Dawn of Titans

by F13D

There is nothing fair, just, or honorable about war. There is only winning and losing, the living and the dead. Humanity has learned this truth and has ascended to the stars. What effect will this have on the rest of the galaxy, one that has experienced millennia of peace? Will it be able to maintain the peace or will it be ushered into a new age of war? Let the end begin. A/U

30. Chapter 30 - War of the damned

3-2-2157 1640 hours (Alliance standard time)

Underground Bunker

Attican Traverse

Torfan

But still, even they could not overwhelm the unfolding scene of chaos. Even the alarms blaring loudly over the bunker's extensive system was a dim sound over the carnage the two sides were throwing at each other. To Hower, if chaos was an actual deity, it would have been greatly pleased by the slaughter unfolding.

The underground stronghold rightly earned its description, spanning hundreds of kilometers in area alone. In one glance, Hower could tell the slavers were running a lucrative operation, the stations able to transport massive quantities of illicit goods, material, and especially bodies. ET10s, massive twenty-wheeled transports, were used as a sort of shuttle-system, hauling their cargo to their destinations. For the battle they seemed to be repurposed as infantry carriages, moving the underground garrison to the battlefield or serving as barriers to clog entire paths. The corridor itself, if it could even be called that, stretched nearly 15 kilometers wide. He simply could not believe the immense scale: ground vehicles capable of efficient combat use indoors. It felt unnerving like few things Hower could recall.

The moment the marines had kicked down the doors, the underground garrison had been alerted, scrambling to their stations in apparent hopes of repelling the invaders. The strike team's initial sabotage did great wonders for the main force, eliminating the stronghold's entire initial wave of defenders. But this was just a bare fang of a much larger beast, as automated systems were brought online, slowing the marines' advances long enough for the stronghold proper time to prepare for a massive clash.

The marines however had other plans, coordinating effectively, attacking the stronghold through four separate entrances and utilizing the slaver's base against them. The marines made no effort at subtlety. Surprise, not stealth was the operation's keyword. The end result had the batarians dividing their assets to defend each attack point, stretching their forces' logistical limits.

Simply put, Torfan was completely unprepared for an attack from a well-fed, well-rested, and heavily armed force. That this attack was spearheaded by a new race considered to be nothing more but a fledgling blimp on the Hegemony's radar only added to the confusion.

The mass hysteria allowed the Spectres to divert from the main carnage, heading straight for the central command center to shut-down the automated security, though it would likely be defended with some of the best units available. The Spectres' numbers were bolstered by the turian Cabals assigned to the mission, bringing their numbers to slightly under thirty.

The Spetsnaz squad accompanying the marines were tasked with an entirely separate objective: unloading a rather large contraption taken with them into the depths of the bunkers. They had remained behind in one of the stronghold's central crossroads connecting the moon's underground honeycombs, and the escape route the marines planned after reaching the captives. It wasn't an envious task to keep the route open, while forming a blockade. The best minds had predicted as many as 1,000 slavers would be bivouacked through the various outlying barracks. Should they decide to cut off the marines upon hearing the fight occur, Izotov's Spetsnaz would be there waiting in ambush, reinforced by a few dozen GZ 550s and many YMIR mechs for extra firepower. Lining themselves in a classic delta formation, Izotov's Spetsnaz would proceed to cut down the enemy with enfilading fire.

Yet the minor setbacks experienced along the way did not disturb Hower, who currently lead a massive force towards the holding blocks. A total of two hundred N7 marines followed him in addition to nearly twenty-five hundred LOKI mechs, and over a thousand YMIR units. These robotic drones formed the vanguard, drowning the defenders in attrition while the marines hit them from afar. Minimizing casualties was a top priority for Hower, but he realized it couldn't slow his advance. His mission, humanity's crusade, was far more vital than any single person or unit.

"There they are!" Bellec pointed, three batarian rocket troopers spanned a barrier surrounded by hundreds of infantrymen, turrets, and even some mechs of their own.

Hower already had his comm link keyed, directing a team of cloaked infiltrators to eliminate the threat. Leaning from cover to fire a strong burst from his Avenger, heat hit him like a wall as hundreds of rounds flared towards him. He silently cursed. The opposing Krehlokk rifle seemed to be an actual assault rifle, allowing the slavers to fight the marines on equal terms. Relatively.

The slavers on the far side of the massive corridor opened up with missiles and heavy machine guns, killing dozens LOKI mechs and one YMIR. The remainder of the troops engaged the marines with non-standard fire, focusing on tech or biotic attacks.

From behind came a boom and hiss, followed by a white streak that spanned the corridor in the blink of an eye, reaching the batarian position – and detonating directly in front of them. After the initial explosion, two more quickly followed, knocking the defenders back while a third detonation sent flames across a squad's position.

He could guess who was responsible for that.

"Can we hurry this the fuck up?" Stenzke grumped impatiently.

Hower craned his head towards the enemy's position. "Alpha quadrant, concentrate fire!" Even as he issued the order, he burst from his position and launched a grenade at the far end. A duo was already cut down by Stenzke's Tyhpoon – and as he slumped, Hower's grenade arced perfectly into the center of a squad.

'Hell of a throw!'

With a slightly dampened boom, the grenade exploded, shredding the batarians within its reach and blanketing their immediate area with fragmented shrapnel.

Frost let another two rounds fly, the sniper rifle emitting a crack of thunder that rattled the ears of nearby marines. He targeted the heavy troopers, rounds punching gaping holes in their armor, blowing entire sections of torsos and limbs into pieces. Their positions were raked with thousands of rounds from assault rifles and machineguns. A few infantry managed to survive the attack, bursting from cover and firing their rifles – but they were quickly cut down by the cloaked infiltrators' marksmanship.

Hower was ready to call the area secure enough to begin moving deeper into the stronghold. "All right, Alpha quadrant –," He began before the sudden screeching and sparking of new enemy fire behind, near, and over his head sent him diving onto his gut.

Just beyond the dead defenders came at least three of the train-like ET10s, carrying hundreds of batarian infantry, probably two full battalions with the lead wave consisting entirely of Vorcha balancing tube-like storage tanks on their backs linked to a nozzle-looking weapons.

Hower's mouth fell open beneath his helmet, easily recognizing them from the Codex briefings as M-451 Firestorms. The weapon was a standard chemical flamethrower, projecting and igniting streams of volatile, semi-liquid fuel at three thousand degrees Celsius. It had an effective range of seventy meters, with twice that number for maximum range.

'Guess the Spetsnaz aren't the only ones who like burnt meat,' Hower thought, mildly surprised at the deployment of such weapons.

He also took note of the species wielding them. The vorcha were known throughout the galaxy for their unique biology and aggressive behavior, classified as a primitive species by the Council races with a ludicrously short life-span of twenty years; even less than that of the salarians. The rest of the galactic society generally regarded them as pests and from their appearance, Hower couldn't blame them. Personally, he thought they looked like an offspring of the legendary Japanese monsters mating with a toxic waste site, and even that scenario would likely produce far more appealing offspring.

Taking a moment, he made a mental note to be wary. While vorcha appearance did offer much for improvement, and their discipline were far more questionable than Stenzke's after downing a full pint of vodka, their ferocity seemed comparable to Spetsnaz Guards. Their clusters of non-differentiated cells bodies allowed a sort of inhuman regenerative abilities, as well as a capacity for rapid adaptation to their environment. According to the Codex, it even extended as far as being able to regrow entire limbs, allowing them to be practically immune to almost all diseases.

Not that he intended to give them the time to do that. Hower scowled and checked for insignias. Vorcha were usually trained and fielded by the krogan Blood Pack as mercenaries, due to their savage nature and unparalleled adaptability. So, it was hardly a surprise to Hower that the slavers on Torfan decided to field such … interesting employees.

The group of vorcha aimed at the line of LOKI mechs heading their way. From the maws of their weapons, a great wall of fire erupted, engulfing and incinerating anything nearby. While the metal contraptions were incapable of feeling pain, they weren't without damage; their metallic frames melting like a stick of candle, some even detonating in the aftermath.

Because LOKI mechs were incapable of any complex tactics, they never sought cover during the incineration, blindly charging forward to their destruction. This lead to dozens of them being destroyed.

"Get out of there!" Hower hollered to the marines. "Everyone get clear!" At the same time, he cut loose with his Avenger, directing all of his fire upon the vorcha soldiers. Others joined him either with their weapons or specialized abilities. Sentinels threw overload attacks, triggering the fuel tanks strapped onto the vorcha soldiers to combust, igniting them as well, however this only proved fruitful as the rest quickly caught on and dived towards cover.

Stenzke swung her Typhoon around and began to suppress the oncoming batarian soldiers, but Hower already saw they couldn't afford a battle of attrition.

And yet another batarian raised a ML-77 and leveled it upon his shoulder. Hower fired at that soldier, dropping him instantly before an incoming salve sent him rolling to the left. He felt dull pressure on his shoulders as a few rounds struck his integrated battle-suit but failed to penetrate.

"God damn, Anderson, you would've loved this," he grunted, wishing his lieutenant were here in the fray. Then he bellowed into the com channel once more., "Alpha quadrant, concentrate fire on the enemy. Infiltrators, thin their numbers. NOW!"

As his men continued to return fire, Hower got to his feet and practiced what he preached. He chanced a look to his left and saw yet another enemy soldier being engulfed in a blue aura. He knew what that meant and realized there was no time to stop the biotic. Hower retreated, sprinting back hoping to get behind another piece of cover before a massive explosion struck his back like thunder from a hundred storm clouds.

A gasp later, the concussion wave struck, lifting him a meter into the air before knocking him flat on his belly. With the whoosh and roar of flames still resounding, accompanied by an unbearable fuel stench that seemed to clog his helmet's filters, Hower felt a hand latch onto his wrist and pull him to his feet.

"Commander, get up!" Bellec shouted, releasing his arm. "We can't have you taking a nap on us, sir!"

'Cheeky little bastard,' Hower thought as he got to his feet. Panting heavily from the hit that had knocked the breath out of him, he took hold of the situation. The LOKI mechs had stopped their suicidal march, making way for their YMIR brothers to lead the charge by inflicting gruesome losses on the batarians.

While N7 marines usually packed light, gratitude filled Hower's racing heart that they'd managed to pack enough equipment for a siege, especially when faced against a numerically superior force. He momentarily tensed as a trio of YMIRs fired a huge salvo of missiles, dropping them on the enemy like Thor's righteous hammer. An entire vorcha squad was reduced to ash in seconds.

Still more troops kept coming, one unfortunately being bisected in half like a blade of grass. Hower became a little taken aback at the ghastly gore displayed, but more so by how neither side made visible reactions, facial expressions being hidden behind a mask with the exception of the vorcha that they seemed capable of showing any emotion other than rage.

'I guess this is what it means to give your humanity to a greater cause,' Hower contemplated, firmly gripping his Avenger while firing off controlled bursts. His salvo punched through several infantry, heat sinks disgorging their energetic payload.

His shields angrily flared against the dozens of mass accelerated rounds smashing into him. Hower could see them, a dozen or more spread out along the corridor. There were at least half a dozen portable mass accelerator turrets deployed against them. Hower acknowledged their enemy's foresight, spreading their hardware out to avoid one lucky hit or perhaps desiring to avoid a powerful enough biotic taking them all out. Just before his shields flatlined, Hower dove back into cover. He could see from his HUD that the marines managed to follow him with the mechs preparing to advance.

Then his eyes were captivated by several bright orange spheres flying through the air. Time slowed, as Hower made a quick realization about the incoming objects.

"Fall back! Fall back!" Hower shouted to his men as the marines skidded to a halt. The frag grenades detonated, knocking dozens back and wounding many others.

Sparks and electricity arced near some of the explosions. They were comparatively small and weak compared to larger grenade variants, but loud and deadly enough for Hower's helmet to polarize the visor and cut off the audio sensors for a brief moment. The commander then noticed that his recharging shields had weakened once more. It was some sort of ionic or electrostatic detonation, enough to weaken his shields.

The concussion and thermal convection of the blasts blew the smoke away, revealing the wall of emplacements were prepared to fire. Immediately, the batarians and vorcha poured fire down on the marines, cutting down several of them in an instant. The batarians were well coordinated, precise in their attacks, while the vorcha were the complete opposite; pouring a frightening amount of mass accelerator rounds upon the marines, blazing away with a seemingly complete lack of fire discipline.

The marines quickly fell into the unusual tactic of letting the vorcha exhaust their own firepower, baiting them with short controlled bursts. But the enemy showed no sign of burning through their weapons' power supplies, ejecting heat sinks by the dozens. Then Hower saw two vorcha that had just drained the last heat sinks on their rifles, observing them with intense scrutiny. For reasons that baffled him, the vorcha discarded the rifles, switching to their sidearms.

Seeing dozens follow the same action, Hower knew it was time to counter-attack. "Hit them now!" He hollered, allowing Typhoons, Avengers, and many other weapons to join in on the fray.

He saw Velasquez throw a grenade, dropping it beside a platoon, including many vorcha. The detonated blasts, spawned by fragments launched by the pyro-troopers' ruptured fuel tanks, boomed outwards. The fires quickly rose higher, triggering secondary explosions in a chained reaction.

"Well, that got at least a few of them." The engineer said, setting up her turret and properly calibrating it.

"Don't you think you should do that somewhere else?" The commander asked.

"Hey, there is a time and place for everything."

"Yeah, and this ain't one of them."

Velasquez gave a shrug, "Without calibration, the weapon will be practically useless."

With expert grace, the engineer finished her adjustments in mere seconds, recognizing the fine complexities of the machinery with simple memory. Hower decided to drop the subject, focusing on the enemy infantry. He expressed-delivered a concussive shot down the tunnel, impacting a vorcha. The creature was momentarily dazed, before its regenerative abilities kicked in and began producing thicker skin right before Hower's eyes.

"Bring up some GZ 550s," Hower ordered into the comm link, "We need the extra firepower."

"Affirmative, commander. Bringing up the heavy guns."

He looked behind, the dark shadows being penetrated by the headlights of the Alliance's light infantry support vehicles. A quartet emerged from the tunnels, narrowing the gap with its heavy machine gun and grenade launcher blazing at full glory. The enemy's line was chewed apart by 12.7mm rounds and 30mm grenades.

A crash and muffled thud caused Hower to regain his caution. He glanced to his side at a marine near him. The marine been shot in the chest by a sniper, blood splattered all over his armor.

"Medic, got a casualty! Enemy sniper!" Hower hollered over the comm, grabbing the marine and hauling him into cover. Under safety, the commander monitored the marine's life signs until Velasquez arrived.

The engineer analyzed the solider, inspecting his injuries. "Wound, lower center torso. Round narrowly missed an artery. Medi-gel, already dispersing clotting factor to stabilize ruptures. He'll live but will take a few minutes to get back into fighting shape."

"Frost –" Hower began.

"Already ahead of you. Got my eyes out … ah, I've got nothing."

The news surprised Hower, how could anyone escape their squad's eyes. "Look's, like we'll have to draw him out then," he said.

"Damn, I think your spending too much time with Stenzke."

Hower ignored the remark, exploding onto the battlefield and making a most appetizing prey. Not a second later, another round punched through the corridor, Hower ducking to the side to avoid it and many others from batarian riflemen far too eager to take out the exposed marine. The rounds impacted his shields, dropping them to half strength.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep this up!" Hower complained, acting more like a ballerina with butchered feet than a professional soldier. A short laugh came from behind the barrier, coming from an unknown throat.

Hower kept his focus on his feet, sliding around the floor in unpredictable paths. His shields crept lower, dropping in lower increments as his squad generated cover fire – and started commenting on his dance moves. He ignored that too as a third round struck low.

"Got him! Frost exclaimed, firing off a thundering round from his Widow. "Looks like we're not the only one with cloaks."

"Wait what?" The commander became alarmed, crouching behind cover to let his shields recharge. If the enemy had cloaks of their own, it could spell disaster for them.

"Relax drama queen. Their nowhere near advanced as ours and appear be temporary, guess our sniper friend forgot that."

"Or was too mesmerized by our commander's grace to remember," Stenzke cut in. She earned a few laughs from the soldiers under Hower's command.

"Hahaha, very funny. Now would you all kindly focus on the mission at hand and clear the area? We still have hundreds of enemy troopers left in case you have all forgotten!" Hower ranted. It was annoyingly unprofessional, but he wondered if he'd never live this down.

While the marines and mechs battled it out with the batarians and their vorcha allies, Frost separated himself from the chaos around him. His nerves and grip were ice cold like a predator hunting in the artic. He kept himself low, shifting ever so gingerly and stealthily as he could without completely moving. Peering through his Black Widows scope, Frost spotted a full squad of heavy troopers. He counted at least ten, one shouldering an ML-77 and readying it for fire. He could take a while guess at what his target was, the marines' light support becoming an increasingly bigger problem. They probably had more along with definitely two machine guns plus the usual assortment of rifles, pistols, and other gear a soldier usually packed.

But Frost held his trigger, not ready to fire, not yet anyway. He scanned the squad, looking for a specific individual. The squad leader would be the one doing the most talking through his headset. By now the strategy had become a natural instinct to him, killing of the head while the bodied died. After panning down the line, Frost found him. The batarian was no amateur, crouching behind cover, reading images from a small holo-graphic computer. He spoke directly into his headset.

Perhaps he was requesting reinforcements, delivering a warning, or readying a coordinated attack. In truth, military snipers rarely engaged targets closer than three hundred meters but sometimes distance was a luxury one cannot afford. Unlike previous snipers that had come before him, Frost didn't need to do any math, the rifle doing it all for him. He also didn't have to worry about bullet drop or gravity, such factors were neglected by the powerful Widow in his hands.

Once the proper calculations and adjustments were made, Frost held the reticle above the batarians head. His finger got heavy on the trigger, and it appeared the squad leader was about to get up along with his men. Frost held his breath … and fired. The shot caught the batarian in the back of the neck, just below his helmet, blowing it off and taking a large piece of skull with it.

As the dead batarian hit the ground, the two troopers by his side jumped back in shock, exactly how Frost predicted. He reacquired his aim and took them down with his first salvo, dropping one before switching and taking out the other. Frost analyzed his work before slowly moving to another position, avoiding their own trackers, and acquiring a better vantage point on a new target.

While the team's infiltrator eliminated the heavy troopers' commander, Stenzke peppered them with her M-100 grenade launcher. A pair of explosions resounded along their lines, crippling shields and even a few limbs.

But a terrible noise emerged from the batarians lines, leaving trails of white streak until they reached one of the GZ 550s. The light vehicle, unsuited to handle multiple missiles, tore apart in jagged parts and torn metal. Ragged pieces of ceramics, tubes, and wires flew in all directions in the immediate area.

"Shit, we have casualties!" Stenzke shouted, watching as marines scrambled to pull their dead comrades from the wreckage while attempting to put out the burning vehicle.

She knew they would need cover, so Stenzke gladly volunteered herself for the job. With glowing blue aura surrounding her, the vanguard once again charged at the enemy with guns blazing. While their attention was focused on her, the marines began their counter-attack by first eliminating any pyro-troopers and then focusing on ones with heavy weapons.

Stenzke lobbied grenades, their booms resounding in her ears while she dismantled their lines with fervor. The vanguard sprinted off to her left, moving in a wide arc to avoid friendly fire while gunfire tracked her steps. Stenzke ran on currents of electricity, viewing the world through high contrast and smelling every particle of spent tungsten metal. She wasn't reckless though, monitoring the status of her shields. She suddenly turned weaving through ET10s, heading directly toward their rear.

Stenzke spotted two troops, both trading fire the marines in front, who'd all in unison opened up with a barrage of rifle fire. She put her M-100 to work, thumping one after the other.

Boom! Boom! Boom! They screamed, detonating in a thunderous roar. They tore through the batarians, rag-dolling them in the air.

The remaining batarians seemed unorganized now, with at least three attempting to turn tail and running straight towards her. With merciless ease, Stenzke cut them down with her mighty Typhoon.

Hower's curiosity of the bold and daring, but no less unsurprising attack was soon overshadowed by the YMIRs opened fire with their own unique trademark. Missiles impacted head-on against the enemy barricades, detonating in unison. As far as he was, the explosion was almost enough to knock Hower onto his back and taxed his shields to its limits.

Despite detonating upon the enemy's position over three hundred meters away, the shockwave felt as though someone had dropped an SGB artillery shell right on top of them. The concussive blasts alone were enough to kill a person as several batarians proved, their armor free of breaks but the organic bodies underneath splattered like fruit.

Seeing the aftermath, Hower felt reluctant to order the YMIRs a repeat fusillade. Whatever caution he held for the mechs, fluttered away as he surveyed the carnage. The batarians firing upon them were nowhere to be seen, save a few. As the shell shocked enemy soldiers collected themselves, Frost and the rest of the marine snipers quickly eliminated them all with cold calculating precision.

Meter sized holes had been punched right through the ET10s, allowing the marines a path deeper into the pits of Torfan.

---

Underground Bunker, Near command center

Attican Traverse

Torfan

On the other side of the facility, covered by the chaotic fighting, the small, combined force of Spectres and Cabals moved undetected. They slipped through the carnage quietly, letting several batarian squads pass, ignorant of their presence. After a few more rooms and bays the Spectres and Cabals neared their objective.

Dozz hacked a nearby terminal, bypassing security and gaining access to monitor the area lying on the other side of thick airlocked doors. Beyond the main door, nearly a kilometer from the control room, stood a large maintenance/garrison bay suited for training and repair purposes. There were the occasional field hospitals, scattered amongst grubby stores slavers appeared to frequent, buying or trading their spoils of war. While nowhere near the scale of Omega, the scaled number of transactions looked to be a major accomplishment.

It was through the hacked monitor feed the Spectres and Cabals watched as the batarian support personal lowered the one of the damaged Kharsae tanks. With reports of invaders achieving much ground, it was imperative these mechanical weapons be readied for war. Armed batarians overlooked a horde of vorcha that made up the work detail. They rushed forward with trolleys loaded with repair parts with their batarian overseers berating them to pick up the slack. A swarm of trained vorcha mechanics covered a barely functioning Kharsae tank, preparing it so it could soon be fielded against the invaders. Wielding plasma torches, they began to patch the vehicle.

Even after having been alerted of the invasion, the occupants were still greatly perplexed when the doors opened. Many didn't take notice at first, but the few that did were greeted with the sight of nearly thirty heavily armed soldiers standing in the center of the corridor in front of a trio YMIR mechs.

One of them, a salarian clad in white armor with blue colored stripes, stepped forward with a massive launcher in on hand while waving at them with the other.

"Ah, hello! And goodbye!" Dozz greeted before pressing the trigger of his home-made artillery rifle. The 150mm shell landed amidst the mass of vorcha repairing the hover-tank. Half the corridor was showered with flames and shrapnel as the tank was blown to smithereens. Nearly everyone save for the Spectres and Cabals were knocked onto their backs or faces.

"Kill the intrud–" A batarian shouted before a sniper round from Vasir tore into its neck from its shoulders.

"Hey, don't mind us we're just tourists!" Maerun shouted, running forward and wielding his Phaeston with grace. Saren followed, providing additional fire to cover his comedic teammate. Behind them, Dozz pulled the pin on a cluster of grenades with a maniacal cackle. Vasir brought up the rear, choosing to keep her distance.

The Spectres squeezed the triggers of their weapons, sending hailstorms of rounds and biotic attacks. Dozz reloaded his artillery rifle, affectionately naming it the A.R, and let loose another shell. The towering cupola of ceramic and dura-steel above the battlefield, along with the locks for the secondary blasts doors, exploded in a thundering arc, before bringing down enormous pieces of twisted fragments. The rubble quickly began piling up, cutting off any way to move the hover-tanks out of the area. Within twenty seconds, the entire maintenance crew had been neutralized, the few support vehicles obliterated altogether.

The area grew ablaze with combat-fire as slavers and the Spectres fought for control. The area shook as another massive explosion tore through the batarian ranks, snuffing out the crazed cackle of Dozz. Those that retreated were quickly cut down by Vasir's accuracy, falling in random, sometimes terrifying patterns.

Saren and Maerun raked the area with their Phaestons, driving batarians into cover and allowing the Cabals to pour in from behind. As the batarians attempted to return fire, the Cabals moved in for the kill, shearing limbs off with volleys of their heavy Phaestons rifles and even blowing half a torso away.

Near them, a single vorcha dashed towards them clad entirely in objects that Saren was intimately acquainted with: frag grenades.

"Suppressive fire! Suppressive fire!" The turian commanded.

"Got you covered," Vasir replied, allowing a round from her Elder rifle to halt the vorcha in his tracks. The area was soon introduced by the nigh-lackadaisical arrival of the YMIRs, exponentially adding their own fire.

"Move! Move!" Saren shouted to the soldiers as he fired.

The slavers return fire was intermittent and weak at best. A few small batarian security teams quickly rushed into the corridor to deal with the invaders but were soon cut down by the impressive arsenal of the YMIRs. The sheer volume of mass accelerator fire and missiles were enough to cloud the entire battlefield. Taking advantage of the lull, the Spectres and Cabals charged through the area.

Saren knew their window of opportunity was limited. If it hadn't been for Dozz's gas grenades, and the element of surprise, the invading force would have been the center of a kill zone. The battle not being in their favor.

Much like the fighting on the surface, at first the Spectres maintained the advantage in the opening moments. However, as time elapsed and reports made their way through the batarian channels, resistance began to intensify. From the bilious rip of fragmentation grenades and mortar shells fired from a rifle crafted by a madman, to the wailing cry of mechanized infantry firing torrents of mass accelerator rounds piercing metal, all painted the proper portrait of the disorder engulfing the area.

Like a tsunami, a tidal wave of vorcha soldiers led by batarian commanders emerged from the other end creating a solid barrier of rounds nearly equal to that of the YMIRs. Launched rockets and thrown grenades exponentially added to the carnage they unleashed, pushing the invaders back. The Spectres and Cabals fired upon them, eliminating a few squads but far from halting the tidal wave of enemy soldiers.

The defenders quickly carved out a defensive perimeter but were unable to advance and forced into cover by the withering fire from the trio 20mm autocannons as the YMIRs attempted to move forward. The heavily armored mechs, however, could not sustain this kind of fire for long. One of them fell to a newly arrived pair of missile troopers before Saren had the rest retreat behind cover. The batarians took the opportunity to push several mobile shield generators forward, making their defenses easier.

Live fire surrounded the corridor as teams of batarians and vorcha attempted to storm the Spectre positions. Firing straight across the room, the batarians took their toll on the Cabals holding the closest ground. As they neared, they tossed overloaded power cells and frag grenades, ending the last of the Cabals resistance for at least a while.

Their advance, however, ended as the YMIR duo turned their autocannons. 20mm HEAP rounds, each with the equivalent kinetic energy of a lightweight 60mm mortar shell, tore through any shields with the first hit, and splattering charred chunks against the bulkheads.

The next wave of enemy reinforcements arrived in mass, consisting entirely of vorcha with a few varren thrown into the mix. The enemy's light turrets fired in rapid motion, the heating of their barrels becoming quite noticeable. Vasir attempted to eliminate as many turret crews as possible, but ultimately failed, forcing her into cover as the crews prioritized her. The batarians quickly caught on as they began deploying automated turrets.

"Nice going Vasir, now you made them outsource their jobs! Now how are they going to feed their families?" Maerun demanded, firing off a concussive shot. The high-powered round impacted the bare-skin of a vorcha, burrowing in deep like a parasite before bursting inside its host.

"I don't know, maybe they can dine on turian meat. I hear it's a delicacy among the krogan." The asari shot back, wanting to retain her concentration.

"I doubt they'd enjoy the taste, besides these fine batarians would do no such thing. Right guys?" Maerun asked, receiving a barrage of rounds, grenades, and even a few missiles forcing him into cover. "See, they're offended you would even propose such an idea."

Given nearly everyone, especially soldiers, had access to a universal translator embedded in their helmets, there lacked any doubt the batarians and vorcha couldn't understand Maerun's remarks. In true fashion, Saren himself was profound. He didn't know if they were targeting the turian Spectre for his lethality or simply because he was just that annoying. As Maerun continued on with his antics, Saren found his answer.

'I'm not getting paid enough to deal with this.'

"And what about the vorcha?" Vasir asked, switching to her Deacon rifle to suit the mid-range combat.

"Tch," Maerun scoffed. "Vorcha would eat anything. They aren't as well refined."

In the meantime, Dozz restricted himself to counterbattery duty, shelling anything brave enough to reveal its position with a burst of his A.R. It was a fitting irony that the most lethal member of the team was … a salarian. The carnage he unleashed with his devices were enough to make a krogan cry in joy.

The Cabals weren't absent from the action either, engaging the vorcha and batarians in close quarters, even within melee range. Initially, they'd launched a short-range volley of venom tipped blades, paralyzing un-shielded targets. This was followed by activated venom gauntlets to boost their shields and strikes. When the vorcha got within talon range, their presence became unraveled, what few strikes they landed left very little damage on the Cabals. Biotic focus increased the Cabal warriors' speed, allowing them to dance around their opponents with an agility rivalling amateur asari, while reducing any damage taken. Then they activated poison strike, slashing the enemy while encased in a biotic barrier.

Still the enemy held the advantage, numbering in the hundreds while the Spectres, Cabals, and YMIRs didn't even reach thirty.

Seeing this, Saren made the call. "Dozz, get on those YMIRs! I want fire superiority now!' The Spectre shouted.

Dozz followed orders, putting down his A.R. The action allowed the batarians and vorcha the advantage, but only for a few seconds. The salarian powered down the YMIRs, depriving his team even more valuable firepower. It certainly was a gamble as the batarians pressed their advantage with terrifying professionalism. Yet, worry did not engulf the salarian, working with immediate haste. Flicking the settings of the YMIR, he reset the base programming to fire at a dangerous 8,000 rpm before closing their port hatches.

In less time than it took a salarian to blink, the mechs were brought back online and opened fire. The storm of self-sharpening tungsten quickly forced the batarians back into what cover could be provided before they too were chewed away, the horizontal hail cutting down swaths of enemy troopers, forcing the rest behind thick barriers and consoles. The salarian further added to the piling corpses, blasting through the columns with his A.R.

In the center of the maelstrom, the assault element of the Spectres prepared to move forward in complete defiance against the batarian's firepower. The turian duo weaved through the shattered wreckages of the many vehicles that the crossfire had claimed. They were further aided by a squad of Cabals, whilst Vasir remained behind with Dozz.

"Vasir! Go blue!" Saren shouted. His progress, slowed by the remaining forces, needed to accelerate. Half a dozen mass accelerator turrets had them pinned down and kept them from maneuvering to the sides or retreating.

"You got it," Vasir shouted back, poking out quickly to claim another life with her Elder rifle.

Of course, one specific member was disgusted by the rate of progress being made. "Ugh this is taking too long!" Dozz complained.

"Unless you got a better idea, this is the best we can do!" Vasir barked, feeling the repetitive bucks of her rifle recoiling from her powerful shots.

"In fact, I do."

"Oh yea? And what would … t-that be … dear god you've gone mad!"

"Last psychological evaluation produced stellar results," Dozz replied.

"I very much doubt that." Vasir said, moving away from her teammate who she most certainly thought had lost his mind. "Saren, have the Cabals activate a barrier," she warned over the radio.

"What? Why?"

"Just do it!" She hissed.

"Fine! By the spirits what has gotten into you?"

"Not me. Dozz."

"W-what?"

From his position, Saren was unable to see the madness his teammate had succumbed to. Vasir on the other hand, enjoyed no such bliss from ignorance, staring as the salarian spectre positioned himself in an optimal firing angle. The overzealous Spectre seemed to have absolutely no intentions of prolonging this fight any longer.

Dozz wielded the A.R in his hands, a sight undeserving of the reaction Vasir had given. But it wasn't just this that had paralyzed her nor the shell primed for detonation, no it was the additional two primed shells strapped to the first coated with kilos of ammonium nitrate along with clusters of frag and inferno grenades as well as a couple of breaching charges for good measure. To cap off this recipe for disaster was a device weighing five kilos containing a bomb attached to another. Or as Dozz affectionally called it, the Krivbeknih.

With the complete portrait now presented, it was no wonder Vasir became struck with terror. The slightest miscalculation in the trajectory would result in striking the wrong target at best and inflicting heavy friendly-fire casualties at worst. It was no wonder Vasir warned Saren to create a biotic barrier. But even with the warning, she wondered if a barrier could even hold back the force that was about to be unleashed.

With the factors and risks in play, a sound mind would presume an individual possessing a salarian's genius would run through the calculations multiple times or have a complicated formula to derive the correct angle and firing vector. With the Dozz this wasn't the case. His math was far simpler: X + Y = blow shit up!

Without hesitation, the salarian squeezed the trigger, letting loose death's own scythe to claim unfortunate souls. When the arsenal impacted the enemy, the result was absolute: the birth of a small sun awaking in the graying sheets of smoke arising from multiple fires, preceding a strange, powerful rush of air blowing across like if it emerged from the top of a deep-throated bottle. Then the impacts ripped into the ground with a force so sudden that it drove Saren and his men into the ground.

It seemed the entire facility shook as though it were being excavated by a giant backhoe, the force so strong it even affected the YMIR mechs, tossing their towering frames and robust stability onto the floor. The walls sounded as though the moon itself was caving in on the facility, lights beginning to flash in alarm. The deep reverberations throbbed straight through armored torsos.

As the tremendous quakes continued, sounding like a million bass drums being hammered by enraged musicians, Dozz rolled forward onto his hands and knees.

"MARVELOUS!" He shouted, hands thrown into the air exuberantly.

Saren however held different thoughts. Even as the rumbling cacophony continued in his ears, he removed his helmet and ungracefully puked his morning and noon meals. The Cabals were collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. Any being forced to hold out against such a powerful force would had their bodies taxed to their limits. Even Maerun himself wasn't free from the blast's wrath, his usual comedic persona self-consumed in fatigue.

"Dozz, when we get back you're going to therapy." Saren warned, regaining a small amount of his sanity. Shock covered the assault element's bodies and were left quite vulnerable to any counter-attack; however, such a thing wasn't possible. As bad as the turians had suffered, the enemy suffered worse. Any and all traces of their existence became ash and deep-black charcoal.

Slowly the team made their way to the command center, Dozz leading the way while everyone else positioned themselves as guards.

Reaching a series of intel stations lining the bowed wall, each one painted in a multi-colored glimmer of holo-graphic displays, all computers locked out as expected, screen savers and standby messages flashing. Dozz dropped into the nearest chair, activated his omni-tool and began his hack. The screens all around him blossomed to life like an electronic carnival with enough display scrolling and flickering to drive lesser creatures insane. Dozz's eyes, however, scanned entire screens in seconds before coming across the one he sought.

A touch screen to Dozz's right flashed and suddenly it was there:

Torfan Systems Automated Security: Level Five Alert – Please Enter Authorization.

Dozz stretched his limber fingers, and began typing. The omni-tool on both wrists flashed, adding to the input. All Council-space manufactured hardware contained controls optimized for the general public. None held the so-called 'master switch' popularized by imaginative authors. Any code that could sever connections would be highly useful, especially for the SGB, but equally vulnerable to a reasonably intelligent hacker – hence the lack of such a thing. No, this had to be performed through practice, experience, and perhaps a few cracker-programs obtained in perfectly legal methods.

For a Spectre, at any rate.

Algorithms, passcodes, everything passed through Dozz's fingertips. And just like that, Torfan's automated security was shut down.

"Commander Hower, this is Major Saren Arterius, we've disabled the automated security. Your strike force should have less resistance."

"Copy, great job. Remain in position in case we need further assistance. Be prepared to fall back."

"Understood, commander. Over and out," Saren cut the link.

"Saren, you may want to take a look at this." Maerun said. A gesture encouraged the Spectres and Cabals to gather closer.

"What is it?" he asked, walking over to see what the source of the commotion was. Before him, placed on a literal pedestal, situated behind a coruscating energy shield, stood a large, turquoise colored, opaque orb.

"What is that?" The turian questioned, eyeing it critically, "And why would the batarians safeguard it so heavily?"

"Could it an unknown prothean artifact?" Dozz proposed, moving to deactivate the shield before his hand was stopped by Vasir.

"I think this requires gentler hands than yours buddy, especially after the stunt you pulled." She growled, taking down the shield herself. Dozz narrowed his eyes at her but said nothing as she took the orb in her hands. "Huh, interesting."

"Care to fill us in?" Maerun questioned.

"Despite its size, its rather light."

"Light materials perhaps, or is capable of creating artificial mass effect fields?" Dozz continued to list off the possibilities.

"I don't suppose any of you know how to work this ball?"

"Have you tried working the shaft?" Maerun asked, immediately causing everyone to laugh and Vasir to blush purple. Even the strict and professional Saren couldn't help but laugh at the pun, though he intervened before the irritated asari could decapitate the team's self-professed comedian.

"Alright settle down both of you, we've still got work to do. Vasir hand the orb over, I'll secure it in a case and take it to the Citadel for study. Maybe they can make sense of this." Saren ordered. He accepted the unknown object, handling it with great care before sealing it in a dura-steel container.

'I should probably alert the commander of our discovery,' Saren thought before quickly dismissing the thoughts from his head. 'No don't be ridiculous, the commander already has enough to worry about and for all I know this can just be an odd specimen of expressionist art. Spirits know they can be crazy.'

"Gather the wounded and dead. Take them towards the rallying point and use the YMIRs as escorts," Saren ordered a squad of Cabals. "The rest of you take defensive positions until we get the order to retreat."

---

Underground Bunker, Near slave pins

Attican Traverse

Torfan

"Commander Hower, this is Major Saren Arterius, we've disabled the automated security. Your strike force should have less resistance."

"Copy, great job. Remain in position in case we need further assistance. Be prepared to fall back." Hower responded, ducking behind cover to avoid another barrage of accelerated rounds and focusing on the task on hand.

"Understood, commander. Over and out."

A vast fusillade was unleashed covering from one end of the compound to the other as the marines plowed through entire obstacles. Initially, the batarians and vorcha were unable to reply. The surprise was so complete, the firepower so massive and omnidirectional that the enemy was momentarily left paralyzed.

Hunkered behind proper cover, Stenzke and other nearby heavy troopers opened fire with an overwhelming barrage of mass accelerator rounds and biotic attacks, intense enough to plainly be considered overkill. As one vanguard would later describe it, 'We mowed them down like hay.' Any and all visible humanoid figures were instantly lavished with absurd amounts of fire.

One poor missile trooper, thinking he would be brave, exposed himself while wielding an ML-77. The poor fool was immediately riddled with so many rounds that his head and upper body became atomized. Another was ripped in half, being completely severed at the waist. The torso dropped over the ledge of a barrier, smoke rising off the flesh.

In the midst of this lashing gunfire, the YMIR mechs emotionlessly move forward in complete defiance of the slavers' firepower. They forced through the shattered wreckages of debris and bodies that the crossfire and the marines' own barrage had created. The YMIRs casually took the lead, calmly advancing into the open center of the battlefield. The air around them cracked and popped as large arcs of electricity jumped to any objects, surfaces, or particles close to them. The electrostatic surrounded their entire mechanical bodies and projected out into a protective field. Half a dozen turrets trained their sights on the new targets waltzing towards them at an almost leisurely pace.

"If they were marines, I'd say they've had a set of balls!" Stenzke said, witnessing the spectacle before her. "Well then troopers, let's give them a hand!"

The vorcha looked on in amazement at the seeming stupidity of the mechs' slow offensive. Little did they know, more than their normal ignorance, that there was a method to this madness. With all the fire being drawn toward the YMIRs, the rest of the marines suddenly found themselves almost completely free of return fire – by now, nearly every alien in the area had trained their weapons on the mechs. The marines quickly exploited the pause with all due abandon.

The YMIRs, incapable to the effects of morale or racial pride, paid no heed to any of the anarchy raging around them. Moving with the mechanical actions for which they were famed, their rocket launchers came online, and fired a massive volley into the slaver's line. The ensuing kinetic detonations obliterated not just the fleshy meat bags, but the solid obstacles in their path, reaching the targets hidden behind. Stolidly, without any emotion whatsoever, the YMIRs continued past the first shattered lines, and fired upon the next holdout bunkered another fifty meters ahead.

Bellec and Stenzke emerged from their cover, one wielding a Falcon and the other a M-100 grenade launcher. The two biotics sent heavy firepower flying into enemy held territory, completely obliterating their positions, unloading with gusto. Stenzke dropped the spent grenade drum, loading a fresh one ready to unleash death upon the enemy. Beside her, Bellec zoomed into the chaos with his short-range scope.

In rapid succession, Bellec sent a series of 25mm mini-grenade 400 meters downrange, picking off the squad leaders vital to organizing the defenses. Frost aided in this endeavor, sending hypersonic ferromagnetic slugs in precise messages of death, each one claiming a life. Velasquez added to her teammates barrage, directing her combat drones and overload attacks towards the enemy's turrets. In less than ten seconds, the marines had all spent a generous amount of heatsinks. Well worth the investment, any would agree.

84mm rockets flew past a storm of accelerated slugs as the slavers traded fire with the heavy mechs. The piles of crates and corpses offered minimal cover against 20mm coil-fired autocannons, at nearly point-blank range. Even thick bulkheads and support beams were ripped apart, unceremoniously shredding the aliens that had been using them as cover. The majority of the magnetic slugs thrown at the YMIRs, however, arced through their shields as they hit true.

Staggered by the blows, the heavy mechs steadied, as they traded blows with hundreds of batarian and vorcha soldiers that nearly surrounded them, relying on the strength of their frames, thick armor, and powerful shields. The slavers were forced out of cover, lest the mechs' weaponry simply chewed their cover away. This, however, exposed them to fire from the marines, whom expertly picked off their exposed enemies with ease – their positions began to crumble.

But the enemy was a fierce one, refusing to back down. While the lighting in the bunker grew dimmer by the minute, headlights taken involuntarily slaughtered by ricocheting rounds or detonated shrapnel, the glow of firing weapons provided a sufficient, alternative illumination. As the battle continued and lighting dimmed, the colors grew more intense, and the defenders more desperate.

Inside the tight confines of Torfan's underground structures the enemy began lobbying grenades that dispersed thick, white fog.

"Looks like the Squints are resorting to chemical weapons," Velasquez said. "Somehow I'm not surprised."

"Hah!" Stenzke laughed, "Don't these idiots realize we're wearing helmets?"

"I doubt those are meant for us," the engineer replied.

"Then who are they meant for? Their own?"

"No," Velasquez answered, shaking her head. "If I had to guess, I'd say they're aware of our intentions by now, and are dispersing them to prevent us from escaping out the same route. They want to make sure we don't leave with their prize."

Hearing the theory, Hower became concerned. "Saren, the enemy may be deploying chemical weapons to impede our retreat. Is there any way you can find us another exit?"

"I'll have Dozz look into the facility's schematics and get back if we find you guys another way out."

"Copy that." The commander then turned his attention to the battle before him. "Alright, time to bring the hammer down!"

While the two groups battled for domination, the gap between each other greatly narrowed. Hower's next phase of his plan relied on Occam's Razor. It was simple, relying on the newly upgraded gear they had received and drawing inspiration from the warriors of ancient Greece.

A group of N7 Sentinels advanced, forming a nigh-indestructible, circular hard-light barrier. Vaulting over cover, they charged while actively firing. The piercing mods installed onto the sidearms proved valuable, affording the Sentinels to inflict greater damage on the enemy.

The rest of the Alliance infantrymen followed after them, taking advantage of the mobile cover. Concentrated gunfire flew across the battlefield from both ends, each side firing heavy ordnance and tossing grenades. Bodies dropped down, both human and alien, as they were riddled with slugs or shredded by shrapnel.

Pushing forward, Hower and his charges raced towards the enemy's position under covering fire before raking their lines for several uninterrupted seconds. Hower's Avenger alone chipped entire sections of armor. It was also the moment he ejected the last heat sink on his rifle as well.

It was in this pivotal moment, with their backs against the wall and cornered like animals, that the batarians and vorcha lashed out. With one desperate push, the defenders rushed the marines in a futile attempt to turn the tide of battle.

First, the vorcha swarmed forward, hundreds of the parasitic like species rushing under covering fire of their superiors and each other. Their rounds tore into Hower's cover, the steel barriers from being ripped apart from the defunct hardware.

"Heavies, pour some fire on the enemy," he shouted. Automatic weapons drummed away, producing a barrier of rounds Normally this would have caused sane individuals to disperse and seek cover, but the vorcha did no such thing. Instead they continued onward in an almost suicidal frenzy he'd never seen before, their claws quite literally ripping through dozens of LOKI mechs before continuing onward.

But their ferocity only got them so far; the impenetrable walls of the YMIRs stopped them cold, one of them seemingly enraged by the destruction of its smaller kin, grabbing hold of a poor vorcha and crushing the creature in its grip before decapitating another. Limbs were bisected, organs crushed or outright removed, and yet the vorcha pressed on with a few dozen managing to slip through the gaps by virtue of their small frames.

"Well here they come! Fire at will!" Hower commanded, switching to his Katana. The first vorcha to spring at him he caught with a lethal blow, rounds stitching through the hideous being's skin and light armor before reaching his head.

While the marine riflemen maintained a constant wall of fire, a pair of heavy troopers wielding FGM-90 missile launchers sprinted further down the battlefield before hoisting the heavy tubes to their shoulders. With eight-pound missiles loaded into their bore tubes, they mashed the trigger, igniting the electric fuse propelling the payload with a bright steady arc across the battlefield and piercing past barriers or cover. Fifty enemy combatants were reduced to ash.

In truth, the scene resembled less than that of a modern battlefield, and more of a medieval melee, where soldiers ripped at each other's life with their omni-blades, or even their bare hands. Grenades detonated among crowds, shotgun shells blasted into torsos, and blades wedged in flesh. Truly this became a glimpse into the distant past, technology and age doing nothing to curb a species' natural instinct to fight.

Even Frost, who thus far preferred to work from a distance, found himself tearing through the enemy's ranks with his Crusader, each blast coldly precise. Velasquez aided him, her Locust cutting down enemy's numbers in proximity. Bellec, still managing to retain a few heat sinks on his Avenger, used his weapon to keep the enemy at bay. Stenzke was of course the only one to gladly welcome the carnage into her personal space, dual-wielding her Typhoon and Eviscerator with psychotic glee.

Hower found himself in a similar situation, firing his Predator with one hand and Katana in the other, mowing down foe after foe before he spent his loaded thermal clips. It was unfortunate timing as he was unable to eject them before a few vorcha were upon him like vultures.

The second and third vorcha were already firing, their rounds pounding into Hower's armored chassis, knocking him off his balance. His gazed locked onto the creatures before opening fire, though it proved useless as they attacked him from two directions in a pincer attack. Immediately adrenaline took over Hower's body, muscle memory causing his body to move on pure instinct. He unloaded on the vorcha to his left, exhausting the thermal clip on his Katana and greatly incapacitating the vile creature before focusing on the one to his right. Like a lion striking for a kill, Hower pounced on the sharp-jawed alien, crashing down before it could react. They both fell onto the floor; weapons torn from each other's grips. Caught in a gladiator-style death match, the two fought to prevail, life being the prize.

The vorcha's left hand went for its pistol holstered at his waist. Hower seized the wrist with his right hand bending it back ninety degrees, his left crossing his opponents arm from underneath the creature's elbow. With a powerful strike, Hower yanked the arm down with his right acting like a barrier. Shattering bones resounded in his ears while the creature gave out a screech of pain.

However, with both of his arms occupied, Hower was unable to halt the creature's right arm from retrieving a large neck knife dangling from a chain. The vorcha thrust upward with the blade, the marine barely managing to seize the blade, its the tip millimeters from his neck. The creature raged aloud, fighting against Hower's grip. The commander now offered his own attack, activating an omni-blade before thrusting it into the vorcha's exposed neck. Blood spilled profusely from the wound, his strike having hit and artery. Amazingly even with the blood loss, the vorcha continued to resist until Hower gave a few more strikes to the neck in adrenaline fueled frenzy. Finally, the creature went limp after losing entire gallons of blood.

The marine got up, seeing the vorcha from before mimicking his actions. 'Jesus, good thing these fuckers aren't krogan.' he wheezed, catching his breath.

Reclaiming his weapon and ejecting the spent heat sink, Hower was about to fire before an omni-blade appeared through the vorcha's chest, carving upward, splitting the creature in half. More blood poured onto the ground along with severed arteries, bone, organs, and even brain matter. Standing before the gruesome display was none other than Stenzke.

"You missed one," she stated curtly.

'Of course, she wouldn't have much trouble.' Hower complained inwardly. He checked the status of his men, relieved at the light casualties.

The commander didn't have time to rest as the fight continued on. Fortified barriers created to halt slave revolts aided the marines, the batarians own creations actually becoming their enemy's ally.

From the battlefield, several of Velasquez's frag grenades, a few smoke variety added to the mix, landed amidst the batarian security teams, followed by the whoosh of three 30mm grenades launched by Stenzke's personal weapon. At the same time, the batarians and vorcha fortunate enough to survive the barrage, poured a metal rain onto the marines a gaping hole was created among the marines.

The gap was soon sealed by a moving wall, a chorus of terrifyingly synchronized mechanical roars accompanying the armored death, one not even the most savage of krogans could hope to match. Through the wreckage, with an ominous lock-step thunder of metal feet, emerged the massive figures of the YMIRs main body. While slow, their horrific presence clearly shifted the tide as dozens of them surged straight towards the closest pair of vorcha.

Before the dim-witted aliens could respond, the first YMIR fell upon them, flattening the first vorcha into the ground with a powerful mash, leaving a crater of yellow paste. The nearest vorcha tried of flee, a futile effort, before being stopped cold by a missile launched from the YMIR, evaporating the poor being.

A shower of disruptor and armor piercing rounds rained on the YMIRs, capturing their attention. The great wall of mechanical monstrosity almost laughably absorbed the rounds, offering a generous serving of retaliation. Entire bodies were shredded, others completely vaporized, while the unfortunate retained enough live to feel the pain of a thousand wounds as they bleed out.

Torfan's veterans rushed to meet the enemy, the moon's elite bringing out heavy turrets and missile launchers to destroy the robotic beasts. Not surprisingly though, the YMIRs continued onward undisturbed. However, the batarians managed to bring down one titan, causing it to combust in glorious fashion. Its fall from grace served to weaken the shields of its kin, allowing the batarians opportunities to slay more of the giants.

But as the maelstrom of steel and explosions met, the blood lust of the marines, in desperate need of venting, burst free adding thousands of slugs, biotic, and tech attacks into the ascending carnage. It truly became hell as corpses were trampled or disregarded.

The marines and LOKI mechs charged into the wide tunnel, flooded across the corridor, greeting the last of the defenders. Velasquez took the opportunity to blitz past the YMIRs to strike first, vaporizing the pair of batarian majors leading the last-ditch effort with a burst of her Locust. Then the petite engineer uncharacteristically activated her omni-tool, encasing it around her fist. She darted from foe to foe, brutally smashing batarians and vorcha alike with her explosive fist.

'Great, even our medic is on a killing spree,' Hower thought. 'I think I'm getting too old for this. Or slow. Yeah definitely slow.'

With momentum in their favor, the marines maintained their charge, swarming the corridor like a column of army ants, quickly eliminating any remaining survivors. They secured the area before continuing on their way completely unhindered until finally reaching their objective.

After minutes of traversing on foot, the marines entered a mammoth-sized cave, larger than any captured schematics or planetary scan could indicate. Lined horizontally across its width rested thousands of large, isolated cells, each containing a diverse population of alien races. Turian, asari, salarian, volus, and even a few krogan surprisingly. But then the human invaders came across the captives they've came to rescue, the ones that were part of their kind, their brethren. In total the number of souls caged were too astronomical to count. The magnitude simply astounded Hower.

Marines poured through the breached gates of Torfan, scurrying to secure the massive retention center. As the rescuers dashed past isolated, holding cells, they encountered a dim form standing behind a cage. "What's going on here?" The woman yelled in an odd accent.

Bellec and Stenzke presumed this person was human by how well articulate her words were, so they lowered their weapons. The marines examined the slim figure carefully,

Hower retrieved his Predator from its holster and with a single shot, the padlock clicked opened. "Alliance Marines, ma'am, one rescue mission, courtesy of Prime Minister Bonaventura!"

"This is now officially a prison break," Stenzke added. "So all of you better get your asses out of here!"

At first, the prisoners failed to understand; some didn't even know what species the invaders were, a result of having been held captive for so long they hadn't yet been made fully aware of the newest power in the galaxy. Many were too mentally brittle to process the chaos, too spiritually broken to entertain the thought of salvation. Fearing the worst, some had taken refuge in the barest and most pitiful of hiding places. To Hower the prisoners resembled scared vermin, scattering for cover after switching on the lights, cowering in the darkness or praying for mercy.

Some were even combative, most noticeably the krogan inmates. They were among the first to be convinced of the rescue operation and the only ones willing to offer aid to the marines, in the only way they knew how. Consequently, they were the first to be freed, and directed to traverse through the poisoned path the marines used, their robust biology allowing them easier access. Their goal was to link up with the Spetsnaz as reports indicated they would soon need the help to stem a massive counter-attack.

Yet to the prisoners, the scene appeared surreal. To the majority, captured long before Humanity was known, it appeared that stocky asari, or deformed batarians, were moving like crazed beasts. Some skittered across the celining supports, like faceless demons seeking a soul, while others marched in massive sets of armor, bristling with weapons and bearing signs of combat.

Hower had to admit, the marines were not parade ready. Most had battle scars on their armor, many others carried the blood of their enemies, with no chance to be truly clean. In their place, he could see how even the protective figures of the YMIR mechs caused terror; mountains of cable and plate, following their controllers like unthinking golems.

The fact that many soldiers were taking advantage of the break to re-load didn't help. Didn't standard Hierarchy doctrine require execution squads for their armies? But didn't that apply only to resistors? Yet he could see his marines going above and beyond their training, being as gentle as the circumstances allowed, sometimes more.

"Buddy, you're free," one marine said.

"Up quick and get over to the crowd! You're a free woman now," another said.

He nodded approvingly at the attitude, even if the manner lacked something. It was a pity that there were so few trained psychologists along; but then, there weren't enough trained mind specialists in the entire Alliance military for a mission on this scale. If he'd had his druthers, there would be months for this, not hours.

"C'mon, we're here to save you," Velasquez said to an asari prisoner. "Go meet up with the rest of the released detainees."

But the asari refused to budge. The engineer looked into her eyes and saw they tiny pupils, registering fear.

"What's wrong with you?" She asked. "Don't you want to be free?"

A smile formed on the asari lips, something about the strange creature before her reaching her heart. "I've heard rumors of a new species, but I couldn't believe it. What and who are you?"

"Human –" Velasquez managed to say.

"And the batarians worst nightmare." Stenzke butted in. "Now get going!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

For prisoners who could see, the marines looked exceedingly strange. They wore unfamiliar uniforms, carried unfamiliar guns. To mentally weakened prisoners, struggling to survive each day, the strapping soldiers looked imposingly huge, even menacing.

Even when the fear of a massacre had passed, even when most of the prisoners understood that the marines were indeed here to liberate them, many were still curiously reluctant to go. They seemed suspicious of their good fortune. It was impossible for them to shed the sour pessimism of captivity, having endured the hardships of Torfan. Their bodies and spirits being broken under the crushing weight of brutality. Or perhaps on some half-conscious level, they couldn't transgress the order of their captors, the only authority they had ever known for months, some even years and others much longer.

Slowly, the awareness that this was a massive jailbreak had begun to sink in among the prisoners. They had begun to react with a kind of catatonic ecstasy and mad glee with a mixture of numbness too hard to articulate.

Pride swelled into Hower's heart, seeing the now freed masses celebrating their rescue. Only for the feeling to be crushed by a transmission from the Spectres.

"Commander, it's Saren. We've found your way out, but there might be a small problem."

"What type of problem?" Other reports, from the other N7 quadrants, began to appear on his omni-tool. A massive batarian armored vehicle was running through the tramways, sweeping through whole sectors. Any concentration of marines caught in such a sweep were doomed.

One platoon of twenty marines had been ambushed by the vehicle, leaving only a single survivor. The wounded marine's report was relayed to the rest of the strike force, sending chills down any hardened veteran's spine. Their platoon had been attacked by an armored – not a tank or makeshift, weaponized ET10 – but a segmented, new-born thresher maw gliding on repulsors and speeding along the tramways. It had been armed with flame throwers and heavy mass accelerator autocannons with its acid acting as another weapon in its arsenal.

"His entire platoon was wiped out?" Hower felt something heavy and sickly tightened in his stomach – something that changed doubt into bitter determination.

"He's the only one left, sir." A marine replied over the com. The screams of rage, from the affected marine echoed in the background of the transmission.

Hower didn't press the marine for more details of the encounter. He knew all too well not to force the poor soldier to relieve the horror. Realizing the imminent threat, he assembled a team and set out to destroy the terrifying bio-weapon before they hunted them down to the last man.

"Tell him to get some rest, soldier," he said. "We'll take it from here."

Many lives had been claimed during the previous hours of intense fighting and now nineteen soldiers had died in one strike. Hower wasn't sure if it was his own restlessness or the soldiers' he sensed as he walked through the prison block, retrieving a set of heavy weapons.

"If you want to hurt them, you won't be short of volunteers," Velasquez commented.

"Oh, we'll hurt them alright," Stenzke said, generously gorging herself to the limit with heatsinks.

Hower ignored them, clipping a pair of FGM-90 missiles to his back and extra grenades to his belt. He patted himself down, ensuring his equipment was secure. That done, he found a sufficiently high-ranking marine, and gave one last order. "Lt. Commander, you're in charge until we get back."

Hower led two teams across the pits, hunting for the machine-beast that had taken the lives of his men. He took point, stalking the monster, checking its tracks. The others fanned out from the ambush location, doing a sweep of the area through the various tunnels behind. With preparations placed, the shrouded marines hunkered down, awaiting their prey.

The teams intercepted the worm as its crew began disembarking outside a sentry post. The heavy weapons proved useful. The exposed enemy officers were caught in a maelstrom of mass accelerator fire as confusion swept through their ranks. A single salvo of grenades and missiles lobbed straight at the worm penetrated its armor, bringing it to the ground. It spewed chemical fumes while crackling with electrical arcs.

By the time the sentries nearby regained their composure, ready to reinforce their allies, the squads' mission was done. But, Hower refused to call for a withdrawal until the weight of enemy reinforcements became too great – until the team had killed a dozen more officers and several dozen squads of batarians – and the proper revenge for the fallen marines was exacted. Bodies were heaped at the gates of the sentry post when Hower and his marines finally fled back into the tunnels. Traps along the way registered in his HUD as sprung by the enemy, further depleting them of more manpower.

Back at the prison blocks, the squad members still on guard duty – and there were many – cheered the squads' return. Some of the soldiers who'd taken part in the operation went on to rejoin their comrades, sharing stories of their triumphant victory. Though such triviality did not last long.

"Now, everyone listen up!" Hower shouted amongst the masses of ex-prisoners. "We march to freedom!"

The crowd erupted in cheers before dispersing into organized sections, lead and trailed by marines and mechs on all sides. A few itching for payback even grabbed the rifles of fallen batarians, intent on repaying their former captors in blood. With interest.

---

Underground Bunker, Center Passageway

Attican Traverse

Torfan

"So, what is your story?' Izotov asked, blowing a puff from his cigar. Commander Hower had notified him that a group of krogan were heading his way to assist in holding the passageway. The Spetsnaz captain had insisted they did not need anyone's help, but the commander was persistent. Knowing better than to make a ruckus, the captain had reluctantly agreed to accept the help. It was how he now found himself staring into the face of a krogan.

"My name is Urdnot Dagg from the Urdnot clan of the mighty krogan!" The beast bellowed, pride swelling in his body. "We've come to aid you in the valiant battle. It is the pride of all krogan to achieve death in battle."

"Is that why you got caught in the first place." Izotov retorted.

Dagg gave a growl, an action mimicked by the others. "Watch your tongue human. I'd rather not kill you, not yet anyway."

Izotov stepped forward, locking eyes with the krogan refusing to back down or be intimidated. "And I'd rather not waste my precious ammo on your corpse, dirty my hands with your blood, or soil my boots with your internal organs."

Seeing the venom in the human's eyes, Urdnot Dagg's scowl transformed into a toothed smile. "Hah! I am beginning to like you human. It will be an honor to fight at your side!"

Izotov remained unimpressed. "I want to make things very clear!" he yelled, making sure all krogan could hear him. "You will follow my orders and my orders only! Our mission is to hold this line, which means no charging the enemy or recklessly exposing yourselves. If you do such a thing, do not be surprised in getting caught in the crossfire, is that understood!"

A roar erupted among the krogan, rallying themselves behind the Spetsnaz captain.

"Good. Now I presume you all have weapons?" Izotov asked.

Dagg and the other krogan raised weapons confiscated from their original owners, some Krehlokk rifles, others Revenant machineguns, while a select few like Dagg hoisted a strange type of weapon with two large blades attached. "Your weapon, what is it?" Tatarev asked, strongly curious about the weapon.

"It's a favored weapon among my kind called the Spike rifle or Spiker as it is more commonly known. It fires elongated, superheated metallic spikes at high speeds." The krogan responded with a smile plastered on his face. "The batarians will be quite excited to see it."

"Hmph," Tankayev scoffed. "Spike rifle how original." The Bear made sure to tune his PKP-210 machine gun, knowing it would be used to its fullest.

"Be polite, Yuri." Chenko chided, inserting a fresh clip of 13mm rounds into her OSV-120 sniper rifle. The heavy weapon would be sure to obliterate the enemy. What made it more entertaining was how its user, a female, would create a whole additional layer of insult to the batarians.

"What of that strange contraption, human?" Dagg asked, eyeing the multi-meter long, metal-sealed contraption behind the Spetsnaz.

"It's our partying gift to the batarians. Outside of holding the line, our job is to erase any evidence of our presence." Izotov said, puffing another cloud of smoke from his lips.

"Meaning?"

The moon is evidence. We'll erase it."

"Ha!" Dagg punded his fists together, excitement glinting in his eye. "I can't wait to catch up on what I missed! Seems the galaxy has gotten in a better shape since I've been captured!"

"What happens if the enemy gets a lucky shot?" A krogan asked.

"First, our little toy isn't armed," Tankayev explained. "And even if it was, its sealed inside a shielded composite titanium-ceramic casing. If the Squints have a dreadnought down here, maybe they'll make a dent. Maybe."

"Just make sure to keep your head down," Izotov responded, moving aside to let Dagg crouch near him.

"This is going to be fun," the krogan growled, aiming the barrel of his weapon upon the dark tunnel ahead.

Izotov made sure the five hundred krogan were dispersed evenly among his small contingent of Spetsnaz, arranging them to provide additional fire alongside the Wolves and Bears. They took positions in the now captured checkpoint, its original guards now lying dead and their corpses carelessly disregarded. The GZ 550s had their heavy machine guns and grenade launchers detached and strategically spread across the walls. The vehicles would still be of use to him, an elaborate trap waiting to be executed.

The true reason behind the Spetsnaz confidence lay in the nigh one thousand LOKI mechs, overshadowed by hundreds of YMIRs, their larger kin. Such amassed firepower paled in comparison to what was unleashed upon the batarians in the Slaughter of Novaya but seemed adequate enough for a pure infantry support.

The passageway, honeycombed with tramways allowing for the transit of mass material, had been converted into a miniature fortress with defenses pointing in all entrances. A high wall roughly ten meters tall half of that wide, had been erected to form a square. The occupants were entirely covered by steel, ceramic, and ablative materials. Nothing short of an army could get past them, in fact to Izotov the scene greatly resembled the battle of Thermopylae. The greatest difference that sprang to his mind, lay in how the Spetsnaz planned on coming out alive.

Strangely enough, the surrounding area comprised largely of open lanes. Possibly left that way, to allow for easier movement of materials and making sure potential escapees had no haven from the slavers' wrath. It greatly amused Izotov that such fortifications, created to cage his kind, would be used to avenge them. All that was left now was to wait for the enemy to come to them once again.

Behind the Spetsnaz laid their grand-prize, free of risk from malfunction or other repercussions until its role in the battle could be fulfilled.

He checked his corners, out of habit. Several autonomous SK1 Portable Sentry guns, capable of firing twin heavy submachine guns and small 60mm caseless grenades, were deployed in strategic locations. Additionally, there were a generous amount of SD-24 Huntsman Spider drones inserted within the fortified areas to fill whatever gaps remained. Their tri-barreled 4mm mini-guns, 84mm tandem-warhead anti-armor rockets, and –ironically named – Bumblebee flame throwers, were guaranteed to annihilate the enemy. Of course, theirs were miniature versions paled when compared to the PRO-A Shimel Chemical flamethrowers wielded by the Bears and the five 7.62mm GSG Gatling guns with over a kilometer in effective range manned by the Wolves. The bristling weaponry brought some krogan to eye the Spetsnaz in envy.

But laid before the combined Spetsnaz and krogan force were a series of mines, both anti-personal and anti-vehicle, enough to cause brutal injury to any hundreds of unfortunate souls motivated to wrestle the area from the SGB's grasp. Sixty Spetsnaz and five hundred krogan, aided by drones and mechs, hunkered down and waited like cloaked predators for their prey. Lights were turned off or disabled, depriving the enemy of an asset while the Spetsnaz activated their integrated night-vision mode. The krogan were deprived of this strategic resource as well, but that was only a temporary detriment.

The enemy came aboard ET10s, ignorant of their imminent demise as the bright lights of their vehicles shone through the darkness. Noticing this section of the underground fortress lacked lighting, they slowed their vehicles, a squad disembarking to investigate.

The beads of one hundred Spetsnaz and krogan weapons leveled on individual enemy soldiers. The leader, or what Izotov presumed to be, hollered to the now-dead security guards. Before his ruse could be discovered, the Spetsnaz captain gave the order, "NOW!"

Instantly an iron wall of mass fire erupted from the fortification ranging from conventional weaponry to crude spikes, the defenders firing with a hatred and vengeance hardly seen before. A salvo delivered from the Bears obliterated the ET10, claiming the lives of its embarked soldiers and clogging the tunnel. The twisted metal contraption sent flying fragments everywhere, shredding into exposed flesh.

For the N7 marines, the killing was seen as a necessary evil and perhaps momentarily enjoyable, but not a gratifying aspect of their mission. For the Spetsnaz it was personal, tribal, and almost enjoyable, considering it a blessing of fate to deliver a strike against the slavers with all that could be brought to bear. For some it was their second reckoning, for others it was their first time delivering personal justice unto the slavers.

For the krogan however, it was a homecoming. One after another, they started grinning, baring teeth in a terrifying parody of a smile. Explosions that would deafen other species merely rocked them on their feet, like a gentle breeze. Indeed, some had been cradled through bombardments; explosions were a lullaby to most. The chance to fight, to inflict death on their foes was more than an addictive drug. It wasn't even the obligation of a highly trained organization of professional soldiers.

To the krogan, it was a way of life.

Immediately heavy cannon, rifle, machinegun, and sniper fire raked the batarian positions, massive rounds slamming into their shields. At first, the slavers withered, taken completely by surprise. It took several minutes and hundreds dead before they could muster even a tepid response.

The first came in the form of approximately fifty Torfan slavers gathering across the tunnel and mounting a charge while chanting weird incantations. But Izotov's men and allies, spread out in a V-shaped wedge, ideally positioned to counter the charge. By concentrating their fire directly on the tunnel ahead, they were sure to catch the onrushing enemy.

The first barrage did last even five seconds, the enemy cut down to the last man by enfilading fire and barely taking three meters of ground. The vorcha responded in bold obtuseness by creating another wave of soldiers and dashing forward. When they too were sawed down, the enemy dispatched a third, and a fourth, every charge sending spirited battle cries before meeting certain death. As the enemy kept rushing, the Spetsnaz and krogan kept mowing them down.

Only the ex-commandoes survived those waves, the elite of Trofan's slavers, acting upon instinct, running forward for the nearest available cover, which came in the form of a destroyed ET10, its frame horribly scarred and melting from several places. In the initial wave of destruction, the Spetsnaz and Krogan had racked up a body count numbering in the thousands.

A Wolf screamed in pain as he was impacted with a high-concussive shot. A nearby Bear grabbed the injured soldier, dragging him into safety, calling for a medic. Both of their positions were filled by YMIRs, the gap created virtually unnoticeable.

The batarians responded effectively, bringing forward heavy missile troopers and shield pylons. From across the tunnel, a batarian took aim on the defender's fort with a ML-77. He fired on the fort, scoring a solid hit. The section of wall was smashed in with dozens of soldiers hurled back.

Yet the sound tactics performed by the enemy were rare, the mass of vorcha continuing to expend themselves. It went on for nearly an hour, a scene of revolting carnage with bodies piling up by the hundreds.

"They'll keep on coming," Tatarev predicted. "Until the last of them are dead. They don't seem to know no other way."

"Good!" Tankayev exclaimed. "That just means more trophies for us," the Bear cried, attaching a fresh magazine into his machinegun.

"The vorcha perhaps, but the batarians seem to have learned their lesson the first time," Chenko said, observing the batarians' sense of survival.

"Our greatest enemy right now is complacency," Izotov stated, carefully. Even so, he cracked a bloodthirsty grin after destroying a duo of vorcha from a grenade launched from his rifle.

"This is worth livin' for!" Dagg shouted. His spike thrower launched one-handed, recoil slamming back with enough force to stagger a Bear. He simply chuffed a breath, laughing at the carnage.

Yet as the vorcha continued raced across the tunnel, having to climb over a virtual mountain of corpses of their comrades, the Spetsnaz couldn't comprehend the vorcha battle zeal. It seemed comprised of equal parts of superhuman courage and an obedience of extraordinary self-degradation.

At one point a small group of batarians showed initiative, attempted a flanking attack from one of the other tunnels. Their effort was detected and halted by the defenders through a mixture of rockets and mass fire. The batarians failure to find an effective alternate route across their own stronghold was inexplicable, their kamikaze charge of vorcha would have been a chilling spectacle to watch for most other forces, but the Spetnazs' armored clad face lit by the flames of the siege creased with a barely perceptible smile while the krogan were displaying pure emotions never seen before.

That is until a loud cry, slowly rising in volume, literally detonated across the tunnel. Bodies, piled two meters deep lifted like the undead rising up to take vengeance for the slaughter. Red light glowed, crashing forwards in an in-organic howl. The clogged tunnel became undone, sending massive pieces of the destroyed ET10s across. Shuddering ground rumbled, shaking even the stronghold the Spetnazs had erected. Then, they could see the uncompromising forms of massive metal bodies, effortlessly pushing the mixed bodies aside, rolling over what was left.

The batarians had cleared a path through the roadblock with Kharsae tanks leading the charge, with numerous new-born thresher maws rallied behind them.

"NOW THIS IS GETTING INTERESTING!" Dagg roared. The other krogan bellowed agreement, rising as high as they could to bellow defiance. The sound of five hundred krogan, all making as much noise as possible, rivaled that of the oncoming tanks.

Rockets fired by the Bears reduced more than half the tanks into heaps of blackened, burning wreckage, while the enemy infantry amassed in a desperate final attack. A virtual no-man's land had been created, one shrinking by the minute. The further line comprised of batarians and vorcha soldiers, fighting with mass accelerator weapons. Their thresher maw vehicles launched hyper-accelerated slugs at the human defense line, flames and corrosive acid launching upon the human and krogan defenders. The erected fortifications had taken the brunt of the attack, but the enemy still claimed the lives of a few YMIR mechs.

The batarians fought furiously, severely wounding a few Spetsnaz and krogan. Sadly, eight Spetsnaz had been killed with four krogan severely injured. The defenders responded in renewed rage, limbs violently torn off bodies, organs viscerally shredded, and brain matter splattered across the floor and on the walls.

Chenko proved to be a fierce killer with her OSV-120 rifle, a 13mm round from her rifle tearing through a heavily armored batarian and exploding out like a cannon ball.

"Hah, Chenko your skills are unrivaled!" Tankayev complimented.

"You have a machinegun, right?" Chenko asked, firing off another round. "Why don't you spend less time talking and more time firing?"

"You truly are Spetsnaz!" The big Russian yelled, the recoil of his PKP-210 sending shockwaves into his shoulder.

Of course, the defenders gave their enemies no quarter, either. They fought with their preferred weapons, the Spetsnaz creating a wall of fire comprised of enormous rounds no physical creature could pass through while the krogan fought with more conventional coil-guns, their properties having less of a traumatizing effect while the krogan wielding the primitive projectile launchers embedded large spikes through armored bodies, stopping them dead in their tracks. Frequently, a spike hit so hard, the body was pinned against whatever was behind it, be it a tank, stone wall, or another batarian.

Bears spat out high-explosive deaths on their enemies with their RP-Z3s, the loaded warheads dispersing incendiary pellets. Wolves dealt pain by launching grenade upon grenade from the under-barrels of their rifles or strafing the area with fire from rotary cannons, flooding the tunnel with the blood of their enemies. Krogans and YMIR mechs caused further trauma. None could stand against their wrath, and live.

Izotov felt mass accelerated slugs whiz past his head every few seconds, but never once did he felt the sudden urge to duck his head or leap for cover. His extensive armor system absorbed what few shots were accurate enough hit. The ground he defended was beginning to become littered with spent bullet casings, ever increasing by each spent magazine.

"Captain Izotov, pull your forces back. We're evacuating now," Commander Hower stated on the com channel. "Complete your mission and proceed to extraction."

"That might be a tad difficult at the moment!" Izotov practically screamed into the com, struggling to be heard over the raging storm.

"Understood. Be advised we are operating on a timetable here."

"We're Spetsnaz, we'll be fine."

"Disregard any unnecessary equipment. With the number of captives rescued I doubt we'll have much space left over."

"Got it."

A load roar was heard nearby, signaling the launch of several Mini-Kornet-K HEAT missiles. The effect absolutely eradicated much presence of the batarians and vorcha.

"Ahahaha! Captain, you sure know how to pick the fights!" Tankayev shouted, a severed vorcha skull landing beside his feet. He picked it up to examine it carefully before putting it on his satchel. "This will make for a fine trophy!"

"Just focus on the mission," Izotov retorted. Personally, he couldn't care less about such trivialities.

"This will make an excellent battle-song to share if we make it out alive!" Dagg cried in joy.

"If? What do you mean if," Tatarev questioned. "We are Spetsnaz. Of course, we're going to make it out of this alive! Do you really think this is enough to silence our voice?" The heavy hammering of his EVA-8 automatic shotgun dislodging entire drums of pellets. Entire bodies resembled swiss cheese with the number of rounds lodged into them. His shotgun barked loudly, shredding the shields of a batarian soldier and sending pellets through the soldier towards the one standing behind him.

One would have though the defenders would've been overwhelmed in a matter of seconds, but tenacity of the Spetsnaz and krogan had turned the rifle-battle into an enormous brawl. The defenders' will was simply too great to be snuffed out through mundane numbers. A brutal lesson, taught by the finest Spetsnaz instructors, was being hammered into Torfan's inhabitants: never underestimate the sheer willpower of Mother Russia, nor her children's rage.

Izotov could almost hear "State Anthem of the Russian Federation," playing in his ears as several more Kharsae tanks lit up, smoke and flames pouring from their hatches. But then the drivers of the armored thresher maws made their move, spurring their mounts it in an attempt to ram the defenders.

As they approached, the Bears answered with RP-Z3s and Mini-Kornet-Ks. Over a dozen 100mm HEAT missiles roared defiance, plowing through the armor of a thresher maw, impacting the body underneath. Pieces of the slain beast sailed directly towards the ceiling, taking flight like a proud Russian spacecraft.

The SK1s maintained a continuous barrage of their fire-linked twin heavy submachine guns and 60mm grenades, decimating enemy infantry while the Huntsman Spider drones hammered the thresher-maws with 84mm tandem-warhead anti-armor rockets. Wolves, manning the Gatling guns, chewed through the infantry. Krogan fired their weapons with an almost religious fervor, pleased their captors had the decency to bring forth Tuchanka's feared predator.

"You seeing this?" Tatarev asked Izotov. "I think they're getting creative or desperate!"

"I believe it's the latter," Izotov said. "The former is too great a concept for these scums. Let's give them a show."

With just less than a hundred meters separating the attackers and defenders, the Spetsnaz activated their trap. Once again, the Slaughter of Noveya was destined to repeat itself. In perfect synchronization, hundreds of mines detonated beneath the thresher-maw vehicles, destroying their underbelly, stopping them as clouds of smoke obscured the area. Literal showers of blood and internal showered the defenders as they continued their onslaught.

All GZ-550s roared to life before racing across the cavern, ramming the enemy infantry head on, explosive cargo exploding in the middle of enemy lines. With the last few thousand aliens corralled into the kill-zone, the Bears activated their PRO-A Shimel flame throwers, a literal inferno erupting from the maw of their weapons to engulf an entire kilometer of space within the tunnel. Any living being positioned on the wrong end of the flame-throwers was broiled alive.

"Urah!" The Spetsnaz roared, their battle-cry drowning out even the krogans. A moment was spent by the defenders in admiration of their work. A literal mass grave stood before them, comprised varying alien species, blood and other bodily fluids mixing with each other to create a new stream of liquid gore.

"Everyone begin moving out, we are leaving." The Captain ordered. "You have all fought valiantly and earned some rest. My squad and a few others will have the glorious task of planting our partying gift!"

"I hope we cross paths again human," Dagg said. "If you're ever find yourself on Tuchanka, ask for the Urdnot clan. We will greet you with open arms after this."

"Noted, and I'll make sure to mention your people's bravery. Perhaps Russia will have reason to establish ties."

"Indeed." Dagg agreed.

As the figures dwindled in the dark tunnel, Izotov's squad and several began preparing their partying gift. Deploying thermonuclear weaponry took time, talent, and skill. It also took training, a resource his squad held in abundance. No one,could accuse his squad of being untrained.

"Careful now," Izotov cautioned. It was his nature to be wary; it had served them well in Shanxi. "We have all the time in the world. All the time we need."

Their mission, unlike the cunning maneuvers of the JSF, did not find its purpose in rescuing humans or whatever aliens the ублюдки four-eyed – Izotov cut off the thought. What they did in the next few minutes would send a message to the batarians. And the batarian government. And the overarching Council group, apparently in charge of the batarians. If he had his wish, there would be equal treatment: a Shanxi for a Shanxi as it were.

Tatarev grunted acknowledgement, keeping his eyes focused on the controls. Drilling mechanisms, originally designed to operate on non-atmospheric planetoids, operated at a furious tempo beneath their feet. Sensors, redlining their outrage at the treatment he was giving, blinked furiously from the console. He studied them with the same indifference he'd applied to rampaging ants; careful, but distant. Powerful engines, armored against the vigors of hard vacuum and molten stone proved more than a match for bedrock. Drill bits, more energy than matter, sliced into the same ground.

"ETA ten minutes, Captain."

A vicious, twisted version of a smile flickered across Izotov's face. "Chenko, start the loading process."

The beautiful sergeant flashed him an attractive smile before snapping out orders. All around the complex, soldiers dropped what they were doing. Moving fluidly, more like an oil than machine, they formed ranks and double-timed their steps.

Izotov returned his focus to the drill. A three-dimensional guide showed relative distances, blinking dots representing disparate points within the moon's crust. Surprisingly, Torfan held a vast array of underground caverns teeming with life.

'And the bones of slaves, dumped out like trash,' he reminded himself. 'Now they will finally get their rest. A pyre the galaxy has never seen before … unless this Council has more fortitude than they've shown so far.'

"Optimal depth in five minutes, sir."

He waved a hand to Tankayev, still clad in his massive Bear armor. The staff-sergeant had never taken it off on any foreign soil, a trait Izotov found both admirable and foolish. The smaller man somehow perceived the motion without looking, sending the command up to the surface.

Within two minutes, the rumbling sound met his helmet's audio receptors. It pleased him on a level the more… privileged would never understand: the sound of justice.

"Wheels of justice turn slow," he quoted his grandfather. Without realizing it, he even copied the old man's posture, both arms folded across the chest. "But the grist is fine indeed."

"Heyla, Captain," Tatarev agreed. "They'll make a pretty fine dust out of this one."

For a moment, Izotov considered correcting the other man's vocabulary, but gave it up as the payload rolled closer.

Over the course of human history, there had many explosives created since inception of black powder, from the primitive fireworks of ancient China to the mighty nuclear bombs of the nuclear age. Through it all the Tsar Bomb held the honor of being widely considered to be the most powerful, had held that point of recognition barely a few decades. Even Shanxi had carried several examples of the reliable weapon.

That was of course before he'd been informed of a special payload available; something that had technically never existed. Of course, nothing had been manufactured in bulk; larger warheads tended to have shorter half-lives after all; but with the advent of Element Zero and a scientist or two that might have been better kept in an insane asylum, a new device had been created.

In the strict, legal sense of treaties that were older than some civilizations, its creation was outlawed … but those treaties were limited in scope to Human territories. He had argued long and hard for an exercise in logic, taking advantage of the open window, however brief.

Torfan wasn't Human.

The device, carried on the backs of four conveyances, trundled towards the drilled-out hole. Itzov admired its clumsy outline, the statement clearly indicating an inurement to mere aesthetics. This was a device created for one purpose and one purpose only. But that wasn't the best part: another five siblings in the new, ugly family were in the hall behind their eldest. The as-of-yet unnamed instrument of retribution.

That needed to change.

"Beautiful Justice," he murmured. That's what he would name it. One glance to his squad, and the name was confirmed.

Izotov flashed another smile, this one decidedly carnivorous. "We have a damage estimate?"

An amused snort came from Tatarev's direction. "So long is it makes a really big boom, I don't care what the numbers monkeys say."

Chuckling emanated from Chenko's position. It seemed out of place, considering her dainty features; rumor had it she'd turned down a modeling career in favor of furthering her military career. No one asked. Manners counted for something, unless both parties were uproariously drunk. And it was nigh-impossible to get one of the Bears fully intoxicated.

"If we get enough in here," her mezzo-contralto voice opined. "Maybe we can split this moon in half?"

Laughter from the squad approved of the idea.

"Turn it into dust!" a voice cheered. Itzov couldn't make out the speaker.

"Frag 'em!" another started chanting. The words started reverberating off the subterranean walls as the squad joined in, rebounding with each passage. Dust shuddered from the tunnel walls as the chant grew louder, echoes coming back down out of sync until it sounded as if demons were screaming with the squad.

Izotov let them. It had been a long day, and a bloody beginning. A little vocal steam could be let go with no effort.

Yet, even he felt a shiver run down his spine. The vast containers, each loaded with enough explosive power to silence a nation, rolled past. In the cacophonic din, it seemed as if they moved in perfect silence, ghosts filing to the portal that would see vengeance meted out at last.

Izotov clenched his fist, raising his own baritone to join his squad in their paean of hate. The batarians had tried attacking one colony. In return, one planet would be erased. If they learned their lesson, all well and good. If another world had to die, so be it.

This would be their only warning.

---

UNASS Clarence E. Walsh

Destroyer

Command Deck

Shuttles flew above the viewing deck. Torfan, orange and yellow in the light reflected from the gas giant it orbited, shedding shuttles and landing ships like rats fleeing a sinking wreck.

"Last shuttles are off site, sir." A lieutenant saluted.

Captain Murray returned the gesture, staring at the planetoid. Unidentified batarian ships, possibly part of the defense fleet or material freighters, hovered behind the former dungeon world, poised to counter anything his small fleet would do, should he instruct it to attack. A faint smile crossed his lips at the thought; as if he'd send any human vessel near that death trap masquerading as a planet? The idea was laughable; what made it more laughable was how the idea would return on the batarian heads. They want the planet so badly? They could have it.

"The flotilla is signaling readiness, sir. We are waiting on your order." The same lieutenant murmured.

He stirred. "Very good. All ships, form up on the flagship. Let's go home."

A cheer met his words, and the view deck slowly tilted away from the death world. He looked away, turning his face towards his home world. Life would continue, just not for the monsters.

---

Underground Bunker, Center Passageway

Attican Traverse

Torfan

One small vessel, an observation platform mounted on an enormous pair of engines really, loitered behind as the human fleet rabbited to FTL. Its sole occupant directed every sensor onboard to view the moon. Orbiting satellites, disguised as junk by the departing fleet, fed him sensor readings from every possible angle, and a few that Jose would have deemed impossible.

Batarian ships began landing, making obvious beelines for the repair facilities still intact. Paranoid as the species was, scouts traveled ahead, checking for explosives, not that any were left behind.

It took hours. Nearly an entire standard day in fact, but the larger batarian warships finally began descending towards the repair docks.

Jose didn't smile. It couldn't, it was an VI, tasked with observing. Should the worst happen, an FTL capable pod carrying its memory banks would be ejected, and travel straight to Arcturus. Should the worst not happen, the superior data collecting segments of its ship would take the slower route back; still faster than light, but not quite as fast as a small pod.

The immense vessels of war vanished against Torfan's bulk, their mass insignificant in comparison. Jose waited, internal timers counting down, observing from the satellites in orbit and hacked cameras on the moon's surface. It could see movement, repair bays opening, contents spilling out. Bipedal forms stalked around damaged regions; gesticulating and pointing glowing tools in all directions. Soon, the programming controlling the observation system were discovered, and Jose's surface-based cameras began to shut down.

Jose's timer accelerated, seconds running like water. More ships appeared, Cherenkov light-bursts flowering into view as they decelerated from supra-light speeds. Unlike their earlier kindred, these vessels wasted no time making for Torfan's surface, some dipping out of sight while others took up defensive positions.

Their arrangement was duly recorded.

Finally, the timer clicked the last few micro-seconds, and rested. Nothing appeared to happen, except for the readings on Torfan's graviton signature, trembling.

Then, the sight it had been seeking appeared. Torfan appearing to convulse, seismic activity rippling across the desert planet's surface in multiple waves. Entire mountain ranges collapsed, unseated by the very tectonic plates that had built them up; valleys collapsing upon themselves for the same reason. Jose's sensors were not quite good enough to read individual bio-signatures, but the patterns of metal, oxygen and heat representing the slave-master base shredded in its analyses. Water, stored in aquifers deep beneath Torfan's surface, roared into sight, visibly turning into clouds of steam upon reaching the sandy external layer.

But that was only the start.

Magma, built into intolerable pressures, forced its way upwards through cracks rapidly forming on the planetoid's crust. The two tiny ice caps sublimated, bypassing the liquid stage completely in an attempt to shed energy, turning into steam. Clouds, dark and full of devastating energy, grew from nothing in seconds. Ejecta, compressed beyond even planet-crushing forces was sent into loops hundreds of kilometers long, arcing into space. The molten rock exposed to the rigors of space flash-cooled, inhuman beauty sent towards the stars in one last grasp for immortality.

Jose carefully adjusted its sensor angles, compensating for satellites destroyed in the process. Batarian ships, still in orbit, powered up their engines. Faint glows of the igniting power converters reached Jose's sensors, just before two of the smaller warships veered into each other, navigation thrown off by the sudden change in gravitational bearing. Larger ships kept their shields up, deflecting smaller vessels with partial success.

The sensors continued recording, sending a constant feed of the moon's destruction back to Jose. It, in turn, saved every picosecond of data, storing filling a high-density server aboard his observation pod. No emotion existed in its cold circuits, but an analysis program determined an appropriate adjective be selected … awed, perhaps? Dismayed? Firing a rapid-sequence analogue to what humans described as 'confusion'. About what, its programming didn't clarify.

Future actions would be the only cure for that state of being, it calculated. For the moment, there was only the mission.

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A/N: Yeah that's right! I've just made a chapter of the SGB and Krogan fighting side by side. I just gave you something you didn't even know you guys wanted!

Hope the long-awaited chapter fills your expectations and the climax of the arc serves it justice. Just to let you guys know I took a little longer with this chapter as a result of suffering from a seizure attack near the end of March, but I'm back in action.

Response to guest reviews

1. for those of you giving me ideas for another story, I must sadly state that this trilogy is my primary focus and I cannot put in effort into another story mostly because it will practically be the same to this one so sorry to disappoint you guys.

2. The Enforcer Corps is made up of all special forces in Europe and are not limited to the ones listed.

3. Humanity does have a significant number of biotics, but they don't have specialized biotic units. As far as I know, the turians are the only ones to have them while humanity differs greatly in having biotics integrated into general units to augment the ones they are in

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Trivia:

1. We have a reference to our favorite turian and his need for calibrations

2. Frost's plan of eliminating the enemy's leadership is reminiscent of General RAAM's strategy in Gears of War.

3. The mention of distance being a luxury is a reference to Jun from Halo Reach, specifically a trailer referring to all of Halo team.

4. Dozz's naming of the heavy bomb is a reference to Fallout 3 and Lovecraftian horror.

5. Maerun's snide remark assuming how to use the orb is a reference to Teamfourstar's dragonball parody.

6. Hower dual-wielding a primary weapon and sidearm is a reference to Noble Six's last stand.

7. Hower assuming his lack of combat prowess being due to him getting slow is indeed a tribute to Wrex's remarks in the Citadel DLC.

8. The thresher-maw battle vehicle was inspired by Star Wars Twilight Company.

9. The krogan weapon is definitely a tribute to Halo and you can expect other arms from other video-games to make a cameo in the story so long as they can fit within the universe.

10. The SGB drones and mini-gun were inspired by weapons from Frontlines Fuel of War and Call of Duty Black Ops II drones and weapons.

11. The title is a tribute to the great HBO show Spartacus.

12. The SGB nuke and the destruction it unleashes is inspired from Halo's very own nova bomb!