In the dimly lit room, Elsie Richardson steadied her breath as she rose from her seated position, lifting herself with her thumbs. Bathed in amber light, her face glistened with a subtle sheen, her eyes closed in concentration. After holding the pose for a few seconds, she gradually eased her arms, maintaining a partial stance.
Inhaling deeply, she then exhaled slowly.
A soft beep reverberated through the room, prompting Elsie to open her eyes and glance at her now brightly lit terminal. "Lights," she commanded, flooding the space with warm illumination. Unfurling her legs, she rose from her seated stance, her feet finding purchase on the carpeted floor as she made her way to the terminal. With a wave of her hand, she accessed the message she had just received and smiled.
"Dawn," she called to her AI. "Summon the others for a briefing. Let them know it's time."
As the sun of this alien world began its descent, the air vibrated with the fading echoes of battle—a symphony of gunfire's final gasps, explosions' last reverberations, the strained groans of armor plates, and the desperate gasps of wounded turian soldiers retreating from the alien city. Behind them lay a desolate tableau of smoldering ruins and smoking craters, stained with the blue and red ichor of fallen comrades.
Though the alien casualties stood as a somber testament to their mortality, it provided little comfort. Instead, a deep ache settled in the chests of each turian, a bitter residue of defeat clinging to their throats like ash. The swift and merciless rout had hollowed them out, mirroring the smoldering wasteland they now left behind.
The weight of defeat pressed doubly hard on Lieutenant Caius Scipio, commanding officer of a century within the Fourth Legion. He and his comrades had spearheaded the expedition, striving to secure a foothold on this alien world.
Their journey had been fraught with chaos, which upon reflection, accurately represented the formidable adversary they faced. Lieutenant Scipio grappled with the enigma of the Carolinians—were they an advanced civilization or a primitive one? They wielded slug throwers reminiscent of ancient turian weaponry, yet their firearms were refined enough to overwhelm kinetic barriers with a mere burst of fire. And then there were the plasma small-arms, honest-to-goodness weapons that bypassed turian shields entirely, delivering swift death with each crimson bolt.
Fortunately, the turians adapted quickly. Soldiers swiftly learned that seeking cover held far more value in their battle, as well as the transient nature of their refuge. Despite the carolinians' tactics, resembling the fluidity of Asari combat with their adeptness at ambushing isolated turian units, the absence of biotics failed to give the legion pause. Instead, the aliens compensated with sheer numbers and unyielding resolve.
As turians pressed deeper into enemy territory, they encountered increasingly fierce resistance. The relentless onslaught forced them into a deadlock, stalling their initial momentum.
Despite the stalemate, Scipio remained confident in their eventual breakthrough. The lack of discipline and unity among the carolinians, evident in their absence of standardized weapons and uniforms, as well as their disjointed combat tactics, contrasted sharply with the cohesion of Hierarchy soldiers. While the aliens possessed formidable weaponry, Turian history taught that equipment alone did not ensure victory. To Scipio, it was evident that the deadlock would prove temporary.
Or so he believed.
Everything changed in an instant when, from the skies, carolinians clad in complete metal armor descended upon them like vengeful spirits. Armed with formidable long-arms, only a dozen or so of these behemoths were needed to tip the scales, gradually pushing the Turian legion back.
Their sudden appearance triggered an epiphany for the Lieutenant. Clad in uniform colors and armed with identical weapons, these armored behemoths presented a stark contrast to the ragtag forces they had initially faced. In mere minutes of battling these new adversaries, two realizations dawned on him: first, that their earlier foes were not military adversaries, and second, that these carolinian soldiers were formidable monsters indeed.
Despite the turian Legion's discipline, fatigue remained an ever-present consideration in managing their formations. Rotation of centuries from the frontline to allow for rest and the introduction of fresh troops was standard practice. However, what was far from normal was for these rested soldiers to return to the frontlines, only to find themselves confronting the same enemy, albeit adorned with new battle scars on their armor.
Their behavior was peculiar, exhibiting a level of coordination that surpassed mere training. Lieutenant Scipio observed it firsthand, witnessing one of the armored soldiers pause to reload their weapon. Without any discernible signal, their comrades seamlessly adjusted, allowing the reloading soldier to step back while another took their place with remarkable fluidity.
Reports surfaced of the armored soldiers exhibiting zero delay in synchronizing their firepower and displaying uncanny awareness of the battlefield. The Cabal auxiliaries learned this in a tragic manner, as their vanguards were targeted almost immediately upon detection. The behemoths focused their onslaught on these unfortunate souls, then guarding the corpses until they were retrieved by an eerie orange light descending from the skies.
The most unsettling aspect was that none of these monstrous adversaries had fallen. Despite the turians' relentless efforts and the duration of the battle, every armored behemoth remained standing. As centuries fell and the remainder of the legion began to retreat, not a single one of the armored soldiers had succumbed to the battlefield's onslaught.
Scipio grappled with a maelstrom of emotions—pride, valor, defiance, perhaps even arrogance. Yet, above all, a burning desire to honor his fallen comrades consumed him. He swore to himself that he would take down at least one of these monstrous foes, even if it meant sacrificing his own life.
Thankfully, he was not alone in this resolve.
"It's falling back!" exclaimed Sergeant Gornus, his voice tinged with excitement.
Scipio's plan was straightforward: they would identify a more isolated group of armored enemies and deliberately lure them forward by strategically retreating in a less coordinated manner than the rest of the legion. Anticipating that the aliens would perceive this as a weakness in their formation and attempt to exploit it by advancing, Scipio enlisted the help of some Cabal auxiliaries assigned to his century. These auxiliaries would expose themselves, further incentivizing the aliens to move forward.
"Don't let it retreat too far!" Scipio ordered, his voice resolute.
There were four of these monstrous adversaries in a team. Scipio assigned a Cabal vanguard to each of them, drawing them away from each other. It was a complex maneuver, utilizing the destroyed city block to create barriers between them, but it proved effective. They succeeded in isolating one of the behemoths, surrounding it with three fire teams, while the remainder of the century engaged in delaying tactics against the other three.
"Come on!" shouted Cabal Caellius as she lunged at the monster's side, her blade meeting the resistance of its metal plates. "Die already!" she exclaimed in frustration.
As the alien swiftly turned, its armored fist aimed at her, Cabal Caellius disappeared, evading the melee attack and leaving the enemy vulnerable to the concentrated firepower of the surrounding turian soldiers. Despite firing continuously until their weapons overheated, their efforts only succeeded in breaking off a few armor plates and scratching the paint. The monster, unfazed by the onslaught, continued its offensive, hunching its shoulders and returning fire without hesitation.
However, that brief distraction was enough for Scipio. Noticing that his grenade team was in position just behind the monster, he seized the moment. "Now!" he ordered sharply.
Some turians on the team lobbed their grenades while others aimed their long-arms, their omni-tools glowing with energy. In a matter of moments, a deafening explosion rocked the armored Carolinian, causing it to stagger. As it turned to retaliate, the remainder of the team unleashed their concussive shots, pummeling the staggered monster and forcing it down to one knee.
Cabal Caellius screamed as she reappeared behind the monster, her knife raised high in the air. With swift precision, she struck at where its neck should be, and all Turians watched in awe as it flinched. As she withdrew her arm, the air was painted crimson, the very first proof that these creatures were mortal.
Scipio felt a weight lift from his shoulders, replaced by a newfound lightness that danced in his muscles and hummed in his bones. The impossible had bled; the seemingly infallible monster finally crumbled under the relentless onslaught of their teamwork. For a fleeting moment, they stood as the triumphant primarchs of the battlefield.
The moment of triumph proved fleeting as the monster, unwilling to yield, swiftly seized Caellius by her neck. In a desperate act of retaliation, she aimed her small-arms point-blank at its covered face and fired twice before the metal hand twitched. There was a crack, followed by a deafening silence as the vanguard went completely limp.
An enraged turian shouted, and the air was once again filled with thunderous cracks of gunfire. The kneeling monster hurled Caellius' lifeless body towards the nearest attacking soldiers, causing them to flinch. Without rising, it aimed its long-arms and mercilessly dispatched those not in cover.
The Lieutenant was about to join the fray but halted when he noticed something peculiar. The headgear of the alien, seemingly crafted from a single block of metal, bore a web of cracks where the Cabal had shot. Additionally, he realized that the monster was not attempting to stand up; instead, it was using its shoulders and long-arms to shield its face from further harm.
"Vakarian!" Scipio bellowed over the comms. "Target the face! On my mark!"
"Yes, sir!" came the swift reply.
"Turians! Give it everything we've got!" Scipio commanded, his voice ringing with determination.
Those with overheated weapons swiftly switched to their omni-tools, while the rest of the Turian grenadiers hurled their explosive ammunition. The target flinched as a loud crackle pierced the din of gunfire, followed by sparks cascading from the behemoth's armor. Suddenly, balls of fire blinked into existence, engulfing the armored monster in a brief inferno before both electricity and flames seemed to converge, erupting in a burst of red and blue explosion, causing the monster to stagger.
Its weapon slipped from its grip, and the chest area became so warped that the metal plates were on the verge of falling off. Despite its grievous wounds, the monster remained intact. Struggling to its feet, it reached for its weapon, leaving itself momentarily vulnerable. Sensing the opportunity, the sniper team took aim.
Explosive claps of thundered steel unleashed echoed through the air, accompanied by high-pitched whines that cut through the storm like shrieks of battle. Crimson erupted on the enemy's helm as its visor shattered like an emberheart struck by a hammer blow. Shards glittered like malevolent stars, cascading through the air, which was now painted with death's sigil. For a fleeting moment, the armored giant stood frozen, a mangled statue sculpted in blood. Then, with a tremor rippling through the battlefield, the monster crumpled, meeting its final end.
For a moment, silence seemed to reign, holding the battlefield in its grip. Then, from their ranks, a guttural roar erupted, tearing through the air like a tidal wave of triumph. A joyous cacophony shattered the tension, with cheers and laughter blending together in a chorus of relief and jubilation. It felt as though a burden had been lifted from everyone's shoulders, leaving only elation in its wake.
"Lieutenant," a voice called nervously over the comms, contrasting with the jubilant mood surrounding Scipio. "Did we do it?"
"We did it, Vakarian," the century's leader confirmed. "Damned good shots from your team. Now, fall back to the rest of the legion. We need to get out of here before its teammates come for us."
"Yes, sir," Vakarian replied promptly.
Scipio glanced at the teams around him, some raising their arms in celebration. He shook his head, slightly amused by their behavior. "Sergeant Gornus, we need to retrieve that weapon for study, then regroup and fall back to—"
The Lieutenant winced, feeling a sudden shift in the world around him. For a moment, his vision blurred, but as it slowly cleared, he found himself questioning why the ground had suddenly become vertical and everything bathed in blue.
Ringing filled his ears, yet he could discern the distinct shouts of his fellow turians. He attempted to move, but only his head seemed to respond to his commands. Glancing up, he spotted the body of Gornus nearby. Corporals Velinis and Darrian aimed their long-arms upwards before collapsing in a heap.
Scipio's gaze shifted to the armored legs of the carolinian soldiers, their massive forms gently touching the ground. Were there four of them? Five? Scipio couldn't be certain. He could only watch as some of them gathered around their fallen comrades, one of them bearing the body of Cabal Caellius on its massive shoulder.
As his vision slowly faded, Scipio's thoughts turned to his family, to his century. As the void enveloped him, he felt a sense of gratitude that there was no pain.
"The Captain of the Eighth Legion sends his compliments," Commander Venatix said, her holographic image showing her looking down at her reports. "He has advised us that they were able to halt the enemy's momentum, reaching a stalemate."
General Oraka nodded. "And what about the rest of the legions?" he inquired.
Venatix hesitated. "The Captain of the Fourth has confirmed that he gave the order to retreat," she replied, attempting to keep her voice steady, yet a slight twitch of her mandibles betrayed her unease. Her brow plates lowered subtly, and her eyes widened just a fraction, enough to convey her feelings to General Oraka.
He didn't blame her. He knew it was inevitable, given the string of concerning reports from the Fourth. Still, he too was taken aback by how swiftly things had deteriorated.
"They've shored up a few kilokars outside the city," she continued. "Though he's advised that if the aliens push forward, they won't be able to hold their position for long."
"So they suffered the same fate as the Sixth," Oraka said with a soft sigh. "I had hoped we could have kept our momentum. It seems I should have deployed more soldiers in those theaters."
"We've never had legions retreat," Venatix commented in disbelief. "Not since the Krogan Rebellion."
That got Oraka to bark out a short laugh, momentarily lifting her from her morose mood. She looked at him in confusion. "General?" she asked.
"I didn't think you'd be one of those who believe that varren shit, Commander," he replied, shaking his head in amusement. "The only reason why the Hierarchy Legions rarely retreated was because we always supported them with auxiliaries or an additional legion. We use overwhelming numbers and tactical positioning to the utmost advantage. What you're witnessing now, Commander, is what happens when someone underestimates the enemy." His mandibles then tugged downwards. "Which means I've received the distinct honor of being the first general since the Rebellions to have suffered such a disgrace, but what can we do?"
Venatix's face plates shifted slightly multiple times before she went still for a second, then shook her head. "What is your next step, General?" she asked. "My frigates are ready to support."
"I'd like to reinforce the Fourth and the Sixth to maintain their defensive positioning," he replied, fist under his chin as he studied the tactical map. "Transport their sister legions, the Third and the Fifth, to their location."
"Why not employ the Seventh and the Eleventh as well?" Venatix asked. "With six legions, we can easily conquer those two cities."
"Maybe," Oaks replied softly. "It's a bad trade, though. Especially considering the size of the territories. These aliens have the best defensive ground forces I've seen. It's like their populace are armed and ready to repel us. Even if we do smash through, there's no guarantee we would be able to hold it. Never mind the casualties." He shook his head. "No. Better to keep them in place, keeping the aliens busy while we try to rescue the Tenth."
"How about the Eighth?" Venatix asked. "Would you send them support as well?"
Oraka checked his map again, then nodded. "If things turn for the worst, send the Ninth. They seem to be holding a quarter of the city and occupying most of the armored aliens. If we can keep that up—"
A loud beep coming from the Commander's window interrupted him. Venatix glanced downwards immediately, her eyes dancing in place as she read through the incoming emergency report before she looked back up. "General, the Captain of the Eighth is reporting that the aliens have employed air support," she said. "I'll send some frigates immediately."
"Thank you, Commander," Oraka replied. Once her screen disappeared, he breathed out a long sigh as he glanced at the tactical map. He stared at the positioning of his soldiers, the reported numbers of the enemy, and shook his head. In the end, he could only mutter, "Spirits."
If things didn't change, there was really only one way this was going to end.
"Mark?" a familiar voice called from the dark void.
Mark Shepard's eyes snapped open, a gasp escaping his lips as he felt a nudge pull him from his slumber. His vision was a blurry mix of white and browns, with the comfortable silence replaced by a cacophony of overlapping voices and clinking metals. With each blink, the edges sharpened, details blooming from the blur until he found himself staring at a white wall, accented with a wooden panel cutting across the surface. He shook his head as he slowly sat up, patting his rifle and holstered blaster before glancing at the familiar face of Barbara Brennan standing in front of him.
Memories of the last few hours flooded his mind—the rescue operation, the evacuation, the arrival at South St. Francis Hospital to drop off the rescued, and him taking a nap in the break room. It was enough to reboot his brain and bring him back to life.
"Hey, Barbs," Mark greeted as he rubbed his face.
"Hey yourself," Barbara returned. "Brought you food," she added, showing him a bottle of water and what looked like some sort of sandwich wrapped in tissue.
"Thanks," he replied before calling out, "Eva?"
"You were sleeping for forty minutes," Eva replied while Mark accepted Barbara's offerings. "When I discovered Barbara was here to pick you up, I communicated with Alfred to have her get you food and wake you up."
Mark unwrapped the food before scarfing it down. It was an egg sandwich. He groaned with satisfaction. "Eva told me you are bringing us back to Beaufort Park?"
"Yup," she said as she sat down on the couch in front of him. "Take your time. You have at least fifteen minutes before you need to report back."
Swallowing the egg salad sandwich bites, he gulped down the water before breathing out a contented sigh. "Where's Dave and John?" he asked.
"David's gone to the bathroom," she replied. "The third guy, John? He's asking the hospital for refills of nanites and medigel pens. They know we will all meet up at Loading Bay U7 in five minutes."
Mark nodded as he finished everything. After using the wrapper to wipe his mouth, he stood up and stretched, glancing at his surroundings. He spotted people wearing white uniforms with red crosses stamped on their shoulders, sitting at the dining tables, eating and drinking as they chatted softly amongst themselves. Most of them didn't mind his presence, probably having passed by his sleeping form earlier, though some waved at him as both he and Barbara began to walk towards the exit. He returned the gesture.
"How's things out there?" Mark asked as they made their way to the grav-rails.
"We're getting fewer and fewer SOS signals in the west district," she replied, smiling. "Heard that we'd probably get all of them by tonight."
"That's great," Mark said with a relieved sigh.
"Yeah," Barbara agreed, nodding repeatedly. "Though there's still work to be done. We'll probably be assigned to move the evacuees to the southern or northern districts of Peninsula."
"Have they built temporary housing in those districts?" Mark asked as they arrived at the elevator and grav-rail hall. It was a stark switch from the abandoned building, with bustling elevators and whirring tubes as people moved in and out of the floors.
"They did," Barbara replied as both chose a rail before pressing their respective button pointing down. "Mostly tents, but they were cozy."
"Mark," Eva called. "Your turn."
After a woman disembarked, Mark slid into the vacant grav-rail, the orange platform appearing beneath him as the walls glowed blue, engulfing him. Once he was completely inside, the walls blurred into streaks of lights as he shot downwards, his stomach churning slightly from the motion.
By the time he reached the ground floor, a man in front of him was waiting for his exit. As Mark stepped out, Barbara gracefully landed from her tube as well, and once she got out, a woman carrying her baby occupied it without hesitation.
"What happens once there's no longer any SOS signals?" Barbara asked as the two continued with their walk.
"Depends," Mark replied. "I'm sure that they'll send some more MI to the western district soon, and some of the residents will help them drive the turians off. I heard some of the nearby cities were attacked as well?"
"Yeah," Barbara said, frowning. "That was a few hours ago, though. Haven't gotten an update about it since the—"
Both simultaneously stopped as new data was filtered to their heads. They gazed at each other sharply before taking a running start towards the receiving area of the hospital, where a crowd was starting to gather. They all looked up at a large holographic screen that covered one whole section of the wall, their faces in awe at what they were witnessing.
"—arrival of the Valkyries in Orangea," the correspondent on screen, wearing a protective helmet and vest, announced.
"Ugh, SCMN," Barbara muttered, a wrinkle pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why'd they have to use corporate news?"
"Probably a contract with the hospital," Mark replied as he studied the screen. While Jessamine had already set, the faint purple-red hues of New Carolina's moon, Coralune, and the city lights were bright enough to paint a clear picture.
The sleek silhouettes of the Valkyrie fighters hovered menacingly above the city. Their narrow noses pointed slightly downwards as they swept the sky, with the twin swept-back wings moving as they bobbed up and down in motion. Missiles ripped through the air, screaming like banshees as they streaked towards their targets. Each detonation blossomed into a sun-like inferno, bathing the surrounding buildings in an orange glow.
Debris rained down, its shards glinting like macabre confetti as Mark watched a Turian soldier tumble from the sky, a living torch set ablaze. A silent scream, unheard by the celebrating audience, marked its final descent.
The video zoomed out, and everyone could see the alien army slowly being pushed back as the profiles of the armored marines surged forward, their rifles flashing with fire to punish the invaders as they slowly tried pushing them out of the city.
"Wait!" the correspondent suddenly exclaimed, pointing above him. "What's that?!"
Suddenly, the camera climbed up, focusing on what appeared to be three frigate-sized fighters in the sky, partially covering Coralune's light. A visibly bright red light pulsed from the alien ships, streaking downwards in an instant. The cameraman followed it, leading them to shift the view back to the city scene. Some buildings caught on fire, with new plumes of smoke rising from the impact sites. However, it was the Valkyrie fighters, now wreathed in an ominous red halo, that bore the brunt of the frigates' fury. Their ablative armor peeled away, like trailing wisps of ember, and they all broke from their initial formation, scattering around the city. One by one, they jumped, vanishing from the scene.
"Why'd they run?" Mark asked, glancing at his companion.
"Phantoms are strictly ground pounders," Barbara replied. Then, she pointed at the screen. "That's why they also have the HALOs."
When he looked back, the camera had panned upwards again, showing another squadron of fighters replacing the sleek Phantoms that had just vanished. These newcomers were brutes, their bulbous hulls bristling with stubby wings and, most notably, four pairs of square missile launchers attached around it. They looked so ungainly, making Mark ponder at their design philosophy, until their rockets ignited.
In a staccato symphony of fire, the boxes spat forth a torrent of missile swarms that painted a web of scars across the night. Miniature suns bloomed across the turian ships' hulls with such terrifying efficiency that it forced the much bigger ships to separate and fly off.
As the enemy retreated, jubilant roars washed over the crowd. Mark could even hear some cursing at them, calling for the swift demise of those who were trying to invade their homes. Then, as if to reply, three more enemy ships appeared on the scene, producing a groan that rippled through the air.
The overwhelming advantage the HALO fighters had once held was now removed. Instead, it now looked like both sides had reached an impasse as they tried to tear each other down. The night sky mirrored the inferno below, each explosion a searing reminder of the brutal reality unfolding in the once beautiful city of Orangea.
Then, it happened—the first blood of the sky. A collective gasp murmured out as a HALO fighter, its wing mangled and ablaze, spiraled towards the unforgiving ground.
"What are they doing?" Barbara asked, her voice distinct from the commotion.
Mark glanced at his companion. The lines around her brows had sharpened into furrows as she stared at the news screen. Her lips were pressed together in a tight line, the corners dipping ever so slightly into a frown. That got him feeling apprehensive. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"HALOs aren't dogfighters," Barbara replied. "They are flying mobile missile launchers. They usually just fire a volley before jumping to another area, then attack again. They usually don't stay in the same place to be open for retaliation."
Mark looked back at the holographic screen, and considering what she said, he finally understood the design of the fighters, as well as her confusion. "It's almost like they are being used as a distraction," he thought out loud.
Barbara glanced at him, face scrunched in confusion. She was about to say something when suddenly, her eyes widened. "Dude," she called. "We're gonna be late."
Mark blinked, then both of them ran towards the exit of the building, leaving the crowd still enraptured by the news.
Miles above the Gossamer Glades, platforms of mauve mist languidly swirled beneath the horizon, shimmering in pearlescent hues. Above them was the inky void of space, tinted slightly purple by the ethereal light of Coralune. A muffled silence enveloped the area, untouched by the situation above or below. That is until multiple fighters popped into existence.
Five HALO fighters guarded the perimeter, while Ravens positioned themselves in a scattered formation. For a few silent moments, the latter floated in the atmosphere, still as the grave, until something formed beneath them. In seconds, round constructs with four stabilizing wings appeared, and in a synchronized manner, these newly built spheres were silently dropped, passing through the dense mist, leaving their impressions behind.
The fighters stayed in place for a few more seconds, before they too popped out of existence, their job done.
The newly constructed Observer Drones descended from the stratosphere in a free fall, uncaring of the cold and clawing winds. Once they reached a certain height, the stabilizing wings deployed, blooming like metal flowers in the sky, and as quickly as they fell, they completely stopped.
Bobbing in the air for a few seconds, it hummed to life as the large central lens began to constrict before dilating. Then, the whole body began to shimmer, their existence slowly fading away, until all that was left was the clear mauve night sky of New Carolina.
A few minutes later, turian frigates appeared near where the drones had disappeared. They moved in a sweeping pattern, apparently searching for something. When they found nothing, one by one, they disappeared, not knowing that their presence, as well as the whole area below them, were now being observed by silent watchers.
"Admiral," Captain Daedalus called.
Admiral Vinia gently pressed the screen, removing the small image of her and Septimus from display. She turned to her Chief of Staff and asked, "Do you have an update?"
"We've all but cleared the last ten sectors," Daedalus replied.
"Still no response from the aliens?" she asked.
The Captain just shook his head.
"Once we've cleared the pathway, be prepared for anything," Vinia ordered. "Then, let's make haste to support our Legions."
Daedalus nodded before giving her a sharp salute. After she returned it, he quickly moved towards the communications officers to update the whole fleet, leaving the Admiral alone once again.
Vinia tapped on her console, bringing up the map of the whole system. There hadn't been any more traffic coming from their forces coming from the planet. Normally, the whole fleet would have been through and on their way to the planet, but the aliens' inaction had caused her to act more cautiously. She didn't know if her wariness had ultimately condemned them.
However, it would be over soon. The full might of her fleet would soon descend over these upstarts. Soon, justice would be meted.