All the little lost boys and girls (Update: 26/5/12)

[Themightytom]

Woot! Seventeen months into the story, the good guys strike back!

[Bladed_Crescent]

I had a really long post referring to all the questions about what the purge is written. Then I realized all of my answers just boiled down to "wait and see". So, you've waited and now you can see!

In this chapter: she does as her blood tells her.

Coming up: The first casualty of war.

Chapter 53:

“And there, and there, and there you are,” the Watcher said with a beatific smile. “The daughter does as her blood tells her to, darling. She becomes the antimessiah.” He let out a withered breath at what his screens were showing him. “She destroys.”

~

Jane recognized the sound, but it took several moments for her place it. Once she did, she began to laugh. “Anchor,” she ordered Cynthia. “And enjoy.”

~

A blood oath was whispered angrily as crippled Vigil refused their orders. That was all they spared for it though, as practicality took over.

Clever. Unexpected. Provocative. Boot soles and gauntlets magnetized, anchoring them to the deck as they crouched, waiting.

Beneath her helm, one of the killers grinned, pleased by the New Ones’ initiative.

~

“No!”

Gemma grabbed her sisters, holding them back as they tried to lunge through the door as it shut behind them, cutting her and her two siblings off from the rest of the garden. She knew what was about to happen and so did they. Fists beat uselessly against the doors and talons tapped uselessly at the controls as the older girls slumped down to the decking, listening to the confused sounds of their trapped kin, whispering “No,” over and over again.

Her first sister looked up at her, despair in her red eyes. “They’re going to die,” she whimpered.

“I know,” Gemma answered. She didn’t know whether to weep with them or celebrate; instead, she held her sisters close.

~

Louis looked up as the computer’s voice spat through the comm, trying to figure out what was happening as the reverberations of slamming pressure doors echoed through the station’s bones, his thoughts short-circuited by Emily. “It’s her,” the doctor whispered, her voice somewhere between awe and horror. “She’s started a purge.”

~

In the garden, the mother-thing looked up at the dull pulses of emergency lights, a distant part of her mind aware of what it signified. Unable to move, unable to escape, she did the only thing she could: she screamed. The sound was piercing and shrill: the very distillation of rage formed by a mind that still remembered what terror was, and one that felt it now.

~

Gravity went first. Suddenly, abruptly. Between one footfall and the next, lurching monsters found themselves floating, bouncing off walls and ceilings, flailing for purchase.

Ancient doors trundled to life at Shannon’s command. Sealed passages opened, air roaring through formerly-depressurized sections, opening the labyrinth that the failed quarantine had created, a many-spoked wheel forming as every door leading into the hydroponics bay unlocked and groaned open. The nearby atmospheric processing station shuddered into overdrive, forcing air through its vents far faster than normal.

Then, hundreds of meters away, on the top and bottom of the arm, massive airlocks yawned open. Air screamed from the station, debris vomiting out into the Mists. Turned clutched and clawed at the decking as gale-force winds buffeted them, stoked by the self-destructive hurricane pouring through the ventilation system. Here and there, they failed and were carried thrashing out into the void. At first only in ones and twos, but then by threes and fours, fives and sixes. Dozens, shrieking with desperate, uncomprehending anger as they fell into space.

This wasn’t a minor hull breach, something that would take days or weeks to threaten the station. This was a full atmospheric purge, intended to flush irreversibly contaminated sections into space. In seeking to contain any possible breach, the Imperium had left nothing to chance. Steep gravitational gradients began to pulse through the corridors in waves and tractor fields – at least, those that had not failed in six centuries of neglect – dredged the main corridors like ethereal fishing nets, tearing up rafts of substrate and pulling rusted crates and howling creatures into oblivion.

At each of those airlocks, long-forgotten atmospheric cyclers came to life, dragging the air from the station out into the void faster and faster, adding to the speed imbued by the shifting gravity fields and the pull of the tractors. Almost nothing that wasn’t sealed to the deck could hold against the hurricane and, outside in the Mists, Kerrigan’s killer watched with interest at this unexpected turn.

The diseased plants swayed in the winds, anchoring tendrils snapping and tree-thick trunks were wrenched loose. On the point of collapse, self-preservation protocols activated at the atmospheric processor shut itself off from the vacuum, no longer feeding air into the system. Half-crippled computers desperately called for maintenance teams to attend to the damaged systems. DROP 47 was dying. Its AI mind was fading, starved for maintenance and awaiting repairs that would never come. But it knew what it had to do and it followed through, as best that it could.

It took time, of course. Even at full capacity, such a large area couldn’t be purged in a matter of seconds. Minutes passed and finally the roar of air outside fell silent. Abigail looked to Shannon, the shorter woman standing perfectly still. Abigail wanted to suddenly shout at her.

“We have no reliable communications back to the others,” Shannon said, anticipating Abigail’s question. She wouldn’t look at her ‘big sister’. “There was no way to warn them. But I separated that section from the purge. I think.”

You think?! Abigail wanted to scream the question, but she held it back. Barely.

“There was no other way,” Shannon continued. There was something in her voice, something that Abigail couldn’t place, but she was damn sure that she didn’t like it. “We had no other way out.”

“Yes, we did,” Abigail whispered at last. She couldn’t think of what it could be, but that didn’t mean Shannon hadn’t seen one. There had to have been something else, something.

The Halo still wouldn’t face her. “Yes, we did,” she admitted. “But it might not have worked. And it wouldn’t have gotten us this.”

“So to kill this... this garden, you might have just killed Ten, Delphini, Lutzberg and Bujold.”

This time, Shannon did look at her. “Yes,” was all she said in answer. There was shame in that voice – humiliation – but that same something that Abigail couldn’t identify and didn’t like was there too.

She didn’t know what to think about that.

~

“Purge complete-ete,” Vigil’s voice whispered over the comm. “Re-restoring. Ing normal en-en-environmental controls now. Now.”

~

Airless now. Quiet. The deck vibrated beneath her feet with the spasms of machines and systems as they powered down. Then, complete silence. It lasted only a moment before the rumble of the vents began anew, pumping fresh air into the purged hallways. She felt the shift in her perception as gravity slowly returned. Carefully, she stood, keeping the soles of her boots locked to the deck. Instinctively her tongue licked out, but she only tasted the recycled air of her helmet and wasn’t so foolish as to remove it. She waited a moment, listening as her brothers rose. Scanners were clear and there was no sign of incoming movement.

“Not for us,” she surmised. “For the garden.”

“Dangerous prey,” mused one of her comrades. “Full station access has been restored to this section.”

The leader stayed silent a moment longer. “New Ones are a secondary concern,” he ordered. “There will be surviving Ribbons. We’ll terminate all advanced strains.”

“We aren’t equipped for a complete cleanse,” she protested. Her blood was up and she wanted to vent her agitation on thinking, dangerous prey.

“No. The garden will recover. But it will take longer with primary strains destroyed. Perhaps long enough for a kill-team to finish the purge. This is an oppurtunity we can’t throw away. If the New Ones present themselves, terminate them. But the garden is now the primary target.”

She nodded, tilting her head down in submission. “Compliance.”

~

“Four to Ten, respond.”

Nothing.

“Beta Four to Beta Ten, respond.”

Still nothing.

“Louis, this is Shannon. Respond. Please.”

Only silence.

Shannon could feel Abigail’s stare. She couldn’t look at her ‘big sister’, didn’t know what to say. She was about to try again, when the comm crackled and a familiar voice answered. “...here. What the... Four? ...you do?”

Her relief was so strong that she almost slid down to ground as her knees threatened to buckle. She’d hoped that the purge would degrade the jamming in this area. “Ten, it’s good to hear your voice. Are you all right?”

“For... part,” Hernandez answered. “...phini and Lutzberg... okay. ...lost Bujold.”

“He’s gone? Was it,” she tripped over the words. “The purge?”

“No... else. Listen, watch... things... weapons and armour... hunting us. ...hit it with... didn’t put it down. ...your ass, Four.”

“Say again, Ten. Did you encounter ferals with armour? Or Primal’s people?”

“Neither... think. Something else... careful. This purge... ....ways clear? We’re going a little... in here. We should... up.”

Shannon nodded to herself. “We’ll meet you halfway. Be careful, Ten. There might still be stragglers.”

“...eyes open, Four.”

Finally, Shannon turned to Abigail. “We lost Bujold.”

“I heard.” A beat. “Keeping them there was the right call. We could have lost them all.”

“I know.” Shannon picked her pistol up, checked the clip. Getting low again. “Let’s head back.”

~

Then:

“Are you sure about this?” Sarah Jessup whispered to her partner. Dyson was wrist-deep in a circuit board, his nimble fingers working quickly. “If Thorne finds out...”

“It’s a little late to be worrying about that, Sare,” he muttered. “Besides, it’s not like he can kills us any more dead. Just ask Vasquez.”

“I know, I know. But he’s going to freak about this.”

“He won’t be able to prove it was us. As far as he knows, we just snuck off so I could give you another pity fuck.”

“I wish that’s what we were doing...” Sarah mumbled, glancing nervously through the gloom and fidgeting with the infra-red goggles over her eyes. They gave fair warning about any possible Lurkers hiding in the darkness, but – and she wished this was a self-deluding lie – there were worse things out there than those monsters. Whatever had crucified Emile hadn’t been a Lurker or one of the feral tribes out here.

That’s why they were taking the payload. Insurance. Dyson had said that. Sarah wasn’t sure just what he meant by that, but she trusted him. They needed to be safe. Thorne was losing it; she’d thought that they could reason with him, get him to ease up, but after what he’d done to Vasquez...

Like Dyson said, they needed insurance. Something to even the playing field, and if Thorne didn’t have his toys...

“There,” Dyson whispered as he clicked the circuit panel shut. “That’s the last one.”

“It’s done?”

“It’s done. Let’s get out of here.” He smiled lopsidedly in the dark. “And we’ve got time for that pity fuck after all.” It wasn’t the most romantic proposition Sarah had ever had. Despite his grin, in any other circumstances Dyson’s expression was certainly not what one might call inviting. Had those other circumstances been in effect, Sarah might even have realized this. At the moment however, she was stuck in an unending hell, she was frightened and she was desperate for even the smallest sign of affection or physical comfort. She smiled back and trotted after Dyson as he led her towards their favourite cubbyhole.

~

The doors opened with a hiss and the hotter air from the control center wafted out, meeting the cooler, thinner air that was flooding back into the purged section of the station. The purge Shannon had initiated had only been intended to flush unsecured (and presumably infected) personnel and contaminated air out into the void, but it had been effective nonetheless. Several of the infested trunks had broken loose and toppled, so tall that they had crashed against walls rather than the deck, burst honeypots oozed ichor and chyme down the tattered spread, gargling helplessly for aid. Broken walkways had crashed down, torn free by the weight of the collapsing trees.

Nearby, something growled weakly and Shannon turned. It was the mother. Several of her nutrient veins had come loose and she laboured for breath in the thin air. Her lips were blue and her yellow eye was discoloured by burst capillaries, almost as red as the other. She was sagged down into her own bulk, her arms hanging down her torso, her scythe-limbs limp and weak. She stared at the women, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths as she struggled to form words.

Hissing, gasping sibilants drooled from her mouth as she tried to speak from a tongue no longer truly capable of human speech, trying to create words from a mind that hadn’t been human in many years. She didn’t need the words, though. Hate. Rage. Fear. They were etched on her once-attractive features. I hate you, the abomination growled pitifully. I hate you.

“I know,” Shannon said. “I’m sorry.” She raised her pistol-

~

They dropped their shrouds as they moved and she let out a relieved breath as her armour’s cooling system exhaled with a rush of steamy air. Even thermal imaging could not detect them through an active shroud, but at the cost of slowly raising the armour’s internal temperature. Touching thumb and forefinger to the bottom of her helmet, she opened the lower portion of her mask, feeling the rush of cool air on her skin. Her tongue extended briefly, tasting the atmosphere. The air stunk of Ribbon-scent and their pheromones. Confusion. Distress. Rage.

Delightful.

Heady from the aroma, she shivered and quickly re-sealed her helmet, licking her teeth and the saliva that glistened over them.

The lead had noticed her lapse. He put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re young,” was all he said, both chastisement and excuse.

She nodded, cocking her head as auto-senses picked up the distant cries of the Ribbons, survivors of the purge. Calling out to one another, as they stumbled back to their senses. Something else groaned, sending vibrations through the deck with the force of its obscene cries. The three hunters exchanged quick glances. A praetorian was nearby, and it was moving towards them. Whether it had sensed the intruders, or it was just rushing back to the garden didn’t make much difference. Their weapons could hurt it, possibly even destroy it, but without a full kill-team...

There; the garden was before them. Targeting sensors flashed to life, dotting her heads-up display with telemetry and this time, when the lead spoke, there was no reprimand. “We’ll circle around,” he indicated himself and the other novitiate. “Advance through this entrance. Kill what you can. Flush the rest towards us. If heavily engaged, fall back.”

She smiled, nodding her head in acquiescence. “Understood.”

~

-and a brilliant lance of energy speared out, vapourizing the mother-thing’s human torso.

“Wh-” Abigail was about to ask, but before she could finish the word, Shannon threw her ‘big sister’ to the ground, an instant ahead of the shriek of something moving through the air, both mercenaries going down behind the bent remnants of an overhead walkway. Scrabbling to right themselves, Shannon pulled herself free of Abigail, risking a glance. It was an armoured figure, cradling a vicious-looking rifle in its hands. It was advancing cautiously, holding itself low to the ground in expectation of return fire. There was the barest impression of movement and Shannon ducked, a millisecond before a trio of rounds punched through the walkway’s thin metal. Fast. Too fast for baseline humans, her mind began to whisper a dozen thoughts at once. Gene-modded. Didn’t look all the way. Integrated sensors. Energy weapons. Well-kept gear. Advanced industry. It wasn’t just Bujold’s killer.

This was one of Kerrigan’s murderers.

hate you throat is one of the weakest parts of any armour set who are you

It wasn’t – it couldn’t – be alone. It was a distraction, intended to keep them pinned down, or drive them towards its comrades. First rule of combat, Shannie, her ‘big sister’s’ voice played over in her head. Never do what they expect you to do. “Three,” she commed Abigail. “This is a hound. Expect flankers.”

“Orders, Four?”

“We circle around and assault through.”

Abigail responded with an acknowledgement blip. She moved low and fast, unlimbering her carbine as she slid behind the thick trunk of the fallen plant, using it block her movements. She licked her lips. Somewhere out there was this thing’s friends. Part of her wanted very badly to meet them, to have a target – any target – in her sights, but that part of her was easily overridden by the gutter rat, the part that knew that you never, ever started a fight if you weren’t one hundred percent sure you could win it. Most often, by making it an unfair fight. No, she’d get her chance. Not right now, but soon. “No eyes, nothing on motion tracker,” she said to Four. “You have visual?”

“No. She’s gone.”

“She?”

A beat as Shannon reviewed whatever bits of information had given her that conclusion. “She.” Shannon went silent for a moment, straining her auto-senses to pick up any trace of the killer, but there was nothing.

Almost nothing.

“Abby-!”

~

She hadn’t expected to meet the New Ones here. That was twice today that they’d surprised her. Still, she had her orders.

They weren’t doing what they were supposed to, though – run into the rest of the pack and die. Instead, they were circling towards her. Her hands flexed as her armour’s sensory systems probed through the detritus of the broken garden, sifting through shifts in air current, thermal imprints and the minute power sources of their equipment.

-make them weep from pain and fear before they die-

Staying put gave them the initiative and her current position was too open. If she moved towards them, they could surround her. So that left... ah. Yes.

~

She didn’t know how she’d known it would be there. At least, she didn’t want to know. Fever-red thoughts raced through her head so fast and frenetic that she wasn’t consciously aware of them all. All she knew was that she turned away from Abigail, raised her pistol and found her target staring back at her. It – she – was crouched on a broken walkway, somehow having gotten up there without alerting either mercenary. Her legs were poised to spring, her rifle on her back and a macabre pistol in one hand. In the other was a halberd of dark silver, a weapon that it hadn’t been holding moments ago. The blade shimmered, gleaming softly with a disruptor field. As it stared down the barrel of her gun, Shannon realized she’d surprised it.

The Halo quelled the sudden rush of pleasure that that thought gave her.

Its faceless helm tilted towards Shannon and it spoke. The words were oddly lyrical, the rising and falling of a murderer’s ballad, not like the hissing ash-ash-ash of Abigail’s Darknell dialects. They should have been meaningless, a disturbing melody. Instead, Shannon recognized its taunts. She didn’t know how, but she knew. She’d heard the language before.

“No,” she replied, her cheek aching. “It’s not.”

The killer hesitated, a sudden catch in its poise. Its confusion was brief, evidently deciding that Shannon’s answer was only random coincidence. That instant was enough and Shannon shot it in the face, its head snapping back from the impact of the heavy shell. Off-balance, it fell back against the bent gantry, rolling down and crashing to the floor in a tangle of disoriented limbs.

Shannon crept to where the killer had fallen, trying to find out if it was truly dead.

That was a mistake.

~

Spectacular.

Her HUD was fritzing with static, the impact of the bullet damaging several of her helmet’s displays. It was regenerating, but it would be several moments before her function systems were optimal again. Her poor, abused armour... this expedition was certainly not what she’d expected.

Clever prey. Clever and dangerous; she’d been lucky.

She allowed an instant of appreciation for the New One’s skill, licking her teeth and fighting back the primal urge to drool. Amidst the desecrated remains of the garden, with Ribbon-scent thick in the air, she felt the atavistic pull stronger than ever, but she forced it down, pulling herself back up.

How could it have known how to answer?

Motion, there was motion nearby and the question was forgotten.

-crack them open and pull out their entrails-

And she moved.

~

Her face was burning now and, insanely, all she could hear was her great-grandmother’s voice. Lost in that memory, she didn’t see the glimmer of movement as the downed enemy lunged at her-

-then she was off the ground, its hand at her throat and it was whispering something, a bloody demand as its halberd – no, now it was a sword – shimmered with power-

- and before she could answer, it let her go. As she thumped to the deck she heard screaming, the actinic shrieks of blade meeting blade as Abigail came to her rescue, the way she always did-

-the sweep of the blades left blurring after-images on her vision as Shannon watched, crackling spurs of energy writhing around the conjoined disruptor fields as Abigail and the faceless soldier fought. Abigail was fast and brutal, forcing her opponent back through sheer berserker fury, crashing her disruptor against the killer’s guard time and again. Shannon saw the pattern in the duel and surged to her feet. “Three-”

-and Abigail pushed her luck too far and their blades met again, but this time, the killer didn’t retreat, matching Abigail’s strength and pushing back, forcing the mercenary’s own blade towards her throat...

Just like the gutter-fighter she was, the Darkknell tilted her head back and smashed her helmet into her opponent’s face, disorienting it just enough that Abigail was able to push her away, swinging the blade around in a disembowelling strike that met empty air as the killer flitted out of reach. Shannon fired a fusillade at the dancing enemy, but it was fast, too fast and never where her weapon was aimed...

“Fast little fuck, aren’t you?” Abby hissed.

The killer leapt back at its assailants, its ugly sword swepping around in a perfect slash that should have cut through Shannon’s visor and blinded her, if she hadn’t seen it coming. Abigail crashed to the ground as the enemy swept her legs out from under her, unable to follow up with a killing strike as Shannon caught its arm on the downswing, smashing across the face, trying to blur out its sensor feeds, or at least knock its helmet off-center. It pulled back, just enough that its roundhouse kick caught Shannon on the side of her head, doing to her what she’d tried with it.

not just reacting, it’s anticipating

Abigail was back on her feet and there was another scream as their disruptors met one more-

Shannon broke the embrace, shooting Abigail’s assailant in the back of the knees, knocking her down. “Three, we’re bugging out!” she shouted.

A hand snapped out and caught her by the ankle. Shannon cried out as a knife stabbed through the back of her shin and her leg gave out under her, the cry of pained surprise turning into a howl as her assailant wrenched the blade loose, just in time to avoid a limb-severing strike from Abigail’s sword. The soldier scrambled to its feet, ready to continue the battle...

...and something, far, far too close for comfort roared in bestial hatred. All three combatants looked towards the source of the noise and Shannon felt her guts fold in on themselves as a mound of infested flesh stalked forward, muscles twitching and shivering in eagerness, drool flowing over glistening teeth.

“I think it’s angry.” she mumbled as the monster advanced.

[Night_stalker]

Ohh... bugger.

Yeah, I think it's pissed too.

Running would be a VERY good idea right about now.

[Nuts!]

I just read this last bit. At night. Alone.

...bad idea. Can't sleep. Next time, Crescent, can you put a label on your stuff that says "Warning! Dangerously scary - do not read if you want to sleep tonight!" - please?

[Grimnosh]

I just read this last bit. At night. Alone.

...bad idea. Can't sleep. Next time, Crescent, can you put a label on your stuff that says "Warning! Dangerously scary - do not read if you want to sleep tonight!" - please?

Now where is the fun in that?

Excelent update as always Crescent. Can't wait for more.

[LadyTevar]

Nothing like fighting a shared enemy to forge friendship...

[Darth Nostril]

Hehehehe, do not fuck with the Hayes

[kromtar]

Reading your stories and then trying to sleep=bad
Reading your stories outloud to my girlfriend in creepy voice before she goes to sleep= priceless

[Bladed_Crescent]

Running would be a VERY good idea right about now.

But that just means you'll die tired.

I just read this last bit. At night. Alone.

...bad idea. Can't sleep. Next time, Crescent, can you put a label on your stuff that says "Warning! Dangerously scary - do not read if you want to sleep tonight!" - please?

I thought about it.

Decided against it.

Excelent update as always Crescent. Can't wait for more.

Thanks - for this chapter, for the fight between Abigail, Shannon and their enemy, I originally had the full fire team there, but it didn't feel right, since both mercs would have been dead pretty quickly and I had to contrive a way to make the fight more even at the outset. This way, I hope, the lethality of their attacker(s) is preserved. Which I didn't think I was doing with the original version of the fight.

I wanted to capture that "doing their damnedest, but totally outclassed" feeling of the battle, so I drew inspiration from Obi-wan & Qui-Gonn vs Darth Maul in TPM and the militiaman and Ichabod Crane's fight against the Horseman in the remade Sleepy Hollow (damn I love that movie). There's at least two nods to Star Wars lightsaber duels in my description of the fight, too. Nothing overt; if you can picture the fight in your head, you might catch them... well, maybe. One I didn't realize I'd put in until I went over it in my head

OhGodI'msuchanerrrrrrrd.

Nothing like fighting a shared enemy to forge friendship...

The enemy of my enemy is still my enemy - Drago Muscenvi

Hehehehe, do not fuck with the Hayes

She hasn't quite reached The Sisko's levels yet - she still needs to build a starship whose sole purpose is to destroy everything in her field of view that displeases her - but enough time on DROP 47 and well...

The short version is: Sin Eater.

A long(er) version is:
Spoiler

[deleted] snorted. “You think I’m scared of that Darkknell trash?”

“I wasn’t talking about her.”

“It looks like the Mists got to you faster than I thought,” [deleted] chuckled, the sound harsh and mechanical. “That’s not a soldier. It’s a Halo.”

“Yes it is,” [deleted] replied. “And that's why you should be afraid.”

Reading your stories and then trying to sleep=bad
Reading your stories outloud to my girlfriend in creepy voice before she goes to sleep= priceless

I get a lot of people saying that they have nightmares, dreams and/or difficulty sleeping after reading this. It's an interesting correlation, but I wonder what the causative effect is...

Hmm.

[Grimnosh]

Nothing like fighting a shared enemy to forge friendship...

The enemy of my enemy is still my enemy - Drago Muscenvi

The proper phrase is "the enemy of my enemy dies next. In the meantime they could be quite useful".

[Darth Nostril]

Spoiler

“And that's why you should be afraid.”

Something has awakened, something hungry that dreams of blood. And I'm not talking about the inhabitants of DROP 47

[Night_stalker]

Beware the nice ones...

When they snap, it's never pleasant.

[Bladed_Crescent]

In this chapter, the enemy of my enemy is still my enemy.

Coming up: Treachery, deceit and the Great River.

Chapter 54:

It wasn’t Unity, but it was still some distant relation.

This one had only four limbs, thick and powerful, with raw muscles barely covered by stretched, tumescent skin. Massive claws and rending talons, easy easily capable of ripping through armour, suggested how it had survived the purge and it glared hatefully at the five figures before it. What had once been cheekbones had grown to monstrous, impossible size, splitting the skin of its face and jagging forward like great tusks bracketing its jutting maw.

Unlike Unity, this praetorian was not a... conglomerate entity, with no sign of the many fused corpses that had created its cousin’s body. Perhaps it had been some beast of burden, or a pet, or even a person now swollen and distended to monstrous size, hunched onto all four legs like some primordial ancestor. At best, the question was academic: the praetorian’s parentage no longer mattered, though. Not since it had Turned. It was now an engine of bone and muscle, given life by some horrific alchemy, tasked to rend and destroy.

Its tusked head swept back and forth as its red eyes surveyed its prey. There was cunning in that grotesque expression, but not Unity’s monstrous intellect. It knew they were dangerous, but it lacked its fellow’s appreciation of that fact. Its mouth opened in a low, rumbling hiss and drool spattered over finger-length teeth.

The enemy soldier turned towards it, weapon raised-

-and the praetorian charged, blindingly fast, despite its bulk. It lowered its head and smashed the soldier to one side like a doll swept away by a child’s tantrum. Its oncoming rush didn’t abate and it threw itself into the tangle of broken metal and toppled trunks that Shannon and Abigail huddled in, screaming in frothing rage as it tried to rip its way to them, powerful tail pounding the deck with sledgehammer blows and hands the side of Shannon’s torso slashed at her and Abigail, the bullets they poured into its thick skull only stoking its rage, ropes of saliva spattering from its jaws as it howled and gnashed, too large to squeeze through the debris after them.

One of its powerful hands wrapped around the stalk of an infested plant and with a heave of inhuman strength, the Turned tore it free. Abigail and Shannon scrambled deeper into the morass, out of the monster’s reach, but this was only delaying the inevitable. Its berserker fury abated for the moment and the praetorian stared at them, watching through its mad red eyes. Strips of skin hung from its face and writhing, worm-like tendrils squirmed out from the bullet holes in its head and torso. It opened its mouth and let loose a heavy breath that smelled like decay and chemical taint, its eyes never leaving the tiny shivering fingers in front of it. Slowly, it reached forward with its other hand, talons hooking into the mesh of the collapsed walkway. And, purposefully, it began to pull it away...

Then, so softly that Shannon would have ignored it completely if not for what followed: there was the brief whine of a cyclic cannon spinning just before it opened fire.

~

Jane watched as the praetorian writhed under her assault, explosive bullets punching deep into its flesh before bursting out in sprays of corruption. It screamed a challenge at her, even as it sought relief from the storm that cratered its body. She wished it could feel pain. Maybe it did, on some level. Some part of the brain that had once been... what? Human? Animal? Might still remember agony and she hoped – oh, she hoped – that it was remembering it now. It screeched at her, but it had no way of climbing up to her position, not without being further shredded. In the end, it retreated. Leaving a trail of gore and leaking entrails, the massive Turned loped from the room to wait until it was healed, until it had a chance to even the score.

With a thoom, Jane dropped to the floor, eight feet and half a ton of bloodstained armour and weaponry. Her weapon tracked the stunned enemy figure. Unable to stand, it was braced against the wall, was holding its own pistol on her, the barrel glowing as it zeroed in on Jane’s head. “Ghost One reporting,” her voice, rough and wet, crackled over Shannon’s comm. “We need to go. Additional bogeys inbound.”

“Then let’s go,” Shannon ordered, keep one eye on the injured killer. It was trying to pull itself back up to its feet, but the praetorian’s blow had hurt it badly, despite its armour. With its free hand it was trying to reach its carbine, a few inches out of its grasp.

“You’re hurt,” Abigail pointed out.

“It missed the major blood vessels. I’m fine,” she lied.

Abby ignored her protestations and slung one of Shannon’s arms over her shoulder, helping her ‘little sister’ walk. “This way,” she commed to the Ghost, Godfrey slowly backing away from the garden, keeping her weapon on the downed enemy soldier. Questions would have to wait; as the trooper said, they had incoming.

As they fled, they heard it scream. Defiant and hating, the shrill cry echoing through the corridors.

And, as it faded, the surviving Turned picked up the call.

~

Then:

Thorne was losing it again, screaming and ranting at their ever-dwindling group of survivors, all but frothing at the mouth. None of them met his eyes, unwilling to look like they were challenging him. Sarah stood next to Dyson, trying to reach out and brush her fingertips against his, but he pulled his hand away. She shot him a furtive glance, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was, incredibly, watching Thorne.

Sarah dared a moment’s quick glance at their erstwhile leader. Thorne was not the most physically impressive man in their group, but he had managed to hold their ragtag band together through charisma, sheer willpower – and, increasingly – physical intimidation. He was one of those people that, even if you outmassed them by a hundred pounds of muscle, still seemed more dangerous than you would ever be. And after he’d gotten his hands on the package that Sarah and Dyson had just dealt with, he’d only gotten worse.

That’s what this was about; he’d just found out that his toys were missing. He’d gathered everyone, hurling increasingly obscene and incomprehensible slurs and threats at each of the remaining men and women there. Sarah wanted to say that a madman’s raving didn’t affect her, that Thorne was just venting at any and every target within reach, but he’d promised some very ugly things, not the least of which was that he’d cut off her arms and legs and leave her for the Masks. She didn’t think he was that far gone, but nobody had thought he’d kill one of their own, either. Not until Vasquez.

“And you!” Thorne suddenly rounded on the group’s cyberneticist, Dr. Jason Whitham, spittle flaying from his mouth. “What do you have to say about this?”

It took a moment for Whitham to even acknowledge Thorne, the scientist looking up slowly and unabashedly meeting his leader’s gaze. Like the rest of them, there were dark circles under his eyes from not enough sleep, but there was more than just fatigue and crumbling nerves in his eyes. He hadn’t been the same since Laura. Distant, coiled in on himself like a spring about to snap. That’s how Dyson had described him.

“What do you want me to say?” Whitham asked softly, almost a whisper. He stared back at Thorne and Sarah felt herself drawing back half a step. Thin and almost so lanky as be gangly, she’d never thought much of Whitham’s physical presence until now, but something in his innocuous question, something in his pose made goosebumps run down Sarah’s arm. She reached for Dyson’s hand again and this time, he took it.

~

She watched the New Ones leave, staring after the heavy trooper as its grey armour disappeared into the blackness of the tunnels, waiting until it faded from her autosenses before she moved, picking herself up slowly, feeling her cracked ribs move on their own. She let out a hiss of breath as healing compounds and nano-melders flooded into her battered torso, assisting her own body’s own regeneration. They could heal from almost anything, but the regeneration stims made the process faster. What took hours, took minutes. What took minutes took seconds instead.

She let out a shivering breath as her bones knit and sheathed her kaitan, putting one arm against her side. The praetorian had retreated, but it would be back as soon as it was fully healed. It was rare, but Ribbons bit retreat from time to time. The clever ones did, or if instinct demanded that they ‘survive’ long enough to alert others, then one of the creatures would buck normalcy and avoid combat.

She looked up; there, on a higher walkway were her lead and the other novitiate, just arrived from their intended ambush point. “You didn’t die,” the lead observed, a note of pride in his voice. He’d watched her battle through the meld their armour systems shared. “You did well; one against two. Thoughts?”

“The second is dangerous for its speed and strength,” she said. “Enhanced strain, but it doesn’t move like the first. Different world of birth, different training. No blood connection, but the way it reacted... it’s bonded to the first, a lover or close friend. A soldier, but the modifications to its armour make it an artificer as well.”

The lead nodded, climbing down the wreckage of Ribbon-twisted life and collapsed gantries. “And the first?”

She growled, the noise low and hateful. “Enhanced strain. Faster than its companion. Processes information at an increased rate; it anticipated several of my actions. It doesn’t think like a soldier. It went for disabling/disorienting blows several times when it should have seen lethal options. Armour modifications indicate medic.”

He knelt next to her, touching her armour, checking for persistent damage as he reviewed his young charge’s bio-telemetry. Injured, but nothing life-threatening or permanently impairing and she’d recover soon. Luckier than most who’d run into praetorians. “And?” he asked as he stood, looking into her eyes. The question sounded nonchalant, but there was an edge in it.

She clicked her teeth, mouth working in the sudden need to sink her teeth into soft flesh and rip a mouthful free. “It reacted to our language. It shouldn’t have. Watcher knows us, a few of the feral oracles know a handful of words. New Ones shouldn’t. Not ever.” Her hands flexed. “It knows our language,” she hissed. She looked at her knife, still wet with the enemy’s blood and felt the fires of revulsion and hatred stoking inside her. “It’s an Old One.”

-kill-

-make it scream-

~

Drooling blood, the Turned slashed uselessly at the passersby, but for all its effort, it had no chance of actually getting at them – Louis, Armin and Emily were out of its reach. The creature moaned and hissed, scrabbling at the wall and floor, trying to free itself without much luck. When Four had purged this part of the station, this grotesque had gotten stuck when a maintenance hatch had closed on it, trapped by the very thing that had saved its unnatural life. Louis could hear more of the monsters, those lucky enough to have found themselves in sections too damaged to be vented, or somehow able to hold out against the atmospheric purge. The direct route was turning out to be too dangerous and twice they’d had to slip into side passages to avoid agitated Turned. These ones were different, clad in glistening chitin like a madman’s interpretation of EVA gear. Like Unity.

Just thinking of that... thing made his skin crawl and Louis sincerely hoped that the monster – well, both of them – that had come knocking on their door was among the many now enjoying a first-hand view of the Twilight Fields.

Louis suppressed a shudder as he led his two survivors through the pitch-black tunnels. His eyepiece didn’t provide the same level of night-vision as the other mercenaries’ blacklight and the sweep of his party’s torches provided welcome – if incomplete – light up and down the hall. In every shifting shadow and every half-glimpsed silhouette, Louis could still see the man reaching out to him and calling for help. And sometimes – just sometimes – he thought he saw a gleam of silver and the flicker of a flamethrower’s pilot light. “We shouldn’t have come here,” he said to himself under his breath. “But they asked us to. We were supposed to help them. We can’t leave. We can’t, not until we’re finished.”

~

Emily bit her lip, resisting the urge to scratch at the back of her head – her scalp already felt raw and tender. Ahead, she could hear Hernandez whispering to no one, almost sounding like he was arguing. Beside her, Lutzberg was oblivious to their to chaperone’s conversation with himself, the petty officer licking his lips constantly, his head snapping back and forth as if he expected the shadows to come alive and drag them off. To be fair, that wasn’t as ridiculous a fear as it might have otherwise been. He wouldn’t look at her; he hadn’t ever since Bujold had been killed.

Her breath created steam clouds in the air as the nearby atmospheric processor struggled to replenish what Shannon had blown out into space and Emily stifled a lightheaded giggle. Focus, the woman scolded herself. Keep it together. Keep it together, you can do it.

They were closing on Shannon’s position. Hernandez froze as the comm crackled briefly, proximity overriding the damaged jammers in this area. A voice she didn’t recognize came over the line, unrecognizable and carrying that edge of insanity that was becoming far too familiar. “Contact.”

~

They ran. There was no other option. Even with Abby’s help, each step jarred her leg and she could feel the blood soaking into her bodyglove, knew she was leaving a trail. Her anterior tibial vein had been nicked and she was bleeding out. The wound wasn’t closing; Halos healed fast and with her system chock-full of combat drugs and stimulants, it should be faster still, nevermind the strain she’d been under for the past... two? more? days. It wasn’t just the movement keeping the wound open, keeping the blood pumping.

something on the blade, anti-coagulants definitely, toxins or hostile microbes likely

She couldn’t slow down, though. Praetorians and soldiers behind them, Turned and the other survivors ahead, the only chance they had now was to find each other and get out before any of the descending hordes reached them. Shannon had ordered Nine to fall back to the tram and hold it, but Emily was the only one responding. Abigail’s motion tracker pinged almost constantly; the purge had gotten rid of most of the Turned, but enough had survived, particularly the vacuum-adapted breeds sequestered in the depressurized sections. They were all coming here, some protective instinct drawing them back to their nest and all the passages she’d opened were just making their journey easier.

Screaming sentry forms bellowed warning cries up and down the halls as they caught sight of the fleeing women and Shannon could see the flickers of movement from parallel hallways and intersections as shambling forms scurried past. None had attacked yet, racing to ambush points ahead and the air vents and maintenance tunnels rang with scuttling movement.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen them so agitated,” Godfrey chuckled, the sound wet and predatory. “You’ve really pissed off the garden, corporal. Excellent.”

“Thanks,” Shannon panted as she vaulted a spread-covered piece of machinery, ignoring the spike of pain from her leg. She was grateful for Godfrey’s intervention, but had no idea what the Ghost was doing here or how she’d gotten this deep in the station. Especially since the last time she had seen the woman and her team, they’d been killing their way aboard the doomed Kerrigan. Even though they were running for their lives, her curiousity was as fierce as ever. “It’s what I was going for.”

power armour is deep space rated, must have been blown clear, how many others survived, allies or enemies

There was another noise, different from the calls of the Turned, and Godfrey snapped around as fast as her armour allowed. The cannon on her right arm came up, tracking into the darkness. “You’ve pissed off more than that,” the Ghost said, her voice suddenly soft and wavering.

She’s afraid, Shannon realized. “What are they?” she asked, checking her pistol’s clip. “Who are they?”

“There’s worse ways to die,” was Godfrey’s reply. “You can be taken by the ferals. You can be Turned. Used as fodder. Eaten or twisted like the crying girls and wounded boys. One of the Lost can find you. No one dies easy on Acheron, corporal,” she paused. Calvin. “But if they find you... The eyes are always watching. They’re always hungry.”

That wasn’t an answer, but Shannon let it pass for the moment, putting a hand on Godfrey’s pauldron, ignoring the kill markers that the Ghost had daubed there in blood. “We should keep moving, lieutenant.”

The Ghost didn’t seem to realize that she outranked Shannon and the smaller woman’s deference surprised her. “Yes,” she nodded slowly. “Let’s.”

~

His bullets were wasted on the killer’s armour, sparking and glancing off its smooth silver hide. Under its faceless helm, he thought he heard it laughing as it pointed its flamer at him and he clenched his jaw, waiting for the heat and the pain. Neither came. Instead, there was the shriek of tearing air and the blinding after-image of a hypervelocity round and then, the silver killer fell to its knees, its head utterly destroyed. Gunny Sergeant Wilhelm marched through the burning night, a pair of the 301st at his heels. A wisp of smoke was rising from the barrel of the anti-material rifle in the gunny’s arms.

“Hernandez, right?” Wilhelm stared down at him, his face blistered and dribbling pus from a brush with one of the killers’ flamethrowers. The man didn’t even seem to notice. “It’s been hell trying to round up all you wet-ears after that FUBAR at the drop. You’re on my team now, rookie and it’s time to go. We’re legging it to EZ-Three.”

Louis straightened. “Sir, I’m fit to fight.”

“It ain’t about that, rook. In case you hadn’t noticed, government forces are sweeping this place clean. Ain’t nothing worth saving here and we’re quitting the field.” The sergeant looked back over the dying city, crackles of gunfire and cries echoing through the alleys and streets. “We’re done here.”

“There!” the sudden shout distracted Louis and he started, looking over at Emily, then in the direction she was pointing. Up ahead, he could see the bouncing white circles of Three and Four’s flashlights and the mercenary blinked; he hadn’t realized that they were that close. He blinked, trying to push past the fog in his mind. Hadn’t they been told to go somewhere else? He thought he remembered that, looking around. Yes, he remembered this place. They were close to the tram. So they had backtracked after all.

The women were running and with them... he started at the hulking form of one of Primal’s Ghosts, the trooper’s pale grey armour desecrated with blood. Most of it looked like it belonged to the Turned. Some of it didn’t. He clenched his jaw, fingers tightening on Betsy as he and his survivors came to a halt.

“Jesus, Nine,” Abigail spoke first, her voice fritzing through the comm. She was supporting Four; the corporal didn’t look to steady on her feet. “Maybe next time answer your radio once in a while? If it wasn’t for the doc giving us position checks, we might have gone right by you.”

Louis blinked. He hadn’t realized they’d been comming him. “Sorry, I-” he was about to apologize, then shrugged. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Nine...” Abigail drawled angrily, her hands bunching into fists.

“It’s all right,” Shannon intervened. “It is. Private Louis Hernandez, Beta Nine. Lieutenant Jane Godfrey, G-One.”

“Charmed,” the trooper rasped through her helmet’s speakers. Even without the mechanical edge to her voice, her tone was flat and dead.

“Yeah, everyone shake hands, kiss-kiss, friends now,” Abigail interrupted. “Glad everyone’s here and in one piece. Anything chasing you?”

“Not that we’ve noticed,” Emily spoke up. “We’re being stalked, but I don’t think there’s anything outright following-”

“Good,” Shannon cut the doctor off. “Better than us. Everyone: we have bogeys on our six, so we are double-timing it to the tram. Let’s go, people.”

“Wait, what’s after you-”

That same ululating call filtered up through the hallways, a trilling melody that froze each of the survivors as it spiked and slid through their nervous systems. As the cry tapered off, Lutzberg trembled. “It’s them,” he whimpered. “They’re hunting again.”

“Yeah, we made some new friends,” Abigail grabbed the petty officer by the shoulders and gave him a shove, jarring him out of his stupor. “Like Four said, we are leaving.

~

The tram was up ahead, blissful salvation from the faint light flooding from its open doorway. “There!” Lutzberg cried as he caught sight of their car. “We’re there!”

Shannon frowned. Something wasn’t right. Something had changed, the tram car looked different, the way the light was reflecting off its windows and plastic ad-panels and...

the door is open

something’s been put inside the car

“No!” Shannon shouted after him. “Don’t! It’s a-” But he was too far away and-

-Emily caught Armin by the collar, an instant before he would have jumped up the stairs into the cab, pulling both of them to ground. That saved their lives.

The blast hurled glass and metal in every direction, a rain of molten shards that pattered and pinged off the mercenaries’ armour, but the concussion knocked Shannon and Abigail off their feet, their armour scorched by the blossoming flames. Louis had the good fortune to be behind Godfrey and the trooper wasn’t so much as nudged by the explosion, cooling gobbets of silicate and metal running down her armour like drops of mercury. She waited patiently for the others to pick themselves back up, shouting at one another over the ringing in their ears, wobbling on unsteady legs.

Shannon braced herself against Abigail, her injured leg quivering and threatening to buckle, but it wasn’t just the wound. The tram was a total loss, utterly gutted by the explosion. “Shit,” she groaned, unable to think of anything more to encapsulate this. “Watcher,” she commed their ally. “We’ve got the pendant, but someone blew our tram. Can you re-route a new car to us?”

“There aren’t that many left!” he snapped at her angrily, on the verge of hysteria. “If you’re not blowing them up, then they’re getting infested, or hijacked by the Red Hands – always stealing my things – and it’ll be a bit before I can find one! They’re in the system now, did you know that? No, of course not...”

Shannon tuned out the rest of his diatribe. “The Watcher’s sending us another car,” she told the others. “But it’ll be a while before it gets here. Can we hold?”

Abigail raised her motion tracker. It was flashing urgently. “Uhm,” she was staring down the hallway. “Shannie...”

Shannon looked in the direction Three was pointing and felt her guts fold in on themselves.

“What?” Emily asked. “What do you see?”

Someone – Shannon thought it was Louis – raised a flashlight and shone a beam of light down the dark hallway, but the light didn’t penetrate far enough into the black. Shannon wondered if that was such a bad thing, under the circumstances. Blacklight incorporated multiple scanning modes; image intensifiers, infrared imaging and active illumination modes, allowing Artemis mercenaries to operate even in the darkest of conditions, find their targets and complete their mission. Thanks to these minor technological marvels, Shannon, Abigail and Jane could see what was coming down the tram tunnel in almost-perfect fidelity.

Red eyes glinted like embers, muscles rippled with movement and chitin gleamed.

Unity had come, and it was not alone.

An army marched alongside the praetorian, the survivors of Shannon’s purge. With a sinking surety, she realized that this was why they’d been unmolested on their escape from the garden. Unity had been gathering its forces for an overwhelming assault rather than see its remaining brothers and sisters frittered away by ones and twos. Monsters shouldn’t be better officers than me, she thought with graveyard humour.

“We have incoming,” Shannon said. “Multiple Turned and Unity.”

Vacuum-adapted Turned hissed steaming breath into the cold air, monstrous claws and scythes flexing. Hunter forms drooled and frothed as smaller scouting breeds – children and animals – scurried about their feet. I t knew they were watching it, but even discovered, Unity didn’t break stride, grinning from its forever-leering mouth, its eyes watching the survivors, studying them. It raised its head, a tooth-rattling call rumbling from its mouth, echoing into the darkness.

A moment passed and the cry was answered; deeper, more resonant. The second praetorian. It was healed and it was coming to join its kin. Unity tilted its head to the left and that half of the swarm dispersed, scurrying for the walls and ceiling. It repeated the gesture on the right and its followers parted, no longer bunched together. The massive Turned cocked its head, its four eyes looking right at Shannon with a cunning far out of proportion to its bestial form.

“I hate you,” Shannon said aloud. “And I’m going to find a way to kill you.”

If it heard her, if it understood, if it even cared, there was no sign. There was only a predator’s surety in its unnatural visage, the flesh of the dead fused – forced – into life. I will have you, it seemed to say. I will have you, I will feed and it will be good. I have killed greater than you. This station has killed better than you. You are nothing. You are alone and I am Unity.

It was nonsense of course; the creature couldn’t speak. But that was what Shannon read in the monster’s face and revulsion, red-tinged and defiant, deep and dark and hating, welled up in her. “I will kill you,” she repeated, answering the unspoken challenge.

“Orders, Four?” Abigail knelt on the floor, her finger resting on her carbine’s trigger guard. “Run or fight?”

The Turned were getting closer, about a hundred meters away now, their movements becoming jerky, wanting to charge but waiting for their master’s command.

pheromonal, i wonder if I can duplicate it

This was an untenable position. Shannon remembered the earlier fight in the tram station. They’d come through the ceiling, through the tunnel and the doors. They’d have come through the deck, too. Here, it was the same. Too much to cover. Too open, too easy to be flanked.

They were being flanked. Again, in the distance, but getting closer: their enemy’s hunting call. Even if they survived the Turned, they’d be facing an opponent with weapons and armour. But there was nowhere, nowhere that they couldn’t be... followed. Shannon brought up the station’s schematic, confirming what her mind’s eye had shown her, casting a quick glance at Jane.

Tight, but she’ll fit.

Thank you, Gemma.

“Fall back!” she ordered, taking a step back herself. “Pull back up the tram tunnel. Leapfrog, covering rotations.”

As her people began to pull away from the Turned and the wave of once-human things surged after them, Shannon caught one last glimpse of Unity. This time, she knew it was smiling.

[Night_stalker]

Drop 47.

Where Death is just a sweet, sweet mercy, that is rarely afforded to it's guests.


that's my idea for a tourist slogan for the advertisement campaign.

[Themightytom]

Drop 47.

Where Death is just a sweet, sweet mercy, that is rarely afforded to it's guests.


that's my idea for a tourist slogan for the advertisement campaign.

Compelling, but I will use my frequent flyer miles on DROP 44.

[Swindle1984]

Drop 47.

Where Death is just a sweet, sweet mercy, that is rarely afforded to it's guests.


that's my idea for a tourist slogan for the advertisement campaign.

Compelling, but I will use my frequent flyer miles on DROP 44.

Isn't that the DROP where they rape you to death with a razor-wire dildo?

..........

How many miles do you need?

[Dass.Kapital]

This one is still slightly disappointed at the lack of burning which took place in the Purge...

*Sits still and quiet and awaits more.*

[The Vortex Empire]

Oh, shit. Somebody's going to die. No way are they all making it through this alive.

[Night_stalker]

Oh, shit. Somebody's going to die. No way are they all making it through this alive.

I think you mean, someones are going to die.

So far, it looks like the ending in this story is going to make a Lovecraftian horror story seem optimistic in comparison.

[LadyTevar]

It's really not going to be pretty, either way.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Drop 47.

Where Death is just a sweet, sweet mercy, that is rarely afforded to it's guests.

Heh; I think we can safely say that on DROP 47, death is all too frequently handed out to the guests and even some of the residents. Now, if you're one of the (un)lucky few that, "applies" to become part of the staff, then there's not much you can look forward to.

Except the hunger.

The need.

Compelling, but I will use my frequent flyer miles on DROP 44.

Isn't that the DROP where they rape you to death with a razor-wire dildo?

Not... quite.

Drop 44: experience permafrost in a way you've never seen before!

Located on scenic Wasteland, the fourth moon of Thanos, we can guarantee miles and miles of beautiful arctic landscapes to explore! No need to worry about bouncing off into space or struggling for each step - thanks to its size and substantial deposits of heavy metals, Wasteland's gravity is almost Earth-normal! You'll be free to explore the virgin tundra to your heart's content! Ski down the slopes of the Transitory Mountains, skate across the surface of frozen oceans and watch sky-wide auroras! Feel right at home in the armoured confines of an Imperial DROP, kept warm and powered by geothermal taps. Never before has a winter wonderland combined arctic adventure and historical intrigue so seamlessly!

Traveller's warning: Due to its elliptical orbit, Wasteland passes through Thanos' Van Allen belt and is subject to intense radiation during this time, moonquakes caused by the gas giant's intense gravitational field and unpredictable weather including extremely powerful storms. For their own safety, visitors are advised to time their visits accordingly, or remain inside the DROP's shielded underground facilities.

Traveller's warning: though largely lifeless, Wasteland is home a small, but thriving ecosystem. Visitors are encouraged to beware of borer worms. Though preferring to consume lichens and microbial mats for nourishment, these organisms are drawn to other sources of heat, such as hot springs, geothermal taps and body heat. Capable of secreting chemicals intense enough to melt passages in glacial ice and rock, borers can burrow through most armour within moments in order to enter a host's body cavity, reproduce and lay eggs. If infested, please consult a qualified surgeon immediately to remove the borer(s) and their eggs.

Traveller's warning: although Coalition forces initially planned to seize Wasteland, the moon's frequent passes in close proximity to Thanos and the resultant lunar upheavals and storms conceal planetary defences and prevent accurate mapping of their locations. Coalition forces and later archaeological expeditions have accounted for 7 lunar-based defence batteries. Imperial records indicate that 12 defence cannon were originally slated for installation, with a planned expansion of 4 additional deep-ground silos. Current status of these defences is unknown.

Traveller's warning: DROP 44 carried out cold-weather research on cybernetic systems, particularly those of war droids and armoured vehicles. Although everything of value was taken or scuttled when the Imperium abandoned the installation, persistent rumours suggest a cache of prototype armoured units was left behind when Terran forces pulled out. The existence and/or current status of these units is unknown at present, though the final transmission, heavily fragmented, from a previous archaeological expeditions provides an enigmatic hint:

"...active, all of..."

How many miles do you need?

"I've got 1300 miles!"

"I'm sorry, Billy. You need 1500 miles to live."

This one is still slightly disappointed at the lack of burning which took place in the Purge...

Quiet, you.

Oh, shit. Somebody's going to die. No way are they all making it through this alive.

Just for that, you're no longer allowed to be the expedition's Morale Officer.

I think you mean, someones are going to die.

So far, it looks like the ending in this story is going to make a Lovecraftian horror story seem optimistic in comparison.

...and neither are you.

hehehehe

It's really not going to be pretty, either way.

I don't think "pretty" has been a part of the theme for a very, very long time...

But I do have a plan to get our increasingly erratic plucky band of shell-shocked survivors adventurers out of this jam and smack dab into another.

A plan indeed...

Ah heh heh heh heh heh heh.

"Okay, everyone. We just have to keep it together, trust each other and we will make it through thi-"

"YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! HORRIBLE! HORRIBLE THINGS ARE GOING TO HAPPEN! THEY'LL HAPPEN TO YOU! AND YOU! AND YOU!"

"Someone give Vortex more happy pills."

[iborg]

Well, at this point, what's the worst that can happen ?

[Night_stalker]

Facepalm.

Quite a lot actually.

[Swindle1984]

Well, at this point, what's the worst that can happen ?

Excerpt from a badly damaged, leatherbound book, purporting to be the personal journal of one "Sir Lucius Whitworth, Gentleman Explorer Extraordinaire":

... beginning to regret my decision to come here instead of searching for the lost city of Delbek on Ceylon 5. This journey has been wholly inconvenient, worse than when I went on safari on the moon of Ares when they were having that civil war. With nuclear weapons. And that flesh-eating virus the government forces introduced.

Today has not gone as well as I'd hoped. Jenkins, I'm afraid, has gone stark raving mad from the stress of this place, and is rocking himself to and fro in the corner, muttering about "gibbering horrors" and "eyes in the dark". Shall have to keep an eye on him. Woolstrum, unfortunately, was lost this morning when he attempted to reconnoiter an air vent; he was dragged away screaming and shrieking like a little girl who'd sat on an ant hill, and I fear we shall never see him again. Williams was found with the muzzle of his pistol in his mouth, but was dissuaded from going through with the act. And Maxwell... we shall not speak of Maxwell. I still see his face every time I close my eyes, and I keep hearing his voice whenever there is quiet. Not that there is much quiet around here; the hideous beasts know where we are hiding and persist in scratching and scrabbling against the door, making it difficult to sleep restfully. I fear that unless a solution is found, there is not much time before they successfully breach the door and we are all consumed.

Also, subsequent to that rather nasty bite I got three days ago, I appear to be mutating into an unspeakable abomination and have been having these odd cravings for the flesh of my compatriots. Spot of bother, that. I've been taking aspirin thrice a day and that seems to be helping somewhat.

I remain optimistic. This is a glorious find and my name will go down in the history books when I return.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Well, at this point, what's the worst that can happen ?

Heh; Night_stalker and Swindle1984 have a decent handle on the answers to that question (neat little aside, Swindle - I can actually see one of the survivors on DROP 47 writing something like that).

To sum up: I think there's quite a large selection of "worst that can happen" to choose from, starting with "being captured by the Masks again" and ending with "becoming Turned"...