So the whole point of these new stories I'm doing is to try and get support with my writing, whether through or through comments. I've decided that I'll write up to about 20k with each new story, and then depending on reception I'll either continue or swap it out for a different story idea, of which I have several. We're now reaching 10k words, so it would be good to have comments on this, rather than just follows etc. I'm aware the pacing is relatively slow, but I'd hope it would be clear that confrontation is anticipated between the Companions and the Protectorate. But yes, very much open to feedback.
The helipad of the Brockton Bay Protectorate base sat atop the weathered remnants of an old oil rig, its metal structure reaching defiantly into the sky. From this vantage point, Weyland took in the panoramic view of the city, which unfolded pleasantly enough before his eyes.
It was peaceful. It was a strange thing to say, given the city had one of the highest parahuman crime rates in the US, but to Weyland it was peaceful anyway.
Vision of Fharun filled the Orc's mind, the scent of the burning seared his nostrils, he felt his heart hammer beneath green flesh. War called him, the chant of battle-tongue and the blare of horns, the screams of beats and men fighting in the ruins.
He had been a child when his home fell. By his people's standards, a man grown… but one thing Earth Bet got right was their laws for children.
But then again, Weyland mused to himself, stroking his wiry beard, didn't he employ Annie? Didn't the Wards in Brockton fight alongside the Protectorate?
Bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun, the sprawling city of Brockton Bay stretched out as far as the eye could see. Tall buildings loomed in the distance, their silhouettes etched against the backdrop of a clear, azure sky, while the windows and gardens of Captain's Hill were clearly visible from the Rig. The cityscape was a testament to both the scars of the past and the resilience of its inhabitants. The Marque, the Teeth, Slaughterhouse Nine, the battles between the ABB and the Empire, the city had seen a lot.
A gentle breeze swept across the helipad, carrying with it the salty tang of the nearby sea. It was peaceful, and Weyland closed his eyes for a moment. The salty smell was the most evident, but beyond it the pressure was building, a storm was coming.
For now though the weather was clear. This was the time for peace.
So why couldn't he get calm?
Eyes open he looked around. Was it instinct? He had a good nose, and from long experience Weyland knew he was capable of detecting Strangers slightly better than others. Not enough to have a rating himself, but he was alert, and took pride in it. Was there someone hanging about behind him?
No. No, it was foolish to slip into such thoughts. He was stressed that was all.
Instead, he concentrated on his surroundings, trying to centre himself. The steel around the helipad was corroded, the metal poorly maintained. It had been a rapid conversion, he was fairly sure about that. After Leviathan had disrupted global shipping it had become common for such platforms to be reused, sometimes as tourist venues, sometimes as command centres for coastal cities, like the Protectorate's base in Brockton. The maintenance efforts, while diligent, could not fully conceal the Rig's ageing infrastructure.
Upon closer inspection, one could spot a few signs of missing equipment, likely removed for repairs or maintenance elsewhere in the facility. The absence of certain vital components left behind a void, a reminder of the ongoing efforts to keep the base fully operational.
It wouldn't be enough. He needed to convince them of that. They needed to do more…
Several guards patrolled the helipad, their uniforms bearing the emblem of the Protectorate. Their presence added an air of security to the surroundings, their watchful eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble. They were vigilant, seemed capable enough, and Weyland had recognised one of their captains earlier in the day. Capable men, good soldiers…
A faint shimmer danced along the perimeter of the helipad, marking the presence of an energy field. It hummed with a quiet power, an invisible barrier designed to safeguard the base from unauthorized entry. They were fairly uncommon, and Weyland wondered if it had been Armsmaster who'd set it up. Usually, such things weren't needed, except in very specific areas like Simurgh Quarantine Zones. The Orc wondered if it was a heat haze or the forcefield, it seemed unlike Armsmaster to waste energy in such an inefficient design, if it was interfering with the air.
Weyland supposed it didn't really matter. Either it was good enough to protect the base or it wasn't.
As the sun began its descent, casting a warm golden hue upon the helipad, the atmosphere on the oil rig exuded a sense of purpose. It was a place where heroes gathered, where strategies were planned, and where the protection of Brockton Bay was forged. The helipad, with its commanding view of the city, stood as a symbol of hope and resilience, a testament to the unwavering dedication of those who defended it.
But it was too peaceful…
With a sneer Weyland turned away, bringing out his phone.
"Anne." he said once the call connected, "I need you to do some recon."
"We're pretty locked down at the minute, boss." came the girl's reply from the phone.
Weyland bit back a retort. He had to be calm, there was no need to take out his fear on his teammates.
"We might need to be more active." Weyland replied after a moment. "Go have a chat with the Empire and the ABB."
"The skinheads might be alright with me 'chatting' to them." Annie said after a similar pause, "But if I walk into Chinatown…"
"Get creative." Weyland ordered, "We need this. The Companions are dragonslayers, and the Empire… I mean the other Empire not the Nazis, they have a thing about dragons. If the Companions get reinforcements they're not going to tolerate another Empire for long."
"Boss…" Annie said, "I'm not really sure what you want me to say to them…"
Weyland wanted to be angry at her. He couldn't though, so he just took a deep breath. In. Out. In again.
"Meet me downstairs. I'm going to be talking to some of the Assault Teams. Bring Bear, it'll amuse him I think."
"Got it, Boss."
Weyland had walked to the other end of the Rig as he'd been on the phone. He saw the stairs going down, but turned away for the moment. Something to the east took his eye.
There was nothing there. Gazing out to sea from the helipad, the vast expanse of the ocean spread before Weyland's eyes. There were few boats, and very little true naval traffic, only the white-capped waves, the scream of gulls.
The waves, though calmer now, still bore the scars of recent turmoil. They rolled and crashed against the remnants of the oil rig, their rhythmic dance a reminder of the relentless power that lay beneath the surface.
On the distant horizon, a storm brewed, dark clouds gathering in a swirling mass. Lightning flickered within the heart of the tempest, illuminating the darkened sky with intermittent bursts of electric energy. The approaching storm carried an air of anticipation, a foreboding sign of nature's fury and unpredictability.
The Orc watched the storm. It was a herald, of that much he was sure.
I'll be posting the next chapter on pa tr eon before I post it here, if you want to read ahead you can do so there. You can find me on that site at /85604565 and under the same name as here. Alternatively, if you just wanted to give me a one off tip because you enjoyed a particular chapter, I'm on Koi-fi at /fractiousday.