Drake's Story

The rumbling and pinging of little rocks off the metal hull formed an underlying tremor inside the truck.

A soft coughing laugh came from inside Sterling Davis's helmet. God he hated it when people used such vague terms. Hammer. Gun. Truck. It was a tank, and a damn good one, commandeered especially for the leader of this fine crew, state of the art. He was here to make sure it stayed that way. The blowtorch sparked and hissed, a small point of illumination in the otherwise dark bowels of the tank. Through Dave's visor, everything had a faint green tint, and every shadowy nook and cranny of the vehicle was lit up like day. Did hell to one's depth perception.

This was just a cursory inspection before the mission. Dave extinguished the blowtorch. It had only been a minor repair, non-dangerous and kind of unnecessary, but he needed something to get out this excitement crawling underneath his skin. He could understand why some people needed cigarettes-- he had half a mind t'pick up a pack, except with all the oil and gas sunk into his hair and skin he'd light up like a match. He smiled a bit and sat back. Well, he'd greased and polished just about everything in reach. Real world time.

The tanks had just moved through the mountainous area with all the grace of an ongoing storm. The treads chewed through all terrain, desert, mountain, grass-- it could handle perhaps everything but ice, but considering that they had just entered a desert, he doubted that this would be an issue. He had his reservations about the swamp they would come up on, but...

Quit it. Dave chewed his lip and fluidly pulled off his helmet, shaking his head quickly to get the sticky hairs on the back of his dampened neck from clinging. He still had a very young face for his age, slender and with delicate dimples, something he kind of resented; he was like a string bean with broad shoulders that quickly V'd down into a skinny torso and spindly legs. His arms were hard enough, rock-like even from his line of work, but not exactly full of girth. It bothered him that he couldn't beef up a bit more considering all of the lunks he was surrounded by on this mission but, oh, what did it matter? Nuthin. He let out a long breath and rubbed his stubbled cheeks, wondering briefly what his parents would have thought about all this. That brought a smile to his lips.

Only God knew what they'd have thought about the group he was entrusting his life to now.

Dust collecting. Whew-ee. He never thought he'd be back in this business again, but, heck, life just tended to scuttle away like the many desert rats and miniature Tarnic that swarmed around these mountains. Even here the Dust was polluting the wildlife. It must be an enormous deposit if it was enough to swell rats to the size of dogs and cover them with little horns, even so far away from the cavernous swamp/ravines they were targeting. This would be a rich haul all right, if they all lived through it; he doubted so, since it was more er'less impossible to have a perfect record. Again his skin started itching and he just wanted to fix something. Damn it, if these engines weren't so fluid...

Only yesterday had this team been assembled, salary cuts finalized and grouped together and loaded up into these tanks like pigs in blankets that Dave'd et out on the countryside. He hadn't even yet laid eyes on their famous leader, captain of several previous missions of which Dave'd had no part in. He didn't know what happened to their last mechanic and didn't ask; he didn't care as long as he got a good adventure and a chunk of some Dust.

He stood, stretched, surveyed his work, adjusted his tool belt, and surveyed his work again. He dusted off his palms. He surveyed his work. Get a grip, Dave, there'll be plenty to fix in just a day, he thought, and knew it was true. They'd cleared the mountains, they were in the deserts, and growing ever nearer to the maze of canyons. He'd seen the maps, one of them given to him along with all his blueprints and gear. Before they got there, they'd surely be given some sort of orientation. He'd hardly met a single crew member so far.

Pushing open the door and exiting the engine room, Dave had a slightly morbid anticipation for first blood. At least then he'd have something to goddamn fix.

A Hammer Gun Truck.

A Hammer Gun Truck.

Goddamn silly name. The only thing it had in common with a truck was it used wheels instead of treads. Most just opted to call it a tank but even that wasn't really accurate. The things were, put in layman's terms, a glorified heavy personnel transport with a pulse-based artillery cannon - currently nestled in an armored cocoon on the vehicle's back - strapped onto it. This particular model was an upscaled version modified for the role it took now. Nearly twice the size of its sisters - it's elongated hull rife with various purpose built compartments, electronics and extra cargo space, this beast was the command and control centre of the entire convoy.

And Drake didn't particularly like it. It was a fine piece of engineering in its own right, advanced and powerful. Certainly it was more than capable to preform the job at hand and yet to Drake's highly analytical mind and military upbringing the tank was abounding with flaws. For one it had far too many needless curves and frills, the assembly of the artillery mount needlessly complex and it didn't use its own space as efficiently as it could. The Atoll State does it better. Biased? Yes, but that didn't mean it wasn't true.

Approaching the CIC of the command vehicle Drake had to duck to get past the bulkhead. Few things were designed for occupants with Drake's height in mind so the Replica had to make do. Drake long since lost concern over such things, over a century and a half of experience tends to make one accept things like that. The CIC was a cramped space with just enough room for one or two people to walk around. Five of the seven members of the command crew - not counting himself and his second in command - were nestled into slightly lowered alcoves that housed their relevant stations, two of the tank's operators (whilst highly important not actually part of the command crew) in the compartment just beyond CIC. Dominating the centre of the room was a holo-table, various screens and auxiliary stations completing the cramped decor.

Stepping up to the holo-table and taking a casual parade rest position, Drake surveyed the information before him, he too surveyed his command crew. The commander of the convoy had personally read every single profile of the personal within this expedition and hand picked them all right down to the cooks, so he knew they could do their jobs well. This was especially true for his CIC officers - each one of the most experienced individuals in the business, there was little doubt they could do their assigned tasks with disciplined precision. Still, there was a difference between reading about someone's skill and seeing it in action. What's more, Drake was the only Replica in the convoy and none of the command staff expect one - his fellow Atolli - have ever met one of the cloned super soldiers in person. Their reaction to his command would have to be evaluated.

Voice calm and commanding Drake spoke, "Status report?"

His staff, at least for the moment, acted with the utmost professionalism. Good. His Navigation Officer spoke up, "Convoy has entered Zone Delta-Six-Niner, sir. Estimated time to target coordinates: Six hours."

Leaning his hands on the side of the holo-table, "Alright people, light the board." Intently the CIC was awash with activity, information streaming throughout every screen and holographic display. His officers called out:

"All systems operating within satisfactory levels, sir."

"All callsigns checking in."

"IFFs online. Other than the typical motion sickness and stress all life signs show green."

"All vehicles checking in. Platform Zero-One-Two reporting minor damage to tertiary drills. Estimated time to repair: One hour."

"TAC and DEF drones online and checking in. All accounted for."

"Topographical and atmospheric scans are reporting expected results. Tarnic activity is at acceptable levels."

As his officers continued to verbally report in, the holo-table before him came to life. Along with various holographic displays showing him what his crew reported in and more, a 3D map was on display. Icons displaying the convoy superimposed over their location on the map. At the centre of the convoy lay the most fragile vehicles - the two drilling platforms, Dust-converter and mobile hospital to name only a few. Surrounding them was the command vehicle and her three smaller sisters. Surrounding them still were dozens of security vehicles of various classes. Completing the cauldron and outnumbering them all where an assortment of more than a hundred TAC and DEF drones spread within the convoy, around it and far beyond - many dozens of klicks out or above.

This was far more than the usual defensive set-up for such operations, some amongst the convoy thought it to a paranoid degree. Drake cared very little. He was here to make sure this convoy wasn't ripped apart. The sponsoring entities of this convoy spent a great deal of time and resources - or more bluntly allot of time ass kissing - to get one of the Atoll State's prized Replica Soldiers to command this convoy. So if he treated this operation like a small military expedition then so be it. They wanted to complain? Then they could go right ahead. Drake was here to keep these people alive, not make them feel good.

After several more minutes of analyzing data and issuing a few relevant orders Drake vacated the CIC. He had some personnel to inspect.

Truth be told, Hadoff wouldn't have killed all of them had it come down to it. Maybe just two or three- enough to get the point through the others' heads. Although, even that would have been a bloody waste, just not in his eyes. He wasn't so sure his superiors on this convoy would cotton so well to his killing of work hands just to make them a little more productive. Although, he had gone out of his way to pull one of the PDWs from a crate and slide a magazine home. That ultimately did the job well enough, and before the hour marker had passed they'd all cleared out from his storeroom. Every weapon was snug and secure in a rack or drawer, just waiting for the time to come when they'd be called from their slumber to spit fire. He'd stood there in the relative quiet for a short few minutes, just listening to the rumble and rattle and roar of the tank as it rolled along its path, all the pieces and parts a-whirrin' and grinding and humming. It was a beautiful thing, to be back on the road again. He'd have preferred to be on his way to some engagement, truthfully, but.. as soon as that thought had come he'd remembered why he'd decided to go on a Dust collecting expedition. He'd felt a little.. tired. After all those years, some of the stress was finally getting to him.

Okay, well.. in more ways than the usual eccentricities and paranoia, at least.

As it were at the moment, Hadoff'd decided upon taking a bit of a walk through the roaring belly of the mechanical beast. His target was the CIC. He'd gotten it in his head to find the CO of this convoy and formally introduce himself. He liked getting to know who'd be telling him how to do his job as soon as possible, and he finally had the time required to do so. He already knew who it was, but not who they were. A Replica, one of the super soldiers of the Atoll State. It was, at once, an exciting and.. unsettling thought. For one, Hadoff knew full well what the Replicas were capable of. He'd seen them in action- fought alongside them, against them. He'd been saved by them, killed them, and understood their capabilities. On the other hand, he didn't count them as real people, which gave him some cause for anxiety - okay, more than usual - when it came to what kind of leadership they'd be getting on this little trip into the wilds.

Nasser had been on his way up a flight of stairs when he ran nearly headlong into the CO himself. Not missing a beat, he snapped a crisp salute and then stood at attention, declaring with a solid tone, "Sir! Hadoff Nasser, Reykjat. Weapons Specialist, sir! I was just on my way to find you, sir." There wasn't anything to give away Hadoff's thoughts or feelings at the moment. His body language was stiff and statuesque- not just because of the armor cloaking his entire form. And then, of course, his face was wholly shielded by cold red lights, ceramics and steel. "I prefer getting a good look at my commanding officer on any assignment before it really gets underway, sir." He lifted his head, visibly examining the bulkhead of the tank wrapping around them. His attention returned to Drake, and he coolly added, "Sir. Atoll does it better, sir." He'd been around the military forces of Atoll enough to know that little slogan well. And that it was more often true than not.

At the pitch of night amongst the gale of clashing storms, hellfire rained. Theirs, especially. A torrent of artillery fire of all types pounded down upon the enemy complex. To any who happened to be unfortunate enough to be in the open found themselves swept into oblivion by the overwhelming deluge of fire. Truly an awe inducing display of military might. Especially from the skies - high above the target instillation within one of the two special operations dropships. This was where he and his nineteen other kin stood, watching the bombardment from on high as they prepared to descend down amongst the inferno......

......the air whistled past him as he fell through the sky, part of a loose circle formation with his brothers and sisters. Performing feats of aerial agility that would seem impossible considering the sheer weight of his armor, at least to those who didn't know what the SAAICS suits could do. Indeed, they were falling like bricks. But they were falling in style. Fast approaching the target he, in unison with his fellows, activated the "air brakes" - semi-transparent shields of Dust that materialized in front of them, creating extreme drag that jolted every bone in their bodies with the sudden deceleration. Moments later he all but crashed into the target building....

....Barely seventeen minutes after touchdown and they were already deep within the enemy's central complex. Seemingly doing in such a short amount of time what three hours of bombardment had yet to accomplish; unraveling the opponents' operation by the seams. Moving deeper into the complex, three enemy combatants engaged him. Attempting to overwhelm him with fire only to watch as the titan sidestepped their shots - the sparse few rounds that connected simply pinging off his armor - charged into one of their own at such inhuman speed that the sheer velocity of the impact sent him hurtling into the far wall, dead upon impact. Snapping the second assailant's neck before they could even react, he turned to bash away the coming blow from the third. Grabbing the man's wrist, he squeezed the bones into dust in a sicking crunch. Before the man could so much as scream he caved in his skull with the butt of his rifle.

Targets neutralized, he moved on....

.... An hour and a half into the operation and their adversaries ambitions were all but sunk. Sixty percent of the complex's defenses were offline or destroyed, data-banks hacked then purged, communications network in disarray, essential structures destroyed and a bloody swath cut through their ranks. And this was just the opening stroke. The Replicas were simply there to open the gates, to punch a whole into the enemy's defenses while their back was against a wall so the conventional forces could move in. He and his kin were never meant to take the place on their own(they didn't have numbers necessary for that), it was simply a testament to the sheer skill and power of the Replicas coupled with successful planning and intel that they were able to reap such chaos....

....He was a dead man, there was no point in denying it. He cursed himself for being so uncharacteristically reckless, such a thing went against everything he had been trained for and look where it got him: bleeding on the ground, half his arm missing, armor a wreck, comms screwed, enough internal injuries that if he was a normal human he'd be dead already. The only thing between him and a pissed off mech was a large piece of rubble. Great. Whelp, if he was going to die he would go down fighting. Gritting his teeth he stood...

...Smoke and fire.....

....the angry scream of machinery in its death throes...

.....searing pain...

...blackness...

....He heard voices in the distance, their words familiar yet he couldn't understand. The voices were dismissed in wake of an overwhelming feeling: he...hurt. Good. Pain told him he was was still alive so he focused on the pain. Fought to keep it at the forefront of his mind. As long as he could feel it it meant his body hadn't given out on him, not yet....

....his eyes opened. His vision was out of focus and he saw red; at least he could see! Goddammit, he hurt - his entire body was screaming at him. Haha! Take that, reaper! Uttering a silent chuckle just as someone entered his vision, talking to him. It took him awhile to focus enough to realize that it was his CO. Her SAAICS scarred and blackened and her eye was bleeding, but she looked good. Much better than his broken carcass, he bet. She was saying something but he couldn't understand - the world falling away around him. He knew he'd die soon but, goddammit, he'd die on his terms.

Shackily raising his hand to his CO, he slowly placed two of his fingers on either side of her nose, below her eyes. The Replica sign for companionship. As his hand dropped she grabbed it and held it gently, her eyes locking with his in understanding. He thought to his fellow Replicas and the bond they shared. He would be with his family, in memory, long after his body was burnt to ash. That gave him a kind of peace....

....as his eyes closed for the final time he felt comforting fingers on his skin, returning the age old greeting...and farewell......



Drake shook his head, clearing his momentary daze. Saddened by the loss of a member of his kin. Death was a fact of any Replica's exisence, but it was never pleasant to "watch" them die. Still, this one died well and in the end that's all they could ask for. As information was broadcast into his brain, he mused in satisfaction that the far off operation was a success because of the Replicas and that his fallen brother was the only casualty amongst his kin.

And, too, that his actions would be remembered.

Continuing his track through the command vehicle only to have his weapons specialist turn the corner and approach him. A tiny smirk dawning on Drake's face at his words. “Atoll does it better”. Ha, indeed. Looking over Nasser with stern eyes, Drake recalled his history. The man had more experience than almost everyone on this convoy and his reputation was earned. Drake knew his history, knew his skills and knew his outlook - and that's exactly why Drake had chosen him.

Drake blinked and his vision changed. Observing spectrums that no mere human eye could hope to see naturally, and with it Drake peered past Hadoff's armor and saw what no man could hide. To others there would be no indication of this change. Onlookers would only see two stern military men eying one another up.

Satisfied, Drake's vision returned to normal. In an ever calm and commanding tone, "Sizing me up, eh? Tell me, Specialist Nasser, what do you see?"