Outskirts of Ephyra, 1720 hours.

"Mathieson, I can't see a damn thing from back here. Do you have a visual?" Ramirez restlessly shifted her scope from one end of the mansion to the next, Crimson Oak leaves rustling gently as the lengthy barrel of the Longshot twitched back and forth.

There was a brief pause from Control's end, punctuated by short bursts of keystrokes, then; "affirmative, Sergeant. I've got two heat signatures on the first floor and a visual on Fire Team Two in the kitchen."

"Any grub movement on your end?"

"All quiet, so far."

Ramirez rolled on to her left side and keyed her comms control panel on her belt by touch, selecting a secure channel to Rictor.

"Everything quiet out there, Sergeant?" Rictor sounded business-as-usual, a world away from the snarling stereotype that had all but chewed Baird out moments ago.

"Too quiet. I'm worried, Andy," Ramirez looked up from the rifle scope, tracking from the mansion to the road stretching past it from her left to right.

"Just another day at the office," Rictor replied dismissively.

"We've had no enemy contact for four hours now. We're pushing our luck," Ramirez bit her lip anxiously.

"All the enemy forces are concentrated further up the road at Ephyra," Rictor said matter-of-factly. "Damn grubs are hell bent on making us eat the granite it's built on."

"You think it's wise to let Baird go to town with that plastic explosive? Remember those three e-holes Mathieson spotted?"

Rictor issued the long drawn out sigh of a man who was at the end of his ability to tolerate people questioning his orders but a few seconds elapsed before he answered and Ramirez sensed that he was biting his tongue, perhaps because he could understand his squad's reaction to this unusual mission. Perhaps because he knew he'd have to answer to her after the mission.

"Look, unless Cole and I find this intel up here, Baird's trap door is the only show in town and without our dear Colonel Avery, the only way past that door is through it. Will it alert any grubs in the area? Most likely. Do we have a choice? No."

"Meaning?" Ramirez knew she was being petulant, arguing against inevitability: orders were orders. But it felt better to put up some sort of fight, even if it was only a verbal one.

"Meaning the minute you start hiding doors behind the white goods, normal procedures stop applying." Rictor paused briefly, and Ramirez was able to hear the light jingle of armour and weaponry as he continued to move through the mansion. "Unless I miss my guess, Baird has found the entrance to a bunker or panic room or some such down there; none of which, I might add, is out of the realm of possibility for the head of an organisation that deals in secrecy. So while your concerns are noted, this is our best shot at completing the mission."

"That's fucked up," Ramirez sighed.

"If it was an easy job they would've given it to somebody else," the Captain replied dryly.

"True," Ramirez agreed. "Listen, I can't see anything back here. You want me to move around to cover Shoenick and Baird?"

Ramirez heard the faint rustle of Rictor pulling at his goatee. "Negative. If we have to bang out the front, you're our cover. Let's play it by ear for now but be ready to rock 'n' roll if it goes south."

"Copy that."

"Rictor out."

The sniper switched back to squad comms and swept a wary eye around the surrounding area for the millionth time.

"This is Fire Team Two, we're good to go here," Baird broadcast. "We've fallen back out of the kitchen and are preparing to breach the door. Suggest Fire Team One brace."

Baird was all business. One of those little tell-tale signs Ramirez had observed that gave away he could be a good little soldier when he wanted to be. That and the fact that he had a passion for explosives that bordered on the freakish.

"Copy that. We're moving back to the main hall to avoid any debris."

Seconds passed and finally Ramirez was able to get the first glimpse in some time of her squad-mates through the upper windows of the hall. Cole and Rictor rounded the corner of the right-hand hallway and crouched down behind the wall that formed the rear of the dilapidated master bedroom.

"Fire Team One to Two: you are go for breach."

"Roger."

Ramirez flinched as a loud muffled thud emanated from the rear of the building, followed a split second later by the sound of shattering glass and a column of smoke squirting up into the darkening sky from the rear of the mansion. The already damaged roof shrugged off a few dozen more tiles, sending them clattering into the overgrown gardens; leaves from the ivy attached to the mansion's overgrown exterior were plucked from it's hide by the shockwave; and the surrounding trees in the garden rippled with the force of the explosion.

Ramirez trained her sights on the rear of the mansion as best she could, holding her breath as a thick cloud of dust rolled across the wood, enveloping her in the fruit of Baird's labours.

Then, no more than thirty seconds later, amid the slow descent of leaves and dust, stillness reclaimed the scene.


Where the panel had been in the kitchen floor was now a smoking hole framed with the torn and bent remains of the trapdoor's hinges on the far away side. The debris from the damaged sections of the mansion that had littered the tiled floor had been strewn viciously away from the secret doorway, leaving a roughly circular clear area of floor around the blackened epicentre of the blast.

The fridge which had stoically guarded the doors location for so many years lay a good ten feet away from it now, pitched on its side, foul contents spilled across the dirty rubble-strewn floor.

The section of the rear wall on which the fridge had been mounted had been dispersed liberally around the rear garden, giving the wall the appearance of a missing tooth in a decaying grin. Through the cavity, the forest and outlying acres of land could be seen, burnt a deep orange by the fading sun.

Baird emerged from behind the ruined wall of the servants quarters, dust caking his armour and face (his eyes protected by his goggles), a schoolboy grin etched into the dirt.

Shoenick ventured out from the protection of an adjacent bathroom, likewise dusty and energised by the wanton destruction.

Baird returned his goggles to their default position above his eyebrows leaving a strip of clear skin on his face and tentatively made his way back to the hole, wary of any potential weaknesses in the recently breached floor. The Corporal had had similar ideas to his superior about the nature of the chamber this trapdoor led to and was certain that the kitchen floor (or roof of the bunker/panic room) would have been structurally designed to withstand much more than an explosive charge but he hadn't stayed alive this long by taking things at face value.

Fanning away smoke and dust with an open hand as he peered down the hole, Baird's other hand shone his small flashlight on a metal spiral staircase descending further into the ground. Crouching down at the mouth of the hole, he gestured to Shoenick.

"Stay here," he stared levelly at the other. No bullshit now, moment of truth. "Anything other than me comes back up these stairs; you shoot first and ask questions later. Okay?"

Shoenick nodded silently.

"Good. Now hand me a flare."

The other did as he was told. Baird grabbed the flare like a baton and slammed the base of it into the floor, looking away from the resulting bright green geyser of light briefly before dropping it into the hole. The serpent hiss of the flare which had filled the kitchen when it was ignited, folded into a noisier, more aggressive version of itself, sounding more feral and dangerous now that the confines of the hole compressed it.

The Corporal stood up, cautiously placing a boot on the first step of the stairwell and activating his com-link. "This is Baird; door's neutralised and we've found a stairwell underneath it. I'm proceeding downstairs. Mathieson, any news on our hot little friends?"

A second or two passed before Mathieson replied. "No, Baird. They're still holding steady, same position as before. Readings are sketchy because of the granite but I think you'll be turning through one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and going back underneath the mansion when you get down those stairs."

"Roger that."

"Hold your position, Baird. You're not going down there alone," Rictor ordered over the radio.

"Top, it's a pretty tight space. We're only going to get down one at a time anyways. If there's a bunch of us in there and we get attacked it'll get messy."

Silence over the com channel. "Take your time and don't take any risks. It's been an eventful day all ready, I don't need my report getting any more colourful."

"Your concern, as always, is touching."

"Get it done, Corporal."

Baird unslung his Hammerburst and retrieved a small roll of duct tape from his fatigues. Ripping off a long strip he bound his flashlight to the barrel of the rifle, then looped the rifles strap back over his head and pointed it down into the hole.

Satisfied, Baird pocketed the duct tape again and moved slowly down the spiral staircase. He was conscious at first of the slight give in the metal steps but that was quickly superseded by his reflexive urge to check the room below for lurking enemies.

The square shaft accommodating the stairwell was made of featureless rough-hewn quick-pour concrete, probably steel reinforced Baird guessed, and was about four metres deep, ending in a metal door at its base that resembled the bulkhead door of a ship or submarine, replete with spinning handle locking mechanism.

The flare saturated the stairs, walls, door and Baird with a lurid, sickly green colour. The hiss of it was deafening in the close quarters of the shaft but Baird focussed on the handle of the door, one hand on the grip of his rifle as the other spun the wheel.

The handle spun easily, something that surprised Baird. The academic part of his brain automatically began listing the conditions that should prohibit such smooth operation after so long without attention. The animal part of him asserted itself, reminding him of the grey, scaled horrors that may lurk behind the door.

Thankfully, the door opened inwards into the chamber behind it, and Baird was able to aim his rifle properly with both hands as he pushed the door open with his boot.

The smell almost bowled him over; a heady cocktail of rotten flesh mixed with undertones of moth-eaten fabric with an aftertaste of the dry musty odour that accompanies decaying paper.

Baird spat, fighting the gagging reflex to vomit and the rising swell of nausea. He gave the briefest of consideration to what the regurgitated remnants of ration packs would look like before his stomach spasmed again, threatening to show him.

He rested his forehead against the cool, rough concrete wall. Seconds passed while he questioned why he'd been so eager to come down here, and then he turned around and looked up.

Right at Colonel James Francis Avery.

It was impossible to tell exactly how long he had been dead, such was the extent of the decomposition but the dusty pistol (the predecessor to the latter-day Stub, Baird's academic mind lectured) hanging limply from the withered skeletal fingers of the corpse's right hand left no mystery as to how he had died.

The desiccated husk sat facing the doorway on what once must have been an expensive leather executive office chair, the flesh of it now not unlike its occupant; dry, mouldering, distressed.

Avery's corpse sat in a roughly cruciform position; legs outstretched towards the door; arms wide open balancing on either arm of the chair; shoulders thrown back against the high back of the chair and head similarly thrown back, resting on one of the chair's wings.

The face of the once director of the Defence Research Agency was now nothing but a death's head. Shrivelled parchment lips pulled back grotesquely, exposing rotted teeth in a festering pit of an open mouth. A shrunken blackened tongue rested on yellowed teeth like a cadaverous insect venturing out of a disgusting cave. Hollow eye sockets sloped upwards towards the centre of the forehead as if in an expression of sorrow or helplessness.

Seeing no entry wound in the visible portion of the skull, Baird aimed the Hammerburst/flashlight at the wall behind the corpse and was rewarded with a large brown stain splattered just above head height. Long ago, several streams of ejected blood, bone and brain-matter had slid down the wall from the initial impact and dried in, giving the grisly tableau the appearance of a child's crude rendition of a rain cloud.

Baird stared at the lifeless husk, unable to summon up any feelings of regret or remorse. Chickenshit bastard.

Then again, he pondered, maybe he's smarter than the rest of us, living day to day, waiting to get picked off by the Locusts.

"Report, Corporal," Rictor's tone was perfunctory edged with a hint of concern.

"I'm still here. Found our Colonel. Sonuvabitch ruined a perfectly good wall with his brains," Baird grunted.

"Anything on Myrmidon?"

"Not so far." Baird looked around him; the room was relatively small and sparsely furnished. An L-shaped desk followed the contours of the wall, supporting a desktop computer and a printer, the tray of which was full of brittle yellowed print-outs. In the far corner of the room a large metal filing cabinet loomed, adjacent to a large map of Tyrus pinned to the wall. The map was filled with red marker pen 'X's; cities and towns long ago lost to the Locust horde in the early years of the war.

Hidden under the end of the desk, Baird spotted what looked like a small humming engine housed in a skeletal metal framework. Cables snaked from it to the desk computer and a portable light similar to those used in repair workshops, the bulb of which had long ago been spent.

Baird noticed a few lights on the keyboard of the computer but the monitor was dark. He planted a foot on the back of Avery's chair and kicked it out of his way into a wall crushing one of the corpse's hands with a sickening crunch like dried twigs being snapped. He nudged the mouse, scattering a cloud of dust motes upwards into the resulting eruption of light from the monitor.

Momentarily blinded by the brightness, Baird placed a finger over his earpiece and reported back.

"There's a desktop computer and filing cabinet down here that I'm guessing the good Colonel didn't want Mrs Director Of The DRA and the kids seeing. I'll have a look around and see what I can dig up. Oh, and Mathieson, your heat signatures are an old-fashioned perpetual motion genny and that computer. I'd imagine that was what was keeping the light on in that fridge."

"Good to know," Mathieson said flatly.

"A generator? Running all this time?" Rictor sounded incredulous.

"They were a big deal back in the day," Baird lectured, clearly in his element. "Spearheaded a short-lived clean energy initiative just before the grubs showed up. Until they worked out that the mechanism had to be ten times the size of a car to power one, then the whole project stalled and people fell back in with immulsion. But this little thing? It can run forever, theoretically. Provided whatever's drawing power from it isn't too demanding."

"Keep me posted, Baird. We're nearly done up here."

Baird walked towards the filing cabinet and tried the handle of the top drawer. Locked.

He briefly considered rooting around in the rotting garments adorning the corpse, remembered the smell, then thought better of it and drew his pistol.

"Baird to Alpha: filing cabinet's locked, I'm gonna have to force the drawers."

The shots were deafening in the enclosed space but true: a neat hole punctured each of the four locks on the drawers.

Baird pulled the first drawer. It was full of old magnetic storage disks, backups for software on the computer but nothing of any strategic interest.

The second one was home to an empty pistol case (the negative space in the packing foam all too familiar) and a few boxes of ammunition. Baird instinctively grabbed the boxes and emptied them into his webbing.

The third and fourth drawers were filled with paper documentation of various projects that the DRA had undertaken prior to Emergence Day. Baird flicked through progress reports on the Hammer Of Dawn network, the burgeoning Silverback programme, weapons testing results for the mark II Lancers (prior to the implementation of the chainsaw bayonet) but there was no trace of anything relating to Myrmidon.

Baird turned his attention to the computer, instantly recognising the archaic 'Portals 3.0' operating system. He reluctantly had to give some kudos to the skeleton in the chair; 3.0 was out-of-date even ten years ago, but it was hailed for its stability and security by industry insiders, hackers and computer experts alike.

The screen showed the default desktop with a DRA logo emblazoned on the background. He snorted, before dipping into the menus and selecting the hard drive. Folders cascaded down the screen before his eyes, masses of information reduced to pixelated renditions of their paper counterparts. Probably loads of super-secret shit on here, Baird mused.

He scrolled down the lengthy list of file directories. Naturally, none of them were entitled 'Project: Myrmidon' or 'Things That May End Up Being Important After I've Ventilated My Cranium'.

Baird escaped out of the directory list and opened up the dialogue option for the operating system that did all the heavy lifting behind the simplified user interface shell.

His fingers danced with practiced ease over the dusty keyboard, entering a command that would bring up a history of the most recent keystrokes entered. A list of incomprehensible words scrolled down the screen, white text on a black background. Baird quickly scanned down the list, mentally noting prominent names or commands that cropped up regularly.

He brought up the search function in a separate portal and started entering the names he encountered. Shortly, he encountered a directory that required password access. Tabbing between the search engine and the keystroke report, Baird was able to guess the password to the file and entered it. Bingo.

A fresh portal opened, tiled with tens of folder graphics, presentations and video footage. Each one's title began with the prefix 'ProMyr'. Baird double-clicked the first file that caught his eye, again this one required password verification.

As he was about to glean the password from the keystroke report, Mathieson interrupted; "uh, Alpha, I've just picked up something that'll put a slight wrinkle in your day…"

"Don't keep us all waiting, Mathieson," Rictor hissed.

"I've got multiple heat signatures emerging from those e-holes, colder than humans, consistent with Locust. They're closing on your position."

"How many?"

"Hard to tell with them on the move but definitely double-figures."

"Lock and load, Alpha! Baird, grab what you can and get back up to Schoenick. Ramirez?"

"I'm moving position to get a better field of fire," Ramirez breathed. Baird could hear her moving through foliage over the comm channel.

Baird dug out a grubby portable hard drive from a pouch attached to his belt and unwrapped the connector cable from around its casing. He plugged the cable into a port at the rear of the computer and used a keyboard shortcut to highlight the masses of 'ProMyr' data before selecting the portable drive and starting the copying process.

"Mathieson," Rictor began tensely "what are the chances of extraction from here?"

A smaller dialogue box popped up on the screen displaying a progress bar for the copying files. Above the bar, the name of the current file being copied flickered.

"Uh, nil. You're beyond the fuel range of the nearest Raven's Nest, remember?"

"Any patrols in the neighbourhood?" Rictor was reaching.

The progress bar hit 10%. Baird could hear the whir and click of the older drive sorting information and copying it.

Mathieson tapped his keyboard quickly: "not a thing."

"All right, Alpha. Looks like we've got a stand up fight. Stay in cover, wait for them to make the first move. Position?"

"They're right at the tree line North of you. No more than fifteen metres."

"Ramirez?"

"Nothing yet," bursts of breath broadcast over the comms. She was displacing fast.

"Wait until they're clear of the tree line, Alpha. Pick your targets and put them down. Short controlled bursts people, conserve your ammo."

25%. Above him, Baird could hear the sound of rubble being scattered around by his comrade's movements.

"This has been a shitty day so far, Mathieson. Give me some good news, son." Rictor's bravado was practised, a well-rehearsed act that both exuded a sense of calm to the rest of the unit and worked as a play for time while he formulated a plan. Even if they made it out of this clusterfuck alive, Baird was unlikely to compliment him on it but he had to admire it nonetheless.

"Your luck may be about to change, Captain," Mathieson replied tersely.

"Go ahead." Rictor sounded slightly distracted, probably giving directions to Cole for placement.

45%. Baird could hear the harsh sounds of magazines being rammed home and rounds being chambered in the background over the comm channel.

"Looks like the cargo Raven en route to pick up your Armadillo has a reserve fuel tank. It'll be tight as hell but I think it could make it."

"Send it straight to us," the jangle of equipment accompanying movement could still be heard clearly in the background. Rictor sounded more focused, as if he'd just acquired a target. "We'll pick up the 'Dill on the way back."

The war had crippled the COG's ability to mass produce vehicles, armaments and equipment. Leaving the Armadillo to the Locust was not an option.

"No bullshit, Rictor," Baird was briefly surprised, Mathieson wasn't much for cursing. "That Raven goes wheels-down your asses better be on the deck ASAP. There will be no room for sight-seeing."

"Don't worry about us, just get that bird here. We'll be ready."

70%. Baird hefted his Hammerburst and checked the chamber. Good to go.

"What's our evac LZ, Mathieson?"

"I'm working on it! Moving Ernie out to survey the area."

"Work faster, son. There's a metric fuck-tonne of grubs fixing to hang our collective asses on their trophy wall," the veteran replied coolly.

85%. Baird stared at the progress bar pensively, trying to ignore the knot of fear in his stomach.

"Ramirez? Darling, I could use a sitrep," Rictor drawled.

"In position," Ramirez panted. "I'm further West up the road. Got a good view of the forest and I can see Schoenick through one of the side windows. Nothing on you guys, though."

"You see any grubs?"

"I've got movement. Looks like infantry: Drones and Cyclops maybe. Nothing heavy," Ramirez' tone was measured, professional, punctuated by slight pauses as she searched the area through the confines of her scope.

"Roger that, I have visual. Looks like they're sticking inside the tree line. Smart. Schoenick: you in cover?"

"Just outside the kitchen, Sir." The rookie's voice was preternaturally calm, as if he was concentrating all of his will on the act of sounding composed.

"Good man. When Baird pops up, you cover him so he can fall back to you. We'll give you a hand from up here on the first floor. Baird what's your status?"

"I'm copying files from the computer's hard drive as we speak. Ten percent to go."

"Game-time, Damon," Cole chimed in "you'd better quit getting your panties in a bunch and come up with the goods, baby."

"You just worry about shooting straight you dumb jock bastard. I've got this," Baird said irritably. There were times, many times, that Baird hated Cole's almost reckless lack of fear.

The big man's laughter nearly deafened Baird. Super-sized idiot could enjoy himself anywhere.

The group comm channel was silent for a several taut seconds.

"Captain, there's a clear area on the road to the East of you: half a klick away from the mansion. I'm directing the Raven to those co-ordinates."

"Good work, Mathieson. You'd better find Ernie some cover, he's got target written all over him."

"Copy that. Raven ETA time: thirty minutes approximately."

Baird leaned heavily on the distressed desk, ignoring its groans. Thirty minutes? In a fire fight? That was a life time.

An unnecessarily cheerful chime indicated the copying had been completed. Baird began dismounting the drive from the computer and unhooking the portable drive.

Rictor ran through last-minute squad instructions while the Corporal worked.

"Listen up, nuggets. We don't stand a chance out in the open so we have to hold these bastards here until that chopper arrives to evac us. Once the Raven gets here we'll use frags for cover and fall back by teams to the front of the house so save your grenades 'til then"

Baird carefully wrapped the cable around the portable hard drive and placed it almost gingerly back in its respective pouch. Stepping away from the computer, he regarded it coolly for a heartbeat and then kicked the desk over, sending it and the computer crashing to the floor in a shower of sparks.

"Looks like those grubs could be hiding in the trees until Frost, Top," Ramirez commented.

"Agreed," Rictor grunted thoughtfully. "If you're looking for an invitation to use that Boom Shot, Cole, I'd say now was a damned good time."

Baird could tell the Thrashball star was grinning without even seeing him.

"I heard that."

Baird exited the panic room at a fast walk, rifle aimed at the access hatch in the stairwell above him. As he focussed on the square of light in the ceiling, an object hurtled through it, clattering off of several stairs with a metallic clang before coming to rest just in front of his boots.

"GRENADE!" Rictor bellowed in disjointed stereo over the comms and somewhere above the mechanic.

"Ah, shit," Baird sighed.