So, I've been reading stories at this site for a long time. Very long time. Extremely long time. And now, I feel as though I have to contribute.

Now, do realize this is my first fanfiction. Ever. So, please be nice to me. No flames, or anything. I type fast, so there may be a few errors in the story.

The premise of this story is kind of overdone: a person from another world falls into Fire Emblem. However, please bear with me. I've added a tiny twist: the character brings something with him.

Also, I feel the need to say this: The character is from the U.S. military, currently stationed in Iraq. What I write in no way reflects my political views. I do not know about your political affiliations or your view on the current conflict; please do not turn your reviews into a bunch of political yelling matches. Besides, the fact that he is in Iraq is not very important to the story.

And finally, I do not own Fire Emblem. Or the U.S. military. Or much of anything else, for that matter.

Mark yawned as the humvee came to a bumpy stop, throwing up clouds of dirt. The Seaman (Hospitalman, to be exact) blinked rapidly and adjusted his floppy boonie hat (he hated wearing helmets, and put on the boonie whenever the officers weren't looking). They had arrived.

Mark Bristow didn't look as though he belonged in the military. His unkempt black hair was longer than military regulation and his skin was pale and unhealthy-looking, despite constant hours in the desert sun. He was of average height and build, but somehow managed to look as though he would be blown away in a strong wind.

However, his fragile-looking exterior belied his other skills. He was deceptively cunning, and officers made note of his tendency to remain calm during combat situations and his high tolerance for both heat and cold. They also noted that he was somewhat strange, often staring into the distance or at the ground, as if distracted by some inner sadness. But he performed his duties as a medic well, and they could not complain. However, they felt it necessary to report his disturbing fixation with knives.

Mark opened the door of the humvee and was momentarily blinded the sun. He reached for his sunglasses, then remembered that he had stepped on them two days back. He sighed.

Slowly the dusty landscape came into view. A set of stone houses of varying height and width stretched out for miles around. The one in front of him was particularly large and dirty, and was at the center of the town. A small crowd of people surrounded the door to the house, looking tentative.

Mark looked back at the twelve other humvees. The Marines were already getting out, turning away from the sun.

He stepped from the vehicle, then turned and struggled to pull a large duffel bag out of the humvee. The driver jumped out and pushed Mark aside, yanking out the bag with an almighty tug. Mark shrugged. He was a combat medic, not an adrenaline-fueled juggernaut. He took the bag from the Marine, struggling a little under the weight, and turned to face the children. They seemed unhappy; they started screaming as soon as he laid eyes on them. The parents weren't screaming, but they still looked apprehensive, and rightfully so.

"Great," said the Marine. He was a very imposing man, nearly seven feet tall, with bulging muscles. "Makes this job so much easier."

"I'm the one doing the brunt of the work, Daley," said Mark.

"Oh sure, bandages and shit. I have to entertain the little bastards."

"Language," muttered Mark, fumbling with the duffel bag's zipper. Daley snorted and moved to get the other bags as a second, lanky Marine hopped out of the car. He watched Mark's efforts with the bag for a moment, then chortled.

"Ha! Navy swab can' even open da' bag! Wan' me ta help?"

"Nah, I've got it."

Mark opened the bag and exposed it contents to the children: chocolate, soda pop, and freeze-dried ice cream. The children's crying suddenly subsided into a series of sniffles. Mark nodded encouragingly. Everyone liked candy.

"Huh," said Daley, who was pulling two equally large duffel bags from the vehicle, "And so begins Operation No We Do Not Eat Babies." He snorted again. "I hate kids."

"Well," said Gagnier, the second Marine, "they gonna be lovin' us in no time."

"That's sarcasm, right?" asked Daley. Mark ignored them both and held out the chocolate to the Iraqis. They refused to come closer, so he tossed it to them.

"Entertain them!" called Mark.

"Just wait. Let me find me a freaking Barney suit!"

Mark sighed. "Use the soccer ball. Everyone likes soccer."

"Baseball, all the way," said Daley, but he got the ball out of the car.

Gagnier was right. The grownups were still apprehensive, but the children, naturally, were quick to trust. After the candy was distributed Mark began bandaging kids with scrapes and bruises, giving the occasional injection. The rest of the children played soccer with a reluctant Daley. He played goalie, using his gun to club the ball, over and over, when it got too close. His team won.

"Wow," said Daley after the game had ended, smiling for the first time since they had arrived, "and to think I've never played soccer."

"You've missed your true calling," sighed Mark as he wrapped gauze around a eight-year-old girl's arm. When he was finished the girl jumped up, said something, and hurried off to join in a friendly game of kill-the-child-with-the-ball.

"What did she say?" asked Mark.

"She sayed 'thank you', ya U.S. Navy ig-nor-a-mus!"

Mark shook his head. Gagnier knew five languages, but linguistics were not a part of Mark's considerable mental skills.

A young man came up to Mark and tugged on his sleeve. Mark turned, and the man smiled.

"Could you please come inside?" the man said in perfect English. "I must show you something." Mark hesitated, but the man tugged his sleeve again. "Please. 'Tis a matter of some importance."

Mark stared. The man was short and stocky, with a lighter complexion than his fellows. He had interesting eyes. They were icy blue, and made Mark think of glaciers.

"Please," said the man again.

Mark sighed and began to walk into the house, but the man stopped him, placing a hand on his chest. He pointed to the submachine gun clipped to Mark's back.

"My wife. She does not like those."

Mark looked to Daley, who simply shrugged and continued to explain the glories of baseball to the Iraqi children, who couldn't understand but seemed happy to sit and listen. Gagnier wasn't even looking. He was sitting on the humvee hood with a book over his eyes. Mark sighed and unclipped the gun, throwing it to Daley. It bounced off his helmet, and the children laughed. Mark ignored the Marine's cursing and laid a hand over his KA-BAR, which was strapped to the upper left corner of his chest.

"I'm keeping the knife."

The man grinned and walked into the house. Mark followed.

The house had five small rooms. Mark was in the living room, which was shaped like a rectangle. It had a single two-seater couch and a wicker chair. A prayer room lay off to the right, which was where the man led the bemused medic into.

The prayer room held nothing more than a prayer rug and a black duffel bag. The man walked over to the bag as Mark stood in a corner, feeling out of place.

"Please," said the man, "Look inside."

Mark strode over and tentatively looked inside the duffel bag. It contained, among other things, a small mirror, a straight-edged razor, a few energy bars, three bottles of water, and two books. It was an odd assortment of items. Mark shifted through the pile and touched something cold and metallic. He stared closer and leapt back in surprise. The mysterious man smiled again.

"What? It's just a shotgun."

Mark stared at the man for a moment, then reached over his chest to his combat knife.

"AttackingacombatmedicisawarcrimeundertheGenevaConvention," he stammered.

The man laughed, his eyes gleaming. "Which one?"

"Who cares?" asked Mark, backing away.

"Don't worry. It's yours. I just found the bag on the road. That gun is U.S. military equipment, right?"

The man picked up the bag with both hands and offered it to the soldier. Mark took two steps forward and grabbed it, then leapt back. He began to back away when the man spoke again.

"They need your help, Mark."

Mark's eyes went wide.

"How do you know my name?"

The man was no longer smiling. "They need you. They need a tactician."

"Who needs a tactician?" asked Mark. He was thoroughly creeped out.

"The ones who will perish in flame," said the man. He took a step closer, and Mark took a step back.

"Who are you?" asked Mark. He drew the knife and held it before him in a reverse grip, the knife held upside down. The man simply smiled.

The room shimmered blue, and two rings formed around Mark, one inside the other. In between the two rings floated strange symbols. Mark felt a tingling in his feet, slowly moving up to his knees.

He quickly turned to run and slammed into an invisible wall. He was stuck.

"Goodbye," said the man. He waved his hand, and Mark turned insubstantial. The symbols glowed and the room began to fade.

"Oh—"

And then he was gone. The man grimaced.

"I hope he likes skydiving."

Mark was falling. He had been falling for a very long time. The bag fell with him, its straps rustling in the wind.

For the first couple of hours he had screamed. Then he lost his voice, and screamed silently. Then he got bored of screaming and just fell. Then he pretended he was skydiving. Now he was trying to amuse himself by reciting the periodic table, along with each element's atomic mass.

Number 47. Ag. Silver. Latin name Argentum. Atomic mass 107.87. Number 48. Cd. Cadmium…

He finished the periodic table and had just begun to ponder what would happen if he punched a jaguar in the face when an immense plain opened up before him. He spread out his arms to try and slow himself down, not that it would help much, and crashed into the plain at a speed of approximately 120 miles per hour. It didn't hurt.

Mark lay there, surrounded by the tall golden grass of the plain. It was all a bit too much for him to take, so he simply shut down.

And then he woke up. The prairie dogs went ballistic and fled.

He sat up, curled into a fetal position. After rocking back and forth for a few minutes his military training took over, and he looked around and tried to assess the situation.

A strange man had given him a bag with a really big shotgun in it and then opened a rift in space which had sucked him in and he had fell for a long time and now he had scared a bunch of prairie dogs and was sitting in a fetal position next to the bag and his crumpled boonie hat.

The bag.

Mark took a deep breath and crawled over to the bag, unzipping it. He pulled out the shotgun first.

It was a M1014 Combat Shotgun, a semi-automatic weapon that was currently being given out the U.S. military, mainly the Marines. Mark sighed. He didn't like shotguns. He didn't like any guns, but shotguns were particularly barbaric.

However, unlike most M1014's, which were jet black, the gun had a desert camouflage print that matched his uniform. Somehow, it made the thing less evil-looking. He placed it aside and looked into the bag.

Aside from the shaving materials, food, and books he saw earlier, there was a box of 24 shells for the gun, a pack of water-purification tablets, flint and steel, and a box of pens. He pulled out the books. One was a blank composition book, the other was the famous The Art of War. Mark snorted. Tactician indeed.

Mark then inspected himself. He wore Marine Corps battle fatigues with body armor, but he had left his helmet in the humvee. He had a backpack with several first aid kits. In his belt he had a lighter, a flashlight, extra socks, some candy, and his most prized possession, wrapped in black silk.

Mark sighed. He was in an unknown place where he had to help some people who would "perish in flame." He wondered what that meant. These plains, with the long grass, were definitely a fire hazard.

He decided that his best chances for survival would be to obey the man who had got him here, so he began to read the book. He memorized it in one hour and tossed it into the bag. He zipped it up and had just retrieved his hat when he heard a voice behind him.

"Oo'er you?"

Mark leapt to his feet, then grimaced as the cramp set in. The man in front of him was huge. He wore no shirt, just a ragged pair of pants, and in his left hand was a large axe. Several other men stood behind him, wearing similar attire and wielding the same weapons. There were five in all.

Mark blinked. He must be in a third world country.

"Hello," said Mark, his voice a little hoarse.

The man in front grinned, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth. Mark grimaced. Such poor hygiene. He would have to save these people from tooth decay before combating the flames. Whatever they were. But the man was talking again, so Mark stopped thinking and listened.

"Yer wearin' some pretty odd garments ther', mister."

Mark looked down. He supposed they would look odd to third world countrymen.

"Yer boots look real good. Good fer walkin', eh?"

"Quite," said Mark, trying to be friendly. Maybe these men would take him to a town. He could pay them with candy.

"S'matter o' fact, methinks I'll take em'."

The other men grinned, and closed in.

Mark backed away, his hands up in the universal gesture of goodwill. The men didn't seem to care.

The shotgun was inside the bag, and was unloaded. The only reachable weapon he had was his knife, and its seven-inch blade looked puny compared to those axes. However, he had no choice.

He pulled it out of it sheath and dropped his hat to the ground. He flipped the knife over and held it in a reverse grip, just as he had done when he was facing the strange man.

He wondered about his armor. The vest was augmented with titanium plates, and would be able to deflect the axes. However, there were gaps in the plating, and the strength of these men could probably still cause blunt force trauma, armor or not. Furthermore, the armor did not protect the lower half of his body.

The first man stepped up and swung his axe at Mark's torso. Mark didn't try to block, knowing that he couldn't match the man for strength. He simply took two steps forward and drove the knife downward into the man's chest.

The other men stood in shock as Mark twisted the blade and stepped back, wrenching the knife out. The attacker opened his mouth, trying to say something, but then he toppled. The men stared at his body for a few moments, then stared back up at Mark, who was looking more ill than usual.

Another bandit charged forward. Mark ducked down and drove his dagger into the man's foot. The bandit opened his mouth to roar, but Mark pulled the dagger out and once again drove the blade downward into the man's chest. He twisted and pulled it out, feeling as though he were about to vomit.

A third bandit narrowed his eyes and lifted the axe over his head. He opened his mouth and screamed. Mark watched in fascinated horror as the scream became steadily more high-pitched, to a point were it sounded almost reptilian. The bandit crouched and leapt into the air. Mark stepped to the side, and the bandit landed next to him, his axe imbedded in the earth. Mark tried to dart forward, but the bandit quickly wrenched the axe out of the ground and slammed it into his stomach.

Mark tumbled head over heels, completely winded, his knife flying from his hands. He rolled to a stop next to the bag and watched as darkness crept from the corners of his eyes. He would die now. Not that he had had much to live for in the first place.

The magic man must be feeling very foolish, thought Mark. Oh, I can hear the clashing of steel.

And with that, Mark blacked out for the second time that day.

And then he woke up. There were no prairie dogs.

He kept his eyes closed. He was lying on something fluffy. A cloud, perhaps? Odd. If the stories were true, he should have ended up in hell. Not that he was complaining.

He opened his eyes and opened his mouth to greet the angels when he noticed that he was in a bed. A nice, clean, white bed. For a second, Mark was dazzled by visions of hot food and cute nurses, but then he saw the walls. It appeared that they were made of canvas.

"Oh, you're awake."

Mark started and instinctively reached for his knife. Wasn't there. He felt naked without it.

A girl came into view. She was slim and had blue eyes, and was wearing blue dress that old people would certainly object to. Most old people, anyway. Mark gave a start. Her hair was teal. Certainly not natural.

"Um…"

"My name is Lyn. I found you unconscious on the plains."

Mark sat up, then doubled over in pain. Yep, just like he had expected. His armor had deflected the axe, but he had still received a nasty bruise.

Lyn hurried over, a worried expression on her face.

"Are you all right?" she asked, trying to look at Mark's face.

"Fine… Bad bruise… Those men…"

Lyn smiled. "The bandits, you mean? I drove them off."

Mark was grateful, but he felt a severe blow to his self-esteem. This teenager had driven off a group of men who nearly killed him. He reminded himself that he was a medic, not a fighter.

He'd killed two, though. The memory made him feel both proud and sick.

"You're with the Lorca tribe now," said Lyn. "You are safe."

Mark didn't want to be with the Lorca tribe. He wanted to be in HQ, surrounded by several meters of armor and a bunch of trigger-happy Marines. Not to mention those lovely nurses. Not that this girl wasn't pretty. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Well, can you remember your name?"

"My… name is Mark," groaned the medic.

"Your name is Mark? What an odd sounding name. But pay me no mind, for it is a good name. You wear odd clothes, by the way. Are you a traveler?"

Mark looked down. He was still wearing his Combat Utility Uniform. His armor, belt and pack were gone, as was his knife.

"Yes, I do. Wear odd clothes, I mean. Where's the rest of my stuff?"

"Oh," said Lyn. She turned and pointed to the wall, where Mark's equipment was neatly stacked. The shotgun was also laying against the wall. Mark paled (a hardly noticeable thing).

"Why is that out of the bag?" he asked.

Lyn blushed. "Well, you see, I saw the strange clothes you were wearing, so I wanted to know what other things you had. That is the strangest walking stick I have ever seen, so I took it out to inspect it. I am sorry. I should not have intruded."

Mark sighed. "It's all right."

Walking stick? He was definitely in a third world country.

Lyn smiled again and sat on a small cupboard.

"What brings you to the Sacae plains? Would you share your story with me?" she asked.

Mark opened his mouth, wondering what to say, when several shouts came from outside. Lyn stared at the door quizzically, then stepped out of the building, which Mark now realized to be some sort of hut. Lyn quickly ran inside and grabbed a sword that was propped up against the wall.

"Bandits!" she gasped. "They must have come to raid the local villages! I must stop them! Stay here! You'll be safe!"

Lyn quickly ran out of the hut. Mark paled again and rolled out of bed, falling in a tangle of sheets onto the floor. His stomach exploded in another wave of pain, but Mark gritted his teeth and crawled to his equipment. He opened the bag and smashed the box of shells, grabbing a handful, then pulled the knife out of its sheath and placed it between his teeth. He groped for the shotgun and used it to push himself to his feet. He hobbled out of the hut, spilling shells as he tried to load the weapon.

It was very pretty outside. The sea of tall grass just ended, and a sea of green stretched off into the distance. Lyn was crouched, about to run, but then she spotted Mark.

"Please," she said as Mark grunted in pain, "you are not fit enough to fight. Wait, you can fight?"

Mark collapsed into the fringes of the tall grass. He stabbed his knife into the dirt and loaded a single shell. He had dropped the rest.

"Actually," said Mark rubbing his stomach, "I'm a med- tactician. And yes, I can fight."

"Ah, I see… so you're a strategist by trade? An odd profession but… Very well. We'll go together!"

"Wait… here," muttered Mark as another wave of pain washed over him. "Let them… come."

Lyn looked impatient, but she drew her sword and waited.

There were only two bandits, but Mark's stomach was a painful reminder of what they could do. He lay low, hidden in the grass, as one bandit charged forward, closing in on Lyn.

At the last moment, she gracefully stepped to the side and slashed the bandit's back. The bandit stumbled, but managed to twist and slice Lyn's arm with his axe. Lyn grimaced, but slashed her sword again, drawing another shallow gash across the man's back. He roared and turned. Lyn held her sword at the ready but Mark leapt out of the grass like a breaching whale. A whale wearing combat fatigues and holding a deadly walking stick.

Mark held the gun at his hip like a cowboy out of a bad western. He tried to pump the gun, then realized that there wasn't a pump; the shotgun was semi-automatic. He pulled the trigger.

BLAM!

The recoil forced the gun out of Mark's trembling hands. Mark himself stumbled and fell backwards, provoking another wave of pain from his protesting stomach. The prairie dogs went ballistic, and a flock of birds hidden among the grass quickly flew up and away, chirping shrilly.

Lyn gasped in shock as the bandit's side exploded, disconnecting his left arm from his shoulder. He fell sideways onto the ground, splattering blood everywhere. Behind him, Mark curled up and retched violently.

Lyn rushed around the man, her eyes wide, and ran to Mark, giving the fallen gun a wide berth.

"Are you all right?" she cried.

"Fine, fine," said Mark. He reached out for the gun and used it to prop himself up again. Lyn backed away.

"What is that thing?" she asked, pointing at the shotgun.

"Shotgun," said Mark, rubbing his stomach. "There's… one more."

Lyn turned. There was indeed one more bandit, trying to break into another hut.

"I will get him," she said, but Mark grabbed her shoulder.

"You… got cut. Bandages… in my pack…"

Lyn smiled a twisted half-smile, still shocked from the gun. "I have a vulnerary."

A what?

Lyn reached into a satchel on the ground, one Mark had not noticed before, and pulled out a yellow bottle. Lyn poured a little on her wound, and Mark watched in awe as the skin healed and closed before his eyes. There wasn't even a scar.

He was definitely not in a third world country. He doubted that he was even on planet Earth.

"All better."

"Give me some!" cried Mark.

"It does not work on bruises. I am sorry," said Lyn, but she threw the bottle to Mark anyway.

She quickly cleaned her sword on the grass, her hands shaking with impatience. "Just one bandit next to that ger."

"Wha'?" asked Mark, still staring at the vulnerary.

"You don't know what a ger is? It's a type of round hut. Many nomads live in huts like these."

"Ah," said Mark. Lyn began to run towards the bandit with Mark hobbling behind her, using the gun as a walking stick, quickly falling behind.

"He looks… strong!" yelled Mark, grunting with the exertion. "Use your speed! Wear him down! And be careful! I can't back you up!"

Lyn had already reached the bandit. It didn't even seem as though she had heard him.

"Who do you think you are? You think you can stand up to Batta the Beast?"

Lyn struck first, gashing the man's arm. Batta didn't even flinch, and swung his axe downward, ripping a similar, but much deeper gash across Lyn's arm. She screamed and fell to one knee, the sword tumbling from her grasp.

Mark gasped and took an overly large step. He twisted his ankle and fell. The shotgun flew from his hands, tumbling over and over it the air. It flew towards Batta just as he was about to land the killing blow. The heavy weapon's butt impacted his stomach, knocking him back a step.

"What?" he cried.

"Deus ex machina!" yelled Mark. He collapsed.

Lyn grabbed her sword with her left hand, wincing from the gash on her right. She readied herself.

Mark knew that he was seeing hallucinations brought on by pain. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn that Lyn had just split into three people and disappeared. Two slashes appeared across Batta's chest. There was a flash of light, and there was Lyn, standing with her sword deep into Batta's stomach.

"What? How… How did you..?"

Batta collapsed as Mark decided to succumb to the pain of his wounds. Stupid bruise-creating, life-saving body armor.