While the auction hall buzzed with the electric hum of excitement and the dazzle of bright lights, the shadows beyond its gleaming facade were a different world entirely. Here, the air was thick with the stench of blood and the acrid tang of scorched metal. The frantic energy of the expo above was a distant memory, replaced by the grim, deadly reality of what was happening below.
The maintenance tunnels beneath the auction site were a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors and echoing silence.
Here, the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of scorched metal.
A lone survivor of a DEST team staggered through the shadows, his breathing ragged and uneven. Each step was a struggle, each gasp a battle against the searing pain in his gut. His hands were slick with blood, pressed desperately against the gaping wound in his abdomen, but he could feel the warmth of his life seeping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to stem the flow.
His mind was a storm of rage and disbelief.
How could this have happened? he thought, his teeth clenched against the agony. We were the best. The best! How could they have detected us? How could they have beaten us?
The mission had been straightforward: infiltrate the auction site, plant the backpack nukes, and vanish before anyone knew they were there. It was a textbook DEST operation, the kind of thing they'd done a hundred times before. But this time, something had gone horribly wrong. The team had been detected almost immediately, their movements tracked with terrifying precision. The first sign of trouble had been the sudden, brutal ambush that had taken out half the team before they even knew what was happening.
The survivor's mind flashed back to the chaos that had followed. The team had scattered, each member fighting for their life as shadowy figures in advanced stealth armor closed in on them. The DEST operatives were no strangers to combat, but their opponents were something else entirely. Faster, deadlier, and far better equipped, they had cut through the team like a scythe through wheat.
And then there were the nukes. The team had carried them as a last resort, a way to ensure the mission's success no matter the cost. But even those had failed. The survivor didn't know how, perhaps some kind of advanced jamming, maybe, or a failsafe they hadn't anticipated but the nukes had been rendered useless.
The team's final gambit had been for nothing.
The survivor stumbled, his legs buckling beneath him as a fresh wave of pain shot through his body. He caught himself against the wall, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He could feel his strength fading, his vision blurring at the edges. But he couldn't stop. Not yet. Not until he was sure he was clear.
Just a little farther, he told himself, though he wasn't sure he believed it. Just a little farther, and you can—
A sound behind him froze the thought in his mind. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but he knew what it was: the soft, almost inaudible hum of a Nighthawk stealth suit's power systems. He turned, his movements slow and clumsy, and saw the figure emerging from the shadows.
It was a being clad in Nighthawk Stealth Armor, its sleek, angular design making it almost invisible in the dim light. The armor's active camouflage flickered as the figure moved, its outline shifting and distorting in a way that made the survivor's already blurry vision swim. The figure carried a weapon—a compact, deadly-looking thing that hummed with barely contained energy—and its movements were smooth, deliberate, and utterly without mercy.
The survivor's heart sank. He'd seen what these things could do. He'd watched as they'd cut down his team, one by one, with a cold, mechanical efficiency that had left no room for hope. And now, here it was, coming to finish the job.
"You…" the survivor rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "You bastards… who… who are you?"
The figure didn't respond. It didn't need to. The survivor already knew the answer. This wasn't just some random security detail or a rival mercenary outfit. This was something else. Something worse.
The figure raised its weapon, the hum growing louder as it powered up. The survivor closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to the faces of his team of his friends, his comrades as they'd fallen one by one. He wanted to rage, to scream, to lash out at the injustice of it all.
But he was too tired. Too broken.
The last thing he saw was the flash of the weapon's discharge, a blinding burst of light that consumed everything.
And then, there was nothing.
Elsewhere in the tunnels, another figure in Nighthawk armor moved with silent precision, its sensors scanning for any remaining threats. The mission had been a success, but there was no time for celebration. The auction above was still in full swing, and the shadows were alive with danger.
The figure's comms crackled softly, a voice coming through with calm authority. "Status report."
"Targets neutralized," the figure replied, its voice modulated and cold. "No survivors. The nukes have been disabled and secured."
"Good. Return to your position. We're not done yet."
The figure nodded, though there was no one to see it, and vanished into the shadows once more.
===
The docks of Andro's capital starport were a chaotic mess of humanity, a sprawling, grimy expanse where the lower classes mingled with the desperate and the dangerous.
It was the perfect place to disappear, and the local ROM spymaster knew it. Dressed in a shabby outfit that blended seamlessly with the crowd, he moved with the practiced ease of a man who had spent his life in the shadows. His calm exterior hid such a blend of frustration and anger.
Goddamn those two nitwits, he thought, his teeth clenched as he shuffled forward in the line for the next departing shuttle. They had to play spy, didn't they? And now they've been black-bagged by someone. Probably Shephard Industries. Those bastards are always one step ahead.
The spymaster's instincts screamed at him to get off the planet as quickly as possible. The auction was in full swing, and the eyes of the Inner Sphere were focused on Andro. But that also meant the shadows were alive with danger, and he had no intention of becoming another casualty. He just needed to get on that shuttle and vanish before anyone realized he was gone.
The line inched forward, the crowd around him a mix of weary travelers and harried dockworkers. The spymaster kept his head down, his eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. He was good at this, he had to be.
A sharp pain in his calf made him jerk his head around. A woman with an umbrella who bore a rude expression, disheveled, and clearly in a hurry had poked him with the tip of it while trying to cut the line. She glared at him, her eyes sharp and unapologetic, but the spymaster wasn't in the mood for games.
"Watch it," he snapped, his voice low but laced with venom. "Wait your turn like everyone else."
The woman muttered something under her breath but relented, stepping back into the line behind him. The spymaster turned away, his attention already back on the crowd. He didn't notice the faint smirk on the woman's face, or the way her hand brushed against his leg as she adjusted her position.
A few hours later, the spymaster was sweating profusely, his vision blurring as a wave of nausea and fever wracked his body. He stumbled, clutching at a nearby wall for support, but no one in the crowd lifted a finger to help him.
This was the docks, after all. People minded their own business here.
What the hell is happening to me? he thought, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the last few hours.
The pain in his calf.
The woman with the umbrella.
It all clicked into place too late. Poison. They poisoned me.
Before he could react, the woman from earlier appeared at his side, her expression one of mock concern. "Oh dear, you don't look so good," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Let me help you."
The spymaster tried to push her away, but his limbs felt like lead, his strength fading with every passing second. The woman slipped an arm around his shoulders, her grip deceptively strong, and began leading him away from the crowd. He wanted to scream, to fight, but his body refused to obey.
As they reached a quieter corner of the docks, the woman pulled out a handkerchief, her movements casual and unhurried. The spymaster's eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen, but it was too late. The handkerchief was pressed over his mouth and nose, the faint, sweet scent of chloroform filling his senses.
"Night night," the woman said, her voice cheerful as the spymaster's vision darkened and his body went limp.
When the spymaster came to, he was in a dimly lit room, his hands bound and his head pounding.
The woman from the docks was gone, replaced by a figure in Nighthawk stealth armor, its sleek, angular design making it almost invisible in the shadows.
The figure stood silently, its weapon trained on him, while another person, a man in a crisp suit with the Shephard Industries logo on his lapel stood nearby, his expression calm and calculating.
"Welcome," the man said, his voice smooth and professional. "You've caused us quite a bit of trouble, but don't worry. We'll take good care of you."
===
The Maskirovka's operations on Andro had been thorough, well-planned, and meticulously executed until they weren't. What began as a routine intelligence-gathering mission quickly devolved into a nightmare of police raids, gang violence, and outright sabotage.
The Capellan spies had no opportunity to recover. One by one, their safehouses were raided, their operatives either arrested or found dead in back alleys, their deaths conveniently blamed on local gang rivalries and criminal syndicates pushing in, though there were genuine breakthroughs of law enforcement and personnel being at the right place at the right time.
The final blow came when a Maskirovka team, attempting to flee the planet aboard a dropship, found themselves victims of a catastrophic "maintenance failure." The airlock doors had malfunctioned, and the team was unceremoniously ejected into the void of space. The official report later cited a tragic accident, but those in the know understood the truth: Shephard Industries had sent a message.
And the message was clear: the Maskirovka's games would not be tolerated.
For the Wolf's Dragoons' Seventh Kommando, the mission had been a chance to prove their worth. The elite special operations unit had positioned themselves in what they believed were secure, well-hidden locations around the auction site. They were the best of the best, trained in the art of stealth, sabotage, and guerrilla warfare.
But as they soon discovered in the following events, even the best could be outmatched.
The first sign of trouble came when one of the Kommando operatives, positioned in a derelict building overlooking the auction site, suddenly found himself surrounded. He hadn't heard them approach; hadn't seen them at all until it was too late. Figures clad in sleek, ninja-like armor materialized out of thin air, their movements silent and precise. Before the operative could react, he was struck by a burst of energy that sent him sprawling, his weapons knocked from his hands.
The same scene played out across the city. Kommando teams were ambushed, their carefully laid plans unraveling as Cerberus operatives (dubbed "Phantoms" by the surviving operatives in a later debrief) closed in with terrifying efficiency. The Phantoms' armor was unlike anything the Dragoons had ever seen, equipped with advanced cloaking technology and energy shields that rendered them nearly invulnerable to small arms fire.
The Kommando operatives fought back with everything they had, but it was no use. One by one, they were subdued, their pride as much a casualty as their bodies.
The humiliation was complete when the surviving Kommando operatives were brought before a Cerberus commander, their hands bound and their heads held high despite their defeat. The commander, a tall, imposing figure in Phantom armor, regarded them with a cold, calculating gaze.
"You're good," the commander said, his voice modulated and devoid of emotion. "But not good enough. Consider this a lesson in humility. And a warning: don't interfere with Shephard Industries again."
The Kommando operatives were released, their weapons and equipment confiscated, their pride in tatters. They returned to the Dragoons' compound with their tails between their legs, their report a litany of failure and frustration. They had no time to warn Jaime Wolf what had transpired, and they were not sure if they could even warn him.
For the Seventh Kommando, it was a bitter pill to swallow. They had been outplayed, outmaneuvered, and outclassed by an enemy they hadn't even known existed.
The auction proper hadn't even started yet and the covert operations were already spilling blood and stopping plots before they ould reach off the ground.
To be continued...