The air was heavy with the acrid tang of smoke and blood as Lieutenant Jason "Grim" Cooper led his team deeper into the ruined fortress. The eerie glow of torchlight flickered against cracked stone walls, casting long shadows that seemed to shift unnaturally. Each footstep sent echoes reverberating through corridors that felt nothing like the dusty compounds of Helmand Province.
Behind him, Derek "Hawk" Hawkins moved with practiced silence, his M4 at the ready. Chief Petty Officer Marcus "Saint" Miller brought up the rear, still supporting the unconscious robed man they had carried out of the earlier skirmish. Though Marcus had used some sort of "magical salve" supplied by a passing elf—an encounter they barely had time to process—the man's face remained pale, his breathing shallow but steady.
Jason's mind churned as he pieced together their situation. They were no longer in Afghanistan—that much was painfully clear. The twin moons in the sky proved it, and the medieval architecture around them hammered it home. Yet survival demanded focus: the who, how, or why could wait until they weren't surrounded by enemies.
"Boss," Hawk whispered, voice low but urgent. "I've got movement up ahead."
Jason raised a clenched fist, signaling a halt. He crouched behind a toppled column, lifting his rifle to scan the corridor through his optics. Faint, guttural voices drifted to them—low and harsh, like gravel grinding in a metal drum.
"Orcs?" Marcus asked quietly, easing the robed man against the wall with care.
Jason nodded grimly. "Sounds like it."
They exchanged tense glances. The SEALs had faced these brutes once already—hulking creatures with crude weapons and a disturbing resilience. Their tactics were primitive but effective in sheer numbers, and the team was in no position to get bogged down in a protracted fight. A glance at his rifle's ammo counter reminded Jason just how limited their modern edge truly was.
"Plan?" Hawk asked, keeping his rifle trained on the corridor.
"We set an ambush," Jason decided. "Hawk, scout ahead—find a choke point. Saint, keep our six secure and watch him." He nodded toward the robed man.
Marcus knelt to check the unconscious figure's pulse one more time before taking up position near a side passage. Hawk moved on silent feet, scanning the floor for debris as he edged forward. The corridor narrowed into a bottleneck—collapsed beams and rubble provided decent cover on both sides. Perfect for an ambush. Hawk signaled back with two quick hand gestures.
Jason joined him, gesturing for Marcus to bring up the robed man again. Carefully, they laid him out of direct fire, then the SEALs positioned themselves behind fallen stones, rifles trained on the entrance. The guttural voices grew louder, punctuated by heavy footsteps as orcs emerged from the darkness.
Jason's heart pounded. Maybe five or six. It was hard to be sure. He stilled his breathing and waited.
A massive brute lumbered into view—greenish skin, jagged scrap-metal plates strapped haphazardly across its broad torso. A rusted axe dangled from one meaty hand. Behind it came another orc armed with a spear, followed by three more carrying clubs and mismatched shields. Their eyes darted suspiciously, as though sensing danger in the darkness.
Jason's trigger finger tensed. "Wait for my signal," he murmured over comms.
The lead orc stepped into the choke point, scanning for threats. That was all Jason needed.
"Now," he hissed.
Hawk fired first—a controlled burst tearing into the brute's chest. The orc staggered back with a monstrous roar before crashing to the ground. Marcus followed with two precise shots, dropping another orc mid-charge.
The remaining three scattered in confusion, snarling curses as they struggled to locate their hidden attackers. One raised its cobbled-together shield just in time to block Hawk's next burst—only to leave itself open for Jason's follow-up, a clean shot through exposed flesh. The orc pitched forward, blood spattering the stone floor.
The last two orcs, clearly shaken, hesitated before dragging one wounded comrade back down the corridor. Their roars echoed ominously as they vanished into the gloom.
"Hold fire," Jason ordered, eyes sweeping for any lingerers. The corridor fell silent except for the orcs' retreating footsteps.
Marcus exhaled, lowering his rifle. "That went smoother than expected."
"Don't jinx it," Hawk muttered, already reloading. The metallic click of a fresh magazine was a stark reminder they had finite supplies. They'd managed to fend off a small group now—but what about next time?
Jason stepped over one of the fallen orcs to inspect its gear—ratty leather scraps, rusted metal plates. Worthless against modern ballistic rounds. That mismatch between the orcs' crude armor and the SEALs' advanced weaponry should be reassuring, but it only made him uneasy. They were winning these skirmishes, but ammo was going fast—and who knew how many orcs infested this fortress?
"These weren't scouts," he mused, testing the weight of a rusted axe. "More like stragglers."
Marcus nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "They'll regroup fast. We should move."
A soft groan interrupted them—the robed man stirred weakly where Marcus had laid him. His eyes opened briefly, cloudy with pain or exhaustion, before closing again. Still, it was progress.
"He's coming around," Marcus said quietly, concern etched on his face. He brushed away dust from the man's scorched sleeves, noticing faint glyphs that looked suspiciously similar to the swirling runes they'd seen back in Afghanistan. It only deepened the mystery.
Jason knelt beside him, pressing a steadying hand on the man's shoulder. "Hey. Can you hear me?" he asked, unsure if the words were even understood.
The robed man's lips moved soundlessly, no strength yet behind them.
"Give him time," Marcus advised, checking the man's vitals. "He's alive, at least."
Jason rose, turning to Derek. "We need intel—anything that tells us how big a force Malachar's got in here, or how this castle is laid out." He gestured toward the corridor where orcs had retreated. "But let's not charge in blind. Move before they regroup."
The three SEALs gathered their gear, lifted the robed mage as gently as possible, and continued their slow, methodical advance through the fortress corridors. Behind them, the bodies of fallen foes lay as silent warnings in an alien war they'd never asked to fight.
At every turn, Jason fought down the near-constant whirl of questions—How did we get here? How many bullets remain? Can we get home? For now, only one question truly mattered: How do we stay alive long enough to find answers?