Warzone: The Incursion from the Rust - Pt. 2

The Grapeshot swung in and hovered about a meter off the ground. A hatch opened and a colossus of a man stepped out. He wore desert camo fatigues, Tortoise shoulder pads, and a CGF drill sergeant's hat tilted forward. He signaled to the pilot to dust off and pointed to the northeast. The pilot nodded and the helicopter took flight. He then turned towards Mattherson and walked confidently in her direction. As he got closer, she observed Sergeant's stripes on his right shoulder pad, but all she saw of his face was the broad jaw jutting out from underneath the hat.

“What do we have?” the newcomer asked with the voice the Ranger had heard over the comm. He crossed his arms and awaited her reply.

“And you are?” Mattherson retorted, swaying her head from side to side.

“Sergeant Carter, Miss,” the man replied, raising his head to look at her with a hard stare.

Sergeant Mattherson's face jaw dropped, then quickly snapped shut. She gulped visibly and averted her eyes, like a child being reprimanded. She had just insulted the man who received the Freedom Eagle, Capitol's highest honor. It was given only for fighting against nigh impossible odds or risking your life to save others. In the Sergeant's case, he singlehandedly saved his squad after they were cut off from their main force. “I – I'm sorry, Sergeant Carter. I didn't know -”

The Sergeant held up a gloved hand to stop her. “It's quite all right, Miss. I get that a lot. Now, tell me what we are dealing with? I only got the tail end of your colorful conversation.”

Mattherson cleared her throat and reported the intel they had to date. She saw the Sergeant's jaw clench after she finished.

“Recon's heading now to flank the enemy, let's hope they're up for the job.”


The Grapeshot vaulted over the dunes like a jungle cat and made visual contact with the enemy. Five figures marched south like automatons towards the large dune that provided the Rangers with cover; while a larger, solitary figure to the group's right headed in southwesterly direction. The pilot drew in close to the enemy squad, swiftly landed, and activated the drop doors. The Recon unit piled out quickly and headed in the direction of their foes, CAR-24's at the ready. Once clear, the pilot dusted off and headed back to base, his bird's fuel dangerously low.

Sergeant Jurgenson of the 2nd Light Reconnaissance Unit, switched off the safety to her plasma carbine and waited for her squad to form up. Once that was accomplished, she ordered them to open fire. Adrenaline pumping, she quickly sighted the closest figure and fired; but her shot was too low and a plume of Martian dust exploded a meter to her target's left.

In unison, the armored figures stopped, turned in the direction of the Recon unit, and started marching towards them. Jurgenson's men emptied their weapons at the approaching squad. Tufts of dirt exploded all around them, and one went down with large bullet holes in his breastplate. Jurgenson flexed her arm in accomplishment and grinned.

The smile quickly faded from her face as she watched in horror as the downed... thing quivered and slowly got back up. It picked up its rifle without a word and turned its attention back to her squad as if nothing had happened. McIlheny raised his submachine gun and fired a burst. Again, the thing went down and again the monster stood back up.

Then, Jurgenson heard one of them speak with a voice a cold as the Void itself.

“Templars, forward!” the High Templar intoned. It drew its blade, took aim with its mammoth handgun, and fired. The humans started at the loud retort of the gun, as well as its red muzzle flash. Jurgenson heard the round buzz by her ear and she ducked. A Templar charged, blade drawn, and fell upon Private Curtis. The human backpedaled, falling onto the ground in terror, while his opponent raised its blade and brought it down with a powerful overhand arc. Curtis brought his CAR up reflexively and the blade went a quarter of the way through it before stopping. While he fought desperately with the Templar, another one strode up and impaled the prone human to the ground. Curtis screamed in pain, gurgled, and went limp. The Templar removed its blade from the corpse, the runes on it glowing like hot embers.

Seeing their squad member gutted before them was too much. “Fall back!” Jurgenson yelled and headed towards the protective cover of the dune to the southeast. Her team soon followed, with gunfire at their backs. Millie went down as if she was hit with a sledgehammer. She lifted herself up groggily, thankful that her armor stopped the bullet, and resumed running.

The Airborne Rangers consolidated their position to one of a more defensive nature and opened fire on the approaching Templars. Patricks screamed triumphantly, “BOOM! HEADSHOT! NUMBER TWO!” as their enemies were lessened in number.

DeMint spied the other set of Templars chasing the Recon unit. He lined up his sights on the closest Templar and fired a quick burst. The rounds walked up his target's body, stitching it from leg to head. The armored helmet exploded and the Templar pitched to its side. It did not get up.

The Nepharite Nyssal strode towards the distant humans huddled behind the tank she destroyed a few hours ago. Such an easy kill, considering her talents, but somewhat unsatisfying. She had hoped the humans would have sent out a distress call before they died, and by the Mistress, they did. They came in the misguided attempt to save their compatriots, and they would all die. A cruel smile played upon her lips as she called upon the strands of the Dark Symmetry. She channeled the dark power into a pitch black nimbus around her hand and leveled it at the distant humans. She flicked her wrist, and the conflagration whistled through the air toward its target.

“Incoming!” PFC Milton screamed the obvious while he ducked under the rear of the tank. The dark fireball exploded just behind him and he heard bloodcurdling screams shortly afterward. Ears ringing, he chanced a look back and saw Evans's charred, headless body roll down the dune; while Hutchens ran around screaming, his entire body aflame. After a moment, Hutchens's scorched husk flopped to the ground, still burning.

“What in the Cardinal's name is that thing?” Mattherson asked, turning to Sergeant Carter. He was on the ground, his shirt burned beyond all recognition. Grunting, he stood up once more.

“It's a Nepharite, Miss, a higher up in the Dark Legion,” Sergeant Carter replied, wincing at his injury.

“A WHAT?!” Mattherson retorted, flabbergasted. “The Dark Legion doesn't exist! That's just jibber jabber the Brotherhood says to explain away problems. They're a myth!”

Sergeant Carter pointed to the Nepharite, “Then by all means, Miss, wish that away. Better yet, wish them all away and we can go home.” He pulled out a compact assault rifle from his side holster and headed to the dune.

“Where are you going?” Mattherson yelled over the din of gunfire.

“To support Recon!”

Nyssal issued a brutal laugh as she observed the effects of her handiwork. Her eyes, sensitive to the Light infused in the humans, delighted in seeing it snuffed out of them like candles. She closed her eyes and again bade the Symmetry to come to her. Her intention was to compress time, to allow her to cover more ground in moments. When the power overcame her, she let it loose to do her bidding.

She opened her eyes, and felt... nothing. Dejected, she silently supplicated her Mistress.

Why?

Ilian spoke. Patience, my daughter. You are too eager. Savor this. You will not be disappointed.

Her mother's voice faded from her mind and her brow furrowed. She was impatient, she had come too far, sacrificed too many of her comrades to get to where she was. She was human once, a long time ago. The corporation she worked for, was it Imperial? It was hard to remember that far back. Eons ago, it seemed. Regardless, she gave her soul to the Dark Mistress and clawed her way up the ranks to finally become one of the chosen few, a Nepharite of Ilian. She could do almost anything now, free of any constraints, save one. Her service to her Mistress. The same Mistress that was hamstringing her attempt to cause carnage.

Angrily, she revved her Azogar's blade, raised the Blutarch Handcannon in her other hand, and fired thrice at the human crouched in front of the destroyed tank. The momentum from the first shot knocked him back into the tank, but did not penetrate. The second ricocheted off the hull. The third punched through the armor and the human's blood sprayed from the ragged exit wound.


On her eyepiece display, Mattherson saw Wierzbowski's dogtag go red and then his vitals flat lined. Gritting her teeth, she pointed at the far form of the Nepharite and yelled over her comm, “Boys! Let's fuck up that bitch! Return fire!” She raised her weapon and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She pulled the trigger again, but the rifle would not respond. Cardinal damn it, a misload. She popped the cartridge, cleared the jam, and reloaded. She wasn't the only one having difficulty. Bonner cursed as the Martian dust clogged his rifle, jamming it. The remainder of her squad had no such trouble. She watched their fire disappear into the distance. The figure barely flinched twice, but still kept coming to their position. Still also marching towards them, seemingly suicidal, the Templars edged closer to the Rangers. As they moved, they raised their rifles and opened fire on them. Rounds clanged off the Fox, one struck Milton in the face slamming him onto his back before his Sergeant's feet. His features marred by his nonexistent right eye and cheek bone.