We fight so that children can grow old, do not lose sight of our mission, it is one of survival.

  - UWO General Forerster -

  It’s been fifteen years since the first gate appeared, now twenty-two years old, I stand at parade rest, waiting to find out if I’m going to get my ass chewed out again by my Platoon Sergeant.

  “Specialists Novak, Tran and Barlow, I need you three to report to the flight line, you’re filling in for Third Platoon’s Gate run. Seeing as you’re all still on extra duty for that stunt last cycle,” our Platoon leader says, Staff Sergeant fucking Mwangi. He’s a hard ass. But at the end of the day, he’s one bad ass mother fucker. He’s also the only reason we didn’t get busted down in rank for what we did.

  “There’s a gate on the flight line, Sergeant?” Barlow asks.

  “Showed up late last night, Command wants that shit nipped quick,” Mwhangi says.

  “Fuck,” Tran mutters under his breath, giving me a pissed off glance. He had a date with his girlfriend this weekend. Key word, had.

  “Roger Sergeant,” I say, trying to keep a tone of respect through the groan. Double gate duty again though? This is bullshit. Our Battalion Commander is such a dick. All we did was help some off-worlders get rations. Some of those poor bastards are starving, and no one wanted the vegetarian Meals Ready to Eat anyway. The fake ass cheese in MREs plugs you up for three days straight.

  “Sergeant, permission to beat Novak’s ass if he fucks up again?” Barlow asks, giving me an eyebrow raise.

  As if. He’s never beaten me in combative training. Besides, as pissed off as they are, Tran and Barlow are among my best friends. Hopefully after extra duty is over in a week, I can buy them a few rounds to make up for it.

  “Granted,” Staff Sergeant Mwangi chuckles shaking his head, then coming closer to us, he looks at each of us square in the eye before saying, “No heroics, come back in one piece and don’t let those fuckers in Third make you cannon fodder, that’s what the off-worlders are for.”

  “Roger Sergeant,” the three of us say in unison.

  Off-worlders, the lowest caste of fucked on Earth. My jaw flexes thinking on their plight, even if it’s only slightly worse than ours. Living out your days on a world that’s barely treading water after watching your own burn… man that must suck.

  “Get a move on,” Mwangi says motioning with his chin as he crosses his massive arms.

  After grabbing our rucksacks, we walk by the rest of the people in Second Platoon, including our first line Sergeant Gilroy, a complete and utter moron. Tran gives him a nod, swearing under his breath. He’s the one that told command about our little stunt. Fucker.

  “Try not to fuck up again Novak,” Gilroy the turd says.

  “Roger.”

  “Roger what?” he asks, puffing out his chest.

  “Roger, Sergeant,” I say, fighting back the annoyance. Better to pretend to respect people like him.

  After we pass by him, we see the rest of our squad, most doing burpees and pull ups. Bunch of muscle heads. Except Cortez, she’s deep in a book, the cover says Noncommissioned officer training guide, but I know that’s not what she’s actually reading. Stopping in front of her, I put a finger between the fake label and the real cover. She gives me a playful glare, pulling it back.

  “Another romance fantasy?” I ask, having seen the real book.

  She rolls her eyes, “Try not to die, Novak,” she says, feigning a yawn after, then leveling her hazel eyes to my green ones, “I don’t like missing people.”

  “Roger that,” I say, trying to hide the smirk, we’ve been having a fling for a couple months now, its not super serious, at least I don’t think it is. As I catch up with Tran and Barlow, I look back, she’s still watching me, there’s almost a little worry on her face. Brings another smile to mine, maybe it is getting serious.

  ***

  “When was the last time I said I hate you bro?” Barlow asks through a heavy sigh as we make it to the flight line.

  “Yesterday, after lunch,” I say.

  When we get to Third Platoon, we report to their Platoon Sergeant, a short man with a big ego, he wears out of regs shades like he’s some kind of hotshot pilot and chews gum, always popping bubbles to make a point. Unless high command shows up, then he pretends like he’s the perfect soldier.

  “Specialist fucking Novac and his two dipshits, nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Sergeant First Class Romero says, extenuating his point with a massive bubble pop.

  He definitely hates us still. In fairness, it may have allegedly been his off-worlders that we fed, with his Platoon’s discarded Meals Ready to Eat. Guys a total prick that makes that bitch Gilroy look like the pot of gold at the end of the asshole rainbow.

  “Where do you want us, Sergeant?” I ask, all of us at perfect parade rest, we don’t want to give this dick a reason to have our extra duty extended.

  “Front and center, right behind the off-worlders,” he says, popping another bubble, “Only reason I’m not putting you in front of them,” he annoyingly pops yet another bubble, “Is because I don’t like doing paperwork, get in formation, shit stains.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Roger, Sergeant,” the three of us say together.

  When we get there, Tran’s the first to speak.

  “Fuck this,” Tran mumbles, rolling his neck and dropping his ruck on the ground, “Hurry up and wait again, and fuck that guy, he’s such a fucking piece of shit.” Tran sits down on his rucksack, crossing his arms.

  “Yeah, he is a dick,” Barlow sighs, “But at least he didn’t put us in front.”

  “Novak’s a fucking medic though, you never put the medic near the front,” Tran says shaking his head, “If that shit head gets hit, I’m leaving him.”

  “No one’s leaving anyone,” I say, tossing my ruck next to his and sitting on it, adjusting my helmet, thankfully it’s morning, full battle rattle sucks ass.

  “I will dead ass leave him,” Tran says, and honestly, I believe him. He grew up on the rough side of the tracks, he doesn’t talk about it much unless he’s had a few too many beers though.

  “No one’s leaving anyone,” Barlow yawns, pointing off in the distance at the large looming metal ring that juts up from the ground, a green shimmering surface on it, “It’s an F ranked green gate, probably going to be an herb gathering quest, relax, it’s literally the easiest gate you can get.”

  “Still,” Tran says, kicking a piece of broken asphalt with his boot, “I’ll leave his ass, fuck that Platoon Sergeant.”

  Shaking my head, I pull up the system and check my status board.

  Name: Jimmy Novak

  Race: Human

  Class: Healer

  Subclass: None

  Level: 7

  Titles: None

  Strength: 12

  Dexterity: 14

  Constitution: 10

  Intelligence: 16

  Wisdom: 13

  Charisma: 10

  Luck: 12

  Level seven still. Wonder how close I am to leveling up. Letting out a sigh, average stats across the board except for my Intelligence. Not that it has done much to keep me from getting in trouble frequently. Besides, they say the modifiers are more for spells than actual intelligence. Met a guy with 21 intelligence and 3 wisdom. Didn’t even have enough mana to cast anything he was qualified to, ended up turning into a smoke stack one day trying it anyways. They call having mix matched stats like that a divine dud. Like when warrior classes get high strength but low constitution. Their own muscles break their bones.

  The system does give us more stat points after every ten levels though. And the ability to pick up a subclass at level 20. Most never make it there though. Even fewer get to 40 and up. It’s on a sliding scale every 20. It’s classified to know high rankers level and their stats, but I heard a guy in Japan reached level 52. Probably bullshit, but who knows. The off-worlders tell stories of people who reach the upper levels, but no one knows if it’s hogwash. All of them got the reset button from the system when they came here. Apparently, their system was similar though, so most of them level quickly. They get more opportunity to, being shoved to the front of the military designated Gates.

  My eyes trace over to the off-worlders, keeping to themselves twenty meters in front of everyone else. Clad in medieval looking armor. Most off-worlders look like us, except for a few distinctions. These ones are what we call elves. Pointed ears and all. It’s said they live longer than us, not that it helped them save their world. One of them glances over at me, giving me a nod. An elderly elven man with frosted eyebrows and steel grey eyes. He’s the one we hooked up with the MRE’s. He moves toward me slowly, each step measured.

  “Jimmy of the Novaks, I thank you again for your kindness,” he says, giving me a light bow, the other elves watch him, blinking slowly at the bow.

  “It’s just Jimmy Novak,” I say, standing to greet him, “You don’t need to keep thanking me every time we meet, Trevanius.”

  “To not give thanks,” his brow furrows as though he’s about to give sagely wisdom, “Is to not give thanks.”

  Tran mutters under his breath as Barlow suppresses a laugh.

  “Right, well, as I said before, you’re welcome.”

  In fairness they all talk a little strangely sometimes. Especially the fresh arrivals, even though the system converts their language, it takes awhile for them to grasp the… style? I don’t know, I’m not a linguist.

  The old Elven man is about to speak more, but I hear the unmistakable sound of a bubble pop on the speakerphone.

  “Alright ladies, First Sergeant gave us the go ahead, let’s clear this Gate and be back for Sunday night football.”

  The Platoon of a hundred soldiers gives a weak ass “Hooah,” in response, poor fuckers have to deal with this guy every day.

  Getting back on our rucksacks, Tran, Barlow, and I line up behind the gaggle of thirty off-worlders. There’s no telling what’s beyond the Gate, once you go in, you can’t come back out until the quest is cleared, or it opens fully. Which we never want, that’s how cities got wiped out back in the day, hordes of monsters can spill from them after they open fully. Nowadays every gate that we can close, gets closed, even if it’s in the middle of the Ocean. Once it does, all the monsters that came from it disappear as well. Otherwise, Earth would have been overrun a long time ago. Earth wasn’t really on the ball the first few years. Lot of people died because of it.

  Humvees roar on with their inefficient motors and rattle behind us, carrying the gunners and their 50 cals. Glad we got those with us at least. Can’t imagine anything in a green gate having bulletproof skin. Especially not an F rank. Basically a walk in the park.

  The off-worlders go in through the shimmering green portal first, leaving Tran, Barlow, and me to take a deep breath before we walk straight in. Here we go.

  Light flashes and reality bends, every cell in my body lurching forward as though all of Newton’s laws were but mere suggestions. As suddenly as the familiar feeling appeared, it fades. Leaving my eyes adjusting to the light. First thing I notice, air temperature is nice. Always a good sign. Hot as hell and cold as hell usually means… hell.

  Fields of endless stalks of tall wheat stretch as far as the eye can see. We keep moving forward into it, the vehicles come rolling out of the gate next. Then the soldiers of Third Platoon, marching in formation. All of them have the standard issue M4 rifle in low ready position, just like us. Only exception between mine and most of their gear is that I also have to pack my aid bag. Even though I’ll likely just use my healing spell, good to have backups.

  A chime rings in the back of my mind, a system notification is coming. All right, time to find out what the quest is for this Gate.

  “Money’s on herb picking,” one guy says.

  “Or a farming quest,” a girl says, pulling a stalk of wheat and chewing on it.

  “Could be fishing too,” another says.

  “Do you see a lake dipshit,” the first quips.

  The notification box appears, silencing all the guesses.

  [ Quest : Herb Gathering ]

  A sigh of relief goes over the entire platoon and the off-worlders. It doesn’t last long though. A red streak cracks the edge of the quest box, glitching text rolling over it. I’ve never seen anything like this before.

  [ Error… Error… Error… System Offline... ]

  A strange feeling of uneasiness crawls up my spine as a new box appears in my vision, a black box, with red lettering. The edges dance with some kind of red energy.

  [ Quest: Survive ]

  “Shit…”