Probably my fastest update yet. Kudos to codythedude. He's the first I've seen in ages who recognized the names I used. I'd say this in a message, but he's rather unreachable. Regardless, glad to see another fan of Starfist. Moving on, then. Here's Chapter Seven:

James McNeal was happy he'd done it wrong. He'd been so afraid that it would hurt that he killed Janick, in what he thought was mercy, but found now that what he'd feared was nothing more than a return to Eden. His own bullet had misfired, but McNeal was happy for it.

Freedom from choice was beautiful. The group spoke, and McNeal followed without hesitation, not because he was forced to, but because he felt no urge to oppose it. EarthGov had leaned so heavily on military might to coerce its subjects into submission, but the group united as EarthGov could never hope to do.

He found Chen, too, but the medic was asleep. For a moment, McNeal was saddened. Men could only be reborn once. It was beyond even the group's power to wake one who had ended a second time.

But Janick's presence comforted him. With a single kiss to the forehead, the group had breathed life into a body that had so tragically lost it. McNeal had been overwhelmed with guilt, but the group had saved him from it. Now, Janick was the physical form of what the group embodied: many as one. Three independent parts, all Janick, but each capable of continuing onward should the worst come to pass.

McNeal felt a twinge of panic. The group was upset. Something sought to divide them…

The Creator. McNeal was saddened once again. The Creator had given the group life, yet they could never welcome it into the fold. It had no blood, but stone, no flesh, but glyphs. It created the group, allowed it to live, but…

No! McNeal cried out, a sentiment shared in unison by thousands of other voices. The Creator sought the Reaper's aide! Corridors and vents became blurs as McNeal raced through the bowels of the Ishimura. Janick broke from one to three to speed his travel. Time was of the essence, more so than ever.

McNeal had wanted to find his friends. A handful had not yet been given the group's kiss, and they were afraid of the group, just as McNeal had once been. McNeal wanted to welcome them himself, but the group intent was clear: stop the Reaper. Do not let Him harm the Creator.

McNeal's friends could wait. If the Reaper was not stopped, the group would crumble.

"Has Agent Daniels reported back yet?"

"Negative, commander. Last transmission placed her en route to the colony. Apparently there were some unforeseen complications."

"And those would be…?"

"One of the Kellion's crew is still alive, sir. Apparently he's proving quite troublesome."

"Hm. I suppose it's Hammond?"

"No, sir. Hammond is confirmed KIA. This is one of the engineers. Sending his file now."

"I see. And I'm to understand that an engineer, one with no combat experience, no less, has survived an infestation where an entire platoon of Marines did not?"

"'Survived' is a bit deceiving, commander. Agent Daniels says he's long since succumbed to the Marker. His survival is most likely a fluke."

"A shame. He might've been worth recruiting. At any rate, prep the boarding teams. I want ship purified and the Marker secured, regardless of how long Daniels plans to keep dragging her feet."

Bass loaded the last cylindrical magazine into his pulse rifle. His ammunition (and what had been salvaged from the fallen) was running dry in the home stretch of their push through hell. The squad wasn't faring much better: Sherman's Jackhammer had few shells left, and Hark's improvised contact beam was only holding up because of the microfusion breeder struggling to keep its power supply charged. To fail now because they ran out of bullets would be tragic, not to mention anticlimactic.

The only weapon that had plenty of spare munition was Dean's pistol, but he had an entirely different problem. He was doped up to his eyeballs to stave off shock from the loss of his hand, and his use of the pistol was more symbolic than it was practical. He'd be lucky to make any significant contribution to the group's firepower with only his sidearm even if he'd been in perfect health.

But none of that mattered, provided they could make it to the shuttle bay. After that, ammo was a non-issue, and Bass could worry about keeping Dean stable until they made it out of restricted space and back to EarthGov territory.

Even with Dean weighing them down, the party was moving with the vigor of a second wind. They were trying to conserve their precious ammo pool, but even firing conservatively, creatures fell to pieces whenever they crossed their path.

But Bass couldn't shake the niggling feeling that something was wrong, something big, something that his mind was screaming at him to notice in spite of his newfound optimism.

Another creature dropped from the ceiling, landing on its feet and howling. Bass fired three bursts. The first two ripped its clawed arms off at the shoulder, leaving it with the pathetic vestigial arms sprouting from its chest. The third burst turned its head into a bloody splatter against the wall. Its supernatural ability to absorb damage apparently confined to its torso, the thing collapsed atop the body of another.

"This is it," Hark breathed, "Right here, just passed…" he paused, trying to operate the keypad alongside the blast door, "…shit."

"Problem, Hark?" Sherman asked without looking, choosing instead to keep his Jackhammer trained down the hall they'd just come down. Bass followed suit, but kept glancing to the pair of bodies. What was the 'something' that he couldn't quite put his finger on?

"Yeah. The damned door won't open," Hark propped his contact beam against the wall as he pried open the control panel, "Can't tell if it's burned out from the other side, or if I'm just locked out."

"What's the difference?"

"If it's the latter, I can override it and force the door open. If it's the latter, we'll need to find another door," Hark replied, cursing as the circuitry sparked and scorched his organic hand.

"I got something for it," Sherman began rummaging through his supply pouches, "Should have us through in a few minutes."

"I've got a better idea," Hark picked up the contact beam and took a few steps back, "Should have us through in a few seconds."

The door exploded outward, sending shards of shrapnel into the hangar as surely as if it had been the blast of a bomb. Two creatures had been prowling on the other side, having heard the noises on the other side and come to investigate. The blast reduced them to bloody smears on the hangar floor.

Hark stepped through first, sweeping his still-hot contact beam across his field of vision. Bass and Dean followed, with Sherman taking up the rear. Hark looked over the hangar, grinning with satisfaction as he tallied the ships and chose a suitable escape craft.

"Pick us a good one," Sherman slapped Hark on the back, "Quickly, if possible." Hark nodded and trotted toward the ships. Sherman glanced back to Bass and Dean.

Bass was focusing on other details. He saw the shredded remains of the two creatures on the floor by the door, but saw other bodies strewn about the hangar in various states of dismemberment. Some were in early stages of decay, suggesting that they'd been dead for at least a few days, but others were still leaking blood, and too far away from the door to have been killed by Hark's forced entry.

"Two bodies," Bass muttered, "Two…bodies…" Suddenly, the enormity of his count hit him. In the hall, he'd killed one…yet there were two.

"Hark!" he shouted, "Get us a ship, ASAP!"

"What's wrong, gunny?" Sherman frowned, "We're still on our toes, but these things aren't stopping us now. We're practically home fr-"

"Not them," Bass breathed, slowly drawing his sidearm and turning to face the far end of the shuttle bay, "There's someone else here."

Sherman opened his mouth to reply, but a bloody hole exploded on his left chest, piercing the back of his armor and exiting out the front. Before Bass had the chance to react, a blue laser dot settled on his forehead, and his world exploded into darkness.

"Three tangos down," Trooper Joshua Persons dropped the mostly-empty magazine from his M205 'Seeker' rifle, switching it for a fresh one. The weapon accepted with a high-pitched whine, and the sniper rose from his prone position to a low crouch.

"Good work," the voice over his helmet's communicator replied, "Any details?"

"Looks like survivors from the Valor," he looked through his scope, observing the EDF Marine Corp insignia and distinct skull-shaped helm, "There's a fourth somewhere, too. A civilian from the looks of it."

"Take him down, then resume your watch. Stalvern out."

"Yessir," Persons closed his comm channel, jumping from the wing of the shuttle he'd settled on. Undoubtedly, their companion had heard the shots, and since he hadn't come running already, it meant he knew well enough not to show himself. Persons had to track him down on foot, but he had help.

Three more black-clad troopers fell into formation, each with a factory-gray plasma rifle in his grip. Their mirrored helms contrasted sharply with those of the Marines. The Marines' helmets inspired the fear of death, but these invoked something closer to hopelessness. They were blank, featureless, as if the armored men weren't human at all. Most men they faced knew on some level that they could expect no mercy, nor did they.

The four fanned out, weaving among the mixture of ships. Integrated IR highlighted even the smallest heat output, none of the ships had been active for some time now. The only heat sources in the hangar came from the recently-produced corpses and, once he fell into their sights, the rogue civilian.

Orders were clear enough: Persons and his team were to mop up any of the 'necromorphs' remaining in the shuttle bay, and ensure that what few survivors there might be aboard the ship didn't make it out. So far, he'd done the job admirably, and now had three new notches to add to the stock of his Seeker. And a fourth, once he found the civilian.

"Hrk-"

Persons was momentarily caught off guard by the grunt over the squad channel. Better safe than sorry, he thought.

"Squad, check in. Alpha one-one."

"Alpha one-two."

"Alpha one-three."

"…"

"Alpha one-four, check in," Persons ordered.

"…" Persons cursed to himself. Still nothing but static.

"Alpha, fall in. Regroup at primary rally point. Confirm."

"Alpha one-two, confirmed."

"Alpha one-three, con-argh!"

"Alpha one-three, repeat last," Persons began to sweat. He'd momentarily held out hope that Alpha one-four was wandering some corner of the hangar with a communications malfunction, wondering why no one was talking to him, but if Alpha one-three was down, too…

"…" Nothing but static, from two of the four channels now.

"Double time, one-two," Persons hissed, sweeping his Seeker from side to side, quickening his pace to the rally point. Shadows were beginning to form sinister shapes in the corners of his eyes. This wasn't possible. He'd spent the better part of two hours flawlessly holding out against the necromorphs with just half a squad. Had something gotten the civilian, then come for them?

He arrived at the rally point, now sweating heavily despite his suit's cooling system. Alpha one-two was nowhere to be seen, and Person was actually afraid to check in by radio to confirm what he already feared. Another movement caused him to whirl around, this time finding the source.

It was the civilian, sure enough. He froze in the light of the Seeker's targeter like a deer in a car's headlights, not even trying to raise the improvised weapon held in his hands. He slowly placed it on the floor, raising his hands just as slowly.

"Look now," he stated carefully, "I got no quarrel with you. I just want to…" He trailed off, eyes widening in horror. Persons had not made a move yet, and realized far to late that the source of the man's fear was right behind him.

One swift stroke took Person's head off, and Alpha team was finally laid to rest.

The killer's gaze fell on Hark, still paralyzed and his weapon out of his grip, and advanced on the crewman.

At first he thought they were fireworks. He'd seen a firework show once, on Earth, long before he'd joined the Corp. It had been beautiful, awe-inspiring. It was so far away, yet he felt as if he could have reached out and touched it.

After a few seconds, he realized that they were in fact not fireworks, but sparks, yellow and red. His vision swam, then he blinked to clear the sticky film that obstructed his eyes. He reached up and clawed off his helmet. The sparks ceased, but his vision was still tinted red. He wiped his eyes with gloved hands. They came away red, but at least he could see now.

His helmet was destroyed and his head was bleeding, but from the throbbing headache, Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass knew he was very much alive.

Disoriented, he brushed against the body alongside him. Dean didn't respond, nor did his chest move with the telltale rhythm of breathing. Bass' heart sank as he realized that the young Marine was beyond saving.

Sherman wheezed, miraculously. Bass pulled himself up and looked at the chest wound. By all laws of nature, it should have pierced his heart, but his RIG blinked nonetheless. It was red, but that was better than nothing.

Ignoring the spike of pain that drilled into his head with the effort, Bass grabbed hold of both Marines' armored collars, straining under their combined weight. The closest shuttle was a mid-size cargo hauler, easily large enough to accommodate the two and, hopefully, have some sort of medical facilities. The ramp was thankfully deployed, and after a few agonizing minutes, Bass had them inside.

He limped to the array of containers, finally finding what he was looking for. He pulled it from the stacks, sliding it over to the two prone Marines and cracking it open. He tossed out the various perishable items, then grabbed Dean's shoulders and lifted the Marine into the container. He landed none too gently, but time was of the essence. Bass slammed the lid shut, pressing a few commands and waiting several breathless seconds before the acknowledgement lights winked green. Bass slumped against the side of the container, sighing with relief.

"What's the point, gunny?" Bass glanced up at the familiar voice, his relief dissolving in an instant.

Kaczynski leaned against the opposite wall alongside the unconscious Sherman, arms crossed over his chest.

"He couldn't have passed more than a minute or two ago," Bass grunted, pushing himself to his feet and moving to Sherman, "And that's a stasis container. After I get back to EarthGov territory, the corpsmen can have at him with only those few minutes against them."

"Quick thinking," Kaczynski shrugged, "But what about the men in black? Guess you haven't stopped and thought about them yet."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bass muttered. Kaczynski knelt down and turned Bass' head to face his own.

"Sure you do. What else could they be here for but a cover-up? You're a liability, gunny, plain and simple. The only thing you'll get when…if you make it back is a pat on the back and a bullet in the head."

"Just shut up," Bass shot back, "You're not real. You're dead-"

"-just like Dean?" Kaczynski cocked his head, "Or Chen? How about McNeal? The rest of Omega? Everyone in 3rd Platoon except you and Will," he nodded to Sherman, "Why not join them? They're all waiting for you."

"Just. Shut. Up," Bass hissed, trying to pull Sherman away from the apparition, but one of Kaczynski's hands clamped down on his shoulder with an iron grip.

"Answer me, gunny: why not?" he reached to Bass' belt, drawing his sidearm and placing it against the Marine's head, "You don't even need to pull the trigger. I'm here for your sake, gunny."

"Liar."

A shotgun blast echoed through the cargo bay. Kaczynski reeled back, a bloody mess where his shoulder had been. He whirled to face the newcomer, screeching like an enraged animal.

Another blast send the apparition back another meter, this time with part of his face stripped away, revealing a leering, fanged skull. The shotgun clattered to the floor, its last shell expended, and the figure raised its bladed arm.

His armor was damaged by what looked like a lifetime of war. Macabre trophies adorned it, ranging from the trio of fangs that hung from a strap around his neck to the clawed hands dangling from his belt. His hair was matted with blood, and multiple recent wounds on his face had been sealed in such a way that it looked like a welder had mended the flesh. On his left arm was lashed a vicious, hooked blade, broken from the arm of a slain necromorph. In his right hand was a razor-edged combat knife, both stained red with blood.

Private Jared Wallace slashed his dual blades, carving a furrow across Kaczynski's chest. Black ichor leaked from the wound, but the Marine continued undaunted. Fear had long since left him, just as had his sanity.

"You need me, Bass!" Kaczynski howled, his voice layered with others stolen from the men of 3rd Platoon, "You need all of us!"

"We reject you, demon," Wallace slashed the blades again, inflicting yet another wound against the ghost, "For we see the truth, and see your lies."

"Kill him, gunny! He seeks to silence us!"

"For we are strong, and you are weak." Another slash, another screeching howl.

"Gunny! Help me!" Kaczynski's face contorted as his voice settled, transforming into the visage of a frightened Joseph Dean, "Don't let me die again!"

"For we are right…" Wallace rammed both blades into the apparition's gut. Bass squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the screams that mimicked Dean's voice.

"…and you are wrong." Wallace ripped the blades outward. With one final wail, the apparition exploded into blinding light, piercing even Bass' eyelids and forcing its final moments on him.

The world was dark and silent. Bass could feel the pistol Kaczynski had pressed to his temple still resting against his head. He opened his eyes, and felt that his own arm was holding the gun. With a shaking hand he released his grip, and the weapon clattered to the deck.

Bass suddenly felt tired. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep more than anything else in the universe. Sherman needed medical treatment, he was in the company of a feral Marine, and the shuttle ramp was still down. Any of the abominations that stalked the ship could waltz in at their leisure.

But for now, Bass simply wanted to sleep. He let his eyes close, then slumped over against the stasis container.

As he slept, he saw an assembly of familiar faces. They crowded around him, some stoic, others smiling sadly. They walked toward him, but all eventually moved past him and out of his view. Bass wanted to follow them, but found himself rooted in place, able to do nothing but watch the parade of friends and comrades.

He saw Commander Cadigan, gray-bearded and serious. He gave Bass a curt nod of acknowledgement. It was the closest thing to a compliment the commander ever gave.

He saw Lieutenant Hikowa, once a constant voice-in-his-ear, now forever silenced.

He saw Sergeant Willis alongside Sergeant Campbell, the ghostly afterimages of Alpha and Beta squads behind them. Willis gave Bass a friendly punch to the shoulder, and Campbell smiled.

He saw McNeal, Janick and Jones, and felt a momentary pang of guilt as they walked by him. They gave no indicator of anger against him, but Bass somehow knew their presence meant they hadn't made it out alive. Chen followed them, too, his fate all too apparent.

He saw Sherman and Kaczynski, two veterans of Tanith and near constant companions. Kaczynski bumped fists with Sherman, then walked past Bass and out of sight. Sherman remained behind.

Only a handful was left. He saw Dean, standing upright, but staring blankly into space, glassy eyes unseeing.

He saw Wallace, without his macabre trophies. His image wavered, like a malfunctioning hologram.

He looked again to Sherman, seeing a sergeant's stripes pinned to his shoulder.

Last of the men, he saw Hark. His prosthetic arm was missing, replaced by a flesh-and-blood limb, and the mark of 3rd Platoon had been branded on his forearm.

Bass and the three were suddenly floating in the void of space. In the distance, he could see Earth, but it was growing further and further away. He looked down at his own body, seeing the Marine Corp emblem on his arm slowly erase itself, as if he was watching the tattoo's creation in reverse.

Finally, he saw himself. The chevrons and rockers of a Master Sergeant were emblazoned on his dress uniform, and the wavering images of his platoon were assembled behind him.

And as the rest, they faded away to nothing, just as surely as Bass knew he could never be the man he once was. He'd lost a part of himself on Tanith, but he'd survived, albeit scarred. After the horrors of the Ishimura, he couldn't have his old self back even if he wanted it.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard the echoing voice of the imposter Kaczynski. But it was fractured and fading, and soon out of earshot. Whatever had given his guilt physical form had been broken, and blessed silence reigned over Bass' subconscious.

But in the end, it was all just a dream. It could mean nothing, or it could mean everything, but it would not dictate the future. What path the future took was up to former Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass and the brave souls who had fallen into the mouth of Hell and lived to tell the tale.

And that's our story, folks. R&R, same as the prior chapters, anonymous accepted. I'll post an epilogue to provide some bookends for the story, but that's it for the main body of Semper Fi. Special thanks to AngelCommando for being with me since the first upload, SushiJaguar for doing the same since the second go, and anyone else I may've forgotten. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.