Subjugation

[Gabag]

The world of Serra, unspoiled for the centuries it served as a world for human refugees, fleeing the Diabolical Triumvirate of Man, and the Sovereign Armies who served them, rural and idyllic, it was a bastion of free thinkers, philisophs, people who could change the world for the better. That meant nothing anymore.

One week before, at the observation outpost Sigma Delta, Serra System.

Ensign Creda sat at his post, as the only one in the observation post, it was his job to send probes into the slipstream to gather intelligence on any incoming signals. However due to the lack of Slipstream knowledge available to the Alliance, travel was unpredictable. Sometimes the probes would end up light years from their destinations. When that happened there had to be replacements. It started like any other routine day, sending the probes out. "Alert, Large objects detected at Port, about 7,000 clicks ahead" the computer droned, the alert rang thoughout the outpost, as warning lights flashed

"Oh no.. please dont let it be them!" the Ensign said to himself. Typing in the commands to view Alpha probe's sightings, the port camera linked up with the probe, and hundreds, no thousands of slipstream holes were being torn. "Please just let it be a merchant fleet please!" Soon, the first of the craft exited the stream, and it bore the death's head symbol that is the signature of the Triumvirate! "By the Gods... THEY FOUND US!"

Wiping his brow of sweat the Ensign furiously typed in a new command to reach TACCOM.

"This had better be important Ensign Creda!" the Fleet Admiral on deck barked, he went by the name of Denning, he was responsible for the entire space fleet.

"Sir, a large Triumvirate fleet has just jumped out of slipspace, about 6000 clicks from my position, which would be 10,000 clicks from Serra SIR!"
"How could they find us here!, Ensign, Initiate Protocol, continue to monitor the fleet, and inform me of their fleet magnitude and ships!"



Present day:

The Alliance Space Fleet, never really stood a chance against the superior numbers and technology of the Triumvirate's Fleet. Repair stations were used as sacrificial shields, as the Alliance fleet stood in formation firing their plasma torpedos, they scored numerous hits and kills, but there were just too many. The Triumvirate's prototype Super Cruiser, stood back, sniping Alliance ships, weakening them enough for the main fleet to wipe them out in a Blitzkrieg maneuver. Th ships then disgorged millions upon millions of dropships, prefabricated bases, and war material.


"Ok Lancebikes, get ready for hot drop over the enemy observation post!" Phil yelled over his COM to the rest of his soldiers., Readying their bikes, the troops slowly drove them towards the dropship's hatch. "We're clear, drop the ramp!" he ordered to the pilot, acknowledging his order, the ramp lowered, with the wind furiously howling as the ship descended. One by one the lancebikes sped up and drove out of the ship, still in the air and hard dropped on the outskirts of the base.

Sweeping towards the base, the enemy was caught unprepared and they were quickly gunned down.
"Prepare the beacon, tell High command we've secured a drop zone!"

[Chrono Blackwyng]

Waiting...just waiting was all that ticked him off as he sat in his room, waiting on his next job. His nature made it impossible for him to socially mingle, meaning that keeping him in his room was the only viable option. "Come on already, give me a target, anyone will do!" he yelled at the monitor that displays his jobs. Unless he has a job, he is forbidden to leave his room for any reason...but since the orders came from Issac himself, he never dared disobey. He played with his immolator, enjoying the little flames that jet out everytime he pulls the trigger. "I'm so bored...I might end up beating myself up just to alleviate the boredom..." he said while looking at the flame flicker in his face.