A/N:
LogicalPremise's work titled: "Documentation : A guide to the Systems Alliance Order of Battle" - you guys should read this, damn fine work if you ask me.
ianua cordis mei - Z - That's what i'm trying to get across dude, people seem to think war can be all fun and games, when if fact, people die and they experience unimaginable horror from all the things they faced. Though I'm still crappy at this whole writing thing, I want to capture that realism and try to make it as authentic as possible. Again man, thanks for the review. Much appreciated.
corumb - thanks man, more coming up. :)
Behold the final chapter set in this year. Hope you enjoy!
November 7th 2183 C.E.
Ferris Fields
...regret to inform you of Staff Sergeant Ivanoff Litovski's recent passing during the defense of Ferris Fields. He died honorably in the field of battle, making sure that his squad would get out safely when the enemy…
Major Henry Rodriguez continued typing away on his terminal for about five minutes, finally finishing his last condolence letter to Staff Sergeant Litovski's wife. A few days after the battle now and he'd written about sixty-five condolence letters to each of the casualty's parents, siblings, loves ones, and all significant others that were close to the deceased. It wasn't an easy task, it never was. But it had to be done, he owed them at least that much. Ferris Fields was saved, but at such tremendous cost.
And Litovski's loss was gonna be hard on the entire militia. Everybody liked him. He was nice, courteous, and was undeniably funny. Guy had a shitload of jokes that could relate to any situation, and he witnessed it firsthand. The first time Rodriguez saw the guy was during his brief first visit at the militia HQ, where he was just drinking his ass off with three others, with spent aluminum beer cans everywhere. The sight disgusted the young major at first, seeing this wannabe soldier just dusting off regulations and consuming a lot of beer. He decided to fix that on his second visit.
Wearing his new uniform proudly, the young man quickly screamed at them to stand at attention, threatening anyone who was still lollygagging with push-ups and runs around the colony perimeter. Everybody who was there quickly stood up at once, discontinuing whatever the hell it was they were doing, even Litvoski. He stood at attention, hands at his side, and his back seemingly ramrod straight with his eyes looking up ahead. The sudden movement quickly intoxicated the thirty-year old Russian and he collapsed five seconds later, face first. All of the grunts present tried very hard to suppress their grins and their barely hidden chuckles, not daring to piss off their new CO any further. That lasted about four seconds, where everyone who saw the poor drunk's flop howled with amused laughter, which didn't last long when he screamed at them again for laughing. Because of the incident, the poor staff sergeant had to endure the militia's wrath with their jokes about his little fall. But the man just took it casually and good-naturedly.
And now he's dead. The major morbidly remembered. Litovski's scheduled perimeter patrol was the one that discovered the batarian's massive buildup that led to the militia's quick mobilization. And for that, the entire colony was grateful. As the sergeant continued to report back troop movement's to any nearby friendly units, they were spotted by an advancing enemy platoon and were pinned down. According to what was left of Bodark 2-3, Litovski ordered them to fall back and regroup with Bravo Company, while the sergeant and a single volunteer stayed behind to draw the enemy's fire. Seven men out of the nine-man squad manage to link up with one of Bravo's platoons and continued their fight against the batarians, though Ivanoff and Private Ethan Wesker weren't so lucky.
Both of them, along with the rest of the militia's casualties, were buried two klicks east of the colony; where a memorial was built to commemorate their sacrifice. It wasn't really that extravagant or anything, just a single three-meter long, slab of excess titanium with all of the names of the lost scribbled down with long-lasting paint. If they had more resources, they could've done much more, but the major felt this was more appropriate. They weren't famous leaders or individuals, just a bunch of regular guys who volunteered to take up arms and defend the colony. And this simple memorial was deemed suitable enough to honor simple, courageous men.
More than a week has already passed after that dreadful battle, and he still felt this uneasy feeling at the back of his mind that reminded him he should've done more for the guys at the militia, and more certainly for the sixty-five guys now lying six feet beneath the surface. He never felt this huge amount of guilt before, and it was eating him up terribly. Knowles, the colony, even what was left of the militia told him he had done a good job at repelling the alien invaders, that what he had done saved a lot of lives. But why the hell do I still feel guilty?
In a war, casualties were deemed acceptable, that much was for certain. The young man just wished somebody could've told him how to deal with this insane amount of remorse. Leaning back on his chair, the major pressed "enter" on his terminal and sent the final condolence letter addressed to one Rebecca Litovski, explaining how her faithful husband of four years would never be coming home. All the more making Rodriguez feel dreadful for not having prevented such deaths.
Would you feel better if someone other than Litvoski died out there? His mind asked him.
Shut up. He told it back.
Opening up another file on his terminal, Rodriguez continued on making sure that everything was running smoothly again. Right now, he was assessing on the militia's weaponry and equipment. A new batch of Hahne-Kedar hard suits was arriving today, approximately sixty units worth of complete armor sets, accompanied by an equal number of Securitel helmets manufactured by Kassa Fabrication and new munitions for the M143 Devastators. He could've just stripped the dead of their armor and equipment, but that would've made him even guiltier than he already is, so he decided to just let them keep them and be buried wearing it. Their rifles and other offensive armaments were kept for obvious reasons; he told himself the militia needed it. New weapons were also procured by the battalion quartermaster, purchasing sets of M92 Mantis sniper rifles and M23 Katana shotguns. After what had happened with the batarians, Knowles released more funds for the militia to acquire more weapons and gear. They had also salvaged what was left of the batarian's heavy weaponry, acquiring about thirty of them. They lacked ammunition for it though, and the major asked Specialist Sutherland to requisition for more rockets. To which he said would take a while though, as ML-77's were hard to come by nowadays.
As for other equipment, the vehicles were also hit hard. With the Command Mako gone, and another M35 knocked out of commission, half of their armored assets were unavailable for the mean time. Though it could be fixed, the time not having those armored wonders were also a time they were at their most vulnerable, and he couldn't allow it. The mechanics at the garage told him they needed almost a few weeks, at the least to make full repairs, to which he begrudgingly agreed. They told him a completely fixed Mako was better than a partially fixed one.
Meanwhile, during the battalion's pursuit of the invaders, they managed to capture a bunch of prisoners who was left behind by the batarians during their escape; four of them, to be exact. They were rigorously interrogated by some of the senior NCOs for any information they possessed. And it took about less than an hour. The captive four-eyed aliens were scared shitless, and they quickly broke down and told them everything there is to know about how many of them were there and what reasons they had for coming here.
They told the interrogators that they were part of a force numbering five hundred men—batarians, to be specific—that was given permission (more like their blessings, really) from the Batarian Hegemony to launch an attack here and enslave its supposedly helpless population. Their intel stated that the militia here was, in their exact words, "incompetent, bored and cowardly". What they didn't expect though was a fully-armed and capable force, outnumbered and outgunned, repelling their invasion. They also said that they needed a win, that after their defeats at Elysium and Torfan, they wanted to regain their honor and prestige by defeating a colony that was outside the Alliance's jurisdiction. Well, look at how that ended up for them.
Now that their purpose was done, the question nagging him now was on how to deal with them. Most—if not already all—of the colonists here in Ferris Fields wanted them to be executed, to show the rest of the batarians that they weren't just another helpless colony that can be easily taken; while there was also some who wanted to exile them in the planet's wilderness and let them die slow, lingering deaths. Knowles just told him it was completely up to the major on what to decide on the matter. Should I let them be executed? Or I just maroon them which will all result in their eventual deaths anyway? Either way, both decisions resulted in all the prisoners dying. Torn between what to decide, he quickly called for his XO to be summoned on his office.
A few minutes later, the door opened, and coming in was Captain Adrian Walters, wearing his near-spotless uniform and his spotless combat boots. He stood at complete attention, with his hands behind his back and his feet a foot apart. "You wanted to see me, sir?"
"Yeah, I do. Take a seat, captain." The battalion XO quickly did so, hands on his lap with his back leaning on the chair, ramrod straight. "I was wondering on what your opinion is, regarding the prisoners' fate."
"Sir?" the captain asked him, surprise etched on his features.
"I'm asking on what you think we should do with them, captain." Rodriguez rephrased the question to him. Walters just sat there for a few seconds or so before letting out a soft chuckle.
"You don't want to know what I think, sir." He just stated plainly.
"Then enlighten me, captain." The major insisted, "Don't let me make it an order."
"Well, a part of me thinks they deserve what's coming for them. I mean, they did kill sixty-five good men just trying to defend their homes and their families." He's right, he's right on all accounts—"But," the captain continued on with his opinion. "another part of me thinks that we should just send them to an Alliance prison, where they can be brought to justice for attacking and trying to enslave a human colony."
"I thought the Alliance didn't have jurisdiction here?" The major asked his subordinate. Why the hell didn't I think of that before?
"True," Walters asserted to him. "but it's no secret that the Alliance sends undercover N7 units around these parts to shut down piracy operations." Rodriguez just gives him a confused, questioning look.
"N7?"
"Elite Alliance military special forces, surely you heard of them?" Walters told him further. "John Shepard's, like, their most famous operative." Again, the major's look remained the same.
"Who the hell's John Shepard?" Now it was the captain's turn to give him a surprised look.
"He's like humanity's biggest hero. He's the reason why Elysium and the Citadel are still standing, and you haven't heard of him?"
"Nope," Rodriguez answered honestly. "can't say that I have. Where is he now, anyways?"
"He got killed a few months back by 'unknown' forces. At least that's what the Council said."
"Huh, sucks to be him." The major just said simply, then moved back to the topic at hand. "Anyways, how soon can you contact that Alliance N7-things and have them pick up our new friends?" Walters just gave him a look of amused disbelief and shook his head, still not believing his commander hadn't heard of the famous human hero.
"Usually they pass through this system every six solar days or so. I guess they'll be here about three days from now. I'll let Overwatch contact them once they're within range."
"Make it so, then, captain." He ordered his XO. Walters gave him a nod then stood up from his chair and went for the door. "And captain?" The young executive officer looked back at him, hand already over at the haptic interface. "Thanks."
"My pleasure, sir." Walters gave his CO a smile then left.
After his XO's departure, he quickly went back through his terminal and opened up the extranet browser, typing in John Shepard's name. A few moments later, he was rewarded with about dozens of news articles concerning the man in question. He opened up an Alliance News Network article and read a brief history about the man's accomplishments. Defended the human colony of Elysium against overwhelming odds? Became the first human Spectre? Hero of the Citadel? Rodriguez just kept on reading. The guy's done a lot of things to help people, and not just for the Alliance, based on what he read. What the hell's a Spectre? Typing in on the search bar again, he was shown the definition a few moments later: Stands for Special Tactics and Reconnaissance, right arm of the Galactic Council that is above the law, with its agents enforcing the will of the Council by any means necessary.
After reading for about a few minutes, he powered down his terminal and leaned back again on his chair, the soft, black leather chair giving him much needed comfort. From now on, he decided to get updated on all current events at all times. His little slip-up today earlier had almost compromised him. He wasn't planning on letting it happen again. But for now, he needed to unwind a bit, relax. As much as he tried though, he couldn't bring himself to do it. His mind still wandered towards last week's battle, the casualties, his responsibility to have avoided getting a lot of it, and failing. Because of it, he'd been having a lot nightmares as of late; the faces of the men he'd trained with, the ones who had died completely haunting his consciousness, bringing with them sheer guilt and remorse. Every time he tried to sleep, he'd wake up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat, giving out a silent scream whenever he bolted upwards from springing into consciousness. He was thankful though that, for now, Therese hadn't woken up whenever he had his bad dreams, or had noticed his restlessness. Should I talk to her, though? He asked himself in his thoughts.
No. Another part of his mind told him. She's still struggling with the fact that she had to treat dozens of badly wounded men; you adding up another problem is not going to help her, at all. Rodriguez completely forgot about that part. As one of the colony's leading physicians, Therese Watkins had to tend to a lot of the militia's critically injured during the batarian attack, and whenever she went home after, she was tired both physically and mentally from having seen so many terrifying wounds, and the men that were the owners of it screaming and struggling from the immense pain because of it. No, he definitely wasn't planning on telling her any time soon. He'd just tough this thing out, probably just post-traumatic stress disorder, making him this jumpy and restless. Yeah, that's about it.
The artillery rounds were falling all around him, each of the huge rounds tearing out everything in its path. Men were dying, where there was this one soldier whose legs were gone, having been detached by the artillery round's explosive blast. Blood was liberally pouring out of the wounds, from the stumps where the legs used to be. The color on the man's face was draining, the massive blood loss sucking the life out of him. And the major just stood there, not doing anything to help the poor bastard dying right in front of him. A loud roar was heard behind him, turning around, he could see the batarians gunning their way forward, and they weren't alone. Mixed with them were a group of humans, wielding these weird yet somewhat familiar-looking, black colored rifles and wearing camouflaged armor with a helmet that made him awfully aware.
But then he saw their eyes. Even though they were opening up wildly, the eyes still looked as if they were still squinting. And that's when he realized it: the group of human soldiers where men from the People's Liberation Army Ground Force. But like the batarians, the Chinese weren't heading right towards him—but to the injured men that were lying around everywhere, screaming their lungs out as the pain they had to endure was simply unbearable. The hard suits and the uniforms of the—no, it can't be? He was seeing soldiers from his old unit. There was no mistaking it. The unit patches, the tri-colored camouflage the Philippine Army favored...and his friends lying down in agony besides the men of the Ferris Fields Colonial Militia.
The batarians and the Chinese still kept on their advance, growing nearer and nearer by the second. He willed his body to move, trying desperately to move in and save them. And yet, he still stood there, still watching the almost inevitable massacre that was sure to follow.
"Get outta there, goddamn it!" he tried to shout the words out, but his mouth refused to open, not uttering a single word out. He was helpless. A few moments later, the combine group of batarians and Chinese soldiers were upon them like wolves. Shooting at them indiscriminately and raking them with lead and hyper-accelerated slugs. The Chinese had bayonets attached to their QZB-95 bullpup rifles, and we're thrusting them without mercy to his injured and dying brothers of Bravo Company.
What the batarians were doing was even worse. A few men from what was left of the militia begged for them to show mercy, but still they didn't relent from their horrible onslaught. They were captured with nets and were clubbed to death with rifles and spiked gauntlets, their screams cutting through the air like a hot knife through butter. And here he was witnessing all of it.
A single soldier crawled out of the ensuing bloodbath, desperately trying to get out of it. Both his legs were gone, and blood was seeping out of the corners of his mouth. And he instantly recognized the bloodied man, it was Litovski! The legless man saw him and tried making his way towards him, ever so slowly. Putting his arm in front of the other, pain evident by the way he gritted his teeth and his eyes cringing with every effort he made. He was getting nearer now, just a few feet away.
"Come on! You can make it!" his mouth finally opened, he outstretched one of his arms, offering his hand to Litovski as he sluggishly makes his way towards him. Despite the pain the man was experience, he let out a small smile, his eyes glistening with the prospects of hope, and putting up his hand in front of him, waiting for the young man to grab it.
He didn't have a slight chance in hell. A batarian saw what the helpless man was doing and slowly made his way towards Litovski, unsheathing a knife that was strapped to his left thigh. His eyes widened, and he tried to make his legs move to get to where the injured man was. Again, he couldn't move it, but his arms could, and right now he was stretching it out, willing for the sergeant to reach for it.
Ivanoff's smile grew even more, he was just a few more inches away, his hand getting nearer and nearer towards touching his own. All the pain the man must've endured momentarily gone, as help was just an arm's reach away. The young man just looked into his eyes, his arm was so close.
Almost…there…
Suddenly, the sergeant's body gave out a shudder, and Litovski grunted with pain, his eyes widening, and the smile in his face he saw earlier was now completely gone. The young man looked up—and saw the batarian had his knife embedded deeply on the sergeant's back.
He looked back at Litovski, the man still had his arm outstretched, just mere inches away from his own. The sergeant's eyes looked up on his, begging for him to get him out of here to some place safe. More blood came dripping out of his mouth, his stretched out arm lowering ever so slowly.
And the batarian didn't just stop there. He pulled the knife out of Litovski's back, grabbed him by the hair, making him kneel up, and positioned the knife across his neck, ready to slit his throat to let him bleed out—
"Nooo!"
Rodriguez instantly rose up with a gasp, cold sweat quickly pouring down on his face as he started breathing heavily. He was sitting upright in his bed, his hands clutching the blanket he had on tightly and his heart rate still beating out faster than it should have. Damn it, that's the fifth one this week. The nightmares were getting much worse. His previous dreams just showed him the faces of all the men they lost, all staring at him accusingly for not having saved them. But this new nightmare he just had, it showed him the rest of the guys from Bravo, Staff Sergeant Litovski, and was definitely more visceral than the last ones. He lowered his head and had his right hand massage the bridge of his nose. With all this shit going around, he just hoped he didn't wake up—
"Hey, you okay?" a voice asked next to him. Looking up and turning his head left, he saw Therese slowly getting up, her pale blue eyes looking at his with obvious worry and concern.
"I'm fine," he told her instantly without thinking. "it's nothing." She looked unconvinced, her worried stance still in place.
"No, you're not." She told him back, her tone more serious and cold. He's never heard that kind of seriousness from her. But, before he can dwell on it, she returned to her usual warm and welcoming self. "You've been having these dreams for days now, Henry, and it's clearly bothering you." Shit she already knew?! Damn it! He tried explaining to her, but the words were too difficult to let out.
"I—I—I'm sorry." He sputtered, his resolve now gone and his guilt coming back in full force.
"What's troubling you, Henry?" she asked him, her eyes still on him. There's no hiding it now…With a deep breath, he gave out a slightly loud sigh and his head slowly starting to look down.
"I keep seeing their faces," he spoke softly, almost like a whisper. "I…I should've done more." He could still feel Therese's gaze looking at him, but right now he refused to look at her, his shame quickly partnering next to his guilt.
"Henry, you did all that you could for them," Therese said to her with equal gentleness, putting a hand on his shoulder. "if you hadn't did what you had to, Ferris Fields wouldn't have been saved."
"Don't you think I know that?" Rodriguez snapped at her, his eyes pointing daggers towards her. But yet her she was, completely unfazed by his sudden outburst. Realizing his mistake, the young man quickly tried to patch things up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay, Henry." The doctor just told him sympathetically, wrapping her arms around him as she slowly brought his head towards her shoulder. Rodriguez didn't resist at the least, tears slowly building up in his eyes as his guilt came crashing down, unable to hold it in anymore; his body shuddered with quiet sobs, with more tears freely flowing down on his cheeks.
For the past hour and a half, it just went on like this. The major closing his eyes, his head still leaning on Therese's shoulder, the young woman ushering in a few words close to his ear, whispering to him that everything was going to be alright, and he wasn't going to go through all of this alone.
That did the trick, because the last thing Rodriguez knew was that he was asleep in an instant.
A few days more have passed, and like the times before them, it was all peaceful and quiet. In another time—or perhaps a century and a half ago—he'd have been bored out of his mind, being restless with inactivity and just itching to get into action. Now though, after that fiasco with the failed batarian invasion, he wasn't going to take times like these for granted any longer. He'd enjoy every single minute of it.
Just a few short hours ago, one of the Alliance's patrolling frigates, the SSV Leyte Gulf, made landfall on the colony's western outskirts, after receiving Ferris Fields' call for prisoners in need of detainment. They were quick, too. In and out in approximately twenty minutes. No more, no less. After that, things just pretty much returned to normal, at least that's what he thought before returning back to the colony.
A lot of folks in the colony weren't really too happy with the fact that the batarian POWs were still allowed to breathe air, let alone live as prisoners at the expense of the Alliance. The colony's council, Rodriguez included, was quickly convened at the colony's two-story nerve center to discuss the repercussions of what just happened. They were ten people here all in all, including the major; all seated at one of the building's conference rooms, surrounding a large table. When Knowles started the initial discussion, some of them were already arguing in full blast, one in particular was being started by the colony's head of heavy industry.
"Why the hell are we letting those four-eyed bastards be detained by the Alliance?" the man told Knowles and Major Rodriguez specifically. The young man took the outburst in a calm and collected manner before replying.
"Because they already told us what they knew, and last time I checked, we didn't have the resources to maintain a detention facility."
"Who said anything about detaining them?" another man, who was the colony's head of agriculture, said to him. "I was rather hoping we make an example out of them by—" Rodriguez didn't let the man finish; he already knew where this particular point was heading.
"By executing them?" the young major looked at the older man with a harsh glare. "I suppose you were planning on pulling the trigger yourself, huh?"
"That's not what I—" the man tried to explain, but again, he was cut off. This time his rage taking over.
"Then what the hell do you mean, damn it!" Rodriguez stood up from his chair and pounded his fist at the table. "I will not condone executions to helpless prisoners-of-war!"
"And you think they'll show the same courtesy to us?" the colony's head of hydroponics asked him.
"So, what?" the major countered them. "Just because they're that brutal and animalistic does not mean we have to stoop up to their level, all of us here are better than that." That shut all of them up immediately. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Knowles cleared his throat.
"Then it's settled then," the older man in charge of the entire colony told all of them. "unless, of course, there are other issues that needs to be settled with?" none of them said a word. "Alright then, dismissed."
Every single one of them filed out of the conference room, just leaving Knowles and Rodriguez as its sole occupants, both of them still seated at their respective chairs, Pat at the table's topmost area, the major just settled next to him on his left. Both of them were silent for a few moments until the older man decided to break it.
"You want a drink?" Rodriguez looked towards him and was rewarded with seeing Knowles' lopsided grin. Just what I desperately needed. The young man gave him a grin of his own.
"As long as it's strong enough." Both of them stood up and exited the room, went upstairs, and arrived a few moments later at Knowles' private office. The older man quickly took his seat behind his desk, with the young major doing the same thing across him. Pulling out something from the drawers beneath his desk, the middle-aged man produced a single bottle, which was really, really familiar, and he still couldn't believe one of these babies survived the future, before he could open his mouth to ask Knowles' how he got this sweet slice of liquid gold, the colony head beat him to it.
"Chivas Regal," the man told him, unscrewing the bottle's cap and retrieving two plastic tumblers. "this particular bottle has been in our family for generations, aged about…almost a hundred and seventy years, I think. Probably from the same time from yours." He poured generous amounts of scotch to each tumbler and passed the first one to Rodriguez, grabbed the second one, and held it into the air, "To success."
"To a shitload of luck." The major countered and clinked his tumbler with the other one. Bringing the plastic cup underneath his nostrils, he could smell the distinct aroma, the same certain fragrance, which told him this particular bottle was made to perfection. Plus the fact that it had aged for almost two centuries probably made it better than whatever else is out there. Taking a liberal sip, he could feel the slight burning sensation in his throat, followed by the comfortable feeling of warmth in his belly. Ah, that's the stuff. He leaned back further in his chair, letting his back feel the coziness of the leather seat. Ahead of him, Knowles followed suit and propped both his legs up on his desk, getting himself more comfortable.
"Must be nice leading a colony," Rodriguez said to the man. "scotch, big office, only thing missing now is a hot secretary." Knowles gave out a loud laugh then regained his composure before answering.
"I used to have one of those," the middle-aged man told him, reminiscing. "back when I used to be an executive at Alliance space." I didn't know that…Rodriguez decided to continue further on his query.
"What made you decide to quit being a hot-shot businessman?" the young man asked, insanely curious as to how this old bastard ended up here. Knowles took another sip on his tumbler before moving on.
"Stress, kid. I mean, don't get me wrong, job had a shitload of perks: big house, a hot wife, a few mistresses every now and then, and lots of sports cars." He smiled as he mentioned all of it, and then quickly faded when he frowned. "But, I had about enough of it: the shady deals, the hostile takeovers, mutinous co-workers who wanted to have the majority shares of the company, I couldn't take it anymore. One day, I left the office, just talking a really long walk, just didn't stop walking 'til I saw this poster plastered on an old-bricked building."
"What was on the poster?" Rodriguez asked him. Again, Knowles just took another sip on his plastic cup and continued his story.
"It was an old Alliance recruitment poster, urging volunteering citizens to sign up and help colonize new worlds. First time I saw the damn thing, I just stopped walking and looked at it with both of my eyes wide open. Felt like I experienced an epiphany, you know? So I tore the damn thing up and went straight home, showed it to my wife and pitched an idea to form up a colony in the Terminus Systems. You wanna know what her reaction was?"
"Well, don't just beat around the bush, Pat, tell me." The young man told him back, finishing his scotch, which Knowles kindly refilled.
"First, she asked me if I was fucking crazy, which I told her I wasn't. And second, she wanted a divorce. Been married to her for fifteen years, and the moment I suggested we try a hand at colony life, she flat out refused and called a divorce lawyer an hour later. Half of what I own, gone," Knowles snapped his fingers. "just like that, the next day after I signed those damn papers. I guess you could say I was stubborn enough to go on ahead with my half-assed plan, so I went to Arcturus Station, put up a notice there that I was surveying for potential colony worlds in the Terminus, and I ended up with a group of about four hundred people who were as crazy as me. After that, we boarded the second hand freighter I bought from a retiring captain and headed deep inside unknown space, just looking and looking for almost two years 'til we founded Ferris Fields here. It was slow at first, frustrating as hell, then a couple of other settlers heard about our little adventure here and decided to give it a shot and lend a helping hand. They came in groups of about a few people, then it turned to a couple dozen, a couple of hundred, then to about a couple of thousand until we managed to hit about a sizable number of long-term colonists here. It was worth it, I tell ya, living peacefully here in this little paradise. No work-related stress or anger, no one yapping at you for deadlines, no hostile takeovers, everything here is practically delightful."
Rodriguez listened in on every word; the man did really have a colorful history. What he didn't get though was that how can a man, who's really fucking rich as he used to be, deciding to come out here and leave behind everything people would kill for. Granted, living here felt like you were in a tranquil paradise, with no disturbances, courteous neighbors, nice people all around—you know what, I definitely understand why people would want to live here.
During Patrick Knowles brief history lesson on how he got here, the two of them had already drank about three-quarters of the entire bottle of scotch, which meant that both of them may have a strong possibility of being drunk. Still, Rodriguez was finally relieving himself of all the stress he'd been under, the tenseness gone, his body now fully relaxed; he hadn't felt like this in ages.
"Now, it's my turn with the questions." Knowles said to him, slurring a bit of his words.
"Sure." Was all that Rodriguez could say.
"I don't mean to intrude or anything," the middle-aged man voiced to him. "but Therese told me that you're having trouble sleeping lately." Rodriguez just stared at the man, his jaw just opening slightly as he tried to comprehend what Knowles just said to him. Why the hell would she tell him? But the older man just continued. "Now, now, before you come to any wild conclusions, she only did this because she was really concerned about you, son. And the only reason she's doing all this is because she really loves you, a lot." Now that really caught the major's attention.
"What makes you say that?" Knowles just let out a soft laugh.
"Believe me when I say this, son, the woman's practically the daughter I never had, and the way I see her look at you whenever you're around, she's practically in love with your sorry ass." To that, Rodriguez let out a loud chuckle. "I'm just saying, she's just trying to help out, is all."
"Fine," the young man conceded. "to answer your question, yeah, been having a bit of nightmares every now and then."
"Because of the men that the batarians killed?" Knowles asked him sensitively.
"Yeah, I guess." Rodriguez answered him simply; he didn't want to revisit this old territory again.
"Well, there's only a simple solution to that, son." The older man told him, emptying the final contents of the bottle to their respective tumblers.
"And what is that?" The major asked him, actually interested in what Knowles had to say to him.
"Honor them, kid. You don't grieve for someone who died horribly in the battlefield. Rather, you should thank God that men like those lived long enough to help you and the rest of the colony out." Why the hell is that quote so familiar…?
"That…actually makes sense, really." The young man said to him, drinking a small amount of liquor from his tumbler, the familiar burn welcoming on his throat and stomach. "Where'd you learn that, from?"
"General George Patton." Knowles just told him casually, after which both men broke out laughing for no apparent reason at all.
"You're right, Pat," The major said to him, the seriousness of his voice apparent. "I should do that."
"Yeah, you should." Knowles responded to him, right before gulping down the last contents of his tumbler and putting it down on his desk. "You need a lift home?"
"Nah, I'll probably just talk a short walk, sober up a bit before going home to Therese." Both of them stood up and made their way outside the building, stepping out just in time to see that the twin suns were already gone and was replaced with the darkening blanket of tonight. Rodriguez checked his chrono, it was already 1934 hours. Already? Damn. Knowles took his leave and went on the passenger side of his rover, waving the young man goodbye just before his driver sped him off towards his home. Rodriguez began walking on the way home, just thinking about all the things they had discussed previously on Knowles' office. The man did point out to some logical facts, and he was right all along.
Then the idea hits him, just after walking and thinking for about fifteen minutes. He quickly paced himself en route to the militia HQ, which was just a few blocks walk away from where he was. Arriving their a few minutes later, he went to the armory and requisitioned himself one of the new Hahne-Kedar medium hard suits they had just received and forgone the Securitel helmet that the armorer tried to offer to him. Instead, he just got himself a Karpov pistol with an appropriate amount of ammo blocks, a pack full of supplies strapped to his back and nothing else. Thanking the man in charge of the armory, he quickly went his way to exit the colony's via its eastern perimeter; hoping that he had just enough time to do this and go home a bit early to spend some quality time with Therese, the amazing woman who he was now planning on spending the rest of his life with. Life can't be much better than that. He thought to himself happily.
After trekking the outskirts for the better part of about two and a half hours, Rodriguez finally arrived at his destination: the Ferris Field Colonial Militia's burial grounds. As he started to make his way towards the memorial, he could see the dozens of tombstones liberally placed all around him, each of the white marble markers representing colonial militiamen who had died honorably defending the colony and their respective families. He quickly sobered up with the sight all over the place. If it weren't for these brave souls, they wouldn't have achieved a victory during that fateful day, and he was eternally grateful to each and every one of them.
The markers were neatly placed throughout the area. Like the memorial, the marker was modest, with no other extravagant details; just the name, rank, date of birth and death were placed on it, nothing more, nothing less. At the grounds, the grass was neatly trimmed, and the perimeter was protected by a three-meter high modest chain link fence that secured this sacred land from potential looters and grave robbers. As the colony would surely expand greatly, this area would remain barren, serving its purpose as to honor these brave men for doing the ultimate sacrifice.
He finally arrived at the simple, three-meter high slab of titanium, where all the names of the lost where scribbled with the use of one of the colony's excess supply of long-lasting paint. Charlie Company's First Sergeant Jonathan Keller volunteered to write the names down on the titanium hunk, as he used to be a talented painter serving with the Alliance before joining Ferris Fields' community. And he did a damn good job, too. Each of the names was written in perfect, neatly aligned patterns.
Rodriguez quickly remembered during the short time after the battle, the officers all over the militia made a quick head count on those they've lost. Alpha and Bravo Companies had the worst of it, where most of its men were dead and the rest hurt with one kind of wound to another. Charlie Company barely even had a scratch on them. Seeing as their brothers had suffered greatly, the men composing the militia's third infantry company quickly began making plans to construct this area, procuring the equipment and resources necessary to make their plans into reality. Finished it in less than five hours, after which, they did the somber task of making coffins from nearby wood and placing their dead comrades inside before burying them six feet under. Everything they've done here was completely all on their own initiative and without order from him. He was proud of them.
As it was finally completed, the major also remembered giving out a short, simple speech. It was just enough for the battalion to understand the cost, though ugly, was a complete necessity in times of dire need. The men bowed their heads after that, each of them giving out their prayers to the ones who hadn't made it out alive. He remembered every word he said that day, and yet, here he was; still haunted by the faces of what he'd lost before he got here and those he had lost a week before. Even he can't use his own advice.
Laying a soft hand on the piece of titanium, Rodriguez moved it around to the names, touching every single one of them starting with Alpha Company. The poor bastards were definitely hit the worst when the fighting started, with most of its First Platoon gone when the batarians drove through their lines. Nineteen men, killed in action, because he hadn't anticipated the enemy to use tricks to deceive them.
His hand was finally making its way through Bravo Company's losses. At the topmost part of the roster was Staff Sergeant Ivanoff Litovski. According to the casualty reports, he was the highest-ranking grunt who had died during the assault. Slowly making his way downward, his fingers traced the names of a few men he remembered were heavily wounded during the battle due to varren bites, but died shortly after with slow, really painful deaths. Therese told him their screams used to keep her up in most nights when she treated them, but for the major, he knew he was gonna remember it for as long as he'd live.
Finally putting his hand away, he stood just a meter away from the memorial, his eyes darting to each and every single casualty. Making the sign of the cross, Rodriguez bowed his head down, closing his eyes and his hands group together as he made a short prayer to God for the men he'd lost.
Let them enter the gates of heaven with open arms, where they would never suffer again, and hopefully, would forgive me for failing them.
Opening his eyes again, he looked straight ahead, and with a deep breath, uttered a promise to them. "You will be remembered, each and every single one of you, and when the time comes, I'll be joining you in just a little while."
Giving the titanium slab one final look, he turned around and left heading home.
A/N: Hope you guys are ready for a leap in time.
-Rookie571