Stormcrows, p.1
Stormcrows, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
STORMCROWS
First edition. January 31, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 MD Ortiz.
Written by MD Ortiz.
The old world burned away in the fires of nuclear holocaust. A self-imposed apocalypse brought about by humanity’s hubris and greed. Generations dwelt in darkness and fear, till the children of the new world sought to reclaim this irradiated hellscape their forebears had created.
Championing this initiative are the zaibatsu, corporations of unprecedented scale and power who built protected city-states to house those willing to facilitate their designs. They are vultures, feeding off the corpse of the old world to line their pockets and secure their hegemony.
Holding their leash are the Dragoons, bio-engineered warriors with a fixation on martial perfection. Tasked to shield and shepherd humanity into a brighter future. Their might is unchecked, their zeal unrelenting. Via strength of arms, they will stop at nothing to protect the human race from the mutant, the machine, and if necessary: mankind, themselves.
This new dawn began with twenty-four Dragoon Clans, each named from the letters of the ancient Greek alphabet, who would eventually dwindle down to one: the Alpha Clan. After centuries of conflict and war, the Alpha Clan asserted itself as the pinnacle of Dragoon achievement, living up to its namesake and seeking further domination.
To challenge the Dragoons is to know destruction and to challenge the zaibatsu is to know poverty. For a human trapped in this web of violence, the only chance at freedom is forging their own path as a freelancer. A hired gun, milking the world for whatever they can reap before they meet a violent end.
And there are whispers of sentient machines who rule across the sea. Treacherous lies that will see the world burn again.
Prologue
Mystery cloaked the structure like a protective blanket, its reinforced walls fading into the sides of the glen as though it wished for onlookers to believe it was a natural occurrence. Tilting her head from side to side, Muriel watched the shadowy citadel vanish from her sight. Observing the place filled her with a sense of excitement and dread, the possibilities sealed within its elusive ramparts enough to set her young mind racing.
Her sister’s stern voice cut into her daydreaming.
“Muriel! Come away from there!”
With a sigh, Muriel turned away from the strange building and trudged down to where her older sibling was waiting, fists pressed against her hips as if she were trying to deliver her best imitation of their mother. A wooden pail of blue poppies lay at her feet, a reminder of the real purpose that had brought them out of the village and into the highlands.
“You know you’re not supposed to go near that place,” her sister chided.
Scrunching her face into a look of defiance, Muriel glanced back toward the strange building. From her current position, she could no longer make it out, its form morphing back into the valley. But she knew it was there—waiting.
“I was only looking at it.”
“You can’t even look at it! Mata will whip us both if she finds out we even came this way!”
With a mischievous giggle, Muriel scooped up the bucket of flowers and dashed ahead. “Then don’t tell her.”
“You know I can’t do that! Muriel, slow down!”
Just the sound of her own name prompted her to roll her eyes. She hated it. There was nothing exciting or dignified about it, the name once belonging to her father’s best goat. Somehow her parents had agreed it was a suitable namesake for their third born and she’d been stuck with it. Even now, Muriel fantasized about the day when she was old enough to change it.
Infinite alpine fields passed beneath her feet as she raced down from the highlands toward the cozy evening fire their father would be manning. Grumbling oaths and curses, her sister struggled to keep up and every time it looked like she might match pace with her sibling, Muriel would speed up, pail spinning giddily in her arm. The other girl was lucky enough not to be named after a barn animal, it seemed fitting that she should know some struggle.
Billowing smoke was the first indicator that something was wrong. Then came the distant sound of screaming. Muriel ground to a halt, fear and indecision causing her hands to shake.
“Stay with me!” her sister hissed as she grabbed Muriel’s arm.
Trembling, the pair crept toward the smoke, horrified when they realized it was their village burning. The closer they drew, the more gruesome details came into view, bodies of neighbors and loved ones scattered amidst the smoldering cottages. A sudden gunshot caused Muriel to jump, and she reached out to take her sister’s hand.
Standing in the heart of the carnage, presiding over it all, was a tall, armored figure, its shape so alien compared to the stone and thatched homes. Firelight danced in the eye lenses of its helmet and quickly, shouldering its rifle, it gunned down a survivor. Watching this plated cutthroat, Muriel could recall a time when she’d been taught that mighty beings such as this one were the shepherds of humanity, apparent demigods sent to usher the world into a brighter future. There’d been a name to accompany those tasked with this noble calling, a name that flashed into the forefront of her brain—Dragoon.
Her sister suddenly tugged on her hand. “Muriel! He sees us!”
Armor clinking, the Dragoon moved in their direction, another of its kind stepping out of a burning cabin to join the hunt.
“Run!”
Channeling fear into movement, Muriel bolted for the hills, bucket of blue poppies scattering into the wind. She ran till she thought her lungs would explode and then ran some more. It was only when she paused to catch her breath that she realized her sister was nowhere to be seen.
That was when she allowed herself to cry.
1
8 October 877 AV
The piercing screech of the train whistle jolted Caprice awake and as she fumbled around in her seat, she was painfully aware of the kink in her neck. Angrily, she rubbed at her muscles, hoping that somehow she might ease the discomfort, but the rising tension inside of her allowed the pain to persist. Somewhere, in one of her bags, she knew there was a container of relaxers and, teeth grinding in irritation, she made a mental note to fish it out the moment she was able.
Without warning, the train applied its brakes; the action jostling the entire cabin so violently that Caprice had to latch onto the sides of her seat with a death grip to prevent being thrown to the floor. The thought of falling to that floor made her shudder in disgust, especially when she considered the type of lowly vagabond that frequented the transport. As a child, she might have found this train quaint or naively exciting. But she was also certain she had been a youthful idiot as a child, fascinated by worthless things like clouds and flowers.
Caprice had worked tirelessly to attain her rank and prestige within her company. Life in the service of a zaibatsu was a constant game of political chess to ensure you remained favored, but not favored enough that someone would hire an assassin to kill you. Idle interests in flowers offered no advantage and might be resumed once you had obtained enough influence and money that you need not bother with day-to-day operations. This was a hard lesson her aunt had engrained in her before her untimely death, seeing Caprice’s collection of flora samples incinerated as a tenth birthday present. When Caprice had been informed of the woman’s murder, it had saddened her at first, but she soon turned those trivial emotions into fuel to power her ascension up the corporate ladder.
One of her security detail leaned forward from the seat behind, her cyberoptic interface informing her it was Mendoza.
“This is our stop, ma’am,” the officer stated as he nodded toward the window.
Barely able to restrain an exasperated sigh, Caprice glanced out of the train at the throngs of sordid urchins gathering around the station. She could not help but make note of how much mud clung to their clothes and everything else. Was this life in the Northern Reach? A never-ending parade of filth and grime? Caprice could not even recall the last time she had seen mud in Ralpur, most of her days spent in the environmentally controlled headquarters of the Gaiden Corporation.
Mendoza rose from his seat and, as his profession dictated, performed a quick sweep of the surrounding aisle. It seemed a superfluous gesture given that Caprice had bought out the entire car, but it was good to know she had at least brought competent people with her to this backwater land.
“Choi and I will go first,” Mendoza explained to Caprice. “Once we’re certain the platform is secure, we’ll signal for you and Sonja.”
Caprice shrugged. “Very well.”
She could not be certain whether remaining on the train or braving the unwashed masses outside was worse.
Mendoza signaled to Officer Choi, and the pair executed a simultaneous weapons check before advancing toward the exit, their heads maintaining a constant swivel, their submachine guns held tightly. Caprice felt she might pity any foolish local who pressed too close to these security officers, but perhaps that was a sentiment wasted on those hooligans who got what they deserved.
A faint electronic chirp sounded from across the aisle and Caprice lazily glanced in that direction, wincing as it again reminded her of the pain in her neck. With the two security officers gone, the train car was empty save for herself and the technician who was now standing opposite her, the other woman fixated on the data-pad in her hands
Calmly, Sonja turned to regard her, the other woman’s expression hidden beneath the technical visor that seemed permanently affixed to her face. Caprice knew such hardware was typical for people of Sonja’s profession, but there was such an inhuman element to the style that it exacerbated those preexisting suspicions she had about all her underlings.
“All cargo has been accounted for, and I have initiated the transfer to our on-site porters. They will deliver the items to our accommodation outside Camp Daishan,” Sonja stated in a robotic manner. It was not her way to inject more emotion than necessary into her tasks, which was an attitude Caprice could fully support. Too many corporate cogs tried to inject raw sentiment into their work and came off ignorant and pathetic. Better they learn their rightful place quickly and efficiently.
Caprice watched data flash over Sonja’s visor. “Can these locals be trusted? I’d hate to start killing chattel before we’ve even ventured out.”
“All of them have been thoroughly vetted, ma’am.”
“Very well. Just remember their performance reflects on you.”
“Understood,” Sonja replied before perking up her head like a dog. “Mendoza is signaling the platform is secure.”
Caprice rose from her seat with a weary sigh. “Then let us begin this excursion, shall we?”
Despite the best efforts of Officers Mendoza and Choi, the platform was still a madhouse, all manner of unwashed humanity pressing toward the train with grubby, outstretched hands. In such a remote place as this, public transportation was a rarity and Caprice was willing to bet this rusty locomotive was the only affordable and consistent connection the underprivileged had with the civilized lands to the south. And rusty was a complimentary way to regard the train, its ugly surface reeking of diesel and chemicals. This crude machine was a far cry from the elegant mag-lev rails that Caprice frequented when on company business. But sacrifices had to be made for the sake of reinforcing her foundation within the corporation. At least that was what she kept reminding herself when she caught a whiff of the waiting passengers.
Even with their numbers, most of the grubby travelers tried to give space the best they could to Mendoza and Choi, the Gaiden Corporation patches on their uniforms alerting savvy bystanders that these two men would have no qualms firing into the crowd if they felt it was in the service of their employer. Gaiden was far from the most affluent zaibatsu, but it had cemented its reputation as one of the more ruthless ones, and Caprice liked it that way. By putting proper fear into their hearts, it made her task of dealing with these bogans all the easier.
“Mind your footing, ma’am,” Mendoza cautioned as she crossed the platform, the patchy surface resembling planks of wood sloppily laid onto ferrocrete.
Suppressing a grimace, Caprice maneuvered across the dais to the loading ramp on the other side where a group of menials were waiting with her luggage. The gray hard-shell composition of the cases seemed so out of place in this antiquated region and, more than once, a curious local would pause to examine them.
Caprice turned to ensure Sonja was right at her heel. “And what is our transport to Camp Daishan?”
“Apologies, ma’am, but I was unable to source any reliable local transport to the base.”
“Meaning?”
More data flitted across the technician’s visor. “We…have to walk.”
Caprice eyed the muddy avenue before her, the stretch of sodden earth this place’s excuse for a street. Various ramshackle and prefabricated buildings lined the route as if trying to assure the locals that this was a proper town. She had seen corporate slums more convincing.
“Mendoza!” Caprice snapped, beckoning the security officer to rush over. “Lead the way. And use your best judgment. If you think any of this riffraff might make a run at us, I want you to shoot first. Their families can always file a complaint with the local corporate liaison.”
With a sharp nod, Mendoza leaped from the platform to the muddy street below. After a moment Caprice followed suit, though it was hard to conceal her disgust as her feet sank into the brown sludge, part of her brain unable to resist comparing the substance to feces. It was enough to make her stifle a gag, and she was grateful Sonja had insisted she wear her riding boots for the journey. Dutiful as ever, the technician moved to accompany her, with Choi pushing aside a nosey local before sliding in as rear guard. Together, the party slopped through the mud as they made their way past one dilapidated structure after another.
If she did not hate the Northern Reach before, this was ensuring Caprice did now.
Once more, the reinforced gate of Camp Daishan whipped past her as Talia completed yet another loop. How many did that make it now? Twenty? More? None of it mattered. She intended to run lap after lap until her head was clear. Of course, there was no telling when that would be, and she had already grown tired of the sentries’ comments and jokes. Funneling their mockery into her aching muscles, she powered around the fence, shoes wearing the dirt into a smooth track.
Talia liked to consider herself a positive person. The kind of soul who sought to find the good in situations and uplift comrades as best she could. It made her current predicament more maddening and jaw tightening; she picked up her pace. Somehow, she would find a resolution even if it took her a hundred kilometers. What was she at now? Forty? The distance didn’t matter she reminded herself. She was a Dragoon after all.
Dragoons were creatures born and bred for combat, yet for all the years in the academy, all the tactical exercises and indoctrination, none of it dared to touch upon how to process your own emotions. Her species saw those as secondary to your purpose and duty, a human extravagance still lingering from when the creator had blessed the world with their presence. Teachers would prattle about how humanity clung to their emotions, and that’s what had destroyed the world in the first place, but nowhere in these lectures did they address what Dragoons were meant to do with their own.
The instructors intended your time in the academy to be trying; a crucible that would separate undesirables from true shepherds of humanity. For Talia, it had been even more arduous as her trainers expected more of someone of her noble lineage. Her surname, a bloodline that could be traced back to the very creation of Dragoons, saddled her with expectations other cadets never experienced and thrust more stress upon her than was healthy for a youth. It might’ve broken her if it wasn’t for Kirkland.
She could still remember the first day she’d met him, a scared, uncultured child who seemed so out of place. The instructors appeared to relish punishing him, striving to break down his kind temperament into one they felt suited a shepherd of humanity. Together Talia and Kirkland had befriended each other: the noble girl and the wild boy. During the day, they would help each other overcome whatever obstacles their trainers would throw at them and at night, they’d comfort one another. It was only by this emotional sustenance that she performed as well as she had, leaving the academy an honored graduate.
So much had happened since that time, cherished memories eclipsed by the melancholy driving her to run. Perimeter fence blurring passed; Talia worked to steady her stride. If she couldn’t maintain a pace, how could she expect to quiet the storm raging in her heart? She needed more control—over the situation and over herself. An unwelcome sensation of self-loathing bubbled up and, once again, her speed picked up.
Where once she and Kirkland had a bond which transcended adversity, now it felt like working alongside a stranger. She had believed their reunion after his service in Shah would be a welcome relief for him, her presence a healing salve for whatever horror he’d endured in that hellish campaign. But there was a newfound coldness to him, frequently refusing to even talk to her. The fact that they were now assigned to the same squad only aggravated the pain.
