The group of Nineteen – Davis, Avens, seventeen other marines and ten civilians, had been walking about the same warehouse for about two hours now. Davis questioned how the civilians of the group, at least, didn't know their way around what seemed such a simple building.

'Well…' he grunted, elbowing the woman of the group calmly, 'you don't seem to know much about this place?' He raised an eyebrow.

'No.' she said simply, 'We lived on the other side of the city. Never got this close to Luxor Spaceport before.' She finished, sighed calmly, and walked ahead.

'Marvellous...' Davis muttered back.

The group continued to be lost, and Davis was caught in his thoughts, falling behind. He continued walking with the group for five minutes, and then stopped. He saw something. Well, he thought he saw something. He looked to his left, at a thin, dark patch of ground between two crates and beneath another. In the space, roughly 5" or-so above the ground, were two beady little ovals, equally aligned. Davis' instincts told him he was hallucinating, but his boredom and curiosity took hold. He approached the corner, too quietly for the others to notice, he though; they didn't even try to stop him. He stepped forward five paces before toppling backwards, something was on top of him.

It was an alien. And it wasn't friendly. It was avian, with two beady purple eyes, and two beaks with razor-blade teeth inside them. On the back of its head and its elbows, feathers sprouted out in a curved fashion. What Davis was most scared of though, were the teeth. It was pinning one of his arms with its hand, and snapping at his face. He struggled to hold it back, the tip of its beak snapping a hair's length from his nose at some points. The struggle continued for seconds, before both fighters were distracted by the sudden eruption of noise ahead of them;

'Contacts!' a marine yelled. His cry was followed by a crackle of assault rifles, the pop of the alien weaponry, screams of pain, and roars – probably the same thing that was attempting to gut Davis right now. The marine, instinctively, came back into the moment too quick for the creature. He reached into his breast pocket, slamming his combat knife into the creature's spindly neck. It yelped, sticky purple fluid oozing out of its neck and staining the Private's fingers.

He got up, retrieved his MA37, and ran back to the group. He stopped suddenly, a burning pain in his shoulder. He looked down; three frothy red scars. That creature had claws. He winced to himself at the sight, but continued on. He arrived at a circular cage (Only circular because of a chance arrangement of the cargo crates). Four marines and six civilians had been killed. Eight corpses, of the creature and of the small, goblin-frog things, were littered about. Two corpses were so close together that the blue and purple oozed into a large pool, mixing into a thick colourful puddle.

'What happ-'Davis started, patting his CO on the shoulder.

'You happened, Clark! I told you to watch our back. Instead, you go off day-dreaming in a corner, and my men pay for it!' He grunted in anger. 'All these deaths are on you, private.' He sighed, and went about directing medical attention for wounded marines and civilians. One poor lad, a civilian – no older than 17, had been attacked by one of the birds. His arm was reduced to a white stalk surrounded by pinkish-red bloats. He was screaming uncontrollably. That only added to Davis' guilt.

He had failed them. 10 people dead and it was because of him.

It remained like that for a few minutes; those that weren't injured talking in a depressing and awkward way, Avens barking orders to the medic – poor girl. Davis sat in silence, hating himself. He heard the light rhythm of feet, and looked up; the boy, no older than four, hobbled up to the worn-down marine, putting a hand on his shoulder. 'I think you did great,' he muttered. Davis smirked, and received a smirk back.

A few minutes later, the group – now nine strong; five marines and four civilians, moved up. A marine sent on reconnaissance had reportedly found the exit, and it was apparently down the street from Luxor Spaceport Offices – their platoon's make-shift CIC. They walked on for a few metres, before grinding to a halt.

'Holy hell…' the marine on-point muttered, his jaw doing slow press-ups. He gazed in awe and fear at the room; corpses of marines scattered about unevenly. There were no alien corpses, no alien blood nearby; they were prisoners. And they hadn't put up a fight. The corpses were being consumed, given how torn-up they were. Likely by the group that the squad had encountered previously.

'Keep moving, marines. Staring won't bring 'em back.' Avens muttered, patting the point-man's shoulders. Davis grimaced, wondering what had turned the El-Tee into such an emotionless prick. It took a few minutes, but finally – to the joy of the military and civilian personnel alike – they were out. Out, away from the hellhole where over half their numbers had been killed off. Davis once again felt a sway of guilt; someone, somewhere, was going to have to deliver the dreaded 'I regret to inform you…' speech to all 10 of the dead peoples' families. If that were him, he would probably lose control and fall down crying.

'Would'ya look' it that.' The medic grumbled. Davis was thankful – her words distracted him from his depressing trail of thought. She pointed. There, in relatively good form despite a few scorch marks and the odd bullet hole, sat a transport warthog. Davis hated Warthogs – they were loud, hard to control and generally ended up exploding before you could turn the anti-air gun around. But what choice did he have?

'Alright… Let's, let's mount up.' Davis mused, with a slightly disappointed (yet relieved) sigh.