CHAPTER I: Awaken
I find myself waist-deep in Shit's Creek without a paddle. Clutching my automatic, all the training I got subjected too in basic and infantry school flashes through my head. It seeps into my veins like some kind of infection: I'm running off of muscle memory now. The enemy peeks their head out of cover: fire a 3-to-5 round burst to keep their heads down. The enemy turtles behind cover: throw a grenade their way to flush them out of it. The enemy runs out of cover: concentrate fire from their torso to neck, where you're most likely to hit them. Whatever unit the Imperials are throwing at my squad must be some kind of rapid-advance breakthrough unit; they're quick little bastards, I'll give them that. I can notice even more infantry coming behind them to plug in whatever gaps they leave. Vehicles behind them as well. Can barely see them all through the thick snowstorm. I can see barely-missing rounds whiz and zoom past my frame and head. Kinda like looking at sharp lines of glowing yellow.
That tells my dumbass to get down, which I do. I slam into cover, some dust quaking off of the concrete barrier I chose to keep my head down with. I look to my side; a squadmate of mine is also kept in cover. Can't tell his identity; he's wearing a helmet. I got no fucking clue what to do; that's a pretty damn big problem, I'll admit it, because I'm the sergeant leading this squad. That's the exact opposite of what's supposed to happen. I know very well of the fact that the guy's life is in my hand's. One slip-up I make in a bad order or communication of an order, and he dies. Three other people might die from that. My eyes glance behind me. It's the hydraulic blast door leading into the fort we're protecting in the first place. I get an idea.
I look towards my squadmate with the helmet.
"Your radio's still working-?!" I yell his way.
"Yessir, it is!" He yells back. Meek voice he has, too. Fresh out of the S.O.I., I'd bet.
"Relay to all of 'em inside the walls to GET OUT! We don't got the heavy weapons necessary to stop them!" I order.
"...desertion? Sir, the orders from Rotfront were clear! We beat back the assault, or die tryi-" He tells back to me.
"YOU ARE SOMEONE'S SON! Just go! The leading officer is held accountable for desertions, not the grunts! Three of you are worth more than one of me!" I yell back. The guy can tell I'm passionate about that; or pissed. It's up to interpretation.
I'm assuming he figures that it's worthless to argue with me. That, or he dosen't want to wait for a mortar or grenade to get him to move without an officer's order. So, he does just that. I hear him relay my order to retreat from the fort inside; the blast door opens only about to waist-level, and he crawls underneath. I peak my gun around the barrier, blind-firing into the haze and the vague body-shaped outlines I see to give the man suppressing fire. He needs it. I can't in good consciousness let three guys die under my command for a useless fort. I don't fucking care what the Nation thinks, at least in this moment. Might regret it later, who knows. I'll happily smile at any court marshalling trial and admit that my order of desertion saved the lives of 3 men. With that, I peek my head out of cover to more accurately aim. I place my trigger-finger onto the trigger of the grenade launcher I got attached to the foregrip of my automatic; I pull the trigger.
In some sick sense of 'you thought' from whatever God truley exists out there, I notice an enemy grenade coming my way as I pull the trigger of the grenade launcher. The grenade comes out...and it's trajectory matches right up with the grenade. I'd be laughing my ass off if I didn't know that this could make me K-I-A. An explosion rings out; nighty-night for me.
A smack from the stock of a gun gets me out of dreamland. My eyes flash open; the sick-looking yellow-tinted lights of the worker accommodation bunk room fill my vision. I rub my eyes as I wince from the reverbing pain; I start to sit up, but not too much as to bump my forehead on the bunk above me. I'm a pretty tall guy, after all. I look to my left; a Protektor's standing over me. Looks to be a Starling. Basically the mall cops of this place.
"Get up." She orders, waving her automatic over to get the memo across.
I don't argue with the people with guns, so I bring my legs over the edge of my bunk, placing my feet on the ground. Keeping my upper body down, I slink out, standing up straight. I stretch my back...old man things are hitting me again. Work in the mines keeps me pretty fit; living pure gains, as they say. But the bunks do a number on your spine, that's for sure.
"Thought I was off today, anywho?" I ask her, looking her way. We look eye-to-eye. Same height.
"Sickness has taken many Gestalts out of sufficient condition." She explains. If she was a Storch, she'd probably just be pushing me towards the exit of the room. At least Starlings are laid back like that.
"And that's my problem, how?" I ask.
"You've been here 11,000 cycles; you know how things are. When one worker is taken out, another one fills in his place. The Kolibri cadre and Storch in the observation room can make it your problem though, if you keep this up." She warns.
I nod. I don't want my mind melted by whatever Bioresonance bullshit Kolibri units have access too. She takes the lead, walking in front of me and gesturing for me to follow. We exit the bunk room, the sliding door making way for us. I take the smell in...ah, dust and freshly-welded metal. Sierpinski in all of it's glory. I mean, hey, this beats getting executed for desertion, a sentence to hard labor here until 'expiration'. So, until I keel over from old age. How fun.
"You think they'd take it easy on an old man, no?" I try to make small talk. She isn't no Storch, so she wasn't manufactured with the metaphorical stick up her ass.
"You're pushing 52, correct? Haven't read up on your record recently." She replies.
"Yes ma'am." I answer, chuckling in a bit of disbelief. 30 years (or around 11,000 cycles) gone by and I've seen the surface maybe...a dozen times? I can count them by memory. "The hard labor makes time go faster, I guess." I then quip.
"It certainly does." She replies, saying it a way which implies 'end the conversation here', which I do.
We pass through another room; the elevator nexus. It's a short stop, though. We pass through the mineshaft access room and she stops at the locker room door, taking post beside it.
"Suit up. You have one minute." She dictates. Don't have to tell me twice.
Gestalt workers all get a protective suit if they work in the mines, which I do. I've had mine since I was dumped here after the tribunal. Basically just modified military rigs; the Eusan Nation is resourceful, after all. I go into the locker room and look around for the suit modules; I walk past the stalls, another short corridor leading way for the suit terminal hall. Four 'pods' all with the capacity to hold one rig. I see mine at the farthest left rig. I know it's mine because of the missing arm components; I usually just don't wear those for flexibility's sake. My arms are big enough, for chrissake; old man strength is a thing. I start with the leg component; it's a heavier piece of kit than usual. Polyethylene fibers interwoven with steel threads to take the impact of falling rubble, and maybe bullets, but I don't want to test that theory. The same goes for the chest-and-back rig as well. I slide the aforementioned on, clipping it to the waist section of my leg rig, kinda like suspenders. I then take the helmet and slide it on; the visor itself is kinda digitized. It at least tells me my location in a sort of heads-up-display at the bottom right corner, plus my heartbeat. What technology it uses to record it, I'd rather not know.
After sliding on the armored boots also coming in with the rig, I walk out of the locker room. Same Starling is waiting for me. She nods and goes for the mine access room, and I follow her. We head into the mineshaft itself. Just as the shaft makes way for the larger cavernous beginnings of the mines, she stops.
"Other Protektor units will see you up ahead." She bluntly tells me, as I enter into the aerial tram. I take out my worker I.D. from my pocket, holding it up to the scanner inside. It beeps, the color of the screen itself turning green. A rumble, and the tram begins to move. I stretch my neck, as I then look around. I guess the Starling wasn't lying; I barely see any people down there working on extracting the metallic plates. I see more Mynah units, though. I've always wanted the mining laser of theirs. I know I'm strong enough to hold one; I've even done it before, just not for long. It's kinda like holding an MG, at least for me. I know the laser itself isn't designed for combat, but I would bet it can punch a hole through someone's chest. Perhaps in different circumstances, I'd like to test that theory.
After some time looking around, the tram stops at the other end. The door slides open on it's own, and I walk out, the dust of the dirt below kicking up some as the heavy boots of mine thump against it. I take a left, descending down a short hill towards the main mining area itself. Besides the Mynah units already at work, there's a few Protektor units supervising the whole deal; a squad of Starling units forming a half-circle, with a Storch unit commanding them standing in a watchtower nearby. I report in to the nearest Starling; the whole shebang, tell them my name, give them my I.D. card, the works.
"Alram Jin..." The Starling reads out, as if trying to dust off a memory in her head. "...I remember you. You're the deserter Sieben keeps shit-talking." She then explains. I'm guessing Sieben is the Storch overseeing these guys.
"I've been in here 30 years and counting for that. I don't need to be reminded of it." I then tell.
A nod from the Starling, and she hands me the key to the equipment locker. I grab it, heading over to the one with 'Jin' labelled above it's door. Mine. Sliding it into the door, I open it. The mining saw I've grown familiar with is still in there. I take it out, fitting my hand around the handle and my finger on the trigger. I flick the power switch on; a few sparks later, and the plasma it uses solidifies into a saw-like form. So...essentially an amalgamation between a plasma cutter and handsaw. Not that I'm complaining, though. So, off to work I go. I go off my usual pattern. Once I approach the columns of the metallic plates, I use the cutter to slice off a section of 5, using my bare hands to break them up into single ones and then dump them into the crate beside me.
Ah...hard work. You get used to it after a while.
Hey everyone. If you're wondering where Anecdotes of Sierpinski went, I deleted it. I just didn't like it. For what reason, even I'm still trying to figure out. I just didn't like it and felt that the presence was too out of line with the already established lore. As for this, however, I hope this goes somewhere, whatever direction I decide to take it in. Reviews are encouraged, all constructive criticism is welcomed. As always, for any ideas you all might have for Excommunicated, I'm always open to seeing them.
Until next time,
Lizdo-Writing