Let's talk about Sentinels. First things first, no two Sentinels are identical. On average, they're about 8 feet tall, 400 pounds, and plated in something called "beta-polymer" by Firewatch's central core. 

No recipe or means of synthesizing this mystery beta-polymer was ever found, so we can't make any of it. Lucky for us, it's self-healing. We think that it may use the quantum foam to do this, harnessing ambient energy to activate trillions of sentient subatomic repair bots. But that's just pure speculation and also complete nonsense. We really have no idea. Most of our tools and weapons cannot damage beta-polymer, and the little we have been able to get as samples changes in chemical composition when analyzed. 

There are some consistencies. All Sentinels are equipped with a teleporter and a displacer rifle. In addition, they usually have a torch or some cutting implements, basic first aid supplies including stasis meds, and a stun gun and inflammatory spray, supporting the theory that they were initially to fulfill rescue, peacekeeping, and riot control duties. 

Unlike Striders, human weapons can disable a Sentinel. Bullets and lasers are pretty much useless, but a nuclear bomb of sufficiently-high yield can "rattle" a Sentinel and cause it to enter a dormant state for a few minutes. They aren't warded, so magic is surprisingly effective. 

We also have confirmed cases of destroyed Sentinels. Every time a Cell is destroyed, Firewatch logs it as a priority event and provides the exact date, time, and location. A total of 73 Sentinels have been reported destroyed. 62 of these were due to "System Recalibration," i.e., eliminating rouge Cells that Firewatch no longer had control over. Eight were because of the Lanilow Ringreef Collapse, and two were during an engagement between a pair of auto-battleships in an alternate dimension. So they're not indestructible... just very near it. 

Keen-eyed readers will notice that 62 plus eight plus two equals 72, not 73. We're, uh... not sure what happened to the last one. Spooked some researchers real good when they found out that Firewatch didn't know, either. 

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Far away from the golden spires of the Sarpeka and consecrated halls of Jespyr Castle was a small, quiet hamlet on the southern limit of Larian territory, nestled in one of the countless ravines that snaked through the Rhazhon Mountains. A community of mostly farmers, sowing fields of Larian barley as their ancestors had for centuries, few in the kingdom paid it any attention save for the handful of tourists who came to experience the serene vistas and mountain trails.

Now, this tiny settlement had the attention of none other than the Queen of Laria herself.

Three shadows lay cast across the ravine. Stationed just outside the town's limits, a Royal Larian Navy destroyer prowled back and forth across a cloudless sky. Two large turreted laser emitters comprised her primary armament, split between her dorsal and ventral hull segments. Across the border, a cruiser from the neighboring and antagonistic Empire of Far Harbor lay eerily motionless. The Imperial vessel had several heavy lasers, but her most potent weapons were nestled within ventral launch tubes. The missile bay doors were open, and the conical warheads of thermonuclear ordinance glinted in the morning light.

Both, however, were dwarfed by the Ministry Strider that had teleported in sixteen kilometers beyond the ravine's mouth.

The day started settling in when Lieutenant Magistrate Martin Laminsky left his office. A few Ministry Sentinels were already on station at the village square, establishing a much-needed boundary between Larian and Imperial ground troops that had been at each other's throats for hours. They weren't shooting yet, but the warships were not a good sign and certainly did not represent the de-escalation Martin and the rest of District 9192's Office of the Ministry had been praying for. The Kingdom and the Empire were both wealthy and powerful and had a lot of bad blood. Another war in the Ringreefs would be... problematic.

Martin continued to pursue the report as he made his way down the Strider's loading ramp. The point of contention was a Far Harbor transport hovercraft. It crashed on the outskirts of this small village a little over a day ago. Despite the crash site being a hundred meters within the borders of the Kingdom of Laria, Imperial authorities had gotten to it first, dug out the computer mainframe, and concluded that the hovercraft had been bombed. Moreover, they appeared convinced that a Larian was responsible and purportedly even had a suspect. Local authorities had refused to permit entry to an Imperial "correctional force". And now they were pointing guns at each other.

Imperial overreach? Sure. Wouldn't be the first time. The two nation-states loved to infringe on each other's sovereignty. But war was bad publicity. Hence the Strider and Martin's presence.

And yet Martin couldn't help but feel frustrated because he had very little idea of what he was supposed to accomplish here. He was not a detective. And although he certainly held authority, Martin knew there was little he could do to mediate the situation. The last thing the Ministry wanted to do was pick sides. This region of Firewatch was granted a degree of autonomy for a reason; a strong distrust of the Ministry was about the only thing Laria and Far Harbor could agree on.

So basically, his orders were to look intimidating. While simultaneously non-provoking. He only had a few Ministry rangers on detachment, seven Sentinels, and the Strider's internal security and crew. Not to mention the sheer enormity of the Strider. Over a dozen kilometers tall and invoking more imagery of a skyscraper than a vehicle, it was likely the only thing that the two nation's nukes couldn't threaten.

Tactics had never been his strongest subject, but he was confident that the Rangers could organize a defense of the Strider itself if push came to shove. Anything beyond that, and it was a guessing game.

Martin had decided to leave his battle plate behind in favor of a simple blue suit to best fulfill his slightly contradictory orders. The Sentinels and the Strider were intimidating enough. If he was in charge of talking, he might as well show his face while doing so.

Even so, he was already beginning to question his decision. He had been told it was going to be 44 degrees. Instead, it was currently well below zero, nearly -30.

And that wasn't just an inconvenience to him and his crew. Firewatch was not a planet. It did not have natural weather patterns. In some places, where the practice of magic was more commonplace, the weather changed based on the collective emotions of the residents of the area and occasionally even bent to the will of one individual.

Queen Alexandra was capable and strong. She was already one of the most potent agystyrs in recent history, even more so than her late mother. Her entire bloodline was always able to exercise significant control over Laria's weather; it was one of the key reasons why the kingdom prospered continually, even in the face of catastrophe. And while Martin had no doubt the freezing temperature was partially the consequence of the village's several thousand irritated residents, such a drastic change could come from no other source than the Queen.

Which implied that she expressed displeasure at the Ministry's presence. That was to be expected, he supposed. But he had been hoping for cooler heads to prevail here, and while Queen Alexandra was certainly no warmonger, she had become infamously impetuous in her few years in power. That was to say, she did not have her mother's political finesse.

And yet he knew that she could be manipulated. The Queen was desperate to prove herself to the kingdom, Martin knew. The Minor Houses, nobility of the Larian lands, had yet to accept her. Several had refused to support her mother. But where her mother ordered the treasonous lords set upon by her armies to seize and incinerate the seals that granted them power, Queen Alexandra pursued a path of clemency. To many, it showed weakness.

Martin had no interest in using the young Queen to his advantage. The Ministry was not in the market for a puppet state and certainly did not want to make an enemy of Laria as powerful and influential a kingdom as it was. But in his work, such observations were always valuable to keep around.

He took his first step off the boarding ramp onto solid ground. Barren, hard soil, slick with a thin layer of ice. Almost anything that would have been green was dead and frozen solid. Only a few hardy trees granted the desolate landscape a hint of color, clinging on to life by a thread as the cold front settled in.

Lorain Pines was the name of this village—a bizarre amalgamation of medieval and modern. Farmers dressed in hand-spun clothes with basic steel implements tended to agricultural drones belching clouds of dark smoke under straw-thatched lean-tos. Men on horseback greeted friends and family in the upholstered seats of antique hovercraft. Many buildings were constructed from hewn timber, again thatched with straw or hay, with only the city hall and a few other large structures built from concrete. A few older men and women had armed themselves with various primitive projectile firearms. Two men outside the security station held first-generation laser rifles, distinct from the rest with their large focusing dishes. Venerable weapons, if quite obsolete. They watched Martin with suspicious eyes behind beaded veils and beneath the brims of oversized hats.

The atmosphere changed as Martin grew closer to the crash site. The paved path he followed led him past a small column of Larian armor, a half dozen wheeled armored troop carriers led by several tanks, with 25 or 30 small quadrupedal combat drones interspersed throughout, each roughly the size of a large dog. Troopers milled about between the vehicles, some alert but most sleeping, eating, or otherwise not paying attention. A group of five had found a broad wicker basket and flipped it over for a game of cards.

Martin rounded a corner into the southwestern orchard of the village. A four-score of Larian troopers had taken cover amongst the bushes and buildings. Few had weapons raised, but all were clearly tense. Combat drones again made an appearance, these significantly larger and bipedal, as tall as two stories. A single tank, the same model as those in the column, was positioned defensively on the far right edge of the orchard, behind one of the few concrete structures in town.

There, too, were the Sentinels, three of the seven. They had moved past the Larian line, standing vigil over the wreckage of the Imperial transport.

With a quiet thrum, the nearest Sentinel stirred as Martin approached. They were large, twice the height and breadth of a man, and elegant almost to a fault. Little was exposed to the elements, not even an exhaust system. Nearly everything was permanently concealed beneath polished white plates of beta-polymer alloy except for the knuckle and wrist actuators, for which the exposure was brief, never more than a few seconds. A blue forcefield protected it from harm, visible only faintly, and even then only to those with particularly sharp vision. They stood out in stark contrast to the industrial drones of human origin, and Martin suspected few were ever pleased to see them around, though no one ever dared to disrespect the authority they carried.

"Lieutenant Magistrate." It had a quiet voice but one that was distinctly robotic. "The site has been secured."

"Report," Martin commanded.

"3 fatalities. The pilot and co-pilot have been identified. The third remains are of a passenger located in the aft transport compartment. All three suffered significant trauma. The pilot has suffered the worst tissue damage, including a large blast wound on most of the pilot's back and the total dismemberment of the pilot's right arm. Shrapnel trauma is present on co-pilot's neck, upper left back, and left shoulder, likely from the pilot's jumpseat."

"Does your analysis of the damage line up with the Empire's?"

"Patterns indicate high likeliness of an explosive device placed directly behind the pilot's jumpseat. However, no explosive residue was lifted from the wreckage."

"None at all? What about PCB? Holomunitions?"

"A second scan can be run if required."

Martin dismissed the idea. "No, don't bother. What do you know about the passenger."

"Subject was wearing a mechanized armored suit, sharing composition and design with standard-issue armor currently assigned to all active Far Harbor heavy infantry regiments. Note that this individual has sustained significantly less injury than either pilot. The armored suit is 97.343% intact. However, the body has sustained catastrophic organ and tissue damage due to several puncture wounds consistent with damage caused by large-caliber explosive-propellant firearms, localized to the lower left chest and head."

Martin furrowed his brow. "He was shot?" he asked. "By who?"

"Unknown. Extrapolated positions of the passenger during the attack and flash powder residue around the entry holes suggest the weapon was fired at point-blank range."

"Another passenger?" Martin exclaimed. "Did we miss something?"

"The probability that an individual survived the blast and crash landing with enough motor function remaining to flee the area is low."

"I know." Martin pursed his lips. There was definitely more going on here. "Run the second scan. And make it fast. I have a dinner reservation tonight."