"How many are there?!" That question was the most oft-heard, echoing through the gunshots and choking the comms. It was a question without answer - as soon as there was a rough count of the batarian forces throwing themselves against the makeshift bulwark protecting the colony hub, more poured in from dropships to increase the total exponentially. Lieutenant Shepard had long since stopped trying to tally her enemies - or her kills. For every one of the four-eyed aliens that fell to her rifle, six more took his place, clamoring for her blood in their harsh, guttural voices.
She crouched atop the bulwark, body thinly protected by the bulk of a stove someone had scrounged to help bolster the colony's palisade, her ill-fitting battle armor - borrowed from the stock of the colonial armory - chafing as she shifted position, trying to ease deeper into cover. As she heard the steady rattle of gunfire directed to her left, she popped up over the top of the retaining wall, snapping off a quartet of quick shots. She didn't stick around to see if they hit - the cries of her targets were indistinguishable from the cacophony of battle. Cursing under her breath, she glanced along the curve of the wall, watching the mixed handful of shore-leave soldiers and colonists vainly defending against the unexpected attack.
Overhead, explosions flashed in the smoke-choked sky, seen only dimly through the haze of ash and grime. Shepard took no heart from the display - for all the Alliance had rallied their ships against the raiders', she knew there were too many of the swift, deadly pirates to make landing ground teams possible. As another defender spun off the wall to the ground below, dead before he could even give voice to a choked cry, she grimly acknowledged that any ground support might well be too late. Another quick glance thrown along the bulwark told her the line was holding - barely. She snapped off another quartet, then cued up her comm. "Commander Johansson, status report?"
Static sang over the comm channel, but no response from the Tokyo's XO. She cursed as shots pinged off the stove above her head. She felt heat slice across her face, lifted her gloved hand to wipe ineffectually at the cut that tore through her upper lip. Tasting blood, she spat to the side, then opened her mic again. "Commander Johansson, the right flank is holding steady. Status report?"
A heartbeat, two, then through the static came a wavering, panic-filled voice - not the Commander, no, and her memory couldn't supply her with more than a youthful, earnest face. "The commander is down! Repeat, the commander is down. Left flank is holding, but - oh God - " The voice cut off in a flurry of sharp, staccato bursts; audible even above the ever-present clamor was the sound of explosions. Grenades, her mind identified dispassionately, and she knew immediately what had happened. Launchers.
"Lieutenant, the left is breached! We need to send in reinforcements now!" For a brief, puzzled moment, Shepard waited for the expected response from whoever was in charge with the commander gone. Then, as the voice crackled over the comm again, the sharp "Lieutenant - ah!" pitched high with fright, ending with abrupt finality, she realized with dim startlement that she was the one they were talking to.
Reflexively, she twitched the muscle that cued the throat mic, taking command with an outward smoothness that belied the sudden panic that sent her heart racing. "Commander Johansson is down. Status report, all units!" Even as she called for check-in, she slid from her position on the bulwark, collapsing her assault rifle and sliding it into position on her back. She listened to the reports - one from further right, two more middle, a fourth from the room where the civilian non-combatants - women, children, and disabled - had been herded. For a brace of moments, there was only static, and her chest contracted. Thirty-odd marines and naval personnel had been on Elysium for shore-leave when the batarians had attacked. Only a handful left now? Five, including herself?
The static fluctuated, dimmed, and a voice whispered over the comm. For one brief heartbeat, Shepard's hope soared - not alone. But as the words beat harshly over the communication lines, she closed her eyes. Not a soldier. Colonist. "We're on the left! They're breaking through. Oh God, everyone is dead! They used grenades. Help us!"
She lifted her head to the sky, watched the explosions burst gracefully overhead. Dropships continued to land, but none carrying the insignia of the Systems Alliance. Endless waves of batarians threw themselves at the wall, and she knew that the constant rattling of rifle fire was dimming from the defenders' side. The Alliance soldiers had been outmanned from the start; the colonists may have had hunting skills, but most of them had never lifted a weapon in anger against another sentient being before. They'd had a rough baptism by fire - and it hadn't been enough.
Taking a breath, she set off at a run, loping along the curve of the wall towards the breach. Her rifle came off her back, was raised and fired in a single breath, and the first of the batarians through the hole burst into blood and bone, spraying the area with gore. Those members of the civilian militia who had managed to take cover in nearby buildings gathered their courage and joined in the fire, peppering the gap with rounds. The batarians withdrew, giving Shepard enough breathing room to order the civilians to make a break for the safe room.
As soon as the area was cleared, she set up covering fire over the breach, taking out each of the exploratory scout parties as they tried to gain ground through the gap. She took up position out of line of sight, keeping an eye on the hole while reviewing her options. Although she looked at the issue from every angle she could think of, her mind kept skewing back to one rather unpalatable - for her - solution. Closing her eyes, she uttered a series of curses, railing briefly against the universe.
Then training - and her own innate sense of morality - reasserted itself, and she twitched her throat mic on, taking a deep breath. "All units, gather any civilians in your area and fall back to the safe room. All units, fall back and defend the safe room at all costs."
There was silence over the comm, and she swallowed convulsively. Had she waited too late? Then, static crackled, as one, two, three - all four of her remaining troops confirmed her order. "We'll meet you there, Lieutenant," came the voice she knew to be one of the marines she shared a berth with on the Tokyo.
"Negative. There is a breach in section three. It needs to be sealed." Covered, her mind corrected pedantically - she knew she couldn't seal it well enough to hold against the raiders. Already, their explorations had increased, and she'd overheated her rifle twice, forcing her to switch to her pistol and a few extra tricks hidden up her sleeve.
More silence on the line, then, "Lieutenant, you can't hold that breach yourself. En route to your position."
Closing her eyes, she found herself tempted for a brief moment. But no - the safe room needed all four of her remaining soldiers. There were too many civilians, if the wall was breached - when the wall was breached - they would need to defend until the Alliance was able to break the blockade and land troop dropships. "Negative, sergeant. Defend the safe room. That's an order," she added flatly, anticipating his protest.
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant." A hesitant space of silence, then, "Good luck… and God watch you." Never an atheist in a foxhole. An old saying, and long outdated, but the sergeant's words lifted her spirit none the less.
"Acknowledged. Shepard, out." She lifted her eyes to the smoking sky, felt her lungs fill with air, tasted ash and blood even through the filters. Shepard, out.
For the last time.
She set her teeth against the heartache, snarled in the face of fear, and let off a burst of shots, taking down two batarians and sending the rest scrambling back. Then she dropped the hand holding the rifle and extended the other before her, taking a breath. One calm moment, and her mind switched tracks. She felt her amp awaken, felt the power uncurl deep in her belly. Blue wisps curled about her palm, twining through her fingers like affectionate kittens. She centered, focused, and sent a wave of power tearing across the ground, sending the batarians gathered in the gap tumbling like bowling pins.
In their moment of distraction, she shifted the course of her power, sending it curling around a large piece of salvage nearby. The strain beat at her mind as she lifted it, but adrenaline gave her the needed boost, and she managed to get it into the breach. It didn't completely fill the gap, but what was left was small enough that only one or two batarians at a time would be able to filter through.
She released the power with a gasp, feeling it flood from her mind, leaving her momentarily disoriented. Shaking her head, she clutched the rifle in her hand and brought it up, slapping it against her palm before setting it to her shoulder. Half-crouched, she moved silently to the breach, tucking herself just off to the side so that she was out of direct line-of-sight, yet able to keep an eye on the batarians. They'd recovered from the shockwave, leaving a few corpses behind, broken and bloody from the force of the biotic blow. She could see a small forward group gathered nearby, conversing in low, harsh tones, one set of eyes casting wary glances at the breach. Beyond them, more batarians were scattered, as far as the eye could see. Disorganized, yes - these were raiders, pirates; no military discipline dared to mar their ranks. Numbers, however, could make for many of the shortcomings that a lack of cohesiveness brought, and she was under no illusions that their disarray bought her any form of reprieve.
Resolution settled into her heart. Not the resolve to live, no - like many a soldier, Shepard was quite capable of reading a situation, of preparing for her own end. She couldn't change the inevitable. She could, however, make her death a costly one for her enemies. Already she'd noticed that the enemy dropships were lessened, that the explosions in the sky had grown more severe. Three hours from Arcturus to Elysium; three hours for the ships of Second Fleet to come swooping in to save the day. Two of those hours had already been spent in defending the wall, in rounding up civilians and stashing them away out of reach of the slavers. Two of those hours had seen over twenty Alliance dead, dozens of colonists slain, and one lone marine facing certain death for the lives of people she didn't even know.
Shepard had had cause to resent her duty before; she did not do so now. As the batarians ended their conference and turned, clearly preparing to probe the breach once more, she took a deep breath and gazed down the sights of her rifle. She might regret being called from shore leave early to reinforce a task group - she could not, could never, regret being called to defend the lives of the innocent, whose only crime was to live in the Verge, too close to batarian space. She allowed the first batarian to slip through the gap, waited for the second to join him, and as the third clambered through, she let off a burst, firing in quick succession into three bulbous heads.
She barely registered the brains and blood that exploded, coating the air with an acrid stench. She was already shifting position, aiming through the gap to take out two more scouts. As she paused to let her rifle cool down, she could see the guns swing up, the glare of red as laser scopes sought her out. She ducked low, swept the barrel of her rifle up, and let off another round of shots, cutting off two more batarians at the knees. A shot whined past her ear and she jerked back with a curse, then swung out to take out the lone scout who tried to dash in while she was preoccupied.
It was the pattern of the dance, the tone of the stalemate. She heard the whine of grenade launchers, the dull, heavy thump of the explosions, but the batarians were unable to find another fault in the bulwark to exploit. So they funneled, one by one, two by two, only to be cut down. They teased her out, took their shots; occasionally, they got lucky. She could feel the sting and burn of a dozen cuts, felt the sluggish flow of blood as shots exploited chinks in her ill-fitting armor. A cut on her brow had caused a brief bout of worry; she'd taken the time to wrap her head in a dirty rag rather than risk blood in her eye at the wrong moment.
The minutes stretched on interminably, as though the breach had generated its own event horizon, and Shepard and the batarians were trapped within an eternity. Through the gap they trickled, relentlessly seeking to overwhelm her; they died by ones, by twos, by small groups. By the time another half-hour had ticked off on her omni-tool, she'd jammed her rifle and tossed it aside. Her pistol was clenched tight in her right hand; her left swirled blue, fisted fingers swathed in pale light. Her wounds, her biotics - the toll had been taken, and she knew before long, she'd come up short. Already the edges of her vision were teased by shadows, and she found it more difficult every time to lift her pistol and fire.
She heard a familiar whine, and her sluggish brain paused, struggling to identify it. By the time it did, it was nearly too late to react - only battle-honed reflexes saved her, brought up a biotic barrier in time for her to fling herself from the bulwark, into cover, before the world exploded. Where did they get a rocket launcher? Her mind babbled the question as she picked herself painfully from the ground, feeling the sting of a dozen new cuts, the dull ache that warned of muscles overtaxed and strained. She shoved to her feet, whirled, and snapped off three quick shots with her pistol, missing with the first two but taking out the forward scout with the third.
She stared in horror at the newly widened breach - far too large for her to plug, even if she'd had the strength - or the scrap - to do so. It wouldn't be long, she knew, before they sent through a force too large for her to deal with - the force that would overwhelm her, murder her, then move on to face down four marines and their charges.
No.
Even as she snarled the word through torn lips, she shoved to her feet and staggered forward, into the breach. She sent forth another shockwave of power, the deep thrum of it slashing across the ground to scatter the batarian forces charging her position. As they were slammed away, she stepped into the hole, setting her feet and spreading her arms. She gathered all of her rage, her fear, her anguish and fed it into that bright place deep within her center. The sluggish ball of power grew, expanding outwards. It ripped across the ground in a circle from her feet, building up on itself until she was encased in a sphere of bright, blue light, a matrix of power lines titanium-strong.
She glared with eyes that bled blue at the two batarians standing calmly some thirty meters distant. With her biotics sharpening her senses, she could smell the death and smoke through her suit's overstrained filters, she could taste the ash and blood in the back of her throat. And she could see that the launcher that the batarian was calmly reloading was painted in blue, the white Systems Alliance insignia standing out in stark relief on the side of the chamber.
Ah, her mind whispered sadly. So that was how they'd gotten their hands on a rocket launcher, why it had only just come into play. The Alliance must have tried - and failed - to land a dropship, and the batarians had captured its munitions. Even as part of her mind mourned the downed soldiers, the rest of her coldly calculated her chances. She saw the batarian slam the chamber door shut, watched as he leveled the launcher on his shoulder. Four eyes gazed dispassionately at her before he tilted his head, lining up the sights. She closed her own eyes and cued the throat mic. "All units, be advised. The breach is unsealed. The batarians will be coming through."
Silence. Not even static. For one brief moment, heartache threatened her resolve, her barrier flickering in response. Had they broken through the wall elsewhere? Were her efforts here in vain? Then sense reasserted itself, and her mind and barrier solidified. Her comm was down - damaged, no doubt, by one of the many shots that had made it through her defenses. She took a deep breath and set her feet, glaring her defiance at the batarian as he locked on her position. She saw his finger twitch on the trigger, saw the puff of fire and smoke, and watched the rocket bear down on her. Dimly she heard the whine of its approach.
The rocket impacted on her barrier. She felt her mind flinch, felt the barrier bend, and poured the last of herself into it. It flickered - and held. The rocket exploded, fire washing over her shields, and she felt the heat crash over her, felt her skin dry and crack beneath the inferno. With an inarticulate cry of pure rage, she collapsed the barrier around the volcanic blast, drawing it in, feeding on it. For one calm moment, she held Hell in her hands, then, dropping to her knees, she slammed her palms against the ground and sent her fury echoing back through the ground. Earth and stone sprayed about her as the nova radiated outwards from her position, tearing through the gathered batarian forces, breaking bones and bodies and flinging them through the air like ragdolls.
Eyes locked on the rocketeer, she sensed rather than saw the nova racing towards him, tearing a path through ground and grunt as it mindlessly raged. And her heart failed as its fury spent shy of its mark. The circle of torn earth and wrecked bodies around her ended meters to the fore of her assailants.
She felt her stomach go cold, felt her strength flee until it was all she could do to support herself on her hands and knees. The power was gone, drained in that final burst of titanic fury, and it hadn't been enough. Dully, she watched as the rocketeer calmly raised his weapon, as his companion slapped a third round into the chamber, slammed the door shut. She wanted to whimper, to cry, to howl her fury at the injustice ; training - pride - refused to allow it. Green eyes blazing with hatred, she watched him level the weapon on his shoulder and take aim, then, face still raised, closed her eyes and waited for the world to end.
She heard the burst of ignition, heard the whine of approach - the world was filled with light and sound and heat - then… for one brief moment… nothing.
Ears ringing, senses dulled by the scent, taste, feel of ash and smoke, it took a moment for her to realize that something had gone wrong. Unless Heaven was a battlefield - and although she knew some religions still held it to be so, she herself was convinced otherwise - she was still on Elysium, still in the fight. Incredulously, she pried her eyes open, fighting against the weakness that threatened to steal her consciousness. Shimmering blue filled her vision, a matrix twice as powerful as the one she had conjured during her final stand. She could feel the cold pit in her stomach that told her her own biotics were drained - with wondering eyes, she followed the curving wall of power up, painfully pushing herself to her knees as she became aware of someone standing over her.
Green eyes met blue. Somehow, instinctively, she knew it was only the power, that those eyes that stared down at her with amazement were normally the color of melting chocolate. As she and her rescuer gazed at each other, she could hear the sharp report of rifles, hear commands being called. She tried to tear her gaze away from his, to watch the colony's salvation - but even that effort was too much for her overtaxed mind. Shadows raced in, filming her vision, and she collapsed bonelessly in a heap at her savior's feet.
As she slid into darkness, her mind offered one last, breathless whisper. Honey.