Chapter Twenty-Five
Even at a distance, the sound of the Reaper Destroyer is overwhelming, ferociously shaking every fibre of my being, forcing the air from my ears and replacing it with a persistent debilitating drone. My legs feel slow and ineffective even as I see them stomp frantically up and down and across and over the countless troughs and heaps of crumbled grey stone and smouldering debris.
I've already seen enough shuttles and people obliterated by blazing red beams from half a mile away that I recognise the sound as a warning. Bringing up the flanks, Masohn and Anden clearly do, too.
We throw ourselves down behind the closest piles of rubble we can find and hope the next barrage picks a different course. Problem being that with the whole world crumbling apart around us, there's never a truly safe spot, and with the continued bass thrum of Reapers filling everyone's head, it's a struggle to communicate, let alone maintain our bearings.
Hunkered down, grimacing, I hear the assault switch direction and take the opportunity to steal a peek as other allied forces continue to swoop in, converging and attacking the Reapers with everything they have.
I signal to the other two and we begin firing into the chaos from our position, picking out the strange silhouettes among the smoke and sudden flashes of artillery on the opposite side.
Clips spent, we dip back down as the tortured electronic cry of the Reaper forces rises and falls. Moments later, explosions pepper the sky, the ground quakes violently and dirt flies over our heads. When we emerge, we find another few hundred yards has been gained at great cost.
While brushing off some of the grit and wafting away clouds of dust and smoke, I relocate Anden across the other side of a narrow trench, eyes wide and alert. She appears as terrified as her persona will allow, teeth gritted, jaw rigid and fingers readjusting their grip on her weapon more than required, but she's still ready to move on my signal all the same.
And when I do, we simultaneously dart from cover and pick off any remaining stragglers, careful not to rush too far ahead of the rest of our team, who will take up searching for survivors and reinforcing the position.
Eventually, they begin to filter in, and among them the new blood takes up the task with aplomb.
Ah, yes. I didn't expect the Alliance to welcome us with open arms, yet they've provided access to their considerable arsenal and put me in charge of all their recruited ex-Cerberus operatives. People who'd fled the Phoenix Project - my father's handiwork - and were keen to put their improved capabilities and training into use against both Cerberus and the Reapers are now under my command. The products of the very thing I'd spent months chasing across the galaxy handed right to me. Many would say it's serendipitous, that it was fate, but I don't count myself among them. There are always more straightforward reasons; the trick is figuring out what they are.
Was my recent assistance valued that highly? Had someone put in a good word? Was this a cautionary measure in case they weren't to be trusted? Or was this a test of my allegiance? Whatever it was, I have no time or inclination to ponder it any further.
What was a platoon has become a company, with me as its ad hoc captain. This bloody war has made me into a soldier, fighting on the frontlines.
And so, I find myself leading a large number of younger, inexperienced soldiers into battle. On the way over might've been the occasion to give a grand speech or at least learn some names, but I spent more time forming the fire teams and going over tactics, telling them that all they needed to do was stick to the plan and that I'd see them through. As I'd hoped, my former colleagues, newly promoted to sub-officers, picked up the slack in reassuring them of my expertise.
Words of encouragement, the promise of glory, are simply background noise on the battlefield. The brain tends to become preoccupied with a strong desire to survive, and the only guiding lights in that situation are a sound strategy and trust in your team. I didn't even have time to learn their names, but above all I hoped to give them that.
A group of them rushes past, following Woodcomb, ever thoughtful and charming, and now rising to the occasion to prove himself a courageous hero. It's not hard to see why they're taken with him. While he stows his weapon to help dazed soldiers back on their feet and attend to the wounded, the operatives form a defensive line, ready to raise a biotic barrier or open fire on any sudden hordes of husks that always seem to come out of nowhere. Dreyfus and Montgomery's groups do the same on either side, finishing an airtight formation.
As I shout the next set of orders, Masohn and Anden run on ahead and the rest of the assault groups pass me. Forrest offers little more than a cursory nod, clearly not relishing this as much as she anticipated, and Coburn brings up the rear, though I can never quite tell what he's thinking either way. If he's enjoying this, he's wise enough not to express it.
Before everyone's ready to move, another mob of cannibals bursts from the shadows, spewing their hails of molten projectiles and tossing out grenades.
We're quick on the trigger. Quick enough to put down the whole group with the first barrage. Then it's up to the operatives do the best they can to provide protection against the explosives. Forcing some of us aside and barging into better positions, they summon large biotic bubbles around their nominated groups. Unfortunately, Woodcomb's too focused on his task and gets caught off-guard. The explosions sound so distant from inside the bubbles, but they kick up a great deal of dust, making it impossible to assess the situation for a few seconds. The relative silence that follows is little comfort.
"I'm okay!" Woodcomb shouts, voice shaken and still partly muffled. "Fried my shields is all."
We find him sat on his backside, dusting himself off as if he'd done nothing but slip. I motion for the nearest biotic, her bubble still active, to shift enough to shield him and Monty moves in to help him up. The rest of the biotics drop their barriers and the team holds their defensive position
"I need you sharper than that, Woodcomb. If it comes down to you or someone who can't stand on their own two feet, I want you." He spares a second to glance down at the fallen soldier he'd been treating and grimaces at the sight. They're beyond all help now. "And don't let me see your firearm leave your hands again. Understood?"
He nods solemnly and fetches his rifle from his back. "Got it."
With the main Reaper-shaped obstruction cleared, the various groups of allied forces spread out far and wide as planned. Our company continues gaining ground at a steady rate, overcoming similar small skirmishes that feel more like fodder than foe. I can't shake the suspicion that the Reavers intend on drawing us in and then assaulting us from behind. Though I don't plan to share my concerns with the others, by all accounts, this seems very much a one-way trip. All the more reason to get as many bodies through as possible.
Once out of the more open areas and away from wholly-collapsed buildings, I try to locate the best vantage point and have to settle on a half-destroyed but still tall stone staircase. I order everyone to hold position and clumsily clamber up to survey the battlefield. On either side, I spot other allied forces managing to win through, as the giant semi-circular formation closes in on the conduit. Such a thinly-spread 'big push' isn't an ideal strategy, but I can see the merit. Throw everything we can at them from as wide an approach as possible and enough should punch through. Enough to seize the Citadel and ensure the Crucible can be docked.
Based on my omni-tool and any recognisable landmarks, we're still about two kilometres from our destination. Far to the east, I can see St. Paul's Cathedral's dome and spires standing proud above the surrounding rubble, like a ship's sunken mast jutting up from a sea of grey. A shame, really.
I'd visited it during my last excursion here, many years ago while on Cerberus business. All told, the assignment was a very sedate affair. No deaths, no gunfire, and it even permitted a leisurely walk along Tower Bridge.
Despite the city's typical embracing of technological advancements in architecture and transport, of towering, shimmering structures and skycars criss-crossing between them, they've never fully dominated its development. It still retains its history; the shapes, the stonework, the craftsmanship of centuries gone. If I recall, they've even put back in some decorative, old red telephone booths. Retrofitted, of course.
Taking in the sights was one of the ancillary pleasures of my Cerberus-led sanctioned travels around the galaxy, and so it had been for a city rich with Earth's history. As the location of the galaxy's last stand, it's a monumental site once more, only with its former majesty almost completely destroyed. An horrific sight becomes an historic site. Unavoidably the case wherever war's involved.
I'm shaken from my momentary musing, quite literally, by a series of thunderous explosions that almost send me crashing off my perch. I recover and focus on the source. This is not good.
"More enemies incoming! Brutes!" I yell over the comm channel, already taking aim with my rifle. Then I notice something else. "Coburn, get up here."
I focus on the smaller, closer targets, the husks, cannibals and marauders, as the others below set up their biotic barriers and begin their own barrage. Coburn's statuesque form ascends the crumbling steps with little trouble and he joins my side.
"You see them?" I ask, pointing past the brutes and towards multiple pairs of telltale blue targeting lasers emerging from the distant darkness. He looks out through his sniper rifle's scope and curses. That's a yes. "I need them handled before they get too close. We'll take care of the rest."
Unable to do anything further from up there, I scramble down into the fray and rush towards the forefront. I'm just in time to see the rows of cannibals break apart haphazardly, either dead or brushed aside, as the huge, snarling beasts charge our position.
The first two split our ranks deeply and drastically, managing to send one of ours flying with the swing of a gigantic claw, but the rest of the team is nimble enough to keep clear and move to surround the intruders. The nearby Phoenix operatives ably switch from defence to offence, their warp fields tearing apart the creatures' armour plating while the rest of us riddle them with enough bullets to put them down quickly.
One of the brutes makes a last desperate lunge and catches one of ours, stabbing its claw into their right shoulder. Their arm goes limp, dropping the rifle and they're dragged down with the creature as it falls down dead.
Before any of us gets a chance to rush to their aid, another brute comes flying through the air, headed straight towards me. I roll swiftly to one side, narrowly avoiding it, but the force of its landing disturbs the rubble, making it difficult to find my footing and stand properly afterwards.
Its monstrous, barbed arm comes whirling round and I lower my centre of gravity in response, digging in my heels enough to dive below it, fully cognisant of quite how much it hurts if it connects. I scramble back up and throw myself farther away towards cover, firing as I twist mid-air. Its next rushed attack slams into the brick column I'd put between us, taking a chunk out of it.
By now, our team has already begun the counterattack, encircling the beast, its feet churning up dirt and dust in an increasingly angry effort to pin down any one of us. Seconds later, it gives up and collapses dead, letting out a low-pitched yowl in the process.
Afforded a moment, I manage to identify the fallen soldier as Montgomery and call for Woodcomb to go to him. I'm not losing the old bastard if I can help it.
Bentley, clearly a good friend of Montgomery's, has overheard and rushes to him. I almost stop and order her to get back into formation, but decide to let her be. I hesitate to imagine Shepard and I under similar circumstances.
I reload and head back into the action, figuring that with the brutes dead, the worst is over.
A familiar cannon sound erupts and I look up to the sniper position just in time to witness Coburn take a direct hit and plummet the twenty-odd feet onto hard stone. Oh, how the Reapers do love to prove you wrong.
"Ravagers," I instruct the team. "You remember what to do."
So far they'd dealt admirably with everything thrown at us, deploying the tactics as I'd explained them. Calling out the threats and reminders was more a helpful method of providing them reassurance.
With that in-hand, I dash to Coburn and find him relatively unscathed, besides having the wind knocked out of him. Lending an arm, I help him back on his feet.
"Apologies, captain," he says while stretching and rolling his neck. "I didn't intend to abandon my post."
"Acknowledged, lieutenant. It happens," I deadpan, playing along. Despite his usual gruffness, it's clear that he values military protocol, clinging to it at a time like this, mixing in that levity to help steady any nerves.
"Enemy numbers were greater than I anticipated," he explains.
"Understood. Now get back up there and anticipate a few more."
"Affirmative." He nods and makes his way back up to the vantage point. Soon after, the sound of anti-materiel rounds cutting through the air resumes and the return cannon fire already seems to have lessened. I'd say we were winning through, but I've already made that mistake once. I'm not prepared to declare this current onslaught at an end just yet.
I request an update from Woodcomb as I head back over. He's been too quiet for too long for the answer to be a good one.
"Uh, not great," Woodcomb replies. "There… there's not much we can do."
I join them and get a closer look to discover that, sadly, his assessment's right. Montgomery wasn't caught by the biggest of the brute's claws, but that's not to say the others are a minor matter. Bentley and Woodcomb hadn't attempted to pry him free and I can see why.
Bentley's crouched at his side, silent and shaken. Montgomery looks at me with clouded eyes, jaw slack and face pale. I tap his helmet and then hold it firmly, pointed in my direction.
"Hey, Monty, can you hear me?"
He closes his mouth and nods faintly.
Woodcomb speaks softly at my side. "We've patched him up with medi-gel and administered painkillers, but if we try to get the… if we try to move..." He swallows and continues more concisely, "We simply can't risk moving him."
He can't stand on his own two feet, is what's going through his mind. It's certainly going through mine. We have to keep moving if this assault is going to work.
"You've done all you can," I respond, patting him on the shoulder and dismissing him. He takes a still solemn Bentley with him.
I fetch Montgomery's rifle and place it in his good hand before addressing him. "Monty, I'm going to need you to hold this position until the next Alliance company catches up, understood?"
His bitter smile tells me he knows it's a lie, but he goes along with it. "I won't make you beg," he replies with a strained voice.
I stand and nod. "It's been a pleasure fighting alongside you."
I don't tell him that I'll see him at the forward operating base or when this is all over. He'd only be insulted.
We fend off the last of the ravagers and that particular assault then manage to cover a lot more ground. Rubble-strewn wasteland and buildings that can barely stand give way to discernible streets and buildings with perhaps only one or two sides missing. I can only speculate that a Reaper ambush lies in wait.
About two hundred metres away from the first such set, the Reapers make their move.
From above and behind a red beam strafes us, flooring five or six people as it goes. Gazing up, I spot the source coming round for another go. It's an Oculus, something I'd hoped to see the last of with the Collectors defeated. I know their role in this battle has been to assault any and all Earth-bound ships, specifically those in atmo, but I suppose they must have run out of targets.
Everyone abandons the cautious approach and runs straight ahead towards the cover of the buildings. The oculus harasses us a few more times, but as far as I can tell, we suffer no actual casualties. Any soldiers that reach relative safety immediately turn and fire back, and I notice a few of the Phoenix operatives managing to erect barriers strong enough to repel the enemy's beam as it passes over. Eventually, the Oculus meets enough resistance that it flies off as quickly as it had appeared, presumably seeking softer targets.
My fears about an ambush were correct, however, as other Reaper forces begin filling the streets, leaving us little room to manoeuvre. Fortunately, the team was prepared for this and is already putting the previously discussed plan into action by the time I push through to join the vanguard.
We charge forward and hit the first wave with overloads from our omni-tools, stunning them and buying some time to spread out while setting up biotic defences. One half filters left, and the other to the right, firing as they go.
For a moment, I'm stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder beside Bomer. He's too focused on the task to notice me, the stress and strain clear as day on his face. I know just how he feels. In battles this large and frenzied, you're forever finding your shields close to dropping but powerless to prevent the incoming fire all by yourself. You pick off whatever you can and hope others have the rest covered.
Once split, each half of our team dashes for whatever cover we can find – behind barely supported walls, tucked in doorways and on half-exposed stairwells, any openings that offer some form of refuge – and maintain the 'rolling' firing order. The walls flash bright with gunfire and explosions, and the noise echoes to deafening effect. So much that I almost don't hear the chorus of banshee screams the first time it occurs. However, even faintly detecting them sends a shiver through my bones that is unmistakable.
Four of them loom above the rest of the Reaper forces, stepping straight through their ranks as everything else allows them space. We're still dealing with too many more immediate threats to divert any attention away. A fact not helped when the banshees suddenly take to zipping around, closing in but becoming extremely hard to track. You'd waste a lot of clips trying to gun them down like that. More than we can spare. If they get within a very literal striking distance, though, they'll rip us to shreds.
I'm confident we can triumph over the rest, but we need some way to hold back this heavy an assault and get it under control. What I have in mind will put a strain on already exhausted bodies, but we need something drastic. The Reapers always require something drastic.
"Waves, now!" I command.
In an instant, the shorthand is recognised and acted upon by the group. The biotics move to the fore, drop their barriers and begin hurling as many shockwaves as they can muster, while the rest of us prime and roll a quick succession of grenades into their path to be carried along. Now we test the adage about what makes for the best defence...
A booming, blue tide of biotics surges forth, tossing up bricks and other debris, sweeping the streets clear from a wide angle. Husks and cannibals are flung every which way; sent skyward, dashed against stone and steel, impaled on exposed rebar, jagged glass left in window panes and metal fences.
Marauders, ravagers and brutes stand firm only to be torn apart by the grenades and accelerated shrapnel or knocked down by their comrades' flying corpses.
Any shockwaves that don't connect with a live target, collide with one another, the resulting instability causing them to rupture in violent explosions of dark energy that further add to the destruction.
Among it all, the only things left virtually undisturbed throughout are the banshees, rooted to the spot like trees weathering a storm. Grey, desiccated, malevolent trees. They recoil at first and then hunch forward to scream back their displeasure, virtually begging to be filled with bullets.
And we are only too happy to oblige.
Once the turbulence from the shockwaves subsides enough for us to steady our aim, we open fire with everything we have.
A couple of the banshees disintegrate before our eyes, but the other two start moving again and, gradually, more and more of the surviving Reaper forces recover and rejoin the fight.
I spot a cluster of marauders getting back up and hit them with an overload, causing them to spasm and drop back down. Bomer helps finish them off with a few quick bursts from his rifle and takes the opportunity to acknowledge me with a weary smile that seems to suggest he's simultaneously grudged and yet glad he's wound up part of this whole endeavour.
Or at least that's what I hope it means.
The anguished wail of a banshee cuts through the air, and I follow the sound to the other side of the street, watching as the third one falls to a hail of gunfire. And then there was one...
Bomer's already got it in his sights, taking a little more time between trigger pulls. From an elevated position on a building's first storey, Barker and Willard pitch in, and I catch Masohn tearing across the battlefield, spraying bullets point-blank range into a line of cannibals before diving for cover and re-emerging to assist us.
With a quick sweep of its hand, the banshee tosses one of its fearsome balls of biotic energy straight at Barker and Willard.
Barker is quick enough to react and dive clear, but the older man isn't. The ball crashes violently into their patch of cover, demolishing it entirely and Willard tumbles down with the brickwork as it crumbles and lands in a heap.
Leaping over the wreckage of a crashed and burnt-out fighter, a pack of husks spots the commotion and is quick to capitalise, leaping over a burnt-out skycar and pouncing on Willard before he can even right himself.
"Damnit!" I hear myself curse in a low, dry voice as I dart from cover, determined not to lose anyone so easily.
I'm confident that the others will make sure the banshee goes down for good, but a group of husks can do a great deal of damage, even to an armoured soldier. The cacophony of their hoarse and croaky wailing is disturbing enough; a group of them trying to beat you and pull you limb from limb is downright horrifying.
Sprinting behind Masohn and vaulting over a toppled stone column, I catch sight of Willard on the ground, receiving blow after blow from the Reaper thralls. He attempts to retaliate, kicking, struggling and flailing as best he can but to no avail.
He doesn't have to suffer much longer, as I get close enough to unleash a surge of biotic energy that scatters all of his assailants, knocking them to the floor, where I extend them the same courtesy and set upon them before they can find their footing. Unlike Willard, they don't get another chance to fight back.
Before going to him, I turn back to check that the banshee threat has been resolved. Fortunately, it has, and the others are already successfully cleaning up the rest. With the most disruptive targets dead, the pressure is off, enabling everyone to keep to formation and coordinate effectively. The smaller foes are easily overcome, and within the narrower, obstruction-filled streets, ravagers and brutes are at a disadvantage.
As enemy numbers lessen even further, I call for Anden to oversee a clean-up group and then scout ahead while the rest of us regroup and hold this position. She accepts the role keenly and gathers a large enough team for the task, while I turn my attention to the haggard man at my feet.
"Christ, I'm getting too old for this," Willard groans, still flat on his back.
"That may be, but I'm afraid I can't let you keel over just yet. There's still a great deal of ground to cover."
He laughs good-humouredly, but with a sapped vigour. "Understood, but please be sure to inform me at the first available opportunity."
"Deal," I reply with a wry smile, stooping and extending my hand.
He takes it and strains to stand up. Clearly in a fair bit of pain, he aborts the first attempt and eases back down, releasing my hand while using his other one to steady himself.
"I'll fetch Woodcomb or Lancaster to take a look at you," I propose.
"No," he grimaces and sighs, "I'll be right as rain soon enough. Just give me a minute to catch my breath."
"Sure," I nod, "but don't go thinking you can sit out all the fighting."
He doesn't laugh this time, just smiles politely. Humour in the face of grave circumstances can only go so far. Willard is already realising his limits. A quick look around me, observing body language and the lack of any of the usual team chatter during this brief respite, is sufficient enough to tell me that the battle is taking its toll on everyone, and not just physically.
Masohn sat on the toppled column I'd leapt over a few minutes earlier, arms hanging low. Bomer trudges over to join her. Still up above, Barker has set his gun down to remove his helmet and push his sweat-soaked fringe back off his forehead. A group of Phoenix operatives are in a similar position to Willard, lying or slumped on the ground, some hurriedly eating energy bars to help recover from the extensive biotics usage.
This offensive was always going to be tough, and I didn't expect everyone to be up to it, no matter how much they had convinced themselves they were, but I've been pleased with the results so far. Of course, it's not over yet.
"All clear, holding position on the south side," comes Anden's voice over the comm channel, sounding chirpier than I expected. I suppose it is good news.
I thank her for the update and lean against the side of the downed fighter and gather my thoughts, taking deep breaths to help compose myself before issuing the next set of orders. "All right, everyone, good work, but we have to keep moving. Check your weapons, equipment, shields and then meet Anden's group to the south."
Some are a little slower getting back onto their feet, Willard especially, but all make it to the next stage of the assault. I take the opportunity to perform a quick check of our numbers against the roster. It tells me that we've lost three people in total.
They say bad luck comes in threes, so let's hope that's the last of it.
As we progress, eyes keep diverting skyward, scanning for any lurking Oculi or other airborne threats wherever the streets widen. We encounter nothing but echoes of distant battles that reverberate off the walls; low rumbles of ships and Reapers, cracks of gunfire that sound more like firecrackers, explosions that sound a lot less severe than I imagine they really are. Altogether, there's a distinct lack of noise in our immediate vicinity. It's making me uneasy.
I relay our coordinates to Alliance Command and await an update. We may be on course but we shouldn't, and likely won't, be able to get too far ahead without any friendly forces at our flanks. The advancing line must remain a line, after all.
A General Friedericy responds, filling me in on the situation. There's another large expanse of open ground up ahead in which they've already lost a great deal of troops and vehicles with no success. The Reapers in this area appear to be well-entrenched and so they're exploring options with regards to cutting 'the line' here and narrowing the assault.
I ask her to delay diverting any of the other Alliance companies. She asks me why.
I tell her we'll find a way through. She tells me I'm mad.
She agrees to the plan, albeit reluctantly, and I begin putting it into action.
Firstly, I send Coburn to scout the area and check that it's viable. While he's doing that, I call over Bomer. He arrives, looking a little apprehensive.
"Matt, I'm putting half of the company under your command," I inform him while transmitting the adjusted roster to everyone's omni-tool.
He checks it quickly then gets a curious look on his face. "Another crazy proposal?"
It certainly looks that way. I've given him nearly all of the original platoon, designated Red Team, and kept the Phoenix operatives with me, as Blue Team.
"I doubt Forrest will try and shoot this one down. You'll be running the surprise assault, we'll be the distraction, for the most part," I clarify.
"You sure that split is the best idea?"
"We'll need the extra defences more than you, simple as that."
Coburn checks in, confirming it's all clear. I thank him and begin walking over to the rest of the team. Bomer, clearly in need of more answers, follows a couple of steps behind me. I greet one of the Phoenix operatives and instruct her to hand over her missile launcher. I turn and pass it onto Bomer, who stares at it, puzzled.
"Your team will be taking the majority of whatever heavy weapons we have left," I explain.
"Taking them where exactly?"
"Underground," I state plainly.
"That sounds delightfully ominous," he says sarcastically.
"It'll be farther than six feet," I say smiling and point off towards a street leading south. "In that direction is Covent Garden station on the London Underground."
Like much of the city's architecture, the underground train service has been maintained, more for character than anything else. In an age of spaceships and skycars, and particularly in this district, it's a quaint little tourist attraction. For that reason I don't expect it's been given much attention by the Reapers. Most of it isn't easily accessible to their tougher units anyway, giving our allied forces the upper hand even if they are occupied.
Send a team through and they can emerge at the next station, Leicester Square, and assault the enemy on the rear and flank. I doubt the manoeuvre would provide a psychological advantage over this particular foe, but hit them hard enough and we could utterly destroy them in one fell swoop. I've already calculated the distances and current pace, allowing for a rare occurrence that my memory or estimates might be a little off, among other minor complications. It's viable.
If I'm wrong, however, it could contain a few major complications. The tunnels could have collapsed or been purposely brought down by the Reapers. Heavy weapons and explosives can only do so much to clear blockages. And even if the passage can be traversed, too much of a delay could leave my team high and dry against an unstoppable foe. The stairs in and out of the stations alone could prove problematic.
But I can't see another way. Deviate from the Alliance's original plan, especially at this point in the line, and we risk losing more people if the Reapers discover they're able to corral each diverted unit and drive a wedge through our split forces. Besides, I very much doubt this is the only troublesome spot. Too many cracks and the line shatters.
That full explanation isn't required for Bomer, who already comprehends. "Christ, Lawson..." he exclaims, shaking his head. "It's a hell of an ask."
"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't think you were capable. You got the old team this far, I trust you to take them that little bit further."
He takes the encouragement onboard, but still enquires worriedly, "What about you? Don't get me wrong, these guys have more than held their own, but they can only be pushed so far."
To be honest, I doubt things would have gone half as smoothly without the extra biotic support provided by the Phoenix troopers. I don't know exactly what they've been through before, but they've proven themselves a highly competent and cohesive unit whenever the time comes, as it has, again and again. As with any loyal people who are my responsibility, I will do my damnedest to get them through.
"You do the best with what you have," I remind him sincerely.
He sighs, "Let's hope that's enough."
"Matt," I say firmly, "we'll get it done."
He heads off to gather his team, currently emitting a chorus of shuffling and clicking as they check and equip their new weaponry. The remaining Phoenix operatives fall in behind me, as Coburn jogs back to join us. We need a long-range scout more than the others will.
"Let's go hit the hornet's nest," he says in a mock-enthusiastic manner.
"Not yet," I inform him. "We accompany Red Team to the entry point and split off from there."
We move out in a tight formation, grim expressions on our faces, no one daring to say a word. Bomer's out in front, alone, carrying himself in an almost resigned, forlorn way. I consider addressing that, but quickly realise I probably appear very much the same despite a greater degree of confidence.
Observing our surroundings, it's clear that this used to be a flourishing, brightly-decorated district. There are what appear to be plenty of stores, some quite large, with a few names still visible on signs. I couldn't identify what they sold by those alone, but it's an eclectic, evocative word soup, that's for sure.
At the end of the next road, sitting on the corner to another, sits Covent Garden station, looking a little more intact. The red brickwork is still distinguishable, and reflections visible off a few of the arch windows tells me that a giant Destroyer-class Reaper hasn't come blaring through here. High up, near the corner is one of the classic 'UNDERGROUND' signs with its red circle and blue banner. Like a few of the surviving awnings below the windows, it hangs downward on its fixtures. The other one lies smashed on the floor.
"All aboard," Anden announces drily, stepping over one of the broken, dirtied awnings and heading inside.
"Tickets at the ready, and hope they don't get punched," my overactive and disturbingly morbid brain adds. This situation and environment is to blame.
Bomer gives me one last glance and nod before following her. The rest of his team files in afterwards, shoulder against shoulder as they head down the winding stairs. If the stresses of battle weren't enough, it will be claustrophobic and hot down there. The ache in my legs is already becoming increasingly hard to ignore; I can only imagine what it's like for people like Dreyfus, Willard and Bentley.
I get a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that perhaps I am, in fact, pushing everyone too far, but brush it aside and focus on my own role. The plan is the plan. It'll work.
We break off and continue on our own course south-west. After a short distance, I order Coburn to scout ahead to find a vantage point and check our surroundings once more.
Meanwhile, Bomer relays his first update, telling me that they've reached the platforms unhindered and are about to head on into the tunnels. I warn him to 'mind the gap' but either the reference is lost on him or simply not appreciated. Then I realise I don't even know if he's used an old-fashioned public transit system before, let alone been to London. Though we'd worked together for a while, I'd never been one for small talk, and current circumstances weren't exactly conducive to it either.
Coburn reports sightings of Reaper forces just past a major junction and requests his next set of instructions. I keep him up there to help coordinate once we begin advancing and moving into position. For the gambit to work, we need to draw the Reapers in and keep their eyes on is, but we want some control over them when we do.
Controlling Reapers. That worked so wonderfully for the last Lawson who tried...
Since I've never had a chance to learn all their names, I consult my omni-tool and split the Phoenix operatives into smaller squads designated Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, etcetera, keeping them in a discernible order. Can't beat the old, simple methods.
I take a moment to get a good look at them in-person and discover a mass of nerves and exhaustion. They've still got the military discipline that means they're ready to give it their all at a moment's notice, but I need their all to be more.
Face it, Miranda. What they need right now is a pep talk, and the only one to give one is you.
God, I hate speeches.
"What we've achieved so far is extraordinary," I start, trying to summon that inspiring tone Shepard displays so naturally. "Though I haven't been afforded the opportunity to get to know anyone personally, I can say that every single person here has done me proud. We've done the galaxy proud. But that's not what's important. Not really." I pause before continuing forcefully, "I know that we can give more, you know that we can give more. We're so close. We cannot fail so long as we continue to do ourselves proud. That's what's important."
I let the words sink in for a moment. The fidgeting ceases and a few heads nod, while some backs straighten and chests swell in silent appreciation.
Once enough of them appear more animated and alert, I continue with more tangible words. "Right. Alpha squad, you'll join Coburn. You'll be our eyes. Whatever's coming, the rest of us need to know. Bravo and Charlie will be the advance squads, covering the kill zone. Delta and Echo, you're providing support as well as functioning as sweepers. You'll be assisting where needed most and making sure the formation stays strong. Everyone got that?"
"Affirmative," they reply almost in unison.
"Good. Coburn will help guide you into position. Alpha, you'll be joining him. Bravo, you're with me. Move out, low and slow."
And so, with some degree of trepidation, we advance, discovering remnants of the previous allied efforts along the way. In the middle of the street is a downed turian fighter, and ahead sits a mako, with its front wheels blown off. An unnerving amount of bodies, both those in Alliance blue and grey armour and of turian, asari and salarian military, are strewn about everywhere we look. Some as if they've just dropped down defeated, others contorted or displaced by unimaginable means.
Though I tell the operatives to keep their eyes forward, some can't help but feast theirs on the carnage. A few disgusted mutterings soon populate the comm channel. For the operatives' first full taste of war, the Reapers have certainly put on a full three-course meal.
Farther on, Alpha takes the lead, no more than a few of them moving at a time, darting between more wrecked vehicles and any other cover they can find.
We hang back until they all reach and enter the same four-storey building as Coburn. It has a large section taken off the top and sits just before the two-part intersection that he mentioned, making it an ideal vantage point for what we have planned.
I take Bravo southerly while sending Charlie slightly northerly and westerly, keeping our two teams as parallel as possible while minimising any danger of friendly fire should enemies pass between us. Or more likely when they do.
Delta and Echo stay back a little and fan out wider on our flanks but not too far from the intended kill zone; as odd as that sounds, considering the entire planet's a war zone. It's the Reapers. What you intend and what occurs don't always align.
With everyone in position, I contact Bomer for an update.
"Getting there," he answers, sounding slightly out of breath. "All good so far."
"Acknowledged. Let me know when you reach the-"
A hollow, almost shrill cry grabs my attention. It's not as piercing as a banshee and not as forceful as a Destroyer. I could guess at what it is but keep quiet and listen for the telltale clue.
I don't have to wait for long, as the sound of giant wings flapping grows louder before slowing to a halt somewhere high above.
Harvester.
I'd not faced one that the Reapers had gotten a hold of, but by all accounts they seemed to be 'ravagers on wings', only bigger, more powerful and tougher to bring down.
"Everyone stay low," I instruct calmly over the comm channel. "Coburn, do you have a visual?"
"Negative," he replies. "Came out of nowhere, flew straight past and landed on another rooftop. We got down pretty fast, but no guarantee it didn't see us."
A few tense moments of radio silence pass while I, and I'm sure the rest of the team, try to locate the threat and guess at its next move. The quiet makes me aware of my own breath, noting each fast inhale and exhale. No point trying to calm that or my racing pulse. The adrenaline is still in full flow and probably one of the few things keeping me going.
"It's right above us," comes a slightly nervous male voice from among Charlie team.
"It's all right," I reassure them. "The street's too narrow for it. Just stay in cover and it won't find you."
"Probably angling to keep us pinned down like this until its buddies show up," Coburn grumbles. "Sure would be nice if we had some more heavy ordnance right about now."
I disregard his accusatory tone and any potential offence. He's a little on edge, we all are. Though he's correct about one thing. Whether or not it's seen us, more Reaper troops will follow. That's always been part of the plan. We either deal with it now, or have it bombard us from above while we contend with its companions.
"I know you're itching to get started, but too much of a show of force and we're liable to have a Destroyer dropped on our heads," I warn Coburn. "That or the fireworks display attracts too large a crowd all at once. Besides, we don't want to waste it on lone targets, even of that size. We can handle this."
"Understood. Apologies, captain," he says, quietly conceding.
"Charlie, stay in position until I give the word. Alpha, when I do, wait until you hear the harvester firing then give it a full salvo and get back into cover."
"Got it," Coburn agrees plainly.
"Delta, I want you to move in as far southwest as you can without entering its line of fire. On my signal, you'll emerge and attack alongside Bravo. Echo, bring up the rear and cover us."
With everyone clear on their roles, I take Bravo team towards a suitable firing position. We tread lightly, still listening for any sudden signs of danger.
Upon reaching the final corner, I order the team back while I peek round. Across the other side of the street and partway down a side road is Charlie team, backs tight against the eastern side of the building. Following it up, I spot the harvester on the rooftop. Though a small distance back from the edge, its plentiful and irregular collection of blue optics shines clear against the dark and cloudy sky.
I tuck back behind the wall and relay the next set of instructions. Charlie are to run out, across the main road and into the side street opposite, drawing the harvester's attention before Alpha commences their attack. By then, Charlie should be clear, allowing us and Delta to step out and finish it off without too much trouble.
That established, I give the word and Charlie begins its run. The harvester notices and cranes its long neck over the edge of the rooftop and in their direction, shuffling forward to get a better angle of attack.
As the blasts rain down, Alpha take that as their cue and commence their retaliation. From below, I can't see them but watch as their warp fields and hail of bullets races across the gap between the buildings. Most of the projectiles find their mark, impacting on the harvester and tearing a huge chunk out of its side. It recoils slightly, and now unbalanced sends the last shot of its current barrage out of sight, far wide of Charlie, who are almost clear of the street by now.
Once it recovers, it steadies itself as much as possible and aims its next attack at Alpha, who have ceased theirs and hopefully found adequate shelter.
The moment it's committed to the latest set of shots, our two ground teams spring into action and deliver our volley. Both efforts hit hard and precise, momentarily obscuring the creature itself among the destruction being wrought.
The boom of its cannon halts and it lurches before toppling off the building quite theatrically, crashing down onto the street in front of us. For a moment, lying there on its back, it has the vague and peculiar appearance of a gigantic, dead fly. One that took a great deal of swatting.
"Get down!" a panicked voice yells suddenly. Instinctively, we all obey, throwing ourselves to the ground.
The harvester's corpse explodes, hurling pieces every which way and shattering any glass that had survived thus far. Steadily, our two groups re-emerge and an initial assessment suggests everyone's unscathed. It would appear someone among us has dealt with, or at least heard about, harvesters before.
I know klixen explode upon death, I've witnessed that first-hand, but I'd not seen a downed harvester before. Whether that's part of its original nature that the Reaper's found useful – case in point, brutes and the infamous krogan blood rage – or a Reaper manufacturing fault, I can't say for certain.
"Everyone all right down there?" Coburn enquires concernedly. I realise he can't have seen what happened from his position, nor has anyone spoken within the past minute.
"Harvester is down and no casualties," I report back. "And, Coburn, those people by your side, they're the heavy ordnance."
"Well, they'd better get reloading because that crowd's already on its way."
Damnit, this is much too soon. The harvester's arrival had meant that the Reapers were already onto us. It definitely needed to go sooner rather than later.
"All right, everyone, back in formation," I command hastily. "Don't go taking any risks. We just need to hold out until the other team arrives."
Next order of business, I chase up Bomer for an update. He's been worryingly quiet, which could be a sign that he's focused on the task at hand, aiming to make good progress, or it could be a very bad sign indeed.
The response comes through broken by static and what sounds like the distorted cracks of gunfire. "We're close to... but... out just yet... not... down here... ... into resistance..."
"Matt, repeat!" I demand, but don't receive anything further.
Either I'd overestimated the comm technology's functionality while underground or the Reapers have managed some form of interference. Whatever's causing it is beside the point now. I heard gunfire and the word 'resistance'. Any form of resistance is precisely what we didn't want. A delay is severely detrimental to our group's chances of survival.
Combined with the fact that we've already caught the Reapers' attention ahead of schedule...
First to arrive are dozens of cannibals and husks who fill the streets, not just physically but with the din of their unsettling croaks and groans.
Charlie and my fire team hit them hard while Alpha contributes what they can from above, but still some of the shambling creatures manage to clamber over their dead and continue swarming out to the fringes of the battlefield. I alert Delta and Echo, who step in to pick them off.
"Marauders and brutes," Coburn announces simply. A touch too simply for my liking. As if they were guests arriving at a formal dinner party. The lavish sort my father used to host begrudgingly. I always found those guests equally as objectionable. All of them except for one woman. All except for...
Not the time, Miranda!
The marauders rush in and form a line as they lay down suppressive fire that forces the operatives to switch from the offensive and erect biotic barriers, allowing the four brutes to stalk forward unhindered. From their advantageous position, Alpha makes quick work of the marauders, leaving us to fend off the hulking creatures who've already advanced past their range. Three go down quickly, but final one proves more resilient, leaping a good distance toward our frontline. Matters aren't helped by a new surge of cannibals and husks coming in behind.
The brute's target, Charlie, is caught off-guard and scrambles to fall back outside of the its claw range, with the destroyed fighter ship partially obstructing their path. As a result, the remaining enemies' gunfire shifts towards the rest of us.
Acting fast, I throw a grenade at the gathering crowd then split our squad, taking a few others to follow me into the centre of the street. The shrill alarm of my shield system repeats intermittently as I dash through and duck under fire, pushing it to the limit then finding temporary refuge so it can recover before emerging again.
We arrive behind a lengthy concrete planter box, whose shrivelled occupants have seen much better days, and open fire.
The tactic succeeds in distracting the brute and eventually provoking it into abandoning its original targets and going after us. Its burning red eyes appear fixated on me in particular, as if it recognises its most serious threat. I have always drawn the eye one way or another...
As the creature rushes closer, one of the operatives manages to hurl a rushed shockwave towards it, performing the gesture with one hand mid-run. Although it's a sloppy move, it just about works, momentarily stunning its target.
To capitalise, I make a rapid turn from my current course, my worn boots skidding across the gravel and dirt, and follow up with a warp field that detonates the lingering dark energy. The explosion isn't particularly impressive, but it disorients and delays the creature further so that everyone finds a little breathing room to regroup and finish it off.
Meanwhile, Charlie has refocused their attention on the seemingly constant stream of husks and cannibals heading down the main street. The rest of us redouble our offensive efforts and continue to successfully repel a further three waves of whatever the Reapers can throw at us. We even manage to cause another harvester to self-destruct much to our benefit.
Deep down, though, I know this can't last. Our clips will run out, another tough foe will breach our frontline or the Reapers will really throw everything they have at us. We can't win a war of attrition, and already their piles of bodies are forming ever closer to our ranks, each of their offensives mildly more fruitful than the last.
Red Team's intervention would be greatly appreciated right about now.
Safe for a spell, I drop down behind my concrete cover and try to contact Bomer. After a few moments, he responds, shouting to be heard yet still not coming through clearly.
"... Barker... Dreyfus down!... ... going to make it, we... ... agh!"
Following that last cry of pain, the transmission cuts off.
"Matt! Matt, speak to me!" I urge, feeling a panic slowly building inside me. It wasn't meant to go like this...
I wait but don't hear anything else from him. He couldn't be...
No, he can't be. And even if he is, even if things sound dire, the others will complete the mission. We're not going to die here. We can't.
I try to contact a few of the others – Forrest, Anden, Masohn – without any luck.
Coburn continues calling out the incoming threats, all of them arriving so fast that a fresh shot from his sniper rifle seems to punctuate each new announcement. I rejoin the fighting as Coburn makes the next one, no longer sounding so laidback.
"Great," Coburn growls. "Ravagers. Lots of 'em."
Soon enough, their cannon fire commences and begins destroying a lot of our cover. Stonework crumbles and collapses while destroyed vehicles take a further pounding. The crashed gunship tips over, trapping the leg of the Phoenix operative who'd been hiding behind it, while a skybus is shunted round, exposing the group relying on it for protection.
While our squad provides whatever assistance we can from my position, I notice one of the vulnerable operatives in the centre starting to crack, making to bolt instead of firing back like the rest. Before I can order him against the decision, he runs into the open and gets caught by the full brunt of the bombardment. He's catapulted backwards with such force that the dust that had settled on his armour continues to hang in the air where he was a moment before.
The rest of the Reaper forces begin pushing forward, as many of the operatives adopt defensive measures once more, lessening their attacking capability.
Is this the beginning of the end? If this keeps up, and Bomer's group doesn't arrive in time, it very well could be.
As if to provide a definitive answer, a banshee shrieks before Coburn has even called it, and yet another harvester lands on top of a building adjacent to the last one.
We manage to recover formation and kill a more than respectable amount of the fresh horde of enemies. The missile launchers that Coburn was so keen to use earlier are finally deemed necessary and deployed to devastating effect. However, we still can't stem the tide completely. With the heavy weapons all spent yet not providing a definitive end to the conflict and Red Team still nowhere to be found, I can sense the rest of the team starting to become demoralised.
Another harvester forces Alpha to abandon the higher ground, sending them to join us on the streets where they narrowly escape being in the middle of a big push from the newest wave of ground troops.
The writing's on the wall, whatever's left of it, printed large in bullet holes: stay here and we're good as dead.
Not wishing to back off completely, I order a fighting withdrawal. While everyone does so, I stay put to provide whatever covering fire I can until they're clear.
Coburn hesitates, offer to help but I send him on with the rest.
Before I can make my own retreat, a shell hits me square in the shoulder and not even my shield can prevent the impact from knocking me flat on my back. My head smacks into the ground and my rifle is jolted from my grasp, clattering away to the side somewhere.
For a second, my whole body feels weightless and I'm flush with a hazy sense of comfort. As if all my pain has simply just vanished. I raise my head to discover the world's gone out of focus, regarding the couple of brown blobs swaying and growing out from the horizon with little more than vague curiosity.
Defend yourself, a stern man's voice inside my head chides.
I gasp for the air that's been forcibly ejected from my lungs as the realisation occurs and regular vision returns.
Cannibals. Those are...
I form a biotic barrier just in time to deflect their fire while my shield is down. Then, still lying flat on the floor and with my rifle not immediately to-hand, I rapidly draw the pistol at my hip, straighten my arms and fire twice towards the cannibals without sparing any time to properly line up my shots.
I hear both assailants choke and drop to the floor. One lands right by my side, sporting a large hole between its rows of eyes. I pull myself up to learn that the other one had toppled backwards, drilled through the brain just like the other, confirming that even on my worst day – which I'm beginning to get the impression this might well be – I'm able to make shots like that.
I collect my rifle and head towards the rest of the team without any further hesitation. This far back, we have more solid cover, but are limited in our capacity to fire back. The squads have had to merge together in the tighter space and some have taken to firing over each other's heads.
I dash past the front line and join Coburn behind the next building.
"Shouldn't Red Team be here already?" he asks annoyed. "They've got the rest of our heavy weapons. If they've got themselves killed while carrying our heavy-"
"They'll be here," I assert a touch too forcefully. "How are you doing for clips?"
"Not looking good. Down to my last three and this one's almost out," he says, lifting his Widow slightly. "I'm guessing everyone else is about the same."
"It won't be much longer." I fetch a spare clip from my belt and pass it to him. "Make it count."
He nods and continues to pick off the larger threats, leaving the smaller, faster-moving ones to the others.
I check my own weapons as I mull over our circumstances. Unless we come up with some sort of miracle, we simply won't survive much longer on our own. And I never have relied on miracles.
I take up an offensive position alongside the others and do what I can, fully aware that Red Team's arrival is overdue and will soon exceed the extra time I'd allowed as a buffer.
A pack of husks sprints towards us. I tell myself we just need to hold on another minute, that I haven't send Red Team underground to their deaths and left us stranded.
That minute passes.
A brute stomps into view. I tell myself we can hold another minute, that Red Team will arrive any moment to deal the decisive blow.
That minute passes.
A cacophony of banshee wails fill the air. I take a deep breath and tell myself: One. More. Minute.
That minute passes.
My gun clicks, and as the latest clip expires I'm already ejecting it, reaching for a fresh one. My last one.
As I do so, my eyes are drawn off to the far side where I spot a brute bulldoze through our ranks and straight into Delta squad, scattering them. Operating like a wrecking ball rather than a predator, it runs rampant across the street, bashing against walls, cars, anything it can find.
It succeeds in disrupting our firing pattern, taking some of the heat off the rest of the Reaper forces and enabling them to advance even closer still.
Not far from Delta, Echo suddenly finds itself swarmed by husks that it only manages to fight off. Just ahead, Charlie has a dangerously close encounter with a banshee.
The squads manage to separate and designate targets well enough to avoid any catastrophic cross fire, but it's still not enough to see off the encroaching forces. It's never enough.
Our movement's too restricted by the carnage already caused by the Reapers. By me in particular, there's a troublesome cast iron and concrete fence cutting off one side of the street due to the way it's been distorted.
Meanwhile, the brute searches for its next target and finds me, tucked behind a wrecked mako, focused more on eliminating the enemies dead ahead. I'm caught between two lines of fire and that damned fence with nowhere else for me to go. And by now I'm so exhausted that I'm not sure I'm able to outrun or dodge around it to any substantial degree.
Without hesitation, I hit the creature with a warp field, in order to soften it up then stand tall, facing it head-on and lifting my rifle.
The beast roars and begins gathering speed. I remain in place and fire as rapidly as I can before unleashing an overload burst in its face at the last second. It flinches and lunges off-balance, providing a small opening under its raised arm. I dive past in the nick of time but have to aim so low that I hit the ground untidily and find it a struggle to twist back round and steal many shots against its rear side.
Before I'm fully mobile, it half-turns and directs its arm at me in a chopping motion. I backpedal enough that it misses my legs and strikes the ground, cracking the paving. Heels and elbows scraping frantically across the stone, I manage to push myself back onto my feet, clutching the fence I've now found myself up against.
The brute looms close once more and I hit it with another overload, sending it staggering forward, stabbing for me clumsily. I step aside at the last second, and its claw misses, plunging into the metal railings instead.
The beast becomes further enraged but even with its colossal strength it's finding it a challenge to free itself. That doesn't prevent it from persisting in its attempt though, the heavy metal bars creaking and scraping as the strain causes them to bend slightly.
To finish it off, I drop a live grenade at its feet and run clear to rejoin the greater battle. I don't get far, halting in my tracks when I wind up facing a banshee not twenty feet away, striding in my direction.
A quick glance around for an alternative route informs me that there isn't one, that we've been overrun almost entirely. Delta and Echo have been bunched tightly together in the centre of the street and are slowly being surrounded, Charlie has become so fragmented that I can't even locate or recognise any of the original squad, and Alpha is still holding strong but barely making an impact. Even Coburn's starting to lose his cool and become distressed by the sound of it.
The banshee continues to approach towards me at an unhurried pace, its twisted grin suggesting that it's relishing the moment, but if I'm hoping for yet 'one more minute', I'm not going to get it.
I raise my rifle with grim determination and prepare to face down the spectre in my path when a loud, high-pitched whistle pierces the commotion.
From the west, a rocket soars into view and lands among the Reaper force, obliterating a great deal of them in a bright, hot explosion.
About damn time.
"Barriers!" I shout at the top of my voice.
The designated operatives summon their protective bubbles around the rest of their squads, who themselves quickly finish off the few Reaper troops that have become trapped inside with them.
Cut off, I get down low behind the closest wall and form my own biotic barrier.
Seconds later, more whistles follow and the missiles rain down on the approaching deluge of husks, cannibals, brutes and other monstrosities. Another rocket lights up the banshee and transforms it into little more than ash that drifts harmlessly away.
"That's heavy ordnance!" I hear Coburn declare emphatically over the comm channel.
Once the bombardment is complete, there's little left of our enemy. And we intend to waste no time mopping up the survivors.
Barriers drop and rifle fire resumes as we begin to push back. Banshees scream and brutes howl while pummelled by our combined firepower, their numbers rapidly diminishing.
As Red Team gradually works their way towards us, I'm able to get a clearer look at them.
Barker's tall frame is the first I can identify, and despite Bomer's earlier muddled message, he does not appear to be wounded. He looks merely haggard, as we all do.
A few more recognisable faces begin to emerge, lit by their own muzzle flashes. Forrest, Cho, Bentley, Patel.
I use up my last clip finishing off a few cannibals then back away from the last embers of the firefight. Masohn and Anden charge into view, guns ablaze in a joyful motion, the two of them in their element. Upon spotting me, Anden pauses to offer a proud thumbs-up.
At this particular moment, a simple gesture like that is all it takes to trigger a long-awaited sigh of relief as an oppressive weight lifts from my mind. While the last few remaining Reaper troops are eliminated, a further check of Red Team suggests that every one of them has made it intact.
Everyone except for a couple I haven't seen.
Where's Dreyfus?
Where's Bomer?
While the reunion and a brief spell of rejoicing commences, I rush out into the group, nodding and smiling curtly at a few of them, though my eyes are frantically scanning faces for Bomer's. Voices call out my name or 'captain' in praise, and hands pat me on the shoulder and back as I pass, but I continue searching and still can't find him.
A dark cloud starts to return over my thoughts and I feel alone among the crowd, unable to appreciate the victory.
As I'm about to walk away and begin issuing orders to move out and onto establishing the Forward Operating Base, a small gathering to my side parts and Bomer emerges slowly. The reason for his own delay is immediately apparent: an injured Dreyfus is leaning on him for support. Bloody fool.
He smiles at me. "It worked."
"Of course," I shrug arrogantly, "but what took you so long?"
At the Forward Operating Base – which appears to have been a department store in a past life – I check in with the commanding officer and relay our company's roster. At final count, we've arrived with only five down. I hate to lose people and find it disheartening to learn that more had died among the chaos of the final scuffle, but it's an accomplishment I'm content with, given the circumstances.
Bomer and his Red Team had run into some trouble, but nowhere near as ruinous as it sounded. They'd faced a tough struggle close to the exit, and with no real room to manoeuvre, things became a little messy. The comm channels had suffered underground and Bomer's transmitter was destroyed by enemy fire.
I suppose I can laugh about it now. Bomer did tell me to find the occasion.
However, my mind is on other matters. Ones that need addressing.
I accompany Bomer in getting his gear back in order. We find the Comm Tech Officer, a young girl with broad cheeks and an incongruously cheerful demeanour to complement them, and Bomer explains his problem. It probably says more about my own state of mind that she manages to irritate me with the first sentence that leaves her mouth, but I hang back while she gets on well assisting Bomer. Once he's sorted and leaves, I stay to put in a contact request for Shepard, asking that she notify me the moment he reaches his own FOB.
The expression on her face tells me that someone like myself knowing the famous Commander Shepard on those terms doesn't quite sit right with her. Truth is, kid, it doesn't tend to sit right with anyone. At times, I'm not even sure it does with me.
Not wanting to stray far, I take a seat close to the briefing room, into which more and more team leaders from various races filter gradually. Rather than cloud my head with all the thoughts and fears one confronts at a time like this, I stare at the wall in front of me. When that doesn't suffice, I start tracing the cracks in its surface, eyes following them across and up and along new fractures. That wastes another two minutes at best.
I continue to wait, growing increasingly anxious, but take to reassuring myself that if I've made it this far, Shepard will damn sure do the same.
Eventually, I hear the call from the CTO. "Miss Lawson, I've located Commander Shepard."
A/N: Truth be told, I wasn't even going to write this particular chapter until a few of you seemed keen on seeing it. Originally, I was simply going to summarise a few of the details as background during the final chapter because it seemed too daunting a task. At times it was a struggle to work up the enthusiasm, but here we are, 11k+ words later and I'm feeling a little better about the result. I hope you like it, too...
Good news is that I'm already a lot more enthusiastic about the next chapter (in fact, half of it was already done before I decided to write this one) and it should arrive a lot sooner. When the time comes, and without wanting to spoil details, you may find I've created an MA-rated version as a standalone chapter, with a T-rated version included in here. Not that I consider the writing particularly explicit, but I'd rather err on the side of caution.
Anyway, ramble over. Big thanks once again to all you loyal readers. Keep the reviews, comments, criticisms, messages, etc. coming. They are much appreciated!