The border is closed. Turn back immediately, or you will be fired upon.

LIAR LIAR LIAR

All immigration and emigration ceases immediately.

All visitors are to be turned away.

Trade is now restricted; all existing trade deals will be reviewed, and all future deals will be screened before being allowed to go ahead. Any existing contracts found to be unacceptable will be terminated.

All Privateers outside our borders not currently engaged are to RTB for debriefing.

Warnings are to be broadcast to all approaching outsiders: "Leave immediately, or be fired upon."

... a mighty explosion suddenly rings out across the ruddy landscape.

//> ! W)ND$R !F &H# P#)PL# H#R# M!GH& $%%!%& M#...

Quite normal inspections, I assure you. We were just out for a couple days — checking in on allied posts, grabbing some supplies, taking ‘er out for a spin, pretty routine.

While we’re out and not near ports, I usually only do a quick daily checkup, just making sure we didn't lose any engines during the night. Well, we weren't missing engines, but all on the left thruster vents we had that furry stuff. Well I'd thought we just got some corrosion, and tried to scrub it off.

But it started sporing sur. Yessur, like a mushroom.

I almost near lost my grips and drifted off into space, sur. But I got all the stuff in my face. It burned, like a fire up on my face.

If that pilot hadn’t heard my cry and pulled me back in I might’ve never made it in. What was her name again?

Anyway, they sent me straight to the infirmary — got me hooked up on all these machines and medicines, but I’m telling you, sur: I’ve seen these before. They wiped out entire fleets from what I heard, spread like disease from ship to ship. Them scientists will tell you all bout it but, umm—

I know the zones that you pick those things up in. We weren’t there.

Kerba leans in, painfully

Someone put them there. Someone sabotaged yur ship sur.

Sitting back, exhaling

I know we have enemies, but if this stuff gets out there… it would be bad. Anyway, that’s my report, sur. Sorry that it had to happen in the infirmary. Any other questions? Doc said I could talk for a little longer.

At the head of the beach, a small invitation card lies in the sand beside a trail of footprints. Along the trail, several articles of clothing have been discarded. The footprints lead into the water as a man, unclothed as the day he was born, slowly wades out to sea; the soldier's scarred, battle-worn body slips beneath the waves as he begins to swim out into the wide expanse of the southern sea.

G͏o҉.

... I can't.

G̡͘O҉

Fuck off!

The man inhales deeply before seeking solace beneath the surface. As he descends into the depths of the sea, his hands begin to sting: surgical scars from a recent procedure begin to ache as they are immersed in the water. The voice follows him.

Your pu͢r͠p͘o͘se͟ has yet to be made mani͝fȩsţ. Only p̬a̜in̢̹ will draw out your tr͏ue p͡ro̵mi̧s̶e, and this is the m̶e̢t͞ho̕d.

...

Y̸o͝u mus҉t ҉wa҉tch̨,́ ͠mat̀e. ̷

The man emerges from the depths and stretches out, floating atop the calm waters. He lays there, lovingly caressed by sun and sea... and begins to think.

Back from the Wasteland, and business as usual resumes.

As I walk through the halls of the Onslaught, I keep catching my reflection in some shiny metal. I suppose I'm still not fully used to seeing clothing on me that's not the usual fatigues.

I didn't modify too much, just swapped my camo overshirt for a Field Black jacket, and my boots for some better ones. That, and a slightly more unique addition: black suspenders, decked out with beautiful Garrison-made brass buckles. I remember going down to the Colonial the night after I got them... because after some chat, a very inebriated Trooper shouted out "Sarge o'er 'ere 'as a brass set!" and sent raucous laughter through the tavern.

Maybe I'll go back down tonight, but as for right now...

I head to the firing range.

Alright, that's enough messing with the guns for you all. Time to shoot them.

...

...

Want me to be honest? None of you are g-gonna hit anything with that form. Here. The shoulders are like this...

...

...

Good. Th-that's much better.

...

After we're done with this, I'm scheduled to teach some of my favorite acrobatic maneuvers.

We're going to need a lot of padded mats.

It'll be great.

Messengers of the Fallen Angel arrive.

Greetings Commander Boone we come in search of guests to an event ordained by our mistress.
The Fallen Angel Dark Violet and by the Vampire Bezumius are soon to be wed.
Such an occasion is blessed by the Angelus Kraa'rhov.
And so, we pass this invitation onto you.

As is stated in the invite, time is frozen in the Awoken Wasteland, where the locations of both the ceremony and reception will be held.
So for your convenience we advise the date of the occasion to be two standard weekends from today, first world time.

The Bride requests that you accept the honor of being seated on her side of the aisle during the ceremony.
The Bride and Groom will be expecting you.

As mysteriously as the messengers came, they disappear, leaving only the wedding invitation.

...a cloud of desert dust in its wake.

Thank you for taking ThreeN's Sunrise tour! There are souvenirs in the lobby. And enjoy the rest of your stay in the Garrison!

The crowd disperses.

Full bus...but sales are down. I'd expect the playing cards would sell better. The stress balls are moving alright, though...

Well get to it--clean the bus! Next tour in an hour!

Unavailable? I figured. Let them know I'm in the Garrison. Tell them I'm here on business. On their business.

They can reach me on my comm, or if they show up I'll be at the Colonial.

You're looking alright, Specs. Comms still the easy job?

The recovery from GPK HQ stowed safely away in the strongbox, I turn to our next step.

...

Space, I need you to assemble some of our Finest lads, how copy?

The frigates launched this morning, two days behind schedule, as planned.

Lo̡vel͠y̡ ̶p̕ąrad͡ox̢.

Indeed. We caught the saboteurs in the act, as you said. Sig' took them away, tortured them; none of them broke, so we cut 'em loose, slotted 'em, and torched the remains. The shipbuilding program proceeds apace as well: the destroyers will be ready within a matter of months. The final prototype is almost complete.

Six powerful new vessels now dot the sky above the Garrison: frigates designed to act as leader-class vessels in a formation. Their names, so strangely familiar:

Vagabond.

Marauder.

Brigand.

Desperado.

Outlaw.

Bandit.

... the coming storm is gathering pace. We need to step up our efforts.

Name:

Avalon ShKreiger

Age:

~19

Sex:

Female

Place of Birth:

Sidon

Skills:

Expert Cycle control

Professional motorcycle mechanic

Professional electrician

Urban survival

Other Qualifiers:

Hands tremor when nervous; aim is unreliable in combat.

Able to withstand deprivation of food, water, and thirst better than most.

I fold the form in half, dropping it into the slot before ambling back to my hospital room.

When I walk in, he's standing bent over my desk, a regional map splayed out and his gaze roaming over it. He looks up to greet me.

Ţhe̢y'r҉e҉ ͘o͝n ̛th̴e͝ ̸m̨o̷v҉e͟. ̡

I know, I felt it. Something deep and dark, stirring. What does it mean?

Thin͠k͘,̛ ̕the̵n̛ a̡s̢k̷ a̸gain̕.̶ ̢

... it means we're on a clock now.

E͟͞xa̛̕c͟͟ţl҉͘y̸̨͟.́͟ ̢͡We can't a̢ffo̕rd to̧ p̧is̕s about a͞ny̛more.

The frigates have been refitted and named. They launch in sequence tomorrow.

A̡n̡d ͢t̨h́e ̶s̶̷҉à͜͝͏b̢͢ờ̸̡t̡̨̛e҉͞͞u͘r̷̴s̀́͢?̷̵̡̀́

We're ready for them. The sequential launch will start, they'll move, and we hit 'em like a sack of glass. They'll never know what hit 'em. Then, when all of the frigates have entered high orbit, we can begin the next phase.

Our next words are said in eerie unison.

Isol͢ati͡o̧n.

Will anyone stay?
Will anyone play?

Space, promoting. Check. Naval strength, upgrading. Check. Classified special forces, establishment of. Check.

... anything else? Or at least, anything else we can address right now?

That cr͠ap the͜ N̸ųr͠s̛e͡ put in yo҉u̸r̸ h͠ands ҉h̀a͠s to gó.

... I've been practising with it. I don't think I need the implants to control it anymore. I'll arrange surgery to have it removed. ... what about the trouble on the Mountain?

I͡ ca͏n͘'t tell y͞o͜u ͝every li͏t̛tle̸ s̛tép t̀o take. A͟l͜l ́I kńow̨ is͞, old K̷a͡'d ̷has his͟ own pláns̨.̧ We ca̵n͝'t ̧int̨er̶f͠e̢re͏.

... what's your stake in all this, anyway?

M͢y staké ͏ís t̡h̡e҉ s͏ame as͟ y̴o҉ur̸s, ̛j̕àc̢k̴ar̴sé.͝ ̛You think I ͡c̷an ͠e͟xi̸s̵t̸ without yòu?҉

... point taken.

[[TRANSLATED FROM ORMUNTULUGU TONGUE VIA TRANSCOM TS4711. TRANSLATIONS MAY BE SUBJECT TO ERROR]]

[[NOTED: SUBJECT IS A MEMBER OF THE ISOLATED AND UNCOMMON ORMUNTULUGU PEOPLE -- DOCUMENTS REGARDING THE SPECIES MAY BE PROVIDED UPON REQUEST]]

Name: Kurbrarurnur (Kerba) Ormuntulugu

Age: 24 Standard Years

Sex: Male

Place of Birth: Neceplair, a lesser known "Quiet" Comet

Skills:

• Decent levels Medical Training, specifically dealing with fluidic operations and cold Sinolation and extensive inner transfusion

• In process of learning to read and write outside of native language

• Can curl into a ball only 3 feet in diameter

• Lugnan Throw (Ormuntulugu Martial Defense)

Other Qualifiers:

• Orumuntulugu constitution, including the ability to survive the vacuum of space for a brief time

A classified secure facility, away from prying eyes and ears

It has become something of a tradition for me to refer to Troopers who have shown exemplary service, as being "some of my finest". Tonight, at this, the darkest of hours, I undertake the solemn task of making this more than just a phrase of recognition.

Each and every one of you has distinguished yourselves as being supremely capable in all aspects; devoutly loyal to myself, the Company and the 747th World; and perhaps most importantly, possessed of an innate sense of righteousness. You will need all these things in order to stand against the coming storm: know this, for there is a storm approaching, and like our pirate ancestors we too must prepare ourselves.

You will be fast. You will be covert. You will be utterly ruthless. And above all, you will do us proud.

It is my supreme honour, and my great pleasure, to induct you all into the Company's elite Special Forces unit. Henceforth, you will be a part of the Commander's Finest. Gunnery Sergeant Space: you are hereby granted personal command of the Finest. I trust you will utilise them to their utmost capacity.

Trooper Strife, step forward.

You are an icon among our forces. For your exemplary service, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Corporal; you are granted secondary command of the Finest.

Every single one of you is also awarded a classified medal of recognition, signifying your status as Commander's Finest. From this point onwards, you take your orders directly from me. No mention of this unit is to be made outside of this facility, on pain of torture and death.

I am very proud of you all. You are dismissed.

"Swift. Silent. Savage."

As the lights dim on the Onslaught, "night" setting in, I lean forward, hunching over my terminal rereading my words for what must be the dozenth time. With a long sigh, I force my finger down, the digit tapping "send."

Deep into nightfall, a lone trooper exits their local tavern heading home and notices a cold chill has gripped the air. The concrete pavements are periodically shielded from the darkness by umbrellas of artificial light. Through them the troopers breath is evident, between them their hands bury deeper into pockets for warmth.

Footfalls seem like an accompaniment to a mind in mild meditation. The song of a lonesome amble, sung until a certain key slides through the front doors lock. But tonight, walking through the broken pools of shadow, a subtle duet begins. Pensive, the trooper realizes their song had changed, but much much too late. As the second footfalls are upon them, the trooper turns. Apparently another trooper walks this way. A trooper rugged up against the cold night air, a scarf hides their face.

"Evening."

Hey.

"Oak trees and ribbons huh?"

What?

"Cruise ships love knowledge, but wisdom is so much sweeter."

Ah, do I know you?

"No. But we've got a lot in common. Think about what I've said. And take this."

What is thi- ahh... yeah, I ...tell the folks back home I said hi.

"They're pleased you've made it thus far. Proud as punch. Were wondering about if you'd decided to look into more things... work wise of course. Or, whether you're happy with your lot?"

Hmm... Ma always pushed me... 'be your best', 'make us proud', an' all that.

"Yes. Mine too. I was told logistics was a fine pursuit. How about you?"

Was thinking of something like that.

"Good. Good. Well, nice to meet you. Catch ya round some time eh?"

Yeah... sure... might have to have a beer some day?

The troopers nodded to each other and parted ways.

We need to expand our power if we're to stand a chance against the future.

... if we're to ensure our continued prosperity moving forward. To this end, the Company will undertake a vast shipbuilding initiative.

Too long have our escort frigates laid dormant in dry-dock. Starting from tomorrow, the Technical and Aviation Corps will undertake a re-fit program to upgrade all six ships from escort-class, to leader-class vessels, while leaving our flagships clearly ahead in terms of tonnage.

Furthermore, we shall begin designing a series of heavy destroyers to act as our new escort-class ships. With our improved naval capability, as well as an across-the-board upgrade to our groundside defence networks, we will be able to deter almost all external threats in future.

Once again, you will be able to rest your heads peaceably in the Garrison. I am working for your sake. The Company is working for your sake.

Gunnery Sergeant Space, report in, please.

I would like to know who to contact about membership.

It's late. I must have nodded off; the candle beside my bed has almost burnt out. It's an oddity aboard such a high-tech vessel, but I find myself feeling nostalgic every time I light one. It's comforting. Certainly more comforting than the sensation I'm feeling right now.

I can't move.

'Sleep paralysis', I tell myself. My pulse slows as I acknowledge that the feeling will pass. I lay in tranquil silence and await the presence to return to my limbs. Unfortunately, my eyes grow bored and begin to roam, eventually settling on the shadowy corner of my room.

Ka'd help me, he's standing right there.

... y̧o͘u͟'́ve҉ ̛been busy.

He isn't wearing his usual grin. He looks... annoyed... and I find my pulse rising again as I struggle in vain to move, to get up and confront the spectre.

Sa҉ve y̶oùr҉ ̧en̛ergý.̶ A͞ļl͟ ̧yo͡u ̶c̵an̕ d͏o ̡i͏s ́talk.͜ ͘

... what are you? A Gemini? That... Trickster thing?

B̢ah, ͘not ev͡en th̀e ͏T͢ri̕c͟ks̴t͏e̷r̵ ͡would ͢to͟ųch a ͜soul as v́i͡l͏e ̴as yo̵ur͝s̕. ̶A̧n̵d ͞th͘e G̷èm̢i͜ni are͘ long ḑea҉d, ŕe̛mem̨be͝r? No,͢ ͏I'͟m͘ something ̢oth҉er̶.

What d'you want with me? And why aren't you laughing, like always?

Because yơu're not f̷uc̢k̨ing̶ funny anymore!! You've c̷ha̢n̸ged the fuc̕k̨in҉g̕ ͜g͡am̵e now. Before I could l̡a͡ugh͘ because I knew you n̶ev̡e͘r̴ h̢ad ̸a c҉han͠c̢e. Now, y͜ou've ́promo̕te̵d̛ the little one. You've cle͢áred̷ òne ̛of th͞e co̧nd́it͢i͏ons; that means I gotta tak̡è you ̧s̷ȩr͠i͘o҉us͟ly̸, becase now you've got a f̢i̸g̨hting ch̶àn̛ce.̨. ́

...

He approaches my bunk, kneels beside me, and continues to speak. I can turn my eyes but not my head, so I can't really tell what he's doing, or what his expression looks like. I still can't move; he lays a hand on my arm, and... something... starts to flow from him to myself.

You can f̀e͟ęl͡ iţ. You've àlwąys͞ been a͠b҉l͝e̴ t͞o ̕f͢e̕e̡l it, and you k͜now it́. ̛

I can feel it. I don't know what it is or why I can, but I can definitely feel it. It's coming from across a great distance. The distance, and whether that is a physical or temporal distance, is anyone's guess. One thing is extremely plain, however: it is coming.

...

What is it?

I can't tell you. Instead... I'm gonna śho̡w ̡y̡ou̕.͠ ̸

He showed me. We sat there as the candle began to die out, and in the encroaching darkness of my room, he showed me the encroaching darkness of the multiverse. It was vague and alien in nature, and I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. All that was apparent was a sickening sense of finality. Eventually, he stood and prepared to leave.

Pre̵p̸ar͘e yo͘ur̸s͞e̶lf̢ a̛n͘d ͡y͜our fo̕l͞lower̛s fǫr w͘hat͞'̀s̶ ́to c̶o̶me.҉

Then, as the light finally died, he left. I found myself able to move, and I took advantage of the fact to roll over on my side. I curled up under the spartanly thin military bedcovers, and in the quiet darkness of my room, I tried to weep. The tears never came, so I contented myself with laying still.

...

... Ka'd, I can still feel it.

It's coming.

...

Company! Ten-hut!!

...

Today we recognise one of our long-standing employees. One of the finest Troopers we have ever fielded, despite repeated blow to the body and spirit; she has come back each time with the sheer determination and grit that define the essence of a Privateer.

Our Company and our Garrison have been dealt a blow of our own in recent weeks. A new chapter has been added to the chronicle of our Shrine, in commemoration of the tragic event. As our dead are buried, our wounded heal, and our Company rebuilds, we will have a new face among our ranking officers: today, I have the honour of promoting one of my Finest.

Trooper Space! Step forward!

For distinguished service in multiple campaigns, and flawless action in special operations, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Gunnery Sergeant. This by my authority as Commander of the Company, Boone.

As is customary, I salute first; recognising the awarding of new rank

Bear your sword and rank well, Space. You deserve it.

...

Company!

*Dis-*missed!!

I grunt heavily as I drop into the chair beside the bed

Ahhhh...

... so. I understand you caused my Troopers some trouble when they attempted to take Eli into custody. Well, no harm, no foul: the thing about the mercenary business is that often, you will be forced to fight people you may not want to fight.

... I recall you handing over a Privateer uniform to one of those Net-Long mongrels in the Dijon. I take it you don't have any more Company property on you, so no foul on that mark either. All we ever wanted was our shit back, anyway.

The situation regarding Eli has been... handled. So I don't really need to discuss that with you anymore, I suppose.

...

... s'pose I don't really have a reason to keep you here anymore, do I? Anything you'd like to ask before I officially renounce custody of you?

300 men appear out of thin air. They are dressed in the military attire of Darkhorn. Most of them are highly decorated. Their leader is N'Kar Wrekt.

We are here to speak with Hrenrai. We do not come harboring ill will. This was supposed to be a private matter, but it appears the second to last of the Five has loyalties elsewhere.

Come out, Brother. Talk with me!

...

... Trooper Space, please report to my office. Trooper Space, to my office. Earliest convenience, no rush. Cheers.

Oh, man! We've got more to tend too. It doesn't stop...

"Get used to it Pilot. C'mon, give us a hand with these boxes of medical supplies."

Righto... but, umm, someone's got to restock, we're running real low on stuff, ya know? Hey, what about I go fly in some mor-

"No... we're all good for the moment. We need able hands to help out Amelia. Look, it's been a long day, I get it, I really do, the medics here appreciate you Troopers, and Pilots, helping out with clearance duties."

Fine... but there's so many here. It's... overwhelming. Give me my gunship, or, my weapon in the field... I can handle that... but seeing everyone here...?

"Hmm, look, I hear you Amelia, I do. You can thank your lucky stars you ain't in the hospital helping out there though. Casualties are high, but the number of seriously wounded are worse. Operations duties are ten times more frantic."

...mmm....

"Here, take this box of bandages and that one with the dip-bags over to triage."

M'yeah-okay. Say, you seen Troopers Strife or Space? Or Muso, err, I mean, Trooper Muse anywhere?

"No. I've seen a heck of a lot of injured though. Most can be patched up or bandaged pretty easily. Maybe your friends are in one of the other clearance stations."

Yeah... maybe... I hope everyone's okay. We all got separated with everything going all crazy.

"Yeah, it happens... been the majority of tales from the battlefield that I've been hearing here."
"Say... have you checked to see if they've signed in with command yet?"

I freeze, almost dropping the two boxes.

Oh... Shi-

"Call-in station's over there Amelia. You haven't signed in ...have you? Sigh. Go call-in with the office. And then get those boxes over to triage!"

Ahh, dammit! I just got caught up... ahh!
Thanks Simon... umm...

"Oh good God Amelia... here, give me the boxes... just go!"

I pass the boxes over and quickly make my way to the sign-in station. I'm sure my face is bright red with embarrassment as I go to sign in.

The heart-rate monitor steadily beeps at me from beside the bed; last night, this was my operating table... now it's my open-access ward. A gurney in the middle of a hallway, with some basic medical apparatus plugged into the wall outlet.

'No room in the operating theatre,' they explained. 'No room in the wards.'

So they put me out here in the hallway, with dozens of other poor sods. The man beside me has a bandage wrapped around his head; the area covering his eye socket is soaked through with blood. Across the hall, another Trooper awaits surgery: her left arm is no longer attached, and she dumbly cradles the severed limb in her other arm as she slowly bleeds out - her left-side stump twitches occasionally, and I find myself staring, trying to anticipate when the next twitch will occur.

My hand tightens on the long piece of rebar they pulled from my body; for some reason, I can't seem to let go of it.

... my gut hurts.