Master Sergeant Ling is the first to truly react, a body immediately tensing at the sight of the Contractor fifteen meters away. A response followed by the rest of his squad as they all hold themselves in place, the motley gang of unarmed and utterly vulnerable soldiers put at the ultimate disadvantage within the hardpoint of Shepard Terminal. All eyes turn, four killers hyper focused now on a singular target.

Officer Solomon takes a short step back at the sight, into the fold of his heavily armed bodyguards. A voice betraying just a hint of nervousness from a facade of charisma, still able to pull his usual, snide tone towards the four individuals. “Seems like Issac’s little death squad is still on the loose, and I doubt the butchers of the System Defense Force are here on a personal vacation.”

It's a dead silence amongst the passersbys, a stand off by definition from ancient rivals in the orbital theaters of combat.

Lieutenant Keys is the first to make the observation, a generalist, sarcastic question asked to all present as he exchanges glances between his squad and their accompanying agent. “So… why the fuck is he here?”

The Officer pulls his hands behind his back, a spine straightening to its full stature despite the old age. “I’m here for the same reason you are…” He narrows his eyes towards the rank on the young man’s uniform. “Kim, if I remember correctly?”

Keys just plays off the joke, answering him with a short bow. “Yeah, I’m Corporal Kim, pleased to meet you again, Officer Jacoff.”

An unamused face on the Orbital Defense Force Officer at the deconstruction of the euphemism, a shrewd glance turning to observe each of their faces before falling towards the one standing on the other side of the security checkpoint. Separated by ten armored centimeters of transparent polymers the two make eye contact, a familiarity in a uniform once abandoned.

He skips over, past the rest of Marauder Team before stopping a few meters away from the glass. The pride oozes from the voice, from the implications of every word. “Doctor Chernyshevsky.” He pronounces the Russian name perfectly and without pause. “Good to see that you’re still doing well.”

“Я тоже.” Cherny replies with a strange sense of warmth.

“I was honestly surprised that you took the… Admiral Issac Tucker’s offer for this Task Force. Quite out of character, according to the rest of your squad.” He declares his next words in English, loud enough to be heard by the rest of Marauder Team. “Remember Doctor, you’re always welcome back in the direct action division if you ever find this thing too boring. In fact, I’ve even left your spot, and contract, open for when you change your mind.”

The usually still space surrounding the Medic visibly moves at his reoffer. “Thank you.”

Officer Solomon turns to the rest with an empty glance, a smile approaching his lips as he continues from a previous conversation. “And to answer your question Corporal, I am simply operating within the confines of the Orbital Defense Company’s contract with the United States. We are doing everything in our power to ensure nothing like what occurred this February happens again.”

Lieutenant Keys scoffs. “Well, those terrorists managed to get high explosives onto a commuter train so I’d say you’re doing a great job.”

He doesn’t react at the notion, simply taking them atop another front of combat. “You should know that there are no chemical sensors on Camp Armstrong. I’d think someone of your academic caliber would realize that given the amount of explosives used within lunar mining operations, attempting to determine if anyone was carrying a bomb through chemical traces would be useless… given the levels of aerosol saturation. Of course, we shouldn’t expect much from the System Defense Force; not anymore at least.”

He smugly smiles to himself as he continues. “After almost twenty years, one would think you people would actually make some progress in actually making this a safer place. But the data doesn’t lie, and your little experiment has been an outright failure.”

They all just give him a blank, unamused stare.

Corporal Mercier whispers to the team, completely unfazed by the escalating tower of accusations. “So is just letting him insult us ok?”

The Squad Leader shrugs. “We can not shoot them now…”

“No wait I think we’ve actually got the advantage here.” Keys begins, countering his own team. “Like… they can’t shoot us or else it's gonna be a real controversy. And if we do get killed imagine the response from the Force. So we totally don’t have to take this from him.”

The Master Sergeant narrows his eyes. “Keys we do not have anything to kill him with.”

It's a tragedy beyond reproach, a Shakespearean level threat against a planned vector of attack. “Fuck you’re right.”

“I can hear you.” Officer Solomon announces as he takes one more step back towards his entourage.

“Look, the only reason he’s shit talking right now is cause he’s got the armed guards and we don’t have guns.” Keys rectifies, completely ignoring him. “Like last time? Back in LA when we had the guns he was shitting in his pants.”

Both Mercier and Ling nod slowly as they consider his words.

The Marine narrows his eyes as he gauges distance, a Master Sergeant’s intuition playing out the events to come. “I could get to him before his bodyguards get us.”

“It will be difficult to kill him.” The Marksman adds to her superior. “Gravity is low.”

The Combat Engineer does the math in his head as he calculates the physics of such an act. “Yeah you’ve got no leverage to really bash his head in. And choking him out’s gonna to take too long. Damn the no weapons policy.”

Officer Solomon clears his throat, louder this time as he tries to gather the attention of the three members of Marauder Team. “Are you threatening me?!”

They all look up from the huddle, towards the interloper in an awkward silence.

“No we’re trying to imagine the best fucking fantasy we got right now in this hellhole.” Keys groans. “And seriously how the fuck are we threatening you? You think we got weapons on us right now against your three goons back there?”

Corporal Mercier suddenly speaks up from behind both Marauder Lead and Marauder Two, the Marksman finding the most obvious avenue for more insults. “Orbital Defense Company does not know existence of scanner to detect bombs and guns. Très sad.”

Officer Solomon narrows his eyes at the little woman, holding position as Lieutenant Keys completely breaks character to laugh.

“Do not be sad.” She continues, a french accented english somehow becoming more fluent alongside more familiar slang. “Difficult to be helpful when you get shit on by old woman four hundred centimeters shorter than you. Sad life is best place for you on computer, at home forever. Sad for you.”

There’s a visible level of social discomfort from the Corporate Officer. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Go home Solo-man. Go home and cry to your dead mère, such a failure in life. Old man and still working for dead company, much easier to go kill self NOW.”

There’s a reason why her Sightlines account is in toxic queue. Master Sergeant Ling Shu realizes, but too late to stop the descent into madness.

Officer Solomon stays stalwart. “Is this all the System Defense Force has left? Petty insults? I thought you’d be more…”

“Ohhhhhh, I thought you’d be more smarter. Make self more intelligence? How many of your de merdes were dead in orbit last year? You make it so easy, so much money to be saved when killing own friends? Orbital Defense Company is so smart to be killing own squad members.”

The subtle eye twitch on the old man’s face is telling enough of a removed higher instinct, a calm facade breaking ever so subtly from the spewing stream of insults from the young woman.

It's the guarantee of the first amendment, one of the constitutional rights outlined within the United States’ founding document. A fundamental gift to the people of a three hundred year old republic, held together by the dream of a free society by the enlightened thinkers of history long ago. The right to speak one’s mind without persecution, to exchange ideas and concepts free of the fear of tyranny.

But even that has its limitations, a societal line drawn in the proverbial sand for the sake of national unity and social welfare. And even then, that’s an American centric perspective.

Corporal Estille Mercier, raised in the French Republic, pushes that boundary to its absolute limit.

There are words that invite immediate ridicule, of names and titles reserved for the worst of the worst. An uplifted society trying its best to maintain a sense of civilization, broken down by a slew of slurs and strung together petty insults marred with a rich french accent.

Civilians are caught in the crossfire as they quickly walk past the commotion within the transit terminal, collateral psychological damage uncontained as she just lets loose completely.

It's enough of a distraction that Lieutenant Keys manages to sneak around them, putting himself next to the three Orbital Defense Company troopers a few steps behind the perimeter. “Hey, what’s up with you guys?”

All jump at the voice, the man suddenly appearing behind them shocking enough to make them reach for assault rifles held in chest carriers. Helmets half open, human faces poking past a layer of ceramic and lightweight alloy plating showing wide gazes of shock.

“Relax.” The System Defense Force Lieutenant eases with a cheeky smile. “We’re not trying to do a search on you guys or a ROE violation arrest, so nobody’s gonna get killed.”

They don’t believe him, at least not fully as eyes are narrowed in preparation.

“So you guys… you Vacuum Exiles or what?”

It's the legion of traitors, drawn from the washouts and retirees of the System Defense Force. A warrior tribe reborn in service to the contract and compensations, the exploitation of wealth from the dangers of orbital warfare and beyond.

“N-no.” One of the troopers admits haphazardly, a heavy german accent obvious through broken english. “We’re just private security. D-division.”

A threat downgraded from legitimate to expendable, the elite of the elite now just cannon fodder to be stationed amongst non-important infrastructure.

“With ARs?” Keys narrows his eyes. “Guess even you PMCs are feeling the threat level.”

“Yeaah… basically… just to make sure nobody’s gonna be able to outshoot us.” Another trooper nervously admits in casual American slang.

“Heh, I get ya.” Keys replies. “How’s the pay by the way? Million a year or something?”

“Around that.” The woman sheepishly corroborates.

“Sheesh.” The System Defense Force Lieutenant tries to act surprised. “Maybe I should submit a resume.”

Two out of three of them take a moment to gauge the seriousness of the comment, their remainder immediately cracking a serious concern towards him. “Well, if you’re System Defense Force you’re probably gonna end up with the Exiles. So, a lot more scuffles with the pirates and… well you guys.”

Lieutenant Johnathan Keys arrogantly scoffs at the nervousness of the speaker. “Well, I’ll take your word for it.”

They’ve escalated, social warfare pushed into a nuclear exchange of name calling and slurs. Corporal Mercier’s grasp of english drastically improved through raw toxicity, in her own element from the channels of the highest ranked echelons of competitive matchmaking. Her methodology of roasting reliant on volume and velocity, a tidal wave overwhelming any chance of an effective counter.

There’s a few civilians who actually stop around the perimeter, mobile phones opened to camera apps as they videotape the utter social carnage unleashed by both parties now. Officer Solomon’s own desperate attempts at a diplomatic high ground torn down with every single stumbling word out of his mouth, nothing sacred against the torrent coming from a woman almost half a meter shorter than him.

Agent Morsow, now through the security gate, watches alongside the rest in an awkward stupor. One question placed to Master Sergeant Ling, the leader of the entire group not even flinching as he watches half his current team scatter amongst the Private Military Force. “Is this… normal behavior for the System Defense Force?”

The Marine shakes his head. “No.” Then pauses as he watches Lieutenant Keys bring forth his iconic finger guns to bear against the three bodyguards. “Sometimes.”

Cherny raises his own concern towards his squad leader. “Not like any team I in when in System Defence Force.”

“It is a different time.” The Master Sergeant casually replies, an explanation of culture reduced down to just one factor. “Also this is not usual squad makeup.”

Agent Morsow can’t hide his curiosity at the statement, clearing his throat at the words. “What do you mean, Master Sergeant?”

It takes a moment to process in his brain, the Marine simplifying a chaotic complexity of task force and squad composition down to an uninitiated member of an external organization. A chinese accent hampering english, words enough to make some sense. “A normal marine team will have six to most nine members, be very flexible with many sections. Based on old NanShan Corporation deployment. So probe seeking, fortholding, marine breaching, things like so. But we as squad now just are different. Small group will need to do many more things. Need to be closer, but looser.”

Agent Morsow flexes his innate, falsified knowledge via briefing, a casual statement made in a helpful interruption to the conversation. “Well if I remember correctly Task Force Thirty One is an administrative division, so obviously you’re going to be structured differently. I guess doing paperwork and going to formal events doesn’t really need a lot of guns or blowing things up right?”

Cherny makes a quick glancing eye contact with his own squad leader as he pretends to boisterously laugh, an understanding bridged between the two as the Master Sergeant continues. “是, so we are different.”

The Federal Agent dismissively chuckles alongside Chernyshevsky. “Well, you’re doing the real, unsung hard work of the Force. Respect it.”

The thumbs up just adds to the discomfort of the already chaotic situation, mercifully eased as Lieutenant Keys returns to his group with just two haphazard skips through the lunar environment. “I got news guys. You think it's the Exiles Division? Those guards are fucking F-tier D-division hireouts. Not even the guys they put on national stations to protect against pirates, they’re worse than that.”

“I have not heard of them.” Master Sergeant Ling admits.

“Yeah cause we’ve never fought’em.” Keys continues to rant. “They put’em guarding back checkpoints and doing paperwork! Right Cherny?!”

“They are cheap to emploiment, hire from world people for money.” Cherny informs as he recalls his old employer’s order of battle. “Most used in back place away from guns. Strange to guard Officer, when in dagerous area. And big questioning on Officer Solomon, should be big target?… I think…”

The Master Sergeant agrees with the Medic. “Last time he had Vacuum Exiles as guards. Cherny makes good point. Even now in bad area he does not have good bodyguards.”

Officer Solomon has some tactical instinct, it turns out. A defensive garrison of social contracts eroded away after five minutes of constant abuse, his pride swallowed as he simply turns around and begins to skip away from the encounter.

It's a victory for the System Defense Force, at least according to Corporal Estelle Mercier who opens both arms in a distinctive position of challenge towards any other onlooker. “Yeah! Go kill yourself yOU BITCH ASS [transcript expunged under automated archival order SDF-AM-947416, TF-4]”

“Her bio-parents were Algerian, she's allowed to say it.” Lieutenant Keys explains to the Agent, averting his gaze towards his foreign comrades at the final word. “And yeah, how many hours does she have on Sightlines?”

“Michelle says nine thousand.” Ling informs based on second hand information.

Cherny visibility cringes at the number, alongside Lieutenant Keys who gives his own opinion of the matter. “Well this’ll be a good detox month then. No competitive matchmaking, no tracker grenade spam, no upranking bullshit; just a nice, no voice chat vacation. Singleplayer only.”

It's hard to return to a normality after such an apocalyptic exchange, the nuclear wasteland of the security checkpoint suddenly quieting as onlookers disperse with immediacy.

Master Sergeant Ling greets his final, returning squad member with a hard tone. “Too much.”

“I do not care.” Mercier calmly informs with a side eye towards Cherny. “Do you?”

The once member of the Orbital Defense Company’s Vacuum Exiles division remains quiet at the implication, the only operator among them quietly watching his old boss attempting to scrape his ego off the floor via a dismissive string of harsh lectures towards his three, bystanding guards.

Cherny’s english fails him, a strung together translation from native, western russian dialect directly translated to a more common tongue. “Complex state with him.”

Keys scoffs. “What, the Exiles don’t like him either?”

“Politkal officer, not on the shooting line. Helpful, but bad decsion maker when shooting.” The Operator takes a moment to find the russian translation. “Was old boss, does not matter now.”

Lieutenant Keys makes his own observation of the situation with a bit of sarcasm. “Eh well he did just offer you your old job back so I mean, any thoughts on that or…”

“Old job.” Cherny dismisses. “New job now.”

“New job.” Master Sergeant Ling continues off his subordinate. “Time to do it.”

Absolute silence as they all just awkwardly stand with one another, the entire checkpoint still moving as a slow trickle of passengers begins to pick up again.

Workers from the off shifts begin their own work days alongside a very rare tourist, a scheduled direct maglev to Chang’e City arriving within the next twenty minutes; the only one within a time slot of two hours.

Lieutenant Keys flexes his American rights, his political power within the system condensed into a sarcastic reasoning and unserious request. “Yeah, I’m not really in the mood right now. Can I put in for my legally required medical leave?”

Cherny gives his medical answer sternly. “Нет.”

“Ah well it was worth a shot.” Keys rolls his eyes into his head. “Shooooh it’s gonna be a loong rest of the day.”