"To come under siege was the inevitable fate of every power."

- Umberto Eco

Gaia, "New Çatalhöyük", Northwestern New Asia. September 20th 2038. 1700 Hours.

The sky above New Çatalhöyük was a deep, endless blue as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden hues upon the rugged Anatolian-like landscape of the Turkish colony. It was a tranquil evening, the kind that had given the settlers hope that this new world could be their second home. That fragile peace was shattered at 19:00 when radar operators at the newly completed airfield detected a massive, fast-moving aerial formation.

"Multiple unidentified bogeys, bearing north-northeast! Estimated twenty thousand strong!" shouted an air control officer.

Alarm sirens blared across the city as air defense crews rushed to their stations. Pilots scrambled toward their F-16s and aging but still lethal F-4 Phantoms, engines roaring to life as they taxied to the runway. Ground crews frantically loaded missiles and ammunition, knowing the battle they had feared was finally at their doorstep.

In the distance, like a swarm of locusts darkening the twilight sky, the enemy came. Enormous flying creatures, their wingspans are 3 meters, soared through the air, their talons clutching crude spears, swords, and primitive Blackpowder weapons. Among them, massive wooden airships, held aloft by what seemed to be balloon-like gas sacks and reinforced by an unknown alloy, lumbered toward the colony.

The first Turkish fighters streaked across the sky, their AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles locking onto targets. In rapid succession, fireballs blossomed in the sky as the first wave of enemy airships exploded in massive, fiery bursts. The enemy ranks wavered momentarily before surging forward, their primitive but numerous weapons clashing with Türkiye's modern might.

The KORKUT anti-aircraft systems erupted with fire, sending streams of 35mm rounds into the flocks of airborne enemies. The deadly autocannons turned entire groups of alien avians into shredded meat, their bodies bursting into grotesque, feathered explosions midair.

The T-155 Fırtına self-propelled howitzers fired in coordinated volleys, their shells bursting in deadly airbursts above enemy formations. Avians plummeted to the ground in flaming heaps, their cries of agony drowned out by the relentless roar of artillery.

Despite the carnage, the Avians pressed on, seemingly unshaken by their mounting losses. The airfield was soon swarmed with desperate aerial attacks, forcing Turkish ground forces to engage in brutal close-range combat. Infantrymen emptied magazines into diving Avians, watching as their enemies tumbled from the sky in torrents of blood and viscera.

The night was a relentless blur of combat. By dawn, the defenders had repelled the first wave, but the cost had been steep. The airfield is heavily damaged and become non-operational, but it was clear that this was only the beginning.

The next day, the dreaded second wave arrived—an onslaught six times larger than the first. Tens of thousands of Avians, emboldened by their numbers, swarmed the colony from all directions. The KORKUT systems continued their slaughter, but ammunition reserves were beginning to run dangerously low. Soldiers were forced to take up their rifles and shoot Avians out of the sky as the auto-cannons sputtered empty.

The surrounding settlements, which had been established by early colonists, were quickly overrun. The Turkish army had no choice but to retreat, abandoning the smaller outposts and falling back to the primary defensive perimeter of New Çatalhöyük. The civilians left behind—men, women, and children—were massacred by the bloodthirsty invaders. Reports of entire families being impaled on pikes spread like wildfire through military communications, enraging the defenders.

As the Avians closed in on the final bastion, Türkiye’s 52nd Tactical Armored Division roared into action. Altay T1 main battle tanks and ACV-15 infantry fighting vehicles positioned themselves along the defensive lines, their cannons primed and ready.

The first Avian siege engines appeared on the horizon—massive wooden battering rams, catapult, trebuchet, and mobile ballistae, crudely constructed yet terrifying in their sheer size. The Turkish armor opened fire, 120mm shells from Altay tanks ripping through wooden contraptions like paper, sending splintered debris and Avian body parts flying.

Turkish infantry in the trenches unleashed hell upon the advancing Avians. The invaders carried primitive muzzle-loading muskets, but against the rapid fire of Turkish G3A3 battle rifles and MPT-76 assault rifles, they stood little chance. Entire squads of Avian warriors were torn apart by precise, disciplined volleys of gunfire.

Machine guns rained steel upon the enemy horde. The M2 Browning heavy machine guns stationed along the barricades spat round after round into the charging Avians, transforming the once-pristine fields into a blood-soaked nightmare. Artillery continued to pound enemy formations, ensuring that no enemy could approach without being vaporized kilometers away.

Still, the enemy would not relent. The fighting continued into the night, with neither side yielding an inch.

Then, at dawn on the third day, a new horror emerged from the sea.

The "New Mediterranean", once a peaceful source of fish and sustenance for the Turkish settlers, was now filled with hundreds of massive wooden warships—Galleons and Ships of the Line, their mast full with war banners. Primitive cannons, lined along their decks, erupted in synchronized salvos, reducing Turkish fishing and SAR boats to splinters. The coastline was littered with burning wreckage and the corpses of slaughtered civilians.

The artillery batteries in New Çatalhöyük turned their fire toward the fleet, but with most shells already expended on the enemy ground forces, their response was weak. Some brave Turkish soldiers fired anti-tank missiles at the oncoming vessels, managing to sink a few, but it was not enough.

The alien fleet pressed forward, closing within three kilometers of the shore. Their cannons roared once more, bombarding the coastal defenses and civilian districts. The destruction was apocalyptic—entire neighborhoods were obliterated, the screams of the dying echoing over the smoking ruins. Hundreds of civilians perished within minutes.

Back on Earth, news of the attack reached the Turkish government and military high command. The room was filled with frantic shouting, they did not anticipate an attack from the sea or even prepare for it.

The President of Türkiye immediately ordered emergency reinforcements to be deployed through the portal. However, it was clear that more than just ammunition and troops would be needed.

Within hours, emergency communications were sent to the United States, the United Kingdom, and other NATO allies, Article 5 has been activated. The alliance was now officially at war on Gaia.

As the defenders of New Çatalhöyük braced for yet another wave of attacks, a grim determination settled over them. The Turkish people, descendants of warriors who had once brought empires to their knees, would not fall so easily.

This was their Constantinople.
This was their Gallipoli.
This was their moment to make history once more.

As the sun set upon the battered yet unbroken colony, the defenders knew one thing—they would fight until the last bullet, the last shell, the last breath.

And if necessary, they would unleash hell upon this world.

Gaia, "New Çatalhöyük", Northwestern New Asia. September 23rd 2038. 0800 Hours.

The battlefield roared with chaos. The sharp clatter of machine guns, the pounding of artillery, and the distant screams of the wounded filled the morning air. The sun had just risen above the distant mountains, casting an eerie glow over the carnage below. Private Mahmut Demirbaş sat in a muddy trench, gripping his rifle with trembling hands, sweat mixing with the dust on his face.

His breathing was heavy, his fingers sore from reloading magazines. His uniform was stained with mud and dried blood—not his own, but that of the men who had fought and died beside him. He had barely slept. None of them had. The attack had begun at dawn, and now, three days later, the battle still raged on.

Bullets and arrows whizzed overhead as officers shouted orders in the cacophony of war. Mahmut ducked instinctively as another volley of enemy musket fire sent puffs of white smoke into the air. The Avians—massive, terrifying flying creatures—were relentless, their muscular frames clad in crude iron armor, their talons gripping firearms that should have belonged to history books. These were no simple savages. They were organized, disciplined, and ruthless.

Mahmut squinted through the swirling gunpowder smoke. The muskets the Avians carried were long and cumbersome, like the flintlocks from the 17th century, except these were muzzle-loaded. They fired large lead balls with surprising accuracy, and while their reload times were slow compared to modern firearms, the sheer number of enemy troops firing in volleys made up for it. Each time they raised their muskets and fired in unison, it was like thunder rolling through the battlefield. The crossbows, however, were even worse. Unlike the muskets, they could be fired rapidly, and the bolts punched through standard Kevlar like a hot knife through butter.

A soldier beside Mahmut screamed, clutching at a thick wooden shaft embedded deep in his shoulder. Another collapsed, his chest pierced clean through. Mahmut gritted his teeth and steadied his rifle. He was running low on ammunition.

He switched to semi-auto. No more wasting bullets. He aimed carefully, spotting a Avian officer in the distance, his decorated chest plate gleaming under the sun. Mahmut squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked, sending a 5.56mm round straight through the creature’s skull. The Avian fell backward, blood spurting from the exit wound in his head.

But there were too many of them.

Mahmut felt the weight of the battle pressing down on him. The enemy outnumbered them nine to one. They should have been wiped out hours ago, but the they had dug in. The trenches were lined with machine gun nests and reinforced with sandbags. Mortars rained down on enemy positions, and yet the avians kept coming.

A particularly loud explosion rocked the earth beneath him. Mahmut winced as dirt and shrapnel showered the trench. A nearby soldier was thrown against the wall, his helmet dented inward where a piece of debris had struck him. Mahmut barely had time to register the horror before he saw another enemy charge forming.

Through the dissipating smoke, he saw muzzle flashes.

His eyes narrowed. Good. They were making themselves easy targets.

He fired into the smoke, watching another avian fall. The muskets flashed again, answering with their own deadly volley. The air was filled with the sound of lead slamming into bodies. Soldiers screamed as bullets found their mark.

His rifle clicked empty.

"Cephanem bitti!" Mahmut shouted, his voice drowned by the explosions and gunfire.

He looked around frantically. No one answered. His squadmates were too busy fighting their own battles.

With no time to waste, Mahmut drew his SAR9 pistol. He took a deep breath, steadying his hand, and fired at another enemy silhouette through the fog of battle. Each shot had to count. He aimed for their heads, their necks, their exposed joints. Anything that would bring them down quickly.

Then he heard it.

A whistling sound.

His stomach dropped.

"TOP ATIŞI GELİYOR!" someone screamed.

The enemy’s naval artillery had locked onto their position.

The world erupted in fire and steel.

The first explosion sent bodies flying into the air. Blood sprayed across the trench walls. The ground trembled as more shells rained down. Mahmut felt himself thrown back by the shockwave, his ears ringing. He coughed, spitting out dirt and blood, and looked around.

The trench was in ruins. Corpses were scattered everywhere—some missing limbs, others barely recognizable as human. A severed arm twitched a few feet away from him, the fingers still clutching a rifle.

He heard the moans of the wounded.

"Allah aşkına! Yardım edin!" a soldier groaned, his guts spilling onto the ground. Medics rushed from cover, but there were too many wounded, too much blood.

Mahmut clenched his fists. This wasn’t what he signed up for. He had come to Gaia expecting a quick and easy peacekeeping mission. He had envisioned himself shooting down primitive savages from a distance, keeping the colony safe while earning enough to secure his family’s evacuation from Earth.

Instead, he was in hell.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand. He still had a fight to win.

He raised his pistol.

That was the last mistake he ever made.

The enemy had been waiting.

For a moment, there was a lull in the gunfire as the avians took aim. The smoke had cleared, and they could see him clearly. Mahmut barely had time to react before they pulled their triggers.

A wall of lead and iron came screaming toward him.

Something struck him in the neck.

Pain exploded through his body. He collapsed with a heavy thud, his pistol slipping from his fingers. His hands instinctively shot up to his throat, feeling the hot rush of blood pouring out. His vision blurred as he gasped for air, but the blood was already filling his windpipe and lungs.

He was drowning.

His thoughts became hazy.

He tried to call for help, but his voice was just a wet gurgle. The medics were too overwhelmed to notice him. He was alone.

The world started to fade.

Memories of his childhood, his mother’s voice, his father’s stern but kind face—everything flashed before him. He thought of his brothers, his sister, the family he had hoped to reunite with once Earth was evacuated.

He was dying.

Through the pain, he forced his lips to move.

"Asyhadu an la ilaha illa Allah…"

He coughed, choking on his own blood.

"…wa asyhadu anna Muhammadan… Rasulu-Allah."

With his last breath, he completed the Shahada, the final declaration of faith. He had done his duty. His soul was ready.

His vision darkened.

Then—nothing.

—

Mahmut Demirbaş was not the first to die in the Siege of New Çatalhöyük. He would not be the last. The Turks had conquered empires before, and they would do so again.

The blood of the fallen would not be in vain.

The people of Anatolia had once shattered the walls of Constantinople. Now, on this alien world, they would bring down the alien empire in fire and steel.

This was only the beginning.

Southern Mare-Nostrum Sea, Griffonian Empire, aboard the GWS Iron Beak. September 23rd 2028. 1000 hours.

Admiral Arcturus Windwing stood on the deck of his flagship, the GWS Iron Beak, an ironclad warship adorned with the proud banners of the Griffonian Empire. The sun gleamed over the vast, shimmering sea, a perfect backdrop for what he considered a moment of absolute triumph. Through the polished brass lenses of his binoculars, he gazed toward the enemy shoreline, where thick columns of black smoke curled into the sky like the fingers of some vengeful god.

He grinned—a sharp, predatory expression that reflected the nature of his kind.

The new species, had proven to be a minor nuisance at best. Their settlement, burned under the relentless bombardment of his fleet. The ear-splitting roar of Griffonian naval cannons cracked through the sky, launching their deadly payloads in synchronized unison. From this distance, the destruction was mesmerizing—buildings crumbling, trenches torn asunder, and bodies flung into the air like ragdolls. The rhythmic percussion of cannon fire was like music to his ears.

It was a symphony of devastation, and he was the conductor.

His talons gripped the wooden railing of the deck tightly as he surveyed the results of his grand strategy. The attack had gone precisely as planned:

His fleet had sailed undetected, slipping past any enemy scouts or defenses. (Because they don't have any)
The first victims were the small, defenseless wooden vessels dotting the coastline—pitiful fishing boats that had no chance against an imperial navy. His ships cut them down without hesitation, blasting them apart with single salvos. The shattered remnants of the boats floated like driftwood, their crews sinking into the abyss.

With the enemy caught off guard, his ships unleashed a near-uninterrupted rain of fire and steel upon the settlement.

From his perspective, this was war as it should be—the strong crushing the weak. The natural order of the world dictated that only the powerful deserved to rule. And the Griffonian Empire was destined to be that ruler.

However, not everything was perfect.

Something unexpected had happened during the bombardment. A loud explosion rocked one of his ships—the GWS Stormfeather—as its hull was suddenly torn apart by enemy counterfire. The ship lurched violently to one side before erupting into flames, its griffon crew shrieking as they leapt overboard, their wings unable to save them from the burning wreckage.

"What?!" Windwing snapped, lowering his binoculars. "Impossible!"

His first mate, Commissar Gallus Ironbeak, rushed to his side, eyes wide with alarm. "Admiral! The enemy... they have blackpowder cannons!"

Windwing’s beak twisted into a snarl. "Cannons?!" He could scarcely believe it. The Griffonian Empire had only developed blackpowder artillery twelve years ago, after years of painstaking research by Griffonstone University scholars. The weapon had been kept a closely guarded state secret, shared only with trusted imperial officers.

"That means..." he growled, his mind racing.

"Could be..." Gallus confirmed. "There is a traitor among us!?"

It had taken decades for the Griffonian Empire to master the arcane science of blackpowder weaponry. Their first Boomstick had been crude, prone to misfires, and slow to reload, but war and necessity had driven rapid advancements.

By three years ago, they had successfully deployed early iron naval cannons, each capable of hurling 60-pound iron balls at enemy targets with devastating effect. Windwing himself had lobbied for budget increases to mass-produce these weapons, diverting imperial resources from ground into naval superiority.

And now, they had stolen their invention? Barbarous!

"Find the traitor," Windwing growled to Gallus. "I want every suspect interrogated. If you must, start purging entire battalions. We will root out this treachery and make an example of the guilty."

"Yes, Admiral!" Gallus noded, hurrying off to relay the orders.

Meanwhile, Windwing adjusted his strategy. He ordered his fleet to stay out of the enemy’s effective firing range, moving dozens of kilometers into deeper waters, where their own cannons could still strike the settlement while being nearly impossible to counterattack.

The siege would continue. If they could not crush the enemy immediately, they would starve them out.

"Admiral!" came a shout.

Windwing turned to see Captain Eldric Stormbeak, commander of the Iron Beak, standing at attention.

"The fleet is ready to fire another salvo!"

Windwing’s beak curled into a smirk. "Good. Let’s remind these hairless apes what happens when they dare to defy the Griffonian Empire."

He raised a clawed fist into the air.

"FIRE!"

In unison, the fleet's broadside cannons unleashed another thunderous barrage. Explosions ripped through the enemy settlement, sending debris, flames, and body parts flying in every direction. Screams of terror and agony echoed from the shore as the raining iron and fire devastated the defenders.

Through his binoculars, Windwing saw trenches collapse, their occupants buried alive under tons of dirt and rubble. Flaming structures tumbled into the streets, sending panicked civilians running for their lives.

Yes, victory was within his grasp... or that what what he was thought anyway.

What he and his men didn't think was that there would always be bigger fish in the pond. His mighty imperial fleet is just a small fish in a very massive pond, where they will be up against a navy that has sailed and conquer all seven seas and fought battles on a scale that he could not have imagined.

The star and stripes of Americas shall sail side by side with the white crescent moon of Anatolia. Together, they will show Griffonkind who is the true master of the sea.

Author's Note

For those who don't understand how the native Gaians was called from human perspective. (Spoilers)

Equines = Ponies
Avians = Griffons
Horses = Saddle Arabians
Yaks = Yaks
Quadruple men/Ixionidae = Cantaur
Changelings = Quadrupel bugs/Cockroach
Minotaur = Cow-Man/Cow
Zerbas = Zerbas
Yeti = Primates
Buffalo = Buffalo
Diamond dogs = Moles/Dog
Crystal ponies = Crystalites
Deers = Deers
Abyssinian = Cats
Kirin = Equines Reptiles
Dragons = Dragons
Polar bears = Eisbär
Penguins = Pinguins

Give me suggestions if you have a better name.