Perennial
Waylon observed the morning sun as it cast an amber glow over the badlands, an awe-inspiring sight. Despite witnessing this spectacle every morning throughout his entire life, it remained a moment that never got old.
He lounged back in his threadbare chair, ragged boots resting on the dash of his old, reliable tool of justice – an Inner Sphere Omnimech named the Perennial. A name chosen for reliability and for its years of unwavering service to the people of Sirocco, a desert planet on the border of the Lyrian Commonwealth.
Fortunate to be largely self-governing, Sirocco owed this autonomy to its poverty of valuable resources – not even the Lyrians saw any use in the sunbaked dustball.
The planet's governing body comprised a small group of influential figures located in its only industrial sector, a sufficiently modernized micro city named Desolara. The people of Desolara, having all they needed, cared only for themselves. The harsh desert sun fed the mass solar arrays and the city had been established near one of the few resource-rich regions discovered during the early days of prospecting. The established policing force rarely ventured beyond the city, unless faced with a threat to its immediate safety.
Waylon took in the scenery, nursing his morning coffee. His fingers ghosted over the dials on the onboard radio until the tinny sounds of his favorite country station filled the cabin. An antique pair of whiskey-colored aviators shielded his eyes from the sun's glare. He released a comfortable sigh, relishing the initial sip of his coffee before placing the cup in the holder.
With the press of a button, the window lowered with a squeal while Waylon reached down for an unlabeled box. He popped the worn lid and plucked his last Cigarillo. Waylon cherished these rare moments in the early hours when he could immerse himself in nature, finding solace in the quiet morning hours.
His cabin filled with the scent of ash and smoke; the moment almost made him forget he was on duty.
His drifting off was interrupted by a static hiss and a familiar voice, {Waylon? Come in Waylon? You napping on the job again?}
Waylon jolted as he reached for the receiver.
"Taking in the view, What's on your feed?"
He inquired. Ida was the faithful caretaker of the Perennial and the lifelong friend of Waylon. The two of them were nigh inseparable, together they operated as an unofficial sheriff of the northern desert.
{I really hate to interrupt your morning meditation, but we got some Mesa Hounds on the Old Haven Highway. They're ransacking a caravan. If you could stop in and see to it, I'm sure they would be mighty pleased. Be a dear and check it out, would you? Over!}
Waylon sighed, a wry smile playing on his lips. He chuckled softly and mumbled to himself, "No rest for the weary sheriff."
Waylon flicked the ignition, the Perennial's engine humming to life till the hum became a roar Fueled by a resolute sense of duty, he keyed in the coordinates, and set off toward the Old Haven Highway.
The ride would have been punishing were it not for the advanced gyro and stabilizers. Weighing a meager thirty-five Tonnes, the nimble mech raced through the desert at breakneck speeds, its Vox 280 XL engine clocking in at 130 kilometers per hour.
A perfect choice for hit-and-run tactics in this backwater where a scout mech was a one-man army.
Waylon kicked up a massive dust cloud in his wake. He surged over the Mesa, the scene below a nightmare; burnt caravans black as tar, corpses sprawled across the road, and supplies scattered in chaotic disarray.
The beagle probe registered no heat signatures nearby. Cautiously scanning the horizon, Waylon decided to venture out from the safety of his cockpit. Human heat signatures eluded the scanners, compelling him to explore the wreckage on foot.
The air hung with tension as he stepped onto the battleground. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the occasional creaking of scorched metal. The sun beat down on him, if answers were to be found Waylon knew he had to search for survivors amidst the wreckage. He cautiously approached a burnt-out hulk and wrenched open the door with his sidearm ready. He steeled his nerves; he could not see but he could hear the man. His breathing was ragged and shallow, Waylon commanded; his voice authoritative.
"Hands up! Out here and on the ground now."
Waylon was glowering at the scrawny, rough-looking bandit.
"Where are the supplies?" Waylon demanded, his voice firm.
The bandit, defiant and coated in dust, retorted, "Why should I spill to you, Sheriff? I ain't obligated to share my story."
Waylon's gaze was cold, his sidearm a silent reminder. "You're not in a position to play games. Talk, and you might just survive."
The bandit hesitated, torn between defiance and reality. "Alright, alright," they reluctantly agreed. "We raided the caravan for supplies, Pride leader Says the Deluge is coming, and we must prepare for the waves."
Waylon pressed on, "Deluge? Waves? Start making sense."
The bandit glanced away, disgust flickering across his face. "Let this be first of many. Your time is over lawman, when the Deluge begins it will engulf even daysolara."
He began to laugh, cut off by a loud crack as Waylon gave them their deserved rest.
Waylon made his way back to the Perennial, reporting to Ida. " I don't know what you've dragged me into, but we're talking conspiracy here," he grumbled, stroking his stubble as he replayed the events in his mind. "This caravan was apparently wiped out by common thugs, and then they just torched their trucks and bolted with all the loot—everything. I don't know when the bandits got this bold, but this might be more than we can handle alone."
Ida confirmed receiving the message and proceeded to forward an inquiry to the Rangers department. Surely this wasn't only happening within his jurisdiction...
/div
