Halo: Feet First

by MikeDice

Halo: Feet First covers the story of a team of UNSC Orbital Drop Shock Troopers of the 7th Battalion, 105th Shock Troops Division. The main character, Duncan Iris, faces the full horror of the covenant war effort against humanity as well as the brave retaliation of outnumbered and outgunned UNSC forces. However, he also witnesses the turning of the tides as the war progresses.

142. Battle of Reach - Chapter 15 (Monitum)

Chapter 15 – Monitum

August 18th, 2552 - (07:15 Hours - Military Calendar)

Epsilon Eridani System, Reach

Viery Territory, Lochaber Base

:********:

His dad looked happier than he remembered him being. For what Duncan could see of him, from the few old scars on his cheeks that decorated his face better than any medals ever could, to the reluctant yet real smile that he wore, he really did seem happy. That was odd. He was never happy when he had to leave them. He usually looked reluctant to take that first step off their front porch. This time something felt different.

Then there was the strangeness of it all in that he couldn't see his father's face. He only caught glimpses. It was like some collage of his features, different parts of a picture that he couldn't perceive all at once.

His mother was the opposite. He could see her clearly as she walked past. She was vibrant, almost glowing from the sunlight that peaked under the rooftop of the veranda to reach her. For some reason she was taller than him again.

He watched his old man hold her by the waist as she leaned in, looking just as happy as he did. Under the shadow of the porch, the two shared a long kiss.

Too long.

Grossed out, Duncan decided to break up the two lovebirds. The desire to impress took hold. He used his full strength to carry his father's bulky duffel bag two-handed. It made him seem like he could handle it without having to drag it through the front door. In a way it made him feel tougher. The second he was past the threshold, he plopped the bag on the floor, panting from the effort. Right then he checked if he had gotten their attention.

His parents had stopped kissing and turned to see what he was up to.

His old man smiled and nodded approvingly. "Didn't have to drag it this time, D?"

Duncan shook his head, his voice lighter and squeakier than he remembered. "Nope. Next time I'll ruck it."

"Ruck it?" His father eyebrowed him as his smile widened. "Think you can manage that?"

"Yup."

"Alright, I'll get you a rucksack sometime. Maybe Christmas?"

"Don't worry about it. Once I join up, I'll have one of my own, a real one."

His parents shared a look, one of barely contained apprehension from his mom, one of goading approval from his dad. She let him go to talk to him, man to boy.

"You still think you can handle that kind of pressure, D?"

"What does 'presh-sure' mean?"

His father laughed as he ruffled his hair around. "Alright, alright, well..." He put his hands to his hips as he glanced apologetically at his mother, "He doesn't have to be a spelling bee champ to join. He just has to have the guts."

His mother stepped in with her usual worried demeanor whenever the topic came up. "No, but he does need to know his ABCs before he does anything. Seriously, you worry me, both of you."

"I know my ABDs, mom." Duncan argued, earning an anxious grin from her.

"I'm sure you do, honey. Now let's just work on the other 23 letters for now, okay?"

Duncan groaned. "Pretty sure it's 30, mom."

His parents burst out laughing. Duncan wasn't sure why. He knew he was right. What was so funny about that?

His father walked up to him and patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, D, first grade's gonna be a breeze." He stealthily snatched the duffel out of his hand and slung it over his shoulder in one swift motion. "You'll have a few other breezes to handle before you're done. Like your mom says, focus on your 'ABDs' before you get a D, okay? Or before you start thinking about doing what it is I'm up to."

To emphasize his point, he jabbed a thumb at the fiery skull sewn onto the arm of his shirt. Duncan took a good look at it. He suddenly realized that he hadn't noticed his father was wearing a uniform. His military fatigues were made up of a dark and gray patterned pants and a black shirt on which were printed four white letters: 'ODST'. He couldn't remember exactly what they meant but he knew from the times he tried to pronounce them that it came out sounding something like 'Orbial Drop Shop Trooper'. He liked the sound of it. His father, the first to catch on to that liking, smirked at him.

"If you try hard enough you can get one of your own soon," he whispered, batting away a sharp glare from his mother with a shrug. "Kid likes what he likes. Let him be, hun. Let him dream."

"Pretty sure that's how you got roped into it too." She replied. "Dream or not, he's got to wake up sometime."

"Sure, 'some time'. He's a kid. He doesn't know. If he grows out of it, he grows out of it."

"And if he doesn't?"

His father paused to size him up. Duncan smiled toothily at them both.

The sight of it pleased his father enough to mirror it back at him with an air of pride. "Then he doesn't." He held out a hand to him. "And I'll try to be there to make sure he won't have to."

Duncan went forward and hugged him, barely able to wrap his arms around his waist as arms twice the size of his own, and many times stronger, returned the favor. He felt his father gesture for his mother to come over. She did and the three of them were wrapped up in each other's embrace.

"Nine months will go by in a blink." He heard his father say. "Who knows, D, by the time I get back you might finally have yourself a little sister."

"A little sister?" Duncan pondered. "Okay, but only if I get to keep my room."

His mother emphatically shook her head, alarmed yet giggling. "Honey, he's a kid."

"Oh yeah, right. It's easy to forget sometimes, you know?" He paused. "I love you two...alright?"

"I know." Duncan said matter-of-factly, but his mother said nothing.

When they were ready, they let go. His father smiled at them one last time, turned and left.

The two of them watched him move down the steps of the front porch and out into the light of day. When he did, Duncan immediately picked up on his surroundings. He knew that it was bright outside. Now he became aware of the green lawn, of the neighboring houses, of the suburb that he lived in. Nevertheless, he could only gain a vague idea of them. Along the road running through the neighborhood was a car parked right outside his house. There were others sitting inside. They seemed like shadows to him, laughing, joking, jeering on his dad as he approached.

Then his mother stepped forward. "Love you, honey."

The jokes petered out. His father, having heard her, stopped and turned back, flashing her yet another smile. It was one that felt more-, Duncan wasn't sure exactly what. It was just different.

"I know." He replied.

With him standing still, Duncan looked closer at his father. For a brief second, he began to perceive not just miscellaneous features one after another but a single, coherent face. He could almost see it clearly, as if a haze was lifting, when his father turned around and continued towards the car door.

Duncan felt his eyes getting dry. He had been staring for too long.

He blinked. The very second that he did, the world changed from a springy afternoon to a murky evening. The car was gone and so was his father.

In their place was a big, iron jeep-like thing with huge tires and only two front seats. Two men leapt out from them. Both sported military uniforms, once crisp, that now suffered under the sagging effects of a heavy downpour. The grim faces hidden beneath their caps seemed to match the weather. He wasn't sure why, but they scared him. Their stern expressions cracked however as they spotted him. Their eyes became full of something he could never have expected from such stony men: pity.

He heard the front door open behind him. His mother stepped outside. He didn't remember seeing her go back in.

The two trotted across the yard, enduring the rain until they were on the front steps. They stopped beneath the dry refuge of the veranda as his mother came to meet them. Duncan didn't understand what was going on. He could tell she didn't either until one of the officers, as he figured they were by their uniforms, reached into his pocket.

Without a word, he pulled out a datapad and thumbed it on. An image projected out in front of them. It was much like one of the three-dimensional holographs that his first-grade teacher had taught him how to use in class. However, this time it wasn't showing him classwork or homework. It instead displayed the face of his father.

For what felt like the first time, he could see him clearly. The picture made him smile. He made the connection and figured they were friends of his. Then he noticed the writing beside his picture: 'Status: KIA'.

The confusion was instant. They'd given his dad a girl's name? But why? He scrunched his brow at the two men, wondering why they'd come all this way just to mock them.

No sooner did the thought cross his mind to yell at them for it when he heard something hard fall to the floor. He rounded on his mother. She was on her knees. Her hands were shaking, as was the rest of her. She still put a palm to her mouth to hold back a wave of sobs that shot through her like an earthquake.

Duncan felt a jolt of fear. What was going on? Why was she crying? Seeing her weep made tears well up in his own eyes. He wasn't sure why, but he knew she was in pain.

He tried to rush to her side to cry with her, to ask what was wrong. The two officers beat him to it. They didn't pass him so much as they passed through him. It was as if he wasn't there. He stood back in shock while they kneeled beside her and helped her back onto her feet.

The tears became too much for him and he blinked.

He was suddenly taken aback as he saw that the two men were now women, nurses, who were helping his mother settle down onto a hospital bed. The room in which they set her was painted a sterile white, the same color as the gown she wore. As they laid her head on the pillow, Duncan looked at her from her bedside.

She was older, much older. She was frail and weak. Her veins were visible through the parts of the skin on her arms that hadn't been occupied by the insertion points of several machines, each of which connected to her through vein-like tubes. With palpable effort, she cracked opened her eyelids and saw him. Duncan witnessed the faint traces of a smile.

He strode towards her quickly, trying to reach out to her, but the heat growing behind his own eyes made him blink again.

His mother's eyes were shut, her face sullen and doll-like, restored though not to health. Her hospital bed was gone. In its place was an open casket from which she was partly exposed.

It was raining again.

Duncan stopped, seeing as he was reaching out to her that one of his hands now held flowers. He was about to lay them on top of the casket.

Another hand laid itself gently on his shoulder. He turned to see Erica. She was dressed in all black like many of the other funeral goers behind her. He could tell she was worried.

Before he could ask what was going on, a raindrop struck his eye and he was forced to blink.

Erica was still there. However, the funeral and the cemetery were gone. So was his mother and her casket.

He was back out on the front porch of his parents' house. Erica was standing off to his right, looking on lovingly while he held out his arms to their son.

Noah was heavier than he remembered him being. Duncan picked him up anyways. The little bundle of giggles and jokes sat on his arm. As he flashed a smile at him, Duncan noticed that not all his teeth were there. Some were still growing into place. It somehow made it even funnier as his kid leaned over to give him a hug.

"Good luck out there dad, see you when you get back."

Duncan tried to talk, to tell him that he'd be alright. Nothing came out. His voice wasn't hoarse so much as it wasn't there. It felt like trying to speak through a vacuum. The confusion was instant.

Not so for Noah. The little guy didn't seem to catch on to his dilemma. Even Erica didn't seem to notice. The latter came in for a hug and a kiss. She got both without paying attention to his muteness.

She took Noah from his arms and held him in hers. "Hurry, before you miss your ride, trooper. I can't take you to the starport this time around."

Duncan looked past her to the road beyond the front yard. There was another car like the one he'd seen his own dad step into. The windows were down yet the faces inside were unclear. He could hear familiar voices. It was his squad. At least part of Epsilon was chatting away, waiting for him.

He didn't move. He was stuck between going out to see Epsilon and hanging back to ask Erica what was going on. Was he going somewhere? A new deployment?

Neither his squad nor his wife answered his questions but rather the world itself did. The change was instantaneous. One second, he was rounding on Erica, another and he was watching her from the other side of the yard. The sky had gone gray and rumbled with the promise of a downpour. Nevertheless, two men in officers' uniforms strode right past him. He could tell they had come from the road but for some reason he couldn't move or speak to them. He couldn't feel his body at all. Arms, legs, they weren't there. What he had left to him was a disembodied consciousness that affixed itself to the men as they strode up the porch steps.

Erica was waiting for them there. Already on her knees, she was sobbing into her hands with Noah, right behind her, trying and failing to wrap his arms around her. He was trying to comfort her. Why?

The explanation came from one of the officers who held out a datapad and displayed a projection. Duncan could see it. It was a face. He figured at first that it was his dad's. The 'KIA' pronouncement on the side made it seem obvious. Then he realized after a closer look that it wasn't his father's but his own.

He was dead.

A storm of emotions broke out in his thoughts, striking him like a lightning bolt. A tempest of fear, bewilderment and regret washed over him, drowned out by a distant echo of thunder that signaled the beginning of the rainfall. It fell on him like a barrage and before long whatever he had left of himself was completely drenched. He had no hands to wipe his 'eyes'. His sight of Erica and Noah blurred into a fuzzier image until nothing remained aside from the diminishing sounds of pained sobs.

He opened his eyes again. He was in a cemetery, the same one he'd buried his mother in. Black-clothed funeral goers were gathered around something. He waited until he spotted a break in the crowd. Through an act of will he made his consciousness get close enough to see.

They were gathered around an open casket. Erica was there. Stiff and pale, her face held a striking resemblance to one he'd seen before.

A new storm broke out in his already beleaguered mind that was magnitudes worse than the first. His own death was hard to swallow but seeing his wife in the grave? He had always known it was possible and still had never allowed himself to ponder on it for long, yet alone think he'd be here to see it. Right then he wanted to die. Then he remembered, with a much sharper sense of despair, that he already had.

The funeral goers laid their flowers down on the burnished mahogany. Among them was someone Duncan didn't immediately recognize. A man stepped up with his own flowers. He leaned over and placed them down with loving care before allowing his hand to linger on the surface for a while. Once he got back up, he turned to someone else. Duncan had the vague impression that it was a woman. Even so, his focus was entirely set on the man. He had dark and curly hair, perhaps in his mid-20s, along with a goatee to match. What caught Duncan's attention above everything else was his green gaze.

He might've been older but it didn't take an investigation for Duncan to recognize his own flesh and blood. The passage of years couldn't detract from the fact that he had his mother's eyes and much of his father's features.

Duncan saw him talking to what his mind discerned to be a woman. She was a blur on the edge of his periphery, nothing more.

And yet he saw her again.

He watched her hug his son tight, grabbing him as if she meant to never let him go. Duncan wished she hadn't at the very moment that the two finally did let go and allowed him to see the letters 'ODST' on Noah's shirt. His clothes were the customary Helljumper fatigues, his hair once curly was now buzzed, leaving no mistake as to what he was about to do.

A combination of horror and grief punched Duncan in his...what exactly? He didn't have a body. He felt aggrieved regardless.

Bereft of a mouth, he couldn't call out or say a word while Noah bent down, shifting his duffel bag around to his back in order to hug his son.

The little boy that stepped forward, Duncan knew, was his grandson.

There was something about the kid that reminded him of himself. Old pictures that his mother used to keep around the house came to mind. So did his understanding that he was actually at his mother's house. They were on the front porch again. He was starting to grow sick of the place when Noah said something to his son that made everything else meaningless.

"Now, you know what I told you last I left. Don't give your mom a hard time, alright? She's the only one taking care of you. Do yourself a favor and don't bite the hand that feeds you." He smirked. "And I mean that literally, alright Duncan?"

The kid rolled his eyes as he replied. "Yeah dad, I got it."

Noah ruffled his hair. He gave his wife a kiss and turned to leave.

Duncan couldn't pursue him. Lacking both the ability and the will to do so, he struggled with the torrent of emotions warring on the inside. His boy, his son wasn't alone in the world anymore. He had made a family of his own now. He didn't, no, he couldn't know that he was about to lose it. That they were about to lose him.

The need to stop him took hold. Duncan tried to give chase. His consciousness never went beyond the porch. He was stuck. He thought of reaching, calling, throwing something to get him to stop. They were just that, thoughts.

His family watched Noah stride across the yard, heading towards the car parked along the sidewalk. But he never made it there.

He vanished in a blinding flash as a column of pure energy came crashing down. It swallowed the entire yard in a wash of bright blue flames, causing the whole neighborhood to disappear in a wall of incinerating heat.

Noah's wife shouted out to him. His son cried out as well.

Duncan wanted to scream. He had no mouth. He could do nothing more than look up. The plasma beam was shooting down from the underbelly of a CCS battlecruiser. Dozens of other such ships were piercing through the clouds higher above it. Their plasma lines warmed as their energy projectors turned into fiery eyes that stared down upon the surface of Earth. They unleashed their power one after another, beginning a low orbital bombardment.

The son, the wife, the house, and the neighborhood were consumed in flames.

Still Duncan's awareness remained. The same could be said of his grief. His eyes became hazy and he wept into his hands. The surprise took a bit longer to register that he had eyes and hands again. He pulled himself together enough to take a good look at the latter.

They were actually there. So was a mess of blood that stained both his palms. He touched his eyes, was relieved to find out he had a face again and came away with even more of the liquid. His tears weren't tears.

Pain wracked his frame anew, emanating in waves from each part of his body. His stomach was on fire. He strained his neck to take a look. His chest was bloodied in some places, sizzling in others. Steam still hissed from the plasma wounds that dotted him from head to toe. He fought to move his limbs. They became so heavy that they refused to budge. Even so he could turn his head. Looking to his right, he saw a pond of red stretching out around him, a pool of blood.

He turned to his left and discovered that it wasn't his alone. Several bodies dressed in torn Helljumper BDUs lay beside him. Though battered, broken and bloodied, he recognized each in turn.

Farthest away was Captain Harper. Her arms were gone as were her legs. Her head was present albeit hardly attached to the rest of her. Despite the deep claw marks that the Drones had gouged into her cheeks at the tram station, her face was utterly calm, staring off into nothingness.

After her was Sergeant Joels. The hardy lumberjack of a squad leader was partly burnt as if someone had tried their luck at cooking him. It turned out that their luck hadn't held. Detonating that last Tyrant AA gun on Miridem had left him burned here and there yet otherwise intact. He appeared ready to rush back into the fight at a moment's notice. Against all appearances, he would never get that chance again.

Private Reece wasn't so lucky. Compared to the sergeant, he had gotten off the worst. He had been mummified by fire itself. Across his body, his flesh ranged from a dark crispy texture to occasional patches of exposed muscle. His arms were set at his side, his head lying back, his expression, though hardly perceivable beneath the mask of barbecued skin, was surprisingly tranquil. He hadn't had any regrets the last time Duncan saw him. He had watched him run readily to Colonel Menteith's side with the HAVOK tactical nuke, going above and beyond during their last mission on Actium. Perhaps that was why he looked so peaceful.

Next was O'Reilly.

The Irishman was covered in lacerations and bruises. His nose was broken. Duncan could tell that much because he was the one that broke it. He was likewise responsible for the noticeable hole in the side of his head where he'd bashed in his skull. What he couldn't claim responsibility for were the bullet wounds in his chest. Commander White's timing and accuracy were to thank for that. Death had a way of changing things, however. O'Reilly lacked any traces of the emotional wreck he had turned into near the end. Instead, he sported the impassive mug of the dead, the last Duncan had seen of him before zipping his body bag shut.

Last was Deaks.

The corporal was the least ravaged of the five. That was because most of the ravaging was centered around his shoulder, neck and torso. Much of what lay in between was savaged by the ravenous teeth of a Brute, leaving behind a display of scattered viscera. Notwithstanding, Deaks didn't seem to register that. His expression stood in sharp contrast to the wound that had ended him, peaceful and relaxed, just as he had been beneath the shifting shadows of the canopies on Ballast. If it weren't for the damage, he could've fooled anyone into thinking he was only taking a nap. And he was, one he must have known he would never wake up from as he settled his head down for the last time.

Stranger still was the shared similarity that Duncan noticed among them. From the captain down to the corporal, everyone was wearing their dog tags. Everyone, even him.

Duncan could feel himself beginning to share in another similarity. His own wounds were no longer paining him, instead turning into a numb irritation at the back of his mind.

Was he going to die here too? The exhaustion pulling at his thoughts gave him a clue. He didn't want to die. Not again. The mixture of receding pain along with whatever feeling he had left was horrifying. Even that sense of horror lessened as the seconds stretched on into an eternity.

Just as he was on the verge of slipping away, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled him back from the void. He forced his eyes open.

A dark figure was walking towards the bodies. It stopped first at Captain Harper. Reaching down, it took hold of her dog tags and pulled them off what was left of her neck.

It came next to Joels and did the same.

The figure brought with it a sinister air. Something about it served to heighten Duncan's fear, and his resolve. He knew almost instinctively that if he let it take his tags, that would be the end of him. He struggled once again to move his arms, his legs, anything that could be moved. Nothing responded. His fingers and toes could do little better than a slight twitch.

He watched helplessly while the figure took Reece's tags and moved on to O'Reilly's.

His right hand twitched a bit more then gained the strength to ball into a fist as Deaks' tags were removed. Then it came for him. Duncan reached out and seized it by the arm. The thing tried to reel back but he refused to let it go, tightening his grip.

Suddenly more shadowy figures rushed in. They grabbed his arm, trying to pull his hand free. He held on for dear life, entirely banishing the idea of releasing it.

There were voices. They sounded far off, echoing away in the distance. They began to come increasingly closer and clearer so that he understood them. Someone was calling out to him.

"Duncan!"

"D, let go!"

He still refused. He knew if he did then he would die, maybe this time for good. Then a voice as clear as day shouted into his ear.

"Duncan, wake up!"

The pain vanished, the bodies disappeared, and Duncan shot awake.

A fresh wind wafted by, ruffling the white walls of a tent. Beneath the rolling roof were several worried faces staring down at him. He had one of them by the arm. As his vision became clearer, he saw by their fatigues that it was an Army medic. He was struggling to get him to let go and so were Zack, Nova and the Staff, the latter of which was shaking him by the shoulder.

"Come on, trooper, let go."

It took a conscious effort for him to figure out what he was doing, an even greater one for him to pry his own digits free.

His death grip lessened enough for the medic to pull away. He rubbed his assaulted limb, his forearm a pale hue from where Duncan had grabbed him. He backed off while the squad moved in to check on their squadmate.

Zack smirked. "Had some sweet dreams, buddy?"

"What was that all about?" Nova asked. "You could've broken that guy's arm."

Duncan hesitated. He was still trying to pull his mind out of the mire of what he was beginning to realize, like Zack said, was a dream. Not a sweet one really, more of a nightmare.

"What's going on?"

"We came to check up on you." The Staff answered. "Got here a couple minutes ago to see how far along you were. Turns out, you didn't even finish the preoperative stage."

The Staff pointed and Duncan followed his finger to the only spot of his hospital gown that was left exposed: his untreated shoulder. Al's reunion gift stared back at him, no longer a red gash but a faint pink with developing scabs. Mixed in were the yellowish remains of Renni's biofoam injection that left a sort of glossy film in the wound.

Everything came rushing back to him thereafter.

He was in a large medical tent. It was one of a slew of others set up around Lochaber after the counteroffensive had gone south. The one he was in ran from left to right like one long corridor with a high ceiling overhead. Though regularly blocked out by the passing shadows of air traffic, a few windows allowed some of the morning light inside, illuminating the rows of cots that stretched on from one end to the other. Almost every single one was occupied by a wounded serviceman. The tent's range of clientele was extensive. There were cases of soldiers and Marines with mild injuries that roving medics and corpsmen had, or were, in the process of addressing. They attended to them with casts, bindings and injections. Worse was to be seen with those whose hurriedly applied dressings could hardly hide the yellow, red and darkened flesh of third-degree burns. The most obvious victims of plasma weaponry were a common sight around the tent. Some were so bad that Duncan, to his silent horror, spotted the white of bones peeking out through the fragile veil of scorched skin.

He peered past Nova to a cot that was just on his right. The man lying on it was wrapped in gauze from the head down. He was looking over at them with an exhausted gaze, probably to see what the commotion was. After things had calmed down, he turned away to rest his head and shut his eyes. Doing so gave Duncan a front row seat to the widest smile he'd ever seen. Beneath the thin layer of gauze around his cheek the man was smiling from ear to ear, but not out of humor. So much of his face had been burnt away that it left all the teeth on the left side of his jaw fully exposed, seared gums and all, creating an eerily wide grin.

Duncan quickly turned away from the living mummy, remembering too late the promise he'd made to himself not to look around too much.

He had gone in for surgery an hour earlier. The squad had finally convinced him to stop acting tougher than he was and relying on biofoam injections. The stuff was helpful though only to an extent, limiting the pain and reconstructing some of the muscular tissue. That said, it wasn't a panacea and Renni brought him over to the tent to finish the process. Except his brain hadn't allowed that to happen. His addled thoughts busied themselves fighting against the effects of the anesthetics that they'd given him for the operation. The result, he deduced, was a chaotic mishmash of surreal nightmares and very real yet very old memories. While insane in some respects, they possessed a cohesion to them that he didn't like. It didn't take a genius to figure out their source either.

The cause of his stress was the same as that of every other serviceman that had survived the madness of the last six days. The Viery counteroffensive had been a bloodbath for many, a crucible for most and a shock for everyone that learned of or even witnessed the appearance of the CSO. In the case of the 7th Shock, the whole situation was tantamount to a broken nose and shattered pride. What happened to the other companies was nowhere on the level of casualties suffered by Alpha and Bravo. It was so one-sided that, like many of their cousin units in the other battalions and even other branches, they were ordered to remain on standby. Command saddled the entire battalion with a mandatory recovery period. It was a nice gesture to be sure in the wake of the sense of failure that hung over the whole task force. As things would turn out, however, they couldn't have taken a break at a worse time.

Two days later and everything went to hell. At the start, news trickled in about some special operation sanctioned by UNSC command. By mid-afternoon the trickle became a shower. By that night the shower had transformed into a flood. Late on the evening of the 14th, command made an official announcement across Lochaber. The occurrence of a special operation that day was confirmed. So was its success in somehow managing to destroy the Covenant behemoth prowling around in orbit.

So was the news that none of that mattered anymore.

The hope that spread across the base at learning of the supercarrier's destruction was immediately dampened by the revelation that followed on its heels.

Another Covenant fleet had jumped into Epsilon Eridani shortly after the CSO met its end. It didn't simply jump to the edge of the system either. It slipped right into the planet's exosphere with the pinpoint precision humanity had come to expect of them. Nobody, however, expected their arrival, especially not this soon. Duncan got that impression from the darkening expressions of those around him when the news dropped.

The nascent victory party ended before it even began. Since then, all personnel not only at Lochaber but throughout Viery were put on high alert. The Navy was in a tougher spot. The UNSC defense fleet was too scattered to be of much use following the op against the CSO. The result was that it had inadvertently given the Covenant a freehand over a good deal of the territory.

Still, the 7th's orders remained in effect. Reports began flooding in of new locations under assault. In equal measure, those units who were better off were dispatched post haste from Lochaber. Meanwhile, the battalion could do nothing more than watch them leave, watch and finish licking their wounds while others jumped into the fight. There was something humiliating about the whole situation that no one Duncan talked to in the 7th seemed able to shake. He wasn't exempt from it himself. He didn't want to get serious attention paid to his condition if it meant possibly missing out on the battalion's next deployment. Beneath his reasoning and excuses, however, he really wanted to be on hand in case anything came up that put Erica and Noah at risk. He wanted to be there for them. He had to be. He was convinced there had never been a time that they needed him more than they did now. If he wasn't ready, perhaps there would never be another like it again.

The Staff saw things differently. Earlier that morning he had confronted him about taking Renni's advice and getting himself fixed up. The last thing he needed was a trooper who couldn't pull their own weight when the 7th's turn finally came around.

Duncan wasn't so sure. He had pulled his own weight and that of an entire human being. That right after being stabbed, crashing to the surface on an enemy ship and surviving the fallout. But orders were orders. He checked himself into the nearest med tent at dawn and hoped to wrap things up fast.

His subconscious seemed to have had other plans.

Remembering everything made him want to forget it all. He wanted to go back on the drugs that put him to sleep. He wanted to knock off again so he wouldn't have to face the anxiety that gnawed away at him day by day. If only it were that simple.

He forced himself to sit upright in his cot. The act was made challenging by the uneasiness in his arms and the IV drip that was plugged into his wrist. Tugging against it made him feel like he was caught in a web.

"Try not to move around." Nova said. "The less you worm about, the faster you'll get better."

The medic standing next to her, the one whose arm Duncan had grabbed, didn't look so sure. He was rubbing the assaulted limb like he was afraid of losing it.

"About that," He sighed. "You're going to need to go back under, trooper. Apparently, the dose we gave you wasn't strong enough. Strange considering its worked on people twice your size." He paused to scrutinize him. "Are you feeling significant amounts of stress today, frustration perhaps?"

"What are you, his therapist?" Zack joked.

"No, but I might need one after seeing someone who's unconscious try to break my wrist."

Duncan looked away apologetically. "Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it. I'm going to need you to calm down though. High cortisol levels from anxiety can increase your resistance to certain anesthetics, namely the ones we have on hand."

Zack frowned. "Cortis-, corta-, corti-, what? Sorry man but I don't speak science."

"I can tell." The medic said. "Let's put it this way. The last thing we need is humpty dumpty here waking up while we're trying to put him back together again. The more he stresses out, the higher the chances are that he'll wake up next time too."

"Hmph, makes sense."

The Staff caught a glance from Nova and the two shook their heads.

"Hey D, doc here says you need to quit stressing out." Zack harped.

"Yeah, I'm trying."

"Try harder. Here, how about a shoulder rub?"

Duncan held up a hand. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Stay put," The medic said as he walked off. "I'll be right back."

"Like I have a choice." Duncan murmured.

He watched him disappear into the foot traffic moving around the tent and inadvertently spotted a familiar face, two in fact. Mackley and Lang were sitting on the cots a few rows down on the opposite side of the tent. The two had proved to be just as much a couple of hardheads as he was. When he came in, he'd met them already undergoing treatment. They weren't stabbed. All the same, they had suffered injuries from having an entire platform fall out from beneath them. Figuring it out from what he'd overheard, Lang was the better off of the two. A few long-standing bruises and minor fractures were expected to keep the pair bedridden for a few days. Neither of them looked like they were ready to wait that long.

Daz sat on a chair between them. She appeared to be talking the two out of some bad idea judging by their expressions. Duncan bet he was on the same page as they were. The three of them wanted out as soon as possible.

He found himself thinking back to their last mission. The storm of regrets he had been suppressing for almost a week resurged to the fore of his attention. What shot could have been fired, what route could have been accessed or terminal overridden that would've allowed them to come away with a win? He couldn't do much of anything once his group reached the brig. Knowing that only hammered home a feeling he hated more than any other: helplessness. He'd survived arguably the hardest and riskiest drop of his life, had ridden atop the hull of a moving ship, the stuff of legends for any branch of the UNSC, yet alone the battalion. Becoming a legend, however, couldn't stop events from turning the corvette itself into history.

At the end of the day sacrificing so much for so little left a bad taste in his mouth. He was sure every trooper still drawing breath in the 7th felt the same way. It could likewise be said for the 22nd, those in their sister battalion that had walked away from a similar failure with less of a limp in their stride. Despite their shared trials he envied them a little for it.

The memory of Al cut his pity session short. He remembered their first conversation on the brig and mulled over their last on the mountainside. He connected the dots and felt a nervous chill at his conclusions. Al had started a homegrown insurrection on his own, on the very seat of UNSC power in the inner colonies no less. The feat didn't stop him from recalling his old grudge either. The question then stood as to how many more reunions with 'old friends' he had left to look forward to. Stewards was probably one of them and easily the most concerning. That was of course if the defective supersoldier was still alive and up to his old devices. He figured his chances of running into him were low. Then again, Al's last words made something worryingly clear: they were low but not zero.

That kept him on edge. He already had enough of a headache dealing with the results of Al's revenge. The idea of facing the retribution of the self-destructing proto-Spartan was unsettling. In the back of his mind, it added yet another reason for him to regret his service to ONI.

"How long is this going to take again?" Zack asked.

"About three to four hours." Nova answered. "Why?"

Zack groaned as he crossed his arms impatiently. "I haven't had breakfast yet. We don't need to stay here that long, do we?"

"No," The Staff replied. "You can go."

"What? Why me? I don't want to go alone. I'll look bad."

"You already look bad." Duncan said. "Can't even stay to watch me recover, can you?"

"Well...not really. Sorry D, but Ricky and Matchstick said they're making flapjacks at the nearest mess I don't want to miss ou-"

"Trust me, Zack, I'm not trying to stay here any longer than you are. If you want to go then go. Just do me a favor and grab me a few while you're at it."

Zack brightened up. "Will do, chief. I'll be sure to have the guys write a get-well-soon card to go with it. Anyway, I'll be right-"

Without warning, a two-note chiming sound resonated from the PA system around the tent. A male voice quickly followed; one Duncan recognized as that of none other than General Montague. The alarm in his usually calm tone was itself alarming. Everything ground to a halt as both patients and medics listened in.

"This is an emergency announcement. All servicemen heed and stand to. I am pressed to inform you that a substantial Covenant strike force has been detected enroute to New Alexandria. I repeat, a substantial Covenant strike force has been detected en route to Alexandria. All available combat personnel are hereby ordered to report to their stations for immediate rearmament, embarkation and dispatch. RV points have been updated for each division, regiment and battalion assigned to defensive and civilian evacuation operations. Individual unit deployment orders are pending. There's no time to waste. If you can pick up a gun, report to your CO or XO as soon as possible."

The chime of the PA as the announcement ended was met with dead silence.

Murmurs rose across the tent. They grew in number and tenor until the entire tent was filled with shouts and curses.

Then motion.

Wounded soldiers, Marines and even pilots that had been motionless up until that point began to arise like an army of living dead. Those not critically injured ripped out their IVs and swung their legs out of their cots, reaching under their bedding to pull out their folded fatigues and throw them on. Their more critical neighbors pleaded with them to help them do the same. The groups of medics and corpsmen scattered about the tent tried to stand in their way. Ultimately, they were too few to hold back the tides of men and women desperate to get a move on. They stormed past them, down the aisles of cots to reach the exits. There many of them merged into the greater flood of personnel running to and frow outside. The latter's fatigues stood in sharp contrast to the blue gowns of some of the escapees, but their shared grit made them blend into a tsunami of determined faces.

Duncan wasn't present to notice any of it.

His eyes worked just fine but all they could see was the city. His ears were fine too but they were absorbed in the distant echoes of the general's announcement. His mind, though functional, was paralyzed. For a moment everything that made him who he was came to a stop.

Then he was on autopilot. The Helljumper in him took over, grabbing hold of the different IV needles. He pulled them out of his arm with a methodical precision that would have made an EOD specialist blush. The last one was out before Nova, Zack or the Staff could take notice. His hand was lurching towards an emergency biofoam canister left against his cot by the time they did. But they were too late. They could barely get a word out when he jammed the insertion tube into his wound and thumbed down the release switch. The coagulant gushed into the wound and quickly oxidized into a foamy state, filling it up like a second skin. Once he was done, he cast aside the canister and stared down the Staff.

The Staff stared back. The two engaged in a silent standoff that neither Nova nor Zack seemed ready or willing to intervene in.

In the end, Duncan proved the more relentless. The Staff shook his head as he breathed a long sigh. He looked again at his trooper with honest empathy.

"The last thing the platoon needs is a liability on this mission, Duncan." He said earnestly. "You're still recovering."

Duncan continued to stare at him.

"Come on, trooper, don't be a fool."

In a low but firm voice that he thought hardly his own, Duncan answered him. "You're not leaving me here, sir. I'll jump onto whatever ship you guys are leaving on if I have to but you're not stopping me."

Again, he stared at him and again the Staff returned the glare.

After a few tense seconds, Zack gathered the courage to look to the Staff. "Sir?"

Epsilon's leader eyed up its tech specialist with an acute scrutiny before finally yielding an answer. "You better still be able to shoot straight, Ep-8."

Duncan nodded. "Bet on it."

Seeing the greenlight for what it was, Nova reached under his cot, pulled out his fatigues and held them out to him with the same level of resolve.

"Come on," She said. "We can't have you saving them in hospital clothes now can we?"

:********:

"No way," Mackley argued. "You guys aren't leaving me here. You can't."

"Can and are." Lang replied as he fished out the last needle from his wrist.

At that point, Mackley tried to get up from his cot.

Daz laid a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him. "You're not going anywhere, not all banged up like that."

Livid, Mackley shrugged her hand off and pointed to the leg in question. "It's just a couple fractures, that's it."

Daz arched a brow. "Just a couple?"

"Didn't you hear the med-guy when he swung over here? He called them 'minor'. You're making a bigger deal out of this than it is."

He tried to get up again.

Once more, Daz pushed him down. "I also heard him say it'll take seven to eight weeks for them to properly heal."

"You think Reach has seven to eight weeks?" Mackley shot back. "Look, everyone's bailing out of here. I'm not seriously hurt. Besides, compared to what'll happen to the folks in that city if I'm not there, a couple fractures will be the least of our worries."

"If you go out with us, you'll just be making your condition worse. If that happens while you're in the field, there's a good chance you'll get yourself killed and someone else. All that because you think you're some kind of-..."

Daz trailed off after she realized what she'd said, and what skeletons she'd pulled out of the squad's closet. Mackley pretended not to hear it. Now wasn't the time for pity or apologies. With that in mind, he swung his legs off the cot to the floor. He winced as his first attempt to stand inflicted him with a sharp pain in his left shin. He was forced to sit back beneath the disapproving glower of the corporal.

"Stay here."

"No."

"I don't think you get it. You don't have a choice."

"What about him?" Mackley jabbed a thumb over at Lang who was already getting into the last of his fatigues.

"What about him?" Lang parroted as he slipped on his shirt. "He's got fully functional legs, he's got a concussion that's already on its way out and most importantly he can walk straight. What about you?"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't. You're just mad you're not getting in on any of the action."

"That's why I hate you."

Daz stepped in. "Stop complaining and stay put."

"You going to make me?"

"What?"

Before she could rebut him, the three of them spotted Sergeant Dalton coming in through one of the tent's entrances. He stopped to talk with the Staff as Nova and Zack watched their own squadmate finish pulling on his fatigues. Quickly finishing their chat, the sergeant nodded off and jogged over to them.

"How're things here?" He asked.

"Lang's good to go." Daz said. "However, Mackley needs to stay."

"No, I don't. I'm fine, sir."

"Say that again and I'll kick you right in that fractured leg of yours."

Dalton scratched his head thoughtfully, sizing him up as well as Lang. Mackley couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to get cast off.

"I can make it, sarge." He reassured.

Dalton smirked. "Somehow I doubt that."

"Seriously."

"I am being serious. You're not going, Mack. Not in that state. You'll stay here."

The words themselves were nothing more than that and yet they struck Mackley like a bombshell. What happened on his first combat drop was a one-in-a-million freakshow that nearly killed him. What was happening now was closer to what he'd trained for, deployment into an urban combat zone. Him with an SRS-99 at a high point in the city, what kind of sense did it make not to use him for that sort of thing?

He felt Lang watching him out the corner of his eye as reality began to sink in. Defeated, he leaned against the back of his cot and watched enviously as the last of the non-critical patients filed out of the tent. Among them was part of Epsilon. With a newly clothed Duncan in tow, they jogged out the nearest exit.

"We'll be back before you know it." Dalton said. "'Till then, rest up."

"Got it, sarge." He huffed. "Hey Lang?"

"Yeah?"

"Do me a favor and put a few extra holes in the Covies for me."

Lang grinned albeit in a half-hearted manner. "Tell you what, if I get the chance, I'll pop a squat on one in your honor."

Mackley laughed a little then settled back down into barely hidden dissatisfaction.

"Don't be a pain to your medics while we're gone, trooper." Dalton said. "Let's move."

Daz followed the sergeant. Lang hesitated.

"Hey, don't lag behind." Daz warned.

"Yeah, I'm co-" Lang stumbled at his first step. He caught his balance again on the second merely to tumble forward as his knees gave way on the third. Dalton and Daz rushed over to support him by his arms.

"I'm fine." He tried again to move his legs. They wobbled and gave out, forcing the two to pull him back onto his cot.

"No, you're not." The sergeant replied.

"You said your concussion was almost gone." Daz said. "What happened?"

Mackley peered over to see Lang putting a hand to his forehead to steady himself.

"I don't know, I-, I thought I was good to go."

Dalton grimaced. "Apparently not. If you're dizzy now, I don't want to see what you'd do in a pod. You're no good right now, son. Stay here."

"What, no." Lang protested. "What am I even supposed to do while I'm here?"

Daz glanced between him and Mackley. "Rest up and keep each other company. That's about as much as its safe for you to do right now."

Mackley took the opportunity to spare an avenged glance at Lang, one his fellow sniper returned with a scowl.

"Alright, we need to run." Dalton said. "You two keep an eye on each other and don't do anything stupid. I know that can be a bit hard for you two but right now that's what the mission demands, you copy?"

"Yessir." The two replied unenthusiastically.

"Let's roll." Dalton ordered and dashed out with Daz close behind. The latter glanced back at the pair one last time before following their squad leader out of a nearby exit.

The tent quickly settled back into its old malaise. Overworked medics and corpsmen, miffed by what had happened, went back to managing the few dozen critical patients that were too incapacitated to move.

Once he was sure they were gone, Mackley rounded on Lang with a smile. "Nice show you put on back there, you even fooled the sarge."

Lang sat upright, his expression losing all pretense of dizziness. "Well, thanks for playing along. How'd you know?"

"I think I know you well enough by now to tell when you're faking it. Question is why?"

"Why what?"

"You're good to go." Mackley said. "Why stay? You're just losing out this way."

Lang shot him a knowing look. "So are you, man. Look, I'm not cool with just leaving you back here. Figured you deserve to get into the middle of this just as much as anyone else. We've earned that much at least."

Mackley felt a tinge of confusion. "And so you figured staying here would change that somehow?"

"Yup, by staying to help you think straight."

"I can think straight just fi-"

"Straight enough to get you back in the fight."

Mackley paused. His interest piqued, he shuffled to the side of his cot to whisper over to him. "What're you talking about?"

"I think I've got an idea that can get us both a piece of the action." Lang grinned back. "You're going to have to trust me on this one though."

Looking around again to make sure no one was within earshot, Mackley flashed a scheming grin that mirrored that of his old friend. "I'm all ears."

:********:

Lochaber Base was alive with movement. In the streets and highways, the veins and arteries of the base were hemorrhaging with armed and armored transports. Convoys of hundreds of troop-laden Warthogs and Scorpion tanks alone rolled down the highway that Duncan was on. It was impressive to think that a similar scene was unfolding on every other street.

The buildings were no different as doors slid open in a constant cacophony of beeping sensors and automatic gears. An uncountable spray of soldiers, troopers and Marines defused out from them. They jogged down staircases or across sidewalks to hop into the backs of waiting transports. Others ran in formation along overpasses or through elevated corridors that connected one building to the next, creating a frenzy of hive-like activity.

Busier still were the airways through which swaths of Hornet, Falcon, Pelican and Longsword squadrons passed above and beneath each other, creating an intricate web of crisscrossing contrails. The traffic was so fierce that Duncan didn't understand how there were no mid-air collisions, designated flight lanes or not.

Even higher up in the atmosphere floated the imposing figures of several heavy frigates. They were at least four kilometers off the ground, hovering in a stationary formation around the Markoláb space elevator. The way they rounded the circumference of the inter-atmospheric titan reminded Duncan of a group of sharks circling their prey. They were hanging around perhaps for the same reason, waiting to shoot off in the direction of the city. No matter what, he was intent on being aboard one of them when they did.

His long jog with Zack, Nova and the Staff helped to clear his head. He didn't know for sure if Erica and Noah had left New Alexandria yet, whether they were secure or not. He shunted his uncertainties aside in exchange for cold, hard facts. The place they called home was about to be under attack. He didn't plan on leaving until he knew for certain that they were safe. The life of anything that got in his way in the meantime was forfeit, even his own if need be.

The four of them maneuvered through the activity on the sidewalks for a full kilometer before turning left off the highway and onto a westbound street. A hundred meters ahead of them stood the aviation history museum, the same building where Garrison had given them their briefing on the corvette operation. Behind it loomed a far greater structure. It was a building that had the feel of a citadel renovated to modern standards from an older era. Its high walls, myriad of windows and entryways could have made it a formidable fortification in an earlier age. Today it was simply a glorified storage building, 'Armory Beta-1' if Duncan remembered correctly, one of a multitude of armories around the base. It would have easily taken the number one spot as the largest building at Falchion but was far from claiming such a title at Lochaber.

"That's it, right?" Zack asked as they rushed along the sidewalk. "Beta-3 or 4 or whatever? I hope we're not late."

"The colonel only sent that message out a minute after Montague's announcement." The Staff said. "He shouldn't have started yet. Doubt we'll be missing anything."

"Is everyone else already there?"

"Should be. Dalton and the rest will be coming in behind us."

Trailing near the back of the group, Duncan took the chance to look around. The street was mostly full of other ODSTs rushing in the same direction. He spotted a few familiar faces among them that allowed him to figure out who was who. There were troopers from both the 7th and 22nd Battalion mixed in together, heading to different places with the same intentions. Those from the 22nd peeled off after passing the museum. They pounded up its outside steps and slipped inside. The 7th in turn forged on before turning to run up the steps and through the doors of the armory.

Epsilon flowed in at the tail end of the latter. They came first to a surprisingly small foyer that led down a passageway into a space that proved equally surprising. It wasn't small by any stretch of the imagination. Quite the opposite. To Duncan, it struck him as the oversized atrium of a massive shopping center. In the place of shops were munitions depots that specialized in individual weapons systems, supplies and equipment on each floor. The one that they had come out onto was the ground floor and held the bulk of the essentials in terms of assault and marksmen's rifles. Troopers went about plucking rifles and accompanying magazines from the aisles of weapons racks, picking and choosing from a supply that could readily back a small army. However, it was not their floor that was the most occupied. That honor fell to a subterranean level several stories down which marked the bottom of the atrium.

Duncan and the others reached the railings at the end of their own floor to see the hundreds of ODSTs below. Fully armored and equipped, they were gathering around a central spot. In their midst was a sizable platform upon which stood Colonel Garrison. The battalion commander had a hand to his helmet, probably in the middle of a conversation over his personal comms.

"Oy muchachos," Someone called.

The four of them turned to see the speaker as well as the rest of the platoon coming over to them. Everyone was fully armored and geared up. Rico was at the fore, holding his signature M319 in one hand and hailing them with the other.

"Did you bring the stuff?" Nova called back.

Rico pointed to the four capsule-like armor lockers being carried between the others. They rested them down for those without their gear to make the change-up.

"Where's everyone else?" Berlin asked, looking back at the way they'd come.

"They're on their way." The Staff said, reaching for the side of one of the lockers that had his name on it. He pressed the release button and watched the security panels slide up and out, revealing the components of his BDU housed within. He got to work removing them from their restraints and slipping them on. Duncan, Nova and Zack did the same on those lockers bearing their names. Years of practice enabled them to slide into their gear in under a minute.

They finished just as Dalton and Daz jogged up behind them.

"Where's Mack and Lang?" Reznik questioned.

"Not coming." Dalton replied. Without another word he opened a compartment on the remaining armor locker and started pulling on his BDU. Daz did the same on the other side.

Berlin stood confused. "Not coming? Why?"

"They're too banged up." Dalton declared. "They'll have to sit this one out."

"Mack and Lang sitting something out?" Reznik sneered. "Honestly, boss, I don't think those two sit anything out."

"They are now." The sergeant left it at that, dashing over to the nearby depot with Daz to grab himself a gun. The other half of Epsilon did the same.

Duncan slapped an MA37 onto his back harness and slipped an M6 into his holster, plopped two grenades onto his person and filled his magazine pouches. Finished, he returned with the rest of the platoon and scores of others to the railings of the atrium.

They arrived on time for the beginning of the colonel's announcement. He faced the whole crowd as he spoke, his voice reaching over the local PA system to the entire building.

"Troopers, listen in. As you know, a Covenant strike force is currently inbound to NA. Our battalion as well as our brothers and sisters in the 22nd are being redeployed there as part of the first wave of reinforcements. We'll be providing aid to elements of the local UNSCDF that have already been preinstalled in the city as per the protocols of the WINTER contingency. Our primary purpose will be to bolster preestablished defensive positions and assist with evacuation efforts which sadly, up until this point, are still ongoing." He stopped briefly to survey the sea of visors both below and above him, examining the faces behind them. "I know there are many of you here who have families on Reach, in New Alexandria. Perhaps they're still there. For those of you that this applies to, I need you to keep your focus on the bigger picture. Once we hit the ground, we will most likely lack the resources and manpower to undertake individual searches. This is neither the time nor place for one-man armies. Stick with your teams as well as your original objectives. No personal concern is to take priority over that of the whole, that being the cohesion of your units and their ability to secure whoever you come across irrespective of relation. Do the job that you've been called to do and we'll walk out of this one on top. Is that understood?"

The building rumbled under the force of a collective "Yessir."

"Good. Now onto the details."

On cue, several gargantuan holographs were emitted from projection seams in the walls. They were so large that they filled the corners of the atrium like a light show. Everyone looked up or down to see what they were.

Each projection displayed topographic maps of the supercontinent of Eposz. Being the northernmost stretch of the Viery Territory, it was carved up by rivers and tributaries that snaked down southward from landlocked seas, feeding into the greedy mouths of Reach's eastern and western oceans. It was likewise ringed and pockmarked with asteroidean lakes that resembled the handiwork of hungry worms. The maps zoomed in on one such crater that looked to have been bitten out of the northwestern coast in ages past, causing it to curve and dip.

Duncan recognized the city before the holograph highlighted it in yellow to distinguish it from the rest of the landscape. It stood on the southern shores, encompassed roundabout by sprawling mountain ranges that ringed the ancient crater. Across the waters of the ocean, just a few kilometers to Alexandria's northwest were shown a trio of space elevators: the famous Delphi Triple-Strand Network. The vital components that made the city into Viery's commercial hub held little of Duncan's attention. What did was the appearance of hundreds of red contacts. They flashed into being as three distinct clusters that were still at some distance from the city. One was approaching from the north, one from the east and another from the west, all three progressing at a sluggish yet steady pace.

"Satellite reconnaissance confirms that the Covenant are primarily relying on smaller dropships for the assault." Garrison continued. "These are being escorted by an array of Seraphs, Banshees and other combat-capable craft. Still no ships though. They seem to have those committed to other parts of Viery. That means that, at least for the time being, the UNSC will be enjoying some much-needed aerial superiority on this op. We'll have our own support in place to assist us in keeping that window open for the city's evacuation efforts. Afterwards, they will remain on the defensive within NA to assist us in holding and retaking any areas lost to enemy control. Command has estimated that the whole operation will take around two to three days. We'll remove the civilian population, hunker down while more of our back-up arrives then hold the line against any further aggression until we can be recalled. Without any major air support, any foothold the Covenant take in the city will be tentative at best. Even if serious airpower does come into play, we'll have our own frigates providing their services to guarantee our position."

He paused again to take a breath. "This is no minor mission, troopers. Reach has been this battalion's ancestral home since its inception. That comes with some guarantees from us. Right now, our guarantee has to be the security of this city and its people. We've done this a dozen times before and, if need be, we'll do it a dozen times over. But this is different. This one's your home and this is the piece of it you've been asked to defend. Tell me this, can you defend just a piece, troopers, or all of it!?"

A fervor whipped through Duncan, 1st Platoon, Bravo Company and the whole battalion at the collective response that rang through the atrium.

"All of it, sir!"

"What was that, I couldn't hear any of you! You're telling me I'm getting so old that I can't hear a SINGLE ONE OF MY TROOPERS!?"

"NO, SIR!"

"Then say it like you're proud of it! Are you only good enough to defend a piece of your home or all of it!?"

"ALL OF IT, SIR!"

"ALL OF WHAT!?"

"ALL OF IT, SIR!"

Garrison let the last chants of almost a thousand Helljumpers echo off into the distant corners of the armory as he nodded, satisfied with the answer. "Alright, troopers, I heard you. Looks like I'm not so old after all. Your company deployment orders will be updated to your HUDs. We will be in the airways above Alexandria in approximately one hour. However, the enemy strike force is expected to arrive at least half an hour before we will. We'll have to trust that the defense elements already in place are well-prepared for their arrival. In the meantime, troopers, how will you arrive!?"

Duncan knew exactly how and so did the fleet of voices that echoed his own. "FEET FIRST, SIR!"

"HOW WILL YOU ARRIVE!?"

"FEET FIRST, SIR!"

Garrison stopped to allow the atrium to settle once more. When all was quiet and no one moved or spoke, standing still for the words they were all waiting for, he finally gave it to them.

"You've said it." He replied with the utmost seriousness. "Now prove it."

:********:

Upon leaving the armory, the battalion marched out in almost full strength to the nearest airfield. There they linked up once again with their friends in the 22nd Battalion who were already waiting for them in the grassy fields between the landing zones.

The wait lasted no longer than several minutes, at the end of which the airfield was submerged in shadows. A handful of the base's heavy frigates flew closer in for the pickup. One of them descended towards the tarmac. The closer it drew, the more visible the name became that was painted in white letters along the side of its hull: 'Fool Me Twice'.

Waves of displaced air and disturbed leaves rushed through the ranks of the two battalions as both its port and starboard hangars groaned open. Their floors disconnected and detracted from the rest of the ship, descending until they were completely settled on the tarmac. The lifts were ready.

The first to go was 7th Battalion, and of its companies Bravo was the first to move forward.

At the head of the procession towards the portside hangar was 1st Platoon. Epsilon and what remained of Whiskey held their weapons at their sides. Like everyone else coming behind them, they were ready to raise them at a moment's notice.

Of the whole group, Duncan moved ahead with the most conviction. Though everyone was looking forward he could feel their eyes on him. He knew why as well. Nevertheless, he hardly wanted to bring it up himself. He just wanted to get there. He would abide by the colonel's orders...for the most part. If the opportunity arose for him to know for sure, to find out if they were there or not and to do something about it, he would take it, no questions asked.

Passing from the early morning light into the shadow of the ship, the platoon was the first to the lift platform. They stepped into the middle to make way for those following after them. In under a minute the boarding process was complete, half of Bravo on one side and half on the other.

With another groan, the two lift platforms commenced their retraction. Duncan took in his last sight of Lochaber as they ascended. It was a cool day. The sun was just above the horizon, ready to begin its usual journey. Were it not for the aircraft flying relentlessly about, the flocks of birds gliding around the skies might have lent the scenery an air of peace.

Peace.

The word seemed so foreign to him now even with the environment itself trying to offer it to him. He rejected it outright. It was false, deceptive. He wouldn't have true peace until he was certain that he still had a family.

"They're tougher than they look."

It was Nova.

He turned to her as if she'd read his mind. "What're you, clairvoyant or something?"

"No. We're just on the same wavelength. I figured, help-you-help-me, you know?"

He stared back, confused.

"You're not the only one here who cares for those two." Nova explained. "She's my friend. I don't want to see her hurt and I don't think I can go too long without being called 'Aunty Sofi' either. I'm sure the others feel the same."

Duncan snuck a glance at the rest of Epsilon. They were staring out into the vast cityscape of the base just as he was, watching the last of the dawn burning away at the arrival of morning. Their visors were soon aglow, automatically polarizing at the growing reach of Epsilon Eridani's light.

He sensed the same toughness of will emanating from them that he was relying on in himself. Against what he'd thought before, the scene gave him a much-needed reality check. He wasn't going into this alone. He wasn't the only one who cared.

"...Thanks."

Nova patted him on the shoulder. "Don't mention it."

"Eyes up on this one." The Staff said over the platoon's communications. "Stay vigilant, stay together and we'll get through this in one piece."

There was a general reply of agreement to which Duncan added his own. "Copy that."

The ascension eventually began cutting off the sunlight, replacing it with the artificial illumination of the hangar bay. Duncan closed his eyes as it did. He imagined the two in his mind. He saw them sitting together on the couch in their apartment, her doing her best to help Noah with his homework on his school pad. He could see him getting frustrated at a problem, her encouraging him to keep trying, then when that didn't work, telling him a joke that embarrassed him into laughing with her.

Duncan spoke under his breath as though it were a quiet prayer. "I'm coming."

:********:

General Montague used his purview within the ALC building's Strategic Command room to observe events playing out on the airfields. A similar spectacle was unfolding at each. He watched on the screens of the various observation stations as heavy and light frigates arose from Lochaber's drydocks or arrived from distant parts. They tended to stay clustered together in their battlegroup formations while approaching the airfields one at a time, lowering lifts or opening their hangar bays while still in-atmosphere. The former permitted groundside forces aboard whilst the latter gave access to troop-laden dropships and other airborne transports.

Briefly, he thought it odd how he could receive news of the incoming assault on New Alexandria, give an order and mobilize thousands of willing men and women in under 20 minutes. The events of the last several days had left him in a daze. The situation had spiraled well out of his control and it looked as if it would continue to do so. All the same, here was something he could still control. He could command servicemen and women to fight. That was it. He hoped it was enough.

He remembered how things used to be when he was still in the navy. He recalled how his command once extended to a single ship, a humble Halberd-class light destroyer. His days onboard her were long and often fraught with peril at a moment's notice. Even so, his time with the crew of the UNSC Heart of Midlothian made that peril worth the risk. They were some of the bravest and most fearless people he'd ever known. He doubted his own courage ever matched theirs whenever he led them against a Covenant cruiser or in support of a damaged frigate. Those days felt far off and yet closer now than they had ever been. He saw something similar in the personnel that marched into the waiting ships without hesitation.

He admired it. No, not quite. Rather, he envied it.

He wished it were him. He wished for the days when his concern surrounded the wellbeing of hundreds, not millions. Simpler times were desirous to simpler minds perhaps? The mantra could get him far but never far enough. He missed that simplicity. With it, he wouldn't have had to worry about approving an operation that would cost him a whole frigate and two whole Spartans. It cost the enemy a valuable asset of course. Regardless, said enemy had negated it by simply sending more assets. It made him feel like a beggar betting his last tooth against the wager of a millionaire. He could have perhaps won if they hadn't taken their bet so seriously. Sadly, as things turned out, that millionaire wanted his tooth more than he did his millions.

He stood at the end of a bad deal waiting to see how his gamble would pan out, where the pieces would wind up and with whom. His last hope at this point was hope itself. And the enemy seemed to want that too.

"Are you good, sir?"

Montague broke from his isolative quandary to cast a tired glance at his second-in-command. The brigadier general was standing beside him, watching him curiously.

"Am I ever?"

Abajjé didn't answer. The general was quietly thankful that he didn't.

"We'll have to see where this goes." Montague said. "The situation is getting more and more out of hand as we speak. Who knows how long the contingency will hold. Before long the whole planet's going to figure out what's going on over here."

"Maybe they should." Abajjé said almost in a whisper.

Montague didn't bother to rebut him. The protocol seemed lost to him now. The men and women he saw boarding the frigates wouldn't be the last Lochaber would send out. The Covenant were attacking major cities across Viery. New Alexandria was by far the greatest in importance. However, he suspected that soon the conflagration would spread well beyond his ability to handle it as well as that of the contingency to keep it a secret. His last big gamble was that the newly arrived naval forces sent by the fleet admiral would be able to put up a fight. A clandestine fight of course, one that would consume thousands of lives both on and off-world.

"Yeah," Montague thought aloud, drawing the attention of the brigadier general as he mulled over what he'd said. "Maybe they should."

The general stopped the thought cold and huffed, shaking his head at the idea and taking it a step further.

"That is if they haven't already. Who are we kidding, they probably know by now." He peered past one of the room's officers who was standing in front of a tactical planner. He eyed the holograph of New Alexandria that hovered above it and the hordes of Covenant aircraft that were converging on its location. "And if they don't, they're about to find out anyway."

Monitum – Warning