Outer Rim Territories // Esstran Sector // Ziost.
New Adasta - “The Gateway to the Empire.”
7th Mechanized Regiment, Attached to the Prosecutor.
+00:55 After Mission Commencement.
Strategium; Primary Command Deck - The “Prosecutor.”
Battlegroup Kenobi; 2nd Fleet; 1st Taskforce.
Get Us Out Of Here...
As the dropships filed out of the Prosecutor’s hangar bay, the warship’s turrets gleefully engaged the orbiting installations. While they were temporarily disabled, they still presented a potential threat to their descending second wave. Should these defence stations come alive, the surface-bound transports would stand little chance against their plasmatic fury. Their shields would buckle under the projected cannonade before they were gutted in the second volley. The troops and vehicles ferried within those transport’s clutches would then plummet to the surface, bathed in the fiery wreckage of their planetary carriage. It would be a terrible way to perish, as they would be forced to watch the ground race up to meet them, and wouldn’t be able to arrest their descent.
So, the automated functions of the warship did what they could to ensure that eventuality didn’t transpire. Entire batteries of dorsal-mounted turbolasers pounded the disabled installations, savaging their outer plating with every plasmatic blast. The banks of ion cannons that dotted the surface of the Cruiser followed in their cousin's path, seeking to ensure that the stations nearest to the Prosecutor were disabled for but a moment longer. It would’ve been easier to destroy the stations through massed waves of missiles and torpedoes, but there were several factors in play that denied the Alliance vessel the killing blow.
Due to the unseen gravitic tethers that kept those installations in place, destroying them with the Prosecutor’s stockpile of warheads would spell doom for the troops descending towards the surface. It was too much of a risk, as their missiles wouldn’t vaporize the installations as their plasmatic weaponry could. Not only would it cause havoc for the Alliance expeditionary forces that were touching down on Ziost, but it would likely strike the city - causing untold collateral damage amongst the civilian infrastructure. That was unacceptable. Thus, the Cruiser ensured only it’s plasmatic-based complement would engage the stations. An act that would leave the Prosecutor’s stockpile relatively untouched for when they moved to rejoin the battle anchored in the bespeckled ocean above.
Such limitations were irksome, Jor’Dosta thought to himself, as he reviewed the newest update. It wouldn’t be long now before the stations that went untouched by his warship’s ion cannons would reactivate. The second wave needed to hurry, lest they were caught in the crossfire. Even the starfighters that were dispatched to deal with the stations did little against their thickened metallic hide. It didn’t help that they had their own targets to worry about, as portions of the Sith-Imperial garrison took to the skies. Running the two-fold task of escorts and bombers didn’t make their assigned tasks any easier. Yet, through some miracle, their operation hadn’t gone to hell in a hand-basket. Thus, even though progress was slow, the Captain silently thanked his lucky stars.
In an odd twist of fate, however, the first of the defence stations came back online. It was a hovering bastion forged of basalt plating and bristling with weapons that could threaten a warship when utilized en masse. A pair of malicious crimson eyes winked into life as the Prosecutor’s shields began to flare. The defence station seemingly calculated that the Cruiser was the greatest threat to its existence and elected to engage the hulking warship with every weapon at its disposal. As the Prosecutor was holding station above Ziost, the warship was quite the ample and stationary target for the installation to engage with ease.
Unlike the Alliance vessel, the Installation held little regard for the limitations of war. It didn’t care if the Cruiser was destroyed, and crashed into the planet’s surface. All that mattered, was that the immediate threat was neutralized by any means necessary. So, without remorse or care for the consequences, the Installation unleashed a torrent of warheads. With their path locked-in, these missiles raced towards their target - seeking only to destroy all that stood in their way. As a majority of the Prosecutor’s starfighter complement were deployed to engage in various operations, the Cruiser was forced to rely on its own point defence network to survive the coming barrage.
Rotary cannons emerged from protective housings and began stitching the heavens with their plasmatic fury, and forced a significant portion of warheads to detonate prematurely. The missiles that were intercepted blossomed into fiery flowers of vented atmosphere and debris. In many respects, it was a hauntingly beautiful display, despite the murderous intention each warhead carried. Yet, even though the defensive network was impressive, a portion of the ejected warheads managed to weave their way through the overlapping fields of fire. They impacted the projected deflector screen with all the technological fury they could muster, causing the affected portions of the shield to flicker and fail.
Jor’Dosta swore as the impacts stole his balance. He was thrown towards the nearest bracing rail and poured his weight onto the mounted support. As the kinetic impact faded, the Captain regained his fitting with relative ease. “Damage report!” the man yelled, as his subordinates immediately returned to their posts. “Portions of the deflectors are failing!” one of his command staff called out, whilst another nearby indicated that a swathe of their outer hull plating was scorched by the warheads that exploited the gaps in their defences. All-in-all, it was minor damage that could easily be repaired, if given time. But, that was borrowed time that the Prosecutor couldn’t spare.
More Sith-Imperial installations were coming back online and setting their murderous gaze upon the marginally weakened Prosecutor.
“What’s the status of the drop?” Jor’Dosta barked, as he fought to compete with blaring klaxons and pulsating lights. There was a momentary delay before one of Jor’Dosta’s senior officers relayed the requested information. “Drop’s complete, and the second wave is away, Captain. We’re ready to recall our fighters and ascend on your orders!”
There was a small delay in the Captain’s reply. They would be dead in the water when those stations finished reactivating. It was a death sentence for everyone aboard the Prosecutor, and likely for those engaged below. Yet, there was something that could be seen through the holographic viewports that chilled the very blood in his veins. The skies were turning carnelian. Through inexplicable means, this rolling tide of blood-drenched clouds seemingly empowered the murderous installations. Coruscating arcs of lightning rolled across their blackened husks and reignited the entirety of the orbital defence grid. He tried to speak but found that his voice couldn’t be summoned.
Whatever this was, whatever evils now spilled out across the heavens of Ziost, engulfed the Captain’s nerves. He was terrified. Sure, the man had witnessed Sith rituals and magicks before, but this… was on a whole other level. It took the sound of a discharging sidearm to pull Jor’Dosta back from the edge of the abyss. He blinked, drunkenly, before swivelling about to find the shot’s origin. As he pivoted, the Captain bore witness to a gruesome display of what some would consider cowardice. With the carnelian clouds rolling over the Prosecutor’s wounded frame, the darkness that they heralded swept into the minds of the weak-willed and infirm. Despite the myriad precautions that the Alliance had instilled in their valiant men and women, there were always unseen cracks in the honourable veneer.
One of Jor’Dosta’s ensigns had put their sidearm to their unarmoured temple and pulled the trigger. Their eyes were filled with supernatural terror, and their patrician features were wrought in despair. It was a distressing sight that harrowed some of the nearby officers, so much so that others were considering drawing their own weapons. The Marines, stationed to guard the command deck, robbed them of that decision with one fell stroke. Thanks to the stabilization fields in their helmets, they retained their sanity as soon as they recognized the threat those crimson clouds represented.
Concentric rings of ionized sapphires erupted from the barrels of their service weapons, stunning those that were now reaching for their sidearms.
“Captain!” one of his senior officers shouted. “We need to get out of here! Now!”
Jor’Dosta swallowed, hard, as his senses slowly recovered. His command that should’ve been issued earlier was finally given voice. With an unsteady hand, the Captain ordered the Prosecutor to ascend and remove itself from the carnelian malaise that started to engulf the planet. With any luck, the empowered stations would have their lethality curbed by the combination of the rotary cannons and the returning squadrons of starfighters. But, after experiencing such an uncharacteristic moment of terror?
Anything was possible now.
+0:56 After Mission Commencement.
Outskirts; New Andasta City - HAAT Gunship.
7th Mechanized Regiment; 2nd Company; 4th Platoon; 1st Squad.
Madness Reigns...
With his hand wrapped around an orbiting handle, Trooper Harnan silently began running through pre-deployment checks. It was a distraction to keep his mind busy and away from the sinking feeling that slowly started building in his gut. His communication systems were green across the board and remotely patched into the Alliance BattleNet with the standard military encryption scheme. The simple AI implanted into his armour’s subsystems did their assigned tasks well and ensured that everything was up-to-date and ready to be utilized by the wearer. While some considered such technological marvels a waste of government funding, Milo believed it was an invaluable asset. Not only could he take his mind off the more tedious aspects of the pre-deployment phase, but it allowed the man to focus on something else, like his weapons.
Yet, to deny himself from embracing that sickening sensation, the Marine elected to manually rifle through the checks to confirm his AI’s work. As the man expected, everything came back with nominal results. But, as Milo finished the system assessment, that roiling sensation started to build. It seemed that the Marine focused on that errant sensation, the more it grew within his armoured frame. Whatever it was, the feeling wasn’t a physical affliction. He was cleared by the Medics aboard the Prosecutor during transit, and there were no viral pathogens in Ziost’s atmosphere. No, this was something that afflicted him within the tranquil sanctity of his partially-guarded mind.
All Alliance marines underwent some subconscious training that assisted them in safeguarding their thoughts from Sith infiltration. Even the armour they wore supplemented this training when the Anti-Force protocols were activated. But, even through the combination of armour and training, the defence of one’s mind often lacked when faced against a trained Force-wielder and their mastery of reality. Only through sheer determination and willpower could one conquer the conjured illusions that would be planted in one’s mind. Sadly, because of that growing sensation within his belly, Milo couldn’t focus. Without that focus, the Marine’s mind was like a fortress - with its gate unbarred and unguarded.
That was when his Sergeant appeared before him. In his resplendent armour, the Alliance Veteran slapped his glove against the exterior of Milo’s helmet. As the textile connected with the armoured headgear, the Sergeant keyed in a command code on an artfully hidden terminal built into the helmet. Within seconds, Milo’s mind filled with a subtle numbing sensation. The stabilization mask was activated, and the feeling that was welling within his gut seemingly vanished. It was an almost blissful moment of relief that was shattered scant moments later by the Sergeant’s commanding tone.
:: When I give you an order, Trooper, I expect you to follow it. ::
Milo was stunned. :: There was an order, sir? ::
The Sergeant shook his head as he slapped the outside of Milo’s helmet. :: Yes, Trooper, there was. Once the clouds started turning red, I gave the order to activate the stabilization fields in our helmets. ::
:: I-I didn’t hear you, sir. :: the young Marine stammered.
:: No Pfassk, I called your name almost three times before I had to snap you out of it. :: The Sergeant paused as he looked around at the other Troopers filling out the deployment cabin. As they busied themselves with their own system checks, the Squad Leader leaned in closer and switched to a private and direct connection with Milo. :: Look, I get it. This is the first time you’re going to be seeing action. In many respects, it’ll just be like the simulations back home, but with more fragging Sith sorcery. Your nerves are shot, but that doesn’t mean you can go all moof-milker on me. I need you here, and I need your head in the game. It’s the only way we’re getting out alive. ::
Milo nodded. :: I understand, sir. ::
:: Consider yourself lucky, Trooper, :: the Sergeant continued. :: BattleNet’s lighting up with casualty reports aplenty since the skies turned red. Even with all the training we’ve undergone, the simulations can never truly prepare a Soldier for the horrors of war. Especially when there’s fragging Sith, their magicks, and whatever abominations they’ve created dotting the stars. It’s a dark galaxy we live in, Harnan, but through blood, sweat, and a trusty blaster at our side - we’ll bring back the light. ::
With a hiss of static and an audible click, the connection between the men was severed as the Sergeant took a step back, leaving Milo temporarily alone with his own thoughts.
It wasn’t long after the two men parted ways that the transport’s blast shields drew back to expose a portion of the troop cabin to the outside world. A chill that bypassed their armoured forms’ environmental settings swept through the Marines as they collectively bore witness to the madness that awaited below. Blaster-fire was already being exchanged between the Alliance Vanguard and their opposition. Explosions rocked the curtain wall as the Defenders of New Adasta were slowly being driven back. It seemed like the Alliance was winning the battle against the Sith-Imperial garrison. But, as their gunship began its final approach, that picture of a victorious breakthrough crumbled to ash.
The orbital installations, who once busied themselves with the Alliance Navy’s warships, turned their empowered gazes upon the City. With the personification of murderous intent, they began brutally bombarding New Adasta with plasmatic cannonade. The violence rendered unto the surface was callous and random, as the orbital guns sought to butcher all that stood in their path. There were reports of Graug fighters spilling forth onto the streets with blades raised to make matters worse. Like the orbital guns, they cared little for those that stood in their wake, as they willingly struck down their own citizens - just as they threw themselves against the Alliance Vanguard.
Milo couldn’t believe his eyes. Didn’t the Sith Empire fervently tout that they cared for their own people? Didn’t they proclaim that their people were the best-kept foundations of their Empire and that the rest of the galaxy paled in comparison? Yet, here, upon the surface of Ziost, they were butchered with impunity. Not a single care was given to their safety as they were vaporized by the orbital guns or ribboned by the voracious horde of Graug. Had the Sith Empire lost their mind after losing significant ground to the New Imperial rebellion? Were they now akin to their One Sith counterparts?
To be true, Trooper Harnan didn’t know. There were too many questions that demanded to be asked and also few answers that could’ve been given. But, as the gunship touched down behind the sundered curtain wall and the overhanging light turned to brilliant green, those inquiries no longer mattered. Milo had a job to do.
As their Sergeant began barking orders to deploy, the young Marine stepped off the grated deck-plates - only to find himself thrust into the horrible insanity of war.
+01:05 After Mission Commencement.
“Iron Duke,” Glaive-Class Fighter Tank.
7th Mechanized Regiment; Command Section.
Breakthrough the Insanity...
:: Tycho- your gateway is open...drop the hammer. ::
Without a moment’s hesitation, the Major slammed his foot down the Fighter Tank’s accelerator pedal. The interior of the Repulsortank thrummed with activity as more power was siphoned away from the internalized reactor, giving the marvel of technology the speed required to close the gap. The 104th Battalion completed its primary objective of the first phase. They blew several holes in the defensive curtain that surrounded New Adasta, leaving ample room for the 7th Mechanized to spear into the heart of the now exposed City. It was supposed to be a simple operation, as the Fighter Tanks would smash into the Sith-Imperial garrison. At the same time, the heavier units brought up the rear. Yet, when the skies turned a bloody red and hellfire began raining down from above soon after - that plan went out the window.
In his formation, some of the Fighter Tanks began emitting an unearthly howl as their sole occupants fell prey to the insanity that the carnelian sky bequeathed. Others willingly deactivated their repulsorlift engines as they reached maximum speed, causing them to kiss the surface of Ziost and transform into a rolling fireball. Tycho’s eyes widened as the latter transpired before him, forcing the Alliance Marine to bank left - narrowly avoiding what remained of his companion’s vehicle. He swore and cursed in several tongues as the sight etched itself into his memory.
As the fireball passed, the major shifted the weight of his Repulsortank and brought it back onto its original heading. Those were good men and women. They spent countless hours over the past couple of years bonding as they re-established order within the Core. The fallen weren’t just some faceless goons that stood proudly beneath their star-encircled Starbird, but rather brothers and sisters in arms. Tycho would remember their faces and would see them in his sleepless dreams. With his body yearned to mourn the dead, the Major refused to give in to grief whilst he was in command. Such sorrow would only be fitting to embrace during the off-duty hours that transpired off the battlefield.
He needed to be strong. Strong, not only for himself but for those under his command. Their morale was already shaky, as they were now faced with a tri-fold threat. The orbital guns stitched the surface with plasmatic hellfire, likely tearing shreds through the ranks of whoever remained within the City. To make matters worse, the Fighter Tanks of the 7th were racing towards their alleged doom. Had they not been disciplined nor trained to operate in such stressful situations, it would’ve been likely that the Marines would’ve wavered. Who in their right mind would spear into the depths of hell itself and expect to come out alive on the other side?
But, Tycho knew that if they kept moving forward, the 7th and their brothers in the 104th would achieve their objective. They would reach the Orbital Command Centre and disable the hellfire that wracked the streets and structures of New Adasta. If they were fast enough, they could weave their way through the bombardment and end it before casualties mounted.
That wasn’t even the worst of it. Legions of Graug suddenly revealed themselves within the sundered boundaries of the city. While they wouldn’t stand a chance against the Alliance armour that raced their way, the sheer number of them that took to the streets would prove to be a problem that couldn’t be ignored. Like their efforts on Felucia, the wheeled Turbo Tanks that followed Tycho’s advance were threatened by the driveshafts being clogged with what remained of their opposition as they ran them down. If and when the Juggernauts found themselves in that position, their occupants would be swarmed by the unearthed Horde.
Sadly, the same could be said for the Fighter Tanks, as there was a chance for their repulsorlift engines to be damaged as they carved their way through the streets. One wrong twist of a fallen body or a grenade to the vehicle’s underside, and the gravitic turbines could seize. With only a single person within the Repulsortank, it was unlikely they’d be able to fight off the ravenous Graug for very long. It would be a gruesome end, and one that Tycho desperately hoped wouldn’t occur to anyone under his command. For his soldiers deserved better than to be torn apart by a horde of blood-drunk abominations. If only it was always quick and painless, Tycho mused.
When the first of the 7th’s Fighter Tanks passed through the sundered defensive barrier, their guns began to unleash their plasmatic fury. Almost matching the hellfire that rained down from the heavens, the Fighter Tanks tore through the ranks of the Graug that opposed them with relative ease. Their heavy weaponry made short work of the infantry seeking to oppose their advance, leaving nothing but carbon-scored streets and piles of ashes in their wake. It wasn’t a fair fight, as a footsoldier never won against a vehicle in a ‘fair fight.’ The scale was grossly tipped in the Alliance’s favour in that regard. It was something that they exploited to the fullest at every opportunity.
However, not every push was met with the same success. Nearly four Fighter Tanks were annihilated as they crossed the threshold of New Adasta. Projected deflector screens buckled and subsequently collapsed as the hellfire from Orbit tore through their defences. There was nothing left of the four Pilots within, and the Fighter Tanks themselves were nothing but a smouldering wreck. Their deaths were relatively quick after the armour buckled, as they were vaporized in their seats. There would be nothing left of those Marines to bury or ship home to their families.
Another Fighter Tank was bequeathed a string of bad luck as they raced through the streets. Their Pilot was adept at dodging the orbital hellfire but ran afoul of a Graug Warparty. Seeking to crush them beneath his vehicle, the Pilot failed to notice that one of the abominations was priming a grenade. He should’ve seen it coming and veered away at the last second, but as the two opposing forces connected - the grenade detonated. The Fighter Tank skidded across the street before smashing into a nearby wall. Popping the top open, the shaken Pilot sought to extract himself before the vehicle’s reactor was breached. Instead of clambering to freedom, the Marine was met instead by the ravenous jowls of the surviving Graug. His screams were drowned out in the insanity that bathed the entirety of New Adasta.
What remained of the Pilot was callously discarded as the Graug caught sight of another Fighter Tank making their approach. They snarled and howled with bestial glee, as they believed their luck would hold up in the face of this new adversary. However, as they turned to greet this new arrival with blaster and blade, the Fighter Tank’s weapons bathed their surroundings in ochre plasma. Vaporizing them all with its superheated caress. Tycho cursed as his fingers let go of the twinned triggers. He wasn’t fast enough to save his fellow soldier from their grisly fate, but at the very least, the Major avenged his death. There were many within the City that didn’t get the same posthumous retribution. Still, in many respects - it was a small victory.
With sorrow welling in the corners of his eyes, Tycho stepped on the accelerator once more and pressed onwards. Under his breath, the Major swore that before this day was-
Before Tycho could even finish giving voice to the vengeful oath, his Fighter Tank was struck by a barrage of orbital laserfire. The concussive impacts threw his armoured form about the cockpit before a cascade of alarms blared. His shields were depleted. The repulsors failed to fire, and it was unlikely that the vehicle would survive another direct bombardment. He needed to abandon the damned tank before sharing the same fate as the squadron of four that he saw before. The Major clawed at his restraint harness without delay and pulled himself free of the tank’s metallic husk. Upon exiting the command module, the Marine quickly spun about as he searched his surroundings for possible hostiles. Seeing no-one, He reached back into the command module and drew his service weapon from the arming rack. With his trusty rifle in hand, Tycho primed the particle weapon with a flick of his thumb and listened as the internal mechanisms whirred to life.
That was when a rune started to pulse in the corner of his vision. The radiant temperature was beginning to spike, which meant that another barrage was headed his way. There was no time to salvage or scuttle his beloved Fighter Tank, but as the signs of imminent bombardment surrounded him - there would’ve been no point. The Sith Empire and their defence network would destroy it for him. Thus, Tycho slung his rifle over his shoulder and hit the ground running. He needed to get as far away from the Fighter Tank as he could before the laser struck home. Every ounce of his strength was poured into his legs as he stormed across the ruined street. But, it wasn’t enough.
When the laser bombardment struck his Fighter Tank, the fusion reactor was breached and exploded - throwing the Major from his feet. He hit a nearby wall and felt every ounce of that kinetic impact roll through his body, and his sight filled with flashing warning runes and buzzing fireflies. “Fire… fek,” Tycho groaned as he tried to right himself. There was no time to succumb to what amounted to a concussion, nor the countless little agonies that rippled across his armoured frame. He had a mission to complete and needed to link up with allied forces - lest he suffered a terrible fate. With a fresh injection of synthbacta and a cocktail of chemical stimulants, Tycho’s vision began to clear - at least enough so that the fireflies wouldn’t cloud his sights.
As the Marine regained his footing and began to breathe normally, the sounds of battle started to replace the incessant ringing in his ears. Salvation was located nearby, Tycho thought. With his helmet’s long-range comms system down, the Major was forced to rely on the short-range transmitters. While it was unlikely that he’d be picked up by the racing elements of the 7th Mechanized before being torn apart by the rampaging Graug Horde. But, there was a chance that he could encounter the Alliance Vanguard. So, with a shaky finger, Tycho pressed the external transmitter on the side of his helmet - only to be met with a savage howl and a meaty fist slamming into his breastplate...
Aerarii Tithe
|
Brama Tagge
|
Gat Tambor
| The Executive |
Otto Shule
|
Marlon Sularen
| GA & NIO
Telis Taharin-Zambrano
|
Ingrid L'lerim
|
Alli Vern
| TSE
