Through the wafting smells of burning vehicles flows the distinct smell of bar-b-que. A pork aroma breezes through the destroyed Mecats. Strange such a smell would cover the melted plastic in flames around him. Curiosity of the odor draws at him. Sprawled near a shattered cockpit remains what could have been a humanoid. Now the charred blacken mess shudders as a dark hand reaches for a dagger just out of reach.
The lizard creature inches its hand toward the blade. Reynard keeps his finger on the trigger of his magnum. Even near death, this creature could want to bring one more enemy into the afterlife. Gun fire might attract the Mokarran.
It halts its struggle. One untranslatable word spills from the uncooked side of its mouth. Reynard guesses its meaning. On the exposed unburnt side of its body, a silver flask stands out.
Reynard offers a word of comfort. He unclips the flask and before fully removing the twist cap, the stench of turpentine sears his nose. He gives the creature a swig. Most of it spills from its gums. With a last drink, it points to a spot where an Osirian kidney would be. Reynard scoops up the dagger and places the point in the spot. With the last surge of strength and pain, the creature wraps its cooked fingers around Reynard’s hand and assists in ending its life. The dagger plunges into cooked meat much like a knife through Sunday ham. Whatever organ it pierced there had little blood and was a quick death.
Blaster fire sends Reynard scampering for cover behind the skeletal remains of a Mecat. Small-arms weapons means it was from ground troops.
Pounding reverberates in his eardrums. He glances through the menagerie of broken tanks to avoid the one nearing him when Reynard realizes his own heartbeat thumps so loud he hears nothing else. He wipes his water-soaked palm on his flight suit pant leg before gripping his magnum. No simulation prepared him. His mind races to stories his grandfather told him about soldiers during the American Civil War and their quest to see the elephant. He understands now why they didn’t want to witness the elephant a second time. The mayhem of battle, the thousand instants blurring past him, leave questions of sanity.
He laughs. His mind transfixed elsewhere for a second. Every sequel to all his favorite ’80s action movies shouldn’t be about the same thing happening to the same guy twice, but should be about him trudging through PTSD therapy.
Reynard snaps to. He has to. He doesn’t want to die. There’s no burying his head in the sand. He clears his thoughts. He’s had training. He can cope later with the carnage.
He wanted to be a soldier.
What should a soldier do?
Keep your head down, find better cover, return fire.
Easily made plan.
Through the smoke of burning crops and Mecats, Reynard spots a squad of battle suited soldiers. He hooks his eyepiece over his ear and uses the ocular device to magnify his view. Seared into each shoulder plate is the UCP sigil. His allies even if they don’t know it.
The Mokarran fire on them.
Before they reach cover, two soldiers fall. Reynard has to assist them. He needs their help to survive. He fires blindingly around the Mecat leg where he hides. Both teams of warriors spot him. The Mokarran open fire on his position, giving the UCP soldiers reprieve, which they use to enact a preconceived plan. One soldier races toward Reynard’s position carrying a thin cable. Once he runs out, he releases the end, flinging himself at Reynard and covering his body. The heavy armor strikes him like a bat swung at full force, but before he winces in pain, the cable explodes, showering everyone in clods of dirt. The soldier drags Reynard into the freshly dug trench joined by his companions.
This forces the Mokarran to seek better cover if they want to engage the UCP troops.
Replacing his heartbeat, the ringing of his ears stems from the explosion. Reynard knows the soldier’s giving him orders. A constant high-pitched hum prevents him from hearing them. With the full-faced helmet, he can’t even see any lips to read. The soldier jams the rifle of one of his dead companions into Reynard’s arms.
He understands “gun” and the capability it has to fatally wound a Mokarran over his magnum. The soldier, who has a Sergeant rank underneath his shoulder sigil, waves two fingers at Reynard before using them to point over the top of the trench.
He needs to understand the order. It could mean his life. Reynard shakes his head. He hopes the man doesn’t think him a coward. Afraid, yes—but not a coward—Reynard points to his ear and shakes his head.
The Sergeant gives him a thumbs-up before jumping up to fire a few quick plasma bursts at the Mokarran and ducking back down.
Unable to hold this position forever, Reynard checks the e-clip and primes the weapon. He nods at the Sergeant. He goes where they go.
Advanced exoskeleton tech adds to the battle suit, giving the soldiers temporary superhuman abilities. The Sergeant leaps from the trench in a manner Reynard’s physically unable to possibly follow so he lies down, covering fire in an attempt to suppress the Mokarran as the UCP troops charge.
Plasma bolts sear the air.
Reynard dips back into the trench running hunched over until he reaches the middle where he flings himself up firing. Plasma burns through a gap between the UCP men. The Mokarran don’t retreat to cover this time. Volley after volley of plasma sends him back down into the trench and costs him visual on the UCP soldiers.
A UCP soldier lands in the trench tearing off his smoldering helmet. Damaged by some kind of acidic blast, the helmet melts at Reynard’s feet.
“Smerth’n hell.”
Reynard understands the Osirian, so he must still have some hearing. He scampers away from the helmet as it liquefies into a hissing goop.
“Cover me?”
Reynard nods. Pops up and fires.
The soldier drags one of his fellow dead
