Chapter Text
The Pelican bay door descends with a sharp hiss from its hydraulics, settling onto the landing pad. As I step out, I'm immediately immersed in the familiar bustle of a typical UNSC military base. Marines hustle between buildings, hefting crates with practiced efficiency. Nearby are two soldiers straining under the weight of an M41 triple-barrel heavy machine gun, their boots crunching against the gravel with each step.
A group of soldiers dressed in their PT uniforms jog along a paved path, making sure to keep in top shape.
Engines echo in the distance, likely vehicles carrying supplies or going out on patrol.
Prefab structures clutter the view, their mass-produced concrete foundations and metal walls not providing a particularly pretty view.
You could almost forget that you’re in an alien city and not some far-off human colony. If not for the large building in the center, its architecture more resembling humanity from centuries ago rather than something alien.
It’s covered in various aesthetic details, ornate marble pillars, yellowish walls, and windows with carved wooden frames. Supposedly, it’s the old town hall of Caldera Bay. Its architectural style is considered old by even the natives, dating back more than a hundred years.
It’s a good reminder to the troops that we’re in a foreign place. A good thing considering that many of them will spend most of their time behind the cover of the tall walls surrounding the base. Somewhat isolated from the outside world.
Perhaps it’s for the best; extensive exposure to locals could lead to diminishing morale if the grunts get smart enough to realize that we’re practically occupants, even akin to the Covenant in some manner. But hopefully their officers will quickly end such chatter and dish out the appropriate punishments.
As I step off the landing pad, I draw in a deep breath of fresh air—finally free from the Pelican’s choking exhaust. It’s a welcome change from the stale, recycled atmosphere aboard the Bismarck . No matter how the engineers mix it, it never quite feels like air. The Covenant probably have it figured out by now, though I doubt I’ll ever see the inside of one of their ships to know for sure.
The sun hits me full in the face, forcing me to raise a hand to block the glare. The heat, however, is something I could do without.
Thankfully, Gretel’s recommendations were on point as always. The short-sleeved tan military shirt is a godsend out here. Yet it can’t stop the sun from baking my skin or the sweat from pooling just from standing in it.
I reach into my shirt's chest pocket and pull out a pair of glasses. I put them on, and the crystal clear view gets a shade darker as the glasses adjust to the light level.
Only then do I spot a trio of marines approaching me. They all wear the same armor, except for the one in the middle. I can tell by his insignia that he’s a Major; instead of a helmet like the others, he’s wearing the same glasses as I along with a service cap. I should have brought something like that.
The officer stops in front of me as his guards stand at attention. “Sir! Major Rhodes reporting for duty, Sir!” The officer salutes with practiced movements as I return him the gesture.
You don’t often see marines saluting Navy officers, but seeing as I’ve been given the highest authority after we left port, it makes a little more sense.
“Colonel Greene has assigned me to accompany you for today.” Indeed, he has.
“I guess he’s still getting ready for our meeting later today.” I say, and the Major nods. I wonder how much he actually knows about it, considering its importance.
I inspect the gear of my security detail and feel a little bad for them. Forced to wear the standard marine uniform along with all the armor that no doubt keeps in all the heat and moisture. Yet even under such conditions, the marines stand firm.
I bet they will complain about it when we officers aren’t around, but they are going to do what they are told and that’s what makes them good soldiers.
“I’m happy to see that you made great strides in getting this base set up. Hope it doesn’t remind you too much of home.” I chuckle, and the Major smiles at me while the two marines only stare on blankly.
“Yes sir, we’ve been busy since the start of Operation Landfall. We took over this area and turned it into our central Headquarters. All the surrounding areas have been cleared out, and a guarded perimeter has been established.” He reports to me with pride, though I don’t feel very impressed. It’s not like they had to face off against a formidable foe.
“That’s great to hear, Major. Hopefully, your actions didn’t upset the locals much.” The Major nods in agreement, but I feel that the lack of a response means that he didn’t enjoy my criticism.
“Let’s get going, Sir. It’s best that we take care of your business before the meeting starts.” The Major motions for me to follow him and leads me around the town hall to the park in front of it.
Though in all truth, ‘former park’ would be the better way to call it, considering what they've done to it.
In front of me is a wide, grey concrete road already marked by the countless heavy machinery that uses it every day. Even now it’s cluttered with transport vehicles like Warthogs and various pieces of construction equipment.
The edges of the elongated park are lined with everything the marines need to function. Garages and warehouses—some fully enclosed and climate-controlled, others little more than open shelters with pillars and a roof—store the bulk of their equipment. Vehicles sit under these makeshift covers flanked by neatly stacked crates, buzzing with activity as crews work to keep everything running.
Clusters of two-story barracks house the marine personnel, positioned close to armories and a few sprawling chow halls. Despite being on the ground for over a week, the place still feels like it's being stitched together. Maintenance crews scurry between buildings, laying down wiring and connecting plumbing like they're racing a deadline that’s already passed.
The Major points to a Warthog. “That will be our ride.” He says before climbing aboard from the back.
This open-top all-terrain vehicle has become a vital part of any UNSC operation. Though this one is the transport configuration with its lack of a fifty-caliber heavy machine gun in place of its extra passenger space.
I join the Major in the back while the two guards take up seats in the front. With a simple key turn, the engine comes alive and the driver takes us to the main entrance.
It’s blocked off by a thick metal gate with watchtowers on either side. Both of them are manned by a guard each. The Major stands up and hollers for one of the guards. The marine looks down, annoyed, but instantly perks up upon seeing us. There is a clicking sound from the gate before it rises with a mechanical hiss.
We roll through, entering the once bustling street. The thick reinforced concrete walls are a stark contrast to the buildings lining the street, most built in the same architectural style as the town hall.
A few are in a more modern style, while others have clearly seen some additions, like an extra floor or a balcony. Most first floors seem to hold some commercial purpose with features like large windows, displays, or signs of some local brands.
But most of the grandeur they once had is now all gone; many displays seem to be lacking their advertised products or any windows of that sort, and a few particularly unlucky buildings seem to have faced a fire.
Whether that came from the slipspace portal or the locals pillaging the place doesn’t really matter; it now belongs to us either way.
In a few cases we drive past a cafe or a restaurant, judging from all the tables and chairs that have been recklessly piled inside. That I know for sure is our work, a means of clearing the streets. A pretty sad sight.
Yet it seems like our work here isn’t done yet as I spot a group of engineers exiting a building with welders in hand. Their faces are covered by a mix of dust, grime, and sweat. Their tired eyes follow us as they each light a cigarette.
Finally, we turn a corner and arrive at one of the checkpoints. While the base itself had strong concrete walls, this checkpoint only has a chain-link fence with sandbag fortifications that are manned by a few marines.
Despite the spartan surroundings this small stretch of road is teeming with life. A large crowd gathered at the front, surrounding some stand. I rise up to get a better look but can’t see anything through the mass of colorful locals.
A marine approaches our Warthog from the driver's side, a rifle slung over his shoulder. “Listen, you’re gonna have to go around; there’s a pretty big crowd out there blocking the road.”
The Major stands up and looks at the marine with a scowl. “Then move them out of the way, marine!” The checkpoint guard instantly freezes up and salutes the Major as if by instinct.
“Yes, Sir! Just give us a minute.” The marine runs off to his colleagues and quickly relays the orders, then opens the chain-link gate before rushing off towards the crowd. He tries to get them off the road, and judging by all the protests, the crowd isn’t very happy.
The Warthog starts slowly rolling through, and now I can finally make out what’s happening. There’s a folding aluminum table with a large pot on top of it.
It seems like a food stand that is manned by a mostly disgruntled chef, judging from his service uniform with a white apron. He has a permanent scowl as he stirs the pot and looks at all the locals. Surprisingly, he has somehow gotten his hands on a pair of smart-glasses.
A saurian that managed to avoid getting pushed out approaches the stand, bowl in hand. The chef takes a scoop from the pot and pours it into the bowl without a care, spilling some of it onto the saurian’s hand, visibly paining him.
He takes a look at the strange mass of food in his bowl and stares back at the chef. “How can we even eat this? Is there any meat here, or are you giving us some herbie crap?” The saurian man raises his voice, most likely irritated by the chef's carelessness.
The chef smirks and places his hands on his waist. “Yeah there’s something like meat there, not like you could taste it, but it’s there. So you can either go starve or eat it and be a happy little lizard. Now go away! You're stalling the line.”
The saurian man growls in anger, showing his fangs, but goes silent upon hearing the crack of a round getting chambered, a marine pointing a rifle at his head. The saurian gulps and slinks away into the crowd.
I scan the crowd one more time. They’re surprisingly well-dressed for people lining up for food rations—not the image of a refugee I’ve come to expect since the war began. Too many worlds have already been glassed, and I’ve seen what that usually leaves behind.
Still, a few of the locals bear the marks of hardship—tattered clothes, dirt-smudged faces, weariness etched deep into their features. Some have their children with them. I can’t help but smile as the little ones shrink behind their parents when our Warthog rumbles past, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and fear.
We finally make it out of the clutches of the crowd and pick up speed.
I sit back down to find the Major smiling at me. “When we first came down here, the locals were scared shitless and wanted nothing to do with us. But then after a few days of blasting that crap about us being here to help, a few desperate ones showed up, so we gave them some food and helped patch some wounds. Didn’t take long for word to spread and for more of them to come.”
He gives me a sly smile. “I had some of our service personnel cook up something basic from the MREs. Tastes how you expect, but at least it’s something.”
“We even started providing medical help; that’s when a lot of folks showed up. The problem was that our medics didn’t know how to help these lizards, with them being a whole different species and all that. So we have resorted to poaching the saurian doctors. Some weren’t very happy, but I guess they have some Hippocratic oath of their own.” He laughs at his attempt to make a joke of what HighCom could classify as a war crime if done against humans.
He notices I don’t laugh and pauses before continuing. “Still, the overflow of people has been a nuisance, so we sent some engineers to fix up a few hospitals.” It feels like an afterthought—tacked on to make our presence here sound more charitable than it really is.
As we roll farther from HQ, the daily rhythm of Caldera Bay comes into view. Civilians wander the streets, casting brief, curious glances at our Warthog. After the EMP knocked out most of their vehicles, walking has become the primary way to get around.
Well— almost everyone. A glance skyward reveals a few of the city’s winged natives gliding low above the rooftops, navigating the urban sprawl with ease.
Back on the ground, I catch sight of a pair of saurians working on a battered building—hauling out debris, boarding up shattered windows. In another place, that might seem strange. But it fits for this place.
The streets look more like a warzone than a city. Abandoned cars lie mangled and shoved aside—piled on sidewalks or crammed into whatever space was available. The roads are torn and scarred, cracks tracing paths that lead to twisted heaps of metal that were once cars.
I think I can guess what went down. The Marines started patrolling, and all these dead vehicles clogged the streets—so someone brought in excavators to clear the way. Or maybe it’s just a leftover instinct from the insurrectionist years. Back then, car bombs were a favorite tactic. Too many good men were lost to them.
Between the car piles there is an ongoing scene: a group of marines are standing by a storefront, a figure resembling a man is covered by tarp. The shop owner rants without taking a breath as he points at the broken door and back at the figure. A marine who’s crouched down by the corpse gives us a tired look as we drive past.
The Major sighs. “Sadly, not everyone has gotten it through their heads that looting is illegal. Though I wish the boys took that lizard alive, these types of scenes aren’t a good look.”
I nod. “I believe that the locals will understand; we’re just trying to keep a sense of order around here. I actually spoke to Colonel Greene, and he has informed me that all the necessary precautions are being taken.”
A faint smirk tugs at the corner of the Major’s mouth, but he looks away just as quickly, masking whatever thought sparked it.
Was he smiling?
The buildings get smaller and smaller as we start gaining elevation, coming close to the outskirts of the city. The scarred and busy city, along with its run-down buildings, is exchanged for high-class suburban homes. Lush gardens, ornate fences high enough to hide the homes with similarly tall hedges. This is something more akin to what you would see in a human city, at least on Earth and Mars.
In stark contrast to the city, the streets are all empty, except for the occasional car. It’s eerily quiet; has everyone already fled, or are they just hiding behind their tall walls?
I bet the people living here are in constant fear. Seeing as they’re the ones who are well-off, and if my studies back in the academy had any merit, then they would be the first targets of the masses upon the collapse of order.
After a prolonged silence on the drive, we finally stop at a home with a marine guard detail. A warthog stands under the shade of a large tree, its tire marks leaving brown lines on the once carefully curated lawn. One marine diligently scans the area while the other one rests with a service cap over his face.
The house features a grand yet understated façade—perhaps the best comparison would be some Mediterranean style—with smooth stucco walls, black-framed windows, and a mix of stone and wood accents.
The marine on guard wakes his buddy, who grumbles in annoyance before grabbing his rifle and approaching our vehicle as we disembark. The marine stops before the Major and stands at attention. “Sir, no one has left or exited the house under my watch; the team in the back reports the same thing.”
“That’s good to hear, Private. Keep it up,” the Major says, his tone crisp and controlled. “We’ll head inside—won’t be long—but stay ready in case things go south.”
“Yes, sir!” The Marine snaps a salute then turns back to his Warthog as we approach the front door.
It’s a dark wooden door, simple yet humbly ornate, with a masterfully crafted brass handle. To the side, a small button—probably a defunct buzzer—sits flush against the wall.
The Major lifts his hand to knock, then pauses mid-motion. “Sir, just a heads-up—she’s not exactly thrilled with us. During the landing, her Police Chief shot one of our guys. Our men returned fire… he’s alive, but injured.”
I raise an eyebrow. That’s the kind of detail I should’ve heard before now.
The Major knocks on the door. After a tense minute, muffled voices stir behind it, followed by the creak of movement. The door swings open, and instinctively we both take a step back.
In the doorway stands a light blue saurian, a female if I’m to be correct. But one that hardly resembles the respected governor of this city; her long hair hangs freely down her chest and all she’s wearing is a simple white shirt and a pair of brown shorts.
“What do you want?” She demands, baring the teeth of her long snout. The Major places a hand on his holstered M6 pistol as he stares down the former mayor.
“Good morning to you too. I’m Captain Speers, the most senior UNSC officer here and in charge of this operation. I was hoping that we could speak.” I keep a calm and polite tone unlike my marine compatriot, who is close to shooting the woman.
She pauses, inspecting me before standing up straight and crossing her arms. Oh wow, she’s taller than I expected. “Like we have anything to talk about. You invaded us, shot Robert, and put me under house arrest.”
The Major huffs, relaxing his hand. “Private Tokumei lies dead, light-years away from his home—” I raise my hand, silencing the marine before he says something stupid. I did not come here to argue.
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am. Things have been more complicated than we expected. That is why I came. I hope that we can talk it out and amend some things. I also need your help.” She raises an eyebrow and looks back inside her home as if searching for an answer.
The saurian lets out a slow sigh. “Alright, we’ll talk—but your weapons stay outside.”
“That’s not—”
“Leave it, Rhodes,” I cut in, my tone firm.
“But Sir—” the Major starts, clearly ready to argue.
“I said leave it. We’ll be fine.” I level him with a hard stare. His jaw tightens, and I can see the protest behind his eyes—words he’d probably love to say. But he’s a soldier, and orders are orders. He gives a curt nod, swallowing whatever was on his mind.
He takes out his pistol and releases the magazine into his other hand before pulling back the slide with force. Practiced hands catch the bullet before laying everything down on the steps.
The woman smiles and steps to the side, letting us enter her home. It opens into a soaring entryway with natural light pouring through oversized windows. The interior layout is both flowing and spacious, with wide-plank hardwood floors and custom cabinetry.
The walls are lined with family pictures, showcasing a considerably better-dressed mayor with a man and two children. The main feature is a staircase with ornate decorations, reminding me of old Europe.
The Major seems oddly fixated on the second-floor railings. I join in, initially confused, but soon recognize the form of a striped snout peeking out, a pair of yellow eyes watching us.
The woman strides up the stairs, and the figure quickly retreats. I can just about make out her saying something, but the glasses can’t pick it up and translate it.
A minute later, the woman descends the stairs, rhythmically placing her steps. She sighs. “Sorry about that, let’s go to the living room.” She enters the room to our right, and we follow after.
The room shares the same characteristics as the home, aside from the large beige couch and an ultrawide display screen placed in front of it. The window behind us is covered by the blinds, shading the room in a brown light.
She sits down in a puffy armchair and motions for us to take a seat on the couch. We sit down and notice that it’s weirdly spacious for our lower backs. Must be made for their tails.
“So, why do you need me so badly?” She asks, reclining casually into the armchair, arms crossed like this is a waste of her time.
I watch her posture, trying to read between the lines. Is it defiance? A calculated show of disrespect? Or does she genuinely think we’ve got nothing worth her attention? Either way, this is already shaping up to be a very different kind of meeting than I anticipated.
“Well, it doesn’t matter how much our technology is advanced. We’re still strangers here, and the people will always view us as foreigners, at least for the foreseeable future.” The woman scoffs, but I continue nonetheless.
“We need someone who can help us navigate the unknowns—and work with the people of this city. None of us are trained to govern; we're a scientific mission with a military escort, not colonial administrators. The last thing I want is for this to feel like an occupation.” She smiles, and for a moment, it looks like she might laugh.
The Major leans in. “Sir, this is a lost cause; she clearly sees your offer as a joke.” He whispers to me, but I choose to ignore him.
“So you want to put me back in power? Am I correct?” She asks, sounding amused.
“Yes, you are. We would provide you with resources and help manage things till you can muster up your own staff. Then, essentially all requests would go through you. It would be up to you to decide who first gets help, which districts receive repairs, and so on.” She squints her eyes, likely trying to gauge if I’m lying.
“Obviously we will still have the say in how things are run, and when we request something, we will expect it to be done in turn. If you abuse these concessions, we will have to return to the previous state of things.”
“It sounds a lot like you simply wish to toss responsibility over to me so that I could take the blame.” She speaks with a calm yet accusing tone.
“That might be the case, but I promise that you will not be thrown under the bus and will be provided with protection.” She simply rolls her eyes at my dry statement.
The woman sinks deeper into the chair, crossing one leg over the other as she gazes up at the ceiling, clearly weighing her options. I watch her closely, waiting for her response.
Finally, she lowers her head and meets my eyes. “Alright. I’ll do it—but only under a few conditions.”
The Major lets out a sharp, audible scoff at the word conditions .
“First,” she begins, “I want my Police Chief returned to me.”
Reasonable enough.
“Done,” I say without hesitation.
“If something goes wrong—whatever that may be—I want full protection and care for my family.” I give a silent nod of agreement. She continues.
“I’ll need to field a proper police force. I can’t have your soldiers patrolling the streets. I think you’d agree it’s better if your men aren’t involved in… incidents.” Her eyes lock onto mine—unblinking, intense. There’s a predatory stillness to her gaze. I can’t tell if it’s meant to intimidate me or if that’s simply how her kind communicates.
Now it’s my turn to think.
Her logic is sound—especially after seeing the state of the city myself. But part of me hesitates. A civilian-controlled force could easily be turned against us, or worse, used to shelter those who already oppose our presence.
Still, the look in her eyes says it all—she’s not bluffing.
I either accept… or lose her.
I exhale slowly. “You’ll have your force. But they’ll be prohibited from carrying military-grade weapons.”
She politely nods, “Seems reasonable enough.”
“Any other requests?”
“No, I think this will suffice for now.” She says with a sly smile.
I place my hands on my knees and stand up; the Major follows suit. “I’m happy that we managed to work something out.” I try to smile, but her unimpressed look tells me that she can see through the facade.
“Anyways, be ready to leave if needed. Colonel Greene or his adjutant should come over to pick you up to discuss the finer details. We, on the other hand, will get going now.”
She gives a simple nod as we take our leave. As I step outside and pull the door shut behind me, it hits me—she didn’t bother to see us out. Whether that was meant as a slight or just a sign she’s still processing everything doesn’t really matter. I got what I came for.
The Major kneels down, picks up his sidearm, carefully inspecting it before holstering it. “Let’s get going, Sir.” His voice sounds defeated. Something clearly weighing on his mind.
He takes the lead, ordering our security detail to get back into the Warthog. They say their goodbyes to the marines stationed here and do as ordered. I follow suit, getting back into my old seat, which has gotten significantly hotter from staying out in the sun.
The engine roars to life, and we begin our journey back. I’m due for a meeting with the Colonel and his men.
“Sir, permission to speak freely.” The Major asks.
“Feel free to voice whatever is on your mind.” I say, facing away from him and observing the ailing city.
“I think you made a mistake, Sir. You’re being too trusting of these things.”
These things . I groan inwardly. This is exactly the mindset I’d hoped to avoid. Looks like I’ll need to have a word with Colonel Greene sooner rather than later.
“You’re wrong, Major.” He starts to respond but catches himself, lips parting before clamping shut.
“You think of these people as if they were the Covenant or Insurrectionists, an enemy that we have to stamp out with force. You can deny it all you want, but I see how it shapes your thinking. And let me be clear: if that mindset becomes a problem, you’ll be sent back shipside.
I pause for emphasis.
“We’re here to build trust, not burn bridges.” Maybe it came out a bit harsher than intended, but Marines are no strangers to tough words—or tough expectations.
The Major sighs and bows his head, choosing to stare at the bed of the warthog.
But this does make me wonder. How many marines share the Major’s view? Ever since we encountered the Covenant and figured out that they have both better technology and more resources, morale has been low across the armed forces. The few victories we had were at the hands of Admiral Cole.
But on this planet, we are once again at the top, more advanced and better equipped. Here, isolated from everything, many can feel superior again. But going down such a path is both foolish and wrong.
Bright reds and yellows engulf my view, a raging inferno burning everything away, but through it, I see something that sticks out. My eyes sting and water, yet I do not look away. Slowly, the blurry smudges take shape. Tall buildings tower over many smaller ones, but even with all their might, they have fallen victim to the flames.
The fire reaches up to their very top, and then their form breaks; the tall skyscrapers start melting as if they were candles, dripping down onto the streets, covering them in a bright molten mass. Panic sets in as I worry about the ones close to me.
Are they safe from this destruction?
I frantically scour the landscape, looking for something or someone, but all I see is the same sight. Fires engulfing homes and melting them down to their foundations.
Just as my hope is about to die, I spot the familiar faces of my parents standing on top of our melted home. I wish to approach them, embrace them, but can’t bear the heat, so I call out to them. They look on with wary faces.
I stare back in turn, confused and scared.
Their faces shift and mold in unnatural ways. Their scaly skin starts peeling off, with bits of flesh following suit, making a splashing sound. Their eyes pop like balloons, and their jaws open wide, screaming in agony.
I cry out to them, begging them to run, begging them to hurry and get out of there. For a moment, nothing changes, then they freeze.
I’m horrified; all that’s left are their charred bones with burnt flesh still clinging on, blood oozing down their bones. Their eyes are fixated on me, and even though there’s barely any flesh left, they speak.
“Where were you, darling?” They croak, their voices raspy. I shake my head in disbelief as my heart starts pumping.
“Where were you, darling?” They repeat, their words echoing in my head. They start chanting it, and I cover my ears trying to stop it. But it only grows louder. I scream and yell, trying to drown it out, but it only gets worse and worse.
My eyes snap open to an unfamiliar ceiling. I'm gasping for air, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might tear through my chest. I scan the room, disoriented—nothing looks familiar.
The space is simple. I’m lying on a double bed, flanked by two plain white nightstands. Directly ahead, a full-length mirror is mounted on the sliding closet door, stretching from floor to ceiling. To my left, a single window sits behind brown blinds, with only a thin sliver of light sneaking through.
As my panting dies down, I finally remember where I am. This is Fang’s place, their guest room to be exact. And to my slight relief, what I saw just moments before, was just a dream.
No, a nightmare.
I sit up and rub my face, trying to shake the lingering dread. The nightmares have been relentless all week, robbing me of any real rest. But I’m not tired enough to lie back down—just to be dragged through those same horrific images all over again.
I throw off the blanket and swing my legs off the bed, sliding my feet into the slippers. The digital clock on the nightstand is blank. But judging from the sun, it’s still morning.
I stand up, stretching my tired muscles. The aching has long since passed, but it makes me shudder just thinking about it. I was never used to anything physical.
I approach the closet’s mirror, my reflection looking back at me. There’s no joy or sadness left in my face; I've already spent too much time crying. The only thing covering me is a black T-shirt with the faded logo of some old rock band—modified with two large slits in the back, tailored for a ptero’s wings.
Even though it’s quite small for Fang, it’s still pretty spacious for me, hanging lower below the waist. My wavy hair is still quite a mess, partly due to my own laziness.
I take one last look at the contours of my body. I never had anything much to show, but my certain features are a little more pronounced, with me being too tired to bother binding my chest, not to mention the bandages being dirty.
I slowly exhale. It doesn’t really matter; it’s not like anyone could tell the difference when I’m wearing a hoodie.
I pull the sliding door open, revealing a neatly folded pile of clothes, all for me to pick from. I take a simple pair of blue jeans and a grey hoodie. I figure the jeans are supposed to be tighter, but on my body, they're pretty loose; thankfully, I have a belt to keep them from falling. The hoodie is also pretty loose, but I like it that way; it hides me.
I close the closet and stop for a moment to inspect the new me. It’s not something that I would typically wear, but we weren’t able to grab anything else. It was quite chaotic and unsafe for the first few days.
Then the soldiers came, and the streets turned eerily quiet. Everyone was too scared to even come out. They drove past our home a few times, patrolling the streets with their large cars, a big gun strapped to the back of them.
At least then I realized who I had seen back in the forest. It was these strange things, or aliens, as others would call them. They have no tails or claws or even scales. Their faces are fairly flat compared to ours, a small nose being the only protrusion.
One day, one of the neighbors got brave enough to approach them, and they talked…
Somehow, they spoke our language. We all feared the worst, but these soldiers gave him some packaged food and drove off.
Ever since, people have gotten braver and braver, venturing back into the streets and the city.
My stomach grumbles, and I realize that I have been staring at myself for way too long. I turn to the door and walk away, glancing at myself before finally exiting.
I descend the stairs and step into the kitchen. Naser’s already sitting at the table, looking at Fang as they rummage through the cupboards. They don’t seem to notice me.
“Ah, found it!” Fang exclaims as they reach in and pull out a large can of meat. They turn to show the prize to their brother and spots me standing in the doorway.
“Oh, good morning Sage.” They say, a little surprised.
Naser turns to me and says, “Morning.” I return a small smile and nod. Talking’s been hard this past week—I haven’t even shared anything about my home or what happened in the forest. They only know one thing: I don’t have a home anymore. And somehow, that’s enough for them to help.
I sit down at the table as Naser turns away. “Guess we should be thankful to our parents for buying us all this canned food; guess that all of mom’s worries have finally paid off.” Naser jokes.
Fang chuckles in return. “It’s good that we didn’t actually eat any of it till the meteor, or give it away to some homeless shelter.”
The topic of parents suddenly makes me far more interested in the smooth wooden table as I scratch at it.
Naser grows mellow as he thinks about something. “I wonder when our parents will be back…”
“Well, they were pretty much ready to return last time we talked. From what I heard, it’s only Caldera Bay that’s without power; other places are doing fairly well.” Fang speaks casually as they open up the can and scoop its meaty contents into a pot before turning up the fire on the stove.
“Well, I talked to a few people, and what they’re saying is that the soldiers aren’t letting anyone in or out of the city. There was one exception—a guy whose grandpa was coming back from out of state. They let him through, but he had to pay quite a bit. Not with money, though—he gave them a gold watch instead.”
Fang waves it away, leaning back against the counter. “Don’t worry, little bro, you know how our father is; he’ll find a way, for better or worse.” Fang’s last words are laced with a sprinkle of bitterness.
The room is filled with the warm smell of cheap and saucy meat, all coming from the smoking pot. It’s a nice distraction from all this family talk.
“Welp, I think the food is ready,” Fang says as they turn off the gas and start scooping the meaty sludge onto plates. Finished, they lay them all down in front of us and sit down themselves.
I poke at the substance on my plate with a spoon. It’s a red and brown mess with bits of meat sticking out. At least it’s food. I guess we should be lucky that we’re all carnivores. I don’t know how herbies are managing; I guess they could just go eat grass or something.
Naser takes a spoonful, and after inspecting it, finally puts it in his mouth, chewing for a bit and finally swallowing. “Well, it’s not Atalian, that’s for sure.”
Fang rolls their eyes while nibbling on some of the food. “I was never much of a cook.”
“I was,” I blurt out before I can stop myself—and instantly regret it as all eyes turn to me.
“Yeah, your cookies always rocked, Sage. You should bake some again once things settle down.” Fang’s compliment pulls a small smile onto my face, making the world feel a little brighter in that moment.
I spend breakfast in silence, my attention divided between the food and the restless thoughts swirling in my mind. Fang and Naser talk quietly between themselves, their words drifting past me—fragments that don’t quite register.
I wonder how long I’ll keep leaning on them, and what I’ll do when that support inevitably runs out. I have nowhere to go, no plan for what comes next. Everything feels hollow, weighed down by a crushing sense of meaninglessness. How do I keep going with this burden pressing on my shoulders?
“Hey, Sage.” Fang’s calm, friendly voice pulls me from the spiral. “Naser and I are heading into the city to look for some food and water. Want to come? I don’t want to leave you alone in the house.”
Going out into the city? Such a simple thing sounds so scary, but I know that staying here all day isn’t much better. Maybe a change of view will help drown out these emotions.
I nod in approval, and Fang gives a reassuring look. “Wonderful, maybe we can stop by a clothing store on the way back.
A smile forms on my face. “Yeah, that would be nice…”
The sun blares down on me, the visor keeping it from burning my eyes; aside from that, I’d be happier without this darn helmet. But I’m required to wear it because of my task.
Ahead of me stretches a long, cleared-out street, disrupted only by a neat line of saurians waiting patiently. Behind me, a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire stands as a stark barrier. On either side, square sandbag positions manned by fellow marines offer some semblance of defense.
Their job is simple—just sit tight. They’re the lucky ones, allowed to shed their helmets and swap them for service caps, a small mercy under the relentless heat.
And me? I get stuck at this rundown checkpoint, assigned the worst spot of all—a lonely white plastic table set right in the middle of the road, baking in the scorching sun with no shade in sight.
My job? Listen to the locals' never-ending complaints and write them down. As for actually addressing them, I can only point them in the right direction or tell them that some higher-up will review their request.
Worst of all, I've got to keep my helmet on at all times so that I could actually understand whatever they’re saying.
The officers, on the other hand, get these nice-looking smart-glasses, but not us. Never us…
When there’s an unpleasant task, it’s always the rank-and-file soldier who gets stuck with it.
Nasser—the arab marine holding back the crowd—gives me a quick nod before letting them flow forward again. Guess my break’s over.
I drink a few gulps from my canteen and place it under the table, preparing my COM tablet, eyes already on the first saurian in line.
It’s a—uh. I narrow my eyes, studying the lizard again. It shifts back slightly, nervously rubbing its left arm.
Judging by the flatness where a chest would be, it’s probably a male.
Could best describe him as flashy. A silver chain, like a straight-up chain you would see from some medieval show, is wrapped tightly around his neck. He has several tattoos, one of some cross on his cheek and the other is some sort of snake that covers his chest and extends all the way to the back.
I open up a new personnel file and start typing out some details. I glance up one more time, checking his features. The spiky tail and the shape of the snout, tells me that it’s some carnivore. If he’s another one of those fools asking for a steak, I'll ask Nasser to give him a swift kick.
A rumor has been going around amongst the locals that we give out steaks. My best guess is that some marine thought that it would be funny. Well, I’m not laughing.
“Excuse me?” The guy speaks, his voice low and unsure.
“Yeah, yeah, let me fill out the form real quick.” I say, typing out the last details.
“Alright, what’s your name?” I ask, putting forward the COM tablet and pointing at it. He carefully leans closer, and I roll my eyes. This guy is supposed to be a predator yet acts like a total pussy.
“Nick Jason,” he mutters out. I pull back the tablet and check if it got the recording, which it did. Commands wants us to actually record them saying it, as they fear that our translation software isn’t good enough for names.
I lift up the tablet and take a quick picture of him.
“Alright, what is it you need?” I ask, putting down the tablet on the table. Having to actually document everyone has made the process a crawl, but apparently, they want a database of people who came to us for help. Or just a way to keep tabs on everyone.
“My friend got hurt pretty bad on the day of the meteor and has been in quite a lot of pain. Would it be possible to get him some pain meds?” He says, the edge of his mouth curling in what I think is supposed to be a smile.
I respond with a deadpan look, “And why didn’t he come himself?”
“His leg is broken, and he lives pretty far away…”
I sigh. “Sorry, but I will have to deny this request.” I say, already writing it down in his file.
The saurian’s eyes go wide, blinking rapidly. “What? Aren’t you supposed to help us?”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and groan. “Look, first off, we didn’t bring nearly enough medicine for an entire city. And second, we have no idea if our meds are even safe for you. A single morphine injection could kill you for all we know. You should try one of your hospitals. Now, please move along.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but the restless crowd behind him cuts in, voices rising in frustration. They shout at him to step aside, each insisting their own problems are more urgent.
The translation software indicates that some of them even call him slurs, the word ‘Faggot’ appearing several times, which must be some native word because I can’t fathom what it means.
The saurian looks back at me scowling, before retreating. I take another gulp of water and signal for the next person to come on through.
I work through a handful more people over the next half hour, going through the same motions—filling out identical forms like some office drone chained to a desk.
“Join the Marines,” they said. “Protect humanity from alien threats.” Maybe I should sue the Corps for false advertising.
The worst part isn’t the endless paperwork. It’s having to repeat the same worn-out lines to desperate faces, over and over.
“No, we can’t give you medicine. Try one of your hospitals.”
“No, we don’t have enough food to hand out. Breakfast is served, so come back then if you’re hungry.”
“No, we don’t know when the power will come back. Please be patient.”
I take a long swallow from my canteen just as a trio of saurians steps up to the table. Great. Three times the work. This is going to be fun.
In front of me stand two bird-like saurians with pointed snouts, feathers, and wings. One’s white and wearing black pants and a crop top. The other one is greyish and has some ugly ass shirt with flowers.
I’m just about to start two new forms when I remember that there was a third one in the group. But it seems like whoever that is is hiding behind the bigger pair of bird lizards.
I lay down the COM tablet for a moment. “What do you need?” I ask, foregoing the usual process.
The duo share glances before the female starts speaking. “Um, we kind of need water, and some food would be nice…” She looks down at me, clearly nervous. They must be pretty desperate for this stuff, like many others.
I try to get a clear look at the short saurian standing behind them, but the others block my view—and a hood pulled low over her head hides her face. Still, there’s something about her that feels oddly familiar.
I wave the others aside. The duo exchange confused glances but then shrug and step to the side, revealing their friend.
At first, she seems unaware she’s become the center of attention, her eyes fixed on a dilapidated storefront. A quick look to her companions shows her confusion, until her gaze meets mine.
She scans herself, as if searching for something wrong, then, finding nothing, she quickly looks away. Her fluffy tail swings into full view—and I instantly recognize the distinctive tan and lavender markings.
This is the same girl that I saved in the forest. I have to admit that this is not the first time the tan saurian has crossed my mind. I guess I was wrong to think their hard times were behind them—she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t need food and water.
I look around, checking for any superiors or curious eyes before looking back at the COM tablet and exhaling. What the hell am I doing?
I quickly type out a message and gesture for them to come closer. The short one stays back, but the duo comes right up to me. I flip the tablet around and let them read it. They look at each other for some guidance before finally nodding and walking away, taking their friend with them.
I never imagined doing this. Not in my wildest dreams, but there’s not much I've got to lose compared to them.
I trudge through the narrow alley, a heavy water canister weighing down one hand and a blue duffle bag—local make—slung across my back. I was supposed to hit the bunks after my shift, but instead I’m sneaking this stuff through a half-collapsed building like some bootleg courier. Nearly got caught by one of the logistics guys, too—thankfully, he was too busy ranting about having to replace damaged gear to notice me lifting some of this stuff from the warehouse.
At the very least, this alleyway provides some shade from the sun, a surprisingly welcoming environment, despite all the trash that has piled up along the walls, the containers being filled to the brim already.
I doubt that this is a week's amount of waste; the garbage collectors must have given up when they heard about the meteor and gone home.
Can’t blame them.
This does put the architecture in a new light when you’re not looking at the facade that’s up for everyone to see. Various pipes, conditioners, and power lines are all showing their ugly head along with unpainted brick walls and the occasional metal door leading inside.
I turn a bend and catch sight of the trio, quietly chatting. They immediately notice me and turn their heads, even the short one. I approach them and place the water canister along with the heavy duffle bag on the ground.
They stare on, eyes wide. I kneel down by the duffel bag and unzip it, pulling out an MRE, one of many. “I don’t know how familiar you are with this, but it’s a packaged meal.”
I hold it up and tap it. “Inside there is the main course. I made sure to pick out the ones that I know for a fact that you can eat; it’s the same crap they give out at breakfast. If you've got no way of heating it up, there’s a heat pad inside; pour in some water, and it will start boiling. There are illustrations on them, which should be self-explanatory.”
I pause, trying to remember if I’ve missed anything. “Oh—right. There are some salt and sugar packets inside. Other than those and the main course, I wouldn’t try eating anything else. I don’t know what you can handle, and it’s probably best not to test it. Got it?”
I smile, the moment reminding me of how they explained the same thing to us back in basic—blunt and simple.
I drop the MRE back into the duffle bag before zipping it up.
The trio is still staring at me, awestruck. “Why are you doing all this? You didn’t give food to anyone else.” The grey guy asks as he approaches the duffle bag.
I pause, thinking it over before finally pointing to the short one. She looks up, clearly caught off guard. I hold my ground, waiting—hoping—for a flicker of recognition. But it never comes.
“I figure you don’t remember me.” It’s a little disheartening after going through all this trouble, but I guess my face was fully covered, and we marines look kind of the same with all this gear.
“I was in the forest with you when those people came.” She blinks, the memory coming back to her.
“I don’t really know you or what had happened before all of it, but I could tell that it was something bad. I hoped that whatever it was would pass, but seeing as you came here asking for food and water, I must have been wrong.” I start feeling a little weird as they all look at me, especially as I find it hard to gauge the emotion from their alien faces.
Awkwardness sets in as the silence continues. “Um, I need to get going now. Just one thing to keep note. I did not have permission to do this, and no one except us knows about it, so please keep your snouts shut and don’t go bragging to your friends…”
The female bird-lizard prepares to say something, but this situation has grown too intense for my socially anxious ass, so I dip and retreat behind the bend. Speed walking away from the scene of what Military Police would surely consider theft and misappropriation of government resources.
But even through all this fear and awkwardness, I feel a little warmth inside my chest and find myself smiling as I think about the situation and that I actually did some good. That’s a bit new to me; even doing anything at all is a foreign concept. Usually I choose not to intervene and just do nothing…
I'd better get back before the guys notice that I’m gone.
The door to my office slides open, and I step inside, inhaling the familiar scent of stale but perfectly conditioned air. Visiting the planet had its moments—aside from the oppressive heat—but the Bismarck feels like home. If I’m being honest, I prefer it up here.
Here, I have control. Clarity. From this vantage point, the entire planet is at my fingertips—and what a tangled, delicate affair it is.
At least I managed to iron out a few things with the Marine contingent. Things should hopefully start looking less like an occupation, which it pretty much is.
I walk around the table and take a seat in my comfy chair. “Gretel, do you have any reports for me?” I ask as I try to relax.
A round pad on the table lights up, and the form of the AI takes shape, giving off a blue hue. But something isn’t right; I see concern in her human features. Which is weird enough already coming from an AI.
“I have received reports both from our air patrols and my own investigations that the Tridonican Armed Forces are covertly moving in around the city of Caldera Bay; they are trying to keep it under wraps, but have not been very successful. So far, I count several mechanized divisions stationed around the city.” My display screen lights up, showing clips of camouflaged troops moving into the forests surrounding the city.
Just when I thought things were getting quiet. “I didn’t want to do this, but I guess we have no choice. Start the preparations for Operation: Hammer and Anvil. Plan out all the strikes needed to neutralize these forces. Hopefully, we won’t have to use this, but if they show aggression, a demonstration of our might is in order.” I close my eyes, tired enough as it is.
“One more thing, Sir.” I groan, grinding my teeth. What else is going to interrupt my well-earned rest?
“ONI agents have been awakened from cryo sleep. They wish to speak with you.”
I shoot up from my seat, exhaustion vanishing in an instant.
The Office of Naval Intelligence. Just what I needed—shadowy operatives with too much clearance and too many questions, now sniffing around my decisions. I’ve heard of good officers being dragged off by ONI over vague rumors of collusion with Insurrectionists. Whether that was the truth—or just a convenient cover—I never found out.
“Alright, Gretel…” I swallow hard. “When are they expecting this meeting?”
The AI pauses longer than usual. Too long.
“They’re waiting outside your office.”
A chill creeps down my spine. My eyes flick to the door, as if expecting it to open on its own. They're already here.