Author's Note: This one-shot story is my entry for the June competition at Aria's Afterlife, this month hosted by thebluninja. For those of you reading this who haven't come here via the contest thread, the premise is simple: To write a story in the first-person perspective, in which the protagonist is realistically injured in some form of combative conflict. The big rule is that the conflict can't be one which involves Shepard. Yup, no Shepard. It's a World Gonne Mad. I hope you enjoy this short, somewhat gory story. At the very least, I hope you're able to glean some useful fighting tips from the contents.
To The Last Man Standing
The small piece of metal flashes in the sunlight as I roll it across the palm of my hand. Shaped in the form of a six-pointed star, each point bites as it travels across my grey-tinged skin, but it is an honest sort of pain, a pleasant distraction from the constant dull ache of hunger gnawing in the pit of my stomach.
"How are we doing?" I ask.
Parik Solus, our team's engineer, is half buried in our ship's exhaust port. He doesn't bother looking out at me as he replies.
"The starboard exhaust nacelle is shot to pieces. I can rebuild it, but it's going to take me a few hours. I told you going through that asteroid belt was a risk."
"But one we had to take," I remind him, and he doesn't argue.
A few hours. How hot will this ancestor-forsaken planet be by then? Already the temperature is reaching an almost intolerable high. I've done my best to set the ship down in shade, but it is hard to land in dense foliage, so I've been forced to put it in one of the sparse clearings, on ground that's half swamp.
The planet, which had looked so much like Sur'Kesh from orbit, had proven hotter and damper than our home world. Here, the trees grow to gigantic proportions, their trunks so wide that a dozen salarians, standing around the circumference at arm's length, would not have fully encircled even the smallest of them. Their canopies should have offered shade, but it seemed even the great strength of the trees was not enough to hold up the weight of those massive branches; here and there they had fallen, entire gargantuan limbs discarded like the autumnal leaves of any normal tree. Where they fell they allowed sunlight to penetrate to ground level, encouraging the growth of smaller plants.
'Smaller', of course, is a very relative word. Narvin and Jerrik are hunting in the lee of a fern than is taller than our ship. A dozen strides away lay the remains of an ancient tree, felled by some fearsome storm, and a mossy prominence grows upon its decomposing trunk, each dark green clump thick and dense enough to be a bed (I consider harvesting some for our ship. It is likely to be more comfortable than the metal floor plating we are forced to sleep on now). Amongst the moss grow wide-capped fungi of a pastel blue hue; I don't need my manual scanner to tell me they are inedible, but the largest specimen could have served as a table, and some of its smaller brothers as stools.
There is a flurry of motion, and Narvin flings himself to the floor, wrestling with something he's found in a moist crevice beneath a fern leaf. Jerrik watches on, his pistol ready in his hand.
"How goes the hunt?" I call.
Grunting with effort, Narvin picks up the thing he has subdued, holding it over his head with both hands. The plump white maggot squirms in protest. I nod, pleased at this unexpected boon. We will eat well tonight.
The rebuild of the nacelle continues slowly. As noon approaches, the sky clouds over, and the air becomes blessedly cool. When a bright flash of lightning heralds a downpour, chased by its younger brother, thunder, we take shelter beneath the fern. Jerrik has brought out the ancient food heating unit from the ship, and he and Narvin have constructed a spit, over which the juicy fat maggot now roasts. Its flesh, we soon learn, is tender and flavoursome; I suck its juices to soothe my parched throat before sinking my teeth into its warm, delicate meat.
We eat in silence, interrupted only by the occasional visit of giant dragonflies. They hover above us, lingering near, peering at us through their iridescent compound eyes. The insects chitter angrily, as if admonishing us for eating their young. A few shots from Jerrik's pistol and my rifle take care of the first one which came too close for comfort. The rest retreat to the canopy, and bother us no more.
I look around at my companions, and for the first time since we have gone on the run, I wonder how much longer we can last. Our provisions ran out weeks ago, and we are forced to scavenge for food and water on the planets we chance across. Four we are now, but twelve we had been at the start of our flight. Tallin had been the first to die, fatally wounded on the frigid planet on which we had taken refuge. Captain Kadis had been next; his sacrifice had given the rest of us a chance to escape our pursuers. Maron, Tabor and Privus had been cruelly spaced when torpedo fire had pierced our last vessel's hull. Salpar had died of dehydration, and Kulvis of injuries taken in a firefight. Malorai had been the last to go; the viral infection that had done him in could have been easily cured… if the medicines had been available.
They pick us off, one by one chipping away at us, wearing us down, snapping at us when they sense we weaken. My own bitterness leaves a foul taste in my mouth that the tender maggot-meat can't disguise. Why can't they just leave us alone? Why won't they allow us to live and die in peace? Is their fear of us truly so great that they must hound us across the galaxy, until all trace of our existence has been erased?
The answer to my question would come soon.
The rain passed. The clouds disperse. The temperature soars to its former height. In the shade of the exhaust port, Parik fares best. The rest of us wait as we will; Jerrik and Narvin keep a watchful eye on the remainder of the roasted maggot, whilst I scramble up the moss-encrusted fallen trunk, and sit on guard duty beneath one of the larger toadstools, my back supported by its thick stem.
Sated for the first time in weeks, and made drowsy by the harsh heat of the sun trying its best to evaporate some of the moisture from the planet, I feel my eyes close. Free from its mortal restraints, my mind skips over the tree tops and out in to space, where it takes me unerringly back home. I walk the streets of Sur'Kesh once more, surrounded by my family. Hundreds of them are here; clutch-brothers and clutch-sisters, far-siblings and near-cousins, distant aunts and uncles, and, of course, my brood-mother, upon whose encouragement I had given up everything that I was for a greater purpose. All of them pleased to see me. All of them proud of what I had done.
BOOM!
My eyes fly open, my heart hammering in my chest. The sound of my pulse echoes inside my ear cavities, a deafening roar to my newly-wakened mind. I find my gun already in my hands; an automatic reflex, a survival instinct which has saved my life more than once. I scan the area around me, looking for the source of the noise which has torn me from my dream. When I find nothing out of the ordinary, I am content to dismiss the noise as more thunder. Then I hear Narvin's call.
"Commander Jatox! We're under attack!"
It would be the last thing he ever said.
Gunfire screams, shattering the natural peace of the uncivilised swamp. I recognise the sound immediately. Salarian Magetrix rifles. It seems our enemy has found us again.
Lifting my own rifle, I peer down the scope and take stock of the battle, my heartbeat still fast but steady now that the shock of sudden waking has worn off. Fighting is what I was born to do. Winning is what I have been trained to do. In battle, you can't let fear or doubt in, not even for a second, because once those twin monsters get their insidious claws inside your mind, they take over completely. I've seen men falter and die in the space of seconds, all because of one heartbeat of fear. I've seen wars lost because of one instant of doubt. Those two demons are as much my enemy as the salarians firing at my team.
Two hundred metres away I see our foe. They wear uniforms, garish white things with black armour plating, and bright coloured stripes indicating their ranks. STG. Those foolish bastards are our younger brothers, our nephews and cousins, our children and grand-children. To them, we are relics of a time now past, our stories old, our victories hollow. All we are now is a threat to our new asari allies, a reminder of cold salarian ruthlessness and carefully executed brutality. We will be remembered as villains or legends, if we are remembered at all.
I take comfort from the newly-blasted crater I see through my scope. Nobody can set a defensive perimeter like Narvin. A hundred giant insects will have crossed his trap line, not a single one of them harmed. His rig will have killed whoever triggered it; if we're lucky, there will be more than one STG member scattered all over the area now.
Six of them I count, this new generation of salarian operatives. Six, and not one of them has thought to swap his shiny new uniform for something that blends in to the sickly greens and browns of this swampy forest. From my position atop my fallen trunk, I take out one of the STG with a head-shot. Their Magetrix guns aren't close enough to do my team real damage just yet, and my sniper rifle has three times their range. I manage to shoot another before they make my position, and as I sink to my feet and allow myself to slide down the mossy side of the trunk I feel a moment of disappointment twinge deep within my stomach; that last shot hadn't been fatal. I must be getting sloppy in my old age.
I sprint towards the ship, and step instantly into a beautiful, chaotic symphony. The scream of gunfire is countered by the cries of the wounded and the dying. Insects, disturbed by our impromptu battle, go rushing out of the undergrowth, the sounds of their beating wings clear musical wind-chimes as they take to the sky. And through it all my heart sings, my blood coursing through me in a thrilling aria to this orchestral fury. Here, now, I am alive. The song of death is what I was made for. It is why I exist.
I try to flank the remaining few, but a hail of bullets forces me to jump to my left, rolling beneath one of those tall ferns. The plant tries to protect me, but its leaves make for a poor shield. Bullet-shredded, they fall in tatters around me, and I know I have to move.
The smell of the forest hits me at the same time as the bullet. That warm scent of peat; the acrid tang of gunpowder. That moist aroma of dead flora becoming mulch; the bitter metallic flavour of blood. That sweet perfume of a nearby flowering bromeliad; the angry burning of metal buried in my shoulder.
It takes me all of three heartbeats to process all of this information, another two for me to realise I'm on the ground. The swamp has caught me, a bed of moss cushioning my fall. I breathe in the scent of peat and mulch and sweet perfume, and I taste what it is like to be a part of this planet. It is to be strong and delicate, ancient and young, violent and serene. It is to never give up, no matter how many limbs fall, no matter how many storms sweep by, no matter how much the sun tries to scorch away the moisture. I breathe in the planet, and I feel alive.
There are footsteps nearby, two sets of them. They're looking for me. They saw me go down, and they want to make sure I stay down. There are two of them… but they are children, playing at being heroes. They will die easily.
When I sense them close, I reach for my sidearm, pulling it from the holster I wear around my leg. My rifle is gone, lost to the swamp which now nourishes me in what may be my dying moments, but at this range my rifle would be more hindrance than help. Breathing quietly, shallow, I listen, and I wait. The two STG come crashing through the brush – obviously stealth is not important to this 'new' and 'improved' organisation.
The first one did not stand a chance. My weapon was aimed at him before he even realised I was lying in front of him. I gently squeeze the trigger, more a caress than a pull, and a patch of green liquid erupts from his chest. The look in his eyes as the swamp claims him is one of disappointed surprise.
His companion has a split second in which to react. He points his rifle at me, but too slowly. I launch myself at him, pleased by my own turn of strength. We tumble to the ground; his gun goes the way of his partner and my rifle. It belongs to the swamp, now.
We wrestle for his knife, and for a moment he has the upper hand. The wound in my shoulder throbs and burns, green blood pouring over my antagonist. I can feel my strength beginning to ebb, so I change my tactics, playing to my advantages and his weakness. I bring my good hand up to his exposed head and plunge my thumb into his eye. He screams, a sound of agony and horror. He hadn't expected me to do that. Clearly he was not aware of our training mantra; There is fighting to train, and there is fighting for your life. And when you're fighting for your life, anything goes.
Concerned that his agonal gasps might draw more of his comrades towards us, I take inspiration from the planet once more. A mere pace away, a bubble of foul-smelling air rises from the ground and bursts violently, showing me what I need to be rid of my enemy. Summoning my last reserves of strength, I roll the STG child over and force his head into the small pool of standing water. He thrashes instinctively, and I kneel on his shoulders, pinning him to the ground with the weight of my body as the force of my hands keep his head under water. Long moments later he grows still, and then limp, but I spend another couple of minutes kneeling on him, just to make sure he's not faking death.
My return to reality is a violent fall. I feel my strength desert me and I collapse over the body of my drowned foe, panting as I work much-needed oxygen into my starved lungs. The pain in my shoulder makes me nauseous, and I struggle to keep down the earlier helping of roasted maggot. My left hand has gone numb, and my fingers won't move. My arm is dead. It will need to be removed before it becomes infected.
To some, my thoughts would probably seem harsh, but I cannot mourn something which might kill me. I can spare no more thought for this dead limb than I can for the STG fools who've pursued us to this planet. Besides, the trees of this planet lose their limbs, and they survive. Perhaps they're made even stronger by it.
The buzzing sound in my ears fades as the shock of my injury and the imagined loss of my arm wears off. The symphony, I realise, is still playing around me. I hear the annoying ratta-tatta-tat of the STG rifles, and the steady blam-blam-blam of Jerrik's pistol. A master of weapons, is Jerrik, but when his back's up against a wall he'll fall back to his beloved pistol every time.
Somehow, I heave myself to my feet. The strain of being upright and losing blood makes the world spin around me, but I ignore it. The team need me. With the captain dead, I'm all that's left of the command structure. Without me, they'll have to command themselves, and I'm not sure how far they'll get under their own impetus.
I lurch along, and the ground and the trees and the ferns lurch with me. Fifty feet. Forty feet. Thirty feet. Twenty feet. At ten feet I find the clearing where I've set the ship down, and a new noise greets me; the encompassing hum of an atmospheric sub-light engine starting up. Parik has done it. I knew he would. Damn fine engineer, that man.
Jerrik looks ready to jump into the ship's open airlock, but he sees me from the corner of his eye and gives me a hand signal. My vision is blurry, so I'm not sure which signal it is, but it looks like either fuck you, or evac now. I only realise it's the latter when he lays down some cover fire for me.
Weak, exhausted, dehydrated, I summon the last reserves of my strength. I run forward as fast as I dare, and I'm certain I'm going to make it… until I trip over the body of Narvin, and fall to my knees. The dead scout looks up at me, his eyes glazed and sightless. The hole in his head, which has blown out half his brain, tells me how he died.
Painfully.
A flash of light catches my eye, and I look up in time to see my medallion bouncing along the ground. It must have fallen from my pocket during my trip, and as I watch, it disappears beneath a dark frond of fern. My first thought, to go after it, is cut short by another rain of gunfire. I don't have time for my medallion. I don't even have time to grab Narvin's body, to take him away from here and give him the burial he deserves. He won't even have the luxury of an unmarked grave. He belongs to the planet, now.
Somebody grabs my arm, and I look up into Jerrik's black eyes.
"We gotta go, commander," he grunts, firing a few shots into the underbrush.
He hauls me to my feet. Half running, half limping, we reach the airlock, letting ourselves fall into cool shade. Into safety.
"Go!" Jerrik yells, and Parik obeys. The ship tremors quietly as it takes off, and I hear the plink plink plink of bullets made impotent by our vessel's shielding. At last I relax, and surrender myself to the darkness that plucks at my mind.
When I next wake, I have only one arm. The damage to my nerves was too severe, and without more than a basic aid kit, my limb hadn't stood a chance. Jerrik is as skilled with a laser-torch as he is with a pistol, and now that my arm has been cauterised, the veins and arteries and nerve endings melted shut, it has finally stopped bleeding. It still hurts, but compared to the loss of my medallion, it's just a bitter sting.
A few hours later, Parik puts the ship in a holding pattern in a radiation nebula and joins us in the crew quarters. With him he brings the cold remains of the roasted maggot that Narvin had stored away right before the STG attack. It's a meagre feast, and we eat in silence, each of us remembering our dead teammate as we knew him best.
At last Parik returns to the cockpit, taking us out of the nebula and on towards some other uninhabited system. He doesn't say a word, and neither does Jerrik. We all know how serious our situation is. We have no food, no water, and very little fuel. We're forgotten by our friends, disowned by our families, and hunted by the men who have replaced us. But we are the League of One, and we will fight to the last man standing.