HEAVY TYPE:
Lleyrew'sPreviously, on Weryell's Wyverns
"Hey, I've got something up on that dune. It looks like...*craaackt* *ztzzzzt* *POP*"
"Yenlar?" Ashe came on. "Yenlar? Report!"
"*ZZZZZT* Sorry, had a shut down. Anyhow, I thought I saw some people up there. Must've been a sensor glitch."
"Hey!" Ashe cried, "Guys! Scruffy's gone!"
.....And now, the conlusion....
"What do you mean Scruffy's gone?" demanded Weryell. "Check under the seat."
"No, he's not down there, that's where Miss Sandy's luggage is. He was just here a minute ago, poking me with his stick."
"How on Terranova do you lose a street urchin? Joe, scan under the Anolis. Maybe he crawled back there."
Yenlar piped in, "Hey, I can check under my own damn gear, thank... *bzzzt* *hisss*... nevermind."
Joe's battered Jaguar knelt down beside the Camel and bent as the sensor pod checked the shadows beneath the Anolis frame. "No sign of him down here, Weryell. The little brat's gone... wait a second... there's some tracks back here."
Weryell turned his Hunter/Jager around, trying not to swear as the gear went up on its left tiptoe and executed a full 540 degree turn, only to end it with a flourishing bow. Sure enough, a pair of tire tracks led away from the back of the Camel, vanishing on the horizon.
"Why didn't we detect that vehicle?" demanded Weryell, "Did anyone see what it was? Those almost look like Camel treads."
"Uhh, Weryell," Joe almost sounded apologetic, "Those are the tracks from our Camel. I was talking about these springer prints over here."
"Uhh, right, I knew that. I was just testing Bootzilla."
Bootzilla snorted and snuffled over the com and his Warrior jumped two meters straight up in the air. "Wha... huh?"
Yenlar chuckled, "You know, I think Bootzilla should get the *zzzzt crack*. We'd never know which one of them was causing the shut*zzzt* then."
Weryell headed over towards the tracks Joe was pointing at.
"What do you make of it Joe? Three springers and two men on foot from the looks of it."
"Well, it could have been two women, sir..."
"Impossible," interjected Bootzilla, "no women have feet as big as a springer!"
The rest of the team groaned in unison.
"Look Weryell!" Joe exclaimed, his Jaguar pointing excitedly in the direction of the springer tracks, "I think those are some dirty rags! Scruffy's rags!"
Weryell twisted a knob and zoomed in on the rags. Sure enough, he spotted the trademark yellow and blue plaid patch which Scruffy wore with pride on his 'uniform'. Anger welled up withing him. Someone had dared to take away the Wyverns' one and only mascot. The mission in Red Sands would have to wait.
"Ok men, we're taking a little side-trip. Ashe, tell Miss Sandy her mission will have to wait, we have a man missing and we're going after him."
Weryell slammed down on the foot pedals of his gear, its feet kicking up plumes of sand as it charged off in the direction of the tracks. As he ran, he checked over his gear's status. Five rockets remaining in the pod. Twenty-four autocannon shots, plus the spare clip back on the Camel. Two anti-personnel grendes and a vibroblade rounded out the arament. Is wasn't much, but Weryell knew a true pilot didn't need a full ammunition clip or functional FiCon to win a battle. All it took was a healthy breakfast of Speat and a good dose of Badlander Know-How.
At least, that's what his mentor Big Ben Kahuna used to say.
The rest of the team watched as Weryell's Hunter disappeared over the top of a dune. Ashe peered out the windshield of the Camel and shrugged at Joe.
"Are we supposed to go after him or wait here?" Ashe asked.
"Umm.. not sure," answered Joe, "Ask Miss Sandy what she thinks."
Weryell's gear skidded to halt at the crest of a tall dune. At the base were nearly a hundred tents of various sizes, most of them clustered together in circles of five or six. Brightly colored flags and banners fluttered in the desert wind, offsetting the otherwise drab sand colorings of the entire camp. Sand colored people moved around between the sand colored tents, occassionally taking things out of sand colored packs. A couple of corrals had been set up, about two dozen sand colored riding springers stood milling about within them. Weryell scanned most of the camp on maximum zoom, but could find no sign of the missing urchin. Just as he was ready to descend the dune and politely ask for his mascot back, something disturbing caught his eye. Situated off to one side of the camp was a number of little graves, arranged in a semi circle around some sort of stone altar. Several more graves had been dug recently, and waited, open, to be filled. As he watched, a woman emerged from a nearby tent and headed for one of the open graves. In her hands she carried a small bundle of cloth and.... and feet? Weryell's eyes opened wide with horror. He had heard the stories about the people of the White Desert. About how they abducted babies and children and sacraficed them in their sick, cannibalistic rituals.
With a practiced twist on the control sticks, Weryell's gear slid its autocannon onto the mouting bracket on the right hip and drew the vibroblade. His vision scarlet with rage, Weryell roared and charged down the dune. He heard people screaming and watched as they fled, the first tent he reached being torn to shreds by his knife. The sound of small arms fire against his gear's hull forced Weryell to turn from his task of eviscerating a group of springers and focus his attention on the group of armed men about 50 meters to his left. He lept his Hunter towards them, the low 'poomf' of his AP grenade launcher signaling to his brain what the crimson mess at his feet used to be. Weryell struck out again, another of the tents being reduced to tatters in mere secods. He headed for the burial ground, striking out at anything that moved and most everything that didn't. He swore he saw a can of Desert Sand Tan Fire Mist paint fly by as his world turned into a white-hot blur of berserker fury.....
"For the love of Mahmoud..."
Yenlar's slack-jawed comment echoed the thoughts of the rest of the team. In the valley below them a ghastly scene lay. Everywhere was chaos. A single springer limped through the ruins, pausing briefly to sniff at a pile of its disembowled brethren. Greasy, black smoke coiled up into the desert sky, the smell of charred fabric doing little to mask the smell of burning flesh.
Bootzilla gagged and hurried to close his cockpit.\
"Sweet Nathani," murmured Joe, "Does anyone see Weryell down there?"
"I've got him," reported Ashe, "300 meters out, 17 o'clock, by that er... well, over there. His gear is sitting down."
Joe tapped his com a few times. "Weryell? Come in, you alright down there? What happened?"
Weryell's voice drifted over the channel, thick with remorse and guilt. "Scruffy... they got Scruffy."
Joe blinked. Blinked again. He cleared his throat. He sounded apologetic again. "Well, actually... er... that is to say... we found him. Turns out he had taken off his rags and slipped into something of Miss Sandy's. He was under the seat with her luggage."
Weryell fought back the urge to cry. All this death for nothing. It would take at least a week to find more grenades for the APGL. He slowly stood his gear up, sighing deeply as he looked at all the carnage around him. A tiny object caught his attention as he moved back towards his team. He bent and scooped it up. A can of Desert Sand Tan Fire Mist paint. Just what Yenlar would need to repaint his Hunter's scratched sensor pod.
Maybe this little mission wasn't a waste after all.
Big Ben would have been proud.
[Lleyrew]
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