The screams alone holds a distinct place in my mind. Right off the bat all she did is thrash around even in the company of Collins. The woman frowns at me as she restrains the clearly hysteric Euralian against the bed, securing her by the limbs with the assistance of two other soldiers.

"You really shouldn't have done that," Collins glowers, almost in reprimand, heaving a sigh as she continues, "no telling how bad's the concussion."

Just as she concludes, another bout of commotion pulls our attention to the bed where the woman lies. Her legs bucked and kicked in a considerable show of strength, shifting the entire bed even though its wheels were already locked. James hastens towards the patient, ushering the two men away as he stands near her head, his visored glare projecting a stern demeanor.

The base' only qualified medic then lowers his gaze down, attempting as much as possible to gently pry her head to the right, revealing the visible swelling and dried specks of blood. "No nasal discharge, or anything serious thankfully. Can't say for certain if there's a fracture though, best we can do is give her time to rest. We'll need time to see the full extent of her injuries, so until then, interrogation's off-limits."

"Well it's not like we can talk to her anyways," Robert shrugs, evidently miffed, "those damn pendants we have are inert. She'll be a tough nut to crack unless we somehow get those things working again."

I step in with a thought. "Which leaves us with another mouth to feed, unless we're willing to send her away," I say, already sensing the disapproval from James and a few others.

"Not it her current state. It's a shit idea Jerome, not gonna happen," James quickly objects, shaking his head as the woman slowly calms down, her hysterics fading behind a newfound glint of shock. She swings both legs off the edge of the bed, raising a hand to cradle her left temple. A searing glare exudes from her eyes, directed right at me.

Anger, hurt, and a surge of other complex emotions run across her face in a hectic web of expressions. And here again lies that same pang of familiarity, prickling at my thoughts like a constant swarm of ants. It is unrelenting, growing stronger as the deepest recesses of my mind produces a clear image of a woman with a hesitant smile, dressed in flowing silks that appeared to be just as smooth as her hair as she presents herself with a welcoming demeanor—my very first casual interaction with anyone from this world.

That was a faded memory, from our first forays into the nearest major city to our west. But the resemblance now is obvious, even with her hair now a tangled mess of strands and marred by smudges of dirt—a direct contrast to that neat ponytail and regal posture from that prior image.

"It can't fucking be," I scrutinize every part of her just as she reciprocates in kind. Her name escapes me for the moment. Only that it should start with an 'A'. Guilt, surprise, and everything in between sweeps through my mind before collapsing into a singular thought—one that should have been evident from the start.

Whatever her intentions are, it is anything but hostile. Assuming this is not a severe case of mistaken identity, prior observations from that time in the city all but supports that assessment. She, for the lack of a better term, didn't represent much of a threat. Or at least, she didn't have the capacity to be considered as such.

"Je... rome," the woman murmurs, bruised face still twisting with emotion. She stands up, brushing aside Collins who respectably stands back before striding right up to me, gaining a sudden surge of confidence that seems wildly out of place considering the hysterics just moments ago.

James rounds the bed, catching right up to her and stands a fair distance away—observing with a tense gaze. The ambience diminishes. Snippets of conversation fade away, replaced with a sharp and taut atmosphere as I return the sudden glare directed at me.

Taking a step back, I note the slight curl of her fingers just as she breaks into a frown. I pick up a flash of movement before a sharp clank resounds from the side of my helmet, sending me reeling from the impact, though only barely. It barely registers as a dull sting and I quickly regain my bearings, recentering my gaze on the perpetrator. 

That, won't go unanswered.

Collins immediately jumps in, grabbing both the woman's arms to keep her in check. "Woah, shit," she exclaims, supporting herself on her one good leg.

"Totally saw that coming," she remarks, forcing her back to the bed under a firm grip.

I push aside the revelation, shaking my head at the absurdity of being slapped by the last person I expected to see in this hell hole. It seems nothing was off the table when it comes to surprises these days.

"Make sure she gets medical attention. Once the alert blows over, we'll need answers," I say, directing the rest of my team out with me out the triage.

"Will do. Best you boys head out to Ops, we'll take care of her," Collins replies, flanked by her two assistants. She takes over and begins to administer further treatment, rolling out a piece of gauze from a standard trauma kit.

"Greg, tilt her head to the right, gently," Collins says, directing the man over to the bed's opposite side as I watch. Satisfied, I turn away, leaving her to perform under her own discretion.

"Ops room, now," I intone, directing the team away from the triage. James leads us ahead towards the Operations' wing, occasionally glancing back as though he meant to say something. He likely did considering what happened just prior.

Finally, after the third time, I relent. "Alright, what is it?"

"Glad I wasn't seeing things. I thought she looked familiar," he explains.

"It's the girl from that palace right? Ponytail, green dress, actually not an annoyance?" Robert probes as the Operations' Wing into view.

I sigh, "Yeah, pretty much."

"Barely see the resemblance though, hair's all messed up," he slows down to pace by my side before continuing, "still... quite a shocker to see you rough a girl up."

I nod, feeling the residue guilt still coursing through me. No use crying over spilled milk though. "Well I can't take it back."

Just as we cross the threshold into the Ops  Room, the channel crackles to life with an urgent tone.

"Desert team, we're still waiting on you."

"We'll be there in a minute, stand by," I promptly return, urging the rest to speed up. We reach the stairs, pacing up two steps at a time before the door comes into view.

I push it aside and enter. Davis and a few others already stood around the central table. A rough map depicting the topography of the immediate area surrounding Tartarus lies on its surface. Immediately noting the marked circle, I stride right up to the table, planting a finger at it and getting right to the point.

"Is that where the flight landed?" I glance at the circle, eliciting a nod from Davis. Turner steps up, holding an interface, its screen depicting the corresponding area from a drone's point of view.

"Maybe, "he shrugs, "we're only able to approximate their last known location. By the time we've got eyes up in the air, it was gone. But, considering we didn't pick up another signal, we can presume they're in hiding. There's a lot of vegetation around here, but this marked area in particular." 

He pauses, lifting a finger over to the spot, "This is the only place sparse enough where they could reasonably land. I'm betting that's where they are."

"That's maybe just under three klicks from Eden Checkpoint," James muses with a thoughtful finger under his chin, "that distance I think is reasonable. Because there's no way in hell that girl walked further than that without breaking a sweat."

"About her, someone said she had dog tags right?" Turner queries.

James briefly raises a hand, "Yeah, that was me. It was seven at least. Three belonged to Benitez's men, and the rest, I couldn't say which squad or team they're from. We need the garrison roster for that."

"Got it. Anyhow, here's where we're at," Turner motions for everyone's attention, "large scale indigenous forces for the moment are keeping a safe distance away. The nearest detectable ones are ten klicks north. So far both sides are still taking a breather from yesterday's brawl. Can't say if that holds true for their smaller units. We know they operate independently from those rank and file types."

"Doesn't matter," Douglas waves off that snippet, "we've got definitive proof some of our guys are still out there in the woods, we owe it to them to stage a rescue. If it can't happen today, that's fine. We should recon that area at least." The operative pauses, and turns to me.

"Thoughts?" He queries.

I frown, already worried about leaving the base on its own. "I'm not too keen on this. There's only twenty two of us, that's hardly a platoon's worth of men and we're defending around two square kilometres. Not exactly a good proposition."

Even though that opinion is valid, I could not deny that innate desire to rescue our captured colleagues. In the end, after a protracted mental debate, I conclude that surveying that particular area is the most we could offer. This would suffice until we have more information.

"But," I continue, deciding to side with him, "you're right. We don't leave a man behind. If there's a chance they're out there, we need to get them back."

"Any objections?" Davis interjects, looking at the others.

"I can't offer anyone, we're all committed to defending the triage," Second Squad's representative, Fred highlights.

"Likewise here for Ops," Thomas from First Squad replies, " so that leaves only you four." The trooper then holds up a hand, signaling his intentions to continue.

After a short pause to consolidate his thoughts, he turns to me and continues. "Sir, respectfully... I think it's too huge of a risk. You'd all be nullifying most of your advantages. There's a lotta of ways to get wasted out there."

"We can handle it," James boldly remarks, tone devoid of his usually playful tint. "We've got a few Ops under our belt. If anything those sons of bitches should watch out for us."

"It's only recon, we won't stray far. The team will be within three klicks of Eden Checkpoint at all times," I reply, taking another look at the marked area, filing its location away for future use. Three klicks, that is the marker to abide above all else.

"Desert's ready to bounce once permission's given," Douglas adds after clearing his throat, "all of us are travelling light, but it should be fine for anything short of a sustained engagement."

Turner sighs and unfolds his arms, looking not completely convinced but accepting of the proposal. "Just make sure you boys come back alive. That's all we're asking, we're already short on hands as it is."

"We will," I say, mentally cementing that statement as a promise to fulfill, "I'll make sure of it." 

'And failing that, give my life to ensure the three make it back at least,' I silently add.

"Alright, let's hustle," Douglas takes the resigned expression from the Sergeant as the go ahead. He motions everyone out once the room is clear of any doubts and questions.

"Hey take this," Davis calls out, throwing his helmet at Douglas. He barely managing to catch it after a swift turn around.

"Good grief. Send me a warning next time," Douglas blurts out as he holds his catch under an arm.

"I won't be needing that, best you use it instead of that bucket," he explains, gesturing to his helmet, its visor rendered functionally useless by the large cracks running across its surface.

"Oh," Douglas nods, and replaces his helmet, tossing it back, "thanks."

With a returning glance at me to convey his readiness, I take the lead and continue out the room. The team sets a hard pace right away, bounding towards the stairs with large strides, descending down three steps at a time as it comes up. 

Douglas is first to rush out the exit, appearing at the peripheral at the last second. He slightly turns to me, vocalizing his thoughts with a deep tone. "How's the rest on ammunition?" He queries. 

I respond with my count based on memory. "Nine mags' for the rifle, including one already inside. Full count on sidearms, three each." I briefly tap both thighs to physically confirm their presence, noting the comforting swell on both sides.

"Eleven mags' on my end, plus five for the pistol," James reports, likewise tapping his pouches to reaffirm his count.

Robert issues his count, as did Douglas as we continue our trot back to Eden Checkpoint, briefly passing by the triage. At first glance, it appears abandoned with all its windows either closed, or barred shut. Defenses came in the form of familiar barricades stationed around the immediate entrance.

Peering over the barricades, three soldiers silently observe us. Their faces are held taut, reflecting the highest standards of vigilance as they gripped their weapons, ready to act at the slightest commotion. The air is tense, charged with a hint of apprehension. No one knows for sure if this is the start of a siege. For everyone's sake, I hope it's nothing of that sort.

Our weapons are objectively better, but it can't overshadow the huge disparity in manpower. That fear always lingered on the edges, rattling my nerves like they have done for so many sleepless nights.

As the gate and fence of Eden Checkpoint comes into visual, I shelve the thought away, resolving to continue on with a clear mind. There will be a time for that, just not now.

I spot the pair of soldiers from the morning shift, giving them both a wave as they turn to acknowledge us.

"Sorry you guys had to step in for us," I address them both with a hint of sympathy.

"Yeah don't sweat it, three hours is more than enough shut eye," one of them shrugs before continuing, "not really ideal, but we get it. Someone needs plug this gap."

"Keep a lookout for anything suspicious. If for some reason we don't make it back by sundown, assume the worst. Don't let anyone else out," I grimly lectures the pair on our worst fears.

"Don't jinx that shit," James grumbles as he unlocks the gate, "it's not funny."

His nervous jab gives way to an awkward laugh from Robert. The operative remains silent, appearing almost pensive as he gazes beyond the fence, his thoughts and expressions completely hidden behind that polarized mask.

I follow his gaze, looking beyond the threshold. That valley of green stood in all its natural beauty—and accompanying danger. The visor gives an empty slate. Nothing that could be interpreted as movement is visible on screen.

I tap him on the shoulder. "What is it?"

He snaps out of that daze. "Nothing really. Just," he pauses, a despondent look cast over his demeanor, "Just... not a lot of reasons to be optimistic these days. I'm betting we won't find any of our guys."

"Worth a shot at least," I reply just as we pass the gates. Just knowing we are about to embark on an uncertain mission is enough to be considered a mental exercise to an extent. The stress of going in without days, let alone hours of advanced planning and passive drone reconnaissance is enough to give pause to any respectable operative.

"Form up." I rally the team into a stable wedge and proceed through the gorge.

Roughly two hundred metres in, the canopy fully engulfs the sky. On both sides the slope descends, the narrow passage now opening up to a largely flat expanse of woods. Columns of thick trees now huddled together like a can of packed sardines—it reminded me so much of the initial days. Back then, all we cared about was finding out what happened to that lost Expedition.

What I would give to go back to those days. 

"Halfway there," Robert says, constantly securing the team's right. 

There is always hints of movement amongst the greenery. The element of surprise goes both ways. It is impractical to chase every rustle or flicker of movement, any threat that materializes must be dealt with as it appears. That is a responsibility we all are charged with.

"Think they're still around?" James murmurs through local comms. He pushes ahead, brushing aside a stubborn curtain of vines, holding it aside for our benefit.

"I'd feel better if they are. Means we can see them," I reply after heading through the breach he created.

"They need to have their asses kicked thoroughly for once," James comments, eliciting a dry scoff from Robert. His jab, although representing a notable breach in radio procedure, reflected our well established opinions regarding the indigenous. There was no distinction between the various factions, they all were equally a serious threat to our continued survival. For that, I will let that breach slide.

Eventually, radio discipline returns as everyone settles back into silence. No one utters another word past that short verbal stint. Efficient footwork and sharp pivots constitute the overwhelming majority of our movements as we each covered our respective sectors of approach.

Even just winking is met with a hint of reservation. The left side is chiefly my responsibility, anything that comes up I have to be ready to respond appropriately. The next second could be the moment all hell breaks loose, or just another dull moment. I won't really know until it passes—somewhat like that saying about Schrodinger's cat.

I tell myself to never relent, to keep my eyes honed, and never let complacency win over my thoughts. If I allow anything to slip under my notice, it will be nothing short of failure of the highest order. Complacency breeds risks, and risks in turn could result in someone's death.

The team keeps a constant pace even as the terrain breaks into a disorderly mess of tangled roots, hidden crevices, and sharp outcrops. As we push ahead, more local wildlife stirs amidst the greenery, skittering away on the forest floor as we approached. Some looked familiar, squirrels or other small mammals.

Others, not so much, resembling creatures from Earth's distant past. Small raptors, giant centipedes, plus more outlying oddities that had more in common with Earth's extinct groups than anything alive today. Perks of an alternate world one could surmise.

The idle thought quickly fades as Douglas raises a clenched fist. Our instincts kick in, and the fireteam disperses into the foliage, blending seamlessly with our surroundings. I peer ahead, desperately scanning for any indication of activity—natural or otherwise, trigger finger ready to snap off safety. Something... or someone out there managed to spook the team's second in-command and I need to know exactly what that is.

"Contact, enemy infantry, possible CTEs. Two o'clock, fifty metres," Douglas discretely relays over comms, subtly gesturing in that particular direction. At that mention, my nerves shook. 

'CTEs,' I frown. Critical Target Entities, it is never a simple time when those guys are factored in.

Squinting ahead, my visor quickly registers the unknowns at the reported heading and distance. At least four contacts in file formation, thankfully none the wiser about our presence. Soft rustling fills the silence. A faint blue light emanates from the tip of their staffed weapons, fully confirming their status as the most dangerous type of indigenous infantry New Eden had at her disposal.

"Confirmed, CTE contact. Four—correction five," I reply, adding in that additional snippet on their numbers before facing Douglas, directing him and the others to spread out further. The operative inches away at his own pace, bringing James along with him as he went right.

"Standby," I further add, weapon up to bear against the slowly approaching contacts, flicking the safety off as I did. They come into full visual, a familiar silver and accented crimson on all five complete with a cape of that same blood red hue. 

I wonder, for just a moment what exactly was their mission. Was it a routine patrol guarding their southern flank from their eastern adversaries or worse, a direct consequence of an unknown plan to retake Tartarus? Either way, they won't be around long enough to clarify these doubts. It is better to have them removed from the equation than have them complicate our mission.

The adrenaline masks any hesitation I might have had as I move my index over the trigger. The lead individual is just a tap away from getting his ticket punched. All that is left is to call the shot. The choice is as natural as rendering a salute to a commanding officer.

 A single tug, and the recoil backs up against my shoulder. The shot discharges violently to meet its first, and only victim, an unassuming figure leading the small entourage blissfully unaware of his last moments. There is no lag in the following shots as the others chip in to generate the chorus of gunfire.

It fades just as soon as it emerges. All five bodies collapse under their own weight, no better than stringless puppets, without a single muffle or cry as gravity takes over.

"So much for recon only," James muses as he and Douglas breaks cover, trotting ahead to the bodies under our watch. They reach a bound and settle back into cover, signaling me and Robert ahead to push on in a timeless maneuver that needed only mutual trust and coordination to execute.

"Front's clear, go ahead," James cues us in.

"Next bound, twenty metres, cover us," Robert answers just as I issue the signal to move. We wade past the two hunched forms of our companions, each step marking our forays into uncharted territory. 

Both of us are constantly on the lookout for new contacts, fearing for reprisal like a negligent sentry caught sleeping on duty. The shots are anything but silent.

Robert stops and waves me to do the same and we soon settle in place just before we hit the end of our bound.

The operative motions ahead through a break in the foliage, "No survivors," he grimly issues. A stagnant pool forms around the deceased soldiers. The ground is soaked deep red, forming a crude halo around the bodies. The sight elicits a small pang of satisfaction. A much needed silver lining for all the things we've been dealt.

"Recommend we end our bound past those guys, get the other two to search the bodies. Might be worth checking out their gear for intel or something," Robert continues, thumbing to the rear.

I nod just as Douglas affirms through comms. "Sounds good," the operative cuts in.

"Yeah, likewise here," James replies similarly, "give us cover while we work our magic."

Noting the mutual agreement hanging on the channel, I give the go ahead. "Alright let's hustle, we'll cover you guys."

Robert and I continue the trot ahead, stepping past the bodies. I glance down at their weapons. Some rested just a few inches away from their owners' hands. Ornate staffs, each with a distinctly personal flare but all topped with a pulsing crystal. Those things did not faze me, not anymore. We quickly settle at our newest bound and voice it out on comms.

"We're set," I announce, signaling the other two ahead.

"Moving," James sends back, his voice followed by soft rustling behind.

Innate curiosity urges me to glance back, to at least formulate a picture of what will happen to those bodies. I stifle the itch and focus purely on the front. No need to butt my nose in the wrong direction. Past the seemingly endless tapestry of trees and twisting vines, is the very real threat of a lurking enemy.

Metal clanks resound behind as the search commences. Items and other assortments spill out as James and Douglas conducted their checks on the deceased hostiles, the sounds allowing me to somewhat form a picture of what is happening in lieu of a glance back.

"Not much intel on these guys, just the standard get up," James announces, pausing for a brief moment, "found a map with a few marks on it, and bags of crystals. Nothing human-made on them."

"No dog tags?" I inquire, hoping to get something out of the deceased. It would have at least made it worth the scuffle... and their lives.

"Nada," he returns, much to my disappointment, "I'll keep that map though. What's our next move?"

I take a moment to formulate my thoughts before replying. "The plan's unchanged. Form up, and we'll continue rolling to that clearing."

The path ahead is rimmed with uncertainties as the trees maintain their proximity with each other. Snippets of light trickled down from the canopy, their sure presence a calming factor as we proceed deeper. My heart still pounded nonetheless. It was only natural after feeling that brief warrior's high, and I doubt it will be the last of that sensation.

We advance at a cautious pace, slowly closing in on that marked area, forming back into a loose wedge as I note a gradual change in scenery. The foliage density eases, but still left plenty of cover.

I briefly pause, scanning the newfound clearing for signs of activity. Nothing so far, but this is roughly the place of interest. Whatever our perimeter sensors detected, this is the most likely place to find it.

All clean on the visor. Across my angle of approach, just a messy, endless field of vegetation. Nothing to write home about.

Then, at the visor's bottom left, a familiar symbol begins flashing, indicating a discovery that made this admittedly reckless endeavor worth the risks.

The brief flickering of that blue, stylized icon representing the number of nearby friendly contacts elicits a cold shudder up my back. Someone is out there, someone with the appropriate transponder to bump its associating number up from a three to four.

I signal the rest to halt through a brief stint over comms. Just like the strobe lights of an aircraft in congested airspace, this is a sign we could not ignore.

"Anyone else seeing this?" James whispers with an urgent lilt, "IFF's registering a friendly."

"Affirm'," Robert adds, "guess we're on the right track."

"Fan out, three-sixty coverage," I calmly assert as I peer deep into the field of green, still searching for anything that could implicate any kind of hostile activity. Considering the terrain, it was easier said then done.

I inch away from the rest before reassuming a high kneel position. The surrounding foliage hid all but the tip of my rifle from plain sight—it felt safe, secure even as the silence dawns overhead like a drone on overwatch.

A minute passes, then two, until I lost count past ten. The flickering has since subsided, but the number remains at a stagnant four. Sending out a drone now would risk drawing unwanted attention. We were well within hostile territory.

I click my teeth twice to silently ping the channel for everyone's attention. They all respond in kind, a soft chime, affirming their mutual readiness to move out. With the novelty of passive observation over, I resume the advance, sticking to a general direction and hoping for the best. The almost silent gesture prompts the rest to follow my lead.

As the fireteam advances, I feel the dense underbrush gently scraping against me. The constant rustling likely would be noticeable for anyone intently looking for us, though there is nothing we can do to stop it. We have to keep moving.

The canopy gives way, affording an unhindered view of the sky. The sun's harsh glare makes its way down, and I feel the heat seeping into my skin. Though that is the least of my concerns.

This venture is an inherently unstable mix of so many unknown variables, against an enemy we still did not fully understand. To say my nerves are taut would be a massive understatement.

Just then, a familiar shriek resounds in the foreground, freezing me in place. The sounds carry with it a sense of charged anticipation as certain memories surface like a diver on emergency ascent. High pitched cries, stemming from none other than Euralian Banshees—one of the few things I have come to associate with those white haired bozos.

It seems we have struck gold.

I spare at glance at Douglas, meeting his visored expression with a hand motioning towards what I assume is the source, adrenaline crashing over me. "Right there," I murmur.

He remains silent, only nodding as a sign of acknowledgement, swiveling his weapon around to the same direction. The shrieks gradually grow stronger. I become more ambitious, taking marginally wider steps, all for the faint hope of seeing something other than the infinite monotony of green.

Then, past a small break in the foliage, finally a hint of the enemy. Ahead lies two of the aforementioned Banshees, accompanied by a small gathering of Euralian troops. Of the four, two are armed in a manner distinguishing themselves as CTEs. It is an odd sight to say the least—considering the group's mixed composition, though it is overshadowed by something else.

What really had my attention is the man kneeling just off to the side, closely guarded by a single member of that hostile gathering. Dark gray Kevlar, a deep blue helmet, and matching aviators—the odd one out of the bunch by a mile and then some.

"Contact—four, eleven o'clock, enemy... airborne, forty metres." I fully turn to that direction, weapon snapping to my line of sight.

"Anyone have eyes," Robert says, "can't see his face where I'm at."

"Working on it, wait one." I squint and attempt to make something out from this angle. A sharp nose, and a prominent goatee is all I can make out from the scope's magnification—those traits did not really help in shortening the mental list of who that could be.

"He's got a goatee, I think. Anyone know who fits the bill?" I pass the inquiry over comms while keeping tabs on the whole scene.

"Third squad has Conrad, and one other dude from... think it was Tartarus security—forgot the name though. And I'm sure there's more," James discloses.

"Pretty sure he's one of ours," Robert adds.

"Seems like another isolated group," I slide in a fresh magazine in preparation for the ambush. With a bout of hand signals to propagate my intentions, the rest quickly get the memo, swift on their postures and triggers. Quick, easy, and lethal—without a chance for retaliation. This is the benchmark the team has to hit, and I know we will.

Our guns are up, ready to unleash yet another proverbial reign of fire and leaving nothing standing in our wake. With the tempo and element of surprise on our side, nothing stood in the way of a clean victory. The Euralians appeared alert, but fortunately did not seem aware of our presence. It could be they heard that prior skirmish, but no level of preparation would save them from the world of hurt coming their way.

The visor quickly reads my intent and highlights all four, plus the Banshees under an orange outline—one final visage before letting loose. Now we've got them.

Again, it starts with a shot. The first pioneering bullet makes its way out, and the team jumps into the fray. I hug the ground, now firing in short bursts of three as the individual shots fade into a relentless blend of echoing thunder.

"Energy shielding, energy shielding." I perk up at the alert, responding back over the resounding cacophony.

"Keep at it, we'll burn right through that shield!" My own voice booms in the helmet.

The stress of combat reinvigorates all my senses, even time itself seemed sluggish as I immerse myself in the heat of battle. I revel in this state of mind, getting up to a crouch upon noticing the locals had no intentions of striking back. Douglas did the same, increasing his rate of fire up a notch.

I briefly turn to see Robert setting off in a random direction, taking advantage of our suppressive fire, James following closely behind. The pair soon fully disengage from the fight, swallowed by the vegetation as they take the initiative to assault the enemy's flank or rear. It could hardly be anything else.

"We'll swing around, catch them in a crossfire." Robert confirms that suspicion. "Keep them checked until then."

I turn back to the front, responding through action but adding a curt reply just in case. "Understood."

Their illusion of relative safety is long gone—shredded in moments just like how that shield of theirs would be soon enough. In one fell swoop, it will be all over.

Every second or less, I send another burst, resulting in sharp pings as the ferromagnetic bullets pounded the enemy shielding. The shots deflect from the steep angle presented towards the team's angle of fire. All four of the Euralians quickly converge into a single file, presenting a smaller target profile. The hard pings continue to resound off the barrier as visible cracks quickly form on its pseudo surface, spiraling out from the centre like a web of fissured glass.

As the fight continues, the restrained trooper fights off his meagre restraints and stands up, frantically raising his left arm to the side, palm facing towards us while constantly motioning up and down in the universal gesture of a cease fire, evidently communicating with the enemy—though screaming would be a more appropriate term.

He stands dangerously close to the team's line of fire as a result, but fortunately remains unharmed behind that protective shielding. I temporarily cease fire, stunned by the unexpected development and take a moment to digest the fact that trooper seemed particularly invested in protecting the lives of his captors. 

"Hey, cease fire. Say again, cease fire!" Douglas yells over comms, his voice even audible through the air.

After a quick sweep to confirm no other hostiles in the vicinity, I drive ahead trotting as fast as reasonably possible towards the enigmatic scene ahead. Every second counted for something, and in a situation as time dependent as active combat, hesitation and uncertainty invited only death.

"Check your aim, I'm pushing in!" I all but scream at the top of my lungs, weapon up, heart pounding wildly against my chest. My legs protest against the exertion, but I press on, either brushing past the foliage, or more often than not, simply bursting right through in an unstoppable streak of determination and haste. Nothing else mattered but reaching the enemy, not the mild burn of exhaustion, not that small pang of doubt.

The unknown trooper spots my advance, and stops his frantic gesticulations. I remain unfazed, keeping my eyes on the four Euralians, still hunched with the two CTEs maintaining a steady hold on their weapons, undoubtedly the source of that shielding. The sound of incoming gunfire rapidly fades as I reach the hostile position, skirting around to their rear, weapon poised on the two most immediate threats.

I had half the mind to just let loose, to simply pull the plug on their lives. That small, bubbling voice of contempt told me it would be within reason. I decide to ignore it and move on.

"Hands away from those staffs," I strike the closest one with a fierce kick, sending the soldier tumbling to the ground with a feminine yelp. Her lungs wheeze from the impact before progressing into rapid, shallow breaths while maintaining a stern grip on her weapon.

"I said hands off!" I jab her arm with a foot, adding that little bit of motivation to get her to let go. Her hand quakes, fingers trembling around the shaft before slowly receding.

The battered shield visibly flickers as she discards the staff. Douglas paces around the fading shield and plants his foot on the woman's back. She turns slightly to meet my visored gaze before her eyes shut hard, wrinkles emerging at the corner. Her lips part, mumbling a string of unintelligible words that, if nothing else revealed the woman's panicked state of mind.

"Rest of you fuckers," Douglas points a finger at each of them, then to the woman, leaning his weight on her body for emphasis before continuing, "hands away from your weapons, and get down."

None dare challenge the operative's instructions, naturally complying when the likely alternative meant certain death. Their pale faces meant they knew better than to test that hypothesis. The other CTE lets go of his weapon and the shield fully disperses.

"Hey, hey!" The formerly captive trooper yells, removing his aviators before assuming a none aggressive stance, his arms raised from his body in an attempt to communicate his harmless intentions. My suspicions flare up as I think back to that unpleasant discovery of our former Major being nothing more than a ghost of sorts, immediately drawing parallels from that ordeal to the man as he spoke.

"You stay where you are, don't move!" I firmly challenge the trooper, instructing him with a cold, hidden glare. As I did, that small inkling of familiarity grows, and it suddenly dawns on me who this is—or at least, who it resembles.

Undeterred by that harsh retort, he speaks again. "It's Sergeant Benitez," the man sucks in a huge breath before adding on, "these stupid idiots mean no harm. Carajo, it's complicated. They mean no harm, this I swear."

"I won't say it again, stay where you are," I repeat the command again, this time in a softer but still firm tone. "First thing's first."

I turn around and spot Robert and James appearing from the left, pacing hard towards me, rifles aimed at the subdued locals. Raising a hand to direct their attention to me, I direct their line of sight past me and towards the Banshees still violently shrieking in the background. Both creatures bared their fangs, their bodies as though poised to strike the two approaching operatives before bolting away into the woods.

"All clear, I guess," James surmises.

"Good." I look back on our newly minted captives, reaching down to grab the two staffs and tossing them far beyond anyone's reach. Once done, I turn my attention to the next elephant in the room.

"Check his forehead." Douglas says, sending a visored glare to the man.

I respond with action, marching up to the stunned trooper, scrutinizing every facet of his being. Slinging the rifle behind, I make a short gesture to his head. "Helmet off, it'll be a quick check."

"Why? W—what did I—" he stammers, eyes widening at my proposal.

I cut him off with a scowl and glare. "Just do it."

Benitez complies, removing his bucket before standing at attention, face conveying trepidation and confusion in equal measure. I pull off the glove from my left hand and press the back of it against the Sergeant's forehead. The verdict, lukewarm—far from being ice cold. I try again at the side of his neck, finding a similar sensation. So far, it seemed he is the real deal.

"Clear, he's real," I call out, pulling away from him before that nagging curiosity takes over.

"Care to explain?" I point to the four Euralians, pacing around to the front for a better angle on their faces.

Benitez puts back his helmet and soon breaks down the context as Douglas and I listen on. James and Robert pull back to be within earshot while the Sergeant drones on about the specifics that lead to this moment.

"They simply want to talk," the Sergeant reveals, and further delves into the context, stopping only to answer each inquiry as he continues.

He then points down to the Euralians and shifts the topic on its heels, from the state of the survivors to the ones we currently hold as captives, from their surprising efforts in learning the English language, their notable attempts at gleaning insights about our weaponry, to their role in assaulting the Tartarus garrison. That last one, for obvious reasons, stands out from the string of revelations.

"Is that right, you folks had a hand in the assault," Douglas leers down, grabbing the same woman I previously knocked over and hoisting her up to her knees. He pries off her helmet, practically burning holes right through her head as he towered over her, hands molding into fists.

I stop, and frown as she glances up, meeting a dull pair of violet eyes—lacking any sort of luster or life. Past that deep shade, her quivering lips form words, flowing out with sibilance and sharp hisses—insults probably if the tone is anything to go by. 

Familiarity sweeps through me as her face spawns vague memories. I think back to that first instance of contact and then to the unexpected encounter days later which ended in the successful recovery of the only two survivors of Expedition Team six, now positively certain this is the same person—those days now felt like a lifetime ago.

"You said they wanted to talk right?" Douglas questions the Sergeant, his glare never faltering as he stares the woman down. I withhold the thought and listen in as the others speak, keeping a tight lid on her identity for the moment.

Benitez shrugs. "From what Meagan was able to gather, yes. That's why they came here. I'm only here as safety, so they don't shoot on sight."

James sneers, stepping close enough to kick one of the Euralians on their side. "Human shields, fucking incredible. Fuck these guys."

"They've got to be screwing around. Why waste the effort knowing we'd just shoot on sight," I scoff and let the rest voice their opinion.

"So what, we just waste them all or uh—something?" Robert abruptly proposes before Douglas cuts in.

"They know where the survivors are. If we can find one of those large-scale maps from Ops, they could give us a location. We didn't thoroughly check all the docs so they might still be here," Douglas highlights.

"Good point," Robert admits and abandons the idea.

After further deliberation amongst the team, and taking into consideration the veritable trove of information we would gain, it is decided that all four would be brought back to base. Going off the idea that some of them at least knew some form of basic English, it would make interrogation a viable option. I for one, had a few pressing words to say to that woman.

The distant drone of a helicopter cuts off that train of thought before it can develop further. Its large fuselage quickly sinks through a small break in the canopy as I turn to the four now unarmed Euralians.

"Get these assholes in first, then we'll start our headcount," I point at our captives, then to Benitez, forming the hand into a fist, "that includes you Sergeant. Also, I'm expecting the full rundown when we're back home—unabbreviated," I say over the growing downwash, emphasizing that last word.

"Yeah, of course Lieutenant." The Argentinian trooper raises his own fist, meeting mine in a cordial bump. He exhales, lets his shoulders relax before continuing. "I'll give it as soon as possible."

"Looking forward to that," James interjects, slapping the man's shoulder.

The incoming rotors kicks up a small cloud of detritus, partially obscure the landing zone as the helicopter finally touches down on the uneven terrain. Unsurprisingly, the rotorwing in question is a Humming Bird.

"Go, go go!" I pull the first Euralian to his feet, ignoring the vague string of utterances and march him a few steps forward. With a rough shove, I point in the direction of the rotorwing before turning back to tap Robert on the arm.

"Flank security, you take right, I'll take left!" I say, urging him to the far side of the landing zone.

He responds with a grunt, breaking away as I adopt a high-kneel. I look left, then slowly sweep right, maintaining that expected level of vigilance and readiness in our most vulnerable moment. I take a moment to evaluate the state of my ammunition.

'Three down at least,' I recall based on recent memory.

Douglas' voice booms over comms as I take stock of the magazines. "Jerome we're set, get in. Robert you too."

"On my way," I break off, cutting short the process and retreating towards the small, nimble rotorwing. Did we make the right choice in giving them, this small band of four a chance? I don't think so, but the steps call out to me regardless. So I sling the rifle behind me, close the hatch door, and sound off.

"Last man in!"

===end===

Do what you can
With what you have everyday

We all owe that much at least to ourselves

-2nd Lieutenant Jerome Simmons, circa February 2046, Operation Valiant Edge, East Africa