Dew stains the once mirror-like windows of the city humanity once called Seattle. It had been magnificent once. A leader in ideals, modern medicine, and social advancement. In humanity's Golden Age, it had grown into an immense metropolis, gathering much of the north western continent into its folds. It had flourished. Then came the Darkness. And with it the Fall. Pure hell had unleashed itself upon everything man had ever held dear. The Warminds, born from the genius of humanity to protect the cradle of their civilization, went to war with the oncoming night. What followed was beyond imagination. The energy of Sol was forged into beams that lit up space as they brought death to the galactic intruder, immense gravitational anomalies smote mankind's foe, and nuclear fire blazed through the void. The end had come, but humanity did not go quietly into the night. The Darkness came, and weapons beyond measure were unleashed into its very teeth. One by one, the great Warminds died or vanished, and Earth weakened. Death came to claim it, clutching at the beating heart of its children before a great sacrifice stayed its hand. Humanity lived, and the Darkness was forced back. It lurked, awaiting its chance to strike again. It was not the only thing waiting to attack however. The Eliksni, now Fallen, had tracked their Great Machine across the reaches of space to a blue world, one so recently bathed in destruction. They found it wounded. Desperate to reclaim it and return glory to their people, the Eliksni fell upon the already brutalized world. War came again to the Earth, and this time the Warminds were not there to defend it. The Fallen, however, blessed humanity by containing a flaw within itself that would save mankind. The Eliksni, devoid of their Great Machine, would always be their own worst enemy. The Houses had turned on each other and cooperation soon became manipulation at the hand of the Kings. When the Great Machine delivered yet another blessing unto humanity - great, undying warriors - the remnants of the alliance between the Houses crumbled, and the dream of bringing back greatness to the Eliksni people soured into a nightmare. Trapped in the solar system, their desperate gamble stalled against mankind's last bastion of defense, the Eliksni stagnated. Now, untold years later, they pick through Earth's ruins, like starving vultures on a fly-ridden carcass, their greedy eyes watching the Last City horde the Great Machine to itself. Some, however, aren't even that lucky. Within the Cosmodrome, a Fallen can see the milky white sphere of the god-like Machine. Not all of the Fallen were in mankind's Russia, though, Rathiks broods, his helmeted chin on one of his primary fists. He sits upon what he's come to think of as his throne, aboard what's left of a Devil Baron's ketch. The Baron himself is long dead, the result of a human Guardian's command over the powers of the Great Machine. It's just as well, he reflects. He never liked Baron Navoriss in the first place. The great ketch sits dead in the long-flooded streets of Seattle. The sea-walls had failed during one of the great disasters to befall Earth. Now one was lucky to find a dry patch. Most places were ankle deep, but Seattle, a city ( if it could still be called that ) of hills, lent itself to a variety of depths and places that were convenient for a Dreg to drown on a scavenging run. Rathiks snorts harshly into his rebreather. He's been losing more Dregs than usual lately. Even some Vandals have died. The entrances and exits of the tides, however, has done a remarkable job of removing any evidence of foul play, he concludes irritably. There's no way to tell if his Dregs have merely drowned searching for components to make the Ketch air worthy again, or if a more sinister force is at work, such as the Hive of a group of Guardians. He thrusts himself out of his chair angrily, causing several nearby Vandals who are manning consoles to give him quick, uneasy glances. He ignores them, but their looks are enough to reel in his need to pace. He clasps both sets of hands behind his cloaked back and takes a deep breath in through his face mask. His living resources were dwindling with each death, drowning or otherwise, but he's awash with what the humans call 'Shanks.' He lets himself savor the term as it floats through his head. It's a fitting name for a machine designed to kill with such an undignified touch. By merely stationing one close enough by to observe, but far enough away not to be a target, he would be able to find out what was happening to his Dregs. Soon the Devil Captain will know just what's causing the death of his crew. He speaks in a guttural growl to a nearby Vandal to convey his orders, and a small fleet of Shanks is dispatched to observe salvage parties through out Seattle, and the tragedies about to befall them... (( Open. ))