"Slate One-Actual pilot's log, post-awakening day fourteen, dawn.

"Yesterday I attempted to return to the abandoned installation. My efforts were aborted when I found military forces had taken back control of the outpost. It's possible they're investigating my previous encounter with their forces, but it's also likely they intend re-establish an outpost.

"Since then, I've holed up in a canyon eighty clicks southwest of the installation, where I surmised some anomalous EM interference should shield me from detection. I've stowed the Sworder in an alcove in the canyon wall, and upon arrival set out on foot to further assess the situation. My excursion revealed that forces similar to the ones at the installation had arrived and were studying the source of the interference near where the canyon opens up into a dry lakebed.

"The source appears to be a Zoidian evolution. I recall Keegan spoke frequently about the phenomenon, and suggested introducing an organoid to the testing process for the Sworder, but the unpredictable outcome of the procedure led us to consider it ill-advised. From the looks of the site, someone decided the possible benefits outweighed the risk.

"My movements remained undetected. Seems the forces surrounding the evolution view it as a greater threat than one man with a rifle on the cliff. There's a fair amount of non-combat vehicles on site, so I presume they are unfamiliar with the phenomenon and intend to study it. From the looks of their equipment, I'd wager they're not going to get a lot of useful information.

"With all the attention on this canyon, my chances of egressing without detection are unacceptably low. But since a single scout on the walls isn't their greatest concern, this would be a prime opportunity to observe these forces. Perhaps I could determine whether they are friendly. I'm ejecting the com unit from the Sworder to see if I can listen in on their transmissions. End of log."

With a rifle in hand and a bag slung over his shoulder containing the communications module, a power supply, a set of long-range optics, some extra ammunition and a few provisions, Seth arrived at his observation post on the canyon wall.

Having no additional intel, he was always careful to approach the site. Someone could have set up an observation post of their own in his absence. Walking in on that would compromise everything he'd done to stay hidden. Without knowing who was friendly, there was certainly the risk to his own life. But there was also a risk to the Council Guard, if it did in fact still exist. The Crimson Sworder was still classified in many ways, particularly the engines, targeting computer, airborne stability management, gravitational diffuser (which was still only a prototype), the adaptive fire control, modular weapon interface, and (most importantly) the zoid core that had self-evolved over the years of development. The Sworder was a powerful weapon, but it was also a precious commodity to the right people, and never more vulnerable than when it was grounded. As its pilot, it fell on Seth to protect it.

The lookout point was clear, so he dropped to the ground, placing the bag on the ground and removing the optics and a headset communicator. He crawled to the edge and peered out on the site.

The number of forces had increased. Where there had before been a few non-combative vehicles and a handful of Zaber Fangs, now there was a venerable battalion of vehicles and weapons systems, all but a few aimed at the evolutionary cocoon.

"Slate One-Actual, pilot's log," he said quietly, hanging the headset on his ear and activating the voice recorder, "post-awakening day fourteen, late morning, remote recording.

"The units around the site have increased significantly, though it seems my chances of discovery are no greater. The zoid evolution is the only focus of their deployment. The threat of any outside forces is non-existent to them."

Increasing the magnification on the optics, he focused on the personnel near the cocoon.

"They seem to have a minimal understanding of the phenomenon. Looks like they're attacking it with every measurement and analysis tool in their arsenal, but odds are it won't be enough. As much as we knew about zoids, even we weren't close to fully understanding zoid evolution."

He stopped narrating for a moment. He felt compelled to say something not entirely pertinent to his goals. It wasn't necessary, but he supposed a log was for keeping track. And an entry could always be deleted.

"Personal note: my reference to the unknown forces as 'they' carries more weight than it may come across in these logs. The more I observe these forces, the more I feel they could not possibly be connected in any way to the civilization I left behind. They appear to be... primitive, for lack of a better word. Nothing in their military procedure leads me to believe they are in any way as organized as the Zoidian Army. My encounter at the abandoned installation revealed a possible... lax standard of training and discipline. I'm forced to concluded that the catastrophe that sent us under wiped out all our forces. Considering their organization and the unsophisticated nature of their weapons, there's no way these... amateurs... could possibly overpower us to become the dominant force in the region. The thought of having lost everyone I know is... sobering. At one point in my life I kept a harsh limit on the number of people in my life. Had I gone under at that point, perhaps this feeling wouldn't be so strong."

That was enough, he thought. A pilot's log wasn't about recording personal feelings.

He retrained the optics on the vehicle he perceived to be the command unit. It had no offensive or defensive capabilities he could see, and it was surrounded by armed zoids.

"Resuming official log: There seems to be some activity by the command structure. I presume this to be the communications hub. Looks like non-combatants interfacing with officers. I'll see if I can zero in on any transmissions, if there are any."

Pulling the communications module from the bag, he connected it to the power supply he'd brought and activated its passive mode. The last thing he needed was to broadcast anything.

Having connected the module to the headset, he listened to the static as he swept the tuner up and down the range. The results were not encouraging.

"Similar results as before. Minimal noise in the normal channels, and just odd static in the upper frequencies. I've had the Sworder analyze the spectrum since the encounter at the abandoned installation, since I now know there to be at least something being transmitted from time to time. I'm applying the interpreted filters to the range."

As if by a miracle, the filter changed the sound of the static dramatically. Rather than a steady signal of constant hiss, there was almost a vocal pattern. It was still a ways away from comprehensible speech, but progress was progress.

"A promising result from the filter, but it still needs work. The algorithm is loaded in the module, so it will continue to attempt decryption as it listens to transmissions on this channel. I'll leave it open as long as this power supply lasts. Estimated ten hours. End of log session."

Hours of watching and listening ticked by. At times, he thought the garbled communications were almost intelligible, but it could just have been his imagination. He'd met a retired intelligence officer once who told him the danger in listening to heavily encrypted messages was you eventually started to hear messages because you wanted them to be there.

After two hours, the perimeter guard changed. Nobody looked in his direction.

An hour after that, a light truck arrived carrying what Seth perceived to be the operation's commanding officer. All the personnel he passed stopped to salute him as the truck made its way to the command vehicle. When he exited the truck, he stood like a veteran of combat. Seth had seen that stance in several of his fellow officers following the war. One stood tall and straight, just like they were taught in the Academy, but there was a drop to the shoulders, as if bent by the burden of command held during combat. He kept the visor of his service cap low, to conceal tired eyes, and he didn't always look at those who were speaking to him. This man showed all these signs.

The commander listened to his officers as they briefed him on the situation. Either he was incredibly detail-oriented, or this was the first time he'd been on-site, but he listened to them intently all the same. His face was that of quiet concentration for half a moment before he dismissed them with their orders, which they brought to their subordinates. It was certainly more order than he'd seen from a military group thus far. Perhaps they did have a modicum of discipline.

Within twenty minutes, all personnel had begun breaking down the equipment for departure. As research vessels left the scene, their places were taken up by armed zoids with weapons trained on the cocoon. When only the combative zoids remained, they too began a retreat.

"Pilot's log supplemental.

"The forces have begun a retreat from the site. Last to leave are the heavy guns. By all indications, it seems they plan a ranged heavy assault. Judging from the strength of the weapons I've observed so far, it is unlikely they will find success.

"I'm retreating to the Sworder. My current outpost is potentially inside the blast radius."

"What do you want to bet it breaks?" were the words to break the silence of three men on the crest of the north canyon wall, laying prone and peering through binoculars at both the red cocoon and the battalion of Helic and Guylos zoids assembled to the west as the investigation team retreated to a safe distance.

"I'll say forty it doesn't."

"Lack of confidence in our firepower?"

"Lack of confidence in the Republic's firepower. If this was all Imperial, maybe. But as it is now, not gonna happen."

"Did you seriously not see the Gojulas unit?"

"I've seen bigger guns on a Red Horn."

"They just look bigger! The Red Horn is smaller!"

This was not unlike any other argument between Hirsh and Booner. Everett learned a long time ago to let them at it. Adding a third to the discussion would compromise the mission, they would be so distracted.

"That's my point!" Booner said. "The Red Horn is smaller, but the main guns are the same size."

"You said they were bigger on the Red!" Hirsh countered.

"I said I've seen bigger on the Red. Never seen bigger on a Gojulas."

"...And lived to tell the tale?" Hirsh finished for Booner.

There was a time when their bickering would have bothered Everett. Certainly, he tried to curtail it when he'd been promoted to Sargent ahead of them. But soon he found that despite the apparent distraction, they still worked well as a team. As long as he nudged them back into line when need be, of course.

"What do you think, Sargent?" Booner asked. Everett was dreading his inevitable inclusion to the conversation.

"About what?" he droned, trying to convey that he really wasn't interested.

"You think it'll break?"

Everett gave a half-hearted sigh and trained his binoculars on the cocoon. It had a frightening presence; a large blood-red crystal rotating inside a spiral of smoke. Inside, he was told, the dreaded Genosaur was evolving into something far more terrifying. For all their sakes, he prayed the barrage would succeed.

He heard Hirsh and Booner bicker some more, but he stopped listening. Instead, he started scanning the cliff walls around the cocoon. On the opposite wall was the first observation team, headed by Sargent Berg, with the same directive as his own team: observe the phenomenon and report any changes to the fire team.

But the cocoon never changed. Granted, military procedure dictated the necessity for intelligence, which often relied on tasking low-level sargents to go out with small teams to observe and report on situations that haven't changed. Thankless work, to be sure, but when something did happen, you'd be sorry if you didn't post someone to watch duty.

Everett put the binoculars down for a moment to rest his eyes. Hours upon hours of staring at the same things wore on one's sanity.

"Brick House, this is Sentinel One. Sentinel One checking in," he heard over the radio. "How copy, over?"

Everett checked his watch in reaction. It was time for the periodic check-in with Command, code-named "Brick House." Thankfully, the first team always checked in first, so he didn't need to constantly watch the clock. That said, a quick scan of the opposite cliff wall couldn't hurt. It would probably be the last one before they moved to the second observation point.

"Sentinel One, Brick House," the dispatcher responded. "Receiving in the clear. Proceed with report."

"No additional activity from where we stand. Request permission to break down and move to secondary OP."

"Acknowledged, Sentinel One. Break down and move back to observe bombardment."

"Roger that, Brick House. Sentinel One out."

As the last pieces of the conversation cracked over the radio, Everett spotted a trail of dust following a stone bouncing down the wall. Tracing the line of dust, he spotted a small outcrop. There was nothing there, but the pattern in the dirt was odd.

"Booner, get on thermal," he said.

"Roger that, Sargent," Booner answered, switching on the thermal imaging camera and monitor.

"Train to eleven o'clock, ten degrees down. Small outcrop on the cliff wall."

"...Acquired," Booner said. "What am I looking for, sir?"

"Gee, I don't know," Everett snapped. "Maybe you should ask the guy on thermal."

"Um- Roger that, Sargent," Booner answered, getting the hint. Hirsh adjusted the settings on the monitor. "Contracting thermal range."

"Spool up," Everett said, the instruction to begin recording the captured images. "Give me monitor, set secondary to visible spectrum."

"...Monitor's up, Sarge," Hirsh said.

Everett looked at the monitor, switching between the standard camera and thermal images. A part of the soil on the outcrop was warmer than its surroundings. Being on the southern wall, it would have been in shadow all day, not being baked by the sun like the ledge upon which Everett and his subordinates were stationed. Therefore, the surface should all be normalized between the temperature of the bedrock and the outside air: an unseasonably cool twenty-one degrees centigrade.

So why was this spot warmer than everything around it? Had someone been posted to that spot for surveillance? It was worth an inquiry, at least. Never knew when something small was really something big.

"Brick House, this is Sentinel Two, checking in," he said through the radio.

"Copy, Sentinel Two," the dispatcher called back. "Proceed with report."

"Seeing some temperature differential on the opposite canyon wall, Brick House. Grid two-eight-seven by one-niner-three. Looks like someone was posted there, but just recently left. Interrogative: was there any overwatch asset assigned to these coordinates?"

"Um, negative, Sentinel Two. Zero official overwatch posts in that grid."

"Copy that, Brick House. Please advise: what is the possibility of tasking a recon team to the site?"

"Standby, Sentinel Two."

"Sentinel Two, standing by."

It wasn't an easy question. This close to the scheduled bombardment, it was unlikely they would approve sending a team to investigate. Still, his orders were to observe and report. No one could doubt he had reported that which he had just observed.

All the same, the request still had to be passed up the chain of command until someone was comfortable making a decision. He would understand if it took a while. There was nothing in the proverbial military strategy handbook that covered situations such as these. Everett passed the time by scanning the area to the left and right of the outcrop, looking for activity.

"Sentinel Two, Brick House" the dispatcher called after several moments. "Do you have any further observations to report?"

"Negative, Brick House. Just a temperature differential."

"Copy that, Sentinel. At this time, we are too close to the scheduled bombardment to safely deploy a team and your findings are not enough to warrant a delay. You are instructed to document your findings and egress to your secondary OP. Please confirm instruction."

"Roger wilco, Brick House: document and egress. Sentinel Two, out." Then, to his subordinates, he issued the orders. "Hirsh, save the captured images to the record. Booner, begin breakdown and we'll move to OP Two."

"Yes, sir."

"Got it, Sarge."

Within two minutes, they had begun their trek across the dry lake bed towards the line of zoids with their artillery aimed at the disturbing red crystal.

"You think they'll even hit it?" Booner prodded Hirsh.

"Oh, now you doubt a Gojulas's accuracy, huh?"

Everett let them bicker. There was no harm in it as long as they were traversing known terrain.

Ninety minutes of rabble later, they'd reached one of the makeshift watchtowers, built halfway to the line of zoids. This was determined by Imperial Command to be a safe distance from the target area from which to conduct observation of the bombardment. The first observation team would be in the other tower.

"Booner, set up comms," he instructed once they'd climbed the tower. "Hirsh, let's get eyes on."

Booner initialized the radio and set up the antenna while Hirsh helped Everett set up the observation equipment. Before long, they were ready.

"Brick House, this is Sentinel Two," he called on the radio. "How copy, over?

"Sentinel Two, Brick House. Reading you in the clear."

"Brick House, Sentinel Two has arrived at OP Two. Clear visual of target has been established."

"Roger that, Sentinel Two. Assault will commence in fifteen minutes."

"Copy that, fifteen minutes. Sentinel Two out."

The minutes ticked away slowly. Everett had taken his watch off his wrist and placed it in front of him so he may better see the seconds creep by.

With two minutes to go, the radio sounded the message, "Brick House to all callsigns, be advised: bombardment in T minus two minutes. I say again, two minutes to assault. Sentinel team, report your findings, over."

"Sentinel One, showing all clear at the target area, over."

"Sentinel Two," Everett called, "showing the same on visual and thermal. Zero bogeys at target area, over."

"Roger that, Sentinel team," the dispatcher replied. "Albatross, can you confirm their findings?"

"Albatross here," said the pilot of the Hammerhead ten-thousand meters above them, keeping a watchful eye on friendly troop movements. "Confirming Sentinel's report. Target area is clear, we are go for bombardment, over."

"Roger that, Albatross. All callsigns, we are now ninety seconds to bombardment. Assault teams, prepare to fire. Report your status via tactical."

The many fire teams would now be switching off their safeties and using the tactical network to report weapons hot. The Republic forces' network was, by design, incompatible with Imperial, so there would be a Republican liaison at Brick House to relay the pertinent information to the higher-ups.

There was nothing more for Everett to do but watch the show.

"Brick House to all callsigns, fire teams report ready. We are go to execute Joint Operation Red Rain, authorization code: cyclone. I say again: cyclone. In three... two... one... Fire. Fire. Fire."