Chapter 38: Superposition

June 12, 3239, 0600 hours

New York City

Outside Government Building

By the time Roan led the group through the blockades, it had been made clear that things had changed, and the situation was far out of their control. They knew that they would have little say in matters involving forces involved, but things spun up to eleven. Not long ago, two warships descended from the sky and were holding position near the Government building. Massive searchlights scanned across the city looking for something. No doubt the citizens all around the districts were watching this with curious glances and confusion. Warships were commonly seen in New York, but they typically held position over the ocean or over the Hudson River. It was considered an offense to park any ship over a specific tonnage over the skyline for fear that the systems could fail and the ship could plunge into the cityscape.

It was unlikely though that the average person knew anything about those rules though. Only the military advisers and the lawmakers within the Government Building would be tearing their hair out and throwing fits over this. However, as they stood in the shadow of one of the massive ships, Roan could feel a bit of suspense over this whole ordeal. It was the first time in a while where he was more than concerned. Jackson stopped by him.

"Marshall's pulling out the big guns, huh?"

"He knows that we're on to him now." Roan said. "Getting scared."

"Radio check." Borne asked into his earpiece. "Anybody else seeing this?"

"See what?" Sally asked on her end. "Jesus. When did those come in?"

They assumed she was referring to the frigates.

"Registering UNSC Bellermine and the UNSC Stanhope." NICOLE chimed. "Two frigates. Paris-class. Their encryption is airtight. I don't have the coding to get past, but I'm guessing they have an AI or two running interference."

"Fixing his mistakes." Borne said. "Too bad he's a bit behind the ball on that one."

"We're still a bit away from the building. We're took a small detour." Rouge's voice said. "Don't ask for any help from me. My codes have likely been revoked."

"How did they find us?" Jackson asked making sure to stay behind Roan, who was dressed as the cop they knocked out.

"Dunno. Marshall could have simply put two and two together." NICOLE announced. "He knew we were coming for him and assumed we took the shorter of the routes. Probably took some time to get those frigates in a suborbital trajectory. Probably had to break a few traffic laws as well. This is certainly a violation. Those ships should be over the Hudson, not casting a shadow on Broadway and Lexington."

"Still think he's looking for us?" Jackson asked.

"I don't know who he's looking for Miss Jackson. He may be trying to find all of us."

Just then, there were rapid cannon thumps. Everyone snapped their heads to the sky to see what was going on. Both the Bellarmine and the Stanhope had opened fire on something. Flashes of light on their hulls indicated their guns were cycling.

The trio stood dumbstruck. Borne tried to speak, but every time he opened his mouth, he was nearly drowned out by the thumps of the guns. His body cavity resonated with the shots.

"He's firing at the city?!" Jackson asked.

"No. He can't be. That's flak!" Borne said.

He was right. The shots weren't landing anywhere near the skyline, but seemed to be aimed at a small aircraft that was darting around the skyscrapers. Starbursts of explosions appeared in midair, well above most of the buildings. The aircraft was a Pelican, and the pilots were no slouches, ducking and weaving like aces. Nobody was sure about what this lone dropship had done to earn the President's ire.

"Come on." Roan said tapping both Jackson and Borne's shoulders. "We get a good run at that building, we can slip inside without anybody noticing.

They were at Midtown, in the shadow of the building. It was also impossible to get lost. All main roads now came to the building. No more police officers were around either, which confused them. If the area was in lockdown, security would be swarming around the building, but there was nothing. Roan wondered for a second whether or not Marshall was playing tricks on them again and if he purposely drew his men back. Just to fuck with them? No doubt crossed his mind that yeah, that wouldn't be too far outside his repertoire.

But firing near a densely populated city? That wouldn't win him a re-election. No. This was unexpected, and possibly outside of the President's control.

Then the gate came. The trio saw that it was sealed tight. Standard security procedure. Close the door behind you. However, this was a slight impediment to their progress as the goal was on the other side. "Mister Borne, you're on." Jackson said.

"The hell you want me to do?" the Mobian ODST asked. "Knock 'Shave and a Haircut' on the door and hope they let me in?"

"Just type in a password or something like that." she shrugged.

"It's not going to work."

"Just try it."

"It's not going to work! I have ONI clearance, not Front Door clearance!"

"Just trust me!"

"It..."

"Dumbass, do it or I'll kick your ass."

Borne raised an eyebrow. "With that leg?" indicating her cast.

"OK. Allen, kick his ass and sing about it."

"With pleasure." He tapped his belt. The cop he knocked over had a baton. It was made of a hard plastic that could be whipped to bruise. Wailed to break bones.

Borne sighed. "I fucking hate both of you. Both of you."

"What can we say?" Jackson smiled. "Mercenaries! All the pleasure of a heat rash!"

The still thundering guns made Borne's ears twitch as he walked over to what he assumed was an access terminal. He was ready to type in any code. The ONI codes themselves were alphanumeric, but it seemed that there were only number keys on this pad, and a small bulbous bump that indicated that facial recognition was another way to get inside.

Borne felt like he was at a show trial. A sham where he was doomed to fail, however, he did not want a boot imprint eternally lodged into his fur. He looked at the code pad. It was a crude thing that was bolted onto the wall waiting for someone to tap the correct pass number on it. It was going to work badly, he knew it, but he curled the fingers of his right hand, cocked his head quickly in a gesture that said, 'fuck it', and tapped 1-2-3-4-5-Enter.

To his great surprise, the code failed. A sharp trill emitted from the speaker on the top of the pad, and a red light flashed. The bulbous facial scanner activated at once, and a laser passed over his face. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable hail of bullets to pierce his chest. What an embarrassing way to die. His eyes were clamped shut so hard he saw black dots even with his lids closed. He could almost see the Ancestors.

What Borne didn't know was that facial scanners did not work well on Mobians. The Human-made technology was primarily made to analyse the folds and the wrinkles in a person's skin so that an identity could be established from a profile that already existed in a database. For Mobians, folds and wrinkles were slightly more difficult to read. When Borne heard the unfriendly voice come from the speaker, he could have sworn that it was his Namesake chiding him.

"Hey, the hell are you doing there?"

Borne's ear cocked and he looked at the scanner. "Ah..."

"Back off! Authorized personnel only! We're under lockdown!"

Roan decided to step in. "NYPD."

"ONI only!"

"This guy IS ONI. Attache with level 3 access! You assholes didn't let him in!"

"Lock! Down! Passcodes changed! Authorized agents only! Even if you are ONI!"

A quick strategy formed in Borne's head. "Is Mylon working guard shift tonight?"

"What? Who is this?"

"Is Mylon working guard shift?" Borne repeated, tail suddenly wagging in anticipation.

"I'll tell you when you tell me who the fuck you are!"

"Tell him it's Billy!"

Another series of close bangs. That Pelican was really getting hammered up there. Some other aircraft were getting close, but they didn't want to be pelted by their own fire.

Servos activated. Twin turrets popped out of the top of the gate and pointed at the trio. Jackson started, but Roan put a hand on her shoulder, calming her. She had her fangs bared, but Roan whispered harshly for her to get under control.

"You assholes stay put. You move, you die."

The only noise was of the servos of the turrets. They were high-tech with shining barrels and two small IR bumps on the front which gave the impression of shiny red eyes glaring at them. They inched with every twitch the group made. All the while, the pounding of the flak cannons reverberated in their chests. Police sirens began to sound all around, but the sky was unnaturally clear of other aircraft, yet all of them knew it would be simple to shoot the dropship down. A second later, the speaker crackled.

"Mylon." the speaker said. "Identify yourselves."

"Mylon!" Borne said, smiling and putting on the charm. "It's Billy! Billy Borne!"

Borne sniggered at his own alliterative name while the Lone Wolves rolled their eyes. The exchange was already taking a tangent before anything was even said.

"Good to see you. No offense, but what do you want? Lockdown."

"I need in. I hear you have a problem and we were grounded by air patrols."

"For good reason. Shit's blowing up in the sky, and shit's getting shot up inside the building. Tell me you can help."

"We can join in." Borne lied heartily. "These guys are PMC, and good too."

"Vanguard Private Security." Jackson declared, making sure to flourish the title.

Mylon likely didn't even check. The appearance of Roan and Jackson alone were enough to satisfy him. "Oh. Well, get in then. I'm going to get my ass kicked, but when you deal with the shit, give me a good word?"

"You bet, buddy." Borne winked at the camera. "Open her up."

The turrets retracted, and the gate split in two. The halves moved to either side. The courtyard beckoned. Without another word, they entered. The sound of the cannons was still present, but the visage was completely different. Blue skies stood out to them. The effect was startling and effective. They felt invigorated, and energized. Borne could have sworn he had a spring in his step. Jackson was moving a little bit quicker despite the cast.

The courtyard was also empty. There were graveyards with more activity. Despite the neatly trimmed hedges, and despite the water features, not a life form was walking around. They were so close, but they couldn't risk calling NICOLE or Cortana for support. To screw up now would lock them out, they were sure of it.

"Spread out." Borne ordered.

The trio dispersed, choosing to take cover around the hedge growths. Roan chose a tall topiary – a ropy tree that was actually native to his world. Allen felt a brief tinge of homesickness and touched the leathery trunk before banishing it and shouldering his weapon. He covered the doorway directly across from them. They watched for a minute before being convinced that nothing was going to pop out and surprise them. Allen raised his hand and circled it in the air – the universal hand signal to regroup.

Before any of them could go any further, a different explosion sounded out. Their heads shot skyward. The Pelican had been hit and was trailing fire. The pilot tried to get hold of it, but the craft started to roll, and accelerate towards the Government building.

He walking slowly. The hallway of the medical station Kasperof was neatly lit and a sterile white. He expected nothing less from a state of the art facility that had a remarkable rate of recovery and resuscitation. Chris had been brought here aboard a small intersystem transport. Even without a Slipspace jump, these small UNSC ships could cross interplanetary distances quickly thanks to high acceleration. He had to admit that aerobraking on the orange-brown gas giant was nerve-racking, but they had safely locked their orbit around this world.

The planet was named Talahan VI, the sixth planet owned by the Talahan Mining Corporation. Technically speaking, it was tough to own a planet nearly twice the size of Jupiter, but multiple automated mining platforms in their orbits suggested that they were damn well trying. This was where the Kasperof was moored, not too high above the world. The UNSC had been allowed to fuel their ships around this gas giant. Tax free. In fact, there was a fueling station less than a hundred kilometers away, glittering in the sunlight as a very large star.

Chris was looking at this star while hobbling along. He was aboard the Kasperof on account of him catching a bullet with his thigh. The wound itself was infected and was beyond the field hospitals. He had been rotated out for a week to recuperate. One part of him thought himself lucky for avoiding combat, another part found himself guilty for not being with his unit. It was December 19th, 3233. A scant six days before Christmas.

He adjusted the crutch under his arm and hobbled down to a bench. His leg pained him as he lowered himself onto the padded seat. He exhaled in thankfulness and glared out the thick window across from him. Somewhere deep inside the station, a reactor hummed. He heard this noise in his ears and closed his eyes. The cotton pants and shirt were warm and soft compared to the dirty fatigues he had worn only five days ago. Clean clothing was a godsend.

A few seconds after, or it may have been a few minutes, a door opened down the hall. Chris didn't say anything and simply ignored it, instead choosing to feel the sunlight on his face. The warm radiance of the star still struck him even further out in the system. For the first time in a long time, Chris was content. The sounds of gunfire had faded and now there was nothing but the reactor and the ventilation systems. He was almost glad he was shot.

The footsteps approached. He cracked open an eye to see what was ahead. A man, dressed in scrubs and with slightly crooked glasses, made his way towards the Sergeant.

"Ah, excuse me."

Chris was determined to at least pretend to look interested in helping. "What's up, doc?"

"Could you... could you help me for a moment?"

Chris leaned forward. "Yeah, sure. Uh, what can I do for you?"

The doctor's glasses flashed. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm new to this station. I was... just transferred in a day or so ago. I'm still lost."

"I'm new myself."

"Oh! Then we're both lost!"

"You could say."

"This... this hallway. This is the important one, right?"

"Important?"

"It's a major corridor? The one connecting the patients and the airlocks?"

This bit Chris was certain about. It was, after all, the only hallway he knew of connecting the Kasperof's docking and patient wards. But something was odd. Even he knew this bit of information. Why was this doctor confused?

"Yes, it is."

"Well then." The doctor chuckled. "I guess it'll be some time before the patients will be discharged."

Chris saw his coat flutter, and amidst the white fabric there were flashes of red. Pulsing red. A split second later, Chris saw the explosives and the Talahase print on the body of the charges. He didn't understand it as he crossed the distance and used his crutch as a makeshift lance. The padded bottom slammed into the doctor's throat. It was more a reflex than an actual combat decision – a snap action done more by body than mind. The doctor's neck moved quicker than his head did, and he dropped gasping and trying to breathe. He coughed blood. Chris also fell to his knee, gritting in pain. He made a run for it. A hobble was more accurate.

"These worlds are ours!" The doctor cried. "Go to hell! You will be home, deablos!"

Within the confined space of the hallway, the sound of the bomb was magnified. For the split second that the sound existed, it gave the impression of a force much bigger than it was. It sounded like a tanker going off at less than fifty feet. Chris was still close enough to this to feel his ears thump. First his vision was nearly blinded and the hallway turned yellow. Then his hearing failed him. Then he felt pain as shrapnel bit at his back. Then he felt wind.

The doctor had been all but vaporized in his own blast. A planted suicide bomber. While he failed to kill the Sergeant, the bomb had effectively severed the hallway linking the wards and the airlocks. The evacuation of air was instant. Chris lost his footing before he could make it further, and was less than ten feet away from the still-open compartment ahead of him when the breach occurred. The doctors and soldiers in the room beyond were only becoming aware of what had happened before the door slammed shut as automated procedures isolated the breach. In all fairness, the systems were working exactly as intended.

Less than a quarter of a second after the bomb went off, Chris fell back towards the breach, clawing at the folds and plate trying to find purchase, but not finding success. He tried to grab at the bench, and for a brief moment held tight, but he let go.

Half a second after the bomb went off, he was expelled through the breach and blown away from the Kasperof. He didn't even hear the blast of wind. He didn't hear anything, and instead saw the station floating away from him. He tried to draw breath, but only saw a cloud of flash-frozen material float away from him. There was utter silence, and it was horrifying. Small cherry red drops of his own blood had frozen in gobules. The hemoglobin reflected sunlight in a macabre way.

Sunlight.

He covered his face as the heat hit him. It wasn't warm. It was burning. Unfiltered and raw energy from Eta Cassiopeia struck his exposed skin. He was already feeling blisters forming. He screamed, or rather mimed a scream. No more air escaped his lungs. It would have looked more like a yawn. He felt his saliva boiling in the vacuum, and the pain in his skin was noticeable to him.

This was what he remembered. He remembered this pain, and the silence, and the light, as well as the slight prickling feeling of being in Talahan VI's Van Allen belt. He remembered the doctors would calmly deem that cancer formation would have been likely, before they eradicated it.

He remembered blacking out here. No man could fight against the power of such nothingness. He had succumbed and had passed out here. He waited. Ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, but still he stayed, awake and feeling everything.

This was not how it happened. The wrongness of the memory hit him as his skin revolted in the void. He wretched, causing him to tumble, and his lungs burned. He wanted to pass out and simply die unconsciously. He begged for the darkness to take him as his skin further smoldered. Pain upon pain was inflicted.

Oh the pain.

Pain...

His blood wanted boil itself from his body, and his eyes were scorched by the light of the sun. Without a wisp of air in the darkness... or was it light since the sun was out, nobody would hear his rather lengthy last seconds. He came face to face with the sun. In an instant, his sight went white. Blocking the brilliant light did nothing. His eyes had already overloaded. His vision went white and then it went black. But he felt. He knew that this was wrong.

There was a man. A man who saved his life. Malcovic was his name. He was a doctor. He nearly sacrificed his own life to save him. The crazy son of a bitch jumped from the breach with a length of wire around his waist and with a fire extinguisher under his arm. Chris was never aware of what Malcovic did, but knew that he was alive when he awoke hours later.

But he was still aware. His sight gone, his hearing non-existent, but he could still feel. He could feel his skin on fire, but he did not die. The radiation cooked him, and Malcovic never came. He would feel him if anything.

But then his nerves were burned in the sun. Third degree smoldering must have covered his body, ruined by the sun and the planet below. He felt nothing more, and only his ears betrayed any sense of motion.

Malcovic never came. He tumbled. Unknowing, unfeeling, and in constant, absolute pain. Was this how he was to spend eternity? Spinning in darkness?

And now you see the world as we do...

Then light. Sound. Pain... but lessened. It was calming in a way. He could see flames, and soon, he hard shouts. Screams even.

He tried to get up, but a dark shape forced him down. He drew the gun, and instantly he was hit. The vision resolved itself. It was Johnson. He tried to understand what the Sergeant was saying, but was unable to do so for a few moments.

"You hearing me?" The Sergeant finally said. At least, this was what Chris could actually comprehend.

"I... Oh shit." Chris said this in an incredibly nonchalant manner considering a piece of metal was wedged in his side. In a quick motion, he reached down and gripped the jagged piece of material, and in a quick motion with a sick sliding sound, it came free. He held it up to his face. The shard was six inches long, two of which were covered with his own blood. Johnson stared aghast, and for a moment forgot that there was a crisis on his hands.

One of the frigates had scored a hit on the Pelican. The shrapnel from the flak rounds tore into the starboard engine, shredding the turbines and ripping the fuel lines to shreds. From there, things gotugly. The pilots worked their hardest to keep the craft stable and find one of the dedicated landing platforms, but it was no good. The craft ploughed into the side of the building, smashing through the hardened glass, immediately slowed and trailing fire. The aircraft slid through what may have been office space, but made it only a couple hundred feet before hitting a support pillar, going from hundreds of kilometers per hour to nothing. The interior of the craft was hurled forward, still in motion even though the Pelican wasn't.

The pilots were killed instantly. Four STARs died in the crash. Some of them were still strapped in, necks broken, eyes blank, and bloodied. A red light blared on the emergency systems, illuminating the inside of the dropship. The light glared off of the bodies of the STARs. Kids. Some of them barely older than 20. Johnson's heart ached for the young men and women he personally had called into action to help leads this strike. While he had to console himself that the means of their crash was based solely on Marshall, if he had never called on the STARs, these kids would still be alive. The Sergeant had to pull one, Ignalls, off of his dead friend. Johnson lowered his head in hurt to realize that this was the body of one of the STARs he had seen before. He forgot the kid's name, but he remembered yelling at him. Something trivial – not assembling his rifle correctly. He yelled at him a lot over trivial things. It had only been to make him stronger, not because he hated him. As the Captain looked down at the dead Mobian, with one eye half closed and the other shut firmly, mouth slack and limbs limp, he realized that he had failed as a commander and a trainer. Useless work for a useless fate. Dead were lying around him; tears were now as copious as the smoke in the passenger compartment that choked him with every breath. Chris noticed that nobody would mourn for the pilots. Their smashed bodies still locked in their seats, broken faces obscured by broken faceplates and dented helmets. Why did he feel so badly for these two men? They didn't even have nametags, but they were untouched as a tearful hedgehog named Nadine Morowsky... why did he remember her name and not the young man who didn't bother to build his rifle correctly... she tried in vain to resuscitate a comrade with chest compressions when it was clear the poor son of a bitch's femoral artery was slashed. If anything, she was aiding in the process of killing him.

He had to get off this boat. He was over-analyzing failure before the mission had even begun. He shielded his face with his hand as he made his way to the cockpit. Johnson said something, but he ignored this. He was barely aware of the deep dark circles that had formed around his eyes, from nights of restlessness and from the stress that he couldn't even detect. In the cockpit's still intact panels, he only saw a skull looking back at him. His eyes were obscured by the shadows cast by the flickering panels with the exception of two very distinct glints of light where he was sure his eyes should have been. He froze, transfixed, amused, and disturbed by his own reflection.

Ah, there you are

The voice was new. Not of Kapplin, not of Winston, not even of the Didact, but a manifestation of his anger, fear, and his self-doubt. Repressed thoughts that had followed him from the jungles of that god forsaken planet he didn't remember the name of. All of the death, despair, disease and the political turmoil had gripped at his spinal column and wouldn't let go as it slowly pulled its tendrils up into his brain, where it lay in wait as the young man's composure broke like the surf upon the rock.

He stared at his reflection, and then his reflection moved.

He averted his eyes, instead on the broken pilots. He ripped open the tops of their jumpsuits to see their still intact necks with the single glittering beads of the chain that held their tags. He gripped one, and tugged. It came loose in a quick jerk. He looked at the small piece of metal and reflected upon it. This was a man's soul. Stamped onto a small piece of metal, and embedded in it a small crystal containing the entire service history of the deceased. Battles, Celebrations, Disciplinary Action, and time away from combat – with family and friends. This was all that was left of this man, whom the tag identified as Roger T. Vincenzo. A man with Italian blood in him, but that last anecdote was of no value of the Captain. The second man was Habu Al-Walid, a devout follower of Medantic Islam according to the tag. A man who likely rose to the sun and prayed in the direction of Mecca. Perhaps he knew what the place was, or perhaps he had no idea where the small piece of rock was on a small insignificant blue dot was. He was from a far flung world called Hermantiga. A world so far away that the light from the Earth would reveal that the Kaaba shrine had not even been built yet. He was praying to something apparently non-existent. That was where the Captain chuckled. Praying to nothing. In the end, things had come full circle, and in his twisted logic, saw only a cruel harsh reality that nothing came about, and nothing was where things were headed.

The only absolute truth.

Then he focused. The presence was gone. The hatred had subsided, and he was himself again. Chris tucked the tags into his pants pocket and gave one last look at the pilots. Without emotion he gave a sigh, and walked back into the troop bay.

"Come on STARs, they're dead. We stay here and we're dead."

Some of the Mobians looked up at him, some still with damp faces, but some with conviction. One asked him, voice almost cracking, "Captain, please. Can we have a moment? Please. They're our friends."

"I can't afford to have you all emotionally compromised. You crack, and you're a target. STARs, move out."

They didn't budge for a second. Some sniffled.

"Sergeant, can I have your assistance?"

Johnson chewed on the cigar in his mouth and nodded. "I've seen a lot of people die, and I've seen a lot of people live! You're all going to get plenty of time to mourn your friends, but you disrespect them by standing behind waiting to be shot! I didn't bust my ass to get you in a position to fall over and give up! When that man tells you to move out, YOU MOVE OUT! ARE YOU READING ME?!"

The STARs shuddered, but stood to. "YES, SERGEANT!" they said in a chorus now missing a couple of voices.

"Everyone out of the dropship! There's going to be floating assholes coming to finish the job! Get your weapons and find some cover!" The sergeant trotted out after them.

Chris looked around trying to find a viable gun, but those left behind were twisted and broken. One sat with a spent shell next to it. Looking not too far away, he saw that a dead STAR, some ursine young man sat strapped in his seat with a bullet hole dead center of his chest. The idiot who held this gun had a round chambered and the impact set off the shot. Regardless, the bolt was smashed, and he didn't have time to crack some of them open to splice a weapon together. The MKV6 would be adequate, but not against security forces, especially the Hunters he knew would be coming.

"Ryan, I need a weapon."

Percy, who was only midly annoyed by the crash, smiled and popped open his pack. The last men ran behind the support pillar that the dropship had crashed into. The area was a large office space that was closed down for the night. As the sun would be rising soon, workers would have come in to manage accounts and move money. However, they would never come, partly having to do with the fact that a giant aircraft had ruined the office. Naturally they would get the day off.

Ryan rooted around in the pack. That one little backpack defied physics. It was a portal into slipspace, which in itself was part of a large storage space. Who knows how long it had been there and who had used it before Percy had. Who knows what weapons or treasures were lain about in there. A man could certainly move through if they so desired.

"Shopping around for anything special?" Ryan asked. His eyes were covered by designer sunglasses that likely cost more than the uniforms of the STARs alone. Chris never felt jealousy at Ryan's wealth, but he noted the rather abrupt juxtaposition of his style and the utilitarian fashion of the STARs.

"Surprise me."

Ryan navigated the bag, and tried to grip something. The lights suddenly turned on, and men started to file in from the openings on the far side of the room. The commanders of the STARs noted the shape and size of the room. It was roughly a torus with open office on all sides. There were some raised portions of the office with cubicles and with sealed offices. In the center of the torus was a shaft that likely went down to a lobby. This was not the center of the building, not by far. There were many self-contained sections of the structure which functioned much like arcologies with communities within.

But none of that mattered as the tall men opened fire. They were Hunters. Marshall was sending his most powerful soldiers first, which was a sound tactical decision, Chris realized. With strengthened nervous systems and physical brawn, they would waste more bullets on them. "Ryan, a little help here."

"Alright, I've got something, try this out for size!"

He pulled out a long rifle with a shining scope. He handed Chris the gun. It was platinum plated with studded grips and engraving on the grip, barrel, and even bolt. It was the single most revolting piece of weaponry that he had ever laid his hands on. The gun actually made him physically sick to hold. While the artwork of a rose on the walnut grip was top notch, it was obviously meant for a museum and not combat. He grimaced.

"What the hell is this?" Chris said, trying to process what he was seeing.

One of the STARs turned around and saw the monstrosity. "What the hell is that?"

"I just grabbed the first one I found!" Ryan shrugged.

"This is disgusting! What the hell was that doing in your bag in the first place?!" He saw a Hunter clear as day across from him. Chris took the abomination behind a heavy desk and sighted it. Despite the shine, he was able to shoulder the long barreled gun. He realized he didn't even chamber the gun and yanked on the handle, sending a satisfying clack as the round in the magazine slid into the firing postion. He once again fixed the weapon in his shoulder and gazed through the studded scope. The crosshairs were clear and formed a small circle where the bullet should have gone. A red dot sit in the very middle. He lined it up with the chest of the Hunter, and squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked and his hearing vanished for a moment. The Hunter's body jerked and a sharp spurt of blood puffed on the back wall. The casing ejected from the rifle as a spinning shine. The first gunshot prompted the STARs to open up and pepper the Hunters as they came in. The opening salvo of the engagement forced their enemies into cover. ROE be damned, this was so far outside of the rules of engagement that it didn't even matter that they fired first. Chris emptied the magazine into five more Hunters before the bolt snapped back.

"Damn." he said, amused. "Maybe this piece of shit's useful after all." He then asked Ryan for another magazine.

A burst of bullets struck the side of the support pillar. "STARs, fall back behind cover, take pot shots! Johnson, take two men and keep those Hunters suppressed."

"Copy that!" Johnson growled. "Ibanez, Kalvin, pull up stakes and head to those cubicles to your left! Captain, need some covering fire!"

"I'm out!" Chris shouted. "Need that reload, Ryan!"

"How about you get in the goddamned bag and you look!" Ryan shouted folding a bipod onto a destroyed server bank and spraying automatic fire at the enemies on the opposite side of the sales floor. A STAR passed Chris some earplugs. Chris thanked the young Mobian with a thump on the helmet.

Despite their rag-tag appearance, the unit was relatively cohesive. In the minute and a half since the firefight began, there were no casualties. Ryan fished three more magazines that matched the caliber of the pompy weapon.

"Don't waste this shit!" Percy said. "You will go in and get them yourself, you know that, right?!"

Chris slid the magazine into the weapon and yanked on the charging handle to chamber the weapon. It clicked sharply despite his hearing protection. He shouldered the gun and fired in single shots now. This weapon had to have fired shredder rounds. The physical trauma was amazing. Very little bullets seemed to overpenetrate. In the spaces between blasts from the weapon, Chris speculated that the rounds expanded in flesh. Very painful. Very destructive.

Also very illegal in anything other than a military weapon, which he was sure this wasn't.

The cacophony of staccato gunfire was omnipresent. STARs were shouting orders at one another. Johnson and his small group of shooters had shifted location up a set of stairs to an upper deck of executive cubicles. Muzzle flash betrayed their location.

"Sir, you're bleeding!" a STAR identified as Wallace said. That had to be his first name and that he had no surname. Chris touched his side and realized that this was the place where the six-inch shard of metal had penetrated his skin. It was indeed soaking through the fabric of his shirt, turning the olive fabric a muddy brown.

"I'm fine!" He said to the young man. Someone grabbed his arm. He realized that Colonel Bowman was still with him. "Get back here now!"

Bowman had a long cut on his head, but he was otherwise fine. He pulled Chris behind the pillar where a few more STARs were gathered. Some were hyperventilating. Some were crying. Bowman shoved Chris into the ground and pulled out what looked like a sharp instrument. Chris reached to his thigh and plucked out his MKV. Bowman grabbed Chris' right arm right on the joint connecting his radius and ulna to his hand. The sharp squeeze caused Chris' hand to slack slightly before Bowman grabbed the handgun and jabbed the instrument into Chris' arm. It wasn't a knife, but a syringe of Biofoam.

Chris felt the stinging pain of the emergency material, but that loosened. The feeling of alertness came after this.

"Colonel!"

"Get up." He commanded. Chris was forced to his feet through simple military protocol. Bowman was the CO.

"Sir."

"You aren't in your goddamned mind to command men on this operation. You report to me."

"Sir, I..."

"Shut up. You stay back here. You're playing sniper. Maybe you can get some of these kids on their feet. They're far more effective than you are now! Do you understand me? You look in my goddamned eye and you tell me you understand me!"

Chris wanted to take the syringe out of his arm and stab it into Bowman's neck. He kept his reaction normal and said, "I understand you sir."

Bowman's expression softened. "Please, son. Don't do anything stupid. Not now." He clapped a hand on Chris' shoulder, stepped past, and went back to the fight.

Chris felt unbridled rage. The only sensation in his mind was the desire to murder. With eyes wide and with his teeth biting into his tongue so hard it drew blood, he turned and aimed his weapon at the colonel. The crosshairs were centered between his shoulder blades. For a millisecond, Chris entertained the notion of how big the hole in Bowman's chest was going to be. Then...

No.

He angled the crosshairs and pointed instead at the Hunter on the other side of the torus. A squeeze of the trigger, and one bad guy later, his zone of fire was clear. As he checked his magazine, he noticed a STAR staring at him. He recognized him. Cody Roberts. A Red Panda he had seen nearly five years ago, but had tried his luck in the STARs. Roberts was clumsy, but dedicated. Originally a case of always trying and always failing, he was now simply always trying.

"Sir...?"

Chris didn't say anything, but stepped towards the soldier. "Can I help you, STAR?"

"Did you just... point...?"

"What did I do, Private? Did I do something... wrong?"

Roberts noted the tone, but he also noticed Chris drumming his fingers on the RIS rails, and his right hand tightening on the grip. Roberts then rethought of his opinion. "No sir. Nothing wrong at all."

"Good. Are you hit?"

"No sir."

"Then keep your ass down if you don't plan on shooting."

"Yes sir." Roberts took one look at the dark sunken eyes, nodded, and hunkered down with his weapon clutched tightly.

Chris turned and immediately forgot about Roberts, instead reflecting on his decision to let Bowman live. He searched for a reason, and then concluded gazing at the platinum plated gun, Nobody deserves to be shot in the back by this abomination.