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.

190. Battle of Reach - Chapter 63 (Requiem)

Chapter 63 – Requiem

May 23rd, 2526 - (19:10 Hours - Military Calendar)

Epsilon Indi System, Harvest

Edda, planetary capital of Utgard

(26 Years Ago)

:********:

Night had fallen fast over the capital. Epsilon Indi was now a thin pinkish purple smudge on the western horizon. Its departing light left most of the skyline beneath a blanket of darkness. There were no clouds in the sky, leaving only the faintest traces of an atmosphere between the city and the local volume of stars that ever so slowly wheeled across the firmament. Some of those stars were closer and brighter than others, creating a glittering display of celestial bodies that varied in their individual intensity.

It was tranquil, almost beautiful.

If for the briefest moment, it could make one forget that everything else around them seemed to be competing with the distant gas giants.

The darkness of the sky itself was aglow with the chaotic light that shone from the flames of Utgard.

Many of the ruins that lay across the skeletal mazework of the city were burning. Both far and wide, the remains of residential buildings, government facilities, corporate offices, warehouses and other public venues were bright. Fires blazed through their windows and crawled over their walls like the leaves of a rapacious weed billowing in the wind. Nearly all of the structures themselves were already dealing with some degree of infrastructural decay long before the UNSC invasion force had arrived. Broken windows, blackened walls, exposed crossbeams and jutting rebar abounded within their leaning, eviscerated frames. Then there were the streets which in most places weren't streets at all, but lanes of rubble. They were a structural hodgepodge of debris, car wrecks and other miscellaneous objects that had been more or less fused together into a molten soup that had since cooled and hardened. From up above, everything had looked so much like the labyrinthine fractals that could be found in desiccated soil whenever a particularly persistent drought had just about run its course.

For Don, having grown up on a farm himself, he could appreciate what that last part meant, and perhaps more than most of the others, he could feel just how much the farmers of Harvest had lost.

It was heartache enough to see a few plots of corn wither away on the stalk because of a bad dry spell. It was another thing entirely to see a planet that had been wholly devoted to agriculture have its surface burned to ash.

Now that he was no longer fighting for his life, he got the chance to truly appreciate what had happened here. The farm boy within him mourned at the cost the colonists had been made to pay for humanity's first contact with alien life, not just in labor but also in livelihood. It was so profound that he couldn't quite wrap his head around the scale of it. Not only that, but there was also the unspoken truth that he couldn't quite shake off. No matter how optimistic he tried to be, that optimism fractured more and more every time the solid ground crackled and cracked beneath his tread. Even if they successfully retook all of Harvest and managed to hold onto it, there was almost no way that the UNSC could restore the colony to its former habitability. Even if they could, they certainly wouldn't accomplish it in either his or any of the surviving colonists' lifetimes. Regardless of who ultimately won the battle or the war, no one who had ever been or currently was on Harvest would ever live to see it returned to normal. And that wasn't answering the question of whether re-terraformation was still in the cards anymore.

When the Covenant had glassed Utgard, when they had glassed Harvest, they had really done just that. There were plenty of worlds that the UEG and the UNSC had avoided trying to terraform simply because there was so little there to work with. If that was what the enemy were going far, to turn every human world into an uninhabitable rock for all time...

Don closed his eyes at the thought and reopened them with the intent of thinking on something else.

He didn't have to look far, not that what caught his eye next was any better.

The dust bowl that was the southern parliamentary gardens was just as desolate as 1st Platoon had left it. The many semi-disintegrated statues and half demolished fountains remained sprinkled amidst a sprawl of headless, jagged looking tree stumps. The scenery spanned back from the very walls of the south wing down to the scattered lineup of the ironwork fence.

In the middle of it all was the civilian cargo ship, or what was left of it.

The wreck of the freighter still lay as it had crashed almost a year ago, its two halves resting unevenly on their starboard side. The accompanying debris field scattered about the multitude of dead trees made the whole place feel more like a haphazard graveyard. That idea perhaps wasn't too far off the mark.

Don wasn't alone, and more than ever he was glad to have some company, particularly for the kind of task he'd been assigned. He didn't like it. No one in Foxtrot had said anything to the contrary either. Neither had Ferret. Walking side by side, weapons held at low ready, the two squads were in unspoken agreement that where they were heading was the last place they wanted to be. But someone had to do it. Someone had to check out the wreck, and Major Bowman had decided that that someone would be them.

Don wasn't scared, not exactly.

He knew what fear, what true fear felt like, and this wasn't it.

It was a combination. It was anxiety pure and undistilled, burning in his chest and kicking his senses into overdrive. Despite how closely they moved together, he could make out the distinct crunch of each boot of each ODST around him as step after step drew them closer to the downed cargo ship.

Fortunately, his focus was broken by the constantly inconstant report of gunfire and the occasional bout of explosions. They echoed down the streets, bounced off the cracked and burnt walls of the many structures surrounding the parliament building and assaulted his ears with an almost comforting cacophony of succinct thuds and muffled thumps.

There were still more firefights breaking out between the divisional elements of the 31st Marine Expeditionary Force and the remaining Covenant forces now spread throughout Utgard. He knew that what he was hearing were the sounds of the enemy being forced into smaller and smaller pockets across the city as the Marines resumed their advance.

The 31st had pushed out from the landing zones afforded to them by the 7th Battalion earlier in the morning. Since then, they had hardly stopped chewing into the hostile garrisons and lost enemy patrols scattered throughout the ruins of the capital. The typical one-note booms of ASGM strikes from their guardian Longswords had been sounding off almost non-stop. Even then, it was nothing compared to the small arms fire that was in such abundance that it seemed to come from everywhere. It leapt out of every darkened window of the many apartments and corporate offices that towered away to the south of Market Drive, their tilted, degrading shapes leading away into the distance like the dilapidated aisles of a giant grocery store. It was almost as if every room in the blackness just beyond the maws of shattered glass was occupied by a family sitting around a holo-projector, watching with rapt attention as the UNSC took back their home.

Compared to that, the squads' true destination was disquietingly silent.

The freighter was a hulking titan, a prone yet rotund shape silhouetted against a backdrop of dark buildings and even darker skies which illuminated chaotically with the violent vibrance of distant airstrikes. One such strike was so close that Don could actually see the trio of Longswords diving down through a patch of dusty cumulus clouds. Two seconds later, they released their payloads and peeled off one after the other. Their missiles continued soaring down on elongating exhaust trails that dipped beneath the skyline, eventually ending with a three-note drumbeat of explosions whose reverberations he could feel in his chest. The resulting light was simply one of many that cast the nearby neighborhoods into a sporadic shadow puppet show, ripping away the night itself with flashes of manmade morning, afternoon and evening.

It was the kind of scenery he'd grown used to if he were to be honest, and he was being honest, at least with himself. Once upon a time, he had genuinely wondered how anyone could get used to something as horrible as a battlefield. But it was possible. He'd learned the hard way that one could get used to those sounds and even fall asleep to them when that was their life both day in and day out for months on end. The latter was an easy thing to manage once your dead dog started convincing you through your five-day sleep deprived brain that those noises in the distance weren't coming for you just yet. He'd found that dirt and rocks made for a good bed and the commotion of a firefight that was someone else's problem made for an even better night's rest, at least when the only other option was losing whatever scraps of sanity you had left.

Ricochets, artillery bombardments, precision strikes, he could take it all in stride. But that same desensitization had also gone a long way to making him afraid of something that he hadn't been afraid of before, not even as a kid.

Silence.

He was afraid of silence, and right now the most silent thing in the area was the wreck of that same ship that was less than a few dozen meters away.

Quietness had become to his ears as an adult what the darkness had been to his eyes as a little boy, the perfect cover for malicious unknowns, unpredictable variables, unidentified threats.

And yet there weren't any threats in the wreck, at least there shouldn't be. At most what they were going to find would be the next thing that he hated, the thing that no matter how long he was around it, he could never get used to.

He had no problem with dead insurgents. He could handle seeing deceased UNSC personnel and could even stomach to some degree the same thing of fellow ODSTs. Civilians were another story. People who had nothing to do with anything, folks who had done little more than try to keep their heads down and live their own lives suddenly finding themselves at a crossroads between too much opposing ordnance, they were the very last thing he wanted to see.

They were a threat all their own, except of a much different kind.

He'd long since learned that the less civilian casualties he stared at on any given mission, the less new faces tended to show up later. It made the nightmares that plagued his sleep on a semi-regular basis at least somewhat bearable when he knew what and who to expect. But it was hard to do something like that in a confined space, yet alone on a ship that had likely held hundreds if not thousands of men, women...and children, and that before whatever ill-luck had seen it dragged back down Harvest's gravity well at terminal velocity.

"How many do you think?" Izzy asked over comms, incidentally causing Don to draw in his first full breath of air in the last 30 seconds.

At first, he couldn't tell if anyone else had heard her question.

Then the Sarge replied in a voice that trailed off as quickly as it came. "Too many..."

"Think it was quick?" Chris asked.

"Consider how long it takes us to reach the ground in a pod, and that's with us actually trying to get there." Sergeant Major Eversman said. "Would you call that quick?"

Chris didn't respond to the question with its obvious answer. No one else ever dared to either.

They carried on in that same silence that was soon swallowed up in the auditory void that was the shadow of the wreck.

Again, Don was saved by the approaching whine of fusion drives that heralded the arrival of a Pelican as it swooped overhead. It was heading south. He sighted the many crates attached to the underside of the tail. From the look of its cargo, he guessed that it was descending to where the closest platoon of Marines was setting up a fire control center just on the edge of the southern gardens, one that was going to be coordinating efforts for the burgeoning network of streetside artillery and missile batteries currently being established around the parliament building. Command was planning on using it as their center of groundside operations once everything in the immediate vicinity was cleared up, a new nerve center to replace the one Bravo Company had just cleared out. He was almost sad to see the dropship go, slipping high over the top of the approaching wreck and taking most of its sound with it.

Foxtrot and Ferret began striding through the growing debris field leading up to the several-meter gap between the bow and sternward halves of the ship. All around them pieces of hull plating jutted out of the ground beside a mangled collage of interior components that had been burned to a blackened char. The remaining hull of the freighter itself resembled something of an artificial dalmatian with the amount of black scorch marks that dappled it. Most of the flame damage seemed to concentrate around the front of the bow which had been reduced to a crumpled mess of broken beams and shattered glass.

Don and everyone else had to lean back, minding their step while they traversed down the wall of the shallow impact crater that rimmed the very edge of the wreck site. After a few steps brought him back onto somewhat level ground, he found himself fully consumed by the shadow of the freighter. To his right, the sternward half stretched up to a height approaching four stories. To his left, the bow half reared up to about the same height. Both were completely open to entry thanks to the violent infrastructural separation that had seen the vessel torn in two. As a result, both of them presented as a pair of gaping jaws of broken metal, exposed membranes of multilayer insulation draping down towards the ground like bleeding gums. Further back, the jungle-like tangles of electrical wiring that hung from the ceilings stemmed off into the dark.

Except that wasn't the ceiling. Don had to remind himself that the whole thing was lying on its side. Its leaning position made it so that the hundreds of seats that lined the walls of the large, cavernous interiors were left at a near vertical incline. He noted that many of the seats themselves were also leaning, as if gravity was ready to pull them free of their base at any moment. More than a few of those rows had missing chairs. Some of those gaps were small, and some were substantial.

What became immediately apparent was that a few of those seats were still occupied.

Don spotted them one after the other as his eyes shifted from row to row, landing on figures that seemed to lean right along with the seats that they had been sitting in, that they were still sitting in.

Coming to a stop with the others, he switched on his helmet's VISR mode and watched the identification software wash through the interiors of either half. It bathed everything in neutral yellow highlights. Everything, even the passengers.

Of the dozens that he found on either side of the wreck, some closer to the 'ground' than others, he could at least confirm their status. He didn't need his VISR to tell that much.

Standing at the center of the wreck, all eyes turned to the sergeant major.

Eversman took a second to scrutinize both sides before pointing to the right and left respectively. "Ferret, take the stern. See what you can find. Fox, I want you guys with me. Let's make this fast."

Don couldn't agree more to that last part.

Ferret turned and started for the stern.

Foxtrot rounded on the bow with Eversman in the lead. He was the first to step up onto the partially elevated compartment. The rest of the squad filed in after him down an ad hoc walkway that led along what had once been the starboard bulkhead.

VISR or not, they still traded the light of the burning city for the relative lightlessness of the interior.

The way forward along the bulkhead wasn't cluttered so much as submerged beneath a marsh of multi-layer insulation, uprooted passenger seats, broken components, loose wiring and all manner of things that used to be a part of or attached to something else. The almost 90-degree slant of the two halves had caused everything that wasn't bolted or sealed in place to come tumbling down to the point of greatest equilibrium, making it that much harder to forge a path forward.

The squad had to keep their weapons in one hand while grabbing onto anything at head height with the other, using whatever was available to steady themselves as they picked their way through the debris.

Don routinely peeked up at the catwalk some four meters above them that ran the full length of the starboard wall. At any moment, a year's worth of non-stop exposure to the elements could see it come crashing down right on top of them. Then again, that same principle could also be applied to the plentiful rows of chairs that were still fastened in place at a nigh sideways orientation. In truth, anything here could come down on their heads at any time.

But nothing did, at least not yet. Their job, however, would take at least a few minutes to carry out, providing more than enough of an opportunity for any number of things to go wrong.

Even then, no one really came off as being that interested in those possibilities, not even Don himself. He could sense as they progressed through the bow that everyone was less concerned about what could go wrong and more focused on what had already gone wrong.

Passing the seats row by row, there was never a point where he couldn't look up and find himself staring sidelong into the empty sockets of one or two of the passengers.

The reason he was able to rule out the possibility of finding survivors from the very outset, aside from the obvious probabilities involved, was because it didn't take a microscope or even a visor to see that Squad Foxtrot along with the sergeant major were the only ones currently aboard who were still wearing clothes...or skin.

Natural decomposition was always a morbid spectacle, but what Don was seeing was anything other than natural. The now skeletonized passengers had their bones burned to a charcoal texture. The majority of them appeared either limbless, headless or both. Their rib cages remained fastened in place by security restraints that had stayed stubbornly intact despite the general mayhem that had unfolded around them. However, most of the seats were completely empty.

He was beginning to think that the flight hadn't been as full as he first believed. That thought didn't last very long before he noticed the sheer quantity of security restraints that were either half broken off of or nowhere to be accounted for on the rest of the empty seating.

A sharp crack came from his foot. He stopped and looked down. Two halves of a charred object with the same length and shape of a human femur lay broken beneath his boot. It was far from the only one. He felt a sudden chill crawl up his spine upon catching sight of one bone mixed in with the debris, and then another, and then a dozen more. Slowly he started picking out the hundreds of bones scattered throughout their path from one end to the next, splayed over or around a matching quantity of scorched carry-ons and backpacks.

He nearly flinched when someone patted him on the back.

"Eyes up, Fox-9." Izzy said. "Trust me."

After a few seconds, Don recovered his wits enough to nod. He moved on, pretending for his own sake to be looking straight ahead while his gaze stayed pinned to the bottom of his periphery, managing every step from then on.

He only stopped when he incidentally made eye contact with the empty orbits of a passenger. They were sitting on one of the sternward facing rows, just one seat away from a nearby emergency docking exit that had been blown open by explosive decompression. He couldn't tell if it had once been a man or a woman, though its size made it clear that it had once been an adult. A few strips of flesh still clung to its bones including loose clumps of hair that wafted from the burnt remnants of a scalp. Without a lower jaw, its head was tipped back in a mouthless scream. Its left arm, its only arm was stretched out over the arm rest between it and the very last seat in the row. Don didn't want to think too hard about it, but it almost looked as if they had been trying to hold onto someone else after the exit had exploded open. He might have dismissed that idea out of hand were it not for the missing security restraints on the last seat that had been visibly ripped free.

"Is it me or does this thing look way too intact to have just come crashing straight down from the orbital." Chris pointed out.

"Apparently this isn't the only one." Eversman replied. "Command's eyes in the skies say that there's plenty more wrecks like this scattered about in a northbound trail leading from here all the way into the Highlands. If I had to guess, they were all heading up the same tether when it snapped. This one must've been closer to the back of the group, so it had a shorter fall than most. That also means it has the highest chance of having what we need."

There were more freighters?

That was news to Don, and not the good kind. If there had been hundreds of passengers aboard just one of them...

He squelched the thought before it could lead him to a conclusion that he would much rather avoid. The scent of fermented chemicals and charred materials that wafted through his helmet filters didn't help.

Just ahead of him, the Sarge came to a stop as something on the ground caught his eye. Save for Eversman, he brought the line to a halt.

The sergeant major noticed and was the next to stop and turn. "What's up, Fox-1?"

The Sarge answered by crouching down for something entangled within the debris. He brushed off a few pieces of spent wiring and grabbed it. Standing back up, he held it in such a way that Don could see what it was regardless of the burn marks.

It was a small toy figurine of a UNSC Marine, one with a miniature MA5 held at the ready.

The Sarge looked at it for a while. No one rushed him as he rotated it in his fingers, carefully inspecting it for a moment before reaching out and placing it slowly and respectfully atop the armrest of a nearby seat.

Without another word, the group resumed the trek forward.

Further on, the frontal bulkhead loomed like an iron fortress beyond which lay nothing more than the outside world. Closer to the center of the bulkhead was a kind of elevator platform that stemmed up from a base of support on the ground floor. At the very top of the elevator was a reinforced door with a well-lit space waiting on the other side.

Eversman made straight for it. "Fox-3 and 8, keep watch on the main deck."

"Roger." Gad replied.

"Ay ay, sir." Ray said, joining Gad in stepping out of the lineup and bracing against the starboard bulkhead, establishing a rearguard.

The rest of the squad cleared the last of the distance to the base of the platform which, thanks to the orientation of the freighter, left the associated elevation rail at a tilted angle, turning it from an elevator to an angled railing. A railing with footholds.

The Sergeant Major put one boot into a groove between the railings and then lifted another. Getting himself a solid handhold, he started up and across the length of the rail like an inverse set of monkey bars. The Sarge mirrored his example. Then it was Don's turn. Grasping onto a handhold, he planted one boot into a groove and used it to pull himself up fully onto the rail. From there he began the task of making one new foothold after the next, clearing the way for Izzy to hop on after him, followed close behind by Chris.

The little maneuver made Don think of the times when he used to try to climb stairs from the outside, ascending the railing while pretending to be some adventurer traversing a sheer cliff-face. Here it wasn't that far off from reality. The further up they went, the further away they moved from the ground and the more acute the climb seemed to become. They had to resort to shuffling along the last stretch of rail, carefully planting one foot a short pace ahead of the other.

Eversman was the first to reach the top of what Don guessed to be a 15-meter ascension. The climb ultimately wasn't that long. However, being something that he rarely did, it felt like 10 whole minutes had passed.

The sergeant major threw one leg onto the slanted ledge of the doorframe and then another. He let go of the rail. After a short balancing act, he crouched and jumped down into the space on the other side.

Don waited for the Sarge to go next then shuffled over and lowered himself inside. Letting go of the last rail, he dropped down onto what he first thought to be a wall. He was partly right.

A second look revealed that he was boots up on the side paneling of a console array, one that rimmed the entire front of what was obviously a control room. Compared to the spaciousness of the main bay, it was unexpectedly small. There was just enough room for a handful of operator seats and corresponding crew to occupy the room at any given time.

Around them, the semicircular expanse of the front viewport had been blown out entirely. The vacillating glow of the capital's many fires allowed for a great deal of illumination to find its way inside, making every individual console system easy to distinguish and identify.

They were inside the freighter's navigation center. It was a type of secondary bridge that was more common aboard the older generations of spacefaring vessels, antiquated backups born out of the concern of a decapitating happenstance on the bridge rendering the rest of a ship and her crew utterly helpless. The fashion was mostly phased out after humanity began developing ships with more reinforced centers of operations. In hindsight, given that most of the freighter's own primary bridge had been crumpled beneath the weight of the stern, perhaps that old idea still held some merit.

"Is it here?" Don asked.

The Sarge shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

The two NCOs strode over to the frontal console.

Eversman took a knee in front of it and leaned forward, twisting his head around to take a look at the underside. He glanced to the left and right before finally settling on something further back.

"There."

He reached in and began to grab at the object. There was a low hiss and a click of release mechanisms.

Eversman came out from under the console and stood back up, holding a small metal box with a pair of cylindrical appendages attached to either side of it. On the front was a label that confirmed it was what they were looking for: 'Flight Recorder – Do Not Open'.

"Bingo." The Sarge said.

Eversman switched to the comms. "Ferret-3, found anything?"

"Negative." Ferret-3 replied. "We could hardly even get into the bridge, what's left of it anyway."

"And the recorder?"

"Busted."

"Copy. Make your way back outside." He gestured to everyone else. "Let's head back and hand this over."

"That thing's got a real story to tell." The Sarge noted as they turned to leave. "And I'd like to hear it."

"Wouldn't we all."

That was partly untrue.

Don didn't want to hear it, but he also did. Conflicting feelings of dread and morbid intrigue tore away at one another in his head, neither giving ground nor gaining the upper hand over the other.

He hauled himself back out through the doorframe after Izzy. They started down the rail once again, now having to contend with the higher elevation that would make it a little harder to maintain their balance.

"Don't slip." Chris kidded behind him.

"If I do, I'm grabbing your boot." Don kidded back. "Be a pal and try to hold on, would you?"

"Sure, I'll just hold onto the Sarge." Chris glanced over his shoulder. "Right Sarge?"

The Sarge shook his head. "I'll kick you."

A small laugh rang through the group, one that was quickly swallowed up by the smothering nothingness that hung over the cargo bay like an old stench.

Nearly to the point that they could jump off, Don looked down and saw Ray and Gad staring back up, waiting for them.

"Found anything edible?" Ray asked.

The Sarge shook his head again. "I don't think you'd want to eat anything that's been sitting around here for this long. Don't worry, they should have some chow waiting for us inside."

"Sounds good to me."

Izzy hopped off, and Don came down behind her. The others peeled themselves off the rail one by one. Gad and Ray fell back into line as Eversman forged a path back along the way they had come.

A deep solace took hold of Don at the thought of leaving. It gave him a measure of peace that was tested every time he heard a bone crack underfoot. That same fragile peace almost shattered when he accidentally kicked something that rolled alongside them like an uneven soccer ball. He might've mistaken it for one too were it not for the trio of empty sockets that rolled in and out of view. He didn't stop to watch where it ended up.

The shifty light of evening couldn't come fast enough. Neither could the far-off rumbling, crackling grumbles of the many infernos that raged outside.

Soon they were free of the cramped decrepitude of the bow's vast interior and exchanging the snapping of bones for the crunching of vitrified soil.

The second Don was back on the ground, he felt freer to look and move around, as if an invisible strait jacket had been ripped off of him.

Across the way from them, Squad Ferret were hopping down out of the stern section and walking over, empty-handed save for their own equipment.

Eversman nodded his head to the parliament building, prompting everyone to follow him in a steady stroll back over the southern gardens.

Don took one last glimpse behind him at the tall bulk of the wreck site. After a quick foray into its dead bowels, the freighter nearly seemed smaller on the outside. Now more than ever, he couldn't help feeling that it was less of a sleeping giant and more of an overpopulated tomb, one they had no other choice than to plunder.

Past the wreckage, he could see the small encampment of tents in the middle of Market Drive and the collection of Marine activity occurring throughout, centering on the latest delivery of crates and Warthogs that a pair of departing Pelicans had just dropped in. The fire control center was coming along nicely. He hoped they were lucky enough to get their operations underway before the hour was out. Maybe then he might stand a better chance of having a good night's sleep.

The idea itself almost made him laugh.

Back in front of them, the parliament building still stood at its full five-story height in spite of the golden-silver length of the orbital cable that had knifed down through a section of the structure.

Standing at the center of the patio before the doorway to the parliament's south wing was the 10-meter stature of an M71 Scythe. Its long air-cooled rotary barrel subtly twitched every so often in its automated vigil of the skies. The long belt of armor piercing ammunition that snaked and coiled down to the top of its tetrapodal base would ensure that anything in the air that caught its eye, anything presenting without a friendly IFF tag, wouldn't live long enough to regret it. Around its base and running along the top of the patio's steps was an extensive sandbag wall that hadn't been there when Bravo first arrived. It was here now courtesy of the men and women of the 31st Marine Expeditionary Force's 3rd Battalion, Alpha Company, a platoon of which were currently guarding the barrier. Though two of their squads were mounting slow going foot patrols across the southern gardens, most of the Marines stood over or sat against the wall. They chatted amongst themselves, some manning machine guns, others cradling rifles, all sharing in the same watchfulness over the wider city as the AA gun loomed above them like a guardian spirit.

One of them, and old salt-looking sergeant with more beard than face sat on the front steps. An MA5B resting between his legs, he took a long pull of a cigar and tilted his head back to let the pale fumes chimney through his lips, his eyes pensively tracking the course of the curling fog before landing on the approaching ODSTs.

He dipped his duty cap to the sergeant major. "Enjoyed your Sunday stroll, sir?"

"It's Monday, Marine." Eversman replied, patting him on the shoulder as he stepped past.

The sergeant shrugged with a half-chuckle half-grumble that hardly left his throat. "Ain't it always."

Fox and Ferret strode up the steps and through a gap left in the wall, once again earning quite a few looks from the platoon attending to the position. Rounding the girth of the M71, Don spotted more than a few faces that nodded to him as he went by, many with subdued admiration, some with mild interest and even a few with something resembling pity.

He noticed scratches and faded splotches of blood on a number of their BDUs as well as on their faces. He gathered from it that they had probably seen some heavy action on their way into the city, probably not as heavy as what the 7th had put up with at the outset, but it was still worth considering.

He wondered what they thought of them, the Covenant.

He didn't ask, seeing in enough of the furtive glances aimed his way the same heavy-lidded exhaustion that craved everything but sleep. Still, he wondered.

In front of them, the doorway to the interior was briefly set aglow by the flicker of distant explosions that faded just as quickly, leaving behind the glare of light stands which formed a trail down the dimly lit corridor beyond like a procession of amber eyes.

"Home sweet home." Ray whispered just as the reverberations from the faraway air strike finally reached the building, causing a fresh spray of dust to sprinkle down from the ceiling.

"Don't jinx us." Chris groaned beside him.

The squads drifted inside and trekked along the path. The passageway was just as dim on the inside as it appeared from the outside but was much more illuminated than it had been when the platoon first arrived. Without functional electricity in the parliament building, or in any building in Utgard for that matter, they were forced to rely on the two-headed portable lights that stood guard against the walls. It would remain that way until morning came or once they got better appliances, and with a newfound appreciation for what the latest war seemed to be demanding of them, Don expected to have that first one long before he ever caught a whiff of the second.

To their left and right, the public servant offices were no longer empty. Marine supply sergeants were popping the lids on ammunition crates and transit boxes, unloading their contents of ammunition and equipment onto desks that had once supported personal holo-projectors and datapads. Ration packs and small battery units rested atop filing cabinets that were more full of disposable water bottles than the old paper records gathering dust in their folders.

Armory storage cabinets intermittently lined the walls of the corridor with rifles and gear ready to fly off the racks at a moment's notice. For every cabinet and every portable light were several times as many Marines. They sat or meandered about in idle conversations that universally lowered as the squads walked by and then resumed thereafter.

The further in they went, the more infantrymen Don saw sporting reddened head bandages and gauze wrappings that could barely hide the extensive burns beneath. The scenery became more and more intense until they reached the southside foyer.

Whereas before it was little more than a rectangular venue, hours of fighting had turned it into a full-fledged infirmary. A space that could probably only host several dozen people comfortably was filled to bursting with somewhere near 200. Most of the foyer itself was covered in aisles of wounded Marines and more than a few ODSTs, some lying on cots, others on stretchers but most on nothing at all. Many had been partially mummified, having parts of their BDUs removed to allow for medical wraps to be applied around heads, arms and chests. Corpsmen made up the minority of those within and the majority of those on their feet. They carried around newly arrived supplies or attended to patients that ranged from painfully awake to barely conscious. Faces winced and teeth gritted as those trying to help them cleaned and debrided their wounds, removing areas of carbonized tissue one piece of flaking skin at a time, filling the foyer with a tumultuous choir of groans and screams.

Near the entrance to the westbound corridor was a section of the foyer that had been reserved for a different group. An assemblage of black body bags had been laid out in three neat rows of half a dozen each. All of them bulged and conformed to the shapes of the occupants within, most of whom had enclosed helmets resting beside them, their visors cracked and, in a few cases, completely shattered.

Walking down one of the aisles of wounded with the rest of Foxtrot and Ferret, Don couldn't help noticing that every single one of those helmets belonged to an ODST.

Among the handful of Bravo Company medics that were zipping up the newest bags, he happened to spot Foss beside one of the bodies. The Doc was sitting back against the far wall with elbows on knees, not even bothering to look up at them or at anyone else for that matter.

In a small clearing much closer to them stood Major Bowman who was talking to another of the company medics with his two-man security detail nearby. The major spotted their approach out of the corner of his eye. He said something else before sending the medic on his way with a slap on the back and turning his attention to the sergeant major.

"Found anything?"

Eversman held up the flight recorder. "Just this. It still looks functional enough to tell us what we need to know."

"Copy. The 3rd Battalion's culinary specs just set up a mess in the ballroom upstairs. Get your guys some hot grub and some rest. We rendezvous tomorrow at 0630 Hours outside the main lobby for reassignment."

"Already? But we're still..."

"I know, but Command needs us on the move. Some of those holdouts are turning out to be a real hassle for the MEF. We don't want them digging in and getting comfortable, so the fly boys are trying to soften them up for tomorrow. That's all that racket you hear going on outside. It can't be helped."

"Roger." As Eversman handed the device over for him to inspect, he let out a long sigh. "We...found some civilians too, passengers, maybe a few hundred."

"What condition?"

Eversman glanced past him to the bodies. "We won't need more than a few bags."

Bowman followed his line of sight, quickly catching on. "...I see."

"...Do you know where he is, sir?"

Bowman's helmet shifted a little in his direction, then slowly back to the bodies. "Second row, third from the right."

"...Thanks."

"Don't." The major took a long hard look at the shapes in the bags. "After how today turned out, I think I deserve more blame than thanks."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"I disagree. The colonel knew what he was asking of us when he gave us the assignment. If it had been anyone else behind the wheel, there wouldn't be any of us left."

The major stared at him with a hollow look that said he disagreed. He spoke in a soft tone that Don rarely ever heard from him.

"Do you know what the count is right now, son?"

"No, sir."

Bowman put his hands to his hips as if to steady himself. "After this morning, we're at 35 confirmed KIA, 6 MIA presumed KIA and 87 wounded. If things continue like this, I'm hardly going to be able to keep calling this a company."

Don barely noticed the slight glaze in the man's eyes. He was too caught up in the update which had struck him like a physical blow. He had his suspicions for a while, but hearing the actual numbers came with a gut-wrenching sensation that made him feel like he was falling. It wasn't every day that an ODST company suffered those kinds of losses. After everything he had seen today, however, the math was just about adding up.

"...We owed them better." Bowman shook his head, his voice quieting. "...I owed them better."

"...We still owe them, sir." Eversman replied.

Bowman turned to him. He looked at him for a long while before laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, as if he had something he wanted to say. Whatever it was, if it was anything at all, it was never said. Letting the silence speak for itself nearly seemed more of a consolation than any words, something he left with them as he dismissed them with a final nod and walked off towards a nearby hallway, his personal security team close behind.

Don still had to stop and think about that for a moment.

At some 41 dead and 87 wounded, just over half of Bravo Company had been rendered combat ineffective, and at least a fifth of it wouldn't be coming back. By then they hadn't even been on Harvest for more than an hour. It was a painfully sobering thought to say the least, and there was so much more Don wanted to say. There was still too much that needed to be said, too many people to say goodbye to, people he had known for months and even years. For some of them, there was nothing left to say goodbye to. He could confirm that with his own eyes thanks to the fact that they had more KIAs than the number of body bags laid out in the foyer. There were no caskets to be buried on their account, only memories.

He already knew that a lot of them were going to die today. All of them knew that, and they still went in anyway. They were ODSTs. They were built for days like these, for operations like this.

That didn't make it any easier to watch a friend get cut in half by a man-shaped reptile or have their limbs pulled off one by one by things that looked like they had crawled fresh out of the pages of prehistory. As a Helljumper, Don had seen plenty of friends lost in a myriad of ways over the years, ways both gruesome and unexpected, but nothing like this.

He'd heard once that there were many scholars across the ages who believed there was no force capable of doing more harm to man than his fellow man.

The poor fools had no idea just how wrong they really were.

The only thing that had kept that lofty idea alive for so long was a few hundred light-years worth of blind luck that had finally run out.

Both Foxtrot and Ferret found themselves drifting apart, dispersing across the lanes of bags with heavy steps. They generally gravitated towards the middle of the second row. Don and the Sarge were right behind Eversman the moment that he crouched down beside the third bag from the right.

The bag, like many of the others, wasn't closed all the way.

Most of the face peaked out above the zipper, except there wasn't much of a face left to look at. The bridge of the nose and even a few patchy traces of the beard and biker's goatee were still there. So was the right eye, not squeezed shut but just slightly open, as if the captain was in the middle of dozing off. Don desperately wanted to believe that he was only resting. He might have even been able to fool himself into thinking as much were it not for everything else he saw that held the lie at bay.

No one said anything for a long while.

Then a voice spoke up. "We didn't find everything, but we found enough to ship him back home in something close to one piece."

They all looked over at Foss who had lifted his head to regard them with a tired, bloodshot gaze.

"I didn't think I'd be able to sleep any if I had to live with the idea of the Teagues having a closed casket service, so I stuck around to find whatever I could." His eyes fell to the body, and at length he shrugged his shoulders. "But I wonder if that would even be a good idea at this point."

Don knew the Doc well enough to know that after the last 24 hours, he wasn't going to be sleeping regardless. However, he understood why he really did it.

"I think they'd appreciate that." Eversman said.

"I don't think they'd be the only ones." The Sarge added. His hand went to the seal on the back of his helm. He pressed it and pulled off his helmet, holding it against his breastplate in a show of respect. The sergeant major followed his example, and soon the rest of the two squads were doing the same, taking off their helmets to reveal the grimy, sullen faces hidden behind the visors. They stared down at the man who had led them for years against the Insurrection, one who would now no longer be leading them against the Covenant.

Though Don felt the heat building behind his eyes as well as the slightest quivering of his lip, he didn't let them betray what he was really feeling. Neither did anyone else. There would be a time and place to mourn, but surrounded by so many personnel from outside the branch, this simply wasn't it.

Until that time came, it was the closest thing they could manage to a wake, one last salute. Teague wasn't the first they had done it for, and before the night was over, before the war was over, he very likely wouldn't be the last.

Eventually Eversman ended his vigil by standing up. Instead of putting his helmet back on, however, he clipped it to his belt. One by one the others did the same, drawing a close to the unspoken eulogy.

"Frost-3?" Eversman asked, turning to Foss.

The Doc slowly nodded off to his left at somewhere behind them. Resting on one of the cots set against the opposing wall was Frost-3. He was wrapped from waist to neck in bandages. He craned his head just enough to pinch his lips around the end of a half-spent cigarette that a female corpsman was offering him. He held up his chin while she flicked on a lighter and relit it, prompting a strained smile from the trooper as he took a deep breath and exhaled.

"He'll live." Foss said. "But it'll be awhile before he's ready to get back into the fight."

"Copy. And Ferret-2 and 7? Are they here?"

Foss nodded again, more hesitantly towards the bags. "Them as well as Frost-5."

"...And Cavaco?"

Foss looked up, fully meeting his gaze with a look that said they both knew the answer to that.

Eversman shut his eyes in a long sigh. "Had to try."

Foss looked away with a slow shake of his head. "I never got to."

The sergeant major clenched his jaw in deep contemplation.

The Sarge broke from the others and walked up to his squad medic. "Did you see where the rest of Frost wound up?"

"They came here a little before you did. They checked in on Frost-3, 5 and the Cap then went upstairs to the ballroom. My guess is they're probably eating right about now."

Eversman looked around at everyone else. "Alright, listen, anyone who wants to stay here for a little while longer can do so, but be sure to get yourselves some food and resupply before you knock off. There's no telling when we'll be seeing those again. I want us to play it safe tonight, copy?"

"Copy." Everyone replied.

"Dismissed."

The sergeant major made for the northbound corridor along with half of what remained of Ferret. Two of them stayed behind, turning their attention to roving the other aisles of bodies.

Don was beginning to realize how lucky they were, specifically, how lucky Foxtrot was. Despite too many close calls to count, they were the only squad left in the platoon that was still at full strength. Everyone who the Sarge had given that speech to back aboard the Everest was still alive. Experience had always taught him to never see himself or anyone else in the squad as an exception to the law of averages, a law that haunted soldiers in wartime as much as gravity haunted everything in flight. They weren't untouchable. That being considered, after over half the company had been effectively put out of action by the same operation, he had no idea what to make of their survival.

The Sarge rounded on Foss again, looking him over with a close scrutiny as if he were a doctor in need of a doctor. "You ate yet?"

Foss shook his head. "Don't have much of an appetite."

"Well, you do now. Come on, let's get some chow."

"Sarge, I'm fine, really. Besides, these guys say they need more hands over at the aid station you guys were at in Magnolia Square. I can't-"

"You treating anyone right now?"

"I-...no, but-"

"Then you're hungry. Let's go." The Sarge hooked a hand under one of his arms and helped him up to his feet, answering his disgruntled mug with a patient smile. "I know you, Foss. If I let you, you'll stay right here helping everyone else before you help yourself. Come on, let's get you something hot before you work yourself to death."

Foss held out but ultimately dropped his shoulders in relent. He let the Sarge guide him out from the casualty collection point, and the rest of the squad strolled behind them. Don was at the back. His steps briefly lagged at the threshold to the northbound corridor. He paused to look back one last time in the direction of the bags, landing almost immediately on the captain's. He couldn't see his face at that angle, but he found that he didn't need to. It was seared into the forefront of his mind, becoming the background of every thought and concern.

He tried to think about what he could have done differently, what might have happened had he or anyone else noticed what the captain was planning and stayed behind to help him. Nevertheless, that same pang of guilt that slowed him down as he watched the gazebo detonate in a burst of green plasma was the very same one that told him it wouldn't have made a difference. In fact, it might have gone against his wishes of getting everyone else clear.

It didn't make the bitter truth that he was now gone any easier to swallow.

Don looked for a short while longer. Then he turned, saw that he had fallen quite some ways behind the others and willed himself to carry on.

:********:

The ballroom of the Harvest Parliament Building was nothing to scoff at. It could have almost passed for a special venue at a hotel rather than a meeting place for government officials, and Don was beginning to wonder if it hadn't doubled as both.

In the face of so much destruction in the world outside, the ballroom was a vestige of a better era. Many times the size of the southside foyer, it was comparatively far more spacious, able to comfortably accommodate a thousand people or more. That was due in no small part to it comprising the bulk of the parliament's third and fourth floors. Akin to the lobby, it possessed a distinctly glossy sheen thanks to the puzzle of burnished marble tiles that made up the flooring. Colonnades of white wooden columns fenced the walls and hemmed in the many elegant doorways that led in from other parts of the building. The curling face of each column's chapiter bore the amber-gold engravings of Harvest's iconic wheat stalks. Above them, the vaulted ceiling was covered in the winding depictions of beautiful grape vines. They twirled towards the radiating light of a bright sun that held primacy of place at the very heart of the painting.

Don imagined that the long running fissure in the ceiling that had snaked through the image of Epsilon Indi was a new touch. So were the trio of wrecked chandeliers that had mostly shattered along the floor, having fallen to the ground thanks to whatever force had brought them crashing down. The hundreds of UNSC personnel occupying the ballroom made sure to avoid them as they shuffled along the long line of persons that wound around the edges of the room. The line travelled all the way to the indoor bar in the northeastern corner, a long granite table with enough matching stools to seat a restaurant's worth of patrons. The library-like shelves behind it were either entirely broken down or bare, the remnants of their glass contents having been destroyed by plasma weapons that had left their mark on the walls behind.

In the place of bartenders was a sizable team of uniformed food service specialists that manned the dozens of person-sized food trays and stainless-steel pots on the table. The lineup of food was neatly organized into a single sinuous row, allowing for the line of hungry personnel to move along at a relatively quick pace. One group dipped a spoon or prodded a fork into the array of cuisine and slapped their contents onto the other's waiting plate. When one tray or pot emptied, the nearest service specialist immediately pulled it out of the formation. By doing so, they made room for another tray or pot being carried through a backdoor that held the same steaming essence of whatever items needed supplementation.

Don was hardly focused on the process, however. He'd taken it all in at a glance before quickly losing interest. In truth, what held his eye was a different kind of spectacle.

Across from him, the many glass-paned doors of the ballroom's western wall had been broken down and smashed to pieces. Their shards lay scattered over a broad balcony outside whose waste-high granite railing was crumbling in several places. The elevation offered a view that overlooked the building's western gardens as they gently sloped down towards the sidewalk as well as the adjacent street.

Beyond it, past the long-running rut of the Mimir River was the Utgard Mall.

The city park was a sea of flames. Fires large and small burned across the graveyard of long dead trees, dancing in a wind that caused their many columns of billowing smoke to drift in a northerly direction. The smog wafted about like the sprouting canopy of a new forest that both human and Covenant munitions had worked to plant only a few hours prior.

At the very heart of the mall where there had once been a small hill was instead a glowing caldera. The manmade crater looked wide enough and deep enough to serve as the landing zone for a frigate. Within its mouth was an inferno of blue and green flames that rose like a rippling wall, supporting a kilometer tall tower of smoke that dwarfed every other structure in the city. The mushroom cloud left from the detonation of the Covenant munitions cache was taking its time dissipating. After Delta Company had gotten clear of the mall to carry out its demolition sometime in the afternoon, they had blown it with enough explosives to set off everything within, generating a violent secondary explosion that had shaken the capital itself. Don had felt it and even seen it from afar, cresting over the ruins of the cityscape on a plume of silver-blue emissions. Given how little they knew of the Covenant, he doubted that the upper rungs of the operational leadership would have approved the cache's destruction unless they saw no way of capturing it. The enemy garrison inside must have really reaped a heavy toll on Delta for them to receive the go-ahead, not that Don knew that for a certainty. He hadn't heard much about their current status or about Alpha's or Echo's, not yet at least. If Bravo Company's own situation had been the worst-case scenario then maybe there was still some hope for them.

"Hey, trooper?"

Don turned around.

Before he had known it, he had reached the beginning of the bar table and stood at the first of many pots. A service specialist eyed him patiently over a miniature pool of something steamy. The scent of well-seasoned meat and vegetables bubbling within the reddish-brown broth assured him that it was beef stew.

"What are we feeling today, Helljumper?"

Don looked down at the plastic bowl in his hand that he held on top of a styrofoam plate. The smell was more than enticing enough to make him hold out his bowl. The specialist dipped a large metal spoon into the seemingly bottomless pot and brought it up. In a single tilt, he ended up pouring a full serving of stew into the bowl. Don watched its soupy contents settle with a sudden hunger that had somehow escaped his notice until now.

"Next."

Don stepped along as Izzy did the same. Foss was ahead of her and Gad ahead of him. Don cleared enough room for the Sarge to move up with his own bowl in hand. Chris was the sole outlier, having stayed behind to save them a spot somewhere.

From there it was a straightforward conveyor belt of options answered by either yes or no. Bit by bit, food was piled onto his plate. He savored the bouquet of aromas that somewhat relieved his sense of fatigue. By the end of it, he was able to walk off the line with a platter of barbecued ribs, mashed potatoes, cilantro rice and a pair of baked chicken drumsticks. There wasn't a vegetable in sight, a little detail he knew his mom would have grated him about if she had the chance. He was pretty sure he would be in his 50s before she was willing to come to grips with the fact that he was a grown man, but like most things he found himself doing nowadays, neither she nor anyone else was in any position to know about it.

He had reached the end of the table by the time he realized that he had a new problem, or rather, everyone did.

There wasn't a single knife, fork or spoon in sight. He hadn't so much as given any thought as to why he hadn't seen any utensils when he took his dishes from the dispensers on the north side of the room. Neither did he see any in anyone else's hands.

He turned to the very last specialist at the end of the lineup. "Hey my guy, do you know where I can find a fork?"

"Don't have any." The specialist said without looking up from what he was doing, as if he wasn't the first person to ask him that. "The Navy botched the delivery run when they sent us our supplies. Whoever they've got running logistics figured that we'd need to eat but apparently forgot what we needed to eat with."

Don's mood soured. "You serious?"

"I wish I wasn't. Sorry, trooper. Looks like everyone's gotta go a little caveman today."

Don held back a building frustration that made his eye twitch. There was no helping it. Not having thought to pack a utensil kit for himself, he was being forced like the hundreds of others here to deal with the blatant oversight of some executive officer in Procurement. He turned and made for the general spot where he had seen Chris last.

The expansive floor of the ballroom was submerged beneath a growing yet stagnant tide of personnel. The surrounding portable lights off against the walls provided some illumination but nowhere near enough. As a result, scores of barrels taken from the emergency supplies in the parliament's basement had been cut in half to turn them into makeshift fireplaces. Anything that could be burned safely was thrown into the flames, providing light and warmth to the gathered masses as they sat around them to eat.

Though the majority of those in the ballroom were Marines, there were plenty of ODSTs in the mix. Unlike earlier aboard the Everest, he saw many more of them intermingling with their brothers in green. They were chatting amongst each other, trading jibes, sharing wisecracks and swapping stories, filling the room with an air of casual conversation. It was peaceful, so much so that it nearly made him forget how many Covenant bodies were still lying around.

A firefight had obviously taken place here between the enemy and the troopers of 4th Platoon who had cleared it out. Bullet holes and plasma scoring were as commonplace as the idle chatter. It was also clear who had won. The 20 or so Covenant dead that had been dragged off into a pile against the north wall had left faint blood trails that were still in the middle of drying. Everyone seemed content to ignore the bodies. They even sat on the trails to eat if there was no other space available.

Don threaded through the crowd while trying to maintain a careful balancing act between plate and bowl. Looking up, he spotted Chris with most of the others off in the northwest corner. They were near the doors to the balcony, gathered around a makeshift fireplace. Both Chris and the Sarge were sitting atop the back of a dead Gator that lay with its arms and legs splayed out. The latter was handing the former an empty plate like they were getting ready to tell a good campfire story.

Don came over and set himself down between Gad and Foss. The first was in the middle of shoveling pasta into his mouth by the literal handful as the second picked absentmindedly through a solitary bowl of ham and potato soup with his forefinger.

"You're supposed to eat it, Doc." Izzy said, sparing only a second between bites from a drumstick. "You know, like this."

Foss ignored her.

Don grimaced as he looked around. "No forks, no spoons, no-"

"Napkins?" The Sarge said, holding a few out to him.

Don paused then hesitantly took one. "Thanks."

"Aw, look at the little guy knowing how to wipe his mouth." Izzy prodded. "You've come so far."

"Leave me alone."

"I'm proud of you."

"Shut up."

"I've got a fork." Chris said. "A knife too. I packed everything just in case."

Don looked at him with a glimmer of hope. "Really?"

"Yeah, for me." Chris leaned down to unstrap the shin guard on his right leg.

Don was momentarily put out, but then winced once he realized that Chris was the only one without any food on his plate. He watched him take off his shin guard and set it aside in order to roll up his leggings, revealing the slab of steak still strapped securely around his calve. Don sat in awe. Somehow, it had survived the drop as well as all the chaos that followed.

The others stopped to watch as well, their faces a varied gallery of bewilderment and amusement.

Izzy smirked, arching an inquisitive brow. "Did you really-"

"Yup."

"Wow."

"Want some?"

"Nope." She huffed, struggling to stifle a cackle. "That thing probably tastes more like sweat than steak."

"Sweat is just salt, right Sarge?" Chris asked as he started pulling off the first band of EB Green duct tape.

The Sarge nodded. "That's right."

"So, it's just extra seasoning." Chris winked at Izzy and she rolled her eyes.

Gad put a hand to his mouth to hold back a gag.

Foss shook his head in disappointment. "That's not how that works."

"You're just jealous you didn't think of it." Chris chuckled as he pulled off the last of the tape. He set the plate on his lap, laid out the steak and peeled back the many napkins he had used to cover it, revealing the browned meat in all its glory. He pulled out a knife and fork from his rucksack and wasted no time digging in.

Foss frowned and rested his bowl off to the side. "You know what, I don't think I'm that hungry anymo-"

"Eat." The Sarge ordered without looking up from his meal.

Foss threw back his head in a defeated exhale.

Just then, Don saw Ray walking over to them, skimming along the northern end of the room. He was briefly caught off guard by the many styrofoam cups he was carrying, two in his hands and three balancing perfectly on each of his forearms.

Chris waved over to him. "Room service, right on time."

"Don't tell me you said grace without me." Ray grinned as he crouched down in the middle of the group. "A couple rounds of our very own in-house Eau de vie courtesy of the fine gentleman right over there."

Everyone reached out to take a cup.

Don took his and saw a measure of very bland, very basic water shifting around inside. It was better than nothing.

"Fine gentleman?" Izzy looked over her shoulder at the crowd, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her eyes. "Over where?"

"Over here, madame." Ray smiled.

She stared hard at him. "Why would you get my hopes up like that?"

"Because it's so easy to bring them crashing back down."

She thought about it and shrugged. "That's fair."

Ray's smile fell into a bemused look when he spotted the steak. He peered down at the spent duct tape, at the patch of slightly hairless skin on Chris' still exposed calve and seemed to make the connection.

"Vous're fou, my ami." He laughed. "But I appreciate that about you."

"Whatever you said, I just want it known that the allegations are false." Chris replied before nonchalantly cutting off a piece of steak and lifting it up as an offer. "Want some?"

"False? No." Ray took the fork and bit off the piece, handing it back with an increasingly satisfied gleam as he chewed. "Slightly well done? Yes."

Chris shot Izzy a look out the corner of his eye. "Told you."

"You're both disgusting." She remarked.

"Agreed." Gad echoed.

Ray looked down at him. "You have the goods, Grand bougre?"

Gad gestured to a plate of food resting next to him. "They had a little bit of Seafood boil left so I figured you'd be interested."

Ray's eyes went wide. "I could kiss you, corporal."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"A little smooch never hurt anyone, my friend. That's what my momma always used to say."

"Oh yeah?" Foss dared. "And how'd that turn out for her?"

Ray held up his hands like he was weighing the better part of two bad ideas. "Eh, three marriages and eight kids later, hmm, well enough I guess."

A shadow of a smile cracked the good doctor's dour humors.

Ray moved to take a seat and stopped short, having finally noticed the elephant in the room, or more specifically the large alien corpse that both the Sarge and Chris happened to be sitting on.

"Is the floor really that uncomfortable?"

"No." The Sarge replied. "I just don't like them."

"The aliens in general or just the Gators?"

"Both."

Chris bounced up and down a little on the corpse. "Comfiest sofa I ever had."

Ray let out another chortle and sat down to eat. He was about to take a swing at a piece of steamed fish when he stopped himself mid-bite. "Oh, I almost forgot. I found something on the second floor."

Chris cocked his head and spoke through a mouthful of mushy steak. "Like?"

A mischievous gleam entered the sharpshooter's shifty gaze as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Something interesting."

"Wait, when did you even sneak off?" Izzy pried. "You literally went to get some water for like two minutes."

Ray grinned at her. "You don't need two minutes to fill eight cups, cher."

"He's not wrong." The Sarge pointed out. "Tell us what it is after we're done."

"Roger that, boss. I think you'll like it."

Everyone went back to eating, enjoying the conversative ambiance of the wider ballroom while they put hand to mouth. It was a strange thing to Don. Even in a warzone he was at least used to having a fork. He considered asking Chris to use his but then had second thoughts about it. The last thing he wanted was to pull a leg hair out of his mouth. He contented himself with just eating however he could. Soon enough he was able to conclude that so long as he didn't think too much about it, it wasn't that much of a problem. He started enjoying it if only barely. Having the whole squad back together after so much had happened in the day at least gave him some sense of consolation.

In little time, however, his thoughts wandered off to the corpse of the alien-turned-furniture. He peered into its dark, vacant eyes and couldn't help thinking what a creature like that might enjoy for a meal.

On the edge of his vision he noticed that the Sarge was the first to finish his plate. He watched him set it down before reaching into his pants pocket. He pulled out something that he held in his hands as he inspected it for almost ten seconds, turning it this way and that.

Don took a closer look.

Held in his fingers was a rock, a dark granite rock just smaller than his fist.

Don's curiosity only piqued when the Sarge slid his combat knife from its sheath on his collar, angled it between thumb and forefinger and began using it like a pencil. With carefully precise strokes he started etching something into a side of the rock. He would stop regularly, as if thinking hard about what he wanted to put next, like a painter deep in thought about what color would work best. Or perhaps he was trying to stay quiet in order to keep the others from noticing what he was up to.

"What's that you got there, sir?" Don asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

The knife stopped mid-carve. The Sarge looked up, meeting his eye and then the rest of Foxtrot's as everyone's mutual intrigue pulled their attention to him.

He cracked a smile, an unsure one.

He laid his knife on his lap and slowly twisted the rock around in his hand, admiring its dark facets with an unexpected fondness.

"D's birthday is coming up."

Everyone perked up at the mention, and even Foss' distant gaze drew slightly closer.

"So...you're getting him a rock?" Chris barely got to ask before a swift kick to the shin from Izzy shut him up.

"Let me finish." The Sarge said. "Before we left Eridani, I sent him and his mom a message saying that even though I wouldn't be able to make it, I'd still make it up to him. I told him-...well, I told him I'd get him a rock from the farthest colony from Earth. He really liked that idea so...a promise is a promise."

"Sounds like D." Gad nodded in agreement.

"Wait." Foss interrupted, leaning in. "Doesn't that mean that you told Sarge Junior where we were going, which, you know, top brass told us not to do under any circumstance?"

"Top brass says a lot of things."

"Yeah but saying we're sending you to fight a group of aliens that just killed a planet typically isn't one of them. Don't get me wrong, sir, I'm all for the little guy having a present but we could get into some real hot water for that. I'm not even sure how you slipped that one by the ONI censors."

"Who says I did?" The Sarge alluded, shooting him a conspiratorial glance. "But it doesn't matter. It got through, and I'm trying to make good on my word."

"Yeah, bu-..."

"I haven't been there for most of his birthdays." He trailed off in thought for a moment and his smile softened somewhat. "Who am I kidding, I haven't been there for most of his life." The gleam in his eye dawned once again as he remembered something that made him laugh a little. "But the kid still calls me 'dad'. Ain't that something? I mean, I love him more than anything. Anything, and you guys know that. And this is all I have to show for..."

No one moved to talk as he suddenly trailed off again. Then he dropped his head into his hand, holding himself up so that he could examine the rock. "And this...is all he wants."

"He said as much?" Gad posited.

The Sarge nodded. "Lian said he practically jumped out of her lap when she read that part to him." He chuckled to himself. "She even blamed me for it when it took her forever and a half to get him back to bed after that."

"I'd imagine. If I could be honest with you, sir, Duncan's not a normal kid."

"No." The Sarge said, closing his eyes in the midst of some pleasant memory. "Never was."

"All those stories about him jumping out of trees, breaking his ankles just to try to see what it's like for us," Ray let out a laugh. "Yeah, he's definitely built a little different."

"Built like his dad." Don added. "Guess he still looks up to you, hey Sarge?"

"Yup," The Sarge sat up straight. "That he does. You should've heard him last time I was home. I was teaching him the Marine cadence. He told me he liked the ODST version better. I tried to practice it with him since he's been begging me for ages now. After the first couple tries, he looks at me with the straightest face, takes a deep breath and says, 'Helldumper, Helldumper, where you be? Feet first into hell and we'll clap again.'"

The squad burst out laughing.

The Sarge went on, closing his nose to heighten his pitch. "'Don't cry for me, don't said no tear, just pack my box with pity gear. Cuz one burly morning 'bout ze-wo five, the ground will wumble, there'll be fighting in the sky. Don't you murry, don't come bundon, it's just my ghost on a pity run.'"

They were in cackling fits now.

Ray was clutching at his sides. Chris barely stopped himself from dropping his plate. Even Foss had to clap a hand to his mouth and turn away.

The commotion drew a few eyes in their direction for a moment. They turned elsewhere once the squad began settling down, recovering from a fit of hardy amusement.

"I love him so much and he's not even my kid." Izzy said, wiping a tear from her eye. "I hope mines are like that when I have them."

"Yeah." The Sarge admitted. "He's really something else, jogging to the bus everyday saying he's trying to train himself for 'boot' and he barely even knows what a boot is. He's...something else."

Izzy whistled. "Not wasting any time, is he? So how old is he now?"

The Sarge smirked like he was remembering a joke no one else had been around to hear. "He's turning six this month, well...this week."

He held up the rock. "This is probably going to get to him a whole lot later than that, but the thing is, I just want it to get to him. He never was a normal kid. Normal kids want new toys or new games. Not him. Sure, he'll play with them, but he loses interest after a while. Give him something like this though, a rock from a world he's never been to, and he'll hold onto it like it's made of gold."

"You could really give him any rock you wanted." Ray noted. "You could've gotten something out of your backyard and I'm sure he would've believed you."

"Yeah, he probably would've." The Sarge set the gift down on his lap. "But that defeats the basic principle, doesn't it? It's better for the both of us if I know for a fact where this thing came from. It makes it that much more genuine, and it makes that look on his face mean even more. I've never tried to lie to him before, and I'm not about to start now."

"Man, sometimes I really envy that little garçon. I wish I had a dad like that."

"Well, first you need to have a son like that." The Sarge grinned. "I'm the lucky one here."

"He looks up to you." Don said before cautiously meeting the man's eye. "And that's the problem, isn't it?"

The mood of the conversation suddenly shifted with the comment. All attention turned to him one turn of the head at a time.

Foss' jaw clenched with the tension. "What do you mean by that?"

"He wants to be an ODST. You know that better than we do. I guess what I'm trying to say is...do you still want him to be?"

The Sarge scanned him sharply, as if he'd found something that he hadn't expected to find. "When did you get so perceptive?"

"Around the same time we all did: today. You know where I'm going with this, don't you?"

The Sarge shut his eyes in a deep exhalation that seemed to deflate him at the shoulders. "From the day he was born, I've only ever wanted him to choose what he wanted. That's what my grandfather did for my father and what my father did for me and my brother. Sure, it landed us both in the Orbital Drop Shock business. That doesn't mean D can't still change his mind if he wants."

"Is that what you want, Sarge?"

Again, another scrutinizing look.

Don saw Gad furrow his brows at him in an expression that told him to ease off the subject. The corporal was about to speak his mind when the Sarge cut him off.

"No-no...he's not wrong. None of you would be if that's what you were thinking. This was never an easy job. He knows a little about it, at least as much as a five-year-old can know about what it means to drop from orbit for the sake of putting somebody else in the ground, which again isn't that much." The Sarge stopped to stare at the rock. "What we saw today, it's different from anything we've seen before. Anything I've seen before. I get the feeling that being an ODST is going to mean something completely different in the next few years than it does now, and it can't be helped. I knew we were going to take a hit today, but we didn't. This was a gut punch, plain and simple...and it was just round one."

The Sarge looked up. "So to answer your question, Don, yes, I don't know if I want this for him. When I get back, I don't think I want to talk to him about what we saw here. I don't want to scare him."

"The kid jumps out of trees and runs with a heavy backpack for the fun of it." Don said. "I don't think someone like that is going to grow up into a person that scares easily."

At that, the Sarge cocked his head, genuinely mulling over his opinion.

"So what did you want for him then?" Don continued. "Did you want suicide bombers for him or intel leaks that get people killed or snipers that don't care who they have to use as bait? To be honest, it's not like being us right now is that much better than it was a few days ago. It's higher stakes, sure, but it's the same game: us, them and nobody else for the next hour or so. Nothing changed except the guns and the guys that use them."

"You're saying I can't look out for my own kid?" The Sarge jabbed.

Don shook his head. "Respectfully, sir, you said earlier that your dad gave you and your brother a choice, and he probably did it before the Insurrection became the absolute crap show that we all know and hate. All I'm asking is that you give that adorable little psycho a chance to make up his own mind. Like you said, your old man didn't make the choice for you. Why not let Duncan figure that out for himself when he gets old enough to understand?"

Though it was a good question, Don, like everyone else it seemed, wasn't entirely sure where this sudden urge to defend the dreams of a kid had come from. It was in the intervening silence, however, that he remembered why. He remembered what his dad had said when he told him that he was going to join the UNSC, the same organization that had taken his old man's best years and left his family with the rest of them. He remembered the heated argument that broke out right after, one that might have very well come to blows had his mother not stepped in at the last moment. He remembered how quiet that walk was down the driveway of the family farm, a farm that by all rights would have been passed on to him. It was someone else's hard work, someone else's dream, and he hadn't wanted it.

What was so wrong about that?

What was so hard to understand about wanting to be your own man and not the cardboard cutout that someone else had made for you, someone who had already done the exact same thing themselves?

He felt a firm hand rest on his shoulder. Gad gave him a stern scowl that told him he definitely needed to shut up now.

He took the hint.

The Sarge, however, appeared to still be stuck in thought. He didn't say a word, neither did his expression betray any hint of what he was thinking.

"Well...that got really deep." Chris said anxiously, taking a hesitant bite of his steak.

"I'm not a father but I have been a son." Ray explained. "I think I see both sides of the argument here. You want to protect him, but you also want him to be himself."

"I wouldn't blame you, Sarge." Foss interrupted. "Today was rough, more so than even I was expecting. After everything else...after the captain...I just-...I just don't see the meaning of it like I used to. We're taking back Utgard. That being said, what's to stop them from sending a larger force to roll us right back?"

Gad side-eyed him. "You mean why keep fighting?"

"What I mean is-"

A rise in the conversative atmosphere permeating the room made them turn to the source of the commotion. Over two dozen Marines had entered the ballroom through the southside doors. Each of them was carrying a small metal crate. They began filtering around the room, passing out plastic forks, spoons and knives to outstretched hands as a wave of others came up behind them.

"And look when they decide to show up." Izzy growled. "Of course it's when I'm already done, right?"

Don didn't pay her gripes any heed. He was already locked onto the face of one of the Marines, one who seemed to be directing the general flow of those handing out the utilities.

"Hey," Chris scrutinized him as well. "Isn't that the same guy that got us out of that whole fiasco earlier, sergeant what's-his-face?"

"Forge." Gad corrected. "Yeah, that's our guy."

Forge, Don remembered.

He watched the Marine sergeant pass out a few utensils to a nearby group before taking notice of Foxtrot.

He started over to them, a curious smile crossing his face. "Well, well, if it isn't my friends from the square. Glad to see you guys still kicking."

"Kicking back and not being kicked for once." Ray said. "It's a nice change of pace really."

Forge shrugged. "It's like that sometimes, but I think you guys would know that better than I would." He stopped to spare an eye at Foss. "I thought there were six of you."

"Seven." Foss explained. "It's just that whenever someone needs their guts put back together, they call me. I get left out a lot."

The Doc held up a hand. "Foster, Bravo Company medic. Folks that live long enough call me Foss."

Forge reached over to shake it. "Sergeant Forge, 31st MEF. So, which do I call you then, Foster or Foss?"

"I heard you saved my whole squad today, sir, so you can call me whatever you feel like."

"Roger that, trooper." The sergeant looked around. "Actually, I don't think I really got to meet the rest of your crew either, Iris."

The Sarge gestured with his chin. "They can introduce themselves just fine."

The others took the hint and one by one started introducing themselves.

Don was the second to last, shaking hands with the man with no small amount of gratitude. "Thanks for helping me get my legs back."

"I think that was more the corpsmen's doing than mine."

"It was just a little bit of shock." Izzy snarked. "Quit being such a baby about it already."

Don jabbed a finger at her. "Hey, how about you try almost taking a miniature sun to the back and we'll see if you're still walking just fine."

"Baby."

"Shut up."

"Christopher Sasso." Chris said, holding out a hand. "Local tattooist. You need a tat; I've got your back."

Forge marveled at him as he shook. "Nice pitch. Is that your business slogan?"

"More or less."

The Marine sergeant looked down at his plate. "Where'd you get steak?"

"I'm very resourceful, sir. So, what'll it be? Names of loved ones are 30 cred; pictures are 50 cred and you're looking at around 100 for anything custom. I've got a reoccurring patron sitting somewhere around here named Crawford if you want some good customer reviews."

Forge suppressed a chuckle. "I'll have to get back to you on that one, Helljumper. Oh, by the way, these just came in."

He held up the crate full of utensils. "Get'em while they're hot."

"I wish we got'em while our food was hot." Ray remarked. "It's a little late for-"

He stopped once he realized the rest of the squad were readily receiving the handouts of forks, spoons and knives.

"I'd get some too, Ray." The Sarge advised, pocketing one or two forks for himself. "You never know when you're going to get anymore."

Ray appeared to wise up and quickly took a handout for himself.

At the same time, a pair of Marines that happened to be walking by caught Chris' attention. He waved to one of them. "Hey Martinez, come over here one sec."

The Marine named Martinez gestured for his buddy to go on without him. He walked over, nodding off to Forge as he stopped by. His eyes were red and there was a shadow under them that hadn't been there earlier in the day, and with that Don realized that he had seen him before, back at the mess hall aboard the Everest.

"Hey." Martinez said, the one word alone conveying a day's worth of exhaustion.

"Good to see you, man. Say, do you know if Crawford's around? I'm trying to cut a deal here and I need some advertisement."

Martinez looked at him for a while, a long, uncomfortable while before swallowing hard. "Crawford's gone, man."

Don saw Chris' eager expression dissolve with a slowness that was almost painful to watch.

"What?"

"It happened this morning. We were trying to clear out a school over on the west side." He pointed to the Gator they were sitting on. "One of those things got him."

Chris didn't respond so much as look down at the corpse beneath him like he hadn't noticed it was there before.

Martinez squeezed his reddened eyes shut and then cracked them open again, glossy and unfocused. "It was quick. I-...I don't think he felt it." He paused nervously to lick his cracked lips which were still dry with old blood. "I hope he didn't."

Chris said nothing. He had turned on his plate of half-eaten steak as if he were at a loss as to how it had gotten in his lap.

"Thanks." Gad said. "...And I'm sorry."

Martinez nodded and shuffled off, looking no less troubled than the trooper he had just left behind.

"You okay?" Foss asked.

Chris didn't answer. Merely slumping his shoulders, he laid his plate aside and clutched at his knees, a look having etched itself on his face that seemed just as confused and enraged as it was distraught.

Forge caught on to the change in the mood and braced his crate against his hip. "Alright, I've got to get going. Still have some more of these to hand out. It was nice running into you again, Foxtrot."

"Likewise." The Sarge nodded off to him, but as he turned to leave, Don saw it, the moment a thought seemed to cross his mind. "Hey sergeant?"

Forge stopped mid-stride and looked over his shoulder. "Yup?"

"...You got a kid?"

The question seemed to catch the Marine off guard. He turned back around, resecuring the crate against his hip but thinking to himself for a full second longer.

"Yeah, a daughter. Why?"

The Sarge nodded. "I've got a son." His hands came together, clasping the rock between them in a thoughtful grip. "He-, ugh, he wants to be like me. He wants to do what I do."

Forge's brow creased. "He wants to be an ODST? Well, how old is he?"

"He's turning six this week."

Forge winced. "And he's already got his mind set on that?"

"Yeah...and I think it's because of me." He snuck a glance over at Don. "But...I'm wondering if that's still a good thing, especially after today."

Forge's expression melted into one of empathy, and a hint of something else, disagreement perhaps. "I get where you're coming from. My little Lucy is my pride and joy. That said, I can tell you that she's a real fighter. I think she gets it from her mom. Couldn't be me, I'm way too peaceable for that." He stopped to let out a cynical chuckle. "But she's got it in her. She's a tough kid. I wouldn't stand in her way if she wanted to do something like joining the Corps, and even if I did, she'd probably just go around me."

Forge paused and looked straight at the Sarge. "You can't stop kids like that. I'm not saying you're wrong to try. I don't know your son and I only just met you. What I am saying is that you might be wrong to think it'll work."

The Sarge didn't offer a reply. He was once again lost in thought; his gaze having fallen to the rock in his hands. He rolled it a little between his palms. After a few seconds, he looked up again.

"Thanks for that, Forge. I appreciate it...really."

"Us dads gotta look out for each other." Forge gave him a thumbs up. "Be seeing you, Iris."

"Likewise."

Don watched the Marine walk off to hand out utensils to another group. He shifted his attention back to the Sarge, finding him clasping the rock in contemplation.

From what Don was gathering, both he as well as the rest of the squad were just about ready to drop the subject. He decided to leave it alone. He had already stuck his nose far enough into someone else's business to know that it was time to let it lie.

"If it makes you feel any better, we could wind up ending this war before he ever gets a chance to sign up." Gad said. "Maybe by the time we're done, we'll be able to come out here and show our folks where we fought."

The Sarge's clasped hands squeezed tighter, fingers interlocking between one another in an embrace of Duncan's birthday gift. "Maybe..."

A silence then resumed that was just as comforting as the city's many raging fires were quiet.

Don was instantly grateful to Ray when he watched him stand up and brush himself off.

"Guess now is as good a time as any to show you guys what I found. I think we're all done eating, right?"

The Sarge turned to Chris who didn't so much as peek at what was left of his steak.

"Yeah," Chris said, his voice lacking most of its usual luster. "I think I'm full."

:********:

Stepping out from what remained of one of the parliament building's stairwells, the rest of Foxtrot quietly followed Ray into a corridor that looked just like the others they had seen so far. The walls were worn and cracked. Stray rays of light from outside managed to slip in, revealing patches of debris that had fallen from the ceiling.

However, there were far fewer individual offices here compared to every other floor. Instead of one doorway every three or so meters, it was one every six meters. Don counted about 24 in all. Their doors having long since been broken down by the invaders, they were able to see inside to the torn-up desks and chairs that lay wherever they had fallen last. The office spaces themselves seemed much bigger than those used by public servants on the level below. If Don had to guess, they were probably reserved for Harvest's parliamentarians.

Of these, Ray was leading them to one that stood out from the rest. Being near the very middle of the passageway, it was located in the west wing of what was essentially the back of the building. It wasn't one door but rather a pair of sliding doors that had been smashed inward by something impossibly strong.

Ever watchful for signs of any other personnel that might be walking about, Ray kept looking around even as they neared their destination, not stopping until he had taken a right turn into the broken remnants of the entrance.

Foxtrot piled in with cautious footsteps that were hard to keep quiet thanks to the numerous shards of glass that they had to brush by.

They passed through the widened gap left by the doors whose frames had partially crumpled up and in on themselves as if they were made of paper. Another interior door waited for them up ahead. This one, however, had mysteriously not been smashed in. Its frosted glass remained intact, its opaqueness blocking most of whatever was on the other side from view.

The space in between was a foyer of sorts, a high-ceilinged hall with a marble floor whose smooth surface bore a series of deep cracks reminiscent of footprints in the sand. The prints stopped at a point halfway into the foyer, beside the husk of a desk. It looked like it belonged to someone with a secretary position. Don wondered if they had still been there when what was obviously a giant intruder had smashed the desk itself in half, perhaps having raged at receiving an order not to attack the last entrance.

He walked over to it while the others dispersed to check out the rest of the foyer. Something silvery and metallic glinted in the middle of the wreckage. He crouched down and pinched one of its edges to pull it out.

It was a name plaque. The wording was obscured by a layer of dust. He wiped it off and saw the writeup. It was remarkably clear:

'Rol Pederson

Attorney General'

Izzy strolled up next to him. "What's that?"

He took one last look before handing it over. "A plaque. Must've belonged to an official that worked here."

Izzy read the title. "Attorney General?" Her head perked up and her shoulders straightened. "Wait, then this is..."

There was a grunt.

Don stood up and saw what the others were up to.

Gad was forcing his shoulder against the last door in an attempt to push it all the way open. "How'd you even get in here by yourself, Ray?"

"I'm pretty flexible. I think I might've been a dancer in a past life."

"Wow," Izzy huffed as she and Don walked over. "I could've gone my whole life without hearing you say that sentence."

"The more you know."

There was a loud crack and a mechanical groan. The door finally gave. Gad pushed it with more and more ease until it was fully open.

He stepped into the space beyond, clearing the way for everyone else to do the same.

It was an office of a kind. Even so, it was substantially larger than any other they had found, making the rest seem almost claustrophobic by contrast. The office itself possessed a fan shape, becoming wider the deeper in one went. Right before the curved western wall was a red-oaked desk that still possessed some of its original polish. On the other side of it was a brown leather swivel chair whose width spoke to an owner with an above average girth, perhaps even the same size as Gad.

"It's right over here." Ray moved towards a tall wooden cabinet set against the southern wall all on its lonesome. The rest of Foxtrot trailed him to the find...except for Don.

He carefully made his way up to the desk. Unlike everything else outside, the room had the appearance of having been purposefully kept in order. That went especially for the desk. Save for a layer of dust, there was hardly any wear and tear to be seen. It made the golden name plaque resting on one of its corners that much easier to notice.

He gave it a wipe and checked out the name:

'Nils Thune

Governor'

It suddenly dawned on him why Izzy was so surprised to see the plaque in the foyer. They were inside the personal office of Harvest's very own planetary governor, and they were here to rob him.

He laid eyes on a brass-plated holo-projector mounted on the governor's desk. Out of a bold curiosity that went some several dozen rungs above his paygrade, he reached over and touched its surface. The glass was cool...then lukewarm, then very warm.

A dim radiance grew within before the entire room was suddenly ripped from the darkness by a bright light.

Don snapped to the western wall and discovered that it was no longer visible. It was completely covered by a large holo-still of a labyrinth of prefab polycrete buildings. There were streets and cars and even pedestrians left frozen in place by the photo capture. The settlement, or rather the city was surrounded on its farthest outskirts by vast tracts of golden wheat fields that continued off into the horizon.

His eyes went to the immediate foreground, to what appeared to be the foundation of a tower beside a wide strip of muddy earth crisscrossed with all manner of tread trails. Beside the foundation stood a boy, possibly no more than 9 or 10-years old. He was tall but still overweight. He sported a pair of work boots, denim jeans and a checkered shirt that was slightly redder than his own hair which blew about wildly in a frozen breeze. He was grinning from ear to ear, arms folded, eyes looking proudly at the photographer.

It was obviously a farmer's kid...or perhaps a bit more than that.

Don's eye drifted back to the name plaque on the desk. He couldn't help thinking it might be the governor's son. But then, with the location obviously being that of Utgard during the early days of the colony, it would make more sense if it was actually a childhood picture of the governor himself.

He felt a tap on the shoulder and rounded on Izzy who stood just a few steps behind.

"What'd you touch?"

"There's a projector here. I didn't think it'd work."

"If it's not rigged to blow then it's not a concern." The Sarge said.

Don spotted the objects he was holding, a pair of glass champagne flutes. The others had already gotten their hands on a few more that had come from the open cabinet, its interior shelves lined with dozens of pristine glasses. Above them were scores of unopened bottles secured in an upper compartment by a latticework of wooden holders. The dark purple liquid housed within gave Don some indication of what the former governor might have gotten up to in his spare time.

Ray had taken out one of the bottles. He pulled off the cap and jabbed his combat knife down into the cork. Twisting it a bit, he gave it a quick tug that wrenched the obstruction free with a loud pop.

Ray inhaled deeply of the aromas that wafted out. "Hmm, exquise." He checked out the branding on the bottle. "It says here...First Fruits – Biko, 2441. It's wet too. That's about 85 years of pure, uninterrupted maturity."

"Whatever it is, bring it here." Chris grumbled. "I just lost a customer, so I don't really want to have to think about anything right now."

It wasn't lost on Don that he had said 'customer' and not 'friend'. Though one was truer, the other was less painful.

The Sarge handed both Don and Izzy a glass and then took another from Gad. "Keep this on the downlow. We don't need the Marines running wild. You know how they get once they get a drink in their hands."

"You know how we get once we get a drink in our hands." Izzy shot back.

"Fair enough."

They held their flutes out as Ray went from one to the next, filling them up. The wine came out as a brackish purple but poured out into the glass as a glistening red once the light of the holo-still reached it.

Don swirled his around, watching the liquid sway about in a bid to regain equilibrium. He breathed in the aromatic fragrance and knew right away that Ray's deductions had been spot on. He didn't dare drink it or even take a sip. He waited. They all waited.

The Sarge peered thoughtfully into his own for a moment. He looked to the rest of the squad and raised his glass in a toast. "To the captain."

"To the captain." Everyone replied, raising their glasses in kind.

"Rest easy ole' boy." Ray said, having taken the whole bottle for himself.

Then they lowered their glasses and drank.

It was smooth, cold and refreshing. Don savored the taste, enjoying time's perfect blend of sweetness tempered by a subtle note of bitterness, and felt just how long of a day it had actually been.

Requiem - Rest