Stories from the Sigmaverse/Breaking Point

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"Leave him!"
Staff Sergeant Carlos Driscol felt a strong hand yank him back from the doorway as another spray of gunfire whizzed past, barely audible over the thundering rain. He tightened the grip on his rifle, and turned around. 
"Major!" Driscol stared into the opaque visor of a helmet identical to his own. "He's still out there. His lifesigns-"
"Are fading!" The black-armoured officer slapped the side of Driscol's helmet. "Papadakis is done for. Focus on the innie bastards that did him in and fall in line."
Driscol remained silent as his superior stalked away, trailing water as he moved upstairs. He took one last look at the open door and the rain-soaked street beyond, and followed. 
The ODSTs of the 7th Shock Troops Battalion had come to Tantalus three weeks ago expecting to fight the Covenant. Instead they had found themselves involved in a bloody ground war against rebel colonists who answered food shortages with bombings and targeted assassinations. Three platoons had been dispatched to keep order in this sector of the capital, and had instead ignited a powder keg that pushed the situation on Tantalus towards open warfare. Now the troopers were scattered, fighting building-to-building, room-to-room. Help was on its way, but the damage had already been done.
"Warhammer Three-Three, this is Oscar Actual." Major Keelan called over the long-range COM. "We've been pinned down by hostile fire and request air support on marked targets."
Driscol moved carefully into the abandoned apartment. The tiled floors were covered in broken glass that crunched heavily under his boots, and the power had been cut, leaving only flickering streetlights and the occasional flash of gunfire from the street. The rebels were close - too close for comfort - but even they wouldn't try engaging Orbital Drop Shock Troopers at close range. Three other men were spread out across the outer hallway and bedrooms, taking advantage of their HUD's night vision to take potshots. Only Driscol and Keeelan remained in the empty living room. 
The Major's head turned. "Air support's en-route. We're to hold this position until the AV-14's arrive and counterattack to mop up whatever's left."
Driscol nodded. "Yessir." 
"And another thing." Keelan tapped the side of his helmet thrice, indicating that he'd switched off TEAMCOM. "If you ever disobey a direct order from me again, Staff Sergeant, I'll have you court martialled and shot like the scum we're fighting."
Fury welled up inside him, but Driscol had to bite his tongue. As the riots shaking the city had turned into firefights, their platoon had been hit hard by a pack of well-armed rebels. Though they gave as good as they got, the troopers had been forced to retreat. Gregor Papadakis, a man Driscol had spent fifteen years fighting and bleeding alongside, had caught two rounds in the chest. Keelan wanted him left behind to cover their retreat, but Driscol had carried his friend for over a block until the Major had dragged him away from Papadakis, leaving the trooper to bleed out alone. 
"I understand, sir." Driscol said at last, his mouth dry. "Won't happen again."
"Damn right it won't." Keelan grunted, satisfied. "Any good trooper knows his worth, and to drop dead weight."
Suddenly, a loud explosion from outside rocked the building. Flames licked past the windows, and dust rained down from the ceiling. Triumphant cries went up from a nearby building, and were answered by fresh bursts of rifle fire. Driscol quietly closed the door to the apartment, and pulled down the manual lock. With a sigh, he eased himself down onto an empty chair and checked the ammo counter on his BR55. 
Thirty rounds. Two bursts at the guy who shot Pap. God, I hope I hit him.
Driscol lowered his head, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He'd spent twenty years in the military, and had seen the worst of Harvest, Jericho VII and a dozen other battlefields, but not once had he considered dying at the hands of his fellow man. He'd lost too many friends to count against their alien foe, and had grieved and taken revenge for all of them, but now? Driscol brought up TEAMBIO on his helmet's HUD. Gregor Papadakis had died three minutes prior. Five minutes ago he'd been half-dragged into this building by his comrades, clutching helplessly at the biofoam canister he could have used to save his friend. 
Comrades? After fifteen years as an ODST, Driscol didn't have many of those left. The men and women who'd been deployed alongside him, who'd shot protestors and beat down starving colonists, weren't the heroes he'd dropped into battle against the Covenant with. Perhaps they never had been. After all, against those genocidal monsters any tactic was a viable one, no matter how brutal. The war had made heartless killers of them all, and it was not until they turned those talents homewards that it all became clear.
Driscol slowly exhaled, and removed his helmet. Fuck it all.
The firefight outside was intensifying. Keelan sat crouched by what remained of a window, focused on his wrist-mounted TACPAD as he directed orders to what was left of the platoon. Overhead, the sound of rotors was growing louder, drowning out even the rainstorm as their backup arrived. Perfect.
Above them, a trio of AV-14 Hornets unleashed a barrage of missiles at the occupied buildings, blasting the rebels and their fortified position to smithereens. Major Keelan leapt to his feet and peered out of the window, his fists clenched eagerly as the Hornets followed up with a long buzz of machine gun fire. Driscol quietly crossed the room, drew his handgun from its holster, and shot him twice in the back of the head.
"Asshole," Driscol muttered, catching Keelan's body as his knees buckled. No one had heard a thing with all the gunfire, and with a heave and a shove, he pushed the Major's body out of the nearest window. It hit the pavement with a satisfying thud.
Out in the war-torn street, the rain began to subside. The rebels, now facing the full force of the UNSC, were starting to fall back. Driscol stood in the open window, an easy target for all as he watched visibility improve. Some fifteen metres from the building's entrance lay the armoured body of a man, his blood washed away and his wounds barely visible. He could have been sleeping. Driscol smiled wearily as one hand dropped to a pouch at his belt, fishing for the pack of cheap cigarettes he'd been saving. He felt oddly free, as if a great weight had been lifted from his person.
No more of this, he thought. Now, I fight for me.
Category:Sigmaverse Stories
Category:Sigmaverse HCW