Burning Down The House

The scents of war are one of the few things someone can never escape. Francisco Garay is acclimated with many of them already, the acrid smell of gunsmoke and the ever present odor of cordite. But the surface battle on the surface of Jericho VII brought a whole host of new smells, a new assault on the senses. The sour ozone scent of ionized projectiles. The cloying tang of blamite crystals that hangs in the air and nose. The sulfur odor left behind by plasma grenades Garay’s stomach turns at these. But luckily, they’re drowned out by the bitter smell of cinders and embers. All too familiar. Despite the ballistic goggles on Garay’s face, the air stings tears out of his eyes. 
Francisco never thought he’d see the death throes of a world. He’s marking a map as the world dies around him, pushing new objectives to his troops in a heartfelt attempt to save whatever was left on Jericho VII. A pressure wave blows dust into his face. 
A frigate streaks across the orange sky, adding its palette of olive drab, grey, and bright crimson to the skyscape around it. It detonates again and again and again until gravity finishes the job. 
Not a soul in the command tent reacts to the loss. 
Garay chews on the back of his stylus. There were places where his boys were winning. At least he could be proud of his part in the loss of this world. Anything to dull the losses. A corporal covered in ashes and sweat bursts into the command tent. 
“Split jaws are gearing up for another push into here.” 
That’s all it takes for the command to spring into action. Shouting, fumbling over weapons and armor plating. Rushing to get to firing positions and behind sandbags. Jericho VII may be dying, but it is not dead yet. 
Garay prides himself on his level headedness. There is not a single Insurrectionist in all of human space who could ever rattle Francisco Garay or his men. 
Unfortunately, they’re fighting the furthest thing from Insurrectionists. A stream of electric blue bolts down from the heavens to reduce another kilometer of city into molten rock. Garay’s comms fill with static for a moment before the rads level out. 
The extended, smooth breaths do little to calm Francisco Garay as the enemy mortars crackle and whistle in the air, evaporating concrete and turning metal into slag. Every cell in his brain is dedicated to keeping the animal part of it locked away. 
Garay has only come face to face with his new enemy a handful of times. Nothing more than a horde of gnashing teeth and blood matted fur, roaring in their adrenaline fueled hatred. Francisco’s breathing quicken, stiffening his arm as he levels his crosshair with the nearest enemy head. 
The sharp scent of gunsmoke comforts him. Reminds him that no matter how much plasma they bring to the battlefield, they’re still accountable to a burst of lead through the skull. For a handful of seconds, Garay believes the battle for Jericho VII is still somehow winnable.
Despite the heat around him, Kerry Montgomery can feel nothing but dull, numb coldness. His world, the only thing he’s ever known was being melted away like a beehive under a lighter. Even from within the blackened hold of an Elephant, he can taste the sour ozone of the enemy plasma in the air. It hangs on his tongue, as if attempting to be an ever present reminder of what happened here. Even over the smell of sweat and machine oil and flame, the smell of plasma never dissipates from his mind. Kerry’s packed tight into the lumbering vehicle with more people than the machine was meant to hold. No room for anything but what you can carry in your own two hands. 
The machine continues its plodding course down the road. Kerry stands waiting for the whining sound of enemy aircraft to swoop down and reduce everyone aboard the Elephant to nothing but slag and dust. Death would be all but assured, he reminds himself. Even if he somehow managed to live through the storm of plasma, he’d still have the mass of broken metal and bodies to contend with. 
Jericho VII was the only home that Kerry Montgomery had known and it would exceedingly likely be his grave some time within the next two hours.. And yet all he can do is stand, motionless among his fellow refugees. The temptation to look out one of the vision slits, daring the whatever alien lies in wait to take their shot. The clouds of dust occlude the sun, leaving the fires as the only light remaining on the world. Kerry recognizes handfuls of the street signs, restaurants that Montgomery had only caught glimpses of and considered taking coworkers to. The plasma beams streaking down to the earth cast brilliant beams of blue, letting Kerry observe the full extent of the carnage across the world. 
Still, the man stares blankly at the landscape. The Elephant crushes a van, adding more ruin to the already ruined world. 
Against all odds, the Elephant manages to survive its long odyssey through the dead streets to one of the last remaining spaceports still sending refugees into space, through an evacuation corridor maintained by ragged frigates and speeding corvettes. Some of the refugees breathe sighs of relief, the possibility of escape from the burning world clearly in view. One of the frigates falls out of formation, the ship splintering under the cyan light of plasma torpedoes. The orange streaks of the naval guns cut through the artificial night, desperate to resist the encroachment of the Covenant. 
The refugees file aboard their escape shuttle, the closest thing to normalcy left in the world. People allow themselves to sob, others beg. Kerry stares down the crimson orb that used to be his home. 
Garay is on a transport off the world, staring down at the burning below him. He wonders if he could have fought harder, led better. Perhaps then millions of people wouldn’t be ash scattered across the world. Another Marine taps him on the shoulder, leading him to another unfamiliar battlefield.