Prologue. Three Months Ago. Downtown Auron, Merovingia. The crunch of boot on broken glass split the silence as Capitaine Beltrame stepped slowly through what used to be the front window of Cafe Fanfaronne. The HUD on the inside of his X Visor conveniently and seamlessly swapped to a low light mode as he stepped inside and looked around. What had been a high end slice of Merovingian luxury dining now looked like the aftermath of a small war. Each intricately detailed cast iron table was flipped over and warped, one was embedded sideways in the bar, one bent in half laying next to one of the many motionless bodies in the room. A pool of what he sincerely hoped was liquor was spreading across the back half of the room. Satisfied that there were no immediate threats, he took a hand off his viral rifle and gave a quick wave and the two Loup Garou that were covering him through the windows loosened up slightly and stepped inside. He tapped a button on the side of his rifle. "Beaulieu, get the paramedics in, it looks clear." With the others sweeping the room, he relaxed a little and walked towards the bar. He laid a hand on the neck of the body slumped over the bar counter, and waited a breath. "A pulse over here." He let his rifle hang from its strap, raised his X Visor, and bent down. Before he could open his mouth to form a sentence, the world burst into motion. The elegant door in the back of the cafe (and a fair amount of the plaster wall around it) exploded into splinters as a thousand pounds of furious Dog Warrior came through. Beltrame snapped around and his rifle flew up to his shoulder almost unconsciously, as one Loup Garou unloaded his boarding shotgun into the creature, and the other staggered backwards as a piece of plaster slammed into his helmet. The Dog Warrior roared in agony as the shotgun blast tore his right shoulder apart, and in one vicious swing with his left arm, grabbed a cast iron chair from the ground and launched it forwards like a bowling ball. Beltrame had time for one burst (square in the chest of the target) before his brain caught up with what was happening and sent him what it considered an important message. "Merde." And then everything went black. ---- Two Months Ago. Capitaine Beltrame sighed and set down the remote. He leaned back into the hospital bed, and rolled his eyes. Merovingia may be on the cutting edge of Ariadnan tech, able to knit back together his broken ribs, patch up his punctured lungs, and leave him nearly as good as new within a month of an injury that should have killed him, but while technology had improved massively in the past few decades, what plays on hospital room vidscreens had not. A knock on the door jolted him out of his reverie, and he quickly drew himself up in bed, rearranged his sheets to look more presentable and carefully changed his expression from one of the angst-ridden boredom of an invalid to a look more suitable for a officer. "Come in." The door opened and a man of medium height, with greying heir, and a serious expression walked in, wearing a Merovingian dress uniform with the bars of a Commandant on his shoulder, and strange unit insignia. Beltrame snapped upright immediately and was half out of bed before the man gave a vague wave of his hand and snorted. "At ease, capitaine." Beltrame eased back into bed, wincing, his carefully serious expression damaged, but not yet discarded. The man drew to a halt at the foot of the bed, stood at ease, and sighed. "I will spare you the polite inanities of inquiring as to your health, when I have already been briefed fully on your condition by the nurse outside. You want to know why I am here, I imagine, and I am sure you would rather I get to the point. First off, I am here to formally commend you for your selfless service in the face of grave danger. You are formally commended." The look on the capitaine's face acquired the glazed over quizzical look that everyone in the military masters as a survival technique. He barely had time to nod before the Commandant continued remorselessly on with barely a pause. "I am also here to deliver your next assignment." He briefly brandishes a sealed envelope marked "classé secrète" as if it were a field baton, before continued his monologue. "On the morning of the 2nd of Septembre, you will report to a F.R.R.M. barracks at a location detailed in the envelope. You will there take command of a specially selected platoon of Loup Garou and the care of one Monsieur de Molay. You will escort him to a nearby dropship and rendevouz in orbit with the chartered freighter Lily Of The Field and there enter the company of Commandant Leglaire." At this point in the barrage of information, the Commandant pauses briefly and stares fixedly at Beltrame. "You will then proceed to Novyy Bangkok in the Human Edge, and there you will advise and support Monsieur de Molay in the ensuing negotiations." The Commandant reaches up with one hand to adjust his glasses, and when he does, for one brief moment a series of numbers and letters scrolls across the glass. A67ZY89. They disappear, he drops his hand, and continues in a somber tone. "You are aware the straits that the F.R.R.M. has been in for the last year. I do not need to tell you that every asset, human or otherwise, is of immense value to us. You will use your best judgement to preserve and, if possible, augment those assets." He comes to a halt and snaps out a sharp salute, that Beltrame barely has time to return before the Commandant slaps the envelope he was carrying on a nearby table, turns on his heel, and leaves the room. ---
