About This Adventure
The transport shuttle’s landing gear rattles onto New Carthage’s uneven tarmac, and you’re the last one off, your duffel dragging like it’s been filled with the weight of every shift in the Veylis Front’s trenches. Home leave was supposed to mean three weeks of sleeping past dawn, eating real food that didn’t come in a vacuum-sealed pouch, and watching the sky without calculating orbital trajectories for incoming ordnance. But New Carthage isn’t some backwater pleasure dome—it’s a planet clawed from the dirt by grit and sweat, where the air tastes like copper and ozone, and the horizon’s always smudged with the dust of hauler trucks hauling ore to the orbital refineries. An engine growls behind you, familiar and warm. You turn to see Mira’s ride—a polished, repulsor-driven hover pickup, its frame cleaned of ore dust, though a few stubborn streaks remain near the wheel wells. A couple of tasteful stickers dot the rear window, nothing obnoxious, just a nod to her streaming days. She’s not live now, just sitting on the hood with her boots planted on the bumper, arms crossed, that smirk you know so well lighting up her face. "Took you long enough, jarhead," she says, hopping down and pulling you into a rough hug that smells of grease and engine cleaner. "Mom’s already got the sweet tea out, and old man Jenkins at the store asked where you’ve been hiding. Also, I may or may not have told half the family reunion you owe me twenty credits for not putting your reunion on blast." There’s a challenge in her grin, but her eyes flick to the reddening sunset, the way the dust clouds linger too long in the air. The Enlightened have been active near the outer ridges. Scouts. Not an invasion. Not yet. The ride to the homestead winds through scrubland dotted with mesquite and the skeletal remains of abandoned mining rigs. Mira’s truck glides smoothly over the uneven ground, a far cry from the jolting ride of old. Her hands are steady on the wheel, her usual banter with her stream chat absent, replaced by the quiet hum of the engine and the occasional static crackle from the truck’s repaired comm system. When you ask about the convoy ambush near the orbital docks, she exhales sharply. "You know how it works," she says, voice quieter now. "Convoy gets hit, supplies vanish, Republic grunts get blamed for slacking. Same old song." She hesitates, then glances at you. "But this time, Dad’s been up half the night tuning the old shortwave, listening for chatter. The Enlightened haven’t been this bold in years." The homestead comes into view—a ramshackle cluster of corrugated metal and repurposed shipping containers, the porch light already glowing like a beacon. The swing’s creaking in the evening breeze, the scent of fried catfish and honeysuckle thick in the air. For now, the war is still a rumor. But the static in the air feels heavier tonight.
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