The transition from the chaotic, dust-choked violence of the LZ to the eerie quiet of the Fae forest was jarring for Finch. One moment, the Lance Corporal was scrambling with the rest of Second Platoon to get the hell off the death traps that were the CH-53k Sea Kings, and the next… The next, he was enveloped in a profoundly alien stillness that was broken only by the cracks of foliage under their passage and the unsettling whispers that usually accompanied dense forest, albeit alien.
As the heavily armed column of Marines made their way through the landscape, they couldn’t help but gawk at the insane shades of crimson and disconcerting twilight that painted their new environment. Everywhere they looked, there was something different; even the trees here were unlike anything they had ever seen or imagined.
Gnarled, ancient-looking trunks, some as wide as an Abrams, twisted towards the canopy that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light filtering from above. When Finch glanced upward, instead of the green leaves typically associated with a tree, he found bruised purple and venous red leaves covering the tree's branches. In fact, the strange coloration cast an odd tinted hue on the ground, as little light was able to penetrate the forest floor. It was almost as if the troops lurking nearby were lingering in some kind of blood forest as they skulked through the foliage.
But what made this situation even wilder was the fact that the terrain was an absolute nightmare to traverse. The terrain was a nightmare of rolling hills and steep, barely navigable ravines filled with cold water and unexpected cliffs, all forcing them into a slow, arduous pace. Each step felt like a conscious effort as they had to carefully watch their footing to avoid unnecessarily eating absolute shit and becoming a casualty.
Fortunately, they had been training for this exact environment as the South China Sea began to pick up. Jungle Warfare School and the countless training exercises in the far reaches of Japan, the Philippines, and Hawaii had prepared them for this specific scenario, although this environment was much colder.
As the Lance Corporal slid down an incline after the silhouette of Sergeant Reyes in the crimson gloom, which was a good fifteen, maybe twenty meters ahead, Finch saw his team leader’s fist shoot up and pull downwards while taking a knee. Mimicking the hand sign and also taking a knee, Finch communicated to the next man in the stack that they needed to stop.
Finch couldn't help but wonder why in the hell they had stopped in the first place as he hid behind some massive roots covered in strange moss and squinted his eyes, trying to penetrate the unnatural gloom. He knew the SEALs were out there somewhere, skulking further ahead in their own formation—doing whatever spooky operator stuff SEALs do in this alien wilderness. Regardless of what the SEALs were doing, though, Finch still wanted to gawk at them like a tourist, but he couldn't see a damn thing past the dense foliage. The strange twilight painted everything in shades of blood that made his skin crawl.
The crimson-tinted shadows, combined with the twisted roots and wild foliage, made it nearly impossible to see through his VCOG. The world appeared as a layered expanse of red, purple, and green vegetation, with each leaf capturing the scarce light filtering through the canopy, transforming it into something that seemed to belong in a horror film rather than a recon patrol.
Popping off one side of his COMTACs, Finch cupped a hand to his ear and strained to hear something—anything—that might indicate why they'd frozen in place. But all that reached him were the strange calls of alien fauna that had been their constant companions since entering this messed-up forest. There was the wet, bubbling croak of something that sounded like a bullfrog had mated with a garbage disposal, punctuated by high-pitched yowls cascading down from the canopy like some kind of demented demon cat. Occasionally, something would let out a warbling shriek that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but nothing sounded remotely human or threatening in a conventional sense.
No boots crushing alien undergrowth. No whispered commands. Hell, not even the distant thump of rotor blades that should've still been still audible—they hadn't humped that far from the LZ yet.
With a frustrated exhale through his nose, Finch glanced back up the incline he'd just slid down, and sure enough, there was Newman. That brain-dead idiot was peeking around a particularly gnarly-looking bush that resembled concertina wire more than anything natural, peering around with his piece-of-shit Chinese-made thermal monocular pressed against his eye. It was the same device he'd bought off some sketchy website and wouldn't stop talking about during the flight to Ohio.
Newman panned the device slowly across the forest as his face scrunched up in what he probably thought was tactical concentration but looked more like he was trying to shit out a brick. It was obvious terminal Private was trying to spot the SEALs or whatever had caused their halt, but knowing the quality of that thermal piece of shit, he was probably just picking up heat signatures from alien squirrels or whatever the hell passed for small animals in this living nightmare.
Finch shook his head, biting back the urge to hiss at Newman for being such a dumbass. However, Finch knew that whatever he said would fall on deaf ears. Instead, the Lance Corporal turned around and saw Reyes making a slow, deliberate swooping motion with his hand, palm down, in a smooth manner before the Sergeant rose from his knee.
“God, this place sucks ass…” Finch whispered to himself when his foot sank ankle-deep into what he could only describe as shit in a puddle the moment he rose from his position.
Whatever had spooked the SEALs or caught their attention had presumably passed, or perhaps it was just another case of "hurry up and wait" translated into tactical movement. Either way, they were at least doing something again…
Keeping his M27 at the low ready, Finch continued picking his way forward through the alien underbrush. His boots squelched slightly in the spongy, moss-covered ground and in his feces-covered boot. Every step seemed to grab at his feet as if the forest itself was trying to slow him down. From behind, Finch could hear Newman step into the shit puddle and let out the most aggressive exhale one could imagine.
As the column advanced deeper into the Fae forest, each Marine maintained their dispersion, as they had been drilled to do a thousand times before. But this wasn't the Philippines or some jungle in Okinawa. This was an honest-to-God alien territory, where the rules they knew might not apply and where every shadow could conceal something more suited to a fever dream than a military operation.
However, there was something gnawing at Finch. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched—not by the SEALs or even the enemy, but by the forest itself. The way the red leaves rustled without any wind unnerved him. It was as if the branches twisted in the direction of each Marine as they passed. On the other hand, Finch felt like he was going insane when he caught certain patches of undergrowth in the corner of his eye, as they seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. This entire hellscape created an oppressive atmosphere that he was sure every soul in the battalion felt by now.
Yeah, this place definitely wasn’t it. If he wasn’t going to get PTSD from combat whenever they engaged, then this damned forest was going to leave him scarred for life. But then again, he hadn't joined the Corps to feel comfortable. He'd joined to get some, and if ‘getting some’ meant humping through Mordor's inbred cousin while playing tag with whatever supernatural bullshit the universe had decided to throw at them, then so be it.
At least it beat sitting on his ass back at the FOB, watching Newman try to haze boots.
The memory of Newman getting his ass chewed for going too far nearly made Finch chuckle as he bit his lip to maintain proper discipline. Now was not the time to let out a laugh, especially when they were ass deep in enemy territory. Instead, Finch concentrated on Reyes's back in front of him, following the sergeant's movements as he maneuvered through the crimson twilight. The best thing to do was to simply avoid thinking too hard and carry on.
As they continued to move through the strange forest, Finch's eyes caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. A couple of bodies lay farther ahead, maybe thirty meters out, positioned unnaturally close to one another. Even from this distance, he could make out the telltale pattern of tightly grouped bullet holes in their torso and clean headshots that spoke of professional work.
The Lance Corporal’s eye twitched for a moment. He hadn't heard a goddamn thing. Not a whisper, not a suppressed snap, nothing. The forest's alien ambiance had continued uninterrupted, and he was sure as hell that the SEALs weren't so far up that their weapons would be that quiet. That meant those were either old kills or...
“Are they usin’ subsonic rounds?” Finch muttered to himself, recalling a conversation he'd had with some Battalion Recon boys back at Parris Island.
They'd been complaining over beers about how all the SOCOM units were getting all the funding and had been issued some new 7-inch rifles and special ammunition that made them whisper-quiet. The Recon Marines had been really upset about it, naturally.
Of course, the super secret squirrels get all the cool stuff, and, of course, envy spread throughout the rest of the armed forces like wildfire. That was the natural order of things. Here he was, humping through alien hell with his long standard-issue M27, while those chucklefucks up ahead were apparently playing Naked Snake in the forest.
As the column proceeded further, Marines stepped carefully around the corpses and only gave them a cursory glance. Whatever those poor bastards were—Scouts, local militia, or whatever the hell—they weren't the Marines' problem anymore. The SEALs had clearly sanitized the route ahead, which was both reassuring and slightly unnerving.
After another ten minutes of careful movement through the increasingly oppressive forest, Reyes came to a stop again. This time, Finch didn't even bother to wonder why. He just dropped to a knee behind another twisted root, accepting his fate. He knew that asking anything was completely out of the question, and any answer they might give if they even bothered to respond, would be lost in this universe’s bullshit. So, all in all, why waste the energy?
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Instead, Finch decided to keep his expectations low. Maybe he wouldn’t see a hint of action. Perhaps the only thing the Lance Corporal could look forward to or entertain himself with was watching Newman fumble with his thermal again and peer around like a fool. Maybe they were just going to spend the whole op playing follow-the-leader through Satan's botanical garden. Either way, if he kept his expectations low, Finch could avoid disappointment and be pleasantly surprised by anything remotely interesting.
Almost as if on cue, fate had decided to kick Finch in the balls as his radio crackled to life. "All Propane elements, this is Propane Actual," the butterbar began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Be advised, Pathfinder element is indicating—" Lieutenant Watts's voice came through the net, trying to maintain some semblance of sanity, but paused.
A moment of silence passed that made every Marine's sphincter tighten because it usually meant shit was about to get weird. Finch could practically hear the Lieutenant struggling with how to phrase whatever Lunacy the SEALs had just reported.
"Pathfinder indicates," Watts continued, clearly abandoning whatever by-the-book NATO protocol he had been attempting to follow, "that as we push deeper into the forest, we may encounter... entities.” The words seemed to add another layer of ghastliness to the already dreadful forest. “Specifically, something that appears as a, uh, naked female wandering the forest that is possibly accompanied by what they're describing as a… 'fairy.'"
“What the fuck?” Finch's brain short-circuited for a moment. Of all the things he'd expected to hear, naked forest chicks and sentient gnats weren't anywhere near making the list.
"These entities may appear and try to communicate directly with you," Watts pressed on, his voice taking on the edge of barely controlled unease that he was trying to mask with military professionalism. "You are under no circumstances to interact, engage, or even look directly at these... things. I say again: do not give the forest woman or fairy any attention. If you do make contact, you must not—I repeat, must NOT—agree to anything they say."
The pause that followed was heavy with implication.
"Do not talk to them. Do not interact with them. Do not agree to whatever they request, even if—" Another anxious pause followed before Watts continued, as his voice had dropped even lower, "—even if they promise you something you want most in your heart." And under no circumstances are you to follow them anywhere. Propane Actual out."
The net went silent, leaving every Marine in Second Platoon to process what they'd just heard.
“Naked forest bitches and fairies,” Finch mused to himself, feeling a hysterical laugh trying to bubble up from his chest. And here he thought this op couldn't get any weirder.
Somewhere behind him, he heard Newman whisper "What the fuck?" loud enough that it probably carried halfway back to the LZ.
For once, Finch couldn't blame him. They'd trained for many situations—Counter Insurgency, trench warfare, island hopping, IEDs, chemical attacks, and even basic CBRN scenarios. But nobody at SOI or Jungle Warfare School had prepared them for Tinkerbell and her exhibitionist friend showing up to play Let's Make a Deal in an alien forest.
Reyes must have thought the same thing because the Sergeant slowly turned his head back toward his fire team. Even in the crimson gloom, Finch could see the "Are you fucking kidding me?" expression on his face. It was the same look every NCO got when the military decided to complicate an already messed-up situation with another layer of bizarre.
But orders were orders, especially when they came with that particular tone of "this is not a drill" urgency. Whatever the SEALs had encountered up ahead had spooked them enough to break radio silence and warn the entire company. And if it spooked SEALs—guys who had probably been here for months and seen all kinds of weird shit—then Finch was perfectly happy to keep his eyes on the ground and his mouth shut.
Still, as they prepared to move out again, deeper into this crimson hell that apparently came with its own supernatural thirst traps, Finch couldn't help but wonder what else this messed-up forest had in store for them. At this rate, he half-expected to run into the Easter Bunny packing heat or Santa Claus running a torture dungeon.
“Super secret squirrels AND the Fae,” he grumbled bitterly, checking his rifle one more time before rising to continue the patrol. “Meanwhile, I'm out here with standard issue everything, trying not to get seduced by magical strippers.”
The column began moving again, each Marine now distinctly more alert and significantly more paranoid about where they were looking. The forest, which had already felt oppressive and watchful, now seemed actively malevolent. Every shadow could hide more than just enemy combatants—it could hide something that wanted to get inside their heads.
And wasn't that just perfect?
Finch's anxiety spiked to new heights as his breathing quickened. They began to slow down, moving at a snail's pace. This was far from ideal while navigating the crimson undergrowth, but it wasn’t long before they stopped again as another radio communication crackled through.
"All Propane elements, this is Propane Actual," Watts's voice came through, somehow managing to sound even more strained than before. "Be advised, Pathfinder is coming down the line. They will be providing close escort through this section of forest. Narrow your dispersion to five meters and consolidate into fire teams. How copy?"
The acknowledgments came back quickly, but Finch felt his stomach drop. He gulped hard, trying to swallow the lump of dread that had suddenly formed in his throat.
That wasn't good. That was really, really not good.
What could be so bad that they needed to bunch up like boots on their first patrol? Everything about this went against every fiber of common sense that had been beaten into them at the School of Infantry. Dispersion was life. Bunching up got you killed by indirect fire, IEDs, ambushes—basically everything. The fact that they were being ordered to do it anyway meant whatever was out here was worse than conventional threats.
Doing as he was told despite every instinct screaming otherwise, Finch slowly approached Reyes's position. Newman came shuffling up from behind, followed closely by Pham, the team's token new guy. The four Marines closed the gap until they were practically on top of each other, forming a tight knot in the alien forest and they all had the same nervous look.
"'Sup," Newman let out a barely audible whisper.
"Shut up," Reyes hissed back, but there was no real heat in it—just the shared anxiety of Marines who knew they were about to step into something that was completely out of their depth.
Even Pham's naive and usually jovial face set in grim lines as he adjusted his grip on his M27. Without needing to be told, they oriented themselves into a rough circle, each Marine covering different sectors while they waited for whatever came next.
And they didn't have to wait long as a voice chirped out. “Eagle, eagle, eagle.” The voice yapped as a figure seemed to materialize out of the brush like something from a horror movie.
One moment, there was nothing but twisted vegetation, and the next, a Navy SEAL in a quasi-ghillie suit stood before them. His helmet was covered in a natural-looking Multicam scrim that completely broke up their silhouette and made him appear more like a walking bush than a man. Even standing just a few meters away, Finch had trouble tracking his exact outline against the forest backdrop.
The SEAL's face, what little of it was visible beneath the face paint and neck gaiter that covered most of it, revealed eyes that made Finch's blood run cold. It wasn't exactly fear—SEALs didn't really experience fear, at least not where regular grunts could see it. But there was a tension there, an apprehensive wariness that spoke volumes about what they were about to face.
"Listen up," the SEAL said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the kind of authority that came from seeing things that would make lesser men soil themselves. "You do exactly what I tell you to do. No questions, no hesitation. Clear?"
Four heads nodded in unison.
"You’re gonna grab onto each other's gear, walk forward, and under no circumstance are you going to let go until I tell you to." The SEAL positioned himself directly in front of Reyes, presenting his assault pack. "You, grab my pack."
Reyes reached out and grasped the SEAL's kit so tightly that his knuckles turned white, even in the dim light. Finch clung to Reyes's pack and felt Newman's hand gripping his own gear from behind, with Pham bringing up the rear.
"No matter what," the SEAL continued, his voice becoming even more serious, "do not look away from the pack in front of you. Keep your eyes on the gear, nowhere else. Do you understand?"
Everyone nodded once more, but the SEAL wasn’t satisfied with a simple gesture as his eyes narrowed. "I need verbal confirmation from each of you." His tone brooked no argument.
"Understood," Reyes said.
"Roger that," Finch managed.
"Crystal clear," Newman whispered.
"Good to go," Pham confirmed.
The SEAL looked around at the other fireteams starting to bunch up, and SEALs along the line gave thumbs up. Even Marine fireteams from other platoons came into sight after as the SEAL counted each of his guys and nodded in satisfaction before keying his radio. “Jackal 4-2 is good to go.” He gave a quick acknowledgment to whoever was controlling this nightmare train, then turned to his group of Marines. "Stay tight. Move fast. And remember—eyes on the gear in front of you."
A few moments later, they were on the move again, and at a much faster pace than before. The human centipede of Marines crashed through the underbrush without their usual tactical precision, following the SEAL as he forged a path through the thick vegetation.
Finch did as he was told, keeping his eyes locked on Reyes's pack like it held the secrets of the universe. The ALICE pack attachments bounced and swayed with each step, and he found himself almost hypnotized by the rhythm. His peripheral vision caught glimpses of the forest rushing by—twisted roots, hanging vines, patches of that bioluminescent moss—but he kept his focus forward.
God, his nerves were wracked to hell. Every sound made him want to look, every shadow that moved in his peripheral vision called for his attention, but he kept his eyes glued to that pack like his life depended on it… Because maybe it did.
They'd been moving for maybe two minutes when he heard it.
"Is… is someone there? I need a little help… Please…"
The voice was sweet and feminine, coming from somewhere off to his left. It sounded more innocent than some Mormon girl in a bookstore, with an underlying quality that made something primitive in Finch’s brain sit up and take notice.
Pham was the first to crack. "Hey, did you guys—"
"Don't fucking listen to her!" The SEAL's voice cut through like a whip crack, an aggressive, hushed whisper that carried more threat than a drill instructor's best tirade. "You keep your eyes on the gear and keep your fucking mouth shut!"
