Grass. It's everywhere on the Fringe World of New Geneva.
For as far as the human eye can see, there's nothing but swirls and specks of greenery bending and swaying to harsh winds from the Planet's Northern hemisphere.
Between these lush and breathtaking slices of heaven, landmarks are few and far between, relegated to the occasional clumps of Mineral patches and Vespene geysers; rendered all but blotchy smears when viewed from the cloudless sky above. As the Grizzly dropship shadow sweeps across the golden desert floor, such land-marks are quickly forgotten. Flight Officer Jerry O' Neil's voice is weary as he keys the com once more.
"Oscar Four-Two, this is Kilo-Five-Seven, call-sign Terminator. Do you copy, over?"
Only static answers him.
"I say again, this is Kilo-Five-Seven, call-sign Terminator. Oscar Four-Two do you copy, over?"
Jerry rolled the lander to port, broadcasting his transmission one last time. No response. He sighs and cranes his neck around to glance at the empty row of seats behind him. A few hours earlier, they had all been full; teeming with the very men Terminator had been tasked to retrieve. The hold seemed cavernous now. Like a goddamn tomb, Jerry grimaced.
Frustrated, and more than a little bit spooked, Perry opened a new channel.
"This is Terminator to Control, nobody's out here. Not a even damn whisper and I am almost bingo on fuel, over."
"Roger that, Terminator," Control's response crackled, "RTB for debrief."
"Ten-Four, confirm-RTB, out."
As the modified dropship veered off and away into the distance, the dust-storm swelled to an outright howl. Layers of sand begin to peel away, revealing scorched and blackened wreckage. Here, the crumpled husk of a 2499 model AAV-5 Tank, more commonly known as the Arclite Siege Tank lies upended, its turret snapped neatly in half. There, lies a trio of Stinger Light Reconaissance Vehicles, gutted by crude yet devastating Corpses, shrivelled by the endless heat, sprawl baking where they fell.
The great Northern winds bellowed on, undaunted. Just as quickly as it is unveiled by the winds, the carnage is buried once more under a mass of green. The thick foliage of New Geneva care little for this brutal conflict. On the planet's time-scale, it registers as less than a heartbeat. It is trivial, insignificant. To the Terran Dominion forces stationed on New Geneva, however, it is something else entirely.
It is but a taste of things to come.