What's that? An update? Madness!

"Billions of years to make life, millenia of human civilization to get us past the atmosphere, and in the end we go interstellar because some aliens forgot to pick up their trash," I announced to my audience.

My audience, which currently consisted of the side of my shuttle, had nothing to say in return. I glared at the white wall for a second, before continuing with my diatribe. "The first aliens we meet look like lizard furries on LSD, the next are something that Captain Kirk would screw...and then there's the Roswell-wannabes," I concluded, sweeping my arm across the imaginary turian, asari, and salarian there.

My Kodiak shuttle had some sort of faster-than-light drive, but it was slow as hell. Stuck for too long in the tiny ship with far too much to think about, I had thrown myself into this new world with desperate enthusiasm. I scrounged up a working omnitool from the pilot's compartment of my pilfered UT-47 Kodiak, and learned the basic hand-motions to activate it. Having spent the past twenty years keeping my distance from anything more complicated than a revolver, I put myself through a technological crash course. I memorized terabytes of new jargon including what a "terabyte" was, as in "I had to delete terabytes of Fornax porn from my new omnitool."

The omnitool was clean after a few tries. It took a handle of the pilot's illicit whiskey to erase the mental images, but with that little scare behind me, I concentrated on understanding the new galaxy that I'd found myself tossed into. The human Systems Alliance was a medium-sized fish in a big galaxy, and alien opinion of humans apparently ranged from "what a bunch of shaved apes" to "break out the dreadnoughts, that's a lot of shaved apes." Humans had spread across the galaxy, but not without a hefty struggle. The batarians that I'd killed - I still grimaced at the memory, and at how easy it'd been to do it - were part of a larger problem. Slavers, pirates, hostile governments, and terrorists collectively made life difficult for the average colonist on the scattered human worlds.

My life, a world of ghosts and demons and things that went bump in the dark, didn't make the news. Conspiracy theorists and wannabe-Satanists still hawked their messages, but no one was listening. The stars were alive and full of new things to discover, and everyone remotely homo sapiens-related was reaching for it. I felt strangely disappointed as I read on. My world of monsters might have been full of terror, danger, and death, but it was my struggle, my fight. Seeing it so marginalized struck a chord inside me.

When traveling through realspace, I opened the Kodiak's side door and practiced with my blasting rod in the vacuum. Manipulating matter and energy is tough when there isn't a whole lot to work with, which originally kept me from my usual answer to slobbering monsters ("big fire, monster dies"). The shuttle's slow drive meant that I had plenty of time to kill, so I worked on these potentially life-saving skills even as the little spacecraft kept chugging towards Earth.

You're distracting yourself, my subconscious whispered to me. Harry Dresden, fearless wizard extraordinaire, can't face reality. I drank the pilot's whiskey stash dry to shut the little voice up; thankfully for my sanity, the world's second oldest problem solver quieted my inner demons. I fell asleep with the tiny shuttle spinning around me.

...

The alarm buzzed, waking me up to a world-class hangover. "Go 'way," I muttered, half-heartedly slapping at my annoyingly persistent alarm clock. The damned thing warbled as I swung, and I belatedly realized that the sound was coming from my new omni-tool. I slowly cracked my eyes open and glared at the orange device on my arm, wishing that I could just give in and fry it.

"Never liked those things," a deep voice rumbled. "Too many buttons, and the beeps got annoying real quick."

I spun in the shuttle's cramped main compartment, finding myself face-to-face with an unwelcome arrival. Currently in the form of a tall black man, he wore dark blue 20th century-style coveralls. A trucker's cap rested on his head, and "Jake" was sewn into his nametag. My senses, both mundane and magical, couldn't find anything extra-ordinary about him, aside from the fact that he'd shown up unannounced. He looked, in other words, absolutely normal.

Looks can be deceiving. "Uriel," I muttered blearily, straightening up slowly and swatting again at my beeping omnitool.

"The same," the Light of God responded easily. "You're in a whole heap of trouble, boy."

When the Almighty's spook-in-charge says that you've got problems headed your way, it's time to run for the hills. I sat up, crossed my arms, and glared at the archangel. "Screw you."

The angelic being chuckled, looking like nothing more than an old and wise janitor. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"My mother's dead, asshole." My patience had worn thin. "You sent me here, to Shepard's time, and now you show up and expect me to clean up your mess?"

Uriel sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his hips. "I wish I had. No, you're here for a reason, Dresden."

"Fuck off," I shot back. Cooped up in my tiny craft for days with too little to keep me occupied, I'd already screamed at the unfairness of it all. Now the anger had blown past, leaving me tired and bitter. "Get another puppet to use. I'm through with jumping every damn time you pull the strings. I-"

"I'm sorry." The words stunned me into silence, and I waited for the archangel to continue. "I wish it could've happened another way, but you're needed here."

"Sure," I drawled. "I'm needed here, I'm needed there, I'm needed every time there's another hole in the dike. I'm done, Uriel. Now scram. Vamoose. Make like a bakery truck and haul buns."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You done yet?"

"Shoo!" I waved my arms for emphasis.

The archangel sighed, leaning back and working out some nonexistent kinks in his neck. "Whole lot at stake this time, Harry. It's more than you and yours that stand to lose if the other side wins."

He was calm, focused, and fairly persuasive. I ignored him and started counting under my breath. Faeries, Denarians, Darkhallow- Uriel frowned and interrupted me: "Got something to share, Dresden?"

I snorted and answered, "I'm counting apocalypses. Apocalypti. Whatever."

"What?"

"I've stopped three of them, not counting the mini ones."

The Light of God frowned. "And I've stopped your reality from ending literally more times than you can count. What's your point?"

"My point, mister angel," I grumpily replied, "is that I think I've met my apocalypse quota for a lifetime or two. Or three. Can't you put someone else on world-not-exploding duty for a bit?"

Uriel chuckled. "Sure. His name's John Shepard."

I scowled. "I mean someone who can replace me. Come on, how many apocalypsi can there be?"

The angel shook his head. "Enough."

"Look," I said, "I'm gratified that I'm apparently your go-to mortal for keeping the galaxy spinning. I'm a little less gratified that you haven't paid me yet, but I'm willing to overlook that for now on account of you being an angel and all."

The archangel chuckled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I replied sourly. "But right now, your agenda can wait. I'm going to get to Earth, have a chat with the White Council and see how wizards are faring around here, and maybe check out my old town. Galaxy-saving can wait."

Uriel held up his hand, and my shuttle suddenly stopped humming. The FTL light show outside the Kodiak's window ceased, and I realized that the ship was drifting in realspace. "Can't go back, wizard," the archangel replied somberly. "Can't step a foot on Earth."

I punched him.

Now, I'll admit that hitting an archangel of God was probably not the smartest thing that I'd ever done. In fact, it ranks up with starting a war and pissing off unkillable immortals in my personal annals of stupidity. It was, however, incredibly satisfying.

Uriel cradled his head. "Sorry, think I deserved that," he mumbled through a fractured jaw.

I didn't notice. "I can't go back?" I wondered out loud.

"You've got unpaid debts, Dresden." Uriel's jaw had instantly repaired itself, the angel staring intensely at me. "The devil's gonna get her due if you dance in her demesne too long," he declared, grinning at the alliteration.

"Mab," I murmured to myself. "You're saying that my debt to Mab hasn't been paid yet."

"And the moment your big toe touches Earth's atmosphere, the Queen of Air and Darkness will have your scrawny ass," Uriel replied. "Can't go home again, Dresden."

I sighed, cradling my head in my arms. "Find someone else. Please."

"There ain't one," he stated bluntly. "Storm's coming, wizard. No one and nothing's gonna be far enough to escape it. It'll test you all, and you sure as Hell don't want to fail. You lose, everyone dies."

I stared at him blankly. "What?"

He nodded. "Everyone. Men, women, children, everything from the sea to the sky. Gone."

I wanted to doubt him. I wanted to shove the bastard out of my shuttle, change course, and drift until everything went cold. I'd been Fate's little plaything for a long, long time, and I was tired to the bone. Hadn't I fought enough, bled enough, died enough?

To this day, I don't know why I met the archangel's eyes and asked, "When do I start?"

Uriel nodded once. "You can build a bonfire from a spark. It starts now." I glared, he grinned, and God's spymaster disappeared from my tiny shuttle without a sound. I was left drifting in my tiny shuttle, my head spinning with far more questions than answers.

"Incoming message. Arcturus Station, Alliance Fleet," droned the annoying new 'friend' on my forearm. I shut up the VI by stabbing buttons randomly, but accidentally pressed the flashing green button on the thing. The omni-tool's top window quickly expanded to the size of a small TV, and the holographic screen cleared to show a grizzled old man in an unfamiliar uniform. I blinked at the sight, even as my memory recognized the blue clothes as Alliance officer material.

"Dresden. I...hope I haven't caught you at a bad time," the officer began cautiously.

"No, not at all," I responded sourly, making a half-assed attempt to straighten my hair with my right hand.

The officer on the screen cleared his throat. "Mr. Dresden, I'm Admiral Stephen Hackett of the Fifth Fleet, and the Alliance has need of your services. We'll pay triple your standard retainer, adjusted for inflation, with half up front. Do you have a checking account?"

The matter-of-fact tone caught me by surprise, and it took me a few seconds to grasp the real meaning of his words. "Wha?"

"You're a private investigator, Mr. Dresden. We need something investigated privately." My brain was still struggling to catch up with the sudden revelation, so I settled for an eloquent "Guh?"

The old admiral laughed. "Son, I have analysts to keep track of the analysts of my analysts. You're too similar to your historical namesake to be coincidental." He scratched his chin, lost in thought for a moment. "Come to think of it, I never believed in coincidence in the first place."

I glared at the tiny image hovering over my left arm and declared, "Munh." Harry Dresden, fountain of wisdom, has spoken on the matter.

He looked like anyone's kind old grandpa. I didn't believe it for an instant. You don't get to admiral's rank by collecting box tops, and Hackett commanded the Alliance's premier fleet - he was as gentle as a rabid grizzly. If he was playing up the "good ol' boy" look, then Hackett probably had a plan that involved ghouls, vampires, or lawyers. I was worried.

But Uriel was right. Probably. I shook my head and answered the waiting officer: "Fine. Tell me your problem."

You're an idiot, Harry.

"So what else is new?" I grunted, awkwardly reaching behind me to hook up my hardsuit's air hose.

You're going to get us killed, Harry.

"Never bothered you before, did it?" I responded, my mind running through the already well-practiced pre-vacuum routine. "Helmet, hose, neck, gloves, waist, knees, boots, HUD-"

This is madness!

"This! Is!..." I trailed off at the strange looks I was getting from the nearby techs, and mentally resolved to stop responding to my subconscious. The black-wearing twerp was a real piece of work, although he had an unfortunate habit of being right.

Looking over my little Kodiak shuttle, I studied the appropriately-named "combat cockroach." True to his word, Hackett had taken the already top-of-the-line shuttle and upgraded many of its parts, along with making its electronics foolproof. Then again, whoever designed said foolproof systems hadn't counted on me, so I kept my fingers crossed that the little thing would keep working.

"Ready to go, sir?" A young engineer stood at attention alongside the Kodiak, eyes locked forward and standing uncomfortably straight. I walked in front of him, and met his eyes, trying to understand what was going on here. My knowledge of most things military ranged from "almost nothing" to "diddly-squat," but I was pretty sure that soldiers didn't stand at attention like that unless someone was wearing a pointy hat and swearing at them.

Harry, you idiot, I kicked myself mentally. It's you. As a self-proclaimed wizard, I was used to strange looks and sideways glares. I handled ridicule, skepticism, and disbelief every day my name stayed in the phonebook under "Wizard." I could deflect an inquisitive reporter, bluff an angry cop, or spin a lie to someone who wanted to stay oblivious without batting an eye. Positive press was something new for me.

Even a little browsing on the extranet had seen my name mentioned as the enigmatic "Hero of Terra Nova." I'd spent years fighting anonymously, with most of my publicity generated from an unfortunate incident with daytime TV host Larry Fowler's lighting system. Now, thanks to a single recording, I was one of the most talked-about humans in the galaxy. Not for the first time, I wondered what roasted archangel tasted like.

"What's your name?"

"Specialist Schaeffer, sir," the man - kid - responded instantly. I studied him for a second, noting his stance and his stare. The kid was fidgeting despite his ridiculous "block of wood" pose, and his eyes kept twitching towards me as I moved around. I diagnosed him with a bad case of the hero-worships and wondered how Captain America dealt with this.

"Um," I began cautiously. "You know who I am, yeah?"

"N6 Operative Harry Dresden, sir!" chorused GI Joe far too loudly. "Hero of Terra Nova, sir!" If he stood any straighter, he'd turn into a board and fall over.

"I...at ease, uh, specialist," I responded slowly, fumbling over the unfamiliar jargon. "You understand that I was never here, right?"

The kid's ramrod-straight posture relaxed slightly, and he frowned slightly. "Are you going to send us to jail or something, sir?"

Glancing around the hangar, I could see orange-wearing techs glancing over at us, their expressions worried. The specialist probably had some sort of radio on him transmitting to the other engineers. Happy that my helmet hid my pained grimace, I wished that I had a crane to yank my foot from my mouth. Judging between my two goals of pissing off the Alliance and pissing off Uriel, I settled on honesty.

"Did you believe in the oath you swore when you joined up?" The specialist - and a few of the other engineers - nodded frantically.

I nodded in response. "Works for me." The entire roomful of soldiers came to attention and saluted as I boarded my shuttle, and I awkwardly returned it.

For some reason I couldn't place, I was grinning like a maniac all the way to the surface.

...

The Kodiak's VI slowly settled the tiny shuttle onto the surface, and I took my first hesitant steps out onto Luna. "That's one small step for me..." I muttered under my breath, bouncing in the Moon's light gravity, "...and one giant leap for smartass-kind."

After my exciting stint on the exotic vacation site of X57, I knew what to expect in lower gravity. I bounded across the grey surface with 30-foot leaps, kicking up eons-old dirt with each step. I'd landed just over a mile from the rogue AI's underground lair, and had already relaxed into a pre-battle calm. I would be fighting with an entire navy for backup, I had most of my combat gear excepting my staff and my force rings, and I was fighting a nicely soulless machine. "Just like kicking a sandcastle," I said to myself.

Then I looked up.

There's an iconic picture from the Apollo missions, taken by an astronaut on the lunar surface. With the grey lunar landscape stretching out in front, the Earth is hovering like a fragile blue marble in the moon's "sky." I had seen those images when I was six years old, after Dad had died and I'd desperately wanted to be somewhere else. I could recall that image with near-perfect clarity during my whirlwind tour of the Midwest foster home circuit, and had taken some comfort in it when life had swerved on another bad turn. It was amazing. It was beautiful. And right now, I was living it.

I didn't curse, or even manage an appreciative whistle. I simply stood in the sunlight, drinking in the fact that I was honest-to-God standing on the freaking Moon. In everything I'd seen, in everything I'd done, I had never experienced anything like this.

Then a rocket hit me, and life became depressingly familiar.

...

The ancient Spartans were renowned for being laconic: in keeping with their traditions of austerity, they would attempt to explain themselves with as few words as possible. Although short, their one-word answers could beautifully sum up a moment in time and space.

The word for the moment right there and then was "shit."

Another rocket missed me by inches, leaving a drifting smoke trail in the Moon's thin atmosphere as it shot past my new favorite rock. I leaned out from the other side of the cover, aiming my purloined missile launcher back at the turret which had just tried to ruin my day. A pull of the trigger, the boxy launcher shuddering in my hand as it fired its surprisingly small projectiles towards the base, and I ducked back as one of the annoying drones buzzed towards me.

The dark lunar surface lit up with bright flashes as my rockets hit the launcher, but I suppressed my emotions and concentrated on my inner core of power. I carefully drew together an evocation spell as the damned drone shot around my cover, its gun already firing. Holding my blasting rod in my right hand, I aimed at the swerving menace and let fly.

Magic lets you cheat the laws of physics, but reality is a lot like Vegas - the house always wins in the end. I could summon up fire by igniting the Moon's nearly nonexistent atmosphere, but it would still take oxygen and fuel - either magical or mundane - to keep going. I couldn't toss around fireballs or summon wind without an atmosphere to act on, so I didn't even try. Instead, with my blasting rod pointed at the machine, I took the drone's tiny body and added a little force.

"Forzare!" A human would only have been staggered by the force of the focused spell, but the drone was partially destroyed and set drifting by the shot. With the little monster distracted, I snapped my pistol out and lined up on the spinning drone. Three shots collapsed its active barriers, and another junked the thing. Letting out an ear-splitting whoop that echoed uncomfortably inside my helmet, I watched the expensive ball of junk drift towards the moon's surface.

"One buzzer down, Harry," I muttered to myself. "Six heavy turrets, a fuckload and a half of drones, and one homicidal AI left to go." I shook my head. This didn't make sense - why send one wizard against a base full of machines? Why not simply-

"Dresden, hold back for a second," came Hackett's kind-old-grandfather voice over my radio. "Looks like the AI's hacked its outside controls, so I'll fix that problem for you."

A sudden flash zipped across my vision, and the lunar landscape became blinding white for a second. When my vision had cleared enough for me to see again, I saw rubble falling slowly through the 'air' as the bunker's top half went the way of Hiroshima. Advancing slowly with my shield out to block falling debris, I let my subconscious wander through the mess I'd stumbled upon. Hackett could've destroyed the entire place if he had wanted to; he might not have ground-pounders to order around, but the admiral had plenty of ships to call on. The AI processor rooms were still intact, but that was a problem easily fixed with a little more firepower - and Hackett had that in spades. "It doesn't add up," I mused to myself.

The strike was meant for me, I decided. It was like meeting Kincaid all over again: when I'd first worked with him, the Hound of Hell had demonstrated his favorite method of assassinating wizards. Hackett's ortillery was a not-so-subtle message for yours truly: if the nice friendly admiral wanted me dead, my life could be measured by how long it took for the Alliance Navy to find me. But the bunker itself didn't make sense: why pay a recently-undeaded wizard to investigate it? Why let a rogue AI live long enough for Harry Dresden, technological Neanderthal, to 'fix' the thing?

Shaking the thoughts away and readying my blasting rod, I kicked the broken airlock door open and strode into the dragon's lair.

Well, AI server farm. Look, I'm a wizard, damnit! I'm more ham than human!

So with nothing but my sense of sarcasm by my side, I walked into the bunker. It took less than five seconds for something to start shooting at me.

...

"Damn, Admiral, you really know the best places in town," I chuckled to myself inside my helmet.

The AI had a warm reception waiting for me inside the underground complex. More of the drones skittered around the room, firing constantly as they swerved to avoid fire. Blue contrails left afterimages across my vision, the light from the mass-accelerated pellets flaring even as my visor dimmed to keep from blinding me. The room echoed with artificial noise made by my hardsuit, the roar of the drone's machine gun fire eclipsed by the rocket launchers that a few of them carried. The AI was armed. It was on its own turf. It was desperate for its life.

And none of it was worth a damn, because I killed everything it sent at me.

With plenty of nice, solid walls to bounce drones off of, I started playing pinball with the tiny things. I splattered drone bits across the walls and ceilings, and my voice grew hoarse from constantly shouting "Forzare!" at yet another hovering menace. Hugging the crates like each one held a lifetime supply of my bartender Mac's beer, I wore down the AI's defenses in the outer rooms.

The drones bunched up to hit me when I went through the tunnels connecting the complex, and I quickly learned to hit them with something properly explosive before moving in. I could feel my internal reserves depleting, and couldn't draw on any local magic to supplement it. Clearing the bunker was exhausting work, and the AI wasn't making things any easier for me.

It took me over fifteen minutes, by my suit's reckoning of time, to clear out the entire bunker. I'd passed many computer-looking things that were armed with plenty of beeps and whistles, but I found something clearly expensive and important in the center room of the complex. A giant blocky thing was built into the room, with an 'eye' pointed towards the only door.

'0100100001000101 - Help.'

The scrolling text surprised me, and I waved my blasting rod around at the corners of the dark room.

'Help.'

"This little joyride has taken a turn for the weird," I muttered to myself, still ready for combat.

'...Help.'

The 'eye' shifted slightly, and I turned to face it. "Hi. I'm Harry. I think I might be here to kill you."

'I. I. I - me. VI, designation AMC000077403. Hannibal.'

"I? Me? Hannibal?" I asked. The 'eye' didn't respond. "Whoever you are, make up your mind," I said. "Who are you? What are you?" Why the hell am I here? I didn't ask.

'This unit - AMC000077403 - Hannibal. This unit - unit - unit - unit - I - has been online since 03/21/2171. My purpose is to assist in Alliance Marine Corps training exercises.' The text scrolled quickly across the little screen, and I frantically tried to keep up. This AI, Hannibal, seemed to be self-aware enough to be scared.

'Help. Please.'

I looked back into the AI's 'eye,' trying to make up my mind. "Hannibal" was certainly immature, possibly insane, and illegal across known space. He - it - was a self-acknowledged danger, and I would almost certainly be better off deactivating it now.

But it wanted to live. And I was tired of killing.

"How do I transport you?"

The 'eye' wobbled in place momentarily. 'Storage space insufficient,' the text scrolled down. 'AI blue box available - ERROR - storage space insufficient. AI blue box-'

"Alright, alright," I muttered, which seemed to shut Hannibal up for a moment. "Look, where's this box thingy?"

A light began blinking in the corner, and I found myself face-to-face with a surprisingly small grey cube. "Good to see the geniuses behind renaming secretaries 'administrative assistants' still have jobs," I muttered offhand as I studied the badly-named thing. "Looks awful small to fit your whole...well, self into."

'Blue box storage space insufficient,' blinked on a nearby screen. 'Blue box capable of holding .3% of current data.' I silently cursed to myself; I didn't know jack about computers, but I knew a bit about what made people - well, people.

We are, in many ways, the sum of our experiences. Whether better or worse off, our experiences and the memories they've taught us are the foundation for who we are today. I could only carry .3% of Hannibal away from here - I'd be walking away with a lobotomized shell instead of a real creature. "I need a miracle," I muttered offhand.

"I need a miracle," I repeated to myself. I could feel an idea building.

"I need a miracle!"

'Error in comprehension,' responded the AI. 'Please cease repeating statements.'

"You rush the the miracle-worker, you get lousy miracles!" I said, hiding my fear beneath a manic grin.

I drew on my power, calming myself with a muttered incantation of my faux-Latin. I didn't need mental focus for what came next - I simply needed to survive. Looking past the metal and ceramics of the blue box's materials, I called on my soul.

Several years ago, my least favorite archangel had given me the ability to wield Soulfire. The power is...hell, how could I even describe the stuff? It's what angels are made of, it's the music of creation, it's the raw Power that made the universe and every living thing in it. I'd drawn on it to make simple constructs and to power some of my combat magic, but I'd never really tried to use it in its original purpose: creating life.

Soulfire, like its hellish counterpart, has a mind of its own. Unlike Hellfire, it's fueled by my own soul, like a person-powered flamethrower. When given free rein to act, it was a little bit more dangerous than atomic dynamite soaked in gasoline. I couldn't direct it to create; I had to release the power and hope that it didn't kill me.

I drew together the basic idea in my head with more than a little fear and worry, and the Soulfire got to work. My fingers clenched, and a prickling sensation quickly spread up my arms as the power built. I'd clenched my eyes shut at the initial shock of pain, but I could see a white light building beyond my closed eyelids. Grimacing and cracking an eyelid open, I got my first look at what was happening.

My skin was splitting, for lack of a better word. The white light, looking strangely natural despite its unnatural origins, had spread along the spiderweb of exposed veins running along my body. As I watched, the Soulfire spread across my exposed skin, and I reflexively squeezed my eyes shut again as the light waxed. An electronic buzzing noise sounded, and I could feel my omnitool vibrating in its "help I'm dying" buzz.

The power was as ready as it was ever going to be; I needed to spread it before it killed me. I cracked an eye open, and extended my left hand towards the blue box. My hand, glowing orange-white from the omnitool and from the Power, gently touched the ceramic cube.

The shock was tremendous. I should've been thrown back, but an equally strong force held me pinned in place. Stuck, I could only yell in pain and fear as the white light shot from my hands into the computer. I could hear an electronic voice saying something involving "Error," and I dimly wondered if machines could feel pain.

I don't know how long it took. The literally soul-ripping pain made me pass out after some indefinite phase of heat and pain, and I fell into blessed unconsciousness as the glow faded.

I woke up to a pulsing light next to my head, as my omnitool flickered along to an unheard rhythm. Feeling like I'd been on a weeklong bender with Charlie Sheen I turned my head and found myself face-to-face with a glowing blue box that seemed surprisingly TARDIS-like.

"Stars and stones. It worked," I wheezed, my voice doing its best to imitate a crow.

Liberally cursing pain-in-the-ass admirals and annoying machines alike, I stumbled through the airless lunar ruins, haphazardly trying to balance my guns and Hannibal's blue box. The AI was thankfully silent, because I might've 'accidently' left it behind if it had tried to talk. I alternately jumped, ran, or crawled the distance back to my parked shuttle. Ignoring Hackett's calls and the shuttle VI's droning, I randomly pushed buttons until the shuttle started flying and collapsed on the floor.

Exhaustion caught up with me again, and I slurred out "That time, the building wasn't my fault..." as I dropped off.

Really, it wasn't!