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HOW LEGENDS ARE MADE

PART I: CONTACT

Treat a person as he is, and he will remain as he is. Treat him as he could be, and he will become what he should be. - Jimmy Johnson

Hello everyone! Welcome to the Museum of Remembrance! My name's Alaric and I'll be your tour guide for the day. Now let me- Hmm? Yes, we'll get to the food. But that's later. First things first: I have a question for all of you.

When you stepped inside, what was the first thing that caught your eye? Was it the once-mighty MK IX Legion tank poised perfectly in the centre of the entry hall, ready to rumble forth and invade a nation? Or was it the equally impressive frieze dominating the ceiling depicting the vicious Second Battle of Britain, the jets depicted beautifully on the carved stone? Or, was it perhaps the hated banner of the ancient Humanist forces held within the great glass display case along the a far wall?

Whatever you looked at, let me tell you this: These things were all tools of hatred at one point, tools made by the denizens of Old Earth to maim and kill others who disagreed with them and their way of life. They were images and machines of destruction, all of them. In fact, you will find little else in this museum besides ways to kill another being or inspire someone else to do it for you. But is that a bad thing? Maybe it is. But it can also be good. You think I'm joking? Let me show that I am serious by way of explanation.

They were put here for a reason, you know. These machines, these abominations, of pain and suffering were interred within these great brick walls to remind us of what happened all those years ago when perhaps the greatest war to hit the planet took place. They are here to remind us why we cannot ever let that happen again. That is how this museum got it's name. It is a place to remember the atrocities and hardships of ages past and to learn from our mistakes.

Come: follow me. We 're going to travel to the eastern wing first, to where the heroes of the war are remembered. Who are we going to see, you ask? No, it's not the honourable and venerated Geoffrey Delare who lead the last charge against the Humanist forces in Berlin. Hah! No, it's not the Humanist General Lugo Scmhidt, either. Nope, it's not them either. Sadly, this exhibit does not include those brave few fighter pilots who flew to their deaths over Moscow, but we are currently working out a deal with another museum in the the Russian Alliance to get some of their gear. But the exhibit that we are going to start with is seldom noticed compared to those of such heroes, but that's okay: they were hardly noted in their time as it was.

Ah, here we are. Now, can anyone tell me whose armour this is? No? I didn't think so, only a handful of people ever could. This is the armour of the last UN Expeditor to serve in the Gene Wars. This is also the final fully intact suit that remains completely assembled. Only a handful of these suits were ever made. Fewer still survived the wars in one piece. Sure the odd helmet or shoulder pad is discovered, but they say that no two suits were identical and that itself would make it difficult to assemble a completely matching set of armour out of discovered parts. And- I'm sorry, what? I didn't quite hear you.

What's an expeditor? Well, in strict terms, its an occupation. It's basically like a contractor. They see what needs to be done, and assigns jobs to people to see to it that their plan works out. But, for the current context, they were soldiers. Do I know any stories? Well, I know one. You want me to tell you? Yeah? Okay then. Settle in then because it's a long one...

**

CHAPTER 1

Denver, Colorado

1237 hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

"Open fire, you worthless maggots!"

"They're gonna overwhelm us, fall back!"

"If you so much as take one step back, I'll shoot you myself you cowardly wretches!"

"We're all going to die!"

"Not one step backwards!"

"AHHHHHHHH!"

Noise assaulted John's ears as all hell broke loose around him; the whine of bullets shrieking like banshees as they flew past his head, the roar of engines closing in, and the deep bass thunder of artillery shaking his chest and making him tremble with sonic resonance. The acrid smell of gunpowder burned his nostrils as smoke obscured his vision and irritated his eyes. He rubbed them, but they continued to itch despite his efforts.

The sky above was thick with smoke and laden with burning ashes from the hundreds of fires burning throughout downtown Denver. Every once and a while, a gunship or flight of fighter jets would swoop by overhead, several leaving a sonic boom in their wake that shook the windows in buildings along streets for miles around.

At the moment, John didn't feel very safe in the scant cover the crater he was hiding in offered.

"Keep shooting," Shouted Sergeant Repzik as he blew the face off of a dog morph that was closing in on him, "Anyone who runs is as good as dead! I'll see to it myself!"

To emphasize his point, he turned, reloaded his pistol, and shot two fleeing troopers in the back.

A 105mm artillery round blew out the ground 20 yards to John's right, annihilating several friendly troopers in a hail of shrapnel. Another burst off to his left, further disrupting the Humanist lines.

When the smoke cleared from the artillery barrage, John rubbed his aching eyes and risked a look over the lip of the shell crater to survey the battlefield. Between the thin wisps of smoke he could see a ragged square blasted apart by constant bombardment and small-arms fire. To his right lay the crumpled remains of a civil bank, flames roaring unfettered from the windowless frames and door frames. Ahead of him spread out like an encroaching fiend was a broken mess of razor-wire and the shells of several burnt out vehicles that harboured the enemy from most return fire. On the right side of the battleground was the old library still mostly intact except for the seemingly thousands of bullet holes littering the walls and thick black smoke pouring out through a ragged wound in its westernmost wing. A once proud statue of an avenging angel lay on its side, the right arm broken beneath it. The head was severed and lay about three feet in front of it, its cold eyes gazing in John's direction. The left arm was still intact, pointed to the sky with the sword still clutched miraculously in hand.

Across the no-mans land dozens of gene-project warriors were fighting tooth and nail to reach the Humanist lines. For every one that fell, several more seemed to take its place. They were almost slaughtered to a man, but they still came through the withering firepower laid down by the Humanists. Wherever they managed to reach the Humanist lines however, the occupying soldiers were torn to shreds. Screams and shouts could occasionally be heard over the noise of the war zone.

"You can either fight me or fight them, and trust me, you do not want to fight me! At least they will only kill you!" Repzik laughed as he shot another morph peeking from behind a burnt-out tank, a gaping hole appearing in his chest. The Desert Eagle pistol Repzik held in a firm dual-handed grip spat another round from its deadly maw, and the coyote morph's arm disintegrated as the star burst round tore into it.

Still frozen, John held his SMG close to his chest and looked behind him, crouching deeper into the shell crater he shared with the remains of his squad. It was an old model P90, known for its large magazine size and accuracy at medium to short ranges.

The remnants of his squad were scattered throughout the soaked earth of the crater. Jeff hefted the MG 6 up to the lip of the crater and fired a three-second burst across the square, the recoil barely fazing him as he screamed at the top of his lungs and shouted obscenities at the rapidly approaching gene projects. Sawyer crouched beside him, collecting his trophies from the corpse of a dead rabbit morph that had managed to gain entry to the crater. DeMico was curled into a foetal position, sobbing his eyes out as he threw up all over himself again. Terry was hovering over him, trying to soothe him as he pulled out a sedative from his blood-soaked bag before plunging it into DeMico's arm. The sobbing stopped instantly and Terry sat down heavily, trying not to cry himself.

Derrick staggered as a ricochet glanced off his helmet. He laughed, taking off his helmet to show the others where it had dented the metal before a bleeding hole appeared between his eyes. Kingsley, his best friend, tried to pull him further down the crater but was shot in the leg for his trouble. Terry grabbed his other leg and tugged him down into safety before rolling up his pant leg to look at the bullet hole. With a grimace, he pulled some spray-seal on the wound, creating a thin protective layer over it. Far from a permanent fix, the spray-seal would at least stop the bleeding and help prevent infection.

John took this all in under 12 seconds. This was not what he imagined it would be when he was asked to join the Humanists. He glanced upwards as a flight of C-145 gunships flew by, ordinance pounding from their weapons. Some poor bastards somewhere east of their position will wake up in hell. An H-52 transport helicopter spun crazily out of control, fire pouring from the cabin. John saw a man attempt to jump free, only to get caught in its blades and ripped to shreds.

"Get up and fight you stupid bastards!" Howled Sergeant Repzik while kicking a cowering man in the ribs and unloading a few rounds in the enemy's direction. "If you don't want to fight, it means you want to die!" He pointed his gun at another trooper, about to shoot him to make a statement. He was going to pull the trigger when someone piped up from down the line.

"Holy shit! Enemy trucks inbound!"

Repzik whirled around, his black storm coat fluttering in the slight wind. His face split into a wolfish grin as he saw the advancing line of hostile transports coming up from behind the hostile foot soldiers a few hundred feet away.

"Men, it looks like those spineless gene-projects aren't as cowardly as I thought they were! They want to fight! Well, let's show those abominations what we think of them! Leopold, call it in. Let's make them disappear."

Leopold, a small man from third squad, picked up his HAM radio and radioed command, "Soaring Eagle, this is Sword One, come in, over!"

A crackling voice came back through the speaker; "Sword One, this is Soaring Eagle, come back, over?"

"Soaring Eagle, we have multiple hostile transports loaded with tangos approaching our position a range of 300 feet," shouted Leopold as he consulted his rangefinder, "We need air support, over!"

"Roger that Sword One, a flight of two UH-27 helicopters are inbound to your position, over."

"Roger that Soaring Eagle, over and out."

Just as the conversation finished two sleek UH-27 helicopters crested the roof of the library and hovered, acquiring target locks on the approaching vehicles. The straight lines and black colour made them difficult to spot when the hid in the smoke, the down-wash from their Draft Catcher 2640 engines hardly stirring the black smoke around them.

When the transports hit a range of 150 metres, laser-guided missiles flew from under their stubby wings and hurtled towards their targets. Each missile that hit its target reduced the vehicle to a pile of useless slag.

A cheer went up from the Humanist lines, their morale restored at the sight of the explosive spectacle. They quickly shot down any survivors stumbling from the flaming wreckage before the order to advance was given by a Lieutenant somewhere slightly behind their lines. As one, the Humanist forces surged forwards, their blood lust brimming over to the point of insanity. John and his squad clambered up the crater, vaulting over the broken wire to follow. The helicopters hovered over to support before tragedy struck.

Out of the window of a three story building up a Northerly street a heat-seeking missile was fired. It drifted lazily through the air before striking the tail rotor of the closest helicopter, blowing off the entire stabilizing rotor. The helicopter spun out of control, dramatically hitting the other chopper that was frantically backing up in an attempt to escape the destruction. The two crippled helicopters crashed into the building the missile was fired from, collapsing it in on itself and blocking off the street below.

From out of the haze, gene project troops drifted into view. They charged quickly into the confused and stumbling humanists. Those that were not slaughtered outright were tackled to the ground and hogtied. John saw Sergeant Repzik shot three times in the chest. He was still standing and shooting at the encroaching furs before he was brutally beat to the ground and pummelled to death. Leopold was hit by a fur wielding a sledgehammer, the hammer making a wet "thud" before the momentum bowled him over backwards. Sawyer was laughing; the psycho seemed to be enjoying himself. He slashed a fox morph's stomach open before shooting him between the eyes with a shot from his service pistol. DeMico was captured instantly, his trembling form no match for the fresh Gene soldiers who easily restrained him.

Jeff and Terry were more fortunate. They were far back enough in the charge that they were able to respond to the furious assault, falling back quickly with the remaining Humanist troopers.

John tried desperately to fire his weapon, but his hands locked up out of fear. Damn that pointless military training! A flashbang grenade went off at his feet, making the world explode into bright light and high-pitched ringing. A well placed blow to the back of his head quickly made everything fade to black.

CHAPTER 2

Denver, Colorado

1454 Hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

John woke with a start. He was about to stand up before he realized that his hands were bound and that he was gagged. He was not blindfolded so he was able to look around and take in his surroundings.

He was in a service tunnel of some sort surrounded by cement. He soon realized that he was not alone. He saw two figures sitting down at makeshift table playing cards and glancing backwards at him every few seconds.

"Ah; our guest is finally awake. Marcus, untie him and bring him over,"

It was the man on the left who had spoken, and the second rose to bring John to the table. The second man was some kind of canine gene project, his features covered by heavy armour and a dark visor. The armour was of a variety that John had not seen in his lifetime, having matte-black colouring and bulky armour plates covering a dark grey body glove. It had three chevrons over a golden star, denoting the fur's rank as a Master Sergeant. His tail was left uncovered by the armour; it would probably be impractical to have it weighed down and dragging.

The first man was dressed in similar armour, the only exceptions being a tactical HUD attachment on the right side of the helmet and a larger plate on his right forearm. From the four gold bars on his shoulder pads, John new he was in the presence of an officer, but not of a rank he knew of. He also noticed that each man wore a red and white design of some sort on the top right corner of their chest plate. He was too far away to see what kind of symbol it was.

The morph grabbed him roughly by the collar and dragged him to the table. He kicked over a small crate and sat him in the seat. Hard. The morph then returned to his seat after cutting the ties on John's hands and feet and taking off the cloth gag. Still woozy from the blow to his head, John nearly fell off before the commander steadied him with a calm, but firm, hand.

"Take it easy. Your senses will be back to normal soon, but until then just sit and listen to what I have to say. You are now a POW, and you will be treated as such. I noticed you didn't recoil to Marcus' touch, so I know you are a draftee. This is actually a good thing for you, or else you'd be in a cell someplace in this facility under constant surveillance. I like to treat most people equally, so I'm giving you a chance at salvation. All you have to do is listen to me."

John would have pissed himself then and there if it weren't for the fact that he had not had a drink in over eight hours. He was a prisoner of war. He accepted that much, but what was this man playing at? A chance of salvation? What the hell did that mean? John wanted answers.

"What the hell do you want?" He asked.

"Nothing more than your attention, at the moment," replied the man. Though John couldn't see his face, John knew he was smiling as he answered.

"Well, you have it now," sighed John.

"Good. Pay attention," continued the commander, "I will begin with introducing myself. I am Colonel Owen Smith of the 12th Expeditor Contingent, American Department, UN Special Operations. We are more commonly known as Phoenix Squad around here. This is Master Sergeant Marcus Veld. We are here as part of the missions launched some 20-odd years ago to different parts of the globe by the UN. Our job is to help people who we believe need aid by way of military force and strategy. As you can probably guess, we are currently helping the "gene projects" make a better life for themselves."

"So you support them?" Questioned John as he absently rubbed his wrists where the ties had chafed. His mind was racing as he tried to look calm outwardly. PHOENIX SQUAD!?!? The Phoenix squad? Oh crap, he was in some serious shit now.

"Absolutely. I would give my life for their freedom, as would anyone else under my command."

"Okay... why though?"

"A better question would be; why don't you?"

"Well, I, um..."

"Do you believe them to be animals?"

"No, I-"

"How about mutants? Slaves? Abominations?"

"No..."

"Then why do you insist on fighting them? All they want is equality. Why do you wish to keep them under the heel of oppression? Depriving them of their rightful place as our friends and allies?"

"I don't know, okay!?! The Humanists just showed up one day. At the time it seemed like a good idea to join them. They were definitely more prepared for a war than you... you... supporters!" Hollered John.

"Ah, now that's what I wanted to hear. Now I see how you were dragged into this," stated Smith, "We did some serious digging and we have found some information. We know you are Corporal John Ferris of the first Humanist Urban Detachment. You were sent to East Square to secure the area against our attacks. I also know a bit about your history. You graduated from Denver U at the top of your class in aeronautical science in '44 before joining the military in '46 as a grunt at the air base. If you ask me, you had quite the life before the war, as this 'uprising' will certainly become. I know all of this about you, but I still have no idea of who you are."

"What? How do you know that?" Demanded John, who felt his confusion slowly being replaced by anger.

"The previous US government had thorough files on almost all of their citizens, believe me," snickered Smith. Marcus even chuckled on his chair before straightening up and resuming his study of John.

"And what's all of this talk about me being your comrade? If you haven't noticed, I am a soldier from the other malcontent faction in this shitstorm. The same faction that kills your 'friends' for sport! Even if I did switch sides, I can almost guarantee that half of your people would kill me before the Humanists do!"

"That is where you are wrong. You said it yourself; you do not see them as slaves, an inferior race. You, in my opinion have all the requirements of a successful freedom fighter. I even believe that you'll enjoy being on this side of the disaster more than the other side."

Seeing the look on John's face, Smith laughed again, "You may not realize it, but in time you will come to terms with our beliefs, and eventually accept them. You'll see. Besides, you're 'compromised' now."

Smith paused for a moment before muttering something under his breath. It was apparent he was taking into his helmet mike. He listened for a second before looking back at John. "This meeting will have to be cut short, I'm afraid. I am needed in the command centre. Here, take these."

He reached down beside his chair and grabbed a brown duffel bag. He looked inside, nodded, and threw it at John. John caught it before it hit his chest and looked inside. In the bag he found standard issue army fatigues along with a pair of boots. Uncertain of what he was supposed to do, he looked up at Smith. "You will wear those out of this room where Marcus will lead you to your chambers. I warn you not to try anything as Marcus is not as forgiving as I am. Also, remember you are still a POW and that we will be aware of every twitch, sneeze, and utterance you make. Marcus is assigned as your guide and guard, so I suggest you play nice. And, uhm, I want to talk to you further in...let's say three hours. Marcus will show you where."

At that the Colonel stood up and exited the room, leaving Marcus and John alone in the cell. Marcus stood up to his full 6' 8" height and strode quickly towards John. He undid his helmet clasps and threw the helmet to the floor, revealing a muzzled face covered in grey fur. His ears were back, the black tips blending into the shadows behind him.

He reached out and grabbed John by his collar, hoisting him a foot off the ground and looked up at him. Gazing into the dark, void-filled eyes he felt as if his very soul was being examined. Marcus breathed deeply, taking in John's identity.

"My ass is on the other side, dipshit." gasped John, smiling to himself.

Marcus just looked at him. John could see darkness starting to cloud the edge of his vision. He couldn't breathe. Marcus held him high for what seemed like forever, watching him. Finally, Marcus dropped him. John was unprepared and numb all over, hitting the floor with a CRUMP.

"Get up." demanded Marcus. He stood over John as he tried to rise. He collapsed twice before he managed to stand up without feeling lightheaded. Marcus huffed as he picked up his helmet. "Come on, follow me."

John managed to limp after him as he strode purposefully from the chamber. Stepping into the hallway was like stepping out into a street in downtown New York during rush hour. John was instantly assaulted by a fusillade of sound; people groaning from wounds, off-duty soldiers yelling back and forth to one another, even a shrill scream from somewhere off to John's left. People were everywhere; lying against walls, standing in the corridor talking, or running to different posts through this seemingly labyrinthine mess of underground passages.

Even though the place was brimming with people, they all managed to somehow make room as Marcus passed. As they walked by, many soldiers threw salutes in their direction or called greetings to the Sergeant. Marcus even stopped next to a wounded badger morph and exchanged a joke or two.

They continued down several similar hallways all choked with refugees and soldiers before stopping in front of a thick, grey steel door recessed into the wall. Marcus opened it up and threw John inside. As John turned around the door closed and the sound of locks scraping into place could be heard through the metal door. John looked about him, eyes pouring over the details of the room.

It was spartan in design, bearing nothing other than a cot, a sink, a toilet, and a drain in the middle of the room. It smelt slightly of dust, rust, and age from being unused for many years. Sighing, he lay heavily down on the cot, groaning as the lumps dug into his back.

**

Half an hour later, there was a grinding as the door slid open admitting a short arctic fox morph in a t-shirt and jeans. She was carrying a tray of food and she handed it to John as he sat up. He looked down at it to find that it was just a soup and glass of water, but John was in no hurry to complain as he started to spoon it up in large mouthfuls, some running down his chin as he eagerly ate it up.

"You're really hungry, aren't you?" chuckled the morph in a soothing voice.

Almost having forgotten about his visitor, he stopped eating and looked over to her. She was leaning against the far wall, her arms crossed and eyes focused intently on him. They were a deep violet, partly covered by her white bangs. The rest of her hair was tied back into a ponytail and she had a military cap on, the visor slightly crooked.

"I'm Lily, by the way. I see you met Marcus."

John considered acting out against her. He considered fighting her before making an escape. He considered killing her. But all he could manage was: "Yeah. I guess so."

"Don't worry; he's mostly harmless. Just do as he says and you'll be okay."

"How do you know him?"

"He's my superior."

"So you're one of the so-called Phoenocians then?"

"Yeah. I wasn't always this way though. A military person, that is."

"Why did you change?"

"You mean besides the alternative of being a family's boot-lick or killed in a riot?"

"Good point."

"Certain... circumstances... changed me."

"Fair enough. Where did you get all the equipment? The Armour and all?"

"The UN. As far as I understand it this squad is only one of the many expeditor squads on missions all over the world. We act as espionage experts who try to better the world, so we are given the most modern equipment currently available, and some that isn't."

"So you're here to overthrow the government?"

"I dunno. I know we were supposed to prevent this war before it happened, but you can see how that turned out."

"So you failed? So you've decided to throw you're lot in with the rebels?"

"Use you're head. What am I?"

"I dunno... A soldier?"

"Before that."

"A woman?"

"Even more basic."

"A fur?"

"Yeah. As is about half of the squad. It's kind of obvious who we'd would side with.

"I guess so. Sorry..."

"It's okay. Are you done your soup?"

John glanced down at his tray of food and held it out for her to take back. "Yeah. I guess so." Lily took the tray and was about to leave before John spoke up again. "Just one more thing. Why did you tell me all of this?"

She paused, thinking for a moment before replying. "I don't know. You just seem... trustworthy." She flashed a smile, her tail wagging, as she shut the door and slid home the locks. John was left to mull over what he had been told and what to do next.

CHAPTER 3

Denver, Colorado

1837 Hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

He must have tossed around on his cot for what seemed like hours before the locks on the door retracted and the hinges shrieked open once more. Marcus stepped in, his armour replaced by a loose green camouflage military uniform and a sidearm strapped to his waist.

"Get up. The Colonel wants to see you in the briefing room."

John sat up, his lungs still aching from earlier. He quickly got off the bed and got ready; pulling on the jacket he had shrugged off an hour ago and stepping into his boots. They left the room and navigated through the maze of passageways, passing several troopers drinking their victory. One of them waved to Marcus as they walked passed, asking him if he wanted a drink of some Jack Daniels they had raided from a store earlier. Marcus politely refused, promising them that he would join in after he delivered the new arrival to see the boss.

They continued on, passing more troopers celebrating and drinking to the day. One trooper, a raccoon morph, threw a fresh apple at Marcus, who thanked him for it before quickly finishing it to the core. He threw the core at the raccoon that caught it before jogging to catch up to his comrades who had wandered aimlessly down the hall.

In a few minutes they reached a set of double doors leading into a large room with a slightly concave ceiling and a large oak table in the middle. Chairs were arranged around it, some pushed in and others pulled backwards a foot from the table. A large glass tablet sat recessed into the centre of the table and coffee cups and papers were scattered haphazardly about the surface.

The room was lit by light disks set into the ceiling which cast a dim yellowish glow on everything. There was also some sort of light rigging set further up on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. A door opened at the back of the room and two figures entered.

The first one, Smith, spread his arms wide and welcomed him in a cheerful tone. He was out of his armour and wearing a void black officer's uniform with a multitude of ribbons and blips. He had a handsomely sculpted face that held piercing grey eyes and short cropped black hair. He was smiling and apparently jovial due to some yet unknown reason. He had fair skin and a tattoo of a phoenix grasping a maple leaf on the right side of his neck.

"Welcome to the brain centre of the operation, Mr. Ferris," said Smith. His voice was smooth and unblemished now that it wasn't hissing from a helmet vox. "This is where we hold our briefings and formulate our battle plans. This is also the place where we officers relax and try to escape the grim reality of the war. But tonight, we are going to use it as your interrogation room."

At this a second figure stepped up. She was another arctic fox morph; she was a few inches shorter than John, but her presence filled the room and she clogged the air with a sense of authority. She had long white hair tied in a ponytail, her bangs falling over her left eye. Her other one was uncovered, a striking violet colour flecked with dark glimmers of green. John could tell it wasn't the one he had met earlier from the three piercings that went through her left ear. Otherwise, they could easily have been twins.

She was dressed in military-issue combat fatigues, a myriad of different patches sewn on to the shoulders. She wore heavy boots and carried a submachine gun strapped to her thigh. Just by looking at her, John knew that she was an important person in the gene project chain of command.

"This is Commander Sasha Daystar," Introduced Smith, "She is in command of this branch of local freedom fighters. She is one of the reasons why we will wrest this city from the hands of those Humanist bastards. Her strategic intelligence rivals even my own, no small feat for a domestic savant. Over the next few days, we will get to know each other very, very well. Take a seat."

John pulled a chair up to the table, and leaned into the high backing. Smith and Daystar sat across from him while Marcus stood behind him, his arms crossed.

"Do you know what this is?" questioned Smith, gesturing mildly at the glass part of the table.

"No, I uh... I have no idea." That was a lie. John had an idea of what it was, but he had never thought that they existed in any sort of functional form yet.

"This is an H930 three-dimensional image viewer. In other words, it's a holographic projector. It allows us to keep an eye on the events outside in real time through a series of sensors planted before the war began. The picture is only half functional at the moment though because some of the sensors are offline; interference or the destruction of the local comm node. Have a look."

Smith hit a switch on his side of the table and a 3-D view of the city showed up on the table. Some portions showed nothing but static, but the large majority of the map was intact; showing the smoking city with many of the buildings on fire or partially destroyed. The four craters from where the KSS had hit stared at him like the gaping eye socket of a dry skull. Small glyphs lit up in green, amber, or white across the city. Some where circles, some squares, and others some triangles. The picture astounded John. He had read of these devices being tested before but had never imagined that he'd ever get to see one in person.

"This map outlines all of the known positions of civilians, enemy forces, and friendly units. As you can imagine, this makes commanding an army incredibly easy and less stressful when compared to charts and maps."

Looking closer, he saw the square where he was captured, now in the hand of Gene Project forces. They were obviously the green shapes, circle for an individual trooper, square for a land vehicle, and triangle for aircraft. He noticed that even though the gene forces had at least triple the troops that the humanists did, they were incredibly low on vehicular hardware and aircraft. He wasn't surprised. That would explain why his unit had not encountered many hostile vehicles before today. It also reminded him that he was seeing valuable information. He tried to remember as much as possible, but he was fighting a loosing battle due to the vast number of glyphs laid before him.

"Beautiful isn't it? But this is not why we are here. This is," continued Smith as he panned the picture over to an area East of Denver. He zoomed in on a large group of hangers, runways, and buildings that quickly filled the view of the holograph.

"This is Buckley Air Force Base. It is currently the fourth largest air base in the States after its expansion in the 30's. We don't know exactly how many aircraft are stationed here currently, as the sensors are partially down and the Humanists deployed countermeasures after they took it a few weeks ago. We estimate there to be at least 150 aircraft of varying classes. It's a good thing that the humanists lack pilots, otherwise we'd be in some serious trouble. We are also expecting a further three squadrons of F-67 fighter jets to be transferred here inside the week. We are planning to take it."

The bold statement took John back a little. He was stationed there before the war, and knew the layout off by heart. He also knew it would almost be impossible to take. The automated turrets, EMP field, and defence forces were more than enough to hold out against a few armed rebels for the better part of a year. And Smith just offhandedly says that they are taking it? Was he insane? Seriously, that place is a fortress!

"To answer your unsaid question, no, I am not insane. I have utter confidence that we can pull this off. If we do, it could turn the tide of this battle."

John was sill stunned. He looked from Smith to Daystar and then to Marcus. They all had serious looks on their faces and were staring at him intensely. "What, you're serious?"

"Absolutely. But we need to know all the weaknesses of this place. We have reason to believe that you were stationed there before the war, isn't that correct Corporal?" Responded Daystar.

"Yes I was, but what makes you think that I'll help you? This is the same shit I was given this morning! 'You'll join us!' "You won't hurt us!'. Like, this is bullshit! Really! I honestly think all of you fur-huggers are a bunch of fricking nut jobs!"

He would have said more, but he was cut off by the crunch of Sasha's fist colliding with his skull. She turned fiercely on Smith, who looked as calm as he ever did, with his arms held loosely above his shoulders in mock surrender. Daystar started yelling viciously in his face, Smith attempting to calm her.

Marcus pulled John to his feet, blood streaming down his face from a new cut above his right eye and stars dancing before his eyes. Marcus quickly slipped Johns wrists into handcuffs, and threw him in a chair before turning back to look at the shouting match.

"What the Fuck?!? He's one of THEM? You told me he was a new grunt for the cause! Oh, wait a minute! He's is another one of your 'subjects' isn't he? You know how I feel about your stupid 'rehab' program! Why the hell is he even here? You of all people should understand the concept of betrayal, you bastard! Imagine what would happen if he escaped!"

"Sasha, shush! Calm down. Look, he's no threat. I know people! This guy probably didn't hurt anyone in his entire life!"

"I don't give a shit! He is compromising our security! He's obviously not going to help us! He practically said so himself! He DID say so himself!"

"Listen to me! He is more valuable to us as a potential ally, not an enemy. If we can convince him to join us, he could help us in this raid! He could help us WIN!"

"I swear to God Owen, if this comes back to bite me in the fucking ass, I will have your head on a plate with extra sauce!"

"Okay, but calm down! I must say that you can be quite the crazy vixen sometimes..."

"Don't you forget it Canuck!"

At that, Smith turned around and told Marcus to throw John in his room with a bit of food and drink for the night. When the lights went off in his cell, John had time to think.

He lay on his bed for a full three hours trying to decide what to do. He could try to escape and get back to his squad. Once there, he could tell his commanders what he saw in the command room. He'd probably get promoted, and be put in command of his own unit. Even though he hadn't killed anyone before, or even shot anyone for that matter, he believed he could learn. The gene projects he had met today had certainly provoked a long-hidden flame of hate inside of his heart. But something nagged at him from some dark recess of his brain. What it was exactly, John couldn't figure out. But deep down, he knew that somehow the Humanist cause was... evil. As much as he tried to push the unwelcome feeling from his mind, the more it kept resurfacing, much like the hydra of ancient myth.

CHAPTER 4

Denver, Colorado

2137 Hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

Locking the door, Marcus sighed heavily. He hated the lengths Owen went through to try and prove that everyone has good intentions in them. If it were up to him, he would have put a bullet in the prisoner's skull and be done with him. But nooo; it was Marcus' job to be kind to the prisoners. He had to baby-sit them while Owen tried to turn them to the cause. He was sick of it.

The only reason he did any of this at all was because he owed his life to Owen. Groaning at the memories, he turned away from the door and walked towards his quarters. He passed Warren, the squad's scout, as he turned a corner leading to the lower sublevels. The scout merely nodded, divulging nothing of what his intentions were that night. Marcus nodded back before continuing on his way.

He thought of home and his porch overlooking Lake Superior. His eyes glazed over at the memory of nights spent drinking with his friends and winters out on the ice fishing for walleye. He fondly remembered campfires, barbeques, snow machining, boating, and a myriad of other nostalgia-inducing events.

He came to his door and opened it with a nudge, throwing his pistol holster onto the nearby couch. Lurching over to his fridge, he grabbed a beer and flopped onto his bed. He opened the bottle, mist escaping from the sudden influx of air. He nursed it gently and sighed. This American beer went down as smooth as water. He smiled at this; after five years undercover in this city, he still thought very lowly of American alcohol.

He turned on the laptop that sat on the edge of his bed and keyed in his password. He looked through his e-mail account and sent out e-mails to all of the senders. Then he logged onto a game to escape his thoughts of homesickness. He was instantly surprised how many people were logged in. It seemed that even a world-wide crisis couldn't tear people away from their gaming. He turned the laptop off after three rounds in part due to some guy from around Golden hogging a jet and blasting everyone to high hell, and part because of he realized he was playing a war game during a war.

He lay back, and stared at the ceiling, thinking of his house on the lake.

**

Scout Sergeant Warren Dracrovian looked around the right wing of the tunnel network he enjoyed calling the Hive. He could swear he saw someone come this way a moment ago. His hand subconsciously reached for the silenced pistol strapped to his waist. The corridor was empty, the inhabitants all going either to sleep or party at some other place of the Hive. The hallway was lit by a few emergency lights, but they were few and far between. The Hive was in night cycle, and was completely silent except from the occasional laughter or cough.

He suppressed a smile at his own name for the base. It had once been the site of Denver's Union station. It had been the hub for all rail and subway traffic heading anywhere in a 200km radius. It was abandoned after the initial riots when the government transportation system froze up and deadlocked all of the station's responsibilities. It had only taken a few more days after that for the government to almost completely dissolve, after which the numerous tunnel entrances had been blown which had sealed the terminals from outside entrance. This had created an ideal base for the fur forces when they launched the counter-offensive from the west.

Warren likened the arousal of the facility with the re-activation of an ants' nest after winter. The queen would awaken and begin spawning workers after spring had finally arrived and the snow had melted. Eventually the almost-empty nest would become full of soldiers and workers ready to fight and die for their queen. From there, the insects' influence would spread and more hives would appear. It was very similar indeed to the way that the base had come alive.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow flicker against the wall. He spun around as a figure came out of a side corridor.

"Hey sir, what's up?" asked a trooper Warren recognized as Private Arthurs.

Arthurs quickly looked over the grizzled coyote morph dressed in a black armour suit and a light, barely visible stealth cloak. He was helmetless, showing off his brown fur and the pink scar running across the front of his neck.

Private Arthurs was a small raccoon morph dressed in khakis and a military overcoat scrounged off of a dead officer. He was young, with no experience whatsoever in war or anything besides. Warren had personally liberated him a week ago from a mob of angry humanists in the suburbs west of the city centre. Since then, Arthur had followed Warren around as his aide and, Warren considered, new friend.

"I could swear I saw someone come this way. Did you see anyone?"

"Nah, I was too busy raiding the fridge for leftovers" laughed Arthurs.

"Well, keep your eyes open..." breathed Warren as he turned to continue looking around. A red dot appeared over Arthur's chest, the sudden appearance of it making Warren's fears a terrible reality. He knew instantly what it was.

"GET DOWN," yelled Warren as he tackled Arthurs. Bullets whizzed by their heads as they hit the floor. A shout escaped Arthur's muzzle as he was hit twice, once in the leg and again in the shoulder. Warren rolled, his special forces training switching into overdrive as he came up into a crouching stance. His weapon was drawn and he pointed it from shadow to shadow, scanning for targets. A red dot lit up the dark. He would have been killed right there if fate hadn't intervened.

The sounds of the gunshots roused a few troopers who came stumbling from a nearby room. They were cut down by the gunfire intended to murder Warren. As atrocious as the distraction was, Warren used it to his advantage. He managed to snap off a few shots into the corridor and was rewarded by the sound of a body hitting the cement.

No return fire echoed down the hallway, so Warren stood and walked to the bodies of the dead troopers. He pulled them off to the side and thanked each one for their sacrifice. There were two fox morphs and three human males. He would personally see to it that each one was awarded for their loss.

He walked over to where blood was appearing from the ground, almost by magic. He kicked the air above the stain and his foot collided with a semisolid object hidden by light-bending technology. He smiled. His earlier assumption was right.

He reached down and felt around the object until he found what he was searching for. He flicked an invisible switch. A man in a jet-black stealth suit materialized out of nowhere, Warren clutching the wrist control for the stealth field generator. Warren bent over and turned the soldier's head aside, unclasping his helmet as he did so.

The man was about 30 years old with brown hair and a horrified look on his lifeless features. On the right side of his neck was a tattoo. It depicted an ancient Greek helmet with an arrow and sword crossed behind it.

Warren sighed. It was as Owen had thought. Argonauts. A private military company notorious for stealth and infiltration work. Someone on the Humanist side had some serious funding at their disposal. He keyed his radio and contacted Owen. Behind him, Arthur groaned and swore profoundly.

"Boss, they're here. We need to get the Hive on high alert. And send some help with a crash team and five body bags to sector gamma, quadrant three."

**

John awoke to the sound of an explosion outside his door. He quickly jumped from his bed, pulling his jacket on. The sound of gunfire echoed off the stone walls outside, the crump of a grenade resulting in a loud scream.

John warily walked over to the door, still stiff from the beating that Sasha had given him. His face was numbed now, thanks to a medic that had come along and gave him a shot of morphine. The cut was swollen, and four stitches kept it from bleeding any more than it had already. He leaned against the door and listened.

Besides gunfire he heard Marcus' voice calling into his radio for the freedom fighters to fall back to the next hallway junction. The acrid smell of gun smoke burned his nostrils before the gunfire sounded started to recede down the corridor. Outside, he heard rustling before a thud sounded as something was stuck into place against his door. Wary, John backed away from the door. A loud bang sounded and the reinforced steel of the door buckled inward slightly. The door opened slightly and a small object was tossed in before it was closed again. John quickly hit the floor and covered his ears, closing his eyes as fast as he could. The flashbang grenade went off, bathing the room in light and sound.

Even though he was somewhat prepared, John was nonetheless struck deaf and mute by the grenade. He was hit in the back of the head, a stitch coming loose from the hit. Blood began to drip down his face.

"Stand him up," barked a coarse voice from the doorway.

The two troopers that had stormed the room after the grenade went off dragged John to his feat, slipping his hands into a pair of handcuffs. They wore fully covering black armour suits with a patch sewn on the right arm depicting some kind of helmet motif.

The man across from him wore similar clothing, only he didn't have a helmet on his head and red stripe ran across his chest plate. His face was ragged as a cliff face, and his nose was set close to his skull, giving him a dangerous look. He had several scars running down the right side of his face, crossing his right eye which was a dead, milky white colour and was clearly blind. His good eye was a deep blue, his hair jet-black. Stubble covered his chin and jaw, giving him a rugged appearance. His shaggy hair hung down his face and swept away from his left eye.

"Only one in here, sir!" reported the trooper to John's left.

"Good. Now move up and support Bravo squad. I'll see what this one knows," Ordered the commander, his voice firm and gruff.

The soldiers saluted, checked their weapons, and left the room leaving John to fall to the ground. The man walked over to where John was curled up and waited for him to kneel upright. When he did so, the man merely stared into his eyes and examined his captive.

"Who are you? Name and rank, if you please," Asked the man, his voice now barely a whisper.

"You first, ass hole!"

The man laughed, the sound echoing in the small room, "Fair enough. I'm Master Sergeant Dan Voke of the Argonauts."

"The Argonauts? You're lying. They're just a rumour, a trench tale made up by the common troops."

"Oh no, I assure me we are very much a reality. The reason we're so commonly believed to be a myth is because we never leave survivors. But, if you want to be the first, you'll tell me what I need to know. And you'll do it now," His voice darkening as he talked. It was clear that he was in no mood to be tested.

"Well, this morning I was Corporal John Ferris of the First Humanist Urban detachment. Now I'm a prisoner of these mongrels."

"Well, that puts us in a different situation altogether. Get up. We're going to need to get out of here fast; the enemy will be rallying to counterattack soon. We have to be mobile. Private Welsch!"

A shimmer appeared in the air before the doorway before a surly-looking soldier materialized.

"Yes, sir?" questioned the trooper, his hands tightening on his weapon.

"Give this man your sidearm. We have to go now!"

The trooper looked towards John and back again. Voke glared at Welsch, and nodded. The trudged over to John and undid the handcuffs. He grudgingly pulled out his sidearm, an old but well maintained Glock 38, and handed it to John.

John looked over the handgun, noting kill scratches engraved on the right side of the grip. He slid the magazine out of the bottom and saw that it was full; giving him eight rounds of .45 calibre GAP rounds. He switched the pistol from full auto to semi and nodded towards Voke.

They exited the room, adopting ready stances along the sides of the walls. Welsch activated his stealth suit and disappeared to Voke's right. John followed Voke to a junction where they stopped, listening. Gunfire sounded from the right hallway; a grenade echoing down the tight confines of the underground portion of the structure. Voke's earpiece squawked, and Voke tuned it to receive a clear signal. His face instantly grew stern and he turned to face John.

"This way," ordered Voke, "Delta reports they are under vicious assault. I have to see what's going on."

They jogged for about a minute before they came up on a large hatchway, the blast doors recessed into the walls. Beyond, several stealth troopers engaged with about a dozen enemy soldiers equipped with infrared goggles. The goggles rendered the stealth suits completely useless so the troops had long since disabled them. No point overheating during combat for no advantageous trade-off.

They were in a vast underground warehouse, overhead catwalks hung above them in a complex spider web. Gunfire blossomed at the far end of the warehouse and on several walkways above. Two dead Argonauts lay out in the middle of the space, surrounded by a rapidly expanding pool of blood. A bunch of soldiers were in cover near to where they had obviously entered before being blocked by a hail of hostile bullets.

"Status report," demanded Voke as he, John, and Private Welsch strode up and took cover behind an overturned crate. Bullets spanked off the metal of their cover as a nearby corporal crouching behind a forklift divulged the basics of the situation.

"The enemy has us pinned. They're all over the catwalks ahead and behind that far row of crates," shouted the man as he gestured to the points where the withering firepower was originating from. He paused for a second, leaning out of cover to fire a burst of rounds at a cougar morph setting up a LMG on an overhead walkway. He missed and cursed under his breath before continuing, hunkering back into cover, "They just popped out of nowhere! Before we knew it we were pinned without support. We're down three men; Wilkinson, Benedict, and Thompson."

"Okay, we're gonna need to get out of here. Forget what we came for. Somehow they knew we were coming. We need to pull out now or we're as good as dead," shouted Voke, "Shanton, Welsch, give us some fire on the far gantries. Gunderson, Forsythe, cover the enemies behind the crates. On the count of three! One, two, THREE!"

The Humanists all fired as one, killing at least four hostiles and wounding two more. John fired with them. He knowingly aimed high, still unable to shoot anyone, but unwilling to appear cowardly to his rescuers. They broke of after several seconds of continuous fire, sprinting back to where they came. John was up and running, his pistol empty and his hand numb from the recoil, breathing heavily as he stumbled out of the hatchway.

One of the mercenaries stopped, turning to a wall mounted control panel and touching several buttons. The blast door slammed shut, the emergency lock down initiated. The soldier then shot the panel with a tight burst of machine gun fire before running after the rest of the squad, effectively stopping anyone from either side from opening the door.

Along the way, several more soldiers emerged from side hallways. Some were lone scouts from the Argonaut infiltration team who quickly joined the running group of men headed to an exit. Others were waking gene forces militia looking for the cause of the disturbance. They were gunned down mercilessly.

They ran through the corridors for several minutes before coming to another intersection. The group of men stopped for a while to check their printed layout of the facility before they found the correct way to the entrance. About half of them were starting down the corridor when hidden micro-charges detonated, annihilating the first five soldiers in a wash of heat and razor-sharp shrapnel.

Gunfire quickly scythed through all the remaining men around John and Voke, their bodies falling to the ground heavily. Blood and organic matter sprayed the walls and the two survivors, John throwing up slightly in his mouth as what once must have been a part of a man's head landed at his feet.

"You should really leave your entrance guarded, Dan," chuckled a voice from the shadows. Eight figures slid from the shadows, all of them wearing heavy combat armour and powerful Sabre 190 'Scythe' pattern assault rifles. The one in the front unclasped his helmet, revealing his dark hair and distinctive phoenix tattoo.

"Hello, Owen" growled Voke.

CHAPTER 5

Denver, Colorado

2219 Hours, July 28** th ***, 2052*

"Drop it," demanded Smith, gesturing quickly to Voke's assault rifle.

Voke dropped his rifle to the floor with a clatter, raising his hands to allow one of Smith's men to frisk him. The soldier found three fragmentation grenades, four combat knives, a pouch of throwing knives, and two pistols. He piled them on the ground behind Smith before turning to John. He plucked the Glock from John's hand, gently but firmly, and resumed his position at Brook's side.

"Your slave-driving friends must be pretty desperate if they're hiring people to us for slaughter," sneered Smith.

"No, we just thought we'd take a walk and visit some old friends," Smiled Voke.

"There are no friends of yours here. Not any more anyway," retorted Smith, nodding to the bodies scattered on the floor.

"Oh well. They were more... acquaintances anyways." sighed Voke as he kicked the boot of a dead man.

"I had thought so."

Smith glanced over to where John was standing, "You've certainly fell into the wrong crowd here, John."

"He insisted on coming with us," interjected Voke before John had a chance to speak.

"Hmm, well if that's true, you'll find yourself dead within a week."

As the two continued to exchange insults, John noticed that Voke had managed to sneak one hand behind his back. He saw a glimmer of light before Voke dropped something behind him on the floor. Soon a bright flash lit the room. Dan had somehow managed to pull the pin on a flashbang grenade that had miraculously missed during Voke's pat-down.

Deafening sound and bright light stalled John's senses for the third time that day, along with those of everyone else in the corridor. The soldiers with helmets recovered quickly, their helmets' auto-filters having dissipated most of the grenade's effects. Gunfire tore down the passage, the sound carrying for what seemed like a whole minute to John.

When his senses finally started to focus, he noticed he was being pinned to the floor again, this time by the other team. Managing a look down the hallway past his left shoulder, he noticed that Voke had disappeared and that Smith was yelling into his helmet mic, trying to get all of Voke's possible escape routes covered by at least two teams of soldiers. From what John could gather, Voke had managed to grab a pistol from the pile of his confiscated weapons and shoot one of Brook's men in the stomach. The man was leaning against the far wall, desperately trying to stem the bleeding with his hands.

"Marcus! Get the prisoner to a room. Take Luke and Lily with you! Tracer, stay here with Paul and try to keep him comfortable until the crash team gets here. The rest of the squad, come with me!" Smith moved off down the hallway to try and find Voke, three others jogging along with him.

Marcus grabbed John's prone form by the back of his shirt and lifted him to his feet. He tied John's hands behind his back and shoved him forwards in the direction opposite that which Smith had taken. Two other troopers fell into step behind him, sweeping their weapons back and forth in front of them, scanning for targets.

Lily sidled up to him as they walked, Marcus taking point as they entered a different branch of the facility, the subway tracks making for difficult walking. "You just had to try escaping, didn't you?"

"Wouldn't you?" John answered coldly.

She left him alone for the rest of the walk. Soon they had arrived at a hallway with walls lined with heavy steel doors. It must have been a small holding facility for people who acted out when they were trying to get aboard a train. They must have been stored here until the authorities could pick them up. Marcus walked up to the first, keying a password into a wall terminal. He forced John inside with little regard for John's well being, John falling to the floor and letting out a sharp grunt.

"If you see anything that isn't me or a member of the squad, shoot first and ask questions later," instructed Marcus, "Lily and I are going to see if we can find that son of a bitch before he escapes."

"Yessir! Nobody's gettin' 'im out sir!" affirmed the trooper, with an odd accent John couldn't place.

"Good. Lily! With me!"

John heard footsteps fade into echoes on the outside of the door. He walked over to the slit in the door that allowed him to sneak a peak outside. A human male stood outside the door. He was dressed in the black armour that John had began to associate with Smith' men, and a long, loose cloak draped around the armoured shoulders that partially hid his relaxed stature. He had a screeching eagle spread across the back of his helmet and carried one of the Sabre assault weapons.

"Ya mus' be pretty 'portant to the boss if he's keepin' 'ya all locked up n' safe," stated the trooper. He must be the one called Luke, if he remembered correctly. "If I 'ere 'im, I woulda shot ya' were ya stood."

"Well then, I guess I'm lucky you're not him then," replied John darkly.

Luke turned to face the slit in the door. "Damn right. The boss mus' really see something' in ya. He always has a reason fer 'dis sorta thin'."

"Hah! He just seems crazy to me. He's gotta be if he's always trying to turn me."

"Oh! Yer one a' dose!" laughed Luke, "Yah, he seems ta have a thin' fer turnin' people. Bu' he's not crazy. Shifty maybe, but not crazy..."

"What do you mean?"

"Lets jus' say that it has worked before. Actually-"

Luke fell suddenly, a gasp escaping his lungs as he slammed face first into the door before collapsing to the floor in a heap. Voke withdrew his blade from Luke's chest as he fell, wiping the blade subconsciously on Luke's cloak.

"Hello there, Ferris," smiled Voke. His grin tightened the right side of his face and deformed it into a gnarled mess of flesh that bore little resemblance to humanity.

"Voke."

"Thank you for distracting the guard. I hardly get the opportunity test my blade work, and I feared that I was getting rusty."

"Honestly, I didn't even see you there. But anyways, the pass-code for the door is 'barbarian'. We have to hurry, the others couldn't have gone far."

"What are you talking about?" Questioned Voke, his eyes suggesting he knew perfectly well what he had meant. "I'm not going to let you out, if that's what you are inferring."

"What? Why the hell not? You owe me!"

"For what? I already broke you out once. You distracted the guard. Now we're even. Plus, I overheard you two talking. I know that Smith is trying to turn you to the 'good' side. For all I care, you're one of them now."

"You bastard!"

"Ooh, I've never heard that one before," responded Voke sarcastically, "I'll see you around Ferris. Or maybe I won't. Who knows? Better yet, who cares!" At that, Voke left leaving John alone with a corpse for company, laughing as he strode off deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels. He turned right, disappearing from John's view. John yelled at him from behind the heavy door, knowing it was useless. John felt betrayed and utterly useless.

A few minutes passed by and John thought he heard footsteps outside the door, but he wasn't completely sure as the door muffled most of the sound. Looking through the viewing slit, he saw the other two soldiers from earlier examining Luke's dead body. He realized this was his chance.

*End of Preview. Part one is a full 143 microsoft word pages. Depending on how this story is recieved, I may post more.*