Atlas Border Outer Defense Wall, Gate 215, Two days later.
"Of all the nights to land with picket duty..."
Private Reno Sandman shivered in the open-air guard house that stood behind the electrified fence, hugging himself as he trembled under the barrage of cold air that whistled through the large holes that served as windows. Beyond the small wooden shelter, the automated functions of a large wire gate stood like sentinels, impervious to the cold.
Beyond the fence was...nothing. The emptiness, a cleared area that extended back over a mile, that would be the only warning he would receive in the event of a Grimm attack.
That is, if he didn't die of hypothermia first.
Like all Atlesian troops, he wore the face-covering helmet with its built-in heads-up display, black tunic and trousers, armor plates and combat boots, the shoulder and torso plates picked out in the colors denoting his rank. The boxy shape of his laser rifle hung from his shoulder, with its matching pistol holstered on his waist. Of course, as befit the season, the tunic and trousers were SUMMER issue... and the weather was anything but.
The early Autumnal season in most nations of Remnant was sometimes referred to as the "Atlesian Summer." The nomenclature certainly fit, as Atlas' excuse for a mid-year warm period gave a mockery to the name. Temperatures rarely rose above freezing in the northern climate: it wasn't for nothing that most of the nation s territory was covered in ice. Even in the small temperate zone that trailed down towards Vale, where most of Atlas infrastructure and habitation was located, the season held an unseasonable chill. Harsh breezes were commonplace, and even an unexpected snowfall was not unheard of on the northern fringes of the settled area. Very little business went on outside the safe, enclosed and above all HEATED confines of the inner city buildings: even open air parks were a misnomer, greenhouses would be a more appropriate term. Any farming was conducted in hydroponics facilities, controlled animal facilities and heavily regulated purification plants. Ice meltoff from the glaciers ensured the Kingdom would never run out of fresh water. Habitats for the citizens were in large, almost bunker-like apartment complexes, each capable of holding thousands in cozy comfort, provided with the latest in amenities. Summer clothing was of a type that most would consider autumnal, or even winter attire.
Indeed, the Summer issue uniforms of the armed forces could be considered winter issue by, say, the Vale Rangers: winters in that country were certainly not known for being calm affairs. But the thermals were-just-a bit weaker, the materials were-just-a bit less wind-proof. No major issue in, perhaps, Mistral, but in Atlas efficiency and bureaucracy demanded summer uniforms be issued in summer.
Aand Private Sandman was feeling the consequences. He reflexively grabbed his crotch as another gust ripped into him: any more like that and his balls were likely to crawl back up into his pelvis.
Of course, his position and duties might cause that unwelcome affect as well...
He moaned to himself as he shivered: Border defense on the outer national perimeter, manning a gate on the almost laughably pathetic electrified wire fence? this was punishment, nothing else but. But what could he expect? He, along with the rest of his squad, had allowed a fugitive to sneak into Beacon tower and do something, to the CCTS system installed there. And, on top of that, they d then allowed her to escape. And he was SURE it was a she, no male he d ever seen could fill out a catsuit like that.
He didn't even have the excuse that she'd snuck up on him, not like Harvey had: nope, Reno had watched the elevator door open, revealing the figure-and WHAT a figure-standing before him and Silbern, and had stared dumbly as she d simply strutted in, the leather of her suit shining in the overhead lights. Of COURSE, of all nights to forget the Wi-Fi password...he'd handed it right to her, too.
And...he couldn't remember much after that. He'd woken up to see the enraged face of General Ironwood as his superior violently shook him, the sounds of a fight echoing down from the floors above. As he d staggered to his feet, he'd observed the rest of his squad slowly regaining their senses as Ironwood himself ascended in the elevator to see what was going on.
Barely a few moments later, the General had radioed down to the men that the intruder had escaped, just as Reno had seen an all-too-familiar figure dashing towards the massive ballroom of Beacon academy. Managing to pull Harvey to his feet, the two had given chase, dashing past their comrades who were still recovering their senses. However, just when they thought they had the woman cornered...
Reno still flinched at the memory of Harvey and he barging into the Ballroom in pursuit of the woman-he thought he d stepped on some broken glass, by the sound his footfalls made-only to see that she had disappeared.
All he and Harvey could see where Hunter trainees gaily twirling about the room, laughing and carousing. Even seeing the famous Pyrrha Nikos laughing at some blonde guy wearing a dress hadn't been enough to brighten his mood. Stan and Earl, who had been at the dance escorting the General and one of Atlas students (Penelope, or something like that) said they hadn't seen anyone matching the description of the woman enter the ballroom. Earl thought he recalled a Haven student, a young woman with a haircut that matched the description Reno had given, showing up at the exact moment Reno said the intruder had entered the ballroom, but there would have been no way she could have changed out of her cat suit and into the voluminous ball gown she'd been wearing in the literal seconds the intruder was out of sight before the two privates entered the vast building behind her. A search of each student had been ruled out, out of a desire to avoid panic or unnecessary scrutiny by the Vale council. And so the mystery went unsolved.
Needless to say, General Ironwood had not been best pleased: Reno and the others had subtly checked themselves to make sure they still had skin left after the tongue-lashing they d received. They d been packed off back to Atlas that same day, informed in no uncertain terms that they d been reassigned. Reno had privately bemoaned this fate: he was a career soldier, lucky enough to have made it through the academy, and to screw up so badly he d only been thankful his failure hadn't resulted in harsher punishments. And as for his new duties...
How the thin metal fence, electrified or no, was supposed to stop a swarm of Grimm? That wasn't his concern. Turning to look over his shoulder, Sandman could-just-see the impressive edifice of the hundred-foot-tall reinforced border wall in the distance: the real obstacle to any errant interlopers. Automated weapons turrets, Paladin units and other heavy weapons added sting to the shield. In so many ways, the fence was more an early warning than any attempt at real defense. A few blockhouses, some barbed wire barricades all of these, the men knew at the back of their minds, were so much for show.
Well, guarding the perimeter of Atlas, protecting the citizens from the Grimm, was surely a high honor, yes. He and the other wall guards were the first line of defense for the kingdom, the first obstacle intruders had to cross to access the interior of Atlas. They, Reno and the others, were the first stage of protection for the citizens. That is, if he survived long enough to actually DO anything.
Or, he thought to himself as another cold breeze tore into him, if he didn't turn into an iceblock first.
He sometimes, as he did now, in the long, dull moments between rare Grimm sightings and inspections, pondered at what had happened in the tower: it didn't seem to add up, what was the woman doing? What had she been after, what-?
A low rumble from the road BEHIND him drew him back to the present. This was unique, and immediately set him on alert: while the train lines that ran to some of the military outposts farther outside the kingdom had access ports through the walls, those runs were few and far between. And in the months since he'd taken up station on the wall, not a single vehicle had come up the road, into or out of the Walls. His usual transport to and from the barracks was by Bullhead.
Reno turned away from the empty distance, facing back towards the kingdom as he observed a long line of lights appear, heading up the road toward the gate... towards HIM. A cloud of dust trailed behind them: more than one vehicle then, clearly. The low growl of truck engines filled his ears like the prowling noises of Grimm hordes, and he suppressed a shiver at the comparison.
As duty demanded, he stepped out of the guard house and onto the road, holding his rifle at the ready and raising a hand to order the vehicles to stop. As unusual as the situation was, his training and duties demanded he inspect the oncoming convoy. Orders were clear: nothing got out of the gate without command authority. He d not heard anything from Central command about any shipments, either suspicious.
The vehicles drew closer, the rumble of their engines echoing across the empty distance, their headlights glowed like the sun through the dust clouds they were throwing up. It gave the convoy an almost ghostly veil, like spirits on some dark mission. They showed no sign of slowing down .
At the back of his mind, something that training should have drummed out of him, a voice told him that, if this WAS an attack, how was one guy supposed to stop a convoy of trucks? His eyes briefly flashed to the panic button on his belt, as the headlights on the approaching trucks began to light him up: a wireless beacon to central HQ to warn them of any danger. He hoped he could hit it if he had to jump clear-
And then, just when he was afraid that he might have to jump out of the way, the Convoy slowed to a halt, the heavy spot lamps on their fronts glaring into Reno's face. Even through his HUD filters he had to squint.
Looking again, Reno could see the lead vehicle was a Command car, a small 4x4 truck used to carry small squads of men or officers, as the uniform of the man who stepped out clearly indicated he was.
Behind the car was a Halftrack, a box-like armored transport vehicle that was propelled by a set of caterpillar tracks while a pair of tires at the front was used to steer. Out of the open roof Reno could see the peaks of Atlesian combat helmets like his own: the troop seating bed was filled to capacity, and another trooper stood behind a vicious-looking automatic weapon on a ring mount offset to the right of the driver's area. The blast shutters on the doors and windshield were down, hiding the interior from view.
Behind the halftrack, long line of heavy duty 6x6 trucks, beastly machines with long beds and huge tires stood, their beds hidden by thick canvas tarps. No sounds came from within them. Reno raised an eyebrow inside his helmet, saluting as the officer stepped forward: these machines were old Mantle Motors units, the logo of the defunct kingdom still embossed onto their radiator faces. They were beyond old, virtually antiques: most military transport was conducted in the air these days. He felt another chill go up his spine as the rumble of their idling engines pulsed over him like waves.
The Officer strode up to the Private, who still stood at salute, which he finally replied to. The man towered over Private Sandman, with a long, sharp face that put Reno in mind of a dagger. His eyes were a piercing ice blue, and a scar ran over his left cheek. Underneath his peaked cap Reno could just see close-cropped blonde hair. The Officer, who Reno could now see by his rank pins was a Major, regarded the Private with his cold gaze. If Reno's balls hadn't been frozen before, they certainly were now.
"What's the matter, Private?" the Officer asked: his voice was cold and crisp, and held a trace of the upper-crust tones of old Mantle Nobility. He was clearly annoyed.
Bucking up courage (this man looked like he could use Reno to pick his teeth) the Private came out with a straightforward military answer.
"Apologies, sir: no one gets out without command approval. I'll have to see some authorization, and to get permission from central to allow you to leave the protected area."
The officer stared at Reno with his cold, cold eyes, looking for all the world like he was ready to stomp the Private down and throw him under the wheels of the massive trucks. But then, with an exasperated sigh, he reached into his coat, withdrawing not a familiar scroll or other such datapad, but an old written scrip order. Unfolding it, he handed it to Reno with an annoyed expression.
"Not even considered important enough to use data space on." The Officer muttered as Reno took the sheet and began to scan it's contents.
The first thing he noticed was the letterhead: the logo of Atlas central command, the personal desk of Military High Commander Sandwick Reed. Reno felt his spine straighten just by reading that name: as supreme commander of the Atlas armed forces, Reed was more or less the absolute dictator of the Kingdom of Atlas. His word was law, and he had the power to change the course of any of the citizen's lives...or make them vanish. He was so wrapped up in those thoughts that, even as he scanned the rest of the document, much of it didn't register in his mind: something about a dumping of some excess refuse, a failure at one of the waste processing facilities in the inner city. Well, that explained the trucks: what better use for such old antiques? Any airborne refuse removal would leave a trail of stench to settle on the city. The dumping was assigned to Logistics unit 137, a common enough name in the Atlesian battle order. Wherever Atlesian troops were deployed, Unit 137 could usually be mentioned in some capacity: the unit was a lot of paper pushing, desk-sitting types, logistics orders and so forth, some of the unsung heroes that kept an army moving from behind the lines. Though Reno wasn't sure just WHAT the unit actually did...
In any case, the unit had sought the permission of Reed's office to leave the settled area for this apparent dumping mission, and a recommendation from Reed's office to go at night and by truck was tacked onto the bottom. Straightforward enough. Reed's personal signature at the bottom affirmed it, and Reno could only nod. Whatever the oddness of the situation was, it was above his head.
"Seems straightforward enough." He said, as he folded the papers over "Sorry to keep you waiting, sir."
"It's alright soldier" the Officer said as he reclaimed the papers,"Do your duty: that's what we ask of you."
"Understood, sir." Sandman replied, as he turned back towards the guard house.
That was the last thing he did.
Reno's mind registered the sound of the gunshot. It registered something hitting him in the back of the head. Strangely, there was no pain, as he crumpled to the ground, rolling into an unnatural position, his head hanging at an odd angle. His vision was distorted: it was like one of his eyes had gone blind. He realized that he couldn't breathe, but strangely, he felt no panic, just a strange sense of wrongness. A wrongness only compounded as he felt himself being lifted bodily.
As his one good eye lolled about, he could just make out the officer wiping down the barrel of his sidearm, as one of the troopers, likely from the halftrack, stepped into the guardhouse in Reno s place. He reached down to the control panel, and Reno vaguely registered a small bleating alarm, one that indicated the gate was being opened.
He felt himself be dragged past the command car and the halftrack, and past the first of the trucks to it s tail end. Still held up in the air, his body limp, he vaguely registered another trooper appear and, unlatching the tailgate of the truck, lower it down and pull the canvas cover aside.
Reno felt himself be casually tossed into sudden darkness, lit only by the dim light from outside the truck. And then that light was gone as the cover was slid back into place and the tailgate was closed with a dim *CLANG* in Reno s ears.
The private, still overwhelmed with a sense of wrongness, lay on the floor of the truck; he began to notice something odd. Strange how, despite the fact that he couldn't move, or see out of one eye, or be able to breathe, he could still notice anything. All around him, sitting motionless, not even seeming to take note of the man who had been casually thrown into their midst, were people. They sat like statues on the seats in the back of the truck, their legs together, hands in their laps, eyes fixed straight ahead. More soldiers? No, Reno s fading mind said, unless uniform budgets have really gone down the tubes. He couldn't see much, between the darkness and-oh damn, his other eye was starting to go-but he could tell from the vague feeling where his head was pressed up to the forest of legs that they were dressed in an eclectic mix of fabrics, none of it military issue and all of it very, very worn.
As Reno's own mind began to fade, he stared at these figures, their lifeless eyes and worn, ragged clothes, and his last thought came as the darkness closed around him.
What is a logistics group like unit 137 doing with a bunch of Academy washouts and beggars?
[=]
(AN: yeah, a shorty this time. But I hope this is keeping people interested. as I said last chapter, it s gonna be a bit before we see Pyrrha and our other heroes again, but the next few chaps are gonna have some familiar faces just you wait.)