I am a convicted murderer, sitting among dozens of other murderers and criminals.
We are soldiers.
We are Valklear.
We are at war.
I am an ex-addict.
It's important that I'm aware of that.
I'm not an addict any more.
The name on my Predator-pattern combat armor reads "Therik Varron". It's part the identity created for me when I was assigned to this unit. The name means little to me.
I think of myself as "Booker". It's the name given to me by my fellow Valklear, the only meaningful name I answer to anymore. It is a shortened corruption of "Bookend", and a recognition that I'm likely found reading in the barracks in my off hours.
We all have such names, short, blunt, sometimes insulting or ironic, ones given to us in the barracks and in the training fields. We treasure them, even if nominally degrading, for they represent a type of affection and recognition of us as individuals, something very rare in a Valklear's world.
I am sitting in the troop bay of a Cudgel-class planetary assault shuttle. Our assault shuttle rests in the hangar bay of the modified Mammoth-class industrial ship RSS Chainbreaker refit to carry untold numbers of soldiers and ground vehicles. The Chainbreaker is part of a massive invasion fleet orbiting the planet Freki, a planet that the Republic War Council has targeted for liberation.
We are to spearhead the first wave. Our target is a hardened bunker housing many of the military leadership and high ranking clergy.
I sit in the dark hold, my back against the hull, facing the center aisle. I am sitting closest to the cargo ramp, with a line of my comrades sitting next to me on my right, with another row of Valklear sitting across from us.
I press my shaved head back against the bulkhead. There is a satisfying thump. The metal is cool and strangely comforting against my bare skin. I close my eyes, and clear my thoughts the best I can.
The War Song is coming. I can already feel it.
The assault shuttle bay is lit by a simple red light, and up and down the bay I see my fellow Valklear as they quietly and calmly prepare for another mission. Weapons are cleaned, ammo is checked and double checked, comm units are tested, all with a practiced and ritualized familiarity. Everything about them speaks of a quiet, easy intensity.
My hands wrap around the barrel of my CLAW squad heavy support weapon as it rests stock-down on the deck of the shuttle. My combat armor hums ever so slightly in my ear, as it runs a self-diagnostic as we prepare for battle, and I watch the armor plating slowly change color and tone as the active camouflage program makes it way through its various test cycles.
Directly across from me is Twist, the Sebiestor obviously pleased he will be heading into combat, a wicked grin spreading across his pale, angled face. His washed-out pale blue eyes glitter in the red light. He absently fondles his assault rifle as he would a lover.
Twist is what I imagined of Valklear before I joined their ranks. Dangerous, edgy, unpredictable even to his long-time squad mates, every movement conveying a hint of barely-controlled cruelty and violence.
He is almost always grinning. I do not wish to know the crimes he committed to earn his place among us.
Twist and I are assigned to be the first to hit the ground, me because I'm the CLAW gunner for my squad, he because his eagerness for combat borders on frenzy.
On Twist's left sits Gravel, the Brutor's face a passive, blank mask as his eyes stare out into the empty space between the rows of soldiers. Gravel is a sullen, taciturn man, prone to spiritualism. He serves as something of an unofficial chaplain or shaman for us. His emotionless face is a stark contrast to Twist's, his only movements being his lips as he silently whispers a quiet prayer to an unknown god or spirit.
To my right sits Screamer, the thin, lithe, quiet Vherokior twirling a ver'thik dagger, a traditional weapon of his clan. Its thin, wickedly sharp blade reflects the low, red light as Screamer twirls it between his fingers, absently switching from one hand to the other. I watch its blade spin, long since familiar with Screamer's pre-battle ritual, the rhythmic flashing red light sliding over the blade both an old friend and welcomed distraction.
Screamer earned his name for being the most quiet man in a unit known for silent stoicism, and those few times he speaks over the comms link, his words are always short and softly spoken.
Up and down the shuttle, the Valklear sit in quiet thought and preparation, with only the occasional bouncing knee or repetitive twitch hinting that they will soon be facing combat.
The comms implants in our armor and inner ear broadcast the dockmaster's voice into our thoughts, "Stand by...Embarking in three minutes. May you fight with courage, and die with honor. Ancestors guide you."
With that, my stomach lurches a bit as the shuttle begins to lift off from the deck, and we hear the telltale hum of the engines. I close my eyes as I feel the shuttle slide out of the hangar bay, and the artificial gravity falls away, and suddenly the CLAW support weapon in my hand grows weightless.
The ever-quiet Screamer begins spinning his ver'thik blade in the zero-gee, dancing around his fingers and hand. I look across at Twist, and my eyes meet his, and he grins and winks at me. He loves what is about to come as much as I dislike it.
I feel the shuttle lurch forward, and the harness tugs at me as our shuttle burns toward the planet. In my mind, I review the op debriefing as my armor goes through the last phase of its self-diagnostic, and a soft beep in my inner ear means that everything is operational and ready.
Within our thoughts, we all hear the voice of our platoon commander. "Stand by, we hit atmo in 30 secs, LZ in approximately 5 mins. Be advised, LZ is hot."
With that, we all straighten just a bit in our seats. We know what is to come.
Gravel's voice travels both the comm link and the length of the shuttle bay. His deep, low voice speaks out the passage of an ancient Brutor war poem, a passage that has become something of our platoon's motto.
"Look upon me, for I am War and Death and the End of All Things. Anger is my weapon, Hatred my shield.. "
Our voices all join as one, as we mutter the next passage over our shared comms link.
"Just as I sing the Song of War, the Song of War sings within me..."
I close my eyes, knowing it is about to start. The song of war.
My knee bounces up and down in nervous energy, and deep within my body and mind it begins.
Each Valklear carries scores of cybernetic and biotech implants, placed inside us before our first tour, after we leave the Farm. Each of us spent six months in a medically-induced coma, as our bodies struggled to heal and adapt to the massive number of implants and trauma inflicted upon us.
A few of us never woke up again, our bodies unable to handle the massive intrusions and modifications.
The implant technology comes from many places, copied and improved implants taken from modules salvaged from dead Khanid cyberknights, the latest in medical tech from our Gallente allies, or from the Republic's own innovations. Combat implants are hardly rare among infantry, but with the most elite units, each soldier's implants can constitute a small fortune.
In effect, we Minmatar, we of the People, are in a running arms race with our Ammarian enemies and their Ammatar pawns, with our bodies as the ever-changing weapons. And we Valklear serve as the test bed for many of the Republic and Federation's latest improvements.
I whisper the words again, "Just as I sing the Songs of War, the Songs of War sing within me...", and I feel the tale-tell sensation as artificial adrenaline and noradrenaline are dumped into my bloodstream from various nano-factories buried within my body. The knuckles of my hand grow white as I clutch the stock of my CLAW, and my chest begins to heave back and forth as my breathing becomes heavier.
I can make out the sound of my heartbeat pumping in my ears. The drumbeat of the War Song.
My lungs expand, the implants within them pulling more oxygen, expanding blood vessels, and there is a sense of brief euphoria as hyper-oxygenated blood is pumped through my body. I feel something akin to a runner's high, and I close my eyes tightly to the artificial high, refusing to allow myself to acknowledge the powerful, pleasurable sensation. I know that along with the hyper-oxygenated blood a flood of enhanced platelets and trauma-sensitive nanites are carried along in the stream, pumped from those same nanite factories to aid my body in the wounds to come.
My sympathetic nervous system, aided by the computers within my combat armor, cues the implants around my spinal column and nervous system, and I feel the muscles within my body begin to tremble and shake as my mind and body is put into an artificial epileptic seizure. I open my eyes as my body shakes and convulses, staring across the shuttle bay at Twist.
His eyes are wide open and gleaming, his grin wide and feral even as his body convulses slightly under his combat armor.
He is loving this.
Buried within my brain stem, a complex computer begins to streamline and counteract the various shakes and seizures sparking down my superconductor-laced nervous system, canceling out every movement save the ones I wish. I watch my fellow Valklear jerk and spasm, then rapidly grow steady, smooth and inhumanly certain and quick.
I desperately try to ignore how exhilarating the feeling is.
I tell myself this isn't the same as a drug high.
I'm not addicted to this. I do not need this feeling.
The war song beats in my ears, my heart like thunder, the blood pulses in my eyes, clouding my vision.
My hands clutch my weapon, my teeth clenched. The nano-filament fibers woven throughout my body's musculature strengthen my grip, and I feel like I could bend my weapon in two if I have to.
The shuttle starts to shake and rattle around us as we hit Freki's atmosphere, and my head bounces back and forth against the bulkhead behind me. I'm so jumpy and anxious I feel like I could throw up, my body at the mercy of my boosted nervous system.
I look over to Screamer sitting next to me. His eyes are closed, his face passive, almost serene. His body would be the image of relaxation and mediation, if not for his ver'thik blade. He is clutching the naked blade in his left hand, his hand straining and shaking. Blood pools around it, a deep black color in the low red light of the assault shuttle.
My breath is fast and hard. Finally, my implants move into the last phase, and a combination of combat drugs, artificial endorphins and serotonin floods my body and nervous system, released from the nano-factories buried within me. Unearthly calm and a vibrant pleasure flood through my body, and it mixes with the combat drugs, heightened reflexes and boosted nervous system to create a feeling of crystal-clear focus and pristine aggression.
My body wants to kill.
More, my body needs to kill.
I look over to Twist, his face appearing almost demonic as he grins at me. A part of me knows he's wanted nothing more than this feeling his whole life.
I respond with something between a grin and a snarl. We're both in the same place now.
The shuttle bounces and rattles in the atmosphere. We hear a dull thud noise from the sides of the shuttle.
The sound of the shuttle releasing ordnance, hammering the land below us in anticipation of our landing. We're close to our LZ.
Gravel's face appears even more dour than before. Screamer sheathes his clanblade, the artificial platelets and nanities within him having already clotted the bleeding from his cut.
Twist just grins.
The voice of our platoon Trustee-Sergeant whispers in our ear through our comms implants. "30 seconds, Beta landing pattern, lock and load."
Each Valklear reaches over, touching a button on the forearm of his combat armor, setting them to active combat mode. There is a metallic clicking sound, as our helmets form around our faces, and my eyes have a brief moment of double vision as my senses merge with the sensor suit of the Predator-class combat armor.
Soon, my blurry eyesight is replaced by a scene of perfect clarity, my armor and implanted sensors easily compensating for the low light of the shuttle. Combat data streams to my right, and I can feel as much as recognize the presence of my platoon, the combination of communications data, extra-sensory data from telemetry and global positioning signals, and merged C&C suites transforming us into something more like a hunting pack than a military unit.
Across from me, Twist readies his assault rifle, his movements sharp, crisp and impossibly smooth and fast. His Predator armor, angled and fierce and primeval looking, seems to change appearance, one moment the image of a human-shaped metallic demon of war, the next a shimmering ghost as his armor's active camouflage goes online.
My heart beats with a steady rhythm. My mind and body are eager for what is to come.
A tiny voice within me screams at the feeling of my body and spirit being taken from me by the artificial things shoved within me, but it is a quiet and easily ignored-noise compared to the War Song beating in my heart and in my ears.
Suddenly, we hear the roar of the shuttle's engines, and feel the added Gs of a rapid deceleration. I grip my CLAW in a firm but relaxed manner, my body and spirit eager yet calm with what is to come.
There is a thump and the sound of rushing air as the shuttle rapidly lands and our drop ramp opens onto the foreign world. The restraining straps fall away automatically as we run down the ramp and deploy around the ramp with a practiced and well-trained motion.
The nighttime alien landscape is harsh and bleak, the rocky terrain laced with veins of white and blue minerals. A few sturdy and cursed looking plants cling to the land. On the horizon to the north, yellow and red lightning flickers between dark clouds, though my armor's C&C suite instantly informs me that those lights mark the beginning of the Minmatar fleet's orbital bombardment. Shattered and burning buildings mark the east, the remnants of the above ground structures of the hardened Ammarian communication center we're tasked with taking.
Already my sensors detect hostile movement, and my CLAW comes up with a smooth and precise motion. I pull the trigger, and I watch the rounds slide from my weapon, my visual acuity and reflexes boosted to such a level that it feels like I can watch each one leave the barrel and move downrange.
Enemy fire responds in kind, the glowing orange tracing rounds raining from the east. They appear lazy and slow to my heightened senses, as if I could reach out and bat them away.
The War Song hums within me, a symphony of frenzy and clarity.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Twist move to a firing position to my right. I watch as a stream of tracers cut the air in front of him, moving from his left to his right, as he staggers back as the rounds strike his armor. One glowing round bursts from his back in a cloud of crimson, whistling past me.
My armor HUD instantly tells me that Twist's left lung is punctured, and he is suffering internal bleeding. It also informs me that his internal damage control implants have already sealed off his ruined lung, that the nanites and artificial platelets within him are already working to seal the bullet holes within him, that extra endorphin and pain medication has been administered, and that he should remain operational.
Even as his status flashes over my armor's HUD, my instincts tell me that Twist is still grinning, and I savagely grin in kind to that thought.
I feel primal and invincible, a living embodiment of war. We are the feared Valklear. At this moment, there are few if any warriors within New Eden who could stand against us, and my spirit takes murderous joy at that truth.
I feel small and weak, carried along by machines within me and events beyond me, fighting a war for gods and tribes I do not understand or believe in.
It is glorious.
It is horrifying.
I release another long burst from my CLAW, and I watch a distant figure fall back in response.
I whisper one last time, a joyous and anguished prayer to some kind of unknown and uncaring war god...
"Just as I sing the Songs of War, the Songs of War sing within me..."
I am an ex-addict.
It's important that I'm aware of that.
I'm not an addict any more.
The name on my Predator-pattern combat armor reads "Therik Varron". It's part the identity created for me when I was assigned to this unit. The name means little to me.
I think of myself as "Booker". It's the name given to me by my fellow Valklear, the only meaningful name I answer to anymore. It is a shortened corruption of "Bookend", and a recognition that I'm likely found reading in the barracks in my off hours.
We all have such names, short, blunt, sometimes insulting or ironic, ones given to us in the barracks and in the training fields. We treasure them, even if nominally degrading, for they represent a type of affection and recognition of us as individuals, something very rare in a Valklear's world.
I am sitting in the troop bay of a Cudgel-class planetary assault shuttle. Our assault shuttle rests in the hangar bay of the modified Mammoth-class industrial ship RSS Chainbreaker refit to carry untold numbers of soldiers and ground vehicles. The Chainbreaker is part of a massive invasion fleet orbiting the planet Freki, a planet that the Republic War Council has targeted for liberation.
We are to spearhead the first wave. Our target is a hardened bunker housing many of the military leadership and high ranking clergy.
I sit in the dark hold, my back against the hull, facing the center aisle. I am sitting closest to the cargo ramp, with a line of my comrades sitting next to me on my right, with another row of Valklear sitting across from us.
I press my shaved head back against the bulkhead. There is a satisfying thump. The metal is cool and strangely comforting against my bare skin. I close my eyes, and clear my thoughts the best I can.
The War Song is coming. I can already feel it.
The assault shuttle bay is lit by a simple red light, and up and down the bay I see my fellow Valklear as they quietly and calmly prepare for another mission. Weapons are cleaned, ammo is checked and double checked, comm units are tested, all with a practiced and ritualized familiarity. Everything about them speaks of a quiet, easy intensity.
My hands wrap around the barrel of my CLAW squad heavy support weapon as it rests stock-down on the deck of the shuttle. My combat armor hums ever so slightly in my ear, as it runs a self-diagnostic as we prepare for battle, and I watch the armor plating slowly change color and tone as the active camouflage program makes it way through its various test cycles.
Directly across from me is Twist, the Sebiestor obviously pleased he will be heading into combat, a wicked grin spreading across his pale, angled face. His washed-out pale blue eyes glitter in the red light. He absently fondles his assault rifle as he would a lover.
Twist is what I imagined of Valklear before I joined their ranks. Dangerous, edgy, unpredictable even to his long-time squad mates, every movement conveying a hint of barely-controlled cruelty and violence.
He is almost always grinning. I do not wish to know the crimes he committed to earn his place among us.
Twist and I are assigned to be the first to hit the ground, me because I'm the CLAW gunner for my squad, he because his eagerness for combat borders on frenzy.
On Twist's left sits Gravel, the Brutor's face a passive, blank mask as his eyes stare out into the empty space between the rows of soldiers. Gravel is a sullen, taciturn man, prone to spiritualism. He serves as something of an unofficial chaplain or shaman for us. His emotionless face is a stark contrast to Twist's, his only movements being his lips as he silently whispers a quiet prayer to an unknown god or spirit.
To my right sits Screamer, the thin, lithe, quiet Vherokior twirling a ver'thik dagger, a traditional weapon of his clan. Its thin, wickedly sharp blade reflects the low, red light as Screamer twirls it between his fingers, absently switching from one hand to the other. I watch its blade spin, long since familiar with Screamer's pre-battle ritual, the rhythmic flashing red light sliding over the blade both an old friend and welcomed distraction.
Screamer earned his name for being the most quiet man in a unit known for silent stoicism, and those few times he speaks over the comms link, his words are always short and softly spoken.
Up and down the shuttle, the Valklear sit in quiet thought and preparation, with only the occasional bouncing knee or repetitive twitch hinting that they will soon be facing combat.
The comms implants in our armor and inner ear broadcast the dockmaster's voice into our thoughts, "Stand by...Embarking in three minutes. May you fight with courage, and die with honor. Ancestors guide you."
With that, my stomach lurches a bit as the shuttle begins to lift off from the deck, and we hear the telltale hum of the engines. I close my eyes as I feel the shuttle slide out of the hangar bay, and the artificial gravity falls away, and suddenly the CLAW support weapon in my hand grows weightless.
The ever-quiet Screamer begins spinning his ver'thik blade in the zero-gee, dancing around his fingers and hand. I look across at Twist, and my eyes meet his, and he grins and winks at me. He loves what is about to come as much as I dislike it.
I feel the shuttle lurch forward, and the harness tugs at me as our shuttle burns toward the planet. In my mind, I review the op debriefing as my armor goes through the last phase of its self-diagnostic, and a soft beep in my inner ear means that everything is operational and ready.
Within our thoughts, we all hear the voice of our platoon commander. "Stand by, we hit atmo in 30 secs, LZ in approximately 5 mins. Be advised, LZ is hot."
With that, we all straighten just a bit in our seats. We know what is to come.
Gravel's voice travels both the comm link and the length of the shuttle bay. His deep, low voice speaks out the passage of an ancient Brutor war poem, a passage that has become something of our platoon's motto.
"Look upon me, for I am War and Death and the End of All Things. Anger is my weapon, Hatred my shield.. "
Our voices all join as one, as we mutter the next passage over our shared comms link.
"Just as I sing the Song of War, the Song of War sings within me..."
I close my eyes, knowing it is about to start. The song of war.
My knee bounces up and down in nervous energy, and deep within my body and mind it begins.
Each Valklear carries scores of cybernetic and biotech implants, placed inside us before our first tour, after we leave the Farm. Each of us spent six months in a medically-induced coma, as our bodies struggled to heal and adapt to the massive number of implants and trauma inflicted upon us.
A few of us never woke up again, our bodies unable to handle the massive intrusions and modifications.
The implant technology comes from many places, copied and improved implants taken from modules salvaged from dead Khanid cyberknights, the latest in medical tech from our Gallente allies, or from the Republic's own innovations. Combat implants are hardly rare among infantry, but with the most elite units, each soldier's implants can constitute a small fortune.
In effect, we Minmatar, we of the People, are in a running arms race with our Ammarian enemies and their Ammatar pawns, with our bodies as the ever-changing weapons. And we Valklear serve as the test bed for many of the Republic and Federation's latest improvements.
I whisper the words again, "Just as I sing the Songs of War, the Songs of War sing within me...", and I feel the tale-tell sensation as artificial adrenaline and noradrenaline are dumped into my bloodstream from various nano-factories buried within my body. The knuckles of my hand grow white as I clutch the stock of my CLAW, and my chest begins to heave back and forth as my breathing becomes heavier.
I can make out the sound of my heartbeat pumping in my ears. The drumbeat of the War Song.
My lungs expand, the implants within them pulling more oxygen, expanding blood vessels, and there is a sense of brief euphoria as hyper-oxygenated blood is pumped through my body. I feel something akin to a runner's high, and I close my eyes tightly to the artificial high, refusing to allow myself to acknowledge the powerful, pleasurable sensation. I know that along with the hyper-oxygenated blood a flood of enhanced platelets and trauma-sensitive nanites are carried along in the stream, pumped from those same nanite factories to aid my body in the wounds to come.
My sympathetic nervous system, aided by the computers within my combat armor, cues the implants around my spinal column and nervous system, and I feel the muscles within my body begin to tremble and shake as my mind and body is put into an artificial epileptic seizure. I open my eyes as my body shakes and convulses, staring across the shuttle bay at Twist.
His eyes are wide open and gleaming, his grin wide and feral even as his body convulses slightly under his combat armor.
He is loving this.
Buried within my brain stem, a complex computer begins to streamline and counteract the various shakes and seizures sparking down my superconductor-laced nervous system, canceling out every movement save the ones I wish. I watch my fellow Valklear jerk and spasm, then rapidly grow steady, smooth and inhumanly certain and quick.
I desperately try to ignore how exhilarating the feeling is.
I tell myself this isn't the same as a drug high.
I'm not addicted to this. I do not need this feeling.
The war song beats in my ears, my heart like thunder, the blood pulses in my eyes, clouding my vision.
My hands clutch my weapon, my teeth clenched. The nano-filament fibers woven throughout my body's musculature strengthen my grip, and I feel like I could bend my weapon in two if I have to.
The shuttle starts to shake and rattle around us as we hit Freki's atmosphere, and my head bounces back and forth against the bulkhead behind me. I'm so jumpy and anxious I feel like I could throw up, my body at the mercy of my boosted nervous system.
I look over to Screamer sitting next to me. His eyes are closed, his face passive, almost serene. His body would be the image of relaxation and mediation, if not for his ver'thik blade. He is clutching the naked blade in his left hand, his hand straining and shaking. Blood pools around it, a deep black color in the low red light of the assault shuttle.
My breath is fast and hard. Finally, my implants move into the last phase, and a combination of combat drugs, artificial endorphins and serotonin floods my body and nervous system, released from the nano-factories buried within me. Unearthly calm and a vibrant pleasure flood through my body, and it mixes with the combat drugs, heightened reflexes and boosted nervous system to create a feeling of crystal-clear focus and pristine aggression.
My body wants to kill.
More, my body needs to kill.
I look over to Twist, his face appearing almost demonic as he grins at me. A part of me knows he's wanted nothing more than this feeling his whole life.
I respond with something between a grin and a snarl. We're both in the same place now.
The shuttle bounces and rattles in the atmosphere. We hear a dull thud noise from the sides of the shuttle.
The sound of the shuttle releasing ordnance, hammering the land below us in anticipation of our landing. We're close to our LZ.
Gravel's face appears even more dour than before. Screamer sheathes his clanblade, the artificial platelets and nanities within him having already clotted the bleeding from his cut.
Twist just grins.
The voice of our platoon Trustee-Sergeant whispers in our ear through our comms implants. "30 seconds, Beta landing pattern, lock and load."
Each Valklear reaches over, touching a button on the forearm of his combat armor, setting them to active combat mode. There is a metallic clicking sound, as our helmets form around our faces, and my eyes have a brief moment of double vision as my senses merge with the sensor suit of the Predator-class combat armor.
Soon, my blurry eyesight is replaced by a scene of perfect clarity, my armor and implanted sensors easily compensating for the low light of the shuttle. Combat data streams to my right, and I can feel as much as recognize the presence of my platoon, the combination of communications data, extra-sensory data from telemetry and global positioning signals, and merged C&C suites transforming us into something more like a hunting pack than a military unit.
Across from me, Twist readies his assault rifle, his movements sharp, crisp and impossibly smooth and fast. His Predator armor, angled and fierce and primeval looking, seems to change appearance, one moment the image of a human-shaped metallic demon of war, the next a shimmering ghost as his armor's active camouflage goes online.
My heart beats with a steady rhythm. My mind and body are eager for what is to come.
A tiny voice within me screams at the feeling of my body and spirit being taken from me by the artificial things shoved within me, but it is a quiet and easily ignored-noise compared to the War Song beating in my heart and in my ears.
Suddenly, we hear the roar of the shuttle's engines, and feel the added Gs of a rapid deceleration. I grip my CLAW in a firm but relaxed manner, my body and spirit eager yet calm with what is to come.
There is a thump and the sound of rushing air as the shuttle rapidly lands and our drop ramp opens onto the foreign world. The restraining straps fall away automatically as we run down the ramp and deploy around the ramp with a practiced and well-trained motion.
The nighttime alien landscape is harsh and bleak, the rocky terrain laced with veins of white and blue minerals. A few sturdy and cursed looking plants cling to the land. On the horizon to the north, yellow and red lightning flickers between dark clouds, though my armor's C&C suite instantly informs me that those lights mark the beginning of the Minmatar fleet's orbital bombardment. Shattered and burning buildings mark the east, the remnants of the above ground structures of the hardened Ammarian communication center we're tasked with taking.
Already my sensors detect hostile movement, and my CLAW comes up with a smooth and precise motion. I pull the trigger, and I watch the rounds slide from my weapon, my visual acuity and reflexes boosted to such a level that it feels like I can watch each one leave the barrel and move downrange.
Enemy fire responds in kind, the glowing orange tracing rounds raining from the east. They appear lazy and slow to my heightened senses, as if I could reach out and bat them away.
The War Song hums within me, a symphony of frenzy and clarity.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Twist move to a firing position to my right. I watch as a stream of tracers cut the air in front of him, moving from his left to his right, as he staggers back as the rounds strike his armor. One glowing round bursts from his back in a cloud of crimson, whistling past me.
My armor HUD instantly tells me that Twist's left lung is punctured, and he is suffering internal bleeding. It also informs me that his internal damage control implants have already sealed off his ruined lung, that the nanites and artificial platelets within him are already working to seal the bullet holes within him, that extra endorphin and pain medication has been administered, and that he should remain operational.
Even as his status flashes over my armor's HUD, my instincts tell me that Twist is still grinning, and I savagely grin in kind to that thought.
I feel primal and invincible, a living embodiment of war. We are the feared Valklear. At this moment, there are few if any warriors within New Eden who could stand against us, and my spirit takes murderous joy at that truth.
I feel small and weak, carried along by machines within me and events beyond me, fighting a war for gods and tribes I do not understand or believe in.
It is glorious.
It is horrifying.
I release another long burst from my CLAW, and I watch a distant figure fall back in response.
I whisper one last time, a joyous and anguished prayer to some kind of unknown and uncaring war god...
"Just as I sing the Songs of War, the Songs of War sing within me..."
Great piece of writing. Will fit well with Dust.
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