The stattaco of his chaingun rumbled through his body. It was all the Surgeon perceived.
Sounds were muted, his mechanically assisted footfalls sending jolts through his body. He saw; saw fire and melted snow and leafless trees. He saw targets. And he smoothly shifted his aim repeatedly.
Shrapnel and bullets pinged harmlessly off his already battle worn power armor. A suit meant for construction had been cleanly retrofitted for military use, sporting hulking plates of unshaped iron welded to the chassis. It was little more than a hulking slab of metal, meant to take damage and nothing else.
It did support the weight of his chaingun. Said weapon was a massive piece of machinery, kin more to a minigun than a traditional chaingun, but it was simply too large to be classified as the former.
Too slow, as well. The fifty caliber shells boomed at a sedate pace, to not overheat the barrels. However, a press of a button on it's interface was all the surgeon needed to do to increase the rate of fire to something more resembling a beam of flame.
It took the twin motors of a minigun and bolted what looked like a small engine block on top of them. A loading chamber to the left of the block had two prongs meant to support a considerably massive ammunition box, with the chamber itself large enough to handle its powerful ammunition. The motor powered the large barrels, rotating them placidly or at a swift pace on demand. A block of metal conjoined the barrel at the end, forming a hexagon. A thin metal grill covered the barrels, contributing little to the function of the gun but providing substantial style points.
At the moment, it wasn't loaded with an ammunition box. An ammo belt ran from the Surgeon's backpack, an almost comically large container reinforced with armor to protect the volatile shells within.
He was a Bruiser. A massive man with massive armor and a massive gun. He was formerly a renowned field surgeon, having saved the lives of many and ended more, but with few lives left to save and not enough medical supplies to go around he was re-fitted with the armament he wore today.
December 18th, 2031. In the aftermath of mutually assured destruction, the Surgeon was currently contributing fire support for Hellsmen and Raspberry platoons. His presence caused attention to focus on him by enemy forces, while the two platoons executed brutal tactics in the snowy hellscape.
In the irradiated ruins of former Russian wilderness laid a facility meant to launch three nuclear Intercontinental Missiles. Two of them successfully launched. One didn't prime successfully, and was resting patiently inside the tube carved out of metal meant to contain it.
The Russians successfully repaired the missile twenty seven hours ago. The Surgeon, Lieutenant Rahmir Baldwin of Hellsmen platoon, and Lieutenant Lily Sherbet of Raspberry platoon had been dispatched alongside close air support and a tank platoon to capture the base for allied use.
The Surgeon didn't hear the commands he received and his acknowledgement of them. Not really. He was too detached from the world around him, seeming to silently stride forward as they pushed down the Russian footsoldiers.
He tore one clean in half, before gunning down a second and a third along with the tree they were taking cover behind. The leisurely 'thoom thoom's of his chaingun tore chunks of flesh and wood from whatever he was aiming at, making short work of living and unliving mass alike.
The environment leant itself nearly perfectly to the Surgeon's advantage. The cover used by enemy forces could be tore through or simply tore down by his weapon, and the flat landscape allowed him free reign of targets with little for them to flee to.
The man's apathetic frown remained in place as his world was rocked by an anti tank shell. But little else than a shuffle to his right, an effort to remain standing, and a solid chunk of his armor breaking loose resulted. The man rightened himself and continued firing as if nothing had happened, cracking his neck and swiveling his upper torso towards where he was fired upon.
He responded to an order to advance with a jog, the fastest he could go in the suit. His chaingun kept spinning but did not fire, the Surgeon positioning it horizontally with the barrel facing to the left. His thundering footsteps forced the earth to bend underneath, and all the while one niggling thought lingered in his focused mind.
Why was there so little resistance?
Sure, there were a multitude of enemy combatants on the field, but they were little more than infantry. Light armored, rifle equipped footsoldiers with the occasional anti tank fireteam.
Contrast that with fourteen Bruisers, an entire battalion of well armored Seeker special operations footsoldiers, a light tank battalion, three air superiority fighters, four attack helicopters for close air support, and a whole ass battleship off the cost bombarding the area of operation alongside it's flotilla of destroyers and cruisers.
He expected Spentnaz units. Expected Devil Hound Robotic Walkers. Equipped himself with a radar system to detect Ghosts. But there was none. Only futile resistance. They've lost two Marines so far. Two out of four hundred sixty eight.
And so he went. So they went. Through the scorched forest, then down a valley and into a depression, stacking up on the massive steel door nestled within before William planted his foot into- then through- said steel vault. The large metal bars relented under the force of the construction-built rig, snapping off while the vault door slammed into a squad of Russian soldiers.
It took barely a moment before twenty eight rifles barked out their protests, a veritable hail of ballistics pinging uselessly off of the hulk of iron.
The Surgeon reached his hand forward around the inverted pistol grip, stretching his thumb so it can press against a scratched blue button. The barrels immediately started spinning much faster.
He levied his aim against one side of the hallway, and the resounding hellish gunfire from his chaingun echoed around the hallway in its grim response. The stuff of nightmares, a rapid fire onslaught of extremely loud reports that would ingrain themselves in the Russian footsoldiers- that is, if any were left that weren't pockmarked amongst the walls.
The chaingun slowly swiveled left, the heavy rounds absolutely shredding man, concrete wall, and metal firearms alike. The sheer force from the chaingun turning the hallway into something out of a horror film.
As quickly as it started and as quickly as the weapons fire rate, it ended. Abruptly. The only sounds that could be heard were the spinning of the suddenly glowing orange barrels, and the whirring of hand servos as the Surgeon pressed that blue button once again.
Whispers would be heard behind him, grim faced and horrified soldiers viewing the results of sardines in their can.
The servos of the Surgeon's armor stepped forth, deep cranks echoing around the suddenly dark hallway. The light fixtures, whether impacted directly by the return fire or the shrapnel resulting from the concrete walls and metal firearms, had been torn and broken. The tunnel lead almost infinitely forward and downwards, big enough to fit a big yellow dumptruck, and the nearest light remained spitefully on a good two hundred yards in advance.
The darkness was shortly filled with the beams of several rifles, crisscrossing across the hallway and it's various vault doors like panicky spotlights.
The soldiers advanced forward past the slowly stalking Bruiser, his chaingun spooled and placidly changing targets from steel door to steel door. They stacked up against individual doors, relying on other bruisers to smash them in before the bruisers took point. This happened continuously down the hallways as they advanced.
The place seemed abandoned. No further resistance existed, even as the Surgeon's comms crackled with the orders and communication of the various other platoons and air support. The battle clearly still raged on.
Two hundred yards. Five hundred. One thousand turned into two, before they came upon three doors. One lead straight ahead, and two were on the right. The left held a terminal to access them.
William took the one furthest back on the right. Servos whirred as another crash of metal resounded through the hallway. He was greeted with a narrow room, concrete stairs leading up before turning sharply to the right, continuing upwards.
He could barely fit, but trod onwards he did. He was followed by two fireteams, but he still took the lead. Slowly, his clanging footsteps approached further and further, the constrictive structure bouncing the noise around and amplifying it.
He was met with another long hallway, this one bathed in red light. A final vault door laid at the end. That lead to the control room, this he knew.
And so he stalked forth, his gun feeling heavy in his hands. The barrels were no longer glowing, instead a dark red wafting smoke as they spun.
Shortly, that door was kicked in. The door flew a few feet before smashing into the floor. The man stalked forth and pushed it aside with a foot, stepping up to the control terminal.
Two servers rested to either side of the room, the room itself in a pentagon shape. Where the top pentagon point would take shape, a floor length window resided split into three. One section pointed outwards, breaking the pentagon, with two windows flanking the front facing walls.
As Marines filtered through into the rocket chamber, lights came on and illuminated the room laying behind the dirty windows. An absolutely massive missile stood monolithically, ramrod straight and almost defiant.
It was painted a soft white color, various little signs covering compartments and dotting it's faded and chipped paint. Three pristine dark red stars adorned the tip, equidistant from each other and marking it as a Russian warhead.
The armored man watched as Marines tapped away and powered on the console shaped in a way as to match the glass. Three T.V. monitors powered on near the ceiling, aiming downwards and showing red stars as the loading screen. It shined a hellish red light through the otherwise dark control room.
The screens changed. Radio chatter increased as Marines confirmed they had control over the missile. The Surgeon quietly cast his gaze back and forth.
Then, everything went to shit.
Every single light blared a sudden crimson, bathing the entire compound in the signal that the missile was launching. The thrusters below the missile lit up, flooding the chamber with flames and intense heat. He couldn't see downwards past the midpoint of the missile, and he could hear the screams of those inside the chamber and the hallways leading from it. Then, the missile rose.
The Marines manning the console frantically panicked and raced their fingers over the control board, demanding responses and answers and chatting in a frenzy amongst themselves. The Surgeon watched quietly in comparison as the missile rose, and he noticed with a dull thought that the chamber doors weren't open.
His last action was the releasing of the chaingun's spooling function, allowing it to come to a stop. His last thought, before the glass of the control room shattered and flooded itself around his armor, was short, simple, and succinct.
'Well, damn.'
He braced himself as the heat washed over him, nuclear flame flooding the control room and disintegrating the men around him within half a moment. He followed, pain flooding his senses as his flesh cooked and melded against the melting iron of his armor.
The air was ionizing, fire flooding his lungs as they cooked them alive. His eyes burst, his nose running with boiling blood as he fell backwards. He felt every bit of it. Felt his bones charring, his brain smelting into mush.
And then he felt nothing.
The void he found himself was blissful in comparison to his last moments. Nothingness, no senses, no sight, nothing. A light rotation is his gut was all he had to go off of that he still existed.
The Surgeon would briefly attempt to speak, commenting on how boring this afterlife seemed, but he could not breathe. But he had no need for breath, either.
He could not breath, and as such, he could not speak. And so he resorted to thinking.
For months, it felt, he thought. Thought about his life. Thought about the world he left behind. There was truly nothing left for him. He felt no guilt. No pain.
He felt sorrowful. He was on such a great path in life. He just wished for love, sought romance, before the war started.
Suddenly, the East Coast was wiped. Suddenly, he was being mobilized to combat Russian forces in Arizona. Suddenly, he was put in a suit of armor and his medical abilities neglected.
A lot of suddens. He was happy with how his life had gone, back then. Video games after work, Clash of Clans on his phone while on the clock. Ark Survival Evolved. Starcraft 2. Universes he escaped to, if only briefly, from the stress of his adult life.
Out of High School at 18, going to the University of Arkansas immediately on an Honors Program. Army paying for his medical tuition after, and he was a field surgeon for said Army. No romance, no time for it, but the man chugged along as if the whole world was against him.
In some ways, it was. His grandmother lost her mother at 13, and had his father at 15. Her father didn't want a 'slut' in her house, and so he kicked her out.
She had the Surgeon's uncle at 17, and pushed them both through school. Did whatever she had to, but she got them through.
David, the Surgeon's father, didn't know what to do. He excelled at everything he touched, but he wishes to experience and learn so many new things that he never settled on one job. He met the Surgeon's mother at 19 over the internet, when it first came around, and had two sons while in the Marines to pay for his family.
As the oldest, the Surgeon had so many expectations thrust upon him. He thrived under it. His mother's love of reading and his father's analytical mind, he took David's weakness of being dyslexic and completely nulled it.
The Surgeon excelled in all aspects of what he touched, once he stopped being lonely and paying attention to girls over the internet.
But that didn't get him anywhere, now. As the Surgeon quieted himself and contented himself to 'sleep' for the rest of eternity, his eyes opened.
A growl sounding off to his right, near his ear, prompted the man to jerk away in alarm and snap his gaze towards whatever was making the noise.
His instincts screaming at him to freeze won over his instincts demanding him to "launch the bitch", and as such he was allowed a brief moment to take in whatever was growling at him.
A small brown fox, six tails positioned threateningly behind it and curling towards him. Fur flared up, making itself seem bigger.
Not that it really succeeded, seeing it as about the size of his foot. After a moment, The Surgeon realized it was a pup, or a kit. His eyes flickered over his surroundings for a few seconds, before coming to a sequence of realizations.
Firstly, he was alive. Alive, and judging by his body, unmarred by the explosions.
Secondly, he was buck naked. Laying on his back, arms to his side and legs slightly spread, every single bit of his body was being poked by sharp and uncomfortable terrain.
Thirdly, he was in a very small cave, tall enough to stand in and wide enough for two of him to lay end to end. A bushy covering concealed it to the rest of the world, shading the cove with strands of light.
And, lastly, even if the alien fox was tiny, it still had sharp teeth and it could bite down on his neck way before he could snake his arm up to defend himself. Under normal circumstances, the Surgeon could easily handle such a small animal, but these weren't normal circumstances.
He tried to speak, but his mouth was sticky. Running his tongue over the roof of his mouth, he tried to open it again, and found he could formulate words.
"E-easy, easy.."
A light shudder was imbedded in his tone, his husky voice lighter than what he remembered last but still deep.
The Surgeon swallowed, before making eye contact with the creature for the first time.
It's silky brown eyes were slightly widened in fear, the irises flickering rapidly over his eyes, neck, and face. Too rapidly. There was an intelligence there, deep. When it heard his voice the growl stuttered for a moment, and actually weakened in force.
Taking a chance, the Surgeon pushed himself away, slowly bringing his hands up to bear. Palms faced away and straight in the universal human sign for surrender, he preformed placading gestures subconsciously.
But to his immediate surprise, a response was gotten. It backed up lightly, teeth still barred and it's comparably cute growl still in place, but at a lesser intensity. And then a lighting bolt of realization sparked through his spine.
It had no idea of the position of strength held over him. Normal animals would have snapped their jaws at any movement, creeping closer and keeping their eyes wandering for movement.
This alien fox kept eye contact or face contact, occasionally flickering them lower over his body but mostly paying attention to his face.
A distinctly sentient behavior.
And, because of the sentience, it fell prey to one of the most basic rule of nature versus nature. Animals would not hesitate to attack, wouldn't know the definition of hesitation. Their instincts would point out his neck and they'd hone in on it. A sentient creature must be taught how to fight.
This one hadn't been taught. It didn't know what to do in this situation. An animal wouldn't even need to consider its options.
"Vuuuuuuuuul.."
A sound, clear, distinct from the growl. It 'said' it quite clearly, making the Surgeon blink in disbelief, as it was too short to be anything than what he thought it was.
A word.
He stuttered out a light laugh, disbelief trumping survival instincts for a harsh moment before he decided to go out on a limb and sit up.
"Right. You are clearly sentient, just from the eyes alone. Am..am I in your home?"
He didn't expect it to understand, didn't expect it to respond. It was as much as idle chatter on his end, trying to defuse the situation with words, a uniquely human approach.
But to his complete and utter astonishment, it's growls picked up and it started approaching slowly in response. Not because of him moving, because it had stopped growling for a fraction of a second when it heard 'home'.
"Iiix. Vu, uu."
The damned thing could understand him.
"I didn't mean to end up here. I don't know how I did. Or where I am."
That seemed to register, and it stopped growling entirely. The Surgeon's voice was shaky, his breathing rapid. It seemed to tell that he was as scared as it might be. It stopped moving, hackles and tail lowering in confusion. The question was clear in his eyes.
"I just..woke up I think. I don't know what you are. Where I am on the planet, or why I don't have any clothes."
And, of all things, that last part seemed to shock it into silence. It's eyes flickered distinctly to in-between his legs, before it turned it's head away and cast down it's eyes. It turned it's body, and it's mouth shut. It was embarrassed.
"Right. So, please don't kill me as I take a look outside?"
The fox seemed wary. It met his eyes, shook it's head, thought over a moment, before yipping and bounding outside. The Surgeon slowly exhaled, calming his still fragile nerves, before chastising himself. How much combat has he seen? In how many places? Under how much stress and how low was his probability of surviving?
And he was scared of a small alien fox?
The man forcefully shook his head clear of those thoughts, and strode purposely outwards. One hand parted the thatch and weeds covering the entrance, the other lead a shower check into it and allowing him to come free to the outside.
He stilled immediately at the sights. Trees were plentiful but somewhat spread apart, leaving ample light for thick and lush grass to grow over the ground. It was soft, like a bedding of gentle plant, with a stick or branch here or there.
The coven was situated against a large cliff, flat rock curving outwards on either side. Turning around and peering up, it was clear he'd be able to climb it, but it was what amounted to a small mountain. It stretched on for what he could see on either side.
Getting his astonished breathing under control, the man quietly padded forward, bare feet cushioned by the soft form of grass.
"First order of business, water.."
The man saw it from a survival point of view. The morning was slightly chilly, but the sun felt good against his bare skin. The man strode forward, listening for sounds of a stream. He definitely smelled water nearby, recognizing the minerally scent due to his own experiences. It lacked the sulfur-like spike of radioactivity, something he was used to for a few years now. SodIodine Tablets solved the problem for the most part, but he was eager to taste fresh water once more.
Abruptly he was reminded of the fox-like alien when it gave a sharp yip, padding up to him and giving him a glance before purposely striding in a direction. After a few moments, it stopped, looking back at him as if expecting him to follow.
Going on that whim, the man strode forward after the fox, telling once more it seemed embarrassed. He chuckled chuckled mirthlessly.
The water was clean! Fresh. Pure. In a non-artificial way. As The Surgeon splashed his face with the water and drunk deeply, knelt by the edge of the swift but small stream, he held a smile on his face that threatened to split his face in twain.
He let out a couple bright chuckles, but he was a quieter man by heart. How long had it been since he could drink from a stream?
This wilderness supplied him with water. And as the fox-alien nipped at nearby berries, mouth stained a dark purple, it seemed that it also provided food.
The Surgeon stood and strode over, soft grass parting under his feet and mud between his toes. Once above the fox, he picked a berry near the top.
It was large, the size of a pear. Yet most obviously a berry indeed, soft as he bit into it and lacking seeds. Or at least any larger than pencil lead.
It was tart. Bitter, with a tangy aftertaste. It was hardly enjoyable, but it was edible and wasn't repulsive, so this worked well. The berry made him feel more..whole as well, the Surgeon was unable to describe it properly, to put it into words.
And he wasn't dead, so it could very well be healthy. A growl near his feet from the fox, who peaked up and immediately averted it's head, reminded him that he had company. And that it couldn't reach the rest.
Gently, he picked one and took a knee. He made sure a thigh shaded his manhood from the alien, but he extended the berry freely. He was embarrassed himself but it wasn't anything fifteen years of communal showers and bunking didn't underplay.
What was the opinion of an alien fox to an entire platoon that kept saying he was too hairy?
As the fox approached and nommed on the berry he presented placidly, he remarked that while his hair was still present, it was much softer than what he was used to. Reminiscent of his younger years, before patches were born off.
And he took the time to cast his gaze over his body. Still circumcised, he noted with passive amusement, but lacking many burn scars. He could pick out a few from bladed weaponry, frowned as a memory of a grenade explosion accompanied another scar on his thigh, but he could clearly tell that they were faded. More so than normal.
And his burns weren't anywhere to be found. Only scars from puncture or severance, and with a startle he discovered he no longer missed the big toe on his left foot.
He left out a breathless laugh. Of all things, that's what clicked for him. He was youthful again. More limber than what he was used to. He was whole again.
A light nip at his fingers had him pick another berry without thinking, still wondering over the muscles in his forearm. They were there. He was as fit as he was when he died, and yet, they moved more smoothly than he had in years.
Divine intervention mayhaps? He frowned, and shook his head. Couldn't be. He didn't deserve it.
Perhaps this was his afterlife then? That didn't make sense either- for the same reasons as above. Dimensional fragmentation?
That thought gave him pause as he took another berry for the fox -damn, how much could it eat, it had like twelve by now- as it could very well be a possibility. He shook his head however. Those thoughts weren't productive to his survival.
That last one seemed to content the alien, and it licked it's chops as it shook. Its fur was sleek, he noticed, and in a better light he appraised it.
It's fur was a softer blonde, than the brown he thought it was in the low light. A light tan adorned its paws, with its tails being the same tan. Its ears were a dark brown, an almost helmet-like pattern adorning its face.
It tilted its head as he looked at it, letting out a short yip before trodding over to the stream. The Surgeon ate another of the purple berries, but wasn't hungry, and cleaned his hands of the juices and alien saliva.
After that, the fox alien would trod itself back towards where they came from, and the Surgeon followed. It was a peaceful walk. He could hope that the alien developed some sort of trust for him, it was clearly sentient and was clearly leading him back to its home.
He'd respect it.
Once they reached the coven, the man knelt down again in front of the fox alien, in a similar manner as before without his arm extended.
It sat, staring curiously up with a slight cock to it's head. It was absolutely adorable, and he blinked when he realized it. But he wished to speak to it, and so he would.
"Thank you."
It was simple. Succinct. And full of meaning. He looked around the room as it spoke in turn. It seemed surprised, and hesitant, but accepting. His gaze snapped back to it when it spoke.
"Pix. Ul."
Slowly, it decided to creep towards him. And in turn, following instinct remaining from his childhood, the Surgeon reached out a hand.
The scruff of its neck was incredibly soft, the tuft of fur on the top of it's head was even softer. It accepted his pets with pressing itself closer, closing its eyes and almost purring.
Purring? Wasn't it a fox? Eh, it was an alien planet. Not hard to comprehend that and dismiss it.
After a long moment, he spoke up.
"William Holloway."
It opened its eyes and looked at him, its eyes clearly focused and sentient. It listened with rapt attention.
"My name. It's William Holloway. Just William, or Will, if you prefer."
It didn't speak at first, still accepting his pets, but slowly it spoke. Deliberate.
"Vu. Vulll. Vul..pix."
It seemed to struggle, as if it was saying it entirely for the first time.
"Vulpix."
It nodded in confirmation, repeating it once more, before looking back up at him and yipping at his hand when he paused in his pets.
"Vulpix? That's your name?"
It nodded instantly in confirmation, yipping again. He continued petting, sitting down back on his ass and making sure to shield himself from it, as it was embarrassed a bit even now.
But in all honesty, and with the biggest smile on his face..
He was excited for this new lease on life.
Yep. New story and new plot bunny that demanded maturation.
If I miss any details lemme know. If I get details wrong, lemme know.
Vulpix is shiny but unique coloration. Because tan is awesome.
Yall have a good one.