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For the average Dominion citizen, life was usually a carefree existence.
The cities were clean and every basic need was met with a surplus of amenities. Transportation wasn't a problem since civilian vehicles were approved for cross-country travel. The border walls kept the mutated wildlife and dangerous warbands out, while the streets were patrolled by a host of heavily armed police. Justice was swift in Dominion lands, everything was surveilled and nothing was hidden. Everyone knew that this was simply the price of admission.
After all, no one could enjoy this veritable paradise in post-apocalyptic America without surrendering certain liberties. However, that didn't stop a few from testing the law whenever they could. In Riverside; a place so close to the penal colony of Tartarus and with a population so large it absorbed even the type of citizenry who held certain sympathies for the Brotherhood, a small band of radicalized agitators suddenly shifted to more violent methods.
They called themselves 'The Intercessors', and swore to continue the war waged by the Brotherhood of Steel. In the past, they limited their activities to non-violent misdemeanors such as tagging graffiti on walls and highway signs. They escalated with hacking into government networks, seeding viruses into vital servers and causing local commercial flights to fall out of the sky. That eventually led to an armed confrontation by the Dominion peacekeepers. Many of the Intercessors were killed or arrested in a month-long crackdown of the city, and dozens went into hiding. Now, they've resurfaced under the command of a former Brotherhood intelligence officer. Armed with weapons drawn from hidden caches in the Texan Wasteland, they slipped through the cracks in the Dominion's security and seeded numerous terror cells throughout the mainland.
The first major attack that put them on the Dominion's top wanted list was when they bombed a government eugenics facility, which provided free gene-therapies to eliminate genetic defects in young children. The Intercessors believed that genetic tampering was a crime against nature, and decided that the facility had to be destroyed. It was in that same attack that the Dominion realized that the Intercessors didn't shy from using children as proxies. The bomb was placed inside an assuming little schoolbag, which was given to one of the indoctrinated orphans the terror cell groomed for their war against the Dominion. The boy, no older than six years of age, was walked up to the facility entrance where hundreds of concerned parents crowded on their way to the lobby.
The bomber left the boy. A few minutes later, an explosion rocked the whole district, marking the eugenics facility as the first of many terror attacks. The total number of fatalities were still yet to be determined as the bomb proved to be plasmic in origin. Nothing much was left of the victims caught in the blast, since the caustic substance dissolved them into a collective green goop.
The Intercessors were enough of a reason for the Dominion to start thinking radically. Though understaffed, Psy Ops was brought into the program as an experimental judge division. Director Copenhagen jumped at the opportunity, seeing it as a way for his work to get the recognition it deserved- which could later lead into better funding and support from the Dominion government. Psy Ops set up its headquarters close to the Riverside Justice Hall. There, the rookie psykers found themselves plucked from the black-site and thrust into a new role in Dominion law enforcement.
Sam Ray checked himself in the reflective glass of a nearby coffee shop. He wore the blue and yellow uniform of Psy Ops, with the chevrons of a sanctioned psyker on his armband. That made him a little higher in rank than most peacekeepers, but he wasn't a judge. Not yet. It wasn't exactly the way he envisioned himself moving up the ladder. The rookie still needed some more training and an actual judge to sponsor his inauguration.
But, on the bright side, he got some himself some upgrades along the way. And all it took was a chance encounter with a rogue psyker in the streets of Riverside.
"You done kissing yourself in the mirror, kid?" Mileena Echavez's husky smoker's voice startled Sam.
"Sorry, I'm coming." He said.
They were on their way to headquarters to begin a short interrogation with a captured member of the Intercessors, taken during a night raid by the Riverside Peacekeeper Corps. Mileena, who'd shown an affinity for mindreading, was tasked with breaking the suspect's mental barriers and verify the confession. As they entered the building, a cargo truck parked some meters away from Psy Ops headquarters started up its engine and slowly drove up slowly towards the main building walkway.
The driver ignored the bright holo-sign warning him of the restricted perimeter closing off civilian vehicles from law enforcement properties. If anything, it made him speed up. The moment he crossed the red street marker, which bordered about a meter off from the sidewalk, a dozen defense turrets popped out of the roof and street. They chewed up the truck in a loud hail of mag-accelerated rounds before it could hit the HQ entrance. The truck exploded, killing the driver and all other occupants in the back.
Peacekeeper drones immediately closed off the area and notified the authorities, while the judges hit the street for a quick investigation. This was the Intercessors' plan. Phase one was distraction. Phase two involved a cessation of hostilities to lure law enforcement personnel to the scene of attack, then they were going to hit them again to maximize casualties. They knew that the Dominion exercised every amount of caution, but not enough to safeguard their most precious assets. The Intercessors identified the members of the fledgling Psy Ops division and marked the psykers for death. Two sniper teams were positioned in the buildings on the other side of the street running along the front of the headquarters. They were armed with Brotherhood gauss weaponry, taken apart and put together to better suit the urban environment.
Once Sam and Mileena were sighted, they took the shot. As luck would have it, the woman was saved when a Sentinel drone hovered by to document the burning wreck of the truck. It caught the mag-accelerated round and burst into a ball of burning debris. Sam didn't fare that well, and his body snapped back as the round pulverized his entire right arm along with his shoulder.
The snipers didn't wait to verify their kills. As soon as they fired, they packed up and left the scene as they knew well enough that the drones would pinpoint the origin of the shots and be on their heels in minutes. Poor Sam writhed in agony as he fought to keep the stump in his ruined shoulder from leaking any more of his blood. Mileena stabilized him in advance of the EMT's, shushing the rookie so he wouldn't give himself a heart-attack.
"Ease up, kid. It's just an arm."
"Just an arm?!" Sam shrieked.
"Yeah, you can always get yourself a new one." She distracted him long enough for the painkillers to work their magic. Soon, the young man was patched up and sent to the nearest hospital. Mileena went with him to make sure that he had backup should the terrorists come back to finish the job.
The Dominion set up a forward operations base at the Arkana Dead Plains after securing a proper supply line connected to the mainland, naming it Outpost Keen. Using hundreds of builder drones, the construction of the walls was cut down to half a day, even less for the prefab facilities set up inside.
The symmetrical pattern of defenses, buffed by the latest tech, created a safe haven that caught the attention of the Arkana nomads. It paved the way for amenable relations between the Dominion and the locals. But having learned the hard way with the Brotherhood and Four Seasons, the Dominion proved to be less charitable when receiving refugees. Anyone who came knocking at the front gate was forced to enter an outer compound, a refugee camp of sorts, where the personnel could vet them out properly.
Mechs patrolled the outer perimeter, keeping raiders and wildlife at bay with their impressive array of weaponry. Supplies were no longer limited to armored convoys. Instead, the Dominion began using jet-trains built on the designs by the Jacksons. Armored and bristling with guns, the supply runs didn't have to worry about facing ambushers along the route.
On one clear and bright day, when the nuclear winter sky opened up to let the sun shine over the Dead Plains, the Everwinter mustered the courage to send a band of riders to engage in diplomacy. They made the trek through the treacherous land of Arkana, using the least dangerous hidden routes between the mountains to reach the Dominion FOB.
It was named 'Outpost Keen', but to the Everwinter it was named Jotunheim, the land of giants.
Sven led the riders, along with all the best warsworn and valkyries Niflheim could spare. Sigurd rode with them as representative of the Fateweavers. Sif insisted on coming along, and despite Sven's protests Sigurd permitted her company, stating that it would help ease the process if the Dominion recognized her as the tribal who helped their own in the past. When they arrived at the Dead Plains, they were suddenly met with a Dominion patrol. Seeing the steel giants up close terrified the tribal warriors, and it took every ounce of Sigurd's willpower to calm them down so she could speak with the wary outlander soldiers.
"Be at peace, hotlanders." Sigurd greeted them. "We've come to speak with your leaders."
"Get in line, waster." The pilot onboard one of the mechs said, rather haughtily. "Outpost Keen's not receiving any more visitors. Now, you've got one chance to turn around and go right back where you came."
The mechs turned their massive guns on the riders. But Sigurd was unfazed. She peered into the pilot's mind and planted a thought in his head. The fateweaver made him think twice about turning them away, impressing on him the importance of making friends with at least one faction in the land of Arkana. She made him think that the Everwinter were worth seeing.
"Hmm." The unsuspecting man mused, "Maybe I spoke too soon."
"The fuck?" His co-pilot grunted, surprised by the sudden change in his demeanor.
Sven relaxed in his saddle, noticing the fateweaver's handiwork in play. "Will you let us through?"
"Yeah. Hold on a second." The pilot took a moment to relay the information to his superiors. He stayed on the radio for a few minutes, then turned back to the tribals. "Sit tight. My guys are coming to escort you to base. Be advised, show any sign of aggression and we'll smoke you. Got it?"
"Understood." Sigurd said with a pleasant smile.
A few minutes later, an armored convoy showed up on site and surrounded the tribals. They didn't force the Everwinter to disarm, but they did ask them to stow their weapons instead of brandishing them freely. The tribals obeyed, following the convoy back to the FOB.
They passed the outer defense perimeter, which was marked by a long network of wire fences, MG nests and minefields. Dug deep into the ground were several automated defense turrets, which could pop out at the first sign of trouble. Past the perimeter was the refugee compound. It wasn't as well defended as the base itself, but the safety guaranteed by the sturdy prefab barriers offered enough protection from both the elements and the other dangers of Arkana.
Women and children wrapped in heavy blankets distributed by the medics clung to the wiremesh fences, watching the tribals pass through the checkpoint. The warsworn had to surrender their weapons upon entering the base, which they reluctantly did after Sigurd gave them a reassuring nod. They weren't there to start a fight, but to gain the trust of the Dominion.
A woman dressed in winter camo fatigues approached them when they were finally permitted entry. Her skin was dark as ash, but her eyes were green. She had a friendly smile, almost enough of one to disarm Sven when she spoke to them. "Welcome. I'm Corporal Enid Ward, I handle all petitions here at Outpost Keen. Now, how can I help?"
"Greetings, I am Sigurd of the Everwinter." The fateweaver replied, gesturing to her followers. "These are my warsworn. We've come to form an alliance with the Dominion… if such a thing is possible."
"Oh, it is." The corporal nodded, "But it depends entirely on what your tribe can offer us."
The tribals were ushered into a tent, where some of the other Dominion officers were busy discussing their stance on taking in more of the locals. They offered nothing in return, and drew heavily from the outpost resources. The High Marshal's law on subjugation was the only thing keeping the refugees in the compound. Otherwise, they would've thrown them back into the wasteland.
"Major." Enid saluted a stern-looking man absorbed in his paperwork. "Got some more for you, call themselves 'The Everwinter'."
"Great." Major Tom Ford grunted in acknowledgement. "Take a seat. Make yourselves comfortable. We're gonna be here a while."
Sigurd sat down on the opposite end of the tavle, with her warriors sitting on either side of the fateweaver. Ford placed his hands together and interlaced his fingers, "First off, I'm Major Ford. I'm the boss here in Outpost Keen. I'll cut the usual BS and tell you that we've got no room for more refugees."
"That's not what we're here for." Sigurd explained, "As I told your soldier, we're here for an alliance."
"Alright then, that simplifies things." The major went through the motions, asking the tribals on some details regarding their people. He needed to know of the strategic value of their strongholds, the unique resources they had, anything at all to contribute to the Dominion cause. He expected little, so he was pleasantly surprised that the Everwinter seemed like the most stable faction they've come across. The Dominion had already met the Worldenders, and the Church. Seeing a major faction being so amenable was a welcome sight. It certainly helped that Sigurd was manipulating the minds of those around her, thus securing her tribe's future.
But before an alliance could be formed, the major demanded that Niflheim and all other Everwinter territories be opened for Dominion occupation. Such a demand wasn't received well by the warsworn, but Sigurd had a firm hand. Any outrage was stifled by the fateweaver, who bargained with the officer's terms by requesting a guarantee. The borders would be opened and the Everwinter would receive the Dominion with open arms, but they in turn would help in the destruction of their enemies.
The Church, the Worldenders and everyone else must die. In return, the Everwinter would bow to Dominion rule. Sven saw it coming, he didn't like it any more than his fellow warsworn. But he trusted Sigurd.
"Then it's settled!" Major Ford declared, rising to his feet. "I'm sending a detachment to travel with you back to your stronghold, to verify its integrity. In the next few days, we will begin bolstering your defenses and train your warriors to fight better. I trust that this won't be a problem?"
"Not at all." Sven forced the words out through gritted teeth.
Sigurd reached inside her cloak and drew out a drinking horn fashioned from the horn of a mutated bison. She held out the ornately carved object full of mead, "Drink with me, major. Let us formally seal this alliance, and may the gods look favorably on our friendship."
Ford shrugged and indulged the tribal wisewoman. "As you wish."
The tribals relaxed a bit after the discussions were concluded. They were given their weapons back and introduced to the rooks who were going to accompany them back to Niflheim. Sif recognized one of them as the Jotun pilot whose life she saved during one of the Everwinter hunts. He was a tall and jacked fellow, in peak physical condition thanks to Dominion genetics and high quality sustenance. His eyes were slanted, hinting at his Asian roots, and his skin was dark like olives. He was rearming his mech when he saw the Everwinter huntress, and he stopped to wipe his sooty hands on a rag when she approached him at the loading dock.
"Heyyy..." The pilot greeted her cheerily, "I know you!"
"And I know you." Sif said, "I'm glad to see you've survived, hotlander."
"Well, that's all thanks to you." He reached out to shake her hand, "I'm Vick, Vick Wong. I guess I'll be part of the unit that's gonna be tailing you back home."
"Honored to meet you. They call me Sif." The young woman paused to admire the steel giant hunched over the loading dock. "Impressive machine."
"Yeah, it's a Jotun Mark 2." Vick declared proudly, following her gaze across the monster's chassis. "A little heavy topside, but all that firepower's worth toting. It's practically a walking battle-ship. So I heard you've brokered some kind of treaty with the brass. Guess that means our people are gonna get along."
"I... I hope so."
"Wong!" One of the officers barked, "Quit wastin' time and get your ass in gear! We're Oscar Mike!"
The pilot nodded to Sif and finished up. Soon, he was seated inside the cockpit along with his co-pilot and sent his rig lumbering off behind the armored convoy. The tribals mounted up and rode alongside them, heading back to Niflheim to begin a new chapter in their people's history.
Billie Lynch, de facto leader of the Intercessors, was livid. All the equipment, all the preparation, all the work put into setting the Dominion's progress on psychic development back by a decade- wasted.
The mean-faced battle-scarred veteran from the Dominion-Brotherhood War met with her agents beneath the pillar supports of a skyway transit, obscured from prying eyes and in the blind-spot of Dominion cameras. She met with them hoping to congratulate them on a job well done, only to find out along the way that the pair fucked up royally. They had the psykers in sight, and made a piss-poor job at marksmanship with the gauss rifles- weapons that had the smallest margin of error compared to any other weapon in the Brotherhood arsenal.
"Serves me right for trusting a bunch of farmhands to do my work for me." Billie growled, throwing a hateful stare at the sheepish pair. She didn't know them long, but she saw them work well enough in the underground shooting range. How they managed to fuck up, she would never know. But now, she knew she couldn't trust them. She couldn't kill them for their incompetence, that would mark as worse than the Dominion in the eyes of the cause.
The woman opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the mirthful whistle of someone coming from behind them. She whirled around, hand reaching into her coat for the pistol hanging by her hip.
"So..." A tall swarthy skinned man with odd blue eyes, dressed in a thick black trenchcoat, walked up to the conspirators, "This is where the scum of society chooses to fester?"
"Get lost, asshole!" One of Billie's men said. "This meeting's private."
"Oh, you speak for her?" The stranger asked, pointing to the leader of the Intercessors.
"No." Billie kept her hand on her gun, "But he's on point. Take your business elsewhere."
"Oh but I can't. You see, my business concerns you."
"He's a judge! Waste him!" The other conspirator fumbled around for his weapon, but was stopped when Billie trusted her own judgement than his.
"This guy ain't no judge." She announced, "He's Enclave."
"You're good." The stranger smiled, daring to take another step. "How'd you figure that when all of the Dominion's finest couldn't put two and two together?"
"Doms haven't dealt with Enclave spies, but I have. Our people got enough history to know each other real well. What are you doing this far South?"
The spy rubbed his gloved hands together, "Oh, heard about some trouble around here. About a bunch of folks with just the right amount of hate to make some noise. Pardon me for saying so, but your methods are kind of... amateur, in retrospect. I was wondering if your people would like to go pro?"
Billie's eyes widened. A deal with the Old World devils, the Enclave, would open up a lot of opportunities for the Intercessors. They would be able to get some change done, some real change. "You got a name, Mr. E?"
"I think we ought to settle with that one, I like it." Mr. E replied, "So how's about it? Are yall up for a little team-up?"
"Hell yes."
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