Carthago Delenda Est.

Carthage must be destroyed.

Of course, Carthage was gone – long gone. More than two millennia ago, yet in those two thousand years since, humanity had come so far. From riding upon horseback and elephant, and fighting with shield and sword, to the far reaches of space itself, upon vessels that sailed the stars. Some might say that the human race now lived in a Golden Age – a time of science, and technology, and the expansion of human boundaries.

And it was all the work of the United Earth Republic. Honor, duty, valiance – it was all expected of humanity under the wings of the Republic's Eagle. United, humanity had found its inheritance within the stars.

Yet, like the Roman Republic before it, the United Earth Republic had a Carthage – those who would oppose the Republic's great rule, and bring humanity back down. The Colonial Liberation Front – "insurgents," many called them. Nothing but rebels, of a motley of disgruntled farmers and anarchists. And like the old Phoenicians of Carthage, the insurgents would be destroyed.

Well, that was what the Republic told him. Marcus Shepard didn't know what to think of their words. Of course, there were some truths to them, yet also some falsehoods.

They would tell him that the insurgents were terrorists, nothing more than dust riding upon the saddle of a great steed. They would tell him that hundreds of thousands had died, in the wake of the selfish actions of mere farmers.

Yet, Marcus knew that wasn't entirely correct. Farmers couldn't fight a superpower, after all. No – he himself knew that some within the insurgents' ranks were formerly of Republic blood. Old generals, begrudged admirals, and downtrodden soldiers, bereft of gratitude. The Republic hadn't always been as caring of its own.

Yet, as doubtful as he was about the words the Republic would feed him, Marcus Shepard was loyal to his nation, and to his people. For all the fattened words he heard, he knew the Republic had led humanity to the stars and, in the face of the galaxy as they did not know it, unity was the answer.

Indeed, Marcus could not reject the evidence held before him – the attempted asteroid attack at Fenix. The nuclear bomb, detonated upon civilians and children on Cornucopia. The destruction of the space-elevator at Arcadia. They had all been carried out by the Colonial Liberation Front – a movement to bring supposed freedom to the colonies.

And now, most recently, the insurgents had attacked civilian traders – stolen their goods, and left their bodies to float through the void. For all the dominion the UER held over humanity, and for all the good the Liberation Front might propose… Marcus Shepard would side with the lesser of two evils. If it would bring peace and prosperity to his family… then so be it.

And now, as captain of the RNS Crusader, Marcus was on the hunt. Five insurgent vessels, that had killed Republic citizens and stolen valuable food and supplies. Their leaders, a man by the name of Gerard Grayson, and Josie MacGregor. A former comrade of Marcus – a former friend. Perhaps still a good man.

The Crusader was a powerful vessel – a Hastings-class heavy cruiser, built for war. A little over a thousand meters long, and three hundred meters wide, the cruiser itself was an older model, being slowly replaced by the newer, larger Courage-class cruisers. Yet, with three spinal-mounted magnetic cannons, and two hundred broadside guns, the Hastings-class could still fight for the title of Alpha.

Marcus' thoughts drifted towards the hunt, and his prey – Colonel Josie MacGregor had been a good friend of his once. It made his task so much harder, yet Marcus could not let sympathy cloud his judgement. The Colonel, and Grayson, had raided a Republic trade flotilla with several warships – two destroyers, both of the older Lancaster-class, and three near-obsolete corvettes.

Well, obsolete compared to the Republic's current line. It was no secret that the Colonial Liberation Front was strapped for money, and had resorted to guerrilla warfare. Yet, to kill innocents, and steal food from hungry children? What sympathy Marcus might have had for them, was blunted by their actions.

As it was, the Crusader was in the middle of an FTL jump. They had tracked the insurgents to an isolated system, far from the reaches of civilized space, and the Republic would accost them soon. The insurgents were probably hungry, their vessels in need of repairs. The Crusader would have no trouble with them.

The captain was stood at his usual position on the bridge, a table with a command screen and galaxy map before him. Men and women worked tirelessly around him, the bridge a constant flurry of action. Beside Marcus was his Executive Officer – his XO. A stout woman in her mid-thirties, Commander Vanessa Keynes was loyal to the bone – perhaps to a fault, some might say.

"Keynes," Marcus began, his eyes wandering over the command screen. "How long until we drop out of FTL?"

Vanessa was in the middle of something – she sorted datapads in her hands, her brows furrowed. "Helm reports five minutes, Captain. Orders?"

A mug of steaming coffee sat upon the table. Grasping it by the handle, Marcus took a swig of the brew. Hot, bitter, and a wonder to his tongue. For all the bad, the Republic sure knew how to take care of its own.

"Prep weapons and countermeasures, all hands to battlestations." Marcus ordered, placing his coffee down. "We catch these rebels now, and we're not letting them escape this time."

The commander nodded, giving a stiff salute. "Aye-aye." She walked away, taking the datapads with her. Marcus closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the bridge wash over him. The low hum of the drive core, the hustle and bustle of his crew as they toiled. Marcus Shepard did not think he would ever tire of it.

A low beep signaled the intercoms, and Vanessa's voice came through the speakers. "All hands to battlestations, all hands to battlestations. This is not a drill, all hands to battlestations."

Marcus opened his eyes, noting that the action within the bridge had seemed to double. A timer had appeared in the corner of his command screen, denoting 03:22. Three minutes and twenty two seconds left.

"Tactical!" he barked out, looking to the side. "Status?"

A crewmember called back immediately – Marcus smiled. "Main guns are online and ready to fire, Captain! Broadsides are charging, reading an average of seventy-six percent. Missile pods are prepped, and torpedoes are armed and loaded for bear."

Marcus nodded, taking another glance at the timer. 02:43. "When we drop out of FTL, I want an immediate scan of the system." Marcus commanded, before taking another swig of his coffee. "If there are any insurgents, we'll give them no quarter."

00:38. It was nearly time, Marcus noted. He gazed over the command screen, taking in the different visuals and figures. Shields were ready, engineering was steady… now, all he could do, was wait thirty more seconds.

The time passed quickly, and he watched as the timer clicked, second after second. Shaking his head, Marcus took a big swig from his coffee, draining the mug entirely. He placed it down on the command table before facing forwards. He was ready, he knew, and whatever sympathies he might have left for the rebels…

He'd have to set them aside.

Five seconds left. The intercom buzzed again, and Marcus tensed.

"All hands prepare for FTL drop."

The timer finally hit zero, and the hairs upon the back of Marcus' neck stiffened. An electric charge seemed to pass through the bridge – a sensation that he had felt so many times before, yet never managed to fully acclimate to. Then, with a sudden crack, the Crusader's momentum seemed to shift entirely. They had dropped out of FTL.

"Status!" Marcus barked, staring intently at the command screen. A red blip had appeared in the corner – several of them, in fact.

"All systems nominal, shields are prepped!" a voice called back. "Captain, I'm reading four signatures to our front – CLF frequencies detected!"

A window appeared on the command screen, growing larger. Four red figures came into view, their shapes familiar. One was larger than the rest – a Lancaster-class destroyer. The other three seemed to be corvettes, only a mere two hundred meters in length. Confidence flowed through Marcus, and a small smile stretched across his features.

"Captain! CLF vessels detected, counting four targets bearing four points to starboard. Looks like their shields aren't up. Orders?"

Marcus nodded, resting his hands upon the command table. "Maintain heading. Target that destroyer, designation 'Alpha.'" He took a deep breath, raising his chin. "Comms, send a warning. No survivors."

"Message away, Captain! Targets are on the move – they're trying to escape!"

Marcus Shepard shook his head – he wouldn't allow that. "That's not happening. Power reactors to one-hundred and fifty percent. Tactical, status?"

"Target Alpha is in range, firing solutions acquired!"

"Fire when ready."

A moment later, the Crusader rumbled, three shots firing in quick succession. Marcus watched as a trio of bright red lights shot through space, before impacting upon the destroyer. Fire rippled across the CLF ship's hull, the armor no match for the magnetic cannons.

"Target Alpha is drifting – looks to be a good kill," a crewmember said. "Captain, the corvettes are turning around – they're heading for us."

Marcus laughed mirthlessly – it was more of a scoff, in all honesty. "They must know they don't have a chance. Helm, bring us around."

The Crusader neared the corvettes, slowly turning towards its starboard. Meanwhile, a trio of lights flashed from the CLF ships – they had fired. Three electric yellow beams crossed the expanse in seconds, flying towards the Crusader. They never hit their target, however – a blue sphere seemed to flicker around the hull, and the shots, relatively small depleted uranium shells, simply disintegrated upon impact.

"Shields are at ninety-four percent, Captain." Marcus raised a brow, grinning. By now, the entirety of the Crusader's starboard side faced the corvettes, the hull bristling with the barrels of weapons.

"Fire starboard broadsides – full salvo," Marcus ordered, closing his eyes. He already knew what the outcome would be.

The Crusader's side burst alight, red explosions flickering all over the hull. The CLF corvettes stood no chance – while some shots missed entirely, the majority of the salvo tore through the ships. The corvettes slowly broke apart, their hulls fragmented as fire licked through what remained.

"No survivors detected, Captain," a voice called out, and Marcus nodded in understanding. However, as he counted the wreckages of the CLF vessels, his eyes narrowed.

"Three corvettes, one destroyer," Marcus Shepard mumbled, raising a hand to his chin. UER HIGHCOM had told him the flotilla that had attacked the traders had five vessels to his name – yet one was missing. He turned his attention to the planet the CLF vessels had been orbiting – a white globe, such that he suspected it was an arctic world.

"I want that planet scanned – as well as the space around it," Marcus ordered, his crew hustling to follow his commands. The planet appeared on his command screen, its white surface practically glowing with light.

"Scans are out," a crewmate called out, his hands flying across his display board. "Gravity anomalies detected – looks like a ship bugged out. Soon as we got here, I suspect."

That was unfortunate – while there was no point to capturing the ships, as the UER traders had long been executed and their goods jettisoned, UER had wanted the insurgents wiped out. Marcus closed his eyes, retreating into his thoughts, but they were interrupted when another member of the crew yelled out.

"Captain! Scans on the planet are detecting CLF frequencies – looked like they had a base on the surface."

That got his attention – a CLF base meant that survivors were probably camped out on the surface. Perhaps hiding, but unless Marcus had completely neglected a scan of the planet, they wouldn't have been able to hide for long. Neither would they have been able to escape – with no vessels, the insurgents were stranded.

Easy pickings for his marines.

Marcus Shepard placed a hand upon his command table, selecting a name – "Major Garren Reyes." A green light blipped into appearance on the table, signifying that a communication line had been established.

"Major Reyes," Marcus began, looking away. "Do you read?"

It took a moment, but a deep voice responded, the hint of a Hispanic accent lining it. "I read you, Captain. Rebels cleared out?"

Marcus nodded, though the major could not see it. "Affirmative, Reyes. I need you to prep your marines for a drop. You're going planetside."

"… Will do, Captain," Reyes responded. "What about Disciple Two?"

Marcus thought for a second – Disciple Two was the resident Special Assault Unit fireteam onboard his ship – special forces, trained for raids, assaults, and infiltration. They weren't a November Group team, by any stretch of the imagination, but they were still among humanity's best. Marcus grunted in affirmation, giving a small smile.

"Them too, Major. They'll take point. Carthago delenda est."

Marcus could hear the major chuckle darkly, a smirk evident. "Absolutely. I'll get my boys ready, Captain. Just get us in position."

The major disconnected, leaving Marcus to his thoughts. No matter how prepared the insurgents might be on the surface, they would not be able to withstand a concentrated marine assault – the captain knew that much. How many would be taken prisoner, however, was another question altogether.

Carthago delenda est.

No superstes.


Green fields, and golden pastures. A bright yellow sun overhead, and the smell of morning dew upon the grass. He could practically smell the harvest, the orange corn cooked on the cob. The gleeful shouts of the children, playing under the orchard trees.

Perhaps it was the notion of a time long past, but Victor Evans cherished it – the memories of a bygone day, immortalized in a little picture.

The picture frame was small, kept tidy. Victor held it within his hands, his eyes gazing over the scene held within. It was an old picture, taken by on older model of vid-camera, but he kept it nonetheless. A reminder.

Victor looked up, taking a glance around the room. It was a pod-bay, the walls lined with drop-pods and arms lockers. Nearby were a man and a woman, both suited up in armor – black hardsuits, with yellow lines running down the middle. The armor, and colors, of the Special Assault Unit.

He himself was a Special Assault Trooper, a member of a dedicated force of elite marines. The others were two of his squadmates – Valerie Black, the squad marksman and technical expert, and Jason Dunn, their automatic gunner. Victor wondered where their commanding officer was, but his thoughts were interrupted when a yellow light and a loud buzz began to blare on the ceiling. A nearby door opened, and a tall, blond man walked in.

"You know the routine, marines," the man called out, getting their attention. "Get to your pods, and get ready."

He walked towards Victor, a weapon in hand. Getting closer, the man gave Victor a small smile, offering the gun.

"You're not going anywhere without a weapon, Rook," He handed Victor the rifle, before taking a glance at the small picture in his hands. "You ever gonna tell me what that picture's about?"

Victor shook his head, cradling the rifle in his arms. "Don't think so, LT," he chuckled, looking back up at the man. "What's the sitch?"

"LT" was Victor's commanding officer – Lieutenant Jonathan Faulk. He was the leader of their squad, a tidy little team of shock troopers. Together, along with two others, they were "Disciple Two" – the Crusader's resident fireteam of Special Assault Troopers.

Faulk looked away, towards the other two members of Disciple Two - the woman, with a brown ponytail, and a rather large, dark-skinned man. "Just a combat drop. Reyes wants us at the front, clear out any rebels. Take prisoners, if we can." He turned around, beginning to walk away. "I'll let you get ready. Drop's in two mikes."

Victor nodded, looking back down at the rifle in his hands. An R8 Special Combat Assault Rifle, or SCAR – the UER's standard issue combat rifle. Humanity had long ago ditched traditional gunpowder-based firearms, and had adopted weapons based on Rivers-Gauss railgun technology. Every round contained its own small electric charge, allowing the firearm to accelerate shots at insane velocities.

"Deadly" was an understatement, and Victor would hate to be caught on the other side of a UER firearm. The SCAR itself was of a simple, yet rugged and utilitarian design. The design itself was relatively comparable to those of 21st century firearms – sleek, modular, and comfortable. As a young child, Victor's Infonet searches into early models of the SCAR had brought up references to such names as "SIG 550" and "MCX." Curious, really.

His own rifle was somewhat modified – a slightly longer barrel, a small scope on top, and an extended stock. Shaking his head, Victor attached the rifle to one of his pod's magnetic straps, seeing a small handgun in the other strap – an R2 Crimson. At his feet was a helmet, and Victor picked it up. It was black, with a polarized visor and a yellow line running down the middle. With a grunt, Victor slid it over his head, watching as his heads-up-display flickered on.

A moment later, his pod closed shut, the doors hissing as the seals became airtight. Victor could hear a rumble as, below the pod, the bay doors slid open. His pod slowly rotated, before coming to a stop right above the gap.

Victor's earpiece crackled, and a small name appeared in the corner of his vision – Faulk.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Disciple Two Actual. Check in, check in, drop is in thirty."

Two names joined Faulk's, blipping green in the affirmative.

"Black here, good to go," a woman's voice said, while Dunn's light simply blinked a few times. Victor knew Jason to be a quiet man, and wasn't surprised he hadn't voiced anything. Briefly clearing his throat, Victor queued his radio.

"Rook's green," he said, shifting his body in the pod. He gazed towards the top of the pod, his eyes landing on a small timer. Fifteen seconds.

Faulk's voice returned, relaxed and smooth. "Alright people, greenlight from command. Have good ends, good highs, and I'll see you on the ground."

Victor licked his lips, closing his eyes. "Hoo-ah," he muttered quietly. A few seconds later, a trio of beeps rang in his ear. A low groan rumbled through his pod, before it was jettisoned from its bay with a loud, explosive noise.

Opening his eyes, Victor was presented with a rather entrancing sight – the dark expanse of space, steadily growing more and more blue. Below, a tremendous globe of white sat waiting, glowing with a thin sheen of atmosphere. The trooper could see many small dots – hordes of them, really, at least a company's worth of pods as both his fireteam, and many more marines from the RNS Crusasder, plummeted down towards the planet below them.

"Never gets old, does it?" a voice asked in his ear – it was Valerie.

Victor chuckled lowly, before queuing his own comms. "No, it does not." He blinked once, before sighing. "Well, it is only my third drop. Should hope it wouldn't get old at this point."

"Right, yeah. I remember your file. Direct volunteer for the SAU, straight from the marine corps, yeah?" She paused, before clearing her throat. "Anyways, we've got a job to do. LT, orders?"

Faulk's light popped up on Victor's heads-up display, a small green dot. "Glad I didn't have to interrupt, Val. Gentlemen, we've got a simple job on our hands. Hunter-killer – find any insurgents, and eliminate them. Hoo-ah?"

The fireteam gave their responses, and Victor took a moment to look out his pod's window. The icy planet below was fast approaching, and a thin sheet of red began to form on the exterior of his pod. The tight cabin was getting hotter, and Victor began to feel the throes of adrenalin pumping through his veins. His heart pounded in his chest, the familiar sensation of the median between fear and resolve.

Pure seconds passed, thick clouds passing by as the surface of Signis II came into view. Their destination was written like the ink of a pen upon parchment – a small compound, its walls and structures a dark black upon the frosty white. Chatter in his ear brought Victor out of his thoughts, as Faulk's light appeared.

"Team, direct your pods to the marked waypoint," Faulk commanded, a red arrow appearing over Victor's HUD. It looked to be over the largest structure in the rebel base below. "On my mark, shift heading and deploy chutes."

Victor moved his hand towards a control stick, grasping it tightly. A red button was embedded within its top, its function singular – to deploy a parachute above the drop pod that would slow its descent. Not by much, mind, but enough to keep its occupant alive.

"Mark!"

Breathing heavily, the shock trooper jerked the stick, whilst simultaneously slamming his thumb on the red button. The entire pod lurched in the same direction, readjusting towards the red waypoint in his view. Victor could barely feel it, but the pod began to slow down – only minimally.

"Right," the lieutenant began again, his voice crackling in Victor's ear. "LZ looks to be a large structure – we'll figure out what it is. Soon as we land, we clear that building, and move onto the next. Val, I'm gonna need you to provide a layout of the base once we're clear."

"Wilco."

The base below them was quite close, now – in fact, he could see a few small figures rushing around, like ants around their hill. Small, bright orange flashes flared from a few of them, and out of habit Victor leaned back in his pod as he heard an audible ping on its underside.

He closed his eyes for a few moments, letting the rush of air outside his pod fill his ears. Victor's heart pounded in his chest, and for a few moments, he felt a simple peace – the calm before the storm.

It all ended, when he was suddenly jolted. He could hear glass shatter, followed by a dense explosion. Outside, voices screamed and shouted, visceral and guttural. This was real.

Snapping his eyes open, he looked to the corner of his HUD. A small radar appeared, a blue blip at the center. There was a veritable sea of red around him, along with a couple of green dots. Knowing that his squadmates were with him, Victor felt somewhat better – yet, he knew he had to capitalize on the force of surprise and shock. Jolting into action, he pulled his sidearm and rifle from their magnetic straps, holstering the Crimson pistol at his hip and grasping his SCAR tightly.

Victor took a deep breath, before slamming his hand on one of the many buttons in the pod. The doors burst open, and he could hear a dull thud, followed by a muted scream. Immediately, he was greeted by a dark room, a cloud of dust, and a flood of IFF strobes, most of them a hostile red. Pivoting to his left, he sighted two men in ragged green uniforms, fumbling with rifles. Two simple pulls of the trigger brought them down.

A bright orange flare burst from nearby, and Victor shuffled to the left. Just in time, as a yellow light whizzed by. He sighted the target and let loose a burst, watching as the rebel crumpled to the ground. A loud, guttural scream caught his attention, and Victor barely had time to turn around before seeing an insurgent sprinting at him, a knife raised high in the air.

Victor dropped his rifle, bringing both hands up to block the rebel's arm. Using the insurgent's own momentum against him, Victor shoved the knife into the man's stomach. The rebel doubled over, crying out in terror and pain, but was silenced by an armored elbow to the head.

He saw movement in front of him and crouched down, pulling his Crimson from its holster. He fired twice, crimson splattering across one insurgent's chest, while a third shot forced another to duck down. Grabbing his rifle from the ground, Victor took the moment to take cover behind his pod and take in the scene around him.

The room was large, barely lit, and dust filled the air. Tables were set in orderly lines, yet those nearest him and his pod were upturned, seemingly thrown about. The lights above flickered on and off, the power likely damaged by the onset of so many drop pods. Victor figured it was a cafeteria of some sort, and a few bodies lay scattered about – only some killed by his own hands.

Victor winced as a few rounds pinged off his pod. He looked around, searching for his squadmates, but could nothing but a few green blips. Hoping that they were alright, Victor grasped his rifle and blind-fired around the pod. The assault on his pod seemed to sputter and he rose from cover, rifle at the ready.

'Come on, asshole', he thought, keeping an eye out for other threats. 'Fucking test me.'

As if on cue, a head popped up from behind a table, a weapon pointed at Victor. Without hesitation, Victor fired a burst at the insurgent. The man fell back with a cry, scarlet painting the floor around him. Sliding forwards, the trooper ducked down behind the same table, listening and watching for more threats.

He quickly realized, however, that the gunfire had died down. Looking at his radar, Victor could no longer see any active red dots – only himself, and three stationary green blips. A voice called out from elsewhere in the cafeteria – a familiar one.

"Disciple Two, gimme a sitrep!" He could hear Faulk's voice coughing out, from somewhere to his right. Grunting, Victor rose to his feet, checking himself for injuries. He found none, and walked towards the green dots on his HUD.

"I'm good!" Victor called out, stepping over a corpse. As he approached, he could see Faulk and Dunn, the former kneeling on the ground.

"I'm good too," Jason said, his voice a deep baritone. He held a large weapon, a box magaizine hanging from the side. Beside him, the lieutenant was clutching his chest, patting it a few times. "LT, you hit?"

The ceiling lights flickered once, and then again. The lieutenant shook his head, coughing once. "Nah, it's nothing. Piece of concrete hit my chest. Fucked up, but I'm good." He looked away, scanning the room. "Where the hell's Val?"

There was silence for a moment, before a voice called back from the smoke. "I'm here." A feminine figure appeared in the smoke, a red visor peering at them. Valerie gestured backwards, giving a low chuckle.

"Looks like your pod door hit one of them," she looked at Victor, shaking her head. "Poor guy. No open casket for him."

Victor chuckled uneasily, unsure of what to say. Before he could figure something out, the lieutenant cleared his throat.

"Alright," he began, patting his chest one last time. "This room's clear – now to find the rest of these assholes." Faulk turned to Valerie. "Techie, got the layout for this place yet?"

The tech sergeant nodded, bringing her wrist up. A small hologram appeared from her arm, a glowing panel display. "Yep, got it right here. Looks like we're in the mess hall."

"I'll defer to you on this one. Where do you suggest we head next?"

The woman's gloved fingers flew across the haptic display, her eyes scanning its contents. "Hallway to the east heads to the brig, deeper into the base. Reds landed on the outskirts of the base – they'll take care of everything behind us."

Victor gave a snort at their nickname for the regular marines – named so for the red trim and stripes along their similarly black armor. "They'll be fine," he said, adjusting his grip on his SCAR. "What do you think, LT?"

Faulk sat in contemplation for a few moments, before nodding. "It's decided. Check your weapons and gear – we'll make our way towards the brig." The lieutenant motioned towards Victor. "Rook, take point."

Nodding, Victor jogged towards one end of the large mess hall, towards a large metal door. As he neared, the door began to slide open. Before it fully opened, however, the doors released a jet of sparks, causing the trooper to jump back.

The door slammed back shut, a loud clang reverberating through the mess hall. Victor sighed, stepping to the side.

"Door's jammed," he announced, placing his rifle on his back. "I'll try and force it open. Anyone got a read on the other side?"

Dunn joined him, grasping the right side of the door as Victor grabbed the left. Valerie pressed herself up against the hall beside him, whilst the lieutenant kneeled to the side.

"Gimme a moment," Black muttered, her hand once more reaching for her gauntlet. "Shit, hold up. Three hostile signatures in the hall – basic foot-mobiles. More in the next hall."

Jason spoke up, holding up a small cylinder in his hand. "I got a niner. On your mark, LT?"

"Mark."

With simultaneous grunts of exertion, Victor and Dunn pulled open their respective sides of the door. The latter tossed the grenade into the hallway, barely missing a flood of yellow tracers. Victor waited a moment, hearing the distinctive concussive explosions of Jason's "niner" – nine rapid blasts as the hall before them lit up with a blinding white light.

As soon as the explosions ceased, Victor rushed into the hallway. Three red targets were scattered around the hall, each of them screaming in pain as they clutched their ears and covered their eyes. Three simple pulls of his trigger brought them down, but he wasted no effort in pushing forwards.

"Blitz 'em!" he could hear Faulk shout out, the team rushing ahead. They passed through an open doorway, and Victor's HUD immediately lit alight like a Christmas tree.

The room they had entered was similarly large, yet still somewhat smaller than the mess hall they had left. To Victor's left was a metal desk, and he slid behind it, taking cover as yellow tracers pinged around him.

"Dunn, tangos to your right, suppress them."

"Rook, flank those assholes!"

Victor peered over his desk, watching as their squad gunner's piece burst to life, roaring bullet after bullet at an insane rate. The enemy seemed similarly preoccupied, and he took the moment to rush from cover. Two rebels stood up to fire at him, but they were brought down by the distinct ping of a single-shot rifle. The trooper made a mental note to thank Valerie later.

He slid behind another desk, aiming over the top at an exposed insurgent. A burst brought the man down screaming, but another took aim at Victor, and he ducked down.

"Black," Victor spoke into his radio. "Hostile to your eleven, I'm suppressed."

A second later, he heard a rebel cry out in pain, but Victor paid it no heed as he leaned around the other side of the desk. Two men were charging forwards, but his rifle sputtered with a steady staccato, and they crumpled to the floor.

Moving from cover again, Victor slowly rotated around the side of the room. He waited until he was fully behind the insurgents Dunn was suppressing, before taking aim.

Cra-crack! Cra-crack! Cra-crack! Cra-crack!

The rebels fell, crimson splattering across each other as bright red tracers impacted their bodies. The room fell silent once more, though Victor could still hear the distinct sounds of fighting elsewhere in the facility.

"Clear!" he shouted, turning around towards another door. His squadmates echoed the word, sooning joining Victor.

Valerie looked to her wristbound computer once more, pressing herself against a wall. "That's the brig, on the other side. Single hallway, twenty cells on each side. Orders, LT?"

The lieutenant looked to Dunn, nodding. "Jason, get that door open. You two, get ready to clear the brig out."

The large gunner moved forwards, placing his hands upon the door. With another loud grunt of exertion, he pulled the panel to the side, revealing a dark hallway. Victor moved through the doorway, followed by the tech sergeant. Near the other side, he could see six orange blips, rapidly moving away from them.

"There, more of them! Down the hall!" Faulk shouted behind him, and Victor's legs pumped into action. "Rook, Black, after them!"

Victor charged forwards, hearing the armored boots of the squadmates behind him. One of the rebels looked back, looking strangely blue, but he ignored the oddity, trying to bring his rifle up. Faulk's words stopped him, however.

"Unarmed targets, unarmed targets! Do not shoot, do not shoot!" the lieutenant cried out. They were getting closer and closer, the insurgents looking strangely fatigued, and within seconds the shock troopers had closed the distance.

With a feminine cry, the rebel in the back fell to the ground, her booted feet twisted at an awkward angle. Seeing an opportunity, Victor dived forwards, his armored body landing upon the insurgent as she cried out in pain. He pulled out his Crimson, pointing it at her face.

"Halt!" Valerie ordered above them, and he looked up to see his squad holding the rebels at gunpoint. Yet, something was wrong – the insurgents looked odd, their forms not at all like those of humans. He looked down again, peering into the eyes of the rebel caught below him, yet his breath hitched in his throat as his heart skipped a beat.

A blue face met his armored visor, a set of tentacle-like cropping at the back of the head. The features was distinctly feminine, human yet alien. And the eyes – a deep violet, yet they grew more and more black by the moment.

Before Victor could react, a pair of hands slammed against the side of his helmet, grasping his head tightly. He made to shout, to cry out in indignation and alarm, but Victor found his vision hazing, his eyes glazing over as the woman's eyes below him turned a full midnight black.

"Embrace Eternity!"

His vision exploded, his mind a roulette of kaleidoscopic colors. Images flashed before him, wheeling away like a dancer's pirouettes. A city, a peoples, billions upon billions, and a wide planet, lush with life and blue.

The thousands of stars, many of them home to people. Colonies, homes, yet not of the United Earth Republic. A station in the sky, amidst a violet cloud of atoms, home to millions of beings. The spiky ones – turians? The blue ones – asari, like the one who clutched his mind. A frog peoples, salarians. Many more, and Victor's mind rushed through them like a crazed fly.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Victor reeled back in shock, his vision exploding once more, yet with colors and sensations of the present – of the immediate. A heaved gasp escaped his lungs, a pained groan as he lay back upon the cold concrete.

Before him was the woman – the asari. Arysa T'Remi – how did he know her name? She gazed at him with a veiled expression – fear? Shock? Possibly a tint of sorrow and remorse? Standing above them were the rest of his squad – Jonathan Faulk, Valerie Black, and Jason Dunn, staring at Arysa and her friends, their eyes ablaze with fury.

The friends – the other aliens. Their names crossed his mind, but he could not point any to a specific being. Yet, he ignored that notion for now – fear and anger. Fervent fear and ardent anger welled up inside him, and Victor sat up with another pained grunt, grasping the grip of his pistol once more. The others were silent, and Victor spoke.

"The fuck," he spat out, grasping the lip of his helmet. He tore it off, to reveal his enflamed and terrified expression. "Did you just do to me?"

As if on cue, his squadmates raised their weapons as well, pointing them once more at the aliens. The aliens stared at Arysa, their expressions foreign, yet so familiar – prompts, frustration, and horror.

Victor made to shove the barrel of his Crimson into the blue-skinned alien's face, but her cries stopped him, her mouth moving with unease as bubbled words fell from her mouth.

"S-stop!" she cried out, a hint of a tear appearing in her eye. The alien – Arysa, as Victor somehow knew her name – shook her head and wringed her hands. "P-please!"

Her words sounded as if she had a ball in her mouth – nearly babble, as if the very words were foreign to her. Yet, Victor's eyes widened, as did those of his team. The alien had not spoken whatever tongue her people used – instead, her words were in English, the common language of Man, and an impossibility for any asari, nor turian nor salarian, to know.

"Me… me let," Arysa stuttered, before wringing her hands and holding her temple in frustration. "Let… let me? Let me ex… ex-ex… explain!"

Victor took a deep breath, still holding his pistol up. "How the hell… do you know English?" He moved his off-hand to his head, holding the base of his palm against his temple.

"I can explain!" Arysa assured, her hands held in front of her. Her words felt more and more familiar by the moment, no longer a bubble upon her tongue. "Please—"

"Then explain!" Victor shouted. He felt strange – he had never felt such a combination of fear and terror before, yet it was a completely unfathomable circumstance. He felt as if he had his mind groped, violated, and licked apart by an unwanted entity.

The asari made to scramble back, but she had nowhere to go. She whimpered, beginning to cower. "The mindmeld, I… I didn't mean to!" She held her hands together, seemingly pleading with the human trooper. "Just instincts!" Arysa bowed her head, tears now falling freely from her face. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry!"

Victor fell silent, unsure of what to say. He shivered, his body tremoring as the Crimson in his hand shook. Suddenly, he felt a warm hand upon his shoulder, and he scrambled back to see Valerie looking down at him. Her helmet was off, a gaze of confusion, yet resolve, in her eyes.

"Rook. Rook!" she pulled him up back, turning Victor away from the others. "You alright? What happened?" She held a sort of maternal tone to her voice, completely unlike her usual self.

Victor looked back, watching as Dunn and Faulk held all of the aliens at gunpoint. Arysa was still sniveling on the ground, now clutching her knees to her chest. Turning back to Valerie, he sighed an unstable breath.

"I… I don't know," he muttered, taking another deep breath to calm himself. "I don't know. But I'll be fine. Hopefully."

Valerie's head tilted, signaling that she did not completely believe him. Their attention, however, turned to Faulk, who had queued up their squad radio.

"Weaver, Disciple Two Actual. Do you read? Over." Faulk spoke, turning away from the aliens as he signaled to Dunn.

Their respective radios crackled, and a baritone Hispanic voice responded. "I read you. Send traffic, over."

Faulk glanced at Victor, before continuing. "Weaver, what the fuck is first contact protocol?"

Victor tuned the rest of their conversation out, instead taking deep, repetitive breaths to calm himself. Valerie stood above him, a hand on his shoulder as she looked back at the aliens. A few seconds later, Faulk's voice caught their attention, and Victor looked back.

"Dunn! Black!" Faulk prompted, pointing at the aliens. "Get those things cuffed. I'll talk to Rook."

Victor shook his head, motioning for Faulk. He held his hands together in the air, a decision weaving together in his mind. "LT? Cuff me too."

Faulk's head tilted, confusion evident behind his visor. "Come again, Rook?"

The trooper rose to his feet, his stance unsteady. He grabbed his lieutenant's chestplate, bringing the man closer. "I said cuff me, sir," Victor whispered, briefly closing his eyes. "Don't ask, just do it."

Faulk stood silently for a moment, before nodding. "I'll trust your judgement, Rook. Hands together."

Victor clasped his hands together, holding them out for the lieutenant. Faulk brought out a pair of glowing blue rings, seemingly holographic as they hummed in the dark. Wrapping them around Victor's hands, they latched shut with a laser-like buzz. Turning away from the Corporal, Faulk brought his hand back up to his helmet.

"Crusader, Crusader, Disciple Two. Prepare the brig. We've got prisoners."


A/N: Hey, all, and welcome back. I know it's been some time, but I finally managed to get this chapter done after many distractions.

I'm not the best at writing combat scenes, so hopefully it all went well. Let me know if there's an issue!

Review Responses:

89: I'll keep that in mind for next time. Thanks. Might go back and edit it.

Ocstek: I like to think that I've balanced the canon and UER technologies well. We'll see, won't we?