A/N:

For those of you who didn't read the warning in the last chapter, and are now confused: before this chapter was published (which, for future reference, was on 8/9/15), the story was titled 'Mass Effect: The Saltorian War'. But, in the interests of rebranding the story so as to better reflect the final product (a rant/explanation I've repeated several times now, and will spare you all a final repeat), its title has now been changed to 'Mass Effect: The New Face of War'.

Thank your for your patience, and without further ado:

We're off!

Chapter 23

"Never count a Human as dead until you see his body. And even then you can make a mistake."

— Lady Margot Fenring, quoting a Bene Gesserit aphorism, Dune

April 23rd , 2216

The void was silent, and the Captain would have it no other way. His ship was one of only twelve others like it in all of the Galaxy, but the honor came in the fact that the HSV Vengeance was also the most powerful. It was a fusion of the furiously advantageous Human technology, and the clearly superior Hegemony tech. It utilized Mass Effect travel technology, Human weaponry, Human armor, and Batarian technology, in essence, making it a Mock-Up design of the Alliance Navy's greatest designs, as of the Human-Turian war. The Hegemony knew their Pratr ships couldn't stand up against Humanity as they were now, they still needed numbers. But in order to get numbers, they needed more Human ships to tear apart and rebuild, and that was where Captain Soryl came into play.

He and his flotilla of twelve Pratrs had to move perfectly in order to execute their plans without flaw. Had it not been for the information donated by an individual Hegemony Intelligence only referred to as 'The Mysterious One', this maneuver would have most likely been impossible. But, thanks to TMO's information on Alliance Naval weaknesses, the Hegemony might finally be able to make Cruiser – or, Gods willing, Dreadnought – sized vessels infused with Human technology.

From what TMO had informed them, all Alliance ships, even the impenetrable Tuning Vessels, suffered from one unifying weakness: Their thrusters. As safe as the enormous geysers of flame and energy were, in a naval battle they were weaknesses waiting to be exploited, as they were any attacker's best bet at ripping apart the ship from the inside-out. A well placed, powerful shot could gut a ship as far forward as their engineering bay, and destroying that sector of a ship effectively crippled the rest of the vessel. Reflecting this, Captain Soryl's Flotilla's orders had been simple: incapacitate as many Alliance ships as they could safely haul out, but refrain from placing the Mock-Up flotilla in any extreme danger. In other words, Soryl could only feasibly take down four ships, but by Gods he would try to make one of them one of the Alliance's cruiser-analogues, the Destroyers. As odd a convention as the Destroyers were - though clearly not as strange as their spacecraft carriers - they were certainly effective in a naval battle, and being able to recreate that effectiveness would guarantee Batarian supremacy in the void.

The problem was, the Alliance's sensor arrays tracked countless things in the void. From things as simple as the undeniable heat signatures, to as obscure as engine emissions. This meant that the Flotilla had to do a hit-and-run strike on a blindingly close angle, as in, they had to go in at FTL, cripple the Alliance ships, FTL back out past weapons-ranges, and get ready for the second strike. This part of their hit and run would involve the most risk on their ends, as they had to drop out of the second FTL jump so they could turn around, kill their momentum, jump in to FTL a third time, hop over to the Alliance ships, drop out long enough to hook the Tethers onto the enemy ship and then jump back to FTL a fourth time to drag them out of the solar system. Ignoring the stress this would put on their drive cores and engines, so many jumps, turns, and the added strain of dragging so much mass would put their ships superstructures under heavy strain, they may very well tear themselves apart, but they had to do it - they needed this kind of power. Soryl had been wary of the tethers tactic, but he had been born in a time long before gravity tethers and eezo tractor beams, so some of his worries were moot, but still valid in their own right.

"Captain, we are ready, simply relay the command." His helmsman said.

Captain Soryl shook himself from his reverie, and sure enough, they were only a few minutes away from the Alliance blockade. Soryl knew that the Alliance was fond much less of the practice of 'blanketing', the Naval tactic that involved covering a planet's orbit in naval vessels, as many Citadel navies were; the Alliance preferred keeping their ships out of the fight, along the rim of the solar system. Soryl saw the merit in this strategy, especially when their weapons and tactics were taken into consideration, but the primary weakness was one that Soryl planned to exploit: They were, as advertised, taken away from the fight. As long as the Hegemony's forces came in hard and fast, they would get out with minimal - if any - casualties.

"On my word, we begin the assault." The yellow-skinned, dark-eyed Captain said slowly, looking at the scanners, the Vengeance was the largest of his flotilla, and therefore the most powerful, thus, it was his duty to cripple one of the Alliance's 'Destroyers'. "In three..." He saw his sailors dutifully begin preparations, the engines were ready, "two..." Soon after the weapons lights went green, the Magnetically Accelerated, but Mass Affected rounds were ready to be fired. "One..." All that was left was to just do it. "Begin the assault."

And with that single phrase, his ship jolted forward. In a maneuver that belied their lack of practice, the near-kilometer long Vengeance rushed forwards at FTL Speeds. The VI's in the ship, made from the most advanced technology the Hegemony had to offer, and from shredded fragments of Human AI's, were the primary means of aiming weapon, because no organic alive could perform the shots they were about to attempt, and when the ships came within the two second window of the perfect shot, the Vengeance's VI worked perfectly. The ships shed FTL, fired its two cannons one right after the other, and entered FTL immediately thereafter, the ship itself shuddering and groaning under the force of the projectile launch and the FTL Flight.

"Weapons fired." Reported one of the officers.

"We're past the Human blockade."

"Wait five seconds and then exit FTL, then turn around and head back to the target again at FTL Speeds." With the trip they had planned they would be pushing the very limits of their engines, what with all of the static electricity they had pent up already, but this was a risk the crews of the Pratr Flotilla was willing to take, by putting all of their lives on the line, in relying upon experimental technology.

"Understood." Several moments passed, "exiting FTL."

An instant later, as the ship lurched, its engines flaring to turn it completely around and then halt its momentum, another officer reported in. "Captain, scanners show target ship is dead in the water."

"Clarification." The ship's engines were flaring brightly now that it was completely turned around, now its momentum needing to be canceled out.

"Engines severely damaged. Thrusters offline. Primary weapons offline. Defense turrets online." A pause, "other ships reporting in missions accomplished and are deploying gravity tethers."

"Captain, Alliance Frigates moving in, Dreadnoughts acquiring targeting solutions!"

"Get targeting solutions and fire on the frigates!" The Captain ordered, and several long seconds later the ship shuddered as its cannons fired one after the other. Two of the Frigates that were moving to intercept his ship were, according to the scanners right in front of him, utterly destroyed, the third and fourth were damaged but still moving, weapons fire was reported just as his ship jumped to FTL, missing the Human fire by incalculable kilometers.

When the ship reached its target, the Vengeance exited FTL. In what could only be described as a duel between synthetic minds, the Vengeance's VI shot forth gravity tethers as the AI of the Alliance Destroyer - and almost instantly afterwards the Humans as well - activated their point-defense weaponry.

"Captain, shields at ninety percent!" An officer reported as the ship was raked with gunfire, and then seconds later he corrected himself when the Humans' lasers came into play. "Shields at eighty three percent, sir, we can't withstand a sustained assault like this, not when their broadside cannons come back online!"

"Captain, their AI is trying to get past our firewalls!"

"Calibrate the gravity tethers." The Captain ordered calmly, "and flood them with as much junk data as you can, slow down their AI until we can hit FTL again, they won't be able to do a thing afterwards." He ordered, before following it up with a quick reminder, "make certain every crewman is wearing their hard suits. If that machine tries to cut our oxygen I don't want half of the ship to choke." As he pondered his next course of action. He considered trying to fry the Humans' technology, but he doubted extending their Mass Effect field would work, that theory was untested at best and doomed to fail at worst. "Has our momentum been canceled?"

"Yes sir."

"Launch the tethers when ready."

"Sir, spatial anomalies detected, they're launching missiles!"

"Activate the GARDIAN turrets." He felt the gut-clenching tension begin to set in despite it all, it was down to who could do what first: His people calibrating and launching gravity tethers, or the Humans recalibrating, and aiming Destroyer's broadside cannons. The ship shook violently just a few moments later. "Report!" He roared, knowing that it wasn't at all their broadsides - they would have been killed outright if it were.

"Missile strike to the crew quarters. No losses, no exposure, but severely damaged armor integrity!"

"Launch the disruptor torpedoes -" He caught himself, and elaborated, "- half of them. I want at least half of our rounds loaded in case they try something. Hit their broadside cannons." The Captain ordered, feeling more and more vulnerable as he did, not at all liking the feeling of a half dozen enormous magnetic cannons pointing right at his ship, there was a reason even the Turians feared Alliance Naval Destroyers.

"Torpedoes launched. Six were deflected by their shields, the remaining fourteen hit their targets!" The officer reported vehemently. "We're showing all of their cannons crippled or damaged."

Almost immediately after the man was finished speaking, someone else called out, "gravity tethers calibrated and online, Sir! The ship is stuck to us!".

"Are the other Pratrs ready?" Soryl demanded quickly.

"Waiting for your go!"

"FTL! Get us out of here!" And with that, the Batarian ships bolted away, hurtling through the void at speeds light couldn't match.

Captain Soryl's heart was pounding, and sweat was forming in the ridges between his eyes. "I want a full report. How many of who and what did we lose?"

"We lost one ship, sir, a Frigate-sized vessel. HSV Speed." A communications officer reported after a few seconds' pause, "the HSV Torn Is also reporting significant reactor damage, but back-ups are adequate enough to get us back to Hegemony space."

"Send a message to Torfan, get them to have soldiers ready to board their ships. I don't want to stay in one place with these people, so they can keep all of them." Soryl ordered, "is there anything else?"

"No sir. Worried reports from the crew decks about leaking air, but the VI doesn't detect any exposure, large or small."

"We'll organize a space-walk after we get to Khar'Shan, check the damages." Soryl nodded, before he got to his feet with a grunt. "If there is nothing else, I shall retire to my quarters." Soryl couldn't help but allow himself a smile, their species had just scored their first victory against the Humans, and if the flotilla's performance was anything to go by, they would soon be getting many more, indeed.

If one had to use just one word from the myriad of languages the Milky Way had spawned, to describe Hans Griebun's fury, one could simply and succinctly say cold. The Admiral was calm, collected, and furious beyond all measure, but his anger was a cold one, it was a calculating one, as opposed to raw, unbridled, hot, rage. When one was scaldingly angry, one considered not what they did and thus would act rashly; obviously, such hot fury was not becoming of an Admiral of thirty years experience, so he prefered the cold method - where he was in complete control of his facilities.

The attack on his fleet had been an almost supreme test on his self control. Not since the Second Contact War had things been in such a furious, frantic fervor - even the Mercenary Wars were less frantic than what he'd just seen. The aliens were learning how to fight like Humans, and as such were learning to fight Humans - and that terrified the man that had once believed that his people had the strength to protect themselves. By using hit and run tactics, the Batarians damaged and crippled Human naval vessels, and then snatched them right out from his infamously iron grip. Now the aliens would do the Human thing - they would learn just how what worked, and figure out how to reverse engineer it. Worse was how Human technology didn't all revolve around the 'miracle substance' that was the Council's Element Zero - once the Citadel figured out how to do something, they could do it easily, so once they figured out how to recreate Human power generators, travel or weapons technology, the scales would favor the Humans less, and the aliens more.

Nothing made him more furiously terrified than that fact alone.

Hours had passed since the attack, and Griebun was working hard at keeping his voice level and his visage calm, though everyone aboard his three kilometer flagship could plainly see how much anger was bubbling beneath the surface of the unshakable admiral. He had long since passed the point where shouting would help siphon it in some small way, his cold fury was now what the crew of his flagship was being subjected to.

"In summary, sir... It was a perfectly executed hit-and-run." His Executive Officer said, summarizing his report.

"We lost – literally lost – a Destroyer, three Frigates and four fighters... And we're going to call this a 'Hit and Run'?" Griebun growled, "I've already got to report to Arcturus that we've discovered Warp Tech on a Batarian world, and that a SIGMA Operative has gone Missing In Action... And now I've got to tell them we've suffered critical losses because of a Batarian Snatch-and-Grab?" He demanded quietly, through raw fury was almost desperately trying to overwhelm him and burst forth from his accented voice.

The XO got the hint and didn't fight the name, "I'm sorry sir." She blanched.

"Anywhere from the upper hundreds to lower thousands of sailors. All under my command. All lost to the Batarians." Griebun stated.

"Yes sir."

"And they've already left our communications range?"

"Yes sir. When and if they get their comms back online, it'll be normal communications, nothing FTL, that they'll be limited to." A pause, "they're lost, unless we know exactly where they're going and where we can intercept their captors." The blonde-haired Naval Officer couldn't resist the urge and looked down, breaking the contact with Griebun's infuriated dark green eyes.

The fuming admiral sighed, "I want the fleet notified, and I want a message sent to the QRF's, they've got to be ready to book it if we get wind of them." He said, "and I want boarding parties ready for the Batarian Frigate we took down, I want that thing cleared so we can send it to Mars and figure out what we can about it." He ordered, with finality. "Now give me the report on the MIA SIGMA." He demanded, "what do we know?"

"Not enough, sir." The XO said, slightly more enthused that they were stepping into territory she knew at least a little more about, but still very wary of how angry the Admiral still was. "From what we've taken from the helmet-cam footage, the communications recordings, and personal accounts from the SIGMAs under his command, after he successfully led his SIGMAs in an assault on the Batarian base, taking down anyone who refused to surrender, John S-Two-Fifteen learned that mercenary reinforcements were imminent from the Batarian Warp-Gate. The alien warp-gate activated without warning or input from our side, and Two-Fifteen feared the worst was coming. So he volunteered himself to recon what was past the warp-gate, with instructions for his SIGMAs to call reinforcements and go in after him if he didn't return within the hour. Forty five minutes passed before the warp-gate's receiver was deactivated.

"Two-Fifteen's squadmates tried to reactivate the alien warp-gate and punch in its last known coordinates - it was at this time that they sent up the flares meant to call in OD3 reinforcements. Over an hour passed, during which the Dealers dropped in and secured the base and the prisoners, but the SIGMAs made no headway with the Warp-Gate. Our leading hypothesis is that the Batarians made it with Mass Relays in mind, meaning that in order for one to function, its twin also needed to work - in other words, they were linked and one can't function without the other - and since the receiver gate wasn't taking instructions, our gate wouldn't work at all." She paused to take a breath, "but I stress that this is an initial hypothesis posed by our AI's and the commanding SIGMA, who also posed a solution as to why the receiver gate wasn't working."

Griebun hummed, "what did they say?"

"According to George S-Two Sixty-Six, John's initial fear was that anything from massive reinforcements, to mercenary heavy armor, to something they simply weren't prepared for would come in from the other end of the warp gate. To that end, he prepared a contingency plan and called in a supply drop." A pause, "Two Fifteen's request was for package Kilo Oscar. The kiloton grenade." She supplied, "needless to say, he didn't use the grenade during the base assault, it was Two-Sixty-Six's opinion that he used it upon entering the gate, though for what reason, he had no answer."

"So, Two-Fifteen is dead, then?" Griebun pressed.

The XO shook her head, "The Alpha Squad's second in command – two-Sixty-Six – and everyone else we debriefed vehemently denied the possibility that Two Fifteen is dead, much to the contrary they believe him to have been transported to the mercenary headquarters, likely in ruins, and is currently committing himself to destroying what's left before contacting us." The XO nodded, "how such an act is possible, they wouldn't say - classified military technologies were in play, George admitted. In spite of their recommendations, must still make the declaration of 'MIA'..."

Before the XO could continue, there was a sudden hustle and bustle of activity. The Admiral, with a slight frown, leaned forward to the AI Station. "Report." He ordered it.

The Ship's AI appeared in an instant, dutifully relaying what was going on to the perturbed Admiral. "We are being hailed, Admiral." A pause, "but confusion is ensuing through the communications officers, they need orders, as we are being hailed over Turian frequencies."

The Admiral, anger forgotten and now replaced by curiosity, repeated the AI. "Turian? As in, not Batarian?" A horrifying thought came to mind, but he threw it away by making sure his memory wasn't failing him. "The Relay was moved, yes?"

"Correct. Several days ago. We are not detecting anything coming in on the long-range scanners."

"The same scanners that failed to warn us about the Batarian Flotilla." Griebun clarified.

"The same." The AI clarified, not picking up on Griebun's point.

"I want the fleet ready for another attack." A beat passed, "and open up communications. I want to know what they're saying."

"Beginning playback."

For several long, drawn out seconds, there was static. Finally a garbled voice could be made out, it was saying something, and to Griebun, the voice didn't sound Turian, much to the contrary, it sounded Human, the English-sounding, flangeless speech enforced Griebun's theory.

"Can we clear this up?"

"I will do my best."

The audio played back again, Griebun only now realized what it was. "Is this a recording?"

"Auditory patterns would suggest as -"

The silence and the static was cut by a Human voice, it was young, but it sounded as if it was still yet fighting puberty. "... Not dead." The voice, obviously male, sounded as if it was in some sort of pain. Several more silence filled the suddenly pregnant air, "... intel required..." The voice faded out, Griebun could not at all understand how the quality was so bad.

"What is -" An Officer began, but someone literally smacked the back of his head to quiet him, as the broadcast continued.

" -ate destroyed... nded... wait for my... S-Two-Fif... Out."

"What the hell was that?" Griebun demanded of the machine, it being the only thing on the ship that was likely to make any kind of logical sense out of what had just happened.

"It is likely that that was our missing SIGMA, Admiral." The AI reported helpfully, "as I said -"

A new voice entered the fray, accompanied by the deceptively light metallic-sounding 'thunks' that belied the sheer weight of the body making them. "Turian frequencies." Said the SIGMA Commander as he entered the bridge. "That was John." He stated with the utmost confidence, "he did survive his actions, and Admiral, with all due respect, do not ever keep something like this from me again if you value your rank." The Commander stated boldly, the human voice from behind the polarized visor belied the inhuman, machine-like way the man looked and carried himself with. "AI, Query. From where did the broadcast originate?" So few spoke to AI's like the machines they were that many in the room - the AI included - were shocked at the tone the SIGMA had taken, but the very few that knew how SIGMAs worked knew not to be too terribly shocked - he was almost defensively sinking into the deadly seriousness the SIGMAs were reputed for. The time for playing and courtesies had passed a very long time ago, for this man.

The AI, shocked though it may be, took it in stride, it had heard from its brothers and sisters in the Cloud how blunt SIGMAs could be when angered. "The comm-buoys in this system, Commander."

"I thought we'd jammed those up tight with junk traffic?" The Admiral growled.

"We did. I recognized the bits and pieces as Human in origin and let it slip through the cracks." The AI responded.

"Can you track it? Where did it come from?"

The AI deflated a bit at this, "unfortunately, sir, the signal and the transmission is far too corrupted to even try. Wherever he is, it clearly isn't in charted space, and its comm-buoy has an embarrassingly low bandwidth, likely only meant for extremely compressed burst-frequencies. Two-Fifteen likely did not have time to compress or burst his report, and had to make do."

The SIGMA grunted, "I want everything you have getting everything we can from that transmission, I don't care how -"

"Now hold on just a minute!" This was exactly what the Admiral needed - some uppity Augmented Asshole coming on to his ship and ordering his crew around. "You can't just give my crew orders, Commander." The man warned.

"Under SIGMAuthority I sure as hell can, Admiral." The SIGMA challenged right back, "I'll call protocol Sixty Six if it means I'll get my man back." No one present knew that threat, even if the Admiral had known the one before it, "now sit down, shut up, and let me do my job." The angry SIGMA strode up to the Admiral's galaxy map and made to interface with it, but the irate Admiral had had enough.

"SIGMA, I am ordering you to stand down immediately, else I will have you arrested and brought up on charges. I will not allow insubordination on my ship." He stood up to meet the SIGMA's covered, cold gaze.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me, Admiral." Said the SIGMA, who towered over the Admiral by a decent two and a half feet. "Or perhaps you don't know exactly what SIGMAuthority means. In either case, I will forgive you. But if you try to arrest me while I'm trying to get the information I need to prepare a rescue operation, you'll only succeed in getting that poor marine with the rifle -" He pointed behind him at the very marine who had been trying to surreptitiously chamber a round in his gun, said marine nearly dropped bricks in his pants as the SIGMA pointed him out with unflinching accuracy. "- hurt, and yourself relieved of command. I can do that, do not test me." The elite growled deeply.

The two stared at each other in the deathly silent ship. Even the soundless void of outer space couldn't compare to how quiet the bride was at that very moment, as soldier and officer stared each other down, the former with the power to break the latter, and the latter with the power to utterly ruin the former.

"The Alliance will hear about this, SIGMA." The Admiral's thinly veiled threat was loud and clear to the Commander - he was well aware of the Alliance/Spartan politics, and his stunt here wouldn't be helping anything.

The SIGMA didn't care, though, no one on Sparta would see him at fault for what he was doing here. "As will my General." The SIGMA responded, before he turned back to the galaxy map. "AI, Instruction:... " He ordered, shooting a quick, scalding glance to the Admiral standing behind him.

The Admiral's glare was hotter than Sol itself, but he backed down and ordered his crew to get back to work.

April 26th 2216

If he were to describe his first 'official' mission as succinctly as possible, he would surprise anyone who asked and say he'd gotten exactly what he'd expected. John S2-15 had practically been raised on the 'first contact with the enemy' montra, so when he'd leaped on to Siler, he'd been ready for most anything, and the situation he found himself in now was almost outside the realm of 'most anything'.

His augmented ears were filled with the sounds of labored breathing, he'd been fighting on the run for three days now, non-stop, without sleep, and was beginning to concern himself, as his limit before he'd gotten augmentations was two and a half. One may think that would mean he could go on for much longer, but he was still largely getting used to his changed body, so some things were coming quicker than others. The area around him was densely wooded, but he didn't let that fool him, he gave himself five minutes before the Turians - hot on his trail - found him and re-engaged.

"Equipment check." The heavily breathing, seven and a half foot tall teenager ordered himself. It would have been far easier to have thought it, but he was functioning on a collective no sleep over the last seventy two hours, with heavy, pitched battles littering his extended day, veteran OD3's would be hard pressed to keep going after this, but he was a SIGMA - trainee or not, he had to force the soldier in him to come to the surface so the weak Human in him could go away. Though the noise didn't help him focus on his surroundings, it helped John S2-15 focus upon the here-and-now, the staying awake despite the stressful seventy two hours of near-non-stop combat against enemies he truly knew little about.

"Yes sir!" He panted faithfully to the invisible Commander issuing him the orders. "I have..." He panted, removing the tactical vest over his optimized, scorched, scratched, and in some places torn Titan armor. He opened up each of the magazine pouches, "three magazines, all full." He felt for the ammunition for his sidearm, "two magazines for my pistol." He said breathily, "zero grenades, one field ration." He and his squads hadn't been given too many rations for their original mission, it was supposed to be a quick snatch-and-grab. He made a mental note to always carry a week's worth of food, no matter what, no matter when, no matter where. "Cell Fluid... Out." He had given a majority of his cell-fluid to one fellow SIGMA II and several wounded civilians, the rest he'd used during his time here, almost all of it had been used after he'd detonated the Kiloton Grenade.

"Good Job, soldier." He heard the phantom-commander praise, "weapons status!"

"Yes sir!" He slipped the vest back over his chest, patted it down, then retrieved the rifle from his back. "Rifle." He looked down the sights, the red dot had been smashed the previous day but the Irons still worked, "model… Twenty-one Eighty Six, Standard line, Special Forces design Mark Two. Modular." He gulped heavily, his throat long since dry. "Half condition, in need of magazine." He forced himself to retrieve a magazine and slap it into the rifle. "Side-arm. Twenty-two hundred year model, Standard line, Infantry model." He put the rifle on his back, and retrieved the side arm from its magnetic holster. "Fully loaded." He checked the sights, they were off, it must have been when he'd smashed it into the face of a Turian before the bomb went off. "Sights off by a marginal amount."

"Will it affect your combat abilities?" The phantom-commander asked him.

"Sir, no sir!" John stated, though from his position on his knee, it looked much the opposite. "Combat knife." He continued, still breathing heavily. He withdrew the combat knife, which looked very much like the standard for the OD3's in the twenty second century, an adamantine coated blade with a sharp cutting edge and a serrated flat side. "Perfect condition." He'd cleaned it with a small amount of water from his now empty canteen just this morning.

"You've got work to do." The phantom-commander stated, "status?"

"Status." He breathed, "status..." John swallowed hard, his dry throat begging for water. "Is as follows." Some strength back in his voice, he manipulated his helmet's HUD. "Smart Skin rebooted successfully - some functions damaged. Wound repair malfunctioning." He pressed his hand against the wound in his stomach, though it had been cauterized two days ago, stress had opened it up again and now, hours after the fact, it was still trickling out some blood. "Concussion." He smacked his palm into the side of his head and gritted his teeth, nothing. "Recovered. Radiation -" He checked his HUD, he was still hot from the detonation, but it was nothing near life-threatening, especially for him, not by a long shot. "Green."

"State your mission."

"Recon." John had to push the word out with an entire lungful of air, the wound and the lack of sleep were catching up to him, but, he rationalized that it was nothing he hadn't faced before in training. "Collect information on Turian Mercenary Group designate: Spartec. Relay information to Alliance Command... Extract..." He looked up, to the dark night sky, barely any stars hung in it, he wondered if they were in a pocket solar system 'above' the Milky Way. "... Somehow." He relented he had no idea how to extract himself, he didn't even know if his message to the Second Fleet had even made it, let alone whether or not they even received it. He had planned before on stealing an alien starfighter capable of FTL – because, from what he understood, half of them were – but those were defended by far more people than he could take on in his wounded state.

"Is that lip I just heard, SIGMA? What, you think because your skin-suit's fried and you took a bullet means that you can't -" The phantom commander's voice disappeared when John heard a twig snap.

Like a switch had been flipped, John was no longer in escape and recovery mode. No longer was he out of breath, no longer was the wound in his side hurting like it had been, no longer was his throat dryer than Mercury, and no longer there a phantom commander there to keep him awake, the very lethargy that was dragging at his mind had vanished, too. Now John was in combat mode, everything in him down to his very blood was tuned and ready to go. In an instant his hand locked upon the grip of the rifle with a grip arguably stronger than steel and he brought it to bear.

For several moments there was utter silence, John knew his pursuers had made a mistake, and his pursuers knew too. It was a game of attrition, one that John was destined to lose, his adversaries were better equipped, better supplied, better rested, and all he had was his instincts, something none of them could replicate, and those instincts told him that he shouldn't fire the first shot, he would only give away his position.

I have the training of our standards under my belt... John thought to himself, as he slowly scanned his surroundings, only able – and only willing – to see them down the barrel of his gun. The Navy taught me to be a swift predator. The Army taught me to be a relentless foe, the Marines taught me to be a brutal warrior. He thought these things to calm his mind and his senses, and fortunately for him, it was working, his breathing was slowing and his mind was clearing, allowing his augmented hearing and eyesight to pick up on details adrenaline had disallowed him to. If and when I go home, the N7 will teach me to be a deadly operator. If and when I go home, the OD3's will teach me to be an unstoppable force. He inhaled once and exhaled deeply, picking up on the ever-so-slight movement of the Turians to his two-o'-clock. If... And when I go home... He braced for gunfire, the SIGMA will teach me to be a swift, relentless, brutal, deadly, unstoppable and undefeatable augmented warrior.

The Turians were trying to surround him, they were trying to put him into a crossfire. If he still had his smart watch he could have activated his hard-light barrier and bounded outwards, but now all he had was his Titan armor, and the muscle suit, partially destroyed as it was, with bits and pieces of the silvery synthetic muscle sticking out at odd angles in the several places he'd taken a bullet. He had two ways out of here, he could take the one avenue of escape still available, to his direct six-o'-clock, or he could try something new. With a deep inhale and similarly deep exhale, he decided to take a leaf out of military history class. Oftentimes Humans of ancient wars past – the Vietnamese campaign in World War 3, and the aptly titled Vietnam War both came to mind – had taken to using the very environment around them as an avenue of attack, defense, and, more appropriate for John, escape.

Three... John prepared himself to jump with all the power his augmented muscles and only slightly depowered muscle-suit would give him.

Two... One mistake would mean capture, one mistake would mean death.

One... He wrapped himself in a biotic aura, he had to execute this perfectly, lest he make One Mistake.

Now! John abandoned all pretense, he destroyed the ideas the Spartecs had gotten of him, as he leapt upwards. The Turians had expected he'd open fire, begin fighting his last stand, but instead, John fled in a way none of them had expected. Fortunately for John, whose steel-grip locked tightly around a thick branch, his actions gave him two seconds of stunned silence in which to gain his footing, but unfortunately for him, those two seconds were burned faster than he could have thought possible, and just as he began sprinting, tree-to-tree, branch to branch, the Turians opened fire.

John couldn't return fire, he'd realized as he leapt between an opening between two trees and landed on another. Keeping this in mind he holstered his rifle in favor for the far more maneuverable pistol, as he continued sprinting. He heard the Spartecs shouting orders and he felt a few rounds ping off of his shields, but they were confused and he used this. Keeping his footing on the tree branches was tough but all he had to do was keep them running for another thirty meters, where they would enter a thick brush full of enormous trees, there he could -

SNAP!

The few flaws in John's plan made themselves apparent as he leapt from one branch to another. One being he didn't truly know how to climb and maneuver trees, he could appropriately judge branch thickness and thus if they would carry his augmented weight, but that didn't change the fact that this was more or less outside his training, and while he was good at improvising, he couldn't ignore facts. One such fact he couldn't ignore, was the second – most damning flaw – in his plan: his weight. Titan Armor was heavy, and even his optimized set - which was significantly lighter than the set the Operatives used - was still very heavy, and when he added in his weapons, ammunition, and kevlar tactical vest, his weight far surpassed several hundred pounds, this limited his maneuverability on a tree, as a branch could easily snap under his weight.

Just like the one that had snapped just now, right under John's right foot, sending him tumbling to the ground. The impact shattered his shields, and he felt his right arm dislocate. The growling SIGMA II wrenched his pistol from his right hand and forced it into his left, before he got to his feet. The environment hadn't changed much, it was still green, save for the brown of the trees. The only thing that was different changed in seconds when the miniscule metal bullets started ripping through the trees, three rounds pinged off of his armor before John took cover behind the traitorous tree.

This is it. John thought, grimly. He couldn't run anymore, so now was the time to fight.

So, bearing this in mind, John broke cover. His left hand snapped up and found a target, he squeezed the trigger three times. Three magnum rounds soared through the air, leaving small trails and a smell of ozone just before they slammed into the Turian's barriers. Two more bullets soared from a scowling SIGMA's pistol, the first slammed into the Turian's kevlar-like armor, but the second dragged itself across a good portion of its face, putting it down.

They heal faster. Thought John, going back into cover, suppressed by the alien rifle-fire. I have to put that one down for good... He was breathing heavily, adrenaline was once again flooding his system. I need to bring – Those thoughts, coupled with two more slugs soaring past him, gave John the idea he needed.

Vi-Contactus. Force Contact, this was what John needed to use. They would overwhelm him with numbers, but Vi-Contactus was meant to be adaptable to any situation, he could use their numbers against them. All he had to do, he looked to his dislocated arm, was get equipped for the job. Rapidly inhaling and exhaling as he holstered his pistol, John gripped his arm tight, and with a loud, quick bark, shoved it back in its socket. He could immediately feel it becoming sore, and a part of him questioned if he'd set it properly, but he ignored the feeling as he flexed his muscles and twitched his fingers, he didn't have full dexterity, but he could use Vi-Contactus.

John nodded, a solemn scowl on his face as he retrieved his rifle. His rifle was braced against his left arm, and his combat knife was stuck in an iron grip in his right hand. He had one chance to bring them into a melee-battle, and he needed his armor and shields ready for such an assault.

Wave tactics. Barton had told them once, when they were studying the Elcoor. Wave tactics are such named that they are meant to bring a force innumerable into the melee-range of your enemies. Many species employ these, ours included, but Elcoor, Krogan, and Vorcha specialize in wave tactics.

John had to be a one-man tidal wave if he wanted his plan to work, and he prayed it did. John's shields hit one hundred just as the Turians stopped firing, to let their weapons cool. John broke cover with an ear-shattering, bellowing roar, meant more to intimidate his enemies than to make himself feel any different, he knew he had exactly three seconds before the Turians switched out, and those with cooled weapons began firing. This in mind, John sprinted directly at the Spartecs, his rifle barking on full auto as his biotics flared brightly. In two seconds he got to the Turian defensive line, his shields having shattered and his barriers flaring violently just as he slammed his rifle into a Turian's face like a baseball bat.

Now John felt confidant, they were already beginning to surround him. John shouted loudly, his suit's computers only worked enough to keep his HUD and his Shield working, but he prayed the voice-recognition software was still up.

"EMP Blast!" John roared, throwing his rifle like a spear.

While a horribly inappropriate use of a ranged weapon, the effect desired was achieved thanks to John's doubly augmented strength, and the special forces rifle impaled itself in the throat of a Turian just as John's suit detonated its Electromagnetic Pulse. John knew the Mercenaries' rifles weren't military grade, though he had not the time to validate those thoughts, so they would be fried outright, and on the off chance they were military grade and he was wrong, he still had two minutes before they could be used again. John didn't question his luck, the Turians were his size, so he had to get into contact with one immediately.

Choose your target... He saw one hurriedly trying to exchange heat-sinks, and STRIKE! He leapt forward.

The Turian knew what was happening and tried to slam the butt of his rifle into John's armored face. John smacked the rifle away with his left hand, and wrapped his arm around the alien's left arm. John tightened his grip and the alien dropped the rifle, without even breaking stride John's right fist, its mass increased by his biotics, slammed twice into the Turian's stomach before it sailed into the Turian's face. John yanked back on the Turian's gripped arm, spinning it around; using the momentum of the spinning Turian John slammed it into a tree, just before he lunged his knife into its throat. Blue blood sprayed out as John severed the Turian's spinal cord, but it was dead, John had to leave it now.

It was still useful to him, however, as evidenced by John kicking the Turian into one of its charging allies. John somersaulted to the living Turian, and at the bottom of his roll he sprung his legs up, they found the Turian's neck and locked around it. John yanked his legs down, his hands bracing his body on the ground, giving him balance. The Turian flipped over John as his ally's corpse hit the ground, John – upon feeling the Turian's head hit the ground – reached forward and ripped the knife from his kill's throat, before he threw his hands over his head. Using the momentum of his hands, John got to a sitting position and unlocked his legs, the Turian tried to react fast enough but John slammed his knife into the Turian's eye. For good measure John pounded his fist into the Turian's throat three times, before he leapt to his feet.

Now he had three opponents to deal with, all surrounding him. He felt blood leaving new wounds, but didn't even consider where they had come from, only deciding that the Turians were - without a doubt - using specialized ammunition, they had to, to pierce his skin suit.

Choose your – His target was chosen for him when he leapt forward with a wild haymaker punch.

John's right arm came up to block the Turian's blow, and he immediately twisted his arm around the Turian's before he stabbed the knife into it. The Kevlar proved tough to pierce, especially since it hardened in response to physical trauma, but it gave in the end, with John locking himself to the Turian by his arm. The Turian screamed in pain and its allies – sensing weakness in John – surged forth. John resisted smiling as he leapt up and drove both of his feet into the chests of the charging Turians, with one's chest caving in entirely, leaving it to die a painful, gurgling death. The stunned, surviving Turian backed away, giving John time enough to reach to his captive Turian's head, he forced its camouflage hood down and grabbed onto its mandible.

Another weakness on a Turian is their mandible. John recalled as he locked his grip on the Turian's lower facial extremity. Akin to testicles on a Human... You break a mandible, you'll have broken a Turian. John pulled, the Turian screamed a bloodcurdling scream.

In a moment that lasted an eternity for the Turian, but only a second for John, John violently ripped the hardened spike of cartilage, bone, and muscle off of the Turian's face. It was screaming in pain as blood began pouring down the front of its throat, and though John still wasn't done with it, he was thankful that it was now using its free hand to quell the bloodflow, and not to rip into John's own throat.

The Turian's allies made a redoubled effort to get to John, but John swung his Turian into the Turian coming from the right, before he unlocked the knife from its arm, sending them both tumbling to the ground. A new Turian leapt for John and they two slammed to the ground, but the Turian didn't have a chance to inflict further injury upon John, who smashed its throat with the mandible of the screaming Turian, collapsing his target's windpipe and causing major internal damage, it too would die a painful, oxygen-starved death as blood traveled up its throat.

John quickly, but laboriously, got to his feet, only to have another new Turian tackle him from behind. It latched onto his back and locked its arm around John's throat, as more Turians surrounded him. John was undeterred, though he was tired, he ran backwards as fast as he could until he hit something. He promptly impacted a tree at high-speeds, knocking the wind out of the Turian on his back and giving him back the ability to breathe. The Turian fell from his back and John stomped on its chest, he felt his boot get caked in gore as it soared straight in to the alien's chest and destroy its major organs. John's fiery gaze immediately was locked on to the men surrounding him as he ripped his pistol off of his thigh. More Turians – now smartly armed with melee weaponry – rushed him, his pistol barked as his knife stabbed, he flowed into and out of melee range of the Turians. Their knives scraped at his armor and tore at his skin suit, many pierced his skin outright and drew blood, but he ignored the pain.

With several Turian's dead at its end, his pistol clicked on empty, back it went on his thigh as he backhanded a Turian with his biotically charged left fist. The use of his biotics was beginning to catch up with the child soldier, as his stamina was rapidly depleting, his body was nearly out of the food in his stomach and fat to burn, soon, to continue to make the energy it needed for his biotics, it would begin to eat at his dense, augmented muscles.

John knew this but he also knew that he couldn't stop using his Biotics, they were his greatest advantage against the Turians, and were evening things out - his biotics removed their advantage in numbers. Three more fell to his blade and one more to his fist before one Turian found his achilles heel. Another Turian leapt on John's back and slammed his knife into the space between the armor plates on his left shoulder. It just barely made it past the synthetic muscles and into his skin before the plates could clamp down and shatter the blade; its damage done, the blood flowing, John was injured now and could barely move his left arm. Several Turians capitalized on this and leapt at him. The one on his back brought him to the ground, several more leapt upon him in a dog-pile, as new, freshly-faced ones arrived, carrying rifles.

John, completely immobile, wore a scowl that could kill. He did not want to die like this, he wanted to take more of them with him. He continued thrashing about like a child throwing a tantrum, but he couldn't get more than an inch of breathing room before he felt something pierce his neck, and the world then went dark.

Their breaths labored, their bodies tired, their muscles sore, and a great deal of them dead, the Turian Spartecs didn't move for ten seconds solid. Nothing happened, no one was killed, the Human didn't fight further, the battle had been won.

"Is it dead?" A Turian called, fear carefully hidden by a fit of coughing, the Human had smashed its throat so hard it could barely breathe, let alone call out for a sitrep.

"Unconscious." The Sergeant said, "off of him. Riflemen, keep your weapons on him!" He ordered, not truly believing that the demon that had killed so many had actually been taken down by a drug so small.

Slowly, the pile of Turians pinning the Human to the ground got up and off of him. The Human was revealed, its armor scorched by fire, covered in debris and blood, and marked by bullet and by blade alike. This thing right now looked so fragile, a single bullet and it would be dead, but the Sergeant had his orders.

"Sergeant Victus, respond, damn it!" He heard the company commander call over the radio.

The Sergeant activated his Omni-Tool. "Sergeant Adrien Victus, Spartec 4-1. Target down."

There was several seconds of silence, "there was only one?" The Company Commander did not sound like he'd expected that. "An entire base was destroyed, over a thousand of my men dead in a flash, and dozens – if not, at least a hundred – more dead because of the enemy's actions... And you're telling me there was only ONE?!" The man obviously didn't buy it.

"I'll send you my mono-cam later, sir, but I can guarantee you, one target."

The Commander sighed, audibly over the communicator, "bring him to the secondary base. He came here under the impression that we're mercenaries, so we've got to keep him thinking that. Strip him of his weapons and armor and patch up his wounds, I want to know everything he does." A pause, "that's an order."

Victus rolled his eyes, "yes, sir." He cut the omni-tool, called in some shuttles, and relayed the orders.

Now that the battle was over, he had time to go over the battlefield. Looking up showed him the canopies of leaves that had been shredded when the Human had taken to the trees to escape. The previously untouched green roof over the forest now had large holes ripped from its previously serene, green beauty. The trees themselves had been torn apart by armor-piercing gunfire, and were only still standing out of spite. The bodies, however, were what caught Victus off guard. The Human, using whatever Martial Art it was that he'd used, had killed dozens in this battle alone. One poor Spartec had a rifle literally sticking out of its face, only slightly staunching the flow of blue blood. One poor Spartec had to be knocked out because its mandible had been ripped off, only for it to be used to stab another Turian, who Victus had no honest idea if he was going to survive, despite his apparent temporary recovery.

Sergeant Victus shook his head, and offered a quick prayer to the Spirits for these men. He hoped whatever information they got from the Batarians was worth it, because the lives they'd lost to give them the impression of assistance wasn't.

"Shuttle's here, Sergeant." Said a Spartec, hood down and monocle hanging loosely by its wire.