Blood Money

by CptBrony

Rating: teen
Tags: Alternate Universe, Human
Length: 3816

After a raid goes wrong, an ex-MARSOC operator turned merc finds himself in the Griffon lands.

Backstory for Into That Wild Blue Yonder
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Mark liked the job and he liked the money; if only the Marines had given him the money part of the equation as well, he wouldn't have left. Out of the service, he joined up with Academi to keep on shooting and get the big money. But when a raid goes wrong, and he finds himself in a bizarre land, fate favors the opportunist, and he will not be beaten yet.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2017-04-25 19:54:26 UTC

Work

Blood Money

Bullets flew through the air, cracking the walls behind the team and showering them with debris. Gunfire ratta-tat-tat-ed and echoed throughout the building, drawing more enemy guards to come in and join their comrades. The situation was grim.

Mark was more than a little pissed off. The raid was supposed to go easy, take out the exterior guards, set the charges, and leave. It turned into an all-out slugfest of who had more firepower when one of his idiot teammates didn’t clear his area and they were made by the enemy.

“Left side, right there!” Mark shouted. One of his men turned his attention to the left and lit up several guards with machine-gun fire from his Mk48.

Mark didn’t leave the Marines for this to go wrong. He had taken a job with Academi because they were supposed to be the best. When the CIA hired them, he knew it was the best way to make big money, and he was glad he left the Corps for it. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure Academi was the best place to go work.

Mark pulled up his M4 and fired three shots into an enemy guard above them. His M4 and his teammates weapons were rechambered for 7.62x39mm ammunition or other non-NATO rounds to minimize the chances of implication of the United States.

Mark and his team retreated backwards through a door into the next room where they could take cover for a minute. The facility had concrete walls in the event of a chemical spill, and those walls were equally good for stopping small arms fire. Problem was, the charges they had were timed, and no concrete walls would survive the massive explosions of the charges with the chemicals they would set ablaze.

“We have about two minutes to get out of here,” Mark’s team leader said. They were stuck in a room with only one exit; the entrance. “We push. Mark, take Chapps and James and open fire to the left. Me, Grayson, and Burns will take the right, and we push out separately. Meet up at the extraction point.”

“Let’s go!” Mark said.

Mark and his men burst through the door and lit up the enemy fighters with automatic fire, suppressing half of them, killing a few, and startling the others into missing. As they moved, the team leader took his men and did the same to the right side, disappearing in mere moments to escape through the maze of chemical containers.

Mark’s team ran like hell to escape, bullets flying and slamming into the walls and containers around them. Invisible gas leaked through the holes with loud squeaks, and all the enemy fighters scattered to avoid breathing it. Whatever this stuff was, it was clearly not good.

They had a moment in the clear, but before long, the fire started up again. Mark led the charge to escape, intent on getting himself out at any cost. He wasn’t interested in dying like some no-name henchmen in some generic spy novel. In this business, you had to do whatever it took to get home and get paid. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one with this mindset.

Mark turned right to open fire on the enemy, but as he turned, he felt multiple hard thuds against his chest, and he went careening to the ground. The momentum of several rounds colliding with his ballistic vest knocked him off his feet, and he went rolling into a support column.

Much like him, too, his teammates were solely intent on escaping, and kept on running. Mark squirmed his way to the other side of the column under enemy fire and took cover there. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had about fifty seconds left to get away from the facility.

Just ahead of him, like a magical wish-granting fairy heard out his needs, he spotted an emergency exit door. With all the strength he could muster with his busted ribs, he picked himself up and threw himself forward until he made it to the door, taking about ten seconds to get there.

The door was locked, though, and bullets still rang through the air around him. One bullet caught him in the rear plate of his ballistic vest, under his right shoulder blade, and he dropped and rolled back to the column. He had thirty seconds left.

Mark unloaded the remainder of his magazine into the door right around where the lock would be, loaded in a fresh magazine, and kept on firing until the door came loose. He had fifteen seconds to get out.

And he sprinted like an Olympian for the exit. The enemy fire was concentrated around the door now, but thankfully, they were terrible at shooting, and Mark was able to run through the door in seconds. He continued his sprint away from the building until the explosion came. There was a massive flash and shockwave, and everything went black.

Mark came to slowly, head ringing like an old telephone. As he regained focus of vision, he spotted his rifle ahead of him and crawled to it. It felt like an eternity, but once he finally had it, he spun around to aim at the building in case anyone somehow, by miracle, survived the explosion.

Clearly, no one did. There was smoke everywhere, fires burning random patches of grass that Mark had no idea were there before the mission. There were no body parts anywhere, nor weapons or other signs of life. There also wasn’t any rubble, concrete or metal.

Mark looked around and realized something wasn’t right; now, he was in a valley, where there were plenty of trees and plant life everywhere except where the explosion decimated the area. He had just been fighting these guys in middle-of-nowhere Sudan. How did these mountains get here?

Mark still couldn’t hear anything, so he simply picked himself up and checked everything. He remembered being hit several times, and the holes in his vest confirmed it. He still had his rifle, and the two pistols he also kept, an M45 he was issued in the Corps and a Glock 19 that he liked for missions where he used suppressors on his weapons. His basic other gear included a six inch survival knife, compass, some paracord, a lighter, and a multitool.

As much of a mystery as it was how he got here, he knew he had to move. If any enemies were around, they wouldn’t be too welcoming, and odds were good his team was nowhere to be found nearby. Right now, he had to get his bearings and survive. When night fell, he could use the stars to navigate, and then he’d be on his way.

“What the hell.”

The stars made absolutely no sense that night. Mark had set up camp for himself, using broken tree branches to make bedding and shelter and creating a small fire pit with stones. He arranged the stones so that they would reflect the heat into his small shelter for the night and keep him warm.

But as warm as he could be, he felt cold and distant from everything he knew. The stars were totally off, with not a single recognizable constellation in the sky. He had been to this area of Africa before, and this had never happened. It just didn’t make any sense.

“Screw it,” he said. “I’ll figure it out in the morning.”

Mark climbed into his shelter and slept out the night.  He would need his rest for what would come the next day.

“What in Tartarus?”

The voice came loud and unexpected, waking Mark from his slumber and getting him to draw his Glock at the source of the noise. What he saw was the last straw in the insanity that was the previous twenty-four hours.

A real life, bona-fide Griffin was standing fifteen feet from his camp. When he pointed the pistol at it, the bird creature froze and put its hands up, indicating it knew what a gun was. Slowly and painfully, Mark crawled out of his shelter, still pointing the gun at the creature, until he was standing tall.

“What the hell,” Mark replied.

“Could you not point that thing at me?” the griffin asked.

“I’ll keep it where it is, thanks,” Mark said suspiciously.

“I’m just hiking, for goodness sake, and I came running when I heard the explosion,” the griffin said. “I always hike this way. Just never found a human before. What are you doing out here?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mark said. He still had the gun up.

The griffin observed the human. He was standing more limp to one side, like he was injured, and the grimace on his face drove the look home. He was also covered in dirt and soot, as if he escaped a burning building. His clothing was all black, and he had several serious weapons on him.

“Are you fresh from battle?” the griffin asked. Before Mark could answer, it continued. “Who were you fighting?”

“Nothing happened,” Mark maintained. He was beginning to lose his patience.

The griffin frowned. “Look, I want to help,” it said. “But I need to know if I can trust you.”

Mark thought about it for a moment. Here he was, talking to a talking griffin, a mythical fairy-tale creature, arguing about trust. Any lesser man may have been driven mad, but not he. He was a survivalist.

“I was fighting terrorists,” he said. Truth, and he could build any lies he had to off of it.

The griffin squinted at him. “If you speak true, then I would be inclined to trust you,” It said. “But how do I know it’s true?”

“If it wasn’t, I’d’ve shot you where you stand and taken whatever I need off your body,” Mark said coolly. The griffin stopped.

“Huh,” it said. “I suppose you have a point.”

“Yes,” Mark said with a sigh. “Now, can you help me out?”

“Yes, I can take you to my village,” the griffin said. “We have someone there who can treat your injuries. We will also feed you and give you a place to stay.”

“And what do you get in return?” Mark asked.

“Whatever your great talent is, we’ll ask that you use it to help us,” the griffin said. Mark didn’t really get it, but he went with it anyway. Odds were that they couldn’t use his talents anyway and he would just leave.

Mark made sure he had everything and then followed alongside the griffin back to its village. It tried to explain to him something or other about their local culture and the foods they had, but Mark wasn’t inclined to care at all. He just wanted food and a bath.

“What’s your name?” he asked to derail the griffin.

“Daphne,” it said. It had a high voice and a feminine name, so it was clearly a girl. “What’s yours?”

“James,” Mark said instinctively. He always gave the fake name James when people asked him for it without him approaching them.

His derailment attempt failed, though, and Daphne kept on talking through the entire walk back to her village. Mark listened to her when she talked about the area, but zoned out a little when she got on about her village. He was more of a learn-as-you-go type, and he would learn as he went on his journey back to base. Wherever that was.

Change of Employment

When they reached the village, Mark was unsurprised by what he saw. It was mostly a bunch of straw huts, most like a Native American settlement or the homes of tropical islanders.

The villagers all stopped what they were doing and stared at Mark and Daphne as they walked by, in awe and with a little bit of fear. Mark was clearly a warrior walking in with one of their own, but the all black outfit with no markings probably didn’t help his appearance.

“It’s a human.”

“Never seen one in person before.”

“Are those weapons? I recognize the big one…”

The griffins around them were whispering to each other about Mark. He didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable, as he could easily shoot his way out if he had to. He still had twelve magazines of ammo for his rifle and all his pistol ammo, four magazines for his M45 and seven magazines for his Glock.

“Daphne!” an older voice chimed from up ahead.

Mark looked forward to see an obviously very old griffin shuffling toward them. Daphne ran ahead and embraced the old-timer, and they started talking some about her find in the forest. Mark, for his part, waited patiently for his medical treatment and food.

“Mother, this is James,” Daphne said.

“How do ya do,” Mark said with a big grin. The old one laughed and put its claw forward, which Mark took in his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, I suppose” the old one said. “For a human, you seem like a tough one.”

“I assure you, I am the toughest one,” Mark said. The old one laughed again.

“You look pretty beat up and hungry,” it said. Mark nodded. “Follow me, me and my daughter will house you for now.”

“Thank you,” Mark said. He followed Daphne and her parent to their place of residence.

It was another hut, nice and warm inside, with straw and branch bedding laid out in a few places. There was a fireplace in the center with a cooking spit over it, and a small hole in the ceiling to let most of the heat escape to avoid lighting the place on fire.

“Sit. Daphne, send for the healer,” the old one said. Daphne nodded and complied, leaving the hut.

“Thank you for your help, uhhh…” Mark said. He wanted the old one’s name.

“You’re welcome,” the old one said. “And my name is Grelka.”

“Thank you, Grelka,” Mark said.

“We need to get to the business of this exchange,” Grelka said. She was very direct. Mark appreciated that. “What are ya good at?”

“Special jobs,” Mark said, nodding toward the weapon he was holding.

“I see,” Grelka said. Mark was glad she didn’t seem intent on asking him for anything.

“I have a very particular set of skills,” Mark said, a cultural reference lost on Grelka.

“I can tell. And they can do a great deal for this village,” Grelka said.

“Oh,” Mark said, disappointed. “How so?”

“Well, in exchange for food, medicine, and shelter, there’s some bandit snot too far from here that harass our village incessantly,” Grelka explained. “They steal our food and have crippled several of our gatherers.”

“I’m sorry to hear about that,” Mark said. “But this isn’t exactly a fair exchange.”

“I’m sorry?” Grelka said.

“You heal me up, keep me here, I go out, I get hurt again. Then it’s the same thing, over and over again,” Mark said. “How do I know you wouldn’t abuse this little cycle?”

“Hmph,” Grelka said. “Fine. We’ll give you ten silver coins in exchange as well.”

Mark smiled. Silver was worth a ton. Not as much as gold, but this didn’t seem like a gold-filled village. If each coin was say, two ounces, he could get a hundred per coin. Take out a few bandits, probably weakly armed, for food, shelter, physical care, and a thousand dollars? Sounded like a solid deal.

“Alright, Grelka,” Mark said. “I’ll do it.”

“I suppose you were a mercenary before, not a soldier?” Grelka asked, visibly annoyed with Mark.

“I was a Marine, actually,” Mark said. Grelka looked just as disdainfully at him as before. “But yes, I became a soldier of fortune.”

“For whom?” Grelka asked.

“Myself, of course,” Mark replied. Grelka sighed, but dropped the subject. Mark felt a tinge of pride at making her stop talking. He got the feeling that not many of these villagers had ever managed that.

He figured he didn’t have anything to worry about from this village, given the isolation, the obvious lack of desire to contact the greater world, and the fact this reality had changed significantly. The world governments he knew and worked against clearly weren’t going to be present from here on.

Any lesser man may have gone mad at what was going on, or started fretting about going home to where things made sense. If Mark learned anything working his new job, it’s that the world doesn’t make any sense and home is wherever you carry it with you. Loyalties change, trust is a rare commodity, and you have to look out for yourself. Maybe he died in the explosion and this is what awaited him after, or maybe it was some freak event science couldn’t explain. But he was a tough nut, and he wouldn’t crack under such light pressure.

“It works,” Grelka said. Mark smiled. “Go out and find Daphne. She is likely gabbing with the healer.”

Mark nodded and left the abode. When he walked out, he was greeted with the sight of dozens of griffins going about their daily business. It seemed that most of the initial awe had fallen out, and the birds were going back to their daily lives. Most of them still glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes, but they did their best to look like they were ignoring him.

Mark started walking around to look for Daphne. He instantly knew the strategy wasn’t going to work because he could barely tell any of the griffins apart. Some had different colorations, and the males and females were obviously different sizes, but within their respective genders, they all had about the same shape. It was like they were made using set pieces.

Mark walked up to one who was moving some hay around and waited for a moment. The griffin made no move to talk, even though he definitely knew that Mark was waiting. Mark grew impatient and leaned on the hay pile in front of him.

“I’m looking for Daphne, I think she was trying to find the healer,” Mark said.

“Can’t help,” the griffin grumbled. He threw hay onto the top of the pile, nearly hitting Mark in the face as he threw it.

“Great,” Mark said. “I found a village of turds.”

Mark kept walking, asking the occasional griffin where he might find Daphne or the healer. They all had one of two responses: telling him to get lost in some way, or asking him for compensation. It reminded him of a country he had to work with at one point, and he absolutely hated working with that country.

Given that no one wanted to be useful, Mark just kept walking around until he found a hut that looked like it may be a healer’s place of residence. Eventually, he came upon a small hut that had some bloody bandages on the ground outside. He waltzed over and barged into the hut.

“Daphne?” he asked.

In front of him, he saw two griffins holding each other close and looking at him with big eyes. They were terror-stricken at the sudden intrusion. Mark, for his part, just let the curtain behind him close and stared.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked with a coy smile.

“N-n-no,” Daphne said.

“I was just, uhh…” the healer started. “I was just, checking her thoroughly. In case YOU did something.”

Mark chuckled at the accusatory tone. Classic misdirection. Unfortunately, there was no one else here to fool.

“What you do in your time is your business,” Mark said. “I’m just here to close up some cuts and scrapes.”

“Oh. Well,” the healer said. The two griffins released each other. “Let’s take a look at you, then.”

Mark sat down so the healer could look at him. He wasn’t too badly hurt or anything; nothing he couldn’t walk away from; but free bandages are always nice. Plus, he could learn a thing or two about the area during the little exchange.

“So! Daphne,” Mark said. Daphne looked uncomfortably at him. “Tell me about the area. Help me help you.”

“What?” Daphne said.

“Your mommy tasked me with taking out those banditos,” Mark said. “What kind of landscape am I looking at?”

“Oh,” Daphne said. “It will be about the same as everywhere around here. Mountainous, forested, valleys…” As she described it, it sounded a lot like Afghanistan.

“Interesting,” Mark said.

“The bandits Grelka told you about live on a river,” Daphne explained. “They are upstream from where we gather our water. Sometimes, we find trash in the water from their pleasures. Usually wine bottles.”

“Hooligans,” Mark said.

“Indeed?” Daphne said, confused. “Anyway. I will show you later where the river is so you can follow that up to get to them. Then you can take them down easily.”

“Simple enough,” Mark said. The healer was poking at his back to check for cracked ribs or vertebrae. “What else can you tell me, about more than just this area?”

“The world?” Daphne said. “We are somewhat to the fringes of any large cities or nations. The most powerful nation is Equestria, where the ponies rule.”

“What?” Mark said. Daphne ignored him and continued.

“Celestia controls sunlight from there,” she went on. “To the west of that are vastly unknown lands, an area few wander because of the danger. East of Equestria is Griffinstone and the Dragonlands. Further east of that, you start seeing other griffin nations, like the East Griffin Empire. We are slightly past that. East of us and a but to the south, you have Saddle Arabia, land of horses.”

“What the hell?” Mark said. Again, Daphne ignored him.

“South of Equestria is strange lands, and far, far to the north is Yakyakistan,” Daphne said. Mark just blinked in disbelief. “There is a great deal more.”

“I think that’s enough,” Mark said. Ponies and horses? And Griffins? What kind of world was this?

“I don’t know much about the rest of the world, merely that it is there,” Daphne said. “You would have to go there to learn more.”

“Well, thanks,” Mark said. Daphne frowned at his obvious sarcasm.

“You seem alright,” the healer said. “No infections setting in or anything.”

“Thanks, doc,” Mark said.

“Go get some food and water,” the healer ordered. “Daphne, show him what he needs so he can do his job.”

Mark and Daphne left the hut to take care of the last few things before Mark would start preparing for the job. He knew it would be easy, but he always preferred to have everything in order first. Then he could do the work, get paid, and get out of here for better prospects somewhere else.

There were nations out there that could use him, and he could use their money. This bizarre course of events may have been the best thing he could have asked for.