Ascendance: Dawnward, #2

By MD Ortiz

Mitchell's sole ambition was a mundane job where he could spin in a chair and collect a paycheck, a cozy position that would maximize his talents of napping and eating all day. Never in his wildest nightmares would he have to travel through hostile a backcountry in search of an ominous assassin. Partnered with an arrogant, yet awe-inspiring super-soldier who finds his presence clumsy and cowardly, together they'll uncover a dark and ancient secret that will challenge everything they believe - if they can survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MD Ortiz
• Release date: May 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201827960

Book preview

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This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

ASCENDANCE

First edition. April 29, 2022.

Copyright © 2022 MD Ortiz.

Written by MD Ortiz.

The old world burned away in the fires of nuclear holocaust. A self-imposed apocalypse brought about by humanity’s hubris and greed. Generations dwelt in darkness and fear, till the children of the new world sought to reclaim this irradiated hellscape their forebears had created.

Championing this initiative are the zaibatsu, corporations of unprecedented scale and power who built protected city-states to house those willing to facilitate their designs. They are vultures, feeding off the corpse of the old world to line their pockets and secure their hegemony.

Holding their leash are the Dragoons, bio-engineered warriors with a fixation on martial perfection. Tasked to shield and shepherd humanity into a brighter future. Their might is unchecked, their zeal unrelenting. Via strength of arms, they will stop at nothing to protect the human race from the mutant, the machine, and if necessary: mankind, themselves.

This new dawn began with twenty-four Dragoon Clans, each named from the letters of the ancient Greek alphabet, who would eventually dwindle down to one: the Alpha Clan. After centuries of conflict and war, the Alpha Clan asserted itself as the pinnacle of Dragoon achievement, living up to its namesake and seeking further domination.

To challenge the Dragoons is to know destruction and to challenge the zaibatsu is to know poverty. For a human trapped in this web of violence, the only chance at freedom is forging their own path as a freelancer. A hired gun, milking the world for whatever they can reap before they meet a violent end.

And there are whispers of sentient machines who rule across the sea. Treacherous lies that will see the world burn again.

Prologue

She ran. Anger and shame fueling her muscles in a never-ending sprint, she raced through the trees, weaving between the trunks with memorized proficiency. Every so often, a branch or recent growth would scrape against her arms or legs, but she channeled the pain into propelling herself forward, closer to calm and further from the turmoil that lay behind her. Each step bred anticipation and made her heart thump faster.

To the best of her memory, she had only seen ten winters, but she had already lost count of the times she had made this run, fleeing toward the only true kindred soul in her life. The one who didn’t look at her as if she was a misfit or an outcast. The one who didn’t ask questions about the scars on the back of her neck or who her family was.

Sure, there were other children on the mountain, but they all seemed so slow and cruel to her, often gawking at her strength before retreating to the safety of biting remarks and jeers. It did not matter how many she outpaced or throttled; they always seemed content to mock or stare. On the best of days, the jeering brought a scowl to her face while on the worst days she would hide, so they couldn’t see her tears.

So, she continued to run to her friend. The only child who could keep up with her. The one who embraced her power without judgment and whose home was a sanctuary amidst the village. Competing with her wasn’t a burden to him, but something he adored, and it made seeing him the one bright spot in her otherwise bleak existence. She knew his parents didn’t approve of their friendship, their social standing in the community at odds with her wild upbringing. But that didn’t matter to their son, that supposed miracle child many locals whispered was delivered by God herself.

A woman’s sudden mournful scream brought her skidding to a stop, her blood turning to ice as she realized how close she was to her cherished destination.

It had been a primal cry, one that even her child brain could understand meant some heart-wrenching tragedy had transpired. Hands quivering with a mixture of adrenaline and fear, she crept around the foliage as she drew nearer to the home that was supposed to be a source of comfort.

Fear turned to horror as she spotted a pair of armored beings moving from the cottage, the squirming and thrashing figure clutched in their hands, none other than her childhood friend. Try as he might, the boy was no match for these strangers and despite the gunmetal color of their plate, she knew them for what they were—Dragoons. In an instant, hatred consumed the terror inside of her and she felt herself start to shake as she watched the kidnapping. The whole injustice of the situation saw her taking a step forward before her brain had time to think of the consequences.

Her body froze, unable to take another step, as a pitiful wail sounded from the home. The boy’s mother appeared at the doorway, arms reaching out in one desperate attempt to be closer to her son before the boy’s father drew her back inside. That sight hurt more than the abduction. More than the endless blows she endured at home for her own supposed benefit. The understanding that his own parents would not fight for him, miracle child or not.

For as long as she could remember she’d viewed this family as a shelter from the pains of her own life, a fantasy she could cry herself to sleep over, but now she was witnessing it being pulled apart without any of them lifting a hand to stop it. She knew her own homelife was a twisted example of family, but she knew no one there would willingly surrender one of their kind. That thought gave her pause, and tears dribbled down her cheeks as she slipped back into the trees.

Immune to the boy’s punches and kicks, the Dragoons loaded him into a waiting jeep, not bothering to give the cottage a final look. If they had, they might have noticed the wild girl glaring at them between the branches, a forgotten soul wishing death upon them and the world.

That was the last she saw of her friend.

1

29 October 877 AV

The cold was bitter. The kind that seeped into your very bones and you were certain would linger for eternity even when summer returned. No manner of layers seemed to combat it and Mitchell idly wondered if there was anything in all of creation that could cure him of this chill. Often on these patrols he found himself fantasizing about his grandmother’s curry pumpkin soup. Now there was a dish that might stand a chance against the frigid weather! Of course, that soup could stand up to almost everything.

With a sigh Mitchell turned around and began another circuit. Somehow for the fourth night in a row he’d drawn the short straw and been made to stand watch for three hours at a time. The company handbook stated that watch was meant to be done in one-hour increments, no security personnel forced to conduct more than two hours unless it was a state of emergency. However, as his superior had informed him, the handbook also stated that any ruling might be superseded if a tactical analysis found a present need. Apparently that present need manifested in the form of Mitchell doing another three-hour patrol and his colleagues remaining cozy in their bunks.

Stupid gun, he muttered as he once again adjusted the sling clipped to the back of his company-issue submachine gun. No matter what he did, the strap seemed to always cut into his shoulder and when he complained about this fact to his superiors, they ridiculed him for being weak-willed.

Mitchell knew he wasn’t the pinnacle of corporate security but that wasn’t his fault. He’d never wanted to be a security officer in the first place. His mother had originally set him up with a position in the custodial service to keep him safe and employed. Unfortunately, Mitchell had been terminated from that appointment when he mixed two cleaning products together in the hopes of increasing his productivity but had instead caused an evacuation of a company processing center. In his defense no one had told him not to mix the chemicals, least that’s what he had explained to his mother. With no truly discernable skills or aspirations, security seemed the only option left for him, and he’d floundered his way through a rapid training before being shipped north to protect company depots and convoys.

Unlike most other corporations, Dye-Tech had made an effort to civilize the Northern Reach, and by civilize it was more akin to strip-mining parts of the region for anything of value while simultaneously giving the disenfranchised locals a sense of purpose and source of income. Least that was some of the spiel dished out during the briefings. Either way, it didn’t make a difference to Mitchell. He was here to do a job, get his family off his back, and secure a transfer back south into a more esteemed department as soon as he’d proven his worth. Not that he was going to get that chance while freezing to death on night watch.

He was still lamenting his current situation when he caught sight of a figure approaching him through the gloom. Quickly his hands went to his weapon and fumbled to locate the fire selector built onto the side. There wasn’t anything particularly threatening about the advancing person but that could be a ruse to get him to lower his guard. Stories abounded of corporate troopers naively greeting locals only to receive a knife to the gut. Even children up here were capable of murder, so the briefings claimed. Well, they weren’t going to get the drop on Mitchell!

Swearing under his breath as his numb fingers struggled to toggle the submachine gun to fully automatic, he was wholly unprepared when the figure spoke.

Mitchell?

There was nothing cruel or accusatory about the voice. In fact, it was such a welcoming tone that he believed he recognized the voice.

Peering into the darkness he was startled to realize not only did the speaker wear the all too familiar uniform of a Dye-Tech employee, but they also appeared to be approaching from the depot’s motor pool. All that thinking and ambling had seen him wander to the other side of the facility without realizing it. This was no local coming from the darkness to skewer him, rather just a coworker coming out to check on him.

He knew her as one of the drivers who ferried goods back and forth. What was her name? Kaori? Or was it something similar? He silently prayed it was Kaori. Not a great way to bond with a colleague if you couldn’t remember their name.

You must be freezing, she commented as she offered him a friendly smile.

Mitchell found himself nodding without thinking, hoping against hope that this exchange might compel her to take over his watch. It was a long shot, but stranger things had happened.

Kaori gestured back to the motor pool. Why don’t you come inside? I got a vacuum flask of piping hot tea I’d be willing to split with you.

The idea of stopping sauntering around in the chilly night to indulge in a warm beverage was beyond tantalizing, and Mitchell almost accepted without thinking. Almost.

I-I really need to complete this patrol.

Come on, mate! We both know they’re just making you do this to take the piss.

Mitchell blinked at her.

Wait? You didn’t know? Kaori exclaimed. Oh, you poor thing! Well, that settles it. You’re coming with me. No excuses now.

There were no arguments as she took his arm and led him back toward the relative safety of the motor pool; the line of immense transport lorries resting quietly inside as though they were slumbering beasts, awaiting a purpose to be awoken.

Of course, Mitchell had assumed it was no accident that he was being forced to do extra-long patrols, but he also figured a good number of other officers were in the same