Author's Note

This is probably gonna seem rushed, but I honestly more feel the story of following a small group of individuals rather than many others, I've decided to at least put Invaders on hiatus. With present circumstances and with no clue on how to describe a large battle, I will be using the idea of a limited perspective to hopefully make a better story concept. Here's hoping this does better than my previous stories.

First Day In

April 5th, 2020

Near Fort Ironside in the Province of Arabia

The blades of the helicopter cut the air like swords. Their motions sounding like loud thumps, the door to the chopper's bay was wide open, a brown-haired man in gray army fatigues, an Alabama flag on his shoulder, and a set of body armor covering his chest. He was also wearing a helmet similar to the German Stahlhelm. His left foot dangled out of the chopper, his other foot propped him up. In his hands was a GPR12, a combat rifle based on the FAL, wooden furniture, and a folding handle, chambered in .308.

A scope was mounted on its top on a bracket connected to the side of its receiver. Besides him, on a chair and close to the front of the chopper was a black man donning matching gear and a matching rifle, sitting on its butt in his large hands gripping the barrel. Another passenger aboard the chopper was Daytime Breeze, a young woman with cyan skin and blonde hair in a ponytail. She wore a light blue button-down shirt and khaki cargo pants tucked into a pair of dark brown boots.

She sat on wooden crates of camera equipment and other things, holding onto a rail and staring out at mounds of sand passing by. Rarity watched her happy assistant, trying to take her eyes away from the unfamiliar world they were in. Sweat pooled in the pits of the dark blue suit jacket she wore, luckily she wore a short skirt and open-toed shoes. Beads of sweat dripped down her face and from out of her indigo hair, even in the air blowing through the bay door.

"Ya know," shouted the door gunner of the roar of the engines in a thick Alabaman accent "I have a lotta respect you guys, reporters and such," he stopped and leaned forward, spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice into the wind "Only an idiot would walk into a warzone without a gun like you," he laughed, showing the tobacco stains on his teeth. Rarity just chuckled nervously. He continued "yeah, we're practically flying into a warzone here, some of them rag-heads started slingin' mortar shells at 'em bout a week ago," The black man spoke up in a deep booming voice:

"My brother's stationed here," he said looking at Rarity, "Says they hit one o' them six-ton trucks, blew the roof off, and killed two men in Logistics. He says they got it in a garage, you can just look at it if ya want to,"

"Well... that just sounds lovely," responded Rarity in her posh accent jokingly, trying to mask the anxiety, her assistant seemed just as chipper as ever. She had been Rarity's assistant for a couple of years by now, always the adventurous type. She was a hard worker, and athletic in nature, she reminded Rarity of her old friend Rainbow Dash. Dash had long ago joined up with the Naval Air Corps, last she heard she was on the CSS A. P. Hill in the Caribbean.

"Here we are!" shouted the door gunner, Rarity leaned forward and looked out the door, before them was a military base, dozens of buildings were lined up in neat rows among more neat rows of vehicles ranging from tanks and infantry support vehicles to transport trucks and engineering equipment. They passed over and landed among rows of X88-A attack fighters, swept wings mounted with missiles, a single jet engine built into the fuselage, rounded noses armed with three barrelled rotary cannons, and bubble domes.

Among other jet and piston engine aircraft and some helicopters like the one they were in, cockpit atop the craft and a large troop bay below on four small wheels. A man in tan fatigues and a reflective vest guided the crew with batons. The aircraft slowly rolled on its rear wheels before finally settling on its forward wheels and slowing to a stop. The engines continued to rumble as the two reporters stepped off the chopper.

While they were unloading an opened-top pickup truck, tan in color, stopped beside them, two men wearing tan army fatigues greeted them. The passenger greeted them in an Alabaman accent similar to their previous companion, a skinny man wearing aviators with a black mustache.

"Nice to meet ya, I'm Corporal Richards, this is Corporal Hemingway," he pointed to a man with a round face, blonde hair under his tan fabric protected helmet in the driver's seat "We're gonna be givin' you fine ladies a tour of the base, so why don't y'all just put yer things in the bed and hop in?" Daytime put the crates and bags into the spacious bed of the truck, Rarity and Daytime climbed into the truck's back seat, their only means of protection being a thin metal door and a lowered windshield.

The four drove around the base, Corporal Richards pointed out all the many sights along their journey. While on their journey they pass a row of garage buildings and Rarity caught site of the six-ton truck she had been told about. Its blackened and twisted remains were near unrecognizable. The tires were fat deflated sacks, the grill was like a twisted monstrous grin, and its body was warped and mangled into a shape that reminded her of a twisted dead tree.

They passed by in a flash and it was gone like a fleeting memory. The group finally reached the barracks, long rows of long tin-roofed and gray painted wooden houses, a single door, and a set of steps at the end of every one. The truck swerved around men who were milling about and several plastic kiddie pools where men were laying and drinking beer. They stopped at a build near the end of this row. It was different from the others, somewhat more homely in appearance, a very large building too.

"This here's the officer's barracks, it's where you fine gals'll be sleepin' tonight," said the Corporal as he looked back at the two, "I suppose me and Hamingway'll help y'all unload," The two men proceeded to help the two ladies unload their gear and luggage carrying it inside and sitting it in one of the spacious and vacant bedrooms "Farewell to you ladies," said the chipper Corporal Richards, tipping his helmet like a hat, Hemingway did the same and they left.

Rarity plopped herself down on one of the two beds, relishing in the refreshing cold of the air conditioner as it touched her reddened sweat-covered face. She laid back on the bed and kicked off her heels.

"I'm gonna take a nap," she said wearily, closing her azure eyes. Daytime sat herself down on the bed, watching as she slept. When the blonde girl was sure Rarity had fallen asleep, she quietly stepped over one of the smaller wooden crates and quietly opened the hinged lid. Inside on a bed of wood shavings was a white and black ComTech polaroid camera with a black neck strap attached, next to it was a small felt-covered box containing a single silver pin that read National Confederate News in sharp letters, her name below.

She tiptoed out of the room and house, slipping on a pair of aviator sunglasses that she, for some reason, was not wearing earlier. She walked down the crowded path, dodging relaxing soldiers as they milled about. She walked all the way back to where the vehicles were kept. The young photographer parked herself in front of a CHT98 Bobcat, a massive beast of a tank, its great 88mm jutted out from its squarish-shaped turret.

She kneeled down and snapped a picture with her camera, the camera ejected her prize, and with a couple of shakes, the colored image of a tank appeared on the paper. She stepped forward and ran her hand upon the front of the tank, she had always had a fascination with the steel beasts. It ran in the family, her father had been a tank gunner, a career she had wanted until she found journalism, and Rarity.

As soon as she met the reporter, she had taken quite the liking to her, an almost romantic attraction to the blue-haired lady. One that Rarity did not know about, though it was well known she seemed more into women, Rarity was a friend who accepted the young lady. She felt a hand grab her from behind and pull her away from the tank.

"Civilians are not allowed to touch army equipment without the permission of a commanding officer," said a soldier in a stern, almost emotionless voice. "Clear out of this area immediately," Not wanting to get into any trouble, Daytime obliged and left. She walked all through the fort, watching as soldiers went about their duties, mostly just firing drills and moving around equipment. She snapped some photos of smiling soldiers and other workers as she went about.

All of it became rather boring after a while, it seemed everyone was either gambling their pay away or sweeping the floors in the shops. Tired and dripping with sweat from the sun's blistering heat, she was finally ready to turn in and go back to her barracks. Then the sirens went off, and soldiers scattered as their horrible wale echoed over the base. Daytime dashed into action, grabbing her camera, ready to snap pictures of whatever attack might happen.

She was shocked when the only action she saw were two bright red six-ton trucks and several red jeeps began rushing to the airstrip. In the glare of the sun appeared and X88-A approach the strip, plumes of black smoke trailing from its rear. In a flash, its glass canopy was thrown in the air and the pilot shot up like a rocket before the burning craft came crashing down. A great fiery ball of smoke it skidded to a halt, leaving a burning trail in its wake.

She dashed along with many other soldiers to the site, camera in hand. She was absorbed in her work as she snapped as many pictures as she could before her film ran out, any action seemed to be a relief from what had quickly become a droll monotonous day. Once she realized she had run out of film she shot across the base, faster than she had ever run back to her quarters. Once she reached the officer's barracks and had promptly burst into her friend's room she called to her:

"get your makeup ready, we've got a story!"