September 17, 15:12 Hours
Muffled thuds and faint vibrations. Thats all you feel when you pilot a Titan. Spencer was ecstatic that he was back in the saddle, piloting a Titan again. He felt safe, protected, powerful. Knowing you could take a beating and give a thrashing, thats what he loved. The power. But power is a trivial aspect to dwell upon. With your enemy armed with the same equipment, and with just as much availability, the fate of battle crashes upon the individual. It comes down to a person's training, their will to live, their drive, determination. Those who lacked these traits in ample quantities often found themselves dead, at the worst, or captured or injured. Or they put their allies or the mission at jeopardy, something inexcusable. However, Spencer need not worry about these, he was plenty determined, well trained—granted he had little experience, being a rookie—but he showed promise none the less.
"Alert: Hostile Titans closing in on our position. 25 meters and closing." Jeeves warned. Spencer directed his weapon in the general direction he assumed the Militia Titans would approach from. He flicked a small button on his command console, a small blip showing on the display that the weapon's safety had been switched off and the XOTBR-16 was now armed. Spencer then clicked on his helmet microphone.
"Alright, here they come, remember: I'll try to catch one of them with the det' charges I placed." Spencer spoke as he walked his Titan around the corner of a building, waiting in ambush. "Hopefully, we take out one of the Titans with the charges and the others get caught in the blast. If we can take out one with the charges and damage the others in the explosion, we should be able to take down the other two no problem." Spencer finished as he finished positioning himself behind a large office building that sat on top of a small cafe.
"Alright, gotcha." Gomez replied curtly.
"Alert: Hostile Titans are engaging a friendly Titan." Jeeves blared over Spencer's internal speakers. Muffled staccato reports and disorienting thuds coming from nearby. subconsciously tightened the grip on his control yokes, sinking a little lower into his seat as a grimace etched itself into his face.
"Gomez, eyes on?" Spencer asked, to which a small window appeared in the corner of his display, showing Gomez's Strider engaging three Titans. Gomez's strider had a field of rockets and bullets suspended in front of him, caught within his Titan's vortex shield. Spencer noticed as Gomez fired off the cluster of munitions, that as the Militia Titans dashed away from the danger, they placed themselves within the blast radius of Spencer's explosive charges.
Spencer quickly clicked in his killswitch detonator, causing the explosive charges to release their volatile payload. An entire section of a building crumbled down as several cars and trucks exploded, catching two of the three Titans within it's blast. One of the Titans took the brunt of the explosion, going supercritical almost instantaneously, the pilot unfortunately did not have enough time to eject. The Titan's powercore overload taking the operator with it, as it imploded, crumpling upon itself before spewing metal wreckage and bits of flesh in every direction. The second Titan, while faring better than its ally, was still not too far off. Entire sections of armor were sheared off, the hulking behemoth was also covered in soot and grey dust. The machine sparked heavily and struggled to move fluidly, however it still fired its weapons, markedly with less precision, its attacks fueled by anger.
Spencer dashed from his hiding spot, slamming his Atlas into the burning mass of one of the remaining Militia Titans. The impact of the charge causing the hostile Atlas to stagger sideways before turning to face a hail of 20mm rounds fired at point blank. The Militia Atlas also returned fire, the rounds crashing into Spencer's energy shield. The rounds of Spencer's weapon tore through the weakened armor as if it was paper. Spencer continued to fire until the firing mechanism on his XOTBR-16 locked back, its magazine spent. The enemy Titan being unable to take anymore abuse began to shut down, the telltale glow of a titan going supercritical emitting from the core of the machine. The Militia pilot promptly ejected from his doomed Atlas, just as the machine detonated. Spencer's shield managing to catch the brunt of the point blank explosion, the force of which sent his Titan stumbling backwards.
"Gomez, two Titans down. I'm on my way to help you with that last Tit—" Spencer began before being cut off by his Atlas's Operating System.
"Alert: Friendly pilot has ejected from their Titan." Jeeves quipped. The lack of emotion in his butler-like voice betraying the gravity of the situation. Spencer turned to see a finger of smoke reaching into the air as a white, now blackened, Stryder burst into flames. The Militia Atlas that doomed the Stryder, reared its fist back as it plunged its metal gauntlet into the vacant cockpit of the Stryder, causing the nimble machine to shudder and fall backwards as its internal systems were ripped out.
"Sorry man, had to eject, those Quad Rockets did a number on my Titan." Gomez said with a grunt as he landed on the rooftop of a nearby building.
"Don't worry I'll get him. Be careful one of the pilots ejected, they must be around here somewhere." Spencer said as he reloaded his Titan's weapon.
"Gotcha." Gomez replied before snapping his radio off.
Spencer watched as the Militia Titan before him reloaded its Quad Rocket launcher, towering over the burning wreckage of his ally's Titan. The green behemoth was decorated in war paint, fierce intimidating designs and tally marks covered the machine. "Gotta hand it to you, you IMC boys know your stuff." A gruff older voice boomed from the external speakers fitted to the Titan. "But I got some news for you, I too, know my stuff. And I'm about to rip you out that Titan, boy." The voice growled.
Cpl. Spencer flicked his own external speaker on. "That sure is some big talk for someone who just had three of his teammates Titan's destroyed." Spencer chided, a hint of malicious humor creeping into his words.
"You destroyed a bunch of Rookies, besides, I am no rookie." The voice boomed, as it finished reloading its Quad Rocket. Shouldering the massive weapon before firing off a salvo of warheads.
Spencer dodged the telegraphed attack with ease. He also began to rejoice as the time they had spent bantering had allowed his shields to begin their recharging sequence. Spencer depressed the trigger on his control yoke, the XOTBR-16 his Titan wielded spitting hot, angry fingers of death at his opponent. Vibrations racked Spencer's machine as the weapon's recoil fought in protest to the bullets it was coughing out. Spencer watched on in triumph as the much quicker bullets ripped into the Militia Atlas' shield, which crackled and rippled with each round it took, before overloading and winking out of existence.
Spencer moved to dodge another incoming salvo of rockets only to place himself within the collision course of another. Spencer grunted as the explosions depleted his shields and washed over to damage his Titan. "Warning: Hull integrity at 83%. I've sustained minor damage to the hydraulics system." Jeeves informed Spencer as he fired off another burst of bullets. Spencer quickly dumped the empty Magazine before rifling through his Atlas' massive ammunition pouches and slamming home another drum of bullets. Spencer dodged again managing to get half of his bullets to hit his target, which was also evading. They danced back and forth, to and fro, bobbing and weaving between buildings and down alleyways, firing their weapons the entire time. The air between them alive with red hot spikes of death and streaking fireballs.
This dance seemed to go on forever, both Atlas' dodging and evading. For every magazine Spencer would pour into his target he would take a few salvos of rockets. Both were damaged but Spencer knew he couldn't take another salvo. "Alert: Damage Core is available. Warning: We have sustained critical damage. I suggest a tactical withdrawal." Jeeves spoke again. Spencer cursed to himself as his display flickered and stuttered with video corruption before popping back on, the viewscreen filled with static. Spencer's Titan was extremely damaged, but so was his enemy's. Spencer dropped his magazine as he activated his damage core, grabbing a fresh drum of now pre-superheated, induction hardened rounds. These bullets usually wrecked any weapon they were fired from but they packed a bigger punch, something Spencer needed to win this battle.
Spencer reacted quickly as the rocket incoming alarm blared through his cockpit, activating his Vortex Shield, catching three clusters of rockets before firing them back at their owner, unleashing his own torrent of shoulder mounted missiles. The rockets and missiles streaked to their intended target the majority of the explosives impacting the Militia Titan. Spencer then squeezed his trigger, firing all forty of his superheated rounds, quickly streaking to his intended target.
Spencer laughed maniacally as he watched the hostile Atlas contort and twist under the hail of bullets, causing the enemy Titan to burst into flames. However as Spencer dropped the empty magazine he was struck by a parting shot of rockets right before the pilot ejected from his doomed Titan. "Warning: Critical System Failure. Reactor overload imminent." Spencer screamed out in anger, smashing his fists into his controls before calming himself down. His Titan's Operating System warning him to eject. Spencer sighed, before punching in the hatch release key and yanking on the ejection control lever. A sense of vertigo, followed by a rapid ascension into the air as he cleared his now self-destructing Titan's blast radius overwhelmed Spencer's senses before he came to a dull thud of a landing. As the corporal reached for his back to unclasp his firearm he was met with a figure rushing towards him, covering ground at an astonishing rate. The figure slammed into Spencer knee first, snapping the corporal's head back.
Spencer was knocked onto his back from the force of the blow, and soon pinned by a heavy weight. Spencer looked up to the rather bulky pilot pinning him to the ground, his open faced armor allowing Spencer to gaze upon his sneering face. "Well now…" the man chuckled, "You had some tricks up your sleeve, boy. Got some potential in you. Well, had some potential." The man said as he reached to his thigh, removing his sidearm, a B3 Wingman revolver, from it's holster. "Told you I would kill you." The man grinned sinisterly, placing the barrel of the large weapon in Spencer's face.
Spencer gulped as he slowly saw the hammer of the weapon draw back, the man seeming to enjoy every second of this moment . The cylinder of the weapon rotating just fractions of an inch to line up the next bullet in the chamber. Spencer shut his eyes waiting for the inevitable. An eternity seemed to pass as his breath hitched in his throat. He trembled, but out of anger or fear he was uncertain. Spencer flinched when he heard gunshots, but he wasn't dead yet. He opened his eyes to see Gomez firing his C.A.R. submachine gun, bullets whizzed past and around Spencer in short, controlled bursts. Gomez clearly trying to kill or at least wound the man currently holding a gun to Spencer's head.
The Militia pilot, now with a much more valid, and rapidly approaching threat, raised his weapon to Gomez. Spencer let out the breath he didn't know he was holding before beginning to react. The man fired off a single shot hitting Gomez, causing him to yelp out in pain, twisting from the impact of the round before crumpling to the ground in a groaning heap. Spencer, seeing his teammate wounded before him went into overdrive, his mind racing as he yanked the knife he held securely to his leg and plunged it into the man's side, before yanking it up and across the man's abdomen before it became caught upon bone and hard armor. The man screamed in excruciating agony as Spencer twisted the knife and yanked it out, bringing blood and ribbons of entrails with it. Spencer began to rise, putting his strength into moving the bigger man. However to Spencer's surprise the man narrowed his eyes, fighting the urge to cough up blood as he leveled the B3 and squeezed off a round into Spencer's stomach. Spencer gasped as the force of the round knocked him back.
The man growled in a mixture of pain and hate before speaking again. "That... was a nice little... stunt you pulled there." The man groaned out between gasps and grunts of pain. "I'm gonna... leave you like this…. let you bleed out…" The man spoke small coughs of blood interrupting his speech. "Eye for an eye, right." Spencer could only groan in response. He looked past the man who was rapidly fading in and out of focus and to the sky. He watched on as several Crow dropships zipped overhead followed by several IMC Phantoms, shortly followed by a radio transmission.
"All pilots, all pilots. This is Saber Actual, good work out there today. We have managed to pull vital intelligence on this Militia Raiding operation. All units are now being tasked with stopping the Militia from successfully withdrawing their forces. Saber Actual, out."
"All fire teams, all fire teams. This is Guardian Actual you are to sweep and clear your sectors, make sure there are no Militia stragglers left behind. Guardian Actual, out."
Spencer looked up as the man struggled to get to his feet, he most likely received orders the opposite of the corporal's, telling the man to reach extraction. Spencer struggled to reach for his sidearm but found he lacked the strength to do so at the moment. He watched as a Crow landed on a nearby rooftop a block or two away, several Militia Pilots racing to get aboard the dropship. He heard a jump kit engaging and a thud followed by a pair of green uniformed legs running past him, stopping to help up the pilot he had injured.
"Ah christ, Vic, you okay?" A female voice called out, laced with concern. "Youre losing a lot of blood. We gotta get you out of here, come on." Spencer recognized the voice as the one they called "Bishop".
"Nah, little... bastard got me." The man, Vic, responded, pointing towards Spencer who lay half curled in a ball, hands furiously clutched to his stomach. Spencer recoiled slightly as Bishop drew out her sidearm, a Hammond P2011, pointing it at Spencer. Much to the corporal's surprise and relief however, Vic placed his hand on the weapon, angling the barrel down to the floor. "No, he deserves this… Payback for what he did to me." Vic wheezed, he was getting worse.
Bishop turned to look at Vic, and while her face wasn't visible Spencer knew a look of confusion must be upon her features. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders before holstering her handgun, and using both her arms to support Vic's weight. She flagged down another passing Pilot, motioning to have them help her get her squadmate to the awaiting Crow. Spencer on the other hand tried to lay as still as possible, aside from trying to play dead, the less energy he wasted on movement the more time he had to wait for a friendly fire team to get him some medical attention, at least he hoped he would get medical attention. He knew death could happen at any time, he never thought he would be waiting for it to come though. Spencer watched on as the three Militia pilots made their way down the street and around the corner. He watched for a few more moments, minutes perhaps, until eventually the Crow dropship dusted off and rocketed into the distance.
Spencer blinked his eyes and gulped hard, he looked to his abdomen, then to the slowly ever growing pool of blood he was lying in. He spared a look over to Gomez, who was struggling to stand up, blood had pooled up under his armor, soaking the upper left corner of his uniform. He made his way over to Spencer, crouching down and slowly rolling him onto his back, much to Spencer's strained protests. For the longest time Gomez didn't speak, he simply propped Spencer up with his right arm, sitting the wounded man up, as he tore off a sleeve of his uniform. Gomez poured some of his canteen water onto the makeshift rag, soaking it with cool liquid before wrapping it around Spencer's midriff, the item quickly becoming soaked in blood. Gomez then pulled an emergency Quick Administer Morphine Injector and gently pricked Spencer in the leg. Spencer's eyes began to flutter as the morphine kicked in, giving Spencer a drowsy dose of sedatives, to which Gomez lightly shook the man, the pain jolting Spencer to full alertness. It was then when Gomez spoke, strained, worried and tired. "Come on, get up." He tugged on Spencer's arm, who eventually stood up with a little bit of trouble.
Together the pair hobbled down the street, Spencer lost count of the blocks, he instead focused on Gomez's words, telling him to stay awake, that they were almost home, or of the stories of their childhood, to some of which Spencer chuckled. Eventually they came upon a few squads of Grunts and several BRD-01 Spectre Drones, several of which offered much appreciated medical aid. The pair soon found themselves in a makeshift combat hospital, a small motel with several rooms dedicated to medical care or robotic repairs for damaged Spectre units. Spencer soon found himself laying on a portable table, stripped from the waist up, with several gloved hands poking and prodding into him.
"Good news corporal, bullet didn't go through, so the damage isn't as bad as it could be. It also did not hit your spine, so consider yourself lucky." A combat medic said to the man from behind a bright light and a masked face. "Bad news is, you have lost a lot of blood and some of your organs are going to have to be cloned or donated. We can patch you up, give you some blood and stop the bleeding. But you are going to need proper treatment, this field medic stuff isn't going to cut it." The man said, before getting a two bags of blood labeled "A Pos" and attaching one to an IV which was then fed into Spencer's arm. They injected Spencer with more morphine before getting started on making sense of his shredded internal organs.
Before being placed within a drug induced sleep Spencer thought to himself. 'Heh, at least I am alive. That Vic asshole 's probably dead right now… serves him right…'
Spencer was not aware of the Goblin dropship that arrived in the parking lot of the motel, or being loaded onto said dropship with Gomez and several other wounded soldiers, or the warp to space. He wasn't aware of the docking and unloading or that he had been issued a room within the medical bay of the IMS Eden. When he finally came to, he had several tubes in his arm as well as a machine with several cables hooked to his abdomen. Spencer groaned at the sight and attempted in vain to sit up, his strength still gone. He looked around the room to see a window to look out of, they were in orbit over Adaena, an IMC controlled planet. Several other ships listed by on some lazy trajectory Spencer didn't care to analyze. He heard a knock on the door before it opened shortly afterwards.
He smiled faintly as his squadmates walked into his room, they were somber, but happy that Spencer was awake. They were dressed in their formal uniforms, some of them brandishing, new medals. Gomez was there, his tan skin standing in contrast to the light grey clothing, or the bright medals and ribbons on his chest. He held a small black box in his hands, it bore the IMC logo etched into the surfaces of the small container. A tall, bulkier man with a fading buzzcut, Rick, as he preferred to be called, spoke first. "Damn man they aren't turning you into a robot are they?" He spoke his friendly, energetic voice betraying his intimidating figure.
Spencer's smile widened only slightly, followed by a light chuckle. His squad leader, an older man, with salt and pepper slicked back hair spoke, "Damn, corporal, they really did a number on you. Or maybe you need to improve on your skills?" He mused playfully. "...Or….Maybe you got what you deserve, eh? You can be a little hard headed when it comes to orders." The man joked, scratching the buzzed sides of his head, before running his hand through the hair atop his head.
"I don't know, Sergeant, I think I deserve a promotion." Spencer joked coarsely. He then looked again to his pitiful state, his mood deadening. "...H-Hey… any news when I'm getting out of here?" Spencer almost whispered, he had heard of the stories of Pilots being bedridden for the rest of their lives from combat related wounds. The others picked up on his changed mood, the smiles, laughter and jokes petering out.
Gomez was the first to speak, "Two weeks." He said shortly, almost awkwardly "You'll be out in two weeks." He said a small smile on his face in a reassuring fashion. Gomez also offered the small black box to Spencer, stepping up to the side of his bed. Spencer glanced to the box, then to Gomez before returning to the box. Taking the box almost reluctantly he pried the small offering open. Inside, placed upon supple light grey velvet were two medals and a combat ribbon. Spencer recognized the medals instantly. A purple heart medal, one given to soldiers wounded or killed in combat. The other was a white star, the IMC's take on an ancient medal one of the old governments of Earth used to give out. It was usually awarded for bravery, or acts of valor in combat. Spencer smiled, but he didn't feel like he deserved the star, all he did was run away most of the time, not something too brave. But Spencer wasn't going to complain, "A medal awarded, is a medal earned." His drill instructor used to bark that into his ears when he had asked the importance of military medals. He knew not to question medals and ribbons shortly after his little, "lecture".
Closing the box gingerly, Spencer nodded in acceptance, he didn't really approve of the situation but things could definitely be worse. "How long have I been out?" He asked again, 'Must have been a few days at least, maybe two or three weeks. I mean Gomez is patched up… wearing his dress uniform.' Spencer thought, before his Sergeant answered his query.
"A whole seven hours!" He wailed in mock sorrow, a smile plastered upon his face. "We were worried you had gone and kicked the bucket!" He joked, laughing at Spencer's flustered then confused reaction.
"Yeah, come on man, with your luck? Its as if Lady Luck owes you money or something." Another man chuckled, everyone called him "Crates" due to his habit of sleeping on the cargo crates during the hours they were supposed to spend checking their Titans and gear. "I doubt you would of died even if you tried." He grunted with a slight sneer.
Spencer frowned and was about to speak out when the Sergeant beat him to it, "Hey, Spencer, how did you end up like this anyways? Gotta be a hell of a story." The man grinned sitting down in one of the few chairs in the room, effectively changing the subject to which Spencer reluctantly agreed to. Much to the Sergeant's relief, he didn't like it when his squad argued.
Spencer paused for a moment, thinking back and began to speak when a voice blared through the intercom. "Attention all medical personnel, visiting hours are over, please escort out all non essential personnel." Spencer sighed then frowned as a woman dressed in modest all white medical fatigues stepped into the room and directed the men out. After they left she shut the shutters of the window. This cut out all the light coming into the room, causing the room's artificial lights to automatically kick on.
"Anything I can get for you, sir?" She asked, her voice soft and gentle, she looked to the various machines and tubes inserted into the man, making notes on their readouts before actually looking at Spencer.
"I'm a little famished…" Spencer suggested before she nodded and left the room. He watched as she left before turning to the window, then, remembering it was closed, turned his attention to something else.
Spencer waited for the food to arrive, watching news reports on the recent battle before switching the channel to a local planetary cartoon network, something to lighten the mood. As the food arrived he had sat through two episodes of some boy and his robot dog. He turned away from the show, sparing one last glance before wolfing down the food. Combat tends to drain a person, so does getting shot, the food was welcome.
While it wasn't particularly good—food from the Medical Wing usually wasn't—it was fulfilling though, something Spencer appreciated. Spencer ate, scarfing down mouthfuls of some warm mush of an unknown origin with a complimentary side of greens and meat. Moments after his meal he quickly nodded off, the lights dimming and the video feed cutting out as they sensed his loss of consciousness. As he drifted off, he was grateful he was still alive, but he wasn't looking forward to the physical therapy he was most likely going to have to take, or missing out and then having to make up for all the training he was going to be absent from. His thoughts were troubled to say the least, but his sleep was undisturbed.