Macross Fan Fiction ❯ Honor Against Invid ❯ Beginnings of a Find ( Chapter 1 )

THIS STORY OCCURS A YEAR TO A YEAR-AND-AN-HALF

BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF MARS DIVISION.

The sun rose slowly, it's golden light illuminating through the tips of the far-off mountain ranges. Black smoke curled snakelike from the scorched earth, darkening the early morn. Broken hulks of mechas and machines litter the cratered ground, scorched blastmarks indicate where valint struggles of life and survival occurred only recently. The wind moans through the twisted wrecks.

A faint noise is heard, a fierce growl that grows in intensity and depth. The howl echoes dreadfully off the towering cruisers and broken fighters. A dust plume appears, brown and dirty against the soot blackened smoke that drifts lazily upwards.

The howl increases until a lone motorcycle screams into view past a fallen Beta fighter. The motorcycle, with side car, pulls up short next to a dismembered cargo pod of a former Horizant cruiser. The motorcycle's engine throbs for a moment before being turned off. Silence descends upon the battlefield like a heavy sodden fog.

In the passenger side car sits a young boy who looks to be about five, perhaps six, years old. He wears worn pants and a hand-me down shirt. A blue coat helps deal with the early morn chill. Soulful blue eyes peer out from beneath a curly mop of bright-red hair. Although he looks upon death and destruction, little emotion registers upon his youthful face. With some effort, the young boy climbs out of the passenger car.

A stern voice said, "Be careful Josen."

Josen nods solemnly at the rider, then meanders off, looking for something of interest amid a field of ruin. The rider, wearing a tough leather jacket, black pants, and worn boots, takes off his helmet, revealing a scarred weathered face. Long white hair held in check by a red bandana streams down the back of his neck while his gray, haunted eyes gazes out at the gloom. His physique is large, sturdy, and battle hardened. His skin color was somewhat pallid, the only outward indication of his otherwordly origins. He dismounts and checks the saddlebags attached to the rear of the bike.

From somewhere, Josen's soft giggling echoes.

Satisifed, the rider retrieves a rifle from it's perch on the side of the bike. Checking to make sure that it is loaded (which it always is, but discipline demands checking), the rider strolls methodically through the war-torn field, rifle held at the ready. Although it is bears little comparasion to the mighty weapons he was used to handling, the rifle felt comfortable in the rider's hands, as if he was born to carry such a weapon. In fact, he was.

The rider peered and poked around the damaged mechas, always on the lookout for usable weapons and protoculture though he knew from the blastmarks that the Invid probably left scant traces of the mythical substance. Everywhere he looked, the stylized symbol of the REF greeted him.

Eventually, the rider came across Josen. The youth was staring intently at a downed Alpha fighter, its' sky-blue wings marred by Invid fire. Josen noticed the rider and pointed at the cockpit. Looking at the cracked cockpit window, the rider was not surprised to see the pilot hunched over within. He was suprised when the cockpit window popped open. But years of training and quick reflexes sprang into motion as the rider swiftly targeted the cockpit with his rifle. He watched, stunned, as the Alpha's pilot slowly climbed up from his seat, blood flowing down his CVR-3 armor. Still trianed in his sights, the Alpha pilot sprawled forward, carrening out of the cockpit to land upon the hard ground. Josen stood there silently as the rider slowly approached the pilot, his rifle held out before him. The pilot moaned, then called out in a horrible whisper, "Help...help..."

Josen pointed at the pilot, then looked at the rider as he said, "Daddy."

The rider lowered his rifle, his dark gray eyes taking in the sight of the fallen pilot. He nodded slowly, "Yes, son. I see him."