War. Philosophers across time and space have decried or glorified the most practiced craft of mankind. Even this far along in evolution, humans still practice the ancient art of their ancestors. As an Ascended, you were made to embody the supremacy of humanity, atleast as viewed through the Empyror’s eyes. You excel in this most ancient profession. You revel in it. War is your destiny. Your art. Your greatest virtue.
While, just as the Philosophers of Old did, you feel conflicted about this ancient skill, there is no guilt in this war. Only the joy of a craft well practiced by a skilled artisan. Isela gave you an operational range and strict orders to return to the site of the field generator for resupply and rest, but let you fill in the blanks on your own. So, after flying to the site overlooking the great Holy City Crater, you gathered your zealots, and began to ply your profession.
Physics, chemistry, fire, iron, and lasers; the tools of your trade. With these weapons you rain Infected ichor down upon the scorched earth. Ruined city after ruined city is purged by nuclear fire, by burning iron, by artillery. Your Zealots, those Crusaders that follow your craft like apprentices to a master, provide support where they can. And when they die, if they die, they die happy to have given their life in this pursuit.
You have not slept in six days. Eric, in two. You lay against each other, exhausted. The hovercraft shivers and shudders as it flies towards the forward operating base. Many of your Zealots steal whatever sleep they can in these rare moments of peace. You started with fifty of these hardened Crusaders. You clad them in gifted carapace armor and advanced weapons, providing them with tools, so they could provide you. support and reconnaissance in the harshest of battlegrounds. They, in turn, provided you with respite and information. Now your Zealots number twenty-nine in total. Clad in the red and gold armor, they menace even in the throes of fitful sleep.
“There’s been no major assaults on the forward base in the last four days.”
“Good.” You were on the edge of sleep when Eric roused you with his mumbled report.
“We’ve pushed all the way to the River Noir.” Eric continues, voice amplified by the suit's internal circuits. “We need to rest.”
Your lips curl into a frown. “You have my leave, if that’s what you wish.”
“Thank you, Mother Pheonix.”
You nod and get back to the pressing issue—sleep. You never realized how exhausted you could be.
The generator, you note, is complete. It hums beneath the earth with immense power, emitting a willpower field in mechanical mimicry of your own. The room dug above it is where you’ve set up a field headquarters. Isela and Emma join you from the safety of Stormmont as you doze. Maps appear on the screen, but you pay them no mind, not really.
“…as you can see, there’s a continent in the western sea. We’ve determined that’s the center of the Infection. The storm would prevent air support from reaching it – not to mention the high altitude low atmosphere anti-aircraft weaponry. The Skarinite observation craft sustained damage during its flight...” Isela drones on, unable to get to the point—
“We cannot reach it.” You interrupt.
“Not without flying through the Storm. The Outlanders lack the prerequisite operating bases.”
“So we have to destroy the storm?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a plan?” You rub at your face.
“Yes. If you so request, I will send the operational map by courier.”
“Op-operational map?” You blink.
“I’ve been studying military doctrine. I made it in the [Empyreal] standard style: [American-Terran Strategic Operational.]” Isela notes your exhausted appearance, "Or I could just explain it."
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Topic: McCreary's Planet -- (FINISHED) (Read 258479 times)