Cincinnatus
The rosy-cheeked dawn peaked past the horizon like a shy maiden. Rays of sunlight crittered and crawled over the stumpy baobab-esque trees with their mushroom-shaped, radiant hats of carmine leaves. The forests filled with these queer inhabitants dotted the arid landscape. Shrubby mesquites clung to the circumferences of the forests like watch-dogs guarding against the encroaching reddish-tan grains of sand and man-sized stalks of carmine grass that made up the majority of this moon. Somewhere in the distance, a creature unknown to Earthly minds warbled a battle cry.
Cincinnatus was nothing more than a humble planetoid orbiting the sister planet of the world where the Wings and their Nests called home. However, the dreams of mankind to spread were not constrained by gravity; passing by the ages since man discovered how fire warmed him and kept the beasts at bay, things have changed. WARP Corp. fashioned themselves as the pioneers in this endeavour - their speciality in instant transportation had been fitted for larger, void-piercing vessels. Every self-respecting Wing had their own installations and interests in the great sea of stars. Cincinnatus, however, was more than a simple piece of equipment perched in zero-gee or a few bases on a large-enough asteroid: She was the prelude to a great dream.
It had been a scant fifty years since the first of W Corp.'s probes discovered the hidden treasures tucked away in the underground under liquid sand fields found on this humble rock: Geysers of pure, broiling Enkephalin. The green gold would filter upwards into the dunes and go through certain chemical processes due to the unique make-up of the sand until these fields of 'Emerald Sand' produced a potent, gaseous form of Enkephalin that was a league above their counterparts back home. Entire swaths of the planet were covered in this greenish mist that condensed into fog. These 'Foglands' were the ticket to riches to those brave and entrepreneurial enough.
Such fields were not without their risks, however. The purity contained in these gases would have been enough for an unprotected worker to suffer hallucinations, mutation, distortions, acquired psychosis, and even worse fates if not properly sealed and scrubbed. Many were desperate, but few were desperate enough.
Then, came the Smoke Wars; and war cultivates veterans and prisoners of war by the score. Veterans with no prospects and enemy combatants of the losing Wings began to see the dim opportunities offered by distant Cincinnatus (which, if one were lucky, you could see as a twinkle in the night sky) as a better deal than what the future held for them back home. The Corps were more than happy to send off-shore (off-world, to be more accurate) the disgruntled, injured, mutated or otherwise expensive ex-fighters in their vast quantities.
A freakish world of frigid poles, deep valleys, and briny oceans surrounded by cracked land. Even here, mankind had begun to make their mark on a hard land for harder people.
— 🝯 —
Five lonely figures, black-suited ones, trawled through the lime-green dunes. Their uniforms: plexiglass and synthetic nylon, tinted black, and with a boxy design. Such equipment would seem out of place - however, the myriad of coolants, pistons and gears, and low-gee boots made for their walks amongst the sands to be no less strenuous than what a water-skeeter on a still lake would go through.
Cincinnatus was arid but not hot. Her temperatures ranged from cool to quite chilled under usual circumstances. However, with the Enkephalin fields - especially if they were very active - the heat could become oppressive in very short but broiling bursts of time.
There was no joy in patrolling the Emerald Sands, especially when one strip was active. However, it became an urgent necessity to guard and scout the deposits before smugglers or unlicenced drillers and refiners took what they could before official corporate activity would be roused. What the illegitimate entrepreneurs lacked in equipment, training, and safety protocols they more than made up for in speed and mobility (and lack of survival instincts).
Radio chatter: useless static, for the most part.
These bell-shaped helmets: a convex, ovaloid piece of tinted glass that worked as the blank and unfeeling faces. On the inside they had enough displays and digital accessories to aid their user that the faux-pas against fashion could be forgiven. Vitals? Checked. Adaptive day/night cycles and lighting? Of course. Markers synced to the small beacons in one's squad? It was only good sense.
Faust heard a sudden ping in her helmet. She responded to the comms.
"Yes? Have you made contact with any scavengers?"
The question was curt, tone unfeeling.
The reply was less professional, a man's voice:
"Zilch. Are you sure the techies at HQ actually got a proper reading on those sensors they love so much?"
"I helped calibrate those sensors. If they picked up readings; then, they picked up readings," Faust said. She spoke as if it were pure fact, without a chance for any antipodal responses.
Ice-blue eyes squinted through the whirling and ethereal green mist. A drowsy scan, hopefully the scanners will pick up the slack. There had to be something - though, personal sensors went haywire the deeper one went into the mists.
Her hand ghosted over two things perched on the belt around her waist: her standard-issue CQC blade (more just a glorified machete, in Faust's opinion) and the small-arms. Speaking of the firearm, she needed to set a clear reminder. With a small gesture of reaching to the comms button on the bottom of the helmet's chin, she said:
"Reminder: Do not use your standard-issue firearm until it becomes absolutely necessary. Regulations about transporting ballistics and ammunition through space make every bullet count for much more. Use your CQC weaponry."
She got a chorus of affirmations in reply (some less obsequious than others). It was basic stuff, but every greenhorn was prone to pulling out the big guns instead of relying on 'trustworthy' titanium alloy. She understood the temptation. It was much more comfortable to shoot from a distance than to get personal and up close with a short blade - less messy, too; but it was still preferable to the budget and their cheques getting docked because one too many bullets were fired and tacked on as 'surplus expenditure' on the monthly logs.
The patrol had fanned out in a standard sweep, the radio always on. Faust bent her knees and felt herself glide over the green-laden sand with small sweeping motions; she used her legs for activating the low-gee boots. The air was thick and murky like soup; shapes were mere suggestions after a certain distance. If there were any contact, the whole squadron would be pinged. The filters of Faust's helmet whirred and whistled as it segregated clean air from the particles clinging to the fumes.
Blue eyes spotted movement through the haze.
"Contact," she whispered. She glided over there, one hand on her belt and the other held up with palm outward. Sand parted under the humming, blue glow of her boot's soles as the force pressed them down and aside to give her a flat surface to walk on.
"Halt," her voice warbled through the mask. The tinny effect was purposeful; the static timbre made one sound more inhuman - closer to an alien or cyborg. She saw the markers that represented her team converging to her position. She wouldn't be alone for long.
The mysterious figures stopped their labour and raised their heads like shocked meerkats. Most of them were in dirty and baggy scrubs, with gas masks covering their faces. Many wore overalls and helmets; others had tool-belts or equipment slug over the shoulders. There were 14 or so, by Faust's quick headcount.
14-to-5: awful ratio in most contexts, but Faust was not so worried.
A man stepped forward, in the same dirty-brown scrubs and wearing a rubber gasmask that enveloped his whole face. He was tall, slight slouch.
"Ye speakin' to fine, workin fellers like us like tha'?"
Faust winced internally at the asperous tone. What ugly people, these smugglers. She stepped forward, one hand still hooked on her belt to portray an air of seriousness.
"I am speaking as a representative of Cincinnatus' ruling committee, whose laws YOU are flaunting. I will ask again: please comply or face the full extent of Corporate Law."
Her team had slowly inched their way towards her. Now, they spread around her in a staggered formation, all five of them. The tension was thicker than the limey fog that snaked and whirled around the two groups. The weight of her blade became that much more cumbersome, as if gravity had decided to press itself down in this one specific area as an extra spectator.
Faust made a quick hand signal to her team, the slightest twitch of her fingers. Knees were bent, digits ghosted over the handles of death-dealing blades.
The main smuggler laughed: a howling bark to her ears.
"Yer outmatched. Turn around and the fellers 'ere can forget this all happened."
"I am afraid that will not be the case," Faust cut off the criminal. With a flick of her wrist, she unsheathed her blade with a resonant cry of sharpened metal kissing the air. Four other cries accompanied her, 4 swords raised in guards. "This will be your last opportunity for clemency. We have the jurisdiction to go further."
The main smuggler growled and hoisted his wrench.
Silence.
Then with a shout and a slew of curses, the ruffians stumbled in a furious charge towards Faust and her team. The weight of their footfalls sank into the sand and caused them to wobble and stagger in their rush to bludgeon, smash, stab, and lacerate. Their boots weren't the quality of her squad's; the sand shifted around their feet - disorientated and slowed them. She would have no such handicaps.
Faust raised her blade upwards and rested it on her shoulder, tip of her weapon obliquely facing downwards behind her back, shifting her right foot away from her core and leaning back slightly: Posta Di Fenestra, the Window Guard. She waited as one of the criminals swung with a hammer right at her. In a flash and with a clink of metal against metal, she knocked the shaft aside with the flat of the machete. With a quick swish of her wrists, she shifted the angle and felt the edge bite into the flesh of her opponent's neck, then came the slight rocking motion, as if she were chopping vegetables on a cutting board - with a quick sway and dip to find more purchase in the artery, she pulled her blade back in a sharp slice. Blood dappled the ground in small drops, a few creeping down the silvery sheen. A man fell.
His comrade fared no better. A low guard and a side-step, a quick slice across his stomach. A hint of viscera bursting out. Another fell. Clink.
Third man: wielding a knife. Twirl the blade to catch his wrist and slice. Step forward, mind the footwork, and finish with a slash across the throat. Red met green sand. A soul left a body. Clink.
Again.
Again.
Again.
14 bodies arrayed like rags. A portrait of carmine dapples on a green canvas. The mist did not let up. The ennui of the post-battle settled in.
5 black-suited victors. 5 tarnished, flesh-kissing, silver blades.
Faust felt… nothing.
— 🝯 —