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How Legends are Made

PART I: CONTACT

Treat a person as he is, and he will remain as he is. Treat him as he could be, and he will become what he should be. - Jimmy Johnson

Hello everyone! Welcome to the Museum of Remembrance! My name's Alaric and I'll be your tour guide for the day. Now let me- Hmm? Yes, we'll get to the food. But that's later. First things first: I have a question for all of you.

When you stepped inside, what was the first thing that caught your eye? Was it the once-mighty MK IX Legion tank poised perfectly in the centre of the entry hall, ready to rumble forth and invade a nation? Or was it the equally impressive frieze dominating the ceiling depicting the vicious Second Battle of Britain, the jets depicted beautifully on the carved stone? Or, was it perhaps the hated banner of the ancient Humanist forces held within the great glass display case along the a far wall?

Whatever you looked at, let me tell you this: These things were all tools of hatred at one point, tools made by the denizens of Old Earth to maim and kill others who disagreed with them and their way of life. They were images and machines of destruction, all of them. In fact, you will find little else in this museum besides ways to kill another being or inspire someone else to do it for you. But is that a bad thing? Maybe it is. But it can also be good. You think I'm joking? Let me show that I am serious by way of explanation.

They were put here for a reason, you know. These machines, these abominations, of pain and suffering were interred within these great brick walls to remind us of what happened all those years ago when perhaps the greatest war to hit the planet took place. They are here to remind us why we cannot ever let that happen again. That is how this museum got it's name. It is a place to remember the atrocities and hardships of ages past and to learn from our mistakes.

Come: follow me. We 're going to travel to the eastern wing first, to where the heroes of the war are remembered. Who are we going to see, you ask? No, it's not the honourable and venerated Geoffrey Delare who lead the last charge against the Humanist forces in Berlin. Hah! No, it's not the Humanist General Lugo Scmhidt, either. Nope, it's not them either. Sadly, this exhibit does not include those brave few fighter pilots who flew to their deaths over Moscow, but we are currently working out a deal with another museum in the the Russian Alliance to get some of their gear. But the exhibit that we are going to start with is seldom noticed compared to those of such heroes, but that's okay: they were hardly noted in their time as it was.

Ah, here we are. Now, can anyone tell me whose armour this is? No? I didn't think so, only a handful of people ever could. This is the armour of the last UN Expeditor to serve in the Gene Wars. This is also the final fully intact suit that remains completely assembled. Only a handful of these suits were ever made. Fewer still survived the wars in one piece. Sure the odd helmet or shoulder pad is discovered, but they say that no two suits were identical and that itself would make it difficult to assemble a completely matching set of armour out of discovered parts. And- I'm sorry, what? I didn't quite hear you.

What's an expeditor? Well, in strict terms, its an occupation. It's basically like a contractor. They see what needs to be done, and assigns jobs to people to see to it that their plan works out. But, for the current context, they were soldiers. Do I know any stories? Well, I know one. You want me to tell you? Yeah? Okay then. Settle in then because it's a long one...

**

CHAPTER 1

Denver, Colorado

1237 hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

"Open fire, you worthless maggots!"

"They're gonna overwhelm us, fall back!"

"If you so much as take one step back, I'll shoot you myself you cowardly wretches!"

"We're all going to die!"

"Not one step backwards!"

"AHHHHHHHH!"

Noise assaulted John's ears as all hell broke loose around him; the whine of bullets shrieking like banshees as they flew past his head, the roar of engines closing in, and the deep bass thunder of artillery shaking his chest and making him tremble with sonic resonance. The acrid smell of gunpowder burned his nostrils as smoke obscured his vision and irritated his eyes. He rubbed them, but they continued to itch despite his efforts.

The sky above was thick with smoke and laden with burning ashes from the hundreds of fires burning throughout downtown Denver. Every once and a while, a gunship or flight of fighter jets would swoop by overhead, several leaving a sonic boom in their wake that shook the windows in buildings along streets for miles around.

At the moment, John didn't feel very safe in the scant cover the crater he was hiding in offered.

"Keep shooting," Shouted Sergeant Repzik as he blew the face off of a dog morph that was closing in on him, "Anyone who runs is as good as dead! I'll see to it myself!"

To emphasize his point, he turned, reloaded his pistol, and shot two fleeing troopers in the back.

A 105mm artillery round blew out the ground 20 yards to John's right, annihilating several friendly troopers in a hail of shrapnel. Another burst off to his left, further disrupting the Humanist lines.

When the smoke cleared from the artillery barrage, John rubbed his aching eyes and risked a look over the lip of the shell crater to survey the battlefield. Between the thin wisps of smoke he could see a ragged square blasted apart by constant bombardment and small-arms fire. To his right lay the crumpled remains of a civil bank, flames roaring unfettered from the windowless frames and door frames. Ahead of him spread out like an encroaching fiend was a broken mess of razor-wire and the shells of several burnt out vehicles that harboured the enemy from most return fire. On the right side of the battleground was the old library still mostly intact except for the seemingly thousands of bullet holes littering the walls and thick black smoke pouring out through a ragged wound in its westernmost wing. A once proud statue of an avenging angel lay on its side, the right arm broken beneath it. The head was severed and lay about three feet in front of it, its cold eyes gazing in John's direction. The left arm was still intact, pointed to the sky with the sword still clutched miraculously in hand.

Across the no-mans land dozens of gene-project warriors were fighting tooth and nail to reach the Humanist lines. For every one that fell, several more seemed to take its place. They were almost slaughtered to a man, but they still came through the withering firepower laid down by the Humanists. Wherever they managed to reach the Humanist lines however, the occupying soldiers were torn to shreds. Screams and shouts could occasionally be heard over the noise of the war zone.

"You can either fight me or fight them, and trust me, you do not want to fight me! At least they will only kill you!" Repzik laughed as he shot another morph peeking from behind a burnt-out tank, a gaping hole appearing in his chest. The Desert Eagle pistol Repzik held in a firm dual-handed grip spat another round from its deadly maw, and the coyote morph's arm disintegrated as the star burst round tore into it.

Still frozen, John held his SMG close to his chest and looked behind him, crouching deeper into the shell crater he shared with the remains of his squad. It was an old model P90, known for its large magazine size and accuracy at medium to short ranges.

The remnants of his squad were scattered throughout the soaked earth of the crater. Jeff hefted the MG 6 up to the lip of the crater and fired a three-second burst across the square, the recoil barely fazing him as he screamed at the top of his lungs and shouted obscenities at the rapidly approaching gene projects. Sawyer crouched beside him, collecting his trophies from the corpse of a dead rabbit morph that had managed to gain entry to the crater. DeMico was curled into a foetal position, sobbing his eyes out as he threw up all over himself again. Terry was hovering over him, trying to soothe him as he pulled out a sedative from his blood-soaked bag before plunging it into DeMico's arm. The sobbing stopped instantly and Terry sat down heavily, trying not to cry himself.

Derrick staggered as a ricochet glanced off his helmet. He laughed, taking off his helmet to show the others where it had dented the metal before a bleeding hole appeared between his eyes. Kingsley, his best friend, tried to pull him further down the crater but was shot in the leg for his trouble. Terry grabbed his other leg and tugged him down into safety before rolling up his pant leg to look at the bullet hole. With a grimace, he pulled some spray-seal on the wound, creating a thin protective layer over it. Far from a permanent fix, the spray-seal would at least stop the bleeding and help prevent infection.

John took this all in under 12 seconds. This was not what he imagined it would be when he was asked to join the Humanists. He glanced upwards as a flight of C-145 gunships flew by, ordinance pounding from their weapons. Some poor bastards somewhere east of their position will wake up in hell. An H-52 transport helicopter spun crazily out of control, fire pouring from the cabin. John saw a man attempt to jump free, only to get caught in its blades and ripped to shreds.

"Get up and fight you stupid bastards!" Howled Sergeant Repzik while kicking a cowering man in the ribs and unloading a few rounds in the enemy's direction. "If you don't want to fight, it means you want to die!" He pointed his gun at another trooper, about to shoot him to make a statement. He was going to pull the trigger when someone piped up from down the line.

"Holy shit! Enemy trucks inbound!"

Repzik whirled around, his black storm coat fluttering in the slight wind. His face split into a wolfish grin as he saw the advancing line of hostile transports coming up from behind the hostile foot soldiers a few hundred feet away.

"Men, it looks like those spineless gene-projects aren't as cowardly as I thought they were! They want to fight! Well, let's show those abominations what we think of them! Leopold, call it in. Let's make them disappear."

Leopold, a small man from third squad, picked up his HAM radio and radioed command, "Soaring Eagle, this is Sword One, come in, over!"

A crackling voice came back through the speaker; "Sword One, this is Soaring Eagle, come back, over?"

"Soaring Eagle, we have multiple hostile transports loaded with tangos approaching our position a range of 300 feet," shouted Leopold as he consulted his rangefinder, "We need air support, over!"

"Roger that Sword One, a flight of two UH-27 helicopters are inbound to your position, over."

"Roger that Soaring Eagle, over and out."

Just as the conversation finished two sleek UH-27 helicopters crested the roof of the library and hovered, acquiring target locks on the approaching vehicles. The straight lines and black colour made them difficult to spot when the hid in the smoke, the down-wash from their Draft Catcher 2640 engines hardly stirring the black smoke around them.

When the transports hit a range of 150 metres, laser-guided missiles flew from under their stubby wings and hurtled towards their targets. Each missile that hit its target reduced the vehicle to a pile of useless slag.

A cheer went up from the Humanist lines, their morale restored at the sight of the explosive spectacle. They quickly shot down any survivors stumbling from the flaming wreckage before the order to advance was given by a Lieutenant somewhere slightly behind their lines. As one, the Humanist forces surged forwards, their blood lust brimming over to the point of insanity. John and his squad clambered up the crater, vaulting over the broken wire to follow. The helicopters hovered over to support before tragedy struck.

Out of the window of a three story building up a Northerly street a heat-seeking missile was fired. It drifted lazily through the air before striking the tail rotor of the closest helicopter, blowing off the entire stabilizing rotor. The helicopter spun out of control, dramatically hitting the other chopper that was frantically backing up in an attempt to escape the destruction. The two crippled helicopters crashed into the building the missile was fired from, collapsing it in on itself and blocking off the street below.

From out of the haze, gene project troops drifted into view. They charged quickly into the confused and stumbling humanists. Those that were not slaughtered outright were tackled to the ground and hogtied. John saw Sergeant Repzik shot three times in the chest. He was still standing and shooting at the encroaching furs before he was brutally beat to the ground and pummelled to death. Leopold was hit by a fur wielding a sledgehammer, the hammer making a wet "thud" before the momentum bowled him over backwards. Sawyer was laughing; the psycho seemed to be enjoying himself. He slashed a fox morph's stomach open before shooting him between the eyes with a shot from his service pistol. DeMico was captured instantly, his trembling form no match for the fresh Gene soldiers who easily restrained him.

Jeff and Terry were more fortunate. They were far back enough in the charge that they were able to respond to the furious assault, falling back quickly with the remaining Humanist troopers.

John tried desperately to fire his weapon, but his hands locked up out of fear. Damn that pointless military training! A flashbang grenade went off at his feet, making the world explode into bright light and high-pitched ringing. A well placed blow to the back of his head quickly made everything fade to black.

CHAPTER 2

Denver, Colorado

1454 Hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

John woke with a start. He was about to stand up before he realized that his hands were bound and that he was gagged. He was not blindfolded so he was able to look around and take in his surroundings.

He was in a service tunnel of some sort surrounded by cement. He soon realized that he was not alone. He saw two figures sitting down at makeshift table playing cards and glancing backwards at him every few seconds.

"Ah; our guest is finally awake. Marcus, untie him and bring him over,"

It was the man on the left who had spoken, and the second rose to bring John to the table. The second man was some kind of canine gene project, his features covered by heavy armour and a dark visor. The armour was of a variety that John had not seen in his lifetime, having matte-black colouring and bulky armour plates covering a dark grey body glove. It had three chevrons over a golden star, denoting the fur's rank as a Master Sergeant. His tail was left uncovered by the armour; it would probably be impractical to have it weighed down and dragging.

The first man was dressed in similar armour, the only exceptions being a tactical HUD attachment on the right side of the helmet and a larger plate on his right forearm. From the four gold bars on his shoulder pads, John new he was in the presence of an officer, but not of a rank he knew of. He also noticed that each man wore a red and white design of some sort on the top right corner of their chest plate. He was too far away to see what kind of symbol it was.

The morph grabbed him roughly by the collar and dragged him to the table. He kicked over a small crate and sat him in the seat. Hard. The morph then returned to his seat after cutting the ties on John's hands and feet and taking off the cloth gag. Still woozy from the blow to his head, John nearly fell off before the commander steadied him with a calm, but firm, hand.

"Take it easy. Your senses will be back to normal soon, but until then just sit and listen to what I have to say. You are now a POW, and you will be treated as such. I noticed you didn't recoil to Marcus' touch, so I know you are a draftee. This is actually a good thing for you, or else you'd be in a cell someplace in this facility under constant surveillance. I like to treat most people equally, so I'm giving you a chance at salvation. All you have to do is listen to me."

John would have pissed himself then and there if it weren't for the fact that he had not had a drink in over eight hours. He was a prisoner of war. He accepted that much, but what was this man playing at? A chance of salvation? What the hell did that mean? John wanted answers.

"What the hell do you want?" He asked.

"Nothing more than your attention, at the moment," replied the man. Though John couldn't see his face, John knew he was smiling as he answered.

"Well, you have it now," sighed John.

"Good. Pay attention," continued the commander, "I will begin with introducing myself. I am Colonel Owen Smith of the 12th Expeditor Contingent, American Department, UN Special Operations. We are more commonly known as Phoenix Squad around here. This is Master Sergeant Marcus Veld. We are here as part of the missions launched some 20-odd years ago to different parts of the globe by the UN. Our job is to help people who we believe need aid by way of military force and strategy. As you can probably guess, we are currently helping the "gene projects" make a better life for themselves."

"So you support them?" Questioned John as he absently rubbed his wrists where the ties had chafed. His mind was racing as he tried to look calm outwardly. PHOENIX SQUAD!?!? The Phoenix squad? Oh crap, he was in some serious shit now.

"Absolutely. I would give my life for their freedom, as would anyone else under my command."

"Okay... why though?"

"A better question would be; why don't you?"

"Well, I, um..."

"Do you believe them to be animals?"

"No, I-"

"How about mutants? Slaves? Abominations?"

"No..."

"Then why do you insist on fighting them? All they want is equality. Why do you wish to keep them under the heel of oppression? Depriving them of their rightful place as our friends and allies?"

"I don't know, okay!?! The Humanists just showed up one day. At the time it seemed like a good idea to join them. They were definitely more prepared for a war than you... you... supporters!" Hollered John.

"Ah, now that's what I wanted to hear. Now I see how you were dragged into this," stated Smith, "We did some serious digging and we have found some information. We know you are Corporal John Ferris of the first Humanist Urban Detachment. You were sent to East Square to secure the area against our attacks. I also know a bit about your history. You graduated from Denver U at the top of your class in aeronautical science in '44 before joining the military in '46 as a grunt at the air base. If you ask me, you had quite the life before the war, as this 'uprising' will certainly become. I know all of this about you, but I still have no idea of who you are."

"What? How do you know that?" Demanded John, who felt his confusion slowly being replaced by anger.

"The previous US government had thorough files on almost all of their citizens, believe me," snickered Smith. Marcus even chuckled on his chair before straightening up and resuming his study of John.

"And what's all of this talk about me being your comrade? If you haven't noticed, I am a soldier from the other malcontent faction in this shitstorm. The same faction that kills your 'friends' for sport! Even if I did switch sides, I can almost guarantee that half of your people would kill me before the Humanists do!"

"That is where you are wrong. You said it yourself; you do not see them as slaves, an inferior race. You, in my opinion have all the requirements of a successful freedom fighter. I even believe that you'll enjoy being on this side of the disaster more than the other side."

Seeing the look on John's face, Smith laughed again, "You may not realize it, but in time you will come to terms with our beliefs, and eventually accept them. You'll see. Besides, you're 'compromised' now."

Smith paused for a moment before muttering something under his breath. It was apparent he was taking into his helmet mike. He listened for a second before looking back at John. "This meeting will have to be cut short, I'm afraid. I am needed in the command centre. Here, take these."

He reached down beside his chair and grabbed a brown duffel bag. He looked inside, nodded, and threw it at John. John caught it before it hit his chest and looked inside. In the bag he found standard issue army fatigues along with a pair of boots. Uncertain of what he was supposed to do, he looked up at Smith. "You will wear those out of this room where Marcus will lead you to your chambers. I warn you not to try anything as Marcus is not as forgiving as I am. Also, remember you are still a POW and that we will be aware of every twitch, sneeze, and utterance you make. Marcus is assigned as your guide and guard, so I suggest you play nice. And, uhm, I want to talk to you further in...let's say three hours. Marcus will show you where."

At that the Colonel stood up and exited the room, leaving Marcus and John alone in the cell. Marcus stood up to his full 6' 8" height and strode quickly towards John. He undid his helmet clasps and threw the helmet to the floor, revealing a muzzled face covered in grey fur. His ears were back, the black tips blending into the shadows behind him.

He reached out and grabbed John by his collar, hoisting him a foot off the ground and looked up at him. Gazing into the dark, void-filled eyes he felt as if his very soul was being examined. Marcus breathed deeply, taking in John's identity.

"My ass is on the other side, dipshit." gasped John, smiling to himself.

Marcus just looked at him. John could see darkness starting to cloud the edge of his vision. He couldn't breathe. Marcus held him high for what seemed like forever, watching him. Finally, Marcus dropped him. John was unprepared and numb all over, hitting the floor with a CRUMP.

"Get up." demanded Marcus. He stood over John as he tried to rise. He collapsed twice before he managed to stand up without feeling lightheaded. Marcus huffed as he picked up his helmet. "Come on, follow me."

John managed to limp after him as he strode purposefully from the chamber. Stepping into the hallway was like stepping out into a street in downtown New York during rush hour. John was instantly assaulted by a fusillade of sound; people groaning from wounds, off-duty soldiers yelling back and forth to one another, even a shrill scream from somewhere off to John's left. People were everywhere; lying against walls, standing in the corridor talking, or running to different posts through this seemingly labyrinthine mess of underground passages.

Even though the place was brimming with people, they all managed to somehow make room as Marcus passed. As they walked by, many soldiers threw salutes in their direction or called greetings to the Sergeant. Marcus even stopped next to a wounded badger morph and exchanged a joke or two.

They continued down several similar hallways all choked with refugees and soldiers before stopping in front of a thick, grey steel door recessed into the wall. Marcus opened it up and threw John inside. As John turned around the door closed and the sound of locks scraping into place could be heard through the metal door. John looked about him, eyes pouring over the details of the room.

It was spartan in design, bearing nothing other than a cot, a sink, a toilet, and a drain in the middle of the room. It smelt slightly of dust, rust, and age from being unused for many years. Sighing, he lay heavily down on the cot, groaning as the lumps dug into his back.

**

Half an hour later, there was a grinding as the door slid open admitting a short arctic fox morph in a t-shirt and jeans. She was carrying a tray of food and she handed it to John as he sat up. He looked down at it to find that it was just a soup and glass of water, but John was in no hurry to complain as he started to spoon it up in large mouthfuls, some running down his chin as he eagerly ate it up.

"You're really hungry, aren't you?" chuckled the morph in a soothing voice.

Almost having forgotten about his visitor, he stopped eating and looked over to her. She was leaning against the far wall, her arms crossed and eyes focused intently on him. They were a deep violet, partly covered by her white bangs. The rest of her hair was tied back into a ponytail and she had a military cap on, the visor slightly crooked.

"I'm Lily, by the way. I see you met Marcus."

John considered acting out against her. He considered fighting her before making an escape. He considered killing her. But all he could manage was: "Yeah. I guess so."

"Don't worry; he's mostly harmless. Just do as he says and you'll be okay."

"How do you know him?"

"He's my superior."

"So you're one of the so-called Phoenocians then?"

"Yeah. I wasn't always this way though. A military person, that is."

"Why did you change?"

"You mean besides the alternative of being a family's boot-lick or killed in a riot?"

"Good point."

"Certain... circumstances... changed me."

"Fair enough. Where did you get all the equipment? The Armour and all?"

"The UN. As far as I understand it this squad is only one of the many expeditor squads on missions all over the world. We act as espionage experts who try to better the world, so we are given the most modern equipment currently available, and some that isn't."

"So you're here to overthrow the government?"

"I dunno. I know we were supposed to prevent this war before it happened, but you can see how that turned out."

"So you failed? So you've decided to throw you're lot in with the rebels?"

"Use you're head. What am I?"

"I dunno... A soldier?"

"Before that."

"A woman?"

"Even more basic."

"A fur?"

"Yeah. As is about half of the squad. It's kind of obvious who we'd would side with.

"I guess so. Sorry..."

"It's okay. Are you done your soup?"

John glanced down at his tray of food and held it out for her to take back. "Yeah. I guess so." Lily took the tray and was about to leave before John spoke up again. "Just one more thing. Why did you tell me all of this?"

She paused, thinking for a moment before replying. "I don't know. You just seem... trustworthy." She flashed a smile, her tail wagging, as she shut the door and slid home the locks. John was left to mull over what he had been told and what to do next.

CHAPTER 3

Denver, Colorado

1837 Hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

He must have tossed around on his cot for what seemed like hours before the locks on the door retracted and the hinges shrieked open once more. Marcus stepped in, his armour replaced by a loose green camouflage military uniform and a sidearm strapped to his waist.

"Get up. The Colonel wants to see you in the briefing room."

John sat up, his lungs still aching from earlier. He quickly got off the bed and got ready; pulling on the jacket he had shrugged off an hour ago and stepping into his boots. They left the room and navigated through the maze of passageways, passing several troopers drinking their victory. One of them waved to Marcus as they walked passed, asking him if he wanted a drink of some Jack Daniels they had raided from a store earlier. Marcus politely refused, promising them that he would join in after he delivered the new arrival to see the boss.

They continued on, passing more troopers celebrating and drinking to the day. One trooper, a raccoon morph, threw a fresh apple at Marcus, who thanked him for it before quickly finishing it to the core. He threw the core at the raccoon that caught it before jogging to catch up to his comrades who had wandered aimlessly down the hall.

In a few minutes they reached a set of double doors leading into a large room with a slightly concave ceiling and a large oak table in the middle. Chairs were arranged around it, some pushed in and others pulled backwards a foot from the table. A large glass tablet sat recessed into the centre of the table and coffee cups and papers were scattered haphazardly about the surface.

The room was lit by light disks set into the ceiling which cast a dim yellowish glow on everything. There was also some sort of light rigging set further up on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. A door opened at the back of the room and two figures entered.

The first one, Smith, spread his arms wide and welcomed him in a cheerful tone. He was out of his armour and wearing a void black officer's uniform with a multitude of ribbons and blips. He had a handsomely sculpted face that held piercing grey eyes and short cropped black hair. He was smiling and apparently jovial due to some yet unknown reason. He had fair skin and a tattoo of a phoenix grasping a maple leaf on the right side of his neck.

"Welcome to the brain centre of the operation, Mr. Ferris," said Smith. His voice was smooth and unblemished now that it wasn't hissing from a helmet vox. "This is where we hold our briefings and formulate our battle plans. This is also the place where we officers relax and try to escape the grim reality of the war. But tonight, we are going to use it as your interrogation room."

At this a second figure stepped up. She was another arctic fox morph; she was a few inches shorter than John, but her presence filled the room and she clogged the air with a sense of authority. She had long white hair tied in a ponytail, her bangs falling over her left eye. Her other one was uncovered, a striking violet colour flecked with dark glimmers of green. John could tell it wasn't the one he had met earlier from the three piercings that went through her left ear. Otherwise, they could easily have been twins.

She was dressed in military-issue combat fatigues, a myriad of different patches sewn on to the shoulders. She wore heavy boots and carried a submachine gun strapped to her thigh. Just by looking at her, John knew that she was an important person in the gene project chain of command.

"This is Commander Sasha Daystar," Introduced Smith, "She is in command of this branch of local freedom fighters. She is one of the reasons why we will wrest this city from the hands of those Humanist bastards. Her strategic intelligence rivals even my own, no small feat for a domestic savant. Over the next few days, we will get to know each other very, very well. Take a seat."

John pulled a chair up to the table, and leaned into the high backing. Smith and Daystar sat across from him while Marcus stood behind him, his arms crossed.

"Do you know what this is?" questioned Smith, gesturing mildly at the glass part of the table.

"No, I uh... I have no idea." That was a lie. John had an idea of what it was, but he had never thought that they existed in any sort of functional form yet.

"This is an H930 three-dimensional image viewer. In other words, it's a holographic projector. It allows us to keep an eye on the events outside in real time through a series of sensors planted before the war began. The picture is only half functional at the moment though because some of the sensors are offline; interference or the destruction of the local comm node. Have a look."

Smith hit a switch on his side of the table and a 3-D view of the city showed up on the table. Some portions showed nothing but static, but the large majority of the map was intact; showing the smoking city with many of the buildings on fire or partially destroyed. The four craters from where the KSS had hit stared at him like the gaping eye socket of a dry skull. Small glyphs lit up in green, amber, or white across the city. Some where circles, some squares, and others some triangles. The picture astounded John. He had read of these devices being tested before but had never imagined that he'd ever get to see one in person.

"This map outlines all of the known positions of civilians, enemy forces, and friendly units. As you can imagine, this makes commanding an army incredibly easy and less stressful when compared to charts and maps."

Looking closer, he saw the square where he was captured, now in the hand of Gene Project forces. They were obviously the green shapes, circle for an individual trooper, square for a land vehicle, and triangle for aircraft. He noticed that even though the gene forces had at least triple the troops that the humanists did, they were incredibly low on vehicular hardware and aircraft. He wasn't surprised. That would explain why his unit had not encountered many hostile vehicles before today. It also reminded him that he was seeing valuable information. He tried to remember as much as possible, but he was fighting a loosing battle due to the vast number of glyphs laid before him.

"Beautiful isn't it? But this is not why we are here. This is," continued Smith as he panned the picture over to an area East of Denver. He zoomed in on a large group of hangers, runways, and buildings that quickly filled the view of the holograph.

"This is Buckley Air Force Base. It is currently the fourth largest air base in the States after its expansion in the 30's. We don't know exactly how many aircraft are stationed here currently, as the sensors are partially down and the Humanists deployed countermeasures after they took it a few weeks ago. We estimate there to be at least 150 aircraft of varying classes. It's a good thing that the humanists lack pilots, otherwise we'd be in some serious trouble. We are also expecting a further three squadrons of F-67 fighter jets to be transferred here inside the week. We are planning to take it."

The bold statement took John back a little. He was stationed there before the war, and knew the layout off by heart. He also knew it would almost be impossible to take. The automated turrets, EMP field, and defence forces were more than enough to hold out against a few armed rebels for the better part of a year. And Smith just offhandedly says that they are taking it? Was he insane? Seriously, that place is a fortress!

"To answer your unsaid question, no, I am not insane. I have utter confidence that we can pull this off. If we do, it could turn the tide of this battle."

John was sill stunned. He looked from Smith to Daystar and then to Marcus. They all had serious looks on their faces and were staring at him intensely. "What, you're serious?"

"Absolutely. But we need to know all the weaknesses of this place. We have reason to believe that you were stationed there before the war, isn't that correct Corporal?" Responded Daystar.

"Yes I was, but what makes you think that I'll help you? This is the same shit I was given this morning! 'You'll join us!' "You won't hurt us!'. Like, this is bullshit! Really! I honestly think all of you fur-huggers are a bunch of fricking nut jobs!"

He would have said more, but he was cut off by the crunch of Sasha's fist colliding with his skull. She turned fiercely on Smith, who looked as calm as he ever did, with his arms held loosely above his shoulders in mock surrender. Daystar started yelling viciously in his face, Smith attempting to calm her.

Marcus pulled John to his feet, blood streaming down his face from a new cut above his right eye and stars dancing before his eyes. Marcus quickly slipped Johns wrists into handcuffs, and threw him in a chair before turning back to look at the shouting match.

"What the Fuck?!? He's one of THEM? You told me he was a new grunt for the cause! Oh, wait a minute! He's is another one of your 'subjects' isn't he? You know how I feel about your stupid 'rehab' program! Why the hell is he even here? You of all people should understand the concept of betrayal, you bastard! Imagine what would happen if he escaped!"

"Sasha, shush! Calm down. Look, he's no threat. I know people! This guy probably didn't hurt anyone in his entire life!"

"I don't give a shit! He is compromising our security! He's obviously not going to help us! He practically said so himself! He DID say so himself!"

"Listen to me! He is more valuable to us as a potential ally, not an enemy. If we can convince him to join us, he could help us in this raid! He could help us WIN!"

"I swear to God Owen, if this comes back to bite me in the fucking ass, I will have your head on a plate with extra sauce!"

"Okay, but calm down! I must say that you can be quite the crazy vixen sometimes..."

"Don't you forget it Canuck!"

At that, Smith turned around and told Marcus to throw John in his room with a bit of food and drink for the night. When the lights went off in his cell, John had time to think.

He lay on his bed for a full three hours trying to decide what to do. He could try to escape and get back to his squad. Once there, he could tell his commanders what he saw in the command room. He'd probably get promoted, and be put in command of his own unit. Even though he hadn't killed anyone before, or even shot anyone for that matter, he believed he could learn. The gene projects he had met today had certainly provoked a long-hidden flame of hate inside of his heart. But something nagged at him from some dark recess of his brain. What it was exactly, John couldn't figure out. But deep down, he knew that somehow the Humanist cause was... evil. As much as he tried to push the unwelcome feeling from his mind, the more it kept resurfacing, much like the hydra of ancient myth.

CHAPTER 4

Denver, Colorado

2137 Hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

Locking the door, Marcus sighed heavily. He hated the lengths Owen went through to try and prove that everyone has good intentions in them. If it were up to him, he would have put a bullet in the prisoner's skull and be done with him. But nooo; it was Marcus' job to be kind to the prisoners. He had to baby-sit them while Owen tried to turn them to the cause. He was sick of it.

The only reason he did any of this at all was because he owed his life to Owen. Groaning at the memories, he turned away from the door and walked towards his quarters. He passed Warren, the squad's scout, as he turned a corner leading to the lower sublevels. The scout merely nodded, divulging nothing of what his intentions were that night. Marcus nodded back before continuing on his way.

He thought of home and his porch overlooking Lake Superior. His eyes glazed over at the memory of nights spent drinking with his friends and winters out on the ice fishing for walleye. He fondly remembered campfires, barbeques, snow machining, boating, and a myriad of other nostalgia-inducing events.

He came to his door and opened it with a nudge, throwing his pistol holster onto the nearby couch. Lurching over to his fridge, he grabbed a beer and flopped onto his bed. He opened the bottle, mist escaping from the sudden influx of air. He nursed it gently and sighed. This American beer went down as smooth as water. He smiled at this; after five years undercover in this city, he still thought very lowly of American alcohol.

He turned on the laptop that sat on the edge of his bed and keyed in his password. He looked through his e-mail account and sent out e-mails to all of the senders. Then he logged onto a game to escape his thoughts of homesickness. He was instantly surprised how many people were logged in. It seemed that even a world-wide crisis couldn't tear people away from their gaming. He turned the laptop off after three rounds in part due to some guy from around Golden hogging a jet and blasting everyone to high hell, and part because of he realized he was playing a war game during a war.

He lay back, and stared at the ceiling, thinking of his house on the lake.

**

Scout Sergeant Warren Dracrovian looked around the right wing of the tunnel network he enjoyed calling the Hive. He could swear he saw someone come this way a moment ago. His hand subconsciously reached for the silenced pistol strapped to his waist. The corridor was empty, the inhabitants all going either to sleep or party at some other place of the Hive. The hallway was lit by a few emergency lights, but they were few and far between. The Hive was in night cycle, and was completely silent except from the occasional laughter or cough.

He suppressed a smile at his own name for the base. It had once been the site of Denver's Union station. It had been the hub for all rail and subway traffic heading anywhere in a 200km radius. It was abandoned after the initial riots when the government transportation system froze up and deadlocked all of the station's responsibilities. It had only taken a few more days after that for the government to almost completely dissolve, after which the numerous tunnel entrances had been blown which had sealed the terminals from outside entrance. This had created an ideal base for the fur forces when they launched the counter-offensive from the west.

Warren likened the arousal of the facility with the re-activation of an ants' nest after winter. The queen would awaken and begin spawning workers after spring had finally arrived and the snow had melted. Eventually the almost-empty nest would become full of soldiers and workers ready to fight and die for their queen. From there, the insects' influence would spread and more hives would appear. It was very similar indeed to the way that the base had come alive.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow flicker against the wall. He spun around as a figure came out of a side corridor.

"Hey sir, what's up?" asked a trooper Warren recognized as Private Arthurs.

Arthurs quickly looked over the grizzled coyote morph dressed in a black armour suit and a light, barely visible stealth cloak. He was helmetless, showing off his brown fur and the pink scar running across the front of his neck.

Private Arthurs was a small raccoon morph dressed in khakis and a military overcoat scrounged off of a dead officer. He was young, with no experience whatsoever in war or anything besides. Warren had personally liberated him a week ago from a mob of angry humanists in the suburbs west of the city centre. Since then, Arthur had followed Warren around as his aide and, Warren considered, new friend.

"I could swear I saw someone come this way. Did you see anyone?"

"Nah, I was too busy raiding the fridge for leftovers" laughed Arthurs.

"Well, keep your eyes open..." breathed Warren as he turned to continue looking around. A red dot appeared over Arthur's chest, the sudden appearance of it making Warren's fears a terrible reality. He knew instantly what it was.

"GET DOWN," yelled Warren as he tackled Arthurs. Bullets whizzed by their heads as they hit the floor. A shout escaped Arthur's muzzle as he was hit twice, once in the leg and again in the shoulder. Warren rolled, his special forces training switching into overdrive as he came up into a crouching stance. His weapon was drawn and he pointed it from shadow to shadow, scanning for targets. A red dot lit up the dark. He would have been killed right there if fate hadn't intervened.

The sounds of the gunshots roused a few troopers who came stumbling from a nearby room. They were cut down by the gunfire intended to murder Warren. As atrocious as the distraction was, Warren used it to his advantage. He managed to snap off a few shots into the corridor and was rewarded by the sound of a body hitting the cement.

No return fire echoed down the hallway, so Warren stood and walked to the bodies of the dead troopers. He pulled them off to the side and thanked each one for their sacrifice. There were two fox morphs and three human males. He would personally see to it that each one was awarded for their loss.

He walked over to where blood was appearing from the ground, almost by magic. He kicked the air above the stain and his foot collided with a semisolid object hidden by light-bending technology. He smiled. His earlier assumption was right.

He reached down and felt around the object until he found what he was searching for. He flicked an invisible switch. A man in a jet-black stealth suit materialized out of nowhere, Warren clutching the wrist control for the stealth field generator. Warren bent over and turned the soldier's head aside, unclasping his helmet as he did so.

The man was about 30 years old with brown hair and a horrified look on his lifeless features. On the right side of his neck was a tattoo. It depicted an ancient Greek helmet with an arrow and sword crossed behind it.

Warren sighed. It was as Owen had thought. Argonauts. A private military company notorious for stealth and infiltration work. Someone on the Humanist side had some serious funding at their disposal. He keyed his radio and contacted Owen. Behind him, Arthur groaned and swore profoundly.

"Boss, they're here. We need to get the Hive on high alert. And send some help with a crash team and five body bags to sector gamma, quadrant three."

**

John awoke to the sound of an explosion outside his door. He quickly jumped from his bed, pulling his jacket on. The sound of gunfire echoed off the stone walls outside, the crump of a grenade resulting in a loud scream.

John warily walked over to the door, still stiff from the beating that Sasha had given him. His face was numbed now, thanks to a medic that had come along and gave him a shot of morphine. The cut was swollen, and four stitches kept it from bleeding any more than it had already. He leaned against the door and listened.

Besides gunfire he heard Marcus' voice calling into his radio for the freedom fighters to fall back to the next hallway junction. The acrid smell of gun smoke burned his nostrils before the gunfire sounded started to recede down the corridor. Outside, he heard rustling before a thud sounded as something was stuck into place against his door. Wary, John backed away from the door. A loud bang sounded and the reinforced steel of the door buckled inward slightly. The door opened slightly and a small object was tossed in before it was closed again. John quickly hit the floor and covered his ears, closing his eyes as fast as he could. The flashbang grenade went off, bathing the room in light and sound.

Even though he was somewhat prepared, John was nonetheless struck deaf and mute by the grenade. He was hit in the back of the head, a stitch coming loose from the hit. Blood began to drip down his face.

"Stand him up," barked a coarse voice from the doorway.

The two troopers that had stormed the room after the grenade went off dragged John to his feat, slipping his hands into a pair of handcuffs. They wore fully covering black armour suits with a patch sewn on the right arm depicting some kind of helmet motif.

The man across from him wore similar clothing, only he didn't have a helmet on his head and red stripe ran across his chest plate. His face was ragged as a cliff face, and his nose was set close to his skull, giving him a dangerous look. He had several scars running down the right side of his face, crossing his right eye which was a dead, milky white colour and was clearly blind. His good eye was a deep blue, his hair jet-black. Stubble covered his chin and jaw, giving him a rugged appearance. His shaggy hair hung down his face and swept away from his left eye.

"Only one in here, sir!" reported the trooper to John's left.

"Good. Now move up and support Bravo squad. I'll see what this one knows," Ordered the commander, his voice firm and gruff.

The soldiers saluted, checked their weapons, and left the room leaving John to fall to the ground. The man walked over to where John was curled up and waited for him to kneel upright. When he did so, the man merely stared into his eyes and examined his captive.

"Who are you? Name and rank, if you please," Asked the man, his voice now barely a whisper.

"You first, ass hole!"

The man laughed, the sound echoing in the small room, "Fair enough. I'm Master Sergeant Dan Voke of the Argonauts."

"The Argonauts? You're lying. They're just a rumour, a trench tale made up by the common troops."

"Oh no, I assure me we are very much a reality. The reason we're so commonly believed to be a myth is because we never leave survivors. But, if you want to be the first, you'll tell me what I need to know. And you'll do it now," His voice darkening as he talked. It was clear that he was in no mood to be tested.

"Well, this morning I was Corporal John Ferris of the First Humanist Urban detachment. Now I'm a prisoner of these mongrels."

"Well, that puts us in a different situation altogether. Get up. We're going to need to get out of here fast; the enemy will be rallying to counterattack soon. We have to be mobile. Private Welsch!"

A shimmer appeared in the air before the doorway before a surly-looking soldier materialized.

"Yes, sir?" questioned the trooper, his hands tightening on his weapon.

"Give this man your sidearm. We have to go now!"

The trooper looked towards John and back again. Voke glared at Welsch, and nodded. The trudged over to John and undid the handcuffs. He grudgingly pulled out his sidearm, an old but well maintained Glock 38, and handed it to John.

John looked over the handgun, noting kill scratches engraved on the right side of the grip. He slid the magazine out of the bottom and saw that it was full; giving him eight rounds of .45 calibre GAP rounds. He switched the pistol from full auto to semi and nodded towards Voke.

They exited the room, adopting ready stances along the sides of the walls. Welsch activated his stealth suit and disappeared to Voke's right. John followed Voke to a junction where they stopped, listening. Gunfire sounded from the right hallway; a grenade echoing down the tight confines of the underground portion of the structure. Voke's earpiece squawked, and Voke tuned it to receive a clear signal. His face instantly grew stern and he turned to face John.

"This way," ordered Voke, "Delta reports they are under vicious assault. I have to see what's going on."

They jogged for about a minute before they came up on a large hatchway, the blast doors recessed into the walls. Beyond, several stealth troopers engaged with about a dozen enemy soldiers equipped with infrared goggles. The goggles rendered the stealth suits completely useless so the troops had long since disabled them. No point overheating during combat for no advantageous trade-off.

They were in a vast underground warehouse, overhead catwalks hung above them in a complex spider web. Gunfire blossomed at the far end of the warehouse and on several walkways above. Two dead Argonauts lay out in the middle of the space, surrounded by a rapidly expanding pool of blood. A bunch of soldiers were in cover near to where they had obviously entered before being blocked by a hail of hostile bullets.

"Status report," demanded Voke as he, John, and Private Welsch strode up and took cover behind an overturned crate. Bullets spanked off the metal of their cover as a nearby corporal crouching behind a forklift divulged the basics of the situation.

"The enemy has us pinned. They're all over the catwalks ahead and behind that far row of crates," shouted the man as he gestured to the points where the withering firepower was originating from. He paused for a second, leaning out of cover to fire a burst of rounds at a cougar morph setting up a LMG on an overhead walkway. He missed and cursed under his breath before continuing, hunkering back into cover, "They just popped out of nowhere! Before we knew it we were pinned without support. We're down three men; Wilkinson, Benedict, and Thompson."

"Okay, we're gonna need to get out of here. Forget what we came for. Somehow they knew we were coming. We need to pull out now or we're as good as dead," shouted Voke, "Shanton, Welsch, give us some fire on the far gantries. Gunderson, Forsythe, cover the enemies behind the crates. On the count of three! One, two, THREE!"

The Humanists all fired as one, killing at least four hostiles and wounding two more. John fired with them. He knowingly aimed high, still unable to shoot anyone, but unwilling to appear cowardly to his rescuers. They broke of after several seconds of continuous fire, sprinting back to where they came. John was up and running, his pistol empty and his hand numb from the recoil, breathing heavily as he stumbled out of the hatchway.

One of the mercenaries stopped, turning to a wall mounted control panel and touching several buttons. The blast door slammed shut, the emergency lock down initiated. The soldier then shot the panel with a tight burst of machine gun fire before running after the rest of the squad, effectively stopping anyone from either side from opening the door.

Along the way, several more soldiers emerged from side hallways. Some were lone scouts from the Argonaut infiltration team who quickly joined the running group of men headed to an exit. Others were waking gene forces militia looking for the cause of the disturbance. They were gunned down mercilessly.

They ran through the corridors for several minutes before coming to another intersection. The group of men stopped for a while to check their printed layout of the facility before they found the correct way to the entrance. About half of them were starting down the corridor when hidden micro-charges detonated, annihilating the first five soldiers in a wash of heat and razor-sharp shrapnel.

Gunfire quickly scythed through all the remaining men around John and Voke, their bodies falling to the ground heavily. Blood and organic matter sprayed the walls and the two survivors, John throwing up slightly in his mouth as what once must have been a part of a man's head landed at his feet.

"You should really leave your entrance guarded, Dan," chuckled a voice from the shadows. Eight figures slid from the shadows, all of them wearing heavy combat armour and powerful Sabre 190 'Scythe' pattern assault rifles. The one in the front unclasped his helmet, revealing his dark hair and distinctive phoenix tattoo.

"Hello, Owen" growled Voke.

CHAPTER 5

Denver, Colorado

2219 Hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

"Drop it," demanded Smith, gesturing quickly to Voke's assault rifle.

Voke dropped his rifle to the floor with a clatter, raising his hands to allow one of Smith's men to frisk him. The soldier found three fragmentation grenades, four combat knives, a pouch of throwing knives, and two pistols. He piled them on the ground behind Smith before turning to John. He plucked the Glock from John's hand, gently but firmly, and resumed his position at Brook's side.

"Your slave-driving friends must be pretty desperate if they're hiring people to us for slaughter," sneered Smith.

"No, we just thought we'd take a walk and visit some old friends," Smiled Voke.

"There are no friends of yours here. Not any more anyway," retorted Smith, nodding to the bodies scattered on the floor.

"Oh well. They were more... acquaintances anyways." sighed Voke as he kicked the boot of a dead man.

"I had thought so."

Smith glanced over to where John was standing, "You've certainly fell into the wrong crowd here, John."

"He insisted on coming with us," interjected Voke before John had a chance to speak.

"Hmm, well if that's true, you'll find yourself dead within a week."

As the two continued to exchange insults, John noticed that Voke had managed to sneak one hand behind his back. He saw a glimmer of light before Voke dropped something behind him on the floor. Soon a bright flash lit the room. Dan had somehow managed to pull the pin on a flashbang grenade that had miraculously missed during Voke's pat-down.

Deafening sound and bright light stalled John's senses for the third time that day, along with those of everyone else in the corridor. The soldiers with helmets recovered quickly, their helmets' auto-filters having dissipated most of the grenade's effects. Gunfire tore down the passage, the sound carrying for what seemed like a whole minute to John.

When his senses finally started to focus, he noticed he was being pinned to the floor again, this time by the other team. Managing a look down the hallway past his left shoulder, he noticed that Voke had disappeared and that Smith was yelling into his helmet mic, trying to get all of Voke's possible escape routes covered by at least two teams of soldiers. From what John could gather, Voke had managed to grab a pistol from the pile of his confiscated weapons and shoot one of Brook's men in the stomach. The man was leaning against the far wall, desperately trying to stem the bleeding with his hands.

"Marcus! Get the prisoner to a room. Take Luke and Lily with you! Tracer, stay here with Paul and try to keep him comfortable until the crash team gets here. The rest of the squad, come with me!" Smith moved off down the hallway to try and find Voke, three others jogging along with him.

Marcus grabbed John's prone form by the back of his shirt and lifted him to his feet. He tied John's hands behind his back and shoved him forwards in the direction opposite that which Smith had taken. Two other troopers fell into step behind him, sweeping their weapons back and forth in front of them, scanning for targets.

Lily sidled up to him as they walked, Marcus taking point as they entered a different branch of the facility, the subway tracks making for difficult walking. "You just had to try escaping, didn't you?"

"Wouldn't you?" John answered coldly.

She left him alone for the rest of the walk. Soon they had arrived at a hallway with walls lined with heavy steel doors. It must have been a small holding facility for people who acted out when they were trying to get aboard a train. They must have been stored here until the authorities could pick them up. Marcus walked up to the first, keying a password into a wall terminal. He forced John inside with little regard for John's well being, John falling to the floor and letting out a sharp grunt.

"If you see anything that isn't me or a member of the squad, shoot first and ask questions later," instructed Marcus, "Lily and I are going to see if we can find that son of a bitch before he escapes."

"Yessir! Nobody's gettin' 'im out sir!" affirmed the trooper, with an odd accent John couldn't place.

"Good. Lily! With me!"

John heard footsteps fade into echoes on the outside of the door. He walked over to the slit in the door that allowed him to sneak a peak outside. A human male stood outside the door. He was dressed in the black armour that John had began to associate with Smith' men, and a long, loose cloak draped around the armoured shoulders that partially hid his relaxed stature. He had a screeching eagle spread across the back of his helmet and carried one of the Sabre assault weapons.

"Ya mus' be pretty 'portant to the boss if he's keepin' 'ya all locked up n' safe," stated the trooper. He must be the one called Luke, if he remembered correctly. "If I 'ere 'im, I woulda shot ya' were ya stood."

"Well then, I guess I'm lucky you're not him then," replied John darkly.

Luke turned to face the slit in the door. "Damn right. The boss mus' really see something' in ya. He always has a reason fer 'dis sorta thin'."

"Hah! He just seems crazy to me. He's gotta be if he's always trying to turn me."

"Oh! Yer one a' dose!" laughed Luke, "Yah, he seems ta have a thin' fer turnin' people. Bu' he's not crazy. Shifty maybe, but not crazy..."

"What do you mean?"

"Lets jus' say that it has worked before. Actually-"

Luke fell suddenly, a gasp escaping his lungs as he slammed face first into the door before collapsing to the floor in a heap. Voke withdrew his blade from Luke's chest as he fell, wiping the blade subconsciously on Luke's cloak.

"Hello there, Ferris," smiled Voke. His grin tightened the right side of his face and deformed it into a gnarled mess of flesh that bore little resemblance to humanity.

"Voke."

"Thank you for distracting the guard. I hardly get the opportunity test my blade work, and I feared that I was getting rusty."

"Honestly, I didn't even see you there. But anyways, the pass-code for the door is 'barbarian'. We have to hurry, the others couldn't have gone far."

"What are you talking about?" Questioned Voke, his eyes suggesting he knew perfectly well what he had meant. "I'm not going to let you out, if that's what you are inferring."

"What? Why the hell not? You owe me!"

"For what? I already broke you out once. You distracted the guard. Now we're even. Plus, I overheard you two talking. I know that Smith is trying to turn you to the 'good' side. For all I care, you're one of them now."

"You bastard!"

"Ooh, I've never heard that one before," responded Voke sarcastically, "I'll see you around Ferris. Or maybe I won't. Who knows? Better yet, who cares!" At that, Voke left leaving John alone with a corpse for company, laughing as he strode off deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels. He turned right, disappearing from John's view. John yelled at him from behind the heavy door, knowing it was useless. John felt betrayed and utterly useless.

A few minutes passed by and John thought he heard footsteps outside the door, but he wasn't completely sure as the door muffled most of the sound. Looking through the viewing slit, he saw the other two soldiers from earlier examining Luke's dead body. He realized this was his chance.

**

Marcus slipped in front of Lily, taking cover behind a trolley loaded with empty food trays. Lily then leapfrogged past him to crouch behind a forklift parked to one side of the tunnel. Where Marcus stuck to his standard-issue Gladiator IV combat armour, Lily had heavily modified hers. It had experimental ablative plating polymer on the shoulder pads and chest plate capable of generating a small repulsion field to slow down incoming projectiles. A high-tech motion detector attached to the side of her helmet relayed any movement around her larger than that of a fly, making it almost impossible to catch her unawares. She had trimmed her armour in gold, and had detailed her chest plate with a golden phoenix, the wings swept out to encompass the entire chest. It was clutching a maple leaf that was laid across her stomach, the symbol for the Canadian members of the Expeditor units. She moved with a liquid grace, melding into the shadows and walls with hardly any effort. Marcus still wondered why she had become the team's medic. With her natural skill, she could easily give Warren a run for his money to be the squad's scout.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered incessantly, and were beginning to give Marcus a headache. They had travelled for about two minutes this way with no sign of Voke anywhere. That's when Marcus' helmet mic test-clicked twice in his ear.

"Shit! Luke's in trouble! We have to go back!"

"Did he say what's wrong?" she shouted back.

"No, it was just a mic key. Come on! We have to go back to the cell block."

"What if it's a trap?"

"We have to go anyway. If it's that Voke, it's worth the risk. If not, we die trying."

"Sometimes I like the way you think. This isn't one of those times."

"Just shut up and follow orders!"

"Yes, sir." growled Lily.

They sprinted back the way they came, eventually coming up to the cell block. All the doors were closed, and the hallway was clear. Luke was lying on his back, a pool of blood slowly spreading from the deep stab wound in his back.

Lily slowly approached him before kneeling and examining Luke. She looked up at Marcus and shook her head. "He's dead."

"There's nothing we can do for him now except kill the bastard who got him."

"He couldn't have gone far. We'll head up to the South entrance. It's the closest exit, and it's where I would've gone. Maybe we can still catch him."

"What about me?" questioned a voice to their left.

It took the pair a moment to realize they were standing in front of the prison cell they had thrown the prisoner in. Marcus strode over to the door. "What about you? This is the second time I had to throw you in a room today. You're lucky you don't have a bullet in you."

"I can help you find him. I saw where he went."

"Not a chance. You'd kill both of us. How stupid do you think I am?"

"No! Please, you don't even have to give me a weapon!"

"No way. I'm not about to put our lives at risk by letting you out. You're going to stay in there until I say otherwise."

"Hold on," interjected Lily, "I say we give him a chance. We won't arm him and we'll keep him under watch. He doesn't know the layout of this place, he would get lost in here if he tried to flee. Eventually, a friendly patrol would pick him up and he'll end up in here again."

"You forget, Lily that just a few minutes ago he was running around with those Argonaut lunatics. And what if this is all a trap? Voke has done this more than once to us before. You remember that woman from Minneapolis?"

"Yeah, but this is different. He's on our terms now, and we have numbers and firepower on our side."

Marcus sighed, distractedly looking around. "All right," he said, "He comes with us. But he stays handcuffed. And YOU will be responsible for him. Shoot him if he tries anything. If you don't, I will."

"He won't," replied Lily, glancing over to John, who was looking through the view port at her, "If he knows what's good for him."

Marcus keyed the password into the console and the door retracted with a swish. John stepped out holding his hands in front of him, allowing Marcus to handcuff his hands together.

"Alright, now show us where he went. You try anything, you're dead." warned Marcus.

They proceeded down the right-hand passage. Echoes of gunfire from up ahead proved they were headed in the right direction. It wasn't long before they came to the first set of bodies. Several corpses were spread down a 15 foot strip of passageway, lying where they had been caught on the wrong end of a pistol. There was very little blood, proving that they were shot recently.

"Help me..." gasped an orange tabby morph in a battered army uniform. He had a group of sucking bullet wounds in the right side of his chest. He was propped up against the wall, one arm draped across his chest, the other lifeless.

Lily ran over, pulling a one-use morphine phial from her medical kit. She thumped the phial into the trooper's thigh, a glassy look overcoming his eyes as the morphine took affect.

Keeping John in front of him, Marcus crouched down beside the ill-fated man. "What happened...."

"Corporal Leonard, sir."

"Yes, what happened here Leonard?"

"I dunno... it all happened so fast... One moment we were standing around watching for anyone suspicious... An alert went out a few minutes ago about some kind of commandos... Then all of a sudden, I was on the ground. It took me a moment to realize I had been shot... There was a man but..."

The soldier's eyes were becoming unfocused, his head dropping before lolling back upwards. When his eyes were visible again they were white, having rolled back in his head. He started to go into convulsions.

"We're losing him!" cried Lily.

"Give him another dose! We need to know what happened!"

"We already know! Obviously Voke was down here and killed them! Another dose will kill him! I can try to stabilize him, I just need a minute!"

Marcus just stared at her, the message was clear; the soldier wasn't going to make it. Lily sighed, pushing another morphine dose into the flesh of the trooper's leg.

"Come on! Stay with me! What about the man?" Urged Marcus.

"H-He... He had someone with him... 'omeone who looked kinda like you... They shot us, and then they 'eaded that way..." slurred the wounded soldier, gesturing down the hallway drunkenly with his good hand, "Then all I 'member is you... now... askin' me... things... Sir... I s-see a br-bright light... Its s-s-so beautiful..."

The soldier crumpled over, a sigh escaping his lips as the breath left his lungs. Marcus laid the morph down on his back, pushing him against the side of the corridor. He then stood up, and helped Lily to her feet. She was obviously upset, her body language making up for the visor covering her face.

"There's nothing you could have done, Lily. He was a goner. You know that," Comforted Marcus, "He helped us before he died. Now we know for sure it was an inside job."

"Lets go kill that son of a bitch. Let's make him pay," whispered Lily, " He will pay."

The trio set off down the hallway, checking the bodies for other survivors. There were none. Every once and a while, there was a slouched body or bullet casings, further proof that Voke had came this way. Soon enough they had come to a large doubly wide hallway with a slightly upwards incline leading to a large set of blast doors. It used to be a subway tunnel leading to the surface, but the doors were added a few years before the war to stop burglars from entering the station. At the end of the hall two figures were furiously poring over a console, trying to open the doors.

"There they are," whispered Marcus, "I'm going to try and get closer."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," suggested a voice from behind them, "unless you want a quick death."

A coyote morph materialized behind Lily, the stealth cloak falling off his form and flowing down his back. He had a well-oiled and maintained auto-pistol in his hands and a large bowie knife strapped to his shoulder pad. He pulled them into a side access tunnel and out of view of the two men at the console. Marcus shoved John harshly on the ground next to a wall mostly covered in pipes. He landed hard on a loose bundle of tools left out from a maintenance team, feeling something scrape the back of his leg and draw blood. Marcus then turned his attention to the newcomer.

"Where the hell did you come from Warren," questioned Marcus in a low whisper, "I thought you were on the other side of the base."

"I was. I got a... strange feeling tonight, so I went to look around. Sure enough, I was right. These commandos had breached pretty far into the Hive. I found one outside of the main mess hall. I radioed the boss, and he sent out an alert to the entire Hive. You know the rest."

"These aren't just any thugs, their Argonauts." Stated Lily.

"I know. I checked the bodies," muttered Warren "It's about time I get some revenge."

Warren had got slashed across the neck by an Argonaut's knife in an engagement two years ago. Since then, he claimed that it tingled whenever danger was nearby, giving him a sort of sixth sense. Combined with his tracking, marksman, and stealth skills his 'sixth sense' made him a formidable scout and sniper. Marcus enjoyed his friendship, but the coyote was usually withdrawn and quiet, making for a poor drinking buddy. At the moment however, he welcomed his presence more than an entire company of exo-suits.

"So why can't we just shoot the bastards?" questioned Lily.

"Wait a second. Just watch." Replied Warren, who thumbed behind him in the direction main hall.

Lily peeked around the corner, her visor lighting up green, before ducking quickly back into the hallway. "I see what you mean... They're all over the place!"

"Wait, what are?" questioned Marcus haltingly.

"See for yourself. You will need to use infrared though."

"I don- oh crap..." muttered Marcus, "I see what you mean. We'll have to wait for reinforcements. There's no way that we can kill them all."

"What is it?" questioned John meekly.

"None of your business, that's what." Hissed Marcus.

"Who's this guy?" asked Warren, looking at John as if for the first time.

"That's the same guy you hit earlier today."

"Oh... The one the boss... oh...I thought he looked familiar. What's he doing here? He should be in lock up, not running around with you two!"

"It's a long... and frustrating... story. But, to tell you the short version, I should have shot him a while ago." Stated Marcus.

"Ahh... That old debacle, eh?"

"Yeah, but let's stay on track here. We need to get to Voke. He's our only priority now."

"Agreed. I think I have a plan. See this pipe here?" grinned Warren tapping an insulated red pipe overhead, "this is the liquid nitrogen feed for the Hive's primary power reactor. It goes past the entrance to an underground facility about a kilometre from here. Outside its underground, but in here it's hanging from the ceiling to allow easy maintenance in case of a pipe rupture. If we can puncture the pipe out there, we can literally freeze them in their tracks."

Everyone stared at him emptily, even John. "What? Not even a smile?" continued Warren, "whatever... anyways, all we'd need is about two frag grenades, a strip of adhesive, and a decent distraction."

"Wouldn't that threaten the reactor? It could overload!" gasped Lily.

"No, there are backup lines at the other end of the base. This will work. But we need to find a way to get the charge close enough to them so that the nitrogen will kill them all."

"I know what to do. I'll go and confront him. That should give you enough time to plant the charge. My armour is insulated for vacuum. I should be fine with a little liquid nitrogen." Suggested Marcus.

It's not the liquid nitrogen that will kill you. It's the asphyxia from your armour being locked up at that low of a temperature. Besides; you won't come out with a tail. Your plan's ridiculous!" scoffed Warren.

John completely understood the concept behind the plan, but he knew that it would be a complete failure. There was no way that Warren could rupture the nitrogen pipe that close to Voke without being riddled with bullets.

"I don't see you thinking of anything. Besides, I'll be fine."

"I say let him do it," Piped up John, "It doesn't bother me any if he goes and kills himself."

"Shut up whelp, you're lucky I don't use you as a meat shield!" snapped Marcus.

"Marcus, Warren's right... You can't risk it. You've come so far..." pleaded Lily.

"It's not up to you," laughed Marcus, "You'd better place those grenades in the right spot Warren. I can buy you some time, but I can't give you any guarantees."

At that, Warren stood up and strode around the corner, shouting as he did so.

"HEY, VOKE! ARE YOU GOING SOMEWHERE?"

Voke turned, jumping at the sound of Marcus' voice while the other man continued trying to get the door open. Voke turned, bringing his pistol up and pointing it squarely at Marcus' face.

"Ahh... Marcus. I am so glad to see you again. For a moment I was afraid we had scared you off with this intrusion."

"You know me Voke; I never shy away from a fight. I'm also a decent host. While you're here, maybe I can interest you in some wine, a little bit of bread possibly? How about a bloody knife to the chest?"

"Hah! There's the humour I know and love! Come here! I promise to end this quickly if you just comply with my demands!" When he finished, he nodded and a dozen soldiers uncloaked on the sides of the entrance. Voke smiled and gestured to the other man he was with.

Marcus recognized him the moment he stood away from the console. His armour was streaked with red, his helmet covered with a howling ghoul's visage.

"Somehow I knew it would be you, Auburn. Something about you're eyes. I should never have saved your ass back in '47."

"Probably not, Marcus but hey, it's not like we were friends or anything. It's not personal, it's just good business."

"You bounty hunter scum never learn do you? How much is he paying you? 500? 700?"

"Nah. I'm getting 2 million now, 5 later. Like I said; it's just good business."

"We'll see how good a business this is when they scrape you off the walls, Auburn!"

Warren stole a peek around the corner, his hands frantically attempting to tape a pair of grenades together with a roll of duct tape. Marcus was still engaged in verbal sparring with the two hostiles, and Voke's men shuffled around wary of the hidden vehemence in the traded words.

Lily slouched against the wall, her hands on her head, shaking her head. John saw his chance. It was now or never. He stood up, his hands finding a wrench nestled between a set of pipes to his right, now freed from the cuffs thanks to several minutes with the wire that had cut him. The lights overhead flickered as he drew his hand back, ready to strike. The heavy wrench fell of its own accord, landing square on the back of Warren's helmet. John quickly dove for Warren's pistol as he fell heavily to the floor.

Lily looked up in time to see John point the pistol at her. She didn't move, a whimper escaping her helmet vox at the sudden movements of the prisoner. He gestured for her to get up. She stiffly stood, her hands rising up to the top of her head. He stripped her of weapons before he waved the gun down the side hall. Lily took the hint and ran down the hall, disappearing around a corner.

Taking a moment to regain his composure, he waltzed out from the side hall, Warren's auto-pistol hanging loosely at his side. "Voke." said John as he walked over to Marcus.

Marcus whirled, causing a ripple of gun barrels towards his direction. Voke merely grinned, his scar turning it into more of a grimace. "Hello again Private Ferris. Here to join us in our escape? I guess I was wrong about you."

"I don't know... are you going to ditch me in a cell this time?"

"You know, I regretted having to do it. But if I didn't you would probably be dead right about now. These abominations can be annoying, but some of them can shoot." He nodded at Marcus as he said the last part.

"So why aren't you opening the door and getting out of here? I bet the enemy will be coming any minute now. I say you stop talking and open that damned door."

"I like the way you think, Ferris," chuckled Voke, "Why don't you shoot this bastard, Ferris. I see you found a weapon. Think of it as... assurance... for us that you're worth the trouble."

"Sure." replied John. He faced Marcus; his hand came up, Warren's auto-pistol aimed firmly at Marcus. Three shots rang out and echoed down the hall. Marcus stood upright for a moment, the force of the bullets keeping him standing, before his knees buckled and he slumped over.

"Good work, newbie. Now come over here. Let me introduce you to Auburn. He was the lynchpin behind this plan. Unfortunately, we didn't manage to get our prize. The gene freaks blocked us more quickly than we anticipated. No matter; they'll get their just rewards. We rigged this place to blow. All we need to do is push this here button," explained Voke as he drew a detonator from his belt.

John walked over to where the men were standing and shook hands with Auburn. "So, what's the hold up?"

"It's the damn door, obviously," sighed Auburn, "They must have recoded them as the alarm was tripped. We can't seem to crack it with our current tech."

"I bet I know where to find the codes," Grinned John as he walked over to Marcus' limp body. He bent over, tapping Marcus' visor. He unlocked the latches around the helmet's neck seal and slid it off. One of Marcus' eyes blinked open, settling on John. John merely winked at him. Warren instantly closed his eye again.

Sliding the helmet on, John straightened up and took a moment to familiarize himself with the UI. It was practically in Chinese. Eventually he found out what he needed and patched into the team's comm channel.

"This is Corporal John Ferris using Marcus' comm. We need reinforcements at the North Gate; we have men down and about a dozen hostiles. Out."

His message done, he looked over to Voke who had heard none of it due to the helmet's private vox channel and internal damping. He pulled the helmet off, and gazed over to Voke. "The code's in here. It's Alpha Kappa Alpha Niner Delta Kiss My ASS!"

He quickly pulled the jury-rigged charge from under his jacket where he had hid it from view. He hurled it as hard as he could, the charge hitting Auburn directly in the head before bouncing off and detonating. The frag grenades blew up spectacularly, killing four of the stealth troopers with the white-hot bloom of fire and blowing Auburn into hundreds of small red pieces. Two soldiers flew backwards, hitting the wall with the sounds of breaking bones before landing heavily on the ground. Surprisingly, the liquid nitrogen tubes didn't rupture. But it was of no consequence. The final four troops fell to pieces, their light stealth armour no match for the dozens of red-hot shards of metal launched by the grenades. The lights up to 30 feet away burst as the shockwave hit the fluorescent bulbs, causing a hail of glass splinters to rain down in the hallway. John was knocked to the ground, the breath leaving his lungs as soon as the shockwave hit him.

John was knocked to the floor, a weight falling on top of him. He tried to move, but suddenly he felt very tired. In a matter of seconds, he had blacked out.

**

Lily slumped against the wall, out of breath and her legs aching. The hallway was unfamiliar and dimly lit. Down a ways she could see a corpse lying in the centre of the hall. She tried to calm down, her breaths coming quickly and harshly. She keyed her helmet vox to tell Smith what happened. Maybe he could get there fast enough to stop them and kill that dastardly prisoner!

"This is Lily to command! We have a problem! Voke's at the North entrance. Marcus and Warren are down! I repeat, we have men down and need assistance!"

Smith' voice answered, the vox accentuating his voice with a sharp hiss and the occasional crackle; "Lily! Transmission understood! We are coming your way! In the mean time, try to stay calm and under control. We can't afford to loose another squad member."

"Understood... I... I... I just can't believe what happened. One second he was sitting there... then he had me at gunpoint! I should never have-"

"Wait! Slow down! Who had you at gunpoint? Who was it?"

"It was that new guy you found! The same one that we caught trying to escape with Voke!"

"Lily! Why the fuck did you let him out! You were supposed to throw him in the cell and then recon the area! Where was Marcus? Where's Voke? Start from the beginning."

"Voke... he killed Luke! We threw the prisoner in a prison cell before going to scout the area. We heard an emergency vox pip so we ran back to the cell block. Luke was dead; stabbed by Voke. There was blood everywhere! The bastard said he knew where Voke went... I convinced Marcus to let him out... make him lead us to Voke. He did and we met up with Warren, but then he turned on us. He hit Warren in the head and stole his gun. He threatened me before making me run away and-"

"-using Marcus' comm. We need reinforcements at the North Gate; we have men down and about a dozen hostiles. Out."

The loud BOOM of an explosion sounded from back the way she had came from. She flinched, adrenaline starting to course through her body, before turning to look dawn the way she came. Her ears tried to discern any other noise through her helmet, but it was hopeless. Her vox whined sharply in her ear before Smith came back on the line; "Lily, listen to me. I need you to go back to the entrance. I need to know what that explosion was. My cameras are offline in that area but I'm sure you got the message."

"Yes sir, I understand."

"We'll be there in a few minutes. You don't need to kill anyone, just see what happened. Try not to let the shit hit the fan."

"Okay... Stay on the line though... If those cameras come back on, I want to know."

Lily picked herself up, walking over to the nearby corpse. She grabbed a pistol and some spare magazines from the ammo belt on its waist. It was a newer Colt variant, dual magazine with a tactical flashlight slung under the barrel. It was a nice gun, even if it was prone to jamming.

She strapped the belt and pistol around her waist and headed off in the direction of the explosion.

**

In a few minutes she came to a scene of complete carnage. The hall lights were out, the flashlight on her pistol only illuminating a portion of the entrance hall. The bodies of several dead stealth troops scattered around the hall, the smell of cooked meat coming off their corpses. She took this all in quickly. She was surprised that no liquid nitrogen was hissing out of the pipes, the insulating agent keeping them intact. She didn't know whether or not that was good or bad.

Warren was still slumped where he had fallen. She crouched next to him, checking for a pulse. He was alright, but he would be unconscious for a while yet. Obviously he didn't set off the charge...

Her pistol held in front of her, Lily slunk forward into the entrance hall sticking closer to the walls of the corridor. Her boots made a wet squelching noise when a pool of semi-dried blood stuck to her shoes, and her foot hit a fleshy object that rolled away down the corridor. She didn't look down, instead closing her eyes for a moment to suppress the wave of nausea that overcame her.

Up ahead was a body in charred-black armour lying in a heap surrounded by shards of broken glass and bone fragments. Keeping her pistol levelled at the body, she slowly crept forward and kicked the body with her foot. In an explosion of activity, the man kicked out his leg, sweeping Lily off of her feet. He lunged on top of her, pulling her arm sharply behind her back and ripping the pistol from her hands. The barrel of the weapon thudded into her neck as her assailant held her down.

"Lily? What the hell? Where did you come from? I thought you were killed in the blast!" Exclaimed Marcus as he got up off of her and helping her to her feet.

"Marcus? Oh my God! What in the world happened here?"

"It was that POW! I swear that bastard almost got me killed, but somehow he managed to detonate that charge! I think I killed everyone not in power armour!"

"Are you sure you're talking about the same guy you would've killed an hour ago?"

"Yeah... I... I guess I really misjudged the poor bastard. That took some serious balls! He's got to be dead now, nothing could have survived that."

"I wouldn't tell him that," smirked Lily, her gaze fixed on something behind him. He turned around to see a mangled corpse being shoved to one side as John struggled to his knees. He tried to stand, only to shout and fall to one knee.

**

Lily and Marcus exchanged glances before running to his aid. "Don't try to stand. Lie down. We'll get you help, but you need to focus on staying awake, okay?"

John looked around, his vision blurred and unfocused. He felt numb, his body almost moving by itself. He was pushed on his back by two hazy outlines, darkness crowding the edges of his vision. Stars danced in front of his eyes as he slipped into empty bliss again that night.

CHAPTER 6

Denver, Colorado

1954 Hours, July 29** th ***, 2052*

John woke the following morning to the sound of voices nearby, his body sluggish and weak.

"Well we can't just throw him back in his cell..."

"Why not? He could have been the death of us all last night!"

John opened one eye, revealing the armoured shapes of Warren and Marcus. They were both tensed and it looked like a fight was highly possible.

"Yeah, but you saw what he did. He saved your ass. He saved all of us. "

"He knocked me out, stole my weapon, and shot you in the chest!"

"Yeah, but he killed all of those infiltrators. Without him, I'd be dead anyways!"

"Not if we had stuck to the plan! Besides, we could have killed Voke along with them instead of having him escape!"

"Shut up Warren, you don't know that!"

A new voice barked out from somewhere out of John's line of sight. John recognized it instantly.

"BOTH OF YOU; SHUT THE HELL UP!" commanded Smith, silence befalling the room. He waited a moment for the two to face him before continuing, "Warren, go run another security check on all the bulkheads. Marcus, I want you to check the armoury for anything missing. Maybe the bastard took something with him. Corporal Ferris, you can sit up now."

John did as he was told as Warren left the room cursing and muttering under his breath. He sat up, wincing as pain erupted across his chest and stomach.

"Whoa, not so fast there! As good as our medical facility is, you aren't healed yet! You've only been stitched together for a few hours now!" warned Smith.

John waited for the pain to subside before looking around. The white walls and stench of antiseptics proved that this was definitely an infirmary. Several machines were hooked up to his arms, including a heart monitor and IV drip feed. Glancing down at his chest, he saw it was completely wrapped in bandages.

"You had a seven different chunks of shrapnel in you stomach. You're lucky they didn't hit anything too important. One kidney is fried. We're growing you a clone now and it should be done in two days. Several intestinal breeches were sealed with synthetic skin and your liver had to be cut in two to halt the bleeding. All in all, I'd say you got away easy. The guy on top of you was only ribbons of flesh and fragments of broken bone."

"What happened? After I was out, I mean?" questioned John.

"You proved me right, John. You did the right thing even though you could easily have escaped. But somehow, you managed to prove everyone else wrong. Even Marcus has had a change of heart. But I wouldn't want to stick around Warren too long, though. You've been out of it for three days, but you didn't miss much. We managed to gather our dead and wounded, lose some territory, and win it back again."

"Well, what happens now?" asked John, amazed he had been unconscious for three days.

"That all depends. What do you want to do?"

"I... I don't know," muttered John.

"Well, the raid we're planning has been moved up. We can't risk a breech in security like the one last week. Besides, our 'army' is a logistics nightmare. I'm surprised we've lasted this long."

"So you said something earlier about getting me to help?"

"Yes, I was thinking that you could get the men familiar with the layout of the base. It would help a lot if we manage to last long enough to launch our attack. Also, I have an idea I will tell you about later."

"What do you mean 'last long enough'?"

Smith sighed heavily. "Truth is the war isn't going good for us. Every time we win some ground, the Humanists fall back and shell the area before coming back and mopping up the remains. We have numbers on our side for now, but all our able-bodied troops have little or no experience handling a weapon. More than half of our gene-project allies don't... uh...have the intelligence... to... ah... fight effectively."

"Yeah, I know how they are mostly mind-dull. It's not really a secret."

"Well, hopefully our researchers can fix that. I hear they have a few ideas, but honestly, neutralizing the effects of the gene-limitations will take longer than this war will last. Unless we can get our hands on all that military hardware at the air force base, we won't last another month if we're lucky."

"Well, what if I did help you? How long would you last then?"

Smith grinned before replying; "Then I think we might have a chance of winning this war."

**

Smith left John alone for a while, allowing John to sleep to recuperate his lost energy. His dreams were fevered and unfocused. He kept seeing someone crouched over him, violently shaking him awake. The sky above was black, split with veins of orange. The face was only an outline shrouded in shade and darkness, completely unrecognizable. The shouting grew louder, becoming a whirlwind of sound. Then the sky started to fall and a sharp pain like hot branding iron being pushed into his skin lit up in his abdomen.

John awoke to find he was lying in a pool of his own sweat, a fever overtaking him. That damned kidney! The doctors said the pain flares would go away soon, but they still hurt like hell! It has been four days since they put the damn thing in for crying out loud!

John grimaced, clenching his teeth to fight the pain. He desperately grabbed for his tracellophen injection button. He pushed the button repetitively, the pain quickly starting to fade. He lay back, keeping the injector button in his hand, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

**

John opened his eyes slowly, blinking quickly to clear his vision. It took him only seconds to notice he wasn't alone.

"About time you woke up." Stated Marcus, who was slouched lazily in a chair he had pulled into the room.

"What time is it?" asked John groggily.

"About 1:30 p.m. You were sleeping for at least 14 hours." replied Marcus.

John nodded, before doing a double take towards his guest. "Whoa, wait, what are you doing here?"

"I never did thank you for saving my life, even if you had to 'kill' me to do so." shrugged Marcus.

"Yeah you're welcome. I mean... err... I mean sorry... Whatever happened to that whole 'I'm gonna blow your brains out' bit? I thought you wanted to kill me."

"What you did wasn't what I would've done, but it was still the right thing to do. I respect the choice you made and have... revised... my opinion of you. Hell, that took some serious balls."

"Did I get all of 'em? Did I at least get Vernon...? Varo... V... whatever his name was?"

"You mean Voke, and yeah, from what we can piece together, you got them all. Well, that is except Auburn. He got away somehow. We have security footage that shows him escaping through a maintenance hatch."

"Good. That Voke guy really pissed me off."

"Yeah, me too; he was the asshole that gave me this scar," noted Marcus, pointing to the scar on the left side of his face, "I would've enjoyed killing him myself, but hey, you beat me to it."

"Hell, I owed him one too you know."

"Yeah... Well, I'll see you later. I'd better let you get back to being bored. And healing. You need anything, give a shout," concluded Marcus as he opened the door, "Oh and one more thing. Try to take it easy on the drugs. They are absolute hell to get out of your system."

**

A few hours later Lily payed him a visit. She entered while he was sleeping and waited for him to wake up. When he did open his eyes, he almost had a heart attack when she simply said hi.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!"

"It's okay... You just surprised me, that's all."

"I just came to say that I am proud of you. You are doing the right thing by helping us."

"I'm glad you think so. Right now, I'm feeling like it was a bad idea."

"That's just the pain talking. You really are a sweet man John Taylor."

At that, she left leaving only a tray of food and a bouquet of flowers in the room.

**

Besides from the occasional doctor or nurse, no one else stopped to visit. Marcus would come in from time to time, bringing him books and data slates to help pass the time. But even with his new found friend helping him out it was a long and painful few days until he was up and walking about again.

And he found that Smith had been right about him the whole time.

CHAPTER 7

Denver, Colorado

1243 Hours, August 11** th ***, 2052*

**

"That concludes today's briefing. I want reports from each of you about your units' status by 1200 hours. Dismissed." The assembled congregation of 'scratch company' officers and soldiers filed out towards their respective barracks, discussing the briefing and current news.

"What do you think about this plan?" questioned Marcus, nudging John in the ribs.

"I dunno... I can't see it working too well. Then again, I can't remember Smith being wrong about anything before," replied John with a smirk creeping across his face.

It had been three days since John had recovered from his wounds. Since then he had thrown his previous allegiance to the wind. He found he was no longer troubled by the prospect of gene projects being equals. Hell, Marcus could easily be considered his best friend, even though they would willingly have killed each other after their first meeting. The rest of the squad came around to welcome John, even Warren though he wouldn't say so openly.

Smith was unsure of what to do with John so he did what he thought was ideal; he folded him into the squad. At first there were protests from John and the team, but Smith had managed to qualm any problems before they arose. Smith told both his soldiers and John himself what he genuinely thought of him, saying that he was a quick learner and definitely combat-capable. He justified this action by saying the team could use someone as determined and inventive as John. Besides, they were down a few men as it was after the raid. It also allowed Smith to keep an eye on John in case he tried anything to help his former allies. Not that he expected that it would come to that of course. He prided himself in his judge of character.

"John, Marcus, and Warren! Stay here for a moment, I have to explain your roles in this in more detail," intoned Smith as they made their way to the door.

Turning, the three men waited patiently for the rest of the crowd to disperse, leaving just them, Smith, and Sasha Daystar in the briefing room. Smith strode over to the centre table and activated the built-in hologram projector. A semi-clear satellite image was rendered in the air displaying some kind of compound on an escarpment to the East of the city.

"You will be charged with attaining transport from this compound here to enable our forces to assault the far runway of the base via an aerial assault. Our forces are primarily land based with only a few armour units dispersed haphazardly amongst them. We have only three remaining air vehicles, two of which are old gunships from the 30's. The last one is a lone Bell Boeing QTR transport from a hangar at the civilian airport. It is piloted by one Gunnery Sergeant Tom Walt. I am sure you two will remember him," nodded Smith, " It will take you to this position south of the compound from which you and a hand-picked unit of ex-marines will join up with two of my agents I sent earlier this week to recon the area. From there you will proceed to the compound and neutralize the enemy opposition. The intel gathered from the two agents state that there is a force of about 40 humanists holding the position with only light mortar support. I leave the specifics of how you are going to do succeed in this assault, but I strongly recommend taking out their vox tower at the west side of the base located here,"

"You mean you have no plan for us? That's a little...odd," pointed out John. This drew odd looks from the other Expeditors and a face-palm from Daystar. "What?"

"Uhh... John? I know you haven't been with us long, but weren't you listening to what Smith said when he offered you this position?" questioned Marcus.

"I- Well... Um... no... not really. Why? Did I miss something?"

"To repeat myself," sighed Smith, "I said that 'we guard the righteous with any means, but follow nobody's rules and offer only suggestions in the arts of war and diplomacy.' This counts for our own command structure as well. Even though I am technically in command, I try to allow freedom wherever possible for my soldiers. This enables them to use their strengths while negating their weaknesses by fighting on their own terms. I supply you with the task and the basic concept, but it is up to you to decide how you are going to proceed."

"Oh. Then I guess I'll shut up now." Groaned John.

"Relax defector, I'll show you the ropes on this mission." Chuckled Warren.

"You should meet with the marine team leader sometime today. You ship out tomorrow. I will probably not see you again until that time. Any questions?" finished Smith. There were none. "Very well. Dismissed!"

The troops filed out of the room, contemplating their mission. Warren left immediately, veering off at an intersection in the dimly lit tunnels. John followed Marcus to his cell, flopping down lazily in his cot.

"So... Does this mean I get to use power armour now?" questioned John.

"I don't know. Probably."

"Well then..."

"Well what?"

"We should be getting my armour."

"Your armour?"

"Well, I figure there's an extra suit around. What with there being a few gaps in the squad you know."

"Well yeah, but you can't just say a suit is yours. There's a ritual you'll have to go through."

"Like what? Are you going to yell to the heavens and pour goat blood over me?"

"No, there's no shouting," sniggered Marcus, "Seriously though, you are going to have to clear it with the boss."

Just then the wall vox chimed, and a static-filled voice crackled across the intercom; "Marcus. Bring John to the secondary vehicle bay. If he's going out on this mission, he's going to need some equipment. Get suited up and then get here ASAP Oh, and tell him to wear something that goes good with red. The goat doesn't want its blood to clash with his outfit. Out."

John and Marcus exchanged looks before releasing a nervous laugh. Marcus stood, ushering John out of the room and closing the door. He reappeared a minute later fully armoured. His voice came through the helmet vox distorted slightly by the static to the point that it had a harsh metallic accent. "Come on; let's go get this over with then."

The pair wound their way through the underground passages and tunnels until they were in the vehicle bay. The room was crammed full of vehicles of every make and purpose, from military APCs to recreational ATVs. Everything that could possibly be used was around, including a large, half-armoured bus that a few mechanics and support crew were clustered around attempting to get to start. The high ceiling contained recessed fluorescent lights which cast a harsh radiance about the room, complimented by the welding flare generated by several crew working on their tank. John almost got ran over by a forklift hauling a rack of surface-to-air missiles to an AA tank.

"Come on now, they're just over there," Marcus' helmet vox hissed, his arm pointing to a secluded part of the room obviously cleared for the occasion. Smith and Daystar were assembled with several other members of the expeditor team. Smith greeted the two men quickly but curtly before introducing the other members of the team, some of which John knew already.

Warren was there also, to show John the basics of the suit's adaptive camouflage feature, and Marcus was to show John the muscle fibres and how to use them. The new faces included Samantha, a young blond woman who took care of the unit's on board computer systems, and Tracer; a brutish grizzly-morph who was going to equip John with any weapons he will need for the coming mission.

"I never thought these tin cans had so much stuff packed into them," stated John, "They're like walking tanks!"

"Not quite," quipped Smith, "the exo-suits are walking tanks. These are more like soldier... 'enablers'. They build upon what you already can do, while providing a fully comprehensive awareness of your surroundings."

"Holy crap, Owen, how long did you work on that speech? Are you running for PM or something?" laughed Samantha, jabbing him in the ribs.

"No; ruler of the free world would suffice." Smirked Smith, "Shit, think big or go home you hippie."

"Well you can count on me not voting for you in the future. You could hardly find your way out of a wet bag."

"I got you outta Detroit last year, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but now you got us into this mess. Personally I'd rather be dealing with a bunch of terrorists than these Humanist pricks." roared Tracer.

"What is it today, 'team up on the guy who saved our asses too many times to count' day?" laughed Smith.

"No, it's 'why is this guy in charge, he should be cleaning the latrines' day!" snorted Marcus.

"Okay, okay, that's enough. It's obvious you guys can't keep up with me, so lets get on with it shall we?" finished Smith, "Ferris, come here. Before you can wear the armour of our unit, you must first take our pledge. Raise your right hand and hold it across your heart, like so."

John held his hand up and made a fist over his heart, mirrored by everyone else in attendance. Smith quickly glanced around, ensuring everyone was silent and in the correct position before continuing. "Do you, John Ferris, swear to aid others in worthy causes to better their and others' lives in the name of equality and justice?"

"I swear." Answered John honestly, feeling a sense of righteousness come over him.

"Do you swear to aid your fellow Expeditors in the prosecution of justice, unwavering and to the full extent of your abilities, even if it means travelling to the deepest part of hell itself?"

"I do."

"Do you take Tracer to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I d- hey, wait a minute!"

The group broke into laughter. Everyone, that is, except Tracer. "Gets them every time." sniggered Warren.

"Oh come on! That's the second time you used my name now! In a row!" complained Tracer.

"I'm sorry, it must be your feminine charm. But, moving on." Smith gestured for John to kneel. John fell to one knee, bowing his head, "Then in the name of all that is right and truthful, I hear your pledge and welcome you. Welcome brother, to our covenant," stated Smith, holding his hand out to pull John to his feet.

John took his hand, allowing himself to be helped up.

"And this," continued Smith, gesturing to Samantha and Marcus, "is to help you aid us and others."

Samantha and Marcus pulled a sheet off of a trolley, revealing a suit of power armour.

"Now, with all the formalities aside, allow me to introduce you to your new armour. This is Mk IX Gladius powered armour, designed and manufactured in Canada shortly before The Signing about five years ago. It contains many advanced systems not found anywhere else, most of which the others will show you, to better help you deal with any situation you may find yourself in on the battlefield. It is a predecessor to the armour that the rest of us wear, but all of the primary functions are the same. I wish we could get you some Gladiator plate, but we're kind of cut off right now. It obviously protects against shrapnel and small arms, but try not to get hit by anything larger than a pistol round. Feel free to make any aesthetic or functional changes you want, but make sure you don't compromise the suit. We might need it back. Now, if you don't mind, I need to attend to other, more urgent, tasks."

Smith left the room, whistling to himself as he went. Daystar followed, saying she had to see how the war was going. Samantha stepped up to John, and told him to relax as he was suited up for the first time by the other three. He would be armoured this way only once before being taught how to put on the armour by himself.

It started with a heavy-duty KEVLAR undersuit to protect his joints, but also to stop his skin from being pinched by the servos and muscle fibres that were layered on top of it. Constructed from carbon nanotubes, they were extremely lightweight and only three centimetres thick, but incredibly strong, as each was about the same strength as a two-inch thick rod of tungsten. The bunches of superconductor power distribution connections were followed his limbs to the small of his back, on top of a large, but flexible, plate hooked onto his undersuit by way of large clamps at his sides. On top of all of this, solid plates of 1/2 inch titanium were fitted into place anywhere flexibility wasn't required; the forearms, shins, thighs, and the bottom half of the upper arm. Sections of layered steel were put over his chest, hips, and back to allow John to move while still providing a superb amount of protection. The final part of this layer was a set of large shoulder pads that came halfway down his upper arms and protruded a full inch from his undersuit.

The armour weighed a ton! John couldn't move now if he tried. All he could do was nod to Marcus, who held his helmet in his hands. It looked almost like a snowmobile helmet, but with the bottom of the frontal section pushed inwards and the visor angled outwards before it cut back into the bottom of the helmet. The sides along the lower rim were exaggerated, coming out from the basic shape and housing all manner of sensor and filtration suites. The helmet had a small lip coming out only a few centimetres from the top of the visor. There were ports located along the upper crown of the helm for possible upgrades and experimental systems covered in a thick plastic.

The entire armour was finished in a matte-black colour scheme, the only irregularity to the paint job was the presence of a small sword and skull motif on the right-hand shoulder pad. It was almost identical to the newer model armour that the others wore, but it lacked some of the sharper angles and it had a different battery, but it contained everything to make him a master of war. John found himself oddly pleased with his new combat getup.

The whole process took about five minutes before the power pack was placed on the small of his back and connected to the armour ports. Suddenly, the armour lost weight as the muscle-fibre bundles compensated to hold the weight of the armoured plates. The suit literally weighed nothing! John could feel the strength contained in the armour and couldn't wait to use it, but he was told to stay still. Sam keyed a few code strings into her laptop, concentrating on the lines of binary blinking in a sympathetic response. John tried moving his arm, but Tracer stepped up and stopped him before he could do anything.

"Trust me; that is not the best thing to do right now."

"If you don't wait for your body signature to be analyzed by the suit's computer, you'll become one gory human pretzel. It has happened before." Warned Samantha with a malicious smile, "Running user interface now." She tapped a few keys on her laptop which was now connected to the suit through a wireless data channel.

Streaming lines of data flickered across the suit's HUD, temporarily disorientating John before a full-body diagram appeared in the centre of the visor. The cross section started to turn green as a soothing female voice came over the helmet's internal vox.

"Scan complete. Re-routing subsystems... Subsystems re-routed. Re-booting suit capacitors.... Suit capacitors running at 100%. All systems ready. Mark IX armour now ready for user input. Hello, John."

"Pretty cool huh?" smiled Marcus, "Feels like a video game, eh?

"This is... awesome!" breathed John.

"It had better be. The suit cost about 70 million dollars. Now come on, try it out. Walk around a bit."

John took a step forward cautiously, unsure of how the suit would react. To his surprise, it reacted instantly and with no resistance to his movements. He walked a few paces, unsure of what to do next.

"It feels like it's not even there! What now?" asked John.

"Try this," suggested Warren as he suddenly disappeared from view.

"What the hell? How do you do that?"

"Ask the suit." put in Sam.

"Ask it? What do you mean?"

"The suit's AI has a tutorial system. Blink three times to activate it." lectured Sam.

John blinked, and the automated voice was emitted from the earpiece.

"Welcome to the Mark IX power armour tutorial. It will take you over the basics of what this suit can do and what it's strengths and weaknesses are. Move the corresponding finger to the options displayed on the heads up display to run the tutorial."

A diagram flowed into view, showing the different lesson that the AI could run to acclimatize John to the suit.

"What do I do now?"

"Just clench a finger to select the training program. You already know how to move, so select the stealth mode tutorial by moving your left index finger." suggested Warren, his voice seemingly materializing from thin air.

John clenched his finger and the suit's visor changed again. A diagram of the suit expanded from the bottom, doing a rotation before the voice continued.

"You have selected the stealth tutorial. The Mark IX model power armour features a fully adaptive photo realistic camouflage system. Through the use of surrounding-capture fibre optics and cameras spread across the suit, a photo of the area around the suit can be generated and then displayed through semi-holographic projections created by display nodes at key locations on the user. Through this technology, items on the outside of the suit or held in the hands, such as grenades or weapons, can be cloaked effectively. This setting works best while the user is completely still as movement will result in a delay in the capture/display process which creates a visible 'heat haze' affect. To activate this function, the user need only wink his/her left eye twice."

John only understood abut half of what he heard, but now knew how to activate it. He winked twice, and he disappeared from the others' view.

"Good. You are now effectively hidden from any enemy unfortunate enough to be lacking a pair of infra-red goggles. Try not to move around too much, otherwise there's a motion blur effect. That finishes that." declared Warren, "Oh, and if you want to see cloaked enemies or friends, I'd suggest using your own infrared. Just clench your pinky. Left for infra-red, right for night vision."

John tried them both, the infra-red boggling his blind for a second before he turned it off. There would be time to check those settings out later. He disabled the stealth system and took a look at the other tutorials present.

"Okay, the suit's systems look like they're all in the green zone... So far so good," stated Sam, "Now try the suit's strength setting."

John scanned through the tutorials before coming across the one named 'Strength mode'. He activated by winking his right eye twice. Instantly, the suit seemed to tense up a bit. The tutorial voice toned in again to inform John on how to use it.

"You have selected the strength tutorial. Mark IX power armour is laden with muscle-fibre bundles along all the limbs and abdomen. The muscle layer is below the armour plating to protect against intentional or accidental damage. The muscles can carry up to 200 pounds per arm, 450 pounds on the back, and 300 pounds per leg, giving a total weight capacity of over 800 pounds, as long as it is distributed evenly across the armour and/or on the back of the suit. The user is advised against using this setting for no longer than fifteen minutes as the muscle fibres raise greatly in temperature when strain is placed on them. The suit's internal atmospheric control can cool the user, but the muscles themselves can potentially burn out and stop functioning, possibly disabling the armour."

Warren pulled a cart laden with 6' I-beam steel girders from the side of the room. He paused for a second before grabbing one and lifting it. With one hand! He quickly picked up another and piled it onto the other girder. He was now holding about 120 pounds in one hand; without even breaking a sweat. He managed to pile yet another beam, before turning to John and nodding.

John took the hint, walking over to the cart. He reached out hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. Shrugging internally, John grabbed the beam and pulled upwards. The beam came free as if it were a matchstick! He too managed to carry about three beams on one arm. He hardly felt it, but a red warning icon flashed in his HUD, warning him he was approaching his load limit. He set the beams back down, still amazed at what the suit could do.

"Okay... that was pretty cool." laughed John.

"I guess that leaves the weapon system," sighed Tracer, "come over here for a second.

John walked over to where Tracer had set up a table of weapons spread across a sheet. There were makes of various classes, makes, countries, and ages on display. John recognized several of the weapons; here was a P90 submachine gun, an ACR, a Sabre 190, an old model Glock 19, and a brand new Barrett 50 cal. Tracer plucked a small boot knife off of the portion of the table filled with blades.

Tracer tossed the knife, the small blade spinning as it sliced through the air towards John. John flinched, but somehow managed to catch the knife by the handle. Shocked, he held the blade in front of his face, studying the shimmering weapon. The knife became outlined in blue and a readout popped up on the left of the screen. It measured the length, weight, balance, and more, the statistics spooling below his left eye. John could tell that the suit's AI had analyzed the weapon, noting the strength of the weapon and the possible range.

When John looked back at Tracer, he had a knife of his own selected. It was a 12" bowie knife, complete with a sabre handle and spiked pommel. Tracer dropped into a crouched fighting stance before lunging at John. Surprised, John raised his own blade to attempt to block Tracer's swipe.

The clash of metal on metal sounded; John had miraculously deflected the attack. Tracer was now lit up in orange with several red spots lighting up his neck, the backs of his arms, his armpits, and on his temples.

"In case you were wondering, the red spots indicate the weak spots in the armour. Your suit has effectively scanned Tracer, showing where to hit to cause a mortal wound. It has factored in size, species, your weapon, his weapon, your strength, and many other factors that could influence the outcome of the fight. It can even tell you where to put your blade and when, enabling you to block and strike with incredible precision." put in Samantha who was watching from the sidelines, "Just trust it. It knows what it is doing. And its set to the sparring mode, so you won't hurt him."

"I think he's the one about to get hurt, Sam," Laughed Tracer as he lunged, aiming the knife for John's sternum.

The suit saw the move coming and warned John to dodge. John sidestepped, putting himself on the inside of Tracer's guard. He punched with his free hand, landing a blow under the arm where a red area appeared. Tracer stumbled, shocked at what had happened. John whirled around, kicking with his right foot. Tracer was sent to the ground as his centre of balance was shifted backwards.

John stepped froward, putting his foot on Tracer's back. Tracer didn't move, instead putting his hands on his head.

"Do you yield?" asked John, unable to keep the confidence from his voice.

"First I have to tell you something." sighed Tracer.

"What?"

"Your enemies won't ask for a yield."

Tracer rolled suddenly, shaking Johns foot off his back and causing John to pause in surprise. Tracer pressed the advantage, sweeping John off his feet with a low, swooping kick. John came hurtling downwards and Tracer caught him in a solid embrace. He grabbed John's knife hand, forcing it to come up under John's chin. He tapped the blade carefully against the neck guard.

"You would be dead about now. I win. You lose. End of story." chuckled Tracer. He let John go, shoving him aside and standing up.

"Come on. Get up." sighed Tracer, offering to help John get off his back.

John grabbed Tracer's outstretched arm and allowed Tracer to pull him to his feet. Tracer collected the weapons and put them back on the table.

"Your suit will do the scanning procedure for any weapon you pick up. Knives, pistols, machine guns, rocket launchers, you name it. Hell, it can even relay instructions on how to drive heavy vehicles or pilot aircraft."

"Sounds cool. Can I try out a gun?"

"Later. See me at the range in a few hours. I'll issue you a gun and other equipment there. Until then, I am afraid that we'll have to part. I need to get going. Owen wants the mall by the highway scouted for supplies by 1700 hours."

"Alright then. See you later."

Tracer grunted, folding up the cloth and weapons before leaving the hangar.

"I got to go too. The security system won't upgrade itself." stated Sam.

Sam said her goodbyes while packing up her laptop, wishing the other three luck on their mission.

"What next?" asked John.

"Well... We could go see the other soldiers. The ones supposed to be coming with us, I mean." suggested Warren.

Marcus put his helmet on and consulted the mission parameters; "We're supposed to be going out with troopers of the 3rd Battalion. Aren't they the guys who secured the library a few days ago?"

"Yeah. From what I hear, those guys are all ex-marines; the best we have. Well, besides us that is." Winked Warren.

"Where they made from the 248th by any chance?" questioned John.

"Yeah they were. Why?"

"I used to know some of those guys when I was stationed at the base. Did they go through a purge like the other battalions at the base?"

"Hmm... Yes. It says that they lost a third of their unit to the inter-unit conflict."

"That's like... sixty men."

"They were a lucky unit. Others lost over 75% or the Humanists in their mobs won out. We've only got about 600 trained ex-military personnel. That includes militia and retirees. We were lucky enough to get that many. These civil wars split everything, albeit unevenly."

"Wow. I wonder if anyone I know made it..."

"We're not going to find out standing here. Lets go take a look."

**

Smith entered the command room, Daystar following closely. Clusters of officers sat or stood around the table assessing the events from above relayed onto the projector. The lights were dimmed to allow the projector to better display the data but the radiance of energy from the gathered soldiers lit up the room.

"Dutch, status report!" barked Daystar.

"Our forces have managed to fortify Central Square and have successfully advanced three kilometres into the industrial section. We lost a kilometre in the market district. Oh, and the Humanists have retaken Invesco."

"Shit! We need that stadium as a staging ground. What units are close?"

"We have a mixed resistance unit nearby, along with elements of the 15th that can meet up with them within ten minutes."

"How many hostiles?"

"The last estimate puts the number at about 150-200, with a couple supporting armour units."

"How many make up our units?"

"About 100."

They're going to need support if they are going to retake the stadium... Are our birds ready to go?" interjected Smith..

"Yes sir, they report all systems go. The Havocs are refuelled from their last run and the QTR is itching for action." reported the aide.

"I don't want to risk our choppers on that stadium no matter how beneficial that stadium would be." sighed Sasha.

"We'd only need them for a single attack run. Just long enough to keep the Humanists' heads down so the QTR can land. Then my men and I can help the scratch companies."

"It's running a high bet, but it could work. You will only get one salvo from the gunships before I want them out of range of any hostile AA. Have your troopers ready to go in ten minutes, east hangar. I'll contact the units in the field and tell them to await your arrival."

"Yes mam. And don't worry. I'll be sure to bring you back something nice." smiled Smith as he bowed mockingly. He turned and left the room, keying a few buttons on his wrist comm.

Sasha watched him go, frowning. It took her a while to notice Dutch was watching her closely.

"Mam, permission to speak freely?" he spoke up.

"Go ahead Dutch."

"If you don't mind me asking, why would you let him go when you got four other requests earlier from more... numerous units?"

"Officially, he has the most qualifications for the job."

"And unofficially?"

"I have... faith in him."

"Faith or some other emotion?" asked Dutch cheekily.

"Lets keep it at faith, trooper. Now get back to work."

"Sure thing, mam."

In the back of her mind, Sasha was a mess of emotions. She decided to go to the hangar to see him off.

**

Smith keyed his helmet mic after tuning to the right frequency. "This is Smith. All Phoenix squad members are to report to the east hangar immediately. All current tasks can either be given to other units or postponed until we get back. Get ready for a combat drop."

That said, Smith headed towards his chambers. They were almost empty; a result of a life of undercover operations and minimalist living. He walked over to the far wall and put his hand over the built-in palm scanner. A green light lit up on the door and the wall folded away to reveal a gun collector's dream where once an entertainment system had been placed.

Inside was a collection of weapons suited for a wide variety of missions. There were sniper rifles, shotguns, assault rifles, SMGs, pistols, rocket launchers, dart rifles, and many more. He stood there,thinking of what to use. After a moment of running through situations in his head, he decided on a mid range suite. He pulled his treasured R97 "Fang" assault rifle out and mag-locked it to his back. As a sidearm he pulled the a Desert Eagle from its rack and slipped it into his chest holster. He grabbed a few frag grenades and a couple of flash bangs, two combat knives, and a flashlight, slipping them into their respective places on his equipment belt. He pulled enough ammo to fill his chest rig and leg satchels.

About to leave, he paused before grabbing an extra P90 SMG from the wall locker and a few mags of ammo for it. Satisfied, he left the room. He met up with Tracer in the hallway, who was on his way to the armoury.

"What should I bring for the newbie?" asked Tracer.

"Just a few grenades and standard equipment pieces; I've got his gun already. Oh, and a pistol too, if you can. Might as well give him the whole package."

"You're gonna give him your P90? You've had the thing for years. Didn't you kill that dictator in Zimbabwe with it?"

"Yeah, two rounds. Last few in the clip. The bugger almost made it to the chopper, too. But, if my memory serves me right, the lad had a P90 on him when we took him captive. We took one from him, so I'm giving him mine."

Tracer looked dumbfounded for a moment or two before answering. "Sometimes boss, I wonder how someone like you kills for a living."

"Me too, Tracer. Me too." laughed Smith.

At that Tracer left, hurrying down the hall towards the squad's armoury. Smith continued on his way, running into a few soldiers and officers that he quickly filled in on the situation and got to fill in the empty slots that would be left when his squad left.

Finally, he exited the building and walked across the parking lot to the waiting helicopter. Most of the squad was forming up outside of the massive QTR helicopter, the others emerging from the station after him. The last two Havoc attack helicopters were crouched at either side of it, nestled like baby birds to their mother.

The Havocs were ugly helicopters, compiled of sharp angles and deadly weapon systems. They were powered by a single rotor like most helicopters, but they had eight blades in place of the usual two or four. A pair of stubby wings protruded from either side of the hull that were loaded with various missile racks. A wicked autocannon was mounted into an under-slung turret controlled by the copilot's helmet. Their tails were extended sharply behind the chassis and sported dual stabilizing rotors on either side. They were brutal killing machines that were made for lethal functionality; not aesthetic appeal.

The transport was an entirely different story. It was designed as a larger version of the smaller osprey VTOL aircraft and its four tilt-rotor engines enabled it to take off and land vertically. They were laid out two to a side at opposite ends of the vehicle. It was capable of carrying up to two fully loaded infantry fighting vehicles and two squads of troops at the same time. It had been repainted from its original white colour to pitch black. Someone had lovingly painted a silver dragon on either side of the hull next to the cockpit. Underneath the dragon "Righteous Flame" was painted on in white with elegantly precise scripture. "Ol' Painless says eat shit and die, you Humanist fucktards!" was painted in red under an obviously new 40mm autocannon. Originally unarmed, the mechanics had had a blast with it, practically bolting on any spare armaments they could find. They had armed it with four belt fed grenade launchers; each staring out of openings in the sides of the hull at the front and rear end of the troop hold. There were two to each side, giving the transport an almost three hundred and sixty degree field of fire. An intimidating .50 cal machine gun was poised at the back ramp to cover loading and unloading troops. It was mounted on a swivel to allow it to be pushed out of the way so that vehicles could drive in and out with ease.

"She looks good, gunny!" called Smith from the entrance of the hangar.

"It took a long time, sir, but it was certainly worth it!" replied Gunnery Sergeant Tom Walt from the gaping maw of the main ramp.

"I can see that. That missile strike seemed not to have crippled her after all!"

"Hah! It was just a scratch. It'll take more than a few petty RPGs to take my girl out!"

"Good to hear. Now stop wasting time and prep for take off!" Laughed Smith.

Gunny waved him off before disappearing into the cockpit to start up the machine's rotors. Smith approached Marcus who had formed up the squad for departure. He nodded before straightening up and activating the megaphone built into his helmet.

"SQUAD! ATTEN-SHUN!"

Every member of the squad slammed their fist to their breastplates in unison, a resounding clash echoing around the landing pad. Even John had clued in and came to. With the losses of Auburn and Luke, the squad now had a total of nine members, including John's new inception and Smith himself. There was Warren and Marcus, Smith's 'official' second and third in command. Lily was off to the right, Tracer to the left. Both had been distributing equipment but they had stopped when Smith had arrived. Sam and Tyler were in the front middle, always in competition to be first up the drop ramp. Paul held his sniper rifle in front of him, trying not to draw attention to himself while he tried to adjust his scope. Smith let it slide, thinking that it would be better to have him combat ready than parade ground polite. John's body language registered confusion, but he had followed Warren and Marcus outside to the makeshift helipad. All of them were more or less ready and definitely willing.

"SQUAD, AT EASE!"

The squad loosened up a bit, spreading their legs and placing their hands behind their back. Owen smiled to himself, proud of his comrades. Many of them had been through many trials with him, both mentally and physically, over the years but this civil war was by far the worst. Other expeditor squads across the globe had gone dark, either turned to the Humanist viewpoint or annihilated. His fellows had managed to stay together for the most part, with the exception of Auburn. They had somehow found ways to aid the local freedom fighters in creating a standing army, at least west of the Denver area.

"Listen up people," commanded Smith switching to his fatherly voice and toning down the volume, "We have been through a lot these past few weeks. It almost makes Dallas look like a stroll through the park. I would like to say that I am proud to be a member of this prestigious unit. I believe that we can not only win the coming battle, but potentially the war. So without making this any longer and more boring than it needs to be; good luck. From the ashes rises life!"

"Full of hope, free of strife!" chorused the team in response, quoting the unit's mantra. John looked confused, but Smith knew he would catch on soon. Behind them, the rotors whined as they kicked into life and started to spin rapidly, sending loose dirt flying in all directions.. Apparently, Gunny was ready to fly.

"Okay, let's do this. Go, go, go!"

Smith watched the squad embark into the transport, the last few supplies being handed out. Smith put his hand on John's shoulder as he turned to enter the transport, "Aren't you forgetting something, Ferris?"

John paused a moment, obviously thinking. When he came up blank, Smith gave him a hint. "You aren't going to get far without a gun, trooper."

Smith pulled the P90 from the magnetic clamp on his back. He held it out to John, who took it sheepishly. He had completely forgotten about a weapon. He took it uncertainly, his visor quickly assessing the gun's abilities. John thanked Smith for the gun before clambering aboard. He sat down next to Tracer, who nudged him and handed him the rest of his equipment.

"Captain! Is everything ready?" called a voice from behind Smith. He turned to see Sasha Daystar walking towards him, her tail and hair swishing out behind her from the engine downwash.

"Yes ma'am. You come to see us off?"

"I hope you know what you're doing. A lot can be gained or lost from this."

"I know ma'am. We'll get it done."

"I hope so."

"I'll see you when you get back. Until then, take care, Sasha."

"You too Captain."

Smith nodded and started to get on the helicopter when he was turned around. Before he knew it his helmet was off, the warm air hitting his face like a sledgehammer. He was completely shocked when Sasha kissed him deeply. She wrapped her arms around him, the helmet barely clutched in her hands. It was awkward as their mouths did not meet up correctly, but there was still a strong presence of emotion in the kiss. Smith was rigid for a moment before he melted into it. He hugged her back, just now realizing how he felt. In the troop bay cat calls and whistles rang out as the squad witnessed what was happening.

Finally pulling away, Sasha smiled. "You'd better get going, You're needed Colonel."

"Err... yes ma'am," coughed Smith, taking his helmet from Sasha gently and fitting it into place. Smith staggered up the ramp of the troop ramp. Though he couldn't see their faces behind their own helmets, he knew they were all grinning ear to ear. Turning back he saw Sasha still watching him, a shy smile plain on her features. Her tail swayed from side to side quickly and her ears were tilted back slightly. Apparently, she had surprised even herself.

"Paging Colonel Smith! Yes, it was obvious, and welcome to reality" crackled Walt's voice over the intercom as the ramp hissed shut pneumatically. Everyone burst into laughter at that. The rest of the take-off sequence was full of teasing jokes and congratulations.

**

Sasha watched as the transport chopper took off, followed by the pair of attack gunships. She suddenly found herself wondering what would become of this. She slowly wound her way back to the command room hoping that everything would turn out for the better. She had thought of doing something for a while but had never brought up the courage to say or do anything to Owen. She strode happily into the room before she noticed that all the eyes gathered in the room were focused on her.

"What?" she asked hesitantly.

"Nice 'faith', ma'am." snickered Dutch, trying to hide the smile spread plainly on his face. The man was trying desperately not to break into side-tearing laughter, that much was obvious.

"What are you.... OH MY GOD; THE CAMERAS!"

The whole room exploded into howls of laughter and gasps for breath. Sasha turned her face downwards, attempting in vain to hide from view. Dutch meandered over, throwing his arm over Sasha.

"Don't worry boss, we've been waiting for something to happen between you two for a while. We've seen how you look at him. Honestly, I'd have thought one of you would have tried something by now."

"You knew?"

"Ever since you came back with him a few weeks ago, yes."

"Wow... Really? Was it that obvious?"

"You were easier to see through than the Canadian, but I can guarantee you that everyone knew. And I mean everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Oh my god.... yes ma'am, everyone knew. Now that that is said and done, there have been some... developments... since you were gone. The resistance units are in place around the stadium and are awaiting your 'sweetheart's' arrival. The other-"

"Just because my personal life is 'progressing' does not mean that you can use it against me. If you like your face the way it is then I suggest that you keep it formal, Lieutenant." cut in Daystar, now slipping back into the role of nefarious freedom fighter.

"Er... yes ma'am. As I was saying; the other unit, the 15th, is reporting delays. They have apparently encountered resistance on their way. The Phoenocians may be alone with the resistance fighters for a bit. The most recent estimate puts the Righteous Flame ten minutes from the LZ."

"Damn... Is any artillery support in the area? Mortars, howitzers, anything?"

"We've already thought of that ma'am. Even if there were, we don't want to damage the stadium too much lest it lose key structural elements. Invesco is only really useful as a base while it is still standing."

"Okay smart ass, how about armour?"

"No I don't think- oh wait! There is a small column of vehicles moving through the area. They are a bunch of refurbished MAVs and a stolen LAV 67. They report combat readiness. It appears that they were classified as MIA last week when their transponder stopped working. They managed to make it to a checkpoint and receive a replacement."

"Good. Send them in through the South 12 towards the stadium. Tell them to ready up on the opposite end of the field that the others are on. Switch their radios to the Phoenocians' channel and get them to stand by."

Dutch strode away purposefully to deliver the new orders via the communication equipment built into the table. The rest of the congregation turned back to their respective responsibilities, the brief intermission over. It was only a few minutes before something else happened that required Sasha's attention.

"Ma'am! We have activity at the northern quadrant of the commercial district." piqued up a human orderly who watched as a couple dozen red blips sprung up on the holo map.

"Who's in the area?" asked Daystar as she went back to work.

CHAPTER 8

Denver, Colorado

1355 Hours, August 11** th ***, 2052*

John gazed out over the MK 19 grenade launcher he had been tasked to operate, enjoying the view. He fiddled with the automated gun pitch, making the barrel rise and fall. It was the first time he had seen sunlight in about two weeks. The entire world seemed vivid and lively, the colours offering a much longed contrast to the shallow pallet of greys he had become accustomed to. Trees flashed by and the occasional creek glistened with reflected light, beckoning to enjoy life. It wasn't until the smell of smoke and fyceline reached his senses that he looked ahead of him, past the park they were flying over. The city of Denver was awash with great pillars of smoke, a red haze permeating the sky under a blanket of low-lying clouds. The odd boom would reach his ears as the noise of the constant fighting provided a doom-ridden overtone to the area.

The scene below became unsettling as well when they passed over the suburbs. Figures ran around the streets, occasionally pausing to fire weapons. Several of them fell, jinking as bullets struck them. A pickup truck passed by underneath, a machine gun firing from the box. A missile struck its side, making the truck ignite as it exploded. People rushed forward, pulling the still burning bodies from the wreck. John gazed on in horror as a man pulled a pair of ears free from a morph's head. The morph wasn't even dead. John was quickly overcome by a sense of dread as he realized how terrible this whole war was. Was he really on the other side before? The very thought of it made him sick.

"Now do you see what we do, Ferris? Do you see why this has to end?" asked Smith on a direct, and private, link to his armour's helmet.

"This is terrible... How can people do that? Killing is enough, but desecration?"

"Some people care, like you and I, that this is happening and will seek to stop it. Others... Others just want to kill. To maim. To annihilate. The thin layer of society that kept mankind in check all these years has collapsed, revealing the true horror that lies beneath. It raises the question; How far will we go to stop it? Will we succumb to the darkness as we expend the light to be rid of it? How much is too much? How far is too far?"

"Can't we help? At least strafe a few times?"

"This is happening all over the globe, with the exception of Australia and most of Canada. Some of Europe is okay, but it's still in the early stages to be certain. We can't stop here to help. If we fail what we are going to do now, then this is but a precursor to what will really happen. We need that stadium back as soon as possible. Besides, this fight is over." finished Smith, standing to peer over John's shoulder.

Below, the victorious humanists were hoisting the dead bodies of the morphs onto the streetlights and dangling them over fences like garish holiday ornaments. The blood slowly began to pool beneath the cooling corpses with a sickening sheen.

"So you really didn't see it coming, sir?" Asked Tyler through the squad's intercom system, hoping to lighten the mood beginning to suffocate the weary passengers.

John could not help but notice that Tyler had a thick Australian accent. It didn't really surprise him as the expeditor program is from the UN, but it made him pause for a moment all the same. Tyler's armour was not as ornate as Lily's, but was still far from the default configuration. It had the faint suggestion of skeletal figures dancing around the faded outline of a sinister figure. Upon closer inspection, the figure resolved into the form of a grim reaper, clutching a scythe in one hand and a laughing skull in the other. The entire scene was emblazoned in very thin lines of silver that would glint in the sun whenever a beam of light filtered through the gun port. He turned to look back into the troop bay, slackening his grip on the grenade launcher's handle grips.

"Seriously, we all saw it coming a mile away."

"Yeah, yeah... just shut up. Eyes on the field." replied Smith, slightly annoyed that everyone saw what had happened back at the hangar. His voice absent of the previous, brooding thoughts that he had voiced to John a few moments before.

"When did they meet anyways?" asked John, desperate to divert his attention.

"Get Smith to tell you. He has to now, what with what he was just introduced to," laughed Sam, " Or I can tell you what I heard from the rumour mill if you'd like."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! No more of your 'rumours'. I've seen what you can do by word of mouth. Hey gunny!" said Smith into the intercom.

"Yeah?"

"Whats our ETA?"

"About 15 mics."

" Okay then; it wasn't all too long ago..."

**

Denver, Colorado

2100 hours, March 3** rd **** 2049**

"Paul, do you see anything?"

"Nothing from up here, boss. Its as clear as the Australian sky at night." replied Paul from the rooftop of a twelve story apartment building across the street.

City Park was packed with people. Even at nine o'clock this city kept on going. In the centre of the park a band was playing in front of a few hundred people. It was a part of the city's new 'night life enhancement' programs. They were trying to raise money to fund the construction of a new building of sorts near the city centre and have been having fundraisers like this for the past two months. But something was supposed to happen in this one.

Smith sighed heavily, trying to appear interested in the bass-heavy crap that was flowing from the speakers. He found himself absently grasping the grip of his Kleiger 3 pistol which was hidden inside his coat on a sewn-in pocket. This civilian apparel was so flimsy! He missed his armour and its protective all covering confinement. He knew that the plates on his trusty suit would at least shrug off a high calibre pistol round, not like this cheap bulletproof vest. Damn! He felt naked!

He thumbed his watch again and asked Warren what he saw, the vox sparking to life.

"Nadda. Zilch. Zippo. Insert synonym for nothing here."

"Shit! Our intel must have been off. He's not going to show. Get ready to move out-"

"Sir! I see him!" interrupted Sam, who was on the other side of the crowd, "He didn't come alone. He has about eight cronies and a handful of morphs with him."

"Alright team, look sharp. We have to get him or its going to be one hell of a night. If we can capture him before the executions, that's even better. Wait for my go."

Suddenly a gunshot echoed above the music. Screams broke out and people rapidly backed away from several figures approaching the stage. Their target, one Stan Henlind, strode up onto the stage with his handgun still smoking. He gestured the band down and cleared his throat before speaking into the mic.

"Sorry to interrupt folks, but nothing stands in the way of progress. Tonight you will bear witness to the first stages of a revolution that will shake the very foundations of our civilization! Many things have happened as of late, both in our city and around the globe. Suddenly, these furred freaks, no; these animals, have been gaining support. They believe that they are our equals. That they should have rights! Well, now that's just not right. We created them. We made them like God himself made us! They should worship us! Serve us! Attend to our every whim! Like animals should!"

"That's it. His head's gone!" hissed Warren

"Warren! Control yourself! There will be time for reckoning later. For now we must wait." snapped Owen.

Several nods and murmurs of agreement filtered through the crowd. Several people began to clap and others whistled, agreeing wholly with what he had to say. Even though there had been reports of hatred towards the morphs, Smith suspected planted audience members, a skill used by many speakers to incite a crowd. The main idea was for the planted people to pose key questions and agree with the answers. He was proved correct.

"But what about the animals, they behave like us!" shouted a woman in the back of the crowd.

Henlind smiled, pleased with his clique of actors. "The devil himself takes human form to tempt us and steer us down the wrong paths! Though they act like us, they are vermin! They merely act like us to usurp us! To mislead us! To lull us into a false sense of security!"

Many more questions were posed, every answer resulting in a more hostile audience. Smith decided he had had enough. If he waited any longer, the crowd would become insatiable. Before he could reach his watch, he was distracted by a new event.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, it is time to begin our righteous crusade," he lowered his voice to captivate his audience, "Behold! The demons!"

The crowd roared as three morphs were dragged onstage by several men in masks and baggy sweatshirts. They were handcuffed together, almost unconscious from the beating they had so obviously taken. They couldn't walk upright and some features were swollen. There were two arctic fox morphs and an older looking badger. One of the foxes had a red top and khakis while the other had on a pair of short shorts and a halter top. The badger wore a simple tee shirt and jeans. They were lined up facing the audience before their knees were kicked out from under them. They fell to the stage, all hope lost as Henlind strode over to them.

"So begins a new reign!" shouted Henlind as he shot the badger in the face. This time the crowd didn't recoil, they surged forward, their blood lust peaked.

"NOW! ALL UNITS; ENGAGE!" screamed Smith into his mic, angry over the death of an innocent. He pulled the Kleiger from his jacket and pushed forward.

He shoved his way bodily through the cluster of angry people, anxious to get to the stage before another gunshot sounded. He finally breached the front ranks and vaulted onto the stage, shouting as he did so.

"FREEZE! DROP THE GUN! DROP THE DAMNED GUN! I SAID FREEZE!" he hollered, shooting a man in the chest who was reaching for a pistol. He fell backwards, blood spraying from the gunshot wound as he landed in the crowd.

Soon, people began to run, finally deciding that they had had enough. Bastards, Smith remembered thinking, only think its wrong when one of your own gets killed. Sam materialized behind Henlind, her armour flickering as the last few holograms disappeared from the air. She hit him in the head, dropping him like a pile of bricks. Warren and Marcus emerged from behind the stage, cutting the chains keeping the two remaining morphs immobile.

"Get out of here, all of you! That is unless you want to go home in a body bag!" growled Smith through his helmet's megaphone.

One of the men made for a concealed weapon only to have his head vaporized by an explosive anti-personnel bullet fired from a .50 calibre rifle. Smith nodded towards the tower, thankful that Paul was watching over them. Sadly, he failed to see another thug hit a button on his sleeve.

"Shit, he's got an EBT!" shouted Sam, kicking the thug's hand and more than likely shattering a few bones. He collapsed into a foetal position clutching his right hand in pain.

"That means we're compromised. We only have a few minutes at best."

"BOSS! We have incoming vehicles!" shouted Tracer from the Park main entrance.

"Cops?"

"I wish! No, these guys are terrorists! We have three SUVs and what looks like a limo approaching fast. I can see inside and it looks like they're packing some serious heat. Assault rifles, grenades, combat armour... The whole deal. They're about eight blocks away and closing fast."

"Good. Stay close to the gate but stay cloaked. We need you alive. Paul, slow them down a bit."

"Copy that. Engaging." Came the quick response. Several loud cracks were heard as Paul's powerful rifle went to work delaying the enemy.

"Smith! What do we do with this asshole?" questioned Warren.

Smith looked at their long sought-after target for a moment before replying. "Kill him. He'll only slow us down. We are going to have a hard run as it is without him slowing us down by dragging his feet."

"No! Wait! Please-" started Henlind just before a red splotch appeared in the middle of his chest. Warren lowered his pistol and nodded to Smith.

"All right, we've got to move. Scorched earth policy. No hostile survivors."

It took only a few seconds to dispatch the remaining terrorists and set charges on the stage. Smith got the two morphs to their feet, tears streaming from their eyes as they huddled together. The charges were wired to Smith's comm to be detonated remotely once they were at a safe range.

"Sir, I have to displace; they're getting wise. I managed to take out one of the SUVs and kill a few passengers." whispered Paul through the mic.

"Get out of there, you did your job. We'll see you at the safe house, out."

"Yessir, over and out."

"Warren, Marcus, Sam, and Tyler, I want you guys to head out through the southern entrance. Try to stay out of sight. I'll take Red and Shorts here and exit through the east after I detonate the charges. Tracer, Luke, and Auburn, you are to abandon your posts and make your way back."

There was no hesitation as the group followed orders and headed for the villa on the northernmost edge of Denver. Owen tried to calm the two morphs, obviously sisters, into a state at which they could move. He gently but firmly pulled them to the edge of the field to duck behind a low group of hedges. The morph with the red top whimpered as several armed figures appeared. They were spread out in a loose arrowhead formation and sweeping their rifles back and forth. They were definitely well trained. Smith guessed they were ex-military mercenaries; men and women out to gain some illegal income by working for the highest bidder. Disgusting.

"I need you two to stay quiet, okay? I promise that this will all turn out okay. But you must stay quiet!" whispered Smith. He looked both of them in the eyes individually. They looked down submissively but Smith caught a glint of violet in the moonlight. He sighed and readied the comm wired into his watch.

Several of the troopers clambered onstage and inspected the bodies. One rolled over Henlind and said something in his mic. That's when he noticed the four pounds of C4 wired on his boss' chest. Smiling, Smith pressed a button on his watch and the night erupted in heat and light.

The entire stage went down as the eight charges detonated simultaneously. The light system collapsed in a huge fountain of sparks and warped metal. Most of the squad was engulfed in fire and died instantly. Several were far enough away to only be knocked down by the shock wave and began to pick themselves up. More mercenaries emerged from the bushes and began an outwards search pattern.

"Come on, we have to go. Fast." said Smith as he turned to the two sisters. They were on the ground and in a bad state. Blood was pooling out of the ears of the one in he red top as she lay unconscious. The other was kneeling over her, trying to wake her up.

"Oh, shit! I forgot about your ears! Come on, I'll carry her. We have to move." gasped Smith as he realized what had happened. The sudden wave of compressed air from the explosion had affected the morphs more than it did him as they had far more sensitive ears. One of Red's eardrums had burst but Shorts had managed to shield her ears. They had to find some medical attention for Red fast or she could suffer permanent hearing loss.

Smith picked the one he referred to as Red in a fireman's carry and gestured for the one in shorts to follow. He turned and moved as fast as he could with over a hundred pounds on his back. If only he had his armour....

A shout was heard from behind them before the rattling of automatic weapons filled the air. Bullets impacted around the trio as they made for the closest exit. Smith hoped against hope that it would not be guarded as they ducked behind a low wall in an attempt to escape being shot. They were in a low-dug plaza that had several benches and a fountain spread about.

He set Red down for a while as he caught his breath. He pulled out his pistol, checking the magazine before loosing a few shots over the wall, sending their pursuers into cover. He waited half out of cover until a face appeared around a small tree about fifty metres from him. The man's head didn't make it back into cover due to the fact that it burst like a ripe melon.

When the gun was empty he flicked the clip release before sliding home a full magazine. He gave the gun a once-over and looked over at the morph who was still conscious. "I need you to shoot anyone who tries to kill us. I need you to do this for me and your sister. Can you do it?"

The morph looked up, tears in her violet eyes as she nodded and took the gun. She was holding it wrong, so Smith had to take time to show her how to hold it properly. He straightened her arms and tightened her grip on the pistol. Before he forgot, he gave her a warning. "When you pull the trigger, you might want to avert your ears. Fold them back as if you are angry."

She moved her ears back and mock aimed at a garbage can before looking back to Smith and nodding. Smith smiled but felt dead inside. He hoped that this wasn't a sign of things to come. He hefted Red onto his shoulders in a crouched stance before telling Shorts to move. They ran in the direction of the exit along the paved trail that bent around the pond. No gunfire followed them. Smith supposed they were wary now that they knew that the trio was armed and dangerous.

They emerged from the park in a cascade of relief. They paused for a second before taking in their new surroundings. The urban sprawl began as soon as the park ended. Sirens could be heard approaching the park. Someone must have ran and told the police. Either that or the blaze that had begun after the explosion had attracted the authorities like moths to a light. He breathed deep of the smoke-tainted air as he tried to catch his breath. As soon as he was ready he moved Red to his right shoulder and grabbed Shorts' hand with his left. They took off towards a parked car on the side of the road in front of a small urban house.

A dog barked as Smith set Red on the ground leaning against the car. It was an older sedan, dark blue in colour. Smith didn't notice the type of car specifically, he was too busy working the coded door lock. Cursing, he fumbled with his lock scrambler, placing it over the door's auto sensor. The car unlocked itself and Smith opened up the rear door and swiftly placed Red inside, fastening her seat belt. Her eyelids fluttered open for a second and she met Owen's gaze. He tried to calm her down as she clutched her ear suddenly. "Don't worry, We'll get you some help soon. I promise."

Smith didn't know how much she heard, but it made him feel better to know she wasn't in a coma. He told Shorts to get in the passenger side as he clambered into the driver's position after unplugging the car's charging cradle. He hated that he was steeling a car, but it was for a good cause.

Smith started the engine and slipped it into drive. He gunned the engine as he saw several people exit the park behind him. They raised their rifles and snapped off a few shots that only smacked off of the chassis. Smith turned a corner and they were given a moment's respite.

"Do you mind telling me how you got into this mess?" asked Smith.

The morph next to him looked over before casting her eyes down to the floor. She began to play with the gun still in her hands to avoid Owen's question, but Smith would have none of it. "It's okay, you can trust me. You don't have to tell anyone else, but I would appreciate it if you told me."

"We screwed up..." she uttered as she closed her eyes and leaned back, dropping the gun on the floor.

"What do you mean?"

"It wasn't supposed to end this way. We were only going to have some fun while our owners slept, not get involved in a gunfight!"

"What, you ran away?"

"Yes. I guess so... Only for a few hours! We had the perfect opportunity! We even had a ride."

"A ride to where?"

"To the concert. The one we were almost killed at. Back there..." she said as she lowered her head again, "I can't believe that Mark is dead... He was like a father to us!"

Smith could tell that she was going to have a panic attack soon if she didn't slow down. "Okay, calm down. Start from the beginning. Go slow."

"Okay, we planned to sneak out tonight to attend one of the concerts at the park. Mark had planned it for days and he kept saying that everything would be fine and that we wouldn't be caught. He managed to get a friend to drive us to the park. That's when we got ambushed by those... those... murderers! They cuffed us before they beat us. They wailed on us for what seemed like forever before we were pulled on the stage. You know the rest. By the way, who are you anyways?"

"I am Owen Smith, a Colonel of the UN Expeditor program. My team and I have been hunting those guys for several months." answered Smith.

"So, what? You are like a secret agent or something?"

"Kind of. We are a squad of specialists that were commissioned by the UN a few years ago. We hunt down terrorists, overthrow governments, guard VIPs, and do a lot of other covert-ops stuff. We were tipped off and set a trap for those guys that went south as soon as you three were pulled out. Combine that with the fact that they had a response team ready, we were lucky we got them. I am very sorry about Mark, but even we didn't see that coming. If you don't mind, I still haven't caught your names yet."

"I'm... um, well..."

"No names?"

She sighed, looking out the window in embarrassment. "Our owners didn't see fit to give us names. We just went by 'slave' or 'you'."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It seems to be a common thing in the States. 'It is an unfair world in which we live, but we can light a lantern of hope in the bleak darkness cast by fate to ward off the cruelty and hate of humanity.'"

"Did you just make that up now?"

"No, its a quote from Pihhreas. I read one of his books a year ago in New York."

"Oh.... I was going to say that that was nice. Even if it were a bit sombre."

"Yeah. I thought so. But you can't be nameless. It's not good for your self identity. Did you have any nicknames?"

"Well, Mark used to call me Daystar. He said it was because he saw a twinkle in my eye at any time of day." She started to grow tired and sad again, so Smith tried to comfort her.

"Sound's like you two were close. He must have been a good person."

"He was."

"So then, should I call you that?"

"Maybe. It sounds a little... odd."

"How about we just call you that until you can think of a name you would like? What about your sister?"

"We always called her Lily. Our masters never knew, but we named her that after she came into the house one day covered in them. She had them all tied into her fur. She had a great handful of them which she handed to us. It wasn't until later that we learned that they came from the neighbour's yard. Thankfully, they agreed not to tell our owners about it. They were nicer people than our masters."

"Okay, then I'll call her Lily. You will be Daystar. Here we are."

They pulled up in front of a small building nestled between two larger apartment complexes. The streetlights overhead cast a stark white light on their surroundings, giving everything a gloomy and old feel. Owen clambered out of the vehicle and turned to pick Lily up. She muttered something under her breath but allowed Smith to gently carry her in front up the building's steps. They were greeted by a woman throwing her door wide and gasping in shock at the sight of the blood-soaked morph.

"OH MY GOD! Owen, what the hell happened? Who are they? Bring them in, quickly! Audrey, Chloe, prep the surgery room please!" The woman was frantic, but it seemed that she knew what to do. She lead the trio into a stark white room dominated by a handful of healthcare machines and an operating table. Owen set Lily down gently on the table before he was rushed from the room with Daystar in tow by a morph in a medical smock and surgical gloves. They were left to wait in the house's tastefully decorated living room. Daystar bit her lip as she sank into a chair, looking anxiously over at Smith.

"She'll be okay. Mary is one of the best doctors in the city. She's also one of the few to run a private clinic at her home. Take a minute to relax while I use the phone." comforted Smith.

Smith dug around in his pockets before producing a cellular phone. He checked to make sure that the gadget that Sam had invented was properly attached before he punched in the number for his team's stronghold. It rang four times before a scrambled voice answered on the other end.

"The sky is dark." came the distorted handshake code.

"The clouds are gathering." finished Smith, "This is Alpha Actual. We all made it out and we are currently getting medical attention at a friend's. We won't get back until tomorrow. Stay put until then. Confirm."

"Roger that Alpha Actual, we'll hold down the fort."

"Good luck."

The call was quick and to the point, but Smith knew it would be sufficient to alert the rest of his squad of his whereabouts. He shifted into a relaxed sitting position and gave the morph a proper look over. She was a prime example of an arctic fox morph, her white fur thick but finely groomed. She had long white hair flowing behind her and framing her piercing violet eyes. Her clothing was ragged and torn in many places, the dark red of dried blood prominent at many places on her body. She seemed to be getting tired, her eyes fluttering and her posture slumping.

"I am sorry for what happened tonight. Truly I am. If I could, I would go back and make it so that you would never have been caught up in all of this. But I can't. And you are. We are now faced with a dilemma. I can return you safely to your home and we can both go our separate ways. Or, you can come with me. I cannot promise an easy choice, nor can I guarantee that any choice will provide an easy way out. But you must make a decision."

CHAPTER 9

Denver, Colorado

1400 Hours, August 11** th ***, 2052*

"Captain! T-minus five minutes! Get ready!" interrupted the co-pilot's voice over the intercom.

"Alright folks! You heard him! Story time is over, get ready for landing!" hollered Smith, snapping quickly out of his memories.

The squad grabbed their weapons from the overhead weapons rack, slamming home magazines and flicking safeties off. The troopers at the grenade launchers checked over the belt feeds and started scanning for targets in the streets below and on the increasingly taller buildings' roofs. John fed his gun one of the fifty-round magazines from his ammo webbing and slung the weapon over his shoulder before racking the bolt on the Mk 19. Outside was a maze of office buildings and parking stockades. He was careful not to overlook any space that could harbour a threat to the helicopter, panning his mounted gun left and right.

Below him the streets were in a state of utter chaos. Rubble littered the roads and partially collapsed buildings slumped over sidewalks and alleys. Looters were raiding stores and people were sheltering in doorways or watching from behind barricaded windows. Several men and women were bearing arms, but there was no fighting. These people were not involved in the war that was occurring only a few blocks from where they lived, but were ready to defend themselves if the fight spilled over into the residential areas. The fact that there were morphs among them comforted John. These people were not Humanists.

Paul said something to Smith and Smith wound his way past his warriors to the cockpit hatch at the front of the troop bay. He activated the intercom and relayed what Paul said to the pilot. A quick affirmative was given and the helicopter changed course, banking lightly. From his gun port John saw that the Havocs followed suite, keeping their formation loose while still maintaining their defensive posture.

Paul stood and hit the rear hatch control. The ramp lowered, revealing a large hotel about a dozen blocks from the stadium that seemed to be in decent condition. He readied a launcher of some sort and braced himself as the helicopter stabilized itself. A green light came on above the hatch and Paul stowed his rifle on his back with a magnetic clamp and fired. The zip line's lance sprang from the launcher in a rush of highly compressed gas, launching itself across the forty-metre span between the troop compartment and the building. The line went taught as the lance imbedded itself into the cement above a row of windows, the barbs along its edges super-heating the concrete and fusing the line to the wall. Paul latched a hook from the back of the launcher to a loop protruding from the helicopter's hull. Without ceremony, Paul hitched himself up and ran out the back of the hatch, swinging across the void. At the last second before he hit the window, Paul drew his sidearm and shot the glass, cascading it inwards in an explosion of lethal shards. He unhitched himself and flew the last metre into the building, rolling as he hit the floor. After checking his surroundings, he turned and nodded to the chopper.

Warren, who was at the back hatch, pulled out his knife and slashed the line in front of the launcher. The tether fell away, whipping in the down wash from the helicopter's engines.

"Overwatch is in position and ready to shoot." said Paul through the helmet comm.

"Roger that," replied Smith, "and happy hunting."

"You too, commander."

Smith keyed the intercom and told the pilot to keep going towards the stadium. The pilot complied and the Righteous Flame lurched back into motion. Smith plugged his helmet's video receptors into a jack on the wall and surveyed the final two kilometres to their destination through the vehicle's on-board video equipment. The small shop-lined roads gave way to a section of immense commercial centres in which the stadium was built. Sprawling parking lots and warehouse-like buildings budded up from the concrete like cancerous growths, creating a tactical nightmare almost devoid of cover. The path they were to take was more to the north where several office buildings in the middle of construction would provide a path that the helicopter could take without being seen.

The stadium had withstood the test of time for some forty-odd years now, but it still represented a great feat of clever architecture. At it's best, the stadium could hold several thousand people who had come together to watch a fabulous sporting event. Those days were now over, its high stands turned into a military encampment. Strongpoints now dotted its walls and several large holes marred the once proud outer walls. By magnifying the camera's zoom, Smith could make out men on the high escarpments and at the entrances. Tanks and other armour pieces had the stadium surrounded and the parking lot covered by overlapping fields of fire. It was a solid defence, but far from perfect. By estimation, there were approximately two hundred soldiers posted to the stadium now. This was a skeleton crew, many of the original attackers' soldiers falling to the guns they now manned. Smith knew it would not take long for them to get settled and get reinforcements. They would have to act fast.

"This is Commander Daystar, calling Colonel Owen Smith. I repeat; this is Commander Daystar calling Colonel Owen Smith." crackled a voice through a radio mounted near the front of the crew bay.

Smith picked up the receiver, giving the go-ahead, and the Sasha started her message; "Smith there is a small unit of light mechanized infantry in a parking lot to the stadium's north. I suggest you meet with them in order to receive some fire support for your mission."

"Roger that. Thanks command. Pilot; watch for a friendly receiver signal in a lot on the north side of the stadium and set us down. There should be several friendly vehicles that could help."

A few moments later the helicopter shifted, making for the parking lot of a fire-gutted Wal-Mart. Below, several vehicles idled in the warm summer air, mounted guns watching their approach. John counted four ex-military MAVs and a bulky APC. The helicopter touched down without incident, and the entire team ran down the ramp. John felt his suit's built-in climate control switch on in the blazing heat. The Havocs overhead assumed a circular patrol pattern as they waited for the transport to resume it's course.

A man in military gear, cradling a MC 12 like it were a baby, walked up to Smith as he ordered his team to take up a defensive position around the chopper. He was a man in his late twenties by the look of him and was clean shaven, quite the feat these days. He had a powerful jaw and brown eyes underneath a head of short brown hair. It was obvious that he was ex-military.

"Sergeant Wilks, previously of the First Force Recon. What are your orders, sir?" said the man as he addressed Smith in the shade of the LAV 67.

"We are to rendezvous with the resistance leaders a block from the stadium. The Havocs will perform a strafing run on the stadium, taking out most of the enemy positions and armour. My team and I will then land in the stands and sow confusion in their ranks and destroy targets of opportunity. You and the resistance fighters will launch a shock-and-awe attack on the northern entrances. The overhead viewing platform at that entrance collapsed during the last fight meaning that we will face little or no fire from above as we secure a breach in the walls. Our armour will maintain a fire-support role outside the gate until we have managed to surround the remaining enemy forces in the field and lower stands. Then we will bring the APC through onto the field and take the rest prisoner if we can. At that time the 15th will be in position to secure the parking lot and adjacent buildings."

"We only get a single run from the Havocs? What if they miss a tank? The APC doesn't stand a chance against any form of heavy armour..."

"Let me take care of that. You focus on laying down a suppressive field of fire on the enemy guns."

"Sounds risky... But what choice do we have? We'd best get going then."

"Dismissed sergeant." finished Smith. He shook his head as Wilks went to salute him. "this is a war for equality. It would be... ill fitted... to salute."

The sergeant hesitated for a second before smiling and nodding his head slightly. "If you say so."

The man then addressed the rest of his unit and got them all back into the vehicles and ready to move out. He nodded to Smith from the cupola of the lead MAV as the helicopter was loaded back up and put back into the air. John watched the vehicles shrink smaller as the convoy wound its way through several streets and sidled into position a block from the northernmost entrance. The pilot was careful to keep buildings between the helicopter and the stadium and to hopefully keep the element of surprise. .

Smith ordered the helicopter down again four blocks east into the parking lot of a home improvement centre. He walked down the ramp alone and made his way to the warehouse-like building. He knocked twice on the door and was admitted inside. He came out several minutes later followed by a group of twelve resistance fighters dressed in torn garments and armed with a variety of guns.

He arrived at the foot of the ramp, gesturing the fighters inside. They filled in the remaining seats near the front of the helicopter and buckled themselves in. A tan bobcat morph sat down beside John' gunnery position and offered his hand. John took it as the morph identified himself.

"Robert, with no last name. Pleased to meet you." he said in a polite manner.

"John Taylor. Likewise." responded John. "Were you at the stadium when it was attacked?"

"No. I wasn't, but a few people here were. From what I've heard, it was pretty brutal though."

"It's only going to get worse, I'm sure. Do you know how to use that?" asked John nodding at the hunting rifle in the morph's hands.

"Yeah, but erm.... I'm kind of a battlefield virgin, so I've never shot anyone with it."

"It will be hard, trust me. Just stay focused and keep your head down. You'll be alright."

"I hope so." sighed Robert as set his rifle across his lap and stared at the opposite wall.

"Listen up team! These brave warriors are going to join us in our aerial assault. Play nice." was all that Smith said before taking his own seat.

The QTR lifted off, heading towards the stadium yet again. Below them almost a hundred resistance members took up arms and moved out to take their positions at the edge of the stadium's parking lot.

The QTR drew to a hover three blocks from the stadium behind a new five story parking garage. It shielded them from the sight of any sentries posted on the walls, but their cover would be blow the second that they started their assault run. The Havocs barely fit beside the large transport as they armed their missile pods and cycled up their heavy guns in preparation of the coming fight. John took a few deep breaths, trying to force down the growing sense of anxiety that was rising in his gut. Smith patted him on the back, offering words of encouragement or boasts of bravado to his team and the other troopers all ready for the coming fight. Smith finally gave the signal; a small blurt of code sent over the command network.

**

Paul got the signal two kilometres away in the nest he had assembled as his sniper's den. He had moved up a floor from his entry point in a hotel room. He had busted down the suite's door and blown the room's three windows outward to give him a wide view of the stadium. He was prone on the floor where he had lay the bedspread out for comfort, something that was going to be necessary for the shots he would be taking.

Finally, his precious rifle was set up precisely in line with his body to ensure a straight shot to the target. It was an old McMillin Tac-50 sniper rifle, but many components had been salvaged from other, more modern rifles. The butt of the stock was from a Hawzshweiter 386, a rubberized plate and piston loaded recoil damper making the gun's massive recoil seem like nothing more than that of a paltry 410 shotgun. The muzzle brake had been torn from a newer model of Russian sniper rifle that Paul couldn't quite remember the name of; probably an SVD of some sort. The grip was cannibalized from a Kleiger pistol, the contours finely tooled to fit perfectly with Paul's hand. A sturdy skeletal bipod that Paul had made himself held the barrel of the weapon only a few inches from the floor. Finally, the scope was a large, self-ranging Eagle Eye model with thermal and night vision capabilities. Looking through it, the stadium appeared to be only a few metres away. The wind was measured by the fine sensors located in front of the breech on the right side of the gun which could find wind speed and direction from up to three kilometres away. Finished in a matte black, the gun was a majestic death dealing tool.

Suddenly his helmet comm chimed. "All forces, commence the attack."

Drawing in a deep breath, Paul sighted down his scope at the field 2.348 kilometres away. It was a long, but not impossible, shot. He was good at those. He lined up the first sentry's head in his crosshairs, watching the lines of data fill his HUD from the scope's wireless data feed. He let out half of his breath and allowed himself to be completely still. He slowly squeezed the trigger and the rifle made an ear-splitting CHUG as the 3.91-inch long round was launched from the rifle, travelling quickly to his target. The recoil was almost non-existent. The man's head exploded into a cloud of bone dust and brain matter.

Satisfied, Paul lined himself up for the next shot.

**

Corporal Joseph Ackland gunned his Havoc's engine and rose above the parking garage, leaving the QTR below. He checked that the safeties were off on his weapon systems before starting his attack run.

"Delta-one actual commencing attack run, over." He spoke into his mic.

"Delta-two, following suite, over." replied his wingman, Corporal Mike Walsh.

"Let's give them hell." Smiled Joseph as Invesco field dominated his cockpit view.

Red contacts lit up on his HUD as his helicopter's scanning equipment picked up armour stationed at defensive positions in front of the entrances. He tagged all of the ones that sprung up, totalling eight tanks and several IFVs.

"We have about a dozen vehicle contacts in view. Ready to fire... Firing." As he finished the statement, Joseph unleashed almost his entire arsenal at the hostiles. To his right, Mike did the same. All of the targets were lit up, exploding fiercely as they were knocked out of commission. The HUD was clear of any other armour threats, meaning that the mechanized infantry could now proceed with their portion of the attack.

He pulled left, swerving around the east side of the stadium where Sergeant Wilks was just now appearing from the streets and driving full-tilt towards the entrance. The MAVs swerved around any abandoned vehicles where as the APC merely rammed through them out of the way or ran them over. The APC's 40mm cannon was already blasting away at the gate, making portions of the wall explode in deadly clouds of shrapnel and slaying many of the defenders manning their now crumbling defences.

Joseph circled the immense building, finding no other hostiles that would warrant a high-ex missile. He flicked over to his autocannon and levelled himself off so that he was overlooking the inside of the stadium from above the southern wall. He let the cannon rip on the hapless troops who were rallying on the field. He swept left and right, shredding the few soldiers posted in the stands as if they were tissue paper.

One man had a rocket launcher of some sort and was about to fire at the hovering chopper, but didn't pull the trigger. Well, he couldn't. His body came to rest about ten feet from the launcher and in about ten separate pieces. Mike's helicopter had crested the stadium wall on the East side and was beginning to unleash its own hail of high-velocity shells.

The two helicopters focused on the lip of the stadium where the QTR was supposed to set down. Nothing was left alive in a 50-metre radius when Warren keyed his mic. "This is Delta one. Righteous Flame, your LZ is secure, repeat; your LZ is secure, over."

"Copy that Delta one. Righteous Flame is touching down in twenty seconds. Good work boys, we owe you a drink when this is over. See you back at base."

"Roger that. Delta is quitting the engagement zone. See you back at base."

**

The vehicles hopped and skidded around the hulks of the burnt-out tanks as they closed on the north entrances. The APC, suitably named The Caged Beast, roared as it drove over an unfortunate sedan that was in the way. It's heavy-gauge treads dug up the asphalt as it's turret mounted 40mm gun spat death at the men guarding the entrances.

Scores of freedom fighters followed in the wake of the small armoured assault, but they would take them longer to reach the stadium so Wilks and his men were the first to attack. The foot soldiers would get there when they got there, Wilks supposed. They were armed mainly with hunting rifles and pistols that they had access to before the war broke out and were barely trained. But nothing could be held against them. They were fighting for an idea. A world of peace and equality. And that more than made up for their lack of experience and equipment.

Sergeant Wilks squeezed the trigger on his mounted machine gun, hearing the throaty roar as the gun spat .50 calibre rounds at his unfortunate victims. The stream of bullets struck the final gatekeeper in the chest and sprayed the wall behind him with gore.

"Alright, Caged Beast; head towards the back with Badger 3 and see if you can get through that service dock and into the stadium. Badger 2; you are to dismount with my crew and secure the entrances. Move!"

Wilks ducked back into the MAV, gesturing to the other four resistance fighters in his car to dismount. He pulled his rifle from the ceiling rack and exited the vehicle. His squad ran to the northeast entrance and proceeded inside. They took cover as several shots spanked off of the walls as more defenders swarmed like ants to repel the invaders. The five men from Badger 2 joined them as they huddled in cover.

"Well, this is just great!" said Martinez, Wilks's second in command. He was a huge, 6' 7" tiger morph in a set of baggy khakis and a t-shirt. He seemed totally out of place in a warzone. He slumped into cover across from Wilks.

"Tell me about it," hissed Wilks, "this is ridiculous!"

"Where are those damned commandos?" Martinez growled as he snapped a few shots off from his scavenged ACR assault rifle.

"I dunno. They're supposed to be dropped in by that QTR on the roof."

A huge boom echoed through the stadium and rubble sprung loose from the ceiling as the shockwave reached the entrance.

"That must be them!" shouted Wilks as he rolled away from a crashing chunk of metal baring down on him, "I heard they like explosions!"

CHAPTER 10

Denver, Colorado

1404 Hours, August 11** th ***, 2052*

The QTR came in hot with all weapons blazing. John kept his thumbs pressed down on the firing studs, spreading death in wide, lazy arcs. He demolished a haphazardly constructed fortification that had been erected on the wall with a five second burst, the grenades bursting and reaping a large toll on the defenders that had been holed up inside. He scanned for other targets, but his HUD came up empty-handed. He turned to watch Smith as he banged on the wall of the chopper to get everyone's attention.

"Everyone, we're going to break up into teams. Taylor is with me. Sam and Tyler, see if you can find the munition store and secure it, it could prove useful. Marcus, Tracer, and Lily; you guys are on crowd control. Herd the remaining hostiles onto the field. Take the resistance fighters with you! Warren, you are going to go to the north entrance and welcome our forces. The help them bring in that APC. Go, go, go!" At that, he hit the ramp controls and the back ramp opened in a sudden influx of light and sound, the smell of smoke strong in the air.

John let go of the weapon and picked up the gifted P90. He clicked off the safety and followed the others onto the stadium. His helmet's HUD performed a detection pulse of high-frequency sound. There were several targets clustered behind a row of seats farther down the bleachers. He and several others of the Phoenocians opened fire on them, tearing them and a dozen seats to shreds as the freedom fighters embarked onto the stadium. The helicopter gunned its engines as the last warrior got off, gaining altitude and taking up a circuitous flight pattern in order to provide overwatch for the troops.

The newly-arrived soldiers started to spread out into the stands and engage the enemy. John stuck close to Smith as they ran down an aisle to get a better angle on a few men below rallying to repel the new threat. Smith dove to the ground and rolled across one of the major stairways that bisected the seats, landing in a crouch behind a row of seats. John took the hint and dropped to one knee behind the opposite row. Smith nodded, loosing a spray from his rifle at the guerillas below. Several fell and the rest sought cover of their own.

John popped up only to receive a hard smack to the head that slammed him back behind the seats. A bullet had glanced off his helmet and now static flickered across his HUD as the computer reset itself to compensate for the hit. Smith took a moment to make sure he was okay before puling the pin on a grenade and blindly hurling it down the steps. A resounding boom echoed around the stadium as it detonated, throwing a cloud of seat stuffing, metal, and bodies into the air. He then risked a peek around his cover and finished off the two remaining hostiles still reeling from the explosion.

"Are you okay?" asked Smith as he stood up, offering his hand to John.

"Yeah," responded John while shaking his head, "Just stunned, that's all."

Smith helped him to his feet, patting his shoulder and handing him the gun he had dropped. John accepted it and checked to make sure it was still functioning. "Let's move. The Flame reports that there is a large cluster of munitions down the wall a ways. We're going to go and make sure that they can never use it again."

They managed to make it to within 20 metres without anyone taking notice. It seemed that the crowd-control team was doing quite well. Then again, the Havocs had done a good job on their attack run. Large sections of seating were missing, torn to shreds, or collapsed from the heavy weaponry that the attack helicopters had unleashed. They had navigated about a hundred metres of damaged stadium to end up just below the munitions pile.

It was only lightly guarded and the three men stationed there were easily taken care of. Smith and John gunned them down without remorse and looked over their new prize. Several RPG rounds, machine gun belts, grenades, and stacks of ammo for the various rifles the defenders were fielding.

"What now?" asked John, who was recovering from the adrenaline that had entered his bloodstream during the fight. He just made his first confirmed combat kill. He felt giddy and slightly hollow at the same time.

"We blow 'er up. Give the others a good distraction. Something like this will turn some heads, eh?"

"I guess so. Grenade?"

"Bigger. I'm thinking C4. About a pound and a quarter should do it."

"A pound? Are you crazy?!"

"Probably. But hey, bigger is better. And this is going to be big." Finished Smith.

Smith then keyed his mic to the rebels' frequency and warned anyone who could be in the blast radius below and the rest of his team of what was going to happen. He searched his pack for explosives and pulled a military-issue 1.25 pound charge of C4 from within and set it on the pile of munitions. He set the remote detonator and tuned it to an unused vox channel. He then turned, gesturing for John to follow. When they were 20 metres away, they stooped behind a row of seats and Smith sent the tone over the radio.

**

Robert heard the explosion from the other side of the vast stadium, his ears ringing lightly in the aftermath of the shockwave. His grip on the .308 hunting rifle in his hands was ironclad as he dove desperately behind a low wall above a field entrance. The shots he so narrowly avoided whizzed by overhead, several hitting the concrete with destructive force, sending chips of the man-made rock scattering in all directions. He tried to compose himself, shuffling around to try and peer around the edge of the wall at his would-be killer when Tracer arrived.

The large morph easily hefted a supposed-to-be-mounted minigun, toting it around as if it were a chainsaw, the rear grip held by his right hand and the fore-grip in his left. He spun up the weapon's barrels, pointing the gun down towards the lower lip of the stadium. The gun suddenly let out a throaty roar and sprouted an immense muzzle flash. The gun spat several thousand rounds a minute, obliterating anything unlucky enough to be caught in range of it's twirling barrels. The weapon's munition feed ran directly from a large ammo hopper on Tracer's back and into the ever-hungry maw of the deadly weapon.

After a hearty four-second burst, nothing remained of the lower three tiers of seats or Rob's attackers. Tracer took a second to ensure that there were no more hostiles below them before turning and working his way over to a cluster of freedom fighters struggling with a mounted weapon.

Robert let out a breath he didn't remember holding before surveying the rest of the stadium. The freedom fighters were making good progress, mainly due to the help of the Phoenocians and their seemingly impervious power armour. They had spearheaded the attack on the stunned and shell-shocked hostiles without mercy or remorse. In a matter of a half hour, they had slain most of the three dozen soldiers still alive in the stands. They were unstoppable juggernauts! Robert had even seen a female Phoenocian shrug off a trio of pistol rounds as if it were nothing more than wind before she killed her attacker with a burst from her assault rile!

The freedom fighters that had been dropped in had taken four losses; three wounded and another dead. The first man was wounded by a grenade exploding a few minutes after they had disembarked. He had taken several pieces of shrapnel to the lower body which would need some serious surgery to remove. The second casualty was a fox morph who ended up on the wrong side of a wounded Humanist's pistol, taking three shots to the stomach and another to the shoulder before a Phoenocian had shot him point blank with a shotgun. The next freedom fighter to fall had been a young man who had been posted at the stadium before the first assault. He had gotten stabbed by a man hidden behind the counter of one of the newer concession stands that had been set up around the lip of the stadium. The one death had been from a ricochet glancing off the concrete floor and striking the running soldier's head as she had been sweeping a section higher up on the stadium for stragglers.

Other than the few losses, they were doing well. All of the stadium above the 8th row of seats was cleared by the shrinking circle of attackers, the few remaining defenders being forced downwards towards the field. The field itself was a mess of flame, broken tents, and scattered bodies. The Havocs had been thorough indeed; barely two dozen Humanists were present on the exterior of the structure, field and stands. Robert supposed that the rest of the hostiles were inside trying to hold back the tide of soldiers flooding through the northern entrances. He shuddered at the thought of the intense close quarters combat that had to be going on down there.

There was now a large smoking, hole on the opposite side of the stadium where the leader of the Phoenocians had been heading towards. Rob had a feeling that he had something to do with it, one way or another. Either he had found something deadly, or something deadly had found him. He didn't have time to reflect on which was more likely before more shots were sent his way. He checked his gun and proceeded with his part of the assault.

**

Wilks emptied the rest of his magazine into a Humanist, blood blossoming like spring flowers across the man's chest. His body flew backwards, smashing into a magazine rack and spilling paper everywhere. Wilks slid back behind the pillar and pulled another magazine from his webbing. "I'm out!" he shouted over to Martinez and several of the other soldiers that had joined them inside the lobby, "Reloading!"

Chips of the granite pillar exploded outwards as a mounted gun bellowed furiously. Before the rebels could secure a significant beachhead in the stadium, hostile forces had responded and sent a heavy weapons team down to hold the lobby. The presence of several freedom fighter corpses strewn about like rag dolls testified to the gun's effectiveness. As long as that gun was active, the rebels would be locked in a stalemate fighting to get in.

"Roger that!" answered Martinez, firing a few shots to compensate for the sudden loss in the crossfire.

Wilks finished reloading his MCC and fired around the corner, squinting through the lingering gun smoke in an attempt to hit a woman sheltering behind the main desk. He missed, cursing under his breath as he ducked back behind the pillar before he could be hit by the return fire. He whirled around to the other side and saw that she was trying to find where the shots had come from. She raised her pistol as she spotted him, but was forced to duck back into cover as Martinez loosed a few rounds her way with his rifle.

"Hey Martinez!" he laughed, "I thank that gun's broken. You didn't hit anyone! Time for a new one!"

Martinez grinned before replying, " I dunno! It worked good a few days ago! You know that!"

"Yeah, but that was then! These guys are a little more... prepared. You are going to have to step it up a bit if you want to keep up!"

Martinez merely shot another hostile dead in response, effectively shutting Wilks up. Wilks desperately thought for something smart to say, but quickly forgot about it. Martinez loved that ACR for a reason, but he didn't want to get into details right now. Besides, movement from the far side of the room caught his attention when he stuck his head out to survey the situation.

It was merely a slight distortion in the air, but Wilks knew exactly what it was. Stealth tech. The good kind, apparently. The heat-like haze drew closer to a group of five hostiles sheltering behind some debris that had fallen from the blast. In a flash, the first man's gun was forcibly slammed upwards into his skull, knocking him out cold. The three others turned quickly in confusion, guns pointed to where their comrade had been standing. Suddenly, a second man collapsed, his right arm broken in three places and knee reversed harshly so that he fell like a stack of bricks. The third opened fire, spraying randomly in front of him, but it was too late. His neck twisted unnaturally, obviously broken, as the last man started to run. He made it two steps before the back of his head collapsed inwards, imploding in a mass of bone and brain matter.

Wilks was floored! All of this took only seven seconds, and the entire right side of the room was clear. It had cost Wilks three lives in an earlier attempt to take that flank out, and now it was over in a matter of seconds! The blur sprung up from over the body of the third man and headed for the desk that had proven an impenetrable bastion. The six soldiers there had seen the carnage that had happened only seconds before, but that did nothing to prepare them.

The first to go was the one that posed the largest threat to the resistance fighters; the guy manning the mounted machine gun. He flew backwards two metres, a hole erupting in his sternum that leaked massive amounts of blood and trailed several organs. The man next to him suddenly ceased to have a head as it slid off his body, a surprised look still on his face. Before the body hit the ground, another man was swept off his feet and out of view. If it weren't for the shout that was cut off abruptly, Wilks could have sworn that he was never there. The other three unleashed a withering fusillade on the open air, a cascade of sparks leaping from nowhere. A figure in power armour appeared seemingly from thin air, sparks sprouting from his broken helmet and battered chestplate.

The figure wore matte black power armour with red markings and had several vicious tools of destruction at different points on his body. A large bowie knife was strapped across his left shoulder, a huge pistol on his hip, a smaller combat knife under his left arm, and a SPAS 31 shotgun magnetized to his back. The morph, as it obviously was from the eared helmet and flicking tail, just stood there, stock still as his stealth field failed. A huge crack had split its death-headed helm almost in two and it reached up, unclasping the broken helmet almost reverently. The troops watched in amazement as the coyote morph flung the helmet aside.

He uttered only a few words, but they were enough to instill fear into everyone around; "Now you're dead."

The three troopers raised their rifles, hands shaking as they started to pull the trigger. Then the morph was gone. His stealth field hadn't restarted; he was just incredibly fast, a blur to the naked eye. The man to his right had a bowie knife in his chest before he could pull the trigger and the other two missed their marks completely, their shots hitting the far wall and creating fresh bullet holes to accompany the dozens already present. The coyote rolled as the middle man swung his aim to follow the coyote's movements. The man got a bone-cracking knee to the chest, making him collapse in pain. The third soldier fared a little better, having had a pistol which allowed her to adjust her aim faster. She loosed two shots, one glancing off the coyote's chest plate and the other going wide. The morph grabbed the woman's pistol and battered her arms away from it with his left arm. A smooth spin saw the gun switch directions and turn on its owner. The pistol barked once and the woman fell over.

The coyote finished off the man with the broken ribs before turning to the final bastion of defence behind an overturned display case. "If you value your lives, drop your weapons. Unless you want to end up like the others, that is."

Four men in street clothing slowly rose from their position their weapons clattering to the floor. Several rebels walked carefully over, weapons pointed at the surrendering men. The Humanists stayed still and let the soldiers cuff them. They were walked out of the building towards an idling MAV waiting to accept prisoners and haul them to a compound west of he stadium.

"Who's in charge here?" asked the fur as he bent and retrieved his shattered helmet.

Wilks paused before answering hesitantly. "Uhh.. That'd be me."

The coyote looked around, finding the source of the voice. It was the man that the Captain had talked to by the home improvement store, easily distinguished by his short black hair and lazy gait. The fur looked around the rest of the room, surveying the damages and losses as the rest of the rebel forces reached the entrance, clearing each room as they made their way to the field in the centre of the stadium. "Good job. This was a hard place to gain access to, what with that mounted gun and all. And you did it with only four losses."

Wilks was floored again; that was the exact opposite of what he had been expecting. He had been expecting a berating, ear-splitting tirade of punishment before a possible execution. All he could manage was "T-thank you, sir. It wasn't only me though."

"Of course not! Your men fought bravely, their fury like that of a pack of wolves descending upon a helpless deer! When this is over, report back to the station and I'll get you all a drink!" At that, the fur left, no doubt to single-handedly rescue the city of Denver from the war tearing it apart.

Wilks stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. The solution came in the form of his second in command. "You heard him! Good work! Now let's go earn that beer; the Caged Beast should almost be inside now! Let's go welcome her to the party!"

**

Owen observed his impromptu handiwork, satisfied with the result. Where once there had been several rows of tiered seating, now there was an immense jagged hole going through to the stadium's interior. His plan had worked, and the Humanists that had paused to see what the commotion was had been scythed down by his team. There was little in way of resistance in the stands, and the ad-hoc militia was taking care of the few remainders.

Smith now turned his attention to the field below. The Humanists had been pushed from the interior of the stadium and onto the field. This was their final stand. This is where they would finally wrest control of the stadium from the Humanists and be able to use it as a strategic staging area for future assaults elsewhere in the city.

Below, almost a hundred humanist were pooling and organizing themselves for the coming attack. Officers were yelling at men to hold their ground and fight to the last. They were quickly silenced by several high-velocity rounds bursting skulls and decimating the remaining command structure. Smith smiled. He knew Paul's lethal art when he saw it. The few remaining commanders sought shelter from the sniper fire, sacrificing their authority for safety.

The attack came in a wave of rebels from the eastern vehicle service door. The Caged Beast roared as it finally had new enemies in it's sights. The 40mm opened up, reaping death on anyone fool enough to come out of cover. Smith saw Sergeant Wilks at the head of the infantry following in the machine's wake, proud of the man for his bravery.

Then disaster struck. A missile shrieked out of the western service door and caused flames to erupt violently from within the Caged Beast. The APC ground to a halt, doors flying open as the men inside abandoned the noble vehicle. And not a moment too soon, as a second missile impacted on the left of the hull, slamming it sideways a few metres, leaving large furrows in the grass. The missile must have touched off the vehicle's munitions because it expanded suddenly like a balloon before bursting as the rounds inside detonated fiercely, gutting the APC. Several soldiers, both Humanist and Rebel, were hit by flying shrapnel or randomly detonating shells and fell lifeless to the ground.

The Caged Beast's assailant strode calmly out of the service entry that the missiles had flew from. It was 4 metres tall and heavily armed for intense combat. It had backwards-jointed legs supporting it's immense metal body, its arms consisting of various weapons systems, including a missile launcher, chaingun, and flamethrower. It was well armoured and was vaguely humanoid in appearance, grey paint covering it in its entirety except for a green circle, a red H inside, emblazoned on it's 'chest'. It was a Tortoise Mk VII mech, the first military walker to make it into service about 10 years ago. And it was rapidly destroying the rebel force.

It let loose with it's chaingun, turning infantry into clouds of red. It started to close the distance to the other side of the field, the Humanist forces rallying behind it. A well aimed rocket struck it in the middle of the front plating, making the walker stagger backwards a step. Other than the minor interference, it was otherwise unscathed and kept unleashing hell on the hapless attackers.

"SHIT! Come on, Taylor! This one's ours." growled Smith as he ran down the aisle and vaulted the low wall that surrounded the bottom lip of the stadium. He landed effortlessly on the grass and began to sprint towards the mech.

Taylor followed helplessly, the suit lending him a surge of speed as he flew over the wall. His landing was far less fruitful, his body rolling as it struck the ground. John slowly picked himself up and headed after the captain. He was intercepted by a squad of Humanists who had tried to follow Smith but were helplessly outran. They fared better with John, scoring several hits that bounced off his armour.

Hearing and feeling them strike his body made him dive into a small crater made by a stray rocket in an effort to find cover. Looking over the edge, he saw Smith reach the mech. He missed what happened next as he turned his attention to his pursuers, opening fire as war raged all about him.

**

Smith activated his armour's experimental weapon system, an energized hum building up in his right vambrace. The bulky MAW system sprang to life, the shell splintering and folding back to reveal a barrel of sorts surrounded by a tube of negatively charged tungsten, pistons holding it in place around the tempered steel barrel. Smith, still running, pulled a special magazine from his belt and slid it home on the left side of the weapon, green telltales lighting up in his HUD. The compact generator on is back let out a high pitched whine as it fed power to the system in massive quantities.

He reached a good firing position, dropping into a crouch, arm outstretched in an almost heroic pose pointed directly at the mech. His left arm supported his right as he allowed all of his suit's non-essential systems to power down and divert still more power to the arm. When the MAW registered that it was ready to go, Smith clenched his hand into a fist, triggering the firing sequence. Just before he fired, Smith was hit in the shoulder by a spray of machine gun fire, throwing off his aim.

The magnetically accelerated warhead system didn't stop, the tube slamming backwards going the speed of sound. The positively charged warhead, made of layered titanium, exited the system at mach 3, a sonic boom rumbling throughout the stadium and bursting a few eardrums. The round struck the left armature of the mech and passed straight through. It went through the entire building before finally becoming embedded in a mini-crater on the wall of a nearby hotel.

The mech turned to face the new threat and was about to loose a volley of chaingun rounds when the pilot discovered that it no longer had a chaingun to speak of. The projectile had completely severed the left armature of the machine, taking the chaingun with it in a cascade of sparks and torn metal. The gun was now lying some twenty feet away on top of a very dead Humanist. Incidentally, it was the same trooper who had shot Smith which offered him very little consolidation as the machine simply decided that it would crush him underfoot.

Smith watched it come towards him with deadly intent, but could do nothing to stop it. His armour was still powered down and recovering from firing the supersonic shell. His usually light armour now felt like it were made of lead, keeping him rooted to the ground. The stomping of the machine grew steadily louder as the walker loomed over him, raising a great metal foot to crush him into dust.

CHAPTER 11

Denver, Colorado

1432 Hours, August 11** th ***, 2052*

Marcus saw Smith fire off the MAW, wincing as the sonic boom shook his position behind the burnt-out husk of a prefab tent. When he saw the round miss, he knew they had only one chance to save the situation. Grabbing all the C4 in his kit, he ran off towards the mech, dodging fire coming his way from all directions. He was still a few metres away before the walker raised it's right foot, about to kill Smith beneath it's mighty tread.

Suddenly, the sensor module on the roof exploded, an armour-piercing round destroying the walker's ability to survey it's surroundings. Seemingly furious, the mech stomped its foot down anyways with enough force to cause a tremor through the ground. But Smith was gone, dragged away in the few moments that Paul had bought him by Lily.

She dragged him into the shallow crater where John was trading rounds with a few humanists behind a wall of sandbags.

"Help me!" she cried as he noticed the two entering the crater. He helped her lay him out on the ground and rebooted his suit. Apparently, a lucky bullet had hit a main power line on his right arm and the suit had locked up in self defence. His body instantly relaxed as the power came back online. He still couldn't move his arm, but had movement everywhere else. He sat upright and faced Lily. "Thanks. We still have to kill that thing though."

"I think Marcus has a plan!" cried John as he watched Marcus lob the C4 at the mech, the C4 sticking to it's back as it stomped about blindly. Then the world slowed down for a moment as John's visor made out the numbers flashing on the charge's control panel. 5...4...3...2...1...

An explosion shook the stadium for the second time in under an hour as over three pounds of C4 blew the mech apart in a brilliant flash of light. John saw Marcus fly end over end through the air, partially on fire before landing in a heap in a bunch of crates.

**

Marcus opened his right eye, only to find out that he couldn't open his left. His right side was numb and his left was in agony. He tried to move only to find that he was strapped down to a stretcher in the process of being wheeled up the back ramp of the QTR. Lily was running beside him, keeping an IV feed above his head. He was being pushed by Warren and John, both of whom looked impassive behind their armour. In reality, they were very worried about him. He wouldn't last an hour if he wasn't brought to a surgical room quickly.

"Out of the way! We have another wounded man here!" shouted Tracer as he made everyone back away from the QTR and rolling another wheeled stretcher up beside Marcus'. The entire hold was full of wounded men and furs in varying degrees of pain.

Marcus thought he felt the helicopter take off before he blacked out, visions of the past coming to him in his stupor.

**

Near Sault St. Marie, Ontario, Canada

1230 Hours, November 9** th **** , 2049**

Marcus heard the SUV crunch across the snow in his driveway, the hard-pack making a loud grating under the tough winter tires. He got up from the couch in front of the fire and headed to the door. He was greeted by a stern-faced Owen in a long black greatcoat and toque, followed by Warren in a coat and gloves. He merely nodded as Marcus let them inside and gestured to the several chairs and couches spread about in his log cabin's welcoming living room.

"We've got another mission." stated Owen lightly.

"Where?" asked Marcus as he heated up some water for coffee.

"The States," answered Warren, "Colorado."

"Damn... It's always too warm down there." replied Marcus, "What is it this time?"

"It's all on this," said Owen, accepting the mug offered by Marcus. He pulled a memory unit from his right pocket, plugging it into the coffee table's port. The glass of the table lit up, the cleverly hidden plasma screen reading the memory unit's stored data. Owen put in his palm print when it was prompted and keyed in a 10-figure code. The files lit up in green and data flowed onto the screen.

"By now you must have heard of the Humanist movement. Intelligence suggests that they are a cell organization spread across almost the entire world. The only places without a reported trace of them are Australia, Canada, Norway, Sweden, and New Zealand. New data says that they are mainly organized in the western states and eastern Europe."

The screen lit up in a world map with sections lighting up in red. The red spots were spread almost evenly across the globe, but a vague pattern was developing in the areas that Owen had pointed out. New York and Washington were almost entirely red, while the countries that Owen had listed had little or none of the red splotches.

"All the expeditor squads have been mobilized in an effort to stop the spread of the movement. Their positions are marked in blue." Blue dots lit up in several of the 'infected' cities. "We are going proceed to Denver, where we will attempt to find and disable any local cells we can find."

"That's a big job. What do we have for resources?" asked Marcus.

"The UN has issued us with a blank cheque and total authority. There are to be no mistakes. I, however, can safely say that we would do better undercover than we would in the open. We cannot trust anyone outside of our unit,even the authorities. Not even the other teams are considered friendly. This is a sensitive matter and everyone could be a part of the movement. If we fail, we could very well face a civil war on a global scale."

"Sounds dangerous. When do we ship out?"

Owen smiled and answered in a smooth manner. "We leave a week from now. I have no guarantees that we will be back any time soon, if at all."

"Just like every other mission we've been on. I'll be ready." Commented Marcus.

"I never doubted it. We've got to go and see the others." Finished Owen as he activated the file's built in system scrubbers and eliminated any trace of the files from the table. At that, they rose and exited into the harsh winter air, making their way to the SUV.

Marcus watched them go and thought about the mission. Whatever the case, Denver would be interesting to see. His tail twitched anxiously as he began to pack.

**

Denver, Colorado, United States of America

0200 Hours, February 23** rd ***, 2050*

The snow blew harshly through the streets, accumulating in drifts and banks in the yards and alleys before it was blown elsewhere. The snow restricted visibility to only an arm's length, providing excellent concealment. Marcus revelled in the spot of luck. It felt great to finally have a break after a week of searching for leads.

He pulled the Cadillac around a corner and parked in front of a moderately sized apartment house on the southern edge of Denver, the hidden sensor suite in the bumpers guiding him as well as his own eyes. He checked the GPS to ensure that it was the right place. It was.

He pulled a pistol out of his webbing and slammed a magazine in the empty slot and racking the slide. He turned to the other three people in the car. "We're here."

Warren grabbed a shotgun from under the passenger seat and ensured that it was loaded. Sam and Tracer merely nodded before exiting the car. Marcus popped the trunk to allow them access to their own weapons; two submachine guns mounted on Cornershot room clearing systems.

Marcus took a moment to prepare himself, hoping that this would be the break they were waiting for. He opened his door and exited the vehicle, the wind coursing around his armour. Even without the insulation his suit provided, he would have been warm. His fur was generally warm in -30 degrees Celsius, never mind this balmy -4.

The team moved to the door, stealth fields active, taking up a breaching stance on the wall to the left of the door. Marcus keyed his mic to make sure the mission was still a go. "Commander, we're in position."

"Good. We are just below the manse and should be there in under two minutes. You have the green light. I repeat, the plan is a go. Good luck."

"Roger that. Commencing." He nodded to the other three who had placed a magnetic lockpick to the door. A green light lit up on the device announcing that the door was now open and any alarm disabled.

Warren went in first, shotgun held in his right as he opened the door with his left. He made sure that the entrance was empty before waving the others in. Marcus went in followed by the others and turned right and checking the kitchen and dining room. Both were empty.

The four cleared the ground floor and basement before meting at the foot of the stairs leading to an open landing on the second floor. Marcus gave the go ahead and they proceeded upstairs, weapons panning in every direction. The guest room was empty and the bathroom wasn't occupied.

They finally came to the master bedroom and took up firing positions. They were reading a heat signature in the bed through the wall. Marcus raised his hand, three fingers raised. He slowly counted them down, finally ending up in a closed fist.

Tracer kicked in the door and rushed in the room, his gun raised and pointed at the figure laying in the bed. The others followed him in and ensured there were no further people in the room.

"GET UP!" barked Warren, pulling the covers from the bed and revealing the man underneath.

Below them a timer finished ticking down on the oven. The bell rang as a microphone tuned to the bell's frequency came alive inside. The microphone sent an electrical signal to the bomb that it was attached to.

Back in the room, the group was cursing at the mannequin that had been posing as their target. It had been warmed with a heater placed where a hole was cut in his chest, creating the illusion of body heat.

Marcus was about to call it in when the room exploded from below. The house lit fire from the incendiary set inside the microwave, setting off the smoke detectors. It was their shrill tone that woke him from his momentary lapse into darkness.

He pulled himself to his feet and checked on the others. Warren and Tracer were coming to, but Sam was out cold. The four dazed specialists found an escape route but not their weapons, Tracer carrying Sam like a babe in arms. They got to the vehicle as sirens started to be heard coming from downtown. Marcus floored it, making for the safe house in the mountains.

**

Denver, Colorado, United States of America

1304 Hours, January 7** th ***, 2050*

"At most we have a month until this escalates to the point where we can no longer control it. There are too many cells in the area and we don't have the manpower to hunt them all down." Stated Smith glumly at the team's daily briefing. "The situation is the same the world over; Expeditor squads being unable to stop the movement. I can't help but liken it to the mythical hydra; whenever one head is cut off, two others take its place."

Tracer spoke up next. "So we're fucked."

"Yes and no," replied Smith, "we may well have say that we have failed to suppress the coming storm, but this could give us another opportunity to fix this. I need to know who's all in."

Daystar volunteered first. In the couple months that she had been in the company of the squad, she and her sister had been quickly accepted as unofficial members. They mostly helped with intelligence gathering and guidance, but they had both been trained with spare suits of armour and any weapons that they could get their hands on. Lily had even taken to learning some useful medical skills from Mary who had allowed them access to her supplies and services. "I'm in."

Marcus and Warren tied for second, nodding their agreement without saying anything. Tracer raised his hand to signal his acceptance before Lily had her say. "Okay. I'm in."

The rest took more time before they too all volunteered to Smith's unsaid idea. He smiled. He had known they'd want a part of it. "Well then, we're going to start a rebellion."

The rest of the group looked at him, taking a moment to take in the idea. Marcus broke the silence. "Where do we start?"

"It's simple. We can run it like we did in Bangkok. We start small; a few posters here, a couple of speeches there. Eventually we will have our own private army. It is only a matter of time until the Humanists start hounding for a war, so I say let's give them one. We can continue hunting the cell leaders, but instead of doing it in secret we do it publicly, crediting it to our own group. Human nature will do the rest."

"Ya know that t'is could lead to an all out global war, eh?" Asked Luke.

"I realize that. The cost would be great to both sides, but we can make a serious change in the world order. Equality could come out of this; gene projects being entitled to all of the rights that humans have. We could make a new world."

The others took a moment to ponder the possibilities, running hundreds of situations through their heads. Each made up their mind at about the same time. It was a unanimous decision. They would go with it.

"Good. I'll try to contact the other expeditor squads and tell them of our plan. If they want to follow suite, good for them. If not, well then, that's too bad. I'll inform our superiors, but I have a feeling that they will brand us rogue. Even if they support us, they can't be seen taking sides one way or another. What we do next will be considered highly illegal and will be punishable by law."

"Don't try to dissuade us. It won't work." Said Warren, who was backed up by the others without delay.

"Good. Like the phoenix of legend, the world will burn. But it will be reborn. Now, lets get to work"

**

CHAPTER 12

Denver, Colorado

1718 Hours, August 11** th ***, 2052*

Marcus finally came to in the same hospital bed that John had been interred on deep within Union Station. Trying to sit up brought pain to his left arm from the IV hookup on his hand and several broken ribs. He reached to pull it out but stopped as he saw his right arm. Or rather, his new right arm.

Where his forearm once was, there was now merely a scarred stump ending at the elbow. From the stump, a metallic prosthetic was now installed. It was made of burnished grey steel that almost blended in with the colour of his fur, with several traces of gold showed where the neural controls meshed with his nervous system and linked the arm to his brain. All of the moving parts were contained within armour-like plating, and the hand was fully jointed like his old hand. It was definitely a top-of-the-line model, quite unlike the ones from the beginning of the 21st century.

He then noticed another major development; he couldn't blink his left eye. This was because, like his arm, it too was replaced. Now there was an unblinking lens faceted inside of a metal plate that was fixed to his eye socket. It glowed a dim red giving him an even more menacing stare. In truth, it terrified him.

"How are the new parts?" Asked John, who had been unnoticed by Marcus as he had looked himself over.

"They're... different." said Marcus, unwilling to say that he was ungrateful for the new body parts.

"You were under the glove for the better part of two hours. Lily and the surgeon had to bring you back to life twice. You almost bled out."

"Wow... Did my idea work?"

"Yeah. That tin can blew apart and took out the rest of the Humanist morale with it. They surrendered in droves after they saw that thing go down."

"Good. So we took the stadium?"

"Yeah. Smith stayed back to make sure that the area was clear and the stadium was re-fortified correctly. He told the rest of us to head back and get some R&R. He even postponed the other mission by a week to let you recover and to let us get better equipped. I suggest you relax while you can. Oh, and I grabbed your laptop for you." Said John as he picked the laptop off of a nearby counter and handed it to the wounded morph.

"Thanks. You can just leave it on the end of the bed."

"Alright, I'll see you later. Sasha wants a debrief."

"I'll be here I guess." smiled Marcus, trying to convince himself that he was content to be bedridden.

**

Sasha allowed herself a breath of relief when a communique was delivered to her saying that Marcus was alive and healthy. She had been pushed aside when the helicopter had landed, the volunteer medical staff making way for the dozen or so injured in the troop bay. She had been told little but had managed to catch a glimpse of Marcus' unconscious body as he was wheeled away towards surgery. Needless to say, she had been worried.

She sat back into one of the chairs that were clustered around the holographic display table, relaxing for what seemed like the first time since they had launched the counterattack through the Rockies. She had always been in a state of stress since, but now that the attack was falling into place, she could take a moment to compose herself. Marcus was still alive, the stadium was still in gene project hands, and nobody was rampaging through the base.

Around her, the officers were in good spirit, the news of the victory raising morale to the highest its been in a long time. They were all smiling, clapping, and being downright cheerful as they watched footage coming through of Humanist prisoners and celebrating rebel troops. Sasha allowed her fellow freedom fighters the time to enjoy themselves. They needed it.

She waved over to her aide, who was busy pulling out a bottle of Jack to give a toast. "Dutch! Can you handle this for a moment?"

The man looked over to her, giving a thumbs up as he lined up some shot glasses and began to pour the alcohol.

Sasha left the room and headed towards John's living quarters. It wasn't long until she had arrived at the door. She knocked before opening the hatch in the tunnel wall, the door swinging inwards on it's heavy hinges. She glanced around the co-opted room and found John sitting on his bed and etching something into his helmet. He was dressed in a shirt and jeans, the rest of his armour laying at the foot of his cot.

"Uhh... Hello, commander." he said nervously, still remembering the fierce punch she had given him all those days ago.

"Hello John. I'm here to debrief you. From what I hear you and the rest of the team were instrumental in the fight. You guys even took out a mech, not something to take lightly."

"I didn't. That was Marcus and Smith. I was just following orders." Shrugged Smith, trying to be humble and polite in an effort to make a better impression on the fur leader than he had previously. Sasha was having none of it.

"Look, I know we didn't start off on the right foot, and I'm sorry I hit you. Let's start over.'

"Fair enough. I was practically begging to be hit. I should never have let my mouth run loose."

"All of that is behind us now. If Smith trusts you enough to make you a member of the team, I guess I should too."

"Thanks. That means a lot to me. I am really sorry for the way I acted, it was a... difficult day."

"It was for everyone. But, now that that's all out of the way, tell me what happened out there today. How was your first mission as an expeditor?"

John recounted the day's events, starting from the team's hot landing to returning to Union Station. He regurgitated Smith's explosion and the fight with the mech, forgetting nothing of his first skirmish.

Sasha listened intently, occasionally taking notes on a tablet for later examination. She stood as he finished, thanking him for his time and exiting the room. She glanced over her notes, cross referencing the several other accounts that she had gathered over the past few hours. She still didn't know what to think about the new member of Smith's team, but she was confident that he no longer posed too large of a threat.

She decided to head to her own quarters for a nap before returning to the control room, falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. She had been more stressed out about the day than she had let on.

**

She woke about two hours later to a soft knock on her door. Eyes fluttering open, she answered it. She was still wearing her ad-hoc uniform from earlier, having been too tired to change and her fur was all messed up from tossing around in her bed. When she saw who it was when she opened the door, she instantly wished that she had spent some time cleaning herself.

"Why, hello. You look... erm... well rested." smiled Sasha's new-found love interest. He was dressed in a pair of combat pants and a black t-shirt, now clean of the dirt and grime from the fight for the stadium. He still smelled slightly of gunpowder and smoke, but she had come to associate the scent with all of the expeditors.

"Uhmm, thanks. You just went through hell and you still come out looking like you stepped from a magazine."

"It's a skill. I grabbed you something." He pulled a small object from his pocket, offering it to her in a closed fist. She took it from him, looking down at her hand. Inside was a small golden charm depicting a dove clutching an olive branch in mid-flight.

"Oh, Owen, it's beautiful!"

"I told you I'd bring something back for you. I found it in the middle of a trashed gift store. It was the only thing left unscathed and I found it to be appropriately ironic. Is everything quiet here now?" Smith asked, wondering if Sasha had received any news while he was out.

"Yeah. Well, it's as quiet as it can get given that we're leading a massive counter-offensive across the state."

"That's good to hear. So how's the rest of the war?"

"We're hanging on. Heavy resistance is being encountered in the southern states, New Mexico especially. The entire task force has ground to a halt on the outskirts of Santa Fe. Apparently the Humanists had a lot of time to prepare the city and didn't waste any of it."

"How about the north?"

"Our forces have repossessed the Dakotas and have moved on to Montana. We have most of Wyoming but the progress is slow across the board. I'm starting to wonder if we'll ever get to the west coast."

"We'll get to the other coast soon enough. It'll just take a bit of time, that's all. Then we can start to rebuild."

"What happens if we fail? What if we lose, and all we have worked for is swept away?" asked Sasha darkly, her eyes coming to rest on the floor.

"Don't talk like that... I know we can do this. We just need time. Today was a perfect example of what we can do."

"I know, but what if we don't make it. We can't send your Phoenocians to every conflict. Not all of our soldiers are like you."

"They don't have to be. You remember what happened when those people hacked the KSS. They saved our hides, hell, they practically turned the tide of the war by themselves! We don't need more Phoenocians, we only need for our people to do what is right."

"You really think we can win, don't you?"

"Yes, without question. Now, let's change the topic. We should be celebrating, not posing what-ifs and doubting ourselves at this time of victory!"

"I know... but we've been at it for months and there is still no sign of either side gaining the upper hand. At first we were hunting down cell leaders and seemingly destroying their organization. Then we openly engaged in conflict only to run east. Now we're back here again and practically burning this city to the ground."

"It may seem that way now, but think of how much better it will be later, when we are victorious. Then we can start anew, building a brighter future where you and your fellow gene projects are no longer slaves but equals!"

"I know, I know. There's no need to get all recruiter on me, it's just that I wish there was a better way."

"We tried, remember? It failed. This was the only other option we had open to us, so we took it."

"I think I just need some time to be melancholy right now. I'll be more cheerful in the morning but right now I need some rest..."

"Okay then, don't let me keep you from it. I'll let you get back to bed. If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask." said Smith as he made ready to leave. Before he could turn around, Sasha surged forward and hugged him. She really has a thing for goodbyes, Owen found himself thinking as he hugged her back, her smaller body conforming to his. She gave him a quick lick on the cheek before breaking free of the embrace. Smith wished her a good night's sleep before he took his leave of her quarters.

He was quickly intercepted by Arthurs, Warren's aide, before he made it ten steps towards his own room. "Good evening, sir! I have a message from Warren. He says to meet him in the command room in five. He didn't say anything else, but he told me that it was urgent." The raccoon's happiness was contagious, Smith being unable to hide a smile at the fur's bouncy mood.

"Thank you Arthurs. I'll head there immediately. I take it you'll be trying to rally the rest of the squad?"

"Yessir, I'm headed to their barracks next." smiled the raccoon proudly.

"Good man. I think you'll find Tracer in the armoury though. Oh, and Sam went to find some more gear at the local stores, so you'll have to skip her. She won't mind missing the meeting."

"Yessir, thank you, sir!"

"I'll see you later then." At that the raccoon took off, disappearing around a bend as he swiftly went to deliver his message to the others. Smith watched him go before turning around and knocking on Sasha's door. Looks like she won't be getting that rest now.

**

Warren took one last look around to make sure that everyone was present before he touched a few buttons on the console in front of him. The room's doors slid shut and the lights faded as the room entered silence mode. The room was now completely sealed and safe from prying eyes and ears which suited the nature of this meeting just fine.

The command centre had been completely emptied of personnel for the squad's meeting and empty seats and blank consoles dotted the room. Only the seven Phoenocians and Sasha now occupied the room, slouched in seats or standing at the edge of the room.

Warren cleared his voice before making his important announcement. "Command wants to speak with us. The old command."

Smith asked the question they were all thinking. "Is it bad?"

Warren merely shook his head. "I don't know. They wanted all of us present before they said anything. They only told me to get the rest of you in here, so that's what I did."

"Shit. Are they online now?" asked Sasha.

"Yes. I just wanted to let you all know before I patched them through."

Smith stepped up and gestured for Warren and the others to have a seat. "Thanks Warren. Now, this is mostly for John but it applies to all of you regardless. Whatever the happens, keep quiet about them and don't question them. At least not when command is on the line, that is. I'll try to figure out what they want. I'm going to patch them through in three, two, one..." Smith hit the flashing green light on the table's interface and immediately a holographic screen hove into view above the table.

Onscreen was a male in his late 50's in a smart military uniform and close cropped grey hair. He had a stern face but gentle eyes showed past his hard outer shell. His name was Major General Jack 'the ripper' Cruze and he was among the most powerful men alive on the planet. He was in control of the UN's military and police forces, including all of the black-ops teams and covert operations forces at their disposal. The Expeditor program was his to command and his alone. Or, at least they were before the war.

Cruze seemed to look around before focusing on the assembled squad, the camera mounted on an overhead rail swivelling with his gaze. His voice sprang from speakers located about the room as he addressed the squad in a slightly distorted voice. "Hello Captain Smith. And greetings to the rest of Expeditor squad 98. It's been a while."

"Hello, sir. It has indeed." responded Smith warily.

"I've heard great things about your latest accomplishments. Pushing back the Humanists from the plains and even managing to lay siege to Denver and putting the Humanists on the back foot. Meanwhile the rest of the world is in disarray, people running around and slaying each other like cattle. It's purely disgusting."

"I agree sir, but may I ask why you have decided to contact us?"

"Ah, straight to the point. I always admired that about you Owen. You always cut to the heart of the matter."

"I try my best, sir."

Cruze laughed as if he hadn't in a long time. Probably because he really hadn't. "Owen, I'll confess that last time we talked it was under strained circumstances, none of which either one of us had any control over. But that has changed."

"Indeed? How so?"

"There is no longer a UN to speak of. The building was fire bombed as the final meeting was adjourned and many leaders were killed. The survivors returned to their own countries to try and control the spontaneous outbreak in conflict threatening the world. The military was disbanded as there was no longer a senate to issue it orders. Those of us that saw fit to participate in the conflict started to call in our allies and create a military faction. We've been dispatching units to various hotspots in an effort to quell the fighting. Last month we even managed to stabilize most of Canada, not that there was too much conflict to begin with."

"It helps when the populace had already accepted the change."

"Quite. It will still be some time until we can get some units in your area. Recent estimates put the ETA at four months at most."

"There's something more to this. You are being too open."

"Alas, you are correct. You were always good at reading people. There is a small matter that needs attending in your region. We have no one in the Denver region, or all of Colorado for that matter, that can be of any assistance. So we need your help."

"What is it?"

"A few years back when the gene projects were considered 'new', a collaborative genetics group codenamed 'Genesis' was tasked with creating a replacement for the human soldier using the gene templates discovered during the creation of the furs. They were initially unsuccessful. The government wanted results and continued with the project in spite of failure after failure after failure. They were stationed out of a villa north of a small resort town that you should be familiar with. We received a communique from the lead researcher about a month after you went rogue and they've decided to throw their lot in with us. Apparently, they've had a breakthrough. We need you to go and evac them to a safer location."

"Why? If they've had success, why would we move them to a different lab? Why not leave them to continue their work?"

"We have reason to believe that the Humanists know where they are. We've seen a movement of men and equipment to a small town south of where they are stationed, probably going to wipe them out before they can complete their research. We need you to get them to another facility located in the mountains. We have people there who can protect them while they work."

"When do you need this done? I have other... matters to attend to tomorrow night. Not to mention the fact that it's behind enemy lines."

"We need those men out of there yesterday. You're other mission will have to wait. Those scientists are not killers. We only have one hired man there for basic protection. They won't hold out against a lone gunman, much less a strike team. They are only a three hour flight from your position."

Smith sighed and looked over to the others. All of them were waiting for his decision. They could forget the scientists and take Buckley Air Force Base. It would pretty much win them the city, but the geneticists could win them the war. Or, they could do both.

"Warren, do you know all of the specifics on our mission?"

"Um, yessir. Why do you ask?"

"I'm going to split our forces. I want John, Paul, Tyler, and Lily with me when I go and extract the geneticists. I can bring some men from the Ranger squads to fill out my numbers. The rest of you will stay and attack Buckley Air Base with the rest of our forces tomorrow at midnight. You're just going to have to make-do without air transport for the wounded. You'll still get the last gunships, but make sure to knock out their AAA batteries first. What do you think, Sasha?"

Sasha took a step forward and gave her opinion. "Splitting your team would mean that you would be vulnerable; your men are used to being a part of a larger unit. However, your plan could solve both problems without having to re-plan the Buckley mission. We would have to commit forces from the industrial zone in order to make up for the lack of air assault, but it is possible. I only have one order."

"Oh, and what would that be?"

"I'm coming with you."

Smith balked at this. "What? Coming with me? We need you to oversee the entire assault! There is no way you can come with us!"

Sasha merely narrowed her eyes and let out a low growl. It was enough to change Smith's mind. "On the other hand, the staff can make do without you and you still have your armour..."

Cruze chose that moment to interject. "I can see you have complex choices to make. I'll leave you with the coordinates and my hopes that you will accept. Contact me when you come to a decision."

Sasha turned to the display before the link was disconnected and gave the final say on the matter. "We'll do it."

**

CHAPTER 13

Somewhere West of Denver, Colorado

2352 Hours, August 12** th ***, 2052*

The cool night air was incredibly invasive, breaching even the sealed cockpit despite the whining heater's best efforts. They were ill-suited to drive away the cold; a ricochet from earlier had seen to that. Tom Walt shivered and flexed his hands around the stick, seeing his breath mist in front of his face. We've got to get that damn heater fixed. Some better glass could help too.

Tom checked the control panel again and made sure that all system were still green. They were, and he nudged his copilot who was beginning to fall asleep in his seat.

"Come on Eric! It's almost below zero in here! How can you be tired?"

His second shook himself awake and responded groggily. "Sex can do that to a man, Tom. But that's okay; you wouldn't know."

"Oh, shut up! I'm going to check on our passengers; take the stick."

"Alright, but hurry back. I was having a great dream."

Tom stood up, making for the hatch at the back of the cockpit. He opened the sliding door and entered the troop bay. "How's everyone doing back here? Did everyone get the complimentary peanuts and warm towels?"

"We're good." stated Smith evenly. He was leaning over the port-side Mk 19 closest to the cockpit and gazing out at the unblemished sky. The stars were out in full force, twinkling in the crisp night air.

"Speak for yourself, Canuck! It's frigging cold back here!" whined a trooper just beside him, curled up with his arms inside his military jacket.

"Try tucking your mouth into your jacket so your breath warms up your core."

"I'll try. If it doesn't work and I die of the cold, I'm coming back from the dead and haunting your ass." The trooper then turned his attention to keeping himself somewhat warm.

Tom looked over at the rest of the transport's crowded hold. The bench seats were taken up in their entirety by the Phoenocians and their ex-military support. The middle of the bay was occupied by a pair of lithe, but somehow bulky, troop transports.

The transports were basically buggy ATVs fitted with mounted weapons and extra troop capacity. They each sported hulking grills and powerful engines that could propel them to speeds in excess of 50 miles per hour. Directly behind the engine was an open cockpit with a roll cage skeleton, the seats side by side like in a car. A mounted weapon on a mount on the passenger side provided a means of laying down some mid-range firepower while a spotlight mounted on top of the roll cage spotted targets in low-light conditions. Behind the small cockpit were two seats that sat facing each other where jump-seat passengers could ride before they exited to support the vehicle on foot. Four overly-inflated tires that could keep their grip even on black ice rounded off the package.

Tom took the time to check that the vehicles were still clamped tightly in place before he returned to the cockpit and his waiting co-pilot.

"So? How's everything back there?" yawned Eric, trying not to fall asleep.

"The troops are cold, but they are still ready for insertion and the buggies are still clamped and secure. So far so good."

"Thank god, I can honestly say that this is the first time that those spec-ops guys chose a safe plan for a drop."

"I hear that. Remember when we first met those crazy bastards?"

"Yeah. Damn, but that was a day. We must have been either desperate for work or bored out of our minds."

"They did pay well..."

"It doesn't really matter now does it?" sighed Eric.

"I suppose not." agreed Tom heavily.

**

Denver, Colorado

1100 Hours, November 3** rd ***, 2049*

The dart landed with a thud on the board in the centre of the bullseye, drawing a whoop from Eric. "Oh yeah! Who's the man! Me, that's who!"

"Sure, you win. What's that now? 19 to 17?" said Tom with a mock intonation of care in his voice.

"You know it! Say what you want, but that shot was perfect. The way that the dart sliced through the air... Beautiful..."

"Well you saw me do it how many times, you must have decided to copy me for a change. It's too bad you can't mimic my good looks and smooth wit, or you'd always be getting laid."

Eric simply shrugged, this was typical banter for a day at the office. It didn't help that they haven't had a customer in over a week to at least get out in the heli and do something different. He hated being cooped up in their well appointed office waiting for a customer.

Everyone was too scared to fly now with all of the recent terrorist activity in the region. Everything from middle-of-the-night raids to fire bombings and hijackings had been happening quite often, especially in the last two weeks. It all had something to do with the two main groups; the so called "Humanists" group denouncing furs and the "Phoenocians" who claimed that they were equal to humans. Neither one of the two pilots cared other than the fact that they could soon find themselves out of a job if the trend continued.

It was then that they got the visit that would change their lives for better or for worse. Angie knocked on the mahogany door before entering the room. She was a fur that they had purchased last month to serve as a receptionist for their small helicopter service firm. She was a German shepherd morph dressed smartly in a well-filled black dress coat and a knee length grey skirt. Her brown hair was light and bouncy, much like her mood. Her ears twitched anxiously and her tail half-wagged which made Eric guess at what she was going to say next. "A customer?"

The fur squealed excitedly, her sudden energy filling the room along with her silken voice. "Yes! And by the looks of it, he has a LOT of money to throw around!" She then took on a more serious and professional tone. "But there's something about him that I can't quite place. He is very... confident. He walks like he's somehow lighter than he is usually and he keeps glancing around like he's being watched."

Tom spoke next, a tinge of anxiety seeping into his voice. "Well then we'll have to be careful. But still, money is money. Thank you for your keen observations Angie, as always. Show them in when they're ready."

"Yes sirs." she nodded curtly before exiting the office, her tan and black tail now wagging wildly from pleasing her masters.

Eric turned to face Tom and threw him a meaningful glance as he stood and leaned against the wall. "Insurance?"

Tom nodded, pulling a pistol from the bottom drawer of his desk and placing it in his lap. "Looks like it."

**

The door opened again a second time about five minutes later, admitting a serious looking man and a large wolf morph. The man was dressed in an expensive-looking dress shirt and tie, inferring that he had some serious financial backing He wore sunglasses and had a tattoo of something on his neck. The fur was huge, both literally and figuratively. His presence was subtle but gave off an air of intimidation. His purpose was clear; he was obviously a bodyguard.

The man strode over to the desk, shaking Tom's hand. "Good morning Mr. Walt," he turned and offered his hand to Eric who took it, "And to you Mr. Shaw. I am Owen Smith, president of Aquila Enterprises. I am currently looking for a pilot to shuttle me and my associate around as we are in this city. It will be a large amount of work, but the payoff will be well worth your while."

"How much are you offering?" asked Eric who was busy looking out the window towards the rest of the airport, seemingly uninterested.

"Five."

"Five thousand? That's what you call worth our while?"

"No, not thousand; million. Cash."

This drew a low whistle from Tom, but made him suspicious. The man was hiding something. Nobody offered that much in cash. "What kind of 'shuttling' are we talking about?"

The man gestured to the wolf who slowly closed the door and clicked the lock. He checked something on a tablet before nodding to the man who's demeanour changed immediately. He sat down in a chair opposite from Tom, leaning forward before speaking in a quiet manner. "Let me be perfectly honest. The shuttling bullshit was just for your hidden recording devices, which are now in a passive state. They will be re-activated when we are done our talk. I am no CEO, but my name is Owen Smith. I am actually a special operations agent currently working to suppress several terrorist groups that are active in the greater Denver region. The cash is real, and it is unmarked. Should you decline we can resume our previous conversation where you fake a maintenance check on you helicopter that would prevent you from accepting and we will leave and never contact you again. It's your choice."

The pilots quickly exchanged glances before Eric drew the shades and started to ask important questions. "What will we be doing if we accept your offer?"

Smith paused in thought before answering seriously. "You will be doing anything from cargo runs to insertions and extractions in hot zones. You will have to be ready at any hour of the day and you will have access to helicopters of varying capabilities. We will provide them and they will not be taken from your pay."

"How long?"

"The five million is for a year. After that we are authorized to pay you another million every month. We have no idea how long we will need you, but consider the five million a down payment; it's yours the moment we shake on it."

"When do we start?"

"You will start in a week. That should give you enough time to file a false claim of bankruptcy and close up shop. After that you will be filed as missing and enter into our service. Of course, this could change your life drastically. But it may not be for the worse. Two and a half million goes a long way towards your retirement." smiled Smith mirthlessly.

The duo thought this over for a minute. Both of them had been trained by the air force, having taken the military route through education and serving their ten years before they had started their private business. They were qualified to fly any kind of helicopter under the sun and were quite familiar with hostile landings and dust-offs. On the other hand, the task would be hard and there was no guarantee that they would come out of it alive. The choice was obvious.

"We'll do it." nodded Tom, holding out his hand to Smith. Smith took it and shook firmly.

"I must warn you, our secrecy is vital. If our cover is blown, I assure you that I would have no qualms about leaving you two in an unmarked grave. But, if you keep to our agreement, you'll both come out of this as wealthy men. We'll be in touch." Smith then told the pilots to resume the previous conversation as the fur re-engaged the recorders. They made a mock exchange of data and job specifics before they adjourned the meeting.

**

Owen and Marcus exited the building, Marcus drawing a wink from the secretary as they pushed open the door. They emerged into the harsh Colorado sunlight and began to trudge across the cement parking lot to where their car was waiting. The clambered inside, Smith taking the wheel and cranking up the AC. He hated the heat almost as much as Marcus did. "Well that went well. What do you think?"

Marcus buckled himself in, throwing his tablet onto the dash and reclining the seat the farthest down it would go. "I think we have our pilots. They seemed like the trustworthy sort."

Smith nodded. "I thought so too. And they had some serious balls. The one behind the desk had a gun. It bodes well for our plans."

Marcus let a grin split his muzzle as he put his arms behind his head. "They're not the only ones who had some balls in that building. That secretary was more than 'she' let on. I could smell it the moment she greeted us... What do you call a herm anyways? Do you just say 'she'?"

"Hmm... I dunno. You'd know better than me. Maybe it's something like... erm... shay? I honestly have no idea. Eventually someone will come up with the right word, but it won't be me."

"Damn... It's too bad too... 'shay' had a nice ass. I would've tapped that if it weren't for the dick and all."

"That wouldn't stop you! Remember Bangkok? I swear you didn't walk right for a week!" laughed Owen as he turned onto the freeway leading towards the city centre and their next meeting.

This drew a snarl from Marcus who replied in a low growl. "Not funny. It was that or die! It's not like I could depend on you saving me!"

"Sure buddy, whatever you say. I made it there soon enough to save your sorry hide."

"Yeah, but not soon enough to save my dignity, you ass!"

**

Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains West of Denver

2340 Hours, August 12** th ***, 2052*

"Captain, the manse is in visible range. I see a small resort town below us but the scanners aren't picking up any life signs in the town but there are large amounts of activity to the west. I'm going to put it down in the library parking lot; you have three minutes." The voice crackled through the intercom as Smith and his team readied their gear.

"Alright team," started Smith, "You heard Walt, no life signs at the LZ but hostile contact is possible. I want a Gamma pattern landing with each side of the chopper being covered while the transports are pulled out. Hoo-rah?"

"Hoo-rah!" answered the others.

**

The landing was swift and uneventful. It took only a couple of minutes to drive the buggies out of the back hatch and get them prepped for travel. In under ten, the team was heading north to their target through a slight rain that had picked up as they had landed.

Two members of the expeditor squad were assigned to each vehicle with Tyler and Paul left to lead the group of 14 Rangers. They were to head towards the bank and procure some vehicles for the extraction. According to the data that Cruze had sent, there were several armoured bank trucks at the local bank that had to be abandoned during a routine run during the first day of the war when riots had wracked the town. After they had the trucks, they were to mount up and wait for the go-ahead from Smith to evac the geneticists. Then the column would follow the highway back to Denver and the safe zone.

If everything went according to plan, they would be in and out within an hour and back in Denver two hours later. The assault on the Buckley Air Force Base would begin 10 minutes after they arrived at the mansion, the flashes from artillery and high explosives providing a gloomy backdrop to the mission and the sound of the detonations arriving several seconds after the light. Add to that the storm that was rapidly growing and it was to be a very noisy night, even if everything went according to plan. But then, when did that ever happen?

**

The buggy tore through the town, making good speed towards the valley where the mansion was located. Sasha clung to the handles located on the cage, or the 'oh shit' bars as Lily called them. The lights mounted in a row on the front of the grille threw stark white light ahead of the vehicle and illuminating the way. Lily looked over at her sister and laughed, stomping her foot on the accelerator. The buggy let out a bass roar as it reached it's max speed of 110 km/h. The troops in the back of the vehicle let out whoops of exhilaration as they whipped around a corner, barely missing the ruin of a burnt-out taxi that was parked in the middle of the next street. Ahead of them, Smith and John's ATV braked hard, barely drifting around the next corner and onto a dirt road. Sand and pebbles were kicked up in the cool night air, leaving a hazy cloud trailing behind the lead vehicle.

Lily pulled them onto the road, a bump from the pavement-to-dirt transition shaking the vehicle for a second. She fell back a bit to avoid blinding herself by driving into Smith's dust cloud. The evergreens whipped by to either side of the buggy, making Sasha try and move to the centre of the vehicle. One of the troops yelled up to her. "Hey! This is better than friggin' six flags! Man, your sister can drive!"

Lily must have heard this as she started to cut the corners sharper and accelerate quicker in an attempt to scare the crap out of Sasha. The Rangers roared their approval. This trend continued until the GPS on Lily's HUD showed they were only a few kilometres away from the target. That's when Smith came over the helmet vox. "Two clicks to the mansion. Lights out. NV only."

"Roger that. Going dark." responded Lily. She promptly turned off the ATV's lights and switched to her suit's night vision mode. Her speed didn't decrease, despite the fact that she had also switched over to the electric engine. The roar of the diesel had cut off sharply to be replaced by a faint hum and the sound of the crickets screeching in the dark. Sasha closed her eyes, fear gripping her tightly as she hung on for dear life.

When they reached the 200m mark, they slowed to 40 km/h before drawing to a stop less than 30m from the mansion's outer reaches. Lily drew up beside Smith's vehicle which had arrived a few minutes earlier, parking it to await further orders. Smith was just now finalizing the handshake code that was going to sent to the people inside so that they would admit them into the facility.

The mansion was surrounded by a 12 ft stone wall that sported spiked iron rails to keep would-be intruders out. Expected guests were admitted through heavy-gauge steel doors that looked more suited to a nuclear launch facility or a high-security prison than a mansion, large spotlights illuminating the surrounding area for 40m in all directions. Several automated defences could be spotted along the top of the walls, heavy machine guns and mid-range rocket batteries scanning for targets atop swivel mounts. The 'house' was a four-story monster that was built in the Victorian style, with a squared roof and tall windows. If it weren't for the fear-inducing wall, it could have looked like any other rich family's house.

Lily and the troops disembarked, securing positions around their vehicle. Sasha practically fell out of her side, glad to be free of her sister's insane driving. She stumbled into her place in the defensive ring, her suit's night vision illuminating the world in various shades of green. The laser sight mounted below her SCAR assault rifle cast a line across to wherever the barrel was pointed. It was joined by those of the others, the entire recon team having decided on using the same rifle for the easy sharing of munitions. That, and they had recently gained access to a reserve armoury only two days before where a stockpile of the weapons were held.

The gates ahead of them suddenly shifted, groaning loudly as it swung inwards on its motorized hinges. A mob of unarmed civilians were crowded just inside the walls laden with backpacks and trolleys loaded with a wide variety of scientific equipment. They were all attempting to stay dry, but it was a losing battle. Two of the group stood out in the crowd; a tall blonde researcher in a drenched white lab coat who looked like she was in charge, and a very pissed-off looking man in a chest rig and sporting an FN 2100 submachine gun.

Smith gestured for Sasha to follow as he walked into the gate's harsh light to meet the people he was responsible for. She followed him, trying to radiate a feeling of confidence and authority. Normally she wouldn't have bothered, but she noticed there wasn't even a single fur in the cluster of people. I should probably be cautious, she thought as she made the observation.

"Hello Colonel Smith. I am Dr. Catherine Raven. I am the lead researcher of Genesis. And this is Greg Miller, our security detail." Spoke the blonde researcher, inclining her head towards the armed gunman who merely nodded in deference.

"You already know my name, but let me introduce you to my superior. This is Sasha Daystar, commander of the gene forces in this sector." Replied Smith cautiously, gauging their reactions carefully. This drew a raised eyebrow from the scientist, but the man maintained his stonewall demeanour. Apparently the man didn't care who was in charge, but the scientist was quickly trying to recompose herself in light of this evidence.

"I am pleased to meet you Ms. .. uh.. Daystar." said Dr. Raven, "My team is ready. Greg has placed the charge and says he is ready to blow it up after we are clear. But surely you can't expect us all to ride on those two transports..."

Sasha answered before Smith could. She hated to cut him off, but she could tell that she needed to cement her authority. "The rest of our convoy is en route. It will take about ten minutes for them to get here. But, after they arrive we should be able to move out and make for Denver. From there you will be relocated to Cheyenne Mountain."

"Good. The storm should cover our movement." Seemingly at the mention of the weather it grew darker. The slight sprinkle they had been getting grew to larger, more ponderous drops which came down in thick sheets. The civilians looked uncomfortable out in the open, but Greg and the extraction team simply kept their minds on their mission and not physical comfort. The power armoured Phoenocians hardly noticed at all. Loud rumbles in the distance could have easily been mistaken for thunder if not for the consistency of the booms. The assault on the air base had officially begun.

Sasha received a message from the station, transmitted dutifully from her aide. She wandered a few steps from the congregation before answering it. "Ma'am, our forces have began their attack." came Dutch's voice over her private vox channel.

"Good. Keep me posted. We'll be there to support you in a few hours, out." When she finished, she gestured over to Smith and he came to hear the news. "The attack has started."

"I know. I heard the broadcast."

"Wait, what? How? That was a private channel." questioned Sasha.

"I have my ways. You just have to-" began Smith before he was cut off mid-sentence.

The vox squealed harshly in everyone's ears for a moment before a crackling voice could be made out. It was static-filled and distorted, and the speaker was obviously stressed out and on the edge. "-er us! They c......out of nowhere! We've evaded them......eaded to your position! Get ready to.......e'll be picking you up hot! I repeat..... ick-up will be under fire, be ready to move, and... ast! Argonau...contacts confirmed!"

The entire extraction team froze for a moment before springing into action. The troops gathered the civilians, telling them to get rid of anything not essential to their research. Bags were opened, useless objects clattering to the ground in a chorus of groans and protests. Personal items where dumped unceremoniously in favour of research papers and gene samples. They were then herded into three groups; one for each transport. Smith called out to Greg who promptly asked what he needed. "Are those defences online?"

"No, not right now. I deactivated them when you said you were coming. Your genetic signatures were not in the database and there was no time to program them in. They would have ripped you to shreds when you came to get us."

"I need you to get them working. Disable their friend/foe analyzers but get them to fire everything they have at the area 40-100m from the wall. Full spread, no target lock. Time it for seven minutes. Can you do it?" Asked Smith quickly.

"I suppose so, but it will take some time. I don't know if I can do it that fast!"

"Try! Now go!" Ordered Smith, causing the man to run off towards the wall's gatehouse.

He turned to the approach road where several sets of headlights had suddenly appeared. Three armoured trucks, large vans plated in protective armour with large bumpers and square bodies, skidded to a halt only a few feet from the waiting scientists. Several backed away, fearing they would be hit but luckily that was not the case. The heavy rear doors slammed open and four Rangers sprang out to begin the extraction of the scientists and their gear. It would be a crowded extraction but they would make it work. They had to. As they were busy throwing people and equipment into the backs of the vans, Paul clambered down from the passenger door of the lead vehicle and ran over to Sasha and Smith. They were discussing how to get away from the mansion with Dr. Raven.

"SIR! MA'AM!" yelped Paul as he approached. "We have Argonaut hostiles about a kilometre from us. The storm bought us some time by flooding the road behind us a mile back and we even threw down some mines, but it won't hold them forever. We have to leave; now!"

"Good job Corporal. Are all the men here?"

"Yessir! But they won't be for long if we don't leave! They've got armour support!" As if to express his urgency, a resounding boom echoed through the valley. Whether it was a detonating mine or crack of thunder was anyone's guess.

"Understood. Now get back to the trucks. As soon as you're loaded up I want you to take this road which I've highlighted on your HUD. You'll have to follow it into the mountains, but it's our only option." At that, Paul ran back to his cab, rain pouring off the plates of his armour to relay the commands over the truck's CB radio.

"And your sure that that road comes out near Denver?" Sasha asked the geneticist.

"Yes. It comes out near Golden. Then its a fifteen minute drive to the city, providing the road is still passable." responded the doctor as she started to make her way to the back of Paul's truck.

"Alright then. We'll meet you there." finished Sasha as the doctor climbed inside the rumbling vehicle. A few seconds later the rear doors on the trucks closed, the final scientists safe inside the armoured bulk of the machines which promptly sped away. The turned around the corner headed for the semi-hidden road around the back of the facility, their headlights offering a stark glimpse of the trees before they disappeared from sight. The roar of their engines was soon fading, only to be replaced by a low grumble coming from the main road. The Argonauts were getting close. They would be here in a minute, maybe less.

Left to depart on the ATVs where John, Lily, Sasha, Smith and Greg, along with three Rangers. The fourth had left with the trucks to free up a space for the hired gun. They started their vehicles, hopping aboard and pulling up to the guardhouse to wait for Greg.

The mercenary came running from inside, his programming of the defences finally complete. That's when the first enemy vehicle appeared, an up-armoured Panther LAV. A TOW missile tube mounted to the side of the turret which was equipped with a linked pair of Browning .50 calibre machineguns. It roared forwards, the turret rotating to draw a bead on the waiting vehicles. Greg dove into the rear passenger section a moment before the first shots were fired. The pair of HMGs settled on Lily's vehicle, releasing a small burst of heavy-gauge shells that flew wide, embedding themselves in the wall. The Panther was moving too fast to fire properly, the muzzles of the mounted guns bouncing wildly as the vehicle roared over potholes.

The Phoenocians took full advantage of the fact, gunning their engines and making for the road on the opposite end of the facility where the road started. The Rangers fired back at the vehicle, hoping a lucky shot would hit something vital like a gun camera or turret servo but their aim was as bad as the LAV's.

"STICK CLOSE TO THE WALL!" yelled Greg as their vehicle took the lead, his submachine gun spitting upwards of 200 rounds per minute. The timer on his wristwatch was chirping amidst the chaos of the frantic flight.

"WHAT?" shouted Lily as she swerved around a large stump, the sound of the overcharged engine drowning out Greg's warning.

"I SAID, STAY CLOSE TO THE W-"

Before he could finish, the light lit up, every wall defence the facility possessed unleashing hell on anything more than 40m from he wall. Machineguns, chainguns, missile launchers, mortars, autocannons, and grenade launchers all came to life and shredded the surrounding trees, igniting several fires that began to rage despite the heavy rain.

The LAV took several hits, a defence autocannon tearing through the armour of the vehicle as if it were wet newspaper. The 75mm projectiles went straight through the vehicle before bursting from the other side. When the fusillade was done and all of the ammunition was expended, the vehicle came to a sudden stop in the middle of the main road. There was nothing left of the Panther's right side, the shells having disintegrated the hull and everyone inside. It would have been more joyous if it weren't for the appearance of two more Panthers and a small group of Ripsaw unmanned support vehicles emerging through the now ruined trail head. The merely ploughed through the destroyed LAV and fired after the buggies, crushing fallen trees and driving heedlessly through several small fires that had sprung up on their way.

"AAAAGGHHHH!" Cried a marine. He had been skewered by a two foot long spear of wood. It had been flung by a TOW launched by the second Panther as it had impacted a tree. The missile had shrieked into a nearby pine, exploding brilliantly and showering Smith's ATV with dangerous, all-natural shrapnel. The second Ranger tried to help by laying the man across his lap, but was stopped by a falling tree. It fell heavily onto the buggy, wrecking the spotlight and communication equipment as it slid along the roll-cage. The tree finally reached the end of the vehicle, but not before hitting the marine in the back of the head.

His neck was wrenched forwards harshly, his skull coming free of his spine with a sickening POP! His head lolled unnaturally as both he and the skewered man were knocked out of the vehicle. Their bodies hit the ground as another volley erupting from the vehicles as they adjusted their aim.

"SHIT!" Yelled John as he watched the two tumble out of the back. "Man down! We lost the Rangers!" As if to add punctuation to his morbid shouting, the buggy shook as the LAVs finally found their mark on Smith's vehicle.

"Hang on! We're hit!" growled Smith as he struggled to hold the vehicle straight. The last volley of rounds had tore up the left rear wheel. The tires themselves were solid rubber, but it was now deformed and rattling wildly. There was now also a large group of ragged bullet holes in the gas tank. Foul smelling gasoline spilled from the holes, leaving a trail of enriched fossil fuel in the dirt and foliage behind the ATV. The slightly in-grown road was ahead of them, taunting the Phoenocians with its haunting nearness. It seemed to get farther away as Smith was forced to switch to the electric engine, the diesel now useless without a fuel source.

Lily's buggy roared off in front of them, dodging yet another burst of fire and jinking around a falling tree, roaring into the forest on the dirt road. Her voice came in over the comm, concern ringing plainly in her voice. "Are you guys okay? Greg says you were hit."

"We lost both the Rangers and one of our tires is a mangled ruin. Our gas tank is fucked. Even if we can make it away from those vehicles, we won't get far. I'm starting to lose steering. I need you to blow the facility in exactly twenty seconds. With luck, we'll be just out of the lethal range."

Sasha answered this time, her voice barely a whisper as she saw his plan. "That puts you just forty metres outside of the lethal blast zone! You'll be irradiated, if not shredded by shrapnel and crumpled by the compression wave!"

"We have no choice. We'll just have to take our chances. There is an anti-rad kit in the back. It'll have to do."

There was a pause before she came back on. "Roger that, detonation in eight. Good luck."

"We'll make it." Smith then turned to John, who was holding the 'oh shit' bars in a death grip. The steel had actually bent, John's modified strength warping the metal. Smith cracked his neck, flexing every muscle in his body in preparation of what was to happen next. "Get ready to go limp. This is going to get messy."

The two Panthers were still following the ATVs, blasting away at the buggies when the facility was blown to smithereens by a Class-3 Plutonic Explosive Device. The PED was essentially a 2g mass of plutonium-239 encased within a hardened shell of lead. It was the same type of device that was used in the Fat Man atomic bomb that was dropped on Japan on August 9th , 1945. The resulting explosion from the PED created a desolate crater about 180m in diameter and irradiated the earth for a kilometre in each direction that would result in a lifeless wasteland for centuries to come.

The wave of heat and light engulfed the entire compound, obliterating anything that was unfortunate enough to be in it's way. The buggy was just on the edge of the blast radius when it was hit. The vehicle was flung end over end into the air, rolling as it hit the ground. John was hurled free to strike a tree some fifteen metres from where the buggy came to a staggering halt upside down, flames licking at the almost empty gas tank. He was knocked out cold when his head connected with the dense trunk of the spruce.

**

John's head swam as he came to, attempting to stand. Though he was battered and bruised, the tree's branches seemed to have slowed him down before impact and preventing any serious injuries. His HUD flickered, static swirling around the screen and flashing lights winking before his vision. He tried to move, but it seemed like his armour was underpowered. It was too heavy to lift in his current state so he waited for help. A few seconds later the suit's AI program alerted him of the suit's status. "Suit capacity at 15%. Motor functions disabled. No significant damage to user. Reboot recommended."

A small window opened in the bottom left of his screen, prompting him to reboot the suit's systems. He blink-clicked the yes icon and the screen went out, the suit now powered down. His vision went black, only the light of a few scattered fires from the way they came illuminating the night. The sound of crackling fires and popping munitions became muffled, his helmet's microphones turned off. He was temporarily vulnerable, blind, deaf, and immobile.

The screen lit up again, displaying the shield icon that represented the suit's manufacturer. It blinked a few times before the screen changed to display the suit's full-body diagram. Several portions of the armour were red, meaning that they were offline while others were orange and running at minimal levels. Apparently the stealth field was compromised because of the destruction of the capture and display nodes over most of his body. The strength function was running on low, the small EMP generated by the bomb having drained the battery considerably. The thermal imaging was also down, the suit's IR lens shattered by the collision with the tree. Incredibly the targeting and night vision settings were functioning properly, their sensors unaffected by the blast or resultant impact.

The armour's AI came back over the restored speakers. "Suit capacitors running at 53%. Stealth disabled. Infra-red disabled. Musculature support running at minimal levels. Night vision online. HUD targeting online. Testing communications ..... test failed, retesting...test failed. Unable to connect to communications network. No signal detected. Motor functions...restored. User awareness functions...restored. Scanning user identification.... Hello John." The fibre-muscle bundles tensed before relaxing, enabling John to push himself to his feet and carefully extricate himself from under the tree.

John stood and took in his surroundings. To his left was the wrecked buggy, the once noble vehicle now almost crushed. It was almost like a crumpled soda can, both ends rippled inwards towards the It was across the dirt road from him, light from a headlight still projecting into the forest. Turing around he saw where they had come from. About 100m behind them was the edge of a large crater, several pieces of the Panther LAVs and rubble decorating its rugged sides. The trail leading to it's lip was a mess of wrecked foliage, ATV parts, spilled supplies, and deep gouges in the ground from where the buggy had rolled.

That's when John noticed a slight ticking over his helmet's mic. He listened to it for a moment before realizing what it was. It was a Geiger counter. He was in radiation! He had forgotten that the charge was a thermonuclear device! He checked his suit's anti-radiation level to find that it was completely intact. He breathed a sigh of relief before remembering that he wasn't alone in the crash.

He ran over to the crashed buggy, dropping down on the ground beside it to see if Smith was still there. "Oh you are alive. Now can you help get me out of here?" asked Smith.

He was still in his seat and pinned behind the wheel which had folded down after he buggy hit the ground, about the same time that John was thrown free. The Mk 19 was warped into the passenger seat, the barrel bent uselessly. If he had remained n the seat, the gun would have crushed him as it folded backwards. John reached under the vehicle, gripping the wheel tight and gave a tremendous PULL.

The wheel bent back upwards to its original position, Smith falling the one foot drop onto his back. He let out a pent-up breath and flopped on the ground. He lay there for a moment before pulling himself fee of the wreck and thanking John for his help. He then went to grab something from a still-closed hatch on the vehicle's side before he realized that his left arm wouldn't move. That was because it was out of it's socket. "Oh. Well that sucks. I hate it when this happens." breathed Smith as he held his left arm steady and placing his disjointed shoulder against the side of the trashed buggy. With a cry of terrible pain, he popped the limb back in place, rotating it in its joint.

John stared on in amazement as Smith rifled through the compartment before shouting in victory and clutching a bottle in his hands. He turned to John and offered him the prize, blue gel squishing around inside. "Drink this. It'll stop you from taking in too much radiation. It may taste like crap and feel like a live squid going down, but it works." John took off his helmet and accepted the bottle, uncapping the lid and taking a large mouthful. It did taste like crap. The gel wormed its way down his oesophagus, cooling his stomach as it slithered in. John coughed, the sensation completely alien to him.

Meanwhile, Smith had produced another bottle and knocked it back quickly, his helmet hung at his belt. He also managed to find a capsule of pain killers and swallowed a few to keep the pain of his arm at bay now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

The next few minutes where spent gathering supplies for their walk out to where the radiation stopped and the others would hopefully be waiting for them. They loaded everything they could into two backpacks that they dug out from under the wreck and looked around for their weapons.

Their SCAR assault rifles were gone, probably whipped deep into the forest by the compression wave. They still had their sidearms around their waists, but they were not meant for anti-armour use. They would be doomed if they came across any hostile forces. John's knife was missing, but Smith still had his strapped across his chest. As it turned out, Smith's suit was in much the same condition as John's; underpowered and slightly disabled. The only differences were that he had his stealth capabilities but no night vision. Even his MAW was useless, the special darts for it lost somewhere in the wilderness. Yet they were lucky to have that much.

"Well," started Smith, "let's get walking. We've got a lot of ground to cover." At that, he slipped his helmet back on and started down the road, playing with his wrist comm and trying to get a signal.

**

The armoured trucks followed the dirt road, their engines roaring and exhausts howling in the silent night. Everyone in the vehicles had heard the explosion from down the valley and had felt the tremor that had shook rocks loose on the steep cliff faces. They kept going, riding over potholes and crashing through several fallen trees. The progress was slow, the large vehicles being almost too large for the small path, but they were determined to make it back to Denver before morning.

In the lead truck, Paul was talking to Sasha over his vehicle's CB, his precious sniper rifle playing the role of his stress toy. His hand clenched and unclenched around the barrel every few seconds as Sasha relayed her plan to go back and find the others.

"We're going to turn around," sighed Sasha, "They could still be alive; they weren't in the kill zone."

"How do you know? Besides,what about the radiation? You and Lily are shielded, but what about the other two? And what if there's still some hostile armour functioning in there?" questioned Paul quickly. Sasha was the ranking officer for this mission; she didn't need his approval to do what she wanted, but he was damned if he would let her go in unprepared.

"We're going to stop at the edge of the radiation zone where Greg and Pfc. Dankirk will assume command of the vehicle. Lily and I will go in stealthed on foot and try and find the other two. They will catch up to you while we look. If we give up or find them, we'll make our own way out. We'll find our own transport."

"What about us? What do you want us to do?"

"You are to keep going to the station. Don't stop for anything; the ROE are now non-existent. Anyone you see as a threat is to be killed. Don't take any chances with your cargo. You have command of the mission but if we don't make it back overall command falls to Marcus and Warren. Goodbye, and good luck." There was a click as the line was closed and static replaced the conversation.

Paul clenched his hand tight, relinquishing his grip as he realized he could damage his valuable rifle. His rage hadn't resided however, and he slammed his fist into his window, cracking the bulletproof glass with his armoured gauntlet. Cpl. Sandford regarded him questioningly at his sudden outburst, his hands still holding the vehicle's wheel. Paul just looked back, his visor black and unyielding before informing him of the situation.

"In the next two hours, we may lose a third of our squad. Both our commanders could end up dead and with them our unit cohesion. Those scientists had better be worth it. Oh, they'd better be worth it..."

**

CHAPTER 14

Aurora, Colorado

0000 Hours, August 13** th ***, 2052*

"GET SOMEONE ON THAT 50!"

"MAN DOWN!"

"HOSTILE ARMOUR, WATCH EAST!"

"MOVE UP!"

"DON"T WORRY MAN, YOUR GOING TO BE ALRIGHT!

"I GOT ONE!"

Eastern Aurora was under siege. Some seven hundred hundred Humanists were making their final stand in the city on a wide front that included all three airports in the district. All the stops had been pulled for the assault on the last remaining Humanist bastion in the city, and it showed. Among the roughly one thousand ground troops being fielded by the gene forces were hundreds of vehicles; both armoured and not. One was just as likely to see a heavily armoured Goliath tank as they were to see a technical; a pickup with a mounted gun in the box that was used as a scout and fast-response unit. Away from the chaos unfolding on the ground, Master Corporal Joseph Ackland waited for his first fire mission.

His Havoc was hovering behind an overpass on the 225, his weapons armed and ready to go as he watched the sky light up ahead of him. His wingman, Corporal Mike Walsh, was likewise situated beside him in his own helicopter. The steady thrumming of his attack chopper's prop throbbed in his head as the radio sparked into life. "Dragon-one Actual, this is Phoenix-two. Respond, over."

Joseph cleared his voice before answering with his new call sign. "Phoenix-two, this is Dragon-one Actual, what do you need, over?"

"Our forces are pinned down by enemy fire at the entrance to Delta India Alpha and are in need of aerial assistance. The enemy is inside the main terminal and they need them gone. Command wants structural integrity, so guns only, over." came the voice on the other end. Explosions and gunshots could be heard over the link in the background.

"Roger that, Phoenix-two. We'll make our way there now, over." He then hit the inter-unit vox and relayed the message to Mike. Their gunship lurched forward, heading northeast towards Denver International Airport. They drew into a low hover just back from the entrance road before giving the entrance to the once-grand airport a look. The circus tent-looking structure was alive with muzzle flashes and rocket contrails as a great battle was being fought.

Ahead of them, about four hundred friendly forces were attempting to get past the entrance road and into Jeppesen terminal. They were under heavy fire and had begun to take losses, many of their support vehicles now on fire and disabled in the lot. Most were forced into cover along the low ditches that ran around the front of the airport and the remaining vehicles too heavily armoured to be destroyed by an RPG. Several bodies lay crumpled where they had fallen, bloody puddles beginning to form below their miserable forms.

The amount of fire directed at the gene forces was staggering to say the least. Just a quick glance revealed at least a dozen mounted machineguns and a score of automated missile pods nestled in the four storey main entrance. Added to the fact that hand-held anti-armour weapons seemed to be in use made the Humanist position seemingly impossible to breech. At least if you were a ground pounder.

"Dragon-one actual, this is Grindstone-one. We have marked the main targets with IR lasers. Awaiting your go, over."

"Roger that Grindstone-one. Firing now." Joseph triggered the autocannon, sending 20mm projectiles into the building. The high-explosive shells ricocheted off of the metal walls and ripped anything they touched into either ground flesh or lethal shrapnel. He turned his head to face the next strongpoint, the underslung autocannon following his gaze due to his helmet's motion sensor. Everything that the crosshairs settled on was obliterated beneath a storm of explosive projectiles. Men were shredded and makeshift emplacements torn asunder by the two destructive autocannon.

The munitions stockpile for a mounted gun on the second floor blew up spectacularly in an explosive show of misfiring rounds and bursting munitions, several Humanists being blown off the building and onto the cement below. The friendly forces cheered in exultation, their morale restored at the sight of their foes falling to the gunships' booming guns.

"Thanks a ton Dragon one-actual. We'll see you when this is over. Grindstone-one out." came the force commander's voice over the intercom. Joseph saw him down below behind an idling Goliath. He waved once before ordering his men to advance.

"Anytime Grindstone-one, Dragon one-actual out." said Joseph, his eyes watching the gene forces break cover and begin to work their way into the building now that there was only a few sporadic shots coming their way. He didn't have time to revel in his handiwork however, as his vox link beeped in his ear.

"Dragon one-actual, this is Phoenix-two. You are needed in the East Quincy Highlands to escort an armoured convoy north to the air base via the E-470. Call sign is Rhino one, and they are currently stopped at the intersection of the E-470 and East Quincy Avenue. Be advised, they will most likely come under fire from artillery positioned on the runway so move fast, out"

"Come on Mike," Joseph sighed, settling in for a busy night in the cockpit, "we're going to be an escort service."

"Roger that. Let's hope they don't like it too rough, though."

**

"Weapons free. Waste 'em."

The muffled coughs of Phoenix-three's silenced weapons were completely swallowed up by the loud clap of thunder that cracked the sky, the first few drops of rain creating a low background hiss to the occasional echo of an explosion, thunder sometimes adding its heavy overtone to the haunting chorus.

The few men posted on the northeast side of the runway all seemingly fell unconscious in unison, the result of the insertion team's deadly accuracy and unnerving timing. They were in.

"Phoenix team: move in." hissed Warren into their private vox channel. The other three moved up and occupied the positions recently vacated by the Humanist guards, the entire event thrown in a variety of greens and blacks by is helmet's night vision.

The team had crept up on the Humanist held base ahead of the main assault headed by Rhino team to disable the base's outer defences. They had already sabotaged the main generators, sufficiently under-powering the turret and EMP emplacements around the perimeter. They did so by re-routing the power into a resistor loop to kill the electricity while maintaining the impression that they were still powering the defences. The Humanists wouldn't know what hit them.

They were now hoping to destroy the hostile artillery set up at the northernmost end of the base while Rhino tore through the southern defences to capture the myriad of radar domes, hangers, warehouses, and barracks that made up the base. If all went well, they would able to disable the guns before they got off a single salvo. Maybe they'd even capture a few for their own forces. They could always use some more big guns.

"Phoenix-three, this is Phoenix-two. Be advised, Rhino is inbound with weapons hot. You have about 10 mics before they reach the perimeter. Those guns must be down to avoid damage to the runway. Rhino would also appreciate not being lit up by those high-ex rounds, over."

"Roger that Phoenix-two, we are Oscar Mic and moving to attack. ETA two minutes. Don't worry; we'll get it done. Damn, I wish you were here with us Marcus."

"Same here Warren, same here. Squad, double time it! Let's go! You have to get there before they fire off those guns!"

The squad advanced in a low run across the runway, heading directly for an isolated group of huge hangers to the north, the vast doors were slowly being ground open by motorized pulleys. Eight immense self-propelled guns emerged slowly from inside the cavernous hangers. The gargantuan structures had been home to the aircraft of the rich and powerful before the war but were now acting as motor pools for the Humanist artillery detachment.

The artillery vehicles were newer M2019 Gorgon self-propelled guns. They looked much like medium-armoured tanks with two hugely exaggerated barrels on either side of the turret. Their powerful diesel engines snorted as they rolled forwards into position on their wide tracks, complex targeting computers already plotting firing solutions from the scout reports that were flooding in from the south end of the base. The twin barrels on each of the four vehicles started to rise towards the ominous black sky, the turrets rotating to bring the weapons to bear as the support vehicles sidled into position. Hydraulic legs folded out from the four corners of the guns' chassis, effectively anchoring the 35 ton vehicles in place on the tarmac.

The high-tech weapons were capable of firing their first ranging volley in under 12 seconds of positioning. The Phoenocians would have to act fast to stop them from firing an effective barrage on their fellow gene forces.

"Close fast and take out the crews!" cried Warren into his team's comm channel.

The under-manned squad sprinted the last few dozen metres, forsaking stealth for speed. They were only twenty metres from the guns when the first shells burst from the muzzles of the 6.1" barrels, shaking the earth with the force of their booming retort. The rain formed a sphere around the muzzles before it evaporated in a hiss of steam. The massive breeches hammered back, spent casings being flung aside in ghastly flurries of smoke and steam before they slammed shut again, readying the vehicles for the next firing solution. The crews from the support crawlers disembarked, puling mechanical arms from their vehicles and clambered on top of the turret housing.

The support vehicles were sixteen M2020 artillery support crawlers, two per gun, which could hold up to 200 rounds that could be fed directly to the guns by way of a munition belt that was hooked onto the sides of the long-range guns. This effectively quadrupled the amount of steel that could be landed on a target up to 35km away.

The entire team staggered in the force of the guns but not one of them fell in the face of the shockwave. The team finally managed to enter the presence of the god-like weapons and set about disabling the support crews with lethal efficiency. The people working to keep the weapons loaded with munitions were taken off guard, falling in a matter of seconds.

Warren yelled a warning into Rhino team's vox. "Rhino-one, be advised. You have a volley of HE rounds inbound! I repeat; you have incoming artillery!" He didn't wait for a response, instead turning his attention to the hostiles that his HUD lit up through the rain.

There were two men per crawler fitting the munition feeds to the sides of the turret basket, the first rounds having come from the internal holds. The men were dressed in fluorescent yellow vests, ear protectors, leather gloves, and insta-dark goggles that made them look like scurrying insects attempting to feed their matriarchal queen. They had almost gotten the arms into place before they were cut down by the Phoenocians. They fell noisily off the hulls of the armoured artillery and landed heavily on the ground next to the treads.

Several men were still working on their own feeds as their comrades were torn to ribbons. They didn't notice anything, the large ear protectors and the brewing storm keeping them unaware of the fact that they were under assault. They were taken out mere seconds later by the second burst of fire from the team as they reached the position.

"Area clear!" shouted Tyler as he checked between the vehicles for any survivors.

"Good, now get those hatches open!" ordered Warren as he gestured to the back hatches of the self-propelled weapons. The team broke into two teams of two as Sam handed out electronic override charges, telling them to place them on the door control panels. The charges were quickly placed on the first couple of monstrous guns which were now awaiting the confirmation that the crawlers were in place before firing again. The panels beeped before they were locked out of the vehicles' systems, control being given over to the charges which lowered the rear ramps.

The Humanists inside were busy on their radios, attempting to see what the hold up was outside, when the ramps were lowered and they were revealed to the small group of commandos. A harsh static scream forced its way into their headsets, making them squeal in pain and clutch at their ears in pain. They hardly put up a fight as they were zip-tied together in a group outside in the now incessant rain and opening stages of lightning. Thunder made its voice heard over the protests of the crews as they were pulled from their vehicles.

When the last crew was captured, Warren tuned to the command frequency and reported in on the situation. "Phoenix-two, this is Phoenix-three. The objective is secure and we have taken a total of twenty-four prisoners. We are awaiting further orders."

"Phoenix-three, this is Phoenix-two; good job on those guns. Rhino sends their regards. It'll be nice having some heavy firepower around to defend this city. You are now to proceed by aiding in the submission of the base. A team of auxiliaries are being re-routed to your position to secure the hangar area. You are clear to proceed when the prisoners and the guns are secure and Rhino is in position. Phoenix-two out."

Warren looked over to where the rest of his team were watching over the tied-up prisoners. They had searched each one thoroughly and a pile of weapons and contact devices were heaped in the middle of a puddle that was beginning to form. A bright flash of lightning illuminated the scene and Warren's night vision cut out to prevent him from going blind. It came back on mere milliseconds later, casting everything in green once more.

An earth-shuddering boom rocked the earth as the thunder reminded everyone that nature was still in charge, even when mankind tore itself asunder.

**

Union Station

Denver, Colorado

0043 Hours, August 13** th ***, 2052*

"Rhino-one, you are good to go. Proceed to predesignated coordinates, out."

"Delta-nine, be advised; enemy hostiles moving on your position. I suggest you dig in and hold your ground, over."

"Hang in there Boulder-five, we are re-routing friendlies to your position, out."

"Boulder-two, re-route along Kings Boulevard. You are needed to bolster Boulder-five's offensive, out."

"Good job Delta-nine, now resume the advance."

The constant murmur of the radio traffic sounding in the command centre began to give Marcus a migraine as he leaned over the blue portrayal of Aurora being filtered through the hologram projector. The lights in the room were dimmed to help the twenty three data analysts, strategists, officers, and aides focus on the task of running a large-scale assault.

Marcus pored over the holographic map, his left hand flicking through the more than four dozen channels currently being used in the assault on his ears. He checked the status of the units under his command; Phoenix-three was now helping Rhino and Dragon teams in the assault on Buckley Air Force Base. Grindstone now controlled more than half of Denver International Airport and Broadsword was now moving in support. Most of the auxiliaries under Hammer force were holding the E-470 highway about a kilometre out from the combat zone at both ends. Hammer-seven, however, was holding the artillery position that Phoenix-three had captured. Meta was pinned down north of Denver International by hostile forces, so Marcus re-tasked Dragon team to go and help them out.

He was without his armour, dressed instead in a muscle shirt and a pair of cargo pants. Marcus had tried to put his armour on before a passing nurse had stopped him, warning him that his implants may not yet have settled and could potentially lead to deadly consequences if their signals were acted upon by the armour. The threat of death was enough to stop him from proceeding so he decided to just go in civilian clothes. At first the command crew was reluctant to let him help command the offensive, but they had relented after he had proven his strategic prowess by saving a small mechanized force from a hostile group twice their size. He had been in the control centre since then.

His left eye interfaced directly with the table, feeding pertinent information to his cerebral cortex for data processing. This new eye was like a microcomputer in his head, not unlike the HUD contact lenses developed a decade ago in Taiwan. It would take some getting used to; having data course across his vision at the slightest thought. Oddly enough, it wasn't nearly as unsettling to Marcus as his new prosthetic limbs.

His right arm and left leg were still not fully linked to his nervous system and his actions were jerky and crude as a result. Marcus was still unused to not feeling only a select few points of his hand and foot, only his fingers, toes and thumbs rigged up with electrical impulse generators. His leg was stiff, but it functioned well enough despite being an experimental digitigrade version. He shuddered as a wave of phantom pain tore its way through the prosthetic arm. It felt as if he was reliving the moment where it had been torn from his body over and over again.

The reason the pain exists is a mystery of modern science. The pain was probably caused by the clean and swift separation of his limb from his body. The nerves were severed cleanly enough to attach the replacement, but this is also thought to be the reason behind the feeling. The main theory is that the event happened too quickly for the brain to register the loss and it kept sending signals to the missing limb. Since there is no reply, and never will be, the brain makes up its own false nerve responses and imagines that the arm is reacting normally. It varied from the sensation of the limb still being there, pain, delusions, and migraines, depending on the person it effects. For Marcus, that meant immense, mind-shattering pain.

Marcus tensed, his muzzle drawing back into a tight rictus with his white teeth bared and eye shut painfully closed. He grasped for his pocket with his real arm, feeling around for his painkillers. He somehow managed to unscrew the lid and spill the contents onto the table, the pills blocking a small portion of the hologram. He shakily grabbed one of the quick-release capsules and crammed it into his mouth, spilling a few of the pills onto the floor.

The relief was immediate. The pain flared before subsiding, leaving him mentally exhausted and physically drained from the occurrence. He told a passing officer to take his place as he exited the room hurriedly. Once outside, he slumped against the wall, sliding down to end up on the floor, breathing deeply in an attempt to recover from the pain. He sat there for a minute, his eye closed and lens shut. He was resting there for what seemed like an eternity before he was gently patted on the shoulder. He nearly knocked Arthurs out in response.

The raccoon looked scared for a moment, his fur standing up and mouth agape in surprise as Marcus' prosthetic wound up in preparation for a vicious blow, the jerky movements almost comical if the power behind it wasn't so immense. Marcus was easily one of the largest soldiers in the base, and probably the strongest. Well, after Tracer that was. He didn't get angry often, but when he did he got angry.

Marcus growled before he stopped his hostile actions, recognition showing in his biological eye. He quickly reigned in his anger. "I'm sorry about that Arthurs. It wasn't you; this arm's giving me hell. Now, what did you want?"

"S-sir I, that is... errr... Well you see, there's an important message for you, sir." stammered the frightened morph, attempting to regain his bouncy attitude.

"From who?" asked Marcus, his ears perking up in interest.

"It's from call sign Phoenix-seven. It's Corporal Vernon, sir. From the sound of it, his mission has hit a snag. I could hear gunfire in the background."

"Did he give any specifics?"

"Err.. No sir. The message said to deliver it to either you or Master Sergeant Warren. Since Warren is in the field right now, I was going to give it to you. I didn't play it yet. It's not for my ears, sir."

Warren smiled at the fur, proud of the bouncy raccoon for his honesty and his upholding of duty. He nodded thoughtfully, pulling himself to his feet unsteadily. He felt slightly dizzy, the lack of blood still affecting him despite the IV drip he had in his arm earlier.

Arthurs reached into a pouch at his belt and rummaged around for something. He then held his hand out, a small memory chip resting in his palm waiting for Marcus to take it. Marcus looked the device over before quickly taking it and concealing it in one of his pockets. "Thank you Arthurs. You did good. Put on some coffee for the officers; they're going to need it. Then bring me some if you can."

Arthurs did a crisp salute before turning on his heel to get the coffee. Marcus sighed and sauntered off in the direction of his room. He found himself worrying about Paul and the others as he felt the pain start again.

**

CHAPTER 15

Denver International Airport

Denver, Colorado

0057 Hours, August 13** th ***, 2052*

Sergeant Wilks hammered his thumbs onto the .50's firing studs, launching a long stream of bullets towards a Humanist soldier hunched behind a sandbag fortification on the third floor of the terminal. The sandbags burst, spraying white sand in all directions. Wilks wasn't sure if he had hit the man, but he didn't pop back up to return fire which was good enough for him.

"That's all of them!" shouted Martinez, smacking his palm on the back hatch of the MAV twice, "Now lets get out of here!"

"Get in your vehicle! We'll follow you out!" he replied, triggering the weapon again after several shots clanged of his vehicle's right side. Apparently, he had missed the first time. He didn't this time around.

Sergeant Wilks and what remained of his team after the stadium assault were charged with running the wounded back to friendly lines. They had been assigned two Cougar APCs, unarmed versions of the Panther LAVs that were modded to carry a dozen troops in the hold. They had just been filled with bleeding, unconscious, and pain-ridden wounded and were now ready to depart.

The fighting inside the airport was now in its final stages as the gene forces swept each room for hostile forces. Designated corpsmen were hauling the wounded out of the building and laying them on the ground behind a row of destroyed cars that had been pushed into place by the tanks. They then ran back inside, risking occasional bursts of fire coming from the stray sniper or gunman on the upper levels who had somehow avoided detection, to pull more wounded from the fight.

The area behind the vehicles was taken up by about thirty wounded friendlies, many of them the subservient, less intelligent furs who whined quietly under the tarps erected to repel the rain. The tarps didn't help too much, the water flowing in from around the edges and turning red as it mingled with blood from dozens of wounds.

Martinez's MAV took point, winding its way among the destroyed vehicles in front of Jeppesen Terminal. The two Cougars followed, their exhaust fumes billowing in the storm and bulky forms drawing several shots from higher gantries. Wilks told his driver, a Pfc. Pete Henderson, to follow and their own vehicle took off after them.

Wilks swivelled the gun round so it was pointing forwards in the cupola before clambering down into the vehicle. The rest of his squad had their weapons trained out the windows, eyes attempting to pierce the storm and search for targets. Several spent .50 calibre shells were scattered around the raised gunner position. They clattered around the interior as Wilks crouched down to talk with his men.

He pulled the handkerchief down from his face and raised his goggles, placing them around his new helmet. Wilks's whole team had been issued with newer military-issue combat wear and BPVs after the stadium assault. The higher ups claimed that it was because they had stumbled across some supplies in a surplus store, but Wilks had a feeling that it had come from the Phoenocians as a way of apologizing for losing The Caged Beast. That's how the newbie had got here anyway.

The tan Bobcat morph looked almost fat in his heavy combat gear, the armour seriously bulking up his body. Robert, or rather, Pfc. Robert, had come highly recommended by the spec-ops types for his bravery in the stadium's stands. Wilks had to admit; he certainly pulled his own weight. He had gratefully accepted the role as support gunner in Wilks's squad, ditching his old weapon in favour of his new SAW.

The weapon had been a gift given to him by Colonel Smith yesterday, and it had not left his hands since. He had spent the entire day running drills and practising at a range he had set up outside, shooting at cans. The time had not been in vain, the fur was now an incredible shot with the machine gun. He learned fast, taking everything in stride.

Robert was the only fur in the vehicle, the other spots taken up by humans. The driver, Frank Henderson was obviously driving. Their female component and medic was Cpl. Lucy Sheer, a Hawaiian woman who was transferred from Pearl Harbour a few years back. Wilks himself was the gunner, a native who had joined the Marines straight out of high school, and Cpl. Bill Patterson, a mechanic from the Aurora district who had fallen into the war when his wife and daughter were killed by a mob at the war's outbreak. It seemed so long ago that they had been assigned to the same fast-response unit, but now they knew each other well enough to be a ragtag family of sorts.

"How's everyone holding up?" asked Wilks, trying to sound nonchalant.

Robert merely looked back at him, drowsiness plain in his features. He attempted a smile before turning back to the window and his support weapon. Sheer gave a low grunt, not even turning to acknowledge him as she kept her thoughts to herself. The other two were more vocal.

"Officially, I'd say that I am proud to be ferrying the wounded back to our medical facilities and we are the best unit for the job. Hoo-rah!" began Patterson from the seat to his immediate right, his voice coarse, "But unofficially; this is bullshit. Why are we being made to do the ambulance runs? We are better armed than most other units out there and certainly more organized than those dim-witted furs that we shove in front of their guns to soak up the bullets. No offence, Robert."

The bobcat merely shrugged at the comment, fully aware of the less intelligent furs' primary use in the fight. Besides basic housekeeping they were almost useless, lacking the mental capacity to be anything other than servants. He tried not to let it bother him anymore.

Patterson resumed his rant. "We should be out there taking the fight too the enemy, not driving around with our thumbs up our asses! If nothing else, we could hold a goddamn intersection. Let them find somebody else to ferry the wounded, I want to fight!"

Henderson agreed quickly. "Yeah Sergeant, when do we get to join the engagement?"

Wilks sighed. He agreed completely. "I don't know. What I do know is that you wouldn't think that if you were wounded; you'd be pretty grateful of anyone willing to take you somewhere to get patched up. The plain fact of the matter is that they needed a fast unit to carry wounded, and we were the fastest. We're going to have to ride it out and hope for the best."

"Whatever, sir." replied Patterson, "All I'm saying is that the city is being won around us and we're playing the role of the incompetent assholes. Nobody wants to remember the assholes. They only remember the heroes. They remember legends. That's all I have to say, sir."

"We are not assholes. Nor are we incompetent. Even heroes need help." muttered Wilks, his own spirit slowly eroding in the face of the cold truth. Nobody seemed to take notice as Patterson's words lingered in the air. Wilks sighed heavily before clambering back into the cupola. He pulled his goggles back down and resumed his sentry position behind the MAV's mounted weapon as the rain and wind howled in his face. His eyes drifted along the suburban street that their convoy sped down towards the station.

"Movement ahead, possible hostile contact spotted." came the voice of Martinez over the comm. "WOAH!"

The break lights on the back of the APC ahead of them suddenly blazed red, the vehicle slowing down fast. Their own vehicle lurched drunkenly, its tires skidding on the wet pavement as the vehicle came to a sharp stop behind the rest of the convoy.

The doors on Wilks's transport flung open, the squad fanning out from the vehicle and taking up defensive positions. Wilks recovered from his gun slamming into his chest quickly, still gasping for breath. Several tense seconds ticked by before the radio crackled back into life. "False alarm. Its just some kid. We almost ran him over. It's okay now though, his mother got him."

The squad mounted the MAV again, the adrenaline coursing through their veins putting them on edge. Slowly, the convoy resumed it's forward momentum. As they passed, Wilks saw the kid, a young blonde-haired boy, disappear into a nearby house with candlelight flickering inside. His mother held the door open for him as he entered.

Wilks felt a pang of sorrow hit him and ordered their vehicle to a halt, telling Robert to grab their spare MREs. He clambered out of the gun position, hopping down from the vehicle's roof and onto the moist ground, boots squelching in the wet grass.

"Patterson; radio the convoy. Tell them we're being humanitarians and we'll catch up to them later." Ordered Wilks as he rustled through the packs hanging of the sides of the MAV for some spare water rations.

Robert opened his door and got out, wiping his goggles as they were spattered with rain droplets. He carried a bag of MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, in his clenched fist, wisely choosing to leave his gun in the MAV. He followed Wilks up to the door where the child had entered.

Wilks knocked gently, his soaked brown and beige combat fatigues now and clinging to his skin and armour. They stood there for a few moments before the door opened a crack, a chain stopping the door from fully opening. The onyx-haired mother peered out at them, her eyes scrutinizing them harshly.

"Ma'am? Is your family okay? We brought some food." said Wilks in his most comforting voice. The door closed shut, the sound of the chain lock being taken off the door reaching the two soldiers.. The door flung open, revealing the woman that they had seen just a moment before. She was wearing a dirty green t-shirt and worn white pants. She had shoulder length black hair and piercing blue eyes. She also carried a lethal 12-gauge shotgun in her hands.

"Who are you? Humanists? I told you, I have no interest in this war! You have ten seconds to get off of my property before I pull the trigger!" She levelled the gun at the pair of them, "I will have none of your bribery!"

"Whoa! Easy! We're not Humanists! Look at Robert! Look at him!" shouted Wilks, jumping back and pointing at the startled fur. She seemed to notice him for the first time and turned to face him.

"Take off your helmet!" she demanded of Robert. She pointed the gun at him, making him miss her words.

"What?" he stammered, not knowing what to do.

"Do it! Do it now!" she shouted.

"For Christ sake Robert! Take off your helmet" ordered Wilks, his hands now behind his head. Robert practically threw the bulky helmet off, the goggles getting caught in his fur for a second before snapping free. The helmet landed with a thump on the ground, the busted goggles landing close by. He held his arms in the air, mimicking Wilks and trying to get the gun's attention off of him.

She was about to lower her gun before the other members of the MAV arrived on scene. "Drop the gun!" shouted Patterson, his assault carbine aimed for the woman's chest. "If you want your kid to still have a parent in this fucked up city, drop the goddamned shotgun!"

The other two members of the team were arranged in a sort of semi-circle around her, all having seen the lady pull a gun on their comrades. They had instantly sprang to action to protect their own, frantically pulling weapons.

The woman was surprised, the gun staying aimed at a scared Robert. Wilks had to act fast to salvage the situation. "GUNS DOWN, SAFETIES ON! DON'T SHOOT! DON'T SHOOT! JESUS CHRIST, DON'T SHOOT!" he cried even as another grumble of thunder enveloped his words and made his voice seem muffed and ineffectual.

Luckily, the troopers managed to hear him over the din of the storm. Patterson was the last one to raise his weapon, glancing over to Wilks for confirmation. He nodded and the man's gun lowered slowly. The team stood on edge for a few tense seconds, the woman still looking the barrel of her gun at Robert, who was now shaking uncontrollably.

She let out a terse sigh and let the gun drop to her side, her other hand landing on her forehead as she rubbed her temples. She suddenly seemed frail. The standoff had drained her more than she had realized. Robert almost fell over, his knees weak and nerves shot. Lucy went over to him to make sure that he was okay but was waved off as Robert regained his composure. Robert picked up his helmet, frowning over his broken goggles.

The woman took a while to compose herself, brushing her hair out of her eyes, before speaking. "Okay, so you're not Humanists. Robert there proves it. So you must be the other faction in this insanity, correct?"

"Yes ma'am," replied Wilks, who was immensely glad that his troops had not shot her, "We are. I'm Sergeant Wilks and these are my soldiers; Robert, Patterson, Sheer, and Henderson. We were driving by when we saw your son run across the road and thought that we'd stop and ask if you needed any supplies."

She seemed to think about this for a second before nodding slowly. "Thank you, we've been running low on food ever since the supply convoys stopped coming by here all those months ago. We have been forced to lie low for fear of drawing too much attention to us. When your convoy showed up I had feared the worst. I disliked doing that to you, but I wasn't going to go down without a fight. My name's Penelope, Penelope Gardener."

The supply convoys were Commander Daystar's idea to win over the local populace after the initial KSS strikes by distributing essential supplies at key intersections to those in need. They worked extremely well, winning over scores of men and equipment for the cause over the months. Without them the Gene forces would long ago have been destroyed due to a lack of supplies or personnel. They didn't last long when the Humanists rallied, however, making for prime targets that were picked apart to provide sustenance for the wrong side.

A few were attacked by small groups of Humanist raiders, but they started getting hit hard when the Humanists in the city had started going on the offensive. They had finally broken the unsteady and unofficial cease-fire that had existed between what was left of the two factions as they tried to piece themselves back together after word of reinforcement had reached them.

The Humanists had received a message saying that a large army was moving to support them through the mountains and had rallied, pushing the remaining almost pushed the gene forces to destruction. But they had attacked too fast and were forced into retreat when their army was annihilated by the second series of KSS attacks targeting a large section of the interstate that ran through the Rockies. It had since been a long, grinding fight to take control of the shattered remains of the Mile High city for the gene forces, slowly winning back the key locations that they had recently been driven from. The convoys had been shut down as the gene forces could not afford to give away any supplies to those not actively helping their cause.

Wilks had always wondered what had happened to most of the Denver population; 700,000 Denverites don't just disappear. Many of them had joined the warring factions, but it was estimated that only one in every ten actually did. So what happened to the remaining six-hundred and ninety-three thousand people?

Wilks had heard rumours about roaming raider gangs that preyed on anyone they managed to find in the once-prosperous region. Several men coming back from patrols said that they had stumbled upon these groups only to have them disappear as they drew nearer. Still others had reported seeing sections of suburbia being transformed into ad-hoc forts like those seen in post-apocalyptic movies. Many troops say that most of the people had fled the city to live in more rural areas, but nobody had the time or had cared enough to check on these theories and had instead focused on the destruction of the enemy.

Wilks had his own theory. He believed that the majority of the populace was still where they had been to start with; their homes. He believed that though many of them had fled or died, many kept to themselves, scavenging what little they could to survive on their own. The woman proved that people did do what he theorized.

"When the trucks stopped coming, we had to resort to searching nearby houses for food and other supplies." she continued, " Many of us decided to leave for smaller towns. We all knew that this war would last longer than they had said it would. We knew that the city would go to hell. Some of us were just too stubborn to leave."

"Oh, but listen to me ramble!" she said, attempting a smile. It was obvious that she hadn't smiled in a long time, the grin unbecoming of her dirt-smudged face. "Come inside, I'll draw up some tea."

"I'm sorry ma'am. We're under strict orders not to accept food or drink from locals." responded Wilks, still calming down from the woman waving a gun around.

"Oh, but it's okay if you give us food; is that it?" laughed the mother. The laugh, like the smile, seemed utterly alien. She did have a point however, they were not supposed to give out valuable resources. The look on her face said that she knew that too. "Come on. If you intend on giving me some supplies, the least I can do is offer you a drink. Besides, I almost killed you. I owe you this much."

"But ma'-"

"No buts! Either you come in and accept a drink, or I refuse your help."

Wilks looked at his squad. They were all still wired up. Their morale was at an all-time low from being shot at but not actually fighting the enemy. Their faces were tired. Maybe this would be good or them.

"Henderson! Get back to the transport and radio the convoy. Tell them we'll see them on the way back. Then park the MAV around back." commanded Wilks, a smile crossing his face.

Patterson's face lit up, the prospect of something warm brightening his mood. "Oh thank God! I need a pick-me-up right now! Like, BAD!"

Robert looked confused, the events happening too fast for him to follow. "But sergeant, what would command think? About us stopping, I mean?"

"What they will think is that we're gathering intel. Penelope here probably knows something about possible sleeper agents or Humanist sympathizers who need to be watched. Am I right, Penelope?"

"Sure thing Sergeant. I could tell you who the local Humanist squads indulge and who homes they frequent, if that's what you mean." nodded Penelope.

"See Robert? Now, let's go inside and get us something warm to drink. I, for one, am growing tired of this storm."

The gene troops followed the vagrant woman into her home, enjoying her new found hospitality. Outside, the rain howled as if cheated of it's favourite victims.

**

CHAPTER 16

Union Station

Denver, Colorado

0102 Hours, August 13** th ***, 2052*

Marcus slid the memory unit into his tablet's port, turning it on and scanning his finger print. The machine hummed as it powered up and opened the message contained on the device. The file flashed red, the icon emitting a hazard tone as an alert popped open on the screen. He manipulated the message on the touch screen, opening up the pass code protection. A text window appeared, a handshake phrase prompted onscreen; The dawn approaches and the moon is sombre.

Marcus activated the keyboard function, quickly typing in the response before the message deleted itself. It was a good thing that Arthurs hadn't attempted opening it. The light is blinding and the sun is joyous.

The flashing icon paused mid-flash before it turned green and the message was opened. Static screeched over the speakers before a voice became clear. It was obviously Paul. No one else in the unit had that accent.

"Warren... Marcus.. The VIPs are en route. We have them and they are safe for the time being. But, we have a problem. Taylor and the colonel... I don't think they made it.

"Argonauts were closing in on the place while we were extracting the geneticists. Tyler and I took the scientists while the others stayed to rig the defensive guns to distract the hostile forces from our escape. According to Sasha and Lily, their buggy took heavy damage and didn't make it out of the blast radius in time. The explosion from the low-yield thermonuclear device cut out any attempts at communication with them.

"Our best guess is that they died; even power armour can't protect you from that. Sasha and Lily are going back to search for them, but I think it's a lost cause. They ordered their transport to come back with us and Sasha gave me command of the mission. When you hear this, you are to be considered in command.

"Our ETA is 0630. We'll see you there. Damn... Until then, this is Lance Corporal Paul Vernon signing off."

The message ended, transmitting its woeful news. Marcus simply stared at the device for a moment, his eye providing voice identification on the message. It was real. He played it again, hoping that maybe he had misheard the message. He checked the machine's hardware. It was functioning properly, all of the systems green.

Marcus stood, wincing as his prosthetic leg experienced some lag. He glanced about his room, his eyes finally coming to rest on the cabinet off to his left. He slowly walked over to the wooden cabinet, opening the door and pulling out a small bottle. It was an old batch of Crown Royal, aged for eighty-two years. It had been a present from his girlfriend before he had left for this mission. There was but two fingers left in the bottom, enough only for a single good drink. He had been saving it for when the war was over, but he needed it now.

He managed to find a glass lying around his chambers and cleaned it with a bit of cloth. He carefully poured the whisky into the glass, making sure not to spill any. He was about to toast the liquor when there was a knock at the door. He looked at the door and then back at the glass. Sighing, he put the glass down on the cabinet and unlocked the door. "Come in."

The door opened to admit Arthurs, who was carrying a mug of coffee as per his orders. He seemed to glide into the room, oblivious to what had happened. "Sir, reports are coming in. We've taken Denver International and Buckley is close to ours. Recent estimates put the remaining resistance at only ten percent. Many of the Humanists have fled west. We've practically won!"

Marcus smiled, trying to appear satisfied with the result. His mind flickered back to the waiting whisky. "Arthurs, how old are you?"

"Um.. seventeen sir. Why?"

"Have you ever tasted whisky?"

"Um... no. I wasn't allowed anything outside of my daily rations when I was with Them." he replied, referring to his owners.

"Do you want to? I only have a bit left and was about to drink it to dull my pain-ridden arm, but how about we toast to the impending victory?"

"Sure!" Marcus laughed at the boy's enthusiasm. Despite being a fur, he was still a teenager. Arthurs noticed how eagerly he had answered and sought to cover his impulses. "Err.. that is if you want to..."

Marcus nodded, fetching the glass from where it rested. He somehow scrounged up another glass and poured half of the whisky into the new glass before handing it to the kid who accepted it carefully. He lifted his own glass, now painfully empty, presenting it to the kid for a toast. "To our victory and comrades in arms." In his mind he added more to the it. Rest in peace colonel. You too newbie. I hope to God Cindy isn't with you...

Arthurs clinked his glass with Marcus' as he echoed the toast. "To our victory and comrades!"

They then drank the last of the Crown Royal, the teen coughing after he swallowed the burning liquid. Marcus couldn't help but think up of the first time he had met the man he would soon call his commander.

**

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

2340 Hours, October 23** rd ***, 2046*

Yonge Street was completely full of people celebrating the day's significance. The sounds of car horns, cheering crowds, and jubilant youth filled the breezy autumn night. Everywhere fireworks and light shows flashed and banged, putting the entire city of Toronto in a state of festivity.

People thronged the wide street, halting the progression of traffic completely; not that there was much traffic this late at night. People and furs danced the night away under the explosive and star-filled night in order to commemorate the day's final ruling on Act 3749B.

The act had been petitioned for over five years now and was the best thing to pass through commerce in over forty years. It was controversial the world over, garnering both unwavering support and steadfast opposition. It was a law that brought salvation to some and death to others. It was an act that engineered the freedom of a species. It was the law stating that gene project slavery was now illegal and punishable by the full extent of the law.

All of the gene projects were to be released from their service and considered to be free peoples under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which had to be altered to fit the new definition of a person. Many of the furs in the city had been treated as glorified pets by their owners, able to run the occasional errand if it was necessary but not being committed to downright miserable slave. That being said, others had not been so fortunate, the desires of man manipulating them into twisted parodies of mongrel servants with no free will of their own.

But that was besides the point; today was to be forever remembered as Gene Freedom Day in the nation and Toronto shook with the excitement and new freedom. It garnered as much attention as any other major holiday celebrated in Canada, maybe even more so than several others. The furs were set loose, many to stay as free peoples with their respective 'families' while others struck of to forge their own destinies in the vast and sometimes frigid country.

Marcus let out a whoop as fireworks display lit off under the CN Tower, showering the sky with glittering sparks and a booming retort. He was far from alone, humans and furs joining in the celebration of noise and colour. He pumped his fist in the air as another salvo of explosives was thrown into the air accompanied by the smell of sulphur and a harsh whistle. He howled freely as the new series of fireworks went off, never before feeling more alive. All around him others joined in, creating a vocalization of a fresh start, even if it was hauntingly feral in the cool of the night.

Marcus had said thank you to the family that had 'adopted' him when he was young as they ate their last meal together, set to leave the house and party after the final signature was written on the Act. He remembered the savoury flavour of the beautifully cooked roast beef and the fresh of potatoes and beans rounding off the meal. He hadn't stopped yammering his thanks and appreciation for the way he had been treated all the years he had been cared for by his owners until his food was gone and he was ushered out the door by the middle-aged couple.

Marcus had been adopted as a friend for his owners' son who was an only child, being chosen for his age and friendly demeanour. He had been treated as well as their own flesh and blood and had become a new member of the family, welcomed as a brother and as a son to the home. They had even opened a savings account for him under a different name when they had heard of the new Act that was being drawn up three years ago, knowing that he would need money if the time ever came for him to leave for his own life away from them. His 'father' had been a successful surgeon, making for quite a substantial amount of money ending up in the account.

He had been nineteen for three weeks now, but had enjoyed few of the freedoms hat it entailed for his 'brother'. It wasn't a case of favouritism or unequal love on the part of his 'parents', just the limitations of society placed on him by the expectations of others. His 'brother', Jordan, had sometimes taken Marcus with him to movies or other social outings, helping him to create a good web of friends and contacts.

He had managed to procure his own apartment before the law was finally passed, one of his brother's friends having a father in real estate. The boy's father had taken a liking to Marcus despite his being a fur and had helped him through the legal process of buying a house. He had signed the papers as soon as he had been practically forced out the door by his grinning surrogate parents, being handed a credit card and ID on his way out, being told to have fun and to call often.

He then began a new life as an independent fur. He had payed his apartment a quick visit, making sure all of his stuff had arrived and was undamaged before joining the massive festival occurring in the heart of the city. Jordan had called him asking if he wanted to party at some bar with him, but Marcus had politely refused. This was undoubtedly the most life-changing day of his life and he wanted to face it alone. The word was still echoing through his skull as he made his way into an Irish pub and ordering a drink.

The bartender was a sturdy-looking man in a white apron who had a scraggy goatee and shaved head. He gave the impression of an ex-biker, tattoos running down his exposed arms and wearing a dew rag. The man had a heavy East European accent, the name tag on his apron reading 'Olav'. He smiled at the tall morph, sliding a drink his way after viewing his ID card. He laughed as Marcus whipped out his credit card to pay for it, and merely shrugged it off. "Hah! Son, didn't you see the card out front? Free drinks for any fur celebrating The Signing! The beer's on the house, buddy! Now go have fun, eh? It's your night!"

Marcus thanked the man and drew a stool up to the counter. That's when a man entered the bar, his arrival announced by raucous laughter and shouts of greeting. The white male looked to be in his early twenties and had short black hair and grey eyes that were the colour of a winter's midnight snow but nowhere as cold. He ordered a round of drinks for himself and a table of others that had greeted him on the way in. The bartender happily complied and went to whipping up the beverages as the man sat down next to Marcus.

The man was nowhere near as tall as the morph, but his presence was staggering, making him seem larger than he was. He looked over to Marcus, offering his hand as he introduced himself. "Hey there, buddy! The name's Owen, Owen Smith. So, how are you enjoying the night?"

Marcus was hesitant to answer having, always been warned not to talk to strangers. He went against his better judgement however, and replied in kind while taking the proffered hand. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Marcus. And as for tonight; I LOVE it! This is my first time alone out here, and it feels great!"

The man chuckled, sipping the drink that the bartender placed in front of him before continuing the conversation. "Glad to hear it! It took them forever to sign the damn thing; I'm surprised they even had to think about it! It should have been an instantaneous decision, not something to be dragged out for three damned years!"

Marcus took a swift tug in his beer before he commented. "Yeah, but at least they signed it. I was honestly thinking that it would be dropped. Canada's going to draw a lot of flack for this, mark my words."

"I don't know. Sure it's against the norm right now, but I think others will warm to the idea. I mean, no offence or anything, but we already have one part of the people affected rooting for us. I don't think I could think of a person who'd want to be a slave. It's certainly not something you want to be as a kid."

"You're right, I suppose; I didn't. I'm just glad that I was found by good people."

"Well, you weren't wanting for food, if your size is anything to go by."

"Hah! Yeah, that's true. Damn, they made- make- good food. I just had a slice of roast beef. It was wonderful, all juicy and medium rare! Mm mm..."

"Sounds like it. I just grabbed a plate of poutine down the street there. I've kind of made it a ritual. Every time I'm about to ship out on a business trip, I make sure that I eat something err... Canadian, for lack of a better word."

"Do you travel a lot?"

"Yeah. Sometimes it gets annoying, but it's still cool to see the world, even if it's strictly work-related. I must have been to, let's see..., twenty countries now."

"Wow. And here I haven't even left the city... What do you do?"

"I'm an expeditor. I evaluate tasks and see what is needed to get it done. Then I have to supervise the whole thing to make sure it goes smoothly; kind of like a contractor, I guess."

"Sounds neat." The two sat in silence for a while, sipping on their drinks and watching a newscaster on television as she attended tonight's UN meeting in New York. She was saying something about the uproar that the new Act had caused, citing other leaders' opinions and arguments on the topic.

"See; I was right! The UK likes what we did. And if I had to guess, Australia approves. Maybe Sweden too. Possibly Denmark. We have supporters. This is good."

"Yeah. But look at the president of the 'high and mighty' US. He looks like he's ready to explode."

Owen chuckled, watching the President as he was assaulted by a whole plethora of newscasters, microphones being held out to his mouth as if they were infant birds looking for their mother's catch. He was obviously fuming, his face red and arms tucked deftly at his sides. Behind him, men in black suits, obviously bodyguards, were holding off a crowd of rowdy locals. He was getting all the attention of an A-class actor! "I hope he does. I love it when the President goes apeshit. You couldn't find better comedy at the Just for Laughs fest."

"I've only ever seen the reels of him freaking out during his election campaign. And he still became president!"

"Oh well. We could poke fun at him all day, but what it boils down to is that he is the man more or less in charge of the world. And he should be; he's actually done some good for the country."

"You're right, you're right. I just don't feel safe with him in control of that horde they call an army."

"Bah, it's no horde; it is organized. It's just a little trigger-happy. Then there's us on the other end; poor, feeble Canada who's navy consists of two subs and about a dozen light destroyers. Our air force is a guy leaning out of a biplane with a shotgun in his hand, and our army is about forty guys in bush jackets with hunting rifles."

Marcus smiled, a laugh escaping his muzzle. "Hah! If things get really bad though, maybe we could call in those subs from the West Edmonton Mall; it'd more than double our underwater capabilities!"

"At least we're trying something new now," started Owen, "did you hear about that new power armour? That stuff looks like something straight from a video game."

"Only a little. Enough to realize that it'd cost more than a military jet, though." he replied sardonically.

"Well, if it works I say go for it. It would certainly give our guys an edge."

"An edge over who? The Swedes? There hasn't been an open conflict in thirty years."

"Not yet. But there could be. And if it came down to it, I'd rather be in some of that new stuff than in the cloth and KEVLAR we have now."

"So would I, but I don't think there is going to be another war in quite some time."

"I hope you're right; that's the last thing we need. Now let's get off of this topic, it's getting boring. You ever been to the CN?"

"Um, no. Furs aren't allowed up there."

"Well, they are now; you guys are our equals now. Come on then, let's go! I must have spent four years of my life in this city and I've still never been up there. I say we go and celebrate up there together!"

Owen's spontaneous idea made its way into Marcus' head, ingraining itself in his mind. It actually seemed like a good idea; the fireworks would be amazing from there. Marcus nodded in assent, slamming back his beer and standing up. Owen followed suite, throwing a few bills on the table for the bartender. "Thanks, comrades!" he shouted after them before turning to some new fur customers, refusing their money and fetching their drinks.

Outside, Owen started in the direction of the iconic tower at a leisurely pace, waiting for Marcus to follow him. It took the better part of an hour to traverse the party-goer infested streets before they came into the proverbial shadow of the immense structure, Fireworks fired off of office buildings highlighted the tower and adding to the nightly light show being cast onto it. It was relatively uncrowded at the base of the CN Tower, most of the populace having gravitated to the northern edge of the commercial district around Queen's Park.

They entered the main foyer, entering through the glass doors into a large open space that was dominated by a large customer service desk. Behind the desk was a bored-looking teen mindlessly directing the few customers up a flight of steps into the tower's atria. Owen grabbed a pamphlet from the desk, following the teen's directions up the wide steps and through another set of doors to the security screening room.

They patiently went through the scanners and security guards before queueing for a line that led to the famous glass-floored elevators that rose and fell on the outside of the building. They had to wait a while, idly making conversation as thy watched the burnished silver doors slide open and closed. When it was their turn, they were grouped with an elderly woman and her husband who they allowed to stand in the centre of the elevator so they could look through the glass in the floor and down upon the city below. The view from out the glass wall was more than enough to remind the two how high they were rising.

Soon the individual people below grew smaller than ants and the elevator slowed to a stop, nestling into the elevator bay on the observation deck. Marcus and Owen stepped out of the elevator and onto the mostly-open viewing floor. It was a large circular room surrounded by large, bent windows that gave a three-hundred and sixty degree view of the area for as far as the eye could see. The city, seemingly small far beneath them, was lit up, lights and fireworks everywhere. It was an odd feeling to be above the fireworks as they detonated.

They stood admiring the view for a few moments, pointing out familiar sights to each other and commenting on the clear night. They worked their way around the viewing area before they noticed a section of the floor made completely of glass. Owen strode out confidently while holding his arms up, the drop stretching below him hardly fazing him.

"Now this," he said, "is pretty cool. Come on, it's not scary."

"I know, Its just..."

"Just what? High?" chuckled Owen, "This glass must be about twelve inches thick. There's no way your going to break it!"

"Yeah, well... not right now. Maybe before we go back down."

"Oh, come on! You can't stay on the edge forever. Sometimes you have to commit and do what you need to. If everyone lived on the sidelines, nothing would ever get done."

Marcus never did step onto the glass, instead stalling until they were back in the elevator. They were alone in the elevator being the last to descend from the god-like precipice. Marcus subconsciously kept a distance between himself and the glass floor of the elevator but Owen would have none of it. When Marcus was looking out the elevator, he pushed Marcus out onto the square of glass. Marcus rocked forward, almost falling and pushing his leg onto the glass to steady himself before springing back as if the glass floor were scalding hot. He jumped back quickly, arms grasping for the walls as Owen began to laugh. Marcus threw him a warning glare but it did little to calm his ecstatic howling.

"Sometimes...Sometimes all some people... ever n-need," he gasped between whoops of laughter, "Is a little PUSH in the right direction!"

The fur paused, looking at the vile square placed on the floor of the elevator. "Don't ever," he growled, "do that again. It will be the last thing you ever do."

"Sure, sure. I promise." he said evenly, a grin still ghosting at the edge of his mouth.

Marcus didn't remember much else of the night except that it turned out to be really fun. He had woken up the following morning with a girl in his bed and a massive headache. He went to the bathroom where he found a note stuck to his mirror.

Marcus,

Keep in touch. I might have a job for you, but I'm not going to be back until March. We'll get lunch some time. Good luck until then, "Alpha".

-Owen

At the bottom of the note was Owen's business card complete with a telephone number and the address of his company. He had taken both and pinned them to a bulletin board for when next year rolled around and Owen made it back to Toronto.

"Good morning, Alpha." purred the fox morph stretched out on his new bed, the covers doing nothing to hide her ample breasts as he entered the bedroom again.

"Hmm? Oh. Good morning." he said as he popped a few Tylenol to crush his headache, leaving the note on the mirror. He didn't get around to doing anything productive until the next day.

**

Marcus and Arthurs walked back to the control room after finishing the alcohol. The raccoon coughed every now and again, the whisky obviously not having been the best thing to try as his first 'drink'.

The room was now more relaxed than it had been, the battle obviously dying down. Dutch strode over, a tablet in his hands streaming with battle info. "Sir, we finally did it! The city is ours!" he smiled, relief plain on his face. "The Humanists are in rout. There are still going to be the occasional splinter groups to deal with as we reestablish law in the city, but they shouldn't be anything too bad."

Arthurs whooped excitedly, throwing his arms into the air and doing a victory dance of sorts. "FUCK YEAH! FINALLY!"

Marcus' mood was improved slightly, his tail even twitching. "Good job. Now we can finally start to rebuild."

Arthurs took off to fetch some more coffee, seeing that the pot he had brought in earlier before going to see Marcus was now bone dry. Dutch was about to turn back to his own duties before Marcus stopped him. "Dutch! Get me a channel with Phoenix-three. Make sure it's secure."

Dutch smiled again, grabbing a headset off the table and throwing it to him. "Sure. It'll take a second.... there. You're good." He flashed Marcus a thumbs-up as he put the headset on, adjusting it to fit his ears.

"Warren. It's Marcus. We've got a problem."

Aurora, Colorado

0045 Hours, August 13** th ***, 2052*

Warren walked around the barracks, the smell of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air. He kicked the corpses of a few Humanists lying in the middle of the hall, watching for any sign of life. There were none. His rifle hung from his arm, his body coming down from the adrenaline that had rushed his system. He made his way to the door, pushing past several 'dumb' gene forces that were staring blankly at the walls. More than a few of their bodies littered the area as well.

He emerged outside, the rain starting to let up almost as if on cue. It was now almost silent, the gunfire and explosions replaced by the occasional burst of fire from elsewhere on the base as mercy killings were administered to those too wounded to save. Or those too hated to let live.

Looking across the vast runway, Warren spotted the bulky forms of Wilks's fast-response unit as they ferried the wounded back to medical aid. He envied them. They didn't have to witness this fight up close. It had been brutal, even by his standards.

Warren and the rest of the squad had pushed through the hangar section of the base, taking out any resistance that they had found before they met with a makeshift unit of 'dumb' furs and their 'handlers'. They had then moved to take out the main enemy position at the barracks. A ferocious fight had ensued, the 'dumb' unit having taken about 75% losses. They were shattered, probably never again to function at full effectiveness. The Humanists had fallen though when the Phoenocians had blown out a wall and outflanked the enemies sheltering inside. They had taken no losses.

He sat down on a sandbag wall arranged outside the door, pulling off his helmet and staring up at the sky. The clouds were beginning to clear and the moon was only mildly visible, stars still shrouded by the dark clouds.

The rest of the squad were going around and clearing the rest of the complex, but Warren had needed a quick break. Even he could only handle so much death at a time. He scratched his scar thoughtfully before a radio operator ran up to him bearing a mic. "Sir! Call for you! Channel 57 Zeta!"

Warren picked up the mic, manually transferring the call to his helmet mic for privacy. He slid his helmet back on, shooing the man away. "Yeah?"

Marcus came back over the channel, depression plain in his voice. "Warren? It's Marcus. We have a problem."

"What?"

"Phoenix-one, five, nine and Overwatch are MIA. The rest are okay and on their way back with the VIPs. ETA at 0630."

"What do you mean MIA? How?"

"The status is unclear, but they're not answering their comms. Paul was told that we're in charge now."

"Oh shit..."

"Yeah. Tell me about it. Meet me back here when you're done. We're gonna need to talk."

"Yeah. It might take a few hours, but I'll be there. Warren out." He clicked off the channel, his mind racing. MIA? No confirmed deaths, but MIA? How does that happen? Why?

He breathed deeply a few times, trying to make sense of things. They had practically won the city, something they had been striving to do for two years. They had even rescued a group of essential researchers that could win them the war. But they lost almost half of their remaining teammates in the process. Not dead lost, but lost lost.

His head turned back to the sky. The moon was once again hidden behind the clouds. Thunder rumbled a few kilometres distant as the rain once again hurtled heedlessly to the ground.

END OF PART I

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