___________________________

  DO MORE WITH LESS

  Determined to finish what they came for, or die trying, the two Skydivers once more stacked up on the stairs and made their way upwards. The ninth floor had been hit hard by Saberi, reducing whatever had been here and within range to debris and rubble.

  There were a couple of corpses strewn about, but it seemed that the ninth floor hadn’t had too many occupants, prior to Mk.29 suppression. Jackson made an effort to eye the corpses for something that stuck out to him but couldn’t spot anything substantial.

  It was all either more of the usual X-rays he’d seen, or the corpses were so mangled by shrapnel and explosives that not much was left for proper identification.

  This same picture repeated on the tenth, with only two corpses around this time.

  Jackson started pondering on the alien strategy and if they might’ve split their forces two-ways. One to descend into the lower floors and meet the Skydivers head-on, the other to retreat towards the roof and secure their bigger guns.

  The eleventh was much of the same, featuring one or two dead-aliens, though it looked more like these ones would’ve simply alerted the upper floors of the Skydiver’s arrival. None of them were in any favourable positions for an ambush.

  And there were no enforcers around either.

  If there was one thing Jackson had surely learned about their enigmatic foe tonight, it was that the enforcers led from the front, surely because of the protection offered by their suits and not any kind of courage or willingness to ‘lead by example’.

  Shaking his head, Jackson steered his focus back to the important detail: lack of enforcers, meant that they weren’t encountering the real deal.

  Where whatever that plasma spewing nightmare - that had obliterated the nearby buildings - was, it would surely be joined by enforcers.

  Find the squiddies and they’d find their goal.

  The twelfth was also deserted. Yet, as Jackson’s hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, a shiver crawling its way down his spine, the corporal held up, signalling for Heermann to halt.

  The two Skydivers came to a stop at the stairs, right before the landing that would bring them unto the twelfth-floor proper.

  “Remind me again Fred, how many floors are we dealing with?”

  “Sixteen… well I guess technically speaking seventeen if you want to count the roof as a ‘floor’ as well.”

  “Means we’re coming close to whatever ‘gun’ we’re dealing with. You also feeling it?”

  Heermann held up a bit, perhaps pondering the question for a second, before mumbling: “It’s too quiet…”

  “Way too fucking quiet. We’re getting close.”

  Jackson wasn’t one for superstition… but he did believe in instinct.

  To an outsider the difference between the twelfth floor and the ones before it wouldn’t have been noticeable.

  It had been quiet ever since their scuffle with the hornet and the plasma-spewer attack.

  But this was different. There was intent to this silence. Something was waiting for them on the thirteenth floor.

  “So… what do we do?”

  Heermann was still in position on the stairs, aiming his rifle forward without turning back to Jackson.

  “Same plan as before. Satchel, breach, aggression… -” Jackson then tapped on Heermann’s shoulder, signifying that he was going past and taking point in their little two-man formation.

  “- just this time, with more ‘Bumm’.” With that, the corporal motioned to the bag hanging off his hip, with his remaining plastic explosives.

  “The whole charge?!”

  “Ain’t got nothing to lose. Now follow my lead.”

  Thusly, Jackson motioned forward and fully entered the twelfth floor, sweeping his angles, before standing still and eying the ceiling.

  Unnerving silence, unbothered and unwavering, even in the presence of the two Skydivers. It felt like the entire building was holding its breath, anticipating what was to come.

  But it seemed this time their enemy had picked up on the benefits of staying put. No dust being rattled, no plaster falling from the ceiling, no large thuds reverberating through concrete and steel.

  Heermann walked up, tapping Jackson’s shoulder, before forming a ‘hook’ with his index finger, clenching the other fingers into a fist.

  ‘Bait’

  Jackson held still for a moment, pondering what exactly his teammate had in mind. Part of him wasn’t sure if he should disagree, motion for Heermann to wait, or consider another option.

  But it seemed that his instincts had made the decision for him.

  Jackson nodded.

  Heermann nodded back. The corporal could only imagine the grin that was hidden behind the colonial’s visor as he shuffled past Jackson towards one of the apartments.

  Following Heermann’s lead, Jackson took up position behind the German, as the two of them swept clean another apartment, angles, corners and furniture all revealing nothing but more dust and darkness. This one also followed the same layout as the ones below, with perhaps some nicer furnishing. Past the thirteenth floor though, the two of them would come into contact with the larger studio apartments, as well as their different layouts.

  None of it seemed to bother Fred though, as the trooper simply eyed around the apartment for something. And, evidently, he found it in the kitchen.

  A ceiling vent, placed right over the stoves, intended to be pulled out during cooking and draw in steam, fumes and other results from cooking. Seeing that, it clicked in Jackson’s mind what Heermann was up to: easy access to ventilation and a way to make a lot of noise.

  Without hesitation, Fred climbed the kitchen counter, pulling the ceiling vent out. With the colonial doing his best to not disturb the peace too much, even as he was deconstructing perfectly fine hardware, it took him a few minutes to get the covering off and expose vent-access right behind it.

  Thusly, pulling a grenade from his chest-rig, the trooper first felt the inside of the vent a bit, seemingly finding it to his satisfaction.

  Then, Heermann pulled the pin, though without releasing the lever on the grenade: It was hot, but not yet going to blow.

  Fred then pointed to Jackson, motioning with his hand towards the exit of the apartment, after which he cupped his hand next to his ‘ear’ by the helmet.

  ‘Go listen’

  Agreeing wordlessly, Jackson made his way back to the staircase, taking a knee on the platform and began listening for what was to come.

  Even outside of the apartment, Jackson’s ears pricked up when he heard the distinctive ‘clank’ of a grenade’s lever being removed. Drilled in exercises crawled up from his mind’s recesses, telling him to crouch down just a bit further, tug his head in-between his shoulders and clutch his rifle tightly.

  The explosion, as was to be expected, was loud. Incredibly so, as it violently reverberated throughout the building’s ventilation system, bouncing through the maze of winding pathways. Even the fragmentation released from it went on their merry way, kicking away from surface to surface, some lodging themselves into metal, others ricocheting off steel and whistling as they twisted and cut through air.

  Just as quickly as Heermann’s little orchestra had made itself audible, just as quickly was it swallowed up by the silence. But the building remained anything but silent.

  As if on command, Jackson could hear footsteps from above them.

  First smaller ones, probably from the more humanoid aliens, like the birds, cats or even the faceless men.

  Something larger, bounding in large steps.

  Then something even heavier, stomping in an even, unnaturally perfect rhythm. Likely the leaders.

  And finally, Jackson could hear it again, the same stomping of something enormous, just as he had before Saberi and Crivello’s positions were attacked.

  It lumbered with a certain heft, but without any kind of sluggishness. Every step was calculated and had clear intent behind it.

  Nothing natural moved like that, that much was painfully obvious.

  And it wasn’t humanoid. Jackson wasn’t entirely sure if he counted correctly, but that larger beast must’ve at the very least been a quadruped.

  The flurry of steps continued on for minutes, with Jackson mentally and physically following the larger beast above them. The way plaster rained down with each step, the soldier was sure it was directly above them.

  Quietly, Jackson thanked his instincts and training.

  Just one floor further up and they would’ve landed directly inside the belly of the beast.

  Their chances were never good, but at least now they were marginally better.

  After a few minutes, the stomping came to a stop, just above a living room pointing out towards the north-western tower, still light up by errand flames consuming it from the inside out.

  Jackson for his part waited for another minute but soon found that their tower had returned to that same stillness.

  No errand echoes were left from his teammate’s grenade to break the silence.

  The aliens had been stirred into motion, but now found themselves waiting on the follow up of Heermann’s little distraction.

  Though the way that deliberate silence had immediately returned sent alarm bells ringing inside the trooper’s head.

  Worse still, it wasn’t just the bells this time. Shivers crawled down Jackson’s back, joined by the straining of muscles and the need for release, while his nerves were straining themselves to maintain the relative calmness that kept him able to operate.

  Part of him had hoped the aliens would stay in some kind of frenzy or even move to engage the Skydivers on their floor.

  Instead, they had decided to stay put.

  Alien or not, their opponents weren’t dumb. Lesser troops would’ve become panicked at the sudden burst of noise, wanting to find its source and establish safety as quickly as possible.

  But not here.

  They recognized that it was upon the humans to make a move.

  Both sides knew that they were at best separated from each other by nothing more than a layer of concrete and steel, potentially only centimetres away from each other.

  And yet, the invaders kept to that unnatural quietness.

  Nothing like the Militia on Lumen. Nothing like the Insurgents they faced during the continued occupation of that godforsaken moon. Nothing like the leaderless aliens out on the streets.

  Clicking his earpiece, Jackson activated his coms:

  “Heermann, change of plans.”

  “I know… too quiet. So, what’s the change?”

  “Forget about the breach. We’re bringing them to us. I’ll blow the charges on whatever’s stomping around up there. That’ll probably bring down the entire room with it, so we just take out whatever comes down with it.”

  “And then?”

  That was the tricky part. Jackson didn’t immediately answer Heermann but instead looked around the apartment as his mind started racing.

  Only way up was via the stairs. Elevators were still out.

  The colony on Odessa was too new to be using any kind of combustible gasses in their buildings, it was likely all electrical and powered by the local singularity-core. So, no gas leak either.

  Without power, that also excluded electrical fires.

  But then, Jackson’s mind returned to those elevators.

  And from a spinning vortex of ideas and images, emerged the memory of him climbing up the elevator-shaft together with Halya.

  What were the chances of the fourteenth floor also being occupied? Jackson could do little more than guess.

  Yet, as slim as their chances were, there was little else they could do. Climbing the shaft to the thirteenth would leave whoever did it dreadfully exposed in the middle of the staircase.

  From the fourteenth, there was at least a chance for them to turn the engagement into their favour.

  The crackling of his coms-device was still in his ear, beckoning Jackson to get on with his decision already.

  “Fred, think you could climb the elevator shaft?”

  “‘Could’ is not the issue here Patrick. Moreso the why. Planning on sending me into the meatgrinder?”

  “Less grinder, more pincer. If you can get them from the fourteenth while they’re busy with me down here, that’ll give us a better chance.”

  “And what if the fourteenth is also occupied?”

  “Fuck if I know… you got a better idea?”

  “Other than just calling all of this off and running away? No… not really. Alright… get the charges ready while I sort out the elevator.”

  With that, Jackson unpacked the plastic explosives from their little duffle-bag.

  Vx-9, still based on the classic RDX formula from back on earth but modified to be better usable in different atmospheric environments.

  Most important to Jackson’s current situation though, was its shared characteristics with its ancestors, to the point of being easily malleable like wet clay.

  Thusly, the corporal got to work on unpacking the Vx-9 from its individual packages and clumping them together.

  Though, despite his boasting to Heermann, Jackson knew better than to put all his eggs in one basket and stashed away three of the Vx-9 packets into his chest-rigging.

  Big ‘Kaboom’ or not, there were undoubtedly more horrors waiting for him. All of which deserved a quick death by either bullet or sudden explosion.

  “Elevator looks fine… starting my climb. How is it on your end, Patrick?”

  “Package is ready to go. Make sure to hold on tight to something… this’ll probably shake the entire building.”

  Jackson could then hear Heermann mumble something in German through the communicator, his voice carrying a fascinating mix of indignation, frustration and amazement.

  A moment later, the German sighed and simply replied: “Copy that. Holding on. For dear life no less.”

  The corporal though was unimpressed, chastising his teammate: “Less bitching, more working. Detonation in five.”

  With Jackson’s little explosive surprise prepped, the corporal connected the detonator, zipped the duffle-bag closed and moved to put it in place.

  Just like last time with Heermann, the plan was to put the charge on the ceiling… with the difference that instead of a room, Jackson was likely to bring down the entire apartment.

  Moving another table into place, the corporal deftly climbed on top of it. The light fixture right in the middle of the Livingroom looked sturdy enough to hold the package, with Jackson planning on clenching it between the fixture and ceiling.

  Though just as Jackson was pushing the bag into place, could he hear something shifting directly above him.

  A slight shuffle.

  More creaking.

  For a second, he wondered if maybe they’d realized. That they caught wind.

  The creaking stopped.

  Then, something in the ceiling exploded. Bright light filled Jackson’s vision as white fire violently blasted through concrete and steel.

  Plasma. An enforcer.

  It was shooting at him from upstairs.

  More white-hot death rained through from the ceiling, with Jackson practically flinging himself off the table as more and more plasma rained down.

  The table was immediately turned into scrap, the light fixture blasted and the bag… the bag!

  Jackson’s eyes snapped to the duffle-bag as it was flung away, surrounded by dust and smoke.

  Without much thought, the Trooper sprang to his legs, frantically avoiding plasma as it uncaringly tore its way through the apartment, splinters and cinders pouring down on the Skydiver.

  The hole in the ceiling had grown wide enough that Jackson could catch glimpses of the things waiting for him upstairs. An enforcer. Another that stepped out of view. And something… else. Something big.

  Without time to process, time to think, to deliberate, weigh options, Jackson fully relied on his instincts to make the right choice.

  He grabbed the bag, clutched it to his chest, ran across the apartment, which now resembled the surface of the moon, rather than a living space, and moved under the hole.

  And with all the energy he could muster, he tossed the bag of explosives upstairs.

  And ran.

  Ran as fast as he could.

  Past the table’s remains, past the kitchen and down the hallway that led towards the apartment’s entrance.

  As if on autopilot, Jackson’s finger clenched down on that detonator.

  And he was greeted by a bright flash.

  …

  Well, for one Jackson knew he wasn’t dead.

  His own laboured breathing confirmed that. That, and the pain he currently felt in his everything.

  If his life hadn’t been in immediate danger, the soldier would’ve considered in what truly great times he was living in.

  Enough bitching though…

  With a grunt, Jackson heaved a piece of rubble off of himself, the concrete slowly making way as the soldier pushed it aside. Landing next to him with a loud thud, the debris kicked up more dust, mixing together with the thick soup that was engulfing everything around the trooper. Patting himself down, Jackson felt his way across his torso, down to his hips, back up to his arms, his shoulders and lastly his helmet. Far as he could tell, everything was where it belonged.

  Though as his eyes focused, he made acquaintance with a large crack right on his visor. It hadn’t been completely broken and the HUD that was being projected unto it still worked, aside from the occasional flicker.

  The crack had made its way from the top of the visor, around where Jackson’s forehead was, downwards and slightly to the left, ending at around where his left cheekbone was. Running a gloved finger across it, it wasn’t deep enough to be noticeable, the outer surface of his visor retaining its relatively smooth surface.

  As irritating as it would be to have that crack in his vision, Jackson was sure his eyes would filter it out soon enough.

  The soldier grunted in annoyance and kicked another pile of debris away from himself. Yet, as he did, Jackson’s instincts piqued up, when his eyes caught motion in the soup of dust and smoke.

  Visibility was even worse than it had been the last time they’d pulled this stunt, with the remains of the apartment completely swallowed in a tide of kicked up dust, dirt and smoke, all mixing together and reducing visibility to barely a metre and a half in front of himself.

  But even then, beyond the kicked-up ash, Jackson could see shadows faintly moving inside the ruined Livingroom.

  Setting aside his task of freeing himself from the rubble, Jackson instead started feeling around for his rifle. The shadows were meanwhile still stumbling around, clearly shaken from the explosion and subsequent fall. Jackson couldn’t quite make out what they were, though they looked humanoid enough.

  For what it was worth, the corporal wasn’t in the mood to play guessing games with aliens and so continued looking for his firearm. As far as he was aware, he was the only truly human thing left on this floor.

  Finally, his fingers bumped against a familiar shape.

  Pulling the MIX out from the rubble, Jackson quickly gave it a once over. It was scratched to hell, was covered in dirt and dust, the magazine that was in it had a rather disconcerting bump in it and the sight was covered in grime. But for what it was worth, it looked functional enough.

  At least the barrel wasn’t bent.

  Changing magazines and racking the bolt, Jackson switched over to Thermal on his visor and started counting the hostiles.

  Three separate shapes, stumbling around in the dark and dust.

  Even with the assistance of thermal, they were hardly more than blobs of heat surrounded by a torrent of noise. Wouldn’t matter, so he told himself.

  Just aim for centre-mass.

  Without any further pause, Jackson lined his sights up with his targets and pulled the trigger, putting a burst into each of the vague shapes, seeing them each drop like a sack of potatoes.

  Though after a quiet moment, another form came stumbling out of the dust. Crawling out of a pile of debris, the figure tossed rubble off of itself and stumbled to try and regain any kind of balance.

  With it being a bit closer, the soldier’s instincts flared up at recognizing an all too familiar shape.

  Two arms, two legs, proper human proportions and a head above the shoulders.

  One of those faceless men…

  For a moment that mockery of a human looked somewhat natural in its movement… the way it was stabilizing itself on its arm, trying to regain balance, swinging its arms to realign its centre of gravity, while swiping away dust from its face.

  Its face.

  There wasn’t a face.

  Images of what lied under there flashed briefly in Jackson’s mind. Any pity he could’ve felt for the creature stumbling through the dark immediately washed away and cold rationale took over, with Jackson quietly lining up his sights with the faceless man.

  It was still hunched over, clearly hurt. It probably would’ve been coughing if there was anything remotely left that could still cough. It then looked up towards Jackson. The smoothened, featureless mask that obscured a once human visage – or what remained of it – faced towards Jackson.

  Faintly, through the smoke, Jackson could see more of that black liquid oozing out of a hole in its helmet.

  The corporal pulled the trigger once more.

  The faceless man dropped silently, collapsing in on itself.

  And finally, Jackson actually allowed himself to relax his muscles. Even if only for a bit.

  Leaning back, the trooper let his head hang and simply exhaled in frustrated exertion.

  ‘Almost there… almost at the finish line’ so Jackson told himself.

  He could feel his limit approaching. Not just physical, but mental as well. The longest night on Lumen had been more bearable than these few hours on Odessa.

  The corporal shook his head and closed his eyes.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Focus.

  Activating coms, Jackson sent his voice into the void, towards Heermann: “Please tell me you survived that rumble…”

  Silence. Static. And then an answer: “I did. I’m just about to breach into the fourteenth floor. You, on the other hand, sound like hell. Wake up Patrick, you can die later. Preferably once we’re done.”

  Jackson didn’t even have it in him anymore to chuckle, so he simply exhaled in slight amusement, and countered: “Go fuck yourself. Do your job, don’t tell me how to do mine…”

  With that, the trooper unceremoniously deactivated coms again, not in the mood to hear whatever snide counter Heermann could think up.

  More importantly, Jackson finally had a moment to look at the situation regarding the rubble still pinning him down.

  His arms and upper torso were completely free, so was his right leg. There was still a rather large piece of debris on his left leg. With the prevailing numbness he could feel crawling all over his body, the corporal honestly couldn’t tell anymore if his leg had been crushed or not.

  One thing after another.

  Giving it a shot at simply heaving the piece of concrete off of his left leg, Jackson quickly came to realize that it was not only of a rather heavy sort but had also been wedged down on its far side by another piece.

  He wouldn’t simply have to lift the weight of one, but also the added weight pushing down on it from the rest of the rubble around.

  Kicking with his right leg again, Jackson managed to free a bit more space for it, after which he pressed his foot against a nearby piece of wall that had narrowly missed him during the collapse, pushing up and seeing if it held against him.

  It did.

  So, using that bit of leverage, Jackson pushed up against the rubble covering his left leg, pressing both of his arms against it, while also trying to squeeze himself out from under it with his right leg.

  The whole procedure was quite laborious, the corporal’s already abused body screaming under the pressure that was being added on top of it.

  Clenching his teeth, Jackson grunted as he gave the piece of concrete another push, kicking his right against the broken wall.

  He was moving, but slowly. Ever so slowly. Millimetre by millimetre, while his muscles felt like they were bathing in acid.

  Though Jackson was prepared to continue until he was finally free, a crashing nearby caught his attention.

  Concrete scratched against more concrete.

  Metal painfully screeched as it was bent out of shape.

  At first the trooper assumed that it had simply been another part of the upper floor collapsing down unto his.

  But then he saw it:

  First its arm, sticking out from between the rubble.

  The inhuman four-fingered hand, grasping for the heavens, its unnaturally long fingers flexing and relaxing.

  Then, its second arm, punching cleanly through a part of the ceiling that had come down.

  Both arms began ripping away at the rubble, making way for the monstrosity slowly emerging from the chaos.

  One of the enforcers.

  Barely four meters ahead of him, one of those beasts had been buried in rubble and was now freeing itself from its impromptu grave. More importantly, it was likely seconds away from realizing that Jackson was right there.

  “Shit… shit shit shit shit!”

  Jackson began throwing around expletives as he looked around for something that could help him.

  The MIX wouldn’t do.

  Grenades, might not be enough.

  The plastic explosives?

  He had kept a few of them for a case such as this.

  As a faint smile crept across Jackson’s face, he internally congratulated himself for actually being prepared for once. Though, as another loud crash reverberated to him from across the room, that jubilation quickly turned to panic.

  The enforcer had freed itself.

  Tossing aside rubble and debris, the monster stood to its full height, halting for a second, before grabbing its weapon out of a nearby pile.

  After that, it first turned back to where the other bodies were lying.

  Calmly, it then seemed to turn its attention to the ceiling, the egg-shaped torso sightly shifting upwards, as if it was simply inspecting the hole that it had fallen through.

  Then slowly, it turned towards the faceless man lying next to it.

  It remained still for a moment. A moment that dragged on in Jackson’s mind, seconds torturously crawling along, as if they were forcing themselves through a field of tar.

  His heart was beating at what felt like a thousand beats per minute.

  Jackson could faintly see the whiskers on top of the Enforcer’s armour. They were shaking, as if caught by a gentle gust of wind.

  Then they started bristling. And the monster turned towards Jackson.

  Though there were no eyes, no visage to emote with, no teeth to snarl at him with, Jackson could feel the hatred all the same. It was looking right at him. And he was stuck.

  Without any further hesitation, the Enforcer aimed its weapon towards Jackson. For a split-second the corporal had been able to see the buildup of energy inside the alien weaponry, the superheated plasma that would soon melt him down to his bones.

  Stuck like a deer in headlights, Jackson couldn’t do much as it came right for him.

  Plasma came his way, a white flash illuminated his form. But it missed. He wasn’t dead.

  The enforcer had fumbled, one of its legs getting caught in the rubble and the plasma that was supposed to spell his end, missed Jackson by a narrow margin, instead melting a piece of rubble right next to his head. Gripped by animalistic panic like never before, Jackson’s hands immediately shot down towards his rigging, to where he had left the other explosives.

  His fingers fumbled for a moment.

  Open the pouch, grab the explosive.

  The enforcer righted itself, dislodging its foot from the pile it had gotten stuck in. Jackson meanwhile was functioning on full autopilot.

  Attach detonator to explosive.

  Connect to trigger.

  The alien was aiming its weapon at him again.

  Prepare trigger.

  Without any further hesitation or much aiming, Jackson hurriedly chucked the piece of plastic explosive towards the Enforcer, immediately clamping down on the trigger and praying to whatever deity could hear him.

  Another explosion. More ringing. More chattering teeth.

  Jacksons senses were overstimulated, a circus of colours was playing behind his eyelids, his mind was racing with nonsensical thoughts and his lungs felt like they were on fire.

  Though what ripped the soldier out from this chaos wasn’t any kind of instinct or drilled in rationale.

  His eyes, once more, caught movement just ahead of him.

  In the shadows.

  A predator in the bushes?

  A tiger, stalking to rip his throat out while he was wounded?

  Why was he alone in this jungle?

  Focus.

  There was no light to protect him.

  No fire to ward off the shadows.

  Focus!

  Jackson blinked. The Tiger was no more. But the real beast was still there.

  The enforcer wasn’t dead.

  As Jackson fully blinked away the fog of panic, he realized what had happened. The explosive hadn’t killed the enforcer but simply caught it in its blast. For now, the alien was struggling with heaving another piece of the ceiling off of itself.

  Though even now, the corporal’s eyes caught a glimpse of the alien’s weapon, sticking out from under the rubble and pointing towards Jackson.

  Acting on pure adrenaline, Jackson ducked away to his left, clutching the piece of rubble still pressing down on his left leg and making himself as small as possible.

  Just in time too.

  A moment later, Plasma violently impacted the ground next to him, slagged concrete and metal raining down on his coat and uniform.

  Once again, time was very much of the essence.

  Though Jackson couldn’t make sense of the whirlwind in his head, he still had control of his hands and grabbed another Vx-9.

  Unpack it.

  Attach detonator to explosive.

  Another shot rang out from the Enforcer, hitting right next to Jackson.

  The Vx-9 was gone.

  He had dropped it.

  With shaking fingers and ragged breath, Jackson clawed at the explosive, managing to close his fist around it long enough to stop it from slipping out again.

  Connect detonator to trigger.

  Prime trigger.

  The enforcer had finally freed itself, violently chucking the piece of ceiling it had been grappling with into a nearby wall. It was now or never. Jackson’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His heart wouldn’t stop beating.

  His mind wouldn’t stop racing.

  THROW IT!

  Finally, the corporal had managed to will his body to function, chucking the explosive at the Enforcer. Once more, Jackson huddled together, making himself as small as he could and clamped down on the detonator as hard as he could.

  He hadn’t even heard the explosion. His senses had been stretched beyond their limit, beyond what his body could handle.

  What had once been the cacophony of battle, was now muffled and distant, as if he was hearing everything from a different room.

  All of it felt wrong. Dreamlike. Floating in a lake of tar, crawling along at a snail’s pace. Every meter was another journey in and of itself.

  …

  Concerningly though, he found it difficult to breathe. Why was he wearing this helmet?

  As his hands slowly found their way to his helmet, he could hear a voice, somewhere on the horizon, calling to him. They were screaming at him not to take it off. But why shouldn’t he? He needed to breathe.

  That was his issue. He couldn’t breathe. This damn helmet was in the way.

  He couldn’t think clearly either. If only somebody could help him make sense of this mess.

  Was he drunk? Hung over? Had, Heermann, Ihimaera and him gone too hard last night?

  It would certainly explain his headache.

  A splitting pain cutting through his skull, making it feel like his cranium was about to explode. Why even was he in uniform.

  And wearing this damn helmet?

  Must’ve been a prank. Or maybe some prick from the 2nd Regiment had convinced him in his drunken state to take up sentry duty. He would never hear the end of it.

  There was… something… pressing down on his leg.

  Suspicions of him being the victim of some kind of practical joke were bubbling up. Jackson pushed at whatever was pinning him down, while wriggling his way out of it.

  Damn helmet was still in the way.

  Why had he ever agreed to join the corps if he had to constantly wear this cumbersome bucket around on his head?

  But finally, something gave way, and Jackson was able to pull himself out, freeing himself from whatever had been pinning him to the ground like that. Must’ve been a supply box or something. Would explain the darkness. He couldn’t see anything.

  Didn’t his helmet have night-vision for this exact reason? Why wasn’t it working? Why was he even here?! Part of him wanted to start screaming for Heermann to just get over here and stop this nonsense.

  He must’ve been in on it, without a doubt.

  “One day I’m going to kill that German fu-”

  Jackson trailed off. Something in the corner was moving.

  Something big. Drilled in movement made him switch to night-vision. It still worked; he’d simply forgotten.

  His rifle was there as well. It had never left him, never left his grasp.

  He wasn’t in a supply room. He wasn’t in the barracks either.

  And in the corner of the room, something was moving.

  Squinting his eyes, Jackson looked at what it was in that dark corner. It must’ve easily been the size of an adult elephant, if not even bigger.

  Another piece of rubble fell away from it.

  Legs. Armour.

  Some kind of monster?

  As more rubble slid off of the creature, a massive monstrosity that Jackson could only describe as a mutated coconut-crab the size of a truck, revealed itself from between debris and smoke.

  Armour thicker than that of the enforcers. Legs, bigger than Jackson’s entire body, with claws at their end that bore themselves into concrete like nothing.

  Lastly, he could see something akin to a cannon on its back. Some unholy amalgamation of flesh, metal and wires haphazardly slapped together. And that black ooze pouring out of its orifice.

  A plasma spewer.

  Turning right towards Jackson.

  His legs were the first to move. The barrel of the ‘cannon’ light up, with that same white fire that he had learnt to fear. Right towards him.

  Basically throwing himself backwards, Jackson barely escaped the kiss of death, as the heat of the surface of the sun soared barely past him, licking at his coat and uniform.

  It impacted somewhere behind him, inside the staircase, obliterating whatever had been unfortunate enough to be in its way.

  Dust was kicked up. Shrapnel flung itself across the room and cut through his uniform into his flesh.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The heat. He could feel the heat.

  He was on fire.

  As Jackson rolled across the floor, the corporal practically jumped to his feet, driven by whatever adrenaline his broken body could still muster, stumbling away from the monster as it fired another shot, this time engulfing the spot he had been on a second ago, in hellfire.

  His coat was on fire. Death was gnashing its teeth at him again, the maw of the beast right behind him, ready to snatch him up and drag him to Tartarus.

  Tossing his MIX aside, Jackson screamed and scrambled as he ripped the Skycorps coat off of himself, still engulfed in flames from the plasma, tossing the poncho away into the darkness.

  Images of the burns caused by Plasma, Napalm and White Phosphorus penetrated Jackson’s mind.

  But he wasn’t on fire.

  Not anymore.

  Yet there was no time, or even place for any kind of rejoice. Though Jackson managed to break line of sight with the crab-tank, running past the blasted remains of the apartment entrance and into the greater staircase, it was very much active. And it was moving.

  The lumbering of its steps could be felt through the entire floor, moving methodically along through the rubble.

  This thing had his scent and no doubt enough initiative to follow up on trying to murder him.

  As Jackson’s sprint came to a temporary halt, he tried his best to get his mind into some kind of cohesion. Now wasn’t the time for panic, but instead the time to come up with something, anything, in order to defeat the beast.

  But the spiralling remains of his brain wouldn’t have it. As much as Jackson was hammering against his chest, he couldn’t stop the hyperventilating, nor the utter ferocity with which is heart was clashing against his ribcage.

  It was a miracle he had enough control over his own body to not wet himself. Taking control? Out of the question.

  Every centimetre of his body was covered in cold sweat, sticky to the touch and clinging desperately to his clothing. His muscles were either burning or feeling like they’d been stretched thin. His eyes were watering, tearing up from the stress, with the most Jackson could do, was to blink and try to ignore the tears.

  And his mind… his mind.

  He tried again and again to find some kind of anchor to hook unto and find his footing again. But nothing would hold. Either Jackson was overwhelmed by physical sensations or found himself stuck in a feedback loop of telling himself to do something, before countering that he had run out of aces up his sleeves.

  Much more than anything, he just wanted to run away.

  Safety, of any kind, was what his mind ached for.

  At least on that front though, something inside his rationale still found the energy to object. Even if it was just the drilled-in notion that a skydiver wouldn’t run away, Jackson took it. Any kind of stability was something he’d hold unto for dear life.

  Holding on…

  Holding…

  Jackson’s arms shot down to his rigging and the pouches where he’d placed the Vx-9. Three.

  He had three of the explosives left. Three shots. Three strikes.

  Suddenly, as if he’d been given a rope to cling on, Jackson could feel himself climbing out of the mental morass he’d been close to drowning in. He was still in this fight. He could still survive.

  Renewed will to fight gripped his soul and Jackson asked his body for another task. Even if he’d break his bones by sunrise, Jackson was beyond caring.

  For now, all that was left to do was act.

  Step one. Retrieve his MIX.

  Using this wave of vigour, Jackson retraced his steps, hurriedly jogging back down the room to where he’d tossed away his coat. Amidst that chaos, he found the rifle, lying on the floor, patiently waiting for him.

  The lumbering monster from just around the corner was still coming his way. Its steps a foreboding countdown to a final confrontation.

  Step two. Kill the beast.

  Stepping forward towards the corner leading to that oversized crab, Jackson proceeded to ready another explosive. It was right around the corner, reverberations of its steps shaking Jackson down to his core, a pit forming in his stomach and his teeth clattering.

  But he didn’t let it get to him.

  With explosive and detonator primed, Jackson rounded the corner, tossing the Vx-9 right towards the lumbering monster.

  Yet, the Skydiver had little time to verify how and where the explosive had landed. Just as he had tossed the explosive, came another shot from the beast’s cannon, Jackson barely evacuating the corner before it too was vaporized.

  Pressing down on the detonator, Jackson flung himself down unto the ground, as yet another explosion racked the already heavily abused twelfth floor, apartments and staircase little more than rubble after the skirmish.

  Still, Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. The night wasn’t over, but at least he had bought himself another minute.

  Or so he would’ve thought. As Jackson was preparing to take a moment, a wall behind him exploded in a violent display of white fire, molten metal and slagged concrete.

  Followed immediately by that very same stomping from before.

  The beast still lived.

  Step Three. Think up a Plan B. Fast.

  Jumping back unto his feet, Jackson ran for one of the apartments, seeking cover from the mutant lobster, as it lobbed more plasma his way, melting down about half the staircase on the twelfth floor.

  Practically hurling himself around a corner, Jackson managed to at least put a few walls between himself and that hellspawn, just in time as it spewed more plasma his way.

  “Jackson! Jackson, do you copy? What the fuck is going on down there!?”

  Heermann’s voice was crackly, fighting over the static. No doubt, Jackson’s coms-device had taken a hit during the chaos.

  “Jackson, do you copy?! Talk to me already!”

  At least with Heermann yelling in his ear, Jackson had a relatively easy time concocting Plan B.

  While he had turned the corner to toss the explosive at that mutant crab, Jackson had gotten a better look at it. Just as with the Enforcers, beneath and between the armour was something that looked undeniably organic. Synthetic flesh maybe? It didn’t matter.

  What was more important was what he’d seen: Its underside was unarmoured.

  Just like with certain beasts back on Earth, the monster’s belly was exposed. So, all he’d need to do, was get close enough to attach a Vx-9 to its belly.

  Relatively speaking, an easy task. If he’d been in less pain and in a better mood, Jackson might’ve even found it in him to laugh.

  “Jackson!”

  “I can hear you! Now shut the fuck up and follow my instructions! That Plasma spewer is still alive. Giant crab, four legs, armoured and has a big fucking cannon on its back. Its belly is vulnerable though. Get down to the staircase on the thirteenth floor and grab its attention. I’ll do the rest…”

  “… copy that.”

  Hammering his fist against his sternum, Jackson was trying to muster what little courage and energy his body could provide.

  Though his attempts at hyping himself up fell rather flat, the corporal could still feel the wonders of fresh air entering his lungs. Even if it was technically filtered by his helmet, the sensation of clarity finally bought him some proverbial breathing room. Room to think. Room to act.

  A room further down in the apartment exploded in white fire.

  Evidently, that oversized lobster was making it its personal mission to tear down the twelfth floor.

  “I’m moving in, Heerman. Make it quick. Don’t think my luck’s holding out for much longer…”

  With that, Jackson gathered everything he had and began his sprint, running through the apartment he was in, out into the staircase. He currently found himself on the south-western side of the building, with the crab across from him to the eastern side. Right on the other side of the massive gap the creature had created with its wanton destruction.

  He’d have to take the long way around.

  Digging the charge out of his rigging, the corporal held it at the ready to finally put that oversized lobster out of its misery.

  Sprinting up towards the northern side, Jackson ran as fast as he ever had in his life, narrowly escaping another blast from the beast, sliding down to avoid some debris as more of the twelfth floor was collapsing all around him.

  It was a miracle the damn building was still holding together.

  Still, miracles aside, Jackson hurled himself into one of the apartments on the northern side of the building. Another crash, another impact of burning plasma against weakened steel.

  Jackson kept running, as another veil of dust was swiftly kicked up by the impact, quickly engulfing him and his surroundings.

  Continuing his dash, Jackson hoped to weather the storm and simply run through the barrage on his sights and senses.

  But not this time.

  He realized it too late. At first, he’d thought he’d simply lost his footing, twisted his foot or something. But it wasn’t him who had lost balance.

  The floor was shifting.

  The apartment he was in was collapsing, steel bending under unprecedented pressure, concrete cracking and furniture collapsing.

  Jackson attempted to keep moving, but before he knew it, he was on the floor, rolling around as more and more sounds joined the cacophony.

  At first, he wasn’t sure which way he was falling. Then he heard the shattering of glass.

  As the world continued spinning, Jackson tried holding onto something, but nothing was making sense. Things were flying away from him as he reached out, flying towards him as he retreated and simply dancing around him as he tried to grasp what was happening.

  Like being stuck in a giant tumble dryer, Jackson couldn’t do anything as his reality continued spinning.

  Only through sheer animalistic instinct was his hand able to grasp something.

  As steel cut into his gloves, Jackson found himself hanging unto dear life, clinging unto the remains of a window frame, furniture raining past him down towards New Poltava’s streets.

  Holding on now with both hands, the corporal commanded his burning muscles to hold on, to pull out whatever they could scrape out of the reserves of energy that were still left.

  The piece of window frame he was hanging unto – little more than a thin steel beam, bent outwards away from the building – was creaking under the added pressure, slowly bending in a way that was not meant to be endured by the material.

  Jackson didn’t even make the effort to look down to the abyss that awaited him below. His eyes and mind were set fully on the task of pulling himself up.

  Pulling himself away from certain death.

  Vertigo was in full effect as his entire body was shaking.

  But his arms alone weren’t enough. Jackson could feel his limbs trembling, wishing to be finally relieved. Without much footing, the trooper was left with his feet dangling, trying desperately to find some kind of footing.

  Kicking his legs around, the corporal could feel the tip of his right boot brush against something. Concrete, steel, glass, it didn’t matter, as long as it was a potential foothold.

  The inside of his throat felt like it was torn to shreds, that all too familiar, metallic, taste of blood bubbling up from below, as his breathing strained his insides.

  Yet, as his boot finally met with the piece of wall, some small hold to give him support, Jackson was met with a crash from up above. His eyes shot forward, beyond the broken window-frame, into the dusty and blotchy darkness of the tower’s inside.

  Finally, he spotted it: a piece wall from the apartment’s remains had dislodged itself. Tumbling down the slope that had once been the twelfth floor.

  And it was headed right for him.

  Simply lunging forward, Jackson launched himself blindly ahead, praying that something would hold him, arms outstretched and fingers grasping.

  He did find something.

  While broken glass pushed through his uniform and cut into his skin, while razor-sharp metal edges punched through his gloves and into his hands, while his right leg was painfully twisted and pressing against a broken piece of wall… he had found something to hold unto.

  As Jackson pressed himself against the shattered remains of the windows, the piece of concrete and steel rushed past him, crashing through whatever had remained of the building’s outside and flinging itself into the darkness.

  Finally, the soldier allowed himself to look down, following the debris with his eyes as it plunged into the abyss.

  His stomach immediately turned upside down at the height he was at, as well as the flimsy grip that was the only thing standing between him and a grisly death.

  Splattered against wet pavement, little more than meat and bones…

  Laboriously dragging himself upwards, Jackson managed to get more and more of a grip, shaking away any errand thoughts of death via fall.

  First his hand found another piece of steel to latch unto. Then his feet found a ledge of concrete to press against. Another handhold. Then another. Then one more…

  Like dragging himself through mud or quicksand, Jackson pulled further, centimetre by centimetre, until he was finally away from the blackened abyss and back on solid ground.

  Even though said solid ground was little more than a pile of rubble, remains from the twelfth floor collapsed down unto the eleventh, sloped towards the gaping gash that was now scarring the side of their tower.

  As far as Jackson could tell, that oversized crab had hit the floor hard enough to bring two or even three apartments down entirely. Even now, pieces were raining down from up above, crashing against concrete nearby, before tumbling downwards.

  “Jackson?! Jackson what the hell just happened to the twelfth floor?! Sounds like the whole building is about to just… collapse!”

  Only now did Jackson notice that the Vx-9 he’d been holding was gone. Together with his MIX.

  Undoubtedly, they were now either down on street-level or crushed beneath tons of rubble. Jackson gently brushed his hand against the pouch that contained the last explosive charge.

  That was it.

  Strike two, one last one and he was out.

  Groaning, Jackson activated coms and cut off Heermann from his next tirade: “Still alive, still on my way. Fucking distract that oversized lobster so I can finally kill it! Over and fucking out!”

  With that, the soldier slammed his fist against a nearby piece of debris, cussing under his breath. Out of all the emotions and thoughts that were rolling around in his head right now, Jackson could only focus on one: He wanted that mutant coconut-crab dead.

  It was still stomping around up there, undoubtedly repositioning itself. At the very least, it had temporarily stopped pulverizing the twelfth floor.

  Jackson couldn’t tell how intelligent this thing was, or if it shared any kind of tactical ingenuity with its alien peers, but he wasn’t about to wait to find out.

  If that thing had some kind of sapience, it most likely assumed that he was dead, either buried under the rubble or splattered against the street. The element of surprise, it seemed, was once again on Jackson’s side.

  Rushing up the slope of destroyed walls and collapsed floors, Jackson clambered up to the same level as the staircase – itself looking worse for wear, the two hits it had received from the plasma spewer ripping rather large holes into the structure – and unto even ground.

  Crouching down next to the remains of one of the walls, Jackson peeked further beyond and into the actual staircase, where that monster was currently waltzing into, seemingly unbothered by the destruction it had caused. His last explosive was prepared and ready, connected to the detonator and ready to go.

  Once the safety was off, it was just a question of delivering the kill.

  Jackson was mumbling under his breath for Heermann to finally get a move on, wondering just what the hell was taking that colonial so long.

  Then, finally, Heermann started making some noise up above, first shouting some obscenities in German, before firing his gun at the Plasma Spewer. The monster, on the other hand, was quick to respond, simply angling its cannon upward and delivering a devastating blast to the thirteenth floor, ripping apart a chunk of that story, raining down more destruction unto the already abused remains of the twelfth.

  That was his window. There was no time for Jackson to wonder if Heermann had survived. No time to ponder if the Vx-9 would be enough. No time to speculate whether he’d get a safe distance in time.

  This was no time to think. No time for caution.

  Now… now he’d just have to run.

  With what little his body could offer, Jackson sprang out of his cover and sprinted towards the monster, it itself still aiming at the upper floor. He could see it, as it got closer, the flesh under the armour. Heaving mounds of muscle, dark green in colouration, filled with blisters, veins and sinew. And all those parts where flesh was mutilated by metal, wires brutally sticking through skin, darkened alloy shoving aside muscle to make way for weaponry.

  Rashes, infections and puss.

  As well as that black fluid.

  As Jackson continued running, it turned towards him. In its motion, he could see the way its ‘belly’ moved around with a certain heft. If this thing truly was fully bio-mechanical, then it had to have some way to store the plasma.

  Some place to keep the unionized gasses.

  Just like with any old tank, Jackson would simply detonate the ammunition. In theory, it sounded easy…

  Its cannon swung towards him, white light flaring up inside it, burning flames already creeping up the barrel, right towards the corporal.

  The devil was clawing for him, white-hot in his wrath.

  Acting fully on instinct, Jackson barely escaped the shot by rolling under it, keeping his momentum as he sprang back on his feet.

  He was right in front of the monster.

  It lifted its front-right leg to crush him under it. The massive claws that allowed it to dig into concrete were pointed right at his head.

  Without time to think, Jackson simply launched himself forward, leaping past the massive appendage and beyond it, barely making it past as it shot downwards, crashing violently against the floor.

  Catching his leap with another roll, Jackson primed the detonator, switching it off its safety. The small chirp delivered by it was like music to his ears, a small melody of victory amidst the chaos. He was almost there, just another hop away from being close enough to attach the Vx-9

  Deliver the bomb.

  Click the detonator.

  Kill the beast.

  Though the monster wouldn’t make it easy. Turning on the spot, the crab, despite its size and heft, had quite a shocking nimbleness to it, already swinging one of its legs right towards Jackson, at terrifying speeds.

  Kicking himself away from where he’d been standing, Jackson launched forward, then slammed himself against the ground, just in time to feel the massive appendage of that alien monstrosity swing by him, washing over him like a violent storm.

  As Jackson slid forward, still carrying momentum, he slapped the explosive against the fleshy underside of the spewer, after which he rolled across the ground, away from its underside and back unto his feet.

  With the speed of a sprinter about to reach the finish line, Jackson flew across the remains of the staircase, dodging rubble, debris and flames.

  As he threw himself onto the ground, painfully crashing against the concrete, Jackson pressed down on the detonator.

  And for a split second, the twelfth floor was blessed by the shine of a second sun, more brilliant than any light that had graced this tower, or even the entire city, before.

  A ball of pure light, glistening like a star formed itself out of the belly of the plasma spewer.

  In that moment, night had been turned to day, armour had turned to glass and flesh had turned to dust.

  Yet, as quickly as that light had appeared, it was quickly and mercilessly swallowed up by the darkness. In its stead, were smouldering remains, bits and pieces of what had once been a fearsome alien monstrosity, now little more than errand jigsaw pieces, separated by the slag at their edges. Everything that had been directly in the explosion though, had been vaporized.

  The beast was slain. The monster was dead. Death had been, momentarily, beaten back.

  As the dust settled, and a momentary quiet laid itself over the tower, Jackson and Heermann would successfully find each other up on the thirteenth floor. The twelfth was little more than rubble. Half of the eleventh floor had been crushed under the twelfth and the thirteenth was somewhere between obliterated and catastrophically restructured.

  But they’d survived. Against all odds, they had indeed survived.

  Heermann was thankfully no worse for wear, the Colonial having dodged the worst of it.

  His only comment to it all, aside from expletives thrown around in German, was: “Good lord…”

  “You can say that again… Come on, one last push and we’re done. You’ve got the gun, so you take point.” Jackson then pointed towards the stairs and the way up. They were so close. It was almost over. It was almost done…

  “Fourteenth floor is clear, far as I can tell. I think you got pretty much all of them in that last blast.”

  “Good…”

  Jackson was thoroughly done and in no mood for much Smalltalk, so he kept it to a minimum and simply pointed Heermann forward. The German nodded and proceeded upwards.

  As promised, the fourteenth was empty.

  The apartments here were in a class of their own, more luxury condos than just average ‘apartments’. Large rooms, luxurious furniture and generally more space. What was most noticeable, was that the ‘fourteenth’ floor, took up about as much space as two regular floors would have, since the luxury apartments had a bottom and top floor of their own. The windows were suitably massive as well, offering quite impressive views towards New Poltava. Jackson even noticed a piano in the corner of the Livingroom the pair had investigated.

  And by all accounts, this sort of place would’ve been amidst the more ‘modest’ showings of its class. It was a morbid sort of humour, the upper-class wealth turned into a warzone.

  Yet, at the very least it was quiet. After a night of horror and struggle, it was shockingly refreshing to finally have a moment to simply… take it all in. To not be forced to see the world through a narrow veil of adrenaline and panic.

  Thusly, the pair moved up to the fifteenth. Second to last floor. After that would come the sixteenth, then the roof. The end was in sight. Finally…

  Heermann for his part had been silent. The colonial wasn’t giving any of his usual remarks, or quips, simply sweeping angles and checking corners. Yet, as sparse as Heermann was on words, he was still telling an entire story in how he was moving. Jackson noticed just how tense his counterpart was and how his demeanour seemed to shift.

  Undoubtedly, something was disturbing his compatriot. After a moment of consideration, as the pair moved through another vast and richly decorated Livingroom, the corporal spoke up: “Something’s bothering you, Fred. What’s up?”

  Instead of answering though, Fred suddenly just… stopped. Just halted in his tracks and stood there.

  Surrounded by the quiet and darkened opulence of the luxurious studio apartment, the pair remained there for a moment.

  The silence wasn’t empty. There was weight to it.

  Whatever Heermann had been bottling up, it seemed like he’d deemed that the time had come to discuss it.

  Jackson had to think back to those remarks in the staircase. To Heermann’s troubling questions. Topics of survival were fairly normal for their line of work, but the German had always seemed unbothered by it.

  Yet, something about this operation specifically, had been bothering Heermann. Undoubtedly all of them were under a lot of pressure, but usually the colonial had a knack for keeping uncannily calm.

  Even amidst the worst that Lumen could offer, Heermann had kept a cool head amidst the heat of the chaos.

  Not now though.

  Now, the German was simply standing there, shoulder’s tensed, hand clenching around the pistolgrip of his rifle.

  Without turning to look at Jackson, Heermann started: “Still ‘sick and tired’ Patrick?”

  “Sick and tired doesn’t even begin to describe it Fred… I just want this shit to be over with…”

  “Sick and tired… heh… good choice of words. You know what I’m sick and tired of?”

  Suddenly, Heermann turned on the spot, facing Jackson, his features still hidden behind the opaque visor of his helmet.

  “I’m sick and tired of this -” Heermann spread his arms out and gesticulated towards the apartment. Without missing a beat, he continued: “Sick and tired of pretending. Sick and tired of the SCN. Sick and tired of you…”

  An accusatory finger shot forwards, pointed right towards Jackson’s chest.

  “Excuse me?”

  “But what I’m most sick and tired of, is the Skycorps… Oh yes, we’re the best of the best. And we showcased that on Lumen, didn’t we?!” Heermann’s voice was a concerning mix of bitterness, pain and condescension.

  Suddenly, it clicked for Jackson. Heermann was going on about it again.

  The corporal had hoped that his squadmate could leave it well enough alone, at least long enough for the two of them to finish their jobs and retreat somewhere safe.

  First the staircase. Then the apartment below. And now here. Seemed like the time had come for Fred to finally let loose the thing that’d been eating away at him.

  Fred’s body language made it clear that he was done with just ignoring this topic. His shoulders were raised, feet apart and posture aggressive.

  Clutching his rifle, Fred refused to take his eyes off Jackson.

  In all honesty, Jackson was actually surprised. Not even in the depths of Silquor had he ever seen his friend in a state like this. The trembling hands, the hastened breathing…

  “And they’ll keep doing it won’t they?! Because, how wondrous, now there are aliens to distract from the atrocities back on Lumen! To make everybody see the Skycorps for the glorious heroes that they are. Killing? Well, its fine and dandy as long as its Squiddies and their mutant friends, no?!”

  “Fred, you’re losing me, what’s this all about? Do you want people to call us babykillers for what happened on Lumen?”

  Audible frustration, as Fred groaned and shook his head.

  In a mixture of frustration and fury, he quickly clarified: “I want the Skycorps and the Coalition to take RESPONSIBILITY for what happened! For sending us into that hell! For forcing us to do the things that we did! For taking everything and giving nothing!”

  The sheer venom in Heermann’s voice was such that Jackson had never before witnessed. He knew that a lot of them had been… bothered… by what had happened on Lumen, but he’d always assumed that it had not affected Heermann. That it simply had slid off his icy exterior.

  He'd seemed fine.

  Inside the Capitol.

  After the fight for the spaceport.

  Inside Silquor.

  Even on top of that police precinct, Fred had been the one to pick Jackson off the ground, dust him off and tell him to keep moving.

  Yet here the colonial was – the same man that had endured Lumen without batting an eye - shooting an accusatory finger at the air, punctuating each point he made with desperate anger born from something that had been buried for far too long.

  Rationale be damned, something had caused that dam to burst.

  “But guess what, there’ll be none of that! Now, we won’t be the butchers of Lumen, but instead the heroic liberators of Odessa!-” The mocking tone was unmistakable, Fred putting on a shrieking tone when saying ‘liberators’. “Tell me, Patrick, what did thousands of us die for back on that fucking shithole?!”

  “For re-establishing Coalition leadership and their democratically elected leaders. Fred they were separatists!”

  “Yeah and for the crime of wanting independence, we murdered them!”

  “Are you sympathizing with the Rebels now?!”

  “No, I’m simply seeing this meatgrinder for what it is! We didn’t die for any democratic ideals! We died for the Coalition’s imperialism! To help them send a message to the colonies. Lumen wasn’t some precise operation; it was a fucking slaughterhouse meant to intimidate the other systems!”

  “Fred, you know that’s bullshi-”

  “Then why kill civilians!? HUH??!!”

  Patrick was getting heated, stepping forward and answering bitterly: “They weren’t civilians you fucking retard! They were militia! Rebels! Insurrectionists! They were trying to kill us!!”

  The corporal could feel his cheeks heating up, his teeth grinding against each other and his fists clenching.

  Being bothered by what had happened on Lumen was one thing. But saying that it was for… nothing?

  No. No, he couldn’t have that.

  He couldn’t accept that.

  They had fought for something.

  They had to have fought for something!

  But Fred didn’t look convinced. More than anything, he looked forlorn, quietly shaking his head, before simply asking: “You remember that boy? Nine years old… with the backpack?”

  Of course, Patrick remembered…

  The kid had walked up to a temporary checkpoint that their and another fireteam had set up. None of them even second-guessed it. A child, on their way to school… or maybe visiting family, friends, anything. Even in the middle of a warzone, life would have to go on right?

  The civilians had to live their lives?

  Next thing they knew, the kid had thrown the backpack towards them. And it exploded.

  As if on auto pilot, Patrick started describing the memory: “The explosion killed Cassidy. I remember the kid running. That little boy was sprinting away from us as quick as he could, aiming for a ditch nearby. Probably to disappear in some sewers or something.”

  Fred for his part stayed silent, letting Patrick spill it out.

  “I was… frozen. I remember thinking I should do something. But by the time my hands were finally moving, Ihimaera…-” it didn’t feel appropriate to use last names or honorifics. Back on Lumen, they were all brothers. All bonded. “No… Etana… had taken the shot. It happened so fast… one moment the boy was running, the next he was lying there, face down in the dirt. Blood… pooling around him.”

  Finally, Fred spoke up again: “And on the next combat patrol, an IED conveniently blew up as Etana was walking past it. Taking his legs… Two days later, we were calling in mortar strikes on a suspected rebel cell inside Silquor. Do you remember the bodies? Do you remember the kids?!”

  Of course, Patrick remembered. Every time he’d seen kids on their way to school while on leave, somewhere in the back of his mind he would see those images again.

  Little bodies, beneath rubble, blasted and burned. Some of them had been torn apart by the explosions. Some of them had simply been crushed under the debris. Others had suffocated in the smoke. And a few of them had survived the initial bombardment but had then succumbed to their injuries.

  Little arms and legs, strewn about…

  As tears were trying to force themselves out, Patrick violently shook his head and, with a cold fury, countered: “Listen Fred, I didn’t force the Insurrectionists to mix in with the civilian population and use them as meat shields! We had to retaliate! They were grinding us down!”

  “Are you saying we had to send a message?”

  Something snapped. With rage boiling in his insides, Patrick practically spit his words to his counterpart: “I’ve had it up to here with your shit, you know that?! What’s even gotten into you, you dumb fuck?!-” He then lunged forward and shoved Fred back. “Lumen’s behind us. We’re on a different planet. And if you can’t handle being in the Skycorps, then why the fuck did you come back?!”

  To that though, Fred actually… recoiled slightly. The question of ‘why’. If he was so critical of the SCN and the Skycorps, why come back?

  And with that, the air actually cooled a bit. Fred had taken a step back from Patrick, shoulders sagging as the colonial perhaps reconsidered.

  After a pregnant pause, surrounded by air that was heavy with guilt, anger, frustration and emotions that had been bottled up for too long… Fred spoke up again: “Back on Gaia… I met up with my sister and her son Andreas. I still remember, before Lumen, he’d looked up to me as a hero… said that one day he’d want to be like ‘Uncle Fred’. A brave man and warrior. But after Lumen? I could… see it. In the way that Michelle looked at me. The way all of them looked at me. Andreas wasn’t aware. He’s only ten… But… but she told me. Said that… that it’d perhaps be better for me to not see Andreas for a while. She didn’t want me… influencing him… radicalizing him. That she didn’t want him to… sign up with the SCN. Same with the others. Friends, family, you name them, they… looked at me. God how much I hate how they looked at me.”

  Fred’s voice was becoming shaky.

  “And the worst part is… they’re right! I am a killer! I see a target, I shoot it! That boy, with the backpack?! I had my sights on him! If Etana hadn’t shot him, I would’ve!-” Fred had gone from shakiness to full on screaming, bottled up torment pouring out of him. “I was ready for it! Because that’s what the Skycorps made me! But now… now they won’t see it! I’m still a killer, but a ‘good’ killer! Because I kill aliens! I didn’t feel anything when killing those people on Lumen! Didn’t feel anything today either! Yet for some reason, one’s better than the other…”

  As his voice trailed off, Fred shook his head, mashing his fist against it, furious at the unjustness of it all, yet unable to do anything about it.

  “It’s not fucking right! We’re not heroes! We’re killers! But now they’ll never see it! Won’t see us for what we are!”

  “Fred, you can’t be-”

  “You said it yourself! You wouldn’t know… you just get paid to kill people! That’s all we are. That’s all we’ll ever be! That is why I came back. Because where else can I go?!”

  “That’s not-”

  “You shot Langstrom!” This time it’d been Fred’s turn to shove Patrick, violently pushing him backwards. Though that wasn’t all.

  In a moment of unbridled rage, Fred had seemingly made a choice… and Patrick was met with a sight that… mere hours ago… would’ve seemed inconceivable to him.

  The colonial had brought his rifle up and was now aiming at Patrick.

  It wasn’t the first time that he was staring down the barrel of a gun. It wouldn’t be the last either.

  But it was the first time that he was staring down the barrel of someone he considered a brother in arms.

  A compatriot. A friend…

  In a whisper, Fred finally revealed his accusation: “We all saw it on the recording… zero fucking hesitation. You saw there was nothing to be done to save him, so you took the shot. Straight between the eyes…”

  Patrick was backing up, slowly raising his hands in a calming gesture. Yet, Fred was having none of it, keeping his rifle trained on what was ostensibly his teammate.

  “Langstrom was screaming bloody murder, yet there you were, calmly taking the shot. Got him like he was just another target on the range. Like he was just another insurrectionist on Lumen. Like he was just another alien…”

  Moments that the two had shared back on Lumen came to mind.

  The starport in the Capitol. The road to Silquor. The roof of the precinct. The flight off of Lumen.

  Those few times that had seemed like stars in a sea of a hopeless void. Moments Patrick had been allowed to share with his friends. His brothers. Cassidy. Etana. Fred.

  But now? Now that he was facing the monument to his sins, the end of a long road of bad decisions… now all Patrick could think of was Langstrom staring back at him.

  Blood was coming out from the hole in his visor.

  Where he had shot him.

  And as if on cue, Patrick came to the proverbial and actual wall. He’d been backed into the living room’s wall, the colonial’s weapon still aimed right to his face.

  “So, what’s stopping me from doing the same, huh, Patrick? From putting you out of your misery. The Coalition made you into a killer, just like me. Just like all of us…”

  “Fred… t-this really isn’t-”

  “Who took the shot, Patrick!? You, or the Skycorps?! …ANSWER ME!”

  “I-I … I don’t”

  “Was it you who made the choice. Or was it them?! You or them?! Simple fucking question! So, answer me!”

  …

  He…

  He didn’t know.

  As Patrick searched inside his head, he didn’t know who had made that choice. One moment Langstrom had been screaming in pain, the next a bullet had pierced his skull, and he was silent.

  But that one crucial split-second in-between those two states, where the trigger had been pulled.

  That one was void…

  Everything before and after was crystal clear. Even now, Patrick could perfectly recall the images.

  The sounds. The sensations. The feeling…

  Yet that small microsecond of his finger straining against the trigger of his rifle… just wasn’t there. As if someone else had done it.

  “You said it yourself. You get paid to kill people. So why is that one any different, Patrick? It’s not, isn’t it? It’s not different at all. Just like you are no different from Etana. No different from Cassidy. No different from me…”

  Finally, Fred lowered his weapon.

  “Do you see it now? Do you see what they turned us into?”

  Patrick could feel his shoulders sagging. His knees felt weak. It wasn’t the physical exhaustion. No amount of running, jumping and fighting could ever break him down like this.

  His body was holding on… barely.

  But his spirit?

  He was lost in thought.

  I get paid to kill people.

  That’s my job.

  You’re no different from us.

  You’re a killer.

  “I’m going upstairs and ending this mission now, Patrick. Stay here, jump out of a window, go back down… I really don’t care anymore. Just don’t ever fucking pretend that you’re something you’re not. And don’t forget who made you into what you are.”

  Jackson wanted to say something. Anything.

  But his voice betrayed him. Heermann turned around, looking down to his rifle for a moment… contemplating.

  What was there left to say… what was left to-

  Heermann’s head suddenly perked up. A split-second later, Jackson heard it too.

  Running. Right behind him.

  Before he’d been able to make sense of it, Heermann had already grabbed him by the collar and shoved Jackson out of the way, throwing him to the ground.

  What followed was an utter eruption into chaos.

  The wall behind him exploded, followed by an inhuman roar.

  Heermann’s MIX fired, its characteristic pops filling the air.

  Jackson’s own breathing as he tried to understand what was happening.

  But it was all moving too fast.

  Something flew through the air. Claws glistened in lightning. Sparks flew as bullets hit armour.

  Jackson ran. Running through the luxury apartment, he ducked behind furniture, as he made his way around the carnage.

  Whatever had broken through the door like that, had pursued Heermann into the middle of the Livingroom. The German’s weapon was still firing, but it was easily overshadowed by what sounded like the roar of the monster that could only exist in nightmares.

  Running past the kitchen, barely avoiding a painful collision with the dinner table and rounding a separating-wall between the dining area and Livingroom, Jackson moved around the corner to finally see what was happening: It was one of those berserkers.

  The floor wasn’t clear. The tower wasn’t secure yet.

  The beast was on top of Heermann, his rifle shoved into its maw as it was biting down on the weapon, the last little barrier preventing it from ripping the Colonial’s throat out.

  Without much deliberation, Jackson drew his combat knife and sprinted for the berserker, hoping to hit an artery in its neck.

  Instead, one of the beast’s ears shifted slightly, after which it moved with the speed and ferocity of a frenzied and starving predator. Ripping its head around, it threw both MIX and Heermann to the side, before swiftly grabbing hold of the couch that was nearby.

  Jackson slowed down for a moment, unsure of what the creature was about to do.

  Then said couch came flying. His mind had barely processed the fact that the piece of furniture was heading towards him when it was already right in his face.

  The world turned black.

  …

  The first thing Jackson noticed was the pain… and blood dripping.

  Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw what remained of his visor. It had been broken. Rain was falling on his face, mixing together with the still warm blood pouring from his wounds. As he kept blinking, he could at least confirm that both eyes were still functional, if irritated by the fluids.

  Leaning forward, Jackson looked down at his own body.

  Still there. Still functional.

  He slowly brought up his hands, saw how his gloves were ripped open, bloodied and abused skin beneath them. Even the wrist-computer on his left arm was out, its display cracked and unresponsive.

  His uniform fared no better. He was in shambles.

  Though there was something moving. Further inside. Two blobs of shapes, colours and shadows were dancing around in the darkness.

  His eyes couldn’t focus. Jackson fell back again, his head resting against the floor.

  ‘Can’t do it anymore’ kept repeating in his head.

  He was done.

  More rain…

  Water softly splashing against his face. Thoughts of a calming shower crawled across his mind. Being allowed to simply relax, if even just for a moment.

  Turning to his right, Jackson saw the remains of a nearby window, with him perilously close to the abyss just outside.

  There wasn’t much left of the actual window frame. Broken glass was strewn all over the place, mixed together with fresh rain and pieces of steel.

  And outside, was the early morning sky over Odessa. The blotchy darkness was slowly retreating, being exchanged for a cold blue as somewhere in the distance the sun was crawling its way to their horizon.

  The morning sun…

  Sounds from his left grabbed Jackson’s attention. The two shapes were still moving.

  One large one. One small one. Bulky and lanky.

  But one bore colours familiar to him. The navy blue and sage green so easily associated with the Skycorps.

  It was Heermann.

  And just as Jackson’s senses and rationale were returning to him, he recognized the other shape for what it was.

  The berserker. That mechanical abomination, looking like the lovechild of a rabid hyena and a werewolf. All held together by the very same armour used by the other aliens.

  Fred was fighting against the alien in a desperate struggle. He had Jackson’s knife, using it as best he could to fend off the beast.

  Ducking under a claw-swipe, Fred brought the knife to point and buried it in the chest of the beast.

  It halted for a moment. Then swatted the colonial away, like he was nothing more than a simple nuisance.

  Caring little for the knife, the creature ripped it out of its chest and flung it into the darkness, switching its focus back to Fred.

  The trooper for his part was crawling away from the alien, climbing to his legs and throwing pieces of furniture, decorations and anything else he could find to try and keep it away.

  It didn’t yield to anything, ignoring whatever Fred threw at it and simply stomping towards him.

  Hastily grabbing a chair, Fred held it in front of himself, waving it back and forth. The berserker clawed at it and when Fred swung it towards the alien, it simply withstood the strike and let the chair shatter on top of it.

  Jackson wasn’t sure what was going through Fred’s mind, but he could read the desperation. Any kind of trick the Colonial had, had likely been used up.

  …

  Well, maybe not all of them.

  Stumbling backwards, the German pulled two grenades from his chest rig, holding them on his sides and dramatically flipping the pins off of them.

  Words were spoken, but Jackson’s ears were in no mood to work, still plagued by a ringing that seemed to have had dug itself deep into his skull.

  Letting go of the levers, Fred charged the beast, grenades in hand.

  And was unceremoniously kicked back.

  The alien seemed well aware of what grenades were. As it sent Fred flying through the air, so too did he lose grip on his grenades, as the now hot explosives were flung across the apartment.

  Not a second later, both grenades exploded, sending shrapnel flying through the air and into any surface they could find.

  Jackson himself turned away from the spectacle, shielding his head behind his arm. This, his ears had heard, as deep reverberations from the blasts forced their way through his body.

  As he looked back to where Fred and the monster had been, he only saw smoke and darkness.

  Then some movement. Then shifting in the dust.

  Then…

  … out of the left-over smoke from the grenades came Heermann’s body, flying through the air, limply flailing around before crashing viciously into the floor.

  Deep gashes and blood were visible on his chest, with lacerations across his throat. The monster had practically ripped his oesophagus out.

  As the corpse finally came to a halt, it was quickly beginning to be surrounded by a pool of blood, the crimson liquid contrasting with the cold white of the marbled floor.

  He was dead.

  There was no doubt about it.

  No second guessing.

  Nothing.

  Jackson was now alone.