The young Obba remained hopeful as he sat in the iron beast that ferried these strange men across the lands. They had decided to make their way through the Forest of Shortresch, the territory of wood-dwelling dwarven tribes. These were masters of infiltration and getting by unseen, and he could count on them for a swift exit -- if he could somehow get their attention. He shimmied about to the iron beast's asshole. Ugh, how uncivilized of these strange men to enter and exit through such a vile orifice.

As he shimmied about, he heard a strange commotion happening just outside of his little room in the arse-end of this metal beast. Everything was quiet, but his kidnapper's voice was booming in quite an impressive display of irritation. This man seemed to be this group's commander, but he was stood on a woman dressed in the same strange green outfit. Peculiar.

He took his time and listened to the man's tirade, and gleaned some useful information from it. They were scouts, sent to test our world's mettle. The Obba was frightened to hear an entire army of these men existed, with their strange wands and beasts of iron. What havoc could they wreak upon this world of strife and war?

He'd have to remember this information and use it to his advantage. Once the countries knew of their menace, he could round them up into a coalition to defend against these invaders. Do they intend to take over this Firma? This world? Not without his benefit, they won't. He was young but smart and ambitious, if not desperate.

If he was to use the information at all, he needed to leave. He couldn't do so himself, owing to a strange device around his wrists. All he needed to do was somehow make a commotion loud enough to alert the tribes, one of the thunderclaps would do the trick. Maybe he could anger this Jordan Naird?

 Before he could attempt a plan, he'd noticed something changed with the way these soldiers behaved. Nothing too suspicious, but once they'd brought their immediate tasks to an end, they just stood around the camp's perimeter. The Obba had thought they were lazing about, but then he realized what they were doing by their darting eyes. They were on alert, and subtly so. 

Only one thing keeps a soldier on his toes, and that is the enemy. These men were being subtle with their heightened tension and left a few to continue their tasks. Nonetheless, these few still seemed cautious. Every one of the green men stepped into the small clearing they'd made to set up camp in, and milled about in a way that still seemed a busy hive of workers, but was instead, a group of wolves baring their fangs upon closer inspection. 

The man named Jordan Naird had arrived, and he nodded to the green men as they dropped all that they were carrying save for their weapons. He said a few strange things, and a few soldiers mounted the beast and made it move once more. It seemed to die every time the mounted men left it alone, and the Obba suffered once more to the terrible droning of this odd beast. It stopped in the centre of their encampment, and the soldiers remained.  

The Obba's freckled face smiled to his ears as he retreated into the metal beast's exterior. His curly blonde hair was a mess, but that'd be corrected soon -- quite soon.

His search party has arrived.

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"Move the autocannon smack in the middle of the camp. Stay on alert," I said to my soldiers, motioning to the area I wanted the vic to be in. I pressed the push-to-talk. "We've got movement in the trees. High alert, stay subtle. Keep the hostage in the cannon-car. "

Once the C-Car arrived at its spot, I took the speaker mic and fumbled around with it until I found the option for loudspeakers. Yes, our vehicles came with speakers -- they were likely used for crowd control, as well. Must've been rough back home, huh?

I tapped it twice and gave it a good shake, and was met by a small bit of feedback. I began to speak on the mic. "G' day lads --" I cleared my throat, "-- we know you're there. Don't make us burn the whole fucking forest down and come out."

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I'd have liked to say this was a bluff, but it was part of my plan to (once again) get the fuck out. I'm not risking their lives -- not until I've extracted some use from them.  We were in the trees, and there were plenty of places to hide. If they got in close -- which I assumed they were, they would have a fair chance at taking a little stabby at one of us. 

These guys seemed to be pros at the whole "stay hidden and attack from the shadows" deal. I wasn't going to risk it. If that meant starting a forest fire, so be it -- we have the ammo, and we have the vics to bug the fuck out. Shame we'd lose all our supplies, though. 

I spoke into the radio (on our secure net) asking for how much we'd unpacked. Apparently, most of our ammo had yet to be moved, and what we'd been carrying around were the provisions and fortifications we'd brought along with us. Perfect, more running. 

"Return the Obba and surrender." Came voices from all around the camp, in unison. We were surrounded, and they had some plan in place, and that means some form of communicating when to speak in unison. Maybe that was smart, that way, we wouldn't know where any one of them were. As I searched around, I found nothing.

"Look for something they're using to communicate. They've gotta be doing it somehow," I said into the radio. Switching to the speakers, "You are in no position to ask for our surrender. Reveal yourselves, now."

Hardballing people is fun, always thrilling to see where a risk goes. What isn't fun, is when things go wrong.

First off, no one said anything about how they communicated. That was evident by the lack of traffic as we waited for their response. They never responded, and instead, leapt silently out of the bushes, out of the trees -- everywhere a half-man can hide. Little midgets were upon us, and they were wearing leaves sticking out of their bodies in odd ways -- primitive ghillie suits. 

This time there would be no clean bugging out, we'd suffer some casualties. 

One of them leapt towards me in an oddly graceful manner. Not because he was spinning around or whatever, but because his jump seemed to be slightly slower and lighter. A green glow flew about him, as sparks of brighter green shot out from his stubby fist as it barreled towards me.

I raised my rifle and took the first shot.  

The midget tanked the shot with a green glow around where the bullet had found its marked, and he (beard) was flung right across the clearing and into a tree some distance away. I didn't find any blood or even the slightest splatter on the trees. The midget simply groaned and stood up, hobbling -- and then running towards me.

My men began to fire as soon as I took the first shot, and the same thing happened to the midgets as they rushed us with glowing green hands. Confusion came about as a seemingly endless stream of little guys bum-rushed us, unaffected by our weapons -- though still feeling the brunt force of our hits. They seemed thick enough to tank it, though. Bad news.

The loud snaps of our weapons didn't faze the rest of the little runts, and about ten of them smacked right into and out of the camp in close quarters. Whatever was on their hands, they were dropping my guys slowly, one by one, as they took shot after shot, unfazed. I could only hope my guys were out in functioning warmth, and not out dead-cold.

I gave the order to fire some incendiaries into the trees, and the cannon crews reacted accordingly. 

I gave the order to retreat into the vehicles and mount up, and the remaining soldiers did so with haste.

Fires raged across the little patch of forest we were in, and things were getting pretty damn hot in the face. My uniform kept the rest of my body at a cool temperature though, hooray for the Regime's convenient engineering!

The little guys seemed to tire at the sheer amount of shots they've been tanking, and the fires had gotten to them quickly. They were sweating, panting, and grunting as they hobbled around, collecting my men. Shame they don't have built-in A/C in those leather tunics of theirs.

I kept firing as they kept coming. I retreated towards the vics, walking backwards as I shot in bursts at the damn midgets. They just wouldn't die. We'd taken three of them down, but they were just slumped up into a tree with none of the visible marrings you'd expect from a few mags of lead. 

Radio for covering fire, and book it -- Is what I wanted to do. Now, in practice...

I reached for my radio as I kept retreating towards the vics, acting as a buffer for the men inside. My lips parted as I prepared to speak, but then I felt a strange calm erupt from a hand holding onto my feet. It raced across my veins, finding every sensorium I had, enveloping all of them in one smooth transition, and I found myself in a trance. I could only manage to get out what was barely a sentence before I fell.

Cheeky little fucker played dead, and I was the prize.

"You better... Come get me, you mother... fu-uhh..."