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SCL Chapter 152: Cowboys, Cloaks, and Ghosts
🕑 Added 2025-07-15 23:26:47 +0000 UTC“What’s going on here? You kids whispering secrets? Let old Tychus in on it too.” The sky had darkened outside. Tychus strode into the tent
“What’s going on here? You kids whispering secrets? Let old Tychus in on it too.” The sky had darkened outside. Tychus strode into the tent
“What’s going on here? You kids whispering secrets? Let old Tychus in on it too.”
The sky had darkened outside. Tychus strode into the tent in his long coat, holding several newspapers he had just brought back from nearby Echo Town.
“What’s the story, Tychus? I heard you went into town looking for a good time,” Raynor said with a smirk, glancing over.
“I’m a wanted man, remember? I’d have to be out of my damn mind to try something like that.”
Tychus rolled his eyes. “I’ve been seeing someone lately—a lieutenant in the Revolutionary Marine Corps. I only went into town to buy a few clothes. You know what I mean?” He shot Raynor a look.
“Jimmy-boy, you’re still just a boy. You don’t understand a damn thing.”
“Come on, we’re in the middle of a revolution. Marriage’s a long way off for me,” Raynor replied. “Besides, that kind of thing is all about fate.”
“You really think two people are gonna fall for each other at the same time? That’s about as likely as two male Mar Saran groundhogs falling in love,” Tychus snorted with a teasing grin. He tossed a few wanted posters and the latest issue of the Mar Sara Global Evening Post onto the table. “Anyway, forget that. I think there’s something here you should see.”
One of the wanted posters featured a picture of Augustus’s father, Angus Mengsk—followed by a giant number starting with a five and an absurd trail of zeros. Augustus’s own bounty was only 200 million less, and they’d used an old ID photo from his days at the Turaxis Marine Corps boot camp—buzz-cut and looking like a convict fresh out of prison.
“Not bad. If the Revolutionary Army ever runs out of food, you guys could cash in Angus’s head,” Augustus remarked dryly.
Then Augustus pulled out another sheet—this one looked like a recruitment poster for the local sheriff’s office. Judging by the date, it had been put up just yesterday.
“Jimmy, here’s your chance to turn over a new leaf. Why not give it a shot? See if you can snag yourself a little government post.”
“Mar Sara could use an honest sheriff,” Raynor chuckled. “Hell, you could even run for mayor.”
“Who knows?” Augustus laughed too—but the smile froze on his face the moment he picked up the next newspaper.
The headline, partially smeared in red paint, read:
"July 28 – A synthetic AI drone assembly plant owned by the Tygore family on the Tarsonis homeworld was engulfed in flames. Of the several hundred employees on shift that day, not a single one survived—except for two procurement officers who had taken leave and have since gone missing. Shortly after, a group calling itself the Sons of Korhal claimed responsibility via an anonymous post on a dark-web server."
At the end of the post, the author left a single line:
"This is only the beginning."
According to an expert quoted by the paper, the blaze had likely destroyed the factory’s entire stock of finished drones and key components. Beyond that, the Tygore Group now faced massive penalties for breach of contract, having failed to deliver orders on time. Yet compared to the financial losses from the factory and the penalties, the real damage came from the market: spooked shareholders had dumped their stocks, causing the Tygore Group’s valuation to plummet.
The Sons of Korhal’s first act of terror had sent shockwaves through the Tarsonis stock exchange. With the case still unsolved, the Tarsonis Chief of Police had no choice but to resign in disgrace. While corporate executives scrambled to beef up security across their facilities, the Sons of Korhal had vanished—completely and without a trace.
“Damn satisfying work, Mengsk,” Tychus muttered. “Who pulled it off? All I know is, it had to be Korhalites. Or maybe I’m just being hopeful. Maybe someone’s doing good work under your name.”
“I don’t know,” Augustus said. “But I have a pretty good idea who it was.”
...
Echo Town lay about 22 miles from the Revolutionary Army’s camp. Its main population consisted of farmers and skilled workers like welders. These laborers mostly worked in the factories of Anthem Base, the only city in the Hinterland Autonomous Region, commuting back and forth from home to the city via hover buses running twice a day—once in the morning and once in the evening.
It was early morning now. A thin layer of mist hung over the road leading to Echo Town. Augustus, Raynor, and Tychus sped along the worn highway in their Vultures, moving so fast they looked like phantoms streaking across the landscape. Behind them, Sergeant Faraday and over twenty Vultures piloted by guards followed in a tight column—like a local gang barreling down the road looking for trouble.
Augustus gripped the Vulture’s control stick tightly, his focus locked on the blur of pavement flashing past the windshield. Wearing gray goggles, he leaned forward in his seat, legs straddling the saddle, completely immersed in the adrenaline rush of high-speed flight. This particular Vulture, modified by Swann, could hit 350 kilometers per hour and accelerate to pulse-pounding speeds in mere moments. The trip from the rebel camp to Echo Town took less than ten minutes.
Naturally, Swann hadn’t just tuned up the engine—he’d also upgraded the onboard computer and sensor systems. His modifications followed similar principles to those found in CMC power armor: computer-assisted stability controls and auto-calibrating sensors that helped the rider stay balanced and responsive at high speed. All Vultures had such systems, but Swann’s tweaks made them noticeably more reliable.
Still, only the wildest and boldest cowboys in all of Mar Sara dared to ride these beasts at top speed. Even with insurance, the risks were sky-high—and the one-armed, one-legged wrecks limping around town were living proof of that.
That said, the Vulture remained the most perfect single-rider vehicle on Mar Sara. A wedge-shaped hover bike, it was one of humanity’s finest creations in the pursuit of speed. Thanks to its magnetic levitation system, it hovered several decimeters above the ground, effortlessly gliding over the wind-eroded gravel and wild underbrush that blanketed the desert. It avoided getting bogged down in sand, and Mar Sara’s vast, unobstructed wastelands offered the best playground a Vulture jockey could ask for.
“Why didn’t you bring that red-haired babe with you? Mengsk, I hear she never leaves your side,” Tychus yelled at the top of his lungs.
“I can’t hear a damn thing you’re saying,” Augustus called back. His Vulture led the pack, and only Raynor’s could barely keep up.
“I said—!” Tychus was still shouting when he caught a glimpse of something—or someone.
A red-haired Ghost with her arms wrapped around Augustus’s waist had appeared on the backseat of the Vulture for just a second. Her fiery ponytail fluttered behind her like a banner. Clad in a tight black suit, Kerrigan’s alluring figure flickered into view and vanished just as quickly—as if she’d never been there at all.
Maybe she hadn’t.
“Damn ghost…” Tychus muttered, shaking his head.
“What the hell are you even talking about, Tychus?!” Augustus still hadn’t caught any of it. At this speed, the rushing wind in his ears roared like a storm.
“Goddamn Mengsk!”
The convoy sped across the highway cutting through the wasteland in just a few minutes, kicking up a long plume of dust behind them.
Above the dozens of Vultures parked at the edge of the small town, a grey-feathered Koprulu gliding hawk circled in slow loops, its amber eyes fixed sharply on the humans below. Every now and then, it let out a short, piercing cry.
Before the sun had fully risen, the air was still bitterly cold. Augustus threw a crimson cloak over his shoulders and walked up to a wooden sign at the town’s entrance. It read: “Welcome to Mar Sara.”
Except for a single asphalt road, most of Echo Town’s streets were paved with slate. The houses here had been built by the locals themselves, and no two were exactly alike. Some were tall towers over ten stories high; others were squat, domed dwellings no more than two stories tall. The only thing they had in common was the rust-colored sand clinging to every surface, and the small, narrow doors and windows.
Tall trees were nowhere to be seen. Only dark red brambles grew around the settlement. In the morning mist, colorful lanterns were strung between the buildings, casting a dreamlike shimmer across the alleys—almost like stepping into a bustling metropolis. But the dilapidated structures all around quickly shattered that illusion, a constant reminder that this was nothing more than a remote frontier town.
On the streets, workers waited for the morning bus while farmers rolled out water-drawing robots headed toward the fields. The steady drone of machinery gave Echo Town a constant sense of liveliness.
Outside the town stretched several dozen hectares of farmland. Because most of Mar Sara’s soil was dry and barren, the farmers here had to rely on groundwater irrigation to tend their sparse crops.
Everyone in town had noticed Augustus and his posse of "cowboys," but none paid them much mind. People from other regions often came to Hinterland to conduct "business." These travelers were used to life on the move—tough, unpredictable, and mean—but just about every resident of Mar Sara walked out their door carrying a long-barreled auto-rifle and two pistols. Man, woman, young, old—anyone here could go from civilian to combatant in a matter of moments.
In the chaotic aftermath of the Kel-Morian War, when uprisings flared across the sector, anyone who underestimated a Mar Saran, especially one of the scruffy Char Saran hippie types, risked learning a painful and unforgettable lesson.
