As I woke up in my cot, I groggily rubbed the sleep from my eyes. The air reeked of the sickly sweet smell of fermenting blood, an odor so familiar it gnawed at my senses like rust on metal.
I swung my legs over the edge and rose, slipping into my standard-issue warplate. First came the sleek, lightweight nanofiber mesh body glove, hugging my frame like a second skin. Next, the cold, unforgiving plasteel plating settled over my vitals. Then came the knee-high synthetic leather boots, reminiscent of the old kirza design. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it," I thought. Last came the helmet, it was a bulky piece of shit that turned every head movement into a chore. Its claustrophobic interior muffled sound and blurred vision, leaving me feeling trapped inside my own skull.
I stride over to my unit's armory. As I put in my chain code, I ponder what the upcoming patrol would entail. As the door to the weapons locker hissed open, the familiar gleam of my standard issue handheld kinetic accelerator greets me, as my fingers close around the grip with instinctive precision as if an extension of myself. I think to myself, "it's not just a weapon, it is a promise that I won't be facing the Upyrs alone."
I still have 2 hours before I am to go patrol the ruined city of Port Kessan. "2 hours, just enough time to pretend as if I wasn't sitting in this rinky-dinky piece of shit," I say to myself as I sit in this makeshift barracks, half of which is stitched together from scavenged material with the rest being reinforced with the bulkhead plating of one of our downed gunships.
I reach into my pack which rested against the frame of my cot and pull out a small aluminum box containing a single ration of Nutristew, its surface etched with the Commonwealth crest and a worn out warning: "Not for civilian consumption. heat before eating. If possible."
The hermetic seal hisses as I crack it open. The smell hits first, somewhere between burnt plastic and old milk that was left out too long. The "food" inside is a grayish paste that reminded me of the paleness of necrotic skin, barely holding the shape of the mold it was vacuum pressed into. No one really knows what's in it. Protein? Maybe. Memory? Definitely not.
Without even bothering with heating it, I grab the spoon clipped to the lid and give it a stir. It resists as this slop always does, like it's fighting its purpose. I take a bite. The taste is metallic, faintly bitter, tastes like this godforsaken war. And maybe regret. Still, it fills the hunger in my stomach.
Once done with the Nutristew, I reach once more into my pack and pull out a pack of coffee reconstitute and a mug. I pour some water from my canteen into a mug and put it over one of electric heating elements and wait for the water to boil. Once finished, I open the foil pouch of reconstitute and pour it into the mug. I watch as the chalky brown powder dissolve into the water. The resulting mixture resembles coffee to a degree.
I take a sip from the mug, it's strong, it warms my body up and gives a sense of nostalgia, like an old friend who only knows how to show love through tough truths. In a place like Port Kessan, where the world has gone to shit, a hot cup of bad coffee is the one thing that still tastes like civilization. And for today, that's enough.
As I finished reminiscing, I heard the makeshift door of this makeshift barracks open. Instinctually, I reach for my service rifle and in a flash I have it pointed at the door, but to my relief it was just my squadmate Rorke and I relax. As I finished reminiscing, I heard the makeshift door of this makeshift barracks creak open. Instinct kicked in before thought, I reached for my service rifle, shoulder tensed, and in a blink I had it leveled at the entrance and to my relief it was just my squadmate, Rorke.
I let out a breath and lowered the barrel. Rorke didn't even bother reacting.
He stepped inside like the war couldn't touch him, boots crunching softly over shattered tile. One hand cradled a tin mug, steam curling from it; the other rested casually on the grip of his own rifle, like even walking was a tactical maneuver.
"Easy there," he muttered, glancing at my rifle. "If you're the sharpest shot around here, we're in deep trouble."
I half smiled, half sighed, setting the rifle back against the cot frame.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people in a ghost city."
"Wasn't sneaking. Just too lazy to be knocking on sheet metal doors," Rorke shot back.
"Port Kessan's so dead, even the ghosts are looking for fresh recruits." We both gave a slight chuckle at the remark.
After a beat of silence, Rorke piped up, "Vecht's lookin' for you. Our patrol starts in thirty."
With a reluctant groan, I finished off the now lukewarm coffee and tossed the dented mug back into my pack. Making my way to the unit armory once more, I grabbed an ammo box. The factory seal hissed sharply as I broke it, the sterile scent of fresh rounds filling the air. I pulled out the magazines, inside these contained sleek clips holding twenty tungsten sabot rounds each, cold and ready to punch holes through whatever abomination awaited outside.
Me and Rorke each take 5 magazines, with the magazine already loaded into my rifle, we were packing some serious heat. Had we not been fighting against a foe far more technologically powerful than ourselves, we would've been unstoppable.
Afterwards, we headed out and met up with the rest of the unit. Jex, Marik, Vendral, Varren, Reyes, and our squad leader, Vecht. Everyone had the same story. None of us signed up for this. We all drafted when the Upyr started hitting the colonies, drafted when the fighting got bad and the body count got worse.
I didn't volunteer. Most of us didn't. One day I was cramming for entrance exams to the most prestigious colleges in the Core, the next I was learning how to fire a railgun and keep my head down. That's how it works when you're just another number on the casualty report.
We made our way to the unofficial command center, it was a sandbagged garage with a cracked table and a dozen mismatched chairs. Vecht briefed us on our next patrol. We'd be heading deeper into the city on foot, tasked with finding an infantry platoon that had gone dark three days ago. Our orders: locate any survivors, if any were left, and eliminate any Upyr labgrown freaks or stragglers and hope that we aren't eliminated.
We left the command center in silence, boots crunching over broken glass and scorched plascrete as we moved out. The city loomed ahead, a jagged silhouette of bombed out towers and shattered roads, haunted by the memory of what it used to be.
No one spoke. Not because there was nothing to say as we all bantered to pass time, but because we all knew the words wouldn't change where we were headed, or what we might find.
Just before we crossed into the patrol zone, Rorke muttered under his breath, like a prayer or a joke he didn't expect anyone to hear:
"Three days is a long time to be missing out here."
Yeah. It was.
I tightened my grip on my rifle. We disappeared into the ruins, swallowed by the city, and whatever waited in it.