Glimmering golden sand dusted across silt and sandstone, ancient pillars rose grandiose, defiant against the tides of time which battered and berated these hallowed halls. The arches of reinforced stone towered overhead, looming as gargoyles peered o'er their edges, watchful eyes taking in the myriad crowds that ebbed and flowed beneath them, people from all walks of life, split between class and stature. There were the leaders, clad in their wealth, surrounded by the sycophants who draped themselves upon their every word, flanked by a heavenly host of bodyguards, servants and companions as they stalked the halls in tight formations, occasionally absorbing another such cadre into their own ranks, doubling in size as the greater gathering would swap inane pleasantries. Then there was the warriors, like prized animals on display here, each of them donned in resplendent armour and weapons which their employers would show off. Little more than ornaments, status symbols, where the measure of their worth was their skill, but also their outfitting a trimming to present a tidy creature like that of an animal tamed, domesticated but still held that hint of danger to appease the palette.
But then there were the lower classes, the mercantile, selling food, arms, drinks, trinkets clothing apparel... and people. Chattel slavery, the like which the inner rim had not seen in a bygone age, on display here for the world to view. The people being sold were little more than sheep, to be bought, bred, sold again or slaughtered for the vehement enjoyment of their captors. The thought of it all struck a deep chord with G3M as she would watch the drone footage, the horror of it all foreboded a future where she shared a similar fate, one in which she, at the eternal behest of a captor would be required by violent control to acquiesce to the requests of another. Slavery, was a cancer to the universe which needed to be eradicated by whatever means necessary. So when G3M had heard the call for mercenaries to descend upon this small world, bonding with strike teams in order to liberate a world like this, she overrode her mechanical system immediately to see her ship rendezvous with the forces before they descended.
The CIS didn't seem to bad, they were liberators, castigating the wicked and those who would dare to deign that they or their people were compelled to any action or service. An absolute mandate of freedom, even if it may be a little dangerous was a perilous ideal, but one that G3 thought was fraught with an almost magnetic romanticism. It sounded nice, the dream resonated deeply with her heart to such an extent that maybe she could see herself within these ranks more often in coming months. Then if years should pass, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility to believe that she may join more permanently... Since her arrival she had been treated well, moving into ranks as a liaison with one of many forward strike teams that was to be penetrating into the bleeding heart of the slave empire in this rotten city.
"What are your talents?" A commanding officer within the squad requested, G3 would turn, not sure at first but respond with something not entirely unpracticed.
"Adept in close quarters high speed combat, breaking formations and harassing play, sir. Cut me loose and I can take the attention off your squad and identify threats in real time. I'm also equipped with anti armour weapons should we come into contact with a little more girth." The commander would not, and move along, others would whisper among themselves, jeers about having the million dollar attack dog. Which wasn't entirely incorrect, however G3 was a lot faster and more effective than a single canine, though she would resist the urge to correct the cadet. A spot check of weapons and armaments would see G3 equipped with the lighter of her two repeating blasters, both of her arms were loaded with their respective payloads while her leg holsters would hide two vibro knives that were made from a conductive material. Landfall was a more covert deal, moving in with the squads into position as it appeared that they were waiting on the call on someone who had made a forward approach on the markets before hand.
The squads would hear the call to be ready to engage, each of them had taken up a position surrounding the area. The one which G3 had been stationed within amongst them, had the happy deal of penetrating the front gate. G3 had been engaged, but G3M within was paying close attention to the action within her virtual space within her mind. Each squad would count off, a bakers dozen in all as it finally came to G3's turn, her voice monotonous and eerie as she would reply with a simple, "Lambda Squad reporting, F.A.B." G3M would chuckle inwardly a little, it was the closest attempt she'd made to a joke in recent memory, though G3 was already objecting in her own way, syntax error reports and the like filled her sight, informing her that F.A.B was a term for pilots, that there was no aircraft in play on the ground here and that, in fact they would not be at the helm of an aircraft.
'G3, you drain all the fun out of this... now focus, this is going to get bumpy. WE are the spear-tip here, calculate enemy formation and our best approach angles, try to get us up to those doors so we can take the entrance and establish cover. Then we punch in and make those slavers pay for everyone they've ever hurt.'
MISSION DIRECTIVE RECIEVED ... ANALYZING MISSION PARAMETERS
...CALCULATING APPROACH...
...CROSS REFERENCING ARSENAL...
...ALTERED REALITY COMBAT SEQUENCE LOADING...