The Outer Rim has never been a place of stability, peace or order. It was always there for the Core to exploit, for the opportunists to embrace and the petty to dominate. Resources, manpower, lines on a map, drawn and abused for individual purpose and satisfaction, for grandiose schemes and ridiculous plots. Its people, from lonely farmers to undercity gangers, they were all pulled by the gravity of greater ambitions. Pulled and killed.
Valerian sat on a rock overlooking a small valley, dug by the erosion of a stream that now was several dozen meters below him. The grass was green, almost turning yellow in the afternoon heat of the planets passing summer. The not so distant sound of water rushing across stones and pebbles was an oozing, calming sound. Only disrupted by the oiled linen whispering along the blade. On the rock next to him, together with various equipment pieces, sat his red helmet as well. It required cleaning as well. So did his armor. Both were covered in blood and smoke stains. The fingers of his gauntlet flexed once before tightening again around the cloth, follow by another gentle, but deliberate motion as his stiff hand was running the linen down the blade.
Behind him was a scenery of carnage, almost a comedic opposite to what he faced now. Fields were covered in debris, ambers smoking, broken hulls and shattered corpses laying around. The harvest would not be brought in this year, for it was scorched, destroyed by the only constant the Galaxy truly embraced. Yet in the years to come, the soil here would be well fertilised through the sacrifice of his men, of the locals and that of the raiders. A minor victory in the grand scheme of things, if locals ever returned here.
He did not look back. He knew what was there. And for the moment, the view ahead and the simple task of cleaning his sword, almost let him forget where he was.
