In retrospect, Shepard mused, offering Queen Mab a beer had probably been a bad idea.
The N agent appreciated his understanding of one of life's great mysteries from the church's cheap linoleum floor, while snowflakes pooled around him in an impromptu tableau. Murphy, her gun locked on target, sidestepped away from the cowering refugees. Father Forthill ushered the bystanders towards the door, one hand holding a crucifix high. Winter winds swirled around the cramped back room, in stark contrast to the hot summer night.
Shepard looked left to see Molly, shivering from fear and the unnatural cold. The young woman rocked herself slowly under the wire-frame bed, keening incoherently under her breath. As the Marine reached out a hand to help, Molly's eyes refocused and she quickly rolled away. She muttered gibberish and disappeared completely from the soldier's sight, while light footsteps creaked softly against the worn floorboards.
"Little knight," crooned a feminine voice from above. Shepard turned back towards his real problem, which was currently straddling his chest and reaching a hand towards his face. Cold, inhuman eyes gazed on him like a lion would watch sheep, and ruby-red lips crooked in a wide smile. A delicate hand brushed against his cheek, but the being's fingers burned like ice against his skin.
She was beautiful. Her skin was flawless, every feature perfectly placed and expertly molded - and for all he knew, it probably was. Even as he reached for his Varren Fang, Shepard took a moment to appreciate the creature straddling his chest. She broke every objective, human standard of beauty, so much that the room seemed to dim in comparison. In a moment of hilarious clarity, Shepard realized that he'd probably need to get new porn magazines if he survived this.
"Mortal, thou hast wronged me greatly," whispered the faerie. Shepard's mind raced, fitting together the fragmented shards of knowledge he'd gleaned from Dresden's mind and this new world he faced. "Thou hast stolen a great prize from under mine own reach, and I desire recompense," Queen Mab announced, leaning forward as she did.
"Um," Shepard said.
"My Knight, felled by ferromancy, was within my grasp," Mab announced, her snow-white hair drifting to an invisible wind. "A mortal, to be sure, but his Power was great. He would play a leading part in this time of troubles, and he would be mine." She snarled, the sound rumbling like crashing glaciers. "My weapon, my tool, my Power!"
"Um," Shepard said desperately.
"Little knight, thy presence has taken mine own Knight from me," the Unseelie Queen said quietly. "Thou owest me a debt that thou cannot easily repay. Find my Knight's murderer, track down his killers and bring them before me, or my vengeance shall be swift and my justice deadly!" The snow whirled in a miniature blizzard, and the indoor wind howled like damned men. Pressed to the floor by cold, unyielding force, Shepard could only watch as Mab rose into the air and disappeared without another word.
"Um," Shepard said.
"Shit," Murphy finished for him. She lowered her weapon, moving through the frigid room towards the open door. Shepard struggled to his feet, looking over the snowed-in beds with a frown, as Murphy asked, "Where's Molly?"
"Molly?" It took a moment for Shepard to remember the name, and longer for him to recall what had happened. "Cloaked. Tracks in the snow." He pointed at the set of bare footsteps, partially obscured by the faerie winds, that were still barely visible in the dissolving ice.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" Murphy muttered to herself vehemently, stowing her weapon and grabbing her cell phone. "Of all the creepy-crawly things to run into today...Get the others. Talk to Forthill. I'll deal with the Carpenters."
Overwhelmed, the Marine grabbed his gear and quickly moved into the church itself. Ignoring the massive room, he focused immediately on the shivering refugees and the portly priest guarding them. "You're safe," he announced quietly, walking over to the small group. "Different problem, not yours."
"Not our problem?" a quavering voice asked weakly. "Queen Mab herself walked onto consecrated ground, simply to see you. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have thought it even possible." The N operative turned to see the same old woman he'd counseled minutes ago. She raised a finger and pointed it at him slowly. "My boy, you've got quite the problem on your hands."
Father Forthill nodded silently, but beckoned to Shepard as he stepped away from the whispering civilians. The tall Marine followed, tapping instructions into his translucent omnitool as he did. The old priest turned away from the refugees and whispered, "My son, I wish that I didn't have to ask this of you now-"
"But?" Shepard interrupted wearily.
The priest nodded again. "Harry Dresden left behind several powerful artifacts in his home. They are dangerous tools in the wrong hands, and I'm sure that others are already moving to recover them. I would ask you to go to his apartment and secure anything which might be harmful if left unchecked." Forthill spared a glance towards the huddled group. "I can handle this flock, but combat," he spread his arms to indicate his ample belly, "is not my strength."
The Marine gave a crooked grin. "Understood, padre." Moving silently through the darkened church, Shepard donned his old disguise as "John Baker" slipped out into the hot Chicago summer night.
"Think, Murphy, think. Where does a six foot, space-magic supersoldier with a shotgun fetish and a ten-word vocabulary hide?"
Karrin Murphy resisted the urge to answer her own question with "Anywhere he wants to," but it was a close call. Not for the first time, she cursed her new problem child's communication problems and ability to disappear the moment she looked away.
A Cubs baseball cap pulled low over her hair, she walked quickly through the glow of streetlamps and the pre-dawn light. Her bike was parked two blocks away, and Dres- the burned building was a block ahead, still roped off by police tape and defunct wards. She unconsciously scanned the deserted streets for threats, her mind lost in emotion and thought.
A muted scratching noise echoed from an alley to her left; the former cop spun on her back foot, settling into a classic shooter's stance. Her gun steadied on the alley's opening, Murphy slowly sidestepped to clear the corner, holding her weapon one-handed while her other reached for her flashlight. One breath in, another out, and Karrin Murphy readied herself for yet another fight in a day that refused to end. With her gun and flashlight clutched together, she switched the powerful light on down the shadowed alleyway.
Mister the tomcat dashed out, yowling in annoyance.
Murphy laughed, a ragged noise that echoed hollowly among the silent buildings. Slowly lowering her weapon, she chuckled helplessly as the thirty-pound cat rubbed against her leg, purring like a car engine. The cop steadied herself with a second-long breathing exercise, before turning back towards the burned-out building. Shattered windows gazed out like unseeing eyes as she walked towards it, and the landward wind from Lake Michigan whistled through the empty street.
A second passed. One second stretched into five, then ten, then a minute. Karrin Murphy stood, one foot outstretched past the curb, not moving a muscle. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her pistol a cold, dead weight in her hand. Her breath hissed softly from between clenched-up teeth, the former cop's eyes locked like lasers on the shattered apartment.
Mister bumped her back leg, the impact sending her stumbling forward. "Fuck!" Murphy cursed to no one in particular, and took another step ahead.
Entering Dresden's apartment was exactly as awful as she'd imagined it would be. The stairs to his basement abode were scorched black from the heat, the upper crust scattered by the tread of booted feet. The steel door, a constant pain in the ass for anyone trying to get in or out, perched improbably against the concrete wall opposite its rails. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Murphy walked inside.
There was no tingle. Every time she'd passed that "threshold," as he'd always called it, Murphy had felt the pins-and-needles sense of something buzzing behind her ears. It was the closest she'd ever gotten to actually feeling magic casting, and a constant reminder of what Harry dealt with - had dealt with - every day. Now, the hot Chicago summer air poured in past the gaping doorway, ruffling her hair gently and sending ashes skittering across the floor.
The apartment had its own unique smell: a melange of candle wax, beer, incense, and men's locker room. It was a mix of antique and modern, normal and out-of-this-world, a grab bag of rage and strength and faith. She'd never admitted it to his face, but Murphy had always loved those chances she took to venture down into Harry's lair. ("Batcave," he'd called it with a grin) Past that scratched door and its equally scarred guardian, she could shed the "Lieutenant" (Sergeant, on suspension she absently corrected herself) and just be "Murphy."
She slowly walked over the charred floorboards, skirting fallen beams and tumbled fragments of the home. Running her hands over the scorched and melted remains of the old icebox, (he'd never been able to keep a regular fridge for long) Murphy drew in another breath and let it go silently. Closing her eyes and muttering a half-remembered prayer from her childhood, she stopped and faced the truth.
Dresden was dead. There was no "but," no beyond-the-grave trickery to get him back: his body was cooling in the city morgue, you can sign for possession three days after the autopsy, may God take his soul, amen. The five stages of grief were four stages too long for a cop in Special Investigations, doubly so when you took a serious look at what went bump in the night. Staying in denial was going to get someone else killed, and grief, anger, and bargaining would do the same. Squaring her shoulders, Murphy went to find her current problem.
He was standing in Dresden's old bedroom, a small red object held in a black-gloved hand. The black, featureless helmet regarded it blankly, barely looking in her direction as she approached. The armored figure reached out to twist a knob, and Murphy felt herself swallowing back tears as she heard the tiny Mickey Mouse alarm clock tick.
"He really wanted to go on that date," Shepard rumbled softly. Murphy tried to laugh and cry at the same time, but only managed a strangled hiccup. Her legs buckled, and the paper-thin wall she'd built to keep the grief away was shredded as realization flooded in. Hugging herself against the wall, Murphy sobbed silently as Shepard stood awkwardly over her.
The footsteps were near-silent and carefully timed, the tread of an experienced professional. Despite the intruder's caution, learned instinct heard the faint sound, and Murphy jerked her head up at the noise. Shepard motioned at her with a foreign hand signal, before turning in place to point at the wall. Like before, Murphy watched in stunned silence as he started to glow with an unnatural purple light.
The light spread out, bathing the tiny room in its freakish glow, and Murphy held her breath as a strange humming sound filled the air. She could smell the stink of ozone on the air, and as she reached for her pistol, the buildup reached a breaking point.
Shepard smashed through the dividing wall like it didn't exist, scattering fallen beams and scattered debris flying away from the purple fireball. Murphy was on her feet in an instant, yanking her gun from its holster while cursing her inattention. The Sig Sauer trained on the path of destruction, she followed Shepard to find him facing down the pistol-holding intruder.
"What did that poor wall ever do to you?" Tilly asked with a faint grin.
"Got in the way," Shepard grunted, still glowing purple despite the pre-dawn light.
To an inexperienced outsider, Agent Barry Tilly of the FBI would have seemed his normal, unflappable self. An experienced outsider like Shepard noted the bags under his eyes and the slight tremble in his gun hand. To Murphy, Tilly looked one step from falling apart. His clothes, normally perfectly attired, were creased and lined as much as his face. His eyes twitched, barely able to meet her gaze, and his shooter's stance was sloppy at best. For a perfectionist like Tilly, Murphy knew that he was on the edge.
Shepard sidestepped to the right, his shotgun braced against his arm."Gun. Down."
Tilly shook his head slowly. "No."
The basement air echoed with a metallic click-clack as Shepard cocked his shotgun. Murphy glanced over at Shepard. "Does that thing even have a slide?"
"Nope." Shepard grinned. "Help negotiations, though."
"Murphy," Tilly began wearily. "My office was attacked yesterday by a creature which shrugged off bullets like candy. I've got fifteen wounded, six dead." He hung his head. "The first funerals start next week." He took a deep breath before sighing deeply. "I-I don't know what's going on, or what you know or who the hell he is," he indicated by jerking his head towards the armored Marine, "but I know you've involved in this somehow. Karrin, please - I need something to go on here."
Murphy dropped her head, lowering her pistol as she did. Tilly did the same, and his pistol had almost reached its holster before Shepard body-slammed him. The thin man flew across the ruined room, nearly hitting the brick wall on the other side. Murphy spun on her heel, raising her weapon again, and had sighted on Shepard in time to see him throw another purple-glowing bolt at the doorway.
The hooded creature at the door let out an inhuman snarl as it was dragged forward, but as it crossed into the room, it disappeared into dark tendrils of smoke. The smoke whirled around the room before settling in another corner; Murphy spun to face it as Shepard's shotgun fired. As the smoke stabilized again, Murphy got her first good look at the creature attacking them.
Its coal-grey hood covered most of its head, keeping its face shadowed in the dark basement, but two green eyes shone dimly in the pre-dawn glimmer. Clawed hands aimed a pistol at her, the weapon's dull black metal glinting slightly as it arced towards her. Murphy fired on instinct, her Sig throwing three bullets into the thing's center of mass. The creature fired back once, and Murphy felt the telltale 'whump' of an impact on her stomach that didn't break armor. The thing disappeared again as she pulled the trigger, and the cop's fourth bullet burrowed into the wall.
Spinning to clear the room, she found the situation well in hand: Shepard slowly strode towards the door, his weapon tracking an unseen target above. He fired once through the brick, and a loud snarl echoed through the basement. As Murphy and Tilly moved to flank him, Shepard held up a fist and slowly walked ahead. Covered by the basement's cement stairwell, he carefully checked the outside before turning to the others.
"Hold. I'm up, sniper check."
Tilly frowned. "Aren't you worried that they'll get through your," he fumbled with the world, "shield-thing?"
Shepard grinned, before pumping his fist and becoming highlighted in brilliant purple light. "Not this one." He walked towards the door, slowly ascending the steps-
whizz-BOOM! The sniper rifle's report was deafeningly loud in the cramped space, and Shepard quickly stepped back down the staircase, the bright purple light a dull glimmer now. "Nevermind. Ow."
Murphy motioned towards the door. "Hold on. Those things were here for a reason, and we need to figure it out first."
Tilly whirled on her. "The hell we do! Tell me what's going on first, while I call the police."
Murphy reached out a hand, which Tally batted aside. "Barry, we're here to secure anything valuable, and most likely, those things are too. We can't go out yet, but they can't get in, so there's no harm in looking around as long as we guard the door. Besides, do you want untrained cops on a call like this?" Tilly paused, but nodded in temporary agreement.
"You first on sentry," Shepard grunted at the FBI agent. "Watch for grenades." Tilly looked like he was going to argue but abruptly reconsidered, taking a knee behind a ruined couch. Murphy went for the old trapdoor, still intact despite the general devastation, and yanked it open after a few unsuccessful tries. Weapons out, the two descended into the sub-basement.
"Shit," Shepard breathed out slowly as the two surveyed the cramped wizard's laboratory. Murphy could only nod in agreement: she'd seen Dresden's lab a few times, but despite his tendency to be a total slob, he'd always kept the lab well-ordered.
Had done, at least. Now neatly-labeled spell components were missing and scattered everywhere, while various drawers were shattered and left open. A thick dust filled the air, and ash drifted lazily among glinting silver on the floor.
"Hold up, radiological here." Shepard held up a fist, and Murphy stopped with a frown, trying to remember what would cause it. She snapped her fingers as she realized the answer, and announced, "That's ghost dust; part of it was depleted uranium. We should be OK."
The Marine shook his head doubtfully, but continued forward through the devastation. "Key objects?"
"I wish I knew," Murphy responded honestly. "No, wait; check that model on your left." The cop and the Marine flanked the massive table holding up the giant scale model, as each looked over the tiny pewter buildings of what Harry had dubbed "Little Chicago."
Murphy had known how useful a tool it was, but she'd never really looked at the thing before. The model was unbelievably accurate, down to every streetlight and tree; she felt like she could see cars and people on the model's streets if she squinted. "Weird," Shepard's gravely voice dragged her from her reverie.
"It's a tracking tool, like GPS for wizards," Murphy said, her mind thinking of the possibilities. "It's for thaumaturgy, where you basically make connections between different things. This model would let you connect and track pretty much anything in Chicago, as long as you knew how to use it."
Shepard nodded, before reaching for a small bottle on his belt. As Murphy watched, dumbfounded, he unscrewed the top and started to spill a clear fluid over Little Chicago. "Incendiary," he explained at her confused stare.
"What?" Murphy yelled. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Denying resources," Shepard said frankly, replacing the bottle on his belt. "Got a lighter?"
"No, damnit, I don't! Why the hell do you think this is a good idea?" Murphy said, shocked. She automatically took two steps away from Shepard, her hand slipping to her holstered pistol.
"It's Dresden's tool, but he's dead. Can you use it?" Shepard asked.
"No," Murphy conceded. Dresden had mentioned that he'd kept Molly far away from anything as tempting as Little Chicago, and Murphy had her doubts about the young mage's stability since- well, since Mexico.
"Can't use it, can't transport it, enemy might recover it, dangerous if they do. Deny them resources," Shepard announced brusquely.
"Damnit!" Murphy cursed. "Can't we just hold them off, and get it out of here later?"
"How? Can't get it through trapdoor, trespassing on crime scene, enemies sieging us might bring building-crackers. Can't stay, can't bring it with us. Destroy it instead," Shepard said.
Murphy hung her head, her eyes held shut to keep the tears back. She knew that her view on Little Chicago was skewed by her attachment, but it was almost literally all she had left of Dresden. In a terrible three days, her life had been turned upside down: she'd lost every-damn-thing, from her job to her mission to her...whatever Dresden was to her. It was too much. She couldn't take it.
She opened her eyes. "There's some string to your left. Grab that and soak it in the fuel; I'll get a match."
Life was out to get him, Agent Tilly decided. There really was no other possible explanation. Life, or Fate, or God or what have you had it in for Barry Tilly, a.k.a. Chicago Branch Agent Tilly, a.k.a. "Slim" of FBI amateur baseball fame.
"So, there's a model in Dresden's basement which acts like a classic voodoo doll," he announced.
"Yup," the armored man agreed, rifling through the scorched kitchen cabinets as she did.
"And anything which happens in the real Chicago happens in the model, and vice versa," he ventured.
"More or less," Murphy agreed, her gun trained at the door since she'd taken over sentry duty from him.
"So...what happens when we burn the voodoo doll?" Agent Tilly asked desperately.
"Um," the armored man said with a startled jerk, his featureless helmet turning towards Murphy. She tilted her head to the side, lost in thought, before motioning to him. "I've got it. Hold here," she said, heading towards the trapdoor.
There was no other explanation, Tilly decided. God was out to get him.
A model which could incinerate half the city seemed surprisingly easy to disarm, Shepard decided. He prodded the line of salt with his boot. "That it?"
"As long as you don't break the damn circle!" Murphy said, shaking more salt over the Marine's bootprint. Drawing a small knife from her pocket, she pricked her finger and let blood drops spill onto the salt circle below. "Let's go," she ordered grimly.
"That it?" Shepard asked again.
"Yeah," Murphy said quietly. "All those years of work, and it takes a box of matches to make it all go away." Shepard couldn't think of anything to say, and remained silent as the cop tossed a match onto the end of the fuel-soaked cord.
Memory struck the instant before the match connected: "Remember, boys and girls, M38C burns really well with cotton, so be careful around any of that organic shit!" The Marine managed a single "Oh-" before the blaze started.
"-shit," he finished belatedly as the fire burned far too rapidly along the impromptu fuse, grabbing Murphy and shoving her bodily towards the stairs. Hoping that his k-bars would hold, he shielded the unarmored woman as they thundered up the stairs to the basement room. "Behind me!" he ordered as the crackling sound of a roaring fire increased, and pulled up his strongest Barrier as he approached the door again.
They were waiting for him outside. The first round hammered his barrier, sending him stumbling up the stairs two steps at a time. His suit had calculated the bullet's flightpath by the time he'd turned, and the arc showed in a brilliant white streak across the Marine's HUD as he stood. With his pistol out, Shepard aimed and fired at the same time as the unseen enemy shot again. The second round fully depleted his Barrier, but one of Shepard's rounds found his opponent. A loud yowl sounded across the deserted streets, and no more rounds followed the first two.
"On me, go!" Shepard yelled, his blood singing in a way he could only feel from a good firefight. Murphy and Tilly stacked up behind him, their pistols covering either flank as the trio moved into the open. Behind them, flame shot out from the basement as Little Chicago burned inside the old lab. "Transport?" he asked.
"My car," Tilly motioned to the right, and the N operative's eye spotted an unmarked white van parked down the street. "Copy," Shepard responded, taking point as they half-ran towards the vehicle. Shepard silently thanked Whoever above for having trained professionals to work with, and threw himself into the van's back seat without a second thought.
"You're an FBI agent, and you drive a rapist van around?" Murphy asked disbelievingly, jumping into the driver's seat as Tilly stopped, confused.
"What? It works for surveillance. And that's my seat," Tilly said, pointing at the driver's seat.
"Keys, Barry," Murphy responded, holding out her hand. The FBI agent dropped them in her hand after a moment's hesitation, then ran to the passenger's seat as the car's engine roared to life. The van screeched away from its parking space, quickly picking up speed on the nearly-deserted street, as two unmarked sedans rounded the corner behind them.
"Two vehicle contacts, your six," the Marine announced calmly, stowing his pistol and grabbing his shotgun. As metallic thunks echoed through the van's back, and as metallic pockmarks appeared on the trunk, Shepard blew the van's side door open with a single shotgun blast. As the heavy door swung back, the marine stowed his shotgun and reached both hands out to the car roof's overhang. Throwing himself out from the side of the speeding van, Shepard hauled himself back onto the roof and locked his mag-boots into place on the top.
"Shepard, what-"
"Keep moving!" he yelled, the sound carrying through his helmet speakers. Murphy obliged; the van's engine growled forward and the heavy vehicle shot forward with the stink of burning rubber. Bystanders gaped at the armored figure standing on top of the car, which weaved through early-morning traffic with the frequent screech of bumper-on-bumper impacts.
His head encased inside the world's most expensive chunk of ceramic, Shepard noticed none of this. As his HUD projected a target area, the Marine took a knee and grabbed his Avenger rifle, unfolding the huge gun and linking its sights. His helmet's screen projected the crosshairs over his vision, and the operative took aim at the nearest car.
Thudthudthud. The weapon's report seemed muted compared to the damage it caused. Traveling at near-relativistic speeds, three microscopic grains of metal passed through the car's hood like it didn't exist. As their shockwaves finished the destruction, the car screamed to a halt like it had hit an invisible wall. Smoke poured out from under the hood, and the hooded figures inside abandoned it as the sun continued to rise.
The other car, its occupants clearly spooked by its compatriots' fate, screeched around a corner to escape the unmarked van. Shepard placed a nav marker to trace the tire tracks later, before carefully stepping towards the front of the van. Banging on the roof, he spoke through his external speakers: "Pursuit's E&E, we're clear. Keep going."
"Damnit, Shepard, what did doors ever do to you?" Tilly's voice sounded strained, and Shepard grinned at the sound. "Karrin, where the hell are we going?"
"Rudolph's place," Murphy yelled over the ambient noise of wind, traffic horns, and bystander yells. "He knows something, and I want to find it out. Hey Barry, is this thing insured?"
"Yeah, I-damnit, Karrin, really?"
Murphy let out a long laugh as the van sped through Chicago, Shepard's feet still planted firmly on the roof.
"That's the house?" Shepard yelled over the roar of the wind.
"Yeah!" Murphy said, her tone angry.
"Do not stop!" Murphy's only response was to gun the engine, and the bullet-riddled van increased speed down the suburban road.
As the unstoppable force barreled onwards towards the unyielding object, Shepard was treated to flashes of ordinary and extraordinary moments. Mowed lawns and red-brick houses stood in stark contrast to the scarred white van roaring down the middle of the street - and the man surfing on top of it. A middle-aged man in a bathrobe, coffee cup in pieces at his feet, gaped at the spectacle flying by; Shepard barely resisted the urge to wave. Focusing on the target, Shepard spotted an unmarked black SUV parked out front, and the three figures moving from it to the target's front door.
One of the figures, halfway up the path to the house, spun at the noise of the van. In a motion that rattled Shepard's stomach, the human rapidly transformed into something out of Dante's nightmares, as green scales and new limbs sprouted across its body. The monster paused in momentary indecision, a second pair of eyes opening at the top of its head, before turning to evade. Shepard grinned as he realized his first target, and crouched to prepare.
Safety interlocks triggered as his knees bent, and the operative waited until the last possible second to attack. As the van's bumper neared the SUV, Shepard jumped upwards; the safety locks released his mag-boots and let him arc almost gracefully above the car accident below. Tucked in a fetal position, Shepard unstoppably cannonballed forward, bellowing his old unit's war cry with a grin:
"Faugh a ballaugh!"
The SUV was shredded by the impact; with its center of weight above the van's, it was flipped on its side with a tremendous crash of glass. As the huge vehicle slowly rolled on its back, the van crashed onto its back wheels with the hiss of escaping air. The van's front windshield had been completely destroyed by the impact, but Shepard could dimly see the billowing white fabric of old-school airbags obscuring the passengers. Swinging his head to clear the headache, the N operative slowly stumbled to his feet to find himself presented with a slight problem.
Despite being hit with two hundred kilos of armor and augmented human, the monster was still alive. Bones creaked back into place and flesh re-knit itself with a wet gurgle, as the creature fought to stand. Shepard dispassionately braced his weapon and fired, the Carnage shell undoing the creature's prior work and causing it to hiss in pain. With his shotgun hissing as well as its cooling vanes radiated white-hot thermal buildup, the Marine lowered his weapon as another monster growled at him.
"You shouldn't have used up your weapon that so soon, little human," the bear-like monster said with a manic grin, drool flying from its mouth in a constant stream.
Shepard smirked, the gesture invisible under his helmet, before spreading his arms wide. "Who said I needed it?"
The creature had just started to dodge away as Shepard brought his hands together, beginning the mnemonic action. Eezo nodes sent the Marine flying forward in yet another Charge, the impact knocking the bear-like monster off its feet. With his weapon finally ready, Shepard fired at the retreating monster, which howled in pain as the pellets shot through it. The two monsters, each limping from the impacts they'd suffered, ran from the black-armored Marine as Murphy and Tilly scrambled from the burning wreck.
Shepard grinned and flicked his shotgun to the "C" selector again, before-BZZZZT!
The impact threw him several feet, the Marine landing heavily on his left side. The electricity coursing through his body was doing the same to his suit, and the N operative found himself spasming uncontrollably.
"Now, now, Saluriel," purred a voice from inside Rudolph's house. Another monster, its second pair of eyes shining brightly, sauntered from the house. "Ladies first."