Post by Rusty Shackleford on Jan 28, 2014 21:21:48 GMT
A rusty old metal chair sat in the center of a small, square room with a single door, locked from the outside. A flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling served as the sole source of light, casting a dim, yellowish glow onto the floor, which was covered with blood. The entire room was filled with the coppery stench of it. The faint echoes of screams permeated the metal walls.
A young woman was strapped into the chair; she had been unconscious for a while now. She was short with a slender frame, and pale skin. She looked to be barely out of her early 20's. Her head hung limply over her chest. Her long black hair was matted with blood. She was practically naked, save for her bloodstained undergarments; the rest of her clothing had been torn off and lay in pieces in a corner of the room. She was bound to the chair by leather restraints that cut into her flesh. Her body was covered in bruises and cuts. Her arms had deep slashes in them, and the pointer finger on her left hand was missing. Her right hand, which was once a high end prosthetic limb, was now nothing more than a smashed piece of scrap metal attached to her forearm. Her robotic right leg had suffered a similar fate.
The door slid open, and a fat man wheeled a surgical cart into the room. He was wearing a bloodstained apron and was whistling a cheery tune. The cart he pushed in front of him had various nasty looking instruments on it, some of them rusty, all of them covered in dried blood. The fat man closed the door and turned his attention to her. He slapped her on the side of the head and yelled at her in a gutteral language. When she didn't wake up, he picked up a bottle of whiskey from the cart, and after uncorking it and taking a swig, poured it over her head. Her eyes snapped open and she cried out as the alcohol burned her wounds like fire.
He yelled at her again to catch her attention, but when she wouldn't look up at him, he grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head up so that she was looking him in the eyes. With her face in the light, it was easier to see her split lip and the deep gash on her cheek. Gritting her teeth, she snarled at the man. He simply grinned back at her with a set of crooked, disgusting brown teeth. He let go off her hair and started whistling again as he reached over to the cart and picked up a pair of pliers. He smiled at her again, and with a sudden jerk, ripped out the fingernail on her middle finger. She threw her head back and screamed.
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Apex, the largest of the Eridani Federation's military space stations, floats high above its capital. In its core is contained the nerve centre for all operations executed by the Eridani Federal Navy. Access is restricted, highly so. But below NAVCOM, beyond a guarded hallway lies a command post even more secretive - the command and control centre for the Naval Expeditionary and Special Operations Task Force - NEST.
The sound of a pair of dress shoes echoed through the elongated corridor, coupled with the sound of a pair of military boots quickly marching in tandem. The two guards at the end of the hall immediately straightened up to attention, shouting "Sir!" in unison and saluting the pair of approaching men. The pair itself consisted two very different individuals: one, a taller gentleman, somewhat pale, and clearly aging. His complexion completed by an old-school militaristic hold, gray hair, and a set of Eridani Naval fatigues, carrying three stars arranged vertically on the chest. His companion, in stark contrast, was wearing a navy-blue dress uniform, and carrying a slightly younger complexion and more bulk to his presence. He was a piece very much out of place onboard Apex.
After a cursory clearance check, the doors rose to reveal an auditorium containing a flow of intelligence beyond comprehension; personnel bustling around, exchanging folders and diskettes, the constant crackling of communications ever present, orders being administered and received. The centerpiece of this organized chaos was a large screen showcasing the local cluster of Epsilon Eridani, with a number of locations flashing. The pair walked up, and at the stern request of the fatigued officer, a particular area was highlighted.
The map was that of a dustfield, on the outskirts of which lay a large construct of man and machine. A simple tap on the screen revealed pages upon pages of information -- schematics, reconnaissance images, construction logs, usage logs. There was a highlighted name on the final list, which had been crossed out and replaced by the word "SYNDICATE". A few moments were allowed to marvel at the sight, before a duty-officer directed their attention to a folder.
"Sir, ENV Boundless has just entered bluespace. REDCON 1; two detachments on alert 5; two on alert 20." "Good," the elderly officer nodded, returning his attention to the screen and dismissing the duty-officer. "Lieutenant Brode, as per High Command's..." he halted for a moment, before continuing, "...agreement, with NanoTrasen, a strike force has been dispatched. ENV Boundless will be on station within 5 minutes, at that point, operation Fairway will be greenlit." "Just here to make sure my people get back Admiral, it wont interfere with your operation. Now let's do our jobs and all this will be over with soon," Brode responded.
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By the time the ordeal had finally ended, her tormenter had ripped out all of her fingernails with the pliers, then had cut off each of her fingers with a serrated knife. Finally, he had used a circular saw to sever her hand at the wrist, then jammed a syringe full of coagulant into her arm to keep her from bleeding out. With his work completed for the time being, the fat man began putting tools back onto the surgical cart. His apron was spattered with fresh blood. Her blood.
She had screamed the entire time, screamed until her throat was raw and her voice was reduce to a raspy whisper. Now all she could do was whimper pitifully as she stared with horror at the stump that used to be her left hand. She glanced at the bucket on the surgical cart, the one that now contained her severed fingers and hand. The pain was ebbing, but she suddenly felt violentyl ill. She doubled over and retched, but nothing came out; she had not eaten any food or had any water for days. The retching drew the attention of the fat man, and he slapped her on the side of the head. She wanted to glare at him, shout curses, spit. But she couldn't even summon the strength to lift her head.
The door slid open and the fat man wheeled the cart through the opening. Her vision started to go dark. The last thing she heard before falling unconscious again was the fat man whistling the same cheery tune.
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The area of interest pinged a few minutes later, the words "STRIKE TEAM IN POSITION" flashing green by the map. The pace in the room hastened, the radios crackled to life. "...5th, 4th detachments on alert-0, REDCON maintained..." "...Sheppard flight cleared for..." "...negative on last adjustment, maintain..." Another duty-officer hastily walked up to the officers, locking his hands behind his back and standing at-ease, "Admiral, all elements for Operation Fairway are in place and awaiting a green light." The admiral took another moment to marvel at the massive amounts of information at his fingertips, before taking a step back and nodding. "Green light, operation Fairway is a go."
Lieutenant Brode walked up to the screen, taking a cursory glance at the blueprints of the targeted station -- a prison station owned by a Syndicate shadow corporation. Areas were designated beforehand, coded, key points of interest assigned. The area suspected to be the prison wing caught his attention, the cellular construction making this a logical deduction. "How many men are tasked to securing this area?" The admiral deferred to an enlistedman, a Commanding Chief by his rank, "Chief?" "90 soldiers, 3rd troop from the 5th detachment, sir. Callsign Razor." The admiral nodded and glanced back at Brode, who was intently watching the multitudes of green blips approach the station. "Good fighters, I would assume, admiral?" the lieutenant inquired. "The principal will be recovered, lieutenant Brode, I assure you." The dossier of Janet Fisher was displayed above the situational information, designed as "PRINCIPAL: DAWN," the status marked as "Unknown."
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Janet regained consciousness some time later; it could have been hours, or it could have been days. She had no way of knowing. Her first thought was of escape. She tugged against the restraints but stopped and cried out in pain when she felt sharp jabs of pain in her chest. Catching her breath,she concluded that they had broken a few of her ribs during the initial beatings. But it didn't matter, as the restraints were too thick and secured too tightly for her to even think of breaking or slipping out of them. Her thoughts raced as she tried to come up with some way to get out, to escape this bloodsoaked hell, but after a while she gave up. She knew that there was no hope for her. She was going to die here. She closed her eyes and accepted it.
As she was waited for death, her mind wandered. Her thoughts turned to her sister. Poor Laura, she had practically raised Janet. They shared more than a bond between siblings, it was almost maternal. She wondered if Laura would ever recover when she heard her little sister was dead. The thought was unpleasant, so she put it out of her head.
Her thoughts turned to her friends. Before she was dragged onto the shuttle, she had watched one of her captors shoot Inis in the leg. She silently prayed to whatever deities where out there that she was alright. She wondered what became of Adrianna. The kidnappers had dropped Janet off at this facility first, and had taken Adrianna somewhere else. She doubted if Adrianna would ever be seen again. Another unpleasant thought. She put it out of her head as well.
She thought of Erec. She wasn't quite sure of what would go through his head when he heard the news. But she knew how he felt about her, and that if there was anything within his power he could do to find her, he would do it in a heartbeat. But she knew that in the grand scheme of things, it would make no difference. She was aware of her state, that she was severely dehydrated and had lost large amounts of blood. She knew that she only had a day or so before she would finally succumb to a painful death. It was inevitable, so she simply accepted it.
The sound of heavy footfalls in the hall outside the door derailed her train of thought. She listened and heard the wheels of the surgical cart squeaking, and a cheery tune being whistled. Gritting her teeth, she steeled herself in preparation for what would happen next.
Suddenly, the floor beneath the chair vibrated. It was only for a moment. She figured it was just a figment of her imagination. Then she noticed that the noises in the hall had stopped. The fat man had heard it too. The floor vibrated again, louder this time, like a muffled thump. It was then that she heard men shouting in the halls, followed by gunfire.
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"Emergence from bluespace imminent," a calm synthetic voice echoed through the confined space of a dropship's cargohold. In that cargohold, two rows of soldiers sat, 8 on each side, facing one another. Rifles were seated upright between their legs. Their faces were masked by metal and glass, and the metallic ribs of light combat hardsuits were spread like webbing across their vital organs. Pockets for magazines and equipment, oxygen tanks locked onto their backs. The message was accompanied by a jolt that rocked the entire cruiser. The soldiers simply sighed and adjusted; to them, it was another day at the office.
The squad level radio sparked with communication. "Razor troop, alert-0, maintain REDCON and stand-by." The dropship doors slide shut and the engines started with a quiet, constant rumble. "Standing by to stand by," the third soldier from the right row cracked a joke, which was very quickly shut down by a female voice commanding from the back of said row. "Two-Two-Fox, keep comms clear." "Yes chief," he quickly retreated. The silence was thus sustained.
A short instance later, the engines picked up with increased power and the craft began to move. The quiet hum turned into a steady rumble as the soldiers ran through their final checks, routines and traditions. The chief at the end of the right row unholstered her pistol a quarter from its place of rest on her chest, barely enough to reveal a set of intricate markings engraved into its slide. The engravings were that of an old design razor blade, the digits "2-2-B" marked over the figure. She snapped the pistol back into its holster, raised her rifle, gave it a once-over and rested it on the ground between her legs.
"30 seconds!" the alarm echoed from the dropship crew. In unison, the 16 men stood to a red light, oxygen valves opened, and a steady flow of hyperzine gearing their bodies towards a singular purpose -- combat. With a heavy clunk and a noticeable jerk, the ship clamped onto the targeted station. A few seconds later, a series of explosions echoed through the walls, the closest of which eminating from between their ship and the hull. The two soldiers on point raised their rifles as the doors slid open. With the weighted steps of metal boots, they streamed out into the brightly lit hallway, splitting to the left and right.
"Clear left! Blue left!" "Clear right!" "Rally up, move right!" A stream of orders flowed through the headsets; the organized ballet of clearing an entire prison station had begun. The 16 flowed through the compressed corridors with an ease only applicable to those best trained; two columns stacked side-by-side. A corner, a turn, two people down the next hall. Tactical clothing, armour, weapons -- hostiles. Rifles raised, without a halt the leaders of the formation open fire. Streams of particles struck their marks, the military grade weaponry making short work of targeted personnel. They crumpled and fell, and the formation continued movement.
The unit reached a larger door, an airlock, closed shut. The bolts were quickly located, charges planted as the rest covered every approach imaginable. "Charges set!" "Stack up, split," the order from the squad commander sounds. The chief's team arranges itself in a file on the left side of the door, with the commander's team on their right. "Breaching!"
The explosives slashed through the bolting mechanisms and the airlock hissed open. Down the hall, a row of doors lined the walls on each side; in the middle, three people stood, dumbfounded. Two of them were carrying arms, and they were quickly dispatched. The third, standing a short distance from the closest door to the left, remained stunned and unable to move. "Unarmed combatant!" is echoed through the file, the leader of it hastened his pace to close the gap between him and the apron wearing man. With a hefty swing of his rifle butt, the man collapsed to the ground and was immediately ziptied and picked up by the second soldier down the row.
The columns stopped at the first doors. On the left, the chief was the second man in her team, lead by a teammate commonly referred to as Fox. He waited a couple of seconds before he opened the airlock to his left and turned in, quickly followed by the chief. It was a small room, extremely so; a single chair stood in the middle with a restrained occupant. No threats. "Short room!" the notification rang from Fox's helmet. Only him and the chief were inside, the rest waited outside. "Room clear!"
Chief very quickly turns her attention to the room's sole occupant -- a small woman wearing little in the way of clothing. Her body was covered in multiple cuts and wounds, the most horrific one being her missing left hand. "Fox, grab the door; Echo, we have a casualty!" In response to her orders, Fox set up on the door, rifle pointed down it. The team outside continued movement, with a single soldier, Echo, peeling off and joining the occupants inside. Chief and Echo took a knee in front of the wounded prisoner, with Echo focused on hasty treatment of her many wounds. "Talk to me, Echo," the chief demanded. "Wounds, maltreated, untreated. Severed hand, she's a mess, June." The chief gave a small nod, and tried to catch a glimpse of the prisoner's face. "Come on, we're here to get you out," she encouraged with a subdued tone. When the prisoner slowly raised her head, the face was quickly matched in June's head with that of "DAWN".
"She needs MEDEVAC to Diamon, no way in heck she's surviving on Boundless." The chief stood up, the prisoner's weak gaze following her. "Razor 6, Razor 2-2-Alpha, DAWN located and secured. Critical state, requires immediate MEDEVAC, over." The radio crackled in response, and the chief spun into action. "Echo, Fox, grab her. We're getting her out of here," with the help of the two soldiers, Janet was carefully picked up and the movement towards the initial breach point began.
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Janet opened her eyes. She blinked a few times as they adjusted to the bright light. She suddenly realized that she was no longer in the cramped cell, restrained to a chair. She quickly turned her head from side to side, glancing around the room. She found herself lying on her back in a hospital bed in the middle of a white room. She was no longer half naked, and was now dressed in a loose fitting hospital gown. In the place of her left hand was a brand new prosthetic one, and her other prosthetics had been repaired as well. There were several IV drips in her arm. She was still unaware as to where she was, and she began to panic. She began slowly pulling the needles out. The machine she was hooked up to began beeping, and a thin, balding man in a white coat rushed into the room. She looked up at him and quickly asked, "Wh-where am I-I?" "Ms. Fisher," he said, "Please don't do that, you are severely dehydrated, those IVs contain a saline solution!" He took her arm and reinserted the needles, placing pieces of adhesive gauze over them.
"Y-you h-haven't told m-me where I a-am yet," she said, watching the man with distrust in her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot that you were unconscious when you were brought here. I'm Dr. Roberts, and you are in the recovery wing of the Diamon Joint Naval Hospital." "Diamon J-Joint... w-wait, where are w-we exactly?" she asked, her confusion mounting. "We're smack dab in the middle of the Eridani Federation," the doctor cheerfully replied. "Th-the Eridani F-Federation? H-how in th-the... h-how was anyone a-able to find m-me?" "Well, I don't know the exact circumstances leading up to your admission into this facility, so I'm afraid I can't answer that. Don't worry, I'm sure that once you're out you'll be able to get answers to all of your-" The doctor paused a moment and placed two fingers on the headset in his ear, listening to someone speak and answering them. "Yes, everything's fine... she's conscious all right... vitals are looking good... oh? Well, I suppose it would be alright, as long as I'm here to supervize."
Turning to Janet, he said, "It appears you have a visitor, Ms. Fisher. I'll be right outside if you need anything, to leave you two some time alone." He walked to the door and closed it. On the other side, Janet could hear him greeting someone, a woman, she judged by the pitch of the voice. It seemed oddly familiar. Janet began to worry who it was that was visiting her, but the feeling evaporated and was replaced with immense joy when Laura walked through the door. They embraced, tears of relief and joy in the eyes of both.
A young woman was strapped into the chair; she had been unconscious for a while now. She was short with a slender frame, and pale skin. She looked to be barely out of her early 20's. Her head hung limply over her chest. Her long black hair was matted with blood. She was practically naked, save for her bloodstained undergarments; the rest of her clothing had been torn off and lay in pieces in a corner of the room. She was bound to the chair by leather restraints that cut into her flesh. Her body was covered in bruises and cuts. Her arms had deep slashes in them, and the pointer finger on her left hand was missing. Her right hand, which was once a high end prosthetic limb, was now nothing more than a smashed piece of scrap metal attached to her forearm. Her robotic right leg had suffered a similar fate.
The door slid open, and a fat man wheeled a surgical cart into the room. He was wearing a bloodstained apron and was whistling a cheery tune. The cart he pushed in front of him had various nasty looking instruments on it, some of them rusty, all of them covered in dried blood. The fat man closed the door and turned his attention to her. He slapped her on the side of the head and yelled at her in a gutteral language. When she didn't wake up, he picked up a bottle of whiskey from the cart, and after uncorking it and taking a swig, poured it over her head. Her eyes snapped open and she cried out as the alcohol burned her wounds like fire.
He yelled at her again to catch her attention, but when she wouldn't look up at him, he grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head up so that she was looking him in the eyes. With her face in the light, it was easier to see her split lip and the deep gash on her cheek. Gritting her teeth, she snarled at the man. He simply grinned back at her with a set of crooked, disgusting brown teeth. He let go off her hair and started whistling again as he reached over to the cart and picked up a pair of pliers. He smiled at her again, and with a sudden jerk, ripped out the fingernail on her middle finger. She threw her head back and screamed.
---------------------------------------------
Apex, the largest of the Eridani Federation's military space stations, floats high above its capital. In its core is contained the nerve centre for all operations executed by the Eridani Federal Navy. Access is restricted, highly so. But below NAVCOM, beyond a guarded hallway lies a command post even more secretive - the command and control centre for the Naval Expeditionary and Special Operations Task Force - NEST.
The sound of a pair of dress shoes echoed through the elongated corridor, coupled with the sound of a pair of military boots quickly marching in tandem. The two guards at the end of the hall immediately straightened up to attention, shouting "Sir!" in unison and saluting the pair of approaching men. The pair itself consisted two very different individuals: one, a taller gentleman, somewhat pale, and clearly aging. His complexion completed by an old-school militaristic hold, gray hair, and a set of Eridani Naval fatigues, carrying three stars arranged vertically on the chest. His companion, in stark contrast, was wearing a navy-blue dress uniform, and carrying a slightly younger complexion and more bulk to his presence. He was a piece very much out of place onboard Apex.
After a cursory clearance check, the doors rose to reveal an auditorium containing a flow of intelligence beyond comprehension; personnel bustling around, exchanging folders and diskettes, the constant crackling of communications ever present, orders being administered and received. The centerpiece of this organized chaos was a large screen showcasing the local cluster of Epsilon Eridani, with a number of locations flashing. The pair walked up, and at the stern request of the fatigued officer, a particular area was highlighted.
The map was that of a dustfield, on the outskirts of which lay a large construct of man and machine. A simple tap on the screen revealed pages upon pages of information -- schematics, reconnaissance images, construction logs, usage logs. There was a highlighted name on the final list, which had been crossed out and replaced by the word "SYNDICATE". A few moments were allowed to marvel at the sight, before a duty-officer directed their attention to a folder.
"Sir, ENV Boundless has just entered bluespace. REDCON 1; two detachments on alert 5; two on alert 20." "Good," the elderly officer nodded, returning his attention to the screen and dismissing the duty-officer. "Lieutenant Brode, as per High Command's..." he halted for a moment, before continuing, "...agreement, with NanoTrasen, a strike force has been dispatched. ENV Boundless will be on station within 5 minutes, at that point, operation Fairway will be greenlit." "Just here to make sure my people get back Admiral, it wont interfere with your operation. Now let's do our jobs and all this will be over with soon," Brode responded.
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By the time the ordeal had finally ended, her tormenter had ripped out all of her fingernails with the pliers, then had cut off each of her fingers with a serrated knife. Finally, he had used a circular saw to sever her hand at the wrist, then jammed a syringe full of coagulant into her arm to keep her from bleeding out. With his work completed for the time being, the fat man began putting tools back onto the surgical cart. His apron was spattered with fresh blood. Her blood.
She had screamed the entire time, screamed until her throat was raw and her voice was reduce to a raspy whisper. Now all she could do was whimper pitifully as she stared with horror at the stump that used to be her left hand. She glanced at the bucket on the surgical cart, the one that now contained her severed fingers and hand. The pain was ebbing, but she suddenly felt violentyl ill. She doubled over and retched, but nothing came out; she had not eaten any food or had any water for days. The retching drew the attention of the fat man, and he slapped her on the side of the head. She wanted to glare at him, shout curses, spit. But she couldn't even summon the strength to lift her head.
The door slid open and the fat man wheeled the cart through the opening. Her vision started to go dark. The last thing she heard before falling unconscious again was the fat man whistling the same cheery tune.
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The area of interest pinged a few minutes later, the words "STRIKE TEAM IN POSITION" flashing green by the map. The pace in the room hastened, the radios crackled to life. "...5th, 4th detachments on alert-0, REDCON maintained..." "...Sheppard flight cleared for..." "...negative on last adjustment, maintain..." Another duty-officer hastily walked up to the officers, locking his hands behind his back and standing at-ease, "Admiral, all elements for Operation Fairway are in place and awaiting a green light." The admiral took another moment to marvel at the massive amounts of information at his fingertips, before taking a step back and nodding. "Green light, operation Fairway is a go."
Lieutenant Brode walked up to the screen, taking a cursory glance at the blueprints of the targeted station -- a prison station owned by a Syndicate shadow corporation. Areas were designated beforehand, coded, key points of interest assigned. The area suspected to be the prison wing caught his attention, the cellular construction making this a logical deduction. "How many men are tasked to securing this area?" The admiral deferred to an enlistedman, a Commanding Chief by his rank, "Chief?" "90 soldiers, 3rd troop from the 5th detachment, sir. Callsign Razor." The admiral nodded and glanced back at Brode, who was intently watching the multitudes of green blips approach the station. "Good fighters, I would assume, admiral?" the lieutenant inquired. "The principal will be recovered, lieutenant Brode, I assure you." The dossier of Janet Fisher was displayed above the situational information, designed as "PRINCIPAL: DAWN," the status marked as "Unknown."
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Janet regained consciousness some time later; it could have been hours, or it could have been days. She had no way of knowing. Her first thought was of escape. She tugged against the restraints but stopped and cried out in pain when she felt sharp jabs of pain in her chest. Catching her breath,she concluded that they had broken a few of her ribs during the initial beatings. But it didn't matter, as the restraints were too thick and secured too tightly for her to even think of breaking or slipping out of them. Her thoughts raced as she tried to come up with some way to get out, to escape this bloodsoaked hell, but after a while she gave up. She knew that there was no hope for her. She was going to die here. She closed her eyes and accepted it.
As she was waited for death, her mind wandered. Her thoughts turned to her sister. Poor Laura, she had practically raised Janet. They shared more than a bond between siblings, it was almost maternal. She wondered if Laura would ever recover when she heard her little sister was dead. The thought was unpleasant, so she put it out of her head.
Her thoughts turned to her friends. Before she was dragged onto the shuttle, she had watched one of her captors shoot Inis in the leg. She silently prayed to whatever deities where out there that she was alright. She wondered what became of Adrianna. The kidnappers had dropped Janet off at this facility first, and had taken Adrianna somewhere else. She doubted if Adrianna would ever be seen again. Another unpleasant thought. She put it out of her head as well.
She thought of Erec. She wasn't quite sure of what would go through his head when he heard the news. But she knew how he felt about her, and that if there was anything within his power he could do to find her, he would do it in a heartbeat. But she knew that in the grand scheme of things, it would make no difference. She was aware of her state, that she was severely dehydrated and had lost large amounts of blood. She knew that she only had a day or so before she would finally succumb to a painful death. It was inevitable, so she simply accepted it.
The sound of heavy footfalls in the hall outside the door derailed her train of thought. She listened and heard the wheels of the surgical cart squeaking, and a cheery tune being whistled. Gritting her teeth, she steeled herself in preparation for what would happen next.
Suddenly, the floor beneath the chair vibrated. It was only for a moment. She figured it was just a figment of her imagination. Then she noticed that the noises in the hall had stopped. The fat man had heard it too. The floor vibrated again, louder this time, like a muffled thump. It was then that she heard men shouting in the halls, followed by gunfire.
---------------------------------------------
"Emergence from bluespace imminent," a calm synthetic voice echoed through the confined space of a dropship's cargohold. In that cargohold, two rows of soldiers sat, 8 on each side, facing one another. Rifles were seated upright between their legs. Their faces were masked by metal and glass, and the metallic ribs of light combat hardsuits were spread like webbing across their vital organs. Pockets for magazines and equipment, oxygen tanks locked onto their backs. The message was accompanied by a jolt that rocked the entire cruiser. The soldiers simply sighed and adjusted; to them, it was another day at the office.
The squad level radio sparked with communication. "Razor troop, alert-0, maintain REDCON and stand-by." The dropship doors slide shut and the engines started with a quiet, constant rumble. "Standing by to stand by," the third soldier from the right row cracked a joke, which was very quickly shut down by a female voice commanding from the back of said row. "Two-Two-Fox, keep comms clear." "Yes chief," he quickly retreated. The silence was thus sustained.
A short instance later, the engines picked up with increased power and the craft began to move. The quiet hum turned into a steady rumble as the soldiers ran through their final checks, routines and traditions. The chief at the end of the right row unholstered her pistol a quarter from its place of rest on her chest, barely enough to reveal a set of intricate markings engraved into its slide. The engravings were that of an old design razor blade, the digits "2-2-B" marked over the figure. She snapped the pistol back into its holster, raised her rifle, gave it a once-over and rested it on the ground between her legs.
"30 seconds!" the alarm echoed from the dropship crew. In unison, the 16 men stood to a red light, oxygen valves opened, and a steady flow of hyperzine gearing their bodies towards a singular purpose -- combat. With a heavy clunk and a noticeable jerk, the ship clamped onto the targeted station. A few seconds later, a series of explosions echoed through the walls, the closest of which eminating from between their ship and the hull. The two soldiers on point raised their rifles as the doors slid open. With the weighted steps of metal boots, they streamed out into the brightly lit hallway, splitting to the left and right.
"Clear left! Blue left!" "Clear right!" "Rally up, move right!" A stream of orders flowed through the headsets; the organized ballet of clearing an entire prison station had begun. The 16 flowed through the compressed corridors with an ease only applicable to those best trained; two columns stacked side-by-side. A corner, a turn, two people down the next hall. Tactical clothing, armour, weapons -- hostiles. Rifles raised, without a halt the leaders of the formation open fire. Streams of particles struck their marks, the military grade weaponry making short work of targeted personnel. They crumpled and fell, and the formation continued movement.
The unit reached a larger door, an airlock, closed shut. The bolts were quickly located, charges planted as the rest covered every approach imaginable. "Charges set!" "Stack up, split," the order from the squad commander sounds. The chief's team arranges itself in a file on the left side of the door, with the commander's team on their right. "Breaching!"
The explosives slashed through the bolting mechanisms and the airlock hissed open. Down the hall, a row of doors lined the walls on each side; in the middle, three people stood, dumbfounded. Two of them were carrying arms, and they were quickly dispatched. The third, standing a short distance from the closest door to the left, remained stunned and unable to move. "Unarmed combatant!" is echoed through the file, the leader of it hastened his pace to close the gap between him and the apron wearing man. With a hefty swing of his rifle butt, the man collapsed to the ground and was immediately ziptied and picked up by the second soldier down the row.
The columns stopped at the first doors. On the left, the chief was the second man in her team, lead by a teammate commonly referred to as Fox. He waited a couple of seconds before he opened the airlock to his left and turned in, quickly followed by the chief. It was a small room, extremely so; a single chair stood in the middle with a restrained occupant. No threats. "Short room!" the notification rang from Fox's helmet. Only him and the chief were inside, the rest waited outside. "Room clear!"
Chief very quickly turns her attention to the room's sole occupant -- a small woman wearing little in the way of clothing. Her body was covered in multiple cuts and wounds, the most horrific one being her missing left hand. "Fox, grab the door; Echo, we have a casualty!" In response to her orders, Fox set up on the door, rifle pointed down it. The team outside continued movement, with a single soldier, Echo, peeling off and joining the occupants inside. Chief and Echo took a knee in front of the wounded prisoner, with Echo focused on hasty treatment of her many wounds. "Talk to me, Echo," the chief demanded. "Wounds, maltreated, untreated. Severed hand, she's a mess, June." The chief gave a small nod, and tried to catch a glimpse of the prisoner's face. "Come on, we're here to get you out," she encouraged with a subdued tone. When the prisoner slowly raised her head, the face was quickly matched in June's head with that of "DAWN".
"She needs MEDEVAC to Diamon, no way in heck she's surviving on Boundless." The chief stood up, the prisoner's weak gaze following her. "Razor 6, Razor 2-2-Alpha, DAWN located and secured. Critical state, requires immediate MEDEVAC, over." The radio crackled in response, and the chief spun into action. "Echo, Fox, grab her. We're getting her out of here," with the help of the two soldiers, Janet was carefully picked up and the movement towards the initial breach point began.
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Janet opened her eyes. She blinked a few times as they adjusted to the bright light. She suddenly realized that she was no longer in the cramped cell, restrained to a chair. She quickly turned her head from side to side, glancing around the room. She found herself lying on her back in a hospital bed in the middle of a white room. She was no longer half naked, and was now dressed in a loose fitting hospital gown. In the place of her left hand was a brand new prosthetic one, and her other prosthetics had been repaired as well. There were several IV drips in her arm. She was still unaware as to where she was, and she began to panic. She began slowly pulling the needles out. The machine she was hooked up to began beeping, and a thin, balding man in a white coat rushed into the room. She looked up at him and quickly asked, "Wh-where am I-I?" "Ms. Fisher," he said, "Please don't do that, you are severely dehydrated, those IVs contain a saline solution!" He took her arm and reinserted the needles, placing pieces of adhesive gauze over them.
"Y-you h-haven't told m-me where I a-am yet," she said, watching the man with distrust in her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot that you were unconscious when you were brought here. I'm Dr. Roberts, and you are in the recovery wing of the Diamon Joint Naval Hospital." "Diamon J-Joint... w-wait, where are w-we exactly?" she asked, her confusion mounting. "We're smack dab in the middle of the Eridani Federation," the doctor cheerfully replied. "Th-the Eridani F-Federation? H-how in th-the... h-how was anyone a-able to find m-me?" "Well, I don't know the exact circumstances leading up to your admission into this facility, so I'm afraid I can't answer that. Don't worry, I'm sure that once you're out you'll be able to get answers to all of your-" The doctor paused a moment and placed two fingers on the headset in his ear, listening to someone speak and answering them. "Yes, everything's fine... she's conscious all right... vitals are looking good... oh? Well, I suppose it would be alright, as long as I'm here to supervize."
Turning to Janet, he said, "It appears you have a visitor, Ms. Fisher. I'll be right outside if you need anything, to leave you two some time alone." He walked to the door and closed it. On the other side, Janet could hear him greeting someone, a woman, she judged by the pitch of the voice. It seemed oddly familiar. Janet began to worry who it was that was visiting her, but the feeling evaporated and was replaced with immense joy when Laura walked through the door. They embraced, tears of relief and joy in the eyes of both.
