Welcome.

[Darius Jameson]

In the battlesuit storage facility there were many large suits, some with gantries specially made so that the pilot could climb aboard. But there was one suit that stood on its own, the surface still a little pitted after all it had gone through, but kept in perfect working order. It was seven and a half foot, nothing compared to some of the behemoths here, bit in some ways it was possibly the most advanced suit in the room, indeed it was hardly a battlesuit at all. It was called the Mark Three by those who knew it, Dreadnought class to those who knew the project, or just Lt. Darius' suit by those who only knew of the owner. It was the only one of its kind still in existence as far as anyone knew, the rest of the team it had belonged to had been wiped out along with another team, ending the project as far as anyone knew, leaving only Lt. Darius as the sole augmented soldier in the Martian forces.

He infact was the figure currently checking the suit over, the helmet was currently on the floor so he could check the read out lines didn't have any dust and so that he could put some conduction fluid into the plugs. He personally hated the plugs, but knew that either he did the job or they wouldn't function when he needed it. He would go over all the armour like this, each piece would be cleaned, fluid applied and if there was time he'd suit up and test all the circuitry. Suiting up was the one bit he liked about the process, it was like reaching for a link to the machine which took the pain away. Inside the suit he wasn't Lt. Darius, a decorated veteran and now pen pusher, he was the infantry's worst nightmare.

The man himself looked worthy of the suit, tall by terran standards, and he was old enough to have had to of been terran at one point, broad and strong, the muscles enhanced for strength and endurence showed through his top, an olive green t shirt and his legs were thickset in the camoflage combate trousers, the black boots were highly polished as he'd always been taught. His scars just made him all the more imposing, even sitting down he gave the impression of being in charge. He looked up when he felt a shadow cross over him, the cold blue eyes taking in the stranger's appearence.

[Riga Finnelli]

As much as she hated leaving Locust in a place like this, she had no choice. She really had flown him too hard in the last hunt, and he needed some well-deserved rest. Of course, her eternal job now saw no end - that is, until she herself would die, and so she left Locust in the Battlesuit Storage, off to hunt for more low-life scum. It was ironic; the crime she'd committed ended up giving her the life she'd dreamed of having on earth. It was a simpler penance due, one that she almost always felt unfair for what she'd done - as if she wanted to take the pain her sister was suffering - but, she'd never admit that to anyone's face.

Two days had been long enough; surely Locust's engines had cooled off and relaxed long enough now. She knew no one would steal it, that wasn't her worry; not with retinal and vocal print access software. She just hated to be away from him. Casually but quickly, Riga stepped past security, who stopped chasing after her once she'd flashed her ID. She would stop for no one; least of all security.

A few men were scurrying around the grounds, about their own personal battlesuits. A couple looked like they had a lot of work ahead; others, at this hour, were just workaholics with their suits, just like she was. Locust was her home, after all. As she neared him, though, her eyes fell on what she could only describe as...something that belonged to a sentient rodent. It wasn't big enough for the humans around here, that was for sure; least of all the man before it.

"What the hell is that little thing? Battlesuit for your dog?" she remarked, unaware about the man who stood before her. With all the changes in whoever was 'stuck' with her as her parole officer, she honestly had no clue who he was. She'd always relied on them finding her.

[Darius Jameson]

Not even a grin creased the man's face as he stood, coming to his full height of six foot five. As he wiped some of the contact fluid away from his hands onto a rag the circular socket on his right hand caught the light, that too had to be kept clean, or at least be cleaned before linking up with the machine. His piercing blue eyes surveyed the figure in front of him. Almost a foot shorter than him, lither, and most definately female, that much was made particually obvious by her curves which were accentuated by her clothes. He was completely business like in his appearence, in fact the only bit of colour about him apart from his blue eyes was a sigular tattoo on his arm which moved as his arms did. It was a black, stylised raven with spread wings and a red circle in the centre, for those that knew it, it was the mark of the Raven team, the first of the augmented teams.

But eitherway that wasn't a matter for her to know, she'd made a comment about his armour. "That would be the Tactical Battle Armour suit. Dreadnought configuration, designed for infantry assault and boarding parties." He looked at her calculatingly, "Tell me, in your suit how many ships have you boarded? How well can you hold a position against enemy infantry, and more importantly, how well can you avoid getting shot?" He had four ships, with two turned into hulks, one crippled and the other, the Terran flagship slowed. He knew his armour allowed him enough movement to react to enemy advances from all round and finally knew that he could duck and weave in it.

Now came the time to work out who she was, she wasn't defence force, leastways not regular defence, he would have seen her on the drill square, but he had seen her before on a file. She was in here meaning she had a battlesuit, this led him to the conclusion of some kind of an assassin, then it twigged, she was the renegade. "I'm Lt. Darius Jameson, your new parole officer. They decided to put you with someone who you can't just outrun or hide from." If she tried to hide he'd just suit up, switch up thermals and find her, he could go practically anywhere where the ceiling was above seven and a half foot, even a little bit lower if he stooped.

[Riga Finnelli]

Riga rolled her eyes; she should have seen this coming. Letting her hand drop lifelessly at her side, she slipped her ID back into the pocket of her trench coat. What curse did she trip upon that gave her such a bad beginning with her PO? That was one person she was usually careful of. Of course, she always gave them a run for their money. They got paid to do it; she merely got to live. Food was another thing, and she was on the verge of taking on hits like so many other renegades have done already on Mars.

"That isn't my job, it is, Jameson? No, my job is killing off the scum that you guys can't be bothered to pick off. You know, the rapists that slip through the cracks of the fingers in the Mars Allied Forces, the gods of the city. No, that's my job, and I get to live. But you, your job is to make sure I don't run off, die, or otherwise screw up. To you, I'm what pays for lunch. For me, lunch comes at a cost that I can't put coin down for. But wait, if I take my lunch, I die. If I get a parking fine and can't pay it, I die. So, you and your suit and padded-ass chairs and high-pay jobs, how about you get of your high horse and treat me with the respect I deserve, huh? Did you even read more than just my file? Did you read the file on the guy I took out? How about my sister? You look at hers? You might think you're saving the planet, but it's renegades like me, barely alive enough to do the job let alone get a side job just to eat and pay off the oxygen tax, the renegades who kill what you can't catch, who die on average one year after enstatement, it's US who run things here, and you know it. Before you order me around and tell me where to check in and how often, how about you know who I am before you treat me like an every day criminal?"

Sure, she'd likely get an earful, but she didn't care; it wasn't as if he could do much but make her check in with him more often, or at the worst, make her park Locust at his house. Riga turned away, stepping off towards Locust. She had systems to check.

[Darius Jameson]

He chuckled, not a good natured sound, more a rattling, hollow sound made by something that didn't know whether to hit you or give you a medal. There was a cynical glint in his eyes, as he reached over and turned her to face him with one hand, he strength was beyond human. He could practically lift her up with one hand, he looked muscle bound, but even then that shouldn't have been possible, particually as he wasn't a young man by the look of him. "Now I think we're going to get on well if you actually listen and pay attention." Well maybe or maybe not but she'd at least survive. "I don't like the idea of renegades, I'd prefer a police force which did its job seperate to the defence force, it would allow us to concentrate on the terran threat. But since that isn't the case you're stuck with me."

He really couldn't care less about who a person was or what they had done. Killing was a crime, they'd chosen to do it. "Why didn't you tell the force who'd done it, if it was me, I'd probably have chosen this." He tapped the chainsword in the right hand of the TBA, "Incidently, yes I read the file, while I say you should have come to the force to get it dealt with I won't fault the execution. There was only one mistake you made in the entire thing." He examined his helmet casually, brushing a speck of dust from the contacts. "You got caught."

That was it, there was only one crime really, getting caught. The force were usually extremely good, but their resources were focussed on Earth rather than the civillians here, what good was it keeping them in line if Earth could waltz in anytime it liked. "As for your opinion of my job, you can stuff it, if I hadn't done my job, you would have been dead already, Earth doesn't have renegades."

[Riga Finnelli]

He touched her. She couldn't do much, he outranked her like a wolf outranked a mouse. But what she did do, in spite of the unwelcome contact, was place her hand on the one grasping her face. She hadn't felt human contact in ages; the mixed distaste and eerie comfort that it brought caused confusion.

There wasn't much she could say; he was obviously set in his ways about her, and all the other renegades. She actually had to agree; renegades were not the ones that needed to be doing this. But the Leader, oh he was an insatiable optimist, and only those with hope got to live.

"You're wrong about me." she replied, her cold eyes softening at memories she'd fought to fight down. "I turned myself in. They didn't catch me. They never would have." she spoke, and stepped back far enough to remove herself from his grasp. In almost shame, her eyes fell down to the ground.

"He found her one night, and raped her, third that night. My sister - my twin - was crushed. Before that, he robbed three homes, and murdered a 2 month old baby. He was targeting my mother, next. I went out, I hunted him down, and I killed him. I turned myself in, hoping to die. But now, I'm trapped in this life; killing my sister's rapist over and over and over again. Do what you want with Locust, but that sword you have; yeah, you can lob my head off, say I attacked you. Do whatever you want with me, I don't give a shit."

Again, she turned around, walking towards Locust in the next stall. But, she stopped, and threw her head over her shoulder. "And by the way...I've never missed a parole...and the scar on my shoulder, the one you can't see? That's why my last PO left - I took that shot for him."

[Darius Jameson]

Optimists, they'd all been optimists once, but each in turn had gone through some personal hell, hers had been her sister's rape and the aftermath, his had been the flagship. For the years since those had been a similar limbo to hers, the only difference was their coping mechanism, he'd become hard boiled, unreachable, the perfect soldier but a fatally flawed human, but to the outside he was just a tough old soldier who'd worked his way through the ranks the hard way and had a chest full of medals to show for it. "You were silly, believeing that they'd simply kill you. These politicians and leaders, no they'll see someone so broken inside that they just want death, and they'll make them a tool." That was the same as he had become in essence, but that was because he'd been chosen as the best.

Then the talk of taking her head off. "You really think I would? I've killed, hundreds, maybe since I don't know how many got off the ships, thousands. But I don't kill civillians." That was something very plain in his mind, civillians could not be targets unless they were criminals, she was already serving her sentence so she couldn't be targetted in anyway to his mind. It was inflexible as the ceramic armour on his suit. Then the mention of the scar and he smiled, "In that case you're not beyond hope yet, most renegades stop giving a damn about others and couldn't care less if another person died."

[Riga Finnelli]

Perhaps, despite age with him being old enough to have fathered her, they weren't so different; that wasn't so hard to believe, considering she herself had morals. She was the hunter of hunters; she who slayed slayers of the innocent. But she was no glory hound, and often did things the riskier way - because there was one thing she didn't care if she did wrong. She'd rather die. But this guy had no clue what her life was like, and here he was, standing here talking as if he knew everything there was to know.

"No, I don't kill civilians. But that might have to change. We don't get money to live on. You and us, we have the same job; headquarters sends out the hit on the last criminals, we hunt, we kill. Only difference is, you get paid."

Riga yawned and placed her palm on Locust's nose, waking up the automatic systems inside. "GOOD MORNING, RIGA." It was no surprise that Locust had already woken himself up; she'd been speaking nearby for a few moments. Up the beast stood into his usual stance, with wings in a vee shape, legs and tail tripod like, the hatch near his stomach opening and dropping down like stairs.

"You see," she spoke out to the new parole dick in the next stall, "Those renegades that kill people have been taking on hits in the dome, not just off headquarters. We get so many hits from the big boys that none of us have time for any other job, and we're starving to death, and breathing to death with the damn oxygen tax. I'm damn close to needing to do that, myself. I've been lucky he last 5 years, beating the odds, beating training with a bunch of pigs...but to do all the hits I'm given, and maintain some semblance of 'money', is impossible." he'd managed to strike the nerve in her veins that teed her right off, as she began to tinker in the engines, not 20 feet from his own suit. She didn't care who was listening.

"And that's why the renegades are turning on you; we're starving to death. Ive fought doing it for 4 and a half years, but even I have my rope's end, and that's another reason why ol' Vulture'," that was the nickname of her last PO, "took off on me. He didn't wanna be the PO of another 'lost 'gade'. He couldn't see that all I want is food. That's all it ever is for us, food. I won't resort to stealing; that'll off me the slow way. But taking hits isn't illegal as long as there's some crime the victim committed. So you and I aren't so different; I don't give a shit about the criminals; neither do you. You're just a renegade with a badge and your 'orders'."

[Darius Jameson]

Oh boy, she knew how to hit all the wrong buttons, those scars weren't bar room brawl scars, to say he was no different than her was just the wrong thing to say. She thought she knew what harship was? She acted like those damn taxes were the most important thing, didn't she know that if she'd told her Parole Officer that she'd have the food given to her. Obviously her previous PO's hadn't told her as much otherwise they'd have not been starving. "It seems there's been some corruption in the system, food is dear enough and the saleries we get are barely enough for the oxygen tax, it looks like they were skimming your food off the top." He said matter of factly, it seemed to be a widespread thing if numerous renegades were going rogue.

But calling him a renegade, that was a mistake, and for a moment his anger caused blue sparks to fly from his hand and base of skull sockets. People generally noticed that, and those that knew who he was tended to know that was a warning sign that they'd quite possibly might want to rethink their attitude. His voice was still remarkably cool, a professional's who didn't let small things trouble him overly. "You had best be careful, comparing someone who put their life on the line to prevent you being a mindless automaton to your own actions isn't the best line of reasoning to follow. Consider it friendly advice." It was about as friendly as he got, someone had been dragged to the punching bag for calling him a freak. Although as a matter of courtesy Darius had put a pad on his right hand so that the socket didn't cut the man he pummelled.

[Riga Finnelli]

Riga, call her brave, call her stupid, or call her just plain having a death wish, she slid out of Locust's left leg (Where the walking struts were), and slid up to Darius. She rose herself to her quite small by mars standards height, and let her cold eyes regain their old gaze. She stared at him with no care nor respect, and readied her hands in case he attacked her.

"You look here. I don't give a shit who you think you are, you're nothing but a glory hound. You get everything handed to you because you're a soldier, and food is no exception. This has been happening for years, don't you think the renegades would be turned heart by now if they got their food and the respect they deserve? No, the PO's for all of us are doing this; not just ol' Vulture. We're treated like lepers were, like common street rats, good for nothing but sicking us on YOUR mistakes. I have no choice but to follow your every order, but there's something you're forgetting. If I have an unpaid oxygen tax bill outstanding, be it a day, a week, or a mear, I'll be executed. If I steal so much as a one-dollar CHOCOLATE BAR, I'll be executed. Don't you get that? I can't cross ONE line, because I'm a 'criminal'. They see the crime, not who I am. Like some computer virus with no end-file. No delete, no erase, no recycle bin. I have never yet killed a civilian. I put MY life on the line DAILY to take out those YOU GUYS can't catch, and I STILL take shots for my PO. So don't bark up that tree, Bowser. Liek I said before. TREAT ME WITH RESPECT."

[Darius Jameson]

His eyes went dead, he towered over her by a full foot and sparks came out of his hand, crackling as they hit the ground. His scars twitched as his anger showed through his normall calm exterior, he was about ready to pick her up and throw her against the wall, a simple demonstration that he behavior would improve, but instead he spoke, his words full of seething anger, but it was the dead look in his eyes, as if his humanity had been switched off, that would have been the most terrifying thing. No emotion, no empathy, just blankness, "You little fool, you call seeing your closest friends killed one by one, having to kill with your bare hands because a weapon will alert a small army handed everything on a plate." It was a snarl, the scars over his face giving him and almost wolflike look.

"You Renegades think you've got it so hard, but if you'd done an ounce of what I've had to just to keep people like you from being turned into robots you might just show some damned respect." He advanced now, movement under his skin from rippling muscles as the microfillaments inside them expanded, anticipating use, making him almost physically grow. "You want respect, earn it, don't gripe to me about how hard everything is, don't talk to me about lines crossed. I've already gone so beyond the lines that they don't exist anymore, he raised the sparking hand so she would look directly at it, and for a moment lines flashed in the veins of his eyes, optical fibres implanted to give more detailed vision and smooth the intake of the other data sources when suited. "You think you've had it hard, look at what they did to me, and now that there's only one look at what I have to do to breath." On the outside he might appear almost normal, inside it was difficult to tell where human stopped and machine began.

[Riga Finnelli]

Riga could say multitudes of words, do multitudes of things, all in the effort to calm him down as the steel grate ground vibrated faintly from the impact of his hand. But, somehow, she wasn't scared of him. He reminded her of a little dog, scared of all the big dogs, who just inherited a big-dog body, and still acted like he was a little dog amidst bog dogs - extra vicious. He had character though, and wasn't just another mindless soldier; at least, for now. It seemed the year-old wounds he'd suffered were still fresh, and drove him like a man drives his battlesuit.

Sighing faintly, she stepped back a step, making sure he wouldn't lash out at her. She wasn't afraid, but she wasn't mindlessly dumb, either. He could - and would - inflict damage on her if she wasn't careful. After a moment, she bent over, and rather unlike her, touched the side of his head like he had to her. There wasn't anything she could say to solve the torrent of inner conflict he felt, like she did every day. But what she could do might just earn her a roll of bread a day to live on.

"They did. I didn't."

[Darius Jameson]

Those four words stopped him, the sparks peterred out, and the smell of singed conduction fluid pervaded for a moment, an acrid smell. It seemed for a moment as if all life had gone out of him, like a machine where someone had hit the off switch. The he looked her dead in the eye, and shook his head, "No the terrans did it." No one knew the full story of the TBA's outside those involved in the project, a few people noticed a heavy infantry unit, but no one really thought much of it, new units came and went in the early days. He continued, "They started it with better troops and equipment, we needed something that could strike back."

He began reliving the same scenes he saw on dark nights, scenes of the induction, everything, but most of all the flagship, seeing his entire squad wiped out one by one, two of them when they'd almost been home and safe, but caught by the guns and fighters of the Terran fleet. "Two squads of the best troops were selected, I was the leader of the first team, we weren't told what it was going to be, we were just asked if we'd volunteer for an important program to develop a weapon system capable of wining the infantry war." Dispite all the high tech battle suits, it was infantry that won the day, a battle suit would power down after a time and couldn't hold a position, infantry could and the Martian forces lacked infantry. "Some died on the operating table and were replaced by others, each one of us was enhanced beyond human abilities, these were amplified by the TBA's." Sight, hearing, strength, endurence, even oxygen and energy efficiency had been made as good as possible.

He shook his head, a little angrily but not overly so. "The only problem was they didn't know how to use the new squads, we were sent in as crack squads to complete a set task and exfiltrate. No support, just us, we could deal with almost anything up to a battlesuit." That wasn't just a boast, they knew the heavy calibre rounds could punch deep into armour, since most still went for traditional metal armour rather than the more expensive ceramic armour. They also were somtimes armed with grenades more suited to that kind of a target. "Now you know what kind of a soldier you're working for, not some desk jockey glory hound, but someone as stitched up as yourself will you work with and for me?" His tone was serious, and he was indeed as stitched up as she was, he couldn't return to normal life, he leaves the force and he turns in the TBA, when he wasn't connected to it, it was like there were raw, loose nerve endings, it was a need that didn't go away.

"And since Vulture didn't give you yours, here's a five hundred credit chip." He took out a card, it was a standard Martian currency chip. "That's about a month's living, food and air, for each criminal there's an extra hundred and fifty. When there are no active hunts you're paid just enough for food and oxygen, take it as my way of showing not all Parole officer's skim their charges. You'll be working with and for me and I will abide by my side of the bargain if you continue to do good work." He offered his right hand to her, the socket not sparking for the moment.

[Riga Finnelli]

Charity? She decided to be a good girl, and he offers her charity? She stared at the 500 chip, stepping back in surprise at the audacity of Bowser. That would be his nickname. But, money - not just 500 dollars, 500 credits. Did he think she needed his charity, his friendship? Did he think she needed his watchdog eye? Even worse; did he think she needed his guidance? Offense mounted up in her eye, and her glance flicked up to his, away from the money he offered.

"Fuck you." she spoke, turning away to go back to Locust; the only male in her life that she relied on. "I don't need your charity, Bowser." Riga re-opened the leg-hatch, focusing now on the apparent under-oiled struts that would scrape and sing out if she used them. Oil would cost her at least a credit to change. "I'll do as I'm told, Bowser, but no more. I ain't a child to be looked after. I'll die before I take your charity."

Being raised in New York, Riga had never liked charity. It was as if a slap in the face to offer someone on the street anything. Sure, if you tossed some food at them they'd eat it; but anything else was an insult. Now, she was set on ignoring him. She didn't need his charity, friendship, or guidance. She'd make it on her own, and just show up for parole check. That was it...

[Darius Jameson]

"Charity?" He snorted, "That was your first paycheck." The little bitch didn't seem to get the point, she accepted and she'd go on the books as working, that was a steady income in return for doing what she had already been doing. He could work it as he was owed more than a fair few favours by now, originally command had thought he'd go for a trade up, get a new body, but the circuitry inside him made it impossible. "You think I'd just chuck it at you and expect you to lap it up, no I'm paying you for doing the job, like you were supposed to be." Soldiers were paid in credits, he saw no reason to pay a Renegade anything different.

He turned his back on her, if she would be stupid then he saw no reason why he should give her any slack. She refuses what was supposed to be hers, then if she went on a hit and ended up killing someone without a crime then she would be terminated, probably by him. He took it personally, but all the same he called over his shoulder. "You won't do your job because it isn't a job unless it's paid, anything else is volunteer work. You don't take this as work and you know what will happen, you'll starve, you won't have oxygen money, and you'll be terminated." Frankly if she was going to act they she did then she could swing for all he cared, she obviously was too stupid to be of use.