The scorching light of five suns above reflects off the matte brown frame of the aircraft, gusts of wind sending wasteland dust into the opening cargo bay.
A bitter taste in the air, dryness sapping moisture from taken breaths. The rage of five gods blasting full force in a brutal afternoon, several approaching forms sheltered beneath wide brimmed hats and thick clothing.
A familiar uniform is the first to catch the experienced eyes of the Judge; the abyssal blue coloring matched with the golden badge at his breast signaling an authority beyond the rest. Sandy blonde hair pressed underneath an armored helmet, sharp blue irises watching as the old man descends the cargo ramp and into the world.
Judge Murphy pauses as glances meet, an hostile instinct triggered from garnered insight. A handsome face upon the unknown judge before him, the heritage of the southlands reminiscent of a land blessed by late monarchs and divine worship. Yet hidden within the soul, a factor of something beyond an oath to the Federation.
Armed with a sawed off shotgun holstered along his hip and a military-grade assault rifle at his back, the judge was more armament than armor. Plastic magazines filled with lethal rounds and shotgun shells slipped into a tactical vest complimenting a mindset of execution and action, defensive cover found in the ceaseless offensive pushes of close quarters gun fighting.
The greeting judge speaks with a calm tone over the howling wind, tall frame standing straighter at attention. “Judge Murphy, welcome to March. I’m Judge Shawn Greyson.”
Judge Murphy tightly nods as he steps down the angled ramp, watching as the half-dozen ground crew stand straight at his arrival. “Greyson. It’s good to finally meet you in person.”
A wave of his hand dismisses them, their uniformed bodies sent swarming the grounded craft like insects to a corpse.
“Your reputation precedes you sir.” Greyson continues graciously. “All of us were surprised when we got word Judge Murphy himself was coming with the shipment we ordered. I don’t suppose our request to Centralis was that grimly worded?”
“Given the reports coming from March, it was decided for me to come myself.” The senior Judge answers.
“Well in that case I hope your flight was not too inconvenient.” Judge Greyson continues. “Was it?”
“No… no.” The old man dismisses calmly as he takes a step on the compacted dust, a pause as eyes scan the surrounding landscape.
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A city within close reach, the low howl of dry wind barely muffling the bustling of civilization beyond. Reflected light from sunbaked dirt blinding, the Judge instinctively covering his eyes as he walks forth.
Breath of dust taken into old lungs, a constitution forcing a small cough as the body begins to reject a hostile environment.
“Well I think the rest of us are glad to at least have some backup.” Judge Greyson motions as he turns towards the far end of the airstrip, the forms of a selected motor pool parked at the edge of a barbed wire linked fence. “If you’ll follow me sir, I’ll help get you sorted out.”
“Of course.” The old man nods.
Two forms walk beneath the gods, icons of order in a lawless world. A conversation suppressed by particulate and sunlight, a finality to a relationship held by a singular oath to a national statute and the law itself.
An armored monster within the motor pool lies at rest, the four wheeled policing vehicle fortified against conflict. Inactive flood lights mounted on its roof, complemented with massive collision bars across its front bumper.
A handful of bullet strikes were visible against the armored skin of the car, blackened shapes matched with craters of shattered large-caliber rounds. Paint scratched to bare metal, the seven bars of the federated cities etched in gold coloring along the driver and passenger side doors.
Judge Greyson produces a cylindrical key from a pocket, the vehicle unlocking with mechanical precision. A well practiced movement executed, the man handling his clumsy assault rifle as he steps into the tight cabin. Words spoken in motion, a question as innocently asked as possible. “Have you ever been to March sir?”
Struck against the experience from a thousand conflicts, the old man follows suit as he removes his lever action rifle from his back holster and onto his lap as he slides into the cramped seat, an answer given as an aged frame settles within a shell of armor plating. “Farthest south I’ve been is December. But that was twenty eight years ago.”
“That’s a while’s away from here and before my time.” Greyson comments, pausing as his eyes fall to the weapon upon the old Judge’s lap. “By the way… is that…?”
A gunmetal gray barrel and wooden buttstock of human craft converging upon a pure black receiver of divine creation. A lever action woven into a salvaged item of incomprehensible origin, reality itself bending towards the monster. Easily forgotten against a soul of justice and order, the lethal weapon evading a true explication of its origin.
“The Lawbringer.” Judge Murphy informs as he runs a hand over the construct. “Passed down for two hundred years in Centralis by the first seven.”
Greyson attempts to hide a grim expression at the mechanism, the Judge taking a breath as he replies. “It’s a nice gun.”
“It gets the job done.” Murphy answers coldly. “And that’s all it needs to do.”
A silence passes as the driver starts the engine, eight cylinders roaring as sparks ignite biofuel within machined steel.
Onwards to the city, atop a horse of iron and justice.