2
في الامتحان يكرم المرء أو يحان.
At the time of a test, a person rises or falls.
-Alexandros Vasco
Anchored in the depths of Sentium’s Behemoth Station Anatolia ran through preventative maintenance checks a final time before staring idly at a photograph of an older-looking man with salt and pepper hair. The man’s eyes appeared kind, but sad. Those same eyes stared back at him now. Above the fuel readout was another picture that appeared as if taken by a reconnaissance drone: a grainy outline of a Muller-class axe. Anatolia’s gaze swept over the image and went cold. Time’s up, frakker. Activating the helmet mounted display Anatolia powered up her Piston and let the soft, aqua glow of status readouts spill across her eyes. Upon acknowledging that all her systems were solid green the central monitor flickered alive to portray a hard-faced man in his late 30’s.
“This isn’t what you-”
Anatolia quickly switched off the monitor, severing the transmission. I’m sorry Gregor.
Easing the throttle forward the hum of the Piston’s reactor intensified as the axe began its ascent into the Augre Desert. The golden dunes unfurled across a seventy thousand square kilometer area on Illal, promising a swift death for those without precious water or vitrolium. The desert also served as home to various raiders and pirates while remaining sovereign from the Giga-Structure.
The helmet mounted display began flashing the words VIT PRG RDY. The Piston was equipped with 4 auxiliary fuel cells suffused with crude vitrolium that could be subsequently purged for an immense increase in thrust.
Anatolia’s fingers dexterously found their way to the keypad just aside the joystick and depressed a flurry of key-strokes activating the purge. Her body pressed hard against the seat as the Piston’s frame began to accelerate. The rear camera displayed a rapidly waning Behemoth Station drowning in a vast ocean of sand.
After several minutes in to the purge Anatolia allowed her thoughts to drift. The desert ebbed and flowed around her as the Piston rocketed forward. You loved this place, said it reminded you of home…
A warning message flashed across the helmet display alerting to contacts ahead. An abrupt glint from the distance confirmed the warning. Anatolia’s eyes once again went cold. I will peel the alloy from your flesh before I spill you onto the sand.
Anatolia ejected the first pair of auxiliary cells as her Piston came to a standstill atop one of the windswept dunes. Several hundred meters away her HMD identified both a Spree-class and Moke-class axes. Probably a vanguard. The radar signature generated by a vitrolium purge was colossal, detectable hundreds of klicks away. Anatolia positioned her Piston on the opposite side of the dune in anticipation of her prey.
The first of the two axes to crest was the Spree. Anatolia brought her sights to bear on her opponent and depressed a hat switch on the joystick that released a spiraling TOW rocket. The Spree boosted away from the TOW sending up a cloud of sand and thruster wash, but by then her Vulcan cannon was fully spooled and spitting hundreds of armor-piercing rounds into its hull. The Moke quickly appeared off her right flank and began to sing the staccato melody of a Flak launcher discharging dozens of deadly shrapnel rounds.
Breaking off from the Moke Anatolia quickly hammered the rudder pedals forcing her Piston into a 180° turn and lit the thrusters. Meanwhile the Spree had recovered and began to unleash a devastating barrage of magnetized sabot rounds while the Moke gave chase. Shite. The HMD flashed a warning: HUL_262/550. Needing to even the odds Anatolia thumbed the release for an EMP charge. The electronic-crippling bomb smashed into the cylindrical head of the Moke and detonated, causing the axe to plummet into a dune bank and sending up a wall of sand. Focusing on her crippled foe she unleashed a hail of armor piercing rounds from her Vulcan until the barrels began to glow red hot.
Focusing next on the Spree Anatolia lit her thrusters and keyed up another TOW rocket. Evading a perpetual battery of sabot rounds she finally managed to close the distance between herself and her target. Thumbing the hat switch she released a TOW that screamed into the side of its prey. The armor plates visibly contorted from the shock wave of the explosion as the Spree collapsed into the sand.
Smoke billowed from the wrecked hull of the Moke, peppered with holes from Vulcan rounds and oozing hydraulic fluid. The Spree lay about seventy meters away. The hull was cracked open but otherwise surprisingly intact. Hastily depressing several keys she switched on the repair drones and set a five minute timer in her helmet mounted display. De-pressurizing the cockpit she disconnected the system inputs from her suit and stepped out into the arid expanse. The nose of her Piston then rose up at the azure sky as if in meditation. A tetrad of repair drones appeared and began to weave intricate, invisible patterns while dispensing nanobots to the damaged sections of hull.
Anatolia swiftly approached the Spree and peered thoughtfully into the inky black fissure that ran along the hull and into the cockpit. Peering closer towards the breach she could hear a soft wheezing sound from within. Soon after an arm appeared out from the cockpit and gingerly grasped the edge of the hull.
“Grab my arm” Anatolia quietly spoke while latching on to the pilot’s wrist.
“Zoe_” whispered a masculine voice as Anatolia helped the pilot out of the wreckage and onto the burning sand. He looked to be about in his early 50’s, with blood spattered across parts of his face and neck.
“No” whispered back Anatolia as she leaned over and inserted a combat knife just to the inside of the grizzled pilot’s knee.
For a moment the only sound he seemed to make was a brief inhalation of poisonous air. She then carved the knife listlessly up the man’s thigh, severing his femoral artery and causing the pilot to shriek a feral howl as the blade gorged upon flesh. The pilot feebly tried to push her away but Anatolia twisted the blade in the wound resulting in another sadistic outcry. I’m close, aren’t I_ Seconds later the pilot lay inert as blood flowed onto the sand.
Anatolia stood and made her way back to the Piston, taking note of the flashing numbers 00:00:52 on her HMD. By now her axe had fully repaired and was upright. Abruptly, the Moke’s hull ignited and began to burn while a stifled shriek arose from the wreck.
After pressurizing the cockpit and re-connecting her system inputs Anatolia began to key up the ignition sequence. Instead she found her fingertips tracing the photograph of the man with sad eyes. Refocusing, she keyed up an ordnance check and read over the flashing words displayed: VCN_653/1350 TOW_4/6 EMP_1/2. Enough.
Depressing the necessary keys to prime the vitrolium purge her helmet mounted display signified the purge was ready. Last one. Activating the purge the desert once more began to ebb and flow around her.
Contemplating the photo of the Muller Anatolia recalled the pilot’s identification code disclosed by the recon drone. PR-005-249-0321. The code responsible for eviscerating the world she knew.
Abruptly her HMD flashed the words RDR LCK. Frakk. Immediately the missile lock-on alarm began to sing its dire warning. Ahead of the Piston arose the contrails of several Hellfire missiles rapidly converging on her. Anatolia quickly attempted to disengage the purge, but by then the first missile had slammed into the Piston’s hull causing the axe to gyrate off-course and plunge into the sand. The HMD flashed another warning: HUL_323/550. Additional warheads slammed into the Piston destroying the external cameras and cloaking her in darkness.
Outside Anatolia could hear the sounds of several axes approaching her. She keyed up the last EMP in her arsenal but was met with the error message NEG EMP RLS. She let out a cry of outrage cut short by a sharp pain in her abdomen. She then depressurized the cockpit causing sand to begin cascading inside.
Anatolia’s system inputs began to snap free one by one as she dragged herself out from the cockpit onto the burning expanse. Discarding her HMD she regarded an array of axes aligned about her with a Muller-class axe at the crux of the formation. You…
“You frakking bastard!” she cried out. Her pain soon gave way to rage as she let out another cry to the Muller’s pilot. Feeling the lifeblood draining from her Anatolia remembered the sad-eyed man from the photograph.
“Papa…”
Author’s Note
Credit for the original artwork goes to kr0npr1nz.
Certain words were edited so as to not have dozens of fuzzy bunnies wandering about.
Please forgive any editing errors as the HAWKEN: Chronicles are still a work in progress.
Edited by Magnolia1038, October 26 2014 - 08:54 AM.
I simply cannot convey how awesome this is!
Your notes on story development in the first post is also warming; extensive research is a necessary and enjoyable process (especially in aspects of science), and it's cool to see I'm not alone in thinking so.
