After spending so much time amongst the relative plushness of Accord command centers, the rundown refuge that is the Northern Shores outpost is a stark contrast. Half-broken machinery whirs and rattles as it struggles to keep up with the needs of the war-weary men and women who staff this outpost. These are tired people, each one counting down the days until they’re relieved of this post and can return to the relative comfort of Trans-Hub. And yet here these same people are, laughing wildly over my flailing, panicked bum-rush to reach the base. Admittedly I know that I looked silly as hell as I scrambled across the beach, trying to look over my shoulder to see what that monstrous freak raising hell behind me was. But none of that matters now – I’m inside the base, hunched over with my hands on my knees as I try to catch my breath. As I steady my breathing, I’m approached by an older soldier – a career man, to be sure. He wears an older-model battleframe, which sounds like aluminum being crumpled when it moves; no doubt the result of years of tinkering and self-repair.
