St. Truck-kun be with us protags! Tales of the isekai regiments of another world.

[John_Oakman]

Fuck it, let's go. The planned sci-fi story is more complicated than expected so in the meantime here's some more generic isekai trash.

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Prologue: [insert protags here]​

The dark times were coming, as the storm clouds of war advanced across the lands, and the lands and kingdoms themselves succumbed to the curses of sin, the hunger of greed, and the lust of blood.

To fight against an evil of such magnitude requires more than individual heroes or small groups of adventurers, it requires the masses of bodies. Thousands, tens of thousands… well, they didn't answer the call, the call yoinked them in the form of the all mighty truck kun.

And thus, Время выбрало этих парней, Время выбрало эту страну. These are their tales of adventure and war.

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Author's note: if something's not translated nor given context, it's probably not that important. Also there's plenty of translation software on the internet.

 

[John_Oakman]

Story 1: Гератский Вальс​

The skies are cloudless as the sun sat gloriously high in the sky gracing the land with its warm rays, a gentle breeze in the air, the grass and flowers in the field with their vibrant colors and full of life. The picture definition of the limitless possibilities offered in a world yet tainted by the overbearing and moribund decay of a post industrial civilization.

But the world was already tainted by those things, for they are not the products of modernity, but the innate nature of civilization. The most odorous evidence for this is the two ragged masses of men, horses, and all their baggage of incoming death, arrayed across each other. Their commanders with eyes of contempt, whether for the enemy or their own only the gods could tell.

For all that, Roberts, for the first time in a long time, felt something akin to elation. For a brief moment he was transported to another world, as in the one had imagined in all the isekai fic he had read a literal lifetime ago. To what little remained of his logic inside of his mind reacted to that with surprise. After all, it wasn't much, and almost certainly unnoticeable for him in his previous life.

His previous life. It really wasn't that long ago, it really wasn't. If his memories and number counting are roughly correct it was only around 6 months ago when his bland and mundane life back on Earth ended due to his body coming into contact with a speeding truck at 55mph.

What came after, in those short 6 months, was pain, suffering, misery, and bitterness. He knew the military boot camps in the world of his previous life were difficult and brutal, but it was nothing compared to the living hell that he and thousands of other ordinary losers like him were promptly thrown into in this world…

Six months ago…

The first thing after the endless void that Roberts felt with his senses wasn't from his sight, nor of a sound. Instead it was the dust on his hands and entering his nostrils. As he coughed the rest of his senses started to work again.

There he was, sprawled upon a dusty field, next to many others seemingly just like him. Around their squirming bodies stood a number of men, though dressed in waistcoats, breeches, and boots, their relative uniformity of colors denoted their military nature, as also their posture, which oozes arrogance and disdain as they gazed down as the masses of otherworlders before them.

"You, all of you." A man who dressed in the robes of some priesthood spoke. "You are here because you have been forsaken. Only through service and suffering can you receive the redemption that your souls crave-"

"Whoa, I'm in another world?!?" A voice interrupted from among the masses of the just spawned outworlders as he stood up. "Where are the cheat powers and the big tidd-"

Before he could even finish his rambling a pair of nearby soldiers grabbed him roughly by the arms and began to drag him away. The incoherent screeching continued all the way up to the gallows, which somehow missed the attention of the isekaied ones before then. Only when the trapdoor was sprung did the screeching stopped, to be replaced by the choking of the soon to be dead.

"You are all already condemned in soul and body." The pretentious priest continued even as the grisly and grotesque scene played out in the background. "Only through duty and sacrifice can you wash away the sins of your previous existence-"

"Fuck that!" Another isekaied guy shouted in defiance, while a few around him shouted in agreement. "You evil bastards need to die now-"

And just like the previous luckless fool they were also promptly seized by the soldiers, who duly dragged them to the gallows and hung them as well. A few tried to fight back, to little effect as they found out quickly that they have not been imbued with any special powers, and that their scrawny or obesed carcesses are no match for any actual confrontation outside of the internet. In the span of a handful of minutes the gallows were filled up with dozens of bodies, and with that the isekaied crowd finally quieted down as the last of the hanged men stopped twitching, out of genuine fear if nothing else.

Shit has just gotten real. They might have been sent to another world, but it's one that doesn't obey the laws of isekai. They really are just a mass of regular blokes who are stuck in another world, and moreover a world seemingly a lot less forgiving… clearly they weren't the first batch to land there, given how nonchalant and seasoned the natives of the world dealt with those who had acted out so far.

"Now that the undesirables have been dealt with," Another man, this one dressed in some form of military uniform, began to speak, "You are about to enter the service of the glorious army of the Kingdom of Gulaelt. Be thankful of the great privilege bestowed upon you the opportunity to…"

The pompous rambling continued for hours, interrupted with the occasional shouts of defiance from some of the isekais, which were promptly dealt with much like the ones before. By the time the speech ended there were hundreds of corpses lining the palisade as the dead of the gallows were replaced by the soon to be dead. From what Roberts could see a lot of the later ones were acting out simply because they wanted to die. After all, if the dice rolled once, they can roll again… but execution by hanging still looks to be a rather painful way to go out, and most of the rest don't have the guts to go out like that.

Finally, as the officer's speech finished, the soldiers moved in, truncheons in hand, the glint of sadistic anticipation in their eyes. The iskeaied ones huddled closer as they realized that what's about to occur…

It seems that their reincarnated lives are going to be rather difficult.

Four months ago…

The end, finally. Roberts thought to himself as he and the others of the newly formed 17th штрафбат/Isekai Regiment marched, or rather trudged and shuffled, out of the mustering grounds.

No, not the end, not even the beginning of the end. Perhaps only the end of the beginning. Yet so many of them didn't even get to see that. The beatings and the hangings did not stop after that day, if anything those intensified as the mob of generic nobodies were reshaped into a military formation.

Not a good formation by any means. For all bombastic rhetoric talked of how they are to be an important part of the war effort (for what, for who, for why, there was never a straight answer, or any answers at all for that matter: it's treasonous to voice such questions, and the punishment for treason is death), the reality was certainly not reflected: Most of them are holding spears, some of the less lucky ones holding hastily made war scythes. It wasn't as if firearms didn't exist, as they had seen arquebuses, mainly in the hands of the guards who shot some of the more dangerous insubordinate trainees during the training period.

As they trudged forth, through the fields of amber grain, the picturesque villages, and soon enough entering the wilderness. It wasn't a wilderness of forests exactly. Sure, there's some trees, a lot of them, but not to the point where they block out the view of what's beyond. It's almost as if there's no cover for them, for their shame.

And there's plenty of shame to go around. After all, the powers that be do not see them as befitting uniforms, or decent clothing at all. All of them are dressed in the rags of what might have been dignified the title of clothing at some point, but that might as well be a literal lifetime ago… as for their bodies, well, everyone became very well acquainted with lice and bedbugs, and all the other features of a world before the invention of modern sanitation, or nutrition, or a lot of other things they had taken for granted before in their previous lives.

As the day went on and the march continued people began to drop out, simply falling by the side of the footpath, never to rise away. The still living, closer to death than life themselves, paid little heed. While not strangers, they were still not familiar enough to be much more than that. Many thoughts crossed the minds of the survivors, in the case of Roberts merely a tinge of envy for the dead, as they have gained the sweet release from the suffering of this reincarnated second chance at life.

The suffering, he was surprised that he still had comprehension of the concept, having gotten used to the beatings, the lashings, the starvations, the cold, the heat, and the words that slice through the very soul. How he had desensitized to what would have killed him in his previous life, and had killed countless ones just like him, the most recent of which still lies on the side of the footpath, their broken and malnourished carcasses slim pickings for even the crows and vultures.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of marching, though someone next to him remarked that it could not have been more than 50 miles, the regiment stopped for the night. As they collapsed onto the ground where they stopped a couple of pack mules, lightly loaded with a few bags each, trotted into the middle of the mess. A few of the junior officers began to open the bags, and hand out the rations.

… or rather throw them, the pitiful lumps of potatoes. Suddenly the seemingly dead became animated again, as if their strings had been pulled. With the speed of the truly desperate they lunged at the objects, and soon a number of fights broke out. It was then that some realized that those lumps were not in fact potatoes, but simply rocks and mud, seasoned with sawdust. Yet with that revelation the fighting over the rations, if anything, intensified, and soon blood flowed freely as the more lucky ones were struck, their souls leaving their wretched bodies.

As for the rest, meat was back on the menu, and soon at least some of them were sated in body, at the small cost of their morality.

During all of that the officers simply watched on with amusement, chuckling at those isekaied ones debasing themselves. At the end of the day, they were just like the peasant levies before them, except even more expendable. After all, the mages have said that the gods will bless them with limitless bodies till the war is won. And bodies are meant to be spent, if nothing else.

For Roberts, he did not partake in the feeding frenzy, having crawled into the bushes as the first heads were being cracked. Once among the vegetation he began munching on whatever leaves and mushrooms within reach, his instincts having decided that death by poisoning is better than death through starvation. However, within a handful of minutes his stomach began to protest violently, and soon after he made a rather humiliating mess. It was just as well that he was far from the only one with the idea, and the consequences of their desperation remained the same.

At length the frenzy fizzed out as the rations were consumed and the exhaustion of the day took over the huddled masses, and soon the wilderness was strewn with the bodies of those in a deep sleep, the sleep of those with nothing left to give, nothing within and nothing without. Thus it was upon the duties of the junior officers to select enough bodies for night guard, which they picked with relish, choosing the unlucky ones with generous beatings from their swagger sticks.

The days after passed in much the same way, though as time went on some of the brighter ones became reasonably skilled in the art of forging, while others became skilled in extracting the fruits of labor of the former, and thus an internal and informal hierarchy formed in the dog eating dog world of the isekaied ones…

The present…

… The picturesque moment was smashed by the puff of clouds of the discharge of the cannons, followed by the whizzing of the cannonballs themselves as they flew in the direction they're being sent. Most of them simply plow themselves into the ground, some bounced a few times, and a select few smashed right into the masses of the regiment, throwing limbs and the screams of the damned in their wakes. In fact, one passed within a few feet of him, almost knocking him to the ground, and leaving precious little of the half dozen men to his left.

As the cannonade went on many in the ranks lost their nerve, breaking from their positions either to flee or to charge. The former were promptly cut down by their cavalry, who took personal affront that the cannon fodder had failed in their one duty. As for the latter, they were quickly killed by the enemy cavalry, who in their role of picking off stragglers were far quicker, professional, and more relevantly merciful in their killings

That seemed to have decided the remainder, who as one began to trudge forward, seeking to do something, anything, besides having to stand there and take the enemy cannon fire. Their officers yelled at them to fall back in formation, even killing a few, but to no avail, and quickly they gave up the endeavor, abandoning the doomed fodder to their fate. The enemy cannons continue their fire, now with a prominent target to focus on, soon to be joined by the fire of arquebuses as they come into range. Sheets of fire and thunder rain down about them while the smoke enveloped them and began to choke the very air. Many were stuck down like ripen grain, while the survivors continued, not seeing any other choice in the heat of the moment, not that there were alternative choices in the first place.

Within the swirling smoke the block formation of the regiment devolved into a blob, and then lost all cohesion altogether as the drummer and flag bearer were cut down by shrapnel and lead balls from the arquebuses. It was the moment the enemy had been waiting for, and just as the sound of fire shifted away momentarily, through the smoke the enemy cuirassiers descended upon them, their sabers finishing what the cannons and arquebuses started.

They never had a chance, most didn't even have the time to point their spears before their entrails being spilled onto the ground, and few who did only brought a few more seconds before joining their slower counterparts.

The cuirassiers dissipated almost as fast as they appeared, having dealt with the disorganized mob, their attention switched back to the stragglers, hunting down those at a more sedated pace.

The chaos and din of battle raged on for hours after that, during which Roberts simply lied still, having fallen when a horse knocked him over. The body of another luckless fool slamming on top of him was probably the saving throw, and he knew better than to attract attention to himself. He's still alive, albeit in a lot of pain, but then, it was just more pain to add on the countless recurring pains that he had since being dumped into this godforsaken world.

So much for the glories of combat.

……​

As with all good things the symphony of combat had to come to an end, and end it did, as the last rays of the sun cast its rays on a field littered with bodies, the stench of death and power still hung in the air as even the last of the looters had their fill. By some measure of luck no one found Roberts, and as he heard only the unnatural silence of a field vacated of life he gingerly pushed off the body he was hiding under and slowly got up.

As he stood up he saw that he was not alone, for among the masses of dead were also scattered survivors. Friend or foe he could not tell, nor care. Nobody alive had the strength, or will, to care about such trivial matters. For the tired men, there was an air of wordless understanding between them.

Picking up the broken shaft of a spear, he began the long walk back to the encampment.

……​

He was far from the only straggler to make it back to the camp, and like the rest of them he received the same fate of a series of beatings before being pushed into another block of men. As he looked at the new faces he noticed that they were slightly less ragged, even a mild sense of familiarity. With a start he realized that it was another group of isekais, much like himself, just arrived a bit too late for the battle. There was an officer on a stand in the front, talking of a glorious victory, that the noble knights have gone back to the capital for a victory, and that they are to relocate the camp by tomorrow.

On the last point Roberts noticed that the direction they were to go would take them back to where they had gone before, a retreat of sorts so to speak. The mumblings of those around him all but confirmed it, as many had noticed the consequences of the supposed victory.

The officer noticed the change in the mood of the assembled before him, and like the rest of his kind he dealt with it the usual way. With the flick of his hands the guard soldiers descended upon the mob of isekais, delivering yet another savage beating.

Such is life in the isekai regiments.

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Note: If PVA soldiers can march 120km with 70kg in a day in the mountains of Korea during the dead of winter while being malnourished and underdressed with a 5% survival rate then it's not unreasonable for… well, you get the point. My source is… actually, would this count as communist or anti-communist propaganda? Who knows and who cares. It was just the eyewitness account of someone who was there and did that. Wait, I don't even have to cite a goddamn thing in the first place, I don't care if anyone believes it or not.

 

[John_Oakman]

Story 2: Колонна​

Through the wilderness the caravan trudged on, the horses and men equally tired and broken, though only the latter knew the full extent of their suffering. While it has been weeks since they have departed from the outpost, heading towards the main part of the army with much needed supplies.

Or rather, where the army is supposed to be, according to the last letters received from them weeks ago. It wasn't even the first set of letters, just the first set that managed to make it. Couriers tend to be a rather dangerous post in the best of days, and recent days are far from even that low of a standard… For all anyone knew there could be nothing left but ruins and death, this whole endeavor pointless before the first boot had left the gates of the outpost.

But it must be done regardless, if not for the vain hope of the slim chance of making it before too late, then it shall be done in the same of duty and service.

All high minded words and all, but for the conscripts of the 19th штрафбат/Isekai Regiment (5th reconstitution), those words are as meaningless as all the others that came before, and all the ones that will come after. Lies, lies, and more lies. That's all they have heard from the moment they entered into this world. The lies of fake promises, the lies of faithless faith, and countless others of all shapes and sizes. Only the beatings, the executions, the sufferings, and the privations remain true, the only constants in their lives.

Yet they trudged on. The reason was as simple as it was nonsensical: survival. A miserable existence yet they clung on with all their strength and internal fortitude. Why holding onto such a life is a rather unanswerable question.

Sean certainly has no idea of why he continues to put one foot in front of the other, trudging along the stream of mud that was a footpath, before the hundreds of feet and hooves of men and horses before him had churned it up. The mud had long since stopped registering on his feet through the holes of his shoes. It was just another part of life, the dirt, the filth…

… and the diseases. Dropping out of the line, he made it a couple of steps to his right before he threw up into the ground. It wasn't much, just some droplets of discolored liquids. Like the others, there wasn't much in his stomach to actually be thrown back out, just the body's instincts at work.

He was by far the only one to be jettisoning the dregs of his stomach, as the sides of the trail were lined with others doing the same ritual, one that marks a line from their point of departure to wherever they're heading.

It was just as well that he was kneeling over at the time, for off in the distance came the cracks of arquebuses firing, followed by some of those around him falling into the ground, blood seeping from fresh wounds…

The scene promptly exploded into the chaos of combat as some of the troopers of the regiment stumbled outward towards the sound of the gunfire, meeting the enemy, who were simply melting back further into the woods. Despite the shouts and threats of the officers to stay in ranks, many paid little heed, and soon after disappear they did into the woods as an eerie silence met those who stayed behind, only occasionally punctured by the screams of the damned as the enemy claimed another victim.

Belatedly Sean picked himself up, and hobbled back to rejoin what remained of the caravan, who were already moving forward.

After what felt like an eternity since the last of the screams faded away the cracks of gunfire began again, but those who remained behind the convoy simply kept moving, the dying and wounded lay where they fell, cared for by no one, only those around picking up what could be easily carried off, mostly their weapons. It might not be much, but some pointy sticks are simply better than others, especially those picked up from dead enemies of past battles. Despite the withering fire they did not break off, knowing well enough what fate awaits those that do, the ones whose bodies now litter the foreboding and proven deadly forests beyond.

As the hours dragged on and day turned into night the sounds of gunfire finally faded away. The relief was short lived as the sounds of man were replaced by the sounds of nature in the form of the howling of wolves. As the shadows grew and enveloped so did the sinister sounds, of not just the wolves but others, less identifiable but no less sinister sounds, the darkness amplified them all.

With such dangers all but surrounding them it was still surprisingly difficult to find enough bodies to stand guard, for while the spirit was for the most part willing the flesh was predictably, weak. So weak that many simply collapsed at their post. Oftentimes dragged away to their doom by the things that go bump in the night, offering only the most feeble of resistance as they seemed to have accepted their fate. Even with their comrades being dragged away like that most of the rest slept on, too exhausted to notice anything amiss. For the few who were awakened by the scuffles, there was little they could do, and even those were not acted upon, such was their exhaustion.

And so the night went on, as the hours went by and souls departed, but as with all good things that came to an end with time as a new dawn slowly banished the shadows… some of them anyways, for storm clouds darken the day, and soon a downpour came upon them. Such a soaking was nothing new, and the men drearily picked themselves up, and continued their trudge.

The supplies must be delivered.

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After the forests came the steppes, the endless fields of waving grass, shifting slowly with the wind. As they passed through there the men began to ease from their fear of ambushes, as there were few places to hide behind.

… for men or the elements, for the trees of the forests borne those. Now without their protection, the full brunt of the gales descended across, flaying men and beasts alike. Lands in their natural state are very territorial, and unprepared trespassers pay the price for every step they take. It wasn't just the wind either, as the drying grass sliced through any and all exposed skin, spots of quicksand swallowing the occasional luckless fool, and swarms of insects buzzing around, taking what they desired from the helpless creatures below.

Still they trudged on, no longer held by ideals nor fear, but by the instincts of survival, of sheer spitefulness towards the cruel world and all the things that torment their bodies and souls. It is a powerful force, one that in another world fueled greatness, yet also pain, suffering, and destruction in its wake. A force almost as powerful as the forces of nature, and just as uncontrollable and unpredictable.

So far it has been useful, as the caravan trudged on through the endless steppes, fueled by an almost mechanical survival. Of the simple step by step, one step at a time.

The question on no one's minds is where those steps are taking them.

……​

The lack of convenient hiding spots did not mean the lack of those who seek the prize they're escorting. With a suddenness large shadows cast over the caravan, followed by chilling winds and sinister howls. The men looked up, and the sight that greeted them chilled their souls.

Dragons. Flying, fire breathing dragons. Deadly creatures of majesty, lords of the skies and all they survey. Apex predators of the known lands.

It was too much, and a few simply broke and ran, making themselves easy targets. Quickly they were snatched up, their blood curdling abruptly truncated by showers of blood and gore as the dragons took some sampling of the moving buffet before them. With the graphic evidence before their eyes, the rest of the regiment quickly formed up into squares, the precious wagons, horses, and officers, who for the first time had an expression approaching fear.

For it was a futile gesture for intents and purposes. Merely tools of man can do nothing against the beasts of primordial itself. But for the isekaied conscripts, futility is just another fact of life in this unforgiving world. The specter of death has long since lost its fear factor to those who have died, and are more than willing to die again.

For a long time the two sides were at an impasse, though it could not have been more than mere minutes. The dragons circling above, and the insignificant humans below. Then, as suddenly as they appeared they flew off, having decided for easier prey elsewhere.

With a collective sigh of relief the regiment shuffled back to columns, and the caravan resumed its slow trek.

And with the return to the usual the insects, the gales, and the grasses resumed their torment…

Still, the supplies must be delivered.

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Nothing is endless, and at length the steppes came to an end, at the foothills of vast mountains. For the survivors, the bitterness continued, as the whipping of the grass was replaced by the biting cold of the mountain tops, and the ice covered path.

Through the meandering mountain path they trudged onward. Men dragging horses as the latter slipped often on the icy paths. Many times all faltered, flinging men, horses, and wagons down sheer cliffs, their last screams quickly drowned out by the ceaseless howling gales. In the first few cases when it happened the officers ordered more conscripts to scrabble after the falling wagons, but as those also disappeared as well they soon gave up, simply shrugged at the losses, more annoyed at the loss of supplies than of men.

After all, bodies are far easier to replace than material, especially these weak disgusting ones from another world.

Even as cruel as the days were, it was nothing compared to the horrors of night. The temperatures, already biting cold, dropped even further. Meanwhile the winds, if anything, intensified, as if wishing to sweep these interlopers from the peaks and into the endless depth. Without means of fire and little means of warmth by other means the conscripts huddled together, slowly falling into fitful sleep, frequently broken by sudden starts as the biting cold rip men from their sleep.

And so the night passed, and as another iron gray cloudy dawn broke revealing the huddled piles, of which none would ever rise again. Not everyone's dead however, as on the edges the few who stood for watch, more ice than men, staggered back at the pathetic excuse of an encampment, pilfering through the ice encrusted masses for anything of value. Sean was extraordinarily lucky: he managed to find a wooden spoon out from one of the bodies. Such a prize must have passed through the hands of dozens before him, and if he's unlucky, dozens after him.

He has survived all that so far, but that by itself meant nothing. They were all destined in this other world, but so far the only destiny seemed to be various flavors of ignominious deaths, and they were the lucky ones.

Still, that inexplicable… something, within him and the other survivors stopped them from following those now forever sleeping comrades, and soon after what's left of the caravan continued.

The supplies will be delivered.

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Down the mountains they came, through the meandering paths. They were not the only ones to do so, for the melting snows also came, and fed into a mighty river. A river that they must cross.

Of course, out in the wilds there were no bridges, no ferries, and no crossings. Everyone knew what must be done. Thus prodded on by the whipping of the officers the regiment began the cutting of trees and digging of dirt.

It was not easy, if anything it was impossible, yet however it must be done. Through the power of the human spirit, or rather throwing enough bodies and labor at it it was done. The costs were, as usual, steep and irrelevant to the powers that be. Gaggles of men were swept away by the river, from logging accidents, from each other as tempers flared, and from summary executions as the officers sought to motivate the rest to work their utmost.

And so, after a mere handful of days the bridge was constructed, and after a final mass beating for their lackluster enthusiasm in their work the regiment began trudging across.

As if fate itself was congratulating them on their work, as the last of the conscripts were in the middle of their crossing the rickety bridge finally collapsed, and in minutes even the screams of the drowning men and animals were washed far away. A few of those who just made it to the other side merely watched on with sunken eyes, not a shred of emotion elicited.

Just another tragedy in this farce of a world. Or rather a farce in this tragedy of a world. The two are the one and the same.

An officer soon noticed those few, and without a word of warning simply kicked them into the river as well, cracked a smug grin as those too, were swept away to a watery grave. Just another case of proper discipline being maintained and justice dispensed.

Thus the caravan trudged on. The supplies will be delivered.

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Through the torrential downpour and the sea of mud they finally saw it, the proud banners of the country and god, defiantly waving despite the weather. A muted collective sigh arose from the conscripts, for the end of the task is at hand.

The supplies had been successfully delivered…

… but as they trudged through the palisade they were beset upon by the hordes within, as the starving rabble of the 9th штрафбат/Isekai Regiment collectively lost their mind and discipline. Within seconds a series of bloody brawls broke out all over the outer camp.

Through the baser violence and desperation the horses and wagons carried on, and soon disappeared into the officers quarters. As the last of the wagons disappeared from view the fightly petered out, having lost the reason that was never there.

Of course none of that was ever for them, dirt deserves nothing but dirt, and scum of the earth not even that. As the mud encrusted starving isekaied conscripts stared at each other a grim chuckle began to spread amongst them.

For from wherever they came from, and to wherever they go, at this moment, in this field of mud amidst the flood of rain from above, they revel in the insanity of it all.

Just another successful task completed.

 

[John_Oakman]

A story mostly used to pad out the word count, nothing much happens in it.

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Story 3: Тёмная ночь​

It was a night like any other, rainy, cold, a sea of mud, lice, bed bugs, and all other sorts of uncomfortable things. The meal of weeds and dirt making a mess of what's left of his stomach… him and thousands of others, all huddled in little groups spread across the vast fields. No tents, barely a blanket amongst dozens, shivering as the gales laugh in mockery of their misfortune.

Just another night, on their way from a battle just fought, to another battle to be fought. Where and when it matters little, and time and place became mere blurs. All places seas of mud and all times moments of misery.

Is it hell, or purgatory? Josh wondered to himself as he scrunched up a little more, futilely trying to preserve a bit more warmth for a little longer, before the inevitable fitful sleep and the rude untimely awakening from the biting cold, or the beatings from an officer for the night watch tax. Is he living? Or this an extended death scene like those flash of scenes as someone dies?

After all, that truck was real enough when it slammed into him on the highway… but it was also rather out of place for an Isuzu truck on some meandering country road in the middle of rural Kentucky.

What retreaded uselessness. He chided himself. Those thoughts have bubbled up to the forefront of his mind many times in the months since his life abruptly began in this world. This cruel world of endless suffering.

And for what? For a country that none of them have actually truly lived in? For a cause that they have no stake in or even understood for that matter? For people who clearly see them as nothing more than trash? Why haven't they rebelled yet?

The last question he could answer in a shallow manner: because he doesn't have what it takes. None of them who are still alive does. All those who dared have already tried, and failed, and paid for it with their worthless lives. But still, why?

There's always just dying. Not even as the romantic act of suicide. Just giving up would be enough, as countless others have already done, their corpses now feeding the ravens and land, in so much as such rocky lands could even accept such gifts of carrion.

Then, the rain stopped. Not with any fanfare, or even notice. He wasn't even sure when exactly had that occurred. It wasn't just the days and months blurring together, but also the minutes and moments. All fleeting in the ramblings of a mind slowly unraveling for a while.

But not completely gone, as he looked up at the now clear night sky, and the countless stars that, without the unnatural lights of civilization, are able to show themselves in all of their glory. A sight that was all but impossible back in his previous life, not that he ever tilted his head up even in the rare moments when he had to venture out of his room at his parents' house.
It was a weird feeling, to appreciate something that insignificant and, moreover, irrelevant. The beauties of this world is so far away, no possible ways to interact…

But is it so? Old thoughts intruded upon his mind again. He's noting these little things. There's nothing else to do, even something as cherished as sleep being something to be only forced upon by a weary body pushed beyond the red lines. These things that he never cared for, and still couldn't believe he's even entertaining the thoughts of even now, where things have become an order of magnitude more dire. Even more, from those thoughts came a feeling… of clarity, as if the life he lived before was shrouded in a haze.

As he continued gazing upon the stars his mind wandered back into his previous life…

------​

"If not now, when?" Josh's mother asked, no longer in the nagging voice that she had used a thousand times prior, but the resigned voice of someone who has given up, and only going through the motions expected of society. Never mind that they were in a private setting, the comfort of her own house. For the elder woman, the chains of socially expected behavior are as ironclad as any physical chains, if not more so.

"Next week. I promise." Josh replied lacklusterly without even looking up from his game. Trotting out the same lies as he had for years. Years spent on gaming, web surfing, and other such trivial activities.

To say that it was a waste of time would imply that said time would have gone to more useful things otherwise, which certainly would not be true. Nobody wants a college dropout loser like him, and those places that do are beneath his dignity.

"You have been saying that for-" His mother began to chide him, the same song and dance as the bygone weeks and months, before a much deeper voice interrupted her.

"-For over two years, 128 weeks to be exact." Tim, Josh's stepfather finished the sentence. "You have been nothing but a waste of time and resources for your mother." Josh's mother flinched at the words more than her son did, not being used to that level of honesty being openly voiced. Tim had always been rather considerate in most matters, if a little distant at times, so to hear something like that was a bit out of character.

"Whatever, cuck." Josh casually threw out the based insult, still glued to his screen. It was true, old Tim over there never had biological kids of his own. Heck, the way he acted at times seems to imply that he's somehow still a virgin, despite being married and all.

All in all, a conventional loser.

"So it be true." Tim said as he simply yanked the plug of the power cord. "But you're certainly proving that he hasn't gotten that farther either."

"Fuck you!" Josh shouted as he threw the wireless controller at his stepfather, who casually swatted away the device before yanking the young man by the collar of his shirt.

"I always said that misery doesn't build character, and it's about time I make good of my word." He said as he dragged Josh out of his room and towards the front of the house. All the while Josh's mother looked on in shock. "It's about time that the source of misery of this place be dealt with." He said as he opened the door, before throwing him out. "Come back when you stop being a source of misery." He said with a finality as he slammed the door shut.

Josh stared back at the closed door with slack jaw shock as the minutes passed, the noises of chaos behind those doors simply bypassing him as his mind wondered if it was all just a bad dream, that the door would open, and he would go back to his games and tendies.

It was only the hours passed, as the sun set and the lights lit up a rapidly cooling night when he realized that things might have been changed a bit. That he wasn't going to be let back, that he might have caused the final destruction of his family, though that was not exactly in the forefront of his mind.

With a finality that he didn't realize at the time, looked at the door for the last time as he picked himself up, turned around, and began walking. To where he did not know, for the first time in a long time there was no direction, no goal, no purpose, no quest markers.

As he was walking aimlessly first briefly thought about swallowing his self respect and applying for a job at that Asian market. He quickly shook his to banish those thoughts. He will not debase himself like that, and he will not cave in to the unreasonable demands of that asstwat. Who does he think he is even? Trying to be what he'll never be good enough to be.

No, he will not flinch first. He will show that old bastard that he is not someone to be pushed around.

A sudden gust of wind broke Josh out of his reverie, and right after the growling of his stomach dragged him back to the material plane. He might have just discovered the mental fortitude to outlast stepfather, but he needs to survive long enough in the physical world first…

At least a new quest has been found: survive. It's a relatively easy one, he'll just crash at a buddy's place… except that he has no idea of any of their physical addresses either, and for old acquaintances from back in high school, he had lost contact with them even before graduation.

As he was still mulling over his latest dilemma a random Suzuki truck skidded off the road and slammed into him, mercifully ending his life on earth quickly, and in highsight, relatively painlessly… at least compared to the world of pain that came after.

------​

It was at that moment, though he could not tell how much time had actually passed during his reminiscing, that he had in fact lived in a cloud of haze. A mostly comfortable haze certainly, but a haze nevertheless. The rude awakening in his last hours was the beginning of the dispelling of that haze, but it's the trials and tribulations that came after that death finished the job.

But in the clarity vacated by the haze, the questions still remain, why? What meaning does he have in living this world? He tilted his head, switching his gaze to another corner of the starry night skies, searching for answers in a place where it will not be found. Of course, the stars themselves continued to burn coldly in the chilly night, a night colder than any he experienced in his past life, but had since become used to. Not used to in the sense of no longer feeling the pain, but rather the muted acceptance of pain and hardship.

Still, the questions remain. The meaning of all this. There has to be a meaning, this second life, all this suffering. It can't be just a series of random events, strung together like some child's abstract art project. A meaning somewhere, even if he has to create it himself…

… and that's it. The realization hit him then, harder than any of the beatings he had received up to that point. There is something within him, something that led him to this moment, and all the moments to come. There is a purpose, even if within, even if irrational, even if delusional.

Through the clarity he has seen that the truth is hiding out there, but also a path, the beginning of a long path, a path of pain, suffering, and hardships. A path unlikely to ever be finished. Yet the more hopeless the situation, the more the new voice in his mind tells him to follow it.

On that ordinary dark night, a quest marker has been set, and a soul has finally found a purpose.

Yet he was far from alone in his revelation, across the days and months, of blistering days and freezing nights, through hunger, hatred, and hardships those who survived all found their own questlines, their own purposes, their own goals. Stripped of everything external, they reached deeply into the internal. Without anyone else to fight for, they found themselves worthy of the cause.

Sometimes, misery does build character, even characters of acceptable character.

 

[John_Oakman]

What can I say, there's no way I'm not going to write a story based on this classic cheerful song from the 1980s (I think it's actually from the 90s, but the vibe's certainly from the 80s so whatever).
----------------------

Story 4: Пыль глотаю​

Josh coughed in the dusty ruins, only swallowing more dust for his troubles. His vision failing, consciousness slipping. All around him lie the bodies of the dead, his comrade, superiors, and more, now no more than food for the scavengers. In his hands lie what remains of a broken spear, and by his side a mostly empty waterskin.

The end is near. Josh thought to himself as he gazed at the columns of smoke lazily rising up to the sky while the thundering of enemy cannons continued unabated. A dramatic thought perhaps, but it's hard to think otherwise. Here he was, laying in a dugout, surrounded by the dead of the rest of the 39th штрафбат/Isekai Regiment, as well as those of many others. Too many to list, and now too few to matter.

The day had started out so simple: to hold the hill at all costs. To stand firm in the face of overwhelming odds.

However, simple does not mean easy, or as it turned out, even possible.

They had done everything that man could: dug in, shore up, brace themselves. Somehow the Lord Marshal seemed fit to assign a pair of cannons and large stores of gunpowder, of which the latter was put in a hastily built dugout.

The same dugout where he now lies, the awning of it ripped to shreds hours ago, and a miracle that a stray shot hasn't blown up the whole place. The dead all around him, men who have given their all and fought to the last, their sacrifice as fruitless and insignificant as all those before, and all those after.

Yet that does not make it meaningless, for meaning derives from the self, and for the moment his self is still there.

He attempted to shift an inch, and was rewarded with a series of sharp pain for his troubles. There's unbearable pain everywhere, far beyond where screaming was possible. The pain where it transcends into silence, the silence from beyond the void of suffering. At least a couple of broken bones somewhere, he can't feel his limbs, though whether due to numbness or them being severed he could not tell, nor does it matter all that much.

He wasn't going to get up regardless. There was a lot of blood lost, and a lot more to be lost soon. He could feel the trickle of blood running down his face and over one of his eyelids, closing said eye shut in the process as it dried. His nose filled with the smell of iron from dried and drying blood, as was his mouth and throat.

Perversely, those senses brought a measure of comfort. He was not that far gone yet. A handful of moments awaits him in this world still.

The thundering of the cannons off in the distance has disappeared, as the hours of enemy bombardment had finally come to a stop. They had expected a brutal frontal assault by the enemy, and had prepared accordingly. So had the enemy, which was why they did no such thing, instead sitting back, blasting at them with a seemingly endless supply of artillery fire.

For hours the barrage had continued, as massive cannonballs smashed into their hastily dug fortifications, killing many directly through the effect of impact, and many more through various side effects, especially shrapnel. The ringing of the screams of the dead and dying still echoed in his head, even as those all have already left the mortal coil. Hopefully to better places.

As he looked up through the shattered awning, at the skies marred by the billowing smoke of gunpowder, he saw the faint shapes of wings. The wings of crows, flying high above the noisy violence below, the pallbearers of nature waiting on the foolishness of man.

It was too soon, He thought to himself. He has just found his inner peace, his sense of purpose, a meaning in this cruel but beautiful world. But then, it would have been always too soon, for it was precisely those circumstances that led to those revelations in the first place. If he hadn't been thrown out, or sent to this world by Truck-kun, he would have still been there, wasting away in front of a screen while being based, reveling in his patheticness.

Perhaps that is the meaning of it all: that making a difference, even to something as insignificant as oneself, requires sacrifices. Sacrifices of time, comfort, pleasure, everything…

… everything of the most significance, yet becoming the most insignificant at these final moments. All roads lead to dying in the end, and all deaths are the same after the final breath. Despite the great pain, his mind was far more serene. In the end, nothing truly mattered, and that meant all the silly little things that he had foolishly cherished before, all those things, that in hindsight, were burdens. Foolishness. Trivialities.

Still, it kinda sucks to be dying like this. Alone, bleeding, the physical pain. He could hear the sounds of drums in the distance, signaling the incoming enemy infantry. They have finally made their move, they who did not have the guts to storm the place by force of bodies, now march confidently unopposed through the hard work done by the cannons.

Another step closer to the end.

His hands moved around, looking for something. Each movement brought about another spasm of pain. Pain that flowed together, just another smattering of notes in the symphony of suffering.

After a few agonizing minutes, he found them: a piece of flint and steel, from a fire starting kit from one of the crews of the cannons. An unbelievably expensive set of items, at least from the perspective of him and the rest of the rabble. Yet now as he holds the pieces, it meant so little. There's no one to trade with, no time to hoard for a future that never was, and never will be.

So little, but enough. Enough for what's to come, his last act. In two lifetimes of meaningless mediocrity, he was ready to make something of it all. Not an act of desperation or pettiness, though to outsiders it would appear to be such, if there were any to observe him at all.

Rather it was… it was a final act of duty. The exact reason he could not tell. Certainly not to the country that he has no loyalty to, nor the officers who only know the language of savagery.

No, he owes it to his fellow soldiers, the comrades whose bodies now strewn about all around. They had fought to the last, giving their lives in the name of duty. A duty to themselves and each other. A duty that transcends the worlds themselves.

The drumbeats grew closer, every beat another stab of pain through his temples before receding into the general numbness. Two lifetimes, a combined total of over twenty years. A span of time that made little sense, so much of it wasted, and so much happenings packed in a handful of moments. Perhaps time is relative, in the sense of what counts in the end.

The imminent end. He could hear the crunching sound of boots, of shouts and cracks as the enemy moved in, scouring the scene for loot and bodies.

The bloodloss, now slowing down to mere trickles and drops, continued. His vision was failing, as was the rest of his senses. Summoning the last of his willpower, he looked up, and saw the shadowy figures approaching. Dusk was approaching, for the day and for his life.

It was all senseless, meaningless. A war that none of them knew why, or who, or what's even going on. He wondered if those before him were the same: simply being told to fight, that their side is just, without any justice being displayed nor shown. Yet the joke is on them, for those who were shielded for the misery would have also been blinded to virtues. He smiled internally, imagining any of those sadistic officers having any kind of such revelations. Impossible, so impossible that they wouldn't even have an awareness of what they have missed.

Another cough, another bolt of pain. The shadowy figures turned towards him. He smiled.

"Farewell, wonderful world." He muttered as he hit the flint and metal together.

A few sparks flew, little lights danced in the dark and dusty pit… dusty from the powder and soot. In the blink of an eye the dust ignited, and within another blink the rest of the stored powder nearby followed. A massive explosion rocked the hill, taking the top of it off. Bodies, parts, debris, and other riffraffs flew in all directions. The sound of the boom was such that the crows circling above were knocked out, the shockwave felt for miles.

He never knew what happened after that last act, nor did it matter. For in the end he was the only relevant judge of his own lives, as the noise of the material worlds stopped at the edge of the great void.

------​

Thus ended another battle, though it was said that the official conclusion had come before the final unexpected explosion. Once again the scum of the worlds, the men of the штрафбат/isekai regiments, stood and fought to the last. And once again, their sacrifices were meaningless in the eyes of the country that summoned them, just another forgettable page in the annals of that sad world.

Josh's story was not unique, nor particularly special. Not even his self discovery. Over thousands of deaths across dozens of battles a handful of others reached the same discovery. All gone from this world, but not too soon, for the gift of self discovery and inner peace is never too late to be reached.

 

[John_Oakman]

Story 5: Комбат​

"Why aren't you like the others?" The conscript flinched as he stuttered the words, the numerous beatings, whippings, chronic malnutrition, and numerous undiagnosed diseases have taken its toll on the young man, now more a walking skeleton with a thin covering of skin.

"Because I know what it felt like," Subaltern Saul replied, "The lives of you and the others before your arrival."

"How?" Came the question from a genuinely puzzled expression, as the conscript's mind was too dilapidated to suspect of trickery. None of it matters. Officers don't need to dally around to mete out sadistic punishments on the conscripts. Any reason, including no reasons at all, is a good reason to commence the beatings.

"Truck-kun works in mysterious ways." Saul simply said, noting the other's sudden surprised expression before continuing. "That's enough proof?" The slack jaw expression from the conscript was enough of a confirmation.

He turned around, letting the conscript know that the conversation was finished. Moreover, he can't openly display anything even remotely akin to compassion to the fresh isekais, not if he wants to keep his position in the hierarchy. "You better get back to work, I think I see the regimental captain coming this way." He whispered, trying what he could, knowing the futility of it all.

It's something that he was disgusted at himself for, but also knows that there's nothing that he can do about it. In the grand scale of things he's just another cog in the machine. A machine of sadistic brutality with a thin veneer of moral virtue. A moral virtue as bankrupt as the king's treasury.

It's not that different from his previous life, in the fragments that he does remember. That's the thing with a full reincarnation: a lot of things, well, not necessarily forgotten, became more myths than facts. Mostly details, hazy recollections of foods eaten, places visited, and random useless trivia.

He shook his head to clear those musings. Mulling about a different life lived in a different world does nothing for the life he lives here and now. Well, almost nothing. It does make him slightly more empathetic to the hordes of people that the mage guild has summoned for the war.

People. Few among his peers thought of those filth infested rabble as people. Then again, They don't see the peasantry as people either, back when there were as many peasants as trees in the forests. Before the rise of the evil empire, before the calamities, before…

… and not a damn thing was learned through the trials. His peers, all of them, are still as arrogant as ever. With the peasantry spent, they simply moved on, drafting the unfortunate and the unlucky of another world. If anything, their arrogance has only increased, as many now styled themselves as being blessed by the gods, miracles coming at just in the hour of need.

Never mind that the only reason said needs occurred was of their doing in the first place.

Of course it was for noble purposes, for evil must be exterminated. The heroes and adventuring parties were to make the world a safer place… and once again the rationalizations crumbled in his mind, only for the whole meandering turmoil pushed aside.

It's no use. The gods did not see him fit to worry his little head over those matters. They only demand him to fulfill his duty, and his duty is to fulfill his military obligations. It's something that's not readily explainable, not even to himself, or rather, the him of the previous life.

------​

As far as a second life went, it wasn't that bad in comparison to the life he had before, the lack of modern amenities were easily compensated by the fact that he was born into a family of some status, if they were even missed in the first place. Things such as the internet and electronic gadgets in general were a lot easier to forgo when there's the knowledge that no one has them, and thus there's nothing being missed out on.

As for the rest, it was something he didn't want to dwell on too much upon. The voice in the back of his mind, the collection of the remnants of his previous life, his second conscience, rather unwanted and unwelcome. It's easy to rail against the horridness of a world unenlightened by theories of basic human dignities and rights, but to actually make those changes… didn't it take the countries of earth centuries to progress there? So much as a part of him wishes to make those changes, he knew, it wasn't going to happen.

And so he simply lived life in this new world as was intended. Sure, there were occasional moments where he tried to nudge things forward, but to little avail. Random tidbits of trivia and gossip have no place or value. There's also the little matter of him being the third son of minor aristocracy: There's the heir, the spare, and then there's him, the bargaining chip from the discount aisle.

It's not a bad existence, even relative to that of his older [half] brothers. Much was not expected of him, little of the family drama, and even less of the greater drama with the rest of the aristocracy as the older brothers got shipped off to the royal academy. With less scrutiny comes more freedom, heck, he was mulling over when to propose to the daughter of the local tanner, something that's unthinkable for his more fortunate brothers to even daydream of…

Then, of course, the war came, and with it the call to arms. The initial call to arms. A minor distinction perhaps, but one that makes all the difference for the participants, for not all who partake in wars fight equally, nor all glories shared as equally. If anything, there was an inverse relation between the two, but it would be rather unwise to make note of that.

Thus he went, promising to her that he will come back, and they will get married and live a happy life together. All fairytale stuff, some of which he had believed in even.

And then, at the mustering grounds, he saw the gaggles of the iskeaied ones, and then, the death began, and continued, and continued. The brutal reality of the world and country he resides in crashing into his face as he gazed at the raw suffering in all of its horrors.

Far from his family's estate, far away from the fantasy world. Yet for all that he had only gazed at the horrors of reality, not being part of it more by luck than anything innate within.

It's something that he's keenly aware of, if only for the pain it brings upon him in his mind.

------​

"Forward, march!" Saul yelled over the din of battle, while trying to hold back tears and coughs from the thick smoke of gunpowder. The bugler and drummer began their playing, passing on the message to the rest of the 26th штрафбат/Isekai regiment. The block of men-like creatures, emaciated shadows of men, fueled by the fires of primal emotions within trudged forward, pikes held at the ready.

Forward they went, braving through the smoke, the fires, the screams of the damned and the dying, the hail of cannon balls and arquebuse shots. Many were cut down by the enemy fire,and as usual the rest trudged on, having long since grown accustomed to the spectral of violent death.

Death, the sweet release of a dutiful death, though that notion is usually dispelled for most of those who were actually in the throes of death. Physical pains do not care for high minded abstract notions. The serenity of acceptance was a privilege reserved for the few, who those might be more a matter of chance masquerading as fate.

All good stuff and all, but irrelevant to the still living and walking, though how much they're actually living is debatable. The important thing is that they're still walking and carrying their pikes. As they came closer to the enemy line of pikes, the trudge slowed to a crawl as the human instinct against getting closer to sharp pointy things asserts itself despite the endless beatings to break said instincts.

All too soon those fears became bloodstained reality as the masses of pikes slowly crashed into each other, and the screams of pain became much closer. Again and again he hacked with his sword, cutting through the shafts of the enemy pikes. Yet like a fountain more simply came out, replacing what has already fallen.

Inevitably his luck ran out. He first felt the stab of pain, and as he looked down he saw a large and growing red patch on his side. Before he could react, something or someone pushed him aside, and soon the world turned red, then to black…

……​

The return to the world of the living took a bit longer, though somewhat less painful. It must have been the alcohol that somehow found its way into his bloodstream. He had no recollection of consuming any, but must have during the time in which the apothecary and the surgeon had done their healing arts on him. Pity that the after effects are still about in his body. As always, none of the benefits but all of the consequences.

It was then he noticed his surroundings, that he was lying in some sheets on top of a stack of hay on the back of a wagon. A wagon that's moving on a rutted dirt road if the bumping was any guide.

"What- what has transpired?" He managed to croke out, before a painful coughing fit consumed the next handful of seconds, though it felt much longer.

"For your bravery in battle, and the wounds you have taken there," A neighboring voice replied, "You have been granted the privilege of recuperation at your family's ancestral estate."

"Praise be to the ancient ones." Saul muttered, knowing the real reason that he had been sent back. It was not of mercy, but rather of expediency. The wounded cost supplies while contributing nothing, and often a drag on the speed of the army. Still, he knew he was lucky: wounded conscripts are often simply left behind to die, especially the ones from another world.

After all, it's cheaper to summon new ones rather than fixing existing ones, and the lessers, they were no more important than dust on the boots.

He closed his eyes again, wondering about the war, the cause he has dedicated his life and honor to. Was it all a lie, an illusion?

Does he have a choice even if it is?

------​

It was not a hero's welcome he received once back at home. Rather, it was the return of an embarrassment. A reminder of the cruel realities of war, instead of the heroic grandeur of honorable combat.

Yes, reality, the greatest enemy of the war at home. For the enemy can only reach where his armies march, but gossip and rumors… or even things they see with their own eyes. That is a problem indeed, for those do nothing but only capture a fleeting moment, and wars are much longer than that… or rather, the hopes of something at the end of the tunnel, something to make good of all the sacrifices that have already been committed, and will be committed still.

Who is correct? What is correct? He could not tell, and feared the answers even if he could. Perhaps that's why he stayed put in the family estate as he recuperated. Not only of the injuries of the body, but also that of the mind and soul.

If only it was that easy.

The quiet peacefulness, the tranquility of these lands so far from the trauma of war. They gnawed on him as the days passed by. The knowledge that thousands, tens of thousands, are suffering and dying in great misery.

And there's nothing he could do about it, either back here or out there. Yet his honor demands it, the pursuit of moral virtue cares not of the consequences, but only that of intentions. Yet no one in this world cares for intentions, only results.

Such are the contradictions of life.

Lives. It wasn't as if his life before this one was any simpler, or more straightforward. The troubles are that of man and his nature, not of unexplained forces. Moreover, he was still chained as ever before, if not more so. Worse still, he knows he could not voice about them to anyone: his peers aren't burdened in the same manner and thus won't understand, and the other isekais… Well, it's not good optics to whine about such high minded matters to those who couldn't even get enough dirt to eat each day.

It was during one of those afternoons of fruitless musings when one of the servants interrupted his lonely silence with a message: That it is time for him to get married.

But he wasn't ready, or fit. He protested.

It doesn't matter, neither was she. Was the response.

He could read between the lines as well as the next person, but like many things in the worlds, knowing what's to come meant little when there's nothing that could be done to stop it. The worst type of predestination.

------​

For a wedding, it was a small, discreet ceremony. Out of sight, and thus hopefully out of mind. Of course, it has to be. For it is a union of convenience and social acceptability, in a world where perception is more concrete than observable reality. The noticeable baby bump on her belly was the main reason, but what haunted Saul was her eyes: gone were the sparks of hope and wonderment, replaced by the pitch black endless depths of despair.

And the reason for those changes, he could see it clear as day. For off in a corner sat a large mountain of lard, radiating pure disgust. How much of that perception was the person in question being a money lender and merchant Saul could not answer, but even without those traits and ignoring his physical appearances, the circumstantial evidence is damning enough.

And of course there's nothing he could do about it. Of course, technically there's nothing physically stopping him from picking up a sword and slicing that fat bastard's guts out… but of course, it's not that simple. The power of money, or rather the debts that his family had accrued, in which said fat bastard holds all of it.

So wallowing in his self pity and impotent simmering rage that he even missed the cue to kiss the bride, though no one really noticed either, as there was an air of impatience: everyone knows the farce, and wishes it to end as quickly as it could be.

All in all, Saul was just glad to have healed from his injuries, which means back to the familiar and comforting surroundings of war.

With a start he realized in horror that he was looking forward to what he had in the recent past abhorred, but a lot of things have changed since then.

There is no place for him to go but back. To where he could do something about something.

------​

"The 26th штрафбат regiment will advance. Forward, March!" The now captain Saul repeated the orders given to him. As usual, it's simple: the 26th штрафбат/Isekai regiment will be the first wave to storm the entrenched enemy field fortification on an otherwise unremarkable hill, that it wasn't even dignified with a name.

But of course as always, simple does not mean easy, as the plan calls for them to march straight into the teeth of enemy artillery and arquebuses. The age old gambit of wearing down the enemy with sheer bodies.

After all, there's more bodies where that last batch came from. A fact that Saul was painfully aware of as he looked around: there wasn't a single familiar face in the regiment from when he last saw them, nor any of those present remember any of them. A handful of months was enough to wash away thousands, through the sword and the cough the grim reaper takes his due.

Of which he is certainly doing with great relish, as the thundering booms annouenced the arrival of cannonballs. First came the solid shots, smashing limbs like twigs. Some flinch, but Saul noted that most simply shrugged, if they reacted at all. Unfamiliar faces they might be, but jaded veterans many of them are already.

However, veterency meant nothing in the face of artillery, and as the regiment advanced further more cannon shots smashed into them, the masses of smaller balls from canister and grape joining the more regular solid shots. The whizzing of the projecties so many that they melt into each other, creating an endless buzzing.

In the handful of minutes again and again the lines shattered as scores of men simply collapsed and disappeared into the clouds of dust and smoke, and again and again the survivors formed back, only to be smashed apart…

Suddenly, he was on the ground, the agony of a thousand pains stabbed through all over his body. As he looked around, there were only the dead and the wounded, the latter's screams all but drowned out by the booming cannons and the distant drums of the other штрафбат regiments, those presumably will all suffer the same fates as he and his men did.

So this is how it ends. He thought to himself. Unexpectedly, he felt a sense of comfort from that thought, as if a weight had been taken off his chest. Perhaps it's all the bloodloss, or just a finality he could grasp. He has done what could be done, what should be done, and has been done. What happens after is in the hands of forces beyond the understanding of mortals. As the darkness of death fell upon him a second time he smiled, finding his personal peace in the heart of a raging battle.

Just another unremarkable death among thousands that day, and many days like it. The war goes on unabated. The ranks refilled, again and again, with the dregs sent by the all mighty Truck Kun.

------​

Haman the merchant and money lender crackled maniacally as the slaver's wagon clattered away, the wailing of its contents melting into and with the creaking of the ancient wagon. For him, those screaks of despair are music to his ears, the music of profit. Especially sweet is the sounds of a certain widow and her newborn child.

Life is good, profits are greater than ever before. The war has been nothing but a boon for him and those like him. Those decadent fools spending and borrowing more than ever, and those with the spine to trouble him sent off to die glorious yet utterly forgettable death, far away and out of sight and of mind.

As the sounds fell away into the quietness of a normal day he turned around, making his way back to his house. He idly mused to himself, already thinking of the future, and the endless possibilities of ever more money to be made.

He smiled. War is such a blessing from the gods, may the wars be endless and so with it the flow of money…

 

[John_Oakman]

Story 6: Караван​

The water is everywhere. Falling from the skies, dripping from the trees, stagnating in the swamps, the last of which the men of the 44th штрафбат/isekai regiment huddled in, soaked to the soul, if not already having had their souls drained from their bodies in the biting cold of the standing water and mud.

Not a sound came from any of them, even as some disappeared down the water, never to be seen again as the cold embrace of the bogs took them forever. No one of them dared to break, for they feared the consequences of disobedience more than death itself. If nothing else, the methods used to cull the undesirables tend to provide the desired results… and the high cost in lives was not of those who be's concern. As an infinite number of monkeys will after enough time produce the works of Shakespeare, so will an infinite number of isekais be transformed into a sufficient number of disciplined soldiers.

Todd was one such man: a generic useless NEET in his previous life, the crucible of suffering and misery have forged a very different character. Thinner, more emasculated, hollowed. Yet for all that a new fire burns with a passion within. What fuels that fire he could not tell, and in all honesty he did not want to dwell too much upon. Terrible things had been done upon him, and in return he has done terrible things upon others.

So he and the others lay in wait as the time went by, as the rain and the dying continued unabated, the clouds and the tree cover making the passage of time impossible to tell. All a haze of grays and wetness, muffing the needless suffering of thousands.

Just another drop in the bucket in the endless maw that is the vanity of those who are, whose endless hunger for the glories of war had already consumed a world's worth of lives, and now the lives of other worlds.

Gradually some of the more perceptive ones began to notice a series of changes in their surroundings: the sounds and smells of nature slowly fading away, being replaced by the unnatural, but not unfamiliar sounds and smells.

The time at hand was near.

Soon enough the sight of the first horses and wagons of the enemy caravan appeared, trodding on the wet and muddy path, occasionally slipping and tripping in the sea of brown. A sea of cursing emanates from a little above the sea of mud, as the soldiers and camp followers of the caravan vent out their frustrations in the way humans have always done.

Still they waited, as time itself seemed to have slowed and the agony of the elements intensified. A few more of the ambushers slipped under the bogs in those handful of moments, but still discipline held, for the numbness has long before grace those present with its chilling presence.

As the first of the enemy vanguard passed the outermost of the ambushers the latter made their move. With a muffled shout they rose, slime covered creatures from the depth of the bogs, slowly moving as they shrug off the last of the clutches of the cold. Quite a few did not join their compatriots, the last ones to be claimed by the swamps. Like the others previously the living paid no heed to the dead.

A scattering of shots rang out feebly from the caravan, followed by panicked voices as the realization set in that the rains and humility had taken away the fires of wicks, and thus locking away the power of the gunpowder at a critical junction.

A mere small matter of life and death. Things that meant everything for those who are living for the first time, and meaningless for those who experienced otherwise.

Emboldened by the lack of incoming fire, the men of the штрафбат surged forward, their harsh guttural cries drowned out by the crashing of branches and the sucking sounds of the mud. It was all a rather slow affair, with the mud being a hindrance to movement, regardless of who's moving, and for what reasons. For those present, it was as if time itself had slowed, as if some unseen force itself was savoring the moment for the maelstrom of emotions from the combatants and victims.

As the forces closed in, the cries of human and pack animals began to rise above the sounds of nature around, reaching a fever pitch right as the masses of humans crashed into each other, and immediately replaced with the sounds of killing.

Then the butchering began. Fueled by seemingly animalistic instincts, any semblance of order broke down the soldiers of the regiment let loose their bloodlust on the hapless caravan. The few enemy soldiers who resisted were casually swept aside, while the ones who attempted to flee quickly sank into the endless mud, and were then cut down where they stuck. Blood flowed freely, staining the ground for moments before being carried away by the rains. The sickening stench of killing hung in the air while the screams of the dying reverberated throughout the trees.

Almost as soon as it began, it was already over. Todd stood still, the sudden cessation of the sounds of combat snapping the red out of his eyes. With a start he realized he was holding onto an arm. A disembodied arm to be more specific, blood still dripping from the ends. Shaking, he dropped the arm, which quickly fell into the mud, before being picked up by someone else, who dug into the now filthy flesh with reckless abandon.

He could not tell what had befallen upon himself. The scenes played out all around him have long since become normal: the mass cannibalism in the aftermath of battles. The looting of the wagons of the caravan for any and all valuables. The full unrestrained savagery of men was on open display, if there was anyone to see such a site. Yet by now, none of those acts stirred anything within his mind nor soul. It was… simply war. War in this cruel and unforgiving world. Feelings, emotions. All were meant to be dashed against the rocks, just like the heads of innocents.

When it was over, not a single wagon was unturned, and not a single body undefiled. With the frenzy concluded, the men of the regiment looked at each other with shame, regret, and self loathing. All familiar emotions. All unwanted. All inevitable.

And almost on cue, the moment of spontaneous mass self reflection was broken by the sounds of vomiting, as many of those who just moments ago gorged themselves now felt the effects of refeeding syndrome… at least, the ones that were aware of that. For the rest, it was as if the higher powers were punishing them for their transgressions. Or really for anything. Or even for no reasons at all.

Is it hell? It could not be, for he, and others, have learned, grew, repented. For what they knew, even if they don't have the words to express it if anyone cared to ask.

Yet the suffering and misery remains, with no light in this seemingly endless tunnel of this sick parody of life in another world.

He cried. With a suddenness that caught the remnants of his rationality off guard. He cried with tears he didn't know he still had, drops mixing freely with the still endless pouring rain. All falling and quickly disappearing in the sea of mud, as if they never existed at all.

Just like the lives of the recently fallen, and the ones who will fall still. He knew. They all knew. This path is a well traveled one. One that many a caravan have fallen to ambushes, of which traces of none but the present one remain, and that not for long. The forests and swamps will reclaim everything.

At length, the tears ran out even as the rain continued unabated. He picked himself up and started trudging, with everyone else. Forward, elsewhere, somewhere. The war continues, as endless as incomprehensible as the day they arrived into this world.

Only the fires within them kept one foot in front of the other, but for how long? For them the question came quickly as the surviving troops formed into a misshapen column as stragglers fell out, quickly disappearing into the mud and swamps just like all the others.

Success, failure. It all goes by in a blur.

 

[John_Oakman]

Story 7: Мы выходим на рассвете​

Another ordinary day… no, not an ordinary morning, for not even the skies themselves felt the need to hide what they feel. The clouds over their heads so thick it seems to threaten to suffocate the world below. Thick layers of snow, much already streaked and churned with browns and grays, covered the lands. No sounds or sights of beasts or fowl, only the howling of the needless biting winds, screaming for the countless souls of the past.

A fitting landscape for the ancient borders between the two nations, currently at war, before then merely states of informal conflicts. Peace was never an option, the gods themselves have ordained such a state of affairs since the dawn of time.

Or so the church says, and no one of that world dares to question the church openly. The corpses of the ones who did hung from gibbets at countless crossroads and town squares.

This time however, it was different. This was to be a war to end that open sore of evil and wickedness, the final ultimate showdown to determine the fate of a world.

None of that mattered to the huddled masses of isekais scattered in the dilapidated parody of an encampment. For them, it was just another day, another week, another month. Of suffering, savagery, hatred, self loathing, regrets, and a maelstrom worth of troubling emotions kept in check through an imposed morality beaten into their very essence.

As the rabbles of isekais formed up, organized by their regiments, ready for their daily thrashings and beatings the mood was one that had reached its final stage: Numbness. Beyond the maelstrom of incoherent rage, the fear of suffering, the resignation to fate. All those stages having long since passed on, leaving a vast emptiness in the husks of men.

But no one showed up. As the minutes passed into hours and still they waited, the grim reaper picked off ones and twos as the time passed, the death mourned by none of those around. It was mundane, their time had simply come again, the ironclad knowledge of reincarnation and alternate worlds had long stripped away the pain of death, even before the numbness took what remained.

At long last, though what time of the day it was by then was hard to tell due to the still ever looming cloud cover, a disheveled subaltern stumbled onto the raised platform. More puzzling than the fact that it was such a junior officer conducting this daily task was the lack of armed escorts: no matter how beaten and broken they were, the officers never let their guard down… or was it merely their desire to trust the regular executions to natives only?

"We- You-" The words sputtered out of his lips as the clearly distraught man attempted to collect his thoughts on the fly. "Forsaken." The word came out he sat down on the platform, seemingly drained in energy and spirit.

Still they stood silently, though waves of confused and undefined fear washed through the ranks. It was one thing to be bombarded with grandiose but ultimately insincere threats from the forces beyond, but another to see one of… them, reeling from their own words.

After a long moment of silence, the subaltern finally spoke again as he found the energy to stand up. "The war is over. Evil has triumphed."

Continued silences and lack of reaction greeted the bombshell. For the isekaied ones, those words meant little, if anything at all. What evil could be greater than the ones that beat them with the most savage cruelty day in and day out?

"Do you understand nothing? You have been sold! To the evil empire as chattel slave!" He doesn't understand, why are they still so sullen- To be enslaved by evil, the most terrible of fates imaginable-

He slumped, as realization sets in. The masses in front of him are already in the most terrible fates already, since they day they had been dropped into this unhappy world. The familiar biting silence descended once again, as he trawled through his mind for words, somethings, anything-

Then the questions started to gnaw at him. Why is he still fighting? Fighting for the lie of all lies. After all, they have been betrayed. Literally sold out to the enemy by the higher aristocracy to pay off their war and gambling debts, for they had grown bored of this rather expensive adventure. They have sated their glory for war and blood, now they sate their purses and moneybags.

He closed his eyes and sighed, before opening them again. The scene remained unchanged. Still they stood, as if waiting. Waiting for something…

Lies they might have been, but that's all they have left. The lies of honor, of duty, of sacrifice. All for nothing perhaps, but it's more than otherwise. He took a deep breath before speaking again.

"I will be frank here: you are all slaves now. Only through death can you regain your freedom and honor." He said, genuinely, for it never occurred to him that there was simply the option of walking away, as he never saw the isekais as anything more than props: human shaped objects to follow the expected script of his society. After all, such a righteous cause as the crusade against evil they're on needs no justification. It is right, noble, and will be done as the gods ordained.

All was not yet lost, even in this darkest time. The hour of salvation is at hand…

Lies. Lies to the self. To the soul. The front of his brain snarled at the rank naivety, or delusion. No matter. Yet for all that, it offers no alternative. The moral code ingrained in the very essence forbids them.

But what of them? Still they stood, sullen and unreadable as ever. A few more had dropped in the meantime, and as before no one mourned their passing. What's even going on in their minds? For the first time in his life he had to confront the reality that, perhaps his idealistic sentiments aren't shared by these otherworldly rabble.

The stares continued, on that cold and unforgiving morning. He nodded to himself, making up his mind. Whatever happens, his own conscience will be clear.

"Tomorrow. We leave at dawn, and if the gods are willing, we'll die the worthy death by dusk." He said, his words came out hauntingly. Waiting. Waiting for the reaction from the isekais. With a realization he found that he wouldn't be surprised if they simply killed him then and there.

A couple of shots rang out from the regiments, all missing him by a yard as arquebuses tend to be. He looked into the crowds, but could see no evidence of who had shot. The mumbling amongst the masses had stopped however, as everyone waited in bated breath.

"I can promise nothing except death." He said, the words resounding despite how softly he spoke. "It will be painful, miserable, and probably meaningless. But it will be an end." He shrugged. "So again I offer the following: we'll march out tomorrow at dawn. Dismissed to your duties."

The spell broke, as the formations scattered, as the men went on to their daily tasks. The subaltern sat down on the platform again, wondering to himself whether he believed his own words or not.

Not that it matters, not that any of it matters. As the world around him collapses before his eyes, what's within is all that's left.

The question is, what is that within?

It appears that he'll have to face that come dawn tomorrow.

……​

For their last day in existence in that world, the mood at the encampment was oddly cheerful. It was as if they were looking forward to the notion of going out in a blaze of glory. Or merely dying in general. Many were digging shallow graves all around, others making simple grave markers, crosses that ironically have similar meanings across worlds, and yet similarly stripped of their original religious connotations to those who'll soon be under them. A few of the more daring have busted open the supplies stores, and foods and liquors of all sorts flowed, even if much of that almost immediately came back out again due to refeeding syndrome, and soon followed by some of those men themselves. The only ones, perhaps, that died with a genuine smile on their faces.

Despite, or because of, that, there was a sense of purpose all around, as rather than being prodded on like always before, the men conducted themselves with intent and energy. There is a finality, a light at the end of the tunnel. The probability that said light is of the imminent fires of death and damnation did little to deter them, those who have already suffered far worse in their second lives.

What the almighty truck-kun takes, he also gives. Finally stripped off of everything, these men could live their lives without regrets, if only for a brief moment.

……​

When dawn came again the sun rose out of a sky cleared of all clouds, and even the ravens high above kept a respectable distance, as if to give what's about to transpire its proper dignity. The snow remains, as the bitter cold, yet if anything those seemed to make the scenery more clear and picturesque.

Out of the encampment the штрафбат/Isekai Regiments marched, the flags unfurled towards the skies by a gentle breeze. As the dust rises above them, and the gods and banners with them, as they hold their weapons at the ready for the final battle.

A sight of what could have been, of what it is, and of what will soon be snuffed out.

As they moved into formation, a group from the enemy on horseback trotted towards them with a flag of truce. At the distance of 30 paces they stopped, as the lead among them, a man clad in full black metal armor of exquisite quality, spoke.

"Condemned otherworlders. You have served and fought beyond reproach, and fulfilled all duties of honor. The lord general offers you an honorable surrender, in which you retain your arms, and march in formation, to where you came from." He gestured behind him, at the vast array of troops and cannons, as far as the eyes could see and even beyond. "Total destruction is certain."

"We thank him for his kind offer." The subaltern now turned general replied. "But this is a штрафбат army. Certainty does not absolve duty."

The black armored man sighed, with a slight nod of acknowledgement before speaking again. "I understand. May the gods grant all of you what you deserved that they denied you in this world." With that remark finished, the group turned and trotted back to their lines.

"The fates have been sealed, our destiny is at hand." The general said towards the regiments, in what he hoped to be appropriate stirring words. "Forward, march!"

As one the regitments of isekais began moving forward, to the sounds of drums and pipes. A magnificent sight of blocks of men moving with a purpose. The most pointless of battles, for a cause already abandoned by all others, yet paradoxically the most worthy cause of their lives.

It was not long before the solid shot of the enemy cannons slammed into the blocks, carving streams through them, of which bodies littered denoting their passage. Screams of the dying filled the air, as their blood and guts sprayed those around. However they marched on, for it was nothing that they hadn't seen before.

As they came closer, the solid shots were replaced with canister fire, and vast swaths of men simply crumpled and dropped. The screams intensified as more and more men simply were erased from existence. Still they marched, undeterred, almost robotic. The results of rote beaten into them.

Finally, came the arquebuses, as sheets of fire exchanged by both sides and smokes of a thousand guns filled the fields. Smoke so thick that even the banners disappeared from view of those who held them. Along with the crack of gunfire the штрафбат regiments disappeared entirely to the human senses. On and on the fire continued, and the smoke swirled around. At long last, the firing gradually stopped, as even the arquebuses and cannons themselves glowed from the heat of the firing.

As a silence descended and the smoke slowly cleared a grisly sight revealed itself: broken and shattered bodies lie where they fell as far as the eyes could see, and the snow soaked red with blood.

Then, as the ringing in their ears cleared they hear the sounds, the cries of help, of mercy, of the living who now envy the dead. For all the talks and beliefs of higher and abstract notions, the pain of death was remorseless in stripping those away, revealing the naked horror of reality.

Even for the veterans amongst the empire's forces, it was an emotional sight.

In ones and twos at first, then more, as soldiers put down their weapons and rushed forward, to give what aid they could. In war enemies, and now in peace simple victims. Separated by honor and greed, now united by pure, unrefined, human compassion.

For the survivors, as they see their former enemies coming to their aid, the last lie of their former masters twists in…

------​

… yet in its moment of triumph came the betrayal, as the armies of the kingdom were corrupted by the baleful influences of the demon king. Enslaved to their new masters, they turned on their former country, only to be defeated at the last minute through the actions of crown prince-

… although a short respite was gained, more terrible calamities soon befall the kingdom as the hordes of even greater evils descend upon the lands…

-Excerpts from an entry level history textbook from the Restored Holy Kingdom of Gulaelt.


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

Author's note: I assure you that the history book is as accurate as politically necessary.

 

[John_Oakman]

Story 8: прощайте горы​

Aaron woke up in another world, at least he thought he did. After all, it was a world with a cot that he laid on, hard as it is, still leagues ahead of what he had to endure in that world. Even before he opened his eyes he could hear the mummers and chatters, and deduced that he was in a large room, with many others, probably under similar circumstances. He then opened his eyes, and dared, for the first time in a long time, to peek around.

He was, in need, on a cot, one of what must be hundreds, no, thousands. In a massive cavern, or system of caverns. He couldn't tell, not at those distances. All of them, all the cots, are filled with people, fellow isekais like himself, probably.

"Ah, I see that you have awakened." A voice behind him said in a bored tone." He quickly turned his head around, then winced as shockwaves of pain spread throughout his head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The man, who appeared to be a medical orderly of some sort, judging by his uniform. "But don't worry. You'll live, and soon you'll return to where you are from."

He then slipped a pill into Aaron's mouth, and along with a swig of water from a wooden cup washed it down his throat. "Rest well, for it is the least you can do now."

Aaron wanted to say something, anything, but the fingers of drowsiness quickly dragged him back into the land of sleep…

……​

He was woken again after some undetermined time, this time in a much better condition. For the first time in his second life he felt… almost normal, as if his body was finally working as intended, rather than the ragged wreckage for most of the time before in this second life. Before him stood a soldier, whose presence at first brought upon an instinctual bout of fear, before the realization that said soldier's musket was slung, and his posture relaxed.

"It's time." He simply said. "Ready when you are."

"Ready- Ready for what?" Aaron asked, as he slowly got out of the cot and onto his feet. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw similar scenes play out all over the cavern.

"Going home, back to the world you came from." The soldier answered, as if it was the most normal thing. Perhaps it even was.

"How, how would you know?" Aaron asked as they walked, still rather skeptical of the whole thing. The soldier shrugged.

"I don't." He admitted. "The witches of the coven assured that the portal works, and that's good enough for me." He chuckled to himself. "After all, I'm not going through it… Sorry, that came out wrong."

The soldier's words did not assure Aaron at all, but as he was about to reply he saw it: the circle of swirling lights. Sheets of them, as if they were simmering water upon a vertical surface. So alluring was the sight that he didn't even notice the rest of the chamber until a feminine yet authoritarian voice called out.

"Alright, go on. In you go. We don't got all day."

He looked around even as he and the others shuffled towards the portal. There were a number of… witches? They sure dressed the part, though the muskets slung on them also seemed to suggest a more military bearing…

None of that matters anymore. They're leaving, leaving this horrible world behind, leaving all the baggage of a lifetime of suffering, leaving…

------​

The return to earth was oddly mundane, all things considered. Through the blinding light of the portal, and in a flash of lights he was in a clearing, surrounded by rather nondescript forests. Moreover, he was alone, the hundreds of others who were herded through with him were nowhere to be seen.

… was it earth? Or did they scam him and just dump him somewhere randomly? Or rather they themselves have no idea where they're actually sending him.

The answer came to him far faster than he could have ever expected, for even as he was about to pick a random direction to travel, a figure walked out of the trees in front of him… a clean shaven man, and more importantly wearing a modern two piece suit.

"Good morning, isekaied returnee." the man said, the crazy words coming out of his mouth as naturally as if he was commenting on the weather. "I am special agent Bick, and we have much to discuss."

"Wa, wa, wa-" Aaron stuttered, trying to process and comprehend this turn of events. He narrowed his eyes, as something felt off. The man noticed his expression.

"Of course we don't do this kind of thing in our regular line of work." Bick explained. "However, you need something familiar after what you have been through, and how pop culture portrays us types is more familiar than our normal SOP." He held out a hand. "You can at least trust us more than those other bastards."

Aaron gingerly shook his hand. "How-" He asked. Bick simply nodded.

"As I said, we have much to talk about." He simply restated, as he held up the gaunt young man, who seemed to be about to collapse at any moment. "There's a lot of catching up to do, for you and for us."

……​

The agent, of which alphabet agency he still wasn't sure of, took Aaron to a nearby cabin nested in the trees nearby. It wasn't a particular hidden place. If anything, it was oddly mundane, nondescript…

"This little place used to belong to someone else." Bick quipped as he opened the door, noting Aaron's expression. "Previous owner was ex-army turned ultra survivalist nutjob after getting kicked out for alcoholism. Got arrested for numerous murders. None of the charges stuck though, because it was on his property… and all the victims having already dead and buried."

"You mean-" Aaron asked in shock. Bick nodded.

"It took a few more months after that to connect the dots." He shrugged as he shut the door behind them. "While there's a lot of weebs in the organization, they tend to be on the lower ends. It took the alleged bodies of a couple of Japanese to convince the higher ups of the crazy plan." He chuckled bitterly, seemingly at random. "Kinda wish it was the 60s, we believed all sorts of wild back then. Here, have a seat." He pulled out a chair.

"My god." Aaron simply said as he sat down. "How many-" He asked, shakely, as his mind reels from the newest revelation.

"Yes." Bick answered. "We're not sure." He clarified when he noticed the puzzled reaction he received from his non-answer. "Oh yeah, you want some chow?" He asked as he walked towards the fridge in the next room. "Heard that the other world was a bit lean."

"Have you- you talked to others?" Aaron asked. "Others like me?"

"Why of course." Bick replied casually as he reentered the room, carrying a plate of sandwiches, a couple cans of Mtn Dew, and a small bottle of pills. "Well, me and my colleagues. It's a lot of work, even if everyone else thinks we have the most skate job." He put down the food, drinks, and meds. "It do be like that. Here, take some of this ibuprofen with the soda." He took a few pills out of the bottle.

"You know?" Aaron asked, gratefully taking the food and meds. Bick shrugged.

"Enough of it." He said, with a sudden air of seriousness. "Seems like a shithole over there. Worse than any I ever seen."

"You have no idea…" Aaron said, as unwanted mental traumas, long suppressed, now threatened to bubble to the surface.

"But I do." Bick replied. "Sort of." He shrugged. "I was in the marines before this. Been to Afghanistan when the country collapsed and the hajis took the place."

"Wa-" Was all that came out of Aaron's mouth in response. Something was off with this man's expression. Bick immediately noticed his expression.

"Still trying to process it all? I get it, I really do." Bick shrugged. A rather prudent course of action, and rather common among many of the returnees, who almost to the man have massive trust issues. "There really isn't a good way to prove anything from our end." He took a swig from his can of soda. "So why not just play along? A little bit of chat, while we get your next of kin ready for the reality of your return."

"What's there to talk about?" Aaron asked. "You said you talked to many of us already?" Bick nodded.

"True." He admitted. "But don't sell yourself so short, or all your comrades for that matter." He cracked a grin without warmth. "This… this situation we have here, it's the biggest of the century, possibly the biggest since Columbus sailed the ocean blue. We need all the data we can get our hands on, no matter how insignificant."

"We- the US is thinking of invading the place?" Aaron suddenly asked, putting two and two together. Bick suddenly snapped his head, having been slightly caught off guard by that.

"That is not really of your concern." Bick replied, with a sudden air of coldness. "Unlike certain rogue nations, the United States is not in the business of invading random places unprovoked."

"Moreover, do you really think that world will submit to the science of men?" Aaron continued, on the one hand wishing that somehow that world could get out of that pointless maelstrom of suffering, but also not really seeing any way in which such could occur. Certainly not by being invaded by some outside forces.

"Are they not men themselves?" Bick fired back with a canned response, as once again he was scrambling to suppress his memories. If anything, he gets what the former isekaied man was saying, but he also doesn't necessarily believe it… or rather, he doesn't want to believe it. For if it's true, and America does get involved… He shook his head, banishing the haunting memories of back when he was a marine on the 24th MEU, during the Kabul Evacuation. The air of sheer terror amongst the refugees, fleeing from fates far worse than mere death. The stench of despair at HKIA airport. The look of sunken eyes in the SNCOs and officers, many of whom did remember the beginnings of that war, the reasons for all those 20 years, and the futility of it all in the end. For twenty years, twenty fruitless years… "Regardless, what makes you think of invasion? Our chief concerns are defense against potential threats from that world."

"Just like Japan and GATE huh?" Aaron has become convinced that while this agent is who he says he is, that the intentions behind all of this is far from good.

"You're lucky that I understood that reference, since some of my friends are massive weebs." Bick chuckled bitterly. "But no, not like that at all. Again, we are not imperialists, or imperialist apologists."

"Sure you're not." Aaron shook his head, more than ever not believing the government agent in front of him.

"It do be like that I guess." Bick sighed, for the most part giving up. This one is just like the others, each at most spilling a tiny bit of detail here and there, and it's up to him and others in the shop to piece it all together. Whether said product will be coherent was a whole other matter… He took a deep breath, and it was at that moment when his phone rang.

Bick picked up the phone, and after a short conversion ended the call before turning his attention back towards Aaron. "Congratulations. " He stated. "We found your next of kin."

"How?" Aaron asked, realizing something was off. Bick nodded.

"How perceptive. We took a small blood sample from one of the bandages that was on you earlier, and got a runner to drive to the local hospital. The rest was simply waiting and matching." He stood up, fishing a set of car keys out of his pocket. "Come. I'm sure your family will be overjoyed to see you again, back from the dead."

Aaron slowly stood up, less from the now receding weakness and more from the doubts in his mind. Something among all this still feels so… wrong. Or rather, it was so accustomed to experience competency and kindness after a packed lifetime of neither. As always, Bick seems oddly perceptive at his thoughts.

"Don't worry. You'll never have anything to do with us, or that world, or anything related ever again, if you so choose." Bick reassured him. "Because unlike those bastards, we don't force anyone to fight hopeless causes for pointless sacrifices."

Aaron finally nodded as he stood up to follow the agent. He still had his doubts, but so far this man has shown him more kindness than he had experienced in most of that other world.

It wouldn't hurt to reciprocate a bit. If nothing else to prove that for all the hardships the other world threw at him, it was not enough to twist him into a reflection of what they are.

And so the two walked out of that sketchy cabin, one finally letting go of the past, and the other processing the foundations of a future. The former will find that for once, the world did not betray him, while for the latter, that his words will be betrayed.

But that's another story.