[The Soft Rains] Phase 01- The Cradle of Civilization

The UT-47A carrying everyone shutter as it is bombarded by another round of turbulence. This isn’t the first round you’ve felt on your flight, but it is the heaviest, as the screens show the ground below you as a twisting mass of dust and ruins.

“You’re looking at what used to be Tel Aviv.” The pilot called back, eyes focused on his instruments as the aircraft banked a little left. This is the last leg of each of your journeys so far; from wherever you’ve come the Alliance has quietly stuffed you all together on this dropship. They haven’t told you your destination, they haven’t told you your mission, and they’ve had you traveling for far longer than any of you would have liked. Now all of you are here, cramped in a Combat Cockroach with all of your equipment and barely any room to move.

Sitting by himself is a man wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, chewing on some gum while looking over a datapad in his hands. His hair is dark and short, and for the most part he’s of average build in casual attire. At first glance, he’d seem as just one of those contractors who always seemed to be catching flights to and from Alliance bases on Earth. From the very spare introductions you’ve received, however, you know his name is Paul Hemmings: someone with “the Committee” which is apparently overseeing the entire operation. Whatever he happens to know, he certainly hasn’t provided anything to brief.

“Thirty minutes out,” The pilot said. The dropship jerked around a bit more. “Might want to wake any nappers if they aren’t already.”

The load the Marine carried into an operation was not insignificant: ammunition, MREs, energy bars (a habit picked up from her squad leader in the war), grenades, multi-tool and that was before you got to the suit and weapons. It was hardly the most comfortable thing to sleep in, and maybe a couple of years before, she wouldn't have been able to, not with the collar of her suit digging into her skin. Now though, Private First Class Rajapaske was fast asleep, helmet resting at her knee and rifle across her lap.

She'd been unceremoniously yanked from her patrols around Alliance controlled areas in Dubai and if there was one thing the War had taught her, it was when that happened it was best to get whatever sleep you could, because you didn't know when you'd be sleeping again. Maybe she had been decidedly not curious about where they were going, but she'd gotten a reputation for putting her hand up for the dangerous assignments and what did it matter where they were going?

Not like there was anyone waiting for her anyway.

She was dreaming of a place far from here and once different but perhaps not anymore and when she woke, she jerked, armoured shoulder hitting whoever was beside her, an old ache in the pit of her stomach.

"Sorry," She muttered, shaking the feeling off. She was stiff from sleeping in that position, armour digging into her and the bump of her sidearm forcing her hip into a weird position. The sooner they got off this shuttle, the better. She didn't look at the images of what had been Tel Aviv.

Israel. Hmm.

Imagine a pebble.

Now imagine throwing that pebble at a mountainside.

Got an image of the absolutely ridiculous size discrepancy?

Good.

Cover that metaphorical mountain in literal ablative armor, give it a marine's polarized helmet and you more or less get Rajapaske's post-nap twitch into Vukovic's arm in a microcosm. The man didn't even so much as budge. It's entirely possible that he didn't even wake up really: like the PFC he recognized the inherent virtues of catching some shuteye where and when he could (that being "this hideously uncomfortable bench" and "about three minutes after take off"). However unlike the Sri Lankan he'd also mastered the art of actually sleeping in armor; he hadn't so much as stirred in the past thirty minutes, not through the first batch of turbulence, not through the second, third, nauseating series of elevator falls that had been the fourth, or this most recent series "Fuck you SAMC: As brought to you by Mother Nature".

In a word the man was solid. Immovable. One got the distinct impression that not much short of a kinetic drop right on top of the shuttle was going to wake him up.

Freh'ya had her eyes closed and was meditating, trying to steer her mind, not letting it move along the paths that would lead to that horror drop over Thessia.

Usually she liked the shaking of a shuttle in turbulences, it was a feedback that something was there, that it wasn't an empty void outside. Compared to her armored neighbors, she was wearing a dark grey medium commando suit, a compromise perfect for a recon mission like this was supposed to be one.

She knew very little about all of this. The liaison-officer at the embassies just had pointed out that this was part of the regular Council Military Exchange program with the Alliance. But in fact, so far briefing had sucked a bit, she barely knew a few of the names and the leader of this operation, behind his glasses, had been very silent about any specifics so far. She had done a few blind jumps in her career though, some in most likely more hostile conditions, so she didn't worry too much.

When the pilot announced the place, she opened her eyes and took a look outside the window. Too far out to recognize anything specific. Destruction area. She was a London veteran and just expected something similar on the ground.

Taking a look at her comrades, she tried to judge them a bit. Not that it would make any difference but it was interesting to see how everyone got ready. She wondered who would dare to wake the sleeping mountain.

For most of the trip, the person next to Freh'ya had been staring at her quite intently. Warrant Officer Hueyt had very little experience with aliens, mainly due to the fact that he had been with the ADF since he was 18. As such, he had an annoyingly hard to shake habit of gawking at members of another species whenever he was this close to them. He was just thankful that his helmet was polarized so she couldn't see him staring.

Right across from Vukovic was where he sat, finding it almost impossible that he could sleep through that last spot of turbulence. It was almost hilarious to see the difference in size between the wall of metal that was Vukovic and the five-foot-seven-inch tall man that was Hueyt. Still, size wasn't everything, and Hueyt had 20 years of experience under his belt, and the rank to show for it.

Emblazoned on his armour, slightly to the left of centre and down a bit was the insignia of an Australian Warrant Officer class 1: the Australian coat-of-arms. Even this far into his career, he still wasn't sure if he liked having it there or not, but regulations were regulations, and the ADF loved regulations.

Hearing how close they were, Hueyt reached forward to shake Vukovic's knee in an attempt to wake him.
"Thirty mikes out, mate. Better get out of bed."

As uncomfortable as this position was, Hueyt couldn't be happier. For the past two years or so, he had been stuck wearing his garrison jacket and slouch hat. Now though, he traded those in for his armour and helmet, and it sure as hell felt good.

That last flash of turbulence jolted the head that had hitherto been resting quite comfortably on Hueyt's right shoulder, which rolled to the side and then snapped upright.

Sinisa grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. A month of contractual employment with Urban Pacification in Mumbai had endowed him with many things - including the vocabulary to solicit a prostitute in seventeen different languages - but being able to sleep while shuttling was not amongst them. The armour wasn't exactly helping (good god, the chafing), but from what little he had gleaned from this op it was fair to say there weren't going to be changing facilities once they hit dirtside.

Not that he looked the contractor type. Sinisa had just turned thirty-one a couple of weeks ago - the celebration of which had demolished five bars and two brothels and was hungrily eyeing a third when the Alliance showed up - and, having especially showered for this occasion, he was at his most presentable. You could almost bring him home to meet your mother, if your mother was a particularly open-minded krogan. His body was not so much toned as simply whittled away until, by default, nothing could remain but muscle; his face was not so much chiselled as simply carved. He had a tangle of maroon-red* hair, which was dangling limply against his sunburnt skin to frame his slate-blue eyes. Presentable, if you ignored scrapes and bruises of the trade, particularly the brutal scaring on his left cheek. Oh, and forced him to up his current shower take to "thrice a week" from "once per Reaper cycle".

Rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness, he regarded his surroundings with an incongruous grin. Discomfort was a small price to pay for diversity. For thirty-four days, Sinisa had been on Alliance payroll, standing around the slums waving his gun at anything that looked like a dissident, languid and sweaty and utterly bored out of his mind. When he had received the offer, he hadn't hesistated. They could've sent him to the Eye of Jupiter and he would have still been happy. The obfuscation didn't even bother him; Sinisa was well-acquainted with Alliance bureaucracy from the Sisyphean task of putting in his daily expense claims.

It was with this same lopsided smile that he regarded his fellow passengers, who seemed to him a rather morose bunch. Marines, looked like. Professionalism tended to make for poor company. Probably didn't even drink on the job. But Sinisa was so delighted with the incoming drop that he wouldn't of cared even if he had been seated with E. bola victims. And he was determined to share this enthusiasm with all and sundry.

"Dirtside soon enough," he announced, "Thank fuck. You won't believe the chafing I was getting from these thigh-guards..."



*He claimed Scottish heritage, and in fairness, the bottle of hair dye did sport the label "Made in Scotland".

"I am awake."

The faceless helmet tilted to the side by a couple centimeters before Hueyt actually touched him and suddenly one got the distinct impression that they were being studied. Evaluated by a keen intellect, a trained and that matched the giant's mental stature to his physical; a martial mind trained for and accustomed to war. A man who knew how to run a unit in the field sizing up his fellows and analyzing their capabilities so that he might-

You have got to be shitting me.

Or that.

That works too.

Vukovic wasn't so much "studying" and "evaluating" as he was glaring at the patchwork unit that the brass had thrown together in this dropship and (he was assuming) expected to achieve non-total combat fuckery through the virtue of time and pressure.

Because apparently shuttle rides were crockpots now.

Probably for the best really because, to torture the metaphor, the people here would by and large make a godawful stew. A garitrooper from a planetary army. Another with the telltale signs of a less than legitimate affiliated contractor; ie. gutterstench. A fucking blue. And the shuttle's one saving grace (out of the people already up anyway) an honest to God, bona fide marine. So she was barely a kid and so small he could have probably fit his thumb and finger around her neck; as of right now she was the only one he wouldn't trade in a heartbeat for a rifleman unit. Or -fucking hell- one of the grab bag paramilitary units they'd tossed out at the squiddies and deadheads during the War.

Every single thing about this whole situation reeked of "Company Job". And after London he was, to be blunt, of the opinion that the fucking things could go rot in the deepest, shittiest part of hell.

But no, no he was a marine, so no such luck.

And then he moved, the sound of people talking like a blaring alarm clock to his ears. Jara Merrick blinked twice and then slowly moved, flexing and rolling parts of his body to get ready. A brief check confirmed everything was still here even though there was nowhere for it to go really. Bright brown eyes looked around the shuttle as one hand pulled out food of some sort. There was nobody he recognized... no, wait. A crooked smile appeared as the last of what he was eating vanished. Private Rajapaske, it's good to see you again. He looked around again, the smile still on his face. One person was not an unknown to him. A good day indeed.

"Wasn't even sleeping over here! Was just composing a message to my other squad!" a certain marine yelled back at the pilot.

The Marine in question: Service Chief Michael Cline was wearing a full kit of Kestrel Armor, modified to support the webbing and pouches used for his gear, rations, various explosives, and heavy weaponry. On the armor's pauldron was the distinctive post-Reaper War insignia of the SAMC's 9th Marine Regiment: The silouette of the clock tower on Parliament Hill in Ottawa, with the clock face set at 9 o'clock.

Looking out the window of the Kodiak, Service Chief Cline sighed "Jeez... Didn't know Ottawa got off THAT lucky..." the combat engineer lamented.

Rajapaske glanced once at Cline, raising an eyebrow at his decidedly not standard issue armour-hers was that charming dull blue-gray the Alliance favoured, the webbing much the same shade. She reached down-no small feat for such a small person wearing so much armour-to pick up her helmet and shove it over her head. She was grateful for the extra padding she'd spent some of her pay on.

"Chief," She nodded at Merrick. It was good not to be alone and good to have another Recon Marine along, "Good to see you too. It's PFC now." The promotion was fairly recent.

The rest of the shuttle was full of...interesting individuals. Still, she'd fight with whomever they told her to fight, even if she wished they were her unit. At least the asari's biotics would come on handy.

Another marine even. No glaring defects, no obvious red flags, knew the one beside him even better. A partial, not great but something he could work with, people he could somewhat rely on. Specialists by their look and bearing. Engies? No no, ot mounts were all wrong. No plugs or sync collars for biotics, no obvious ones anyway. Shooter/spotter pair? But they didn't act like snipers and the brass would've just pulled them from the same unit if that was the case. Recon maybe?

Recon.

Yeah that fit. That worked with the kit and body language. And speaking up across from theeeeeeem

a fobbit.

No.

Not even a fobbit.

He was the fobbit.

The most fobbity of fobbits in his shiny, top of the line gear that cost more than the average marine made in six months, talking about "gee this wasn't at all like back home".

I

am in hell.

Emma hadn't really slept, and she was perhaps grateful to be wearing a helmet as she looked out the window over the ruins of the city. Immediately it brought to mind the destruction that the Reapers had wrought upon Cardiff when she first saw it.

It only strengthened her decision to join the SAMC all the more, so that this would never happen again.

This OP appeared to be a bit unusual, what with their asari liaison and a Navy officer onboard the shuttle.

"I'm awake sir". She said, making a final safety check on her rifle.

Service Chief Cline turned his attention away from the windo and looked over to Vukovic, the combat engineer's armor looks less like a fobbit's shiny new toy, and looked like it went through hell and back, with a few repairs in-between. The same went with all of his other gear, except for his new breaching tool. Sensing a bit of resentment from Vukovic, he decided to introduce himself.

"Service Chief Michael Cline, 9th Marine Regiment, how do you do?" he said to Vukovic, extending his hand.

The chin of the helmet tilted down as the Serbian glanced at the proffered gauntlet. It was quick, just a flash, but the man suddenly heard Alazar's voice in his head, clear as day.

"Awwww. He thinks he's people."

Fucking hell. He missed them already.

Vukovic took the hand by way of reply, a short, curt, perfunctory shake sans the "well golly nice to meet you" voice over in favor of mutely pointing to his unit tags.

Service Chief Vukovic.

To the surprise of absolutely no one.

Honestly he didn't really trust himself to not comment on the fact that the state of Cline's armor could, on closer inspection (read: a second glance), be charitably classified as "complete shit". The gear of a man who had enough cash to afford some nice kit and not nearly enough common fucking sense to take care of it on the all of two times he left his cozy little burrow by the mess.

So

fobbit basically.

Yeah.

Gonna be great.

"Oi Chief," Hueyt called in the direction of Cline, sticking his head forward into the aisle so he could see.
"How much'd that kit cost anyway?"

Hueyt didn't necessarily have any disdain for the engineer; more to the fact that he could have that calibre of gear when Hueyt was running on, esentially, duct tape and super glue. The planetary militaries had always been underfunded, but since the Reaper war, the ADF's already minuscule funding had been cut dramatically. It had been tough work just to get services on his gear, let alone a new set.

"More than a small planet I'd bet."

There was life coming into the group. A few even seemed to know each other.
How could that 'Committee' even expect them to work together if nobody had an idea what everyone was supposed to be doing? Also, So far Freh'ya could make out no command structure, or was this Hemmings going to come with them? He was wearing no combat suit so she guessed not, he seemed like the guy to stay on the com with everybody.
She found the Alliance rank structure too complicated but was familiar enough with it to miss a human Lieutenant grade somehow. She grinned over the fact that as Speaker, this made her the highest rank, technically. Of course it didn't mean anything in reality with this group and the way this op was run.

Nothing left to do, but wait. Her Disciple and pistol where in order, no need to fumble with them. There was one question she just had to as though, so she spoke up.
"Hey, while it is nice to meet you all.... Is anybody of you a combat biotic?" she looked down the isle. "I think I should ask that before we exit."

Hemmins brought his head up from the datapad a moment, looking over at Vukovic and Cline a second before turning back to whatever it was he was doing.

"Starting our descent now, ladies and gentlemen." The pilot came out and said.


There was another lurch of turbulence.

"Would you believe I got this armor as a fucking gift from my old CO? Dude's a Major and a REMF now, since he lost both his legs in the War." Service Chief Cline said to Hueyt, "Served me through Operation Salvations Bane, The Siege of Ottawa, and the final Charlie Foxtrot that was London. And while it may not look that pretty, it saved my life more than once, and I've got a knack for extending the service life of things."

Cline then looked over to Freh'ya, surrounding himself with the aura of his biotics. "L3 Biotic, Right here!"

Everyone seemed to be warming up now. Well, not so much "warming" as "barely suppressing mutual contempt and disdain". But hey, small steps.

Marines through and through, however. Any man looked the same in armour; it was syntax that betrayed them. Sinisa didn't make the distinction between national, supranational or whatever the latest dick-waving contest was. They all talked the same: an insider's tongue, needlessly stuffed with incomprehensible jargon and operational arcana, specially designed to exclude all but those within the club. They all bled the same, too, but that was an observation he wasn't keen to share.

The point was that any one with at least two senses intact would be able to tell that Sinisa wasn't one of them. Marines didn't like contractors; they were outside the club. Even the asari would fit in better with this crew than him.

And then came the call for final descent. Sinisa would have to contemplate office politics later. Unless they all died, of course.

Sitting up, he arranged the folds of his grimy dark-brown Mackintosh duster. His armour kept the elements out, but it paid to have something to conceal it with; Kassa had an irritating tendency to manufacture everything in day-glo. Although his breastplate looked like it had last been pristine some time prior to First Contact. Shielding units were all intact and up-to-date, though.

"Right. Let's get this into order before we drop. Whose taking point? What about you, crna gora?"

He idly thumbed at Vukovic.

"It can wait till the briefing."

A lie, just a small one but it was either that or have a "talk" with another NCO about how he was acting like a fucking boot with baby's first amp and frankly he didn't feel like listening to Cline's rat dog tier yipping followed by the probably inevitable armor wetting. Wouldn't be proper to do it in front of the others either.

Eurgh.

And yeah it could have waited till the briefing really, but that didn't mean it had to. Honestly if this were a unit of marines, or fringies, or, hell, some crests he wouldn't have given a shit. Probably would have thrown in something more than reflexive squad leader talk too. But no, no, Company Job meant Company Rules meant Company Team meant Grin and Bear it etc. etc.

Ad infinitum. Nauseum.

Same difference here really.

So besides him and the recons their SA sponsored support left something to be desired and the closest thing to outside skill they had was the blue. In Vukovic's experience, those tended to come in two flavors; namely Hit or Miss. Some, especially the ones who'd gutted it out through the war before mother dearest even thought about getting off her ass, were stone cold scary bitches. Iron through and through, not afraid of getting their hands dirty. He could work with them. He could respect them. But those were the ones who had wanted to be there, the ones who had actually done shit. The rest, the prissy bints who wouldn't dare to take a step to aid their own fucking allies without at least fifty million extranet upvotes, those he could leave. Preferably somewhere far, far away from his hotzone.

So which one was she?

Well

there was what he hoped and then there was what his gut was telling him. And he trusted the latter more than he indulged in the former.

He gave himself a mental shake, the contractor was asking something.

"No. Not a hot drop. Runner to a FOB most likely."

This roach can't land fast enough. I swear to fucking God.