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SCL Chapter 62: Heaven’s Devils Descent
🕑 Added 2025-05-10 03:48:45 +0000 UTCThe deep blue sky resembled an inverted sea. One bright moon was rising, while another was setting. Below them stretched an endless ocean of clouds. Two APOD transport ships, each carrying a main platoon of marines, streaked across the night sky of Turaxis II, leaving behind silver trails like shooting stars.
At a certain moment, the two transport ships suddenly accelerated, and the ice-blue flames from their thrusters burned even brighter. Like frigatebirds folding their wings and diving into the sea, they plunged sharply into the clouds.
Augustus’s seat shook violently with the turbulence of the transport ship. He held his breath, silently counting the string of numbers flashing across his HUD display. Beside him, rows of marines clutching electromagnetic rifles and machine guns sat in orderly silence. Identical skull patterns were printed on the matte surfaces of their visors.
The pilot of this ship had to be insane.
The vessel dropped like a hunting falcon. The angle between its trajectory and the ground was nearly ninety degrees. Augustus felt like he was plummeting straight toward the earth, the free-fall sensation and vertigo hammering his heart like a runaway pendulum.
Tychus Findlay sat directly across from him, secured firmly to his seat with two safety straps. And yet, even in the middle of this madness, Tychus puffed calmly on a cigarette he'd swiped from Ward. The ashes were instantly blown to the rear of the cabin, disappearing into the air.
After a few flickers of the cigarette's glow, the side thrusters of the transport ship reignited. The nose gradually leveled out, and the belly of the craft skimmed just above the thorn-covered white wilderness of Turaxis II, streaking toward the horizon.
As the ship decelerated, the side panels opened. Augustus could now see just how low they were flying—barely above ground level, with the terrain whipping past in a blur. He unfastened his harness, gripped the handrail, and stepped into the narrow aisle, tightly clutching the metal pole by the hatch.
“Jump!” he ordered once the first house came into view.
One after another, the marines in their dark gray power armor leapt out. As Augustus hurled himself into the roaring wind, the ship circled the gang compound overhead.
He landed steadily beside a concrete building lit by flickering lights. Two Heaven’s Devils stood on either side of him, guarding their commander. In the sky above, another ship hovered, packed with resocialized soldiers. Fully armed marines rained down from above.
Before Augustus stood a ragtag group of gang members in civilian clothing—clutching assault rifles, pistols, or even just wooden clubs and pitchforks—scattering in panic.
After Augustus fired a few rounds from his rifle, the mob broke completely. There was virtually no real resistance. The enemy collapsed on contact. The marines herded them like cattle—most dropped their weapons and surrendered before even thinking of pulling the trigger.
Ignoring the screaming crowd, Augustus led his two Heaven’s Devils along the outer wall of the concrete building, circling around to the main entrance. The door was a slab of synthetic wood—thin and brittle. A marine in power armor smashed it open without effort.
With a loud crash, the door gave way—and a gang member clad in pure black power armor burst through, hunched over in a rush.
His armor resembled that of the Kel-Morian Combine, though it lacked the insignias that symbolized bloodline or family. Likely a knockoff. The servos were clunky, making his movements stiff. It looked like a Kel-Morian attempt to mimic Federal power armor.
This so-called Kel-Morian Ripper charged forward like a clanking main battle tank and tackled Augustus to the ground.
“Damn it!” Augustus cursed, slammed to the floor before he could rise. The man straddled his chest, pinning him in place.
Then the gang member raised his electromagnetic pistol and aimed it directly at Augustus’s visor—but before he could fire, Augustus threw a punch that knocked the man’s arm aside, causing both shots to miss.
In a flash, Henry—the squad leader of Third Squad—charged forward after a short sprint and slammed into the frenzied gang member. The other Heaven’s Devil immediately took aim and fired at the enemy's helmet. With a sound like shattering glass, the already-cracked helmet was blasted through by shotgun pellets.
“Sir, you really need more practice. This isn’t the first time you’ve been manhandled in close combat,” one of the Heaven’s Devils said, reaching out a hand to Augustus.
“I owe you one, Henry. And you’re right—my hand-to-hand skills are absolute crap,” Augustus said as he stood up. Strangely, the moment felt familiar. He took a deep breath. “Thank god my swordsmanship instructor didn’t see that. He’d be ashamed to admit I was once his best student.”
Back in boot camp, Augustus had scored high in combat training—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t often thrown to the ground.
“Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses,” Henry tried to console him, but static burst over the comms, cutting him off.
“This is First Squad,” a voice came through. “This is Deputy Squad Leader Lundstein—we’ve found Jim and Max. They’re alive.”
“Where are you?” Augustus asked, clearly relieved by the news.
“There’s a deep red concrete building with a pit behind it,” Lundstein replied.
“Got it.” Augustus looked up and spotted the red building. At the same time, he ordered all Heaven’s Devils to have the resocialized troops finish clearing the area.
By the time Augustus arrived, over twenty disarmed gang members were lined up against a wall with their hands raised. A Heaven’s Devil in black-gray armor stood guard.
“I knew you’d come for us, Augustus,” said Raynor, who had already been hauled up from the pit by Lundstein with a rope. He looked unharmed.
“There won’t be a next time.” Augustus was furious the moment he laid eyes on Raynor. His visor slowly opened, revealing a face burning with rage. “God knows where I’ll have to go to rescue you next. What do you think you are, some princess kidnapped by a dragon? Huh?”
From the moment he’d received the distress call, Augustus had been suppressing his emotions to stay focused—but now there was no reason to hold back. He needed these two idiots to understand just how angry he was.
“Why didn’t you talk to me beforehand? No matter what, you should’ve told me! Did you think I wouldn’t be worried? I could barely handle the thought that you might already be dead. I had to lie to myself just to stay calm!”
No one dared say a word. The only sounds came from distant gunfire and heavy breathing. The gang members—hands raised—watched blankly as Augustus tore into his own men.
“Well? Say something!”
“…Let it go, Augustus. They get it,” Lundstein said quietly, stepping up beside him.
Raynor remained silent. He knew Augustus had truly been worried. That’s the kind of person Augustus was—he rarely showed negative emotions, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have them.
In that moment, Raynor felt like a kid again, getting scolded by his parents after causing trouble. His mother would stand in front of him with a basket of freshly baked bread, listing off his mistakes—sometimes even crying. And after she finished, his father, who’d stayed silent on the couch the whole time, would finally speak up and say a few words in his defense.
Past experience told Raynor that when you’re in the wrong, arguing or making excuses only adds fuel to the fire. In situations like this, playing dead was usually the best strategy.
“We thought you wouldn’t agree,” Zander said quietly.
“That’s exactly why you should’ve told me,” Augustus growled, locking eyes with Zander like a wolf sizing up prey. His cold stare made Zander instinctively step back. “Are you brain-dead? Why didn’t you think it through? Use your head! Instead, you just jumped in and tried to figure it out later with your ass?”
“I—” Zander had meant to say he realized his mistake, but Augustus was already on edge, just one spark away from explosion.
“What I, huh?” Augustus glared at him with cold gray eyes, like a lion barely restraining its fury.
“Let’s talk about this back at base, Augustus. We still have gang matters to deal with,” Lundstein said, patting Augustus on the shoulder and signaling discreetly to Zander.
“Shoot them all!”
Augustus shook off Lundstein’s hand and turned away from Zander, refusing to look at him again. His voice rose to a near-roar, startling the gang members so badly their legs went weak.
“Even if they deserve death, it’s not our job to carry it out,” Lundstein replied calmly. “We checked their warehouse. Besides food supplies, there were parts for Vultures and armored vehicles. I think this gang was smuggling weapons—probably selling to the Kel-Morian Combine.”
Augustus took a few deep breaths, forcing his anger down as he started considering how to deal with the gang’s stash. “Load up the food. As for the weapons and gear, hand them over to the logistics officer at the fort.”
“Why let the desk jockeys have all the fun?” said Tychus, striding over with a few Heaven’s Devils. He had an electromagnetic rifle slung over one shoulder and a cigar dangling from his lips—no telling where he’d gotten it.
“If you ask me, those bastards probably have some good stuff stashed away,” Tychus said, flicking ash. “Gear, ships, money. In their hideout, you can find wads of cash and crates of drugs. Just find their boss and get everything out of him.”
Augustus locked eyes with Tychus—and in that gaze, he saw cunning and greed, clear as day.
“Too risky,” Augustus said, shaking his head.
“I’ve got connections,” Tychus replied, his eyes lighting up as he stepped closer.
“I’ve confirmed it—the armor’s audio recording is off,” Augustus said.
“I’ve been in the black market for military goods for nearly a decade. I know exactly who to trust and which buyers pay the most,” Tychus exhaled a puff of smoke.
“Foolproof?”
“Nothing’s foolproof. But even if they investigate, it ends with me,” Tychus replied.
“Hmm,” Augustus muttered.
“Fine, we split the profits fifty-fifty,” Tychus offered.
Augustus shook his head.
“Seventy-thirty, then. I’m taking the bigger risk.” Tychus frowned.
A second later, he added, “Eighty-twenty.”
“Keep the equipment. Stockpile it,” Augustus said. “I’ll need it later. And besides, I’m not short on money—it’s not worth the risk.”
“...” Tychus felt his throat go dry. The real problem was, he was short on money. For someone like Tychus—who burned through credits on women—money never lasted. Sometimes, he needed four women in a single night, and a marine’s salary didn’t even cover his drinking.
“You sounded like you were serious about this.”
“Give it a few years. You’ll have more than enough chances to use those connections of yours to make money,” Augustus said. He just wanted to confirm that Tychus had the ability to offload the seized goods.
“Go on, Tychus. Find that gang boss. Whatever valuables he’s carrying are all yours.”
“I’m not giving you another chance to back out,” Tychus muttered. He hadn’t planned to bother with Augustus—but somehow his feet were already moving. He cursed himself internally for being such a pushover.
