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He heard distant gunfire and the muted whump of heavy plasma as he descended the hill towards the crash-site. It wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of this place, of this planet and its fall. Of watching the city in the distance smolder and burn from a hundred fires, scattered across it, where men and women tried valiantly - vainly - to protect their homes. Or simply survive. It was the first time he'd known it was a dream, though, as he descended the mountainside and reached the smoldering wreckage.
"Sir." He grunted, kneeling behind the cover of a collapsed bit of rock and wing and turning to where Gage Yevgenny, as always, lay.
"Rookie." The man greeted, choking out the word around a cough. "Nasty hit, eh?"
"Seen worse." He grunted, flicking the ruined dropship a look. "Not by much, but…"
"I didn't mean me, Rook."
"Ah…" He hummed and took a breath, flexing his fingers along the grip of his submachine gun. Chuckling quietly, he said, "I better not be dead… Because I am not living an afterlife here with you."
"You should respect your elders."
"Mhm."
"You're not dead, yet." The figment of his imagination sighed, entirely unamused with his sass. Humming, John turned to watch a Banshee trail along the mountainside, smoke and plasma-burn flaring behind it as it went, and Gage went on. "No, you're too busy saving more aliens to die."
"People." He grunted, "Not aliens."
"Not Earth, either…"
"It's on the way." He quipped dryly, "A pit stop."
"For…?"
"Chips, a drink, one of the most powerful military industrial complexes in this galaxy." He shrugged, "You know, the usual."
"You sound more like Shepard than yourself…" That, at least, gave him pause. It was an old fear, borne of their shared condition, and his mind knew that well enough to project it here. Quietly, the illusory soldier asked, "Are you alright with that? With continuing to fight for more aliens?
"We've had this conversation before…"
"We have."
"My answer won't change." He stood, looking down at the soldier and frowning, "I will fight for every innocent person. Planet, species, state- I don't care."
In answer, Gage raised his bloodied hand and offered it to him and, after a moment, John took it and shook. And Gage laughed, long and hard, coughing and choking, when his hand came back bloody. Shaking his head, the dying ODST said, "Boy…"
"This galaxy has changed you."
John awoke with a start and a groan, pressing a hand against a cut stinging along the inside of his thigh where a shaft of metal had punched through his canopy and down into his seat. The rest of the canopy had been just as ravaged, crushed and impaled by long lengths of the kind of drab grey plating and support columns he remembered the Turians using. Now, they were speared through his pod on every side, close enough it made moving hard. Past it, he could see the darkened sky overhead.
"Crashed through an old prefab-post." He murmured, reaching into a storage compartment of his pod and pulling out the tiny container of Medi-Gel and an elastic bandage that he covered the admittedly shallow cut with.
Unfortunately, when he turned, his rifle had fared just as well as the canopy overhead, speared through the middle. His sidearm was gone, too, and he had no idea where it even could have gone. Forgetting it, he carefully pulled himself up through the mess of metal and debris, checking the edges with the sides of his palms before grabbing them until he got to the top. He still had the blocky knife he'd been given, at least, and used it to gently - ideally quietly - knock away a section of dislocated glass wide enough he could pull himself through until he stood on top of the pod, yanking his torn up cloak free while he looked around.
Around him, a ruined camp smoldered, its grounds torn up and the shelters utterly ruined… But no sign of any corpses. Which made sense to him - the Reapers treated the dead as a resource, like everything else. He'd landed in one of the larger shelters and destroyed it but, in the scattered debris, he spotted crates that his landing had thrown away to shatter across the ground, spilling out ration-packs, water bottles, ammo blocks, spare armor plates and tools and…
And half a dozen Avenger analogue rifles that he strode over to, checking each until he found one in working condition, which he shouldered with a sigh. "I'm never going to get to keep the rifles I actually work on, am I?"
A borrowed, old looking rifle, and three grenades that he'd had on his belt instead of in a ruined storage compartment…
Truly, an arsenal.
Something thudded nearby and he spun, looking for the source - and spotting a cloud of dust maybe fifty feet out, along with the lumbering back of a Brute swaggering along. It looked to be wandering, though, and he didn't have what he needed to handle it. So instead he withdrew towards his pod, circling around it to where several crates had been knocked over on its other side. Grabbing two, he set them up and climbed in, between the crates and the pod, and turned his back to the back with his hood up, pressing as close to the pod as he could. Brutes had deceptively sharp eyes, but reports on autopsies had said that all their noses and oesophagus structures had been badly compromised, so the leading theory was they couldn't smell all that well.
"Hell of a way to test it…" He sighed, turning ever so slightly so his rifle was pointing vaguely in the direction of the open space as the monster's heavy steps grew close, eventually thrumming through John's very bones.
It bumped into his ruined pod and stopped, and he stiffened…
And then it continued on, lumbering on a patrol he'd never understand as he slowly turned and stepped out. It didn't see him, paying all its attention to everything in front of it, and he frowned. It'd passed him by, headed on its way… But, eventually, it would find someone else. And they might not be as lucky…
"And," he hummed, looking at the fractured engine at the rear of his pod which even now smoldered where Eezo traces leaked into the air and caught fire, "I have grenades…"
A long burst of automatic fire carved along the behemoth's back and sparked off its head and it bellowed, ducking and turning. John grit his teeth, stepping around the pod and backing up, into the ruined camp as it followed after him. Roaring, it charged, and John turned and ran as it came, listening to the dull whine of the old rifle's heatsinks overheating. Ten steps in, he felt heat rip up his back a moment before a thundering boom shook him to his core and a flash lit up the dark moon so quickly his eyes burned before his visor could polarize to protect him from it. The force hit him a heartbeat after, hurling him away and into a stack of filth covered crates that exploded around him while he scrambled across the dirt.
Staggering up, he sighed, "Okay… That was stupid."
And he knew enough to know that an explosion like that would draw attention…
But he didn't know where he was, and couldn't connect to fleet-command. So, moving quickly, he parsed through the wreckage until his VISR found an electrical signal. It was weak, barely there and buried under rock from an overhand that had been obliterated and crushed what he took to be the command post. Under the rubble he found the remains of a Turian, crushed into near-nothing so thoroughly John couldn't discern rank or even sex. But the power in their arm was still running and, pulling it free, he found an Omni-Tool. His inflitration programs came straight from the Commander herself, and made short work of the literally under-powered Omni-Tool's systems.
'Commander Vektra' had a local area map, dated to around a month prior, as well as files that matched what he knew to be Turian designations for military report logs. He compressed those and downloaded them along with the map… And then noticed another one.
'To Vanera - Citadel - Spouse' it read.
It was a last message, designated for a very Asari sounding name… He downloaded it and turned, listening to her speak as he hot-marched up the route the map had given him, towards another outpost.
'Spirits, the entire continent is on fire…' He heard as he went, weaving between rocks, rubble, and fallen Reaper corpses of all sizes scattered along the winding road built up along the side of the plateau, set on artificially created terraces that had been battered and broken in a dozen places. 'Part of me wishes you could be here, to see this, Vanera. So you'd understand. But…'
'We've been encircled, my love.' She went on while John turned, backing into and under a fallen dropship, drawing his cloak around himself to hide in the shadows while the Oculi circled the smoke-trail from his trick earlier. He watched them, kneeling in the mud, while she went on, 'Outpost eighteen has already fallen, and we can see a Reaper watching our position. And our sister-sites. Drones reported artillery being set up. I… Think they mean to shell us, all along the side of the plateau, ahead of an assault. I reported this, but… High command only told us to hold as best we could.'
John stepped out of cover as, finally, the Oculi left, a singular drop pod crashing down from the battle raging so far overhead to dispense what he was sure would be scouts. Scouts that, with his pod annihilated, would hopefully not pursue him.
'I love you.' The voice in his ear whispered, 'And I hope, one day, you forgive me for- What?'
An explosion cut off the words in a wash of static and grinding, crushing sounds. Sighing, he raised his Omni-Tool, copied the message, and then compressed it. One copy he slid into the rest, to return to the Turians when he linked up with friendly forces.
The other, he slid into his personal hard-storage…
If anyone could find the Turian's love when all was said and done, he was sure Liara could.
Finally, as he reached the top of the winding road, he started to… Recognize things. Bits and pieces about the lay of the land. He passed a familiar fortification that had, once, served as a gate warding against attackers from below. It was a checkpoint he remembered skirmishing over, months and months ago. And, inside, he paced along the wall to a ruined stretch of raised platform and knelt, looking down at the scarred but familiar approach.
"There and back again." He sighed, standing and dropping off the platform to head further in, through the wide camp he'd fought so hard over.
It lay in ruins, now, with piles of Reaper dead surrounding collapsed, destroyed prefab posts like everywhere on Menae. Most were simpler Husks - Cannibals and Human Husks, hurled in waves at the defenders - but he spotted more than a few Marauders and Brutes, and a handful of Harvesters. And, mixed in amongst it all, strange four-legged things with bright blood and sacs that lay in curled up heaps. They had heavy-guns on what passed for their heads and, kneeling, he could see the ammo feed-system integrated into their bodies, all along their backs.
"New Husks?" He grunted, "Great…"
The distant echo of gunfire cut his thoughts off and he stood, pacing towards it with his borrowed rifle at the ready. Some of the shots he recognized as Reaper rounds, their nasal whistling and automatic fire easy enough to pick out. But, under it, he heard something more. Meatier and heavier, firing in heavy thuds. Heavy shotguns, with meaty reports that echoed around him powerfully.
Heavy Krogan shotguns, then…
He moved more quickly, constantly checking his inbound receiver for any signals. But nothing came. So, frowning, he continued on, rushing up a long and winding road he distantly remembered walking along before. Back before he'd met Shepard. Like then, it took nearly an hour to walk up, even at a decent pace. It was a familiar route, but ended in a far different place.
A vast stretch of ground suddenly opened up right as he rounded a bend and he had to throw himself into cover to avoid exposing himself. Beyond it, the rock seemed… Melted, almost, and was barren of the corpses, rocks and debris he'd grown used to seeing. This stretched out for fifty yards before a gnarled mess of metal, flesh and rock rose up out of the ground, lined by the mangled, misshapen Watchers like he'd seen on Tuchanka. Towering over it was a massive Reaper-machine that turned on heavy legs, firing long gouts of super-heated fluid-metal up and into the air, towards the distant battle overhead.
One of the anti-air batteries…
And one under assault, too, judging from the smoke trailing up from one of its sides, just out of view. And the louder crackle-boom of gunfire. But, finally, his inbound receiver cued up and, he was surprised to see, it cued up with his squad-sig. Kneeling behind the wall, he grunted, "Friendly forces, do you copy?"
Nothing… Even after three more tries.
"Damn it." He sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Well. Here goes something…"
He stepped out of cover and took off at a run as quick as he dared over the slagged and melted ground, constantly watching his VISR for any sense of electronics from hidden traps. All while he also watched the mangled Reaper lookouts for movement - even now, he wasn't sure whether they were even alive or not. Or, well, active - nothing the Reapers deployed were anything he'd ever dare call alive.
Two of them swiveled towards him as soon as he hit the halfway point and he swore, rolling to the side as two heavy shots ripped apart the ground beside him.
His rifle snapped up, peppering the closest Watcher, rounds ripping through the paltry Kinetic barriers it had while John ran to the side, putting the curve of the massive artillery emplacement between him and the other Watcher. He kept up his rapid advance as his rifle whined and hissed, venting steam while the Watcher he'd opened on spasmed and went still, dying just before a single shot cracked out of its weapon, missing the ODST by only a foot or so.
"Not bad…" He murmured, leaning against the edge of the encampment to check on the old rifle. It was battered in places, as before, and leaking steam - but after a heartbeat, the red light on its side flickered to yellow and he hummed. "Mind the heat even more than your old one, then. Alright…"
Above him, the wall was a gnarled mess of wiring, fetid flesh and rock that made climbing daunting. But, left without any other option, he collapsed his rifle and stowed it on his waist, and set to climbing. Which was slow, painful work between the weight of his armor and, more problematic, the sheer treachery of the wall. Rocks and flesh both came free, and the metal and rocks were often sharp, meaning he risked slipping and falling and shredding his fingers with every careful pace up - or taking too long picking his path, and losing his squad's support.
Which, trapped on Menae, wasn't something he envied.
At the top, rather than a walking area for defenders to fight from, the wall steepled to a ragged point. His cloak helped with that, though. It was thick and sturdy, and throwing it over the top let him mantle it safely enough, laying over the top on his stomach so he could survey the interior.
The heavy gun was a four-legged monstrosity, with massive legs like the Reapers themselves used, gouging the ground as it adjusted itself between heavy, thrumming shots. A massive fleshy sack hung on the ground under it, pulsating blue just before each thermic discharge. And thick coolant cables ran out from it to the walls, where little spouts ran halfway up the insides, steam wafting from them with each shot. Venting systems, he figured - and that made sense, given how much smaller this artillery was compared to the Reapers while they fired more or less the same. There were five of them, spaced evenly along the walls…
Except for one spot, at the other side, where the wall had been blown apart and a platoon of Cannibals were huddling, spraying fire out the hole while a Marauder watched over them. Its gaze was fixated ahead, through the thick smoke trailing up from the burning, smoldering mess, and John smiled.
"Perfect…" He murmured, bringing his new rifle around and leveling it on the larger group of Cannibals furthest from the Marauder.
The long burst ripped into the first Cannibal, ripping its arm off and sending it reeling into its fellows as his second burst ripped its face apart. As it fell, he turned his final burst on a second Cannibal, tearing through its knees as it tried to rise. It fell and, confused and running on instinct, the Cannibals around it surged away from the wall and towards the artillery legs to find cover. The Marauder joined them, trying to herd them into better positions while the Marauder itself rushed to protect the vent closest to him.
He ignored it, and the inaccurate rounds peppering the wall below him, to lean back and slide down the wall a bit while his rifle cooled. It only took a moment, now that he hadn't let it overheat, and he poked his head back over as the ready-light blinked once more. Three more Cannibals fell before a round sparked off his barriers and he nearly fell, throwing himself on his belly to catch himself rather than grabbing at the wall and risking a cut - or losing his weapon.
The next time he peered over, though, it was just in time to see three bulky shapes charge through the smoke, two turning at the corners to rush into the Cannibals and beat and tear them apart with their bare hands. Frenk advanced further in, though, spraying fire at the Marauder that slid around the exhaust vent for cover. Whatever gases it was leaking, though, did not take kindly to the incendiaries the Krogans were using and, with a vibrant blue-purple flash that section of wall vanished, along with the Marauder and a couple of Cannibals that had been too close.
Finally, as Frenk reached the last of the Cannibals under the gun and beat them to death, John straightened and, wary of the Watcher off to his side only barely hidden under the lip of the wall, called out, "Blue!"
The Krogan all spun towards him at once, already at the ready for any more attackers, but he only waved while Frenk bellowed a laugh.
"What the hell does it take to kill you, Human?"
"A bullet." He answered frankly, "Set charges while I climb down."
"Don't fall!" Frenk called out, over-energetic as ever and laughing now that he'd had a fight to get his blood up. "Unless you like slamming into the ground, that is!"
John just rolled his eyes.
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Not ENTIRELY happy with this one, but…
Eh, some chapters are just 'a day in the life'. I mainly wanted to showcase a fairly straightforward mission with minimal fuckery - getting scattered is a thing for ODSTs, hence its inclusion - and think I managed that. Thoughts are welcome, though.
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Ironically Challenged :
Whelp… It was bound to happen a few times, lmao.