Five men in uniform shuffled their boots in the ashes of war that blew around the Vast Empire garrison’s rally field. VE Army 2nd Lieutenant Graham Minn. The officer, a stern, disciplined man in his late thirties, watched carefully as the AT-OT crunched awkwardly down the highway. No one used it anymore, so it only had to step over abandoned cars and skirt around craters. In a pair of sand-bagged bunkers astride the highway, a squad of grim-faced troopers hoisted RPG’s and cocked machine gun emplacements. A corporal stepped forwards, raised his hand, E-11 grasped loosely in his other, unafraid of the thirty-ton walker stomping towards him.

It crunched to a stop before the checkpoint, and the cockpit’s crew ladder descended. A lightly armored man slid down the ladder and walked over to the junior non-comm, saluted and handed the man his datapad. After a returned salute and a quick look, the man handed the ‘pad back and waved the tank through. The co-pilot accepted the device and swung back up the ladder.

Another minute of metal joints crunching and screeching, and the APC arrived at the garrison. Three squads of Army troopers clambered out of the tank and formed up, E-11’s at port arms and awaiting orders. Minn saluted them and waved them inside; the five men behind him, mostly senior troopers, stepped forwards to lead the new arrivals into the base. Quietly, a half-dozen men in scuffed and battle-dusted Stormtrooper armor formed up behind the Army soldiers - all wore crimson helmets and had relaxed postures, held rifles that were longer than the standard-issue ‘11s and bulkier.

“Welcome to Eriadu Sector 7 Garrison Alpha-1, Blackjack,” Minn said to the most prestigious units to have arrived.

“Good to be here,” said the foremost man, Imperial insignia daubed on his left shoulder pauldron, sergeant’s bars on his right. A combat knife hung in a sheath suspended at his shoulder, and a heavy handgun was on his belt. A grenade launcher was slung on his back, held in place underneath a heavy backpack. “Where do you want Blackjack? We’re itching for some action after that trip.”

“Thought you might,” the Lieutenant said. “We need a patrol going through the downtown area, try to keep the restlessness down. I’ll send Corporal Hagler as a guide.”

“Happy to oblige. Blackjack, move it out!” Gates ordered the Stormtroopers. A man wearing corporal’s bars jogged over, E-11 clutched in his hands, and saluted the lieutenant and the Blackjack SL.

“Corporal Hagler here, sir. I’m to by your guide?”

“Lead on, trooper,” Gates said, and the Stormtroopers formed a double-file behind the army trooper.

*** *** *** *** ***

“We’ve got a shipment of spice comin’ in, boss,” said one man.

“Good, good, captain,” the ‘boss’ said. “Willy, what’re the Imperial pigs doing today?”

“One shuttle up, carrying troops, same shuttle down, carrying supplies. One walker in today, three squads of army troopers and some Stormies.”

“Stormies?” the ‘boss’, Parner Ral, Eriadu’s smuggler-captain, asked. “The hell they doin’ here?”

“No idea, but sources suggest that it’s one of the Empire’s ‘Elite.’ Rosters say Blackjack from Wildcard,” the smuggler security man said.

“Wildcard...they were here during the invasion. They were the tip of the spear,” Ral mused. “Why would they be here?”

“Finish the job?” suggested one captain, stubbing out a cigarette. “Crush what’s left of Eriadu’s spirit?”

“Hmm. Willy. Have a group of guys take a look-see when those Stormies go out. I wanna know what they’re doing here and make sure it ain’t about us.”

The man did as ordered, turning and leaving the smugglers’ den, grabbing a couple of scrawny ground-crewmen and ordering them after him.

*** *** *** *** ***

“So we’ll be patrolling the downtown area, sir,” Hagler said. “It’s a little rough. Every once in a while, some one’ll take a shot at us, and rarer, some malcontents will try to blow us up or somethin’.”

He led the way around the garrison, pointing out various officers and troopers going about their business as they made their way to the west exit of the facility, and the nearest area to their patrol circuit.

OOC:

Okay, story be up. See the story competition for the basic overview, but for now do some CD to get to the patrol. Make sure to include VIVID descriptions.

”The Area”

Vast Empire military forces had held sway over Eriadu for months by the time the infamous “Area” had begun to emerge as a trouble spot in the most troublesome city on the planet. A sprawling borough in the capital city, it was the largest and most densely populated. Over four million people lived in a 107 square mile area, and few of them liked the Empire. Lowlifes, thieves, fugitives, Republic sympathizers and resistance fighters found the Area a safe haven; they were almost never found and occasionally helped by the civilians in the Area. It wasn’t a good place to wear Imperial white.

*** *** *** *** ***
Corporal Hagler led the way from the outer checkpoint to a warehouse; more guards were there, but again, Hagler’s surrender of the datapad checked out and they were let inside. Mechanics and pilots were crawling over vehicles of various types; speeder bikes, swoops, tanks and transports. Along one wall, vehicles not in need of maintenance sat or hovered silently. Hagler showed his ‘pad to a Lieutenant with a datapad and the two men exchanged several words, before the Lieutenant made a mark on his datapad and pointed to the left wall of the building.

A pilot stood up at the officer’s signal and clambered into the pilot’s cabin. Two men, lower rank insignia but the same style of uniform, also entered into the vehicle. Hagler pointed at the action. “We’ll be taking that GX12 Hovervan into the Area.”

“The Area isn’t within walking distance?” Abalar asked.

“No; we’re the West-most base; we’re most responsible for the capital district and share part of the Area,” Hagler explained. “The Area is the largest and central district in the city; the VE’s got four major staging areas at the cardinal directions that are responsible for each major district; Capital - West, Starport - North, Residential - South, and Business - East. Each major garrison also has smaller fire bases in and around its designated district, and all four bases send patrols into the Area, as well. We’re taking a transport because the only way across to the other districts are bridges. All four districts connect to the Area, and each connects to its neighbors, and all of the bridges are heavily monitored.”

“There’s no base in the Area? Seems to me like that could be the main reason there’s so much trouble there,” Gates pointed out.

“The Area’s so much trouble, if we put a base in there, if things got shitty, we’d be a long way away from resupply,” Hagler said.

“True,” Gates said, and then climbed into the transport. “Let’s just get this show on the road.”

The rest of Blackjack piled into the vehicle, and the vehicle’s intercom kicked in after a moment. “Headed to the Area, eh?” asked the pilot, a heavy accent thickening his Basic. “Don’ pity ya laddies, me’n my  boys’ll stay nice an’ buttoned up inside our armor.”

With that statement, the transport rumbled off, the view of the outside environment changing rapidly on a small screen attached to the frontward wall of the passenger compartment. Unlike the walker Blackjack had spent a couple of hours on earlier to get to the West Eriadu City base, this was a hovercraft, and whizzed along smoothly, less inclined to bump and shake.

The ride was spectacularly uneventful; the Blackjacks and their single army guide kept to themselves, amusing themselves any way they could find; Gates split the twenty-minute ride between watching the last ten minutes of an old-timey “Western” with technology millenia old that he’d downloaded onto his datapad and piped directly into his HUD, and going over combat maneuvers that were commonly found in both army and Stormtrooper units. All at once, the van slid to a stop.

“We’re here, laddies,” the pilot said. “We’ll be sitting riiiight here for when ya’ come back.”

“Let’s move it out, then, Blackjacks,” Gates said crisply. The van’s rear ramp dropped and the Stormtroopers stomped out, guns at the ready.

*** *** *** *** ***
“Kid” Willy, one of Parner Ral’s chief Eriadu contacts and cat’s paws, nicknamed for his baby face and reckless manner, tugged his Limmie cap down over his eyes. A group of Stormtroopers and one of the hated VE Army soldiers clambered out of the assault van. Civilians rubbernecked at the arrival of the Stormtroopers, the bold statement of Imperial authority. Willy snorted and hawked a glob of spittle into the sewers, then tapped the hands-free comlink attached to his ear.

“You see ‘em, Moe?” asked the Kid.

“I gots ‘em, boss,” Moe replied, a jittery, nervous looking man with a fondness for spice and earrings. “Why we here agin?”

“Shuddup,” the Eriaduan muscle replied. “Nicky, ‘ow many o’ the crew you manage to round up?”

“Eight, boss, not countin’ me.”

“Good, good,” Willy replied. “That makes ten of us, nice’n’square.”

Moe’s voice whined over the link. “I’m here too, boss!”

“Shuddup, Moe!” Willy returned heatedly. “Quit your bitchin’! If shit gets serious, I want men who ain’t gonna quit on me at my back, not rot like you. Dammit, they’re moving.”

*** *** *** *** ***
“We’ll do a loop round a couple blocks. Down two blocks, cross five, up the two and walk straight back,” Hagler said. “Nice and inconsistent, but it covers somewhere in the prime area of patrol. Keeps us from getting predictable, sir.”

“Right, move it out, Blackjack.”
*** *** *** *** ***
Willy trailed the red-armored troopers; they weren’t hard to follow. Eriadu’s masses, especially in the Area, knew when to stay away from guns and authority, these Stormtroopers looked like they meant it more than the standard Army patrols did.

Willy drew a mental map of the Area in relation to Ral’s smuggling warehouses. “Aww shit.”

He tapped his link, opened up a connection to his men and his boss. “Boss.”

“Willy, what’s the word on the fascist pigs?”

“They’re on a bee-line direct for the warehouses, boss. Got a guide an’ everythin’. Want me to smoke ‘em good?”

There was silence on the link for a moment. Willy’s right hand nervously reached into his jacked and tapped the grip of his blaster pistol. A bead of sweat snuck from underneath the limmie cap and down behind his ear.

“Yeah,” Ral said. “Imperials dead is the only good type of those suckers. Kill ‘em all.”

*** *** *** *** ***
“Alright,” Hagler said, “That’s five blocks. Now we’ll turn left, head north -”

“GUN!” bawled Corvin, raising his E-45 and flicking the safety off. The gun-wielder, a muscular man with large tattoos on his forearms ducked into an open stall at the discrepancy in firepower.

“Come out with your hands in the air!” Gates yelled, activating his helmet’s megaphone and raising his own rifle. “By the order of the Empire-”

Gunfire rippled from across the street, another stall, and war came to the Area once more.

OOC:

Next post is up as promised, so get to the posting!

“Corvin’s down, Corvin’s down,” came the calm call across the squad link. Gates straight-armed a civilian with a club in his hands, not even bothering to see the flimsy human crumple under his armored fist.

“Lovely,” Garryll said icily. A laser bolt flickered a murderous red and splattered itself in a stall. “And the damn instigators of this shit-faced debacle are back.”

Hagler ducked another laser bolt and stayed down. A second later, a pair of hissing spheres arced from his position. “Gas, sir.”

The Army trooper had yanked a gas mask on and was pushing coughing, spluttering civilians out of the firefight. Gates gave him a moment, and then cut back into the squad channel.

“Blackjacks, weapons free, weapons free,” he barked. “All targets are marked as hostile. Kill anyone dead with a weapon. See if you can wound one, though.”

With a rapid blink, Gates’ HUD flickered from visual to the oranges and blues of infrared vision. Gunfire was brilliant yellow streaks on his eyesight, burning the afterimages into his retinas and making him spit curses. He centered the iron sights of his rifle on a target and let loose a burst of fire. The laser rounds tore through the only superficial cover the man was huddled behind, and his scope suggested from the rapidly changing color of orange to green that the target was dead, and only getting deader.

Pin-point fire flickered from the Blackjacks, and the enemy fire slackened a bit as they realized they’d lost the element of surprise and camouflage from the civilians they’d hoped would stick around and hinder the Stormtroopers.

Gates ducked into a stall, trying to monitor his squad and call out positions and act as a trooper in one smooth economy of motion. It was a challenge; it always had been to have adequate, never mind perfect situational awareness; war was a chaotic hell that he could barely make heads or tails of now, half a decade of service later.

“Nine o’clock!” yelled one of his men. Outside of battle, they’d play Sabbac and share jokes and drinks. In the chaos, he may not be able to identify the voice of a good friend he may or may not owe money. The thought didn’t slow him, that portion of his mind totally separate from the intertwined thoughts of Duty, Survival and Aggression that were fueled by the adrenaline pumping loudly in his eardrums.

The smoke-gas that the army soldier had thrown out was now dispersing, and the enemy fire redoubled again, trying to pin down the Stormtroopers with sheer mass of gunfire, capitalizing on their advantage of numbers to try and wear the better armed and trained soldiers down. Gates would have none of it, and scanned quickly across the street; a group of three enemies were firing military contraband rifles from inside a dirty shop.

Blackjack’s SL slung his rifle and withdrew the thick-barreled grenade launcher.  The archaic sights were incredibly low tech, and so was the weapon, just a tube that compressed air and launched a grenade up to a hundred meters. It couldn’t be EMP’d, it was durable and extremely reliable. The enemies were a scant ten meters away, and he adjusted the sights so they rested at the desired distance, checked the load and then snapped the gun shut.

“Grenade out!” he barked, and stood up from behind his cover, aiming by memory at the spotted position. The sights rested on the opening in the store and he pulled the trigger. A hollow, unintimidating THUNK, totally at odds with the screams and sizzling of laser bolts firing, bouncing and burning out, emanated from the weapon. “Pretty arc…”

The shop exploded in a fury of glass shards and flames as the launch-able frag grenade exploded the men inside and the store. A couple of the men firing rifles at them tried to make an effort to escape, intimidated by the firepower, but it only made them open to being cut down. The last of them desperately fought on, but now the numbers were against them, and they were hemmed in and cut down, one by one.

The first fell, shot in the throat as he poked his head out to aim; the man dropped, feet drumming spasmodically on the ground as he choked and tried to force more air through a charred throat. The next, taken by a lucky shot through the flimsy wooden stall, the bolt that took his life enough to char his brain, but without the energy to leave his skull. The second to last took three shots in the gut and one in the right shoulder, and as the final enemy turned to drag his comrade into cover, was almost bisected by the concentrated firepower of the Stormtroopers. Gates jumped from cover, certain they had all been killed or at least taken out of action. The gut-shot might have some life left in him, though.

*** *** *** *** ***
Kid Willy was still alive, if only for another minute or two. “Fuck!” he groaned weakly, dead right arm reflexively curled around the gaping, bleeding hole in his belly. What was left of Nicky, dead as dead can be, was draped over his legs, horrible blaster burns splattered over his torso. Dead, white eyes stared forever into the cold Eriaduan sunlight. Willy pathetically kicked his subordinate’s corpse off of him and reached for the blood-covered grip of his blaster pistol.

A heavy stomp crushed shards of glass, and the smuggler’s man twisted his neck to look at the disturbance. His vision greyed for a second, but snapped back into clarity after a couple of blinks. Six feet of armored white and crimson plastoid stared back at him through a T-visor. “Burn in hell, you Imp bastard,” he gasped, and pointed the pistol at the Stormtrooper’s face. The laser discharged, and its bright red bolt took the Stormtrooper in the face, smoke erupting from the injury.

“Ha…ha…ha,” he muttered, letting the pistol drop to his side. The Stormtrooper was still standing up.

In a single motion, the Imperial hooked his fingers under the chin of the helmet and pulled it off. Cold, blue eyes stared into his own, framed by a hard, angular face and a black buzz cut. The helmet, a bit of the left-cheek’s plastoid warped, dropped to the ground, and a moment later, Willy screamed in pain.

The pistol dropped from nerveless, broken fingers and those cold, blue eyes were suddenly only inches away from his own. He coughed up a bubble of blood, the thin stream of red mixing with saliva and trickling down his neck.

“Who do you work for?”

The question came suddenly for Willy, who was almost passing into the otherworld. The words bought a few seconds’ focus to the man’s eyes, and fury and defiance radiated from them.

“Go-“

*** *** *** ***

“-fuck yourself, you-“

Gates stood up as the man spat a messy glob of spittle and blood, the final insult falling pathetically onto his own chest as this last act of defiance spent the last of his life. Gates looked to rummage through either of the corpses’ pockets in an effort for identification, but one’s lower pockets were now char and the other lacked any.

“Is there ANY identification on these scum?” Gates asked. A tattoo decorated the gut-shotted smuggler’s neck, a red-and-gold fist and shield.

“Got a receipt dated two hours ago for this guy,” Corvin said, woken back up and unhappy that he’d missed the real action. “Tavern – something; I can’t pronounce it.” He spat out a word that Gates was at loss to know, either.

“I know the place,” Hagler replied. “Let me call this in to HQ and we’ll go after it.”

OOC:

Okay, so we’ve been attacked (unsuccessfully) by Ral’s men; we’re going to call this in and then go to some exotically-named tavern and look for information on the guys who attacked us, which will lead us to the warehouse district and Panar Ral.