“The truth is that you always know the right thing to do. The tough part is doing it.”

- Norman Schwarzkopf

Fort Bliss, Texas. July 20th, 2038. 0600 hours.

The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the sprawling Fort Bliss in golden light. The arid Texas air buzzed with the relentless hum of machinery and the sharp bark of orders echoing across the base. Thousands of soldiers, engineers, and support staff moved like clockwork, each cog in a well-oiled machine preparing for war. Massive M1A2 SEPv4 Abrams tanks sat lined in formation, their angular hulls painted in desert camouflage, glistening under the rising sun. Combat vehicles of every variety—Bradley IFVs, Strykers, MRAPs, M113s—stretched in long rows, their crews performing final inspections.

The vast motor pools were alive with activity. Engineers crouched beneath hulking vehicles, wrenches clinking against steel as they checked suspension systems and engine seals. Armament specialists hauled crates of shells, loading them methodically into the tanks’ ammunition racks. Quartermasters barked instructions while overseeing the distribution of gear—rifles, sidearms, NVGs, and protective equipment.

Above it all, the sound of heavy transport helicopters cut across the sky, ferrying personnel and equipment to the staging areas.

The 1st Armored Division, "Old Ironsides," was preparing to cross into an alien world.

Lieutenant First Class Joe Cooper adjusted his uniform as he strode across the tarmac, his boots striking a confident rhythm against the pavement. Behind him, the din of organized chaos filled the air. He had just come from an intense briefing with the battalion commander, where maps of the colony of New Washington and its surrounding area had been spread across digital displays, and strategies had been etched into every officer’s mind.

Ahead, his M1A2 SEPv4 Abrams stood proud, its massive 120mm smoothbore cannon aimed skyward like an unyielding finger of defiance. Perched atop the turret was Staff Sergeant Adam Hampton, the tank's gunner, his arms crossed over his chest.

"About damn time, sir!" Hampton called out, a wry grin on his stubbled face. "Thought you were negotiating peace talks back there or something."

Cooper smirked. "You know me, Hampton. Always trying to save the world one cup of coffee at a time."

They exchanged a brief laugh as Cooper reached the tank, resting a gloved hand on its cold steel plating.

"How’s she holding up?" he asked, looking around the crew.

From the side of the hull, Senior Sergeant Marcus Humphrey, the tank’s driver, emerged from a crouch. His grease-streaked face broke into a grin. "Engine’s purring like a kitten, Lieutenant. Suspension’s checked, and the tracks are good to go."

Suddenly, a head popped up from the tank’s hatch. Private First Class Caleb Johnston, the loader, had a smear of dust across his forehead and a goofy grin plastered on his face. "All racks are full, sir! You could knock down a castle with what we’ve got in here."

Cooper chuckled and gave the young private a thumbs-up. "Good work, Johnston. I expect every round to count when the time comes."

With that, Cooper climbed onto the hull and descended into the commander’s seat inside the tank. The compartment smelled of oil and metal, and the faint hum of electronic systems filled the air. His hands moved expertly over the controls, checking the CITV (Commander’s Independent Thermal Viewer) and the periscope. Screens blinked to life, displaying diagnostics, targeting systems, and fuel levels.

"All systems green," he announced. "Now we wait."

As the sun climbed higher, a rare moment of reprieve descended upon the 1st Armored Division. Mess tents had been set up across the fort, with long lines of soldiers weaving around them.

The "special breakfast" was a tradition before major deployments—a symbolic gesture of comfort before chaos. Soldiers loaded their trays with steaming plates of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, roasted chicken, and fresh vegetables. Some lucky souls even managed to snag lobster tails and scoops of ice cream.

Cooper and his crew sat together at a folding table, their trays piled high. Johnston had two slices of pie balanced precariously on his tray, while Humphrey was busy devouring a plate of steak and eggs.

"They’re fattening us up for the kill," Hampton muttered, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork.

Cooper smirked. "Well, if this is our last meal, I’m glad it’s a good one."

Laughter erupted around the table, but there was an unspoken weight behind their words. They all knew what lay ahead.

The call came sharp and clear over the loudspeakers: "All units, prepare to move out. Repeat, all units, prepare to move out."

The energy on the base shifted instantly. Crews scrambled into their vehicles, boots thudding against steel as tank commanders climbed into their turrets. Engines roared to life, including the unmistakable scream of Cooper's Abrams' Avco-Lycoming AGT1500 gas turbine.

"Driver, start her up!" Cooper barked over the intercom.

"Yes, sir!" Humphrey replied, and the Abrams growled awake. The tank vibrated beneath them, a beast roused from slumber.

Over the radio, chatter crackled as commanders across the 3rd Tank Company reported in:

• "Bravo 1, standing by."
  
• "Charlie 2, systems green."
  
• "Delta 3, locked and loaded."

Cooper keyed his mic. "Alpha 4, ready to roll."

The brigade's structure was immense—three tank battalions, each with three tank companies, totaling 108 tanks, supported by hundreds of infantry fighting vehicles, Self-propelled artillery, and engineering equipment.

The armored column began to move. Steel titans rumbled forward, followed by Bradley IFVs, Strykers, MRAPs, and Humvees. The line of vehicles stretched for miles, a testament to humanity's war machine.

The convoy approached the portal facility. A massive spherical structure, glowing faintly with ethereal blue light, stood as the gateway to Gaia. The portal resembled something out of science fiction—a shimmering, rippling plane of light suspended within a circular metallic arch. Nearby, the fission reactor building hummed with energy, its cooling towers releasing faint plumes of steam into the clear Texas sky.

One by one, tanks and armored vehicles crossed into the portal. The air rippled as each vehicle passed through, momentarily distorted by the immense energy coursing through the portal.

As Alpha 4 approached, Cooper took a deep breath. "Alright, boys. This is it. Everyone ready?"

"Ready, sir!" came the unified reply from his crew.

"Driver, move us forward."

The tank crept into the portal. Through his periscope, Cooper could see the blinding light engulfing the tank as reality itself seemed to warp around them.

His final thought before crossing over was simple and resolute:

"We will win this war. No matter the cost."

And with that, Alpha 4 vanished into the light.

Fort Palmare, Central Equestria, July 21st, 2038. 1000 hours.

The sun hung bright and warm over Fort Palmare, casting golden rays across the sprawling military encampment. Located in the rolling plains south of Canterlot, the fort—once a quiet garrison for ceremonial guards—had become the epicenter of Equestria's largest military mobilization in over a millennium. The air buzzed with tension and the distant clatter of hooves, hammers, and shouted orders. Banners bearing the royal sigil of Celestia and Luna fluttered in the soft breeze, but beneath their regal symbols lay a fragile and chaotic scene.

The fort was overflowing. Thousands of ponies—earth ponies, pegasi, and unicorns—milled about, trying to follow hastily barked orders. Supply wagons clogged the narrow dirt roads leading into the fort, piled high with sacks of grain, crates of preserved hay, barrels of water, and hastily forged weapons. The chaotic sight painted a grim picture of an army hastily assembled and woefully underprepared.

The Royal Guard, despite its legendary history, was showing cracks in its golden armor. Of the estimated 300,000 active personnel, only half were equipped with standard-issue weapons and armor, the rest being issued rusted swords, dented helmets, and wooden spears more suited for animal control than warfare. Many earth ponies found themselves handed farming scythes tied to long poles, while some unicorns were given tomes of outdated battlefield spells copied hastily by apprentice scribes.

Armor shortages were even more glaring. Quartermasters distributed patchwork cuirasses scavenged from royal vaults, some so old they bore the faded crests of long-forgotten noble houses. Helmets often mismatched the armor they accompanied, leaving some ponies resembling poorly costumed actors rather than soldiers preparing for war.

Food supplies, too, were a mess. The logistics network Equestria relied upon was built for peacetime parades and royal tours, not the sustained feeding of hundreds of thousands of troops. Granaries were hastily emptied, warehouses overflowed, and uncoordinated procurement left entire divisions undersupplied. Pegasus couriers were forced to ferry emergency food shipments across vast distances, their wings growing weary under heavy loads.

“By Celestia’s mane…” muttered Caption Silver Halberd, one of the more seasoned officers overseeing supply distribution, as he stared at a ledger. “We’re sending entire battalions into the field with less than two days' worth of rations. Madness, utter madness.”

Leadership among the legions was equally dire. Many high-ranking officers held their positions not because of competence but because of wealth, political connections, or noble birthright. Stallions and mares clad in ornate, jewel-encrusted armor strutted about the camp, their polished swords barely showing signs of wear. Command meetings often descended into shouting matches over petty grievances rather than meaningful discussions on tactics.

The seasoned few, like General Iron Oak, a grizzled earth pony with scars tracing his weathered muzzle, did their best to impose order. “Get those wagons out of the main thoroughfare!” he bellowed, his gravelly voice cutting through the noise. “If these supplies don’t move, neither will our legions!”

Meanwhile, Princess Luna oversaw strategy from her command tent deep within the fort. Large maps sprawled across wooden tables, dotted with miniature banners indicating 'Hu-mano' positions. Her sapphire eyes were sharp and calculating as she conferred with her advisors. Luna understood better than most that this war would not be won with bravado and grand speeches—it would be won with discipline, coordination, and sacrifice.

Across Equestria, blacksmiths worked tirelessly in roaring forges, their anvils ringing like bells of war. Farmers were conscripted into producing military rations—hardtack, preserved vegetables, dried fruits. Every village and hamlet received royal edicts demanding contributions to the war effort. Some complied willingly, viewing it as their patriotic duty. Others protested, their meager supplies already stretched thin from poor harvests.

In darker corners, some provincial generals bypassed royal decrees entirely. They marched their soldiers into villages and seized supplies outright, sometimes leaving families with barely enough to survive. Reports of theft, abuse, and outright looting by rogue elements of the military filtered back to Canterlot, but with the chaos of mobilization, none were held accountable.

At the heart of Fort Palmare, newly recruited soldiers drilled under the scorching sun. Many were young colts and fillies barely of age, their eyes wide with fear and excitement. Overburdened drill instructors shouted themselves hoarse trying to instill basic discipline into raw recruits.

“Form ranks! Keep your spears level! No, you there—stop holding it like a fishing pole!” screamed Sergeant Brick Shield, an earth pony whose patience was wearing thin. He was tasked with training an entire division on his own—a near-impossible feat.

Pegasi recruits flitted awkwardly above the training grounds, trying to synchronize their movements in formation flights. Unicorns practiced shield spells and basic magical barrages, but the lack of experienced combat mages meant that many of their spells fizzled uselessly into harmless sparks.

Months passed, and slowly—painstakingly—Equestria’s Grand Army took shape. Seventeen Royal Guard Legions, each numbering 20,000 ponies, stood ready under their banners. An additional five legions were held back as reserve, prepared to reinforce wherever the frontlines might break.

Equestrian military planners adopted standard tactics, relying on numerical superiority and traditional strategies that had served them well in ancient wars. The general doctrine emphasized deploying 3 legions for every 1 enemy stronghold during offensives and 2 legions for defensive holds.

Reports from pegasus scouts highlighted five key enemy strongholds scattered across Equestria. The southwest, near Whinnypool, was identified as a major staging ground. Another key position loomed ominously in the northeast, close to Neighagra Falls. The southeast, near the Appaloosan mountains and the dense Amarezon rainforest, hosted two additional enemy position. Smaller location dotted remote southern deserts, but they were deemed lesser threats.

Propaganda posters appeared overnight across cities and towns. Colorful art depicted brave Royal Guards charging into battle, banners flying, and the sun rising triumphantly behind them. The war was heralded as “The Great War”, a conflict that would surely end before winter’s first snow.

Young ponies laughed and sang as they prepared for deployment, sharing plans for the celebrations they’d have when they returned victorious. Others clutched letters from loved ones, promises scrawled hastily across parchment.

When Princess Luna gave the final authorization to march, cheers erupted across Equestria. Hundreds of thousands of hooves stomped in unison, shaking the ground like distant thunder.

But beneath the banners, behind the gilded helmets and polished weapons, lurked uncertainty and dread. Equestria was marching to war—but war was a monster they no longer understood.

As the sun set over Fort Palmare, the once-bright banners now cast long shadows over the muddy ground. The wind carried the distant sound of a bugle call, signaling the start of a campaign that would define the fate of an entire world.

Unbeknownst to the eager ponies marching in tight formations, victory would not come before winter. Nor would it come easily—if at all.

Griffonstone, Griffonian Empire. July 24th. 2200 hours.

Deep beneath the towering spires and gilded arches of the Imperial Castle in Griffonstone, in a secure underground war chamber carved from ancient stone, the air crackled with tension. Flickering torchlight illuminated maps, documents, and strategic charts spread across a massive mahogany table. Shadows danced on the walls, their shapes elongated and sharp, mirroring the talons of those gathered.

At the head of the table sat Emperor Magnus Ironclaw, his imposing figure draped in a ceremonial crimson robe embroidered with golden laurels. His steel-gray feathers were immaculately groomed, and his piercing amber eyes gleamed with authority. In one claw, he held a silver goblet filled with ruby-red wine; in the other, a polished scepter symbolizing his rule. His presence exuded power, but beneath the grandeur lay a predator ready to pounce.

Around him stood his most trusted advisors and generals. To his right, General Kael Stormfeather, a grizzled veteran with scars tracing his beak and a polished bronze breastplate etched with marks of valor. To the Emperor’s left, Lord Horatio Geldbeak, the Empire's Minister of Economy, wore tailored black robes and round spectacles perched precariously on his beak. Beside them stood Admiral Arcturus Windwing, commander of the Imperial Navy, his dark navy coat adorned with medals of maritime triumph.

A large map lay unfurled on the table, its surface pinned down with daggers. Five red crosses marked the locations of the alien settlements dotting the coastal regions. Tiny griffon figurines stood in formation near each location, symbolizing the Empire’s legions ready to descend upon the invaders.

General Kael Stormfeather, his gravelly voice echoing in the chamber, spoke first.
"Your Imperial Majesty, our legions stand ready. Twenty fully mobilized army legions await your command, totaling nearly 380,000 talons prepared for war. Our aerial units will conduct devastating air assaults, striking these alien infestations from above. These creatures—whatever they are—seem incapable of flight. We shall rain fire and steel upon them before they even comprehend what's happening.

Magnus nodded approvingly, his golden crown catching the flickering light. "Good, Kael. These… creatures dared to plant their roots in our sacred soil. Show them the fury of the skies. Crush them beneath our talons and leave nothing but ashes in their wake."

General Kael bowed, his sharp beak scraping against his chest plate.

The Emperor turned his gaze towards Minister Horatio Geldbeak. "Horatio, war is not fought on courage alone. How deep into our coffers have we reached for this campaign?"

The bespectacled minister cleared his throat and adjusted his robe nervously. "Your Majesty, the mobilization of our forces, procurement of war supplies, and logistical chains have cost the Empire a 500 thousand Denari thus far. It is indeed a vast sum, but I assure you, it is not beyond our capacity. Our treasury remains strong, and… we shall see a return on this investment."

Magnus raised an eyebrow. "And how, pray tell, will we ensure such returns?"

Horatio smirked faintly, his talons drumming against a ledger. "Loot and plunder, Your Majesty. These settlements are bound to have resources—precious metals, tools, perhaps even exotic goods from their homeland. Special reconnaissance units have been assigned specifically to scavenge and transport anything of value back to the Empire. The invaders' wealth will fund our victory and enrich Griffonia for years to come."

The Emperor chuckled darkly. "A wise plan, Horatio. The spoils of war belong to the victor, after all."

Next, Admiral Arcturus Windwing stepped forward, his sharp talons clicking against the stone floor. His voice carried the confidence of one who had seen countless naval battles.
"Your Majesty, our fleet is at full readiness. The Imperial First and Second Fleets have been deployed to blockade the coastal waters. No ship—large or small—will escape our watchful eyes. We will choke their sea lanes, ensuring that these pests remain trapped on our soil. If they came from across some undiscovered continent, they will never return there. None shall escape imperial justice—male, female, young, or old. They will face our righteous talons in the end."

Magnus’s talons tightened around his scepter, his sharp beak curling into a satisfied smirk. "Excellent, Arcturus. The sea will be their prison, and the skies will be their tomb."

Satisfied with the plans laid before him, Emperor Magnus Ironclaw rose to his full height, his wings partially unfurling to cast long shadows across the chamber. He lifted his silver goblet and spoke with chilling authority.

"My loyal generals, admirals, and ministers—this is not merely a campaign. This is a crusade. These vermin dared to set foot upon our hallowed ground, to erect their foul structures upon our shores. They have spat upon the honor of the Griffonian Empire, an empire that has endured for millennia and whose banner has flown victorious over every battlefield!"

The war room erupted in cheers, with generals and officers slamming their talons against the table, their voices rising in unison.

"We shall cleanse these lands with fire and claw. Bring me their treasures, their secrets, and their lives! Go now, my talons of war—strike swiftly, strike true, and let the world tremble at the might of Griffonia!"

With that final decree, Emperor Magnus Ironclaw raised his goblet high, and the assembled griffons followed suit, roaring in agreement.

As dawn approached and the pale light of day began to creep across the Griffonian skies, the sound of beating wings echoed across the imperial capital. Legions of armored griffons filled the skies, their formations stretching across the horizon like a dark stormcloud. Below, war banners snapped in the wind, and legions on the ground marched in perfect unison, their talons stomping rhythmically on the cobblestone streets.

Civilians cheered from balconies and city walls, waving imperial banners and throwing flower petals as the legions passed. The Empire was mobilized. The plan was perfect—or so they believed.

But history has a cruel sense of irony. For all their preparation, their confidence, and their belief in their eternal dominance, the Griffonian Empire was marching towards a future it could not foresee—a future of ruin and fire. Just as empires of old had risen and fallen, so too would the mighty Griffonian Empire.

And somewhere in the skies above, the crows circled—not as heralds of victory, but as omens of what was to come.

Author's Note

I want to let you know that I am currently experiencing health problems. This limits my ability to write, I will probably make an update every 4-5 days.