Drifter - Chapter 1: Vengeance & Justice

A grey sky hung over a dying landscape. Sudden gusts of wind kicked up ashes. The burned-out shell of what had once been a great tree loomed over a mass grave, the mosaic of bones left uncovered by the killers.
Blackened wrecks littered the blasted ground. Some were recognizable as pieces of American military equipment. The origins of others were less clear.
A vehicle raced along, leaving a long trail of dust in its wake. Its design was sleek, hailing from a lineage that was beautiful and yet, other than human. The red paint job was worn and chipped. There was an emblem on its hood, a column of three crescent moons that aligned perfectly.
Two men in full body armor sat in the back, their faces hidden behind blackened visors. The sign of the triple crescent was painted on their chest plates. The driver wore the same garb, along with the insignia of an NCO. All three kept rifles close at hand. The thing that sat in the passenger’s seat wore ornate robes on top of a black material that resembled leather.
He had a pale, ghoulish face. There was no trace of hair on his bulbous head and he lacked a nose, having only a pair of thin slits. The pointy tips of his ears were nearly flush with the top of his head. His Nosferatu face was further twisted by growing fear. If his silver rings weren’t enough to indicate his status, he wore the rank of his military’s equivalent of a colonel.
“Drive faster,” the being in the passenger’s seat commanded, “That man has killed five high ranking officers.”
“He’s too late. The transport is on the other side of these rocks,” the driver pointed ahead to a gap in a wall of solid stone that stretch out of sight in either direction.
Memories flooded in. The team they sent to help had sent pictures. The mangled, lifeless bodies of a personal security team. And much more disturbing, the remains of those vicious things that did not belong on that plane of existence. Not even a sorcerer was safe.
The officer shifted his void black eyes around uneasily. He lifted one of his sleeves, examining a long line of small tattoos on his wrist. He took comfort in the symbols and what they meant, what he had done to earn them.
“There he is!” one of the soldiers riding in the vehicle’s back shouted.
An object had appeared, coming at them from behind a mound of debris off to their right. It was another vehicle, a battered muscle car. Most of the dark blue paint had been stripped away. He was close enough that they could just make out the driver through the windscreen. He wore a gas mask, an older, military model.
“He’s coming up fast!” the colonel observed.
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll be on the ship by the time he catches up,” the sergeant reassured him.
As if it was in response to what the driver had said, the distant figure raised his right arm. From just below the elbow, it was artificial, a crude thing made of flat black plastic and metal, a work of functionality and nothing else.
This hand clutched a silver cylinder. On the lower end there was a long rod. On the upper end, a red disk protruded.
“What’s in his hand?” the officer hissed.
“It’s a detonator!” the sergeant yelled.
The robotic thumb pressed the disk in. Their heads swiveled back to the front as a massive boom hit their ears. The gap in the cliff was consumed by a storm of shattered rocks and a rapidly expanding cloud of dust.
The blast wave struck the vehicle. It went airborne, came down hard on its nose. The front crumpled when it hit the ground. It ended up on its roof, sliding along for a few long moments, before coming to a halt.
The occupants started hauling themselves out of the battered wreck. Their pursuer closed the distance. One of the soldiers raised his weapon and fired, sending a blast of energy at the pursuer. It melted through the windshield and struck the driver square in the head. A lightshow of swirling red bands absorbed the attack.
“He’s got a shield! Those Atlath bastards gave him a shield!” one of the soldiers cried out, on the verge of panic.
The sergeant was quick to respond, “It looked like a Type-19. He should only have two charges left. If that’s too much for you, then go kinetic!”
The bands of red light came to a stop. The driver swerved away as the aliens opened fire.
He veered back at the last second. The sergeant tried to move out of the way, the driver adjusted course. The sergeant tumbled over the top of the car, landing in a crumpled heap. Dust flew as the car drifted around to the other side of the alien’s wrecked vehicle, coming to a halt.
Like a phantom, the masked man strode out of the haze. He wore blue jeans, a red tank top, a long black coat, and a pair of combat boots in the jungle style. A large pistol sat in a drop holster. On the left side of his pistol belt there was a flat box with beveled edges. It was OD green, chipped and scratched. A flat, white square sat in the middle.
The masked man had a gun in each hand, neither of which looked like it was meant to be used in that way. Running, he fired the weapon that was in his left hand at the closest trooper. The bullets ricocheted off of the alien’s body armor in a shower of sparks. The final round flattened itself against an armored plate. The bolt locked itself to the rear, exposing the cavernous chamber.
The barrage had staggered the trooper, allowing the masked man to reach melee range. He delivered a mighty kick, knocking the soldier into the dirt. Months of training and years of experience kicked in. The trooper looked at the flat box on his belt, found that it was coated in a thick layer of dust, more than enough to block the shield emitter. The man in the mask raised the gun in his right hand and fired. The volley of rays blasted away smoldering chunks of armor, flash incinerated what it had failed to protect.
The other trooper rushed in, pulling a long knife from its sheath. The man in the mask did the same. Savagery met elegance as the two slashed, stabbed, dodged, and parried.
Finding an opening, the man in the mask stuck the blade in the thin space between the chin of the helmet and the top of the neck armor, slid the edge across the sliver of exposed uniform fabric. Blood poured down, washing across the soldier’s chest, coating the emblem.
The officer stepped out from behind the cover of the crashed vehicle and raised a brick of a pistol. The human threw the knife. It stuck him in the chest, sinking to the hilt. The weapon fell from his hands. He clutched the handle of the blade, slowly sank to the ground.
The man in the mask picked his gun up and ejected the mag, replaced it, and let the bolt slam back into place. He walked over to the kneeling alien, kicked the gun he had dropped away.
A wave of acceptance washed across the officer’s face as he looked up at the human, “What’s your name?”
To the man in the mask, the alien’s speech sounded strange, like the language of a hostile land played backwards. The translator in his head did its work without command. He just kind of knew what the words meant, even as they boiled out of the alien’s mouth like blasphemy from the stars.
“Eli,” the human said, his voice, gruff, laced with hints of something dark.
“Let me see your face. I want to look into the eyes of the one who slays me.”
One strap at a time, the mask came off, revealing a handsome, rugged face of about thirty years. Under the goggles, half-deranged eyes had bore into their prey. He sported a 5 o'clock shadow. His hair was black, somewhat short, and on the right side, those grizzly trails that white hot shrapnel left.
And there was a brand on the left side of his neck. It was that same column of three crescent moons, the symbol of the Sad’Daki. Under this brand, a row of three smaller symbols had been tattooed in black ink.
The alien saw the markings on the human’s neck, “So that explains it, that explains your ferocity.”
“The money that your enemies are giving me doesn’t hurt either.”
The officer looked at the earth, “I do love humans so much. You have so much potential. You could, with the proper guidance, stand beside us. Such a shame that you chose to be defiant.”
A drawn-out roar poured over the cliff. The alien silently watched as a bulky ship appeared. Its landing gear retracted. Afterburners kicked in and it rapidly gained altitude.
Eli pointed his weapon at the officer’s head, “Looks like you just missed the last transport. Less than a year ago, your people controlled the Earth. Now, you are running away with your tails between your legs.”
The alien rocked his head from side to side, his people’s equivalent of shrugging, “It wasn’t worth it anymore. Besides, there are other victories to be had, other resources to be gained.”
“You’ll be stopped.”
“You know that isn’t true,” the invader grinned, “Just as you know that you’ll never really be free.”
“Wrong,” Eli said, before squeezing the trigger.