This piece was mostly written for the sake of an impulsive mood. I tend to shy away from female leads in the GoW universe, but I felt strangely inclined to give it a go. I don't intend for it to be a long story (in comparison to my other Gears fic: A Grievous Redemption, anyway), and am also not entirely sure if I will continue it...which is why I wanted to warn the already-wary reader ahead of time.

The chapter is also rather shabbily written. I didn't go through this very well at all, so apologies are on the house today if it isn't up to par.

So what's this hogwash about, you ask?

Before I delve into the plot summary, I've got to give you a second warning - character development's gonna be heavy here too. We all know that war changes people, but I'm of the belief that the metamorphosis is unique to each person and what affects them. I'm going to try and explore this process in my story.

As for the fic itself, it's basically going to involve a Gears squad who've been directed to use a different type of offensive to reduce Locust numbers. They carry with them an important package, and a woman knowledgeable about Locust culture in order to execute their plans. The situation gets hairy when - not even a few hours into their mission - their Raven takes a hit and crashes. What follows are the events that happen after the crash.

P.S. If you spot any Mary-Sue prowlers in this story, please alert the authorities (which would be me). But let's be diplomatic about it, okay? ;)



When she came to, the first thing she wanted to do was to get that damned ringing out of her ears. But her body behaved as if inebriated, and her mind lagged behind with it. As clouded edges came into focus, objects began to coalesce into sense, and she saw small boxes, little crates, shards and insignificant debris. It all seemed quite normal, except for the fact that the world was topsy-turvy. She blinked at a further attempt at lucidity. No, the world wasn't crooked...it was this place, this vehicle, the Raven. It had spilled onto its side. And so had its contents.

And in that moment, an overwhelming feeling of her own mortality swept into her consciousness, the primal emotion set in her a tumult of panic and fear. It left little room for discernment of pain, and that perhaps was her saving grace, seeing as how it got her moving. She crawled forward mostly by the aid of her elbows, dragging her legs behind her. She hadn't given much thought to her crouching; it seemed an innate action. Besides, she'd seen enough war footage to recognize that standing up amidst gunfire without proper cover was positively suicidal. And now wasn't the time to sacrifice herself to martyrdom.

Her panic had subsided a bit, resting just long enough for her mind to play catch-up.

Hullo, she told herself, where's the gunfire, then?

There isn't any.

Anti-aircraft guns?

No, nemacysts maybe. Or a missile.

"Oh, who the bloody hell cares what it is!" she voiced out loud. "The thing is, sweetheart, we're down. We've been hit."

Who's we?

Grimacing at the realization, she looked about her in dreadful anticipation. There, to her right lay a boot – one heavy combat boot. Its owner's leg extended beyond her vision; behind a fallen hulk of a seat. She shuffled over to him and tried to dislodge the thing to no avail. The body seemed well and truly stuck. The exerted effort had only managed to muster heaving breaths on her part. She poked at his leg, and then progressed to shaking it, willing the man to wake up. No dice.

A sudden sound of muted beeps – punctuated into a pattern she couldn't comprehend – emanated from the cockpit of the downed Raven. It jarred her, and she spun around instantly, half-expecting a Locust to be standing at the Raven's only opening, prepared to let dozens of bullets loose in her direction. But there was nothing. Just the repetitive beeps.

Code. Some kind of code. Means that the radio might be working.

The new task stoked slight flames of hope, and she hobbled over to the cockpit. The pilot was dead – slumped to one side like a limp doll. The presence of the body minus the soul disturbed her, but thankfully, his helmet masked a good portion of his face – and this grateful cowardice enabled her to push the man to one side in order to reach the radio. It was an undignified shove, but these were undignified times.

With the little knowledge that she had of radio controls, she flipped switches and turned dials; adjusting and searching for an appropriate frequency.

" – Lima, Indigo, Zulu, forty-nine. We've reached an LZ and are coming down for the extraction. Over."

The sound of his voice – whoever the hell it was – comforted her. It made her feel less lonely. She listened on.

"Copy that, KR forty-nine, this is Control. The sky is ink-free." came a woman's voice.

Where were they communicating from, she wondered? Only one way to find out. She picked up the radio and spoke into it.

"Hello? Is anyone there? This is –" shit! What the hell was the name of the Raven she had boarded? Never mind that. Just give 'em that Mayday call and get some help down here. "This is Nash Kutzev, we were on a Raven on our way to Elingrad, and – and we got hit, and –"

"Who the hell is on this frequency? Control?" interjected a startled voice. "This channel's supposed to be kept clear!"

"What's your COG tag number?" asked the woman at the other end, who'd seemed to take to this intrusion in a calmer manner.

"I don't know...I mean, I don't have one, dammit! I'm not a soldier!" exclaimed Nash.

"Please identify yourself or stay off this channel, soldier," the woman monotoned.

Nash thumped the overturned metal console in frustration. Getting help wasn't as easy as she expected.

"– say Kutzev? Did you say Kutzev?" issued the male voice.

"Yes!" croaked Nash, her voice hoarse from mounting worry.

"Ah, hell no," he said. Nash couldn't tell if he was angry or afraid. Well, what difference did it make? He apparently seemed to recognize the name.

"Say again, KR forty-nine?"

"It's Colonel Kutzev – it's...he's the –"

An ear-splitting scream tore through the confines of the cockpit, and she fell hurtling forwards, lodged somewhere between the chopper's windscreen and ceiling. She remained still – despite being aware that the situation was just worsening – and squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn't quite prone to bouts of panic, but this certainly was pushing it.

"Oh please, ohpleaseohpleaseohplease..." she moaned quietly. She then cracked her eyes open only to meet thick plumes of dust, smoke and who knew what else. The debris-filled air hadn't yet entered her lungs, but the image alone was enough to make her gag instinctively.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," she coughed. The radio had been put out of commission, that was for sure. She struggled awkwardly to get out of her wedged predicament, and started climbing up and over the transport's various hurdles. Her initial progress was slow, but on realizing that one missile was often followed by another, she quickened her pace. It seemed that the craft had tipped over almost onto its nose now. The pilot's body lay draped over something or the other – blissfully unaware of the wretched manner by which it had been thrown about.

Nash was surprised at how easily the will to survive had come to her, and she found herself wondering if it came to others just as freely. But to test that will every day? That was something that Gears did. It wasn't a life fit for her. She wasn't particularly squeamish – in fact, during her adolescent years, she'd donned a macho persona. She wanted to be just one of the boys. She wanted to serve the COG, fight for humanity, save the world. Notions of martyrdom that twisted together with noble ideals all seemed so terribly romantic at the time. And joining the COG would have empowered her; it would have made her part of something bigger. Something better.

But as experience had set in, fighting and gunning things down – even if they were Locust – seemed a fruitless endeavor. Yes, humanity did deserve its right to life, but so did every other creature. To tear a life down herself, to be the one who pulled the trigger and orchestrate death would have left abysmal scars. And then, through the strength of fear, morals or both, she had abandoned her would-be weapons for something a little more peaceable.

She choked as she inhaled the dusty air, just as she had choked on her youthful decisions.

Romantic, my ass.

She heaved herself up partway through the opening. Rubble, chunky cement blocks and heaven knew what else surrounded the Raven. The chopper had made a notable crater in the ground when it had crashed; and had raised large fragments of the road along its periphery. She had to raise herself higher in order to catch a glimpse of what she was up against. Dead buildings and hollow interiors looked back at her in turn. There was nothing out of the ordinary – at least the war-torn version of ordinary. Her gaze swept ahead of her. A hefty figure – its silhouette distorted in the afternoon sunlight – stood at the end of the road. Slowly, and a little stupidly, she continued to stare at it. Her eyes traveled past the shimmering heat that wafted from the scorching asphalt, and at its large feet, up the stout legs, the very rounded waist and then to its arms. The image then brought to mind a single word.

Boom.

Her gut tightened and a surge of adrenaline pumped across her body. The Locust lifted its weapon, more than ready to send her onwards into another life. Nash scrambled up the opening, frantic – transfixed by the hulking mass that was to be her Grim Reaper. She lost her footing and sank halfway back into the Raven as one arm flailed uselessly in the air, desperate to latch onto something.

Too late. It's too late now. Ah hell.

She heard the shell being launched, and saw too many images – happy, sad, jealous, dirty, lazy, greedy – all of it pummeled into her mind in the form of an information overload. The moment seemed agonizingly endless, and for a split second she wondered if she was already dead. But no, the Boomer's shell hadn't come into contact with her or the Raven. At least not yet.

A muffled explosion emerged from her left, followed by a plume of black smoke which entertained angry flames at its center. But the eruption had occurred farther from her position – much farther.

I know these Boomer's are bad shots, but really...?

"Quit dicking around and get the hell outta there!" called out a voice from the streets.

Nash didn't need to be told twice. The Boomer was still there, his solid feet planted on the ground, but his attention had somehow been directed elsewhere. She clambered to the top of the craft and walked unsteadily over its side. She leapt over the rubble and dove straight for the nearest shelter she could find.

A deserted store did the trick. Just as she had slipped inside, she heard another shell being let off. Then a long stretch of silence followed, and within her temporary safety, she began to think defensively.

I don't have a single gun on me.

She shut her eyes – furious and ashamed. So much for being cool under fire.

"All clear!" came the voice again.

She squatted behind the store's counter, reluctant to move.

"I said: it's all clear! And it'd be smart if you got out now, y'know – while we're still young," sounded the voice. It seemed closer now.

She rose wearily past the steel counter and peered out into the open; shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare.

"You okay?"

His voice came from behind her and she started upon hearing it. "Yeah. It's been a hell of a day." said Nash. The first thing she noticed was the ruffled hair, unkempt and gritty. Other than the fact that he was leaner and missing most of his upper-body armour, he seemed the quintessential Gear. Steady. Solid. Unremarkable. Then she narrowed her eyes and spoke slowly, "I know you...don't I?"

"Yes ma'am, you do. I was on the same raven."

"But I didn't see you," she muttered. Dear God, had her memory had it as well?

"That's because I was up front with Klinsman."

"Who?"

"The pilot."

She paused; hesitant, and looked at her boots. "Oh. I see."

He construed the quiet comment to be that of reluctance; reluctance that was bred from not wanting to be the bearer of ill news. "It's okay. I know he's dead."

Her eyes quickly shot up to him. "Did you think I was dead too?" And then, her tone morphed into that of the offended. "You must've gotten out of there pretty fast. What, you didn't even think to check for a pulse?"

"I had to get the package to safety," he replied, not willing to commit to an argument. "If you remember – that was our priority."

She snorted.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, we'd better get moving. You coming?"

Nash exhaled heavily and leaned against the grimy wall of the store. She shook her head; tired and spent.

"Look, we can't be here. When that thing went down," he pointed in the direction of the crumbled Raven, "it left a trail of smoke. Plus, our Boomer let out a couple of noisy shots back there. There are going to be reinforcements. Or at least a scouting party."

"S'okay," she groaned, "Just leave me a damned pistol and go your way. I'm done here." She looked at him through exhausted eyes. "Yeah. I know what you're thinking. Should've left her in the Raven. Part of me might actually agree with you on that one."

"You always feel this sorry for yourself?" he asked, regarding her defeated expression with mild curiousity.

She stayed silent. It was her turn to shrug.

"Huh. I don't think it suits you."

She threw him a gaze that read: I don't really care, then looked away and ahead of them both – into her own thoughts.

"You know," he began, "if you wanted to hang yourself, I'd be happy to oblige. In fact, I'd give you a rope. But now's not the time because we need you alive...and relatively intact."

"Since you asked so very nicely...." she declared – her voice drenched in saccharine sarcasm, before it trailed off.

He moved purposefully forward and yanked her away from the wall. He then stood behind her and shoved her forward; as if he was a cop arresting a delinquent headed for the juvie lockup. She stumbled, her gait undignified and morose.

"Shit. Alright, alright. I'm going."