Nine Years before the Storm
Strakis Skorpeois
Southern Atenohtep Desert
Scorpia Colony
Three soldiers trudged up the rock ravine between grotesque spires and arches of rock, carved by the wind and the ages. They carried their rifles at the ready, but paid little heed to the terrain around them. A hundred meters ahead, a lone figure picked his way through the boulders that littered the ground. His manner of movement was fluid, blending with the fading night. The three who trailed behind him were clearly struggling to keep up.
"Who's the new guy think he is, the Ghostwalker?" Janovic asked, making reference to a popular wireless video drama.
"He's clan," Hedgewick replied, as though that explained anything, everything about the man.
David Dedrick worked his way through the rough terrain, holding back slightly so the other two SFA grunts wouldn't fall behind. His kept his mouth shut at the talk of clans - he had Scorpia clan blood in his veins, even if it was from four generations back. He had inherited enough of the nomad look that it occasionally caused him trouble. He didn't despise his lineage, but neither did he embrace it. The liabilities it brought cancelled out any benefits, and it simply was. He accepted it as a fact of his existence.
The fourth man disappeared from their view around a twist in the ravine, and the three soldiers quickened their pace. They were breathing hard as they fought against the rough ground, and often they stumbled and sent pebbles skittering across the wind-smoothed bedrock. Dedrick seemed to be having as difficult a time of it as his companions, but much of his 'trouble' was intentional. The other two didn't seem to notice.
Janovic was a Corporal, and the leader of their fire team. Hedgewick had been busted back to Private, for reasons unknown. Word from some was that he couldn't keep his head out of his ass, while other's said he couldn't keep his dick out of the LT's daughter. Dedrick didn't know, didn't care. The two of them were jerks, three years into their first tour, and Dedrick had been the FNG since he'd finished Basic six months back. That was, until Burwell's weapon had malfunctioned eight days ago, and he'd been sent to the Army Hospital in Theseopolis. That was when they'd picked up 'Ghostwalker' - he was the frakkin' new guy now.
They reached the point where the fourth man had disappeared, and found that the ravine floor no longer rose before them, but rather dropped away in a steep, twisting course. Dedrick raised his hand, clenched into a fist, and the three soldiers froze. The ravine was deserted. Nothing moved there but the wind.
"Get down!" Dedrick hissed, dropping to a crouch. The two soldiers behind him did the same, driven by their distrust of the new guy, the soldier who was clan. "He's here," Dedrick whispered, "probably close enough to reach out and scratch your ass."
At that moment, the three of them were struck in the neck, in rapid succession, by pebbles thrown from behind them. Janovic and Hedgewick both stood and turned, cursing. Dedrick stood as well, one hand held where the pebble had stung his neck, but when he turned to face the new guy, he was laughing quietly.
"PFC Mitchell," Janovic raged, "what the frak do you think you're doing? We're on a sweep, and you're playing cat-and-mouse, and throwing rocks." The Corporal paused. "Zeus! What am I gonna do with you? This ain't kindergarten, sand dog! Now get back on point, and flush this bastard out so we can all go home." Janovic stood, hands on his belt, waiting for Mitchell to answer.
Over Janovic's shoulder, Mitchell traded a sympathetic glance with Dedrick, then shouted "Sir, yes sir" to Janovic. Swift as a cat, Mitchell dodged through the three soldiers and began trotting down the twisting ravine. Somehow, even at that pace, his footsteps were little more than whispers lost in the wind.
The other three soldiers fell in, already struggling to keep up.