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  By: Terentia x Show Full Post

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  “Where’s the damn medic!” The voice came into Metric’s ear bitter and angry. It was getting rough out there. Strogg were pouring in from Slip Gates across the board and the GDF forces on the ground were pressed to the breaking point.
  
  Metric moved quickly, checking the digital map that extended from his helmet; a personal HUD that kept him plugged into his battalion and the battlefield, seeing the location marker where the Commander had marked the downed soldier, ignoring the dozens of others that weren’t priority. He recognized the voice. Lane was a hard man on the best of day’s and today didn’t quite rate on the scale.
  
  He moved quickly over the rough terrain, frozen solid in last night’s chill, the snow piled no more then an inch in any one place. Yesterday it had been mud, a foot of snow melted by Strogg orbital guns tearing trenches through the ground, destroying weapon emplacements and bunkers, had turned the ground into a deadly soup.
  
  He could hear the Strogg snipers ghosting his movement. Metric did his best to ignore it. If he went down he’d be one of a thousand that would die today and for some reason he wasn’t afraid anymore.
  
  Earth was a living hell and the Strogg were the devil’s own arm on the land, scourging the human presence. How many had died? He didn’t keep track anymore. Nobody did. They fought because they had to, because humans had too much pride to give in and because the Strogg could be beaten, they’d proved that if nothing else, but it would be bitter-sweet, it always was.
  
  They also fought because the horror they would meet in defeat, because they owed it their friends, families and comrades who fought against them in a twisted nightmare of machine and man. They owed them release from the prison the Strogg had made out of their own bodies.
  
  A Strogg round hit him in hit shoulder, spinning him to the ground. He cursed for letting his mind wander and pulled himself up against a piece of concrete that used to be a part of a GDF bunker. He took a moment to look around as he grabbed a med pack and worked on himself. It was bad practice but medics were in short supply so it was something he and all the other had gotten used to.
  
  The battlefield was a charred snowy waste somewhere in northern Russia. It was ringed by a deep forest of ever greens and a mountain range that stood proudly in the distance to the south, oblivious to the chaos that raged around it. Smoke rose from a hundred craters and every second it seemed like the earth rattled with another explosion sending a shower of dirt and snow into the air.
  
  Dead littered the field. Some were Strogg, most were human. The wreckage of vehicles, most of them GDF that never stood a chance against the tanks and walkers that had swept before the main Strogg force, burned against the horizon, sending plumes of black acrid smoke into the air.
  
  For once in his recent life he couldn’t hear the sounds he knew would be coming after the barrage of Strogg fire died down; the screams of the dying and the wounded, and he was thankful. He should have gotten used to it by now, but it wasn’t something you got used to. It wasn’t something you forgot and each time he listened to it after a ‘victory’ added to a growing chorus that sang restless and relentless in his mind.
  
  He sighed, pulling his helmet off and rubbing the back of his hand across his face to clear the grim and sweat from his eyes. He pulled his hand away. It was shaking again. It always shook when he let his mind wander. There was a time when his day dreams were filled with visions of things that would let him forget his troubles, now they only haunted him even more then the present reality.
  
  A helicopter came into view in the distance, back near what remained of the GDI base that had once stood like a citadel in the forest, but was now a broken shell that served as a drop zone; another defeat in a series that seemed endless.
  
  He could see the troopers drop and shook his head. How many more? How long could we keep sending men into battle?
  
  Metric pushed the thought roughly from his mind, and resealed his equipment. Letting his mind wander was what had almost gotten killed just a minute ago. He pulled his helmet back on and examined his work. The wound was clean, there would be some pain; Strogg weapons always caused pain, but it would heal. He got to his knees and crouched behind the concrete block and griped his rifle until his hands hurt.
  
  He could see the trenches and fortifications ahead and the twisting maze of reinforced tunnels and troughs that connected them to the rear lines. Shattered concrete, stone and wood created a forest of cover a half mile from the drop zone but there was nothing between the block he crouched behind and the rear lines ahead except a few smoking vehicles and dead bodies.
  
  A barrage of enemy artillery rained down on the lines and ten meters of trench vanished behind a cloud of dirt and debris. The sound was deafening but his ears had long since been numbed to it.
  
  No help for it now, he thought, you’re in deep.
  
  The ear piece in his helmet crackled to life, “If I don’t see a god damned medic up here in 30 seconds someone’s going to get their head blown off and they won’t need a Strogg to do it!” Lane again. He was roaring like a bear today. Probably some desk brass trying to get a feel for things on the front stubbed his toe. He shook his head and grimaced.
  
  The only reassuring thought was that if he got killed the Strogg might give him the chance to get even with the useless bureaucrat.
  
  Strogg weapon fire sheared a chunk off the concrete block he was using as cover and Metric decided it was time to move, besides the fact he didn’t want be the release for Lane’s rage. A cloud of smoke was drifting up the battle fiend; a Covert Ops had thrown a smoker to allow a squad to move up to the trenches most likely, and he waited until it was close before making his move.
  
  He had to admit it wasn’t all bad. Sure things were ugly, but that was nothing new. The fact was that they had turned a hopeless situation into a fighting chance. Before Metric’s battalion hit the dirt the Strogg were swarming out of the trees like a plague of locust, now they were bottled up just inside, using the trees for cover and setting up heavy artillery for a final assault.
  
  Casualties had been relatively light in his battalion, though the defending force had been routed and some of the other battalions were being put back together with tweezers, but if they could hold for another thirty minutes the MCP would arrive with the heavy armor escorted by Mitchell’s Group; ten battalions out of Moscow with a reputation that was well earned.
  
  If they could hold.
  
  He kept his head low and moved fast; blinded by the smoke he put one foot in front of the other and tried not to trip, ignoring the still forms that lay beneath his path.
  
  A form loomed up ahead and he stumbled back, bringing his assault rifle up against his shoulder. The shadowy form stepped through the fog like a harbinger of death and Metric kept his aim steady.
  
  Then it suddenly materialized into a face he recognized and he sighed in relief, dropping his aim.
  
  “Jesus, Metric, you getting jumpy or somethin’?” Craze. Bastard probably did it on purpose; he was always doing stuff like that. Trying to keep the battalion ‘on edge’ he called it, so they wouldn’t get their asses blown off by letting their mind’s wander to better times and places. At least that’s what he said.
  
  Metric pushed past, “What the hell do you want, Craze? Somebody kick you, rightly, in the ass and you need me so you can sit again?”
  
  He snorted, “Funny man. You’re a regular riot; maybe you picked the wrong career.”
  
  Picked? He thought bitterly; no, he didn’t choose this life, no one had chosen. He didn’t say anything.
  
  Craze fell in beside him, he was tall and all bulk, with shaggy hair and a full thick beard that made him look like a bear, yet instead of being the classic tough he was the prankster; like a bid kid, never grown up. Metric looked at him sideways, well, he thought, at least not in all ways. He could, after all, crush a Husky with his bare hands.
  
  After a moment Craze spoke up again, they were just clearing the smoke and entering the first tunnel, Craze had to hunch over. “Captain’s getting anxious. I don’t know what the problem is but he’s getting ready to tear something off somebody and I don’t think he cares who or what. I figured you could use the escort; better then sticking around and getting bitched at.”
  
  “You’re all heart.”
  
  Craze smiled broadly, “You know me.”
  
  The tunnel was like an ice locker; all the power they could spare was being funneled to the engineers; Metric wasn’t sure what the hell they were doing but you would think they could spare enough to heat to keep his spit from freezing whenever he opened his mouth.
  
  It seemed to stretch on, a dark and frozen tomb. The only light from chemical sticks they’d thrown every dozen feet. There was equipment lying around, some of it in piles, some of it still sealed tight against the environment and power lines and feeds ran along the walls and ceilings.
  
  Every now and then he’d see someone scramble by, mostly engineers oblivious to anything but the task at hand - he lost count of how many he’d had to patch them up because they couldn’t be bothered to keep their bloody heads down during a fire fight - but each time one passed he felt his spine tingle.
  
  The Strogg could disguise themselves as GDF troops, much like the Covert Ops could disguise themselves as Strogg and it was disconcerting to think they could be moving around freely, doing who knows what. The Commander had been quick to institute certain protocols and procedures when Metric’s battalion had taken over here.
  
  Everyone had to check in every thirty minutes; if you didn’t you were considered MIA, and if you showed up without warning you were likely to get yourself killed; no one was taking any chances.
  
  They’d already caught two of the bastards and Metric shuddered to think what they had been up to.
  
  They finally cleared the tunnel and were back into the haze filled winter day. The sun may have been out but black smoke covered the field like a blanket of clouds; not even the sun could break through that. So they were left with a dull grey day that soured his mood even further then usual.
  
  They ran the last few meters in a crouch and jumped down into the relative safety of the trenches. They were deep and were reinforced with steel lined concrete. You couldn’t ask for much more; ready made graves waiting for the Strogg to provide the fill.
  
  The walls, dug outs and pill boxes were lined with faces he recognized, and he exchanged greetings as Craze lead the way to the Commander. It was good to see the battalion was holding together. Not only that but most of the faces he saw, caked with dirt, sweat and blood as they were, seemed up beat; optimistic about their chances if nothing else.
  
  Maybe they knew something he didn’t.
  
  They rounded a bend in the trenches and found the Commander talking with a group of soldiers he knew from the battalion; most were vets, experienced and tough as nails.
  
  The Commander was a lean, hard man. Not particularly tall or short yet he loomed over most by his mere presence. He couldn’t have been much past forty but his hair and the stubble on his face were iron grey.
  
  One of the veterans nodded towards him and Craze and the Commander turned a withering gaze on him. “Lead in your boots today, Metric?” His voice was low and dangerous. Metric shrugged, it may scare the rookies but after what they’d been through over the past year it was more or less welcoming. On a day like today it was like coming home.
  
  Still he didn’t want shit duties for the next month, “The Strogg snipers thought I made a nice target,” he indicated the wound he’d received, “next time send a Covert Ops if you’re in a hurry. You’re lucky I’m here at all.” He looked around, “So where am I needed?”
  
  Lane shook his head. “Sorry Metric, but you’re not here to patch someone back together. We’ve got a special mission for you.”
  
  Bloody hell, why am I not surprised? He thought.
  
  “What kind of mission?” He came over to stand with the group that had gathered, there were eight of them and he noted they were split evenly among the classes that divided the GDF into a functioning military; two Field Ops, two Engineers, two Covert Ops, one Medic and one Soldier. With him and Craze that made two each.
  
  “The engineers having been working overtime to try and figure out how we can last until reinforcements arrive. We’re in a bad way here; if we don’t hold this line until Mitchell’s Group gets here with that armor then we’ll lose any chance at getting those Slip Gates.”
  
  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Metric muttered to himself.
  
  Either the Commander didn’t hear or chose to ignore him. “From the reports we’re receiving of the Strogg buildup there’s no chance in hell we’re going to be able to do that; when they decide to come out of those trees it’s going to be in a wave that’s going to roll over us and keep rolling to Moscow.” He looked into each face to make sure they understood the direness of the situation.
  
  He need not have bothered; every man there new the score. They’d been through too much, and fought too many battles against the Strogg not to know. Some had been won, some had been lost, but when the Stogg decided to make a point they generally made it with overwhelming force.
  
  If they were holding back, being patient, they were planning to make a point.
  
  “The good news is that the engineers have worked up a half-cocked scheme that might let us stay alive until the cavalry arrives.” He hesitated and sighed, running a hand through his hair - a bad sign. Apparently ‘half-cocked’ was being generous. “The plan is to use the Strogg’s own tech against them. We managed to recover enough pieces of some of their shield technology to put up a grid across the entire front of the trench; that’s what they’ve been working on, that’s why there’s no power for anything else.”
  
  Craze smiled broadly, “Great, what’s the problem then?”
  
  Metric could guess.
  
  Lane gave him a hard look, “The problem, Craze, is that we don’t have the final piece of the puzzle to bring the god damned generator online to power the bloody grid!”
  
  “And guess who’s volunteered to go ask the Strogg to part with it.” Metric added, giving Craze a sidelong look.
  
  “Oh.” Was about all the big man could come up with.
  
  “Yeah, ‘Oh’.”
  
  Lane shook his head. “Look I know it’s a suicide mission and if we had another choice I’d take it, but we don’t. You guys are the best at what you do; you’ve been with the battalion since the start of the war. There’s no one else for the job.”
  
  They all nodded, no one looked thrilled, but there was a stony determination in most of the faces Metric could see. It was either this or wait for the Strogg to roll out of that forest like a wave of death. Just another day on the job.
  
  “So when do we leave?” Metric asked.
  
  Lane smiled grimly, “5 minutes ago.”
  
  Yeah, Metric thought, just another day on the job.
  

  Oct 07, 2007 5:25pm PDT
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  “Where’s the damn medic!” The voice came into Metric’s... : Terentia
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    Eh, some of the formatting didn't come through, getting some werid characters; try again maybe? ---- ... : Terentia
    • Once more, basically unreadable as is: ---- "Where's the damn medic!" The voice came into Metric's ... : Terentia