{Coastal Confederate town taken as a beachhead to a fullscale Hierarchy invasion. Troop carriers with escourts are cut off from landing when the Confederate fleet moves to cut off the invasion. Militia and regular army move in to drive the Hierarchy marine landers back to the sea. Invasion fleet loses its course and aims for a port too far west, still Confederate occupied. There occurs the Battle of Fortaleza as the Heirarchy invasion fleet shifts eastward.}

Clubbed by an enemy musket, young Danial Alarden had survived most of his new marine corps mates. He sat up dazedly from where he had been laid out during the heat of the battle, only to feel sick with concussion and sorrow.

In the five days since the landing and the sinking of the Uphelder, he had come to view the younger men of the 54th marine corps as older brothers and its commander as a father. Now, he could see through his bleary eyes the recognized faces of so many of them, still in death; Cinero, Henry, Michael, Danner, Freh, Barney and Larret. All quiet, with expressions of surprise and pain and horror and sorrow painted on their faces. None of them seemed determined or victorious. "Good lads all!" Commander Leach had proudly said of them all just that morning.

Staggering to his knees, Danial crawled on all fours toward the familiar uniform of Leach, whom he found to be dead, as it seemed all the rest must be. He felt alone, despite the noise of the battle moving back to the Confederate town, even with all the enemy soldiers he caught blurred glimpses of from the corners of his eyes. He collapsed and wept into the bloody uniform of his father of only three days. Leach had been a hard commander, but he had taken a favorable interest in 'the cabin boy with no ship to serve on'.

Rousing himself after several gut and heart-wrenching minutes, Danial crawled farther into the thick of the carnage, seeking other familiar faces, hoping against its lacking that he was not the only survivor of the 54th corps. Then he spotted McShannon just as a shout in Felish rose at his discovery.

The voice was quite close and he crawled desperately faster to reach McShannon before he could be shot or taken prisoner. In his haste, he "stumbled" over a fallen Feline soldier, who gave a start of surprise and unpleasant feeling. Danial felt the older boy's chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his own, could not keep himself from peering into the foreign face almost by instinct.

Their eyes met and Danial felt oblidged to soften his own apprehensive gaze to calm the unreasoning fear he saw regarding him. "Please do not fear. I will not hurt you. I only want to help my friend beside you." He spoke in a reassuring whisper and smiled sincerely and thought to give the enemy youth a light kiss on the cheek to make sure his meaning was clear. Then, hearing a musket striker cock behind him, he meekly rolled off of the wounded soldier and onto his back.

He spared his would-be captor a tired sigh and a cringeful nod of surrender, then rolled onto his aching stomach to see about McShannon's wounds. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his captor kneel beside his injured fellow and gesture wildly and heard him shout, presumably to gain the attention of a field doctor, nurse or stretcher bearer.

Noting the alarming extent of McShannon's wounds, Danial looked up hopefully to see if his captor was having any success in his endeavor. But the persons the object of his dutiful frenzy were busy tending to another fallen soldier, probably a high-ranking officer if the field doctor and two assisting nurses were any indication. Knowing nothing of doctoring or medicine or field dressing in general, Danial fell to weeping over his fellow's prostrated form in hopelessness and dread and anger, feeling helpless to do anything to stay off his death or prevent it.

Very shortly, he felt a soft touch at his heaving back. His captor, no doubt, perhaps impatient to deliver his prize. Danial just squeezed his eyes shut tighter and fell onto his side beside McShannon to howl his grief in oblivion, uncaring of his captor's whims.

A soft feminine voice called him back to reality when he soon began to exhaust himself from the weeping and emotion. He could not understand, but the tones were kind and a little pitying and he relaxed his clenched fists and crossed arms to feel a gentle brushing of his fur at the side of his forehead. His eyes flashed open and he took in his surroundings with as much interest and conscentration as he could muster from his hazy mind.

He could sense immediately that the wounded enemy beside him had died, for there stood his self-appointed captor over him, sadness in his eyes and a hardened expression on his face.

Kneeling at his head, bloodied from the wounded and the very ground, was a young but well matured Feline woman who was suddenly offering him a drink from a canteen by pressing its mouth to his bloody chin. Having been nearly full with water, some of its contents spilled over his cheeks and down his neck and to his chest, cooling his hot fur. He quickly took the canteen to his lips and drank a few sips, then pushed it away quickly and patted McShannon's arm hopefully. "Thank you. And a drink for my friend? Could you see to his wounds now, please?"

The regret that he saw flow into her eyes made him sit up a little more and look over at McShannon fearfully. The second lieutenant had no need of a nurse any longer, having joined all the others gone before him that bloody afternoon.