, often surprising enemy forces as they maneuvered to and from the front lines.

Having completed their initial strafing runs, the jets peeled away from the area of operations, only to regroup and prepare for another assault. They would return, their payloads ready to rain down upon the enemy once more, a relentless cycle of support for the troops below.

Our makeshift station, nestled in the rugged terrain, doubled as an IR Strobe beacon. It marked our presence, a silent sentinel amidst the chaos. To the west, the enemy loomed—a stark contrast to our position. For added safety, I improvised: an aluminum can repurposed as a holder for an IR Strobe beacon. Its pulsing light, a clandestine signal to our pilots above, distinguished friend from foe in the monochrome tapestry of war.

This method of identification was a lesson hard-learned from history. In the Second World War, the Little Bird military used red smoke grenades to mark their positions, only to realize the dire consequences of miscommunication. Red was the color of attack for the Air Force, leading to tragic friendly fire incidents. The solution was a shift to orange smoke—a visual cue that saved countless lives.

My military tenure spans decades, three wars, and countless battles. I enlisted back in '87, fresh out of high school, at a time when basic computer literacy was a prized skill, unlike the ubiquity of digital fluency today. I recall my first engagement as a platoon leader in the Marines, a memory now dramatized on the silver screen. They depicted a helicopter dodging an RPG, but the reality was far less cinematic—a simple case of poor hand-eye coordination leading to a marine’s fall.

As the years marched on, I ascended through the ranks of the Rangers. From Captain to Lieutenant Colonel, my ascent was not just a climb in rank but a commitment to a creed: to lead from the vanguard, to stand united with my comrades-in-arms, not as a distant overseer from a command post or the confines of a desk. This was the oath I swore, to be entrenched in the thick of battle, to be part of the brotherhood forged in the crucible of war.

Leadership in the military is a mantle I bear with gravity—it's not about camaraderie or friendship, it's about command and control. I recall a Lieutenant from the war in 2000, who lost his entire platoon—not to enemy fire, but to disarray. My words to him were blunt, "Maybe, if you were in control of your men, instead of trying to be their best friend, they wouldn't need to be found." Too many officers blur the lines between leader and peer, forgetting the hierarchy that holds the forces together.

In the heat of battle, I long to command my Rangers to execute the Four F's of Combat: Find, Fix, Flank, and Finish the enemy. Yet, geography dictates our tactics—there's only one path, with a sheer drop on one side and a steep incline on the other, making flanking maneuvers impossible. But we are Rangers, a hybrid force of scouts, commandos, paratroopers, and infantry. We are the elite, tasked with clearing objectives and conducting specialist operations ahead of the main army's arrival. Our adaptability is our strength, our reliability unquestioned. We will hold this outpost, against any foe, with whatever forces they muster. For we are not just soldiers; we are Rangers, and we will stand our ground.

In a solemn gesture of remembrance, I christened this rugged terrain "Purple Heart Mountain," a tribute to the sacrifices made on "Purple Heart Lane." The name echoes the harrowing losses of the 502nd PIR's Third Battalion along National Road 13 north of Carentan, where they endured devastating losses. It's a stark contrast to the tales of my granduncle Charlie of the 501st PIR, 101st Airborne, and his twin in the 504th PIR, 82nd Airborne, who both braved the storms of war.

The enemy was ill-prepared for the arsenal at Ranger Station Easy. Our ranks, armed with launchers reminiscent of Bazookas, while we carry a diverse array of ammunition. From Hollow Point to Armor Piercing, Frangible to Soft Point, we were equipped for any confrontation. The standard issue for the Little Bird Armed Forces is the Full Metal Jacket, but even here, we diverged—our Airforce pilots, crew chiefs, and Pararescue teams carried pistols loaded with Subsonic rounds.

As dawn broke over Purple Heart Mountain, the aftermath of the night's battle lay stark against the morning light. The enemy's assault had faltered, their numbers dwindling under the relentless defense of the Rangers. They had employed a tactic known as the "Human Wave," an archaic strategy where attackers surge in dense formations, seeking to overwhelm defenders through sheer force. But such methods proved futile against the disciplined might of the Little Bird Army.

Our doctrine, "Superior Firepower," stood in stark contrast to their desperate gambit. It is a principle that prioritizes the judicious use of munitions over the reckless expenditure of lives. "We throw shells at the enemy, not men," the doctrine declares—a poignant reminder that while material can be replenished, the loss of a soldier is irreplaceable. In the calculus of war, it is understood that bullets are cheap, manpower is precious.

The silence of the morning was a testament to this belief, as the mountain bore witness to the valor and sacrifice of those who defended it, ensuring that each life spent was honored by the survival of many.

The military doctrines I’ve learned, though not through formal Officer Candidate School or a military academy, are the bedrock of strategic warfare. They are the distilled wisdom of countless battles, a testament to the adaptability and resilience required in the face of adversity.

- Delay Tactic: "When victory is unattainable, slowing the enemy's advance through ambushes and delaying tactics can be advantageous."

- Mobile Forces: "Mobile forces can swiftly reinforce defenses or offenses at critical junctures."

- Dispersed Support: "By dispersing support units, they can provide extensive coverage while remaining safe from direct engagement."

- Regimental Combat Teams: "An infantry regiment, integrated with support units like artillery, tanks, and reconnaissance, forms a self-sufficient unit for enhanced flexibility."

- Mechanized Infantry: "While motorized troops suffice, offensives require mechanized infantry that can advance in armored transports for protection."

- Centralized Fire Control: "Centralized fire control enables concentrated firepower on a target by evaluating artillery support from a single location."

- Forward Observers: "Forward observers position themselves to assess the accuracy and impact of artillery, relaying information for adjustments."

- Combined Arms: "The synergy of armor, infantry, and support units operating in coordinated teams surpasses the effectiveness of these forces acting independently."

- Tactical Control: "Officers adept in combined arms tactics can effectively oversee operations from forward positions."

- AirLand Battle and Shock and Awe: "A blend of strategies that emphasize air superiority and rapid dominance to overwhelm the enemy."

The arrival of a helicopter bearing relief signals the end of a duty cycle and the beginning of a well-deserved respite. The rotation system we have spending a month at the outpost before returning home for a month—ensures that Rangers remain sharp, rested, and ready for the challenges ahead. It's a rhythm that balances the demands of service with the need for recovery, allowing us to return to our loved ones and recharge before once again standing guard over the freedoms we protect.

As the helicopter blades cut through the air, my mind was awash with the faces of those I’ve commanded—the brave souls who stood firm in the face of danger, and those who found solace in moments of vulnerability. The battlefield is indiscriminate, often claiming the young, those barely at the cusp of adulthood. My father’s words echo in my memory, a somber reminder of the youthfulness that pervaded the ranks in Vietnam, a stark parallel to my own experiences.

In the solemn tradition of the Little Bird Military, the death letter serves as a final testament, a poignant farewell from those who have fallen. It’s a practice that honors the bond between soldier and family, a bridge between the finality of duty and the enduring love that persists beyond life’s end. These letters, whether they carry words of undying affection or the heartache of separation, are a cherished legacy, ensuring that the spirit of the fallen lives on in the hearts of their loved ones.

I carry with me two such letters, penned for the day I hope never comes. One is addressed to my Aunt and Uncle, a tribute to their unwavering support after the tragedy that claimed my parents. The other, to my daughters, Midnight Jr. and Aurora, is a mother’s promise that, though I may be absent, my love for them is as boundless as the skies they were named after. These letters are not just farewells; they are beacons of my love, guiding lights for those I hold dear, should darkness ever fall.

From the perspective of Midnight Waterson:

The echoes of a high school error reverberate through my life, manifesting as two precious daughters. Their father, absent for a decade, reemerged like a specter from the past, wielding deceit as his weapon in a court of law. He painted me as an unfit mother, a slanderous portrait that couldn't be further from the truth. I never shielded my girls from reality; instead, I equipped them with the armor of trade skills. By the time they reached junior high, their hands were already adept at woodcrafting, leatherwork, clay, and metalwork. High school shop classes were merely a review for them, as they were already familiar with the intricacies of electricity and the internal combustion engine.

Yet, the falsehoods spun by their father took root, and my daughters were compelled to live under his roof. There, they were reduced to mere housekeepers, their culinary efforts devoted solely by him. But the military discipline of Little Bird's towns, where soldiers' lives blend with civilian rhythms, had been instilled in them. When they fled his oppressive grasp, they knew the way back to me, their true home. In Lumber, our town, the presence of the 11th Infantry Division is palpable, yet it remains open to the public. Here, amidst military educators, doctors, and other service members, we've found a haven—a place where my daughters can thrive, unfettered by the chains of falsehoods and where their skills and independence shine brightly.

_______________________________________________

Mackenzie “Macaroni” Waterson POV

As I stride through the vibrant streets of Empire finishing up my errands.. Today's not just about the mundane errands;I’ve even stopped at a restaurant to double check our reservation is all set where to me it’s about securing a moment of joy with Lusty. We've got a date tonight, and it's not just any date—it's our little rebellion against the chaos of life. Sure, we're together, but glued at the hip? Never. I've seen too many loves lose their spark from being too close, too often. There's truth in the saying that familiarity breeds contempt.

We cherish our independence, our separate sanctuaries. It keeps our rendezvous fresh, a cause for celebration, not a tiresome routine. Studies back me up: proximity doesn't equal fondness. Even marriage won't see us sharing a roof—not if it means trading passion for indifference.

Last night, I was engrossed in a war film, a stark contrast to the usual fare. This film honors the scars of battle with the gravity they deserve, crafted with the guidance of veterans who've lived the fight, paying tribute to their fallen brothers and sisters.

Little Bird's commitment to the truth of history is what grips me. It's not just about the glory; it's about the hard lessons, like the Dieppe Raid—a disaster that reshaped the Allies' strategy for D-Day. Little Bird doesn't shy away from the tough parts of history. It's a bold stance, but it's one I stand behind. We need to see history from all angles to keep from repeating the old blunders.

I've read my share of history books glorifying America's role in the World Wars. Yes, America was a powerhouse, but these tales often downplay or ignore the sacrifices of other nations. Take Operation Sea Lion: some speculate on Germany’s potential to change the war's tide. But my great-grandfather, a two-time World War and Korean War vet, and my granduncles, can't stand movies that crown America the lone hero, sidelining the efforts of others.

As a kid, war movies were my company while Dad was away. My great-granddad, a British Army vet from World War I, never joined me. He enlisted at thirteen, and the nightmares of trench warfare were his alone to bear. His take on World War II was mixed, having lost sons to the fight. His words were stark, "It's war. Soldiers die. Victory comes at a cost." He never spoke of the policy that split him from his son in '43, sending him to the 16th Infantry Regiment and his boy to the 2nd Ranger Battalion.

My cousin Midnight? She's all about the mission. To her, war's as simple as driving a nail. She's quick to cut through the nonsense. Once, her Marine platoon was picking through fallen comrades' dog tags with hard-to-pronounce or rare names, joking around. Midnight set them straight, reminding them those tags represented real people with loved ones. That's why she's Ranger material—her focus never wavers, even under fire from her own platoon. She's now training with the Little Bird Rangers, living by their creed: "We dive into Hell and don't resurface until the mission's complete."

Midnight's right; Little Bird stands firm on not meddling in the affairs of other nations. We have the military might, but we don't aspire to be the world's police. Our policy is clear: we're not here to fix the world's problems. If we're drawn into a conflict, we know the wisdom in stepping back and walking away once our part is done. It's not about isolationism; it's about making smart choices—avoiding conflicts that don't serve us and offering humanitarian aid where we can.

Unlike the United States, which has often intervened in other countries due to its resources and manpower, Little Bird's foreign policy aims to prevent another quagmire like Vietnam. We refuse to send our soldiers into endless battles with no clear path to victory, only to retreat and save face. Our policy leans towards neutrality, ensuring we don't ignite wars unnecessarily.

Even in our peacekeeping efforts, we prioritize understanding and cooperation. Deploying interpreters, Guides and local anthropologists is our first step, ensuring we respect and do not antagonize the local population. Little Bird's approach is a blend of isolationism and selective engagement—we don't stick our noses where they don't belong. But if a nation seeks our help, we'll oblige, as long as it aligns with our principle: Little Bird first, everyone else second. This policy, rooted in the belief that 'Charity begins at home,' has guided us since 1936.

Midnight's stance on the fresh-faced recruits is clear-cut: 98% frustration, 2% necessity. The frustration stems from the naivety they bring to the frontlines—eager beavers all, spouting lines like, "Where's the enemy?" "Let me at them." "When do we storm the capital?" Yet, within 48 hours, reality hits hard; they're sprawled out, innards exposed, crying out for medics, yearning for the comfort of their mothers.

Midnight, though, isn't your run-of-the-mill officer. She's a high-ranking commissioned officer who's drilled one rule into her troops: no salutes in the kill zone. It's a sniper's playground, and such formalities are a deadly giveaway. She's had to resort to snapping the arms of those who forgot—better a broken arm than a bullet through the brain, she argues. Complaints? Sure, they've trickled up the chain of command, but the old-timers remind the greenhorns that they're getting off easy. In the old days, a salute in a no-salute zone could earn you a summary execution. Midnight's method may seem harsh, but it keeps her Rangers alive, albeit one-handedly clutching their sidearms.

That 2% where she values new blood? It's all about maintaining battalion strength, ensuring they're not caught short-handed. The Little Bird Army Rangers, despite the "Army" in their title, aren't officially part of the Army. They're more akin to a subsidiary, much like how the Marines fall under the Navy in the United States. The Rangers maintain a similar relationship with the Army, while the Little Bird Marines stand as a separate entity, and the Little Bird Navy boasts its own Naval Infantry, mirroring the Marines' role.

Midnight is the epitome of military leadership—competent, level-headed, and devoid of any delusions about the nature of war and the soldiers she commands. She’s the archetype of a model leader: calm, unflappable, and deeply invested in the welfare of her Rangers. As a tactician, she’s unparalleled—smart, courageous, analytical, and calm under pressure. She’s a leader without flaws, vices, or even a hint of humor, and she’s relentless in pushing her enemies to their breaking point, regardless of the risks involved.

Her competence was forged in the crucible of Ranger training, where she first learned the weight of a weapon and the responsibility it carries. She recalls how her instructor would recklessly brandish a .45 handgun, finger ever on the trigger, barrel pointed at the faces of those training to become Rangers. This reckless display was antithetical to everything Midnight knew from her Marine training, where the cardinal rules were etched into her being: treat every weapon as if it’s loaded, and never point it at anything you’re not prepared to destroy.

Standing at 5’10", Midnight is not one to be intimidated—not by rank, nor by size. When she grew weary of her towering 7’2" instructor’s dangerous antics, she confronted him. It was a defining moment that showcased not only her bravery but also her unwavering commitment to the safety and discipline that form the backbone of any elite military unit. Her actions spoke volumes, echoing the sentiment that true strength is not measured in physical stature but in the courage to stand up for what is right.

After ticking off the last item on my to-do list, I found myself contemplating dinner plans and made sure our reservation was set for Friday. With a dinner date with Lusty on the horizon, set for Friday the 22nd, I wanted to ensure everything would be perfect. Today, being Wednesday the 20th, gave me ample time to prepare.

I ventured to a grocery store, deliberately choosing one where my mother wasn’t working her part-time shift. I knew that if I crossed paths with her, she’d have a list of errands ready for me. So, to avoid the additional tasks, I opted for a different store, where I picked up a pot roast. It’s a dish I’ve mastered over time, and I was looking forward to sharing it with Lusty.

While there, I encountered a gentleman adorned with “The Aerial Cross of Valor,” an honor akin to the Medal of Honor. Out of deep respect, I offered him the Little Bird military salute which is different from a salute for the US Military but it’s a gesture taught to me during my time as a Petty Officer in the US Navy. The salute is a sign of utmost respect, performed by raising the right hand sharply, fingers together, thumb along the palm, with the hand’s outer edge slightly tilted down. The fingertip touches the visor’s rim or the forehead just right of the eye, maintaining a straight wrist and arm, the elbow slightly forward, and the upper arm level.

In the world of military tradition, salutes are often seen as a gesture of respect towards the rank, not necessarily the person. However, for me, Mackenzie “Macaroni” Waterson, it’s always been about the individual’s valor and sacrifice. This belief was instilled in me by my family, who taught me to see beyond the insignia to the human experience behind it.

My family also emphasized the readiness a soldier must maintain. They likened war to an unyielding force of nature, not to be postponed by inclement weather or personal comfort. This lesson was vividly illustrated during a childhood memory with my granduncle Stanley. As a six-year-old, I hesitated to play in the snow, citing the cold as my excuse. His response was stern, invoking the harsh winter conditions faced by soldiers during the Battle of the Bulge and the Siege of Bastogne. At the time, his words were just a blur of history and heroism to my young mind. It wasn’t until later in my education that I fully grasped the gravity of what he described—the surprise German offensive on December 16, 1944, the young soldiers braving the bitter cold, many suffering from frostbite, and the legendary response of ‘Nuts!’ by Brigadier General Anthony McAuliffe when faced with a German surrender ultimatum.

Growing up, the weather was a constant backdrop to lessons in resilience. My family, decorated with military service from World War II to Vietnam, never let a downpour or a snowfall go to waste. “Go out and play in the rain,” they’d urge, instilling in me a readiness that transcends comfort. As a child dreaming of military life, I was reminded, “You’re going to face all kinds of weather—hot, cold, raining, snowing, hailing. You have to be ready for it all.”

This wasn’t just about preparing for the physical demands of service; it was about cultivating the mental fortitude to endure and adapt. Now, as an adult, the weather holds no sway over me. Whether it’s the tropical climate of my new home or the humid subtropical air of the Southern United States where I grew up, I’m unfazed. My granduncles’ and cousins’ legacies are not just tales of war but lessons in perseverance, echoing through every raindrop and snowflake that I once watched from the window.

I remember the wisdom my great-granddad imparted during those rainy days. Each time I’d step into the house, soaked from the rain, he’d say with a stern yet caring voice, “Go dry your feet and put on a fresh pair of socks.” His advice was more than just a remedy for discomfort; it was a lesson in vigilance passed down through generations.

My great-granddad, a veteran of both World Wars, had witnessed the painful consequences of trench foot among his fellow soldiers. This condition, caused by prolonged exposure to damp and unsanitary conditions, was a constant threat in the trenches. Similarly, during the Vietnam War, my uncles and cousins faced “Jungle Rot,” a comparable affliction due to the relentless tropical moisture.

He kept a World War II poster that outlined steps to prevent trench foot, a stark reminder of the importance of self-care even in the harshest conditions. That poster, and his words, have stayed with me. Now, as an adult, no matter where I am or how wet the weather gets, I always remember to keep my feet dry. It’s a simple act, but it carries the weight of history and the care of a man who understood the cost of neglecting one’s well-being in the face of adversity.

Mitchell’s experience in the Little Bird military reflects a deep understanding of the importance of proper gear for varying conditions. The military’s provision of 24 pairs of socks and specialized clothing for different environments is a testament to their commitment to soldier welfare and mission readiness. The detailed inventory, including four pairs of socks per day, winterized uniforms, and CBRNNA (Chemical, Biological, Radiological, Nuclear, and Nerve Agent) gear, ensures that soldiers like Mitchell can adapt to any situation, whether it’s the scorching deserts or the dense jungles.

As a radiotelephone operator, Mitchell’s role is crucial, and his gear is tailored to protect both him and the sensitive equipment he operates. The modification of his armor to accommodate the radio, while limiting his capacity to carry additional items, is a strategic decision. It prioritizes communication—a vital aspect of military operations—over personal load-carrying capability. This choice underscores the balance between individual capability and the overarching needs of the military unit.

Mitchell’s sacrifices, such as forgoing a haversack or rucksack, are a small but significant part of the larger picture of military efficiency and effectiveness. It’s a clear illustration of the principle that every role in the military, no matter how specialized, is designed to contribute to the collm

______________________________

Dawn broke over Fort Colossal, the air crisp and the skies clear—a perfect day for a jump at Clearlake. I watched as a trio of LB-15 "Golden Talon" jets cut through the silence, their presence as commanding as the Rangers they served.

Mitchell sidled up to me, his grin as wide as the drop zone. "Mac, you ready to take the plunge with us today?"

I shot him a look, my tone dry as the desert sand. "Considering I shelled out $180 for this thrill, I'd say I'm committed."

He chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder before turning to his gear. His checklist was a soldier's lifeline: K-rations, sweets for quick energy, the bitter comfort of powdered coffee, and the essentials—compass, bayonet, entrenching tool. His voice was a steady cadence as he listed each item, down to the musette bag brimming with ammo and the trusty .45 that never left his side. "Can't forget the smokes even though I don’t smoke," he added, tapping the cartons. "And for the unexpected—mines, grenades, and enough TNT to make our own fireworks."

I raised an eyebrow, my gaze following his meticulous preparations. "You're packing like we're heading into Berlin in 1945, not a training drop."

He met my gaze, his eyes serious now. "It's about realism, Mac. We jump with full kit to mimic combat conditions—whether it's a HAHO from the stratosphere or a HALO just shy of the clouds. It's the weight we carry, the readiness we maintain. It's what makes us Airborne."

I nodded, understanding the weight of his words as much as the gear on our backs. "I'll check in with Sgt. Johnstine for the paperwork. No one's dying on my watch—not even in practice."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Stepping into the administrative building, I squared my shoulders and met Sgt. Johnstine’s gaze. The paperwork was a mere formality—a liability waiver stating that the military wouldn’t be held responsible if I got injured. I’d already signed a similar document when I forked over the $180, but the Little Bird military was meticulous about protocol, demanding everything in triplicate. With a flourish, I signed my name across each copy.

As I exited, a sudden impact against my chest took me by surprise—a dummy grenade, lobbed with precision. I spun to face the assailant.

“You!” The woman’s voice was stern, her stance unyielding. “Civilian or not, your money doesn’t buy discord in my ranks. Consider yourself fortunate you’re not one of my soldiers, or you’d be scrubbing latrines for a month. Now, straighten up that uniform.”

I snapped to attention, responding with a crisp, “Yes, Lieutenant,” before adjusting my gear.

Rejoining Mitchell, I couldn’t help but ask, “What happens if someone stops at the jump?”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “In basic, hesitation gets you kicked out. Here, it’s simple: jump on your own accord, or get a shove from the jumpmaster—or the boot of the paratrooper behind you.”

“And the grenade-throwing lieutenant?” I prodded.

“Lieutenant Luna ‘Pancake’ Maud,” he replied, a hint of respect in his tone. “She’s as tough as they come, but fair. Don’t let the rough exterior fool you; she’s got a heart of steel tempered with just enough warmth. Her story? Let’s just say she’s had a marriage shorter than some of our flights—eight hours, to be exact. Caught her husband in an underground sex club instead of the store. When he came home two shots. She took her snub nosed revolver and shot him in the nuts and those two .32 caliber bullets were the divorce papers in a metaphorical sense but a judge declared the wedding nulled.”

Before I could digest the tale, Lt. Luna’s command cut through the air. “Third platoon, board up!”

We moved as one, the weight of our gear a familiar comfort. Today, we’d soar above Clearlake, our spirits as indomitable as the jets that patrolled the skies. As for Lt. Luna? Maybe, just maybe, I’d find a way to thaw that icy exterior.

As we neared the behemoth of steel and rivets, its dimensions loomed over us—a testament to the might of Little Bird’s aerial fleet.

Length: 154 ft 3 in (47.01 m) Wingspan: 179 ft 9 in (54.78 m) Height: 48 ft 3 in (14.7 m) Wing area: 2,673 sq ft (248.3 m²)

I couldn’t help but comment on the obvious, “Looks like Third platoon’s got company.”

Mitchell, ever the tactician, explained, “It’s D Company’s turn, minus the Captain. That’s 119 of us, running drills on command absence—testing the mettle of our Lieutenants from all four platoons.”

I pondered the scenario, the strategic part of me acknowledging the wisdom, yet the soldier in me saw the risk. “Smart to prepare for every possibility, but it’s a fine line between clever and foolhardy.”

We stood side by side, the plane’s shadow engulfing us. Today, we’d fly without our Captain, a reminder that in battle, leadership isn’t a rank—it’s an action. And as the engines roared to life, I knew that each of us, from Lieutenant to the Technician Fifth Grades, was ready to step up and lead.

The ranks and insignias were a language of their own, each stripe and bar a story of service and sacrifice. T/Sgt, S/Sgt, T/3, Sgt, T/4, Cpl, T/5—their insignias showed that they’re not inexperienced soldiers but experienced seasoned or veteran soldiers.

“Stand up! Hook up!” The command echoed, snapping us to attention. We rose as one, each soldier checking the gear of the man in front. First platoon leaped into the void, their heavy equipment tumbling out in boxes, parachutes blossoming behind them.

Minutes ticked by, and then it was the Second platoon’s turn. But the lights—neither red nor green—remained dark. A silent signal, perhaps, of a plane struck silent in combat, its warning systems dead.

Our turn came. The door yawned open, a gaping maw to the sky. I hesitated—not from fear, but from the surreal moment of calm before the storm. Mitchell’s boot met my back, a firm reminder that there’s no room for pause when duty calls.

Then, the rush—the leap, the fall, the abrupt tug at my harness as my chute deployed. There’s no feeling quite like it—the assurance that you’re still in the fight, still soaring high above the ground. It’s the sweet jolt of life, the heartbeat of the airborne.

Suspended at 3000 feet, the world below was a tapestry of green, the town of Clearlake a mere speck in the vastness, like a target marked by a gunship's grease pencil. The view was breathtaking, a rare tranquility amidst the chaos of descent. I clutched the sliders, ensuring the gentle breeze didn't claim me as its own.

Below, the soldiers of the third platoon were a whirlwind of activity, their chutes collapsing around them as they touched down—veterans to the core, their speed and precision a testament to their countless drills.

My own landing was less graceful, a face-first introduction to the unforgiving earth. But as I gathered myself, I caught sight of Mitchell—his approach was art in motion, a low trajectory that had him running the moment his boots kissed the ground.

The Little Bird Military's doctrine was clear: Rangers, Special Forces, Airborne, and Marine Commandos are taught to engage with the earth as if embracing an old friend—swiftly, smoothly, with barely a pause between air and ground.

I, however, was given a rougher welcome. A botched landing is a brutal teacher, dragging you across the terrain, each second an eternity until stillness grants you reprieve. Lying there, I couldn't help but laugh—a civilian among trained paratroopers, humbled yet exhilarated by the dance of descent.

Struggling with the stubborn chute, I cursed under my breath. "Come on, damn thing, get unstuck!"

The harness refused to budge, as if it had become one with me during the fall. But Mitchell was at my side in an instant, his combat knife in hand. With a practiced motion, he flipped the knife, gripping the blade, and used the handle to tap the jammed connector. The harness yielded, and freedom was mine once more.

I looked up at him, sheepish. "Sorry, Sergeant."

He shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "Don't be sorry. It's rare, but it happens. The gear's tough, but so are we."

Relieved, I stood up, brushing off the dirt. The incident was a small reminder that even in the most controlled environments, the unexpected could always occur—a lesson well-learned for any soldier or civilian in the field.

Trailing behind Mitchell, I watched the members of Third Platoon converge on Lieutenant Luna's position. Her middle name, 'Pancake,' seemed to stick as awkwardly as syrup on a mess hall plate, but it was the map in her hands that drew my attention. She studied it with a furrowed brow, the leather casing worn from countless operations. Her hesitation spoke volumes; even in an era where technology reigns, the fundamental skill of map reading remained vital.

Luna's orders were clear, her voice cutting through the morning air. "Third Platoon, move out—take cover in the woodlands! Sergeant, with me."

I obeyed, slipping into the forest's embrace, the dappled light playing tricks on my eyes. Glancing back, I saw Mitchell stride toward Luna. His rank of Sergeant often placed him at the forefront, yet here he served as the platoon's communications lifeline and executive officer—a testament to his versatility beyond leading a squad.

Luna seemed out of her element, her confidence wavering like a leaf in the wind. To the untrained eye, she might appear a fresh-faced academy graduate, but her demeanor suggested a deeper story—a leader grappling with the weight of command.

When they returned, Luna's announcement was grim. "We've been dropped off-course," she admitted, the error laid bare for all to hear.

In that moment, I understood the true test of leadership wasn't in the perfection of orders, but in the ability to adapt and overcome when plans went awry. And as we regrouped, ready to face the unexpected, I felt a surge of respect for Lieutenant Luna 'Pancake' Maud. Today, she would lead us not from a textbook, but from the front lines of reality.

Luna's command was swift, her voice slicing through the stillness. "First Squad, head north for a third of a mile. Third Squad, south the same distance. Double time!"

I watched the squads disperse, their movements fluid and assured. These were no novices; they were seasoned warriors for whom such maneuvers were second nature. It was evident in their ranks—no fresh-faced Privates here, only those who had earned their stripes and bars through grit and discipline.

As I checked the time, my watch inverted on my wrist for ease, Luna gave the signal for Second Squad. "Move out," she ordered, and we rose to join the dance of war games.

Mitchell caught sight of my digital timepiece and couldn't resist a jab. "Look at Mac, with her high-tech gadgetry," he teased. The rest of the platoon sported watches that were relics of a bygone era—mechanical, hand-wound, their faces illuminated by luminous paint, a legacy from the '30s and '40s.

"Your fancy watch could compromise us," he chided, half-serious.

I shot back, "It's broad daylight, Mitch."

He nodded, conceding the point but added, "At night, that LED glow could betray us to the enemy. Always be mindful of your gear's impact, Mac. It’s like wearing a desert camo uniform in a snowy environment"

Slipping the digital watch into my pocket, I turned to Lieutenant Luna. “Lieutenant, would it be alright if I carried a firearm?”

Without missing a beat, Luna nodded to Mitchell. “Sergeant, arm her.”

Mitchell’s movements were fluid, the X16 rifle settling on his back as he drew the Phoenix pistol. With precision, he ejected the magazine, racked the slide, and caught the ejected .45 round, slotting it back into the magazine before handing me the now-empty pistol.

“You asked for a gun, not ammunition,” Mitchell remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice. His adherence to the exact wording was military precision at its finest.

We marched on, the rhythm of our boots a steady drumbeat against the earth. After a few miles, we rendezvoused with the Second Platoon. The scene was chaotic—some paratroopers had become entangled in the towering trees. Their descent from the harnesses was a battle against gravity, each branch a formidable adversary on their unintended journey down.

Surveying the scene, the urgency of the situation was palpable. Luna's voice cut through the tension, "Has this platoon called for a medevac?"

The Second Platoon's Lieutenant shook his head, frustration evident. Their equipment crate had burst open upon impact, scattering gear and breaking the RTO's radio—communication was down.

Without hesitation, Luna directed Mitchell to make the call. His voice was clear and authoritative as he transmitted the request for medical evacuation, "Eagle 3-3 to Caracaras Leader requesting MEDEVAC at grid coordinates 4-3-2-4-2-4-2-3. Repeat, this is Eagle 3-3 to Caracas Leader requesting MEDEVAC to grid coordinates 4-3-2-4-2-4-2-3. Eagle 3-3 over and out."

The call sign 'Eagle' piqued my curiosity, and I inquired about it. The explanation was steeped in tradition and pride—each Airborne unit bore the name of a predatory bird, a symbol of their prowess and role as apex protectors of the skies. In the 39th Airborne Regiment, the battalions were named as such:

- First Battalion: Caracaras

- Second Battalion: Falcon

- Third Battalion: Eagle

- Fourth Battalion: Buzzard

- Fifth Battalion: Vulture

- Seventh Battalion: Harrier

- Eighth Battalion: Hawks

The structure of Little Bird’s military, with its intertwined Battalion and Regimental Headquarters, reflects a streamlined chain of command, efficient for rapid deployment and response. The absence of a standing Divisional HQ, except during heightened states of conflict, underscores the regiment’s agility and the nation’s strategic reserve practices.

As we waited for the MEDEVAC, the air was thick with anticipation and unspoken thoughts. I was about to voice mine when Mitchell interjected with a story that cut to the heart of the airborne ethos.

“Do you think…” I said.

“Stanley’s nerves were likely frayed,” he said interrupting me, his voice tinged with empathy for the young paratrooper. “Training can only prepare you so much. His twin, seasoned by operations Husky and Avalanche, had the edge of experience. But Stanley, on D-Day, faced Hell for the first time.”

Mitchell’s gaze was distant, his mind perhaps recalling his own baptism by fire. “Airborne soldiers are a breed apart. We’ve trained to thrive in the chaos of being surrounded”

I told him not to sound like a stereotypical military recruiter.

Mitchell’s chuckle was a low rumble, his voice tinged with humor. “I’ll leave the recruiting to the posters and slogans, Mac.”

With the wounded safely en route to Fort Colossal, we resumed our march, the rhythm of our boots a steady cadence against the earth. I couldn’t help but muse about the whereabouts of First Platoon, voicing my thoughts aloud.

“I wonder if the First Platoon is as lost as we are,” I said out loud.

Luna replied with annoyance, “We’re not lost civvie we’re just behind schedule.”

I then decided to ask a question and I said, “So Lieutenant if your platoon was paradropped and had other Paras from other units mixed in with your platoon because of mis-drops. But your platoon was ordered to capture and hold a bridge but the enemy forces have twice the manpower and twice the gear and vehicles than you do but your platoon have enough explosives to destroy the bridge twice over. But when you radio to a higher up that you’re going to blow the bridge but high command tells you not too. What would you do?”

Luna took a sip from her canteen and replied, “Damn straight I would blow the bridge because rather blow a bridge than letting the enemy use it to move men, vehicles, gear and equipment to the front. But I would’ve had the bridge wired to blow so the moment the enemy starts to cross it then I can use a remote detonator or a explosive plunger and detonate the explosives when the enemy starts to move on the bridge and take out God knows how many soldiers with several vehicles probably tanks, APCs or IFVs then I would in a heartbeat. It’s not going to be like that movie where a squad of Rangers go across France to find a single man to send home but instead of destroying the bridge they decided to fight the Germans in the town instead of blowing the bridge that’s in Ramelle.”

In the second half of her sentence, I knew she was talking about a movie. But I agree with her, rather destroying something vital than letting it fall in enemy hands because once friendly reinforcements show up they can have their engineers or combat engineers to repair or fix what we destroyed.

Surveying the ranks of Second and Third platoons, I couldn't help but take pride in the sight. The soldiers, a steadfast line of resilience, were mostly equipped with the X16 assault rifles—a licensed variant of the venerable M16A1, rechambered for the heavier 7.62x52mm rounds. They had the familiar form of the old warhorse but boasted the rugged reliability of an AK47. Among them, paratroopers stood out, their arms cradling the futuristic lines of energy weapons, reminiscent of the M1928 Thompson, yet modified with a G36C-style rail-top carry handle.

Lieutenant Luna was a departure from the typical hard-nosed officer trope. She didn't fit the mold of the barking commanders often caricatured in war films. Her leadership style was more nuanced, a blend of stern resolve and quiet authority. She had a way of merging Second platoon with her own, a tactic that spoke of her seasoned experience in command. It was clear she wasn't green, nor was she a product of some sterile military academy's leadership program. When the chips were down, Luna was the type to stand firm, not flee.

Her military career began in '95, and her first taste of war was a baptism by fire. The lieutenant of Third platoon had deserted, claiming he'd fetch help, leaving his RTO behind. In Little Bird, desertion was no small matter—it was met with the ultimate penalty. His replacement, an eager Ensign fresh from training, was ill-prepared for the grim dance of war. He was a stark contrast to Luna, who had quickly learned to navigate the chasm between textbook strategies and the chaotic reality of the battlefield.

The troops had a saying about academy officers, dubbing them "five minutes" for their expected survival time in combat. It was a grim joke that underscored the harshness of war.

Curiosity got the better of me. "Lieutenant Maud, before you became a Lieutenant, did you serve under any others?" I inquired.

Luna's response was tinged with annoyance. "Yes. My first battle, one lieutenant fled—picked up by the 15th Infantry Regiment, of the 3rd Infantry Division covering our retreat. Desertion is a firing squad offense here. The second Lieutenant? He barely missed the 'Five minutes' mark. We nicknamed him '4:59'—both because that’s how long he lasted in his first battle and the second because of what time he died in Eastern Europe."

I gazed at Lieutenant Luna, her silhouette framed against the backdrop of the trees. “What kind of officer are you, Lieutenant?” I ventured, my voice barely above the hum of activity.

She paused, her eyes reflecting a depth of understanding born from years in the trenches. “In the Little Bird Military, officers fall into three categories,” she began, her tone measured. “Category A: those who chase fame and glory, indifferent to the blood and toil of their men. They’re the type to send soldiers to face a tank armed with nothing but bravado. Category B: those who value their troops, yet are willing to challenge the enemy, regardless of the danger. And then there’s Category C: the tacticians, who see war as a grand chessboard, always holding a strategic ace up their sleeve, meticulously calculating every move to secure victory with minimal casualties.”

She turned to me, a wry smile playing on her lips. “I embody both Categories B and C. I’ve encountered Category A officers among the Airborne—had they lived in another era, they’d have ordered paratroopers to drop straight onto Normandy’s beaches on D-Day, rather than securing key positions inland. But we paratroopers, we’re not cut out for naval invasions; that’s a job for the Marines..”

Lieutenant Luna’s voice cut through the tense silence, “Mitchell, the map, now.” Her command was swift, a reflection of the urgency of our mission to rendezvous with First Platoon. As Mitchell unfolded the map with practiced hands, I leaned in for a closer look. The Little Bird flag was depicted in reverse, and the terrain seemed all wrong.

“Why is everything backwards?” I asked, puzzled.

Mitchell glanced at me, his expression a mix of seriousness and a hint of insider knowledge. “Little Bird’s military cartography isn’t straightforward. We alter terrain features and reverse declinations intentionally. It’s a safeguard—should the map fall into enemy hands, it leads them astray thinking they got a map for another region or grid.”

Luna overheard and chimed in, her tone a mix of frustration and resolve. “The former Captain lost the accurate map to the enemy. His carelessness amounted to treason.” She paused, her gaze hardening. “I took care of him—defenestration. It may have been an accident, but it saved a bullet for the firing squad.”

Mitchell, with his dual life as a cop, added, “Defenestration, the act of throwing someone out of a window. It’s a term I’m all too familiar with.”

Luna scrutinized the map with a strategic eye, ensuring every detail was accounted for before handing it back to Mitchell, who stowed it securely. Her gaze then shifted to me, piercing and deliberate.

"Hey civvie, you familiar with the Golden Rule?" she inquired, her voice carrying the weight of command.

I nodded, reciting the familiar adage, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

A wry smile flickered across Luna's face. "Not out here, civvie. In war, the Golden Rule is simpler: take cover or die." Her words were stark, devoid of any philosophical embellishments, distilled to the raw truth of survival on the battlefield.

The march was arduous, the underbrush beneath our boots snapping and yielding with each step. Yet, despite the challenging terrain, we managed to converge on First Platoon's position.

"Seems like the wind favored you, delivering your heavy equipment crate right to our doorstep," quipped the First Platoon Lieutenant.

Luna, ever the stoic, responded with her usual philosophical calm. "Everything happens for a reason," she stated, a hint of certainty in her voice.

Mitchell drew me aside, his tone conspiratorial. "Luna's a fatalist," he confided. "She believes in destiny, that every event is predetermined and unavoidable. 'Everything happens for a reason' is her mantra, and she's Agnostic—doesn't put her faith in deities."

As we eavesdropped on Luna's conversation with the First Platoon Lieutenant, it became clear that the mix-up with the equipment was seen as serendipitous. First Platoon had ended up with Third Platoon's heavy gear, but in a gesture of camaraderie, they returned the favor. Among the exchanged arsenal were the Man-Portable Railgun (MPR)—a handheld behemoth harnessing electromagnetic forces to propel projectiles at devastating speeds—and the Heavy Laser Cannon (HLC), a beast of a weapon that unleashed a relentless laser capable of slicing through the toughest materials, usually mounted on armored vehicles or fortifications.

In the back of my mind, a thought surfaced—it must be Visala's doing, the unseen hand guiding our fates if this was war.

Visala, the enigmatic genius of Little Bird, is a force to be reckoned with—her intellect a blade honed sharp. Married to our cousin, Lieutenant Mitchell “Mitzy” Waterson, he carries the nickname with a sense of inherited pride, a nickname bestowed by his mother that shielded him from the barracks’ banter. Sergeant Mitchell, known among his comrades as “Lightning Feet,” earned his stripes on the high school football field. A wide receiver with the speed of a cheetah, once he had the pigskin, he was a blur—a streak of lightning the defense couldn’t hope to catch.

Mitchell’s path could have led to the roar of stadiums and the adulation of fans. Yet, he chose a different kind of uniform—the badge of a cop, the protector of peace in the same streets where he and Cadence built their life. His frame may not match the titans of the gridiron, weighing in at a mere 150 pounds, but his heart is as mighty as any linebacker’s. Content with a modest $115 a week, he forgoes the siren call of a quarter-million-dollar contract.

Some may jest, chiding him for not seizing the collegiate gridiron glory, for not harnessing the G.I. Bill’s windfall to chase a degree or a trade. But Mitchell’s eyes are fixed on a different prize—a legacy beyond trophies and accolades. The spark in his gaze betrays his anticipation, a paternal flame kindling within. Though he may deflect inquiries with a nonchalant shrug, those who know him see the truth. Mitchell stands on the cusp of fatherhood, the next chapter in his story poised to unfold in the coming months—a narrative rich with the promise of new life and dreams yet to be realized.

Mitchell and I had been trekking through the rugged terrain, the weight of our gear and the anticipation of the exercise's end pressing upon us. "So, Mitchell, when did you and Cadence first cross paths?" I asked, seeking to lighten the mood with a touch of personal history.

"We've been inseparable since the sandbox days of Kindergarten," he replied with a nostalgic grin. "Started dating in eighth grade and never looked back. But let's save the walk down memory lane for after this drill."

Our journey led us to the LZ, where the tandem rotor helicopters throbbed with life, ready to whisk us back to Fort Colossal. As a civilian observer, I was granted a rare glimpse into the meticulous world of the paratroopers. They packed their chutes with a precision and care that spoke volumes of their dedication—no detail was too small, no fold too insignificant. It was a ritual of survival, each fold a silent vow against sabotage.

The next jump was hours away, and Mitchell tossed me his keys, a gesture of trust. "Grab a bite, Mac. You look like you could use it." His car, a '57 Thunderbird, gleamed azure blue—a classic beauty with a heart of American steel. The three-speed manual was a beast I wasn't quite prepared for. As I fumbled with the stick, Mitchell's exasperated cry cut through, "Dear God, Mac. Use the clutch! You're grinding the gears to dust!"

He hurried over, the frustration clear on his face as he killed the engine and retrieved the keys. "Fourteen hours of blood and sweat went into fixing her up," he lamented. "Now, I've got another round of repairs thanks to you."

Guilt gnawed at me. My own ride was a 4-speed manual, a familiar friend beneath my hands. This Thunderbird, though—a relic from a time when Mitchell's Aunt and Uncle deemed him roadworthy at the age of fifteen—was a different beast altogether. In Little Bird's Commonwealth of Mountain, they hand you the keys early, a year ahead of the other four Commonwealths. I should've known better, but the nuances of a three-speed were foreign to me, a far cry from the automatic comforts of my Alabama driving test.

I offered an apologetic shrug, hoping to convey my remorse. "Sorry, Mitch. I guess some gears are just meant for more practiced hands. I’m used to driving either an automatic or a four manual transmission car, not a three manual transmission."

Mitchell told me to think of a three manual transmission car as a four manual car minus one.

“So think about a three gear car with four gears minus the fourth gear?” I asked.

Mitchell replied, “Reverse, First Gear, Second Gear, and Third gear.”

I then got out of his car and decided to walk into town then try again.

Stepping into the local store, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the aisles. I was there for something quick, those pre-packaged lunches that you grab when time's not on your side. But there, among the mundane routine of grocery shopping, was a familiar face—Cadence, my cousin-in-law, her cart half-full and her attention on the shelf before her.

"Hey Cadence, long time no see," I greeted, the words feeling both warm and awkward as they hung in the air between us. I was about to delve into the kind of conversation that starts with light banter but can quickly tread into personal territory. "So, not to be nosy, but what's it like..."

She cut me off before I could finish, her voice a mix of pride and pragmatism. "Mitchell had his options with the G.I. Bill—college, university, even going pro in football or baseball. But he didn't go down that path," she explained, and I listened, leaning against my cart. "For one, he can't stand the paparazzi, always snapping photos, spinning stories out of thin air. Then there's the women, the kind who whisper sweet nothings, trying to edge me out, eyeing his wallet more than his heart. And if an injury benched him, they'd scatter faster than roaches when the lights come on."

She paused, picking up a can of peas and inspecting it before continuing. "And you know, to Mitchell, sports are about the joy, the game, not the paycheck. Here in Little Bird, we've seen players downplay injuries, push past their prime, all because they can't let go. They're young, in their twenties, but their bodies are on borrowed time. Sure, quarterbacks, special teams—they might last into their forties, fifties even, because they're not the ones getting slammed every play."

Her eyes met mine, and there was a softness there, a love that went beyond material things. "Mitchell might not be rolling in dough, but that's not why I'm with him. It's about who he is. We might not jet off to exotic locales, but every evening he comes home, it's like he's brought a slice of paradise with him."

As she spoke, I saw a different side of the life they'd chosen, one built on values and shared moments, not dollar signs. It was a reminder that sometimes, the richest experiences come from the simplest pleasures.

The frozen food aisle was a stark contrast to the warmth of our conversation, the air tinged with the scent of cold plastic and preservatives. Cadence's hand hovered over a pack of hot dogs, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Mitchell might tease about hot dogs being kid stuff, but he'll wolf one down if there's no burger in sight," she said with a laugh. "He's a simple man at heart, prefers a good, juicy burger over anything fancy."

She tossed the pack into her cart, her expression turning contemplative. "You know, back in school, I knew folks who'd give 'gold digger' a whole new meaning. They'd latch onto someone, bleed them dry, and then disappear at the first sign of trouble—like shadows fleeing from the light."

Cadence shook her head, a mix of disgust and pity in her eyes. "It's a game to some, dating for dollars, leaving a trail of broken hearts and empty wallets. But that's not what life's about, not for us. Mitchell's not the kind to chase after money or fame. He's real, you know?"

Her voice softened, filled with a fondness that only years of shared history could weave. "The first time my mom met him, she just knew. 'He's a keeper,' she said. And she was right. We've been inseparable since we were kids, long before life got complicated. We don't need much—just each other. And that's enough."

As she spoke, I could see the truth in her words, the genuine connection that transcended material desires. It was a reminder of what truly mattered in this world turned upside down—a reminder that, sometimes, the richest treasures are found not in wallets, but in hearts.

Cadence's laughter echoed down the aisle as she tossed the hot dogs into her cart. "You and Claire, huh? Like two peas in a pod—or should I say, bedbugs on a mattress?" she teased, a knowing glint in her eye.

I raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on my face. "And how exactly did you come to know about Claire?"

She shrugged, her smile unwavering. "Watersons and their open books," she quipped. "But hey, your love life is your own. I'm just here for the gossip."

I couldn't help but laugh, the sound mingling with the soft hum of the freezers. It was refreshing, the ease of acceptance in her words. It stood in stark contrast to my mother's stubborn views on my bisexuality—just a 'phase' in her eyes.

As we navigated the store, the conversation flowed as easily as our steps. "So, what's it like? The housewife gig?" I asked, curious about her day-to-day life.

Cadence stopped in her tracks, her expression turning serious. "Housewife? Hardly," she corrected me. "Sure, I'm often at home, but that's because our farm demands it. We're harvesting apples, oranges, and all sorts of crops. And let me tell you, living in the tropics has its perks—endless growing seasons, no frost to fight off."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The military pays us a dime for every piece of fruit and veg we produce. By year's end, Mitchell's the one drowning in numbers, not me."

A mischievous grin spread across her face. "And cooking? Please, the last time I tried, the kitchen caught on fire. Let's just say, I leave the culinary arts to Mitchell that he got from his mother."

The sarcasm in my voice was as thick as the tension that often hung in the air these days. "I bet that was a blast," I quipped, imagining the chaos of an impromptu move.

Cadence's laughter was light, a sound that seemed to push back against the weight of our reality. "Actually, it was," she said, her eyes brightening at the memory. "Staying with my mom meant she got to spoil the grandkids rotten. You should've seen the fort they built in her living room."

I raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. "I thought you were just starting your family. You know, the first baby on the way?"

She shook her head, a strand of hair falling across her face as she corrected me. "No, this is number four. Rose, Platinum, and McKinney are already ruling the kindergarten playground. And Rose? She's got Mitchell wrapped around her little finger. Always clinging to his leg, never far from her dad."

As she spoke, I could almost see the image she painted—a snapshot of domestic bliss amidst the chaos, a father's love serving as a beacon of normalcy for his children. It was a stark reminder of what we were all fighting for: not just survival, but the chance to live, to love, and to hold on to the moments that made life worth living.

Cadence's story brought a vivid image to my mind, one of pure childhood joy and the unbreakable bonds of family. "The moment Mitchell steps through the door, it's like Rose has a radar for him," she said, her voice filled with amusement. "She's like a little koala, clinging to his leg with a grip that would rival a vice. And nothing—nothing—can pry her away unless it's her favorite meal on the table."

I laughed, the sound echoing my own childhood memories. "I can relate. I was a daddy's girl too, though I don't remember ever being quite that attached."

Cadence nodded, her eyes twinkling with pride. "She's tough, our little Rose. Just the other day at the park, she took a tumble from the jungle gym. Any other kid might have burst into tears, but not her. She was back on her feet in no time, dusting herself off like a true trooper."

It was clear that Rose was cut from the same cloth as her father—a resilience and strength that seemed to run deep in their family. In a world that demanded toughness, it was heartening to see such traits emerging even in the youngest among us. It was these qualities, I mused, that would shape the future of our resistance, our community, and perhaps, one day, the world.

As we strolled through the store, the conversation took a turn towards the future, towards Rose and the path she might walk. "She's got the spirit of a soldier," I mused, stacking cans into Cadence's cart.

Cadence was quick to shake her head, her voice firm. "No military for Rose. She'll be the one baking cakes, dashing into fires, or maybe even helping pregnant women delivering babies. Anything but that."

I couldn't help but chuckle at the irony. "A cop or a firefighter's okay, but not the military? That's an interesting line to draw."

She sighed, a hint of worry creasing her brow. "If she ever does sign up, she'd better be stationed somewhere safe, far from any danger."

The aisles around us seemed to close in as we delved deeper into the realm of 'what ifs.' "You've seen those sci-fi movies, right? The future's all about tech—robots, drones, armies without faces. But what happens when the enemy turns our own tech against us?"

Cadence dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. "That's just fiction."

But I pressed on, the examples rolling off my tongue. "Nuclear power, international travel, aircraft, jet engines, smartphones—once fiction, now reality. Even some cars are ditching dials for touchscreens."

Cadence's words painted a vivid picture of Little Bird, a country seemingly frozen in time, its streets lined with vehicles that whispered tales of a bygone era. "Touchscreens in cars? That's a daydream here," she said with a dismissive wave. "Our rides are classics, relics of the '40s to '60s—nothing like the sci-fi tech you're talking about."

Clearlake, the town I was visiting, was an intriguing blend of past and future—a retro futuristic canvas where nostalgic architecture from the 1950s American suburbs met modern innovation. It was a community hub, boasting a cinema, gym, restaurants, and more, all serving the families connected to Fort Colossal. Despite its military ties, Clearlake thrived under civilian governance, its doors open to all, a testament to the town's inclusive spirit.

Cadence shared insights into the local life, explaining how military neighbors contributed part of their pay towards housing, a system reminiscent of the Basic Housing Allowance, adjusted for marital status, rank, and dependents. It was a practical arrangement, ensuring that each family's needs were met, from the single pilot to the household bustling with children.

I was about to delve deeper when Cadence cut in, her voice tinged with a hint of sorrow. "Mitchell's home wasn't always ours," she revealed. "It belonged to his mom and stepdad until tragedy struck. But Nat, his third sister, passed the keys to him when he came of age. Now, he shoulders the responsibility, his sergeant's salary covering our life's expenses."

As she spoke, she added chicken to her cart, the mundane act a stark contrast to the weight of her words.

The checkout line moved with a rhythm all its own, a dance of beep and shuffle as Cadence and I loaded the conveyor belt. “Are we hoofing it back with all this?” I asked, eyeing the growing pile of groceries.

Cadence chuckled, her keys jangling in her hand. “Not a chance. I’ve got wheels—Mitchell’s got his ride, and I’ve got the family chariot.”

As the cashier worked with practiced precision, I watched in fascination. “A bagger? That’s a new one for me,” I remarked, noting the efficiency of the process.

Cadence paid—a mere $50 for a cartful of sustenance—and we wheeled our bounty out to her car, a vintage beauty from the 1940s. The groceries settled into the backseat, a snug fit that would’ve been impossible with the kids in tow.

“If the little ones were here, we’d be playing trunk Tetris,” she quipped, a smile in her voice.

I confessed my secret timing of the checkout process. “Three minutes, two seconds. Record time. I’ve seen snails move faster on other days.”

Cadence laughed, the sound bright against the hum of the parking lot. “You should see it during blackouts. Out come the old registers, all buttons and manual inputs. It’s like stepping back in time.”

She shook her head, her gaze lingering on the car’s dashboard. “Math’s not my thing—give me a field to tend or a fire to put out, but numbers? That’s Mitchell’s domain. I swear his mother replaced his brain with a computer processor.”

We then went to their house, a nice two story farmhouse with three bedrooms, one bath on the second floor, and another bedroom behind the stairs in which I learned that the master bedroom behind the stairs is Cadence and Mitchell’s bedroom. They chose that one because they know in the future their kids will try to sneak out and that their bedroom will be right where they can catch them in the act.

I put my shoes by the front door and walked on the hardwood floor barefooted.

I helped Cadence put the groceries away but I made myself some brunch in which I just made fried eggs on slightly toasted bread before going back to Fort Colossal for another airborne training jump.

_____________________________

Back at Fort Colossal.

“Hey Mitchell, why do the soldiers under Luna’s leadership do what she says but how they respond is a bit hesitant?” I asked.

Mitchell replied, “Her first day as Lieutenant the platoon walked right into an ambush with her being the sole survivor. She may have a stoic exterior but she truly does care about the Paras under her command. But she has a reputation for being completely mission-oriented. But some nickname she has gotten is Grim Reaper because out of the 30 which is a platoon size 29 were KIA and some speculate that she either intentionally led her platoon into that ambush while others saying that it’s war. Her stoic nature is implied to be her attempt to cope with all the death she’s witnessed from her time in the Airborne for the past fifteen years.”

Mitchell then went and talked about how Luna isn’t one of those officers who will send her soldiers into combat that’s ill prepared and that Luna’s leadership style is rigorous and uncompromising. Her training methods are described as harsh, but they are respected by her soldiers for their effectiveness. The discipline she instills is recognized as a form of necessary toughness that prepares them to survive the chaos of battle. This contrasts sharply with the practices of some officers she knows, whose harshness crosses into mistreatment or bullying, eroding trust and morale within their ranks.

Moreover, Luna has witnessed officers who falter under the pressures of combat, unable to perform basic tasks like map reading, or who become paralyzed by fear, seeking refuge in foxholes rather than leading from the front. Others adhere too strictly to regulations, failing to adapt to the fluid dynamics of warfare. These experiences have informed Luna’s own leadership, emphasizing the need for a balance between discipline and adaptability, between the letter of military doctrine and the unpredictable nature of combat. Luna has seen other officers who would heedlessly send units into engagements for which they are ill-prepared, often resulting in unnecessary casualties.

“Why is she a bit rough around the edges?” I asked.

Mitchell replied, “She didn’t have the best life experience in her youth. She never knew her father and her mother favored Star who is Luna’s oldest sister and Luna was always an afterthought. And back in 1989 when Luna was fifteen when Star dropped out of school because she got pregnant and was going to graduate in the class of 1990 but Star dropped out due to pregnancy, well Luna said she was going to drop out too but their mother dragged Luna into the kitchen and poured hot grease down her back.”

I felt a chill run down my spine, the image too vivid in my mind. “Damn,” I muttered, “no wonder Luna’s always in fight mode.” It was a harsh reality, one that made Luna’s resilience all the more remarkable.

Shaking my head, I let out a low whistle. “It’s like she’s been through a war nobody can see,” I murmured, more to myself than to Mitchell.

He nodded solemnly, his eyes reflecting a story that seemed too complex for words. “It’s a tangled web, Mac. Star and Luna share a mother but not a father. Star’s dad, the one married to their mom, met his end at the Berlin Wall in '71. Their mom made it out, though, took a boat to New York, had Star, then Luna came along in '74.”

Mitchell’s gaze drifted, lost in the past. “Luna’s got this way of making me feel like I’m the kid she never had. And her marriage? Talk about a flash in the pan. Eight hours of ‘I do’s’ turned into ‘I don’t’ when her so-called husband claimed he was hitting the store but ended up at some seedy joint instead.”

I couldn’t help but scoff, the irony bitter on my tongue. “Eight hours, huh? If I had a spouse vanish for that long on a bread run, I’d have a whole bakery set up by the time they got back. Some people just don’t know the value of commitment.” My voice was a mix of humor and disdain, a defense mechanism against the absurdity of it all.

Mitchell’s words hung in the air as I made sure my harness and parachute was not loose and not too tight just right, my mind half on the task, half on the conversation. “I usually let my wife handle the grocery runs, but I tag along often,” he said, a hint of guilt lacing his tone. “Still, I can’t shake off the feeling for Luna. What’s rougher, you think? Being stood up at the altar or an eight-hour marriage to a guy who bails for a ‘loaf of bread’ and ends up at some shady club?”

I chuckled, sliding a glance at him. “Ran into Cadence earlier at the market. She picked up chicken tonight, wanted you to know. But with her being Luna’s niece and all…” I trailed off, raising an eyebrow.

Mitchell just shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “Luna’s cool with it. As long as I respect Cadence, treat her right, she’s got no beef with me. It’s all about respect, Mac. That’s the code we live by.”

So there I was, strapped into my seat with the kind of excitement that’s half thrill, half ‘what-the-heck-did-I-get-myself-into?’ I forked over a cool $180—which, by the way, is a small fortune that could’ve been spent on an epic night out or a fancy new gadget. But no, here I am, about to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Why? Because apparently, I love to challenge gravity and my sanity in equal measure.

Up ahead, Mitchell, the platoon’s XO and RTO, is probably getting cozy with Luna. He’s got to stick to her like glue because, let’s face it, someone’s got to relay the big shots’ orders down the line. Meanwhile, I’m back here plotting not to faceplant into the dirt like last time. Oh, the glory of airborne ops!

This time, it’s all about nailing the landing. I mean, how hard can it be, right? These soldiers make it look like a walk in the park. They’ve been leaping from towers and planes for years, turning fear into a hobby. They hit the ground running—literally. Legs bent, chutes flaring, eyes scouting for the perfect patch of earth to claim. Then there’s Mitchell, the human gazelle, already unbuckling his gear mid-air and hitting the ground in full sprint mode. Me? I’m just trying not to be the star of a slapstick landing that ends with my butt imprint on the drop zone.

But hey, it’s all in good fun, and if I can stick the landing this time, maybe I’ll earn a few style points. Or at least avoid becoming the day’s comic relief. Wish me luck!

So, there I am, the queen of sarcasm, surrounded by a bunch of paratroopers who seem to think it's show-and-tell time. They're all, "Hey Mac, you know which cord to yank for your main chute?" And I'm like, "Yeah, I paid attention during the five-second briefing, thanks." They're egging me on to pop it open right there, but I'm not about to turn this bird into a circus tent. Plus, I'd rather not distract the pilot and end up skydiving without a plane.

Now, let's talk about the jump. Last time, it was all about that static line life—hook up, step out, and let the plane do the work. But this time? Oh no, it's all manual, baby. It's just me and the wild blue yonder, playing a high-stakes game of 'pull the right cord or become a lawn dart.'

Let's be real, the odds of me pulling off a Hollywood landing are about as good as finding a unicorn at the end of a rainbow. But hey, I'm a realist. I know there's a solid chance I'll be kissing the ground with my face again. They call it a "botched" landing, but I call it an "unplanned rapid descent to humility."

As for the rest of the jump crew, you can see the wheels turning in their heads, "Why the heck did I sign up for this?" Yeah, it's a legit question. These folks have seen some things, lost buddies, and here they are, floating down like sitting ducks, easy targets for anything from pop guns to big boy anti-aircraft cannons.

Those old-school recruitment posters with the paratroopers blasting away with a Thompson SMG one-handed? Please. That might've flown back in the day, but now? It's about as practical as eating soup with a fork. But you know what? To each their own. Some folks march to the beat of a different drum—or in this case, jump to the rhythm of a different gun.

I’ve got a front-row seat to the most hardcore group of sky warriors you’ll ever meet. These paratroopers? They’re like walking armories. With M16A1s, M14E2s, and .30 machine-guns at the ready, they’ve got more firepower than a Fourth of July fireworks show. And envy? Pfft, that’s for the other guys. Our crew’s got two solid years of intense training under their belts, and a love affair with assault grenades that turns them into close combat legends.

These folks are the ninjas of the sky—drop 'em behind enemy lines, and they’ll vanish into thin air, only to pop up where you least expect them. They’re the boogeymen that go bump in the night, the constant threat that keeps the enemy up, wondering, “Where are they?”

Let’s talk about their spirit—these paratroopers redefine “fanaticism.” They’re the kind that’ll stare down the Grim Reaper and ask if he’s up for a duel. Retreat? Not in their vocabulary. They’d rather dance with danger than take a single step back. They’re the ones who’ll take on the big, bad units that send regular G.I.s running for the hills. Because being surrounded? That’s just another Tuesday for these airborne daredevils.

You can tell a lot about a person by their banter, and let me say, the chatter among these paratroopers is anything but novice..

So, Mitchell's been running his mouth about how each platoon gets its own slice of sky for a DZ (drop zone, for the uninitiated). These folks? They're not just planning their weekend BBQ. They're strategizing their landings, RV (rendezvous) points, and the whole nine yards at a squad level. It's like a chess game where the pieces fall from the sky, and every move is life or death.

Now, let's talk about parachutes. These troopers are their own packers. Why? Because nobody likes surprises, especially the kind that involve a non-cooperative chute at a few thousand feet. It's a trust thing—pack it yourself, and if you mess up, well, you've only got yourself to blame. Each chute's got a number, and it's like a sacred bond between a jumper and their silk lifeline.

The way they talk about their next moves, their tactics once they hit terra firma—it's like listening to a well-oiled machine. No cogs out of place here. They're coordinated, they're sharp, and they're ready to turn the enemy's day into a very bad one. It's impressive, really. Makes you proud to be a part of this crazy family that falls from the sky and fights like hell once they land.

The tension in the air was thicker than the coffee in the mess hall as the red light flickered on. We all stood up, a forest of camo and anticipation, waiting for that green glow. And there's Lieutenant Luna, the kind of leader who's been kicking ass and taking names since '93. She's not just a leader; she's a force of nature with a rank.

If you told her to hold a bridge, she'd turn it into Fort Knox. TNT, C4, Plastic Explosives, Satchel Charges—you name it, she'd wire it up like a Christmas tree from hell. If push came to shove, she'd blow that bridge sky-high, leaving the enemy scratching their heads and looking for a detour. Then, Engineers or Combat Engineers would swoop in, building a pontoon bridge faster than you can say 'reinforcements.'

Just like that, I took the leap of faith—again without being shoved out. This time, it was different. After a heart-stopping few seconds of free fall, feeling like an eagle (or maybe a flying squirrel), I yanked the cord. There's that gut-wrenching jerk, and voilà, my chute open, and I'm floating down like a leaf on a breezy day.

I'm not just falling; I'm sailing, baby! I flare my chute, bent my knees, and—would you believe it—I stuck the landing. No face-planting into the dirt this time. I was like a cat, all grace and poise. I watched the pros do it and mimicked them like a paratrooper parrot.

The harness connector, that sneaky little devil, tried to put up a fight, but I showed it who's boss. A bit of muscle, a dash of determination, and pop! I was free, standing tall, and not a speck of earth on my face. Take that, gravity!

Well, wouldn't you know it, Macaroni Waterson here, and I've just been gifted with a surprise visit from a dark olive drab parachute. Not just any parachute, but one that's decided to grace me with its presence by landing smack-dab on top of me. After a brief tussle, I discover it's the Third Platoon, 3rd Squad's equipment crate. Oh boy, it's like Christmas for the gun enthusiast—packed with a Browning M1919A6 machine gun, a trio of Anti-Armor launchers, and three portable Anti-Air systems. Talk about heavy metal thunder!

I give the crate a respectful nod and back away because, let's face it, I'm not about to play Santa with this kind of firepower. Meanwhile, the paratroopers are donning their gas masks, not for a fashion statement, but because they're about to unleash hell with those launchers, and nobody's got time for flash and backblast when you're busy being a badass.

The few times I've seen these masks in action, it's either been a drill to see how fast they can gear up for a CBRN showdown or just to amp up the intimidation factor. And trust me, nothing says "don't mess with me" quite like a squad of masked paratroopers.

But let's talk about their skills. These paratroopers? They're like the Olympic athletes of warfare. They glide from cover to cover with the grace of a gazelle, their aim is so sharp they could probably shoot the wings off a fly while blindfolded, and they've got this whole brotherhood and sisterhood thing going on with suppressing fire and blindfire. And grenades? They're tossing them around with the precision of a chef flipping pancakes.

So yeah, I'm here, trying not to get squashed by airborne supply drops, and all the while, I'm in awe of these paratroopers.

You know, I've been scratching my head about the same thing. Why haven't I seen an Engineer company around? Well, let me break it down for you. The Little Bird Army's got a trio of engineering marvels: the Engineers, who are the brains at the bases; the Combat Engineers, who dive into the thick of it to build, fix, and do their engineering wizardry under fire; and then there are the Assault Engineers, the demolition daredevils who make things go boom in the enemy's backyard.

But here's the kicker: when you're a paratrooper trained to drop behind enemy lines, you can't exactly bring the whole engineering entourage with you. It's like showing up to a stealth mission with a marching band. So, what do you do? You improvise, adapt, and overcome. These paratroopers are like MacGyver on steroids—they're outnumbered, outgunned, but never outsmarted. They've got a PhD in demolition and a master's in kicking butt.

Sometimes, when the chips are down, and they're paradropped into the fight, they might find themselves without their trusty Combat Engineers and Assault Engineers—or their big bags of explosive party favors. It's like showing up to a potluck and realizing you left your famous casserole at home.

Now, let's talk fashion. These paras are rocking the classic M1967 uniforms, but with a twist. They've got bullet-resistant armor that's as light as a feather but tough as nails. It's the kind of gear that laughs in the face of pistol rounds, shrugs off shrapnel, and gives a big, fat "nope" to armor-piercing and full metal jacket rifle rounds. Mobility and protection? They've got it in spades.

I decided to run to where my cousin Mitchell is because he’s with Luna the platoon commander when I got there she has a leather case in her hand and she was looking at something which looks like a map but she didn’t look like she was lost or confused but was either planning a route or a backup route in the back of her mind.

Mitchell's got this high-tech gizmo strapped to his arm, looking like something straight out of a sci-fi flick. It's about the size of a smartphone, but with all the bells and whistles of a tactical pad. Me? I know better than to poke my nose where it doesn't belong, especially when it comes to fancy gadgets that probably cost more than my entire gear.

Luna, with her eagle-eye for detail, hands the map back to Mitchell, who stashes it away like a secret treasure. Then, like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of soldiers, she directs the squads with precision. First squad heads south, third squad north, each a quarter mile out, setting up a defensive perimeter as seamless as a well-rehearsed play.

Mitchell, he's got this saying about Luna, "She might not always do the right thing. But she always does it for the right reasons." And it's true. If Luna wasn't born to wear the uniform, I could picture her running the show at the Little Bird equivalent of UPS, not taking any flak from anyone. You laugh at her shorts? That's a one-way ticket to the ER, courtesy of Luna's right hook. She's got that look in her eyes, the kind that says she's not just battle-ready—she's battle-born.

If the zombie apocalypse ever hits, I’m betting on Lieutenant Luna and her platoon to be the last squad standing. I mean, the live fire training I’ve witnessed? It’s like a scene straight out of a horror flick, only the zombies are automatic targets, and the heroes are real-life paratroopers with nerves of steel and a “double tap” policy that would make any undead think twice.

They’ve got this mantra, “If it looks dead, put one more bullet into it just to be sure,” and another gem, “Two in the head keeps it dead.” It’s not just catchy; it’s survival 101 for these battle-hardened vets. They’ve learned the hard way that the only good enemy is a double-checked enemy. Except for the .50 Cal HMG team—those folks are in a league of their own. When they unleash their explosive, armor-piercing, and incendiary rounds, it’s game over. No second shots needed.

As for our grand exit strategy? It’s all hush-hush, top-secret stuff. Only Luna knows the way to our evac site, and that’s the thrill of the training. We jump into the unknown, march a couple of miles with only our wits and willpower, and then it’s back to Fort Colossal we go. It’s the kind of adventure that makes you feel alive.

As the march pressed on, the air filled with the robust voices of Second Squad belting out their Regimental song. There I was, just taking it all in. Singing? Not my forte, and besides, I don't know the words. My girlfriend, though? She could've given them a run for their money with her pipes. The whole scene had a 'Full Metal Jacket' vibe, minus the Hollywood script.

Mitchell, my cousin, stayed quiet, and so did Luna. Mitchell's not the singing type, and Luna? Well, who knows? Maybe she's more of a shower singer.

Suddenly, the crack of gunfire shattered the moment. I hit the dirt, heart pounding, as Mitchell's voice crackled over the radio, "Eagle 3-3 to Caracaras Leader, we're taking fire. Is this part of the drill? Over." But there was no hesitation from the paratroopers; they sprang into action, returning fire with the kind of colorful language that would make a sailor blush. They were like kindergarteners—if kindergarteners were armed and had a PhD in creative cursing. It was chaos, it was madness.

Luna's boot connected with my side, a not-so-gentle reminder that dirt is no place for a warrior. "You can't fight if you're hiding down there," she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. Before I knew it, I was yanked upright, and an assault rifle was thrust into my hands.

"But Lieutenant, I'm a noncombatant," I protested, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

Luna wasn't having any of it. "Cut that baloney," she snapped back. "Mitchell already spilled the beans about your stint in the Navy as a fire control man. You're a combatant, not a noncombatant."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died on my lips. Now wasn't the time for a debate on semantics. How Luna knew about my past was a mystery for another day—a day without bullets flying overhead. For now, I had to focus on surviving this mess. And maybe, just maybe, proving to Luna that Macaroni was more than just a nickname.

Hefting the rifle, I could feel the extra weight immediately. It wasn’t just any rifle; this was a beast upscaled to chamber 7.62x52mm rounds. The Little Bird military doesn’t mess around—they prefer their bullets like they prefer their coffee: strong and with a kick that can punch through the thickest jungle foliage.

It’s all about the stopping power, the kind that makes sure whatever’s on the receiving end stays down. That’s why the old American M1 Carbine, as classic as it is, doesn’t cut it here. It’s a fine piece for MPs playing guard dog behind the lines, but out here in the wild? You need something with a bit more ‘oomph.’

So, while I’m not exactly thrilled about the added weight, I get it. In the jungle, where visibility is a joke and every shadow could be hiding a threat, those heavy caliber bullets are worth their weight in gold. The 5.56mm rounds might be the go-to for the support crew, but for those of us expected to tangle with the unknown? It’s 7.62mm all the way. It’s the difference between a mosquito bite and a sledgehammer—and out here, I’ll take the sledgehammer every time.

Watching the paratroopers in action is like attending a master class in efficiency. They’ve got this tactical reload down to an art form—29 rounds out, one in the chamber, and they’re ready to roll without missing a beat. It’s all about staying in the fight, no pause, no break, just a seamless transition from one mag to the next.

And let’s talk about the rifle. It might bear a passing resemblance to the classic M16A1, but this baby’s got the guts of an AK47. A little dirt in the chamber? No problem. This isn’t the finicky M16 of yesteryear that would jam up at the first sign of trouble. The Little Bird military knows their terrain and their tech. They’ve crafted a weapon that’s as reliable in the jungle as it is anywhere else—because when you’re homegrown in a jungle country, you know a thing or two about making gear that can handle the heat and the humidity.

I’ve seen them in action, too—slapping the magazine release with a fresh mag, knocking out the old one, and slamming in the new with a click that’s music to my ears. They’ve got their mags taped jungle style, double-barreled and ready for a quick swap. Me? When my mag runs dry, I just drop it and slap in a new one. No fancy tricks, just good old-fashioned practicality. It’s not just about firing; it’s about reloading with the kind of smoothness that keeps you alive and kicking in the thick of it.

I then heard Mitchell talk to someone over the radio because I’m close to him and Luna where I’ve heard him say “This is Eagle 3-3. We need immediate air support at grid Able-Dog-George-Nine!”

Someone replied, “Eagle 3-3 we do not have clearance in that grid.”

The radio crackled with urgency, and there was Mitchell, his voice steady but tense, “This is Eagle 3-3. We need immediate air support at grid Able-Dog-George-Nine!” The response was a cold splash of reality, “Eagle 3-3 we do not have clearance in that grid.” That’s when Luna stepped in, her grip on the radiophone as firm as her resolve. “Eagle 3-3 Actual, requesting close air at Able-Dog-George-Nine,” she commanded, “Priority one ordinance on my command. I authenticate Easy Sugar, over.”

It was clear as day—Luna wasn’t just tired; she was in her element, fighting for every advantage. As a Lieutenant, she’s got the authority to call down the thunder, assuming she’s got the green light from higher up. And let me tell you, the fire in her voice, the unyielding determination—it’s the kind of stuff legends are made of. Luna’s the type to stare down the abyss, challenge the devil himself, and emerge not just unscathed but victorious, as if the very fires of Hell were her personal playground.

Minutes stretched on like hours under the relentless sun, and just when I thought we'd be left to fend for ourselves, the roar of salvation echoed from above. A military chopper swooped in, its dual miniguns spitting fire and raining down hot brass. There I was, dodging casings like it was the world's most dangerous game of catch. I fished out the scalding metal from my uniform, each one a tiny comet burning through the fabric of my not-so-battle-ready attire.

Oh, how I envied the paratroopers' armor. Whether it was light, medium, heavy, or sturdy, each had its trade-offs. Light armor? No penalties, free as a bird. Medium? You're lugging around an extra 7.5% of weight, and your stealth's down by about 10 points. Heavy armor's even worse, slowing you down by a hefty 15-20% and slashing your sneak by 20-30 points. But sturdy? That's the gold standard—extra weight, sure, but with protection that's worth its weight in gold.

I get it, though. That kind of gear doesn't come cheap. At a whopping $12,500 a pop well that’s my guess, it's no wonder they don't hand it out like candy. Here in Little Bird, that kind of dough could snag you a couple of houses, easy. But as the chopper's guns blazed a path for us, I couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, feeling a little less like a walking target might be worth the investment.

We then checked the bodies in which one of them had orders that says in bold:

Boys and Girls, we've got ourselves another holier-than-thou white knight needs putting down. Here are the details:

Name: Waterson, Mackenzie

Race: Caucasian

Sex: Female

The bounty is 10000 bucks this time around. And, for a change of pace, they want the head this time.

Good hunting! Target is considered armed and extremely dangerous.

Capture is NOT recommended -- Bounty will be paid upon proof of death (head).

Let's put this devil in the ground and be done with it.

As I rifled through the pockets of our unfortunate visitors, I stumbled upon a crumpled piece of paper that screamed ‘Top Secret’. Turns out, these weren’t your average party crashers; they were mercenaries with a taste for the dramatic—me being the star of their show. “Look at that, I’m a celebrity,” I quipped, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to fill a swimming pool. Lieutenant Luna, ever the pragmatist, chimed in with her two cents. “Frankly, I prefer adversaries who can fire back. Beats the heck out of those tennis ball launchers we use in training. At least these guys don’t serve up a fuzzy green ball at 40 mph.” Trust Luna to find the silver lining in a shootout.

Flipping through the mercenary contract, I couldn’t help but chuckle. There it was, in black and white, a bounty on my head—10 grand. Not exactly chump change, but hey, it’s not every day you’re valued at the price of a decent luxury car with every bell and whistle. Did it faze me? Nah. I’ve faced scarier things at the bottom of a cereal box.

The day was too gorgeous, and the company was too good to let a little thing like a price tag dampen my spirits. “Alright, Third Platoon, let’s hustle and catch up with Second,” Luna barked out the orders with the kind of authority that made you want to move mountains—or at least jog to the next rendezvous point. So off we went, a band of paratroopers, leaping into the fray, because if there’s one thing better than a sunny day, it’s spending it flying high with comrades. And if someone wants to make a quick buck off me? Well, they better be ready for a tennis ball cannon salute.

We hunkered down with Second Platoon, and I gotta say, their setup was sweeter than a double scoop of gelato on a hot day. They were nestled in like a tick at a dog park, covered on all sides, and a .50 Cal with a field of fire so wide you’d think it was auditioning for a Broadway show.

But here’s the kicker—half of Second Platoon was benched in the infirmary, nursing their egos and bruises from a practice jump that went sideways. So, just like a bad sitcom rerun, Second got folded into Third, and together we were off to rendezvous with First Platoon.

As we moved out, I couldn’t help but muse, “Third gets the .30 Cal, the reliable workhorse. And Second? They get the .50 Cal, the showstopper.” It’s like being at a rock concert where every band wants to be the headliner. But hey, as long as we’re making music together, let the good times roll.

Trudging through the jungle’s embrace and across the plains that stretched like a green sea, we played follow-the-leader with Luna. She was our compass, pausing now and then to consult the map, ensuring we weren’t just marching to the beat of our own drum in endless circles.

As for the .50 Cal HMG crew? I’ve got a soft spot for them. The gunner’s lugging around an 82-pound beast of a machine gun, the spotter/loader’s got the 45-pound tripod, and let’s not forget the poor soul saddled with a hundred pounds of .50 BMG ammo. It’s like they drew the short straws and ended up with the gym’s weight rack on their backs.

But hey, at least it’s a team effort, not some Herculean solo mission. Third Platoon’s got it a bit easier—Third platoon machine gun’s sporting a bipod, and one guy gets to play the hero carrying it, while the others are ammo mules.

Eventually, we rendezvoused with First Platoon, and with that, our little adventure wrapped up. We headed back to the familiar walls of Fort Colossal.

There's something almost poetic about watching the platoons at the range, each person a master of their craft. The Phoenix pistols crack in the hands of First Platoon, held one-handed, bodies angled just so, as if they're dancers in a ballet of bullets. They stand sideways, a stance that speaks of old duels and new determination.

Then there are those with the automatic rifles and battle rifles, hugging the earth in couched or prone positions. They're the embodiment of focus, each shot a deliberate punctuation in the silence between bursts.

And let's not forget the machine gun symphony: First Platoon's 5.56mm LMG, Second's .50 Cal HMG, and Third's Medium Machine Gun. They fire in controlled bursts of three or four rounds, a disciplined display of firepower. It's all about conservation—every round is precious, and not a single one is to be wasted. It's a lesson in restraint.

The run was another slice of the day’s drill, and as the platoons lined up running in unison by squad, Luna’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “Who are ya?” she bellowed.

“AIRBORNE,” came the thunderous reply from Third Platoon, their voices melding into one.

“How far?” Luna challenged, her tone rising above the morning mist.

“All the way!” they roared back, a promise and a pledge rolled into two words.

Curiosity piqued, I sidled up to Luna. “Hey Lieutenant, what ungodly hour does your platoon start training?” Her answer was a casual “0300 hours,” as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to rise before the stars have clocked out. Insane? Maybe. But then again, war doesn’t exactly wait for your alarm clock. It’s a 24-hour life or death human nature, and Luna’s platoon is always clocked in.

It’s a sobering thought, isn’t it? The idea that war is an inescapable part of the human condition, woven into the very fabric of our history. It seems like peace is often just the quiet between storms, a brief respite before the drums of conflict beat once more.

Yet, there’s a thread of hope in that tapestry of turmoil—the notion that unity can be our shield. When faced with a common enemy, the barriers between us can crumble, and we stand shoulder to shoulder with those we might have once called foes. It’s in those moments, when we’re united against a shared threat, that we truly see the potential for what humanity could be—bound not by the wars we fight, but by the peace we forge together.

War may be a constant echo in the halls of history, but so is the resilience of the human spirit, the capacity to come together, to protect, to survive. And maybe, just maybe, that unity can one day outshine the specter of war.

Stepping back into the city of Empire is like flipping through the pages of a history book while riding a roller coaster. It’s a place where the past and the future collide, creating a vibrant tapestry of life that’s as diverse as it is dynamic. The streets are arteries, pulsing with the rhythm of countless footsteps—some rushing along the highways, others meandering down cobblestone alleys lined with baroque houses that whisper tales of yesteryears.

The cityscape is a checkerboard of architectural marvels, from the sleek lines of skyscrapers to the quaint charm of prefabricated enameled steel houses. Parks dot the landscape like emerald jewels, offering a breath of fresh air amidst the urban jungle. Culture thrives here, in concert halls that echo with symphonies, nightclubs that throb with beats, and luxurious stores that dazzle with their wares.

The seaport is the city’s beating heart, with a lighthouse that stands as a beacon of hope, its light slicing through the darkness, guiding vessels home. Empire is a melting pot, a place where German precision, Italian passion, Irish wit, Chinese innovation, Native wisdom, and Black resilience come together, creating a rich mosaic of humanity.

Yet, beneath the city’s vibrant veneer lies a haunting moniker—“City of Death”—a grim reminder of the sacrifices made to build its foundations, of lives lost to disease and drought. It’s a name that’s whispered in the shadows, a memory that lingers like a ghost.

In the midst of this sprawling metropolis lies “Little Italy,” a subdistrict within Downtown where the air seems to hum with the melody of Italian conversation, and the tricolor waves proudly on buildings, painted or perched. It’s a corner of the world where heritage is held close, and community flourishes.

And then there’s Clearlake—a stark contrast to Empire’s bustling streets. It’s the quintessential quiet town, where life moves at a leisurely pace, and the biggest event of the day might just be the mailman’s arrival. It’s a place where simplicity is the jewel in the crown, and tranquility is the currency of the realm.

Empire and Clearlake, two sides of the same coin, each with its own charm, its own rhythm, and its own story to tell.