1950, 19 December 2020, Northern Libya

Over the Libyan deserts, a single, lonely military Chinook transport flew over sand and death, the UN flag painted on its side. The steady beating of its rotorblades was loud, but oddly soothing to some of the occupants within, consisting of about 20 individuals - Mostly soldiers, but some were clearly civilians. From an airport in southern Libya and bound for an undisclosed UN base on the coast of the country, the Chinook ride was several hours long, and some of the passengers had either fallen asleep or nodding off.

In one corner, several well-to-do Chinese nationals, scientists from the looks of it based on their clean and learnt-looking bearings, were having a lively discussion. If one were to listen closely with an advance understanding of the language, one would find out that they were having an intellectual debate on the likelihood and nature of alien contact, as well as other hot topics in theoretical xenobiology. In another corner, a pair of Singaporean soldiers, one male and one female, both without rank patches on their chest and looked like they had just left high school, were having a friendly conversation in their own country version of English, talking about missing Durians and other kinds of local cuisines. They looked extremely close, and shared some resemblence. Their nametags gave them away. Both were surnamed Chew. Some were neither sleeping nor chatting. Those were the loners; single representatives of their respective countries. In another corner (delineated along socio-political lines rather than the boxy boundaries of the passenger compartment) was a stoic Gurkha from Nepal, and in another was a Libyan soldier serving the UN in his own country, lost in his own thoughts. An Indian soldier was having a staring contest with his Pakistani and Bangladeshi counterparts.

The UNXIPU, or the United Nations Extraterrestrial Investigation and Policing Unit, had just started up to the mockery and chagrin of the world, and it was only with superior media coverage that the world was distracted enough not to throw stones or rotten eggs at the movement. Most, if not everyone, from professional political analysts down to the layperson and even some members of UNXIPU, expected the organisation/mission/what-have-you to fall apart in the matter of months. Even the Chinese scientists in the Chinooks had gotten around to that topic before - joking that UNXIPU was a holiday getaway, someplace to have some fun discussing about alien life and contact scenarios. Increase in UFO activity or not - that was how it was. Most experts would put the increased reports down to how the world is increasingly becoming interconnected, allowing trends and memes to spike unimpeded, causing mass hysteria on an unprecedented scale that was only fortunate not to be destructive. There were numerous explanations. It didn't have to be mass hysteria. Some of the more positive detractors had it down to an increased population with increasing literacy rates and the resultant eyes on the sky. With the proliferation of communication networks thrown into the mix, the result was increased UFO activities.

"This is the pilot speaking. Approaching Uniform November Bravo. ETA 10 minutes." A voice that sounded British spoke calmly into the headphones worn by the passengers. "Hang on tightly to your bladders, sirs and maams." The voice finished with a twist ending that was quite a departure from how the service announcement began.

For what must have been the hundredth time, the young man reread his warning orders, praying he might find some vital detail he had heretofore missed, ideally one that would hint towards what his new job actually was. Unlike some, he had not chosen to be transferred, not volunteered for this... UNXIPU or whatever the hell it was. If he had had it his way, the man would never have left Chinese soil, never even left Hainan Island and yet here he was, surrounded by foreigners (including many of those dirty Americans that had plagued his district so badly) in a foreign helicopter, flying over a dusty, boring, foreign land... For all the recent hype about UFOs, he felt more alienated by present company than the spectre of little green men. At least there were a few proper Han on board, even if they were mostly lab rats nattering away about exoplanetary objects and the Fermi Paradox; all of which went well above his head of course. Jiang Shaozu was a simple policeman, albeit a paramilitary-trained policeman; science was not his thing and the enthusiasm displayed by the scientists was a bit off-putting. He tried to ignore them, roving his bored gaze around the cabin to size up the other occupants. Most were military, which was funny considering this was all just some UFO nut's wet dream and by no means a serious venture and a lot were Caucasian; Americans, by their uniforms... Shaozu made no attempt to hide his contempt for them, representatives of the last gasp of Western imperialism, relics of a bygone age. Although he himself never realised it, Shaozu was in fact extremely racist, a products of his heavily indoctrinated upbringing. Red flags and the ever-watching gaze of the Great Chairman had been an omnipresent fixture of his life and the roots of his prejudice ran deep. It probably didn't help that the USA had done everything in its power to halt China's rise during his childhood...

However this bigotry was not universal and there were some nationalities that Shaozu had learned to respect. That Indian for example; the Indian Army was one of the only military forces left on Earth powerful enough to give China pause and the People's Armed Police, Shaozu's parent force, had drilled extensively with their Indian counterparts. From national rivalry had come inter-service friendships and more. The only foreigner he had more respect for on this chopper was the Ghurka. If there was any military axiom that was nigh on universal, it was this; Never fuck with a Ghurka. His gaze lingered on the man's belt where hung the iconic khukri, wondering if the silent Nepali might be open to a chat. In typical fashion, the moment he opened his mouth to speak, the intercom spluttered to life. British... another nation of failed imperialists. While his disdain for America was due their national blundering and pigheadedness, Britain wasn't even worth that. Like many of his countrymen, Shaozu looked down on them as impotent fossils, relics of an even older and more barbaric age of imperialism. Come to think of it, if he hadn't been forced to learn basic English by his superiors, then he would never have qualified for this transfer. He wouldn't have had to endure this... indignity. Ah well... he thought glumly as the chopper approached its destination. At least I get good pay. They had better have proper dim sum... The urge to spark up a cigarette and clear the stench was overwhelming...

Carrie startled awake, thrust from pleasant dreams into reality, the cargo area of a dusty old transport helicopter. Neither the British pilot's notification, nor the grinding guitar riff from her earbuds that forbade her from hearing him had woken her, but as the helicopter began its descent, it hit an updraft that rocked the chopper with turbulence. Far from being uncommon in aviation, and this not being her first time aboard such an aircraft, the trembling steel did little more than annoy her as she stretched her arms over her head and looked out the window. Sand, lots of it, and not much else. The helicopter broke through a cloud, and the seemingly unending golden ocean, barren and lifeless, stretched to the horizon before her. It didn't look too far from Iraq, so as much as Campbell already hated her new home, at least she was used to it, having endured Mosul and Kirkuk's scorching weather not long before.

Campbell wondered what her friends were doing, and even though it'd been less than seventy-two hours since she'd seen them, she felt like an orphan, stripped from her family. Squeak, Hill, Miller, Willis, she even caught herself wondering about Sergeant V. Looking at her watch, already adjusted to local time, and doing a bit of math, she realized that it was nine o'clock on a Saturday morning back in San Diego, and that practically everyone in her unit would be practicing weekend rituals, either nursing a hangover or still face down on the floor.

"Bastards", she whispered to no one, envious. It was only once she'd began reminiscing about her unit that she realize she was no longer a member of it, and her attention was quickly turned to the other bodies sardined into the Chinook, to whom she had paid almost no attention to before this point. She didn't have to look before she knew she hated most of, it not all of them. Her ticket on this chopper was bought by the good-idea fairy, and if she'd had any choice in the matter she'd be dry-heaving into a toilet. Quickly surveying the lot, her suspicions were confirmed; she hated them. A bunch of saps from shithole countries, wasting the U.N.'s money on a goose-chase for aliens, she scowled remembering the artificial smile she forced when her commander informed her of her assignment.

The buzzing guitar faded away, replaced by a gentle violin with a backing dobro, and she couldn't help but tap her brown combat boot as she went over the group once more, slowly and overtly. Thankfully she wasn't the only American, quickly identifying a U.S. Airman and Soldier, though both sported stubbled faces, an oversight of discipline that would have never been an issue had they been Marines. The rest were foreign, a handful of Chinese civilians bickering away in one corner, an assortment of dark-skinned men in military uniforms she didn't recognize and two other Asians, soldiers that had the appearance and bearing of siblings. An older man with curiously unkempt hair sat with his back to her, sporting a Union Jack on his uniform. And then her eyes caught those of the Asian man sitting across from her. He wore a flashy dress uniform that displayed the flag of China, and had, much like her, been in the process of scrutinizing everyone else. She returned his gaze with a glare of her own for what could be considered a disrespectful time before turning back to the window, the sand growing closer, darkening with the fading sunlight.

Damn, how much longer was this flight supposed to be? At this point, Dean was getting antsy, eyes shifting around to the other passengers, but never lingering long enough for them to take notice. He inevitably found himself in the middle of the chopper, a fate which could have been remedied if only he had arrived earlier. Instead of a cushy corner position, Dean had people on both sides; people he didn’t know, and individuals that he held no care to speak to at the moment. Luckily, every other loner on the ride seemed to want to keep to themselves, a sentiment the Japanese native was happy to hold.

Instead, his fingers fiddled upon the hilt of a blade that had seen action for around ten years. Yes, this sword had been there for Dean when he needed it most, and he relied on it like an old man would rely on a cane. Unfortunately, this was now happening in a literal sense, as the boy found himself undermining the importance of the weapon by leaning on it like some two-bit stick. A rather unprofessional move considering the company he was in. Although in the end, it’d be hard getting some of these people to hate you more than they despised the Americans, a hatred that was mutual considering all the shit that went down in Michigan. Dean could still feel the cold lifeless air of Summerlin, and it only served to send chills down his spine.

It was still hard to believe that various representatives from around the world would be able to put aside their differences to work on UFO watching of all things. The idea was laughable at best and was sure to end in disaster, but the Sci-Fi nerd in him wanted to believe that there was a possibility for extraterrestrial contact, especially with the increased UFO sightings the world over. It didn’t help that Captain Hitam had urged Dean to take the position; otherwise he might be relaxing in a hotel somewhere while the unit waited for another job. An increase in pay won the day though, and now Dean found himself in the middle of a helicopter, surrounded by strangers.

He had been wired awake the entire trip. David looked as though he had just been hit by several trucks at the same time. Going straight from one mission to a helicopter ride can do that to you. At first it bothered him how he would go from being on an OP 13 hours ago to his next station. But after being with the ADTR for a while you get use to it. David hated being surrounded by this many people that he didn't know. When he shipped over to ADTR it was a small team, but he met them all at the Nest.

He looked at the man who was with the U.S Airforce. He wanted to chuckle but he knew the air force had pulled his ass out of the shit a few times before. He figured he could get along with him. He then observed the Chinese Scientists, and sighed. Why couldn't he be shipped there by the ADTR. He hated having to share the Chinook with everyone else. He spotted the Marine and noted the uniform. Marines were always squared away. Josh always had his boots shined and uniform ironed, even if it was just a day spent around the barracks. He did not follow the line of insulting the Marines his fellow brothers in the Army did. He had high respect for Marines, having fought beside them several times.

As they said they were 10 minutes out he got up from his seat. Revealing he was just wearing his Trousers, a Under Armour sleeveless T-Shirt and his boots. He had his Rifle slung across his chest, and the safety was off. He never believed in having a safety on his gun. The extra millisecond mattered in a fire fight, and he was always ready for a fight. He grabbed his gear that he had packed into a Sea Bag he got from Josh for the trip. He wondered why Josh gave it to him at first. He then realized it smelled like cat piss. He didn't mind though, he just wrapped all his gear in plastic wrap. He walked down the Chinook towards the ramp. He stopped at the Marine and looked at her. "Marine, you got dust on your boots." He said with a smirk and continued on. He knew Marines prided themselves on how clean their gear was. He approached the ramp and stood there waiting to get off. He was always the first off on his missions. He took it as a responsibility to make sure it was safe for his Team Leader to disembark.

Eric Ruven was sitting across from the female marine, although he had made no attempt to bond with her, or anyone on the flight. Chinooks were loud, and it would make for a yelling match across the chassis of the helicopter. Instead, he put on his hoodie, the only non-military piece of clothing he had, put the hood up, stuffed his blouse into his Kevlar helmet, and went straight to sleep. Being in the Air Force, and used for a lot of Search and Rescue missions, Ruven was accustomed to the hum and drum of helicopters, and found no difficulty into falling asleep, for the entire ride.

It wasn’t until the pilot chimed into his ear that they were approaching the landing site that he woke up. He groggily blinked a few times, and reached down, un-blousing his boots. They were down range now, and he was already disregarding several military rules that only served to make deployed life more difficult. He took off the hoodie, and stuffed it into his duffle bag, and put his blouse back on, with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps, exposing his tattoo. He tied the Shemagh around his neck, so he could quickly pull it up over his mouth, and grabbed his ballistic goggles, and put them on, just on his forehead.

Now that he was awake and ready, he took a moment to appraise each person on board. The Chinese scientists were just here for the Alien bullshit, something he really didn’t think he believed yet. The actual soldiers had hate in their eyes, a product of their new world leader position and decades of indoctrination and imperialism. “Yeah? Well fuck you too”, Ruven thought to himself. The Ghurka looked professional, the Libyan looked lost, and indian and his two “friends” in the staring contest looked likely to kill each other as soon as they were left alone.

He continued appraising the American Soldier. Seemed cocky with little reason for it, at least, no reason that he could see yet. The Female marine looked a little too hooyah for him. But he figured she’d loosen up on some regulations once she spent enough time down range, most people did eventually. He looked at the Japanese soldier, who brought a sword to a gun fight. And if aliens were involved, probably was going to be a high tech gunfight. Ruven rolled his eyes, not caring if it was noticed. He knew the training and missions he had been on would allow him to hold his own with any of these people, and as far as he could see, he was the only medic. So god help them if they pissed him off, and got a leg blown off.

When the helicopter did touch down, Eric grabbed the Shemagh, and pulled it up over his nose, and his goggles down over his eyes. He picked up his duffle bag, and slung it on his back, and grabbed his rifle, slinging it as well. He clipped on his pistol, and with his medical bags in his right hand, and helmet in his left, he disembarked the helicopter, into the whirling sandstorm. As he passed the U.S. Soldier, he shook his head, in disbelief, seeing his safety off. The chinook engines were too loud to say something to him now, but Ruven was definitely going to say something to him later, when he had a moment.

1958, 19 December 2020, UNXIPU Base

As the Chinook was hovering over the air and descending, the scale of the base was visible and obvious; it was nothing special, with several quickly built airstrip and hangers. There were no huge number of buildings at all, only one - something that looks like a huge wareouse surrounded by chainlink fences, guard towers and sandbags. The transport finally landed on a helipad, equally hastily built, as if it was not the priority at all, its passengers disgorged. "The Charlie has landed. Please keep your head down as you're exiting the vehicle. Thank you for flying UN Airlines." The same British voice joked once again.

As if unable to wait any longer, the occupants were exiting the passenger compartment of the Chinook quite hurriedly, in contrast to the relax manner a few guards from the main building of the UNXIPU camp were approaching, which was oozing boredom. The crowd formed a rough circle away from the helipad as the Chinook that carried them to the middle of nowhere in Libya, several kilometres from the coast took off once again to ferry some other people, or supplies. A transport plane, designed by the Chinese from the looks of it, was taking off in the distance. Its payload was obvious just off the airstrip. People were buzzing around the cargo like ants on the job. The place was new after all.

Out in the open, under the glow of some bright lights in the middle of the sea of darkness surrounding everyone, the passengers were clearly visible. The Singaporean siblings resembled each other immensely. As it turns out, they were twins, and had they not been born different sexes, they would have been indistinguishable from one another. The duffel bags they were carrying read '1ADF', standing for the 1st Advance Development Force, a unit well known for its use and testing of the latest, cutting edge equipment. They wore the red cross on their forearms, which labeled them as medics. The Pakistani, standing on the opposite end of the crowd from his Indian and Bangladeshi counterparts, wore the badge of the lightning and bayonet - the symbol of Pakistan's own elite forces, the Special Services Group. The Indian soldier was no less spectacular, hailing from the 9 Para Commandos while Bangladesh followed suit by sending in a member of her elite SWDS - Special Warfare Diving and Salvage. The Ghurka however, needed no such distinction, even if he was from a Rifles formation, not that he was concerned at all about politics.

Then there were the other passengers. A Japanese Sergeant from the Central Readiness Force stood almost as stoic as the Ghurka, brandishing a sword on his hip, which signals a new age in Japan's new foreign policy. Japan had recently reworded its constitution, allowing their armed forces to operate in any capacity, be it on foreign soil or domestic. While naysayers feared the worst, Japanese defence representatives did say that it was all in the name of defence. Reflecting this, the JSDF (Japanese Self-Defence Force) was renamed the JAF, or the Japanese Armed Forces. A flame-haired Scottish woman stood beside him, representing the 3rd Highlander Rifles, a military unit from the newly independent Scotland, which became a sovereign country after the UK finally allowed it to leave. It seemed that the group consists of some of the best in the world, and all of them seem to be shrinking away from the Americans in their midst, as if regarding them as pests.

The United States had been shrinking in stature, after all, as if an aging man losing his calcium and muscles. With the value of the US dollar shrinking for the past few decades, unemployment rising and GDP falling, the proud country had since pulled out from every war on the planet, not that it was very involved anymore on grounds outside of its own. With her military being downsized and budget reduced, most of her foreign bases were shut down. Japan was particularly ecstatic about it, and China, secretly gloating at the reduced presence. The United States did not have the same political power as it used to have, which resulted in a backlash on its image. The world seemed to be giving up the Eagle for dead. The only countries that seemed to still care were the ASEAN countries, as well as some isolated states in Africa. Most of the relief efforts came from them, along with the rest that was reluctantly given by the rising Dragon that was China. As if to make matters worse, China had been observed to be starving the United States out slowly by withdrawing economic ties bit by bit. While the former had become independent of the latter fiscally, the latter was reliant on the former for its industry and exports.

Even the Chinese scientists looked like they came from some world-reknown organisation, though by now every government-owned research firm in China had become world-reknown.

"Welcome to U-N-Xi-Pu, folks, wackiest UN organisation to date." One of the guards greeted the crowd. The caucasian looked dreadfully bored with his eyebags and sagging cheeks. If one were to look closely at his uniform, one could tell that he was drafted from the LAPD of the United States. In fact, he looked like he had been plucked off the beat in LA and left in the middle of the Libyan desert. The only alteration to his bearing was his Peaked Cap, which was the light blue of the UN with the globe and laurel badge in the middle. As if mocking him, UNXIPU was just below the logo. "If you'd follow me, people..." He droned.

Carrie removed her earbuds, cutting off the opening lines of James McMurty's "Choctaw Bingo" before scoffing at Sergeant Korus' passing remark.

"Thanks, soldier. I'll make sure to "dust 'em off" as soon as you shave and put on a fucking top", she muttered under her breath and the droning of the helicopter. She'd been hemmed up before for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, and without the knowledge of David's rank, she figured it'd be best to pretend she hadn't heard him. The cuts to the defense budget were hurting her bank account enough, she didn't need half-pay from a NJP to top it off. Patiently waiting for the few passengers closer to the ramp to exit, she stood at her turn and made her way off of the chopper, donning her eight pointed utility cover.

Darkness had fallen across the desert, and the impromptu LZ was lit only by the Chinook's landing beacons, and a few sporadically placed industrial lights. The warehouse stood before her, though past the lights she couldn't tell if it was brand new, or some shanty repossessed for this effort. The few sentries posted on the perimeter were lackadaisical, leaning against sandbags and joking with each other rather than truly standing guard. And for good reason, they were in the middle of nowhere, and, to her knowledge, far from any combat zones. Of course, of all the places to get sent, she ended up in a hole like this. Her back was pelted with sand and pebbles as the helicopter took off, rotor-wash sweeping over her and the rest of the group. The bird's rotors quickly quieting from a roar, to a steady thumping, to silence, her jitters and uneasiness reminded her that she didn't even know how long it'd been since she had a cigarette.

Fishing a soft pack of Camels and a white Bic lighter from one of her cammies' many cargo pockets, she wasted no time sparking up and savoring that first drag before anyone had a chance to tell her she was standing in a no-smoking area. She took a moment to reassess the other members of the group as the policeman approached and began to speak, and though she recognized the insignia of a few elite units, others remained a mystery, and she remained unimpressed with the assembly. Having made several trips from San Diego to Los Angeles, she quickly recognized the guard's uniform and exhaled through her nostrils in response to his jaded attempts at humor. Cigarette protruding from her face, she stuck to the back of the crowd as they filed through the chain-link fence towards what she assumed was to be their new home.

"I'll be damned if I have to wear that stupid fucking hat", a grumbling Campbell quietly protested, harshly inhaling through her cigarette.

At the sight of the well awaited decent, it was only natural for Dean to become both excited and nervous. While optimistic at the events that would unfold, the young man was clueless on what his duty would be on base, as little to no briefing was given before the long flight across golden sands. He had assumed that the personnel would be lax and carefree, much like the pilot had been. After stepping off the helicopter with sword at waist and belongings in tow, suspicions were confirmed at the guard’s airy greetings. Although he was friendly, Dean’s experience with cops hasn’t been a very pleasant one. He’d make sure to keep an eye on the Los Angeles policeman, but it was rather unlikely for relations to go sour like they had back in Summerlin. Interested in seeing the base and what exactly would go on within it, Dean followed the group, making sure to stay near the rear out of personal preference.

As the Chinook landed, and the rear ramp lowered, He got off. He looked at the area and sighed. He hated the middle east, and africa. He really hated any place that was like a desert and full of sand. He didn't even like the beach, reminded him of areas like this. He watched as the people disembarked, most of them having their nation's patch on their shirts and jackets. He looked at his right arm, where he had a tattoo of a skull in a shield on it. It was the symbol of the ADTR. The unit never gave out patches. They instead branded the skin of their members. It was meant to be a permanent reminder of who you belonged to.

He shook that off though and looked at the LA Police officer. He wanted to laugh as he saw him. "This is great. Were suppose to have the most elite warriors on the planet. And we settle for a meter maid." He thought to himself. He thought about making a smart ass remark. But decided against it. He just listened to the officer and followed when he asked to. He would get a comment in at a later point. He was rather upset that the Marine didn't respond to his comment. Was she just a POG? Normally, if he said that, a Marine would kick his ass for insulting the upkeep of their uniform. He shrugged it off though, there were more important things going on.

Once the helicopter blades stopped their downward wash, Ruven reached into his calf pocket, and produced his Beret. He pulled off the goggles and Shemagh and placed them in the pocket the beret came from, while placing it on his head. He was damn well going to show the cloth he was cut from. He noticed however that the group was distancing themselves from the Americans among them, and quickly realized making friends was going to be difficult.

He meandered toward the female marine as the guard approached, intent on at least bonding with someone who could watch his back, while distancing himself from the other American. The same American was making a show of being the cocky western cowboy the world thought them to be. Ruven had noticed the look of disdain the marine had when the Soldier had said whatever to her. He made a joke, just loud enough for her to hear. "You know what they say. Army special ops are the best of the worst." he said, with a smug grin.

Ruven appraised the guard as he led them away, looked soft. A troublemaker of some sort to end up here. But LAPD didn't have a lot of scrubs, from what he understood, and with USA declining, most cities were becoming Gangland, USA. Ruven figured the man was worth a lot more than initial appearances gave. As the group made it's way forward, most choosing to remain at the back, Ruven made his way to the front, and wondering if they were going to get choices of beds, and hoped he got a bunk close to the chow hall.

David overheard Ruven's remarks. He laughed on the inside about it. If he only knew what the hell he did. He hated the Air Force in general, Mainly because of the fact they always denied support for ADTR missions. That on fighter bomber could have saved lives, but they were stuck up bastards. He noticed he was a Pararescue. They were alright part of the Air Force.

As Ruven made his way up to the front of the group, David slowed down to line right up with his side. "So you think I am the worst huh?" He said with a smile. Even though it was an insult he had dealt with this crap before. When he first joined the ADTR he got hazed a lot by all branches that were there. But he had earned his place among the brotherhood. He wasn't affected by this man's comments though. He was ignorant, and David envied him for it. "I ain't in the Army bro. I am in a Different branch now." ADTR was just a rumor among the military at this point. The rumor was that it was run by a Marine General by the name of Anderson. He was in charge of a few teams of Force Recon Marines around the world. He wasn't on anyones radar at that point. He was the perfect general to have disappear. "And I thought the Air Force didn't like to be up past 9" he said with a smirk on his face. He always enjoyed going back and forth with insults to other branches.

The cigarette couldn't last long enough. She desperately puffed on it as if it contained the last oxygen on the planet.

The looks of disdain from many of the foreigners were evident, and though she did her best to match it with her own, it couldn't be said that it wasn't deserved. She truly believed that, though the United States had undeniably been in a decline in the recent years, it still remained one of, it not the, world's greatest military forces, if not for the sheer heart of its fighters. The two other uniformed Americans were talking to her now, and she half-listened to either.

She forced a small curl of a smile at the Airman's joke, not necessarily because it was funny, but because he had felt the need to make it to her. In truth, beyond the typical accusations of weakness, and routine shit-talking, she had no true malice in her heart for any of the other branches. They were all on the same side, after all, and not everyone was cut out to be a Marine. She didn't respond to his joke beyond the smirk and a nod, before the soldier began speaking too. As soon as he opened his mouth, she knew she should have said something to him back on the helicopter, because by the way he spoke it was clear he was no one who could hammer her for telling him to fuck off.

She continued following the drafted Police Officer, passing between two guard towers and approaching what appeared to be the compound's main door. Her cigarette hadn't lasted long enough, and before she knew it was she down to the filter. Flicking the butt onto the ground, she hoped that neither would speak directly to her and force her to respond. The last thing she wanted to do was to talk to anyone, and as she felt herself growing more and more agitated, she was anxious to be assigned a bunk and be alone for a time.

Ruven stopped walking and looked David up and down. He thought he had made the comment quiet and far away enough to avoid confrontation, but now it was too late. "Who are you? You don't have any name tapes. You're not in a uniform." he asked. Ruven pointed at the Marine. "You know what I see, when I see her? Pedigree." He pointed at the Ghurka. "Pedigree." He continued this pointing at every single soldier here. "Pedigree. Pedigree. Pedigree." Ruven pointed at this beret. "Pedigree" Then he pointed at David. "If you're not in the Army, I don't know where you're from. Judging from your lack of sleeves, and the fact you can't figure out how a safety works on a weapon, you look like you got lost of the way to the gym." Ruven continued "I've worked with Force Recon, Berets, Seals, and the Rangers when they're allowed to run with the big dogs, and I've never heard of whatever unit you're from."

Ruven stared at him for a second, and cutting off anything the man was going to try and say, if he replied. "Don't get me wrong, we all got big shoes to fill. But at least everyone has expectations of how big those shoes are when they see each other. You, however? You sure talk the talk, but you ain't walking the walk yet. Maybe we didn't bring any shoes for you to step into."

As soon as he finished his dressing down, Ruven turned and kept walking with the group. He made no attempt to disguise what was going on, or to lower his volume, nor did he yell the entire time. He was going to separate himself from David if it meant gaining the trust of the rest of the unit.

Sleep, sleep, sleep.

Nigh on seven hundred and thirty days inside of a supermax in Wakefield, spending twenty-three of the day's hours inside a damnably tiny cage should have yielded some sort of sleep. If anything, it had produced a sleep debt; Captain Bishop had been a buuusy boy - oh yes, he had - what with the escapes, the riots, and one fine English morning (shortly after tea, shortly before Jammie Dodgers) coming to within a hair's breadth of beheading Warden Janwari. To Jon's chagrin, HM Prison Wakefield's just-so-close-to-astute armed security retainers had battered the door to pieces and shattered his left hand, along with the ceremonial - yet ever so battle ready - saber that the former Intelligence Officer had been keen on since he had first met Janwari.

He held a record, you know. Prestige followed that young posh boy from Northampton wherever he went; a Victoria Cross tucked away into a shoe box somewhere, hours of footage from Wakefield CCTV used to train hostage negotiators and supermax facility guards alike on handling the impossible scenario. That is to say, to clarify - when a genuine mad man has taken control of - or escaped from the confines of - your prison.

Even more prestigious (or perhaps bordering on a silly gag) was Bishop's final escape from HM Prison Wakefield: in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, some big bald northern bloke had informed Captain Bishop that he was to be remanded to the custody of the United Nations Extraterrestrial Investigation and Policing Unit - or UNXIPU. Oonzi Poo. What a delight, he had decided - Wakefield and Janwari had become so dreadful boring. There was nothing worse than being a bore, in Bishop's universe.

"Let the bloody nutter whinge about little green men with the rest of the mad hatters, 'eh?" the northerner had remarked to a colleague on the long walk down Wakefield's main corridor. "Fuckin' Looney Tunes, the lot of 'em."

During his supervised transport, by appearing aloof and uninterested, Jon had silently observed several conversations that revealed the global opinion of UNXIPU - that being, of course, that they were all nuttier than a bleeding Dundee cake. Bishop was unconcerned; if these blokes had any notion of the coming storm, perhaps he could help them sort out a way to avoid complete and utter annihilation.

In ode to his decision to perform great work with UNXIPU, the Captain decided to repay his sleep debt on the lengthy Libyan Chinook ride. Despite the buffeting of crosswinds and the general rachety shake of thirty thousand unstable parts in motion possessing of a strong desire to murder you, Jon was to all the world a piece of furniture. He slept seated sideways across the bench, a harness underneath his knees and his arms wrapped about his legs, head jammed against his legs. He remained motionless for an incredible amount of time, becoming animate only upon their arrival.

After the Chinook had landed, the Captain abruptly rolled backwards onto his hips and bucked up onto his feet in the aisle - nearly losing his balance and upending onto the cold, steel floor, before grasping two harnesses, one in each hand, and righting himself.

"We've arrived," he declared in wonder to the strangers around him. "How wonderful!"

Bishop marched haphazardly alongside his new companions, taking in the dusty airstrip outside with bright, fidgeting eyes; he twitched here and there, never quite still, always in motion, a none-too-small glint of utter lunacy behind intelligent, probing eyes.

2002, 19 December 2020, UNXIPU Base

"I'll be damned if I have to wear that stupid fucking hat." Carrie had muttered under her breath. The LAPD Officer could hear it like she had shouted it into his ear. He was, after all, a police officer.

"Don't worry, kiddo. You're no city cop." He said dryly as he was leading the crowd to the warehouse, past sandbags that looked not much distinguishable form the sandy floor and chainlink fences nearly invisible in the darkness, "Last I heard, soldier boys and girls get to pick between caps, berets and helmets." He continued droning, a machine running out of juice.

"A little optimism would help, patrolman." The guard flanking him added. His accent and uniform suggests that he was Nigerian, and from the way he spoke to the American, he seemed to outrank him, "At least there's no chance of getting shot by drunken hobo in American slum. I heard it is getting really bad there." And that was an African telling an American that things were bad in his own country. Times had indeed changed.

"You know, getting shot at by a drunken hobo, or even better, by some evil green man from outer space might not seem like a bad thing! Better than watching the sand build up eight hours a day! Don't think I'd be that lucky though." The LAPD Officer brushed his Nigerian partner's comment aside, wanted to say more but decided to save it until next time as they were approaching the doors leading to the warehouse - those were huge doors, meant for cargo to pass through. As if on cue, the doors slid open, slow due to inertia, revealing the contents within. On the side was the UN organisation's plaque, with UNXIPU written huge, capital and bold, somehow showing confidence that it didn't have. The logo, stamped in bronze, consists of the standard UN globe and laurel with an abstract UFO hovering overhead. A notepad and an old scrivener's fountain pen was superimposed on the globe. The motto of UNXIPU was 'Verum, Securitatem, Incolumitas', latin for the truth, freedom from fear and harm. The truth about UFOs leading the world away from danger and towards a peace of mind.

There were no shelves full of cargo within the warehouse, nor make-shift bunks. Instead, a huge cargo elevator was the centre-piece of it all, large enough for four cargo trucks to line up and descend into whatever underworld was beneath. Security personnel consisting of uniforms from all over the world were patrolling about, or helping with whatever odd jobs were at hand. Cargo was being lifted onto the elevator, and if one were to squint enough, one would be able to see that the crates held equipment and weapons, and each crate had different national flags on them. If one were to squint harder, one might even find his name printed on the crate. "If you boys and girls thought this was some storeroom then you'd be mistaken. This big ol' box in the middle of the desert? It's just a lil' shed to cover the entrance into the UN-Xi-Pu Headquarters. About the only cool thing in a hundred mile radius."

Before one could get to the humongous elevator though, one would have to get through the security checkpoint, manned by security, police and the occasional military personnel almost as bored as the LAPD Officer was. "Well, ladies and gentleman, this is where I get off. Just go through the security checkpoint and the guards will issue you your pass, mission pack and tell you where you're headed. See ya!" With that, the American officer made a turn to walk out, quite reluctantly.

A Malaysian policeman who was with the American and Nigerian who had been quiet so far, however, had something to add, "Just follow the sign when you're below. Alpha go to Alpha, Bravo go to Bravo. Don't Echo go to Delta or something. I'm sick and tired of lost people coming back to find us."

The security checkpoint seemed to be heavily garrisoned. The warehouse had two. The security personnel manning the post were all armed with shotguns and submachineguns in addition to their sidearms. The models they were carrying varied widely as they were all given to the UN by whatever country the security personnel came from. As a truck came through, the driver's security ID was checked and scrutinised, the cargo compartment searched. As bored as they were, they meant business.

Heh, Dean couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of the Americans at each other’s throats. If they couldn’t get along with their own countrymen, then how much faith was there that they’d see eye to eye with everyone else? Disagreements between soldiers weren’t uncommon, but if shit hit the fan, they’d hopefully have enough sense to put aside the petty fighting. Now, Dean didn’t know if he’d be able to warm up to the boys and girls from the red white and blue, but he hoped he’d be able to do the same if facing a common enemy. He looked to every other soldier in the group, most of them he wouldn’t have problems getting along with, save if they started shit first. Hopefully, he and the other Japanese man would be able to hit things off, but not yet. They had just gotten off a long flight, and everyone probably wanted to get to bed; although by the looks of the warehouse they were standing in front of, the sleeping situation might not be the most comfortable.

Luckily, it didn’t seem like they were in UNXIPU proper yet, and the sight ahead piqued Dean’s curiosity as to just how high caliber this operation was. The large elevator was like a daunting behemoth. You’d always be glancing at it, just wondering what it was and where it’d go. Dean went through security without much thought, grabbing the papers he was handed and making his way to the lift. According to the print on the form, he’d be in Echo squad, which meant nothing until it was confirmed who else would be working on that team. If Dean was lucky, he'd be paired with individuals who meshed well with him and his set of skills, but like team placement, there was no telling who would fit such roles. "So... anyone else on Echo?" Muttered Dean to the people in his immediate vicinity, hoping to at least make some light conversation while everyone waited for the lift to make its decent.

As the steel doors of the warehouse crept open, Carrie suddenly realized the scope of what she was walking into. The poorly manned defenses and the unimproved landing pad paled in comparison to the massive cargo elevator, or more importantly, whatever facility laid beneath it. There's a lot of money here, too much for it to be some two-bit waste of funding. It was clear that something big was happening, and there were people, likely in the assumedly expansive UNXIPU headquarters beneath her feet, who knew much more than she did. The minor annoyances of the others, particularly the other Americans, were washed away at the sight of the semi-trucks weighted down with cargo waiting to descend. The only thing she cared about at this point was getting inside and figuring out what exactly was going on. Sure, she'd heard the rumors of UFO sightings, but there was always some local-yocal crackpot screaming at anyone who'd listen about lights in the sky. Apparently, the U.N. was listening, and time with ears that big wasn't earned without warrant.

She hurriedly made her way to the closest of the two security checkpoints, where her paperwork and orders of reassignment were scrutinized with unreasonable detail by a large, bald man bearing the flag of the Russian Federation. Tensions had been running high between the countries since Russia's invasion of the Ukraine was met by what had turned out to be nothing but empty threats by the United States. The world had feared a second cold war, but instead of an arms race, the extent of the hostilities was some bald douchebag busting her balls at every turn. After answering what seemed like was an endless list of unnecessary questions about her papers, the man snorted, satisfied, and issued her a I.D. and a stamped document assigning her to 'Echo Squad'. She brushed past the guard, waiting on the other side of the security point for the rest of the group.

"I am", she spoke confidently to Dean without looking at him, much more interested in the room's focal point, where the trucks' diesel engines chattered, almost as impatient as her.

Eric walked ahead, leaving behind David. Eric looked around in awe of the base's hidden nature, anxious to see beneath the surface. He stepped into line, after Carrie, and handed forward his paperwork. He looked at the Russian, who looked at the "U.S" on Eric's chest, and immediately started scrutinizing the paper. After several minutes of reading literally every single word, the Russian looked back up at him, and stamped the papers, and grabbed an I.D., handing it to Eric, along with his stamped "Echo Squad" papers. He stepped forward, handing off his belongings to a man who came forward to take them, so they could be taken downstairs. Eric rubbed his shoulders, re-leaved of the duffel bag that was on his back.

Eric caught up with Dean and Carrie, and heard Dean's question. He raised his hand as an inaudible confirmation that he was in Echo squad as well. Eric licked his lips. "I'm hungry. Where is the dining facility here?" He asked, mostly to himself.

It took a lot of effort, but Shaozu managed to put aside his feelings of racial distaste. That American police officer hadn't done much to boost his confidence though; most of his party looked professional, but were all the base staff this slovenly? He also studiously ignored the Americans bickering back and forth. Inter-service rivalry was a distinctly Western thing and hadn't much factored into his career so far. Aside from the odd jab about fitness or aim, the People's Liberation Army had always been very respectful when dealing with it's comrades in the PAP and at time like this, he sorely missed that professionalism... But he did admit that that one American with his safety off was being a complete prat. Seriously, he thought. They must be scraping the barrel if cowboys like him are considered special forces. As the Russian guard processed his paperwork, Shaozu took the chance to appraise some of the others in the group. The other Asians looked ok, if he put aside the trifling differences between China and its neighbours. It would be difficult working with the Japanese soldier but at least his eyes were in the right place; the other one... not so much. The younger of the two Japanese men looked distinctly Americanised and that was never a good thing. And those swords were laughable... What kind of moron brings a medieval sword to a gunfight..? Swords were becoming something of a fad in Asian military circles but that didn't mean that they were viable weapons; hopefully if they ever did see combat, they would be left where they belonged. In their scabbards.

The guard didn't give him too much trouble, just the odd question here and there to confirm facts. The Russian mafia had a significant presence in China and Shaozu had learned that if you treat them with respect and be honest with them, they tended to do the same. In that sense he wished that there were more Russians in his assigned team. They would be much more agreeable company than... yes, more agreeable than all those Americans who had also been assigned to Echo. He sighed deeply, drumming up his mental fortitude as he walked over to the others who had passed the checkpoint. 'I am also in Echo. I will be honest with you, I do not like this. But I shall maintain my professionalism, if everyone else does.' Shaozu gave a curt, reasonably respectful nod to the others, trying to remain both neutral and at a distance. You don't have to get on with them. he told himself. You just have to work beside them.