Forfeit
Four:
The talks are set to begin after lunch. Before they do, Hackett gathers a group of men to scour the city. With President Thorsen dead, he's the only one left with even the illusion of authority, and with the negotiations coming up, he can't afford to be made a target. He dresses in the fatigues of normal ground troops rather than anything distinguishing, and carries a sub-machine gun at his side as he leaves the compound.
Hannah's taking a rest from her search. He's decided he'll pick up the slack, get his hands dirty before dealing with politicians.
It's an odd day. The sun is trying desperately to push through the clouds, but to little visible result. The charred and broken buildings cast strange shadows over the littered streets, but at least it's not raining. Hackett leads his men to the east, and they sift through buildings, calling for survivors and foraging anything salvageable. They've moved into a residential area, and they call out to the wounded or the dying.
Hackett knows the score. It's been days since the war officially ended. The most they're probably find are a few corpses. If they're lucky, they might find some salvageable electronics or rations. If they're blessed, they might even find a survivor or two.
They round the corner and there it is. A dead Reaper lies like a beached giant squid, only – and correct him if he's wrong – Hackett's sure nothing in the ocean ever looked so malevolent, even in death. Around him, his marines tense, and Hackett gives the silent order to skirt around the thing, not willing to risk any potential effects even now. What was it that Riley once whispered to him during her incarceration? They'd been discussing destroyed Reapers, and she'd said something along the lines of even dead gods dream.
He pushes his men into a building and they fan out. Hackett heads down towards the basement. The cement steps have crumbled, leaving a perilous and unstable mound. He grabs an exposed girder to help himself down, knowing even as he does so that this is probably a mistake. But something urges him forward – and after a few moments, he realizes it's the smell of piss and death, both recent. He allows himself a moment to reflect on the shape of his life, that he would recognize these attributes.
He picks his way down, slowly, one step at a time. The mound rumbles beneath him, small stones skittering off and echoing. By the time he reaches the bottom, a fine sheen of sweat has licked across his face. His nose leads him to a room with a partially open door. A soft push tells him it's been barricaded shut from the other side, so he gives it a harder one. The door slides open with the scrape of wood against concrete. A gunshot rings out, blasting the door frame next to him.
Falling footsteps thunder overhead, and then one of the marines calls, "Admiral Hackett? Are you all right?"
"Fine," he calls back. "Stay where you are."
"Yes sir," says the marine – Boyle, thinks Hackett – but there's more than a little apprehension there.
With his hands raised up, Hackett slowly shifts into the room, aware that he might at any moment be shot and hoping that whoever it is, they aim for the much larger (and protected) target that is his chest, and not his naked face.
The girl is impossibly small, and skeletal. Eleven, maybe? Twelve? Hard to say. Her skin speaks to warmer climes, probably the shade of chocolate milk on a good day – but today's not a good day, and she looks more grey than anything. Her hair has been hacked short, grimy, oil-slicked strands clinging to her forehead. But what gets Hackett the most are her eyes. They're blue, maybe the bluest he's ever seen except for – and here he pushes that thought away, because it serves no purpose to think of Riley now – except they're deadened.
One small hand grips the pistol, pointed directly at him. It trembles only slightly. Hackett's eyes slide over to the space next to the girl, and he can't stop the quiet sound that emerges from his throat as he realizes that shape swarming with flies was once a person.
The girl doesn't say a word.
Hands still raised, Hackett lowers himself into a squat to bring them to the same level. He's decided to treat her like a spooked animal, because he doesn't know how long she's been down here and that comparison may be more apt than he knows.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, keeping his voice down. "My name is Steven. I'm with the Alliance. I've come to help."
The girl still says nothing. Cautiously, Hackett drops one hand to his belt. He sees her trigger finger twitch, but then he pulls out a protein bar – pretty much the staple of the Alliance diet at the moment – and holds it out. The girl's face grows hungry, she scrambles to her feet with her sights still trained on him, and scrambles over to him, snatching the bar away from him as though he might decide to steal it back. Then she retreats.
He's already considered the dilemma she now faces, but he watches it bloom on her face. How to open the package – a feat that requires two hands – while holding the gun? Her eyes turn on him, but he doesn't move. Slowly, so slowly, she places the gun down beside her and rips the wrapper open, shoveling the bar into her mouth. She takes great, gnawing bites but from the way her throat bobs, it's clear she's swallowing the bar mostly whole.
Hackett tries another tactic: "I'm with Alliance. We've got camps set up, with food and shelter and medicine."
She stops chewing, eyes fixed on him. "Mina says we're not supposed to go to the camps." Her voice is hoarse from disuse. "The monsters go to those places and round everyone up. Put them on spikes – make them monsters too." By the end, she's breathing quick, frantic breaths through her nose.
What this girl went through, what so many people went through… Hackett doesn't want to think about it. What he called it was a strategic retreat. In the grand scheme of things, it was the right call, but seeing the civilians who suffered for his choices… It chills him to think of it. He read the reports, watched those few vids that made it onto the extranet. Research, he'd called it then, but really, he'd watched to stay in touch, to stay angry. He was far from the front lines for the majority of the war, and he needed to see, needed to remember what was at stake if they failed.
It was hell, pure and simple. Even in the few days, the extranet had been awash with comparisons drawn between the book of Revelation and the Reaper invasion. Hackett isn't a religious man, but when he remembers what he saw in those illicit vids, when he looks at this girl, sometimes he wonders if that isn't closer to the truth than they all realize.
Of course, they've won in the end. No wonder Riley's being treated like a messiah.
"Hey," he says to the girl. "I know that's what happened before, but these are Alliance funded. Things are different now. The Reapers – the monsters – they're gone. Dead." She looks doubtful, her hand snaking towards the pistol once more. Hackett breathes deep. "You know Commander Shepard, right?" She pauses, and allows herself a short nod. Hackett almost smiles. "She stopped them all. They're gone, I promise. Do you want to come outside and see?"
The girl glances at the corpse, her lower lip trembling for the first time. She nods, bigger and faster this time. She holds up the gun and says, "You first."
Hackett can't help his surge of pride at her initiative, for being smart and brave enough to pull such a ballsy move. He nods, and moves backwards, out of the room. He starts to climb up the mound, glancing back to see if she's following. She is, and she seems to be doing better than he is, truth be told.
Boyle and several other marines are waiting at the top. Their eyes widen as they take in the fact that Hackett's being held at gunpoint by a starved adolescent. He motions them to stand down, and allows himself to lead – or be led? – outside. The girl blinks wildly in the brightness of the day, despite the overcast weather. Hackett stays still, allowing her a moment.
That's when she sees the dead Reaper.
She drops the gun, taking a few ambling steps forward, body swaying like a leaf in the wind. "It's dead?" she says, and the lilt at the end makes it a question. At his nod, she starts to cry with huge gasping breaths.
Hackett's never been particularly paternal, but just then he crouches by that little girl and takes her into his arms. She clings to him like to let go is to die. Her tears are so plentiful that they soak through his fatigues. He runs one hand over the small of her back, aware of the marines several yards away watching the scene unfold, and he whispers comforts in her ear, meaningless phrases meant to soothe until she falls asleep.
He picks her up, holds her in his arms, and realizes that throughout the course of her tears, he called her Riley without thought.