Operation Isekai Liberation (OIL)

Full title is: Operation Isekai Liberation (OIL): Tales of the US intervention & nation building of a generic fantasy kingdom. As it turns out I can't actually fit all of it lmao.

Story synopsis: When Fortunate son goes Пыль глотаю. Direct sequel to St. Truck-kun be with us protags! So yes, it might help to read the previous one first though not strictly necessary, as this was originally a stand alone idea.

Edit: yes cover art is here:


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Peace was not to come for that unhappy land, for while the vile armies of the evil empire had scuttled back to their hideous domains, a much greater force of evil appeared. It was the bodies raised from another world that held the tide, yet it was also them who set forth the catastrophic chain of events that will destroy the world as they knew it…

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It was an unnecessary conflict, completely unavoidable too. All they had to do was to shrug it off, not trying their best, saying it was all a fever dream, made up nonsense. It would have been the easy way out… but the wrong way. They have a duty to the truth, to humanity, to do what’s right.

And through that duty lies pain and suffering. Glory and fame is for the history books, far enough from the bloody spectacle of the actions themselves.

 

Good news: There's now a cover art. Yes the Among Us crewmate in the cockpit is the artist's creative liberty.
Bad news: I'm about to go on a hiatus of sorts for the rest of the year due to RL reasons.
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Chapter 1: Murican’ adventuring party​

Bick was in rather mixed spirits when he pulled up at the parking lot of the otherwise nondescript office complex. There wasn’t even a physical guard at the gatehouse, the whole thing was automated. Badly automated, shit didn’t even work half the time, which then forced him to get out of the car and open the damn door manually. Luckily today was not one such day, and he managed to make it through with minimum problems.

Really sums up the whole place: cheap ass shit that’s always on the edge of falling apart. While he was no stranger to ‘government’, even ‘military’ grade equipment, it’s still annoying all the same.

However, none of that has anything to do with his mood today. Rather, it was being summoned to this location in the first place. If all goes as expected, it would be the end of this particular assignment. On the one hand, he was looking forward to that since the beginning when he was handed this joke of an assignment, of which he felt it being more fitting for a prank show than something real, an insult to his dignity and professionalism as an employee in the CIA. Or even just a government employee in general for that matter.

Yet on the other hand he was getting rather used to the assignment, it was skate as hell, and oversight was pretty much nonexistent. Even the per diem was awesome, heck, he was basically making bank off of that at times.

Of course there’s the whole helping those who have suffered a world of pain and suffering, yet all that felt petty and meaningless even in comparison to his mere personal issues. Perhaps it was the voice in the back of his mind telling him of the futility of it all. After all, in a way, all this has happened before, and all this will happen again.

He walked in the front entrance, swiped his CAC at the relevant terminal, and continued forth his meandering through the labyrinth of hallways to a certain conference room. His internal dialogue had not yet reached its conclusion when he walked in the last set of doors.

As far as conference rooms go, it was pretty mid, nothing really noticeable so far as the furnishings and décor are concerned. Most of the faces were also expected: the other agents assigned to the current assignment, his supervisor, some other randos who handle a lot of the behind the scenes stuff, and…

… and a marine corps major. The weird part isn’t that there’s an officer from one of the branches of the armed forces. Military liaison for operations such as these is par the course even if most of the time nothing further comes of those. However, usually it’s from one of the branches who aren’t broke as shit on the regular, like the army, airforce, navy, coast guard, whatever.

There’s always a first time for everything though. Especially stupid shit.

“Good to see everyone again,” Director Locke began the meeting as everyone settled into their seats, “Without further ado…”

The first part of the meeting went about as expected: a series of death by powerpoint as the analysts showed off all the compiled and aggregated data from his and other field agents’ hard work, and completely misinteripting and twisted them. Sweet comforting lies to the relevant higher ups who have already made up their minds.

After what felt like an eternity the senseless droning finally came to an end, and Locke dismissed them for the day… all but the major, him, and another agent, some scrawny looking Asian. As the last of the others exited the conference room and the door locked behind them the director got up from his chair and began speaking.

“All of you take me for a fool- no, not necessarily a fool. Just another out of touch fossil incapable of believing the impossible.” He nodded, more to himself, or perhaps mere theatrics. “Give the old man here some credit. I was around when men stared at goats and LSD was the way to unlock superpowers.” He shrugged. “And over the decades, well, we have found a few… unusual things. Come.” He gestured to the others as he shuffled towards the doors.

The rest of them looked at each other, shrugged, and got up to follow the seemingly senile director. Theatrics or no, all of them are keenly aware of the sheer amount of outright fantastical shit that the government kept under wraps, if for nothing else because the lie is more believable than the truth. All of them have taken part in some of those lies.

Meandering through yet another series of seemingly aimless hallways and staircases the little mismatched group gradually made their way deep underground. If anything, Bick was pretty sure that they’re not even in the building proper, as the impression he got from the parking lot was that while large, the building complex wasn’t that large.

At length, they finally reach a large set of shutters. Locke punched a series of numbers in a nearby pad, and the shutters slowly began to creak up, sounding as if remaining anyone around that somebody had been skipping maintenance.

“You know the drill, top secret and all that.” Locke said, almost as an afterthought. Everyone present has already been checked time and time again, a few endlessly repeated words weren’t going to change things one way or the other.

The sight revealed was… rather mid. It’s obvious that it’s a massive experimental something or another being conducted, but since it’s being done on a government budget rather than a Hollywood one, it shows: the computers strewn about being cheap HP or Dell from at least a decade ago, with the software to match, the bored agents who looked like 10lb bags of shit stuffed in 5lb bags, random power cables snaking all over the place haphazardly, the vending machine with its selection of energy drinks and sodas, probably out since he couldn’t possibly imagine any random civilian to be allowed in.

Then they saw it: The massive outworldly ring-like structure so different from everything around, its surfaces faintly glowing in the rather underlit lighting, a shimmering water like surface suspended within, faintly moving as if running on its own rules of physics.


“What the f- You telling me that Stargate is real?” Muller blurted out. Locke merely tilted his head slightly.

“No, the TV show is still fiction, and please don’t mention that again as we don’t have the copyright to that.” Locke replied with good humor. “Think more ancient aliens.”

“That’s basically the same thing.” Bick noted sardonically. Locke shrugged.

“Details, details.” He brushed off the quip. “You know, this used to be under the possession of Saddam Hussein, or rather, son of Nebuchadnezzar.”

“Wait, we seriously went to war for that?” Bick asked in disbelief, putting two and two together… and not getting four. Things are only making less sense as more is revealed.

“Yes, and it was worth the effort.” Locke said, with a simplicity that dissuaded further discussion on that front. “Certainly came in handy, given the recent turn of events.”

“How-” Muller began to ask, but then thought better of it as he caught himself. There’s no point in asking for the nitty gritty details. It’s not really important or relevant. If necessary the relevant files will be accessible in due time, only limited by the byzantine snail’s pace of the S-shops.

“So that means…” The Asian spoke up for the first time. Locke nodded, a rather unsettling sight.

“Yes Koi, it’s time to return the favor.” the director replied with a determined and sinister grin. “That’s what-” He pointed at the two agents, “-you two are for.”

It finally dawned on Bick that, far from being over, the assignment has just entered a new phase. “Why us?” He asked. Another shrug from Locke.

“Because someone at least took their job seriously, even in the face of nonsense and absurdity.” He simply said, weariness seeping into his voice for the first time. “Maybe this is all nonsense, and that we’re all fools.” He paused, more to catch his breath than for any dramatic effect. “If so, then might as well embrace that.”

Those words unsettled everyone else, even Muller. Locke might have gone senile, but that’s precisely the problem: someone in power going senile, whose decisions will affect everyone else but himself.

------​

As it turns out, embracing that meant that the two hapless agents gearing up and going to the other side of the portal themselves, although gearing up was overstating it a bit. For something as monumental as literally crossing into another world, the gear provided was… rather mid: A small mountain of military surplus equipment and weapons sat in the back of a large pickup truck. The gear smell faintly of warehouses and bad maintenance, and the still remaining stickers on the truck a testimony of the amount of times the bank has repossessed it from its previous, presumably financially illiterate and overall not all that there, owners. The damn license plates are still from North Carolina.

“Well fuck me, I thought I would never have to wear this shit again.” Bick muttered as he strapped on the coyote brown body armor vest to get the fit. Koi merely nodded in acknowledgement as he did a functions check on a M4A1 rifle. It has been a week since the revelation of Saddam's alien portal and during much of that time they had been prepping for the upcoming mission.

The guy barely uttered a handful of words the entire time. Not that weird though, he met plenty of Asians before, and they tend to be the quiet ones, at least initially. It takes some time for them to open up, and after that it’s uncharted territory like any other people.

"Hmm… there isn't much in the way of clothing to fit in with the natives." Bick idlily remarked as he took off the body armor and checked out some of the rest of the gear.

"They saw people like us already." Koi finally spoke, in a flat tone of stating the obvious. Bick let out a snort in acknowledgment. Guy's right. It's so easy to forget the original purpose for the entire operation, despite them cleaning up a lot of the consequences that managed to seep back here to earth. So compartmentalized are their jobs that it's easy to lose sight of the bigger picture.

The silence soon reasserted itself as the two agents continued their PMCS, and after a long ass enough time, they finally got it done, and the two crawled into the truck.

“Here goes nothing.” Bick muttered as he started the vehicle, and slowly drove forward, into the shimmering moving surface. Despite plenty of reassurances from the scientists that there’s nothing to be worried about, that there were already a number of probes and drones that made the journey, he still closed his eyes as the vehicle met the surface.

And suddenly, then they’re there. In another world. The dimly lit cavern was replaced in an instant with the bright sunlight of the outside, the humdrum of machinery and computers replaced with the chirping and buzzing of birds and insects… and the smells of industrial civilization replaced with the stench of unfiltered nature.

“Cheerful looking place.” Bick observed after opening his eyes and looked around. Koi merely shrugged.

“More like post-apocalyptic.” He stated, seemingly out of the blue. Bick looked at him in confusion.

“Excuse me but what the fuck?” He asked. Koi simply shrugged again.

“North America, post Columbian exchange, spread of smallpox amongst native civilizations. End of the Mississippi mound builders. Nature retaking previously cultivated land giving illusion to always untamed wilderness.” He stated. The words and sentences coming out rather disjointed, even before his heavy accent making things even less comprehensible.

“And you see evidence of that here?” Bick continued the train of conversation. Feeling weirded out, not just that apparently Koi could tell such subtle signs, but also that something of this magnitude wasn’t even brought up in the previous discussions.

“No.” Koi admitted in a flat voice without a sign of defense. “But how else? Native civilization here has been around for long time, therefore vast tracts of untamed wilderness is out of place.”

‘Whoa whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Bick countered, finally seeing some major flaw in Koi’s train of logic. “It’s a whole new world out here, and we haven’t gone anywhere yet.” With that he gunned the engine, and the truck rumbled forward, its lifted and reinforced suspension and excessively large wheels easily crushing the seemingly endless underbrush, finally doing what the original owner who shelled out the tens of thousands of bucks on it intended but probably never did.

Of course, neither of them were particularly vindicated, for although they traveled for hours through seemingly untouched forests, the same lack of infrastructure of any kind also meant that their progress was rather less than anticipated.

Eventually, after finally realizing that they weren’t getting anywhere, a drone was sent up, and a footpath of sorts was quickly found. Somehow, it didn’t occur to either of them to use that first. By the time they actually got to the trail it was nearing sundown, and the two agents quickly made camp.

The night went by without incident, although the sounds of nature, of a world of a thousand slight differences meant both men slept fitfully.

……​

A gorgeous dawn upon a cloudless sky greeted the CIA adventuring party, and the two men dragged themselves out of their sleeping systems. As they chased the cobwebs of weariness away with instant coffee and energy drinks they packed up their little camp, leaving little trace behind only due to their prior training. After tha, it was back to the truck and hit the road.

Progress on the trail, and that’s stretching the definition of a trail, was not that much better. The little ribbon of mud, who had only felt the weight of feet of men and draft beasts, simply disintegrated under the weight of the truck, and for most of it the rubber wheels were biting deeply into the grass and underbrush.

But as all good things came to an end, the forests weren’t endless, and after a number of hours they broke out from the trees, to seemingly endless meadows. A drone was sent up again, and a village was rapidly found. Not that far either, as befitting a land without much in the way of advanced infrastructure.

“A good place as any.” Bick remarked as drove the truck while skimming the videofeed, meanwhile Koi stared at the images with furrowed eyebrows, as if in deep analysis.

“It doesn’t look all that safe.” He finally said after a while.

“Why?” Bick asked. Not that he had any intentions to change their course, it wasn’t as if they’re flushed with options. “It’s probably a dirt poor farming community without modern conveniences such as wifi and McDonalds.”

“Not that.” Koi replied evenly, the humor seemingly flew right over his head. “Place’s a death trap. One fire and the whole place will be lit ablaze, and the building layout will funnel its inhabitants straight to their death in a concentrated format.”

“Um, thank you for that shockingly dark update.” Bick said, not really sure how to process that analysis. “Well, we don’t really have a choice in the matter.” He reiterated the finality of the decision.

“Acknowledged.” Koi nodded, seemingly at peace with the decision, dangers be damned. Then again, so far the supposed chances of danger and death were mostly in the abstract… but that’s every mission before things start to go wrong.

As the saying goes, all young men are immortal, until they aren’t.

……​

If anything, the drone footage vastly understated just how terrible the conditions are in the village, for while the fields and forests all around were filled with the bounties of life and prosperity, only poverty and suffering was to be found as they near the settlement itself. Everywhere they looked they saw sunken eyes and listless bodies. The air filled with the stench of despair along with regular filth. Bick swore that even the skies themselves darkened, though when he looked up there was nary a cloud to be seen.

There were only two spots that were the exception: the large and ostentatious manor house, of presumably the local lord, and a large platform in the middle of the town square. As they dismounted their vehicle and walked towards it, the purpose of the structure became abundantly clear, with the numerous collared humans in chains.

“Slave market.” Koi remarked, as he racked back his M4. Bick shrugged.

“Figures.” He muttered, not terribly surprised. His weeb friends had long complained about the overused cliche of slavery in isekai fics, and his studies of undeveloped countries often tells of similar undesirable aspects of human nature. However, the difference is that the latter makes some sort of twisted sense, at least according to the economists. The sight in front of them, does not. If anything, it makes the opposite of sense.

Who even have money to buy slaves around these parts? Certainly not the sea of poverty they have so far witnessed.

As the two walked up to the slave market, a richly dressed fat bastard waddled up towards them, a couple of presumably his personal slaves in tow. He was the first person to do that, for everyone else up to that point had done their best to avoid any and all aspects of them, from their gaze to the ground in front of their path. That they don’t recognize the details was irrelevant: heavily armed and dressed strangers are never good news, be they friend or foe. Especially the supposed friends.

Not this slaver, no, not him.

“Greetings strange travelers.” He greeted the two with a smug grin. “Can I entice you adventurers to sample some of the wares?” the aura of smugness increased, if that was even possible.

Out of the corner of his eye Bick saw Koi was about to lift up his rifle, and he quickly gestured to his colleague to stand down. As satisfying as it would be to dispense American justice right then and there, it’s not their job to do so. The mission comes first, and if they succeed, then plenty of others will do that.

But they have to succeed first, and that means not going on murder hobo rampages.

“Of course.” Bick replied through gritted teeth, forcing even a strained smile on his face.

“In fact, we’re interested in making some purchases.” Koi spoke up, the words leaving his mouth as strained as those of Bick’s. He might have gotten the memo, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Oh, is that so?” The slaver chuckled. “Well, you’re in luck, for the wares are bountiful this time of the year. You know how things are, these shiftless bums-” he waved a hand at the village around them, “-they’ll do anything to pay or avoid their taxes. Selling their firstborns even.”

“I see.” Bick said, really resisting the urge to also make a condition 1 with his rifle like Koi did earlier. It’s almost as if the slaver’s intentionally trying to rile them up, even though he knew that on an intellectual level that it’s probably just how they talk.

“How much?” Koi asked, getting down to business, trying to quicken the ordeal as quickly as possible.

“Oh, not even a sampling first?” the slaver asked. Both agents shook their heads.

“We’re kinda in a hurry.” Bick said smoothly. It’s not even necessarily a lie either.

“In that case it’s going to be, shall I say, a bit pricey.” The grin on the slaver widened.

“Fine.” Koi said as he took out a heavily laden bag, before throwing it towards the slaver, who promptly caught it in midair. As he opened it his eyes widened, matching his disgusting grin.

“Ah, just the right amount.” He said as he threw a ring of keys, which Koi caught in midair as well. As he looked at Bick the latter nodded, and he began making his way towards the slave cages.

……​

“May I have your attention please.” Bick said to the crowd of emasculated individuals before him, they all immediately dropped the MREs they were gorging on and focused on him. A most unnerving sight, even more unnerving than the sight of them tearing into the spinach fettuccine MRE.

It was late in the afternoon, and the two agents as well as their latest acquisitions were in a clearing in the forest a few clicks away from the village, just far enough to be away from any potential prying eyes and ears.

“Now I tell you this, you are free, as our laws and morals forbid slavery. However, we would really appreciate it if any of you could assist us with the lay of the land.” Bick continued. It wasn’t his greatest speech by any means, but that’s not important. The important part has already been accomplished.

“For what reason?” A thin woman asked, who normally looked as if she was on the verge of death at any moment. However there was a fire in her eyes, and neither Bick nor Koi has any idea as to the source of those metaphorical flames.

“I see that you have some deep emotions residing within you, if you wouldn’t mind, could you tell us?” Bick asked, fishing for more information before revealing his hand, or if necessary, make some lie on the spot.

“My husband fought and died in a meaningless war, for a cause he did not understand, loyal to those who betrayed him, and my in-laws sold me to pay for their debts.” She said in a monotone voice, of a rage that burned for so long that it seared into her very essences.

Bick nodded, the little spiel from her just made the mission that much easier.

“Then you are in good luck, and in good company.” He replied, before turning to the rest of the crowd. “For we are the agents of justice, and the vanguard of a great force of liberation. I promise on my very life that none of you shall ever be enslaved again.” Out of his peripheral vision he saw Koi roll his eyes, and privately he agreed. It’s the most cringey thing he said outside of discord. It just felt appropriate though.

To the surprise of both of them the crowd of freed slaves gave a cheer. A really ragged one, but sincere nevertheless.

He looked at the time on his phone, they were really ahead of schedule, and if what they saw so far was any indication, so will the actual operation to follow…

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Author's note: Saddam's stargate was an actual thing... not a real thing, but more than just something I made up (because it's shit that other people made up lmao).

 

Chapter 2.1: Touch grass ribbon get!
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Here we go again. Lcpl Grey thought to himself as he and the rest of the platoon fumbled their way out of the back of the armadillo 7 ton truck, clambering over their main packs and other randomass gear that they had somehow cramped into the truck along with themselves. It has been hours since their last stop, having to endure another seemingly endless rough and bumpy ride over nonexistent dirt tracks, heading off to who knows where. Technically where they're heading to, and what they'll be doing, all had been told to them through a mountain of briefs and announcements prior, but as always it's in one ear and out the other. About the only thing he remembered is that they're liberating some 3rd world country that's been doing some fucked up shit and that they are absolutely going to get at least a couple of ribbons out of this deployment.

Not sure if it's worth the effort though. He thought to himself as he stepped off the last rung of the ladder and yet still hit the ground hard. A string of foul language exiting his mouth as he stumbled a few steps to give space for the guy behind him to do the same. So far this supposed deployment felt more like an over glorified FEX. Heck, he didn't even recall ever boarding onto a plane or ship, just into the trucks and off they went.

There's no way that they're driving their way into a 3rd world country right? That's like, more than 20 miles, which is like all the distances before something goes wrong.

And yet they have been going at it for days, and of course things have gone wrong. Many things in fact, which is part of the reason they're even making a stop in what appeared to be another unremarkable clearing in the seemingly endless forests.

"Alright, let's get this over with." Sgt Kingston, the platoon sergeant half mumbled and half slurred the words in exhaustion as the platoon shuffled into what passes for a formation. The light outside implies its morning but his internal clock is all but screaming midnight. "Rifles, RCOs, PECs…" he carried on with the check, receiving a chorus of confirmation in return as the marines held out the various pieces of gear to show that they actually have them.

No one bat an eye when a string of loud angry curses emanated from one of the neighboring platoons as someone there had apparently lost something or another. That has been happening quite a bit even before they stepped off from base, and only seemed to have increased in frequency since then. So still pretty much par the course for a FEX. A few groans came out though, as many already anticipate what's to come: A police call of the surrounding area, as futile and pointless such an activity is. Either that stuff's just misplaced somewhere among their main packs and other packings, or lost miles back.

However they do have the time, because the convoy of trucks, Humvees, ATV's, and even the odd JLTV has made the stop more for necessity than anything else, for the engine hunger endlessly for the sweet, sweet nectar of JP-8. And while the vehicles await for their feeding the marines they carry need to be kept busy, for idle hands are the devil's workshop, the ones from jarhead especially so.

Thus Lcpl Gray and the rest of the platoon soon found themselves shuffling amongst the trees, their glazed out eyes not really looking at the ground in front of them as they waste the time right back at command- a pointless and unnoticeable gesture, but one made on the regular nevertheless.

Thus when an arrow whistled past them it took the platoon by surprise. However after the initial moment of being caught off guard the troops quickly snapped into action as long dormant skills were put to use. Magazines quickly inserted, charging handles racked, selectors clicked, and soon short bursts of fire spewed forth from the barrels of over a dozen M4 and M16A4 rifles as they snapped off rounds at what appeared to be sinister shadows among the trees all around.

Round after round they sent forth until they clicked upon empty chambers, as they changed mags the sgt finally gave the order to cease fire, and recollect his platoon from their frenzy of action. At his signal they patrolled forth, eyes much more alert for a very different police call of sorts.

After a handful of minutes that at the time seemed to have lasted far longer they finally stumbled upon them: a group of corpses, so fresh that the blood was still oozing from the various bullet wounds. A few among the platoon quickly took out their personal smartphones and began taking pictures, some of which would carry grave repercussions for them down the line. For the moment though, the undercurrent was one of accomplishment: guys who went on deployments flexed over those who didn't, and ditto with those who saw action over their less lucky counterparts. The fact that the bodies seem to be particularly malnourished and emaciated was not noticed by most…

"Wonder what they are, what they're thinking really?" Lcpl Gray asked, to no one in particular, dancing around the real questions he wanted to ask but simultaneously afraid to know the answers to. Sgt Kingston nodded, almost immediately picking up some of the subtext.

"Probably bandits, or something like that." Sgt Kingston replied, partly to assure everyone the righteousness of their actions, and partly to save his own hide if it comes down to it, but mostly to sooth his own conscience. For all the bravado and bragging of committing war crimes, none of them have actually done that, or really wanted to if given the opportunity to do so. It’s one thing to joke about buttstroking orphans, quite another to do something of that nature in the flesh…

… and they might just have done that. Sure, they are fully in the right to fire back, being shot at first and all, but all those technicalities and legalities feel hollow to the conscience of the heart. The collections of skin and bones barely worthy to be dignified as bodies, the rags they wore, the other brokens pieces of trash and pieces that might have been the entirety of their worldly possessions… he shook his head to clear those pointless speculations.

“Yep, definitely bandits.” He repeated, before turning back to the platoon again, most of them were still gaffing off and technically committing what the media would consider war crimes. “Alright guys, get your shit together, and remember to hydrate. There might be more of them scumbags out there.”

The last bit quickly sobered everyone up, and in a handful of seconds the platoon returned to their task at hand. Belatedly Sgt Kingston realized that the rush of combat and the idle musing after he had forgotten to report in this turn of events. He quickly pressed the PTT mollied at his flak…

……​

“... 6 hostiles neutralized. 12 mags expended. No casualties. Fireteams will continue to seek and destroy hostiles. Over.” The voice of Sgt Kingston cracked over the radio.

“Acknowledged Funko 1. You may proceed. Over and out.” SSgt Juan replied as he tapped on his own PTT. He, and the rest of the leadership of the company were standing outside of the lead JLTV, trying to unfuck at least the most critical of the seemingly endless issues that need dire attention right at that moment in time, and the flow of information was only increasing, threatening to overwhelm them where the enemy’s physical weapons had failed to do so.

“That’s the third platoon that’s come into contact with hostiles.” 1st Lt. Cameron quipped, looking up from the tablet he’s using, worry lined his aged face despite his actual age. “How many more have we simply driven past for the last couple of days then?” He asked out loud to no one in particular, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. If there is one.

“Unknown, but if I were to guess, a shit load.” Gunny Haddox said bluntly, with grimness in his voice. “We better give 4th Co and COC the heads up.” He noted as he turned around, looking for a comms guy to get the warning out.

“Please do.” Lt. Cameron said half absentmindedly as his attention by then had gravitated towards something else. “What the flying fuck-”

From a distance of around 100 yards and trotting towards them at a stately pace was a group of mounted knights, as if straight out of one of them old picture books, of what people imagined what those medieval warriors were idealized. Majestic steeds, flurrying banners, plate armor of the Greenwich style… not that any of the marines would know the specifics of that last bit. It’s fancy shit so far as they’re concerned. The clattering of their horses only became audible in those handful of moments over the sound of the idling engines of the vehicles… and apparently none of the perimeter guards have stopped them so far. The last part being less of a surprise than it should have been. After all, they are the 6th MLG, aka POG central, the only gun most of them touch on the regular being the one between their legs.

Fancy shit, and really out of place. It’s one thing to listen to some junior enlisted from S-2 regurgitating shit from some CIA spook that none of them really understood or cared, quite another to see the nonsense in the flesh. It finally dawned on them the significance of what it means to be in another world.

Ssgt Juan was the first to react, as he turned and slowly walked towards the group of knights, holding his M4 rifle up at the ready stance. “Halt!” He barked, with the smoothness of someone who has done that plenty of times, both in practice and actual experience.

However, those were not some civilians in some random 3rd world country being stopped at a checkpoint, and as if in reaction to the Ssgt’s order though in hindsight more due to the closing distance, the knights lowered their lances and the trot of their horses quickly rose to that of a roaring gallop. Shouts of ‘death to the demon hellspawn!’ were heard, oddly in understandable English despite the weird accents, making their intentions rather clear to their opponents.

The reaction from the marines was immediate: The bark of 5.56mm and 9mm rounds from the M4 rifles and M18 pistols, quickly followed the buzzing of 7.62mm and 12.7mm from the machineguns, and finally joining in the fray the thuds of the 40 mike mikes of the Mk.19 grenade launchers. The group of knights promptly disappeared in a maelstrom of fire and smoke, almost as if they were smite by the forces of demons…

After the orgy of fire that in all likelihood lasted no more than a handful of seconds the firing stopped almost, with the various weapons dropping out one after another as the cease fire order was finally heard over the din of the weapons, though in a few cases the gunners were physically tapped on the shoulders to get them to stop. The smoke quickly cleared to reveal a grisly sight: for on top of the now blackened dirt lies little that could be identified as man or beast. Rather, chunks of flesh and metal were strewn about, all heavily scorched and marred. The stench of burned flesh and gore slowly made their way even over the smell of smokeless powder that still hung in the air. Barring the rumbling of the idling engines of the vehicles nary a sound could be heard, not from the people, or their guns. Not even from the wild beasts of the forest, who had since long fled the scene. Not even the buzzards, not even a crow in the skies. It was as if the world was stunned at what had just transpired.

The moment was only broken as a couple fireteams of marines gingerly moved forward towards the spot where the knights had been, pointing their rifles as if expecting some sort of devious licks or magic tricks to suddenly pop out, the notional triggers of training scenarios still weighing heavily as they fall back on the familiar in the face of the unknown and uncertain reality. After a few long moments and no signs of potential ambushes or booby traps they relaxed their posture, and began rummaging through what bits and pieces were lying about, pocketing just about anything and everything. Lt Cameron was about to put a stop to the blatant looting, but noticed that the SNCOs didn’t even bat an eye, and thus decided to let it slide for the time being.

They’ll have plenty of time to deal with that shit, time that they only have because of supply fuckups forcing all these unplanned stops…

Which reminds him that he still has a shit ton of paperwork to deal with. With a sigh he took out his tablet again, trying to make a dent into all that trash, hoping that at least the other units are having a smoother time…

 

Chapter 2.2: When the grass touches back…
​

“Jesus christ…” Cpl Gearing muttered in horror as he watched the masses of half melted people stumbling towards him and the rest of the personnel decontamination line, thankful for the fact that his words had been drowned out by the screams of the damned. Turning back to the decon team he began to bark out orders. “Alright guys, it’s game time. We got casualties to clean!”

After a moment of freezing, the decon team leaped into action, barking out simple and clear instructions towards the shocked and probably not at all there victims, after all, chem attacks aren’t exactly known for being painless, and those injuries certainly have the hallmarks of chemical burns. The silent screams of some of the more wounded also seem to point towards that direction.

Just like the- No, not like the prac apps. No amount of scenarios and make believe back in the rear could steel these 5711s of the horrors of reality: the pleads for relief, the cries for help, the raw screams of pain. All the while time itself seemed to go into turbo mode, as if to mock their pitiful preparations and now seemingly useless thoughts of contingencies.

The JCADs and other detectors were quickly put aside as nothing popped despite the clear visual and audio signs in front of them, and those originally tasked with scanning for contaminants were quickly shuffled with their rest of the cleaning personnel as the line quickly became overwhelmed by hundreds of the wounded and the soon to be walking dead. GPD, RSDL, M100, .5% bleach in water solution, all were quickly thrown, sprayed, and rubbed onto the melting flesh and metal of men and gear. In the span of a handful of minutes, hours of set up, months of preparations, and years of training were put to the test. All the while the screams of the wounded and dying continued unabated, them suffering pains that cut through even the hardest of wills and most ironclad of discipline.

As the minutes wore on the human noises began to subside, many from the relief of those who passed through the line into the capable hands of the corpsmen and navy medical, but a rather disturbing number from the simple expiration of those who waited until their bodies failed for the last time. Beneath the seemingly calm and cold efficiency runs an undercurrent of shock.

They weren't even supposed to be there in the first place. Not for the intentions of their primary MOS anyways. While the CIA and the S-2 bubbas might mumble about some unsubstantiated rumors of unknown and incomprehensible horrors not meant to be witnessed by mere mortals, the reality is that they couldn’t be really necessary. Production and deployment of NBC weapons simply isn’t viable on any meaningful scale by pre industrial civilizations, for a number of obvious and less so reasons. Yet somehow, not only they got swept along for the ride, but also their entire DRSKO and other necessary equipment. Rumor has it the real reason was because the whole thing is funded by funding pilfered from money originally earmarked for CBRN prep for Europe before the CIA diverted, and they’re tacked on for appearance purposes…

All of which suddenly became something of the utmost of importance when scattered reports came in of hostile slimes like things. Reports that soon became a flood of panicked babble over the comms as numerous groups all began to succumb to the newly contacted threat. Just in time too, as the moment they finished setting up their decon lines was when the first of the wounded stumbled out of the forests into the clearing.

It was somewhat expected, as like everything else most of the training and confidence tests were more notional, if they were even done outside of the signed paperwork.

The personnel deck was still in full swing when the tidal wave of slime began oozing out of the depths of the forest…

......​

"What the fuck is that shit?!" Lcpl Randoff shouted as he pointed off in the distance, the vantage point on the bed of the 7 ton he's on in between the M26 power washer and other seemingly random equipment piled on it, a hose snaking from the M26 down to a water buffalo hitched to the truck. A very much jerry rigged imitation of a firetruck, but at least it’s nominally mobile, though mobile for what purpose was never answered nor even asked by anyone.

“Alright everyone, get the lines away from the contamination. Start moving!” Cpl Gilbert barked out the orders nearby as he began uprooting engineering stakes that were used to mark the decon lines. Theory promptly crashed into reality the decon line fell into chaos, for while relocating decon lines might have been heavily rehearsed and practiced, usually in anticipation of changes in wind and other factors, rarely was the factor of all the casualties considered.

Of course, upon seeing the same horror at the very monstrosities that so mauled them already, and at what apparently being the panicked actions of the very subject matter experts, many of the still walking wounded became less than helpful. A few attempted to stagger away, trying to find their rifles that were being cleaned elsewhere despite having already seen the ineffectiveness of them. Many simply sat down on the grass, the bits of despair normally in the back of their minds being temporarily amplified by shock and exhaustion.

“Fuck it, why the fuck not?” Lcpl (3rd award) Stuart muttered as he pointed the hose of his backpack sprayer towards the encroaching wave of slime even as those around him were going the other direction, and started pumping out the GPD solution. His eyes gone glassy as the last fuck he had left to give has gone a long time ago. Not too surprisingly, the GPD solution begins to dissolve the slime as soon as it comes into contact. The surprising thing though, was that the slime continued, as if it’s a force of nature itself rather than any thinking creature.

For that mistake cost him his life, as through the GPD the slime surged forth, and soon swallowed up the hapless Lcpl, his last screams slowly sputtered out as his flesh, organs, and bones literally burned and melted as the slime enveloped him wholesale. For all that, he brought the others perhaps a handful of seconds.

The important thing, however, was the knowledge that they do have something that could counter those… things. Quickly, some of the rest of the decon personnel turned their hoses, pumping as fast as they could. The thin streams of solution are akin to pebbles in the river for all the good they’re doing.

But the additional handful of seconds were brought with that, enough for the jerry rigged fire truck to close in the distance, pumping out an order of magnitude more solution than the backpack sprayers.

It was a surreal sight, as if straight out of a fever dream or t-shirt design: nerdy POGs in their full body suits fighting the visual manifestation of their normally invisible threats. The moment soon passed, and as the last of the solution existed the water buffalo (that wont be used for its natural purpose for quite some time) those who remained were forced to withdraw. Still, a withdrawal in relatively good order, with the knowledge that a countermeasure is on hand.

Still an L in the books though.

------​

"CASREP?" Capt Austin asked wearily, his voice making it clear he really does not want to hear the facts, but knew that he had too. For while he cannot save the already dead and gone, his decision might prevent more from following the already departed. Regardless, his career in the corps is at an end, for the corps do not suffer fools, or even the merely unlucky. Yet imminent doom is not an excuse to flinch away from his current duties, of what he needs to do.

"8 dead, 11 critically injured, 25 lightly injured." Gysgt Blaine ratted out the numbers, his voice betraying the barest hint of emotions.

In theory, doctrine states that 30% survival rate is within acceptable parameters to continue the mission, and their casualties were at a few percent, if even that. There were training accidents with higher body counts. However, the reality of the matter is that most were not experienced with loss and setback, notional experiences in training exercises being far from sufficient to steel one’s mind for the blood encrusted reality.

"At least the hostile has been neutralized." Austin sighed as he tilted his head back, seeking a refuge within his mind from all the hundreds of things that needed to get done since yesterday. If only for a moment…

It was at that moment he noticed the rather large winged reptilian creature lazily circling the sky, its spector framed against the setting sun, whatever sounds it's making all but being drowned out by the roars of engines of the vehicles and chatter of marines down below. Before he could alert anyone else though, a stream of tracer fire flew upwards into the sky and the distinct sounds of at least a couple of 50 cal cracked over the rumbles of the idling engines. Hundreds of man hours of S-shop paperwork also flashed through the captain’s head as he watched a few of the tracers slammed into the creature, causing it to make a rather unscheduled crash landing nearby one of the 7 tons, by a miracle only crashing on a number of mainpacks who’s owners had quickly vacated the premise moments ago, burying them under its carcass and ruining them beyond ever being accepted back by CIF again. A great shout rose among the crowd, who had apparently formed up a while beforehand.

They saw, they knew, and they knew better than to notify their chain of command to wait for the prim and proper way of handling things. He couldn’t really blame them. After all, he would have done the exact same thing when he was a butterbar all those years ago.

“Looks like tonight’s chow’s gonna be local.” Blaine quipped sarcastically as he turned around and made his way towards the scene, which was already crowded with people, phones out taking pictures, taking bits and pieces from the carcass. “Hey! Get the fuck back, and stop touching that shit, who knows what the fucks’s in that mess.” He barked out commands, reigning in the situation from spiraling into chaos. “And someone grab some docs and gas monkeys to clean up this mess.” He added, pointing at a nearby hapless junior enlisted, now entrusted to round up the necessary personnel for the coming working party.

As the commotion sorted itself out Austin returned his attention back to the admin work at hand, a weary and humorless grin appeared on his face as he jotted down how the event will be reported in the AAR and storyboards. Finally, someone actually slew a dragon like those cheesy commercials back in the 90s, and it’s everything they could have asked for, at least for the moment.

But the ads never mentioned the stench of death…

 

Chapter 2.3: The last of the losers
​

“This should be easy enough.” Gysgt Haddox muttered grimly as he surveyed the view through the RCO of his M4 rifle. The little command group has parked their JLTV at the top of a small mound, behind them the no longer so dense forests, in front of them vast fields of amber grains…

… and a few blocks of old-timey pike wielding infantry, the banners of the country and lord they serve under fluttering in the wind, banners of gods who have long forsaken them, and then there’s the oddly out of place banners bearing the image of the front of a Suzuki truck. The last obstacle between them and their final objective… and the goal of one of their side objectives.

“Just like a table 5 shoot…” 1st Lt. Cameron agreed without conviction as he put down the pair of binoculars. “... actually, more like conducting a mass execution,” he muttered under his breath.

It wasn’t the physical part of the upcoming battle he’s worried about, as by this point almost everybody in the company, and the entire battalion for that matter, has fired their weapons in anger. What they had shot at was rather varied, as were the targets of their sometimes less than reputable activities. After a few unfortunate incidents in the beginning higher ups have rerouted them far away from any settlement of note, never mind that one of their main goals is to make their presence known and it doubles their estimated travel times.

As to who to handle all those and when are questions not answered, and way beyond their pay grade to even think about.

“Wait a fucking minute.” Ssgt Juan interjected. “Weren’t all those, um, penal- isekai battalions disbanded when they were sold out to the slavers of the evil empire? According to the spooks anyways.” He hastily added the last part as long forgotten briefing information suddenly resurfaced.

“So the intel missed a spot, shocking I know.” Haddox replied absentmindedly. “Well that does complicate matters a bit.” Not the upcoming battle, which will inevitably end in an orgy of automatic weapon fire- like all the skirmishes so far. The centuries gap in technology allows no other outcome, even before factoring in the oddly convenient incompetency of the hostiles…

The problem is what comes after. The incidents of looting for souvenirs, the taking of pictures and videos for keepsake, and after a while; the setting in of the realization of what they have done, and the cocktail of emotions arising from that.

It’s not that they are particularly worse in terms of discipline and morals compared to generations past. Heck, plenty of hoodrat shit was done by a lot of bubbas in both Iraq and Afghanistan over the decades the US has mucked around those unhappy countries. But that was basically a lifetime ago, as far as the difference that the proliferation of social media has brought upon. For while most of the folks back home so far seemed far too easily accepting the fact that their country has decided to go off on yet another foreign adventure in some place that they can’t point out on a map or pronounce the name of, tolerance for the more gritty aspects of war or even the seedier aspects of military culture is at an all time low.

“Maybe not.” Cameron said softly, as if coming to a conclusion to another conversation entirely. The SNCOs looked at him.

“Sir?” Juan asked, though also discreetly trying to guide the discussion back on topic if need be.

“Maybe they can be persuaded to lay down their arms.” Cameron explained. “Surrender.” He paused a moment, to give the others time to let the words of the seemingly nonsensical idea sink in. “We can offer them a ride home, although we’re supposed to do that anyway.” It was actually a surprisingly necessary reminder, as the supposed ‘missing dead persons’ had slipped from their collective consciousness almost as soon as they had stepped off all those weeks ago.

“Will they take the offer though?” Juan asked, narrowing his eyes in skepticism. “Our briefings mentioned that these, um, sh- shit- shtra- penal battalions being some of the most fanatical units in the known worlds, ones that makes even suicide bombers look self preserving in comparsion.”

“Ssgt got a point.” Haddox admitted through gritted teeth, looking not too happy on agreeing with anything intel has given them, especially something that he was already predisposed to believe. “A lot of these folks might be broken beyond saving. The ones the CIA picked up back at Earth were literally punted back by malevolent forces unknown, and a lot of them still needed a lot of mental healthcare to be deprogrammed.”

“Still worth a shot though,” Cameron said, making his decision even in the face of evidence of its likely failure. He then lowered his voice, almost as if trying to convince himself. “For them, and for us…” That latter alluded to hangs in the air as everyone’s minds flinched away from, the hardening of their hearts and souls, something which they despised every step of the process.

Both Haddox and Juan nodded curtly in acknowledgement. The time for discussion has come to an end, and the time for action has begun.

……​

To the mild surprise of everyone in the JLTV besides the Cpl driving, who don’t know any better, their singular presence forward under a flag of truce (hastily created with a tarp and a lot of white engineering tape scrounged somewhere best left unanswered) was not met with even scattered undisciplined enemy gunfire, or even much of any response. The only sound being the engine of the vehicle, drowning out the fluttering of the banners, and whatever other random noises still remained. More surprising still was a group from the enemy who stumbled forward, and yes, stumbled. For it was a group of emaciated skeleton-like human creatures carrying a massive ornate chair, on top of which sat a thing that’s less of a human and more of a melted stick of lard wrapped in extravagant robes of a priesthood, like the kind of religion that drives people mad enough to nail thesis onto doors of churches.

It really reminded the marines of that one scene in the movie 300, though none of them in the JLTV looked anywhere close to the Spartans in the movie in terms of physique.

The JLTV rolled to a stop, and even as the marines were exiting the vehicle the obese priest was already screeching at them in a high pitched nasal voice, that the force of righteousness will smite the demons and their unholy constructs.

The delusional rambling continued unabated for what seemed like hours but probably no more than a handful of minutes before the sudden bark of a pistol interrupted the scene.

“What the fuck?!” Cameron shouted, looking around for the source of the shot even before the heap of lard slid onto the ground with a dull thud, before realizing that it was Haddox who fired.

“Sir.” The gunny said as he reholsted his pistol. “We'll never get anywhere with that stubborn fool yapping away.”

“Point taken.” Cameron sighed, knowing that Haddox is probably right about that, before turning back to the opposing party, who had by that point finally set the now empty chair down. “I am First Lieutenant Cameron of the United States Marine Corps Sixth Marine Logistic Group.”

“Richer Fisher. Forsaken by gods and men. Atoning for the sins known only to Truck-Kun.” One of the men in the group replied.

“We are here to rescue you. Lay down your arms, and we will soon reunite you with your families.” Cameron made the offer as bluntly as possible, as the group of starved men in front of them doesn’t strike him as the sort to care much for small talk of little consequences.

After a long moment of silence ensued, during which many of those walking skeletons looked at each other with listless yet seemingly knowing looks, before one of them finally replied.

“That- That we cannot do.” Fisher whispered, drawing all his strength to get those words out.

“Why not?” Cameron asked, frowning. This should have been simple, and obvious. Like freeing the black slaves or liberating the concentration camps. Yet here they are, ready to die pointlessly for a foreign country that clearly hates their guts and very essence.

“Because, because the turncoat- is more hated than the fanatical villain.” The words stumbled out of the Fisher’s mouth as if malnourished themselves. Yet it’s clear to all the conviction behind them. More worryingly are the nods from the rest of the group.

“What?” Cameron asked, partially genuinely confused, and partially stalling for something, anything, to still salvage what appears to be a rapidly deteriorating situation.

“I ask, how are the Italians remembered in World War Two?” Fisher Simply asked in response. “All those who died to throw off the shackles of tyranny- finally waking up from the lies they have been fed..”

Silence greeted his question, as the marines pondered on the at first seemingly cryptic question. Ssgt Juan was the first to come to the realization.

“Motherfucker.” He finally muttered. “Bastard's got a point. The only thing pop culture remembers of the Italians is a disgraceful change of teams mid game.”

“Well, fuck.” Haddox spat out the words in mild annoyance. It’s so easily forgettable that many of the isekaied ones were reasonably well educated in their previous lives, or at least well aware of pop culture. Heck, chances are that they’re probably more educated than the average junior enlisted in the MLG. “Death in a futile and pointless cause is probably preferable to surrender for them.” Privately he somewhat understands the mentality, as it’s eerily similar to the one drilled into him and the rest at boot camp.

It’s just rather inconvenient when it’s the opponents who are being so unreasonable like that.

“Is there any way, any assurance that I can give, to change your minds?” Cameron asked, not about to give up his little clever idea so easily. “It is a rather extreme take to die a meaningless and pointless death. All for notions that mean nothing compared to life itself.”

“In the absence of all, only duty remains. To give up that would be a death beyond comprehension.” Fisher replied, the response as maddening as ever. Both Haddox and Juan gritted their teeth, though did not make any moves towards drawing their pistols. Unlike the fat ass native bastard, there’s still a slim, very slim, chance of defusing the situation with the isekais, not to mention the isekai has a point through it all.

Cameron sighed as he shook his head, trying to think of something. Anything really. He wasn’t going to lose any sleep over killing a few thousand enemy combatants who are too stubborn to die, it would be the easiest thing in the world… easy to do anyways. Just give the order, and the whole thing could be wrapped up in a handful of minutes with an orgy of automatic fire.

… but something within told him to continue, to figure something the fuck out. Maybe it was the urge to save lives, or perhaps selfishly angling for a future promotion or medal. Regardless, his mind thought mightily… and then something did appear.

A somewhat rather risky idea of questionable chance of success, and even if everything goes as supposed to, quite a few of the luckless isekais will probably still die. Not to mention regardless of success it will be seen as a war crime, technicalities being meaningless next to optics.

But it would be better than a straight up massacre.

"Well then, it is what it is." He said as he signaled the others to get back in the JLTV. "Prepare yourselves to become POWs." He threw the last line out as he slammed the door shut, with a bravado and spite that he doesn't feel.

……​

"Everything ready?" Cameron asked, his flat voice hiding a nervousness that he doesn't want to display.

"Yes sir." Replied Juan, a single nod of the head.

"Then began the fire and movement." The 1st Lt said, giving the order.

"Aye sir." Came the chorus of acknowledgements.

The orders were quickly sent out through comms and within a quarter of an hour the first of the grenade launchers fired, discharging smoke grenades into the isekai formation.

That the entire ad hoc plan had been implemented within the span of a couple of hours was less remarkable in that much of the equipment was already in the inventory, if only by mistaken notions of doctrine. That those weapons originally meant for crowd dispersion now being instead used to in essence disarm enemy combatants will be mainly a difference of paperwork long after the fact.

Soon after, as the clouds of CS smoke began to envelop the blocks of isekai troops when a few noticed that something was off.

"Jesus christ, they're still holding." Haddox muttered in astonishment as he watched the scene through the RCO of his M4.

Despite being on the receiving end of enough CS gas that would be considered hazing even for marines during annual training, not a man of the isekai regiment broke and ran. Even as the minutes went by, those who succumbed to the checking effects of the gas simply collapsed where they stood, fulfilling their duty to beyond the breaking point of their bodies as they spasm and scrim on the fields.

"Well, fuck." Cameron spat out the words as he watched his hare brain scheme falling apart at the very first step. Normally a few canisters would suffice to disperse a crowd, and he had naively thought that a few dozen of those would break what amounts to a pre modern military formation completely lacking in PPE.

However, it appears that it'll take more than that to knock out those who have already died before, and willing to die again, for notions that only those who have absolutely nothing left would understand.

“Well shit, keep on firing. Maybe we can get them all choking.” Cameron gave the order, doubling down in the forlorn hope to get some semblance of the plan back on track.

“Aye sir.” Came the acknowledgements of the order, almost equally in shock at the scene before them and running by rote, taking refuge in their training and the military structure.

Thus more canisters shot forth, spewing their foul choking smoke. Soon the entirety of the isekai formation was swallowed up by the thick smoke, and the cacophony of coughs and screams could be heard over the din of the idling engines of the marine’s vehicles.

Still the marines stood by as the minutes passed, waiting for the signal to go in. Finally Cameron gave the order.

“Alright, initiate the next movement.” He simply, while looking at the SNCOs, gauged their expressions as to his call. Although they had hashed out the specifics of the plan beforehand, balancing the needs of minimizing death of both the marines and the isekais, the situation had played out with enough differences that he wanted to check again.

Just to be sure, to sooth his own nerves.

Both Haddox and Juan simply looked back with unreadable expressions, for all their experiences the present situation was also something they haven’t really seen before.

“Roger that.” Came the response from the SNCOs as they began to relay the orders for the next movement.

From their positions the marines cautiously advanced on foot, their rifles held at the ready, a few even with bayonets scrounged up from somewhere. As they came closer the sounds of misery and suffering rose of a sickening crescendo, piercing through the dissipating but still dense smoke.

As the smoke cleared the scene that presented itself was close to what had been briefed to them, yet the sight of thousands of coughing and struggling men still shocked many. More disturbing still were the suspicious numbers of unmoving bodies.

The moment passed quickly however, and soon the marines began the grim task of cuffing the now effectively disarmed opponents. Flex Cuffs soon were slapped onto barely resisting wrists as the long and tedious task of processing POWs proceeded, far different from the practice scenarios during the pre deployment training, but to their credit they quickly adapted to the unplanned situation.

And thus the Battle of Bakersfield ended, in a result that in most other situations would have been considered to be a near flawless victory…

……​

"It could have been a lot worse sir.” Juan said. Cameron nodded absentmindedly. The senior leadership were huddled in a group with the side of the dirt track, watching the lines of captives being filed, processed, and loaded onto the 7 tonnes to be sent back, first to the nearest base, and soon enough back to the other side of the portal. The sheer amount of isekais found meant that all of their vehicles had been commandeered for the task of transporting them back, which meant that they’re forced to a halt for a bit, although most simply breathed a sigh of relief at hearing that.

They need the rest, in more than one sense of the term.

“Yes.” He sighed, just wanting to have some time by himself to stew his thoughts. Of course, that’s not an option. Not now, nor probably anytime soon. “Still not good enough.” He finally muttered, his eyes gazing upon the bodies being carried off on stretchers.

At the end of the day, not a single casualty was recorded on the marine’s side, and only a few dozens of those isekais had died, mainly from the complications from their existing malnourished and abused conditions. According to HM1 Adams, a few more dozens of these isekais are likely to die before even reaching the forward base despite their best aid, such are their physical state.

“Nothing’s ever good enough.” Haddox shrugged. “It’s just something you’ll get used to.” The platitude came from years of experience, not only from the conflicts of the battlefield, but also the ones fought from the desks of the S-shops.

All those deaths were so avoidable, so within their grasp. Yet also all but impossible, simply because of made up nonsense, held dearly by those who had everything else ripped away from them. Beaten into them by those who have so far escaped all sorts of karma.

And now so many families will be informed that their sons had died a second time, in a way even more meaningless than the last, killed at the hands of those who were supposed to rescue them. It was decided early on by people with way more ranks that there would be no hiding of any discovered isekais from their relatives, regardless of what state they were found in. A lesson learned from the MIA/POWs of the Vietnam war era.

“We’ll get them.” Cameron muttered, more to himself though both Haddox and Juan heard the words clear enough. “We’ll get all of them motherfuckers.”

The day of reckoning will come when they find those bastards.

 

Chapter 2.4: Site of the WMDs- Oh wait, layer of the demon lord​

“Bruh, I think we’re lost.” Lcpl Lee remarked idly as the platoon moved through the seemingly endless swamps, the column left formation had collapsed into a ragged ass ranger file as discipline had long since been battered down by the ceaseless rain, which had soaked through the goretex they were wearing, and everything underneath for that matter.

“No shit smartass.” Cpl Wicker half muttered as he put the useless GPS back into his pocket. Like everyone else, he hand ran out of fucks to give a long time ago, just focusing on each and every step he takes, whether those steps are going anywhere they should be being a whole other matter entirely.

It was supposed to be a simple patrol around the perimeter, instituted by the COC after one too many enemy ambushes in recent weeks. During which random ass fireballs and creepy ass creatures ran rampant and made quite a bit of mess, especially to certain sections who were slow on the uptake on encampment site hygiene and noise & light discipline.

Simple, of course, because on paper everyone has gone through basic infantry refresher courses during the pre deployment work up. And as always the truth of the matter is that most of that was half assed, including the daytime land nav.

Something that's certainly biting them in the ass right about now.

"Think this will work?" Lcpl Deeds fished out the lensatic compass out of his cargo pocket. Snorts of derision greeted him as he fiddled with the device.

"Bro you dont even know how to read that thing even when it works." Cpl Taylor joked, though there's little humor in his voice. More of just a general weariness, at the weather, at their mission, at everything.

"Yeah, yeah, well I don't see anyone coming up with a better idea- whoa what they fuck?" Deeds suddenly waved the compass to everyone else: the dial on the compass was spinning madly, against all reason, logic, or the laws of physics for that matter.

"Maybe don't wave that shit around like a retard and hold it like you've been taught." Sgt Qualls snapped, not in the mood for horseplay or any of that nonsense. Not after hours trudging in the swampy and muddy terrain and getting drenched on.

Deeds promptly stopped his hand motions and held the compass leveled to his chest, fillding it a bit to get the parts where they’re supposed to be like in the refresher course… and the dial continued to spin merrily away.

Qualls quickly snatched the compass in frustration from Deed’s hands, and after squinting at the still haywiring device for a while, handed it right back to Deeds.

“What the fuck?” The sergeant muttered, the previous annoyance all but disappeared, racking his mind for some explanation for the nonsense he’s witnessing from the equipment, and quickly drawing a blank.

The previous shared frustration of the group was quickly replaced with shared concern as the platoon scanned the ground around them more closely. Realization having set in even through the exhaustion and annoyance of the patrol.

And scanned around they did, at the moss covered ground, the puddles of stagnant water, the beaten down brush, the sickly trees, and the fog and darkness beyond. A new wave of emotions washed over them, that of a low burning fear. The fear of the known unknowns, and the unknown unknowns that lie after. Concerns and comfort based decisions abound as the weariness always tugged them at the back of their minds.

“Hey, what’s that?” Lee asked, pointing his rifle at a glint in the moss. He gingerly moved forward, holding his rifle at the ready. A couple of others in the platoon followed suit, with the rest rearranging themselves to give perimeter security. As he slowly closed the distance he poked it with the barrel of his rifle…

… revealing a battered metal helmet of a late medieval style, parts of it still shone despite the clear aging from the elements. Perhaps by coincidence, fate, the surge of suddenly paying attention to their surroundings, or whatever the fuckery in the air, suddenly they saw them: other peaks of gleans and shone, dazzling all around them.

“How many of them things are out there?” Taylor asked rhetorically, sweeping his rifle around with a newfound sense of urgency.

“Guess that explains the fucked up compass.” Qualls muttered as he squatted down to pick up what appeared to be another piece of armor. It was a gauntlet… with bits and pieces of bone and rotted flesh still entombed within. “Somehow this part wasn’t in the videogames.” he remarked flatly, hiding his disturbance behind the usual banter.

“What now?” Lee asked, all the while sliding a little medallion he just found into his left cargo pocket. The question hung in the air.

“Report back and see what COC has in store for us, and maybe get instructions on how to get the fuck out of here.” Qualls remarked as he pulled out his radio, one that’s bummed from the EOD guys as they seemed to have the only ones that were good to go right out of the box. The story of how those jealousy guarded gear got divvied out was an epic quest of its own, but that’s another story…

… and none of that mattered, as he turned on the radio, only to be met with static. Not even the generic voice of “Zone 1, Channel 1” and the beep that signaled that greeted them whenever it was turned on. He turned all the knobs and pushed all the buttons, flipped through all the 48 channels across the 3 zones.

Nothing, nothing but the static of nonsense greeted them, of a wrongness they could feel even without some smartass telling them so. And the world around them became even more foreboding.

"What now?" Deeds asked, with something more than a hint of concern in his voice. While it would be rather unbecoming to show any signs of fear, that doesn't mean that said primal fear is absent.

"That… is a good question." Qualls said slowly as he continued scanned their surroundings, trying to think of what to do. The current situation simply wasn't something that their refresher training had covered, never mind their regular POG ass lives. "We should probably retrace our steps-"

"Look! Over there!" Lee suddenly shouted, pointing at something off in the distance. The others quickly turned towards the direction he pointed at, and after a few moments in the fading light and the continuous rain they saw it: an opening in a somewhat nearby rock formation, the mouth of a cavern…

"A fucking good place as any." Qualls muttered, as he gave the hand and arms signal for everyone to form up. "Let's get the fuck out of this rain for for the moment get figure something the fuck out…"

……​

Things got better once the platoon made their way into the cave, so far as their comfort was concerned as their subconscious comfort based decision had gotten them pretty much the short term results they desired. However, the fundamental problems of their situation remained, as all their equipment continued to stubbornly refuse to work, or even making sense of their non operability.

“Well, fuck.” Qualls muttered as he put the useless radio back into its pouch, having never gotten it to anything approaching working. The rest of the platoon had also by this point given up on their respective equipment, and were instead looking around their temporary shelter…

… and by the light of their glow sticks and flashlights, they found or rather, all but stumbled upon a lot more things. Ancient weapons, armor, other bits and pieces that were something once upon a time. Quite a bit of that stuff was even still attached to what remained of their previous hapless owners and wearers.

At that moment, the stench hit them, finally permeating through the marines’ own unwashed stench picked up from their weeks under field conditions. A few gagged, and Lee even threw up a bit.

“I got a bad-” Deeds began, before Qualls cut him off.

“Don’t. Even. Fucking. Start. We don't need that kind of bad juju right now.” He snapped, perhaps a bit too quickly, while aiming his rifle towards the further depths of the cavern, the pitiful beam of his head mounted light all but swallowed up by the darkness beyond. He gestured everyone to shut up, which the platoon quickly obeyed.

For in the vast darkness beyond, came sounds. Sounds of an unholy nature, of which even the faint echoes of already sent chills down the spines of everyone present, and it’s not the shrivers from the rain and cold either.

They were far from alone. Yet the knowledge shouldn’t have stuck such a fear. So far there was nothing in this world that could not be persuaded to stop through a generous application of high explosive firepower… much of which currently not within reach of the platoon.

But that was far from their minds, for all youth believe themselves to be immortal, especially those who carry guns with them. Yet the instinctive shiver from the unknown managed to pierced through all that.

It was that fear that led them to point their guns at the endless dark depths beyond, and even before they saw it fire and lead pour through the muzzles. For a brief moment the cavern was filled with the deafening sounds of a different horror, and it was fortuitous that the marines all had their ear pros, though it was of little use even for that.

A brief deafening silence descended, soon brought to an end by yet another unfathomably foul stench making its way to the troops, triggering another round of gagging and attempts to not regurgitate what’s left in their guts.

“Maybe we should-” Lee quipped before he was cut off by a rumble, the platoon turned around just in time to see the entrance of the cavern collapse, cutting off their exit.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Deeds spat out, and he was far from alone in that, as a storm of foul language spewed froth from the humans, almost masking the other creatures from the dark depths.

Almost, but just in time for the guns to turn back and spew another deafening round of firing, cutting down the creatures, whatever they happened to be.

After that round of killing, not even silence greeted them, but the scuttling sounds from the depth, coming their way, a timer on their lives.

“Fucken shit, guess we go all in.” Qualls sighed as he gestured to the platoon to follow him. They quickly formed up again, dreading what’s to come, yet knowing that it’s the only way.

……
​

It was the only way. Death in various horrific ways, that is. A thing so common that it’s nothing worth noting when it happens.

And as expected there was plenty of death, of the horrifying creatures, and as the moments passed by, of the humans from that other world known as America. Skills, training, killing instinct. All were important, but so were numbers, and numbers were not on the side of the marines. 180 rounds in 6 mags only goes so far, and after that the M16 is just an inferior club… and those creatures have things far more suited for melee combat.

A much bloodied and disheveled Lee stumbled out of what seemed to have been the endless rough darkness, into a massive chamber bathed in a blood red hue. He turned around, stared at the pitch darkness he had just exited for an eternal moment before realizing that he was alone.

Qualls, Deeds, Tayler, Wicker, all the others. They’re all gone, dead- He swatted the thought out of his mind, refusing to even accept the possibility that they’re truly gone for good. It’s all just a scenario like the FEX, all notional. They’re all just chilling back at the COC, and he’ll be back with them after the lights come back on.

Make believe. All part of the show. It has to be. It cannot be otherwise.

A piercing screech snapped him out of his impromptu pity party, and as he snapped back he saw it: the massive foreboding bulk, the forest of spikes, the two glowing red eyes all but emanating hatred and malevolence.

Lee racked his mind, trying to remember what he had consumed that would lead to his current state of hallucination. There’s just no other explanation. Cool shit only happens to the other guys, not their worthless POG asses.

“So you are the hero they sent?” The creature spoke, the words crackled with electricity and other less mentionable but equally unsettling sounds.

“Whoa- what?” Lee muttered as he lifted his rifle, only to realize that he wasn’t actually holding his M16A4. Instead, in his hand was a sword. Somehow during the fighting through the cavern he had lost his rifle and picked up something else instead.

There will be hell to pay once he gets back to the armory, when he gets back. He has to.

“But enough of the idle talk, your end is here and now.” The creature continued as it lunged towards the lone human. Lee slashed at the space in front of him wildly, forgetting all of his MCMAP training that would have been irrelevant and useless anyways.

To his surprise, the beast twitched back, shrieking like the damned as trails of smoke rose from fresh cuts on its limbs. Lee looked down, finally noticing a faint glow throughout his body and the sword, the origins of which seemed to be from the medallion he had pocketed earlier, all those hours ago… was it really such a short time ago?

He had little time to dwell on the matter, as the creature quickly recovered and lunged at him again. In the fraction of a second he also made his choice, and charged forth with the sword.

The blade struck deep in the creature, unleashing steam, smoke, and another series of unholy shrieks. Simultaneously he felt a stab of pain. Looking down he saw that one of the numerous spikes of the creature had slammed right into his gut, piercing the front sapi plate like a sheet of 1 ply toilet paper. There was also a lot of blood oozing out.

It was also at that point where his adrenaline could no longer paper over, and his senses started fizzling out. What’s left of his gut instincts told him that it’s time, that his time has come. None of the rationalization from his mind could convince him otherwise.

With the last of the strength that he could muster he twisted the blade deeper, as he felt a sudden lightness as the lower half of his body was detached. As the red fades to black he wondered if it was all worth it…

… that if anyone would even know.

------​

The unexplainable disappearance of even a single platoon of marines carried significant repercussions for the MLG and beyond, mainly in the number of important people being relieved of their posts, either to be shuffled around or retired early. Memorials were erected, flowers were placed, social media posts of both grief and anguish.
And all was back to normal a few weeks later, much like the ripples across a pond. The questions remained unanswered…

------​

Even before he opened his eyes Lee felt something was off. His last coherent memories were that of dying, from some physical trauma was the only part he was reasonably sure of, the rest of it being more of a fervor dream.

If even that. He really wasn’t sure of anything past the part where the platoon entered into the cavern.

After a long moment of nothingness, and hearing a sea of unfamiliar noises nearby, he finally decided to open his eyes. What he saw was not the generic room of the navy hospital, or the first aid station of the COC, or really anything human related for that matter.

It’s a massive cavern, the floor of which is filled with scuttling hordes of uglyass creatures. Gradually he also began to understand the noises they’re making, the words that form into sentences:

“All heil the new maou!”

He looked around, seeing no one else who would fit the bill, before looking down at his body. It certainly wasn’t the scrawny little twig that he was used to.

“Who, me?” He asked, to no one in particular, before realizing that the answer is yes.

Him.

 

Enough about the US taking the Ws, now it's time to take all the Ls...
--------------------

Chapter 3.1: all hail, the conquers of a whole lot of nothing​

“Bruh, is this shit for real?” Lcpl Grey asked out loud to no one in particular as he and many other marines of the MLG cleared the charred debris that marked what was once the capital of the what's-its name country that they now occupied. It was supposed to be a beautiful city, as pristine and shiny as any in those shitty generic isekai animes that only Oki weebs watched.

Now? To say it’s a field of ruins would imply there’s still something of note standing, Like Grozny after the Chechen wars… not that any of them would understand the comparison. At least some of the city outer walls still stood, charred husks standing sullenly, as if silently judging the gutted sight before them.

It wasn’t their fault, ain't no way. There were no airstrikes, no artillery barrages in the lead up to the entrance to the city. There was simply no need, there was nothing that warrant such application of firepower.

The only notable opposition, if it could be even called such, that they had met on the last bit of rutted road before the city had been some malnourished orphan in rags, holding a broken stick like a sword.

Supposedly anyways. The lead vehicle of the convoy always maintained the narrative that they saw nothing and only felt a slight squishy bump on the road. It was just as well that there were no reporters or civilian photographers around, and combat camera knew the art of discretion.

But that doesn't answer what burned the city down to the bedrock. It still wasn't their fault though.

Well, not really. Dumbass boots couldn't have known better.

Sure, some dipshit might have popped some flares over the outer walls at night at around the 3rd night into the 'siege', supposedly at the request from somewhere or another for some illumination over the hostile location for some reason or another. It didn't make much sense at the time and it made less sense after the ashes settled, which also explained why all the evidence of the chain of orders coincidentally disappeared… if there was even any in the first place.

… Okay, so maybe they did start the fire, and pre modern cities tend to be particularly flammable, but that certainly doesn't explain the massive fireballs that were going off soon after, almost like shitty FX effects or trashy fireworks. It did, however, get the gates open, though the flood of people and animals fleeing for their lives in every direction stirred a lot more chaos and problems than any battle they had fought up to that point.

It was not exactly something that the MLG had rehearsed or even accounted for. For all the talk of entering a premodern country, it did not occur to anyone in a position of decision what that really meant. For all the disdain towards the undeveloped countries back on earth, they were still places in a modern world, where even in the absence of equipment there’s at least some vague notions of institutions.

Something that’s utterly lacking in this other world.

And so they mostly watched as the city burned, the situation before them more akin to that of a mildly interactive cutscene than a mission. What relevant equipment and personnel available were little more than droplets into a furnace, though combat camera was able to nab some stunning photos of hastily pressed CBRN guys in their level A suits spraying water (ineffectively) at some of the buildings near the edge of the city walls.

Even surrounded by fires, every step they took was contested, by those who even deep in their damnation still fought for those who have forsaken them. The old, the infirm, the children, the cripples. Armed with nothing more than sticks and stones they staggered towards the marines even as their homes and everything they had ever known burned around them. No words were unable to dissuade them from their mission, and so force was resorted to. It was not Gray's proudest moment to buttstroke an orphan with his rifle, though he was far from the only one to do so.

In the end, the fires simply took their course, and as the last of the embers rose into the skies the sun had risen on an utterly desolate hellscape, a tomb of the vanquished and a mocking monument to the conquerors.

There was little time to dwell on the matter however, and command had immediately tasked out everyone around to clean up the place and aid the survivors.

"It do be like that." Lcpl Vega muttered as he shrugged, having mentally gone on autopilot a while back.

“And here I thought policing calling and field daying is something that only happens back in garrison.” Lcpl Williams remarked as shoved another pile of debris off to the side. The weak attempt at humor did little to lift spirits, which, while not anywhere near bad, was mainly composed of emptiness.

The fight was all but over. They have won. Done all that’s expected of them and then some. Yet here they are, picking up trash and cleaning debris like some pressed ganged working party after a wild barracks party done by some other section (and it is always some other section, fucking comms, a bunch of criminals more like).

Moreover, there was a sense of emptiness, instead of where a sense of pride and accomplishment should have been. Maybe they'll get those after the CO makes a speech about what they have achieved later in the day.

Maybe EA would release a good game without microtransactions. Maybe Jody will stop banging all the dependas while their hubbies are out here, in this nondescript yet melancholy world.

Grey kicked a nearby piece of stone in frustration, frustration at everything: this who war-ish thingy, COC cocking up as usual, this world and all of its stupidity, and himself most of all, responsible for nothing and no ability to do anything about it. By sheer luck, coincidence, or the cruel fate of forces unknown the rock skipped a ways before impacting on a pile of rubble, causing a minor cascade of dirt and debris. As the dust settled a faint cry could be heard.

At first he shuffled towards the sound, breaking into a more rapid walk as he saw the source of the noise: that of a young boy, all but an unrecognizable mass of pulped bones and mashed flesh yet its soul still stubbornly resided within, as if entrapped in that now tomb of torture.

“Call a doc, somebody get medical!” Grey shouted half by rote at words he never really expected to use as he knelt down next to the dying boy, while alternating between fumbling for the contents of his IFAK and getting a tourniquet out, before realizing the futility of any first aid. Instead he took out one of his cantees, still full simply because no one sane would drink from one of those things unless things were really dire. While most of the water simply splashed everywhere a few droplets were able to find their way into the mouth of the boy.

“Ah- ah-” The boy feebly attempted to speak, but understandably was having trouble even breathing.

“It’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.” Grey lied, with absolutely no confidence in his voice. “Help is on the way.”

“Have- have we won?” The boy asked. Belatedly Grey realized that the boy had been blinded by all of his prior misfortunes. He was ready to give the usual spiel, only at the last second realizing how bad an idea that would be.

“Yes. Yes we have.” Grey lied through gritted teeth. “The demons have been banished.”

“Praise be.” Those last haunting words left the boy’s mouth as he died in the Lcpl’s arms, his last moments the happiest in his short and cruel life.

Grey sat by for a long time, after the corpse had been taken away, lost in his thoughts as those around either respected his need for internal solitude, or simply too busy to deal with yet another basket case.

How many blood soaked lives are behind the ribbons that he and the rest of them will receive? He looked at the still open canteen, and finally took a drink.

The stagnant water within was still as vile as always, but for once he didn’t complain. It’s what he deserves.

It’s what they all deserve. Results for the best of intentions and the noblest of causes.

 

Honestly this is more of an attempt to fill a plot hole that no one has noticed yet (or at least, not voiced yet), so honestly there's not much in the way of plot development.
--------------

Chapter 3.2: Numbers not adding up ​

“Sir, I believe you need to see this.” Koi said with an attempted nonchalant tone. The nondescript JSLIST uniform looked rather uncomfortable on his frame, and the M50 gas mask made his mouse-like voice even harder to hear.

“What is it now?” the recently promoted to Lt-col Muller replied wearily, and not just because he has to deal with some CIA goon. He too, is wearing a M50 mask and a JSLIST ensemble, and that shit sucked harder than the last time he had to wear it for annual training… years ago, before it was a given that he would get the waivers annually.

The reason for the two of them, and really everyone else in the vicinity, are wearing those stuffy suits and masks was the task laid out before them: lines of corpses as far as the eyes could see, lining the open field next to the husk of what’s left of a city. The sight made more unnerving by the scattered reports that it’s far from an uncommon sight.

While Cameron and his merry band of misfits managed to pull a miracle out of their collective asses, an act which ensured his promotion to the rank of captain, many of the other units were far less lucky in that regard. Thus the blood of many innocents had to be spilled, to sate twisted notions of honor and duty of a world sorely lacking in both. Of course, it being almost exclusively the blood of others being spilled should be something they should all be thankful for, but the amount of PTSD cases in the coming years has already loomed heavily on the minds of anyone in a position of responsibility.

“This.” Koi simply pointed at a set of eight bodies, even in their disfigured and decaying state it was obvious that they were alike in appearance, very alike.

“Siblings?” Muller hazard a guess. It would be very tragic, but not exactly something relevant to anyone besides their family. He was already numb to it all. He had to. All of them had to, and those who didn't were already rotated out.

Koi shook his head.

“We thought so at first, which was why we rushed in the DNA testing.” Koi begins explaining. “However, the results just came back...” He handed a tablet to Muller.

“What the fuck…” Muller muttered as he read the summary on the tablet, before looking back up at the spook. “You telling me that they’re all clones?”

“Human cloning is unlikely- '' Koi began to explain before Muller waved off the incoming arsecovering and bullshitting.

“That is known, there’s no way that this world would have something like that.” Muller spat out the words impatiently. “Get to it already.” To his mild surprise Koi’s posture seemed to have relaxed from that. Then again, he probably wants to get out of that MOPP suit ASAP. All of them do, why couldn’t the greatest country on earth have better kit, like the Fins or something?

“It’s just a theory right now, but it’s likely that these… copies were pulled from different worlds.” Koi explained quickly, as if the speed of the words coming out of his mouth would cover up the leap of faith of the contents. Muller nodded slightly, or perhaps just trying to shake off the sweat accumulating behind his mask and fogging up the lens.

“Some multiverse thing? Like in those Marvel movies?” Muller hazard a guess, not really caring if he's making a dated reference or even a correct one. Koi shrugged wearily.

“Something to that effect.” He said flatly. “We’re still not sure that-”

“Why haven’t our counterparts in these other worlds invaded here as well?” Muller butted in, coming to the same conclusion at around the same time. “And what are they up to?”

“Sir we are looking into-” Koi begins before being quickly cut off again.

“So no idea, figures." Muller sighed. "Well, maybe it's luck, or coincidence, or whatever. Shit's complicated enough as is." It's almost unsettling how quickly everyone has gotten used to the extraordinary situation that they had been thrown into, and every new revelation becomes just another problem to be tackled.

"So what are you going to tell his- their next of kin?" Koi asked. Muller suddenly snapped out of his internal dialogue.

"What do you mean?" He asked. Whether fishing for clarification or just the heat getting into him it's hard to tell.

"It is your job to tell them the fate of their relatives in this world." Koi clarified, taking the safer option. Muller nodded wearily at the reminder.

"Well, the paperwork takes some time, maybe we'll find a live copy somewhere in the meantime." He muttered. "The bearers of bad news are overworked as is." He whispered the last sentence to himself. Even if it's just signing signatures, the sheer stacks of the letters flying out of the printers was enough to hammer in the gravity of the situation, and what they have done.

What they had to do. What those outside will never understand, never wanting to understand.

"If nothing else, this does explain a lot." Koi suddenly muttered to himself.

"Explain what?" Muller asked, not sure if he actually wanted to know, but also knowing that ignoring uncomfortable information never works out in the long run. It doesn't work out for the regular rank and file, and he's not important enough yet to be above it all.

"Dying from being hit by a truck is actually a rare thing in the developed world. There's probably more isekai stories written with the cliche than actual people getting run over." Koi blurted out the seemingly useless info dump. "Also the demographic of moderately educated young males in the developed world just aren't dying at the rate to justify these numbers we have found…"

"And there's tens of thousands of these… people, we have found so far." Muller waved a hand at the lines of corpses, putting two and two together.

"And that's just the ones that survived long enough to die from us." Koi added.

"Right…" Muller let out a sigh. He had skimmed over the reports of the numerous other unmarked mass graves and former battlefields that were being discovered almost nonstop. It was almost as if they couldn’t even dig anywhere for anything without bumping into a few thousand corpses and skeletons. And all the problems associated with that, already filling out enough forms to choke all the S-shops and then some. "Any estimates on total counts?" Not that he wanted an answer, or even needed one for that matter, but it was just something he's expected to ask.

"Millions." Came the reply. "Literal millions, and not metaphorically." Koi clarified, just to emphasize that it's not just some off the cuff remark. Muller whistled at that, though the muffled sounds that came out of his mask was something else entirely.

"Just what have we gotten ourselves into…" he asked rhetorically, shaking his head. Life in the pre modern era is well known to be short and harsh, but the sheer callousness of the world in the implications of the amount of corpses found still send the mind reeling. If anything, the numbers suggest an outlook on warfare more akin to the industrial era of earth’s history.

"Something to be worried about by those above our pay grade." Koi noted with a shrug, not wanting to dwell on the matter more than he has to. For once Muller agreed with the assessment.

"Yeah I'll get this matter sorted out." Muller finally said as he made the motion of straightening out his blouse, before remembering that the MOPP suit doesn't work that way. "That being said, try not to cause the end of the worlds will you?”

“Sir? I beg your pardon?” Koi asked, not seeing what that last comment had anything to do with him or what he’s doing.

“You in the sense of your higher ups. Nothing ever good comes from them bastards.” Muller clarified. “Now that there’s a bunch more of clones or whatnot of you all somewhere out there don’t think for a second some bright mind wouldn’t cash in on that.”

“Sir there’s nothing I can do about what my-” Koi began before Muller cut him off with a weary wave of his hand.

“Hence try. If nothing else it’ll soothe your conscience, for the day of reckoning and everything goes to shit.” The Lt-col said with a tinge of sorrow in his voice as he shuffled off, other pressing matters awaiting him no matter where he was in the worlds.

Koi stared at the walking figure for a handful of seconds before looking down at the tablet that had been handed back to him. The words of an unimaginable tragedy still printed impassively, just another among countless thousands. Yet now he felt nothing, not even numbness.

Just another day moving the dust of another mess around to give an illusion of doing something about it.

 

Chapter 3.3: With folks like these…​

The morning started like any other morning: bright, sunny, cheerful, as if mocking the suffering of the lands below. Such are the minds of mortals that they project their own insecurities and guilt onto forces far beyond their control, the weather being one such thing. But then again, it is a land of magic and the unknown, so that forces beyond mere mortal comprehension wasn’t something to be dismissed completely…

Still, none of it matters too much to the gaggle of paper pushers inside the corrugated iron shed that was supposed to be a temporary thing, with its hastily thrown together cheapass desks and chairs, random power cables snaking aimlessly, and a pair of fans desperately blowing the air to pick up the slack of the nonfunctional AC. Even then, the only times anything of the world outside became relevant to any of the men within were the times when someone glanced at the nearest window, or when the front door opened.

And the doors were propped open, to accommodate the incoming streams of people of all shapes and sizes, the only commonality amongst them being unfit for what the US government officials sitting behind the desks have in mind. It was their own doing really, the marines having done a very thorough job, if only accidentally and mostly unnoticed. For as all the heroes died, all the rulers fled, and all else that remained akin to lambs without shepherds… and the packs of wolves still roam around unaccounted for.

At least it saved them from having to make the mistake of doing the disbanding and barring of the previous regime wholesale, not that they were going to do that this time around.
The fighting of war has ended, and the struggle for peace has begun. A task that the USA has a very checkered record, to put it mildly. The fact is well known to all the bureaucrats and flunkies within, most of them were even part of that checkered past in some way, shape, or form.

The lessons of the past weigh heavily in the room, yet already it appears that some of the same mistakes will have to be made, almost as if forced upon by a cruel and twisted fate.
Bick’s eyes were all but glazed over as he barely noted the slowly shuffling line of riffraffs as the whatever government official that he’s supposed to assist in vetting rejected one applicant after another. It's a nail dragging lack of work, made worse by the fact that he’s not even really necessary or even wanted by the department of whatever that’s officially running the show. But as always, his higher ups want some eyes on the ground and a finger in the pie, even if they’ll end up doing nothing and use none of the information provided in a timely manner. Which, while certainly nothing out of the ordinary, also wasn’t anything that would inspire any work ethic.

Such was the state of affairs for who knew how long, but couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours, before the massive shadow of a being he never expected to see fell across the room.

“Ah, and who might you be?” The government official, a nondescript middle aged man with a name of Mr. Bakers, asked nonchalantly, with a tinge of weariness that cries out for unhealthy caffeinated energy drinks and sugary snack foods.

"Ah of course, of course, allow me to introduce myself.” The oddly familiar looking walking tub of rancid lard said with the most fakeass sickening polite voice possible. It wasn’t as if those things were physical manifestations either besides the obesity, which wasn’t even that bad as he appeared to be still mostly capable of wobble on two legs, only needing the assistance of an overly ornate walking cane. “Meldor Dygel. Merely a humble merchant of modest talents. I hope I could be of some use for this, um, new enterprise of yours.” His description hardly matches his state of dress, which are in the same ostentatious style as his walking cane.

“Hey, we need to talk.” Bick said with a suddenly hurriedness as he tapped Bakers on the shoulder. He motioned the bureaucrat to follow him.

“What is it, you goon?” Bakers sighed with a lack of patience as got up and followed the CIA agent. Things are difficult enough as is scraping enough talents to slap together a new local government without the CIA nosing in with their cryptic and nonsensical sidequests.

“I would highly advise you not to hire that- that thing, whatever you do.” Bick got to the point quickly, though unable to hide his ulterior feelings on the matter.

“And why would that be?” Bakers asked, not unreasonably, though his skepticism wasn’t exactly in good faith either, seeing an opportunity to stick it to the others.
“Because he’s a scumbag!” Bick blurted out the obvious.

“Well, how do you know?” Bakers countered, while not necessarily not doubting Bick's assessment, as even the most tone deaf of folks would instantly recognize the sheer amount of bad vibes that fat thing’s emanating.

“For a start, he’s a slaver. As in a literal slave trader.” Bick dropped the bombshell with little fanfare.

“Oh, is that so?” Bakers raise an eyebrow, not being too shocked by the revelation. After all, there’s a goddamn reason why just about ‘combating human trafficking’ is a basic required course for any government worker that had even the most remote chance of dealing with that shit even back on earth. Some literal medieval world being an order of magnitude worse off in that regard is simply to be expected. “What’s the proof?” He continued, just because it’s something plausible doesn’t mean he would simply take the agent at his word and his word alone. Besides, it gives him a bit of pleasure to reinforce that nominally, he runs the show. Officially. And he’ll make that state of affairs last as long as he can.

“I bought my wife from him!” Bick snapped back. Too late, he realized that was not the right thing to say.

“Then what the fuck does that make you?” Bakers snapped back, grabbing onto that tidbit of information with relish, the glint of an ax to grind glinting in his eyes as he quickly seized the moment. “Clearly you have no problems making moral compromises when the situation calls for it.” He jumped to the conclusion, not all that unfairly.

“It’s out of context.” Bick growled, having contemplated explaining further before throwing that aside. Clearly Bakers isn’t in the mind to listen, having made that up already in order to settle whatever scores he has conjured up in that petty little mind of his. “And to get back on topic…”

“That won’t be necessary.” Bakers coldly brushed him off as he made his way back to his desk, the bland expression of bored business settled across his face as he faced the slaver merchant. “Ah, where are we?”

“Of the matter concerning the talents you seek.” Dygel answered, being more smug than ever, his keen sense having deduced that he’ll get what he wanted soon enough. The specifics he’s not sure, but that hardly mattered. Whatever it is, it can only mean more wealth and power, as is meant to be.

“Yes, of course. That.” Bakers continued, ignoring that Bick had by then also returned to his seat at the side. “Creating a new government and civil service from the ground up will take a lot of skilled people, especially people who are good people managers.” The slaver’s eyes light up at that.

“Oh my, those are the exact skills that I possess.” He declared. Bick muffled a groan, the whole performance in front of him being absolutely sickening, yet there’s nothing really he can do about it. Not his business, and not critical enough to security that he could use it as an excuse to intervene, for Bakers knew his side of the craft as well as any.

Bakers simply nodded along as he handed a couple of sheets of papers to the fat bastard, who took them greedily, already seeing the massive graft wealth in his future. “Just sign the bottom of it, and welcome to the team.” He said in a flat voice. It wasn’t as if he’s really enjoying hiring shady characters, but at this point he just wants to get something done. Anything really.

Other choices aside, anarchy is certainly not the way to go, and anarchy is what will happen if they don’t get a government and bureaucracy formed up quickly. For time was already short and that needed to be done yesterday.

Meanwhile Bick watched Dygel taking out a seal and related material to make his seal on the papers, what passes for signatures in this medieval ass world. It was at that point he decided that he’s done with government work, already seeing that things aren’t going to get better, and that in a way he’s complicit in the ruining of another country. Of another world. The thought that he did what he thought was right at the time like thousands of others was of little comfort.

A new government will be formed for that country, even if the faces within will be oddly familiar to those who stick around.

 

If something's unexplained or not explained enough just ask in the comments, I'm too lazy to try guessing what subtext people aren't picking up. That being said, yes, the title is a joke on 'fatherless behavior' which the reference will absolutely age badly in a few years.
-------------------------

Chapter 4.1: democracy-less behavior​

Touch grass they say. The thought reverberated mockingly through Lcpl Maslow's head as the squad patrolled through the sleepy village. Now that grass has been touched, in the sense of trampling over them, he did not feel any different, especially in the sense of greater maturity or deeper sense of understanding of the real world.

Though calling the village sleepy is akin to calling a dying man resting. The OG guys in the unit weren’t too talkative about the times when shit went down. Just the suck in a different place and a smattering of participation ribbons for their troubles. Nothing worth writing home about, or even Instagram worthy photos for that matter.

Supposedly. Something felt off about such a pat explanation. However the hardened expressions of those guys dissuade him and the other boot drops from being asking too much. It wasn’t as if higher ups were trying to keep a lid or anything, that would have caused the opposite.

But none of that mattered at the moment, for now in the absence of the glories and splendor of combat there’s only the regular suck that is composed of the majority of every deployment: Shuffling about in fireteams, patrolling the same little locations, the same people, the same sense of despair permeating through everything.

No, not exactly despair, as that would imply there’s something to fall into that beforehand. What’s in the sunken eyes of the sea of listless peasantry was something far more disturbing. The damn place has never seen happiness or joy, or even anything around that to have an inkling of those concepts.

Oh shit, this is actual bumfuckstan. He realized with a start, almost tripping over a random rock on the dirt path. Luckily, no one else in the fireteam noticed, being all tired and run ragged by the endless repetitive nature of the patrol.

The same routes, the same scenery, the same nothing new or unusual to note or report. The pointless suffering of the masses all blurred together as the sheer amount of it overwhelmed the human mind to comprehend or empathize.

It has been quite a while since official combat has ended, enough that the last of the CARs has hit MOL for those who earned them. He knew better than to expect much in the way of action or excitement, but this, all of this, just feels… senseless. Wasting time. Just like back in the rear honestly.

"Hey guys." Lcpl Simmons suddenly said out of the blue, the barest trace of a mischievous grin on his face. "Do you know that in terms of-"

"No and fuck you." Cpl Daniel butted in to squash the Vaporeon copypasta before Simmons could start. "Someone else tells us something we don't know." He quipped, not really expecting anyone to actually take up the insincere offer.

"I got something." Lcpl Wu volunteered, and Daniel groaned inwardly. Now having traded Oki weeb degeneracy for unhinged conspiracy, but such are the tradeoffs of patrol chitchat.

“Like what, MSG allergy is made up by the government to screw with your dad’s restaurant?” Lcpl Henson joked. Wu simply shrugged.

“I’ll get back to that someday.” He vowed with insincerity, before diving full force into his current train of nonsensical thoughts. “You know how in the west veggies like turnips and radishes are animal feed and fertilizers?”

“No but what does that have to do with anything?” Simmons asked idly as he raised his rifle at some movement nearby, which ended up being nothing besides some wildlife doing nature things. Probably.

“Well, they’re only eaten when things are down bad.” Wu continued. “But over in China they’re staples in normal times, good times even.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?” Daniel echoed the majority sentiment, wondering if perhaps the Vaporeon copypasta would have been preferable to this nonsensical rambling. Wu did not appear to be discouraged by his battle buddies’ lack of understanding, as it’s par the course. None of them ever do. That’s part of the fun.
And that’s perfectly fine. It’s all mindless small talk to pass the time in the end anyways.

“And in China, when things go bad, they simply die of starvation in large numbers once they run out of dirt and grass to eat.” He continued on. “Which brings us to here.” He paused, whether for dramatic emphasis or that he noticed something that might have been amiss in his field of vision no one could tell. “That’s their normal here, starving and dying in large numbers when they run out of dirt and grass to eat. God knows what their bad times are like…”

“Oh yeah, now that you mentioned it.” Maslow nodded, remembering… well, not even really need to go that far in recent memories. The sheer amount of MREs and other foodstuffs that they’re handing out to the natives every day says louder than any briefings and memos, most of those going in one ear and out the other.

But something’s amiss, and among the handful of brain cells in the fireteam one of which finally took note.

"But what about the crops?" Daniels pointed out as he waved a hand around, towards the seemingly endless fields of amber grain all around them. "What the fucks with them? Explain this shit?"

Wu shrugged. "I dont know." He admitted without any hit to his pride. The stakes of random shittalking out in the field has no relevance once it ends, if there were any in the first place. “A fluke?”

It was at that point in time in which the fireteam were meandering back to the village near their FOB, and noticed the gathering of a crowd at what passed for the town square, which is really nothing more than a patch of dirt with a well around somewhere within. It was not time yet for the food distribution, and the crowd had gathered for a different reason.

That reason became obvious as the fireteam drew nearer, as the high pitched grating screeching spewing out the most vile of hatred and threats.

The rightful liege lord has returned, and he demands his due from those who toil the lands.

“Hey fuck face, fuck off.” Daniel shouted as he waved a hand. The crowd of peasants slowly and hesitantly shuffled aside. The Cpl marched forth, stopping only a few steps in front of the overly dressed and smug faced man. “They’re not your slaves anymore.”

The lord laughed mockingly in response as he completely ignored the marines. “For the laws of the gods are forever, and the words of lessers are of nothing.”

“Yeah buddy whatever.” Daniel said with an eye roll as racked his rifle. The crowd of peasants finally started shuffling away, knowing the implications of a rifle going condition 1.

The lord finally turned his attention towards the marines, though only the barest trace of it, as if he’s merely noting a particular piece of trash that’s gotten stuck to his boot. “Your days are numbered, vile scum.”

And with that he too turned away, and soon he and his retinue passed out of sight, leaving the fireteam slightly dazed, trying to make heads and tails of the sheer delusion they had just witnessed.

Wu was the first to speak again. “Yeah… that’s the reason.” He said, continuing the conversation that everyone else had already long forgotten.

“Yeah, well fuck you too you cocksucker!” Henson shouted after the cloud of dust.

“Alright that’s enough.” Daniel sighed as he tried to get his team back to the regular discipline. “We got shit to do.” He shook his head. “The local election is coming up soon.” He said without enthusiasm, already seeing the kind of shitshow that’s coming.

“The upcoming scam festival you mean.” Maslow muttered sardonically. They all can see where it’ll most likely end up being. Everyone could.

Everyone except for the actual decision makers, who of course will act surprised when things go tits up, and who will never face the fallout of that.

But what’s new?

------​

On the day of the election, the first of its kind that land has ever witnessed in all of known and unknown history, was on a rather nondescript day. There was moderate cloud cover, a mild breeze, about the best weather to ask for for those who are standing guard, which many of the marines were unlucky enough to be part of.

Just another working party really, for there aren’t any threats to be found among the milling crowd in front of the voting booth, or nearby, or elsewhere. No chance for a CAR, or a purple heart. No chance for the glories of combat outside of whatever wild tales that everyone will make up after the fact to impress the folks back home.

No threats they can fight with their physical weapons, as off in the corner they can see the local lord liege and his retinue stood around, looking mighty intimidating to anyone who doesn’t have a gun… which is of course the local population.

The US might be able to protect them from the dragons and demon hordes, but not the wrath of their gods and divinely appointed superiors, regardless of the new shiny constitution and declaration of human rights over at the capital and all the marines of the MLG stationed in a dozen FOBs across the lands.

“Man, fuck those gay ass cocksuckers.” Henson said as he flicked his head at the group of technically ex aristocracy.

“Why do they still live?” Maslow asked rhetorically. As usual, Wu failed to read between the lines.

“The reason is due to political necessities.” He began. “Since-"

Henson cut him off. "Yeah fuck that shit." He snapped, not necessarily at him, but moreover at the situation at large. “You know no one here gives a rat’s ass about that political bullshit.”

“But they do.” Wu sighed, ready to go into autistic details on the complexities of geopolitics involving nation building.

“As I said, COCksuckers they all are.” Daniel shook his head, having long since spent his last fuck to give. Now, he’s just here for a paycheck, with that cherry on top of imminent danger pay that’s equivalent to a Big Mac per day. Just the burger, not even the entire meal.

At least they’re all still getting hazard pay, but then again if the stories from the other guys based elsewhere are true. Some of them are earning every penny of that pay.

And he envies them, those who busy their minds with combat where the action is. Not rotting away watching evil triumphing, powerless to do anything despite the rifles in their hands and all the bigger guns back at the FOB.

And evil is triumphing right in front of their faces, for none of them harbored any illusions on the thinly veiled act of voter intimidation on the part of that lord liege. His posture, his gestures, his words.

But all they can do is to stand around, staring back at a rigged contest they are fated to lose.

The foreknowledge in their gut did not make it easier to accept however.

------​

“Surprise, surprise.” The sarcasm of the words that left Daniel’s mouth was obvious even if his tone of voice was completely flat and devoid of emotions. He threw the copy of the memo down to the dirt of the tent. No one else bat an eye, being too engrossed to the screens of their phones or laptops.

“Another working party?” Henson asked, oblivious of the implied topic and not really paying any attention to the mood at hand.

“No, not that at least.” Daniel said softly, his mind already moved onto something else entirely. He picked up his rifle and slung it in a backside carry, a move that would be out of place if anyone had paid attention. “I’m gonna go out for a smoke. He declared casually as he walked out of the tent.

“Wait-I’ll join you.” Maslow said as he finally noticed the subtle weirdness of the situation. Nothing particularly out of place of course, just something that set off his gut instinct… and it ain't the MREs either.

It was only a few minutes after the two left did the rest of the fireteam remember that Maslow doesn’t actually smoke.

……​

“Cpl, I think you really need to reconsider-” Maslow said worryingly as the two made their way down the dirt path, the firewatch at the gate of the FOB having waved them through lazily as if they didn’t give a fuck. They probably didn’t.

“Oh I thought about this a while.” Daniel replied with a disturbing conviction in his voice. “It’s either this or me deep throating a shotgun a few decades down the line.”

“Come on it’s not that-” The words died on Maslow’s lips as Daniel fired off a 3 round burst into the air with his rifle. The two of them had arrived at the estate of the liege lord, and the sight that greeted them was about what they had expected: the lines of dreary peasants, depositing what they could not afford to those who demand it out of pure greed.

“Hey fuck face.” Daniel shouted as he reslung his rifle. The liege lord turned to look at the marine with an expression of disdain and disgust.

“And what is this maggot doing here?” He asked rhetorically to no one in particular even as Daniel started making his way towards him. “Go back to your hovel, and leave the-” He did not finish as Daniel took out his [personal] ka-bar in one fluid motion, and sunk it deep in the smug bastard’s chest.

Chaos promptly erupted as the liege lord’s retinue unsheath their swords, only to be stopped as Maslow fired off a warning burst of his own from his rifle. Paperwork and future ninja punches be damned, he ain’t about to let his fireteam leader be killed, regardless how out of mind he is at the moment.

As the moment drawn out in stunned silence, Daniel knelt down next to the still spasming body of the liege lord, a cruel, warmless smile on his face. “Let me tell you something.” He said in a bittersweet voice. “I enjoy every minute of this.” He declared as he twisted the knife further.

And with a last gurgle, the body lay still as the light went out of the eyes, and a silence descended at the scene as everyone tried to process what had transpired… and what’s to come.

It was just as well that at that particular moment a couple squads of marines had arrived at the scene, and Daniel and Maslow were quickly relieved of their weapons, cuffed with flexi cuffs, and unceremoniously dumped into the back of a 7 ton.

In the coming days the war crime was gleefully plastered all over by the media and the tabloids of two worlds, and forgotten as quickly as it appeared. It was only another senseless killing, a faceless killing a nobody, their names meaningless to those not in the know.

------
​

“Feeling better about all that?” PFC Maslow asked sardonically. He was lucky, it was just a ninja punch, with the usual consequences: loss of pay, loss of rank, meaningless constructs out here in the field in this other world. He’ll prestige back to Lcpl soon enough anyways, it’s the nature of the shitbaggery.

“Actually, yes.” Daniel said, his face a blank devoid of expression. He, along with a number of other dubious creatures, were waiting for the 7 tons. To take them back, to be processed, discharged in a way that is other than honorable, possibly even dishonorable.

Honor, according to those who cross all their ‘t’s and dot their ‘i’s. Justice too, or something to that effect when it's words on paperwork.

“You know you have changed nothing right?” Wu pointed out, in his usual tone without malice or intentions. “That bastard’s got relatives, and the peasants still lived in terror of their god appointed slavemasters.”

“Then what the fuck are we even here for?” Daniel asked as he climbed on to the back of the truck. The question hung in the air like the aftermath of a slap of the serious kind, even after the truck and other vehicles left the FOB.

“Bruh. I’m just here to pay off the 26% APR on my Charger.” Henson said to the now settling dust kicked up by the vehicles.

 

Chapter 4.2: He’s an expert, he even shitpost about this!​

“And who, the fuck, is this?” Lt-col Muller asked with little patience as he stood up from his desk and pointed a finger at the nondescript figure in frumpy civilian clothes in front of him. The role of military governor of an entire country is usually far too important for a mere O-5, but alas, America has already forgotten her latest military misadventure, much like a child tossing aside their Christmas toys by New Year's.

The MLG certainly hasn't given any thought of what's to happen after storming the enemy capital, and neither did the DOD for that matter. Not really the MLG’s fault, not really what is within their responsibilities, DoD though, well, someone somewhere will figure something out right?

Thus a mere middle management in limbo due to interservice shenanigans became the unofficial and probably illegitimate military governor of the occupation of a country in another world.

“That,” Koi explained, with a clear lack of enthusiasm or even fucks left to give, “is your replacement. The incoming president of the newly established Republic of Gulaelt.”

"That?" Muller asked in quiet disbelief, though disbelief at what exactly was not obvious just yet. After all, the frumpy civilian is merely the embodiment of the series of wrongness that led to this moment. The half assed planning, the botched execution of the plans, the making shit up once off the expected path that never existed in the first place.

"Gentlemen if I may-" the civilian attempted to speak before being waved off by the other two in the office, the act of which only further solidified his opinion of this whole enterprise, and the real powers in charge.

"Yes, that." Koi repeated, again without enthusiasm. "According to the guys upstairs, he's the best choice for the role."

"What, you scrounge up that sonofabitch from the depths of 4chan?" Muller asked rhetorically, knowingly using some very outdated references but not really caring. Koi will figure the fuck out. Then he noticed a flush of embarrassment from the civilian. "Oh god no." He muttered, really not relishing what's to come as his random off the cuff remark was all but confirmed in his mind.

It wasn't that he really cared that much for this world, as the reports on the ongoing shitshow that is the attempted democratic efforts has made it abundantly clear that the natives refuse to help themselves. However the American blood being spilled, and casualties are still happening on a regular basis in the ongoing insurgency that had promptly sprung up after the formal end of the 'war', grinded on in his mind, especially when paired up with the seemingly ungrateful natives and uncaring folks back home.

Dying isn’t necessarily the problem. Marines do not fear death. Dying for nothing is the problem though, and politicians fear public backlash resulting from that. And now it appears that they're about to repeat the mistakes of history, except this time in a speedrun.

“Something like that, according to the memos.” Koi conceded, seemingly not having much a stake in the argument. “Most existing thought exercises on this topic of liberating other worlds haven’t been updated since 2015, not to mention that they haven’t accounted for-”

“And that makes randos plucked from the internet so much better?” Muller pointed out sardonically, all the while waving a hand to silence the civilian, who was about to interject again. He’ll have plenty of time to fuck up everything later, but for now, it’s time for the competent to do their thing.

“With no due respect, the die has been cast.” Koi simply replied, having picked his words intentionally to hammer in the point that there’s nothing neither of them could do to change the past. The decisions already made. Their opinions on the matter have been seen and promptly discarded by people who get paid far more because they supposedly knew far better.

People who won’t be held accountable for their screw ups when the time comes. A sentiment shared between the two worlds. Thus why should it be different when it’s a fusion of the two?

“Figures.” Muller muttered, shaking his head at the futility of it all. Even as a part of his mind raged impotently against forces far beyond his ability to do anything about, another part breathed a sigh of relief. If it is that futile, then there’s also a corresponding lack of responsibility attached. The only real danger being scapegoated, but he’s been around the block long enough to dodge that when the time comes.

After all, what the history books never really mentioned was that ‘just following orders’ is perfectly valid the majority of the time, as far as physical consequences are concerned.

Then there's the matter of internal moral conscience, but no one makes it to O-5 and still retains one. Last guy who suddenly found his promptly had a meltdown, did something regrettable, got court martialed, and ended up falling to the dark side anyway. The system he railed against unchanged and uncaring throughout all of that little scruffle.

It do be like that. It always does.

“But since you brought it up, what are this fool’s supposed credentials?” Muller asked, the snark sinisterly lying the the back of that idle question, like a predator ready to pounce. The civilian was yet again about to speak when Muller glared at him, making it abundantly clear that the question was not for him, despite being about him.

“Well, about that.” Koi began after taking a deep breath, mustering the best neutral professional tone he could scrape up. “This guy here wrote a series of blog posts collectively titled: Fixing Failed Worlds: A framework for rebuilding fractured fantasy worlds. Basically lampooning that certain genre of popular fiction and the cliches within. Things we’re dealing with right now.”

“Sounds familiar.” Muller grunted, actually mildly surprised by his reaction, as he has long since given up keeping in touch with pop culture. Koi chuckled humorlessly and nervously, a rather out of place act for someone like him.

“Must be a coincidence.” He lied transparently, hiding his own disheartening thoughts on the matter. Something Muller chose to ignore for the moment. If the spook doesn’t want to say something, chances are he ain’t gonna say it. Fine, he can keep his little inside jokes.

“Well then.” Muller sighed as he finally turned towards the civilian for the first time since the beginning of the meeting. “Congratulations, though I don’t envy you one bit.” He said, holding out a hand for a handshake, glad that he managed to not find out the other guy’s name this entire time.

Koi coughed a bit.

“About that.” He clarified. “The actual changeover of authority isn’t due for another week.”

“Shit.” Muller facepalmed as he quickly withdrew his hand. A dignified exit, they managed to rob even that from him.

------​

Muller never liked ceremonies, especially when he actually had a speaking role for it, and the official power transfer from military to civilian in this other world was no different: The droning on of a bunch of nothings, empty platitudes and even more empty promises. The bored working party who was dragged into something that they cared little for at the best of times, and worse still had to put on a professional face for the horde of cameras and film, knowing that the media and the internet mob will do their best to put them in the worst of light.

He did manage to learn the name of the incoming president, he couldn’t possibly avoid that. Issac Kyle. An utterly boring ass name. Nothing really changed though, not of learning his name, nor the transfer of governmental powers.

Not for those who remain behind, and those incoming. Luckily for him he’s in neither of those categories.

He’s going home. That civilian so called expert had made it clear: the military has to go. Not everybody, nor all at once. The void they left behind to be filled by PMCs, local security forces, and daydreams & fantasies. He harbored no delusions as to the stability of the place after the marines leave for home.

Really, the only reason the US gov even agreed to that nonsense was because it’s a convenient way out: they already reached their initial goals, and now someone else is stupid enough to offer them an exit plan that they should have thought of already but didn’t because the whole thing was so slapdash put together and small fries in scope.

Not to mention how easily they could come back through the portal if the need arises.

When the need arises.

So into his idle musings that he almost bumped into a group of junior enlisted, who were loading up one of the 7 tons.

“Oh sorry sir.” One of the lcpl muttered as the rest of them hastily mumbled the proper greeting of the day. The ceremony being over the place is no longer a saluting area.

“As you were.” Muller mumbled as he snapped back into reality. “How are you hard chargers feeling?” He asked, falling back into familiar habits, but somewhat stilted. Has it really been so long? A mere handful of years since being shunted off to become some liaison, to some kind of loose cannon, to military governor, and now…

… Now what? Of course the official orders are clear: to return to one of the MLGs, to some desk job. Back to earth, normality.

“Good sir.” Another of the lcpl replied, not sure what kind of officer this lt-col is. Could be easy going, or stickler for the rules. Muller simply nodded.

“Good to hear.” He smiled, trying to put them at ease. “Glad to be going home?”

“Yes sir!” came in the chorus of hearty replies.

“Good. That’s good.” Muller nodded as he turned and moved off to find his assigned vehicle. For all his misgivings on the clusterfuck that will certainly descend on this land in this other world, he was glad of one thing.

Good men are no longer being thrown away for frivolous reasons. Not permanently of course, never was and never will be given the nature of military service. But a respite is always appreciated, no matter how transient and illusionary.

Time for the other men to pick up the slack and taste the suck.

 

Chapter 5.1: Skill issues
​

‘Senseless’. The word hung in the air like the aftertaste of vomit as Lieutenant Boynton gazed dejectedly at beaten masses of humanity before him on the packed dirt of training grounds. What’s supposedly the birth of a modern-ish security force worthy of a modern secular nation state built upon the ashes (figurative and in too many cases literal) of the old order.

So of course he’s gazing at a scene that could best be described with the chilling term of ‘Dedovshchina’, at least the abstract version he has read in his off time military history research, and the stories from those OG guys who had the privilege (or rather, cursed) to be attaches to witness the original back in that certain country on Earth. However, seeing… the sights before his eyes currently, is something else entirely.

It’s much worse, by at least an order of magnitude.

The day begins for the recruits with a beating by iron bars, and only gets worse from there. The good performing ones were merely beaten endlessly for amusement, while the rest… by the time their souls expired from the torture it’s more of a blessed release.

Attrition rate, in the sense of those who died, is something around the majority by the time they finish. Because there’s more bodies where that last batch came from, so says those things in charge of said ‘training’ of the new security forces. He sure as fuck won’t acknowledge them with something as dignified as ‘instructors’.

The less said about the daily mass rapes of recruits, the better. And of course he can’t interfere to put a stop to that, as it’s a local matter. A lot of things are local matters. All rather horrific things.

'Maddening', to put it mildly, as there's nothing he can do about it. His role is merely one of advisory, and that he was specifically told to not interfere in ‘local cultural matters’. The half dozen predecessors before him didn’t get the memo, or ignored them. That’s why all of them have been recalled from this post, and the luckier ones merely reshuffled to some desk job at the rear. The two exceptions who knifed a few of those bastards were however court martialed and thrown out, retaining their personal sense of honor but little else.

Word from the grapevine and even the lance criminal underground is that it’s the same broken story in all the other places as well.

It’s getting more and more tempting by the day to follow in the footsteps of those predecessors. It makes no difference in the grand scheme of things. He’s replaceable, just like them, just like all of them.

Nobody back home cares. The war’s long over, so’s the peace after that. Now that power has been returned to the natives there’s even less than no reason to give a damn.

Of course it’s never that easy. It’s even well known, but knowledge does not necessarily translate into caring or willingness to do something about it. The show’s over, the credits have rolled, even the post credit scene has come and gone. Yet here he is, watching another round of the endless cycle of brutality being perpetrated onto another generation. As helpless to intervene as a player character in an interactive cutscene.

He took out his hip flask, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig of the biting liquor within. Of course drinking during work hours is still forbidden, and day drinking is a bad habit, but he was far past caring. No one else cared after all.

They don’t even care for the big things that should matter. It won’t matter to them. Never did, never will.

And that’s still not everything. There was potential. People in this godforsaken land are far more willing to lay down their lives for grand causes, to die in the service of… something, anything. Yet all that willingness is being pissed away, by petty bullies drunk on power who take the uncommon valor of the others for granted.

He shook his head, chasing away all those unproductive thoughts doing the pity party in his mind. He’s not suffering, not really. They are, and it’s rather callous of him to wallow in self pity because of other people’s suffering.

With a final shake of his head, he shuffled off as he put the flask away. There’s nothing for him to do here, not even the pretenses by now.

------
​

“Sir!” the chorus of greetings, interrupted with fits of coughing, from the ragged band of troops met Boynton as he strolled towards them, along with equally ragged salutes from their emaciated frames. There’s at least a hundred of them, yet combined they carried less ammunition than a squad of US marines, even accounting for their walmart grade bolt action rifles.

Most of the ammunition given to the national security forces were openly stolen and sold on the black markets, to their past enemies, present enemies, and future enemies even, and everything in between. The same fate follows the rest of the billions of dollars worth of supplies and whatnot.

The general response when confronted with their blatant corruption was a shrug and a biting laugh from the fat bastards. The stuff is going to a better cause, namely their wallets. It’s not like letting them be used where they’re supposed to be would do any good.

And the thing is, they’re not completely wrong.

“As you are.” Boynton acknowledged the greeting as he walked up to the leader of the group. “You wouldn’t mind if I tag along a bit?” He asked, already knowing the answer. But he had to keep up appearances.

That’s all these poor bastards have left.

“No sir.” The leader of the group replied promptly, while not fearing for his life, as it’s generally known that the Americans tend to not be the sadistic hateful types, there’s still the undercurrent of fear of authority figures savagely beaten into their souls.

“Carry on.” Boynton nodded as he moved his way to the back of the group, a prime place to observe… and to notice ambushes should the event happen.
Without another word the gaggle of security forces troops begin shuffling to their patrol path.

……​

Normally, a matter as simple as a patrol around the perimeter of a village would only require a couple of fireteams of normal soldiers, if even that. However, nothing is normal about what they’re doing, not normal by earth standards anyway.

Therefore Boynton didn’t even flinch when a massive fireball engulfed the front of the formation, consuming a dozen bodies in a flash even with the spacing between each other. The rest of the gaggle promptly scattered about, futilely trying to find any cover and concealment. Boynton followed suit, finding a hole in the dirt at the edge of the field while fishing out his pistol from its holster. Of course he wasn’t issued a rifle. Too many of his predecessors had used theirs’ to snipe suspected insurgents and other wackos at 500m, with predictable results as they weren’t supposed to be proactive in defending themselves. Rules of engagement and all that nonsense.

Thus he watched by as the fireballs continued unabated, which after a handful of minutes stopped. The deathly silence that descended after the last of the fires withered away explained why. Still he hid, and soon he heard the arrogant footsteps, and the meaningless bickering.

They might be blessed with the cheats of the gods, but damn are they still amateurs at the trade of war.

With a last check of his pistol, Boynton jumped out from his hiding place, and in a span of 9 seconds unloaded the entire clip.

They were okay shots, as befitting for who qualed for pistol marksman. Most of the enemy party dropped, or at least stumbled back. Then he noticed that he managed to miss the healer looking bitch- no, he didn’t miss, just didn’t hit anything immediately vital, which might as well meant nothing.

It wasn’t good enough, as by the time he was in the process of slamming another mag into his pistol a powerful blast knocked him off his feet. As he lay still on the ground from the shockwave he felt a flurry of pain, his blurry vision telling him that a number of arrows had found their mark.

As his senses slipped by him for the last time Boynton chuckled bitterly in his mind. Dying in a faraway place because of randomass bitches was not how he expected to go, but rather befitting for a marine. At least it won’t be his fault that libbo gets secured on a ship or base. He wished he had a grenade, so he reenacted that one part of that one cheerful song, but alas, that’s not to be. Too many of his predecessors had used genrades to frag out corrupt bastards and sadistic security force officers.

“Farewell, cruel world.” He muttered as a massive warhammer smashed into his head and turned it into red pulp.

------​

It was a good year that year, as only a few hundred thousand security forces personnel had died in the never-ending insurgency. Or perhaps a bad year, as only so few undesirables died the death of martyrs. Less welcoming was the death of dozens of marine advisers. America was not happy about that, and that means a response of sorts was warranted…

 

If you couldn't tell there has been a timeskip.
----------------

Chapter 5.2: In the face of the hard choices that other hard men made while hard​

Richards Daniel checked the power pack of his EMG-12 coilgun with a bitter chuckle as he got in the pickup truck along with the rest of the squad. Funny how the marines are still using those ancient ass M27 rifles, which he would have been as well had the corps not kicked his ass out for doing what needed to be done.

And now they need him, all of them whom they kicked out before, again. But in a more politically acceptable form. Hence their civilian clothing and kit as befitting of a PMC group, in this case the Ninja Punched. In this group, the NJP is the resume, proof that there are times where morals were above the code of paper.

Hypocritical paper codes that no longer apply to them, which suits everyone fine enough.

It’s time to get their hands dirty. Just like the filthy mercenaries that the public perceive them as. The same public that believed in fairy tales of pacifist runs and the power of love.
As his operational manager Tim Muller quipped once: “Pacifism is preached on the mountain of bodies stacked by warriors willing to do violence.”. Or as his now squad buddy and coworker James Goldberg translated into understandable speech: “Let’s see them furry twinks do a pacifist run out here!”

“Yo shanker, ready to poke some holes in them cunts?” Goldberg smirked as he gunned the engine and began driving.

“For the last time, I only stabbed that one sonofabitch…” Daniel rolled his eyes. It’s not that he hated his current callsign/nickname, but to have a reputation from just that one time… is kinda cringe. It makes him way more badass sounding than he actually was. Is.

“Hey, that’s one more than most guys.” Carlos Lopez, who was checking his comms rig, pointed out.

“And also why we’re here.” Daniel muttered, wanting to move away from the topic. They might all be disgraced in the eyes of society, and the leaky nature of vetting in the government allowed them to do what they’re currently doing, but it’s still not something he wants to be reminded of constantly. It’s not that he’s ashamed of what he has done, rather it’s the others’ perception of his motivations of doing what he did that he finds mildly uncomfortable.

It wasn’t the killing itself that’s enjoyable, but the wicked getting what they deserved. Thus the ‘who’ that gets stabbed is far more relevant than the act of stabbing itself. Hence their current mission-, no, task.

Missions are for military service members, mercenaries get tasks.

……​

It didn’t take long to find trouble, in a world that for the most part still predominantly thought distances in terms of a human’s ability to walk. In a handful of minutes the mercs could see the telltale plumes of smoke in the distance, the signs of unimaginable power… yet still slaved to the meager senses of the humans possessing them.

Quite the opposite of what they are, as the EMG-12 is a pretty mid weapon despite the high tech aura surrounding the mere name of ‘coilgun’ in the popular imagination. It does have a few things in its favor in this other world though: it’s battery powered (thus rechargeable by solar, not that it matters), relatively quiet, and most of all, too damn complicated to be maintained for long if fallen in the wrong hands, unlike the countless thousands of old fashion bolt action rifles in the hands of anyone and everyone unsavory these days around these parts.

But really, it’s because it’s becoming a common site back on earth, nothing really that complicated. They’re not special, and neither is their kit.

As the squad of mercs got out of the truck and into position, an otherwise nondescript outcropping, where through the sights on their guns they saw them: a small group of people, picking through hundreds of burnt and shredded corpses. A sight as common as the endless fields of amber grain.

“Targets in sight.” Goldberg said, as he looked at the suspected enemies through his scope. Suspected being a nominal category as it’s all but confirmed, even at that range.
“Same.” Lopez said, doing the same.

“Fire when ready.” Daniel simply said as he pulled the trigger of his gun.

The shots rang true, at least some of it. But when it’s over 90 rounds in the span of a handful of seconds it’s only a matter of a number game for enough to find their targets. The lack of recoil and the fin-stabilized nature of the rounds also didn’t hurt accuracy. Before they knew it the targets all fell, not enough time for them to even let loose cries of pain.

“Targets neutralized. Over.” Daniel spoke, mainly through the radio. More for the remaining passengers in the vehicle than for the rest of the fireteam. Those guys. The guys who haven’t muttered a single word so far besides idle greetings and other formalities. The guys who are effectively invisible by their trade.
Assholes. But necessary ones. According to the government anyways.

“Acknowledged. Over.” Came the response from Tobis, whose job could be best described as ‘liaison of the miscellaneous’, “Proceed as usual.”

“Of course. Over and out.” Daniel replied with a sigh as he got up, glad as always to get that little part over with. They might all be scumbags of various flavors in this outfit, but Tobis, that dude, gives everyone else the creeps. “Let’s go fuckers.” He said as he waved the rest of the fireteam, who promptly followed suit like the well oiled killing machine that they are.

……​

“Looks like another lucky day for us.” Lopez said grimly, something he tends to do under distasteful circumstances such as the present, as he picked through the corpses of what probably was an otherwise unremarkable adventuring/heroing party. Not that hard to tell, them being wearing mostly clothing that wouldn’t look out of place in any developed country back on earth.

And easy though, to fish out any forms of identifications as to who they are. And as confirmed like most of the times before, a trend was beginning to form.
“From earth, figures.” Goldberg muttered as he put a pack of miscellaneous id cards into a ziplock bag. “A mix of Americans, Japanese, Korean, and even a Filipino I think.”
“Sounds about right.” Danial acknowledged as he surveyed the bodies: Not that he’s that racist, but just from the ethnic features of the corpses he concluded that they’re at least directly from earth, as in didn’t get transmutated or reincarnated or whatever the fuck beforehand.

Which of course is a rather worrying development.

“Fuck, they’re young.” Lopez mused as got up from his ID scavenger hunt, his attention having finished with the task, now dragged back to the reality of what they have done, are doing, and will be doing.

“They shot first.” Danial countered, convincing no one, not even himself. They are young, young adults at most, possibly-. He cut the thought off. He knew. They all knew for a while now.

It doesn’t make it any easier. They’re getting some alright, for anyone who runs is a hero, anyone who stands still is a well disciplined hero. The last guys who didn’t heed the advice are now 6 feet under- no, their ashes now dust to the wind.

Physically, it was simple, and mainly down to luck. They all knew that physically they aren’t that much sturdier from the hundreds of corpses lying around, and certainly far weaker than the isekaied ones. They’re just bog standard mercenaries.

Mercenary, PMC. Dirty words for those who partake in dirty work with impure intentions, as if transferring those same tasks under direct governmental purview somehow purifies it. Muller might style this outfit as some real life Dorsai, whatever the fuck that even means.

But then, there’s the other end, represented by those still warm corpses and soon to be corpses lying about. Adventurers, heroes, saviors. … Scumbags, power hungry scumbags dunk on undeserved credit and unearned prowess. That’s what they are really. Losers who failed in life back on earth, drawn to here by a story and a wish, now grounded to the dirt and bodies to be carted back to earth.

Their musings were truncated by the sudden screams nearby, and a crack over their radios.

“Potential hostiles nearby. One neutralized, three remaining.” Tim Burns, the old man who had remained behind for the role of overwatch, said over the comms. His voice is as cold as a machine. That was the first words he had spoken outside of simple acknowledgements all day. Rumor has it that he was a normal man once, but something within him snapped when his step son Josh or whatshisname died two deaths in two worlds. And now he’s taking out his anger, or something, on this other world. No one really knows and no one really cared enough to ask.

“Acknowledged, thanks.” Danial replied curtly before the group turned towards the direction where the screams came from, guns at the ready.

“Please, no! We surrender!” a voice cried out, as a group of disheveled young adults moved out of a clump of nearby bushes, their hands up in the air in the universal sign of surrender…

… or a trick. Wouldn’t be the first time either.

“GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND NOW!” Goldberg shouted forcefully as he strode forward, buttstroking his gun at the first person within range, a nondescript thin male of young adult age with black hair (a feature that certainly narrows down things). The dude fell promptly, and the rest of that party followed suit with a little more grace as the others in the squad quickly moved forward to cuff the suspects as well as sift through their pockets.

“Would you believe me if I told you they’re also from earth?” Lopez asked rhetorically as he looked at the handful of worn ID cards of various flavors.

“Shocking.” Danial replied in a deadpanned tone of voice as he dragged one of the suspects out. “Get them back to the truck, and call in the locals to haul the corpses.”

……
​

“Why?” Tobis asked with the fake bewilderment that could only fool those who lacked experience in touching grass… which aptly described those three cuffed prisoners in the bed of the pickup truck as it rumbled down the meandering dirt path back to the nearest dot of civilization.

Danial snorted in disdain from his position at the front left corner, though he knew it would work. It always does on those dumbasses, who either still delude themselves as to their status, or grasping onto any straws to such.

And of course it worked, as a flood of information came forth from those three as to their motivations, their rationalizations, their justifications, their asscovering. It was someone else’s fault: their parents or lack of, those around them, the internet radicalization, the false promises by anyone and everyone.

Nothing that any of them haven’t heard a million times already, but all the same. This time, and next time, and next…

Won’t be much longer. Danial thought to himself, thinking of the end of his current contract and his homie hookup for a job at a local marijuana dispensary back in his hometown. The luster of combat had long since washed away, the fires of justice long burnt out.

Wu was right, as always. That slant eye banana bastard was right. Nothing’s gonna change, they’re just fighting the symptoms rather than the cause of the problems, and they don’t have what it takes to face those causes head on.

 

Yes yes I'm aware that a lot of this is insanely inaccurate but what's a few more fantasy elements in a story chockful of them already?

-----------------​

Chapter 5.3: The corruption of the homefront
​

“Unbelievable.” Agent Austin Waller muttered in actual mild disbelief as he and the rest of his fellow spooks sat through yet another death by powerpoint by their manager, who, at least, was just as unmotivated in giving said powerpoint as they were listening to it. At least he was being quick about all of this, blitzing through most of the filler slides and other nonsense.

“Well, start believing it.” Senior manager Koi replied deadpanned to the responses from the assembled. “The bastards who have been causing millions of deaths, millions with a capital M, out there in that other world in the past year. They’re apparently traced back to here.” The fact that the majority of those deaths were merely natives that no one cared about and probably would have been dead from something or another in that unhappy world didn’t escape anyone in the audience, but the rhetorical appeal still worked, at least for a few seconds before the glaze of apathy reasserted itself.

“Like here, here? As in our version of earth?” Agent Whiteburn asked, grasping at straws, any straws, that maybe it’s not really going to be their problem. Koi sighed.

“Some of them, yes.” Koi confirmed, much to the dejection of everyone in the conference room. “We have been sharing data with our counterparts for a while now, and we all have to do our part in our world.” He paused with another sigh. “I don’t trust any of them bastards either, certainly not enough to invite their ass over here.”

“So, um, shouldn’t this be the FBI’s job?” Agent Brenman asked. “As pressing as it is, this is basically an internal matter at the national level.”

“That too.” Koi admitted. “Which is why we are cooperating with them in rooting out these recruitment cells. Question is, do you really want them to hog all the glory of a job well done?”

“Sure…” Waller muttered, whose tone of voice managed to convey the opposite. Even years removed from the field work, it seems that Koi still has that gung ho attitude at times, probably picked up from that ex-marine that he worked with back in the day.

“Look on the bright side, at least we’re not likely to jump over the portal border for this shit.” Koi said, trying to find something positive, and not doing too great at that. “Not like we have a choice in what we do.” He sighed, the fake type to cultivate some flavor of comradery. “Meeting adjourned.” He announced, dismissing everyone, who all but jumped to leave that lethargic meeting, even if it signals the beginning of another round of ‘work never ends’ for the next however many months.

------​

Where the fuck do I even begin? Waller thought to himself as he sat on the old battered couch in his one bedroom apartment. It’s a homely place, all things considered, and as bad as it is. At least it’s more dignified than living in his parents’ basement, a thought living rent free at the back of his mind from time to time even after a decade.

There’s still the current task at hand though, which is of course finding the source of the pipeline in which the insurgency in that other world is getting their seemingly limitless flow of ‘hero’ fodder from. Sure, the majority of them just end up being bullet ridden corpses if they’re lucky, but they still constitute a military threat in that forsaken world.

And a more insidious concern back in this one.

Which he has not the faintest idea of where to even start. It’s not like he could just read up on the archives and libraries and study the culture that he needs to infiltrate, there’s only a little body of work so far and most of that is wild ass guesses. He knew very well how much the likes of him and even Koi just threw shit that sounded about right to their superiors back in the day, who themselves obviously knew just as little.

It was easy to bullshit the blind, and the problem was for future them… but it turns out that future them is now, and they don’t like it one bit.

… but there’s another source of information.

He shook his head, promptly dismissing or even entertaining that notion. No way, that shit’s gay, and more relevantly probably full of nonsense and depraved fantasies.

He sighed as he sank further back into his couch. While there’s a lot of leeway in their work, results are still to be expected at some point… accountability is a thing for the likes of him after all.

His wallowing in self pity was abruptly truncated by the ring of his phone, and as he grabbed it it showed that his mother was calling.

“Hey mom, what is it?” He asked as he answered the call. Great, the last thing he needed right now is family matters to intrude. And it is family matters, as none of them are the talkative types.

“Well Austin, gram has just had a stroke and is currently in critical condition, so I was wondering if your younger brother could stay with you for a bit while we visit her at the hospital?” She asked, getting straight to the point, though he could hear a lot of emotions swirling just beneath the surface.

He thought about rejecting it outright, given his work, but something tells him otherwise. It wasn’t exactly his proudest thought, not that he had many of those in recent years, but it would make for a convenient excuse to explain away his lack of progress.

“Yes mom, but you do know-” He answered.

“Of course of course, I know you got a lot of work at that accounting firm and they’re really hard on you. You know that Ralph won’t be a problem.” She assured him. He nodded along, not really believing it either way. Last time he saw his brother the boy was in the beginning of his teen angst stage, and by now… he’s what, 16 now?

He should feel ashamed that he barely remembers his brother’s age, but he doesn’t. It’s as if his interest in the living side of life has been steadily drained by the demands of his job. His career. The definition of his essence in society, even if he couldn’t tell anyone about it.

“Um- Yes. Of course I’ll make some time for that.” He finally replied, knowing that nothing good will come of it. And it’s not their fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.

It’s just the present circumstances being what it is, which makes it all the more maddening. There’s no tangible force to focus on, to struggle against, to do something about it.
Only the resignation and acceptance of more burdens. And of course, the guilt of even thinking of that as burdens.

------​

“Welcome bro.” Austin said with all the warmth he could muster as he opened the door after hearing the doorbell rang. The teen youth in front of him sullenly, even more so than the last time the two had seen each other.

“Sup.” Ralph replied as he shuffled listlessly into the apartment, his eyes glued to his phone the entire time. He hasn't improved since they last met, but it’s hard to tell with teens these days.

It’s gonna be a long couple of weeks. Austin thought to himself as he closed the door. “So, um, what you doing these days?” He asked, trying to be nonchalant about it.

"You wouldn't get it." Ralph muttered, a hint of bitterness in his voice. Usual teen angst, no one in the world understands their particular pains, just like everyone who ever lived.
"First time?" Austin joked, the ancient meme completely flying over the younger sibling's head.

"There's nothing left in this world." Ralph explained in the vague lashing out that marks those of his generation. "The job market is shit, society's atomized, and we're fighting another stupid ass war in bumfuckstan."

"And what does any of that have to do with you?" Austin tries to steer the conversation to a safer direction, with his usual lack of tact. "You're too young to be worrying over the fate of the world."

"Because that's all I have to look forward to!" Ralph countered, to Chris’s growing unease with actual bitterness and weight to his words. "A world gone in shit, gone to shit, and will go to shit!”

“Bruh, you can’t just think like that. You only got this one life here in this world.” Austin said gently. “It’s not like there’s another world you can just bum off to-”
“Oh, like the Marines did some years back?” Ralph threw the words out.

“Just because you can’t point the place out on a map doesn’t mean it’s in lala land.” Austin joked with a slight awkwardness. “Maybe you should hit the books and worry about the coming midterms.”

“Yeah whatever.” Ralph rolled his eyes as he put away the last of his luggage, if a single backpack and a duffle bag could be called as such. “I’m heading out.” He continued immediately without skipping a beat as he turned around back towards the door he just entered.

“Don’t you want to rest a little-” Austin said after his brother, only to be met with the slam of the door, and the eerie silence that followed.

He stared at the closed door for a couple of seconds in disbelief before reaching for his shoes and jacket. As soon as he finished dressing he reached for the door.

It's not fair. He might not be the most caring of people, but this is really out of his control. It’s not his fault that-

Regardless, it would not do for him to screw up a glorified babysitting task this early.

……
​

Rex's gaming emporium was the last place that Austin had expected Ralph to run off to when checked the geolocation on his phone, mostly because he really hadn't expected someone of the younger generation to actually go anywhere In the first place. Heck, even he himself wasn't that much of a touch grass type of person, or even that bastard Koi for that matter.

He wasn't sure what exactly to expect when he pushed open the doors, perhaps dusty shelves with overpriced tomes, tacky nerd decorations, cringe weeb shit, and the festering stench of those stunted losers who never interacted with real, normal, well adjusted people who are completely and mentally stable.

And his expectations were filled. Well, except for the crowd part, which was a bit more varied than he had expected. In fact he could have sworn that there's a professor from one of the local community colleges sitting at one of those tables, playing some children's card game with a bunch of college age youths.

All that, of course, makes the slutty elf cosplayer or whatever over at the corner surrounded by a sizable crowd of unwashed losers just slightly out of place. Maybe it's some shitty ass promotion for some shitty ass mobile game or something.

Then upon a closer look he realized that it wasn't cosplay that said elf is wearing, and that it's an actual elf in the physical and literal definition of the term. Not that he had seen one before or anything. Rumors had it that old man Koi did, but he never mentioned those either way.

He then noticed his brother among the crowd, as enthralled as the rest of them, almost as in bewitched. He shook his head, realizing that his mind was also being tugged at, for things and whatnot he could not put a finger on.

Something that’s just unnatural, unbecoming, unsettling.

“Hey fu-, bro.” Austin called out, catching himself at the last moment. He is really picking up a lot of bad habits at the workplace. “What’s going on?” He asked, half rhetorically and half hoping it’s not his wildest worries.

The crowd turned their attention towards him, and suddenly Austin felt the glare of a dozen pairs of suspecting eyes as the spotlight was put on him. His first thought was to look down, making sure that he wasn’t wearing anything in particular that would identify him to his workplace. To his relief and also internal cringe he was wearing rather nondescript clothing: polo shirt, khaki pants, web belt, white socks, and tennis shoes. Okay, so they’re kinda wrinkled and he might have picked out a few pieces from the to be washed basket, but that’s supposed to make the outfit more authentic… and totally not because he’s caught slacking.

And that’s all irrelevant, as he felt something inside of his head. Not the usual shenanigans of caffeine withdrawal or cringe memories floating up to the surface at inappropriate times. It’s something else entirely: as if someone’s rummaging around in his mind, searching for something-

It was then that he noticed the slightly out of focus expression on the face of that elf bitch, who he’s getting more and more certain is an actual elf in the flesh rather than some crazed cosplayer. She noticed his glare after a moment, and as her expression changed to that of fear she mouthed out a single word in presumably her wackass language, which roughly translated into the following:

“Wrathbringer”.

It was surreal to hear the term in actuality, rather than from some shitty powerpoint based off of stupidass hearsay from dumbasses, like the persistent baseless rumor that 3rd world yokels fear dudes with pistols because it supposedly reminded them of the secret police executing their relatives.

But this isn’t made up. At least, not in this particular case here and now. And that’s rather worrying.

In a snap moment of decision making Austin strolled forward with a confidence that he didn’t exactly feel, and grabbed his younger brother by the collar.

“Sorry for crashing the party.” He apologized unapologetically to the crowd before returning his attention to Ralph. “Dude you can’t just run off just because, there’s dangerous people out there.”

“I know.” Ralph said in a tone that chilled the heart. “You are one of them.”

“Mother will decide your fate.” Austin half joked in trying to keep up appearances as he continued to drag Ralph out of the store. From the glare he received he knew that the pointy eared bitch wasn’t fooled for a moment, but at least the rest of the crowd did, or at least passive enough to not rock the boat. That’s the important part really. Both of them do have their true natures to hide. Less of a masquerade and more of a veneer.

It’s common knowledge that Murica’ has brought freedom to another bumfuckstan, it is just as well that the average folk has accepted that they don’t care that they couldn’t find where it is on a map. After all, the past decade the government admitted to aliens and all that jazz, and none of those really mattered in the grand scheme of things.

“Why!? What the fuck!?” Ralph snapped at his brother as they two walked to the latter’s car, all the while him still being dragged by the collar.

“You should know better than to run off like that.” Austin replied curtly as he opened the rear door of his car. Taking the hint, Ralph got in, though his eyes were still defiant.

“You are definitely grounded.” Austin added, as he got into the driver’s seat and began calling their mother on his cellphone.

It’s shaping up to be quite a few long days ahead.

------
​

“Sonofabitch.” Koi muttered out the word dismissively though his facial expression seemed to suggest otherwise.

“It’s all true.” Austin stated, even though he knew the reaffirmation is not necessary.

The two of them were sitting in Koi’s office, which Austin made his way to as soon as he walked in the main entrance of the office. He had a fitful night of half-assed sleep, debating whether to immediately inform his superiors via email or in person the morning after, before deciding on the latter as his mind drifted off to the world of nightmares and seemingly frivolous thoughts. The heated conversation with mother earlier concerning Ralph certainly didn’t help matters.

He just hopes that Ralph will stay in the apartment, though as a precaution he had slapped on an ankle monitor to the still defiant teen. It’s not a working one (in fact it was one he picked up as a souvenir from some place or another), but no one needs to know that, least of all the teen. It’s certainly a drastic and a dick move, but he didn’t see another option. There’s no way that he could just call in and take the day off work.

“Of course it’s true.” Koi snapped, more to himself, before shaking his head. “Bastards.” He muttered. “We’re so used to fighting the cyberspace and social media war that we’re forgetting the one in the real world”. Conveniently sidestepping any accountability by blaming it all on institutional problems, the bland faced mid manager has learned the skills of his position well.

“So um- would you like me to start rounding up a listening team-” Austin began looking for busywork before the older man waved him off, a new and worrying glint in his eyes.

“A bit too late for that, especially if the part about the pointy eared bastard uttered was true.” Koi said without emotions, as if laying out the bare facts rather than pointing accusations. “They’re probably gone now.” He got up, and Austin noticed a tremor in his left hand: a sure sign of the stresses getting the better of him once again.
Which has been happening quite a bit for a while.

“So what now?” Austin asked, the otherwise normal question hanging in the air like an imminent poisonous bite. While he has some ideas of potentially what’s to come, he was also hoping that his assumptions are incorrect.

“We do what we must.” Koi said without fanfare as he walked to the door. “Come,” He gestured to his subordinate as he opened the door, “We have shit to do.”

……​

As it turned out what that shit to do meant was to round up every skater who was twiddling their thumbs, check up a bunch of gear from the off the books armory, suit up like shoving 10 lbs of shit into 5 lb bags, and bundle into an otherwise unremarkable maroon van. It was only as they settled in their seats did Austin have time to think about things a little more… and it’s not good. In fact it’s worse than his prior worst assumptions.

“Isn’t this a bad idea?” He finally asked. Koi nodded.

“Of course it is.” The aged man replied, all of a sudden looking a bit older than his actual age. “Pray that we are already too late.” He paused a bit before continuing. “You, and everyone here, know full well that there’s no time for a proper mission with all the powerpoints and paperwork.”

And the worst part is that he’s somewhat correct about that. Fighting other organizations is easy in comparison: there’s always paper trails, lines of communications, chains of hierarchy. The moving parts and lifeblood of any organization, the same things that makes them slow in comparison. In comparison to whatever the fuck they’re fighting these days: lone individuals who seemed to appear and disappear at will, communication through planes beyond known understanding, and decisions made not by some commander or even community, rather the whims of forces unknown.

“But still…” Austin continued, before stopping himself, not sure what he wanted to object to even.

“But what?” Koi narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Spit it out. You still have some sick days left.”

“We’re here.” The driver called out from the front. Koi merely nodded in acknowledgement, still staring at Austin. It took a moment for him to realize that he is looking for a reply.

“Isn’t this-” Austin began, taking a moment to recompose himself before continuing. “Isn’t this escalating things too quickly?”

“Sure.” Koi flippantly replied. “But I expect to vindicate myself.” He snarled, the intrusive malevolence rising to the front.

“There’s something more about this.” Austin prodded on, more and more convinced that he has to do something, anything, to prevent a coming shitstorm.

“You’re damn right there is, fuck them all!” Koi snapped angrily, the metaphorical mask finally slipping off even as everyone slipped on their physical gas masks.

“Why?” Was all Austin could get out, feeling more helpless than ever before.

“Gamers, incels, fucking weebs. They’re all going down to the same place, THE DEPTHS OF HELL!” Koi snarled, dark malevolence with a hint of his ill defined Asian accent absolutely dripping out of every word and gesture, as he flicked on his AEG-12 coilgun in a fluid motion made possible only through many repetitions in training and moreover experiences in real events. Clearly the man has some undiagnosed and unresolved issues, but no one’s willing to point that out to someone who’s decked out in kit and wielding a gun. Oh, and he’s technically in charge of whatever the fuck this is, even though that’s the least important aspect by now.

“Roger that.” Came the muted and less than enthusiastic chorus of acknowledgments as the rest of the team also flicked their weapons’ safeties off. It’s a small blessing that all of them are wearing masks, for they have much reasons to hide their faces. From the truth, from the consequences of their imminent actions, from man and God.

“You’re unhinged.” Austin pointed out the obvious in what passed for defiance as his mind still mulled whether insubordination was a good idea or not before Koi grabbed him roughly with his free hand.

“You got 5 to prove otherwise.” He said flatly before pushing him out of the back door of the van.

Austin blinked for a moment in disorientation and disbelief as he stumbled outside, no one around really paying much attention to the heavily armed and kitted up masked man. As he got his bearings again he straightened up, and walked to the gaming shop, opening the door as if he’s just another patron.

“Hey buddy, I think you got the wrong date, the airsoft meet isn’t until Saturday.” The nerdy store clerk said jokingly as Austin walked in. “Nice gear though, must have cost a pretty penny.” He continued with a smile of the blissfully unaware.

“Hey, I got a question to ask. That pointy ear chick still around?” Austin asked, trying to be as casual as possible as he slung his coilgun.

“Bruh you need to stop thirsting over them thots-” The store clerk began before the sound of something crashing made the both of them turn around.

And there she was, that elf. And Austin was more certain than ever of that little fact. Perhaps it’s the ominous glowing orb of magical energy on her hand, which is pointing at his exact position.

He was in the process of unslinging his coilgun when he was knocked off his feet, and everything went blank right after.

……​

It couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds, and as his senses rushed back in Austin noticed a few things: that the place’s now filled with canned smoke, the occasional whistle of coilguns, and what sounded like someone barking commands, mixed among the moaning of wounded or worse. He felt a now familiar gloved hand grab him roughly by the collar as Koi dragged him back up to a standing position, what’s left of his body armor falling by the wayside.

“Shocking, isn’t it?” Koi said dryly, sounding not at all surprised though whatever expression he might have hidden behind the mask.

“You knew.” Austin stated. The older man shrugged as he took his hand off of him.

“Enough.” He said. “Now get back there and see what use you can be.”

“Aye.” Austin said with a cough as he stumbled forward. The show’s mostly over, with the other guys dragging bodies and cuffing the more alive suspects. Belatedly he could hear sirens of emergency responders off in the distance. Maybe he was out for more than a few seconds after all.

And then he saw it: a body a bit a ways off, next to what remained of some makeshift portal or something. There wasn’t much that should have stood out, a male of average stature, nondescript in appearance and clothing, so shot up that it’s all but impossible to identify any identity… if it weren't for that oddly looking ankle monitor.

Austin rushed forward, ignoring the sudden stabs of pain in his abdomen. He knelt down to the body, and began to rummage though the pockets. With shaking hands he pulled out a wallet, and from it a learner’s driver’s license.

The world went black again for Austin for the second time that day.

------​

It was officially a successful operation, the internal memorandum says so from the email sent from Koi. Another lie they tell themselves, as if they do not have ears that hear, eyes that see, nor social media accounts who’s inboxes were quickly filled with angry messages. The undirected rage that even OPSEC couldn’t shield them from.

And for Austin that’s the problem. For the past few days he had retreated into his apartment, all plugs pulled, all devices turned off, the curtains pulled over and the window itself taped over with some black tape that was found from a dark corner of the couch.

The meds didn’t help, sleep was elusive, and the wider world? He was dead to them- no, probably worse.

It’s not gonna get better, it’s never gonna get better. It’s what he deserves, it’s what they all deserve…

------
​

The untimely and unscheduled death of another low level employee was annoying, but nothing so out of the blue. When the news broke in the office his coworkers shrugged, and continued their work, taking on the additional tasks left by that minute void until another body gets poached from another department. His family, their misplaced anger crumbled into yet more sadness, but no more tears could be spared from those who have suffered beyond what they should have bore in a lifetime.

And as for the war at large? It continues, grinding down more men, women, children, and others by tangible and intangible forces. More bodies for the slaughter, inflicting suffering on each other, for goals always to be out of reach, illusionary nonsense, the only thing left for those with nothing, hope for the hopeless.

All the while those who revel in the bloodlust, in the chaos and the madness, prospered. Promoted, granted more power. Higher they go, new champions for the depravity of sinister forces beyond. Drinking the poisons that unknowingly twist their very essence, or at least more than they already were. For the potential for wickedness always lies within, in the souls of men at birth. To claim otherwise would be an affront to accountability, not that anyone cares for such.

It is what it is, and it do be like that. Life, and death, goes on, in both worlds.

 

Chapter 6: You son of a maou!​

Twenty years. Twenty fruitless years we wasted on this war… What are we fighting? Desert tribesmen? Ghosts? The dialogue of a forgettable flop of a movie concerning an even more forgettable conflict reverberates throughout the halls of power in two worlds, occasionally haunting the conscience of the bureaucrats in their moments of weakness.
But not for the marines who patrol that accursed land. For they see with their own eyes the reality behind the illusion of the supposed harsh truth. In war, the work is hard but simple: You either shoot, or be shot. No certainty whether it’ll be them or you.

But in that case at least something could be done. A reaction if nothing else.

Not this farce of a peace. A notional peace for notional people doing notional things.

Bitter thoughts of learned helplessness once again flashed though the mind of Lcpl Richard Lee White, as he and his squad watched yet another supposed witch burning by the local folks in progress. The laws of the land and the rules of engagement prevent the marines from interfering with the injustice before their eyes as surely as any magical or physical barrier.

They have eyes, but forbidden to see. Ears, but forbidden to hear. Hands, but forbidden to act upon. A mouth, but their words scattered into the background noise known as the chain of command.

It’s their culture. Command said, as if that justify executing rape victims on tumpted up charges in order to cover up for pedo scumbags. Can’t afford to dismantle the existing social-political framework completely. The talking heads said, as if that justified letting innocents die for the twisted debauchery of local (and some not so local) elites.

And the worst thing is that those policies do nothing to curb the simmering insurgency. They offer nothing new or great. On the contrary, their continued presence was an affront to the natives, who so many of them got notions that misery builds character, and that they should seek the most pointless of martyrdoms to absolve their fundamental sins or some such nonsense.

What’s even the point of them being in this godforsaken land? Nation building? Built what? Bringing the kidnapped folks back home? Who even remembers that? Fuck, if anything there’s even more jackasses from earth running around in this shithole these days. More belligerent too for that matter, probably making up most of the active insurgents and other troublemakers.

Unsurprisingly, somehow, things got worse in every conceivable measure.

“Hey killer, the fuck you think you’re doing?” The voice of Cpl Steiner, his squad leader, broke White’s wallowing of self-loathing and idle musing.

“Wha- Oh shit.” White replied indifferently as he realized that he had unconsciously racked back his M27 and made his weapon to condition 1.

“Save your indignation for the internet.” Steiner sighed, knowing reasonably well what’s going through the mind of his subordinate. Those same intrusive thoughts had gone through all of their minds at some point or another. And unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, a few acted upon them.

And while Steiner couldn’t fault their moral conscience, that being said he would rather not deal with the paperwork of someone on his squad going postal.

“Roger… As if that’ll change anything.” White muttered as he fidgeted around with his rifle and mag to get back into condition 3.

“Look man, just run that clock down.” Steiner muttered through gritted teeth as he and the rest of the squad turned their gazes away from the horrific scene of mob injustice right in front of them. Powerless to intervene, the words of their orders are as ironclad as any petrification spell. “Just one fucking day at a time.”

“Rah.” Came the unenthusiastic responses by rote. Weariness enveloped the marines like raindrops soaking through cheap Gore-Tex. The weariness of the mind and of the soul, of all the power in the world except for permission, and the burden which that place on the heart.

Perhaps for all that they’re cowards. Slaved to the hypocrisy of those above, and those beyond. The fear of negative paperwork and judgemental eyes keeping them from doing what should be done. What needs to be done.

“What are we here for then?” Lcpl Tobes asked out loud the question that’s on everyone’s minds.

“Rhetorical or actual?” Steiner replied, hoping for the former, and not really feeling answering the latter if it came down to it.

“Actual.” Tobes clarified. Steiner sighed.

“To protect, um, these folks.” He finally said without conviction, pointing a finger at the heinous mob that they have all turned away from, not that it saved any of them from the atrocity that they know is happening, was happening, and will continue to happen for the foreseeable future. All across this goddamn forsaken land, forever and forever.

“Clearly not from themselves.” PFC Brown remarked, keeping a remarkably emotionless expression through it all.

“Yeah, well… there’s our orders, handed down directly from the cocksuckers from the COC.” Steiner said in a weary monotone voice. Again, this fruitless banter makes the rounds at least once a week, and the results being all the same: nothing meaningful being done, and they all slide further into their guilt by association and inaction.

And there will be an accounting. Not for the bigwig decision makers themselves obviously, the worlds are not just enough for that. Not even for the rest of them, not in the legal sense. Yet in their bones they could already feel it, forces and feelings from elsewhere. Inside, outside, wayside? No one knows and no one really wants to dwell too much on it. Not while there’s a lot of other things going on in the here and now.

“Well, if they’re expecting notional effort they’re gonna get notional effort.” Tobes half heartedly declared with a shrug as he turned around from the lynch mob, looking at the rest of the squad to gauge how much of the hint they’re getting. To his relief he noticed Steiner’s barely perceivable nod.

“Well, place looks orderly enough.” The squad leader said with the barest trace of sarcasm as he motioned for his squad to form up. “Surely we have done all we can.” He declared.
The rest simply nodded along as they stepped off, knowing how the dog and pony show should play out.

They were not 50 paces away when the unmistakable fireballs of the isekai insurgents and the shrieking of the villagers filled the air. But of course, no one saw or heard a thing. For the usage of eyes and ears are for only specific circumstances.

Just another tragedy all too common in that picturesque hellscape. Today, tomorrow, and forever.

------​

“What? No thanks.” White muttered as he waved off the canteen held out from Lcpl Yuan, an Asian whose most notable feature being his lack of anything notable. Truly a background character if there ever was one.

“You- drink. You need it.” The diminutive man insisted. The two of them, actually the entire platoon for that matter, were huddling around the smoke pit. Some vaping, others enjoying their tobacco products in more traditional ways, and the remainder just hanging around, as misery loves company.

And there’s plenty of misery to go around. Completely predictably their failure to stop the terrorist attack was not received well, and they were chewed out by their entire chain of command. The paperwork for the NJPs and the rest of the punishments will arrive in the coming days, the UCMJ remains as efficient as ever- at least on paper, and that paper is the almighty god of many worlds.

With a sigh White accepted the canteen and took a swig, the unexpected content within almost made him gag and drop the canteen. “What the fuck- How do you get it out here- You don’t even drink!” He choked out the words as he tried to get a hold of himself. Yuan shrugged.

“Exactly. I don’t drink. Company guns ever checks.” He explained, as if revealing the masquerade was just something mundane, like the weather.

“That’s some top shelf shit you got there.” White whistled, now that he had a moment to savor the bitter aftertaste of the liquor. Belatedly he realized that Yuan had already offered everyone else a drink, who all took it gratefully.

“Smuggling is high risk. Goods should be high value.” Yuan said, answering the rhetorical question that no one asked.

“But why now?” White asked, though he already had his suspicions, which was promptly confirmed.

“Because life is sucking a lot right now, and everyone need some cope.” Yuan replied, taking back the canteen and passing it to another all too willing hand. “A moment of illusion before the curtain rises again.”

……​

And they did need a lot of cope, and Yuan delivered. Somehow the dude managed to smuggle through two full canteens and a camelback worth of the finest liquor. As he was going down with the rest of them he felt he had nothing to lose with the carefully husbanded contraband.

It was near midnight when white staggered away from the smoke pit, his head pounding from the sudden and unexpected intake of alcohol rather than the actual amount consumed, which was really nothing in comparison with even the weakest of barrack parties.

As he stumbled through the FOB the shadows seemed to melt into each other, creating strange and unsettling new shapes. He dismissed those, and the rest of the slightly off sights and sounds. It was a bad idea to cope with alcohol, but at the time he was past caring. After all, what can he look forward to besides the NJP, the consequences of that, and a service that will be known as disgraceful.

He won’t even have the dignity to die a mysterious death like his father, or the man that’s presumed to be his biological father. The man who had barely graduated from being a boy had gone missing in this shithole of a world before he was born back on earth. They never found a body. Could have gone AWOL for all anyone knew.

He never made it back to his squadbay. Shuffling through what felt like an entrance or something to that effect, he promptly fell facedown into the dirt, the hard ground oddly warm and welcoming in his altered state.

------​

With a groan White rubbed his head as he got up from his unplanned sleeping spot. Steeling himself for the upcoming chewing out that he’s gonna get from his platoon sergeant. Yet as he rubbed his eyes the outworldly sights around him remained. Sinister spikes everywhere, demonic shadows swirling to and fro, the chatter of clicks and shrieks echoing in directions that seemed to defy logic or reasoning. Also the general foreboding atmosphere and darkness isn’t helping matters.

The time on his shitty ass $40 watch bought at the PX before the deployment says 05:35, confirming the suspicion in his mind that he is already late for reveille. But the little light on it showed nothing of the strange setting he is now in.

Or rather, he has eyes, but no understanding of what he’s seeing. Ears, but no understanding of what he's hearing. Suspicions in his mind, but no willingness to act upon them.

And then he saw it: the massive and sinister figure walking up to him, its ungainly walk oddly familiar in a way that he dares not make the comparison. As his eyesight adjusted to the darkness around the slightly offset familiarity became all the more unsettling.

“Huh, figures” The figure muttered in a jarring human-ish voice as it stopped right in front of him, a rather large and menacing sword in his hand. “Get up, marine. The least you can do is to die a dignified death in your last moments.”

“Wha- how do you- you can speak English?” White asked in between fits of coughs, the words and thoughts spilling out in a disorganized heap as he struggled to get up.

“Of all the times and people to question the absurdity of this entire world it has to be you here and now.” The figure mused, almost to itself- himself. The voice is male and deep enough. It was then White noticed the tattered remains of MARPAT, including a rather salted name tape with the letters LEE still barely legible…

Of course it could be a coincidence, it’s probably- most likely a coincidence. There’s more than a handful of Lees in the corps at any one time, probably more than a few who went MIA…

He brushed the doubts away. ”Dad?” He asked in a dazed voice, shaking his head to sweep away the cobwebs of his mind.

“What?” the being that once upon a time went by the name of Lee asked, his voice dropped at the sudden and seemingly nonsensical question from the marine.

“No, my father died honorably in the war.” White spat out, as if reassuring himself more than anything else.

“Honorable? There was nothing honorable about that damn war!” Lee snapped back. “Wait, you’re still here- THIS WAR!” He corrected with a growl, remembering the nature of modern conflicts in -stan type countries.

And this one certainly is one of those, as once stripped away the trappings of another world it’s no different from Afghanistan, Iraqistan, whatever-stan.
“What do you know of honor, you ugly motherfucker?” White snapped back, his bravado momentarily getting the better of him before the gravity of the situation reasserted itself once again.

“Enough to wear the uniform, and to die in it.” Lee said with a mild trace of regret, pointing at the faded nametape with a finger.

“What?” White asked, slapping himself in the cheek. Trying to wake up from the nightmare, the nonsense. Another world or not, isekai cliches like the demon lord or contrived coincidences have no place in any real world.

“Young man, I was like you once.” Lee began. “Clean shaven dumbass lance coolie going off to some grand adventure. Fought the last maou, shanked his ass too. Died around then.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Then I woke up in this weirdass cosplay, couldn’t do shit for a while, just watching the world turn.” He sighed. “I've seen enough.” Those three words had a finality different from the rest of the rambling mess.

“And why should I believe any of that?” White countered.

“You shouldn’t. You should believe what your own eyes have seen.” Lee simply said.

He got you there. The voice inside White’s mind snarked. Ignoring the lies of the demon lord is easy. Ignoring the bullshit of real life, another matter entirely.
Still, that doesn’t exactly change his present predicament.

“If you think I’ll betray the corps and my country you have another thing coming.” White said, mustering up whatever fake confidence he could scrape up. The maou simply snorted in derision.

“Save your bravado for your chain of command.” He said dismissively as he motioned for a couple of his guards, who promptly grabbed the unarmed marine with ease. “Tell them we’re coming, and that it would be prudent for them to leave, for this is not their fight.” He rolled his eyes. “Not that your chain of command will believe you, good luck on your court martial.” He motioned the guards again. “Take him away, drop his ass in front of the FOB gate.”

------
​

Of course the maou was right, they didn’t believe a damn thing. Not even the literal demons who dropped his ass in front of the shocked marines on duty at the gate. Of course good order and discipline was the far more pressing issue, certainly not the literal demon invasion that’s about to occur.

After all, evil has never triumphed in that land, and never will.

Luckily for White, the COC’s pursuit of justice was only surpassed by the incompetency of their handling of the evidence, and like so many other cases from the valid to the absurd, he managed to dodge a conviction by the slimmest of technicalities.

No matter. There are other ways to push out inconvenient people.

All the while the steps of war marched closer to its sickening conclusion.

 

Chapter 7: Ballad of the salted sergeant



As the sky sublimed into the ground, while the storm of rounds raged on. On that 7th day of that month, in that forsaken and accursed land.

For the handful of marines of the platoon, their orders are as simple as hard: to defend and hold their zone, till the end.

The sergeant looked at the men, that he trained for the upcoming baptism of fire. Trusted in him they do, as they trusted in God, Country, and the Corps.

He was the one who snapped them into shape through sharp obscenities, and he'll bear the burden of rounds in combat. All as the orders condemned them to-

That accursed land.

……

There’s a saying among the old timers, that ‘the gods here aren't so great after all’. And thus none of its inhabitants will ever be pardoned by that [damn place].

Already the first of the savage attacks have died down to a dull roar, joining the screech of trucks behind them leaving, loaded with those who they sworn to protect.

Throughout the line they held, facing countless thousands of enemies. Not another word needs to be penned of their devotion to duty.

The sergeant looked at his men proudly, for so far there’s not a single casualty. Meaning that they have taken their lessons well, through their baptism of fire.

Maybe there’s something about a NCO’s prestige, the meaning of a sergeant’s bravado. That the green silkies of theirs may never be stained red with blood.

That he might shield his troops but for a moment longer, till Valhalla and beyond. And to leave not a single soul behind.

Maybe it’s a NCO’s privilege, to bear the burden of war. No whining, no theatrics, just grim professionalism.

Not a complaint about the withdrawal, but to cover their departure. The last one to leave, in that bitter and fruitless month.

……



Then there’ll be the return back home, a march down the streets of Camp Lejeune. Where their return will be met with praise and scorn.

Afterwards there’ll be the shower of ribbons and awards, and remain with them forever the cruel untreated PTSD. Where all hopes fall apart, like their relations with their loved ones.

Later on, всё потом.

But for now they still have a duty to do, to secure the perimeter, and to fill the sandbags with dirt. For what are they but those ready to lay down their lives?

As the forward observers informed them once again of yet another wave of the enemy. All just a week before the withdrawal…

Of that accursed world.​

-------------------

If you don’t get the obvious homage/parody, it’s a skill issue. On a side note, you think they’ll still wear silkies well into the 2040s?

Also had to use some terminal Lcpl's rack, because the Sgt's rack was not as impressive.

 

Chapter 8: And that world still refuses to submit to science
​

“Regardless of… certain events of the recent past, allow me to offer you my most sincere congratulations on behalf of my government.” Koi uttered the words completely devoid of any emotions. He has none left. Not after that day, or rather, not after the consequences of that day. All he ever wanted was to be accepted as a useful member of society. All he got for his efforts was a functional and permanent exile to this shithole of a world.

A world already abandoned by his country. Legally, militarily, officially, whatever. Yet even in retreat, his country is still not done with this world. Not yet. Not that it matters. The cause will go on. It has to, there’s nothing else to live for. Not in this godforsaken world.

As for his own country, realpolitik carries through as usual, and in the spirit of the late Nobel Peace Prize recipient Henry Kissinger yesterday’s enemies could easily become tomorrow’s allies.

“As all things should be, by the gods decree.” Dygel, the self appointed regent of the Reborn Kingdom of Gulaelt, said smugly as he rubs his grubby hands in gleeful anticipation. Nevermind the small fact that he had murdered any and all legitimate claimants to the throne in cold blood shortly after the restoration of the kingdom.

And why not, for the defeat of the demon horde and the withdrawal of the American forces has left a political vacuum to be filled, and who else is to fill that gap but him?
Well, there’s that one loose end, but getting that handled was trivially easy. In fact it’s getting handled as they speak.

“Although I must ask, out of professional curiosity obviously, how did you get them- like that so easily?” Koi asked, waving a hand at the jeering mobs below, who were baying for the death of a man- no, more like a boy, who had only weeks ago been the savior of the world, who had supposedly beaten back both the demonic horde and the American troops. Who has now suddenly been branded a traitor and an affront to the people, the lands, and the gods.

“Oh, that?” Dygel chuckled as he pointed a finger at the spectacle in the streets. “It is all foretold in the tales as old as time itself.”

“Oh cut the claptrap out, don’t take me for one of those rabble down there.” Koi waved a hand dismissively while handing to Dygel a small bottle of pills with the other hand. Hatred of the Americans or not, the fat bastard is pushing his 60s, and all the wondrous favors of the gods are still not as convenient as things cooked up in a corporate lab somewhere in the US. Those pills are also one of the reasons for his continued safe existence, in contrast to the poor schmuck down there.

“Every hero that didn’t die a sensible death in his fight against the maou inevitably becomes corrupted by his ego.” Dygel said, uttering the bold face lie with more confidence than any truth.

“Ah yes, of course. How silly of me to forget that.” Koi said, nodding along to the lie, even already knowing the condemned man’s previous life back on earth, some 30 something year old Japanese salaryman named Airin Sato, who’s most notable traits before being yeeted by truck kun 84 days ago was his utter devotion to the black company he worked at and social obligation of a dying era. Hardly the type of person who would suddenly try to overthrow the order he had been up to that point dutifully serving in this other world.
Though is it still a lie if it’s repeated and acted upon for so long that it transcends truth and becomes reality itself? Does it even matter?

“And like any traitor, he will be made an example of.” Dygel declared with glee, a grin of pure malevolence slashed across his bloated face.

“Which is, might I ask?” Koi raised an eyebrow. Not that he cared, but whatever that keeps the small talk going. Neither of them have anything better to do at the moment besides gawking at the spectacle, the only real entertainment of these savage natives of this savage world.

“His bone to be broken on the wheel, his skin to be flayed by ten thousand cuts, his limbs to be torn asunder by horses, his organs ripped from his back. And finally, the wretched remains to be fed to the wild dogs.” The words dripped out of the fat bastard’s mouth, as if he’s already savoring the blood soaked torture.

“Careful though, dude down there might pull a Mel Gibson.” Koi remarked, knowing full well the historical inaccuracies in that classic movie from the previous century. But then, this world operates on slightly different rules, the rules of a farce of a fantasy, so it’s not completely out of the bounds of possibility.

“That has already been dealt with, for I had his lying tongue already eviscerated.” Dygel said, looking awfully smug of his little brilliance.

“Ah yes. Very wise of you to do so.” Koi nodded, filing the tidbit of information away to a compartmentalized part of his mind. A complete scumbag and sadist Dygel might be, but he certainly knows the political game well. If anything, better than anyone else in both worlds, though that seemed to be a very low bar these days.

Or rather, he and the likes of him are what the people of this world deserve. Koi reminded himself once again that the crowds down below are gleefully cheering on the person who had [supposedly] saved them from literal demon hordes, who believed a fat bastard who had betrayed every government he was part of in any capacity over someone who risked his life for a people and place he was, quite literally, dropped into.

A world in which despite the moral virtues of the inhabitants, is doomed to have endless suffering inflicted upon it for eternity by forces far beyond the comprehension of mere mortals as well as the consequences of their own actions.

A world whose judgment he has fundamentally rejected, and thus now immune from its judgment.

“Now that the last of the problems has been dealt with, why are you still here?” Dygel asked, finally getting to the point after the exchange of pleasantries. “Your country lost, forced to scuttle back to the world in which you came from.”

“Lose, lose where?” Koi chuckled, for once catching Dygel by surprise. “We have gotten everything we wanted: Our military had been honed in with decades’ worth of real life training. Our businesses raped these lands of their mineral riches, and with the influx of refugees from your world even our demographic problems are being mitigated. Face it, we took this world for a ride and for all its worth.”

To his mild surprise the fat bastard simply chuckled back. “So it appears. As if any of that mumble jumble means anything to me.” The way he made the statement was not from a position of ignorance, but rather one in which he knew exactly what he’s talking about. “It appears that both of our countries have profited greatly from this.”

“It appears so.” Koi nodded slowly. “And it is in both of our countries’ interests to make sure… that others do not reap any benefits. Especially those with ulterior intentions to your hard earned riches” Appealing to the welfare of the people was obviously a pointless and lost cause, thus he skipped to directly appealing to the regent's enlightened self interests.
“Well then, let them come. For heroes will always rise to the occasion to defeat the forces of evil.” Dygel waved off the implicit threat.

“Like the last 20 years?” Koi pointed out the uncomfortable obvious.

“And when during those couple of decades, or even before that, was it ever a problem for me?” Dygel shrugged off the concern. “The gods will protect and bless me as they have always done.”

“So it appears.” Koi said slowly, conceding the point. “So it appears.” Something in the pit of his stomach tells him otherwise, that it is madness to put one’s safety in the hands of fate and other immaterial forces. Yet perhaps it is how this world here works. Maddening as it seems.

“You can’t win against the will of the gods.” Dygel said in a gloating tone, narrowing his eyes as he noticed the American spy’s discomfort. “None of you can, no one can, whichever world you come from. All foretold from the beginning of time to the end of time.”

“Then I simply wish for your continued favored status by the gods.” Koi said as he got up from his chair. Tied up loose ends or not, it’s only a matter of time before the fabric starts fraying again, as if fraying everywhere wasn’t its natural state of affairs.

Surely the gods wouldn’t mind him playing around with some of those strands in the name of his country? They certainly took their sweet time the last time around, and the time before that, and…

“Leaving so soon? Don’t want to enjoy the show?” Dygel asked as he waved a hand to the scene below, where the former hero had been dragged up the wooden execution platform, and the bloody show was about to commence.

“Not my particular cup of tea, to be honest.” Koi shrugged, trying to brush off as something casual rather than the ingrained distaste due to his first world sensibilities.

“Heh, I see. Gets boring after a while huh?” Dygel said as he got up himself, the chair groaned and creaked under the shifting of his massive bulk. “Well, work waits for no one, and I shall personally dispense justice to the rest of the former hero’s party in the dungeon.”

“Of course, of course.” Koi said through a gritted smile as he passed to the fat bastard another bottle of pills, this time little blue pills whose main purpose would be… well, it’s pretty obvious. At least the former hero was given the decency of a relatively quick & painless death, for the same could not be said for the rest of the party.

Peace has returned to a world undeserving of such things, and the only change over 20 years by the greatest superpower of the known worlds was just a different scumbag in the royal palace.

And a few hundred thousand guns and other dangerous tools floating about, a number that Koi fully intends to do his part to increase.

As the common saying in the marine corps: “A war is coming”. The words ring true for this world far more than it ever was for earth.

Another war is coming, as surely as the sun and the stars move each day and night.

Truck kun better get busy, for this world needs more heroes than ever before.

 

No I'm not going to write a direct sequel. There's no point in treading an already trodden path.
-------------​

Afterward: Go forth 吉卜林的兵/Киплинга солдат, to be forsaken and left to die in that accursed world!​

And once again I’m summoned, desires cast aside.
I don’t have a devil, a god, nor a wife…
​

列兵 Li, like the vast majority of the ten million strong 人民志愿军, was nondescript in the extreme. At 1.61m in height, 55 kg in weight, black hair in the standard military cut, black eyes in the same mold as the rest of his kind. Like all the others his dull tan cotton uniform was heavily worn and patched in the expected places, the various pouches festered with numerous random doodads commandeered from the surrounding lands from back on his earth. His 53式步騎槍 is well worn but also well cared for: For that ancient rifle is worth more than his life, not that that say much of the value of either.

They are the vanguard of the revolution into another world. To succeed where the decadent capitalist Americans [of a parallel universe, not that any of them knew that part] failed to do in their 20 fruitless years in that unhappy land. They will bring this nowfound wretched and backward world into the modern age of the new socialist man.
By bullet or bayonet, the savages will be indoctrinated into the light.

The west to me is foreign, it’s east is not my east.
Behind the smoldering bridges, my heart had made its peace.
​

As Li stared at the forests of this new world around him in muted bewilderment. A city dweller of some nameless and forgettable grayish hive of a city his entire life thus far, the level of untamed greenery before him was something he only saw in picture books and heard in public radio broadcasts, never in the flesh. He could almost say the same for the sights and sounds, If it weren't for the continuous rumbles of the a seemingly endless line of 59式坦克 battlemaster tanks rolling through the portal, bellowing clouds of smoke of hate and discontent, as if announcing to the the world their readiness to unleash hell upon all those in their way, whether they be protesting university students, starving peasants, pacifist monks, or unwanted newborns.

Whichever land, in whichever world. He knows his duty. What must be done. What will be done.

Today I see tomorrow, otherwise than then.
Victory, like payment, depends upon what’s spent.
​

As the hordes of conscripts fanned out across the land, descending upon the world like the horde of locusts that they were regardless of which world they’re in. While the trucks and tanks drink fuel and eat metal, the foot soldiers and pack mules can live off of the land just fine.

And this land is rich in resources, even though the peasants who they commandeered the grain and other stuff from all bore the marks of starvation and abuse. Nothing new here of course, for the liberation of the oppressed people of the worlds is the reason that they are sent here to this other world.

Soon after the local landlords were found, who had dressed themselves up in the archaic armors of them olden days white devils, charged at them. Equally ancient swords at their hands ready for battle.

And they were shot to pieces. The harsh barks of submachine guns and rifles from the PVA soldiers cut them down much like the other luckless armies before. The same dance of gunfire beating valor once again being played out. The difference is not for the always condemned natives, but for the interlopers, who for the first time in centuries are on the side of superior firepower.

The advantage they took advantage with relish.

I’ll die the 13th soldier, and I won’t give a damn!
I don’t know how to live life, much less how to kill.
​

Combat. That’s easy. Just follow orders, fire weapons, and fight. What happens after, not so much.

It's all something he has to live with, again and again.

Best not to think of those things. People who do don’t live very long. There are things not meant to be known.

Another village, now just ashes and rubble. Another group of starving peasants, now relieved of their suffering through the release of death, their bodies disposed of in unmarked mass graves, the bones from the previous unmarked mass graves now stewed everyone. Blood flowed freely, as is fire and agony.

The country a cauldron bubbling upon those who are left.
And good luck charms aren’t needed for those who’ll be erased.
​

With shaken hands Li reslung his rifle, the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the ringing through his ears. They have survived yet another skirmish. Another group of something or the other, all out to slaughter them all the same. It’s dark out, and the shadows hungers for the souls of men.

It’s not supposed to be like this. They’re supposed to be the liberators. To be welcomed with open arms by the masses of the oppressed.

Yet they’re hated. By everyone. Everything. As if the very ground calls upon their death. Every blade of grass, every leaf of every tree, all cried out for their demise. For their death.
For their utter and complete destruction.

Just like all the others before them, and though he did not dare to even think of the possibility, all the ones after them too.

He is not special, their cause is not special. Nothing is special, and those who are not special are dead, will be dead.

He sees it all around him, the mountains of the dead, the dying, and the soon to be dead. He should have felt fear, but he did not. The shaking of his hands more of the reaction of a stranger than of his own body.

But we’ll be leaving early, our death will carry on.
With little more than a smile, and a pair of combat boots.
​

The day began like any other, more fighting, more shooting, more killing. The scenes all the same: picturesque places once again stained with the blood of many.

As he cycled through the motions of his rifle once again, the rote memorization picked up where his mind had already failed before.

This time it’s demons again, like a tide of red and black shadows they slither and leap through the ground, their claws glint off the sunlight of the day like bayonets ready for violence. Fireballs streaked above, smashing into the lines of PVA conscripts almost like… artillery. Almost like they’re fighting a real army, like the stories about the Americans, the Indians, the Soviets, or the Vietnamese…

The unsettling thought of these demonic enemies being possibly more than just mindless creatures had almost no time in his mind when a massive blast took Li off of his feet.
As he recovered from his shock and got back to his feet the first thing he noticed was that his cover had been blown off. It was a trivial thing to be concerned about, but something within him at that moment insists that it’s of the utmost importance, even more than his rifle, the same rifle that’s worth more than his life.

Then he saw it, lying in the dust, despite the usual grime and dirt, looked almost pristine. The world around also suddenly seemed to have gone quiet, as if to give him a moment of contemplation.

There is nothing to contemplate however, and Li reaches for the cover, only for his hands to go right through. Blinking, he tried again, and again, the same result each time. He looked at his hand, the same worn appearance as always, the same callouses, the same badly healed scars.

He looked around, the battle swirling around him with uninterrupted pace and intensity. Yet all felt so far away even if he could touch them- he reached out, and a demon barreled on through his arm, as if it’s not even there.

Then he saw it. Lying there, the crumpled body of which he only recognized from the tatters of what’s left of the uniform.

“Yes. it do be like that.” A voice cut through the still receding babble of combat as Li felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, seeing the face of an American soldier, whose uniform was much more advanced but still worn with age.

“Who are you?” He asked the mysterious soldier, who now he sees is not alone, and behind him a group of other… soldiers? In various garbs in which even from his untrained eyes could see that they are from different times and places.

“Know that you’re not alone.” The American said, ignoring Li’s question.

And vanquished in the desert by mirages I marched on through.
As if through a swamp of heads of whom I have no idea who.
​

And now he’s dead. Dead as in his soul, which he didn’t even know he had before his demise, has left the physical body.

Yet he did not feel sadness, anguish, or all those things. It was all for nothing, yet at the same time he felt no great loss. Belatedly he realized a realization had hit him.

Forsaken by all but for all the other forsaken soldiers, he now joined a new brotherhood of the dead.

Stumbling like a drunkard, wherever I looked around-
-I’m one of Kipling’s soldiers, I wouldn’t tell a lie.
​

-----------------
Lyrics from the song Киплинга солдат obviously.​