[The Soft Rains] Phase 01- The Cradle of Civilization

"Shinys" That was the phrase some Marines had developed when it came to FNGs, namely the clean spotless armor. It certainly made Emma feel a bit more out of place amongst the veterans in the shuttle.

She asked the asari's question "Not me.", simple answer if rather obvious. "So, any ideas on what this OP is all about?" Another obvious question, and one she doubted would net much response until the actual briefing, still, it served to give them a little tension breaking before the shuttle landed, and perhaps a clue as to what this drop entailed.

"You'll be briefed by your team leader upon arrival. Due to the fact that at the present we're still trying to get everything organized and cleared, everything is simply placed on a mission by mission basis. I've got almost two dozen teams operating across this entire planet, so don't be surprised if things are totally disjointed."


You feel a sudden pull as the Kodiak’s nose drops for the final approach. For a few tense moments it feels more like you’re hurtling out of the sky before you level back out, as Hemmings stepped up and hit the door release. Light cascades into the craft, as you look out and see nothing but empty desert and smoking ruins across the horizon. Hemmings stands in the doorway with his hand on one of the rails, watching as you come across the Suez towards a small collection of housing, tents, and supplies.


“Welcome to FoB Ozymandias, ladies and gentlemen.” He said, still chewing on his stick of gum. Around the base you could see Alliance personnel milling around on whatever duties they needed. There were a few crews tending to some Grizzlies and Mantises, while several other, far older pieces of equipment were resting as well: some dating from even before the 2nd American Civil War. Around the walls of the facility was a swollen mass of shanties and temporary housing facilities, large enough to hold millions of people. Out there you can see smoke from fires, children playing, and other signs of life at least trying to get back to normal. There were even several mock-up mosques and other churches sitting about.

Finally you level out and descend, dust kicking into the air as you touch down. Hemmings hops down and waves all of you out, as a female approached the craft, arm raised to block any kicked up debris until your pilot killed the engine.

“Lieutenant Commander, I see things haven’t changed much since the last time I visited.” The girl was tall, just a little under six feet with an athletic build. Her dark hair was cut short, almost boyish while two grey eyes stared out of her face. Like most females in the marines her face wasn’t particularly attention grabbing, other than the wear and tear of service which showed from a few small scars that lined her face, neck, and along her arms. She wore standard fatigues and boots, and a black service t-shirt bearing a solid red line on the right arm.

“Only the weather’s gotten hotter and the locals angrier. These the volunteers?” She asked, looking behind the Interlay at the group.

“They are. Everyone I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenant Commander Kara Sellers, she’s going to be the one in command of your team. Was a team leader during the Volunteer Initiative during the war, so she’s used to dealing with situations like these. I want all of you to understand your prior background no longer matter in the eyes of this mission. Only Thing that comes first from this point onwards is what’s in the interest of the Reclamation Initiative.” Hemmings turned and looked over to Sellers.

“Got anything to say, Kara?”

“I’m glad to see all of you made it here in one piece. Looking forward to working with all of you, and we’ll be showing you to your living area shortly. I’m sorry to say that you aren’t going to get much time to rest from your travels though. We've been off and on just about any hour of the day the last few weeks. Missions come in at any hour, just about any kind. Care to lead them on, Paul?” Her voice was solid and even, like most officers who’d been through things like this before. Her eyes moved from each and every individual, looking them all over at least once to get an idea of what she’d have available. There wasn’t a single hint on her body of what she really thought.

Behind you they were carting several body bags into the Kodiak.

"Any questions before we start the tour?" Hemmings asked before spitting his gum into the dirt.

PFC Rajapaske hit the dirt, boots raising puffs of dust, very glad for the seal of her helmet. She stowed away her rifle, the Mattock folding up and magnetizing to the back of her suit. Behind her visor, her dark eyes flickered first to the body bags, then to their surrounding and finally to their soon to be team leader.

This place truly understood the meaning of the frontier. Adding on the N7, the bodybags and the Company man's talk of nothing mattering but the Reclamation Initiative and Rajapaske was starting to wonder if she'd have been better off sticking to those patrols, as monotonous as it had become.

No, she didn't really think that. This was going to be interesting, and she'd joined Recon instead of going into a support role partially because of the risk, if she were honest with herself. And she didn't particularly like lying to herself.

The young Marine looked at Commander Sellers curiously, meeting her gaze firmly. Part of her was undeniably excited to be working with a November Seven. Another part of her was a tad concerned that things were to the point that they needed to rush a newly arrived unit full of strangers into missions.

Interesting was on word for it.

She held her tongue.

Sinisa shrugged his shoulders. That particular lunge had failed to pierce his fellow countryman's aura of terseness. Nothing short of a direct shot from a kinetic accelerator would do that, he reckoned. Time to make a tactical retreat.

His gaze swivelled to the female soldier who had asked what she must have known was a hopeless question. The second female, he noted; third, if you counted the alien. This one had a particular shade of green about her. Sinisa surreptitiously put his hair into order with a sweep of his hand, but before he could respond, the craft swooped into its entry pattern.

"Guess we're jussabout to find out."

Readying himself for deployment, he glanced casually at whatever piece-of-shit they had sent him halfway across the world to 'reclaim'. So far, so unimpressed. And he had thought Mumbai was a shithole; this place is what Mumbai probably crapped out after a bad night of the flux. And if he had been hoping for relief from the heat, he'd signed up for the wrong highly-confidential-and-probably-lethal-op; just looking at the place was bringing him out in beads. The only outpost of civilisation was the Alliance FOB, which - as their chaperone helpfully informed them - was called "Ozymandias".

Say one thing for the Alliance: they never lacked for self-awareness.

As soon as it was safe to do so, Sinisa had extricated himself from the bowels of the Kodiak. For the past decade, he had spent days travelling in a craft of comparable size. On one particularly memorable op, he'd had to live in it for weeks on end. But an extended tour on Earth had spoiled him. The only plus side of dirtside was the fresh air - something you'd never get off-world. Not even the Reapers had been able to screw with that.

As he breathed in the fresh Levantine air, he noted the approaching woman. Another woman. Good thing he'd shaved today.

Mister Committee - Herrings, or somethin' - wandered over to her for the meet-and-greet. Their new chaperone, then. The old one was probably relieved to be handing them over. Sinisa smirked when she addressed them all as 'volunteers'. As if I wasn't getting paid for this. Then the smirk evaporated like a hanar drop-kicked into a volcano. I am getting paid for this, right?

As the Committee guy gave them the closest thing they had had to a brief so far, Sinisa was mentally running it through his patented Alliance-English Dictionary:

"Everyone I'd like to introduce you to Lieutenant Commander Kara Sellers, she lost a coin toss and is going to be the one in command of your team. Was a team leader during the Volunteer Initiative during the war, so she's used to dealing with hopeless clusterfucks. I want all of you to understand that you are equally expendable in our eyes. Only thing that comes first from this point onwards is your willingness to die horribly in the interest of the Reclamation Initiative."

The usual patter, then. In fact, everything was very reminiscent of UP so far. The bureaucrats, the fixed accommodation, the seemingly ad hoc nature of organisation, the smell. But those stiffs being wheeled on to the Kodiak promised something different: danger. And not the danger that comes from possibly catching dengue fever or syphilis. The real kind. Sinisa smiled in expectation.

As itching as he was to get in on the action, however, his interest was similarly piqued by the tour. Even this op must have downtime; a window of opportunity for an enterprising socialite like himself. Maybe they'd even have a cocktail bar here. It had been almost a day since his last Turian Car Bomb, and withdrawal symptoms were sitting in.

"No fear. Ready when you are, Ellcee."

The final decent and touchdown happened swiftly. For a brief moment Freh'ya had to think that this was her mate's home planet and so far she only had seen London and this place. Not exactly tourist advertisements in both cases but nonetheless the soil from which Skylar had originated. Freh'ya wasn't a typical tourist either so that was just fine. The dust wasn't inviting for any deep breaths and she shielded her eyes to get a look at the surroundings and the camp. Her eyes rested on the body bags for a second or two.

A couple of old memories flickered through her mind, places long gone, far away planets, other missions, similar views.

The LC was only a little shorter than herself and made a good first impression. Freh'ya noticed the N7 stripe and knew about it's meaning. These people knew what they were doing from all she knew. She had never worked in a team with one of them herself though, it would be interesting to see.

There was no immediate question she had to ask, so Freh'ya grabbed her belongings and waited for the others.

The crunch of dirt under his boots was satisfying, and Hueyt couldn't resist the temptation to smile as he hit solid ground. Hueyt had never in his life liked shuttles, space, or water, really. Somewhere where he couldn't use his own body to get around was uncomfortable, and, in all honesty, probably the real reason he had never joined the Marines or Navy. At least in the ADF, he was pretty much ensured to keep at least one boot on the ground.

When the Lieutenant-Commander arrived, the WO paid close attention to the conversation between the two, and the brief introduction. He met the Commander's gaze evenly, even though he knew she couldn't see his eyes or face.

"Yeah, I got a question." Hueyt jerked a thumb behind him. "What'd they die of?" He wasn't particularly worried; he had seen death before (and of the people here, who hadn't), but he would feel much safer knowing what he was walking into.

"Specialist Travalney was killed by an Improvised Device. Service Chief Oklesson found himself in a potent radiation are without taking the proper measures. Gunnery Chiefs Harper, Tsun-Jin, Dylandy, and Halil were all killed in contact with hostile elements. Major Streiner ... well we don't know what got Major Streiner. Other than it ate half of him." Sellers recalled, listing each seemingly without much emotion.

The frustration in her eyes said something totally different.

As Cline exited the Kodiak, he quickly surveyed the surroundings. 'Yeah, we definitly got lucky in Ottawa.' he thought, before shooting off a quick salute to the Lieutenant Commander.

Service Chief Cline grimiced at the descriptions of how the marines lost their lives. "Bad way to go if you ask me, ma'am." he said, remembering some of the marines from the 9th and how they died during the war.

And I don't think anyone did. Now if you would do us all a favor and remember that you are a fucking Service Chief maybe everyone here'll be less inclined to frag you.

Vukovic was the last off, bring up the rear of their little entourage. Had to stoop a bit to avoid rattling his brains against the inside of his helmet, and was just now unfolding himself to his full height, working the kinks out of his neck.

"Commander Sellers. Ma'am."

Out of all of them he was probably the least excited, not in a bitchy way mind (he had worked with worse and in worse places), not even apathetic because, really, getting all jaded and cynical was boring as fuck. The best way he could think to describe it as he surveyed the collection of detritus that had grown up around the FOB was tired. This place was ugly. Broken. Damaged. Strewn with rust and dust and sand and debris and while none of those things made it intolerable, be it on their own and collectively, but they added up; wore on you. Every time you went out into the wrecked hellholes, every time you lost a man to some assbackwards fuckwit with a pipe bomb and a grudge, every time you just looked at the mess around you, it wore on you.

Fortunately he had his upbeat sense of humor and sunny disposition to help keep his head on straight.

Least there was a Villa alum here, even if it was one of the beauty queens. Much better than nothing. Infinitely better than the shit he was being saddled with already.

The Company Man could go eat a dick, some of these pissants weren't going to get better just by virtue of getting thrown into a radioactive monster infested meat grinder and he would be dammed if he got grouped with them.

If Hell existed, Emma thought, the scenery surrounding the FOB would be a close estimate. With what appeared to be an hostile anti-Alliance presence in the region, and Alliance soldiers dying in less then dignified fashion.

Perhaps this was why the media had often made a fuss about the separatist movements in the colonies, to mask the problems happening here.

"What kind of hostile elements are dealing with here?" She asked, simple question, considering she doubted they were just dealing with mere looters and gang violence.

"Service Chief, I'm going to go ahead and ask you not to salute me. We do get mortar and sniper fire every once and awhile when a brave soul expects to send himself to heaven."

"Usually it's looters or gangers who are trying to grab stuff to sell on the back markets. We don't usually see them except around the more historic areas, usually trying to get into what's left of the museums or some of the historical sites. Then there's a few guys who prop themselves as warlords out there occasionally. Small time usually, but then you get types like Hamid Zaman who can actually throw some authority around over the refugees." Sellers began, still talking as if in the middle of a briefing when Hemmings interrupted her.

"Pretty smart guy, actually. Got his name out when he "drove the alien invaders away" by attacking any reconstruction efforts, while knocking over supply convoys and distributing food through his own men. Claims himself a Robin Hood type, spouting our anti-Alliance stuff before running off into flood zones with his buddies." Hemmings stopped himself and looked over at Sellers.

"Sorry Sellers, your show not mine." Behind you they had finished loading up the bodies as the Kodiak fired its engines back up and made its way into the air. All of you were now officially stuck at the FOB for the foreseeable future.

"You'll be getting more once we have you all settled in. You all ready to see your accommodations or do we have any more questions?" the Lieutenant Commander said, watching the shuttle before looking back down to the group.

Ops Chief Merrick was quite silent during the whole spiel, carefully pondering the situation, looking around with a through gaze before stopping to peer down at the N7 officer, What do you think took a bite out of the Major? Varren, vorcha, krogan, ... something else?

She didn't particularly like that "anti-alien" part. It made her a target of special interest. But it was nothing she had not encountered before, as she remembered the time she had to spend on earth during the relay lockdown. Avoiding fights with racists had been a common theme at the beginning.
It would be interesting to find out what separated a human warlord from a batarian.

"I guess, Zaman and his folks will like me then." She looked over to the camp. It was a labyrinth and the towers of these seemingly religious buildings - you could just identify them from everything else no matter what species - were perfect locations for sniping. If someone would be aiming at them, the chips would have fallen by now.

She could use something to drink and wondered how long everybody wanted to hang out in the hot sun.

Sinisa waved languidly at the Kodiak as it ascended. If he'd had any classical education, it might have put him in mind of Cortés burning his ships - something that didn't work out too well for the Spanish soldiers.

Behind him, the rest of the company were displaying a rather morbid fascination with the evacuated stiffs. A marine thing, he reckoned. Being obsessed with death. As far as Sinisa was concerned, knowing what killed you doesn't make a difference when you're dead. He'd been shot when he'd expected it, and shot when he hadn't; the outcome was much the same.

Favelaville sounded very familiar. Tinpot tyrants hoping to take a cut of reconstruction. The gangers - too stupid to appreciate the opportunity - who simply let rip whenever they saw Alliance blue. Turf and fiefdoms and carved out kingdoms in the muck. A lot of toes to step on. But there was good money to be made here; he could smell it. And it wasn't going to be earned standing around the LZ.

"Shall we get going, 'cha? I'm sweatin' like-a whore in church."

“Right. Then follow me.”

Sellers leads you on towards the tents and dilapidated structures that make up the center of the FOB. You notice an odd mix of technology on your way over: some of the equipment being used seems dated, some of it even up to a century by the numbers printed on the closest generator running off of fossil fuels. Even before the Reapers there were parts of Earth that had never before handled modern technology: now such things seemed almost myth.

“That smell some of you might be picking up? That’s dried out camel dung. Local’s have been using it as a fuel since the generators are usually over burdened. I promise you might get used to it eventually. God knows I haven’t.” Hemmings commented as he stepped up onto the small porch you were lead to.

If, for some reason, you thought you’d be led into a nice, air conditioned interior then you were sorely mistaken. In fact, the facility you passed through felt even hotter than the outside. The various rooms along the short hallway were stuffed with crates of supplies and other necessities for your new home.

Hemmings stopped, punching a few things onto a keypad as he ushered all of you down the hallway behind Sellers. You exit into an opening of hooches and roughly made shacks, with a few tents lining the perimeter labeled “showers” and “latrines” and “chow.” There’s a vidscreen propped on a ruined Grizzly wheel, and some other hastily assembled amenities laying around the open area. Someone even went to the trouble of finding a set of old fashioned electric fans, which seemed to bend over in pain from the heat.

“Pick a hooch, there should be some spares. If any of you females need your privacy we can try to arrange something … with all of you that should make fifteen here now I think. I know Cryder has his team out … so that leaves us with…”

“Ey Sellers this the new group? Where the fook they afrukken this set from? Are they even Marines?”

To your right there is a group of four men who looked more Contractor than Marine. None of them seemed to have any unifying colors or markings, and you could visibly see their equipment laying about: very little of it was Alliance standard issue. They were unshaven, dirty, and yet seemed totally at home in this environment. There was a tree hanging above them that hung a half destroyed mannequin with an extra pair of eyes drawn on. Written across the abdominals in red it said “Blinky saw. Blinky came. But Blinky never conquered.”

The man who addressed you, and by all means their leader, was a particularly grungy looking individual who had the absolute tact to be standing only in a pair of boxers. All across his body there were the telltale signs of both war wounds and implants. In his left hand was a beer bottle, and in his right he was using a monomolecular sword to stir his barbeque. The man somehow managed to summon a wad of spit and cast it in the ground beside a mechanical lower right leg.

“They’re the new volunteers for the Initiative, Chief. All walks of life. Everyone I’d like to introduce you to Operations Chief Dano. He and his team are our representatives from the OSA that will be in the field with us.”

“Which means stye tha fuck outta ar’ weigh.” One of the ones sitting said, dark skinned with a few missing teeth and a scar across one eye. “Secially the Azure bitch. Her type arn’t welcome here.” He pointed a nubby finger at Freh’ya as he started to stand.

A single glare from Dano sent him back into the dirt.

“Yer going to have to mind Tendaji there. The god damned pik got dropped on his head one to many time, and fucked too many cheap whores. I’d welcome you all a little better but ya’ caught us on our first downtime in a fookin’ week. Though got some food here if you want it, some beers too. Shot this lul on our way back from the last run. Cow’s round here have no goddamned meat on ‘em, you know that? Fucking Reapers took all the good steak. Sorry, Sellers, guess I can’t give ya that Candlelight dinner I promised. Can still give ya a beffen if you’d like. On the house.”

“I’ll pass on that Dano. You’re just too old for me, sorry.”

“That burns my heart. I tell ya newbies, this girl right here’s a keeper! Gave me this ‘erself!” He pointed the sword directly at Sellers now, the Cerberus logo engraved into the hilt now visible to everyone. Sellers shook her head and turns back to all of you, blushing a little.

“Sorry about that, but feel free to get settled in. I’ve got to go handle some business with Paul, so just find what you need. I’ll let you know if anything comes in.”

As she passes you, Dano reaches down to a half assembled stereo system which was obviously salvaged from some club. He punched a few keys in, and
music began to play from the half destroyed speakers.

“Welcome to the ass end of the world, motherfuckers!” he shouted, raising both arms excitedly.


“Oh, christ boss why you gotta play this old shit you find in the goddamned ruins?” One of the others complained.

Service Chief Cline grinned watching OpsChief Dano's actions. 'Oh, I'm gonna like this guy.' he thought, before heading over to claim a bunk. "Jeez, i've gotten way to used to Camp Laurier..." he said aloud, before taking off his helmet and putting on his glasses.

"So, OpsChief, where were you stationed during the Reaper War?" Michael asked. "I was over in Ottawa with the 9th Marine Regiment."

Rajapaske found her own niche quickly and shoved her sea bag out of the way-the bag she'd been living out of for two years, filled with mostly practical items and not much sentiment. There was only so much space after all. Next was helmet and some less essential items on her person, though they were put where she could quickly grab them if needed. Shields should be alright if Dano wasn't bothering to wear much clothing. Right? Maybe he was just crazy. That was a possibility too.

Either way he was quite the...character.

The FOB in Dubai hadn't been the nicest base she'd been to, but it'd been a sight better than Ozymandias. Still, this was where the real action was. Here they had something close to a mission and an enemy, not like dying on a bloody survey mission because no one had thought to check for thresher maw activity.

After a moment's hesitation, she grabbed some food. Another lesson the war had taught was to get real food when you could. "How long have you guys been here?" She asked.

Oh God yes

there's booze.

Bad music. Weather from hell's backyard. Grimy (literally grimy) racists. Fucking Cline. He could deal with all of that and maybe even the innies they were supposed to be fighting if there was a hope of some hot chow and decent brew at the end of the day. Day being, you know, a bit of a subjective thing.

And provided the beer wasn't pisswater.

Complete pisswater.

"Ops chief." A nod as he hooked his gauntleted fingers over the rear of his helm and detached it from the neck link with a sigh. Not bad looking. Features too rough to really be a stunner. Dark hair, dark circles under eyes the color of wet earth. He dropped his seabag then the helmet itself on top of it near the closest bunk that wasn't either an oven, a tetanus infection waiting to happen, or covered in some kind of shit (in either the literal or metaphorical sense because fuck it he wasn't looking that close) before returning to the common. Netting himself a decent enough seat across the improvised circle.

"Yo. Bottle?"

The food was designated fair game, there he helped himself.

As they delved into the base, initial impressions weren't good. For one thing, the Alliance - in its infinite wisdom - had opted not to prioritise air-con for a FOB in the middle of the fucking desert. For another, the whole place smelled like camel shit; and Sinisa had the increasing suspicion that no amount of washes was ever going to purge it from his clothes. Finally, they reached their quarters, which - to his incomprehensible amazement - were somehow worse than the prefabs he had back in Mumbai.

Well, this is pretty much hel-llloooo~

Sinisa suddenly caught sight of the rugged man in his boxers, holding a bottle of beer in one hand - and tending a barbecue with the other. There couldn't have been a more perfect synthesis of everything he could ever want. What's more, he took in the rest of the company and a smile came to his lips. Mercs - gotta be. Suddenly, he was in his element.

After dumping off his gear on a free bunk, he made an immediate bee-line for the beer. Beer was free, right? He snatched up a bottle. On the return journey, he eyed up the output of the barbecue, looking for something near-edible. He settled for less. Duly equipped, he grabbed himself a seat close to a fan.

"Ziveli!" he cried, at the welcome, and mimed his bottle at Dano.

He prised off the lid against his seat, then took a swig. Warm, brandless beer poured into his mouth. He couldn't have cared less. With a lukewarm beer in his hand, and a wheezing electric fan tussling his hair, he was about as close as you could get to Paradise in this shithole. Even the music wasn't that bad - although he was more an A-pop fan, himself.

Putting down the bottle, his vision slid over to Vukovic, sitting just about across from him. The man-mountain had finally removed his helmet; he almost seemed human. Almost seemed handsome, too, if he just started smiling a little more. Well, there's always time for second shots...

"Must be the first time I've heard you string two sentences together, crna," he called over, grinning, "A coupl'a'beers and we'll never shut you up." And then, with that brilliant icebreaker dispatched, he added: "How long you been doin' UP?"

If anything, Hueyt liked the heat. It was an odd thing, he had always felt safe when it was hot, especially when it was stuffy. Almost like a blanket. Something he couldn't stand, however, was the smell. As soon as the helmet came off, it was a struggle not to immediately jam it bsck on. With the helmet now gone, his face was revealed; it definitely matched the voice. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and, somehow, quite a tan. Perks of the homeland, one could guess.

He walked to the bunk nearest Cline's and dropped his gear there. He didn't know why, but he quite liked the Service Chief (or, at the very least, more than the rest) even if he was a little... Annoying. He rejoined the group and scrutinised the nearly naked man.

Hueyt took an instant dislike to him. He seemed unprofessional, uncoordinated, and unclean. He felt that Dano should have taken a little pride in his appearance. He understood that this was the closest thing that Dano or his men had to a break in a while, but that didn't mean he had to sit around in his underwear. Even though he was already sweating, Hueyt was perfectly comfortable standing in his armour.

He noticed the mannequin and stared intently at it for a moment.
"Oi, what's that thing?" He said aloud, nodding in the direction of it. "Some kind of story behind it?"