New Pastor

"Say aah, Milo." Doctor Harold Sterning placed the sterilized tongue depressor into the boy's mouth, using a small light held in his other hand to peer into the young Oriyak's open maw. He checked for any of the signs of an infection, not of the pathogen, but of the various other diseases that had replaced the malignent fear that had set in after the outbreaks. Dysentery was becoming a major problem throughout the camp, just two days ago a whole family had passed away in their prefab housing module from the lack of palpable water, edible food and poor living conditions.

"Ya yne lyubu polukate ... ehti deprov chuvsto sebistranno ... " The boy muttered against the depressor, causing Sterning to roll his eyes and withdraw the piece of equipment; beside him, the boy's mother clicked her tongue and flicked an open hand across his shoulder.

"We need to check you for other diseases, Milo; we don't need to worry about an outbreak of IB-8 here, but there are other problems we also need to look for." He said, taking a data-assistant from a standing table beside the inspection seat and reading through a digital medical file containing the entire family's history since their evacuation from Pastor.

"Misses Iliyich, it still doesn't look like he's taking his prescription; discoloration of the tonsils is often caused by bacteria collecting at the back of his throat. He needs to be taking his Midoropropin, ma'am." He responded, showing her an image of the small pill capsules and then pointing to a cabinet holding a whole plethora of medical drugs and anti-biotics.

"You see doctor, he does not like taking them. I have told the boy he needs them to stay healthy, but he will not listen. I've tried putting it in his food -- "

"You can't hide it in food materials, ma'am, that may cause complications." Sterning remarked, stooping down to the boy's level and putting his hands on his knees.
"Milo, you need to be taking your medication. At least once a week, please? Pozhalusti obitiay vashe leksotine?"

Milo crossed his arms and folded his ragged jacket over his chest, his lips pouting a bit while his young eyes flared with resistance.
"Khorosho, fiiine."

"Thank you, Milo. I have some business I need to take care of at Fort Pastor so I won't be here to hound you. I want you to listen to your mother, Milo. Have to stay up with your medication." He said, holding a hand out for the boy as he hopped down from the table and took position beside his mother.

"Thank you Doctor Sterning." The mother responded, one hand clutching at the fabric of the hood wrapping around her neck before the Doctor tucked his data-assistant into the pocket of his coat.

"Not a problem, Misses Iliyich; the buses will probably be leaving soon back to Sector B, I would hate to have you walking all the way there," He said, leading the two to the door and watching them leave the room for the main hospital complex of the Camp. With enough beds to support nearly 10,000 people, it was one of the largest aide structures in Camp 61, which itself was the largest refugee camp on the entire planet. With a population just breaching 23 million, it housed the largest amount of aid workers and displaced persons combined.

"Doc! You seen the toxicology data from Fort Pastor? They telephoned a while ago, like four in the morning, said they need someone to help go over the results. Said something about the Bug." A young Medical Technician shouted as he jogged down the hallway, waving his hand through the air to catch Sterning as he locked the inspection room with a key.

"Toxicology, huh? Who ordered that? Dear General?" He remarked; a spiteful tone at the mention of the retired "General" Norman Shrike.
"You seriously think they're looking into the Bug? They're too busy negotiating tourist numbers for Ring City." Sterning said as the technician handed him a computer tablet with an executive order from the Provisional Government of the world.

"'Government' my ass ... " He stated at the 'seal' of the order at the top of the page, using one finger to scroll down the information. Not much headway had been made, if any at all, into the possibilities of a treatment. Sterning had seen attempts at stalling the disease with unethical treatments, immediately severing the limb, cauterization with ineffectual equipment, methods that often did more harm than good.

"'Eh, all we got left sometimes, Doc. The Coal sure isn't out here." The technician said, leaving Sterning to his own devices as he joined a gurney rolling through the hallway, and a team of medical specialists tracking the vitals of an unconscious man. Holding the tablet under his arm, Sterning quickly departed the hospital complex through a quick-access hall that lead out to a street holding a small fleet of civilian buses.








Blinking his eyes as a bright light stabbed through his vision, his first breath caused his chest to heave upwards as he took in a gulp of air; then, he felt the invisible hand of the electronic respirator flood his lungs with artificial breath. Groaning out slightly, he felt a jolt of pain shoot through his chest, and then discovered the physical cord leading through his ribcage and into his body.

"Don't struggle too much, Mister Riley; you're intubated at the moment -- you have been in a coma for the better part of two weeks." The observing physician withdrew the bright light from his eyes, one hand moving down Riley's chest and adjusting the tube leading into his cavity.
"Don't try and speak, Riley, now that you're awake and breathing on your own we can remove the intubation tube.

Riley groaned out loud again, rolling his eyes back as he suddenly felt a wave of pain burn through him, images flooding through his head. He fell away from the hospital room around him as he felt his feet pounding through the foyer of an office building, the windows beside him framed with the horizon below. He gurgled again before feeling a familiar hand on his shoulder. Returning to his bed, his eyes fluttered open to see the face of Eli Horne.

"Just hold on a minute and we'll get that tube out of you. In the next few these meds should be wearing off." Horne's stern face was softened as he rested a palm on Riley's shoulder, hoping to steady the man. Riley felt his chest burn as the mechanical tube was removed from his lungs, a film of nanoabsorbant paste, billions of tiny robotic 'cells', spread out over the incision and into the cavity of his body. A painful bite rippling over his torso before his eyes fluttered twice and he passed out.

Camp 91, Eastern Pavon continent, the Curiad Coast
New Pastor

The man was already in a bad way when they brought him in. His lips were split, a nasty head wound cause by a bat of some kind marred his pale complexion. The two scatterans flanking him dumped him into a fragile wooden chair, with leather belts crudely nailed to its arms. When they had finished securing their whimpering charge to the seat, they nodded in deference to the hulking shape in the far corner of the shack, and departed.

Khavel stepped forward into the harsh glare of the naked bulb, his huge frame literally filling the tiny shack. Oriyaks in general were massive individuals, but Khavel put many to shame, topping out at a mighty seven feet. His frame was wrapped in slabs of muscle, and a healthy gut bulged around his midriff. He was dressed in a set of blood-stained blue overalls, rolled up to display his tree-trunk like arms.

“So. Now you tell us where tha money is, Mista Oren, or we take it in your teeth.” Khavel's voice was thick and slurred, his mouth sometimes stumbling over the unfamiliar English syllables. Clearly, Khavel was more accustomed to speaking his mother tongue.

All the man in front of him could do was quiver and spit bloody phlegm on the hard concrete between his legs. Unsatisfied with this answer, Khavel flexed his arms, and swept up a length of iron railing from the floor. He thwacked it into the palm of his hands, before twirling it in a loose figure of eight, to test the weight and balance of the improvised weapon.

“You got one last chance, Mista Oren, or your never seein' your pretty wife and daughter again. I'll beat you till you' dead, and leave you for da ratten.” Again, the man in front of him quivered, and stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car.

Khavel grunted, taking the railing in both hands. He swung it down from over his shoulder, smashing the length of wrought iron down onto Oren's shoulder blade. The impact shattered bone and cartilage, reducing the shoulder-joint to a ruin, bone fragments protruding from the split flesh, gouts of blood spewing from the wound. Oren's arm now hung limp in the restraints, his eyes rolling up into his skull
in shock.

Setting aside the now bloody weapon, Khavel picked up a bucket full of ice-cold water, a small smile crossing his ugly visage. With a flick of his wrist, he emptied the bucket over Oren's head, before stepping back to pick up the iron railing. A scream of primal agony and terror ripped from Oren's lungs, his face turning a deathly white, blood pouring from his open mouth and gums. Khavel silenced him with a hefty slap across the face, which spun his head, and knocked a few loose teeth from his face.

The breath rasped in Oren's lungs as he tried to collect himself, dribbles of urine soaking his trousers. He looked up at the hulking Oriyak, finally convincing his slack jaw into producing speech. “I-I-I d-don't h-h-ha--”

Before he could finish, the railing caught him square in the jaw, dislocating and shattering it simultaneously. Khavel moved with the motion of his weapon, turning on his heel to clout Oren in the side of the head, crushing his skull, spraying the room with wet blood and skull fragments. The Oriyak continued his bloody work, giggles escaping from his lips as he pounded the frail man's corpse into a bag of shattered bones and broken skin.

When he was finished, he let the railing fall into the slowly congealing pool of blood, and picked up his PDF issue greatcoat, stepping out of the shack. The night air was hot and humid, the stars blocked out by the clouds of a summer rain-storm. Khavel's partners were huddled around an empty oil drum, tossing in bits of driftwood and kindling to provide some warmth and light. Shrugging his shoulders to settle the weight of the greatcoat, Khavel stepped up to join them, pulling a fat cigar from his pocket, along with an ornate lighter, chased in silver with gold vines wrapped around its casing.

As he lit up, Khavel slapped one of his cronies around the head, jabbing a fat thumb in the direction of the dimly lit shack. “You go clean up. Then burn his shack. And kill his wife and child. Show the people that they no fuck with Khavel any more.”

With that, the burly, scarred Oriyak pulled the collar of his greatcoat up around his neck, checking a grimy and rusted automatic pistol in his belt. He strode off into the night, a jaunty folk song on his lips. This was the good life. Him, and around thirty other Oriyaks had cornered the organized crime racket in this part of the shanty, pulling the last scraps of money from its occupants, dealing swift justice to any competitors with stolen or home-built weapons.

As he wandered through the claustrophobic warren of streets, Khavel knew this prosperity couldn't last. He'd heard stirrings from his stooges in the MID that the sickness was spreading, and might even strike here. If that happened, Khavel knew that there was no escape. Only a noble death in battle, a rifle spitting death in one hand, a live grenade in the other, with a Scatteran battle-song upon his lips.

The violet shimmer of the Reverence's AI played across the Commander's face in an almost soft hue. Commander Jameson, a hardened veteran of the Terran Conflict and the Great War of Magellan was standing just adjacent to the flickering hologram of the AI. Staring at a large three-dimensional map of the planet and surrounding area directly adjacent to the ship, the man heaved a sigh, only to have his personal serenity interrupted by the nagging voice of an Operations Lieutenant, a young man named Jackson McKaye .

"Commander, how much longer do you think we need to stay here? A planet like this just downright gives me the creeps." The man protested before the Commander silently turned to him. "Our FTL Drives shorted out pretty bad in that ion storm, the AI said it would be a couple weeks before the ship was brought back to operational status." The Commander said, before he turned to the large map of the surface below, as the Reverence maintained it's trajectory, roughly 500 meters above the surface, of course it was adjusting for variances in elevation as well, with the AI Controlling all aspects of ship maneuverability.

Finally, the heavenly female voice of the ship's AI Avatar spoke up, informing the Commander of the status report. "Commander, we are on terminal approach to Camp Ninety-one, I am calibrating the gravity lift so we may commence resupply of essential perishables and allow our men some vital surface time." The AI explained as the Commander shook his head. "Negative... we're dealing with what looks like refugee camps, if anything we should be offering them humanitarian aid and essential supplies." He said, before he thought for a moment. "Bring up the roster of the ship's food and medicine stores, I want to know how much we got, how much our men will require over a period of one sectar... and how much we can spare for the refugees below." He asked, before the AI made the calculations.

"Commander.. according to my current manifests, and the rate of essential supply consumption, we have roughly four years of supplies if we maintain current consumption, I estimate that we can resupply when we rendezvous with the Combined Fleet of Righteous purpose." She said, before she ran the calculations. "We can spare, at current consumption and estimates, thirty-seven percent of our current supplies to aid the refugees, shall I arrange transit of humanitarian aid workers to the surface?" The AI Asked, then the Commander nodded.

"Yes, arrange transit of supplies and workers to the surface, I want an armed marine contingent and deployment of fortifications. We're going to have a mob on our hands if we proceed accordingly." The Commander said before he thought.

"Lottery.. arrange a lottery to be held and the lucky winners will get a share of the supplies." He explained, then made a nod.

"AI, bring us full steam towards the camp, then settle into a hovering pattern, and power to the gravity lift."

The Lieutenant huffed, then he protested. "Sir, if I may speak freely?" He asked, the Commander then nodded, turning to the young man, who seemed as if he hailed from Caprica, a silver spoon in the kid's mouth his whole life.

"Granted, Lieutenant." The Commander huffed.

"Sir, we're millions of light years away from home, with dwindling supplies and you want to help some refugees that are going to die anyway?" The man protested, resulting in a near glare from the Commander.

"Lieutenant, we're making a difference in the lives of these impoverished people, you will execute my directive, or find yourself in a court martial." He ordered, and the man nodded.

"Aveo, sir." Then he turned to leave, moving to execute his command as the Reverence drew closer to the camp, her engines echoing throughout the shanties in a disconcerting rumble.

"Castala, you have twenty minutes."

Castala Melaidhrin, famed magician and illusionist extraordinaire, looked up from the mirror she was sat before, carefully putting the finishing touches to her appearance. The dressing room she sat in was part of a the trailer that the show had traveled in (obviously, inside a spacecraft at some points) to reach New Pastor. The stool she sat on was adorned with a plush royal red cushion with golden embroidering, and the furnishings were all of good quality wood. The carpet was a dark crimson, and its furry material tickled between her toes when she walked. The desk had a bright lamp beside the mirror, and a wide variety of cosmetics - though of course, she had brought her own.

"Alright dear, I'll be ready in plenty of time." Castala smiled at the younger girl who stood in the doorway, dressed in a tight-fitting colourful costume - she was one of the show's acrobats... Leah, if she wasn't mistaken. The older woman turned back to the mirror, running her gilded brush carefully through her hair for a final time. Placing it down, she brought her hands up to pat at the heavily conditioned cascades of buoyant purple locks, reflecting the light just right as she adjusted them. A magician's first and most valuable tool was their image - and Castala was more than aware that her sex appeal got her as much of an audience as her magic did. And in her view, if you've got it, why not flaunt it?

Humming to herself, the illusionist slipped her long black boots up over her stockings, and slipped carefully into her corset-top, before pausing to glance at the door. "Tiel, sweetie, would you be a dear and come zip me up?"

---

Outside, the circus-tent that had been assembled earlier that day was filled with the cheers and cries of an entertained crowd, as the denizens of the camp and those from several camps around enjoyed the show of Castala's acrobats, animal trainers, and various other circus performers. There was a great deal of anticipation for the arrival of Castala herself - in the week or so that she had been on the planet, she had gained something of a reputation already. But there was no sense of dissatisfaction in the acts that were already performing - after all, this was an entertainment-starved community of refugees, not a demanding crowd of wealthy theater-goers.

Camp 91, Eastern Pavon continent, the Curiad Coast
New Pastor

District H-31, The Warrens

Puddles had pocked the muck-strewn warrens of Camp 91, turning the soil into a mire of waste heaps and mud slacks that were a breeding ground for both contagions and criminals alike. H-31 was one of the most recent districts to be added to the sprawling refugee camp. The sudden influx of the poverty stricken, exhausted and sick had overwhelmed the relief aids and the housing lists had fallen disastrously short of covering the demand. Disillusioned, the refugees and began throwing up temporary shelters on the edges of the Camp and assured that every effort was being made to house them properly. That had been three months earlier. Now what had been only a few thousand dislocated individuals had turned into a community of the impoverished numbering in the tens of thousands. What were supposed to be temporary shelters were hastily converted into permanent residences, taupalin tens reinforced with sheets of corrugated metal, driftwood and any waste they could scavenge from other Districts. The streets in the depths of the warren were hardly wide enough for three men to walk abreast. They had no drainage, no sanitation. Diseases were rife, and people were beginning to take matters into their own hands. Already this week had seen three dozen incidents of theft in the inner Districts. The crimes in H-31 barely even got reported now; rapes, murders, muggings - all were commonplace. The government agencies were fast loosing the trust of the populace of the slum Districts. He couldn't blame them, though. These people were thousands of lightyears from their homes, and after escaping a plague that had destroyed their lives they had been thrust into shanty towns that must reawaken the horrors of their ordeals with cruel clarity.

Whenever Major Douglas Brettic went on patrol in H-31 he was careful to stay alert. The shaded confines of every tent hid condemning eyes. Jealous, starved eyes. They had had few major encounters so far; a few projectiles thrown from afar, insults and jeers. It worried some of the younger men, and he had noted that most had taken to leaving their safety off when walking the winding tracks of the slum Districts. It was a bad practice but he could understand their unease. One day a soldier would be found with a knife plunged in his back. It was inevitable. He only hoped that frequent patrols and relief packages would help to console the residents of the slums. It was too little to late, though he knew. Careful to keep his face stoic, passive, the Major picked his way across a hastily bridged latrine trench. The stench should be awful, he knew, but its stagnant pools merely blended into the smell of the putrefied warren.

Brettic turned to watch the rest of the patrol follow the path he had picked. The final man was edging his way across the loose board that doubled as a gang-plank when a brick sailed through the air and struck his helmet. The young recruit staggered and one foot slipped off the edge of the plank. Unable to regain his footing he ended up on all fours in the waste beneath him, the foul-smelling brown smothering his uniform. More stunned than wounded thanks to his gear, the young man managed to claw his way up the earthen bank mere moments later. None of the men said anything, but he could see the looks in their eyes. He had expected anger. What he saw instead was anxiety. The Major found that more unsettling than anything.

"Use your canister to wash yourself down," he said quietly. A small crowd had begun gathering around the five-man patrol. He sensed no maliciousness, but he had no idea who had thrown the brick, and he could not risk letting the situation escalate. "We're heading back to base early. Move in pairs."

"Sir." The men seemed reassured by this, their replies emboldened.

The crowd parted to let the patrol pass through without word or action. Even so, he knew that they should not drag this patrol out any longer. He saw not a single smile on the crowds faces. Only the gaunt, savage leer of desperation.

Not for the first time since arriving on New Pastor, the Major was getting a feeling of foreboding.

---

B-19, Daycare Center 3

Unperturbed by the sharp ringing of the siren that commenced the next session of classes, the children of Daycare Center three continued their intense chatter whilst their carers struggled to get them under control. Three young women ran the daycare for over a hundred children. It was a challenge, in the least. Most of the children were the sons and daughters of Marines. District B-19 housed most of the barracks and residences of the Marine Infantry Corps. It wasn't a luxurious district, but it was by far one of the cleanest and most organized in Camp 91. A far cry from areas like Districts G and H. At least here thy had access to clean, sanitized water and the proper equipment to pump out their sewage and dispose of their waste. Still, the colossal growth of Camp 91 meant that resources were dwindling rapidly, even in the central Districts.

Lillian frowned as she entered the classroom. A large, square room sparsely furnished with desks and chairs and only two windows it served to kill the churlishness mood of the children quickly. The students ranged from the ages of six to ten, and few enjoyed being cooped up in the Daycare studying. It was the afternoon class now, and they were being taught mathematics. It made for a tedious hour.

Half way through the second hour, Lillian raised one delicate hand into the air and gave it a little wave. Their teacher, a stout woman with brown curls glanced at her and raised one bushy eyebrow. Lillian smiled shyly.

"May I use the bathroom, miss?"

"Can it not wait until break, Lilly?"

She shook her head. "No, miss. Sorry."

The teacher sighed, and then gestured towards the door. "Be quick."

"Thank you!"

Lillian hurried out of the door, small feet clapping on the metal floor beneath her. The Daycare complex was large but simplistic in style. Utilitarian, her Dad had said, though she did not understand what that meant. He said a lot of funny words sometimes. Thoughts of her Dad made her frown. He had been funny in the last few weeks. Hardly talking, and when he did it was always to other solider men. It was always about resource management, citizen relocation and other words which she could hardly even pronounce. Pushing the thoughts aside in a way only a child can, Lillian pushed her way into the toilets, smiling.

By the time she reached the class again, the smile had faltered. She had a terrible headache all of a sudden. Her Dad said stress caused them. It was why he drank the grown-up stuff some nights, she had heard on of the teachers say. Not that she cared. It made him sing. He was terrible, but she always giggled nonetheless. She didn't feel like singing, though. The pain was making her feel nauseous. She sat down quietly and tried to refocus on the lesson.

A cough jerked her tiny chest.

The humid night air clung to Khavel's lungs as he strode through the decrepit mass of the slums, his greatcoat trailing along behind him. He was flanked by four of the meatiest Oriyaks he could find in the slums, all dressed similarly to him, in military issue greatcoats and overalls. They were heading west, in the direction of the harsh glare thrown off by the arc-lamps surrounding the Aschen FOB, and the pulsating glow of the gravity lift.

As they got closer, they cut a swathe through the crowds of refugees pressing against the barriers. The crowds parted like minnows before a shark, the size and stature of the Oriyaks more unnerving than the armed guards that ringed the base.

Khavel smiled as he pulled a peaked cap down over his broad and battered face, reaching inside his jacket to check that his machine-pistol was still secure under his arm. He shrugged his shoulders to better settle the weight of his body armour, and waved his men forward.

As the group reached the wall, Khavel swaggered over towards the nearest Aschen marine, and fixed the soldier with a smouldering glare. “Who in charge of here?” His men fanned out, marking the remaining marines, hands casually slipping into the pockets of their greatcoats.

As Khavel made his approach to the rest of the Aschen group, they began to chatter amongst themselves and then one of them pointed to Khavel, saying something in Anquietas and sending one of the men up into the gravity lift. As he approached and demanded who was in charge, the Marine huffed and glared at him.

“Get in line, you've got people ahead of you.” He said, two more Marines adjacent to the supply officer kept their eyes on Khavel, it seemed to these men, the Oriyak didn't exactly understand the kind of firepower the Aschen brought into the theater.

Several moments went by and the Supply officer approached, a young Lieutenant clad in duty blues. His eyes fell on the towering Oriyak before he pointed to the crowds. “Get in line or let me see your lottery ticket.” He said, his hand resting on the disruptor pistol holstered at his hip.

When Khavel slipped his hands into his pockets, a Marine instantly brought his Disruptor rifle up and towards the towering Oriyak. “Let me see your hands!” He shouted, causing two more Marines to take aim, and the Supply officer to back up and withdraw his pistol. “Hands! Now! Let me see them!” He barked. The other men got the same response, raised weapons and orders to show hands.

Khavel started to laugh, with a deep, booming voice, leisurely removing his hands from his pockets, and raising them above his head, a rather unnatural smile creasing his face. “Calm down, silly Aschen boy. Khavel not here to hurt you.”

While Khavel spoke, his men backed off, holding their hands high, eyes fixed on Khavel's back, as if waiting for a signal.

Flicking a glance over his shoulder, the Oriyak turned back to the Lieutenant, fixing him with his best winning smile, which was not terribly convincing. “I have bus-in-ness deal for you, listening to Khavel is good, no?”

On a refugee planet with millions of refugees per one Aschen Marine, one could understand how they were so easily spooked. The Supply officer silently lowered his weapon, the engines of the Reverence seemed to be drowning out much of the noise and the clamoring citizens, and with this proposition Khavel offered, the Supply Officer kept his stare fixated on the Oriyak.

“Business deal?” The Lieutenant asked, still holding his weapon out some, but not in a terribly threatening demeanor, a few seconds went by, and another palette of crates was lowered on the gravity lift. Landing on the ground with a thud, a pair of Soldiers loaded the palette onto a floor jack, and wheeled it to the other supplies, which were still being handed out to the lines of people. The sounds of shrink wrap being cut away was drowned by the clamor, and soon bags of grain were being tossed out to the people, along with bottles of water, and even small comforts like pita bread, hummus, and jars of olives were being handed out, staples in the Aschen diet.

Eyeing the weapon, Khavel took a seat atop the nearest palate of crates. “Yus. A prop-os-iton. See, I offer you a chance to make money off this mess.”

Khavel waved an arm in indication of the scrabbling masses, a gin spreading across his face. “You give me half of the supplies you and your people bring down to the surface. I sell it on to the people at double its value, and give you half the profits.”

To an Oriyak, born scratching a living, the deal seemed pretty lucrative. However, Khavel was hardly stupid, and was prepared to haggle. His men stood impassive in the crowd, watching the placement of the Aschen soldiers, hands under their jackets, but the press of civilians between them meant that they were unlikely to try anything.

The Supplies officer narrowed his eyes and then retorted. “Money? I don't think the Commander would be to terribly happy about that.” The supply officer said before he shook his head. “And besides, I'm not going to be here to rake in any of the profits, we're only here for the next week or so then we're bugging out to rendezvous with the Combined Fleet. Gonna go kick some Belks in the teeth.” The officer said, before he looked around.

“I also don't think you've learned about us, we don't really need money, we get good salaries and a hot meal thrice a day, I don't think the cays could even add up to a candy bar back home.”

“We're only donating what we can spare, to give you half our supplies would put the integrity if the ship and it's crew in jeopardy.” He added, before he waved his pistol. “I tell you what, when we're done, you can have whatever is left over, for free.”1

Khavel rocked back on his makeshift seat, spreading the tails of the greatcoat like a fan. “Mm. What's to guarantee that you give us anything? We take what is here now.”

He slipped off the crate, the coat flaring, revealing the thick layer of body armour, the suppressed barrel of his machine-pistol flicking free. “And, my friend, try to stop us, and the crowd will overwhelm you, and tear you into teeny-tiny pieces.” The Oriyak's tone had dropped from good-natured geniality to pure, untainted menace.

As soon as the Machine Pistol was withdrawn the Supply officer backed away, and several Marines raised their weapons and pointed at Khavel. “Aliquem mittat ad navem impugnatione pretium.” He said to a nearby Marine, who nodded and then the Officer turned back to Khavel. “There's a heavily armed very powerful Planetary Assault carrier right above us, if our position is overwhelmed, what guarantee do you have it won't open fire?” The Officer said, backing up and grasping his disruptor pistol, a second Marine shot up the gravity lift into the bowels of the ship, before bright blue-white spotlights shone onto Khavel, and his accomplices, a booming loudspeaker thundering over the clamoring of the voices.

“Step away from the supply Officer immediately, drop your weapon, and place your hands upon your head.” The voice boomed, the ship's AI had been watching the entire situation as it unfolded, bringing the attention to the Commander. Two massive Turbo-Disruptor batteries swiveled on their emplacements, lazily adjusting and aiming directly at Khavel, and the second lazily patrolled along the crowds, maybe it was a simple deterrent. Perhaps they really intended to fire. One could only guess what was going on above them.

The crowd disintegrated, some disspearing into the darkness of the shanty, others grabbing makeshift weapons, and standing with the burly Oriyaks. In total, around forty Scatterans ringed the Aschen base, weapons in their brawny hands, shouts and battle-cries tearing from their throats,. Khavel took a few steps towards the Lieutenant, the civilians pressing inside the perimiter.

“There six of you Aschen pussies, and now many of my Scatteran brothers in arms stand against your tyranny. Run up into your ship like the dogs you are, or we will feed you to our own.” As he bellowed and pontificated, Khavel pulled the machine-pistol up from his hip, indicating his men, and the more warlike of the refugees to move into the base.

The Supply officer backed up a few more steps, weighing his options. The deployment of the heavy batteries was hardly a deterrent, and this frightened the Leutenant. “So you intend to scare us off, take the supplies and hope we never come back, all while calling us Tyrants while we're trying to provide humanitarian aid for a planet our government really doesn't care about.” He said, as the group was closing in, Marines were tempted to open fire, a Sergeant shouted. “Don't fire unless fired upon.” But the stakes were about to be evened out, as a squad of ten power armored TacOps special forces slid down the gravity lift.

Two of them bore high-powered Gattling lasers, while the other three were equipped with portable Ion cannons, the other five were armed with rapid-fire Disruptor RCWs, and wrist mounted energy shields. As the Scatterrans moved into the base, the TacOps formed up in a wide circle, and began to open fire, rapid fire bolts of energy screamed from their weapons, and impacted the closing refugees, bolts of green death screamed across the field, as the power armored behemoths fanned out. “Secure the supplies, if they flee, spare them.” A Sergeant bellowed, before pumping a dozen bolts of energy into a nearby Scatterran. “Flee with your lives, or continue your advance, the decision is yours!” A Soldier bellowed. Before he turned to the Supply officer. “Orders from the Commander, we're to secure the supplies and return them to the ship, then we're bugging for orbit!” He shouted, while his men tried to grab what they could, and book it for the gravity lift.

One of the Oriyaks closest to the grav-lift wasted no time emptying his machine-pistol in the direction of the fleeing lieutenant, before hurling himself on the nearest trooper, using his size and weight to throw the smaller Aschen to the ground, snatching up the ion cannon, and blasting away at his comrades.

Meanwhile, the forty civilians had swelled to almost ten times that number, the flicker of petrol bombs and improvised missiles formed from cinderblocks and scaffolding poles thrown like javelins. The crowd swelled forward over the barricade, egged on by the roars of Khavel's Oriyaks, who had stripped off their jackets, and started to fire back.

Having slipped back in the confusion, Khavel appeared at the centre of the amorphous mass, urging the mob onward with shouts and war cries, himself pushing to the front, blasting off short bursts in the direction of the Aschen troops.

As the Oriyak threw himself at one of the six ton power armored soldiers, the T-99H Heavy Combat Suit made it so the Oriyak's momentum was quickly halted by the sheer weight and strength of the powered suit The unfortunate Oriyak was quickly thrown off the soldier, before he hefted his Ion cannon and charged for a shot at one of the heavily armored Oriyaks, vaporizing him from the torso upwards in a brilliant flash of blue death. Considering these towering powered suits were roughly three or four times the size of the Oriyaks in girth, and towering at ten feet in height they had little problem with the swarming masses. All while Aschen chatter was rife with the cries of soldiers, as everyone but the power armored soldiers were being overwhelmed by the masses of crowds, the loudspeaker issued another warning.

“Fall back if you value your lives, lethal force has been authorized.” The riot was getting worse by the second, and the Soldiers were unable to hold off the thousands of people indefinitely. “We're going to have to abandon the palettes, fall back to the lift!” The Lead shouted, and as the crowds closed in, they fell back to the column of light, slowly, the behemoths began to rise upwards in the lift, and they opened fire on everyone they could that approached the lift and the palettes.

“The Ship's preparing to fire!” Another soldier bellowed, before one of the batteries discharged a blinding flash of green, and a teardrop shaped bolt of energy the size of a bus hurled itself towards the supply palettes, engulfing them in a blinding flash of green and a plume of green-black glowing smoke that flickered with energy arcs, with the dust cleared, the palettes were destroyed and largely submerged in a pool of molten rock and soil several feet in diameter.

Then as the soldiers ascended into the belly of the ship, a deafening boom echoed through the camp, and every tent near the Reverence was instantly flattened by a powerful shockwave, as the shields flickered to life, and the ship began to ascend higher into the skies.

As the Reverence pulled out, the ground below it was in total chaos, covered by thick smoke springing up from fires caused by errant petrol bombs, and the acrid discharge caused by weapons fire.

An Aschen trooper lay sprawled in the mud, bleeding copiously from a massive headwound. Before he could rise, the mob fell upon him, ripping, hammering and screaming like daemons. Khavel was in the centre of the fighting, hands locked around the throat of the Aschen Lieutenant. When the last breaths rattled from the man's body, Khavel straightened up, aiming the disruptor pistol skyward.

The series of energy blasts, combined with a throaty roar, brought almost instant calm to the mob, like the eye of a hurricane. “You've had your fun, brothers! Now take what remains and tell your story! We shall not be oppressed!”

A cheer rocketed from almost every mouth, fists, weapons and rifles punching the air. Snatching up whatever they could carry, the four-hundred strong crowd melted back into the night, leaving a circle of mangled bodies and equipment.

The three remaining Oriyaks who had instigated the brutal conflicted moved among the Aschen dead, delivering mercy kills with boot or rifle butt. They all carried slightly battered disruptor rifles, their torsos festooned with grenades and ammunition clips. In the centre of the devastation sat Khavel, an officer's cap set at a jaunty angle on his head, a pair of disruptor pistols stuck in his belt.

Pulling a slightly crushed cigar from his pocket, he lit up and grinned at his men. “A fine haul tonight. This should see us through a shitstorm.”

Commander Jameson watched the chaos below, eying the crowds before he narrowed his eyes. “Animals, Barbarians unworthy of aid, we give them supplies and they attack us. I want there to be a reminder of Scatterran brutality cast upon this world.. AI I want power to the energy projectors, I want to carve a scar into this camp.” He said, hands folded behind his back as he glared at the display screen. “Brothers, men in the service of the Confederation attacked mercilessly without warning, likewise I will return the favor to the refugees here.”

As the 400 strong crowd filtered back into the night, the Air suddenly began to stink of ozone and there was a strange tension in the air, the Reverence above was positioning itself slightly by adjusting it's Yaw. The AI then delivered the report. “I have garnered several positions, I am certain that the instigators will learn the error shortly, Energy Projectors are powered full, if we frighten them, they will leave us alone?” She said, and as the Reverence positioned itself, a blinding sphere of light suddenly began to form on the bottom bow portion of the ship, and the immediate area would be laden with magnetic activity, if Khavel was watching, he would see the Reverence was positioning itself, and preparing to glass the planet in response to the attack. The Three Oriyaks would be faced with the Reverence's sheer might, as a blinding stream of red-yellow light struck the ground and threw up a plume of plasma flame, the stream of light seared towards the three Oriyaks, engulfing and vaporizing everything within it's wake. Khavel would have precious seconds to flee before he was consumed in the flame.

Commander Jameson was fuming, staring at the screen. “These barbarians displayed no honor, only savagry.”

As the beam of light stamped down into the camp, Khavel started running, followed close behind by his comrades. One of them was unlucky enough to be vaporized by the column of fire, but eventually, the duo ended up crouched in the entrance of a sewage culvert, ankle deep in the filth of millions of people.

Khavel leant against the cold concrete of the culvert, a disruptor rifle across his knees. He watched the sky, a massive grin spreading across his face, as the bright streak of anti-orbital missiles slashed up towards the source of the beam of light. Maybe the Militia wern't so bad after all, the Oriyak thought as he picked himself up, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and disappearing into the night, his comrade close at his heel.

“I have incoming missile attacks.. impact in thirty seconds.” The AI Chimed in, as the Commander growled. “Return fire, shields full power.” He said, the AI then spoke, the ship then rocked with the impact from the missiles, but she held fast as milky white shields flickered and repelled the impact of the Anti-orbital missiles, then the AI spoke. “The Shields have resisted the impact, they are depleted to fifty percent, shall I broadcast a request to cease fire?” She asked and the Commander growled. “I don't want to help these animals anymore, I want the Combined fleet to burn this planet to ashes!” He said, the AI then injected some reason .

“Commander, we can make up for our attack by offering to provide the Planetary Government a share of supplies.” She said, then she opened a channel to the Provisional Government.

“I would like to offer an apology, we were defending ourselves from a mob of crazed Oriyaks intent on killing our men for passing out aid, perhaps we can maintain aid to your world, but would like to go through more secure channels." The AI explained.

At the far end of the riot a platoon of militiamen sprang into action, launching a concentrated attack into the mob with a barrage of gas canisters and police equipment. As a militamen drove a club into a rioters side, a fire-engine was seen dousing a two-story prefab structure with fire-retardant foam and water; locking his rifle, a militaman hefted the weapon into his shoulder and released a burst of rubber-bullets into the crowd, the devices spreading out into miniature balls at the velocities and throwing a trio of refugees onto their backs, knocking the chair-legs and sticks that had been their weapons.
"Move up, move up! Stand back or I will fucking shoot you!" He shouted to the other militia nearby, occupying themselves with either beating any opponents to the ground or helping the aid workers put out the fires. High above them, the Reverence could be seen with a pair of high-intensity designating lasers painting the mass of the vessel.
"God damn Oriyaks! They ripped the whole fucking thing apart!"

At a command center just outside of Fort Pastor, west of Camp 91, the Provisional Government was startled to receive the reports coming from the PG guard force in the camp. When a technician burst his way through the door, the Scatterran threw himself into the room as General Norman Shrike and a team of logistical attaches.
"What in the hell just happened? I told you to put Militia in that camp to oversee the operations, you let a bunch of Sovraks walk into a camp full of fucking Oriyaks with their pants down?" He said, before the technician brought him the communique from the Aschen Reverence.
"We've received a wide-band comms from the Reverence, sir." Norman ran a hand over his graying hair before looking to a map of Fort Pastor.
"Direct them to the Harboring Space above Fort Pastor, make ready for a heavy landing."

The Commander awaited a response, as a thick plume of smoke rose up from the billowing fires and the glassed soil after the Reverence cut a wide swathe of flame and death in the middle of the prefabricated Aschen FOB. By now, Sniper teams, and other personnel were hanging out of opened hangar bays and watching below, while the Reverence's AI threw up ECM and special laser jammers, which used small designating lasers to throw off missile guidance systems. And even used lasers directly into the designation lens of the missile. In tandem with shields, and special Chaff emplacements to throw off RADAR Guidance. But the ship held fire and would quickly comply and move away from the riot, as Rioters discharged Aschen weapons up at the Reverence, and the Snipers watched the occasional flash of green in the Oriyak mob.

“They'll run out of ammunition eventually.” He said, before the Militia Command received a communique from the AI. “Be advised, the raiders stole several Disruptor rifles, and pistols from our dead, when the area is secure we'll need to round up our dead.”

General Shrike cursed under his breath as he watched a digital relay from the camp. In the command center of Fort Pastor, soldiers were running through the halls and carrying equipment with them while an area was prepared to receive the incoming Aschen transmission.
"Open up a wide-link and give them Enhanced Guidance Data to Fort Pastor -- the sooner they get out of that god damn camp the better, for everyone." He said, turning to a militia commander.
"They never informed us they were planning to set down for aid. We had six hundred militia ready to facilitate the op waiting through the night to set up checkpoints." The commander remarked flatly, before Shrike pounded a hand into a desk and shouted.

"I don't want excuses, god dammit, there are twenty-thre million people in that camp. God knows how many died from a fucking glassing alone. We could lose control of the whole region, half the continent by the end of a fucking week." He said, rubbing at his eyes as technicians and specialists designated a harboring-site for the hulk of the Aschen Reverence.
"We're on the edge of a new outbreak, god knows how many slow burns are festering in the population now -- and then this happens."

The Reverence continued on it's course towards the fort, the shanties and the prefab buildings below them, passing idly as the ship hovered over towards the fort, using the guidance data that it was provided, the Commander waited and watched. “This whole idea went to shit.” He said, looking down to see the people in the streets, wallowing in their own excrement and filth. It was a stark contrast to the wide and clean streets of Caprica City.

“We're on approach to the Fort.” The AI said, as several screens came up, after a moment, one of them was an Aschen doctor. “Commander, One of the Supply officers has come up sick with some kind of infection, I've got him in hermetic quarentine after he reported a tight chest and was coughing, bloodwork shows an unusual bacterium in the body, it's multiplying .” He said, then the Commander ran a line to the PG.

“One of our soldiers is sick with cold like symptoms, our medical personnel have explained to me that this is unusual, what kind of ailments are existent on this world?” He asked, shifting his weight.

The General felt his chest steel as he heard the Aschen commander over the interface; the planet had a plethora of bacteria and wildlife that was capable of causing harm, there were portions of the continent that were uninhabitable from the native life.
"What did they just say? -- Sick?" A commander inquired as he looked to the General.
"They've never set foot in these sectors of the galaxy ... " He returned, looking back to the communications avenue.
"This planet has multiple pathogenic organisms capable of human infection, one of your soldiers was probably exposed through the improper sewage treatment at the camp."

The General looked over to a PG medical technician, his face sullen for a moment as he pushed away a datapad.
"The Provisional Government has handled the majority of humanitarian operations on New Pastor, over the past three years we've had several outbreaks of bacterial and viral infections, but we've been able to treat these with relative ease."

The Commander shook his head. “You don't understand, my men are immune to every known disease and most unknown disease, this pathogen is overwhelming his nanite immunity and replicating faster than the Tretonin can kill it.” The Commander explained, already things were going from bad to worse. “My Medics report that several other men contracted bacterial and viral infections that their enhanced immunities overpowered and conquered the disease with no manifestation of symptoms, but this particular pathogen.. it's overpowering his natural, and artificial immunity.”

" I don't believe you understand, ... Beyond the Aschen scope of knowledge, there are nearly thirteen million bacterial pathogens alone in Scatterran Medical history the Aschen have probably never been exposed to. There are four billion people on this planet, twenty-three million in that Camp that was just visited; improper sewage management, poor food supply and god knows what else is in that place makes it a breeding ground for disease and epidemic. Your soldiers should not have gone to the surface without a proper Scatterran escort." He said, confident that this particular case wasn't an exposure to Iramorbus, there was no indication that the pathogen had survived.

"Bloodgut is a bacterial infection that has been rampant in Camp 91 for the past year, symptomps normally include a large-area of infection in a short amount of time."

The Commander nodded. “I'll keep an eye on this man and see if his condition improves, I will send you any relevant details.” He said before he terminated the link, then he heaved a sigh. “Doc, keep him in quarentine, I want the man in a sterile environment and tended accordingly.” He added, while the Reverence hovered above the fort. The Soldiers inside determining that it was best to keep in the ship, unaware that the lone Marine in Quarantine might be the Aschen's patient zero.


Post has been corroborated between AzricanRepublic, Barney_fife, and XavierDantius32, and is not to be construed as Autoing, God Modding, or shenanigans.

The door to Castala's dressing room cracked open for a second time with an audible sigh - though obviously, not from the door itself. Castiel's expression as he made his way inside was one of impatience, and the blonde young man closed the door behind him with a tut. "You always leave it to the last minute, don't you?" he murmured as he made his way over to the older woman. "Some sort of dreadful aversion to clothes?"

Castala chuckled, adjusting her hair in the mirror as Castiel carefully zipped up the corset top behind her, "But of course, dear, why else would I wear so few of them?"

The youth rolled his eyes. He himself was dressed just as extravagantly - if rather more fully - as Castala, a long white, crimson and gold tailed coat the centerpiece of the outfit, and the blonde hair that fell to just below his shoulders was as carefully managed as hers was. "I'm the only reason you get anything done." he muttered, shaking his head.

Smiling, Castala rose from her stool and swept her own coat - a very traditional black and red piece, with extravagantly sweeping tails that were more reminiscent of a cape than a coat - from where it hung nearby, sliding it on. With the image almost completed, all that was left was for her to place her elegant top-hat upon her head, and she was ready. "If I were more organised, Tiel, then my lovely assistant would have no work to do!"

Castiel raised his eyebrow, "Well it's not as if you pay me, you know. I highly doubt most apprentices have to run about micro-managing their tutor's career whilst they prance about on stage making the local population of males' eyes spring out of their heads."

Another chuckle followed this, as Castala ruffled the boy's hair, "Jealous, dear? I'm not sure the outfit would work on you, you know..."

With an exasperated sigh, Castiel put his hands up, "You are impossible, I wash my hands of trying to reason with you. We have ten minutes before we're due on stage, so if you have anything you need to do, you'd best get it done. I'll be waiting outside."

And on that note, with only a fleeting backwards grin to show that there were no hard feelings, Castiel swept from the dressing room.

The great crimson dome of the circus tent swept above the surrounding shanty, drawing the grimy inhabitants towards it like ants to an anthill. Small plumes of smoke marred the sunset, mostly in the eastern part of towm, where the still molten scar from the Aschen's orbital bombardment cut deep into the concrete.

Khavel had considered taking the night off, spending the night in a mouldering apartment, far from the prying eyes of the militia, to tinker with his new arsenal of Aschen technology, but with the rumours of the sickness breaking out in camp, the Oriyak had no idea how long this “Castala” and her people would stick around, and as such, wanted to maximize his profits from this lucrative business.

The Oriyak paused as they entered the wide space commandeered by the circus. His eyes flicked furtively around the packed square, hunting for the familiar uniforms of the militia, or the square jaws and thick shoulders of any hired muscle. Satisfied that he could enter the area unopposed, he strode forward, stuffing a fat, foul smelling cigar into the corner of his mouth, pulling down the peak of an Aschen Officer's cap to hide his frankly disgusting features.

He stole a glance over his shoulder, checking that the seven other Scatterans who had accompanied him through the shanty town were still at his back, hands clasping makeshift clubs or concealed under their greatcoats, resting on the grips of stolen firearms.

Khavel made a beeline for the cavernous entrance to the big top, hands tucked into the pockets of his greatcoat. Hunching his shoulders, he strode over to the nearest member of the circus staff, blowing out a cloud of foul smelling smoke as he addressed him.

“You there. Who in charge of this lightshow?” When he was done speaking, Khavel jammed the cigar back into his mouth, rocking back on his heels, staring down at the boy.

Castiel had been en-route to find an acrobat who had managed to disappear at exactly the wrong moment when Khavel entered the tent and accosted him. The blonde youth blinked, coughing slightly at the putrid fumes and taking a pointed step backwards. "Well, sir, as one might draw from the name of the show 'Castala's Illustrious Illusions', I would start by looking for 'Castala'."

A long pause followed, "But she isn't-"

Khavel fixed the youth with a smouldering glare, removing his hands from his pockets, which would appear to be the approximate size of the boy's head. “Don't get smart with me.” He interrupted, his voice deep, and laden with menace.

As he spoke, he pulled back the tails of his greatcoat, revealing the olive-drab body armour, and the frame of a live disruptor pistol hanging from his hip. “I have ticket and backstage pass.” Khavel grinned and tapped the grip of the pistol. “You get out of my way, and take me to boss-lady, or you end up missing face.”

Visibly paling, Castiel absorbed the presence of the deadly weapon at the oversized brute's hip, inwardly calculating just how easy it would be for the pistol to shoot him down regardless of which direction he fled in. "I- ah..." Think. Think. He was in a damned magic show, there must be something useful lying around here!

"Well, as it happens, I'm quite attached to my face," Castiel finally managed, "I'll ah, show you the way."

With that, he turned on his heel and made off for backstage once again.

Ignoring the bustle of the circus, Khavel followed close behind the boy, his eyes bouncing around the tent, watching for the tell tale signs of marksmen or armed security. One hand remained on the grip of his pistol, the other hanging loose at his side, ready to grab the boy by the throat, if anything untoward should happen.

He spat the chewed butt of the cigar from his lips, crushing it under his heel, a small smile flickering across his face. His cronies followed behind him, pushing and shoving their way through the crowd, their hands also resting on their concealed weapons.

Leading the group outside the back of the tent, Castiel paused by the door to Castala's trailer, turning to face Khavel, "If you'll give me a moment, I'll get her out. You don't mind waiting, do you? You've been so accomodating so far, after all ..."

It took a few seconds for Khavel to realize he'd been insulted, by which time, the boy had disappeared inside the trailer, and the Oriyak had to content himself with an indignant grunt as he directed his men to form a perimeter around the trailer.

Shrugging out of his greatcoat, Khavel pulled another cigar from the pocket of his overalls, wedging it between his yellowing teeth, inhaling a great gout of noxious fumes. If the little squirt kept him waiting much longer, he would crush his head like an egg.

"We have a problem."

Castiel closed the door of the trailer firmly behind himself as he walked in. Looking up from where she was rummaging around inside her hat, Castala raised an eyebrow. "Oh yes?"

The blonde boy gestured towards the door, "A bunch of local 'big men', with local 'big guns', and oversized 'big heads'. Apparently they want to speak to you. I translate that as wanting to either A, extort you, or B, violate you sexually. As far as I can tell that's the limit of their mental capacity."

The eyebrow remained raised as Castala listened, and she chuckled. "Well now, it's been a while since I've been flattered with an attempted rough-housing. It's just like old times, before I got famous."

Rising to her feet, Castala swept her long coat around and placed her top hat upon her head. Taking her jewelled staff from where it leaned on the dresser, she motioned towards the door. "Let's go confuse some thugs then, shall we?"

Castiel folded his arms, "You'd best know what you're doing," he murmured, stepping aside to let the magician through.

"When don't I?" Castala teased as she walked past and swung the door open.

"I won't answer that!" was the muffled call after her as as she descended the steps.

Khavel was leaning against the outside of the trailer when Castala descended the steps, the fat cigar clenched between his teeth. He had discarded the greatcoat, revealing the suit of military-grade body armour, and the disruptor pistol on his hip.

He grinned lecherously as the magician stepped past him, his piggy eyes running up and down her body. “Hello pretty lady...” He muttered to himself, before mentally yanking himself back onto the task in hand, hunching his shoulders and setting his face in a moody scowl.

“I have proposition for you, Cas-tah-lah.” The Oriyak stumbled over the unfamiliar name, his eyes wandering from the magician's face, dropping down slightly, the scowl reversing into a slightly slack-jawed grin.

His thugs were equally enamoured, only a few remained to watch their surroundings, the rest turning around to stare at Castala.

"Is that so?" Castala inquired as she alighted from the steps, adjusting her hat and meeting Khavel's eyes with little more than idle amusement, "Well then, do go on, love. I'm due on stage in five."

At the top of the steps, Castiel lurked nervously, hoping to hell that Castala knew what she was doing.

Flexing his brawny arms, Khavel managed to scowl again, slipping the disruptor pistol from its holster, casually aiming it at Castala. “I am insurance salesman. I offer you, and your pretty lightshot protection from fire, water, earthquake and death.”

The rest of his cronies closed a tight semi-circle around the trailer, producing long-barrelled disruptor rifles. Khavel continued, blowing a cloud of noxious smoke in the magician's direction. “I want 10,000 UCON cays payment.”

Castala seemed to muse over this offer for several moments, before lifting a single finger, "Well, it would be rather a task to arrange for ten-thousand separate individuals to say 'kay' to you, but if you only want a rather repetitive individual, I'm sure I could arrange that ..."

The magician paused as if in realisation, "Oh, you mean the currency? No no no, you've got that all wrong - I came to this planet to get paid, not the other way around, sweetie." Brushing her purple hair back, she winked, "Was that all? Because I really am running short on time..."

The brutish Oriyak towered above the magician as he stepped forward, jabbing the muzzle of the pistol towards her side. “Maybe you no hear me correctly. Ten grand. Or you end up in the sewers.”

Castiel would find himself staring down a man of similar size to Khavel approaching him, a pistol in his hands. Khavel looked down at Castala, and then up at Castiel. “If you can no pay now, we take boy, and you get him back when we get ten grand.”

"Tsk tsk tsk..." Castala shook her head, "Now now boys, you shouldn't talk so tough when you've already made the biggest gaffe you could've."

The magician twirled around on her toes, "Never lose sight of an illusionist, or let her be the one to engage contact."

With that said, both Castiel and Castala herself evaporated into nothingness - the projected illusions vanishing completely. A highly amused laugh echoed down from some distance away, as Castala waved down to the Oriyaks from the top of a temporary scaffold set up to one side of the circus tent. "Another piece of advice I'll give you for free!" she called down, her voice perfectly audible despite the distance, and yet giving across no impression of shouting, "Never lose track of a magician's hat!"

Khavel roared like a wounded animal, raising his pistol and blasting a pair of scorching plumes of energy in Castala's direction. Having vented rage and frustration sufficiently, he turned to the closest Scatteran, who had dropped his rifle, to produce a bag full of molotov cocktails.

Grinning like a small boy presented with a Christmas present, Khavel lit the first bottle with the glowing tip of his cigar, before pitching it into the interior of Castala's trailer. Another two blazing missiles arced up towards the crimson fabric of the big top, accompanied by the Oriyak's raucous bellows.

“Fuck you, pretty lady!” He yelled in the direction of the scaffold, as his men continued to hurl the firebombs at the tent.

Perfectly on cue, the lone top-hat sitting on the bottom step of the trailer trembled, and with an alarming grunt, a large white paw pushed free of the top. In a display that was as horrifying as it was comical, an enormous fifteen foot tall abomination - the fluffiness and large floppy ears upon it suggesting that it may have once been a rabbit - emerged fully into the night, and roared.

"Have fuuuun!" came Castala's voice as she disappeared into the tent with a cackle. The rabbit sniffed, and launched itself forwards straight towards Khavel.

As the monstrosity emerged from the hat, Khavel almost fell onto the muddy ground as his torso was wracked with laughter. He hadn't had this much fun in years. Regaining his composure, he braced his pistol in both hands, and emptied the rest of the microfusion cell at the rabbits face.

Khavel's men had moved away from the now blazing trailer, and had begun to distribute the firebombs into other parts of the circus, along with the occasional blast of gunfire as they put down anyone who tried to resist.

As the pistol was emptied at the lunging rabbit, the plasma seared straight into its face with rather potent results. The outcome was rather than viciously clawing at Khavel, the monstrosity instead impacted with him in a full body tackle as its head disintegrated, its momentum carrying it to slump rather inconveniently on top of the Oriyak.

Around the circus, even as Castala had retreated, the majority of the other trailers had simply faded into the background - those few that were already in the thugs' line of sight remained, but the rest of the 'trailers' that were being torched were in reality little more than piles of filth, or walls. The performers were already evacuating the area as gunfire started to go off - having been warned by a rather distraught Castiel whilst Castala bought them a few minutes.

"Now let's get this dealt with..." Castala murmured within the large circus tent as the fire started to land upon it. She stretched up with one hand to grab hold of a zip-line down from the scaffold - normally an entrance for the acrobats. As panic started to grip the crowd below, the magician calmly slid down the wire, holding her staff aloft and amplifying her voice as she shouted to the crowd.

"Many apologies, ladies and gentlemen, but due to an unfortunate incident with a large man and a molotov, tonight's performance is going to be delayed by a few minutes whilst we deal with this problem. If you'd all like to move in a calm and orderly panicked mob towards the nearest exit, avoiding the gun-toting maniacs that may or may not be in the area, that would be great."

Of course, the words 'calm and orderly' seemed to be lost somewhere in translation, as the occupants of the tent started to mob out of it, screaming and flailing for all they were worth. Castala sighed, glancing around at the burning tent as she landed in the centre of the ring, "Well it's a good job I didn't bring my good tent to this plague-hole, now isn't it?"

Folding her arms, the magician stood calmly in the ring as the crowd began to dissipate. After a moment, she reconsidered, taking a few steps to the right and slipping into invisibility, leaving a fake-Castala standing in the same spot. It wouldn't do to be sniped down while she wasn't looking.

By now, Castiel should be several miles away, complaining to the proper authority and carrying the box full of money, so this was really only a matter of time and compensation grants. Castala glanced down at her watch, before realising that it was invisible, and lowering her arm again.

Khavel sat upon the roof of a shack, a bottle of vodka in one hand, his last cigar between his lips, as the big top blazed in the distance. It was burning better than he had expected. The group of mobsters had escaped in the crowd of Scatterans that had bolted like frightened geese, disappearing into the warren of streets that surrounded the circus.

After a brief sojourn across town, the group had ducked into their nearest safe house, to spend the night in relative comfort, away from the prying eyes of the militia. Khavel took a long slug from the vodka, and grinned broadly. That was two nights in a row he'd come away empty handed, but it didn't really bother him. At least he got to set fire to a big tent, and kill a giant rabbit.

The final death toll from their escapade was uncertain. His companions had managed to gun down three of the circus performers, but Khavel hadn't seen anyone get hurt in the blaze. The Oriyak shrugged to himself and pulled the greatcoat around his massive frame against the night chill. Once again, his thoughts turned to the rumours of the sickness reaching the camp. He shivered and pushed the thought from his mind.

Some time later, the tent little more than a ragged ruin, Castala stood engaged in something of a talk with a number of government officials. The illusionist provided them with a picture-perfect image of Khavel and his associates, and made a point of suggesting that she would be very pleased if they stopped being a problem. And after all, when one is in a good mood, one feels a lot more generous, don't they? And everybody loves generosity.

"What now?" On the steps of their new commandeered trailer - some of the other performers having been shifted to a more cramped share - Castiel frowned at his tutor, "I don't like this place. There are too many violent brutes, and too much plague. We can make plenty of money in safer atmospheres, back home."

Castala tutted, tapping Castiel on the forehead. "Ah ah, Tiel my dear, no talk like that. Brutes or no brutes, filth or no filth, you're forgetting the number one rule."

The magician adjusted her hat dramatically, "The show must go on!"

There was a pause, and Castiel ran his hand through his hair with a groan, and a vague muttering of "You are such a bloody poser..."

Co-written by XavierDantius32 and Script

In the far sector of Camp 91, in a slum of two-story fabricated structures and tarpaulin enclosures, a group of burly Hykans pushed their way through the throngs of women and their children as they directed their children home from the day spent at one of the hundreds of primary schools set up across the camp. As they marched, the crowds parted for the men while they shouted and chanted over their victory; to the east, smoke rose from a crater left by the retreating Aschen that scarred the planet, six hundred and thirty dead, only eight of them Aschen, were left in the wake of the Reverence. A man rose a large megaphone to his mouth as they neared an intersection of the camp; he shouted through the electronic piece and his voice carried through the avenue.

"Whe zin getopt met de tirannie vwan de Onderdanen, die wilien profiteren van onze verdriet en ellende!" He called, the Hykan pumping his fist through the air violently as the mob carried the broken tatters of an Aschen uniform and pieces of a powered-armor suit along with them. They marched their way down the slop and muck of the road before coming to a stand still just in front of a small tarpaulin complete with a counter made from broken driftwood and a nd an elderly man seated at a chair.

"Ouderelin, hebben whe getrovffen de zielige Ratten van hun kostbare 'loterij'. Gebroken zijn hun botten!" The man remarked as he lowered the megaphone, and the bloodied helmet of an Aschen marine came spilling out from the crowd, rolling on its side to the old man before coming to a stop at his feet.
"Whe hebben gedrod dezehr fout ellendelingen als ze komen ons volk te slaan!" He boasted, arms raised to the sky as the mob behind him chanted, howled and bellowed their support. A few of the men, strong in body and heart by their appearance, waved firearms and close-assault weapons in the air, while others of the group were equipped with nothing better than swords, or other melee weapons.

"Miln Kot, what have you believe you've accomplished? Murdering the fake military of the Sovrak, human beings no differen from us or anything other struggling life in this camp -- heb je zelf opgeofferd om de infectie?" The old man raised a withered hand to his mouth, while the other grabbed for the bloodied helmet at his feet; he inspected a brutal weapon strike that had broken the helmet open wide, the evidence of a pickaxe being used.
"'Tryanny' and 'profit' -- the Aschen are motivated and enforced by these, yet you use violence against them. What use does fire have against fire? It is only us, good people, who end up burned!"

"Je begrijpt het niet, they set foot on our land like they are entitled to our existence! They respond to us with a turned nose, they believe they are better than us!" The Hykan yelled, the aged man in front of him frowning, causing the old skin to prickle and the man began to weep.
"What do you cry for?! Had it been the Coalition they would have surely slaughtered us all -- we are lucky to have just been faced with pathetic children and cowards like the Aschen!"

"And what do you now have to show for it? Bloody rags and a few scraps of their pathetic antser ... What happens when the Militia comes for reparations? Who is to say those wretched Kindured won't demand from us the toll you have taken?"



Standing atop the plated armoring of a bunker out beside the checkpoint, 23-year old militamen Private Jakkins checked the magazine well of his MR-18 before turning around and watching a line of 6x6 trucks roll on through the checkpoint. By now, the Provincial Guard was hardly equipped to oppose the other types of militias and free-forces that had sprung up over the planet; while the civilian population would lend its weight at whatever kept them from a death of pain, there were numerous factions across the planet that maintained the influence, either through violence or wealth, beyond the recognized territories of the Provisional Government. One of those areas was on the Pavon continent, with the Camp sitting just 60 kilometers from the border of the Provisional Government’s southernmost territory on the continent.

Standing on the reinforced bunker above the roadway that came through the valley, the militia outpost sat near the mouth of the same valley; through the highway beyond the pavement stretched through a desolate, squat badlands.
“Sure miss the pastures back home, ‘eh? Or maybe the parks.” The Private turned while a Lieutenant came out with the frame of a small radar antenna, when Jakkins turned back around, he saw the large storm clouds kilometers away over the horizon.

“Season is turning, Private. Sooner or later there’ll be storms coming in from the coast too.”

Sabnach materializes from the void.

Sabnach vanishes into nothingness, but you get the feeling they are heading somewhere else.