>[u]Metadata processed[/u]: [b]DROPSHIP INBOUND[/b]_ [i]The combination of inconspicuous and potentially intel-rich, always attracted scouts.[/i] Through the scope of his long-rifle, brewed a vaporous storm of rust and ice. Flattened prone, high winds buffeted his perch in the upper stories of the aeolian canyon walls, an amalgam of urban ruins and the Martian dunes striving to swallow them. The fast approaching midday sun would soon churn up a blinding deluge, yet, save his methodical panning of the scene, he waited unmoving. Endless ripples of iron dust flurried below, spurred by an overbearing gale cutting through the exposed infrastructure of this curious gulch. Catching his eye, a silhouette approached from the West. The chameleon figure scuttled across the sand, swiftly winding through the sparse cover. Carrot and stick, crosshairs led his cull toward the portico of the dilapidated station. The enemy briefly paused to check angles before it broke cover up the short stair, striding for the entryway. Sharply jerking its head to one side awkwardly, the lifeless body collapsed under its own momentum and tumbled into a sprawl. [i]These days, they just ain't making Vanguards like they used to.[/i] He reached to draw, no time to rappel. Startled, perhaps by the reflection in his scope. Standing at the other end of the crumbling level, was the hooded and cloaked scout he had just killed. "Ah-ah," rasped a filtered, chiding tone. "We should get to know each other before dancing, don't you think?" Hammer clicking, the pre-Traveler era .45 whirred. "Information. Now." "Once more, looking in all the wrong places." The Vanguard sauntered forward. "Point me in the right direction." "Join us downstairs for that heart-to-heart, won't you?" The derisive holo flickered out. Taking another step in the darkening haze, the station loomed beyond the precipice, scrutinized by the Vanguard once more. [i][b]A Friendly Visit[/b][/i] [u][b]__2[/b][/u] [i]The ride out here was rough[/i]. Sweeping multiple routes for Cabal patrols outside their territory had been simple enough for the seasoned Vanguard. Even adjusting on the fly hadn't been a problem. They were slow, predictable. But unrelenting. Contrary to the slightly glossed over public record of the entire planet, this expanse of desert was well known to most experienced Vanguards. Traffic of any kind was thin out here, an unusual feature for Mars. The general area was oddly unassuming for the treasures it reportedly held. Of interest was the hub of enemy activity its center. Of the many which speckled the planet, one of the smaller Cabal exclusion zones solitarily lay at its heart. Once inside the amoebic fortress, another desert awaited. Complications in approach arose here and Cabal presence heated up drastically. Deeper in, it all but died, replaced by a different breed of sinister. Far from the encompassing perimeter of watchtowers, was one of the many vacant stretches of Martian soil under Cabal control. It was here the Vanguard had hoped to go unnoticed. Many a Guardian had spent a night or fourscore in a micro-wasteland like this one. Waiting for a promising lull to break through, eluding patrols behind enemy lines, only to be forced into hiding again. Fighting for survival in a landscape made alien once more, spattered with the decaying remnants inherited from humanity's collapsed Golden Age, many had suffered death or worse. Becoming stranded in one of these sandtraps was typically the fastest time spent in an exclusion zone, that and gaining entrance. Once you made it inside, Cabalists made a concerted effort to drag you further in. Pushing you deeper into the region until their territory practically faded back into no-mans-land. When they were satisfied you were properly confounded, that was when the sport began for them. It was the getting [i]out[/i] that presented the challenge inside these hunting preserves. It was the getting out that turned hours into days. This time, they made their presence known almost immediately after the Vanguard had sidled through their front door, auspiciously left ajar. Curiously at odds with the heavy-handed battlefield stratagem, their gaze was ever present, analytical to a tee. It was a dangerous mistake to take the Cabal's welcome for indifference. Luckily for them, a mote vanishing cloak through the service tunnels was all the beasts had been too clumsy to fatally pursue. Losing the Cabal as quickly as they had rushed to receive their guest, the Vanguard made every effort to avoid any engagements beyond the initial, fleeting contact. Staying alive out among the stars' hungriest predators, long enough to join ranks with the Vanguards, had been a swift learning process. Ensuring the Cabal knew of the presence simply as that of a Guardian was essential. As such, no esoteric arcanum implement, munition, nor invocation, had been exposed, discharged, or conjured. Any spare detail beamed through the atmosphere was an unnecessary risk. The practice of open channel broadcasting choice bits of data had been developed, it seemed, as a means of cultivation. Initially there had been but a single exclusion zone, below the Dust Palace, Cabal high command. Maybe half a century ago scores of zones had descended upon other ancient Martian cities, quarantining their secrets and the bandit populations within. Eventually realizing some ulterior purpose, the Cabal had given up repulsing the infestation. In response to the scavengers that had come to call the exclusion zones home, the Cabal reveled in the opportunity to pit humans against each other. Outlaws of the Last City had found a rewarding niche within these lawless paradises. Such individuals were dangerous in the extreme, and the Cabal were dishing them scraps. But chances were they wouldn't likely fetch a newsreel for their parasitic wards if it read about a lone Guardian slipping away from a few dozen heavily armed doormen and multiple search and destroy flotillas. Wolves did not abide weak masters. Although a global pirate trade connected the miniature networks which existed in the airspace of each exclusion zone, the illusion of self-sufficiency was recognized as exactly that. Only by the continued interest of the aliens, were the dregs of humanity not wiped from the face of Mars. Limiting factors of all sorts forced the majority out of the exclusion zones onto the Martian wastes, where life was stretched thin and ragged. In the end, only the upper echelons of the underworld had the means to sustain a profitable foothold in Cabal territory. Taking full advantage of the perks provided by their watchful host, heavily guarded exclusion zone enterprise was the lifeblood of the black market. Small time, wasteland bandits were relegated to feeding off the larger outfits and all the intel they could steal from them. Population control, restricted airspace, sporadic raids, and unwavering intolerance of dissent kept the notion of rebellion as impractical as it was impossible. The Cabal kept their petri dish in check. The experiment, controlled by whatever intendant dispatched the monstrous soldiers, did not require mutualism but there were limits to its hospitality. With or without the support of the Cabal, the bandits would still have found a way on the Martian badlands as they always had. It seemed the Cabal preferred instead to host the bizarre suzerain. [b][u]__INTERMISSION___[/u][/b]