"Sir?"
"Call it," John's reply was monotone.
The scribe, who doubled as their medic, checked his blacked-out wrist watch, pulling back a sleeve with a blood covered surgical glove.
"Time of death, 17:21. Ad Victoriam, sister."
The blood-speckled light-blonde hair of Initiate Fenton was tousled in the swift breeze that ran freely through the blown-out storefront. John turned his back on the scribe, who pulled an old curtain over Fenton's upper body. Even without his power armour, John's gait could still be described as lumbering. Ablative combat armour covered him from his neck, along his arms and down across his body and legs. The only exposed part of him being his head.
Minutes earlier a sniper had placed a round just to the right of Fenton's torso armour, the glancing shot had skimmed her heart and killed her quite quickly. The sound of return fire had faded soon after, the ambushing marksman having retreated before Fenton had hit the ground.
"Knight-Sergeant Hoyt?!" He couldn't contain his anger at loosing yet another soldier.
"She took off sir, she and 1st squad," Knight Buemer's wide face was just visible in the gloomy interior.
"Get after her, find that sniper. I want them alive if possible."
The city was a ruined array of industrial lots and multi-storey high-rises. Slate and charcoal debris made it difficult for John to move silently. They passed through the broken frames of pre-war businesses, spread evenly in a line to cover more ground. They kept their weapons low, their eyes peeled high – looking for a window with a rifle, or a rooftop containing the silhouette of a man.
He reached a pair of bare-bricked doorways, John squeezed himself between them, checking around he could see a set of buildings opposite a crumbling highway. The sound of a rifle cracked, making him flinch. The report echoed and rebounded around the concrete jungle. A scream was carried on a thin breeze from his left.
He charged across the dusty and impact dotted road, making it to the other side without incident. A second shot rang out, followed by a sharp burst of return laser-fire. John creeped through a ground-level window, weapon up – always leading with it. He swept through the floor of what was once an office of some kind. Detritus coated cubicles remained largely undisturbed since the start and end of the great war.
A splattering of small-arms fire was muffled from outside, laser shots followed making John pick up his pace. He jumped down into a nuclear-scorched reception area. His boots crunched over broken desks and cracked bones, the remains of the employees still here.
Safe from view behind an overturned desk, he scanned the opposite complex. The off-white stucco exterior was pockmarked with holes and dings, a veranda stretched around the ground floor, interlaced with big red banners declaring 'SALE.'
For now, the shooting had subsided, he crept toward the entrance, hugging the wall so as not to expose himself. He peeked around to look up at the building in front. The wall next to him exploded, followed by the report of a rifle.
He burst through the entrance unhesitatingly – aiming for the opposing structure he weaved and zig-zagged. A third shot hit the ground, kicking up dirt as John sprinted the last few meters to safety. His pulse was deafening inside his ears and his lungs were tight from the brief sprint. His back and leg muscles ached from the days' worth of patrolling and he tried to reduce his breathing.
John skirted around the edge of the building, out of sight from the sniper due to the tattered veranda that rose and fell along the perimeter. Inside the buildings ground floor was a carbon copy of the others. Dilapidated and weathered walls, floors and furniture coated in nuclear dust. Glass and debris crunched under foot, try as he might to be quiet.
A winding staircase bisected the once grandiose entrance, likely used to host company functions or VIP parties. John began ascending, low and slow. Once atop the second floor, he moved to take cover behind a makeshift living area. Barrels and a single sleeping mat. Pots and an open footlocker, filled with pre-war consumables.
Continuing up, he passed a few more floors, at each he paused to listen – no more gunshots. Just the sound of the breeze through windowless frames.
He was halfway up the fourth staircase when a shirtless man appeared holding an assault rifle. John had begun firing the instant the man rose above the adjoining bannister, a burst of laser-fire sliced across his face horizontally and cut his head in half. The raider keeled back and fell loudly; he didn't get a chance to let off a shot. Outside there was more laser-fire and a few ballistic weapons rattled back.
He ascended the last few stairs and turned to check the landing behind him: there was another man dressed in khaki fatigues holding a .32 pistol. John saw the muzzle flash and he felt himself fall as something smashed through his teeth and out the back of his neck. He braced the stock of his laser rifle against the staircase and fired up at the shooter who fell away as several laser shards passed cleanly through his torso.
John thought he'd die any second, but it didn't come. He rolled over and bits of broken teeth and a lot of blood came out of his mouth. Lots of blood rushed down his throat and he struggled just to avoid choking on it.
The fingertips of his left hand felt the jagged wound on the back of his neck, he noticed the entirety of his left side was not cooperating. Semi paralyzed, he dragged himself onto the landing and rested by sitting against a support column.
He gagged and choked and couldn't help but to tear up from the altogether alien sensations and pain. He dug into the med-pack on his right thigh and felt the plastic protector from a Stimpak syringe poke him. He pulled it out and with surprising difficulty bit the plastic and spat it out after removing the injector.
His fingers were filled with pins and needles and it made the injection of the stimpak nearly impossible. He felt the cool sensation of stimulant rush through his veins. Almost immediately the wound began to clot. He discarded the syringe and removed some gauze and a bandage. He wrapped both around his neck, tight enough to make deep breathing uncomfortable, but not so much as to deprive him of oxygen.
He took a few test breaths and tried to make his non-cooperative side function. He was met with limited success. This was good; it meant it was only nerve shock instead of nerve damage or partial severance of his spine.
John rolled onto his side and managed to reach up and haul himself to his knees using the bannister. He glanced around; the area had become remarkably quiet. No more snippets of gunfire or sounds from his comrades. He cursed himself for moving in on his own. He could do with some backup, but his comm had refused to work since he'd set out on patrol.
On shaky legs he managed to shuffle forward, he lent on the next support column for a moment, before holding his weapon up and unsteadily sweeping the final floor.
John entered a room and saw the sniper a moment after he himself had been seen. The rifle went off. He felt the bullet pass through his open mouth, a brief pain flared in the back of his head – but ultimately there didn't seem to be any damage dealt as it must've passed through the existing hole.
John fired, the laser strikes blasted the wall behind the sniper who was tucked into the corner of the room, near a window and between a pair of shelves.
A second shot rang out, thunderous and ear-splitting in the confines of the small office space. The bullet hit John in the chest, if it had been tungsten tipped, he'd be dead. Instead his armour ate the hollow point, the wind was knocked out of him and he felt and heard his ribs break.
He fell forward after wobbling back, the last three laser shots peppered the sniper across the chest and head, killing him. John was slumped on his knees. Blood leaked out of his nose and mouth and he felt it tracing lines down his back. His chest was on fire and he could hardly breath as his throat filled with blood and his nose with mucus.
His vision began to fade and he felt no remorse as he observed his final moments. If not for the fact that his teeth were currently in jagged shards, he would have smiled as he had avenged his dead friends.
His eyes fluttered open. He was under a tartan sheet and felt pressure on his chest and neck from bandages and a neck brace. A little sunlight filtered through the tattered blinds that barely covered the smashed window, like star beams through the dust.
There was a scribe, he was filling out a form with a mostly neutral expression, save for the creases across his brow. John tried to speak but managed only to croak. The scribe heard this and looked over with raised eyebrows, "you're awake!" He exclaimed.
John nodded his head feebly. It appeared as though he wouldn't be put down this time.