Soldiers Of Misfortune: Into The Labyrinth Of Oppression

  • Thread starter Dawn Bringer Invictus
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Confidential

"So, what do you need, Sikaris?"

Arkoss was in his quarters on the Dissenter, looking and speaking to the Alarian commander from an advanced portable computer. Positioned on a table he'd moved near the back of his mostly sparse room, the rectangular device had seemingly started splitting apart. Its solid shape seemed to break into a plethora of whirring and noisy sub-parts, as if it had suddenly revealed a skeletal structure underneath. The screen-panel now lay all the way back and a blue light seemed to emanate from it. Above it was the holographic display of the one he was talking to. One wouldn't be able to recognize him as the almost mythological warrior he was a four days ago, back on Columbia 4. Gone was the fearsome yet compact armour and the sinisterly elegant robe-like uniform of the command staff. A simple outfit, plain shirt and pants, almost made him seem as a civilian.


In spite of that, his phsyical characteristics would always make him look the part of a funebraran warrior. Nearly seven feet tall and with flesh coloured a motley mix of brown, black, and grey, Arkoss looked much more savage than he did civilized. His face was skull like, as if only a thin layer of flesh was stretched across it, over a mouth that seemed to to host a labyrinth of shredding, ripping mandible-teeth. It was more angular than that of a mammal's head, yet it also had a mask-like quality to it in the sparseness of his facial features. What caught the attention of most was not its angled and sharp characteristics but his eyes, like two miniature spheres of gold, an unusual feature in many funebrarans. It was as if they were an amalgamation of all the extremities and hellish experiences he'd lived through. Some would claim that what those seen could be transmitted in that simple soul-shattering look more than just a few coalition officials had seen, a simple stare that summarized his tales of warfare and madness with a single meeting of eyes, and a silent reminder of a third party who was paying for their judgements.


He didn't know Sikaris terribly well. From what Arkoss could tell, younger than him (by the definition of a year the Alarians used, technically older than him if they were going by the now standard 365 day definition that the humans made so popular) but had risen to an important commanding position quite quickly and violently in the midst of a civil war. His track record spoke of raw efficiency, with various commemorations and awards granted to him, and what he'd overheard from the T.S.C. naval officers seemed to indicate that he was unwaveringly loyal to his cause of helping the 13th.
 
INTERLUDE

Mental exercise with some sub par writing on my part - sorry. At the end though a question for Durandel.

Through out the ship three small devices that radiated different types of energy had been set up. They had been set up in the cafeteria, armory and barracks. The crew that needed to be informed had been of a mental exercise Taxus was going to perform to increase his battle field tactics. These small energy beacons would represent different squads requiring different kind of support. Taxus had constructed a mental obstacle course with three different objectives to run through. The faster and more accurate he could run through this course the better. As long as there were no mistakes he believed that there wouldn’t be any equipment disruptions from this training exercise. At most there might be some minor communication disruption.


Taxus had placed himself in the brig. More accurately he was in what would be a solitary confinement chamber. He sat cross legged in the small dark room focusing on the different objectives he had set up. The need to transport himself such a great distance from Arkoss on the battle field seemed unacceptable in hindsight. It would be much more efficient to train more heavily in the ability to project his energy manipulation powers a farther distance while remaining fully aware of his physical self. The slightest inaccuracy while manipulating different types of energy could result in the least an inability to support the desire squad and at the worst injuring of allies. He gathered the energies within himself into a focal point that shot of like an arrow racing through the ship. This passing energy would cause people it passed to feel a breeze or a sudden drop in temperature.


As his mind raced into the cafeteria he swam around the energies of the different patrons. The first exercise was to create distractions for soldiers as they moved from position to position. As he moved by the patrons he gathered remnants of their personal energies and formed clones of their physical bodies. Manipulating the energies to match the correct colors and physical appearances so that to the naked eye they would appear to physical be standing there. He also made sure that the energy clones gave off the appropriate energy signatures that different instruments would be able to detect like temperature and heart beats. As he moved through the cafeteria several clones appeared and than dissipated in quick succession. It was as if seeing a procession of ones own ghosts manifesting themselves.


Barreling into the armory he projected himself to the firing range where weapons were being tested. As Funebrarans fired there weapons he manifested a physical shield to stop a single projectile at a time from hitting its target. The small energy shields caused ripples in the air as they formed and stopped the projectile in its track. He curved the energy around bullets to prevent them from ricocheting and allowed them to fall to the floor. Though this caused frustration with those on the firing range he proceeded to stop single bullets for roughly thirty seconds. Before moving on he raised a wall of energy that covered every target at once. He was able to sustain it for two complete salvos of fire before a bullet penetrated and slammed into its target. After the first shot was able to get through the energy wall crumbled and fell apart to the rain of fire.


Inside the barracks an area had been cleared with eight dummies set up in a circle formation. He begun to pool energy together in the middle of the circle. In quick succession he lashed out with energy bolts at each dummy which resulted in four direct hits to the chest, two grazes to appendages and two misses. The bolts weren’t powerful so they fizzled out just a few feet past their target. The accuracy of hitting the targets was unacceptable, but, hopefully with living targets that gave off their own energies this would be an easier feat to accomplish. In the center of the circle the air begun to appear to quake and shiver. A nova of energy erupted outwards, as it connected with the dummies it shredded them like paper and then fizzled out. From a distance manipulating the energies to that effect was too draining to be effective on the battlefield.


Taxus stood up inside his cell. The exercise had only taken a few moments but the manipulating of energies from a distance was more draining then direct manipulation. Leaning back against the cell wall he had hoped the exercise would clear his mind of the question that had formed after the battle. Unfortunately the question was still there. Going to Arkoss with this train of thought just didn’t seem like a good idea. Instead he activated his comm link, “Durandel, could you please set up a private and secure channel between you and I?” As soon as the communication channel was up Taxus proceeded with his question, “I’m curious Durandel. The Funebraran and their War Swarms seem to be feared by almost all the fighting forces in the galaxy. Why is it that the War Swarms do not simply take a world for their own rather than keep fighting in hopes that a world be gifted to them?”​
 
++INTERLUDE++

The room was a reasonably spacious one, with a variety of curving desks and tables creating a sort of large circular seating area. The center was a large white-floored area with a large holo-display, emerging out of the center like the end of a big fat tube. Scattered around it were smaller tables and seats, bearing straighter and more conventional designs. Seated at the opposite ends of one of the larger ones were Sefu and Krozill. They had been speaking mostly in English, as the former's grasp of funebraran was somewhat sloppy, leading to some occasionally rather strange ideas transmitted through the unique "language." A few others were present in the room, dressed in the smaller and more compact vests that many officers wore. While they held no visible weapons on themselves aside from a few handhelds and perhaps the odd knife or short-sword, their faces were just as terrifying as Krozill's mask. They watched like silent sentinels from the edges of the room, their seemingly maddened but morbidly determined gaze seeming equal parts war-lusting barbarian and battle-weary veteran.

"Trans-racial experimentation doesn't sit well with the newts; not a forte of theirs, surprisingly enough. Perhaps though, the Trans-Space Coalition were just...somewhat linked to this, you know? Elaborate on that please, Sefu."


Krozill had seemingly changed from the slacking, rasping voice most had associated him with to one less antagonistic. The hidden implication of violent capability was gone and his words simply crawled and slid through Sefu's ears. They demanded and seemed to grasp at the corners of his mind, as if his consciousness was accessible anywhere to the myriapod. Yet he accomplished all of this with no drug, chemical, or energy-craft; his voice was a strange thing.


"I will tell you what I can, of course. I am a prototype, you understand. My designation was X3-GI015. I believe I was contracted by the Coalition, but I'm not a hundred percent sure. What I know is mostly cobbled together from technicians' conversations. I understand that I was designed as a direct counter for Funebrarans. Specifically, as shock infantry. I do know for certain that I was designed to pass for an armoured modified-baseline human."


"Somehow I'm not surprised by that. You've heard the conspiracy theories from the right-winger fools I'm sure; we're secretly going to conquer them in the same way every other large nomadic barbarian war-group conquers the empire they worked for, thousands of year ago. What was it they called that civilization, that human one from hundreds of years ago, when they wore trash-can suits and prodded at each other with toy swords?"


There was a short pause, as Krozill lifted his head, seemingly in deep thought.


"Ah yes...Rome, I believe. Funny how one of these mostly pseudo-intellectual ramblings has come true for once. Names though... anyone who seemed to be calling the shots... that would be appreciated."


"I haven't heard those particular theories, actually, although I have heard suggestions of genocide. Unfortunately, I don't have many names for you. I remember General Izilleid, Admiral Moloch. Major Hoorneman, he was Izilleid's aide. Doctors Sangkin and Rovelyovischa."



"I recognize the first three; they haven't been terrible subtle about their dislike of having their elite fighting force being nomads for hire, but this is beyond any offhand comment they've made when not in front of pulpits or briefing rooms. As for the doctors...strange, Sangkin was a philanthropist, a doctor in an N.G.O. I wonder if his motive is 'genocide prevention' for the umpteenth time. This Rovelyovischa though, not a name I know of, at least not by that name. What else do you know about her?"


Jozev Sangkin, an Osvetlovan doctor, had made a name for himself as a sort of peace-activist while at the same time being a talented scientist in the field of bio-engineering. Many major breakthroughs had lead to revolutions in the medical field across the galaxy, including outside of Coalition territory. In spite of that, he was highly critical of the actions of both his race and the collective leadership leading what was essentially the largest, most united, and currently, the most powerful force in the universe. From news articles picked up on planetary transit systems to holo-broadcasts displayed across entire star-systems, he'd remained both an unwavering critic and a pioneering engineer.

Krozill found it a great shame that the funebrarans were often targets of his rants, editorials, and speeches. To him, they were little more than mercenaries who only fought for the highest bidder. They were traveling barbarians whose economy only existed because of the ineptitude of unchanging generals and leaders of planet-states, so set in their tradition and in that, weakened by leaning on the same old crutch for years, that their military actions always resulted in the most horrific of bloodshed, thanks to the "excessive" brutality of the nomads.


He didn't hate him; the man brought up many good points. He couldn't fault him in many ways either. He'd searched for the truth, from the most renowned news-casts to the obscurities of private intel gatherers, but there were some things kept secret for a reason. He'll learn someday, thought Krozill, man doesn't deserve to be kept in the dark about this.

"Rovelyovischa took project lead over from Sangkin after the main genetics phase completed. That would be about the time I was 'born.' She is a behavioral psychologist, or something similar. She developed the loyalty conditioning that will be used for the general production models, and had a guiding hand in my own training."


"Her background?"


"I don't know. She is from Novja, that's all I can say for certain. Technicians treated her like a princess to her face, called her a prima donna and occasionally sabotaged her work behind her back."


"Joint Command though, is a bit too clumsy if you ask me to cover their tracks this well. Political bitchery and expertly done...by that I mean 'terribly nosy'...journalism tend to reveal things like this at least a few months after it goes down."


"I had the impression the project was seriously black book."


"Well, one part of the puzzle solved; big bad empire of hidden evil has hidden army of evil on mind, but it's more than that. They wouldn't have sent us in if the mining facility was just another fart of a lone fortress in the middle of nowhere. Whatever was or still is under there, it's linked to your kind, isn't it?"

"It's a distinct possibility. I was housed there for just over six months with no reason given. The scientists did some token research on bio-grafting, but most of the research seemed to be focused on weaponry. Not emplaced, though. Not designed for an average TSC trooper, either. Too heavy. Probably within heavy-weapons range for me."


"These weapons...high yield, energy, dancing blue lightning like shapes?"
Krozill hadn't been present for the battle, but he monitored from aboard the Dissenter, through direct information feed from forces on the ground. Pleurodelinain weapon discharge could be a variety of colours, but intensely bright blue with what seemed like electricity dancing across it was something he had never seen until now.


"I saw those, yes. They weren't complete yet though...there was an overload problem of some kind."


"Still in a rudimentary state we can assume then, yourself included. But going back to our two doctors...I'm not the only one who thinks that this isn't something being done on the Joint Command's pay-tab, am I? Black book has a tendency to also mean 'contract book' at times. You saw him perhaps, when the T.S.C. touched down on the facility; the tierrodan, the businessman, the one who simply strode as if he owned the place, which he likely does now."


"Yes, I saw him. I tried not to get close."


"Good, he's a disagreeable cunt, to put it simply. Never met him personally, but I've kept my tabs on Abramelin for years now, whatever his real name is anyways. Ruthlessly efficient in the only way another one of those sharks that always follow Cormack, Izzilleid, Moloch, and the rest of the posse around. Fog of war, ah, what a faithful protector and servant of the irregular combatant you still are and will always remain. If 'Abramelin' is involved, then I'm desperately hoping that at least Sangkin didn't come along willfully. He may see us as the worst thing that can happen to a planet, but he's been around the bends; Abramelin's continued dominance of the R&D sector is likely the worst thing that whole systems have to put up with."

Krozill lied; he'd known Abramelin personally in the past, back when his service for the 13th took him deep beyond the point of trespass. This was before he had risen to power in Solstice, not as its leader, head researcher, or chief representative, but something far more shady. He seemed to lack rank, but he was always there, simply watching. He gathered information from the lab assistants and the fresh graduates from prestigious universities, their higher ups, and those above the higher ups, the executives, and the rest of the command chain. Then he'd make his moves. Most didn't notice. Rarely did he threaten, kill, sabotage, or other more subtly violent methods. Rather, he simply spoke his mind; he displayed his point of view, downplaying those with which he disagreed, changing the arguments and propositions of others, and spreading amongst others the seeds of a change. The veracity behind its reasoning was usually twisted, seemingly bluntly logical, conclusive, and simple, but more often than not, they were the gold-laced words of a cruel man, who controlled them as if they were hive insects, with the right words pushing the right buttons in collective minds. Sometimes, all he needed were the grunts, the workers, the apprentices, and the subordinates, yet through them the movement would trickle upwards.

Strange indeed; the man was ultimately the true "leader" of Solstice, and could command from the front or the heart of the corporation. Yet ghost-like he remained, always lingering behind the ear of a CEO or chief of research, a few words, perhaps a document of particular interest, or one of his shrouded meetings, and then the gears of the Solstice corporation changed their direction.


"I can't offer any insight into Sangkin's motivations. He was....'before my time,' for the most part."


"It's the other one I'm worried about; she's a nobody, or at least was very good at maintaining the image of one. With something like this, I doubt she was simply some no-name run of the mill bio-engineer who they simply bumped into one day and found to be 'pretty good. Things are going to get worse from this point onward; if he's here, then so are his bastard war hounds and combined with the Joint Command Group, more connections than I can be assed to even think about. That's all to discuss concerning the shady bastard sorts, but about you... you're going to need a disguise, by the way. A new identity to go with it as well. If this operation is as black-book as you say it is, then we can assume that Solstice and the T.S.C. are already very pissed off. We came, we conquered, and with you we left. Most of them are thinking that by now. Not even this cruiser is a safe haven anymore."


"How would I disguise myself? As for a new identity...I think I'll manage. After all, before today, I was just a number."


His question was answered almost immediately. An assertive voice, clear of the rasps and distorting grit associated with the funebrarans, boomed from the opposite of the end of the room in what was not quite yet a shout.


"And tomorrow, you shall simply 'be' one of us."


Only Sefu showed surprise as the others turned their head slowly to the newcomer, striding towards them in a strict fashion. The funebraran was as tall as Arkoss, yet his commander's uniform was simpler in design, featuring less of the billowing coattails and ritualistic symbols amongst military insignia. Its length only went to his waist and its primary colour was murky red, with bold streaks of black running across it, creating a simple but striking sense of contrast between the two colours, with edges being highlighted by an organic shade of green. It almost seemed as if his uniform was made of sectioned scale-like plating, but its shifting and crumpling as he approached seemed to be the only indicator that it was made of fabric rather than flesh. His face seemed long, with two compound eyes, seemingly made of thousands of small photoreceptors. They were large, like stones built nearing the edges of his skull. Yet they seemed in a way more like some sort of protective glass plating; beneath them, Sefu could see ball-like masses of a darker shade of the grey and green of these eyes. It was as if his real ocular organs were hidden behind some sort of protective coverings. Walking up to the table, he leaned on it with both hands, looking towards the hybrid with a seething, demanding gaze.


"You, who were created to mimic us, would only trick a fool, with a face like that and half-formed 'altered' characteristics. You'll pass as the bastard offspring of some trans-racial couple, and just barely at that."


His facial expression, even as he spoke, seemed barely approving of Sefu's presence. Mandibles seemed clenched and his very look one might imagine could order men into servitude without a single word. A sense of grim duty seemed to emanate from him.


"Off the chair and follow me, don't ask stupid questions you can decipher with simple logic and rationality. We're going to be busy in a few days and I don't like spending more time than is necessary on what's essentially clothing a grub."


He rose quickly and taking Sefu with him, they walked through the door on the other end of the room, the commander keeping up his brisk stride as they disappeared into the corridors of the vessel.
 
The tactical A.I. Durandal had been lying dormant since the conclusion of the battle. Numerous variables had been introduced and strained certain analytical sub routes, forcing Durandal to put resources into actually surveying the battle, delivering live-feeds, and issuing the best orders he could. He had wanted to get involved on a more personal level, but it wasn't going to happen. He wasn't even able to pay attention to X13 the way he had wanted.

Rest was a strange, but welcome, concept to the artificial intelligence. It was built upon the foundations of historical figures, from digitally restructured biological models and actual DNA. Deep down within it's multi-cored, multi-processor shell, there were actual bits of biological matter, technically making Durandal a cyborg. The entire personality, all of it's knowledge, was structured on this genetic data. Unfortunately, there had been a flaw in it's design. A flaw that would not be realized until hundreds of years later-- which would be around the current star date. This was a moment in which the flaw built upon itself, and channels in the othyr began to expand, and open...

While not exactly sleeping in anything close to the biological definition, Durandal was stirred from it's 'slumber'. A communique channel was queed and established, and the man known as Taxus began speaking:

“I’m curious Durandal. The Funebraran and their War Swarms seem to be feared by almost all the fighting forces in the galaxy. Why is it that the War Swarms do not simply take a world for their own rather than keep fighting in hopes that a world be gifted to them?”

It took a moment to analyze what was being asked.

"It is indeed a curious thing," he began, responding through their private line. "I cannot speak directly for the Funebraran. I have no detailed psychological profiles that dedicate themselves to the understanding of the mind of the War Swarm. However, I can make statements dictated upon the psychological models of other species which, I hope, shall be sufficient.

Using these models, I believe there's a long-seeded guilt in the War Swarm. Perhaps on some deep level they believe they are undeserved of a home world, after having lived so long among the stars. Perhaps they believe they owe the universe some debt, through their war-superiority. Perhaps they feel they cannot settle down until the gift is given them.

Indeed, maybe it is the mere fact that they can take whatever they want, that lessens the significance. They are a feared people, and if they take a world, perhaps they believe it will be taken from them and the trauma of an event such as that is not worth it. Or maybe it is the other side of that particular 'token', as you would say-- if they are given a planet, they finally have a place among the plethora of life in the universe."

There was a pause.

"I believe my last model is the correct one, of all of the conjecture. The Funebraran wish to be gifted a planet, to obliterate the stigma of being ostracized from the galaxy. When they are given a home world by the inhabitants of the universe, they shall have a home; it will be home."
 
The bloody hand clutches the face, drawing deep scars across it. Another fingure stabs its nail deep into the flest, drawing a thick line of bllood across the neck. The claw comes again, pushing down, into the mouth, into the chest, clutches the heart and-

Kelia jerked up, with enough speed to disconnect several of the wires stitched to her body, setting off several alarms. A nurse ran over and started to reinstert them into their appropriate sockets when a hand roughly grabbed her.
"I'm fine, get me out of this."
The nurse glanced hesitantly at Kelia, then up at the head nurse before unplugging the cords. "You'll still need some rest, and try not to-"
Kelia growled at her, "Im fine, now get me my damn armor!"
The nurse stared at her a moment before running to the other side of the medical area. Kelia ripped out the last few cords, channeling some power to fill in the holes, and then proceeded to swing her feet over the bed and stand up, using the post to stabilize herself. She then roughly shedded her robe and pulled a wad of camocloth from her Othyrworld pocket, then dressed herself. By this time the armor had arived, along with her claymore and katanas. She quickly assembled her armor, and then strapped both katanas to her back. Finally she slipped the Claymore into her pocket and too a step forward...and fell on her face.
Moments later she felt hands pick her up, and a then a calm, "Lieutenant, are you all right?"
She blinked for a second and looked at the face, she recognized it, put could not put a name to it. "Can you help me outside?"
The soldier nodded, "My pleasure ma'am."
Kelia slowly limped to the doorway, blinking rapidly as she walked into the light.
 
Sikaris was calmer now, His exchange with the executive officer of the ship had had him furious but he was better now. "Commander Schvensson, I give you the greetings of the Alarian senate. Allow me to forgo any more formalities, commander I was never very good at it." Sikaris had bowed as he greeted the Funebraran leader." I am sorry for the poor timing of my arrival, you see I was tasked to stop you from the attack, but I guess the Revenant isn't as fast as hoped. Anyways the people of Alara are very sympathetic to your kind, and we wish the TSC to stop their vagrant misuse of your loyalties. I was sent to aid you in whatever manner you desire, and to help put pressure on the TSC, let them know that their misuse and prejudice is not going unseen. I am to report any interactions I witness to the Senate and they will put pressure on the TSC to stop what they are doing to your people. As an act of good faith, The Praetor has commissioned this ship to be built to help you in any way possible. I hope that we will be of use to you in the coming days."<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Sikaris forwarded the frequency of a special channel that would allow Arkoss direct contact with the praetor of Alara.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"if you have any questions I will gladly oblige. I am sorry for the abruptness and short length of this conversation but i have urgent matters to attend to. Good day commander."<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Sikaris bowed and then turned off the hologram; he then turned to go oversee some of the enhancements that were being made to the ship.<o:p></o:p>
 
Interlude End

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[FONT=&quot]Two Days Later[FONT=&quot]


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Post Summary

Arkoss, Krozill, and Vetzer (the commander who appears in Sefu's post) discuss the suspicious activities of Solstice around the planet Membros; they seem to be fanning out beyond the perimeters of where the T.S.C. is fighting, as if they're looking for something. They're also very well hidden. At the same time, the 13th are attempting to rescue a political defector who may be able to give them information concerning Solstice and what they're up to. The problem is that the planet's two large dissenting political parties also really want him dead, and the team they sent in a few days before to retrieve him is having some trouble. Arkoss decides to contact Hayden again to help.

We're then treated to a flashback to two days earlier, where the a Solstice Conflict Response Division attack force, lead by the fearsome Cromlech, sets up at the main T.S.C. base. Cromlech then talks to Abramelin and Cormack, along with scientists working on the anti-funebraran shock-trooper project and the rest of the T.S.C. Joint Command Group.
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[FONT=&quot]Over a holo-pad within his office, Krozill Syen Berzek displayed a plethora of information to Arkoss and another voivod , the same one who had entered unexpectedly during his discussion with Sefu. They looked closely at the map display, the portraits of various military and political figures, and at headlines from news channels flashing across the holo-display.

"Solstice seem to have drawn their cards a bit early; just 14 hours ago, a few transport craft were seen descending to Membros' surface, one hour ahead of extra Coalition reinforcements." said Krozill, bringing up an electronic representation of what had happened. The Solstice craft were represented as purple shapes, looking like simple designs of the bulky, winged shapes of the transports.

The voivod with the small jacket and grim voice raised his hand, moving it towards the screen, sliding fingers across it slowly. The representation-recording fast-forwarded and the purple ships sped up, darting towards the green spherical shape of Membros, its surface on this base 3D representation split up into hundreds of small squares by a network of lines.

"Slippery rats. I don't remember them being assigned for deep jungle ops and it's doubtable they're here for the scenery." he interjected, his words like dripping venom. As the playback fast forwarded, a few of the transport craft seemed to fizz and slowly fade, as if they were only decoys. Most of them moved unto a model of a trans-space military base, one that the war swarm would be moving to the next day. Yet the ones that were fading and becoming increasingly less visible seemed to be turning away, veering off from the main group, before simply turning into static fuzz and disappearing.

"Slippery indeed, Halovic. Attempts to track them via linking up our radar with local ground forces has been ineffective, but we can safely assume that more than just a few have deployed to the capital of city of Inzerrus. Regardless of the supposed artifacts they're looking for, the capital is vital for everyone involved." Krozill replied. Moving his hands across the screen, he turned the globular shape of Membros, moving it further above their seated forms so the three could have a better look. The planet was like a giant mass of archipelagos floating around on the outskirts of humungous islands. Sometimes these masses of land seemed bisected or split by multiple rivers. The myriapod's fingers closed in one particular mass of land, not too far away from the smaller one the military base was situated on. It was one of the larger ones and with a delicate gripping motion, Krozill brought his eight outstretched
digits together. The map zoomed in, now on an isometric represntation of a large and flourishing city, with waterways running through its streets. Arkoss and the other commander leaned forward.

The chief voivod scanned here and there, analyzing the tactical significance of certain areas of the city and eying areas where the coalition and local forces had begun setting up their forces. They were represented with sections simply highlighted in blue for the T.S.C. and purple for the locals. Another hand went up, flicking holographic buttons and controls, bringing up different vision modes as he attempted to locate some hidden force. He scrolled over the rest of the city, eyes narrowed, but then stopped, unsatisfied, giving control back to Krozill. Leaning back onto his chair, he held his chin, eyes looking up at the myriapod.

"Don't tell me ground control doesn't have a single shred of intel on their positioning," said Arkoss dissappointedly, less at his fellow swarm commanders, but moreso at the way events were playing out. Not a single trace of them could be found on any tactical map, radard, motion tracker, or other allied intel network. It was as if they had never arrived on the planet. "They said they were here to protect vital assets, Inzerrus apparently having enough to warrant sending in a battallion or two. Somebody ought to have at least caught a glimpse of them."

"No, better than that."

Vetzer and the Armoros both raised their heads suddenly, but the former had beaten him to the punch.

"The catch first, Berzek."

"God, Vetzer," Arkoss said to himself mentally "Could you be anymore of a sour bastard?"

The centipede minimalized the planetary map and in its place, brought up a square shape from a panel on the right, a green circle with a plug-head upon it. It was information gathered from the disk that Edau Markarov had given him. Arkoss had spoken with the technicians and Berzek before about it; most of it was heavily encrypted in strange, half-broken shapes, like poorly drawn versions of funebraran language glyphs, but they had found documents that had been added to it recently, with this one being the one of immediate importance.

Moving the square to the center, he tapped it and it grew in size, revealing a picture of a varanon, one dressed in standard dull-coloured civilian clothing, with a hat partially obscuring his eyes. Data rushed unto beneath the portrait, giving a name, birth date, blood type and others.
A short history revealed that he was a 40-year old ex-member of the Membros' planetary parliament, which had come into power a year after the T.S.C. left. He'd lost his position in a pro-
[/FONT]Kohoavtse party a few years ago after a scandal during a power-struggle destroyed his reputation. He ended up working alongside the Jaanoaikken, revealing to them important political secrets. Left three years later, due to increasingly conflicting beliefs, working as an informant for the current neutral regime.

"Salazar Tibautho was declared M.I.A. by the planetary government as of two days ago. The Jaanoaikken have caught up to him and killed off the witness protection, the government bodyguards, and most of his family. Both sides want him alive; stabbed both in the back and got away with important intel."

"I have this just...horrid feeling that the fact they'll be terribly focused on killing each other, thus giving us cover, is our only real 'good' news." said Arkoss, a sense of dread present in his voice. Battles in urban areas like this more often than not lead to the death of numerous noncombatants.

"Piss excuse for good news; more coverage on our arses and civilian casualties they can link to us is far from good." replied Vetzer's bitter and biting voice. He was observing video footage of the opposing factions engaging in combat across the cities of Membros. The results were not pleasant, much like the commander's harsh personality. Arkoss doubted that he cared much for the toll in civilian life. He'd always been a bitter commander.

Again Krozill brought up the map, focusing on a city very close to the main T.S.C. base they'd be deployed to tomorrow. Moving further from the bustling heart of the city to its outskirts, an area of derelict strucctures, shanty towns, and a few gloomy factories that loomed over the crude residences. At the outskirts of this rough part of the city lay old shipping warehouses, grand if dark coloured structures that looked across the murky waters of the "swamp oceans". Krozill proceeded to zoom in on a particular district and area, one near a particularily gnarled old cluster of warehouses.

"If it makes you feel any better, the cluster of old ship-building facilities we believe Tibautho to be hiding in are mostly deserted, although there are low-rent residences and shanty towns nearby. It's 'quiet' battle, being fought with hidden forces and undercover agents, some of which are disguised as local law enforcement. The presence of a coalition base on the outskirts of the city and their peacekeepers in this general area forces them to keep their combat under the covers and low-profile. Both sides are in a standstill currently, too busy eying one another to keep on eye on us. Don't keep your hopes up though; if full scale combat does break out between the two, expect it to escalate. The area is a hiding ground for the Jaanoaikken and the Kohoavtse likely have some air support stolen from the local military."

"What do we have on the ground and what's stopping them?"

"Glad you asked. A small team; 10 infiltrators, three orphans, undercover and human. They can speak the native tongue and can blend in aesthetically. Communication has been woefully sparse after they started closing in and with hostiles so close. The standstill has essentially created a no-man's land and a kill-zone in front of the warehouses; you can't go inside of it without bringing a thousand hidden weapons from either side upon your head. The're looking for a breach, an opening, but it's a bit easier said than done currently."

Halovic's response was sharp and resolute.

"If it's like this, then get a strike team ready now dammit; too often has sparse communications and lack of action meant being blocked out and failing to achieve an objective. Ravagers, winged infantry, arachno-juggernauts; hard and fast, in and out. Nobody will know what hit them."

"We're going too far here; minimalized collateral is still collateral, and just a few deaths and levelled structures aren't worth the outrage that will follow." objected Arkoss the second he finished talking.

"What are you suggesting? Force the stealth team out of their element? Another heroic last stand made from the consequences of another strategical failure?" he shot back.

Arkoss sent him a dark look. Vetzer, as trusted as he was, had a sharp tongue that was not above bringing up tactical failings from the past, and not just of Arkoss.

"We've conquered worse and you know that; we'll make it work. This kill-zone can be breached; I'll find a way."

Vetzer's look was stony and untrusting, doubtful at the same time. Krozill rose, raising his hands.

"You two can take care of this some other time. There's not much else here to discuss, both of you. Fill in Sorvaille and the rest of the voivodry and we'll be ready."

Arkoss sighed as the holographic display was turned off. He and Hydalain rose from their chairs, exiting through the door, going their seperate ways without so much as even a glance towards one another. The commander of the 13th war swarm could hear the sound of Krozill's mask opening, mechanical components whizzing and making a sound like decopressed air. The smell of liquid intoxicants carried a bit down the hallway.

A few hours later, in his room, a pod of teitanblod sitting on his desk, he opened up his portable computer. He typed in a code of some sort, reading as "
ATWS - 180.52." Adjusting the volume settings, he spoke.

"Membros, tomorrow, 0-11-hundred hours, Stahls and McGufferin. Big dome-shaped cultural center overlooking it. I assume you know what's at stake."

++++++++++


Two Days Ago

On the main base on Membros, a hulking behemoth, as tall as Arkoss and even stronger looking, stepped out from the doors of a massive gunship. There were more than a few of these metal behemoths landing on the open tarmac of the T.S.C.'s designated drop zone, letting loose more of these morbid, almost robotic looking bio-mechanical warriors, yet few of them were as intimidating as Cromlech himself.

His steel helmet's front, almost looking like an older issue gas mask, combined with his night-black and military green armour, over which various customized armour plates and equipment pieces lay, made him look like some hellish amalgamation of weaponry and nightmarish technology. The others were similar but usually less tall and not quite as immediately morale-destroying upon sight. No one came to greet them; even the cold-blue faceplates of the T.S.C. troops standing guard, the larger kyrdeonin and a few scielto hovering around eyed them with suspicion.


Slinging up a long, thick and heavily modified long-bodied bolt gun across his shoulders with his left hand, he walked almost uncaringly into the base, his nonchalance and appearence, combined with the fact that he had
an even larger weapon attached to his back, seemed to put everyone except his own S.C.R.D. (Solstice Conflict Response Disvision) operatives on the edge. The others were not any more lightly armed. Multi-barreled rotary cannons, streamlined and long barreled sinister green glowing pulse guns, exotic weapons that ended in spike-like ends across which arcane energies danced, state of the art computerized assault rifles with advanced and ergonomic designs and a plethora of other weapons adorned their forms.

Beneath his death mask, Cromlech smirked, making fake lunges at a few of the spooked guards, laughing cruelly as they jumped back in shock. His men seemed a bit more reserved, but they had no response to his intimidation tactics. They weren't here to give these lesser men and women goosebumps; Abramelin had tasked them with far more vital goals. Subject B18 was one of them, but they had other things to deal with as well.


After setting up their positions inside the base, the leader of this detachment soon found himself out the door of a certain General Cormack. Along with the aging human and the rest of the Joint Command Group, a few scientists working on the prototype shock troops, Abramelin (who would be communicating via holo-pad), they spent quite some time discussing the events that were to come.
 
Into The Fog

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Chapter 3:

World Of Mist




Overture: Casilda's Song by Root from Temple In The Underworld (1992)

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Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink behind the lake,
The shadows lengthen - in Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies,
But strange still is - lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in - dim Carcosa.

Shall dry and die in - lost Carcosa.

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Membros has been associated with the hidden, the covert, and the mysterious ever since it was first discovered. It has reason to be so; the fog and mist obscure more than just black ops and guerilllas.

- Proffessor Timonthy Stanford, University of Kyivliss, Planet Eden IV.

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Membros, Main Trans Space Coalition Base on outskirts of the city Imberron. 9:55 AM. 13th War Swarm Forces have begun descent.


Hyperlinked Planetary Overview

Post Summary:

The Funebrarans begin setting up on the main base, while Arkoss, after setting up his shit in his mad bitching office, goes off into the city to talk with Hayden, or at least he hopes he'll be talking to him again.


The landings had been smooth, albeit somewhat tricky with the vast amounts of fog and mist of the wet, swampy, war-torn planet Membros. Hundreds of Funebraran troop transport ships and drop-insects had descended from air-borne cruisers and other ships, touching down on friendly soil. The massive wings of quite a few of their living transports blew away the fog, sending dust, leaves, and other debris scattering all over the place. From beneath their hard scales and within their troop bays, hundreds of dark black shapes exited, holding bags, weapons, and equipment. Along with few Spherids and humans, a variety of other races allied with the T.S.C. were standing around, mostly unarmed and simply just directing traffic or talking to Funebraran officers.

Arkoss himself hopped out from beneath the scales of a large, energetic-looking creature that looked like a large mite crossed with a dragonfly. Its body was moderately long and wide for a transporter beast and had various armoured scales on it and a fair share of fur, yet a cluster of large strong wings on its back gave it the power to manoeuvre and accelerate very quickly. He and a few others landed on the ground with an audible thump, causing a few of the less experienced flight directors and other greeting party members to jump and twitch in surprise.

One of varanon, wearing a flexible, segmented-plate, light suit of grey-blue armour approached him a blue-green camo-pattern beret. Originally a part of human dress code, somehow berets spread all around the T.S.C. and soon to worlds, races, and groups even opposed to the Coalition. The reasons for its explosion in popularity are still unknown. Its skin seemed to be a lush, dark green and spoke with a sort of slithering yet not sneering nor harsh voice.

"Voivod Arkoss Schvensson, I have a document for you from Colonel Stanford. He's running the particular segment of this op you're under. Your office is on the fourth floor; 407. Here are the keys as well."

From his gloved hand (which Arkoss could tell actually had a few pointy-looking claws under it), he passed him a sort data slate and some keys. It was basically two tab-like pieces separated by what at first seemed to be glass but was actually some sort of strange energy, displaying its data as if from a computer screen. It could be folded up and opened quite easily and they never seemed to run out of power for some reason. Thanking the soldier, he took his bag and walked off to the tall central command center that sat around the rear of this military compound. It was surrounded by a plethora of other ones, all neatly placed and blocky in shape. Some sloped, some sharp, some symmetrical, some asymmetrical and some round but all of them were an industrial mix of green, white, blue, and grey.

The command center itself was rather smooth in shape, almost like a half dome. That smoothness was most likely a part of the spheroid architects who helped to make it, yet some of it was still harshly blunt and blocky in shape, jutting from its semi-spherical form. It was like a plant with strange parasites infecting it; odd growths would stick out in awkward ways, disrupting the natural balance and smoothness. Opening its automatic front door, he entered its old crowded halls. It was an explosion of activity inside. Higher-ranked personnel going to and from, shouting out orders and demanding status updates, soldiers sitting around and telling their tales of war, and Arkoss meanwhile pushing past their busy chattering, running, shouting forms.

He managed to eventually reach the fourth floor, after a rather cramped ride on an elevator. This floor seemed rather quiet, although he could still hear the murmuring, shouting, and general commotion of a few floors down echoing up here. He walked to around the other end of the hall, finally reaching his office. Opening it with the keys, he was surprised at its size. It was vast, spacious, and there even seemed to be a small bar on the side. A large mahogany desk sat at its far end and a bit ahead and in front of it were two windows, through which the sun of the early morning of Membros was beginning to shine in, past the planet's signature fogginess. An elaborate carpet, apparently what they called a "Persian Rug" was stretched over most of the room's hardwood floor, on which to the right of the room were placed a few couches and a small coffee table. He smiled, set down his bag, and began setting up his personal belongings and equipment.

A few minutes later, the voivod was outside, feeling the warm morning sun coming down on all, through the now very thin layers of fog and mist, of which was on the ground, creeping along it like a carpet of white transparent-ness. Most of his forces has gotten set-up although a few of the larger war-animals and vehicles were giving everyone hell when it came to finding out where to put them. Still, he trusted his fellow officers to do their job. A few of them he passed along the way, waving to him. He smiled. He was still wearing his commander's uniform from the flight here. Its appearence was like that of a a long, flowing black robe mixed with a traditional general's outfit. It hadh a few straight, sharp red and gold lines running across it designating his rank and lines shaped like thin, sword-like blades running down his sleeves. Its long coattails seemed to flutter around in the wind and apparently, this was supposedly very "bad-ass" looking on Arkoss, in the words of some of the younger soldiers serving under him. There was an optional harsh, soulless looking face-mask, but he never really liked wearing it, along with the commander's hat, which while technically mandatory uniform, he never wore it and nobody seemed to care.

He was walking down from this plateau of elevated ground, towards a small city looming off into the distance. It didn't have the harsh, towering, prism-esque shapes usually associated with the word "city", instead opting for less dominating, oppressive shapes although a few more conventional designs occasionally were seen here and there. Quite a few were dome like, others while blocky, seemed to be multi-part structures, composed of many other buildings that also had a similar design aesthetic as the command center. It looked quite clean as well; despite its hustle and bustle, the skies were still clear and the mist descending upon it did little to really obscure its pristine beatuy.

As he passed the outskirts of the city, now witihin the steel jungle, he He pulled out a small cell-phone like device. Tryping in a number on device, then putting it to the side of his head, he spoke to the gun-runners and mercenaries who had helped them a few days ago, backk on Columbia 4.


"I'm nearly there. You?"
 
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> Terry Whineheart stood alone, blood splattered across his monstrous power armor, staring into space through a massive view port in an asteroid mining station that sat just on the edge of TSC influence. A corpse was his feet, a horribly mangled and unarmored human miner, but Whineheart didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were shifting wildly from star to star, as if he could view what planets circled each and what was happening on them, until he settled on a particular star that sat at the tail end of an oddly cupped constellation that had once been known as the little dipper to some. He suddenly wasn’t standing in the mining station anymore, the eerie hum of its oxygen re-processors no longer dominated his senses, instead the pounding of war dominated his mind.

---

He was running, just as fast as his heavily armored power suit could carry him, and firing forward, his heavy mini-gun built in the classical design of ages gone past roared angrily and spat a wall of bullets at some alien creature that he couldn’t remember the name of. Whatever it had been, it was torn to miserable shreds by the powerful weapon and left nothing more than a lime-green stain to mark its existence. Others were charging with Whineheart, humans in personally customized power armors, Funebarians armed with their odd insectoid weaponry, and other aliens who had recently found themselves living within TSC territory and had been picked up a certain well re-knowned mercenary group, then led by a former TSC general.

Chatter sounded within Whineheart’s helmet, something broken up and near unintelligible, but everyone in the group understood it, their TSC reinforcements were retreating and hadn’t bothered to leave a secure root for the mercenaries to pull back through. Terry doesn’t remember him speaking, but he knows that Arkoss gave the order to press forward, that if they completed their mission then the enemy would be crippled enough for them to escape. How foolishly they had believed him.
The mercenary group, a sum of thirty mismatched soldiers that had come to rival the TSCs special operations teams in proficiency, continued their charge forward, moving expertly between cover, friend and foe, and aiding each other with a surprisingly small amount of chatter. They had all fought together enough times that it was as if they already knew what everyone else was going to do. An explosion shook the world from behind them, and Terry turned for a split second to see what it was. An enemy mech, some monstrous primitive machine that lacked shields, had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and plucked the rearmost mercenary from her feet and crushed her between its massive powerful claws before anyone could react.

“Nordica is down!” Terry screamed and opened fire on the machine, his acide filled bullets bore holes into its thick armor with little effect, “We need demolitions to the rear.”

From somewhere behind him, a missile shot through the and exploded fiercely against the mech’s body. It collapsed in a cloud of smoke and debris, but not before it shot of its own payload of deadly anti-infantry explosives. Terry got lucky, he stood in a spot that shielded him from torrent of explosions that ripped through the center of the mercenary group and dropped most of them. He pressed on none the less, careful to avoid stepping on their remains.

“Arkoss!” he yelled upon seeing his long time comrade and friend up ahead, he was popping a round into the head of a dying comrade. A mercy kill that Terry accepted as a more a loving gesture than anything else, “Arkoss, we need to get in cover!”

An armor clad human was running beside Terry, he had been forced to shed his helmet earlier in the festivities due to heavy damage to it, and Terry motioned him forward as he turned to fire on a new group of enemies moving in behind them. His eyes had left his comrade for less than a second or two, but when looked back the man’s head was gone, and in its place sat a horrid looking bird creature that screeched at Terry before diving at his head.

---

Whineheart stepped back and brought his sword up defensively, suddenly back in reality standing in an empty mining station. A corpses cracked below his massive armored boot. He turned to look at the mess hall he stood in, blood caked the walls and floors and corpses littered the room. The miners had made their final stand against him here, but their weapons had not been designed to counter act power armor upgraded like Terry’s had been. The job hadn’t been a challenge the whole way through, and it the end it had just become sport to the Terry and had toyed with the final victims for a few hours before he killed them. Terry didn’t generally take jobs that required him to slay his own kind, but he had another purpose in coming to the station, and that was to receive another job. A separate employer had left a data pad within the mining facility, at the bar in the mess hall, and Terry had first entered the station and retrieved it, acting as friendly as could be, and then returned to finish his other contract, and killed everyone.

Whineheart prompted his suit’s display to show the message that was contained in the data pad. It stated, in a short simple sentence, “Proceed to Membros, more intel when you arrive.”

Terry smiled brightly, a twisted smile that would have sent shivers down any creatures spine, and headed towards his ship. The data pad employer was his favorite, the jobs they gave him always ended with lots and lots of killing of alien species, which was exactly what he always hoped for.
 


"Bossman, we've got a conference call coming in from Chairman Radetsky and CINCSOCOM." Mondegreen says to me. I sit up, the book I'm reading falling to my lap.

"Main screen turn on." I yawn. A split screen appears, Chairman Radetsky's sillhouette on one side, CINCSOCOM, General Gunsight to me, on the other.

"Commander Arcturus, we have a job that requires your crew's special skill set." Radetsky starts. I pick up my coffee cup and take a quick sip of what amounts to hot asphalt.

"Do tell." I reply. General Gunsight pipes in this time.

"Strike Team Echo's got an operator on Membros, callsign Clark." An image comes up on my console showing a GI in his Class As. Another image pops up, this one showing the same man wearing CMC-150 armor without the body suit but fatigues instead, a black ball cap, and aviator shades. He has a GAR-65A2 in one hand and is pointing at someone out of the view of the photographer. Behind him and carrying what appears to be a GSR-82A3 Payload Bullpup is what I percieve to be an overgrown lizard.

"You got him in Jurassic Park?" I joke.

"That'd be a vacation compared to where he's at right now." Gunsight replies. "Clark is on Membros, organizing resistance forces within a Pro-American faction." I can't help but detect a 'but' in there.

"And the catch is?" I ask.

"One of the other factions has been recieving equipment they shouldn't have been able to afford. As per usual the CIA suspects the Soviets are behind this." I'm not in any way surprised.

The CIA still claims the Soviets were behind Kennedy's assassination back in 1963. More than a few people claim the Agency was behind it.

But I'm not about to open that can of worms.

"So you want me to take my merry band of soldiers of fortune in to assist your man, correct?" I know the answer.

"We know you resupplied recently. If you'll check your manifests you'll find conversion parts for your stock of M-32A1 Stegosaurus mecha for jungle operations." Radetsky says. I look to Mondegreen who's already pooring over our supply stocks on his popup console.

"Weren't the Stegos already tuned for that sort of work?" I ask.

"It is, however what the eggheads in R&D have come up for it is a passive optical camoflauge." I like the sound of that. "It activates when the mecha has been still for five seconds, a series of sensors scanning the background and assuming a similar pattern. They've tested it against moving backgrounds, such as trees moving in the breeze. It works just fine but that's in a controlled environment."

"Sir, I found the parts in our manifests." Mondegreen tells me.

"Thanks, Mondegreen..." I say to my XO. "Chairman, we're going to be guinea pigs again, aren't we?"

"The best place to test new systems is in actual combat. Based on your team's records we feel you're the best suited to be given such special equipment." Radetsky's comment sound like sucking up. Conversely we do recieve some pretty high end gear so maybe it's warranted.

"Speaking of combat, Commander, I have a question about something." Gunsight says. I look at him and a video menu pops up on the mainscreen. I see Columbia 4 when we attacked those gun emplacements. I watch as I drive a chainsword bayonet into an amphib and gut him.

"Be glad I'm not French, otherwise I'd be eating you!" I laugh at that memory.

"That was a lot of fun, I'll admit that." I say with a smile.

"You know Strike Team Echo's house rule, Commander." Gunsight says, breaking me from my reverie. "Six close in kills and you're put in admin."

Radetsky told me years ago when I was taken in by ArmsTek that the house rule has something to do with the number of fingers on one hand. The first close in kill means something, always. By the time you reach five you've lost sight of that first kill's meaning. It just becomes routine.

"General, if I may that kill was a technicality." I start.

"Is that so? I'd love to hear your logic, Commander." I grin and finish my coffee.

"According to Strike Team Echo a close in kill is carefully orchestrated. It takes time and planning to get close to a target." I say, pacing through the bridge. "Furthermore that was hardly a stealth kill."

"You've done your homework, Commander... Fine... I'll let it slip." I smile at his acceptance of my argument. "Now, you are to rendezvous with Clark on Membros. We're sending you drop zone coordinates."

"Bear in mind, this is primarily a covert op. You will not field anything heavy unless we are given the go ahead to assume a military stance."

"Ground pounding, eh?"

"Seems what you're best at, Commander." Before I can say anything Mondegreen catches my attention.

"Sir, the client is calling." I nod then look to Gunsight and Radetsky.

"Gentlemen, what you're about to hear is a Funebreran, the one we assisted back on Columbia 4."

"I'm nearly there. You?"

"Just about, Client. Something on your mind?"

--------------------------------------



McKnight, the Ruination's senior armorer and US Navy veteran entered the hangar deck to check the deconstructed equipment. He found Desolator and Lockjaw lounging about, the bigger Mechalith cleaning a GAU-9 Lawnmower Vulcan cannon, the other in the process of enjoying a bottle of rum.

"Hey, we've got a job you two." the Gunners Mate said to the automatons. Desolator looked up from his project at the sailor.

"Fu-uck... Can't you see I'm busy..." the automaton snarled.

"Hey, mon, let de man talk." Lockjaw countered. Desolator grumbled.

"Alright, what's the mission..."

"We're going to Membros for a nice bounce in the jungle on Membros. You two think you can handle it?" McKnight asked.

"It'll be just like me vacation on Barbados. I'm game." Lockjaw said cheerfully.

"I hate the jungle... I get crud and bugs in my servos..." Desolator groaned. Lockjaw went to his compatriot and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"C'mon, mon, it's not so bad. Just install de dust covers ya use in de desert. Dat'll help somewhat."

"Alright, fine... But you owe me, Lockjaw..." Desolator said, pointing in his comrade's face.

"Alright, so it's settled. I'll let you guys know when we land." McKnight said to the two automatons.

"You might wanna leave us be for a bit, fleshbag." Desolator said as he pulled Lockjaw to his side. McKnight cocked a brow then shook his head.

"Yeah, just don't break anything..." McKnight left the hangar deck, closing the door behind him. Twenty minutes later Fulber would go in to get his gear.

In space no one can hear you scream.

However on a ship in space everyone can hear you scream.
 
Dissenters

Cormack was wondering why he had agreed to this and reached for a cigarette, his head propped up on his left arm.

He had looked at the video displays from his personal computer and could not go to a single video feed without hearing some Funebraran called "crumb sucker", seeing S.C.R.D. operatives and T.S.C. M.P.'s engaging in some sort of staring contest, or whole rooms just a few words away from exploding into violence as the T.S.C. and Funebrarans, forced to bunch together in the face of something far worse, yelled, pointed fingers, and threw their degradation and scorn at one another.

It was strange. Solstice, the leading edge in high grade technology and not just military technology, was guarded by little more than a multi-racial (and ironically, racist) group of barbarians. They were not bare-chested, long-haired sword-and-axe wielding men of Earth's old pulp fiction novels and swords-and-sorcery films, but they were not much different and probably worse in terms of attitude. They looked the part as well. While their armor, equipment, and weaponry was very high grade, it looked more like some highly-modified abomination you'd see on some robotic warlord when they had covered themselves in bandoliers, extra armor plating, war paintings, and scars. There was no real uniform look to them; like the Funebrarans, all of their equipment and gear was more often than not modified, although they took it to the next level.

Still, he had and the rest of the Joint Command Group had always seen Abramelin as an honorary member of sorts, havin worked his way in savagely. He was a constant reminder of how much both the military and the economy both relied on one another, something that Solomon often had regrets about. The cunning and merciless Tierrodan had sent his chief chess piece Cromlech in for a reason. If they all wanted to acquire what they came for before their rivals did, then it would be most wise to send in a group that specialized that, with the most fearsome of his dogs leading the effort.

Abramelin seemed to look down on Cormack, but then again, just like Cromelch, he only respected the strong and the merciless. He was a harsh bastard, and not just when he was in the briefing room or over the holo-chat. The aging general had seen the rock-man fight and he knew that if Abramelin was considering entering directly into these operations, then there was something down on these worlds that he'd be willing to do the worst to obtain.

++++++++++

Reeling from the impact of an iron fist, the towering funebraran, the spawn of an ant-type and a species of long-bodied aquatic insect, fell onto his knees, left hand clenching his stomach. With laboured breaths, he glared back at the Solstice trooper, an equally large, heavily customized and looking almost like a sentient combat-mech than a "Conflict Division Operative". None could see his face, obscured behind a metal mask onto which the paint-pattern of some mythic creature of spiritual significance in their ancient culture was painted. Anyone in the room though could feel the mocking glare coming from behind it.

A few others watched silently, yet he could make out the snickers and the cruel smiles from underneath their goggles and visors.

"How low the price you must sell your lives upon the battlefield!" said the one who defeated him, half-laughing through his roaring voice.

One of the others whispered something, something venomnous and dripping with condescension, into the ear of another. A cacophony of cracking and intimidating laughter erupted from the two of them.

"The myth of your 'supremacy' on the battlefield...what a shame, defeated here in an engine room, against a single grunt. You really are no different than the scum scurrying from underneath the logs and the leaves."

The Funebraran looked up, a look of raw hate and defiance on his face, yet he remained silent.

He had come this way, simply looking to get away from the tension and anger bubbling in the armory that all started over a minor argument over weapons modifications, yet as he passed through an engine room to the quarters, they had come as well. He had seen them, sneaky eyes looking around, two of them settling on him. He hadn't taken it as much; he looked as alien as any other Funebraran, yet apparently his appearence singled him out for their hate.

Suddenly, he felt something grip him, yanking him up to a standing position, an even taller operative, probably a scielto given the elongated helm and curving and blade like protrusions emerging from its back, yet it was taller by half-a-foot than the osvetlovan
. They were almost face to face. It looked off and muttered something to the osvetlovan, nodded and then stood back.

He spat at it, a goey green substance smearing on its goggles, before it wiped it off. There it was again; that grin of theirs. How how he hated it so much.

The S.C.R.D. operative raised his fist back, preparing to knock the insectoid out cold.

++++++++++

A large kyrdeonin staggered through a door to one of the lounges. Cuts and bruises apparent on the beast-man as it hobbled off to a medical facility. Inside the lounge, both could see what was the cause for the injuries.

A tall power-armoured warrior, form covered by harsh looking combat armour adorned with weapons, equipment, and ammo, stood proudly, blood smeared onto his fists. The logo of Solstice, a burning star seemingly imprisoned by jagged spine-like lines, could be seen upon his shoulder pads. The room itself seemed to be split. On one side, the mortal enemies that were the T.S.C. and funebrarans were positioned. They sat, stood, leaned, played pool, gambled, and on the other, mouths hidden behidn the cold war-masks of the Solstice warriors spat taunts, slurs, and insults. The intimdating soldiers were mostly standing, a few leaning against walls and vending machines, others jostling violently.

As Vetzer and Sorvaille moved observed the room, they watched the obvious victor of the previous fight cautiously. He was noticeably larger than the rest and his armour, underneath the bandoliers, knives, grenades, and extra plating, seemed to be home to a variety of scars and savage looking war-paint designs. There was a lengthy serrated short sword sheathed at his waist. The armoured barbarian turned around to look at the two. The room went silent and both sides watched to see what would happen next. The soldier seemed to pause, contemplating his next move, before simply stepping out of the way.

The room seemed to stay silent and after exiting to a different section of the base, stayed silent for a bit longer, but listening a bit closer, the two voivods heard signs that the room was once again descending into disorder and unruliness.

The corridor they now found themselves was empty. They said nothing to one another, but simple glances towards one another communicated all that they would need to say. Sorvaille proceeded to advanced towards the laboratory of the base, while Vetzer proceeded up a stairway, to the upper floors.

If Edau Markarov wanted to keep the disk away from these people, it was safe to assume they had a way to decode its contents. At the same time, there was a thing or two Vetzer wanted to investigate concerning Solstice's history on this world.
 
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> A metal door was all the separated the mercenary group from the raging alien army that controlled the planet. There was only seven of the thirty man strike force left, one of whom was dying from a fatal wound. His right arm had been ripped off in an explosion moments before the group had taken shelter in an abandoned TSC bunker.

Terry stood facing the door, his minigun aimed at the closed passage. His finger hovered just over the trigger, waiting for the enemy to break in. His armor was coated in dirt and blood, dented and scraped from shrapnel and near misses, and his helmet was scratched to hell and half coated in orange blood. Everyone else was in much the same condition, as if they had all been chewed up and spat out by some gigantic beast.

“What are we gonna do?” someone said, their voice high and panicked, “We’re all gonna die aren’t we? We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die…we’re gonna…we’re…” He continued to mutter his statement over and over again in an almost non-existent voice.

No one said anything to contrary; they all had realized that there was no hope for them. The main combat force had left, and their opponents took no prisoners. It was them versus and entire alien species, it seemed to be an impossible fight. The soldiers around the room made themselves busy, checking their ammo or sharpening their blades, some even prayed to whatever god they believed in. Terry concentrated on the door. The enemies’ poundings on it were rhythmic and reminded the soldier of song he had liked as a child, but it was off just enough that it wasn’t close to the same.

Suddenly, the pounding on the door stopped and everyone went silent and stared intently at the door. The man with the missing arm quietly slipped into death. The person who had lost all hope continued his insane chant, but everyone else stood, weapons at the ready, and backed towards the only passage out of the chamber, which led deeper into the bunker.

The display in Terry’s helmet flickered and died. He cursed his luck and ripped it off. In the moment it took for Terry to remove his helmet, the door disappeared with a loud thwump. It was dark behind where the do had been before and the soldiers, despite their training to do otherwise, stand into the darkness searching for something. Then the enemy came, hundreds of tiny blue and orange creatures that stood at about a human’s waist bounded in, brandishing barbaric looking weapons and frothing at the mouth. Terry opened fire; his massive fire arm ripped through their ranks with great efficiency, but no matter how many were killed, more poured in over their dead comrade’s corpses.

“Pull back!” Arkoss yelled, taking charge of the leaderless mercenaries who instantly responded. They turned in a practiced motions, stopping every now and again to give their other moving comrades cover fire. Only one disobeyed, the chanter remained where had been, a sword in hand, yelling to his last breath, “We’re all gonna die!”



A small blue and green planet fell into view of Whineheart’s small transport style ship. Despite its dimunitive appearance, it looked exactly like a common freighter, it held a deadly punch. While it most certainly couldn’t hold its own versus a cruiser, it could cripple ships much larger than itself and retreat before they new what had happened. The ship was a stark contradiction to its pilot, who would much prefer to stay and finish any fight.

Whineheart smiled upon seeing the planet from his captain’s chair. It could have been confused for earth had the continents not been so different and the planet itself so much smaller. Its likeness to his race’s home world, which he had never actually seen, was not what made him happy. It was the fact that he knew people were going to die at his hand on the small planet, and most of those deaths would not be pleasant.

A feminine voice came from his console and informed the mercenary that he had a message from his employer. Whineheart commanded the computer to play it. A mechanical voice grew in the air.

“Mr. Whineheart, the usually amount has been transferred to your account. You to strike the local military base at the coordinates you will find embedded in this message, and then proceed to contact us through the regular channels. You aware of what will happen if you try and cheat us, Mr. Whinehear, but we have all confidence that you wont.”

Whineheart smiled, his usual horribly twisted smile, and stood from his chair, “Activate stealth mode and prepare my drop pod,” he commanded joyously and headed towards the rear of his ship. More than few people were going to die; he was going to up heave whatever civility remained between the factions on the planet and send it into a chaotic full scale war. Which was exactly what his employers needed for their actions to move forward with relative ease.
 
The Meinhardts, assigned to the S.C.R.D., are deployed into the city - anyone who gets between them and the target are eliminated, including "friendly" forces.

Light glittered off of the Solstice gunships as they flew lazily over the waters of Membros, moving in a long, slow turn towards the city. They were nearly a kilometer off the water at this point, the few gunboats the TSC used as a seaborne patrol just specs far beneath them. They had finally gotten deployment orders - the Solstice soldiers were to deploy into the city for "peacekeeping" operations, and the men in the dropships were itching to finally get boots on the ground after hours in the air. But first, they had a small detour to make.

The craft farthest in the back split off slightly from the rest, diverting towards the right to bring it more in line with a warehouse district on the shore. Inside the craft, an amber light lit above the side door, and in unison two figures inside the craft stood up. One last double check of straps and gear, and they both stood at the now open side door, looking at the crew chief standing beside them without a word. Creeped out, he looked away, calling out to the pilot. "They're ready! How long until the drop?" "One minute until they drop! Get ready!"

Despite it being a short time, not everyone on the dropship was patient.



As the crew chief turned back to tell the jumpers, one of the Solstice mercs stood up behind them. "Hope you're ready, you creepy fucks!" His boot connected with the jumper on the right, sending her flipping into the open air. There was a moment's pause, before the other one threw himself out after her, his voice on the radio. Despite how swiftly he flung himself out of the dropship, and what was done to his partner, his voice was completely level. “Meinhardts, deploying.”

The Solstice troopers in the dropship laughed as Korbinian and Leone went into freefall, Leone tumbling as she went. The drop wasn't a concern to either of them - the armor they were in was designed to take such an impact - but their bigger concern was the T.S.C. boat directly beneath them. Korbinian made a swift decision, marking all the T.S.C. troopers on the boat as tangos, before flipping around to descend boot first. Leone worked on controlling her descent, straightening out her tumble into an almost picture perfect dive.

Far beneath them, a small group of T.S.C. troopers relaxed on the deck of the boat, playing cards without paying much attention. Despite the tension on the planet, boat patrol was considered to be a pretty laid back position - one that was about to change. Leone impacted first, about 20 feet starboard of the boat. Despite her dive, her impact sent water flying into the air, dropping mist down onto the soldiers on deck. As they were still moving to see what landed in the water, Korbinian made his entry. He had aimed as he came down, and his boot impacted the rear of the pilot's head - and went straight through. He impacted the water a moment afterwords, leaving behind chunks of the boat and a streak of blood to mark where he entered the water.

The troopers reacted with admirable swiftness, but it wasn't quick enough. As they scrambled back to get their rifles, Leone came out of the water, hauling herself right over the edge of the boat and onto the deck. Her rifle coughed, firing out non-standard ring-penetrator rounds. The circular rounds impacted into their chests and faces, shattering limbs and rupturing internal organs on impact. In the cabin of the boat, the captain scrambled for the radio, clicking it on. "This is T.S.C. patrol Echo to homebase, we're under attack by unknown forces! Reinforcements required!"

At homebase, a radio op moved his hand to the radio to respond, but was cut off by an armored glove grabbing his hand. The operator looked up at the owner of the hand, coming face to face with the heavy helmet of a Solstice soldier, a skull etched into the front of his helmet. "I wouldn't answer that if I were you."

"Homebase, please res-" The Captain's pleas were cut off by three short, loud bangs. The explosive rounds tore open his chest and ruined the radio in one go, showering the front of the cabin in gore at the same time. Korbinian holstered his pistol, and went outside to rejoin his sister. They moved to the edge of the boat in unison, before diving into the water, beginning the swim towards the city. At the S.C.R.D command base, they received a short radio transmission:

“Meinhardts, infiltration successful.”
“Meinhardts, infiltration successful.”
 
Off The Beaten Path

Post Summary:

Arkoss experiences more of the local culture, contrasted against fast-paced modern times, and gets in position to meet up with the Iron Raptors. Meanwhile, Vetzer and Sorvaille grow closer to hopefully finding secretive Solstice data and equipment.


"Just about, Client. Something on your mind?"


"Get on the ground. Safer that way." replied Arkoss, as he began to take a detour. The main street was clogged at this time of day, as human, varanon, zerfayll, and a variety of other inhabitants emerged from the various ramps attached to raised platforms, leading to their homes, and buses and cars began to clog up streets. As the fog began to clear, the full extent of the road congestion was becoming increasingly clear to him. It was as if the fog had hidden them the entire time.

"The roads are crammed. I apologize in advance for a late arrival." he added, as he spotted a street sandwiched between a few interlocking buildings, seemingly made up of smaller buildings piled up on one another. The fog seemed to have settled above it like a sort of blanket yet it did not hide the peculiarities below. Excusing his way past a small crowd, who immediately moved out of the way upon seeing his military uniform, he entered a strange street corridor of unusual smells, sights, and sounds.

There were stands roughly everywhere, some brought, some inherited, and some simply cobbled together from whatever was at hand. The men, women, and whatever was inbetween that stood and sat behind them looked around, wide eyed and yelling out in the angular and vowel-heavy languages of the Membrons. Heads peered over counters, waving signs and uttering greetings as Arkoss and the rest of the lower class peoples of Membros, alongside a few tourists, walked through the foggy streets. Having a considerable amount of currency on him, he was tempted more than once to purchase some of the native products.

One of the reptilian proprietors, dark scaled and with a wide smile, rose above the hunched form of a human worker, busy consuming a thick, slimy piscine creature. She said something to Arkoss, inviting and hopeful, but Arkoss simply smiled and continued walking, seeing her disappear behind an influx of customers and bargaining. A turn around another corner revealed a zerfayll with a body shaped like a diamond made of gnarled wood. With its body kept standing by a plethora of long, root-like limbs, its many eye-stalks, with each "eye" actually containing three individual spheres, seemed to be split between looking at those passing by and its drawings. They were heavily deformed caricatures of famous politicians, both local and from off-world. More than a few of them were major T.S.C. ones which Arkoss recognized and in some cases even met. Some of the stalk-ends seemed to follow his movement as he disappeared slowly into the crowd, before making multi-coloured, flashing signals at another one of the fungal creatures emerged from its hardware store to observe these visual mockeries. As he approached an exit back unto the sleek and intricate modern architectures of Imberron, he heard a sound, hovering above the venders and their shouted advertisements, a musical one. Turning his head to the left, he saw an improvised stage made from an old and patched up platform, upon which a grizzled old human, with two prosthetic machine arms sticking out of a cybernetic implant vector point on his back, playing on a strange circle-shaped stringed instrument. The strings seemed to be split up into four corners, and with a few others playing on similar devices, they amused a crowd of children, playing intricate interlocking melodies, non-linear in their structure.

In spite of the fact that it had only taken him a bit over 25 minutes to move through the market place, he felt as if had been there for at least an hour. He stood at a somewhat more quiet part of the city, with its great crowds and non-stop activity only visible on the outskirts of the streets upon which he now walked. He could see the natives, from all walks of life, coming to this area, with the promises of a cheap and fast breakfast being a daily part of life for many. Pulling out his mobile, he sent a quick text message, indicating he was there.



++++++++++



Acquiring the information had been relatively easy for Vetzer. The other funebraran officers had moved into the intelligence room a few hours earlier, yet they hadn't come in unaware of what he was looking for. A few sharp noses picked up a rather odd scent around the room, momentarily distracting them from holo-maps of the city of Inzerrus and communications with ground forces all around, but they quickly resumed. In reality, the scent was that of the chemical communication of funebrarans. Once Vetzer had given the signal, there was a subtle shift in activity of sentient arthropods in the room. Unbeknownst to the others, they were beginning to do something far from simply planning funebraran defensive positions for the mission tomorrow. Rather, locating a computer terminal where valuable Solstice data was held was. One of them raised up a pincer-hand and beckoned Vetzer over. A few clicks and dissonant calls were exchanged and Vetzer passed him a small key-card from his coat pocket. Sliding it into a socket, he passed it back to the voivod, who thanked him and took his leave from the room, heading upstairs where a few Solstice command staff had set up.


++++++++++


A few of the security personnel and technicians glanced towards Sorvaille questionably as she moved through the laboratory. A few heads of research had tracked her down as she moved past the firing ranges and mazes of desks and experimental equipment like an eel through reeds. She'd turned around and answered sharply and definitively: experimental T.S.C. equipment to be used in high risk situations by funebraran troopers sent to the thick of battle, highly classified, and none of their business. Her look, focused and uncaring of the onlookers and her pursuers, was enough to convince them that it was more of what they encountered every day; people who didn't look like they belonged here suddenly showing up and simply telling everyone to mind their own business as they minded theirs. T.S.C. forces getting the funebrarans to test out their latest devices wasn't uncommon, as the arthropod warriors were incredibly adaptable to a wide variety of weapons. You could always guarantee they'd push a prototype to its breaking point and bring back vital information for improvements.

Of course, none of them noticed that like Vetzer, she was going to parts of the laboratories that were technically "closed off". She didn't have a modified key card like him, but she had her own ways of getting past tight security. A false document detailing that she was to oversee a recently completed energy channelling suit of powered armour was hidden in her coat's pockets. She had yet to encounter a situation where it was needed. For many, the business of the funebrarans were private affairs best avoided out of distrust and a "don't ask and don't bother" tendency common amongst larger organizations, the military especially. While the nature of it was unknown, anybody who saw her knew she meant business, and that meant simply staying out of the way and to best not be poking their noses into these people's secretive affairs.

 
Three days ago.


"It still isn't working. They burn out when I start focusing the energy into them." Taxus laid the melted power blade down on the work bench in front of the ancient funebraran technician. He was getting very frustrated with Taxus over the past couple days and his weaponry requests. The power blade inparticular was being an extreme nuisance. Running with the original design of a power sword they had manipulated it to allow extra energy to be channeled into the blade to strengthen the power field further. However the blade themselves would either not be able to hold the excess energies or the power cells that created the original power field would overload and burn out, "These are great however. I would like to have at least ten of these ready before next deployment." Taxus toss the funebraran a coal black object that was similar to the size and shape of a puck with a simple button on top.

"Why can't you just limit the amount of energy you force into the blade to a smaller amount? We've gone through seven different variations and none of them have been able to withstand what you are requesting." The funebraran grunted more than spoke at Taxus and placed the puck object on the table. They were calling the device an electronade because of the explosive electrical energies it spread out when activated.


Taxus slid his whip off from its holster and placed it on the work bench, "I am not sure who designed this weapon or where it comes from, however, its design allows energies to be heavily manipulated through it. I can increase the whips power field and add length in the form of energy simply by channeling more power into it and slightly tweaking the way that energy flows. That is what I want from the blade. Examine this whip and figure out how to make it happen and I am going to want it back - in one piece." Taxus looked at the third item the technician had been working on and picked up the simple looking gloves, "Do these work?" The gloves had been designed with several miniature power cells inlaid into them that could generate high amounts of energy but were depleted very quickly and would require recharging after just a few uses.


The technician scoffed, "Why don't you go somewhere else and leave me to my work." The technician picked up the whip for a moment than laid it on the other side of his work bench. He picked up the melted power blade and dropped it into a recycling bin. Taxus started to say something else but the technician cut him off, "No more questions! You pester me anymore about these things and I'm not going to work on any of them. Off with you now!" The funebraran, with excessive animation, waved Taxus away. Taking the pair of gloves with him Taxus headed back towards his chambers to test and see if they would work in the manner he had intended.


----


Present

Moving through the marketplace amongst the membrons was similar to trying to swim up a waterfall. As people brushed against Taxus and as he maneuvered his way through the marketplace he was bombarded with the varying energies of the beings he passed. He trailed behind Arkoss by a fair distance ready to move in and assist if anything went awry. He didn't follow Arkoss through visual conctact, instead he simply remained concentrated on Arkoss's life energy, this allowed him to remain more anonymous and allowed him more freedom of movement to stop at shops and observe street performers while still staying within range to assist if the need arose. From time to time he would lose the energies of Arkoss in the crowds of energy and moving through the marketplace was very disorientating as several energies blended to create one huge mass that bombarded his various senses.


Taxus stopped at a street vendor to purchase some minor trinkets that had caught his eye. They appeared to be small shells that reflected the light into varying colors. He than continued moving through the crowd staring down at the shells in his hands as he tilted his hand left and right to watch the reflecting colors. The colors it made were very soothing and allowed himself to simply walk through the crowd based on feelings and not have to look up into the varying swirl of energies.


As Arkoss left the market place and moved to the designated location Taxus remained at the edge of the market place. He casually leaned up against a wall and continued to watch the color shifting shells. From this location he could phase out of the market place and relatively close to Arkoss's location. All Arkoss would have to do was give the word over his communication device and Taxus would be there to support him. Taxus also monitored the varying energies around Arkoss to pick up on any negative or hostile energies to intercept before they had a chance to engage Arkoss.

 

----


Deep in the forest of Membro's the rest of shadows entered the council chambers. It was one of several locations through out the forest that the Council of Shadows would meet in such numbers. Every shadow that entered donned a gray robe that were very large and covered all facial features. As they begun to take their seats around the chamber each one activated a voice distorter that made it to where each one spoke they sounded like a static clouded radio.


The chamber was inside a massive hollowed out tree that allowed each one to sit in a circular pattern on varying rows. These were the caliboraters, the thinkers of the Council of Shadows, some of which still lived in Membron society, others lived in the forest migrating with the rest of the shadows. The ones who migrated were dead to society, listed as deceased. Each caliborater had his own team of field operatives who reported directly to them. Inside the Council of Shadows they were known as the bishops and the field operatives were known as the knights. The kings sat above the council monitering what the bishops spoke of and deciding which bishop would get what mission. As all the bishops took their seat in front of one a pedestal rose. This was a random selection of which bishop would state the reasons for the meeting than the bishops would chose to voice their opinions on the matter would press a button in front of them and wait their turn to make their presentation.


"Our next shipment of supplies arrives tomorrow. The time and place have already been decided by our benefactors and a squad of knights must be present to meet them and deliver the shipment back to the council. Two bishops shall be assigned to oversee the delivery. We have set into motion the steps it will take to annihilate Salazar Tibautho. Four bishops shall be assigned to ensure that Salazar is deceased as soon as possible. As of this time the death of Salazar is one of our top priorities. Additional T.S.C. forces have come to our planet, including Funebraran, one bishop shall be assigned to attempt communications with the new T.S.C. forces and attempt to employ more allies to our cause. The upmost secrecy must be maintained in these communications and no information of the council should be given without absolute certainty that trust has been established. One bishop shall be assigned to this mission. Finally, we have attained several uniforms and arms of the Kohoavtse, an attack shall be launched against the Jannoaikken to maintain the current level of hostilities. No agents must be captured so implants shall be dispensed to the Knights that go on this mission that will seize their life functions at the bishops in charge judgement. Six bishops shall be assigned to this mission. Finally, we have the matter to discuss of an attack on the T.S.C. under cover of Kohoavtse and Jannoaikken agents. This is what we come together to discuss this evening."


A pedestal rose in front of another bishop who promptly came to his feet, "We are in favor of the T.S.C. an attack against them would be the opposite of what we stand for. This is an unacceptable option to increase the hostility between T.S.C. and the other factions on Membro. We have made several steps to bring our enemies to their knees and this action could prove counter effective to our desires. I strongly encourage the council to look away from this idea."


As the bishop took his seat another one rose, "An attack against the T.S.C. could prove to be just what we need. An open offensive movement against them from both factions could drive them to a direct conflict with both the Kohoavtse and Jannoaikken that would leave our enemies to weak to be any further trouble. Than our placed agents could take up their sleeping rules as rallying leaders and place the T.S.C. in control of Membro to finally have peace and prosperity on our planet. We have lost many lives in small missions over a long period of time and this could be an opportunity to bring an end to this conflict of interests. One fell swoop could move our planet back onto track to the goals of the council."


As the bishop took his seat once more a silence fell over the chamber. After a few moments of no bishop choosing to rise and add further argument to this discussion one of the kings rose, "We shall make our decision. For now all vote in confidentiality so that we may see where the majority of the bishops lay on this course action. This will assist us kings in the final considerations of this plan." Each bishop removed a small device from beneath their chairs and casted their vote. Just as they had entered one bishop at the time begun to leave the chamber. As they exited each was given a data slate which gave them the details of the responsibilities given to them and their knights. As they left the chamber they discarded the data slate in a small basket that lay outside the tree. As quietly as they came the shadows scattered back across the forest of Membros back to their private lifes.​
 
Kelia flipped the knife from hand to hand, juggling it, and throwing it through deep spirals and more than one cut finger. Each time a person would come into view; the knife would seem to disappear, only to reappear as soon as they were out of site. In her pocket were several small credit cubes, the change left from buying herself food for the next week. She could survive on the food rations, but that damn bug food was not fit for humans. The knife soon left sight again, and so did she, melting into the shadows. Minutes later she could hear the voices she had already sensed. Pushing herself deeper into the crevice, she watches and two heavily armed thugs rounded the corner, and headed deeper into the maze of abandoned buildings, closer to her hideaway.
Kelia sprang from the shadows, and before a second had passed she had knocked one of the men to a wall, and stabbed her knife deep into the other one’s elbow. She spun to deal with the first thug, barely dodged the fist that sailed at her. Within seconds another knife had left her hands, this one entering the man’s mouth, and fastened itself to his vertebrae. She turned to the second thug, and punched the man twice, then shoved her hand against his face. She channeled her power through her, instilling the man with as much fear of her as he could. As he fell to the ground, whimpering, she turned to the other man, and smashed her elbow into his face, hard. He crumpled also. For several moments Kelia stood there and caught her breath, before beginning the laborious task of dragging the bodies back to the warehouse, and covering her tracks.
Kelia turned to one of the Funebrarans and muttered, “Check the unconscious one, he might be useful, so don’t let him die.”
She then turned back to the other thug. She had already removed the fear she had imputed into the man’s mind and squatted down in front of him.
“Who are you?” The man muttered weakly.
Kelia smiled flashing several sharpened teeth, “I’m the WidowMaker, a pleasure to meet you, who are you?”
 


"Alright, we'll be on the ground when we can, Client. I'll contact you after we establish ourselves." I reply to the Client as the line goes dead.

"So tell me how you got in bed with a TSC lapdog?" Gunsight asks me.

"I offered to save their asses, General." I reply. "The TSC declined to provide arty or air until the objective was secured. Unfortunately they showed up right as we accomplished our mission."

"The Funebrerans are formidable fighters, are they not?" Gunsight asks me.

"They ran in under orders without any heavy support to take out fortified defenses." I reply very honestly. Even USSOCOM gives some kind of support to their deep cover teams. "Their pride as a warrior race makes them blind to common sense."

"Then why are you supporting one?" Gunsight isn't a xenophobe. His wife isn't human and their child is a hybrid. He is, however, untrusting of the TSC and with good reason. A couple years ago, back when God was a child, dinosaurs were reintroduced to Earth, and Gunsight was a Captain, USSOCOM had been directed to operate in tandem with a TSC SPECWAR unit. I don't know the specifics but suffice to say Gunsight lost a lot of men because of a TSC officer concluding that the American team was expendable. The Big Bad Bossman wound up spending six weeks evading enemy forces until CIA picked him up.

"Isn't the specialty of the Green Berets to develop a rapport with the locals?" That's the bread and butter of SPECWAR. "I'm just getting in good with them so I can get some good intel." And enter some wicked gun battles. I don't say.

"You've got a good head on those shoulders, Commander." Gunsight says as his image fades and is replaced with that of USSOCOM. "You better not lose it." I turn to Chairman Radetsky's sillhouette.

"I'll see about getting you an advance on your next paycheck." With that the sillhouette fades and is replaced with ArmsTek Warfare Systems' logo. Mondegreen hits a switch and those logos are replaced with a view of what's ahead of us.

"Well, there it is, people." I say as I stand up. "Membros. Mondegreen, I'm gonna need a lot of Off. I hear the mosquitos are the size of cats."

----------------------------------------------



Clark watched the Ruination touch down in the village clearing. He was clad in denim trousers, a white t-shirt, flak jacket, black ball cap, and sunglasses and had a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. He waited for the accomodation ladder to be lowered before approaching. Hayden and several of his team mates were descending.

"Welcome to Membros, Commander Arcturus." Clark shouted out, holding his arms out.

"You look pretty good for having been on this shithole for, what, six, seven months?" Hayden asked as he saluted, Clark returning the salute.

"Eh, I've been here for eighteen months. Does wonders for the immune system." the Green Beret replied with a smile as the cargo elevator lowered to the ground, Desolator and Lockjaw stepping off before the elevator was fully down. "I didn't know you were bringing Tin Can Hitmen."

"Oh, they're not for us." Hayden replied. He pointed at the leather jacket clad Fulber and the white clad Mercer. The terrorist noticed Hayden and Clark looking his way then tapped Mercer's shoulder to get his attention. The religious fanatic looked up and made eye contact with Hayden and Clark.

"The one in the Versace I recognize. How'd you snag a terrorist?" Clark asked.

"Captain Davies thought I could use him." Hayden replied.

"And the other?"

"Thomas Mercer, ex-British SAS." Clark looked at Hayden then cocked his brow.

"Again, why the Tin Can Hitmen?" Hayden looked at Fulber then at the two Mechalith, Manny, Moe, and Whack offloading deconstructed equipment.

"Well, McKnight tells me the two asked him to leave them be in the hangar deck." Hayden started. "Maybe twenty minutes later Fulber goes to go check something out and, well..."

"Have you ever looked at old footage of fighter jets refueling in mid air? How wrong it looks?"

"Oh, shit... Fulber traumatized?" Clark asked.

"Something like that." Hayden replied as an M-198 gun emplacement was deconstructed. "So, you mind taking me and a couple of the boys in town? I've got a contact I need to meet."

"You haven't been here more than ten minutes and you've already got a contact?" Clark remarked, very surprised.

"Yeah, something like that." Hayden replied as he reconstructed a PRC-92 radio and keyed it.

"Client, I'm planetside. We've some talking to do."

-----------------------------------------------

(OOC)
-Hayden finishes his conversation with Chairman Radetsky and General Gunsight. The Ruination proceeds to Membros. Once on the ground Hayden meets Clark then contacts Arkoss.
(/OOC)
 
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DSN Cruiser Stalingrad, At systems edge.


The Bridge of the Cruiser was silent as it left the warp, detection systems coming to life, their operators becoming incredibly animated, as one of their number called out to the figure in the central Captains chair

"System entered Sir, No enemy vessels on auspex or radar" the young man said, his voice brimming with excitement

"good, pilot, move in to deploy the allied infantry company, Lieutenant-Commander Valarian, Bring Colonel Gradenko to the bridge" The Admiral spoke, seemingly quietly, yet all on the bridge were able to hear his voice clearly and the order was carried out.


++++


The hab door opened and the Colonel looked up from the paperwork he was sorting through to see the large, power armored form of Lieutenant-Commander Valarian Verasius stride through
"Colonel, Your presence is requested on the bridge, if you would follow me" Gradenko rose, indicating for the massive Necroguard veteran to lead the way


++++
 
The Revenant was silently floating past the dark side of the planets moon, Commander Sikaris had been asked to stay in orbit until needed. The arrival of several ships that quickly hid behind the moon forced Sikaris into A change of plans. He ordered all stealth systems engaged and followed the ships into their hiding place.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"Commander we are picking up another craft coming out of warp. Cruiser, unknown classification, unknown IFF, It appears to be heading to Commander Arkoss's location."<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Sikaris opened up a file and read all the information on the newest addition to the party. There wasn't even a visual."<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"Ignore it. Are we in visual range of the other ships?"<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
" yes commander" The officer replied<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Sikaris viewed the ships on his console. "six heavy cruisers, and one larger ship that is not completely visible yet. Do we have any broadcasts or iff signals?<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"no sir, since they entered the system they have been dark. Hell that came out of warp right next to the moon, so we didn't even pick it up on our sensors, if it weren't for a couple of stargazers off duty we wouldn't even know they are here."<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"try and raise the ship a little farther from the surface I want a better look at the seventh ship." The Revenant slowly moved raising above the other ships. "I know that ship" Sikaris said thinking aloud, as he pulled up a manifest of Alarian military vassals, he quickly typed in a name and an image came up and he compared them." it's the Blossom"<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"Blossom?" one of the officers said holding back a laugh.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"Yes, it was commissioned by the senate to serve as Admiral arkin's private command ship, he was given the honor to name it, he said the name reminded him of his days serving in the embassy in the city of Tokyo on earth."<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
The other officers began to open up fleet manifests, and look at the ship.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"It’s a heavy carrier, capable of holding nearly twenty thousand fighter craft." one of the officers said astonished.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"Yes it was the most advanced ship in the fleet, well until two things happened. The Revenant was built for one, but before that, it went missing during the civil war." sikaris said offhandedly as he studied the ship, it looked different now; it was painted, black and crimson. Sikaris felt sorry for whoever had that job, the Blossom was nearly two miles long. but even more strange was that the hangars were visibly larger, protruding out of the ship like cancerous tumors, making it unsymmetrical unlike the normal Alarian design of sleek slightly curved ships.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“How did it end up here if it was lost ten standard years ago?"<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"It was present at several battles during the civil war, but after about a year it was never seen again and when Arkin was captured, he was aboard a common frigate"<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"Bastard, stealing Alara's best ship to fight with a bunch of do-gooders"<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
"I bet He sold it, you could make a fortune off of selling that thing, enough to keep a war going a few years at least." Sikaris said" I want full scans now, I want to know what the hell our leaders most expensive military project is doing so far away from home." Sikaris still stared angrily at the small fleet of ships, the cruisers were mostly human, he saw one that was off some design he didn't recognize. This wasn't right that ship was worth an unimaginable amount of money, what was it doing here trying to hide in a system where they had been seemingly alone.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
 
Musical Score: Aterro Dominatus - Sabaton

The Stalingrad hovered above a particularly thick area of jungle, before firing a broadside salvo that cause severe deforestation in an area a kilometer squared, into which pre fab defensive structures and infantry transport vehicles screamed through the atmosphere, the charred man made clearing suddenly suffering under a deluge of grav chute bunkers and wall segments.


Colonel Gradenko shuddered and jarred as the Dropship made its descent, the Colonel was both grateful and annoyed by the Actions of the Admiral, he had advised an infantry only drop, but the Undead Naval Officer would have none of it, insisting on creating a site from which reinforcements or supplies could be delivered, and furthermore, a site run by a Joint command, which was Why Lieutenant-Commander Valarian was sitting beside him, wearing the uniform of a Mobile Infantry Intel Officer, so as to prevent confusion amongst the troopers.


Aboard the Stalingrad
"Admiral, I'm detecting several enemy ships painting us with radar and or auspexes, we are being ignored at present, but the enemy vessels are significant in number and threat rating" The Auspex Commander relayed the reports and the Admiral scowled, bone fingers, encased in leather gloves stroked an ancient, whispy beard, staring intently at the vidscreen before him that projected the ships around them, and their movements.

"Auspex, maintain a close watch on enemy vessels, Weapons, i want possible firing solutions for all possible enemies, but keep weapons dark for the moment, we dont want to spook them" the admiral said, again, seemingly almost silent yet perfectly clear to those with whom he spoke.



Planetside - half an hour later


The Death Spire Engineers worked hard and without pause, their unceasing effort resulting in the basic facilities being up and running, and Mobile Infantrymen were already occupying the major defensive bunkers, soldiers with sniper variant Morita rifles, stationed in tall watchtowers cast their sharp eyes around them, looking for enemy infiltrators.

The War against the Bugs had taught many harsh lessons to the MI, but the Timely Intervention of the Spire forces had prevented many more casualties, and the Power Armored Soldiers of the Necroguard had proved themselves as Warrior Necromancers of horrific power, turning the arachnid dead on their fellows, their massive self propelled explosive shell firing weapons tearing great gouging wounds from those bugs who pushed on.

After the Fisasco surrounding Death of Sky Marshal Anoke and the Destruction of the planet sized Bug God Beamacoitl, the Forces of Death Spire and the Mobile Infantry scoured the planet Klendathu, the Troopers first assault on ever Infantryman's mind, became nothing other than a hated memory when the last of the bugs were killed and burned, pyres hundreds of metres tall blazing for weeks until the planets surface was in all places at least knee deep with ash.

The Lessons learned had been simple, that the Mobile Infantry troopers whilst courageous, they lacked several elements when it came to defensive and offensive operations, elements which retraining and other educational efforts could fix, in time.