Freefall and First Blood

For what felt like an eternity, we were adrift within the chaotic currents of the wormhole. The interior of the cabin was plunged into a blackness so absolute that I could not perceive my own hand before my face, let alone the forms of my comrades. The entire airframe shuddered with such violence that we were forced to clamp our hands onto the overhead rail simply to remain upright.

As we broke through to the other side, Bard tapped my shoulder insistently and gestured toward the window. I tracked his pointing finger and was immediately captivated by the spectacle outside. Spread beneath us was a continent of a completely alien design, a world that bore no resemblance to the one we had just departed. The landscape, a sweeping panorama I had only ever witnessed in unsettling photographs during our mission briefing, served as undeniable confirmation. This was, without a shadow of a doubt, another world. A low whistle of astonishment escaped Bard’s lips. “Incredible.”

“This is Courier 2-6 to Horizon, come in, over,” the pilot’s voice crackled through the comms.

A brief burst of static followed before a clear voice responded: “Horizon copies, Courier 2-6. Go ahead.”

“We’ve transited the wormhole and are currently in the Landing Zone’s atmosphere. We are descending through thirty thousand meters. How copy, over?”

“We have a solid copy! Horizon to all G.A.I.A. units! You are all clear! I say again, you have a green light!”

The three of us rose to our feet and began our final, meticulous equipment checks. “Parachute status green,” I reported, slapping the packs of my main and reserve chutes for emphasis. Glancing at the gauge on my mask, I added, “Oxygen status green.”

“Approaching the drop zone, gentlemen! Prepare for the jump!” the jumpmaster shouted over the wind as the rear ramp began its descent. We shuffled toward the opening, forming a line at the precipice as we awaited the signal. The instant the ramp locked into its fully extended position, the indicator light flashed from red to green. With a powerful heave, the jumpmaster shoved the massive supply pallet out into the open sky. “Go! Go! Go!” he bellowed.

We charged forward and leaped from the plane into the void. My body instinctively flipped onto its stomach, the alien world unfurling in a breathtaking vista beneath me. To my left and right, I could just make out Cutter and Bard, two dark specks free-falling in concert with me against the canvas of the endless sky.

I pierced a thick layer of clouds, and the new world was suddenly revealed in stunning, terrifying detail. A vast, primordial forest stretched out to the horizon in every direction, its continuity broken only by a formidable range of jagged mountains to my left and what appeared to be a small town to my right. That settlement was our designated rendezvous point. But it was the next sight that truly staggered my senses: creatures strongly resembling dragons and griffins soared on thermal currents, masters of the air. I forcibly pushed the incredible image from my mind and concentrated on the mechanics of the descent. This was no time for sightseeing.

A shrill alarm from my altimeter screamed in my ear. At two thousand meters, I reached for the ripcord on my right and pulled, bracing for the notoriously violent jerk of the deploying canopy. Nothing happened.

Don’t panic. The main has failed. A jumper has mere seconds to rectify such a failure. Far below, I watched as the chutes of Cutter and Bard blossomed into existence, two perfect canopies against the green expanse.

I yanked the reserve cord on my left. Still nothing. The mechanism was jammed solid.

“Arc, what’s wrong?” Cutter’s concerned voice crackled over the radio.

I was incapable of answering. My body was trapped in a disorienting, uncontrolled spiral, tumbling end over end toward the ground. As my mind struggled to process the inevitability of my fate, a strange image flashed through my consciousness: a girl with long, pink hair, clad in armor of a medieval style. Her back was to me as she gazed out at a vast, unfamiliar landscape. What a bizarre time for a hallucination. I had to get back. My mother and Chiyoko were waiting for me at home.

One final chance remained. I unsheathed my bayonet and, fighting against the crushing wind resistance, began slashing furiously at the parachute pack. As the durable fabric tore open, I scrambled to find the pilot chute’s cord. The violent spin had completely robbed me of my sense of direction; it was impossible to tell which way was up.

My fingers found the cord, and I pulled with all my remaining strength, offering a silent prayer that it would work.

Seconds later, a vicious jerk ripped through my entire body. The harness straps dug with agonizing force into my groin and armpits, but the pain was a welcome confirmation that I was alive. The chute was open. Unfortunately, the sheer, explosive force of the emergency deployment had torn my rucksack from its harness.

“Shit!” I cursed, watching my main pack—which contained the majority of my supplies and critical weapons—tumble away toward the forest below.

“Haru, are you okay? I’ve lost visual on you! Respond, please!” Bard’s frantic voice yelled over the radio.

“I’m okay,” I grunted back through clenched teeth. “And no names on the radio, Bard!”

“Thank God, man. I thought you were a goner.”

I took a deep, steadying breath and began to steer my now-functional descent. A few minutes later, I crashed through the canopy of a colossal tree. A painful, stinging flurry of branches and leaves whipped against my body. My heavy combat suit and helmet, thankfully, absorbed the worst of the impact, preventing any serious injury. My descent halted abruptly, leaving me suspended high in the canopy. Drawing my bayonet once more, I began sawing through the thick parachute cords. Once free, I dropped the final fifteen feet, landing hard on my back.

“Oof… fuck.”

The impact drove the air from my lungs, and searing pain shot through my body. With a pained groan, I forced myself to my feet and pulled the toxic agent detector from a pocket. Its screen registered no harmful airborne substances. It seemed I would have to trust my own assessment of this unknown atmosphere. Removing my helmet and oxygen mask, I took my first tentative breath of alien air. I stripped off the constricting G-suit, then pulled my CRAS armor from a smaller pack and fitted it on over my standard Type III JGSDF Combat Shirt.

I slapped a fresh magazine into my trusty Minato P9 pistol and chambered a round with a satisfying click. My new, overriding priority was to locate my lost rucksack. Without it, this mission would be over before it had even truly begun.

My radio buzzed to life. It was Cutter.

“This is Cutter to Arc! Come in, over.”

“This is Arc. Read you loud and clear.”

“We’re scattered to hell and back. Rendezvous at Checkpoint Alpha.”

I pulled a folded map from my pocket. Checkpoint Alpha was a small town situated to the west of my current position.

“You read me?”

“I read you. But I need to find my rucksack first. It came down somewhere in this immediate area.”

“Guess it’s not your lucky day. Good hunting, buddy.”

The line went dead. Pocketing the map, I began my search. The trees in this forest were truly colossal, with strangely shaped limbs, some of which were a deep, unnatural shade of blue. I moved with extreme caution, my every sense on high alert.

When I finally located my rucksack and the other discarded packs, I saw that I was not the first to arrive. A massive wolf stood before them, a silent, menacing guardian. With matted grey fur and intelligent, predatory eyes, it was easily the size of a full-grown bear. There was no way to avoid a confrontation. My entire arsenal consisted of my sidearm, two spare magazines for a total of twenty-seven rounds, and my bayonet. My own armor could be pierced by a standard 5.56mm round, and the fangs of this creature looked far more menacing than any bullet.

I settled into a fighting stance, my pistol gripped firmly in my right hand, the bayonet held in a reverse grip in my left. The wolf lunged. I threw myself to the right, narrowly dodging its ferocious attack. Dropping to one knee to stabilize my aim, I fired three quick shots at its head. The rounds served only to enrage the beast, not to kill it. It glared at me with its one remaining good eye, the other ruined by my shots, and let out a guttural snarl.

“Come on, you ugly bastard.”

It leaped again, this time attempting to crush me with its sheer mass, but I ducked under its airborne form. The impact of its paws hitting the earth was so powerful it nearly shook me from my feet. I fired again, this time aiming for its other eye, then vaulted onto its back. I held the bayonet high. For an imperceptible moment, the blade flared with an ethereal blue light before I drove it deep into the creature’s spine. It roared in agony and began to buck wildly, trying to throw me like a rodeo bull. Prying the bayonet free with a grunt of effort, I dragged its sharpened edge across the beast’s throat. A torrent of crimson erupted, and the great wolf collapsed, its lifeblood staining the forest floor.

Panting heavily, my uniform soaked in sweat and splattered with the wolf's blood, I retrieved my gear. After a quick scan to ensure the area was clear of other predators, I unzipped the first pack and retrieved my ‘buddy’—a Howa Type 91 Assault Rifle. A Yamato-made version of the former AR-18, it was chambered in 5.56x45mm NATO and shared some design elements with the H&K G3. My ‘F’ variant was outfitted with a Rail Integrated System, a folding stock, an Eotech Holographic sight, and a vertical foregrip.

From another pack, I drew my primary tool, the specialized weapon of my trade: a Romulus M25A3 sniper rifle, already fitted with a bipod and a 10x magnification scope.

I began the ritual of loading my CRAS armor pouches: six 5.56x45mm magazines, two 9x19mm Parabellum magazines, and five .338 Lapua Magnum magazines. I also strapped two M57 fragmentation grenades to my webbing. It was always better to be over-prepared.

Finally, I pulled out my Katana, Getsuei, an ancestral blade that had witnessed conflicts from the fields of Sekigahara to the black sands of Iwo Jima. It was too cumbersome to wear on my hip, so I strapped it securely to my back, where it would be concealed beneath my rucksack.

All told, I was now carrying nearly three hundred pounds of equipment. The brutal conditioning I had endured back home had prepared me for this crushing weight. This was a long-term mission, and in this line of work, paranoia was a survival trait.

Following protocol, I dug a hole and buried the now-empty packs. HQ did not want our technology falling into the wrong hands.

I had just finished when a secure channel opened with a burst of static. “This is Command to G.A.I.A. 2. Provide a sitrep, over.” It was the unmistakable voice of Colonel Tanaka.

“This is G.A.I.A. 2 to Command! Landing was successful! I say again, landing was successful! Commencing Operation Catalyst.”

“Roger that, G.A.I.A. 2. We are going dark now. Godspeed, son.” The radio dissolved into static, leaving only silence. I was on my own. Utterly and completely alone. Consulting the compass on my watch, I turned to face west and began to walk.