Ordinis Custodum: Book 1

Prologue          



Kenpachi Miyamoto stood at the fore of the cavernous space. In an undisclosed location this man, along with five more of his kind meet with a chosen representative in order to protect mankind from Lucifer and his fallen angels. Standing in a circle around him are Ranger Captain Longshanks, a tall lean man that exudes confidence. Artium Arcanorum Cardinalis Lombardi, a small seemingly fragile man in large white robes carrying a golden staff topped with a crucifix. The Guild Masters, Luther Gottlieb, Masamune Hanwei, and Herodotus Helladius also made their presence evident. However, none in the room were as crucial to this meeting as the Representative of the Heavenly Host, and Huntmaster, Uriel. Uriel shone with splendor and radiance, his white wings folded away into the niches of his armor on his back. He wore what appeared to be heavily decorated, yet sturdy plate armor of an unknown origin. His sword, worn European style on his left hip was simple yet all the more splendorous for its simplicity. Uriel addressed the Masters of the Hunt laconically, and with a voice as powerful as it was quiet.

“Kenpachi Miyamoto, it is once again time to choose who your blade school’s next Alumnus will be. It has been a decade since your last Alumnus, Clay Adamson, died and we have deemed it the right time for you to choose another. Who will it be?"

Miyamoto Musashi scanned the list in front of him and answered in his equally powerful, gravelly, baritone of a voice, "None from this list, but there is one young man in the world who may be worthy of the training, he is from America, northern Oklahoma to be precise, but let there be no doubt, that is my choice. And I am, how you say, sticking to it."

The reactions amongst the Praetors ranged from shock to outrage to apathy. James Longshanks, in his countryside Cockney accent, wondered aloud, "Well who is it? We haven't got all day you know, there are other matters to be attended to in this meeting, after all it would be dreadfully disrespectful to waste Uriel's time wouldn't it?"

Miyamoto's gaze flicked towards Longshanks who flinched. Miyamoto chuckled and answered, "His name? Longshanks, his name is Ripere, Isaac Ripere, and you Longshanks are going to help me find him before someone else does."

Artium Arcanorum Cardinalis Lombardi spoke out, in his gruff craggy tones "Would this Isaac Ripere be the Reaper of Legend?"

Miyamoto responded off-handedly, "It appears to be that way. His first sword has already revealed its name. Falciare is Italian for 'scythe' is it not Cardinal?"

"I find it hard to believe that one of my blades, particularly that blade, would so willfully compare itself to a blade of such epic legendary properties." The statement eschewed from a small, wiry man standing in the deep shadows of the high galleries surrounding the meeting floor. The blade in question was of his make, Masamune Kyoto, second in stature only to Masamune Hanwei and second to none in the quality of his blades. Blades of crucite were prone to playing host for the spirits of angelic powers and Kyoto's blades played host to the strongest of these spirits. Crucite blades were also made in pairs and were tested against themselves; the better blade will shear the weaker blade completely in half from point to hilt. The weaker blade is then disposed of, deigned as inadequate for hosting a spirit. The same way a rat infested restaurant is inadequate for hosting the visiting ambassador of France.

"It only makes sense that the blade makes such a comparison" a voice rang out from the other side of the raised gallery. It belonged to a young woman of haunting beauty, the apprentice of Ranger Longshanks. "After all, it is the same design is it not? Combination blade and firearm, the blade folds away to expose the semiautomatic pistol ensconced in the hilt. Sounds just like the Falciare of legend, those legendary blades are complex pieces, the rest are hidden away only Falciare was damaged beyond use in its final battle with darkness incarnate." The young apprentice had a pale complexion, eyes decidedly more grey than blue, hair black as night, kept straight and flowing, a face with features attributed to noble blood of European lineage. The shadows she stood in only enhanced her beauty, most had to voluntarily look away from the huntress, such was her allure. As Longshanks' apprentice, she was given responsibility of seeking out new hunters and welcoming them into the Ordinis Custodum, and then promptly dumping them into each corresponding order or guild. She was known as The Raven, mostly in respect to her startling appearance.

The men in the room grumbled ascent. Kyoto stood speechless and Uriel's armor shook with mirthful chuckling. Miyamoto knew that she had a dark past, and it showed in her demeanor, but he had already made his decision. Miyamoto's past prevented him from trusting most, he bore the scars to support his reasons, but just now he felt that he should trust this young woman to do what needed to be done. As the other masters mulled details over, he decided to voice his decision. "I move" he called out, "to send Sabrina Mietitore to retrieve Isaac from his home, I trust that she will succeed and bring us our Reaper. May Isaac Ripere be known this day as a Custode of humanity and Reaper of Demons."

The others voiced their ascent.



         In a separate cavern, deeper than the first, yet more brightly lit, a different meeting took place. The Reapers were holding their meeting as well. The Chairman, Romani Mietitore, elder brother of The Raven, called for the council’s attention. “Brothers, the first blade is made ready, what must we do?” he questioned in his lilting Italian accent. “Brother,” a voice boomed, loud and heavy with an accent most commonly associated with men from the Sahara, “We should send a representative of our own, to watch and guard the fledgling, he will not be able to protect himself from the fiend that will surely hunt him”. Marcus Orcus, the African Reaper, stood head and shoulders over his fellows. “Marcus, you have always proposed this, but how does this serve our purposes. He must experience trauma before he can be considered one of us.” Declared Lao Si Shen, the Reaper of Asia, known for his apparent outward coldness toward those he barely knows. “Lao, one of these days, we’ll lose a Reaper to a Bellua if we continue to follow that suggestion, Matheus himself almost didn’t make it” came the whispered rebuttal from a dark corner. The speaker, Malach Hamahvet, the Middle East’s representative, indicated another man, Matheus Ceifeiro, South America’s Reaper, who bore a large scar that traveled from his throat to the palm of his right hand, a scar earned in a fight against his first demon, on the day of his Revelation. The others knew just as well, a Reaper’s Revelation must be his own. A Reaper is only fully realized when the light of courage is kindled in the darkness of fear, hope in despair, life in death, love in hate. This is called the Reaper’s Revelation, when the mind of man is exposed to the presence of God, not partially, but in full. What is left behind is filled up with the Holy Spirit and is made completely new. No original taint is left behind, all evil is removed, and is replaced by uncorrupted good. And in this moment, the demon, the fiend that hunted the Reaper is consumed in holy fire, and destroyed. But, what they all understood, even Marcus, was that no other Reaper could be present at a Revelation, other hunters could be there, but the Reaper had to have his own Revelation.

         Another Reaper was in the room as well. Reaper combat doctrine has always dictated that there should be at least one individual with the ingenuity and intestinal fortitude to handle volatile materials. To put it more bluntly, there needs to be a guy who is either crazy enough, or stupid enough, to handle explosives. Typically this role is filled jointly by the Reapers from Russia and North America. The Reaper from Russia tends to be the crazier, but stronger, of the two, and this role, in all its insane simplicity, was very pleasing to Ivan Zhnets, who invariably had to, at this moment, in his thick Russian Accent, say, “I personally have never understood how a Reaper for North America is selected, it seems too complicated”. In all fairness to the young man, selection is complicated. To be a North American Reaper, it is not enough to be born into the family line that has contributed Reapers to the region, but also requires the right mixing of heritage and an apparent ingenuity that could only belong to a Yank in order to properly represent the majority of the region. The result is that the Council tends to go without a North American representative because the blooded lineage of Reapers, the House of Ripere, tends to be extremely unpredictable, which only adds to the Council’s frustration when ingenuity, particularly that deliciously insane Yankee brand of ingenuity, is required to solve an issue. Fortunately, any manner of issue that has recently cropped up has been generally attributed to high concentrations of Praedator Ligatus, bound marauders. In other words, issues that if a Reaper responded, the result would be a significant oversight of the management of power expended. The mere presence of a Reaper would cause all marauders to immediately dissipate, which can possibly cause a backlash and create a circumstance whereby a worse infestation could possibly take hold of the region. Which is why the Reapers have come together for this Council meeting: to consider all available options for securing their new found brother.

         “Obviously, we ourselves cannot go, but what about our retainers? Or maybe we should find a huntress who has the necessary qualifications to be assigned to that position for the new Reaper.”

“Romani, I hate to calm your brainstorm, but it appears as if the Praetors have made that decision for us,” responded Lao.

“Lao, first off, that made no sense, you need to get a better handle of your colloquialisms, and second, who could they have possibly picked to retrieve the American? It’s almost ridiculous. The Praetors never make a decision that quickly, there should have been at least a day’s time to allow us to submit our suggestions to their meeting. This is utterly maddening,” sighed Matheus, evidently exasperated.

“It’s understandable; the Praetors would want to secure the new Reaper as soon as possible,” came Malach’s response, voice heavy, indicative of a person lost in thought.

Romani whispered, absentmindedly, “It appears that my sister is to be the American’s retainer, I always knew she would be like our mother.” Then, more clearly, “We must begin the search for the blades of legend, this Reaper is going to need his ancestral equipment.” Then he whispered to himself, privately, “It’s a pity that the original Falciare was destroyed, but Kyoto’s blade should make a fine replacement. I hope Isaac is a fast learner, my sister’s life may depend upon it.”



Chapter 1



         “In times past, great men, Reapers and Hunters alike, have answered the call, and given their all, so that the least of these might live in peace.” –Luther Johann Gottlieb, Magister Ministerii of Guldam Ministrorum



         Isaac rolled and tossed in bed, a cold sweat drenching the sheets and making him shiver. His dreams were dark and haunting, devilish, twisted misrepresentations of reality. Isaac remarked to himself in the dream that it reminded him of the tortures of the darkest pits of hell. His spirit felt tortured, like some creature was ransacking his soul, torturing him with his worst fears.

         “Are you afraid of the dark? Or are you afraid of your own darkness?” came a voice that grated maliciously against his soul like a carpenter sanding a particularly stubborn corner on a table that was supposed to be round. Isaac actually had no idea what would even begin to compare to the sheer violence of the sound of that voice.

         Isaac realized that his eyes were shut tightly. He opened them and immediately regretted the decision. He was hanging upside-down and was pinned to what felt like a giant piece of lumber. He looked around and took note of what appeared to be two demons. One was tall and had an air of complete and total apathy, as if neither the scourge he held in his hand nor the scars on Isaac’s chest really had any personal meaning. The other demon was significantly shorter, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in steroid-fuelled muscles and sheer rage. Isaac located a mirror in the small torture chamber. He peered in the mirror and almost fainted from the sight of his broken body. The lazy looking demon then raised the whip, presumably preparing to scourge Isaac’s body again.

         Then, at that moment, a shining light punched through the ceiling of the darkened, agony-filled, cavern. The dark, cold, flames slowly dissipated and were replaced by gentle warmth and the image of a stair case with a heavily armored man descending towards Isaac and his torturers. The demons, which had at first appeared as they would in a pop-culture movie: rams’ legs, cloven hooves, red skin, and giant curling horns, lost their precious illusion of horror-flick-esque monsters and were revealed to be beautiful and not frightening in the least.

         The man in the armor looked like someone who was meant to be feared, and not because he had the cheesy-looking Hollywood thing going for him. No, the fear that was demanded, Isaac decided, was not a “beg for your life” kind of fear. He decided it was more the kind of fear that a Roman Legionnaire would have toward his Centurion. Ironically though, the demons, for it was now obvious that Isaac’s torturers were, in fact, Judeo-Christian demons, obviously didn’t share Isaac’s sentiment about the kind of fear this man, if that’s what the individual was, deserved. The demons, Isaac noted, displayed two characteristics of irrational fear. The first characteristic was complete and total paralysis, in effect, the demons were so frightened that they, effectively, were like a pair of rabbits waving sticks at a Siberian Tiger. The other characteristic was the complete bluster and incoherency of the demands and queries that they put to the man.

         “Why do you come here?” cried one demon which looked rather lethargic to Isaac.

         “Is it for our charge?” demanded the other demon, which turned bright red, obviously feeling the rage of one who is powerless to make the situation work in their favor.

         The armored man reached the last step and gracefully, almost predatorily, glided forward, ignoring the demons. His posture screamed humble confidence, and his features were too radiant for Isaac to look upon for more than a few seconds, for fear of sudden blindness. The man had a cross and crown emblazoned on his breast-plate, and seemed set apart from the environment, as if hell had no hold on him.

         The armored man gazed sternly at the demons who, naturally, descended into further stages of fear-induced paralysis. Due to their posture, they had hunched themselves over in such a way that Isaac could see the places where their angel’s wings had been replaced by gaping rents in their backs. Isaac couldn’t help but laugh, probably due to the hysteria-inducing torture that he had been subjected to.

         The man’s gaze snapped up to where Isaac was hanging from a burning, upside-down, cross. Isaac couldn’t help but continue to laugh, and the demons winked at each other as if to say, ‘This boy is useless now, there is no way he could ever do anything more useful than stare at drying paint after this.’ Isaac began to feel precisely that as soon as he read it in their eyes. He felt consumed by feelings of inadequacy and suicidal depression.

         The man stared intently at Isaac, his eyes roving over the satanic and paganistic markings in the young man’s torture pen. Isaac watched as the man’s eyes glistened with tears as the Holy-looking warrior surveyed the carnage. That’s when the man’s identity occurred to him. As he had hung there, staring up at the man’s arrival and his ongoing encounter with the demons, he couldn’t help but wonder who he was. As Isaac was adopted early in life by a family of progressive liberal agnostics, he had very little familiarity with the imagery of Jesus the Nazarene, the Christ, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Isaac was surprised to see a small, assenting, smile quickly cross the face of Jesus Christ, almost as if Jesus knew that Isaac had finally recognized him. Jesus’s face then immediately snapped back to a pensive stare, which he aimed directly at the two demons that had finally gotten over their paralysis well enough to try and beat a hasty, albeit drunkenly erratic, retreat back to the dark palace off in the distance.

         Christ squared his shoulders as he queried, “You two, why were you torturing me?” The frightened demons halted on the spot, stumbling into each other rather comically, the beefier, more furious-looking, of the pair received a black eye from the lankier, slothful-looking demon.

         The sluggish demon, obviously looking, rather humorously, somewhere between apathetic and absolutely terrified, slowly responded, trying to be amicable, “We was just doin’ what the boss man told us to do. Which were to just give the boy a horrible nightmare. Nothin’ more than that, I swear.”

         “Begone, you foul creatures. Remind Lucifer that any torture he visits upon one of the least of these, he visits upon Me,” as Jesus delivered this statement the demons were launched, screaming and spiraling, toward the dark citadel in the distance by an invisible hand.

         “I hope it’s not too much to ask sir, but could you get me down from here please? It’s not exactly the most comfortable place to be, even if this is a dream.”

         Jesus said, “How about we change locale as well.” As Jesus finished his statement, Isaac found himself in a rather comfortable entry hall where everything was white. He looked down and found that he had been washed, all his scars had been healed, and he had been clothed in a flowing, white, robe.

         The hall had high roman columns and with roman arches supporting the ceiling. Isaac saw Latin writing all over the walls, but the most prominent piece was on a placard above the entryway. The inscription read “Messorem Aula est scriptor” which Isaac found to be rather peculiar. Then he looked at the writing on the walls and noticed that it was actually a list of names and at one end there were statues of hooded figures holding a variety of medieval battle implements. Axes, swords and scythes of one kind or another were well represented.

         Isaac coughed as he turned back to face Jesus, who was still in his armor, and tried to break the ice, “First, I presume this is …”, but Isaac’s voice was simply carried away.

         Jesus smiled warmly and said, “First, yes, this is heaven. No you are not dead. You’re far too important for that. Yes those really were demons. And you judge rightly to say that this is a commemorative hall for those that answered their calling to be something more than a regular believer, not to say that one is more important than the other, they are actually both very important, have I answered all your questions?”

         Isaac shook his head and said, “What does this hall commemorate?”

         Jesus seemed to ponder the question, all the while smiling in a way that seemed to convey honest contentment. He then answered, “This hall commemorates every Hunter and Reaper that ever was, is, and is to come. The reason I have brought you here is to explain to you what needs to be done.”

         Isaac said, despondently, not wanting to disappoint, “Um, sir? Not to be contentious, but just this morning I had no idea which god was the right one. Now, I’m still not absolutely certain, but if you’d come and get me out of that pit I’m pretty sure you’re also the right god. But here’s the thing, obviously you brought me here because you want me to be one of these Hunters and I don’t know what that even means or if this is some crazy dream…”

         “Actually, this is sort of like a dream, but not. And there’s a reason I want you to fill this role. It’s because the Ordinis Custodum are about to run into the biggest fight of their history. Hell’s hordes are beginning to push a little harder. The prophecies of the book of Revelation are about to come to pass, and the Order is short one Reaper. Think about what you know about your birth parents. All they left you was a last name, and a few pieces of jewelry that you keep in a lock box. Speaking of which, after school, go and get those pieces, you’ll need them for the journey to come.” Jesus said all of this quickly.

         Isaac was surprised, one of the things he actually had kept from his birth parents was his last name, Ripere. “Jesus, does my name mean something?”

         “Yes,” He responded, “it means Reaper in Old English. Time is short, tell your friend what happened here, she can guide you through the steps of developing your faith while you wait for one of the Hunters to come and retrieve you.”

         “Ok,” replied Isaac, “but I still have so many questions…”

         Isaac started to slip out of consciousness and back to his dreams and was left with one last statement, “Those are for another place and another time. I will be watching you, I love you Isaac, go in peace.”



Chapter 2

         Isaac sat in class, frantically counting down the seconds until lunch break. The professor, Dr. Calvin, droned on about string theory for another twenty minutes, culminating in a shrill voice, “and that, class, is the lesson for today, remember, your scheduled final is next week, everything you have learned will be on the test. Have a good weekend!”

         Isaac tossed all of his materials into his bag haphazardly and walked quickly out of the door. The hall was packed with college students that Isaac didn’t know. However, after his talk with THE Jesus Christ of Nazareth, he realized just how infinitely short time could be for the people in the hall with him. Then Isaac spotted the local group of goths. At least, that’s what everyone assumed they were, but Isaac noticed something different about them, they all seemed like they were tortured, enslaved to something. As Isaac passed, they collectively flinched away from him, they closest actually hissed at him.

         Isaac thought this very strange. Mostly because the only people that they reacted to that way, were Christians, especially the ones that were outspoken about their beliefs. Isaac, until the previous night, had been an agnostic. He thought hard as he trudged along, exiting the building. Why would they react at all? Unless, maybe they felt the change on a deeper level. Good questions for Naomi.

         He crossed the small Oklahoma community college’s campus, black leather duster trailing behind him, flapping in the wintry Oklahoma wind. He arrived at the student union building and found a place in line in the cafeteria. The smell of greasy third-rate college food pervaded the air, creating a thick musk that clings to everything. Isaac couldn’t help but wince and wonder, for the thousandth time, if the musk would take root in his jacket. Isaac shook his head at how ridiculous he was being, paid for his food, then sat at a table in the corner furthest from the door.

         “Isaac, why do you always insist on sitting in a corner with no windows? Honestly, you’d think that you were allergic to sunlight.”

         The corners of Isaac’s mouth tilted up in a small smile as he recognized Naomi Scott’s voice. His longtime friend, and classmate. He couldn’t call her a best friend, he’d never really had a close friend before, but she would probably be the closest thing to it.

         “I thought we went over this already, it’s habitual.”

         “Well,” Naomi said, sounding thoughtful, “you should try to change your habits sometimes. You know, mix things up a little. Anyway, what was that voice mail about? You sounded really scared.”

         “I had the weirdest nightmare anyone could have possibly had.”

         “Oh? Then why talk to me? I’m no dream specialist,” Naomi said, carefully choosing her words.

         “Because,” Isaac said quietly, “Jesus was in it. The nightmare was weird because it went from the worst possible torture anyone could imagine to talking with Jesus himself.”

         “Isaac, I believe in miracles and all, I’ve seen some pretty crazy ones myself, but this is by far the most interesting. What do you think about the bible now?”

         “Well, now I think its correct on whole lot more. Actually, I agree with most of it now,” Isaac responded, tone cautious, but resolute.

         “Alright, come to church with me tonight. Also, I know you well enough, you’re leaving something out of your story, what is it?”

         Isaac pondered for a second if he should tell her. He surprised himself, he trusted her with that important statement from Jesus. “He told me about something called the Ordinis Custodum, and something about my last name meaning reaper.”

         “I have no idea what that’s about,” Naomi said, truthfully. “Honestly, I don’t know what half of that means. I guess we’ll find out in time.”

         Naomi gave Isaac the information for that evening’s church service. They got up and left the student union, each heading to their own classes. Isaac, went through the rest of the day unfocused, questions about his destiny flitting about within his own mind.

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         Lao slept in the Raven in transit. Actually, Lao slept in his drop pod as the engines whispered. Lao dreamt of a time past. Of a time when things were, more or less, peaceful. He dreamt of his family, his sister. He dreamt of his fiancée. Her smile warmed his heart. The strength and resolve in her deep brown eyes. He dream, fondly, of the day he first met her when he and his family had left China behind. He’d had just enough money to help her leave the country as well. Her goal was the same as his, to start a new life in Japan.

They had kept in touch, she became a nurse. He, a well-respected engineer, who had also taken up the local flavors of martial arts as a hobby. He had become a practitioner of several Japanese martial arts including kempo and kenjutsu. The night they had begun their relationship, Lao had to fight off a mugger trying to steal everything that belonged to her. After a year of dating, when he was twenty-four, he proposed to her.

         Then that fateful night happened. Lao came home from the dojo late and found the house completely blacked-out, not even a porch light was on. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to run. A small voice, however, said that it was crucial that he go into the house. He would never forget the events of that night.

         He walked slowly to the front door, nerves frayed. He slid the door open quietly, instincts and logic warring with each other. What he saw would haunt him forever. A creature crouched over the corpse of his fiancée, who obviously had been planning to surprise him on his birthday. The creature was stained with blood. Her blood.

         Lao stood shocked as the demon looked up from its feast. The creature had curling horns, a fox-like physique with a black and red pelt and smelt of sulfur, the metallic aroma of blood hanging onto it like a thick winter cloak. Lao was furious. How dare this creature taste the blood of an innocent? This was an outrage.

         He became less focused on the who of the situation and more on the what. He no longer cared that his fiancée lay dead. What he did care about was that this thing had taken an innocent life before the time had come. His right hand felt suddenly weighed down.

         He peered into the darkness and saw a gleaming chain whip in his right hand. He also felt the familiar weight of a Chinese dao held in a reverse grip in his left hand. He squinted at the creature, which had reoriented itself, catlike, to attack Lao.

         Lao dropped into a guard stance, blade held parallel to the ground in front of himself, whip hand cocked back, ready to strike. The creature pounced clumsily, reaching for Lao. He dodged to the side, surprised at how quickly the creature moved. He placed himself in front of his fiancée’s body, determined to protect her. The creature, now outlined by the lamp outside the front door, leapt for Lao’s throat. He ducked down and struck out at the demon, wrapping the whip around its paw and hauled downwards, slamming it into the ground. Lao drove forward, slashing as he went, cutting the creature in half. Lao felt time stop as he saw, in a mirror, a horrifying sight, himself, painted in black ichor. The creature lay on the floor, cleaved in half, the edges of the cut began to blaze. Silver fire engulfed the unholy corpse. The light encompassed Lao, and he felt comforted.

         Then he remembered his fiancée. He turned towards her corpse and—

         Lao woke up in a drop pod. He was sweating up a storm inside his mk. 6 Hanwei-custom Reaper’s Armor. ‘Focus,’ he told himself, ‘you must remain focused to complete the mission.’ He remembered why he was in the pod, he was on assignment to retrieve the primary ancestral weapon of Isaac Ripere, American Reaper extraordinaire. It wasn’t Lao’s place to question, but still, he wondered why the American Reaper always has access to more weapons than his colleagues. Lao doubted he would ever find out, but a man can hope, right?

         Lao heard the copilot make his way down the gantry in the middle of the stealthed-out drop ship. The copilot would be arming the acid charges in the pods, checking life signs for the individual hunters. The pilot keyed on the comms station, channel 12.212 encryption code Rose, and roused the troops.

         “Wake up you maggots,” laughter followed across the channel, Senior Airman Johnson loved to play drill sergeant before an important assignment.

“Johnson, how far out are we?”

“Well, Major Si Shen, we’ll be coming up on your designated drop site in 2 mikes, how copy?”

“Good copy, Shang, when we have boots on ground I want you to dial up a sat-scan. Johnson, I want a pick-up in twelve hours. Intel is sketchy at best. Might wanna come in with a full weapons load, the works.”

         “Think it might get that bad, sir?”

         Lao grimaced, remembering that fiasco 2 years ago when he hadn’t taken that precaution. It had been a blood bath and the demons didn’t get cleaned out for another month because of his poor decision. “I don’t know, but I won’t have another San Diego on my conscience.”

         “Roger that, we are currently point-five mikes out from the drop zone. Ramirez, this is your first drop, right kid?”

         The comms crackled for a second, then a voice, evidently belonging to young man still in puberty, responded tentatively, “Yessir, why do you ask?”

         “Watch out for that first step, it’s a bit of a doozy.”

         Everyone chuckled. Then all noises stopped, except for the whisper of the engines. The yellow ready-light changed to green.

         “So long, boys, see ya on the flip side!” Johnson crowed, a little too joyfully considering the severity of the situation, and slapped the big red button and managed to hold the craft steady as nine man sized pods and one IFV sized crate were “dropped” from the main cargo bay. The way the system works, though, its more like each individual pod is fired in order to maintain positive guidance all the way to the target. The result is each pod slams into the earth and ejects its contents forty-five degrees up and away from impact in order to help soften the landing. The onboard computer then triggers the acid charges housed in the hull of the pod, sublimating the pod thoroughly.

         ‘That is so cool,’ Ramirez thought as he watched the pod dissolve into gas.

         “Shang, where’s that sat-scan I asked for,” Lao barked into the comms.

         Ranger Corporal Shang winced, realizing that he should’ve started the scan before the drop and had wasted precious time getting the scan to lock-in on their position. Shang was notified of scan completion moments later and dumped the data to the Armor-Borne Networking system that helped the squad achieve maximum combat efficiency, and unit cohesiveness. “Here it is, sir, it should be online and connected to the whole squad now.”

         “Squad, role call, how copy?” Lao said.

         Nine green, positive copy, notifications popped up on Lao’s HUD. Lao then relayed the order for camouflage activation through the ABN system, and then triggered his own, becoming a shimmering figure, all but invisible to the naked eye, and any other sophisticated camera technology that might be pointed at him.

         Lao checked over the scan, not the greatest quality, but it helped him orient himself in the near pitch black of the northern pine forest. The ground crunched underfoot, snow. Fortunately, there was heavy precipitation, their tracks would be destroyed come morning.

         “Alright, guys, form up and do a weapons check, Ramirez, do yourself a favor kid, keep your head on a swivel.”

         The rangers started checking magazines, rifles, and pistols. The knights checked their blades, insuring that no nicks were present along the edge of their blades. Ramirez, the only priest in this sortie, checked his pouches, insuring all of his items and tools were there.

         “Squad, prepare to move – “

         Shang interrupted Lao, “Major, I think we have company, listen.”

         Lao listened carefully, trying to perceive what Shang had spoken of. At first, no noise was forthcoming and Lao was about to write it off as Shang just being paranoid when he heard it. The snap of a twig, the unholy gnashing of fangs, the light breath of several predators, Lao turned off his helmet’s air filters and was met with the awful reek of sulfur. It was an ambush.