There was a long, stupid silence. The trigger-happy private next to me muttered, "What's a 'pax'? Some kinda pig-man word?"
"Uh... sir?" I said, my voice barely a whisper. The Lieutenant glared at me, his hand still on his sidearm. "What, Rogers?" "I think... I think that means 'Peace'. It's Latin. Or, close enough."
The Lieutenant's head snapped around. He grabbed the front of my body armor and hauled me halfway out of the Humvee. "You speak their language?!"
"No! No! I swear!" I yelped, hands up. "I took one semester of high-school Latin because I thought it would help me understand 'Incantation' spells in RPGs! It... it didn't!"
"So you can talk to her?" he hissed.
"I just know the one word, sir! 'Pax' means 'Peace'! It's... it's a 'Truce' mechanic! She's offering a ceasefire! She's probably here to complain about the 'spawn-camping'!"
The Lieutenant stared at the Princess. She was still holding her white flag, her gaze fixed entirely on me, bypassing all the actual soldiers. He stared back at me. He was clearly out of his depth. This wasn't in the manual.
"Fine," he growled, shoving me forward. "You're the 'Hero.' You're the 'Gun-Mage.' You go talk to her."
"What?! Me? Sir, I'm 'Logistics'!"
"You're 'Diplomat' now, Specialist! Get out there and... diplomat-ize! Find out what they want! And if she tries anything," he patted the .50 Cal that Grizz had died on, "we'll turn her into a premium-skin-colored mist."
My legs felt like jelly. This is the 'Dialogue Option' part of the quest, I told myself. Don't pick the 'Attack' option, Kyle. Be cool. Be cool.
I climbed out of the Humvee, slowly. I kept my rifle slung on my back, and held my hands up, palms out. The universal "I'm not holding a controller" gesture.
I walked slowly onto the open field, stopping about ten feet from her. Up close, she was even more intimidating. The silver armor was covered in intricate, swirling patterns, and she had a massive longsword sheathed at her hip. Her eyes were a piercing, defiant blue.
"Uh... Hi?" I managed. She just stared, confused by the greeting.
"Kyle," I said, pointing to my chest. "Me... Kyle." She watched my hand, her eyes narrowing.
I tried again. I pointed back at the Humvee. "My... uh... 'Mount'?" She looked at the Humvee, then back at me. Still nothing.
This was going nowhere. I had to use the real universal language. I pointed to my stomach and made a "growling" sound. "Food? MREs?" I mimed eating. "Chili Mac?"
A flicker of understanding. She spoke, her voice musical but firm. "Non... non... 'Pax,' Mago-Bellum." (No... no... 'Peace,' War-Mage.)
She then pointed, her gauntleted finger trembling slightly, directly at the M2 Browning machine gun nest. She launched into a long string of desperate-sounding Latin-ish. I didn't get 90% of it, but I caught the tone. She was pointing at the mess I'd made. The field of dismembered Orcs. She was pointing at the gun.
My gamer brain, trained by years of forum arguments, began to translate what she must be saying.
"...Your 'magic' is an abomination...""...It kills without honor, from a distance...""...It's completely 'unbalanced'...""...This 'Tower' (the M2) is 'Broken' (OP)..."
She finished, breathing hard, staring at me, awaiting my judgment.
I stood there for a second, processing. I turned back to the Lieutenant, who was watching me with his hand on his pistol. I gave him a shrug.
"Well?" the Lieutenant yelled.
"Okay," I yelled back. "Here's the summary... She says... she says our .50 Cal is 'Broken' (OP) and needs a serious 'Nerf'."
"A 'nerf'? What the hell is a 'nerf', Rogers?!"
"It means..." I sighed, "She thinks our weapon is... 'Unbalanced'. She wants us to... stop 'ganking' her troops... and... maybe... 'fight fair'?"
The Lieutenant's face went purple. "Fight fair? She wants us to fight fair?!"
He was about to say something else—something involving a lot of curse words and artillery—when a new sound cut through the forest. It wasn't a roar. It wasn't a chant.
It was a horn. A deep, mournful, hunting horn. BWOOOOOOOOMP.
The Knight-Princess's head snapped toward the forest, her eyes wide with a new kind of terror. "Oh no..." she whispered, in perfect, terrified... English.
I stared at her. "Wait... you speak English?!" "That horn..." she ignored me, her face pale. "They are here... The 'Gore-Claws'!"
Before I could ask what a "Gore-Claw" was... the trees behind her started to move.