Picking up some Hurston guard uniforms. 

I was watching Oliver Zark on Stanton Today when everything kicked off. He was covering a disaster on Hurston—a worker transport that came apart during re-entry. Everyone aboard died instantly. Security, crew, and workers all lost.   None of them had regeneration implants. That's not a coincidence. Hurston Dynamics brushed it off like they always do, calling the dead “operational losses.” Within hours, riots spread across the planet. The response? Full military suppression. Hurston guards beating down people who were already living one paycheck away from starvation.

That was the moment I felt my blood boil.
That was the moment CPATH moved.

We scrambled a team together, lifted off from an outpost, and boarded a Valkyrie piloted by Spectemus. I geared up with a railgun, grenades, a suppressed SMG, and enough explosives to take apart a small outpost. Everyone else came just as heavy. Our objective was simple: hit Hurston’s black-sites hard, fast, and clean—strip them of gear, wipe servers, remove the corrupt leadership, and gather anything that could help destabilize their grip on workers.

We chose Daymar for the assault. Dust, darkness, and the perfect rotational timing for a stealth op.

Spectemus flew that Valk like it was an extension of his own will. We didn’t land—we crashed into hover just long enough to throw ourselves out. Every drop was a sprint: ramp open, boots on sand, weapons up before the enemy even broke radio silence.

We hit anti-air emplacements, comms centers, bunkers, and underground structures Hurston pretended didn’t exist. Some we knew. Some we discovered thanks to intel smuggled out by workers who risked everything to get the truth out.

We synced every attack with the movement of Daymar’s shadow.
By the time any alarm reached the surface or the network, we were already back in the sky heading to the next objective.

It felt like controlled chaos—shock and awe in pure silence.

Almost every site we hit had someone tied to the transport catastrophe—either covering it up, contributing to it, or benefiting from it. We dealt with them decisively. Some tried to lock down their facilities. Others tried to flee deeper into the tunnels. None of them got far.

By the end of the night, I had personally helped collect:

• Around 30 full sets of Hurston Guard armor not full of holes or covered in blood

• Multiple encrypted datapads, tigerclaws and other tablets  with shift schedules, shipment routes, and internal memos

• Evidence of illegal experimentation on unimplanted workers

• Names—lots of names—of guard leadership that Hurston had quietly protected for years
  
  

Those armor sets weren’t trophies.
They were tools. Perfect disguises for covert extractions, deep infiltration, and anything else we’d need to throw back at the Hurston family in the future.

Before sunrise, we lifted off for the last time. Daymar slipping back into daylight behind us, the Valk’s interior filled with stolen armor and the heavy smell of dust, sweat, blood and spent adrenaline.

This wasn’t just a raid.
It was a warning.

Hurston treats people like garbage.
They think no one will push back.
But we showed them someone will—and we’ll keep doing it, in the shadows, in the dust, in the places they think no one’s watching.

The uniforms were just the beginning.
And I’m already planning what comes next.