The Leap and the Other Side

Following several days of anticipation within the confines of Sector 7, the day of our expedition into the parallel universe had at last dawned. The timing of our departure was deliberately synchronized with a solar eclipse that was projected to trace a path across the West Coast. Only an hour prior, the United States Air Force had sanitized the airspace for our ascent. The entire operation was of such a clandestine nature that we could not afford detection by any civilians, foreign armed forces, or, in the worst-case scenario, our perpetual adversaries: the press.

Cutter, Bard, and I began the meticulous process of gearing up, pulling layers of body armor over our Battle Dress Uniforms and G-suits. We moved with practiced familiarity, assisting one another with the complex straps and buckles of our main and reserve parachutes. Afterward, we secured the heavy weapon bags and fully loaded rucksacks to our legs. Every step became a laborious, cumbersome shuffle, a testament to the sheer volume of equipment we were required to transport.

The three of us embarked aboard a C-130J Super Atlas, our designated transport to the Area of Operations. This particular aircraft had been extensively modified, reinforced to endure the unknown atmospheric conditions and environmental pressures we anticipated in the other universe. It was common knowledge that, as a result of budgetary constraints, our original assignment had been a C-17 Globemaster III. The allocation of taxpayer dollars had been funneled primarily into the deep-orbit satellite, our state-of-the-art equipment, and the foundational research into the artificial portal, leaving precious little funding for anything else.

The Global Concord Security Council had commissioned a compact expeditionary force for this mission, officially designated GAIA Squad—an acronym for Global Assessment and Interworld Analysis. As its name explicitly stated, our chief objectives were exploration and reconnaissance.

We took our places on the metal benches lining the aircraft’s cavernous interior, the deafening roar of the engines rendering any attempt at conversation utterly futile. A few minutes later, the aircraft lurched forward, beginning its slow taxi toward the runway.

“This is Home Base to GAIA Squad. Come in for a communications check, over.”

We each secured our oxygen masks over our faces. At the extreme altitude from which we would be jumping, the masks were indispensable for preventing the crippling effects of decompression sickness.

“This is GAIA 1, ready!” Cutter’s voice resonated, sharp and clear through the comms.

“This is GAIA 2, standing by!” I yelled in response.

“This is GAIA 3, ready to jump into hell!” Bard’s voice boomed with characteristic enthusiasm.

“All units accounted for. Good luck up there, GAIA Squad!” The voice from the control tower then shifted its attention to our pilot. “Home Base to Courier 2-6. You are cleared for takeoff.”

“This is Courier 2-6, roger that,” the pilot replied, his tone a perfect blend of professional calm and dry humor. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot, Ethan Carmichael, speaking. We'll be dropping you at an altitude of thirteen hundred feet above sea level. The flight is expected to be a bit cloudy with some light turbulence, so please buckle up and remain seated. This Super Atlas is a non-smoking aircraft per federal regulations, and the air sickness bags can be found under your seats. Please enjoy your flight with Courier 2-6 Airlines.”

A shared laugh rippled through our small team.

“It’s time to rock and roll, lads!” Cutter shouted to be heard above the escalating noise as the plane surged forward, gathering speed for takeoff.

“Hoo-yah!” Bard and I roared our own battle cries in unison.

The engines screamed, a symphony of raw power, as the enormous machine thundered down the runway and finally clawed its way into the air. We ascended steadily, the pilot retracting the landing gear as our altitude climbed. Through a small porthole, I gazed upon the gentle curve of the Earth and the vast expanse of the continent sprawled below. I had to suppress a powerful urge to shout, “Fuck you, Flat-Earthers.”

As we reached our peak altitude, I finally saw it: the wormhole. It appeared exactly as I had always envisioned—a flawless, circular void suspended in the upper atmosphere, its event horizon bending the very sunlight that grazed its edges.

Cutter’s voice crackled over the radio. “This is it, ladies. One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Our aircraft plunged into the wormhole.

A strange premonition washed over me, a powerful intuition that something of profound significance was awaiting us on the other side. I forcefully shook my head, dispelling the thought from my mind. My entire focus needed to be on the impending jump, the integrity of the plane, and the simple act of survival.

Meanwhile, in the Parallel Universe

I was in my rented room at an inn located in the town of Darrow. Having just finished a shower, I studied my reflection in the mirror. I stood at a height of roughly five feet and six inches, with long, pink hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. I dressed in my customary garments: a light pink sleeveless shirt accented with a white collar, paired with a short white skirt. With a practiced motion, I gathered my hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, securing it with a white ribbon. Finally, I fastened my great-grandfather’s necklace—what he had always called a “Dog Tag”—around my neck.

Seventy years had passed since my great-grandfather first arrived in this world, during the bleak era known as the Dark Ages. He had been a soldier, a warrior from another place entirely. I remembered him as a kind and gentlemanly figure who found immense joy in teaching me the arts of marksmanship and hunting. He would tell me stories of his time as part of a military brotherhood known as “The Howling Hawks,” one of many such legions that waged war against a vast army called “The Iron Reich.”

And I am Brielle Vance, a Captain and musketeer in service to the Order of the Knights of the Azure Cross.

I retrieved my rifle, the “Springbright,” a weapon of my own crafting, meticulously designed based on my great-grandfather’s “Springwell bolt-action rifle.” I slid a five-round clip into the receiver and then twisted the bayonet into place on the muzzle. In its original design, this type of weapon was meant to fire projectiles he called ‘bullets,’ but he had never managed to replicate the complex propellant here. I cinched my belt, from which hung my rapier, the ‘Gleaming Falcon,’ and pouches containing extra clips. The buckle was embossed with the sigil of my order: a pristine white shield emblazoned with a light-blue cross. My preparations now complete, I departed from the inn.

It was evening, and the cobblestone streets were a vibrant, bustling tapestry of life, teeming with beastmen, ogres, elves, youkai, and innumerable other races.

Abruptly, a bizarre roar echoed from the heavens. It possessed the quality of a dragon’s cry, yet it was somehow fundamentally different. I dismissed the strange sound and refocused on the mission at hand.

I had been dispatched with orders to apprehend a notorious bandit leader by the name of Marius. Word on the street was that he and his gang were responsible for the deaths of many skilled soldiers who had previously attempted their capture. This was, in all likelihood, the very reason Julio Cortez, the commander of the Knights of the Azure Cross, had personally assigned the task to me.

I studied the wanted poster, memorizing the face of Marius: a middle-aged man with a thick beard and long, curly brown hair. I resolved to employ a ruse. Cloaked in worn leather and at the reins of a simple donkey-drawn carriage, I would present the perfect image of a vulnerable merchant. I carefully concealed the Springbright beneath my seat.

After waiting for the cloak of night to fall, I guided the carriage deep into the forest. It was the most opportune time for an ambush to occur. Just as I had anticipated, the first volley of arrows hissed through the air, thudding harmlessly into the wooden frame of the carriage. They were deliberately aimed to miss; their objective was not to kill me, but to intimidate. A captive, taken alive, could be ransomed for a high price or sold into slavery.

Four men clad in armor charged from the foliage on both sides, brandishing their swords. One of them lunged forward with a guttural yell. My steel-toed boot connected squarely with his face, and he crumpled to the forest floor, unconscious. Tossing the heavy cloak aside, I seized my rifle and vaulted from the carriage. A second bandit rushed me, his sword aimed directly for my stomach.

“Taaah!” I parried his descending blade with my bayonet, the steel ringing sharply, before thrusting the point deep into his chest. I did my best to avoid lethal force, but in a desperate fight such as this, there was no place for hesitation.

I wrenched my bayonet free and brought my rifle to a ready position as more armed men emerged to surround me. I quickly counted six remaining combatants, including two crossbowmen who held their position at a distance.

I recognized one of the swordsmen as my target, Marius. A smug grin spread across his face as he stepped forward.

“Just drop your weapon, little girl,” he snarled, “and I’ll let you live.”

I offered no verbal reply. Instead, I settled into my fighting stance, the rifle held steady and prepared for action.

But then, suddenly…

CRACK!

A single, earsplitting rifle shot shattered the night’s silence. A bloody hole instantly bloomed on Marius’s forehead, and he collapsed to the ground without a sound.

“What the—” the last swordsman cried out, his sentence cut short as a second shot rang out. A perfect, dark hole appeared in his chest, precisely where his heart was. He fell, dead just like his leader.

“Eagle Eye… activated!” Calling upon my unique talent, I enhanced my vision and scanned the darkened woods for the source of the gunfire. Five hundred meters away, I discerned a figure concealed within a dense bush, aiming a strange-looking rifle at the now-panicked bandits. The weapon was a dark forest green, with a small telescope mounted atop its frame, strikingly reminiscent of the pictures I had seen of my great-grandfather's rifle. The shooter wore peculiar green clothing that rendered him almost invisible against the forest backdrop. I noted he had a second, shorter rifle slung across his back and carried a large, green rucksack.

I had to discover the identity of this person.