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CHAPTER 5

Eldora Resort, West of Denver, Colorado

1743 Hours, August 18** th ***, 2052*

"How's the gravy coming?" asked Owen as he threw a bag of frozen fries on the counter and checked the deep fryer's oil temperature. He had needed to change the entire oil supply in cooker, the stuff in it partially hardened and unusable for anything. The useless gunk was now in a large drum outside. He would take care of that later, he thought, as he saw the orange 'please wait' light starting to flash. Only a few more minutes until he could start cooking.

"So far so good. All they had was the Club House instant stuff, but it tastes great so far." answered Lily as she slowly stirred the pot that she had poured the mix and some water into. She dialled the heat back a bit on the giant stove.

"I guess I'll start on the fish then, at least while I wait for the oil to warm up."

"Go for it." she called as she left to get something from the walk-in freezer.

The two of them had come to the restaurant perched on the shore of the lake after leaving the house several minutes ago, making a pit stop at the abandoned 7/11 on the way. They had lifted copious amounts of ingredients from the still-pristine displays and even managed to raid the large freezer in the back of the restaurant for frozen goods. The fries were even still good! Past the recommended date maybe, but they seemed okay.

She made her way back, having just went to cool down. Apparently, it was warm under that fur in a hot kitchen. Owen had just started to coat the fish in a homemade batter and was busy trying to find a frying pan that would fit it all when Lily struck up a conversation. "So... You finally fucked her?"

"Huh? Oh wow. That was blunt, even for you." stammered Owen, his arm frozen in midair as it reached for a stainless steel pan that hung precariously by its handle on an overhead kitchen organizer.

"But you did." she insisted as she stopped stirring and looked over at him, giving him an evil smile.

"How did you know?" asked Owen, going back to what he was doing. He poured some oil in the pan and set it on the stove. The oil began to bubble as she answered, his hands working at slicing the fish into sections.

"My nose. That and the fact that I went for a walk this morning. Nice spot for it, by the way, 'brother'." She let out a low chuckle as she knew that she had him.

"Oh.... Well then.... Yes, I guess I did." Owen felt his face slowly turning red as he tried to concentrate on cooking.

"If you don't mind me saying; it's about time."

"WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP SAYING THAT?!?" shouted Owen, faking anger to hide his embarrassment.

"Well, you two have been stepping lightly around each other ever since you saved us all those months ago. Everyone- hell even Angie knew that you two were in love."

"How though? I didn't even know until a few days ago that she liked me..."

Lily burst out laughing, tears even leaping to her eyes and wetting the fur of her cheeks. It took her a minute to stop laughing, her face nearly split in two by a witty smile. "I know! I know! That's what made it so frigging hilarious! There was even a running joke going around about you two!"

"A joke? What joke?"

"That's not important; I've forgot it anyways. But when she kissed you before you boarded the Righteous Flame... Holy Christ! You should have seen your face! It was PRICELESS! God it was riotous!"

Owen was now positively glowing red, awash with misplaced shame. Had it really been going on for that long? He tried to remember, but it was useless. He wished that he was still in Denver...

Lily saw this and felt bad immediately for what she had said. Who knew Owen had a soft side? "Oh, come on! At least you're together now."

"Yeah..." Owen sighed, coming to terms with his past obliviousness, "That's true, I suppose."

"In all honesty, Owen, I think you two make a good match. And uh," she said as she looked back at her preparations. "your oil is ready."

Owen turned around and sauntered over to the deep fryer. The temperature reading was in the green; he could start making his dish. He tore the large bag of fries open one one end and poured them into the machine. The fryer spat and hissed as the ice on the frozen potatoes hit the boiling canola oil. He set the timer on the fryer to five minutes and set about lopping mould off of some cheese that had been kept frozen for the last year. At least they say that cheese gets better with age...

"So. What do you think happened to the rest?" he asked after throwing the filets of fish that he had breaded into the pan, steam rising from the hot surface.

"I don't know... I hope they made it. They did have a good head start on the Humanists; if they kept their speed they would have been able to make it. But those GENESIS researchers... Something about them seemed... off."

"I agree. Dr. Raven, that lead researcher, didn't think too highly of your sister. She was almost surprised to learn that she was in charge. I'd say she was almost disgusted." said Owen.

"Pigs..."

"Yeah, I guess that's one way to put it. I just hope that they're on our side, what with us saving their lives and all."

"Well, if they're not, it just means that there is that many more targets out there for us to hit."

Owen was about to respond but noticed that smoke was starting to rise from the pan sizzling in front of him. He turned his attention instead into placing the small pieces of trout into the pan, wincing as a large spit of hot oil landed on his arm. "Shit! Ow, that smarts! Fuck!"

Lily just smiled to herself as he hopped around the kitchen swearing and gripping his arm. He finally managed to soothe his pain but it wasn't without consequence; an angry red mark was now inflamed on his forearm. "Jeez, curse a lot or what?"

"Well, it damn well hurt! I've been shot in less painful places!" whined Owen, rubbing the raw patch of skin gingerly.

"Sure. And I'm the pope."

"I'm not kidding! Once I was shot in the back; almost shattered my right shoulder blade. It deflected, thank god, but I hardly felt it. I only noticed when Sam pointed it out to me later." He protested.

"I'll have to get her version of the story when we get back to Denver." she laughed.

"So you want to go back too?"

"Why? Don't you?"

"No, I do too. I'm just surprised, that's all. I thought that you may have wanted to enjoy the free time."

"With our friends probably dying out there? Never."

"Good. I wouldn't want to leave you here."

"Don't worry Colonel; you can always count on me. Well, at least to scrape you off the walls when you finally meet someone smarter than you, that is."

"Bah, that will never happen." They both laughed as they set about finishing up the food, the occasional joke or friendly insult passing between them as they cooked.

**

Eldora Resort, West of Denver, Colorado

1830 Hours, August 18** th ***, 2052*

"So? What do you think?" Owen asked John as they chowed down on their scavenged meal.

"Looks like someone took a shit on my plate," he said swallowing a mouthful, "but it tastes delicious!"

"Yeah," laughed Sasha, a strand of melted string dangling from her jaws, "and it has enough calories for three days."

"I'm not complaining; it sure beats the gruel at the station." piped up Lily.

"Hah, yeah! It wasn't always bad, though. We ate everything we found in the first few months!" Sasha said.

"Then it all went bad. Remember the smell in that one grocer's? Damn, that was nasty!" Lily complained. "You'd think it woulda lasted longer with all those preservatives."

They were gathered around the table, now cleared of armour plate, and enjoying the bounty of the day's 'work'. Romulus lay on his chair once more, his paws tucked closely to his stomach and his tail curled around his fidgeting form. The occasional murmur or yelp let them all know that the juvenile wolf was dreaming as they shovelled mouthfuls of crispy fish, stringy cheese, dark gravy, and golden fries down their waiting gullets, Owen having fed him before sitting down at his own plate.

"When I was with my old unit, we ran across an old butcher shop. Apparently the meatlocker was left open; all of the meat was rotted to the bone. I swear, the flys were thick enough to suffocate you! And the maggots-" said John.

"Ugh! Gross. Come on guys; we're eating!" laughed Owen.

"When did that ever stop you?" sniped Sasha.

"Touché!"

They ended up sitting around the table long after the food was gone and the sun had set over the horizon trading stories and exploits from the last few years. Lily brought out a case of Budweiser that she had found tucked away in the back of the corner store when she was rummaging through the shelves for gravy mix, and they all grabbed a bottle and popped the cap.

Lily had just finished telling the tale of her first time on a Pheonician mission where she had ended up in the bottom of a dumpster for a day while the others tried to find her. The others had listened somewhat attentively to her tale, with Sasha and Owen interrupting somewhat drunkenly when she left something out.

"Well," said John, "I never told you 'bout my firscht mishon. The first with my ol' schquad; not the one you guysch picked me up n'. I schwear, it wasch the worscht time I ever had. You schee, I had fallen into a bad crowd..."

**

Denver Suburbs, Colorado

0650 Hours, July 4** th **** 2052**

"C'mon Ferris! Your falling behind, you ignorant fuck!" snapped Praxton, a burly man carrying a KAC six-five, as he waved him forward down the road. They had disembarked from their vehicles at the end of the street and headed towards the first house on the street. John snapped out of his apparent daze and looked at the target building.

The assembled men that had disembarked from the cars were members of the Humanist chaos teams, special groups chosen to take the first step in starting a global conflict. John had ended up being dragged along by a friend from his old university and handed a pistol in the ride over. He was staring at it blankly, wondering what he had gotten himself into when they came to their first house. They all clustered in front of the house as the other teams spread across to other homes in the suburb.

"Prax! Look- The window!" said a younger man in the 'squad', pointing towards a family was seated having dinner. The curtains were pulled across the window and the light from inside spread shadows on the cloth. Three different shapes, obviously people and not furs, were moving about oblivious of what was to come.

"Okay boys. Here's where we show those freak-loving morons who they're messing with. This is the moment of truth. Follow my lead, and give no quarter. We must stop this 'uprising'."

John couldn't help but think of a quotation from Julius Caesar as Praxton and two others strode onto the lawn and looked at the house's owners. Cry hark... Praxton cocked the rifle and took aim at the silhouette in the beige curtains, resting his gun over the hood of the car and letting out a slow breath. And let slip the dogs of war... The gun cracked evilly and the window cascaded inwards in a shower of glass and torn bits of cloth. A scream was heard from inside.

John felt his heart grow cold as he became aware of what had just happened. The man inside the house slumped forwards as a slightly smaller figure retreated into a separate room and out of view. Yet another shape could vaguely be seen pulling the man to some semblance of safety as Praxton and two others marched up to the door and began striking it with their shoulders, shaking it in its frame.

Two other members of the Humanist group started shooting at the upstairs windows, one chuckling mirthlessly as each window shattered in turn. All down the street, men were firing their weapons and invading houses to get at the previously reported 'freak lovers' living inside.

Prax and his cronies, Josh and Frank, broke down the door and entered the house. John only saw the backs of the men as they worked their way into the foyer. He heard another loud pop as one of the men fired his handgun. He backed away a few steps from the house, disgusted at what had just happened. The others carried on without him, even his friend, Will.

He watched on for a moment before again turning away and taking a few deep breaths. Then another, slightly different gunshot echoed from behind him. He turned around quickly, another shot hitting his ears, as Prax tried to run from the door. He didn't make it. The unseen attacker fired again and Prax's spine was blown apart, the shots continuing through his body and impacting in the grass in front of him. He fell forwards lifelessly as John dove onto the lawn in an attempt to find refuge.

Several tense moments passed before he looked up from the dirt at he doorway again. Several corpses were strewn about where they had fallen. In the grass beside him the other three members of the group clutched their weapons and tried to work out a plan.

"What the fuck just happened?!?" asked Travis, a friend of Will's.

"They were shot." answered Will flatly.

"Well no shit, Sherlock! But these people were supposed to be unarmed! What the hell?!" whined Jared, another friend of Will's.

"Well, it makes no difference. They will still die here."

Just then the neighbours chose to come running from their house to find a scene of terror unfolding about them. Up and down the street, raids were being conducted on homes known to be fostering 'fur-huggers'. Several of the men stood on the streets and threw Molitovs, thick smoke pouring forth from the necks of the bottles, onto several homes. The glass shattered and spilled foul-smelling fuels onto the shingles and through windows that was quickly set ablaze. Screams an shouts filled the air as the chaos squads set to work.

The woman, a short, plump affair with a round face, covered her mouth in fear as her husband came out with a shotgun behind her. His face went white before turning an angry red. "What the fuck is happening out-"

He was cut off by a trio of shots from Will. He turned back, stone-faced, towards the others as the new-found widow dropped to her knees and clutched her dying husband. "Cover me; I'm going to cut through the garage. Unless, that is, you want to end up like him."

"Sure. But if you get shot, I'm not coming to help you." retorted Travis, "Why not wait for backup?"

"I'm not asking you to help, I'm telling you! And as to the backup; it's ONE person, Prax got the other two! Prax got the guy and his wife; all that's left is two more. We have no reason to be scared."

"What?!? Didn't you see the others get shot? We DO have something to be scared of!" shouted Jared.

"WILL YOU SHUT UP? JUST GIVE ME SOME FUCKING COVER!" Will's voice wavered a little. Even he was scared.

It took about ten insanely tense minutes before Will finally summoned enough bravado to act on his words. Will slowly got up from his prone position, his eyes nervously watching the door and windows for any signs of movement. John and Travis watched as he stuck to the side of the house and arrived at the garage door. He looked around quickly before gesturing for Travis to move to the lift-up garage door as he opened the small access port on the side of the building.

Jared was still unsure of himself. Hesitantly, he pulled the radio from his belt and contacted the people in charge. "This is squad 5-4. We have three men down and armed hostiles. We need backup." He hung up the mic before glancing over at John. "So. Still wanna be one of us?"

John somehow managed to swallow the growing lump in his throat before he answered. "I... I don't know... I just don't know..."

"Hmph. Me neither." huffed Jared.

Just then, John and Jared heard several shots before the growl of a powerful engine came into being. The very air split as an obviously immense diesel engine revved up several times. The garage door suddenly crumpled outwards in a plume of sparks and the shriek of metal on metal. A large SUV pushed itself out from its nest, crushing Travis under the door as it broke free.

The SUV, a civilian MAV which was apparently well-cared for, spun on the pavement, its wheels squealing and the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. It shook on its massive suspension before lurching into drive and speeding down the riotous street.

Jared fired a few shots off from his pistol, the bullets impacting on the back of the vehicle and making dimples in the thick metal. His last shot shattered the rear window. Several vehicles that the Humanists had chosen to hold back in case there was a runner, sped by them after the MAV, men leaning out the sides of the speeding cars to get a shot at the fleeing utility vehicle.

"Well," said Will as he shakily strode back to the others, giving the crumpled door a wide berth, "Come on. They died for the cause. Let's make the other freaks pay with their lives. This night is far from over."

**

Eldora Resort, West of Denver, Colorado

2018 Hours, August 18** th ***, 2052*

"I schwear, thaaat night still hauntsch me...I did terrible thinsch..." slurred John, his eyes downcast and full of dreaded shame.

"Those first few days were awful," began Owen, who was still rather sober, "I remember the second day..."

**

Denver Suburbs, Colorado

1532 Hours, July 5** th **** 2050**

"Riots have now spread throughout the city, with almost everyone taking a side..."

"The governor HAS declared a state of emergency.."

"We are getting reports that the Denver police have opened fire on civilian protestors..."

"People are fleeing the city in droves for other states..."

"The police forces have been unable to contain the riots..."

"It has been confirmed that the National Guard are en route to enforce law..."

"The death toll is mounting.."

"The question circling the globe is; is this WW3?"

The television spat its damning sounds to deaf ears too focused on the task at hand to pay them any heed. The images on the set showed riots wracking the now shell-shocked city, fire and blood present in equal and disturbing frequency in the streets of the region. Inside the same room that was bordered in neutral toned walls and a single window overlooking the street below, the 12th Expeditor Contingent of the UN American Department were prepping for another night out on the raging town.

The air vibrated with mild electrical currents as they powered on the lead-lined power packs, their mild shrilling dying down to a mere buzz in a few seconds. Owen flexed his fingers and ran the HUD diagnostic. All systems showed green and he blinked the diagnostic away. He made a fist and straightened his arm while blink-clicking a rune that appeared to the bottom right of his vision. The metal 'petals' of his experimental MAW retracted and the magnetic-core 'anvil' started glowing faintly as the capacitor began to transfer power. He checked that the charge was optimal before he hit the rune again. The glow retreated from the MAW and the weapon retracted back into its protective over-layer until it was called upon again. If everything went according to plan, it wouldn't need to be.

To his right, the new inductees were making themselves ready for the mission. Sasha was reassembling her G36 with all the attention to detail of a serial killer intent on murder.Though she was fairly new to the armour, Owen thought it suited her, even if she didn't think it did. She finished, sliding a magazine in place and flicking the safety on. Sasha's sister was busy throwing scavenged medical gear into a tote bag, her 'apprenticeship' with one of Owen's friends having payed off quite nicely. Lily was now the new squad medic and it was agreed she managed it well by all of her 'patients'. She threw a bottle of Nu-skin inside the bad before zipping it up and grabbing her own assault rifle from the counter. Not wanting to be caught staring, Owen switched his gaze over to his non-coms.

Warren was messing around with his armour, putting the final touches on his freshly-issued stealth system. He screwed the final receptor into position on his left arm before starting the subroutines. He blinked from reality for a moment before reappearing a few feet from where he stood, now grasping a M700. Marcus, always the prepared one, had actually finished stripping his armour down to the last servo and was starting to reverse the process. Sam was helping him put it back together, each piece getting put perfectly where it belonged with a smooth snap.

On the other side of the room, Tyler was helping Paul slide a new battery pack, his other having been punctured by a ricochet the other day, into the slot at the small of his back. It made a definitive click and began powering up, Paul letting out a sight of relief as the weight of the armour was lessened.

Tracer and Auburn were at the airport helping Tom to clear his chopper for flight while Luke was sitting fully armoured on the couch staring in the direction of, but not watching, the television as the news was broadcast to the receiver and displayed on the screen. Another few minutes and they would be the most combat-capable group in the state.

The team was inside a 'ready room' that Owen had purchased using fake identification a year back, a small one bedroom condo on the fourth story of a complex on the eastern edge of the city. He strode around to the bedroom, running a hand on the beige walls. It was barely furnished, a bed and dresser being the only significant objects in the room. He sat down on the bed and began his normal pre-skirmish ritual. He reached within his pocket and drew out his lucky amulet.

The amulet was really a set of old Canadian dog tags, the bottom half long since having snapped off and lost. The name engraved upon the metal had been once clear and precisely stamped into its grey surface, but what was left of it now was worn down and barely decipherable, the tag being smoothed over by nervous rubbing and chafing. The chain was still attached to the tag and unwound as he pulled it from his pocket. It dangled loosely from his hand before he gathered it and replaced it in his palm.

Owen made a quick glance around to make sure he was alone before clutching the tag in his hand, being careful not to bend the thin metal under his increased grip. He tilted his head slightly downwards in supplication and uttered the same phrase that he had every day for the last five years, his grip on the tag tightening ever so slightly.

"Ego Memor." I remember.

"Sir?" interrupted Marcus, starting Owen and making him fumble his talisman for a split second before he caught it again.

"Yes sergeant?" coughed Owen, attempting to hide the tags behind his body and away from Marcus's scanning blue eyes.

"We're ready to move out now. I just came to check on you." He glanced at Owen's clenched fist as he made to secret the tags away again in a pocket, completely unsure if he had interrupted something or not. "Are you alright?"

"Er- Yes Marcus, I'm fine. Let's get going then. We need to meet the governor in half an hour." He slipped the pieces of metal into a small pouch of his webbing and tapped the pocket twice for good luck. Marcus, choosing to be oblivious, shrugged and turned back to the others who were now standing up and getting ready to move out.

The squad straightened noticeably as Owen entered the room, all of them falling into attention. They had grabbed their weapons and the television had been shut off just a few seconds before. The murmur of running capacitors was the only sound as Owen looked over each Pheonician in turn. He gave the occasional nod or made sure equipment was fastened properly as he made his rounds. When he came to the last two, the newest members, he paused.

The two sisters stood only slightly off posture, their arms off centre and eyes slightly downcast instead of the moderately upward gaze that the others were showing. He was impressed. They had moulded nicely to the cast set by the Expeditor program several years ago.

The Expeditor program, developed by the UN when the need for a specialist group of soldiers to run missions under the noses of structured governments was needed, had always been a specialist group. Only the brightest stars from training facilities around the globe were chosen to join their vaunted ranks, but a lot the rank and file was been up of people deemed worthy of the honour by the contingent commanders over the years. Such inductions of common people were common and, at any given time, made up about 1/3 of the Expeditor members' actual numbers. The inductees received training when they could in between and during missions for anything that they needed and were expected to meet the requirements of a semi-annual test issued by the high brass of the program to the squad leaders. If a recruit could not meet the requirements, they were discharged and practically told to screw off, their usefulness having come to an end. A plane was chartered, if it needed to be, and they were sent home. RTS was common phrase used in reference used in just such a circumstance; Returned to Sender. That said, there were still contingents that only recruited from the professional training programs, the premise being that they would at least know how to handle themselves, but most followed the 'replace as you go' mindset.

It went without saying that Owen disagreed with taking only trained personnel under his wing. He thought more or less along the path that some people are born knowing how to fight and that they could truly excel if given the chance. With his own motley crew of soldiers, he felt that he had been correct in his train of thought. What they, the possible applicants, initially lacked in professional training could be and was easily filled in by any number of drills and training exercises, not to mention mission experience, until they had a level of experience equal or greater than that of a program graduate. What he noticed the most about selecting aspiring persons, however, was that each individual in his squad had a unique talent or role that he found was lacking in any individual that was fresh from a training centre.

Paul, for example, had been a gun for hire in New Zealand before Owen had met him and asked if he wanted a job. He could do anything that a trained Expeditor could, but he had a supreme eye for sniping that surpassed anything that Owen had ever seen before. He was, as Sam put it, a Michelangelo with a rifle and an Aussie accent. Paul could take shots that Owen would never leave to anybody else. As a result of Paul's past experience, Owen could effectively boast a good observer and support soldier that otherwise may have been just a common grunt in power armour should he have chosen a graduate.

Warren. Now he was a rare case the likes of which was bizarre even by the 12th's standards. He had once been a trained hitman that had done some... misdeeds before he had been hunted down and captured. Owen had spoken out for him when push came to shove and had gained an unparalleled close quarters combat specialist in return. The trust between them had slowly grown over the years, and either could say that they had owed the other their life on more than one occasion. Now, he was the squad scout and leading cloak and dagger authority for the entire American detachment of Expeditors. The rest of the squad saw him as melancholy and an angry pessimist, but Owen knew it was his past that had caused it and let that lay where it had fallen, putting up with his hate for the chain of command and the occasional barbed insult.

Owen had met Marcus in Toronto during a celebration and had offered him a job. At the time, he had had no idea why he had done so, but it was apparent now that it had been a good choice. Marcus now filled the role of the usually kindhearted second in command, holding equal rank as Warren under Owen. He was an ideal soldier in every respect, having gone through a course of training at Trexton after being offered a position in the 12th, but he also knew his way around squad morale. He was the one to offer a word of encouragement or to deliver the occasional joke at just the right time to get a smile or silent laugh. In essence, he was the force that balanced out Warren's grave remarks and observations. His inception, however, being the first fur allowed into the program, had caused some ripples of varying topics.

Owen had had few problems with making them meet the required standards, but one thing had needed some significant changing; the armour. Though at first a digitigrade morph had posed a problem for the logistics branch of the Expeditors, they had overcome it after a few months of experimentation. Each suit in the 12th could be refitted almost at the click of a button to harbour the different leg configurations. The people in Research and Development had decided to make the servo-muscle bundles smaller after Owen's somewhat odd request. As a result, they were now capable of changing stance in a matter of minutes. Mind you, some parts had to be manually moved or removed, but they were a fitting solution to the problem.

The helmets had been a completely different affair, though. As it were, the normal human helmets were far too short nosed to contain a morph's skull configuration, so the researchers had designed a completely new helmet. They were far more spacious inside than the regular variety, being designed with more 'fur-friendly' controls and safety functions, which allowed practically any fur to wear it and be comfortable. The ears were held in a set of ridges that rose up a little ways from the top of the helmet. Since the size was an issue, the armour there was cut down considerably to allow for reasonable head movement without baring the ears to conditions outside of the suit. They were only issued to the actual morphs themselves, being impractical and unnecessary for a human.

The social aspect of Owen's inclusion of gene projects had proven more difficult to overcome. As a result from his offering Marcus the job all those years ago, he had been seen as somewhat of an outcast by the more gracious members of the Expeditors and as a despicable sympathizer by the not-so-gracious ones. The only reason that he had gotten away with his controversial job offer was that, as of the night he had asked Marcus to join, furs were recognized as full citizens in Canada. That little tidbit of political 'correctness' had opened the doors of the program significantly and allowed him to sign Marcus on. Before they had gone off the record a few months ago, the last time that Owen had checked, it was noted that one in every ten enlisted people in the Expeditor program were furs. The 12th had the most, obviously, but others had seen their merit and the specialized armour had become almost commonplace. That was all history now, though.

"Well," began Owen, clearing his throat, "Is everyone ready?"

Nods and grunts of assent coursed through the assembly. Warren shrugged. "We're as ready as we will ever be, sir, but that isn't saying much."

"I suppose not," agreed Owen. "but I am sure that all of you will perform well. Let's get this over with. The governor needs to catch a plane."

They exited the small condominium with their guns held at the ready, any relaxation of the past minutes evaporating in the heat of coming combat. They proceeded down the old set of stairs that ran through the centre of the building, foregoing the elevator as it had been broken long before Owen had purchased the room in the partially run-down building. The wallpaper flashed by as they made for the front door to the building. An empty night watch desk lay vacant immediately left of the door, the guard probably having decided against working for the foreseeable future and instead focusing on his own personal safety.

Two vehicles awaited them outside. One was a large GM van that had seen better days. Rust flaked off of its black exterior and the bumper was dented and marred from a past life full of angry driving. The livery of a Private Military Company, or PMC, that had been carefully fabricated by Sam, was emblazoned on its windowless side to aid in the disguise. The other vehicle was a simple Ford pickup with an extended cab and short box, likewise painted black with the same logo repeated on the hood and doors. Both had been purchased under false pretences and had been in use for little over two months by the Expeditors and had subsequently been repainted a dozen times. It was the fourth batch of similar vehicles that they had used since going rogue, their need for inconsistency paramount to remaining undetected.

They piled into the vehicles , Marcus and Warren taking the van with Paul, Sam, Tyler and Lily as support. They had opted to make a backup squad in case things turned bad, sort of a fast-response unit. They would follow Sasha, Luke, and Owen as they provided a much more personal presence closer to the governor as they evacuated him from the region.

Owen settled into the driver's seat and started up the diesel-electric engine. Beside him, Sasha knocked the seat back a few clicks and reclined as Luke sprawled out in the back seat. The Ford let our a spattering of low growls as he slipped it into drive and pulled out onto the road. No traffic awaited him as he gunned the engine and made for the capitol building that was about ten miles distant.

"You ready?" He asked.

Sasha's expression was unreadable as she answered, hidden as it was behind the helmet's tinted visor. "Yes."

Owen raised an eyebrow, the sentiment lost due to his own shrouded face. Her answer said yes, but he could sense that there was more than a little nervousness ringing through it. "Don't worry. We'll be fine."

She nodded and looked out the side window. "I hope so."

"Well," yawned Luke from behind the other two, "Seein as 'dis is jus' an escort mission, do 'ya min' if I take a lil' nap on tha way 'dere?"

Owen looked back into the rear view mirror, watching as Luke stretched out onto the bench seat and propped his head up against a door. "Whatever. If it means you'll be more awake later, go ahead." His words were lost. Luke was already starting to snore.

"I wish I could do that." sighed Sasha.

"You and me both," shrugged Owen, "but I'd never wake up in time again."

She said nothing as she resumed her window-side vigil. Owen shook his head and watched the road. People slammed doors and closed windows as they retreated back into buildings as they drove by, others staring and looking for all the world like brainless cows before the slaughter.

It was when they were about seven blocks from the capitol that he felt something amiss, something not quite right in the air. That's when it hit him; there were people running. He was passing dozens of people as they sought to make haste out of the area ahead. Some of them were tarnished with the occasional crimson splash of colour on their clothing and hair. Something was definitely wrong. Then he noticed the wall of people slowly advancing down the street, their mannerisms stoically different from those that they were apparently assaulting. They were mad about something.

From where he had stopped, Owen saw a molotov cocktail being thrown by one of the men in front of the crowd before it slipped from his sight and smashed. Where it had landed he had no clue, but seeing it confirmed what he had thought was going on. Civilians were again taking up arms after the previous night's massed rioting and looting. And judging by the crumpled and bloody forms of several gene projects near to the group, they were not friendly.

Owen let out a curse and tried to wake Luke up. He turned the mic reception on his helmet to maximum and opened a private channel. "Luke, wake up: hostiles spotted!" Luke grumbled something as he came to and readied his rifle, his ears ringing.

"What now?" asked Sasha as she watched the glittering arc of another firebomb before it landed with a crash on a thankfully empty taxi. The yellow cab was glazed over in fire within a moment and a woman screamed as she ran past clutching a child in her arms.

"We get the hell out of here..." he muttered as he turned down a side road, the van following closely behind. The way ahead was blocked by a dumpster that had been wrongly placed but Owen just hit it and kept going. The metal dumpster screeched as it was pushed aside to bang off of the building on their left. The V8 in the Ford revved as he exited out the far side of the alley and the two vehicles emerged onto another street. Sadly, this one was as safe as the last one.

Several people ran as they saw the truck pull out of the alley, clearing a path for the Expeditors as they sought to find a way through. That's when the police decided to show up. Several cruisers and a SWAT truck screamed up and stopped just short of the wall of rioters, officers and SWAT members disembarking and setting up a security cordon with their vehicles. It was only a matter of seconds before teargas was dispersed into the crowd, many people falling over in coughing fits. The crowd recoiled, but was persistent and tried again to advance on the line of officers.

Somebody along the security line must have lost their nerve, because the echoing retort of a shotgun sounded over the shrill voices and roars of the crowd. A man at the front edge of the group fell over, curling into a foetal position and sobbing heavily. That broke the back of the crowd and it quickly began to melt away in the face of the armed police officers. Owen spotted what appeared to be a gathering of high-ranking officers around the back of a cruiser and stopped the truck, slipping it into park.

"Hey, wait!" cried Sasha as he made to exit the vehicle, "where are you going?"

"I'm going to see if we can get a police escort to the capitol." he replied almost leisurely.

"Hey, now wait right' 'dere a moment!" protested Luke, now fully awake. "Are ya forgettin' that we're deserters? We're worse than AWOL!"

"Yeah, I know. But I doubt they do." If they could have seen his face, they would have noticed a smirk as he closed the door behind him. Then he touched the squad mic and informed the rest of the squad of what he was doing.

It was only when he was about four metres away did the men spot him and watch him as he approached. He saw more than a few officers reach for their pistols when they saw him, but he remained calm. Owen held his hands, palms open, in front of him to show that he was unarmed. He had left his rifle back in the truck where Sasha and Luke now looked on with rapt attention.

"Woah! Hold it there! Who are you?" questioned a younger constable, probably in his early twenties, as he intercepted Owen before he could reach the more important DPD officers. His hand was on the hilt of his service pistol, the safety strap of his holster unlatched. His blue uniform was partially hidden underneath a heavy vest and bunches of tactical gear that hung loosely from hooks and belts. In place of the usual cap he now wore a black riot helmet with the visor up and out of the way. He was green, noted Owen as he saw a dozen small mistakes in the man's attire and equipment placement.

"I'm Sgt. Tredson with the Talon Private Military Company. Me and my men were hired to escort the governor out of the capitol to the airport. I was wondering if I could get a police escort to the building from here; it would sure make passing that," he gestured behind the man to where the final few rioters were dispersing as he lied through his teeth, "a lot easier."

The police officer looked slightly taken aback. "I..er.. that's not for me to say. You'll have to speak with the Captain." He stood aside and walked with Owen to the small circle of men clustered over a tablet that had been placed on the trunk of a cop car. It was obviously some sort of briefing but Owen didn't care. The way he saw it, the police force would prove to be inconsequential within the month.

"Sir," said the officer that had greeted Owen, "there's a man here requesting a police escort. Claims he's from that PMC that the governor hired."

The oldest man at the assembly, Captain Rhineholt if Owen's research was correct, barely looked up from where he slouched over the tablet. "Ah, Mr. Tredson, I'm guessing?" Owen nodded. "Good. The governor just gave us a call and he's wondering where the hell you are." He stood up and faced Owen.

"I hope you guys are worth it. If these riots don't stop any time soon you may find that a lot of people are willing to pay for protection." His eyes caught on the insignia on Owen's armour and he found himself praying that the man didn't realize why it may have looked so familiar. They had repainted their power armour for the job, each brandishing one of the false PMC's logos on their chest, but Owen knew more than a cursory glance by someone with knowledge of the Expeditor's resources would know them instantly for what they were. "Ron here and Follers will escort you. Good luck, sergeant."

"Thank you sir." said Owen with the duck of his head, releasing a breath he had not known he had been holding.

"Well, this way, sir." said the officer that had intercepted him, "I'm Ron and I guess you'll be following me then." Ron was obviously none too happy about the situation and it showed.

"Thank you, Constable."

**

"Where the hell 'ave you been?" shouted governor Bill Montgomery, the smell of alcohol wafting from his breath. The balding man had been finishing the last sip of amber rum from a crystal goblet when Owen had walked in past the receptionist and announced himself, an almost empty bottle of it precariously perched on the edge of his paper-strewn desk. Now, however, he was fumbling for his jacket that lay on a wooden coat rack by the door as Owen stood at rapt attention.

The way to the office had been plagued by incessant security checks and police big-wigs demanding to see his authorization. He had bit back the urge to pull the 'I'm an Expeditor, let me through!" routine and had handed them all the same data chip that he had made earlier that very day. It had passed inspection, and Owen was more than a little smug in knowing how easily he could manipulate the government. Now he stood before the governor, who was apparently enjoying an 'end of days' drink.

"My apologies," said Owen, watching as the man stumbled slightly as he wound a flabby appendage through one of the jacket's arms, "we ran into some crowds on the way here. Sir, are you drunk?"

"Pah! I wish I was. I only had four glasses. Mind you, they were in quick succession and that is a particularly... strong... vintage. Unjust if you ask me: the world's going to hell and I have people asking if I am drunk." replied the governor, grabbing the remainder of the rum before following Owen somewhat unsteadily out the door.

"Ah, well, I meant no offence, sir." said Owen hastily, grabbing the rum from his hand and setting it on the burgundy carpet beside the door. The man looked more than a little disappointed.

"If you get me out of here in one piece, I'll wave it off." he grumbled, not grabbing for the drink again and instead following Owen out of his office. It seemed he knew he would need his head in the time to come.

They proceeded outside to where the governor's limo, a black, 'congress-style' affair with darkened windows and silver trim, was idling on the back access way. Owen opened the rear door for him as he clambered inside with a slight amount of difficulty. When he was seated, Owen walked around the back of the vehicle and slid in through the opposite door, taking his seat next to the governor. The limo pulled out from behind the Capitol and joined the waiting convoy with only the sound of silence echoing about inside.

In total, there were nine vehicles in the entourage bound for the airport. The limo itself was in the dead centre and preceded and proceeded by the Expeditors' vehicles, the truck out front with the van following. Immediately after the van was a police cruiser with lights flashing and two police outriders on motorcycles. The pattern was repeated in front of the truck and in the opposite direction. They made good speed for a few minutes, but it was not to last. A couple of minutes after they had left the capitol headed east, the governor's enemies reared their ugly heads and spat death at him along a long stretch of road that made up the final leg of the journey. Buildings flanked either side and the street was somewhat narrower here than it had been before. It was the same spot Owen would have chosen if it was him attacking.

Then the shit hit the fan. Two bombs went off and punched holes in the convoy's security. Both had detonated mere milliseconds from each other and had been placed slightly off-centre on the roads. They proved effective, if crude. The first bomb took out the lead motorcycle, the rider being flung off to land in a crumpled pile on the cement as the other vehicles drove by unabated. The second destroyed the police car at the back of the convoy. It slewed to one side and stopped, the officers inside relatively unscathed. Well, until several armed men shot them down as they made to exit the crippled cruiser that is.

People dressed primarily in street clothing with green armbands were pouring out from side alleys and buildings, all of them armed with one type of firearm or another. A red H in the centre of the armband denoted who they were: Humanists. Judging by the fact that the street had mostly been clear but a few moments before the explosions, Owen could safely say this was the ambush he had been expecting. Vehicle-crippling explosive charges and hidden gunmen was almost cliche to him now after a life full of them, but that did not make them any less lethal.

Gunshots began to spank off the chassis of the limo and Owen threw the governor to the floor. Gunmen were scattered about on the rooftops of nearby two-storey buildings and along blocked-off alleyways. The glass was bullet resistant, but he wasn't about to take any chances. He readied his own gun, a finely tooled Sabre 190 'Scythe' pattern assault rifle that had been developed just the year before. "Schiesse..." he muttered under his breath, the word itself a habit picked up from an old friend.

The explosive blast of the third bomb was largely ineffective, having been detonated prematurely and as a result only peppering the remaining motorcyclist with detritus. Owen keyed the comm in his helmet. "All outrider units, break off and get out of here. This is getting too hot for bikes, over."

It was several moments before he got a reply and when it came it was in shallow breaths, the man on the other end obviously panicking. "Y-Yes sir." Owen caught a glimpse out the front of the limo of the lead bike pulling away. He hoped that they made it. He really doubted they would.

Owen, despite being shot at and assaulted by the governor's whining, as the man lay on the floor in a ragged mess, was calm. He had been expecting this and its commencement only served to prove that he had not been overly cautious. He switched radio frequencies. "This is Shield-one. We need alpha sigma ASAP. How copy, over?"

A terse reply came from the channel, the coarse voice unmistakably Tracer. "This is Arrow. Alpha sigma in two mics, over."

"Good. Looking forward to it." said Owen before cutting the channel off. Outside, buildings and signs flew by as the remainder of the convoy gained speed in an effort to remove itself from the crossfire. Lead was now peppering the remaining vehicles like hail pelted a tin roof.

Owen had to hand it to the driver of the limo; he was well trained. He hadn't hit anything or panicked yet, which was more than could be said for a good number of times Owen had driven under these circumstances. If they made it, he decided he would have to shake the man's hand and congratulate him.

He was suddenly launched sideways as they hit something. More specifically, as something hit them. A truck, more specifically a delivery truck bearing a Purolator logo, had come speeding down a side street and had rammed into the driver's side of the limo with a tremendous crash, buckling steel like wet paper. The vehicles, now conjoined, rocketed diagonally across the road that the convoy had been on and grated to a halt partially inside of a glass-fronted boutique with a tremendous crash. Owen and the governor were thrown about inside, the governor cursing profusely, but most of the speed had been bled off on the way into the store and they were unharmed save for a few bruises now making themselves known.

Dust and glass billowed about and settled around the crash as Owen, now wonderfully sore, threw open the door and leaped out with his gun trained on the cab of the vehicle that had hit them. The entire front of the truck was a mangled ruin and the limo had fared no better, its side dented inwards at a completely haphazard angle. The entirety of the wreck looked like a drooping 'T'. The drivers of both were dead. The driver of the offending pickup had a green band about her arm. "Come on!" Shouted Owen into the darkened depths of the limo's interior, "We have to get into another vehicle. Hurry!"

Outside, the other Expeditor vehicles had stopped and their inhabitants spilled out in an orderly fashion to take up covering positions for the duo. Gunfire roared back and forth between them and the attacking men. The following cruiser screeched to a halt behind the van, creating a semicircle about the storefront, and the officers joined the fight with what little arms they had. The lead police cruiser had been ruined, hit by another vehicle, but the car had not been reinforced as the limo had. It and the remains of an SUV were crumpled into a brick building on the other side of the road. There was no time to check for survivors, so they didn't.

Montgomery staggered out of the gaping door and leaned against the side of the destroyed limousine. "What the hell was that?" he gasped, his heart racing.

"A truck, now come on!" urged Owen as he tugged the man by the arm towards the Expeditor's truck. Several neat holes were drilled into its body, but it was still in far better shape than the vehicle they had just emerged from.

Red 'tags' appeared in front of Owen's field of view and he practically threw the governor into the side of the truck as bullets whizzed by overhead. He sidled up to the front end of the truck to where Sasha was, careful not to let any part of him show from behind his cover. He popped his upper body up over the hood and let out a trio of shots. He was rewarded by one of the red tags flickering out and one less gun firing at him.

"Well, I was right" said Owen over the din of combat into his mic.

"Right about what?" grunted Sasha in reply.

"I was right when I said that this wouldn't be easy."

"No shit," she hissed, firing off a few rounds around the front of the truck, "I've come to expect that with you. Nothing is ever easy."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked as a close shot zipped by his helmet, forcing him back into cover before he could fire again. More red tags disappeared as the rest of the Expeditors sought to create a sufficient opening for them to remount the vehicles.

"Nothing. Just an observation." she said, slamming another magazine into the recently vacated slot on the underbelly of her weapon. Somewhere off to their right, Luke cursed as his gun jammed.

"Ah. Okay." He pulled a grenade from his chest webbing and lobbed it backwards over his head. It detonated with a satisfying bang and a trio of tags melted away from the squad's communal awareness network.

Sasha leaned out of cover to shoot again, but was bowled over onto her back as soon as she brought her gun to bear. "FUCK!" she shouted as she tried to scrabble back into the protective shelter of the wheel well.

Owen sprayed the rest of his magazine, about twenty rounds, in a fully-automatic fusillade over the truck, causing the fast-approaching enemy personnel to duck behind various bits of cover scattered about on the other side of the street. He dropped his assault rifle and grabbed Sasha's arm, pulling her the rest of the way into cover. He felt his heart skip a beat. "Are you alright? Where were you hit?"

She shook off his hand as her tail curled close to her huddled form on the pavement beside her, the only thing that betrayed her emotion. "I'm fine. I think it was a ricochet." The metal plate on her chest was dented slightly just to the left of her heart, a gouge proceeding upwards and further left ingrained in the metal. The angle of the offending scar was off to be a direct hit, angled too far upwards, and was more than likely a ricochet. Owen was glad that it wasn't a straight-on shot. The armour was good, but he didn't want to find it wanting. He patted her shoulder and picked up his fallen Sabre 190 and slammed home another magazine with a definitive click.

Behind him, the governor started hyperventilating, his breaths coming in short, rapid bursts. He was panicking. More red tags blipped into existence as yet another batch of enemies crawled from the woodwork. They needed to move. Now.

The opening was finally made when a helicopter appeared overhead and began raining death down upon the attackers. Tom brought it to a hover above the miniature battlefield, the relatively new UH-3 Navajo helicopter creating a mild downwash that swept across the ad-hoc perimeter around the store. One of the side doors was open and out of it Tracer leaned over a light machine gun as it chugged and hurled countless bullets down on the heads of the now retreating hostiles. Beside him, Auburn was meticulously picking off targets with his rifle. It was a glorious spectacle.

"There's your hole, Colonel, I suggest you take it. We'll cover you to the 'port." came Tom's voice over the squad's intercom.

"Thanks. Squad! Mount up, double time!" ordered Owen, relief washing over him as he ushered Sasha and the governor into the truck. "Luke! You're driving, let's go!"

"Yessir!" Came the terse reply as Owen threw himself into the cab. He sat in the back seat with the governor as Sasha resumed her post in the front passenger seat. She had rolled down the window and the muzzle of her G36 blazed with brilliant fire and a deep hammering of pressure and sound as she fired at the few stubborn Humanists not deterred by the presence of the chopper. Luke hurled his armoured form into the driver seat and slammed the door heavily behind him. The roar of the engine replaced the sound of gunfire as the truck pulled away from the crash site. Behind them the van and remaining police cruiser followed suite, all the vehicles baring the scars of the firefight, and left the wrecked street behind them with bodies and bullet casings littering the area. Overhead, the helicopter hovered like a watchful eagle over its errant youth.

"Itsa good thin' that we installed 'dose armoured plates when we did, huh boss?" said Luke as he gripped the wheel a bit too tightly. The vehicle lurched heavily around a corner and the passengers slid slightly in their seats, seat belts not even given consideration. Owen had learned the hard way that they don't help someone in power armour worth a damn.

"Yeah," agreed Owen, leaning back into the bench seat and letting his rifle fall from his hands, "that was good thinking Luke. It probably saved our asses back there. I imagine more than one shot was stopped by the plates. The tires seemed to work well, too."

"Bah. I knew 'dey would." Silence descended both inside and outside the truck as the last of the hostiles slipped out of range.

Sasha shifted into a better position in her seat and she let out a pent-up breath. Her tail flicked in her seat, the white fur brushing across the console. Beside him, the governor laughed suddenly. Owen and Sasha turned to look at him. "What?" asked Sasha, her voice having all the patience of a starved man trying to get a meal.

"Nothing. Just happy to still be alive is all." replied the governor. Sasha looked at Owen who just shrugged, sure it was something else but not willing to press the matter.

**

The airport was in a whirlwind of activity as people sought to be free of the city as the riots grew progressively worse and a death toll began to raise eyebrows. Ahead of the chugging vehicles was a plane specifically reserved for the governor. They had gotten to the airport without any further attacks and passed through the security gate with only a second glance at the ruined vehicles. They were home free.

The truck's brakes froze up as it stopped just short of the private jet's entrance ladder. It was a newer Boeing 320, its large wings and swept-back tale dominating the hangar. It was a finished in a plain white and its engines were just starting to start up, filling the area with a reverberant hum.

"Well," said Governor Bill Montgomery as he started up the ladder, any outward drunkenness long since gone, "thank you for all of your help, gentlemen. Without you, I would probably be dead right now." The Expeditors were gathered at the base of the ladder in a mild semicircle. "And don't worry Pheonicians, I will make sure I hold to my policies."

The squad staggered almost physically, slightly aghast at the fact that he knew who they were. This drew a laugh from the governor. "You knew?" asked Owen, carefully weighing his options. They could kidnap him or kill him to prevent their imminent capture or execution. Or, they could see where this went and play it from there.

"Yes, Mr. Smith, I knew." answered the man, leaning on one of the railings. "Not at first, mind you. I had my suspicions since you showed up in my office, but your friend's tail was what gave you away."

Owen's hand tightened noticeably on his rifle, as did those of every other Expeditor on their own respective armaments. "Oh, don't worry," said the governor, spreading his arms to his sides, "I won't report you. But I also know that the only reason that you helped me is because I had been pulling for a gene project fairness bylaw, which, by the way, I will continue to ask for in light of this endeavour."

"Thank you, sir." said Owen. Everyone in the assembly relaxed again. The governor turned to go inside of the plane, but Sasha spoke up.

"Sir! I-we, well, wish you luck, sir." she barked.

He cast a look back at them as the ladder backed away automatically and the squad was forced to part as it passed by. "Thank you. And best of luck to you as well. Lord knows, we're all going to need it."