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SCL Chapter 53: Propaganda and Protocol
🕑 Added 2025-04-25 01:49:12 +0000 UTCAugustus pulled the vehicle to a stop outside the Fort Howe detention center, where two military police officers in black uniforms were waiting for him.
“Sergeant Mengsk,” one of them said, “we’ve brought Sergeant Cassidy to Interview Room Two. Please follow us.”
“Appreciate it,” Augustus replied.
He followed them through a dim, narrow corridor and up a spiral staircase to the second level of the detention block. There, in a fully enclosed and constantly monitored room, he found Lisa Cassidy seated on a chair—hands cuffed behind the backrest. She had already been held in the detention center for three weeks.
Her long ginger hair shimmered like silk as it spilled over the back of the chair. Her features bore a distinctly feminine allure, and her light blue eyes met Augustus’s gaze with a doe-like vulnerability.
“Well? Officer—are you here to kill me?” Lisa asked, lifting her unshackled hand to tug at the loose collar of her prison jumpsuit, revealing the faint suggestion of cleavage.
“Quite the opposite,” Augustus replied.
“She’s been in solitary so long, she’s developed paranoid delusions,” the MP beside him commented.
“Any paperwork left to handle?” Augustus asked, his eyes still on Lisa.
“I’m taking her with me.”
...
August 8, noon.
About a week later, a cold front from the Eternal Frost Ocean had swept through the Thorn Plains where Fort Howe was located, continuing its march southward. Temperatures plummeted, rivers froze over, and snow and wind lashed the land. For several days, the sun had not shown itself above Fort Howe, and frost clung stubbornly to the Victorian-style pointed windows.
But today, the weather had shifted. The skies were clear. The sun of the Turaxis system hung in the sky like a pale yellow orb, its light gentle and lukewarm.
On the landing platform of Fort Howe, hundreds of crew members and ground staff were running in all directions. One after another, Avengers took off, their engines howling through the air as they pierced the clouds and vanished into the sky above.
Soldiers of First Company, Third Squad, were lined up beside the right flank of an APOD-34 atmospheric transport. Their silver-gray CMC-250/EX powered armor gleamed under the sunlight like liquid mercury.
Augustus stood at the head of the formation, facing his men, pride swelling in his chest at their order and discipline. His squad was the elite among all stationed at the fortress.
“It’s exactly twelve-hundred hours. In ten minutes, we board. Check your weapons one last time…” Augustus began.
“Hey, Sergeant Mengsk! Look over here!”
A jarring voice cut him off. Though visibly displeased, Augustus turned toward the source of the interruption.
Two cameras were aimed directly at him. At least ten members of a UNN documentary crew bustled around, repositioning tripods and adjusting angles. A boom mic swung into place just above his head.
“I’m Max Speer, frontline correspondent and anchor for UNN Global Broadcast. Reporting to you from Fort Howe, Turaxis.”
A man clad in white powered armor stumbled up awkwardly to Augustus, slinging an arm around his shoulder and turning to face the camera.
“This is Sergeant Augustus Mengsk, a model of the Marine Corps. A man whose wisdom and character are worthy of a true hero.”
The reporter’s face was clean-cut, sporting a small mustache on his upper lip and flashing a dazzling smile. “Sergeant Mengsk, the look on your face right now is perfect—grim, stern, cold. Exactly how a soldier should look. Brilliant. You look like you're ready to snap a hundred Kel-Morian necks at any moment.”
“This isn’t a live broadcast, Peggy—make sure to cut this part, and add The Eternal Glory of the Confederation as the background music.”
“You’re about to embark on a noble and glorious mission—to rescue Federation warriors who’ve tragically fallen into enemy hands. Sergeant Mengsk, do you have any words to share?”
From somewhere, the reporter produced a sheet of paper. “Just read this.”
“Tychus.” Augustus raised an eyebrow.
“What?” The reporter blinked. “Oh—you don’t have to read it. Just move your mouth and we’ll synthesize the audio…”
Before he could finish, a massive shadow loomed over him. A giant hand reached down from above, gripping the top of his helmet and yanking him off his feet. Tychus Findlay hauled the man away from Augustus by the headgear.
“We’re about to stomp the Kel-Morian bastards and drag their asses back to the mud pits of Moria,” Tychus growled as he dragged the panicking reporter. “And my boss isn’t in the best mood right now. So I suggest you scram.”
“If you weren’t wearing a tin can, I’d have grabbed you by the scruff like a damn chicken and booted your sorry ass outta here myself.”
A squad of cameramen and uniformed personnel scrambled to follow the reporter as he was dragged away, but none dared to lay a hand on Tychus to intervene. Amid the grating of powered armor against the ground, the bewildered journalist was dragged several hundred meters away.
“Until we complete our mission,” Tychus said with calm, steel in his voice, “if you so much as bounce in front of Sergeant Mengsk again like some circus monkey, I’ll chain you to the landing gear of the transport. Got it?”
Tychus only turned away toward his squad after Max gave a slight nod. It was only then that he found himself wondering—why had he stood up the instant Augustus called out?
That wasn’t like him.
Tychus usually thought all his commanding officers were idiots. No exceptions. But Augustus was different. He was practically born to lead—brave, clever, decisive.
His men adored him, following in his footsteps like they were chasing a beam of light. Even Tychus had to admit—Augustus possessed a number of qualities that even a scoundrel like him could respect.
That was a good thing, probably. Maybe Augustus would become a hero someday. Maybe even a general. And when that happened, his old subordinates would naturally be promoted alongside him.
Most importantly, the Mengsk family had money.
Tychus tried to convince himself that he only followed orders because of Augustus’s rank… and the fortune tied to his family name.
“Board up,” Augustus ordered once Tychus returned to formation.
Augustus was still stewing over the UNN reporter. Hobbes hadn’t been wrong—UNN really was planning to cover him. Part of it was thanks to his string of battlefield accomplishments. But more than that, it was political.
Senator Angus Mengsk was a populist darling back on Korhal and a thorn in the side of the Federation—a reactionary that the central government loathed. But his son? His son was a war hero in the Marine Corps. Loyal to the Federation, and staunchly opposed to separatists of every kind.
Since arriving at Fort Howe the previous weekend, frontline reporter Max Speer had stuck to Augustus like a shadow. He claimed he was making a documentary about the front lines and the heroes who served there. According to Max, a small army of UNN authors were already drafting books based on Augustus’s life. Augustus had deflected the attention with the same canned line: “A bit premature, don’t you think?”
But as the transport’s engines roared to life and Augustus looked out over the troops he was so proud of, the matter vanished from his mind.
At the front of the column marched Squad One’s leader—Jim Raynor. Not so long ago, he and the Marines behind him had been nothing more than raw recruits, rough slabs of ore yet to be forged. But war had begun to shape them—into blades or bludgeons, depending on their fate and skill.
At the rear walked Lisa Cassidy, the newly reassigned combat medic of Third Squad. Her silver-gray powered armor bore a red cross on each shoulder plate.
By combing through her service record, Augustus had learned that Lisa had served far longer than he’d expected. Even before the Guild Wars began, she had graduated from Tarsonis University and served as a seasoned field medic.
But some of the other entries in her file were… less conventional. During a skirmish in a canyon, while high on a cocktail of stimulants—or possibly something worse—she’d managed to slap the face clean off a Kel-Morian Sky Wolf.
Augustus was still evaluating her condition. Lisa Cassidy’s addiction to stimulants was worse than he’d imagined. Her withdrawal symptoms left her sluggish, lethargic, emotionally dull.
In the original timeline, it was Lisa’s betrayal that had led to the downfall of Heaven's Devils squad. Because an addict in withdrawal couldn’t be trusted to act rationally—and the enemy had exploited that very weakness.
Still, Augustus recognized her talent. That was why he was trying to save her. But if it turned out she was beyond help… well, then she’d have to go.
For now, he’d cut off her stimulant supply and placed her under lockdown within the fortress. He had no choice—if he didn’t, who could say when she might rip open one of her own teammates’ throats? Even so, he felt his measures were too lenient.
Lisa noticed Augustus looking her way. She lowered her helmet, gave him a sweet smile, and blinked her wide, pale-blue eyes.
Lisa was a clever woman—much cleverer than she liked to let on. A beautiful woman trying to charm her commanding officer in hopes of finding alternate ways to get her fix.
Augustus saw right through it.
