AU : No, I'm not dead lol
======
The valley was devastated, with scorched earth encompassing most of the terrain. Remnants of fire glowed weakly on the peripheral, lingering as smoldering red veins. At this point, Euralian return fire is none existent.
I rise up, contemplating our next course of action. A large silhouette protrudes across the open field, a fallen excavator partially buried in the trench it had carved. I pause, taking a moment to consider other options, though nothing else presented itself as a viable alternative. That vehicle was the only source of reliable cover ahead.
"On me, full tilt let's go," I point to our next bound, referencing the downed excavator to my two trotting companions.
"Covering fire!" Robert affirms, weapon already at the ready. He maintains his position on overwatch, firing in steady bursts as Douglas lurches ahead and breaks into a sprint.
I follow through, instinctively ducking low under exposed terrain. We both make it to the wreck without incident and take cover behind its toppled frame. A small wave of relief washes over me before being swept aside. With this spot secured, the former seat of human administration on New Eden is now just a scant fifty meters away and a renewed sense of determination fills me.
Douglas leans out, sneaking a peak at the enemy's position. "Not much of a line of sight from here," he says with a sharp tone. He adjusts his posture and issues a few rounds in their direction.
I glance over his shoulder and survey the area, reaching a similar conclusion. Between us and the Operations' Wing stood two prefab buildings that likely housed a contingent of the enemy's surviving forces.
Just then, Robert's voice crackles over comms. "Wait," he says, still rooted on overwatch further behind, "Got visual on a massive surge of foot traffic on the Operations' Wing, concentrated near its northern entrance."
I tense at the development, mind racing at the implications that it might mean.
"Registering the same thing on my end," Davis interjects over a stream of gunfire, "plenty of heat sigs' clustered right at that junction. Don't know what for... but I suspect a breakout attempt."
Douglas shifts back to cover, pondering through renewed chatter over comms. "Good, that's what we're aiming for," he turns around, dented visor seeking further rapport.
"Yeah," I reply, mood taking a steady decline as further observations from Turner's squad rebound on the channel, "no regrets."
I crouch against the excavator's broken tracks, leaning my weapon against the ridges as the first hostile silhouettes break into line of sight. Across the disorganized mobs, a few sigils rose to full height as the troops continue funneling out from multiple points all across Tartarus.
There was no holding back as they retreated, that was a given. Resentment and hatred fed right into each shot as the Euralians lost more of their numbers to the crossfire between us, and the troops back on the armory. The main formation remains sheltered behind a projected blue sheen, but the scant few rushing in from the outlying prefabs had no such protection.
There was only red through the scope as I capitalized on their misfortune. Each straggler killed adds fuel to the mist as I sight further targets in a continuous loop of justified retribution.
'They deserve this,' I muse with every kill, confirmed or otherwise.
"Main formation's egressing towards Eden Pass," Davis hollers over comms, relaying peripheral information as I take stock of my remaining ammunition.
Palming the frontal pouches, all six stood rigid with magazines in their custody. But only two had the subtle weight that indicated unspent ammunition. Four magazines are all that remains, every shot is now that much more precious.
"Reloading!" I alert the rest, seamlessly going through the act with a finesse acquired from countless repetitions.
In a handful of seconds, the weapon is primed and ready to continue administering its lethal regards.
Douglas leaps ahead, taking an advanced position behind the excavator's arm as Robert covers the remaining distance to reach us. "We've got to take the place ahead," the latter observes, motioning across the open field for emphasis.
"I know!" Following his gaze, I send a cautious glare at the seemingly abandoned prefab. So far, the building ahead shows no indications of being currently occupied.
All points of observation hints at it being abandoned, though it was no guarantee. Regardless, we still will have to take that position, and quick.
Robert's urgency in this matter comes as a direct result of the enemy's retreat. Return fire at this point is practically non-existent, but their march northwards would render our current position exposed if the Euralians decide to take a more aggressive stance.
I tap on the knob at my cheek, sinking behind the excavator for a final time. "This is Desert Actual to everyone on station, check your fire. Repeat, check your damn fire. We're moving up to secure the prefab on the left, don't stray your shots to my team's position."
"Roger," Davis affirms his compliance, as did Turner and a few others over comms.
Incoming fire diminishes near our sector, presenting an option to safely path ahead. Douglas snaps around, sending his cue to me and Robert. He was in it deep, and fully expects us to follow through unconditionally
I break out and jolt ahead, feet pacing rapidly to match Douglas as he throws himself ahead towards the seemingly abandoned building with me closely on his tail.
Tracer rounds flew across the open expanse, still arcing violently onto the Euralians and their protective shielding. The bright sheen holds firm and shows no signs of faltering as they trudged further away under its defense.
The entrance comes up and I hold my index at the trigger as Douglas steps through, jutting his weapon past the threshold to the right. Taking wide strides, I sweep past his frame and make a hard left, senses on the lookout for anything vaguely resembling a humanoid silhouette.
The dark interior rebounds with silence and signs of heavy tempering. Shattered glass panes littered the floor, as did numerous spent casings, all hinting at the scene of a desperate defense.
"Clear left," I yell. Every possible angle of approach is mapped and subsequently cleared as we went through the familiar motions without pause or hesitation. The methodical search concludes after discovering a flight of stairs leading up to the next floor.
I pause, considered the risks and went ahead with the plan. "Need one with me, second floor. Top's got to be cleared too."
"Agreed," Douglas moves up, stopping at the final flight of steps, "waiting on you Jerome."
"I'll keep watch," Robert hustles over to a desk, tipping it over to form an improvised barrier overlooking the two entrances to the prefab. "Sound off if there's trouble top side."
"Will do," I reply.
Moving along, I push up the stairs and quickly make the ascent onto the second floor. Douglas slows his pacing to better assess the layout and I follow suit. The walls cleared past the stairs just as the ambient darkness intensifies. I carefully trudge ahead, heart pounding fiercely under the notion that every step taken carries an amplified risk.
"Rooms," Douglas whispers, jutting a quick hand at the partially opened doors on one side.
"One at a time," I answer, nerves firing with apprehension. The palpable darkness weighs heavily on my shoulders, almost suffocating in its overbearing presence. Only at the immediate front did it give way to light. Even then, it was temporary.
Our auxiliary lights beam across the sterile hall sweeping in narrow arcs as required. The bright cones pass over furniture, occasionally lingering on a few that warranted scrutiny such as the case with a row of lockers.
A quick glance through an unassuming room reveals nothing of note. Unkempt files lay untouched on a table, as did an assortment of instruments I identified as being associated with botany in one way or another.
This was where research on the local flora would have taken place if they weren't immediately transferred to Cygnus. No sign of struggle, bodies or anything that hinted at recent activity. It simply looked abandoned. The impression was not far off from the truth.
"Clear," Douglas remarks and we both move on.
We continue clearing rooms until the hallway terminates with an untouched water dispenser planted at the end.
I spare a glance my companion upon noting that even the plastic cups remained untouched. "Thirsty?" I say, only half joking.
"Later," he replies under a flat tone, trotting back to the stairs before continuing, "but yeah, I am." We both return back down, quickly meeting up with Robert behind the safety of his improvised cover.
Douglas moves over to a nearby window to get a read on the enemy's position. He sinks back to cover after a moment, shaking his head and pointing a thumb at the rear.
"No good, they've got full cover on all sides. At least nine CTEs in the formation shoring up that damned barrier," he reports, waiting on the pause with a rigid tone.
"Enemy return fire?" I place the query up, having already noticed the stark change minutes prior.
"Still the same," he confirms with a nod, "not a single whiff. They're leaning fully on defense."
"Well that makes our job easier," Robert interrupts, nudging his head towards the alternate exit. "We're well on track to take back HQ. It's either we breach it now or wait till their main formation's out of sight—your call."
"We're doing this now. The enemy's making for Eden Pass and we'll have the drop on whoever's left inside," I say, pointing at the two for emphasis, "like I said, full tilt all the way."
Robert stands up, fully onboard with the proposal. "Five mags' left, including the rifle."
"Four," I say, anticipation already brimming as we make our way to the exit.
Douglas likewise gives his count as he lines up behind, rifle peering out from my peripheral. "Five as well," he issues.
I risk a glance outside, sighting a clear unobstructed path towards the Operations' Wing. The adjacent windows are clear of movement. Likewise with the entrance itself. The dark interior held a cold, but inviting look as it stares back.
"Anything?" Douglas inquires.
"No movement on visor. " I reply, legs coiled and ready.
"Hang on," Robert interjects. "Just in case, need to make sure we're not hit by friendlies." He then raises the channel and informs the rest on our intentions, securing safe passage for the final run to our destination.
"Understood," Davis affirms and bounces the order. He continues after a short pause. "Those on overwatch are notified, we'll provide covering fire as requested. Davis, out."
True to his word, the ambient chatter of gunfire diminishes to a trickle. The newfound silence meant nothing stood in the way of our advance, this is it. With a quick snap, I swing around the exit and jolt ahead.
I sweep the exterior for signs of movement, then break into a hard pace towards the Operations' Wing, weapon covering the front. Robert and Douglas stuck closely to the file, covering their respective flanks.
Eyes locked ahead, I register a brief ping of movement through the entrance, prompting a harsh glare out of me. Only several meters away, I sprint the last few steps to hopefully avoid what was likely to be an ambush.
"Possible activity through the entrance," I report, hugging the concrete beside the entryway as the two turn around to secure our rear and left flank.
"How many," Robert inquires as he overlooks our previous bound.
"Don't know, visor picked up a brief shape. Could mean hostiles inside," I reply, inching closer to the threshold. The pounding against my chest returns in full force as I run through a mental layout of the Operations' Wing.
"Okay," I breath out, filing away the hesitation. The harsh pounding continues unabated despite my best efforts.
"We need to get them fast and hard," Douglas asserts, turning around to signal his readiness.
I remain silent, but respond with a nod. Pivoting sharply, I rush past the entrance and descend right into the nest. The lobby sports a few lamps at the corners, emanating with a devious gleam as I sweep around for signs of their owners—nothing so far.
Douglas points a hand to the left, issuing a warning as he halts. As he does so, I register the faint murmur of several voices further inside the prefab. The sound confirms my worst suspicions. A few remained—but how many?
"Got a few voices down that way," Douglas whispers over the team channel, "it's not one of ours."
Moving past his frame, I make the switch to our channel. "Stack up."
The two operatives comply and move behind. After receiving a tap on the shoulder, I proceed onward with the full expectation that more shots will be fired in the immediate future. Signs of tampering lay on every facet as we push deeper into the hallway's infinite pit, further confirming the enemy's presence with each step.
I briefly linger on an unexpected find, stopping to consider the oddity. A lone bed lay flushed to a wall almost covering the corridor's width. The bed is also accompanied by an suspicious assortment of trinkets near the pillow.
"Not gonna question it," I remark over on comms, maintaining the pace. What exactly was their rational for bringing this bed over from habitation?
The walls clear out again and I sweep left, heels pivoting under the sharp turn. A flash of panic erupts as horizontal profiles register on this new expanse. Without thinking, gunfire chatters to life as I squeeze hard on the nearest silhouette—repercussions be damned. The possibility of retaliation meant it was better to shoot first, than give in to hesitation.
Robert and Douglas likewise issues a similar verdict, opening fire in the split second moment that followed after visual confirmation of Euralian troops. The sight of numerous beds evokes a sense of unease as frenzied screams rebound across the room—each voice laced with sheer terror. Their cries hung with an unsettling pitch, timid and wavering.
Robert's voice rises above the sound of our shots as he frantically throws up a fist. "Stop, stop! We're hitting their injured."
He clamps down on our weapons, forcing the muzzles down. "We're shooting their wounded! That's why they're left behind, look." He motions ahead, panning over the beds with his auxiliaries.
I give the room another look over as the extent of our actions dawns on me. Bodies lie sprawled over blood-soaked sheets, hemorrhaging at a sickening pace. The crimson pools rapidly fan out, spreading to cover each body in a cruel halo of red. From limp arms and fingers, droplets gather and fall, each plop and trickle painfully audible on impact in the cold aftermath.
Douglas pushes forward, voice lacking his usual strength, steps thundering through. "Got... a few possible CTEs by the corner, seven unarmed."
I force myself off the sight, surveying the far side of the room. The damage is already done. The cold regret settles on my shoulders but I push through. "Roger. I... I see them."
"Got eyes on their weapons," Robert strides past me, pointing his rifle to the left. "a few staffs and swords placed out of reach. I think it's a surrender."
"These assholes aren't off the hook, stay sharp." I reply, pacing right behind him.
The small crowd shivers underneath the spotlight, their faces hidden behind snarling faceplates. Whimpers continue from the vocal few as we trudge across the makeshift triage, navigating through the maze of beds. The result of our caution is shown on full display as each body files past us.
Over ten dead in something spanning barely a handful of seconds. The tally concludes once we surround the survivors. Robert sweeps the assortment of weapons further away with his feet before turning around.
"I got the rear," he intones, stepping off to secure our point of entry.
With that avenue of approach accounted for, I begin to scrutinize the seven. A sharp glare is all I can reasonably muster as the resentment hangs overhead.
To their benefit, their capitulation meant none of us had the right to open fire. It was likely that none of our former colleagues were given the same curtesy.
"They're all female," Douglas observes, fixing a steady glare at the frightened mob. "Something's up."
"Don't care," I retort, casting a deep scowl at the masked soldiers. "Search them, I'll keep watch."
"On it," he replies, promptly dragging a wailing figure away from the wall and setting the women down on her front with a rough shove.
"Full body search." Douglas asserts, planting his palm on her cuirass-styled armor.
"Go for it," I reply, "the full package."
"Cover me, she won't take this well," he answers, crossing her legs to prevent escape. The women erupts into violent thrashing as Douglas props a leg up against his knee, filling the air with a vicious string of vowels as the pleas give way to desperation.
A few of her colleagues protest vocally, their revulsion evident as they watch the incident unfold. His fingers probe every nook and cranny of her attire in search of concealed weapons and possible contrabands. Despite the invasion of privacy, he never lingered more than necessary—his movements quick and precise throughout the entire ordeal.
Anything not immediately identified as part of her armor is swiftly taken away. Douglas rips a rugged satchel off her shoulders, pulling it out her arm and revealing its contents with the quick tug. He rifles through its interior, producing a few blue flasks along with other peripheral items such as bandages.
"More of these things," Douglas muses as he tosses the satchel aside, jostling the flasks and watching its liquid contents slosh. After the brief remark, he continues the search. By the end, all that remains is the armor, stripped of all possible threats.
"Clean," Douglas stands up, lifting his knee from her back and freeing her legs.
"Six more," I remark, referencing the survivors still huddled against the wall. "Same thing, I'll keep watch."
Needing no further prompting, Douglas performs the same thorough search on the remaining Euralians. At the seventh and final member, he stops.
Sensing a development, I offer an inquiry, "What is it?"
He turns around, cracked visor alluding to a revelation. "We've seen her before, I think."
"What?" Robert interjects from the rear, "when?"
"First contact," Douglas remarks, sending a brief look my way, "and also back at their encampment, when you decided to remove your lid. Her armor and cape matches at least."
Taking several steps closer, I study her appearance and slowly feel a surge of recognition. The absence of a helmet plume and face plate made her visually distinct from the rest. Her features bore the obvious signs of fear, but even with the taut expression, she does seem vaguely familiar.
"We'll handle this later," I wave off the issue, "get her searched."
"On it," Douglas complies, pulling out her stuffed satchel and revealing its contents. Rolls of bandages and bundles of herbs spills out from the opening. The items are oddly specific—and definitely implies a certain profession.
Weak protests burst out her lips as the items are shoved away. The soft melodic language lingers as Douglas continues his search across her figure. Unlike most of her colleagues, she was relatively compliant and any minor infractions can be reasonably attributed to a women's natural tendency to be averse to such prodding.
"She's also a medic of some kind," Douglas says, echoing my previous suspicion. "Wonder what happened to her squad."
"Either dead, or with the group still lugging their way out," I reply, throwing a finger up to the knob and switching back to open comms.
"This is Desert Actual, we're holed up in HQ, first floor. We have custody over seven unarmed Euralians. Likely all CTEs," I pause, panning over the beds and counting the scarce few fortunate enough to escape our initial volley. "Plus six of their wounded, I need a few guys to shore up our position."
After a moment, a response comes in. "Negative, not yet. Enemy's still moving through Eden Pass. We're monitoring any changes to foot traffic. Once they're gone I'll bounce a few over," Davis replies.
"Give us a heads up when you do. Simmons, out," I reply just as Robert raises his voice across the room.
"Drones are showing them still heading through the pass," he announces, pointing to the interface propped against the wall. "They've almost cleared the armory's firing line and will be out the vale in roughly twenty minutes."
"Just like that?" I reply, stifling the urge to peer out the nearest window.
"Seems like it, yeah," Robert answers, grabbing the device and reeling it in anticipation of a toss. "You can check if you want."
"I'll take your word for it," I turn back to watch the Euralians, shifting a few steps away as they stared back with varying degrees of fear.
All seven remained quiet, returning only soft glares that quickly averted whenever lights flashed on them. They are lined up against the wall, primed and ready to accept whatever judgement coming their way. They were at our mercy.
Douglas paces up to me with a hushed tone, "If we're keeping them as hostages, it'll be risky. The files did mention their scepters are accessories, they don't really need them to fire up those attacks."
I nod, considering the inherent dangers. "I know. That's gonna be a headache."
He raises his rifle, locking a stern gaze forward. "Should we or no?"
I pick up on his suggestion and after thoughtful consideration, let the notion slide with a frown. "We... really shouldn't."
We had every right to pull the trigger right then and there, but that was not a path I would bring my team down on. The choice was an obvious one, even if a small part of me would rather disagree.
"We're not like them," I continue, forcing the resentment down, "too messy anyways."
"A few might think otherwise, but okay," the operative relents, thumbing the rear. "The storage room might work as detention, door's still intact."
"No observation ports though," I point out, tuning out the occasional sitrep streaming in through comms as the battle concludes over waning gunfire and distant crackles.
In the first hour following the enemy's retreat, the orbiting drones pick up no further incursions. The channel slowly loses its tempo, slowing down to the occasional sitrep between me and Davis over roughly ten minute intervals.
At each instance, communication was strictly centred around the basics. Neither of us cared to offer our thoughts over on comms, but after sifting through his words in retrospect, I had clear reason to suspect he shared my sentiments in regards to Tartarus. It was firmly back under human control, for what good that will do.
"Jerome, I'm sending three your way. Stand by," Davis cuts in before the next expected interval, breaking the muse.
"Understood," I move right up to the Euralians, prompting Douglas to do the same. I reach out and grab one by the arm, lifting the women up on her feet.
She hisses back through the faceplate, but relents her struggles. The glowering mask did little to hide the resentment seething from its owner. Her coarse tone strikes back with a vemonous sting as taut fingers fully encircle her arms, finding easy purchase against the worn leathery garments lying beneath her trimmed pauldron.
I give in to her protest and let go, gazing down at her companions and forcing their compliance behind the threat of a raised weapon.
"Stand up, and hands behind your heads," I force out a harsh tone. The remaining Euralians collectively stand up, understanding the first demand. After some initial confusion and misinterpretation, they eventually comply with both instructions and waited under our watch.
I step aside and gesture at the exit with my rifle, giving them a clear indication on their next course of action. They begin trudging ahead, but weak hands reach out from their bedridden colleagues, prompting a few to stop and address their wounded. They offer murmurs of concern, their hands trancing over their figures with a sudden wash of green.
"Hey!" Douglas intervenes, stepping forward and flashing his weapon directly at the culprits responsible for the alarming display of unnatural lighting. This all but confirms their status as CTEs.
The stragglers quickly retract their concern and move on. A few stubborn pleas remain even after the commotion but the underlying threat of our weapons makes their attempts a lost cause. Several showed signs of needing immediate medical attention. They will have to wait for assistance, if it ever came at all.
"What's our agenda?" Robert raises the inquiry as the muted procession nears him.
I shrug, keeping my attention on the Euralians. "Might have to keep them confined to the storage room. After that... I don't know."
He then points to the enemy casualties behind. "And them?"
"Too injured to pose a threat, the ones still alive at least," I reason, shifting focus to the entourage in front. "Besides, these ladies are marked as Critical Target Entities. We deal with them first before anything else."
"Fine by me." Robert strides past the topic of our discussion to take point, staying clear of each member. "Storage is only a few turns away, I'll take front. Just watch my back."
"Will do," I affirm, overlooking the Euralians and into the hallway.
"Anything strange, I'll be the first to waste them," Douglas likewise asserts.
We move off, slowly navigating the hall and passing several of the previously cleared rooms. Darkness gives way to soft gradient light as we keep up the same pace, negotiating past the next curve and back onto the dimly lit lobby.
There waiting for us, is the unassuming entrance into storage. It was less a designated room and more of an afterthought and it showed through its near-identical interior when compared to the adjacent offices—the difference being the lack of associated furniture.
After setting the belligerents down at the middle, all that is left is to wait on our backup. With only three of us, I consider it a miracle the plan worked out in the end.
As we hunker down and keep watch, Robert breaks the silence. "What do you think spooked them into this? They could have done it a lot sooner."
I sigh, still reeling from the shock. "Don't know, but they lost a lot taking this place."
Just then, the sound of approaching footsteps echoes just beyond the exit. From the threshold, cones of light veered across the lobby as comms sputters to life with a familiar voice.
"We're inside, I don't see you guys," James questions with an urgent tone. "There's a few lanterns, but nothing else."
"Right side from the entrance, second last door. Hold on," Robert shoots back as he ventures out the room. He quickly returns with James and two other troopers right on his heel.
"That them?" James sneers, pacing to the captives with a scornful tone.
"Yeah," I say.
"They don't look so tough," he deflates, almost mocking. "So what now?"
"House them somewhere secure," I answer, "until then, someone—or maybe two need to keep watch over them. Just in case they get any dumb ideas."
"Easy fix," James returns, volunteering the two adjacent troopers at his side. The pair share a brief glance before accepting their newfound role, shuffling towards the unarmed Euralians.
"We've got this Lieutenant," one of the troopers offers, eying the captives with barely hidden disdain.
I join the rest of my team as they converge near the exit, picking up snippets of a conversation actively taking place between Robert and James.
"...yeah, there's six of their wounded further down the left hall," Robert trails off, noting my proximity before continuing, "would have been less if I hadn't told the others to stand down."
"Nah," James retorts, shaking his head. "These guys hit the base hard, it was a clean fucking sweep. They had that coming." He averts his gaze to the door.
"Davis has already got a small team scouting out the pass," he reports, letting off a sigh as he paces out of storage. "Nothing concrete so far, but word from them is we won't have to worry about an attack for a while."
"That leaves house cleaning then," Douglas muses, finally ridding himself of his damaged helmet, revealing a deep scowl on his face as he considers the scale of such an act. "It's a damn mess."
Heading outside, I take in the disheartening sight of a base entirely devoid of life. Tartarus is a crude shell of its former self. Our home is silent and defunct. Allied and enemy reticules fills the brooding landscape, unmoving. How long did they hold out—and how did it begin?
I turn off my auxiliaries, skirting away from a grim conclusion. The enemy had the numbers, air support, and the element of surprise—the answer was obvious.
A nudge snaps me out of the unpleasant reverie. "Battle's over. It's done," James sigh, delivering a glance back at the Operations' Wing.
"Day's only beginning," I reply, eyes left to wander across the aftermath.
Hiding within the darkness, it stared back, a ball of inky black purer than its surroundings. The source of all our troubles, and yearning. And it was smaller than expected, barely peaking over the surrounding prefabs.
It definitely will be a long day.
======
As the darkness recedes, a steady glow appears over the mountains. The stars above dim and fade behind the warm, golden hue, signaling the cusp of daybreak. As the rays of sunlight spread, the dormant base springs to life with intimate details, revealing the full, uncensored extent of the horrors thrust upon the base and its inhabitants.
Prefabs that remained obscured as silhouettes now appear stark and foreboding, their scorched facets and broken windows a testament to the unjustified attack that unfolded days prior. It was easy to pick out our deceased companions in the midst. That only accentuated my already sour mood.
Given all this, it seems unlikely we would ever look upon the Euralians in a favorable light. And here we were, considering the issue of administering medical assistance to the very people responsible for such an attack.
The topic was delicate, and the debate rages under our well-earned respite.
"... listen," James groans, fingers rubbing against his temple. "I hate their guts, probably more than you might expect. But as a trained medic, I'm obligated to render medical assistance to anyone in need, even the enemy when and where it's feasible. That's one of the first things they drilled into our heads."
I nurse a frown, but fully understand his decision. This falls under his duty as the team's medic, and that obligation supersedes both our opinions.
"Well if you have it in you to help them, I won't stop you," I relent, turning the topic around to address the state of our own wounded. "But what about the armory, I remember we still had one in critical."
" There's a trauma kit station near the entrance, so Isaac's stabilized for now. Someone from second squad thankfully has an associate's degree in nursing—her leg's a little messed up, but she'll manage. They're in good hands."
"Alright, I'll let the others know where we're at," I say, giving the others a heads up over comms. We cross the threshold and turn left, retracing our steps through the dark interior with our auxiliaries turned on.
The absence of a lighting grid meant we are venturing back into the dark. The interior still held that dim, oppressive demeanor as it lay beyond the sun's reach. I negotiate the turns based on memory, pushing towards the enemy's improvised triage and eventually coming across that lone bed flushed to the side.
"Triage's just ahead," I announce, hearing nothing beyond the threshold.
Turning sharply to the left, I move briskly into the room and scan the maze of beds, picking out the survivors from corpses. A few lay on the floor, issuing incoherent groans as our lights hover over their beleaguered frames.
"They'll keep me busy for a few hours," James muses, slinging his weapon to the rear.
I place down the portable lamp and turn it on, quickly joining my companion as he paces to the nearest casualty. He turns the delirious soldier on his back, encountering some resistance in the form of a weak shove.
"Dammit," he sighs, pointing across the bed, "hold him down."
I kneel beside the blood-stained edge, positioning myself across him. The Euralian bucks underneath us and thrashes violently in-spite of his injuries, emitting a coarse scream as I administer more force to keep his arm and leg in check.
Despite our combined efforts to restrain him, the squirming is only getting worse. The Euralian soldier continues to struggle, legs now bucking and thrashing violently. He continues to squirm and fight against our hold, making it difficult to assess his wounds.
"Sedate—sedate," I glance over to James, slightly concerned. If this continues, it would only exacerbate his existing injuries.
"I'm all out," he promptly returns, patting the patient's bandaged arm in a vain attempt to placate his fears. When it fails, he withdraws his arms and gestures at me to do the same.
I comply, raising my hands as a show of neutrality. "Hey—hey, easy," I start off slow, anticipating a favorable response of some kind. The patient stares back, returning a cold silence, arms coiled defensively.
This was somewhat expected, but still an annoyance to deal with. After the tension subsides, I take a deep breath and motion James to continue, dropping my hands to the side.
The Euralian looks at me with frightened eyes, but otherwise calms down as James examines his wounds. He shifts the patient's left arm, carefully extending it perpendicular to his body. The dressings were loosely wrapped around his shoulder and underarm. They were stained with dried blood, almost losing all trace of its original pristine colour.
"Junctional wound, left shoulder—at least a 5.56," he discerns, scrutinizing the gauze-like material beneath the flashlight's glimmer. "These things aren't putting any useful pressure on the wound. I'm not sure how or what they did, but he's in good shape."
"I'd say its their magic—or whatever it is they did," I remark, standing up. We both examine the rest and find none in urgent need of medical attention. Most appear to have been tended to. A few show signs of prior trauma, hypovolemic shock and the like—but otherwise are in good health.
The same could not be said for their colleagues, dead all around us. Saturating the air was the distinctive scent of sweat, grime and copper, only made worse with the lack of ventilation.
"No dignity in death," I murmur
"You know what's the difficult part," James stops to look in the same direction, "we're not trained to handle this."
I glance back, confused. "Handle what?"
"We weren't trained to fight against women, let alone expect to fight them," he sweeps his gaze across the beds, "I can't imagine how this could be feasible to them. It's... not right."
"Cause and effect," I reply, committing the unruly sight to memory. It would be part of the long list of things that will stay with me for the rest of my life. "They made their choice."
I make my way out the improvised triage after James issues the survivors a clean bill of health. The sun continues its ascent, now rising well above the surrounding peaks. Its warmth barely made a difference to the atmosphere. All I could comprehend was the death of so many former colleagues—and the enemy's to a lesser extent.
Trudging slowly through Tartarus, the issue of getting the base cleaned now seemed like an impossibility. In addition to dealing with the Banshees over on the Air pads, the entire vale was littered with corpses, both within my immediate vicinity and across the outskirts, bordering the steep mountainous gradients keeping Tartarus seperate from the rest of New Eden.
The clouds drift above, a pristine white against the blue sky—almost like Earth's. It was almost painful to witness such a sight. Several troopers idle under my gaze as I sweep back to the habitation prefabs. Here at least, is a semblance of normalcy.
The troopers conversed by a pile of crates and odd casings, sheltered from the sun's low gaze behind an improvised tarp. The haphazard collection of supplies seems rather out of place considering that a few likely belonged to the enemy—sporting no discernable labels that hinted otherwise.
"I'll need you folks to assist with tagging and bringing a few casualties out from HQ," I say, interrupting the three soldiers behind their improvised shelter.
"Enemy casualties I mean," I clarify after a long pause, sensing a misunderstanding.
"We'll get right to it," a trooper offers, inciting the rest to tag along as he ventures towards the Operations' Wing.
They follow the pavement, filing past several prefabs before turning past my vision. Now alone, I turn around to inspect the assortments, quickly singling out those that belonged to the enemy. In lieu of padlocks, the Euralians made ample use of ropes and straps to secure their supplies—housing them within wooden crates and bundles.
Both types are marked with a large medallion, sewn in different places but remaining visible. Those strange ornaments glinted even under shade, hosting vague inscriptions—finely carved. It was not the work of a chisel or the like. The letters are too small and delicate to be made by such means.
They were mostly curved, requiring only one or two smooth strokes to form. Although a few held a vague resemblance to the Latin script, much of it is a novelty. The strokes and curves seem to flow together in a fluid, almost artistic way, drawing focus to the symbol right in the centre of each medallion.
This was their language in written form. Had the present situation not been so dire, I might have applauded them based on the aesthetics. It really was that interesting.
A tall shadow looms over the gray tarp, stopping my admiration. The sight is accompanied by the sound of marching footsteps—likely just one person based on that distinct rhythm.
I lean out to see who it is, anticipating a friendly face but keeping my weapon ready just in case. Thankfully, it was not needed. The approaching figure was a friendly, just not in every sense of the word.
Ignoring me with a visible scowl, Douglas storms past without uttering a single word, fists clenched, weapon missing. He holds that dangerous look marching away, expression and demeanor twisted by something that he obviously kept under wraps.
This is uncharacteristic of the normally composed operative.
"Hey," a voice yells from behind, "where'd he go?"
Turning around, I give the approaching trooper my reply. "Douglas?"
The soldier nods, issuing a slight grimace. "We were rifling through the Habitation modules. All the rooms were trashed, didn't faze him much—until it somehow did," he pauses, sipping a breath.
"Your guy snapped and bolted out the front door, no hesitation," he elaborates, slinging around a certain experimental rail rifle, "even left his damn weapon behind."
"Well shit," I murmur. There was only one thing that would trigger that kind of reaction.
I glance around the abandoned prefabs, swiftly reminded of the clandestine nature of our deployment. Personal belongings and mementos were regulated past the Rift. The items that did make the pass were small, and few in number. It made each trinket that much more precious.
What Douglas brought was beyond the need for me to know explicitly, only that it was gone or stolen. We have to stop him, and fast. There is no telling what he might do to the Euralians in his current state of mind.
"He's lost his personals," I infer, gesturing at the soldier to follow me. "Come on."
As we head out, the unease pools in my stomach. Silence reigns overhead, I can only hope the sound of gunfire won't interrupt it. We still have our principles to uphold.
They can't be forgotten—we have to stay true to our values no matter the cost.
===End===
Erune
Our ancient empress upon an age long ended
First of her lineage
Herald of Euralian statehood
And mother of our identity
Upon her last dying breaths
She fell into peaceful slumber
Her deeds revered even now
-Verses of Nirin'thia, Upon the fall of Eastern Nul'ma