And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
There Will Come Soft Rains; Sara Teasdale
January 15th, 2030
Prison Cell, Maximum Security Prison
Maitrum, Talava System
The bird with the six-petaled face tattoo brings Collins back to the cell.
His bridal carry is gentle - the sole reason why Bucky doesn't rip him to pieces as soon as the barrier door opens. Rushing forward, he gathers her limp form into his arms and gives her a cursory once-over. Her skin is dry and red, as though sunburnt, and there are thick, dried splatters of blood and bile around her mouth. Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is horribly shallow.
There's nowhere soft to lay her down, so he settles for a patch on the hard floor which they've determined will never get hit with direct sunlight at any hour of the day. Parker immediately gets to wiping her mouth and clearing her airway. A second later, he swears and draws back. "She bit down on her tongue."
Bucky's gorge rises. "What, clean through?"
Parker doesn't respond.
The bird's mandibles pull in painfully tight the longer he looks at Collins. There's a splash of vomit on his collar where Collins must have hurled. His claw reaches for his utility belt - Bucky starts forward - but it's just a simple disk. A holo-projector, to be precise, which with a click simulates a contraption that's nevertheless familiar despite being so utterly alien.
The Chair.
Bucky is frozen, so the bird gently places it next to Parker, whose eyes flicker across the hologram. Then, without a word, the alien whirls around and strides out the cell door. The barrier shimmers back into place.
Beyond the walkway, the miners have gathered against their own barriers. Their silhouettes are all oriented towards the nearly-lifeless figure being ministered by the only one who might be able to understand the hologram enough to find out just what was done to her.
Then Parker makes a sound like he's just been socked in the gut. "Izzy," he says urgently, gently slapping her awake. "Isabelle. I need you to tell me how many times your heart stopped."
What?
Her limbs begin to tremble violently. All she manages are vague mumbles.
"Hey, hey. It's okay. Tell me this, instead - how many times did you lose consciousness? And here, look." Parker gathers her right hand in his own. The palms are bleeding; her nails had gouged crescent-shaped marks deep into her skin. "Tap your fingers. There you go. What's that - is that four?" His voice shakes. "Five?"
"Parker, what the hell?"
"The curving screens around the chair," Parker gestures to the holo. Bucky doesn't look. "I think they're some sort of advanced medical equipment. They bring you back if the interrogation gets too much."
"Bring you… what, from death?"
"Not exactly. It just doesn't allow you to die in the first place. Here, take over."
Bucky scrambles to assume a cross-legged position, biting back a yelp when Parker shifts her head from the ground to his lap. It's darker here, in this part of the cell, and some part of him rails at the relief that rushes through him when he can no longer see her clearly. He should be able to; it's the least of his penance.
He almost jumps when he feels Parker poking at his back. "What are you doing?"
"I don't have the medical training to help her. But I might not have to. Izzy's wetsuit is a unique design, extremely water-absorbent. But it's dry - completely drained from dehydration and torture." He punctuates every word with a harsh tug. Seals crack and hiss as he works. "Even for baseline and non-hydrokinetics, though, Monica Rambeau designed undersuits with rudimentary water-filtration mechanisms. They help keep us cool."
"It's why we can piss in the undersuit, isn't it? Sweat and urine, held in reserve." He grimaces at the implications. "This for her tongue?"
"Primarily. It's still hanging on, so the tissues aren't dead yet - those cells might still know which way to begin healing. So if we can get some water into her and keep her going long enough, Terrigenesis will do the rest."
Bucky's heart lurches, and he hurriedly checks behind her ears. The swelling is down, to his relief. And nothing looks pinched that's not supposed to be. "Auricular nerve is active again. You should confirm."
"You have an assassin's eye; I don't need to." There's one last pop, and a disgusting slosh, and then Parker's once again before him. In his hands, he holds what looks like several thin, peach-colored balloons, bulging with liquid. "Sump pockets," he explains.
Bucky feels weirdly off-centered. They must've been adding a noticeable amount of weight to his undersuit; something he'd never noticed. "Are you sure about this? Waste water's not exactly healthy."
"It's filtered, and neither is heart failure." He shifts forward onto his knees, nudges her chin. "Izzy, open."
But the woman, as ever, proves stubborn. Finally, Bucky had to pry her mouth open with his fingers; the rest of his arm trapped around her torso at an awkward angle. Parker carefully trickles in the water, and rubs a thumb down her throat to force her to swallow it all.
There's no visible difference afterwards. Parker shudders out a deep breath, then begins reattaching the sump pockets. "In this heat, it'll only be a few hours for them to fill up again. I'll go next. Just do as I tell you."
It takes them four more tries, and an entire night's worth of insomnia, before Parker pronounces Collins as stable.
They meet each other's eyes wearily, a single truth mirrored in brown eyes and blue.
They'd gotten very, very lucky.
Collins won't survive another session with the Chair.
Command Center, Forward Operating Base (FOB), Shanxi
LOCATION: CLASSIFIED
Thaddeus stares at the three-dimensional, animated vision thrusting out from the holo-table.
Modular buildings of alien construction are laid out in a haphazard manner on a muggy swampland somewhere deep in a previously unexplored island. Figures stumbling in single file, shoved into housing centers while watched over by a scattered, but highly disciplined military force. Mile-high compartmentalized walls line the entire compound - manned and rigged with mounted turrets.
"Internment," he says flatly. The word echoes in the shared space of the hastily-built prefab… and in the minds of those present.
"Those camps were deployed almost immediately from orbit after our command centers went down," Ahern says, arms folded across his chest. "At first, when our drones spotted the supplies rolling in, we thought they were setting up base."
The hologram had been consolidated from photographs that had been taken by a handful of retro-reflecting drones - the only ones on the entire planet. All of them were still hovering above the alien compound, with no recall orders whatsoever - their sacrifice ensuring the highest level of detail they could possibly get.
And to think he'd initially tried to have the photographs printed out. When had he started insisting on having everything just so? He'd never really minded adapting to new techniques and technology before. Must be feeling my age, he thinks absently, swiping across the hologram in a vain attempt to change the live display. Thaddeus closes his eyes, his fist bent at an odd angle, digging into the surface of the desk. "Any idea what the supplies were? Weapons, armor?"
"Ours," Ahern says, making him blink his eyes open in surprise. "What they scrounged from ruins and abandoned colonies. We spotted some crates of food and medicines, some cots and portable toilets. The aliens are keeping them fed, at the very least."
"That's how it always begins, Captain," he replies tiredly. "As the war goes on with no end in sight, 'safe camps' become 'concentration camps' and then finally 'extermination camps." Once again, he'd miscalculated the enemy. He'd laid the bait, not realizing that it was exactly what his enemy wanted. How many more mistakes could he make before all of humanity pays the price?
The red tint saturating the interior of the trailer feels even more claustrophobic than usual. Default war mode, his technicians had explained nervously - as though anyone would forget war encroaching upon their doorsteps. The hologram itself is a lighter shade of cinnabar, while data streams in red and white on the screens overhead. The east wall provides the only contrast - a screen with an orbital map of Shanxi, laid out in a painful blue.
"They have already started with those who didn't lay down arms. How many casualties?"
Ahern's face is like stone. "Around two-hundred-and-fifty across Shanxi, though we're expecting more reports to trickle in. They…," his mouth tightens as he takes a deep breath, " - the aliens didn't discriminate. Women, elderly… children."
Thaddeus feels a spike of fear. He reminds himself that Betty is capable of taking care of herself, and wouldn't appreciate his concern, let alone his overprotectiveness. Still, despite that logic, the urge to bundle her up and get her the hell off-world is overwhelming.
He wrenches his mind from that icy-cold terror, and into other paths well-worn. Paths of strategy and tactics. Paths of war. "Looks like Ryder's data was thorough enough, Captain. The enemy's actions here fit well with what he observed on Altahe."
Ahern's gaze darts over the hologram, and then the various reports and data scattered across the trailer. The small frown between his eyebrows betrays the fact that he hasn't made the connection yet.
Thaddeus zooms out, replacing the projection of the safe camp with a global one. Across Shanxi, hatched shading and flags indicate territories they'd lost to the birds. "They bombed the command centers, but left the colonies alone," he points out. "But their actions on the ground - these 'house-to-house killings' indicate they don't really differentiate between military and civilian targets."
"Then why the discrepancy?"
"Because, by so completely devastating the military with a display of power, they can coerce the bulk of the planet to surrender easily, unconditionally." He zooms in on the safe camp again. "They could just as easily bomb this planet to kingdom come - but they want something from it; resources, labor. Slaves."
Ahern's lips thin even further. "They want us to become their colony. We're not letting it get that far."
"In that, we agree. But not all's lost. They showed their hand too soon, not expecting that we would resist despite having lost orbital advantage. They were prepared for unconditional surrender; their overall deployment and the execution squads were too well-organized and well-coordinated for it to be a first-time tactic."
"A militaristic society?" Ahern finally catches on. "Like the Romans. Most likely, they employ their execution squads even on their own people. It's how they can maintain control if they make military training mandatory. Disciplined, but they're a hammer, and have trouble dealing with a nail that jumps around the board. We can use this."
"Eventually," he nods. "But first, we rescue our people." Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt. "A coordinated strike on every safe camp across the globe. Overwhelming force. Exploit their own strategies against them."
A glimmer of respect deep in Ahern's eyes. It might be the first time Thaddeus is seeing it.
Thaddeus doesn't tell him that against such an enemy, the more bodies they have to throw at them, the better.
January 16th, 2030
Superintendent's Office, Maximum Security Prison
Maitrum, Talava System
"A lot of reports that crossed my desk today mention your name, Septinius," Superintendent Vitana Nazanus muses, steepling her clawed fingers.
Septinius shoots Victus a poisonous look. "If you allowed me to justify my actions instead of casting aspersions inspired by biased accounts…!"
"From the kitchen staff?" She arches an eyebrow. "I highly doubt it - they hold you in high esteem."
Septinius falters for the first time. "The kitchen…?"
"Indeed. So enthralled are they by your strict enforcement policies that they didn't even protest when you strongly suggested they provide extra portions to the pyjak female for yesterday's evening meal. You know, the one you had forcibly and unlawfully interrogated in your spirits-forsaken Throne last night?"
"She swindled her way out of the task; I was well within my rights to…!"
The temperature plummets. "Were you?" she murmurs.
Victus feels a shiver down his spine. There's a reason Vitana Nazanus has been the most successful Superintendent Maitrum has seen in three hundred years. She had taken what is essentially a dead-end of a career, and twisted it into a butter-smooth operation. A scrupulously fair general demeanor hides a vicious brutality, and Septinius knows it. "I recognize that turning your enemies against each other is a time-honored war tradition, but I never authorized it. Can you tell me why, Victus?"
Victus has to actually think about this. "Order," he says finally. "We're in control here: not because we have the upper hand in terms of manpower, but because we impose a structure on the prisoners. If we resort to subterfuge ourselves, it implies our laws are weak, and can be exploited."
Nazanus just quirks her mandibles, but neither confirms nor denies his theory. Something in him suspects his answer had been better than whatever Nazanus had been thinking of, and she's taking due advantage. Or maybe that's just arrogance talking.
"Did you gain anything from the female?" She asks.
Septinius debates for a moment. "Something about Maitrum… drains her fast. She's weaker than the rest. Barely lasted half as long."
"Probably because you neglected to use a mouthguard," Victus spits before he can think better of it.
Nazanus widens her eyes, as though she's only just hearing of it. "Why, Septinius," she purrs, " - however did you expect to get someone to talk without a tongue? Have you, perhaps, learned how to mind read like the asari?"
Victus's cool outrage gains a slightly oily film of pity. Septinius' complexion and green colony markings do not go well with a flush of blue blood.
Nazanus leans back, suddenly looking tired. "We're on the knife-edge here, gentlemen. I know your frustration; I share it. But we can't make a move unless the Hierarchy does, is that clear?" And here she fixes them both with a gimlet stare; Septinius straightens slightly under the weight of only half of her attention. "Maitrum has never been under more attention - we're being seen, perhaps for the very first time in this prison's existence. And what is seen is also being judged."
She pushes a datapad across the desk. "Reassignment orders for the Inquisition team. Hopefully, some time among your fellow soldiers in Ore Processing will give you additional perspective."
With that, she dismisses him. Septinius knows better than to argue, but his exit belies his displeasure. Victus doesn't envy the pyjak female when she crosses his path next.
It's finally his time to be found wanting. "Their concerns about you are legitimate, Victus," she says quietly. "I heard you gave that young pyjak a copy of the Inquisition Throne's schematics."
"He pulled off something impossible with their ship. I figured if anyone would be able to understand it," and save the woman's life, is the thought that goes unspoken, " - it'd be him."
Nazanus hums. "Wouldn't have looked good to the Hierarchy or the Council if one of theirs had perished because we broke our own rules." It's an out, and they both know it, and know that he'll use it with anyone who questions his motives outside of this office. But Nazanus has never been a fool. "I'm not unsympathetic, but I need to know this won't hinder your performance."
He hesitates, then withdraws what's quickly become his most prized possession from his utility pocket. Her eyes sharpen immediately. Every turian recognizes the value of the gift, regardless of politics. Under any other circumstance, the female pyjak would be generously rewarded for her role in what basically amounted to pattern recognition. "She is a distraction," he admits, " - but only because my honor insists. But if it comes to a fight between me and her, I won't hesitate."
He omits that, if it comes to peace, he won't hesitate either.
Prison Cell, Maximum Security Prison
Collins doesn't meet anyone's gaze when she wakes up.
He'd made a mistake - another, Barnes, really? How many do you think you can afford? - choosing that moment to crouch and examine her. Her eyes had snapped open, and in them he'd recognized the associations she'd formed instantly. His proximity, combined with the pressure of her most immediate memories, had all but propelled her to an adjacent wall, dry-heaving.
Miracle she'd had that much control over her extremities, really, even with all the trembling. Another miracle she hadn't immediately punched him in the face for getting that close.
Still, after that knee-jerk reaction, she all but shuts down. Allows Parker to examine her, nodding blankly when he pronounces her injuries to be well on their way to healing, but refusing more sump pockets. But when he gently pries for details, she refuses to speak, except to croak out that her tongue's sore, and even that sounds like an excuse.
She doesn't even react when the aliens start patrolling the walkway again. But Bucky does.
The birds are different in each patrol. They haven't bothered with helmets, and he uses more than their face-paint to distinguish between them. All of them, without fail, gawk at Collins. And every time, it makes a chill go down his spine.
She healed too fast. And they recognize it.
If the birds decide to push for an explanation… what Collins went through would pale in comparison to what she would go through.
January 17th, 2030
Mess Hall, Maximum Security Prison
The water tastes wrong.
Everything has since she regained consciousness. It's like the entire universe has shifted several inches to the left, and she's just now playing catch up. She swallows it anyway, with the distant hope that everything will go back to normal somewhere down the line.
Peter has the same worried expression that he's not trained enough to control. Barnes just sweeps her a lazy gaze, then slides across his own water rations for the day. She doesn't know whom to hate more at the moment. Probably Barnes, because she can't help herself from downing the additional water. And because… it's easier to fall back on old habits than voice the questions trying to burst their way out of her teeth.
The protein paste lies untouched on her tray. Questions only he can provide answers to. "How…," she breaks off, taking a deep breath at the weight of their undivided attention. It's not direct - Peter's shoveling food in his mouth, and Barnes isn't even looking at her. But if their ears could prick up in her direction, they would. "How are you so comfortable? Knowing what they'll do to you?"
Her words are slow, creeping around the slight lisp she's developed. Her tongue feels heavy and foreign in her mouth, crisscrossed with a thick, jagged scar where she'd almost bitten it off. As though Peter glued someone else's tongue to the back of her throat. So convinced she'd been of this theory when she'd woken up that she'd almost blurted it out before reason prevailed.
Barnes hums, twirling a spoon between his fingers. His posture is redolent, almost dangerously so. "I was a prisoner for seventy years. Might've been unaware or under ice for most of it, but I know how to navigate the waters. For example: we're the ones who are shackled and powerless and tortured in this joint, but have you noticed that, in a way, the wardens aren't in much better shape?"
Isabelle and Peter turn in unison to stare at him. Something in her loosens up when he refuses to treat her with kid gloves. "What, are you saying that walking out of here would be a walk in the park?" Peter demands.
"No, but it's a definite advantage."
Isabelle roves a careful eye across the mess hall. "I'm not seeing it, Barnes."
He hums. "You seeing their…," he makes a vague gesture at his lower jaw, " - mandibles? The birds snap them close and tight when they're stressed. And their claws come out when they're angry. I noticed the pattern, and quite a lot of them have that on permanently."
"Well, jailer duty for an unknown entity can't be conducive to anyone's mental health," Peter drawls, " - regardless of species."
"I doubt it has anything to do with us."
Isabelle doesn't have those killer - literally - instincts beaten into her, not yet. "So. What is it that the Winter Soldier sees?"
His ice-gray eyes linger on her, then flit from one avian guard to the next. "Parallels," he murmurs finally. "I remember feeling this… jittery vibe around me a few times from my HYDRA handlers. It wasn't a pleasant job, you know, keeping me on the leash." He lets out a dark chuckle. "They usually got this look at the tail end of their shift, right before they were either rotated out or asked for a transfer."
"You think this might be a tour of duty?"
He just gives a one-armed shrug.
But she's started to connect the dots now. "They're soldiers, and someone has to guard POWs. Convicts, even - this place holds more of theirs than of ours. But, like you said, it's a stressful job, and if we're not completely imagining things and… and projecting human nature where there might not be any…"
Barnes doesn't seem bothered by the idea that they might be wildly off-base.
" - then it means that their shifts were just about to end before the war broke out."
Peter picks it up. "Afterwards, their government wouldn't want to replace them - not when these guys might just have years of experience under their belt managing things in this hellhole, and rookies might just muck up under the stress."
"But the current staff isn't much better," Barnes murmurs. "Discipline can only take you so far." A lesson that N7 training has hammered into them time and again. "Forced to sit tight and wait out the war. Having to adjust to a whole new set of rules now that they're guarding an unknown species, I wouldn't be surprised if…"
"... these guys were as brittle as glass. Primed to shatter at the slightest provocation."
Barnes smirks. "Interesting, isn't it? Never know when it might come up."
Lies. He knows exactly when that information will prove to be helpful. Sniper or an assassin: both professions require an intimate knowledge of timing. Isabelle shudders and makes a decision. "I found Selvig."
"Where?!" Twin voices echo in the mess hall.
"In some sort of a morgue-slash-forensic lab. On the way to the… on the way. His coffin was there. So were a bunch of other humanoid bodies; the poisoned miners, in all likelihood. So if we're going to capitalize on the brittleness somehow… you can guess my stipulations."
The nape of her neck prickles with the weight of Peter's heavy, probing gaze. Then, abruptly, he shoves off his bench, mutters a quick, " - I'll be back," and stalks purposefully towards the miners' table.
Mess Hall, Maximum Security Prison
"You have your own place, Alliance," Daskin says pointedly as Peter bulldozes his way onto the opposite bench.
"And you had yours, Daskin. But you crossed that line, so I'm here to return the favor," Peter says, with a hard smile. "I heard you have something of a talent for chirping."
Daskin's eyebrows jump up. "You want to pass on a message to the birds?"
"I want you to get her," he points to Collins, who has her head on the table, ignoring Barnes's attempts to get her to drink more water, " - off scavenging duty and wherever it is the bird inmates work at."
"Don't ask for much, do you?"
"They broke their own rules." He gestures at Dah, sitting beside him. "Again. And if we've learnt something from the situation with your brother," and here Daskin stills, " - they're aliens who understand the value of debt. Do you, Daskin?"
No answer. But Peter hadn't expected one. "Because you owe us. We took on a lot of pain for one of your brats. So, yeah, I'm not asking for a whole lot; be damn grateful I'm splitting it up between you and the aliens. Get it done." The bench skids back as he rises.
"And if I choose not to acknowledge the debt because I don't see what happened the same way?" Daskin asks quietly.
Peter bends so he's just inches away from the miner's face. "Then, when we escape - and we will escape, Daskin, don't you doubt that - we will have a lot less baggage, won't we? Izzy found the morgue where your buddies are being held. I'm sure the birds will need more bodies to dissect once they're finished with whatever they have. They'll be thrilled at any collateral damage that ensues from our breakout." And here, he bares his teeth at Dah.
Disappointingly, she just sort of crumples in on herself.
"What about you and the assassin?" Daskin asks quickly.
"Oh, we'll deal. Birds might not want to admit it, but I'm too useful: they won't want my skills getting wasted on the Chair. As for Barnes, well…," Peter looks over his shoulder, acknowledges Barnes' tacit, grim-faced approval and when he turns around again, his grin is borderline maniacal, but he's well past caring. "Pain is an old friend of the zimniy soldat."
DEPLOYMENT RECORDS
January 17th, 2030 - January 20th, 2030
Confidentiality Classification: XA-PRIME
Distribution: Shanxi High Command only
OPERATION SPELLBIND
Kimsan, Shanxi
Vanguard elements of the Pinnacle Squadron (led by Captain Tadius Ahern), assaulted safe camp dubbed 'Nian', testing defenses with Bug-Bite protocols until the bulk of allied forces arrived. Engagement began at 2300 Terran Coordinated Universal (TCU) and concluded with a victory at 0200 TCU.
Civilians recovered, unharmed but traumatized.
Losses minimal at 10% reported.
At approx 0130, engineers report outbound comm traffic. Alien encoded signatures confirmed. Suspect advisory warning to other safe camps.
Veterans of the Chitauri Invasion volunteered for future skirmishes. Captain Ahern authorized a Veteran Task Force under the leadership of New Datong Police Chief Daniel Saunders, recently recovered from Nian.
OPERATION CORKSCREW
Liaomay, Shanxi
7th Platoon supported by aerial reinforcements skirmished with alien troops to liberate 'Qilin' safe camp. Engagement initiated at 0900. Both forces were caught unawares by a rear-guard action launched by the civilian prisoners from within the camp. Despite inflicting significant damage to the enemy, lack of communication resulted in devastating friendly fire. Civilian losses in excess of 65% reported. Surviving elements of 7th Platoon withdrew to the Liaomay-New Changzhi defensive line.
OPERATION MASTERWORK
Meiramay, Shanxi
11th and 12th Platoons launched attack 'Kitsune' safe camp at 1100. At approx 1300, allied forces reported the position was untenable and received authorization to retreat. Enemy troops abandoned pursuit, but detonated Kitsune camp at approx 1340, inflicting severe damage to Meiramay colony. Chief Saunders reports no civilian survivors.
PLATOON READINESS STATUS:
3rd Platoon - refitting at Forward Operating Base, READY
5th Platoon - recalled from New Taiyuan reconnaissance to reinforce supply chain along the Liaomay-Mieramay route, READY
January 20th, 2030
Prison Cell, Maitrum
Three days later, Daskin knocks on his cell barrier to demand attention. "Ore extraction," he informs Peter, deliberately ignoring Collins and Barnes. "Cut up the blocks, send it for purification - that sort of thing. Tomorrow mornin', after breakfast, processing center."
Peter narrows his eyes. "That sure sounds like something that falls more under your expertise, miner."
"Thought I wouldn't try and get my men out of the sun and the Chair while I could, did you?" Daskin smirks at Collins. "Dangerous stuff, minin'. If the asteroid takes off an arm or a leg or a head, well - hardly my fault, is it, if she monkeys around? And even if she survives makin' a mistake, the birds will make damn sure she wishes she hadn't."
"Asteroid?" Barnes's voice is razor-sharp, but Daskin's already turned away, ignoring all further questions.
January 21st, 2030
Ore Processing Center, Maitrum
The processing center is shaped like a silo - corrugated alloys, large and cylindrical, but with a dozen wide, parallel walkways running up and down the inner circumference. There's an entrance to each walkway from different wings of the prison; and multiple stairways lead from one to another. Attached to the width of the thick platforms are heavily-corroded machines - three-clawed manipulator arms, high-intensity lasers, elongated drills etc.
Wide, worn columns divide the walkways into sectors - a deliberate design, as each arc of the sector leads to a deep alcove, where a moderately-sized conveyor belt is waiting to transport ore blocks deeper into the facility. Consoles along the pillars link with wires and cables to the machines. But it's the coldness she truly notices - this silo is carefully temperature-controlled to be barely above freezing; her breath mists.
Something whirrs to life and a familiar blue glow erupts from below. An enormous eezo core is affixed to the base of the silo, its alien sheen held captive by mechanisms that prevent direct tampering, but isn't completely shielded from view like Alliance ship drive cores. Not surprising, as it is the only source of light once the entrances are sealed.
A grinding, scraping screech calls their attention to the roof of the silo, where an iris-patterned airlock unfurls its curved, corroded blades. There, sealed tightly across the hinges, a shadow begins to descend.
"It's the hauler from the Plains," Daskin mutters. "Automated; programmed to scoop up ores in deep space and drop 'em off."
Another miner, who had his body twisted near-impossibly to get a better look, hums. "Something big's coming out of that thing."
Isabelle feels it too. A discernible rumble in the stale air. The eezo core hums harder, as though trying to offset that bone-rattling rumble, vying for the perfect orchestral arrangement. Defying the pull of gravity, she realizes with a rush - countering the fall one inch at a time so the two opposing forces could meet somewhere in the middle. Somewhere where it could be easily processed.
The miners immediately back away from the descending asteroid, pressing closer to the walls, but she feels drawn closer, almost wanting to clamber over the railing and reach for it.
It's more than enough confirmation. Her eyelids flutter, and she sinks into an almost meditative state.
Ore is such a misleading, contextual term. A layman would think gold, or copper. A Wakandan's mind would jump onto vibranium. And a T-GES Mineral Works' miner would assume kamacite. On the whole, valuable minerals. Here, though? Worthless.
What is the one thing that Maitrum sorely, desperately lacks? What is the one thing that is severely rationed, and yet never quite enough? What is the one thing that would specifically need a stupendously power-draining, climate-controlled environment to ensure not a single drop goes to waste?
Isabelle's arm reaches out just as the large asteroid comes to a standstill. Her fingers brush against a large spike.
As though the ice too had thrust out to meet her halfway.
A handshake from across the stars.
Ice Ore Processing
The ore extraction is little more than an elaborate claw game, but played in pairs.
One operator controls the huge manipulator arms - which, on closer inspection look rather a lot like the birds' claws. Joysticks on the console direct the claws to clamp onto a section of the asteroid, applying pressure where necessary to maintain a strong, unyielding grip.
Meanwhile, the other operator takes up the specialized laser, and joysticks a hot, searing path around the manipulator's grip, slicing off a portion of the ice. The arms, still holding onto the chunk of ice, will then swivel a hundred and eighty degrees, reach across the walkway sector and into the alcoves to drop it onto the moving conveyor belts.
It's a surprisingly straightforward process, but that hardly means easy. Technically the laser operator has less to do, but that's a task that requires precision and hyper-focus. The claw operator, however, has the unenviable task of not daring to drop the ice.
Isabelle and Corporal Dah have the misfortune of being paired with each other. The birds have a sense of humor, it seems. Naturally, then, they're assigned to tasks utterly unsuited to them.
Isabelle sweats through her close proximity to the laser's heat that's chased away by the glittering, faceted, sweetly cool ice, only to return with a vengeance. And Dah, a woman not known for her patience, struggles with the manipulator arms, which shudder and wobble under her ministrations.
It doesn't help that the eezo core is not as stable as it appears, with flickering mass effect fields that make the entire asteroid lurch around dangerously. At least three of Daskin's miners had various limbs pinned by the titanic rock, and had to be carted off to the infirmary. None of them are expected to make even a partial recovery.
They anger her, those failures. Here she is, with exactly what she'd requested during that very first shower, and yet, she can't do a damn thing. She once again has the potential for power, but is paralyzed by ignorance and lack of options.
For an instant, the rage blinds her. The laser jerks, its red heat scorching a line - not across their current ice block as it's supposed to, but one of the three manipulator claws still securing it.
To her credit, Dah's response is instant as she tries to joystick her way back onto a steady grip. But the block is already tilting, its prismatic, crystal-like surface throwing thousands of eezo-tinted reflections onto the silo's walls. Cracking away from the main body of the asteroid, buoyed and rattled by the mass effect fields, it tumbles over the railing, heading straight for Dah.
Isabelle pulls.
It's harder, without raising her arms to brace - without raising suspicions. Slowly, she dials up the yank, ignoring the building pressure behind her eyelids. A grinding, crackling noise fills the air, as the ice block inches back to the manipulator arm, its jagged edges melting and solidifying with unnatural rapidity. Shards of ice where the two puzzle pieces don't quite fit together shatter away, and she quickly sublimates them, wrapping the mist around the chipped, seared manipulator claw and icing them back up. Securing the grip once again.
Some of the birds come running, no doubt attracted by the opportunity to inflict pain. They stumble to a confused standstill as Dah, right on cue, shakily maneuvers the claw's payload onto the conveyor belts. The chipped edge on the claw is barely visible, and the next block jiggles a bit, but for the most part, everything's stable.
Almost everything, Isabelle muses ruefully, wiping away the hot blood that swells up in her throat and runs down her nostrils. Guess she won't be trying that, then. In the three-way tug of war between herself, gravity and the eezo core, she will always be the weakest link.
The birds' attention dissipates after a few seconds, and they shuffle off, bored. Dah's, however, lingers. "It wasn't intentional," Isabelle tries to assure.
"No," Dah agrees, her voice shaky. "But only because it would've been easier to just shiv me in the back."
Isabelle shoots her a glance. "Is that something you were expecting?" She asks cautiously.
Her expression tightens, but she can see the fear laced in those lines. "I'd rather know than not, right? Because there are usually signs if someone's got me in their sights, but I'm getting nothin' from you. I… I'm only askin' 'cause I don't want Ren and his miners caught in the middle. Not…," and here her mouth twists unhappily with guilt. "Not anymore." When Isabelle arches an eyebrow, she only shrugs. "I mouth off a lot, and sometimes to the wrong people."
Isabelle sighs. Her muscles ache. "Don't take this the wrong way, but: HYDRA, Chitauri, ULTRON, Thanos. You don't really… register on my radar, Dah."
Dah's quiet for a long moment. Isabelle can't tell if it's fear or indignation. "I got you tortured."
"And I choked you out." Isabelle gestures to the deep bruises on the tall girl's throat. Any other day, she'd feel guilty for that too, but Selvig and the Chair have occupied all of her mental bandwidth. "Far as I'm concerned, we're even."
That evening finds Isabelle being walked back to her cell in a daze.
Her eyes are closed, but she unerringly walks through the hallways, not straying an inch from the single-file march the wardens always enforce on the prisoners. She neither bumps into anyone, nor trips over potential obstacles on the route. Proximity to that water-rich asteroid has left an indelible mark on her, leaving her hypersensitive to her element, and the paths it's even now taking across the facility.
In her mind unfurls a three-dimensional chart, initially pitch black, but then painted by piercing blue lines, etching their way across the surface, drawing lines and borders where there was once only infinity. Pipelines, crisscrossing in right-angles, zipping and zooming, tracing a map of the entire prison in her mind, granting an eye of sorts into rooms and chambers of the facility that no inmate has access to.
Tiny dots scatter in the negative spaces - smaller, static sources of water: storage cans, maybe. People, even - both humans and alien. Strange, to realize so late that there are somethings that are so common between their species.
This perception, this power, will dissipate soon. She doesn't regret it; even her mind can't handle this level of constant awareness forever. Until then, though, she's going to milk this gift for all it's worth.
Prison Cell
"Ice," Peter breathes, so blissed out it's as though he's the hydrokinetic Inhuman.
Isabelle rolls her eyes and looks towards Barnes, who's examining the various maps she'd painstakingly scratched out on the concrete wall with a rock she'd found in a corner somewhere. She's not concerned about the birds investigating her cell and discovering it. Not many will be familiar with pipeline maps of the facility, and even if they are, Isabelle will deface the whole thing after Barnes and Peter have finished memorizing it.
Barnes finally leans back on his haunches. "This is damn impressive, Collins. A scale-accurate rendition of almost the entire prison, and in three-dimensions! Better lead than I could've ever hoped for. We might've a real shot here."
"Almost the entire prison?" Peter asks, scrambling to get a better look.
"Missing links," Isabelle answers instead, pointing them out. "Water runs through these pipes, but that's not the only thing the ice is used for. Purification and processing, and then, when I tried to follow one of those routes," her eyes go distant, " - something seemed to… rip inside me. Like I was being split in two, just for a second, and then it was gone."
Barnes and Peter share a look. "Sounds like electrolysis to me," Peter says finally. "Water being split into hydrogen and oxygen - elements you have no control over, so you won't be able to sense them."
"I'd bet that hauler has regular H2/O2 reaction control thrusters for maneuvering." Barnes snorts. "They literally fuel their own economy. Whatever surplus they get goes off-planet, which is what keeps this prison afloat."
"Why the hauler at all, though? Why don't they just strap a course-correcting reactor or something on the asteroid and send it on its merry way?" Peter muses. "Could even melt some of the ice for reaction mass."
"Because every drop is precious here," Isabelle says. "Temperatures are high and air pressure is pathetic, so ice melts and water boils too fast. They can't afford to lose even one batch - it'll be catastrophic."
Peter hums thoughtfully. "This is the ore processing silo, right?" He points to a circular negative space. Lines radiate from it, denoting those slow-moving conveyor belts.
She nods.
He taps the map on the left. It's supposed to superimpose with the others, to denote the pipes above and below the main lines. This one has a spiral instead of the processing silo's blank space, and Isabelle knows what he's asking. "That one was easy. The water down there felt weirdly sick and hot. Felt like I was being singed." She shrugs. "Radiation shielding for the eezo core was the obvious guess."
They continue in a similar fashion: Isabelle describing the sensations she'd felt as the water had flowed throughout the prison, and Barnes and Peter coming up with theories and mapping out those sections she hadn't been able to mentally break into. They confirm major loci like the mess hall, the cells, the showers, the cargo hold leading out to the plains of Maitrum and more, and work outwards from there, guesstimating unfamiliar places such as food storage and also, to Isabelle's mixed chagrin and relief, the Inquisition Facility and the forensic labs where Selvig is being held.
They work long into the night, working from their memories alone as they've been trained.
At the end of it, they have mapped out mostly everything, except for such places like the warden living spaces or command centers, which might be occupying one of the half-dozen negative spaces still left on the map, indistinguishable from the rest.
Birds come and go for their usual patrols, but otherwise, they could've been on a mission, huddled under some canyons on an alien world somewhere - the tall, vertical cliffs allowing only a slit of the starry night sky to be visible.
January 22nd, 2030
Recruitment Post, Forward Operating Base (FOB), Shanxi
LOCATION: CLASSIFIED
"And you didn't even think to check?"
The recruitment officer is stammering, her face pale. "We get so many volunteers; in a time like this, it's hard to follow up each and every background."
"You didn't even try! Fourteen slipped under your radar; underage the lot of them - and this one," he grabs the ear of a teenager and yanks with just enough force to make a point of it, but not to do permanent damage, " - is the youngest! Look at him, just look! Does he look of legal age to you?"
The teenager very obviously didn't. He was maybe fourteen or fifteen, and from the way he whimpered 'ow, ow, oww' as his ears were twisted further, his voice clearly hadn't broken all the way. His jaw was still almost completely smooth, with only a few wisps of hair marking the beginnings of what was probably his first beard. And his cheeks still had more than a hint of baby fat in them.
"I…," the recruitment officer says, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them.
"And you!" The man turns to the boy then, his face a rictus of rage. "What the hell were you thinking? This isn't one of your video games! This is real life, this is war!"
"I know that," the boy cries. "But this is my home - I'm not gonna let aliens take it over! You didn't, back in New York!"
"I got shot down in New York, you moron! Almost died, but that was my job! You skipped school and lied on your enlistment forms!"
The boy tries to draw up to his full height, but even though he towers over the uniform, his gangly form makes the posturing look awkward. "My father…," he begins proudly.
If anything, those two simple words just serve to make the man angrier. The enlistment officer slowly backs away. "Your father is a fucking idiot! And I'll be having words with him, believe you me! But what about your mom? You given any thought to her at all? Or are you so eager to abandon her, let her lose both of her sons?"
And that's when Thaddeus moves. He slips out of the shadows - not an easy thing for a man of his height and stature to keep out of sight, but he manages - and walks over to the arguing duo. "Is there a problem here?"
The teen's head snaps to him, his eyes widening, and then he knocks off a salute. "General Ross, sir!"
Thaddeus nods at him. It's the thought that counts, he thinks, eyeing the clumsy salute.
The uniform is slower to turn. His movements seem almost deliberate, as though he's taking the time to draw in his anger. "General," he acknowledges, finally, neutrally. There's no salute.
The man is a police chief. The golden two-bars of his badge are pinned to his white shirt, crisp and clean despite the humidity in the air. It's his face that's the most surprising - utterly bland, almost unmemorable. It should've been the exact opposite of surprising, but somehow Thaddeus is arrested by the dichotomy between his glimpses of the man just moments ago and the one before him now.
The animated version of him, the one that had been reading the kid the Riot Act, had been what a younger Betty would call 'traditionally handsome', with a strong jaw, a square face and a wide forehead. And the features are still the same. But without the expressions, the emotions behind his eyes, Thaddeus' own just wants to skip past him, and it's an effort to keep his gaze locked on.
"I was passing by - couldn't help but overhear. You're underage?" He asked the teenager.
"I… that is, um…"
Thaddeus holds up a hand. "Don't worry - you're not in any trouble."
"He is with me," the Captain mutters.
"In fact, it's an admirable trait to see someone so young but willing to put his life on the line for his world," Thaddeus continues, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "A lot of veterans could stand to learn from your example - they don't see that it's any of their business to raise arms against our enemies, not anymore. Such a shame, isn't it, Chief?"
The man meets his eyes squarely, steadily, not a hint of fear in them. No rage, no disdain. No respect. Nothing. "And so you bolster your ranks instead with their young?"
"Young they might be, but if they're willing to risk a felony charge to do the right thing by their fellow man and by humanity - well. That means they're not children anymore."
The teen's face goes bloodless at the word 'felony'.
"The kids can't even hold guns."
"They're colonists, Chief. Basic weapons training is mandatory before you board the ship to settle on a new world."
"Not the kids. Never the kids."
"Then they'll learn. They're strong, used to doing the heavy lifting, living the hard life. They'll adjust."
"And if they don't?"
"They'll die." It's brutal, but the truth always is. The kid staggers, but Thaddeus pays him no mind. He made his bed; he'll lie in it. "As you said, this is war. We can't afford to be picky."
Something flickers deep in the man's lapis lazuli eyes. Thaddeus turns his back to him, turns to the teenager who looks like he's seconds away from pissing himself. Plastering a broad smile across his face, he reaches out a hand.
Slowly, as though about to pet a scorpion, the kid reaches out and shakes it. His grip is limp. Thaddeus' smile becomes a little forced. "Welcome to the Alliance, son."
"Th.. thank you, sir."
"Off you go, now. Say your goodbyes to your family and report to Base Camp 4, at the edge of the outpost. And remember, only one footlocker."
"Y… ye, yes sir." And then, barely remembering to salute, the kid flees.
Thaddeus turns back. "Are we going to have a problem, Chief?"
"With all due respect, General… we already do. But I'm willing to put aside my feelings in service of the greater good. With that in mind," he snaps off a sharp, military-perfect salute. "Chief Daniel Saunders, reporting for duty, sir!"
Thaddeus arches an eyebrow. "No need to put yourself out there on my account, Saunders. It's not, after all, your business."
"I'd already reported as soon as the bombing of New Taiyuan hit the airwaves, sir. And as for the veterans… you'll find that it's not the fact that we're being called to serve again that bothers us. More often than not, it's the man we're forced to serve under."
Rage flares in Thaddeus' chest, hot and surprising. "I could have your badge stripped in an hour, if I so chose."
Saunders smiles. It's a little rueful, a whole lot more derisive. "I'm well aware of what your capabilities are. They include, if I'm not mistaken, taking it out on your child soldiers when you realize you can't touch me. I'm more than capable, however, of reminding you who the true enemy is." He nods, then, his face back to the bland, forgettable form again. "General." With that, he walks out of the tent.
Thaddeus stares at him, fighting down the urge to draw his weapon and shoot him in the back. He snaps his fingers, and the recruitment officer scurries forward. "Who is that man?"
"The head of the precinct for New Datong, General Ross. He came in with the colony. He's very close to them."
"Is he now?" Thaddeus has to admire the guts on the guy. With that last statement, he'd ensured that Thaddeus wouldn't lay a finger on the underage kids even if he were so inclined. Not if he cared a whit about his own reputation, and by association, that of Terra Firma. In fact, Saunders had made sure the kids couldn't even be assigned to anything other than support roles - way, way out in the back and away from the frontlines and the gunfire.
But what was it that made him so confident? So unafraid to play with fire? It can't be just the kids or Thaddeus himself - there's something more. Something that niggles at his mind - that bland, almost featureless face; it reminds him of something. Of someone.
With a snap, it comes to him. Another man, trained to be forgettable, and even now, despite being a hero, barely remembered by the world because he actively projects a bland, boring aura. When he's anything but.
Phil Coulson.
Thaddeus curls his fingers into fists.
"S.W.O.R.D.," he growls.
Mess Hall, Maitrum
Isabelle's 'water-under-the-bridge' attitude with Jill Dah seems to have hammered into her squad and the miners that they all have a common enemy now, and there's a burning desire to make the birds pay that trumps intraspecies antagonism. Bonus when the sight of the ICT squad sitting together with the miners in the mess hall seems to make the aliens a hell of a lot more nervous.
Dah scowls as she digs through the mush on her plate as though trying in vain to find a part of it that looks even remotely palatable. "How are you even eatin' that?" She demands Peter, who is shoveling spoonfuls of the paste into his mouth as though afraid that it's gonna be snatched away.
Peter blinks at her, mouth bulging. He takes a moment to chew and swallow, then says, " - I have a superpower."
Dah raises a skeptical eyebrow.
"I can switch off my tastebuds whenever I want."
Isabelle sighs and pointedly turns her attention to where Barnes and Daskin are discussing - she flinches - the Chair, both the Winter Soldier's and, well, hers. But there's nothing sensationalistic in Daskin's questioning; just honest, intellectual curiosity that she can't help tuning into.
"It doesn't make any sense to me, either," Barnes is saying. "Pain is a means to an end: I know that better than anyone. But what's the point of them torturing us? It's not as if the birds are gonna be able to understand anything even if we do break!"
Daskin's eyes widen in realization. "Oh, but that's it."
"What?"
"Language. They're tryin' to learn ours so they can understand us… spy on us."
Barnes stares at him, then turns to meet Isabelle's stunned gaze. "It'd be an invaluable asset," he whispers, " - eavesdropping on foreigners without letting out that they can understand what's being said."
"They're trying to learn our language?" Jill Dah repeats incredulously. "Well, they could've just BOUGHT A FUCKIN' PRIMER! There's no need to resort to ELECTROCUTION!"
Daskin grabs her and slams her back into her seat. "Keep it down, Amazon." The miners' nickname for the unusually tall, opinionated girl has somewhat caught on.
Dah opens her mouth to retort, but Barnes beats her to it.
"What do you do when they torture you?" He asks quietly. The whole table goes silent.
Dah scowls harder. "What do you mean - what I do? I yell and scream and try to smash their equivalent of balls!"
Daskin winces, shifts in his seat.
"Yeah, but what do you scream at them? Profanity, curses, commentary on their parentage? Your vocabulary of swear words is damn impressive… and in this scenario, a major drawback."
"What? Why?"
"Because they're monitoring us," Peter catches on. "All the time, not just during the torture. In our cells, during mealtimes. They're probably recording this very conversation, plucking out individual sounds, common words - then maybe use a V.I. or something to string them up together."
Dah blinks. "But why the torture? All they're going to learn is how to mouth off like a fuckin' sailor."
"Sadism with a purpose?" He shrugs. "Pain's unreliable, but it will make the victim default to their strongest language. The brain won't have the processing power to verbalize anything else. You and I will probably mouth off in English, Izzy will default to Italian, Barnes might go for Russian. They can isolate the sounds during the torture and compare it to the conversations we have here, figure out commonalities and identify different languages."
Isabelle has been having an entirely silent conversation with Barnes. The seed of the same idea in her mind is brewing behind that icy blue gaze. "How many languages do you know?"
"Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. seven," she replies, referring to the languages she'd been fluent at upon graduation from the Academy - Italian, English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, German and ASL. "And smatterings of Russian and Mandarin."
Barnes smirks. "All those, plus Vietnamese, Norwegian and Xhosa." He turns to Peter.
"English, high-school Spanish, Korean," Peter says.
"American," Dah deadpans.
More pipe up from the rest of the table.
"English is the dominant in this demographic," Isabelle says finally. "That's what they're targeting. We can use this."
"How? Do we stop speakin' in English?" Daskin says dubiously.
"No, we confuse them by speaking in different tongues to each other. It's a stopgap measure, and we're going to have to resort to English eventually. But with someone we have a non-English language in common with? Well, it might be a game-changer."
Dah hums. "Well, for those of us who ain't polyglots, can we also speak in broken English? Or use accents?"
Others contribute their own ideas, and soon enough the conversation shifts to other topics, each member of their group trying haltingly to adopt this new, bizarre strategy.
January 23rd, 2030
Forensics Lab, Forward Operating Base (FOB), Shanxi
LOCATION: CLASSIFIED
The alien lies naked on the autopsy table, intact but for the clean headshot right in the middle of his plated forehead.
Betty's team awaits her orders silently, sterilized to the brim and wearing highly-advanced forensic hazmat suits to prevent any cross-contamination. She hadn't been sure what precautions would be necessary, so she had opted for all of them. It's not as if she has any experience in this area - S.H.I.E.L.D. had hardly allowed any Chitauri or Leviathan corpses lying around for her to get her hands on them.
Still, she had her orders.
They run into the first problem almost immediately. None of the traditional methods of incisions can work - not with that huge carapace in the way. It's solid bone - harder than a human's.
Finally, she goes for a deep-V incision, avoiding the abdominal ectoplates and skirting past the pronotum jutting out of the alien like a backpack. It's not her usual neat cut, but Thaddeus will be all-too-eager to provide more specimens if she messes up this one.
Shoving bitter thoughts to the back of her mind, she rolls back the skin, exposing the front curves of the carapace, seamlessly joining into the ribcage. And beneath all that lies a jungle of crowded organs, glistening in the bright light of the med-bay.
Without further ado, she dives in.
Betty is washing her hands at the sink when Thaddeus walks in.
What's that?" He gestures at the slimy object sitting on a metal tray. It's vaguely shaped like a peanut shell, split along a seam and splayed open. The outer, thick layer is strawberry-red, while the yellow inner lining has shallow grooves, with black particles scattered within.
Betty spares a glance. "A gizzard."
"So they are birds," he says with a certain level of satisfaction. He tries to imagine the corpse on his daughter's table swallowing down grit or pebbles to help in digestion, and feels disgust coiling in his belly. Savages, he thinks. Savages with guns. "What have you got for me?"
Betty sighs, and finally turns to look at him. She hadn't been pleased to be ordered to use her skills to find a weakness on their enemy. "I've been analyzing their stomach contents. We got lucky; their food hadn't completely digested yet. Found something weird."
"They're aliens. Everything about them is weird."
"Yeah, but this is…," she purses her lips, " - unexpected, insofar as anything could be anticipated in a field as nebulous as astrobiology. We've made projections of what to look for, based on observations of all the other species we've encountered. This creature, though, is very different from what we came up with. Their biochemistry… as well as that of their food, is of an opposite chirality."
"Which means?"
"Humans evolved as a sapient, levo-amino-acid race. As did almost every species on Earth. Even our food is based on levo-protein. But these creatures… though they might be carbon-based and oxygen breathing, they've evolved along a mirrored chirality. They're dextro-protein based."
Thaddeus ignores the jargon and hones in on the implications like a shark scenting blood in the water. "The vegetation and the wildlife on Shanxi; we can't eat those, can we?"
"No, but that's because of different factors. Everything on this planet is levo-based, too."
"Which means the aliens can't eat anything on this planet, either. They're gonna have to bring their own supplies." To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself. Plans and blueprints unfurl in his mind in light of this new revelation. "Good work, Dr. Ross."
Betty grimaces, and turns away.
"It's the enemy, Betty."
"Not here. In my lab, it's just a cadaver. No different from any other."
January 24th, 2030
WAR RADIO TRANSCRIPTS
The following radio transcripts were obtained from the Shanxi Forward Operating Base (FOB) under the command of General Thaddeus Ross after the three-month conflict known across Alliance Space as the First Contact War. This information details 'Operation Backhand', a large-scale assault on the Hierarchy's major supply depot installation on Shanxi. The success of this undertaking crippled the logistics of enemy forces.
Further post-war analysis is warranted to determine the justification of General Ross' actions, especially in the light of what followed.
[Note from Staff Analyst Dwight dated the 2nd of April, 2030 - a month after the liberation of Shanxi]
— Recon Units Foxtrot Bravo and Foxtrot Charlie have checked in. Combat Units Golf Hotel and Golf India have checked in. All reports indicate that overland routes to target are blocked by heavy enemy forces. —
— Copy that. Team Sierra in position. Foxtrot Teams, initiate diversion protocols. —
— Copy that. —
— Captain Ahern to FOB, come in, over. —
— We receive you, Captain. What's your status? —
— Foxtrot Charlie's field-command reports overwhelming alien resistance on southwestern perimeter. —
— Acknowledged. Reinforcements are being rerouted via vector Three-Niner-Seven. Confirm. —
— Foxtrot Charlie's field-command has been advised. Air control transferring now. —
— Advise reinforcements that frequency encryption 'Hollow Eagle' should be maintained across all channels. —
— Copy that. Advise pushing forward the Sierra wave. We're getting hammered out here. —
— Negative on that advance, Captain. Resistance high at target site. Golf India proceeds as planned. Over. —
— Sierra Team to FOB, come in, over. —
— Report, Sierra Team. —
— Underwater infiltration successful. I repeat, underwater infiltration successful. —
— Good work, Commander Rhys. Now drop the package and retreat. —
— Acknowledged, FOB. —
…
— Alien supplies rigged, FOB. Enemy interdiction a 100 percent on former bearings. Requesting alternatives to avoid alien sight-lines. —
— Copy that request. Standby. —
…
— FOB to Commander Rhys. Maintain bearing of seven-six-four for alternative exit. Golf teams will provide covering fire. —
— Copy that, FOB. Over. —
— This is a flash-traffic alert, priority one: Platoon Foxtrot Charlie requests immediate evac alert. —
— Negative on that. Sierra needs covering fire for successful retreat and package activation. Issuing a priority one scramble alert for reinforcements from New Changzhi. —
— Copy that. Is there an ETA, FOB? —
— Affirmative: Advise Foxtrot Charlie that they're thirteen minutes and counting. —
— This is a New Changzhi theater-wide update: Sierra reports successful package activation. Target has been eliminated. I repeat, target has been eliminated. —
— Acknowledged, FOB. Be advised: alien forces regrouping for counter attack. —
— Copy that, Captain. Advise all remaining recon and combat units to retreat and regroup at transmitted coordinates. —
— Sierra to FOB. We have word from other teams. Foxtrot Bravo reports 65 percent KIA. Golf Hotel: 70 percent KIA. Golf India: 87 percent KIA. Foxtrot Charlie: 100 percent KIA. —
— What about the New Changzhi reinforcements?
— A transmission burst indicated they were overrun by enemy forces before reinforcements could get there. No word since. All personnel presumed dead. —
— Copy that. —
— Will advise as more intel becomes available. —
January 25th, 2030
The escape pod, thankfully, had crash-buried itself deep inside a forest, too deep even for enemy soldiers to bother with the effort of recovering it. But Ahern's tracker is still intact, and so he follows the blinking track on his omni-tool to the large furrow the pod had carved into the clearing.
"Are you sure about this, sir?" Ryder asks. So far, the kid had readily agreed to throw his lot at the prospect of a dishonorable discharge, let alone treason, despite the fact that even S.W.O.R.D. wouldn't be able to help if this doesn't pan out. "Because we've made significant headway in New Changzhi and New Linfen, and…"
Tadius Ahern shoves his makeshift crowbar into a convenient rut and, with Saunders' help, tries to wrench open the stubborn door. "We were allowed to."
"What?"
"The birds retreated. They never retreat. Ross had the superior force, sure - but they usually dig in and return fire until we wipe them out. But this time, they broke the pattern, Lieutenant. Didn't fall back in order, didn't set up ambushes."
"Why?"
"No idea," Saunders grunts. "And that's what scares us. Ross isn't seeing it."
Ryder falls silent, brows furrowed as he thinks deeply. "The men have a saying," he finally murmurs. "'You'll only see a bird's back once it's dead.'"
With a horrific metallic screech, the door comes away. Padding spills out, along with a few odds and ends. Ahern ignores all that and dives into the darkness, dragging out a battered crate. Saunders gets to hammering out the dents and cracking open the crate, while Ahern pulls out several more. "Our only advantage, Ryder," Ahern says, " - is that they don't know where Earth is. Our friends and families are hidden, protected from danger… and we are the first line of defense."
The crate's lid falls open, revealing a row of familiar Asgardian-hybrid munitions, provided by Henry Lawson and rejected by Thaddeus Ross. Two of the Geneva's officers had died to ensure that the alien cargo wouldn't go down with the ship. Ross would've deemed their sacrifice a waste.
"Isn't it our duty?" Ahern murmurs softly, " - to reach for whatever it takes to win this war… even if it's the devil himself who's offering it?"
January 26th, 2030
Alliance Mission Report
Project Cornucopia
Nanhai Colony, Shanxi
[Ref: Colonial Territories: The First Contact War]
[Ref: Alliance News Network (Issue: December 16th, 2029) 'Shanxi's First Skyscraper Outpost Struggles to Pay Off Sky-High Loans!']
18:37 - Pinnacle Squadron requests air assistance from Veteran Task Force (VTF) to clear enemy defenses.
18:53 - Automatic AA guns disabled. Teams report no enemy patrols in sight. Few scavengers easily neutralized. Colony appears abandoned.
19:00 - Chief Saunders announces all clear. Touchdown and landing. Pinnacle Squadron makes landfall in a submarine Hammerhead model.
19:06 - Captain Ahern observes signs of battle, comments that they're likely from the first wave of attacks, when the command centers were targeted. Plots out best route to supply cache.
19:43 - Arrival at coordinates (Ref: Nanhai High School). Delay due to unexpected detours caused by road blockage, crumbled skyscrapers. Thermal imagery confirms multiple human signatures inside.
19:51 - Gymnasium occupied by local civilians who surrendered to alien death squads [cross reference: hastatim]. High School confirmed to be a 'safe camp'.
19:58 - Mayor Reynolds culls panic among the civilians and approaches. [Elected as spokesperson. Psychological Profile Summary: formerly Phys. Ed. Coach. Strict, task-oriented, decent leadership skills. Unwilling to take risks.] Acknowledges the formal request for supplies, agrees to an exchange. VTF appointed to oversee transfer and settle details.
20:03 - Captain Ahern suggests non-liberated status of safe camp likely due to said safe camp built and repurposed from assets within the occupied city, as opposed to deployment of alien prefabs from orbit. Theorizes that with no large-scale transportation activity to track between Nanhai and the mainland, General Ross had not conceived of or ignored the possibility of a safe camp within the premises of an isolated island.
20:11 - When offered Alliance support and evacuation, Mayor Reynolds respectfully declines. Lieutenant Ryder suggests that Mayor Reynolds is following the rules of a curfew that is no longer being enforced. Mayor Reynolds confirms that his people are uninterested in being conscripted. Quote: "Humans or aliens; there's no difference anymore. You started your petty wars without us; you can finish them without us, too."
20:17 - Mayor Reynolds confirms aliens withdrew from Nanhai two days ago with no explanation. [cross reference similar withdrawals all across Shanxi].
20:24 - Pinnacle Squad and VTF withdraw from Nanhai High School.
20:31 - VTF patrol shuttle breaks radio silence, informs detection of imminent orbital strike. Attempts to warn safe camp futile. Ground team doubles back.
20:32 - Impact on high school grounds. Large-scale destruction. Shockwave flattens ground team. Body cams distorted for several minutes before coming back online.
20:37 - Lieutenants Grindel and Morfitt killed. Lieutenant Faulkner seriously injured. VTF secondary team arrives to provide relief and recovery. Chief Saunders and Captain Ahern treated for minor injuries.
20:53 - Teams greatly demoralized by discovery that scans reported no survivors in the ruins of high school. Injured team members conveyed to shuttles.
21:00 - Several smaller-scale orbital strikes follow ground team and shuttle team to drop point. Casualties minimum.
21:02 - VTF vessel lifts off, departs through satellite telemetry gap. Hammerhead submerges. Mission complete.
January 28th, 2030
Inventory Records
This inventory was taken following the brutal siege bombardment utilized by the Turian Hierarchy on Shanxi colonies. Post-war analysis confirms that these were done in haste due to understandable time constraints and lack of proper logistical information, and as such are only considered estimates. Regardless, this provides further context for the decisions undertaken by General Ross in the later stages of the occupation.
[Note from Staff Analyst Dwight dated the 7th of April, 2030 - nineteen days after the official conclusion of the First Contact War]
- 6,000 local units of levo-amino acid food supplies
- 3,000 local units of dextro-amino food supplies (recovered from successfully raided turian command centers)
- 500 tons of unrefined iridium (recovered from crashed turian freighter Vigilarius)
- 27 Alliance fighter crafts (relatively intact)
- 18 Alliance interceptors (repaired from cannibalized parts of other ships and Alliance escape pods)
- 5 Hierarchy A-61 Mantis Gunships
- 30 crates of turian weaponry (spoils of war)
- 3 crates of Asgardian weaponry (recovered from the escape pods of the SSV Geneva by Captain Tadius Ahern and later redistributed among his men, directly contradicting the orders of his commanding officer)
[As of the date this inventory was taken, Shanxi had 700 active personnel scattered across the planet. Projections suggested the supplies, even rationed severely, would've only lasted another month. Reminder that the above reserves were only intended for Alliance personnel, whose foraging operations were severely curtailed by the siege. Records indicate that civilians - who numbered in the tens of thousands at the height of the war - had their own stockpiles.]
January 29th, 2030
Command Center, Forward Operating Base (FOB), Shanxi
LOCATION: CLASSIFIED
Thaddeus' blood is hot in his veins, has been for what feels like years now. It's not good for him - but then, neither is war. "Report."
"You were right," Ahern grimaces. "About the extermination camps. The death squads are executing every human on sight, regardless of whether or not they surrender."
"And the progress we've made?"
Alec Ryder clears his throat. "They're giving up on territory, General. They don't care anymore. Every time we venture into the cities for supplies, they just drop debris from orbit. Entire city blocks destroyed - just to exterminate a single squad."
"If we keep this up, civilian lives are endangered. If we don't, we starve." Thaddeus closes his eyes. "I heard they made a demand."
"For a given definition of it." Ahern brings up his omni-tool. A holographic bust pops out. Thaddeus's features are stern across the red lines, which after a few seconds flicker to a rendering of Shanxi from orbit, being bombarded by orbital debris, before flickering once again to a generic human figure kneeling in the sand with his hands above his head.
The message is clear. Until the commander of the Shanxi garrison surrenders himself, the birds will continue to devastate the colony until no human is left.
Ahern hesitates. "There's no way to win; not against that kind of firepower."
Thaddeus tears his eyes away from the hologram. "Then we take out the ships."
Daniel Saunders, who has been standing in a corner with his arms tight around his chest, finally explodes. "Are you even listening to yourself, Ross?" He's dropped all pretense of respect - they're running ragged, and there's no more room for protocol. "They've surrounded us! Across the globe, do you understand me? Parked directly above every colony, every temporary shelter, every refugee camp! And it's not like they're wasting their weapons on us!"
Saunders laughs, low and guttural. "No, no - why would they need to? They're just dropping the shreds of our own ships on our heads! You know, the ones from the Shanxi fleet? The vessels that were supposed to defend our civilians are now the ones that are crushing them!"
"Sir," Ahern ventures, shooting a dark look at the former chief of police, who ignores it. "We should at least consider the possibility."
Thaddeus stares disbelievingly. "You too, Captain? Do you have any pride left in your humanity? Do any of you?" He looks around wildly, but Ahern and Ryder avert their gaze. "Is that how far you've all fallen?"
"We're trying to save civilian lives."
"And I'm trying to make sure we don't have to! I'm trying to create a universe, gentlemen, that trembles at the word 'human', that doesn't dare touch us in fear of our retaliation! They've already seen our might, our ruthlessness in reclaiming what was ours! I will not surrender, not now!"
"Then you will die," Saunders snarls savagely. "And you will take us all with you."
A/N:
Mass Effect Context
The Chair
The Chair, aka the 'Inquisition Throne' (and yes, that's a Dragon Age: Inquisition easter egg; couldn't help myself) is actually a technology I lifted from Mass Effect 2's Lair of the Shadow Broker DLC. Feron, an ally of Liara, was held and tortured for around two years in a similar device. Liara called it a 'neural grounding rod'.
General Context
The 'sump pockets' are a Dune reference, yes.