Finch couldn't help but curse at how uncomfortable he felt as he leaned against the sharp and hostile shrubbery. It was almost as if every goddamn thing alive was out and about, trying to crawl on and nip at him. Every plant, every insect, every small animal clung to the wet bottom half of his body like it was trying to become one with his soaked utilities.
To make matters worse, the vicious abominations in the form of alien insects weren’t the most painful or disconcerting things Finch and the other Marines had to deal with. No, it was DAMN vegetation. It was as if every damn thing, except the cold, dead, hard dirt, was hostile as thorns shoved themselves into places where they had no business being, and something was trying to explore and dig its way into the inside of his collar and legs.
"Stupid... alien... bullshit..." Finch muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the sensation of what felt like a centipede doing the cha-cha down his sock.
Peering down his optic, Finch twisted and turned to get a better view, but he just couldn’t find a good position to see the SEALs as they stalked forward. The only thing that caught his eye was nothing but layers upon layers of… mostly green alien foliage, which made target acquisition as easy as finding a specific needle in a stack of other needles.
Fortunately, the area in front of the Marines was noticeably less dense in an artificial manner. It was clear that this location was still under construction—or at least being harvested for materials. Stumps of those peculiar purple-barked trees dotted the cleared space, and he could see piles of what looked like processed lumber stacked in neat rows far off in the distance as Finch twisted the adjustment post on his VCOG to zoom in. However, no matter how the Marines squinted at objects in the distance, they couldn’t quite discern anything due to the strange optical distortion. Whatever was happening over there caused the air to shimmer and dance in a way that disrupted everyone's depth perception.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Finch continued to scan the positions the SEALs were supposedly attacking until he finally spotted one creeping through the brush. The SEAL kept low as they approached their objectives, but it was hard to keep visual on the bastard. His meshed half ghilli and scrim broke up his silhouette in a way that it was hard to tell which way he was going. But despite how hard it was to keep track of the frogman, Finch kept tracking and studying him as he adjusted himself to get a better view.
"Can you see anything?" Newman whispered from beside him, noticing the Lance Corporal caught sight of something interesting.
Finch squinted through his optic again, trying to make out actual targets. "I've spotted one so far, but it's hard to make out anything specific…” He grumbled, adjusting his optic again. “You see the lowest set of purple vines? There's one kneeling by that jacked-up-looking tree stump.”
A moment of silence stretched between them as Newman started to adjust himself and scan the area that Finch pointed out. "Wait, ya… I saw one of 'em," Newman suddenly muttered. "Yeah, there… I see what you’re talking about now. Okay..."
As they watched the SEALs maneuver closer, the Marines couldn’t help but admire the frogmen’s almost hypnotic and fluid movement as they crept closer and closer to whatever they were planning to attack. "Damn, these guys are hard to spot. And I'm actively looking for ‘em..." Newman admitted as he closed one eye to try and focus on observing.
Finch didn't bother acknowledging whatever the Private said. He was too busy trying to track any sign of movement in the thick brush. Aside from a few SEALs who were staying put, the rest seemed completely out of sight. He knew there were many more than four of those bastards out there, considering a full platoon consisted of over twenty SEALs, but Finch couldn’t find a single one aside from the few that remained in place.
Ignoring the wet squelch of his utilities, Finch let out a sigh and pulled himself away from the firing hole he had made in the brush. He looked further down the line and noticed that most of their platoon had finally taken position and were spread out in a rough line through the alien underbrush. A few Marines were moving up and down the line, carrying ammo boxes for the machine gunners, MAAWs, and extra warheads, but everyone was more or less ready to go.
"You think we're actually gonna see action?" Pham quietly spoke up out of nowhere directly from Finch's other side.
No one seemed to answer this question as they exchanged uneasy glances. The most probable answer was yes, but anything could happen out here. This was especially the case when SEALs were running around and the overwhelming amount of ordnance that the ANGLICO guys were set to drop on the enemy when things kicked off.
A full few seconds of silence stretched out as they all listened to the strange calls of animals throughout the forest—weird trilling sounds that no Earth creature had ever made, punctuated by what sounded like a bullfrog that had been hitting the gym and taking steroids.
"I mean, maybe..." Newman finally answered, peeling off his rifle and offering an uncertain shrug. But he soon rammed his face back into his optic to begin looking around again. "Maybe this'll all be over before—wait, are they throwing grenades?"
Finch immediately rolled back into his original position and peered down his optic, scanning the thicket. A few curse words slipped from his mouth as he saw many more SEALs scurrying around, and activity was in full swing. But a couple of heartbeats later, earth-shattering explosions shattered the forest, which was immediately followed by a full barrage of automatic gunfire that deafened the entire area.
The peaceful alien forest transformed into a symphony of violence in an instant, sending ripples of murmurs throughout the Marine line.
"S-shit…! Do I start shootin’ sarge?" Pham snapped his head to his team leader while bringing his rifle to bear.
"No, you goddamn idiot!" Reyes hissed at the green private. "Those are our guys shooting! Hold your fire until ordered otherwise!"
The interaction between Pham and his Team Leader played out throughout the rest of the Platoon of Marines as they just lay there and watched as the SEALs darted around in the trees. Watching the fighting and the way they implemented violence of action, like a scalpel, was fascinating. However, the SEAL’s method of war lacked a certain… je ne sais quoi. It was clinical, boring even. It was missing the simple and overwhelmingly brutal destruction that the United States Marine Corps brought to bear, which felt fundamentally more honest and carried a certain beauty to it.
Tracers from the machine guns zipped through the forest like deadly fireflies, tearing everything apart as grenades detonated in rapid succession. At first, Finch and the rest of 2nd platoon thought this was a rather one-sided fight until they saw it—multiple series of golden bolts of lightning ripping through the trees, shattering wood and sending splinters of every size flying through the air. More magical effects erupted in response to the SEALs' assault, each one just as vicious and violent as the last. Scorching blue flames snaked past the branches as if alive, strange red beams twisted and weaved around the environment seeking something to pierce, dark purple orbs that seemed to absorb light, and other phenomena that made Finch's brain ache to process.
But nothing could properly find the SEALs as they kept moving, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds to let off a full-on wall of lead before scurrying away. It was obvious they were accustomed to this way of fighting. The SEALs seemed to have learned that cover was just not enough when the enemy could shoot lightning at you. You had to stay on the move and never let this new magical enemy get a good fix on your position and hit you with something that would completely destroy you and whatever you were hiding behind.
This became even more evident when a tree near a couple of SEALs' suddenly shattered into shrapnel, tearing into the poor bastards. The men toppled over from the sudden explosion of shrapnel, yet they still managed to scramble away. However, not before nearly being taken out when the instantly shattered tree fell trunk-first, embedding itself into the ground. But instead of crushing those beneath it, the broken tree somehow remained upright, stabbed deep into the earth. But, that attack was soon answered as another SEAL popped up with what looked like a Carl Gustaf and put a round directly into the hidey-hole that spell came from.
Dirt and debris were sent flying thirty feet into the air as a satisfying explosion tore through the still-under-construction structure. Before the dust even settled, more machine gun and rifle fire erupted from multiple angles as the SEALs pressed their advantage.
The Marines remained dead quiet, transfixed by the supernatural firefight unfolding before them. Another magical effect—a cone of frost that would make Elsa jealous—basically froze an entire section of the forest. Ice crystals formed instantly on leaves and branches as the temperature dropped so fast that steam rose from the suddenly frozen vegetation.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
"Holy shit," Newman breathed, his earlier anger forgotten in the face of the sheer violence on display. “This is awesome.”
Finch found himself nodding in agreement. This wasn't like the firefights he'd seen on the internet or heard about from the senior NCOs. This was something else entirely—modern warfare meeting fantasy garbage in the most American way possible: overwhelming firepower.
His awe was cut short, however, when he noticed movement much closer than the main engagement. A small group of figures broke from the chaos and made their way directly toward the Marines’ line. Finch’s gut tightened as he tracked them through his optic and noticed they were SEALs. Two were upright, firing back into the woods, while others dragged two casualties from that concussive blast earlier.
The two wounded hobbled and limped as fast as they could toward the Marines they were hiding behind and practically threw themselves over the defilade. Groans and howls of pain resonated as the SEALs' corpsmen slid down between two fire teams and immediately got to work, ripping off their medpack and rifling through pouches.
"Doc! Doc, get the fuck up there!" someone called, and the Marines' Corpsman came sprinting over.
Keeping his head low and remaining unseen, the Navy Corpsman scurried past the grunts, who couldn’t help but shiver at the sight of the massive splinters protruding from the poor bastard’s legs, arms, and torso. The wounded appeared absolutely mangled; some of the shrapnel’s width could be measured in inches and was twice as long, resembling organic spears.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Newman muttered, his face going pale beneath the face paint.
Feeling a bit queasy, Finch forced himself to look away and focus back on the battle. The SEALs still in action had shifted tactics and were bounding backward in textbook fashion with a zigzagging twist, dodging spells while unloading ammunition downrange. It was a fighting withdrawal executed with a level of fluidity that could only come from extensive real-world experience combatting the supernatural.
The frogmen moved in perfect synchronization—one team laying down suppressive fire while another displaced, then the roles immediately reversed. They leapfrogged backward, making it look like they'd bitten off more than they could chew and drew the enemy out, making them think they were on the run.
More magical effects erupted through the forest, causing a tree twenty meters from Finch's position to suddenly splinter and shatter, sending shrapnel everywhere. Another bolt of golden lightning carved a furrow through the earth, leaving smoldering grass in its wake. This time, though, Finch could make out the silhouettes of enemy combatants in the forest—actual targets he could track with his rifle instead of just magical nonsense flying from nowhere.
His trigger finger started itching, tapping against the side of his rifle in an unconscious rhythm. He could see them clearly now... humanoid figures moving through the trees, trying to outmaneuver the SEALs and give chase. Some looked human enough, others had that distinctive pointed-ear profile of elves, and a few were built like brick shithouses with goat-like horns—probably those Boh fuckers from the briefings.
But the order remained: hold fire until given the signal.
The SEALs maintained their fighting withdrawal, and Finch observed as most of them began to vanish into the forest, fading back like ghosts. The supersonic cracks of bullets still whizzed past, and the barks of gunfire continued to echo, but now they were a good hundred meters from where the initial contact had begun.
And that's when Finch saw them—really saw them. A hell of a lot more enemy combatants than intel had suggested. Dozens of the bastards had apparently spilled out of their half-built fortifications and started fanning out everywhere. Some carried those magical staff-spear things they'd been briefed on, while others wielded swords, shields, regular spears, or whatever pseudo-medieval fantasy weapon some twisted nerd could imagine. A few even had what looked like strange magical metal orbs resembling fantasy grenades. Because of course they fucking did.
The enemy moved with surprising coordination for what looked like a LARP convention gone wrong; they maintained spacing, used bounding overwatch with the magic guys, and communicated with hand signals that wouldn't have been out of place in any modern military. These weren't just primitive peasant levy men—they knew how to fight.
A group of them pushed forward aggressively toward where the SEALs had disappeared, but they were just under fifty meters away from the Marines’ position, none the wiser, and were moving adjacent to them. They were so focused on pursuing the SEALs that they hadn't noticed the line of angry Jarheads, internally screaming to pull their triggers while waiting in the brush.
Finch kept his crosshairs on one particular asshole who was especially aware of his surroundings and kept glancing in his direction. The man had bolts of electricity crackling along his staff and up his arm while mouthing a chant in a way that looked like he was having a stroke, but it was obvious he didn’t like Finch’s specific mound of dirt. The magical energy built to a crescendo, and the staff glowed brighter, but a hoarse and cracked voice resounded over the explosions, gunfire, and spells.
"LIGHT ‘EM UP!"
The call came from the Gunny somewhere down the line, but Finch was already squeezing the trigger before the words finished echoing through the forest, which caused all hell to break loose.
Every Marine down the line erupted in a symphony of semi-automatic and full-automatic weapon fire. Finch's VCOG reticle began to vibrate on the mage's center mass as he started mag-dumping the bastard. The first few rounds struck him high in the chest, spinning him around, and that should have been that, but Finch wasn’t taking any chances after what he had seen earlier. He kept squeezing the trigger repeatedly, pumping the poor mage full of lead before he could even hit the ground. The magical energy he had been building discharged wildly over the Marines' position, setting branches on fire and reaffirming that Finch’s extremely prejudiced fixation was justified.
Weapons teams attached to each squad opened up with their distinctive heavy chatter as M240s tore through the forest, creating interlocking fields of fire that transformed the area into an absolute meat grinder. Tracers crisscrossed through the air, some ricocheting off magical shields in showers of sparks while others found flesh and bone with wet impacts.
"GET SOME!" Newman screamed, his earlier discomfort forgotten as held down on his trigger and let loose a blistering staccato of fire. "GET SOME, YOU MEDIEVAL FUCKS! FUCKIN’ GET SOME!"
Caught completely in the open—or as open as a dense forest could be—the enemy had nowhere to go other than to hit the ground after pursuing the SEALs. Some tried to return fire with magical attacks, but the sheer volume of lead the Marines were producing made any coordinated resistance impossible.
Finch burned through his first magazine in seconds, performed a tactical reload, and immediately got back on the gun. His next target was one of those giant motherfuckers trying to rally others behind a huge metal shield. The creature was built like a seven-foot-tall powerlifter who had taken more roids than an obsessed gym bro, but it seemed that no amount of lifting mattered. 5.56 didn't give a single shit about your muscle density or gym routine if you couldn’t cover every arc of fire.
A multitude of rounds struck the freak in the side, causing him to drop his massive chunk of metal and eat 7.62 in the face. The huge goat-man toppled backward, dark blood spraying from exit wounds, and allowing the rest of his buddies to catch lead as they tried to retreat
"Changing mag!" Finch called out as his bolt locked back on an empty magazine. As he swapped in a fresh one, he caught a glimpse of the SEALs re-emerging from the forest, now adding their fire from the enemy's flank.
It was a perfect L-shaped ambush, and the enemy was caught in the kill zone with nowhere to run.
At least a dozen of the enemy in the initial volley drop. The joint force’s ambush was so devastatingly effective that the enemy forces broke instantly or went limp like a sack of medieval potatoes as modern ballistics met fantasy armor. But the rest—those lucky or quick enough to survive the first few seconds—routed and fled in every direction. Most tried desperately to make it back to their fortifications, stumbling through the thicket in a dead sprint as they succumbed completely to panic.
Reality seemed to blur past Finch as tunnel vision took hold. He ignored every crackle over the radio, all the shouted commands, and status reports. The Lance Corporal's entire existence narrowed down to the rifle in his hands and any flicker of movement in his sector as he filtered out anything and everything that wasn’t essential. The VCOG's reticle danced from target to target as he took more precise shots, trying to conserve ammo now that the initial mag dump was over.
Finch was so focused on trying to throw hate at a flash of movement through the brush that he almost missed the SEALs diving into the Marines' side of the defilade. They came diving and sliding in as if they were stealing home plate, gear rattling as they hit the dirt. One of them—Lieutenant Mack himself—landed practically on top of Finch, knocking the wind out of him before his voice cut through the combat haze.
"THIRTY SECONDS TILL ORDNANCE SPLASH DOWN!" Mack bellowed directly above Finch's ear while simultaneously transmitting over the global net. "GET YOUR ASSES IN COVER!"
That was the only thing Finch's adrenaline-flooded brain could clearly process as his head snapped around in complete confusion. Every single Marine shared the same look before recalling the plan that had been outlined, essentially curling into fetal positions and shoving their faces into the alien dirt as if they were trying to dig foxholes with their helmets. The universal ‘oh fuck’ position that every grunt recognized meant something very… very big and unfriendly was about to happen.
Immediately did the same, Finch dropped his rifle on its sling and pulled himself into the tightest ball his gear would allow. He pressed his face so hard into the ground that he could taste the alien soil through his grimace as his hands came up to cover his ears.
The world paused for a heartbeat. Even the enemy fire slackened as if the universe itself was holding its breath.
But then it all seemed to conclude with what appeared to be an unending series of earth-shattering blasts.
