A/N: Sorry for the absence, I've been busy with stuff here and there. Just a quick update that was pulled together a few sentences at a time over this month, so if you see anything wrong with my style or flow here, please tell me in a review so that I can fix it!
Chapter 6: Legacy
"And that's pretty much how it happened." I wrapped up. "The station was vacant and trains were passing right by, probably to keep people out of the hotzone, but one of them stopped for us eventually."
"So let me get this straight: you get caught up a huge street battle, do all this crazy stuff to get out of there, and you took the subway home?" Jonathan asked, his eyes narrowed skeptically.
"Well when you put it that way, it sounds dumb." I shot back.
"Well that's because it…"
The pilot called out over the comms: "Shaddup back there! We're on final approach to the Bellerophon Docks, so get your crap together and be ready to get the hell off my pelican!"
I was about to shout a witty comeback, but a low baritone voice interrupted my train of thought: the Elite.
"What is the term humans use for that kind of person? I cannot quite recall the slang that so many use…" He remarked in an oddly smooth baritone. I'd expected the alien's voice to be, I dunno, harsher, I guess?
"A term for that kind of person? Asshole seems about right." Jessica piped up, the grin on her face clashing with her harsh language.
"No, our equivalent of that would be "shizno", despite our version being at least four times as foul." The Elite responded, unfazed by Jessica's vulgar choice of words. "The original had something to do with beds…"
"Bow Chika Bow wow!" Greg called out, making me elbow him in the ribs.
"Ok, in all seriousness though," I remarked, shaking my head at the antics of my friends, "I think the phrase you're looking is "woke up on the wrong side of the bed", am I right?"
"Yes, thank you. Though I see no reason to adopt such turns of phrase in my own speech, I at least make an effort to understand them, however illogical they might be."
"Illogical? How so?"
"How would one's orientation upon awakening have any bearing on a person's mood or irritability?"
I had to admit, the alien had a pretty good point. Where did that phrase come from, anyway? There was a slight bump as the Pelican touched down, the whine of the vectored-thrust engines growing softer and giving way to the cacophony of the hangar: clanging footsteps of load-lifting exoskeletons, the thud of 'copter blades spinning through the air, and a constant hum of engines and voices alike.
The Elite spoke up as he undid his harness and picked up his bag.
"And speaking of irritability, I doubt we should irritate this pilot by staying on board any longer than we have to."
The rear bay opened up to reveal an oddly still scene: only a load-lifter, painted in industrial yellow, was moving crates around. Most of the noise was coming from behind a pile of containers that hid the landing area form view. I guess Command wanted to keep the presence of an Elite on the down low, I thought as I noticed how the alien's alabaster armor and mirrored EVA-style visor stood out from the dull gray, grease stained and rust-splotched deck plates.
"What kind of a scrapheap is this place anyway?" Jonathan remarked, casting a disdainful gaze around the hangar. "For a spaceport with a grandiose name like Bellerophon, I sure wasn't expecting it to look like a run-down ship hangar.
"That's because it is a ship hangar, dumbass!" Jessica retorted, rolling her eyes as we stepped into the elevator: "Jesus, someone sure is channeling Captain Obvious today…"
"Jess, give him a break." I reprimanded. "For future reference though, this place started life as a UNSC frigate called the Bellerophon. After dropping off the radar, it resurfaced with a few modifications the Insurrectionist ship the Bellicose. When we started colonizing, several craft were grounded and served as a center of operations for building up a city. The Bellicose and a few other ships landed first, serving as a spaceport and air hub. The whole complex inherited the Bellicose's original name of Bellerophon, and that's where we are right now."
The doors opened up to on the lower levels of the ship: an oily greasiness hanging in the air told me it was the vehicle bay. Taking a habitual sniff, I could pick out mechanical lubricants, fuel drippings, and cleaning fluids. Military issue too, although I wasn't that sure given the cacophony of chemicals my nose was picking up. Still, it wouldn't be too surprising: this close to the military wing of the spaceport, only a few civilian vehicles could be seen, most of them dwarfed by massive, jeep-like warthogs and even larger cargo transports. Most of them, except for the bright orange monster of a truck that Greg was proudly leaning against, keys in hand.
I tuned out as he began giving our guests his usual spiel on how he'd built the thing from the ground up. I knew how it went: He'd taken the frame of a scrapped Warthog, and started by lowering it closer to the road. Wanting to get both high speed and torque, he had put in a hybrid engine system, with a natural gas fueled generator powering each of the wheels' independent electric motors. Topping it off with walled flatbed in back along with a sloping windshield and roll-cage combination surrounding the passenger and driver, the end result was a formidable, seemingly paradoxical combination of sports vehicle and heavy-duty truck.
Two loud, near simultaneous shouts brought me back to reality:
"Shotgun!"
"Shot… Dammit!"
For once in a very long time, Jessica had been beaten to the punch, and the seat of honor taken from her, by someone we had just met no less.
Piling into the truck, I took a seat on the narrow bench wedged in behind the front seats, with the pilot Sarah beside me, and Jessica in riding in the truck bed with the Elite.
Turning onto the highway, I couldn't help but grin at the stunned expressions of our guests. Even the Elite was looking around, though I couldn't make out any kind of expression beneath his angular visor.
Along the sides of the roads lay a multitude of grounded ships. Like seeds of some strange but wonderful plant, they had opened up and started to grow. Verdant hydroponics towers rose from their surface like new shoots, and the glittering glass of apartment windows had crystallized on others. Other roads branched off like roots, leading to more ships as well as newer buildings that had started to rise from scratch. But for all the promise that made me smile every time I set foot on the surface, one ship always dampened the mood. Even our visitors noticed the painful gash in the city's appearance of burgeoning opportunity.
"Woah, what the hell 'appened there?" Sarah inquired, pointing a finger at the source of her confusion: the Persistence.
"The Reclaimers happened." I growled, looking over at the burnt out husk of a ship, a crater-like hole through its midsection. "That wreck over there used to be a research vessel called the Persistence. Ground Zero for the discovery and refinement of the hybridization factor, and one of the few guaranteed safe-zones for hybrids once hate-groups started crawling out of the woodwork."
I sighed darkly as the wreckage receded into the distance. "3:00pm, September 2nd. A Magnetic Accelerator Cannon round comes barreling out of the sky and tears through the Persistence, wiping out a full third of the people inside. Then came the drop pods. Not drop pods occupied by noble ODST's, but drop pods filled with hatred incarnate: a new breed of Supremacist, hyped up on the rumble-drugs and spouting twisted religious dogma."
"Religious dog-ma?" Jonathan spoke up, a smirk on his face. "That's a bit rich, coming from you."
"Hey, don't make me reach over there and bitch-smack you. This was a screwed up, tragic 9/11 of a modern era. As the investigation sifted through the wreckage and countless bodies, the choking dust and chilling echoes, one thing was clear: we had an enemy in our midst. A group of ONI diehards still loyal to the UNSC had unified most of the supremacist groups under a religious banner, something to do with 'reclaiming our legacy' and 'fulfilling the will of our forefathers'. It's a load of crap, but a load of crap that can turn humans into monsters."
A brief silence ensued, the only sound coming from the wind whipping through the truck's open design. Then once again, the Elite spoke up, surprising me by breaking his usual show of quiet stoicism.
"Canine, what did you say these warriors called themselves?"
"I have a name, you know. It's Russet. And these people were calling themselves Reclaimers, why do you ask?"
No answer: I was staring at a blank visor.
"Uh, anyone there?"
"I am sorry. But my own honor, as well as the chain of command, forbids me from saying any more."
