Joined: 18 May 2008
Location: AZ, USA
|Posted: Mon Jan 03, 2011 12:10 pm Post subject: Why Rynn is the way it is...
|I shaded my eyes as I stared out the Drop Ships' lowered ramp, the violent winds whipping sand and other grit across my uniform. The ragged clouds scudded across the purple skies, and I stared in disbelief at the rugged and tortured mountainous terrain ahead. I looked down at the Cargo Master standing next to me in faded and stained ship's coveralls.
"This is the closest drop zone?"
"Yeah, only flat spot for miles."
I looked back out at the wretched terrain and twisted vegetation.
"These people came out here deliberately?" I asked in shock.
He shrugged, totally indifferent to the foul weather edging towards us quickly, "They found something unnerground out there, Captain, and no tellin' in this man's universe what the hell it is, until they're good and ready to tell ya."
"But we get to run in and help them stay alive, or die along the way, all for some pretty 'thank yous'."
He faced me directly, a hint of anger across his weather beaten features, "Hey, Captain, nobody forced you out here, you or that hunk of iron strapped in back there! These people need help, and that's what I'm doin'! Now you can get in your mobile rust bucket and watch over that transport over there, yeah, that one, number six five, or you can climb back in the crew hatch and go back home reading them two hunnert year old Playboys!"
I said nothing, and switched my gaze to the battered supply vehicle, a stripped down older model of a Mammoth Combat Support Unit painted an odd sickly green. It had seen better days, tread links broken and rust streaked, armored flanks dirty and scarred, the weapon mounts long since stripped away to give space for even more racks of desperately needed supplies for the underground colonists. One side of the cockpit had what looked suspiciously like plywood over a hole in a supposedly armored windscreen, and I shuddered to think of this thing on a planet with a non breathable atmosphere.
"Fine, fine, get Avenger unloaded, and I'll go watch against these renegades, bandits, whatever you call them."
Fury lit up the mans' craggy features, and he pulled out a cigar with a sharp gesture, "Call 'em? I call them downright despicable criminals, that's what I call 'em, them and those who drop to help 'em! Yeah, you heard right, you're gonna run into some old buddies out there, funny guys who get kicks off women and children starving to death, yeah. You didn't know that, didja? Well, mark my word, Captain, you run into trouble out there, it's you and your metal ASS that's gonna be all alone."
Uncomfortable, I shifted conversation, "I escort that crawler out and back?"
His rage spent as quickly as it came, the older man shook his head, and turned back to the darkening skies overhead, "Nah, they ship 'em back via an underground river that dumps down a klick from here. If we could send stuff up that waterway, wouldn't need any 'escorts', but the water only goes one friggin'way. This way they only stand to lose them one way, going in, 'cause this colony ain't exactly loaded, and can't buy new play prettys like you War Worlders can. You run 'em out, and get your butt back here."
I shifted, hearing the docking mechanics behind me in the cargo bay begin the process of bringin up my augmented KillFox to full power, and I began to feel a familiar itch, that of an impending fight, like the ozone of a summer storm coming straight out of the clear blue skies of home. The smell of hot oil and burnt metal could still sear my nostrils with the heady scent of victory, and I longed for it again.
I clapped a hand on his back with a rising excitement, "Well, old man, watch me and Avenger escort your supplies to your starving troglodyte colonists!"
He glanced over and muttered sourly, "More like some animal will eat what's left of your blasted carcass out there in them hills."
You know what was the worst of it?
He was right...