Twin Suns Rising (GATE: Thus the JSDF Fought There!)

+++

He collapsed onto his rear, his body slick with sweat. His uniform, designed for warmer climates, was already showing its limitations. Despite its supposed adaptability, he still felt unbearably hot. Lieutenant Yōji Itami of the Japan Self-Defense Force reached for his canteen and greedily drank its contents. Around him, many were doing the same.

They had been conducting maneuvers as part of the Balikatan Exercises. Balikatan meant "shoulder-to-shoulder" in Tagalog, and, as the name implied, it was a test to improve joint operations between nations. Originally conducted between the United States and the Republic of the Philippines, Japan had recently joined in. If anyone had told Itami a few years ago that he would be leading a squad through the Central Luzon plains, he would have called them an idiot. What was this, 1941?

But the past few years had a funny way of altering things, and Itami had long since abandoned his preconceptions about the world.

A groan escaped someone's lips, followed by several more. Itami laughed. "Get used to it, guys. We'll be here for a few more weeks."

He was in charge of a reconnaissance unit—the Third Recon Team. It consisted of twelve members, each with their own personalities. One of them was always the first to complain.

"I want to go home. This place is too hot," Sergeant First Class Shino Kuribayashi complained, fanning herself under the shade of a tree. Kuribayashi was a small woman, half Itami's height. Her brown hair was tucked under her helmet. She slouched against the tree, her rifle resting on her legs.

"Barely a day in, and you already want to go home? Where's your devotion, Sergeant?" Sergeant Major Soichiro Kuwahara bit back. He was the oldest of the group. At fifty, he carried a quiet dignity that only men of his age could muster. Kuribayashi straightened up, but her expression still carried an air of complaint.

"I know why we're here, Sergeant Major! I just wish it was a little less hot!" she exclaimed.

The sun beat down on them, high in the afternoon sky. But the worst part was the suffocating humidity.

Itami spoke up. "Take some time off, all of you. Command says we have a little pause, so rations out, everyone."

"Why can't we do something fun? I want to see how Filipinos fight," Kuribayashi's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Say, there's a squad of them nearby, right? Do you think they'd be up for a short spar?"

The closest unit was Filipino, led by a fellow lieutenant. First Lieutenant Alfonso Torres was his counterpart, and they'd met briefly for introductions beforehand. Torres was light-skinned with bright brown eyes and a small stubble. From what Itami could tell, Torres was an easygoing man, excited about the joint exercises with other nations.

"Maybe later. Not now, Kuribayashi. I don't think Command would appreciate you picking a fight with our allies."

Japan had adopted a stance of pacifism and self-defense since the end of the Second World War. But recent years had eroded some of that pacifism. The People's Republic of China's aggressive actions had caused Japan to seek new allies for mutual defense. The Republic of the Philippines, sharing similar concerns, had become a natural partner. Prime Minister Ishiba envisioned a coalition of states for mutual defense, and President Marcos, desperate for allies in the face of Chinese aggression, saw Japan as a crucial partner. As relations between the U.S. and the Philippines became increasingly strained, the Japan-Philippines alliance seemed a logical next step.

Far ahead, the roar of jet engines filled the air. Itami looked up to see a trio of jets soaring past. They were from the Philippine Air Force, as indicated by their colors. A presence appeared beside him—it was Sergeant Major Kuwahara. The old man had removed his helmet and was wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Never in my life did I think this would happen," Kuwahara sighed. "When I was younger, I firmly believed that humanity had learned the lessons of the past. We would never again fall into the jingoism of bygone days."

He looked up at the sky. "Look at us now."

"At least we are allies and friends of the Philippines, instead of… well, you know," Itami said, glancing at him expectantly. Kuwahara nodded.

During the Second World War, Japan had invaded the Philippines as part of a strategy to secure their advance south. They initially presented themselves as liberators, claiming to free Filipinos from American colonialism. However, their occupation quickly turned cruel. Though many Filipinos had forgiven Japan—officially and unofficially—some still held protests against the ongoing relationship.

"And we never will again," Kuwahara proclaimed.

The Third Recon Team sat under the shade of trees, enjoying their lunch. Suddenly, the screech of tires cut through the air. Itami blinked and looked up as shouting erupted around him. Vehicles sped by, kicking up dust in their wake. The Filipinos were moving? Itami checked his radio, but there was no official word about any action. The confusion was palpable.

"Sir, what's going on?" Kuribayashi asked, her vest and uniform slightly open.

"I don't know," Itami admitted. He stood up, setting his lunch aside. "I'm going to go find out. Sergeant Major, with me."

"Aye aye," Kuwahara confirmed. Itami walked forward, mentally preparing his English. Officers and NCOs selected for the Balikatan exercises were proficient in English, as their Filipino counterparts spoke it fluently—a result of American colonial influence, strengthened by globalization. Itami waved his hand at a passing Humvee, signaling for it to stop.

The vehicle pulled over, and Itami could see the wild-eyed anxiety in the men inside. He quickly spotted a familiar face.

"Lieutenant Torres!" Itami called. "What's going on? Why are you all moving?"

"Manila is under attack," Torres replied grimly.

Alarm flooded Itami's chest. "What?"

The panic in his voice was enough to draw the attention of his men. Kuwahara quietly relayed the news. A sense of foreboding filled the air.

"Manila is under attack. We're being redirected to its defense," Torres informed him. "Sorry, Lt. Itami, but we need to go. You'll be getting orders from your command soon."

"Uh, yes. Of course. Good luck," Itami could only respond as the Humvee sped off. Behind him, murmurs erupted.

"Manila? Under attack?"

"Is it China? Is World War III starting?"

"We're not equipped for that!"

"Enough!" Sergeant Major Kuwahara barked. The murmurs died down. "We don't know what's going on, but needless speculation won't get us anywhere!" He turned to Itami, his eyes expectant. "Sir? Orders?"

"Get a line going. We need more information," Itami ordered, trying to hide the anxiety creeping into his voice. God, is this it? Is World War III starting, and I'm going to fight it in the Philippines?

"Sir! We got orders!" cried out their radioman, Master Sergeant Tetsuya Nishina.

"What is it?" Itami asked.

Nishina's face was grim. "Return to base."

+++

By the time the Third Recon Team returned to base, the other Recon Teams had also arrived. All JSDF forces there were under the command of General Kōichirō Hazama. Japan had sent a considerable force for the 2025 Balikatan Exercises, a move that was primarily political, as Prime Minister Ishiba wanted to demonstrate Japan's resolve in its emerging alliance with the Philippines. It was also meant to test the interoperability of the AFP and the JSDF.

The JSDF and AFP had set up a joint military base overlooking a river. HESCO barriers had been erected in a massive square, with buildings constructed inside. At the gates stood a barrier, guarded by Filipino personnel in the morning, with the Japanese taking over in the afternoon. But now, the Filipinos were gone. The drive had been quiet—shocked. The idea of war had been in their minds, but to think it was actually happening...

The lead vehicle came to a stop, and the gate guards eyed him and his driver warily. Itami was the first to break the silence. "What's going on?" he asked, confusion evident in his voice.

The guard replied quickly, "We don't know, sir. But you are to join the other officers at HQ. General Hazama is holding a quick meeting. The rest of your men must stand by."

Itami nodded, and the guards raised the barrier. "Sergeant Kurata, take me there."

His driver, Sergeant Takeo Kurata, absentmindedly nodded. He had been silent throughout the drive, his face pale. Itami wanted to offer comfort but didn't know what to say. His only thoughts were on the fact that an enemy had attacked, and they were now there. As they drove up, Itami noticed that their Filipino counterparts were largely gone, along with the American contingent.

The headquarters was a medium-sized building with two floors. Flags of Japan, the U.S., and the Philippines fluttered in front of the entrance. Itami exited the Toyota High Mobility Vehicle, a licensed copy of the Humvee, and made his way inside. He was quickly directed to a conference hall. On one end of the room, a television was blaring. Itami focused on it, and his heart dropped.

The footage was from a local news station. Manila was burning. Thick plumes of smoke choked the air as fires raged. The city was being consumed by flames, the devastation made worse by the proximity of the shantytowns. Philippine Air Force jets and helicopters were performing bombing and strafing runs, their payloads striking an unseen enemy. Who they were, Itami couldn't see clearly as the fires of battle obscured everything. But as the footage cleared, to his shock and confusion, he saw who the Filipino Army was fighting.

Was this some sick joke?

They were fighting Roman-style legionaries, all wearing authentic attire, with swords and shields. But that wasn't all. He focused on one particular scene: a literal ogre charged into a crowd, swinging a massive club the size of a tree and sending people flying. Then, its head exploded as a Philippine Army tank rolled up, settled its cannon, and fired.

The television was flicked off, leaving only confused men in the room.

"Gentlemen," General Hazama's voice cut through the silence. "As you can see, Manila is under attack."

"I thought World War III had started. Not... that," came the voice of a fellow officer. Lt. Colonel Shunya Kengun voiced what everyone was thinking.

"It doesn't change the fact that they are a serious enemy and clearly have little regard for civilians," Hazama countered. "The question now is, what do we do?"

"Surely, you don't expect us to sit on the sidelines while this happens?" A voice cried out. "We're supposed to be allies with the Filipinos, right? Let's go and support them!"

Murmurs of agreement followed. Itami wanted nothing more than to kick himself when he realized it was him who had spoken up. He wasn't the type to fancy himself a hero. In fact, he was rather lazy, dedicating his salary to supporting himself and his hobbies. But he couldn't, in good conscience, let innocent people die—especially not the people of a nation they were meant to be allies with. He also wasn't enthusiastic about the idea of Japanese citizens getting caught in the crossfire. Manila was an international city, after all.

"We have not received word from Tokyo that we can intervene, Lieutenant Itami. Our orders were to join in Balikatan, not to fight a war," Hazama cautioned.

"But General, the longer we wait, the more innocent people will die," Itami blurted out before he could stop himself. He felt the eyes of the room on him, and he immediately regretted speaking.

"I understand the sentiment, but we cannot make a decision unless Tokyo says we can move," General Hazama said firmly. A sense of dejection filled the room. Itami gritted his teeth.

Itami was already standing before he knew he'd risen. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. The silence in the room after Hazama's declaration rang louder than the jets overhead. His voice, when it came, wasn't loud. 

"Sir… with all due respect, the war already started. We're just deciding whether we're going to pretend we didn't see it."

A murmur rippled through the rows. Hazama stared at him, unreadable.

Itami didn't sit down.

"Manila's burning," he said again, as if the words needed anchoring, like the city might vanish if he didn't say it aloud. "That's not a skirmish. That's not a border dispute. That's an urban center with civilians, embassies, hospitals—Japanese nationals. Our nationals. If they're not already dead, they will be soon."

Hazama didn't interrupt. No one did. 

He kept going. "We shook hands with the Filipino command. Ate with them. Drilled shoulder-to-shoulder. That word—Balikatan—it means something to them. You think they're going to remember us fondly if we hole up here while they bleed?"

Lieutenant Colonel Kengun shifted in his seat. "We don't even know what they're fighting."

"Manila is already burning!" Itami cried, pointing at the television. "What other information do we need?"

His voice cracked, just slightly.

Hazama's gaze was heavy. "And what, Lieutenant, do you propose? We go charging in blind? Against an enemy we don't understand, with no ROE, no chain-of-command coordination, and no legal mandate from the Diet?"

"I propose we act like we give a damn," Itami said quietly. "I don't give a damn what Tokyo says. If we wait, people die. If we act, maybe they still die, but at least we tried."

He saw Kuwahara watching him from the corner. The old man didn't speak. Just nodded, slow, once.

Itami took a breath. He felt the sweat prickling on his brow, the weight of every eye.

No one clapped. No one stood up behind him. This wasn't a speech to rally hearts. He had to say it because silence tasted like ash in his mouth.

Hazama's eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in the slow, deliberate narrowing of a man who had been through wars of silence and suits more often than bullets and blood. A man whose entire career was balancing between political correctness and moral cowardice, one foot in Tokyo, the other in the mud with men like Itami. And now the mud was rising.

The general stepped toward the center of the room. The screens around him still glowed faint blue from the standby image. A haze hung in the air—not smoke, not humidity. Tension. It stuck to the back of the throat.

He looked at the flag hanging to his left—the red sun of Japan on white silk, pristine, unflinching. Then his gaze slid to the right. Three flags hung there. The stars and stripes. The Philippine sun-and-stars. And between them, the emblem of the Balikatan Exercises, sewn in gold thread.

Hazama spoke slowly, his voice deeper than before. Not a roar. A kind of resignation, armored in command.

"If I give the order and Tokyo tells me I overstepped, I lose my stars. We all get pulled back home. The entire exercise collapses. The Diet will tear me apart, and Prime Minister Ishiba will disavow me in a press conference before I'm even wheels-up."

Itami didn't respond. He didn't need to. Everyone knew that.

"But…" Hazama's voice dropped. "If I don't give the order—if we stay here and do nothing—then the alliance is nothing but a paper oath. A handshake in a photo op. And we all go home alive… but ashamed."

Silence again.

If there was one thing no Japanese man let alone a soldier can stomach, it was shame.

Hazama's jaw ticked once. The room wasn't breathing anymore—it was waiting. He scanned the faces before him, the lifers and the kids, the desk-bound captains and the field-worn NCOs. Each one still digesting what they'd seen on the screen—what they couldn't have seen but had. Each one carrying the weight of a decision none of them wanted to make.

He looked back at Itami. The man wasn't special. Not decorated. Not the best tactician or the hardest operator. But Hazama saw something in his face he hadn't seen since his own younger years—before the suits, before the politics. A look that said: I'm not ready, but I'll go anyway.

Hazama turned toward his adjutant.

"Begin coordination with Filipino command. Secure airspace corridors. I want eyes on the highway corridors and drone coverage over the Pasig."

He turned back to the men. "The Prime Minister wants to show Japan's sincerity. If we do not move, then I suppose it will show to the world that an alliance with us is useless. As far as I am concerned, we are still performing our orders to its spirit!" 

​Their eyes sharpened into focus. 

And thus, the JSDF moved out.

And thus,  the JSDF fought there

+++

Blood slicked his left sleeve. Not his, but warm. Still warm.

His legs moved. Barely. His head rang from the concussion that had flung him out the back door of the police precinct and into the shattered pavement, just beside a rust-streaked Manila street sign bent into a cross.

He blinked grit from his lashes. Everything was vibrating—the air, the ground, his molars. The kind of trembling that meant death was very near, and very large.

Not dying yet.

Lieutenant Alfonso Torres shoved himself upright using his rifle as a crutch. Standard-issue M4. Beaten to hell, scratched down the length of the handguard, blood dried on the receiver. Still warm from overuse. Still his.

He limped through the wreckage of the checkpoint—what was left of it. The one they'd rigged together with sandbags, concertina wire, road signs, broken motorcycles, and the twisted corpse of a V150 armored car they'd pulled off the street when its crew had been eaten alive inside.

His checkpoint. His last hold. The bridge between the civvies and the slaughterhouse.

North Manila had collapsed into fire and blood. But they were still here.

He ducked under an awning of torn tarpaulin and corrugated iron and dropped beside Sergeant Diaz, who was white-knuckled around a blood-soaked bandage pressed into her hip. Her face was black with soot, lip split, her helmet gone. Two others crouched nearby—Privates Sison and Villanueva—both younger than they should've been. All of them smoke-eyed, half-deaf, and still breathing.

"Status," Torres rasped.

Diaz didn't look up. "One belt left on the SAW. Five mags. Two grenades. LAW's done." She flicked her chin behind her. "Civilians are still pouring in."

Torres turned. South lane, whole damn avenue clogged. Fathers dragging kids. Mothers dragging bodies. Babies carried in buckets, old women bleeding through blankets. They were being funneled down into the underpass, a human stream moving as fast as shattered legs could carry them. The checkpoint was all that stood between them and being butchered from behind.

He looked east.

And the smoke was already parting.

"Sir?" Villanueva croaked, hugging the empty LAW. His hands were shaking. "What do we do?"

Torres straightened, teeth clenched, ribs screaming.

"We hold."

Villanueva swallowed. "Until when?"

He turned to his men—what remained of his command. Four blood-smeared ghosts in tattered fatigues. All of them looking at him. Waiting.

"Until command tells us we can run," Torres said. "Until the people are safe. Until every bastard on that street is dead." He raised his voice. "You take one with you."

Their spines stiffened. Even the wounded stood taller.

His throat tightened. He didn't let it show.

"Remember our oath," he growled. "It is glory ever, when thou art wronged!"

Diaz shouted, voice raw, "For us, thy sons, to suffer and die!"

"PARA SA INANG BAYAN!" Torres roared.

"RAAAAAAGHHHHH!" they answered, fists slamming into their chests like war drums.

The air changed.

A roar split the smoke, so loud it silenced even the wailing. It came from somewhere deep and monstrous.

And then they came.

From the alleys. From rooftops. Down the avenues. Legionaries in bronze and leather, shields high, spears gleaming. Their eyes were blank as knives. No warcries. Just the march. A perfect phalanx in a modern city.

And behind them—creatures.

Crawling. Galloping. Twisting. Hulking bodies of blackened flesh, tusked and clawed and chattering in a tongue older than sin. Things that should have died in myth, marching now under a red-black banner with no symbol but a jagged crescent that oozed rot.

Then the troll appeared.

It lumbered between buildings, bigger than anything had the right to be. One-eyed, jaw split down the middle, back hunched beneath plates of rock-hard skin. It roared, and the windows shattered. Its club—rebar wrapped in bone—dragged sparks off the pavement.

Torres opened fire.

So did everyone else.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—a full chorus of defiance. Mags emptied in seconds. The SAW on the overpass burst its last belt. Diaz was screaming, wild-eyed, holding her rifle one-handed. Villanueva's grenade missed, bounced uselessly and blew up nothing.

The enemy advanced like a tide.

Spears slammed into the barricade. A beast vaulted the wire, only to be filled with three mags and a bayonet through the throat. A boy from Tondo buried a bolo into something that shouldn't have had a neck. Another soldier took a spear through the thigh and kept firing.

Torres felt the weight of his last bullet. Then the click.

Empty.

He reached to his side, grabbed the blade, fixed it. Hands steady.

"AFFIX BAYONETS!" he shouted.

Diaz cursed. Sison grinned through bloodied teeth. Villanueva whispered a prayer.

"What good'll it do?" his mind asked.

None.

He didn't care.

Torres stood, chest heaving, eyes locked on the troll as it bared its teeth and charged.

"WALANG AATRAS!" he screamed. "PARA SA REPUBLIKA!"

The troll's foot rose.

Its shadow swallowed the barricade.

Then it exploded.

A flash like God's hammer. The air tore itself open—BOOOOOOM—and the troll ceased to exist. Fire and bone and pressure. Blood rained like hail. A limb flew over a building. Teeth peppered the pavement. Where it had stood: a crater.

The phalanx paused.

Another explosion. A precise one—surgical. The rear ranks of the legion vanished in a fireball, shield lines broken, formation shattered.

Above them, something screamed across the sky.

Not an angel. Not American.

A sleek gray fighter jet, banking hard, red circle gleaming on the wing.

"Sir…" Villanueva gasped. "Is that—?"

Over the skyline they came. Black-painted helicopters, fast and low, rotors slicing the thick smoke. White emblems on their sides—the Rising Sun. Behind them, the unmistakable howl of Japanese armor—engines wide open, grinding pavement, fast-approaching from the south.

Then: Loudspeakers.

"JSDF FRIENDLIES INCOMING. HOLD POSITION. DO NOT FIRE. JSDF FRIENDLIES INCOMING."

Torres laughed.

A single, barking thing that cracked apart into coughing.

"VIVA MGA HAPON!" he howled, fist in the air.

"VIVA!"

Diaz screamed it next.

Villanueva raised his bloody bayonet.

Torres looked ahead, into the broken ranks of the invaders.

His lips curled. Blood on his teeth. A predator's grin.

"SUGODDDDDDD!"

"RAAAAAAGHHHHHHH!"

They charged.

+++

Captain Junichi Arisaka sat in a throne of fire and glass.

The F-35A Lightning II didn't scream as it dove—it hunted, silent as a falling knife, cloaked in radar-absorbing skin, its angular fuselage slicing through Manila's polluted updraft like a scalpel. His helmet displayed everything. Buildings. Smoke plumes. Movement. Hostile signatures. Friendly IFFs blinking weakly at the edge of chaos.

The sky was choked with smoke, thick enough to taste. Below, the city burned. Columns of fire and concrete skeletons stretched into the clouds. People died in crowds. But down there, dug in behind sandbags and rusted cars, the Filipinos held.

He saw them.

Roman formations, plain as textbook diagrams—interlocked shields, gleaming bronze helms, marching in formation. But they were flanked by monsters—creatures the JSDF had no designation for. Nine-foot-tall beasts with bone armor and fanged maws. Things that walked upright but moved like dogs. One towered over the others, a horned brute dragging a club like a rusted lamppost.

He dove.

"Red Eight to Command," Arisaka said, voice ice in a storm. "I have visual on enemy formation. Confirm hostiles."

"Confirmed, Red Eight. Weapons free. You are clear to engage."

"Copy. Weapons hot."

He nosed down into a shallow dive.

His targeting computer lit up like a Christmas tree.

Arisaka blink-clicked a mark on it.

The bomb slid from the belly with surgical grace, guided by satellites and rage.

Four seconds later, the street exploded.

The troll disappeared in a vortex of debris and flame. The shockwave shredded the shield wall in front of it. Bodies flew like tossed dolls. Limbs. Shields. Spears. A bronze helmet tumbled end over end and clanged off a lightpost.

Target neutralized, the AI noted coldly.

Arisaka was already pulling left. G-forces slammed his spine into the seat, but he was grinning. His HUD swept across another target cluster: a pile-up of monsters ripping into an overturned evacuation bus. Half the civilians were already dead, but two were crawling out—one limping, the other shielding a child.

He armed the 25mm cannon. Nose down.

Brrrrrrrrrrrttttt.

The cannon fired in a steady, reaper's buzz. The rounds tore through flesh and bone like scissors through damp cloth. Blood sprayed the windshield of the bus. The child watched her attacker's skull vanish in a mist. Arisaka pulled up, fingers already twitching for the next pass.

Then he heard it.

"Red Eight, this is Philippine Air Force on approach. We are with you."

His radar painted them before his eyes caught them—four delta shapes slicing through the smog, fanning wide in a combat V. F-16 Block 70s. Their only squadron. The Philippines' sharpest blade.

Their leader came over comms. "Captain Sarmiento, Wing Lead. Red Eight, we've got your flank. Let's go to town."

Arisaka's grin was feral. "Glad to have you, Sarmiento."

The five jets dropped as one.

Their HUDs synced, their targets painted in blood red. Arisaka took the western side of the avenue, Sarmiento the east. The remaining birds broke into pairs, fanning out for lateral strafing runs.

Cluster bombs dropped from twin wings.

They bloomed midair.

Hell rained down.

The phalanxes below—orderly, perfect, ancient—were erased. Bronze shields bent like foil. Blood painted the walls. Monsters shrieked as napalm tore into them. A centaur-like thing tried to raise a banner before its lower half was turned into ash and splinters. Some would say that the Philippine Air Force was being merciless. But Arisaka would call those people idiots.

For what these people did, whoever they were, his own capacity for mercy was gone.

+++

A/N: Had an idea. What do ya'll think?

I intend to make this into military porn, of course. And this is also influenced by recent events. The Japanese Diet just ratified the VFA agreement with the Philippines, and there will also be New Zealanders too.