In a mining prison on the outskirts of the Thorn Crowndom, raiders invade. Their strangely shaped ships crafted from stolen parts swarm the small moon within minutes. 

Onboard one of the last ships to land, Commander Benito of the Veiled Stinkbug smiles at the information flooding the heads-up display of his implanted visor - flowcharts, photographs, and a stream of messages, all confirming an inevitable victory. 

His heavy boots clank on the walkway as he leads a squad into one of the entrances dipping out of the radioactive soil.

Miles below, and completely unaware, Briar wipes the sweat and oil from his forehead with the back of his artificial hand before swinging the pickaxe again, striking it into the glowing mineral.  

Every time he strikes the pickaxe, chipping away the wall, he glares six inches past the stomach of the guard holding the whip. His back itches and burns, but he ignores it. He raises the pickaxe into the air and thrusts it into the wall with all of his strength, staring. 

The ground shakes, toppling the guard backwards against the computer desk, barely able to stay upright. 

“What was that?!” A prisoner shouts. 

The guard stares into the computer monitor as a message pops up on the screen. “This is not good…” He looks up and realizes everyone is looking at him, motionless. “And just what are-” 

The guard snaps his whip into the air. “Keep working!”

He slams a red button, and turns back to the monitor, typing a response as steel walls lower from cracks in the ceiling to contain the prisoners. 

Something sounds like a breath, but after he sends the message and turns around, it looks like he is alone. His mind races as he wonders why the higher ups living in the surface level quarters might send a distress message as short as 'get help'. 

Did something explode? Or perhaps another hazardous exposure? An animal attack? Outside some mines, the beasts are as big a ship.

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He reaches the stairs, and his spine shivers, clouding his thoughts with paranoia. He ignores it. After three stories of stairs, the guard reaches the armory and pushes the passcode into the door lock. 

The guard's spine shivers again, but he ignores it, bolting to the lockers stocked with armor and weaponry as the room shakes again. From here, he can hear the explosions happening outside. 

“Raiders!” 

Grabbing a rifle, he sprints back towards the door with his eyes focused on a panic button in the hallway which would lower another electrified wall, keeping him temporarily safe from intruders. Reaching the open door, a pickaxe swings around the corner and tears through his uniform and deep into his stomach. 

Tears flood the guard's eyes, blurring the image of a miner who had sprinted past the walls locking the others inside the tunnels. His body refuses to respond to his commands, and instead of grabbing the whip, the guard watches himself be tackled to the floor. 

Blood cakes his ruined uniform, and he feels the overwhelming burning in his torso as the rusted pick burrows into him a second time. As it twists and pulls out again, ropey, gooey innards splatter the floor like a piece of abstract art. Everything spins as the tears continue to blur it all. 

Just a few floors above, Commander Benito's tattered red cape follows him through the wreckage left of this final guard outpost. The same shade of red decorates the floors, ceiling and walls among the shredded bodies of those who were left, hiding here. 

His heavy boots squish the pellets of stone littered on the floor with a loud pop every time. 

As his squad mate Prometheus meticulously scours through the computers for any valuable information about the Thorn Crowndom's operations here, Benito himself takes to descending the stairs to see if any guards are left, and to check for potential recruits held prisoner here. 

Descending the stairs, he finds the lowered wall blocking the way and taps his helmet, tuning into his squad's psychic channel. 

“Prometheus. I have a wall standing in my way. I would appreciate it if you can divert your hacking for a moment and open anything sealed shut.”

“Of course. Should be faster than searching for this spot in the system.”

After a ten minute wait, the wall slides back through its crack in the ceiling, allowing him to continue going lower. 

Reaching an open door, Benito is alerted by a loud, sopping wet squelching from inside. 

“Who's hiding in there?!” He points his semi-automatic pistol into the room as he charges inside, but he quickly stops, standing in place as he takes in the gory spectacle. 

A man in a prisoner's uniform hunches on the limp guard's lap, repeatedly raising a pickaxe and slamming it back down into the unseen half of the body. He can hear the pick dig into the organs, even though it is hidden by the hunching man. 

“He's already dead.” The man breathes heavily, but does not retaliate when Benito rests a gauntlet on his shoulder. “Is anyone else being kept here?”

“What are you?” His breath is heavy. “A raider?” 

Benito fights the smile which yearns so badly to decorate his face. Even hidden in the mask, he would never allow such a thing to happen. He ignores the question, helping him to his feet. 

“An enemy of the Crowndom. Just like you.” 

“There's a lot more of us, down in the tunnels.”

Benito speaks into the psychic channel, not bothering to say anymore to the man covered in blood.

“Send more men this way, and bring me an armor set. New blood is joining the Veiled Stinkbug.”