The radiated rays of Alpha Centauri A and B beat down on the cracked, desolate land of Proxima Centauri. Little lives on the surface of this once densely inhabited planet, its lands scorched by gamma bursts from its dual suns. On this lifeless rock, a hulking figure roams the arid wasteland, a myth sung by bards in the far taverns of the Milky Way, a name hated by the many and loved by the few. Through the countless vessels he has ravaged, he has earned many titles – Hell Bringer, Red Fang, Slayer of Amon. However, the distant past reminds him of his true name, the callsign which Mother Wolf bestowed upon him in the holy ceremony of ascension, Atriox. The RAD reading on his armor reads 10,000 RAD, enough to kill any other living being within seconds, the perfect hideaway for one of the most wanted raiders in all of the galaxy.
After a valiant feast of slain Bronteroc, a native grazing herbivore, Atriox’s wrist plate pings with an incoming transmission from security drones he set up on the perimeter of his enclave… Multiple ships in the vicinity and approaching fast, B15 Corvettes, Mars Gov issued battle carriers. With a deep sigh, the hardened warrior swings open the bullet-hole riddled doors of his weapon cabinet, revealing a Mark 2 Lancer Assault Rifle, equipped with a rusty but functional chainsaw bayonet. Over a ramshackle armor rack, his Blood Knight Armor rests, marked by generations of bloodshed and carnage. As he dawns the armor he noticeably feels its weight bearing down on his shoulders, the weight of a hundred thousand souls has been unkind to the warrior in his later years. A warrior knows that this is the path, and that this is the way for all Star Wolves that go through the rite of Ascension… He loads his rifle, and prepares for the battle that is about to ensue.
6 armored B15 Corvettes throttle down their thrusters in the cold darkness of the night. Out of each vessel, 5 Mars Elite Guard fan out in multiple directions, securing the dropzone. Equipped with state of the art battle gear, these troopers represent the finest killing force of the Mars Federal Government, their only purpose for existing is to eliminate the enemies of the Martian State by any means necessary.
As they sweep across the tundra, their footsteps light as a soft drizzle, Atriox lies in wait. One of the 30 Elite Guard notices a soft click amongst the silence. Tripwire. The ping of a grenade pin dislodging from its body follows suit before a chain of explosions light up the pitch black sky, killing 6 in the process. The others frantically recover their bearings. Gunfire emerges from behind a boulder and all forces concentrate their plasma rifles in that direction, only to find an automated turret shot to pieces. Before any can react, Atriox launches a full ambush from the rear, his explosive rounds tearing through their targets and exploding on impact on the enemies behind. 7 more eliminated. The others frantically regroup and focus fire down on Atriox. Their rounds ricochet off of his shields, as he charges towards them at full pace while revving up the Lancer Bayonet. These esteemed warriors know that a Lancer at close range means a confirmed but not so instant death. Blood fountains spout from the arm and leg sockets of the Mars Elite Guard, painting the cracked floor of the tundra in crimson. Only 8 remain.
Dispersed and desperate, they flee for cover and reload their plasma rifles with shaky hands. The Star Wolf knows now that he has them. He takes his time to pick them off one by one, dragging their bodies into the darkness. No weapons are required for the final slaughter as the symphony of teeth and claws on bone and flesh echoes through the empty valley. 0 remain.
Atriox lets out a primal howl to signal his victory. The night is his. As he looks down, he notices pieces of shrapnel lodged into his thigh and abdomen. The Star Wolf lives to fight another day, but just how many of these days remain?