Chapter 1: Awakened

Tybalt tried to open his eyes. He lacked the strength even to perform such a simple task. In time, he managed to regain his senses only to regret it. Pain radiated throughout his body. He felt dozens of bruises and lacerations sing into existence.

With an immense act of will, Tybalt rolled onto his back. The weight of his armor made the movement difficult. He flexed his hands, feeling the rips in his armored glove. He moved his right hand onto his chest. He winced in pain. His wrist and elbow had been seriously injured. He lifted his left hand onto his chest. Not as painful, but still noticeably uncomfortable. He tried to slip off his gauntlets.

Freeing his hands, he removed his helmet visor. He blinked into the heavy pall of night. Clouds gently passed below the moon, casting a dark shadow over the ground. Tybalt was glad to be alive.

He brought his hands in front of his face. He blinked. His right eye had been affected by the blast. His mind exploded with memories.

* * *

Tybalt and his mercenary corps were waiting on the outskirts of the forest. Bassian, his older brother, sat on the stump of a tree. With his visor open, he chomped on a thick cigar.

“Need a light?”

The soldier beside him ignited the end of his flamethrower. Without propane flowing through the pipes, the small flame flickered innocently. Herostratus smiled at its sight.

“Sure,” Bassian said. He tilted his head closer to the flame, rotating his cigar. With a pull of his breath, the embers of his cigar glowed. “Thanks, chief.”

Bassian blew a huge plume of smoke from his mouth. Despite still wearing his heavy helmet, he maneuvered the cigar from his mouth with his gloved hands.

“So, when are these guys going to show up?” Unity, the mercenary driver, asked from the truck. She sat on the hood of the car, her feet pressed against the reinforced bumper. She played with a butterfly knife, trying to stave away boredom.

“Impatient, are you?” said Spectre. “Look, we’re here to do the mission. Sit tight and wait for orders.”

“You’re never any fun, are you?” Unity replied.

“Never.” Spectre remained on the side of the road. His binoculars returned to his face.

“I thought the commander said this would be a routine job,” Herostratus commented with a slight inflection. His voice betrayed a sense of uncertainty.

“It will be,” Tybalt said, more certain than he felt. “Spectre has the right idea. We need to hold tight and get ready for first contact. These guys will slow down once they get to our barricade. If they do anything else, it’s their own funeral.”

Tybalt had read the brief before driving out. Mercury Transport had been bypassing the provincial tolls. Rather than having their truckers use the highway through the New Federation of Borealia, they added a few extra miles to their route to avoid the fees. By going around the Central Five Settlements, they could increase their profits by dodging taxes and selling to more distant buyers at a larger markup. All of the trucks moving south carried lumber that the southern desert region desperately needed, while the trucks moving north carried oil that the northern region lacked.

Naturally, geopolitics intervened. The NFB wanted to ensure all business moved through their territory so they could collect their due. To be the regional power, they had to make power moves -- like ambushing transport trucks on the outskirts of their territory.

“Lady and gentlemen,” Spectre spoke up clearly, “we have company.”

Unity slid from the hood of the car. She jumped into the driver’s seat, revving the engine.

“It’s showtime,” she said with excitement.

Bassian took one last giant inhale from his cigar before plucking it from his mouth. He placed the burning cigar on the tree stump.

“I will return to you shortly.”

He exhaled and closed the visor of his heavy helmet. Tybalt and Herostratus did likewise. If things went poorly, they needed all the armor they had at their disposal.

The clouds of dust became visible in the distance. The thick rubber tires from the convoy kicked up every inch of dirt beneath their treads. In front of the three big rig trucks, a bullet-riddled vintage buggy guided the convoy. The grill of the buggy had been heavily reinforced with horizontal bars. On the back of the buggy, a man stood on a small platform and operated a turret. He swiveled the stationary machine gun left and right, staying vigilant.

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Spectre laid upon the ground. He adjusted his sniper rifle.

“Call the shot,” he said. He exhaled from his nostrils.

Tybalt looked at the oncoming convoy. He counted the seconds.

“Three.”

The sounds of the engines came into earshot.

“Two.”

The rumble filled their chests with adrenaline.

“One.”

The vehicles came clearly into view.

“Fire!”

Spectre let off his round with a cacophonous bang. The large round hit the man operating the turret. In a mist of crimson, his body fell from the bullet-riddled buggy. He tumbled onto the road and beneath the wheels of the convoy big rigs.

The buggy began to honk its horn as a warning to the other drivers.

“Go!” Tybalt cut his hand through the air.

Unity accelerated with her vehicle. With near medical precision, she drove the armored truck into the buggy. The large cowcatcher, a nasty V-shaped plow, cut through the buggy with a crunch. Unity sped through the vehicle and began to circle. Now, she was in her element. She could wrangle these big rigs as she pleased. Her right hand gripped the grenade launcher that rested in the passenger’s seat. If these rigs didn’t stop, they would meet the fury of a beautiful high-explosive.

The first big rig pumped its brakes, swerving a little in an attempt to avoid the debris of the broken buggy. The rigs behind its leader did the same. The large vehicles bumped into each other slightly. A man clambered from the truck cabin with a rifle in his hand.

Spectre let off another shot.

The man with the rifle fell dead to the ground.

“Exit the vehicle with your hands on your head and we won’t shoot!” Tybalt commanded from the loudspeaker attached to his heavy helmet.

The driver of the first rig immediately complied. He kicked open the rig door and descended with his hands on his head.

Herostratus ran to secure the man.

Bassian searched the other two rigs, calling out the same instructions.

Herostratus brought the first driver to Tybalt.

“Sergeant Tybalt. Identify yourself.”

The first driver seemed weak and insignificant compared to him. Tybalt wore an armored suit with metal plates. He had state-of-the-art combat armor painted in an imposing midnight blue. On his massive pauldrons, the insignia of his mercenary rank glowed in titanium white.

The driver, by comparison, was a scrawny guy who wore simple clothing: a coarse linen shirt beneath a bomber jacket and a pair of patchwork trousers. The driver looked at his reflection in the mirror glaze of Tybalt’s visor. He gave a snaggle-toothed grin.

“Alright, boy-o’s. You have us stopped. Now what?”

“We’re going to have to send you back,” Tybalt said through his speakers. Bassian had gathered the other drivers and passengers from the big rigs. He ushered them into a small herd. Herostratus stood beside them, his flamethrower in hand.

“We ain’t going back,” the driver said.

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“You got that right, buster.” The driver cleared his throat and spat against Tybalt’s visor. The slime of the spittle dribbled down the glass, leaving a trail of gloop.

Tybalt brushed it from his visor, but that just left a streak of residue. He knocked open his visor and looked the driver in the face.

“This sort of insubordination won’t be tolerated,” Tybalt said menacingly. He nodded toward his brother.

Bassian kicked the man in front of him. His foot struck the pit behind the man’s knee. The man collapsed with a half-genuflection. Bassian kicked him in the ribs, causing the man to fall to the ground. He scrambled onto his back, only to be faced with the muzzle of a rifle. Bassian pulled the trigger.

“Are we clear?” Tybalt asked the driver.

“Clear,” the driver said. Venom hung in his mouth.

“Good. Now, you will do what I say,” Tybalt began to pace. He looked at the other rag-tag group of men assembled from the vehicles. Mercury Transport seemed like a minor operation. Tybalt felt he could scourge up better fighters from the slums of Pellmell.

A gunshot occurred in the distance.

“What was that?” Herostratus asked with nervousness. The tip of his flamethrower lit with a quick press of a button. He was getting ready to flame.

Tybalt looked into the face of the driver. The man kept grinning like a fool. With a slight shift of his facial muscles, he indicated that he had no idea what was going on. The expression was false and mocking.

“Tell me what’s happening!” Tybalt commanded.

“Ah, heck if I know!” the driver said with a laugh. “Nobody tells me nothing!”

The men behind him grunted with small chuckles.

In the distance, a voice shouted: “Callooh!”

The herd of men shouted back: “Callay!”

“Callooh!”

“Callay!”

At once, all of the men in the herd pounced on the mercenaries. Bassian’s rifle was thrust into the sky, firing blindly above him. Herostratus struggled to ignite his flamethrower as two men pulled him to the ground. A third climbed onto him, repeatedly striking his visor with a sharp stone. The glass began to crack. In the distance, Spectre started taking shots.

Then, a grenade whistled through the air. It struck the ground by Spectre’s feet.

The explosion caused everyone to pause for a few seconds. As the noise subsided, everyone returned to their mad brawl for survival with renewed vigor.

Tybalt looked at the halted big rigs. From behind the front of the first vehicle, a young man loaded another grenade into a launcher. Tybalt recognized it as Unity’s weapon. He must have killed her and taken it.

Tybalt realized that the driver of the first truck had run from him. While his orders had been to avoid killing the three truck drivers, a few casualties or fatalities were expected. Tybalt threw down his visor, readied his rifle, and aimed for the driver’s legs. His assisted-targeting system kicked into action.

Then, he heard another grenade whistling.

Quickly, Tybalt twisted in place. His rifle, already in hand, aimed for the hurtling grenade. His assisted-targeting system locked onto the projectile. Time slowed during that minuscule segment where a bullet emerged from the barrel of his gun and moved toward the grenade. The bullet struck the projectile, which combusted into light, fire, and shrapnel.

By the time Tybalt landed upon the dry grass, he lost consciousness.