Beta-ready by Saberlin.

-J-

The white face gazed up at them, the last moments of Jenkins' life captured like a holo. Blood seeping into the thirsty ground beneath the young marine. With a heavy sigh, Alenko got to his feet; there was nothing he could do, nothing he could have done. Jenkins was gone before anyone could reach him.

At least it was quick, no writhing about injured, screaming for teammates to come and save him, no lying there with blood gushing out, feeling the cold fist of death tightening on his heart and lungs. It was not comforting, but it was better than nothing.

Still, part of Alenko was very glad the task of writing to Jenkins' parents would not fall to him. Was there any compassionate way to break news like that? No officer wanted to write those letters, though those that had to rarely shirked the duty.

Shepard's quiet words tapped their way into his thoughts, like fat raindrops on glass. "We'll see that he gets a proper service, but we have our orders. Help me move him." If he had been unable to see her face, Alenko would have thought Jenkins was already so much meat on a slab to Shepard.

Her face told a different story, a reassuring one. She was practical, if nothing else; they did have to keep moving. But she did not like it. Her mouth thinned; for a moment she seemed to see someone or something else—not necessarily every soldier she ever lost, but maybe a few of them.

And she did want Jenkins' remains out of the way, somewhere safe, so the likelihood of the corpse being despoiled would stay low. Alenko was a biotic—it would take him less time to shift the body than it would take two marines doing it manually.

"Where do you want him?" Shepard motioned vaguely to all the rock formations. Alenko did not like leaving Jenkins either, as he gently shifted Jenkins' corpse. It would, hopefully, stay safe behind those rocks.

The thoughts violated one of the first things the Alliance tried to teach those officers likely to see combat: you're going to lose men. The sooner you stop thinking of dead crewmen as your men and start thinking of them as dead meat all the better for you and all the better your unit. Tears and grief had to wait; they could be people again later.

"If we're going to save this colony, we've got to get the beacon off it—it's what they're here for." The forced businesslike tone did not conceal Shepard's concern for the colonists. Shepard gave him a bracing smack to the shoulder, also indication he should follow her. Any thoughts he might have had for telling her Jenkins' death was not her fault never got past wondering if he should. Shepard had already shouldered responsibility; trying to absolve her of it—right now at least—would only piss her off.

The back of his mind continued processing as the foremost part focused on the business at hand. They had not yet started tripping over dead colonists…so maybe there were still people to save.

It startled him that even aboard the Normandy, with things just starting to spiral out of control, Shepard did not seem to think about survivors. Given her personal history, he expected her to raise the issue of looking for them. Now her reasoning made sense: they could not form a search party and expect to get results while fighting the unknown. In fact, worrying about the colonists as a primary concern would hurt them in the long run: the beacon would remain, and while it did the enemy would keep coming.

He thought he saw her entire train of reason. This was no attack by raiders after slaves and plunder; this was a precise attack with a specific target. Remove the target and the attack on the colony would, theoretically, cease. They could still help any survivors, save as many as possible, but they had to do it obliquely, like the logic game of trying to switch all the blocks in a grid to one color.

Doubtless the Alliance knew there was trouble by now. Anderson would have contacted them; reinforcements were probably on their way.

The echoes of gunfire and Jenkins' last shout ringing in Alenko's ears slowly silenced as he and Shepard continued moving. Shock gave way to something else, something he had not felt for a long time. It ruffled his usual self-disciplined calm, tugged at his habit of tempering attacks, of holding back.

His expression hardened. If the enemy—whoever they were—thought they were killing any more of this team, they would find themselves wholly and painfully mistaken.

He quenched the venomous heat coming with the sentiment. That would not help; it would make him a liability. Shepard was not the only one good at compartmentalizing thoughts and feelings. He was a biotic; he had to know how to compartmentalize, (or whispers of 'unstable' started to bandy about). He was not quite successful in separating the mildly vengeful desire to biotically flatten the opposition from the logical necessity of doing just that.

And yet…he'd never lost a man before. The thought quenched some of the emotion attached to the need to take action. He'd seen dead civilians, dead enemies, and dead soldiers from other units during his time in the service. This was different. Jenkins was one of his. It was part of his job to bring Jenkins back. It was what the Alliance taught…tried to teach their officers.

…was that what was running in the background of Shepard's mind?

She prowled ahead, stooping with her weapon ready to fire. The air around her seemed to quiver apprehensively. Whatever spooked Shepard soon passed, for she rose and continued forward again.

She did, however, glance back at him, her eyes meeting his before sliding back to where Jenkins ought to have followed. She only looked back for a moment, but it spoke volumes.