Disclaimer(s): I own nothing. New writer, review, c-crit only blah blah, thank ya.
Two weeks after war's end, Baird's workshop, Azura:
This is gonna be one of those days, thought Baird as he lay awake in bed, 6:03 in blue digits burning its way into his eyes.
He threw the covers off and sat up cross-legged on the cot. Having been unable to sleep for more than an hour per night this past week, his mood had steadily worsened as well as his technical skills. This second part exacerbated the first, and he'd throw a wobbler at the slightest misstep in his workshop by his hapless assistants Roach and Molly. Just Roach now, genius, his conscience piped up with as he stood and headed to the shower.
The two had come looking for an apprenticeship with him after the war's end. Roach was an Indie kid who'd been offered up by Trescu as a make-nice gesture with the Remnant, who'd sent one of their own kids to learn with the Gorasni in a sort of exchange student program. Not the most flattering nickname, but he'd earned it surviving more than most non-military men twice his age. Molly was a Stranded orphan who figured the living was better on the paradise colony of Azura, with actual hot water, electricity, and medical facilities. Baird had taken them on as willingly as he could, working hours a day in solitude surrounded by machines having lost most of its lustre now that no one was in danger of being shot by underground monsters. They're gonna be around for a while, might as well get along with 'em.
Molly had dropped a box of tools in surprise the previous day when an exhausted and red-eyed Baird had burst into the shop, grumbling to himself about the hardships he'd surely face and how he absolutely was not in the mood for any shit today, got it? No damage had been done, but the noise sounded like a grenade had gone off in and Baird had spent an hour chewing her out before unceremoniously firing her, sending the girl home in a sobbing fit. He'd actually felt terrible upon seeing her burst into tears and rush out, and the shocked look on Roach's face had only deepened his disgust in himself, which he vented by lashing out at the unlucky assistant.
"What the hell are you looking at? Get back to work and fix this...," he searched in mounting anger for the name of the machine Roach had been tinkering with and to his immense annoyance was unable to find it, "...thing! What do you even do here anyways? I haven't seen you actually make progress on any of this shit! It's still busted! Worthless! Fuck!" Roach's head snapped back down and he began working faster, fearful that he too was about to get his termination notice. Baird was silent for a few moments, hands on hips, jaw working silently, before telling him that work was done for the day and walking out without another word. It's called a radio. Dick.
He finished showering and dressed light, early mornings on Azura being fairly warm. Exiting the shop, he didn't bother to lock the door as there wasn't anything worth stealing. Not unless you wanted an angry Baird shoving a Boltok in your face. Walking up the rock-lined pathway toward the central courtyard, nose wrinkling at the stench of rotten seaweed wafting in from the ocean, his mind was crowded as usual, and he reveled in it. He thought about about the constant work orders, the long lists of people waiting to have their electronics fixed, Sam, the mind-boggling fact that he was the only person in this damn colony who knew his way around a fuel injector, Sam, his (friend) fellow Gear Marcus now falling quickly into a depression, his (and Baird's) comrade-in-arms Dom dead under unknown circumstances, Marcus having clammed up on that account, and finally, Sam.
The two of them hadn't talked very much since after the horrible incident with the almost dying and the giant bug and Marcus' dad turning into a goddamn pile of dust, aside from a congratulatory chat post-battle and a few awkward conversations sometimes if they passed each other. "Nice weather we're havin', huh?" "Yeah! Sunny! Again! Same as always!" She worked security, he was maintenance, so generally they didn't speak much. He had the vague feeling he should remedy that, maybe sweet-talk their de facto leader Marcus into posting her at his workshop, do a couple favours for the guy to put his mind somewhat at ease. That particular train of thought jumped the tracks as Baird realized he was at the apartment complex Molly lived at, switching over to just what the hell he was supposed to say to her at quarter after 6 in the morning.
"I'm looking for Molly. Molly..." (the hell was her last name?) "...uh, just Molly. Red hair, sorta…..ditzy? A bit short," Baird stated to the receptionist, a middle-aged man with a (very) bad comb-over and gin blossoms. His nose looks like a damn strawberry. "612, down the left hallway as you exit the elevator," came the curt and disinterested reply as the man went back to his faded fishing magazine, implying no further conversation was required. Thanking the man while flipping him off, Baird walked over and waited for the one working elevator to painfully wheeze its way down to collect him. The receptionist didn't even acknowledge, and the silence was palpable. I'll have to get working on the others after I've fixed our fuel crisis.
The thought of apologizing to Molly made Baird feel uncomfortable, and he ran his hand through his hair as he entered the lift. He noted with surprise that more than a few hairs cascaded down. Ah, now to add male pattern baldness to my expansive list of problems. Fan-fucking-tastic. The elevator creaked to a halt and the doors dramatically failed to open. Baird waited a few seconds before losing his patience and climbing out cursing through the makeshift escape hatch in the ceiling, courtesy of the Locust assault on Azura. Guess you did one thing right, you scummy genocidal bitch-queen.
Having rushed up a few flights of stairs, Baird stood in front of his former assistant's door, pausing yet again to ponder a situation he was unfamiliar with. He could fix a Centaur with gum and a prayer while having the shit shelled out of him by the fucking underground lizard people and he still couldn't bring himself out from behind his protective wall of sarcasm for more than a bit at a time. His inner Cole decided to make a special guest appearance, only this Cole sounded much more vicious than the real one. Guess yo' family messed you up real good! Let's just hope that damage ain't permanent! Might miss out on all the wonderful insights you got to share with us common folk, eh Blondie? Ha! Realizing he would look like a lunatic standing in front of someone's door lost in reverie to any early risers, he mentally slapped himself in the face and knocked on Molly's door.
There was silence. He looked around, fidgeting slightly and adjusting his jacket in impatience. Muffled footsteps came from behind the door, growing louder. Another pause, and he could tell something was looking at him through the peephole. Molly opened the door in her pyjamas, her frizzy red hair falling in front of half-lidded eyes. She opened her mouth to speak and Baird interrupted her. "If you're wondering what the hell I'm doing here, and you probably are, I've come to uh, give you your job back." They stared at each other for a bit, Baird with his lips pursed and arms folded, Molly with the stunned look of the recently woken. "...and to say, um, that what happened may, and I stress may, not have been entirely your fault. So yeah, that's...all I had to say. Oh, and uh, be in the shop by 10:00."
There was another awkward silence as Baird failed to meet her eyes for any longer than a second. "OK! Well, I'm off to singlehandedly prevent this burgeoning nexus of humanity's resurrection from imploding. Go me." He turned and began walking back to the stairwell, congratulating himself on handling the situation so diplomatically and forcing himself not to look back as he heard the door close behind him.
After an uneventful early morning jog back to his workshop (he'd passed up having an actual apartment, choosing instead to sleep on a cot in one of the storage rooms), he collapsed in a swivel chair, then collapsed on the ground as the damn thing broke. Swearing explosively and inviting every saint in the heavens to jump in a wheat thresher, he fumbled with the now useless furniture, examining it for sabotage from Roach. A wayward screw, a tiny dent, anything to compromise it to get at his asshole boss. A few seconds later he determined that nope, this wasn't an act of revenge, this was Baird's fat ass finally breaking an old chair. Well, shit. I'm not passing up my three squares just to save on furniture.
Dumping the chair into one of the closets and grabbing an old wooden one, he figured he may as well kill time before opening up the shop, and took a look through some of the blueprints Anya'd dug out of the vast mainframe housed in the Administrative Complex. Emergency resuscitators, makeshift water purifiers, other thrown-together pieces of machinery were laid out in detail, with the requisite scientific scribbles in the margins. None of it struck him as particularly helpful or necessary, even for the purposes they'd been designed for; they had clean water and more than enough medical equipment; Prescott had spared no expense in the protection and maintenance of Sera's best and brightest, and they weren't in any danger of a rampant disease coming to kick them further up the endangered species list. Probably survival gear in case the grubs showed up and they had to make a quick exit. He tossed them onto his newly formed Do-Not-Want pile and resumed shuffling through.
Problem's fuel. The Remnant had been lucky in that regard. Scouts combing the labyrinthine sublevels of the complex had come across vast chambers containing thousands upon thousands of barrel of petroleum. A further blessing came when Baird and the other techs had been able to easily adapt some vehicles to run on said fossil fuel. Adam Fenix had probably advised Prescott before the Locust takeover that his doomsday pulse would kill all of the Imulsion, and emergency stockpiles of fuel had been gathered and flown in. The conversion process was relatively quick, just a few minor tweaks in the fuel lines, but dangerous. Post-Gold Rush vehicles weren't designed to run on petrol, and more than a few technicians and even Baird himself had been admitted to Dr. Hayman with burns.
A few hours later, Baird had sifted through all the papers and found precisely not one thing that would help him in his endeavour, so he wandered over to his workbench and the cobbled together radio transmitter he'd been tasked with repairing. He took up a screwdriver and opened the guts of the thing up. The Remnant leadership had wanted some way to keep in contact with salvage and rescue teams. Baird had fixed that problem with the help of a few Gorasni engineers (needed someone to block the light), jury-rigging Adam's pulse machine to function as a long-range transmission tower.
The fuel situation was rather vexing; nothing he'd tried had even seemed like it worked, so he'd concluded that dead Imulsion was worthless for now. If anything, from the Maelstrom Device could be salvaged, he might be able to convert it to power production and save on petrol. He could've kicked himself, the solution was so obvious. Why hadn't he just tried repairing it? Probably because you're overworked, underappreciated, and Hoffman's had you running your ass off from goddamn Anvil Gate. Baird had remembered that conversation from a few days ago:
"Hoff, I think if I can re-tool the Maelstrom Device to generate power, it'll save on fossil fuel until I can figure out why the hell dead Imulsion doesn't work."
"First off, Corporal, it's Hoffman, not Hoff, ever. Second, making contact with other Stranded colonies is our top priority, for reasons I'm not going to explain in any great detail, because although I'm highly-respected in the Remnant for my combat and strategic skills, I still have my head shoved up my ass when it comes to Stranded! They may hate us and would gladly kill us all while we sleep, steal our shit, and revenge-fuck our dead bodies, but hey, we only blew up most of the planet, no hard feelings, right?"
Baird admitted to himself that he may have made up that last bit, but he was too tired to care at the moment. Switching a few wires around inside and closing the transmitter with a small feeling of satisfaction, he yawned, stretching, and headed back to his cot for a few winks before the hordes came banging on his door.
Two weeks ago, 50 km outside Mercy:
"Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! That was Mercy!", Meg swore. Her and her salvage partner Bill had seen the blast at Mercy from miles away, a hellish chain-reaction as fuel-lines ruptured and exploded. Slamming on the gas pedal, the junker groaned as she pushed it to its limit. Bouncing over the never-ending potholes of old HWY 106, her mind raced as she tried to think of what could have occurred. What the hell happened? Some sort of accident, or Locust raid? Oh my god, Tom. She was terrified for her older brother, a tech who worked on the pipelines, making sure the people of Mercy always had fuel and power. "Easy, Meg! This damn thing'll shake itself to pieces if ya don't slow down!", Bill's gravelly voice cut through her thoughts, and she did as he said, knowing that a busted junker wouldn't get them anywhere if shit hit the fan. Mercy just blew the hell up. Shit HAS hit the fan! Stone-faced and silent, she continued driving towards the only real home she'd ever known, watching it burn in the afternoon sun.
The Deadlands, drone forward base:
Meg wasn't the only one who saw the explosion, and the spotter raised his fellow watchman on a walkie-talkie. [Vek, did-], he snarled down the line to the other tower. [I saw. Tell Herik.], came the reply, and Rathe quickly slid down the ladder and ran to the command tent in the center of the locust camp. The other soldiers ignored him and kept to their tasks; this was a military outpost, and if someone was running, they'd know soon enough why. Throwing back the tent cover and marching inside, he spoke before his superior could even open his mouth. [There's been an explosion at the Human settlement. The one called Mercy.]
There was silence, and he then noted the others present in the room. A heavy Rathe knew to be Maul, Captain of the Guard, a kantus, Herik himself, and two theron who'd been in deep discussion with Herik before Rathe's intrusion all stared at him. The theron wore the armour of the Breaker faction, so-called for their skill in taming the beasts of the Hollow. Herik snapped orders to the kantus, a man named Seht, [Assemble a search team as you see fit. Investigate, take any salvage and prisoners you can find, bring them here. Minimal casualties. Maul-], he addressed the heavy, [Double the guard and prepare for possible hostile incursions.] [Understood, sir.], thundered Maul, as he waddled out. Seht acknowledged his task and loped after him.
Herik cracked his knuckles and spoke to the two theron who'd been interrupted, [This will continue another time. You may attend the interrogation]. The theron thumped their chests in unison and walked out. Once everyone else was gone, Herik finally acknowledged Rathe.
[You'll accompany the search team as a sniper. Check your gear with the weaponsmaster and report to War Priest Seht.] [Sir, what do you expect's happened?], Rathe asked with a hint of nervousness that he quickly smothered. Herik didn't seem to care that he'd been questioned, and gave a candid response. [We know that Mercy has an Imulsion refinery. Three things may have happened. One, there's been a catastrophic failure at the plant. That seems unlikely, everything went up too quickly; it would have been sequential, pipelines blowing one by one. Two, one of the other factions attacked and destroyed the plant. Also unlikely, none of them have the numbers or weaponry to assault a fortress settlement such as that, even Heart of Fury.]
He flared his nostrils and continued, [I'll wager my blood that it was Lambent, and the Humans were overrun. In desperation, they sent it all up in flames.] He turned to Rathe and asked with a surprising hint of sadness in his voice, [Were you born when they rained fire from the heavens on us, on even their own kind? Millions, billions dead, to deny us what territory they'd lost. That hate…] His dark eyes seemed to stare through Rathe, who decided to speak up to ease his general's sudden bout of melancholy, [Sir, they don't think like us. They're…], Rathe paused, searching for the right word before settling on, [-beasts. They have technology they can barely control, and this dead planet's all they have to show for it. They started this war, not us. They would have attacked us, slaughtered us all. The Queen may be gone, but we've still got to fight.]
It rang hollow to Rathe's ears, and Herik could tell, rolling his lips back to expose shredding incisors in a half-grin. [You're unconvinced of your own words, Guardsman. Perhaps you'll learn. Go now, Seht isn't known for his patience.] He clasped his hands behind him and turned his back on Rathe, who stared at his back for a moment, then wheeled on one foot and marched out in the same fashion he'd entered, the tent cover silent as he exited.
Herik stood with his eyes closed until he'd heard the guardsman leave, then permitted himself a small grunt of irritation laced with pity. The guardsman was young, only 15 at most, and trying to cling to anti-Human rhetoric he didn't particularly believe to give him a sense of purpose. He, and countless others like him, had been mass-produced just before the Surge to eventually replace the soldiers who would die in droves assaulting major Human cities across Sera. The odds of his family being alive were unfathomably low. He'd probably never even seen a woman, a real one, not the things too many drone females had been transformed into on the witch's orders, what Humans called Berserkers in their language. For them alone, I'd rip the tongue from her lying mouth; crush her skull between my hands.
The old general could tell he wasn't alone in those sentiments. Aside from those who had seceded after the witch appeared, this camp and others were filled with disillusioned survivors of the war, from divisions abandoned in the line of duty to splinter groups that refused to swear allegiance to the false queen Myrrah. He and other high-ranking drone secessionists had brought them all together, and disasters one after another had driven them out of the hollow and into this shithole known as the Deadlands. Reduced to fighting each other like mad animals for scraps, the locust were dying. Herik had created his own cabal of trustworthy assistants, ruthlessly culling those too loose of lips or loyalty. His people were surrounded by potential enemies, and he had to do something quickly before they were overrun.
He growled in defiance. I haven't lived this long and through this much to have dronekind scattered and my head on a spear. His inner circle knew of his plan, some approving, most not, all accepting his judgement in the end. He prayed to the gods below that there were Humans to capture in Mercy, and that they would help him see this through.
Mercy:
It was a broken, pitiful thing, having lost most of its body mass to the explosion, the shrapnel, and the flames. Any sane observer would have dismissed it as dead and left it. It wouldn't rot; any micro-organisms or carrion beasts had long since died in the Hammer strikes. If there were any Lambent still active in Mercy, they would have ignored it, as it wasn't a threat and far too damaged to bother infecting. So it lay there, barely alive, barely human, in darkness and silence. And somewhere in the depths of its shattered consciousness, it dreamt of a woman.