Losses
Echoic voices filled his ears, distant and hard to understand.
"All right… ease him out of it. We don't know how bad the damage could be."
Slowly, Tank's eyes opened to reveal a sea of white light. Dark figures appeared over him, their hands holding holo-pads. The marine could hear the steady beeping of a heart monitor, along with the humming of medical equipment. Dull, throbbing pain flowed in and out of his chest.
Tank briefly wondered if he was dead, despite the pain he felt. One flex of his muscles changed his opinion. Fire shot up his back, forcing him to sit up and hiss in response.
The figures backed away, and slowly, the marine's eyes adjusted to the room.
He was surrounded by a team of doctors in white suits, some covered in splotches of crimson, others not. Two nurses and another man, in dark green scrubs. His forehead was dripping with sweat, his hands shook, and his dark eyes were focused on Tank.
"Sturgis." The man spoke. "Scan him."
Tank glanced towards his right, to find a VI hologram standing before him. The image wore a clean-cut 'suit' with digital lines slashing through it that changed colors from deep purples, blues, and greens to fiery reds and oranges. It was a more sophisticated design than most VIs within the Alliance, displaying that this program had some sort of designed individuality to it.
It's 'skin' mimicked the changing of colors of its suit, but the program's eyes remained a deep blue.
An accented voice passed through its lips, "So far, I am detecting no brain damage from initial scanning. Skin shows no degeneration from the dermal treatments, but that doesn't account for remarkably quick healing." Sturgis let that sink in for a moment before continuing, "And the bone were repaired and fused with little trouble." It spoke as if going through a checklist. "You will have to test him yourself to tell whether if my indications about the brain damage are true."
A young doctor approached Tank and stood next to the bed he lay on. His eyes darted left to right as he read info that sat on the screen of his holo-pad. "All righty… let's start with your name, rank, and serial number."
His throat was dry and felt like it was caked with the sand he had so recently fought in, but he managed to force a raspy voice out of him, "Where am I?"
"Aboard the SSV Chicago. Med-bay." The man quickly replied. "Now…name, rank, and serial number."
Tank's eyes found a thin tube running from a bag hanging from a medical stand, filled with plasma, running into his bicep. Tasting stale air, the soldier finally noticed the oxygen mask strapped over his mouth and nose. Lances of pain rippled across his chest, but white bandages that wrapped around him hid any injury from immediate view.
He grimaced. "How long have I been out?"
"Two hours after surgery. Meant to stay knocked out for much longer, but you fought off the anesthesia quicker than expected. Plus with the possibility of brain damage, we wanted to see if you were all there." The man gave an annoyed huff, "Name, rank, and number, please."
Brain damage? Tank glared at the doctor, "What happened?"
The man in green scrubs came forth, pushing the other man back gently. He sighed and gave a nervous grin, "Well, you were clinically dead on the operating table for about four minutes. Luckily we replaced your ticker just in time, and then gave you a quick shock to get it going. No oxygen reached your brain within that period." Clearing his throat, the man placed a hand on Tank's thick shoulder. "Now please, we need to figure out if everything up here…" He tapped his head with his forefinger, "…is still working."
His eyebrows shot up. "New ticker?"
A smile from the man in scrubs, "Yeah… when you were shot, your heart took a bad hit. Structural damage to the aorta and pulmonary." He paused, knowing the kid in front of him wasn't a medical nut, so he ceased with the details. "It was failing when you arrived, and when you woke up in the middle of surgery and yanked the tubes out, it finally petered out."
Harsh yet fuzzy memories assaulted Tank. He briefly felt the agony that ran through his chest when he woke up the first time.
"Can we just get the goddamned name already?" The other doctor hissed.
Marine boot camp came back to him, as if he was being prodded by a drill instructor again. "Martin Davis, Private First Class. Number 2621859."
The man behind the surgeon spoke up again, not sounding pleased at all with the response, "Hm. Everything's in order there." He waltzed to the foot of his bed. "What are the names of your birth parents?"
"Where's my team?"
Rolling his eyes, the doctor sighed with annoyance. "One of them is outside, waiting for you. Names, please."
"I don't know." Tank spat back, angry with the man's constant droning. "I was adopted."
Nodding, the doctor was finally satisfied. "Hold out your hands like this and touch your thumbs to each of your fingers."
Tank didn't feel like sitting here. He felt like getting up, back into some armor and getting back to his squad. Begrudgingly, he repeated the man's action with no difficulty. Then he was instructed to follow a flashlight with just his eyes, then some other simple memory tests, followed by some more motor control trials.
Each person that was there either took notes or watched from the corner of the room. Even Sturgis' kept its ghostly blue eyes trained on the marine.
After what felt like hours of needless tests and quizzes, the surgeon who called himself Jim nodded with satisfaction. "Okay, you seem to be all there, but I want you in observation overnight. I'll order for CAT and MRI scans in the morning."
"I'd rather get back to my people, sir."
Jim chuckled, "Yeah, and I'd like the Alliance to discontinue the use of skin-tight suits, but that won't happen while I'm still living." He saw the pained expression in the large soldier's eyes. Putting a hand on his shoulder again, the doctor nodded slowly, "I understand what you're going through, and I know it's frustrating."
Tank shrugged and nodded. Begging and complaining wasn't going to get him anywhere. Might as well just suck it up.
He was transferred to a large observation wing, where several other marines were being kept in several rooms within. Two soldiers shared each room, separated by a thin wall of glass darkened just enough to hide whoever was behind it. What few wounded that weren't transferred to the Somme were in bad shape.
Some riddled with bullet holes, others missing limbs. It was eerie being among wounded, at least to Tank. He felt he could go right back into combat right now if he had to.
He was carted into a room and promptly left alone by the doctor and nurse, saying they'd be back in every other ten minutes to check on his status.
Then a gruff voice sounded out behind the glass wall next to Tank, hiding the neighboring patient he had to room with.
"My god, you're that Tank kid, right?"
No way… Tank thought. No damn way.
"Chief Marta?"
A chuckle, followed by the rustle of large weight leaving a mattress, then heavy footsteps burdened by a limp. Appearing around the corner, the former Garrison Chief limped into view. He wore a deep blue Alliance Marines t-shirt while his right leg was wrapped tightly with bandages.
"How'd you end up here, kid?" The Chief grunted as he limped over and shook the Private's hand, "It's hard imaging you of all in your little squad hurt."
Marta pulled a cigarette out and placed it in between his lips, and then a lighter came. A quick flash of flame, and the cancer stick was alight.
Puffing smoke out his nostrils, the Chief sat at the foot of Tank's bed and sighed, "Glad your okay, though. I've seen enough death to last me three lifetimes over and then some."
"How'd you end up here?" Tank questioned, brushing his hand through the air to smack away the cloud of gray smoke fogging around his bed.
Marta took another drag from his cigarette before finally speaking, "After Eden Prime, my garrison…" He paused, teeth gritted. "What was left of my garrison was taken off-world and was assigned as the ground team for the frigate Marathon. Once the plan to raid the prison came through, I prepped my men for the drop onto that desert planet. Then good old Rear Admiral Ozawa spearheaded for the turian fleet."
He stood up and angrily yanked the smoldering cigarette from his mouth and started to pace. "Then we got hit. Hard. Their main gun ripped through the upper decks caused a chain reaction throughout. We were in the drop bay, and a metal beam broke off and fell."
Tapping his leg, the Chief frowned as he looked at Tank. He then told him that they sat dead in the water for a few hours until rescue arrived, and even then they focused on the bridge crew the most.
"You know how many people were trapped below decks?"
Tank simply shook his head.
Marta was happy to answer the question as more smoke billowed from his mouth, "Over a hundred an' fifty below decks. But noooooo, Command insisted the officers up top had priority." Snuffing the cancer stick, Marta flicked it across the room and then let his hands shoot up to his eyes, angrily rubbing them. "I lost thirty-three more kids."
"I'm sorry, sir…" Tank nodded as his eyes fell to the floor. The Chief was blaming himself for everything. All those dead marines were on him, in his mind.
"And you can bet they went for Admiral Ozawa first, 'cuz she was the only person who survived the explosions on the bridge." Marta turned and eyed the glass wall in front of him, contemplating whether or not to drive his fist through it. Maybe it'd cut his wrist open and end this shit.
Instead he slumped into a nearby chair and mumbled to himself, not knowing Tank was still listening. "Her life… in exchange for thirty-three…"
And they both sat there… in silence. There was no response for what the Chief had just laid down in front of Tank.
A knock at the door, and in came Ashley, with a worried look on her face that quickly passed once she saw the wounded Private resting on his bed. Her eyes found Marta and she gave a quick nod, "I see Marta's already introduced himself."
"Actually Chief," Marta began, sullen expression gone, "I was actually roomed up with him." He glanced at Tank with a grin, one that looked very forced, "Looks like me and him are gonna be the best of friends."
"Well, I need a minute. If you don't mind, that is." Ash said carefully, knowing something was off with the man.
Nodding, the Garrison Chief stood and left, not saying a word.
As soon as the door shut behind the man, she pulled up a chair right next to Tank and asked immediately how he was feeling.
Tank briefly laughed to himself. "I've been shot, ma'am. How do you think I feel?"
Has he ever called her anything other than 'ma'am' since they first met? Ash could have sworn that the giant marine had never called her by her name.
Sighing, Ashley placed a gentle hand on his thick shoulder, "Tank, my name isn't Ma'am. Call me anything but that, okay? Call me Ashley or Ash, hell I'd settle for George at this point."
Smiling again, Tank finally nodded, "All right. Guess I never really noticed it 'till now. I was raised like that, ma-"
Ash shot him a look that could melt steel, shutting the Private up quickly. The grin never left his lips though.
"So, Ashley," He put a lot of stress on her name, as if the word was foreign to his tongue, "Where's everybody else?"
"Most of the squad is resting up or eating. They wanted to come down here, but when I heard that you were stable, I made sure they were probably sorted out first." A slight hesitation, "I don't know where Randy is." She looked like she wanted to add something more but the woman simply bit her lower lip and nodded, signaling she was finished.
Tank would make sure to ask later. "To tell you the truth, I seriously thought you'd be with Shepard right now. Tearing him a new one or something."
The woman gave a tiny smirk, "He had to return to the Normandy, debrief his crew. Apparently they lost one of their own. I'd just be a distraction."
People were best left alone when mourning. Tank had seen good friends turn into monsters in the midst of combat while a friend lay dead at their feet. A young Corporal Jones came to mind when he was still with the 412.
Jones had what many would call an inappropriate relation with a female officer who was recently rotated into their unit.
Both Doug and Tank had known for weeks, but Jones promised it was nothing serious. Then they were sent to patrol a mining facility that had gone dark for about a week and a half. Initially all they found were bodies and a lot of the precious minerals stolen, until practically a whole a platoon of mercenaries attacked them. Jones, Doug, and Tank were separated from the rest of the 412, and were forced to fight through the bowels of the complex.
Upon their return to the main atrium, Jones found his woman dead. She was murdered execution style, a single bullet to the back of the head. The fist thing Jones did was fall to his knees and cradled the body, unable to stop the tears that flowed from his eyes.
Doug came over to pull the Corporal away, only to receive an ear-splitting roar and punch to his nose. Then Jones charged back down where they came from, searching for any more aliens to kill.
He found some.
After becoming severely wounded, the Corporal pulled a grenade from his belt and primed it before charging at the batarian emplacement. Tank couldn't stop him in time.
Wondering, Tank wanted to know how Shepard, a man he'd never met, would handle such a tragedy. The way Ashley described him, was that the man would probably blame himself for everything, thinking over every scenario in which he could have stopped the losses from unfolding.
The Operations Chief's mind came upon the death of Kaidan Alenko, Shepard still couldn't forgive himself for leaving his friend behind..
"When he worked with Cerberus, did you ever have contact with him?"
Ashley was a little surprised by Tank's question, "I…umm…We met on the colony of Horizon…where the Collectors had attacked. When I first saw him I couldn't believe it, like him being before me, alive, was an answer to my prayers. But then he confirmed all the rumors that he was working with Cerberus. Then it hit me...I didn't know if he was real or not, you know? What if he was some sort of copy, a sick offspring created by Cerberus? They've done horrible things to so many people…"
Ghastly images of everything Cerberus had done played in her head. The thorian creepers tearing apart scientists on some backwater world in the Traverse, rachni trotting over the dead body of Admiral Kahoku, and Corporal Toombs.
Oh God, poor Toombs.
Shepard was thought to be the only survivor from the thresher maw attack on Akuze, also thanks to Cerberus, but Toombs survived as well.
Broken and bloodied, he was dragged away and experimented on by Cerberus scientists. Thresher acid in his veins, Toombs eventually escaped and hunted down each and every scientist, his list ending with a Doctor Wayne on the planet Ontarom.
And then the stories and rumors started. Ashley couldn't get away from them. When she ran special missions for Anderson, she always heard of Shepard not being dead for two years straight and at the time she ignored them.
Then intel came in, straight from Alliance Command. Commander Shepard was somehow alive, and seen working with Cerberus agents.
They forced her to sit through several briefings about it, them drilling the point home again and again and again.
Shepard was not to be trusted, nor contacted for any reason. If she did, she would've been tried for treason and most likely either jailed for the rest of her life or executed.
At first, it was an obvious smearing by the Alliance, meant to trash Cerberus more than Shepard, but more and more he was sighted working with them. And Ashley lost hope.
How could the man that had one of his own experimented by them, and still be willing to work with them?
Then came Horizon. All those briefings and reports, all those vids of him fighting alongside the black and gold silhouettes of the enemy. It all rushed forth quickly, unable to control herself.
How could he betray them? His former team? The Alliance?
Shepard tried to explain, but at the time Ashley didn't want to hear it and she kept berating him. Afterwards, she tried to send him a message apologizing, but she couldn't even type out the proper words needed. All she told him was to be careful. She felt like a bitch, a grade-A asshole. Putting him through that, and then giving him a half-ass apology.
She got drunk later that week. Very drunk. Then she started crying, crying even harder then she did right after Shepard's funeral.
And she couldn't stop. Ash fell asleep crying, and woke up crying.
God, if Dad saw me then…
The intercom came to life, the icy calm voice of the VI Sturgis came out, "Will Operations Chief Ashley Williams report to First Lieutenant Randy Crowe's quarters immediately? Thank you."
Tank motioned for her to leave, as the doctors were returning for a checkup anyways.
SSV Chicago, Lieutenant Crowe's Quarters.
To the parents of Private Hilary Moers…
No. No. No.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
To Franklin and Kali Moers…
Save. Randy wiped sweat away from his eyes as he tapped away on the holo-keyboard in front of him.
Your daughter gave her life valiantly on the field of battle to secure victory for the-
No.
Your daughter had her leg blown off at the knee and was left in the desert sand by her comrades, who only stopped by her to strip her of weapons and ammo before moving on. All the while her commanding officer was behind some dune moping.
NO.
Randy sighed and turned away from the monitor as soon as he deleted the last sentence. He had failed his men, failed everyone. The least he could do was personally send letters to the next of kin of those who were lost.
All one hundred and eight of them. Out of two hundred.
Over a fifty percent casualty rating and it was all his fault. The bitter voice of his father wracked his brain.
You fuckin' wimp! You let all those men die. For what? Because it got too hard for you?
Randy balled his fists. Leave me alone, Dad. Please.
You coward. All those lives wasted.
Leave. Me. Alone.
Pussy. At least your brother had the balls to die on the battlefield.
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" He drove his fist through the screen, shattering it into tiny fragments.
Chest rising and falling with ragged breaths of rage, Randy turned to find Ashley waiting by the door. Her fists were clenched, unsure of what he was going to do next.
"What do you want, Chief?"
Ashley raised a brow, "You called for me, sir."
Settling down, Randy rubbed a hand through his blonde hair; his green eyes fell to the floor. "Right, yeah."
He slumped back into the chair and lifted a data drive from his table. The Lieutenant wanted her to take it down to bridge. It was a full report on what happened down on the planet. Every detail was on there. Every bullet that was fired, and every man and woman and turian that had died.
"I'd deliver it myself, but I owe it to those lost to finish the letters to their families…" He glanced towards his shattered screen as Ashley took the drive from him, and a weak laugh rumbled in his throat, "…on a new computer, I guess."
The woman turned to leave, only for the officer to grab her wrist.
"Wait." He ordered.
Ash's dark orbs fell on the Randy again. "Yes, sir?"
"I saw what you did down there, for that kid who was dieing."
The bloody body of the young Private in the desert, a bullet lodged in his chest. He begged for Last Rites, and all he got from Ashley was a brief prayer that they couldn't even finish before he bled out.
The Lieutenant continued, venom in his tone, "I don't want to see that religious shit again. Keep it to yourself. We clear?"
What?
Ashley took a step back, her brow furrowed, "Excuse me?" Her fists clenched again. "You got a problem with the fact that I believe in God?"
"I don't want you spreading it around." Randy replied, as he turned his chair to face his broken screen, eyes locked on the shards littering the desk.
"I don't think I was 'spreading it around,' sir." He didn't have any right to say what he did.
Randy then began to laugh and shake his head.
This was the first time Ashley noticed it. She smelled alcohol. Cheap liquor, most likely.
"I don't get you people, Williams." The Lieutenant as his eyes went to the ceiling, followed by his hands shooting up. "You people believe in a kind and merciful deity who loves all." His laughter continued, picking up in intensity. "If he was sooooo damn kind, why the hell would he put a man like me in charge of two hundred souls, only to let half of them die?"
"I don't know, sir." Ashley bitterly replied. "He has a plan for everyone. You and me."
A sniff, "Ah yes, a plan. A plan to start wars. A plan to murder hundreds. A plan to leave them all at my feet. Lovely." He lowered his hands to the desk, not caring about the shards dug into his skin, "Convert me now, then. Halle-fucking-lujah."
"Sir." Ashley grunted, barely able to contain her newfound anger as she walked over and placed the data drive in front of him, "I highly suggest you get yourself cleaned up."
The Lieutenant just gave a quizzical look at the woman.
She continued, "Because if you're still like this when I come back, I will have your drunk ass handled by Admiral Hackett himself."
Randy waited until he heard her footsteps become more distant, and then the mechanical swish of his door closing behind her. The man sighed as the quiet returned to him. Immediately, he opened up the bottom drawer to his desk and found a tiny bottle of whiskey, half-empty. A little gift he received from Chief Don Marta.
"Gotta clean up, right?" He mumbled to himself as he pressed the bottle to his lips.
The harsh liquid burnt his throat as he downed what was left.
Peace.