Missed Opportunities

The wind carried the smoke far, and carried it long, across the windswept plains to the south. Kropotkin City was a particularly breezy location, but even today the air was sharper than usual. The threshing of the breeze cut through the streets, twisting left and right around the city’s skyscrapers, as if dogfighting an invisible enemy. It seemed to be winning too, as it showed no sign of letting up. And with storm clouds on the horizon, it seemed it would only get worse from there.
“Well, shit,” said Lepidus. “Damocles, when is that target showing up? Our window of engagement is closing – and it’s closing pretty fuckin’ fast.”
The grey-haired man sitting in the corner, attention focused upon a large spotting scope aimed just above Lepidus’ shoulder, grunted. “I don’t know, Lep,” he responded: Even if they weren't their real names, they refused to use the full codename - Dam said he didn't want to 'sound like a pretentious scholar from Monash'. 
“I was told she’d be around in the next twenty minutes, chauffeured around by some Redblacks with bad attitudes.”
“Well we won’t have twenty minutes to take the hit. We’ve got ten, and even then that’s pushing it.” Lepidus brushed his brown hair to the side, maintaining his sight picture all the while. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go. The blokes at the Bureau of Meteorology had screwed up in their forecast – again.
It wasn’t the first target elimination Lepidus had done before. It wasn’t even the tenth. It also wasn’t the first one he’d done on Kropotkin – months of low-level activity, reconnaissance, and the occasional staged ‘accident’ had morphed his voice into the husky, harsh Kropotkiner accent many knew so well. Gone were the days of his distinctive Darwinian drawl, his happy-go-lucky attitude, and even his love of cricket. He understood the rules of dravball far better than he would ever have wished, he spoke with the traditional, drawn-out vowels that every Kropotkiner knew well – he even supported a team in the KDL.
“Fuckin’ Steelers,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” asked Damocles. Lepidus just shook his head.
“Nothing. Just wool-gathering.”
The old man nodded. “Just don’t get too distracted. We need to be focused, just in case the target makes an appearance.”
Lepidus shifted ever-so slightly in his chair, keeping his rifle’s stock close to his shoulder and the scope at eye level. Through the magnification, he could make out the crumbling bricks of the Liberation Point, the shell craters in the roads that only just appeared in the days prior. Checkpoints at the corners of every main intersection were staffed with stone-faced militiamen, readily outfitted in adhoc body armour – on some of the chestpieces, bloodstains and the remnants of hastily-scratched off pink paint informed Lepidus that the Redblacks manning these blockades had seen at least a little combat.
Despite the craters, though, and despite the checkpoints manned by the militia, it seemed that the civilians in the area were completely ignorant to the situation at hand. Families walked down the street with shopping bags in hand, children played in the shell craters, and even several cafes had reopened – although not very many took the risk of sitting outside, for whatever that was worth. It was as if the people living in Liberation Point didn’t realise there was currently a civil war on. Although given the speed at which the Redblacks had pushed the Pinks out of the district, it wasn’t surprising.
A vehicle turned out of a sidestreet and onto the main road Lepidus had been watching. Moving his scope to follow the staff car, his intrigued attitude quickly returned to frustration, as it wasn’t the target. A captain of some sort rode in the back, escorted by three soldiers, all clearly from the RISC. Their bright red, deep black sash tied around their arms, and the blue and green bands on their helmets displayed them as such.
Lepidus was not going to mess with them. The captain may be a high priority target – hell, he may be in charge of Redblack forces in Liberation Point – but messing with RISC would simply guarantee Lepidus and Damocles a swift and very painful death. Of course, getting his target could run the risk of involving RISC – but Lepidus knew there was no love lost between Kropotkin’s elite special security agency, and their staunchest opponent, Julia Akron.
The staff car halted in front of one of the open cafes. The RISC detachment exited the car quickly, hands on thigh holsters and heads on a swivel. The balaclavas that hid their face conveyed no emotion, the sunglasses they wore hiding any hint of worry in their eyes. The captain exited the vehicle, back straight and uniform proud, almost as if he was daring someone to shoot at him.
Naturally, someone obliged him.
BAM!
A supersonic projectile smashed through the breeze, cracking the RISC officer’s head open with one shot. The bullet went straight through, hitting the soldier directly behind him, splitting his head, before continuing down the street, halting its trail of destruction embedded into the wall of a café – right next to the head of an elderly man sipping on a glass of wine.
“Shit!” exclaimed Lepidus. He turned to Damocles, who was already disassembling the spotting scope in the room.
“Was that one of our teams? Marathon or Plataea?” asked Lepidus. Damocles shook his head, as his hands expertly folded the scope’s bipod in two and placed it into a black backpack.
“No. We’re the only group in the district. Closest is Delium, somewhere near Old Bonaparte Avenue,” he looked at Lepidus’ sniper. “You may want to start putting that away,” he said.
Another shot rang out, underscoring Damocles’ sentence. This time, though, the shot was answered, with automatic rifle fire echoing through the streets – almost drowning out the screams and cries of the civilians in the area. “We missed the target due to the bloody Pinks,” Lepidus said. “Maybe she’ll round the corner as we leave.” He looked out the window to the street, which had now been engulfed in a full firefight.
Damocles disagreed. Firmly. “We stay here, we’re at risk of getting caught up in the chaos. We need to get out of here – Now.”
Lepidus looked from Damocles, and back to the street, where he could make out crouching figures gripping weapons of all sorts – and the corpses of those who hadn’t had time enough to get to cover. With one last glance to the firefight, he sighed, and began to pack up his rifle.
It took him less than thirty seconds to disassemble the weapon, expertly packing it away into a carrying case. He slotted the case into a backpack identical to the one Damocles now wore, zipping up the pocket and slotting it onto his shoulder. He gave his leg a reassuring pat, ensuring his concealed pistol was still attached, before nodding to the elder man. The two opened the door leading out of the small closet, into a short hallway. Rushing past the other doors on the floor, they made their way to the staircase at the end, beginning the long way down – ten stories up, it was one of the highest buildings in Liberation Point.
Halfway down, an explosion rocked their ears, carried their way by the wind’s current. The two paused, as they waited to see if it would be followed up by another. It was. Lepidus paused, thinking of the cause. Just as it came to him, Damocles interrupted the silence.
“The Pinks have a mortar set up. They don’t care who they hit, as long as it hits something. Civilians or Redblacks.” Lepidus shook his head.
“Remind me again why we’re here to help them, in that case?” he responded, a hint of snideness in his voice. Damocles glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Because the Pinks don’t hate us as much as the Redblacks,” he answered evenly. “They also both do it – doesn’t make it ok, but it is what it is.”
Lepidus let out a small, pained chuckle. “You’ve been on this planet too long, Dam.” Damocles smiled at that.
“Too fucking right I have,” he said. “Maybe if I get off this rock I won’t be so jaded. Doubt it, though.”
With that, the two continued their descent down the stairs, as the skirmish that began on the main road expanded. The explosions continued to rain down, as the smallarms fire only picked up in intensity – and it seemed to be coming closer. Lepidus hope that the ever-increasing noise only meant that the wind had changed direction, to push the noise closer to them – but he doubted it. He patted his thigh holster yet again, this time instinctively, ready to fight his way out of the building, even though he’d much prefer if he didn’t.
They reached the bottom floor, as the firefight had transformed into a full-blown skirmish. The explosions carried on, this time with a higher intensity – a distinct boom occurred just outside, as Lepidus looked out a passing window to see smoke and flame billowing from a parked car – and he smelt the distinctive scent of charred flesh. He turned away, trying not to vomit, as he and Damocles continued forward, down a corridor and to the front door. The two foreigners crouched down behind the frame, as rifle fire cracked just outside, coming from the next block over.
“The Pinks are trying to retake the entire suburb after their early defeat,” commented Damocles. Lepidus only nodded, as the older man continued. “If we stay here, we’ll likely be hit by a stray bullet or mortar round. We need to make for the safehouse at Steffi’s farm – it’s a long ways off, but if we get there we’ll be safe.”
“Agreed,” said Lepidus. “I say we make for the tube station at Reznov Street, and walk through the commuter tunnel to Alexander Park. We should be out of range of the mortars, if the battle stays put – a big if, though.”
Damocles affirmed Lepidus’ judgement with a simple nod, and placed his hand on the door.
“Ready?” he asked.
Lepidus nodded. Bracing himself, Damocles turned the knob, and flung the door to the street open – to be greeted by four men and women, clad in grey combat armour, black balaclavas and the distinctive, turtle-shaped combat helmets of a RISC detachment.
Guns up, the four soldiers rushed into the building, rifles aimed at the two men. Lepidus raised his hands high, kneeling on the floor, facing towards his partner. Damocles, for his part, did the same. Three of the soldiers stood behind Lepidus and Damocles, whilst the fourth, obviously the leader due to the green band on his headgear, stared at the two men.
“Are you Pinks?” he queried. Damocles shook his head vigorously, whilst Lepidus looked up into the man’s eyes – his grey bags and furrowed eyebrows betrayed his fatigue.
“No, we’re not filthy democrats,” answered Lepidus. “Pretty sure if there were, they’d be upstairs. We only just heard the gunfire a couple minutes ago, on Liebknecht Road – is it an attack?” Lepidus looked up towards the team leader, attempting to portray his face as one of confusion – and it clearly worked. The man visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping slightly, before nodding.
“Alright, get lost. They’re pushing towards this building, and we’re gonna stop them from going further,” he turned to one of the women in the team, her arms cradling a combat shotgun. “Mace, let HQ know we’re getting civilians out of the AO.”
“Will do, Dagger,” she responded, pulling a handheld radio from his webbing. Dagger turned to Lepidus and Damocles, and gestured with his rifle to go. Lepidus nodded his thanks, and helping Damocles up, the two crouched low, and moved out of the building.
They two didn’t say a word until they reached Reznov Street, as they walked down the stairs into the underground station. Lepidus turned to Damocles as they walked, allowing himself a half-smile.
“That was fucking close.”
Damocles smiled back his response. “Damn right it was, Max.”