Five Days Later Sumpter Smith Air National Guard Base, Birmingham, Alabama

  The mess hall smelled like industrial-grade eggs, burnt coffee, and the kind of bacon that came in sheets rather than strips. To drive home the ‘lowest-bidder’ vibe that was prevalent in the military, the fluorescent lights hummed and flickered overhead.

  If Lysandra was honest, she preferred the janky half-darkness over that particular shade of institutional white that made everyone look either half-dead or mildly jaundiced as she stood in line with a tray in one hand and an empty coffee cup in the other. Heaving a sigh, she stared at the back of an airman's head with the kind of glazed-over exhaustion that came from five days of hurry-up-and-wait bullshit. Her midnight blue hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she was pretty sure she'd forgotten to brush her teeth that morning. Or maybe that was yesterday morning.

  The days were starting to blur together.

  The mess hall itself was packed with the usual late afternoon crowd—mostly Air National Guard personnel in their Airman Battle Uniform (ABUs) who seemed far too curious for her liking. However, it appeared they had enough sense not to approach her, ask questions, or, God forbid, flirt with her. There had been a few... interesting incidents at another National Guard base not too long ago.

  Looking around, Lysandra noticed a handful of active-duty Air Force personnel with red berets who seemed to want nothing to do with her. She wasn’t very familiar with this world's military, but she knew the berets they wore signified something about their status or unit, or whatever, and it appeared these guys knew something. Or at least they were aware enough not to gawk and to keep their distance, especially with the federal agents and obvious operators lurking around on this godforsaken base.

  For nearly a week, they have been waiting for someone in Washington to pull their head out of their ass and give the final go-ahead for the raid. Four times now, the mission had been green-lit. Four times.

  And four goddess damned times, the thing had been called off. They all got their kit on, loaded onto helicopters or lined up in the vehicles, ready to roll out at 2 am just for some jerk with stars on their collar or a fancy title to pull the plug. It was absolutely infuriating at the last second because they didn’t want to approve gunships.

  The problem, as it had been explained to Lysandra in increasingly frustrated briefings, was that half the politicians on some ‘Capitol Hill’ were losing their minds over this... Posse Comitatus Act, or whatever it was called. Lysandra didn’t quite know what language those words belonged to, but all she knew was that this law had suddenly become everyone's favorite talking point.

  Apparently, it restricted the use of federal military forces for domestic law enforcement. An utterly confusing law that had Lysandra blinking widely from stupefication. What was the point of having a military if you restricted it so much that it couldn’t even be used? Never mind the fact that there were provisions and exceptions for situations exactly like the one Lysandra found herself in.

  To add to her confusion, Lysandra overheard everyone complaining about how... ‘Congress’ had passed emergency authorizations after the portal incursions, allowing them to deploy National Guard gunships. It became clear that the bickering and posturing of political leaders are constant across realities. They just replaced nobles with elected officials.

  Why use equipment to ensure mission success and guarantee your highly trained, expensive personnel return safely? No, what mattered was a senator with presidential ambitions screaming on the national stage about ‘military jackboots on American soil,’ ‘dangerous precedents,’ and ‘constitutional violations’ to grandstand against perceived political rivals.

  The pro-raid side’s argument was simple… this wasn't a law enforcement action. They weren’t targeting drug dealers or organized crime; they were going after legitimate terrorists and the remnants of a hostile military force that had literally invaded through interdimensional portals.

  It was very clear that the protests were more performative, aimed at positioning themselves for reelection rather than genuinely serving their constituents' interests. The United States was still officially in a declared state of war with the Seraphic Empire, which meant that military action on U.S. soil was not only legal but required when confronting active enemy combatants.

  The FBI and DEA lacked the training, equipment, or capabilities to handle combat mages and Imperial soldiers. Hell, not even their elite JSOC operators were prepared for such threats. That was her purpose here.

  However, to do her job, she needed to be whatever the top-tier unit was at the time to even get close. The weapons in this world remained exceedingly dangerous, and despite enduring a torturous training regimen, she was still far from as skilled or experienced as those operators.

  Frustratingly, those opposed to the raid had already prepared their counterarguments. They pointed out that this compound was on American soil and seemed to operate as a criminal enterprise. This made it a law enforcement issue, plain and simple. Using military special operations forces for domestic raids—even against magical targets—sets a dangerous precedent that could be misused.

  The FBI's Hostage Rescue Team was fully capable of handling the situation. Bringing in Delta or DEVGRU was excessive and an overreach of authority, regardless of the authorizations Congress passed in the rush of the moment months ago. Today it's elven fugitives; tomorrow, it could be political dissidents.

  As the back and forth dragged on endlessly, Lysandra couldn’t help but want to gouge her eyes out in frustration. It was completely nonsensical. Legal teams argued with legal teams. The Attorney General's office weighed in, then walked it back, then weighed in again with a slightly different interpretation. The Department of Defense and Homeland Security pointed to executive orders. Congress and the Department of Justice cited reinterpretations of the laws. The White House tried to stay out of it entirely, which only made things worse. And while they argued about laws, precedents, and potential constitutional crises, the actual terrorists they were supposed to be dealing with were sitting in their compound, shipping out an unholy amount of magical narcotics.

  The entire situation became so politically radioactive that no one even intercepted the shipments, let alone went in and dealt with the magical fugitives cooking up Narnia drugs and probably planning who-knows-what-else. Never mind that every day they waited was another day for their targets to get spooked and disappear into the wind. No, what mattered was looking good in front of a camera, political cover, and making sure nobody could be accused of violating a nineteenth-century law on cable news.

  As a result, they had been forced to regularly rotate the surveillance teams. Black Squadron had been out in the field for the first seventy-two hours before they'd pulled back to rest and refit, replaced by something called the 75th Ranger’s Regimental Reconnaissance Company. That team was out there now, dressed as hikers or hunters sitting in hides and observation posts, watching the compound and praying that nobody inside decided today was a good day to pack up and leave.

  Lysandra shuffled forward as the line moved. The airman in front of her—a kid who couldn't have been more than twenty—glanced back at her, doing a double-take when he saw her pointed ears and eyepatch, then quickly turned away. It was obvious he was ordered not to even look at her under some kind of extreme punishment, as he took a half-step to the side, giving Lysandra more space than was reasonably necessary.

  It had been like that for the past few days when Lysandra stopped caring about staying hidden. The Air National Guard personnel didn't quite know what to make of her now that she was out in the open. The woman was obviously not military, with no clear affiliation beyond the DHS credentials she wore on a lanyard around her neck, and more importantly, she was clearly not human. This made her both an oddity and a quasi-untouchable celebrity on a base full of people who were still getting used to the idea that elves, orcs, and gods-knew-what-else were more than just what they saw in entertainment media.

  Most of them just stared, some whispered. A few of the braver ones had tried to walk over to start conversations or ask a stupid question, but it was always short-lived. An NCO coming out of the corner, full sprint like a demon, shut that down quickly. She wasn't here to be a cultural ambassador or to be hit on by some random idiot with more balls than sense. She was here to do a job, and right now, that job consisted of sitting around with her thumb up her ass, waiting for permission to do the actual job.

  Once she reached the serving line, Lysandra licked her lips.

  Sure, she remembered how terrible the food was on most military bases—mystery meat that couldn’t be easily identified, vegetables that looked like they had given up last month, and coffee that tasted like it had been filtered through a gym sock. But for some reason, anything involving the so-called Air Force or Air National Guard had truly exceptional food compared to every other crappy mess hall she'd been to.

  She didn't really understand why, but she didn’t really care either. Maybe they had better funding, or maybe there was some strange cultural thing where everyone in the ‘air’ refused to eat garbage. Whatever the reason, Lysandra wasn't complaining.

  Her thoughts stopped immediately when she realized she was next in line to be served, and she headed straight for the scrambled eggs. Using the serving spoon, Lysandra ignored all unwritten rules and decorum and proceeded to pile as much of the yolky goodness onto her plate as physically possible. The eggs were fluffy, properly seasoned, and didn't have the strange texture that indicated they'd been dehydrated to the point of mummification.

  Disregarding the uncertain gaze that fixed on her, Lysandra kept scooping, building a small mountain of yellow goodness. The server—a younger man who looked as if he wasn’t out of his teens—made a nervous and complicated face as Lysandra went for a third helping, then a fourth. The poor airman looked at his Senior Airman (SrA) with his mouth flapping like he was asking if he should say something. There was a strict portion control policy he needed to enforce, but the long pointed ears, the eyepatch, and the DHS credentials hanging around this woman's neck kept his mouth shut.

  When the young man simply looked away and busied himself with wiping down the already-clean counter, Lysandra couldn’t help but smirk. Yeah, that's what she thought.

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  It didn’t take long for Lysandra to move down the line with a plate now dangerously close to overflowing. Passing all the disgusting greenery that only peasants and Druids bother themselves with, Lysandra kept moving until she stopped dead in front of the station that had all the steak.

  Beautiful, glorious meat with a charred crust—cut into half-inch slabs, still glistening with juice and actually seasoned with something other than pain and misery. Among all the unknown herbs, Lysandra even smelled something similar to what was used in her plane of existence that the locals called ‘garlic.’ It was probably overcooked by her standards, but compared to the rations she'd survived on during the months-long misery that was training, this was practically a feast fit for the titled.

  The server manning the steak station was another gawking idiot, but hovering behind them was a Black woman in her late twenties, built solidly with the kind of posture that screamed senior NCO even without checking her rank. She was a different story entirely compared to that kid from earlier.

  This woman’s name tag read ‘TSgt Morrison,’ and she looked like someone who'd been running this mess hall with an iron fist for years. Lysandra had watched her from the line earlier, barking at other airmen who'd tried to ask for extra portions.

  "One serving, airman. You want more, you get back in line like everyone else."

  "No, you can't have three desserts. What do you think this is, a buffet?"

  "Hurry the fuck up, ain’t no one got time for your bullshit."

  But now that Lysandra had stepped up to the station, Technical Sergeant Morrison's confident demeanor cracked. She looked at Lysandra—really looked at the elf—and her expression tightened. Morrison’s eyes darted to the pointed ears, then the eyepatch, all the way to the credentials, and finally to the mountain of eggs sitting pretty on Lysandra's plate.

  Something like uncertainty flickered across Technical Sergeant Morrison’s face.

  Lysandra sensed the weakness and stayed silent. She simply stood there, plate extended, locking eyes with the iron woman of the mess hall as the silence stretched on. TSgt Morrison shifted her weight, trying to weigh her options.

  Should she say something? Should she go get an officer? Could an officer even do anything about whatever the hell was in front of her? This all culminated when the Senior Airman at the serving station’s hand tightened on the serving tongs and looked back toward the Technical Sergeant for guidance. Morrison’s eyes darted away, then back, then away again. She wanted to say something. The Technical Sergeant wanted to at least give some kind of response, but her mouth simply opened, closed, and then opened again.

  More silence.

  Blood was in the water, but Lysandra kept staring. Her single unblinking eye was like a vortex of doom, contrasting sharply with her perfectly neutral and beautiful face. Lysandra wasn't trying to be intimidating—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly, she was just tired, hungry, and completely unbothered about exploiting whatever authority, status, or untouchable mystique she had somehow gained on this base.

  Especially when it came to food.

  Finally, Morrison cracked. "M-may I help you, ma'am?" she stuttered, the words coming out stiff and overly respectful, like she was addressing a visiting general rather than some random elf in workout clothes.

  Lysandra let out a triumphant harumph and let the moment hang for just a beat longer before offering a small, pleasant smile that didn't quite reach her eye. "May I please have some steak?" she asked, her tone perfectly polite. "A lot of steak. If you may."

  Another moment stretched as the Technical Sergeant's eyes swam with something between confusion, frustration, and resignation. She glanced at the eggs piled on Lysandra's plate, then at Lysandra's face, then at the steak, until finally she gave the Senior Airman manned at the steak a defeated nod.

  As Lysandra slid her plate across the counter, the server began piling an unholy amount of steak onto it, as if hoping this would make the anomaly disappear. One slice. Three. Seven. Ten slices. The Senior Airman didn't stop until meat was stacked so high it was almost defying physics.

  "Thank you so much," Lysandra said sweetly, taking her plate back. "I really appreciate it."

  "... Uh-huh…" TSgt Morrison managed, looking like she needed a stiff drink and maybe a cigarette.

  Lysandra turned away, humming happily under her breath as she surveyed her prize—a literal mountain of steak slices and scrambled eggs that would probably feed three normal people. Absolutely perfect.

  As the elf woman pushed open the exit with her foot, she spotted a huge, rowdy group of airmen heading toward the mess hall, laughing and shoving each other in that obnoxious way young military guys usually did. They were loud, obnoxious, and taking up half the hallway, completely oblivious to anyone and everyone around them.

  Then one of them spotted Lysandra.

  The effect was immediate. The laughter stopped, the shoving halted, and the whole group went silent and parted like the Red Sea before Moses, practically moving away from Lysandra to clear a path. A few of them looked terrified. One kid actually pressed himself so flat against the floor that he seemed to be trying to phase through it.

  Not even paying attention to the group, Lysandra walked through the gap without breaking stride, picking a slice of steak off her plate with her fingers before tossing it into her mouth. She didn't know exactly what had happened to the last gaggle of idiots who'd tried to approach her and strike up a conversation—Bishop had been annoyingly vague about it, just muttering something about ‘corrective action’ and ‘administrative counseling’—but whatever it was had put the fear of the gods into everyone else on base. Regardless of what happened, they now treated her like some kind of horrendous, corrupted mana stone that might explode if disturbed. Which, honestly, wasn't the worst comparison nor outcome.

  She popped another piece of steak into her mouth and hummed satisfyingly while strolling in the late afternoon sun. Gods, that was good. Actual seasoning. Actual flavor. This was what she'd been missing.

  Looking around, Lysandra noticed a sharp change from when she first arrived. The air base used to be mostly filled with large, lumbering KC-135 tankers—a type of aircraft designed to refuel other planes mid-flight and nothing more. But now, the flight line was completely packed with specialized helicopters that definitely didn't belong to the Air National Guard, and she wasn’t so naive as to assume this was how it always was.

  These Black Hawks, Little Birds, and what looked like modified Chinooks were all painted in ominous black, which was usually common in military colors. Lysandra had enough experience to know that standard-issued equipment was vastly different in color and design from what the people she worked with normally used.

  It appeared that the 160th SOAR—the Night Stalkers—had moved in while she'd been wallowing in bureaucratic hell. Although now, these specialized birds were sporting an interesting lettering that seemed hastily pasted on.

  U.S. CUSTOMS AND BORDER PROTECTION was on one end, while AIR AND MARITIME OPERATIONS were on the other. This was nonsensical to Lysandra. These weren’t helicopters that belonged to whatever agency was plastered on them. As a matter of fact, she recognized one of the pilots leaning against one of the birds, yapping away.

  But as Lysandra walked toward the makeshift barracks where the task force had been housed, she concluded that this was a conundrum that could wait. She needed to eat lunch. However, there was another point of interest lingering in the background of the air base. Looking past the ‘not The Nightstalkers,’ Lysandra spotted a C-130 that had recently landed, with its rear ramp lowered and a large group of men unloading gear. They looked similar to the operators she'd been working with—same casual, worn-in appearance, same relaxed efficiency—but she didn’t recognize their fatigues or kit.

  Then she spotted the patches.

  Nearly all of them wore a distinctive red square patch on their chest rigs, about three inches across—roughly the same size as the patch for her own unit—with a deep red background. Instead of DON’T PANIC or FBI, which she was used to seeing, the design of these patches simply showed the head of what Lysandra recently learned was a Native American. This Native American, however, seemed to have the head profile of a Chief rendered in black with white accents and was adorned with intricate features, a feathered headdress, and two crossed tomahawks just below.

  Lysandra knew this was something significant, but she didn’t have enough context to understand it all. Then again, it was probably just another special unit she'd never heard of. This world had so many different groups, organizations, and acronyms that keeping track of them all was impossible.

  Regardless, this was another problem for another time. Lysandra shrugged and decided to shift her focus to more urgent matters, like taking another bite of delicious steak and talking to Harris about what to do next.

  As she approached the cluster of modular buildings on the edge of the base, Lysandra turned toward the one she mentally identified as the briefing room. As she neared the entrance, she noticed a sign hanging above the door that read ‘DON'T PANIC’ in large, slightly uneven letters. Below it, in smaller text, someone had written in Sharpie: Pan-Anomalous Neutralization and Isolation Command.

  Pushing open the door with her foot again, Lysandra used the tips of her fingers to throw in another piece of steak, and immediately recognized the voice coming from the far end of the room.

  “—they're here? Good. Fuck the dickheads in D.C. If they don’t want to give us military assets, then we’ll use LEO assets.” The voice said in a way that indicated everything they were going to use was going to be anything but Law Enforcement.

  Lysandra recognized him immediately—Harris, the Texan. The same broad-shouldered briefer from the first meeting, the one with the shaved head and the drawl that could cut glass. Except he wasn't just a briefer—he was one of her colleagues, a Case Officer with The Company.

  When one thinks of a Case Officer, their mind immediately goes to some federal law enforcement agency. When it came to the CIA, everyone thought of its operatives as ‘agents,’ but there was a distinction that mattered more than most people realized. While Lysandra was newly inducted as a paramilitary officer working for the CIA's PRISM—Paranormal Response & Intelligence Strategic Mission Center—she wasn’t a case officer. Their roles were different.

  Paramilitary Officers were designated specifically for direct action—kicking in doors, firing rounds, and getting their hands dirty in actual combat. The Texan, however, was a Case Officer, meaning his focus was more on intelligence gathering, asset recruitment, and operational planning. He was the guy who built the networks, managed the sources, and coordinated the moving parts.

  An ‘Agent,’ on the other hand, ... Well, Lysandra realized that an ‘agent’ was just some unlucky person recruited by her or Harris. A pawn who wasn’t formally trained, employed, or even told who they truly worked for. Someone, a Paramilitary Officer or Case Officer, might enlist for deniable operations. Someone ultimately disposable.

  Of course, there was a lot of overlap here. Case Officers could fight, and Paramilitary Officers could gather intel, but Lysandra understood that the specializations existed for a reason. Right now, the Texan was doing exactly what he was trained to do—making the call that needed to be made regardless of what the politicians wanted.

  Lysandra's long ears twitched, catching every word that left Harris’ mouth. Her eyebrow—the one that wasn't covered by her eyepatch—shot up so fast it nearly reached her hairline as she stood in the doorway, plate of steak and eggs in hand.

  She watched the Texan pace back and forth with his phone pressed to his ear and his face set in that particular expression of someone who'd had enough of everyone's shit.

  “I got DHS patches and cover from the Secretary. I’m green-lighting this shit tonight.”