I wrote this one too. As I recall my friend actually quite liked this one when I did it.
Fall back. The same order, every time a highborn Orokin fell in battle, and yet they were never reprimanded for foolishness when it really counted. Anya had seen marines and warframes with the Tenno inside ripped to shreds by hostile wildlife, corrupted by the disease-ridden touch of an infested body, and even vaporized when conflicting orders caused friendly fire incidents on a heavily contested battlefield. The last were possibly the worst, because not only were there friendly units caught in the blast, but the men who fired the round were always court marshaled, and more often than not they were executed. Sure, they could be cold and indifferent, even cruel to her, but she still didn't think they deserved to be treated like something unpleasant one might find stuck to the bottom of a boot. She wished this order had come sooner. Most of the marines in the battalion she was with were wounded to some degree at this point, and the entire company was sleep deprived and miserable.
"Are you deaf, tenno?!" roared the commander through her communicator, "I said FALL BACK!"
"Sir, half of our troops are missing or wounded, we simply can't move that fast," she objected.
"They're low born, commoners," the field commander sneered, "If they're slowing the army down, leave them."
"Please just give me more time, sir," she pressed, "We won't be long, you have my word."
"See that you get back here with enough men to make at least one complete fighting unit," the commander growled, "We don't have time to waist on pathetic, common-born marines!"
There was a click as the commander hung up on her, and Anya howled her frustration and impotent fury. It wasn't fair, even if they were commoners many of the marines still had families, wives or husbands and children who depended on them, lovers who wanted them back, parents and siblings who were waiting up at all hours of the night for news. She looked around at the battered troops and her heart broke for them, knowing that nothing she could say could ever change the Empire's mind. Fall back. The order rang in her head, along with the snide voice of the commander saying over and over, "Leave them."
"Tenno…" one of them, a gunnery sergeant by his uniform, dared speak to her and she blinked back the tears with an effort as he asked, "What are the orders?"
"Fall back," she whispered, her voice sounding hollow and impersonal in her own ears even though inside she was breaking.
"What about the wounded and the missing?" he ventured the question.
"We… we have to leave them…" she finally forced herself to say.
She hated herself for saying it, and her throat felt as though it were closing with the effort of holding back her emotions. The marine looked at her in abject horror for about five seconds, then his expression went cold and unreadable. He gave her one last accusing look, then he turned to the remainder of the battalion and ordered, "Fall back. We're done here, marines."
"I'm so sorry, gunny," she whispered.
"Save it," he spat, "You're not even human, just one of the empire's precious tenno, their elite lapdogs. You'll never understand."
The marines turned and followed the sergeant back toward the field command post, and Anya just stood there watching them go. She stood there and waited for the one man in the whole battalion who didn't think she was a monster to fall to the back of the company as he always did where she would then join and walk beside him and they would talk, but the longer she stood waiting the more alarmed she became. Private Connor Woodstock, "Stock" to his friends, was nowhere to be seen.
She waited until the marines had vacated the battlefield, then she began searching the field and bringing the wounded back to camp, becoming more desperate as the minutes turned into hours and she still hadn't found him. She wasn't supposed to be doing this, she knew that, but he was her friend and she couldn't just leave him out here without at least trying to find him. Even so she spent that whole afternoon and most of the night searching and having no luck, eventually beginning to think that he'd not only been killed but that there wasn't even a body to find.
"Stock!" she shouted across the field, making a last ditch effort to find him before she'd either have to leave him to die or be executed for her trouble.
At first there was no response, but after the third or fourth time calling his name she heard movement and she made a beeline for the sound, finally finding him as he was in the process of trying to drag himself out of a blast crater. The sides were too steep, and just as he managed to touch the top of it with his fingers, he started to slide backwards. Anya scrambled to the edge and caught his outstretched hand, carefully hauling him up out of the pit and then holding him while she waited for him to catch his breath.
"A-Anya, is… is that you?" he panted, and she remembered that he didn't have any kind of night vision like she did.
"Yeah, Stock, it's me," she replied, "I've got you, buddy, you're safe now."
"What are you doing out here?" he asked, "Didn't you get the memo? You're supposed to leave dead marines on the field." Alright, he didn't really want her to leave him, but ignoring orders from the Orokin high command wasn't a good idea.
"I got the memo, I just ignored it," she said, "Besides, you're not dead yet."
"Alright, help me up," he grunted, "You're probably already in trouble, so we should at least try to keep it from getting any worse."
"Hold still a minute, you're bleeding," she said, pulling a bandage out of the satchel she was carrying, "I'm taking care of you, end of discussion."
"You don't have time for this," he protested.
"Sh," she ordered, and he felt her slice through his flak jacket, then his shirt, then his undershirt.
"Couldn't wait to get me out of my clothes, huh?" he smirked.
"In your dreams, maybe," she snarked back.
"Oh come on, you know you want some of this," he grinned, then flinched as she gave him a poke, "Ow! Be nice to me, I'm broken!"
"You're not that broken," she said.
He felt her tear a strip of cloth from his shirt, pause, and then begin cleaning the painful gunshot wound in his side. The fabric felt slightly soggy as it touched, and he felt the sting of disinfectant. "Ow," this time he growled.
"Sorry, can't help it," she said.
"You could just not use that nasty stuff," he suggested.
"You're a big tough marine, I think you can handle it," she told him.
"How do you know? I might break into a million pieces and then you'd have to pick them all up and try to put me back together again," he teased.
"Keep whining and I might have to roll you up in a blanket and carry you back to camp slung over my shoulder like a sack of flour," she smirked.
"Aw, I feel so loved now," he said sarcastically.
"Oh you're loved alright. Hold that there," she instructed, pressing something soft to the wound and placing his hand over it, then he felt her start wrapping something around his torso. Four turns, each time having him shift his hold to include the bandage, then she gently moved his hand away and tied it at his side. "Alright, I think you're safe to move for now," she said, "Let's see if we can get back without any incidents."
"I'm hurt," he said, making the most pitiful face he could muster, "When have I ever caused 'incidents?'"
"If you have to ask…" she snorted.
He chuckled slightly, then grunted as she gently pulled him to his feet and allowed him to lean on her as she carefully guided him through the field back toward the camp. It took a long time, Stock had apparently been hurt worse than she'd thought and they had to stop several times, but eventually they did make it back and after leaving him in the infirmary she made her way to the command center.