The colonization of Barthrone III had been considered a success by all accounts, as far as those who profited from it were concerned. Established six years ago, its resources were little of note and a remarkable lack of natural anomalies made it of no interest to the scientific community beyond contractual categorization of flora and fauna. It would have likely ended as the fly-over of the cluster if the minds who settled the planet had been so lacking in imagination. Far from the borders of the Ortho Empire and situated in the middle of valued guild worlds, Barthrone III was advertised for its untouched beauty, peaceful aura, and convenience for travelers. What was something of a stretched truth became reality as it soon became the stopping point for those looking to get away or simply move through the area.

 

But the thing that turned it from little known vacation destination to the hub of the sector was flagging down the attention of the Board of Mystic Control and Destruction. After a thorough investigation, Bathrone was given the stamp “Mystic-free” and from there a few honeyed words (and loose enforcement) made executive boards, government officials, mercenary companies, and those with too much to spend set up headquarters and holiday homes in the lush and secluded land.

 

The tales of success became real success, and from there hotels, indulgent luxuries, and tourist traps cropped up for those with loose money in their wallets. The refueling stations in orbit grew in size as ships passed through, competing for the attention of freight ships and merchants. It accumulated in the orbital ring that made it the place for all spacefarers, protecting the environment below and separating the passersby from the more permanent money spenders.

 

Jeremy had something of a more nuanced look at “Mystic-free” stamp that adorned every advertisement that drew in business for the planet. He, along with a few hundred other people scattered across the planet’s surface, owed their paychecks to searching every inch of the pristine and picturesque paradise for the lurid abominations that had stalked humanity across the stars. They searched for the twisted beings that hid in the shadows of the crags and canopy of the untouched wilds and, whenever they found one, purged them from the land.

 

Officially, they were fire marshals and forest rangers. It was a good excuse to be carrying the equipment they were. If they ran into those who poached the less hostile animals of Barthrone or arsonist, then they had a chance to get some aggression out. But it was a small relief to hunt not just dangerous animals, but blasphemous beasts who lived only to hate and destroy humanity.

 

In part, that was why Jeremy and his squadmates were left with silent dread as the previous month had come up with no sightings of Mystics. Inside the commons of their barracks, they spread out across the stuffy seating and leaned on hazel walls in silence as they kept their eyes on the televisions. Each of them were on edge about what bad news would come, no one able to completely sit still. They had been left here when one of their fellow squads had an invoice with several kills and someone saw through the con.  Now everyone else was on suspension until the trial was done. That could take weeks, and that was more than the pit of Jeremy’s stomach was happy with.

 

“This sucks.” The drone of a younger voice pierced the silence. Jeremy rolled his head over to where the greenhorn tried, and failed, to take up the entirety of the couch with splayed out arms and legs. What was her name? Carol? That sounded right.

 

“If we’re going to be sitting around doing nothing, I’d rather be doing it at home.” The teen whined, bringing frowns out from people are already on edge. This wasn't helped that she said all this while glued for phone. It was no wonder she was the favorite to be volunteered for the crap jobs. In this moment, however, there was a collective agreement with the young cadet.

 

“We still have to be on call,”  said Grimsdale, sitting in the largest chair from the other side of the room. He let out a grunt as he picked through his phone, either seeing the bureaucratic speed of the trial or cursing his bookie, “you’ll be leaving at your own detriment.” The chair he ordered from creaked as he leaned towards everyone else, and again as he slouched back and returned his attention to the card table.

 

He was the big kahuna here, the wiseman up above and guardians of the hunter's weekly bread. His wrinkled brows suggested he wanted to be here as much as everyone else, but we weren’t about to break rank. Even Carol the unruly teen had the foresight to keep her opinions to herself in front of him.

 

Jeremy rose from his own chair, running his hand through faded hair. Despite being at the peak of his life, this job aged him horribly and lines of gray through thin, dirty blond hair was sign of it. Even if the boss didn’t want them to leave the base, the ranger had more to do than sit watching reruns.

 

“Who wants coffee?” he offered, deciding to be at least somewhat useful, and proceeded to ignore the half sarcastic orders for anything more complicated than black. He passed through the hallway leading over to the kitchen, his eyes occasionally glancing out the broad windows that overlooked the breathtaking view of the forest. It was something worth watching over, despite being the source of their seething hatred.

 

Their base was built close to the forest he and his squad were meant to keep clear, making them the first line of defense against any threat. Mystics or otherwise. Although the idea of some alien invasion crashing through the ring's defenses and attacking their little outpost spooked him. At first glance the station looked more like a college campus than paramilitary outfit- red brick walls and trim finished on the buildings painted to compliment the surroundings for any onlookers who stumbled upon it. It was better than some slap-dash concrete job, if a bit too overdressed and lacked the look of a fortress that a hardline soldier would feel more comfortable with. But their targets were not gun-slinging rebels or ambitious aliens. If the Mystics reached a peak wave, some armor plating wasn’t going to do the job.