A/N: A bit of background, and place in the timeline:
-Place: Jaffar Desert, South of the mountains, South of OSS63, Columbia and the Airsubcon mentioned in various bits of fiction.
-Time: Several months after the activation of OSS63. Post-dates the sacking of the 'Skygod' compound, and the 'cleansing' of the Airsubcon (more on that, later).
Disclaimers: I've never base jumped nor eaten a PB&J sandwich. Nor do I have any ownership interest, or receive compensation from writing about, Living Steel, Rhand, Phoenix Command or other former LEG products. If I did, I'd have exactly 23 cents more in my pocket.
Context will be lacking if you haven't the foggiest what Living Steel is. Or Vissers. Or other things I'm not likely to explain :D
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**TRASH**
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The stranger walked through the slowly awakening camp. His walk was slow and halting as he stopped periodically to sweep refuse into a pole-mounted pivoting container. The stranger went, for the most part, unnoticed as he went about his seemingly pointless task. Unnoticed, perhaps, except for the occasional person who would take note of the vile stench that wafted from his person. Working with trash had its pitfalls, after all.
Trashman lifted his wiry, sun-browned arm to wipe sweat from his receding hairline. A woman squatting at a small fire to his left cursed at him to move on, as she waved her hand before her grimy face. Reviled, Trashman hunched his thin shoulders and moved on through the camp.
Two weeks ago he had come to the northernmost of the Kahn's encampments, another bedraggled, half-starved refugee. He had been taken to an Overseer's compound and questioned extensively. The overseer had laughed outrageously when he was told what the stranger had done Before: Sanitation Engineer. The Overseer told him he was now a member of the Army of the Glorious Kahn. Smiling, the Overseer had told his aide to find the 'Sanitation Engineer' a broom and pan and to put him to work cleaning the Overseer's compound. So the stranger became Trashman.
Trashman could be found moving slowly about the camp at all hours, sweeping up the endless stream of refuse created by the camp's inhabitants. At first, the compound guards questioned him, but his only reply, "Picking up trash" quickly became a joke, and the guards ceased to bother him. When he did sleep, it was in or about one of the large refuse containers; no one bothered him there. But Trashman did not sleep very often; after all, trash had a way of sneaking up on you…
Working in the Overseer's compound meant better food, though even Trashman shuddered to think of what went into his bowl every night. It also meant he could come and leave the compound at will, his cloth badge identifying him as a compound worker. Some days he would walk amongst the people of the outer camps, shaking his head and muttering about the trash there. People there left him alone too.
Trashman saw many things as he went about the camp. He noted things that would be somewhat unusual for a trashman to notice. For example, he took note that only the quasi-uniformed guards and their superiors carried firearms. He took note of the number of those armed men, and those unarmed alike. He took note of the placement of supply dumps, ammunition stores, guard patrols, armed and unarmed vehicles, and very importantly, 'Gear hangers and maintenance bays.
Trashman also heard things. The ignominy of his position often led others to talk as if Trashman were not there. The things that Trashman overheard were quite profound. For example, once when cleaning near a supply tent he just happened to overhear a tally of critical supplies that were needed by the Army of the Glorious Kahn. Later that same day he just happened to be around the Lead Overseer's conference tent when troop movement plans were being discussed. In fact, Trashman seemed to have the incredible fortune to be around at many times when important things were being discussed by important people.
But, of course, Trashman was only interested in trash.
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With the gloaming of twilight came relief from the hot winds of the Jaffar desert. Near a large raised platform, at the edge of an ever-growing crowd, Trashman stood idly toying with the bent tines of his wire rake. Apparently absorbed with his task, no one noticed the wiry man's keen blue eyes take in the scene unfolding on the platform before him.
On the raised platform the Lead Overseer was addressing the crowd. Behind him, tied to a wooden post, was man in tattered black clothing. The dark-clad man's head lay listlessly on his chest, a slow trickle of blood could be seen to run from the corner of his slack jaws. The Overseer told the crowd of the man's failure to perform his duty in guarding a prisoner holding area. Prisoners had been allowed to escape, apparently from right under the now-battered man's nose. Now he was to be punished.
The Overseer extolled the crowd, asking what manner of death the man must suffer. Many and varied were the answers shouted back at him. Smiling at the creativeness of his followers, the Overseer caught sight of Trashman, alone at the edge of the crowd; his smile grew wider, lascivious. Turning to a guard, the Overseer pointed at Trashman, then turned back to the crowd.
"My loyal Warriors," he began in tone that stilled the remaining catcalls from the crowd. "All of your suggestions bear merit, but this", he said pointing back at the bound man, "does not deserve such tender ministrations."
"Instead, I suggest that this is simply garbage to be disposed of as garbage should be…" he trailed off as the guard he had spoken to returned to the stage, now with Trashman in tow. Ignoring the smell exuding from the wiry little man, the Overseer stepped over to him, drawing him forward to where the bound man stood, the prisoner's head now up, eyes alert.
"I have a job for you," the Overseer crooned.
Trashman looked up at the Overseer, his eyes clouded in apparent confusion, "Trash?" he asked in a piping voice full of hope. The crowd laughed.
"Yes, Trashman," the Overseer replied, a smile distending his face, "I have trash for you to remove." With that he withdrew a wicked-looking knife from its scabbard at his side. He took the wiry man's broom and pan from him, then pressed his knife into the Trashman's right hand.
Trashman stared at the knife, turning it this way and that in his hand. He looked up at the Overseer in askance, confusion alight in his gaze. "Wh..what?" he asked in a halting voice.
The Lead Overseer of the Army of the Glorious Kahn grasped Trashman by his shoulders and turned him to face the black-clad man, who was now silently straining at his bonds. "This is the trash, my friend. Take the knife I have given to you and kill this thing that has failed both myself and your familiy here." He said pushing the odoriferous little man toward the prisoner.
Trashman turned back to look at the Overseer, who smiled brightly at him in return, gesturing toward the bound captive. The crowd began a thin chant as he turned back to the condemned man. Trash-man…trash- man…trash-man…
The wiry man stepped up to the prisoner, who was now straining straight ahead against his bindings, as if daring Trashman to proceed. Trash' looked into the man's eyes, holding his gaze captive. He had seen what this man had done to some of the prisoners under his guard, particularly the female captives. He would not be sad to see him leave.
Never taking his eyes from the bound man's, the wiry man's hand shot out, plunging the knife up under the captive's chin, hard into the base of his brain. The black-clad man jerked, once, then fell limp against his bonds. Trash' slowly pulled his hand back, leaving the knife embedded in the man's skull. The crowd exploded. Trashman! Trashman! Trashman! Trashman!
The Overseer grasped Trashman by his shoulders and turned him to face the crowd. He extolled the Trashman's loyalty and his willingness to perform his assigned task, as lowly even as it was. He extolled the crowd to follow the Trashman's example. The smiling little man was passed down into the crowd, where he was taken into the camp and treated as a hero…
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Very late that same night—nearly dawn of the next morning actually—a weary man jogged up into the foothills some miles from the camp. On through the day the sun-bronzed man jogged further into the hills to the north; until nearing noon, he slowed to a walk, and began to look about him, as if searching for something in his surroundings. Not but a few minutes later the man crouched near a dead-fall of rocks and sharp branches.
Looking about briefly, the man ran a grimy hand through his sweaty, short-cropped hair. Then, wiry muscles straining with effort, the darkly-tanned man lifted aside a huge rock, revealing a hole beneath. From this hole the man withdrew two items. The first was a frame-pack hung with pieces of DPM netting, the other a long oilcloth-wrapped bundle.
Setting these items aside, the man heaved the rock back into place and smoothed the ground around it into a somewhat natural looking appearance. That done, the man unwrapped the long, cloth bundle to reveal an AR-8 assault rifle, scoped and slotted with an AAS for sniper work. The man examined the weapon with the quick, assured, and businesslike manner of someone who had handled firearms all his life.
Satisfied with his inspection of the weapon, the lithe warrior turned to the frame pack and withdrew from it a tripod upon which he mounted a small laser communicator. Activating the com he quickly aligned it for use, sent a pre-coded message, then settled back waiting for a response.
But a few moments later, the com chirped at him, requiring attention. Activating a decode macro the man read the com's response message, then began to repack the gear and its tripod. Once packed, the man shouldered the frame pack then bent to pick up the rifle. A slight sigh escaped Ben's lips as he considered yet another night without sleep; he then trudged off into the hills, toward his rendezvous, and home.
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A/N:
Okay, that was a bit of fiction jotted down based on Ben Carson's infiltration of the Host of the Glorious Khan (a large visser horde under the control of a Spectral MIB agent). An advanced host of this horde was sent to secure the airsubcon for its surviving vehicle fleet and facilities. Many difficult sessions the players spent dealing with that advanced group (more shorts to follow), only to later find that they were but a small part of a much larger force.
Ben Carson himself (Blue Sword DRAGON, scouting and infiltration specialist) was a key player in the game. Much of the development in the relationship with the Alpha group (particularly the Wheeler clan), as well as the formation of the DogMen (and MUCH later the 'Carsonites') can be attributed to the facile mind of the original player, Ed Kammert (RIP, my good, good friend).
Just a note since there may be a lack of familiarity: Overseers, "MIB agents", and some of the behavior of various factions, vissers, etc., are purely the deviations of my own campaign.