This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/duddlered on 2025-09-05 15:08:30+00:00.

In the midst of a fierce battle, several figures desperately and abruptly scrambled out into the open like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Navy SEALs and Marines lunged over the edge of a trench with no regard for cover or self-preservation as they faced two talking medium machine guns. Bodies flew in all directions as operators and jarheads alike chose the lesser of two evils—taking their chances with friendly fire over whatever magical garbage was about to detonate below.

They managed to clear the edge just in time before a massive concussive blast erupted from the trench system. The explosion was unlike any conventional explosives they were used to—this was something entirely different. The shockwave hit like a freight train, upending the earthen walls and tossing bodies several feet before slamming them back to the ground. The half-finished fortification’s entrance simply ceased to exist; the heavy door and drapes of cloth covering it had been completely obliterated in an instant as exaggerated flames roared up from the depths like some supernatural geyser.

When Finch hit the ground, he hit it hard, taking the impact with his shoulder. But the Lance Corporal didn’t have time to get his bearings as he desperately rolled away from the strange, magical flames that licked out of the trench, seemingly reaching out with tendrils to anyone or anything with malevolent intent. Each roll sent jolts of pain through his body, but the alternative—getting touched by those unnatural flames—wasn’t worth considering. After putting a few precious feet between himself and the inferno, he pressed himself as flat against the ground as possible, trying to become one with the dirt because he knew what was coming next.

And right on cue, the real terror began.

Horrifying snaps and whizzes of incoming fire echoed all around them as some private somewhere decided now was the perfect time to yank back on the trigger of an M240 and hold it down. The machine gun’s cyclic rate tore through shrubs, snapped branches, and sent tracers streaking overhead in deadly red lines that looked deceptively beautiful until you heard the supersonic cracks that accompanied them.

“CEASE FIRE! CEASE FUCKING FIRE!” Finch started screaming, but their voice was drowned out by the constant hammering of the 240 and the sharp reports of M27s joining in.

Dirt kicked up in little geysers all around Finch as rounds impacted way too damn close for comfort. To make matters worse, he could still feel the heat from those strange flames lashing around near his back. The smell of the acrid smoke mixed with whatever fantastical crap was roaring in the trench made his nose burn, but Finch didn’t dare move. Moving meant getting up. Getting up meant getting a face full of 7.62 or 5.56.

“FRIENDLIES! FRIENDLIES! FRIENDLIES IN THE OPEN!” Reyes was roaring at the top of his lungs into his radio, but it was like shouting into a hurricane.

One of the SEALs had somehow managed to find a shallow depression in the ground just before a burst of machine gun fire peppered his position. The man tightened into a ball to make the smallest target possible while furiously working his radio, trying to get someone—anyone—on the net to call off the turkey shoot they’d found themselves in. His body was pressed so flat against the earth that he looked like he was trying to dig through it with pure willpower alone.

Newman was a few meters to Finch’s left, and even in this clusterfuck, the Marine had found time to string together an impressive chain of profanity that questioned the parentage, intelligence, and sexual preferences of whoever was behind that 240. His voice carried between bursts of fire: “—FUCKING BOOT MOTHERFUCKERS! I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD—”

Just as Newman lamented his fate, another explosion rocked the trench system, adding insult to injury. This one sent a pillar of flaming tendrils higher, lapping at the edges as if searching for anyone or anything just feet away from the Marines and SEALs. Heat washed over them in waves, and the Senior Private could feel his exposed skin starting to singe in a way that definitely wasn’t natural. Whatever those Imperial assholes had thrown at them, it sure as shit wasn’t anything like grenades.

Eventually, after a full fifteen seconds of firing, someone moved down the line of supporting Marines and essentially smacked the machine gunner in the head while yelling for them to cease fire. The suppressive fire finally slackened, whether because someone had gained control of the situation or the squad providing fire support realized they were lighting up their own men. But the damage was already done—the potly crew being fired upon didn’t bother coming out of their hidey holes even as another explosive rocked the entrance of the bunker system. No one wanted to risk standing up and getting tagged by some idiot not paying attention.

“Everyone still breathing?” one of the SEALs’ voices cut through the sudden lull, though nobody dared to raise their heads to do a visual check.

“I think I’m alive!” Pham called out, his voice muffled by the dirt he was eating as he pat himself down.

“Still here," Finch managed to croak, finally daring to turn his head slightly to assess the situation. The trench they’d just evacuated was now a blazing hellscape, strange flames flickered and danced along the edges, occasionally belching up like some kind of demonic heartburn. Whatever entrance that this fortification had was now thoroughly fucked, which was probably good news in the grand scheme of things. He doubted anyone would be running out of there, but it didn’t make their current position any less precarious.

They were caught out in the open between a magical inferno and trigger-happy allies, with no good options for movement. The only silver lining was that the doorway they wanted to use had collapsed, but there were still assholes lurking inside that thing.

Both Reyes and the leader of this small group of SEALs were furiously barking into their headsets, trying to coordinate with support elements and let them know friendlies were about to stand up. The radio traffic was a clusterfuck of overlapping transmissions between those that were engaged, casualty call out and troop movements, but the message was clear: hold your fucking fire.

“Friendlies are standing up! I say again, friendlies are standing up!” Reyes practically screamed into his mic, his voice hoarse from all the yelling.

After what felt like an eternity, one of the braver souls of the small squad of SEALs finally decided to test fate. The operator slowly and carefully rise rose from the shrubbery with his hands spread wide to show he wasn’t a threat. Every muscle in his body had tensed up as if waiting, waiting for that telltale crack of a rifle that would signal some asshole hadn’t gotten the message.

But nothing came. No rounds, no tracers, no sudden impact that would send him spiralling back to the dirt.

“Well, shit,” the SEAL muttered, brushing dirt off his kit. “Guess they finally figured out how to use their safeties.”

That was all the encouragement everyone else needed as Marines and SEALs alike began to cautiously stand up. Each man did a quick check to make sure all their parts were still attached and they hadn’t taken a bullet. The relief was palpable but short-lived. They were still close to an enemy dugout.

“Watch that fucking entrance!” one of the SEALs barked, pointing at the still-smoldering hole they’d evacuated from.

Closest to the entrance, Finch and Newman instinctively took up positions overlooking the trench with their weapons trained on the shattered opening. The unnatural flames were still flickering around the edges, but they were beginning to die down in an uncomfortable, writhing, and twisting manner. It was as if the fire were living creatures gasping for air.

The entrance itself was mostly caved in from the blast—chunks of stone and earth had collapsed inward, creating a partial blockade. However, there was still room enough for people to squeeze through if they were determined enough. And if there was one thing Finch had learned about these magic-using assholes after the past few minutes, it was that they were nothing if not determined.

“DYLAN!” The SEAL squad leader’s voice boomed across the devastation. “Dylan! Get your ass up here and bring the heavy breacher!” He growled angrily into his microphone before the operator turned to the Marines. “We’re gonna need more bodies for this bitch. Whatever’s down there, it’s dug in deep.”

Reyes’ hand was already moving to his push-to-talk when he nodded. “Roger that,” he replied before keying his mic. “Be advised, we’ve stumbled upon a hardened position with hostiles still inside. Break. Target’s is partially collapsed—”

Behind them, the SEALs were running their own radio, coordinating with their platoon and trying to set up a proper breach while Finch and Newman kept watch over the fortification. The Lance Corporal’s eyes darted back and forth between the entrance and his sector, trying to monitor everything at once. The flames were definitely dying now, flickering and writhing as if they were suffocating. It was strange; it looked as if it was flailing in desperation like drowning swimmers. Watching fire act as if it was alive was unsettling as hell.

But then something else caught Finch’s notice.

Through the dust and dying flames, a head poked through the rubble. For a frozen moment, the figure—a dark-ski…

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1n97tji/grimoires_gunsmoke_operation_basilisk_ch_131/