NEW ANTHEM, MAR SARA
OCTOBER 2504
The heat.
Ronin Kang let water dribble from his canteen, wetting his dust-coated lips before wiping them on the back of his hand and taking a large gulp. He wondered, for the hundredth time that day, if he should have traded that pack of cigarettes for a decent face-cover instead of that sack of electronic bits and pieces that was stashed by his feet, the thick brown bag tattered in places.
Ah, hell with it. Those bits were extremely valuable - in his eyes, anyway. He could always cobble something together with these knick knacks that he was constantly picking up from all over. Already had, as a matter of fact - he squinted through the shimmer in the air, lowering his handmade visor into place, scanning his sector. There was little reason for bandits or other unsavory characters to assault the recently-established mining town at this ungodly hour, but then again, maybe they would. There was no telling these days, not with anti-Dominion sentiment running rampant across Mar Sara, tensions running high just about everywhere.
And so here he was, going into the third of a five-hour midday watch, bored out of his skull. Ronin carefully screwed the cap back onto the canteen, lips curling a little at the faded Confederate flag on its side. Rolfsen, on the other watchtower across the entrance, wasn't as reserved as Ronin was, pouring water generously over his head and face and rubbing vigorously.
Ronin wondered when they would actually get to see some action. It has been four years since the Brood War had ended, and two since he'd joined the Raiders. It'd taken some convincing, but here he was with Echo Team, one of Raynor's go-to gunner teams for ground ops. They'd gone undercover as mercenaries looking for a quick buck, and while helping guard New Anthem they were to keep their ears to the ground, listening in on what the local populace had to say.
Aside from a singular, uncoordinated bandit assault on New Anthem a few weeks back, which Echo repelled with laughable ease, their time here had been nothing much but sitting around and twiddling their thumbs. And getting very well-acquainted with the landscape. And cleaning weapons so frequently that Ronin could disassemble and reassemble his weapon, an "acquired" CK-27 carbine in his sleep...
He blinked and reached for the carbine in question, cheeking it and training his scope on the horizon. With his left hand, he touched his earpiece. "Rolfsen. Dust cloud."
"Roger. Tracking."
A series of taps in his ear told Ronin that Rolfsen was adjusting the sensor array on his end, aiming the dish at the approaching black speck that was creating the dust cloud in question. Ronin spared a quick glance at the other weapon in his sentry nest - a Confederate-era Bosun FN 92, lying on a sheet on the floor. It belonged to the colony, a crippled ex-Confederate sniper who'd passed it to the colony's armorer, but there was something wonky about its inner workings that Ronin hadn't been able to correct just yet. He tapped his chest, checking that he still had mags for his carbine - all accounted for.
The speck was approaching fast. A vulture, perhaps, or a hellion. He'd been hearing stories about the Dominion converting the civilian ATVs into military weapons. Could this be the Dominion sending ahead a messenger to announce the takeover of New Anthem? The mining colony was neutral, independent, and had been since the recolonization effort... if so, then he and Echo had better make tracks.
"It's Fraser!" exclaimed Rolfsen. "He's gunning it. Something must have happened in Backwater."
Sergeant Cam Fraser, the head of their little gun squad. He'd left in the morning to pick up supplies, and was supposed to be back later that evening. Ronin adjusted the zoom on his scope as the black speck became five - no, six - solidifying into the shapes of six hellions. Info from the sensor fed into his visor, and he read that Fraser was in the lead hellion. The other five were empty, though, following Fraser.
Roning lifted his visor and slung his carbine across his back, clambering down the well-worn neosteel ladder, twin puffs of dust rising from where he'd hit the dirt. The grumbling of the hellions were getting louder, approaching the entrance to the colony. Rolfsen mirrored Ronin's moves, sliding down his ladder with ease, his brow furrowed.
Why was Fraser back so early? And why hellions?
The hellions' idle engines were a low throb in Ronin's chest as Fraser, a large man by anyone's standards, clambered out of the lead hellion's cockpit, issuing a stream of curses that would blister the paint off a hardskin. He gestured at Ronin. "Summon Echo. Now."
Barely a minute later, the others joined them - Tumar, Lisle, Haynes, all of them toting weapons, faces wary. They gathered around Fraser, who held a holo unit in his hand.
"Hold your questions. Got a priority from the man himself," explained Fraser before Lisle could ask, her mouth already halfway open. Green motes of light swirled from the projectors, coalescing into the unmistakable head-and-neck of the Hyperion's adjutant, who looked at each of them in turn, unblinking.
"Echo Squad, Commandor Raynor has ordered your immediate presence at these coordinates. You are advised to suit up for this mission."
"Parameters?" queried Tumar.
"Commander Raynor is executing an attack on the Dominion's logistics headquarters at Backwater Station," replied the adjutant. "Be advised, civilian presence is high in the A.O."
Echo Squad looked up in unison at Fraser, who grinned as he pocketed the holo unit. "Well, you heard her, team. Pass guard duty to the next-in-line, and suit up. We're starting a revolution today."
Haynes let out a muted cheer, her eyes bright, and bolted to the warehouse where they kept their hardskins, Lisle hot on her heels. Tumar high-fived Rolfsen, the two already beginning to discuss attack patterns, devised over late-night bottles of Scotty Bolger's Number Eight.
Fraser laid a hand on Ronin's shoulder. "It's time, kid. Get your gear, you're taking point."
Ronin Kang nodded and smiled. To think it was just going to be another quiet day, too.
DOMINION LOGISTICS HEADQUARTERS, BACKWATER STATION, MAR SARA
OCTOBER 2504
Holly Lavanya stretched out on the couch and yawned, the flight suit crinkling as she shifted her weight. What was the point of having Jester Squadron here, if they were only going to be grounded? They were supposed to be in the skies, damn it!
Well, to be more accurate, she and Captain Halvorssen were the ones who were grounded, their banshees sitting prettily in the hangar across from the rec building where the squadron was camping out in. Captain Lew and his vikings, Jesters 3 through 10, were running security for the logistics headquarters, their walkers keeping an eye on things alongside the hardskins.
To be truthful, Holly felt it was overkill, sending mechanized units to keep the locals in check. Hardskins and APCs were enough to do the trick. There had been rumors of some voices of dissent, but Holly felt that things like that definitely did not warrant a banshee-viking unit as a deterrent. That grated on her nerves - she was born to fly, not stay anchored to the ground with her thumb up her ass! The HQ commander forbade any forays into the countryside, even at night, citing regulations that Holly didn't gave two shits about. Flick him.
Still, Halvorssen was her C.O. Holly respected her too much to go against orders, much as she felt like disobeying them.
Sometimes, it felt like Dominion Command had zero idea how to manage their troops.
Holly punched the air in frustration, sweat beading her hairline. It had been yet another action-packed day for her, commuting from her bunk to the rec area to the head and back to the rec area... listening to the sounds of activity outside and staring at the ceiling. The digitomes in the HQ sucked, the holoscreen tuned only to UNN and nothing else, and she had no orders, except to stand by. For... something. Anything?
Sigh.
She'd exhausted all the tunes on her fone, a mean feat, considering she had a thousand or so tunes on the thing. It had been almost a full month now and the waiting just seemed fekking endless, staring out at the blue Mar Saran skies and wishing she was in it, not staring at it. Captain Halvorssen was entrenched in the command center most days, being the CO of Jester Squadron, keeping an eye on security alongside the regular pukes there.
Holly sighed and pulled her fone out. Time to listen to "Let's Get It On!" by the Tarsonian Sob Sisters yet another time.
She frowned and pressed the bud into her ear, bobbing her head to the beats. That's odd. Since when did they add a bass drop to the middle part?
That was when the comm unit on her wrist vibrated hard, flashing red, priority incoming. Holly popped the buds from her ears and heard the muted boom again, realizing it was coming from the real world, not from her song.
"Lieutenant, spin up! The HQ is under attack!"