It was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Still, sweat formed upon his brow and cascaded down his youthful cheeks. He could feel the perspiration from every pore and groaned at the feeling of his uniform sticking against his back. His head throbbed and the room seemed to sway even as he sat down to regain his balance. His throat was parched and he could feel the thirst welling up inside him. Yet he opted for another beverage.
The curve of the bottle in his hand was familiar now. He'd repeated this exercise on many an occasion despite the objections of his peers. Despite her objections. But he didn't care what she had to say. Not anymore. He had fought beside her, saved her on more than several occasions and when peace finally came she rejected him. Friends… as if that were enough for him. As if another friend could comfort him in the lonely hours of the night when the horrors he'd seen and done revisited him. He didn't need any more friends.
He took a long, hard pull of the scotch and felt the liquid bite at his taste buds and sear his throat. He let out a cough when he set the bottle down and surveyed his surroundings. The living conditions in their so-called barracks were barely suitable for an animal in a zoo. His dirty uniforms lay strewn upon the grimy floor amid unused gear and what meager personal effects he still possessed. Light scarcely entered through a few massive fissures in the bulkhead which also let in the chilling night breeze and an abundance of bugs. His cot, so uncomfortable to sleep upon, was stained with his sweat and probably the sweat of a dozen Marines before him. He'd been told he was lucky to have a cot at all. But that didn't make him feel better.
He'd been on half a dozen worlds supporting Alliance Marines in their fight against the Reapers. He'd seen them die in droves, a result of his youthful inadequacy and the Reaper's relentlessness. It took time to develop his talents, his biotic barriers were not always strong enough and men and women died because of it. He could remember nothing of them. They were faceless beings masked in anonymity thanks to the breather helmets they wore. But their screams—he could always count on remembering their screams.
As the contents of the bottle emptied his grasp on consciousness began to slip away. Visions of battles hard fought and often lost intermingled with the here and now. Thoughts of a woman loved and hope spurned surfaced and then cascaded away with a swig and grimace. The pain in his heart existed for a time like a dagger in the chest but numbed and then vanished in waves of 80 proof. But the loneliness remained—just as it always did. Then the world was spinning and Alliance biotic phenom Ensign Jason Prangley drifted off into unconsciousness, an empty bottle of scotch beside his flaccid grasp.
"Wake up!" A flat paddle of a hand across the face brought Prangley back to reality, back to consciousness. His lids sluggishly opened and Ensign Alexandra Rodriguez was kneeling overhead with a mixed look of anger and concern. "Wake up, Jason, we have to go!"
His head throbbed and his vision was blurry. He felt dizzy, too much scotch. He struggled to sit up, not taking her warning seriously. Then a massive explosion outside jarred them both and sent dust and debris from the shabby building raining down upon them. "What the- what the hell is going on?" Prangley queried as he stumbled to his feet with Rodriguez's help.
"We're under attack," Rodriguez told him seriously. "I don't know who they are, but they're killing everyone."
"What?" Prangley stuttered. Confusion set in alongside the feeling of a bad hangover, but his biotic amp made hangovers non-existent so he must have still been intoxicated. "Where did you come from?"
Rodriguez yanked him forward and out the door of his grubby quarters. All around them the sound of gunfire and airships could be heard. An A-61 Mantis gunship zipped by with its dual M350 mass-accelerator machine guns spewing slugs along the way. Rodriguez realized the gunship bore no Alliance colors and immediately understood the situation to be worse than she had initially thought. She dragged Prangley along as more explosions and gunfire erupted around them. She could see Alliance Marines, clearly unprepared, running to and fro trying to make sense of the sudden attack.
Great plumes of acrid black smoke rose from fireballs caused by precision guided missiles and biotic attacks on their camp's fuel cells. Ahead she could see well-armed soldiers fighting and winning against poorly equipped and badly disorganized Alliance personnel. They wore an array of different armor types and were strapped from head to toe with guns and thermal clips to spare. They killed everyone. They gunned down the armed and unarmed alike as they rushed toward an office building in disrepair nearby—one of the few where power had been adequately restored. It was used by the Alliance for research and development. Reaper technology was still being studied. Some wanted to extrapolate the data toward better technologies while still more wanted to destroy every scrap of the stuff.
"Where are they going?" Rodriguez questioned aloud as she watched them violently make entry into the building. The attackers were precise and every rush they made was well coordinated. They made short work of the few Alliance troops that tried to hinder them at the entrance.
Prangley offered only a groan and Rodriguez labored under his drunken weight. "Lieutenant Sanders is in there!" Rodriguez suddenly realized. The Alliance officer and her aide, David Archer, often worked inside the building. She staggered forward with Prangley in tow and was able to quietly enter the building behind the armed personnel who seemed too consumed with shooting scientists, guards and unarmed Marines to notice her behind them.
More gunfire was heard inside, intermingled with screams. Some personnel came scrambling by, intent to escape the massacre inside. Frightened eyes looked at Rodriguez from beneath masks of blood and gore. Was she crazy to go inside? She could hear familiar voices then, the sound of people from her unit—men and women that had fought in her biotic support platoon. She rounded a corner and narrowly averted being seen by one of the attackers that held rear-security. So they're professional enough to watch their backs too, Rodriguez thought. Three hundred and sixty degrees of security, it was one of the most important facets of military procedure that had been drilled into her time and time again by salty Marine NCOs. It had taken a long time for the lesson to sink in.
She leaned over and carefully relinquished her grasp on Prangley. He slumped against the wall and let out another mumble.
She peeked around the corner and saw her peers, other biotics, fighting against an onslaught from the heavily armed and armored attackers. Peterson and Antonov were killed by a grenade and then Kapur was brought down by two concentrated salvos of heavy fire.
Rodriguez felt her heart sink. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to attack, she had to attack. She had to help her friends. But could she? They were dying now faster than before as the seemingly merciless assault continued. Rodriguez was best at defense. She could create strong barriers, but her attacks were not powerful.
She saw one of the men drag Ling out from behind some cover. Rodriguez watched the younger girl, exhausted from overuse of her powers, kick and scream futilely. She stopped when they shot her in the head and Rodriguez had to stifle a gasp. Then the group took possession of their objective—or so Rodriguez assumed.
David Archer awkwardly stepped out from where he had sheltered—protected by his fellow Grissom Academy alums. But they were all dead or dying now and only David remained. He surveyed the slaughter around him and Rodriguez could see the sadness reflected in his face. He was flanked by a trio of the gunmen and they began to escort him toward a nearby stairwell that led to the roof.
"Package is secure. We're on the way to the roof. We need extract," she heard a gruff voice report into a radio.
They began to leave, but before the group was gone Prangley let out another drunken moan and this time they heard it. Two of them, a man and woman, turned toward the direction where Rodriguez was hidden. Damn it, Rodriguez cursed inwardly.
"Check it out," the voice from before ordered.
A few more troops joined the first pair as they cautiously advanced toward Rodriguez's position with their weapons up. She began to worry as she knew they would find them both. She was no match for them. They had killed her whole team. She looked at Jason who was slipping in and out of consciousness. His eyelids drooped and his mouth was agape. He could stop them, she thought. He was always the strongest of us. But that was not an option. He was incapacitated and only Rodriguez remained. She swallowed her fear and conjured the strength inside her and then stepped out from her hiding place.
"Take this!" she shouted as she cast a massive orb in the direction of the attackers. The mass effect disruption smashed into two of the troops and they went flying back into a set of filing cabinets. Their bodies ricocheted off the hulking storage containers which tipped over from the force of the impact.
"Another biotic!" one of the soldiers shouted through the metallic sound of his breather helmet. "Take her out."
Gunfire streaked toward her, but the biotic barrier she had erected shrugged off the initial attacks. With great effort she was violently yanked one of the soldiers from his feet. She smashed his frame into the ceiling and then with sudden power he rocketed into the ground. The others dove for cover, but continued to fire at her. She dodged some of the rounds and her barrier stopped some of the others as she too raced for cover. Without a weapon she felt naked, despite her powers. She needed more. She needed help. She needed Jason. She shrugged off the uncertainty just as a grenade rolled nearby. The explosion deafened her as she lunged away from the blast, but searing hot shrapnel still managed to tear at her flesh.
A biotic throw knocked a couple of the troops down, but they were quick to get back to their feet and she was getting tired. She was used to working with a team. All through the Reaper war they had rotated their biotic duties in order to stay as fresh as possible and even then it had been taxing. Now she was alone and she could feel the immense drain her powers had on her physiology.
How was Jack so strong? I wish she was here now, Rodriguez thought between heavy gasps of air. She was forced back by more gunfire and grenades and could only offer a few meager biotic attacks in response. Before long she was pressed into a corner and desperately staving off their attacks.
She looked back to where she had been, across all the debris and recently installed scientific instruments.
She saw Jason stir from his alcohol-induced comatose state. But she was not the only one that noticed. Her attackers saw him too and were moving in to finish him off as they had ruthlessly done to her comrades before.
Rodriguez felt energy surge through her once more as the need to save her last remaining friend came to the forefront of her mind. She lurched out from her cover and released a cataclysmic shockwave that tore up the floor and sent some of the soldiers flying like rag dolls against nearby equipment. She locked another in stasis and bowled past him rocketing forward with all her speed. "Leave him alone!" she shouted through huffs. She lobbed two more biotic attacks at the men creeping in on Jason. The orbs hit their targets and the distortions seemed to squash against their body before the force of the attack exploded and sent them reeling into the floor where they slid to a halt a dozen feet away.
She was alive. She was strong. She was motivated, she felt stronger now than she ever had before. But it would not last. The strength she had exerted on her attacks had weakened her barrier and she felt the sudden, shocking pain of a slug striking her from behind. She stumbled forward just as the round exited her chest, having bounced around inside before doing so. She turned in time to receive more gunfire from attackers too stubborn to die. Her biotic barrier warded off some of the shots, but still more entered her small frame. Her body writhed in pain as the ruthless assailants riddled her with gunfire.
Finally, she collapsed upon the floor, her heartbeat faint, her lids barely open. Blood pooled in great heaps beneath her body and she struggled for breath.
The two soldiers hovered over her. They glared down at her through the faceless masks they wore, manufactured blue eyes eerily alight. "Tough bitch," one said through the mask.
"Not tough enough," the other chuckled. He leveled his pistol on her forehead, took aim and fired. Her head was hammered back into the floor from the shot. Rodriguez lay motionless. Her bright blue eyes- now lifeless- gazed vacantly at the ceiling overhead. But the blood continued to flow from her body and she was soon awash in a puddle of it.
The two turned their attention to Prangley who was grumbling as he awoke from his unconscious state. His confusion was obvious as his bleary eyes locked on the two armor-clad killers. They looked at him and then each other. "Is this guy drunk?" one asked.
"If he is then he's about to die from a splitting headache," the other laughed as he aimed his pistol at Prangley's face.
Prangley gazed at them through watery, unfocused eyes. What was happening? Where was he? He felt dizzy, he wanted to vomit. He breathed noiselessly as he stared down the barrel of the gun. And he scarcely flinched when the two of them were surrounded by an eerie purplish aura, lifted from the ground and then cast with immense force against a wall nearby. So hard was the force that they both left massive cracks in the thick concrete structure. Their armor was split and they lay dead upon the ground beside Rodriguez.
Rodriguez? Prangley's eyes widened at the sight of her. What was she doing here? What happened? He lurched forward and crawled on all fours toward her.
"Prangley!" a familiar voice barked as he sidled up next to Rodriguez's body, oblivious of the blood. "What the fuck happened?"
He turned to see his teacher- his mentor—Jack standing fiercely over him. She was angry. No, it was rage, but it was tempered by what she saw. She looked at Rodriguez's body and it didn't take her much investigating to realize most of the rest of her students lay dead as well.
Prangley had no answer for her. He didn't know what happened. He just stared silently at Rodriguez with his mouth hung open.
"Who the fuck are these guys?" Jack seethed as she used her boot to roll one of the corpses over onto his back. The only identifiable feature on his armor was that of a skull with ragged angel wings behind it.
"I…" Prangley stammered. "I…"
When Jack turned back toward Prangley she saw him vomit and she could smell the alcohol. She watched him wretch for a few moments before she stomped over toward him and yanked him to his feet. He was limp in her vice-like grip. His bloodshot eyes looked into her angry gaze and it was clear he had given up a long time ago. Just as she had worried he would.
"You're drunk," she accused through clenched teeth. "You're fucking drunk and your friends are dead!"
"I don't know," Prangley muttered. Jack cringed from the smell of the booze on his breath. "I don't know what happened." He started to sob.
It made Jack angrier. She shoved him into the wall. He slid down into a crumpled heap on the floor and began to cry.
Jack investigated the charnel house the research office had become. Nearly all her students had turned out to ward off the attackers. But why did they come here? She heard voices and turned to see Lieutenant Sanders, Commander Kahoku and a squad of Marines enter.
"What happened?" Sanders asked, her eyes were wide with horror as she surveyed the scene. She had known many of the students for years.
"Whoever attacked us came here for a reason. What kind of research was going on here?" Jack demanded.
"Nothing that would warrant this," Sanders confessed with a heavy heart. "Where is David?"
"I haven't seen him," Jack replied.
"But he was here before the attack," Sanders told her as she picked her way through the Alliance remains. Her eyes held a glimmer of tears as she looked at each of their faces.
Jack felt that sadness too, but she showed none of it now. It was being repressed deep within her—just like all the pain and hardship she'd experienced throughout her life. Only the rage permeated her shell.
Whoever they were they had been swift, silent and deadly until the moment of their attack. There had been no indications of an intrusion and when their assault began the Alliance was completely unaware.
The final realization of peace after the war with the Reapers had made many of in the Alliance understandably complacent. No one could have imagined a paramilitary group storming into the heart of an Alliance camp.
"Was it the Reaper tech they wanted?" Commander Kahoku asked, turning his attention to Kahlee Sanders.
"I don't see why they'd want any of it. It's all out of commission," she noted.
"Well launch an investigation," Kahoku assured them. "We'll find out who did this. In the meantime we need to get a head count of all camp personnel. Find out who was killed and tend to the wounded."
"A head count?" Jack asked venomously from down the hall. She had seen the bodies of Kapur, Antonov, Ling and Peterson. "My people are here. They're fucking dead."
"Jack, I'm sorry," Kahoku offered sincerely. He knew the loss would be immeasurable to the woman. She had seen them through the war and some had died while others had been wounded. These were her survivors- her veterans.
And in one foul swoop they were taken from her.
"Just tell me who did this," Jack said plainly as she stalked past the Commander and his Marines.
Because I'm going to fucking kill them…