Grimoires and Gunsmoke

A Lord dined alone in an opulent but empty banquet hall. Methodically, he cut each bite of food before slowly bringing it to his long, feathered dragon-like snout. The brilliant white feathers shimmered with each bite of succulent meat. His feast table was laid with a broad selection of options, but the Lord gravitated towards his comfort food and plucked morsels only from the platter of seared but still bleeding meats.

To the casual observer, it was merely another grand feast for another person of importance. But to a solitary human servant with a keen eye… it was anything but ordinary.

The servant woman automatically adjusted the sleeves on her uniform and brushed her hand over her splendid platinum blonde hair tied up into a neat bun, making sure her appearance was neat and orderly for the Lord’s gaze. While clasping her pale hands behind her back, she pursed her lips as she felt the tension brewing in the room. This imposing dragon-like humanoid, adorned with opalescent white shading to gold feathers, seemed stressed out of his mind as he poked at his food while lost in thoughts.

The servant shifted and gathered her courage. "Y-Your grace, Varian…" She spoke up hesitantly, "…. is there an issue with the meal? Would you prefer I bring it back to be remade?"

Her voice reached the Dragonoid through his stupor. His gaze shifted from the window, the view from which showed a sprawling city beneath his gargantuan castle, and he focused on the servant. "Ah… I appreciate the thought, Luva," Varian began, absently smoothing out a ruffled feather, “but no, the meal is exquisite, as always. It's just that these earthly pleasures... they seem to have faded in their allure."

Luva felt a surge of anxiety. Emotions coursed through her at the remark and her eyes began to swim. Was the food that bad? Was he displeased with her service? Luva's mind raced with doubts. As a newcomer in the halls of the main castle, she was acutely aware of her insignificance. Here she was, standing in the presence of Emperor Lord Varian of the Seraphic Empire, a being whose decisions shaped the destiny of millions. She felt like an ant in his presence, and Luva feared that any slight could become a grave error leading to her swift dismissal—or worse. However, instead of the scathing scolding she had expected, her lord just offered her another magnanimous look and lifted his hand to gesture for her to speak her mind.

“Go on, ask your question,” he encouraged, keeping a neutral face. Varian knew from experience that mimicking a Human or Elf’s smile would inspire nothing panic instead of confidence. His rows of razor-sharp teeth and his long maw would make it seem more like he was trying to consume rather than comfort her.

“Y-Your grace,” she began softly, choosing her words with care, “p-perhaps… perhaps it’s my ineptitude diminishing your appetite?"

The Lord chuckled lightly at that, the sound deep and resonant, echoing through the grand hall. "No no no no!" He immediately replied, dispelling her misconception with a wave. "No, there's nothing wrong with what you’re doing. It’s just… the burden of responsibility is getting to me.”

A blank look clouded Luva’s face as she blinked in surprise. "O-Oh…!” she murmured before bowing her head deeply. “I apologize, your grace! I didn't mean to presume," she started, but Varian again waved her off.

"There’s no need to kowtow, Luva," he said with a gentle exhale, amused, the tips of his incisors showing despite his neutral countenance. "You’re doing wonderfully. I’m stressed from overseeing such a vast empire. Some of the burdens I bear and expectations I have to meet are too profound for any mere mortal."

Luva’s gaze cautiously met Varian's. Behind the Lord, an enormous gilt painting of his celestial parents loomed, framing him under their watchful gazes. His sire, the dragon who carved the Seraphic Empire from the ruins of decades long civil war, the embodiment of vast authority and imperial majesty, and his dame, the ethereal goddess of magic, Elven Mother, loomed larger than life, dwarfing their flesh and blood son. Luva was struck by his marked resemblance to his father, although he was humanoid and not full Dragonkin. She could feel the immense pressure from living up to such an extraordinary lineage. His parents were beings of myth, creatures that humans and even elves whispered about in awe and fear. To carry the blood of a goddess and the oldest of celestial dragons meant that expectations were not just high—they were practically impossible. Every decision, every action, would be scrutinized not just by his subjects or his court but by the history and legacy of his ancestors.

"To be born of both sky and earth, divine and draconic, is both a blessing and a bane." Varian sighed as he brought another piece of meat to his mouth.

Luva froze, feeling as if he’d just plucked her thoughts out of her head and answered them. "Your Grace, might there be any way I can lighten your load?" she finally managed to squeak out after gathering the courage to speak.

Varian paused for a moment, his gaze resting on Luva with a mix of appreciation and resignation. "You are very kind and dutiful, Luva. But no," he said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. He stood up, his towering form casting a long shadow in the flickering light of the banquet hall. As he slid his chair in with a quiet scrape against the stone floor, he added, "I think I'm done for now."

Luva watched the Lord walk back to his chambers. She felt something pull at her, a desire to alleviate the burden he carried. "Is there nothing I can do to help?" she called out, a hint of desperation in her voice.

Coming to a stop just in front of her, Varian turned to face her and regarded the woman for a moment. The look of concern was etched deep on her face and he couldn’t help but be satisfied with her devotion and dutifulness. "Well, if you really want to help..." he began, looking her up and down.

The servant's face reddened slightly at his scrutinizing gaze. Yet she stood firm, determined to offer whatever assistance she could.

"I may ask you to stop by my chamber to help me... de-stress," he finally said, his voice low and earnest.

A mix of emotions coursed through Luva as her eyes widened at his request. Surprise, uncertainty, but above all, a steadfast resolve to be of service. She knew that helping a Lord might extend beyond the typical duties of a servant. It might mean lending an ear to his troubles, offering words of comfort, or… offering him other forms of comfort. However, she never would have considered a Dragonkin would be interested in anyone other than other Dragonkins.

"Of course, Your Grace. I will be there," she replied almost immediately, lowering her head in deference.

Varian nodded his head in approval with the look of anticipation shining in his eyes. "Very good," he responded with a deep and resonant voice. “I expect you within the hour.”

As he turned to leave, the Dragonkin watched his servant give another bow as his tongue flicked out, running across his maw in hunger.

By the time the Emperor made his way to his regal chambers, Luva couldn’t help the fact that her heart pounded with a mixture of fear and excitement. Never in her wildest dreams did she think something like… this would be possible. And as the grand doors to his chambers closed behind him with a quiet but definitive thud, Luva was left alone in the vast, echoing hall.

Once within the confines of his private sanctuary, Varian moved towards the massive window overlooking the bustling castle grounds below. The Emperor was so high up, people of his great Empire looked like mere ants while they went about their duties.

Duties which HE dictated…

There was something about that thought that made the Emperor’s heart flutter with excitement. To order a mere mortal to whatever one would wish, be it mundane or complex, was a power that Varian could turn to a reality with an errant thought. Whether that be making the most powerful lords bend their knee, compel a soldier to take their own life for his amusement, have entire legions march to war, or…

Having a being of another species spread their legs.

Within the borders of the great Seraphic Empire, his will was unchallenged, his authority absolute. The law of the land was a fabric woven from his desires and expectations. People worked, celebrated, and lived at the whim of his silent commands. But as Varian's eyes drifted to the massive statue erected in honor of his Mother and father, a sense of dread replaced his anticipation. His mind groaned under the ever-present reminder of the sheer weight the two divinities placed on his shoulders.

His dragon-like maw remained motionless, but his jaw tightened, his feathers rippling and smoothing flat again. Varian knew he had not yet earned the honor of standing amongst the divines, but that would be remedied soon, he fervently promised himself. His gaze left the window and fell sourly on the ornate hourglass in the corner of the chamber. Golden grains of sand dribbled through the tapered glass and fell onto the massive pile on the bottom.

Time. Not much left. Time was an ever-grinding constant, a force that brought everyone to their knees, whether they be beggars or kings, he reflected sourly. Even he couldn’t escape it without help. But soon, his time of greatness was coming to pass.

He sat lost in circling thoughts as he waited, until finally the chamber's fireplace roared to life, ferociously spewing dancing flames from its mouth and illuminating the room with giddily dancing shadows.

"Ah, Alastor,” Varian's sonorous, resonant voice broke the room's stillness as he turned his head back to the window, pointedly turning away from the spectacle of flames, his posture dismissive. "How wonderful it is that the Herald of the Hells graces my sanctuary once more," he said without even turning around. “You Devils certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Clad in refined attire a century out of date, a human with sharp and chiseled features walked from the flames and performed an elegant bow to the Emperor’s indifferent shoulder. "When a being of such unparalleled splendor calls, even the Infernal Depths stand to attention," he declared, his tone dripping with honey.

Palpable tension between the two filled the air; this encounter was another hand of a long running game between them as they navigated their layers of intertwined and akimbo veiled agendas.

With a deliberate flourish, fiery sparks shot out from Alastor's hand and an ornate scroll slowly materialized. The parchment, ancient yet crisp and fresh, was sealed with an emblem that combined Varian's quetzal rampant and Alastor’s personal seal, his silhouette in profile executed in crimson and gold. As it unfurled, the words etched upon it seemed to move and shift, encrypted against the casual glance. The scroll delineated their grand deal, an agreement to facilitate Varian’s ascension beyond the pedestrian boundaries of mortality to stand alongside the pantheon of gods. Varian, already a demigod but still hungry to prove himself against the immortal legacy of his parents, sought the final pieces of power to solidify his divine stature.

"I have fulfilled my part," Alastor began, voice dripping with dark amusement. "Now I ask you to fulfill yours." A few sparks crackled from the Devil’s mouth for a moment, and an intense blaze filled his eyes.

“It is to my understanding you have The Banished One in your possession. Give her to me,” Alastor demanded as he stood staring at Varian's back.

Varian slowly turned to face Alastor, his eyes radiant with the new power flooding him as the deal between them neared consummation. His gaze fell on the scroll in the Devil's hand, the infernal instrument wasn't merely parchment; it was alive—a breathing testament to the promises and debts woven between the two formidable beings.

As Alastor emphasized his demand, the scroll reacted in kind. From its ancient surface, blazing letters rose, hovering mid-air, forming a mesmerizing holographic tableau that portrayed their binding agreement in the infernal script.

"I am well aware of our arrangement, Alastor," Varian replied, his voice smooth yet authoritative. Every syllable uttered caused the letters on the scroll to dance as if responding to their master's voice. "And you will have her in due time… But tell me, why do you desire her so fervently? Surely you could wait another week or two."

Alastor's demeanor shifted slightly, betraying a hint of impatience and outrage. The room grew hotter as his voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Every moment she remains out of my grasp, the chains that the infernal realm have on your soul pull tighter. Time, Varian, is a luxury you cannot afford." The devil squeezed his fist tighter to emphasize his point and the letters spelling out the contract burned brighter, casting the entire chamber in a pulsing cherry glow.

Varian pulled his eyes away from the scroll and he poured the entire weight of his gaze onto Alastor, attempting to winnow out the Devil’s intent beyond this immediate gambit. The Dragonkin smirked when he finally spoke, revealing a row of needle tipped teeth. “I have yet to break our agreement, Alastor." He replied, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and defiance. "I may have ascended beyond mere mortality, but I have not forgotten our pact. Nor do I take lightly the tether you hold over my soul."

The light in the room shifted uneasily, the furnishings appearing to quake and jump, a trick of the wildly flickering fire glow. The effect intensified as flames licked around Alastor, and his long, barbed tail materialized, belying his human mask. For the first time since entering the opulent chamber, Alastor’s poise slipped. A trace of uncertainty flitted across his chiseled face, fleeting as a windblown ember. "Then tell me, Varian, why this delay?” Alastor’s voice was eerily earnest, lacking the bombastic honey he’d opened the salley with. “What do you hope to achieve by withholding her from me?"

Varian's smirk grew wider, his majestic presence radiating confidence. "Did you truly believe my ambitions were limited to becoming a demigod?" He began gesturing broadly with both arms, and the feathered crest on the back of his head echoed the regal gesture, golden plumes raising and spreading to catch the firelight. "While our agreement holds weight, I have been thorough in my reading. There is no time limit on when I have to deliver The Banished One, and her powers have a purpose far beyond what the mortals understand."

Alastor's eyes narrowed as the fire defining the contract abruptly collapsed back into an ordinary paper scroll. His pretty face tightened in a scowl, his human mask slipping a little more. The Devil’s tail twitched irritably and the air of the chamber was thick and close with heat and the sulfurous reek of the Abyss. “I do not know what you are planning, Varian, but you tread on dangerous grounds.” Alastor growled, his expression dark, contrasting his perfectly sculpted features. “The powers you speak of are unpredictable. Chaotic.” He showed his teeth, his words clipped and emphatic. “Beyond your comprehension.”

The feathered Emperor drew himself up, feeling how close he was to winning this round. His eyes sparkled with anticipation and excitement, the ravenous hunger of his ambition driving him recklessly. "Risk is the price of ambition, Alastor. Did you think I would just be satisfied with such half-measures?" Varian leaned forward, his voice iced over with resolve. "My scholars have felt it — a pulse, a whisper from the beyond. The Unclaimed. They believe we can create a bridge to this uncharted realm, teeming with untapped souls."

“MADNESS!” Alastor roared. His elegant mask ripped away entirely as he contorted into his dark, true form. Obsidian skin stretched over tight muscle, punctuated with jagged bone spires up his spine. He unfurled expansive, leathery wings and beat the air in frustrated rage. His face retained its chiseled angular perfection, but he was crowned by grotesque horns, and his eyes were incandescent. “You gamble with the very fabric of existence, Varian! Meddling with such realities risks not just your empire or this world but the balance of all realms!”

Varian let out a condescending chuckle, pleased that he’d provoked the Devil into losing control of himself. He flicked his hand and the contract obeyed, levitating between them, no longer in Alastor’s grip. Glowing ethereal letters pulsed vividly, highlighting the clauses that bound them both. "Ah, Alastor, your memory seems a tad rusty. Might I remind you of this little stipulation?" He gestured toward a line on the contract that shimmered brighter than the rest. "As long as this contract stands, no harm shall befall me from the hands or will of the Hells."

Drawing himself up to his full height, Varian's feather-crested mane fluffed with newfound arrogance. "Your dire warnings and threats fall on deaf ears, DEVIL. I will pursue the path to true godhood, and no demon, celestial, or whatever else comes crawling out will stand in my way." Dismissing Alastor's misgivings with a wave, he added, "Should you be concerned about our agreement, I suggest you assist me in ensuring its success rather than mewling about prophetic magicks."

With a calculated glint, Varian turned and gestured towards the giant, ornate hourglass at the corner of the chamber. The golden sands within were on the verge of running out, the final grains ticking down to the imminent opening of the rift.

"See there, Alastor? Time is almost upon us," he mused, beaming with pride as the pieces all came together. "My plan is already in motion. Beyond those borders," he continued, pointing to the vast map spread out on a table behind him, "lands are teeming with resources and glory that await my legions and unclaimed souls that are looking for a new god. A new world ripe for the Empire." The dragonkin’s voice was merely a whisper as his taloned hand gently slid across the map and settled on the wild lands.

Varian’s fingers then traced the borders of his sprawling empire and lingered over certain marked regions, indicative of his contingency plans. "Here," he began, pointing to fortified castles and fortresses marked in gold, "my loyal vassals, ever ready to defend our honor and legacy." He then moved his hand over a wild, untamed area of the map. "And these wild lands... unpredictable, yes, but they serve as a buffer. If the worst comes to pass, they will be the first to face the wrath, the first line of defense, or, if need be, the first sacrifice."

Alastor's mind raced, thoughts swirling in a storm of dread and frustration, paralyzed by the terms of the contract to stop the disaster in motion in front of him. Into the morbid silence that hung between them, his internal musings thundered, unfiltered. "It's the tragic paradox of mortalkind: Deny them their freedom, and they label you a despot. Grant them autonomy, and they often turn into the oppressors they once condemned." Though bound by the iron-clad clauses of their contract, the Devil's demeanor once again shifted from suppressed rage to earnest desperation. "Varian," he implored, his fiery gaze searching the Emperor’s. "Do not let pride and ambition blind you to the cataclysms that may unfold. Can't you see? Even as a spawn of the hells I warn you that your quest for power could unleash chaos on a scale you can't even fathom!"

The Devil's voice dropped to a haunting whisper that filled the room, echoing off the walls, his tone chilled as he reexperienced his memories of past tragedies. "Were you not taught of the events that led to The Banished One's imprisonment in the first place!? There were CATACLYSMS Varian. Realms shattered, gods fallen! COUNTLESS SOULS LOST TO OBLIVION, UNABLE TO EVER BE CLAIMED AGAIN!!"

Drawing closer, Alastor's infernal aura pulsated, his form ever-shifting between his elegant mask and monstrous nature, reflecting the internal conflict he felt. "Beyond whatever rift you make," he continued, eyes darkening, "would most likely not only be filled with realms of untapped potential but also abominations unknown even to us. Terrors that would make The Banished One seem like a mere petulant child. Do not let your avarice drive all to ruin, for even we Devils do not want to rule over rubble and wastelands!"

A momentary flicker of doubt crossed Varian’s eyes, but it vanished almost as quickly as it came as he defiantly held Alastor’s gaze.

Would he heed the devil's warning, or would his ambition prove too overpowering?

Varian cast a dismissive glance at the empty hourglass, his voice dripping with disdain. "Do you truly believe your fanciful tales of horror will deter me, Alastor? My empire is vast and my legions are unmatched. Whatever challenges or 'abominations' lie beyond that rift, we are more than equipped to conquer."

Alastor snarled, and his infernal form shuddered as a strange blend of anger and dread shook him. "Your arrogance blinds you to the peril you beckon!"

But Varian's face was a mask of unwavering resolve. "Your words are nothing more than the desperate cries of a fool who fears change. My ascent is inevitable, Devil." Turning towards the hourglass, Varian once more smiled as the final grains of sand finally sprinkled to the bottom of the hourglass.

It was at this very moment that Alaster felt the boundaries of the mortal realm ripple and distort. A pulse of energy, like a stone cast into still waters, spread outward, ripping apart the foundational fabric of time and space.

“What have you done…?” the Devil whispered, his blazing gaze fixed on the now shimmering hourglass.

Unbeknownst to Varian, the rift he had recklessly awakened went far beyond the edges of his comprehension; the shockwave from the rift reverberated, breaching through dimensions and tearing a gateway into another realm. And in Cambridge, Ohio, the early evening sky darkened. Moments later it brightened again, as if a partial eclipse had momentarily clipped the setting sun.

As the evening sky filled with radiant blue light ringed with sunset gold clouds, Bix, a scruffy, balding man with pale skin characteristic of his Appalachian roots drew a long and exaggerated snort before expelling a plug of spit onto the tall, waving grass.

“C’mon Bix… We just need a small dab of ice, a’ight?” A long-haired, painfully bony man said as he stepped forward a bit. “I knows yous got a little, so-”

“I ain't give two SHITS what any y’all peckerwoods need.” Bix snarled as a cluster of twitching and equally scruffy people stood outside his property line. “I’s has said, WE. AIN’T. DONE. COOKIN’. Now git before I put some buck in all y’all!”

Bix then pumped his shotgun, eliciting a clear and intimidating sound that echoed through the silence. He then pointed the weapon towards the group, making his threat all the more real. A yelp of fear broke from the crowd of people as they scurried away, knowing full well Bix was most likely not bluffing.

Another glob of mucus hit the dirt as Bix threw his shotgun over his shoulder and turned around. He lumbered his way back towards the dilapidated structure he called home, grumbling to himself, "God damn junkies, can't even wait a day to get they fix."

Turning around, Bix looked at his home to see it was a sorry sight, a rundown, one-story shack that seemed to have lost its battle with time and weather. Its former whitewash had given way to grayish streaks, the paint chipping and peeling off in several places, revealing the worn-out wooden skeleton beneath.

“I aint got no patience to deal with this shit…” Bix complained as he yanked on the front door, causing it to groan under its own weight.

Once inside, the interior was obsessively tidy compared to the house’s derelict exterior; the floor and walls were lined with plastic sheets, neatly duct-taped at the corners. The air was pungent with the smell of chemicals, a stench that could burn nostrils and sting eyes.

At the center of it all, standing amidst an assortment of makeshift chemistry equipment, was Beau, Bix's younger brother. He was dressed in a hazmat suit, its bright new yellow standing in sharp contrast with the worn gray interior of the shack. His eyes, hidden behind the protective goggles, focused on the boiling flask before him.

"Gettin' close, Beau?" Bix asked, shutting the door behind him and stepping further into the room. “God damn crackheads are already outside beggin’ for-” Bix was cut off by a large concussive force that rattled everything in the house

Beau was quick to react as his hand grabbed at the glass beakers and flasks to keep it all steady. “What in the name of the LORD was that!?” The gas-masked brother shouted as he turned to Bix.

“It’s the 4th, Beau.” Bix shrugged. “You know how folks be ‘round these parts, probably just some idjit," Bix finished nonchalantly, his gaze falling back on the desperate figures loitering at the boundary of their property. “Anyways, how much longer ya got on the cookin’?”

"Another couple of hours, at least," Beau replied, still holding onto the flasks as his eyes darted anxiously between his work, making sure nothing was damaged. "The yield won't be any good if I rush it, Bix."

A disgruntled groan was released in response as Bix’s gaze flicked back towards the rickety screen door. He was just about to dismiss his brother's worries and go back to keeping watch when another explosion, this one much closer and much brighter, shook the ground beneath their feet.

All the beakers and flasks rattled even more violently, but luckily Beau was fast enough to grab the more volatile and dangerous bit before it went crashing to the floor. Glass and lab equipment scattered all along the floor as Beau turned to his shotgun-wielding brother with the look of fury on his face.

“Bix! You best go out there and tell them god damn PECKERWOODS to stop and they owe us fuckin’ MONEY or you better kill ‘em!!” Beau shouted, his voice muffled by the gas mask and the reverberating rumbles that seemed to shake their entire world.

Bix rolled his eyes and gave a disgruntled sigh. "Always the money with you, ain't it Beau?" He threw his shotgun back over his shoulder before approaching the screen door. “A’ight, a’ight. I’ll go shoot some dipshits…” Bix grumbled as he shouldered open the door. About to step off the porch, he froze in confusion. The land on the horizon seemed… somehow disjointed and warped and completely different. Where once there was the familiar Appalachian hill forest, now there stood a vast, flat expanse of land covered in strange vegetation unlike any he had seen before. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, wondering if he'd inhaled some spilled product.

The landscape wasn't the only thing that was off. A group of people, all strangers, stood just outside his property line. They were gesturing wildly and yelling in a language Bix couldn't identify, and they looked about as confused as he felt.

"What in the hell...?" He mumbled under his breath, taking a moment to reassess the situation. He missed his step off the porch and stumbled into the long grass. His first thought was these were most likely just some junkies, and he was most definitely high on a chemical leak. Shaking his head, Bix yelled at the strangers. "Hey! You! What the hell y’all just do!?" He yelled, pointing his shotgun at the group.

The strangers turned towards him, looking equally puzzled. They muttered amongst themselves in their strange language before one of them, a tall, thin man with, oddly enough, a full suit of metal armor, stepped forward.

He began speaking, but the words were strange, foreign, nothing like the Appalachian drawl Bix was used to. Bix squinted at the man, annoyed at his lack of understanding, but then noticed the pointed ears of the person speaking and the folk around him. "I don't know what the hell you're saying, but y'all cosplayin’ fucks owe us some goddamn money for whatever the hell y’all just did! Ya understand!?" Bix demanded, but all he got were more confused looks.

The figure in armor looked back at his colleagues and exchanged a few heated words before returning to Bix. Pulling out a sword, the pointed-eared individual and one of their companions started swinging their hands in the air, causing a small ball of ice or fire from their fingertips. The sight was utterly captivating but still completely out of Bix's comprehension. He stood rooted in place with eyes wide in disbelief.

“Aw hell no, I must be high as a kite,” Bix said, pointing his shotgun at the armored fellow with ice forming on his fingertips and pulling the trigger.

A deafening crack rang out, dropping one of the armored figures. Their companions however, immediately sprang into action. The nearest individual to the downed man started to drag their fallen comrade behind them as another group formed a defensive wall. Their arms rose in unison, presenting a shield wall while a brilliant, almost impenetrable energy barrier took form just before them.

Behind this shield, the fire-casting man didn't hesitate. His hand motions quickened, and his chanting much harsher while the fireball in their hand grew brighter and more prominent.

Meanwhile, Beau shouted a string of profanities as he opened the screen door, ripping off his respirator and pointing directly at Bix. “GODDAMNIT BIX! WHY’D YA KILL SOMEONE HERE! NOW WE GOTTA- …What the…?” Beau cut himself off as he stared at the strange sight in front of him. “Bix what the hell is that?”

“I dunno Beau, I thought I was high, but it looks like the cosplayers are-” Bix was cut off by the fire-caster launching the fireball directly towards the two brothers, and in an instant, their world was engulfed in the searing heat and blinding light. The last thing they saw was their shanty house being consumed by the massive fireball.

The crackling fire and screams faded, replaced by the steady hum of an aircraft engine.

“A la Verga… What the hell are we getting ourselves into?” Corporal Luis Santiago, a Puerto Rican with a tanned complexion, complained as he turned his head to see his M2A4 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle chained to the cargo plane's floor and sighed.