Cold grey walls surround you, the lack of colour and dull, lifeless concrete seems to breathe angrily as you cross an empty corridor.

Your housing is silent and dark. In the closet is your uniform, hung neatly on a clothes rack. A glowing helmet pulses softly in the corner, occasionally flickering.

Gridiron seems cold in facilities like this. Facilities like Training Ground Whitehead. Pilots who graduate from here are considered elite. With a 98% fail rate, the 2% that graduate are truly astonishing in their abilities.

It's what you've always been told, at least. That you should be proud. You should be a General, commanding your own wing. But, you're happy where you are. A captain, a combat-certified pilot, and a leader of a great squad of IMC soldiers.

A transmission dings through your wrist watch, and your helmet flickers. A message from the head chief in charge of Whitehead is summoning you to the main command centre in 15 minutes.

You get into your uniform methodically. A zipper growls closed and a velcro patch rips noisily as it is pulled apart and refastened. Your boots slide on, and you adjust the clips to secure tightly to your feet with a click! Finally, you slip your helmet on. Your vision turns to mildly tinted orange, and the walls don't seem so dead when you glance at them. You strap your pistol into its place in your belt and secure your rifle on your back.

You exit your room, coming into a large, open corridor.

The hall you walk now, boots noisy on white tile, is empty, minus the occasional MRVN on site. Outside, however, you are aware that the facility bustles with activity and the highest level of security you could ever imagine.

Being here feels nostalgic, in a way. You've already completed your time here, you graduated quite some time ago. More than five years ago, when you were a younger woman.

The IMC has merely stationed you here for a small portion of time. At least until your ship is ready to depart. Your elite force of soldiers are also on base, most partaking in a refresher of their skills. You had spoken to Rowan and Flint on their way out earlier this morning.

You sigh heavily, dragging your eyes across the plain walls around you one last time before your motion opens an automatic door, allowing you to step outside.

The noise of titans, thumping with their heavy feet as they patrol and move in a controlled, orderly fashioned group in passing fills your ears. Your attention shifts, eyes wandering to rest on neatly arranged columns and rows of grunts and riflemen in formation parade past.

For a few minutes you just watch. Somewhere deep in your mind you can remember when this used to be your life.

The training courses. Simulations. The people you endured here with. The laughs, the ambition, the long nights and even earlier mornings. It makes you smile beneath the safety of your helmet, where nobody can see you as you process the nostalgia that settles on your chest.

You cross the walkway, which is plated with the same heavy, white slabs you remember. The door to the main building opens and you slip inside. Inside is just like every other IMC facility. White, sterile walls accentuated with black or grey markings and shiny silver screws. As you walk, you are greeted with a few salutes by passing soldiers. You salute back and continue on.

The door to the main control room opens when you near it, and you greet some of the highest ranking officers on base with salutes.

Inside is a face you recognize, but are surprised to see in attendance.

“General Marder,” you say, nodding to the man.

“Captain.”

General Elias Marder is a tall, intimidating man. His grey hair is cropped short on his head and his face holds its usual unamused look. Marder, who now pushes over 50, has been around since you were a child, and probably a decade longer before that. His status in the IMC is grand; the General commands and directly oversees the ARES division in the IMC, the wing responsible for research and development within the Interstellar Manufacturing Corp.

"Graves has informed me that you are to accompany Blisk with the new BRD-01's and evaluate the unmarked colony on Troy that we believe is the hiding place of the Militia,” General Marder says, and you nod in acknowledgement. “Your shuttle leaves in 20 mikes, get your men ready.”

You salute and exit the room after his instructions.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

The goblin carrier growls as it descends onto Troy, a little turbulence making it shiver mid-flight. It's like a noisy bird as it slices through the air, its belly holding your squad safely as it flaps and dives through blue clear skies.

Blisk is in his own ship, as you ride with your own men separately. The brand new Spectres hang from racks secured under more unmanned carriers, following the descent onto Troy, a planet in the previously thought to be uninhabited sector Bravo-217.

Your group consists of eight soldiers, each highly skilled IMC riflemen with a few years of combat under their belts. You've commanded these soldiers for a few years now, and you've gotten to know each of them.

“How come we've been tasked to such a boring task, Captain?” Tyler asks, shifting in his seat and causing his gear to clank together. His build is lanky and slim, and he stands at a height of 6’2” with his combat boots on.

“Yeah,” adds Jaxon, scoffing, “couldn't they have sent some of their grunts?”

Jaxon is a shorter, slightly bulkier man. His accent hints of his home world being somewhere in the midwest US, on Earth.

“I'm sure the captain has less of an idea than you, Matthews.” Dax counters to Tyler and Jaxon sarcastically, and you turn your gaze to watch his eyes roll.

The other eight soldiers– Flint, Silas, Rowan, Knox, and Corbin– all snicker at the comment.

“I believe we'll be on our way to Angel City after this,” you suddenly say, “so, the faster we finish whatever business Spyglass has being here, the faster we can be on our way.” Your soldiers nod after your words.

Before anyone can speak again, the ship announces in a synthetic voice to disembark and the rear hatch opens, allowing you to jump to the ground while it hovers. Blisk's goblin does the same and you see him depart from the ship..

“Stay quiet, there may be locals around and we want to survey the area first,” you order, and your group remains silent in compliance.

By the looks of it, the goblins dropped you some distance away from the colony, and you are able to watch as people walk amongst the streets. There doesn't seem to be any armaments on the outside of the Colony. Or any signs of the Militia.

“No Militia here,” Dax voices your thoughts, “Is the IMC sure we've got the right place?”

You're just about to reply when a voice stops you.

“Ma'am,” Knox says. There's a tug on your sleeve and you watch as his hand extends to point upwards.

As you turn your head towards the direction of his finger, you spot what appears to be a white mass. On top of a mountain, quite high up, the large crash-landed ship you read to be named ‘ODYSSEY’ peers down at you like a menacing flyer perched on a peak. Following a thin line with your eyes, you map the long, grey cables that stretch from the ship downwards to the base of the Colony.

“Looks like they use those cables to transport materials,” Flint, one of your soldiers comments quietly, having moved up beside you and you offer a small nod in agreement.

After relaying some information back to Blisk, your squad, Blisk, and the BRD's make their way towards the colony, pushing through undergrowth and moving in silence.

Blisk is the first to step out of the foliage, the BRD's marching with him, and you follow suit with your squad.

“Let's test our new Spectres, ay?” Blisk says, “Commence fire. Leave nobody behind.” As if a line has snapped the Spectres open fire and march into the colony on heavy metal feet with blazing guns.

“Blisk!” You shout, eyes widening as you whip your body towards him, “We were not given the order to open fire on civilians! What are you doing?"

Your squad has grown tense behind you. They're unsure of how to react, you can feel it. The air trembles with shock and the sound of destruction rises into the sky to meet you.

“I was given the directive to utilize our new machines in combat” Blisk laughs without humour, “they may be civilians now, but they'll be militia forces later.”

You're silent. Inside your head, a million questions swirl. “Unarmed civilians don't seem like Militia members to me, Sergeant.”

“I like how these Spectres kill, ay,” Blisk continues, taking your silence as a win, and you can hear the amusement in his voice. “But intervene and I will report your insubordination to Spyglass and Graves, Captain.”

You shudder. It's the way he hisses your rank, his blue eyes narrowed in a challenging manner. Biting your lip, you glare through your helmet at the mercenary standing in front of you.

From within the city, screams have erupted, and it makes you sick to your stomach thinking about what may be happening. You doubted they even had rifles to protect themselves.

A plume of smoke wafts into the sky, and the reek of it reaches your nose. You can see that a building has caught on fire. There's still gunfire, explosive and echoing through the streets of the colony, and there's responding screams to the bloodshed.

All you can do is watch in silence, your visor turned to stare at the flames that lap at the sky like forked snake tongues as you try to ignore the sound of crying and screaming and gunshots.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙