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Station Milkavich IX
Fegosian Union Rapid Reaction Force Base
Milkavich Province
Former People's Nation of Alfegos
It was incredible how quickly nature could gain a hold on places it had been denied. Whether it was a patch of grass breaking up ruled straight concrete lines, a shrub bursting from a neglected outbuilding, or a lone feral cat scampering along an empty road, she had unfurled her tendrils to all corners of this abandoned place. In the evening light, the orange-crimson glow bursting through the clouds, the vast expanse of the Ocean of the Setting Sun spread out almost forever, a future seemingly empty and alone. And like the water before it, the land was empty, haunted from one ocean to another by the past.
In the orange light of the evening, the remaining towers of Milkavich City cut a sharp silhouette. Concrete blocks as far as the eye could see, apartments for the eighty million people who once lived in this giant conurbation, sprawling out into the surrounding forest like a fungus growing on a tree. Tendrils of suburbs and satellite towns scattered across the urban jungle, an undergrowth of decaying, collapsing concrete factories mixed with glass towers of an old financial heart. The fires that had started in those streets had burnt for days, the smoke forming a plume that blotted out the sun, ash drifting down like autumn leaves. Amongst the remaining towers, the scars of the damage done could still be seen; smashed glass and shattered stone, twisted steel clawing at the sky. And hidden within the charred streets and mangled vehicles, the remains of an old life festered.
Out here, on the city's southern border, a district of housing mixed with airship yards, the chasms of the air docks scored deep into the earth, surrounded by clusters of helium plants and plastics factories. These had seen some of the worst fighting, the ruins of once great vessels smote upon the ground by catastrophic forces. Towering above a factory, the tail fin of a once great vessel, the AAS Excalibur, was now a wind battered monument to times past. Bullet holes from an epic battle scarred her battered frame, exotic fabrics now flapping like discarded rags in the ocean wind that blew in.
And beyond, the city edge was just visible to the south, a few strands of rainforest cut across by the rail links and highways that formed the country's western corridor. But as night closed, the millions of lights that once shone would not illuminate. Despite one's imagination, it was hard to see the traces of industriousness and business that had graced this great city. No cars drove these roads, no mighty airships filled the sky, and no people walked the streets. No sound but the wind, seemingly colder these days, mixed with the gentle sound of the waves.
The sea lapped away at giant concrete coastal walls, the old tsunami barriers still mostly intact, protecting this former outpost of the Fegosian Union. A few high storms had taken the top off one of the lesser maintained barriers, a small brackish lagoon formed in what was once a parade square, clean tarmac already cracking from lack of maintenance, and overgrowing. Beyond the crisp walls, chainlink fence giving way to concrete and gravel gabions on the landward side, hinting at the past threats this base had been built to deal with. Terror attacks and separatism were no longer a threat here, communist and loyalist both equal when catastrophe had struck. A battered sign for 'FURRF STATION IX' still stood, in an area that had escaped the worst of the fighting. By the time the battle had come near, the endgame had come.
From the base's headquarters, a solitary figure sat staring through the building window, the command office overlooking the large military station. At one time he would have been arrested as a spy, breaking as he was into a secure command area, where sensitive information was processed. But the computer in front of him was lifeless and dead, as was the network it would have connected to in the past. The desk drawers were empty, secret contents whisked away or burnt. Though he wasn't interested in information, nor in the remaining weapons and ammunition that sat locked away in the building. The remaining aircraft lining the station's airstrip, the vehicles that lingered in hangers, the food rotting in the stores, none were his priority.
He was a rare person now, a Fegosian officer. More specifically, as his tired military uniform told, an Orbital Command Officer, of the Geological Warfare Division, orange patches marking him as a Colonel. The many colleagues he had worked with had scattered with the winds, at least the ones who had survived the Catastrophe. Most had run with their families straight into the employment of allied powers - those of Monavia, of Mokastana. He had guaranteed his family safety, on one condition – that he stay behind to help his benefactors when they arrive.
The first days had been hell. He had sat in this very office, watching as the black rain fell. The atomic hellfire that had ravaged the city centre had spared him, but as the fallout descended, he had hunkered down further, equipment humming a gentle warning for him to retire to the shelter below. The ground had shaken, as if titans had fought, as the battles reached their pinnacle. From there, he had listened as radio broadcasts became fewer and fewer. When the radio went, only static crackled through airwaves that once held the crisp sound of Fegosian, he knew it had ended. Other than the messages he received from his sponsors in Mokastana, brief messages to a satellite phone, he and his small unit of men had been alone.
Days turned into months. After two weeks they had started to venture out during the day, sleeping inside at night. Sweating in the CBRN gear left behind, they had slowly washed the ash and dust away, until their detectors had started to complain. One of the small band fell ill and died soon after, an unknown sickness gripping him violently, death bringing an unnatural quiet to his screams in the night. As was the tradition, he was cremated at sunset, his colleagues looking on into the crimson sun behind plastic visors and black respirators as he passed into eternity.
The radiation was of little issue after two months, only hiding in the corners and basements of buildings. As was their instruction, dutifully carried out, the now seven cleared out old barracks and kitchens, centralising supplies and cleaning safe bed spaces. A few ship lights at sea had brought some hope of an early rescue – they had soon passed on, a naval patrol stopping any potential looters from slipping in to the desolate wastes, and any remaining fighting from escaping. They had ventured out into the surrounding town – one of them never returned. They searched on each visit, bringing back uncontaminated supplies and bottled water, but his body never re-emerged. After that, they never ventured beyond the base without a firearm.
The darkness closed in. The nights were darker, more full of fear than they had ever been before. Every noise, every shadow could have been something. Screams in the darkness, coming from nowhere, movement in the penumbra of the small electric lights they could still run. A single crisp gunshot, the report of a pistol at dawn, signalled another of the group finally finding an escape from the terror. His body was witnessed by the stars, now endless in their multitude, staring down from the heavens.
They had been told six months. And indeed, after six months, the satellite phone rang, the sound a familiar beacon of hope for them all. The Colonel had sat, noting his instructions.
==
''So, this is the plan.''
The Colonel stood in front of the many maps plastered to the wall, four men seated in front of him, taking a drag from the cigarettes saved for such occasions. Across the many maps of Alfegos, his handwriting detailed key points and areas – the predicted fallout areas, the worst battlefields, the zones where ungodly powers had been unleashed upon the world. And the objectives he knew about.
''The Mokans are coming to secure the most dangerous of the Fegosian weapons, before someone else does, or they start firing again. As you are all aware, the weapons technology of our country was before its time, and if in the hands of other powers, could lead to a cataclysm spreading across the world. More importantly for us though, its a way out of this hell, to a permanent retirement with our families, on a tropical beach somewhere.''
A quiet, somewhat sarcastic chuckle came from the men around – they knew not to trust any promises made these days, but secretly clung on to hope.
''Whilst I worked within ORBCOM, and the unit that focussed on some of the most powerful weapons we created, what I worked with barely scratched the surface. My work controlling our Orbital Communications ended when I resigned in disgust at the situation we found ourselves in; my only regret is that I didn't destroy any other systems that we operated. But what we have extends beyond that. The specifics I do not know. Yet.''
He gestured to a map.
''We have secured FURRF Station IX, Milkavich, because it's the most intact station left with both sea and air access. This will be the point of entry for the Mokastana forces and their allies. However, our main target of interest is here.''
He pointed to the southern province, to two locations.
''In my command, I learnt of two locations that may yield the Mokans clues to where they wish to go. The first, Ol'vi, is the former site of ORBCOM's headquarters, and space programme. The command centre there, if still accessible, will yield valuable clues as to the superweapon programmes, including their headquarters unit. However, I am led to believe the site took a direct hit from an atomic weapon.
The second is a location that I only learnt about from a conversation I should have never overheard. The R&D and deployed arms locate their research all over the place – hence why I wouldn't be able to guide the Mokans to any one particular thing. They didn't talk. The completed plans, strategies and designs were held centrally, in a secure location, to prevent a sub-division from locating a completed plan. The Special Archive is a part of the Department of Records, curiously, and underneath New Zevkhay. It is here we may have more luck. Alas, New Zevkhay also bore the brunt of the catastrophe.
We will visit Ol'vi first, on the way to New Zevkhay. If we're in luck, then fantastic. If not, we move on to the second location. I have yet to hear the Mokans say what they're bringing, but I fear we may be travelling by land. If the highways are in decent state, then all the better – if they are, it's maybe a five hour drive to Ol'vi at 80 klicks an hour. If not, we may have a difficult time of it.
Get the supplies ready for moving out, and some vehicles ready. The Mokans arrive in two days. I will be briefing them before hand, letting them know the full plan, and hopefully will get some insight into who's turning up.''
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OOC - TG for entry into this. Top priority given to Monavia and Mokastana, alongside those who've discussed already with me.