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The Culmination - Chapter One
Date: 7 December 2006, 4:35 pm

The Culmination

Chapter One

"We fight not for the sake of victory, triumph, or pride—which are tangible reasons for war and aggression—but rather we fight for our mere subsistence; the very essence of life itself."

      "SIMPLEX One, priority artillery support my location plus one hundred meters due west!"
      A deep, thundering explosion resounded through the muddy ground, followed a second later by a thick bombardment of rocky fragments, finished off by an obscuring haze of debris that floated in the air. Soldiers shuddered in panic as the warmth from the explosion washed over them, the smell of death clearly portrayed by the searing heat that consumed flesh and earth alike.
      "SIMPLEX One, I say again, I need priority artillery fire on my location plus one hundred meters due west!"
      Enemy fire wisped overhead, producing ghostly faces among the men pressing against the ground. Wide, vacant eyes darted about as the gray skies overhead mixed hauntingly with ascending black smoke, and distressed expressions dominated the weary faces as the muddy scene mixed coldly with the sounds of war.
      Small drops of rain descended upon them, cutting the visibility down beyond the smoke and haze that already filled the air, adding edging dread to the troops occupying the landscape littered with burning vehicles and smoldering corpses. Delirious men trembled at the sight of mutilated figures—men who once lived among them but now lay motionless in the mud, never again to see the light of day among the living. Body parts and limbs added to the sickening sight as the rain mixed with pools of dark red blood, streaming over rocks and running into puddles.
      The smell was a twisted mixture of singed flesh and steaming weapons. The sight coinciding with the nauseating aroma was of no less harm to the mind. Quivering and terrorized men cowered under the constant stress that was bound to end their fearful lives. Trembling hands tightly grasped their long instruments of war, as if keeping it close could keep the touch of death away. The white in their eyes hauntingly stuck out among the dull rain and mud that covered everything in this atrocious battlefield, and their bare knuckles bore testimony to the distress running through their minds.
      Another explosion erupted nearby, showering them with debris and sizeable rocks. Relentlessly, every man within range was bombarded with pain and a new wave of fear. Mud splashed thickly over their helmets and faces, and heads turned back and forth rapidly as the growing sense of inevitable death consumed their thoughts. Men were not made for war of this nature, and the body and mind did not cope with the constant pressures, apprehensions and fears that tormented each warrior sprawled against the ground.
      "Incoming!"
      The yell of warning was drowned out by an instant deafening explosion, sharply followed by an intense influx of heat. The officer's head snapped back at the shock of the blast and impacted sharply into the ground, consciousness seeping away and flowing endlessly with foreboding, disappearing into another world where darkness crept around the edges and magnificent lights flashed in an array of patterns. A numbing feeling washed over the prior fears and despair, and brought a new sense of being into the sentiments of the life.
      This distant reality did not last forever, and the consciousness began the painful process of reinserting itself into the forefront of the mind. Those patterns and colors that were manifested in this dark void slowly began to fade as the sounds of war pierced through, gasping for attention. The numbing feeling that had severed the agitation from the mind was beginning to wear off, and the former existence of terror began to retake its rightful place among the wretched.
      Vision returned as the eyes parted slowly, revealing a blurry rendition of the scene prior to the smashing explosion. The sky above was still a thick complexion of grays, sending rain down upon them. The wet, black ground was still torn up, and the horrifying sight of bodies still resided. Bright flashes still shot overhead, and haunting screams still split the background noise, piercing into the ears like knives through meat. Shell-shock once again threatened to take over, looming precariously close to eradicating all rationale and hope.
      "Lieutenant, I've got artillery on the way!"
      Walter Fallon blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision and thoughts to comprehend the situation around him. He was immediately hit with painful throbbing in his body and a thick concussion, offset by a fast heartbeat and shaking hands. Instinctively, he grasped quickly—for anything—but found his muddy hands empty. With no weapon, his arm shot out for the pistol holstered in his Load Bearing Vest as more charges of enemy fire erupted overhead, the heat nearly burning his exposed skin.
      He looked over at the Marine near him who was completely prone and staring back, the telephone end of the Long Range Field Communicator in his hand. The eyes stared back at him from behind a brown, muddied face, and the man cringed as distant explosions reverberated around them. The antennae of the black device on his back stuck up awkwardly in the air, as if taunting a plasma charge to hit it.
      A quick look around reminded the Lieutenant of their situation, or rather, their predicament. A large crater just over a meter deep had been their cover for the last stretch of time—a now relative perspective. Five other Marines pressed hard into the grimy earth, gripping their rifles with a consuming mix of adrenaline and fear. Around the crater was the occasional tree, devoid of branches or foliage, and burnt underbrush—now mostly nonexistent in this muddy field. Black plumes of smoke rose from several directions as destroyed tanks burned, and tracers shot out wildly from unknown locations, passing by plasma charges in an unnerving display of friend verses foe firefights.
      The whistling of shells sounded overhead as the artillery requested moments ago began raining down. Deep explosions vibrated through the earth as sharp, painful shock waves shot out. Out of sight, the large shells began decimating the terrain ahead of them, flattening most of the remaining tree coverage and churning what little ground was left untouched into depressing craters of mud. The bombardment lasted several seconds, suddenly ceasing and allowing the sound of small-arms fire to regain its rightful supremacy.
      "Lieutenant?" came another voice.
      Fallon's eyes darted over to the Marine who yelled at him, fear and apprehension clear in his voice. The young man stared at him from behind disturbed eyes and kept his chin pressed against the ground. The man—or rather kid—was desperate for something to keep him alive, something that could lead him out of this literal pit in a ferocious hell. Perhaps it was the Lieutenant's bar embroidered on his helmet, or maybe because the Radio-Telephone Operator had addressed him earlier. Either way, he wasn't sure, but he knew that regardless of how he was recognized in the pit, he needed to take charge of the situation.
      He looked over at the RTO, who waited in anxious silence. "Contact SIMPLEX, find out who's still around here and what we can do." The Marine nodded, and Fallon turned to the young Marine that had addressed him. "Get a view of what's up ahead."
      The soldier paused, obviously considering the order, trying to overcome the fear that dictated him to keep his head as low as possible. Fallon recognized the delayed reaction to the order, and knew that this was the fundamental reason why Marines were killed in combat. Could he blame the kid? The thought bounced around inside his head, painfully playing along with the headache. Why didn't he just do it himself? That was the true question.
      I am just as much afraid as he is.
      Two other Marines stared in utter shock as the young man swallowed his fears—or at least tried to—and began crawling slowly for the top of the crater just above him. Fallon found himself staring as the kid gripped up the muddy slope to the crest and paused, breathing hard. Charges of plasma shot overhead, searing through the air with defining sizzles that portrayed a clear sense of death. The young Marine's head eased up over the top.
      The ground around him ripped up into a flash of charges and debris. Fallon instinctively ducked further down as the Marine screamed and rolled back, fragments falling down upon everyone in the crater. He slid to a quick stop at the red-drenched bottom of the shallow pit, resting back-first in the thick complexion of mud and blood. Charred hands reached out awkwardly and grasped at his face.
      The two Marines next to him cursed in shock, while the third remained in his fetal position, hugging the earth, trying to exit this cruel reality. Fallon holstered the pistol and crawled over, wincing at the sharp, foul smell that emitted from the Marine, now struggling blindly and wailing in a chilling voice that sent devilish, infectious fears into his thoughts.
      "Speak to me!" He shouted as he grabbed the burnt hands. Charred skin slipped off and revealed bloody tissue and bone underneath, producing an agonizing scream from the Marine. He let go of the hands and looked at the face of the soldier, seeing nothing but black, burnt skin. The helmet atop his head was blackened and disfigured, and the chest protection that covered his shoulders and lower neck was steaming in a sick broiling scene as blood burnt quickly onto the armor.
      "Oh my god…" a Marine behind him looked away and vomited as contrails rose off the face and helmet into the air, spreading the smell. The mutilated face of the soldier, a mixture of blisters, missing skin and swelling sores stopped moving. The hands that once continued to grasp at anything ceased to move, and the wails of pain out of the mouth died away as explosions and gunfire resounded around them.
      Fallon tried to suppress the nausea and looked away, coughing as the Marine's pulse vanished. He had ordered this kid to look out! He had just condemned him to his death! Anger fought to takeover as terror and pain rushed through his veins, reminding him with every beat of his heart, we're only human.
      He turned to face the two Marines who looked about wildly. One of them wiped a trail of regurgitation off his face, dazed and disoriented with the fight raging on around them. The second shook in fear, his teeth chattering as rain ran down his blood-splattered helmet. These men were already casualties of this war, and would never sleep again.
      "Eyes open, Marines!" Fallon ordered shakily, trying to overcome the same feelings within and give purpose and hope to the men quivering near him. "Keep those weapons up!"
      They responded better than he would have thought, bringing their long rifles to bear and pointing them out of the crater, just in case some foe appeared. Their eyes scanned back and forth rapidly, and their nervous fingers played over the triggers of the weapons, as if expecting a large, ominous figure to emerge out of nowhere. Despite this newfound authority, they kept pressed against the muddy earth as enemy fire continued overhead, as if to remind them that death was only a short step away. The smoldering body lying in the center of the crater proved yet again why they were afraid.
      "Lieutenant, SIMPLEX reports that less than a Platoon's worth of soldiers remains in our vicinity," the RTO said finally. "All armored platoons have been destroyed, and artillery units are pulling back due to pressure from enemy forces pushing forward."
      The situation was bad. "What are our aerial recon—" an explosion erupted ten meters away from the crater, deafening the Marines and sending smoldering fragments into the crater. A haze of dirt floated over, turning the gray scenery into a brownish complexion. Fallon shook his head as ringing in his ears kept sounds from being distinguished.
      "What of aerial reconnaissance?" He yelled conspicuously, unaware that his shouting was loud enough. The RTO spoke back, but the explosion had drowned out nearly all sound, and not a word could be heard. Fallon pointed to his ears.
      "…Sir, at least two Company's worth of Charlie remains!" RTO shouted back, this time louder.
      Fallon nodded in bleak acknowledgement, the ringing in his ears slowly beginning to subside. Thirty minutes ago two Company's of his Battalion were deployed to assist a Company of tanks in securing a large, wide valley leading to the mouth of Mari Crosse, a town harboring at least five-thousand civilians who were still in the act of evacuation. The force delegated to secure the only main ground entrance to the city—the force he and his Platoon had been assigned to—had met impossible odds; encountering a Covenant force on its way to the city easily twice as large.
      Artillery and aerial bombardments helped knock out a large portion of the Covenant attack force, but in the long run it was not enough. The tanks were lost quickly, and the two Companies of foot soldiers were sheared to pieces, only remnants remaining on the battlefield that had been churned to mud and debris. His own Platoon was nearly completely killed in the first ten minutes, and after everyone simply scrambled for cover as a barrage of enemy fire rained down upon them, accountability had all been lost. The RTO cowering in the crater next to him wasn't even from his Company, and the Marines hopelessly hiding in the pit were from some other Platoon. Nobody from his own unit, the unit he led, was near him.
      For all he knew, they were dead.
      Now they were pinned in the middle of a wide open field that was once an attractive thin forest. All the vegetation was flattened, and only a few fortunate trees remained upright. With the ostensibly global invasion by the Covenant, it seemed as if everyone was left to fend for themselves; or in the terms of his training, a situation where success probabilities were severely impaired. A combat force scattered and unsupported was nothing more than useless, and furthermore, a combat force that was broken was incapable of survival.
      If any of the Marines stranded under enemy fire in this forsaken field wanted to live, they would need to unite and act as a team to survive. He exhaled heavily as the final thought occurred to him; it would have to be him leading this failing fight towards an attempt at victory. Even though he had prior experience in the field, and some OCS training that told him how the textbook said combat was supposed to go, there still remained doubt as to whether he would have the shrewdness to pull this off.
      God help me.
      "Get me in contact with anyone within proximity," Fallon said at last to the RTO. "I need to know SITREP's." The Marine nodded and pulled out the telephone handle to the LRFC, punching in a frequency to raise anyone nearby.
      Fallon removed a small rectangular mirror from his LBV and extended the handle attached to the bottom. Having ordered that young Marine to peer above the crater was not wise, and the guilt played heavily upon him. His mind began a subconscious task of evaluating just how much more he could take of the constant stress and strain, but the results were never definite. He was always pushed beyond what he thought he could take, and every challenge made him stronger and smarter—but this was the first time he felt the daunting feeling rip into his psyche, nearly dictating that he would inevitably break under the pressure.
      Two days without sleep, numerous firefights with a superior enemy, and watching men die in his hands was bringing him closer and closer to the point of no return; the point in which the mind breaks down and nothing but delirium and madness exists. Sanity, though relative, seemed as if it was slipping further away with every second spent under these conditions. He had gone through rigorous training to prepare him for a leadership role—though he felt that it was nothing more then a waste of time—and had plenty of experience as an enlisted Marine to support him in his spontaneous decisions. But no matter how hard he prepared for this, or how much he had already been through, nothing seemed capable of fabricating the right mentality to withstand the duress conceived by war. He felt his judiciousness slowly slipping farther away.
      Could he ever return to a peaceful life?
      He fought to keep those thoughts from preoccupying him. Focus! For the men around you! He crawled up slowly to the crest of the crater, but instead of peering out, he gently lifted the mirror skyward several inches above the surface. He quickly angled it to get a view of what was ahead of them, and what enemies kept them pinned in this seemingly hopeless firefight. Why had he only thought of this alternative when his own life was on the line?
      Several portable plasma turrets were firing rapidly across the field, not necessarily aiming at anyone in particular, but keeping every head pinned down. Two Covenant transport craft sat still as the gunners on those turrets washed the field with continuous fire, mimicking the tactics of the portable guns. Soldiers with bright, conspicuous shields were advancing slowly towards them, covered by the suppressive fire of the turrets and keeping lines of Covenant troops shielded from any small arms fire. They were getting close.
      "Lieutenant, I have a Gunnery Sergeant from Bravo Company on the horn!" The RTO paused as fire swept briefly over them. "He says he's forty meters parallel to us with eight Marines, and two of them are part of Fourth Platoon, Bravo Company and have suppressive weapons!"
      Fallon lowered the mirror and looked back at the RTO as several plasma charges kicked up dirt only meters from his head. "Tell the Sergeant to get those suppressive weapons firing after we pop some smoke! Tell them to keep firing at the infantry advancing on us while we take out the turrets!" The RTO nodded and relayed the order.
      The Lieutenant turned to the two shaky Marines next to him. "When you hear those M271's light up, aim for those turret gunners and take them out, clear?" The Marines nodded quickly, but he doubted their capabilities to perform the simple order. He looked over to the last Marine who remained in a tight defensive ball, his rifle lying in the mud near him. "What the hell is up with that soldier?"
      "I don't know, sir," a Marine shouted back, stuttering reactions of terror. "He's was like that when we jumped in here."
      Now that Fallon recalled it, he remembered the Marine in that exact same position as well when he dove for cover in this crater. He crawled over to him and set a hand on his shoulder.
      "…I don't want to die," the soldier whispered, deep sobs barely discernable above the raging fight around them. "I don't want to die…"
      The Marine had cracked; broken under the weight of war. Fallon lifted his hand gently away from the man. How do you react to someone in this state? Perhaps that had been covered in his OCS training, but the answer wouldn't come to mind. He knew from experience—seeing this firsthand before—that some would react violently to anyone trying to rally them, often berserking and running mindlessly into the enemy's fire; either out of desperation to leave this horror or in complete oblivion to reality. He didn't want that to happen, especially not in front of other Marines who were teetering on the line of joining this man in a mental state of brokenness.
      Who was he kidding? He didn't want to see it.
      Fallon turned away from the soldier and edged up once again to the top of the crater, pulling out a single smoke grenade. He had devised this plan in mere seconds and wasn't completely confident that it could work. Doubt began creeping back into his thoughts as he remembered the last order he had given, and the dead body that lay in the center of this pit. Would more die from his commands? He fought the uncertainty off, trying to rationalize the truth of combat. People would die, but if it was for the common cause—the common goal for success of the men around them—their death would not be in vain.
      He paused for a moment to remind himself; to remind himself that people would die by his orders, and that was an inevitable fact of war. This was what he learned in OCS, and it was what he witnessed as an enlisted soldier. Yet now, staring at the men that could fall by his account, crouching in a crater near the enemy that continually filled the waiting, empty caskets, he couldn't allow himself this rationalization. He wasn't a commander, a distant authority figure bound to statistics. No, he believed himself to be a leader. And leaders don't diminish the value of their followers to ease the pain.
      The pin slipped out from the grenade.
      This remorse would plague him forever.

The Culmination - Chapter Two
Date: 29 December 2006, 7:33 am

Chapter Two

"Men fight because they believe they can elude fate's grasp. What if the truth of predestination meant Man's defiance was the source of their initial action?"

      It was a mad house. A literal frenzy of people trying to find some means of escaping the town that had inexplicably become their enemy's target. No one knew what kept them from simply bombarding the planet, or what reason compelled them to take this town by conventional means, but in any case the residents of Mari Crosse had this death warrant over all their heads. That very fact was what made everyone run, scream, and fight for something to carry them from this municipality. It was also the reason for the once peaceful town to become the harbor of neglect for consideration.
      Specifically, the consideration of others.
      Ronis Alderne stared out his second-story window onto the streets below, his face contorting in a mixture of anger and disbelief. The community of Mari Crosse was scurrying around below him, people pushing, yelling and nearly trampling others in their attempt to escape the inevitability that had settled over this town. Indeed, he knew it, too. Word had filtered through the population of five thousand that a Covenant ground force was en route to their little town, and with word of that ground force came mass panic.
      Nobody knew why they had been spared an orbital glassing, but they did know that something here was wanted by their enemy, and being between them and their objective was a sure way to die. This invariable truth, combined with the fact that Mari Crosse was situated in a valley surrounded on three sides by rising mountains, made the quest for escape a terror-driven fury to beat everyone else to the few military aircraft that were trying desperately to get everyone out.
      Descending out of the low clouds were those black "Pelicans," but it was painfully obvious that there were not enough of them. And considering that the only side of the town that was vehicle-accessible was the current attack route by their enemy, the options were either to fight your way to one of those transports, start hopelessly climbing those rocky slopes, or watch it all from your home in quiet contemplation.
      Alderne was by no means a man of thought, a scholar or philosopher, but he couldn't help but process the sickening change his peers had undertaken. People he once shared meals and worked with were now fighting each other mercilessly to escape, and aside from finding it horribly disappointing that the once tight-knit community was now a scrambling horde, he couldn't deny the rage building inside. The only thing that kept him and his family separated from that mob were the walls of his house.
      War was a cruel disfigurer of people. Whether they hold a rifle in defense of others or be the noncombatants with balled fists of desperation, it changed people. Innocent sons turned to cold killers, and peaceful families turned to selfish men and women pursuant of deliverance. This was the ugly truth of war; no matter how close or far one is from the battlefield, it twists the character and ethics until they are no longer recognizable.
      Indeed, their enemy had already won in breaking their resolve and solidarity. Now all that remained was for their foe's sword to end their dissentious lives. He placed a hand on the cold glass, his breath condensing on it as he exhaled, fogging up the window before his face. If hope could be considered man's greatest strength and concurrent weakness, then individualism could be considered their greatest and worst gift by God.
      "Ronis," came the soft voice from beyond.
      He turned slowly to see his wife of twelve years stand silently by the door leading into their upstairs bedroom. Her face was a sad complexion of stress and fear, and it ate at his heart with an indescribable ferocity. His family was in the path of this enemy, yet he stood here in the relative silence of his home as the masses stampeded outside, their voices seeping through the windows and walls. His home gave him no special safety from their incoming enemy, yet he could not devise some unique plan to get them all out to safety.
      What could he do? Take his wife and two children into the streets and hope to catch one of those few transports? As he stared at his wife, seeing the look in her deep brown eyes, he felt as if there was nothing he could do. He was supposed to be the protector and provider of his household, yet here, waiting for their enemy to arrive, he had little control. One thing was obvious, however; get them out of here.
      "Krita, get the kids," he said softly.
      Mrs. Alderne stared at her husband for a moment, then turned and stepped out of the doorway. It was painfully obvious to Ronis that she knew he had no alternative but to try and get them on a transport—but what was he to do? There was no savior, no rescuer that could pluck them from this damned town and bring them to some haven. No, nothing could help him here, which meant that the survival of his family rested upon him getting them in one of those transports…
      No matter what.
      Within five minutes the four of them had their coats on. Ronis coaxed them into the streets from their front door, joining the stream of frightened people, heading towards the town's center where the school sports field was. The occasional military aircraft landed and departed from that point, and he pushed his family along towards it, trying to protect them from the frantic and shouting people striving to get on those evacs. He could only pray to God that they would escape this graveyard waiting to be filled.
      Even if it means I stay, he found himself whispering as the crowd around him blared, let them escape.
      As they passed homes and shops, trash littered on the sidewalks and the few cars remaining on the streets, he couldn't help but hope that there was even a God. Before learning of the Covenant's discovery of his home world, and then of their eventual invasion, the thought of God was more of some moralistic, superficial concept. Just something to make everyone "go to church" and believe in something greater than themselves.
      The true belief in God was not on his hit list, and accordingly he gave no such thought to a supreme being until the news of their enemy arrived. Now, he was sincerely praying to God, pleading with him to allow his family the chance to live on, while all along he didn't really know if God existed. All these years spent following a trend to buy into the idea that there was some ultimate being—to make an appearance for his fellow men that he was some "holy" man—had left him with nothing.
      Yet, walking briskly along with hundreds of others, nearing the town center as the drizzle continued to fall upon them, he wanted to believe that all along he was merely arrogant of God's existence, and not simply ignorant. For if that was true, then there was some entity that controlled the universe, and consequently some hope that his prayers could be answered. If it was false, and his years of attending sermons was only for the social benefit of having others believe him to be an ethical and believing man, then his family would die today.
      A sizeable crowd was encircling the school field, only kept back by soldiers who fought to keep it clear for those black craft to land and take off. Several soldiers were yelling through loudspeakers, trying to organize how they could get the most people out in the fastest amount of time, but it was evident the majority was only concerned with their own survival and not the utilitarian approach to saving this town.
      Ronis pushed his family closer into the crowd, but found that they would be getting no closer than several hundred feet from the fence and soldiers separating those transports from the desperate assembling. He tried pushing harder, yelling, persuading those in front to let his family advance closer to the field, but no one would budge. For all he could see, they were mired in a sea of people, every one of them hoping to God that they would get out.
      But of course, we're all hoping that God will save us.
      "Move aside! Move aside!"
      He turned his head to the powerful voice coming from behind. Approaching from the street they had just walked along were several soldiers, rifles pointing down but their eyes clearly telling everyone to give them room. Three preceded a man walking next to another, neither of them having a rifle. Those must be officers.
      They were heading right towards them, and the people around—while letting out pleas—squished together to allow a clear line for them to pass. The leading trio of soldiers were motioning them back for the two officers to pass, and the crowd complied surprisingly quickly. Perhaps they thought to impress them with their obedience.
      "Sir!" Ronis yelled out, mustering all the volume he could. The group didn't even notice him as they approached. He took a step out from the edge of the squeezing crowd and into their path, finally catching their attention as they were forced to stop before him.
      "Sir, please move aside," the first soldier ordered curtly, obviously not wishing to entertain another civilian trying desperately to gain his attention.
      "I have my wife and two children that must make it out of here—"
      "Sir, everyone has a fucking wife and child. Move aside, now."
      Ronis pulled them out behind him, causing the stern expression to soften slightly at the sight. "Please, take them up and let them escape."
      "Sir, if you do not move—"
      "Sergeant," one of the officers from behind cut in. The officer leaned forward and whispered into his ear, staring into Ronis's eyes as he did so. Alderne couldn't hear what the man was saying, but stared back at him assertively, hoping that something supernatural would just get his family out of this.
      Without another word, the sergeant grabbed the two daughters of Mr. Alderne and gave them to the two enlisted men next to him, then he grabbed his wife and began moving forward again, shouting for the people ahead to clear. Ronis's daughters cried out for him suddenly as they advanced away from their father, and his wife looked back with a numbing expression that caused his heart to sink farther than he ever thought possible.
      His face contorted in a mixture of sadness and joy as he watched his family leave his side, though their departure would hopefully lead to their survival. The children's crying quickly faded into the roar of the crowd, and before long the path closed behind the five soldiers and his family, their faces disappearing.
      He wanted to let out a scream of farewell, something positive to give them hope that they would meet again, but his throat remained an empty vessel. With clenched jaws and a tight gut, he silently said goodbye to them in his heart, knowing that no other method would render the slightest amount of hope for him or them.
      After waiting until he knew that they could never make contact again, he took several steps back and out of the crowd. He walked against the constant stream of people heading towards the town's center, brushing by some and bumping into others. Though, admittedly, his silent walk back towards his home was not entirely of sadness and despair. He had done what any good father needed to do, and that was get them out of harm's way, even if it meant suffering a huge hole in his heart from their absence.
      As figures passed by him rapidly, their talking and screaming mixing into the moist air as the clouds seemed to descend lower upon the town, he could only afford to give one more thought as to whether anything supernatural really existed in this damned reality. With quick and solemn conclusiveness, he decided that God must be up there somewhere.
      Nevertheless, despite his newly found belief that his family was in the safety of escape, the loneliness stabbed excruciatingly into his mind. He was now one man in the way of an approaching foe, and the only truth that calmed his soul was that those he loved most were going to depart this impending cemetery. Now, he could only hope that their escape would not lead to another predicament, where their lives would rest on the supernatural hand of God himself.
      A distant explosion caused everyone in the streets to look back briefly to the valley mouth leading out of Mari Crosse, out to where the enemy was approaching from. Who was he kidding? From now until they meet again—honestly, until the war was over—they would be in the hands of a higher being.
      God, let them make it.

      "Okay, we can take three more—"      
      A far-off series of blasts caused everyone to look east where the Covenant were said to be approaching from. The low gray clouds and persistent drizzle kept anyone from actually seeing the source of those horrid sounds, but that didn't make it any less unnerving. Somewhere, just out of sight, was a multitude of enemies; enemies charged with removing them from existence.
      "Fuck, they're getting close."
      Chief Warrant Officer Wes Kenton shot a condescending look at the Staff Sergeant who made the remark. The two Marines were in the process of helping civilians aboard the black D77-TC, and they did not react positively to the bleak comment. Sergeant David Rivera, the craft's gunner, rolled his eyes slowly, understanding why he shouldn't have said it.
      "Sergeant!"
      The gunner turned to see three soldiers approach, with them two kids and what was ostensibly their mother.
      "I got three here for you. Is there room?"
      Rivera nodded. "Just enough."
      He reached an arm out of the back of the Pelican and grasped the hand of a woman, pulling her up and into the craft. Kenton did the same with the young girls and then made sure they were buckled in safely. The pilots and crews of Marine Aircraft Group 11, 3rd Marine Air Wing, had been evacuating the citizens of this damned town for the last hour. They were making progress, with nearly a thousand already safely relocated, but with the sounds of war looming closer it was obvious they weren't working fast enough.
      From what Kenton knew, some sizeable Covenant force was on its way to the city. To counter that, soldiers from the 5th Marines had been sent to interdict that advance, but he could only speculate as to how well they were fairing. The sounds of explosions meant that they had at least made contact, but whether or not they were being victorious was another thing. If those Marines didn't at least stall that advancing Charlie force long enough, they might be looking at several thousand dead civvies by the nightfall.
      "Alright, we're full," Rivera announced, waving off the small crowd of men, women and children that had been lined up around the Pelican. The idle downwash from the thrusters made the scene loud and gusty, but those elements didn't faze the people trying desperately to leave this doomed town.
      Kenton nodded and walked back towards the cockpit, passing by the twenty or so individuals that they managed to fit on this flight. While hundreds had already fled the town by foot, choosing to take the rough trails leading over the mountains, a good portion of the town's residents remained.
      That was what made Mari Crosse a mixed blessing. The town was surrounded on three sides by rising mountains that made travel by vehicle nearly impossible—making it an easily defensible location—but that also made evacuations extremely hard, considering that the one main way out was currently being occupied by Marines and Charlie's in battle.
      The CWO3 opened the door and took his seat on the left, sliding it shut behind him. He quickly strapped in and looked over at his boss, Second Lieutenant Darren Putnam, the pilot. "Ready to go."
      He nodded quickly, depressing a button on the control stick. "SIMPLEX Air, Foxhound Two-One is RTB."
      "Copy, Two-One, be advised that we have enemy air activity in the vicinity."
      Putnam let out a sigh. "As if this couldn't get bad enough."
      The two pilots flipped switches and set instruments. This was their third ferry flight out of the town, and each time before this they hadn't seen or heard of any enemy aircraft. This trip would be a little different, apparently.
      "Counter measures on standby, RWR on passive," Kenton announced as the bird began lifting off the ground. They ascended above the field they had sat on for the last five minutes, the thick crowd surrounding the field, and finally the dense scattering of houses and shops. The town was somewhat old-fashioned, and didn't have all the modern luxuries one might expect coming from a larger city. It was simple; streets, shops and houses. On any other day, it might have looked like a peaceful attraction that any man would long to live in, but today it looked like a gloomy graveyard that was waiting to be filled.
      As they began moving forward, continuing their climb to clear the sharp two-thousand foot hills surrounding them, Kenton stared out the cockpit window in silence at the small figures that roamed the streets. Below them were people waiting, hoping for something to get them out of there, yet the undeniable truth of the situation remained. Everyone was not getting out, time simply wouldn't allow it. No matter how hard they and the rest of the 11th tried, they wouldn't be completely successful with this mission. And as much as he hated to accept it, everything rested on how long those men from the 5th Marines kept the enemy occupied.
      Putnam was obviously contemplating the same grim reality as he keyed up the radio, "SIMPLEX Air, can we get an update on the ground situation?"
      There wasn't an immediate response as they ascended into the thick clouds, nothing but a dull gray filling the cockpit windshields. To Kenton, this reinforced the dreadful reality of the fog of war. Just like they were relying on instruments to tell them where they were, the commanders at some CP were relying on various reports to know how the battle faired. Hopefully they had some definite information.
      "We have reports of full contact, and unconfirmed details that the armored company has been KIA."
      There was one foul word to describe both pilots' instant thoughts.
      "However, artillery and aerial strikes have neutralized a significant portion of the Charlie force, most likely their armored forces as well. Looks like this is mostly a troop skirmish at the moment."
      Putnam sighed. "Roger SIMPLEX Air, thanks for the info."
      That was it. This substantial Covenant attack force and the sizeable Marine group meant to stop them had effectively killed each other off. The main threat of Wraiths and other Charlie armored craft seemed not to be an issue anymore, but the Scorpions and APCs needed to repel an enemy counterattack were gone as well.
      "Well, let's hope those grunts—"
      Kenton was cut off by the whoop whoop from the craft's radar warning receiver, the device designed to notify the crew when they were being actively targeted. They had barely cleared the mountain crests surrounding Mari Crosse when they became some foe's objective.
      "Aerial vehicle, bearing 250 at 20 kilometers!"
      Putnam immediately switched his center multifunction display to the terrain following radar, pushing the nose of the D77 over and cutting the power from the thrusters. The craft began dropping like a rock towards the hills, the ground coming up quickly through their radar and thermal sensors.
      "Shit, they must have gotten a lock when we cleared the crest," the copilot said quickly, flipping switches. "Target is inbound and has a clear paint of us."
      Putnam didn't respond as he focused solely on getting this bird down and into ground clutter, trying to evade whatever was out there moving in for the kill. The radar-altitude indicator reported them dropping within one hundred feet above ground level before he pulled the collective stick up to level them out. Trees reached out to touch the black craft as it raced above their tops, flying on in the cloud that continued to obscure everything. Thankfully, they didn't need clear skies to fly, but it gave a very unnerving feeling—as if they were trapped.
      "Target bearing 200 at 15—" Kenton announced.
      Putnam quickly cut him off. "SIMPLEX Air, Foxhound Two-One is being engaged—"
      "Firing, firing!" Kenton shouted, depressing the flashing red button on the control panel. On each wing, several flares and a scattering of chaff shot off.
      "Two-One, we have no radar coverage—"
      This time the Pelican's computer interjected with another unsettling whoop whoop, followed by "evasive maneuvers, evasive maneuvers!" The female voice seemed to instigate a mixture of apprehension and reaction into the minds and hands of the two pilots.
      "Get us below that ridge!" Kenton shouted as the bird banked hard to the left.
      "We're not going to make it!" Putnam responded furiously.
      "Terrain, terrain! Pull up, pull up, pull up—"
      "Watch the trees!"
      "Terrain, terrain! Pull—"
      As Kenton reached to depress the countermeasures button, his head jerked back suddenly and slammed into the headrest of his seat, some force from behind throwing the craft forward violently. His eyes focused out the windshield just as the first treetop cracked the thick, armored glass with a sinister thwap. The next four appearing out of the thick gray fog would be the last he saw before it all went black.

The Culmination - Chapter Three
Date: 19 January 2007, 12:42 pm

Chapter Three

"Around each corner is always a bigger facet, a larger truth—a greater reality. The question is whether or not one can recognize it, and then proceed to comprehend it."

      A distant explosion.
      Captain Wade Bennett didn't turn to the direction of the unsettling sound, choosing instead to continue his trudge towards the large, olive-drab tent. Ahead was the Battalion Command Post, affectionately known as the "2/5," and inside were two men he needed to converse with. After four years in this specific field of service—a combined ten years of duty in the UNSC—he had developed the mindset that little mattered between him and his objective, even threats to his life or others that were not crucial to the mission's success. Whether or not this was a gift or foolishness remained to be known.
      After seeing countless operations go bad, and watching how death inevitably picks out its victims, it was all too evident just how little he could do to stop events from transpiring. The outlook was starkly similar to the belief in fate, and how no matter what you did, you always arrived at the end result. The only thing that matter was what that result was, and whether it was favorable. In a war where anything could happen for any number of reasons—random or not—caring about imminent dangers was more of a burden than aid.
      He came to a stop before the two guards posted by the large tent's entrance, staring at the Private and Corporal for a moment before reaching into his poncho and pulling out his credentials. Even with the Captain's Bars on his helmet, he was not afforded the luxury of simply entering a command post on the front. Rightfully so, however, as the men inside were ostensibly the most indispensable on the field.
      The Corporal apprehensively offered a weak greeting, checking his identification. Clearly, neither guard was happy to be standing out in the gray, miserable drizzle. Perhaps even more apparent was that neither man was happy to be standing still so close to the front line, especially with explosions rattling the earth every other second. After returning his credentials and checking those of his partner, Gunnery Sergeant Isidro Erskine, the senior guard motioned for them to pass.
      Stepping out of the dreary gray and into the yellow-drenched headquarters of the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines Regiment was not a welcome transition. For some reason, Bennett felt more vulnerable in a CP than he did anywhere else. After all, what single entity would be a more valuable target than the center of operations for an entire battalion? Even if it was one of the most heavily defended locations this close to the fighting, it didn't take much for some smart bomb to get through. Yet another chance for "fate" to reign.
      Quickly, he spotted the man he was here to see on the far side of the cavernous tent. He walked by consoles and workstations, each manned by a busy soldier, leaving muddy boot prints and streams of rainwater running off his camouflaged poncho. Nobody even looked up from their work as the two men passed, their chattering and typing filling the air with uncongenial foreboding. Their hurried actions were sorely indicative of a deteriorating situation a mere five kilometers away, and that unsettling fact was the reason he was here.
      "Colonel," Bennett called out to the man hunched over the table, his back to them.
      The older man finished his exchange with another staff member before standing upright and turning around to face the two wet soldiers. His wrinkled, weathered face was that of an eighteen-year Marine veteran, and undeniably the commander of the 2nd Battalion was a seasoned soldier. Although he was barely pushing forty, the Lieutenant Colonel looked much older, causing Bennett to briefly think whether his own appearance was not far from the man standing across from him. That's what war did—it killed kids, and made young men old.
      "What is it?" Battalion CO Rueben Moore asked, his tone clearly portraying his impatience and stress.
      "My name is Captain Bennett," he replied in kind, briefly glancing around. "I've been sent here under orders from Colonel Mixey, of the 3rd Marine Special Operations Regiment—"
      "Colonel," a man interrupted, walking over from a large digital display of the Area of Operations.
      "Not now," Moore said, holding up a hand. "We've got some guests from MARSOC."
      The Major stopped and looked at the two men. Bennett glanced at the nametape across his fatigues. Murray, he thought dully, Executive Officer of the Battalion.
      "What the hell is MARSOC doing here?" The XO queried.
      Bennett didn't like the tone of the man's voice, but he was in no place to offer a rebuke, especially considering the oak leaf on his collar. "There are some special orders from Division, orders that required unorthodox means of getting to you."
      Moore was not fazed by the remark. "Continue."
      The Captain reached into his poncho and pulled out a small data storage device, handing it to the Light Colonel. "Encrypted there is an update to your orders, straight from the top. I am obligated to stress that nobody aside from you and your XO are to know anything about this, and no traces can be leaked to anyone." He paused as the Battalion's CO inserted the device into his PDA. "Your current combat situation is irreparable. Division knows that you won't be able to repel the Charlie advance to Mari Crosse, and has devised a new set of orders for the remainder of your forces."
      The Lieutenant Colonel and Major looked up at that statement, a fire burning in their eyes. The haunting mixture of anger and resentment spread across their faces made it look like they were about to offer a sincerely heated rebuttal, but their silence proved the truth of the statement. The situation is irreparable. Bennett almost wished that he was here on different circumstances, as he could sympathize with the commander and his deputy. These were their men, their soldiers, and they were dying for a cause he was about to quash. Yet he was here on orders that far superseded the authority of these two men, and their loss today was not on his shoulders.
      "So explain to me what Division wants from us," Moore said finally. "And why it required someone from MARSOC to pass it down."
      "First order, pull out your troops."
      The simple reply brought a look of confusion to the Battalion CO's face. "Listen, we've lost a lot of men out there, but so has the damn Covenant. In any case, at the very least we can stall them long enough to let those civvies evacuate, not to mention our reserve units—"
      "Colonel, as far as you know now, you cannot effectively stop the Covenant force, and you cannot buy Mari Crosse anymore time. Consequently, you are going to pull your forces back and reposition as Regiment requires." Bennett leaned closer in, "this is the situation Division wants you to assume, outlined in your orders."
      Major Murray spoke up as Moore looked over his PDA, irate probably for two reasons; his commander's talking to by a mere captain and their orders from Division. "So we're just going to leave Mari Crosse to fend for itself? There's got to be at least a couple thousand civilians left there. Does Division know what the hell they're doing?"
      Bennett had to suppress a sigh. There was work to be done, and he was here, in this tent, nearly arguing with these two commanders about their orders from the top—orders that are nonnegotiable. "You have determined," he reiterated slowly, "that you cannot stop the Covenant force—not even with your reserve units—and you are going to pull back all your forces. As far as you care, Mari Crosse is a lost cause."
      Murray looked unbelievingly over at his CO, as if expecting him to tell these two men off and get back to coordinating the battle at hand, but he was met with a stern expression. As Moore looked up from the authorization codes on his PDA and contemplated what he was being told, it became clear to his XO that he wasn't going to contest this. Despite the fire in his eyes, the Battalion CO was not inclined towards insubordination.
      "It requires MARSOC," Bennett continued discreetly, glad that the background noise of working and talking masked what they were discussing. "Because nobody between you and Division knows—or will know—about this. Regiment doesn't know, anyone else here won't know, and things will go on as planned. Command of this situation has furtively been transferred to MARSOC." We will finish this off.
      Moore stowed his personal device, satisfied with the authorization codes for this ludicrous plot, though clearly not satisfied with his orders. "Explain to me why this is happening," he said, glaring between the two Marine Special Forces soldiers. "Why are we leaving this town defenseless?"
      Bennett fought to stop himself from conspicuously looking away. He was ordered not to allude to anyone why MARSOC had been placed in charge of this situation, and why these Marines were to be pulled out. The Captain remained sternly silent, making it all too clear to the commander opposite of him the silence being ordered over this situation takeover.
      "Colonel," Gunnery Sergeant Erskine said, speaking up for the first time this entire meeting. "We will not divulge any information regarding the operations to commence after your fallback. We have standing orders, just as you do now, to keep all uninvolved personnel from knowing the details of this."
      The Sergeant was only met with stern, vindictive stares.
      "I have lost nearly two hundred men out there," Moore said at last, "and your boss wants to make their sacrifices in vain? My orders were to stop them from slaughtering that town, yet now every damn kid that gave their lives for that cause is being disgraced by some pointless order—"
      "Your orders were to stop them, and you failed," Bennett countered. "There is a new plan of action, and it does not involve you stopping them." The Captain could see the dissension on the verge of his lips, and accordingly increased the stakes. "Stand down your forces, sir, or prepare to relinquish command of your unit."
      The Lieutenant Colonel stared back at him heatedly, but remained predictably silent. His contempt for his orders was obvious, and his willingness to nearly outright disobey them was clear in his eyes, though this man would never go that far. Bennett almost let out cold smirk; he was outraged enough to detest it, but not enough to contravene his orders. The final resolve every soldier should have.
      "This is all we have for you," Bennett concluded. "Your orders are effective immediately, and you are to report your situation to Regiment and follow their directives. How many troops do you have remaining?"
      Moore remained bitterly silent, causing his XO to speak up. "One Company in reserve, and an unknown amount remaining in combat—probably less than a platoon's strength."
      Bennett had to keep his eyebrows from rising. That's it? "Fifteen minutes, then."
      The two MARSOC soldiers turned wordlessly to exit the command tent, feeling the animosity emanate from the Battalion Commander and his XO behind them. The Captain wasn't fazed by their abhorrence for these orders, but then again, he never cared whether they would cooperate with contention or agreement in the first place. The bottom line was that they would cooperate, or be charged with insubordination, which meant that his purpose here was more of a messenger. It seemed like he was trying to convince them, but the truth of the matter remained; orders were orders.
      Granted, a town was being sentenced to death, half a Battalion's worth of lives were being nullified, but those were acceptable loses. Considering what was thought to be in Mari Crosse, a couple thousand deaths was well worth it. Besides, Bennett rationalized, odds were they were going to die even if the Battalion wasn't ordered back.
      The two soldiers stepped out of the warm, yellow-tainted tent and into the dreary gray, their faces immediately contorting in stark reaction to the wet and cold. As they walked through the mud towards their Warthog, taking in the forested scene with silent concern, Bennett let a soft sigh break the silence.
      "Get those ONI specialists on the horn and the rest of the unit," he said quietly to Erskine. "Tell them we're mounting up in ten."
      They both had reasons to be concerned. After all, their next stop was Mari Crosse.

Swallowing his reservations, Lieutenant Walter Fallon pulled his arm back, stretching his muscles to throw the smoke grenade as far as he could towards the enemy. He thrust his arm forward and sent the small, cylinder shaped object out, keeping his head below the ridge of the crater and hoping that the throw was good. After waiting a second, he crept up to the crest and pulled out the mirror, looking out in the direction he had thrown the device. Sure enough, white smoke began billowing from the grenade, sweeping up into the air and spreading out, obscuring the line of sight between those Marines near them and the Covenant turrets. Now was the time.
      Forty meters lateral of their position, the unmistakable sounds of the M271-Bravo suppressive machinegun erupted, nearly drowning out the enemy fire that still shot overhead. The sound surprisingly added a slight sense of hope and determination, and the two Marines next to him pushed up and peered over the crest, rifles shouldered and their eyes gazing through the optical scope. Fallon looked on in satisfaction as the two men, who had cowered in this hole only seconds before, let their training dictate their actions and began performing the primary specialty that Marines had.
      The power to take lives.
      Single rounds began firing out of the long barrels, the muzzle-flashes lighting up their ghostly faces. Explosive bursts from the tip of their weapons sent mud and debris forward as projectiles shot downfield towards the foes that had ruthlessly cut through their ranks when this all started. He could still sense the agitation and fear, but such holdbacks meant nothing at a moment like this. Accuracy and resolve aside, they were fighting back.
      With all the will he could muster, Fallon averted his gaze from the dead Marine at the bottom of the crater and grabbed the rifle. The mud and blood spattered weapon momentarily refused to leave the clasped hands, and he nearly had to yank it from the death grip of the deceased soldier. War was hell—
      War is hell.
      He crawled up next to the two Marines and shouldered the rifle, looking through the scope and quickly centering the crosshairs on a small figure that continued to fire a turret from atop one of the few remaining transport vehicles. The rifle kicked back as a single round exited the barrel, the sub-projectile splitting off and covering the distance in less than half a second. The alien's head disappeared in a small blowout of blood and flesh, and the body slumped backwards and off the vehicle.
      "Tomahawk One-Three, what's the plan?"
      Fallon slid back at the sound of the radio, looking over to the RTO—a Corporal Pheleps—lying next to him. The soldier activated the LRFC instinctively, suppressing a stutter as he replied. "Standby."
      The plan? The Lieutenant thought for a moment. While all the turrets, or at least most of them, had been neutralized, they still had quite a few Covenant infantry out there, some probably advancing on their position. He gripped the MA8 tightly as he recalled some of the bitter experiences prior to OCS, where he led a small squad of Marines into combat. The first thing they had learned quickly was never concede to the enemy; never let them trap you. In instances like this—outnumber and pinned—there were two options: retrograde or advance. Take the fight to the enemy.
      This was the only real option before them, since retreating was nothing short of suicide, but suppression and advancement offered them some initiative that left the enemy reacting to them. It would be a major risk, to say the least, but death waited for them if they stayed in this crater, and that was an option he did not want to take.
      "Tell them to give us suppressive cover; we're going to push forward."
      A pause before the hesitant reply. "Forward, sir?"
      Fallon nodded. "Forwa—"
      "All Tomahawk units, this is SIMPLEX One, desist engaging the enemy and reconvene at your assigned fallback positions."
      Every eye settled on the LRFC. Fallon frowned and grabbed the transceiver from Pheleps, bringing the muddy device to his ear. This was the first order they had been given before the entire Battalion made first contact, and it wasn't what anyone was expecting.
      "SIMPLEX One, Tomahawk One-Three, say again, over."
      "One-Three, pull out, I repeat, pull out."
      Fallon looked at the two Marines who slid back into the crater, trying to make sense of the order. There was minimal cover where they were, and a good one hundred meters separated them from the tree line they had originally advanced out of. Their fallback point was just inside that tree line, but as he thought about it, getting back there was just as—if not more—dangerous than going forward. Even with smoke cover, it wouldn't be wise.
      Then again, staying in the crater was just as perilous.
      He handed the transceiver back to the RTO and crawled to the back of the crater, peering over the crest to look at the area leading away from the Covenant. Burning tanks and APCs dotted the scene, with the occasional upright tree standing over the many flattened ones. The grim scene, tainted by the gray drizzle and ascending black smoke, was etched into his mind as he thought of a plan. The only way would be to hope the smokescreen was enough and run. He scanned the area one last time, looking for any significant cover—
      What was that? He squinted at the slight movement that caught his attention. A good seventy or so meters off, several figures crept along deliberately. He couldn't count how many, but the various sizes of the silhouettes told him one thing; they were not human. The enemy was behind them.
      "One-Three, Two-Six, did you copy Batt's order?"
      Fallon turned his head and looked in the direction of the other group of Marines, only seeing the muzzle flashes from their weapons amidst the mud and debris, the cracks echoing around them. After pausing for a moment, he dropped back to the bottom of the crater, a grim look carved across his face.
      "Tell them we got the order, and to cease fire and get low," he said sternly. "We've got some Charlie behind us."
      Pheleps' eyes widened slightly, hesitating a moment before speaking into the transceiver. "Roger that, Two-Six. Cease fire and get low," he paused. "We got enemy forces behind us."
      Wiping the dirt from his forehead, Fallon sighed heavily, looking between the three soldiers with him. "Let's stay low and keep tabs on the front and back. Do not engage."
      They nodded, obviously more anxious now that they were surrounded—if it was even possible to be more of anything. Even though they all knew it didn't make much of a difference in this situation, something was inherently demoralizing with being cut off by the enemy. Fallon didn't know if waiting here silently would be the best course of action, but he needed a second to think. Either way, it wouldn't help to keep drawing the enemy's attention with return fire.
      Time seemed to slow down as he contemplated the situation, and with every second that no one fired back, he felt as if the enemy was getting one step closer. His mind told him that firing back was the only thing keeping those cads from overrunning them, but his gut said to wait for a moment. Never had he been in a situation like this, and he had never heard anyone live to tell about it, which left him only with his instincts.
      It was unnerving to just be waiting with only random plasma charges sizzling by. Moments before they had been pinned in this crater, yet now they waited fretfully in silence, the sounds of war eerily subsiding as the battlefield that had claimed so many lives became a silent killing ground, only distant shots and explosions filling the void. The sudden stillness—relative to the shattering noise that existed mere minutes ago—proved to him that, aside from the group they had made contact with, no one else had survived.
      Hundreds had come in, dozens of vehicles had torn up dirt getting to this battle, yet now all that remained were a mere dozen soldiers? He couldn't understand how a Covenant force could do such damage in the short amount of time. Yes, they had been up against superior numbers, but ground combat between them and their enemy was not as suicidal as the space warfare. Weaponry advances, such as the small SABOT rounds used by the MA8—capable of defeating shielding technology in three well placed shots or less—took away the near "invulnerability" of the Covenant's best. Though today, in a field that soaked up the blood of the fallen, none of that made a difference.
      Perhaps it was fate that sent them to this grim end. It had to be something bigger than them all, because he couldn't accept that their efforts were simply nullified by a "superior" enemy. Granted, the Covenant were known to have better technology, but on the ground they were susceptible the UNSC's best. Fallon was not normally superstitious, but he couldn't help but feel that all along they were never going to stop this Covenant force. That darkness known as "fate" was his only possible rationalization for this.
      Too bad he didn't believe in fate.
      He turned and crept up to the crest again, looking back towards where he spotted those figures behind them. More of them met his eye, but they weren't advancing towards them. Rather, they were moving along the tree line, continuing in the direction of Mari Crosse, that godforsaken town. He quickly slid back and peered over the top of the crater towards the remaining Covenant vehicles. As the smoke began to clear, he could see the outlines of those transports, along with a considerable amount of enemy troops. While some remained fixated in their direction, weapons up and ready, the rest cautiously continued their advance towards the community.
      "What the hell…" he whispered curiously.
      "Sir?"
      Fallon looked back at the Marines. "Looks like that town is more important than we are."
      Pheleps looked at the two Marines, then back at the Lieutenant. "So they're not advancing?"
      "Not towards us," Fallon replied, descending back to the bottom. "What would cause them to not finish their fight here? They've got to know we're not dead."
      One of the Marines, PFC Mueller, cracked the first hint of sarcasm Fallon had ever seen out of him, though his face remained etched with apprehension. "Maybe the reason for the fuckin' war is there," he said unevenly.
      The Lieutenant looked away, not appreciative of the remark. But as he gazed into the gray sky, rain dripping off the rim of his helmet, he couldn't dismiss the nonsense he had just heard. What if something big was there? It was ridiculous to think that something so big as the reason for the Human-Covenant War was in that little town, but he had never heard of any Covenant discontinuing a fight until either side was entirely destroyed—that was just the nature of their proud warriors. What if there was truly something there, something important?
      This is bullshit, get it out of your head, he told himself. But even as he fought to deny the feeling growing in his gut, initiated only by a cynical statement, the curiosity grew.
      What if?

The Culmination - Chapter Four
Date: 2 February 2007, 5:06 am

Chapter Four

"May we all one day see our mistakes, and right ourselves."

      With the tide of frantic people beginning to subside, Ronis Alderne allowed himself a reminiscence of the once-average town. Seeing the paved two-way roads, the streetlamps, the lining of shops and the second-floor apartments above them brought him back into a serenity that existed before this menacing enemy arrived. These streets, these buildings, once held an air of undivided peacefulness.
      Mere days before the present predicament, people were living without the fear of bloodshed over their heads. They operated without the trepidation that preceded the inevitable arrival of their foe. Now, looking at the same streets, stores and houses, he found himself in silent longing for that time to return again. Although the mediocrity and, in all honesty, ingratitude of that former life was painfully evident, his mind nevertheless wished for it back. Because amidst those ungrateful outlooks was a life truly free of this seemingly boundless war.
      Even so, staring at the shops he passed and the lingering families that hurried towards the town's center, was he really willing to completely relinquish himself to the mere thought of that past life? He remembered his father telling him that, above all else, mediocrity was the epitome of futility. Yet, he had come to accept it without a hint of reluctance, and lived day after day in the same mode of nearly tolerating that lifestyle. What his father had warned him of was, then, his precise attitude. How could he have let go of his principles so easily?
      Then again, who in this world did not fall into the mediocrity of thanklessness for their lives? Who was spared that numbing ingratitude for their possessions, their peace, and their loved ones? As he fought to find some way to diminish those years spent in ignorance, the truth of his fallen convictions responded with jabbing reminders of what was now gone. Every day he had gone to work, he had talked with friends, had dinner with his family and lived a life without ever shedding one thought towards his privileged existence.
      If anything, he had been demanding of a more possessive life. He was always looking up towards the riches held by others, not with respect, but with envy. He had looked at others with a coveting that he was in no place to have. Now, walking to his home in a town scurrying to escape, seeing everyone drop their possessions and their achievements without a second thought, reinforced for him the true values in life; the true worth of what he had just watch fly away. It's always so easy to take for granted what one has each day and then savor the mere thought as it passes on.
      The distant echoes of explosions eerily began to subside, giving Ronis the unnerving feeling that his enemy no longer had the need to defend themselves. Of course, he could draw the conclusion that those Marines had somehow managed to stop them, but his gut indicated the darker possibility. That horde was inbound to his town, and there was no one left to stop them. The inevitable had finally and truthfully become inevitable.
      As he reached to open the door to his house, one last explosion caught his attention. Not because it sounded unique, but because it awkwardly echoed into the valley of the town from a noticeably different direction. He looked towards it, his eyes meeting nothing but the low clouds and constricting drizzle, yet managed a frown. Something felt different about that single occurrence, something he could not explain nor justify.
      After a short pause, he forced himself to turn the knob and enter his home, closing the door behind him with a distinct feeling of loneliness. Rightfully so, he mulled bleakly, walking deeper into his empty house and staring at the hanging pictures. My family is gone.
      He forced himself to think of something else—anything else. His one genuine hope was that he would see them again, yet that would not even be a possibility if he did not make it out of this town, too. One thing was undeniably evident as sighed in the silence of his home; he needed to escape. Getting on a transport was impossible, as his own family's escape was nothing short of a miracle, so that left him with climbing the steep hills surrounding the town, or trying to hide as those aliens scampered through.
      There was another option. The valley mouth leading out of the town—the only practical ground access to and from Mari Crosse—cleared out into farmlands that widened. The main road ran by many of the fields, but on each side of the enlarging valley was forest. Being one man, and knowing the area well, he could sneak past the advancing Covenant force, which was likely to be on the main road and not in the forest. It was a gamble, one with his life, but his chances of climbing those steep hills were just as dangerous. Besides, that's what the enemy would expect of the fleeing townspeople.
      He walked upstairs with newfound determination. Part of him felt stinging resignation, as if he didn't really believe that he could do it, but the hope burning inside to see his family again proved to be the stronger of the two. Swiftly, he retrieved a backpack and filled it with all the nonperishable food and bottled water he could find. He then found a suitable, dark-green jacket, satisfying the commonsense that told him to be as inconspicuous as possible.
      Ronis's last move was to retrieve the old but still useable shotgun hanging over his lifeless fireplace. He hadn't fired it in months, but he was confident the weapon still functioned properly since his last hunting trip. After grabbing the only carton of shells stowed in a nearby cabinet, he was satisfied enough to walk towards his front door.
      He was leaving his home, the place his children had grown up in, the place he had loved his wife, and no fear-inspired urgency could suppress the thoughts that ran through his mind's eye. As his footsteps echoed off his hardwood floors, his ears detected the sounds of his daughters playing, their playful screaming and banter bringing a slight smile across his face. His nose briefly smelt the cooking of his wife, and for a fleeting moment he saw his family before this enemy—before this struggle for life.
      Though, alas, his reminiscence faded just as quickly as it came, and he found himself staring at the door just ahead. Beyond that door was a falling world, one that fought to escape those demons now drawing dreadfully near. He was attempting something that fought all conventional wisdom, yet the alternatives offered him a no better bargain. At the very least, he was trying something nobody would expect, and that gave him one strand of hope…
      If only hope could be more than faith.

      The void of space.
      How can an infinite blackness, broken only by burning stars and vibrant nebulae, be the source of such great fascination? For as far as time could tell, the emptiness of the heavens has provoked so much thought, so much appeal, yet remains nothing but an expanse of oblivion. How can something of nearly incomprehensible barrenness be the source of so much inspiration?
      Tumbling in this vacuum was wistful. Seeing the stars and distant mists of various gasses reflecting certain wavelengths of light was awe-inspiring. The question, the curiosity of what lay just out of sight—just beyond the mind's horizon—kept men searching and asking. However, save for exceedingly rare occasions, the heavens everyone believed to hold so much was nothing but emptiness, devoid of life or even the possibility of it.
      Maybe it was more of a childish dream, an eagerness to believe that far more lay in that blackness; and even when nothing is found, the longing to believe that something existed beyond perception. Maybe it was the yearning that something great was in this galaxy, not just the single planet that had spawned so many creatures, so much life.
      Floating through this blackness, staring at the distant lights that constituted the void known as "space," was undeniably stimulating. Though, just as enigmatic as the uncertainty of the universe, it began to turn oddly from dark to light. Those distant stars began to fade into a building brightness, and the darkness of space receded to a brilliance not unlike a sunny, serene sky. How this could happen was beyond speculation, and accordingly the eyes merely gazed in wonder. Rationalization—trying to understand all this—was far beyond the grasp of the mind, and lazily the consciousness accepted what it saw and continued to relish in the beauty of it.
      Though such beauty did not last, and the newfound luminosity began to give way to a sinister red. This crimson did not hold the majesty of a sunset or sunrise, nor did it resemble the attractive mystery of space. Rather, the red void alluded inexplicably to a clear sense of sadness and loss. Now the mind began looking, seeking for an answer. With the intrigue of the heavens and the beauty of the sky gone, replaced by a grim scarlet realm, the longing to just float on in delight ceased. Transitioning strangely from magnificence to dismay sparked the questions, which in turn led to an increased acuteness of the mind.
      In the distance, an outlet from this crimson void began to form. Slowly it got larger and larger, and as it neared with growing swiftness, what was beyond it became discernable. With all the mixture of curiosity and confusion possible in a moment as this, the mind fought to identify the dark silhouette against the white background. The figure was vague, and despite all efforts to focus on it, the form remained unknown. One thing was clear, however, as it continued to grow larger and larger, overtaking the surrounding deep redness with force: the being's voice.
      Return.
      With unexpected volume and power, the figure repeated itself.
      Return—
      Wes Kenton opened his eyes suddenly, his heart pounding and hands shaking. The edges of his vision were a constricting red, and it took him a moment to realize his inverted state. With his arms trembling and his head pounding, he looked around rapidly, trying to figure out where he was. His mind wouldn't allow him to think far enough to ponder what had happened, so his eyes darted back and forth in the darkness without restraint. As his senses fought to return, he could feel his chess heaving with deep, disturbed breaths.
      Abruptly, his eyes settled on the figure next to him, hanging, as he was, upside down from the harnesses. The arms were dangling motionlessly, and the neck was unnervingly limp. With his mind racing and his senses reeling, he rashly pulled his shaking hand up to his chest and released the four-point harness. Without a second to comprehend what he had done, his head impacted on a control panel, the switches and buttons breaking off the olive-drab helmet. He immediately rolled down the decline and stopped back first against a wall, staring unsteadily up to the seat he had just fallen out of—and to the neighboring one that the motionless body drooped from.
      He couldn't grasp where he was in this darkness, and shakily pushed himself upright and fumbled for the doorknob he felt near him. Without a pause, he twisted it to the side and pulled it up, dull gray light piercing through instantly. With a slight wince, he haphazardly threw the door completely open and squinted into the light. With the red fading from his vision and his pupils attempting to adjust to the sudden increase of light, he pulled himself through the door.
      Crawling on his hands and knees, he looked around surreally, trying to make out the scene. He felt his fingers suddenly go from hard, cold metal to soft, uneven dirt, yet his eyes refused to focus. He could feel his arms and legs shaking, and all too clearly heard the deep breaths and rapid heart beats echo in his head. After edging along for several more seconds, he let his weight overcome his weak arms and fell into the moist earth, rolling onto his back awkwardly. Nevertheless, his extremities continued to tremble, his erratic inhalations persisted, and his eyes remained unfocused in this colorless onslaught of light.
      He let his head fall to the side, and could feebly make out the brown dirt pressed against the side of his face. With slight determination, he lifted his outstretched arm so the palm of his hand was within view, and stared at the blurry mixture of pale skin and deep red substance without any hope of understanding. In this delirium of shock, any prospect to gain even some awareness was nonexistent. This world was bright and unyielding, his body was shaking and weak, and his mind was freely spinning.
      Only one coherent thought prevailed amidst the confusion and pandemonium, and as he stared at his crimson hand, he fought to find a definitive answer. Concluding anything with definitiveness, however, was just as impossible as trying to clear the shock-driven disorientation coursing through his body.
      Is this hell?

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