A necessary pitstop taken, bodies standing in a well lit pharmacy as they watch one move through the shelves. A simple space created to replicate an actual small, family owned store on an earth a happy quarter million miles away; the designers sacrificing convenience for raw aesthetics.

Marauder Team’s medic translates words through his phone, an application automatically detecting latin derived english and converting them into eastern cyrillic. Medical names read and confirmed, authentication for a medical education split between the new-age reconstructionism of Moscow and the idyllic coastlines of Boston.

Lieutenant Keys is the first to speak up at the sight, an alertness drawn towards the reusable hemp bag now halfway filled with boxes of over-the-counter drugs. “Cherny, how much stuff are you buying anyway?”

“I not have medikal kit here.” The medic counters with a focused tone. “Need to be ready.”

Agent Morsow tries to awkwardly smile towards the obsessed man, his group already a few minutes behind schedule. “All due respect Chernyshevsky, but I don’t think you’ll be needing pressure bandages or hemostatic gel in your time here. Nor… ” He takes a moment to glance at the current layer beneath the bag. “Three hundred pills of ibuprofen… ”

There’s experience in his words, a cold gaze leveled atop the FBI agent shutting any future objections. “In case.”

Another bottle of painkillers reached for before systems automatically flag him down, a red holographic sign personalized to the selection’s shelf throwing warning codes in English.

Keys whistles at the message. “I guess there is a limit to how many pills you’re allowed to buy…”

Cherny narrows his eyes in frustration. “Why?”

Agent Morsow straightens his back at the notion. “It's to prevent purposeful overdosing.”

The Medic lets the comedic timing sit, a response left to Lieutenant Keys. “I hope you realize Cherny literally has three hundred pills in that one bottle; that’s enough to kill anyone easily. In fact, I’d argue its enough to kill ALL of us in one go.”

“Well, it’s the law.”

The irony isn’t lost on them, the Medic simply giving a cold stare towards him as he moves towards the exit.

Automated checkout counters give the tally, machine learning algorithms tracking every item removed from shelves and put into shopping bags. A single television screen showing a receipt of purchase, the massive list of pharmaceutical supplies alongside medical necessities coming for an eye watering total cost.

Mostly shipped from Earth and brought down via lunar elevator, every single kilometer of distance seemed to be factored into the price tag staring back at them.

“Так дорого в наше время…” The medic whispers under his breath as he finishes the list. “Ok, good.”

Digital receipt sent to a registered email address, completely digital in a world devoid of lumbered trees.

“Task Force’s comping this right?” Keys asks the Medic with a chuckle, then pausing in seriousness. “Right?”

Cherny wordlessly refreshes his phone, a confirmation of purchase email received and subsequently forwarded to their operating secretary still locked inside their hotel room with just a simple set of instructions in Russian.

CHRN: Не могли бы вы заполнить compensation form?

Giant Killer Robot: 👍

The Medic turns back to the Lieutenant. “They will.”

It's the lull in the day, the two to four o’clock time frame too early for commuters and too late for early bird tourists. Empty streets save for automated cleaning drones and the occasional lost individual, the park-like structure filled with colored tiles and greenery; the primary transportation hub both the first introductory and final goodbyes of a lunar life.

From a fifty meter wide central dias thirty different offshoots of dark-blue colored tile extend outward to the very edge of the section, each individually marked by a rendered lunar cycle. From a new to full moon viewed from earth, the universal human idol from ten thousand years of civilization and beyond suddenly a new home; lived in for a future to come.

There’s a memorial here, hastily set up within the center of it all.

Pieces of machined metal, 3D printed resin blocks, and articles of precious fabric shaped into flowers and placed surrounding the original monolithic monument alongside a digital compilation of photographs and unopened bottles of alcohol, containers of coffee, and handwritten notes. It’s a haphazard setup put together by workers in after-hours and weekends, but enough of a thought to directly shape the movement of people surrounding it.

Task Force 31’s Marauder Team takes it in with silence, the gravity of the situation drawing down hearts and minds.

Living, breathing human beings extinguished in mere milliseconds.

Lieutenant Keys squads down in front of the setting, getting a better look at the currently shifting photographs leaning next to the monument. Faces from across the fifty two states of America as well as a handful of foreign families, employees and tourists in an ever shifting movement of humanity. “And the Space Liberation Front says it’s an accident. You gotta be kidding me.”

Agent Morsow keeps his distance with his response. “We have no reason to believe it isn’t. The Space Liberation Front’s attacks here on the moon have been historically against infrastructure, not people. We’ve found nothing to say that they’ve changed that strategy since…”

They all just turn in dead silence to the federal agent, Cherny simply listing out a cold, nebulous statistic in response to the factual argument. “There are much dead people, and children in orbit.”

Keys backs him up. “Yeah, not sure what universe you’re living in Agent. The SLF squad that shot up Collins Memorial last year? Had a total body count in the upper thirties. It just so happens that the Space Liberation Front’s lunar-side’s still testing the waters for actually killing people. Everyone’s used to people dying in orbit, that’s been happening since loooong before we were born with the old Nanshan mercs. But down here? Don’t wanna escalate it too far too quickly, afterall.”

There’s a moment of silence for a while, interrupted by a sudden message ping sent towards Marauder Team from the Task Force wide chat. A confusion and anger brought into being from the incredibly rare swear, Admiral Tucker’s seemingly happy-go-lucky anime styled profile photo comically put against the tonal implications of high ranking administration work.

//Adml. Tucker: @Marauder which one of you just spent 3k at fucking Walgreens

“And we almost got away with it too…” Lieutenant Keys begins under his breath.

Master Sergeant Ling raises his hand in the defense of his squad member, a one-sided argument against a nebulous opponent. “I can authorize the purchase.”

“I take responsible.” The medic creates his short handed reply, financial burden befallen onto his shoulders in admittance to a non-criminal act.

//Cherny: Me

It's a long pause as Admiral Tucker takes the moment to review the paperwork. A budget already far too tight to accommodate erstwhile purchases, yet enough justification from the actual medical professional to cut corners elsewhere.

//Adml. Tucker: … 😅

//Adml. Tucker: Ok lit, just making sure. Be safe u guys.

Agent Morsow tries to ease the tension slightly with his question. “Is everything alright?”

“Not important Mr. Fed.” Lieutenant Keys dismisses easily. “Now come on, I wanna see how easily it is to smuggle C4 into the termina…”

The french accented interruption comes from Mercier, her small form at the edge of their circle enough to call them all to her extended pointer finger. “Hold.”

She spots it amongst the visual noise of the hastily crafted memorial, a Marksman’s eye catching the english text associated with a familiar named individual from briefings prior. A physical photograph following suit next to the hastily carved script, Marauder Team observing a young woman with short brown hair cut to company regulations and baggy green overalls covering a mostly unkempt corporate style.

It's nestled right at the center of it all, undisturbed amongst the metallic flowers and bits of folded cloth. The sub-memorial itself is insignificant in size, but immense in implication.

They must’ve expended some effort, the name itself cut into lunar titanium with hand-held improvised tools and absolute conviction:

EMILY MATTHEWS

The entirety of Marauder remains silent, the hum of distant atmospheric recyclers and civilian traffic echoing into the depths of the habitation center. Statements lost as they all try and process this new battlefield, a thousand invisible eyes keeping trained atop their forms.

Lieutenant Johnathan Keys takes the joke. “Well, always a feel good moment to honor your suicide bombers.”

“She has killed a few hundred people…” Master Sergeant Ling stares.

“Fuckin’ Space Liberation Front’s everywhere. Especially since they’ve said this entire thing was an accident.” His friend answers. “What are you gonna believe more? A government that has a history of killing people like you or your own people?”

He turns towards the agent in their midst. “Sorry Morsow, but uh… the Feds don’t exactly have the best track record with the whole ‘stop domestic terrorism’ thing.”

Agent Morsow takes a defense step back as he tries to regain the diplomatic edge. “The FBI acknowledges the incidents that have occurred during the Louisiana…”

Cherny interrupts the scripted apology, his large form quietly stepping past the socially accepted boundary between memorial and public park. A face drawn in a furrowed scowl, each deep breath taken trying to keep something from boiling over within a usually stoic physicality.

They don’t even try to stop him, his entire Squad simply watching as he quietly steps through the field of flowers and memories towards the single monument within.

His large hand grasping the digital photo frame, cold metal against his flesh. The face of Emily Matthews, unmoving, emotionless staring back at his own cold gaze.

Industrial construction is deceptively fragile, two large hands gripping each opposite side of the flat, rectangular shape. A single burst of strength from musculature is enough to utterly destroy the last memory, the device easily snapped in half with an audible crack.

He turns back to the rest of the squad, tossing scrap metal aside. “We go to terminal now.”

Massive arching gates built into the city’s habitation dome tower over the mortals beneath it; giant open emergency airlocks marking the boundary to the lunar-metro’s self-contained system of transportation.

The lifeline of almost half a million souls spread out across the colonial outcroppings cut into lunar regolith, every scheduled drone-train carrying with it an absolutely necessary shipment of materials and humans.

They all look up at the words welded onto arches with gold titanium sheets, a welcome and goodbye written in the city’s native American english.

ALAN B. SHEPARD TERMINAL

Security checkpoints situated at a central chokepoint, transparent bulletproof glass separating individual scanners manned by uniformed soldiers wielding somewhat heavier firearms than their patrolling counterparts.

Body armor stacked atop bulky chest carriers, submachine guns and long-barreled tactical rifles of a decent enough caliber for a skirmishing firefight against poorly armed insurgents.

“Welp, we’re here.” Keys casually skips along the concrete, pausing at the entrance to the space with a short glance at his friend. “Looks like they actually put a decent amount of effort into making a checkpoint…”

Master Sergeant Ling already knows, acknowledging the Combat Engineer’s look as he asks the accompanying agent. “All security is inside, so no patrol outside?”

“All inside yes sir.” Morsow replies.

“Not ok.” The Marine informs coldly. “Need to have people screen outside in choke point as well.”

There’s silence at the suggestion, the lack of traffic compounding the implications of the given advice.

Cherny thinks on it, objecting to his superior’s advice. “Not safe for those outside.”

The Master Sergeant continues to explain. “They are early warning, to stop a direct and surprise assault on position. Have three layer security: one outside as screen, one in center for defensive position, and one in back for fire supremacy.”

It's demonstrated by the checkpoint, the group the first in line amongst an unfound crowd. Space Force guards in half-armor leaning against guard post pylons as they hold position amongst metal detectors, their entire existence reliant on bullet proof glass and a single plate of ceramic armor upon upper torsos.

Civilian duty lost upon relatively slack faces, a fulfillment to be found instead in short term documentary videos put on heads up displays and casual conversations between work friends.

It takes Agent Morsow’s own declaration for them to come to attention, his gold badge flashed towards them alongside the digital identifier code. “Agent Morsow, F.B.I.”

Lenses confirm both the code and the face, software automatically returning a green checkmark for identification. All forms rising against the lighter lunar gravity, an attempt at a serious stance already failing as the FBI agent continues. “I’m here alongside System Defense Force Task Force Thirty One to inspect this checkpoint for security vulnerabilities. We are approximately twenty minutes late.”

Its protocol, of course.

The entirety of Marauder Team exchanging knowing glances between one another, the inefficiency of bureaucracy somewhat standard for the nationals. An understandable sacrifice for the weight of politics, their idle minds watching and waiting as one of the marines takes a moment to speak into his helmet microphone. “Supervisor, can we confirm a System Defense Force contingent for checkpoint inspection at 1426?”

It takes a moment for the response from the controller to come through, piped within the local wireless network. “Confirmed, they’re late.”

“Copy.” The marine, now recognized as a lance corporal from the stitched uniform rank, continues. “Alright, just go through the scanners to make sure there’s no firearms on you or such.”

“What will set off alarm?” Ling asks quickly.

The guard turns over to the technician, providing an awkward silence as the onlooker takes at least twelve seconds to realize their moment of glory. “Uhhhh…”

Lieutenant Keys, Combat Engineer answers for her without hesitation. “Guns, knives longer than seven and a half centimeters, any explosives, schedule three or higher items, sugar, and anything registered in the I.S.W.D. Assuming of course the scanner flags’em down, which this is a millimeter scanner right? With the ID cameras?”

Put off balance, the guard nods. “Y-yeah?”

“Ok then it will flag ‘em down.” He pauses as he takes the first step forward. Turning towards the rest of his squad, he brings a cheeky smile. “Good thing I haven’t handled any C4 in the past week or else it’ll trip the chemical sniffers. Not fun.”

Corporal Mercier narrows her eyes. “Will it?”

“Yeah the blend they use up in microgravity sticks to clothes like crazy. Once you get that stuff on you it's not getting off until you put it through a real cleaning cycle. Like MAX power with a full detergent load on the communal ones in gravity rings. It's not coming off otherwise.”

“It is why he sets off the alarm when we go on station security points.” Ling informs the rest with a bored glance. “After deployment.”

“It is inconvenient.” Mercier notes coldly as she observes Agent Morsow’s tightened expression.

Keys scoffs alongside her as he continues to explain, the hum of the scanner powering on as the machine begins its inspection rounds. “Literally all seven of us in the Combat Engineering Corps are magnets for searches when on national stations. Regs say personal luggage always consists of a standard EOD kit and a P3 handgun, which the former includes at least half a kilo of micrograv-C4 and detonation cord. And even better when you’re covered in explosive residue after a bad deployment, not exactly screaming ‘innocent civilian’ when you’re going through the checkpoints.”

The entire security system catalogs him, software analyzing both a recognized face and biometrics as he stands within the scanner. A database of citizens, taken from digitized records stored in deep server vaults within the American mainland, are cross referenced in long, lagged seconds.

Every individual watched, every action logged amongst a vast infrastructure buried deep within granite bunkers and orbital installations. Artificially intelligent algorithms perusing their way through individual profiles; cold statistics the foundation of a surveillance system perfected in troubled times decades prior.

Cherny asks the big question on everyone’s mind, a russian accent somehow expanding the joke further than humanly possible. “So cavity search on Keys if bad thing found?”

“Oh fuck you Cherny!”

A single happy chirp signals the passage of the usually deviant individual, Lieutenant Johnathan Keys of the Solar System Defense Force allowed through without any protest. “Alright come on guys, stop laughing!”

The Master Sergeant fakes his apology with a short coughing stint. “Sorry.”

He’s technically next, the Marine stepping into the nearby scanner without issue. The hum of electronics, the scent of ionized air; a system classifying the foreign national against a cross referenced database from the System Defense Force.

“Fun question.” The Combat Engineer begins, directed to one of the idle guards. “What happens if he tries to grab your gun?”

It catches the seemingly young man off guard, his unhelmeted face taking a glance over to his two comrades. The older, and higher ranked corporal of the trio speaks with grave inexperience. “Arrest him.”

Lieutenant Keys continues to pry, hiding the intentions behind a jovial fascination of theoreticals. “Yeah but he’s gonna have a gun. You gonna shoot him first?”

“Well… only if it's necessary.”

A mild groan as the simplistic answer arrives. “Ok in this situation he has a gun, now what do you think he’s gonna use it for? Not good things, I say. Nothing good.”

The Master Sergeant sighs as he’s cleared through. “哎呀 Keys…”

The target glances over towards his friend, continuing with his punchline. “That man’s a psycho by the way. The System Defense Force has him as the ‘hyper-lethal’ asset. He isn’t allowed to go anywhere without a micro-explosive charge fitted in his spinal column, just in case he decides to go AWOL and make a run for it we have some way of taking him down.”

Only the technician, with access to the actual bodily scan of the Marine, isn't convinced. The rest give a blank, deeply concerned stare at the entire System Defense Force contingent.

“That is not true.” Mercier is next, her form moving into the scanner. An american idiom attempted, her french accent broken slightly in a rough translation towards the Combat Engineer. “And you are one to say.”

Lieutenant Keys commits to the bit, turning back to the two riflemen guards as he lowers his voice. “They were tempted to fit them on the old NanShan people, you know? Back in the 40s, when it got really bad up in orbit? They needed some way of controlling them, because that paycheck could only go so far you know? Makes you wonder, during those Space Force training cycles where they put you in that sensory deprivation facility, if they actually put you under for a few hours and put something inside you.” He taps the base of his skull. “I mean think about what the Feds did in those schools in Louisiana during the 30s and 40s, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch would it? Just in case any of you had some… interesting ideas?”

The Squad Leader brings it back with a stern, accented tone. “Keys you are scaring them.”

He backs off as ordered. “Food for thought, I mean all things considered having us here is a…”

It comes from behind them, the interruption from a cold, dark place within the transit terminal accented with an older american male. It's familiar to Marauder Team, an encounter between the remnants of another era of orbital warfare returning once more here to a world removed from Earth.

The implication of profit, of desperate margins for survival against an inevitable destitution. A sphere of war steeped in the backstabbing dramas of boardrooms, massive paychecks, and outright corruption; the orbital lanes nothing more than the high seas of a new era of sail.

The Orbital Defense Company speaks through him, through the gray uniform and three personal guards equipped with lethal assault rifles, through the arrogance of a twenty billion dollar contract. Officer Carter Solomon stands in the shadows of commercial signs, the well-built man holding the light features of an old form undergoing medical remediation. “Having these… individuals here is a breach of security.”