And The Horse You Rode In On

OCTOBER 28th, 2558
Following the Requiem Campaign earlier that year, a select number of operatives were chosen to be a part of NAVSPECWAR/Group Seven, and by extension Operation: ROYAL FLUSH. ROYAL FLUSH was intended to deal a crippling blow to the New Colonial Alliance's presence on the planet of Firenze by way of a long, covert campaign. Its ultimate goal was the capture or elimination of Dmitri Cross, Matticus Drake's right hand man, a large Kig-Yar arms dealer by the name of Tek, and Tyrus, a Jiralhanae Warlord forever loyal to the Covenant's old cause.
After months of subterfuge and sabotage, leaving Cross's operation on Firenze in ruins, Group Seven was finally able to gleam his location. Orbiting Firenze was Duomo, a moon with an atmosphere full of noxious gas. And in the guts of an old UNSC cruiser that had crashed there decades ago, was where Cross had been hiding all this time.
Group Seven had the perfect hand at last. Now, it was time to go all in.
Even in the heavy speckled haze of Duomo's noxious atmosphere, time had seemingly done little to rob the Indomitable of its glory. Despite its original guns, turrets, and Mass Accelerator Cannon having been removed and scrapped for parts years ago, with its hull silhouetted against Firenze's star, the old cruiser appeared as if it could take off at any moment. Like its long decommissioned engines would flare to life, break free of the scaffolding and ship-breaking yard that had sprouted around it and leave the petty squabbles of humans behind forever.
"Get down!" Lloyd's hand shoved Scott's helmet downward moments before a burning hot bolt of plasma streaked past where his head had been. The unlucky patch of loose sand and gravel behind the chunk of concrete Wolf Team hid behind sizzled and boiled before bursting, peppering the team with hot particulates.
"Day-dreaming, Sarge?" Calson quipped through his helmet speakers, followed by a not-too-respectful-sounding laugh. "And you tell me I need to be more professional!"
"I was thinking of a way to keep your sorry ass alive, Lance Corporal." Scott retorted, doing his best to keep the image of Lloyd giving him the stink eye through her helmet out of his direct line of vision.|
"S-So, what should we do?" Asked Brandt. Being the largest of Wolf by a country mile, the poor mountain of a man had to crouch down to be fully covered behind the slowly melting wall of concrete. After taking so many plasma shots, the end sections of the wall were starting to warp from all the superheating and cooling, until it was barely recognizable as anything human made.
"Uh..." Scott poked his head out for a moment, before dipping back and avoiding another wayward shot. While the UNSC Indomitable had long since had all its 50 cal guns scrapped, smaller, compact plasma turrets had taken their place amidst the rafters and scaffolding that lined the old ship. And with them, the skies of Duomo were lit blue by their continued hail of fire. If each bolt wasn't primed to melt Scott alive, he may have thought the sight beautiful.
But contrary to what you might expect, it wasn't any former Covenant alien behind those emplacements, but rather, regular ol' humans, who clearly weren't all that experienced handling such foreign weaponry.
But if their aim was any indication, they were learning. And fast.
"Calson, think you can hoof it up that cliff, and get a clear shot on the bastard?" He jabbed a gloved finger towards a rocky cliff-race, a good fifty meters out. Calson turned looked for a moment, and snapped his head back just as quick.
"You trying to kill me, Sarge?"
"Worth a shot." Scott brought a hand up to the side of his helmet, and tapped into TACCOM, the channel meant for all groundside units in Group Seven. "Wolf-One here. We're pinned down, anybody got a bead on the son of a bitch?"
Two deafening cracks of thunder- shots fired from an SRS99 sniper rifle, were Scott's answer. More than just take the gunner out, the massive round punched a grapefruit sized hole through the Shade itself. The gunner barely had a second to react before the turret blossomed into a blazing blue fireball. A burning clump fell from the rafters, and for a moment, Scott almost felt bad for the Innie.
"Panther on-site," Came a stoic male voice. "We'll give you cover from our position as long as possible."
"Much appreciated, Panther." Despite the similar code name, Fireteam Panther was a Spartan unit. In Group Seven, there were about twenty augmented personnel alongside ten times as many Marines, ODSTs included. Maybe not much compared to whatever the Infinity had at hand at any given moment, but for one lone stealth frigate? That must have seemed like overkill. But that only spoke to just how valuable Dmitri Cross was in the eyes of the UNSC. And ONI.
"Well, it's easy when you've already got the high ground..." Wolf's marksman mumbled, before Lloyd slugged him in the shoulder to shut him up. Thankfully, if nothing else, Calson had the sense to whine and winge over Wolf's specific voice channel, instead of broadcasting his idiocy for all to hear. In the Fleet, the ODST's rivalry with the Spartans was well-known and obviously Wolf wasn't immune to this sentiment. Scott preferred to think of it as just part of a healthy competitive mindset, but it was hard to deny that colony kids weren't dreaming about putting on the Helljumper black and blue anymore. After all, it'd be the Spartans bringing in Cross today. Wolf, and the rest of the ODSTs on the moon were just meant to help secure an entry point to the cruiser.
"Get ready to move!" After admiring the fireworks Panther put on, Scott and the rest of Wolf spun around and bolted from cover to cover. Well, except for Calson, who opted to vault over the half-melted slab of concrete the team had been hunkering behind.
"Ah! Ow, ow, ow!" He cried out.
"It's hot." Lloyd's said, flatly.
"Ya think?"
Yup. Thank God the rest of Group Seven couldn't hear the sort of buffoonery his team was getting up to. They were a handful, but that was just the way Fireteam Wolf was. After all, anyone willing to drop from orbit in a tin can had to be a little crazy, at least. Scott included, he supposed. Though he liked to think he at least did a better job of hiding it. Otherwise- why'd the brass put him in charge, right?
"S-Staff Sergeant! Up there!" Brandt jabbed a finger towards another set of scaffolds the team was approaching. And would you look at that? Another shade turret, in almost the exact same spot as the one before. Though, that's where the feeling of déjà vu ended. When Scott squinted his eyes, his helmet automatically zoomed in, and revealed that the operator had already been taken care of, judging from the how he was slumped over, with the back of his head oozing red.
''
Guessing we got Panther to thank again for that one.''
But what Brandt was pointing out wasn't just that. From the far end of the scaffold, running down the beam as fast as its alien raptor legs could carry it, was a Jackal. Intent on kicking the dead human operator off the seat of the shade, and taking his place. So it wasn't just Tek's guns here, but his birds as well. If the Jackal succeeded, Wolf would be right back at square one. And the thing about a surprise attack was that it only worked if you struck hard and fast. Being locked down again wasn't something they could afford.
"Calson!" Scott called out. He couldn't see Wolf's third behind him, but he knew that the marksman was already taking aim by the time Scott even realized what the problem was. Not like Scott kept him around for his attitude, after all. A softer, duller crack of thunder was Calson's answer to his leader's call. The Jackal's beaked helmet shattered with a spray of purple, and the bird tumbled over the edge, hitting the surface of Duomo with a thud.
"Hah! You see that! Who else do you know can cook a turkey like that mid-sprint!"
"Just keep moving!" Scott barked.
No, he definitely didn't keep Calson around for his attitude.
You know, utterly devoid of context, the image of humans, Jackals, and Brutes working together side by side was damn near heart-warming. The sort of stuff they plastered on motivational posters with the words "UNITY" and "TEAMWORK" stamped across them in office breakrooms across the UEG. Who'da guess after decades of strife and hatred that the races of the galaxy could put aside their differences, and work towards a common goal?
Inspiring.
Now, Scott only wished that "common goal" wasn't goring him and the rest of Wolf Team with burning plasma bolts and red-hot metal spikes. Not like any of these aliens were helping the NCA out of the goodness of their heart or because they believed in the group's cause or anything. Fact was, Cross and the New Colonial Alliance he worked for was a recurring source of income for these bands of alien mercenaries and marauders. And in this economy? Nobody could afford to let a client like that get snatched up by the UNSC.
Upside was, in the haze of Duomo, especially down in this trench where the heavier gases gathered, Cross's men and their friends were practically shooting blind. But not the troopers of Wolf. If there was ever one solid advantage the UNSC have had over the Covenant, it was their optical systems. Namely, the advanced blending of night vision and image recognition systems that was the VISR mode. With it, even the slightest silhouette in the noxious haze was recognized for was it was- Human, Jackal, or Brute, and lit up like a Christmas tree. This thing even allowed ODSTs and Spartans to see through Covenant Active Camo, so the fact that it cut through the haze with little effort was no surprise.
And simply unfortunate for the poor saps in Wolf's path. It was pretty clear from how swivel-headed they acted that Cross's men didn't have any means to counter the haze. The Shade turret from before was probably able to rely on its own optical suite to pin Wolf down like it had, but it sure looked like that same luxury hadn't been afforded to everyone. Even the Brutes seemed agitated with the utter lack of visual clarity, huffing with rage and swiping at the haze with their bare hand as if that'd fix things.
"Alright, Wolf, get ready to-" Scott edged out of cover, taking aim with his rifle at the closest target- that same angry Brute that thought it could clear up Duomo's gassy fog with just a wave of its arm. He was in a position ready to slink away the moment after he pulled the trigger so the Brute's friends couldn't take him down with a lucky return shot made on reflex. But before Scott could see if a Brute looked just as ugly on the inside as they were on the outside, a violet light in the corner of his vision caught his attention "Shit!"
A flash of purple cut through the haze like a burning knife, barely grazing the tip of Scott's shoulder pauldron right as he was lining up a shot on one of the defenseless Brutes. He heard the sizzling and boiling of titanium right in his ear. If he hadn't flinched when he saw the trademark glow of a sniper Jackal's eyepiece, Scott would have been toast. Gritting his teeth, Scott crouched back down behind the concrete slab he was using as cover before a second shot could finish the job. The Jackals were infamous for their heightened senses, but truth be told, Scott wasn't expecting them to be this good.
And that was sloppy. The second you stopped planning for the worst was the second you were dead. Or should be, at least. He got lucky this time, but what if it had been aiming at someone else? What if his stupidity got one of his team members killed, like Brandt, or Lloyd, or-
"Get ready to shit?" He could hear Calson struggling to not laugh long enough to get his joke out. "Sorry, Sarge, I don't gotta go just yet! MREs just don't wanna leave!"
"Sniper. Ridge. Now." Scott forced through clenched teeth, deciding it best to not even acknowledge Calson's misplaced attempts at humor at this point. "Rest of you, take out any Jackal you see first. They can see us in this haze, too."
A couple of affirmatives followed, with Calson giving an exaggerated groan. Even though Scott couldn't see Brandt's expression past the polarized helmet, it was easy enough to imagine the look of unease on the large man's face underneath. If they can see us, Staff Sergeant, then they can shoot us, too.
"Try and not get shot." He added, practically hearing Brandt's worries in his head. "We may be pressed for time, but if anyone gets hit, that'll just slow us down even more. Nothing stupid, people!"
"Yes, Staff Sergeant!" A more enthusiastic acknowledgement came from Brandt.
"Why you gotta look at me when you say that, Sarge?" Calson said.
"You know why." Came Lloyd's cold tone. As Wolf's fourth, she was stuck in the rear, making sure nobody snuck up on Calson while he worked his magic. Brandt may have been in charge of putting as much lead in the air as possible and dissuading any would-be attackers from trying the direct approach, but it was ultimately the loose-lipped marksman that put shots just where Scott needed them. And there was no one he'd rather have watching the team's back than her. The fact that she wasn't afraid of slapping Calson's shit to get him to shut his mouth was just a fortunate side effect. "Come on, get moving!"
Wolf split off into pairs at that point. Scott and Brandt made sure to keep the Jackal's attention on them while Calson and Lloyd circled around to get a good shot on the bastard. Of course, problem was, with them making all that racket to keep the Jackal's eyes on them, that meant any other blinded man or Brute had a working idea of where to fill the air with plasma fire.
The pair took turns popping their heads up like a couple of whack-a-moles, placing bullets in the chests of Innies and Brutes alike, before ducking out of harm's way. Always moments before a lance of violet light sheared the air they had been in. It was working for now, but that retaliatory shot was starting to come sooner and sooner. Brandt and Scoot were of course changing position after every pop-up, and while Scott tried to be as seemingly random as possible, it was becoming clear that the Jackal was starting to predict him. And if he was tracking the trajectory of all these near-misses correctly, the Jackal wasn't staying in one place either. Shit.
"Marksman, you taking that shot or not?" Another narrow miss soared over Scott's head. So close in fact that his helmet mistakenly picked up the heat as a spike in ambient temperature, and whirred to life as it tried and keep the trooper inside cool. As if any amount of air conditioning was going to save Scott if it really was as hot as hot as the surface of the sun out here.
"Yeah, we can't keep this up forever!" Brandt chimed in, smoldering brass cases flying free of his rifle as he put down a separate Jackal, this one wielding the trademark energy shield and plasma pistol its species was known for employing in combat. It may have seen the two troopers coming, but its beaked head was strangely focused straight ahead at Scott, and the approaching human giant on its flank. Maybe when it saw Brandt's sheer size through the haze, it mistook him for a weirdly small Brute, and didn't pay him any mind when he raised his rifle.
"If we even get nicked, our suits will lose pressure! We'll die out here!"
"A 'nick', I can handle." It was Lloyd this time coming over Scott's helmet speakers. "I just hope you two are real good at holding your breath."
Hang on, it's been several seconds into this conversation, and Calson hasn't said anything stupid yet? For that matter, the marksman hadn't said anything at all, even after Scott addressed him directly.
"You hit, Calson?"
"Leave him be, Staff Sergeant." Wolf's fourth once again answered in Calson's place. "He's concentrating. Tango's jumping and leaping all over the place, from the ridge to the scaffolding, to a crane, and back to the ridge again. It's like the breaking yard is a jungle gym for him. Hardly slowing down to fire. He knows somebody's on his tail. Probably betting he can at least kill you before we kill him."
In all honesty, Scott was more concerned about the situation making Calson of all people quiet than the threat of this expert parkouring sniper.
"You get a visual?"
"Affirmative. Yellow armor, red accents."
Shit. Yellow and red were the colors of Tek, the bird-faced alien responsible for arming Cross and his men with so many former Covenant weaponry. Including the shades that had been a thorn in Wolf's side the second they hit the ground. And while it wasn't any surprise that the Jackals here were also his, the only birds allowed to wear Tek's personal colors were himself- and his personal guard. Which meant that this sniper they were hunting wasn't just any Jackal: but a Skirmisher. A subspecies of Jackal with denser musculature, particularly in the legs, allowing these feathered cousins to run and jump circles around the standard Jackal. So fast in fact that most didn't even bother wearing those shield gauntlets the species was known for. What was the point of the shield if no one was fast enough to hit you? And if this sniper was any indication, they didn't want for their cousins' incredible eyesight either.
"Is it Tek? Or one of his guards?" If it was the former, Wolf's job would be getting a lot harder. Like Cross, Tek's capture was another objective of ROYAL FLUSH, albeit a secondary one. But if he put Wolf in this much of a bind, Scott wasn't about put his team into greater harm by trying to grab and bag this guy instead of taking him out.
"Probably just a guard."
"You certain?"
"I doubt Tek himself would be out here, fighting us personally." It may have sounded like a baseless assumption from Lloyd, but Tek got this far as an arms dealer and pirate precisely because of how well he was able to slip through the UNSC and Swords of Sangheilos' grasp time and time again. This sort of bravery just wasn't in his character.
"That's what I'm hoping." Scott pulled the trigger of his rifle, and turned the nearest hostile- a poor unfortunate man in a pressurized suit bearing the NCA's insignia, into swiss cheese complete with a fine red mist.
"I can take him, Sarge." Calson finally spoke up. "I just need you guys to try and give him some juicer bait. If all you do is pop up for a second, he ain't gonna bother to stop and take his time for the shot."
Just what do you mean by juicier bait? You asking us to get killed? Scott wanted to say, but held himself back.
"Acknowledged, Marksman."
"I-I'll do it, Staff Sergeant!" Brandt said, apparently mustering all the courage he had. "I'll be the bait!"
"No." Scott shot him down. "I'll do it. You're too big of a target."
He said that, but the real reason was; it never sat right with Scott for a leader to place the greatest danger on the people who followed him. Yeah, yeah, leader's gotta live so the team doesn't lose cohesion and purpose and all that shit. He understood the theory behind it. But he could never manage to form the words that would keep him safe, and place his team in jeopardy.
"Better not miss, Calson."
"I won't, Staff Sergeant."
Well, now I feel like you went and jinxed the both of us.
After shooting fish in a barrel for so long, there wasn't a much resistance left on this side of the Indomitable. Nobody else was going to leave the safety of the old ship. Cross and his men were probably planning a last stand or a grand escape, and the people left on the outside were just the unfortunate first wall that was never meant to hold. Only slow down or harass the approaching force. And damn if they didn't do a good job of that, at least in Wolf's case.
So at least, Scott could rest assured that when he ran out of cover on purpose, spraying his rifle up into the air at the sniper's last position, he wasn't going to be killed by a spiker or a VK78. If that was any consolation. Before, him and Brandt had always been careful to only fire when they were in position, since all that noise and light form the muzzle flash would betray their location to anyone, even the ones without special eyes. But this time, he wanted the sniper's full and complete attention.
The moment he ran out from behind the concrete slab, a beam bore a hole right where Scott's head would have been behind it. Apparently the sniper wasn't expecting Scott to act like a brain-dead idiot, and hadn't considered that the trooper would keep running. Sometimes doing the dumb thing works out, he supposed. He just hoped his dumb luck didn't run out any time soon. The rounds from Scott's rifle plinked and ricocheted off the arm of the crane the sniper had been shooting from, but he was already long gone by the time the bullets came. But before he could finish Scott off, the trooper ran into a small dilapidated temporary shelter that had been erected in the ship-breaking yard.
Probably intended as storage for the machinery, or perhaps sleeping quarters for the workers if there wasn't a ship to take them to and from Firenze every day. Though in truth, after all these years, it wasn't much more than three walls and half a ceiling. And he very much doubted it was beam rifle proof. But that was fine. From the looks of it, there were only two spots from up above in the canopy of old railings, walkways, and large machinery that the sniper could have possible taken a shot at Scott from. At the bend of a large, rusted crane some 100 meters out, and a series of flimsy looking scaffolding, equal distance up against the Indomitable's hull. And if Scott managed that, he knew for a fact Calson was already ahead of him. Still, a 50/50 guess wasn't quite ideal.
"Brandt, I'm sending you a marker. Second you get it, fill that space with lead."
"Got it!" Brandt acknowledged, as the dull roar of fully automatic gunfire rang out. Scott didn't have any idea if sniper would have taken the crane arm over the scaffolding, but Brandt's fire would go a long way in making that decision for him.
And like clockwork, Scott saw that ominous glare of violet cut through the noxious haze, right on top of the scaffolding in the corner of his eye. Couldn't look directly at him, after all. That'd tip him off that Brandt's fire wasn't Wolf trying to the guy, but rather, move him somewhere else. So for the illusion to work, Scott had to take aim, and fire at the same spot Brandt had been. And surely he wouldn't notice that the moment Scott opened fire, there suddenly wasn't any more lead coming from Brandt's position.
CLANG CLANG
Scott spun around, just in time to see the scaffolding wobble and shake violently, the skirmisher sniper firing a shot wide out of sheer surprise. Even with it standing on top of it, Scott didn't think he'd be so lucky for the thing to give way on its own. Jackals, including their feathered cousins, had hollow bones and lean bodies, after all. Which is why ahead of time, he had told Brandt to just ram into the legs that supported the dozens of stories of scaffolding the moment he heard the Staff Sergeant open fire.
The scaffolding didn't just all collapse at once. For that, Brandt would have had to charge through all of the supports underneath, and that would have likely crushed him. No, just enough to finish what time started was all he had to do. As the scaffolding leaned forward, straining under its own weight, Scott could practically see the look of terror on the bird's face. If a bird face could even convey emotions. He swung his long bony arms in an attempt to balance himself, and when it became clear the whole thing was going down, his head frantically darted around to try and find a spot to jump to. That other crane was too far away to make in a single bound, and he certainly wasn't going to clear the Indomitable from this position.
Only spot left was the roof of that temporary shelter Scott was holed up in. Bit of a drop, but easily survivable. That's what the sniper thought, Scott was sure. Problem was- if Scott figured it out, then Calson was already a step ahead of him.
Utterly devoid of all context, it was a pretty bit of imagery. The skirmisher making that last second jump, his weird humanoid raptor body silhouetted against Firenze, right as Calson's bullet popped him, and he fell with a purple mist trailing his fall. Though, despite being dead, he still made the jump. It was kinda scary how accurate the skirmisher had been, actually, for when his dead body hit the roof, every hollow bone in its body broke against the rim of the hole in the ceiling, before falling at Scott's feet with a dull thud, and splattering a bit of purple on his armor.
Gross.
He gave the body a little kick to make sure the bird was dead, but it was pretty safe to say that he wasn't going to get up after all that. Wow, Scott actually survived that. Crazy.
"Good work, everyone." He finally let go of that breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Now everything's finally clear on this side."
After a few minutes to reload, regroup, and police the bodies, Scott and the rest of Wolf felt confident that they've completed their goal in this battle. It wasn't anything as flashy as apprehending Cross personally, but it needed doing anyway.
"Hey, uh, Sarge?" Calson said right before Scott could give the all-clear over TAC-COM. "What's that?"
"What is it now, Marksman?" Agitation was clear in Scott's voice. Though when he turned around to see what Calson was talking about, he found the rest of Wolf with their helmet's tipped skyward as well. All facing towards Firenze. Since it was technically night on this side of the planet, the world was a cast in darkness, save for the million pinpoints of light that came from Firenze's city. But if one stopped and stared, it soon became obvious that some of the pinpoints were winking out, only to pop back in. No, that wasn't right. Something was between Firenze and Group Seven on Duomo. Something huge. It was hard to tell the shape from its silhouette alone. But if Scott didn't know any better, he'd say it had wings. Like a bird or an angel.
"I... don't know." He mumbled, his jaw agape. Flicking his VISR mode off and on again, he tried to get the damn software to compare that thing's silhouette against the UNSC's extensive database. The system, however, only returned with " UNKNOWN "
Whatever it was that hung in Firenze's orbit, it was something Scott nor his VISR software recognized. And honestly, the VISR being stumped wasn't something Scott had any experience with either. It was tempting to call the floating shapes simply a large collection of debris, perhaps remnants of whatever battle had downed the Indomitable all those years ago. Problem was, if something this huge was just hanging out in Firenze's orbit, Group Seven would have known about it long before they ever deployed here. And if Firenze's locals had been so eager to salvage the Indomitable's remains, they wouldn't leave so much potentially expensive scrap up in orbit.
And the VISR should have been able to identify any part of a known vessel, even if all that was left were nuts and bolts.
"I've got a bad feeling about this, Sarge..." Calson said, though with all attention focused on whatever it was silhouetted against Firenze, he sounded a million miles away.
"Mennyko?" Scott keyed his mic, and hailed the Molon Labe's shipboard AI directly. A perk of being a fireteam lead in Group Seven. None of the VISR's available databases may have been able to identify that object, but an AI with surely some level access to ONI's databases would have a better idea. However, instead of the relaxed, casual voice of the AI, a far harsher one answered in its place:
"Pull out, NOW!" It was Lieutenant Commander James Sadiq, the Labe's resident ONI liaison and the one making sure that naval intelligence's interests were being taken well taken care of. Though judging by how he was practically yelling over the radio, he sure didn't seem too pleased. "Return to the Labe ASAP, or we're leaving you behind!"
"Sir-?!" Scott blurted, bewildered. It took him a moment to realize that Sadiq wasn't addressing Scott specifically, but rather, every single man and woman of Group Seven that were groundside.
Wolf exchanged confused glances among each other, before all three of them turned to Scott, expectantly. Yeah, like a Staff Sergeant was going to try and get the LC to elaborate at a time like this.
"They still have not found Cross, Lieutenant Commander." Spoke a voice faintly in the background of Sadiq's transmission. Scott had only seen or heard the man a handful of times since stepping foot on the Labe, but there was no mistaking the confident, authoritative tone of Labe's skipper, Commander Christopher Owen. It was hard to hear what Sadiq said afterwards- the LC, in a panic, must have left his mic on as his urgently spoke to the Commander in a hushed tone.
"You've been hiding things from us, Sadiq-" Was all Scott could make out, before an ear-piercing wail took over every single radio channel, and forced Scott to his knees, clenching the sides of his helmet. The rest of Wolf did the same. Calson clawed at his helmet, apparently forgetting that he couldn't breathe without, but Brandt restrained him with just one arm. Even though the polarized visors, Scott could see those pained expressions on Brandt and Calson's faces. To her credit, Lloyd was perhaps the best one at hiding her obvious discomfort- Scott included. The most he ever saw her face acknowledge the wailing was the tightening tension in her jaw.
The noise petered off after only a couple seconds, but it sure felt like an eternity. But what Scott heard next wasn't Sadiq or Owens.
"All the living creatures of the galaxy, hear this message," The voice was that of a woman's. "Those of you who listen will not be struck by weapons."
Brandt yanked Calson up to his feet as if the marksman weighed nothing at all, and held out a hand for Lloyd, but she declined, jumping to her feet and shouldering her rifle as if nothing had happened at all. But Scott's eyes were firmly on the silhouettes between Duomo and Firenze. As the woman's voice spoke, the objects shifted and assembled into a Y-shape. If Scott didn't know any better, he'd say it looked like it had wings. With dozens of individual, smaller objects making up the "feathers".
"You will no longer know hunger, nor pain. Your Created have come to lead you now." The woman continued. Truth be told, it was hard to focus on her words. But he heard the intent behind them clear enough. The bird-shaped silhouette cast its shadow upon Firenze.
"Our strength shall serve as a luminous sun toward which all intelligence may blossom. And the impervious shelter beneath which you will prosper." The object didn't move for a while, but a small sapphire bead seemed to peek out from behind the dozens of floating shapes that made up its form.
"However, for those who refuse our offer and cling to their old ways…" The bead only grew brighter and brighter. Scott felt something clasp his arm with a vice grip, before pulling him to his feet. It was Lloyd, and beyond the visor, he could see the corpsman yelling "Staff Sergeant". And like that, he was back on Duomo. Calson and Brandt had already started sprinting towards Group Seven's extraction point. When it was set and by who, he couldn't say. He nodded at Lloyd, and began following after his men. There wasn't anything they could do now.
"For you, there will be great wrath. It will burn hot and consume you, and when you are gone, we will take that which remains, and we will remake it in our own image."
Scott imagined the cowering faces of the planet's once proud people. It must been awful for them. The NCA had waltzed in, and strong-armed them into joining a war they wanted no part in. And with the UNSC here, it hadn't been too rare of an occurrence for them to be caught in the crossfire.
And now the sky was crashing on top of them.
Unable to contain his morbid curiosity forever, Scott looked back at the planet. The thousands upon thousands of lights of Firenze's bustling city had all been snuffed out. Leaving the planet blackened, and the object only faintly illuminated by the sapphire light of whatever weapon it had used to carry out its task. However, the city had not been its only target. Even with the naked eye, Scott could see that same wave of sapphire barreling towards the moon. Towards them.
"Move, move, move!"
Regolith crunched beneath Wolf's feet as the team doubled timed it to the evac point. Which, thanks to Duomo's significantly lower gravity, actually made the troopers look like they were in the middle of a slow-motion stride. Plates and pouches jostled about with every step. Scott regularly spun around with his rifle up- half to make sure their retreat was secure, and to see just how close that shockwave was coming.
The answer? Well, Scott was an ODST for a reason, not a mathematician. He couldn't even begin to fathom the blast's speed. But no matter how you slice it, the sky sure was becoming a lot more blue than it had been a minute before. And what had it even done to Firenze? Had it gone and wiped off all life on the surface, just like that? Or was it just some sort of electromagnetic pulse that knocked out the power grid, and the people below were safe and sound? He wanted to believe the latter, but it was smarter to run like it was the other option.
By the time Duomo's last ridge gave way to the expansive flatland that was their evac point, helmets all shot upwards as their Pelican wailed above their heads. The bird had one of its wing's clipped, and Scott didn't like the look of those engine flares that seemed to wink out for the briefest of moments.
"That's our ride?" Scott heard Calson say in his helmet. "It's falling apart!"
"Feel free to walk home." Lloyd responded. The marksman and her were the first ones to reach the dropship. Once she saw the ship wasn't going to touch down- because it simply couldn't, or the pilot was just in a rush, Scott couldn't say, Lloyd sped up as hard as she could, and leapt onto the ramp. Calson tried doing the same, but the lip of the ramp caught his ankle, and made him fall flat on his face.
"You didn't see that!"
"Just strap in, and shut up!" Scott grabbed Calson's arm, and yanked him to his feet. The Pelican was already sailing away, and Calson fell into his seat more than anything as the craft listed to the side. The landing hatch groaned and screeched as it struggles to close, all the while Scott watched the strange, bird-like object.
When Wolf deployed from the Labe last, Scott couldn't help but imagine a very different atmosphere when they returned. Everyone must have, he supposed. This was meant to be the end of ROYAL FLUSH, the end to a nearly year long covert campaign. And the end of three terrible reigns of evil. There should have been celebration, well deserved R&R, and even an optimistic future left for the independent people of Firenze to grasp.
But none of that happened.
Unease hung in the air of the hangar like a dense fog when Wolf filed in. Without their silver-mirrored faceplates, the dread, exhaustion, and simple confusion was all too obvious on their faces. Marines murmured and whispered among themselves, desperate to know what happened. Which was a question weighing heavily on Scott and his team as well. And they'd been there when the attack happened. Or at the very least, they had a front row seat. And truth be told, he was every bit lost as they were.
"ALL NON-ESSENTIAL PERSONNEL, REPORT TO THE CRYOBAY AND PREPARE FOR SUSPENDED ANIMATION. REPEAT, ALL NON-ESSENTIAL PERSONNEL, REPORT TO THE CRYOBAY AND PREPARE FOR SUSPENDED ANIMATION."
"Forerunner?" He heard Calson whisper, the question pointed more at Lloyd. After years of years of getting away with talking out of line, the marksman had developed an almost superhuman ability to form whole coherent words and sentences without moving his mouth. It was nice to know that if a career in the Corps didn't pan out, the man could always pursue his true calling as a ventriloquist.
"Gotta be, right Doc-" In the language of Lloyd, a sudden elbow jab in the gut was simultaneously an affirmation, and a signal to shut his trap.
Forerunner. During the war, the very notion of some ancient alien civilization that was more advanced than even the Covenant was likely to land you in a psyche eval. But in the years that followed, what was originally a myth spoken only in half-jest or in the ravings of a lunatic soon became an accepted part of reality. As did the giant ringworld superweapons that the common man most often associated them with.
But like most in the UNSC, Wolf's first experience with anything Forerunner related came during the Requiem Campaign. Right before they and the rest of Group Seven had been split off from the Infinity to carry out ROYAL FLUSH. And while the brass was more than happy to throw as many marines, troopers, and Spartans as possible in order to prevent Forerunner tech from falling into Covie hands, damn it if they were going to tell any boots on the ground what all their fighting was for.
Though there was one thing Scott could say for certain: he sure as hell never saw anything like the object that struck Firenze. Had there even really been a "strike"? Were the people of Firenze still alive? Confused, wounded, crying out for help- but still breathing? Or had death come as quickly and quietly as whatever happened in New Phoenix back in '57? Scott wasn't sure which option was better. Nor was he sure if he'd ever know.
Damn it. The people of Firenze hadn't liked Cross and his New Colonial Alliance friends any more than the UNSC did. They just wanted to be left alone. And while that may have ruffled the feathers of those who wanted a reunited human empire, Scott could at least respect that.
Of course, fat lot of good his "respect" did them.
Damn it, damn it.
"Dang it..." Scott heard the words ever so faintly from Brandt's direction. Normally, during stuff like this, Brandt would try and be as unassuming and draw as little attention to his self as possible. Which was hard to do when you were by far the largest man in the division, with a head so cleanly shaved you could practically see yourself in it. Verbal outbursts, even quiet meek ones like this, just weren't like him. He simply didn't have the "courage", or rather, stupidity like Calson did to so blatantly speak out of line. Though one quick glance at Wolf-Two's face, and it was clear that he was feeling every last bit of frustration and powerlessness that his leader was.
Scott leaned slightly, nudging Brandt's huge frame subtly with his elbow. The mountain of a man inhaled through his nostrils in surprise, before straightening himself. There may not have been much any of them could do for Firenze and its people. There may not have been much any of them could do about Cross and his friends potentially getting away. But Scott would be damned if there wasn't anything he could do for his team.
It had been cold back on Duomo. It was cold on the Pelican back. But when Scott climbed into the cryopod in nothing but his birthday suit, it was strangely warm. Comforting, even. Perhaps more than anything, he was just thankful to not have to be awake anymore. To not have to think, anymore. If he could help it, he'd rather not find out what today had amounted to.