Authors Note: This has no relation to my Brood War universe, nor is it a crossover, although it does contain elements from Halo, Mass Effect, and Dawn of War. I know some of you were mixed up I should have clarified, sorry my bad.
The Terran Crusades:
Chapter 2March 7th 2371
Terran Republic Spec Ops HQ
Port Jensen, New Louis
1500 hrs.
The Terran Special Forces briefing room was a large, grey, and well lit, usually adorned with maps of new offences, letters, and pictures from family members, and captured battle trophies, ranging from banners of PAC battalions, and regiments, to maps taken from their abandoned HQs. But today the room was unrecognizable to the light green and black uniformed officers.
The letter's and pictures had been taken down, in their place were now lists of identified PAC divisions, regiments, and battalions, the maps of planned offences and advances, had been replaced with defenses, and in some cases, withdrawals. Where the battle trophies had once hung, there was now one gigantic banner of the Terran Republic, a dark red Earth, on a black background.
Rumors had been flying around among the officers; no one was completely sure what was happening. In the midst of the confusion was Lieutenant Kimberly Anne Possible of the 29th Special Forces division. Kim stood out from the regular officers, while they wore uniforms of light green and black, beneath heavy flack armour, Kim was clad in black combat boots, and pants, a purple t-shirt was just visible underneath a light flack vest, a maroon military beret rested on her long auburn hair, which flowed freely down her back.
Kim ignored the sideways glances that were thrown at her; she was more than used to them, being one of the six Special Recon Units on New Louis. The elite corps in the Special Forces; often called Reapers by the other soldiers, for their special talents in dealing death, and for their legendary ruthlessness. The training of the Reapers, was so malicious and difficult, it was not unheard of for seven out of ten trainees to die during the year long process. A Reaper unofficially outranked any normal soldier on the field, and was required to be saluted by anybody underneath the rank of Colonel.
But Kim was an exception to the shadow cast by her fellow Reapers. Graduating from the Academy on the hellish planet, Sirus 2, at the top of her class, her instructors were amazed and disappointed, that her empathy for others hadn't been completely broken. It seemed the harder she was pushed to let go, and embrace the emptiness, the ruthlessness, the more she clung to the Third Ideal of Terrahumanism: "That man who embraced the spirit and earth, were one, and the one are your brothers and your sisters to embrace and protect from those who have rejected Man's Spirit for false Gods." Kim would protect her men, no matter what the cost.
"Attention! Officer on Deck!"
The room immediately went quite, save for the sound of men snapping to attention and saluting, as Colonel Susan "Shego" Gomez marched into the crowded room, and up to the podium. Like Kim the Colonel was lithe and athletic, but that was where the similarities stopped. Her long black hair and pale, green-skin were striking in the well lit room. Though Shego was a Reaper, she preferred the black and green uniform of the Special Forces, which matched her perfectly. Her plasma powered gauntlets, were tucked away on her gun belt, which moved seductively with her hips as she walked.
"At ease." She responded to the salutes.
Shego stared out into the large gathering, her emerald eyes, shifting constantly; glancing at each face, reading what was there. The room waited in silence for a few seconds before the Colonel took a deep breath, and addressed the crowd.
"There have been many rumors flying around in the past hour. 'The PAC has been reinforced,' 'the PAC have withdrawn,' 'the PAC are advancing,' 'Geta has fallen into PAC hands,' 'Geta still holds,' 'the 8th fleet has been broken,' 'the 8th fleet is still holding position.' I've known you boys and girls to long to not be honest with you, so I'll cut the crap and get right to the point.
"At approximately 1320 hours, two PAC fleets, came out of slip space and immediately engaged the 8th fleet, as it held position around New Louis. Admiral Director was taken completely by surprises, in the opening salvo over a dozen ships, three of them capital-ships, were destroyed." Gasps could be heard as the group looked worriedly around at each other. Even Kim, who had heard the news before still found it somewhat surprising that the seemingly invincible 8th fleet could be defeated like that.
"Shut up, and let me finish!" Shego snapped, instantly quieting the whispers. Kim smirked, for the twelve years she had known her friend, and superior, two things had never changed, Shego's temper, and her short patience.
"At approximately 1400 hours, PAC reinforcements landed at Haket, while the 8th fleet barley managed to make it into slip space intact. As of now the enemy fleets have taken up orbit, while landing massive amounts of troops, and equipment.
"There is no longer a question of defeating them; there is no question of them advancing. We are on our own here; the only thing we can do is slow them down. Even now Director is trying to gather ships and relief to come to our aid, we must buy them time."
Silence. The room went deathly quite. Terran Republic Guards rarely saw defeat looking at them, yet here it was.
"So what do we do ma'am?" A Captain finally spoke up, shattering the brittle silence.
"Do? I just told you." Shego answered, "We hold them off for as long as we can. We turn Geta, Foret, and Jensen into killing grounds! Every step they take, we'll make them pay for it!"
The room exploded with cheers, questions, and assurances, as Shego took a step back, watching the commotion with a satisfied smirk on her face. She allowed the noise to go on for a few moments.
"Alright now shut up and listen. We don't have a lot of time, Field Marshal Senior, has already sent reinforcements into Geta, and Foret, and has withdrawn the front divisions, back two-hundred kilometres. The 29th TSF division is to be split up, and reinforce the garrisons at Geta, and Foret. The Reapers will be divided and sent into the cities as well. Any questions? No? Good! Dismissed."
The loud scraping of chairs echoed throughout the room as officers leapt up, and filed out of the room. In seconds the room had been cleared, Kim and Shego were the sole remaining occupants.
"Good speech, don't you think, Princess?" Shego congratulated herself, the satisfied smirk never leaving her lips.
"I don't know, I think you kinda over did the whole 'we turn Geta, Foret, and Jensen into killing grounds' bit to be completely honest with you. You also forgot one, little detail."
Shego looked confused for a moment, until she caught Kim's mischievous grin. "I don't think now is the best time to pay off the bet, we're in the middle of a crises here!"
Kim's grin never left her face. "So it would have been good for moral, knowing that their big, badass Colonel can't sleep without her wittle Cuddlebuddie."
Shego slowly shook her head in bemusement at her friend. "How I've managed to put up with you these past twelve years without killing you, I'll never know."
"It must be my natural charm."
Shego's grin turned evil as she glanced sideways, at her subordinate. Kim caught the look, and knew, from past experiences, that when Shego got that grin something very unpleasant was in store for her.
Though all her instincts, screamed at her to walk away, and keep her mouth shut, she had to ask anyway. "What?"
The evil grin grew wider. "Oh nothing, I was just thinking of the perfect partner for you when you're dispatched to Geta. You always seem to work well with him."
Kim's mind flashed with the implications, and possibilities until it settled on one man. "Oh shit, please not him!"
"That's right; you're going to Geta, under the command of a fellow Reaper, Captain Will Du."
August 12th 2348
Hill 238
412 kilometres of Port Inra, Toret Prime
0324 hrs.
Toret Prime reminded the twenty-two year old Senior Sergeant so much of Middleton it hurt. The rocky barren ground, the high gravity, the large mining machines that dotted the horizon, silhouetted by the burning light of erupting lava, and the numerous caves that covered the landscape, gave Ron such nostalgia, that he wouldn't be surprised if he ran into his father coming down the hill towards him. Like the old days.
But he knew his father wouldn't. His dad had been dead for eight years now. Dead like the barren landscape that he found himself marching over.
The PAC was making a push, a good push at that, in an effort to drive the invading Republic Guards from Toret Prime effectively securing the OCP's right flank, and trapping the large 4th fleet in the sector.
Though it was Ron's fourth year in the PAC, this was his first time participating in a large campaign. He was excited, before this he had taken part only in small raids, and patrols. Now he was part of an advance, an advance with, thousands of men, the brand new Trident tanks, and the sound of heavy artillery in the background. What was more was that he could finally taste vengeance.
Sweet vengeance against the men who had taken everything from him, his home, his family, his friends, yes vengeance would be his. That is if he could stay alive long enough to taste it.
He remembered his first day at boot, when the burly Drill Sergeant pinned the thin, lanky, eighteen year old to the wall and shouted at him. Demanding to know what he was here for, what he wanted to fight for. As calmly as he could Ron muttered 'revenge.' The Drill Sergeant stepped back with a sickly, knowing, evil smile, and said 'I hope you get it, maggot.'
Ron was brought out of his thoughts by the Lieutenant's frantic whisper of "3rd platoon on me!"
Lieutenant Douglas Brock was admired by his men. Large and physically strong, Brock had an air of invincibility and unshakable self-confidence, and his easy manner just made him a likeable guy. Brock had been apart of the war effort since it began in 2332. He had seen more action then most officers in the PAC.
The forty man platoon converged at the bottom of the large rocky hill. Again Brock spoke in barley more then a whisper.
"Got word from command. Intel suggests that an enemy, patrol, has set up camp at the top. We're to remove it and secure the right flank of our armoured column. Lucky, you got point."
Ron nodded as he climbed the hill in front of the platoon, keeping low and out of sight, as they slowly moved up. His bulky weapon clutched at the ready should anything move in front of him.
Twenty minutes later, he came to the apex of the hill, and had to choke down a gasp of surprise. Turning around he quickly waved the rest of the platoon up, and shifted his glance back to the sight before him.
Two full platoons lay around the camp asleep, their single sentry, was busy poking at the embers of the cooking fire, as he prepared a mid-shift snack.
"You can always tell the FNGs, by how they make camp." Brock whispered to Ron. Ron nodded in agreement, as he numbered off the mistakes that the platoons had made. Their sentry was not on alert, they were sleep IN their bags, instead of under them, their weapons were out of reach, and probably most importantly their Radio op, was out like a light.
"Stoppable, take care of that sentry, but do it quietly. The rest of you prepare to engage, no firearms use your knives."
Ron slowly pulled his long knife from his boot, and started creeping up to the cooking sentry, slowly, ever so slowly. His booted feet making almost no sound against the bare rock. He slowly raised his knife, and slowed his breathing. When he was right behind him, his left hand shot out and covered the cooking man's mouth. The small muffled sound of surprise was quickly ended by a quick slash of the knife, across his throat.
Gently lowering the dead man to the ground, Ron signaled to the rest of the platoon that all was clear. The platoon crept slowly into the camp, and went about their grim business. Ron turned around to move to his next victim, when he saw the face of the man, no, boy he just killed. The sentry couldn't have been older then seventeen, his blue, eyes had glazed over, but the surprise was still evident.
It froze him, Ron couldn't move, all he could do was stare into the face of the life he cruelly ended. He had wanted vengeance. He had wanted to shed their blood. But now? Now he knew the sickly, evil, knowing grin of the Drill Sergeant.
"What's the matter Lucky? Never seen a corpse before?" Brock asked him, no longer even pretending to be quite. Brock waited for an answer. When none came, glanced down at the prone body lying at Ron's feet.
"I killed him, I wanted to kill him and I did. It felt so good, like justice was finally being done, with my own hands."
Brock stared at Ron's back for a moment, before asking bluntly. "This was the first time you killed up close and personal, isn't?"
Ron's head bobbed up and down, as he nodded. He continued to stare down into the face of the man he had killed.
Brock sighed, as he placed a gloved hand on Ron's shoulder. "Let me give you some advice Stoppable. Killing for vengeance, doesn't help. If anything it turns you, it corrupts you, until your something else. A monster. It will eat away at you, until you are nothing more then an empty shell."
"Then what, should I just leave! Not fight for anything!"
Brock shook his head. "No. Find something to believe in, and fight for that, kill for that, create a cause that inspires you, that will allow you to keep who you are."
Brock's hand reached down his shirt as he talked, slowly pulling up a fine gold chain. "This is my belief, this is my inspiration."
A large heavy gold locket, the front had an etching of a crucifix. Opening it Ron saw the picture of two small kids, laughing and making faces at the camera. "A belief in allowing my children to grow up, believing in what they want, and not have to fear a purification."
With that, Brock replaced the locket, and walked away, leaving his subordinate to his thoughts. Ron watched him walk away, as he slowly dug his own hand into his vest. With great care he pulled out the only reaming memory of his parents. A sliver Star of David, given to him on his fourteenth birthday, glittered in the flames of the cooking fire.
He had given that stuff up after the attack on Middleton, turning his back on his parents faith, saying where was God when he needed Him. Now watching the silver star spin in the firelight, maybe it was time to embrace his faith again. Tucking the pendant away, Ron did something he had not done in eight years. He prayed, the Hebrew, sounding unfamiliar to his ears, as he bowed his head and prayed for forgiveness.
Four days later Ron's platoon entered a swamp, where they were ambushed. After six hours of bloody fighting, the area was cleared, and Ron emerged, covered in mud, and sweat. Blood dripped from a fresh slash across his face. In his hand he carried the thirty-nine dog tags of his platoon, and the golden locket of Lieutenant Douglas Brock. That night, Ron did something that he had not done since he was a little boy; he entered the battalion's synagogue and prayed with the elderly Rabbi.
March 8th, 2371
376th PAC Battalion HQ
20 kilometres of City of Haket, New Louis
0537 hrs.
Ron stirred from sleep, as the dream continued to flash in front of him, as he blinked the last bit of sleep from his eyes. Groggily, he shoved his sleeping roll off of himself. Stretching he picked up his rifle and made his way towards the mess for the morning meal.
"Yo! Ron-man, wait up!"
Ron turned to see the jogging form of Felix approaching him, two steaming cups in his hands. Catching up to Ron, he offered one of the cups, which Ron accepted gladly.
"Couldn't sleep huh, Ron? Usually it takes revelry to get you up." Felix took a sip of the syntho-coffee. "The dreams again?"
"Yeah, their are pain in the ass, cutting into my sleeping time." Ron complained, taking a deep drink. His face pulled into a grimace, as he spat the foul tasting liquid onto the ground.
"Well I guess there is one consistency in this galaxy, and that is no matter where we are, your coffee always taste like shit, Felix."
"Hey don't blame me. Its this damn syntho-coffee, I'm not God, I can't work miracles."
Ron shook his head in disappointment and anger, as he pulled out a syntho-cigar. "Damn Guards, get all the good stuff, real tobacco, real coffee, real chocolate…"
Felix smiled in sympathy as Ron continued his rant. Taking small sips of his coffee, waiting patiently for Ron to reach his climax, and his conclusion.
"Sergeants!" Ron stopped in mid rant, and Felix hastily swallowed what remained of his coffee, and saluted their captain, as he approached the two men.
Barkin was a physically large and well built man in his late fifties. His iron grey, crew cut hair, dark green jump suite, heavy, full body flack armour made him incredibly intimidating. A fact that he was well aware of, and enjoyed. Barkin's dark brown eyes stared down at them, as though judging them, and weighing their value. Both Ron and Felix did their best not to wilt under the piercing, dark gaze.
Finally, and much to the relief of his two men, Barkin smiled. "Command just handed us new orders boys! The division has been given the go-ahead to take Geta back from the Terries. Our battalion has been given the industrial, and market centers as our ultimate objectives."
Both Ron and Felix smiled excitedly, for too long they had been on the retreat. For too long they had watched as one by one their cities fell. Now they would advance. They would drive the enemy from New Louis, and finally ended this bloody battle.
Barkin smiled at their eager faces. "So get some food in your gut and your shit together, we're moving out at 0700 hrs."
A Booyah. Another chapter done. Now before you start flaming me for all the religious themes and references, I'm not trying to be a bible thumper. This story is more about accepting someone else beliefs, and not attacking them. So to you Brood War fans, I'll try and get the next chapter out by next week. As always leave me a review, if you favourite it, write a review, if you alert it leave a review, if you hate it leave a review, if you love it leave a review.