Sheffler looked down from the third story of the building he and his remaining team had hiked up into. They were down from seven to three. Kolyat and Siu could be dead or alive or anywhere. Mercer and St. Claire were dead. And their objective, the beam, was so heavily guarded that even six heavy trucks full of ordnance, set to blow up on impact, wouldn't be able to get through. There were just too many ground troops. Brutes and Cannibals formed the outermost ring, packed together in a wall. Behind them, Banshees—thankfully fewer than of any other variety—were stationed at intervals, holding up a biotic shield to prevent anyone who got past the heavy units from going any further. Beyond them, Marauders waiting for organics to come into rifle range. Behind them, packed in like nervous dogs were the most mundane husks.

The Reapers realized the organics were getting numbers through and seemed to have abandoned all sense of strategy except to prevent any more from getting up to the Citadel. Occasionally, a husk would stagger into the beam, but more as if testing whether there was anyone on the other side than for any practical purpose.

Sheffler didn't know if this was a sign that the Reapers had their backs up against a wall, or if any teams on the Citadel were being picked off one by one. He swallowed hard, forcing the thought back. His team was being picked off one by one, and now those remaining couldn't even get to the beam. It made him feel sick, sick to his stomach and sick at heart.

McVie and Van waited silently behind him for new instructions.

He wondered how many assets were doing just what they were doing: finding a place from which they could survey the scene and wondering 'what the hell do we do now?'

He glanced skyward, wishing something of the Citadel could be seen, but the sky seemed to stop with the belly of the clouds, though which the beam pierced so effortlessly. The upside was that they didn't have to watch the space battle. He could only imagine how well the allied galaxy was doing against the Reaper armada. It wasn't encouraging.

"Shit, Van," Sheffler finally sighed, exhaling heavily. "We're not getting anywhere near there."

Van took this as Sheffler being ready to talk. Van had known Sheffler before Akuze, had seen the change those events had wrought. He would understand where Sheffler was now that two, possibly four, of his unit were dead. Especially with nothing to show for it. "Yes, I don't think we are," Van said simply, patting his shoulder. "We've come as far as we can."

Sheffler needed the confirmation. If someone else was saying it, it wasn't just him. "There's no way through."

"None."

"Shit!" Sheffler swore, kicking the wall, which collapsed away from him, tumbling debris into the street. Sheffler winced, hoping nothing came to investigate the noise and fuss. Then again, why should they?

-J-

Jordan Collier, Biotics First Division, stood on the fifth floor of a commercial building, regarding the city with a grimace. The Reapers had fortified the beam to the point that no one was getting through there—not even those hotshot kids. He'd liked the Grissom team, though he didn't know any of them well. It was their bright idealism, their determination that they could be fulcrum that changed the tide of the ground war, the unending optimism that this was awful, but it would be okay in the end. They were children, and it had been glorious to see for a while.

At least, it had been for him. Cynicism and fatalistic acceptance of being dead and simply waiting for their birth certificates to be formally revoked was the name of the game when it came to having been stuck on Earth. He didn't grudge the kids their optimism, their fire and ginger. He just wished he still felt some of that, any of that.

He rolled his shoulders, then shook his head. "Well, looks like we're heading back to the barn. There's nothing we can blow up that'll pull them out of formation—and that big one's not going anywhere for anything."

His second, called CZ because of her unpronounceable (to him at least) last name, nodded. "Sounds good to me. We were supposed to be a distraction; we distracted them as long as we could." She too her helmet off, ran a hand over her buzzed hair, her dark face covered in sweat. She put her helmet back on. "I hate all this rain."

Collier sighed heavily, returning his gaze to the fortified sea of Reapers. If only there was some way to help…

"Jordan, you can't do anything else," CZ said, tagging him on the arm. "Except launch a suicidal run, and it's not like that's going to help anyone, either."

"You know…" Herrera piped up from the back. "…that Reaper? It's facing away from Hammer One's approach. You think maybe we could slip over there, see if anyone further up the run is still alive? Maybe the way they bugged out missed someone. We could scrape them up off the ground and get them somewhere safer." His tone said 'that, at least, would be constructive and isn't heading back to the barn.'

Clearly, the idea of heading back down into the Underground when so much hung in the balance and was unknown wasn't appealing to many. Collier certainly felt better being above ground. At least that way he could see the bastards.

If Herrera said the Reaper was looking the wrong way, it was. He had an amazing head for directions, and only ever needed to see a map once—be it a road map or a topo-map. Once Herrera had a good look, he could walk you from one side of the page to the other with complete confidence.

"Show of hands: who wants to see if we can find us some road pizzas?"