Lockdown - 02 by Alexander Shaw

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SUMMARY: Re-named from 'The Neutral 3 Incident'.

Chapter 2 Docking Bay 619/620.

--/Day 3 11:13 Hours/--
--/Hanger Entrance 619/--

"I'm hungry..." Tenzanin grumbled as Davan lowered him to sitting on a nearby and conveniently placed package crate. Behind them, the salvage operation was still going. Although they only thing those troops were truly getting out this operation was bodies, by the looks of it. Davan rubbed at his good eye, then ripped the eye patch of his ruined one and chucked it away. He'd never liked the damn things, but it helped when the wounds throbbed in space travel.

"You're always hungry..." Davan growled, although he'd only known the dangerous looking Carene for an hour or so, it still seemed like a valid viewpoint.

"I know, doesn't change the fact..." Tenzanin replied, rubbing at his head. And then at his stomach. But at that moment, both of their attentions were drawn to the entrance doors.

They were pretty damn big and made a lot of noise as they retreated up into their housings. Beyond the door was a waiting lounge, a tacky looking, rubbish infested, depression inspiring waiting lounge. It probably hadn't been cleaned in a year or so. But what really attracted their attention was the crowd of sixty or so people sitting or standing around thirty or so tacky and uncomfortable plastic seats. Every eye in that crowd looked first at Davan. Then at Tenzanin. Then at the armed men carrying body bags back and forth behind them. Then at the blatant wreckage of a spaceship behind even them. In perfect harmony, sixty people's eyes widened.

"I recommend the flight!" Davan quipped, trying to be cheerful. There was no response. "Tough crowd." Davan mused and wandered out of the bay and onto the beck of the space station. Now, he thought to himself, where to find a party?

--/+0 minutes 13 seconds/--
--/Hanger Entrance 620/--

The hard-seal doors cycled shut behind the hulking form of the massive battlesuit, its thrusters steaming in the suddenly warm air. The dock could support most commercial ships, but it had only been opened for the battlesuit. A gargantuan form, it seemed to dominate the interior of the darkened docking bay. There was a rush of cold, cold air as the bay was repressurised and oxygenated. A few seconds later, the two mechanics safely contained in their hard-sealed booth clicked the hatch to their door and stepped out, both of them with their jaws half open. Now that, both of them were thinking, was fucking impressive.

The suit clanked forwards, huge strides bringing it to the front of the bay quickly. There was a large backpack, frozen by the vacuum, strapped to the combat webbings, also frozen, on the exterior of the suit. There was a rifle held casually in the right hand. It was a rifle most fighter planes would think twice about arguing with. The helmet shape just seemed to imply strength and power, the eye slits covered by tinted red plexiglass. The muscular build of the suit itself was threatening just to look at it. A callsign was etched on the chest plate and shoulder pads, it read "Dreadnaught".

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