/ CHAPTER I / THE WINDY CITY
/ Date / 42 days after the invasion of the Orbital Knights.
/ Subject / Task Force Mythic, Skymarine Regiment, Remnant United States Army.
/ Location / Skymarine Headquarters, Downtown Chicago, Sanctuary.
Staff Sergeant Anton Vonlanthen split the cap from a bottle of beer and held it up, examining it against the dim ceiling light. It swayed, slowly, from side to side as it dangled from a stretch of old wiring.
"Cold. Alcoholic. Drinks," he said plainly. "That is the one thing I missed about being back in Sanctuary. While the exact intelligence of using our remaining fuel to keep our drinks iced can be debated, there is nothing better than this."
He closed his eyes in anticipation. "I'd take on half a legion more of those Martian Kataphrakts just to be able to do this more often."
He tipped the bottle over and pursed his lips around it. He drank swiftly and with vigor, in audible, hard swallows.
"You get back from a six day reconnaissance op, sir," said Corporal Raymond Tassoni, as he leaned against the rough concrete wall. With his arms crossed and one eye open, he looked with envy at the beads of moisture dripping from the bottle. "And the first thing you head for is the cooler. And you're supposed to be my superior?"
"Yes, in fact, I am. And you better start treating me like it. I don't like that tone," Anton replied, as he licked his lips and stamped the empty bottle down onto the table. He gave a satisfied chuckle.
Master Sergeant Martin Decroix looked up from his workbench. Inspecting the barrel of his rifle one final time, he wiped the gun oil from his hands with a blackened towel. He began putting the weapon back together.
"And what about you, Corporal? You don't have family in the Sanctuary?" he asked as he stood up and stretched.
"No sir," the Corporal responded. "They were in New Texas when the day came. I myself was stationed at Fort Prometheus, with the rest of the Skymarines. I wasn't able to contact them before the Knights jammed the Internet."
Master Sergeant Decroix checked the sights on his rifle. He nodded, satisfied, and laid it to the side. "Have you been checking the logs of the refugee convoys?" he asked.
"Every single one that's come in, sir," Raymond answered.
Decroix stood still, for just a slight moment. He then took his handgun from its holster and began to inspect it.
"... Don't stop checking them, Corporal."
" I don't plan to, sir."
The Master Sergeant sat back down at his workbench and unloaded the magazine from his sidearm. Time to clean it, too. He raised the weapon and drew a bead on the concrete wall.
He tested the trigger, and the slightest, lightest click came out from it.
/ Date / 42 days after the invasion of the Orbital Knights.
/ Subject / Red Squad, Dragoon Corps, Host of Count Aezenacht
/ Location / Aezenacht Landing Castle, Downtown Calgary.
A plucky Martian youth, with curly white hair and a pale complexion, stood at attention. Were his eyes not held tightly shut, you would have been able to tell that they were of a gorgeous, deep violet. He was sweating, and his dress uniform was growing itchier and tighter by every frantic breath.
Count Aezenacht, honored and proud Orbital Knight of the Empire of Vers, eyed the youth from head to toe. He did it once more. He pivoted to the side, his cheek facing the boy, and spat onto the ground.
"You couldn't have any more than 19 cycles under your belt, you boy. How in the world did you ever find yourself in command of a squad of my Dragoons?"
Without opening his eyes, the youth responded back in a frantic, high voice. "M-My automated exam results, m-milord! I was, by the system, I was automatically-"
"Cease your putrid excuses. It does not matter anymore."
The Count stretched his arms to either side and presented himself to the entirety of the Dragoon Corps. The bright white-green of the lights of the chamber illuminated the red of his regalia. "That is the third personnel carrier, filled to the brim with Terran civilians, to escape the metropolitan area this week."
"Another mess of dirty apes, and they slipped right through our fingers."
The Count heightened his voice and pointed to all the Dragoons in the room.
"For what reason do you all believe you are here!?" he roared. His voice was strong and struck fear into the hearts of even the most brutish veterans. He was certainly an Orbital Knight.
"I can not control the entirety of this area alone in my Kataphrakt. It is simply impossible, and one would be the fool to think otherwise. It is also impossible for me to thoroughly search through dense urban streets or underground areas. To solve these issues for me, I have the Dragoon Corps. You are all infantry. The most basic fighting force. The. Most. Primitive."
The Count turned back to the youth with the white hair. His gaze was palpable, and caused the young man to shiver even more fearfully. The Count took two steps towards him, slowly. He took off his white gloves, each with one slow, elegant motion. He stowed them in one hand.
He took a stance, drew his handgun from its holster, and took aim directly at the forehead of the trembling youth.
"This is what happens when you fail me," he said plainly.
With one shot, a bang was heard, and the youth fell backwards hard onto the ground. Blood spurt out from what remained of his head.
Sir Yorvan Kraeyard, captain of the Red Squad of Count Aezenacht's Dragoon Corps, was part of the audience that had been summoned to watch this execution. And he had done so, like all the other Dragoons, without uttering a single world. Without moving, or, it would have seemed like, breathing.
Yorvan took a long look at the corpse of the youth as it laid slumped over on the floor. He stared at it, without blinking. He thought of the brutality of the Count that he served. He thought of the power that this brutality bestowed upon that man. And how he would like to have that power. To feel it, within him.
But he did not move.