Nominis


Before the war, things were different. Hell, back then, we were just making our daily living, doing our jobs, drawing our paychecks, and stabbing our fellow men and women in the back. We had no idea how bad things would get. We were fat and happy like maggots on a dead animal. There was enough sporadic violence-rebellions and revolutions and balky colonial governments-to keep the military going, but not enough to really threaten the lifestyles we had grown accustomed to. We were, in retrospect, fat and sassy.
And if a real war broke out, well, it was the military's worry. The marines' worry. Not ours.

"Get down the line!" A voice yelled. Whom it belonged was hard to tell, with the explosions in the night sky leaving soldiers blind.

Were it not for the mangled corpse falling flat infront of him, upper torso violently removed by shrapnel, Merrik Klains, soldier for the Kelgan Confederacy, would have sat right in his hole till the battle was over and the enemy had won. Scared, alone and drugged up with stimpacks, the soldier grabbed his rifle and pulled himself from the hole. Gauss spikes whizzed over head. Around him, men and women cried out, death slowly consuming them. Soon they would be silenced, whether it be the cold embrace of death, or the hard hit of stimulants hitting thier bloodstreams. Sprinting, Merrik's own slugthrower pulled to his chest, the last of the stimpacks did thier job. Fear no longer found itself in the pages of his mind. Emotions vanished as if stars of a magic trick. The only thing left were his orders. Get down the line, kill all enemies.

Welcome to war. Welcome Zadius Prime; Red planet of the Armstrong Galaxy; Hell.

As his destination approached, a pile of rubble and corpses along with a machinegun emplacement, Merrik dove. Nano-reinforced steel collided with red-brown dirt and slid. Stopping short of the gun, the marine crawled, explosions everywhere followed by screams of pain. Medic seemed to be the word of the day. There was a prick in the back of his neck as a needle shot him up with another stimulant pack. With that last stimulant, killing became as easy as breathing for the young vetran. Merrik pulled himself up, his practiced hands already racking a bullet into the chamber of the MG-782. The hydraulic system in the gun whinned loudly before there came a spray of bullets.

The carnage of war is not something to take lightly. Throughout the course of history, both the old times and now, grotesque things have always happened. One such thing happened when Merrik J. Klains lined up the first man before the onslaught of bullets came forth. Words cannot trully describe the violence that happened to the poor bastard caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Enemy Arkarian soldiers all on the front lines stopped mid-stride to look at the lump of remains that layed were thier comrade once stood. And before even the next step was taken by any man, ally or enemy, a massacre was on the hands of Merrik Klains. Taking an old quote 'They were dead before thier bodies hit the floor.' Dozens dropped left and right. He heard cheers coming behind him as his allies charged forward. Where it not for the stray bullet of a private still learning how to conrol his weapon, Merrik's killing would have been the turning point of the battle.

Armor from his right leg ripped away with ease as the high caliber spike ran through. Pain racked, Merrik's body. The soldier felt none of it, however, so drugged up on stim-packs it was suprising the man had not died of OD, something that contributed to many field deaths. As his leg gave out, and Merrik toppled backwards, his bulky suit of armor hissed, sealing off the wounded area and applying a tournacet(sp*) to the leg. Medical stimulants now began to shoot through the wounded marine's body and darkness was hurridly creeping in. Realisation of the wound struck him, and one word escaped his lips before unconciousness took hold.

"Medic."

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Lord Validrir
Xanthius Krieger
Captain Xanthius Krieger stood on the bridge of his war ship, the Omen. It was rather large for a destroyer class ship, state of the art too. It was long, stream lined and jet black giving it the appearance of an elongated, obsidian arrow head. It was covered in turrets and was fitted with a main cannon, an electromagnetic gamma cannon to be precise, that could rip through the hull of a freighter in one blast. He rather liked the ship, it had been a gift from the confederate big wigs upon his promtion to captain. When they asked him what he wanted to call the vessel Xanthius responded that he wanted the ship to signal the doom of the confederacy's enemies. The "Omen" was deemed an appropriate name.

He and his crew were being sent to investigate the possible where abouts of a rebel base. In truth they were about to enter into a battle field where the confederate army had engaged the rebels on the planet of Zadius Prime. A terrible, musky planet if Xanthius's memory served. They were to assist in the battle where necessary to ensure victory and break into the rebel mainframe before it could be wiped clean. From there they could find the other enemy strongholds and finally end this war. The trick was getting the info with out the rebels knowing that they had it. If they knew their bases were compromised they'd just relocate, and that would defeat the purpose of his task.

He'd been told it was a dangerous mission, that he would not likely survive. He'd had those kind of missions before, always to be dissapointed by their simplicity.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Nominis

"He'll make it." A disembodied voice grumbled in the darkness.

"Suit stopped mos' tha bleedin'," Another grunted, it's words soaked with a small town twang. "Ain't no reason to jus' leave him here. Give him a jump start, Doc."

There was silence again for a brief moment, then fire coursed through Merrik's body. Pain was an understatement as a medic injected the wounded soldier with adrenaline. The lord said let there be light. And there was.

Eyes snapping open, Merrik's first reflex was to sit up, grab his rifle and, well, do what he was trained to do. That would have happened too if it hadn't been for his suit, all 300lbs of it, refusing to move.

"Give me a second, Klains." The first voice spoke up again. "I locked your suit up to keep you from convulsing."

Merrik stared into the night sky, bombshells and flares still igniting turning night to day. Glancing down into the bottom of his visor, he could see three lights blinking red. The medic fidgeted with something in the back of Merrik's suit, and the slow passing of time soon became an annoyance.

Red light....Nothing....Red light....nothing....Green light...Party Time.

His suit hummed quietly as the internal computer came to life, stiff joints loosened and a Heads-Up-Display popped up on his visor. Grabbing for his gun, which thankfully rested nearby, Merrik pulled himself up and finally got his chance to survey the battlefield.

"Staff Sargent Fredricks," An artillery shell exploded near by, both of the soldiers cringed a little. As the ringing faded, the medic continued. "Fredricks patched your suit. He moved up the line."

Merrik looked down at his leg, confirming what the medic said. A grey, unpainted piece of steel was welded into place where the gapping hole was before. Patting the medic on the shoulder, a silent thanks, the soldier looked towards the frontlines, and headed off that way.

'Easy, this is Baseplate. Looks like the Brass is bringing in a phantom. Captain Krieger. Hope you boys like fireworks, he's bringing the Omen with him.'

The Comms chatter was alive, now more than ever with the momentum shifting after Merrik's stunt. An opening for a Harbinger Battle Suit to be dropped, breathing room finally. Looking to off to his left as he headed up the line, a vertibird touched down, kicking up dust all around obscuring its cargo.

"Harbinger to Easy Company. I hear you boys are looking for some bigger guns. Hope you wont mind us stealin' some glory. I hear the girls love them a war hero."

The Vertibird released its hold on its cargo, taking off almost as quick as it has touched down. Gears whinned as 20 tons of steel stepped out onto the battlefield. 25 feet tall, body width of roughly 14 feet, the mechanicle death dealer walked up right on two legs, each 15 feet. It's body was squared, yet had curves in the armor specifically for deflecting artillery rounds and rockets. A haze of blue surrounded the Harbinger, and as the first bullet struck, the area consumed by the haze lit up. A shield. For shoulders the machine had multi-rpgs, housed in a square box of steel similar to that used on attack helicopters. Ontop of the head swiveled a turret, loaded and ready with hot plasma rounds. The arms, each with a span of 12 feet, lowered and aimed, instead of hands for this goliath, there were chain guns, the bullets fed from an internal feeder to prevent jamming and sabatoge. Inside, a team of two highly skilled engineers, Michael and Charlie, worked the contraption as if it were an extent of thier own body, one controled legs and arms, the other the upper turret and shoulder rockets.

"So who dies first?" Mic chuckled into the radio, over his head he wore a strange visor, when his head turned, so did the turret.

The first to die, unfortunate souls, was a group of rebels stupid enough to thing an emplaced machine gun would defeat this metal giant. With surgical precision, Mic turned the turret, and with the squeeze of a joystick trigger, took out the small squad. Plasma consumed the emplacement weapon, the gun itself melting into mush along with anyone near it. Charlie finished it up, the upper body of the machine whirling around to face the emplacement, the chainguns started up, a high pitched whine as the turrets revolved. And then, bullets. Lots of bullets. 50 caliber, Full metal jacketed, high explosive rounds flew by the dozens. The first struck the sandbag bunker, exploded, and left a hole the size of a man's head in one of the sandbags. Soon 100 more struck, and the once safe haven of a bunker was turned to rubble. Any remaining signs of life were eliminated as an rpg flew from a shoulder canister.

"Another one bites the dust. Alpha-Foxtrot. Requesting new target. Over."

As the Harbinger went about its work, explosive light barely contained by the fog like dust as it fired its guns, Merrik continued his movement up the lines, finally reaching a large trench-like encampment that was the front lines.
Jumping down into the trench, he made his way to the main alcove like bunker made into the trench wall. There inside stood a group of men huddled around a table.

"Mitchell, Shantaclair, O'Leery," Captain Brocklaw, the man in the middle, looked up from his map towards the new guest. "Nice of you to finally get here Klains."

The Omen rocketed into Zadius Prime air space and commenced to broadcast confederate pass codes to the numerous war ships now hovering over the planet. All the Rebel ships had been cleaned out, and the only evidences of their existence where the floating hunks of debris that littered the space about Zadius Prime. Xanthius Krieger stood on the bridge and gazed steadily out into space. He remained motionless as a voice crackled through the short range, fleet radio and announced that the Omen had been cleared for passage. They flew on in an undeviating course until Xanthius could see the redish white flare that always came when a ship passed into the atmosphere at high speed. As they came into the planets stratosphere the engines, which made nothing more than a quiet hum in the silent vacuum of space, began to emit a thundering roar. They sped through the air and the ship's instruments chimed and a calm women's voice spoke.

"Captain, there seems to be a large cloud bank over this section of the planet, vision of the nearest battle ground is obscured." The voice was that of AVI, the Automated Vessel Intelligence system. She was the Omen's AI and over all a useful tool. Xanthius clasped his hands behind his back and continued to stare out the front view port.

"Thank you Avi, let me know when visibility will be possible," He paused for a moment before adding to his statement. "And contact the ground commander, tell him we've arrived." The AI systems whirred for a moment before it spoke again.

"Of course Captian Kreiger. Commander General Etmond has been notified of your arrival and will be awaiting you at forward base, 'Big Horn'. The battle field will be visible in 8.54 seconds." Xanthius took a deep breath through his nostrils and slowly exhaled it. His black and grey apocalypse armor felt a little tight across his chest as his lungs expanded, but that was how he liked it. Loose and clunky armor was a liability and he could afford none of those in his line of work. He looked briefly down to the bright red symbol of a skull wearing a crown that had been painted on the left breast of his torso piece. The symbol of the Phantoms.

"Visibility in three, two, one.... battle field in view Captain." Avi's voice coolly stated. And just as she said, the clouds where left behind and a seen of nightmarish proportion took their place.

The ground for miles was black and burned, pock marked with explosions. The Confederate forced pushed forward through numberless trenched like a swarm toward the city center off to Xantius's right. The rebels hid in ravaged buildings and behind collapsing barricades as they tried to hold of the unending assault. They had done well until now, for it seemed that the city was still theirs, not that it was worth much any more. The battle had certainly taken its tole on the surroundings.

Xanthius looked over the seen and made some tactical observations, silently and to himself. He finally did turn away from the scene before him and walked briskly to the back of the bridge where the lift could be found.

"Major," He said as he passed a younger man who sported a thin mustache, "Keep your distance from the city, the rebels will most definitely have AA guns. I'd rather not chip the paint on my ship." The young man saluted and stood straight.

"Yes Sir! Understood Sir!" He fairly shouted. Xanthius stopped and looked back at the man. He'd forgotten that the Major, Carlson was his name, was fairly new on the Omen. he smiled a little at the other's very military mannerism.

"Oh and Carlson, relax a little." He smiled a little wider at the Major who looked somewhat confused and sheepish at the comment before responding, this time more quietly.

"Y-yes Captain Krieger, sir."

Xanthius turned on his heel and went to the lift whose doors opened upon his approach. "Avi, tell my team to assemble in the hanger... it's go time."

The mission was simple.

"The mission's simple boys." Brocklaw pointed to a spot on the map. The middle of the city. Smack dab behind enemy lines.

See told you it was simple.

"Ladies, we're getting pressured hard here on the lines. I'm sure I don't have to remind you." Explosions sounded off in the distance like a symphony. "We break here and there's just hope and stern looks between the rebels and our production sites and hospital. I know for damn sure that the cripples they have layin' up aren't worth a damn in a fight if we fall." His finger moved further behind the large red wave on the map signifying the rebel's line of defence. For reference the thinner, stretched blue one was the Feds. "That wonderful noise and light show goin on outside if from these artillery pieces here." Tapping on a spot on the grid he then trailed his finger back to its first spot. "Just load up on everything. Rockets, grenades. The fucking kitchen sink if you have to. You boys are getting on the roof of this building, and blowing the sweet Mary mother of Christmas out of them."

Mitchell looked as if he were about to open his mouth and Brocklaw quickly cut him off. "Not a fucking word Mitchell. No 'Send in phantoms' or 'this is suicide.' Just get your ass on the roof and shoot everything that isnt already dead."

Translation. Phantoms are expensive. They were expendable. Send in the meat to attract the wolves and the phantoms would knock out the artillery when the shit hit the fan.

"Now get the hell out of my tent and make me proud." As the Captain waved them off, the group turned and walked off towards the 'armory' if you could call a pile of scavanger crap such a thing.

Fast forwarding and summing it all up. The 'heroes for hire' armed up. Mitchell and Shantaclair, the salt and pepper duo where both as broad as a barn, and equipped themselves accordingly. Two heavy machineguns and rocket launchers thrown here and there. Draped over their necks were belts of bullets. O'leary followed suit, two rocket launchers thrown on his back and rockets and grenades strapped where ever he had room, a compact assault rifle with a few magazines in for good measure. Finally there was Merrik two compact shotguns, the straps crossing his torso in an X, leaving the shotguns to dangle on either side of his legs, strapped down with a magnetic holster, (Just to keep the weapons from bouncing all over the place as he moved) On the \ strap, Merrik brought the shotgun cartriges the opposite strap for gernades. Strapped to each leg was a bundle of explosives. Each man had his combat knife (or two) somewhere, and concealing it all, to some extent, was a dirty red and brown pancho and matching shemagh. Rather than wear the bulkier suits and helmets, they each wore HuD-specs (sunglasses essentially that did the same thing) and wrapped around their necks like a choker, they each had microphones. The earbud, concealed by the shemagh just like the microphone, wrapped cozily from behind their ear. The spitting image of professional soldier's for hire, the group made their way towards the city, at first from trench to trench, until finally coming across an access pipe, once used for agriculture, bring water to the crops from the city.

((Alright so that post is crap. But honestly I've had to type it like 5 times now and its 3 in the morning so. Deal with it Trav.))