Operation Isekai Liberation (OIL)

[ATP]

More like Tzarist Russia and imperial China, but I guess the IoM is the most familiar comparison for most people so sure why not?

Think more like the average otome game isekai (especially the korean ones) setting of pettiness, bullying, and scheming and realize that those are how the rulers/aristocracy are raised, and that they're only going to become more unrestrained when they assume power and not in some academy.

Click to shrink...

Well,ideal target for conqest.As long as you keep winning.

 

[rx915]

Is that cover art inspired by Travian?

 

[John_Oakman]

Is that cover art inspired by Travian?

Click to shrink...

Look up "generic isekai town", the cover art is a parody of that (along with whatever the artist felt like throwing in, becuase I didn't specify too much).

 

[rx915]

Look up "generic isekai town", the cover art is a parody of that (along with whatever the artist felt like throwing in, becuase I didn't specify too much).

Click to shrink...

Good point.

I was reminded of those cities you can develop in Travian.

 

[John_Oakman]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It do be like that. It always does.

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

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

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

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

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

Koi coughed a bit.

"About that." He clarified. "The actual changeover of authority isn't due for another week."

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

------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the need arises.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes sir!" came in the chorus of hearty replies.

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

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

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

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 5.1: Skill issues
​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------
​

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

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

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

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

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

That's all these poor bastards have left.

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

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

……​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------​

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

 

[ATP]

Maybe gave them M16? It nice to see how USA manage to create another Iraq.
Aside from that - Happy Easter.

 

[John_Oakman]

Maybe gave them M16? It nice to see how USA manage to create another Iraq.

Click to shrink...

Keep in mind that the time period by now is probably around the late 2020s, but the specter of photos of Taliban fighters decked out in better kit than US marines back in 2021 still haunts the government, and they're determined not to have that PR fiasco again. Also the known corruption of the local reigme, so there's that. The US government is not completely stupid or incompetent, though as seen they have their share of issues running this show.

And it probably wouldn't have mattered, the insurgents are much more powerful... as to why and how will be kinda explained (along with a few characters making a return, of all things) next 2 parts. Infantry small arms are the least relevant aspect of warfare (in either conventional or unconventional) here, kinda like in the real world.

Of course, new mistakes (and some old ones) are promptly made, because of some fundamental problems remain unaddressed.

Aside from that - Happy Easter.

Click to shrink...

Thanks.

 

[John_Oakman]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missions are for military service members, mercenaries get tasks.

……​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Acknowledged. Over." Came the response from Tobis, whose job could be best described as 'liaison of the miscellaneous', "Proceed as usual."

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

……​

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

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

Which of course is a rather worrying development.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

……
​

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[John_Oakman]

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

-----------------​

Chapter 5.3: The corruption of the homefront
​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------​

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

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

And a more insidious concern back in this one.

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

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

… but there's another source of information.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes mom, but you do know-" He answered.

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

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

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

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

------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

……
​

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something that's just unnatural, unbecoming, unsettling.

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

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

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

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

"Wrathbringer".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------
​

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

"It's all true." Austin stated, even though he knew the reaffirmation is not necessary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

……​

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

"Isn't this a bad idea?" He finally asked. Koi nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

……​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------​

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

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

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

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

------
​

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

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

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

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

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 6: You son of a maou!​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Actual." Tobes clarified. Steiner sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

……​

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

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

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

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

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

------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You shouldn't. You should believe what your own eyes have seen." Lee simply said.

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

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

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

------
​

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

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

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

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

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

 

[John_Oakman]

Chapter 7: Ballad of the salted sergeant

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

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

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

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

That accursed land.

……

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

……

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

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

Later on, всё потом.

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

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

Of that accursed world.​

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

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

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

 

[John_Oakman]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As the common saying in the marine corps: "A war is coming". The words ring true for this world far more than it ever was for earth.

Another war is coming, as surely as the sun and the stars move each day and night.

Truck kun better get busy, for this world needs more heroes than ever before.

 

[Mage King]

Painful, but yet so true.

 

[John_Oakman]

No I'm not going to write a direct sequel. There's no point in treading an already trodden path.
-------------​

Afterward: Go forth 吉卜林的兵/Киплинга солдат, to be forsaken and left to die in that accursed world!​

And once again I'm summoned, desires cast aside.
I don't have a devil, a god, nor a wife…
​

列兵 Li, like the vast majority of the ten million strong 人民志愿军, was nondescript in the extreme. At 1.61m in height, 55 kg in weight, black hair in the standard military cut, black eyes in the same mold as the rest of his kind. Like all the others his dull tan cotton uniform was heavily worn and patched in the expected places, the various pouches festered with numerous random doodads commandeered from the surrounding lands from back on his earth. His 53式步騎槍 is well worn but also well cared for: For that ancient rifle is worth more than his life, not that that say much of the value of either.

They are the vanguard of the revolution into another world. To succeed where the decadent capitalist Americans [of a parallel universe, not that any of them knew that part] failed to do in their 20 fruitless years in that unhappy land. They will bring this nowfound wretched and backward world into the modern age of the new socialist man.
By bullet or bayonet, the savages will be indoctrinated into the light.

The west to me is foreign, it's east is not my east.
Behind the smoldering bridges, my heart had made its peace.
​

As Li stared at the forests of this new world around him in muted bewilderment. A city dweller of some nameless and forgettable grayish hive of a city his entire life thus far, the level of untamed greenery before him was something he only saw in picture books and heard in public radio broadcasts, never in the flesh. He could almost say the same for the sights and sounds, If it weren't for the continuous rumbles of the a seemingly endless line of 59式坦克 battlemaster tanks rolling through the portal, bellowing clouds of smoke of hate and discontent, as if announcing to the the world their readiness to unleash hell upon all those in their way, whether they be protesting university students, starving peasants, pacifist monks, or unwanted newborns.

Whichever land, in whichever world. He knows his duty. What must be done. What will be done.

Today I see tomorrow, otherwise than then.
Victory, like payment, depends upon what's spent.
​

As the hordes of conscripts fanned out across the land, descending upon the world like the horde of locusts that they were regardless of which world they're in. While the trucks and tanks drink fuel and eat metal, the foot soldiers and pack mules can live off of the land just fine.

And this land is rich in resources, even though the peasants who they commandeered the grain and other stuff from all bore the marks of starvation and abuse. Nothing new here of course, for the liberation of the oppressed people of the worlds is the reason that they are sent here to this other world.

Soon after the local landlords were found, who had dressed themselves up in the archaic armors of them olden days white devils, charged at them. Equally ancient swords at their hands ready for battle.

And they were shot to pieces. The harsh barks of submachine guns and rifles from the PVA soldiers cut them down much like the other luckless armies before. The same dance of gunfire beating valor once again being played out. The difference is not for the always condemned natives, but for the interlopers, who for the first time in centuries are on the side of superior firepower.

The advantage they took advantage with relish.

I'll die the 13th soldier, and I won't give a damn!
I don't know how to live life, much less how to kill.
​

Combat. That's easy. Just follow orders, fire weapons, and fight. What happens after, not so much.

It's all something he has to live with, again and again.

Best not to think of those things. People who do don't live very long. There are things not meant to be known.

Another village, now just ashes and rubble. Another group of starving peasants, now relieved of their suffering through the release of death, their bodies disposed of in unmarked mass graves, the bones from the previous unmarked mass graves now stewed everyone. Blood flowed freely, as is fire and agony.

The country a cauldron bubbling upon those who are left.
And good luck charms aren't needed for those who'll be erased.
​

With shaken hands Li reslung his rifle, the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the ringing through his ears. They have survived yet another skirmish. Another group of something or the other, all out to slaughter them all the same. It's dark out, and the shadows hungers for the souls of men.

It's not supposed to be like this. They're supposed to be the liberators. To be welcomed with open arms by the masses of the oppressed.

Yet they're hated. By everyone. Everything. As if the very ground calls upon their death. Every blade of grass, every leaf of every tree, all cried out for their demise. For their death.
For their utter and complete destruction.

Just like all the others before them, and though he did not dare to even think of the possibility, all the ones after them too.

He is not special, their cause is not special. Nothing is special, and those who are not special are dead, will be dead.

He sees it all around him, the mountains of the dead, the dying, and the soon to be dead. He should have felt fear, but he did not. The shaking of his hands more of the reaction of a stranger than of his own body.

But we'll be leaving early, our death will carry on.
With little more than a smile, and a pair of combat boots.
​

The day began like any other, more fighting, more shooting, more killing. The scenes all the same: picturesque places once again stained with the blood of many.

As he cycled through the motions of his rifle once again, the rote memorization picked up where his mind had already failed before.

This time it's demons again, like a tide of red and black shadows they slither and leap through the ground, their claws glint off the sunlight of the day like bayonets ready for violence. Fireballs streaked above, smashing into the lines of PVA conscripts almost like… artillery. Almost like they're fighting a real army, like the stories about the Americans, the Indians, the Soviets, or the Vietnamese…

The unsettling thought of these demonic enemies being possibly more than just mindless creatures had almost no time in his mind when a massive blast took Li off of his feet.
As he recovered from his shock and got back to his feet the first thing he noticed was that his cover had been blown off. It was a trivial thing to be concerned about, but something within him at that moment insists that it's of the utmost importance, even more than his rifle, the same rifle that's worth more than his life.

Then he saw it, lying in the dust, despite the usual grime and dirt, looked almost pristine. The world around also suddenly seemed to have gone quiet, as if to give him a moment of contemplation.

There is nothing to contemplate however, and Li reaches for the cover, only for his hands to go right through. Blinking, he tried again, and again, the same result each time. He looked at his hand, the same worn appearance as always, the same callouses, the same badly healed scars.

He looked around, the battle swirling around him with uninterrupted pace and intensity. Yet all felt so far away even if he could touch them- he reached out, and a demon barreled on through his arm, as if it's not even there.

Then he saw it. Lying there, the crumpled body of which he only recognized from the tatters of what's left of the uniform.

"Yes. it do be like that." A voice cut through the still receding babble of combat as Li felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, seeing the face of an American soldier, whose uniform was much more advanced but still worn with age.

"Who are you?" He asked the mysterious soldier, who now he sees is not alone, and behind him a group of other… soldiers? In various garbs in which even from his untrained eyes could see that they are from different times and places.

"Know that you're not alone." The American said, ignoring Li's question.

And vanquished in the desert by mirages I marched on through.
As if through a swamp of heads of whom I have no idea who.
​

And now he's dead. Dead as in his soul, which he didn't even know he had before his demise, has left the physical body.

Yet he did not feel sadness, anguish, or all those things. It was all for nothing, yet at the same time he felt no great loss. Belatedly he realized a realization had hit him.

Forsaken by all but for all the other forsaken soldiers, he now joined a new brotherhood of the dead.

Stumbling like a drunkard, wherever I looked around-
-I'm one of Kipling's soldiers, I wouldn't tell a lie.
​

-----------------
Lyrics from the song Киплинга солдат obviously.​