Southern Ute Reservation, en route to the Nevada Desert
2039

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THE SILENCE was damning once he'd put on the headphones, the rumbling of the choppers's rotors fading into his skin than deep inside his head.

Honestly, Lale had too many thoughts in there for much noise to penetrate, but he reckoned it was important to keep a level head in such a situation. He was abandoning all he had ever known for an opportunity that would probably get him killed.

He made a mental note to try and be more optimistic in future.

Lale flinched as the pilot's voice echoed in his ears. "We're heading out to Nevada now, Staff Sergeant. Any last-minute requests?" Blaming his twitchiness on his nerves, he replied with a mutter, his fingers brushing against the intercom button while grit swirled around them in outside the window. Beyond the dirt, Sergeant Major Fereldson had lifted one solitary hand up; a final good-bye. He doubted he'd ever see her again, and a pang of sadness struck his sensitive conscience.

"Remind me why I'm doing this again, please, sir."

The pilot chuckled as they lifted from the ground, and the shaking of Lale's bones intensified. "No need to worry, Staff Sergeant. ERAA takes good care of its adventurers, and you'll be settled in at the base in no time." There was silence for a moment as the pilot fiddled with the controls. Lale eyed him from his own seat, having chosen the one opposite the door and making it unmistakably clear that he did not trust his only other companion. He could see everything the other man was doing — not that that would help much, in the case that the chopper would suddenly go down and go boom.

He didn't know how to fly a helicopter.

"Yeah, about that," Lale responded when the pilot leant back in his seat, apparently satisfied with their course. The mountains loomed beside the metallic hull, and he paused for a moment to marvel the dusty giants.

"Where exactly is the base?"

The pilot chuckled again, sparing a glance back at the marine. His face was pale and hairless with youth, and he was perhaps younger than Lale himself. "Ever heard of Area 51, Staff Sergeant?"

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Lale honestly wouldn't have been surprised if a pixie had popped into existence beside him, screaming in his ear: "Welcome to nutzoid land!", while he clutched onto the seat below him as the helicopter dipped to land.

After nearly fifteen hours being tossed about in that sardine can, he would not have minded being deployed back onto the Caribbeans' Conquest. And he hated being in the navy. But it also felt like nothing could surprise him anymore.

Lale did a mental checklist of what things he had thought would be impossible the day before (which were now very possible). First off, time travel existed. Secondly, that he'd be recruited to be a part of the armed military services that would eventually time travel. And, the thing that shocked him to his core, even hours later; that Fereldson could back out of a mission.

And don't forget about the Area 51 part, he thought, as if he could. There was no doubt it was a real place, not after the show that went down by the time he was two — riots that ripped down the security-guard fencing and only contributed to America's decline. How could the public trust a government that hid secrets that were worth killing for? And kill the military officers did. A hundred and three casualties, if he remembered correctly. And more than fifty percent of those were fatalities.

From what he'd heard thereafter, security had tightened, the weapons more lethal, and activity that aroused suspicion that pointed to the 'unearthly' ceased altogether. Maybe. And now that Lale's eyes were on those electric-fences, over twenty feet high and concrete in some places, he swallowed, his mouth filled with cotton.

"This is way above my pay grade."

After a harried exit from the helicopter, where his hand was firmly shaken by a man who identified himself as Field Marshal Graham, and whose medals tinkled like bells on his seemingly moth-eaten military uniform, he was escorted from the landing pad, within the perimeter of Area 51.

Gaping at the peaks that yawned around the sides of the base, Lale felt his skin begin to prickle with sweat — and it wasn't from the heat. In the distance, the salt pans shimmered. "Welcome to ERAA's headquarters," Graham gave Lale a tight smile. He didn't sound very welcoming. "This'll be your home for the next few months, soldier."

He nodded in understanding, then paused as they crossed into the shadow of the multiple, squat buildings that reminded him of plane hangars — they probably were, if the landing pad had anything to do with it. The wonder and apprehension faded, giving way to ... disappointment.

Lale stopped, causing his escort of seven or so soldiers — including Graham — to stop as well. "This is it?" He exclaimed, his eyebrows raised. He wasn't one to judge, of course, but the least the guys could do was try and live up to the infamous legacy they led! "No alien spacecraft? No guns or guards or welcoming committee?" Pulling a face, he mocked a stereotypical alien line. "Take me to your leader, earthling." He said this to the Field Marshal, who held the faintest hints of amusement on his face. This banished his regret at his own bluntness. "None of that?"

"Unfortunately not, Staff Sergeant." Graham clapped his hand down on Lale's shoulder. "But I'm sure we have something even better."

He began to lead Lale towards the closest of the buildings, which was faintly illuminated by a dim light over the entrance. Moths buzzed into the glass covering. Even the lights were depressing, though he could see search towers in a distant corner of the area, their metal hulls barely illuminated in the dark gloom. He could imagine how bright the base would be, if their spotlights were lit; it would liven the place up a bit. With moths, maybe.

Glancing at his military-standard wristwatch, he realized how late it was. Nearly ten PM. Twenty-four hours ago, how different his life was. Enjoying the scenery of alligators and canoes and women in canoes ... and enjoying his pina colas. Lale frowned. He'd have killed for a pina cola at that moment — or any food, really. The fuel stop in Moapa Valley had only allowed him the briefest of briefest lunches, and a ham sandwich hadn't lasted him that long.

Graham allowed him a quick moment to get his eyes used to the soft fluorescent brightness of the hangar, and the scent of oil and guns (guns had a very distinctive scent, one that he recognized easily), before leading him over to a metallic cage surrounded by even more fencing. A man on post allowed them to pass, but first the marshal had to type in a five-digit code, and press his identity card into a slot.

The gate opened with a beep. Lale's escorts paused, allowing he and Graham to go ahead.

Looking around, Lale tried to figure out what contraption they were in. Pretty much a cage, alright. Then it started moving, causing Lale's stomach to drop violently. He gripped onto the side of the cage, his heart suddenly leaping up into his throat. Any snarky comment that had been crawling into his mouth evaporated immediately, being replaced by alarm.

The field marshal still wore that amused smirk. "Never been in an elevator before?"

Lale shook his head, feeling his heart's racing qualm slightly. Nothing was going wrong; and he wasn't about to die. The elevator let them pass through seemingly miles of slate-gray concrete, and, even though the movement and soft humming that vibrated off the walls (as there was no conversation between he and the fellow soldier) was reassuring, he didn't release his iron grip on the side of the cage's mesh.

Lale was glad he wasn't claustrophobic, but the silence and the walls closing in on them at all sides didn't do much to expel his nerves.

After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only a few minutes, a green light came on above the door, and the sense of movement ceased. The ground shook slightly beneath Lale's boots — a lower level. Frowning, he looked up quickly as the cage doors opened, and, after the marshal slid his card through yet another slot, metal doors slid away from each other, to reveal a blinding white that took Lale a moment to register as a room.

Releasing the mesh, he took a step forward. Then another. Tiles comforted his feet, a relief after the feeling of weightlessness in the stifling contraption he'd just escaped from. But the floor wasn't where Lale's attention rested; rather on the technology, and the people, who bustled around and barely spared him a glance.

The room before him stretched on for miles, it seemed, until he realized panes of glass separated each sizable unit from one another. He pressed a hand on the glass before them (barely registering the flash of irritation in his chest — all these damn doors and security measures!), his eyes flicking through the quickly-accumulating condensation his breath caused.

Men and women — marines, he recognized, with their toned and cool look, and the dog tags that rested around their necks, much like the ones around his own — dressed in various shades of grey, occupied tables and talked to white-uniformed people he guessed were the scientists behind all this; this wonder that lay below such a boring surface. Cool air ran across his cheeks, teasing his hair, which was too long, he decided distantly. The first thing he'd do was cut it, but only after exploring this place.

"This way," Graham called, opening a glass door that led down a glass hallway between the glass rooms, and they all refracted and reflected until his eyes were nearly squinted. It'd take a while to get used to this. "We'll be heading to administration first."

"And after that?" Lale didn't even ask permission to speak, his throat was so dry. His heart thumped steadily in his chest, constant and calm. Very much unlike how he was feeling.

Graham glanced back, as sparks from the room beside them darted towards the glass. Lale didn't flinch — because, beneath all this overwhelming abundance of information and sights, he was still a marine. And marines didn't flinch away.

He still wore that slightly pitying, yet amused look. He replied as though it was self-explanatory.

"Why, training will begin, of course."

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