- [The Spirit World, P.T. Flotilla] -
The river snakes through the dense jungle, its waters a murky, deep black, reflecting only hints of distorted light filtering through the thick canopy above them. Towering trees, their bark slick with moisture, twist upward in knotted clusters. Thick, heavy vines hang like loose ropes, intertwining like serpents poised to snatch at any unwary traveler, while the putrid scent of decay and damp soil claw at one's senses from every corner of the fetid wetlands. The air vibrates with the tension of the unseen lurking just beyond sight. The jungle moves, it whispers — it slithers.
A flotilla of patrol boats glides along the river's treacherous path, winding along its deep curves. Each vessel is both armored and battle-scarred from the encounters had from the mouth of the river to here, deeper in the inland. Mounted atop the front of the lead boat is a blackened 30mm gun — wrested from a downed aircraft — its barrel gleaming with the lovingly coated shimmer of petroleum-based corrosion-inhibiting grease. The boats hum beneath the steady thump of hearts racing in a unified rhythm, the sound blending with the lapping of dark waters against steel. Soldiers sit quietly at the ready on the boats, none of them talking as they smoke, play cards, or watch the jungle. Alongside the heavy artillery, anti-tank guns stand primed for battle, their smooth surfaces catching the flickers of errant light, recoilless rifles hang mounted over each side of every boat.
They’re moving in fast and quiet, but the quiet part won’t last much longer.
On the tight decks, spell-warding wizards move with focused intensity, their hands swirling with ambient energy that glows like fireflies in the gathering dusk. As their incantations weave through the air, threads of shimmering magic dance around them, imbuing each boat with protection from Tango's spells. Armor plating and such is great and all, but a magical ward goes a long way in the spirit world.
Command has reports of a naga stronghold down this river. It’s their job to eliminate this Tango threat once and for all. Of all the invasions that hit the world tree city, the naga invasion was one of the worst in shared memory, and so the weight of a collective grudge of the men in black boots is also weighing the flotilla down along with a literal ton of ammunition. Everyone here is gritted and ready, more than eager to pay the enemy back for the damage they did. Goblins, demons, ghosts, and such things are one matter. But there is a personal vendetta against the naga, who are some of the most hated now amongst humanity's ilk. Nobody is making nervous jokes. Nobody is reminiscing. Nobody is making plans for tomorrow. The greatest extent of communication present on the flotilla is the ambient clicking of full magazines sliding into damp semi-automatic rifles. The atmosphere grows electric with imminent conflict; thick tension fills the air like a predator’s breath — fitting for a jungle. Every crew member can feel the swamp pulse around them, like a living entity. It may well be. Everything in the spirit world is odd and, as the laymen of the military put it, ‘fucky’, so they have strict orders never to leave the boats, no matter what.
As the lead boat rounds a curve, the large obelisk appears in the distance, rising ominously against the twilight sky. Dark energies swirl around its peak, that maleficent aura radiating power like heat waves shimmering off the black waters and creating waves in the otherwise placid tropical river. This structure is the source of the nagas’ strength, and it is the spawner responsible for creating them and allowing them to attack the physical world. It has to go.
The captain and head of the deep-push assault operation, standing at the front of the primary boat, lowers his binoculars and presses a button on what in the manuals is referred to as the 'primary bridge console', but on a ship this small, it's really just a single metal terminal standing out under a sheet metal pavilion roof with a handful of controls. The little ships are actually auxiliary torpedo vessels for the main fleet, hence their designation as P.T. 'patrol torpedo' boats. But they've been retrofitted and repurposed now because of the lack of nautical threats to navigate the rivers of the spirit world instead.
The alarm lights on the boats start to whir, with no audible siren blazing just yet. Everything is quiet, apart from rustling gear and shifting boots moving over wet decks. A hundred and some soldiers man their positions, sitting on mounted guns and aiming their rifles over metal banisters toward the slithering mass in the distance. Nagas crawl all around the obelisk and the edge of the water, looking like they’re preparing for an assault of their own.
The boats draw in closer, and now, for the first time, they are seen by the enemy.
Scaled, massive heads attached to the bodies of serpents twice the size of an average man all look toward the black water for a moment through slit, yellow eyes. Humans, elves, orcs, and fairies hold eye contact with the things that slither in turn — one side processing what they are seeing for a moment, the other side relishing it as their vision lines up down the iron-sights at the end of many barrels. The captain, standing there with his hands behind his back at the front of the forward boat, says the only word that is going to be spoken during this entire operation, his voice crackling and distorting through the dampness-damaged speaker systems of the many boats, the radio electronics of which are not designed to withstand this sort of incredible ambient humidity. But even the misfiring electronics carry the simple, satisfied aura of dominance present in his soul as he looks at the enemy.
“Fire,” orders the captain, not moving from his spot, the world around him illuminating before he even finishes the word.
The last of the air immediately trembles in response to his command as the entire flotilla unleashes its fury upon the jungle, the roar of pacing engines harmonizing with the cacophony of dozens of heavy Kerzenzünder machine guns, ripping through foliage and scale alike. Armored monsters glide through the thick jungle, armed to the teeth with an array of archaic weaponry, only to be cut down before they ever reach the edge of the water. The jungle — green and black — flashes alight in an entirely new hue it had never known before in such full vibrance.
— Red.
A vessel at the forefront, its hull gleaming dully in the fading light, bears a flame-throwing turret. With a violent hiss, the turret erupts in a torrent of flames that blossoms outward, igniting the wet underbrush in an immediate inferno as the burning oil streaks across the river’s embankment. Fast-moving tongues of fire lick greedily at the twisted roots and dense ferns, burning away the jungle with a voracious hunger. Soldiers can’t tell if the screaming comes from the monsters or from the jungle itself, as so many black silhouettes dance in the bright fire along the shore, but none of them care as the hammering of recoil beats like their own hearts. The scent of scorched dirt and roasting flesh fills the air. The flamethrower turret sprays from side to side, fed bountifully from a massive fuel canister nestled within the boat. Nagas hiss and scream, many dropping into the water to swim toward the boats, but find little luck as the water begins to explode as soldiers with recoilless rifles tactically remove the water at Tango-specific-locations through the use of high explosives, creating temporary craters in the river and permanent ones in Tango. Water and shrapnel fly through the air, hissing as they hit the burning jungle. Black smoke rises in all directions on both sides of the flotilla as it cruises down the river toward the obelisk, shining brightly at its tip. Between the roar of the flamethrower and the rhythmic thump of a barrage of recoilless rifles, the jungle becomes a fiery canvas. Overly saturated leaves explode into showers of glowing embers, the vibrant greens turning to charred blacks and reds in an instant. Those who've laid in wait, — serpentine nagas watching with malevolent gleams in their eyes as they try to set impromptu ambushes — never get a chance as the 30mm cannon blasts into the jungle at the behest of a forward spotter. A fairy team of scouts is flying high overhead above the river, above the boats, marking specific areas of the dense jungle where Tango is trying to hide and set up. They pass the information down to the gunnery team via radio. Every single counter-attack attempt is destroyed by the time as many as two bodies gather in one place.
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The crew remains locked in an adrenaline and combat stimulant-fueled haze, eyes wide with fervor as they witness the jungle collapse around them. Nagas turn to ash, their anguished cries lost in the crackling sound of flames devouring everything in their path. The once vibrant undergrowth shifts into a hellish landscape that, for the men with black boots, feels just like home now.
A sudden burst of air explodes from the flame-throwing turret as it swivels toward a particularly dense clump of foliage, where shadows had begun to stir ominously amongst the trees. The trigger clicks, and fire spews forth like a dragon’s breath. The passive, tonally flat roar is nonetheless deafening as fuel rushes into the weapon by the liter, the flames jetting outwards, igniting the gnarled undergrowth and the very essence of the jungle itself. Something unseen explodes in the foliage. Monster bodies fly in all directions, some covered in burning oil and sinking below the water that does nothing to extinguish them.
This isn’t even a battle. Not a single naga ever gets close to the boats, and not a single arrow gets pulled back further than a shoulder. The jungle is burning, the monsters are burning, and the water is burning.
— This is domination.
The spirit world had tried to force itself over the world of the living, but now the living have come to show the fruitful power of life — change and adaptation. The dead must always remain as they are — stagnant — and so must their realm. There is no escape from this, as the dead can only ever be as they are. But the living can still grow and alter their destiny. The dead man is buried in his boots, but the living one can lace them tight himself, grab his rifle, and kick down the door to get what he wants most from existence. The men with black boots want now what it is they have always wanted from the war that never ends. Finality. The change. It must stop once and for all for them to be and do something else. For as long as it rages, the war, — whether within the mortal or the spirit world — they are locked within its confines as prisoners. As long as war rages, there can never be anything but it, and as such, war is a concept of the dead and the stagnant, not of the living. The dead are meant to stagnate; it is the living who change, and, so, it is time that the war comes to an end as well, so that life may do as it is designed to.
— Proceed.
The vision of the obelisk is distorted through the haze. But it stands defiantly at the end of the river junction, a dark tower looming against the twisted jungle backdrop. If the world tree is their symbol and their monument, then this loveless stone spire is truly the altar of the spirit world. It is a thing from a forgotten age that bears no relevance anymore, apart from the damage it causes to those who would rather that it did not exist.
As the boats surge forward, the jungle bends and breaks beneath their assault. No mercy is granted to any monster; no hesitation impedes their advance as the flotilla cruises at a constant forward speed over the black, burning river as a singular force of nature. The flotilla crawls closer to the white stone obelisk, its stark appearance rising from the dark waters like an ominous finger pointing to the heavens. The nightmare-birthing structure stands resolute despite the smoke rising up to suffocate its peak, adorned with grotesque carvings and pulsating with an aura of malevolence that seems to hum and vibrate. But that’s something they intend to fix. The crew steers their boats with intent, their gazes fixed on the obelisk, while the 30mm cannon gleams menacingly in the lead vessel.
Water laps against the metal hulls.
With a deep breath, the gunner grips the cannon and readies the shot.
This is it. This is the last obelisk that command knows about. All the rest have been obliterated by special operations, by rockets, by artillery, and by the force of will of the living. This one is to be no different.
The jungle around them grows silent, a collective breath held as if the world itself pauses to witness the impending destruction. Tightening his grip around the cannon’s handle, the gunner’s heart races, a war drum within his chest as he locks his gaze on the target, the boat cruises into position, and he, staring at his enemy, pulls the trigger.
With a thunderous crack, the 30mm cannon roars to life from its short rest, reverberating through the air like the growl of an awakening predator. The first shell of many launches forth, tearing through the silence and slicing through the damp jungle air. In an instant, time stretches, and every eye locks onto the projectile as it speeds toward the obelisk, glinting in the filtered sunlight. Every eye watches it shimmer as it flies, and that fraction-of-a-second-long reflection carries back to each of them memories of what was stolen from them because of this war. Memories of lives now past, full of magic, love, adventure, and incredible mundaneness that is now deeply nostalgic. Memories of working as tired adventurers, earning a keep by diving into dungeons, and then retiring to loud, busy guilds and inns and nights. Memories of life on the farm, life in the city, and life anywhere in between with people and hopes that all varied as broadly as the days that had gone by. Magic still exists, of course. But the more metaphysical ‘magic’ of life that many had known as a given was snuffed out by the apocalypse, by the conflict, and had left only a dull-eyed shimmer in their eyes that reflects now off of their black boots alone, and now in this second in that one shell. Many have lost too much to ever return to such a place as that old world, even if it were to reappear tomorrow. Those who have survived until now are marked and taken in a sense, half-dead and half-alive; they are people who still change like the living ought to, despite being people who have died once already when their world ended and a new one began.
— But in that second, in that little microcosm of a moment, a hundred eyes see a hundred lives flashing by in the reflective coating of a single 30mm shell launched toward the distance, and they see themselves within it, flying in rage toward the taker, and the impact of their embodiment is made clear.
Imbued with so much spiritual energy, the explosion of the first shell of the barrage is cataclysmic. The shell detonates against the stone, a blast of raw power erupting in a fiery blossom of glory and destruction as the enchanted projectile bursts, followed by endless more as the cannoneer screams and holds down the trigger, bending the curved steel from the force of his grip as he presses it down against the metal, his gripped fist tightening as if strangling the neck of the very thing that took his old life from him. Shards of white stone fly outward like shrapnel, scattering into the air. Vibrations echo through the water, shaking the very core of the flotilla as the obelisk wavers as if it were itself screaming in agony — the defiant structure beginning to crumble beneath the force of its own dark enchantments as its foundation gives way to the barrage.
With a deep, resonant shudder, the massive obelisk tilts, signaling its impending collapse. The crew holds their breath, a collective wave of emotions surging through them. Then, in one grand motion, the obelisk crumbles, the massive stones fracturing and cascading into the water below with a thunderous roar. The impact sends a shock wave coursing through the black river, creating a monstrous wave that washes relentlessly outward, engulfing everything in its path. Water surges over the banks, frenzied and wild, lapping at the sides of the boats with ferocity as they rise up over the surface of the disturbed water.
And then, everything is quiet, apart from the idle humming of many engines and the crackling of burning jungle.
Without ever stopping or changing their constant forward pace, the boats simply idle forward, propelling deeper into the heart of the spirit world. The air is electric with the remnants of the explosion, yet tainted by the ashes that drift like snowflakes of a burnt memory. All weapons fall silent and are lowered. Emplacements are unmanned. The captain scans the shore and then turns around, walking back to his cabin without a word. The soldiers, setting down their guns, simply return to whatever they were doing before — playing cards, watching the water — as if nothing had ever happened.
Because now, for a moment, they get to pretend that nothing ever did.
As the flotilla pushes onward, the remaining nagas simmer in the burning wake of the crushed monument, the faint cries of those who once guarded the structure echoing in the depths of the jungle as the last boats slide over them as if they never were.
All of the men in black boots know that they can never really go back home to what was, but right now, they still can't help but feel like they're on the way there nonetheless.