What did people expect when they heard the words front lines? Some battered trench full of mud, blood, and the smell of old regrets? Ration tents and broken radios, the standard post-apocalyptic picnic? Maybe the occasional grizzled veteran growling about the "old days" while lighting a cigar with a flamethrower?
Well. Yes. But also no.
The truth was stranger.
The frontier outpost looked like someone had asked a paranoid architect to build a fortress, and then told him to do it again, but bigger and with extra budget. Towering walls stretched out like the skeletons of long-dead titans, bristling with sensor arrays, defense systems, and enough shielding to survive a minor geological event or an aggressive family dinner.
