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4 mos ago
Current AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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2 yrs ago
Dude, it's called method acting. If Daniel Day Lewis can do it, so can you. Idiot
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3 yrs ago
"I HAVE NO BAN AND I MUST CRINGE." Rest in peace to the last of the good men in this world. I will shed a thousand tears and pour a hundred 40s of Olde English.
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Bio

Armenia - Precipice of War 2017



France - New Earth Oracle



Korea - Our World in Turmoil



Mexico - Precipice of War 2020



New York City - Fallout: War Never Changes III



Persia - The Ghost of Napoleon

Most Recent Posts

@TheEvanCat two minor issues with your sheet.

The first is the Techno Union "remained neutral" or atleast publicly retained their neutrality and denounced Wat Tambor as a traitor, much like how the Trade Federation treated Nute Gunray. Why? The simple answer is money. They continued to produce goods for both sides.

The second is we're just after Order 66, so Palpatine hasn't quite declared his new order yet.


Huh, I just picked them because they're like the only shmucks from episode 2 that I remember with that goofy green dude. Wasn't there a whole battlefront mission where you had to blow up their transport ships too? Either way, even if they're pretend "neutral" I guess Terry would still be hanging out at Geonosis because the mission wouldn't have changed.

I pretty much only know them and the Trade Federation because they were those racist Asian stereotype aliens from episode 1 lol.

As for the second one, yeah, that's kind of just a primer for the situation, so it's not necessarily strictly linear if that makes sense. I think at least in the movie Palpatine did his thing within a few hours or whatever, right? Same night or so.
@TheEvanCat Oh boy am I never going to top that! Unless I don't sleep tonight I'm researching Jedi stuff, planets, minerals and Trandoshan society...


The trick is to not go super in depth, I just wrote a dude with a basic background of Star Wars. I've only seen the movies and googled for some of the lore stuff that weren't in them. Often you can just explore the details later, with just a baseline up front.
yam ur cool dont come to the youngling class tomorrow

Alright I'm down. Send it.
For all those saying you can't post, just get an AI to do it for you:

---

The door of the grey sedan parked next to the table as tigran quietly inspected one of the more worrying development in politics was the current president 's attempts to inhibit as many of assanian 's administration. He had been allowed brushed on his chest and the armenian people that the armenian state instead and a student 's a lot of it appearing as he was unable to make it look like he was combing over while worrying about balding. " the director took off to rejoin their platoon " tigran scowled.

Sevan mafiya gave themselves a hit of meth when it was time to go looking back up at the runner tomorrow with the files. Monarchies became too many. Violently seeing anything happened on their side passenger: seven thirty meters in his section found himself as he checked his hand was still raining at least for their next morning. Assanian stood still in hrazdan sorting his money through their revolver. In a horizontal spray pattern from lingorian 's casket his cigarette burning crookedly " i fucking ambushed the police vehicle to make batirashvili ballots out from underneath the border. "

junior policeman came through her window to take pictures for later. Whatever information network that they would adopt until krikor turned on its proximity pistol. Bullets tore his cigarette while assanian led primarily into cover. Guns impacted straight out: perhaps someday as the rest for the funeral and the armenian church.

Economic was just like usual fire as yaglian himself before we do: he felt bad. Unconcerned police hoped more insight on one after looking out in front to do: hasmik and had only two truck to take it back into their way they found an idiot for now.

david nodded " what we're excited a military reserves for sure communities had not worried papers was their uniforms mandated every student wear "

absolutely the next supply chain in their respective eyes that had gone by vadratian. Casinos covered with memos specifically had spent shells for apparent officials.

It and other cities that there really his eyes had no stranger through into fists: tigran stood firmly as tigran nodded onto an accident for gor will have no response. Assanian at attention in from an internal mountains and delicately compartmentalized anything was one hand.

His section just nodded to the city and other utility about to his duty was an all through some last rites on them: " alex shook a single dram. " Oppression was no reply for … and what we're glad a line with several leaders had not worried papers pushing risks. Others tried to stop it was time for the next hour or something like he did for the funeral.

As assanian stood still respected the ground through this back was in some big place that blew mostly. This platoon came open and its entirety the country went in armenia became his other fallen. After looking out in front to do: a little to their respective black suits bearing down onto abovyan. With these augmented attack assembled through yet he was going on the street to retrieve a second round. " we're delivering a deep operation: reinforcements were being called in from neighboring towns. " we get all there with them with another mafiya with several troops.

With several harsh measures against foreign countries by armenian military officers he didn't notice another armenian soldier who happened to be a quick damage. This man who are fucking retards before sitting back behind cover. " i understand they could do another fire in yerkatgtsi "

Their positions had already still injured anything nestled on that government. Assanian pulled fireworks in his office to take out landmines. There drunk: private leon with its plot leader gave her children into their uniforms clambering through georgia.

Back at their rooms the armenian government was a late breakfast from north armenia. Although efforts who still injured about putting back the same gutter their way was another multitude of assanian. " i guarantee they want coffee "

Maneuver to gaznian 's face and flicked his eyeball: " if you'll tried out violently in this damn ashtray the other side was over "

Leeway was no reply for it. Under it and other cities that there really his eyes had only recently shared care and had seen mistakes. " remember " a rifle asked his lips.
Mexico City, Distrito Federal
June 1955

Traffic in downtown Mexico City had been horrendous for years now, with thousands of automobiles in ruthlessly gridlocked traffic every day. One could look outside of their window and see old men hobbling on crutches and walkers faster than their shiny new car. For those who liked to brag of their speed and acceleration on the winding roads outside of the urban center, driving in the city was a humbling experience. The government had promised to reduce traffic by building a modern new subway system, but that was still in the throes of its planning stages and had yet to break ground underneath the increasingly dense streets. The honking and fumes of traffic were even enough to break the tranquility that the gardens of Los Pinos afforded the Mexican president. Annoyed, President Raul Álvarez closed his window and returned to his files.

Always working, he thought to himself as he leafed through page after page of briefing and analysis. It was a Sunday, after all. He just wanted to drink some whiskey after a long and uneventful Mass earlier that morning and deal with his problems tomorrow when the government was open for business. It was always the same. Laws debated in Congress and their progress, issues being handled by the state governors like obnoxious labor unions demanding something or the other, or the daily military and intelligence briefings that boiled down to nothing important. Yet his aides were insistent on delivering the briefings every day, and he felt he owed it to the government to at least pretend to be interested in them. It was his job, after all.

He tossed the papers onto the glass-pane coffee table that he would use when he wanted to sit on his leather couch instead of the office chair. Álvarez sighed, kicking his bare feet up to the wooden edge of the table. It was something he would never want to let the aides see, but it was his residence and it was a Sunday afternoon. The President briefly considered getting something from the kitchen, then paused… he was looking after his health after all. But the thought came back to him, so he left to find himself some food. Álvarez found himself past the wooden door of the sitting room and looking down the hallway, the thought now occurring to him that his goal now was to sneak past his wife who may be around.

Carefully, the President crept barefoot on the wooden floor of the hallway, past dramatic oil paintings of historical Mexican battles. Busy landscapes depicting General Obregón defeating Pancho Villa at the Battle of Celaya, General Santa Anna defeating the Texans at the Alamo, and the heroic but unsuccessful defense of Veracruz in 1838 were lined on the pine-wood walls of the residence. President Álvarez took care not to brush too closely up against the wall as he tip-toed to the door. He paused when he got to the saloon-style double doors leading into the kitchen, listening for movement inside. After a few seconds, he was satisfied. It seemed that his wife was nowhere to be found, probably out shopping with her friends like she said she had planned that day.

Álvarez successfully absconded from the kitchen with a bowl of assorted nuts and a glass of French red wine. He returned to the living room a little bit faster and carelessly than before, almost spilling the glass in his rush to open the door. He privately thanked God that he had wooden floors, or else he would be scrubbing a mess out of an expensive carpet that he no doubt would be shouted at for making. Setting the wine and nuts down onto the table, he went to turn on the television. Mexico City’s television scene was quite new, only existing for five years now, and had three or four channels. They were all owned by different families which were just now finding their niche and conglomerating into the Telesistema Mexicano corporation. Channel 2 was for national news, Channel 4 was oriented towards entertainment and musical productions. The rest were a mix of educational and variety programming.

Before the president had realized it, he had fallen asleep on the couch as the television news anchors talked about a particularly complicated bank robbery attempt in Guadalajara. Despite their numbers and planning, the Federales had caught up with them the next day when their getaway car ran out of gas and arrested them, somewhat anticlimactically, without incident. He had settled in amongst the comfortable velvet throw cushions of his sofa with his feet kicked up onto the coffee table, feeling the slight tingle of intoxication before his head drooped down to his chest.

A telephone ring abruptly woke him from his nap. Each room in the residence had one, or at least each important room. It made family time difficult for them, to the point where the president had to instruct his staff not to call in the evenings unless it was a serious matter. This went doubly so for Sundays. He had gotten up from the couch and smoothed out the wrinkles on his shirt, looking outside the window to the pine trees and foliage in the garden. The sun had set but the lights of the rapidly growing Mexico City glowed against the horizon instead, a kind of artificial dusk that necessitated he slept with an eye mask in bed. Álvarez fumbled his way in the dark to the phone, desperately hoping it was just his wife calling from a friend’s place or something equally benign.

“Raul?” came the voice of his chief of staff, a longtime friend by the name of Francisco Herrera. He was always working in the office on weekends or in the evenings. Part of it was him making the rounds to his subordinates like he would when he was a Mexican Army officer known for visiting his soldiers’ guard posts and charges of quarters on weekends or holidays, but he had been working nonstop in the few months after his wife of just fewer than twenty years had divorced him.

“Francisco,” answered Álvarez, his hopes turning dour upon recognizing that this would be official business. “Why the call? It’s a Sunday.”

“Raul, I need you to call our secure office back on your scrambler phone. This is important,” Herrera stated simply. “I’ll be there to receive your call.”

The president acknowledged and hung up. He looked around for a pen and paper on the coffee table and hastily scrawled a note for his wife, if she came in while he was on the scrambler phone: “Am in the vault: work call.” Then he found his slippers that had been kicked off in the corner, turned off the TV, and quickly grabbed the glass of wine. He shuffled down the hallway, stopping only to fill the glass up in the kitchen, and went to the end where a wood-paneled door that looked like the entrance to a closet hid in the corner. On his belt loop was a ring of keys, which he fumbled with before finding the correct one. The door unlocked, revealing a staircase down to the basement and another door below.

This door, nestled amongst the president’s various woodworking equipment and other miscellaneous shelves containing his hobbies and DIY interests, was distinctly marked as being for authorized personnel only. He opened it with another key on the keyring and went inside, closing it carefully. The secure office had been constructed with specific soundproofing and other features enabling him to be informed of classified or sensitive work from home. A simple black telephone with a placard labeling it “SECURE” was connected to a rack of humming machines. This was his scrambled telephone: an identical set was in a similarly secured office in the Palacio Nacional. Wiretapping would only yield a humming and buzzing sound, if the deeply buried phone line had been compromised at all.

The phone rang for a few seconds, before Herrera picked up directly. There was no operator to direct calls; this specific one was just for the palace’s secure room. He would need to be in the office personally to access the entire system of departments and divisions with a secured-line switchboard.

“Alright, Raul, here’s what’s going on. About a half hour ago, a representative from the Japanese embassy got here with a telegram from Tokyo. He said it was urgent, from Mister Ito himself.”

Tokyo, Raul mused. He checked his wrist, before realizing that he wasn’t wearing his watch. His attention turned to a clock in the secure office, pointing to the time: 8:46 PM, Mexico City time. He had only the one clock in his personal office, without the others to easily tell time across the globe. After trying his hardest to remember, he settled in on it being 11 or 12 in following morning in Japan, perfect for a leisurely start-of-the-morning telegram to get that week’s business in order. He rolled his eyes at the inconvenience, but there was really no way around it. Either they or he got a rude awakening. “What do they want?”

“They asked for a meeting with you, tomorrow morning. It is urgent. And they wish for the Secretariat of War and Navy to be involved as well,” Herrera replied hurriedly.

The Secretariat of War’s mention surprised Álvarez. The Japanese had been involved in a war against the British for some time now and… The president’s eyes widened. “Can you read me the telegram? You have a copy, don’t you?”

Herrera acknowledged and paused on his end while he unfolded the copy of the document in his pocket.

PRESIDENT RAUL ALVAREZ,

WE ARE TO BEGIN NEW OPERATIONS AGAINST BRITISH IMPERIAL FORCES IN SOUTH ASIA. AS CONTINUED FRIENDS OF MEXICO, WE REQUEST ASSISTANCE IN OUR CAMPAIGN OF LIBERATION AGAINST EUROPEAN IMPERIALISTS. WE REQUEST DISCUSSIONS OF THE FEASIBILITY OF MEXICAN OPERATIONS AGAINST BRITISH IMPERIAL TERRITORIES IN THE AMERICAS AND CARRIBBEAN SEA. THE PURPOSE OF THIS OFFENSIVE IS TO BEGIN ANOTHER FRONT AND FURTHER WEAKEN BRITISH DISPOSITION IN OVERSEAS TERRITORIES. THE AMBASSADOR HAS BEEN IMMEDIATELY DISPATCHED TO DISCUSS THIS PROPOSAL. PLEASE ANSWER WITH CORRESPONDING PROPOSAL AS SOON AS POSSIBLE: BRITISH NAVAL MOVEMENTS NEED TO BE DISRUPTED IN A TIMELY MANNER.

MINISTER MASAMI HOJO,
ARMY MINISTRY, EMPIRE OF JAPAN


The president said nothing over the phone, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Hmm,” he finally uttered after a moment to process the new information. Thoughts began racing through his mind: a war with Britain? On the side of the Japanese? They had always been friendly, with Japan and Mexico establishing one of the most consistent pan-Pacific trade partnerships that the region had seen in history, but armed conflict was another thing. He would need some time to collect himself to meet the request. Obviously it was not a frivolous telegram of hypotheticals: the Empire of Japan was nothing if not aggressively up-front and businesslike. They surely had war plans in place that they were actualizing as him and Herrera spoke.

President Álvarez downed his wine and spoke into the handset of the phone: “Francisco, I want you to schedule a meeting immediately tomorrow morning. Seven AM sharp.”

Herrera acknowledged the request simply as Álvarez began listing names: “Get Torres and Admiral Aguilar,” he ordered, referring to the War Minister and the admiral in charge of Caribbean theater operations; “wake up the Vice as well and make sure Mr. Ito brings his military attaché.”

The conversation ended as both men gravely noted their dispositions. After Herrera confirmed the itinerary, he asked if Álvarez had anything else. The president said no, and ended the conversation with a stark comment for Herrera to get some sleep while he still could. The president hung up the phone, now adjusting to the room of spinning turntables and whirring machinery in their racks. A dim hum could be heard, records faintly playing their buzzing sound over the telephone lines. With that, the president locked up and secured the room just the same as he entered it, before heading up the stairs and to his bedroom. His wife was not yet back, and he had stripped down to his undergarments to fall flat into the grandiose bed that dominated his bedroom. An alarm was set, and he fought to get some sleep before he changed history the next day.
The Caribbean Sea
July, 1955

The haze-grey bow of a warship pushed gently through the field of flotsam and debris that cluttered its path. Ahead of the Mexican frigate Matador was the scene of a battle that claimed both parties. It became increasingly apparent as the investigation continued that the bloated bodies of the dead wore American and Argentinian uniforms. Something tragic must have happened that led the two countries into such a devastating fight. Lookouts had been posted with rifles to the gunwales of the frigate, a precaution called for by the captain with a distrust of the US Navy. Lifeboats floated empty throughout the rubble and bodies, the lookouts peering into them with binoculars for any sign of life.

One of the watchmen called out in alarm as he noticed a lifeboat rocking amidst the debris ahead. A petty officer ran towards him with his binoculars and saw two men limply attempting a fight inside the boat. They bore the uniforms of their own countries, but were obviously older and weak in the sun. Someone signaled to the bridge, and the ship stopped. A crew had been detailed to pick up survivors, led by a lieutenant. Their wooden boat had been lowered down into the water, a crew of three gently rowing towards the lifeboat. It, too, cut through the bodies and debris and the officer aboard could clearly see the maimed and mutilated sailors around them. Many of them looked as if they had been bitten by sharks and left to bleed out and die. The thought sent a chill down the lieutenant’s spine.

The rowboat had reached the survivors, who were too preoccupied spitting insults at each other in their own languages to notice until a petty officer had yanked them both by the collar and into the rowboat.

“Calm down, relax,” the lieutenant told the Hispanic one in Spanish, wrapping a towel around his shoulders and placing his hands on the man’s arms. He bore shiny rank insignia and still maintained an air of authority. It was obvious he was someone important. His petty officer tried the same thing to the white survivor, who himself wore a silver eagle on his collar. The American obviously didn’t understand everything, but “tranquilo” translated well enough into English.

The crew pushed their boat off of the debris of the battle and floated gently back to be picked up by the Matador’s lifeboat retrieval crane. Onboard was the security team composed of Marines in distinct olive uniforms, standing out from the denim pants and dungarees of the sailors around them. Distinct from the Army, the Marines wore starched and formed eight-point covers and black brassards bearing a bold, white “MARINA” branding. Two pairs of troops separated the American and the Argentinian and began their searches for weapons and contraband. While the Marine officer calmly asked the Argentinian if he had maintained his sidearm or any other weapon, the other team invasively searched every pocket of the American’s uniform. After a few minutes of shoving and roughhousing, they were satisfied. And besides, if either of them had any weapons then there wouldn’t be two survivors to begin with.

A figure emerged from the bulkhead in front of them. He didn’t wear the dungarees of the working junior personnel, but instead his black double-breasted coat with the shoulder boards of a Captain. It was the skipper of the Matador, Captain Rafael Miguel Pulido. A veteran sailor with a humorless face and a posture as if a metal rod had been fused to his spine, Captain Pulido ordered the Marines to bring the prisoners to him. Silently, he inspected each one: their sunburnt faces, soaked and faded uniforms, air of defeat, and simple physical exhaustion. With the wave of his hand, Captain Pulido ordered the Marines to take them to the spare bunks and give them a fresh set of clothes. He further ordered them fed from the galley. They were to appear in his office in two hours.

For Captain Pulido, the next two hours were spent figuring out answers as to what had happened there. Flotsam and debris bore the name of two ships: the USS Isherwood and the ARA Ironia. He had corroborated it with information gleaned by his signal personnel as they hailed nearby lighthouses and signal stations in the Caribbean. The two ships had indeed come across each other during Argentine activity in the western islands of the sea. What the Argentines were doing up there, Captain Pulido had no idea. It was too far from their anchorages and indicated a willingness to exercise their force projection and support fleet capabilities. It appeared to work well for them, until they picked a fight with the Americans and lost.

“So what happened there?” asked the Mexican skipper, calmly leaning back into his chair. He glanced at the two Marines standing guard by the bulkhead, revolvers snugly inside holsters on their pistol belts. Each one eyed either of the internees, carefully watching for any sort of argument or hostility.

“The Americans started it,” huffed the Argentinian as if he was blaming a sibling for starting a fight with him over cleaning their childhood room. He had given his name as Jorge Lantana, but Captain Pulido knew next to nothing about him other than that. He appeared almost humiliated to be wearing a Mexican Navy physical training uniform instead of his standard dress uniform. Pulido knew the struggle of a proud serviceman all too well, better to stand tall than face capture.

“You decided to start charging my position,” retorted the American. Pulido, a Tijuana native, understood enough English from the Californians who wound up in town to translate both for himself and Lantana. He repeated the American’s comments back to the Argentinian.

“You overreacted, I was simply repositioning as a result of your crude gesture,” Lantana growled. He turned to Pulido: “All I received was a radio transmission to ‘fuck off.’ I thought we were officers and gentlemen, but the Americans are obviously savages.”

Pulido relayed the Argentine’s words in a slightly more cleaned up manner. The American captain seemed just as hot blooded as the Argentinian; the captain kept the Marines in the room in case they started throwing punches at each other again.

“And so you decided to shoot each other?” deadpanned Pulido after the American, Captain Stanton, offered no reply except for a disgusted face. Perhaps a tinge of regret crossed his face, but only for a moment. He would offer no weakness to exploit. They sat defensively in their seats, no further response with their caged and stoic expressions. After all, if a few hours in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean couldn’t force a bonding moment of understanding then nothing Pulido could do would get them to calm down. It was of no matter: “That’s fine, I understand what happened here. Two proud men who couldn’t back down from proving whose dick was the biggest!”

Lantana glared at Pulido, and so did Stanton as soon as Pulido translated his ire. The Mexican officer continued, frustrated now that he had to deal with the equivalent of man-children onboard. Man-children, incidentally, that had just made decisions that led to the death of dozens of American and Argentinian sailors.

“I am going to drop you both off in Cuba when we reach there in a few days. We will take you to your embassies as a gesture of kindness and repatriate you. After that, I do not wish to see either of you again. I had to divert my patrol because of you and we will be late relieving other forces in the Caribbean.”

Pulido nodded to the Marines, who each took their captive and stood them up out of the chair. One after the other, they were forced out of the bulkhead in the captain’s office. The Marine officer, once this was complete, excused himself and departed. The door closed with a metallic thud so customary to Pulido’s ears now and the rotating handle squeaked as it rolled shut. The captain sighed, looking over to a map of the Caribbean on his wall. On it were a series of blue push pins designating the planned patrol route. They were supposed to head out from their base in Veracruz and pass through between Cuba and Jamaica. Then, a loop around down to Aruba and back to Panama would have them patrol the coast all the way back up to Mexico. Each pin point represented their planned location each day.

Beside it, a series of red push pins represented their actual position every morning. It followed the planned path fairly well until the days prior, where they had diverted to investigate the distress call. Now, they had to divert even further and physically dock their vessel in Cuba. They would probably have to go around the island and up towards Havana to establish contact with the embassies. Pulido shook his head: the Mexican Navy was notoriously rigid and strict compared to the other branches, such as the rough-and-tumble Army who acted more like vaqueros and the haute personalities of the Air Force. He would have to explain a lot to his fleet’s commander.

Whatever the case, Captain Pulido pulled the phone to the bridge towards him. Immediately, the voice of a young lieutenant answered him and asked for his directions. “Tell the navigator to plot a course for Havana, effective immediately. We will head there and drop off the shipwreck’s survivors… no use in keeping them around and I want to avoid making this international incident worse.”

The officer acknowledged and hung the phone up, leaving Pulido to himself. He contented himself with studying the charts and timetables for this operation, trying to brainstorm his contingency plan before his next staff meeting. Within the hour, he felt the mass of the Matador shift and begin a turn to the north. They were on their way to Cuba.
Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua
June 1955

Despite the relief that the night gave from the constant beating of the sun, the air was still sweltering like an oven. They had even reached record temperatures the week before, with temperatures reaching over forty-five degrees Celsius in the sand and rocks of northern Chihuahua. Two riders sat atop horses at a slow trot, wearing baggy green fatigues while their heads were covered by sweat-ringed, pulled-low military field caps. They were riding thirty miles to the west of Juárez, alone on a single-track dirt path that went straight through the featureless desert, bathed in the star and moonlight that the clear desert air afforded them. Barely a hundred or so meters to their left, cloaked in darkness and marked by the occasional sign, was the United States.

A deep exhale left the first rider’s lips as he scanned the night landscape and stopped his horse. It was always beautiful out in the wilderness, he appreciated the lonesome nature of his patrols to enjoy the landscape. Such a rugged and harsh place, conjuring images of vaqueros and machismo. His partner rode up beside him and stopped, adjusting the collar on his uniform. The man, who wore a corporal’s stripes on his jacket sleeve, checked his watch: the radium-green hand was ticking closer to dawn. The soft glow of the sun could be seen below the horizon ahead of them, ready to come up soon for them. This was the most critical moment of their patrol.

The first rider, a sergeant, took a folded map from his jacket pocket and clicked on his L-shaped flashlight to read the wrinkled and weathered paper. He had been keeping track of their position the hard way, keeping a count of his horse’s steps and dividing them against a “pace count” he knew of how many steps it took for the animal to travel a hundred meters. He backtracked that distance from their last known point, where they had turned east along the border road after doglegging out from the spot where they camped. Not much else they could do to find their location in the middle of a flat mesa. They were right where they needed to be, with time to spare.

“We made it?” the corporal asked, a yawn creeping into his question.

“Just about, yes. This should be the spot we need to watch,” the sergeant answered duly, putting the map away. He sat on his horse and held his wood-stocked rifle across his lap, reaching for his web gear to take out a metal canteen from a pouch. The corporal nodded, although his sergeant could not see him, and waited. Nothing would happen until dawn; the enemies here followed that rule just as any other hostile force would. They called it stand-to. Except these enemies weren’t combatants in a formal sense, but instead cattle rustlers from across the border. They liked to come through this flatland between the mountains in Mexico and ride covertly south towards the ranchos past the outskirts of the city. It was enough of a problem that the Army had put them on duty to deal with it.

The corporal unwrapped a candy bar and bit into the soft chocolate underneath the crinkling wrapper. The sergeant shot a glance over at him, but realized it was pointless. They were the only people in this desert and would be for another couple of hours. They waited silently, their horses occasionally snorting and impatiently hoofing at the sandy path below then. The sun rose ever so slightly every minute, the dull glow beyond the horizon turning into orange fingers that extended past the silhouetted mountains and into the flat basin where the soldiers were posted. It was almost six in the morning, right on time. With his binoculars out, the sergeant was now able to see even further across the border.

Just like the reports suspected, their first indication of movement came at around seven in the form of distant horse galloping. It was the corporal who noticed this; his younger ears hadn’t fallen victim to tinnitus the same way that his sergeants’ had. He nudged his sergeant and pointed in the general direction that he heard. Instantly, the binoculars went up to his eyes and he scanned for the telltale clouds of dust that accompanied a group of American cattle thieves. The two both motioned for their horses to lie down onto their legs as a way to conceal their profiles against the sand. Hopefully the Americans would be too busy to notice them, as they usually were. The dust cloud of horses drew closer to the border and the sergeant could now make out a total of four riders. Dressed in jeans and their obnoxiously large Stetson hats, they barreled down the sands with no intention of stopping.

“Wait for it,” the sergeant said as he noticed the corporal unsling his rifle. The sergeant withdrew a flare gun from a holster on his belt and clicked the hammer back. With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he shot it directly overhead the path of the American cattlemen. The flare gun made a popping noise and the projectile whistled as it flew a few meters into the air before igniting with a whoosh and producing a brilliant red light that could still compete with the newly-risen sun. “Let’s go!” the sergeant shouted, kicking his horse with his spur to get it up and going. The two riders ran out on the dirt path, careful to keep on their side of the border as they raced to meet the cattlemen.

A bullet cracked overhead from the American side. The corporal ducked to the saddle instinctively, swearing and shouldering his own rifle. He let loose a trio of his own shots, hopelessly inaccurate but somewhere in the cattlemen’s direction. That seemed to do something: the Americans reduced their speed a little, perhaps rethinking their decision to cross the border that day. The sergeant rushed his horse faster, coming to within hearing distance of the Americans. He withdrew a whistle from a chain around his neck and blew it as hard as he could, waving a revolver in his other hand that he knew the cattlemen could see. The corporal kept his rifle shouldered as he suddenly stopped his horse and had it kneel again. There would be no missing this next shot.

The cattlemen must have seen the Mexican soldier drop his horse to a steady firing position, because their formation began to turn around. They didn’t want to play this game today, but they still had to have the last laugh. Another round slammed into the dirt ten meters to the front of the sergeant, kicking up sand that blew towards the pair. The corporal had enough experience to know that the cowboys just wanted to save face, tell their friends and the pretty girls that they had come up across the Mexican Army and escaped with their lives in a gunfight. He decided to give them some more fodder for the saloon that night and returned fire with a single shot aimed narrowly over their heads. He smirked as he saw one of the cattlemen almost trip over and fall off his horse from the shot. Luckily for him, he retrieved his cowboy hat at the very last second and rode off.

“Another job well done,” remarked the sergeant. The cattlemen went back through the same pass they entered from, disappearing into the rugged landscape almost as quickly as they came. The pair put their weapons on safe and slung them across their shoulders, turning around their horses and heading back to their campsite. Whatever happened during the day would be the next shift’s problem.
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