Strider’s Strikers Headquarters
Miranda, Labrea System
Irece Prefecture
Second Quarter, 3068
Mace awoke with a drawn-out mumble, coming to reality from a deep sleep upon hearing just
the slightest noise in the room. As he came to his senses and realized where he was, instinct
took over. He was completely still, silently hoping anyone that might be in the room could not
focus on him with their natural senses. He kicked himself mentally for having made the earlier
mumble, no doubt something leftover from the dream he'd just broken out of.
It was late, that much was for sure. No one was usually moving around near his quarters at this
time of night. Just down the hallway lie his lancemates' rooms. He doubted any of them were up
and about, but no one could be positive. Mace cracked open his eyes, silently waiting for the
adjustment he so desperately needed. He realized it was nearly there. After having adjusted to
the dim light directly, he simply needed to focus on the shapes surrounding him in the darkness.
He could make out the chair just to the right of his bed. It seemed his pants were still visible on
the back of the metal-framed backrest, giving it an odd hunched shape that might resemble some
form of alien life. Mace nearly cracked a smile. He'd stopped fearing the dark when he was 4
and a half and he wasn't about to go back to doing it now.
His eyes wandered over the rest of the nearby surroundings. An overwhelming darkness just to
his right seemed the usual silhouette of his desk. Just beyond that were two matching dressers,
furniture he'd picked up shortly after the Strikers had settled on Miranda. His eyes flashed to the
left side of the room, pinpointing a shape near the door that made the hair on the back of his
neck stand up. There, in the silence of the small enclosed space of his bedroom, loomed a
mysterious new shadow.
Mace's mind raced to the next conclusion. This was no friendly unannounced guest. Where did
he leave the Dirk sword? That was an easy question, and he realized he'd only thought it
because of the nervous sickness that was now affecting his body. He had to clear his mind.
Cool. Calm. Remember the training. The sword was in the same place he put it every night.
It was on the left side of his bed, running parallel with the wall just under the mattress frame.
The next dilemma was all the worse. What would his move be? Could his invader see his every
move, or did he hold some advantage over the unwelcome bastard? If natural movement would
provoke an attack, Mace ought to do his best with speed. However if this predator was simply
watching its prey, any suggestion of an attack would likely mean immediate death.
The choice came somewhere in between, rolling onto his side softly and as if in an uneasy
slumber, Mace dropped his right arm out of sight as he rolled onto his stomach. There he felt the
cold hilt of the Dirk, a sensation so profound it was only surpassed by that of the fear that
coursed through his veins in the form of adrenaline. The next move would be fast. For either
type of death he was facing, prolonged or immediate, he would meet it as best he could with the
original weapon he had trained with since his days as a teenager.
In a smooth and practiced fashion, Mace pulled his arm from the crevice between the bed and
wall, drawing the shining sword out to catch the faintest glint of light from beneath the bedroom
door behind him. He knew the room well enough that hitting the door would have been easy.
He could only hope the attacker wouldn't move before that.
As the sword left his fingertips and began its silent journey towards the shadows, Mace could
see from the corner of his eye a new image; a glint of silvery material shone through the
darkness. Considering the angle and the relatively complete absence of light from the room, he
knew this shape was near his desk and moving towards him. He had to get off the bed fast.
Gunfire belched out in a terrible blast from the area beside his desk. In the flashing light of death,
Mace could make out a poorly cloaked Purifier battlesuit. The battle armor gave itself away in
the flashing darkness, failing to adapt quickly enough to the brilliant pulses of light coming from its
own machine gun. Mace realized the Purifier’s wearer had been able to see him. He also
realized his stomach was red hot, burning from some kind of unknown injury. He dared not
waste time looking down in the darkness. He instead reached for his Hawk Eagle automatic
pistol as he fell hard onto the polished tile floor.
Reaching for his gun even as he rolled under the bed and onto the weapon itself, Mace’s head
slammed into the mattress frame’s underside. The pain never registered though, and like a
madman Mace unleashed no less than 6 bursts into the tight confines, bullets from the
slugthrower no doubt blowing clean through the polyester of the mattress cover and into the
surrounding walls and ceiling. He hoped it would be enough.
For a moment, Mace could see nothing. The room seemed to have gone quiet. As he began to
twist his head back and forth, looking to the edges of the bed, a new pain broke into his spirit, a
mind-numbing crushing sensation coming from his right ankle that surpassed that of the hellfire
that still burned in his abs. He tried to point the gun into the direction of the impossible vice that
was threatening to pull off his foot, but it was no use. His body was pulled out from under the
bed, knocking his arms back and bashing his head onto the metal frame one last time as he tried
to look up at his assailant.
And then Mace was hanging upside down. He felt a brief nausea rush over his upper body,
ending in his sinuses. He could feel something wet running from his stomach onto his chest. It
hardly seemed important now. More significant was the blurry phantom before him that had
somehow used the dim light in the room to hide itself from him.
He could still feel the pistol in his right hand. He knew it was useless but so were the rest of his
options at this point. This enemy did not want surrender. It would have knocked him
unconscious earlier rather than making a sport of the end of his life. Mace drew a long breath
into his lungs and yelled as loud as he could. He could only hope to surprise or delay his killer,
or simply warn his lancemates of the enemies lurking about. Have to do what I can.
As Mace’s ears went deaf with the resurgence of point-blank automatic gunfire into his
midsection, he saw a dark-clad stranger pinned to the bedroom door on his Dirk sword. He
squeezed what felt like eight bursts into the Purifier’s armored body, never hearing a single round
fire off or ricochet. His arms betrayed him and soon he was hugging himself, unable to feel but
keenly aware of the blood visible in the flashing darkness. He knew the end was coming as his
arms crossed over his vision and onto the Purifier’s distorted surface, marking it with bright red
so that it could not cloak itself from its future victims. He prayed the others would fare better.
