Two days after completing the mission in Loon Town and returning to the Fifth Battalion garrison at Polk's Pride, First Squad had enjoyed a brief period of rest. Augustus, too, found that his mindset had shifted somewhat.
He figured his time in the Federal military wouldn't last much longer. As soon as the war ended, he'd find a way to leave.
On this day—June 22, at exactly 0600—Augustus woke up right on schedule. As usual, he roused the rest of his squad, ordering them to get dressed and head straight to the mess hall for breakfast.
The sky still held two silver moons overhead, while the horizon glowed with the outline of a third moon, overshadowed by the rising sun. The barracks quickly grew noisy as sleepy-eyed marines squeezed through the narrow corridors, jostling toward the dining hall like a pack of zombies craving food instead of brains.
Augustus received a breakfast of toasted bread and fried pork sausage, which he took to one of the prefab alloy tables. Across from him sat Raynor, and the two chatted about recent UNN Global News reports exposing more corruption scandals in the Federal government. Nearby, Harnack and Josephine were loudly swapping crude jokes, showing no regard for decency.
"Anyone know where we're headed today? I didn't read the mission briefing," asked Private Zander, a piece of bread dangling from his lips. Beside him, Harnack was scarfing down his meal like he hadn't eaten in days.
"Downtown Polk's Pride. About eight miles northwest of the garrison," Josephine answered through a mouthful of bread, chewing like a noble possessed by the spirit of a starving peasant. "And get this—there's an engineering crew working on-site, and we're being sent to babysit them. The place is real close to those Kel-Morian mongrels' nest."
As he spoke, Josephine shoved a whole sausage into his mouth, only to nearly choke on it. His face turned red as he clutched at his throat and rolled his eyes dramatically, finally snatching Harnack's bowl of porridge to gulp it down with wild abandon.
Naturally, by the time the bugle sounded for roll call, Harnack and Josephine were mock-choking each other in revenge.
"Grab your M-2 packs and assemble at parade ground A-2-7!" barked a group of sergeants as they strode into the mess, cutting through the laughter. Whether they had finished eating or not, the marines scrambled to obey.
Augustus led First Squad through the gates of the barracks and armory, its walls proudly emblazoned with the Sigma Grey Wolves insignia. There, they suited up in their powered combat armor.
Since the central district wasn't far off—and given that the 33rd Ground Assault Division had only arrived on Turaxis II less than a week ago—there weren't many atmospheric-capable transport craft available. So, First Company loaded up into heavy trucks borrowed from Polk's Pride's Army Logistics Corps. Some trucks carried marines; others were packed with ammunition, grenades, and explosives.
Each truck could only accommodate six to eight marines in full heavy armor. Augustus, Raynor, and several other First Squad members were crammed into one truck bed, its openings sealed by thick windproof curtains.
Pulling back the curtains offered a glimpse outside, where dozens of identical trucks rumbled in formation behind them.
At first, the convoy moved quickly, cruising along a straight city road northward from the garrison. The pavement had a few craters here and there, but it was still mostly intact. However, the moment they entered the city center, their pace slowed dramatically.
This part of the city had been the main battleground between Federal forces and the Kel-Morians. For months, the district had changed hands multiple times.
Now, the entire downtown had become a wasteland of massive shell craters, barbed wire, and burned-out wrecks of tanks and vehicles. Rows of silent skyscrapers loomed overhead, like gravestones for what had once been a bustling metropolis.
Roughly two miles out from base, Augustus saw a new and sobering sight: a large crowd of refugees, clothed in rags and walking unsteadily along the road, heading who knows where.
Groups of people, ranging in size from a few dozen to several hundred, stretched endlessly across the landscape. In just a matter of minutes, Augustus had already seen thousands of them.
Expressionless, they trudged forward with bags on their backs, pushing carts and dragging battered suitcases. Some carried silent children, others piles of metallic junk—mostly discarded robot and vehicle parts.
These people were known as scavengers by the local garrison of Turaxis. With the silent consent of the stationed forces, they eked out a living by entering the city and salvaging whatever valuable debris or abandoned goods they could find.
The city where Augustus's Fourth Brigade was stationed, Polk's Pride, once belonged to the Terran Federation. It used to be a thriving metropolis with a population of over two million Terrans. Beyond the city limits lay vast industrial zones and farmland, home to countless workers and farmers. But ever since it became a strategic stronghold, Polk's Pride had been reduced to a primary battleground.
In the districts controlled by the Kel-Morian forces, the remaining population had been turned into miners and laborers, forced to serve the massive factories. Under the whips of Kel-Morian overseers, they worked relentlessly until they collapsed from exhaustion—all to fuel the war machine with a steady supply of weapons and provisions.
The Terran Federation, meanwhile, had evacuated its civilians from the conflict zones, relocating them to the lower districts and outskirts of the city. Yet they offered no support for these war refugees, abandoning them to fend for themselves.
The truck Augustus rode in rumbled past a horde of stumbling refugees, continued on for several more miles, then turned alongside a broad river that ran east to west. The convoy followed a potholed asphalt road, its surface scarred by artillery fire, heading westward.
To the north, the shimmering Paddick River stretched like a golden ribbon beneath the morning sun. Spanning over a thousand kilometers, it sliced straight through the center of Polk's Pride, dividing the majestic city in two. At its widest point in the downtown area, the river reached five kilometers across.
Before the war, three suspended train lines and more than a dozen steel bridges had connected the city's north and south halves. Hundreds of man-made canals, branching off from the Paddick and its tributaries, gave Polk's Pride the elegance of a city on water. The intricate canal network fueled a booming barge industry that once defined the city's commerce.
At its peak, the slow-moving canals were not only filled with freighters but also dotted with lavish yachts and sleek, retro-futuristic sailboats favored by the elite. Towering skyscrapers, bustling office complexes, sprawling plazas, and verdant parks lined the banks.
Yet prosperity came at a cost. Pollution from the refineries and crystal-purification plants cloaked the sky in a constant haze of crystalline dust. The once-blue canal network sparkled with a continuous swirl of gleaming, crystalized smog.
Over the past two decades, the city's upper class had rekindled a fascination with the music, etiquette, and literature of medieval Earth. The wealthy lounged aboard their luxurious boats and cruise liners, serenaded by the haunting melodies of centuries-old Terran compositions. Hedonists reveled openly, turning the river into a floating carnival. It was as if time had rolled back to the Victorian era of old Earth—an age where aristocrats cruised down the Thames in style.
Now, that glorious past survived only in old documentaries and faded postcards. Most canals had dried up from sediment buildup. During the rainy season, the river would surge back into its former paths, flooding the city. Many clogged but not yet dried-out canals had turned into fetid gutters, with stagnant, dark green water choked by drifting garbage.
When the convoy finally reached its destination, the engineering company had already cordoned off a section of land and was hard at work clearing rubble. With molten welders in hand, they pieced together prefabricated alloy panels to construct barracks, supply depots, garages, and armories. The worksite sat roughly two kilometers from the Paddick River.
The division of labor was precise. While some engineers operated machinery to erect the new camp, others were busy assembling scaffolds for water towers and engines, digging septic pits, and laying underground wiring and pipes. Rows of barracks and signal towers rose rapidly from the ground with astonishing efficiency.
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