(A/N): Here comes chapter two, with a bout of writer's block on the side! I've always found coming up with story ideas far much easier and more enjoyable than the actual write ups. It's strange :O
In our last chapter, C-Sec Officer Alfred Saxon and black marketer Ferlorn Swinks had entered a business deal with a mysterious one-legged Turian woman called Farah Servilia. This deal involved a mission to raid a Reaper ship, for reasons unknown to the main duo. What could possibly lie ahead?
Well, I know... But I guess you'll have to read!
WARNING: Spelling errors, OCs, language, backwards attempts at being funny and dramatic at the same time, an inaccurate portrayal of autism, probably a bunch of lore contradictions, pop-culture in the far future, terrible accents and the usual mad bantz
Chapter Two: Familiar Faces
In the end, they'd actually managed to muster a whole five men between them across the Citadel. Sieving through all sorts of zealous militia and hardened spacers, the pair had somehow achieved a perfect balance of cost and performance that would make the government of Earth flush and fume. To be honest and true to himself Saxon was quite pleased with this accomplishment - he'd expected at least five men less.
Four of the five were a squad of Vorcha, likely Blood Pack or some other terribly named mercenary group that sounded more like a teenage alternative rock band than anything else. They'd heeded the call of duty with toothy grins filling their oversized gobs. Vorcha always looked like such a happy species, constantly smiling no matter the odds. It was enough to bring a tear to the pencil pusher's eye.
Their fifth ranger had taken a considerably longer time to find through a sea of fat and grease in Purgatory. Thankfully he stood out from a mile away, the chirping of cicadas that nestled within his hairy back announcing his presence. It'd been that bloke from the dance floor that had taken an interest in Saxon's arse as if it contained treasures deep within. Dodging his attempts to cop a feel, he'd popped the question without so much as taking a knee.
He agreed far too willingly for comfort, completely ignoring what little details the informant had to offer.
So that was that. A fellowship consisting of a one-legged sniper, a cockney desk worker, an autistic Salarian, four Vorcha and Big Foot's larger cousin had been formed to take on an unspecific number of synthetic zombie mega warriors with billions of intergalatic genocides under their collective belts. He swore he'd seen a snuff film with a similar premise once, but it wasn't something he'd like to discuss in public.
Saxon felt like he should've been disappointed in himself for not being particularly bothered by the odds he was throwing these strangers against. He felt like he should've been guilty for the inevitable deaths that were to come. Hell, those Vorcha were in their teens when it came to human years once you got down to the nitty-gritty.
But then to hell with it. Why should he feel worried about a bunch of strangers that he'd never interacted with in the past? They were on the payroll. They knew what they were getting into. And besides, he'd never really gotten why people went on about protecting the young and junk like that anyway. If anything older people had more experience and more value, and deserved more defence. They were like a fine wine, only less pleasant to drink or sniff.
It took a great strength of character for Saxon to cross the point of no return, but he'd managed to pull it off. He'd called in to the office sick for the weekend, reluctantly taking his first day off and kissing goodbye to his employee of the month portrait. That was bloody well depressing - now he was one of the normal folk, skipping work all willy nilly. Regardless, it was for the greater good.
In spite of the surge of depression his recent life choices had given him, probably the easiest part was renting out a small transport to ferry the gang to the warzone. Boy, that would be a threatening sight to behold wouldn't it? Eight people crammed into a tiny old banger held together with string and gum. Those Reapers must've been quaking in their non-existent boots.
And so here they were, gracelessly streaming across the stars like a fox turd in a children's playground. Saxon stared out of the plexiglass windscreen... Or spacescreen... With a distinct lack of awe in his eyes. He'd been told that gazing into the stars was one of the most spiritual and character-building experiences one could ever witness a hundred times over in his youth. To him, it was just a big black nothingness with a couple of twinkly bits on it. He'd get the same experience sprinkling glitter on a carpet and taking some LSD laced with red sand.
"You know what you're doing, right?" the South Londoner pressed, sat in the cockpit with his Salarian companion like a young couple bathed in the glow of a TV special. Swinks stabbed at a few buttons with his nose picker, looking very much like a pianist doped on caffeine. Saxon suddenly raised his voice in apparent alarm, "There, look. That light's blinking." he warned, "Is that for show, or are we running out of oxygen, or...?"
The pilot simply covered the flashing warning light with his palm, completely ignoring it like any normal person would. "Backseat driving is disrespectful."
Saxon grit his teeth. "I'm sorry, it's just..." he exhaled enthusiastically, squeezing so much air out of his lungs that he started to sound like a deflated whoopie cushion crossed with a coughing chain smoker near the end. "This shuttle. It's about as tight as my aunt at the end of a new year's party. About as secure as a young person's bank account."
"Interesting." the Salarian said. It was a comment on the implications of his words, not on the frankly woeful analogies that he was spewing like projectile puke. He assumed that was little more than a coping mechanism in times of stress - the human's equivalent of sucking one's thumb. "Saxon is afraid of space travel?"
"I'm not afraid of space travel." he defended himself instantly. He worked and lived on a damned space station. Why would he be afraid of space? It was just an empty, limitless void of nothingness that would kill you within an instant if you so much as took a breath of it in. It was just an ever present threat, kept at bay by nothing more than a few inches of shoddy hull and glass with the integrity of an expensive Parisian lawyer. His rusty co-pilot chair squeaked like a turned on bunny rabbit, zapping him out of his thoughts. "... I'm afraid of space travel in this thing."
Swinks decided to utilise his extensive knowledge of middle-aged woman medicine, and gave Saxon a cure for his ills: "Take a walk." he recommended pleasantly, just needing breadcrumbs to feed some birds with and those weird flared glasses with those beaded strings on to perfect the image. "Enjoy scenery."
Take a walk through a rickety space shuttle and take in the scenery of never ending black and dull beige walls? Take a nice lungful of crisp artificial air through age old filters with enough green on their cartridges to make even the most ardent of vegans reconsidering their life choices? "I'll make sure to avoid the cracks." he said dismissively, hauling himself to his feet. There were old hull breaches on this shuttle that were being held by duct tape. Literal duct tape. And here he thought C-Sec was poorly funded. "Don't want to cause a draught."
Leaving the Salarian to do his thing unimpeded, Saxon squeezed through the shuttle's tight corridors and made his way to the old bitch's chest cavity. He had a sneaky suspicion that it'd been designed with Volus in mind, the permanent lean that he'd been forced to adopt buggering his back to no end.
Eventually he reached the main bay: A long tube with seats lined across the left and right walls, the mercenaries under his wing seated patiently for something to shoot at to drop on by. Whose idea was it to make the seats in these sort of transports face eachother? As if travelling with strangers wasn't awkward enough as it is, the corridors were just tight enough to make adjacent passengers rub their knees together suggestively with every bump.
There's only so much nervous chuckling can get you.
The Vorcha were huddled together like tramps around a burning barrel, whispering in their disgusting language about god knows what. They were far too busy to pay him much heed, not that it mattered. They would do their part when the time came, and in all honesty that was what mattered in the grand scheme of things.
In direct contrast the old yeti of a man certainly took heed to him, bring up his hand for a slap as if he'd spotted an incredibly large moth sat conveniently on the cleft of Saxon's arse. Rest assured, it took a tremendous effort to pull off a manly action roll to clear the arc of his palm before it connected to his cheek. This wouldn't be the day, that's for sure.
With the gauntlet cleared with green across the board, the cockney was met with one last obstacle - Farah Servilia, in the flesh. He'd tried to start a conversation with the Turian earlier in the day, but she'd refused to give much of an answer beyond "yes", "no", and "piss off" before returning to a bout of brooding. She was a depressing woman to be around, draining the hope and aspirations of nearby entities like a weirdly specialised sponge. She was beginning to remind him of his mother. Certainly looked a lot like her, the ugly harpy.
He stood in front of her for a good few seconds before she graced him with a spare glance. Glaring at him for a moment, she casually returned to tending to her weapon's needs. Saxon's nostrils flared, his arms folding. "Still wonderin' why you ain't got any prosthetics or anything." he said. Maybe he needed some lessons in social conduct, because generally that wasn't a good way to try and spark a conversation. "Would be pretty convenient."
Farah sighed, stripping out a bolt for the billionth time and turning it between her three fingers. "Does it really bother you that much?" Alfred stared at her digits for a few moments, watching her spin the trinket expertly. Now that he thought about it, did everyone that he knew on a first name basis have only three fingers? "I'm a sniper, Saxon. I don't exactly need to move much. I like to look my enemy in the eye while I kill them, preferable through a scope in an elevate position several hundred yards away." she rambled. Saxon's head was buried far too deep in philosophical monologue over the number of fingers that aliens seemed to have to really be paying attention. The bolt was suddenly shoved back into place, loudly clicking like a vital bone being realigned. "Still sounds romantic, doesn't it?"
He blinked wetly, trying to remember what they were talking about. "Would be a tad bit easier if you didn't have to hop everywhere." he noted. She had the speed of a white sprinter in the Olympics back on Earth. "Cybernetic implants are pretty freakin' awesome anyway. I once knew a bloke who cut off his own right hand for one."
Farah raised her brow. It would've been her eyebrow, if only she had one. It still conveyed the effect she was after at the very least. "Why his right hand?"
"He was lonely." Saxon put plainly.
Letting that hang in the air like a fart at a funeral, Farah - eventually - clarified her physical disposition. "... I hate technology. The more we rely on it, the weaker we become."
Great, a hippie. What was wrong with technology, honestly? Everything was technology, to some extent. And besides, it wasn't like it appeared out of thin air. "What about your gun?" Alfred pointed out for example.
"Except my gun." she growled, growing increasingly impatient with the white-collar before her. She'd hired him for manpower and nothing else. She didn't want to talk about nonsense.
"Except her gun." she said.
They called that "Dying a death of a thousand qualifications" in Philosophy class.
The ship's comm buzzed to life, what sounded like a massive and frisky bee filling the background. "Reaper ship detected. Docked on planetoid. Out of fuel? Will intercept." Swinks announced, sounding somewhat confused about this sudden development. He'd been expecting an interstellar docking. Landing in gravity was much less fun. "Recommend preparations."
Without so much as a peep the Vorcha began to wrestle with their guns, looking like hyperactive kids getting just what they wanted on a Christmas morning. Saxon stared at them dubiously, murmuring to the busy-bodied Turian beside him. "I still haven't heard a plan." he noted. "We just gonna go in all Rambo style? Wreck up the place?"
"Rambo?" Farah blinked, missing the alien reference as she stretched her arm, rising to her foot with her weapon-cum-crutch once again. She must've had a spine made of out palladium. "You and the others go in and check out the ship. I'll guard the rear."
"How heroic of you." Saxon swooned, more out of buffeting than emotion as the ship pierced the stratosphere like a nail through six-inches of concrete. He held on tight, trying to hide his difficulty keeping his footing.
Farah held onto his shoulder for support, lacking the reach or balance to grasp anything else. It would've been pretty romantic, if only it didn't hurt like a right bitch. "Somebody's gotta keep an eye on your ass, and that hairy guy isn't gonna cut it." she snarked, patting his back in encouragement. Surprisingly enough ol'Chewbacca on the other end of the galley stared at Alfred's front expectantly, no doubt hoping to disembark behind him to see those thighs flexing. The Turian's voice was loud at such proximity, the surprise of her sudden speech only amplifying the effect.
"Get ready."
With a Turian clinging to his back like an oversized monkey, Saxon began the arduous process of triple checking that everything was in order. His suit was sealed in case the atmosphere tried anything funny, his helmet was strapped on tighter than a baby harness, and his rifle was as weighty and crummy as ever.
He'd used the Avenger once or twice in training, but it'd always been an unruly beast to handle. If you thought hiding an inconvenient erection was a challenge, try keeping the barrel of a standard issue rifle on target. It was bigger than the pistols that he was more adept with. For the most part he'd been trained in the use of peashooters, not the big ordnance and military grade gear. He preferred the children's toys himself.
Popping out the thermal clip and huffing the fumes like a first time druggie, Saxon merely closed his eyes and waited. Save for the rumble of the ship's primitive plate armour, the entire cabin was dead quiet as the shuttle roared towards the surface. This was supposed to be the time where you uttered a few prayers or maybe thought of loved ones, but those were right at the back of the pencil pusher's mind.
All he could think of was the Turian's fingers.
There must've been a conspiracy in there somewhere.
Some evolutionary link between the lines.
Nobel Peace Prize, here he came.
Without warning the transport's door unfurled, the reserved light of the planetoid's surface casting a faint shadow across the dirt before them. They'd landed in record time. Saxon hadn't even realised. "Landing complete." Swinks said over the radio, just to clarify for any of the slower passengers on board. Following a chorus of loud shuffles and repeated mutterings of the phrase "Stupid belt.", the Salarian exited the cockpit and joined the squadron of anti-heroes.
"You know what to do." the human began an improvised pep-talk, lacking the pips to really pull it off. "Fan out, scout ahead. Nothing fancy until we know the full picture." he commanded, staring at the line of blank faces apparently under his command. "I want updates by the minute. Got it lads?"
There was no chorus of applause or cheers like in the films. There weren't even jeers. The Vorcha didn't seem particularly bothered by his words, too busy mumbling between eachother indistinctly. Likewise the Neanderthal was too engrossed with staring at the cockney's groin to really spare his ears. Farah folded her arms indignantly, unimpressed by this display.
Saxon felt pretty embarrassed to be honest. Felt somewhat... Insignificant.
Somebody coughed. It took the C-Sec officer a moment to realise that it was him. "... Move out?"
They understood that language at least, hoisting up their weapons and getting a move on in unison. Mercenaries weren't the sort to listen to instructions and advice, preferring to do things in their own tried and true ways. The ways that had gotten them so far in life in the first place. That independence and free way of thinking was a blessing at times, but usually it was a complete and utter curse for the seasoned commander.
Which he wasn't at all.
Disembarking the ship, Farah grabbed a tight hold on Saxon's shoulder for the second time that fortnight. "Find me someplace to shoot from." she commanded like a feisty mother in law. The Turian raised her rifle into his vision, hoping that images and small words might help aid his understanding. "I need to be high to get the perfect shot."
The troops had gone off to do their own thing now, resembling treasure hunters on a beach with those crappy metal detectors. You know, the hand-me-down mine spotters? "High? I thought the exact opposite." Saxon joked at her word choice, prompting nothing more than her usual ire. Either she didn't understand what he was getting at, or she did. Regardless it was bad. Saxon suddenly felt pretty hot in his air-conditioned suit. "... Never mind."
Browsing through their options with a cocked leg, Alfred Saxon clicked his fingers and pointed at a nearby rock face. Acknowledging that as a good place to get started, he and Swinks began the slow and arduous process of helping a one-legged woman scale a steep incline. It was a lengthy trip, to put it simply. It was the most tedious and mind-numbing series of events outside the summer holidays, to put it more complexly.
"Clear." the poor excuse of an orang-utan said over the cackle of the radio, before returning to his sweep.
"This will do." Swinks rubbed his hands together like a shifty goods peddler, at last summiting the mesa with only a few raw scars to show for it. It was a flat piece of ground for the most part, with enough light cover to settle down for an extensive period. The trio looked ahead from their elevated position, at last spotting what they had came here for in the full.
It was pretty damn big in reality. You never really get the sense of scale in space when looking at smaller freighters swimming around stations and frigates, but even a small snubfighter could be as big as a group of flats. Or an apartment complex, if you preferred that term.
This was one of those bulky Turian corvettes. The space equivalent of a fancy yacht with a maple finish. It may've been "small" in space terms, but you could easily house a good two-hundred people in it and still have enough room for the occasional house party.
No patio barbeques though.
'twas quite the wonder to behold. Saxon's eyes almost seemed to glaze over as he stared at the monument to Turian labour, only to vaguely agree with the Salarian's choice moments later. "Yeah, yeah." he sputtered, letting Farah find her own legs... Leg... Footing. "Hunker down here."
After a few unsteady moments teetering like a circus performer on a tight rope, the maimed sniper suddenly flopped onto her stomach and began to roll for her rifle. He briefly thought that she was either having some sort of epileptic fit or embracing her inner fish, but he was quick to realise what was going on. Lord knew how soldiers could dive to the ground like that without getting winded. "Good angle over the door. Wind's not too bad." she narrated like an epicure, tweaking one of the entirely unnecessary knobs on the scope of her gun. "Nice choice."
"Clear." the horny grizzly bear updated on comms, clicking off without another word.
Swinks fixed an imaginary tie, looking rather smug and proud for her commendation. Saxon found himself wondering if he chose this spot out of a greater tactical reasoning than he was letting on. He was supposedly ex-STG after all. They'd know about these sort of things, being the shifty assassin and secret agent sorts. Either that or he'd been playing more of those weird Grim Terminus Alliance games again and committed a few tricks to memory. Regardless, you could colour him impressed.
That was green or something like that if memory served.
"So you'll be our rear guard then?" Saxon questioned Farah.
"That's a big ass to cover, but I'll do what I can." the Turian shrugged idly, refusing to turn and face him.
Taking this comment to heart, Swinks curiously tried to sneak a brief peek at the human's increasingly infamous derriere. Saxon hurried a few steps backwards self-consciously, standing at ease like a Cub Scout when the flag came down. "Why the hell does everyone keep talkin' about my arse? Aren't there bigger topics?"
His protest was strangely ignored but his compatriots, with Farah too busy scoping out the area and Swinks becoming conveniently quiet at that exact moment. Saxon had no choice but to drop the question, mainly to cure the awkwardness in the air.
"So what, if we get in trouble and need to pull a tactical retreat or somethin' you'll be there to pick up the pieces?" he inferred analytically. The sniper didn't say yes per se, but she did make a couple of grunting sounds that roughly resembled an acknowledgement. With that she returned to complete and utter silence, entering a sniper's state of zen as it were.
The Englishman saw that as a good time to leave her on her own before her groans evolved into primeval mating calls and she started chanting about snu snu and fundamentals. With the black marketer in tow, he began to descend the path with his rifle swinging between his fingers like a jaunty umbrella.
"Clear." the obese chupacabra communicated, signing off as soon as the last syllable left his tongue.
"Suggest beginning entry." Swinks recommended, staring across the horizon at the behemoth of a silhouette. Were eight men enough? Would twenty be enough? "Reapers not yet aware. May be in time." he warned urgently. "Time is of the essence."
Saxon nodded in agreement, shifting into a slightly less childish grip and holding his weapon like an actual bloody trooper. "Got it bloke." he said, squeezing his rifle tightly. He half expected it to break up into a thousand fragments like in a shoddy comic book. The "Deano" or the "Bandy", them sorts. "You ready?"
A gun cocked all dramatically as Swinks tended to his pistol - one of those badass Paladin deals that only rich people and mafiosos tended to get their hands on. For starters Saxon didn't even know where the hell he pulled that little gadget from, and his skintight bodysuit didn't have any apparent pockets. He was sceptical about something else, but he was too busy shuddering at the thought of the Salarian's natural storage space to remember it.
With that out the way their descent continued in relative silence. It felt surprisingly longer now that they weren't actively trying to drag a person up with them. There was nothing to achieve at the moment, so it just seemed slower. Eventually Saxon couldn't help but try and spark a conversation - anything to keep his mind at ease. "Worked out what she's after yet?"
"Uncertain." Swinks disappointed him, which he expected to be brutally honest. He pointed his middle digit at the ship - a gesture that wasn't rude in the absence of two fingers. "Reaper ship is Turian. Previous theories a possibility." he reflected out loud, before letting his shoulders sag goofily. "... Or not. Do not know."
That was a shame. The fact that Farah was hanging so far back only seemed to raise more questions. If she wanted something on the ship, why in Christ's name was she camping out without marshmellows to roast miles away? Hell, she was so far away that she'd have to mail bullets to people. Saxon snickered dryly, "You've got the clarity of a horny dog at a Miss Lovely Legs competition."
The Salarian didn't get what that meant. Part of him wondered if the cockney purposefully said things like that knowing full well that he wouldn't understand. But then Saxon wasn't that juvenile, was he? "Recommend regrouping with mercenaries." he advised. Reapers were all about the staple swarming tactic, colloquially known as the "Hollywood Charge" manoeuvre in certain strategic circles. They'd want to stand as one, like a Spartan phalanx against a million Persians. "Stick together."
"Well that's a given." the clerical worker quickly retorted, tapping at his radio. In the chaos of battle even the most basic of tactics can be quickly forgotten. There was a reason why drill sergeants constantly repeated the basics time and time again. The radio cackled with static, but no lusty voice came out from the other side. Saxon bit his lip, glancing at his companion. "... They've been awfully quiet."
"Is it on?" Swinks asked.
"Is it on?" Saxon repeated, quickly realising what he'd just been asked. "Of course it's freakin' on, you muppet." he snarled, shaking his head in disgust. After a brief and incredibly comedic pause, he couldn't resist checking anyway. He could just catch the Salarian in the corner of his eyes with that stupid grin of his as he fiddled with the daft contraption. After flicking the switch back and forth like a shuttlecock over the net, there was little improvement. "That ain't good."
"That is certainly not good." Swinks clenched the grip of his gun, scanning over the ship's landing zone. He couldn't see anyone. That smile he'd had was quickly starting to turn around. "It is bad, in fact."
Saxon cocked his rifle, checking that the clip was fresh for action before gesturing to his mate to fall in. "On me."
The two found themselves moving on like professionals, all crouched over and darting from cover to cover methodically. Slowly but surely they advanced, keeping eachother covered like some sort of peculiar ritualistic dance. Their pace was beyond sluggish. It was almost as if they were trying to deliberately delay the inevitable as they ducked and dived, like the last presentation on Science Project Day. Like a small part of them desperately hoped that they'd receive a message at some point saying that the mercenaries had merely dropped their radios down a toilet or something, and that everything was fine. Tickety boo.
Soon enough they ran short of convenient waist high cover, the path spilling out into the vast clearing where the Turian corvette sat like a nestled swan. Its door was wide open, drooping out like a dragon's tongue blowing a silent raspberry in mockery.
Into the Maw they go.
Gradually the pair stepped out of their cover, cautiously advancing with uncertainty in their gait and their weapons at the ready. Saxon wasn't quite sure what was scarier; the mystery that lie ahead of them, or the fact that a gun-toting alien with a rifle whose barrel rivalled Pinocchio's nose in length had a clear view of the back of his head - and his arse - through a magnified scope. Both of those things tended to make you rather self conscious.
Stepping onto the ramp the duo shuffled further and further ahead, shoulder to shoulder to the bitter end. The inside of the ship's bay was bathed in darkness, and while that gave it a solid A+ in terms of atmosphere it was a tad bit inconvenient for the two explorers. Swinks tilted his head ever so slightly, his massive black eyes trying to pierce the night and gather intel.
Suddenly a shape moved from the shadows, an unknown object flopping out from the cabin and draping out from the door. Saxon struggled to keep his trigger finger disciplined, his eyes adjusting to take in what dangled before him.
It was an arm.
A Vorcha's arm.
Swallowing down the small family of frogs in his throat, Saxon nervously advanced with the ever helpful Swinks keeping his pistol trained on the shadows. If he was thinking clearly this would've seemed like the perfect bait for a trap, but at the moment his thumping pulse was deafening his mind's ear. Yes, that was an actual term.
Together they popped their heads through the door like whac-a-moles, following the trail of the alien limb to find its source. It didn't take long until they found it. Five hollowed-out corpses, their faces twisted into various states of horror and anguish, lay together in a friendly circle like a group of teenage girls at a slumber party. The desecrated bodies consisted of four Vorcha and what at first appeared to be a pregnant shaggy dog, but upon further inspection turned out to be a human.
They'd found the mercenaries at least.
"Gotta admit." Saxon started bitterly, his own voice causing him to jump. "I kinda saw that one comin'."
The pair exchanged a nervous glance, before continuing to stare at the macabre formation with sickening fascination in their eyes. Each and every one had a hole the size of Saxon's arse going through its stomach, cutting a smooth and clean passage from one side to the other and leaving its contents all spilled out on the galley floor. This must've been some sort of alternative weight loss technique. He should've recommended it to his mother, the fat cow.
"Reaper's doing." Swinks concluded, as if that wasn't obvious. With visible effort he tore his stare from the horrors before them, his eyes adjusting to the corvette's bay. There were no visible signs of conflict, nor enemy presence. "... Reaper location unknown."
The human rubbed his visor, shaking his head in fear. "Don't say that." he fumed, flexing his tense shoulders. Believe it or not, it generally isn't a comfort when you have no idea where a species designed purely with killing you in mind actually is. "Jesus Christ, don't say that."
"We must leave." the Salarian ordered, continuing to scan the area. "Now."
"Agreed." the C-Sec officer nodded furiously, the gay ogre's bloodshot and bulging eyes staring right through him. Swinks joined his colleague, the gore and viscera churning whatever passed for a gut in Sur'Kesh. "... We aren't moving." Saxon eventually pointed out, his legs feeling like they were encompassed in granite. "Why aren't we moving?"
After an incredibly confidence-brewing few moments, Swinks said the following. "... We are scared, Saxon."
"Really? Wow." the cockney snarled at this analysis. Never before had he bore witness to such analytical acumen. "Just. Wow." He could practically feel his loins stirring with heat, begging for the personification of perfect reasoning before him to bear his children. What he'd give to ram it up his butt. His fist, up the thick bastards scrawny little arse! "Fan-freakin'-tastic."
Thankfully something managed to get the lead out of their boots, as a blood curdling scream that made stepping on Lego sound like a massage rung through the corvette and echoed a good three to four times for added percussion. Saxon visibly began to tremble, his chest rising and falling as he took frequent and anxious breaths. As if he was the only source of reason left on the ship - which may've actually been true - the more collected Swinks rested a hand on the desk worker's back to grab his attention. He had one piece of advice for his friend. "Hide."
You know it's a bad sign when the autist is the brains.
Spinning around to meet him, the desperate human obeyed without question. Like the cry had been a starting pistol at one of those crappy primary school Sports Days that parents dreaded going to, the pair darted out down the ship's loading ramp and swerved at its base.
Oh yeah.
They were in the middle of a vast plain with next to no cover.
With nothing but initiative to go on, Swinks clutched onto Saxon's wrist and pulled him behind the ramp. The duo huddled up tightly in the small gap under the ship's entrance. It must've looked incredibly manly to passing observers, that's for sure. Before they had a chance to realise just how bad this hiding space was, and before they had a moment to at least buy eachother dinner, they heard it.
Slowly and deliberately, heavy footsteps began to thud down the walkway with varied frequency. There could be as little as two seconds to as great as twelve between each step, as whatever the hulking individual above was moved onwards. It sounded like a drunken man stomping down the stairs unsteadily, teetering to and fro with uncertain weight.
The sound of foot on metal eventually evolved into foot on soil, as the entity dismounted the ramp and began to pace across the path. Throwing caution to the wind Saxon nervously crooned around his hiding place, taking a peek like that strange old man that used to hang about near his window at night when he was eight.
He saw a large pair of hips saucily swaying left and right, like a opera house diva strutting down the red carpet. For all those people that were commenting on his arse prior, this was the real deal. The sex appeal was lost however when he realised just what he was looking at, his eyes travelling further and further upwards. This spindly creature must've been eight feet tall, its ghastly thin frame betraying a vast array of power.
It was an Asari, but Reaper-fied. What the council and Alliance had taken to calling a "Banshee". The soulless monster came to a halt, its legs crossing mid-stride like it was supposed to be wearing one of those slinky black dresses with a bit of thigh showing.
And then it screamed again, howling at the air like a wolf to the moon.
The Banshee.
Jeez, wonder how it got that name?
Juggling responsibilities in such a tight situation - both figuratively and literally - Swinks too poked his head out from cover and shot a glance at the hilltop where Farah had set up not too long ago. Twinkling up high like a diamond in the sky, he could roughly tell her location from the glimmer of her sniper scope. She had a clear shot straight at the doorway, where the Reaper stood almost expectantly like a prostitute at a lamp post.
The Turian needed to take a shot, preferably within the next minute. She was their only hope if they had any chance of escaping with their lunches still in their stomachs.
Still the Banshee just stood there, beginning to resemble that odd old lady that sits at a bus stop even though it's clearly closed. She swayed from side to side, not moving an inch from where her feet stood. What, was she intoxicated? The thick abomination was the perfect target. Swinks could've shot it from Farah's distance with a pistol for crying out loud, without any ammo. What on Palaven was she up to?
Way up in an elevated position with nothing to worry about but the occasional gust of wind, Farah Servilia stared down her scope like she had done so many times before in her accomplished career. Her eye squinted intensely, focusing on the beast's face - crossed with two black lines by her sights. X indeed marked the spot.
All she needed to do was pull the trigger, and there and then the deed would be done. The bitch's head would fly clean off like a football across a field, rolling away to rot in some ditch in the middle of nowhere. The Reaper's fate, at long last, was in her hands. One twitch of her finger could seal the deal.
The cross suddenly came out of alignment, the scope swaying from side to side as her rifle began to shake within unsteady hands. The Turian could hear a faint, indistinguishable noise through the fog of her focus, yet eventually she came to realise that it was her. She was whimpering.
Why the hell was she whimpering? What, she couldn't stand a little bit of blood? Did the mean monster scare her? Bollocks to that. This thing was a heartless, empty beast hiding within a poor person's shell. She would be doing it a favour by putting it out of its misery, ending the Banshee's cries once and for all.
Farah wrestled for control, clutching onto her weapon roughly and tightening her focus on the target. Remember what they taught you. Forget about everything. Forget about all your worries, all the world around you. Just focus on yourself, and the target before you.
Once that's settled, fire.
It was that simple.
Emaciated and sickening, the grey-skinned mutant hobbled from side to side as if every waking moment was nothing more than abject agony. As if every single spot of its patchy suit of skin was raw with exertion and rot, and the floor was but ash and cinders. Its face was contorted into a constant expression of disdain, its teeth grit in fury and disgust. Its legs reached for metres, its bare and swollen feet a frightful contrast to the talons that were once its fingers.
Everything it stood for was an abhorrence to what the Asari represented. Its cracked flesh, its sickly limbs, its soulless eyes, its withered breasts.
Her cute button nose.
Out of instinct she squeezed the trigger, her heart bouncing throughout her chest with terror. The shot went wide by a mile, ricocheting off the corvette's reflective hull and bounding off a few stones before ending up lodged in some muddy debris. The Banshee turned to the source of the noise, at last stirred from her reverie at the arrival of a new contender. Screeching as if it were some twisted war cry, her elongated legs began to carry her once more towards Farah's general location. Her pace was fast and steady, long strides making up for her graceful gait.
Without pause Alfred Saxon swung out from hiding and trained his Avenger on the Banshee's lower back. He fired a couple of bursts at it, squeezing a volley or two of slugs into its pasty flesh. That would've been enough fire to put even the biggest Krogan flat on its arse, but she took it like a chief. The C-Sec officer, lowered his weapon ever so slightly, swapping the weight on his feet nervously. He wasn't quite sure why he thought that would work, but it felt like a good idea at the time.
Distracted once more like a kid going through an IKEA catalogue, the Reaper turned to face the more immediate threat at hand. It stared right into Saxon's eyes, filling him with all sorts of conflicting emotions. Horror and fear were on top of the list, but that didn't pardon a peculiar sense of wonder at this unnatural being before him. Of fascination. This was what the galaxy was up against. This would be its undoing.
This was how it would end.
Mentally rolling his eyes, Swinks leapt from cover and tugged at his friend's shoulders once again. "We must go." he said with a voice raised in foreign urgency, keeping his eyes fixed on the steadily advancing Banshee. With the paralysed Saxon in tow, he cautiously backed up onto the corvette's ramp and backpedalled into the darkness.
Saxon could feel himself being shaken as he stumbled back into the Reaper ship, the Banshee in a luke-warm pursuit. Swinks was telling him something, but it took quite some time for him to discern what was being said. Burning away at his frozen limbs, he shook himself back to his senses as the ship bathed them both in black.
"Saxon, we must go!"
X
(A/N): Eh...
Well, this was a... Sub par chapter to say the least. It's weird, I actually don't know what to write in this A/N at the moment. That's a first :O
Regardless, join us next time in the frightful conclusion of this fic! How can Saxon and Swinks deal with this Banshee, now cornered by it in an unexplored ship? And what the hell was going on in Farah's head? Find out next time!