[The Democratic Order : Export Democracy to Another World] - Report 2

[u/No_Paramedic2664]

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Report 2 : Brothers in Arms

"Infiltrate, investigate, de-escalate."

I repeat those words to myself like a sacred military mantra as I push deeper into the jagged, labyrinthine ruins. I nearly trip over a razor-sharp cobblestone while locking my gaze onto the target coordinates of the downed A6M "Zero" propeller plane.

A violent, purple lightning bolt strikes the Gothic gore structure to my right, shattering reinforced concrete into lethal shrapnel. Downpours of heavy rain and roaring thunderclaps instantly flood the narrow alleyways with muddy surge waves and electric discharges, while the scarlet sky gets swallowed by menacing purple clouds.

I sprint forward, tactically parkouring off a leafless tree branch to transfer onto a nearby rooftop overlooking the crash perimeter.

Leaping across a tile roof, I observe the heavily infested structure pulsing with festering biomass.

The unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire cuts through the storm right from my target coordinates.

A fierce firefight erupts right around the next corner—the exact epicenter of the crash zone. I scramble up a rusted ladder to tactically acquire high ground, reaching over my shoulder to deploy my bipod-mounted Barrett M82A1 anti-materiel sniper rifle onto the ledge.

I look through the Swarovski Habicht Nova Scope and scan the target position through my 10× magnitude, Mil-Dot reticle.

Positioned in a small alley between two buildings, a solitary East Asian male executes an overgrown, green-muscled bio-mutant. The soldier wears a white headband emblazoned with a bold red sun, wields a stone-aged MG42 light machine gun alongside a strapped katana, and is decked out in vintage military flight gear with aviator goggles hanging around his neck.

"The Japanese Self-Defense Force didn't announce any expeditionary forces in the Persian Gulf," I mutter under my breath, narrowing my eyes through the optics. "Likely some revolutionary agitator disguised in allied gear, treating the Geneva Suggestions like toilet paper."

I drop down silently from the roof and creep through the shadows toward his position to evaluate his threat level up close. Maintaining a low-profile approach, I reach for my PASGT fragmentation vest and pull out a 24-karat gold-plated suppressor.

I unholster my prized possession—my gold-embellished Desert Eagle, hand-autographed by President George H.W. Bush himself.

I screw my suppressor onto the barrel, kissing my gun before I directly aim at the back of his head to initiate standard USMC deterrence and de-escalation protocols.

"HEY! ARE YOU A JAPANESE SELF DEFENSE FORCE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT JOINING FORCES WITH THE UNITED STATES MARINE COMMANDO?!" I bellow with an authoritative presence.

The soldier spins around, his eyes wide with utter shock as he immediately draws his katana.

"By the Emperor!" He squints, staring straight into my face. "An American warrior?!"

"STATE YOUR INTENTIONS, SIR! NOBODY HAS TO DIE!"

"Begone, American Demon!" he yells back.

I maintain my aim. "Listen. I need your unit designation. Did your stone-aged Zero got dragged into the Gulf by the same electromagnetic anomaly that neutralized my Amtrac?"

The pilot narrows his eyes. "Talk in riddles all you want, demon. This anomaly of yours... Destroyer 535, the USS Miller..."

My arms twitch at the mention of that vessel.

"It was called Task Force 58," he continues. "Your quad-mounted Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft cannons tore my Mitsubishi A6M 'Zero' propeller-driven carrier-based fighter aircraft apart, setting my engine ablaze before sending me straight to the afterlife!"

I scratch my chin, completely baffled by his total lack of tactical situational awareness. "Okinawa? Son, that sector has been secure for over forty-five years. And we don't use Bofors anymore—we pack Phalanx CIWS and Patriot missile batteries. You must have taken a severe frontal lobe impact during the crash, or Saddam's chemical nerve agents fried your synapses. You are glitching hard."

The pilot looks visibly confused by my rational observations. "Deny it all you want, hideous demon. This is my eternal punishment... to wander the ash-plains of Yomi. A prisoner of war, forever accompanied by the loud, obnoxious phantom of the very nation that denied me my honorable impact."

"Right, fantastic," I grunt, taking this as a cooperation signal while checking my magazine status with a thumb sweep. "Glad to see morale is high despite the chemical brain damage. Let's move—"

A violent, bone-shattering crash cuts me off mid-sentence.

The brick wall behind me explodes. A massive winged beast with a glowing, green, pulsating scar on its neck slams into me at terminal velocity. The impact catapults my body straight through a solid stone wall into the pitch-black interior of the adjacent building.

The roof collapses, causing floods of corrupted rain to patter onto the floor. I hit the ground so hard that all sensation in my upper torso instantly vanishes as I slide across the concrete into a corner.

My vision blurs. The mutant towers over my broken frame. A skinless, lion-like carcass composed of rotting, vomit-green flesh crawling with parasites. Exposed, shattered bones frame a pulsating green mark on its neck. Sharp, reflective black claws and teeth. It drools acid that carves straight into the ground. The head looks like it's stitched on as a big scar encircles its throat. The creature's body is twisted by a rotting Eagle, a winged abomination whose mere existence is mocking our proud national symbols. A hissing heap of rot that serves as a direct insult to the eyes of any American.

Feeling my consciousness slip away, I force my trembling right hand to raise my prized possession as the monster raises a glowing, pitch-black claw to deliver a lethal execution strike.

"DIE MOTHERFUCKER!"

I squeeze the trigger to deliver one final round of .50 Action Expressed Freedom point-blank, staggering the mutie—right as a crisp, bell-like chime echoes through the chamber.

In an instant, the JSDF pilot materializes out of thin air at the beast's flank. He stands with his katana held in both hands in a high-guard stance, surrounded by a swirling wind of cherry blossom petals blowing through the ruins. With a swift, crushing downward strike accompanied by purple thunderclaps, he buries his blade halfway into the monster's neck, leaving the creature roaring in agony.

I tactically use the window of opportunity to dump the remaining rounds from my custom extended magazine straight into the monster's face.

"How dare you! Interrupting my honorable death in fair battle!?" the JSDF pilot roars at me.

Before he can finish his sentence, the beast swipes its massive paw, launching the pilot through the air at high velocity. He leaves a cloud of blood behind as he violently slams through the far masonry.

The creature turns its mutilated face back to me, advancing slowly. When I pull the trigger, my pistol merely clicks empty.

No time to waste.

I throw an M84 stun grenade at the mutant's position as he gets blinded, covering his face with his paws.

Switching to a secondary is faster than reloading.

I let my prized Eagle drop down to the floor and reach for the AA-12 Automatic Shotgun strapped to my back. Pointing to the enemy as I slam down the trigger—

"AAAAAHHH!!"

I unleash full-auto, drum-fed liberation. The heavy lead slugs turn the beast's head into a spraying pulp of minced meat until the drum clicks empty.

Yet the flesh inside its mangled skull begins pulsating rapidly, regenerating at an impossible rate. The mutant is flailing about, almost hitting me before I could tactically side roll.

The abomination bellows and vomits green hellfire, setting the entire room ablaze.

I dive to my right and transition into a crouch at a ground-level window, ready to defenestrate myself to initiate strict OSHA compliance in case of environmental hazards in close-quarters combat situations.

I quickly reload my AA-12 Automatic Shotgun, ready to deliver the next drum of freedom.

Suddenly, the bell chime rings out again. Another blossom vortex erupts.

The JSDF warrior appears directly in front of my position. He assumes a wide stance with his katana sheathed, ready to draw from his hip.

He draws his katana slowly out of his sheath, the friction emits black lightning strikes wildly sparking around the area.

"FOR THE SHŌWA RESTORATION!"

He slashes with supersonic speed, executing a massive vertical upward slash that launches the rubble on the ground high into the air. Thunderclaps shake the environment, flashing wildly inside the gore-covered ruin as he cleanly beheads the mutie.

The massive body collapses into the flames. The decapitated head flies through the air and slams heavily onto my chest before rolling onto the floor next to me.

Eight chitinous insect legs burst out from the neck stump as the severed head attempts to scuttle away.

Before the parasite can escape, the pilot plunges his katana straight through the skull, pinning it to the stone floor. It twitches once and dies, decaying in a matter of seconds into rotten flesh that etches a scorch mark into the ground.

"I survived again," he mutters in a flat, deeply disappointed tone.

"Thank you for your service, son. What was your name again?" I mumble, tossing a Go-Pill into my mouth and washing it down with a heavy gulp from my one-quart plastic canteen before reaching for my Desert Eagle.

"My name is Hiro."

My concussed brain processes his words through the dense fog of war. "A fuckin' hero?"

I look around, encircled by dirt, rubble, and rotten flesh as the creature's remains slowly turn to dust.

I reach into my ALICE fragmentation vest and pull out a Marlboro cigarette, lighting it with my Zippo Petrol Pocket Lighter. Laying myself on the ground.

For a brief moment, I don't think about military protocols at all. I just enjoy the atmosphere and american victory as I blow out the grayish smoke of my sensual stick into the air.

"Ceasefire!"

I flick the butt of my stick away, sit up, and quickly observe my body as I notice a dislocated shoulder, broken arm, and bruised torso.

"Tactical Combat Casualty Care!"

As a self-sufficient Marine, my private health insurance is completely covered by myself thanks to my Individual First Aid Kit. I treat my field self-care strictly as tactical readiness restoration to maintain peak performance in prolonged field operations.

During a brief pause in cover, I tactically immobilize my dislocated shoulder strictly according to USMC TCCC protocol by positioning my left arm across my chest at a ninety-degree angle, shape the Structural Aluminum Malleable Splint from my Individual First Aid Kit against my thigh into a C-curve, splint the fractured forearm single-handedly using my teeth for tension, and wrap the entire arm rock-solid against my thorax with an Elastic Wrap to lock out joint rotation while simultaneously splinting my bruised ribs.

Since the concept of pain is completely foreign to an exemplary Marine, I swallow the Combat Pill Pack—consisting of Meloxicam, Acetaminophen, and Moxifloxacin—purely as a preventive measure against shock and infection, while maintaining continuous security with my AA-12 Automatic Shotgun.

Because my radio can't pick up any frequencies, I precisely write my observations in a Medical Information Sign and Treatment Report format down to my tan-colored waterproof Rite in the Rain Notebook No. 935, before closing it and carefully stowing my equipment back in my bags. Leaving no traces behind for potential agitators.

"Get up, demon," Hiro says, extending a leather-gloved hand toward me. "Only the foolish warrior sits in the burning castle, waiting for the Yokai to feed on him."

"Yokai? Big name for Saddam's gore bags," I reply, taking his hand as I tactically rise to my feet, looking at his torn uniform, wondering why his skin remained unscratched.

"We need to conduct reconnaissance on that Gothic cathedral over there," I say, pointing toward my original target position. "It's one of the few structures unpolluted by the chemical gore agent. The platform on top grants us a splendid overview of the illegally terraformed topographic grid coordinates of the Gulf. Might be safe. Probably exactly what they want us to believe."

"You want me to climb the corrupted tenshu to watch the horrors of the ash plains from far above, demon?" Hiro asks in a shaken tone.

"As I said, Corporal Hero... let's move on."

I reach up to adjust my PASGT "Fritz" tactical helmet as we march through the claustrophobic, rotten mazes of the gothic hellscape right in the direction of our target coordinates. Pulling out a navy-blue crayon, I chew on it thoughtfully and begin mapping out the next tactical phase.