11: DON'T GIVE UP ON ME
November 30, 2559The sun wasn't even up yet, and already that terrible gut-wrenching feeling had again beset the Marine Master Sergeant. It was practically the only feeling he knew wasn't the fault of his connection to his twin – it was his instincts telling him he was about to get pounced on.
Never once had it failed to be true – which would have suggested it was Flint about to get pounced on, had it ever been. Frank knew better than to dismiss the feeling, though, and he got his men mobilized and skirting open spots as quickly as he could. Thankfully, Tori had come back around some four hours after dropping, and while the damage to her armor was significant, it wasn't enough to actually break it. She was walking on her own, which aided in their stealth. Rambling along through the dark on the decrease of Fargo's moon without the aid of flashlights made for a lot of stumbling accidents, though for the most part the men with nightvision goggles tried to keep those who didn't well enough informed. This system wasn't terribly efficient, but it kept those unfortunate enough to not have good nightvision on their own from running their noses into a shadowed wall.
Frank could see… sort of. He had no idea what he was stepping on, no idea what half the shapes he could discern truly were, and no idea how much of each shape was actual object and how much was just shadow; but he handed off his goggles to a man with black eyes anyway, because that particular fellow couldn't even see that much.
One of the perks of being a blue-eyed O'Neil.
The arrival into the industrial park eased some of the tension – being stirred early from where they had bunkered up for some rest after the fight had set a lot of the men on edge. This minor relaxation proved the undoing of the forward line, however, when out of that unbroken dark came a phalanx of black-clad Brutes. Not a round was fired; even they could not see far enough to make shooting worth the bother. But being hacked down under the jagged blades under the muzzles of their guns permitted all six of the Marines in front to scream before it was over.
Frank saw the first muzzle flash to his left, and knew he'd gotten a stain in his vision for it. But the rest of the environment had lit up like twilight thanks to the minor glow of the bullets' departure, and as if the individual shooting had seen similarly thus, the next volley came from more than one location.
Seeing past his own muzzle flash to hit the Brute he was aiming at proved easier than he expected, but the Brutes' shielding brightly lit in protest of the impact, and equally illuminated their own immediate vicinities.
It was as if a sequence of night-lights had been set off, all down in a string. Their luminence was poor, but given what light levels the men had been staring holes through for the night thus far, it was good enough to see by. Frank took down the first Brute, then paused to look over the new fight as a whole as he reached for a fresh magazine. The shield-wearing bastards took a whole clip to put down, especially when there was no immediate assistance from other Marines aimed at the same alien.
The picture Frank saw looked incomplete… and for that matter, it looked very ominous. Tori appeared in the dim spray of muzzle-flashes off to his right, darting from cover towards the first fallen Brute. When she got there, she knelt, and emptied her magazine into the next alien over. When that failed to kill the target, she pushed back to her feet, met the staggered beast where it had stopped, and slugged it across the mouth with the butt of her rifle hard enough to snap its neck.
Flint had mentioned something about watching out for when Tori got physical on the field. Frank made a mental note of that event, then turned his own aim to assist a fellow Marine down the street who was putting bullets into a Brute charging his position. Two others pitched in before the alien went down, but it still gurgled and tried to crawl forward anyway until the guy he'd charged at stepped up out of cover and shot him in the head.
Brutes were coming out from everywhere… had they tracked Frank's dispatch, and circled around them to cut them off? Were they already here, and lying in wait for Frank's return? Were the men left behind in the warehouse even still alive, or had they been routed and slaughtered by this enemy unit? Where was Flint and his team?
Just as he'd finished the thought about the other Spartan, he felt something impact the back of his shoulder, the event sending his next shot entirely wild and causing him to need to duck when the rounds ricocheted off the wall overhead and came back to get him. "Gah!"
For a heartbeat he thought it had been the source of his thought – Flint engaged in combat again – but his duck got him twisted around enough to realize the shadow behind him had gotten a lot bigger… and mobilized. Without waiting to see what it would do or even what it was, Frank ducked forward over his own knees and leapt nimbly sideways past the black spot, catching false bricking across one arm and stumbling over it instead of finishing his jump.
He heard the irritated huff of a Brute as feet shuffled in a pirouette motion, so he twisted back around and brought the muzzle of his BR up to address the issue. Muzzle flash never happened, as he hadn't gotten the trigger depressed before the barrel's end was covered by a monkey paw, concealing anything of the kind. There was an unmistakable sound of shredding meat and bone and the splash of liquid striking a flat surface, and a moment later, he felt the outer edge of a spike rifle blade smash into the false bricking just a hair's breadth from his ribs.
It had torn right through the flak jacket he wore, and he was now stuck on the end of those knives… or one of them, anyway.
The Brute howled in pain for whatever had happened to its grasping hand, but when it jerked the blades back out, Frank pretended to crumple. Maybe it wouldn't "make sure" he was dead quickly enough to stop him from skirting the issue entirely. But if he wasn't an "immediate threat" anylonger – hence the ruse – then perhaps it would, in fact, hesitate just a moment to address that hand.
His luck held, and the Brute backed off, allowing Frank to get his feet back under him. The first thing he did was flick the flashlight under his gun on; the second thing he did was splash the light it emitted right into the Brute's face, blinding the absolute crap out of the alien and causing it to stagger backward, squinting, with a dismayed, irritated yowl.
Frank squeezed the trigger, blowing a three-round burst into the Brute's open maw. Instantly the alien jumped backward, hit the signpost behind it and spun about, dropping straightaway to the paved sidewalk and staying there. A heartbeat after it looked dead enough to leave alone to Frank, it emitted a low whine of escaping air, startling the Marine all over again and sending him sprinting for some other place to be.
If that Brute got back up, Frank did not want to be around to witness it. As he ran, he noticed that wherever he pointed his flashlight, he illuminated more and more enemy, and the responding fire from his men doubled. After noticing a hauler rig up ahead would be a good place to stop, Frank swept the light across the enemy side of the street one more time, then flipped the light off and dove for it. Sure enough, the point where his light had gone out was soon filled with blind-flying ammunition from the Brutes' side, punctuated at the end by a well-aimed plasma grenade.
He flipped over the other side of the abandoned rig's flatbed for that one.
"Watch your flanks! They're behind us too!" Frank yelled over the din, aiming the shout more or less into the spot where he was sure he was seeing MA muzzle flashes.
Barely had he said as much then he heard someone else scream in agony, and a heartbeat after, one of his guns went quiet.
Damn, he thought, trying to pinpoint where that had been. He found the doorless entrance on the side of the building the hauler was parked in front of, and when he stepped inside, he saw another shadow move; that one he didn't have time nor ability to identify before it had closed the gap, and grabbed him.
"Hey…" said the shadow, evidently able to recognize what it was holding even if it couldn't see it. "You're Human."
"That's you're Human, sir, to you." Frank groused, shoving the other man off of him. "Thanks for not shooting."
"Oh… uh… sorry, sir. I was trying to watch our flanks… been snuck up on by three of the bastards already. I couldn't really see what you were, sir."
"Like I said," Frank told him, moving for the grenade-hole in the wall off ahead, to the left of the doorway. "Thanks for not shooting. Where is everyone? What direction did these guys come from first? Do we know anything besides that we're well and truly fucked right now?"
"Sorry, sir… I don't have any answers."
November 30, 2559Vy'atree heard the human weapons' fire before he saw it, or even any sign for why he'd be hearing it. But he'd been seeing sign of enemy passage through the area and felt his suspicions were well and truly justified now… the enemy truly had been through here, and now their passage had gotten them caught by the Humans' watchful eyes.
Or so he hoped. More realistically, he supposed the two parties had found each other simultaneously, and clashed in startled alarm more than anything else. Shaking his head at the thoughts, Vy'atree motioned the Elites at his flanks to alter their direction; if he didn't intervene, the Humans would come out by far more the worse for wear, if they came out at all.
Moving silently and swiftly, the Elites all turned and closed in on the sound, none needing any especial directing given that the firefight had yet to cease. Now the lower-toned staccato of Brute weaponry could be heard, and in the pitch of night, every one of the warriors were wondering how either of the other two species could see a damn thing.
Even for Elites, tonight was a dark night. Not too much to see in, not at all – but dark enough to confuse shapes and shadows on the fly.
Even the rear flank of the Brutes swarming in on the Human position was visible, however, the smallest of reflective surfaces on their armored hides catching and turning the dim starlight and outlining their otherwise shadowed forms as more than just formless shapes. With the ignition of the front rank of swords, this lighting situation changed dramatically. Brilliant and white-hot, the swords chewed through the turned backs of over a dozen Brutes before any of them even realized their flank was under assault. While luminous, the swords' agitated sizzles were silent as ghosts under the drumbeat of weapons' fire.
'Kaskindee caught the first comrade to be felled under a bristle of red-hot spikes, though he admittedly caught the warrior more to stop his death throes from slicing 'Kaskind into little pieces with the lit sword in his hand.
Lifting the weapon without deactivating it, he let the dead fall to the pavement, and left him there. Less engaged Elites could strip him of usefuls later; for now, 'Kaskind was in the fore of an attacking spearpoint, and he needed to be a productive member of it.
Spying Vy'atree out ahead, 'Kaskindee sprinted to catch up, keeping an eye out for any enemy that might have gotten missed. He saw Vy'atr turn around partway to address a Brute pelting his shields with red plasma, and another appeared out of the darkness on the Elite's other side.
He thought he would bring the bladed side of his grenade launcher up under Vy'atree's trailing arm, but instead his focus on his intended prey cost him both hearts and part of a lung when 'Kaskind struck from his flank and brought him down under the sword he held. He was straightening up from the pounce when Vy'atree turned back to see him, a look on his face that puzzled 'Kaskind and made him pause.
A moment later, Vy'atree raised his Carbine and put a round into 'Kaskindee's shields, knocking his unbalanced posture over. Only once he'd hit the pavement on his back and looked up by the light of his sword did he understand why; another Brute stood where had been behind him, now over him. His over-reaching swipe with the bladed fronts of his spike rifles was cut short when the Elite shaved both arms off at the elbow, and rolled quickly to the side to regain his hooves.
Before he was fully stood again, though, Vy'atree had silenced the Brute's pained howl with several well-aimed shots from his Carbine, and was already moving on. As he stepped to follow, 'Kaskind vowed to pay better attention; he felt his Superior was quite within his rights to shoot him once for being so negligent… that he'd used the same motion to make him see his err before it was too late to correct again was doubtless a kindness.
Still, the sheer number of Brutes here was alarming. Where were their minions? Where were their swarms of Kig-yar and Unggoy? He had just finished these thoughts when four of the other Elites on the same street passed him up and veered left, and in glancing at them 'Kaskind missed the upswing of the grenade launcher's bladed stock.
Vy'atree shot down the Brute immediately in front of him, and was forced to slug the one assaulting his flank with a fist to gain any kind of room. He leapt sideways and struck a hoof onto the wall of the building on that side, rebounded from it and came back to the Brute he'd punched. He brought down the butt-end of the Carbine he held across the alien's face, smacking it aside and forcing the Brute to twist into a drop. Once he was flat, Vy'atr reached down and jerked out the activation tabs on the grenades on the bandolier he wore, before abandoning him completely.
Failing to realize his doom straightaway, the downed Brute got back up, the sharply glowing plasma grenades at his chest hidden briefly as he charged after his escaping prey by all the crossfire of flashing lights. Bullets caught him from that crossfire, stalling out his momentum briefly, but when he exploded, he had no idea why.
Vy'atree spared a moment then to look back the way he'd come, noting the positions of most of his Elites. He could only see five; four of those were sprawled across the dark pavement, including the nearest one. He crooked his mandibles and raised his lip in a snarl, but he didn't stay long. Twisting away almost instantly, he extended his stride up the street heading for the nearest source of Human rifle fire. This morning was perhaps the bloodiest of them all, and more questions had arisen than answers.
A Human perhaps twice too big to be any of the Marines intercepted him abruptly, and caught himself before he smacked Vy'atree in the mandibles with the gun in his hands.
"Oh, you're… where are the others?" The voice corrected the small error; this was the female Demon.
"We must disengage and retreat; we are being slaughtered like vermin without honor in this place." Vy'atree snarled in reply. "Make your people move."
"Damn… I was beginning to think I was seeing too many Brutes and not enough of the other little bastards around."
"There are none." Vy'atree informed her. "This is a special task force, and you will not find any of the other races here tonight. Get your Marines in retreat immediately, Demon, or you will very soon have none left."
"Yeah, sure, done. Come on, let's follow them out." She started moving, adding after, "Or help punch an opening to go out through."
The screaming wail that lit the night like a shooting sun – too close to merely be a star in the sky – averted all eyes from their current tasks, however, and very shortly the shouting outmatched the shooting, and all the Humans began to pick up and run for it.
As one, the Brutes they had been shooting at lit after them, chasing several down and shooting them or beating them to death as each was caught. The Elites reconsolidated as the Human forces began to stream out the north end of the engagement, mixing into their number. Several on the flanks and in the rear ran backwards or sideways, shooting at their pursuit while simultaneously hoping to evade the sudden arrival of plasma artillery.
The whole sky was filled with it, and buildings were coming down all over the place.
Out ahead, Frank couldn't anylonger even hear himself shouting, the noise level was so great. Exploding, crumbling buildings, the crashing impact of building pieces striking street level, the thunderous, shattering impact of a plasma shell hitting the open street and throwing a crater out of the pavement, all of it… the rain was so heavy and constant that it had lit up the night sky like midday, and the prattle of hand-held weaponry was entirely gone from the sound palette. Marines were darting this way and that, running hell for leather forward, sideways, sometimes going down a side street and up a block only to come running back again to evade what they'd found in that other street.
There was just nowhere to go that was safe from the reaching hand of the artillery, even with the Spartan pacing their six and helping with the Elites to keep their pursuit of purely Brutes from swarming over them.
Frank felt distraught; he wasn't seeing nearly enough men, and if this was all that remained of the Elite dispatch sent out yesterday, then that was a sad state of affairs, as well. Even at a glance, he thought for certain he'd been cut by half… which would leave him less than a hundred men total.
That was if he glanced with hope, instead of despair. He threw his arms up to shield his face when the building to his immediate left took a hit, and false bricking peppered across him like pellets from a shotgun blast. The bigger chunks came out next, less than a heartbeat behind the little ones, riding the actual pressure wave the explosive shell had generated. A chunk as big as his thigh smacked across his leading shoulder, spinning him out and dropping him into an involuntary roll under the leaping boots of another Marine.
That one got four strides farther and went down under a man-sized chunk, but the man directly behind them both stooped as he ran and hauled Frank back to his feet. His mouth was moving, but Frank couldn't hear a damn thing but thunder anylonger. That building was shooting shrapnel and dust all over hell and gone, which meant it was coming down on them, and if he didn't keep running, he'd be buried. He moved his legs, attempting to do just that, but if the other Marine ever let go of him, he knew he'd only go back down to the pavement again. He wasn't sure why… he only knew he'd been hit across the shoulder, nowhere else.
But one thing he did know acutely – if all of them didn't find somewhere else to be really fast, not a one of them was going to make it through the day.
.
November 30, 2559The attempt to back out while the getting had appeared good soured almost as fast as pouring lemon juice into a glass of milk. Flint knew better than to push his luck; they still had ammunition, and for the moment, the Brute front looked abandoned. No one would suspect them to go inward to go around that surprise wall of troops and artillery pieces they'd run into.
Outward was too hammered-looking to provide much cover, and too likely to contain stationary scout troops to tattle on them if they tried it. But inward looked like it had been cleared out by the advancing maneuver… which meant it would be a hell of a closing pincer trap if it closed before they were ready for it to.
Given his choices, Flint felt annoyed, but he took it. Open for part of the way was better than open for none of the way, and while his Marines had ammunition, they did not have enough to sustain a heavy assault for more than half an hour.
Thirty minutes… and then they'd all die.
He hadn't heard a single whisper on the comn, not from Frank, not from Vy'atree. Nobody was squawking, even to click a preordained sequence to let everyone else know they'd returned to base safely. Dawn was in full progress, and the sky over the northeast end of the city was already pre-lit by arcing balls of contained plasma. If they had found what they thought was a Human position and were pounding it, then it was a mobile position… it was too close to be the business park. But if they'd found evidence enough to break out the artillery and lay waste to the area in general, then that might suggest why nobody had hit the all-home sequence.
They were under fire.
Flint found it rather difficult to focus… both Tori and Frank were up that direction, and likely both getting the snot pounded out of them. Frank might be able to handle it, but he'd feel it afterwards. Tori might well not come out the far side in one piece.
Not after what she'd done to her last helmet.
He kept his own dispatch of Marines moving as quickly as quiet would permit, but it still didn't feel sufficient. The closer they got to the Brutes' main base of operations, the worse it stunk, and the more Flint wished he could just light out and run for it – Spartans could run at upwards of fifty kilometers an hour. He could easily make up that small distance to the firefight northeast of his position in less than ten minutes.
But when the artillery pounding stopped, he did, too, and he stood there for almost a full minute, staring up the side street heading straight for that suddenly quiet sector of the city and waiting. He finally moved on, though, certain he'd get to do something about it later.
Probably sooner than he'd like, too, given how much ammunition he himself now carried. Trotting to catch up to the leading Marine, Flint swiveled around each time he passed a corner or somewhere that looked like it might contain a cranny for an enemy to hide in. He itched for the action to spring at them already, but he knew better than to outright wish for it. The last time he'd encountered the enemy, it had cut a significant hole in the number of Marines he had with him, after all.
Venturing so near the Brute's main base held its own temptations, however… and considering all the questions he'd collected over the course of his stay on Fargo thusfar, Flint found it hard as hell to resist them. Finally, starting the arc back north away from the center of the city, he took three of the men aside and went west with them. The rest continued north, keeping their heads down and their eyes alert; sans their Spartan escort, they felt more exposed, and would be more careful. If they didn't make it back alive, then it would be by the twisted fates of fortunes alone, and by no fault of theirs.
Knowing there were only a total of four of them made the three Marines still with Flint feel similarly; but that was okay. Flint rather appreciated a heightened sense of awareness in his support troops. Better they see it coming than not, after all. Even if he couldn't save them, he could still do something about whatever took them out before it took him out too.
