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![Earth's Savior [SFM/4K]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/da69591c-dfd3-40bc-9ce0-5e5c01548a33/ddvenm1-63af5f80-d19c-4553-8592-14ffc3750c97.jpg/v1/crop/w_184,h_184,x_36,y_0,scl_0.085185185185185,q_70,strp/earth_s_savior__sfm_4k__by_archangel470_ddvenm1-92s-2x.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7ImhlaWdodCI6Ijw9MjE2MCIsInBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2RhNjk1OTFjLWRmZDMtNDBiYy05Y2UwLTVlNWMwMTU0OGEzM1wvZGR2ZW5tMS02M2FmNWY4MC1kMTljLTQ1NTMtODU5Mi0xNGZmYzM3NTBjOTcuanBnIiwid2lkdGgiOiI8PTM4NDAifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6aW1hZ2Uub3BlcmF0aW9ucyJdfQ.AEpF2rO2m0NnrrEE15SUIZ_dDYsE9BqTl82gJJXpCP0)
![Earth's Savior [SFM/4K]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/da69591c-dfd3-40bc-9ce0-5e5c01548a33/ddvenm1-63af5f80-d19c-4553-8592-14ffc3750c97.jpg/v1/crop/w_92,h_92,x_18,y_0,scl_0.042592592592593,q_70,strp/earth_s_savior__sfm_4k__by_archangel470_ddvenm1-92s.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7ImhlaWdodCI6Ijw9MjE2MCIsInBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2RhNjk1OTFjLWRmZDMtNDBiYy05Y2UwLTVlNWMwMTU0OGEzM1wvZGR2ZW5tMS02M2FmNWY4MC1kMTljLTQ1NTMtODU5Mi0xNGZmYzM3NTBjOTcuanBnIiwid2lkdGgiOiI8PTM4NDAifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6aW1hZ2Uub3BlcmF0aW9ucyJdfQ.AEpF2rO2m0NnrrEE15SUIZ_dDYsE9BqTl82gJJXpCP0)
Description
The ‘Hog came to a tired, grinding halt. Its heavy tires churned a dusty cloud of clay colored dust and gravel and its frame rocked once as Private Aaron Lockett’s foot came off the break prematurely. Placing the gear shift in the PARK position, he pulled his legs out of the leg compartment, stood on his molded seat and hopped out the side. It had been minutes, and somewhere along the way I wondered if I had, in fact, managed some actual sleep. Pulling myself out of the seat and feeling the impact of ground reverberate through my waking legs, I knew it didn’t matter. I was still just as tired as when I found the Optican Cancer Treatment clinic and found the solace I needed to recharge my batteries.
“Why are we stopping?”
New Mombasa was still on the horizon. I gauged the distance before being comfortable with waiting for an answer. I had a good guess of why we had pulled over, but I wanted to be sure.
“Gonna fuel up while we can,” Lockett said, hauling one of the empty Water Fuel cans from the bed of the Warthog. It made hollow thunks against his thigh plate as he waltzed toward the nearby shoreline. I couldn't read his expession behind his tinted glares and the bulky, angular OD green helmet that encased his head like the exoskeleton of a scorpion, but he sounded tired. I was willing to guess he endured a fraction of what I had put up with, but having to lug a .30 caliber light machinegun was the kind of stress mulitplier that made one immune to shaming. “We only got another four miles until we hit the refugee center. May as well do this now while we can.”
As he disappeared over the grassy hill, I could see the silhouettes of Covenant capital ships looming over the city’s skyline, circling like vultures over fresh dead to feed upon. Looking at the results of thirty-six hours of fighting, I tried to remember what the city looked like when I had first seen it, two kilometers and closing in my SOEIV at what felt like Mach One before it dawned on me that I had asked myself a similar question during the drop.
I remember wondering what the city had looked like before the invasion. Our reaction time was swift but evidence of sustained, heavy combat showed in the smoldering scars that striated New Mombasa’s high rises, residential centers, and plazas. I didn’t know then, and now, as much as I tried, I couldn’t remember whatever majesty it still held as I peered through the viewport of my drop pod.
Kate and Ryan both walked with Lockett, stopping just short of the damp sand to get a look for themselves. Wierbowski, last I saw, was still on the mounted LAAG of one of the Hog’s we had managed to commandeer. Wilks was somewhere totally out of sight, not unlike the others who had been spacing themselves out from me since I had returned from my lone patrol through Black District…through Mbaraki East. It didn’t take someone like Vansen to be able to pick up the cue and know to leave someone alone to their thoughts. I always valued my solitude as a place to find my thoughts, and for once among the group in which I had found almost nothing but solidarity, couldn’t appreciate the space they had given me more than now.
I wish I could tell myself that the past day was like any other mission, that I had lived through yet another operation and that tomorrow was our chance to get it right. I wanted to believe that the day came and went with regular gains and losses; regroup, restock, debrief, shower, rack time, repeat. I knew I’d be lying to myself if I tried to say that New Mombasa was anything other than a long and painful journey that taught a one-time lesson that you either picked up on the first time or missed out on for life.
My body ached. Every time I shifted my weight, something clicked or popped in my joints and my spine. My chest and throat still felt the cramping sensation of sorrow brought on by the bereavement that I had stowed away a lifetime ago and hoped to bury along the bloody road of war. The harder I stared at the concrete jungle the more it took the shape of Cecilia’s pain-worn face as it softened into an expression of relieved, peaceful sleep. With that memory alive, every sound I heard was the hollow ping of the one-dose polypseudomorphine injector against the concrete.
I quickly reminded myself to breathe. The air filling my lungs felt like a cool tether that wrapped throughout my body and pulled me back to the present, back to the grand eulogy of the city that came in the form of bright, combing lines of earth-moving plasma that carved into the Kenyan ground and faded away the skyline one stroke at a time like a disappointed artist’s brush strokes covering an unfinished masterpiece.
Lockett cursed. So did Ryan, and I guessed Wierbowski’s murmured sound was something along a similar mindset. I finally turned away, bored with trying to remember, and trying to convince my self that remembering would make a difference. The masterpiece can always be repainted, the city rebuilt, and life renewed. As long as we were fighting, Mombasa would still be alive, and someone would lay down insane amounts of resources and manpower to rebuild it, taking from what had been learned from the Covenant occupation leading to the initial counteroffensive by the UNSC.
HIGHCOMM would develop new tactics to use against the invading forces. Traxus and JOTUN would spearhead the development of a new city plot, likely with new structural designs to hold out against sustained assault. ONI would probably benefit from this somehow too–it was just a given fact. Humanity would keep trundling the wheel, greasing the tracks with new ideas and information.
“You want to talk yet?” The voice belonged to Wilks who only now materialized in the edge of my sight.
I turned my head and looked at him. His helmet was off, his longer-than-regulation brown hair matted around his face, concern narrowing his eyes. “You’ve barely said a word since you arrived.”
The concern only went so far as to show on the surface. After hearing his solid tone and grabbing one close look at the tightness in his face, I knew there was no convincing him. He wouldn’t be swayed with a simple “I’m fine” or “Yeah, just exhausted” grade of excuse. But I was beyond that. I knew what bottling it up did by now, and something told me that Wilks knew too. He hadn’t yet learned the art of detachment. Despite the city being set ablaze in the distance, he still tried to focus on those around him. He knew that living in the “now” meant handling what was in our control.
I nodded slowly and turned my gaze back to the road ahead. “What I have to say doesn’t really matter. I’ll say it anyway one day when I’m ready, probably, when it still won’t matter."
The pause between us was heavy with the distant rumble of excavation beams burning landscape, melting metal and polycrete, boiling and evaporating sea water. Aaron was marching back with a full, gurgling jerry can of hydro for the Warthog, the others in tow, boots shuffling, gear rattling as white noise that punctuated the memory reel replaying behind my eyes. The many nameless I had walked over, the many more that bled and died by my hands in a debt that seemingly never came close to being paid, and the utter lack of feeling that I still felt for the unknown number of them that I had dismantled in acts of survival. Finally, a dying woman, a name, Cecilia, and the bittersweet contentment I felt at having the chance to grant her last wish.
Wilks finally nodded in return, made a half-humored laugh, and gave my arm a rough slap.
“C’mon. Only another four miles.”
With that semblance of understanding between us, we joined the others in embarking on our Warthog LRVs and made our final departure, leaving behind trails of dust that further obscured New Mombasa, the island of war that would remain barren until our return, until we had taken it back. We would take it back, I told myself. However dark things got, light would only be easier to find.
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I can imagine a conversation like "The hell happened to this city?" "EVERYTHING happened!"