Episode 2: Broken Moon.

“I come in peace. I didn't bring artillery. But I'm pleading with you, with tears in my eyes: if you fuck with me I'll kill you all.” - Marine General James Mattis

[???? HOURS - UNKNOWN LOCATION - UNKNOWN DATE]

Hudson's eye twitched as the world mocked him.

This wasn't real. He was dreaming. This was nonsense.

He closed his eyes and decided the next best course of action.

He punched himself in the face.

It was not feeling of punching underwater he was accustomed to in his dreams. Instead, his hand had obeyed him resolutely. The hit was quick, sharp, and hurt. It hurt a lot in fact. So much for dreaming.

He opened his eyes. The moon remained a collection of cracks, as if it had been speared by the heavens. He sure as shit didn’t want to face whatever caused that.

A defeated "What the actual fuck…" was all he could muster.

Then, a question popped up in the far recess of his mind. Quiet at first. Then louder. Until it was all he could hear.

Where the hell was his team?

His mind jolted to a 110% wake. The exhaustion disappeared as a chain of dominoes went off in his head. He had to find them. He had to protect them. In an instant, he threw himself up. Rifle raised, he scanned his surroundings.

A tight cobblestone alleyway awaited him. He was standing at the edge of its exit. Darkness cloaked him. But a source of light beyond the exit glinted off the metal of his rifle.

It was from a streetlight. But it wasn’t the halogen he was so used to. It was an oil fire. Periodically placed oil lamps lit up the road in front of him. The architecture was foreign. Ornate. Wood carved buildings with intricate designs, with brick constructions. Bright storefronts lined the sides of the main road. Goods littered beyond their well-polished glass windows. Some of the windows were broken, and he could make out a burning building a blocks down being reflected off the glass. Letters of an unknown script atop them signifying some sort of name or brand. Great, now he was illiterate too.

Figures ran past the alleyway entrance dressed in formal, extravagant attire. Flames crackled in the distance. It was a familiar sound. The first familiar feeling he’d run into so far.

Whatever the hell was going on over there he wanted no part in it.

He took cover behind a dumpster. The stench of puke and rotten eggs attacked him.

Oh well. Not the worst stench he’d experienced in his life.

He had to formulate a plan. He sure as shit wasn't in Kansas anymore.

All bets were off. He had to take this slow. Methodically. This was a hostile land. He was surrounded, with no support. He was at best an illegal immigrant. At worst a foreign invader.

His outfit wasn’t helping dispel the invader theory. The 4 tubes protruding like demonic horns from his helmet along with the camouflage and the shemagh scarf covering his face sure weren’t doing him any favors in that regard. Attention was the enemy.

He had to gain intel. Then link up with his team. If they were even here.

He keyed his comms, "All elements. This is Delta-Actual. Radio check. Over."

His reply was static. Goddamn it.

He pulled out his Information Systems Augmentation Unit Tablet (ISGUT) Gen 6. It was called a tablet officially but it was more the size of a large cellphone. He hit the button on its side to turn it on. Blinked to life.

On the top left of the screen was the satellite comm link signal strength indicator. Zero bars. He’d expected as much.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Plan B. He sent out a local area ping. A low frequency radio wave emanated in all directions. If it hit another ISGUT unit, it would ping back and give him a rough directional fix.

He hit the button and waited.

Nothing.

He hit it again.

Nothing.

One last time.

Nothing.

Just great. His surroundings were probably blocking the signal max signal range. He’d have to find a better spot and try again. Someplace higher up.

Roger that, another thing to add to the to do list. At least he was finally gaining some semblance of stability. For now, he’d have to trade for some clothes. Time to mov-

A man fell from the roof of one of the adjacent buildings. He crashed into the dumpster Hudson was hiding behind with an eardrum shattering crunch.

Hudson didn’t flinch. He backed up, rifle trained on the target.

The man was covered in a cloak. He groaned and tried to pick himself back up. He failed. He slipped on the slick metal cover and finished his impromptu rendezvous with the ground. He clutched a bag close to his chest, as if letting go would spell his death.

The man jumped up, grabbing his head. Then the man noticed Hudson. His eyes went wide.

They inspected Hudson up and down with the deepest of suspicion.

“Are… are you a guard?”, the man asked. But before Hudson could reply, the man flared his teeth at Hudson. Sharp fangs glinted under the moonlight. And there was something furry and pointed under that cloak. Animal ears?

Hudson was no longer surprised by anything he saw. He’d overdosed on ‘what the fuck’. In fact. So, he just laughed.

“So much for cats always landing on their feet. Are you okay buddy?”, Hudson said.

Instead of reciprocating Hudson’s joke, the man rather rudely drew a dagger instead.

“Get out of my way!”, he yelled before charging Hudson.

Hudson smiled.

Ask and ye shall receive. Guess he’d just found his new clothes.

The knife shined under the moon, Hudson pivoted under it in one movement. His fist close lined the man. Right in his jaw. A crunch rang out.

No delay in the follow-up shots. Hudson launched a swift kick to the back of the man’s calf. He went down. And for the coup de grace, he stomped his boot on the man’s throat then stood on it.

The poor bastard couldn’t even resist. Couldn’t even claw at Hudson’s leg as his oxygen supply steadily dwindled. This was Hudson’s trade.

Sheer violence of action.

The man stopped twitching. Hudson raised his boot. The man was out cold but still had a pulse.

Hudson dragged the man behind the dumpster. Then, as the parlance in Hudson’s small native hometown of Harlem New York went, ‘ran his pockets’.

The reward for his efforts would be a few copper and silver coins, and the mysterious cloth bag the man had been clutching. He opened it and looked inside. Multitudes of shining red crystals, the size of fingers. The glowed under the darkness, and had some sort of inscription on them. Yeah he had no idea what the fuck these were. Future problem. He put them away on his belt.

Most importantly however, Hudson took the man’s black cloak. He dawned it and it fluttered in the wind.

Now he was in business. Just like how he’d dressed up in the local shalwar kameez clothing in Afghanistan. Almost nostalgic. Those were the days.

The cloak went all the way down to his feet.

As a final thank you to the fluffy eared man, Hudson zip tied his hands and threw him in the dumpster. When he woke up surely someone would come to get him. Believe it or not, but this wasn’t the first time Hudson had dumped a body in a dumpster.

Hudson took a deep breath. Thank God that was ove-

"Reveal yourself thief, turn around slowly!", a voice of a women cut through Hudson's celebration from right behind him.

It clicked. Hudson looked down at the cloth bag on his belt.

And the cloak of the former thief he was now wearing.

He clenched his fist.

Of all the worthless spots on the entire planet to be dropped into, he just had to be thrown into the middle of an active goddamned robbery.

She yelled again, "I said turn around!"

She had an accent. Not of a geographical region but an accent that told her she'd grown up rich. Hudson couldn’t figure out how he knew that, or how he could understand their language. More magical bullshit probably.

One more deep breath. Calm down.

He had to be intelligent about this. He was not going to let himself be captured under any circumstance. He wasn't about to test this places prohibitions on torture through trial and error.

It was time to play a game.

"There's been a misunderstanding.", Hudson said as he started to inch his hand towards his belt.

"Turn around, this is your last warning!", was the women's rather uncourteous reply.

Hudson at last did as he was told.

Infront of him stood a marvel. She was silhouetted against the bright light behind her. She wore an eloquent white dress, accented silver plates for some kind of armor.

Her red hair flashed through the air, and in an instant the steel of an engraved silver saber soon found it's mark resting on front of his face. Damn. She was fast. Too fast.

"Identify yourself." she said.

Fear started to spread through Hudson's soul.

Not the panicking kind of fear that weakens and destroys. No, this was the fear that focuses your soul into a single point.

Alert. A new challenge.

Succeed. Or die.

Roger that.

Hudson smiled and let his hand wander ever closer to his waste belt, "Come now, this is no way to greet a guest."

Hudson removed the cloak from his head. His face was still covered by his shemagh.

She was so close now. Her eyes looked him up and down. The color of gold. Hypnotic. Accusatory fury shifted soon shifted to a deep puzzlement. Her eyes continued wandering, next locking onto his rifle.

A SIG MCX Spear with an assortment of attachments. Then she looked at the quad tubes protruding from his helmet. Hudson’s hand dropped a few more inches. Closer.

She spoke, all the righteousness robbed from her sails.

"You... don’t exactly match the description…”

Then her eyes reached the cloth bag he’d clipped onto his belt. The cloth bag the man had been carrying.

The fury returned twice as strong and her eyes lit up, glowing in the darkness.

Fuck it. Go time.

Hudson pulled the pin on the grenade.