Chapter 1: Wishful Thinking

The pealing sound of decending orbital shuttles shattered the serenity of the evening sky above a ruined city. Long red streaks marked the ships' atmospheric descent as their external hulls burned lava red from the reentry. Light coming from the ships illuminated the ghostly outlines of abandoned buildings that dotted the landscape like enormous vertical coffins rising out of fresh soil. Nearer to the ground, marks of streets could be seen here and there, ruined by debris, craters, and collapsed structures. Pockets of fire and smoke appeared sporadic, giving the place a macabre face of violence.

After a few seconds the glow of the orbital shuttles dimmed, revealing a bright metallic finish along their elongated hulls, streamlined fronts and flat bottoms like the landing ship transports of the early nineteenth century. Seemingly in freefall, their speeds tear up the air produce banshee-like screams.

As the shuttles descended closer to the city, loud booming gunfire exploded from within the cavernous cavities of the taller skyscapers. In an instant the guns light up the city in a ghastly festive display of arms. Tracer rounds fill the sky with dotted lines that sway with the direction of the passing ships. Several ships take hits and trail with smoke but they continue on towards the ground.

Just a few hundred feet above the roads, the shuttles ignite retroboosters on each corner of its flat underbelly in short loud bursts. They slow down in their descent and in less than a few seconds they touched down on a rocky clearing just outside of the main clusters of ruins.

Inside one, everything is dimly illuminated by the singular red light lying at the aft of the ship. On each side, rows of buckled marines, faces unrecognizeable by the shadows made by their thick brown helmets with T-shaped openings reminiscent of the days of the Medieval Crusades. Rumbling from outside gunfire reverberate inside with deep bass. Shoom. Boom. Nobody utters a word.

The explosions outside stop. In an instant the red light becomes brighter and it starts spinning to the tune of a deathsiren. Zero hour. The door at the back of the ship swings open in one downward motion and the soldiers march out in two files. Around them, other platoons had already formed, groups of a dozen men neatly aligned in groups - brown body armors thick, padded, uniform. Beside them, the shuttles lay waiting, its side wall emblazoned by a large crest of stars juxtaposed to form one large star. Beneath it, the writings "UNIS FEDERA" is written in bold white characters.

Flares are ejected from the canopies of the landed ships, lighting up the vicinity with crimson glow. More infantry are made visible, their black chrome rifles glistening under the night sky. Beyond them, bright explosions could be seen from within the city just as fast moving unrecognizably fast aircraft flash overhead. The antiaircraft shower died down shortly afterwards.

The rightmost man of each group took a step forward and blew whistles in unison while the rest of the group stomped their feet. Wordlessly they spread out in various formations start marching towards the city.

A man wearing a long wintercoat and kneehigh boots stepped out of one of the shuttles. His seasoned face showed resolve, accented by a long crooked nose that pointed down to dark moustache made darker by the lighting flares. His flat, clefted chin angled down and stuck to his chest, giving him the formidable look of an charging bull. His temple wore whitened sideburns, decorated by a singular earpiece, most probably for military communique.

The man depressed a button behind his earpiece. Static started coming out with faint sounds of gunfire in the background. "Lieutenant Reeves, report in," the man spoke with grunting voice.

"Sir, we're six blocks deep into the main district," the voice at the other end reported. "Pockets of resistance are slowing down movement but we're still on schedule. ETA to the target area is five minutes. Over and out."

The earpiece crackled as teh transmission ended. The general huffed and put on his generals cap. The night wind suddenly grew chilly. He took out a cigar from the backpocket of his coat and placed it in his mouth. As he was lighting it, a strong feminine voice from behind took him by surprise. "I'm surprised you went along with your men for this mission, mon general Stratbein. An officer should not expose himself to unnecessary danger."

The general did not turn to see who he was speaking to, as if he already knew. He opened his mouth, but just as he was about to speak, the voice interrupted. "You're probably here to see it with your own eyes, to check if the rumors are true," the voice said. "Let me confirm it for you, the "

Cigar smoke filled the air as the general clicked his lighter close and slipped it to his sidepocket. His silence was that of agreement.

A faint outline of a lithe feminine figure came from behind, her vinylesque bodysuit shined with the overhead lighting. Her face is concealed by a lowered biker's visor, and with her long curly brown hair, only her moving lips are made apparent. "You've always been the curious of the lot, mon general. Is knowing so important that you risk your life and everything that goes with it?"

"Tell me, Maddonna," The general spoke with smoke coming out of his mouth. "If I'm doing what you think I'm doing, what are you here for? Your kind has no business here."

The lady smiled and started walking away. "We're Diaspora. After Omicron, we only have business where our feet take us. And all roads nowadays it seems, lead back to what you and I seek."

Eerie silence enveloped the city surroundings, with the faint trudging of Madonna's feet the only sound being carried by the wind. The gunfire died down and the night was once again peaceful.

Static echoed across the landing site as the general depressed the button in his earpiece. No response. The general clenched his fists and threw away the half-smoked cigar as he began walking back to his shuttle.

One by one the shuttles lifted off, filling the ground with fine dust from the rocket exhausts. Maddonna watched them fly by her as she sat on the roof of a wheelless pickup truck, the shuttle reflections appearing one by one on her visor's surface.

She smiled and gazed at the city, once again but a dark mound of ruins painted across a starfilled horizon. "You see mon general?" Madonna spoke, as though still addressing the general, "He's back. Combatron is back."